#brandwhore writes

[brandwhorestarscream]

If d16 was carrying in the movie that could have saved him.

OOH I HAVE. THOUGHTS ABOUT THIS

Part 2 here, part 3 here, part 4 here!

Hear me out, ok. Sentinel Prime heavily, heavily advocates for chastity. He very publicly denounces casual intimacy, waxing poetic about how it's a very special thing that should only be shared with someone you truly love and trust. To give yourself away to a stranger in a one night stand or even casually to a friend is one of the greatest disservices one can do to themselves. Interfacing should only be done with your bonded mate. While it's certainly not illegal, their Prime's warm concern and insistence that they're all special and should be treated as such keeps a lot of mecha's panels closed. The vast majority of them are saving themselves for their conjunx endura.

Now, the real reason Sentinel doesn't want them having sex? He doesn't want them breeding. Specifically the lowest of society, he doesn't want his cogless servants sparking each other up and having babies with t-cogs. It would raise too many questions, and while he has no qualms about taking a newspark's cog out before they're presented to their parents, accidents happen. People slip up. Some sparklings come before their parents can get to a hospital. Some nutcases want home births because it's "more intimate and natural". Some just plain don't realize they're carrying until they start having contractions. Cogless bots popping out babies with cogs will only cause problems, so the best way to prevent such a thing is to convince them that chastity is their best option. Most of them die before they can find someone they want to be with forever, and even among those that do, they struggle to save up enough money for a bonding license. Keeping them repressed and chaste is just another means of his control.

Now, as for sweet D-16 >:) he practically worships Sentinel Prime. He has such blind adoration and trust in him. Orion adores him too, of course, but not quite on the same level. He doesn't look at Sentinel with the same stars in his optics, though certainly has boundless respect and admiration for him. When they're visited by the Prime post-Iacon 5000, they're invited up to his personal suite 👀

Consider: instead of getting immediately jumped by Darkwing, they actually do get escorted up there. It's grander than anything either of them have ever seen, a shining and spotless penthouse with a 360° view of the city, expensive chaises to lounge on and bottles of the finest, smoothest high grade, even a jacuzzi! Sentinel Prime meets them there, and, placing a gentle hand on each of their faces, purrs that he wants to reward them.

"I've never seen anything like what you two did today," D-16 whimpers at his praise, beaming sunshine, and Orion is awestruck. "Come... sit with me."

They follow their Prime obediently and he relaxes onto one of the lounges, pulling the two cute little miners down on either side of him. They talk--or rather, Sentinel talks and they hang onto his every word, each tucked under one of his arms and nestled close against his chassis--and eventually he pops a bottle of champagne and pours them each a glass. Neither Dee nor Orion have ever had such high quality energon before: it goes down thick and smooth and warm, sending a blast of heat through their little bodies that pool in their tummies and make them start to squirm and feel woozy. Sentinel prompts they drink the whole thing, each of them, and by the time they're done they're gasping and swaying. So strong! Too strong!

The Prime's huge blue servo slides onto D-16's face, admiring his dazed expression. His optics are flickering, shutters at their halfway point, and he's visibly flushed, mouth dropped open and pretty lips parted as he pants. Swaying gently back and forth like that, Sentinel can't resist. He leans down and kisses him, gentle but controlling, and D-16 makes an honest-to-Primes squealing noise.

As soon as Sentinel pulls back, Dee wavers and collapses back against the chaise, optics blown wide even as an uncontrollable smile splits his face. He starts giggling, covering his face and rocking back and forth as euphoria bubbles out of him in uncontrollable, adorable laughter. "Oh my stars-" he gushes. "Oh my stars omistars omistars wow...!" His first kiss has left him breathless and elated, barely able to speak, worship and the greatest joy imaginable shining in his optics.

Sentinel Prime has them, both of them, in his suite, over and over and over again. They're both virgins, have never touched another mech or been touched in turn, and their leader takes great revelry is breaking their seals. Fucking their tight little valves until they're wailing and cumming in his lap, sobbing in ecstasy into his neck, clumsily kissing at his plating and swearing that they adore him, they love him, please more, more, more! He frags them on the furniture, against the wall, on the floor, even in the hot tub. He has them both on their knees in front of him on the lounge, licking and sucking at his spike and pushing each other to lap up drops of his transfluid, asks them to use their mouths on each other while he watches. He even asks them to bear their sparks and they do: he doesn't share his own but he's glad to tease at theirs, and it reduces them to mewling little piles on the floor, twitching and rocking and moaning as they crash through overload after overload. Such beautiful little pets, so eager to please, he could definitely get used to having them around for awhile.

When their time comes to an end they've started to sober up, snuggled against his sides on one of the lounges, still whimpering and panting high on pleasure, excess charge making them woozy and giggly even though the high grade is nearly out of their systems. Airachnid arrives and doesn't even give them a passing glance, informing the Prime that it's time to depart. He sends them back to their home in the mines, promising to see them again soon, just as soon as he returns from his next crusade to the surface.

D-16 and Orion stumble home giggling and shoving each other, still adjusting their armor and poking at the paint transfers spattered all over them. They're euphoric, there's no other word for it, high as a kite on pleasure, on the knowledge that Sentinel Prime wanted them and they were able to satisfy him! No longer virgins and instead claimed by the Prime!

Their batchmates welcome them home with a cacophony of cheers and hugs and jostling--MINERS! In the RACE! Their very own brothers, in the Iacon 5000! And- wait, why are you two all wet...?

They weren't intending to tell everyone, but the way they look at each other and blush and start snickering and struggling to explain is telling enough. Ratchet is already approaching with a wrench to scold them, they know better than to let a moment of excitement cloud their judgement-

"Uh, w-well-"

"Sentinel Prime wanted to-"

"SENTINEL PRIME?!" The entire room screams out in shock at once, before the cheering resumes tenfold. Their batchmates got the attention of THE Sentinel Prime?! Sentinel Prime made love to their batchmates! A couple of miners got the attention and affection of their Prime! If they thought the Iacon 5000 was inspiring that's nothing compared to this: before you know it the entire sector is mining energon at a lightning fast pace and they've hit their quotas before shift is even a quarter of the way done.

Orion and D-16 happily get to work as well, eager to do their best so that when their dashing Prime returns to them, they can tell him about how hard they worked and how much energon they mined and how well everyone is going to eat because of them!

When Sentinel Prime suddenly returns and orders triple shifts, they're surprised. Very surprised. It's not like him at all! Pretty soon the miners are running on no sleep and little fuel, some are injured and being denied time for repair and seek medical treatment. And D-16, despite his best efforts, is starting to fall behind after several weeks of the brutal demands. He's getting dizzy which he attributes to the lack of recharge. His servos keep dropping things even when he's sure he has a tight grip on them. He's nauseous, all the time, and multiple times a shift stumbles away from the rest of his crew to gag and vomit in a corner of whatever energon vein they're currently working in. Orion tries to get him to slow down, to stop, because he's clearly sick and needs medical care, but Dee isn't willing to stop. "Sentinel Prime needs us, Pax! We can't stop now!"

It all comes to a head as they're dragging themselves out of a tunnel with a full load of raw energon to be refined. D-16 suddenly stumbles, clamping one servo over his mouth and running off to the side. Orion hurriedly follows him after making sure Ironhide and Jazz have got the minecart.

"Hey, easy, easy-" he comes to rub his back as his best friend bends over, servos braced on his knees and body already rolling with slow, threatening heaves. He moans that he doesn't want to, he's so sick of purging, it hurts, please Primus, not today! "C'mon, just, let it out. You'll feel better once it's out, Dee."

D-16 groans and hunches over further, arms wrapping around his middle. "No... Primes, please- hgk-!"

"OI!" A miserably familiar voice suddenly bellows behind them, and Orion's sympathetic expression drops to sheer annoyance. Oh, no. "YOU TWO! Whaddo you think you're doin'?!" Darkwing is storming up to them. "Sentinel Prime wants his energon, so GET BACK TO WORK!"

"Darkwing, please," for once Orion is polite, one servo still braced on his friend's back. "D-16's sick, he needs-"

"I don't CARE what you think he needs!" Their superior roars, grabbing them both by the shoulders and forcing then around to face him. "I said, get back to-"

Dee promptly hurls all over the slagger's pedes.

He can't hold it anymore, but he tries, clamping both servos over his mouth even as he purges again. Half-digested energon splashes through his fingers and sprays all over Darkwing's chassis, who roars in disgust and backpedals away from him. Dee crumples to his knees, gagging, both servos planted on the floor before he throws up one final time, emptying his already meager tanks and ejecting a puddle of digestive acid that burns at his throat. It dribbles out of the vents on his neck and nasal ridge, and he sobs. Primus, he feels so sick!

Darkwing's response, naturally, is to grab them both and throw them down to sublevel 50 😌 there they meet B-127, and the plot kicks off, though a bit later than before. They make it to the surface and set out to find the Matrix. The journey is significantly longer with D-16's condition, constantly having to stop so he can rest or purge. Orion, at one point, offers to carry him, and Dee is too miserable to protest. Let's Orion gently hoist him onto his back and promptly passes out with his helm on his shoulder. He's overly warm, Orion notices: feverish, surely a sign that he's getting worse. They need to find the Matrix, soon. Maybe it can help cure Dee's sickness! And if not, well, once energon flows again they won't have to mine, and D-16 will be able to see a doctor as soon as they get home. They'll get him the medicine he needs and he'll be just fine.

When they finally arrive at the Grave of the Primes, D-16 is in bad shape. Shaking like a rust rattler, dry heaving because there's nothing left in his systems to throw up, and very hot to the touch. Orion nor Elita nor B-127 have ever seen a mech in quite such a miserable state, and they're all very worried. Orion sits him down on a rock and tells him to rest, and D-16 just hunches over, helm between his knees and arms folded over his head, the epitome of misery. Whimpering softly and praying to the Primes to please, please, make it stop. Whatever this virus is that's tormenting him, please just make it stop!

Then, they find and awaken Alpha Trion.

The Prime notices Dee's condition. Immediately. He can see it, an invisible aura none but the divine can see: this young mech hosts a precious newspark inside of him. Before he tells them the story of what happened, he opts to examine the little one. He's so young, probably too young to be a carrier yet, but he's undeniably sparked. A few decacycles along.

He tells them what's going on, why D-16 is so grievously ill. "Your sparkling is starving," he tells him seriously. "You are not receiving enough donations. Their protoform is cannibalizing your body, that is the root of your sickness. Where... is the sire? He or she should be caring for your needs."

All four of them are staring at Alpha Trion with their mouths open. D-16 is carrying?! He's pregnant?! But who-

Elita one punches Orion in the face as hard as she can, sending him sprawling into the dirt with a cry of surprise. "OW! What the-"

"You slagger!" She plants one pede on his chassis and presses down til she hears metal creak and he goes 'ow ow ow!'. "It was you, I know it was you! Who else would be so dumb?! You got him sparked up and haven't been taking care of him?! You worthless deadbeat! I should rip your fragging denta out with pliers! One at a time! I should!"

"Omigosh, Dee," behind her, B-127's voice has gone airy and light in excitement. He comes up to the silver mech's side, grabbing his servo to squeeze. "Congrats, dude! You're gonna be a mom!"

D-16, for his part, is sat there in shock. Shoulders dropped and loose, mouth hanging open, staring at Alpha Trion with his optics so wide they're at liberty to pop right out of the sockets and need recalibrating. "I'm..." his voice is barely above a whisper, shaking servos drifting toward his tummy. "You mean- I'm-?!"

He's starting to smile, joy bubbling up in his chest. Excitement, too. And terror. And a million other things that he can't name because he's too shocked, but suddenly despite how sick he feels he can't help but start to laugh. Delight blooms in his chest and forces it's way out of his throat as he starts to giggle and chuckle, and before long he's doubled over holding his stomach and laughing with tears of joy streaming down his face.

"I'm- I'm having a-" he jumps up to run over to Orion, shooing Elita off of him and throwing his arms around his friend. "Pax I'm sparked! I- I can't wait to tell Sentinel, he's gonna be so excited!"

"Sentinel?" Alpha Trion's voice goes cold and harsh behind them.

"Yes! Oh- Oh yes, Sentinel Prime, he-"

"He is NO PRIME!" The old mech bellows, and all four of them turn to look at him in confusion. "He does not bear our name!"

"...WHAT?!"

The grand reveal is even more sour this time around. So, so much more sour. The betrayal runs so much deeper, and D-16 is horrified and sickened. Watching the mech he adores and admires so much bowing to the quintessons and giving away the energon that they worked so hard for. It was already bad, but now? Now, he's carrying that monster's offspring. A sparkling conceived under false pretenses, under coercion, under lies. This baby hadn't been created by love and mutual respect, it has been made by a mech that lied to their faces to get them into his bed, to get access to their bodies to use for his own pleasure however he saw fit.

D-16 feels disgusting. Violated. Worthless. He feels tricked and used and abused. He stares down at his body feeling more nausea already roiling in the deepest pits of his tanks. Sentinel had touched him everywhere. There's not a single inch of space anywhere that's clean of that mech's touch.

No one is surprised when he suddenly folds to his knees and screams. Screams with all the force of his anguish, his shattered trust, his broken and reviled body. Manic, he claws at his chassis with feverbright optics, wailing at them to, "Get it out of me...! GET IT OUT OF ME! I don't want it, I don't- I don't want it, GET IT OUT!"

Orion is at his side in an instant, yelping, "Dee, no! Stop, you'll hurt yourself!" As he forcibly grabs his friend's servos to stop him from tearing himself apart. D-16 shrieks a wordless noise of agony, and then collapses forward onto Orion to begin sobbing violently into his shoulder. Clutching onto him like a lifeline, wailing with all the devestated force he can. Bawling against Orion and falling to pieces, brokenly asking what he's going to do.

...

Ok im gonna cut this here cuz it's getting long, like really long and my hands are tired. I can barely move my left side today lmao. Poor poor Dee 😌 hope you enjoyed this nugget of angst! If ya'll wanna see a part 2, you know what to do. The box is open uwu

[brandwhoreafterdark]

Could you possibly write a little something about G1 Soundwave being all subby with a praise kink? Any pairing is fine

Sorry this is a bit late anon, but I hope you enjoy ^-^

The bridge is completely empty save for the two of them, lights low and casting shadows, making their softly-blinking biolights seem all the brighter. For the solitude, Soundwave is grateful. He’s not ashamed of his position but he’s… shy, almost. No one else may see him like this. Only his master.

His knee struts have long since begun to ache from his position, kneeling on the floor with his mask and visor folded away. His face is beared, cheek down on a silver thigh that rivals his helm in circumference. It’s one of the many, many things he loves about his master. Everything is wonderful, but his legs… they just might be his favorite part.

Without thinking, he turns his helm to nuzzle his nasal ridge into the other’s armor, derma pressing a reverent kiss where his cheek previously rested.

Immediately one of Megatron’s hands–huge, powerful, life-ending hands, but so gentle on Soundwave–brushes the top of his helm. Soundwave peers up at him, hopeful.

“Good boy.”

His spark stutters, and a jolt of electricity spikes through him without warning. He nearly whimpers. Again, again, please, just once more time-

“You’re my favorite, Soundwave.”

Beneath his paneling, his spike throbs uncomfortably. But no matter how tight it is, he won’t open. He will listen, he will be good! If Megatron demands he keep his spike and valve locked away, then he’ll obey even if it kills him. And it certainly feels like it might; his valve has been stubbornly lubricating the entire time they’ve been here, and he’s long since started leaking, glowing pink rivulets slithering down his legs to pool beneath him in an impressive puddle.

“The best lieutenant I could ask for.”

Static corrupts his vision and his jaw clenches. He whimpers sharply, shoulders tense as he tries not to cum. Not yet, he doesn’t have permission, he can’t, master didn’t say so-

“Soundwave,” a huge silver hand slides onto his face, cupping his cheek and angling him upward. His optics are glossy and half-lidded, pretty mouth open in a soft ‘o’. “Finish. You’re stunning when you’re overloading.”

The finally compliment does him in, and overload overtakes his body like a soft, gentle wave. It’s not violent or dramatic despite how desperately he needs it–no. It’s soft, and lovely, rolling over him in warm bursts that send his optics rolling back into his helm, pulse after pulse after strut melting pulse of ecstasy sweeping through him near rhythmically. The puddle beneath him grows considerably, glowing pink transfluid spurting out of his spike and valve and escaping the seams of his modesty panel. Sitting in the sopping wet mess and with Megatron’s servo still on his helm, warm, comforting after glow beginning to usher in the cherished high, he’s truly never been more content.

[wordswithkittywitch]

I almost have a happy memory vaguely connected to the existence of Abercrombie and Fitch. Not for the store itself, I could never make it for more than thirty seconds in there, I think they cleaned the windows with Eau de Teenage Boy Who Has Just Discovered Bodyspray every morning before they opened.

But the one guy in Honors English (it was a small school, in our year only one guy qualified for honor classes) was... the most brandwhorey brandwhore I've ever met, and after high school I started doing lolita. Literally, every shirt he wore to school had Abercrombie & Fitch blazoned across the chest, more of the same branding on the baseball caps he was constantly taking off because of school dress code and putting back on because he had no where else to put them. I think he was personally the reason behind the "is a tennis visor a hat according to dress code" debate, as he owned plenty of those as well, and I admit this was nineteen years ago and I wasn't really paying attention to his headwear but I believe those were also Abercrombie and Fitch. (To fill in the mental picture, khaki shorts and Birkenstocks worn in six inches of snow. He occasionally threw some socks on if the snow was too deep but the Birkenstocks stayed.)

I only remember this because we had an assignment to write a "declaration of independence" from something in our lives, and I don't remember anyone's speech but his. Because he declared his independence from Abercrombie and Fitch, while wearing the brand on his shirt and hat. (the teacher gave him dispensation to wear the hat during his speech for the sake of irony)

I will say this much. As best as I can recall, he was alright. He was never one of the people joking about the gender disparity in English class, he wasn't one of my bullies, and no one in Honors English ever broke into an audience of "Oh, Kat's being bullied. She often has good comebacks, sometimes the bullies have new material, and this is the closest we're getting to a bloodsport. We will now circle, all attention on them, and watch what happens." so he wasn't treating me like entertainment either, which is a nice thing in someone you don't really talk to.

That got longer than I intended. And more "not all Abercombie and Fitch brandwhores" than I intended, but you just unlocked a memory for me.

If you meet a late gen-x/early millennial who actually has fond memories of Tommy Hilfiger and Abercrombie & Fitch, THAT BITCH IS NOT TO BE TRUSTED.

The preferred brands of middle school bullies everywhere ca 2001.

[brandwhorestarscream]

part 2 of D-16 carrying Sentinel’s sparkling please?

Your wish is my command, anon! I had a lotta people asking for this, so many messages! Ya'll are so sweet, I really appreciate it, so thanks for that! Let's get right into it ^-^ part 1 is here, part 3 here, part 4 here!

Orion is at his side in an instant, yelping, "Dee, no! Stop, you'll hurt yourself!" As he forcibly grabs his friend's servos to stop him from tearing himself apart. D-16 shrieks a wordless noise of agony, and then collapses forward onto Orion to begin sobbing violently into his shoulder. Clutching onto him like a lifeline, wailing with all the devastated force he can. Bawling against Orion and falling to pieces, brokenly asking what he's going to do. 

Orion numbly wraps his arms around Dee, letting his chin fall onto his shoulder. His arms slowly tighten, til he’s clinging with near-denting force, and his optics begin to sting with tears too. It hits him later than it did D-16, what exactly Sentinel did to them. That he intentionally got them drunk and lied to them, he lied, lied, lied about them being special and lied about caring for them, all so he could make them pop their panels. It sinks in, slowly, exactly what he took from them: he robbed them of their first time, something that should’ve been one of the tenderest, loving moments of their lives. He used them and threw them away just because he could. He ravaged their bodies selfishly, under false pretenses, without a care for how it would effect them. He touched their sparks. He raped them, both of them, and a sob suddenly flies past Orion’s lips. It hits him all at once, with a feeling like a train has just plowed into his chassis full-force, and all he can do is cling onto D-16 and wail. They cry together, desperately holding onto each other there on the cavern, weeping with all the force of their broken, disgusted sparks.

Alpha Trion stands vigil over them, observing in sorrow, letting them mourn and grieve all that they’ve lost. His spark aches for them. Poor, poor children… they’re so young. Too young to be forced to weather something like this, such an egregious sin… he watches Elita approach them with a haunted look on her face, B-127 wandering closer in her shadow, and she reaches a trembling servo to gently rest on Orion’s shoulder. He grabs onto her wrist like a lifeline, face angling up to look at her lost and broken, optics shattered and expression void of all hope. She bows her helm, mouth pressed into a thin line and lips trembling. Struggling not to cry for them. B-127 creeps closer and, after hesitating for a moment, pads forward to glom onto D-16’s arm. He’s silent as the bigger mech cries, patting at his arm and trying desperately to think of something he can do. But there’s nothing, not really, nothing in the universe could ever soothe a pain like this.

They cry until they can’t shed any more tears, til their bodies have completely exhausted their optical cleanser and lubricant stores, and they’re left dry sobbing and shuddering in exhaustion, slumping against one another and barely upright. It hurts. It hurts. Everything hurts.

“...little one,” Alpha Trion gently addresses D-16 at last, stepping forward and flicking the last of his tears off his face. “I cannot undo what has been done to you, but I can offer to relieve one of your burdens.”

D-16 sniffles miserably, still huddled close to Orion where they’re now sitting side by side on the floor. Orion is cross-legged, face in his servos, with Dee snuggled close against his side, his helm cradled on the blue mech’s shoulder. “Wh…” his voice creaks like a rusty hinge. “What do you…?”

Alpha Trion steps back and raises his palms to the sky, optics closing and exhaling a great puff of air. “ONYX!” his deep voice echoes through the cavern like a clap of thunder. “Onyx, my brother, I beseech you. Speak to this child in my place!”

A warm wind blows in from nowhere, with such force it disturbs the magnetic sand all around them. It begins to swirl, lifting from the ground and into the air to form a funnel, billions of grains chasing one another around and around and forming a curtain around Alpha Trion’s body. They cluster around and seem to consume him, rushing over his plating and molding to his form like a second coat of paint. His helm drops back so his face is parallel to the ceiling, then he gasps as his optics fly open. No longer blue, but a warm, crackling orange-and-pink, like a freshly lit hearth.

He stumbles forward, unsteady on his pedes, taking to one knee and his left palm touching the floor as he stabilizes. “Oh…” when he speaks, it is not Alpha Trion’s voice. He’s… a bit higher pitched. Warmer. Even gentler. “Mother… mercy…”

He shakes his helm and the sand stubbornly clings, before at last he raises his face, zeroing in on the frightened, confused quartet.

“Oh…” he straightens up, optics drifting from each of their faces before focusing wholly on D-16. His expression slips from bafflement to a sort of pained compassion. Not quite pity, but if the way his mouth turns down and his optics narrow with sorrow are any indication, his spark aches for them. “Oh, dear…”

“D-Did he say-” B-127’s optics are impossibly wide, and he’s frozen on the spot, unable to move his pedes. “O-Onyx Prime-?”

“Indeed,” he nods in affirmation, straightening up. Though he remains in Alpha Trion’s body, the sand constructs his visage, shaping around the crests of his helm and fanning out on his back to take the form of his wings. Wings that were missing from his corpse. “Though I wish our meeting was under less dire circumstances, children.”

“Y- You’re-” Elita is starting to frown, inching in front of her group with one arm out. “You’re… th-the god of death-” Oh, Primus. Is he here to reap their sparks? Has Alpha Trion channeled him here to take them away?!

“Do not fear, little one. Peace,” Onyx holds up one servo, and his optics glimmer with warmth. He smiles, gently, hoping to put them at ease. “I mean you no harm. I shepherd over the dead, those who have already passed on. I help them find their way home to Primus, and assist them in seeking rebirth, but I am not here to be your reaper. Please… do not be afraid.”

He approaches them and kneels down just before D-16, looking deep into his optics. “Brother Alpha has called me here to speak to you, child.”

“M-” Dee is clinging tight to Orion, spark pulsing in fear. This- This is death incarnate! They said his hands could bleed a spark from it’s frame with a single touch! They said he lorded over the afterlife and knew everyone’s date and time of death to the millisecond. Having him here, specifically to speak to him, made his throat threaten to close in panic. “Me?”

“Yes,” Onyx Prime’s servo gently touches his helm and he yelps, they all do, flinching away. But after several seconds he realizes, wait… he can still feel everything. He can still feel Orion beside him, can still feel the warm gush of his vents. Actually… he feels better. Physically, anyway: his frame is already beginning to lower it’s heightened temperature back into the green zone, the insistent, horrible pain in his tanks is abating. His optics peak open, and finds Onyx still there, smiling kindly at him. “Please… you needn’t be afraid. I swear to you, upon my graves, I shall not harm you.”

“Wh…” Elita gulps. “Why are you…?”

His optics drift lower, to D-16’s chassis and abdomen. His expression saddens. “You've been forced to endure something terrible… oh, you poor, poor thing…”

The Prime pulls his servo away from Dee’s helm, though not before giving him an affectionate pat. “Listen to me, little one. You are young, you are hurt, and the journey ahead will be very difficult regardless of the path you take. Forcing you to bear this sparkling forced upon you would be a great cruelty if it is not your choice to do so. If you would like, I will take them and return to the Allspark.”

D-16’s spark slams to a stop in his chest. He stiffens, and Orion sits up straighter beside him. Elita’s mouth falls open.

“Wh… What are you…”

“It won’t cause you nor them any pain. They will be safe, and you shall not be punished for it,” he nods down at him. “I know this one, as I know all of them. They are a good spark, they will not resent you if you don’t wish to birth them. They will love you just the same, just as I will, and just as Primus will. The choice is entirely yours, little one.”

Dee’s audials start to ring, and he presses both palms to his chassis. It’s warm, overly warm as it has been the last several decacycles, and before he’d thought it was the heat of fever, but now he knows it is because he hosts an infant soul anchored to his.

He feels frozen in place. He- he could… Onyx Prime would…?

He sobs again and covers his mouth, bowing his helm. “I- I don’t-” he chokes. “I d-don’t know! I don’t know, I- I dunno, I-”

Does he want this sparkling? Does he? He doesn’t know! When Alpha Trion had announced his state, he’d been so happy. Over the moon in fact, beaming with pride and so excited to share the news. They were living proof of his and Orion’s tryst with Sentinel, proof that they were loved and important, and they were so indescribably precious. Now, though… now, they’re… they’re…

Primus, he doesn’t know what they are! He wants to curse them, wants to rip them from his spark chamber and toss them away so there’s no evidence of what that monstrous false Prime had done to him. He doesn’t want to remember, doesn’t want a constant, hideous reminder of the worst thing to ever happen to him.

But… the part of him that was previously excited wars with the other half of him. He doesn’t know that that’s what this sparkling will be. He’d been so excited, so happy, and now in it’s place there’s sadness and horror, and yet another part of him is so angry and repulsed and… and…!

He sobs again, clawing at his helm. “I DON’T KNOW!” he shouts, grinding his denta. “I don’t know, ok?! I don’t know!” how can he? Everything is such a mess in his helm, emotions at war and raging back and forth, grappling for dominance and all trying to shove the other down. He’s scared. He’s hurt. He’s sparkbroken. This is his first sparkling. Perhaps once he’d dreamed of this day, but pictured it so differently, hand in hand with someone who meant more to him than anything else, both of them with transformation cogs because they were good and hardworking and had been rewarded for their efforts. Perhaps he had dreamt of a home, with- with someone special, and a family with one or even two precious sparklings. It was a dream that was supposed to be achieved far into the future. Now, broken as he is, he worries it never will. Never can. It would be an impossibility, as he is now… if he kept this sparkling, he would have to look at it every day knowing he did not love the sire, and never could. He would have to look upon them as their only parent and know that his dreams of a happy life died long before they were even born.

But… if he lets them go, if he lets the god of the dead pluck them from his chest, he might never be fortunate enough to conceive again. What if this first sparkling is his only sparkling, and in letting them go, he loses his one chance? It’s too soon, it’s too early, and circumstances are dire, but… is he prepared to let them go? Knowing this could very well be his only chance?

D-16 sobs again, and Orion’s arm wraps around his shoulder, pulling him close against his chassis. Dee’s face burrows into his neck, whole body shaking as he whimpers again and again that he just doesn’t know!

“...peace, my little one,” Onyx Prime’s voice is rife with sadness and empathy. “You need not make a choice now, or even today. I… I apologize for bringing you further distress, but please know,” he places his right servo over his spark in oath. “The Primes are with you. When you make your choice, utter a prayer to me, and I will come to you if you require my aid.”

With a sigh, all of the sand suddenly falls from Alpha Trion’s body with the whisper of countless grains trickling to the floor, and when he blinks his optics become blue once more. “Ah…” he takes note of their distress, and shakes his helm sadly. “Poor children… rest. You are weary. Rest, and I will feed you.” once they’ve eaten and had time to process, he can reveal more to them, but that can wait.

They have suffered enough for one day. 

...

And that's where I'm gonna cut part 2! Poor, poor Dee... this is the worst day of his life, but at least he has Orion to support him. I hope ya'll enjoyed this angst nugget :3 if you want part 3, ya'll know what to do. Abuse the crap out of my ask box lol. Gimme your thoughts or predictions as well, that's always fun

[brandwhorestarscream]

He's really going to die this time

That's what Starscream thinks, the thoughts half-clouded behind the incessant tinnitus blocking everything else out. It had started about halfway through Megatron's tirade, when the heavy handed old gladiator had back handed him so hard he flew back and hit the wall with enough force he bounced forward onto the floor. The ringing in his audials had started then and soon after the sluggish pulsing of his spark joined it, and combined they were so loud he could barely hear his own thoughts when all was said and done.

...it's cold. It's wet. He hurts everywhere. He's bleeding in six... no, maybe seven places? His visual feed is corrupted with static. Seems something was shaken loose in his processor. His left optic is out, and the remaining right one won't stop flickering. It hurts.

The ceiling looks so far away. It's dark. How long has he been laying here? It feels like an eternity since he was thrown down onto the floor and Megatron finally stormed out, satisfied with his punishment. Time always passes sluggishly like this, and he's so, so tired. Exhausted, even. He can't muster the will or the strength to sit up, or even try to drag himself to the door. He doesn't know if he can. He can't feel his legs. Or his arms. Are they broken? It wouldn't be the first time his struts had snapped over the course of the war.

A wave of vertigo hits him even though he's laying down. It feels like the world has tilted at a 45° angle and now he's falling. Speckled colors dapple his vision and it begins to cloud over with darkness. Is he dying?

It feels like he's dying.

Panic jolts his spark then, because fragging pits what if he is dying?! No, no, not yet! He can't die yet! He's not ready, this can't be how he dies, alone and cold in a bloodied heap in the darkened command center, this can't be it!

Despite his desperation and straining he can't even lift his helm, and darkness swallows his vision. The falling sensation returns with a vengeance, and then... nothingness.

...

Starscream jolts awake and thrashes in panic as he flies into an upright position, chassis heaving as he gasps and heaves for air to cool his overheated frame. He's sticky and wet with condensation, and he grabs at his chest. His mind is racing along with his spark, and he barely has time to wonder what happened when the darkness is banished with a sudden flood of light.

He flinches back with a hiss of surprise, servos coming up to shield his optics. They're fluorescent, bright white, nothing like the somber violet of the Nemesis he's gotten used to.

"Rise and shine, Your Highness!"

That jars him. His helm jerks in the direction of the voice so quickly his neck cables nearly kink, and he's greeted by another seeker, quite a rare sight indeed. He's a cheerful bright green and blue, yellow optics set in a silver face and already bustling over toward him.

"Up and attem, time's a wastin'! Your bath is ready, and once you're clean I've got Finery doing your paint today--Prim's out sick, poor thing," he's talking a mile a minute and Starscream is nothing short of flabbergasted. Is- Is he hallucinating? Surely, he must be! Yes, that's it, he- he's in the medbay and is so doped up on medication he's having vivid hallucinations. The other mech keeps talking, completely unbothered by his slack-jawed expression as he opens up the bureau on the opposite side of the room. "-and then you've got breakfast with your parents and immediately after that you're scheduled for archery. Don't forget you've got a meeting with the House of Diplomacy and then a soiree with Lord Thundercracker, and you know how Lady Permafrost gets about tardiness so let's try to be on time today, hm? After that- come on, chop chop! Out of bed, come on! Up, up! We don't want to fall behind!"

"Wha-"

The stranger hurries over and all but throws the covers off of him--silver, imported silk by the looks of it, painfully familiar--before reaching to place something on his helm. A circlet retrieved from the bureau, that's what he had been doing. "Come on, Highness, you really shouldn't lollygag. Didn't you hear me? Your bath is already prepared, and-"

Wait! "Cloudbreaker...?!"

The busybody finally stops for a moment. "Yes, Your Highness?"

Starscream's spark starts hammering again, and he leans so far forward he nearly falls off the berth. "You're really Cloudbreaker?!"

"I- yes?" The other mech tilts his helm. "Who else would it be?"

He hadn't seen Cloudbreaker since the day before Vos fell. He died in the fall, as so, so many of them did. More than 90% of their population had perished in the massacre. His optics move on their own to examine the room, and his audials start ringing again.

It's his room. His room, his suite, from so long ago. There's all his shelves with all the things he's collected, his countless personal bookfiles and pretty trinkets and, Primus, he can spot one of his old, soft toys from when he was very small. He glances down at the berth and it's his berth, he's under his blanket, these are his fancy cushions and pillows. He reaches under one of them and, sure enough, an old, raggedy piece of cloth with his name embroidered on it, far too small to be used anymore but still so precious. Handmade and woven by his carrier, before he had even been born.

There's no way.

It- It isn't possible.

But...

He nearly trips over himself in his haste to get up, almost tangling himself in the berth's cushy mesh fabrics as he dashes for the window. It's not real. It can't be! He's hallucinating! But-

He throws the curtains open and bright, glorious sunlight streams in. Towers of white and gold and silver greet his optics, platforms and of all shapes and sizes stretching into the distance as far as he can see, all suspended in the air and flying amongst the clouds. He sees seekers by the hundreds, thousands, zooming through the skies and going about their days. He presses his servos to the glass, then his face, and tears well up and spill over before he can even think to stop them. He hears the city singing, the whistling wind rushing through the flying architecture making a unique symphony he hasn't heard in millions of years. It's so startlingly clear, so crisp, so real.

He sobs as he realizes just how beautiful Vos is, realizes how much of its' wonder he had forgotten, realizes how his memories had been dulled and diluted. He'd forgotten the breathtaking depths of the colors, he'd forgotten all the ways the light sparkled and shone off the buildings. He'd forgotten the distant sounds of their people going about their days, he'd forgotten this beautiful view.

"...Your H-"

"What time is it?!"

"Uh, well, it's nine-"

"No!" He whirls around and finds Cloudbreaker has approached him, and he grabs the other's face in his servos. Staring him down gravely as he demands, "Not just the time of day! What year?! What cycle, what lunar phase, what day, what time?! Down to the millisecond!"

Cloudbreaker rattles it all off, looking startled, and his spark jumps in his chassis. It feels like it's caught an updraft, suddenly elevated as a foreign sense of hope and elation tries to anchor within him.

There's still time! The bombing hasn't happened yet, and there's still time!

[brandwhorestarscream]

Can we please see TFP Cryptoid Seekers (Jazz EQ Event). Like, I want to know how it would go with them. Especially with the whole "rouge Starscream" concept. Does the team all go to refuel, only to all get paralyzed and knocked out like Jazz was, waking up with the insatiable hunger. Or does Starscream find their base by parental will alone. Or even, does the whole Jazz but Team Prime thing happen, no one knows what's going on, then a fully developed seeker emerges. Please. Would you write this as a fic.

(Fun fact. My question mark is broken, so a lot of these periods are actually question marks. Sorry!)

Hey anon! I had a lotta fun with this one, but this is meant to serve only as the first part. Second part will be God Knows When, so I hope you'll enjoy this in the mean time!

Anyway, I hope ya'll enjoy this blurb of Starscream's terrifying cryptid hellspawn terrorizing the autobots

It was, like most things these days, the rookie’s fault. Smokescreen had come waltzing back into base, strutting like a peacock and proudly showing off his haul, arms stacked high with the weirdest energon containers any of them had ever seen. Perfectly spherical from every angle, and scans revealed they held within them the highest possible quality, packed to the brim with the maximum potential energy-per-ounce. You’d be hard pressed to find anything like this on Cybertron save for within the Towers, and Ratchet was quick to seize them all for the emergency cache. Saying they ought to save it until someone needed a life-saving surgery and the nectar of the gods would aid in their recovery. Or, alternatively, if they took another turn toward unfortunate famine, those weird energon pods could tide them over for quite awhile.

Desperate to taste such a high quality treat, Smokescreen had eagerly offered to go get more. Stealing from Starscream was child’s play when he was otherwise engaged halfway across the continent with the autobots and decepticons, especially when he had the phase shifter. Optimus had forbid it, though–the window of opportunity had closed.

Starscream was very clearly incredibly upset about the loss of his fuel stores–Smokescreen had reported at least 30 of the weird orb-pod-things, and had gotten away with a total of 11. The seeker clearly knew they were the culprit, and had reportedly razed no less than seven government facilities in the last week.

“That stuff must be good if he’s this crazy about it,” Smokescreen had sighed wistfully after Fowler stalked away, demanding Optimus do something about the rogue jet. “Hey, doc, you sure-”

“Yes I’m sure!” Ratchet snaps from nearby, not even bothering to turn around. “Don’t even think about it, kid.”

He had whined about the unfairness of it all, but obeyed. The only ones amongst them that had ever had the privilege of such high quality energon were of course Optimus and Ultra Magnus, but they were in no rush to consume it, either. Ever the models of self control.

Three weeks after they’d put the special fuel in storage the normal-grade stuff was starting to run low and they had to raid another mine. It was profitable, but only barely, the spoils only requiring a trio of mecha to unload it into the energon vault. With the two youngest attending to their human companions’ and Ratchet fixing a minor wound on Arcee’s arm, only Optimus, Magnus, and Bulkhead were present when the orbs they’d stolen from Starscream suddenly exploded.

The detonation was obnoxiously loud, easily heard from everywhere in the base, a perfectly synchronized explosion of all 11 at once that brought the both of them running. As they approached the door there was the unmistakable sound of bodies hitting the floor, and before them all three lay splayed out unconscious. There’s energon everywhere, glowing sharp cyan splattered on the walls, slathered upon their bodies as Ratchet rushes to check on them. They’re all fine, not bleeding, no wounds, but the energon they’re covered with is exceptionally viscous, almost slimy, and has the strongest paralyzing agent Ratchet has ever encountered. Just stepping in it steals the function from his legs in less than half a klik, and it falls to Arcee to hoses the area down and get the contaminated stuff down the drain.

The three main victims don’t stay unconscious for long, only a few megacycles. Ratchet works over them furiously, flushing their systems when he realizes the paralyzing agent is one of those annoying topical creations that can absorb through the mesh and penetrate directly into the mainlines. It’s wasteful but necessary, and thankfully, they’re ok. They’re back on their pedes before nightfall, and the scans come back clean.

The only problem is their fuel gauges.

Ratchet wakes the whole base pounding on Optimus’s door at some odd hour of the morning, using his medical override when it doesn’t open fast enough. The Prime is unresponsive in his berth and the vital sign monitor on the medic’s arm is beeping urgently.

“Get me energon, now!” he barks an order at the nearest autobot. “He’s dropping into stasis lock.”

“What?!”

Bumblebee returns in record time and Ratchet immediately sends him out for more as he sets up for an emergency transfusion. He’s mumbling feverishly to himself as he scans the larger mech; it shouldn’t be possible. He had to have ruptured something internally while he was resting to have his energon levels dropping that fast! His sparkpulse was dangerously low, and his energon level was less than 5%. There was a breach somewhere in his body, there had to be.

The scans all come back clean. All of his fuel tubing is intact. His internal processing system is perfectly pristine. There’s no report of any obstructions, no weird fuel demands anywhere else. It’s like-

The vital sign monitor wails on his arm, and Ratchet swears. “Bulkhead!”

It’s no small feat getting the three of them into the medbay when they’re all unconscious and can’t walk. As soon as he finishes transfusing one another’s monitor goes off, and the scans are useless. They all come back the picture of health, there’s nothing wrong with them! Pulse normal, all internal organs functioning optimally. There’s no leaks, no breakages, no nothing. The fuel is entering exactly where it’s supposed to, it’s staying where it’s supposed to. The only explanation is that the weird decepticon fuel-weapon thing. Their metabolism has skyrocketed to unmanageable levels–no sooner has the fuel entered their tanks is it being digested. It’s like it’s just vanishing, evaporating. It’s going in, it’s not leaking anywhere, but it’s somehow not reaching the rest of their bodies.

Honestly, it’s a brilliant weapon.

“...we need more energon,” he announces hollowly after half a megacycle of adrenaline fueled rushing. “They’ll starve by sunrise if we don’t get more.”

Of course… he could cut off the supply of one to prolong the other two. Obviously Optimus would be the first he’d preserve, but how to choose between Bulkhead and Ultra Magnus? His mind scrambles between them, weighing the pros and cons, which would be more of an asset on earth and thereafter-

“More energon, got it,” Arcee is already taking charge, jabbing a finger at the door and ordering the two younglings, “Bee, Smokescreen, with me. We’ll be back, Ratchet.”

After a solemn moment, he nods. “I’ll leave it to you, then.”

…

Three sleepless days later, their plight ends at last. They’d done nothing but feverishly hunt for mines and steal as much energon as they could, quickly bringing it back to base, rinse and repeat without rest. They’re all ready to drop and can barely soldier ahead when finally, finally, Optimus Prime opens his optics and sits up on the medical berth like he hadn’t just been in a starvation coma for the last three days.

“Ratchet,” he says, very quietly. “I am going to vomit.”

“Wha-”

He leans over the side and wretches, violently, half-digested energon and internal fuel-tank acids splashing onto the floor. Ratchet backpedals in surprise, but he’s not done, clamping one servo over his mouth and stumbling out of the berth to make a dash for the sinks but it’s no use–his legs are wobbly from lack of fuel and use alike, and more vomit splashes through his fingers despite his best effort, and he stumbles to his knees. One servo planted on the floor and the other still trying to hold it in, he heaves once, twice, and hacks out a sheet of clear, slimy sludge.

“Optimus-” Ratchet wrenches his servo down from his face–last thing they needed was their leader drowning himself on his own purged fuel! “Stop, stop, just let it come-”

An earth shattering clang and Bulkhead rolls right off his berth, and is still laying, dazed, on his back when he starts violently gagging too. Ultra Magnus is the last one up, and at least has the decency to apologize for throwing up all over the slab he’s just defiled.

The stench is unbearable, the metal tang of energon mixed with hydrochloric acid and there’s no containing the mess–the scanners don’t give any sort of indication as to what’s going on, why they’re suddenly so violently rejecting the fuel their bodies had been so desperate for just minutes ago. The vital sign monitor suddenly wails and Optimus chokes grandly, clawing at his chassis–and Ratchet sees that something has jammed his primary fuel tube. It’s such a large obstruction that it’s crushing his aeration tubing and causing it to collapse. In response his core temperature is rising dangerously quickly, vents gushing and labored as his body hitches and rolls, trying to get it out and gagging grandly.

He’s choking, and his system’s are in a frenzy, red light blaring in his vision and emergency messages flooding his HUD.

“On your back!” Ratchet orders, shoving him down and turning him over. If it doesn’t dislodge itself in the next 10 nanokliks he’ll have to open him up to remove it surgically. “Arms down, down! I need-”

The monitor blares again and Ultra Magnus starts choking too. Bulkhead is right behind him. Slag, slag, slag-!

“ARCEE!” he yells aloud and into his comms, praying she’s still on base. He’s going to need someone else’s hands if he’s going to help them all-

Optimus makes a strangled, wheezing noise, and his back bows off the ground, servos scrabbling at his throat. His pedes dig at the ground as if struggling for traction, and without warning a tiny, flailing arm reaches out of the Prime’s throat. Ratchet recoils in horror with a strangled, “By the Allspark…!”

Tiny claws dig into his bottom denta, and a second servo reaches to join them. Optimus rolls onto his side and purges again, and out of his mouth falls an honest to Primus sparkling, dripping energon sludge and shaking itself off, rolling over in the puddle of sick and rubbing it’s face into the ground, whining loudly.

It’s a wiry, gaunt little thing, with a sunken, too-thin face and what are definitely wing nubs beginning to furl out and harden on it’s back. Optimus stares at it, open-mouthed and speechless, for a solid five seconds before wretching again.

There’s more than one!

The sparkling bumbles clumsily out of the puddle and glances around, before promptly throwing it’s helm back, unhinging it’s jaw, and letting out the loudest, most unholy sound Ratchet has ever heard. The walls shake, he can feel the floor vibrating beneath his pedes with the force of the soundwaves the newborn is making. It’s high pitched, and shrill, and horrible, echoing and wailing like the worst kind of alarm. It runs away from him when he makes to pick it up, hoping to… he doesn’t even know what, and skitters under the nearest berth. It starts up screaming again, louder this time, and at last Arcee stumbles in through the door, clutching her helm.

“What is that?!”

“No time!” he can barely hear himself over the noise. “We need-”

“RATCHE-E-ET!” Bulkhead bellows like the world is ending, and the sheer terror in his voice draws the medic over. There’s a sparkling hanging half out of his mouth and he’s struggling to yank it out at the same time there’s a horrible grinding sound from his midsection, and something punches outward and straight through his plating. It’s a tiny pede this time, a tiny thruster, and within seconds the hole is torn open larger, bent inward and stretched further, and the upper half of another horrifying little abomination pops through. It wriggles, twists, and promptly tumbles down his midsection and onto the floor. It runs off too, a sibling in hot pursuit, joining the screaming one under the berth. Bulkhead is bleeding profusely from the wound on his midsection as the hellspawn join their sibling in the ungodly shrieking, and somewhere in the room, glass shatters. The soundwaves are so powerful they make the medic’s servos shake as he’s scrambling to stop the bleeding. It goes all the way to his primary fuel pump, and he realizes with horror.

The little parasites must have been in those spherical energon pods, and had anchored themselves within their bodies to steal energon and continue development. The first few had crawled out the way they entered, but the others-!

Bulkhead wheezes and collapses backwards, unconscious as his fuel tank is punctured again and another sparkling punches through, a bit further north than the previous two. Ratchet tries to grab it but it’s slippery, and no sooner has he wrapped one servo around it has it sunk it’s razor sharp, serrated denta into his finger and torn off a chunk of his mesh. Swearing in pain, he drops it, and the little hellion bounces off his knee and onto the floor, rolling thrice and having the audacity to hiss at him before scampering away. This one doesn’t go under the berth, though: it makes a beeline for the console and is immediately starting to scale the perfectly vertical surface to get halfway up the wall. It shimmies up the wall like a god damn gecko and disappears into the rafters. To make matters worse, it starts screaming too.

Smokescreen had brought in 11 of those energon pods–eggs, they were eggs Ratchet had by now realized–and that meant 11 tiny, Unicron spawned parasites trying to violently escape their unconventional hosts’ bodies.

He had just barely stopped Bulkhead from bleeding out when Magnus threw up two at once, a pair of twins, and his midsection suddenly bowed outwards and an unholy screeching trio burst out of him as one. Five in Magnus, three in Bulkhead, that left four for Optimus. He was the only lucky one, as all four of the sparklings had decided to exit the way they entered. There was severe damage to fuel systems all around, cracked and shredded tubing and wounds in the mouth from the babies’ sharp claws, but they were going to live, thankfully.

There were 12 in total, and after getting a good look at them their parentage was unmistakable–even if they hadn’t known Smokescreen had stolen them from Starscream, they were all in his spitting image. The same sickly thin frames, too-small arms and legs and papery wings, sunken faces and optics far too big for their helms. Mouths full of several rows of curved, knife-like denta with jaw strength great enough to bite through an adult mech’s armor plating. And if that wasn’t enough to confirm it, the screaming set it in stone: the windows had long since shattered in the wake of all 12 voices hollering as loud as they could. They didn’t even seem to be all that distressed: there were no tears, no sobbing, just insistent, never ending wailing like those earthen emergency sirens. Only Starscream’s spawn could ever be this loud.

It took them over two megacycles to round them all up and get them out of the medbay so Ratchet could fix the non-lethal injuries in relative peace. They couldn’t make a decision on what to do with them all until the three unwitting incubators had a clean bill of health. Ratchet knew Optimus would want to do the right thing: return them to their mother. No wonder Starscream had been going crazy for the last month, it all made sense now, and he surely wouldn’t rest until he found his wayward offspring.

Keeping the twelve of them in the main room wasn’t too difficult, so long as the doors all stayed closed. Resisting the urge to strangle them, however, was much more difficult. Within 2 kliks Arcee was ready to power up the ground bridge and go dump them in the wilderness somewhere. The little hellspawn were borderline indestructible, as all sparklings were by earth standards. More than once one had fallen more than fifty feet from the rafters to the floor and had done little more than wheeze a few times before shaking themselves off and scurrying to climb back up.

She’d never seen a baby seeker before. No one had. The snobs never came down from Vos before the war, and no one was having sparklings in an active warzone.

Or, well. No one smart was.

Regardless. She’d never seen a seekerling before, and she honestly wasn’t sure if they were all this crazy or if they were so messed up on account of being Starscream’s spawn. It wasn’t just the screaming, no: it was the way their jaws unhinged to stick things in their mouths. It was the way their helms spun 180 degrees to look at things, it was the three-to-four rows of denta they all had. It was the way they flickered in and out of existence, some kind of unstable camouflage/invisibility, it was the way they climbed the walls and were hanging upside down from the ceiling while never letting up the ungodly wailing. They were only about human size but so loud they could be heard more than a mile away.

A fact evidenced by Agent Fowler’s sudden arrival. He couldn’t hear them, but they could hear him, barely. Informing them that the sparklings were causing a serious, dangerous disturbance in radio communication, and were to be moved offsite, underground, immediately. Arcee didn’t have it in her to argue.

[brandwhorestarscream]

It's here

I took a year and three days to rewrite this chapter 42 times before I was happy with it, so 👉👈 please give it a look and leave me your thoughts

It occurs to me that there's a very real chance a lot of you don't know this story. It took me so long to post this bit you've never seen it. This is a passion project of mine, a story I really really love working on, involving multiple timelines and exploring the butterfly effect, via Arcee having a chance to end the war with the decepticons before it even starts and derailing the entire universe 🤭 please, give it a chance 💖 feel free to ask about it too, it really makes my day so much better when someone does!

[brandwhorestarscream]

Second chapter of Repop just dropped

Please read it I fought through writer's block for this. And leave me your thoughts in the comments! They're like my only source of serotonin lol

[brandwhorestarscream]

At last... it's here 😌

The prologue for The Repopulation Project is finally public! Go give it a read and 👉👈 maybe leave me a comment? I'd love to know everyone's thoughts and I really, really hope you enjoy it as much as I enjoyed working on it

[brandwhoreafterdark]

You take requests right?

Could you maybe do something with Cliffcee? With Arcee topping?

(I'm sorry if i sound rude im just extremely thristy)

Anon I just want you to know that I love you. You don't sound rude at all and I, too, am thirsty for this ship. Dom top Arcee is an S-tier fantasy and her eager spike-hungry bottom Cliffjumper just makes it even better

He looks so good bent over like that.

Knees tucked beneath his body on the berth, chassis down and neck craned to the side so his cheek rests against a pillow, optics trained on her. They're hazy and foggy with steam, frame overheating with charge. His thighs are spread, sloppy valve sending thick droplets of lubricant dribbling down his legs, pooling in little glowy puddles around his knees. His spike bobs and quivers with every shuddering ventilation.

"'Cee…" he finally breaks the silence, glossa poking out a little as he pants. "C'mon… 'nuff already-"

"Shut up," she swats his aft. "I'm enjoying the view."

He whines and grumbles but doesn't say anything else, twitching as another bead of lube slid out of him.

Arcee continues to watch. His valve is so beautiful, swollen up from far too much stimulation, wet and wide open and ready just for her. Whenever she decides to claim her prize. Not yet. She takes a silent holocap, saved to her memory files for later.

Her mate gulps. "C- Cee…!" There's a note of urgency in his voice now. "P… please…"

It's whispered, almost shamefully, and she grins. Always so stubborn. Never did like asking for help.

"Alright."

He gives a yelp of victory as her thumb and forefinger slide easily into his valve, disconnecting the magnetized toy that had been nestled to his ceiling node for the past several magacycles. It was a relatively simple little bit–egg shaped, not even the length of her finger, but able to stick to their insides and vibrate endlessly. Cliffjumper shudders with relief.

The berth creaks softly as she climbs up behind him. Rises onto her knees, and though his view is obstructed, he hears her panels retract and he knows exactly what her spike looks like. It's just like her, long and slender, silver with those blue ridges that he loves so much, pink biolights thrumming up and down the length. His valve clenches at the memory, more slick escaping the lips.

One hand finds purchase on his right hip, and the other grabs his left horn. It's rough and pure, molten pleasure blows through his veins. His whole body bucks and writhes, and as his back is arched, her spike slams into him with a fluid, brutal motion.

Cliffjumper crashes into a wailing overload, valve spasming and spiralling tightly around the length impaling him. His optics flicker wildly as his visual feed corrupts, and he swears loudly, "Frag frag frag oh frag YES r- right- right the- ere-!"

It threatens to overwhelm him and he turns his face into the mattress, sobs of pleasure wrenching their way out of his throat no matter how hard he tries to hold them back. Arcee fucks him through the overload, still tugging his horns back like he's a wild mechanimal she's wrangling. He loves it, can't get enough of it–so much so that he can't stop a full system reboot.

Cliffjumper goes limp beneath her but Arcee doesn't stop. She can feel in their bond that he's fine. More than fine, even. If she stopped now, he'd pout.

He comes back around to the filthy, sloppy sounds of his valve and the sharp clang of metal every few seconds. His sensors are glowing happily, and already another overload is building. He looks up at his mate, optics half shuddered a single rivulet of drool sneaking past his lip plates, and all he can think is, 'Primus I hope we go all night.'

[brandwhoreafterdark]

If you're taking requests, First Aid getting his aft port wrecked? By a reader insert OR by a bigger character such as Fort Max

Requests are very open and I'd love if you'd send even more 😚 please enjoy FA getting his shit rocked

First Aid isn't particularly religious but he swears he sees Primus when Fort Max has him bent over the medbay berth. It's just them, Ratchet all but manhandled away by a very persuasive Drift, First Aid left alone to monitor it in his absence. Fortress Maximus had come to see his little lover, and, well...

"Hyuuuuh...!" First Aid all but squeals, vents gushing hot air, finger scrambling for purchase on the berth. His chassis is pressed flat against it, scraping back and forth with every thrust that sends him pitching forward. Fort Max isn't being rough at all, no; in fact he's being very gentle, as he always is with the tiny medic. But though soft and kind as his lovemaking may be, every single time he re-enters it makes First Aid's whole body jolt forward. His sheer size and strength means his spike punches into Aid's port, forceful and demanding, regardless of his intentions.

And First Aid loves every second of it. Spread open like a two credit whore and speared on an absolute monster of a cock is when he's happiest. All he can do is try to hold on, vents stuttering so quickly he very well may be sobbing, optics rolling up into helm every time the head of his spike makes bruising contact with the secondary cieling node nestled deep in his aft port.

Above him, Fort Max is whimpering, huge hands wrapped all the way around his tiny waist, denting the delicate plating as he gently fucks his tiny lover's body. First Aid is so small, he's so afraid of hurting him, and holding himself back is just about killing him.

"Come on, Max!" First Aid teases him. "Come o-OhhHh!" His voice cracks grandly as the massive mech shoves his spike in with a particularly harsh jolt to his body. "Come ON, Maxie! Harder! I can ta-AAA-ke it! Gimme harder, frag me harder-"

"Don't-" he grunts, denta clenched and optics glossy. "W-Wanna- hurt you-"

"I'm a medic!" First Aid snaps. "I know how much I can take, I can p-put myself back together again! Come ON, give it to me HARDER!"

First Aid knows what he's asking for. He's ready. He's had enough of this namby-pamby half-hearted fragging. He wants Fort Max to really, truly enjoy himself.

"Just let go, Maxie," he whispers to him. "It's ok. I promise, it's ok." First Aid can SEE the last of his resolve drain away, and he can't help a smug little grin. "Goo-OOHHHD-!"

There's a thunderous clang and stars flash in the medic's vision as huge hands come down on his shoulders, pinning him to the berth as the absolutely massive intrusion in his aft shoves so deep inside him with such ferocity that his chassis sparks against the berth. He moans out loud, crying out beneath the behemoth holding him down. Something in Maximus's expression changes, hardening as his last remaining threads of self control snap. He pulls his spike out til just the tip is still buried inside and then slams home like a wild mechanimal, with such force that the collision dents First Aid's aft. Paint transfers rather violently, scrapes of black and blue left on delicate red plating. Every thrust sends painful, processor blowing pleasure blowing through his lines; every impact of his massive lover lifts First Aid's pedes off the floor. His optics start to blink as his HUD lights up with warnings: damage to his port eminent, overload approaching, blaring messages and static alike corrupting his vision and threatening to make his optics short out. Words get lost in his throat, glossa limp and starting to snake past his lip plates as oral lubricant wells up and dribbles out the corner of his mouth.

And, still...

"H- Harder-" his voice is hoarse, and he hiccups around every syllable. "Harder, harder, HARDER! Please Maxie, harder!"

[brandwhorestarscream]

Thanks to that last ask game, I managed to jam out the next chapter or Hindsight! Ease enjoy 🙇‍♀️

[brandwhoreafterdark]

Blurr is absolutely obsessed with oral. He talks 24/7, he's such a motormouth, he needs to be doing something with his mouth at all times

He practically begs Longarm to let him eat him out. "Please-please-please-sir-just-for-five-minutes-please-just-let-me-"

Longarm has the cutest little chubby valve and an even cuter spike, Blurr loves to just fold to his knees under his desk, slip right between his thighs, and just goes to town. Sucking his anterior node, pressing his mouth flush against his valve lips and wiggling his glossa inside. He's completely obsessed with the cute little sounds his boss makes, meanwhile Longarm is up there with both servos clamped over his face so he doesn't get too loud.

Blurr's incredibly thorough while eating him out, and since I hc him with an especially dexterous and extendable tongue 👀 he's licking and stimulating his partner's ceiling node from in between his legs, and Longarm's a goner. He folds over Blurr's head, grabbing his helm, his shoulders, his back--anywhere he can reach, really. Moaning and whimpering and reduced to a complete wreck, drooling and crying in ectsasy as Blurr makes him overload twice, thrice, then four and five and six times-

By the time he's done, Longarm is completely spent, limp in his chair and barely twitching, optics fever bright and condensation dripping from his steaming frame, fans whirring at their fastest. Blurr just pulls back, kissing one thigh before wiping his mouth. He's covered in Longarm's juices, glowing pink transfluid dripping down his chin and all over his chassis. Who knew Longarm was a squirter?

"Sir... can I suck your spike next?"

Longarm is too spent to give an answer, but Blurr takes his vague half-whimper as a yes, and descends on his poor boss a second time. They spend hours in his office, getting no work done, and Longarm definitely isn't walking home after that 🤭

[brandwhoreafterdark]

TFA Shockblurr with a side of bondage, sensory deprivation, knife play, overstimulation, and roleplaying? (Blurr rping as an Autobot torturer and as Shockwave his hapless victim please?)

Anon I need you to know that I love you. I had so much fun with this! I hope you enjoy it as much as I enjoyed writing it 💖

The chains rattled as Shockwave jerked, yet another overload rolling through his entire frame. He's suspended from the ceiling, pedes dangling just above the floor with arms above his helm. Drool bubbles up from around the gag, and there’s a wet, obscene sound as transfluid gushes out of his valve. It’s pinned open, spread around a massive, vibrating false spike as big as Blurr’s arm. It’s magnetized to the walls, so no matter how much he squirms and cants his hips, no matter how many times he cums and floods his valve with more release, it remains tightly in place. It’s buried in deep, tip pressed cruelly to his ceiling node, buzzing and rubbing and grinding on the spot that would have him seeing stars if it weren’t for the blindfold covering his single optic.

“Ready to talk yet?”

Shockwave’s antlers twitch–he can hear him, can hear his captor. Somewhere to the left- no. Somewhere to the right? In front of him now? His vents heave, gasping for air in a desperate bid to cool his overheating frame.

Something sharp, too sharp to be the autobot’s tiny, delicate finger, scrapes gently up his chassis. The captive spy shivers, making a muffled yelp when the movement makes the toy nestled inside him press harder against the roof of his valve. Blurr had had to be creative with the gag, though muzzle is perhaps were accurate. With no mouth of his own, vocalizer trapped behind the expressionless face screen, the only way to properly stop him from talking was a muzzle, large, bulky, wrapped around the bottom half of his helm and hooked at the back of his neck cables.

Shockwave shakes his helm as well as he can, and the sharp feeling is back, pressing harder this time, and the soft sting of a thermoblade registers on his sensory net. Blurr traces the knife up his chassis, over his proud, purple insignia, and Shockwave jerks. He can feel Blur smirking when he presses down, just a bit, warping the paint and the sting turns painful for a moment.

The blade travels higher then, over his first shoulder plate, then-

Shockwave’s whole body arcs as the searing hot blades sinks into the seam between his treads, spike and valve spasming in tandem. That’s a sensitive spot, Blurr knows that, and in fact is snickering in delight as he delicately maneuvers the blade through, tracing through almost as if preening. His prisoner is shuddering now, charge sparking visibly on his frame. His cooling fans whine threateningly. His coolant reserves must be nearly depleted by now.

“Talk,” he whispers, and his voice is so clear that Shockwave is sure he must be right next to his audials. The autobot exhales a vent over his right antler, and he shudders. So, so close. “All you have to do is talk, and this will all go away.”

Never!, is his response, unintelligible between the muzzle and the vocalizer muting code they’d implanted just for this. Never, never, never! He’d sooner offline than betra-

The heat of the knife presses to the back of his neck cables, and Shockwave tenses in anticipation. His spark is pulsing, thrumming erratically, the very real threat of such a small, seemingly inconspicuous weapon spreading molten fear and arousal punching through his systems. Such an insignificant blade would hardly even warrant so much as a blink under normal circumstances, but here… here, he is at Blurr’s mercy. And Blurr is dangerous, any who would say otherwise is a fool. He’s a competent agent, one of the very best, intellect, ungodly speed, and a very real, very hidden vicious streak all rolled into one. It only comes to light in times like this, when his partner is completely at his mercy. He would have made a fine decepticon. He could tear Shockwave apart at any moment, and that excites him even more than kneeling at Megatron’s pedes.

“I’d rethink that if I were you,” Blurr is behind him now, he’s sure of it. He jerks his helm as if to follow him, but he’s still blind. He feels a slim arm wind around his chassis, the heated knife presses at the front of his throat. His first neck cable sizzles, and a bead of energon wells up. Then a second, and a third. It stings, and spills in a single, thin thread down his chassis, right over his violet insignia. “Talk!”

He stays as still as he can. For a moment, there’s only the sound of his wheezing breaths and the toy still buzzing mercilessly in his valve.

No.

There’s a clicking sound and he howls as the toys somehow speeds up, buzzing faster even though he’s sure it was already on the highest setting.

“What would Megatron think, I wonder?” Blurr is in front of him, his warm glossa licking a long, single trail from his pelvis to his neck, cleaning up the tiny bit of spilt energon. He kisses Shockwave’s neck for a moment, right over the wound, and he’s so hypersensitive that the little peck makes his whole body jerk. Never mind the sharp nip that Blurr delivers right after. “Maybe I’ll take some holocaps and send them to him.”

No, no! Not that!

“Would he appreciate it?” Blurr’s free servo closes around his spike, achingly hard and bobbing in the air. He pumps it twice, thrice, and it erupts in overload, spilling glowing transfluid all over them both. He can’t help it, he’s cum so many times, his whole body is going up in flames-

“We already know where he is,” he continues, giving Shockwave’s spike a cruel squeeze. He yelps. “There’s no use trying to protect him now. Talk! You can still save yourself.”

His helm is grabbed roughly, jerked down, and he’s sure that Blurr is glaring at the blindfold, right where his optic is.

He will not break. He will not surrender. Not ever.

No.

Blurr huffs, and the thermoblade returns. This knife is scraping sideways down his chassis, going for his insignia. The same one he’d worn proudly every day for over 4 million stellar cycles. Shockwave stills. He wouldn’t- no-

“Last chance, decepticon scum,” the interrogator growls, voice lower than before. “Before I rip this off and brand you an autobot.”

The overload that crashes over him is so intense that Blurr jumps back, electricity arching off of his lover's frame and scorching his servos. Shockwave’s whole body bucks, backstruts bowing as he rolls through wave after wave after painful wave of the most intense, processor-blowing pleasure he’s ever experienced. His severely darkened HUD blinks several warnings, blaring at him, every message interlaced with severe static before he drops offline, forced to reboot, body left limp and dangling in his chains.

He blinks awake laying on the berth almost a megacycle later, no longer wrapped in his restraints. He’s sore, every strut aches, and Blurr is sitting beside him with a shy smile and a cube of energon. “I… I didn’t hurt you, did I?” the speedster sounds almost bashful.

“No,” his systems ping him scoldingly when he sits up. His helm throbs, and he definitely won't be walking properly for awhile. Still, though, underneath the ache, the war frame is deeply satisfied. “That was perfect.”