pls read more if you’re looking to request and/or want to read more of my work ♥️
╭────────────────────.★..─╮
── .✦ 𝓻𝓾𝓵𝓮𝓼!!
if you want to request on anon, please read how to do so -> here <-
be kind, be respectful, be courteous.
no AI
minors dni on 18+ content.
note: i am happy to take requests, but it can take me a while to write. please be patient with me, i am trying my best <3
continuities that i know
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── .✦ 𝓶𝓪𝓼𝓽𝓮𝓻𝓵𝓲𝓼𝓽:
drabble/ficlet — short and brief, headcanons/glimpses or half a fic.
one shot — standalone singular full chapter fic.
multi-chapter — part of a larger story, multiple full chapters.
ೃ➷ optimus prime
seperate list here
࣪ ִֶָ☾. megatron
separate list here
⋆˚𝜗𝜚˚⋆ tarn
hot circuitry - 18+, one shot, inc. megatron.
sparked desires - 18+, one shot.
drabble - 18+
steelbound - 18+, one shot.
housewife - sfw, one shot.
crossed wires 18+, one shot, inc. overlord.
steelbound cravings - 18+, one shot, inc. megatron
cotton circuits - 18+, one shot.
little bird - 18+, multi-chapter.
✧˖° soundwave
steel melody - 18+, multi-chapter.
possession - 18+, multi-chapter.
ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤ ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤ possession pregnancy hcs
shared - 18+, multi-chapter, inc. shockwave.
drabble - 18+
boiling point - 18+, one shot.
drabble - 18+
𖥔 ݁ ˖ shockwave
drabble - 18+
chemical desires - 18+, multi-chapter.
drabble - 18+
shared - 18+, multi-chapter, inc. soundwave
⋆ 𐙚 ̊. windblade
drabble - 18+
₊˚ ᗢ. elita
drabble - 18+
drabble - 18+, inc. arcee
drabble - 18+
sizzling fuse - 18+
*:･ velocity
drabble - 18+
⟡ scavengers
free use - 18+
ᯓ★ overlord
crossed wires - 18+, one shot, inc. tarn.
blue fire - 18+, one shot.
drabble - 18+
✦ ₊˚. arcee
sugar sweet - 18+, one shot.
drabble - 18+, inc. elita
ఌ︎. knock out
ficlet - sfw
shut up and drive - 18+
‧˚𓇼 nautica
little dancer - sfw, one shot.
ficlet - 18+
➸⊹ brainstorm
drabble - 18+
₊˚ෆ rodimus
blazing circuits - 18+, one shot.
drabble - 18+
taste - 18+, one shot.
ficlet - 18+
ficlet - 18+
𓆩⟡𓆪 multiple different bots
kinks - 18+
kinks pt. 2 - 18+
cuddles - sfw
cuddles pt. 2 - sfw
positions - 18+
positions pt. 2 - 18+
mistletoe - sfw
spike hcs - 18+
floating lanterns - sfw
joint popping reactions - sfw
₊˚. skyfire
nebula - sfw
✠ dreadwing
drabble - 18+
drabble - 18+
drabble - 18+
⋆୨୧˚ thundercracker
drabble/ficlet - 18+
drabble/ficlet - 18+
ৎ୭ perceptor
starry night - 18+, one shot.
ೀ⋆ fort max
routine maintenance - 18+, one shot.
⋆‧° grimlock
ficlet - sfw
: ̗̀➛ ultra magnus
drunken love - 18+, one shot.
˙⋆✮ drift
drabble - 18+
quanto - 18+, one shot, inc. ratchet
•°. * ratchet
tempered nights - 18+, one shot.
quanto - 18+, one shot, inc. drift
. ݁˖ thunderclash
woven clouds - 18+, one shot.
⊱ ׅ ✧ combaticons
the more the merrier - 18+, one shot (all combaticons).
thank you for being so patient with the release of this chapter!! not many notes for this chapter. there's some more world-building (which i'm really enjoying btw). i hope you all have a lovely day 𑣲
<- previous
Opening the doors from the inside of your room, you take one step out before immediately being greeted by Optimus, who has been standing watch at your door since you excused yourself to your chambers for the night.
Today marks his first full day as your Knight, and he seems to be taking his role very seriously. You smile warmly at him before speaking.
"Good morning, Ser."
"Good morning, Princess. I hope sleep found you easily," he says in return. His tone is deep and metallic in nature, and slightly muffled by the faceguard he keeps on.
"It did. I intend to take a walk through the gardens today with my lady-in-waiting," you tell him.
"Then I shall accompany you," Optimus declares.
"No need, Ser. No danger will find me in the gardens. You may occupy your morning as you please," you giggle lightly as you lay your hands over your skirt. Today's outfit is simple: a floor-length mint green satin dress with bell sleeves and minimal embroidery.
"The duty charged to me is to be your sword and shield," is all he replies with.
"Yes, but you may take other pleasures," you counter. He is your sword and shield, but that doesn't mean he needs to be by your side all of the time. Ronnin would often enjoy painting in her free time, especially when you would take a stroll around the castle gardens.
He stares blankly at you through his illuminated visor, and enough time passes of this where you're forced to look away out of mild awkwardness. You nod once, turning on your toes.
"You may join us in the gardens if you so wish," you announce before walking.
Optimus doesn't verbally reply, but he does start to walk with you. He has one servo on the hilt of his sword as his new golden cloak billows behind him. Gold is the colour to signify that a knight is serving one of the royal family members personally. All other knights wear red cloaks.
You must say, gold agrees with him. A few gold accents are adorning his armoured frame, but his golden cloak makes the whole look beautifully cohesive.
His steps are heavy, but his armour doesn't clink and clash as it does on human knights. You're mildly curious about that, but undyingly curious about his metallic nature. He's already expressed that he's not of this land, but you have to wonder where such a being hails from.
He's a giant in comparison to you and nearly everyone else in the castle. His stark armour makes him stick out like a sore thumb, traversing through the walls of the castle like an ink blot on fresh parchment paper. You could get used to unintentionally entertaining company.
Hiking the front of your dress up, you descend the large and wide stone stairs before reaching the archway that will lead you to the gardens. Optimus follows without making any further conversation, which feels unusual in comparison to what you're used to. You can't help but think how Ronnin would walk beside you with your arm looped through hers as you would talk for hours on end, roaming the halls of the castle without purpose.
"Princess," your lady-in-waiting, Phria, greets you. She's in a simple pink gown, already holding a parasol so that the two of you are shielded from the powerful summer sun.
"Good morning, Phria," you reply with a smile, drawing to her side before threading your arm through hers.
"How are you today?" She asks as she starts to walk with you, entering the forecourt of the magnificent gardens.
"I am well, though a little tired from yesterday's activities," you express. "How are you?"
"Yesterday was quite fun, but I understand that you and I had different experiences of it. I do hope that you find some respite in the gardens."
Care and love have been poured into every corner of this wonderful place, there's something to look at no matter where your eyes land. From fountains to rose bushes, to statues, to perfectly carved bushes in the likeness of different creatures of the realm. There are also some man-made lakes, though very small in size, accompanied by short waterfalls which provide a natural sound to the space. You're fortunate to have something so breathtaking in your grasp.
You start to walk through the garden arches, perfectly modelled by the team of gardeners that maintain this space. The shrubbery towering over you provides extra shade as the stones scattered over the floor shift and rustle beneath your steps. Optimus makes more ruckus, though not intentionally. If not for the sound of his footsteps, you wouldn't know he was there.
Phria looks back over her shoulder at your new protector, unable to read his thoughts thanks to the full covering of his features. He certainly wields a presence that seems foreign to any soldier or knight she's known before, painting him out as a wolf amongst sheep.
She looks forward again, focusing on the path ahead.
"Your new knight is more of a shadow, is he not?" Phria says just above a whisper, "He seems very protective. Do you think he realises we are only walking through the gardens?"
"He realises," you reply simply.
"Is there cause for concern?" She pries.
You breathe a short laugh through your nose as you shake your head shallowly, a small smile spreading over your lips. Your sworn protector does not look at you and your lady-in-waiting, instead sweeping his optics calmly across the scene of the gardens. From the walls to the towers, the tree lines. He's watching diligently.
"He is here because he's convinced someone might attempt to assassinate me between the rose bushes," you say in jest, glancing over your shoulder at him.
"I sincerely hope no one does," Phria laughs lightly.
Every measured footstep behind you echoes against the cobblestone. His watchful optics do not cease scanning every crack in the garden walls, likely ascertaining every point of entry and exit for future reference. He is learning his new environment, taking a better understanding of it to fulfil his duty to you.
As if sensing your attention, Optimus draws his optics to you both. You smile reassuringly before speaking.
"We're perfectly safe."
"I am aware," Optimus replies plainly.
Phria stops the two of you in your tracks, twiddling the parasol in her perfectly manicured hand before turning at the waist to face Optimus more clearly. You loosen your arm from hers, peering over at her to see what she intends to do.
"Must you follow us?" Your friend asks, but not with malice or disgust.
"The Princess is outside the keep," Optimus replies without hesitation, as though the answer is obvious.
Phria tilts her head curiously, shooting him an almost perplexed glance at his answer. "Yes, they are."
"My duty is to ensure their safety," he explains blatantly.
"Yet we are inside the castle walls. There are fifty guards, and the gates remain closed. Would you not conclude that they are safe?" Phria presses, questioning Optimus' logic to remain by your side at a moment like this.
"That may be true. However, there are blind corners," he says, gesturing to the winding hedges. "Concealed approaches," he points out, nodding to the surrounding towers. "Elevated positions." Then pointing to the garden walls. "Limited escape routes."
"You believe flowers to be a tactical threat?" Phria questions with a sly smile on her lips. You can't help but giggle to yourself at her crude humour.
"The hedges could conceal a threat," Optimus advises seriously.
You glance over at the hedges in question, which are pristinely trimmed and reaching to your waist height.
"I believe I would fare just fine against such an enemy," you weigh in on the conversation.
There is a small pause between your statement and Optimus' reply, who is also eyeing the hedge that has consumed your attention.
"I would prefer to remove the uncertainty," your knight tells you.
Phria laughs out loud, placing her free hand on your upper arm. "I believe he's serious!"
"He is," you answer before looping your arm back through hers, taking up your leisurely walk once more. Phria is having a hard time containing her amusement, stifling her chuckles at the absurdity of it all.
"It's certainly different to Ronnin," you hush, "But who am I to refuse?"
"Princess," Phria states plainly, almost as if to remind you of your position. "If it pleases you, you can send him away."
Thinking on it, you sense his unmistakable presence behind you as he tails you closely. Strangely, it brings a sense of comfort. A vital part of you has been torn from you after Ronnin's passing, leaving you hollow and vulnerable. Optimus' presence does not heal that wound, but it certainly acts as a sense of safety.
"I'd almost forgotten what roses smelt like," you voice, turning the conversation into a different direction as you gaze around at the abundant flora surrounding you.
Phria smiles knowingly, taking in the scents alongside you. "You have been awash with duties as of late."
As you walk, your skirts brush against the fragrant herbs planted alongside the garden walkway. Behind you, Optimus walks across the cobbled path without causing a stir. Phria can't help the shivers that collect over her spine at the unnerving feeling of being stalked, but the presence is something you seem to welcome, so she doesn't voice her worries.
"I assure you, I did not ask to be inundated with duties," you advise as you draw closer to the tiered waterfalls up ahead.
As if your statement was spoken with the intent to bring forward the very thing you've expressed fatigue for, the King's chief advisor, Yonik, materialises before you to frighten you half to death. Despite all these years, you've never become accustomed to the way he seems to appear out of thin air. He moves within shadows, only coming forward when necessary.
"Princess," Yonik announces with a shallow bow, "The King requests your presence in the Council Chamber."
. ݁ ⟡ ݁ .
Ascending the stairs to the Council Chamber, two royal guards open the large double doors to grant you entry. You nod your thanks, but before anything else, they both move to block Optimus from entering behind you.
You turn at the waist, seeing how your personal protector does not seem to protest, but stands in place anyway. "He comes with me, Sers."
Upon your command, both step to the side. Optimus looks at the one on the right as he walks through, joining you as you walk towards the long coffin-shaped table which seats the King and his advisors that have been selected diligently. No one deigns your entry with any form of acknowledgement, but you're fairly used to that at this point. Each one fancies themselves a character of utmost importance and has little mind to pay anyone else.
There's already a flurry of chatter ricocheting through the handful of high-ranking Lords and Ladies present, and you quickly take your seat on the left of the King. Yonik is already seated to the right, seemingly comfortable in his seat. You're not entirely sure how he made it here that much quicker than you, but he has always worked in mysterious ways.
Optimus takes his place behind you, standing watch like a guardian angel sent to always oversee your activities and well-being. You place your hands in your lap, listening to the conversation to try to make sense of what you've missed thus far.
"The unrest in the Southern Seas is unprecedented. They've always been peaceful waters," Ayla, the councillor who oversees matters of ships and the seas, speaks, her hands placed on the table as she desperately tries to convey the urgency of her point.
"And how are we not certain that it's simply a turn of the tides?" The King speaks, almost to dismiss her. "Are the Seas not unpredictable forces of nature?"
"Your Grace, I am your Earl of the Seas. Will you not heed my caution?" Ayla expresses beseechingly, "Something nefarious is afoot, something stirs the Southern Seas. I beg of you to allow my men and I to investigate further."
The King's crown glints in the natural light spilling in through the floor-length windows sprawled over the wall behind him, casting the shadow of his seat halfway across the table. You believe this was an intentional design choice, built to perpetuate the idea that the reigning monarch's power stretches far and wide.
"Your efforts are required in Dragonfly Bay, as was outlined to you in our last council meeting," the King replies. Your head tosses back and forth with each interaction, and you're tempted to make your voice known, but you know better than that. You're here to learn how to rule when your time comes, not to meddle in the affairs currently unfolding whilst you're still in your tutelage.
"This must take precedence over the matter in Dragonfly Bay. Simple fishermen could tend to the dwindling fish numbers there, but what I'm bringing to you requires the full fleet of my navy," Ayla protests, not willing to take no for an answer.
The King sighs, bringing one hand up to massage his temples. The weight of the crown is heavy, and even in times of peace, the political peacocking still remains rampant.
This is how most of these meetings go. In a time of peace, the King finds himself utterly disinterested in anything that slightly contradicts it. It's a thought you've never shared, but it might be that he doesn't want to acknowledge any unrest out of fear that he would be the first in the long line of monarchs to see any kind of conflict in this realm.
"You may refocus your attention to the matter in the Southern Seas," the King relays with an air of defeat, "You are granted permission to dispatch your navy at your earliest convenience. I except a full report before the next council meeting."
"Thank you, Your Grace," Ayla replies, bowing her head shallowly to display her gratitude.
"Are there any other matters anyone must trouble me with today?" The King asks, looking around to his other councillors. Each of them meekly shakes their heads, not fancying testing his already thin patience.
"Wonderful," he declares, clapping his hands together once to conclude the meeting. "You are all dismissed."
Each member of the council stands from their seats before they take their swift leave, and just as you stand to follow them, the King brings up his hand to halt you.
"Not you. Sit back down," he demands.
You raise your eyebrows briefly as you seem surprised by the cuttingness of his tone before taking your seat once again, now left in the chamber with only your father and Optimus.
"If, and it's a big if, Lady Ayla's concern ring any kind of truth, I would like it seen to that you are prepared," the King tells you. You nod your head once, unsure what he means by that. The King looks over your head to Optimus, meeting his mechanical eyes.
"I would like the Princess to be trained in the art of the sword," he tells Optimus. You shake your head with confusion at that, deciding to weigh in on the conversation.
"But I am no fighter, Your Grace," you say, "The window to teach me those skills is long behind me now."
"Do you refuse my order?" The King says, snapping his eyes to look at you instead.
You stumble over your words for a moment, stuttering incoherently as you shake your head in disbelief. Isn't the purpose of having a personal knight to keep you protected?
"N—No, Your Grace. I am not refusing. I'm just bewildered by your reasoning," you counter.
"I believe it's in your best interest to have some knowledge of self-defence. I will admit it is a failing on my part that I did not see to this sooner," he says in a rare moment of self-reflection.
"Will you see to their training?" The King asks Optimus. It's an order disguised as a question, Optimus is not truly allowed to say no.
Your Knight nods once. "We can begin as soon as it pleases you, Your Grace."
. ݁ ⟡ ݁ .
The training yard has been a part of these castle walls for as long as the structure has stood here. Its spirit is central to the curation of the finest knights and soldiers that this realm has ever seen. Ornate stone pillars stretch high, leading to an open roof. The open roof was from damage sustained many moons ago, said to be from a battle of dragons.
Deep gouges cross the pillars from where true blades had bitten too hard. Shattered and broken practice dummies stand along the perimeter of the yard, each one in dire need of replacement.
You grunt, shifting uncomfortably in the layers of your dress. This is the only dress you own with only two layers, but it can hardly be considered fitting for this task. You're collecting dust from the ground on the bottom of your skirt, trying to roll your shoulders to loosen up the fabric as you hold onto the wooden training sword awkwardly. Wielding such an instrument feels foreign to you, as if you're trying to write with someone else's hand.
Optimus looks you up and down behind his visor, twirling his wooden sword in his grip easily. You can't tell if it's a habit or if he's trying to show off. Probably the former, you've not seen too much conceitedness from him yet.
"Do you not own any appropriate clothing?" Optimus asks.
"If I did, do you not think I would be wearing it?" You retort with a hint of annoyance. These kinds of dresses were not made for swordplay or battle, and Optimus' blatantly obtuse question only serves to irritate you further.
"Movement will be difficult, but we'll work with it for now," he says, ignoring your vexations. He eyes up your posture, seeing the sword held flippantly in your hand.
"Drop that," he says, pointing to it with his own wooden sword. "Before we do anything, we need to work on your stance."
You comply, believing that he knows best. The wooden sword clatters to the ground, leaving you awaiting his next order. His sword points to your legs, although fully covered by the long skirt of your dress, but he'll have to imagine until your tailor can make you something better.
"You need to be stable and balanced, ready to strike for quick movements. Place your legs shoulder-width apart, with one foot forward, the other backwards at a slight angle," he explains quickly and precisely.
Following to the best of your ability, you shift your feet into the position he described. He hums, tipping his helm slightly. It's hard to see if you're in the correct position with the length and volume of your skirt. He looks up at you, and you already know what he's thinking.
Gathering the length of your skirt, you hike it up so that he can see from your shins down. Anything else would be inappropriate, especially considering you are a Princess in the presence of a lone male. He nods his helm once, gathering that this is as much as you're allowed to show.
"There. Now you are balanced," he says before pointing his sword to the one you just dropped to the ground. You get the message, crouching down to take hold of the handle. Your hand wraps tightly around it, standing back up before awaiting Optimus' next instruction.
His cyan optics observe through his visor, taking in your stance and position. For the first time in a long time, you feel nervous at the scrutiny. You've become skilled and practised in anything and everything that's expected of you, and this is the first time in your adult life that you've had to pick something up that you have no proficiency in.
"Strangling the blade will not help you. In fact, it will only hinder you," he says, nodding to your tight grip on the handle. His voice is deep enough to seem broader and more menacing than any mountain on this side of the world. He stands amongst his fellow knights like a mountain, too. Easily the largest in this court. Possibly any court, if you think about it.
"How am I to wield it if I am not holding it?" You ask.
Optimus lifts his sword in front of you, demonstrating his hold. It's lax yet secure, as if he's familiar with every notch and nick in the handle. Perhaps if Optimus held this training sword too tight, he would splinter the wood under his strength.
"The sword is not an object to be carried," he informs you, spinning the sword in his servo in the same fashion he did at the tournament. You watch how easily it moves upon his will, and how he doesn't even need to think about catching it again. You furrow your brows at his statement, breaking your sights away from his sword to his shielded faceplates.
"A sword is an extension of you. Of your balance," he continues.
You blink once at that, tilting your head slightly out of confusion as you loosen your hold on your training sword without even thinking to. Your mind thinks to imitate him, to embody what he does with every step he takes.
"I don't think I understand what you mean," you mumble.
"Patience, Princess. In time, you will," he replies smoothly.
Optimus strikes you as the patient type, almost beyond measure. You hope your deduction of his character proves to be correct, as you have little faith in your fighting capabilities, and you'd rather not vex him after only 24 hours together.
"Strike me," Optimus orders, leaving his arms at his sides to open himself to you. You take a breath, focusing on your hold of the sword before lifting it over your head to initiate a strike. Before you can take the effort to swing it down at him, he zips closer to you before gently nudging your torso with a single digit. Your footing can't prepare for it, causing you to nearly topple over. Luckily, you catch yourself before making an utter fool of yourself.
"You're simply imitating my balanced stance," he observes, letting you regain your composure.
"Is that not the point?" You rebuke as you shift your feet back into position.
"The appearance is the result. But the purpose is stability," he says, using the blunt edge of his sword to nudge you again. You groan as you wobble, even though this time you were anticipating it. "A swordsman relies on the earth first and foremost. Allow the ground to be your support and stop relying on your muscles."
Trying again, you envision the ground as your stability. You allow yourself to merge with it, pouring your trust in it as you always have. The ground has never vanished from beneath your feet before, and it likely never will. Your muscles relax as you take root in your position, imagining yourself as a tree growing from the roots beneath you.
When he nudges you once more, you remain standing without a hitch. Optimus hums, nodding his helm.
"Well done. You remained."
"Barely," you huff in defeat.
"Barely is the beginning of mastery."
"You have a very encouraging way of saying discouraging things, Ser," you reply with a half-smile.
"I have had considerable practice. Now, come at me again."
Drawing your back foot forward, you shift a dust cloud over the ground as you swing your sword with the weight of your hips, just as you remember Ronnin doing. Optimus, the skilled fighter that he is, simply sidesteps your attack. He encourages you to ride the flow, causing you to angle yourself again for another strike.
In your encumbered wisdom of battle, you believe that speed won battles and strength was the utmost paramount element of a fight. You believe that a sword must remain permanently in action, disallowing any opponent the opportunity to attack. These misguided beliefs you have are what are currently leading your actions, your advances are choppy and insistent. So much so that you are forgetting yourself. The wooden sword seems determined to go everywhere except where you intend, an entirely frustrating ordeal.
"The instincts that possess you are wrong," Optimus observes as he outmanoeuvres you, bringing his sword to your back. "And if this were a real battle, you'd be dead."
He doesn't engage you again, instead stepping closer to you before circling behind you and slotting his training sword under his arm to free his servos. You take this short moment to catch your breath, your head turning to follow where he's going. You look over your shoulder at him, admiring him in his towering glory. It's somewhat intimidating to have such a beast engulfing every atom of space behind you.
To your surprise, he places his servos on your shoulders. He pulls them back lightly, adjusting your position. Ronnin would touch you often, from braiding your hair to taking walks with you arm-in-arm, but your dynamic with her was different. She was more of a mother than a sworn protector.
Next, his servo runs down your arm to grab your wrist. For one so strong, he knows how to be gentle. There is consideration and compassion in the way his servo moves over the fabric of your dress, minding the barrier that prevents him from touching your skin.
"Your blade is impatient," he says lowly, "You must learn not to be. Right now, you are not wielding the sword. It is wielding you."
He lifts your wrist, elevating your hand with the sword in clutch. He shakes, imploring you to loosen your grip again. You hold it in the same way you did before, repeating over and over in your mind to keep it this way.
When his servos move to your hips, you yelp with a little jump. You hastily step away from him, turning on your toes to face him with a flustered look on your face. Despite the facial coverings, Optimus seems taken aback by your sudden reaction.
"Mind yourself, Ser. It is not proper to touch me in that manner," you tell him. Touching your shoulders and wrist was one thing, perhaps one thing that would cause a few eyebrows to raise if anyone saw it, but grabbing your hips? A knight most definitely should know better.
"My apologies, Princess. I am still learning the rules of your court," he replies, evidently not too perturbed by his error. Maybe physical touch is not so guarded where he comes from, and you're doing all you can to be understanding of that.
"Might we continue?" He presses lightly, taking his sword from under his arm.
"On your command," you reply, sliding one foot back against the ground to get back into the position you've already practised tediously today. You hold the sword before you, angling the wooden blade toward your sworn knight.
"Start!" He barks, not even bothering to hold his sword in a defensive position.
Each swing teaches you something new. Every move uncovers more mistakes, each correction highlighting flaws you didn't even consider. Your heart batters against your ribcage as you juggle using the sword and not tumbling over your skirts, which is proving to be more difficult than you first anticipated. The beast that is your training sword is stubborn and does not seem to know nor care what you want.
This is the realm in which Optimus lives. He abides by the laws of blade and steel. He moves as naturally as it is for you to breathe, and even following his movements is a tall ask in itself. The level of grace he has even now is astonishing, and this can hardly even be considered a warm-up for him. Only you are exerting any real energy, your brow dampening with sweat. You advance time and time again, and Optimus hardly needs to react to slip away from you.
"Your movements are sloppy, Princess," Optimus says loud and clear. You huff and grunt in response, gripping the blade with both hands as you swing at him. He dodges with ease, barely even needing to sidestep such an attempt.
"Hardly fair when my sparring partner is a fighter of your calibre," you express with annoyance, already so short of breath that it's embarrassing. The weapon in your hand exposes your ignorance in the same way that sunlight reveals dust, your failures stripping another layer of your pride.
He slices his sword through the air so quickly it creates a woosh, stopping it just in front of your exposed neck. He moves too quickly for you to even register what he's done, the breath stolen from you as the threat startles you into stumbling back on shaky feet.
"Dead again," he burrs, catching your eyes.
Without giving you amoment'ss respite, he starts again. Hurried, panicked whips of your sword clash against his as you walk backwards. The skill divide is plain as day, and a part of you loathes that. Your eyes are frantic, your breathing is quick and shallow as you try to counter his blows. The need to know his roots and where he learnt to fight in this way is incessant, it gnaws at your bones until they're brittle. He is a fascinating individual, and you're not like to meet another like him in your lifetime.
"You are the Princess of Velantra. You can govern and negotiate in five languages, you can name every noble house from the Western Seas to the Iron Mountains, you can recite any and all dances with ease. But here you are, stumbling upon the field like a sparkling," your tutor taunts, but his tone carries no mockery. You're not even sure what a sparkling is, but you're too preoccupied with countering him to focus on that.
"Dancing is much easier than this," you reply sharply, finding it hard to maintain the pace you're going at. Today, you are learning that a crown could be inherited, but a sword never could.
"Then treat it like a dance," Optimus challenges, trying to meet you in the middle. He'll teach you however he needs to, but he refuses to let up on you. He'll push. Push. Push. Push.
The flurry of movements swarm past you at an alarming rate. The beat of your heart pounds in your temples as your lips tingle, your eyes tiring from how rapidly they're scanning for his next move. You feel as though your body is not your own, your arms flailing in a desperate hope to block his advances. This isn't even a fraction of his prowess, and you're fumbling as though you have two left feet.
In the next moment, you lose your footing over your dress. You yelp as you trip backwards, landing hard on the ground. Your grip on your sword loosens entirely, leaving it discarded on the ground next to you. You wince as the blunt force booms up your back, your eyes watering from the winded sensation inflating your lungs.
"Dead. Three times over," Optimus announces down to you.
Blinking the glaze away, you take a deep breath before looking up at your teacher. He stands tall and broad, almost engulfing the natural light spilling into the training yard. There's not been a single glance where your impression of him has been anything short of grand and powerful.
The blue and red armour that protects him is rich and reflective in the sun. His face lacks flesh, but the luminosity behind his visor carries more warmth than any human you've ever known. He is uniquely familiar in a way where words fail you.
"No warrior was forged in a day," he reassures you as he offers you his servo. You huff, reaching up to take hold so that he can hoist you back onto your feet. Your wrists ache, and your arms are trembling with exhaustion. Patting down your dress, you rid yourself of the dust clouds that have clung to your skirts.
"Are you well? You took quite a fall," Optimus asks, an authentic shred of concern glimmering in his voice.
"I am fine. We can go again," you insist, ignoring the throbbing in the small of your back.
Instead of gratifying your request, Optimus places a delicate servo on your shoulder. You meet his eyes behind the visor, only just making out what they look like beneath the covering.
"We can continue tomorrow, Princess. I believe that's enough for today."
"But I am able to continue," you refute. You want to at least manage one blow on Optimus before the day has retired, even if you're here until the moon hangs high in the sky.
Beneath the mask, Optimus smiles. Your tenacity is admirable, and he has no doubt that you'd keep him here until your hands were littered with splinters, but he'll remain the voice of reason.
"A wise warrior knows when to take rest, especially when it freely presents itself to you."
You sigh lightly, looking down at your fallen sword. His patience is thick, but not unlimited. You will pester him again tomorrow for more training.
next -> (w.i.p)
this chapter was meant to be longer buuuuut the extra bit i had planned for the end of the chapter will actually work better in the next chapter. the plot will start moving properly soon i SWEAR
i'm away from tomorrow to sunday, so i won't have time to get by blade and steel out this week. it should be out next tuesday!! i really tried to get it finished for today but it's not at a standard where i'd be happy to put it out. i'd rather give u something good because you all deserve it <3 thank you for your patience mmmmmmmwah!
I love all your work can I request a rodimus gooning to reader after seeing her and megatron
⋆˙⟡ mtmte megatron x human fem reader 18+
-> warnings/tags: minors dni. voyeurism (unknown and then known), multiple rounds, squirting. 3.4k words
hello!! i mixed these two requests together because it fuelled good brainworms.
the opening relates to this chapter where megatron and reader do it on the bridge of the LL.
i’ve said it before and i’ll say it AGAIN, in across the divide, only megatron has the hots for the reader. all other characters are strictly platonic, so although this was fun to write, it isn’t really canon to ATD!! with that said, please enjoy 🙂↕️
Tossing and turning, Rodimus doesn't find recharge coming easily to him this cycle. He wishes he were the kind of mech that could just switch off, like Whirl, but the responsibility of captaining a ship of this size weighs heavily. He has to wonder how Optimus did it, and far more, for such a long time.
The ping that rings in his processor serves as a momentary distraction. There's an alert that there's activity in the bridge, causing Rodimus to sit up to grab his datapad. It's Megatron's watch, and usually, he just remains in the chair, often reading through various reports to bide the time.
Rodimus unlocks his datapad, pulling up the live feed from the bridge. It's unlikely that Megatron is actually up to anything, but Rodimus wants to snoop anyway. It's better than lying here in silence whilst the hours tick on by.
What the fiery mech is met with on his screen is nothing short of jaw-dropping. You, albeit much larger than usual, have been bent over the control panel of the Lost Light. Behind you, hammering away ruthlessly at your sopping pussy, is Megatron. AKA the other Captain of the ship. Who definitely shouldn't be acting so indecently. Who should know better than this.
Should.
But clearly, doesn't care for what expectations there are of him.
Rodimus, on the other hand, should lock his datapad and go back to his tossing and turning. Or should make an announcement through the PA system to tell the two of you to pack it in, and that you're acting like charged up turbofoxes. Better yet, pay you both a physical visit and make you stop that way. Rodimus should be horrified.
Should.
Instead, Rodimus feels his internal temperature rising. He can't look away from his screen, the light in his optics fluttering. Rodimus presses the audio toggle on the screen, even though he knows he shouldn't be doing this. It's a complete invasion of yours and Megatron's privacy.
"Been thinking about this for so long," you babble desperately, your voice coming through the speakers.
"You have, haven't you?" Megatron coos, "You fantasised about this before we were together, didn't you?"
"I did," you whimper back.
"Does it live up to expectations? Am I fucking you even better than your mind thought?"
"So much better, you're fucking me so good, Megatron!"
It occurs to Rodimus that he's basically watching a homemade porn video. There's no way Megatron doesn't know there are cameras in the bridge. He has the same access on his datapad.
Rodimus grunts, feeling his resolve weakening. Before he can control it, his interface panel opens. His spike emerges from the array, and his transfluid is already leaking from the tip of his spike. He knows better, but the pleasure outweighs the warning.
It's been a while, he thinks to himself. He hasn't had any affections since Drift left the ship, and he's too horny for his own good.
Forgetting shame, he shifts on the berth to sit back against the wall. He holds the datapad in front of him with one servo, winding the other down to wrap around his spike.
He watches how Megatron takes you, and how you scream and moan in response. Rodimus can't help but gasp as he starts to toy with himself. This is the forbidden fruit of all forbidden fruit, and he can't seem to stop taking another bite once he's done with the last.
This is wrong. He shouldn't be doing this. It's not right. But Primus, does it feel good. Megatron's dirty talk is so good that it's fuelling Rodimus' lust, even though the comments aren't directed at him. This is immediately growing on Rodimus as a guilty pleasure, unable to stop himself.
You're clawing at the control panel desperately, and Rodimus shudders to think how messy you've made it. Shudders? Actually, that sounds pretty hot. The orange mech certainly wouldn't mind having a look at that after you're both done.
Rodimus moans, tossing his helm back as he thinks back on the time he walked in on you two. You're on Megatron's lap, taking him on the ride of his life. How you half-yelped, half-moaned when Rodimus made his unannounced intrusion.
Drawing his eyes back to the screen, he watches how your pliant flesh jiggles with each hard strike of Megatron's hips. He doesn't have a clear view of Megatron's spike entering you, but this view is doing plenty. The tip of his spike weeps more fluid, some of it running down the length already. Rodimus' generous movements spread the fluid all over his length, lubing it for a more seamless experience.
⋄✧⋄
Sitting in Swerve's bar on a fairly quiet night, you've joined Megatron for his night off. You're sitting on the table, opposite your lover in the booth. The music is low, and only a few 'Bots are present to fill the space with inaudible chatter.
Megatron traces the wall of his glass as he clears his vocaliser awkwardly, purposely not making eye contact with you. You furrow your brows with confusion as you take a small sip of your drink.
"What's got you acting so sketchy?" You ask.
"I just… Had an interesting conversation with Rodimus," he admits quietly, keeping the words away from any eavesdroppers.
"Yeah? About what?" You ask, leaning back and placing one hand on the table behind you for support.
Your lover's features flash with something half-uncertain and half-curious, not giving you any tells for what this could be about.
"He— hm," Megatron stops himself, his derma pulling into a straight line in thought. "He wants to watch us."
"Watch us?" You echo, hoping he'll elaborate.
"In the berth."
Your eyes widen at that, your jaw dropping a fraction. You're not entirely sure what to say in response.
"I thought it sent him into a crisis that one time he walked in on us. Now he wants to actively watch it?" You say.
"I don't understand how Rodimus thinks anymore than you do," Megatron replies, now looking at you.
You huff a short laugh, shaking your head before taking another sip. Rodimus sure can be a funny mech. The only thing is, Megatron isn't laughing.
Peering up at your large former-warlord-turned-loverboy, you instantly pick up on his thoughts.
"Oh my God, Megatron. You want him to watch?" You ask, astounded.
"You don't think it'd be fun?" Megatron asks in return.
"Has our sex life really become that boring for you?" You parry, the joke hinted at in your tone.
"No, no," he quickly defends, "It's not at all boring, far from it. If this isn't something you'd want to do, I would completely understand. I wouldn't push you on it. It's just a suggestion, nothing more."
"But you… Want it, right?" You question.
"When he first said it, I thought he'd lost his mind. Then I thought about it, and— Well, it did something to me," he admits honestly.
"Megatron!" You gasp, "You're so scandalous! I never took you for an exhibitionist."
He laughs lightly at that, drawing his glass to his derma to take a sip. "It seems that you have brought out sides of me I didn't know existed."
"Hmm," you vocalise, "Let me think about it."
⋄✧⋄
And think about it, you did.
Which leads you to where you are now, sitting entirely nude on Megatron's lap. He's on the edge of the bed, grabbing handfuls of your ass whilst Rodimus sits a couple of feet behind you.
He drags his spike through your folds, spreading your slick over his length to get you both ready.
"I can't believe your body can take something like that," Rodimus says, gawking at the size of Megatron's spike slipping through the valley between your legs. He always thought Megatron would be blessed in that department, but this is beyond even what Rodimus imagined.
You whimper out of embarrassment, hiding your face in the crook of Megatron's neck. Never once did you consider that something like this might happen, especially after how tormented Rodimus was by catching the two of you early on in the relationship.
"You're going to see just how well they take it," Megatron coos over your shoulder to his co-captain, flashing a cocky grin.
He pulls your hips up so that you're seated on the tip of his spike. Your clit throbs as you moan, letting him split you over the width.
Pulling you down gently, you stretch to accommodate him. Rodimus vents a light moan as he wraps his servo around the width of his spike.
Rodimus is amazed by it, thinking that your body must be such a resilient little thing to take something of this size so often without being completely bedridden. His curiosity is louder than his caution of the situation, letting the honey of your ardour slide down his glossa to his tanks. Is he self-servicing to you, Megatron, both, or simply the view? He can't quite tell, and isn't able to handle the ramifications of what the first three options would mean for him.
He jerks his length faster and faster, almost thrusting into his servo. He can't look away for even a single moment as the two of you get started. You whimper as your pussy is dragged up and down the thick grey spike, stretching to your maximum.
Your nails scratch over Megatron's paint, but it's hardly enough to even cause a blemish. You whine as you claw at him, holding onto him for dear life as you're moved on top of him exactly how he likes it. You're trying to take some control and bounce, but Megatron's grip on you is unrelenting.
Neither of you is being shy with your noises. You're moaning, panting, and mewling. Megatron is grunting and letting his fans make some noise, which is about as much as you get from him most of the time. On rare occasions, he moans, but it is rare.
The sound of skin slapping against metal fills Rodimus' ears, an unmistakable sound that he's heard a couple of times through the vents and hallways. But here, where there aren't any doors or ventilation shafts to muffle the sound, Rodimus is coming to appreciate it more and more. Normally, he would shudder when he'd hear the two of you at it. Who would've guessed he just needed to get up close and personal to quell his aversion? He's feeding a hunger that only seems to grow more insatiable with each bite, he's starving for something that he's unsure will ever be satisfied.
Rodimus' optics hone in between your legs. Watching how Megatron's spike disappears in and out of you. He can't tell if he's imagining himself in your place or Megatron's right now, or if he's just getting off to being a dirty voyeur. Megatron fucks you on his spike with utter ease, displaying his raw strength. He's bouncing you as if it takes no effort whatsoever, which it probably doesn't. After all, the grey mech didn't lead the Decepticons for all that time without having the strength to back it up.
The orange mech ogles at the white ring of slick gathering around the base of Megatron's spike. Rodimus squeezes his spike harder, desperate for relief. He doesn't mean to, but his free servo floats up to touch you, wanting to feel your body. The sight of your body riding Megatron's spike nourishes him, his craving outgrowing his senses.
"Don't you dare touch my Starlight," Megatron warns sternly as soon as Rodimus gets too close. Having him watch is one thing, having him participate in any capacity is another. "They're mine. You can look, and that's it."
Rodimus pulls back, admiring from afar. Both of you look hot like this, and it makes him miss his days with Drift.
Megatron's possessive booms through you, causing you to hurtle into ecstasy. You orgasm with a high-pitched moan, rolling your hips desperately over his lap as you make use of every inch of him. He vents a low sound at the feeling of you squeezing him, drawing his derma to your neck to pepper sweet kisses there.
Your back arches as your orgasm continues to pulse through you, your vision blurring. It feels so good, and maybe you're even more excited at the fact that Rodimus is getting off to it. You're liking this more than you'd care to admit, seasoning your own appetite through Rodimus' optics.
"New position," Megatron announces against your neck. He grabs your hips, pulling you off his spike. You whine at the emptiness, but are soon startled into silence when he manhandles you face down on the bed.
You land with an oof, scrambling your hands to grab onto the pillow under your chin. Your hips angle upwards, presenting yourself to your lover. He hums happily at your obedience before crawling over you, his fat spike settling on the small of your back.
"This is one of their favourites," Megatron tells Rodimus as he draws his spike to your dripping hole. He grunts as he pushes in again, stopping when his hips meet your ass.
He starts thrusting, picking up his rhythm once again to put you back on track to a mind-bending orgasm. You whine and mewl, your eyes rolling into the back of your head as you feel him knocking against the blissful spot inside of you.
"There are two particularly sensitive spots that they love having stimulated," Megatron says to Rodimus.
Your lover wiggles his servo under your hips, snaking in between you and the bed to find your clit. Your hips prop up further naturally to give him the space.
The moan that tears from you when he starts circling at your clit and hitting your G-spot at the same time is nothing short of obscene. You hide your face in the pillow, moaning and screaming into it.
"Keep moaning like that, littl'un," Rodimus pants as he jerks his spike faster. Your moans are like the highest-grade engex money can buy, and he finds himself becoming dependent on them.
You're too preoccupied with taking the assault weapon known as Megatron's spike to even hear Rodimus, but despite that, you don't stop moaning. You never do. As said before, it simply can't be helped.
The inside of your thighs are soaked, but at least that gives Megatron an easier time.
He's enjoying this so much more than you thought he would. He's getting off on it, you can tell by how he's being with you. The riled-up energy electrifies his circuits. Having Megatron show his slightly wilder side is something you savour every moment of, God knows you don't get enough of it.
The thick tip of his spike bullies the spongy spot inside you, making you choke on the pleasure. Right now, you're hardly even registering Rodimus' presence just to the side of you. It's just you and Megatron, revelling in the abundance of sexual chemistry billowing between you.
You're being fucked so hard that the slats of the bed are creaking, threatening to splinter and break any moment now. A moan gets stuck in your throat as his punishing hips slam against your ass until your cheeks are red raw. It feels like you're being spanked over and over and over and over.
"Oh fuck— Megatron!" You cry, "Slow down!"
"You've taken more than this before," he utters back. Rodimus's audials perk up at that, curious just how much the former warlord can dish out. And how much you can handle.
"Muh— Hngh," Rodimus starts to say, but his voice quickly loses him. "Maybe… Slow down…"
How noble. Riddled with lust, tugging his weeping spike at the sight, but still thinking of you.
"They have a safeword," Megatron responds, not letting up for a single moment. "If it gets too much, they know to use it."
Your back arches as you moan crudely, lifting your head from the pillow. Tears prickle over your waterline, and your climax is so close it's sending you wild.
"I understand now why the two of you interface so often," Rodimus marvels. It was a treat watching you through the cameras, but in person it's a feast.
A shrill cry spills from you as your orgasm floods through you. You squirt a gush of fluid through Megaton's legs, making a mess of your bedsheets. The stinging of his hips against your ass has turned to pure molten gold pleasure, fracturing your mind into a thousand pieces.
"Primus," Rodimus hushes.
"That's my good Little Light," Megatron praises, "Putting on a show for Rodimus, hm?"
"I— I can't help it," you babble back as tears fall down your cheeks. "You know you're good at that."
"Oh I know it," Megatron leans down to whisper into your ear. "You love squirting for me. You love overloading around my spike as I fuck you senseless."
"F—uh—uck," you fracture a curse.
"You're filthy, Megatron," Rodimus comments with hints of static in his voice.
"Isn't he just?" You whine through a moan.
"Don't be fooled, Rodimus," Megatron says, "They love when I'm filthy."
Megatron pulls his servo away from your clit, moving up to shove his digits in your mouth. You stifle a moan around him, your vision slowly whitening as you suckle on his wet digits. You'd be an idiot to leave any crumbs behind, so you'll eat your meal with every bit of grace that Megatron shows you.
"Holy Primus," Rodimus gasps. Watching Megatron use you as he pleases does more for him than anything he's ever seen before. In truth, he almost expected the roles to reverse in the berth. Megatron is naturally more dominant, and he thought that the trope where people like that are more submissive in the berth might be true. Evidently, that is not the case this time.
Megatron grunts deeply as his movements get harder, finally succumbing to his own pleasure. He fills you the the hilt with his spike, making sure he's as deep as possible to give you his thick load. The warmth swarms over your lower half as you gasp around his digits. He blesses you with every last drop, but he isn't quite done. There's still one person in this room left to find their peak.
Your lover pulls out of you, slipping his digits out of your mouth to grab your hips with both servos. He pulls them up, leaving you in a face-up, ass-down position. Your eyes are hazy as you pant shallowly against the bedding, your fingers and legs quaking.
"Come, Rodimus. Take a look," Megatron invites.
Rodimus leans over to peer behind you, and Megatron cups his servo under your abdomen before pushing on it. As soon as he does so, a healthy gush of transfluid gloops from your hot cunt. The pink fluid runs between your folds, dripping down onto the bed. It makes the co-captain ravenous, witnessing a banquet he isn't allowed to feast at.
The orange mech has no choice but to find his climax there and then. A desperate, sharp moan tumbles from his derma as he releases, shooting his load over your floor. You're too out of it to pay much attention, trying to settle your reeling mind.
There's a large puddle of Rodimus' transfluid on the floor by the time he finishes, slowing down his movements to ease himself off the high. He's venting, his internal sensors warning him of a risk of overheating. He sits back on his haunches, releasing his spike at long last.
Megatron reaches over to the bedside table, grabbing some tissues before coming back to start cleaning you up. He collects his load from you, scooping it up. He'll take you for a bath later, when you've returned to your senses. Without acknowledging Rodimus further, Megatron grabs you to flip you over onto your back. You whine as you settle whilst Megatron pulls a blanket over you. Not that modesty would be of much use to you now.
Your partner brushes sweaty strands of hair away from your face, dipping down to give you soft kisses over your hairline.
"You did well, Little Light," he hushes light praise.
Megatron wipes his spike off with more tissues, offering Rodimus some as well. The other captain takes them sheepishly, suddenly embarrassed by the whole thing. This is a level of debauchery he didn't think would be present on his ship.
"We uh— We'll keep this from Magnus, right?" Rodimus says nervously.
"We keep this from everyone," Megatron responds.
Rodimus vents a short laugh as he nods, starting to tidy up the puddle of his transfluid.
ngl optimus isn't even in my top twenty favourite transformers but just the two chapters of the new fic you've put out is making me rabid for him, your writing is so good heart emoji
HELLO thank you omg, that is so kind of you to say!!<33 if you continue reading, i hope you enjoy it throughout 🙂↕️♥️
it was brewing for a long time in my Mind Palace™️ so i’m glad to start actually writing it!!
hi again! this isn't a request or anything and you don't need to post it, but i hope you had a wonderful trip and that everything is going well for you! i just wanted to say that your writing in blade and steel is phenomenal and i'm absolutely eating it up!!! your fics always are works of art but something about blade and steel is just such a pleasure to read, and it really reminds me of madeline miller's work. if you've ever had an interest in greek mythology, i think you might really like 'circe' by her. her more famous work is 'the song of achilles' which is brilliant too. also, the drabble you wrote in response to my earlier submission was just so cute. thank you so much for it and it definitely brought a little bit of sunshine to my situation <3 much love!!!!
hello hello!! thank you so much, you are such a lovely ray of sunshine <3 i love when ppl spread positivity and u do that to the fullest!! i hope you have a day just as wonderful as you are 🫶
i’m glad you’re enjoying by blade and steel!! i’m having fun writing it and i look forward to writing more!!
i had an absolutely lovely time in scotland, it was my first time there. here are some pics >:))
thank u for the love and support on the first chapter!! it really means a lot to me <3 also, if you’re curious, i whipped up a little design for what i envision for optimus in this here
<- previous
The feasting hall remains quiet, with no sounds other than the clinking of cutlery and crockery as the King and Queen enjoy their meals. You look down at your plate, which has the finest meats and vegetables that could be asked for, truly succulent and mouthwatering, but you have no desire for it. With a diminished appetite, all you're left to do is push the food around with a silver fork.
The King sits at the head of the table, adorned with his crown positioned perfectly on his head, his white hair complementing the gold. The Queen sits at the other end of the table, her mousey-brown hair braided back neatly.
It's hard to scrub the memory of Ronnin's deceased remains from your mind, even harder to rid yourself of the grief that has tormented you since. There is no one in this realm you trusted more than her, and without her, you're left with no one to confide in.
Your ladies-in-waiting are pleasant women, with amenable personalities and good humour, but they aren't Ronnin. You fear you'll never meet another like her again.
"Please eat, my child," the Queen speaks softly, noticing your aversion to food since Ronnin passed on.
"I am not hungry," you reply simply, quietly.
"The chef went to the trouble of preparing your favourites," she says, "It would be a shame to see it wasted."
The Queen is a kind, soft-mannered woman. She speaks in delicate tones and moves in such a way that you could be fooled into believing she's carried on clouds. She captures the hearts of everyone she meets, and you have borrowed many traits from her under her parentage.
"And the chef has my gratitude for it. I will be sure to deliver my compliments personally," you say back. "Please may I be excused?"
"You may not," the King interrupts, "We have the matter of finding you a new protector to discuss."
"My dear," the Queen says to the King, trying to stop him before he can say anything else. Despite her words, he does not heed the warning hidden behind them.
"It is vital that the position does not remain vacant. I suggest we hold a tournament for it," he says, setting his silverware down before lacing his ring-clad fingers together.
You continue to look down at your plate, shaking your head shallowly. Finding Ronnin's replacement has been the last thing on your mind, and how the King can proceed so insensitively is beyond you.
"Dame Ronnin departed from this world not even 24 hours ago, and you wish to discuss her replacement? Like she was a disposable pawn who can so easily be forgotten?" You retort with a bitter taste in your mouth.
"And she served you well and faithfully for many years. But as it stands, you are exposed without a protector," the King declares clearly and powerfully.
"Darling, I don't believe this to be the time," the Queen tries her hand at diplomacy once again, pleading with the King to understand why this is an inappropriate dinner conversation.
"If not now, then when?" He says, looking at her. "Are we to pussyfoot around this until their grieving period has ended? Who knows how long that will take?"
The Queen glances at you with a sympathetic look. The King can be obstinate and headstrong, something the Queen knows all too well. She just wishes, for your sake, he might show a shred of leniency under these circumstances.
"Do what you must, Your Grace," you say to the King, your tone tight and words spoken with restraint.
. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁ ⟡ ݁ . ⊹ ₊ ݁.
Standing in front of a long, oval mirror, your stomach ties itself in knots. In hopes of distracting yourself, your eyes trace the weaving details that are carved into the gold frame. You are met with your own unsettled reflection, dreading the events planned for today.
"Does this one please you, Princess?" Thessa, your lady's maid, asks as she drapes a beautiful jewelled necklace over your clavicle. Three striking rubies hang from the silver chain, making it a beautiful accessory for any occasion.
"Yes, thank you," you reply quietly.
This is the last thing you wish to be doing. Anyone else who suffers the loss of a loved one in this land is granted 14 days as a mourning period, during which they are not required to fulfil their daily tasks and duties. Everyone in this land is treated with equity and diligence. Everyone except for you. Because, as it's been made abundantly clear to you, you are not to live in line with the traditions your citizens have. You must be different. Perfect. Seen to have no weakness, for weakness would testify to the fact that you are not worthy of the throne.
Thessa moves to the dress she has already hung out for you, placed on the outside of your wardrobe. It's a remarkable dress, with a green and pink satin skirt and bodice that cuts into a sweetheart neckline, bell-sleeves that stretch far enough to hide your hands, and a sparkling overlay for the skirt.
It is beautiful, and would certainly be a statement piece for the tournament held in your new Knight's honour.
"I am more than pleased with your choice, Thessa. However, I am still in mourning. I would like to wear one of my black dresses for this occasion," you advise. She nods, disappearing into your colour-organised wardrobe to fish out what you desire.
You look at yourself in the mirror, twisting one of your rings around your finger. Your nose and lips are reddened despite no tears being shed. It's hard to believe that any good will come from today. It will be one of those drab duties where you have to show up for the sake of showing your face. No one will replace Ronnin in your heart. The King could hold a thousand tournaments, and no one would suffice.
"I think this one will do nicely, Princess," Thessa says. You study her choice; a long-sleeved, long skirt black dress with silver embroidery and embellishments. The black material itself has floral designs embossed into it.
"I agree," you reply.
She gathers the skirt of the material, bunching it so that she can place it over your head. You slip your arms through once you can, leaving her to shimmy the skirt down and neaten the length. She takes her nimble digits to the laced-up back of the dress, pulling the cord through to secure it to you.
"I know it is hard, Princess. But please have faith that this day will go well," she speaks as she continues to lace you in your dress. "I have a good feeling about it."
"It feels ridiculous to be in pursuit of another Knight so soon," you bemoan lightly, "How am I supposed to hold my head high when I want nothing more than to be buried within my sheets and sob?"
"The King simply cares for your well-being. He isn't good at showing it, but you are his priority," she reassures you.
"Only because he failed to produce another heir," you quip back under your breath.
Thessa hears you, flashing you a look of acknowledgement, but she decides not to answer. She fears the two of you will only go in circles otherwise.
. ݁ ⟡ ݁ .
Swallowing back the bile that threatens to spew from you, you steel your anxieties as you step onto the shaded decking before walking on shaky legs to your seat. Placed on the left of the King, whilst the Queen sits to his right. Thessa takes a seat on the other side of you.
A sizeable audience has already gathered to witness today's entertainment. It isn't every day that the people are treated to a tournament, so many of them ensured they carved the time out of their busy day to be here. The crowd bustles and chatters, keeping the atmosphere lively to a tasteful degree.
Sitting in the shade is a blessing you won't take lightly, as today seems to be particularly warm. Not a single cloud shows itself in the sky, allowing the sun to beam down without obstruction.
Perhaps black was not a sensible choice.
You sit, shifting slightly on the comfortable red cushioning as the corset bodice of your dress makes it even harder to breathe. You're practised in this, far too used to wearing restrictive gowns that threaten to render you lightheaded, but your growing grief and the heat certainly don't help things.
Right now, you should be with Ronnin. Paying respects to where she has been laid to rest. Not here, already seeking her replacement.
The King turns to you, noticing your pallid complexion. Comfort does not seem to find you easily, but your duty calls.
"I'm glad to see you managed to join us. Albeit later than I would've liked," he comments lowly.
Today, within the next couple of hours, your new personal Knight will be named. The person who will remain by your side to see to it that you are free of any dangers. They will have to be strong, worthy, honourable, and most importantly, faithful.
You clear your throat, sitting straighter in your chair as you look ahead before answering. "I apologise for my tardiness. There was a wardrobe disagreement."
"Hardly an appropriate choice for an occasion such as this," he reasons with you. It cannot be denied that the dress you're wearing is marvellous, but the King would have liked for you to be mindful that this is a day about you, not Ronnin.
The King's chief advisor, Yonik, appears between your seat and his. A peculiar man, with more secrets than there are stars in the sky. Despite all these years he's been in service to the King, you personally are still unaware of his origins. If you had to hazard a guess, you would say he gets his blond hair and tanned complexion from the Dry Salt Isles, which take weeks to travel to by boat and do not sit within the modern realm. Thankfully, his sudden appearance has spared you any further lecturing from your father.
"The tournament is ready to commence whenever it pleases you, Your Grace," Yonik says.
"Excellent news. Thank you, Yonik."
The advisor steps back from the chairs, returning to the furthest wall to watch everything from afar.
After a couple more moments, the King stands from his seat. The Herald blows the loud, baritone horn to notify all that the tournament is about to begin. Each individual gradually quiets down into silence before the horn has finished with its fanfare.
Once full attention has been brought to the King, he speaks, loud and clear for all to hear.
"I would like to thank you all for joining us today. It is now time for the best fighter to prove themselves worthy of joining the Royal Guard, and to be granted the honour of being the personal protector of the Princess."
You don't look at the King as he speaks, even though every other set of eyes is glued to him. Chewing the inside of your lip, you are unable to take your mind off the good memories you've shared with Ronnin. It's hard to accept that no matter what anyone does, she will never come back to you.
"I would implore you all to keep in line with good manners," the King continues. Sometimes, sports such as this can bring out a boisterous side to people that often borders on being distasteful. "With that said, let the trials commence."
As soon as the order is given, a set of large, heavy metal gates begins to grate against the dirt ground as the handlers pull them open for the challengers to make their entrances.
The sound of trotting hooves can be heard first, kicking up the dried mud as the first challenger rides in on his horse. He wears a full helm, paired with a pristine set of full-body silver armour. It's polished to perfection, but your first thought of that is perhaps that he's never seen real battle. He flies a green flag, one belonging to one of the smaller houses of the realm. His horse, a chestnut stallion, trots down the length of the arena before taking position on the other side.
Next, a challenger with all-black armour, inscribed with red runes, boasts a red banner. You recognise the runes as the Hellinston native language, though it's a language that has not been actively spoken for many centuries. His helm exposes his face, displaying beautifully carved features. His onyx mare is the night incarnate, with impeccable braids woven into her tail and mane. He follows suit, lining up on the other side of the arena next to the other participant.
Your interest is not held for long, already fatigued of witnessing this needless gallivanting. Two more soldiers enter, sporting chrome armour, but you've already forgotten the colour of their banners. They rode past, earning claps and cheers from the crowd, but your mind still remains elsewhere. Each one lines up as previously instructed, awaiting the matches.
A much louder round of applause rises from the crowd at the next warrior, likely to be the fan favourite. The King is nodding in approval, clearly liking what he sees. Your eyes are still void of any sparkle as you stare off into the distance, disassociating from this plane of consciousness. Thessa joins in on the clapping, looking at you to see if there's any reaction. What she finds is someone physically present, but entirely distant from themselves, like the moon after an eclipse.
The last warrior to enter turns nearly every head in the audience. It is a distinct presence that even has the steeds of the other champions shifting uncomfortably. Remarkably, it is such a gravitating energy that it manages to tear you from your thoughts. Your eyes refocus, and you take a sudden breath through your nose as you regain your awareness.
You look upon the new challenger, the breath from your lungs being all but robbed from you. He is staunch and striking, leaving an impression on you already.
It seems to be a sentiment that is shared by the crowd, who are all entirely magnetised by him. Attention has been suffocated by the other contenders, and it's amusing to watch the unison of moving heads as the newest participant moves through the grounds to join the others.
He is fashioned in red and blue armour, and from what you can see, there doesn't seem to be a single exposed point. It's not traditional armour, and not nearly as reflective. His blue helm is decorated with a red feathered accessory on top, his eyes are covered by a bright blue visor, and his faceguard is silver. Unorthodox would be one descriptor for it, if not a little daring. And if you look closely enough, you could be fooled into believing that his visor is illuminated.
He carries himself with a honed prestige that's rare to find in anything but nobility. His posture is perfect, his energy is a force field. Anyone would be impressed to come across someone as distinguished as this, and you are no different.
Even his mount is clad in bespoke armour, matching the colour palette of the rider. It is a large, formidable beast that seems bigger than any other horse you've seen. You suppose, looking at the proportions of this new challenger, any mount would have to have above-average strength to allow him to saddle it.
He takes his position beside the other challengers, who are also all looking at him. Next to them all, he stands out. He's larger, more robust, and sporting unique armour.
"Bear witness to the participants who will fight for one of the highest Knight positions in the realm," the Herald speaks through the bullhorn, his voice amplified for all to hear. "Challenger one and two are up first. Gentlemen, please make the necessary preparations and take your stances on each end of the tilt rail."
The first two riders who entered through the gates collect their lances from the handlers who offer them. The green flag bearer canters to the far side of the rail.
To your surprise, the Hellinston fighter trots over to the royal decking rather than taking his position. He makes eye contact with you, smiling in a way that's almost disarming. He stations himself at the foot of the deck, bowing his head to you. His pitch-black armour engulfs any light from the sun, and his midnight mare stands as elegantly as they come.
"I would be honoured if my Princess would give me their blessing," the soldier speaks. The King turns to you, looking at you with expectation. You can see it out of the corner of your eye, and deciding to play your part, you clear your throat before standing.
Walking forward, you collect a rose from the large chalice of flowers before approaching the soldier. You reach up, tucking the stem of the rose into the braided mane of his horse. Peering up at him, you smile softly.
"You ride a beautiful mount. I wish you the best of luck."
"When I win, I will be sure to gift her to you as a token of my loyalty," he replies with a kind smile.
Turning on your feet, you return to your seat to watch the joust unravel. The nausea is unsettling, you're hardly able to focus on anything else. Flashes of your blood-soaked dress continue to invade your mind, and for a moment, you swear you can feel the cold touch of Ronnin's hand on yours.
You take a deep breath, settling your hands in your lap to fiddle your fingers together. The King glances at you, ensuring that you are not behaving out of line. This day is ultimately about you, so every scrutinising eye is pointed in your direction.
Both soldiers take their positions on either side of the grounds, readjusting the jousting poles in their hands to get more comfortable. The horse you just graced with your blessing snorts, kicking its front hoof against the ground.
The stoic duochrome soldier stands steely and powerful in his waiting position. His mount does not fuss or waver, and he oozes nonchalant confidence. Not arrogance, but he knows himself. He understands his strengths and weaknesses.
Leaning over, you whisper in Thessa's ear. "Do we know the name of that warrior in red and blue?"
"Does he have your favour, Princess?" Thessa hushes back with a playful smile. You pull back from her slowly, eyeing up the individual once again.
"Perhaps," you reply quietly.
She giggles under her breath before looking over at him as well. His sights are set forward, watching the jousts as though he's studying them.
"I believe his name is Optimus Prime," she informs you.
You hum, settling back into your seat. Jousting sticks clash and clank together from the two fighters currently going at it, but your thoughts are drawn elsewhere.
Prime. You're not sure you've heard of a house with that name. Perhaps he's not from this land. His armour definitely lends to the idea that he isn't Velantrian. No metalworker in these regions crafts in that style.
The track your thoughts were riding is abrasively interrupted when you hear the loud crashing of metal armour against the hard ground. A wave of gasps and reactions spills throughout the audience, your eyes snapping up to look at who fell.
Roars of bellows and cheers erupt, and the Hellinston soldier stands victorious above the other, who was knocked from his horse, and seemingly, knocked unconscious. You sigh a breath, fiddling with your rings once again for mindless distraction.
Two foot soldiers march over to the fallen challenger as the handlers rein in and steady his horse. The soldiers collect the unconscious man, quickly rushing him from the field to the medical tent situated on the outskirts of the arena.
"The first victory is claimed by Tarlen of House Hellinston!" The Herald announces.
The man known as Tarlen basks in the glory of his first win, waving to the adoring crowd as he returns to the line of fighters to await his next opponent.
"Our second round for the day will be between challenger three and four. Please take your positions."
Challenger three approaches the royal deck. She flies a purple banner, which you believe belongs to House Gourk, if your memory serves you right. She grins at Thessa beside you, lowering her head in respect.
"I believe I would have my victory assured if the lovely Miss Thessa would grant me her blessing."
A light blush crawls over Thessa's cheeks as she stands, walking over to the chalice to pick out a flower of her choosing before threading it into the mane of the white horse. The fighter utters a quiet thank you before taking off to ready herself.
Taking her seat next to you, you shoot her a coy glance with a smirk on your lips.
"It seems you have an admirer, Thessa," you observe in a whisper.
Her blush grows stronger, averting her eyes from you. You giggle lightly before paying attention to the fighters taking the field.
"Begin!" The Herald calls.
With the command, both riders prompt their horses to bolt. The rhythmic sound of heavy footfall from the rampant horses bounces around the arena, creating a song for the battle.
The first spar is blown, jousting sticks clashing against metal armour. The abrasive noise of the wooden lance splitting sends shivers down your spine before the entire weapon clatters on the muddy ground.
One handler quickly obtains a new lance, jogging to meet the rider who lost their weapon and offers it over. The horse makes a sharp U-turn as the rider snatches the lance from the handler before they charge along the tilt rail once again.
Despite the fact that your attention should be devoted to the fighters in front of you, you can't help but glance in the direction of the mysterious individual whom Thessa calls Optimus Prime. You're insatiably curious to know more about him, and you're highly anticipating his battle.
You wish to remain as discreet as possible, attempting to reel back your gawking at him. You tear your sights away from him with great difficulty, focusing on the joust unfolding in front of you.
Although your eyes are witnessing the battle, your mind isn't committed. The actions are not processing as they should, and before you know it, the battle has taken a turn.
They duel, but it seems they are fairly equal in power. Both of them are dismounted, knocked clean off in the same fell swoop during a clash. A collective wince erupts from the crowd.
Thessa gasps, sitting straighter in her seat to look upon the Gourk woman she gave her flower to. Both challengers groan and writhe slowly on the floor, likely to be littered with bruises come the morning. There are worse fates to have as a result of losing or drawing a joust. Consider it lucky that they kept their lives.
"Our second battle ends in a draw! Both participants are disqualified!" The Herald booms through the bullhorn as foot soldiers and handlers retrieve the soldiers and horses.
That's the way of it. A draw is equivalent to a loss, and neither participant is permitted to retry. It's not a matter you worry yourself over, as it means that the event will be over quicker.
"Challengers five and six, take your positions and prepare yourselves!"
You sit forward a little more in your seat without explicitly meaning to, your interest brought to its peak. This is what you've been waiting for. Anticipation flows through your veins as you watch Optimus Prime take his stand on the far end of the tilt rail.
The call to begin is shouted through the bullhorn, and Optimus' reaction speed far exceeds his opponent's. It seems to fluster the other fighter, prompting his horse to bolt with a panicked knock of his heels.
Optimus delivers a strike that is so quick that if you blinked, you would have missed it. His opponent is steadfast despite his nerves, hitting back as hard as he can. The red and blue warrior circles around at the end of the rail, resuming his march to victory.
Watching him fight is a feast for the eyes. He is practised and diligent, seems to leave no openings, and moves as if the very art of battle was designed after him. It's spectacle enough to momentarily distract you from the curdling grief that plagues you.
He glides across this arena as though he were born for it, as if he knows it better than the back of his hand. He doesn't require a moment of respite or to find his bearings once reaching the end of the tilt rail. His steed dances to the beat of the battle, creating a flawless battle.
There's never been a warrior who's taken to this as effortlessly as he is right now. You don't believe the realm has ever been graced with such a polished fighter, even if it pains you to believe that. Quite frankly, it's unprecedented. Even the King and Queen are in awe.
Tarlen watches on, anxiety nipping at his heels. His mount senses it, causing her to snort and fuss on the spot. He pats her gently, trying to settle her, but he's entirely unable to look away from the monster ravaging the field.
Without a shadow of a doubt, Optimus will be his opponent. In truth, he believes that the foreign challenger is toying with his adversary, purposely dragging it out for the love of the sport. Maybe he likes to savour his meals, to have every ounce of flavour seep over his palate.
"He is fascinating, is he not?" Thessa murmurs to you.
"I am inclined to agree," you reply.
"Your favour may have blessed him more than any flower could," she says.
"Skill like that is not born from favour. It is crafted and perfected to the most acute degree," you comment, unable to keep your eyes off him.
The strikes Optimus lands are heavy and precise, and his opponent can barely keep up with them. Granted, he is doing an impressive job of staying on his horse. Just about.
It's hard for your eyes to follow the speed of the fight. Every turn Optimus takes at the end of the tilt rail leaves clouds of dust, his horse never once faltering. Both of them have been carved into the perfect fighting machines.
Upon the next strike, Optimus' opponent falls ungraciously from his horse, landing directly on his back and smashing the back of his head against the hard ground. He groans in pain whilst the impact rings through the metal of his helm. His skittish horse neighs and rears, its heavy hooves falling against the ground before galloping off.
"The victor of the third joust is Optimus Prime!" The Herald cheers.
The crowd roars with applause, struck with a powerful sense of admiration after watching the way he battles.
Before the foot soldiers can get up to help the fallen rider, Optimus dismounts his steed. The gentle beast remains still, patiently waiting for further instruction from his master.
Optimus walks over to his defeated opponent, offering his servo out. After a couple more grunts and groans, the man takes Optimus up on his offer. They lock wrists, allowing the mysterious fighter to hoist him back up onto his feet.
"A powerful fighter and well-mannered," Thessa hushes to you, "It's rare to come by someone who is both."
You hum in agreement. It's true, you've never seen a battle where the winner helped the loser regain their footing. It's a statement which you're yet to fully decipher.
"You fought well. Be proud," Optimus speaks, his deep voice tinny through the faceguard.
"T—Thank you. It was an honour to face you. It is a skirmish I will not soon forget," the other man speaks somewhat sheepishly. Even though he just got knocked on his backside, he can't deny how mesmerising it was to watch the Prime.
"Do you need assistance? If needed, I'd be willing to escort you to the medical tent," Optimus offers.
"No, no. I'm uh— I'm well, if not only a little winded."
The red and blue bot nods once in acknowledgement before turning to his horse. He utters a single phrase in a tongue you're not privy to, causing you to slightly cock your head to the side. He most certainly is fascinating, and a part of you hopes that he will come out on top by the end of the day.
He takes the reins of his horse, leading it over to the edge of the pit to join Tarlen. The two champions nod their helms out of respect before Optimus straddles his mount again to await the Herald's announcement.
"We have our final two contenders!" The Herald speaks, causing the crowd to whoop and clap. "Tarlen of House Hellinston, and Optimus of House Prime. Gentlemen, please take your positions."
So, this is it. One of these men will be your protector until they pass or are no longer fit for the role. Today, Ronnin will officially be replaced. Neither of them can hope to fill the void that the loss of her has left behind. Despite your excitement after watching Optimus perform, you still feel hollow and led astray.
A pin drop could be heard from the sheer amount of bated breath, every curious eye watching anxiously as the fighters stand at the ready.
Just as before, Optimus does not hesitate to charge the second the call to begin is made. Tarlen moves too, if not a short moment after. The banging drum of the hooves hitting the ground builds further excitement for every onlooker, and it's quickly cut short as the first collision booms.
Tarlen juts back on his horse, but manages to compose himself quickly after. Optimus didn't even flinch, turning sharply at the end of the tilt rail to charge again. He moves relentlessly, his mind and body entirely in sync.
There's a rampant fear emanating through the crowd that if Optimus maintains this level of ferocity, he may very well kill his opponent. It's as though he's studied the art of battle for a millennium, everyone else who faces him is trifling in comparison.
You can hardly believe your eyes. Blow after blow is landed on the black-armoured competitor, and he has no opportunity to strike back. This may be one of the most one-sided battles you've ever seen.
The King watches eagerly, utterly impressed by the prowess being demonstrated. This powerhouse would be more than worthy of serving as your sword and shield, but the conclusion of the fight is yet to be seen. It's entirely possible that the son of House Hellinston could make an unexpected comeback.
The next clash of Optimus' lance against Tarlen's armour causes the latter's horse to spook, rearing on the spot with a startled nicker. Tarlen adjusts, trying to stay atop his horse, but his feet fall from the stirrups, and the rest goes so quickly you hardly register it.
Tarlen tumbles off the back of his horse, hitting the ground with a loud thump before rolling. His horse snorts and whinnies as she kicks up the muddy ground, fussing in such a way that her armour rings.
Optimus' mount gradually steadies into a trot, then into a walk as the crowd gives him a standing ovation. He doesn't seem to relish it like others might, like he's too humble for such a thing. The Herald announces Optimus as the champion of today's trial, only fuelling the audience further.
Your heart rate picks up as the uneasy feeling sinks further into your stomach. You're mere moments away from knighting another, leaving Ronnin's position as nothing more than a note in history. This will be the first time you've ever known anyone else to protect you in the way Ronnin did, and it suddenly feels all too soon.
The foot soldiers have already collected Tarlen from the ground by the time you come back to your senses. He has one arm each around both their shoulders, limping through his injuries. He perks his head up, glancing over at you on the royal deck. You see his mouth move, and then the foot soldiers look your way too.
Changing course, the lead the wounded runner up over to you. You smile warmly as he approaches, seeing Optimus dismount his horse out of the corner of your eye. He hands the reins to the handlers, who take the beautiful steed into the stables.
Two royal advisors move into the field, approaching Optimus to have a conversation that you're not able to hear from this distance.
You stand from your seat, walking a few steps over to the front of the decking to meet Tarlen up close. He has a gash through his eyebrow, bright red blood trickling down his handsome features. You note the dents in his armour, which luckily took the damage in his place.
"I am sorry to have failed you, Princess," Tarlen says as he bows to the best of his capabilities.
"You have done no such thing," you reassure him warmly, "You are a marvellous fighter, and are worthy of Knighthood. I have no doubt you will achieve it in the near future."
"Your graciousness knows no bounds," he expresses deeply.
"Please, I insist that you take the necessary rest after your battle. I will ensure that Master Ephri, our finest healer, personally tends to you." You peer behind you, catching Thessa's eye. She hears your request loud and clear, standing from her seat to call for Master Ephri. The foot soldiers leave with Tarlen, guiding him to the medical tent where the other competitors are.
The royal advisors accompanying Optimus bring him to you, and you're astounded by how large he is. He's notably larger so close up, you have to wonder if his roots stem from the giants that roam the rolling hills in the far East of Velantra.
"Your Highness, allow me introduce you to your champion, Optimus Prime," one of the advisors says.
The Queen's sworn protector, Vamir, draws up to your side before kneeling and offering you his sword. It's the finest sword you've ever laid eyes on, crafted by the most talented blacksmith in the realm. Its long silver blade is sharper than obsidian, and the hilt is made of pure gold with engravings that took the blacksmith months to complete.
You take the sword, offering your thanks before taking a deep breath, turning to face the victor of the joust. His visor makes it hard to gauge any eye contact, and up close, it definitely seems like it has a built-in light effect. You've not seen such a thing before, furthering your conspiracy that he's come from a land beyond your scope of knowledge.
"Kneel before me," you order lightly. Optimus complies, lowering to one knee and bowing.
"Remove your helm."
He doesn't act as quickly as you expect. Your thumb rubs over the engraving in the hilt of the sword as your stomach winds itself into knots.
Rather than removing his helm in the way you expected, he brings his servos to the sides of his faceguard, pressing against the latches placed there. He removes the faceguard, but the angle of his bow means you cannot yet see his face. Next, you hear a subtle hissing noise, one you don't recognise. Your brows furrow with confusion, but all makes sense once he lifts his face to look at you.
Your gasp is stifled, but the Queen's is not. You gaze upon crafted beauty, but one metal in nature. His eyes are a unique kind of light, something that looks like sorcery. Only a mage could have created a being such as this. He is humanoid in structure and appearance, but he is a fraction removed.
Nerves have you gripping your sword tighter, unsure of what you are looking at. You've never seen anything like this before, and you aren't sure what to say.
"You are not…" You start, hesitating. You take in all of his features, your mind running through the mythical creatures like a rolodex to see what you can pair him with. Unfortunately, you come up blank. He is, put simply, a metal man, and nothing of the sort ever came up in your education.
"I am not of this land," he confirms the obvious. Of this land? More like this world. Your deep curiosity regarding this enigma of a being is growing ravenous with each new development that shows itself.
The crowd watches on nervously, nearly on the edge of their seats with anticipation. This day continues to get more and more interesting, it may very well go down in the history books.
"Native or not, we have our champion," the King speaks, not nearly as fazed as the Queen. "We must honour it. This is to be your new Knight, so you must continue with the ceremony."
You don't look at the King whilst he speaks, finding it hard to look away from the man before you.
But the King is right. This is your duty, and the warrior before you won the trial. You take a steady breath before lifting the sword.
"In the name of the Fated Ones, I charge you to be born anew," you say as you touch the blade of the sword on one of his large shoulder pauldrons.
"In the name of the Statans, I charge you to be just and faithful," is your next set of words, moving to his other shoulder pauldron.
"And in the name of the Keepers, I charge you to protect the innocent and maintain integrity." The last touch of the blade is brought to the top of his helm. With it, the ceremony has concluded. One chapter of your life has come to its end, and another is about to begin.
"Arise, and do so as Ser Optimus Prime, Knight of Velantra, and sworn protector to the Princess of the Realm."
next ->
i hope u all have a lovely day <3 thank you for reading!!
so i had a random thought come to me. a total what if scenario and completely noncanon to Across the Divide, but Megatron being found by Optimus and co
But Optimus sees that not only has he made a good life for himself, he sees that he has a family
maybe “change” his sentence from imprisonment to being sent into exile, wink wonk
JUST AN IDEA I WANTED TO SHARE! Hope you have a good day!!
.⋅˚₊‧ mtmte megatron x human fem reader
• across the divide — spin off • 3.1k words
helloooo!! this is such a cute idea. ppl asked for brainstorm getting to meet the family too, so i’ve developed on your ask to include some other mechs >:)
"Go away! Leave me alone!" You shout over your shoulder as you scurry through the meadow at the back of your house.
"Wait! Littl'un!" Rodimus calls from behind, picking up his pace. Optimus and Brainstorm follow behind, and before you know it, they're circling in front of you.
You stagger back, your breath hitching as though you're in some kind of imminent danger. The three of them would never inflict harm on you, but your concern lies with Megatron and what it means for him that the three of them have shown up.
"Why would you come here?!" You shout at Brainstorm, "You know I needed this! Why have you come here to ruin it?!"
Tears bloom over your waterline as your blood pressure rises. Brainstorm looks taken aback to be the one at the receiving end of your upset, but he can't say he's too surprised. You are the closest to him out of the trio, you probably feel the most comfortable with him.
"It's— It's not like that!" Brainstorm adamantly defends.
"I want you gone from here! From this place! You can't be here!" You shout and cry.
Optimus and Rodimus watch on as you have your meltdown directed towards Brainstorm. Evidently, you are pregnant and are probably fearing what consequences will come from their arrival. If only you would let them get a word in, this could be settled.
"Listen to me—"
"No! Because if you've found us, then that means anyone can. I just want to live in peace."
You barge past them, not letting them corner you anymore. They go easier than you thought they would, witnessing how you storm off from them. You journey through the field to your home, clearly not in your right mind. All you want is to go back to Megatron, not thinking that they'll likely follow you home, and you'll lead them right to him.
The trip you take home is fast and frantic, your mind on a single track. Your heart is pattering wildly, and your breathing is frenzied. You're clenching your jaw so tight that you're sure to give yourself a headache any moment now.
When your home comes into view, your pace quickens until you reach your back door. You grab the handle, opening the door hastily before slipping inside and slamming the door shut behind you. You throw your bag down on the kitchen counter before threading both hands through the roots of your hair, staring so fiercely at the ground that you might burn a hole in it.
"Little Light?" You hear Megatron's voice call from the living room.
You shudder a gasp as you try to release the high anxiety trilling through you, looking through the doorway to the living room.
"What's the matter?" He asks as he exits the living room, crossing the hall to enter the kitchen. You look like you've seen a ghost, frightened half to death. You look behind you out of the kitchen window, seeing the three familiar figures approaching closer.
"Go, go, go, get in the living room," you demand, closing the gap between you almost inhumanely fast. You press against his chassis with urgency, but your strength is trifling in comparison to his own. He peers down at you with bewilderment, trying to piece together what has got you so flustered.
"Tell me what's wrong, Starlight," he implores, grabbing your wrists from his chassis in hopes of grounding you.
"Fuck!" You curse, "I'm such an idiot! I led them right to you!"
"Who?!" Megatron presses beseechingly, unable to make sense of what you're talking about.
"Th— The others! Rodimus, Brainstorm! Optimus!" You prattle frantically, "They're here!"
Megarton glances up to look out the window, seeing those familiar colour palettes close in on his home. He is not struck with nearly as much fear as you are, but he doesn't foresee this being good. He pulls you into an embrace, wrapping his strong arms around you for comfort. He kisses the top of your head, shushing you gently.
"Starlight," he voices, "I need you to stay calm. You're not thinking straight, okay? I need you to find your centre again."
He pulls back a fraction, using one servo to tip your face up towards him by your chin. He gazes into your frenetic eyes, trying to lull you into calmer tides. "Breathe in, breathe out. Slowly. In for four seconds, out for eight seconds."
You follow his instructions, trying to shift the looming feeling of dread that draws closer and closer to you.
"That's it," Megatron commends lightly, "Just like that. Keep doing that for me, okay?"
You nod, feeling the terror expelling from you through each exhale.
"Stardust is in the living room. Go and sit with her."
"No—"
"Please. For me. She'll be confused and frightened by new people, she needs her mother there to be her sense of safety."
Relenting, you heed his request. You focus on your breathing as you slip out of Megatron's hold, vanishing into the living room to reunite with your daughter.
Just as you leave, the three Autobots arrive at the back door. A knock sounds from it, and Megatron steels his resolve before stalking through the kitchen to open it.
Optimus stands in the middle, with Brainstorm and Rodimus on either side of him. His optics meet Optimus' only, but he stands broadly in the doorway to deny entry.
"We owe them an apology," Rodimus speaks first, not even bothering with pleasantries. Megatron supposes he isn't entirely deserving of them. "I think we gave them a real fright. We didn't mean it!"
"Why are you here?" Megatron asks, though the answer may seem obvious.
"Would it trouble you to let us in so that we can explain?" Optimus speaks.
Megatron looks over his shoulder in the direction of the living room, knowing that everything he holds dear sits in there.
"You've not started off on the best ped. You have frightened my wife," Megatron informs.
"You wanna talk about not starting off on the best ped?" Brainstorm asks, his voice full of sass.
Optimus glares at Brainstorm, silencing him. Antagonisation is not what any of them are here for, but Brainstorm seems to forget himself.
"I'll allow you to come in, but please be mindful of my family," Megatron says, stepping to the side.
All three of them ponder that word. Family. Megatron and family don't seem like two words that should be in the same sentence.
Optimus enters first, followed by Rodimus and then Brainstorm. Megatron shuts the door behind them and then takes the lead in bringing them to the living room.
You hear a group of footsteps through your home, only serving to make you feel more nauseous than you already are. Your daughter is sitting between your legs on the floor playing with her train set.
Like soldiers filing in, Megatron and the others enter. Your energy is tense and on edge as your eyes flit between them all.
"It's alright, Starlight," Megatron says.
"I'd like to apologise to you," Optimus starts. Your daughter looks over to the strangers in her house, crawling closer to you to splay her arms over your thigh.
"Mama," she warbles. Rather than cuddling up to you, she crawls awkwardly over your thigh. The room is silent as your child crawls towards the mechs, specifically going straight to Brainstorm.
You stand up, almost immediately magnetising to Megatron's side. You keep a keen eye on your daughter, who sits by Brainstorm's leg, slapping gently against it for his attention.
The 'Bots in the room have no idea what to do or say. Brainstorm observes with caution, as if he's never encountered something so young before.
"They're going to take you from me. From us," you speak to Megatron with worry.
Megatron cups the side of your head with one servo, smoothing his other over your growing baby bump. You're staring at the trio with sheer panic, your nerves through the roof.
"Stress is not good for the baby," Megatron reasons softly, "Let me deal with this, hm?"
He kisses your temple in hopes of reassuring you. You hold onto the wrist of his servo currently placed on your stomach before you drag your sights from your guests to your husband.
"I'm not leaving," you whisper with glassy eyes.
"And Megatron's not leaving, either," you snap at the group.
"Please," Optimus speaks, raising a servo to reach out for you. You pull back, holding Megatron tighter. The Prime retreats, renavigating the situation. "We have no intention of taking Megatron away."
"Dada," your baby verbalises, crawling away from Brainstorm to her father.
"Come here, Stardust," Megatron says as he crouches down, slipping out of your hold. He picks her up, resting her against his chassis before standing again.
"If you have no intention of taking him, then why are you here?" You retort with caution.
Your child starts to teethe on the edge of Megatron's chassis, either looking to feed or looking to relieve the discomfort in her gums from her baby teeth growing in.
"Please stop eating your father," you grumble, reaching over to the table behind you to get one of her teething toys. You rattle it, trying to present it to her. She looks at you out of the corner of her little eyes, but she has no interest in what you're offering.
"She's okay," Megatron reassures you, bouncing your daughter lightly. "She's not hurting me."
He knows you're fussing because you're frightened. After all, the last time you saw these three, Megatron was sentenced to life imprisonment. You breaking him out of jail is an equally heinous crime.
"We came here to see if the two of you were here," Optimus starts to explain.
"But now that we know, we can lead the others away from here. Tell them that the planets been searched and you were no where to be seen," Rodimus expands on Optimus' point.
"How am I supposed to trust that?" You reply, your words riddled with hesitation.
"Do you think I'd lie to you?" Rodimus says with a crease in his optical ridges, pained that you'd think so little of him.
"I— I don't know," you hush, looking over to Megatron again. "But I can't risk it. I'm happy. We're happy. We have a family, a community, a good life."
Optimus' optics look between the two of you, seeing your closeness. Watching how Megatron coddles and soothes his young child, and ensures the comfort of you and your unborn baby. It's not the Megatron he knew, and he can hardly imagine this Megatron doing half the things his history speaks of. Optimus never got to see the relationship between you bloom. Any Cybertronians knew of you, knew that you were the organic to open Megatron's optics, but Optimus never could have imagined it would go this far.
"Megatron," the Prime announces, "Can I speak with you? In private?"
Your lover looks away from your daughter to meet Optimus' optics. You shiver out of fear for the worst, wrapping your arm around his to keep him close. He nods towards Optimus before peering down at you, placing a warm servo against the side of your face.
"Can you trust me, Little Light?"
"It's not you that I don't trust," you reply.
"Please," he hushes lowly, "Just this once."
You run your fingers up his arm strut, glancing between him and your daughter. She coos happily, gnawing away at the metal of Megatron's chassis.
"Okay," you whisper before loosening your hold on him, motioning for him to hand your daughter over. He slips her into your arms, and you rest her against you with her head on your shoulder.
You take a few steps towards Optimus, gazing up at him with a serious expression. You push your finger against his chassis window before speaking. "You better bring him back to me."
"I will. You have my word," he answers.
"Come, Optimus. We can talk outside," Megatron says, leading the way to the back patio. The two mechs vanish into the kitchen, leaving you in the lounge with Brainstorm and Rodimus.
You sigh, expelling your fears. You rub your daughter's back as you place little kisses on her head. Just like with Megatron, she starts to rub her sore gums against your shoulder, but don't even flinch.
"Sooo…" Brainstorm pipes up, "Looks like I was right, huh?"
"Come again?" You reply with an air of fatigue, confusion being pointed at your best friend.
"With the pregnancy," he declares as if it were obvious. Walking over to you, he places a servo on your swollen stomach. "I told you before that I thought it might be possible with Megatron as long as he was in his human form. And look at that, so successful that you're already pregnant with baby number two."
You huff a laugh, glancing over at Rodimus, who seems utterly bewildered that such a thing is even possible.
"And your genes didn't stand a chance, did they?" Rodimus says, "She's Megatron's, no doubt about it."
"Yep, I grew her for nine months just for her to look exactly like a mini Megatron," you respond with a warm smile. Brainstorm rubs your stomach, almost fascinated by it. It's his first time actually seeing an organic carry their offspring, and he already has a million questions.
"Would you like to hold her?" You ask Brainstorm.
"M—Me? Hold your sparkling? Are… Are you sure?" He stammers, nervous at the idea.
You giggle in response, nodding your head. "Of course. You're basically her honorary uncle."
"Oh, Primus. I've known her for 10 minutes and I'm already being given uncle responsibilities," he responds in jest as you hand her to him. She goes happily, warbling in her baby talk.
"Yeah, I wish I knew what you were saying," he says to her. She coos some more, stretching out her little hands to his faceguard. She taps on it, exploring what it is.
As Brainstorm starts a monologue on how important his faceguard is, Rodimus approaches you.
"Sorry for being so defensive and cagey earlier," you express to the fiery mech. "I just panicked."
"A totally reasonable reaction, littl'un. I don't blame you," he sympathises warmly, placing a servo on your shoulder. "I was being serious, by the way. We'll throw everyone who is still searching for Megatron off the trail of this planet. You know that they'd take Optimus' word for it."
You're distracted midway through your conversation when you notice Brainstorm transforming his digits into equipment and tools he's likely to use in the lab, trying to entertain your little one with them.
"Brainstorm, please don't teach my daughter how to build weapons of mass destruction," you groan, not entirely sure what else you expected.
"What?!" He exclaims, "I wasn't!"
"Then what are you doing?"
"Being a fun, cool uncle!"
"You can be a fun, cool uncle using the mountain of toys Megatron needlessly spoils her with," you say, pointing towards the many boxes of toys in the corner of the room.
"Ugh," he scoffs before looking at your daughter, who is giddy with excitement. "Your mama is so boring! I don't know how you put up with them!"
Brainstorm moves over to the box of toys, holding her with one arm strut before fishing around for a fun-looking toy that will entertain them both. You roll your eyes affectionately, turning back to Rodimus to continue your conversation.
"Let's hope she doesn't grow up to be a crazed weapons engineer," Rodimus comments.
"If she does, I'll know who she learnt it from."
"I'm happy for you both, truly. Though, I do hope that Megatron gives you a break soon. It seems he still can't keep his servos off you," he jokes, nodding at your pregnancy bump.
"Yeah, well… He's such a good dad. When he asked for another, I basically folded immediately. I did make him wait over 800 years for a kid though, so I think it's only fair."
Rodimus laughs at that, watching how Brainstorm interacts with the tiny human. It's amusing to say the least.
"Megatron being described as a 'good dad' almost makes me feel like I'm in an alternate timeline," he sighs, "Never thought I'd see the day that the Big Bad himself settled down like this. Tranquil planet, a cosy cottage, a conjunx, sparklings. He really ended up with it all."
"Although I never met them, I like to wonder what his former Decepticons would think of this," you say.
"Shockwave basically went insane from how illogical it was that Megatron would change sides. So, having him settle down with an organic? I think that'd take out most of the Decepticon forces," he adds, "If only you'd come to us sooner, you could've saved us all a lot of trouble."
⋄✧⋄
"Please, sit," Megatron voices, motioning to one of the two chairs on the porch. The Prime takes him up on his offer, sitting on the wooden chair with a creak. Megatron sits on the other, resting as he gazes upon the beautiful pasture that stretches out at the back of your home.
"What your conjunx did was incredibly daring. I can't say I know many people who would risk something like that," Optimus says to open up the conversation.
Megatron vents a short laugh, watching as various wildlife hop through the fields.
"You're right, Optimus. What they did would be considered treason, no?"
"It would."
Your lover doesn't answer to that. He knew the risks of what you did the moment you did it, and yet, none of it stopped you. You knew what you wanted, and you were determined to make it happen, no matter what. Megatron won't be surprised if he leaves this day in chains.
"Despite that, I can see why they did it. I believe they knew what could be built with you. I can't fault them for striving for their dream," Optimus adds, "I am glad that you found the peace you'd been looking for for so many centuries."
"Never truly believed I'd get it," Megatron answers quietly, almost ashamed. "It was never Peace through Tyranny. It took me too long to learn that. I owe you an apology, Prime."
"I think we're past that now," Optimus replies.
A couple of moments pass where neither of them speaks. They simply bask in the chitter of wildlife, relish in the scent of summer that flourishes around them. If only their younger selves could see them now.
"I'm not going to take you from your family," the Prime declares, reinforcing what was said earlier. "I won't carry out your sentence. Instead, we could call it banishment."
Megatron peers over at his old nemesis, studying his optics for any hint of insincerity. He doesn't find it, not even a flicker.
"I hereby banish you from Cybertron, and you will remain here for the rest of your days," Optimus remarks, making it official.
I just wanna tell you that I love your blog~ I’m getting back into transformers and back into x-readers and I have so many of your fics saved so I can read them of my work breaks. I forget to repost or comment or heart because I’m so into them that I just want more.
Also I really hope we can see more of your art!! You have such a pretty style!!
hello hello!! WAHHH you are too kind, thank you so much!! i have a lot of love for writing so i’m glad people enjoy what i put out <3
thank u AGAIN!! i’m still kinda new to art, so i’ve played around A LOT with my style to find what i like and what suits me best, but here is a mini dump of some things i’ve done!!
off to scotland until monday. the next chapter of by blade and steel will be posted on tuesday!! in the meantime u will be getting some across the divide food on saturday <3
Ahhhh no rush and ik the one Overlord fic was a one shot but I rlly wanna see how things progress with his human pet! I love love love how you write dynamics between characters its so good
♡‧₊˚ overlord x human fem reader 18+
• blue fire — pt. 2 • 1.1k words
-> warnings/tags: minors dni. unhealthy behaviour (c’mon, this is overlord we’re talking about). dubcon, oral, size difference.
sorry this took such a long time to write!! between my break and the writers block i experienced, so many asks collected dust in my inbox LOL. i find overlord kinda tricky to write for, but i hope you enjoy this!!
<- previous
The pain shooting up your knees is almost unbearable. You're cold, you're sore, and you're dizzy. You are currently sitting in your cage, your palms planted on the floor in front of you and sitting on your haunches.
Overlord holds the chain of your cage in a loose servo as he meanders down the halls of his ship, causing your prison to sway back and forth.
This is commonplace for you now. The nausea that once riddled you has long been squashed as your body became accustomed to rough treatment. It helps when you close your eyes and focus on taking paced breaths, which you're committed to doing right now.
Overlord's crew utter Cybertronian greetings to their commanding officer as they cross each other in the hall.
Perhaps the cage swinging like this is a blessing, as it makes it hard for anyone else to see how Overlord has decided to dress you. You're in hardly any clothing at all, wearing something that could hardly be considered a bikini, only just covering your nipples and a pathetic strip to keep you decent on your lower half. Graciously, he provided you with a robe. Unfortunately, its sheer material does nothing to give any modesty.
He finally stops walking once he reaches the bridge of the ship. He places his hand against the bio-reader, giving it a few moments before the doors open for him with a hiss. He steps inside, walking down the impossibly long walkway to reach the chair and the control panel.
Lifting your cage, he places you atop the control panel. You go with an oomph as the impact darts up your legs, making your imprisonment even more uncomfortable. Only Overlord would be capable of something like that.
Sharp talons slide the lock of your enclosure before he flicks the door open. It squeaks, and the sound is unpleasant to say the least. Just like the rest of your time since being in Overlord's company.
"Come out, pet," he commands, laying his servo flat in front of the door for you to step into.
You take a deep breath, hoisting yourself up onto your feet with a bit of a struggle. Pins and needles start to nip at your feet, but you do all you can to exit your cage and enter his palm. Sometimes, it feels like the cage he's using to imprison you is actually your biggest safety. It keeps him away from you and builds a barrier for a sweet moment. Walking out of your cage and into his hold is like leaving a sanctuary and throwing yourself into the maw of a rabid beast.
Once you're in his servo, he grabs you with his other servo, wrapping around your middle. You grunt with surprise, but try to remain as composed as you can. Providing him with any kind of reaction often results in him torturing you more.
"Are you frightened of me, pet?" He coos with that sickeningly sweet tone he uses, which you're pretty sure is reserved just for you. His thumb trails down your torso, heeding little regard for how comfortable this is for you.
"What would you prefer?" You dare to ask. One could say you're talking back to him, but your tone harbours no bite.
"I want you afraid," he whispers as his derma peel back to reveal a horrifying smirk.
He brings you to his intake, immediately drawing out his glossa to lick between your legs. The flimsy underwear you have on hardly acts as a barrier, feeling his wet touch intimately. You huff a surprised gasp, trying to remain composed.
"You taste so much better when you're afraid," he admits.
A thought crosses your mind. One that says you're no longer afraid of him, that you've been acquainted with his depraved behaviours for too long to pay it much mind anymore. But you wouldn't voice that out loud. He's unpredictable, and you don't know how far he'd go to instil fear in you once again.
His glossa slips under the seat of your underwear, using it expertly to pull the material down your legs. He bites, pinching the strip of fabric between dangerous dentae.
Your underwear is removed from you, and you're powerless but to watch as he spits them from his intake. He maintains eye contact as he moves back towards your cunt, licking at you again.
You whine in his hold, writhing slightly. His glossa is huge, targeting your little clit in a messy fashion. The insides of your legs rest against his faceplates as he dines on you. It's hard to properly lick you like this, it's more like he's rubbing you against his glossa.
"Master!" You moan, your hands flying to brace yourself against his upper derma. He chuckles lightly, admiring that pitiful look on your face.
These days, 'Master' is your most-used word. You rarely speak anymore, instead following his desires without protest. You're most vocal when he's intimate with you, when he's taking what he selfishly wants. Even then, you're only vocal because you know it pleases him. Whatever pleases him in turn pleases you, as it results in a nicer version of him.
You stifle a whimper. It always feels wrong to make any sounds for him. It's wrong, yet utterly addictive. Nothing can prepare you for the onslaught of his large glossa, licking at you like it's all he knows how to do. Shivers skitter up your spine, your toes curling from how good it feels. His optics glimmer with something sadistic, and you already know you're in for it.
A sharp cry tumbles from you as he sticks the tip of his glossa into your hole, ramming inside all too quickly. You grip harder onto his upper derma, throwing your head back. The stretch stings, but it feels so good that it's bringing you to tears.
His derma envelopes your pelvis, having you seated fully in his intake as he fucks you with his purple glossa. You struggle with how overly sensitive you are, but the pressure only makes him go for more and more. His glossa explores you, enjoying the way you pulse against him.
He's gotten good at this, better than you first thought he'd be. He was always so clueless when it came to your pleasure, instead staying loyal to his hedonistic path of self-pleasure. Over time, he started to enjoy it when you would find pleasure in him. It stroked his ego, you think.
Your first crest of pleasure is so abrupt that it startles you into thoughtlessness. You gasp as your pussy cinches around his glossa, desperately trying to keep him inside. Your body threatens to collapse as you let out a strangled moan, fireworks exploding in your vision.
Sooooo. You love Optimus Prime, I love Rodimus Prime. I’m wondering how OP would get comfort handing over the matrix and then hearing from the masses that Roddy is the “better prime.” (From the comics that share the matrix doesn’t cause Roddy pain like it did for OP, aka it’s a “better fit”). Give me angst!!!!
Bonus for Roddys side too, hearing this being said of his role model.
Thanks lovey 🫶
— ᨳଓ . idw optimus prime x human reader sfw
oughhh pookie this is EVIIIILLLL, but you know i love angst, so i had to write it LOL. thank you for sending this, i apologise for how long it took to write 💗
The moment you enter the bridge of Ark-27, you're hit with the potent scent of oil. It's mixed with a heavy smell of regret and wallowing, causing you to almost falter in your steps.
With hardly any light illuminating the space, it's hard to make much of anything out. You're relying solely on the natural light spilling in through the front windscreen, which is mostly made up of starlight.
It's silent as death itself, warning you against making any sound. It's so startling that you're frightened to breathe, afraid that the natural respiration would stir something unpleasant and awaken an unknown entity.
You move through the icy cold environment slowly, almost tiptoeing to gradually assess the situation at hand. It doesn't feel strictly dangerous, but certainly uncertain and uncomfortable.
Unsure if you should make your presence known, you simply stalk up the side of the Captain's chair to meet him. He may very well know that you're there, but he doesn't make a gesture to indicate it. He continues to dwell in his doubts, his helm hung low.
Gazing up at your large, heroic lover, you aren't sure what to say. You've seen him dejected and downtrodden more than once, but this feels different to the other times. Your brows crease into a frown as his energy starts to erode your heart.
"My love," you announce softly, "Would you like some company? Or would you prefer I left?"
He takes his helm from his servos, but he doesn't meet your eyes. He stares at his servos as though the answer to the universe is inscribed in the seams, studying them carefully and thoughtfully. You wait patiently, observing the pain in his beautiful optics.
"Stay."
It's one word. Whispered with intent, conjured from somewhere deep and genuine within his spark.
"Of course," you reply gently, walking closer to him. You turn and sit beside his ped, leaning your body to the side to rest your head against his leg strut. He vents a soft smile, lowering his arms to rest his elbows against his knees.
He stares out the front window, watching the freckled stars pass him by. He can't help but be drawn to the ones that seem particularly strong, that outshine the others around them. What's the saying? When a star shines twice as bright, but only half as long. A fitting analogy, the Prime thinks.
When he does all the saving, who will be there to save him?
Optimus has felt, for many centuries, that he's sitting in a tower surrounded by water. He remains in the damp, dark setting, wondering when someone will notice that he's there. Will anyone look for him? Or will they be distracted by Rodimus and his sparkling personality?
Sometimes, he places his servo against the cold wall and presses his audials against the brick. If he focuses hard enough, he's sure he can hear the sounds of others. He built the future for them, ensuring that they would be able to laugh in the same way they do now. But it came with a steep price: loneliness, agony, and dreams too large to ever achieve.
It's a burden he bears, a weight he carries. But he does so without any complaint, because this is the reality of bearing the Matrix.
Or, so he thought.
For all these years, he believed that suffering was the downside to harbouring immense wisdom and power. Everything is give and take; nothing in life is free. For aeons, he's swallowed his pain for the betterment of his race and people. It was always about the bigger picture, which he never expected anyone to understand.
So, why is it that Rodimus has had such a different experience? One where he feels the Matrix wants him, welcomes him? Where it feels like resting on a bed of clouds? Why is it that it does not pain him to open his spark chamber to this mystical power? Why does it not feel like the Matrix despises to be wielded?
At this moment, there's only one conclusion Optimus has drawn:
He was never worthy of the Matrix.
It was a fluke, something given out of desperation for Cybertronian survival rather than genuine value. A fluke that lasted too long. Perhaps it only wanted to be used by Optimus in the interim, just to push through that first leg of the war, rather than be paired with him for an age.
How many mistakes did Optimus make during his time as the Matrix-bearer? How misguided did he become at the troughs of battle? No matter how omnipotent the Matrix is, it couldn't make him whole. Instead, he was a charade. A grotesque caricature of the Greats that came before him, a pale imitation of what he strived to be.
The whispers are unmistakable and only fuel Optimus' crippling inferiority complex. Rodimus was always the true Prime of this age, but he wasn't in the right place at the right time all that time ago. The Matrix settled for what it had before it.
"Will you talk to me about it?" You ask just above a whisper. You're happy to sit in silence if that's what he needs, but you know it's rare that anyone truly lends their ear to him. You'll give him the opportunity to express his struggles, if he wishes.
He leans forward, dropping his servo down to you to brush his thumb gently over the top of your head. You shift, looking up at him to meet his optics. The ghosts weigh heavy on him, you can tell that much.
Scooping you up from where you're sitting, he brings you up to his chassis to place you on top of his window ledge. He rests back in the Captain's chair, trying to relax himself in your tiny presence.
"Perhaps I am just an old, tired mech, thinking back on his life and how things could have been done differently. If there were choices I made that led to unnecessary deaths. Sacrifices that were in vain. Paths taken that made the journey harder."
"I can't say I know much about leadership," you counter, "But I can't imagine it's ever easy. There are parts of yourself that must change, things that you must close off for the greater good. No one is perfect, Optimus. Your people still love and laud you despite any mistakes. You took them through their darkest hours and saw them through the other side."
There came a time, not too long ago, when the tower Optimus felt isolated in seemed to change. He felt the presence of someone else just on the other side, closer than anyone else had been. He could hear the rasping of small hands touching over the bricks, hoping to find a loose one that could be shimmied free.
He could hear a disembodied, human voice asking if anyone was in there. It stunned him, as he'd become so used to solitude he almost forgot how to use his voice.
It came at an important moment for Optimus. It was when his hope had started to wane, when he started to believe that the rest of his days were to be lived like this. Ignored and neglected in a cold tower, but still having to uphold order within the world.
For the first time in a long time, Optimus didn't feel so alone.
⋆⋅☼⋅⋆
Cube-shaped glasses clink, engex swishes and pours like there's an endless amount of it, 'Bots cheer and rejoice. It's a rowdy environment, but Rodimus relishes it. Far from the doom and gloom they've all known for millions of years. The war is won, the 'Cons are disbanded, and peace has finally been restored.
"To our new Prime!" Drift lifts his glass for a toast.
A wave of cheers pulses through the rambunctious crowd, joining in on the toast. As it settles, Drift laughs lightly, the engex already getting to him.
"The people really love you, you know," Drift says to his closest friend.
Rodimus smiles at that, nodding somewhat bashfully. It was always his dream to be a Prime, but he never thought it would actually happen.
"They even say you're a better Prime than Optimus," Drift adds, hoping that the comment will serve as a high-calibre compliment. Surely, Rodimus would be flattered to hear such a thing.
Instead, a confused look twists his features. He shoots Drift a glance, processing the statement. Surely, that cannot be right? Rodimus better than the Optimus Prime?
"I think you're exaggerating," the orange mech replies as he takes a sip of his drink.
"I'm not!" Drift defends boisterously, "I've heard it being said. The people think you're a better fit! Just take the compliment, will you?"
"N—No," Rodimus hushes with a shake of his helm. "That can't be right. I am not better than Optimus, there's no way. He's the person I've strived to be for all these years. If anything, I'm just an imitation of him."
Drift laughs, actually laughs, at that.
"You? Similar to Optimus? You need to have your processor checked."
"What's that supposed to mean?"
"Be serious, Rodimus. Maybe you're similar to Orion Pax, but definitely not Optimus Prime."
Well, doesn't that mess with Rodimus' perception of himself?
blurb: In a world populated by both mechanical and organic beings, the whimsical is never an afterthought. Dragons roam the skies, elves and pixies reside in pockets of the earth, humans and magics alike occupy the surface. It’s a realm of peace and order, overseen by the aristocracy who maintain the way of life for all residents.
After tragedy strikes the Princess’ most loyal knight, her position must be filled by another.
Optimus becomes the newly sworn knight of the darling Princess, vowed to protect and serve every request and order. The dynamic they share is supposed to remain strictly professional. But what are they to do when love starts to trespass upon the invisible social divide which forbids them from coupling?
themes: medieval au, fantasy world, knight!optimus, princess!reader, forbidden love, yearning, slow burn, eventual 18+ storyline — minors dni.
hello angels!<3 it’s time for a new weekly fic, yippee! for those of u familiar w my stuff, this will not be as long as across the divide but i’m no less excited to write it 🫡. you can imagine any optimus you like, but I like to visualise his IDW design (but make it knight-ified)
they/them pronouns will be used for the reader, but terms like ‘princess’ will be used as descriptors!! no use of y/n for the reader. smut will also be from a fem perspective.
The needle pierces through taut red cloth, adding another slither of detail to your embroidery work. You are lounging comfortably in the tower block of your home, the royal castle known as Croftvalley. You've seated yourself by the arched window, having opened the stained glass a tad to allow in some fresh air. With it wafts in the gentle scent of Spring, the flowers are finally in their full bloom. A myriad of colours embellish your room through the decorated window, specks of dust dancing within the rays.
Idle company of chatter from the townfolk and birdcalls makes for pleasant background noise whilst you commit to your task. You weave the golden thread in and out, slowly building the portrait of a kaleidoscope of butterflies. Once finished, it will make a fine accessory to be fashioned onto one of your dresses.
A gentle breeze flowing in through the window disturbs the delicate tulle on the long skirt of your purple dress, curling underneath to send a small chill across your shins. You shift your legs, repositioning your skirt. Placing your work in progress down to your lap, you take a momentary break to gaze out of the window across the vast landscape of the land.
The feeling of tranquillity flows through your veins as you take in the sights, admiring all that has been built. The sun is cast, blessing every structure with Her radiant beauty. Rivers flow with gentle glimmers, markets thrive with visitors, and children laugh and play.
Velantra is a nation of peace, stability, and order. You were born into this world as the King and Queen's sole heir, and you have been raised under the values of conciliation and equity for all. Each day you learn more, you gather more experience, readying yourself for the day that you eventually succeed the King in sovereignty of the realm you call home. Since you could form your first thought, you have been educated in politics, history, the arts, languages, and even a small amount of magic. Some humans that are born in these lands have a natural aptitude for magic, but your abilities did not flourish as much as the King and Queen had hoped for.
This place has been governed as such for many millennia under the powerful royal house, which has been steadfast in its lineage since civilisation first settled on this previously abandoned land. The royal house is benevolent and takes the concerns of its citizens with high priority. Peace has managed to prosper in these lands thanks to the kindness that oversees it, the diplomacy that laid the foundation of everything every citizen lives by. Your ancestor, the first Queen, was not considered a conqueror, but a respectable woman who united everyone and everything that gathered here. She was a leader who was forthright and strong, so she was elected to the highest position through democracy.
Every creature and being that inhabits this land does so with full autonomy and freedom. The population is diverse; elves, dragons, dwarves, humans, and mages alike all co-inhabit without any conflict. The people are treated fairly, their labour is compensated in kind, and no singular individual profits more as a result of another's work. This has been the law of the land long before you were born, and it will continue to be so long after you are gone.
Your eyes draw away from the views outside, instead moving to study your quarters. The green chiffon curtains billow softly from the breeze, your bed is perfectly made, and the acacia wood flooring is sparkling clean. Gold and silver accents decorate every detail, with intricate details carved into the walls and furniture. Everything is uniquely ornate, catered specifically to your tastes. You acknowledge the privilege that comes with being a royal, and you'll never take a moment of it for granted.
As though the higher powers are seeking to disturb your peaceful morning, a knock sounds from your towering, dark oak double doors. Your eyes flit over to look, tracing the vine-like carvings that stretch up the middle of them.
"You may enter," your voice says clearly.
The doors open, creaking slightly as your visitor becomes visible to you.
"Master Ephri," you greet. He's an older gentleman, trained under the very best and capable of remarkable feats in medicine. He is stationed at the castle permanently and acts as a personal healer to anyone in the royal household. The man holds himself well, with a near-perfect posture and immaculate appearance, with long silver hair which is often tied back in a low ponytail.
"My Princess," he replies, his tone bordering on solemn. "It is Dame Ronnin. Please, the matter is urgent, so your haste attention would be appreciated."
Dame Ronnin is your personal Knight. She has served you since the day you were born, sworn to be your sword and shield. To protect you at all costs, to ensure your safety. She is more like a mother to you than anything, often taking it upon herself to teach you lessons that one might learn from a parent.
An equal mix of confusion and concern paints your features as you put your embroidery work next to you on a plush cushion. You stand, moving through the room with urgency to accompany Master Ephri. Your skirt flows in your path, almost making it look as though you are floating. The expression the healer wears is grave, and you begin to fear the worst.
"What has happened?" You dare to ask as you leave the room with him.
The guards situated outside your quarters close your doors, returning to their firm standing position to keep watch. Master Ephri keeps with your pace as you take yourself down the long hallway, assuming that Ronnin is likely to be in the sanatorium.
"I will explain further once we get there," Ephri tells you, somewhat averting your look. This only lends to the idea that something has gone catastrophically wrong. Someone will rarely refuse you information that you ask for, but you're well-mannered enough not to push the topic.
Your heart rate starts to accelerate as a tingling feeling pools in your fingertips and settles in your teeth. You look down the long hallway, picking up the pace to reach your faithful Knight. The midday sun stretches past the pillars to cast shadows which you quickly pass through.
Master Ephri struggles to keep up with your pace, slowly falling behind. You can hear the rasping of his robes as he paces his breathing through his mouth, but it's of little concern to you in this moment.
Turning the corner so quickly that you almost lose your footing, you regain your composure as you journey the short distance to the third door down. Two Knights stand outside, turning their heads to see you.
"My Princess," one speaks, sidestepping further in front of the door. "I must advise against this."
"Stand down, Ser. You will not prevent me from entering this room," you declare sternly, on your mission to reunite with your beloved protector. The Knight currently standing between you and the door shows an uncertain expression, but soon sees Master Ephri approach from behind you. The healer nods, reaffirming that the Knight should step aside.
And so, he does. With a modicum of hesitation, he permits you entry.
You push open the doors, quickly slipping into the room. The sight you're greeted with is one that you never imagined you'd have to face.
Ronnin is resting on a marble slab, adorned in her silver armour. You have to bite back the gasp at the puddle of blood spoiling the brilliant marble, her pale complexion only just able to meet your gaze. A substantial gash has torn through the chainmail that pieces the side of her chestplate together, the wound so grotesque that removing the armour would have done more harm than good. The blood grows larger and thicker, bleeding through every strip of gauze wound around her.
Her burnt orange hair is dishevelled and messy, wisps sticking to her clammy face and neck. Her lips are dried to the point of cracking, already showing a chilling blue tint. Her lashes are clumped together; from sweat or tears, you can't tell. You've never seen her in such a weakened state, and it strikes a fear within you that is trying to claw its way out of your ribcage.
The moment feels like it lasts a lifetime, your body as still as stone. The weight of your heart keeps you rooted in place, unable to process what you're witnessing. Your eyes are wide, your lips parted a fraction. Master Ephri enters the room, drawing to your side. He looks upon you with concern and sympathy, unsure if he should utter any condolences yet, considering the light of Ronnin's life is still flickering. Barely.
"Ronnin…" You whisper, "What are you doing? What is this? Get up, Ronnin."
She sighs a shaky breath with what little strength she has left. She slides her hand across the blood-soaked slab, unable to lift it, but reaching out for you. Her chest falls and rises shallowly, clawing for each breath. Your heart begins to recognise an absence before your mind can process it, your sense of gravity entirely shifting.
"Come to me, Princess," she feebly asks.
Despite her plea, your feet will not take you any further. Your jaw clenches as your throat swells, the tingling sensation in your fingers spreading up your arms like an infestation. Master Ephri places a delicate hand on your shoulder, trying to imbue you with the courage to step forward.
"Dame Ronnin has held onto life so that she could say goodbye to you," he whispers softly into your ear.
A breath hitches in your throat as your nose and eyes start to tingle as well, your entire body succumbing to this new sensation. You clench your fingers into fists at your side, trying to quench your fears. Finally, your body moves. Not because you intended to, but because you needed to. Your heart was in control, but your mind seized the power to do what was necessary.
You come to her side, reaching for her bloodied hand. She's cold to the touch, but you hardly flinch. You wrap both hands around it, bringing it close to your chest. Glassy, teary eyes peer down at her as you hold back the urge to cry uncontrollably.
"Your dress," she hushes, regretful of the blood that is getting over the beautiful material. One as delicate as you should never know the harshness of bloodshed, nor should you be subject to dirtying yourself with it. That was always her job, to protect you from the harsh realities that sometimes befall this world.
"I don't care about the dress," you reply, your voice cracking. "I care about you, and you must stay strong for me. You will fare this, you've weathered tougher storms."
Your Knight smiles weakly, rolling her head over the marble in pain which she is trying, and failing, to hide from you. The foundation of all you know is slowly being removed from beneath you, brick by brick. You become more unstable by the minute, unable to find your centre.
"My sweet child," she murmurs, "I'm afraid that this is my end."
"No!" You reply desperately, holding her hand tighter. You begin to shake, knowing that you won't be able to hold it together any longer. Her blood smears over the tulle sleeves of your dress, sure to ruin this garment beyond repair. "No, Ronnin! You are sworn to me, and I have not given you leave!"
"You will make a remarkable Queen," she utters through a struggle, disregarding your outburst. "I'm sorry I will not be there to see it. Rest assured, I will admire your rule from The Divine Domain with utmost pride."
Every word she speaks drains her energy further, but she's determined to commit every last breath to you. Through clenched teeth, you suck in a sharp breath. You shake your head adamantly as tears start to fall over your waterline, pulling her hand to your cheek. You cradle your head in her palm, seeking the maternal comfort she has given you unconditionally for so many years. She cannot leave you like this, not so soon, not in such a way. She is deserving of a more graceful death than this. The Fated Speakers play a cruel game, never showing respect where respect is due.
"I can't be Queen without you," you say with a shaky voice, "You are my strength."
"Nonsense," she whispers.
One last smile is all she can manage before the life deflates from her lungs. You watch the light in her blue eyes fade looking straight at you. It's as though you're watching the sun decide to never rise again, lurching you into a territory no one could have prepared you for. She cradled you in her arms when you were just a babe, and she's passing on peacefully, knowing that you are the last person she got to see.
You sniffle as more tears flow from you, feeling your heart crack in your chest. Lowering down, you place a delicate kiss on her forehead.
Master Elphi comes up behind you, placing a consoling hand on your back. You pull away from your deceased protector, looking over your shoulder at the senior healer.
"Please have my assurance that I did everything within my capability to save her," he says quietly with a sorry look.
You look back to Ronnin, parting one hand from hers to brush her auburn hair from her freckled face. You smooth your hand over the roots of her hair as your tears fall onto her cheeks. The hands that taught you how to hold the world are now letting go of it, the roots of your oldest tree turning to ash beneath the soil. Your tears stain your cheeks as you look at her, hoping that the flame of her candle will relight any moment now so that she may return to you.
"I am deeply sorry, Princess," he continues.
Standing straight, you wipe your tears with your bloodied hand, refusing to let your other hand leave hers. Your bottom lip trembles, feeling as though you have lost a vital part of yourself in this moment.
"You did all you could, Master Ephri. You have my thanks for that. I'm sure you worked tirelessly, so please, excuse yourself for the rest of the day so that you may rest," you speak with a tremble.
Despite your grief, you try to be as benign as Ronnin always taught you to be. The greatest rulers do not obtain loyalty through fear, but instead cultivate it with kindness, until devotion becomes stronger than chains. You try to live by this, modelling yourself day by day into the eventual monarch you wish to be.
"We should allow the Daughters of Myre to handle things from here," he suggests gently. You peer over to the corner of the room, seeing three women standing there in the same stance, their hands crossed loosely over their front with their fingers laced. It's possible they were there the entire time, but you never noticed them.
The Daughters of Myre are a mystical entity. They are identical in appearance, with deathly pale skin, tall stature, straight, long black hair and pointed ears. From what you understand, they act somewhat as a hive mind, but they're hard to get any conversation out of. They are also known as the Keepers of Death, handling the deceased and overseeing the transition of the spirit to the care of The Fated Speakers so that they may enter the afterlife peacefully.
You sniffle once again, bringing Ronnin's limp hand to your lips to give her one last farewell. It is done with anguish and heartbreak as you hear the voice that always called you home becoming nothing more than an echo.
"Rest well, my dear Knight."
next ->
thank u for reading chapter one!! this chapter was just to set the foundations and establish the world!! optimus will arrive in the next chapter hehehe <3 i will aim to post on a weekly basis, but it may sometimes be ever two weeks!! i'll aim for chapters to be 4k+ words, but the first couple will be shorter as i develop the world!!
hiya beautiful <3 hope you're doing well!!!!! looots of love from my end
currently battling ARFID but reading your fics offer a much needed distraction from everything. whenever i read your fluffy op fics i feel like this image
mwah !! all the best
sfw drabble — stargazing
hello my darling!! i’m sorry to hear that, things like that can be so difficult to deal with :( i hope you feel better soon and that you have a supportive net to help you <3 here’s a lil smth smth with my fave optimus <3
Rhythmic chirps sound off around you as you gaze up at the clear night sky. It’s a summer night in the middle of June, the air is stagnant and warm. You have your hands behind your head, basking in the natural warmth that emanates from Optimus’ mass displaced frame.
He’s adopted the same pose, resting back against the green fields to accompany you in stargazing. Both of you look over each pinprick of light, admiring them in their simplicity from your long distance.
“That one is called Orion’s belt,” you point out to the three stars in the sky, picking it first intentionally.
“Orion, huh?” He says.
“Yep,” you answer, “You were written in the stars long before you got here.”
He chuckles lightly at your theory. “I’m not so sure about that.”
“Mmm, maybe not,” you admit, “But it’s a nice thought, right? I like to think you were destined for this place.”
“And to find you,” he adds softly.
The words have your stomach doing flips, grateful for the night atmosphere to mask your growing blush. He’s so nonchalant with the way he says things, you aren’t sure if he means them as flirtatious comments or not. Maybe he’s just that smooth with it.
“Yeah, I like how that sounds,” you reply quietly, keeping your sights on the constellation. Trying to bat away your subtle shyness, you start speaking again.
“Greek mythology says that Orion was a giant hunter who was hung amongst the stars by the Gods, but there are a few different meanings behind it depending on who you ask.”
He nods as he listens, storing your information to his hardware. He’ll make sure he never forgets it, so that he can gaze upon the stars and always look back on this night fondly.
“And that one,” you say as you move your finger to another set of stars. “That’s Aquila, Zeus’ bird that retrieved his thunderbolts.”
“Zeus?” Optimus echoes.
“Greek mythology again,” you say, shifting your head against the grass to look over at him, “He was the King of Gods.”
“An impressive title,” he comments, looking over at you to meet your eyes.
“I like listening to you talk,” he admits, “I find it very peaceful.”
You smile at that, feeling bashful all over again. The strange set of circumstances that dropped you into Optimus’ orbit is something you’re forever grateful for. He is kind, compassionate, loving, gentle, and strong. Perfect in every way.
“Well I like being in your company,” you respond, “It’s nice getting to spend some alone time with you.”
“It pains me that we can’t do it more often,” he confesses, shifting over to draw himself closer to you. You watch him approach, noticing how he retrieves his face guard into the intricacies of his helm to reveal his beautiful face. It’s truly a crime that he keeps it covered most of the time.
He lowers down to you, capturing your lips in a tender kiss. You return the gesture, resting your hand against the side of his helm. He’s languid in the way he moves against you, maintaining a healthy pace for passion.
Right now, there’s no where in the world you’d rather be than right here with him.
