#muna writes

The style I’m leaning to is like 2000’s girly vibes. So… their reactions to seeing them like that!!

Upgraded Aesthetic

⋆‧°𓏲ּ𝄢 𝖠 TMNT 𝟤𝟢𝟣𝟤 𝖥𝖺𝗇𝖿𝗂𝖼𝗍𝗂𝗈𝗇 ⋆‧°𓏲ּ𝄢

⏔⏔⏔ ꒰ ᧔ෆ᧓ ꒱ ⏔⏔⏔

Pairing: TMNT 2012 x Reader

Pronouns: They/Them

POV: Third Person

Genre: Comedy / Fluff / Slice of Life

Summary: Usually seen in baggy hoodies and looking like a "total bum," the reader decides to debut a full 2000s girly aesthetic while hanging out with April and Casey. The turtles, currently on patrol, are absolutely not prepared for the whiplash.

Leonardo

Leonardo prided himself on his "Tactical Observation Skills." He could spot a Foot Clan initiate from three rooftops away and identify the exact model of a Kraang blaster by its hum. Usually, his observations of you were simple: Subject is wearing a sweatshirt two sizes too big. Subject has a mysterious stain on their left sneaker. Subject looks like they just rolled out of a laundry basket.

"Looking like a total bum again, huh?" Raph’s voice usually echoed through the lair whenever you arrived, his smirk wide as he poked fun at your oversized beanies and shapeless pants. Leo would usually just offer a polite, slightly pitying smile, reminding Raph to be nice.

Tonight, however, the "tactical observation" hit a massive glitch.

Perched on a SoHo ledge, Leo peered down at the sidewalk where April and Casey were meeting up with a group of friends. "I see April and Jones," Leo whispered, adjusting his grip. "But... who is that with them? Some new transfer student?"

Donnie leaned over, his goggles clicking into place. "Uh, Leo... that’s not a transfer student. That’s ____."

Leo’s brain stalled. The person down there looked like they had stepped straight out of a 2005 music video. You were wearing a tiny, fitted baby tee with a glittery graphic, paired with low-rise denim flares cinched by a chunky, butterfly-buckle belt. Your hair was adorned with a sea of colorful butterfly clips that caught the streetlights with every laugh.

"No way," Leo breathed, his blue mask doing nothing to hide the sudden, burning heat climbing up his cheeks. He watched as you adjusted a tiny, rhinestone-encrusted purse on your shoulder—a far cry from the frayed backpack you usually carried. You looked vibrant, stylish, and... confident.

For the first time, Leo didn't see the person who hung out in the sewers playing video games. He saw a person who had a whole, stylish life on the surface—a life that looked incredibly bright.

"We need to move," Leo said, his voice an octave higher than usual as he scrambled to stand up.

"Move? We're supposed to be watching for the Kraang shipment!" Raph protested.

"The... the vantage point is compromised!" Leo lied desperately, already leaping toward the next building. He couldn't stay there. If you looked up and saw him looking like a giant green turtle while you looked like a pop star, he was pretty sure he would spontaneously combust.

---

Raphael

Raphael was the one who had coined the term "Bum." It was his favorite nickname for you, right up there with "Smelly" and "Kid." He was used to you being the low-maintenance, hoodie-wearing human who didn't care about looking cool. To Raph, you were comfortable—like an old pair of boxing gloves.

But as he stared down at the SoHo plaza, his jaw didn't just drop; it practically hit the fire escape.

"Donnie, your goggles are broken," Raph growled, his golden-green eyes darting frantically between the stylish figure in the butterfly clips and the memory of the person he’d teased for wearing mismatched socks yesterday. "That ain't them. That’s a Kraang droid in a wig. Has to be."

"Raph, the facial recognition is 99% certain," Donnie whispered back.

Raph’s grip tightened on the brick ledge until it crumbled. He watched as you laughed at something Casey said, your "2000s girly" aesthetic making you stand out like a neon sign against the New York pavement. The "Angel" rhinestone tee caught the light, and the way you carried yourself—head high, totally owning the look—made Raph feel a strange, prickly sensation in his chest that felt suspiciously like nerves.

"Who are they tryin' to impress?" Raph muttered, his arms crossing over his plastron defensively. He felt a sudden, irrational urge to jump down there and throw his own oversized hoodie over you just to make the world make sense again.

He had spent months calling you a bum. He’d made it his mission to mock your "laundry day" fashion choices. And now? You looked... great. You looked like you belonged in a magazine. And most importantly, you looked like you didn't need a hot-headed turtle in a red mask to tell you what was cool.

"Still a bum," he grumbled under his breath, though the insult tasted like a lie. He turned away, his face a bright, flustered red. "Whatever. Let's just go before Jones sees us gawking."

---

Donatello

Donatello’s goggles were currently displaying a flurry of data points that his brain was struggling to process. He had spent months observing you in the lair, usually cataloging your comfort-first wardrobe as a "functional necessity for subterranean environments". In his mind, you were the person who wore oversized shirts because they were soft and sweatpants because they were practical.

As he adjusted the zoom on his visor, the sheer amount of shimmer coming from your outfit was causing a literal lens flare in his HUD.

"The light refraction index on those rhinestones is... remarkably high," Donnie whispered, his voice cracking slightly. He watched as you pulled out a translucent pink flip phone that looked like a piece of candy. "Is that a retro-tech aesthetic? And those butterfly clips... the symmetry is actually quite aesthetic."

His heart rate monitor—usually a steady rhythm during surveillance—started to beep a bit faster in his ear. To Donnie, your "bum" look was something he understood. It was safe. It was predictable. This new 2000s-inspired look, however, was a variable he hadn't accounted for. You looked sleek, coordinated, and undeniably stylish.

"I... I should probably take notes on the social impact of this transformation," Donnie mumbled, though his hands were shaking too much to actually type on his wrist-gauntlet. He felt a wave of bashfulness wash over him. You looked so sophisticated that he suddenly felt very conscious of the fact that he was a giant turtle with a gap in his teeth. If you were this cool on the surface, did you only hang out in the sewers because you felt sorry for them?

"Donnie! Stop staring and let's go!" Leo hissed, grabbing him by the shell.

"I'm not staring, I'm analyzing!" Donnie protested, though his lingering gaze on your platform sneakers suggested otherwise.

–––

Michelangelo

While the others were stressed or flustered, Mikey was having the time of his life. He was the first one to lean so far over the ledge that Raph had to grab his belt to keep him from falling into a boba-shop trash can.

"DUDES!" Mikey squealed, his eyes practically turning into hearts. "____ is literally a pop star! Look at the sparkles! Look at the tiny purse! It’s like a cupcake, but as an outfit!"

Unlike his brothers, Mikey didn't feel intimidated or annoyed; he felt inspired. He had always known you were cool, but seeing you embrace the glitter and the "girly" 2000s energy made him want to go back to the lair and bedazzle his nunchucks immediately.

"I told you they were hiding some serious swag under those hoodies!" Mikey cheered, waving his arms. "They look so fetch! Is that what the humans say? I’m pretty sure they look fetch!"

He watched you do a little hair flip, the butterfly clips shimmering in the neon lights. Mikey let out a low whistle, grinning from ear to ear. "Raph, you gotta stop calling them a bum. They just put your whole wardrobe to shame, and you don't even wear clothes!"

"Zip it, Mikey!" Raph growled, though Mikey just laughed.

As the brothers retreated into the shadows of the rooftops, Mikey was already planning a "glam night" at the lair. He didn't care about the angst or the nerves—he just couldn't wait to ask you where you got that butterfly belt, because he was 100% sure it would look great on his shell.

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───

🍮🥄 𝓝𝓸𝓽𝓮 𝓽𝓸 𝓐𝓷𝓸𝓷 🍮🥄

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───

To the Anon: Oh, I absolutely had to take this on! There is nothing quite as satisfying as a "from bum to glam" transformation, especially when it involves giving Raph a total system error. I’m a huge sucker for that 2000s girly aesthetic—the butterfly clips, the glitter, the sheer chaos of it all. Seeing the guys realize their "low-maintenance" friend is actually a fashion icon on the surface was comedy gold to write. I hope this captures exactly the vibe you were looking for!⋆˚꩜｡

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───

❝ 𝓘𝓯 𝓡𝓪𝓹𝓱 𝓭𝓸𝓮𝓼𝓷’𝓽 𝓫𝓮𝓭𝓪𝔃𝔃𝓵𝓮 𝓱𝓲𝓼 𝓼𝓱𝓮𝓵𝓵 𝓷𝓮𝔁𝓽, 𝓘’𝓿𝓮 𝓯𝓪𝓲𝓵𝓮𝓭 𝓪𝓼 𝓪 𝔀𝓻𝓲𝓽𝓮𝓻. ❞

𝖠𝗎𝗍𝗁𝗈𝗋’𝗌 𝖭𝗈𝗍𝖾: 𝖳𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗋𝖾𝗊𝗎𝖾𝗌𝗍 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝗌𝗎𝖼𝗁 𝖺 𝗀𝖾𝗆 𝗍𝗈 𝗐𝗋𝗂𝗍𝖾! 𝖨 𝗋𝖾𝖺𝗅𝗅𝗒 𝗐𝖺𝗇𝗍𝖾𝖽 𝗍𝗈 𝖼𝖺𝗉𝗍𝗎𝗋𝖾 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗉𝗎𝗋𝖾 𝗐𝗁𝗂𝗉𝗅𝖺𝗌𝗁 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖻𝗈𝗒𝗌 𝖿𝖾𝖾𝗅 𝗐𝗁𝖾𝗇 𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗒 𝗌𝖾𝖾 𝖺 𝖽𝗂𝖿𝖿𝖾𝗋𝖾𝗇𝗍 𝗌𝗂𝖽𝖾 𝗈𝖿 [𝖸/𝖭]. 𝖫𝖾𝗈 𝗀𝖾𝗍𝗍𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖿𝗅𝗎𝗌𝗍𝖾𝗋𝖾𝖽 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝖱𝖺𝗉𝗁 𝗀𝗈𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗂𝗇𝗍𝗈 𝖿𝗎𝗅𝗅 𝖽𝖾𝗇𝗂𝖺𝗅 𝗆𝗈𝖽𝖾 𝗂𝗌 𝗉𝖾𝖺𝗄 𝖼𝗈𝗆𝖾𝖽𝗒 𝗍𝗈 𝗆𝖾. 𝖨𝗍'𝗌 𝖺𝗅𝗐𝖺𝗒𝗌 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗊𝗎𝗂𝖾𝗍 𝗈𝗇𝖾𝗌 𝗐𝗁𝗈 𝗁𝖺𝗏𝖾 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗆𝗈𝗌𝗍 𝖿𝖺𝗌𝗁𝗂𝗈𝗇 𝗌𝖾𝗇𝗌𝖾 𝗁𝗂𝖽𝖽𝖾𝗇 𝖺𝗐𝖺𝗒!

.✦ ݁˖ Word count check!: 𝖳𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝖻𝖺𝖻𝗒 𝖼𝗅𝗈𝖼𝗄𝖾𝖽 𝗂𝗍 𝖺𝗍 𝖺𝗋𝗈𝗎𝗇𝖽 𝟤.𝟥𝗄 𝗐𝗈𝗋𝖽𝗌! 𝖨 𝗁𝗈𝗉𝖾 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝖺𝗅𝗅 𝖾𝗇𝗃𝗈𝗒𝖾𝖽 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗎𝗉𝗀𝗋𝖺𝖽𝖾𝖽 𝖺𝖾𝗌𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗍𝗂𝖼. ⋆˚꩜｡

⏔⏔⏔ ꒰ ᧔ෆ᧓ ꒱ ⏔⏔⏔

curbstomp // rated e, pwp, 2.6k

cw: cbt (not the therapy kind), hudson gets stepped on

summary:

“Think I did alright?” Connor says. Hudson knows he knows how great he was, but this is the game they're playing right now.

“You were the funniest bitch at the Saturday Night Live store. That's a fact, papi. Everyone loved you." Hudson licks his lips. "Everyone wants to kneel at your feet.”

Connor's lips curl up, amused. “Don't care about this ambiguous ‘everyone’, baby. Do you? Want?”

Hudson drops to his knees.

A leather sole meets the naked skin of his shoulder.

And she’s actually more extremely flirty to Ratchet as she ignores Sentinal Prime’s flirting (yah she’s an Elite guard). So imagine reactions of how she’s more attentive to Ratchet.

Ancient Alloys

⋆‧°𓏲ּ𝄢 A Transformers Animated Fanfiction ⋆‧°𓏲ּ𝄢

⏔⏔⏔ ꒰ ᧔ෆ᧓ ꒱ ⏔⏔⏔

Pairing: Ratchet x Fem!Autobot!Reader (feat. Sentinel Prime)

Pronouns: She/Her

POV: Third Person

Genre: Comedy / Romance / Fluff

Summary: Being an Elite Guard member means dealing with a lot of egos, none larger than Sentinel Prime’s. But while Sentinel tries to win her over with "valor" and chin-polishing, ____ only has optics for the one bot who couldn't care less about her status: the war-weary medic, Ratchet.

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───

> Note to @scribble0rat: I am literally obsessed with this! A buff lady bot who likes 'em grumpy? Iconic. The way Sentinel Prime is going to be absolutely losing his mind because he’s being out-flirted by a bot who hasn't polished his finish since the Great War is the exact kind of chaos I live for. Enjoy the height difference and the grumpiness!

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───

The Detroit Autobot base was many things—a converted warehouse, a sanctuary, a frequent target for Decepticon attacks—but it was rarely a place of "protocol." That changed the moment the Elite Guard shuttle touched down. The air in the industrial district of Detroit hummed with the displacement of massive engines as the blue-and-gold ship descended, its stabilizers kicking up a whirlwind of organic debris and city soot.

Optimus and his crew stood at attention as the ramp lowered. Well, "at attention" was a generous term for Bumblebee vibrating with excitement and Bulkhead trying not to knock over a stack of energon cubes. Sentinel Prime marched off first, his blue-and-silver chassis gleaming with a fresh coat of high-gloss wax, his chin leading the way as if it were a separate entity entirely.

"At ease, everyone!" Sentinel announced, his voice booming as he gestured vaguely toward his team. "We are here to inspect the... modest progress you've made on this organic-infested rock. And, of course, to allow you the honor of working alongside the Elite Guard’s finest."

Sentinel turned, flashing a blindingly bright grin at the figure behind him. "Isn't that right, ____? I was just telling the Council how much you’ve benefited from my... expert mentorship."

____ stepped out into the light, and the atmosphere of the hangar shifted instantly. She was massive, a towering testament to Cybertronian engineering, hella tall and buff. Her chassis was built for front-line siege breaking, with broad, reinforced shoulder plating and heavy-duty hydraulics that hissed with every powerful stride. Her height rivaled even Bulkhead’s, but where he was rounded and soft-edged, she was all sharp angles and military precision. She was a lady of the Elite Guard who commanded respect the moment she entered the room.

She didn't even blink at Sentinel’s posturing. Her optics were already scanning the crowd, moving past Optimus, past the wide-eyed Bumblebee, and landing squarely on the bot standing in the very back.

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───

Ratchet didn't do "welcome ceremonies." He was busy in the shadows of a back alcove, hunched over a tool rack with a deeply unimpressed scowl. He was recalibrating a welding torch that had been acting up since Bulkhead sat on it during a movie night, and the finicky laser was testing the very limits of his patience.

"Waste of fuel," Ratchet muttered to himself, his voice a gravelly rasp that cut through the silence of the warehouse. "Coming all this way just to show off some shiny paint and talk down to us. I’ve got more important things to do than listen to a 'Prime' talk about his own chin."

Suddenly, the light in his corner was blocked out by a massive shadow. Ratchet looked up, his optical sensors whirring as they struggled to adjust to the sudden darkness. He was ready to tell whoever was in his way to shove off—probably Bumblebee looking for a polish—when he found himself staring into the soft blue optics of ____.

Up close, she was even more imposing. The light reflected off her heavy-duty armor, revealing small, honorable scuffs that suggested she actually saw combat, unlike the pristine Sentinel.

"You're the one," ____ said, her voice a low, pleasant hum that vibrated right through Ratchet's old, rusted plating.

Ratchet blinked, his processor momentarily lagging. "The one what? The one you're blocking the light for? Yeah, that’s me. Move it, lady. Some of us actually have work to do while the rest of you play parade."

Instead of being offended by his abrasiveness, ____'s expression softened into something almost... dreamy. She leaned down, bracing a massive, scarred servo against the tool rack next to his head. The move was subtle, but it effectively boxed him in, forcing him to look at her.

"You're Ratchet," she purred, her optics tracing the weathered lines of his chassis and the specialized medical tools integrated into his arms. "The veteran of the Great War. The bot who kept the field units together when the scrap hit the fan. My training instructors used to show us archives of your tactical repairs during the battle of the Kaon Rift."

Ratchet’s face-plates turned a dull shade of energon-pink, a rare sight for the stoic medic. "Archives? Hmph. Probably just used me as a 'what not to do' example. 'Don't end up like this old rust-bucket who spends his days yelling at clouds.'"

"They used you as an example of what a real hero looks like," ____ countered, her voice dripping with a flirtatious edge that made Bumblebee, who was watching from across the room, drop his oil-can in a clattering shock. She ignored the noise, focusing entirely on the grumpy medic. "They don't make them like you anymore, Ratchet. Rugged. Reliable. Built for more than just show."

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───

Sentinel Prime, sensing that his spotlight was being stolen by a bot who hadn't been polished since the Vorn of the Great Unrest, marched over. He inserted himself between ____ and the medic, his cape fluttering with dramatic indignation.

"Now, now, ____! Don't let yourself get bogged down with the... antique equipment," Sentinel laughed nervously, patting his own polished chest plate. "Ratchet here is a fine bot, I’m sure, but he’s hardly Elite Guard material. If you want to hear about real heroics, I have a three-hour presentation on my latest skirmish with a rogue toaster! It involves a very heroic stance and at least four different camera angles!"

____ didn't even acknowledge Sentinel’s presence. Her gaze remained fixed on Ratchet, peering over the top of Sentinel’s head as if he were a minor geological nuisance.

"So, Ratchet," she said, her voice dropping an octave as she leaned even closer, ignoring Sentinel's desperate attempts to regain her attention. "I noticed your right stabilizer hinge is slightly misaligned. Heavy-duty stress? Or just... too many missions carrying the weight of this team on your shoulders?"

Ratchet grumbled, trying to look annoyed despite the fact that his spark was starting to pulse at a rate that triggered a "high-cardiac-output" warning on his own HUD. "It’s a warehouse, not a museum. Things break when you're actually doing something. Now, if you're done inspecting the 'antiques,' I have a torch to calibrate."

"I’m an expert in heavy-lifting hydraulics," ____ said, reaching out to gently—almost tenderly—tap the dent in Ratchet’s shoulder. It was a bold move, considering Ratchet usually threatened to disassemble anyone who touched his chassis without a medical reason. "I’d be more than happy to help you with those repairs. Tonight. In private? I have some high-grade lubricant that works wonders on old, stubborn joints."

Sentinel Prime’s jaw practically hit the floor. "Private repairs?! With him?! But ____, I have a VIP reservation at the most exclusive grease-pit in Detroit! I even got my chin waxed for the occasion! Look at the shine! You could see your reflection in it!"

____ finally looked at Sentinel, her expression turning cool, professional, and utterly bored in a split second. "Sentinel, I am an Elite Guard officer. My primary concern is the maintenance and well-being of our veteran assets. Ratchet is a priority. Your chin... is a vanity project. One that is currently obstructing my line of sight."

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───

The silence that followed was heavy enough to crush a Mini-con. Sentinel sputtered, his cooling fans whining as he tried to find a retort that wouldn't make him look even smaller than he already felt in ____'s presence.

She turned back to Ratchet, her gaze softening once more. A small, genuine smile tugged at her mouth-plates—a look usually reserved for successful mission completions. "So? What do you say, doc? Think you can handle a little attention from the Elite Guard? Or are you too 'busy' for a bot who appreciates the finer points of war-era engineering?"

Ratchet looked at her massive, powerful frame, seeing the way her armor caught the dim light of the warehouse. He looked at the sputtering welding torch in his hand, which chose that exact moment to die with a final, pathetic spark. Then he looked at the fuming, red-faced Sentinel Prime, whose ego was visibly deflating like a punctured tire.

A slow, mischievous smirk spread across the old medic’s face. It wasn't his usual "I’m about to lecture you" smirk; it was something far more dangerous.

"Well," Ratchet drawled, putting his tools away with slow, deliberate movements. "I suppose my stabilizers have been acting up. And since the Elite Guard is so 'dedicated' to service... follow me, big-shot. Let's see if your hands are as good at fixing things as they are at blocking the view."

____ beamed, her optics lighting up with a brilliance that made Ratchet’s sensors hum. She stepped away from the tool rack, her heavy footsteps echoing with a rhythmic *thud-thud-thud* as she followed him toward the med-bay. She was attentive to every move Ratchet made, ignoring Sentinel's flustered shouts.

"But... but my chin!" Sentinel wailed to the empty room, his voice echoing off the rafters. "It’s aerodynamic! It was voted 'Most Heroic Protrusion' three stellar-cycles in a row!"

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───

The med-bay was quiet, the air smelling of ozone and cleaning fluid. Ratchet sat on the edge of a reinforced repair berth, watching as ____ moved around the room with surprising grace for someone of her size. She wasn't just a soldier; she knew her way around a medical facility.

"You really meant it," Ratchet said, his voice softer now that they were away from the prying optics of the crew. "About the archives."

____ stopped near a shelf of surgical scanners, her back to him. "Of course. When I was a fledgling sparkling, I didn't want to be a Prime. I wanted to be a medic. But then the war changed things, and they needed scouts and siege-breakers more than they needed doctors. But I never stopped studying your techniques, Ratchet. The way you could patch a spark-casing in a dust storm... it’s the reason I’m still online today."

She turned around, holding a high-precision calibration tool. She walked over to him, her presence filling the small room. "Now, let's see to those stabilizers. I don't want the most important bot on this planet walking with a limp."

As she knelt down to work on his leg plating, her large servos moving with a gentleness that betrayed her warrior's exterior, Ratchet felt something he hadn't felt in millions of years. He felt *seen*. Not as a relic, not as a grumpy old man, but as the master of his craft.

"You're a strange one, ____," Ratchet grumbled, though there was no heat in it.

"And you're a stubborn one," she replied, looking up at him with a wink. "But I’ve always liked a challenge."

Outside, Sentinel Prime was still trying to explain to Optimus why he deserved a better parking spot for his shuttle, but inside the med-bay, the only sound was the low hum of tools and the steady, rhythmic pulse of two sparks that had finally found their frequency.

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───

> ❝ 𝓘 𝔀𝓲𝓵𝓵 𝓷𝓮𝓿𝓮𝓻 𝓰𝓮𝓽 𝓽𝓲𝓻𝓮𝓭 𝓸𝓯 𝓢𝓮𝓷𝓽𝓲𝓷𝓮𝓵 𝓟𝓻𝓲𝓶𝓮 𝓰𝓮𝓽𝓽𝓲𝓷𝓰 𝓱𝓲𝓼 𝓮𝓰𝓸 𝓫𝓻𝓾𝓲𝓼𝓮𝓭! ❞

Author’s Note: This was such a blast to write! Ratchet is such an underrated character to ship with, and giving him a tall, buff lady who actually respects his history and doesn't mind his grumpiness is just pure serotonin. Also, Sentinel Prime being ignored is my favorite trope in the entire series. I hope you enjoyed this Elite-level flirting!

⋆‧°𓏲ּ𝄢 𝖠 𝖳𝗐𝗂𝗌𝗍𝖾𝖽 𝖶𝗈𝗇𝖽𝖾𝗋𝗅𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝖥𝖺𝗇𝖿𝗂𝖼𝗍𝗂𝗈𝗇 ⋆‧°𓏲ּ𝄢

⏔⏔⏔ ꒰ ᧔ෆ᧓ ꒱ ⏔⏔⏔

Pairing: 𝖬𝖺𝗅𝗅𝖾𝗎𝗌 𝖣𝗋𝖺𝖼𝗈𝗇𝗂𝖺 𝗑 𝖱𝖾𝖺𝖽𝖾𝗋

Pronouns: 𝖳𝗁𝖾𝗒/𝖳𝗁𝖾𝗆

POV: 𝖲𝖾𝖼𝗈𝗇𝖽 𝖯𝖾𝗋𝗌𝗈𝗇 ("𝖸𝗈𝗎")

Genre: 𝖠𝗇𝗀𝗌𝗍 𝖫𝖾𝖺𝖽𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗍𝗈 𝖳𝗈𝗈𝗍𝗁-𝖱𝗈𝗍𝗍𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖥𝗅𝗎𝖿𝖿

Warnings: 𝖲𝖿𝗐, 𝗁𝖾𝖺𝗏𝗒 𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗆𝖾𝗌 𝗈𝖿 𝗆𝗈𝗋𝗍𝖺𝗅𝗂𝗍𝗒, 𝗂𝗌𝗈𝗅𝖺𝗍𝗂𝗈𝗇, 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝖿𝖾𝖺𝗋 𝗈𝖿 𝗅𝗈𝗌𝗌.

Summary: 𝖳𝗁𝖾 𝖯𝗋𝗂𝗇𝖼𝖾 𝗈𝖿 𝖡𝗋𝗂𝖺𝗋 𝖵𝖺𝗅𝗅𝖾𝗒 𝗂𝗌 𝖺 𝖻𝖾𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗈𝖿 𝗂𝗆𝗆𝖾𝗇𝗌𝖾 𝗉𝗈𝗐𝖾𝗋 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝖾𝗇𝖽𝗅𝖾𝗌𝗌 𝗍𝗂𝗆𝖾. 𝖡𝗎𝗍 𝗐𝗁𝖾𝗇 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗋𝖾𝖺𝗅𝗂𝗍𝗒 𝗈𝖿 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝖿𝗅𝖾𝖾𝗍𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗁𝗎𝗆𝖺𝗇 𝗅𝗂𝖿𝖾𝗌𝗉𝖺𝗇 𝖼𝗋𝖺𝗌𝗁𝖾𝗌 𝖽𝗈𝗐𝗇 𝗎𝗉𝗈𝗇 𝗁𝗂𝗆, 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗌𝗍𝗈𝗋𝗆 𝗈𝗎𝗍𝗌𝗂𝖽𝖾 𝖱𝖺𝗆𝗌𝗁𝖺𝖼𝗄𝗅𝖾 𝖣𝗈𝗋𝗆 𝗉𝖺𝗅𝖾𝗌 𝗂𝗇 𝖼𝗈𝗆𝗉𝖺𝗋𝗂𝗌𝗈𝗇 𝗍𝗈 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗍𝖾𝗆𝗉𝖾𝗌𝗍 𝗂𝗇 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗁𝖾𝖺𝗋𝗍. 𝖨𝗍 𝗂𝗌 𝗎𝗉 𝗍𝗈 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗍𝗈 𝗍𝖾𝖺𝖼𝗁 𝖺 𝖽𝗋𝖺𝗀𝗈𝗇 𝗁𝗈𝗐 𝗍𝗈 𝗅𝗂𝗏𝖾 𝗂𝗇 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗉𝗋𝖾𝗌𝖾𝗇𝗍. ⋆˚꩜｡

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───

The storm over Night Raven College was not a natural one.

You knew the difference by now. A natural storm rolled off the ocean, bringing with it the scent of salt and the heavy, rhythmic drumming of rain against the warped windowpanes of Ramshackle Dorm. But this storm—this tempest tearing through the sky above the campus—smelled of pure ozone and burning leaves. The thunder didn't rumble; it cracked like a whip, and the lightning that flashed across your dark bedroom was a brilliant, terrifying shade of neon green.

It was fae magic. And there was only one fae on campus powerful enough to accidentally alter the weather with his mood.

You pulled the threadbare blanket tighter around your shoulders, your breath curling into a faint white mist in the drafty room. You had been waiting. Ever since the first emerald flash illuminated the peeling wallpaper of your dorm, you knew he would come. He always came to Ramshackle when the world felt too small for him, when the whispering halls of Diasomnia became too suffocating, or when the isolation of being the terrifying, unapproachable Malleus Draconia became too heavy to bear.

A shadow detached itself from the darkest corner of your room.

There was no sound of a door opening, no creak of the ancient floorboards. One moment the room was empty, and the next, he was there.

Malleus stood tall and rigid, his majestic horns brushing the low ceiling of your bedroom. He wasn't in his usual pristine uniform; he wore his dark robes, and they were soaked through, dripping water onto the floor. His pale skin seemed to almost glow in the dim light, but it was his eyes that stole the breath from your lungs. Usually, his slit-pupiled, vibrant green eyes held a quiet curiosity when he looked at you—a soft fondness reserved exclusively for his "Child of Man."

Tonight, those eyes were blown wide, swirling with an ancient, fathomless sorrow.

"Malleus," you whispered, pushing the blankets aside and swinging your legs over the edge of the bed. Your bare feet hit the cold floor, but you didn't care. "What happened? Are you hurt?"

"Do not approach me," he commanded.

His voice, usually a smooth, resonant baritone that sent pleasant shivers down your spine, was sharp. It cracked with a tremor you had never heard before. You froze, your hands hovering in the space between you.

"Malleus?" you asked again, softening your tone, keeping your hands visible. You treated him not like a beast to be tamed, but like a storm that needed to blow itself out. "You're soaked. The storm outside... it’s you, isn't it?"

He closed his eyes, and a jagged fork of green lightning illuminated the window behind him, followed instantly by a deafening crack of thunder that shook the very foundations of Ramshackle.

"I walked through the ruins behind the botanical garden tonight," Malleus began, his voice hollow, as if he were speaking to the shadows rather than to you. "There is a gargoyle there. One I have favored since my arrival at this academy. It has stood for perhaps three hundred years. Carved of solid, unyielding stone."

You nodded slowly, taking a single, cautious step forward. "I know the one. You told me about its craftsmanship."

"Tonight, it crumbled," Malleus said, opening his eyes. The devastation in his gaze was so heavy it felt physical. "A branch fell from an old oak, and the stone shattered. Just like that. Three centuries of existence, wiped away by a fleeting moment of bad fortune."

He looked at his hands—hands that could level mountains, hands that held the weight of the Briar Valley’s future. His long fingers trembled slightly.

"If stone, carved to withstand the ages, can be destroyed in an instant..." He slowly raised his head, his gaze locking onto yours. The raw despair in his eyes made your chest ache. "...then what hope is there for you, Child of Man?"

The question hung in the freezing air of your room. Suddenly, the nature of his distress made agonizing sense. He wasn't mourning the gargoyle. He was mourning you.

"Malleus," you breathed out, your heart breaking for the solitary prince.

"Do you know how long a human life is to one such as I?" Malleus asked, taking a step backward, putting more distance between you, as if being near you would hasten your end. "It is the blink of an eye. A single season. I have coats in my wardrobe older than your entire bloodline. I will blink, and you will grow old. I will turn my head, and you will turn to dust."

He let out a ragged breath, the sound entirely too fragile for a being of his majesty. "I have lived for centuries in isolation. Lilia raised me to be a king, to be an immovable pillar for the Valley of Thorns. I was content in the quiet. I was content to be feared, for fear meant distance, and distance meant safety."

Another step back. His back hit the wall of your bedroom, but he didn't seem to notice.

"And then, you," he whispered, his voice cracking. "You, who did not cower. You, who called me Tsunotaro. You, who invited me to walk with you when the rest of the world pretended I did not exist. You barged into my long, empty life with your bright, fleeting warmth, and I... I allowed it."

"Malleus, please," you pleaded, taking two steps forward. You were close enough to feel the chaotic, crackling magic rolling off him in waves. It made the hairs on your arms stand up, but you weren't afraid. You had never been afraid of him.

"I made a mistake," Malleus said, his voice dropping to a devastated whisper. He looked away from you, staring at the floorboards. "It is a cruel jest of the fates for a dragon to care for a mayfly. When you are gone—when your short, fragile life is extinguished—I will still be here. For centuries. Millennia. I will have to wander the halls of my castle, remembering the sound of your laugh, the warmth of your hands, long after your bones have turned to ash. I cannot bear it. The grief will tear my magic apart. It will destroy me."

He looked back up at you, and the pleading look in the eyes of the future King of the Fae broke you completely. "Tell me to leave. Push me away, [Y/N]. Let me return to the shadows before your roots dig any deeper into my soul."

The silence that followed was suffocating, save for the violent drumming of the rain against the glass. He was waiting for you to reject him. He was begging you to save him from a broken heart he wouldn't experience for decades, entirely willing to sacrifice the present to protect his future.

You took a deep breath, stepping directly into his space.

You didn't yell. You didn't argue. You simply reached out, pressing your warm, human palms flat against the cold, damp fabric of his robes, right over his chest. Beneath your hands, you could feel the frantic, heavy thud of his heart.

Malleus gasped, his entire body going rigid at the contact. "Child of Man, did you not hear me—"

"I heard you," you interrupted, your voice quiet but firmer than stone. You slid your hands up his chest, resting them gently on his broad shoulders. "I heard every word. You’re right, Malleus. I am human. I am fragile. I don't have magic, I don't have scales, and I won't live for a thousand years."

You tilted your head up, forcing him to look into your eyes. "But I am alive now."

He stared down at you, his breath hitching.

"You're so focused on the end of the story that you're ripping out the pages of the chapters we’re in right now," you said softly. Your thumbs rubbed gentle circles against his collarbones, feeling the tension wired tightly through his muscles. "Yes, one day I will be gone. That is the tragedy of being human. But it’s also our greatest strength. Because our time is limited, we love harder. We feel deeper. We don't take centuries for granted, because we don't have them."

"It will hurt," Malleus whispered, sounding less like a prince and more like a lost, lonely child. "When you leave me, the pain will be unbearable."

"I know," you murmured, stepping even closer, until your body was almost flush against his. You wrapped your arms around his torso, burying your face against the damp fabric of his chest. "Grief is the price we pay for love, Malleus. But is avoiding that pain really worth giving up what we have today? Would you really rather go back to being alone?"

Malleus stood frozen for a long, agonizing moment. The storm outside raged on, the wind howling around Ramshackle. He was terrified. For the first time in his long existence, the Great Malleus Draconia was paralyzed by fear.

But then, slowly, hesitantly, he moved.

Large, heavy arms wrapped around you. He pulled you flush against him with a sudden, desperate strength, as if he were trying to shield you from the very concept of time itself. He buried his face in the crook of your neck, his cold nose pressing against your warm skin. He let out a long, shuddering sigh, and the sheer relief in the sound made your own eyes prick with tears.

"No," he mumbled against your skin, his voice muffled. "No, I do not wish to be alone again. The centuries before I met you... they feel like dust in my mouth now."

"Then stay," you whispered, reaching one hand up to thread your fingers through his damp, dark hair, carefully avoiding the base of his horns. "Stay with me. Let's not worry about a hundred years from now. Let's just worry about tonight."

As your fingers massaged his scalp, you felt a deep, resonant vibration begin to rumble within his chest. It was a low, rhythmic sound, vibrating against your own body. It took you a moment to realize what it was—he was purring. A deep, draconic purr of absolute comfort and submission.

Outside, the brilliant green flashes of lightning began to fade, shifting back into the natural, golden-white flashes of a regular thunderstorm. The crack of thunder softened into a distant rumble. The magic was settling. His heart was settling.

"You are shivering," Malleus noted softly, pulling back just enough to look at you. His eyes were no longer wild; they were a soft, glowing emerald, filled with an adoration so profound it was almost overwhelming. "My robes are soaked, and I have brought the cold into your sanctuary."

"I'm okay," you smiled, though a slight shiver did run through your frame. "But you need to dry off before you catch a cold. Even powerful fae princes can get the sniffles."

A tiny, genuine smile touched the corners of his lips. "Fae do not get 'the sniffles,' Child of Man. But... I will allow you to tend to me, if it pleases you."

With a wave of his hand, a burst of warm, green sparkles enveloped his body. In an instant, his soaked robes vanished, replaced by his comfortable, dry dorm wear—a soft black shirt and loose trousers. The water that had pooled on the floor evaporated into sweet-smelling mist.

You led him by the hand to the worn, velvet sofa in the corner of your room. You grabbed a thick, dry towel from your dresser and knelt on the cushion beside him as he sat down. Malleus, the heir to the Briar Valley, the most feared mage in Twisted Wonderland, obediently bowed his head so you could dry his hair.

You worked gently, the towel absorbing the lingering dampness from his dark locks. The rhythmic motion seemed to lull him into a state of deep tranquility. The draconic purr returned, a steady, soothing hum that filled the quiet room.

"You are so gentle," Malleus murmured, his eyes half-closed as he leaned into your touch. "It baffles me still. The rest of the world looks at me and sees a monster to be feared, or a weapon to be used. You look at me and see... just me."

"Because you're not a monster," you replied softly, discarding the towel and using your bare fingers to comb his hair back into place. You traced the curve of one of his horns, marveling at the smooth, obsidian-like texture. "You're just Hornton."

He chuckled, a rich, dark sound that warmed your very core. He reached up, capturing your hand in his large one. He brought your knuckles to his lips, pressing a kiss to your skin that was so achingly tender it made your heart skip a beat.

"I am entirely yours," Malleus said, his gaze capturing yours, burning with a quiet, ancient intensity. "For whatever time the fates allow us. I will not squander it fearing the end. I will cherish every sunrise, every rainfall, every quiet moment in this ruined dorm, as long as it is with you."

The heavy weight of the angst that had choked the room minutes ago had completely dissolved, replaced by a thick, suffocatingly sweet warmth.

"Come here," you whispered, shifting on the sofa to open your arms to him.

Malleus didn't hesitate. He laid down, shifting his large frame until he was resting his head in your lap, his long legs stretching out across the rest of the sofa. He wrapped one arm around your waist, pulling you close, while you draped a blanket over his shoulders.

You resumed playing with his hair, your fingertips tracing soothing patterns against his scalp. Malleus sighed, a sound of pure, unadulterated contentment. His eyes drifted shut, the harsh lines of his face softening completely. Here, hidden away in Ramshackle, he wasn't a prince burdened by eternity. He was just a man in love.

"Will you sing for me?" he asked quietly, his voice heavy with impending sleep. "A human song. Something from your world."

You smiled, resting your chin lightly on the top of his head. As the natural rain tapped a gentle lullaby against the window glass, you began to hum a soft melody, the sound mingling with the deep, rumbling purr of the dragon resting in your lap.

The future would come. Time would march on, as it always did. But as Malleus drifted into a peaceful slumber, held safely in your mortal arms, he finally understood that eternity wasn't about the amount of time you had.

Eternity was found in moments exactly like this one.

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───

❝ 𝓦𝓱𝔂 𝓭𝓸 𝓘 𝓪𝓵𝔀𝓪𝔂𝓼 𝓶𝓪𝓴𝓮 𝓽𝓱𝓮 𝓶𝓸𝓼𝓽 𝓹𝓸𝔀𝓮𝓻𝓯𝓾𝓵 𝓶𝓮𝓷 𝓬𝓻𝔂? 𝓘𝓽'𝓼 𝓪 𝓰𝓲𝓯𝓽, 𝓱𝓸𝓷𝓮𝓼𝓽𝓵𝔂. ❞

Author's note: So this was actually a request from one of my very close friends and of course I would NOT turn him down. 𝖮𝗄𝖺𝗒, 𝖻𝗎𝗍 𝖼𝖺𝗇 𝗐𝖾 𝗍𝖺𝗅𝗄 𝖺𝖻𝗈𝗎𝗍 𝗁𝗈𝗐 𝗆𝗎𝖼𝗁 𝗉𝖺𝗂𝗇 𝖬𝖺𝗅𝗅𝖾𝗎𝗌 𝖺𝖼𝗍𝗎𝖺𝗅𝗅𝗒 𝖼𝖺𝗋𝗋𝗂𝖾𝗌 𝗂𝗇 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗀𝖺𝗆𝖾? 𝖳𝗁𝖾 𝖿𝖺𝖼𝗍 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗁𝖾 𝗂𝗌 𝗌𝗈 𝗂𝗌𝗈𝗅𝖺𝗍𝖾𝖽 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗅𝗂𝗏𝖾𝗌 𝖲𝖮 𝖫𝖮𝖭𝖦 𝗃𝗎𝗌𝗍 𝗌𝖼𝗋𝖾𝖺𝗆𝗌 𝖺𝗇𝗀𝗌𝗍 𝗉𝗈𝗍𝖾𝗇𝗍𝗂𝖺𝗅 𝗐𝗁𝖾𝗇 𝗉𝖺𝗂𝗋𝖾𝖽 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁 𝖺 𝗁𝗎𝗆𝖺𝗇 𝗋𝖾𝖺𝖽𝖾𝗋. 𝖨 𝗐𝖺𝗇𝗍𝖾𝖽 𝗍𝗈 𝖻𝗋𝖾𝖺𝗄 𝗁𝗂𝗆 𝖽𝗈𝗐𝗇 𝗃𝗎𝗌𝗍 𝖺 𝗅𝗂𝗍𝗍𝗅𝖾 𝖻𝗂𝗍 𝖻𝖾𝖿𝗈𝗋𝖾 𝗀𝗂𝗏𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗁𝗂𝗆 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖼𝗎𝖽𝖽𝗅𝖾𝗌 𝗁𝖾 𝖺𝖻𝗌𝗈𝗅𝗎𝗍𝖾𝗅𝗒 𝖽𝖾𝗌𝖾𝗋𝗏𝖾𝗌. 𝖳𝗁𝖾 𝗉𝗎𝗋𝗋𝗂𝗇𝗀? 𝖨 𝗐𝗂𝗅𝗅 𝖽𝗂𝖾 𝗈𝗇 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗁𝗂𝗅𝗅 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝖽𝗋𝖺𝗀𝗈𝗇 𝖿𝖺𝖾 𝗉𝗎𝗋𝗋 𝗐𝗁𝖾𝗇 𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗒 𝖺𝗋𝖾 𝗁𝖺𝗉𝗉𝗒! 𝄞⨾𓍢ִ໋

⋆˚꩜｡ Word count check!: This baby clocked it at 𝟤.1k words! I hope you all enjoyed the slow-burn comfort. ᯓ★

⏔⏔⏔ ꒰ ᧔ෆ᧓ ꒱ ⏔⏔⏔

𝖶𝗂𝗌𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖨 𝗁𝖺𝖽 𝖺 𝟩-𝖿𝗈𝗈𝗍-𝗍𝖺𝗅𝗅 𝖽𝗋𝖺𝗀𝗈𝗇 𝗉𝗋𝗂𝗇𝖼𝖾 𝗍𝗈 𝗎𝗌𝖾 𝖺𝗌 𝖺 𝖻𝗅𝖺𝗇𝗄𝖾𝗍😔

Static Velocity

⋆‧°𓏲ּ𝄢 A TFA Fanfiction ⋆‧°𓏲ּ𝄢

⏔⏔⏔ ꒰ ᧔ෆ᧓ ꒱ ⏔⏔⏔

Pairing: Bumblebee x GN!Reader

Pronouns: They/Them

POV: Third Person

Genre: Action / Angst / Slow-burn / Enemies to Lovers

Summary: Built on the same assembly lines as the Autobot scouts but bearing the purple insignia of the Decepticons, [Y/N] is an anomaly. Snappy and vicious on the battlefield but fiercely obedient under command, they catch the optic of a certain yellow Autobot who simply won't leave them alone. When Decepticon cruelty pushes too far, Bumblebee intervenes, sparking a desperate plea to change sides.

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───

Note to @scribble0rat: You are feeding me so well with these prompts! A Decepticon reader who is the exact same size/age as Bumblebee is such a fun concept for TFA. I love the idea that they have to be completely silent and respectful around terrifying bots like Megatron or Lugnut, but the second they face the Autobots, all that pent-up energy turns into pure snark. And Bumblebee just absolutely eating it up? Perfection. I hope you enjoy this high-speed, angsty ride! ⋆˚꩜｡

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───

To survive among the Decepticons when you barely came up to Lugnut's knee joint required two things: speed, and absolute silence.

____ possessed both in spades. As a scout-class Decepticon, their chassis was built for velocity, lacking the heavy armor or devastating firepower of their commanding officers. They were sleek, aerodynamic, and completely out of place among the towering warlords of the Decepticon ranks.

When Megatron spoke, ____ kept their optics locked firmly on the floor. When Lugnut ranted about the glory of their leader, ____ nodded dutifully. In the dark, damp caverns of their Detroit hideout, ____ was the perfect soldier—seen only when needed, heard only when spoken to.

But out on the streets? That was an entirely different story.

The moment ____'s tires hit the Detroit asphalt, the silent, obedient soldier evaporated. The pent-up frustration of existing at the bottom of the Decepticon food chain manifested as a razor-sharp tongue and a vicious fighting style. And their favorite target was a certain yellow Autobot who seemed utterly incapable of taking a hint.

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───

"Come on, is that all you got? My grandma shifts gears faster than that, and she's a toaster!"

The voice crackled over the open comm channel, followed by the obnoxious blare of a police siren. ____ swerved sharply around a tight corner in the industrial district, their engine roaring in protest. Glancing in their rearview mirror, they saw the familiar yellow-and-black alt-mode of Bumblebee hot on their bumper.

"If you're so fast, bug, why are you still staring at my tailpipe?" ____ snapped back over the comms, weaving flawlessly between two parked delivery trucks.

"I'm just enjoying the view!" Bumblebee shot back, his engine revving as he drifted around the same corner. "Though, honestly, purple really isn't your color. Have you ever considered a nice Autobot red? It would really bring out your optics!"

____ let out a static-laced groan, pushing their thrusters to the maximum. It was always like this. Every time the Decepticons sent ____ on a solo reconnaissance mission, Bumblebee somehow managed to intercept them. And instead of trying to scrap them like a normal enemy combatant, he treated the entire battlefield like a playground.

He was chatty, relentless, and infuriatingly charming.

____ transformed mid-air, landing on the roof of a warehouse with a heavy metallic thud. Bumblebee was right behind them, shifting into his root mode and landing in a hero pose that made ____'s processor ache.

"You never give up, do you?" ____ sneered, drawing their energy blasters. Their spark was spinning in their chest, a frantic, nervous rhythm that they absolutely refused to acknowledge. Why did he have to look at them like that? Like they were a puzzle he desperately wanted to solve, rather than an enemy to be destroyed.

"Give up? On you?" Bumblebee grinned, his blue optics bright with mischief as he readied his stingers. "Never. You're way too much fun, ____. Besides, Prowl is lecturing on 'inner peace' today, and I'd rather take a plasma blast to the helm than sit through that again."

"I can arrange that," ____ spat, firing a warning shot that sizzled past his audio receptor.

Instead of getting angry, Bumblebee just laughed, dodging the blast with effortless grace. "Feisty today! Did Megatron forget to give you your daily ration of doom and gloom?"

____ bit back a retort, their cooling fans kicking into overdrive. They hated how flustered he made them. They were a Decepticon. They were supposed to strike fear into the sparks of their enemies, not feel their own spark flutter every time an Autobot cracked a joke.

"Shut up, Autobot," ____ growled, transforming back into their alt-mode and launching off the roof, desperate to escape before Bumblebee could see how heavily their chassis was trembling.

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───

Returning to the Decepticon base was always a harsh wake-up call. The playful banter of the streets was instantly replaced by the oppressive, suffocating atmosphere of the warlords.

____ slipped into the main cavern, keeping their helm bowed. They had successfully downloaded the grid schematics Megatron had demanded, but simply doing their job was rarely enough to avoid the wrath of their superiors.

Specifically, the wrath of Blitzwing.

"Vell, vell, look vhat the space bridge dragged in," Blitzwing's Icy face sneered as ____ approached the central console. The massive triple-changer stepped into their path, towering over the small scout. "Did the little glitch actually manage to complete a simple task without the Autobots stepping on them?"

____ clenched their servos, keeping their optics locked on Blitzwing's knee joint. "The data is secured, sir."

Suddenly, Blitzwing's face spun, the red, jagged visage of his Hothead persona taking over. "SPEAK UP WHEN YOU ADDRESS YOUR SUPERIORS, RUNTSCRAP!" he roared, slamming a massive fist into the wall next to ____'s helm. The shockwave rattled ____'s sensors, but they forced themselves to remain perfectly still.

"I said, the data is secured," ____ repeated, their voice devoid of the fiery snark they used on Bumblebee.

Blitzwing's face spun again, landing on Random. "Ooooh, so serious! Like a little tiny sparkling trying to play soldier! Let's see if you bounce when I throw you!"

Before ____ could react, Blitzwing's massive servo clamped around their arm, lifting them off the ground. Their shoulder joint shrieked in protest, warning sirens flashing across their HUD. ____ kicked out, trying to break free, but the size difference was insurmountable.

"Put me down!" ____ hissed through clenched denta, pride preventing them from crying out in pain.

Blitzwing just cackled, dropping them unceremoniously from twenty feet in the air. ____ hit the steel floor hard, their armor scraping against the grating. As they slowly pushed themselves up, systems aching, they realized a terrible truth: this wasn't a faction. It was a prison.

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───

The breaking point arrived two deca-cycles later during a chaotic skirmish at a Sumdac Systems warehouse.

The Autobots had ambushed a Decepticon raiding party. ____ was frantically trying to secure a crate of refined proto-matter while dodging laser fire from Ratchet and Bulkhead.

"Cover me!" ____ yelled over the Decepticon comms, spotting a clear exit route.

Instead of covering fire, they received a blast of ice to their pede. ____ tripped, the crate of proto-matter slipping from their grasp and shattering across the concrete floor.

____ looked back to see Blitzwing, his Icy face glaring down at them. "You clumsy fool! You ruined the entire operation!"

Blitzwing transformed his arm into a massive plasma cannon, pointing it directly at ____'s chest. "Megatron does not tolerate failure. And neither do I."

____ froze. Their blasters were jammed, their pede was frozen to the floor, and their commanding officer was about to execute them in the middle of a warzone. For all their snark and speed, they were completely helpless. They closed their optics, waiting for the blast.

ZAP!

A blinding flash of yellow intercepted the space between them.

Bumblebee slammed feet-first into Blitzwing’s chest plate with the force of a freight train. The triple-changer stumbled backward, his plasma blast firing wildly into the ceiling as he crashed into a stack of steel girders.

Bumblebee landed in a defensive crouch directly in front of ____, his stingers fully charged and humming with lethal electricity. The playful, annoying scout was entirely gone. In his place was a furious, battle-hardened Autobot, his blue optics burning with a protective rage ____ had never seen before.

"Back off, you three-faced glitch!" Bumblebee snarled, his voice stripped of all its usual humor. He didn't even look back at ____; his entire focus was locked on the threat in front of them. "You touch them again, and I’ll permanently scramble your processors!"

Blitzwing groaned, his face spinning to Hothead as he struggled to stand, but a barrage of EMP shurikens from Prowl suddenly pinned him to the wall. The tide of the battle had turned entirely.

"Decepticons, retreat!" Starscream's voice shrieked over the comms.

Bumblebee finally turned around, his stingers powering down. He knelt beside ____, his expression instantly softening into one of frantic worry. He reached out, his servos hovering over ____'s frozen pede.

"Are you okay? Did he hurt your spark casing? Your shoulder looks dented, I can comm Ratchet—"

"Stop," ____ whispered, their vocalizer glitching. The proximity of him, the sheer warmth radiating from his chassis, was overwhelming. "Why did you do that?"

Bumblebee stopped babbling, his optics locking onto theirs. "Why did I defend you? ____, he was going to offline you! For dropping a box!"

"He's my commanding officer," ____ argued weakly, though the words tasted like ash on their glossa. They managed to break the ice around their pede, struggling to stand.

Bumblebee stood up with them, his hands gently grasping their uninjured shoulders to steady them. "They're monsters, ____. They don't care about you! You're just cannon fodder to them. Blitzwing bullies you, Megatron ignores you... you're miserable with them. I see it every time we fight."

____ looked away, their processor spinning. He was right. Every word was painfully accurate. But the Decepticon insignia on their chest felt like a permanent brand.

"You don't understand," ____ muttered, trying to pull away, but Bumblebee held on, his grip firm but incredibly gentle.

"Then make me understand!" Bumblebee pleaded, his voice cracking with a desperate sincerity that made ____'s spark ache. He stepped closer, eliminating the space between them. "You're smart, you're fast, and you've got enough snark to keep Ratchet complaining for a stellar-cycle. You don't belong in the dark with them. You belong in the light. Come with me, ____. Please."

____ stared at him, taking in the bright yellow armor, the honest, open expression, the way he looked at them as an equal, not an underling. It was everything they had ever secretly wanted.

But the fear of Megatron's wrath ran deep in their circuitry.

"I... I can't, Bee," ____ whispered, using his nickname for the very first time. They gently pushed his servos away. "They're my faction. If I defect, they won't stop hunting me until I'm scrap."

"Then let them try," Bumblebee said fiercely, his jaw set. "I won't let them touch you. The Autobots will protect you. I will protect you."

From outside the warehouse, the sound of Lugnut's engines signaled the Decepticon evacuation. ____ took a step backward toward the shadows, their optics wide and conflicted.

"I have to go," ____ said, their voice shaking. They transformed, their engine revving with a mournful whine.

"This isn't over, ____!" Bumblebee shouted after them, refusing to give up the chase. "I'm going to get you out of there! You hear me? I'm not giving up on you!"

As ____ sped into the Detroit night, leaving the warmth of the yellow Autobot behind, they knew, with terrifying certainty, that Bumblebee was telling the truth.

He was never going to stop chasing them. And for the first time in their functional life, ____ hoped they would eventually get caught.

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───

❝ 𝓑𝓾𝓶𝓫𝓵𝓮𝓫𝓮𝓮 𝓲𝓼 𝓽𝓱𝓮 𝓵𝓲𝓽𝓮𝓻𝓪𝓵 𝓭𝓮𝓯𝓲𝓷𝓲𝓽𝓲𝓸𝓷 𝓸𝓯 '𝓘 𝓬𝓪𝓷 𝓯𝓲𝔁 𝓽𝓱𝓮𝓶' 𝓫𝓾𝓽 𝓱𝓮 𝓪𝓬𝓽𝓾𝓪𝓵𝓵𝔂 𝓹𝓾𝓽𝓼 𝓲𝓷 𝓽𝓱𝓮 𝔀𝓸𝓻𝓴 𝓽𝓸 𝓭𝓸 𝓲𝓽! ❞

Author's note: Okay, I am completely obsessed with this dynamic now. The contrast between ____ having to be so subservient and quiet around the massive Decepticons, only to absolutely let loose and yell at Bumblebee on the streets, is such a good trope. It makes total sense why Bee would be drawn to them—he sees the real personality hiding beneath all that Decepticon protocol! And the fact that he drops the playful banter instantly when he sees them actually in danger? Peak romance.

.✦ ݁˖ Word count check!: This angsty, high-speed chase clocked in at over 1,6k words! I really wanted to flesh out the transition from enemies to Bee desperately begging them to switch sides. ⋆˚꩜｡

⏔⏔⏔ ꒰ ᧔ෆ᧓ ꒱ ⏔⏔⏔

where the reader is a cousin of Casey but they’re more quiet and reserved. Though share the same interest as Leo— Space Heroes, so like they’re a geek in comics and stuff. While with Raph they’re more understanding to his anger and his shoulder to rant to, but also Reader has started to ask him for combat lessons..

just overall both of them seeming to like Reader at the same time.. so it’s often fights 😭 (giving Splinter flashbacks to his love triangle LMAO)

Cosmic Collisions

⋆‧°𓏲ּ𝄢 𝖠 𝖳𝖬𝖭𝖳 𝟤𝟢𝟣𝟤 𝖥𝖺𝗇𝖿𝗂𝖼𝗍𝗂𝗈𝗇 ⋆‧°𓏲ּ𝄢

⏔⏔⏔ ꒰ ᧔ෆ᧓ ꒱ ⏔⏔⏔

Pairing: 𝖫𝖾𝗈𝗇𝖺𝗋𝖽𝗈 𝗑 𝖦𝖭!𝖱𝖾𝖺𝖽𝖾𝗋 𝗑 𝖱𝖺𝗉𝗁𝖺𝖾𝗅

Pronouns: 𝖳𝗁𝖾𝗒/𝖳𝗁𝖾𝗆

POV: 𝖳𝗁𝗂𝗋𝖽 𝖯𝖾𝗋𝗌𝗈𝗇

Genre: 𝖱𝗈𝗆𝖺𝗇𝖼𝖾 / 𝖠𝗇𝗀𝗌𝗍 / 𝖥𝗅𝗎𝖿𝖿 / 𝖫𝗈𝗏𝖾 𝖳𝗋𝗂𝖺𝗇𝗀𝗅𝖾

Summary: ____ 𝖩𝗈𝗇𝖾𝗌 is the silence between the shouts. As Casey’s cousin, they provide a calm sanctuary for two brothers who are drowning in their own responsibilities and rage. But when that sanctuary becomes a prize to be won, the brotherhood of the Hamato clan begins to fray at the edges, echoing a tragedy from Master Splinter’s past.

𝄞⨾𓍢ִ໋ 𝓔𝓬𝓱𝓸𝓮𝓼 𝓲𝓷 𝓽𝓱𝓮 𝓡𝓪𝓯𝓽𝓮𝓻𝓼 𝄞⨾𓍢ִ໋

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───

Pairing: 𝖫𝖾𝗈𝗇 𝖲. 𝖪𝖾𝗇𝗇𝖾𝖽𝗒 𝗑 𝖱𝖾𝖺𝖽𝖾𝗋

Reader's Pronouns: 𝖳𝗁𝖾𝗒/𝖳𝗁𝖾𝗆 (there won't be many mentions bc I wrote this in 2nd person🥀)

Genre: 𝖧𝖾𝖺𝗏𝗒 𝖥𝗅𝗎𝖿𝖿 / 𝖧𝗎𝗋𝗍-𝖢𝗈𝗆𝖿𝗈𝗋𝗍

Word Count: 𝟣,𝟩𝟢𝟢 𝗐𝗈𝗋𝖽𝗌

Summary: 𝖫𝖾𝗈𝗇 𝗋𝖾𝗍𝗎𝗋𝗇𝗌 𝖿𝗋𝗈𝗆 𝖺 𝖻𝗋𝗎𝗍𝖺𝗅 𝖾𝗑𝗍𝗋𝖺𝖼𝗍𝗂𝗈𝗇 𝗂𝗇 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖲𝗉𝖺𝗇𝗂𝗌𝗁 𝗁𝗂𝗀𝗁𝗅𝖺𝗇𝖽𝗌, 𝖼𝖺𝗋𝗋𝗒𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗐𝖾𝗂𝗀𝗁𝗍 𝗈𝖿 𝖺 𝗍𝗁𝗈𝗎𝗌𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗀𝗁𝗈𝗌𝗍𝗌. 𝖨𝗇 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗌𝗂𝗅𝖾𝗇𝗍 𝗌𝖺𝖿𝖾𝗁𝗈𝗎𝗌𝖾, 𝖺𝗐𝖺𝗒 𝖿𝗋𝗈𝗆 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗈𝗋𝖽𝖾𝗋𝗌 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗎𝗇𝖽𝖾𝖺𝖽, 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗁𝖾𝗅𝗉 𝗁𝗂𝗆 𝗌𝗍𝗋𝗂𝗉 𝖺𝗐𝖺𝗒 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖺𝗀𝖾𝗇𝗍 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝖿𝗂𝗇𝖽 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗆𝖺𝗇 𝗎𝗇𝖽𝖾𝗋𝗇𝖾𝖺𝗍𝗁.

⏔⏔⏔ ꒰ ᧔ෆ᧓ ꒱ ⏔⏔⏔

The rain in these mountains didn't just fall; it haunted. It was a relentless, percussive force that clawed at the cedar shingles of the safehouse, a low roar that made the world outside the fog-ged windows feel like a distant, dissolving memory. Inside, the air was thick with the scent of old wood, dried lavender you’d hung from the rafters, and the faint, metallic tang of the wood-burning stove.

You sat on the rug, the embers casting a flickering orange glow over the pages of your book, but you hadn't read a word in twenty minutes. Your ears were tuned to a frequency that had nothing to do with the storm. You were listening for the heavy, uneven tread of combat boots on the porch. You were listening for the sound of a man who had forgotten how to be soft.

When the lock finally tumbled, it wasn't a clean sound. It was fumbled, the scrape of metal against metal telegraphing a fatigue that went bone-deep.

The door swung open, and the mountain air lunged inside, smelling of ozone and wet earth. Leon stood silhouetted against the dark, his frame filling the doorway. He looked like a statue carved from shadow. His tactical jacket was matted with mud, the silver buckles of his harness dull and splattered with something darker than rain. He didn't move for a long time. He just stood there, his chest rising and falling in shallow, jagged rhythms, his head bowed.

"Leon," you breathed, the name feeling like a prayer you'd been holding under your tongue for hours.

He flinched. It was a small, microscopic twitch of his shoulders—the reflex of a man who spent his life expecting a blade in the dark. Slowly, agonizingly, he looked up. The light from the stove caught the edge of his jaw, the stubble there thick and messy, and then his eyes. Blue, usually so sharp they could cut glass, were now glazed with a hollow, thousand-yard stare.

"I’m back," he rasped. It was a ghost of a voice.

"I know," you whispered, standing up and moving toward him. You didn't rush. You knew better than to startle him when he was still vibrating with the hum of adrenaline. "Come on. Close the door, Leon. Let the cold stay outside."

He obeyed mechanically, kicking the door shut with the heel of his boot. He stayed there, leaning his back against the wood, as if it were the only thing keeping him upright. You stepped into his space, the heat from your body clashing with the icy dampness radiating off his gear.

"Let's get this off you," you said softly. You reached for the buckles of his tactical vest. Your fingers brushed the nylon, and you felt him shudder under your touch. "It’s okay. You’re home. It’s just me."

As you worked the clips, the heavy gear clattered to the floor with a dull, final thud. You moved to the zipper of his jacket, peeling back the layers of a government-sanctioned armor that felt more like a cage. When you got to his shirt, you saw the way his hands were shaking—not with a chill, but with the aftermath of a terror no one was supposed to survive.

You took those hands in yours. They were calloused, the knuckles bruised a faint, sickly yellow, and they were freezing. You brought them to your lips, breathing warmth over his skin.

"Leon, look at me."

It took a second, but his focus finally locked onto yours. The fog in his eyes cleared just enough to let you in. He made a small, broken sound in the back of his throat and suddenly he was leaning forward, his forehead dropping onto your shoulder. The weight of him was immense. He wasn't just leaning on you; he was collapsing into you, the iron-hard lines of his body finally beginning to fray at the edges.

"I can still hear them," he whispered into the crook of your neck. His breath was hot and ragged. "The bells. The screaming. It doesn't stop, ____ ."

"It stops here," you murmured, your hands sliding up to cradle the back of his head, your fingers getting lost in the damp, messy strands of his hair. "The only thing here is the rain and the fire. You’re safe. I promise."

You stayed like that for an eternity. The clock on the mantle ticked away the seconds he’d stolen back from death. Eventually, the rigid tension in his spine gave way. He let out a long, shaky exhale that felt like a surrender.

"Bath is drawn," you said, pulling back just enough to see him. "I put some of that eucalyptus oil in it. Go. I’ll make the tea."

He didn't argue. He didn't have the strength left to be the hero. He just nodded, his eyes lingering on yours with a desperate, silent sort of gratitude before he disappeared into the back of the house.

...

An hour later, the safehouse was silent again, but the energy had shifted. The fire was roaring now, and the air smelled of peppermint and clean skin.

Leon was slumped on the sofa, swallowed by an oversized grey hoodie you’d bought him months ago. His hair was damp and combed back, making him look younger, stripped of the grit and the grime of the field. He looked human. He was staring at the steam rising from the mug in his hands, his expression distant but no longer haunted.

You sat down beside him, pulling a wool blanket over both of your laps. Without a word, he set his mug down on the coffee table and shifted, laying his head in your lap. He was so long he had to curl his legs up on the cushions, but he didn't seem to care about the lack of space. He just wanted to be near you.

You traced the lines of his face—the scar on his chin, the faint crows-feet at the corners of his eyes that seemed to deepen every time he went away. Your thumb ran over his cheekbone, and his eyes fluttered shut.

"Tell me something," he muttered, his voice dropping into that low, sleepy baritone. "Something that isn't about the mission. Something... normal."

You smiled, the sound of the rain outside now feeling like a protective barrier rather than an intruder. "The old man down the road, Mr. Henderson? He tried to fix his roof last Tuesday and ended up getting his ladder stuck in the oak tree. The whole village had to come out with ropes to get him down."

Leon let out a soft, huffed breath that might have been a laugh if he weren't so exhausted. "Did he get the roof fixed?"

"No," you chuckled. "But he made three pies for the neighbors as a thank you. I saved you a slice of the apple. It’s in the kitchen."

"Apple," Leon repeated, the word sounding like a luxury. He reached up, finding your hand and interlacing his fingers with yours. His grip was tight, as if he were afraid you might evaporate if he let go. "I missed you. Every second."

"I missed you too, Leon. But you're here now. That’s all that matters."

"Yeah," he sighed, his breathing finally evening out into the slow, steady rhythm of sleep. "I'm here."

...

The morning came with a pale, watery sunlight that bled through the pines, turning the mist into a shimmering veil of gold. The storm had broken, leaving behind the clean, sharp scent of pine needles and wet stone.

You woke up to the smell of coffee.

Leon was standing by the small kitchen window, his back to you. He was dressed in a simple black t-shirt and jeans, his silhouette framed by the morning light. He looked different today. The hollow look was gone, replaced by a quiet, contemplative stillness. He heard you stir and turned, a small, genuine smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth.

"I thought you'd sleep longer," he said, holding out a mug of coffee for you.

"I could say the same to you," you replied, your voice thick with sleep as you sat up and took the warmth of the ceramic. "You went through hell forty-eight hours ago, Leon. You should be in bed."

He leaned back against the counter, crossing his arms. The muscles of his forearms were mapped with faint white lines—scars from a dozen different nightmares—but his posture was relaxed. "Couldn't stay in bed. The silence was too nice. I wanted to hear the birds instead of the wind for a change."

He walked over, sitting on the edge of the bed and taking your free hand. The sunlight hit the blue of his eyes, making them look like clear water.

"I've been thinking," he started, his voice serious but not heavy. "About what you said last night. About this being home."

"And?"

"And I think I want to stay a little longer this time," he admitted. He squeezed your hand, his thumb stroking your knuckles. "Hunnigan can wait. The world can wait. I just want... this. Coffee, the mountains, and you."

You leaned forward, resting your head against his chest. You could hear his heart—strong, steady, and alive. It was the best sound in the world. "I think that can be arranged, Agent Kennedy."

He laughed then, a real, melodic sound that filled the rafters and chased away the last of the shadows. He leaned down, his lips meeting yours in a kiss that tasted like coffee and new beginnings. It wasn't a kiss of desperation or goodbye; it was a kiss of presence.

The missions would come back. The world would inevitably break again, and the phone would eventually ring with a new set of orders. But for now, under the quiet rafters of the mountain house, there was only the sun, the scent of pine, and the two of you.

And for Leon, that was more than enough.

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───

𝄞⨾𓍢ִ໋ 𝓜𝓾𝓷𝓪’𝓼 𝓒𝓮𝓵𝓮𝓼𝓽𝓲𝓪𝓵 𝓐𝓻𝓬𝓱𝓲𝓿𝓮 𝄞⨾𓍢ִ໋

❝ 𝓔𝓿𝓮𝓻𝔂 𝓼𝓽𝓸𝓻𝔂 𝓲𝓼 𝓪 𝔀𝓸𝓻𝓵𝓭 𝔀𝓪𝓲𝓽𝓲𝓷𝓰 𝓽𝓸 𝓫𝓮 𝓮𝔁𝓹𝓵𝓸𝓻𝓮𝓭. ❞

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───

⋆˚꩜｡ 𝖲𝗍𝖺𝗍𝗎𝗌: 𝖮𝗉𝖾𝗇 𝖿𝗈𝗋 𝗋𝖾𝗊𝗎𝖾𝗌𝗍𝗌! ᝰ.ᐟ

.✦ ݁˖ 𝖶𝖺𝗋𝗇𝗂𝗇𝗀𝗌: 𝖠𝗅𝗅 𝗐𝗈𝗋𝗄𝗌 𝖺𝗋𝖾 𝖲𝖥𝖶. 𝖠𝗇𝗀𝗌𝗍 & 𝖧𝖾𝖺𝗏𝗒 𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗆𝖾𝗌 𝗐𝗂𝗅𝗅 𝖻𝖾 𝗆𝖺𝗋𝗄𝖾𝖽 𝗂𝗇𝖽𝗂𝗏𝗂𝖽𝗎𝖺𝗅𝗅𝗒.

⏔⏔⏔ ꒰ ᧔ෆ᧓ ꒱ ⏔⏔⏔

🎮 𝓥𝓲𝓭𝓮𝓸 𝓖𝓪𝓶𝓮𝓼

𝓡𝓮𝓼𝓲𝓭𝓮𝓷𝓽 𝓔𝓿𝓲𝓵

𝓔𝓬𝓱𝓸𝓮𝓼 𝓲𝓷 𝓽𝓱𝓮 𝓡𝓪𝓯𝓽𝓮𝓻𝓼 — 𝖫𝖾𝗈𝗇 𝖲. 𝖪𝖾𝗇𝗇𝖾𝖽𝗒 𝗑 𝖱𝖾𝖺𝖽𝖾𝗋 (𝖥𝗅𝗎𝖿𝖿) 𝄞⨾𓍢ִ໋

𝓖𝓮𝓷𝓼𝓱𝓲𝓷 𝓘𝓶𝓹𝓪𝓬𝓽 / 𝓗𝓢𝓡 / 𝓦𝓾𝓦𝓪: 𝖭𝗈𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗁𝖾𝗋𝖾 𝗒𝖾𝗍... 𑣲

𝓣𝔀𝓲𝓼𝓽𝓮𝓭 𝓦𝓸𝓷𝓭𝓮𝓻𝓵𝓪𝓷𝓭

𝓣𝓱𝓮 𝓦𝓮𝓲𝓰𝓱𝓽 𝓸𝓯 𝓔𝓽𝓮𝓻𝓷𝓲𝓽𝔂 — 𝖬𝖺𝗅𝗅𝖾𝗎𝗌 𝖣𝗋𝖺𝖼𝗈𝗇𝗂𝖺 𝗑 𝖱𝖾𝖺𝖽𝖾𝗋 (𝖠𝗇𝗀𝗌𝗍 𝗍𝗈 𝖥𝗅𝗎𝖿𝖿/𝖧𝖾𝖺𝗏𝗒 𝖳𝗁𝖾𝗆𝖾𝗌) ⋆˚꩜｡

𝓟𝓮𝓻𝓼𝓸𝓷𝓪 5 / 𝓢𝓲𝓵𝓮𝓷𝓽 𝓗𝓲𝓵𝓵 / 𝓑𝓻𝓪𝔀𝓵 𝓢𝓽𝓪𝓻𝓼 : 𝖭𝗈𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗁𝖾𝗋𝖾 𝗒𝖾𝗍... 𑣲

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🐢 𝓐𝓷𝓲𝓶𝓪𝓽𝓮𝓭 𝓤𝓷𝓲𝓿𝓮𝓻𝓼𝓮𝓼

𝓣𝓜𝓝𝓣 (2012 / 𝓡𝓞𝓣𝓣𝓜𝓝𝓣 / 𝓑𝓪𝔂𝓿𝓮𝓻𝓼𝓮)

𝓤𝓹𝓰𝓻𝓪𝓭𝓮𝓭 𝓐𝓮𝓼𝓽𝓱𝓮𝓽𝓲𝓬 — 𝖳𝖬𝖭𝖳 𝟤𝟢𝟣𝟤 𝗑 𝖱𝖾𝖺𝖽𝖾𝗋 (𝖢𝗈𝗆𝖾𝖽𝗒/𝖥𝗅𝗎𝖿𝖿) ˚₊‧

𝓒𝓸𝓼𝓶𝓲𝓬 𝓒𝓸𝓵𝓵𝓲𝓼𝓲𝓸𝓷𝓼 — 𝖫𝖾𝗈 𝗑 𝖱𝖾𝖺𝖽𝖾𝗋 𝗑 𝖱𝖺𝗉𝗁 (𝖠𝗇𝗀𝗌𝗍/𝖫𝗈𝗏𝖾 𝖳𝗋𝗂𝖺𝗇𝗀𝗅𝖾) 𝄞⨾𓍢ִ໋

𝓣𝓻𝓪𝓷𝓼𝓯𝓸𝓻𝓶𝓮𝓻𝓼 (𝓟𝓻𝓲𝓶𝓮 / 𝓐𝓷𝓲𝓶𝓪𝓽𝓮𝓭)

𝓢𝓽𝓪𝓽𝓲𝓬 𝓥𝓮𝓵𝓸𝓬𝓲𝓽𝔂 — 𝖳𝖥𝖠 𝖡𝗎𝗆𝖻𝗅𝖾𝖻𝖾𝖾 𝗑 𝖣𝖾𝖼𝖾𝗉𝗍𝗂𝖼𝗈𝗇!𝖱𝖾𝖺𝖽𝖾𝗋 (𝖤𝗇𝖾𝗆𝗂𝖾𝗌 𝗍𝗈 𝖫𝗈𝗏𝖾𝗋𝗌) 🍮🥄 ˚₊‧

𝓑𝓮𝓷 10 / 𝓝𝓲𝓷𝓳𝓪𝓰𝓸 / 𝓣𝓻𝓸𝓵𝓵𝓱𝓾𝓷𝓽𝓮𝓻𝓼: 𝖭𝗈𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗁𝖾𝗋𝖾 𝗒𝖾𝗍... 🍮🥄 ˚₊‧

𝓣𝓱𝓮 𝓞𝔀𝓵 𝓗𝓸𝓾𝓼𝓮 / 𝓖𝓻𝓪𝓿𝓲𝓽𝔂 𝓕𝓪𝓵𝓵𝓼: 𝖭𝗈𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗁𝖾𝗋𝖾 𝗒𝖾𝗍... 🍮🥄 ˚₊‧

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🎬 𝓜𝓸𝓿𝓲𝓮𝓼 & 𝓢𝓮𝓻𝓲𝓮𝓼

𝓜𝓒𝓔 / 𝓢𝓽𝓪𝓻 𝓦𝓪𝓻𝓼 / 𝓓𝓮𝓼𝓬𝓮𝓷𝓭𝓪𝓷𝓽𝓼: 𝖭𝗈𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗁𝖾𝗋𝖾 𝗒𝖾𝗍... ⋆˚࿔

𝓐𝓹𝓱𝓶𝓪𝓾 (𝓜𝓢/𝓜𝓒𝓓/𝓜𝓘𝓓): 𝖭𝗈𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗁𝖾𝗋𝖾 𝗒𝖾𝗍... ⋆˚࿔

𝓢𝓬𝓸𝓽𝓽 𝓟𝓲𝓵𝓰𝓻𝓲𝓶: 𝖭𝗈𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗁𝖾𝗋𝖾 𝗒𝖾𝗍... ⋆˚࿔

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🍮🥄 𝓞𝓽𝓱𝓮𝓻 𝓕𝓪𝓷𝓭𝓸𝓶𝓼

𝓜𝓗𝓐 / 𝓡𝓦𝓑𝓨 / 𝓢𝓱𝓮-𝓡𝓪 / 𝓩𝓮𝓵𝓭𝓪 / 𝓢𝓸𝓷𝓲𝓬: 𝖭𝗈𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗁𝖾𝗋𝖾 𝗒𝖾𝗍... ᶻ 𝗓 𐰁

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ᶻ 𝗓 𐰁 𝖶𝖺𝗇𝗍 𝗍𝗈 𝖿𝗂𝗅𝗅 𝖺 𝗌𝗉𝗈𝗍? 𝖢𝗁𝖾𝖼𝗄 𝗆𝗒 rules featured in my introduction post 𝖽𝗋𝗈𝗉 𝖺 𝗋𝖾𝗊𝗎𝖾𝗌𝗍 𝗂𝗇 𝗆𝗒 𝗂𝗇𝖻𝗈𝗑!