#AND MY OPTICAL SENSOR-

[the-cutting-room-floor]

WAIT FUCK-

BRIGHT LIGHT-

[hypervoxel]

Enough discourse, I wanna post about headcanons

The Vees are a polycule to me, but in a way that I can't even explain without an entire slowburn fanfic (stay tuned. I'm a slow writer). But I will try.

Velvette:

I do adhere to the lesbian Velvette headcanon. She's dating Vox and still occasionally joins Valentino for a threesome with him. When she first joined the Vees, Velvette used to identify as bisexual (and still loves the bi flag colors the most) and all three of them used to date, before Velvette realized that she's a lesbian.

She and Vox are still dating, and they have an open relationship.

Vox:

Vox's response to Velvette coming out was, "So you're breaking up with Val?" Yes, his pronouns are he/him. No, he's not a man. He'd long shed the fleshy confines of humanity and gender along with it.

Vox is aspec, agender, autistic. To me. He's sex favorable of the 'I want to do it for my partner's enjoyment' flavor. Watching from cameras brings him just as much enjoyment, and he watches everything and everyone, living vicariously, a voyer through the screen. As a result of that, he's so so touched starved, but his sense of feeling is muted (the consequences of betraying flesh in favor of the machine). Soft touches to his synthetic skin don't really register, his sense of feeling restricted to mostly pressure and pain, so he's become a bit of a masochist in response because that's something physical.

Valentino:

He just likes sex. He chases pleasure in any form he can find, dopamine rushes from numerous drugs, orgasmic release, the rush of power from crushing someone underfoot. Anything and everything, he'll try it all. And none of it is really enough, so he'll never stop chasing more.

Valentino doesn't consider his relationship with Vox romantic, even if Vox totally does. They're friends, sure, business partners, absolutely, and fuckbuddies wherever Val is in the mood for it. But romance isn't Val's thing. That's hard work, and Val saves romancing for potential new hires he wants to sign a contract with. What Vox and he have is also written down on a contract, joining their businesses together too closely to be parted without blood, but it's not the same. Not to Val. So, he wouldn't call Vox his boyfriend, but he also wouldn't correct anyone who said they were. Vox is someone he can let his guard down with, one of the few people who would never want to get out of the contract their names are signed on. They work well together. That's better than any romance you can get in Hell, Val thinks.

Val and Velvette are catty besties. Pan/Lesbian solidarity and hostility all in one.

[transsexual-terabyte]

my schizophrenia likely effects my identity in many ways but i still think bein a robot is cool as hell. me and my damn coolant and chassis plates

[tinydefector]

Is it too much to ask for a follow-up on the Human' Effects fic?

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Masterlist

This is more just some more information of headcanons I have and how I like writing the bots. So I hope you enjoy it. This one's more on the differences and similarities between humans and Cybertronians.

Word count: 2.5k

Warning: mentions of reproduction, and exploration of body's. Valveplug.

__________

So this is just a continuation for Human effects. This one also delves into some more information on biological, cultural and different frames and how they interact with each other, humans and other organic Creatures. 

Biological Humans and Cybertronians are vastly different even with quite a few similarities. 

Sparklings and children 

There is a very big difference in the body function of Humans and Cybertronians. Size for one but also Organic DNA and CNA. There are many things which can Line up with the other species but also function very differently 

Such as. 

structure and organ comparison 

Plating - skin

Helm - head

Processor, brain module - brain 

Faceplate- face

Audio Receptors, Audials, Receptor orifices - ears 

Nasal ridge, enstril, olfactory sensors- nose

Optical ridge - eyebrows

Optics, visors  - eyes and glasses sometimes visors are used as optics

Intake- mouth, throat or a breath. 

Denta, denta plating- teeth 

Glossa- tongue 

Mandibles (insecticons) - jaw 

Vocalizer- voice box 

Chin or chin plating are the same 

Chestplate, chassis- chest and higher stomach (abs area) 

Fuel tanks- stomach. 

Backplate, back struts, binary system,  bipedalism - back and spine, spinal cord. 

Servos and digits - Hands and fingers 

Sounder plating - shoulder blades 

Pede - feet 

pump and Spark - heart and soul 

Energon lines - arrays veins. 

Vents - lungs, breath. 

Pelvic plate - pelvis

Aft, tailpipe, skid plate- butt

Interface panel - covered reproduction organs

Spike - penis 

Value - vagina 

Carrier chamber, Gestation chamber - womb

Helm and head

With the fact one is filled with circuitry, coding and wires and the other is filled with flesh, fluid and other organic matter. Humans' heads are covered in hair most times. And even those who aren't their head Is still rather soft and smooth. And the bots love playing with human hair and facial hair when they are allowed too. 

It also leads to humans giving the bots head scratches, and it's something so man you the bots had never thought of and they love it. They will lay their head in their human lap and just enjoy the gentle touches to their Finial, audials, and helm crest. It becomes. Causal thing of the humans using soft little microfiber cloths to clean out dust and dirt from the small crevices in the bots Plating. Head pats and scratches really becomes something that Cybertronians love alot and it makes a lot of humans consider the bots large cats.

Faceplate and Faces. 

One of the things which is very different between humans and Cybertronians is how they show affection to each other. Cybertronians do a thing called a helm hold. Where they each hold their partner's helm in their servos while looking into each other's optics, it's how they show how much they care, because they are focusing only on that one person. And it means alot more after the war, to focus all your attention on just one bots servos shows a lot of trust, affection and love for someone.  

While humans have Hugging, kissing. So the bots are rather confused the first time they are hugged, tensing up not wanting to hurt their human. And they nearly short circuit when the human kisses them it's more out of fear. 

“Do you know how dangerous that is! What if I crushed you!” The bot hisses in panic while looking at their lover. “not to mention the fact that is my Energon Intake! Do you know what energon can do to Humans!” It nearly sends the bot into meltdowns as they hold their lover's face staring into their eyes trying to show them how much they love and care for them. It would break their spark if they accidentally hurt them. 

“it's called a Kiss, I was kissing you” the human tries to explain, their hands cupping around their bots servos. 

“a kiss?” the bot inquired. “Yea I'm sorry if you didn't want it, it's just I thought we were in that part of our relationship” the human begins rambling out of anxiety thinking they had messed up. In the end they both settle for a small gesture in-between. Pressing their head and helm, together as they cradle the other. 

Eventually they will come around to accepting kisses but it is only for very special occasions. Because the bot will make sure that there isn't a trace of energon in their system for their partner's safety. Over time it becomes them pressing soft kisses to each other's noses. 

Skin and Plating 

These are all the parts which somewhat are similar to humans, but also work vastly different than the human body does. So with this listed here are many of the things that vary with the similarities. 

Plating and skin are vastly different due to one being metal and the other being flesh, it's one of the things a lot of the Cybertronians love is how soft Human skin is. They really enjoy just fondling their human companions, pulling their checks, and enjoying how their skin moves. How pliable, warm and squishy they are. Cybertronians finding out about human breasts really takes them by storm. 

“What are those?” the bot asks while pressing a finger to their breast feeling how soft and squishy they are. 

“breast, boobs, tits they have a lot of names” 

“What are they for?” The bot continues to just slowly play with them out of curiosity, not knowing what the human would need them for. 

“they are used for feeding babies, they fill with milk, it's not a constant thing and not everyone's do but they are for feeding babies.” the human tries to explain and it just leaves the bot shocked. 

“You're with Sparkling?” The bot asked as they began fussing over the human more, gently pressing their digits to the human's body more. 

“no, no I'm not pregnant!” They laugh out loud while rather embarrassed. “‘but wouldn't they deflate?” The bot shoots back as their digits begin needing the flesh which makes the humans sigh and lean into the touch. “human babe, don't have the same functions as you.” They tease softly.

 It ends up with one bot having their human lover back pressed to their Chassis. The bot's servos just cupped around their partners breast slowly massaging them as the human leans back just enjoying the feeling because it takes the weight off their back and the cool touch of the metal feels delightful against their skin. 

Heart and spark

The difference between a human heart and spark aren't that different at all. They both pump blood/energon to where it's needed, it's the life provider of the body. Each has a beat or pulse. And the said beat and pulse sounds different. A human's heart beat feels like a thump but to Cybertronians it's an echo. Each beat they can feel and see like A beating light. And they love how it feels laying against them, their spark will actually fall in tune With their heart beat as a way to calm the human.  While for humans a Cybertronians spark pulse feels like electricity dancing across their skin it's like the build up of static but it doesn't zap. The vibration of a spark is like energy building and releasing, the buzzing sound that just resonates through their body as they lay against their bot. 

olfactory sensors and nose

Unfortunately humans don't have the enhanced scent sensors that a lot of other species do, and Cybertronians have one for the most advanced ones, they don't just smell it but they can break down the chemical compound to its base and are able to tell humans emotions based on how they smell. It also leads to bots becoming rather touching with their lovers when they can smell their cycle. It also leads a lot of bots realising they have a breeding kink after being with a human, because the moment they can feel their partners change in hormones they are hovering. It becomes an even bigger thing when they smell the scent of a young spark, they feel the EM Field. 

carriers and pregnancy 

There is a major difference between human pregnancy and cybertronian pregnancy. Humans can only be born from reproduction.  a new spark can be formed in multiple ways. 

-Forged.  

-Cold construct. 

-split spark

- Sparked 

Forged new sparks are bots that are formed in hotspots across cybertron and on occasions sparklings can also be formed from these hot spots. 

Cold constructs are bots that have been made by others for a purpose and were originally classed as 2nd class citizens, miners or lower than other bots, 

Split Sparks made from splitting your spark into another form. It was very rare due to multiple laws being inplace against it. 

Sparklings were formed through spark merging with another and creating enough energy to form new lifeforms. A carrier would then have to host said spark in their Gestation chamber until the spark could grow its own protoform. Then from there they are moved into the carrier chamber where they learn off their carrier's coding, and also receive food, coding and personal information from their Sire via Transfluid. As sparklings are still not able to consume normal energon and it has to be processed down enough for the sparkling. (Similar to how humans breastfeed) from there once they are ready the sparkling will be ‘birthed’ and from their they will need to be carried in a spark chamber until they have fully developed but gives them time to learn the world around them but still have the safety of a parent to protect them. 

This leads the bots and humans to both be horrified at the differences of the others' reproduction. The bots are horrified over the fact a human's pelvis bone breaks just to birth a baby. But also the fact that humans can carry more than one child. They eventually watch a documentary over human birth; it makes a lot of bots short out and crash. 

Humans on the other hand are shocked over the time it takes for a bot to have a sparkling. 100 years is longer than a lot of humans ever live but it's how long it takes for the full process of a sparkling to be formed and born. That's without all the issues with CNA, temperature, spark energy, energon. A Lot of Cybertronian pregnancies don't make it to term due to these factors. 

So when by some chance a human gets pregnant by a Cybertronian it has the whole planet up in a tissy. Not just the fact of how genetically different they are but how it happened. The first human Cybertronian sparkling is a miracle watched by man and documented. And it turns out the human womb is actually the best possible hosting spot for the start of a sparkling, it's the perfect temperature, and it's not a temperature a lot of bots can keep their own frames. The human womb actually short cuts a lot of time over the birth Due to the sparkling Not needing to be shifted from one chamber to another. It comes down to being pregnant for 3 years. It's a long time for a human but it's decades Less than what it normally takes for a Cybertronian if they made it through the full progress. 

And when the sparkling is born it's discovered that the sparkling doesn't have any human traits, defects or appearance. Due to the human body mainly working as a host, the CNA and DNA don't mix when it comes to creating a sparkling but they work perfectly in sync When it comes to helping the sparkling grow. And it also turns out humans are able to sustain more than One sparkling. 

That also brings me to the function of spike and Valves. For Cybertronians spikes and Valves aren't how Sparklings are created, sparklings are created from two sparks merging together and creating enough energy for a sparkling but interface is needed to start the process of how they form. Sparkling needs Transfluid to begin and that is what Cybertronians use interfacing for outside of sharing memories, information and emotions. Most times Cybertronians interface for fun, feeling close, sharing information with a loved one, or to help feed a sparkling the necessary data, fluids and programming. 

so When a Cybertronian and human interface it has a lovely mix of a 50/ 50 chance of getting pregnant due to how the human and cybertronian heart and spark link in a frequency that is almost essential Spark merging. And a human doesn't even need to interface with a Cybertronian to get pregnant.

Here is a list of ways humans have gotten pregnant/ a bot has gotten pregnant. 

-interfacing 

-spark bonding 

-a human touching a bots spark. 

-having enough hated for another you get them pregnant by sheer Anger

- spark And heart syncing 

-A human being on their cycle will make a bot pregnant. 

______________

Megatron entered the medbay of the Lost Light, feeling unusual warmth and pressure in his chest. "Ratchet," he said gruffly to get the medic's attention. "Something is...off. I feel as if I have consumed fool's energon again, but I know that is not the case." 

He looked down at the medic, his optics betraying slight concern beneath his usual stern demeanour. "Examine me and determine what ails me. I need to be at full function." His pride did not allow him to admit weakness easily, but he trusted Ratchet's skills. 

Ratchet nodded to First Aid and They as they stood ready to assist. He turned back to Megatron with a scrutinising gaze.

"When did you first notice the symptoms? Any other anomalies in your systems?" he asked gruffly, scanning the Decepticon warlord from head to foot with a diagnostic tool. The scans showed unusual activity in Megatron's Gestation chamber.

"Hmm...it appears your spark is pulsing more rapidly than normal. And the pressure you described suggests a buildup of energon flow." Ratchet paused, analysing the data. "This could indicate...no, it's not possible. Or is it...?" He leaned in closer, inspecting Megatron with keen optics.

"We'll need a more detailed scan. Over here, lay back - this won't hurt but may feel peculiar. First Aid, fire up the resonator. Ambulon you're in charge of monitoring vitals."

"What's wrong, ratchet he was fine this morning?" The human asked in concern. 

Megatron lay back on the medical berth as directed, his massive frame dwarfing its size. his expression softened ever so slightly. As the detailed spark scan began, Ratchet's optics widened in surprise. "By the Allspark...it can't be..." He motioned First Aid "Look here. What do you see?"

First Aid peered at the monitor in amazement. "Two distinct spark pulses...but how is that possible?" Ratchet glanced over at Megatron, then back at the others. "It would seem Megatron himself is carrying sparkling. The increased energon flow and pressure were signs of protoform development beginning."

He chuckled wryly. "Well Megatron, it seems that fool's energon was not to blame after all. Congratulations...you're going to be a creator." Megatron's optics widened in disbelief at Ratchet's announcement. Carrying sparkling? It made no sense as far as he knew, spark merging could only occur between cybertronians and he had only been intimate with a human. 

He sat up abruptly, almost knocking First Aid over, and glared down at Ratchet. "Explain yourself, medic! How is this possible? The human and I have been intimate but they clearly lack our means of conception." Ratchet held up a calming hand. "Peace, Megatron. I have a theory," 

Taglist: @angelxcvxc

@ladyofnegativity

[pretzel-box]

Idea for a reverse au fic?

Reader gets flashed by a passing Expendable. How would Sebastian (and reader) take it?

REVERSE AU MASTERLIST HERE

PART 6: RIGHT IN SIGHT

Tags: Light jokes, some action, reader and seb encountering a possible enemy

Words: 1,6k

The sterile, metallic halls of the Hadal Blackside stretched out before you and Sebastian as the two of you moved quietly, scavenging for any useful supplies. Despite the ominous setting, the atmosphere between the two of you was light and carefree as always. You tossed jokes back and forth between each other, your banter echoing softly in the cold, dimly lit corridor. It was rare to get moments like this, where the tension of your reality seemed to melt away and you could focus on the cute human right by your side.

“Look, if we don’t find any decent scrap soon, I’m just gonna start decorating our hideout with broken tech. Really give it that ‘desperate survivor’ vibe,” Sebastian quipped, a grin on his face as he glanced over at you. He liked to impress you with his crappy jokes, taking in the way your expression shifts every single time into one of laugher and joy.

You chuckled, your claws lightly tapping against the floor as you sifted through some debris. “Well, at least if we don’t find anything, we can hang up your terrible sense of humor for decoration.”

He shot you a mock-offended look, not expecting such a good comeback. “Wow. Harsh. And here I thought I was your favorite human.”

You smirked, glancing over at him, your sharp, artificial eyes glowing faintly in the low light. “Well, you are my only human, Seb. That makes you both the best and the worst.”

Sebastian laughed, his voice warm, and for a moment, the cold, underwater world around you felt a little less hostile. It was moments like this that reminded you why you stuck together, why despite all the dangers, you and Sebastian had found a strange, unbreakable bond in this twisted place. Human and experiment—survivors, somehow managing to hold onto something normal in the midst of the chaos.

As you continued searching, something caught your attention—a small device partially buried beneath a pile of broken tech. You crouched down, pulling it free and inspecting it. “Hey, think this could be useful?” you asked, holding it up for Sebastian to see.

He moved closer, studying it for a moment. “Maybe. Could be some old keycard or part of another similar thing. We can figure it out back at the shop.” He grinned again, leaning in just a little too close. “Or, you know, it could just be more junk for your decorating project.” His words hitting your ears, giving you a small shiver down your back, one of the good kind.

Before you could retort, a sudden flash of light exploded in the hallway, blinding you instantly. The sharp, searing brightness hit your sensors like a sledgehammer, causing you to stagger back with a sharp cry. You instinctively raised your arms to shield your face, but it was too late—the damage was done.

“Shit!” Sebastian cursed, his voice suddenly serious, filled with panic. He grabbed your arm, trying to steady you. “Hold on, I’ve got you—”

The flash beacon. You knew the feeling all too well. It was a device designed to disable experiments like you, to overload your optical systems and incapacitate you. Your vision flickered wildly, and the surge of light made your entire body feel disoriented, unstable. Whoever it was—they knew exactly how to neutralize you.

“Seb…” you rasped, struggling to regain control of your vision, but it was hard to focus, hard to even stand with your lack of balance. Your body felt like it was shutting down, forced into a state of emergency reboot.

Sebastian tightened his grip on your arm, his eyes darting around the hallway as he scanned for whoever had used the beacon. “Stay with me, okay? Don’t worry. We’re getting out of here,” he said, his voice full of determination. He quickly crouched, grabbing a piece of scrap metal as a makeshift weapon.

Footsteps echoed down the hall, and you both knew that whoever was behind the attack was getting closer. You could feel the weight of the situation pressing down, but you couldn’t help but curse internally—this was supposed to be a routine scavenging trip. A fun, light-hearted break from the usual dangers.

But now, everything had turned dangerous.

“Can you move?” Sebastian asked urgently, his arm slipping around your waist to help you stand.

You groaned, trying to focus through the buzzing in your head. “Yeah... I think so. Just... need a second.”

“We don’t have a second,” he muttered, glancing down the corridor again, his expression grim.

With Sebastian’s support, you managed to take a shaky step, but your body still felt off, uncooperative. It was taking longer than usual to recover, and the frustration gnawed at you. You were supposed to protect him, not the other way around.

“I’m fine,” you insisted, though your voice was shaky, the lie obvious. “Let’s just... get out of here.”

But before either of you could move, another blinding light filled the hallway. You felt Sebastian’s body tense beside you, and through your still-fragmented vision, you could see the silhouette of a figure approaching—whoever they were, they were armed, and they weren’t here to help.

“Stay behind me,” Sebastian whispered, his voice low and tense.

Even in your weakened state, you couldn’t stand the idea of Sebastian putting himself in harm’s way for you. You were the experiment, the one designed to handle danger, not him. But as the figure drew closer, you realized that this time, it wasn’t going to be so easy.

“Seb...” you started, but before you could say anything more, a sound filled the hallway and three red dots pointed at you—a turret, aimed directly at the two of you.

The moment the turret whirred to life, its mechanical sound sent a jolt of adrenaline through your systems. The barrel locked onto you and Sebastian, a low hum signaling that it was ready to fire.

"Seb, get behind me!" you shouted, your voice cutting through the chaos.

Sebastian didn’t hesitate, ducking behind a pile of debris as you moved toward the turret. You felt your senses returning bit by bit, the effects of the flash beacon still present but waning. The danger of the turret, however, forced your mind into sharp focus.

The mysterious figure, cloaked in shadows, smirked before glancing up at the vent near the floor. They were quick, nimble, and clearly had the upper hand in this situation. You knew they were planning to escape, but you couldn’t focus on them right now—not with the turret locked onto you both.

The turret's motor clicked, and you heard it ready to fire. You dove behind a nearby crate as it began unleashing a barrage of bullets, pinging off the walls and scattering bits of metal everywhere.

“Damn it,” you muttered under your breath. You peeked out from behind the crate, your eyes locking onto the base of the turret. You could see it—a control panel just beneath the rotating barrel. If you could just reach it, you might be able to disable the turret before it turned Sebastian or you into scrap metal.

“I’ll cover you!” Sebastian shouted, grabbing a nearby chunk of debris and tossing it toward the turret. It clanged off the barrel, momentarily redirecting its attention.

Now’s your chance.

You launched yourself out from behind the crate, hurrying toward the turret as it recalibrated its aim. The whir of the barrel grew louder, and you could feel the heat of the bullets whizzing past you, narrowly missing as you zigzagged toward the base. Your claws dug into the ground as you slid to the control panel, your fingers immediately working to pry it open.

Out of the corner of your eye, you saw the figure climbing into the vent, the grating pulled aside. They paused for a split second, glancing back at you and Sebastian, a look of triumph in their eyes. Then, with one swift movement, they disappeared into the vent, the cover sliding back into place.

“No time to worry about them now,” you growled, focusing on the control panel in front of you. The wires were a mess of colors, tangled and confusing, but you didn’t have the luxury of being careful. The turret’s barrel shifted again, locking back onto you, and you knew you had seconds before it would fire.

With a sharp inhale, you jammed your claw into the circuitry, pulling a handful of wires free. Sparks flew, and for a moment, the turret seemed to stall. Its motor whirred in confusion, the barrel twitching as if trying to re-engage its targeting system. You ripped another cluster of wires loose, praying you hit the right ones.

Suddenly, the turret powered down with a groan, the barrel slumping to the side as its lights blinked out. The hallway fell into a heavy silence, the echo of the gunfire still lingering in your ears.

You exhaled in relief, leaning back against the wall as your systems tried to calm down from the sudden burst of activity.

Sebastian emerged from behind the debris, wide-eyed and impressed. “Holy crap, you did it.”

“Yeah,” you breathed, wiping the back of your hand across your forehead. “But they got away.”

Sebastian glanced up at the vent, frowning. “Figures. Whoever they were, they knew this place too well. But I’m not worried about them right now.”

He crouched down next to you, his expression softening. “You alright? That was a close one.”

You managed a tired grin. “Takes more than a turret to take me down. But I must admit, I was almost as pierced as a slice of cheese.”

He chuckled, giving you a pat on the shoulder. “Good to know. Let’s just hope there aren’t more surprises like that waiting for us. Also…a cute slice of cheese.”

The compliment made you break into a smile despite the thoughts in your head.

As you both stood and began to gather yourselves, you couldn’t shake the lingering thought of the figure who had escaped. They were fast, resourceful, and clearly knew how to navigate the facility. But right now, your priority was survival.

[imagine-darksiders]

Transformers Prime: Optimus + Reader. Chapter 1.

So, I read @lovinglonerhybrid 's post here. And it absolutely had me in a chokehold, so this is based off that premise. I'm in the UK so please excuse my ignorance of American states lmao.

So, there is a part 2 to this, but I'm going away for 4 days and wanted to get some of it posted before then.

You've broken down fifteen miles short of Jasper's city limits in the dead of night. Deciding to hike in to town, you feel the earth rumble beneath you, and over the horizon, something enormous approaches...

Chapter 1: 9352 words.

-------

It’s a rare and covetous thing, to find even a single moment of peace in the midst of an intergalactic war.

The gap from one of those precious moments to the next seems to grow wider and wider every time, until their frequency is so negligible, it becomes hard to recognise them for what they are anymore.

For everything Earth could have offered Optimus Prime, he hadn’t been expecting it to relinquish the gift of peace so willingly. But he’s glad – more than glad – to accept them when they come, even if he’s only stealing glimpses of tranquillity on the sand-swept road leading out of Jasper.

Low-beam headlights lazily trace over the faded tarmac ahead of Optimus’s tyres as he trundles along Highway 49, one of only two roads that surround the small, sleepy city of Jasper. It’s a very routine patrol, one he obligingly excused Bumblebee from taking after his poor scout all but begged Optimus to give it to someone else, beeping out promises that he’ll take double shift tomorrow night, if need be.

All this on the back of Miko announcing another of her ‘slumber parties’ at the base, much to Ratchet’s noisy chagrin and Optimus’s private amusement. And, of course, when Bumblebee found out that Rafael would be staying the night too… Well…

‘You’re too indulging,’ their old medic had admonished from his workstation, the broad expanse of his back turned to the Prime, ‘He ought to learn he can’t always have his way.’

But it was a harmless indulgence, and Prime was more than happy to take over the patrol in this instance.

Besides, he had an arguably selfish reason for doing so.

If he’d admitted as much out loud, Ratchet would have scoffed and sent a pulse of chiding dismissal crashing into Optimus’s EM field. ‘You don’t have a selfish component in your body,’ he might say.

But this… Optimus muses, gazing skyward as he trundles down the highway in vehicle mode, letting the crisp, night air slide through his grill and cool his powerful engine… This is the appeal of a solo patrol.

Every now and then, there are times when the Decepticon activity goes quiet, Fowler has nothing to report, and Optimus can almost pretend that he’s just another Cybertronian enjoying a long, quiet drive through the Mojave wilderness. And while he remains ever vigilant, keeping every sensor poised outwardly in a constant surveillance of his surroundings, the old bot still permits at least one sense to wander.

Somehow, it’s always his sight.

Oftentimes he catches himself doing it. Other times, on nights that are quiet and still and clear like this one, there’s a wire-deep longing that overrides his logic gates, and the Prime won’t notice that he isn’t keeping his processor and his optics on the dusty road ahead of him. He’s too busy stealing long, pensive looks at the stars above him, scattered like a-hundred-billion souls sprawling across a curtain of crushed velvet.

It’s out there… somewhere… riding a lonely orbit on the furthest reaches of the galaxy’s Centaurus arm.

Cybertron.

Home.

Their first home, he amends gently, depressing his accelerator to speed up when he realises he’s starting to crawl. Earth is as much their home now as Cybertron ever was.

Sagging on his suspension with a low hiss, Optimus drags his hidden optics back to the road ahead, and all at once, he nearly lurches to a halt, his exhaust pipes sputtering out a hollow sound to betray his surprise.

There, parked several feet from the road a few hundred yards ahead of him, is a vehicle.

Prime’s senses sharpen to a startling focus.

Pumping his brakes, he slows down again, and the roar of his engine fades to a fluctuating hum.

A Decepticon…?

He doesn’t feel anything trying to breach his EM field, nor does he pick up on any resistance when his scanners hone in on the vehicle – ‘Ford. F250. A Pickup truck.’ Year….? Optimus’s focus narrows to a pinprick… ‘Eighty-seven.’

It’s red - a faded, dusky red like some of the sun-baked sandstone at Red Rock Canyon. As Prime’s massive form rumbles on through the night, looming closer and closer to the mysterious truck, his lights reflect off something situated above its rear bumper, the presence of which quells his flaring codes and eases his rigid frame.

A number plate.

Thick, black numbers and letters stand out against the white rectangle, though it isn’t the sequence that alleviates Optimus’s suspicion, it’s their mere presence.

No Decepticon he knows would ever suffer the ‘indignity’ of having a human number plate stapled to their bumpers.

Primus, even the Autobots have foregone the accessory after Fowler gave up trying to keep Bumblebee from losing his, Ratchet from ‘misplacing’ his, and Bulkhead from bending his irreparably whenever he transformed. Optimus had given it a go, for a time… mainly because he was growing worried that their overworked liaison would quite simply combust if he had to intercept one more phone call from ‘concerned civilians’ who were reporting a semi-truck driving through Jasper without its registration.

The Prime’s number plate came to its own crumpled end when he sat down on his berth one evening without removing it first.

One genuine, slightly sheepish apology to a very fed-up liaison later, and Optimus was informed that he and his team no longer needed to wear the plates.

So, the presence of one on this truck is a good sign. It’s less likely to transform and cause an incident.

That does, however, open up an entirely new avenue for concern to creep in.

A crash, perhaps?

Several dark skid marks indicate that it must have veered off the road after a hard, panicked brake.

He can’t pick up any biological signatures either. Even when he casts a wider net, all his sensors catch are the heat signatures of a few tiny, Earthen mammals scurrying about over the sand before they dart into various rock formations when he rolls by. But just because he isn’t picking up the presence of a living human, it doesn’t negate the possibility of a human being inside…

Frame suddenly taut, Optimus trundles to a cautious halt on the road alongside the truck, his engine idling like some great, murmuring beast in the quiet of the desert.

A throaty hum seems to escape his smokestacks as he peers down at the smaller truck, contemplative… considering… Then finally, relieved. There doesn’t appear to be anyone inside, judging by what his headlights illuminate through the cab windows.

What is it doing out here?

It definitely wasn’t here yesterday when he made the drive into Jasper. It isn’t a vehicle he recognises either, and he’s been doubly vigilant of late regarding all the civilian cars, bikes, trucks, vans, and even agricultural vehicles in and around the town.

Privately, he’s been compiling a catalogue of them all, for his own reference.

If there’s a threat to his human charges lurking about in their hometown, Optimus needs to know about it. A Decepticon disguised as a civilian vehicle would be an effective method of infiltration.

Casting one more, cursory ping out into the night to check that he’s definitely alone, he at last begins to unfurl himself into his bipedal mode. Metal plating slides away from his grill, pulling back and rolling along the body of the semi as he rises onto newly revealed pedes. The mechanical whines, whirrs and buzzes are terribly loud and alien amongst the desert’s natural ambiance, but soon enough, the air falls still once again, and a monolithic Cybertronian stands in the place where a Peterbilt used to be.

Soft, cerulean light spills over the abandoned truck as Optimus settles his optics upon it, easing his enormous frame down into a crouch and draping one arm across his knee with a ‘clunk.’

At first glance, he hadn’t noticed anything especially odd about the truck save for its unexpected presence. Leaning sideways, he casts an optic over the front bumper and finds nothing out of place, no damage to indicate a crash, no broken headlights or crushed bonnet.

It’s the same story with the truck’s bed. Only when Optimus hauls himself upright and treads carefully around it to inspect the other side does he notices the glaring problem.

The whole vehicle is canting onto its offside front tyre, a tyre that sports a rather sizeable puncture, considering how flat it is. And from the looks of it, this one was only ever meant to be used as a temporary spare. A quick glance into the truck’s bed reveals what he assumes must be the original tyre, flat as well, with the silver head of a nail jutting from the centre tread block.

Optimus clicks his glossa softly for the owner’s run of bad luck.

Right away, he sends a ping to his team, advising them to be wary of stray nails along this stretch…

He receives several pings in return. Immediately comes Bumblebee’s frustration, buzzed over the airwaves like a sulking sparkling who’s been told his toy was broken. Given the Scout’s inclination to race at top speed all over these roads, Optimus doesn’t doubt he’s just vexed at the shuddersome notion of having to slow down.

Arcee and Bulkhead respond in kind as their leader absently moves his attention to something strange obscuring part of driver’s window, letting their concern wash over his field.

‘Popped a tyre, Boss?’ Bulkhead’s message hits his comm, informal and probing, but with the warmth of care behind it.

Optimus is quick to send a pulse of reassurance back through their shared channel. He’s fine. If one little nail was all it took to take a Prime out of commission, they’d all be in serious, serious trouble.

The channels go quiet after Arcee and Ratchet send their short, concise responses, and once again, Optimus is alone on the road, peering down at a small sheet of paper that’s been taped to the inside of the truck’s front window.

Gradually, he furrows his optical ridges until they almost click together into one, solid line, the apertures inside each optic whirring and shrinking as he reads the words scribbled on the paper.

He recalls the first time he encountered the languages of Earth as they were written. The looping letters, graceful and elegant, chasing one another across the front of the letter Agent Fowler gave him as part of an unofficial welcome to the United States.

Optimus had held the paper so delicately between two of his digits, blinking down at the dark ink soaked into repurposed cellulose fibre. It was beautiful.

When he remarked as such, Fowler made a noncommittal comment that you could tell a lot about humans from their handwriting.

Optimus would sometimes find himself glancing over the children’s homework when they left their books out unattended on the table in their recreational area.

Jack’s neat and sensible cursive. Miko’s chaotic, glittery script that rose and fell and ventured outside the lines because she was usually paying more attention to her music than the words she wrote in her textbook. And Rafael, of course, with his quick, almost frantic stokes of the pen as he tried to scribble his thoughts down as fast as his brain could make them, only to end up losing his confidence halfway through a sentence, doubled back, drew a single line through the words, and started again on a fresh page.

This handwriting though… written in blue, splotchy ink and stuck with a piece of scotch tape to the truck’s window, makes Fowler’s words ring true in Optimus’s processor.

He can tell a lot about the human who wrote it.

‘Please don’t steal/break into my truck,’ it reads. The word ‘please’ has been underlined several times. ‘Not worth much, it’s all I’ve got. Tyre is flat, spare tyre too, so can’t get far anyway. Walking to town to find help bcos phone died and I don’t have a charger. Be back soon. Thanks.’

The ink has run in several places and rendered some of the letters illegible, as if water has been dropped on them from above.

Optimus isn’t naïve. He’s seen the children cry, more times than he can bear.

Then underneath all that, in much smaller writing stuffed underneath the first message like an afterthought they forgot to leave enough space for…

‘P.s, if the truck is still here in 3 days, assume I’m dead.’

With a sudden groan of his metal frame, Optimus braces a servo on his knee and hurriedly pushes himself to his pedes once again, helm swivelling sideways to stare down the length of the road.

The truck’s nose is pointed in the direction of Jasper, but the town itself is still about a fifteen-mile drive…

Surely they wouldn’t make the journey on foot…

But if the note is any indication, then…

His processor flashes again to the children; Miko in particular, and the alarming disregard she has for her own safety. The boys are guilty of that as well, though to a lesser degree.

Suddenly, there’s a very high likelihood that there might be a human wondering through the vast Mojave, alone. Worse still, Bumblebee had reported just last week that there’s been an increase in Decepticon patrols in the area around Jasper. No doubt Megatron has been ramping up his efforts to locate the Autobot base. Their growing presence in the vicinity of town makes these roads particularly treacherous…

Optimus ex-vents roughly, more troubled than frustrated.

Blue optics narrow at the road ahead, and once again, the peace of the desert night is filled by the sounds of living metal collapsing back in on itself.

A powerful engine roars to life. Somewhere nearby, a startled jackrabbit darts beneath the safety of a sagebrush, hiding herself amongst its silvery leaves.

Unblinking, her wild eyes stare after the great, thrumming beast as it moves on down the road.

—————-

You’ve had a lot of ideas in your life.

Some good. Some bad. Some that have paid off, but most that have gone nowhere at all.

Perhaps you were growing tired of going nowhere…

What else would have possessed you to up and move all the way to the middle of Nevada state on the back of a job offer that came from a man your uncle purported to know?

‘Oh yeah, Terry? Did a job with him a few years back for some cattle baron out in the sticks. ‘Course, Terry always wanted his own dairy… Want me to tell him you’re lookin’ for work?’

Turns out, Terry did end up getting that dairy he always wanted. And as it happened, he was looking for a farm hand.

Does it count as nepotism if you’re fairly sure your uncle had only met your future employer once?

Beyond a certain point, you simply couldn’t care less.

A job is a job, even if it is out here in the desert near a town you’d never heard of a month ago.

Dust-caked trainers trudge to a weary halt in front of a large, green road sign.

The moon, thankfully, hangs fat and luminous in the cloudless sky. So at least you don’t need a torch to see, not now that your eyes have had time to adjust the darkness cloaked over the desert.

With your run of bad luck, you half assumed the heavens would have opened by now and given the Mojave a nice, little dose of rain.

“Well,” you mutter aloud to yourself, peering up at the green sign with a grimace, “Could be worse…”

‘Jasper – 10 miles,’ reads like a slap to the face.

Still… It’s better than the fifteen miles.

You must have walked at least five already, dragging your legs behind you like extra baggage that doesn’t want to cooperate.

It has to be beyond midnight now. Well beyond, you suppose.

You’ve been walking for the better part of two hours, slow and sluggish and exhausted. The journey getting to Nevada had been tiring enough, then as soon as you crossed state lines, your tyre caught a puncture going over a particularly nasty pothole that had snuck up on you.

After an hour spent in the blazing sun jacking up the truck and changing to the spare, you set off again for another several hours of travel. Then, twenty miles out of Jasper, just as you dared to celebrate being home-free, the unthinkable had happened.

Who hits a pothole and drives over a nail in the same, damn day? Apparently, the same person who forgot to buy a charger adaptor for the truck.

No charger? No phone.

No phone…? No calling for help…

Your chest expands and deflates with a bone-tired sigh, turning your gaze back onto the long, dark road ahead of you. Tears sting at the inside of your eyelids, and for a moment, you consider letting them fall, if only to ease some of the pressure building up behind your temples. But crying hysterically about the unfairness of the world hadn’t un-punctured your spare tyre, so why would it help the situation now.

“Come on,” you coax yourself, hauling one leg out in front of the other. Rinse. Repeat. “Not far now.”

Just a few more hours…

The going is slow, tough, draining. Even the dark shapes of rocks start to look enticing as you pass them, letting your eyes slide over to them as you wonder just how safe it would be to fall asleep in the desert by the side of a road.

Ever since you broke down a few hours ago, you haven’t seen one, single vehicle out here.

‘Which,’ you hum, pursing your lips and tipping your head back to peer up at the bleary sky far above you, ‘Isn’t so bad…’

The stars are numerous, and startlingly clear out in the wilderness. The moon as well seems brighter here, unobscured by clouds. She makes for a quiet companion on your journey towards Jasper, her starry brethren endlessly stretching out to each corner of the horizon.

Suddenly, you feel very small. A hopeless traveller trying to find port in a sea of sand and rock.

Swallowing roughly, you hike your tattered rucksack high onto your shoulder and tear your gaze from the stars.

It’s quiet out here, save for the rustle of sage bushes disturbed by the warm breeze, and the skittering of rocks as night-time animals go about their hunts.

Perhaps that natural silence is why the sudden introduction of an entirely new sound unnerves you so much.

You jerk to a halt, ears straining to hear something approaching from the distance. Underneath the thin, worn soles of your shoes, you start to feel it; the road thrumming with gentle vibrations, growing stronger every second.

Lighting quick, you whirl around to face the way you’d come, hands flying up to grip anxiously at the straps of your rucksack.

You’d have thought you’d be excited to see those headlights rise up above the horizon line. At last! A stroke of luck! A potential ride! Potential help.

Instead, it’s as though the sudden appearance of two, dazzling lights blooming into view as they crest over the hill finally jar some sense back into your dizzy head.

The haze of fatigue lifts slightly, pushed away by little bursts of adrenaline as your brain fights to wake you up to an unconscious threat.

You’re alone out here. Defenceless, phoneless. You don’t know the area. Nobody knows you’ve broken down… You try so hard to think the best of people, but now that you’ve had one doubt, a hundred others start to scurry around in your brain, demanding attention.

You can see the vehicle, or their lights at least, but you doubt they can see you yet, this far down the road. You wonder what it is. Car? Truck?

… Alien spacecraft? Despite yourself, you let out a snort at that. Isn’t that infamous military base supposed to be in Nevada? The one hiding alien activity?

Right. Sure.

Despite your scepticism however, a thrill of fear rushes down the length of your spine as if to say, ‘Oh? But are you sure sure?’

 Gulping audibly, you take a few steps sideways off the road, stealing a glance at a cluster of large rocks that sit conveniently just several yards to your rear.

You have a decision to make.

Maybe you’ve been alone on the road for too long, and isolation has bred a paranoia in you that’s so deeply rooted, you can’t shift it at a moment’s notice. If the sun was out, perhaps you’d be less apprehensive, but the night, no matter where you are, makes everything seem so much more… treacherous. It hides things. People, motivations, monsters.

And though it pains you to do so, you swiftly decide to err on the side of personal safety.

The vehicle is closer now, and your blood trembles as the roar of a loud, formidable engine thunders over the tarmac. Yet you’re still certain it isn’t close enough to have caught you in its high-beams.

On sluggish legs, you haul yourself about and make a clumsy dash for the rocks, clenching a fist around one strap of the rucksack and using your other hand to grab the closest rock and swing yourself behind it. Dropping to your backside, you flatten your spine against the cool, solid surface, eyes wide, heart beating hard against the cage of ribs keeping it from leaping up into your throat.

‘Coward,’ a voice in the back of your head scoffs, sounding suspiciously like your father. You shake it loose. Now is not the time to be bothered by old ghosts.

The thundering engine draws nearer, rumbling in your chest as it seems to creep towards your hiding spot at a pace even a glacier would be impressed by.

Around the corner of the rock, you can finally see the glow of its headlights smoothing over the tarmac, illuminating the sand and brush all around you. Hurriedly, you tuck your toes right into the shadow cast by your rock, keeping a breath held hostage behind clenched teeth.

“Come on… Come on,” you urge it frustratedly, aware that every second you spend not moving is another second towards sunrise. If you’re not on the dairy ready for work by then…

The vehicle rolls to a stop.

It stops.

The temptation to let out a frustrated scream is only held in check by your tongue getting stuck to the roof of bone-dry mouth.

They saw you. They must have seen you. There’s no way they could have known you were here otherwise.

Idiot!

Wasting time on the decision has only taken it right out of your hands in the end.

A bead of sweat escapes your hairline and rolls down the side of your face, following the curve of your cheek. Should you run? Keep hiding? Did they stop by coincidence? If they meant no harm, they’d have seen you hide and kept on driving, wouldn’t they? Stopping is suspicious. It conveys a desire to engage.

And then something really strange happens.

“Excuse me?”

And… Well, you’re… not entirely proud of the choked gasp that jumps out of you, nor the way you flinch as if you’d been struck.

When did they – He? It’s a low voice, deeper than anything you’ve heard in a long while, full of bass but soft like distant brontide.

When did he get out of the vehicle? You didn’t hear a door open, nor close.

You nearly jump out of your skin when he speaks again.

“I’ve frightened you…” Despite how gentle the timbre is, his voice is loud, like he’s speaking all around you, not just behind you. “I apologise,” the stranger continues, “That is the last thing I meant to do.”

What the Hell is he talking about?

There’s a long, unpleasant stretch of time until he speaks again.

“Was that your… Ford?” he asks, like he’s testing the word on his tongue, “Up the road?”

Shit. You’re starting to regret leaving that note. He must have read it and knew someone would be walking into town, alone and vulnerable.

The vehicle's powerful engine is still idling, strong and steady, buzzing along the ground and up through the soles of your feet.

It goes against your nature to ignore someone when they’re talking to you, but there’s still a part of you clinging to the hope that he’ll just give up and move on if you don’t respond or show yourself. Perhaps he’ll think you were just a figment of an overtired imagination…

Of course, instead, he persists. “Please.”

Jesus, he almost squeezes the word out, oozing dejection.

“You have nothing to fear from me… I’m a friend.”

A friend indeed. You huff quietly to yourself. You don’t even know him. He doesn’t know you. He’s trying to coax you out of hiding after watching you flee from his vehicle. Hardly the foundation for a good friendship. Still, you have to wonder why he doesn’t just come around the rock to stand over you if he’s so keen.

After another few seconds of stubborn silence on your part, the voice speaks again.

“Will you at least step back from the rock?”

What?

“There are scorpions on it, and I fear you’ll get-“

You don’t think you’ve moved so fast in quite some time. One moment you’re pressing yourself to the rock, and the next, you’re scrabbling to your feet with gusto, lurching away from your prior hiding space and spinning around, skin already crawling.

Sure enough, a pair of giant scorpions are scuttling around on the flat top, their tails held aloft, proud and large in the moonlight.

“-Hurt,” the stranger finishes.

Snatching your head up, you find yourself staring right into the vehicle’s headlights, and you instantly grunt with discomfort, raising a hand to shield your eyes from the light.

“Oh.” There’s a pause, the vehicle’s engine skips, and the lights suddenly dim, plunging you into almost darkness save for the dim glow of residual light. “Forgive me. Is that better?”

“Much. Thanks,” you respond automatically, only to turn rigid once you realise you’ve spoken aloud.

Well. He’s already seen you. No point pretending you can’t talk either…

Again, the stranger’s vehicle makes an odd noise, it’s engine hums gently, and as you lower your arm to seek out the man you’ve just opened a line of conversation with, you finally see what you’d been hiding from.

A monstrous Peterbilt sits squarely across the width of the road, entirely alien in the barren, rocky landscape. Smokestacks on either side of its cab reach towards the sky, glinting silver in the moonlight. It looks red under the meagre glow, with lighter panelling on the main body and dark, blue accents on the wheel trims and storage compartment. The grill is, in a word, massive, standing taller than you are, sporting a logo you don’t recognise on the front.

All in all, it’s a hell of a truck. Powerful, you imagine. Expensive too.

You try not to let your mouth hang ajar.

“Where-” Your voice cracks, still dry. “Ahem…! Where are you?”

Glancing around, your hackles start to rise. You can’t see the speaker anywhere. Which is why you let out an embarrassingly shrill yelp when his voice rumbles directly from the semi.

“I’m right here,” he assures you, polite enough not to show his amusement whilst you flap your mouth open and closed.

No, you shake your head. No, that is too weird. “What, are there like… speakers on the outside of your truck or something?”

There’s the tiniest of pauses, followed by a simple, concise, “There are.”

Oh. Well, then. That answers that burning question.

“Okay? So, um… Can I… help you?” you ask awkwardly, screwing one side of your face up.

The man seems to hesitate, allowing a pregnant pause to hang in the air between you before he replies, “I was going to ask you the same thing.”

Somehow, your expression twists even further south, and you begin casting your eyes over the semi, squinting through its dark windshield to try and catch a glimpse of what’s on the other side.

“I saw your truck on the side of the road,” the unseen man continues, “I feared you might have been hurt in a crash, so, I stopped to check that you weren’t still inside the vehicle. Then I found your note.”

He falls silent, and the air is dominated once again by the purring of his semi’s engine.

“Okay?” you prompt, still unsure of his motivations.

“It said you need help.”

He trails off, waiting. You’re promptly struck by the idea that he’s trying to guide you to some conclusion he hasn’t yet revealed. Finally, just as you start to grow restless, he forges ahead, “These roads can be hazardous for a lone hu-“

Suddenly, the truck’s engine revs, drowning out his voice for a second and sending you leaping backwards, startled.

“- A lone traveller…” he clears his throat just after the roar of its exhaust cuts out. Then, “Ah, If I may be so bold...”

All of a sudden, the passenger side door unlatches and swings open, and you’re presented with a clear invitation into the darkened cab. “May I offer you a ride into town?”

You wonder if he can see you turn stiff at his suggestion. Your body all but pleads on hands and knees for you to accept. What’s the worst that could happen, after all?

Well. You’ve watched several documentaries and movies that give you a pretty good indication of what ‘the Worst’ entails, thank you very much. You don’t like that he’s inviting you into his truck without showing his face to you yet. You’d like to gauge the person you’re speaking to. Get a bead on him. Is he big? Strong? Tall? Could you overpower him if it came down to it? Does he look like he’s hiding a weapon on him?

All these questions only serve to dry the moisture in your throat.

“I… That’s… very kind of you,” you admit, wringing your hands together as you take a small step away from the semi, “But I’m sure it’ll be okay, it isn’t that far.”

“At an average speed of three miles per hour, you will reach the outskirts of town in just under three and a half hours.”

You blink, caught off guard. ‘And they said we’d never need to use equations after we graduated.’

“Maths guy, huh?” you cock a hip, laying a hand across it and shooting the truck’s windshield a tentative smile, “Maybe I walk at four miles an hour.”

“Two and a half then,” he quips back just as smoothly, the door to his semi still hanging open. When he continues, you can’t help but notice that the cadence of his baritone voice rumbling through the speakers has turned to something a little more sombre, quieter, like he’s trying to impress upon you the gravity of a situation you don’t yet know about. “But time and distance aside, I do not wish to leave you to walk into Jasper by yourself, particularly at this time of night.”

He speaks like he’s been to elocution lessons. Every word seems to be carefully selected, every vowel and consonant articulate and refined.

It’s disarming. He’s disarming. But you’re still not convinced.

“Listen… Thank you, again. But…” It feels rude, like you’re committing some kind of faux pas in turning your back on the semi, yet you can’t shake the nagging voice at the back of your head, telling you that there’s something not quite right about the man in the truck. Not bad, just… off.

“It’s a kind offer,” you tell him again lamely, turning on your heel. And so, you recommence your weary march for Jasper, tossing one last sentiment over your shoulder, “But I’m sure I can make it on my own. Take care, okay?”

You almost expect him to argue, but all you can hear is the now familiar drone of the semi’s almighty engine. For several paces, you can feel a pair of eyes watching you, scrutinising and pensive, if a little baffled by your short yet polite dismissal.

When you make it another ten feet, heaving your tired legs after you over the tarmac, your ears perk up to the sound of an engine revving.

Smokestacks chugging, the massive truck pulls out of its standstill, unseen behind you.

Chewing on the inside of your lip, you keep your gaze fixed to the ground ahead and raise a hand, flapping it about in an apologetic farewell as you meander further off the road and onto the sand, giving him plenty of space to get past.

You start to frown when you make it twenty paces without being overtaken by the truck.

That frown only grows deeper when the engine keeps churring away behind you, rubber tyres crunching tiny particles of sand under their treads as it crawls along in your wake.

Is he…?

Tearing your eyes off the toes of your shoes, you send a fleeting glance over your shoulder, surprised – but not much – to find the nose of the Peterbilt creeping slowly along in your peripheral vision, keeping pace with you.

Your frown eases back, and you quirk a brow at him instead, calmly asking, “What are you doing?”

And just as easily, the voice returns, “If you will not allow me to drive you, I will happily escort you to your destination.”

You can’t help yourself.

“Ha! ‘Escort.’” The snicker jumps out of you faster than you can raise your hands to press your fingertips against an unbidden grin. “Sorry,” you immediately try to amend, “You just sounded so serious.”

“… I… am serious?”

Letting your hand flop back to your side, you give your head a shake, still grinning. You really do meet all sorts on the road.

“Regardless, I’m sure you have far better things to be doing with your time.”

How the truck matches your walking speed without his engine faltering or sputtering, you’ll never know.

A strange noise gurgles from its exhaust, almost perfectly reminiscent of a troubled hum.

“On the contrary,” the driver responds, pulling forwards a little until only the grill overtakes you, and for a moment, you worry he’s about to drive across your path, “There is nothing at the moment that concerns me more than getting you safely where you need to go.”

Huh. Of all the genuine, stubborn…

“Look.” Your shoes scuff up a cloud of sand as you draw to an abrupt and decisive halt, turning bodily towards the truck. Hands splayed on your hips, you glare at the windscreen, aiming approximately for the driver. A second later, he must have hit the brakes because the semi lurches to a stop as well, hissing noisily.

Still, he doesn’t step out.

“You seem like a nice guy,” you start, trying to keep your chin raised and your tone stern. You fail, of course. Your voice cracks nervously, but at least you try. Taking a deep, steadying breath, you finally elect to stop beating around the bush and just address the elephant in the room – or desert, as it were.

“But I don’t make it a habit to get into random trucks with strangers.” You make it a point not to directly accuse him of having ulterior motives, but you hope you’ve at least driven home your main concern. At best, he’ll grow offended that you’d think him capable of such a thing and – hopefully – move on. At worst… Well. You brace yourself for that, teeth grit so tightly, your jaw starts to ache as you flick your eyes over towards the truck’s driver-side door, waiting.

The truck in question does something odd then. It… sinks? At least you think it does, lowering on its axles by a few inches like the wheels have just deflated. It’s difficult to tell in the dim moonlight though, and it’s over so quickly, you can’t be sure you saw anything at all that wasn’t just a trick of the desert.

How long have you been awake?

You’re busy calculating the hours you were driving when the stranger’s voice is kicked out over the speakers again.

“You assume I mean you harm…” he utters.

And just like that, the stern, rigid scowl is instantly wiped off your face.

He sounds…

…sad.

Not offended. Not angered by your thinly-veiled implication.

Just sad. Dispirited, even. As if it’s only just occurred to him that you might have perceived him as a threat.

It’s almost painful when the pair of you dissolve into an uncomfortable silence that lasts for several beats of your rapid-fire heart.

Biting down on the inside of your cheek, your brows drift apart whilst you try to think of something to say. Trouble is, you’re afraid that speaking again will only make things worse.

You have no idea what’s going through his head. What if his dejected tone is followed by something worse?

“I’m sorry,” you backtrack, pressing your lips together and chiding yourself for faltering, “It’s nothing personal, just… I-I should probably get going before I fall asleep standing up.” You give a stilted laugh, but it soon turns into an awkward sound made at the back of your throat, lips pulled over your teeth in a grimace.

Dipping your head, you swallow thickly and grip the straps of your rucksack again. But just as you make to turn away, the semi’s wheels abruptly twist towards you. It’s ever so slight, just enough that the truck rolls a few paces in your direction before it stops again, its grill pointed straight at you.

With an audible gulp, you go to take another step back, staring at the metal in anticipation. Your retreat is soon halted by the mellow rumble of his voice.

“I understand your hesitation. And I know that the word of a stranger may not hold much weight,” he begins slowly. The Peterbilt inches forwards again. “But I can assure you, you have nothing to fear from me…”

Shifting on your feet, you let go of your bag and clutch instead at your elbows, brows tipped up indecisively. He’s persistent, you’ll give him that. He also speaks with a candour you’ve never encountered outside of a film or a storybook. Frank and forthright in a way you’ve never been privy to. Is that why you’re hesitating? Is that why he seems ‘off?’ Because his level of sincerity doesn’t have a place in your world?

Perhaps you’ve been spending so much time by yourself, it’s turned you distrustful. Maybe you’re just getting cynical. Looking back on your journey here, you realise that only other person who you’ve spoken to was a disinterested server who took your order at a drive-thru… That was four days ago. How long before that did you listen to someone who wasn’t the people on your truck’s radio?

Why is it so suspicious that this trucker wants to help? Hell, you’d be concerned as well if you saw some poor bastard hiking alone through the desert at night without a friend in the world.

Christ, you need some perspective.

The driver must see the conflict painted like a brand across your expression.

“Would it reassure you to know that this vehicle is operated entirely remotely?” he pipes up.

You blink once. Then again to wake yourself up a little more, pulled from your inner turmoil. “What?”

“This vehicle,” he tells you, “It is an unmanned vehicle.”

Curiosity overtakes suspicion faster than you can uncross your arms and stare at the grill dumbly, face opening up in surprise. “Wait. You mean it’s one of those self-driving things?”

“In a sense.” The semi’s engine rumbles softly, and the not-driver adds, “I am what you might call… the safety driver.”

Now that is curious.

You don’t even realise you’ve taken a step closer. “Really? But I thought that sort of tech was still in testing?”

“It is,” he replies, “We are, however, attempting to advance to field-tests, to see if these vehicles can autonomously haul freight in areas with sparser populations, to minimise the risk of collision.”

“Hence why you’re driving it out here in the middle of the night,” you realise aloud, raising an inquisitive brow at the windscreen, “So you’re really not in there? You’re driving it from somewhere else?”

“Would you care to see for yourself?” he asks kindly.

Your wide eyes flit to the passenger door when it eases open once again, though this time, it seems far less foreboding than before.

Tugging a loose piece of skin between your teeth, you give the silver steps leading to the door a scrutinising glance.

That does reassure you…

Slowly, still at least a little wary, you coax your legs to move, and they begrudgingly carry you onto the road. You approach the semi-truck with all the caution of a doe crossing an open meadow.

As you venture closer, its engine kicks up a notch, emitting a steady, gentle purr as if the vehicle itself is pleased with your acquiescence.

Suddenly, as you move along to the open door, you’re dazzled by a light flickering on inside the cab, bathing what you can see from this angle in a calm, golden hue.

From down here, it looks… just like an ordinary interior.

And lo and behold, as you stand on your tiptoes to see in, you find the driver’s seat is eerily devoid of its occupant.

You let out a breath that emerges shakier than you would have liked it to.

“Wow,” you laugh, impressed.

Maybe just a quick peek…

A vast chunk of apprehension breaks away from your chest and vanishes into the ether as you shuffle towards the steps, raising an arm and stretching your fingers across the space to the grab handle that sits invitingly just beside the open door.

This side of the truck is bathed in silver moonlight, and it’s only now that you’re this close that you happen to notice something you hadn’t before.

You almost wince when you spot them.

Although shiny and speckled with only the lightest dusting of desert sand, the metal panelling on the semi is covered in signs of wear and tear.

Enough to give you pause, at least.

For a moment, you’re taken aback, turning bodily away from the open door and cocking your head at the myriad of scratches that criss-cross their way up towards the semi’s roof.

All the paint in the world couldn’t hide some of those shallow nicks and lines that have been scraped out of the metal. In any case, something big must have scuffed it. Perhaps another driver in their own Peterbilt? Or perhaps it’s all damage sustained in testing the vehicle’s automated capabilities.

Clicking your tongue, you absently raise a hand to stroke your fingertips gingerly along the length of a particularly prominent scratch by the door.

“Oh dear,” you tut softly at the side of the truck, “You’ve been in the wars, haven’t you?”

Without warning, the engine that had been buzzing so gently suddenly ramps up and starts to vibrate firmly beneath your fingers, so strong you can even feel it judder the ground through the soles of your feet.

Recoiling like you’ve been zapped, you whip your head around to peer through the open door, half expecting the driver to admonish you for touching his vehicle.

As swiftly as it started however, the thrumming engine dies down, and the truck returns to its soft, benign idling. “My apologies,” comes that gentle voice again through the speakers, “Just an overactive combustion chamber.”

“Is it... safe to ride in?” you retort, giving the back of the truck a sidelong glance.

“You will find very few vehicles safer than this one,” he tells you patiently, “I will not allow any harm to befall you, as I would not allow it to befall any of my passengers.”

Your shoulders jump with a silent laugh. “Befall,” you parrot, fighting a smile, “I love the way you talk.”

“… You do?” His speakers buzz with a pleasant hum.

Fingers flexing anxiously, you reach out once again and slide them around the grab handle beside the door, finding that it’s unexpectedly warm under your palm.

“So, I just… get in?” you ask, only to cringe immediately, realising you probably sound like a fool who’s forgotten how to get into a truck.

Before you can rebuke yourself harshly though, the absent stranger offers his response. “Do you require assistance?”

“No, no,” you rush out, placing one foot on the first, silver step and hoisting yourself up off the ground, bringing yourself level with the cab’s seats.

Your eyes grow wide with wonder as you take in the interior.

“Oh, wow,” you breathe, suddenly hesitant to pull yourself up those last few feet.

“Is there something wrong?”

“It’s just… It’s so clean!”

Laid out before you is a perfectly ordinary truck cabin. Soft, grey leather covers the seats, with the same dark colouration on the roof, doors and most of the glovebox, interspersed by a rich, black steering wheel. The soft light, you discover, is emitted by multiple strips of blue neon LEDs that the driver must have fitted underneath the radio dials and dashboard, casting the truck’s interior in a cool, soothing glow.

But most astonishingly, for as much as you search, you can’t spot a single thing out of place. It’s absolutely immaculate. There isn’t one receipt stuffed in the door pockets, no traces of sand or gravel dirtying the footwells, no loose change tossed into the centre console…

Dumbfounded, you glance into the back, but all you find it a dark, grey panel and a shelf set back into the semi’s rear wall, meant for use as a bed, you surmise. It’s empty, unsurprisingly. Not a blanket or a pillow in sight.

Finally, your suspicions are put to rest. This truck doesn’t look lived in at all. He really is operating it remotely.

“God, it looks brand new in here,” you marvel aloud, suddenly hyper-conscious of the abysmal state of your old pickup. The scratches on this semi’s exterior play briefly on your mind but you brush your musings aside, too fatigued to consider the contradictions of a worn exterior but an immaculate interior.

Instead, you feel a frown crease the skin between your brows.

It really is immaculate in here…

Glancing down, you scowl disdainfully at your filthy shoes, the tank-top that’s stained irreparably by dropped food and greasy finger-smears, and trousers that are tattered and worn at their hems.

“Is everything all right?” the ‘driver’ asks again. His voice must emerge from the speakers on each door, low and warm, filling up the cabin.

“My shoes are dirty,” you admit out loud, your grip on the handle turning slack until you sink a few inches back to the first step, “I’m dirty. I-I don’t want to get sand and crap all over your truck.”

“I don’t mind.”

Spoken with more consideration than you’ve heard in a long, long time.

You pause at once, brows tipping up in the centre of your forehead.

A deep inhale through your nose brings with it the unobtrusive scent of leather, with the faintest undertone of adhesive sealers, giving the interior that ‘new truck smell’ that so many drivers try to replicate artificially.

Comparatively, it’s been several days since you passed a rest stop that had showering facilities. Those that did asked for a hefty charge. You’d glanced down at the handful of coppers in your centre console and decided you could go without. Now, you’re starting to regret that decision. Every now and then, whenever you raised your arms to stretch or flip the visor down in your pickup, you’d catch an unpleasant whiff of yourself wafting out from under your light, cotton shirt.

Embarrassed as you are to confess that you’ve been severely neglecting your personal hygiene, you swallow past a lump in your throat and croak, “I… haven’t exactly washed for a couple of days… I wouldn’t want to make your truck smell…”

And in a tone so kind it threatens to brings a tear to your eye, the stranger answers consolingly, “I think your scent is perfectly fine.”

It’s so damnably genuine, you can’t even find it in yourself to point out that he isn’t here to smell you, so his point is moot.

“I…” One more cop-out strikes you. “I don’t have any money,” you murmur truthfully, ashamed, “I can’t pay you for the fuel, or-“

“-I ask for nothing in return but your company,” is all he says, cutting you off as gently as his profound voice will allow.

And just like that, you’re out of viable excuses. Or perhaps your body has noticed the comfortable seats right in front of it and you don’t have enough fight left in you to deny it a sit down. Besides, any reasons you come up with to dip are likely to be met with a counterpoint.

Even so, you can’t help but hesitate for one more question, hand clasping and unclasping around the grab handle. “Are you sure it’s okay? I’m not going to get you in trouble or anything am I?”

The next sound that hums through his speakers is so soft and rich, you think it’s the truck’s engine playing up again, at least until the stranger cuts the noise off by saying, “You do not look like trouble to me.”

If he only knew.

The sound prior, you realise, was a chuckle, the first one you’ve heard out of him yet. Something in the measure of it settles the last of your nerves, only slightly, just long enough to have you throwing caution to the wind. With a final heave, you pull yourself the rest of the way inside, sliding gingerly into the comfortable passenger seat. You never notice how the metal below your foot shifts microscopically, lifting you closer to the cab.

It takes a lot of restraint not to let your eyes drift closed, nor to slump backwards into the wondrously giving material on your spine.

Instead, you sit stiffly with your rucksack keeping you upright, legs pressed together, hands folded neatly in your lap. If you make any kind of mess in here, you’ll be mortified.

After a moment, you remember to close the door, but just as you turn and peel a hand off your thigh, you jolt, staring agog at the door as it swings slowly shut with a dull ‘click.’ All of its own accord.

“Full remote access,” the voice pipes up as the engine below you roars to life, and then you’re moving, and all you can do is stare through the window at the desert drifting by whilst trying to ignore the uninvited ache in your chest.

“Seatbelt.”

His gentle prompt spurs you to reach over and grab the fabric near your shoulder, tugging it across your body and fumbling a little to slot it into place. Suddenly, you feel an invisible pull on the belt, and the metal buckle finds its way into the socket on your next pass.

‘Must be magnetic,’ you muse distractedly.

“Are you comfortable?”

Blinking back the moisture in your eyes, you turn to glance at the empty driver’s seat. It’s bizarre, and more than a little unsettling to see the steering wheel turn itself around as the truck pulls back onto the road, driven by unseen hands.

When you don’t immediately respond to his query, the man continues just as patiently as before. “If it is too cold, I can turn up the heater. Or… perhaps you are too warm…” He hums to himself, thoughtful. “You have been exerting yourself.”

You instantly become aware of the light sheen of sweat that hasn’t quite dried on your forehead. Puckering your face up into a solemn smile, you shake your head and at last respond. “Not to worry. It’s very comfortable in here.”

What follows is a poignant moment of hesitation before the voice speaks again. “Forgive me if I’m overstepping, but… You do not seem comfortable…”

The open-ended statement fades into silence, and you’re left casting nervous glances around the cabin again. “How do you-?” you start, tugging your shirt further down your arms, “Can you see me? Like… in here?”

Again, there’s a pause, barely longer than a second, yet long enough for you to notice it.

“Cameras,” comes his measured response, “Both external and internal. They’re how I spotted you on the road.”

“Oh, I hadn’t even considered that… Of course.”

Suddenly self-conscious, you reach up and begin to paw uselessly at your dishevelled hair, humming though a thin-lipped smile. “I must look a sight,” you half joke.

“You look tired…” he replies diplomatically, and there’s nothing in it for you to be offended by.

Rubbing a thumb over the wrinkle slowly carving a home between your brows, you heave a dreary sigh. “It’s been a long journey.”

“I can only imagine… And… Where does it culminate, if I may?”

“Terry’s Dairy?” you offer, “Uh, it’s this little farm just on the outskirts of Jasper.”

The truck beneath you gives a reverberating thrum. “I know the pastures, but I’m afraid you will find they lay beyond the ‘outskirts’ of the city.”

Letting out a groan, you knock your head back against the seat behind you, staring bleakly up at the ceiling. “Of course… How far?”

“Only a few miles, to the East of Jasper. We’re coming in from the Northwest highway. I can get you there in twenty-five minutes.”

“Twenty- Oh, no, no. You really don’t have to do that,” you protest, shifting in the seat to frown at the empty driver’s seat in lieu of anywhere else to look, “Just drop me off in town and I’ll walk the rest. You’re already going out of your way for a stranger.”

“I am dropping you off at your destination and not a mile before,” he tells you steadily.

His uncompromising tone brooks no argument.

You stare at the spot a person should be for several, long moments, debating how much you could push an argument. He’s already coaxed you into his truck, his powers of persuasion are rather good. What chance do you have, sleep-deprived as you are?

Conceding sullenly, yet appreciatively, you let your back touch the seat, settling into it a little less hesitantly. “You won’t be taking no for an answer, I assume?”

He only lapses into a stubborn silence, an answer in and of itself.

That quiet is broken, however, when you suddenly let out all the air from your lungs, a smile growing across the width of your face as the breath escapes your nostrils in a sigh. “Thank you for this… Really. You’re saving me a lot of grief.”

The blue neons on his dashboard seem to flare a bit brighter for all of a second before they dim again. “I am glad to be of service,” he replies warmly.

“Oh my god,” you blurt without warning, leaning forwards in the seat and staring through the windscreen with wide eyes, “I’m so sorry, you’re being so nice and I’m so rude – I never asked your name.”

“Nor did I yours,” he points out, “You may call me Op-“

Suddenly, a burst of static buzzes through the radio. You shoot it a funny look.

“Optimus,” the stranger admits over the static with a hesitance you pick up on right away, drawing your gaze from the dash, “My name is Optimus.”

“Optimus?” you repeat incredulously, a small smile quirking at the edges of your mouth, “Wow… You must have had creative parents.”

“I appreciate that it might seem… an unusual name…”

“It is,” you agree pleasantly, “I like it. Makes you sound cool. Unique. My parents just stuck me with Y/n.”

At once, Optimus echoes your name, and you’re jarred by the sound of it coming from someone else’s lips, reverberating around the truck. It’s been a while since anyone used it.

“Y/n,” he says again in his velvety timbre, “It’s a fine name. I like yours too.”

[veryconnoisseurcherryblossom]

Predaking x Reader - Breeding.

(First time writing valveplug ever, please let me know if I got anything wrong/where I can improve. I also cross-posted on Ao3. Thanks!)

--------

“Mnngah… Pr-Predaking…” You moaned helplessly beneath the behemoth that was your Conjunx, your mate. You hear him growl into your audials, but you can barely focus on anything but his large, primary spike thrusting into you, all but piercing your gestational forge. His smaller, secondary spike rubs against your anterior node and belly with each thrust, the combined feeling of both drawing out desperate, whiny gasps.

“M-more, please more…!”

He chuckles above you, a warm ex-vent washing over your back. The room is almost unbearably hot, each vent you take barely doing anything to cool down your frame. In your internal HUD you see a warning about overheating, but you ignore it, turning off the warning system.

“Such a greedy little mate you are… Who am I to deny you?” Predaking begins to pick up speed, his thrusts becoming harder. You gasp and groan into the pillow, your tears soaking the plush cushion. Groans turn into squeals as your royal lover shifts your hips, changing your position ever so slightly, yet the ridges of his spike rub against your valve sensors in such a way that the renewed stimulation brings you closer to crashing, falling into euphoria.

“Predaking! Oh, oh Primus I’m- I’m going to-”

“Overload for me, my queen.”

Your scream reverberates around the cave, your frame shaking as you feel your calipers work feverishly on Predaking’s spike, all but trying to milk him of his transfluid. Not a moment later does he overload, spilling his seed deep inside of you and coating your chassis from his secondary spike. You shake in the berth, tired, sore, but oh so full.

Whimpering as he pulls himself out of you, you hear and feel him hum in approval, satisfied at the sight of your overfilled, puffy valve spilling his transfluid onto your berth. You can feel it leak down your tibulem, burning hot against your overheated frame.

“You will make a fine carrier, my queen.”

You sigh, content as you fall onto your side and roll onto your back. You tiredly bring your arms up, welcoming him for a hug with a near-delirious smile. He obliges without a word, wrapping his monstrously large arms around you and capturing your lips with his own, drawing you into a slow, lazy, loving kiss.

Pulling away, you look at Predaking with a bashful smile.

“One more time…? Just to make sure I’m sparked…” Predaking smirks, a rumbling chuckle emerging from him. His golden optics glow as he lines his spike up against your valve, drawing a mewl out of your vocal components as you feel his claw circle your over-stimmed anterior node.

“What a greedy little mate you are...”

[hotgrrrlgross]

YES !! YES !!!!!! AHAHAAAA YESSSS !!!!

my personal headcannons for the loveliest of lovely little guys <3333

extra info + flags!!

randy: (pan and agender)

-fibromyalgia for sure, trauma does shit things

-probably needs a cane or something similar to aleviate pain (doesn't think he's ill enough to need one, absolutely is)

-if he gets high please treat him like a fish in an aquarium, probably would hate the lack of control

-flushes really easily, and constantly clammy

-if you put a blanket on his head he'll fall asleep

-narcolepsy

-loves the feeling of a nice, heafty, soft quilt and a hot cocoa on a cold afternoon...

oliver: (trans, gay and demiromantic!)

-has a stuffed animal collection 100%

-probably picks up a million different projects only to put them down, a new hyperfixation every week kinda guy

-him being a stoner is basically cannon but, in specifics he seems like a bong or joint guy to me, would let u smoke the first hit (bc he's nice)

-rollerskate date :]

-glasses to at least semi help his shit 'eye' (optical sensor) and lack of depth perception (they can only do so much though)

karen: (nonbinary, lesbian)

-doesn't particularly care about gender as a concept

-has a bunch of tassles and cords in her house she has braided

-can't keep a plant alive to save her life, has mourned at least 20 house plants, has a fake one (somehow dies too)

-mitski.

-the biggest sweet tooth out of the group

-will lock herself away for hours and hours, sometimes an entire day or two, just creating. only to come out of a hole haggard and exhuasted with her New Horse Drawing.

-hEDS, uses a walker to get around!

Norm: (questioning/bi ?)

-writer (how the hell else wouldn't he go absolutely bonkers all alone, other than having a goal and spite i guess)

-uses coffee to live, but definitely enjoys tea in his free time

-probably learned archery at some point

-whittles little sculptures to pass the time (made karen a little wooden horse sculpture once)

-randomly schedules cook outs/junctions when he's feeling lonely and isolated

-he would absolutely take the will graham route and end up with 20 fucking stray dogs out of a deep empathy and then wake up one day and realize the mess he got himself into.

-grilldad. (duh)

phonegingi: (genderfluid, polyamorous, pan)

-gender? yes.

-sexuality? yes.

-will consume your clothes if you are not careful with your gingi Care instructions. (taking little nibbles is okay as a treat)

-if weed is consumed it basically acts as a horrifically strong catnip, and it will get the zoomies and make it everyone's problem

-purrs

-pays really good attention to detail stuff, and its brain is basically a filing cabinet. but big events are basically a blur

-gets SUPER !! fluffy during the winter and there's an awful period where it's shedding and it's...super patchy and silly lookin

-me and the bitches i pulled by being HORRIFYING and lovely,,,,

bigfoot: (aroace. i don't take criticism.)

-banana,,,

-genuinely pretty attentive and smart

-becomes a painter because he is INSPIRED ! by his friend karen

-absolutely splendid lad

-i wanna live in a world where one of his passions is making and wearing silly hats, please, PLEASE

-karen showed him mitski,,,god help him he's sad now

-knitting,,,he knit giant banana,,,,

[directdogman]

hi dog!! i saw you answer someone's question about the dentistry business in dialtown. and ive had a similar question floating in my brain for a while so i figured i'd just ask lol

was there any sort of job crisis for certain positions after the dialup?? i feel like hairdressers would've probably been hit hard. or while something like. an optometrist wouldn't seem like it would completely go away (optical sensors), there had to be a bit of an adjustment from working with organic eyeballs to technology.

okay thats it, thanks! :p

Hmm, there is a kind of nuance to explain with the dentristry thing:

Otorhinolaryngology (ear doctors), ophthalmology (eye doctors) and dentistry got merged into a single, more competitive profession, so they really all got the short end of the stick in a sense. They all had to relearn their trade a signal unified thing, and while there's specialists for all 3 of the sub field (not every dentist specializes in optical sensors, for instance), cleaning locked air in closed systems is quite a bit simpler, meaning there's a lot less money to be made in specializing in that versus, say, repairing optical sensors.

Part of Crown's reasoning with the object heads was to cut down on the organic complexity of the human body. This wasn't an unintended side effect as much as a very intentional change.

A lot of occupations still worked over in some way. Object heads can still get facial piercings, be dyed to have tattoos (though stickers are now more viable as decorations bc phone heads lack skin and contain more flat surfaces), etc etc. Barbers is one example I'd have given as an obsolete profession, though there's a very small industry of toupee manufacturers, still. (Phonald Ringin has one in his ending of Randy's route!)

[ikkosu]

G1 prowl. I don't know where I'm going with with this. Mention of 'suggestive stuff but it's not explicit.' hrhrghrhhhrh

IT was a fine evening that night in his habsuite. As usual, the lights are turned off; room shrouded dim with the only illumination apparent is the iridescent glow from the desk lamp that tugged an ache in his optics.

He persevered, however. No matter how uncomfortable the ache pulsed. Bent over the desk, he skimmed through the expense protocols from this morning's briefings. It wasn't usually his position to handle the funds. The most he's got his hands on is managing the military expenditure, ensuring nothing is nicked during the process. But given the mech prior his employment had handled the situation indelicately, 'usually', he's now tasked with the errand to do so.

Another one of the many issues he'll have to sort through. As if being the tactician isn't enough. Not only will he have to spend weeks formulating battle plans but also play side-hustle as a financier.

Ultra Magnus expected the finished product the end of this week. Unfortunately for him, he'll give it seven days prior.

Footsteps patter in front of the door. He's too fixated on a misspelling to hear it slide open. (Is it so hard to not miss the other 'i' in Liaison?) And when his proximity sensor does register — swivelling around in surprise, the chastise lodged in his throat is cut short when a forty Cybertronians isn't in his view - but tipping his helm down is your minuscule form on the floor.

You peered back up, features twisted in solemn ire. Nose scrunched, lips down turned. Eyes distraught.

"You look..." He tried to find the word. When he couldn't he settled on something less severe he winced out. "...unhappy."

You sighed. "You have no idea."

With a slight tilt of his helm, he crouches to your level and curls out a servo. It didn't take long to waddle onto the palm, clutching the thumb to keep yourself balanced as he raises himself. You blinked when the thumb you're holding moves, pressing against your cheek then back and forth against the skin. You leaned into the touch and nuzzled the ridge.

"I was in trouble.” You spoke after a moment.

Prowl raises a brow. Oh? Trouble? You're not usually the worst ones. Worst are the twins. Along with an occasional Smokescreen and Hot rod thrown into the mix.

"That seems a little vague." He says, ploddings towards his desk.

"Hardly. It's just a little scolding I've got from ultra Magnus."

" What did you do to warrants such a transgression from the commander? Nothing too severe, I suppose?"

"That's for Wheeljack to decide. All I did was follow what the twins told me to do.

He sets you on the table, turning around to sort his datapads while you brought your legs to your chest, crossing your arms and perching your chin on top of it.

"Twins?" He frowned, tossing aside a datapad that read: Base Report #096.

"Sunstreaker? Sideswipe? The twins?" You list off. "...Don't tell me you forgot them too."

"I've got better things to remember." He tosses aside another report. Battle plans. Classified information. Blueprints.A digit points to his helm. “ Hard copies are unreliable. They're easily taken advantage of if not stored safely. That is why it is essential my processors are clear of any 'irrelevant' information."

You rolled your eyes. “Right. Red black. Yellow black. I don't see how hard it is for you to remember primary colors."

"Perceptor is also red and black."

"But you remember him."

"Only because he is my direct liaison to the Scientific district." Prowl turns halfway to you and you can see the quirk of a smile. "He's worth remembering." A pause. “And I suppose," He goes back to his desk. "You are too."

Silence. Prowl's door wings flick up straight as he fully faces you. You observed the unusual blue hue on his cheeks, though. Are those...?

"What did they tell you?" He asked, organizing the datapads

There was a pause as you observed him for a moment.

"Promise me you won't laugh."

He shoots you a look. "I don't laugh.”

"You do."

"Only when it's necessary."

"That's a 'somtime."

"A probability close to half."

You groaned. "Its just some stupid joke they've managed to rook me into. Tell me, what the hell does frag mean?"

His door wings flick up, just as his lips does. " Why, its an equivalent to your, ah, well — equivalent to the curse word—"

" Fuck?" You finish for him since it was obvious Prowl would take a lifetime to enunciate that word.

"How...tragic."

"Oh, please—"

"I'm going to assume they've tricked you into uttering it beside the commander?"

You crawled towaeds him, "They said it means rest! Can you believe that? Everytime I needed a break they told me to use 'frag' since it practically means the same! Except Cybertronian? Can you imagine the humiliation when I realized ice been going around telling bots that I need a frag? To everyone?!"

He scoops you up into his servos,and you noticed the surface lightly shook. You look up and is greeted by the crescent crease of his optics.

"Laugh and I'll pour water on your datapads."

He starts moving again, still unable to hide his sounds of amusement. " I admit that's a little—"

" It's terrible!"

"Yes, very terrible." Prowl sits on the edge of the berth, adjusting his position as he leans back, you perched on his chassis. " You have my condolences."

" Now, everyone thinks I'm some player with a desire to bag all bots in this base!" You hid your face into your palms. The memories of this morning resurfaces and the burn sears into a scalding heat. "This is— they're not even my type.....i don't even— ugh. Take me, now."

"Not unless you've taken the lives of the twins first."

You look up. Prowl is looking down softly.

"Oh, I will." You crawl up, tucking yourself under his chin. "Tommorow. They're never going to escape."

"An apple for an eye?" His voice rumbles as he spoke. A digit curls out and rubs your back.

"A paint job for a paint job." You leaned close into the cables of his neck.

"Sunstreaker adores his finish..." He mumbled.

"That's why I'll give it a little mishap."

[mychlapci]

You know what, yeah. Arcee deserves to turn a nasty mech into her good little wifey. Prowl’s much more tolerable when he’s got three fingers deep in his spike housing begging her to please fuck his needy pussies. His pink panties would constantly be crusty from the lubricants and transfluid he drips into them. If they weren’t wet all the time. Prowl’s aroused so constantly that they just stay soaked. Arcee makes him beg for her spike constantly, and he does it with desperation and tears in his optics.

“Please, mistress,” he sniffles, “my spike pussy feels so empty.” And she laughs at him, swatting at his valve and aft, telling Prowl that he’s a dirty little girl. She knew this would happen. Valves are fairly sensitive and there’s nothing like hitting the ceiling node and watching your partner squirt and scream. But an inverted spike is essentially one giant node, the whole thing alight with sensors and biolights that make getting it fucked almost addicting. Prowl fingers his pathetic little hole while sitting at his desk, both pussies leaking into his panties.

And Prowl will agree to almost anything Arcee proposes as long as she’s fucking his spike while she does it. Her little project grinding their panels together feverishly, drunk on pleasure and promising to wear a skirt if Arcee will just please cum in his sheathe! He looks so pretty in her colors, skirt swishing as he walks and faceplates flushed with humiliation. But she knows he’s leaking under his panel, feeling owned and deliciously submissive. The sex that night is crazy, with Prowl riding her spike while she tortures his sheathe with a vibrator.

“I hope you like your reward,” she purrs in his audial, “pretty girls deserve to squirt.” And then she makes him scream with pleasure, overloading him until he finally does squirt.

She manages to convince Prowl that locking his panels up is his own idea. He can’t just be fingering his slutty pussies at work, Arcee! He needs you to control his panels, mistress, so he can be your good, needy girl. And she agrees, provided the skirt and panties become permanent. The panties he could hide, but the skirt… a quick thrust of her spike into his drooling housing has him agreeing to anything.

From there, it’s easy. Arcee wants a clean girl? Prowl will wear two plugs to keep his panties dry and she’ll use a remote to give him orgasms wherever he is. Leaving him wild with arousal. Arcee wants a sweet little thing? Prowl will let her wash his mouth out and spank his slutty pussies if he’s been naughty. She allows other mechs to masturbate when she does it publicly, making sure Prowl knows how hot everyone finds his crying and humiliation. If they’re real lucky, Arcee will have her freshly spanked good girl lick their spend off of the floor. The one time he refuses her anything, she calls it all off and leaves him high and dry for a week. Panels still locked over his plugged pussies and pretty panties. By the end he’s in tears promising he’ll be Arcee’s good girl.

“I’m not interested in casual,” she tells him, “you can either be my wife or I can unlock you.” Prowl begs for the privilege of being Arcee’s wife, doing his best to convince her he’d love nothing more by fingering his pathetic broken spike and grinding his wet valve on her closed panel.

“Please,” he begs, “I’ll be your good girl, I’ll be your pretty wife. Please give me your spike, I’ll do anything!” Anything? Oh, yes mistress! Well, Arcee’s pretty wife is going to be the perfect mommy. Prowl will be so pretty, pregnant. And Prowl can’t help but overload as she slips her spike into his drenched valve and practically folds him in half.

Her spike kisses his gestational seal with every thrust, and Prowl can’t help squealing and thanking her as he fingers his spike pussy for her pleasure. Overloading while Arcee calls him a greedy girl and fills him with the first load of transfluid. By the end of the night, even if Prowl isn’t pregnant he’s going to look it. And everyone will know who owns his frilly, skirted aft.

Prowl is soooo addicted to taking Arcee’s spike up his dumb, drooling little sheathe... he’s do anything for his mistress - parade around in a cute skirt and bra, suck her off in front of other bots so they know who owns him. The only way, the only real way to let everyone know that his holes are her property, is to get him pregnant.

Once Prowl is parading around with his swollen bump, every single bot will know that someone out there owns him already <33

[tinydefector]

I love the perfume pheromone so much could you write about how Ultra Magnus/Mimimus and Rung react to it please 👀👀👀

Ultra Magnus

He gets hit with the sweet scent that smells like Galium Gummies and Energon wine it has him doing a double take in his office as he works alongside you. He's so confused as to where it is coming from until his sensor all points to you. He tries to be subtle about it, inching closer in hopes he could inhale the sweet scent. His intake lubricates, and his sensors start going haywire. "What is that?" He asked, trying not to lean in closer. When he realises its on your skin it makes him desperate want to taste it.

"Oh, it's perfume. Sorry, is it really strong? I hope it isn't, " you call out while rechecking some of the flight gear and taking stock of what would be needed at the next planet the ship stopped on. He ends up walking off to take care of his issue before he can succumb to the sweet scent that's overwhelming his sensors.

Minimus (in case people like them separated)

He's deep in recharge when you pounce on him. His optics flick on as you smile down and laugh slightly at his surprised expression. A content hum leaves him as he pulls you down into a kiss, and then his scenors finally register the scent that seems to dance on your skin. His lips trail across your throat and collar bone as he pulls you snugly into his lap. Slowly grinding against you as he continues his assault on your skin, leaving hickies in his wake. "You test my patience too much, beloved," he mumbles into your shoulders. Another giggle leaves you as he rolls you to lay on the berth.

Minimus is a very passionate lover when given the chance, littering kisses on your skin in the aftermath of your teasing. Holding you close as he traces his digits across your face, his optics watching in true awe as if you were a gift from primus himself.

Rung

Dear Lord, if this bot smells perfume, it's like a switch flips. He's on you the moment he sees you dragging you into a passion kiss as he desperately works your clothes off. He's a rather passionate lover, and despite his calm and soothing nature, he is a beast in berth. You are rather sore after the amount of rounds you both have. In the end, you're sleeping pressed against his chassis with Blankets pilled around you as he softly reads.

He ends up looking for a very specific perfume to gift you later on. One he believes will taste divine on your skin.

To Rung, you taste like red energon with copper swerlls and rubies.

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[robotfuckerconfessions]

I love all the Fallout robots. But some are so underrated. Like, everyone loves Nick Valentine, but godamn it, I want Codsworth. I wanna open up his chassis and mess around with his wires and servos while he's staring at me with those big optical sensors of his. Every little touch against his inner workings making his jet thruster burn hotter. I wanna hear that polite little British robot start stuttering and whining that this is "improper" as he silently urges me to continue despite it. His pincer gripping onto my arm and gently guiding it while he starts to shake when I'm elbow deep in his circuitry. All for the sake of "matinence" or "upgrades." I need him so bad it's unreal. A guy can dream, I guess.

[thegnomelord]

Hi, I want to start off by asking how you are doing, and that I loved the monster task force 141 × reader fic and the cyber-punk sagau headcanon’s.

Ok, now into the ask. Can you do a smut fic with Childe where the reader is a sub top and Childe is a dom bottom where Childe whorships cyber-punk readers body running his hands all over readers joints which are bonded so reader can’t touch him while overstimulating and orgasm denying (is reader able to be overstimulated and have orgasm's... if not then forget about those 2 kinks.

Sorry for the long ask.

Kink list to make it clear:

- Body whorship

- Bondage

- Overstimulation?

- Orgasm denial?

Heck yeah my peep, I'm doing better, and it's great that you liked my other stuff, sorry it took this long, med school is a bitch. Hope ya like it:DD

P.S: ya'll are always free to ask me/give me ideas of what to write, i'm gonna be trying to write more from now on.

Pious Worship

CW: NSFW, body worship, bondage, overstimulation, orgasm denial, mild electro play?, SAGAU au! Cyberpunk reader!, Sub Top reader, Dom Bottom Childe, riding, Dom/Sub dynamics, Worshipper Childe, Bondage. NOT proof read lol.

It had taken you a long while to convince him to do this. For all of his devotion he had been... hesitant; To please you was the highest form of reward anyone could dream of receiving, but what you had asked of him felt wrong — the thought of binding you like the heathens who'd fallen for pretty lies made him physically sick, the thought of chaining you, his guide, his light, his Steel Forged God...he couldn't even come up with the proper words to describe the sickening disgust he'd felt in his very bones.

But you are his light, his guide, his merciful creator, so how could he possibly refuse?

Childe is insatiable.

He rides you with wild abandon like a beast in heat, too caught up in the desperate chase for release and the need to please you to care about the strain in his muscles or his burning thighs. He slams his entire body weight down on your cock, moaning and babbling about how perfectly you stretch him out, how you fill him up so perfectly he can feel you in his throat, how happy he is to be the one who pleases you like this.

His heart flutters as you watch him, drawing pleasure from his pleasure rather than from how tightly his body grips you, your arms tied above your head with the finest silk. The corp remade you for warfare, not pleasure. Steel is unfeeling, it can survive more than living flesh, and with your enhancements you barely feel anything besides the hot tightness of his body.

He drinks up the little rumbles of your synthetic voice box he manages to pull when he takes you fully, driving his body to bounce faster on you, racing towards his second release while you are nowhere near your first. He moans whorishly, his fingers dig into your shoulder joints, cock twitching as sperm and electro shoot from his body.

A strangled sound leaves your lips before your body shuts down without notice, voice box giving a mechanical screech as it glitches, every artificial muscle in your frame contracting from the sudden flood of electricity.

"My Grace! Are you- no, no, no, no- please don't be-”

You hear his worried whimpers when your audio receptors finally come back online, your optics shuttering open yet barely able to see anything with the sea of blinking warning screens in your view. You feel his calloused hands on your cheeks, the usually dull sensation now making you shudder as your combatting systems had turned every synthetic sensor up to 11.

“My Grace, please tell me you’re okay, please, I couldn’t have- I didn’t mean to- I-, I-, I-”

He hiccups, and you manage a glitched warble from your frazzled voice box as you assess your internal diagnostics— his electro delusion had shocked you enough to lock your joints in place without damaging the vital life support systems in your core. You should be able to move again when the electricity wears off, your body geared to survive stronger EMP bombs. You tell him such, reaffirming that he hadn't harmed you.

"Oh, my Grace, I am so sorry, please, forgive me!"

He says, tears prickling his eyes as he rises off your cock, pulling a surprised gasp from you when that small sensation nearly makes you cum on the spot, your cock — your whole body — sensitive to the smallest touch.

And Childe gets...giddy.

Not like a child with a new toy, but like Dottore when an experiment is successful.

Childe hung on every sound leaving you, eyes growing wide; Had you thought of this? Had you prepared just for this to happen? For his electro to make it easier to feel, to make it easier for him to worship you? Yes, that must be it!

“My Grace, you are beautiful like this. Thank you, thank you, thank you-”

His voice was a hoarse whisper as he slunk down your body, carefully holding up your leg with steady calloused hands. His lips are dry as he places reverent kisses the metal surrounding your exposed ankle joint. Your metal parts taste no different than the tips of his arrows, like blood and war, but the soft sounds you make from the odd sensation has him wanting to give more.

He doesn't even notice when he cuts his lip on a sharp edge, but aren't you proud of him? Who else would bleed for you like him? His tongue delves into tight little cracks between your pistons and wires where only the smallest of ripperdock tools had ever come. His tongue isn't as small, nor as precise, but the sheer eagerness in his movement has him touching and pressing on the sensitive sensors all the same.

You jolt, or you would if you could, overcome with sensations your body isn't built to process. More warning screens flash in your sight, static pleasure/pain buzzing along faux synapses. His heart all but leaps from his chest as he listens to the sounds you make.

So he redoubles his effort, clever little tongue licking at sensitive sensor arrays, mouthing and sucking on cables until soft frazzled sounds leave your glitched voice box. He can taste coolant on his tongue, his lips tingling with electricity, blood and spit mixing together in his mouth and making your metal parts glisten in the light. He polishes your ankle joint until it shines, before moving up towards your knee, tracing the edge where metal plates meet faux skin.

You're internal cooling system has started at this point, body shaking as best it can. Your sensors don't know how to interpret the sensations, corp augs having been geared for warfare and not worship, so the processors don't even try to categorize the new sensations into neat boxes. Instead you're hit with the full force of it, the feelings flooding your mind, zapping through every neural cell and artificial link.

He's at your hips now, eagerly sucking you off as his clever fingers busy themselves worming and rubbing delicate hardware and artificial ligaments beneath inside your hip joints. You feel like you're on the edge, your release so close you can feel it burning at the base of your cock.

But something is wrong, like a knot or a rock inside your stomach, something that's keeping you from cumming, forcing you to experience these overwhelming sensations. You sob, barely able to think, and his heart soars at making you feel this way, making you feel this pleasure.

He's quick to finish polishing your cock and even quicker to climb up and sink down again. But that only makes the maddening heat burning in your loins worse, every nerve in your augmented body feeling like it's on fire with no sight of release. You can barely see him through the cracks between different warning screens, sensor arrays screaming at you with information your body can't interpret any other way than pure sensation.

"Please, let me do this your Grace."

You watch — you can do nothing but watch — as he takes one of your limp arms. His muscles bulge beneath his skin as he has to work hard to move your arm now that your motors and pistons are momentarily inactive. He smiles at you, mouth opening wide before he puts your fingers in his mouth. Little jolts of sensation run through your body every time his tongue flicks between different joints, teeth scraping along faux skin and metal plates.

He continues to bounce on your cock, unaware of what blissful Hell he's making for you when he pulls your spit shined fingers from his mouth, urgently but carefully pawing at the plates which cover your hidden weaponry in your forearms.

"Your Grace, I'm a fool to demand this of you, but please, let me see them, let me worship you like you're supposed to be worshiped."

He says, eyes wide and pleading, laying desperate kisses at your wrist joint, lips almost burning from how hot your metal parts are becoming. He needs to worship you, all of you, especially the part you usually keep reserved for the battle field and nowhere else.

Your voice box is back online to the point where you can talk, and you know that if you told him, he would happily continue bouncing on your dick until you were finally able to cum, with all notions of his own need forgotten.

But you don't.

For as much as your systems may be screaming at you. For as much as your cooling systems struggle to keep you from overheating. For as much as you desire to cum... you want to please him — the first character you ever wished for, the first you ever mained, your favorite.

The look on his face when you manage to get your weaponry unlocked melts your heart despite the lustful heat in your chest. Your combat systems are blissfully unaware of your true intentions as they power on the pistons and gears in your weapons, making them extend to their proper configuration.

"Thank you, thank you your Grace!"

He breathes, immediately reaching out to trace the sharp points of your weapons with his tongue before he latches on the first joint that connects your weapon with your arm. It makes sensation, neither pain nor pleasure but pure feeling, rush from your arms right down to your dick still balls deep inside him.

Your vocal box glitches a second time, your head moving just an inch as you're subjected to his torturous worship again, and you can only pray that your body is able to move again before you loose your mind to the pure sensations.

[virusimp]

hai‼️it's something new for me to write my first little fanfic in English and.. nsfw?? but my curiosity was stronger than my worries, so here it is.

[ warnings: no one ]

[ valveplug, valve fingering, desperation, crying, Starscream being pathetic again, need, not a very detailed interface but gentle, gender neutral reader, dom reader, sub Starscream, human reader, kinda touch-starved??]

━━━━━━━━━━ × ━━━━━━━━━━

His body was cold to touch, his sharp ventilating was hitting your own soft human skin as if wanting to do small cuts covered with your pathetic blood just to see you suffer. Starscream has already told you more than once how pathetic and disgusting you are for a human. He was telling you that he hates you. But still, for some reason this bastard is moaning and squirming under your warm fingers now, screaming your own name and begging to do more because of his unbelievable hunger. Such a poor touch-starved bird.

Starscream whines loudly into pillow when you touch him right there with your damn fingers, that were already covered in his… pink transfluids? Oh Lord, you’ll joke about that after some time when he’ll forget about this situation between you and him, but not now. He’s too desperate for your love and you know that, praising him softly in his audio-sensors and making him look at you with those puppy eyes, really wanting to hear those words again and again with all his spark while you fragging him with your precious fingers. He’ll moan for you louder; he’ll cry for you and he’ll do anything for you… only if you continue to show your love and admiration. Only if you continue love him.

Anyone would use him for that pathetic trait, and the seeker is still shocked to see you with him, to see how your eyes look at him even now when he is a real wet mess. You do love him. You love him even if he treated you badly. You love him just for nothing and that’s confusing him. And that makes him sob quietly, still shuddering when you gently move your fingers inside of his valve.

“Is everything okay?” and again that question. His optics are watering and that’s your damn fault! Starscream tried to nod with quiet whine, but your sudden caress of his thigh makes him shudder and cry out with already broken vocalizer. He just overloaded because of your question? Or because it was too much for him and he would cum only because of realization that you care? Oh dear. You see him hardly ventilating, grasping the bedsheets under him with those trembling long thick claws. His valve was clutching around your fingers, not wanting to let go. Starscream in some sort of breakdown right now, he is overwhelmed with your actions and words. With your love.

“My star…” you carefully pulled out your fingers, wiping them from sticky fluids and moving closer to him. Your words made his wings flutter weakly, and now he is calling your name softly, desperately trying to find you through his own thoughts and fears. Starscream needs you, he always needed you. “It seems like everything was stronger for you this time?”

He still doesn't answer you for several minutes, shuddering weakly when you lie down next to him and gently embrace him. Oh Starscream needed that so badly right now, pulling you closer to him and tightening his grip on you. You can feel how damn painfully it is when he holds you with his claws as if wanting to merge you with his own body. You can feel the heat is coming from his systems, how his engines are purring quietly. It was painful to be with him but you can't do anything about this. Your deep scars or bruises on your skin was sign of Starscream's deep love for you.

“I guess… it was, human.”

oh he loves you so much.

[anon-e-miss]

Touch of Sight - 11

A Cornerstone’s bells rang out calling the faithful to worship. Prowl lay on his belly, face buried in his pillow and listened to them ring. There was no mistaking the call of lesser temples for that of a Cornerstone. Minor temples had only a single bell in their bell towers, where Cornerstones had three octaves at least of bells that were not rung haphazardly, but in a score written by some ancient temple musician. He should not have been able to hear them at all, tucked away as he was in the market. Might the wind be blowing in just the right directions? With the haze of recharge still thick in his helm, Prowl listened. It was odd, he had never heard a Cornerstone’s call so clear and yet they sounded one dimensional, flat. There was something missing. Prowl stretched out his doorwings to “hear” a little better, only to realize he could not “hear”, could not “feel”, could not feel his doorwings, could not move them at all. He was blind, truly, completely blind. Imm. His audials heard his strangled cry as he tried to push himself up, digits clawing at the berth under him. He tried to reach behind himself but Prowl was not strong enough to hold him even partly upright.. His whole frame ached and his arms trembled. His voice was hoarse as he keened. A gloved servo brushed his helm and Prowl collapsed back down on the berth, the keen fading into a weak sob.

“Shh,” it was Jazz. Prowl felt the berth sag as Jazz sat on the edge. Prowl could almost feel tears wet his face, but he had no optics. He had no tears. Jazz’s gloved servo left his helm and covered Prowl servo. It took a long time before Prowl realized Jazz was writing glyphs against the back of his servo, only then did the panic roar fade in his help enough that Prowl could actually hear and understand. “Y’re okay. Y’re doors got burned in the fire. Ratch, my medic friend’s lookin’ after ya. He turned off yer relays so ya don’t gotta feel as yer sensors heal.”

“Fire...” Prowl frowned as his whispered the glyph, surprised by how hoarse his voice sounded and how raw his voice felt. He remembered. The madmech, he had set fire to the apartment, set to killed them all, to kill him, the mech he had declared a demon. “My mechlings?”

“Are perfect,” Jazz promised and Prowl prayed he was true. “A bit o’ smoke was all they got, Ratch made sure their intakes are good. Got’em in class. Ori thought it was important for’em to have a lil normalcy.”

“Where am I?” Prowl asked. His sentio-metallico still prickled with anxiety as the panic ebbed. He was blind, wholly blind but he was not alone. Still, his spark continued to race. How was he supposed to live on like this? How was he meant to care for his creations?

“The Celestial Temple,” Jazz replied. Prowl felt the scarred sentio-metallico of his face strain to stretch as he raised his brow ridge with surprise.

“Why?” He asked. His spark pulsed out of control and he trembled with fear. Had Smokescreen said something? Had they discovered who they were, who they had been? The Celestial Temple was not just a Cornerstone, it was the Prime’s residence. Why would paupers be brought here for medical treatment?

“It’s sorta Ratch’s home base,” Jazz replied. “He runs other clinics but his apothecary is here. My home base too. Seemed like the best place to put ya were ya could be safe.”

“There is no more danger,” Prowl replied. He rested his helm on the pillow. How had he ever mistaken it for his own? It was far too luxurious and its cover too soft against his scarred sentio-metallico. “The voices haunting that mech told him to jump into the flames.”

“Sounds like ya feel a lil sorry for ‘m,” Jazz said.

“His processor was broken,” Prowl replied. He was tired. He had only just woken up but he was so tired. “He genuinely thought I was a demon. He genuinely thought Primus and the angels were telling him to cleanse me. He never should have been let out of the sanitarium. Let me guess, they deployed mnemosurgery, erasing the voices from his memory and declared him fit?”

“That’s right,” Jazz replied. “How’d ya guess?”

“Because that is what they do,” Prowl said. “They address the symptom without searching for the cause.”

“Sounds like ya got some history with mneumosurgeons,” Jazz replied.

“I have a processor glitch,” Prowl explained. “Every time I would crash, they would erase the thought or feeling they thought triggered it. It took until I was a mech grown and could refuse the mneumosurgeons that I was actually able to learn to manage my affliction. I do not know what would have helped that mech, but I know mneumosurgery was not it.”

“Y’re a wise mech,” Jazz replied.

“Mm,” Prowl hummed. He turned his servo around around to touch Jazz’s palm. It was not gloves Jazz was wearing. His servo was covered it gauze. “What happenened?”

“Servos go burned climbin’ the buildin’,” Jazz explained.

“You were hurt saving us,” Prowl said, feeling a mix of gratitude and guilt. “Punch... he tried. The sheets I tied, they tore. He said he was going to try the stairs.”

“He did, they’d collapsed, he didn’t think he could make the jump,” Jazz replied. “If I hadn’t gotten there when I did, I think he woulda gone back in ‘n risked it anyways. Y’re bitlets are worth it. So are ya.”

“I am sorry you were hurt,” Prowl said. “I am sorry Punch was in danger because of us.”

“It was nothin’ ya did,” Jazz told him. “I’m just glad Swindle put more into that place than I thought. Fire didn’t spread near as fast as it coulda and when the floor collapsed, the walls still held.”

“I think he invested in the struts of that building and not the facade,” Prowl replied. “If he had done the latter, he could have charged more for the habsuites and no one would have thought any of it.”

“He did good,” Jazz said. “‘N I told’m that. He was there, when the fire was goin’. Helped me wit yer mechlings. He’s terrified o’ poverty. ‘N I understand why, since we come from the same corner o’ the Pit. Sometimes he makes bad choices but he’s a decent mech o’erall.”

“Are you bothering my patient?” A new voice, rumbled. Prowl flinched. He had never been easy to sneak up on. It had become even harder since he had been blinded, when his doorwings had taken the place of his optics. Was this how he was to live for the rest of his life? It felt unbearable.

“Smokey wasn’t bout to leave’m alone, ‘n rightly so,” Jazz replied. He did not sound as if he felt any fear towards this new mech. “I stepped out for half a klik to speak to Hide ‘n he was awake ‘n right terrified.”

“Fine... what did I tell you about using your servos?” The medic asked.

“They’re fine,” Jazz replied. “Ain’t putting pressure on’em or nothin’.”

“I have no faith in you,” the medic said. “I know better.”

“Ya wound me, Ratch,” Jazz replied, with a chuckle in his voice. “Ratchet’s the best medic on Cybertron, Prowl. He’ll want me outta the way to look at yer doors. Mind if I sit at yer peds.”

“If you have business to attend to, do not delay it on my behalf,” Prowl said.

“I got nothin’ goin’ on,” Jazz said. “Even if I did, it wouldn’t be more important than this.”

Prowl could not help but believe him and it was a strange. He should have been nothing but a potential new minion to this mech and yet, Jazz had brought him and his creations home to his originator, not just for a meal but for friendship and... for Punch’s approval. Rather than discourage any attachment from Punch, his originator, Jazz seemed to encourage it and... Smokescreen glyphs echoed in Prowl’s memory banks. Though he had denied it to his creation, the observation felt like a peculiar truth. When Jazz had all but danced with him in the field, there had been pleasure and warmth in his field. It made no sense. Prowl was not a beauty. He had been... simply unremarkable before the blinding where Nightstalker had been the beauty. Their procreators had called him the Jewel of Praxus. Prowl, he had been an udder disappointment. How could Jazz look had him now, with a mottled face with two empty pits and feel anything like attraction? Pity did not explain it. Heavy pedsteps signalled the medic’s approached as Jazz moved to sit at Prowl’s peds.

“I’m Ratchet, Prowl,” the medic formally introduced himself. “I’m sure the miscreant told you but both your mechlings are in good physical health. It’ll take them some time to process the fear and trauma. I think they were both brought back to the Cataclysm, especially your little one.”

“What do I do for them?” Prowl asked.

“What you’ve always done,” Ratchet replied. “Love them and listen to them. It’s done wonders.”

“I have not been able to help Bluestreak find his voice,” Prowl countered.

“Traumatic mutism is difficult for anyone to treat,” Ratchet said. “You gave him a voice with chirolinguistics. You’ve done more than a lot of medics would think to with that alone. You haven’t focused on his spoken voice. You empower him by adapting to his needs.”

“Ya done right by them,” Jazz told him.

“I’m going to change your bandages,” Ratchet said. “Despite your sensory grid being offline, you may still feel pain.”

“I understand,” Prowl said. He remember the agony when the farm’s creation cleaned his infected burns and applied dressings. Every dressings change had been a renewal of that agony, pain that had been worse than the original burn.

There was a throbbing pain across his back as Ratchet pealed away the bandages. It was unpleasant yes but nothing compared to what he had already endured. Jazz would be suffering far more with his treatments and Prowl felt guilty. He was relieved as Ratchet disposed of the used dressings, he smelled medicinal ointment, not festering metal. The odor of his facial burns had been a terrible thing and something he still smelled in his memory-purges. It felt more like an itch he could not place, that bounced all over his frame. Jazz brushed his bandaged sevo over Prowl’s ankle and it was grounding. Prowl smelled the ointment Ratchet took out to apply to his burns and distracted himself in separating the smells and narrowing down what crystals he believed had been used in the blend.

“It’s looking good,” Ratchet told him. “No infection. Luckily, you only suffered partial thickness burns. Most of your doorwing sensors should heal to within normal parameters. You may have some holes in your perception but your processor will fill those in so you don’t even notice.”

“That is a relief,” Prowl sighed. “I could not imagine how I would live completely blind.”

“Ya woulda found a way,” Jazz reassured him. “For the mechlings.”

“Thank you,” Prowl said.

“Are you hungry at all?” Ratchet asked.

“A little,” he replied.

“Good,” Ratchet said. “Punch took it upon himself to make a melon soup. He thought you’d be up this cycle.”

“Ori’s got good instincts,” Jazz declared. “Not feelin’ too banged up?”

“I am fine,” Prowl asked. “Sore. Just sore and tired.”

“Ya fell through the floor,” Jazz explained his concern. “Maybe it was a good think the smoke already had ya in stasis ‘cause ya was relaxed when ya fell ‘n that helped ya not too get too hurt.”

“I do not remember that at all,” Prowl said. “The last thing I remember is giving Bluesatreak to you.”

“Probably not a bad thing to forget,” Jazz said. “Important thing is ya made it out.”