youafterme
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Brainstorm is handsome, brilliant, and undoubtedly courageous! A mech of supreme confidence, perfectly capable of giving and receiving affection—obviously. It’s just that... well, he wasn’t exactly prepared to receive it at certain moments. Specifically from his handsome-stunning-loving conjunx-to-be. He’s totally used to affection, really! He just—might need a moment (or several) to process the way Perceptor touches him like it’s nothing out of the ordinary. But eventually—once he has conquered this fluffy and weird feeling—he’ll show Perceptor who the big mech here really is. ...Any moment now.
Perhaps after a few recharges—just to be sure?(Or: A handful of times when Brainstorm found it very hard to accept love.)
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An old gladiator wakes beneath unfamiliar skies and follows the endless night, drawn by a longing his spark refuses to forget.
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Chronically Affected by What We Can't Be by youafterme
Fandoms: Transformers - All Media Types
18 Mar 2025
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Drift grieves what he can never truly have, and Ratchet knows exactly how their story will end.
[Or Drift and Ratchet have conversation about sparks too wide for the gloomy, utterly damaged world.]
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The older Ratchet gets, the more regrets pin him down—ghosts of the war, of the mechs he couldn’t save, of the ones he let slip away. He writes letters to names long gone, words never meant to be sent. But one name lingers longer than the rest—Pharma.
Desperate for answers—or maybe just absolution—Ratchet steps back into the past. Back to the academy halls where Pharma was still untouchable. Back to the moment the functionist system tightened its grip. Back to Delphi. And back to the choices that turned a medic into something unrecognizable.
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The gods do not rule. The gods are bound. When a new Prime rises, the faith moves swiftly—they chain their gods before they can ascend. It has always been this way. The Hunt is sacred, the capture inevitable.
That is how the Cybertronian race learned to thrive.The temples are built from Primes’ strength, the city is blessed by their unwilling sacrafice. The last Prime ascended long ago—leaving the city to slowly wither in their absence. The faithful have waited, watching the cracks form in their golden age, whispering prayers into the void.
Today, their prayers are answered. Rodimus Prime is dragged in chains to the temple, crowned in dust. But Rodimus does not kneel.
And Drift, bound by silence, is beginning to listen.
[Au where the Primes have a different fate, more spectralist and radical religious in nature]