! Happy Easter. I Will Burn In Hell.

Όπτιμους ἀνέστη! Happy Easter. I will burn in hell.

TFP Optimus gives a messy egg-birth. Ratchet is here too.

Flying into the Well of All Sparks, Optimus was ready to sacrifice himself, or at least what he's grown used to think of as himself, his frail, mortal form of metal and wires. He was prepared to merge with Primus. Apparently, Primus had other plans.

It started with warm airflow embracing him near the end of the Well, permeating his armor like it was paper thin, overwhelming him, igniting and soothing at the same time, and finally carrying him lightly back to the surface. It continued with his friends' confused happiness. And this new fuzzy feeling, and Ratchet's concern, and a discovery. Oh, the discovery. Optimus Prime not only came back alive. He came back full of eggs.

Living, precious sparks, nested in their vacuoles and soft, translucent shells, were growing inside his gestation tank. The organ designed to incubate one to several eggs has expanded to embrace the holy gift. Ratchet tried to count them but failed. There were just a lot, mostly blue, but some green, pink, and yellow.

Ratchet's medical fascination mixed with religious awe. The more he observed and studied the unique case of his Prime, the deeper it got, even though he had to face things that had to be left out of the equation for others. Medical confidentiality was a thing when it came to Optimus' increasing sexual appetite, to him constantly being on the verge of arousal due to being stuffed in a quite pleasurable way, to his gestation tank pressing on his waste reservoir and making the messiah of Primus visit the waste receiver twice a day. Optimus' increased energon consumption was less of a sensitive issue, yet he was still uncomfortable drinking this much openly, so Ratchet had to watch him fuel in private to control his ration.

So much stayed behind the closed doors of the medbay during Optimus' daily scheduled check-ups. So many little… inconveniences.

When Ratched had Optimus in the examination chair once again, everything seemed noticeably more intense. Optimus seemed more nervous and tired, and he told Ratchet about feeling so full that he was afraid to move. Even his waist plating looked slightly pushed from the inside. He lubricated copiously, letting out oily pink droplets, and the valve visibly throbbed so hard Ratchet called for all his medical professionalism not to growl in frustration and want. He was lying to himself about it being just fascination and awe. Fascination and awe never leave you with your spike in hand after your friend's and leader's daily check-up, moaning and thinking about his heavily pregnant tank.

Ratchet prepared the endoscope, and Optimus tensed. "It's going in," Ratchet informed him, trying to sound calm.

When the head of the endoscope touched the eagerly unfurling petals of Optimus' valve, there was a sound of a small piece of armor retracting. Ratchet tried not to stare at the spike pressurizing, instead focusing on Optimus' frantic apologies. It's alright. They'd been there. No need to feel ashamed. But holy Primus, fuck, how big this spike was, and how big the valve below was, and how smoothly it took the endoscope.

"Ratchet, please, stop." He complied immediately, detecting almost pleading undertones in the strained low voice. Optimus growled, and his hips jerked uncontrollably, grinding on the probing device. "I'm sorry, but I feel like my waste tank may give. The sparks are pressing on it."

"Then we should empty it before it's damaged," Ratchet told him, the phrasing felt odd and ridiculous but was aimed to comfort Optimus, highlighting him being aided and taken care of. The endoscope slid slowly in and out, stimulating the nodes where the tube connecting the waste tank with a small nozzle next to the valve lay close to the inner interface equipment, intertwined with its tubing and energon lines.

Optimus shuddered, and moaned, and started pouring the floor before the examination chair with periwinkle blue fluid. It arched between his legs, soiling Ratchet's hand still holding the endoscope. It wasn't the first time a patient voided the doctor, damn, they've been through the war quite horror-rich, but it was the first time Ratchet didn't really mind.

"I need a sample anyway," he said, grabbing a test tube from a tray and catching the stream with it. It did little to dispel Optimus' embarrassment, but at least it was true and gave Ratchet his pitiful excuse to watch closely his Prime peeing with, with the endoscope inside, open, ready to lay his blessed eggs.

Oh yes, he was ready. As soon as he stopped emptying himself and Ratchet took his hand away to clean it alongside the tool, his body spasmed like it was welcoming a long-denied overload. "Ratchet, I feel my destination almost…" He groaned, not from pain. "They are coming, I cannot hold them anymore."

"No, damn, Optimus, w-wait a minute!"

Ratchet rushed to the shelf, where awaited the basket, voluminous enough to accommodate a prime clutch and padded with soft material. Two seconds later, he found Optimus mindlessly stroking his spike, trying to distract himself and relieve the tension at the same time. His plating noisily rattled against the chair, his broken whimpers made Ratchet's mind dizzifyingly spin and Ratchet's panels open, but Ratchet was left with little time to care. He saw Optimus' valve squirting a jet of lubricant, his whole body contracting, and a first butch of divine eggs falling wetly into the basket.

They were magnificent. Glowing, warm, colorful, fertilized by Primus, and coming from Optimus' overloading valve. Ratchet didn't hear his own praises and prayers, only Optimus' powerful engine roaring, his cooling fans whirring, his shaky in-vents, and beautiful strangled grunts escaping his voice box.

With his own spark pulsing and his spike throbbing, Ratchet held the basket with one hand, using the other to touch the seam between Optimus' thigh and hip plating to draw attention to himself. "You alright, Optimus? Any pain now?"

"I am fine, my friend. How are… they?"

"Perfect, you… You are doing wonderful," Ratchet reassured, the container in his hand was getting heavier and heavier. Optimus' hand never left his own spike, and Ratchet surrendered too. Powerless before the spectacle of life and pleasure and how badly it aroused him, he placed the basket on the floor, right in the puddle, and quickly stroked himself until the blinding overload made him moan and grab Optimus' leg.

It took a couple minutes more and two more small overloads for Optimus to tense in a final one, his spike spilling intensely, his frame using every output to dump the charge. He was crying.

The basket was full, the eggs piled in it, glowing. Each spark was visible inside, each had its own unique song. Ratchet and Optimus, both calming down, could already sense their energy and life.

A gift, a treasure. The future.

Rodimus slightly fucking with the discipline while slightly fucking the discipline enforcer.

Working with Ultra Magnus can sometimes be a hell of a task. Who says that interfacing with him would not? Yet Rodimus would not trade having Magnus by his side for anything. And, when after Minimus' true identity was revealed and things started taking quite an intimate path, it came to them exploring each other in a way that was never an option for an enforcer of the Tyrest Accord (but for just Minimus Ambus, well, could be discussed), there was a lot to figure out. 

One minute Minimus could be a lovely pile of moaning, trembling metal and wires, coated messily in fluids. And after a short post-overload bliss, he's quickly put back together with his usual self-control and, sadly, his compulsory habits. And for Rodimus, having Minimus all grumpy and fiercely trying to immediately clean up is an act of cruel party-pooping. Can't they just cuddle for a little bit?

Solution? Take Minimus to the captain's personal washracks and cuddle there under the streams of solvent. 

That's how they end up again, Rodimus standing under the steaming fall, hissing over his plating, with Minimus tucked into him back-to-chest and Rodimus' right hand holding him safely over his middle. And the other hand is purposefully ruining the blissful idleness of the moment, holding a hose against Minimus' hips. A warm stream, strong but not overly firm, is meeting with Minimus' lower torso, traveling to his spread tights, then traveling back, and again. 

Minimus is quivering, his expression quickly losing its stiffness. But he continues with his words about how they are violating the rules of using the ship's washracks, which paragraphs they're breaking. And how they're just wasting the solvent, and how it's all just "Rodimus, it's not necessary.".

"Sorry, can't hear you," Rodimus snorts. "Too steamy here, the sound must be dispersing."

He aims the massaging stream at Minimus' uncovered valve, gaining a precious moan and feeling his own array pinging him for stimulation in sympathy. He knows the nodes over the entrance are pulsing with crimson light, just as they do every time he's taking this valve with his spike or his tongue. Speaking of spikes… The stream is moving higher, hitting little nodes on the underside of Minimus' spike, and Minimus is undignifiedly kicking the air with his legs. And back to the nodes around the tightening entrance. The moment Minimus gets the sweet pressure back on his biggest node, he convulses with his whole frame, adding to the solvent with his own wetness. He sags and hears Rodimus' frantic swearing. 

Rodimus is unsure of what to do with himself. Fuck his tired partner again? He's not an asshole. 

"Give me the hose, Rodimus." He's not arguing. With his both hands he's moving Minimus lower until the small, hot valve is pressed to the upper side of his shaft, and clumsy fingers are touching the head, and the firm stream is hitting his own nodes this time. Rodimus has to lock all the joints and servos in his legs to just stand straight, crying out in overload, one or two expletives leaving his voice box. 

Oh, how Minimus will scold him and lecture him on terms of use of the ship's washracks. But he's thankful for a good minute of just relaxing under the warm shower with (finally) a completely relaxed Minimus.

Spent yet another day arguing over:

๑ Semicolons ๑ Line spacing ๑ Letter case

Why would I ever need a Transformer self-insert OC. I'm literally poor man's Ultra Magnus (or, more size accurately, Minimus Ambus). I could write a fanfic on him furiously fucking a list. Same for Tarn.

So TFone could be an inverse Megatron redemption arc? Where he starts off good and turns evil, I mean. I think there's some interesting possibilities there.

We've kinda been there. If Megs starts as a miner, he starts with good intentions: to liberate, to eradicate the inequality, to make things better. And he is the oppressed, so his rage against the system is a righteous rage. But then something goes wrong, and the liberator goes all dictator. You know, every regime rots, but for ex, in IDW it's made clear that it's rotten from the beginning, when Megatron's chosen the violent path (like it was any other, lol). But we'll see. I don't expect much, since it's a one and a half (two at best) hour movie, and they need to introduce all the characters, and make tons of self-references, and show Megs beating the shit outta Starscream. But there's always a place for interesting possibilities.

Ah, Megatron's fusion cannon, you dirty little thing. A naughty lovergun you are. That's what I'm talking about. Well, knowing how authoritarian leaders with a prominent cult of personality happen to be fetishized to the point of speculations about them being sex-symbols of their time, I'm not surprized even Megs' cannon is a sex on leg... arm.

Here’s a little prompt for ya: Starscream being a secret shameless slut for Megatron’s big badass fusion canon... and Megatron wakes up one night to Starscream getting himself off by rubbing his plump, soaking wet valve all over it

i smashed this out last night drunk, but I hope it’s everything you want it to be! 

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Haven't had long-distance car trips for god knows how long and completely forgot about insects. GNUTS. Motherfucking midges on the windshield. Loosely travel-inspired KnockScream shower sex, yay.

Cybertronians with car alt-modes will have bugs' guts smeared over their bodies. No one is safe. This shit is also hard to wash off, so it'll take extra time and diligence for them to clean themselves, probably helping each other.

Particularly, I'm thinking about Knock Out, who's doomed after Breakdown gets kidnapped by MECH. Starscream is his obvious first choice to reach out to. Even if it won't result in them getting hot and steamy in the washracks, he needs someone. 

At first, Starscream is reluctant. Seriously, yikes. He doesn't want to deal with someone else's hygiene issue while he has his own on this damned clod where everything reeks and is swarmed with gross fauna. He doesn't even want to touch anyone (being subconsciously touch-starved). But after seeing Knock Out's arsenal of shampoos, sponges, and brushes, he yields. Just for once, he thinks. He has shit to do.

Good luck, Starscream, half-laying on a bench with his legs spread and shaking, and a frivolously fluffy sponge caressing his valve and spike, and Knock Out's smug grin looming closer from clouds of steam.

(What's hilarious here is that it's very unlikely for a lot of bugs to inhabit the desert in Nevada. Maybe Knock Out is really extra-squeamish. Maybe he just wanted to get some.)