Oh, I Didn't Post It. The Whole "Megatron's Cannon Gets Around And Gets It On A Lot" Topic's Started

Oh, I didn't post it. The whole "Megatron's cannon gets around and gets it on a lot" topic's started with this fic about Megs enjoying his beloved weapon himself. (At this point I've started to wonder, can an arm cannon be considered an arm candy if sexy?)

Bulky TFP Shockwave is insanely hot, yet I'm still trying to figure out how exactly we should explore his deadly otherworldy allure. There's something that captivates me the most. Oh boy, his damn HAND. Let's do some in-universe Shockwave hand fetish.

Maybe it's Starscream's nervous alertness going worse near his rival, maybe it's his millennia-long sensual (and sexual) deprivation, maybe a secret third option (Soundwave applying some sort of Wi-Fi Zersetzung mental control technology to destabilize him and make him more obedient by slowly uploading lewd thought-viruses into his operating system).

Whatever, it's just Shockwave's damn hand. An unpaired mechanism, elegant and graceful. Its exquisite shape would fit Knock Out better. It's a palm of a medic, or a dancer, or a sculptor, or a massagist. 

Oh, Starscream very well remembers this palm mercilessly grabbing his helm, almost shoving his head onto the giant metal thorn. Honestly, in reality, he would prefer not to stay in the same room with any of Shockwave's limbs, whether it be his cannon or this inappropriate hand. In the realms of his mind, though…

He's staring, again. Shockwave's dexterous digits are waltzing over the console, each movement precise, swift, smooth, and hypnotic at the same time. Starescream's wings give a very interested twitch. These fingers could as well be examining his moving parts, let's say, to check if everything is in order. Knock Out's competence sometimes seems questionable. They could be studying methodically Starscream's rivets, and gears, and circuits. The best Decepticon flyer must tick perfectly.

And maybe he could open his spark chamber, so… No, it absolutely has nothing to do with the real Shockwave. Starscream would rather join the Autobots before letting him anywhere near his insides. But receiving a little manual exam from these skillful digits sounds like what the best Decepticon flyer and, remember, second-in-command deserves. At least to make sure he didn't mess it all up while dosing himself with the Dark Energon.

At this point, Starscream is shivering slightly, his knees frail, his vents shallow and quick. His gaze never leaving Shockwave's digits, now plugging some device into the console, connecting the wires. They could be on his cockpit, tracing the seams with their sharp talons on the way to their target between Starscream's legs. Just where his most delicate machinery was all heated up, preparing him for the interface, his slender spike ready to be enveloped by these strong fingers. Oh, Starscream will craft any absurd explanation for Shockwave to continue his ministrations. Like, seekers can die from arousal if they're not jerked off or finger-fucked to completion. He'll lubricate in Shockwave's grip like a good bot. It'll appear absolutely logical to make him squirt.

He has to forcefully abort his spike's attempts to free itself from under his codpiece armor. It's hot inside his housing, maybe even leaking. That also applies to his valve, cycling behind his closed panel. Shockwave's pointy fingertips will prickle them carefully, spreading his soft, sensitive flaps, opening him up before the unblinking red optic. They'd point at his nodes, pressing them like they're typing a passcode. They would intrude, like Shockwave breaks into people's bodies and brains with his instruments and his cold, mismechanical mind. They would be his sweetest torture, until Starscream actually screams, jetting fluids helplessly, his legs shaking.

And, oh, in reality, his legs are shaking. Shockwave is still facing his console and multiple screens, paying zero attention to what's happening behind his back. And there is Starscream, seized by the sudden spasming tension, stretched out and muting himself with his own hands over his throat and mouth, and dripping on the floor between his heels. Wings fluttering. Clearly overloading.

With a sharp hiss and click, his treacherous spike is also out to shoot its thin but impudent release. Leaving him no excuse in case Shockwave turns around. Strascream's spark, a nanosecond ago flaring with charge, goes ice-cold along with his drooped wings. He's damned. Betrayed by his processor and all his systems. Doing this… this without a single touch, just fantasizing about Shockwave fingering him. Now any cortical psychic patch session will be the end of the great commander Starscream. 

He needs to get out of here. Now.

"Starscream?" Shockwave's plain, mechanical voice creeps under his plating instantly, as always cold and passionless. But Shockwave's finials jiggle, bearably visibly, as in interest. "Is everything alright?"

Soundwave and his mind games be damned.

Im guessing that was a queued post, since Easter was on 3/31.

Oh no, not queued. I know some were eager and celebrated on March 31, but it takes to wait a bit longer in Eastern tradition. Some still party like true byzantines. All this calender shit is weird, but it's really funny when the whole English-speaking (America-dominated) internet has already celebrated, and then some people (including the huge Greek diaspora in America) just awake and decide that now it's THEIR turn to devour all the eggs.

$10 says there will be an eddying rush of porn with virgin Orion Pax on equally virgin Megatron (I don't expect much Elita, I know where I am). And I await it. Inexperienced lovers awkwardly exploring each other and the whole sex thing is one of my top favorite genres of erotic content.

(And good guys Quintessons could give us more friendly tentacle porn. C'mon, fearsome polylimbic masters can't fulfill the niche for strong organic (or at least semi-organic) folks fucking big robots on equal terms for mutual enjoyment, they should try better.)

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.

Oh, I see posts where I shit on Megatron's character arcs (and I'm not to deny that shitting on them doesn't make them any less interesting to analyze, seriously) finding their way to people. But I must admit, it's not always this bad.  TF:P Megatron's redemption arc: tasteless, but tolerable

Sure shit, everything is considerably less annoying if it's not shoved in your face. The whole ending of this series was rushed due to production issues, and the subplot leading to Megatron's finale just falls into this line. But if you put a not-so-brilliant plot twist at the very end of your story, it may become easy to ignore. I know that a lot of people hated the "Game of Thrones" ending so much they ended up successfully ignoring it. And it's not the ending that we seek in stories, yeah? "The Lord of the Rings" ended with magic and your beloved fantasy creatures leaving the world for humans to dominate. But who the hell loves tales ending and our mundane world beginning?

In short, I just waved Megatron's "redemption" off and genuinely forgot about it. 

And when I try to analyze it, it amuses me in the first place. TFP Megs is just a fucking junkie, hooked on Dark Energon. He spends a decent amount of his screentime either high or craving a shot. And if it doesn't make your expectations of him pretty low, just look at the whole take on his character. Dark Evil Overlord le classique, even his Sauron-ish, armor-like, edgy-spiky desing suggests how they wanted him to be easily read as just evil. Not a lost revolutionary, but a villainy villain.

And then this villain gets himself possessed by Unicron, a.k.a. robotic Satan (who created Earth, lol). Because he did drugs. Don't do drugs, kids, dope lets the devil into your body. The way they wrapped this Christian take on HLS into a robot abusing a magical cosmic substance is just really fun to me. And the possession feels so bad that even the mighty overlord questions his life choices and runs away crying.

The whole thing really drags your attention away from the team Prime's motivation to just let him go. Look, their whole planet is a junkyard, do they even have resources to keep Megs as a prisoner? To hold a trial? 

Shit, at this point I can't even agree that it was a redemption. Megs just took that, didn't like that, went all humbled by his unpleasant religious experience, and bailed pathetically. But maybe being pathetic is not so bad for him, hm?