Post War - Blog Posts

*intense hyperventilating*

I love him so much I cried making this.

He's so baby

It makes me so proud he actually works on his arm after the war, but I have a feeling he wouldn't be able to use a pencil properly for a while and might have to have someone else help him.

Izuku would totally help.

He makes me feral omg.

*cough* Anyways—

Criticism, comments, and reposts welcome!

Sending love ✨

Currently obsessed with katsuki and izuku holding hands post-war, whether you read it as platonic, romantic, or somewhere in between.

For Katsuki, it’s an opportunity to re-live that moment in the river and make a different choice. He can reaffirm that he’s turning over a new leaf and that Deku is there, alive and strong and still reaching out after all these years. It probably helps solidify for him that Deku does forgive him, especially on days where Katsuki still struggles to forgive himself.

And for izuku, you could argue that a large part of his life has been an exercise in reaching out and being rejected, over and over again. But with Kacchan, he gets a physical reminder that someone’s reaching back for him (someone who’s strong enough to keep him grounded and who he’s never, not once, stopped reaching out for). It’s a reaffirmation of their friendship and growing bond and proof that Katsuki didn’t die out on the battlefield. That he’s right there. That they’re equals. Partners, even.

And when they’re both each others biggest weakness and strongest ally, I’m sure the comfort of just being together would go a long way, too. For once in their lives they could be silly teenagers holding hands while playing a video game or watching a movie or doing homework or taking a walk or-

Just- handholding as a gesture of devotion and safety and new beginnings

pov: ur getting haunted by ur psycho ex boyfriend that u still have unresolved feelings for 🖐😔

Soo... I made a little something based on my TFP AU in the Post-war Phase.

Basically everything is being rebuilt And bla bla but the cities have their own leaders And dont really Stand to each other until After a Attack against Cybertron (i aint quite sure who did it tho) And so on.

Sometimes my brain makes up random scenes in AU's where it will take ages to reach, And this is one of em.

The scene of Starscream's death.

(yes, i kill him off Post war for everything He has done including killing Skywarp. I will colour the small Comic once i got a replacement for my digital pen)

Aaaand the full scene i came up With below:

(English isnt my native language so i am sorry for any mistakes)

A battle had shaken all of Cybertron... All the leaders standing now United beneath the light of the distant Star that Gifted Cybertron it's light. The enemy was Finally slain... Leaving behind a Scar of death And destruction on the Planets once again Energon stained surface. The ones left were searching for their fallen, to wish their Sparks a Final farewell to join the Allspark.

A message reached the Airqueen of Vos, from a comm that was too familiar to her. Coordinates were the only thing written on them. She followed the lead to the Desert Mountains next to the battlefield, finding a crack that led deeper in to the Mountain. And there in the darkness, two Red eyes stared up at her, surrounded by the blue gloom of spilled Energon

"Look who.." A cough shook the Mechs Silver frame, Energon spluttering out of his mouth And on to his torn chestplate "Came..." A snarl layed in his deep And scratch voice, there was no fear in the Airprince's eyes, that reminded her of her long deceased Conjunx...

The Airqueen said nothing, looking down at the torn frame of her firstborn son, the shredded wings, the cables hanging loosely out of his frame.

"Got nothing to say, Heh..?" A laugh rose from his lips, who didnt had the strength to Form a smirk anymore. "It's for the better..." his deeply Red eyes flickered in the slowing rythm of his Spark, fading more from Minute to Minute "I've always been the Bastard of the 3.. The one that never fit in, the one who wanted..." A hiss came from his vents, his torn wings lowering And scratching against the Rock, as if they had lost any sensitivity. Nothing more than already dead weight on his back. "Power... Good old Starscream... Good for nothing then a fucking waste of fuel And time." A chocked groan escaped him, as Energon stared to drip down his chin, the streaks of blue feeling hot against his slowly cooling frame.

His mother didnt respond... The ice in her eyes hadn't melted at All, even as she was about to loose her last Child left. The Child, that had brought a And to her other two children, the one who somehow had always managed to escape And fool death in the worst ways possible. But now it seemed, Primus was done letting him astray... Stripping his soul away from this world, where He brought so much pain to many Different Sparks

His head slowly sank back against the cave wall, his eyelids closing half over his eyes as his Talons layed useless over his wounded stomach And sides. "I havent killed Thundercracker..." He whispered. "He got killed by a Bastard no longer alive... But as if this would... Change... A thing..." his sight slowly became blurry, starring up at the caves ceiling as if He would be able to See the skies again... Maybe spread his wings one more time to embrace the cool Winds of his home... But they were useless now... As useless as he had been all his life... "Dont let anyone mourn... It's not like i... Earned it anyways... To be... Forgotten... Is better... T-than..." His voice cracked, a static hiss taking it's place as his eyes moved once again to the Femme that had raised him... Raised And loved him... And He has payed it back With murder And betrayal. What a irony... With one last gaze to the light behind her, his features relaxed, letting his wings drip to the Hard floor With a loud thud. His head rollend to the side, Energon still dripping from his silvery lips, making a End to the tongue of Silver He had used all of his life..

As the Airqueen turned around, her eyes followed the last gaze of her son, seeing the bluish sky, that faded in to a purplish Red, as the dawn advanced... On this quiet, wakeless place...

I was thinking about how morphing could be used after the war and it would be amazing to see how it would affect the fashion industry.

Like estreen runway models incorporating Frolis manoeuvres into their walks or they’re partially morphing feathers/scales/changing colours to compliment the design.

New trends with more versatile spandex type clothing being made so morphers have more options to choose from.

Or maybe even a runway showcasing new morphing attire with models walking out as animals and de-morphing to reveal the outfit.

Granger, what are you …

Summer of 8th year, some house unity did happen

Permanent Damage

If you look long enough into the void, the void begins to look back through you.

Draco Malfoy will never be able to hold anything for long. Constant crucios over 3 years has damaged his nerves.Voldemort was most displeased with his inability to finish his task, the Carrow’s annoyed with his refusal to torture students for their detentions. His hands shake and shiver, nerves constantly shaking with invisible, imaginary pain that stopped years ago. He yells in frustration as his shaking body repeatedly clinks his teacup loudly against its saucer, another futile attempt to keep his hands steady, and smashes it against the floor, a thousand white shards glittering against the black tile.

Harry Potter breaks down every time he gets a headache. Hand clapping to his forehead as the pain sets on, muttering to himself that ‘hes not back.’ ‘I killed him.’ ‘Its over’ as he scans the room; flinching at too pale skin, hand twitching towards his wand as brown eyes reflect red in the flickering, fluorescent light. The cold tile beneath his fingers grounds him as he tries to convince himself that he’s okay. The feeling that some part of him died that day in the forest, surrendering before Voldemort’s wand never leaves, the hollow feeling leaving an aching, painful hole in its wake.

Ron Weasley finds himself scanning rooms over and over again. Planning exit strategies and ways to take out everyone in the room in order to escape. He imagines everyone as an enemy in disguise, subconsciously moving people like chess pieces and picking his small flat, not because it was cheap or because the neighborhood was good (its dismal really) but because it had the best strategic advantage in regards to the city and places around him, in order to hide in case of attacks. He once again comes to his senses after a nightmare and sighs as he realizes that in his delirium he once again had filled pages upon pages of his notebook with battle tactics and the floor plans of places hes been and fought (Hogwarts, the Ministry, the Burrow...). He rips them out and adds them to a growing folder before making a cup of tea.

Hermione Granger finds herself hording food, slipping apples into pockets and bread into her purse. She comes home to find herself with pockets of tarts and a bag of crackers, handfuls of berries slipped between pages of paperwork and cereal bars snuck into file folders. The months of hiding and foraging have made her paranoid and hyper aware of how much food she’ll need to get through the day. She’ll find herself counting calories and balancing proteins, carbs and fats before she can stop herself and measuring how much she eats, intuitively leaving some over for Harry and Ron, forgetting that they are no longer on the run, having to ration food.

Luna is no longer as carefree and dreamy as she was. Her creatures turn from whimsical and delicate to horrifying. Claws and teeth grow to protect and attack. She won’t leave the house for days, wandering around inside with closed eyes to avoid Blibbering Humdingers who now have poisonous spines and Nargles with razor teeth, her mind having twisted them from cures for loneliness to share with her father, to weapons of destruction to protect her from the outside world. They are real enough to her that she convinces herself they’ve locked her inside her house and won’t let her leave, she thinks they’ve kidnapped and hurt her friends because ‘It’s  to protect you’ ‘They are spies’ ‘It’s not real Luna’ ‘They only want to hurt you’. The whispers follow everywhere and consume her, dragging her into the void. It’s when she locks Hermione in her basement under the influence of her broken mind, twisted by false images and under the guise of Hermione being someone else using polyjuice, that she gets a room in the Janus Thickney ward of St Mungos. She has moments of clarity but they are few and far between. her mind crumbled, her spirit broken, a twisted shadow of the young, bright girl who hummed happily as she waltzed barefoot through the halls.

Dennis Creevey perpetually has a broken, cracked, dirty camera on a shelf in his bedroom, never to be touched.

George Weasley has smashed every mirror in his flat and refuses to repair them

Percy Weasley takes to straight vodka and tequila out of the bottle because his guilt over Fred.

Kreacher forever wears a cracked and blood stained locket till the day he dies.

Teddy Lupin spends hours staring at pictures of his parents, shifting into one or the other or trying for the perfect mixture of both, never getting it quite right.

Minerva McGonnagal finds a dusty box under Severus Snape’s bed filled with cracked records; a flaky leather jacket; old Polaroids of a girl with a head of flames and eyes of shattered emerald, smiling, arms wrapped tight around a boy with inky hair and sharp, onyx eyes; a fractured glass figurine of a lily lying carefully on top of the pile; folded within an old letter. She sobs over a life spent hating and being hated as she pats the scratched lacquer on a string-less bass guitar

There will always be an empty seat at many tables all over the country as people mourn lives lost unfairly.

You can take people out of the war, but can you take the war out of people?