#CYBERTRON LOOKS SO COOL

[werewolf-w1tch]

sorry y'all this isn't my year to be normal either

[cosmique-oddity]

Chapter one : Goodbye Cybertron !

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THEY MADE IT ! Prowl and Horius are officially on their own (or Cybertron’s is…..without Prowl).

And I MADE IT TT

This is the first comic i want to continue and eventually finish ! For now I have like 11 chapters planned

Important : Their colocation is 100% platonic I won’t support any ship between them except the one they’re on (the space ship lol)

Kind of slice of life shaped :3

Did you notice Hot Rod ?

Context

Prequel

[whaliiwatching]

hard to say out loud

[th3e-m4ng0]

an old, retired warrior

[kuzunoha-xiv]

i never noticed until now that its kinda odd that they straight up never really showed cliffjumper interacting with the guys in TFP. like i get it the focus was on arcee and her relationship with him specifically but... not even a flashback of cliff being silly with the guys? and you cant really say "oh its because of the rock" cuz there is a flashback episode where they just changed his VA. its kinda funny. i mean for a guy who's essentially the domino effect in the show and super important they didnt show much about him and his relationship with the team besides his friendship with arcee and how they met.

at this point i feel like the fanartist kotteri did more for cliffjumper's character and his friendship with the team than the actual show lmao.

[transingthoseformers]

the urge to draw a lot of the RID-adopter's ocs but we know very well that it'd be an arduous process

[echidnana]

okie I need a name. I'm a android girl/ai and I'm sort of like a mix of Minori Hanasato and bocchi (the rock) if they were one person and also a robot

[catcake24]

God, I love Sentinel’s weapon so much. The fact that it can shift from a hilt, to a normal sword, to a double sided sword, or to a sword but pointing down is so cool. And it makes sense to have a weapon like that - he doesn’t need to adjust the hold on his sword in order to change which direction he’s stabbing or slashing at. (Spoilers for the movie below)

The fact it transforms is just so fitting for Cybertron too, with transformation being a major motif through the movie’s worldbuilding and character’s abilities- and the fact they have transforming weapons makes so much sense.

And it’s the same white and gold as him, meant to look like a weapon a hero would wield??? That it’s a weapon that could stab you just as much as it could stab your enemy, like how sentinel betrayed his own race while pretending to fight the quintessons?? Just so fitting for him…

(I’m definitely reading way too much into this, it’s likely just meant to be a cool weapon, but it’s too fun to do lol. I’m in a hyperfixation, you can’t stop me)

[i-starcreamed]

Can you write something with D16 and a human reader please? Maybe like seeing a human for the first time and befriending eachother, then the reader develops feelings because I mean....D16 XD (There is literally nothing of transformers one 😭) PS. I don't know why but I feel like transformers one character at least the miners are closer to human height for some reason 🤣 (sorry for yapping I'm obsessed)

D-16 X READER

Ok so…very unrealistic because yknow, no humans on cybertron. However I made up my own scenario :3 in my mind humans reach about to the knees of mine bots. You’ll make it work..

Human! Reader

Dumb fluff, no sad stuff

Reader is a space explorer who SOMEHOW MAGICALLY managed to successfully land on Cybertron with some of their survival kit intact (food, water, etc). What they didn’t expect was to encounter a train looking vehicle, hopping in it out of curiosity. What they also never expected was the train to start moving at full speed, charging inside of the planet as the crust literally opened up.

Your throat almost went sore because of your screaming.

You shifted, groaning as you sat up from your laying position. God, your head was pounding, what even happened? The ground beneath you was cold and rough, like the texture of popcorn wall if it were made of metal. Around you, you could hear the sound of wheels screeching, metal banging. Whatever you were on was not a smooth ride.

You opened your eyes, your breath hitched as you saw a figure above you. They were looking straight forward, both their hands placed on the edge of the cart. And they were not human. No human is that big.

You swiveled your head around you, seeing a pile of large rocks surrounding you. They were glowing a bright blue, looking quite radioactive. Okay, maybe you and your team expected a tiny bit of life here—but not a whole…whatever this was. You slowly stood up, carefully making your way towards the rock nearest to you. You struggled to move, all the rocks were basically covering your body. The rocks rolled over softly as you lifted an arm.

“Hey there,”

You froze, hearing a deep voice above you. You turned around, eyeing the figure still looking away from you. They looked to their side, mimicking the human expression of curtly smiling and nodding to someone to their right. You sighed in relief.

Placing both your palms on the edge of the cart, you pulled yourself up, letting the rocks fall away from your legs. You peeled your head over the cart, your eyes widening at the life around you. Sooo many robot beings walking around and pushing minecarts, all in different colors and similar size. You let out a small gasp.

D-16 raised a brow, hearing a noise just below him. He did a double take as he saw..something poking out of his cart. He froze. You froze. You both frozed.

“AHH!” You both yelled at the same time, backing away from eachother.

You fall back in between the rocks, probably scraping your back against one. Simotaniously, he bumped into someone’s cart in back of him, he muttered an awkward apology as he hurried along with his cart—he couldn’t let anyone else see this…thing.

He rushed over, taking a sharp turn and away from everyone doing their jobs.

When he stopped, he leaned over his cart to take a good look at you.

“Okay…what! What are you?” He whispered yelled, honestly feeling a bit defensive. You couldn’t blame him, he’s never seen a species like you. Sure, you were smaller. You were about the size of his leg..definitely shorter.

“I uh..I could ask the same thing…” you nervously said.

When you two first met you were very cautious of eachother. You were both scared. I think it took him a while to realize you were from a wholeee different planet. You were a space explorer? That’s cool! He’s definitely going to ask you about cybertrons surface, even though you insist you only saw it for a couple minutes before being kidnapped by a train.

He becomes so interested in you. Eventually, you OF COURSE get introduced to Orion. He had the same reaction, but was equally as intrigued. We all know how much he loves history and learning, they’re both gonna ask so many questions. They do everything to keep you hidden away from other bots, ESPECIALLY DarkWing. Orion has never seen D-16 as enthusiastic about someone as he is about you. (Maybe except for Megatronious)

The three of you are almost always together, but you definitely spend more time with D. Instead of getting rest after a long day in the mines, he takes you around with you sitting atop his shoulder—just talking. Whenever he hears a bot approaching, he quickly snatches you off and holds you behind his back. Definitely not obvious.

Rest in piece to privacy, because you both have NONE! We saw how none of the miners have individual sleeping areas. You have to constantly sneak away—usually it’s places where Orion has taken him. Imagine being taken to their special places :((

You spend longer than you thought on Cybertron, it’s not like you had a choice. Your pod was left on the surface and most definitely scrapped for materials. No one knows who or what and where the mysterious person from the pod is. Lucky you

It’s only logical you begin to fall for D-16. He’s oddly charming, funny, dedicated, and caring. You spend all your time together. He introduced you to his best friend. He tells you about all his plans. Plus, it’s always exciting to go on little trips together, potentially risking getting caught. These trips eventually turn into dates btw

He has definitely called you cute and pet your head with one digit. Yeah that kinda did it, even though he meant it as a tease

You know that scene where the two went racing? They were in first place, they’re exhausted and D got hit. Despite this he grins, looking back at the cameras which he knows are streaming the race. He knows you’re watching all the way from that green light.

“This is for Y/—!!“ he begins, only to be interrupted when a jet zooms past them, knocking them both over and sending them flying. Idiots <3

[muletia]

i read your post about megatron showing off like a bird. so perhaps i present you.. the other obsessed!bots showing off?

obsessed!optimus prime making sure his paint is in it’s best shape, practically shining from the amount of work he put into it and silently hoping, praying (and probably screaming) that you’ll praise him and, if you’re past the relationship faze, peg him enough to were he can act normally around the autobots to get another mission done without daydreaming again.

obsessed!ratchet constantly talking about his experience with his hands (he’s quite the medic, wink wink *dies*) and skills over the course of his long life, even talking about some of the impressive feats he managed to pull off.

and hell, maybe even some of the decepticon’s lean into this too. i especially think starscream would be the most likely to do this.

obsessed!starscream would probably brag about his feats when he was decepticon commander and things he did on Cybertron. Making sure to be in his best condition and showing off what his jet form can do, even doing those words made in air some people do with planes.

you are so big-brained anon, i love your ideas!!

i’ve decided to expand on optimus’s concept a bit and threw in a few other characters

optimus definitely forgets to take care of himself sometimes, or he simply doesn’t have the time due to the busy schedule. if we add a sprinkle of obsession to the mix, his lack of self-care can easily be attributed to the hours he spends daydreaming about you, you, and that one night you shared just a few days ago. but when he does finally get around to looking after himself and polishes his paint to the point where you can see your reflection in it, he’ll silently beg for crumbs of praise from you. he might still have that resting prime face, but if you compliment him, bro is mentally screaming, giggling, and kicking his feet like a schoolgirl. he might even strut around proudly after your kind words, shocking the rest of the team.

i haven’t written about him yet, but… smokescreen showing off his speed to impress you? or honestly, doing anything extreme to get your attention. handstands, backflips, showing how agile he is. and when he takes you for a ride, suddenly he’s drifting or doing donuts. isn’t he just so cool? please, say he is—smokes will do absolutely anything for your approval.

soundwave will bring you gifts. did you mention a game you’ve been dying to have? a few days later, a copy of that game shows up in your steam library. are you into diy? he hands you an enormous box of various types of yarn. or brings you shiny, colorful stones that caught laserbeak’s optic during patrol. imagine him presenting you with a giant gold nugget or gemstones worth a fortune.

knockout will use his body but in a more sensual, seductive way. he’s always polished and pristine, and his finish practically screams for attention. but if, somehow, that doesn’t work on you, knockout is more than willing to behave like an absolute attention whore. oh no! he’s totally accidentally dropped something on the floor! and instead of bending down like a normal person, he’s about to give you the most sensual show you’ve ever seen (picture that one scene with megan fox from the first transformers movie lmao).

[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.

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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.”

[robolvrr]

I love love looove the way you write!! I'm 22- and i wanted to ask about your Headcanons for a bi bumblebee.

He's always been proud of looking good, so maaaybe you could give him an opportunity to show off? A car show, or maybe a car wash could be fun.

hot motor oil ☆∘⁠˚⁠˳⁠°

hahaaa fffkxzkdk. bet! you speaking my language, anon.

bumblebee x gn! human headcanons.

warnings: suggestive/nsfw. exhibitionism, praise, voyeurism.

bumblebee when on earth at his prime is cocky, playful and a thrill-seeker.

while the inability to vocalize is a sore subject, he's never been insecure about his appearance. he's considered very attractive wherever he goes, cybertron and otherwise.

much to optimus's disapproval, he takes the time to find the newest speedsters to scan regularly throughout the decades.

while he's particular with what automobiles he claims, there's a clear taste for flashy, fast horsepower.

he adores weaving between traffic, secret drag races, because the racers and humans react. it's either anger, frustration, awe or jealousy. makes his chassis get all warm knowing that just being in his alt-modes gains attention without applying much effort.

the thing is though - he does. constant buffing. avoids mud like the plague and never gets insects stuck in his grills. his bumper never gets scuffed and he might have found a car wash or two with easy on the optic workers who gladly accept fat tips and rub between his panels and exterior with feather light touches.

they don't look too much through his tinted windshield or question the pink fluids collecting near the drain when he zips off.

when he meets you, he's almost shaking when he learns of your hobbies.

a mechanic? and you spend hours in your garage just.. fixing up cars?

his spark stutters one day relaxing in your detached shed, as you mumble under your breath with your ungloved fingers coated in oil with the popped hood of an '99 ferrari, tongue licking sweat off your top lip so slow he has to lock his tires not to accidently skid the concrete.

"mmm, there ya go. shiny and just as gorgeous. bet i could go on a real fast ride with you now, huh?"

"kkkrrtt! my chick do stuff that your chick wish she could — chhhtk — krrrz!"

"oh my god, bee, please — hey! do not leak in my garage baby."

he has never made his attraction for you quiet.

it's difficult to course through radio signals in regular conversation but you always look so charmed when he chirps out song lyrics you know, so chatting you up during repair sessions is frequent.

once his leash has been loosened some and you're teetering ripping back the veil of platonic and more, you let him know the other aspect of your interests.

he stares at the shiny poster in your hands, watching you animatedly explain just what a "muscle car show" was. his brow ridge raises. okaay, you got his attention.

while you didn't expect to win (which he rolled his optics to because really, this is him you're talking about), it'd be fun. it would only last a few hours. all he has to do is sit still and look pretty.

look still and look. pretty. his flaps flutter, proud. damn straight he's pretty.

when you roll him to the flat plain one saturday afternoon, his wheels look brand-new and his hood has signature, thick black accents.

even has that "new smell" to him, rubber flawless and paint with that glittering coat.

fancy little bastard managed to get some butterfly doors. you coo between his engine revving he's being such a little show-off.

what he didn't expect was the constant attention to be so distracting. it's warm and there's an internal message to start blasting his cooling fans because his temperature is starting to up a tick.

there's so, so many cars. yet he's fully in the center, which means at times he feels like he's being surrounded.

bumblebee takes a gander while he plays some old rock softly to cover the fizzle of his motor, eyeing the classics and more modern bodystyle frames.

almost beeps when you bend down to show a man his chrome mufflers. your hands run along his rims and he's starting to feel.. funny.

"damn. how'd you get such a sexy car?"

"ahh... magician never shares their tricks. wanna feel the inside?"

cue the radio shorting out, because suddenly his doors are unfolding and men and women alike start to crowd him, cooing and taking pictures.

the sensory overload from curious palms smoothing over his dash? you lean into him to adjust his mirror and cheekily grab the clutch. his engine roars.

"you know. i never thought i'd say i fuck a sports car but jesus, you've outdone yourself... oh, cmon, how much you selling for?"

"my bumblebee? girl, i ain't ever putting him up for sale. he's my sweet stallion."

his processor is humming. angles his frontal mirrors as you keep teasing him, even going as far to spank his bumper slightly before bragging about the genuine leather interiors and letting his admirers lounge inside, encouraging them to ask questions.

exhaust slips from pipes as he tries not to let the electricity cloak his frame suffocate when you press a silky smooch on his window. the kiss-mark looks like it's been left behind on foggy, shower glass.

is it a shocker you win? nope. easiest $5K of your life.

there's a final round where you get to drive him around a lap so motor-enthusiasts can gander a final time. he's almost thankful the announcements echo because you're leaned over the wheel, chest pressed up near the horn.

"you like that? you did so fucking good."

"tcccthtt -- whoa, baby you're killin' me! "

"aww, don't get shy. there's a warehouse four miles west from here. take us there. i wanna thank you."

his speedometer breaks when he drifts right out and down the highway, wind zipping back your hair as your laugh cackles out ajar windows.

pure nsfw.

the golden-black charger rumbles down the highway. it's minimal interference, though the turn signal never flashes and it's difficult to see any drivers or passengers inside.

pebbles pluck up and ding the exterior, which is such a shame, because it's such a pretty car!

however, that isn't on anyone's mind at the moment.

bumblebee tries not to hydroplane, because it'd be stupid dangerous and it's not even raining. but you're a tsunami, a distraction of disastrous proportions. your hand is shoved down your shorts and you trail down your tummy before the straps of your underwear twist.

it's a wildly salacious position. your right leg is hiked up on his - your - dash. your left hand rubs vigorously while the right squeezes his clutch and rubs the silver button positioned at its knob.

his engine snarls. his radio glitches and you can hear the rhythmic churn of metal buzzing and gurgles that suggests he's trying to speak.

"yeah? yeah? such a pretty speedster, bee. f-fuck. you're so hot. you're the best."

"breeep!"

"awww, haha -- nnf, did you just honk?!"

the opening to a dilapidated hanger lingers on the horizon. he bulldozed through gravel and rolls up his windows fully to avoid any flying in your face. your hair is messy and both of your feelings are floundering, the beat of your heart loud in your ears.

he can't erase any of this. those wet cries have his intake salivating with lubricant.

there's a wet spot on the driver's seat and he's almost mad that he can't lick it off.

transforming mid-kneel, you're gently shoved out and his servos snatch at you like a toddler with a toy. his bright, blue gaze edged needy when he's pawing off your clothes and manhandling you to get up on his lap.

his pedes scratch against the concrete for purchase. he's whipped. he's so fragging on edge. all the compliments, all the comments, all the touching - he's gonna overload.

let's just say you two aren't getting back to base for the night. especially not with that wry grin on your lips, before you rub down his body like melted rubber.

robolvrr 2024.

[transformers-synergize]

Do you have any more stuff for Sunny & Sides? Your designs for them are some of the best I've seen, and I'd love to know more about your plans or headcanons for them!

No pressure ofc, I support you and your absolute galaxy brain :D

Sure, here is a bunch of random stuff about in no particular order, lot of this stuff was just pulled from my notes but whatever lol 

Sunstreaker is egotistical, he knows he is the best and makes sure everyone knows it too. He also has the skills, looks, and combat prowess to back it up. Sunstreaker only really cares about himself and Sideswipe, considering pretty much every bots below him or not worth his time. He often makes sly comments, belittling or cracking jokes about bots whom he deems lesser. His friends are either Sideswipes friends who can tolerate him or bots who think he's cool, which is usually due to factors outside his personality. He's always down for a good fight, being ruthless and downright merciless in combat while still somehow managing to get as little dirt, energon, or other various combat filth on himself as possible, sometimes being nearly spotless after a battle aside from the energon coating his blade. Sunny likes to keep himself in good condition, making sure his paint is perfect and his polish shines, it really helps accentuate how he's the best.

Sideswipe is the nicer of the two brothers. He's outgoing and usually pretty friendly. Sideswipes is always looking for a fight. He loves the thrill of combat. He often treats serious situations more like a game than the high-danger situations he often places in. Sideswipe often can't sit still and always need something to do, and if there is nothing fun to do then he will make his own fun, he is often sparring with his fellow Autobots, trying risky stunts, pulling pranks on other bots and generally just causing chaos. He's very impulsive, often doing the first thing that comes to mind because he thought it might be fun, never considering the consequences. He's kinda like a jock who treats war like a sport with an almost ruthless approach to combat. He often tenses and banter with other autobots, sometimes making jokes at their expense, but unlike Sunny, he usually knows when to stop or when he's gone too far.

info dump bellow↓↓↓

Sideswipe and Sunstreaker both emerged during the Autobot Decepticon war and never known peace times. They are the youngest of the crashed Autobots, both being around a thousand years old, which is very young when your species can live to their hundred thousands.

Twins are what happens when a shuttle-sized spark splits into two, so before Sideswipe and Sunstreaker split, their emerging was highly anticipated because shuttles are rare and extremely powerful, but their spark ended up splitting. When they finally emerged, it was a great disappointment.

they were mentored by Inferno and, to a lesser extent, his conjux Redalert (they are one of the many reasons for Redalerts anxiety). Sideswipe has a pretty good relationship with his mentors Sunny… not so much 

Sunny hates Earth, it's filthy it's wet it's squishy it's sticky it's too hot, at least compared to Cybertron's frigid temperatures, and its dominant species are nothing but a pain he hates he has to hide his existence from the stupid inferior fleshy creatures that rule this dirtball of a planet he hates how often on missions he has to have a fleshy human chaperone to perform basic task that he could easily do himself or wouldn't be a problem if humans just didn't exist. Whichever bot or bots are on a mission with Sunny where human help is required, the other bot will always be the one transporting the human because Sunny refuses to let a human inside of him.

Sideswipe likes Earth, there so much to see it his first time being anywhere without the war consent looming present of the great war, but having to hide all the time on Earth is frustrating, he's been able to seek out and do some street races without Prowl knowing, he likes quite a lot of human stuff human music is pretty good and he like some human tv shows and movies mostly the ones with a lot of actions and explosion, he like interacting with the humans he's allowed to interact with especially Carly and Raoul, thought Sideswipe often struggles to understand how fragile humans are and often can put them at risk without even knowing it. Sideswipe is still a little homesick for Cybertron, even if he's only ever known it as a war-torn mess.

their poses often mirror each other

Sunny tells Sideswipe to smile with his mouth closed because his split beak. 

Sunny is the decision-maker of the two, and though Sideswipe may make destinations for himself on his own as a pair, Sunny always has the final say. 

Sunstreaker hates Sideswipe stickers but gave up on trying to remove them because whenever he tried, he got his claws sticky. 

Sunstreaker and Tracks have a bit of a rivalry going on, though Tracks hates Sunstreaker more than Sunstreaker dislikes Tracks. Also, Sunny usually comes out as the victor of most of their little spats.

Sideswipe pulls pranks but doesn't dare prank Sunstreaker because he knows there will be hell to pay if he messes up his brother's paint job. 

sideswipe loves to cause chaos, Sunny often help

Sunny has some artistic talent, though he doesn't use it much

Sunstreaker always makes sure his frame is clean and in near-perfect condition. Sideswipe doesn't care as much but Sunny, make sure Sideswipe keeps up to a certain standard.

Sideswipe is very extroverted, loves interacting with other bots, and will talk to basically anyone. Sunny is more introverted and prefers to keep to himself and select bots. Sunny tries to encourage his brother not to hang out with bots he considers not good enough to be associated with them which is most bots.

-----------------

As for plans for them, I like keeping what I share plot-wise pretty vague. They appear pretty early on, and they both are pretty plot-important. I don't really care about spoiling characters who appear in the first seven chapters. After that, I'm a little more sneaky and vague about who will appear.

[pinkpinkmermayyy]

Part 1 of the Transformers One Tangled AU!

thank you so much @sassycandypoetry for helping me with the different parts and concepts of the tangled au, so here's part 1! Part 2 might have more time until it comes out due to school but I hope ya'll enjoy this first part!

tw for this part: childbirth, kidnapping

Also here's some vocabulary I might need to clarify for those who aren't that informed on cybertronian terms:

Groon: an hour

Cycle: a year

Jour: a month

Helm: head

Servo: hand

Digit: finger

Also, when the text is in italics, Starscream is narrating

let me know if I missed anything else!

taglist: @punkeropercyjackson @aishabellasbigblogofeverything @akifandragon

(also let me know if you want to be on the taglist or if you want to be removed!)

---

This… is the story of how I died…

No no, don’t worry, this is a pretty fun story, especially when you compare it to my previous missions, but the truth is, it’s not even mine. This is the story of a mech named Bee.

And it all starts with the Earth’s sun.

A long time ago, cycles before the fall of the Primes, it was discovered that a single drop of sunlight had fallen from the Earth’s atmosphere and onto the organic planet. From that drop of sunlight grew a magical, golden flower. It had the power to heal the sick and injured, and upon the discovery of this powerful resource, the Primes sought to protect it and make sure it didn’t fall into the wrong servos.

Alpha Trion in particular was responsible for this flower. Flowers, in general, have never been a part of Cybertron’s ecosystem, so he’d come up with the plan to create a secret room as a part of the Prime’s headquarters where oxygen was always present, and a device was placed right above the flower that acted as a sun for it to receive the proper nutrients alongside the H2O that Alpha Trion fed it. The flower was protected, and it never fell into the wrong servos.

That was until Sentinel betrayed the Primes and allied with the Quintessons. After killing the Primes, he immediately took the flower along with the sun device and kept it to himself, using it selfishly to stay young and healthy forever. And all he had to do was recite a simple incantation.

“Flower gleam and glow, let your power shine,” Sentinel sang, sitting on one knee as his hands orbited around the plant, glowing a bright yellow-golden. “make the clock reverse, bring back what once was mine.”

“Heal what has been hurt, change the fate’s design. Save what has been lost, bring back what once was mine, what once was mine…” He felt his scratches and injuries heal along with any signs of rusting smooth over, a cool tingling sensation on his frame, and he smiled in satisfaction.

You get the gist, he sings and suddenly he’s all new, creepy right?

Sentinel was able to keep this plant a secret and away from the public eye, but that all changed when a certain miner couple were in dire need of a cure, and heard of the flower and its properties.

D-16 kneeled near his and Orion’s shared berth, holding on to Orion’s servo. His lover looked over to the grey miner weakly, barely managing to smile, as if still trying to bring his spirits up despite his condition. D-16 smiled back to reassure Orion knowing fully it was false, and affectionately kissed the back of Orion’s servo.

 It started 6 jours into Orion’s carrying period, with a weak cough and warm face plate. Then it was a nasal voice and watery eyes, a sneeze here and there. The miners just thought it was a case of short circuits and insulation damage due to the freezing temperatures of the mines, and even the sick weren’t allowed to leave their shifts. But then one day, while digging for more energon, Orion had collapsed, leaving D-16 in a terrible panic as he frantically carried him back into their small shared room. Of course, Darkwing had ordered them back but D-16 ignored it, leaving the larger authority figure to mutter about how “miners shouldn’t be getting carelessly knocked up.”

Now it was 8 jours into Orion carrying his and D-16’s sparkling, and there was no sign of him getting better. When one of the medics assigned to the miners grimly told D-16 that Orion and the sparkling would die and that there was no cure for his condition, he collapsed into a puddle of tears. He never told Orion this; he didn’t want to burden his lover even more, and he couldn’t even look Orion in the eye to avoid crying again.

He coped by working endlessly, mining even when their shifts were over. The other miners noticed but didn’t dare to speak to him, worried they might provoke him to snap. Elita-1 was the first to break this silence, bearing more than sympathy and “sorry”s for D-16.

“What is it?” D-16 asked, his gaze lowered as the pink bot walked over to him. It was late at night, and most other miners were taking advantage of the time they got to rest, but D-16 mindlessly swept the floors to keep him busy. She gave him a pitying look before continuing, something D-16 didn’t appreciate. Elita got straight to the point.

“I think there’s something that could save Orion and your sparkling.”

D-16 scoffed, not looking up. “Last I heard the medic said he was going to die and I just have to deal with it,” he said in a cynical tone.

“I’m serious, D-16. if you want to at least try to save your conjux, follow me.”

D-16 looked up to see Elita walking away, and he begrudgingly followed her, catching up to her quickly. “Where are we even going?” 

She ignored him, leading him into the archives, going deeper and deeper through the aisles of Cybertronian knowledge. She only stopped until she had reached the edge of the room, something D-16 didn’t even think existed due to how vast the Archives seemed. 

These shelves were much less pristine and shiny than the shelves at the front of the Archives room, and the books were tattered and nearly falling from their spines. Elita carefully picked up a light green book in a similar condition, and the author that was listed on the bottom of the cover was scratched out ominously. Elita slowly flipped the pages to the one she desired, which featured a hazy illustration of what seemed to be a plant with yellowish petals. D-16 had never seen anything like it.

“I was afraid that they would find this book and censor it but it’s still here, and this,” she said, pointing to the illustration, “may just help you.”

She squinted her optics to whisper out the blurry text. “‘During the 15th and 16th centuries on Earth,’ which is about 10 stellar cycles before the fall of the Primes,” Elita added for D-16’s information before continuing, “‘a drop of sunlight from Earth’s sun fell onto the planet’s soil, and a golden flower grew from it. It is said that the flower could heal all illnesses and injuries, make both bots and humans younger and even reverse death, and the Primes preserved that flower before Sentinel Prime took on the task of protecting it after their demise.’”

“Sentinel Prime?” D-16 said in disbelief. “B-but, how have I not heard of this before?” 

“The book was probably banned after traveling to other planets became illegal. The author was either imprisoned or even executed due to this,” Elita said matter-of-factly. 

D-16 stood up, brows furrowed. Why would he keep such a life-changing resource away from everyone? This could help millions! It might even help…

D-16 realized why Elita brought him here. “But how? How the hell would a miner like me be able to get a plant that is probably highly guarded? And steal from Sentinel of all bots?”

“Just think about this D-16, would Orion do it for you if the roles were switched?”

D-16 paused, pondering over it. 

If he had been the one to get sick instead of Orion, and there was a chance to save him even in the most dangerous possible mission, Orion would have done it. He’d risk losing his life and a limb or two just to save D-16 because he loved him way more than any God, even someone like Sentinel. D-16 slowly nodded in defeat.

“I don’t know about how to use the flower,” Elita started. She smiled, facing D-16 and putting a palm on his shoulder plate. “But the book never said you had to retrieve it alone.”

—

D-16 and Elita ran for as long as they could, not even realizing the rest of Sentinel’s guards had lost them amidst all the panic and chaos. D-16 panted heavily, careful to not drop the flower and blow his whole operation. Their masks made it hard for them to see, the cutouts for their eyes barely giving them sight.

When they finally reached the entrance to D-16 and Orion’s small home, the grey miner looked back at Elita-1 with pure gratitude in his optics.

“Thank you, really. I didn’t think you cared that much about saving Orion.”

Elita-1 smiled back warmly, despite how panic-stricken she had been just a few moments ago. “I know I seem like I only care about my job and being promoted, but I care, truly I do.” 

She then playfully hit D-16’s shoulder plate “But that’s the last time I’m doing something like that, so tell Orion NOT to try to die on us again once he gets better.”

D-16 chuckled. “Sure thing Elita.” She then descended from the premises, as D-16 unlocked the door within the mine shaft’s walls and closed it behind him as he entered.

He felt his spark ache when he saw Orion on the berth, tears streaking his cheeks as he tried to sit up, to no avail. D-16 remembered that Ratchet told him that the illness would become extremely painful for the sick bot in their processor, abdomen area, and hinges, and that was what happened now. D-16 felt awful for leaving his lover here alone for groons, but he knew Orion’s health would become better now with the mysterious plant.

D-16 placed the flower on the table next to the berth, hastily grabbing a spare bottle of liquid energon he had saved and an empty bowl. He poured the energon into the bowl, flinching when a couple of drops spilled. He then set aside the now empty bottle and held the flower slowly, his servos shaking. He didn’t know how the hell he was supposed to use it and didn’t want to accidentally kill the flower, so he submerged it into the bowl as slowly as any bot could move.

To his amazement, the flower started glowing, the golden color from it dissolving into the energon and changing from a vibrant blue to a golden yellow.

D-16 sighed, walking over to Orion with the bowl full of golden energon.

He looked to see if Orion was still awake. He was, and he was looking right at D-16, his eyes filled with pain. D-16 spoke softly.

“Orion, this is going to make you feel better. All you need to do is let me feed you, m’kay?”

Orion nodded, too exhausted to speak, and D-16 kneeled in front of the red-and-blue mech. He reached his servos towards Orion’s open dermas, who consumed the drink until the bowl was empty, the petals now dry grey husks.

D-16 just prayed that Orion’s illness would be gone by morning, as his lover finally fell asleep after hours of excruciating pain. The grey mech lay beside his sleeping partner, and he gave him a small peck on his cheek plate before succumbing to exhaustion as well.

—

It was nearing daytime, and Sentinel strode through the golden halls before any other bots in the building woke up. He held onto his arm and winced slightly in disgust, noticing the rust that had grown on it. 

He of course kept it a secret, but before he betrayed the Primes and took away the flower, he had caught a disease known as Cosmic Rust, where the victim’s body would slowly rust away into nothing. It also made the bot age much quicker than others and could even make it possible for bots to die of old age. There was still no cure for it, so he resigned himself to using the flower’s ability to heal all ailments to subdue it before it returned weeks later as a painful reminder of his curse.

This was the cycle Sentinel had been living by for decades now, but when he reached the room where the flower was kept, the guards were knocked out, the door was wide open, and the flower was gone.

—

The first thing D-16 noticed when he went online was that Orion was absent from his side of the berth, making the grey mech immediately jump to his pedes. He rushed out the door, only to find Orion happily laughing alongside Elita-1 and other miners, walking around and standing on his pedes with no struggle whatsoever. The palm of his servo held his large abdomen as he chatted with the other miners before noticing D-16 walking outside their shared home.

Orion looked over to the shocked D-16, his radiant blue eyes shinier than ever, and gave him a large smile as he waved.

“Mornin’ D!” His voice was bright and loud like it had always been before, and D-16 felt a huge wave of relief and gratefulness wash over him. 

He ran over to Orion and gave him a large hug, managing to be gentle on Orion’s belly before lifting him and spinning him around, placing him down on the floor after a moment. Orion laughed more before D-16 gazed warmly into Orion’s eyes and kissed his dermas passionately. His optics were shut tight, and Orion closed his as he leaned into the kiss before they both pulled away.

—

The days after that were blissful after months of stress and devastation for D-16. Because Orion was now 8 and a half jours into his carrying period, he was dismissed from work until after the sparkling was delivered (to the higher-ups' dismay), relieving D-16 of any more worries about how Orion would fare in his state while mining. The only downside was that Darkwing handed him exceedingly dangerous and strenuous work due to his frustration, but it didn’t bother him as much as it should have. 

That was, until when the sparkling was about to be born. D-16 had dropped everything and ran straight out of the cave, racing towards his home and staying right by Orion’s side as he groaned and hissed out in pain, squeezing his servo in his as he felt a sense of dreadful déjà vu creep up on him upon seeing his conjux’s frame. Other miners crowded out the door but D-16 only allowed Elita-1 and a medic she had hastily called, while everyone else remained curious about the whole situation.

After groons of tension and spiraling intrusive thoughts that invaded D-16’s mind as he stayed by Orion’s side, the sparkling was delivered. While the medic held the fragile and wailing sparkling in her servos, D-16 caressed Orion’s face plate, thanking Primus that Orion was safe and okay. The medic told the couple that she’d clean the sparkling up and return him to them after a groon and a half, and she left, leaving D-16 and Elita-1 to tend to Orion.

—

Sentinel Prime rarely saw to the birth of new sparklings that were sired and carried by miners, but this one, in particular, was very peculiar. Nothing about him was alarming regarding his health, in fact, he seemed much brighter than normal sparklings. His optics were a radiant blue, similar to his carrier’s, and his armor was a beautiful golden yellow. He didn’t cry excessively like other sparklings, instead giggling and smiling almost all the time, a trait that would’ve been annoying on a grown mech or fem but was very endearing on the sparkling. 

Sentinel entered the room, prompting the medics to address him formally, not noticing the growing rust on his arm plate that he covered with his other servo. He glanced at the smiling sparkling, who looked up at the blue and gold bot with big doe eyes. The golden color of the sparkling instantly caught Sentinel’s eye, and if it weren’t for his slightly panicked state from the night before he would have complimented it. He offered to proceed with the procedure that only miner sparklings had to go through shortly after birth, which the medics agreed to. 

They seemed surprised that Sentinel would concern himself with such a mild task, but they also spoke amongst themselves about how that makes him more honorable in their eyes, caring for sparklings from lower classes.

Sentinel smirked while hearing their conversation two rooms away from him as he quickly but painstakingly plucked the t-cog from the sparkling’s chest before returning the sparkling back to the medics, allowing him to go on with the rest of his day.

But now it couldn’t seem to leave his processor. That golden color looked so familiar, so strangely recognizable and he was drawn to it. He held the t-cog that he took from the sparkling, debating whether he should throw it away like he did all the others now, wondering why he felt that this sparkling was so important, so significant. It was when he looked back on the empty room that once contained his flower, it clicked for him.

No, it couldn’t be…

But it made sense. Two seemingly cogless bots stole the magic flower from the tower, and anyone could connect that to Orion’s miraculous recovery. He supposed that one of those bots was D-16, while the other bot was unknown. He debated punishing the grey miner with execution or imprisonment, but knowing that the sparkling might have the same healing powers as the plant, a different idea sprung to mind.

Conveniently, Airachnid walked in at that moment, cringing at the larger wound of rust on Sentinel’s arm.

“Sir, your arm-”

“I know Airachnid, I know,” Sentinel responded in irritation, pinching the bridge of his nose plate with his digits. He then rested his chin on his servo, optics looking down in thought.

“Airachnid,” he began, looking up at her. “You know of that new sparkling that was just born today? The sparkling of Orion Pax and D-16?”

“No sir, but what would you like me to do?”

“I think that the sparkling has the same powers as the golden flower, and I want you to check if that’s true. If not, leave him, and I’ll jail D-16 for thievery and treason.” Aiarchnid nodded, taking in the orders precisely.

“But if the sparkling has those powers, bring him to me. That’ll be punishment enough for the thief, losing a sparkling. Besides, no miners could ever properly take care of a sparkling, especially one so valuable.” He added with a chuckle.

All Sentinel knew was that D-16 would pay for stealing his precious flower, no matter what.

—

“What should his name be Orion?” D-16 asked, cradling the sparkling in his arms. Orion thought for a moment and then smiled mischievously.

“How about D-Pax?”

D-16 furrowed his brows in thought and smiled softly. “You know, that sounds pretty good. That could actually work!”

Orion started giggling, to D-16’s confusion. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing, nothing, but you haven’t heard the name before?”

D-16 raised his brow. “No?”

Orion smirked, leaning into D-16’s touch. “It’s our ship name.”

D-16 widened his eyes and laughed, putting his arm around Orion while securing the sparkling in the other. “Really?”

“Yeah! Darkwing actually came up with it to taunt us but it caught on, and now he hates it.” He chuckled, kissing his conjux’s cheek before resting his helm on D-16’s shoulder plate. “So you wanna name him that?”

D-16 looked at his sparkling fondly, now sleeping soundly in his arm. “Yeah, I do.”

I’ll give you a hint: that’s Bee.

At that moment, everything was perfect. You’d think that this was the end of the story, that everything just stayed fine, right?

But then that moment ended.

It was night now. D-16 and Orion shortly fell into a deep sleep in each other’s arms, D-16’s servo cradling the back of Orion’s helm. Their sparkling fell asleep in his small makeshift crib, occasionally mumbling incoherent babbles in his sleep, while the light of Luna 1 and Luna 2 shone on the sleeping sparkling.

But suddenly, the moonlight was replaced by a spider-like shadow that cast over the golden sparkling.

Airachnid bent over, one of her servos lightly touching the side of the sparkling while she started singing the incantation. 

“Flower gleam and glow, let your power shine…”

The sparkling’s armor started to glow, and what appeared to be tiny swirls and flower-shaped designs that looked embroidered onto the sparkling appeared as well despite not being present before. Airachnid smiled in satisfaction before she heard Orion stirring and in horror, saw his optics open.

She quickly grabbed the sparkling, jerking him awake, making him start crying for the first time in his life as Airachnid carried him close to her chassis to try to muffle his sobbing.

Orion jumped out of his berth while D-16, now awake, gasped in terror while chasing after Orion, who ran as fast as his pedes could go after the kidnapper.

But it was all in vain. When Orion reached for the door leading outside the mine shaft, the bot was long gone, his baby with them.

Under Sentinel’s orders, she broke in, stole the sparkling, and just like that; gone!

Devastated, Orion, D-16, and the rest of the miners had searched for the sparkling. They also filed a report for the kidnapping, in which Sentinel Prime publicly declared he would be determined to search for the precious sparkling, but of course that was a lie. 

The miners dubbed him the “Lost Sparkling”, and even those who weren’t well acquainted with D-16 and Orion mourned the loss, as being able to even have a sparkling as a miner was rare due to so many complications they could face and how hard it was to raise one in those conditions.

Meanwhile, deep in Sub-Level 50, Sentinel decided to raise the sparkling as his own.

The sparkling (named B-127 by Sentinel) , now 6 cycles old, sat on Sentinel Prime’s lap, his frame much smaller in comparison to the false prime’s. He had his optics closed as he recited the same song Airachnid did 6 cycles before.

“Save what has been lost, bring back what once was mine, what once was mine…”

Sentinel felt the rust disappearing off his body and grinned, sighing in relief as the glow faded from the sparkling’s frame. He opened his wide blue optics and looked up at Sentinel.

“Why can’t I go outside?” he asked innocently as Sentinel still held Bee’s small servo on his own. Sentinel’s smile was replaced with a frown and he sighed, stroking bee’s helm.

“When you were born, the Quintessons and thousands of other bots alike knew of your power and tried kidnapping you, intent on enslaving you. But I was able to stop them. The world outside has become a dangerous place, filled with horrible, selfish people. You must stay here, where it’s safe. Do you understand, my flower?”

B-127 looked down, his miniscule antennae lowering. “Yes papa.”

Despite Bee being a beacon of light he was shrouded in darkness by Sentinel, but one day, that was all going to change.

[revelboo]

GOD BLESS YOU,, you are like,, literally the only person that writes for jazz,, and i love how you characterise him🥹♡

Really? Jazz is awesome, though!

Over It Now Pt 5

IDW Jazz x Reader- warmth

• Every day, you fuss a little less. Not quite sure if that means you’re starting to like him or if he’s just wearing you down, Jazz curls his servos around your waist and lifts you up. One thing he is sure of? You like being outside with him. At least, he’s almost positive you do. Striding across the yard and away from the lights, he glances at you in his hand. The full moon and his visor limn you in pale light as you frown up at him without any real heat, making you seem to glow.

• “I can walk,” you mutter with a sigh, not even bothering with struggling as he carries you across the yard in his huge hands. Sure, this is better than limping on the crutches, but it’s not exactly dignified. Almost positive that in his alien brain he’s decided you’re the equivalent of a kitten if the way he’s always trying to touch your hair or you is any indication. You’d gotten over being indignant about it after the first month, because your big house guest doesn’t show any sign of getting bored with you and you just can’t get it. You’re not exactly exciting, so why does he keep coming back? Why stay? Because he feels obligated. That’s all it is.

• “I got you, kitten,” he says, head tipping back to the sky before carefully lifting you to his shoulder slowly so you don’t startle. For a moment you tense in his grip, but then you carefully slide over to sit on one of his alt mode’s tires. He keeps his servos over your waist and legs though in case you fall. “Look.” You’re staring at him, a little hand on his cheek for balance before you finally lift your head and he hears you suck in a breath as he dims his visor for you.

• You never really think to look up anymore, always too busy. He brought you out here, because he wanted to show you this and warmth spreads through you as you stare at the jeweled sky. “Where’s Cybertron?” You ask, leaning into his neck to shamelessly steal warmth. He’s always so hot to the touch and if he gets to try to pet you, it’s only fair. He makes a low noise, the tips of his servos brushing your lower belly and hips. Ready to grab you probably. Worrying over you all the time even when you’re fine.

• “Honestly? I don’t know.” He admits, the realization that he probably should know and doesn’t bothering him. Shouldn’t he be able to look up and just know where home is? You slide off his tire to curl into the crook of his neck under his helm and he freezes because you’ve wedged yourself against his mesh trying to take advantage of his warmth and he can feel you there, soft and cool to the touch. And it’s the first time you’ve willingly sought him out even if it’s only his body heat you want. Venting roughly, he’s afraid to make a single move in case this moment ends. Especially when you whisper a quiet thank you. Previous Next

[yuukirita]

Plz. Give deceptibee a pet. 

Imagine Bee sneaking out of the base every night to go meet the his new bestie ,you know, just THE LAST PREDACON ALIVE (aka Predaking). Who he only knows as a talking dragon at the point, that is trapped somewhere in Cybertron surface. Bee finds him, when Starscream left him alone to clean his mind after spend too much (unwanted) time with Bee, the poor thing was hurt and starving for a long time. Remembering Bee of sublevel 50, so he takes care of him (pretty much like how to train your dragon), they bond, Bee fix Predaking as best as he can, they go to the base flying and scares everyone.

Bee is like: Dad! Dad! Look at my new BFF/pet his name is ShiningClearSky (is not) he can fly, he's sooo cool! Can we keep him?!

It'll be so funny seeing Bee and Predaking going around like a baby with a grown ass pitbull protecting him.

PLZZZZZZ IT WILL BE SOOOO FUNNY!!

no >:C

Nothing stops you from doing it urself thought!