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Jon Bernthal aka Big Daddy!😍

Forbidden Sight

With the threat of the Fallen forcing Bumblebee to act and Megatron long since out of the picture, he is left with no choice but to seek out the aid of the divine. Unfortunately, meeting the divine is not all it is cracked up to be, and sometimes the price is not worth the sacrifice.

(Please note: This is LONG and there is body horror going on so do be aware.)

“No, I am not going down there again.” Ratchet clutched his dented arm possessively, his optics flaring in fear of all things. Bumblebee stilled as the Doctor’s plating flared, his servo doing a terrible job covering obvious digit shaped imprints. What could have possibly caused such damage?

“Ratchet, you are the only one who knows the way. You went with Optimus when he-” Ratchet cut him off with a look of pure terror and grief that ran so deep it was clear to see in his body, field, and expression. Bumblebee couldn’t help but stare in shock as the Doctor shook his helm frantically.

“No. No. I will give you the path I mapped, but I will never go down there. Not again.” Something had shaken him to the core. Ratchet was never like this, at least not around anyone who could see or hear what he was dealing with.

Bumblebee took a moment to meet the gazes of his team. They were worried. They looked to him for guidance. None of them said a word, but Windblade’s dipped wings and Strongarm’s nervous twitching told him everything he needed to know.

None were looking forward to the journey ahead, even in light of its necessity.

“Ratchet…” He trailed off as everyone fell silent. Guilt radiated in Ratchet’s field, but he did not budge. He wouldn’t be guiding them, no matter how much Bumblebee pleaded.

In order to defeat the Fallen, they needed information that no living mech, save for perhaps Megatron, possessed. With Megatron lost to the stars, Soundwave stuck in the shadowzone, and other possible sources similarly scattered or deceased, there really was only one choice. It was a faint hope, but Optimus had made the journey to Primus’s core long ago in search of both an end to the war and a way to restore their world. There were none left alive who knew the exact details of what went on that cycle, but Ratchet and a small cohort had journeyed with Orion Pax and they knew that when he emerged, he was greater than he was before.

Orion Pax gained knowledge on that dark cycle. Bumblebee’s hope was that he could do the same.

Optimus was gone, dead, and given to the Well. There was no one else except Ratchet, who might have had the faintest idea as to how to get to Primus’s core safely. And yet he was shaking, terrified to the point of being unable to move, regardless of how badly his field flared with the desire to flee. Something had happened, and that fact did not give Bumblebee any confidence.

“I… I will wait for you here. But Bumblebee, you must listen to me.” Ratchet released his death grip on his damaged arm, leaving it free for all to see. Sideswipe cursed softly somewhere behind him, but Bumblebee could only stare at the damage in horror.

Deep, dark, and dangerous dents that turned into tears ran across Ratchet’s arm. Rust and dried energon bordered the wound, nonlethal, but a testament to something powerful down in the depths. There were four clear imprints, huge and imposing digit marks—dug into metal that for all intents and purposes, appeared delicate now. If Bumblebee looked closely, he could see a fifth imprint running along the underside of Ratchet’s arm.

Ratchet had been grabbed by something. And whatever that horror was, it had destroyed the long maintained stoicism of a mech that had never so much as flinched in the face of danger, save for the sake of another.

“Don’t touch him. Don’t even try to damage him. He will not hesitate to leave a far greater mark.” Ratchet’s entire being spoke of desperation. His plea rang with true terror, not unlike the horror that had been evident in his voice when the Unmaker woke. Still, this was deeper, more… personal.

“I understand.” Bumblebee didn’t bother trying to convince Ratchet to come. He was dead set on remaining, and based on his reaction, it was a miracle he wasn’t already high tailing it all the way back to Iacon.

“Here are the coordinates of the tunnel entrance and mapped paths I recorded.” Ratchet sent a message over a private link, a file quickly blaring red across Bumblebee’s vision. He accepted it easily and shared the information with his team.

“Be careful. You won’t like what you see.” Ratchet stepped away, his gaze turning anywhere except the giant hole in the ground leading down to the core of their planet. Bumblebee nodded and gestured for his team to follow. There was no more time to waste and he couldn’t afford to think too deeply on Ratchet’s warning.

Bumblebee half expected to have to rock climb down the Well in order to get to his target, but according to Ratchet’s map, there was a path for him to follow. It did take him and Drift arguing over the thing for half a groon before they found the entrance, but once the journey began, any mirth evaporated in an instant.

“I don’t like this…” Strongarm muttered, breaking the silence for only a moment before it became suffocating once more. She shivered, and not even Sideswipe was willing to talk as they delved into the depths. Bumblebee did his best to lead confidently, but the road was long and there were things that shifted in the dark the deeper they went. The entire area felt oddly… holy, but only in the vaguest sense.

Controlled seemed like a better word. The path was controlled. Everything was methodical, placed with purpose, even if Bumblebee was unable to parse it out. Drift and Windblade made a few awed comments off and on, but as the light dimmed and the tunnels became more cavernous, his team refused to speak. Bumblebee couldn’t blame them, especially not when there were pedeprints in the dust from mecha who traveled with Optimus Prime millennia ago.

This place carried too much history to be disrupted for longer than absolutely required.

“We are almost to the core. Stay together, and don’t touch anything. This is a place for Primes and Primes alone.” Bumblebee shivered instinctually as his internal map alerted him to the fact that they were close. It was hard to keep track of the time so deep beneath the surface, but he assumed they had been on the move for around a cycle. He expected the trip to take longer. Wasn’t Primus at the very core of their world?

The tunnels made no sense. They hurt to think about.

“Sweet Primus…” Sideswipe cursed, but it was lost in the void as they stepped through a final arch, quickly finding themselves basked in the light of their maker, or at least, his core. Bumblebee had to pause and look on in both awe and a degree of existential dread as cogs larger than life turned in a rhythmic manner, adhering to laws and designs long forgotten by any living being save for the one who ordered their continued functioning.

A thin pathway led closer to the core, one large enough for a mech or two depending on frame type. A few stray Predacon corpses long rusted littered the ground, dark energon leaking from their battered frames. They were lifeless, but they were a reminder of the battle hard fought and won.

“Everyone, keep a ways behind me. If something goes wrong, one of you needs to get out of here and regroup with Ratchet and my old teammates.” He held out an arm, not thinking too deeply on the motion as he cautiously moved forward. He could sense his team moving slowly a few dozen feet behind him, watching him like techno-hawks as he followed the curved pathway toward where he assumed he could address the slumbering god of Cybertron, or at least attempt to commune with the Primes of old.

Everything seemed to pulse and hum around him as he walked. And yet, there was no noise. Not a sound, not a creak, not even his own pedesteps as the light of Primus washed over him in waves. He might have been imagining it, but everything about the area felt intelligent, even alive. If mythology was to be believed, then his senses would be correct. However, it only served to unsettle him as he noted the marks of small pedes moving forward and far larger pedes heading toward the entrance.

How long had it been since the soil was disturbed? Were these Optimus’s marks? Or had someone else made the journey down to Primus to cry out to their absent god? He didn’t think so. The marks matched Optimus’s specs. That thought bothered him, although he could not pinpoint why. The dust should have moved. Something should have changed. Despite that, the echoes of a darker time remained engraved in the very path he walked.

He stepped cautiously, his optics drawn to a series of cables and connectors hanging down from where Primus’s core reached an accessible level. He momentarily wondered if Optimus’s body was stuck amongst those of the Predacons, or caught in wires beneath the thin path he carefully tread. Was the body of his leader hanging limply, forgotten by all but the void that embraced him?

Bumblebee wished that were the case. By Primus he wished that were the case when he finally ascended, following the path as close as it came to Primus’s core.

He wanted to purge as he set optics upon the tattered mess that hung from countless wires and cables. There was no denying who it was. No other mech bore red and blue so proudly or carried a relic of a forgotten age within his spark chamber. He was thinner now, seriously emaciated with rust and dried gore of all kinds spattered across his frame at various intervals. His plating hung off him at odd angles, some pieces even missing altogether. His left finial was broken and the optic on the same side was damaged to the point of almost appearing crushed.

The connectors attached to him dug beneath armor and protoform alike, bloating his frame in strange, unusual places. Blue tinted ooze dripped from unnatural wounds, falling down into the void beneath. The cables seemed to slither into him, creeping into every seam and strut, pulsing with the waves of Primus’s light. The Matrix glowed in time with it all, seemingly content even as its bearer hung lifelessly.

“Optimus, I’m so sorry.” His digits shook, and it took all his willpower to not turn away and purge as he stared at what remained of his mentor, his leader, and the only fatherly character he had ever known. The Prime was not honored in death, not like this. His body hung up like some sort of twisted trophy.

It wasn’t right. Optimus deserved better than this.

“I wish I could bury you properly, but this will have to do.” He stepped forward, doing his best to not look at the deep gashes along Optimus’s back where his jetpack had once been. He could see cables slithering there, sliding deep and along Optimus’s spine. He fought the urge to gag as he readied himself to act.

He would take the Matrix out of Optimus’s chassis and use it to find a way to commune with the Primes of old. His leader’s body would then be cut free, and he could rest without being strung up like a tormented attempt at taxidermy. It was the least he could do. After everything, Optimus should be allowed to pass without being held up in a grim state of disrepair.

“I wish you weren’t like this… I wish things were different.” He found himself murmuring softly as his digits barely brushed against the relic. However, his movement seemed to stir it, and Bumblebee leapt back with a yelp as the Matrix became encased in arcs of electricity. Optimus’s body convulsed, the cables holding it up twitching and shifting as the body was lifted higher, away from Bumblebee’s reach.

“Bee!” Sideswipe was the first to move forward, with the rest of the team following behind him. Bumblebee wished he could curse and ward them all off as what remained of his leader contorted in horrible ways. The legs squirmed, kicking at nothing, as power rippled through the living corpse. The arms tensed up, digits twitching madly as the body’s optics began to flare without rhyme or reason.

His spark flared in its chamber, terrified as the corpse gave another unfortunate spasm, a deafening crack echoing amidst the eerie silence. The entire chamber seemed to lurch in a spiritual way before the lights all dimmed, Primus’s very core lowering in intensity. Nothing happened for a klik, and Bumblebee was half tempted to try and reach out again as the body fell still. Maybe it was just… lingering processor function acting up. Perhaps the Matrix was trying to awaken a host that had long since gone offline. There were always possibilities-

“Bumblebee.” The garbled designation in that oh-so-familiar voice shook him, freezing Bumblebee in place as the corpse’s helm raised. The lone functional optic blazed bright enough to blind a mech as it settled on Bumblebee and his team. There was no way Optimus was alive. He couldn’t be. That… the thing hanging from wire and cables was a corpse. It couldn’t be real. It couldn’t be real.

“You have come to seek wisdom.” The corpse shuddered, its staticky voice steadying with every glyph uttered. Its helm tilted, the lone functional optic cycling in on Bumblebee in what could have been interest if it weren’t for the fact that there was no spark to power the frame that continued to defy reality.

“You come for my knowledge, that which has been lost to you, dear children.” The cables holding the corpse shifted, growing as more came down from the void. They slithered and writhed beneath the corpse’s plating, allowing the body to lower closer, almost to the point of being within touching distance. The blazing optic that illuminated the entire chamber flickered off and on, its gaze seemingly so glued to Bumblebee that it felt like fire on his plating. Yet, at the same time, it seemed the corpse was looking right through him, not seeing so much as observing.

“Little Orion came to me long ago. He too sought out my guidance.” The living corpse shifted, its arms moving in haphazard, jagged movements. Its digits twitched, seemingly trying to gesture and grasp at nonexistent objects. It hurt to watch as ooze leaked from between cracks, forced out by movement that should not have been possible. A few of the cables loosened, allowing the corpse to move a degree. It leaned forward, its tattered frame straining as its derma failed to match the syllables of the glyphs being uttered.

It was sickening. Bumblebee wanted to retch and flee, but his very spark lurched in his chassis, frozen before the entity that wore his father figure’s frame like a suit. There was no escape. Not for him, not for his terrified team.

“What will you give for that which you seek?” The corpse’s neck cracked and energon so old that it was little more than a tank churning goo dripped from torn ligaments and connectors. The corpse remained focused on him, a smile beginning to form on its face, cracking the delicate facial plating that once gave Optimus his classical reputation.

It reached out. Its arms gestured to Bumblebee as the light of Primus’s core pulsed behind it, shadowing it while also making it impossible to look away. It was a mockery of all Optimus was, and Bumblebee couldn’t help the rage that began to pool in his spark alongside the dread.

“What will you offer when my Champion gave me everything?” The Matrix flared, power arcing off it as the entity spoke. The corpse’s helm tilted a little too far to be possible for a normal mech, almost shifting a full ninety degrees. It grinned, its arms pulled close to itself as viscera and torn cables seeped out from between cracks in the corpse’s armor.

This thing was not Optimus. It merely wore his frame and mimicked his voice. Bumblebee’s desire to flee quickly found itself overshadowed by grim determination. Whatever the entity was, it could not be allowed to continue desecrating the frame of his leader and father.

“Who are you?” A slight tremor entered his voice as he spoke. His team huddled close to each other, stepping back from Bumblebee as the thing descended lower, its smile wide enough to tear through facial plating with ease. Bumblebee could see molar derma showing through the gashes that formed as the thing pushed Optimus’s body beyond its limits.

“I am the one below, he who formed your sparks from fire and starlight.” The entity’s smile softened, although it did nothing to take away from the rotted scent that emanated from the corpse. Rusted metal, stagnant energon, and the rancid smell of corroding internal fluids long since left to rot. That one optic blazed with renewed fury as Primus’s core brightened for a moment, joining the entity, the god as it, he spoke.

“I ask you again, what will you offer? How much are you willing to give for victory?” The cables slithered ever deeper into battered protoform, puppeting limbs as the god of all Cybertronians hung within the confines of Optimus’s corpse. Bumblebee’s digits shook as the being known as Primus continued to stare through the optic of his father.

This was so very wrong. What use would a god have for a mortal frame? Why would Primus do this to his chosen? Why would he demand sacrifices when already they had given all they could?

“I… I will give whatever is required.” He clenched his jaw, steeling himself for whatever was to come as Primus continued to stare, uncaring, unnatural, and yet so very loving all at once. His team’s fields flared in horror, and distantly he was aware of Windblade and Drift dropping to their knees in submission, be it out of fear or reverent respect. Strongarm and Sideswipe continued to step away, terrified as more cables wrapped around Optimus’s frame, supporting it so that the god could pilot it more freely.

“How noble of you. Optimus tended to you well. I can sense his touch, feel his influence all throughout your very being.” The corpse moved, the cables dragging it through the chamber as it did a slow circle around Bumblebee and his team. The god kept a safe distance away, remaining half submerged in shadow at any given moment as the spotlight that was Optimus’s optic continued to illuminate Bumblebee and those with him.

“I was right to let him keep you.” The voice echoed from all around and yet nowhere at once. Primus hung directly above Bumblebee for a moment, the corpse of Optimus Prime dripping fluids that made him want to gag. He resisted the urge, trying with all his might to not show how frightened he was as the god returned to his former position in front of the core, seemingly content.

“What does that mean?” The implications of the god’s words were startling to say the least. He spoke as though he controlled Optimus as easily as he did now, moving his body and commanding his voice. Would Optimus have left him if Primus had not ordained the Prime’s acquisition of Bumblebee after the destruction of his home city? Did Optimus have no free will? Or was the god toying with him just as Unicron had all those years ago?

“Nothing to you. It is of no consequence.” The god continued to smile in that sickly way that was only found on corpses where the mortician simply couldn’t manage to make the expression look natural. Optimus’s other finial snapped and fell into the void below as Primus contorted Optimus’s frame again, forcing it to jerkingly return to a somewhat comfortable position resting within the wires.

It didn’t look comfortable at all, not with wires and cables threatening to burst from every line and seam. If Optimus were alive, Bumblebee had no doubt that he would be in agony. He sincerely hoped his father figure wasn’t still functioning, trapped by some divine will within his frame as it twisted and shifted in ways it wasn’t meant to.

“Why are you doing this? Why can’t you let him rest?” Anger returned in full force as Bumblebee shook. Why did the monster that called himself a god have to do this to his chosen? Had Optimus not served enough?

He got his answer as the god paused, and then laughed.

It was a deep guttural and almost pained sound, one that bordered on a wheeze and the buzz of radio static all at once. Fluid must have been gathering in Optimus’s vocalizer all throughout his time rotting in the Well. The laughter merely emphasized that fact.

“Sweet child, have you no optics to see? Look upon this form, see that which it is and what it represents.” The god haphazardly threw Optimus’s arms open in a mock mimicry of an embrace. Primus smiled even wider, shattering further pieces of Optimus’s face as he forced it to match his design. He must have seen himself as benevolent and holy. He did not seem to understand the sheer horror of a god speaking through the deceased and rotted frame of a Prime.

“That means nothing to me.” Bumblebee stood defiantly, his door wings locked in place as he forced his hydraulics to stiffen. He refused to shake, to show weakness in front of an entity that bordered on maliciousness at every moment.

“A pity. No others have ever matched this one, my dear Optimus.” Primus spoke and almost lovingly forced Optimus’s arms to wrap around himself. The god tenderly caressed the Matrix, lovingly looking down upon it with what would have been an adoring expression if not for the rust that crept along the corpse’s face.

He looked so serene, and strangely enough, even holy. In Bumblebee’s mind, what he saw before him was a true depiction of their god. A rotting power of the old world who in turn chose new champions to pilot, corrode, and ultimately make just like him. Broken, and so very divine.

“So strong, so dutiful, so very faithful.” A look of pure joy spread on the corpse’s face. A piece of Optimus’s shoulder plating broke away and fell into the darkness. Primus did not react as he forced the arms of the corpse to stretch beyond their limits, as if to embrace the god’s chosen Prime with even more adoration.

“Always obedient and kind. He was, he is perfect. A true beacon for all my wayward creations.” The frame shuddered, almost like a clockwork engine as it let off steam. Energon long unused began to sizzle as the spotlight that was the god’s borrowed optic again returned to Bumblebee.

His team shook behind him. Sideswipe and Strongarm had long since fallen, their plating rattling as they unknowingly found themselves bowing. Bumblebee refused to budge. He clenched his servos into fists, unwilling to show the god before him just how frightened he was. Primus could destroy him in an instant, he was sure of it.

“How could I relinquish such perfection? He gives himself to me so very freely. Total submission, true supplication. Much unlike others who have come before and after him.” Again, the corpse moved forward, coming closer and closer to Bumblebee until it hung only a little ways off. He could almost touch his father’s broken face if he so desired.

But what truly set him off was not the proximity of the living corpse. Rather, it was the red and white paint that had been transferred onto the left servo of Primus’s borrowed vessel.

“You, did you-?” Realization dawned on him like a lighting strike. The corpse merely tilted its helm with its ever present smile.

“You think of the doctor, my Champion’s dearest friend. Yes, the damage was done by this borrowed servo. He dared to try and take what belongs to me and me alone.” Primus clenched the corpse’s fist, cables bulging within the limb in question as they were forcefully bloated with energon to facilitate movement. Bumblebee bit his lower derma as images of Ratchet’s terror and possible experience conjured in his processor. This thing had hurt him, that much was clear.

“He might have been a fine vessel once. But he is too tainted, no longer pure. Wise perhaps, and dutiful indeed. But he would never heed my call.” Primus reached up to cup his, or rather Optimus’s face. Weathered servos touched scuffed and dirty facial plates with all the delicateness one would give a porcelain doll. Bumblebee wanted to recoil in horror as the implications hit him. No mech should be subject to whatever in the name of the Thirteen this was.

“Optimus… my beloved Optimus. His faith has been a delight after so many ages of silence.” Primus maneuvered his borrowed servos down, brushing up against thin and frail armor plates. The singular functional optic Primus had to use trailed every movement, watching those servos which he controlled as they caressed the body the god inhabited. It was disturbing to watch. It almost looked like some sort of convoluted assault with how pleased the god looked as he forced Optimus’s body to examine itself.

“He gave himself to me willingly. Anything to win his little war. He called himself a sacrifice, but I have named him my Chosen.” The body shivered in what looked to be pleasure. Bumblebee couldn’t help the gag that he let out at the sight. The corpse merely continued to grin as it forced Optimus’s body to embrace itself, prompting a series of cables to burst and oozing energon to slide from new wounds.

“He obeyed my every command, listening to my whispers and calls for my brother’s return to slumber. He was so dutiful that he chose me over all others, even the likes of you.” The god laughed again, a sweet chortle that did not match Optimus in any capacity. Then, as if that weren’t enough, its helm tilted again, this time even further than before. Something snapped as Primus forced the corpse to comply with his wishes, ensuring the rotted frame’s helm all but swiveled into an impossible one hundred and eighty degree angle.

Anger swelled in his spark at the mere idea of Optimus throwing everything away for some dying deity. It wasn’t like him. Optimus was a Prime for the people. He would never cast away everything just for… some god who hardly cared. But what truly shook Bumblebee were the tears that began to fall from the singular functioning optic Optimus’s body still possessed. The tears were discolored due to rust and other contaminants, but they were real, and he highly doubted it was Primus who ordered Optimus’s coolant stores to empty themselves.

“He gave himself back to me entirely, and yet as he fell, he thought of you.” Bumblebee took a step back as Primus’s tone turned sharper, edging on something akin to agitation if not hatred. The god rattled, his borrowed frame shaking as the smile fell away.

“You and your fellow companions, his little playthings meant to guide and serve.” The god’s helm swiveled back into proper position, another unsettled crack echoing as something or other broke in Optimus’s battered frame.

“Be quiet. You don’t know him.” Bumblebee shot back, wrath, anguish, and everything else he had been doing his best to bottle up swelling to the surface of his mind and spark. Primus didn’t know slag. He had not been there as their people died off during the great war. He had not so much as offered one vague prophecy through his Prime throughout all the time Optimus carried the Matrix. He had no right to speak on the behalf of a mech who gave everything for their world.

“But don’t I?” Primus’s tone was sweet like freshly purified energex, but he did not smile.

“I know his spark. I lived within him throughout your entire war. His thoughts were mine to glean and his affections mine to allow or deny.” The corpse was moved, again shifting away from its lighted position and into shadow. Bumblebee couldn’t see it as Primus maneuvered through the dark, silence reigning for a long klik. The urge to activate his weapons was almost suffocating as he scanned the darkness, desperately trying to pinpoint the lurking threat.

His team didn’t so much as twitch as they remained in various states of terrified worship. Their optics flicked around, following Bumblebee’s lead as they too tried to track the threat. Not a spark spoke, not when the core of their world pulsed so calmly, serenely even. There was no acknowledgement of the body that hung in living chains, lurking in the dark and almost certainly observing.

“Do you miss him? Does this voice make you wish he were here?” The corpse called out, this time without any undertone of Primus’s interference. It sounded almost exactly like Optimus, and it came from all around. He had to fight back the instinctual urge to cry as the familiar gruff softness reached his audials.

It wasn’t Optimus. That wasn’t his father. Optimus Prime was dead and a god was making a mockery of him.

“Come. Come greet him.” He turned around, facing the way he came to try and determine where the voice was coming from. But when he returned to his previous position, the corpse was a mere few feet away, far closer than ever before. He let out an undignified scream as the corpse leaned in, its arms outstretched.

How had it moved so fast?

“You must come closer. He cannot hear you so far away.” The tone of the thing was sing-songy, but Bumblebee shook his helm rapidly in primal terror. It wasn’t him. It wasn’t HIM. The thing that smiled and watched him with one wide and far too bright optic was not his leader. The mech he wished he openly called father would have never done this. Optimus would have never beckoned him like some sort of… creature.

He stepped back, his bravery falling in the face of true fear. His venting hitched and he prepared to run as the corpse tilted its helm again, a snarl forming on its features for the first time since it began to speak.

“Why do you flee from me? Am I not your maker?” The thing lurched forward, its movements so stiff and unnatural the Bumblebee scrambled back just in time to dodge its attempts to grab him. The god seethed and Bumblebee’s team quickly floundered in their attempts to get to their pedes as a wrathful field pressed against them from all sides.

“Come here.” Primus looked enraged. His borrowed face contorted into anger so rarely seen on Optimus in life that to Bumblebee it looked like the mech he once called his leader was possessed by the Unmaker himself. The god looked a klik away from forcing his borrowed frame into combat before he stuttered, power arcing off him until at last, he stilled.

“You… must… run.” The voice of the corpse whirled to life once more, but unlike the clear sound that Primus produced despite the state of his borrowed frame, this sound was pained. It came in a wheeze that gurgled and croaked, finally matching the tears that stained the corpse’s face.

“Leave. Go before he can take you.” The body looked up, and the movement was smooth, evidently practiced. The optic that settled on Bumblebee was not nearly as bright. Rather, it was dim and flickering, sickly in the purest sense. It was a light that should not have been there with how badly the frame it was emanating from was damaged.

Bumblebee’s processor scrambled for an answer, but the conclusion was obvious. He didn’t want to believe it. A part of him hoped that his leader was at peace, if only in spark. But seeing the desperate expression on Optimus’s face… he knew who it was that spoke to him, and he wanted to kick, scream, and cry all at once as the body spasmed and control returned to the god of their world.

“How dare you.” The corpse bore no expression now. Only the words came out with a thick vile venom that stung just to listen to. The ground began to shake as Primus’s core pulsed rapidly, wires convulsing and ancient gears stalling for nanokliks at a time.

“How dare you taint him.” The voice rose in volume, no longer sounding like Optimus at all. A maelstrom of sound and sensation assaulted him from every conceivable angle as voices that were few and yet singular at the same time all converged on him. Energon and thick viscous fluid exploded out of Optimus’s throat as Primus’s speech shattered more and more of its components.

“He belongs to me.” The corpse stiffened, its singular optic blazing so brightly that smoke rose from places, prompting more tears to fall. But instead of smiting him as Bumblebee expected, the god instead fell still once more, his borrowed optic flickering as something seemed to change.

“He is innocent. Merely a child.” Optimus, the real Optimus spoke out in the gloom. His words were slow and agonizing, grating just to listen to. But Bumblebee found himself crying all the same as his leader began to plead, desperation evident in every glyph he uttered.

“I serve. I serve willingly.” He sounded like he was in agony.

“Glory to the one below. He who slumbers and gives us life.” Prayers flowed from his torn derma, regardless of the absolute torment he was likely enduring. Optimus held his servos in a loose symbol of the Primacy, his gaze unsteady as he spoke.

“Praise be to His holy station. His will is our demand.” He did not look up, but his stuttered venting spoke of life forced to continue operating regardless of its viability. Bumblebee couldn’t find the strength to wipe away his tears, not when his Prime pleaded for his very existence.

“There is no greater purpose than to offer Him our loyalty. For He is the truth where lies fester.” The prayers continued for kliks. There was no pause between them, nor did Optimus look up even once. Eventually, the prayers changed and strange glyphs that made no sense began to emerge in something akin to a babble. Bumblebee couldn’t tell if Optimus was too pained to continue or if something deeper was happening, but ultimately, the shaking stopped and everything returned to its previous state.

“What will you give to achieve victory?” The question was repeated and Bumblebee was not given time to move before the corpse swept down, grabbing his face with one monstrous servo so tightly that he could feel his jaw creaking. That lone optic all but blinded him as the god held him in place, all but lifting him off the ground as Primus demanded his answer.

“Would you give me your spark?” The servo that was not holding him still wandered to Bumblebee’s chassis, sweeping over his plating in a seemingly fond manner. He wanted to curl in on himself in shame, horror, and something that had long since evolved beyond terror. However, he was helpless to stop the god as he ran his borrowed digits along transformation seams, his expression hopeful as if he expected Bumblebee to open for him.

“If not yours, would you give me theirs?” Seeing his lack of reaction, Primus looked over his shoulder, down at Bumblebee’s team. He flailed, but the death grip the god had on his face was all but unbearable. Fear ran so deeply in his spark he couldn’t find a way to produce words. Linguistic codes were gone, far out of reach as he stared, meeting Primus’s gaze properly for the first time.

He saw his team reflected for a moment in that lone optic as it flickered and struggled to remain online. They were terrified, but similarly frozen. They were at the mercy of their god, and they had no say in the matter once he decided what to do.

“I am not a cruel maker. I am willing to make deals.” Digits reached up, dirty from energon, rust, and years of contamination. They brushed his derma, tracing around his optics and facial features like a lover would. He wheezed, tears falling from his optics with greater ferocity than ever as the god watched him with that strange apathy and love all balled together into a disgusting mix that left him wishing it could all be over.

Primus continued to touch him for a long few moments, a hum bubbling in his borrowed throat. Bumblebee sobbed softly all the while. This wasn’t right. Optimus was his father. All of this was wrong on a fundamental level. He only wanted information, a way to save their people. Why this? Why did it have to be like this?

“Ah… it seems the debt has been paid by another.” Suddenly, without warming, Primus let go of his face. Bumblebee fell to his knees gasping in sheer relief as the corpse pulled back, slowly returning to its original position.

“There shall be no sacrifice from you this cycle.” It spoke soothingly, as if nothing at all had happened during their interaction. Primus smiled in that divine manner that should have been comforting but only served to remind Bumblebee that this entity was a god more than capable of violence.

“You shall have your victory, when the time is right.” Weathered arms stretched out as the corpse performed a mock bow, at least as much as it could with the way it was bound.

“I will lend him to you for a time, at least until the threat is removed.” It straightened, more cables coming from the walls of the chamber to connect to Optimus’s battered frame. Bumblebee continued to shakily vent, observing in silence as the god pulled his puppet back, far out of reach.

“Go now. Tell the doctor and prepare yourselves.” Optimus’s arms were crossed over his chassis, an almost respectful position if it weren’t for the sheer amount of damage inflicted all over him from Primus’s attempts at controlling a mortal frame. Optimus’s lone optic flickered and glanced around for a moment before Primus uttered a final statement that haunted Bumblebee throughout his return journey.

“I know he was too afraid to stand before his god once again.”

Huh.

So what if he was?

Bumblebee couldn’t say he blamed Ratchet for much of anything anymore. He couldn't help but wonder if getting Megatron would have been the easier decision. At least the warlord wouldn’t condemn his spark to the void if he failed to show proper respect. At worst, he would be disemboweled. And quite frankly, compared to Primus’s little attempts at touch, he would prefer that any cycle of the vorn.

“I told you not to touch him.” Ratchet’s first comment was simple, but without any malice. Bumblebee all but collapsed into his arms, the aching marks on his face clear to see.

Ratchet didn’t comment after that.

No one did.

What happened that cycle was never spoken about, at least not in public. Bumblebee did his best to forget, especially when Primus seemed to keep up his end of his supposed… deal.

Optimus came back, pristine and shiny as if he’d never been dead to begin with. He showed no signs of distress or the vaguest recollection of events down in the Well. He played it all off as if he had been peacefully deceased and promptly returned to existence at the drop of a hat. But after everything, Bumblebee now knew the faint look in his optics, the shadow that followed him wherever he went.

Primus was watching. There was no escape from the god of Cybertronians and his precious Champion.

Over and over again Bumblebee found himself haunted, hearing the words replay again and again in his mind whenever Optimus’s optics met his.

”The debt has been paid by another.”

By the Thirteen. Just what had Optimus given to ensure no others suffered as he did?

Want you to shove a toy into me and then hand the remote off to random guys throughout the day. I have no idea. We're in college and there's no shortage of guys. You point me out to them and let them watch me get off to the things they're doing with the toy. I cum so many times that day, and by the time I get back to my dorm room, I'm so exhausted, only to open the door and see you standing there with all the guys who have been playing with me all day. You hold me down and they all crowd in to make me cum for them again and again and again.

Well the first tweet just made me want to say every bad word there was multiple times, with a megaphone, in various over dramatic ways. But then again I can be extra and dramatic, and I love my swear words.

Women should not say bad wrdzzz !!

Mmm, foxy Paulie gotta be the best Paulie, uh? At least, from the lip biting Artie seems to think so.

?!?!?!?!?!!!???!???

He's so very normal about Paul, uh?

Happy Paul Simon and Art Garfunkel conception day guys (February 5th) (I’m not even joking)

Istg if something comes out about Markiplier, Charlie, or Philza being bad people I’m rejecting humanity and becoming a fish that lives at the bottom of the ocean

evil vampire dan stevens can make me his little vampire puppet anytime he wants

holy shit lmao

wonho’s relationship advice

no thoughts, head empty; 0.2

just imagining how chan would let out a small “fuck” under his breath, sending you the absolute and most delicious shivers down your spine. that’s when you know that it’s not just you feeling this way, that he’s trying his best to hold back from doing whatever he wants to do with you, to even ruining you, making a mess out of you. 

just also imagining how verbal soft dom!chan would be all about pleasing you, praises just slipping out his lips, because he knows that its what gets you going. he’d be all “you like that don’t you baby? right there, hm? such a good girl for me.”

he would also be the kind of person who would finger you, while sucking bruises onto your skin, watching you squirm and whine under him,, asking you if you’re close, only to hear you gasp suddenly, and he goes faster, leaving kisses all over you as he whispers, “that’s it baby, let go for me. all you needed was me to go faster, hmm? feels good, yeah?”

bruh nah, when you whimper coz he’s making you feel so good, and chan knows you love it, he knows he’s making you feel this way, he would say, “i know baby, i know. i got you.”

NGHHHH halp my brain y’all im sorrie i needed to let this out. im in my chan wrecking me era, i swear im okay.

17:38

— chan… — you sighed against his mouth.

— shhh. i just want to stay here a little longer, alright? — you nodded — is my weight bothering you? — he asked as he kissed your neck, his head resting in place.

— no.

his weight didn't bother you, but the fact that you could feel him completely inside you, motionless and pulsing, made your core squirm around him, begging for the slightest movement.

with your eyes closed and your hands on his back and hair, you felt him slowly withdraw, almost coming out, only to fill you completely again. one and another time. your sighs became more frequent as chan moved inside you, always slowly, keeping his kisses down your neck. your mind begging him to speed up.

— i know what you want, baby. we can go faster later, hm? just let me make love to you.

Cocaine was a stimulant used by a priestly caste of the middle period United States called businessmen in order to commune with The Market. [1]

SCRE A MING

Taejin - Top: Taehyung - Bottom: Jin.

Please ask me if you want to use this audio! Please respect my work.

day 10 · 「four-letter word」

❝𝚂𝚑𝚞𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚏𝚞𝚌𝚔 𝚞𝚙 𝚋𝚎𝚏𝚘𝚛𝚎 𝙸 𝚋𝚕𝚘𝚠 𝚢𝚘𝚞𝚛 𝚋𝚊𝚌𝚔 𝚘𝚞𝚝.❞

➥ Coworker!Minho x Reader (f) — 3k

➥ The author chooses not to tag every single act to preserve some element of surprise where applicable. By continuing, you accept to read at your own risk. Read full disclaimer here.

⚠ — Intense hate sex, impact play, choking, objectifying language.

➥ He thinks you’re a Granger level know-it-all. You think he’s a Malfoy level showoff. That tension is either going to resolve with a punch on his fucking beautiful face, or…

Excellent dinner at the Michelin-rated restaurant of a hotel out of the city. Everyone at the table sharply dressed looking fine as hell. Three men representing the potential client firm having a great time, laughing, drinking, completely clueless of the storm brewing in front of them because across the table the atmosphere was tense as fuck behind the saccharine smiles four people were flashing.

Everybody at work knew you and Minho were at each other’s throats every chance you got. It wasn’t some rival shit anymore, but more like you belonged to families with generations of blood feud between them, scheming, poaching, doing whatever was necessary to have the upper hand over the other. Even though your new CEO was alerted of the heavy beef between you two, she ordered you to figure your shit out and assigned you both as account executives since you and Minho had a rep for being the ‘closers’ of the firm.

This dinner was of vital importance. The clients in question were going to bring in hundreds of thousands, which meant a lot was at stake to endure a temper tantrum of you two, so you were strictly instructed to behave at all costs. Your direct supervisors were sitting on either side of you as babysitters-turned-bomb defusers, trying to conceal their nervous sweating to the best of their ability. They just wanted to get this shit over with as soon as they could so that they could go back to their rooms upstairs and ask for retirement or something the next day.

“Stop trying to fucking undermine me in front of these people,” you whispered into Minho’s ear, your perfect smile leaving no room to suspect homicidal intent, “We’re equals here.”

“You seem to think that a lot, but I’m yet to see you land an account yourself when I’m in the game,” he reciprocated equally quietly. His cheekbones were so charmingly raised that to an outsider it actually looked like you were classily flirting.

“God, I hate you.”

“I hate you more.”

You couldn’t fucking stand the guy to the extent that you wanted to have a violent street fight with him no holds barred. Arrogant fuck thinking he was the shit, on your ass every minute of every day as if someone was paying him to annoy you.

“Well, Mr. Lee made one compelling case, and I’m afraid we won’t be able to resist anymore,” one of the three men reached for his glass, “Shall we make a toast for our new partnership?”

Your heart fell to your stomach, but you glued your cracking façade as much as you could and joined the celebration. Shortly after, you apologized for not feeling well, which technically wasn’t a lie at all, and politely excused yourself from the table so that you could go back to your room and scream into a pillow.

Mr. Lee? Mr. fucking Lee made a compelling case? It was your case that you built with your bare hands. It was your strategy that drove this whole thing home. All this motherfucker did was to manipulate the conversation so that he would be the one to get your points across, and Mr. Lee was the reason they couldn’t fucking resist?!

You were stomping in the hallway of your floor when you heard the ding of the other elevator and hurried steps behind you, and the scent of his cologne reached you before he could.

“Don’t even,” you pointed your finger at Minho menacingly, nostrils flared, eyes widened, pure rage written all over your face.

“Listen—”

“I’m not listening to shit,” you spat through your clenched teeth, “God, I wanna fucking punch you in the mouth!”

“Is your fist shaped like your pussy because I’m kinda into that shit,” he brazenly uttered, successfully managing to quadruple your fury.

“Fuck you, Minho!”

“Hey!”

He grabbed you from your wrist and trapped you against a wall so that you would stay in your place.

“Just when the fuck are you going to admit you have the hots for me?” he asked seriously, eyes a little squinted but with genuine curiosity in them.

“The fuck are you on about?” you retorted, exasperation dripping from your voice.

“I’m talking about this massive sexual tension we have,” his smirk grew wider, and you could feel the amount of venom boiling in your stomach with how annoyed you were, “You’re so fucking weak for me, your knees start shaking every time I walk into a room.”

“Out of anger, yes. I wanna roundhouse kick your stupid face!”

“You’re sure you’re gonna land that? You’ve been missing the point a lot lately.”

It was as if he was doing it on purpose. He wasn’t even pushing a certain button; Minho was straight up keyboard smashing at this point, and your rage finally got the best of you.

“Just what the FUCK do you want from me?!”

You had every intention of landing a heartfelt slap on that porcelain skin you couldn’t stand looking at, but all you could see was your hand stopped midair by Minho’s inhumane reflexes. You pushed him away from his chest, panting out of your nose, and all your blood was rushing to your face whereas Minho’s was rushing to…

…his crotch.

You thought your eyes were playing a trick on you for a second, but it was impossible not to notice. His raging hard on was quite literally staring at you, so much so that your attention was channeled to it in the middle of a frantic fit.

“Oh my god, you weren’t kidding,” you uttered in an eerily calm tone compared to moments ago, “You’re actually into that shit.”

The Lee Minho a.k.a the crassest and most shameless motherfucker you’d ever come across was getting flustered right in front of your face all of a sudden. He swallowed thickly as if he was getting called out about something drastically embarrassing, and now you had a theory you needed to prove.

“You go to such ridiculous lengths for it. You want me to get mad at you,” you squinted your eyes and took a step towards him, “You fucking get off to that, don’t you?”

“Stop that,” Minho threateningly uttered and started walking away to his own room right next to yours.

Oh, there was no way you were going to let this go. 

You followed suit after him with a maniacally content smile and started forcefeeding him multiple doses of his own medicine.

“You want to fuck the shit out of me, but you can’t bring yourself to initiate it.” 

“Stop it.”

“You want me to make a move.”

“I said stop it.”

“You hate how much you want me.”

“This is your last warning. Shut the fuck up before I blow your back out,” Minho turned around foaming at the mouth, but you weren’t exactly sure which one of the two possibilities that was induced by.

“Yeah? Or else, what, you’re gonna show me my place?”

“Yes, I will,” he gritted his teeth, eyes widening even more. 

His pupils were so blown wide that it was actually laughable. You let out a derisive snort and took three steps to reach your door.

“I’m right here if you want to obliterate me,” you taunted nonchalantly and faced him, “but it’s not happening if you can’t swallow your pride. I’m never gonna cave first.”

When you swiped the keycard on the door and pushed the handle down, you could almost hear someone doing a countdown in the distance as if some rocket was about to be launched.

Five, four, three, two, one…

“You fucking…”

Less than a second later, you felt Minho’s hand on your shoulder turning you around, and your lips were under fire by his. You yanked on his tie to pull him inside, and after slamming the door close, you started ripping clothes off of each other, not as a figure of speech at all. Buttons breaking, zippers rupturing, fabric tearing, biting, grunting, jaws clenching. Remove the libido, and you were actually having a physical altercation right then and there.

“Yes, having you hate me is the biggest fucking kink I have, you happy now? You’re so fucking hot when you’re angry,” Minho slammed you against a wall even though there was a perfectly fine bed right in front of him, “It’s fucking annoying how beautiful you are. I’m gonna absolutely dishevel that face.”

He had a pretty good head start by smearing your lipstick all over with how hard he was kissing you, sloppy, wet, adamant to ruin your makeup in full. You were groping each other everywhere, and the difference was so subtle—the line between wanting to bruise each other and not being able to get enough of one another was so blurry that no sane person would be able to discern it.

His grunts turned animalistically guttural when he finally felt your slick at his fingertips, absolutely drooling over how slippery it was already.

“You hate me, huh?” he hysterically laughed, “Then what the fuck is this?”

When he landed a slap on your pussy, even you yourself didn’t expect to moan that loudly. The obscenely wet sound it made, the pleasant sizzle that spread, the feeling of being desired in such a twisted way…

You loved this.

“Do it again,” you breathily demanded.

And Minho’s knees almost gave way seeing how much you seemed to enjoy it.

“You’re a fucking sicko. God, you’re so my type.” 

He slapped your pussy once more, then his hands started kneading your ass with his mouth glued to yours as though he was trying to memorize the exact shape of your lips, practically gnawing on them. You promptly felt a fuller impact on the supple skin of your hips, slowly burning in the shape of Minho’s palm.

“Rip me to shreds,” you snarled, craving something sicker to rush through your veins, but Minho’s hesitation was flashing all over his face.

“You can’t take it back if I start.”

“Do it.”

“You actually want to get yourself decimated?” 

“Fucking do it!!!”

“Then hit me.”

For a moment, you couldn’t be sure if he really meant it or not. The exact shade of doubt colored your eyes and forced a pause in your movements.

“I’m dead serious. Do it,” Minho put an end to your equivocation.

This was your chance to avenge everything that had ever happened. 

You mustered all the times he made your life a living hell, all the frustration he had ever caused you, and all the times he scored unfair goals within your palm and struck him on the face really hard.

You quite literally had daydreamed about this more times than you were willing to admit, so the satisfaction that coursed through your body was dizzying. Nevertheless, even in that darkness, how Minho started seeing red was so obvious, and that tinge of fear was pumping excess doses of adrenaline into your veins.

“Oh, I’m gonna wear you like a fucking sleeve,” he quietly hissed, barely giving you any notice to brace yourself.

One of his hands harshly wrapping a leg around his waist and the other aligning himself with your oozing hole, Minho rammed himself into you at full force, and stretching you was not even the least of his concerns.

“You deserve to get fucked in all your holes,” he spoke through gritted his teeth, “Maybe you’ll finally shut the fuck up!”

No mercy. Sharpest thrusts you ever felt in your life impaling you, full of rage, full of fury, full of fatal lust, just full, erasing the distinction between pain and pleasure for good.

You hated this guy. You hated his guts more than anything in this world. He was the worst. Worse than a raging criminal. Lee Minho as a human being was a pet peeve of yours.

Then why did it feel like he was completing you?

“You want me, too,” he slithered his fingers into your hair, “God, you want me so fucking bad. You’re dripping wet.”

Yes, you apparently did. You just had no idea how much up until this moment.

You wrapped your hands around his throat and sank your fingertips deeper when he yanked on your hair. He was still trying to kiss you, throbbing hard inside you as you were choking him. The tighter your grip got, the more aggressive his kisses became, tugging on the flesh until your lips were raw.

“I so wanna fuck that mouth, but I can’t let go of your cunt,” his voice came out somewhere between a whine and a grunt, “What the fuck are you doing to me?”

His thrusts suddenly turned more frantic, and he was hitting so deep inside that you could almost feel him in the pit of your stomach. Minho had reached a whole new level of frenzy that even if you wanted to put up a front just to mess with the satisfaction he got from dismantling you, you were physically unable to do it. Your moans were alarmingly loud, and if your supervisors heard you at this moment, they would be convinced you were finally trying to murder each other.

“What? What is it? Didn’t expect it to feel that good, did you?” he jeered, extremely content with how he was diminishing you into this panting drooling mess, “How does it feel having the best fuck of your life with the man you absolutely despise? How does it feel, huh?!”

It happened so fast that you couldn’t even process how Minho lifted you up and threw you on the mattress behind him. He stood tall right by the edge of the bed, throwing your legs over his shoulder, and started going to town on you. The only piece of skin you were able to reach was his thighs, and you were scratching them so hard that you were about to draw blood.

“It feels like the best kind of hell,” you answered his question with a grin on your face.

And Minho was gone.

You had never seen someone orgasm that hard before. Deep, husky growls coming so deep from his throat like he was in pain when in fact he was getting high on the most intense kind of ecstasy, his entire body convulsing, sweat trickling down his fantastic figure onto your chest, and his eyes squeezed shut as he spilled and spilled and spilled inside you. He came so much as if he had been saving all his load for you all his life, for this precise moment to fill you up, to watch it gush out of you like a thick coat of varnish over a magnificent work of art.

Partly due to how most of his strength was gone, partly because how his hunger wasn’t satiated at all, Minho dropped to his knees in front of you, salivating over how your cunt was sodden with him and throbbing for more.

“You’re finally where you deserve to be,” you propped up on your elbows and pushed his face into you, “Clean up your mess.”

You said Clean up, but Minho heard Get as messy as you can. He closed his mouth over your soaked folds and started circling his tongue around your swollen clit, ruining the sheets under you with your slick, his cum, and the coat of spit he was covering you with. He was lost in sheer rapture, sucking your soul out of you with his eyes closed, making lewd sounds of contentment while feasting on you to repletion.

“Not enough,” he licked a long drag from your entrance to your clit, “Not… fucking… enough.”

His slender fingers prodded your entrance and slid inside with absolute lack of difficulty, caressing the engorged walls while fucking his cum as deep into you as he could. His sucks had morphed into slippery glides of his tongue to get you to throb in his mouth, slipping in a sneaky kiss here and there while fingering you hard.

“Do it,” he spoke into your pussy like a desperate moan, eyes refusing to open at any cost to bask in this fever dream a while longer, “Let it go. Do it on my face.”

You clenched as hard as you could as he kept stimulating a dangerously delicious spot inside you, his tongue still at work on your folds, and you kept imagining the same thing over and over again to win this mental battle. 

Lee Minho’s face. Drenched with you. Dripping down his chin. Disheveled to pulchritude.

When he started moaning into you, you couldn’t take it anymore and completely let go, dousing all his irritatingly handsome features with your cum. Minho was in love with the perfect mess he created out of you, still kissing and licking every inch, risking a severe case of overstimulation, but it was worth it. He let you savor the concoction you contrived together with a kiss long and deep, much tamer than anything you’d done to each other thus far. 

It tasted like a seamless medley on your tongue.

It took a long while for both of you to cool down and come to your senses. Once the breathing sounds echoing in the room turned down to a humane rhythm, your voice penetrated the thick silence.

“Why do you hate me so much, Minho?”

He took one glance at you and got up from the bed, then put on one of the bathrobes in the closet in front of him.

“Haven’t you ever heard of boys pulling the hair of the girls they like?” he spoke with his usual annoyingly teasing tone while picking up his shredded clothes from the floor, “Get a fucking grip and open your eyes. I’m not gonna spell this out for you.”

Your heart fell to your stomach again as Minho left the room, but quite differently than the way it did earlier that night.

All this time, you were sure what you were feeling for each other was a four-letter word.

But maybe the vowel you had bought was the wrong one.

「© 2023, exxxtraoddinary · No translations, rewrites, or reposts permitted」

✉ Enjoyed this? It would be cool of you to reblog so that my work can reach more people.

The point of edging yourself isn’t to benefit you. It’s so that when I finally let you cum, I can watch your brain break in real time. All those denied orgasms crashing into you, breaking you, turning you into a dumb drooling mess that’s lost in the pleasure. So how about it? Want to edge for me?

Springtrap but he carries me bridle style into bed with him and showers me with kisses

you're onto something.....

life could be dream

New characters for the Pokemon anime.

Here’s Professor Sakuragi and his daughter Koharu with her partner Yamper. This is his research lab that he built in the Kanto region.

... oh boy. Here we go again.

guys i'm dead

something something words I never thought I'd hear again