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filiazpink · 6 months ago

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HEYYYY IM THE GIRL FROM THE COMMENT SECTION OF YOUR ORION AND D-16 AND THEIR SUPERIOR FIC!!! i just wanted to let you know it was adorable and that if it’s alright with you i would love to see a part two! 💕💕💕

🩷"INFATUATED"🩷

orion pax x femme + superior! reader x d-16 - part 2

warnings: MAJOR transformers one spoilers, sentinel prime likes the reader too HELP, my cutie patootie oc being mentioned once, darkwing being darkwing electric boogaloo, cheesy stuff once again

summary: takes place during the iacon 5000, and a bit of the aftermath that follows. orion's crush is still very obvious and d-16 is warming up to you.

a/n: SO MANY NOTES ON PART 1?? TYSM EVERYONE 💗💗💗💗 and also a round of applause to this lovely requester here sending the ask that motivated me to make a part 2 :3 sorry it took so long i was busy with art commissions and writing my dark deception fic :( hopefully this will live up to the expectations of the 30 ppl that sent me in inbox to make a part 2 !! if you guys want a part 3 with even more stuff, lemme know in the inbox! it would be kinda fun to make a mini series with this idea for the whole movie !! ENJOY !!!

word count: 1740

proofread: minimal (lemme know if there's any errors!!)

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somehow, you managed to gain one of the best spots in iacon to watch the race take place.

well, it was easy to know why.

sentinel prime himself considered you as one of ‘his closest friend’, so he reserved a special seat just for you: right next to him.

best seat in the house.

it was a very overwhelming experience overall, with cameras all pointed towards you and THE sentinel prime, the fact that you were simply next to the savior of iacon, the slight confusion you had for what you and sentinel were. i mean, you only spoke to him professionally, and those were rare occasions. surely, he met thousands of new bots everyday, yet he remembered you of all bots.

but all of that couldn’t compare to the dread that took over your entire body as soon as you heard sentinel utter the following:

“i’m sorry- are those miners in the race?” the two of you turned around to the giant screen to see that, indeed, there were cogless bots participating in the race.

and not just any cogless bots, bots from your sector!

and not just bots from your sector, it was those two charming bots orion pax and d-16!

your optics widened at the revelation, on the point of transforming to go and stop them before they get damaged beyond repair but sentinel held you back.

“hey- hey, what are you doing??” he mumbled, looking back at the cameras every few seconds to make sure they weren’t focused on him.

“those are workers from my sector!! i-i know them, i have to sto-”

“come on, (y/n), relax! they’ll be fine! besides, think of the inspirational boost it’ll give the other miners if they do win. they’ll be delighted.” he tried coaxing you into relaxing, going so far as to gently rub your shoulder in an attempt at comforting you but you had none of it.

“this is a first in iacon 5000 history!”

“oh primus, please, please, please keep them alive!,,,”

“how are they going to survive?”

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eventually, the cameras couldn’t pick up feed on the tunnel that the majority of the racers, including orion and d-16, were in. the thought of finding them crushed or in worse condition sickened you. with a trembling hand, you quickly gripped onto sentinel’s, who couldn’t help but look smug at your reaction.

“they’ll be okay,,, right?!” you asked him and the prime sighed.

“don’t worry. if they end up hurt, we’ll just send them to medbay-”

“i don’t believe it! the miners take down darkwing!”

the crowd went wild at the display, somehow getting louder than it already was. the femme and the prime watched in astonishment as the miners went from last place to third place in such a short amount of time.

well, now you knew that darkwing was going to complain about that to you for the rest of the work cycle.

you let go of the blue and golden bot’s hand (much to his very visible disappointment) to place it over your mouth. your optics shined in absolute amazement, watching the main screen showing orion and d-16 looking more and more hopeful.

“OHH, MINERS!” darkwing literally roared at them, his fists clenching in total anger.

“great effort, darkwing!” orion attempted to cheer on darkwing for his efforts, but deep down, he knew once this was over, he and his companion were royally fucked.

“t-that worked! it actually worked! you think (y/n) saw all that?!” d-16 beamed, getting more and more excited at the thought of you watching them- watching him win the race.

“i’m sure she’s watching! she’ll be so proud of us!”

after passing the magnetic obstacle course tunnel (much to your relief, poor bots would have been crushed beyond repair), you felt like your body couldn’t handle all the amount of excitement, especially with the announcer going:

“a four-bot pile-up in the magnetic tunnel and the two miners are now in first position! this is UNBELIEVABLE!”

the speechless prime turned around, facing the finish line, pulling you alongside to observe.

from the corner of his optic, he watched your reactions with envy. you never reacted that way whenever he showed up to your office unprompted.

were those two cog-less bots really that important when he’s here?

however, his train of thoughts was interrupted as a shattered piece from a nearly crushed racer hit d-16 from behind, making the grey bot trip and fracture his leg. you gasped at the outcome, praying they were still close enough to make it.

orion reached for d-16, pulling him up and slinging him onto his back, slowly making his way to the finish line.

everyone was losing it, including sentinel, who was on the edge of his seat. will they make it in time?

even the announcer seemed to be overly excited!

orion quickly looked up to your radiant face, feeling another rush of energy flow through him simply by seeing your wonderstruck expression. by the allspark, you looked glorious with all the different lights shining onto your armour.

“one miner is now carrying the other, mere steps from the finish line in the most amazing, sensational, dramatic, heart-rending, exciting, thrilling finish in the history of-”

and all of a sudden, all of it was cut short as a white and cyan mech ran into the smaller bots, knocking them back down. the mech transformers and slid across the finish line, throwing her fists in the air.

“WE HAVE A WINNERRR!! CHROMIA COMES FROM BEHIND TO TAKE THE PRIZE! talk about an iacon 5000 for the ages!”

your excitement died down. sure, you were happy for chromia, she won fair and square, but,,,

you sighed as you watched every other surviving racer fly past the two miners, still trying to see the small mechs as sentinel let out a chuckle, dragging you away with him to congratulate the winner.

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“mmh, they should be right here, miss.”

“thank you, mekastat.”

the pale red and pink bot nodded at you with a courteous smile, walking away from the medbay you were informed that orion and d-16 were in. you let out a long sigh, clearing your throat and before you could knock at the door, you managed to overhear the ongoing conversation.

“we are SO screwed!” you could distinguish d-16’s frustrated voice through the commotion, followed by orion’s more gentle tone:

“i thought you weren’t talking to me,,,”

“hey, look, i know it's all a big joke to you, but not me! i was paying my dues. i was going places and now they're going to bust me down- i don't even know how many tiers-”

“d, i’m sorry-”

“A-AND NOT JUST THAT! SHE SAW IT ALL HAPPEN! SHE,,, she saw everything.” she? no, that doesn’t matter. your curiosity will be your downfall.

with a quick knock, their conversation was cut short as you quietly walked in. orion immediately sat up straight, his optics wide open. a blush (that you assumed was out of embarrassment) decorated his face. d-16, however, didn’t even look you in the eye, his head hunched over in shame.

“hi.”

they waited for any form of reprimand from you, but since you simply stared back at them as to wait for them to speak, orion decided to be the first to break the ice.

“,,, i’m so sorry, (y/n), i was the one to s-suggest the idea of us participating. demote me but not d-16, i practically dragged him along into this.” d-16 turned his head just a little bit at his friend, the tension in his yellow optics leaving just a tad bit.

you thought for a while, looking away and missed the way that even in such a situation where you were supposed to, yes, reprimand them, orion looked up at you like you hung the moon and the stars combined. even in the poor lighting the room had, your armour still shined in a hypnotizing way. at least, in orion’s eyes.

“i should punish you for breaking protocol like this.”

“we know,,,” “but.” you got down on your knees, still towering over the miners, and with a small and gracious smile, you said: “i won’t. besides, even if you lost, that was still the coolest thing i’ve ever seen.”

hearing that made d-16’s helm rise back up to stare at you with a bewildered expression, matching his friend.

“really??”

you then let out a small giggle and gave them a bigger smile, which totally didn’t make the two smaller bots swoon. “it was amazing! you were both so fast, and you managed to take down darkwing?? he’s never going to hear the end of it! do you know how long he’s been training for this day and he was beaten by you two, who never trained for this type of action?!”

they’ve never seen you this excited, just the sight made up for the fact that they had lost and possibly humiliated themselves to millions of cybertronians.

“if anything, if sentinel doesn’t end up giving you guys a prize for making it this far, i’d think he’d be wasting an opportunity to celebrate true racers!”

“oh- wait! sentinel! what’s he going to do with us??” asked d-16, nearly getting up from the table, stress once more filling his processors.

your excitement died down at the mention of his name. oh, right. him.

“um, i could try to convince him to not do anything drastic! he considers me a friend of his, apparently.”

“that won’t be necessary.” another femme’s voice droned out, one that you immediately recognized.

“i’ll take it from here, (y/n). head back to your post.” airachnid ordered, stepping aside for you to leave. you turned your helm to the miners and waved goodbye, still watching them as you walked away until they were no longer in sight.

as you were about to leave the building, you bumped into darkwing, who despite not having visible facial features, you could tell with the way he was walking that he was still absolutely infuriated.

“darkwing,,,?” you asked and in response, he swiftly turned around, grabbed you by the shoulders and screamed:

“I JUST WANT YOU TO KNOW THAT YOU ARE A VERY BEAUTIFUL AND VALUED BOT IN MY LIFE.” and so he power walked into the hospital, leaving you utterly confused.

,,,

what.

wait why was he going in the hospital?

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🩷send me a burger !! : ko-fi💗 🩷visit my other socials !! : socials list💗 🩷writing requests rules !! : info list💗

#orion pax x reader #d 16 x reader #sentinel prime x reader #transformers one x reader #transformers x reader #fluff #transformers one #transformers one fanfiction #optimus prime x reader #megatron x reader #writeblr #writing #writing requests open #orion pax #d 16 #darkwing #sentinel prime

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fernisfreaky · 8 months ago

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oppy gets super lovey dovey during aftercare proceeding him topping bc he is very conscious of their size diff 😔❤

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lunatf-ao3 · 20 days ago

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SICK CARE ☀︎︎

[BAYVERSE] Optimus Prime/Human!Reader

[⚠︎]: Flu

Now comes a wave of sick care!!

Being cautious, Optimus slowly stirred the small pot of soup before him with a ladle, trying to bring it to the right warmth for you.

The size of the tools was certainly... inconvenient, especially when he could crush them and ruin the food in seconds, just like the first time. He hadn’t expected human cookware to be so delicate beneath his fingers.

So, for now, he remained cautious.

"The soup will be ready soon. I apologize for the delay. I failed in preparing it the first time.

His optics shifted to you, voice heavy with guilt. He had seen you open your eyes, weak and teary beneath the cold cloth he’d placed on your forehead.

"It’s okay, Optimus... You didn’t have to do all this," you murmur, offering him a faint smile. "But it’s kind of funny watching you make soup."

That smile, fragile as it was, warmed his spark in a way he tried not to acknowledge.

He could pretend he was doing this solely out of responsibility, because you were his ward, and you were unwell. But deep down, to his quiet dismay, he knew there was something more.

Something difficult to admit, yet something he had already accepted.

"It is no trouble."

You didn’t respond. The light had started to bother your eyes, so you shut them again. He noticed.

Without a word, he set down the ladle and turned off the row of lights in that section of the room.

His room.

Since your arrival at NEST, sick and fragile, Optimus hadn’t been able to leave you unattended. He had used the excuse of having reports to file, but in truth, he brought you into his quarters and took charge of your care himself.

And now here you were, resting on his berth, wrapped securely in a neat arrangement of sheets he had gathered just for you.

He knew he shouldn't indulge the feeling. But seeing you like this, so defenseless, so small...

He couldn’t help it.

He approached you. The tip of a single digit gently brushed your cheek in a soft, fleeting stroke, following its path until reaching the damp cloth on your forehead.

It had warmed up.

Carefully, he removed it, wrung out the liquid, then dipped it again in fresh cold water and replaced it over your brow.

Then he noticed your nose, it was running. Without hesitation, he retrieved a tissue, pulled out a piece with careful precision, and offered it to you.

"Thank you, Optimus."

You smiled, setting the tissue aside after wiping your nose.

"This is really sweet of you."

"There is no need to thank me."

You laughed softly, enough to make his spark fill.

"How humble."

"...Was that humor?"

"Yeah."

He gave only a quiet nod.

"Your temperature remains elevated," he murmured, before returning his attention to the soup. He stirred it twice, and finally found the temperature adequate.

"Optimus... I’m hungry, but I don’t want soup. I want a hamburger."

He paused.

"A hamburger would only strain your system at the moment. The soup provides warmth, hydration, and the nutrients your body is currently lacking."

"Ah..." you sighed, but didn’t argue further.

Optimus carefully lifted the pot into one servo, along with a spoon, a napkin, and a small bucket, just in case your system rejected the meal.

You looked at him, slightly alarmed.

"It’s... a lot. I think just one bowl would be enough. And, uh aren't you burning yourself?"

"The temperature is low for me. It does not harm me. I assumed this was the standard portion humans consume. I did not anticipate needing a bowl."

"We do eat this much, but in parts. It’s okay, you don’t have to bring a bowl. I will just take spoonfuls straight from it."

Optimus nodded, watching as you weakly tried to sit up.

You pressed the cloth against your forehead, trying to keep it in place.

Then reached for a spoon... and failed. Your hands felt wrong, your fingers too stiff and unfamiliar. Too heavy. Too uncomfortable.

And the steam from the soup, it stung your face. It was too much.

You let go of the spoon.

"I can’t."

A bit taken aback, Optimus looked at you, concerned.

Caring for a human... was more complex than expected.

"May I assist you?"

"Huh?"

"May I feed you? If you will allow it."

"You really don’t have to."

"It is no burden."

He raised a spoonful carefully.

"Please. Allow me."

"Uh... alright."

"I regret if I have caused you discomfort."

The familiar apology passed quietly through the room’s cool air. Optimus was methodically arranging the small place where you would sleep, laying out the sheets and pillows with the care of someone preparing a bed for royalty.

"You don’t have to apologize so much... I’m not uncomfortable. You’ve done a lot for me today."

Your voice was softer now, fading behind a yawn that made him pick up the pace.

You waited patiently at the side.

The Autobot leader had fed you, like a baby. The thought was strange, sure... but not unpleasant.

In fact, you liked it. You really liked the care he was giving you.

Optimus’s soup was very good.

Made for you. Just for you.

It made you feel special.

Without warning, Optimus gently picked you up and placed you in the carefully made nest of fresh blankets. The relief of it, so soft, so warm, only made your body feel heavier with sleep.

You snuggled into the layers while your guardian dropped a few pills into the tip of his servo. "Open."

You obeyed, letting him place the pale pills on your tongue. The taste was immediate and unpleasant. But Optimus quickly brought a glass of water to your hands.

You drank, then handed it back in the comfort of silence.

He set the glass aside, securing it on a shelf.

Lights dimmed throughout the room.

And you knew... your tired brain needed to shut down.

"Optimus" you called softly a last time. "...Thank you."

"...Rest now, little one."

You didn’t resist. You closed your eyes and let yourself sink into sleep’s deep embrace.

He hoped you wouldn’t have nightmares.

"Hm...?"

You hummed with sleepy confusion. Did you hear something?

You were still too tired.

Keep sleeping, it’s still early. You could see the faint blue of morning slipping in through a small vent.

Perfect time to keep dreaming.

You adjusted on the pillow, hugging the cold side.

And gave one last glance around the room.

There was a hamburger on the table.

#transformers x reader #transformers #transformers x human #optimus prime x reader #optimus x reader #optimus prime #transformers bayverse #tf bayverse #bayverse optimus prime #fluff

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capricorn-writes2 · 2 months ago

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Hey! Can I Get a headcannon of Wheeljack, Bulkhead, Optimus and Ratchet with S/O that got infected in cybonic plague?

Wheeljack, Bulkhead, Optimus and Ratchet with S/O Who Got Infected with Cybonic Plague

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I try my best to make the portrayal of their character based on their personality, and I would like to apologize for replying to the ask late because I had horrible carpal tunnel syndrome in my right hand and depression, and I had to focus on finding jobs as well as therapy. Thankfully, I graduated in July from my university and able to get a quick 6 months of internship before leaving to find a new job.

Gender: Neutral

Warning: Angst to Fluff, sickness, mention of injuries and Profanities

➽───────────────❥➽───────────────❥

OPTIMUS PRIME - Autobot

When Ratchet first tells Optimus you're infected, his spark clenches. He masks the fear behind his usual stoicism, but his optics dim. The Cybonic Plague is a deadly, ancient virus, and he vows silently that you will not meet the same fate.

Optimus spends long hours at your side, even when he should recharge. He watches your spark signature fluctuate on the monitor with quiet intensity. Every labored intake of your vents feels like a countdown ticking louder.

He searches the archives for ancient medical data, something even Alpha Trion once wrote. Sleepless and single-minded, he sifts through fragments of forgotten science. If the answer lies buried in the Well of All Sparks itself, he’ll find it.

When Megatron offers a cure to him but in exchange a cruel price. Optimus would consider surrendering himself if it means you’ll live going through Megatron’s database to get the cure. He volunteers instantly to deliver it, no matter the danger.

Inside your subconscious, he finds a corrupted image of yourself. It’s terrified, glitching, dissolving into plague data. He kneels beside it, shielding you with his own spark energy.

The process nearly destabilizes both of you. Your systems scream under the pressure, and Optimus begins to fade. But his spark surges, wrapping you in protective light.

After what feels like forever, your optics flicker back online. You see him there, battered and dim, but smiling just for you. “You… stayed,” you rasp, and he nods, servos brushing your cheekplate.

Recovery is slow, and he never rushes you. He adjusts your routines, brings Energon himself, and reads to you aloud. No mission takes priority over your healing, not even war. He keeps a fragment of your corrupted code stored away safely. Not as a reminder of the pain, but of the strength you showed.

Your near-loss changes him, even if subtly. He becomes gentler in the quiet moments, less afraid to show his affection. When you reach for his servo now, he squeezes back without delay. He lets you stay by his side in the command center now.

Sometimes, he wakes up from recharge fearing he lost you again. You always pull him close, resting your helm against his chest plate as your arms wrap around him to comfort your sparkmate. “No plague. No pain. I’m here,” you remind him.

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The first symptom was a flicker. Just a minor glitch in your visual sensors, nothing big, just a half-second blackout that you chalked up to fatigue. But then came the spasms. Your servo twitched, then locked. The base lights blurred, the floor shifted beneath your feet, and Ratchet’s voice faded into a muffled hum. By the time you collapsed in the medbay, Optimus was already on one knee beside you, calling your name repeatedly.

Ratchet’s diagnosis was quick, in a second, and brutal: the Cybonic Plague. A virus from Cybertron’s darkest past. You barely heard the details, lost in a haze of heat and static, but through the buzzing in your head, you caught one thing: from your receptor, the fear in Optimus’s voice. No, he didn’t shout; he didn’t panic. He never did. But when he asked, “Ratchet, is there a cure?” The weight behind his words could’ve cracked stone.

You drifted in and out of stasis, each moment flickering between memory and dream. Sometimes you were back on Cybertron, laughing in golden-lit corridors. Other times, you were locked inside your own mind, fighting the virus as it twisted your code. On the other hand, the leader of the Autobots sat beside you, silent, his servo resting against yours.

When your vitals began to crash, Ratchet proposed a dangerous solution: someone had to enter your mind through a neural link and manually inject the cure. Optimus didn’t hesitate. “Prepare the link,” he said. "Optimus Prime, Are you sure?" Ratchet was surprised. The medic even warned him of the risk, of the chance he might not return, but Optimus had already decided. “She is worth the risk.”

Inside your mindscape, the virus had created a corrupted version of you. It was ugly, fractured, glitching, and afraid. Optimus found you there, curled in a pit of static. He didn’t rush to pull you out; instead, he knelt beside you, his sparklight flickering in the dark like a pulse. “You’re stronger than this,” he said, his voice echoing like thunder through the data storm. “And I’m not leaving without you,” His voice was louder. You reached for him with a trembling servo as his hand gently held your hand.

The battle inside your mind was like drowning in code, each surge of infection trying to rewrite who you were. But with every wave, Optimus pushed back, pouring light into the cracks. He shielded you with part of his own spark signature, even as his systems began to flicker too. “Stay,” he whispered when your form began to fade. “Stay with me.” And this time, you did.

You woke to the soft hiss of medbay monitors and the familiar warmth of his servo against yours. Your optics blinked open, and there he was, damaged, dim, but alive. And smiling. “You’re back,” he said, as if those two words were enough to rewrite the universe. You tried to speak, but all you could do was nod, the heat of tears burning behind your eyes. He leaned forward, pressing his helm gently to yours. “I believe in you; I know you could do it.”

Recovery was slow, but he was patient. He helped you walk again, holding you up when your joints trembled. He sat through quiet recharge cycles with you, read aloud during your checkups, and let the others take the front lines so he could stay close. The war could wait, he told them. Because for the first time in a long while, the hope had won against the cybonic plague virus.

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❀

RATCHET - Autobot

Warning: The doctor is tsundere

The moment Ratchet scans you and detects the Cybonic Plague, his spark skips a beat. He double-checks the readings, then checks them again. But the data doesn’t lie, your code is breaking down. “…No. No, no, not them. Not you,” he mutters while already grabbing tools.

He doesn’t even try to hide how shaken he is, there’s no time for pride. His servo trembles for the first time in centuries. You try to joke about him being dramatic while the rust starts to form, but he silences you with a look.

Ratchet keeps a close vigil at your bedside, monitoring blinking over your spark signature. He rarely leaves your side, only to mix compounds or pace violently. The others offer help, but he snaps at them without meaning to.

He digs into archives older than the war itself to find a possible cure. Your medical file grows thicker by the hour, stained with energon smudges. He barely recharges, too afraid that he’ll wake to silence from your berth. Your steady pulse is the only thing keeping him from destroying himself.

When your systems crash temporarily, Ratchet genuinely breaks down. He slams a servo into the wall, a spark roaring behind his chassis. The monitors scream, and he’s barking orders at the others like a war general. No one dares disobey him when you're on the line.

He eventually constructs a prototype antivirus—but testing it is risky. Ratchet debates for only seconds before deciding: he'll inject it directly. If it fails, it could speed up the deterioration… But doing nothing is worse. “Better to die trying than to watch you fade.”

He injects the cure with a shaky servo, optics locked on your frame. You seize up, systems sparking, and he nearly overloads from panic. But then your vitals stabilize a little. It was not perfect, but enough. He doesn’t breathe until your optics flutter open.

He’s exhausted, hunched over your berth like a rusted-out frame. When you whisper his name, his entire posture softens. “Don't ever do that again,” he says quietly, voice raw. But there's relief under the gruffness, and it bleeds through.

Ratchet orders a full scan every two hours after your recovery. No exceptions, no excuses, even if you insist you're fine or if you just have a simple cough from dust. It’s annoying… but deeply sweet in a Ratchet kind of way.

He brings you energon personally, even if he pretends it's 'standard check-in protocol'. He triple-checks its composition, temperature, and nutritional balance. When you smile at him, He huffs and mutters, “Don’t get used to this.”

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You were just teasing him over another one of his grumpy lectures when it happened. A sharp pain cracked through your spark, and suddenly your systems seized up, dropping you to your knees. Ratchet barely caught you in time, optic panels wide in alarm, shouting your name like it was a medical emergency code. “No, no, no! Stay with me!” He barked, already scanning you with shaky, frantic digits.

The diagnosis was something Ratchet had hoped he’d never see again: the Cybonic Plague. A virus so ancient and insidious that even whispering its name made bots flinch. You were already twitching, glitching, fighting to hold onto reality as the virus gnawed at your code like rust in your processor.

Ratchet didn’t react with panic. No, panic was inefficient. But his voice lost its edge of sarcasm, and his hands never once stopped moving. “You are not dying on my table.” The others offered help "Ratchet What happened?!" Bulkhead asks with panic in his voice. "We can help you," Arcee tried to step up as Bumblebee buzzes.

But Ratchet didn’t let anyone else touch you. Instead, his optics silently glare at the other Autobot teammates and blocking them away. “No one knows their system like I do!” he snapped, the words heavy with something more than professional pride. "You all step away from (Y/N)!"

He worked tirelessly for hours, then days, ignoring recharge and energon warnings, digging through corrupted Cybertronian medical files older than Orion Pax. You were more than just a patient. You were the only one who’d ever made the old medic feel again, you're his sparkmate and the only one who could understand him.

Every time your spark signature flickered, something in Ratchet faltered. He’d pace the medbay like a caged beast, muttering equations under his breath, cursing the virus and whatever careless god had let it survive this long. He really wishes that time Megatron hadn't made a virus as the biology weapon as he remember all of those passing comrades who rusted away from the cybonic. Even when Optimus offered to assist, Ratchet nearly shouted him down. “Don’t take this from me! I have to be the one to save (Y/N)!”

When your systems dipped into emergency stasis, Ratchet broke protocol. He ignored the risks, activated a neural bridge, and entered your mind full in desperation and determination. Inside, your consciousness was a mess of static and corrupted data. He found you in the center of it, your voice distorted and broken, barely able to reach out. But he knelt beside you anyway, optics locked on yours, his touch gentle as he whispered, “I am not losing you, too.”

Fighting the plague from the inside was like performing surgery in a hurricane. Every data spike you sent at him nearly knocked him offline. But he kept moving forward, shielding you with pieces of his spark signature, injecting the antivirus into your core line of code while taking damage himself. “You're worth every scratch,” he said quietly, even when you begged him to leave. “Don’t ask me to walk away from the only thing that makes me feel alive.”

You came back slowly, stuttering and disoriented, optics dim but conscious. Ratchet was there, slouched in his chair, faceplate smudged with energon and exhaustion. When your hand twitched, his optics widened, and the relief that washed over him nearly dropped him to the floor. “You stubborn glitch,” he whispered, and for once there was no bite in his voice. Just soft gratitude, like your survival had rebooted something inside him.h

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❀

WHEELJACK - Autobot

Wheeljack doesn’t panic often, but the moment Ratchet says 'Cybonic Plague' his spark freezes. He clenches his servos so tightly they spark. He’s used to battlefield injuries, not watching someone he loves slip away without a fight. “You’re not fraggin’ leaving me,” he growls, already planning something reckless.

He tries to play it cool around the others, but you can tell he’s on edge. His optics flicker faster, and he paces like a caged beast. He gets into three arguments and almost punches a wall in the first hour. No one dares call him out, except maybe Ratchet.

He hates not being able to fight the plague with his blades or explosives. But he sits beside you anyway, blades sheathed, just watching you breathe. Because being there is the only fight he can win right now.

Wheeljack once storms into the medbay covered in Energon because he thought you flatlined. Turns out it was just a system recalibration. Ratchet yells at him for scaring everyone and nearly bleeding out but he doesn't care, he just wants to see your condition.

When Ratchet finally gets a possible cure, Wheeljack insists on testing it himself. He offers his own code as a host “Load me with it. I can take it.” Ratchet refuses, but Wheeljack doesn’t stop trying to bargain.

He holds you through the injection of the antivirus, despite Ratchet’s warnings. You’re spasming, screaming, nearly overheating, but he won’t leave. His armor gets scorched, his frame rattles with yours. “Easy, sweetspark. You’re tougher than this thing. Just hold on.”

Once you are awake when your vital stabilized, , he cracks the dumbest joke to make you smile. It’s so bad you groan, but it breaks the tension. Of course he does this is because he wants to distract you and himself from what just happened.

He actually hugs Ratchet after the cure works, and then immediately denies it. The medic bot would pushes him away, rejecting his hugs but secretly the doc was smirking and says nothing. Everyone at base teases him about it for weeks.

Wheeljack would secretly builds a private recharge chamber for the two of you. It’s lined with Wrecker badges and LED lights shaped like stars. It is a sanctuary for you two.

He puts your spark signature into his own HUD overlay. He monitors it 24/7, even when you're fully recovered. Says it helps him 'focus' but you know it just helps him breathe easier because after what hapened he became twice more protective around you as he tries not to show it (but it's too obvious).

Ⰶ║ ⵈ ⵈ ⵈ ⵈ ⵈ ⵈ║Ⰶ

You didn’t even feel it at first. Just a flicker in your HUD, a small static delay in your vision. You chalked it up to a power drain or a bad line of code from your last mission. But when your limbs started locking up mid-step and your systems spat out unfamiliar alerts, you knew something was wrong.

The moment Wheeljack caught you collapsing in the hallway, optics wide and frantic, you knew things were about to get worse before they got better. He carried you like you weighed nothing, sprinting to the medbay with a speed that would’ve impressed Flash from the DC Universe.

Ratchet was already scanning your systems before your optics flickered out. His voice is grim, “It’s Cybonic Plague.” That’s when Wheeljack went completely still. Not in fear but in that deadly kind of stillness that comes before a storm. “You sure?” he asked, voice low and dangerous. “Because if you’re wrong—” “THE DATA IS NOT WRONG!” Ratchet snapped. "Get out of my way and let me try to save them.” But Wheeljack didn’t leave after Ratcher ordered him.

He stayed by your side like a guardian drone, arms crossed, pacing only when the tremors in your frame got bad. He didn’t speak unless spoken to, but the tension rolled off him in waves like a bomb waiting for someone to trigger it. His fists were clenched the entire time, even when your body seized and your vents wheezed like you were drowning on dry air. “I’ve seen ‘bots fall apart in my hands,” he muttered one night, eyes locked on your dimmed optics. “Never thought it’d hurt like this.” His voice cracked for just a second before he stuffed it down.

No one else saw that moment. He made sure of it. But you heard it—through the haze of pain and corrupted data, you heard the fragging heartbreak in his voice. The worst night came when your spark signal flatlined for 4.3 seconds. Ratchet got it back, but Wheeljack didn’t speak for an hour after. Not one word.

He just stared at you like he was memorizing everything in case it was the last time. When you jolted awake with a scream during the antivirus injection, he held you down himself, letting your thrashing scorch the paint off his arms. “Easy, sweetheart. Come on. I’ve got you,” he whispered like a promise.

When it was finally over, and your vitals stabilized, he didn’t cheer like the others. He just slumped into the wall and let his optics close. You’d never seen Wheeljack rest before, it was almost unsettling. He didn’t speak until you weakly reached for his servo, and he took it like it was the most precious thing in the universe. “Welcome back,” he whispered, smiling with that cocky lopsided grin that always made your spark flutter. “Told you you were tougher than scrap.”

Late at night, when the others were recharging and the base had gone still, he’d sit beside your berth and tell you Wrecker stories, a wild, impossible tales of explosive stunts and near-death victories. But there was always a pause at the end. A breath. A moment where he looked down at your frame and whispered, “Nothing I survived out there scared me half as much as this did.”

Ⰶ║ ⵈ ⵈ ⵈ ⵈ ⵈ ⵈ║Ⰶ

❀

BULKHEAD - Autobot

Bulkhead instantly panics the moment you stumble mid-step. You’ve handled worse injuries before, but this was different. Your optics dimmed, and your balance gave out. He caught you before you hit the ground, yelling your name so loud it echoed through the base.

When Ratchet announces it’s Cybonic Plague, Bulkhead nearly shuts down. He’s heard of it, he’s lost Wrecker comrades to it in the war, and the thought of you having it nearly crushes him.

Bulkhead refuses to leave your side, even when ordered to. He snaps, “I don’t care if Megatron walks through that door. I’m not leaving them.” Miko tries to convince him to get some rest, but he just shakes his head.

He strokes your helm gently whenever you’re unconscious. It’s a side of Bulkhead few ever get to see, soft, wordless care. His massive servos are surprisingly gentle, brushing away coolant leaks and static from your face. Sometimes he whispers old Wrecker stories, just to fill the silence.

He threatens to storm the Decepticon base for a cure if needed. When Ratchet mentions the cure once came from Soundwave’s systems, Bulkhead's optics flash with rage. “Tell me where, and I’ll smash my way through if I have to.” The team knows he means it.

When Ratchet tests an experimental antivirus, Bulkhead is the first to volunteer to help. He doesn’t care about the risks. “If it saves them, then I’ll take ‘em all.” He’s the wall that keeps everyone moving forward.

He keeps a record of your vitals and treatment schedule. It’s scrawled in messy handwriting on datapads. “Just in case someone else gets sick. I want them to have a head start.” Even in your worst moment, he’s thinking about helping others.

When your systems finally begin to purge the virus, he almost collapses with relief. “They’re stabilizing,” Ratchet says. Bulkhead just lets out a broken laugh. “You fraggin’ did it, sweetspark!” The first time you speak after recovery, he nearly sobs.

He organizes a celebration after your full recovery, but it's more of a quiet hangout with the team. He brings Energon treats and music, keeping you close. The way he smiles when you're laughing? Pure sunshine.

He starts spoiling you with homemade energon treats. They’re not great. He accidentally makes them too spicy, too sweet, or too burnt. But he tries, and he beams every time you take a bite. “It’s the thought that counts, right?”

Even after you recover fully, he watches you like a hawk. He pretends to be casual, but you catch him staring every few minutes. “What? Can’t I look at my favorite bot?” he teases. But deep down, he’s still guarding your spark with all he’s got.

Ⰶ║ ⵈ ⵈ ⵈ ⵈ ⵈ ⵈ║Ⰶ

Bulkhead had seen a lot in his time, explosions, Decepticon traps, close calls that would make any normal mech fold under pressure. But nothing could have prepared him for the moment you collapsed right in front of him. One minute you were laughing, teasing him about how slow he was on recon, the next, your legs gave out, and you hit the ground with a terrifying clang. “(Y/N)?!” he shouted, running to you so fast the ground shook beneath his feet.

Your optics flickered, static buzzing through your words. You tried to smile. Primus, you tried, but all that came out was a pained whisper of his name. Ratchet didn’t need a scan to know something was wrong. “We need to get them to the medbay. Now.” Bulkhead didn’t wait for anyone else; he scooped you up like fragile crystal, whispering your name like it was the only thing tethering him to reality.

The word 'Cybonic' nearly made him drop. He’d heard it before, on the battlefield, whispered like a curse. It was a plague that turned circuitry against itself, shutting down bots from the inside. “ You’re kidding,” he muttered to Ratchet, his voice cracking. But the medic just gave that grim look he always wore when hope was wearing thin.

Bulkhead never left your side. He sat beside your medberth with Miko’s blanket wrapped awkwardly around his shoulders, your servo gripped tightly in his own. He didn’t care if the others thought he was being dramatic; he’d rather be dramatic than alone. Every time your frame spasmed or your systems flickered, he flinched like he’d been hit. It was like watching the world end, one glitch at a time. “C’mon, Y/N… you’re stronger than this,” he murmured on the third day, optics bloodshot from lack of recharge.

His voice was soft, nothing like the boisterous Wrecker tone everyone knew. “You still owe me that race through the canyon, remember?” His laughter broke into static halfway through, and he leaned forward, pressing your servo to his cheekplate.

On the sixth day, your vitals dropped, and Ratchet yelled something Bulkhead didn’t understand, some medical code, some numbers, some urgent demand. But all Bulkhead could see was the way your body arched, seizing, like it was rejecting life itself. “No, no, no! Stay with me, (Y/N)!” he begged, almost in tears. The world blurred, and he wasn’t the strong, dependable Wrecker anymore. He was just a mech in love, losing his everything.

When you stabilized the next morning, he didn’t dare believe it at first. Ratchet hesitated, then finally said, “They’re responding to the treatment.” Bulkhead didn’t say anything. He just slumped forward, his forehead resting gently against yours, shaking. You were still there. You were still here.

The day your optics lit up fully again, the first thing you saw was Bulkhead slumped in a recharge chair next to your berth, snoring loudly, with dried energon streaks staining his cheek. You reached out and poked his shoulder. He jolted up like he’d been shot, optics wide. “Y/N?!” he shouted, voice cracking. You smiled. “Hey, big guy.”

The energon tears shed openly, and unashamedly. Not the silent kind, not the pretend-tough tears. Real ones. He gathered you in his arms so gently it nearly hurt, rocking you like you were the last spark in the universe. “Never—never—scare me like that again,” he whispered. You could feel the tremble in his voice, but beneath all of it… you felt the safest you’d ever been.

Ⰶ║ ⵈ ⵈ ⵈ ⵈ ⵈ ⵈ║Ⰶ

❀

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hx4x4enthusiast · 2 years ago

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Cybertronians meet the bloody Mary

Words: 2090

Optimus Prime x gender-neutral reader x Ratchet

Fluff/Comfort

Notice: This is a comfort fic for people with a uterus, suffering through their menstrual cycle. Meaning blood, function and structure of the uterus will be mentioned/explained.

I use Bloody Mary a lot in this fic not cause I am ashamed of having a period but more so because I found it funny to give it a name. Also not everyone’s period goes the same way so your period experience may differ from person to person.

This was a request from @theemoteam5994, that I was more than happy to write.

It was a pretty standard Friday evening I was sitting on the couch next to Miko reading a new book, I just got. Ratchet was working on the control panels recalibrating the ground bridge, Optimus stood at his control panel writing the report of the last mission for agent Fowler meanwhile Bulkhead repaired the lob ball. Jack had work, Raphael was out of country visiting family, which led Bumblebee and Arcee to drive patrol today. Resulting in Miko and me to hanging out alone. Which was fine it was a nice to not do anything for once.

Unexpected I started to feel something damp my pants, or to be precise my underwear. Oh, you gotta be kidding me. Mentally counting the days back since the last time, it happened and concluding that it had been indeed a month now, a defeated sigh escaped my lips. Which in turn made Miko turned to me in confusion.

“Whoa you good, what’s with the defeated sigh you sound like me when we are about to write a test.”

“Miko please just shut up and let me suffer in silence and desperation.”

“Yeesh since when are you so grumpy.”

“Since the high and mighty royal majesty, the bloody Mary decided to show up.”

“Ah Dave decided to visit.”

That caused me to raise a brow at Miko, to which she gave me a smile.

“Dave? Do I want to know.”

“You know that one sound “God, fucking damnit Dave, there goes the last shit I ever gave.”

“Omg, that’s genius.”

“Yes, it’s hilarious when you’re having period pain and just scream fucking Dave.”

“Oh man, Miko you’re a genius. By the way do you have tampons or a pad? I forgot my period bag.”

“Oh, shit did you just get it?”

“Yeah, and I would like to not have to explain to gigantic alien why my pants are red and what the menstrual cycle is.”

“Haha, understandable, I really wouldn’t want to explain what’s going on down there to Bulky.”

Giggling to each other, I’m forced to double over as a sharp pain shoot through my lower abdomen, causing a hiss of pain to escape me.

“Man, is your period always like that? It looks really painful. I mean my crams hurt to, but they are at least somewhat manageable.”

“Unfortunately, yes the problem with these I have to physically double over and can’t ignore them like the others.”

“That sucks. How about you go put on a pad or tampon or both and I call June if she can bring painkillers for you..”

“Oh my god Miko you’re a saint thanks.”

“No prob. The bag is in my front pocket underneath my slash monkey cd.”

Gratefully I go over to her bag as Miko makes her way to the medbay to find June. Finding the small cotton bag I take it out, zip Mikos bag back up and move hurriedly to the washrooms. Oh my god there is nothing more uncomfortable than sitting in a puddle of your own blood.

Coming back into the main hangar I moved towards the designated “human area” as Ratchet so lovingly nicknamed it. Miko was the first to notice my return and waved, as I climbed the stairs up. She intercepted me as I reached the stairs, I wordlessly gave her the little bag back, before she bend over and started whispering.

“Hey I called June and she said she bring some Aspirins and a few heating pads.”

“God I love that women, and you, bless you.”

“Yeah try to remember that the next time I go through the ground bridge.”

“Different issue Miko.”

“Ugh, well whatever, June said she bring the supplies when she picks up Jack after his shift.”

“Why does Nurse Darby have to bring painkillers and heating pads, and would you be so kind as to tell me why you didn’t think to inform me that you are unwell.”

Simultaneous Miko and I froze up as the very distinct sarcastic and very much unamused voice of the resident medic, rang from behind us. Turning around we were confronted with a very pissed of looking Ratchet.

“Ok you look like you can handle this right well my part is done, HEY BULKY LET’S GO DUNE BASHING.”

Miko didn’t hesitate to leave me alone and run up to the railing jumping onto her guardians servo as he immediately transformed around her and proceeded to race out of the base. Sharing his charges unwillingness to become a target of Ratchets anger. Left alone under Ratchets piercing gaze, I do my best to avoid eye contact.

“So, are you inclined to tell me now why you didn’t think it necessary to come to me for medical attention.”

“Oh uhm it’s really not that big of a deal.”

“If I didn’t treat every one that said “oh, that’s not that big of a deal” this entire team would be dead by now. So unless you miraculously became doctor you com to me with any kind of medical issue. Did I make myself clear?”

“Ratchet, it’s really none of your concern, I am fine.”

Quiet. It was deadly quiet, you could have heard a pin drop. Ah shit, I fucked up, I fucked up big time. I did the one thing you don’t do, ever. I broke the one rule on the base, crossed the one line even Optimus doesn’t cross. Don’t backtalk Ratchet when it’s about medical decision. Well it was a good life.

“Oh it’s none of my concern is it? My how interesting would you care to elaborate on why that is?”

“I...I I am sorry Ratchet, I didn’t mean it like th-ughnn.”

A sharp pain went trough my lower abdomen forcing me to hug myself as I doubled over. As the pain subsided and I was able to stand upright again, a green light beam went over my body. Looking up I was met with the sight of a very concerned Ratchet and an equally worried Optimus. When did he come over here, weird? I was ripped out of my train of thoughts as a sharp exhale escaped Ratchets vents.

“YOU ARE LOSING BLOOD AS WELL AS PART OF YOUR INNER LINING IS DETIRIOURATING AND YOU RUN AROUND HERE ACTING LIKE EVERYTHING IS FINE.”

“Because it is?”

Apparently, that was not the right or more like best thing to say. I could already see the oncoming triage, Ratchet was going to put me through. Just as he prepared to chew me out and preach his speech on taking proper care of oneself, a big servo landed on his shoulder plate. Optimus gently pulled Ratchet back before coming closer, bending down to my level.

“We are worried about you. Asking for help is nothing to be ashamed about.”

“Hmpf, especially if you lose essential organic fluids.”

“Ah, shit that’s not it’s, aww geez uh scrap how do I explain it.”

“While we both would appreciate an explanation, please don’t feel cornered or forced to please us. Though I do have to ask you to use a different manner of speech.”

“Huh, oh yeah sorry about that big guy. Just give me a minute”

Seeing Optimus giving a nod and even Ratchet, though begrudgingly, give me some space, I take a deep breath. Ok first me being a nervous wreck is not going to help anyone. So deep breaths, everything is fine. It’s not like you are going to have to explain how and what the menstrual cycle is, to gigantic aliens. Man, I sometimes hate my life so much. Letting out a deep sigh I turn around I make my way to the two bots.

“Ok, so first of all, I am ok, I will not bleed out or am sick with a terminal disease. What’s happening to me is a natural process that happens every month for more or less than a week depending on the person. Every person with a uterus goes through this with some exceptions. Yes, that includes June and Miko as well.”

Optimus and Ratchets frames slightly relax, tough confusion is still visible on their faceplates. Well, more on Ratchets than Optimus, though the leader frame is less rigid than before.

“But you are bleeding, isn’t the leaking of blood indication of an injury, do you mean it is natural for humans to injure their uterus every month?”

“What no we aren’t injured.”

“Perhaps it would help us understand better, if you were to explain on how this “menstrual cycle works.”

“OH, uhm sure. First of all the uterus is one of the reproductive organ’s humans have to reproduce. Each month, blood and tissue build up in the uterus to prepare for a fertilized egg in case a woman becomes pregnant. Important humans give live birth to their young not like other animals in eggs. Eggs is simply what we call the cell. If the egg isn't fertilized, that lining leaves the body through the vagina and that is what is called the period.”

Trough the explanation my eyes had driven away from the bots not wanting to see their faces of disgust.

“But then what is the menstrual cylcle? And that still doesn’t understand why you were in pain.”

Confused I look back up at Ratchet as he looked at me expectantly. Switching my point of view to Optimus he carries a similar expression though way more subtle than Ratchets.

“You, you aren’t disgusted?”

“Why would we I mean, its obvious a bit strange due to our different biologys. But so is your entire race.”

“As you explained, your period is a natural occurrence, there is no fault in that.”

“Oh ok.”

“You still haven’t answered my question.”

“Huh? Oh, yeah there are a lot of names for the period, like menstrual cycle, strawberry week.”

“I thank you for the explanation but there is still concern on your earlier episode of pain.”

“Oh yeah uhm, so basically to flush everything out, the uterus contracts itself which can lead to pain. How much pain someone experience is different for everyone. And well mine is sometimes so bad I double over.”

Both bots fall into back into silence, exchanging glances like they were silently communicating. Feeling slightly Causing me to shuffle my feet on the ground. Until Ratchets open servo comes up to me, an invitation to step into it. Confused I look at both Ratchet and Optimus. Sensing my confusion Ratchet responds.

“It is unreasonable to let someone alone when they are in pain, so get on.”

“What, no I am fine, I have dealt with this for the past 6 years on my own.”

“You should be resting.”

“No, I still have things to do I don’t need to rest.”

“Please do understand that we are just worried.”

Damn you Optimus, for making me feel bad about refusing help. Reluctantly I carefully climb onto Ratchets servo. Letting out a satisfied hum, he lifts me up to his chest, curling his digits gently around me. Carefully moving across the base, we go through a corridor I haven’t been in yet, only to land in front of a humongous door trough which Ratchet and Optimus can walk without any problems. Ratchet crosses the room and gently lays me down on the gigantic bed. Before turning around and walking around the bed to the other side before laying down himself.

Meanwhile, Optimus was closing a drawer, holding something I couldn’t make out and moved to join us. He deposited the content of his servo onto the berth near Ratchet. Before I could ask what and why they brought those things, my feet yet again left the ground.

Warmth surrounded me and weirdly a lot of red. Wiggling around I finally found the end of the blanket and looked up, only to be met, with two pairs of kind optics looking down at me.

“What’s all that?”

“We researched that warmth and comfort in the form of affection, food and a comforting environment prove, helpful when dealing with period pains.”

“Wait, you guys searched the internet to help me? Aww that’s so sweet.”

“Hmpf, well we can’t leave you alone in this time of you err, month.”

A smile starts forming, I snuggle back into the blankets happy about being so well cared for. My eyes are starting to feel heavy as a yawn escapes me, exhausted from the day’s events, I don’t fight the sleepiness taking over my body. Safe, warm, and protected by the two gentle guardians on each side of me.

Masterlist

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legs-like-jelly · 6 months ago

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hi have something to hold you over while i get back my energy to write

#jelly answers #sfw tickling community #sfw tk blog #sfw tickling #tickle fluff #transformers #transformers tickles #megatron #optimus prime #orion pax #d 16 #dpax #tf one megop #tfo #megop

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imagine-darksiders · 1 year ago

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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.”

#Optimus Prime #TFP #optimus x reader #Reader #Fluff #protective optimus #Nevada

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