Unicron&#x27;s Favorite Hunter

Any two-bit idiot can summon an imp or two. A more accomplished practitioner, perhaps a lesser fiend. A demon of some standing, even, the dregs of under-society. More often than not, these bindings fall through; lesser mages weeding themselves out, so to speak, when they end up killed or consumed by their own servants.

The hierarchy goes up from there. The greater the talent, the more cleverness you can wield or the more deft your hand at magic, the more bargaining power you have.

The more they will take an interest in you.

This, though...

Imposingly tall and impossibly angular, the thing that stands dead-center of the demarcation circle is nothing of the sort of paltry devoured soul twisted to carry out the demands of a petty-minded warlock.

Gilded bone-armor twists above their veiled head to form a crown of wicked horns. Fine black hair spills down their back between a pair of enormous webbed wings-- even folded, the silvery marks of scarring and discoloration stand out vividly against unhealthy, purple-tinged flesh.

Long claws tip the hands and feet. They are bare save the thick bracketed skirt of armor plating that encircles their waist, split at the back for a spined tail that ends in more cruel points and spines and drags along the floor behind them as they snuffle at the air and turn to peer about the room. Purple-black ichor slowly drips from a bitemark above sparse breasts, and other such marks mottle and bruise up the long column of their throat and down their forearms.

Burning red, red eyes stare down.

It is almost too easy to get lost in them. Startling, then, when it opens a mouth of serrated teeth and speaks.

"I was," the Unmade Angel says, almost pouting, "In the middle of something."

#crossroad's end | au #servusendura

Summoning was like.. making wine, in Scourge's eyes. Many thought it just a Science, and it was, certainly, you would do well to remember what you were doing to an exact, lest you summon something that would kill you on the spot.

But, Scourge thought, it was also a passion- an art.

Like wine making, a little bit of you went into it, a bit of love, a bit of enthusiasm. Pizazz, you know, a bit of flair. So what if it made him look a little mad, or.. something that made other people look at each other sideways, knowingly. So what! He decorated his summoning circles, and damn it, he was better than most of those two bit, trout sniffing, ingredient wasting wannabe Mages who stuck their noses up and ended up dead by the end of the week.

He was still here, after all.

Those ones were worth their weight in shit. But even manure had their fanciful uses, and Scourge's garden needed nourishment. ....mainly, some of those who died maybe ended up having... bits and pieces used for sacrifice.

And may or may not have been caused by him. But they had struck him, first, minor annoyances turned massive irritations- he could stand minor annoyances, those rolled off his shoulders like water off of a duck.

But the irritations, oh, no no no, the sabotaging his work, or sneaking things into carefully made fruit platters or drinks? Not only were they threatening him, they were tacky about it.

So of course he set up his best summoning circle, hand drawn with his own blood, and of course he offered bits and pieces of other students-

And of course he lined the circle with poisonous flowers and fruit, like a demented decoration. It was romantic! Surely anyone or anything summoned might be a little flattered by it, was all.

"Forgive me," he murmured, sweeping the cape of his robes out with a deep bow, "forgive me, of course you were busy. Thank you for answering my call, Great One."

achievedsomething

1 like on this post and Iwill go hit on hot old guy

achievedsomething

say no more

achievedsomething

@venatorventus can I rizz oyu up

#;;twisted firestarter | rodimus #achievedsomething

"... rizz is a shorting of.. Charisma? I am assuming you are intending to try and court me. Go on then, pretty boy."

"I have nothing to confess to any of you. My sins are between myself and the Unmaker, who doesn't actually care a whit about any of that."

Big we t optics. "I would like to confess my sins, Cyclonus."

Her sopping wet napkin of a husband, poor, poor thing. Cyclonus takes Scourge by the chin, observing him with no small amount of dark amusement.

"Then grovel."

#forgor..#;;birds of a feather | cyclonus #servusendura

Wet napkin is right- at a simple touch the Hunter crumpled, a whine already building up in his throat.

"I didn't do the dishes-"

"I have nothing to confess to any of you. My sins are between myself and the Unmaker, who doesn't actually care a whit about any of that."

#'im sad' 'i know scourge'#iueffrjgsierjieg #;;birds of a feather | cyclonus #servusendura

Big we t optics. "I would like to confess my sins, Cyclonus."

"Ooh, my sweet, my desert rose petal, my angel .." Big wet optics blink up at Cyclonus, and his wings twitch. "Just.. just one more? Please?"

“I have spoiled you into a lazy house-cat,” Cyclonus mutters, the tips of her fingers brushing over Scourge’s cheek to coax him to lift his chin so she might, yes, kiss him again.

Fumbling around in some recessed alcove like younglings just figuring out what their panels were covering… it would be embarrassing if there was anyone about to discover them.

Not likely, this orn. Lord Galvatron was off with Megatron, helping to translate some of the archaic and faded inscriptions around that temple Megatron and his conjunx had taken over, so until her return they could be fools in love as much as they’d like.

(Not to say they weren’t fools in love with their liege-lord present, of course, but Galvatron made faces and often demanded to be in the middle— actually, Cyclonus amends, she had spoiled both of them.)

"I can't help myself," he mumbled, but vindication was his, it seemed, because at just the barest of brushes to his chin, he tilted his helm obediently for her, just for another pass, another touch, a kiss, optics flickering delicately off and wings giving a sharp shiver of delight.

Servos coming up, he curled them around her neck, petting affectionately at the top knob of her spinal strut. Oh, his wife, his wife, oh, he could hardly stand it, he might simply burst, he was so full of love- and oh, what a splendid end that might be, catching aflame in his lover's arms.

..perhaps not a literal flame, that would be terribly unfortunate.

Purring, Scourge, greedy as ever, pressed closer, as though he might simply curl up closer, as close as he could get, chassis to chassis, like he might worm his way into her, burrow next to her spark and take up residence and never, ever leave.

"Spoil me more, my love, my rose petal, the most beautiful flower of the desert, spoil me often? Please?"

primadomina

"My Lord- ah." There's no easy way to do this, is there. His wings flutter a little against his back. "Perhaps I might be of some assistance, about the itching?"

She rounds on him with an audible snarl, the armor plates along her back and upper arms lifted from her protoform like the hackles of an irritated cat.

...it's only Scourge. Had Galvatron been shouting at shadows again?

The artillery platform gives herself a shake, armor clattering back down into place. "You think I haven't tried?"

#;;hail to the king | galvatron #primadomina

"Oh- no, my Lord, of course," he soothes, waiting a moment or two before ducking forward, wings pressed submissively back as he nudged their cheeks together in greeting. "i only mean, perhaps you are itching because you're.. in need to a sort of relaxation. Come, please? Let me tend to you, my Liege.."

He does so love to tend to Galvatron and Cyclonus.

..when they let him. Which was only as often as he begged, he supposed, but he hated to see his Lord in a state of unrest.

Cyclonus slips out from the darkened sky like yet another shadow in Scourge’s flock. The starfighter unfolds herself to touch down in root mode, then closes space between them in three long strides to wrap her arms around him. “Scourge.”

"Cyclonus," Scourge murmured, arms already lifted to get his arms around her neck as she came in towards him. He knew she was there before she'd even hit the ground- thank you, sensor dish on his forehelm.

Tucking close to her, he whispered affirmations at her, nosing at her cheek, and then pulled back to look at her.

"Bath, my Love."

"If you must hurt, Cyclonus, I do with you would come to someone with a more delicate touch for it." Pink claws tap, lightly, against Cyclonus' shoulder.

"At the very least, let me do it correctly."

The starfighter grunts and shakes off those wandering claws, but only so that she can, however briefly, pull Scourge into her arms and nudge their forehelms together. His helm-mounted radar notches just so between her horns.

“Pain is temporary. My duties are not,” Cyclonus dismisses, voice soft in the space between them. “I would rather it be me than you, if it must be someone. Though, truthfully, I’d rather it not be necessary at all. Is that— wrong of me?”

"No,' he admitted, soft as a whisper. "No, I don't think it's wrong at all. I.. I have many wishes I would like to see come true, but the reality of things is much like crashing planet side. Harsh, jarring- often painful." Forehelms pressed together, Scourge got his arms around Cyclonus, and sighed through his vents.

"Were it different..." He trailed off, almost sharply. He dare not say anything incriminating. Not because Cyclonus couldn't hear it, but he would not lay the burden of that upon her.

"Let me treat your wound, dear. We can't have our incredible Second in Command out of commission, can we? We need you, after all."

“I didn’t realize I’d left the window open. It’s becoming a terrible habit on my part, isn’t it?” Rung asks, perched on the windowsill bench and no doubt studying just how the light spilling out from the room behind him paints Scourge in stark angles. “I should pay more attention to what I’m doing.”

If Scourge were in his right mind, he might think it was a good time to get his canvas, paints, and brushes to capture the scene.

As it was, he was not.

Indeed, the scent of energon led him here like a siren song, calling to him in lilted haunting whispers, until he found himself nose to nose with-

"Rung," he murmured, optics bright with charge. "May I come in?"

sparkchamber

“You may,” the Ornament allows, antenna twitching forward. “You’re always welcome here, Scourge.”

The curtains brush against his shoulder as Rung leans out that much further, fingers curling around the sill to keep himself from toppling over entirely.

Not that he thinks Scourge wouldn’t catch him. The Hunter would, to the detriment of himself and everything else; the cravings would force him to even if he wasn’t a gentlemech of a spark at his core.

Some are more susceptible to him than others. Scourge needed blood to begin with. It was never going to be pretty.

The breeze ruffles the lace at the front of his chemise. Rung’s other servo cups the side of Scourge’s squared off helmet, his thumb smoothing over the high arch of the hovercraft’s cheek. “Does your master know you’re here?”

#;;on high || rung #sparkchamber

Scourge slunk into the room with the grace of a sneak, weaving himself over the windowsill and through the curtains to fit himself down in front of the bench, on his knees before Rung.

Before Primus.

He was supposed to usher in the End with Galvatron, but here, like this, he felt selfish.

Because he couldn't begin to want to, to bring an end to someone so divine. His hunger sang in front of Rung, and he wanted to.. to..

Scourge's fangs ached in his mouth, but he only took Rung's servo, and turned it to kiss the palm, optics bright in the darkened room. "She doesn't need to know where I am, only that I will return." It's as much a non-answer as it is an answer. Because he can't quite think, not with the whine of church bells in his audials.

“I didn’t realize I’d left the window open. It’s becoming a terrible habit on my part, isn’t it?” Rung asks, perched on the windowsill bench and no doubt studying just how the light spilling out from the room behind him paints Scourge in stark angles. “I should pay more attention to what I’m doing.”

If Scourge were in his right mind, he might think it was a good time to get his canvas, paints, and brushes to capture the scene.

As it was, he was not.

Indeed, the scent of energon led him here like a siren song, calling to him in lilted haunting whispers, until he found himself nose to nose with-

"Rung," he murmured, optics bright with charge. "May I come in?"

#sparkmender #;;on high || rung

{ @flameofprimus }

Little Primes shouldn't make promises and not keep them! Oh, and woe to Scourge, laying here sprawled out and unravished! Woe!

Such is the stage he lives on.

#ambition's flames | rodimus #flameofprimus

For whom does the Bell toll?

"It tolls for me," Scourge murmured, delighted, as he watched Rodimus and Galvatron from the rafters, long, pink index claw tapping silently against his own chalice.

He was sprawled out on a support beam way up, laid out on his side, hips swiveled so that one leg laid out over top the other, slightly stretched out until the toe of his pede hung off the side. His other servo lazily hung off the same side, digits wiggling, and his wings were spread out with a sort of carelessness that belied his alertness.

Taking a little sip from his chalice, he flapped his wings, and made a little 'hoo hoo hoo' laugh, optics scrunching under his grin.

It was good for their Master to be challenged every now and again. Enrichment.

#spy eye | dash comm

Softest, quietest rumble. Cyclonus is going to knead at him.

Mmm. Scourge made a lazy stretch, arms above him, and then curled them around Cyclonus, engines puttering into that soft, almost there, whisper of a grumble, wings tucking around the both of them.

"Mmnngh."

“Scourge?” Rung calls out, his voice a touch strained sounding as he fumbles with a rag, trying to stem the steady drip of fuel coming from the base of his thumb. He’d slipped with a cleaning tool meant to scrape debris out from tight seams, and he’d struggling not to get any on his nightie. “Scourge, I know you’re nearby. I hate to- I hate to be a bother, but— I need some help, do you mind grabbing me a fuel line patch?”

Normally it would have sealed over and Rung wouldn’t have given it a second thought, but with Elegy still occasionally feeding his nanites have slowed dealing with punctures.

Scourge did have a habit of coming when called. Moreso, he had a habit of being nearby in a very convenient way that definitely wasn't because he was listening in where he shouldn't be. Which is to say, that by the time Rung is finishing his sentence, Scourge is already nudging into the room, wings curled tightly to his back to prevent them from knocking against the narrower doors.

"Yes, of course, dear, I-" A pause, as the scent of energon hit the sensory area in the roof of his mouth, optics shrinking a little. Oh.

When his gave fixed itself on Rung, it was almost partially crazed. A reminder, perhaps, that as silly and dramatic and whimical as he was, he was still a Unicronian.

"You've gone and nicked yourself a little more than advertised.."

sparkmender

Rung tried very hard not to pry or listen in on others, generally. There were some occasions where it was unavoidable of course; his EM field was far larger than he tended to make known, and his sense of who was nearby was equally sharp. If he concentrated, he could tell you who every spark signature on this floor of the Temple dormitory belonged to.

“It’s only a little cut,” he protests, still preoccupied with holding the rag to it but—

Scourge’s spark does this odd, sharp pulse that has Rung’s eyebrows scrunching together and antenna folding back against his helm, blinking up at the hovercraft with an uncertain hesitation. Surely Scourge wasn’t upset just because of a little bit of spilled energon? The huntsmech probably saw several times as much in a regular decacyle.

“Scourge? I’m alright. It didn’t even hurt, I just— the pick tool slipped. I’m clumsy. It happens. No one’s going to be mad at you about it, I promise.”

There is a difference, Scourge came to find once he'd pledged himself to Lord Galvatron -and subsequently Unicron- to the hunger he'd felt before, and now.

Namely that the hunger started with a capital H, and that he felt it so strongly, like a knife between the seams of his armor being twisted. The tinge of energon in the air drew him him closer, almost on instinct, until he was wandering closer, and then kneeling before Rung, optics single-mindedly fixated on the cut on his thumb, the slow trail downwards and the curvature of a drop threatening to fall.

It was not at all a question, then, to bat Rung's servo and the rag aside, lean forward, and curl his glossa underneath, swiping before the drop could leave its place on Rung's plating, and then take Rung's thumb into his intake, sucking on the cut absently before pulling back, optics faintly glossed over.

There was just the slightest hint of pint to Scourge's lips, then, a stain from Rung's energon, mouth parted and top fangs just barely visible.

sparkmender

“—Scourge,” he tries, softly, coaxing, as the mech doesn’t respond. Those broad wings flex some, maybe. Scourge is clearly active, his biolights strong and his spark doing that strange pulse again, and again, and,

His servo is shoved away, the rag dropping to the floor as Scourge decides to just. Lick at him instead, having to kneel and hunch further just to reach. Rung hears more than his own systems whine faintly and his vents clatter open, momentarily caught suspended by the look on Scourge’s face and the gleam of fangs in the lamplight.

Oh, dear. He’s made a mistake.

A little more firmly, Rung mutters “Scourge,” and tries to take his servo back, drawing away slowly. “That’s not sanitary. You know better. Come on, up with you, stop being silly. I’ll go find a patch myself…”

#sparkmender #;;on high || rung

As if offended by the retreat of energon, Scourge rumbled, optics flickering on brighter, nearly orange in their intensity, and slitted.

There was a pregnant pause, and then, almost drunkenly, Scourge slurred an apology- all without removing Rung's digit from his intake, glossa curling around it. And around, and around, before pulling itself back into his intake. He'd never had energon this.. this electric, this fulfilling. It was as if his hunger, so often a nudge in the back of his helm, was finally slaked.

He rumbled again, softer, and then finally let go of Rung's digit, but only so that he could mouth at his palm, all the way up to his wrist, long, narrow fangs grazing over softer plating.

Those optics of his dimming back down to something closer to a blood orange, now, but no less focused.

"You are incredibly tantalizing.. how could I have never noticed you tasted so delectable?"

“Scourge?” Rung calls out, his voice a touch strained sounding as he fumbles with a rag, trying to stem the steady drip of fuel coming from the base of his thumb. He’d slipped with a cleaning tool meant to scrape debris out from tight seams, and he’d struggling not to get any on his nightie. “Scourge, I know you’re nearby. I hate to- I hate to be a bother, but— I need some help, do you mind grabbing me a fuel line patch?”

Normally it would have sealed over and Rung wouldn’t have given it a second thought, but with Elegy still occasionally feeding his nanites have slowed dealing with punctures.

Scourge did have a habit of coming when called. Moreso, he had a habit of being nearby in a very convenient way that definitely wasn't because he was listening in where he shouldn't be. Which is to say, that by the time Rung is finishing his sentence, Scourge is already nudging into the room, wings curled tightly to his back to prevent them from knocking against the narrower doors.

"Yes, of course, dear, I-" A pause, as the scent of energon hit the sensory area in the roof of his mouth, optics shrinking a little. Oh.

When his gave fixed itself on Rung, it was almost partially crazed. A reminder, perhaps, that as silly and dramatic and whimical as he was, he was still a Unicronian.

"You've gone and nicked yourself a little more than advertised.."

sparkmender

Rung tried very hard not to pry or listen in on others, generally. There were some occasions where it was unavoidable of course; his EM field was far larger than he tended to make known, and his sense of who was nearby was equally sharp. If he concentrated, he could tell you who every spark signature on this floor of the Temple dormitory belonged to.

“It’s only a little cut,” he protests, still preoccupied with holding the rag to it but—

Scourge’s spark does this odd, sharp pulse that has Rung’s eyebrows scrunching together and antenna folding back against his helm, blinking up at the hovercraft with an uncertain hesitation. Surely Scourge wasn’t upset just because of a little bit of spilled energon? The huntsmech probably saw several times as much in a regular decacyle.

“Scourge? I’m alright. It didn’t even hurt, I just— the pick tool slipped. I’m clumsy. It happens. No one’s going to be mad at you about it, I promise.”