Discover Top Posts Tagged with #scriptjet

Anon asked: Soundwave trying to de-stress after a tough shift at work and just wants to see/call his husband?

cw: injury

The line is unstable. A skittering whine spills out and washes away in static, denying Soundwave the connection as once again the call fails and they’re left grasping at radio waves and imbalanced satellites refusing to obey.

#wavewave #curious cat prompts #scriptjet #cw: injury

(Some IDW for ya) “Are you alright?”

#cc prompts #scriptjet #starprime #short #cc not working how dare u

He barely slumps before Megatron catches him.

#megastar #cc prompts #scriptjet

Curious Cat Anon: post-war starop. wherein they're (well, let's be honest, it's mostly starscream) confused and slightly surprised by how peaceful life has gotten. it's hard to forget the dangers that once stood at every corner. He rests with a blaster under the berth. Feels wrong to be disarmed, not that Starscream ever truly is. But weapon mounts are discouraged in this new society and Starscream can tolerate only so much.

He still hears sirens at night. Still locked in the memory of great ships rumbling fierce through open space, a lullaby of monstrous creations. He never sleeps through the night either, timed routine so deeply ingrained into his very core, pacing the humble home afforded to him as if hunting spies or an unseen threat. Always expecting the worst even though the past few years revealed no more than perhaps a messy greeting room or a shadow resembling a scraplet.

So has much has changed. Nothing more so than the great body which rests beside him most nights.

Optimus Prime is a busy mech. Still seen as the savior of Cybertron, still their collective guardian and holy figure. Even former Decepticons who once sought to slaughter the Prime now bend the knee and vow allegiance to a new world. To peace in place of chaos and exhaustion. The war didn't end with a clear winner, more out of desperation and the slow dwindle of their population.

It was only right to stop fighting when Megatron fell.

Fast forward in time, somehow Starscream has grown used to Optimus Prime knocking politely on his door. Never messages ahead. Just shows up with a weary look and a gentle voice and even gentler servos. It should feel taboo but Starscream had always relished the obscene. Never felt more alive than when doing something terrible. Makes their arrangement funny that way.

Optimus Prime needing someone who wasn't blinded by his name, Starscream needing something to claw into. It wasn't romantic, at least not by the saccharine standards of old stories. Poetry had no words for them and he much preferred it that way. The only proof of their trysts after all were the marks left across Prime's bulky frame when he departed in the mornings - and the aghast expression of former Autobots when they managed to piece together what was happening.

Life was: stagnant beyond that.

He wormed his way onto the council now overseeing the redevelopment of their entire race. The endless battles of which culture should reign supreme almost nostalgic, Autobots thinking themselves better than their grittier counterparts. Decepticons refusing to surrender more brutal practices. It took awhile to make both sides understand that shooting first was no longer a lawful conclusion to problems. It had been a rough start, but only now were things beginning to settle. Well, as much as they could.

Starscream misses Megatron sometimes, like one might mourn a painful memory. Terrible to dwell on - but likely taught a lesson. He wonders who else misses the old bastard? If Optimus sometimes spends any amount of his day thinking about his /old friend/. Starscream never asks, he’s certain he won’t like the answer either way. Hasn’t said Megatron’s name in how long and would like to keep it that way honestly. Makes it easier to sleep at night, to relax and wonder what Prime was dreaming of in the berth beside him.

Horrible that he had to be so handsome. Ridiculous that even after everything Optimus was so kind to something who would have killed him any other day of war. Starscream isn’t sure why they fell in together. Maybe because Starscream wore the same rattled look at the beginning as Prime? Neither of them really knew how to exist outside of war. Starscream was a killer, an inventor of monstrous things and sinner. Optimus was hand picked by Primus himself to lead them through war, but now what? What use was a Prime in a democracy? A tie breaker?

He likes to watch Optimus when it’s unlikely he’ll be noticed. When the council gathers and argues and wages a diplomatic war against one another. Likes to take in the way blue optics dim in withdraw - boredom or anxiety over the yelling representatives who were charging one another on a battlefield not too long ago. There’s such a bitterness shrouding Cybertron, but only so many are willing to acknowledge it. He’s watched Prime flinch and reach for a weapon not permitted in the court when tensions rose - and there Starscream found himself.

In that startled and guilty look in Prime’s face that he simply couldn’t let go of where they once had been.

So he sleeps with a gun under his berth. It never seems to dissuade Prime from joining him. The first time a commotion of the airways outside of Starscream’s suite had the seeker rising from the bed - weapon drawn and snarling - Optimus had his servo on his wrist and shaking voice telling Starscream to calm down. Pretending he too wasn’t ready to fight off the next danger with a heaving chest and forgetting not to activate his mask in bed.

Starscream found him incredibly endearing in the moment. Seeing someone else as scarred as himself just trying to make it to the next day. Their thoughts told to be on property value and increasing trade with neighboring colonies - rather than whether bombs would drop or who of the two were intending to slit their throat in the night.

He asked Optimus once, waiting for privacy in the newly raised Tower of their democracy - a grand thing meant to imply unity whereas some only saw ghosts of the crude past. They didn’t touch when outside of Starscream’s home, and didn’t then. Optimus quiet, waiting as Starscream stood at his left (Never the right, he was none’s right hand.). Wing warmed by the Prime’s mere presence and Starscream wondered if he was allowed to touch him? If he wanted to?

“Are we happy?” He had to ask because someone had to know the answer, and maybe the Matrix would make itself useful for once and give a reply. Maybe Starscream just had to be honest and ask the right question and Prime would stop pretending to be just as hurt, and tired, and hollowed as him.

“I don’t know.” Was the unfortunate reply, but Optimus turned his chin downwards offering what best smile he could. Not the perfectly molded one presented before their unified assembly. Not the one Starscream couldn’t stand as it was just as fake and sickly as his own when Skywarp and TC tried to visit. Tried to suffer each other’s company though being near just felt….adrift without chaos.

Prime smiles and Starscream can’t believe he enjoyed the way it looked on him. Almost like he wasn’t alone, imagine that. The first time in - well - all his existence someone was actually there. Suffering the same. Cut in the same places.

Suddenly Starscream felt very envious of the years of war and anyone who might have seen this hurt side of Prime. He does hope it was his alone.

“But I think we can be, some day.”

Now they try. In their own ways. They still don’t tell anyone about them, whether /they/ are anything worth mentioning. Prime sleeps best when his left arm is swung heavy over Starscream’s waist - idly petting a wing until tripping off to an equally restless sleep. Starscream likes the feel of his weight nearby - the stability implied. The thought that if the fragile peace shattered in the night then at least Optimus would be close.

Strange that. Trust.

They play their roles. They speak for and against the chambers, try to put forth their best effort to redeem four million years of death and cruelty on either side. Starscream doesn’t scheme as much as he’d like and Optimus sometimes yield to ridiculous requests.

Then every now and then Starscream catches Optimus smiling at him. Small, private, his - and Starscream thinks that yes.

Maybe one day.

#scriptjet #starop #starprime #curious cat prompts #this one made me sad #long post #in case read more doesn't work cause it hates me.

Request by twitter user robogirl28:

Soundwave/Shockwave and a battlefield confession.

“Well, this is rather a mess.”

#shockwave #soundwave #wavewave #scriptjet

Curious Cat anon: “If you’re still looking for prompts: Megatron tries to give Starscream a surprise gift.”

—

The security deck is quiet for the most part - once you grow used to the background noise of chirping computers and humming radars pulsing back the make of the universe. Starscream scarcely recognized the sound of approaching steps, heavy and unguarded as they were, until Megatron was behind him. He was a weighty shadow in a room of dim lights and stillness beyond the hum of computers and his leader’s natural rumble.

#scriptjet #megastar #curious cat prompts #long post #because read more never fucking works!

request for @kurxo for Tarnma flirting “Dear Doctor, as always, it is a pleasure to watch you work.”

Tarn’s voice inspires a low tremble at the cruel angles of Pharma’s wings, his approach highlighted in the sound of each footfall. One. Two. At Pharma’s side and within his sight, a towering figure of dark violet and black, that heinous mask glowing red and tragic in the quiet light of the room.

“And as always, I work best in silence.” Pharma answers the pleasant tone with something suffocated and denying Tarn the grace of a second glance. Setting back to work on the strapped form beneath swiftly moving hands. Plucking wires and shaving soft circuitry away from his goals, ignoring his company who decides now is the time to circle the exam table. Closer now. Thick servos like talons, the width of them almost equal to Pharma’s wrist, dragging along the edge of the metal table as he preens.

“Is my company distracting you, Doctor?” Doctor he says, like it’s a cherished word and Pharma refuses to look up. Only aware of the vulture’s shift of Tarn’s form. The warmth of him, even still so far, exhausting against his ever sensitive wings which reach for warmth in such a chilled room.

Pharma collects himself, sets aside a wet tool and retrieves another to burrow deeper into the infrastructure. Parting that which is unnecessary and delicate around the beginnings of his quarry. Peeking from the meticulously cleared region as fragile as a spring blossom, blooming early against the winter’s lingering hold. It was always winter in Messatine, always cold and bitter, always marked with the dark figure lurking on the fringes of his sight.

Pharma has grown to seek that terrible shadow on the horizon, leading him here where Tarn looms like a ghoul drawn too close. Watching. Expelling heat from his broad form all too near his own delicate body - which could easily break under the Decepticon’s touch.

“I’m not easily distracted by surveyors.” Methodical in his procedure. Knows what to bend, knows what to break - which leaves him fighting a grin when he tosses aside a fist of useless dermis and almost soils Tarn’s polished torso with flecks of fuel. “What distracts me is poor manners.”

“Poor manners.” Tarn mimics with a chuckle that carries across Pharma’s back. “My behavior doesn’t satisfy you?”

“I’m not easily satisfied.” The doctor answers, chancing to address his company and finding the stillness of Tarn’s form to be just as unsettling as ever. The optics behind the mask steady, unwavering as predator to its mark, the great body controlled with no motion out of turn. “Neither am I impressed with your morbid voyeurism.” With grace, and a wet squelch, he pulls the TCog free from its tethers. The component held between them, dripping pale fluid to the floor, like the offering it was. The only reason Tarn has not killed him yet in such a small shape.

And yet Tarn’s focus does not shift from Pharma, holding the doctor’s gaze. The gentle tilt of the mask as alarming as any great motion and almost startles him in return.

“Dearest Doctor, I can assure you my observations are for the motion of your hands - and not only the work they so expertly weave.” Tarn’s field brushes his own, a shivering weight of curiosity both warm and daunting where Pharma could only raise his chin in defiance. Only reaching the lower portion of Tarn’s chest in height, it took a great deal of arrogance on his part to stand equal against his company.

“And yet, you’re not staring at my hands.”

“So I am not.”

Pharma chooses to toss the TCog at him, disrupt the moment like pulling free of a tether winding its way across his wings. A slow trap he fears he’s taken too long to struggle against. But ah, there is a pull across his mouth in amusement watching Tarn flinch, catch the part before it can fall and bruise on the ground. Masked or no, Pharma thinks Tarn looks lovely flustered…

“If my hands are so lovely to you,” Pharma responses, tugging a cloth from a bench at Tarn’s side - ignoring the smallest touch of wing against unyielding heat standing so near the Decepticon. "You should be next on my table."

“Is that an invitation?”

“Are you so eager to be under my touch?” Dims the light of his optics with the smile, letting it unfold naturally. Scrubbing soiled hands clean while his benefactor watches with unfounded intensity that has Pharma questioning whether it’s only Tarn’s voice with the power to undo. (Questioning what he would do with Tarn stretched out before him. Willing.)

“I believe, were I so lucky to fall beneath your hands, you would eat my spark right out of it’s chamber.” Tarn purrs, and it’s a physical vibration that reaches across the small distance between them. That charming voice which hushes Pharma’s very system and sends shudders through every nerve, sensor, and seam.

“Only your spark?” Pharma’s answers without thinking. Or perhaps choosing not to.

“I’m not sure, Doctor, what else would you like to ea---” A loud groan interrupts them both, Tarn and Pharma turning back towards the room’s entrance where the rest of the DJD stand. Waiting. Staring. Horrified.

“Please stop.” Kaon begs, covering Vos’ helm as if to shield them from the conversation. Whereas Helex seems rather invested, and now disappointed at the lack of conclusion.

Tarn withdraws and Pharma shrinks back, not having realized how close they’d been in the first place. Heat pouring off his face and his pride now built up like fortress walls to better shield himself while Tarn’s maks gives away nothing. Unfair. He’d very much like to slap it off his damned face -- see if he’s smiling under there.

#tarnma #tarn #pharma #scriptjet

https://twitter.com/lesbian_robots/status/1136982853416345601?s=19

Starscream lands with a skipping pede at his left by the time the golden hue of flames reach them.

Megatron does not have to turn his chin far to watch the seeker's approach, the blaze before them casting the devilish creature in scorched orange and vibrant red. The colors of Starscream's form blending and molding into the heat, the inferno which consumes without pause or prejudice.

"It's done." Starscream has never been a silent mech, nor has Megatron ever been spared of the other's theatrical tone. But the two simple words barely make it past the seeker's mouth. Choked as if the pyre center of Iacon's political district was pouring smoke directly into Starscream's chest. Spilling out with shaken words and leaving the seeker breathless. Swollen on the sight before him as his claws, colored black in the overwhelming sight of destruction, twitch and grasp at nothing.

"We're free." Megatron echoes the true sentiment, the singular strand which unites his Decepticons past anger and hunger. Freedom. The desperation to feel it within ones hands and own oneself completely. A fantasy while these towers still held their shape. Towers filled now with the corpses of former senators and lawmakers - washed away by the purity of fire. Burning a foundation built across the broken backs of /his/ brood from the face of Cybertron.

Starscream nearly collapses. It startles him, reaching past the cradled haze of victory to push his servo across the seeker's torso. Hold him firm so he would not bow before the haunting spire of flame and cruelties. Starscream doesn't respond with indignation or a fight. He lets Megatron's hand bear his weight. Even drops claws to clutch at his thick wrist. Bracing himself against the immovable strength of the one to whom he swore his allegiance.

Who promised exactly this moment in return.

"Free." Starscream pants as a smile cracks open his face. Optics flaring to see through the inferno and watch the skeleton of their enemy burn. His delight shakes him, sends a quiver down his lean body and Megatron tracks it to the brilliant wings, blinding in reflection as his pale shape mirrors the war before them. Starscream wearing their moment of triumph as proudly as his badge.

A soldier truly forged in the fires of their deeds. Bathing in the flames at Megatron's side.

"It's beautiful." Starscream no longer stutters as seekers rumble and rage overhead, exhilaration and chaos mingled as one about them while all Cybertron stops to stare at the fires. The beginning of the universe's submission to their cause.

Megatron misses the city burning as he tracks the light across Starscream's face. Smoldering, wicked and relieved as a lifetime of pain spills off like broken chains.

Megatron seeing firsthand his actions saving one hurt like him.

"Yes," He mumbles through the deafening cries of destruction and rebirth, focus only on Starscream. "Beautiful."

#megastar #scriptjet