#Help vox is holding a gun to my head making me draw him hot

[galaxytoons]

[crying-fantasies]

The line

Masterlist

You have heard the stories, almost like the ones in horror movies or sci-fi.

What has your life been but a very high-inducing sci-fi blended with cosmic horror, thriller, and comedy, a full set for adult content while at it? Maybe.

There is metal being broken, bent, destroyed, sparks going off around, your arm, something is worn with it, and you can't feel left your arm, it’s better to not hear, better to move on, finding the red, orange and yellow, dripped with blue in bursts.

“You’re a soldier”, you once told him, Hot Rod stopped using you like a stress reliever squeaking toy in his hand, and looked at you, “Why to use this paint on you?”

He laughed, when he still could, when energon wasn't falling from his lacking mandible, “I was forged like this, squishy”, his digits, now lacking after the blow, would try to ease the creases between your eyebrows, “We speedsters are colorful, seeker coding or whatever”.

“Don't you stand up a lot?” your hands hold his digit, looking directly at the yellow paint, some is lacking due to the heat created by his guns, “they shot you a lot”, Hot Rod laughed, mumbling something about catching everyone’s optics because of his talent; his paint, you catch some energon dried up under it, it wasn't as bad as now, blue drying up over him, pieces falling, your eyes don't leave, don't wander away from the fainting light of his spark, Hot Rod looks at the carcass of the Matrix over what is left of his chassis, over his spark, no energy left, no energon, he has heard the stories too, and his optics show deep, cutting fear when he knows what you are thinking and his answer is a loud, big, scared “No” blurring his vox, you move forward and his pedes try to drag him away, pushing dirt in his lame, fruitless attempt to get as far away from you and that sickening determination on your watery eyes, he pleads again, “no!”, but you are already on the way to him, spilling red, living fluid in your way.

“So what?”, in that moment, with war away, a passing moment when he can feel you trying to climb over him, little feet doing a tap-tap sound over his armor, he indulges in your efforts to come near, slowing a bit once near the autobot badge on his chassis, “I'm always back on my stabilizer servos, so no problem”, your fingers go over the drawing, Hot Rod catches on the humming of something right down there.

Your voice was calm, “I know”, you assured, pressing your palm flat against the surface, Hot Rod tried to not think about the gesture you were making, silly organic, touching in such an intimate place, but you knew no better, still, his derma is pulled thin if only a little, because it feels nice, to be pampered a bit, his optics big and spark spinning against his better judgment when you drop the bomb on him, “but I don't want you getting hurt”.

Why don't you wreck his spark out while you're at it, huh? Hot Rod needed a moment to clear his processor, are humans so touchy and open with affection?, “so weird”, he took you on his servos, joking with you, “Take me out for some energon first, buddy”, you don't get it and it's fine, he pets your head to get some sleep, because humans need to sleep 8 hours like the archaic device said so, humans shouldn't lack sleep or they get slow, and you were already so slow as it is.

Humans shouldn't bleed so much.

“Stay away!”, he pleaded as you finally reached his chassis like that day, “no!” he repeated, he can't just swat you away if he doesn't want you dead, you are so weak, where is everybody? Why isn't anyone here to help you? He can be fixed fast but you can't, you have no spark.

If you die here, that's it, he won't see you ever again.

Your hand holds the Matrix, and to Hot Rod’s horror, the thing powers up, he sees your fingers getting inside, and he yells at you to stop, his voice mad and grieving when your hand disappears too, he tries to find help, noticing he is all alone in between what's left in the battlefield as you go head first into it, he pleads you to stop, he isn't worth it, he doesn't want you to do this for him, and when he tries to get a hold of you in any way even as he lacks digits and full servos there is nothing but failed attempts to save you, all your cells, all that you are feeding the relic, showering the metal in energon, enough to make him heal, make him change, and it is as painful physically as it is emotionally when his frame decays in the surface to bring out another, one he isn't familiar with, his screams are finally heard, but there are only laments, as he hears them say that you did good, repeating endlessly that it wasn't his fault.

It's not enough, it never is.

His frame shudders and his vox is broken by his cries for help, he calls out your name, trying to open the Matrix to get you back, but there is no such thing as returning from the great beyond, and energon spills over his fixed servos.

His systems reboot, and Rodimus Prime awakens once again, alone on his berth, venting and even choking on the memories of it all, servo soon covering his chest piece, where the Matrix is holding him back together, and where he can faintly feel the pull over his spark, that humming, in and out. It's dreadful and beautiful, a compass that mimics a tune, a song without words, his servos cover his chassis and, for a moment, he can feel your body over it, sleeping soundly, protected, if only for a fleeting beat, he can lay down again, pretending you are there, telling him: “don't you dare get hurt, Hot Rod”.

Humans are tiny, they are reckless, they bound way too fast and strong.

Humans' lives are so short, and yet you went and made it even worse, “Hey”, he calls on the night of this planet, thinking that somehow he’ll get something back, “Why did you live so fast?”

There is a faint hum on his spark, almost like an answer, “Because you were worth it”