#RATCHET LASHING

[jcblifttech]

When it comes to heavy machinery and construction equipment, few names resonate as strongly as JCB. Renowned for their innovation and reliability, #JCB LiftTech have revolutionized the construction industry, enabling efficient lifting and manoeuvring of heavy loads across various job sites. At the heart of these impressive machines lies a crucial component: the Chain Pulley Block. In this blog, we delve into the intricacies of this technology, exploring its design, functionality, and the pivotal role it plays in powering #JCBLiftTech . Read More Info: https://jcblifttech.com/chain-pulley-block-effortless-power-seamless-control/

[lord-squiggletits]

I'm not completely opposed to making Pharma a weird guy in general pre-Messatine, the main issue I have with it is that a lot of that type of fandom is less "what if he was just a weird little guy" and more seems to be written with the implication that Pharma went crazy because he was just always a little crazy (or a little evil, or a little heartless, etc). Basically, to me it downplays the fact that Pharma underwent massive trauma for two years straight that other characters barely survived for a few hours/days and instead frames Pharma snapping as some sort of... I don't know, genetic/fated downfall because he was just weird, he was always off, is it really any wonder Pharma ended up Like That because I mean there was always something a little weird about him.

It just seems to accidentally imply that Pharma snapping under the pressure of years of torture was some sort of moral failing or sign of him being weak/immoral. You know, Pharma was always kind of a little creepy/insane/evil deep down which is obviously why he killed people. If he were just a normal, not-weird, good person then he would've been mentally strong enough to Not Go Insane. Like uhhhh it just seems kind of fucked up to imply that the reason some people are unable to cope with long-term trauma and have violent/unhealthy coping behaviors is because there's just something innately wrong with them, and then try and look back on their whole life trying to contextualize how they were actually unstable and evil all along instead of just accepting that like. Normal people (tm), yes normal and good people, can be put in situations where they're slowly turned into broken monsters because they had no escape and no good choices.

And also it's equally fucked up to imply that like. Whether or not you can deal with psychological torture without snapping is some sort of function of how innately moral or mentally strong you are. Incredibly victim-blamey to basically go "well the reason Pharma went insane is because he was just always cracked in the head, unlike our good buddy-pal-friend-hero Ratchet who's the perfect doctor and a good Autobot who's never done anything wrong which is why when he's an asshole/hurts people he's not nearly as destructive or Weird About It."

It's not that "Pharma was always kind of crazy" can't be done, because anything can be written well with enough thought. But I think in terms of writing, it's a very difficult and nuanced line to balance and most people literally just can't do it without implying that trauma victims/mentally ill people are evil or something. And Pharma is already unfairly villainized enough as-is, and in canon his trauma was already downplayed in favor of "haha crazy doctor chainsaw go brrr look how weird and quirky and craaaazyyy he is." So it's one of those things where 1. Most people just aren't good enough to write it and 2. "Always a little crazy" Pharma is already oversaturated enough in the fandom anyways and it's enough of a battle to get people to recognize that he's a tragic character and not just an evil asshole.

[blighted-lights]

someone stop me from writing a purely self indulgent fic with ten and ravage bonding please i already have so many other things to work on. i'll ramble more in tags just oughh thinking about them

[keferon]

Part 3! Ratchet and Deadlock time.

The ray of sunshine has left, leaving us in the cold dark of the angst.

Ratchet works through some stuff.

———————————————————————

Ratchet hadn’t actually meant for the conversation to start with Roddy.

The medic had wanted to fully explain why he’d left the Mecha Program for awhile. His outburst earlier cementing the fact he needed to get it off his chest, or he’d start lashing out at the wrong people.

Again.

The Kid deserved to know what staying with him could drag him into. Ratchet kept his hands busy cleaning his bowl in the shop sink.

Hot Rod, Ratchet realized, was a good enough bridge into the topic. Someone Deadlock could put a face to. Not just nameless pilots upon pilots.

“There’s a condition called Congenital Insensitivity to Pain. CIP for short. The abbreviated explanation is sometimes humans can be born without the ability to feel pain or that the sensation of pain doesn’t translate correctly to the brain. It’s a very dangerous condition to have since it means that the person doesn’t get the usual warning signs that’s something’s wrong.”

The bowl was completely clean but so long as Ratchet didn’t turn around, he could pretend he was just training a med student.

“So that question about “weird pressures”. You were checking for damage Hot Rod doesn’t know he’s sustained due this CIP condition?”

Kid was smarter than he gave himself credit for. Ratchet thought for not the first time. He almost got it right.

“Hot Rod doesn’t have CIP. Not actual CIP.”

Ratchet put the bowl down, his hand not moving from the faucet after turning it off.

“He wasn’t born with it. Because I caused it.”

—————————

“I was so damn proud.” Said Ratchet.

At the time, he was. The integration process for recruits to become pilots was horrific. Excruciatingly painful. And something out of a science fiction movie.

In order to condition the human nervous system to work with the mecha neural interface, it necessitated mapping out every nerve and neuron in the pilots body.

While conscious.

Orion came up with the best analogy for it once: You could create a perfect 3 dimensional map of an entire ant colony’s nest. Provided you poured enough molten lead down the hole.

Ratchet wasn’t one to standby watching friends or strangers suffer, so he rolled up his sleeves and set his mind to fixing the whole damn thing.

On the line between man and machine, Ratchets role in the mecha program was right on the fence.

Specifically, he’d started very close to the fence on the side of the machines, and during the course of the program, picked up enough extra PHD’s to hook a leg over said fence to reach across and start smacking the shit out of some particularly stupid doctors handling the men.

Ratchet worked for years along side Pharma and Shockwave to make the integration process less permanently damaging.

Common long term side effects were: Blurry Vision Jazz, Disassociation Swoop, Memory Loss Sludge, Paralysis Snarl, Nerve Damge Slag, Internal Hemorrhaging Grimlock, Altered Personality Shockwave, and Brain Death Orion.

There were dozens more faces Ratchet could pair with any given symptom.

Eventually, Ratchet got his lucky break. A fresh batch of recruits to try his tweaked integration process on. Hot Rod was one of them.

Ratchet had thought he’d hit a breakthrough. But he couldn’t. He couldn’t publish it yet. Not until he was sure.

Hot Rod aced the physical and mental exam. The rest of his test group did pretty well too. They weren’t cream of the crop. The higher ups didn’t want to risk loosing more valuable pilots to an experiment. When Pharma had already established an “acceptable level of care” that nicely suited them.

Ratchet personally watched the lot of them like a hawk. Just waiting for the other shoe to drop.

It didn’t come. Hot Rod was fine. The whole group was fine.

He was so damn proud.

The pilots went straight into mecha training and then-

They dropped like flies.

It was on the bad end of the bell curve for pilot fatalities. Ratchet thought it had to be the new series of mecha that had been built at the same time. He’d switched into engineering mode to rectify that. They had glaring safety issues where the flamethrowers and thrusters intersected. Plus, it wasn’t unusual for the mecha program to just have particularly rough seasons. The tentacled fucks were out in swarms. And by god was that a bloody summer for everyone.

It happened three days after the last big fight. Pretty much everyone who came back alive came back with some sort of injury. Except for Hot Rod, who Pharma gave a clean bill of health.

Ratchet was in his corner of the medical wing, looking over his proposal for the new integration method when Jazz dragged Hot Rod into his office.

Red flag number one: Jazz was a nightmare patient who avoided the med wing like a bear trap.

He tried. Goddamn it if Jazz didn’t try, but he was physically incapable of getting through medical procedures without being heavily sedated. The last time Ratchet tried to do minor stitches with only a local anesthetic, Jazz panicked and damn near broke his arm.

Jazz and Hot Rod were both wearing shorts, t-shirts and sneakers. Judging from the smell, they had just gotten here from the rec room. Probably basketball or maybe dodgeball.

Ratchet had gone through a full medical checklist before they finished coming through the door. Neither looked sick or injured. Nothing was obviously wrong beyond the clear look on Jazz’s face that said “Something is actually very wrong.”

Jazz wheeled Hot Rod in front of Ratchet.

“Show him.”

Hot Rod looked more embarrassed than in desperate need of medical attention.

“I’m fine Jazz, I probably just need to stretch.”

Jazz waved his hand cutting him off. Ratchet would usually start telling them off by now but something stopped him.

“Hot Rod raise your arms above your head. Both of them.”

The red headed pilot reluctantly obeyed. His right arm lifted straight up above his body. His left. Hot Rod made a face of concentration, as his left arm refused to go any higher than his head.

Three days.

Hot Rods shoulder had been dislocated for three days and no one fucking noticed.

Ratchet chewed out Jazz at first thinking he’d caused it. Then he chewed out Hot Rod for not coming to medical as soon as he knew about the injury.

And then, something very cold settled into his stomach the more and more Hot Rod swore he didn’t notice. That it didn’t even hurt.

“Ratchet, I’m fine!”

He should have been in pain. In agony after three days.

Later, Ratchet would go through each medical file of every pilot he had been responsible for. They had all had ailments in their files. Minor visible injuries that were all taken care of. Major ones went surprisingly smoothly. Patient notes praising the med staff for keeping them so comfortable. Praising him. Not one pilot had made a single pain med request since going through the integration process. On his files, there was one surviving active duty pilot from the same integration process.

Ratchet’s integration process.

————————

“Hot Rod said he forgave me.” Ratchet laughed. A little too wet and little too rough.

“Just like that.”

When’d he start shaking?

Ratchet still didn’t, couldn’t look the Kid in the eyes. “I left, not long after. There’s so much fucking more that was happening. That was the last straw, because when I told Shockwave and Pharma, those heartless fucks wanted to make it standard across the board. Soldiers that can’t feel pain? Of fucking course they wanted that. Didn’t matter the fatality rate was nine times as high.”

Ratchets voice was getting worse. But he couldn’t stop. “I thought I could fix it all from the inside. I thought as long as I stayed I could be some, fucking moral compass to a bunch of greedy, prideful, fucking deranged people. I was an egotistical IDIOT that thought I could somehow save every doomed kid tricked into walking into that “necessary evil.” I actually believed I could-”

Ratchet was abruptly cut off from his ranting as two massive hands grabbed him around the waist and deposited him on a ledge, at eye level.

“Kid, what-“ Deadlocks eyes looked shiny.

“I-I can’t keep looking down at you.”

The two of them sat in silence.

Neither seemed to know or want to start talking again right away. Ratchet was used to stewing in regrets on occasion. That had felt more like putting those regrets into a blender and then forgetting the lid.

Deadlocks plating was pulled tight. Ratchet had almost forgotten what he looked like when he was stressed. He wanted immediately to take it all back. Make it better. See him laugh drunk and cozy again like yesterday.

“Kid, I’m sorry. That- that was too much to put on you.” Deadlocks hands weren’t gripping him anymore but resting on either side of the ledge. Ratchet pet small circles on a thumb that twitched slightly under his hand.

Deadlock straightened and looked at him with a steely expression, mouth tense, eyes determined.

“You are one of the most intelligent, stubborn, and caring people I’ve ever met. Nope.” Deadlock corrected himself, lifting a hand. “THE most intelligent, stubborn and caring person that exists.” He dragged out the syllables of that last word.

“You!” He poked Ratchet in the chest. “Saved me. And I’m fragging terrible.”

Ratchet took offense to that, “You’re not terrible and you’re worth saving!”

Deadlock grinned, “The worst thing you can possibly say about yourself is that you care too much to put up with some kind of slagged up torture facility. Which, by the way, I am still fully offering to blown up.”

“Still full of innocent people kid.”

“Okay kidnapping then. I say we nab Hot Rod first.”

Ratchet leaned back against the wall and made one of those desperate chuckles you only hear when someone has their face buried in their hands. “Kid. The quintessons.”

That took a little wind out of his sails.

“The system is fucking broken and trust me I want to see it all burn someday. But we’re in a goddamn war. And as much as I hate the mecha program, it’s the best shot at survival we have.” Ratchet watched Deadlocks finales pin back again.

He offered a palm to Ratchet, who after a moment’s consideration, not very gracefully scooted on. Instead of lowering him to the floor, Deadlock brought him to his face. His eyes closed and he gently bumped his medic with his forehelm.

“Whatever you need. Just ask. Please.”

Ratchet sighed and rested his own forehead against the cybertronian. “I want you take care of yourself. I told you all that stuff so you understand why I’m fighting giants here and you can decide to back out. They can hurt you kid. Kill you. I don’t even want to think about what would have happened if Shockwave found you instead of me.”

Deadlock snorted, “Please, do you think any of those suits could handle me?”

Ratchet tapped his hand to put him down, which Deadlock obliged. He hummed.

“Well I can think of three candidates off the top of my head, but one got lost in space and the other might technically be a zombie.”

“What’s the third?”

Ratchet started shrugging on a coat, “Hot Rod.”

He smirked a bit as Deadlocks finales snapped up in offense. “What? Absolutely not. No fragging way that little rust spot can beat me in a fight.”

Ratchet began packing a go bag of medical supplies, “Well I was going to keep it to myself, but part of the reason I brought him in was because I asked Hot Rod to look out for you where I can’t.”

He slung the heavy bag over one shoulder. “Plus, I knew Hot Rod was going to love you. He sees the best in people. And kid?” Ratchet paused at the door.

“You’re someone special.”

———————————————————————

It’s always darkest before the dawn. This…has become a four parter. Dang. Good news is the ray of sunshine will return in style next time.

Some extra tid-bits, I got a head canon that the main side effect Jazz got from the integration process (other than PTSD) is blurry vision. He can see fine while hooked into a mech but can’t get his eyes to focus properly as a human. So Ratchet whipped up a visor that tricks his eyes into thinking he’s still looking through a mecha so he can see normally.

Also, a lot of you guys guessed correctly what was going on with Roddy! Good job everyone!

Lastly I have nothing personal against the dinobots if you love them I’m very sorry.

The next (last?) part will be much brighter. Because the suns coming back.

- SSTP

Oh.....oh fuck....wait WAIT THIS HAS SO MUCH MORE LAYERS THAN I WAS EXPECTING OH MY GOD

I was like. Okay huh. So Roddy can't feel pain right? He must be having this rare condition and? I don't really see where this is going? Huh. Guess it's time to find ouUUUUUH FUCK.

Please. Oh my god. The fact that Ratchet was the one who made him to be like that??? This gives both of them and their dynamic more layers than in a freaking onion. And Roddy didn't just suffer from Ratchets actions. He forgave him. Because OF COURSE he did, he's always giving everyone a second chance I LOVE THIS CONCEPT SO MUCH YOU HAVE NO IDEA

[revelboo]

it probably didn't happen, but imagine the shrinking somehow reached the decepticons. I need the humans to react to the tiny cons because they of all the transformers act like they're scary and tough, but need a good hug.

You guys keep me amused 😂 Let’s just go with suspension of disbelief and say somehow Wheeljack also FUBARed the Cons

I have requests for TFA Shockwave, Sunstorm, Rung, TFA Ratchet, Hound, and Cyberverse Soundwave. I’m actually busy at work this week, though, researching and compiling data, so updates may be wonky unless I start typing up the next day’s posts the previous night

Mass Displacement Mayhem Scenarios Pt 3

Megatron

• Staggering and off balance as he’s forced to mass displace without warning and then realizes he went past his limits somehow. That he’s only about knee high on you. The shock of it freezing him in place, so he flinches when you grab him and drag him into you. And it’s wholly undignified the way you’re going on about his “widdle” cannon. Why are you talking like that? He’s wracking his processor trying to figure out how this happened, because he’s stuck and can’t mass shift back. Left tiny and vulnerable, though it’s hard to focus on defense when you’re cupping his face in your warm palms, apparently delighted. Venting because he’s much too old for this, he keeps an optic and his cannon aimed at the door as you pull him into your lap to fuss over him. Secretly enjoying the feel of you hugging him as undignified as it is, but please stop talking to him like he’s a sparkling.

Thundercracker

• Has absolutely no idea what just happened, but before he can even try to figure it out, you attack. Had known you were still unhappy about being stolen, but didn’t expect you to lash out- oh, never mind. You just want to pick him up. Little wings flicking fitfully when you press a kiss to his helm and play with his wings with gentle fingers. All while cooing at him. Knows he should be mortified, but he’s enjoying the attention. Fuss over him all you want.

Starscream

• Flies to perch out of reach the instant you made that awful noise and tried to grab him. Glowering as you try to coax him to you. Why are you crooning at him like that? It’s undignified and he’s more worried about how vulnerable you both are right now. No, he’s not coming down. He is absolutely not cute. Trying his best to ignore you and keep an optic on the door ready to attack, because he’s completely stressed out, wings flared and paranoia out of control.

Constructicons

• Scattered when you ran toward them. They have no idea what happened, but to avoid being caught, they have to transform to speed away and you’re laughing hysterically as you chase after them. Bonecrusher gives up first and transforms back. Unresisting as you grab him and sit, grinning over how cute he is. Eventually they all wander over once they realize you’re not attacking. Patiently letting you fuss over all of them, grumbling but secretly eating up the attention. Scavenger just outright climbing into your lap for a hug.

Soundwave

• Hoisting Soundwave up into your arms to save him from his overly excited cassettes, you’re as giddy as they are. Because somehow Soundwave mass displaced smaller than you’ve ever seen. And because you’re holding him, you’re now also being mobbed by cassettes wanting to hold tiny Soundwave. Feeling guilty about it as you cave to their pleas and sit crosslegged with him in your lap, hearing his tired venting as you and his cassettes fuss over how cute he is. Tipping his head back to stare at you. “Traitor,” he grumbles, that serious voice coming from such a tiny frame shattering your own composure as you hug him laughing.

Shockwave

• Antenna back as he gets carried around like a helpless sparkling. Asks you to put him down and you ignore him, and since he’s unwilling to hurt you to get free, he’s just tolerating it. Please stop kissing him on the head, you’re making his processor chaotic. Cute? Him? Illogical. Venting tiredly at you the whole time, but a part of him almost enjoying the attention and how gentle your hands are. That you’re not intimidated by him at this size.

Previous

[dancingbirdie]

I interrupt your daily schedules to present some purely plotless Astarion x gn! Reader smut. Courtesy of me listening to an oldie but goodie "What's My Name" by Rihanna ft. Drake during my morning commute.

Note that this is seriously NSFW so don't read below the break line unless you're a horny little gremlin like this pair or me since yeah I wrote it. :)

Like my smut writing? Find more here.

The Things We Could Do in Twenty Minutes…

Rating: MATURE

Pairing: Astarion x gn!Reader

Tags/Warnings: Oral sex (Astarion receiving), hand kink, slight praise kink, slight dom!Astarion/sub!Reader, public sex/exhibitionism

Summary: You and Astarion have been tasked with a scouting mission. You grow a little bored from waiting around and very horny watching Astarion play with his knife.

***

The two of you were leaning side by side against the alley wall. Watching. Waiting. Poised to strike whenever your quarry exited the tavern across the street. 

But it was late. You had been skulking about for hours. You were bored. 

And Astarion, gods damn him, was flush against you, smelling like temptation and sin. Subtle wafts of his signature bergamot, rosemary, and brandy scent teased your nose as his fingers idly spun his blade around in his hands. 

Your breath hitched as you watched him. Watched how gracefully those long, slender fingers absently played with the knife while his eyes scanned the street for any signs of activity. He was totally oblivious to your ogling, which was good because you could swear you were starting to salivate just watching him toy with his weapon. 

You wondered how those fingers would feel scratching against your scalp. Pulling your hair. Clasping your jaw. 

Fuck it, you thought. Throwing caution to the wind, you reached a hand forward to caress his chest. His head whipped around immediately to look at you, brow furrowed. It was an innocent enough gesture, but his eyes caught the look on your face, illuminated dimly in the silvery light of the moon. How your pupils were blown wide with unbridled lust. 

He smirked, one delicate fang peeking out from between his lips. 

“Can I help you?” he drawled. 

“You can actually,” you whispered. Your hand lightly traced down his chest, down his abdomen, before it stopped at the bindings of his trousers. 

You looked up at him beneath your lashes, your eyes beseeching.

“My, my,” Astarion chuckled, his voice like silk. “Wanting to play while we’re on the clock? Tsk. What would our comrades think?”

“It’ll make our cover seem more convincing, don’t you think?” you reasoned, licking your lips as you noticed the growing bulge between his legs. “Just two unassuming lovers, swept up in a moment of passion as they passed this dingy alley?”

“Our target should be leaving any moment now, darling. We wouldn’t want to miss our window of opportunity.”

“I give it at least twenty minutes before the tavern closes. And just think, the things we could do in twenty minutes…”

He gave a throaty laugh. “You make a very convincing argument. How could I ever deny you?”

“Is that a yes then?” your voice was husky, struggling to contain the urge to drop to your knees and taste him. You would wait for his consent. Of course you would wait. But you couldn’t deny the heady desires ratcheting up within you. 

“Yes,” he cooed, nuzzling your neck and planting a quick kiss against the fang marks he’d left earlier that evening. “Go on then, love.” 

“Thank the gods,” you groaned, immediately kneeling before him and undoing the bindings of his breeches. 

You captured him in your mouth as soon as his impressive length sprang free, tasting the salt and musk of him as you took him as far back as your throat would allow. Your eyes watered with the pressure of him pressing down your throat. It was the sweetest pain. 

You heard the muffled thump of his head as it hit the brick wall. You relished the tortured groan that spilled from his lips as you continued to gorge yourself on him.

Then a moan of your own vibrated against him as his hands moved to grip your hair. His fingers scratching against your scalp nearly had your eyes rolling back into your head. With your hands braced on his thighs, you continued to bob your head, sucking, licking and swallowing around him. 

He tasted like the purest drug you could ever inject into your veins. You would never tire of doing this for him. Of hearing and feeling how your mouth and tongue caused him to shiver and quake with pleasure. You could feel your own release building because of it, despite the lack of any stimulation to your groin. It didn’t matter. 

You had no desire for anything but Astarion’s pleasure tonight. 

“Look at me,” he growled suddenly. You felt his fingers clutch your jaw, tilting your face up to meet his eyes. 

You peered up at him as you continued to piston your mouth around his length, whining softly as you beheld the look in his eyes. 

“I want you to look at me while I cum in that gorgeous, sinful mouth,” he whispered, his hips beginning to buck into you, meeting your movements in perfect synchrony. 

You moaned again at his words, your mouth dripping with saliva and pre-cum as you continued to suck him. 

“Are you ready, darling?” he murmured, his other hand reverently stroking your hair. A stark contrast to the absolutely deplorable things you were doing to his cock. 

You gave a garbled assent, taking him in with a surge of passion as you anticipated the feeling of his release shooting down your throat.  

A few moments more and your anticipation was rewarded in full. You groaned as you heard him grunt. Felt his final, feral thrust into your mouth. Tasted the salty sweetness of his cum on your tongue. 

As he came down from his high, you gave him one last, obscene lick before removing your mouth. Slouching against the wall, utterly spent, he watched as you deliberately met his eyes and swallowed his cum with a gulp. He hummed his approval, grinning wickedly. 

“You naughty thing,” he crooned. “You’ll be the death of us both.”

You returned his grin with an impish one of your own before wiping your mouth clean on the sleeve of your shirt and rising to stand next to him once more. 

You surveyed the street. Scanned the tavern for signs of movement. Nothing was amiss. Your quarry hadn’t escaped.

“See?” you murmured, leaning over to kiss his cheek. “Twenty minutes was all I needed.”

***

[witchpassing]

notable categories of wing restraint

type A: elaborately adapted shibari ties, designed to showcase as much as restrict. true virtuosos of the art display their subjects in intricate midair suspensions, wings drawn out and set like the work of a taxidermist, birds hung in the hardpoint-to-hardpoint webs of unseen tarantulae. red rope is, as ever, a popular choice, complimenting or contrasting the plumage of most common morphs.

type B: gear, paired or monowing sheathes in canvas, latex, leather; claustrophobic, and thus best suited for punishment. harness-style binders are also available, if tactile access or an unpanicked angel is a concern.

type C: ratchet straps. you know, those things they use for lashing cargo to flatbeds? you can get them at any hardware store; some angels just don't deserve better.

[imagine-darksiders]

Angel of Highway 49 - chapter 4.

No Good Deed.

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

Summary: You find out who put that money in your account. Optimus just wants to help. You're not sure it's ever that simple.

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

It’s a very rare thing for the ever-stoic Prime to lose his composure.

So rare, in fact, that in the months he’s known them, the children have never been privy to a single slip – not even when Jack and Bumblebee’s little fling with street-racing was brought to his attention.

Even then, as Optimus stood tall over his scout and the young teen under his care, he’d trusted his voice to remain even, stern, and steady whilst he told them, in no uncertain terms, just how disappointed he was in the pair of them.

He can still recall the little ‘oof,’ Bulkhead had mumbled nearby, and the sound of Miko sucking air through her teeth from up on the recreational platform.

Here, however, parked in vehicle mode across a dusty, country lane with his engine still thrumming forcefully in the wake of a very, very close call, Optimus isn’t sure he trusts his glossa not to falter if he attempts to speak.

He’d heard your question, of course, though his hidden gaze remains fixed attentively on the horizon line, and for several seconds, he has to concentrate on reeling in his alarm, quelling the drumfire of his spark as it lashes against its chamber.

That had been close…. Far too close.

The Prime’s overwrought processor trips on a single line of thought, replaying the same words over and over in a feedback loop that he struggles to disrupt.

If he hadn’t been travelling along this road at the right moment… If he’d arrived even a few seconds later… you might’ve-…

A firewall is brusquely slammed down in the middle of the runaway circuit, breaking him free of his own ruminations.

Ah… But it doesn’t do well for a Prime to brood on things that haven’t come to pass.

‘It’s those ‘what ifs, Optimus,’ Ratchet used to tell him, ‘They’ll drag a mech down to the Pit if they’re given too much deliberation.’ This all said in a knowing and pointed tone at the back of Optimus’s helm when the medic caught him gazing up at the stars a little too wistfully.

The passage of time creeps on with its usual indifference, and as the seconds fritter by and the desert wind gently carries the roar of Knockout’s engine further and further away - away from you - Prime’s defensive codes finally begin to ease, and the flared plating on his roof flattens down, slotting back into place as seamlessly as they had been before they sprang out in an attempt to make himself look larger for the Con threatening you.

He almost lost you, he realises. An innocent. A human whose only offence was to be in the wrong place at the wrong time…

In a sudden burst of haste, he tears his sights off the skyline and subjects you to a thorough once-over, sweeping his optics up and down your body from head to toe.

Twin plumes of air shoot from his smokestacks when his scanners flag the specks of blood beading on your elbows, and the hand you’ve curled over your right shoulder that betrays an injury laying below your epidermis.

You, however, have no idea you’re being so closely examined. All you know is that your timely saviour has been exceptionally quiet for quite some time, save for his truck’s engine growling in your ears. In fact, your question as to who the man in the Aston is goes unanswered for long enough that you eventually manage to drag your eyes away from the now empty horizon and glance up at the blacked-out windscreen of Optimus’s Peterbilt.

Even with the sun-baked tarmac throwing ample heat up all around you, you still feel a prickle of ice scampering up your spine as you peer up into that flat, impassive pane of glass.

The Aston’s windscreen had been just as dark, if you recall.

“… Optimus?” you fret, tinny and hesitant.

Another bout of silence drags on until you start to wonder if the truck’s speakers are malfunctioning because of the crash. But a moment later, the vehicle beside you promptly shudders around its metal frame, and its engine kicks out another deep, reverberating growl.

“That,” Optimus chews out at last, punctuating the word with a quiet but decisive grunt, “Is someone you will never have to worry about again…” Then, after a beat, the flinty edge to his voice turns soft and velvety once more as the man behind the microphone heaves a weary sigh and adds, “Not if I have any say in the matter.”

Privately, you have to admit that it’s a relief to hear his gentler cadence again.

Turning back towards the road, your brow furls into a subtle frown and you blow a noisy breath through your pursed lips in an attempt to disguise the tremor in your limbs, shivering despite the sweat still prickling at your temples. “Hmm…,” you utter, troubled, “I hope to god you’re right.”

At least he’s confirmed what you suspected; whoever was behind the wheel of that Aston Martin is dangerous.

So… why did he turn tail when Optimus pulled his truck up?

Slowly, as the moment stretches on and all you can do is bask in the bitter relief of being alive, the hand on your shoulder rubs tenderly at the bruise you just know will be forming in the next few hours.

You nearly jump out of your skin when a careful presence nudges at the same arm, warm and solid against your elbow.

Snapping your head sideways, you blink widely, surprised to find that Optimus has somehow managed to inch his enormous Peterbilt forwards so heedfully that the metal of its grill presses up against your side with the barest sliver of pressure, lending you a surface to lean your weight against should you need it.

In spite of the circumstances that have just transpired, you can’t quite refrain from raising your eyes over the top of the grill and offering the windscreen a small, wobbly tilt of your lips, letting your body rest against the humming metal with a grateful exhale.

All at once, Optimus’s voice spills into the space around you, filtering through his invisible speakers and buzzing pleasantly inside your chest.

“Are you hurt?” he asks in as gentle a timbre as you’ve heard from him yet, a far cry from the authoritative, borderline savage tone he’d used to fend off the Aston driver.

You ponder his question, sparing a glance at your tender shoulder and rolling it experimentally, only to suppress a wince at the ensuing twinge of pain. For Optimus’s sake though, you stiffen your upper lip and offer a shake of your head that you’re not even sure he can see.

“I’ll live,” you say blithely.

His ensuing hum smacks of discontentment. “That is not what I asked.”

“I’m fine,” you reiterate, physically flapping away his concern, “It’s Tom who-... Oh, god. Tom!”

In an instantly regrettable move, you use your sore arm to shove yourself up off the truck’s grill and clamp your mouth shut to smother a pitiful whimper.

“There was another with you?” Optimus asks urgently.

Shaking off the pain, you fist a hand into your hair and tug anxiously at the strands, marching several paces away from the truck to stare down the road with a lip stuffed between your teeth. You can’t even see the shire horse anymore, your line of sight broken up by sparse bushes and pillars of orange rock.

Is he heading back to the dairy?

You can only hope so.

“Tom! He’s my horse,” you explain miserably, “Well, not my horse. Terry’s horse, but I was borrowing him to do a job for Terry, and then I fell off when that maniac sped by and I – I-!” You have to stop and suck down a shaking breath, your eyes stinging and blurring over with tears that you furiously swipe away with the back of your wrist. “I can’t believe I lost him! God, Terry’s gonna kill me!”

“He’s going to what?” Optimus demands as another burst of smoke erupts from the Peterbilt’s stacks.

“Hopefully not literally,” you add as an afterthought, mostly to yourself, “He gave me one job… One job, and I managed to cock that up as well.”

Optimus is silent behind you, but you can hear the crackling sand under the wheels of his truck as it rolls forwards, and you start to feel the warmth of its metal on your back.

“I hope you are not suggesting that any of this was your fault,” he informs you pointedly.

You can’t resist a derisive scoff at your own expense, turning around to face the truck and tipping your palms helplessly towards the ever-darkening sky. “You see anyone else around here to blame?” you ask with a hitch in your voice.

He might have said something in response, but your brain doesn’t register the words because at that moment, you catch your first glimpse of the other side of his truck, and a gasp jumps out of your throat, interrupting his satiny reassurances.

“Oh, Optimus,” you lament, laying a hand over your heart and venturing slowly back to the Peterbilt where you hesitate at its side, blinking wetly down at the warped metal and flecked paint; battle wounds from a vehicle that had borne the brunt of a violent collision. Your voice is thick with regret when you choke, “Your lovely truck!”

Said truck’s engine kicks out a sudden rev before it settles again, and Optimus clears his throat. “Ah, the damage is merely cosmetic,” he reassures you, “I am–… My vehicle’s systems are functioning optimally.”

And then, for some reason, his semi rolls back a few yards, bringing the tall bonnet of the vehicle level with you again. “It is you I am concerned about,” the driver adds sternly.

“Well, you shouldn’t be…” Suddenly anxious for an entirely different reason, you meander sideways back down the length of the truck and stretch out your fingertips, touching them gently to the crumpled metal and drawing them in a careful stroke along to the seam where the driver’s side door opens.

Blowing out a harsh breath through your cheeks, you flick a glance up to the window and say, “It looks bad, Optimus. This’ll be an expensive repair.”

Beneath your tiny fingertips, the engine pulses with powerful, steady beats, like the metal itself is has a working heart.

“Y/n…” he rumbles.

But you’re not finished.

Something has just dawned on you; the ugly truth that if it weren’t for you, none of this damage would be here.

“I… This is…” Stepping backwards, you lower your gaze to your wringing hands, brows pinched together and squeezing towards the centre of your forehead. “This wouldn’t have happened if you didn’t have to save me…”

The gears in your head start to turn, and after a trembling inhale, you force out, “It’s my fault, so I… I should pay for the repairs.”

You aren’t expecting him to snap your name so jarringly.

“Y/n.” Spoken, not shouted, but nonetheless his voice cuts through you like a hammer strike and sends you jerking back a step, mouth agape as you stare up at the driver’s window.

“Do you truly believe-” he starts, taking an audible pause as if to keep himself in check. Your eyes drift to the noticeably shuddering smokestacks. “- that I would value currency over the pricelessness of a human life? Of your life?”

For an awkward stretch of time, your mouth falls open and clicks shut as you flounder for a response. Befuddled, you squint up at the darkened window as if you might find some insight in the reflection of the desert landscape.

The truth of the matter is you simply don’t understand him.

He doesn’t even know you. In an ideal world, of course a life is more valuable than money. But your world is far from ideal. Growing up, it was impressed upon you that if you broke something that belonged to someone else, you paid to replace or fix it.

Hell, even going as far back as your school days, you can still remember the time you kicked a friend’s football over the fence where it bounced onto the main road and was promptly squashed by a passing car. The very next day, you went out to buy him a new one.

‘It was your fault,’ your father told you gruffly as he watched you upend your piggy bank and count out your hard-earned pocket money through watery eyes, ‘So you gotta pay for it.’

And yes, you recall thinking, that made sense.

The logic still carries over here, years down the line, albeit in very different circumstances with very much more money potentially involved.

If you hadn’t fallen off Tom, you wouldn’t have antagonised that driver, and Optimus wouldn’t have had to sacrifice his own truck to stop you from getting crushed flat by a drugged-out trafficker.

“But…” Rendered supremely uncertain by his conviction, you try to impress upon him the seriousness of the damage by gesturing to it with a weak flap of your hand. “But your truck…”

“-Can be repaired,” he responds patiently, if with a barely-there touch of exasperation, like you’re the one baffling him, “A life is not so easily replaced. And I will not have you paying for any damage I have sustained. I do not need, nor do I want your money.”

Is he suggesting that you get off Scot-free?

Well. That’s just…

Dumb.

It’s dumb. How are you supposed to learn from your mistakes if you never have to pay for them?

It’s the kind of thing someone for whom money is no object would say.

Perhaps, a small voice in the back of your head suddenly pipes up, briefly forgotten in the chaotic swirl of adrenaline and emotion, this is for the best.

It’s laughable, really. Here you are, offering to pay for repairs to a truck when you don’t even have enough money to pay for a-….

… Oh.

The weight of your phone suddenly begins to burn a hole in your pocket, as does the mysterious sum sitting prettily in your bank account.

In all honesty, it had entirely slipped your mind.

All at once, the air around you grows charged, unspoken words hanging between you and your timely saviour like blows ready to be traded.

The smokestacks on top of the semi shudder and kick out twin plumes of light grey fumes.

“Optimus,” you begin slowly, your voice tired but guarded, and just a little colder than intended, “There’s… something I need to ask you.”

And even though you half-expect it, you still flinch when the driver’s door suddenly pops open, swinging out wide in invitation.

“I will answer as best I can. But first, I am taking you somewhere safe,” Optimus tells you, and at to begin with, his tone is stern and leaves no room for argument. But after a second, you hear him sigh heavily, and the truck’s body creaks on its axles as its driver lowers his voice to gently prod, “You require medical attention. There is a clinic in town that…”  

He trails off as you fold your arms over your chest and pointedly disregard the open door, instead levelling a severe frown up into the cab, standing your ground. “Out of the question.”

“Y/n…”

“I’m only getting into this truck if you promise to take me straight to Terry’s Dairy,” you say, “Otherwise, I’m walking.”

A light on the dashboard flickers brightly for a second before Optimus softly points out, “You are injured.”

Clicking your tongue, you ignore his very valid observation to primly retort, “Oh, don’t be daft. I fell off a horse, I didn’t break my leg.” And to prove your own point, you turn on your heel and begin to wander stiffly up the road.

Perhaps that had been foolish, given how surely you’re going to feel those blossoming bruises in the morning, but it’s far too late to draw to a halt now and show your hand.

As you might have expected, it’s not even a second later that you hear the hiss of brakes being decompressed, and the rumble of the semi’s engine as it pulls onto the road, rolling along behind you for several paces while Optimus calls, “If you will insist upon not seeking medical expertise, then I will, of course, bring you back to the Dairy. But… please, do not exacerbate your injuries.”

That, at the very least, gets you to stop. Privately, you’re relieved to. A fresh twinge in your knee suggests you may have bumped more than just the one shoulder. And in all honesty, you’re not exactly keen on traipsing up the same road that speedster had just driven along, all by yourself.

And there’s still the matter of the burning question you’ve been meaning to ask Optimus…

Hanging your head, you brace a hand on your hip and sigh through your nose as the massive truck coasts to a gentle stop beside you, shading you from the setting sun.

Without having to look, you know the passenger door now sits open, waiting for you to embark.

In your heart of hearts, you’re already praying that you’re wrong about all of this. That Optimus isn’t the person who put that money into your account. But the more you hear from him, the more it strikes you as something he might just be able - and willing - to pull off.

But why?

Nobody is that nice. Nobody gives ten thousand to a stranger they just met. You can’t help but wonder if he has an ulterior motive?

‘Paranoia is unbecoming,’ your mother told you after you complained that the latest in her string of lovers was paying just a little too much attention to the contents of your laundry basket.

You don’t mean to be paranoid, it’s just….

“Ahem…” Somehow, he manages to offer the politest cough you’ve ever heard.

Innocent until proven guilty, right?

“Right,” you decide under your breath, pivoting towards the truck and finding that, yes, the door is indeed wide open in invitation.

Inclining your head to peer up at the cab, you reach out for the grab handle and say, “Straight back to the dairy, all right?”

Optimus doesn’t hesitate, perhaps knowing that any pause would be immediately noted.

“You have my word,” he tells you solemnly, unable to resist adding, “Though I think it would be prudent of you to reconsider.”

With a half-hearted tut, you slide your fingers around the warm band of metal and haul yourself up onto the first step.

Or at least you try to.

In hindsight, it was rather stupid to grab the handle with your right hand. The hand connected to your right shoulder. The same shoulder you landed on when you fell from Tom, and again when you threw yourself to the ground to avoid becoming a smear across a handsome, scarlet bonnet.

You’re not even in the air for a second when a shooting streak of agony lances straight across your shoulder blades and jabs an unseen, red-hot poker into the muscle just below your neck.

Your eyes bulge open wide, and your mouth parts to suck in a choked gasp. But worse still, your fingers promptly go slack on the handle and then slip off as your entire body begins to tip backwards, one foot still in the air behind you, and the other perched precariously on the truck’s step.

It wouldn’t be so bad if you hadn’t been falling at such an awkward angle, but right as you squeeze your eyes shut and prepare for yet another painful jolt through your coccyx-

“Ough!” A clumsy shout is knocked from your lungs when something snakes around your left forearm and goes taut.

Just like that, your impromptu tumble comes to a jarring halt.

Your eyes flash open, blinking widely up into the cab.

You can still feel the leg extended out behind you, dangling uselessly above the ground. And you’re still aware that the heel of your other boot is balanced on the hard metal edge of the step. You’re being held in place, anchored to the semi by the thin, grey seatbelt that’s whipped out to wrap itself several times over around your forearm.

Did you…. Grab it? Somehow? When you…

But no.

It had to have moved. It had to. Hell, it’s still moving.

Even now, you can feel the fabric shift and tighten against your skin as it reels you steadily in towards the door, like it has a mind of its own…

“What… kind of truck did you say this was?” you ask dumbly, letting your hand fumble for the door handle when it’s guided there by the belt.

“Fully remote-accessed,” Optimus rumbles cryptically.

And yeah. You can see that.

The belt is still looped around your arm when you’re half tugged, half helped into the cab proper, and it only comes loose when you gather enough wits to actually pry it off, picking at the fabric with shaking fingers until it goes slack, and you can slide it over your lap and into the catch with a ‘click.’

Slowly, you withdraw your hands, eyeing the belt as if it might spring to life again at any moment.

“Remote-accessed seatbelts?” you breathe dubiously, quirking a brow at the empty driver’s seat for lack of anyone to make eye contact with.

Sensibly, Optimus doesn’t reply, and soon enough, the uniform purr of the truck’s engine kicks up underneath you as it starts to drive, settling into a deliberately sedate pace along the road to Terry’s farm.

“… You had a question for me,” Optimus prods no more than a few seconds after you’ve driven off.

Straight and to the point. He isn’t beating around any bushes, not like you are, apprehensive of a potential confrontation.

It… quite suddenly occurs to you that you’ve just entered the truck of a man you’ve interacted with exactly once before today. A man who apparently has… an unusual amount of control over his own vehicle…

Jesus, no wonder Terry thinks you’re a dunce.

And yet you’re not here to marvel over the wonders and advancements of modern technology. You’ve never been especially tech-savvy. You know your way around a smart phone and a computer just as much as the next person. But you’re well aware there are concepts out there in the works that you simply haven’t fathomed yet.

You shift uncomfortably in the clean leather seats, eyeing the dried manure that’s caking the sides of your boots, and grimace. “I did,” you finally say in response to Optimus’s prompt. Then, straightening up a little and dragging your eyes up to the road ahead… “I do.”

You’re not sure about the question any more though. Suddenly, you feel unprepared. While you’d resolved to confront Optimus about the money, you realise now that you never actually gave any thought as to how you’d react if he confirms your suspicions.

And now that he’s most likely just saved your life, you find yourself in an even more unenviable predicament.

“Look, before I say anything else,” you start, scrubbing your hands over your thighs, “I wanted to say thank you. For showing up back there. I really am grateful. Sorry I didn’t say it sooner.”

Optimus’s gentler-than-average tone seeps into the cab, surrounding you in with its deep, warm hum that distracts you from the lingering ache in your shoulder.

“You have nothing to be sorry for,” he tells you sincerely, “I would do it again in a sp-… in a heartbeat.”

You chalk up the skip in his voice to a speaker malfunction.

Lowering your stare to the footwell once again, you purse your lips and click your tongue, feeling guilty now that you’re about to accuse him of anything. Optimus is, as you figured last night, the good sort. He wouldn’t be so underhanded as to invade your privacy like that, would he?

Only one way to find out…

“Optimus,” you begin, hooking your thumbs over each other and squeezing, “Last night, when I managed to charge my phone, I saw something odd.”

All he does is make a soft sound of affirmation through his speakers, coaxing you wordlessly to continue.

“It was my bank account,” you say in a rush, “There was some money in there… A lot of money. Money that, ah… wasn’t in it yesterday morning.”

“Mm,” he hums, curious. Innocent.

You start to doubt yourself.

“You wouldn’t…. happen to know anything about that, would you?”

You’d been expecting any number of responses.

Maybe an incredulous laugh? Maybe some sort of flimsy excuse if he was the culprit.

What you aren’t expecting, however, is for Optimus to offer a very mellow, very straightforward, “Yes. I sent it to you. I hope it sufficed.”

Everything, absolutely everything – the drug-dealer, nearly being the victim of a hit-and-run, the lost Shire horse, the trouble you’ll no doubt be in with Terry when you get back – it all gets shoved to the wayside, and your mind comes to a screeching halt.

Very stiffly, you lift your head, staring with unseeing eyes through the windscreen.

“You what?”

 The worst part about it is, he really has the gall to sound confused when he elaborates, “I sent it. I have no use for the money. With you, I thought it would be put to good use…”

“It was you,” you realise quietly, incredulous.

And then, as if your head wasn’t already reeling. “I… apologise if ten thousand was an insufficient sum,” he murmurs.

Insufficient.

Insu-fucking-ficient?

“Ten thousand….” Your lips peel back over your teeth, gradually exposing the gums as you twist your neck around to aim a baleful glare at the driver’s seat. “You dropped… ten thousand into my bank account…” Then, balling your hands into fists, you let out a derisive laugh and bellow, “Are you out of your goddamn mind!?”

The steering wheel suddenly rolls to the side as if it’s flinching away from your unexpected outburst, and in doing so, the whole vehicle veers out into the middle of the road before righting itself once more, smoothly drifting back over into its lane.

For his part, Optimus is firstly mortified that he’d made such an erratic movement that could have further worsened your injuries, and secondly shocked at the sudden outcry from the little human in his cab.

Of all the responses he expected from you, he didn’t anticipate one that would be quite so explosive.

At once, he angles his rearview mirror towards your face, relieved that you don’t seem to notice the motion, and analyses the expression darkening your delicate features.

Lips drawn back to reveal your teeth – a typical human threat display. Eyes wide and wild, pupils small even in the dim light of his cab.

He’d write it off as anger… if anger and fear didn’t look so much alike. He’s seen plenty of both, enough to recognise one from the other if he pays attention.

In an instant, Optimus’s frame wilts around him, his tyres slowing to a crawl on the dusty road.

He’s frightened you. Again.

Though this time he isn’t sure that he understands why.

It seldom happens that the Prime is lost for worst, but right now, the diplomatist in him can’t come up with anything more than an inelegant, “Pardon?”

Which, judging by the thunderous cloud that descends over your eyes, was the wrong thing to come back with.

If you would just tell him what the problem is, he’ll fix it, in any way he can.

He braces himself for another shout, but is surprised when your voice doesn’t reach that same crescendo again. Apparently, you’d even startled yourself.

Even so, there’s still no shortage of venom in your tone when you snap, “You can’t just-! Just GIVE ten thousand dollars to someone! And right after I told you I wasn’t a charity!”

Ah… He wonders if this is a matter of pride…

“You needed it,” he tells you calmly, sending a soothing pulse through the air before he once again recalls that you’re not a Cybertronian, “I did not.”

“THAT-!”

Back to shouting. He’s usually better at this.

“-IS COMPLETELY BESIDES THE POINT!”

Optimus finds himself tied for words again. If he could just explain to you that human money really has no value to him, you’d probably understand. The US Government give him a relatively generous stipend to spend on certain necessities should the need ever arise.

He’s barely had to dip into it at all though, and only ever for things like the base’s monitors, some structurally sound sofas for the children, that new laptop Rafael couldn’t afford but had somehow turned up in the boy’s backpack regardless…

All things that barely made a dent in the sum Optimus currently has sitting in limbo.

What better use for unspent funds than to give them to someone who really needs them?

If you would only allow him to help you-

“You were totally out of line, doing that!” you continue, breathing hard, “Not only was it a… a gross invasion of my boundaries, but it also looks completely suspicious!”

Briefly, Optimus wonders if you ever studied medicine. There’s a certain medic he knows who would get a kick out of seeing his old friend being scolded by somebody one-twentieth his size.

But your words do give him pause.

An invasion of your boundaries… That, he finds most concerning. Thinking back on it, you did say you’d have to respectfully decline his offer of financial assistance…. But he only meant to….

Ah. He may be starting to see where he’s put a foot wrong.

It isn’t for him to decide why you shouldn’t be upset. It’s for him to acknowledge that you are, and that he’s the reason for it.

“I mean, do I even want to know how you managed to pull off a transfer like that!? Wait! Don’t even tell me! I don’t!” you steamroll over the plausible excuse he was about to give you, “Just-! Just do me one favour.”

Optimus is only too happy to jump on the opportunity to make things right again. Again, he can hear Arcee scoffing in his audials, deriding him for needing the approval of a human he’s just met. Regardless, he pushes her snark to the side and speeds up as he earnestly replies, “Name it.”

The look you’re giving his empty seat is as fearsome as you can no doubt make it, but that doesn’t disguise the moisture building behind your delicate eyelids. Something about what comes next is hard for you. He doesn’t miss that.

“Take it back,” you try to say evenly, squeezing the fabric of his seatbelt between quivering fingers.

Optimus’s spark twists with indecision. You need the money. He knows it, you know it. What are you punishing yourself for? “… Are you certain?” he stresses.

“You got it in there, you can damn well draw it out again,” you bark, giving a hard sniff that does little to stop the tiny bead of salty water from spilling onto your lashes, “Take it back!”

You won’t let him help you.

The Prime’s EM field hums, troubled. He’s only slightly glad you can’t pick up on it like his team could.

‘This human is not your charge, Optimus,’ a voice that sounds suspiciously like Ratchet’s pipes up at the back of his processor.

But if not his, then whose? You’re all by yourself out here, you confirmed that much last night.

But this distress… This isn’t what he wants. If trying to help you like this only leads to suspicion and upset, then he’ll have to take a step back and reassess his angle, like any good pragmatist.

You jump a few inches off the seat when the phone in your shirt pocket vibrates with a shrill ‘ding!’

Casting a chary glare at the truck’s steering wheel, you fish the phone out and tap its screen with your thumb, lighting up the interior of the cab in cool, blue light.

There’s a message on the screen. Short, and bittersweet, headed by the name of your bank.

‘£8,000 has been withdrawn from your account.’

A single eyebrow slides up your forehead. “All of it please, Optimus.”

“….”

‘Ding!’

‘£2000 has been withdrawn from your account.’

There. It’s done. You feel a crushing weight lift instantly from your chest.

“Thank you,” you sigh loudly, sagging backwards against his seat with a tiny smile.

“If it is of any consolation,” he begins in that soft timbre of his, “Causing you this undue distress was the furthest thing from my mind.”

You… think you believe him. Or maybe you just want too badly to believe that there are really people out here who only want to help. You want to believe him, which is why it hurts so much that you don’t.

Because something else has just occurred to you.

That Aston driver… you’re fairly certain he’s caught up in bad business. If not the drug trade, then some other equally awful affair. And he’d driven off the moment Optimus arrived. But he’d shown up less than twenty-four hours after Optimus put all that money into your account? For no apparent reason?

There are dots here. And you’re connecting them with flimsy, frayed string, but they all seem to be coming together… somehow. Because this can’t all be a coincidence, can it?

A mysterious truck driver just happens to find some drifter walking into town without a penny to their name, someone who had left their entire family behind them to start a new life. Someone who wouldn’t necessarily be missed. And that drifter just happens to have a suspicious amount of money dumped into their account one day, only to get attacked by a faceless driver the next?

You don’t know what Optimus is hiding….

But you’re starting to smell a rat.

Blearily, your eyes drift over to the windscreen and you focus on the view beyond, noticing that the sky is far darker now, and the twinkling lights of Terry’s dairy have risen up over the curve of the road to meet you.

“You can drop me here,” you murmur, spent from the relief and from raising your voice, “I can walk the rest.”

“I wish I could comply with your request, Youngling, especially after what I’ve done, but… regrettably there is a matter of grave importance that I must bring to your attention.”

You wheeze out a subdued laugh. Of course there is.

“That… driver,” Optimus continues, “I’m afraid he is more dangerous than you realise.”

“Yeah… yeah I’m well aware of just how dangerous he is,” you grumble, scratching the bend of one elbow and grimacing at the dried blood under your fingernail, “Whatever. I’ll call the police and they’ll track him down.”

“I’m afraid it isn’t quite that simple,” he explains with the pointed patience of a man trying to explain something rather simple to a child, “You see, that… driver now knows your face. And worse still, I fear, he knows that you and I are acquainted.”

You don’t know if you’re imagining the quiet whine of his engine when Optimus sighs deeply and adds, “It is entirely my fault that you are now in danger, but I could not just… I would never just sit back and allow him to hurt you.”

Danger?

Your stomach sinks down through the soles of your boots.

Son of a bitch, you knew this guy was too good to be true.

With your suspicions all but confirmed, you give a sudden jab at the seatbelt catch, barely pausing to see if it’s come loose before you twist in your seat to give the door handle a sudden, vicious yank, though the whole thing remains sealed tight.

You don’t hear Optimus grunt in surprise.

“What are you doing?” he asks.

“Let me out,” you tell him as calmly as you can.

Optimus’s brakes engage, but he doesn’t open the door, preoccupied with trying to coax you back into your seat. “Y/n, please listen to me, I am trying to help you understand-“

“-Understand what!?” you blurt, still fruitlessly trying the handle, “That your buddy back there wouldn’t have tried to kill me if he didn’t know you’d stashed the money on me?”

“I-… I beg your pardon?”

“Save it,” you snap, giving up on the handle and instead trying to pry the lock out of its slot beside the window, “Just let me out, and I’ll forget about this whole thing. You’ll never have to speak to me again. I won’t tell anyone just-!”

Alarm flares through the Prime’s circuitry. This is quickly getting out of hand. You’ve misunderstood in perhaps the worst way possible. He doesn’t want to never speak to you again. Quite the opposite, in fact-

A fist suddenly connects with his dashboard, startling Optimus into returning his focus to you, and to your frantic, haggard expression.

“Damnit, Optimus!” you yelp, curled up as close to his door as you can get, “You let me out of this truck right now!”

And Optimus, registering the high levels of cortisol flooding into your system, doesn’t delay a moment longer, unlocking his passenger door with a dull ‘click.’

You’d have fallen straight out of him if he hadn’t kept the door hinges stiff to catch you against it, opening it just gradually enough that you can shove against it in your haste to scramble out, but not fast enough to lose your balance and topple head over heels onto the sand.

‘Fix this,’ a whispering voice tells him, his own, no doubt. And he will, for your own safety, he has to.

But right now, you’re shutting his door with more gentleness than he’s sure you want to exert, and staggering away from him, rounding the back of his vehicle mode rather than move up front. Whatever conclusions you’ve drawn, you’ve drawn in tight, and you don’t look like you’re willing to let them go.

“Listen,” you start with a gleam in your eye that’s trying so much to be hard and unaffected, but to the Prime’s scrutiny only seems scared and betrayed, “Thank you for saving me, thank you for trying to help, but whatever it is you’ve got going on, Optimus, I want nothing to do with it.”

“Y/n,” he calls after you, rolling off the road after you as you veer in a straight line towards the start of the dairy farm’s drive, “Please-“

“-Leave me alone!” He doesn’t miss the hitch in your throat.

Dejected, Optimus’s wheels grind to a halt on the sand, and there he sits, watching you retreat further and further into the darkness with a limp to your step and one hand cupped over your wounded shoulder.

The Prime’s matrix is roiling in his chest.

Heaving a mechanical sigh, he sinks on his metal struts and pulls up the last few minutes of conversation to the forefront of his processor.

With your face now undoubtedly fixed in Knockout’s crosshairs, there’s no question that you’re already more involved than he ever intended for you to be. Guilt… isn’t something he should dwell on. But the tears in your eyes… put there by Optimus himself…

The engine of a great semi-truck roars to life, and the metal titan carefully backs out onto the road behind him, never once taking his optics off the tiny figure in front of him as it disappears into an old, tumbledown farmhouse.

[weirdlookingsnakewithlegs]

Sunstreaker and Sideswipe being sparklings during the war? Funny af

Sunstreaker and Sideswipe being sparklings during the war and getting snatched up by Autbots? Not so funny

The only way I can think of it happening is maybe one of the trine taking the two out on a scouting mission where they end up getting shot down and taken into Autobot custody. Of course, which ever seeker was shot down is definitely much more worried about the sparklings in their cockpit than being apprehended by the opposing faction.

For humor purposes I say it was Skywarp.

Now, Skywarp is definitely the type of mech that likes to lash out not just physically but with his EM field as well, but he can’t do that with the sparklings because they’re really sensitive to that sort of stuff. So, the Autobots are thinking something is wrong because Skywarp has never held back is EM field and he’s being more reserved, not lashing out physically but he’s still making snide comments and insulting every Autobot within radius.

It’s probably just when they get to the Autobots base that Sideswipe and Sunstreaker start making noise because they love being convenient. It starts with soft chirps, barely noticeable to anyone but Skywarp and unfortunately he’s cuffed, tending to two sparklings while cuffed in an extremely difficult task. He can only hope they stay quiet.

And then Sideswipe starts shrieking and suddenly all optics are on him. I think Skywarp could only really give a nervous smile and take a step back before somebot like Prowl is up in his face and questioning what that noise is.

Eventually, after way too much verbal bullying, Skywarp is forced to open his cockpit and he has to scramble because both of them are immediately attempting to escape.

Now that Sideswipe and Sunstreaker are out in the open it’s pretty clear of what they are, hell their frames are probably just now gaining color at this point.

Red Alert is around I just know he’s accusing him of stealing the little ones because and I quote, “They look nothing like you.”

“They take after their sire.”

“They aren’t seekers.”

“Their sire was a race alt?” Truth is Starscream never told them.

“Who’s the creator?”

“Starscream.”

Immediate silence and Skywarp realizes that maybe he should have claimed the little scraplets but the problem with that is that these two are very sure of who their creator is and would never play along with that idea. Plus that would just confuse them and the last thing he wants is a lecture from Starscream but at this point it may be too late.

The two sparklings, now settled on the ground and hiding behind Skywarp’s legs, are not having it. Their little optics are glaring at every Autobot in vicinity and Sideswipe is even flaring his very unformed door wings at the nearest one.

The group at the moment probably consists of Prowl, Red Alert, and Jazz but now that sparklings of all things were involved, Ratchet and Optimus were sure to be offered a spot in the ring of fools.

Skywarp is immediately shoved(he’s being dramatic) towards the medbay, sparklings hot on his thrusters. Sunstreaker doesn’t bother with the chase, doing his usual cling onto Skywarp’s leg which makes the seeker more hobble than walk. Yet, the moment they reach the medbay, all civil nature is out the door.

One thing Skywarp hates more than Autobots? Medics. And what’s worse than that? An Autobot Medic.

Immediately the seeker’s wings are hiked up the moment he’s on the medberth, positioned to a point they show off any injury sustained from being shot down but also to the point it puts strain on his hinges. Sunstreaker and Sideswipe probably try to copy him only to whine when they feel how uncomfortable it is because ow.

Now, Ratchet is… somewhat civil, and by somewhat I mean he’s actively yelling and waving a wrench at whoever thought it would be a great idea to shoot down one of the Elite Trine especially while he was carrying sparklings. The answers he gets are not satisfactory and both Prowl and Red Alert are chased out, Jazz leaves before things even got bad.

Now, mind you, it’s only Skywarp, the sparklings, Ratchet, and Optimus fragging Prime in the med bay. Skywarp is trembling like a leaf and Ratchet hasn’t even addressed him yet. The sparklings are just as frightened by Skywarp’s reaction and have probably cuddled up tightly against the seeker’s cockpit, though they refuse to go back in.

Eventually a very long conversation is had and Optimus ends up being forced to call the Decepticons to tell them that their missing sparklings were ready to be retrieved. He doesn’t expect to see Megatron cowering when the call is accepted, he also doesn’t expect the amount of screeching in the background.

“Prime.”

At least Megatron still has the class to pretend he’s not terrified out of his processor.

“TELL PRIME I’LL DEACTIVATE HIM”

“Starscream wishes to tell you-“

“I heard… I have called to inform you that we will be handing the sparklings over, along with Skywarp.”

“We will be there to pick them up.” Megatron just barely dodges something being thrown at him, “Starscream is already leaving.” He adds and the call flickers out.

[lets-try-some-writing]

Hi! I was wondering if you had any headcanons for the bots' fears/phobias? Specifically TFP

The only one I have is that Bumblebee is, ironically, afraid of bees for no reason other than I thought it would be funny. I'd like to hear your takes!

Hmm I think their fears would go something like this:

Arcee: Terrified of blood.

She's seen too much energon over the course of her long life. Watching so many good mecha die and losing both her partners has left her with a strange apathy to energon. She's grown used to it. But blood? Human blood is vibrant and so different and yet so similar. When she sees blood, it ignites old horrors and memories she's long tried to suppress. Her servos shake when one of the children ends up getting a cut large enough for her to notice. It's all too similar for her to handle.

Bulkhead: Afraid of Deep Water

Bulkhead is a big mech, one lacking in serious dexterity. He's a combat and manual labor unit and he knows it. When he was young, he fell into a solvent pool, and while unharmed, he was so heavy that he couldn't get out on his own. He was trapped there for almost a whole cycle, and now that he knows what lurks in Earth's waters, he's terrified of falling in and possibly being crushed to death by either the pressure or something that lurks in the deep. He hasn't fallen in any deep water yet, but he's terrified that it may happen and much prefers the desert.

Bumblebee: Scared of Being Alone

The fear of being alone stemmed all the way back from Bumblebee's sparklinghood. Growing up in a time of war meant that he was often left to his own devices cooped up in a base or safehouse while the grown mechs went off to war. He came to despise being left alone, and so joined the war effort both to help and to be with them. The fear of being alone only grew after he lost his voice to Megatron. When he's alone, he sometimes hears the Warlord taunting him. This can lead him to spiral badly, and so he relies heavily on others for support. This is part of the reason he bonded so well with the children.

Ratchet: Paranoid of Biological Agents

Being a Doctor, Ratchet has seen many things. Not a lot bothers him anymore, save for scraplets. But in his mind, that's not even a fear. It's common sense. But with that said, the Cybonic plague awoke in Ratchet a fear he'd never realized lurked within him. After that great plague, he now fears biological agents above all else. Not necessarily germs, but anything that could become a weapon of war. Contaminated items especially. In that regard, he is an increadible germaphobe when it comes to his supplies and will grow frantic if anything is brought into his medical bay that reeks of disease.

Ultra Magnus: Fear of the Dark

Being inside the Magnus armor means that Ultra Magnus, or perhaps Minimus, is entirely reliant on the armor's optical systems to see. The fear of the dark developed the first time he lost his sight and was completely incapable of maneuvering the armor, effectively leaving him open to any and all attacks since he couldn't use his personal field or even his senses to navigate. He has told no one about his fear, but when the lights go out, he often panics and instinctually enters a state of fight or flight out of a pure primal fear that something may harm him even within his armor. The team doesn't understand. Only Optimus knows why Ultra Magnus goes to recharge with a nightlight.

Smokescreen: Frightened by Fires

Smokescreen's fear stems from his time in the Archive. It is a new fear, one he has not fully realized. But seeing Iacon burning and the Archive coming down around him, destroying the home he'd known for so long... it changed him. At the time he was too busy being enthralled in the thrill of potential battle to care. But now, whenever he sees fire in close proximity, he automatically flies into a combat position, often lashing out at the first thing that moves simply because he associates fire with foes. Anything greater than a candle unsettles him.

Wheeljack: Unsettled by Connections

He doesn't talk about it. Ever. However, from what Bulkhead knows, Wheeljack got very attached to his ragtag family back when he was young and promptly lost them all one at a time. He tried to get attached to fellow workers before the war, but every connection fell through. Now he doesn't bother and actively flees anything that could feel like it weighs him down. He's scared of caring enough to actually cry when someone dies. Bulkhead is a rare exception to his rule of no connection, and it is simply because Bulkhead has lasted this long and all but demanded friendship.

Optimus: Petrified of Being Lost

The fear began when he was still Orion Pax. At the time, he got lost almost every time he travelled, and often, he ended up in frightening back alleys and dangerous situations. The fear evolved after he became Prime and now Optimus does not fear being lost in his journeys. Rather, he fears becoming lost within the grasp of the Matrix and the madness of war. It is such a real fear that often, Optimus will throw himself into days long studies after patrols, reviewing everything he knows about Cybertron and the corruption of the Council just so he can reaffirm who he is.

Just so he won't lose himself to the tempting thought of letting go of his morality.

[jcblifttech]

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[foggieststars]

Your carcar fic was one of the first fic I read in the carcar fandom and it changed my life 🙂‍↕️

Can I request ignored safeword + carcar? If you’re interested, would also love to see if it can be combined with 23. Possession. Thank you❣️

from the kink prompt asks here, tysm for your lovely words and such a fun prompt!!

-

They can’t have been going for longer than an hour, but time is slipping away from Carlos. He’s trussed up like a party favour, face-down on the bed, hands lashed to the headboard, tied together with the neat safety knots that Oscar favours. Carlos has made fun of him more than once for it, asking him if he’d yet earned his merit badge for knot-tying. He doesn’t feel like making fun of Oscar now. 

His hands are sore where the rope’s chafing against his wrists, and his ass is killing him. It’s not sexy anymore, not like it was at the start, when the sting of the paddle against his skin was something searing, something that made him feel loose and disconnected from his body. That time has passed, along with his second orgasm. 

Oscar stopped using the paddle after the first, swapped it for the skin-to-skin sting of his hand, and that was nice. But now, Carlos’ cock is starting to chafe against the bedsheets, dried come making him feel grimy and unwashed. The vibrating plug nestled right up against his prostate has tipped over from pleasurable to overwhelming. 

He can sense Oscar just behind him, hovering just out of range.

“Oscar,” Carlos croaks. “Oscar - can we stop?” 

There’s silence from behind him, no indication that Oscar’s heard him. Carlos doesn’t - when he gets like this, he doesn’t always have the best handle on how loud he’s being. More than once, Oscar’s had to shush him when he’s fucking him in Carlos’ driver’s room. 

He thought he’d been pretty loud. Carlos licks his lips, filmy with dried spit, tries again. “Oscar,” he says. “Oscar - please.” 

Carlos waits for Oscar to laugh, to give some indication that he’s just joking around. That he’s going to untie Carlos’ hands, massage them with the moisturising cream Oscar bought specifically for the occasion. There’s nothing; just the sound of Oscar’s quiet breathing. And then, the gentle sound of a button being pressed. If the room wasn’t so quiet, Carlos wouldn’t have heard it. But it is, and he did - and more than that, he can feel it. The vibrations of the plug ratchet up a notch, and his back draws tight like a bow. Carlos tries not to thrash, but the feeling is so overwhelming - a cold sort of pleasure, a sweat breaking on his brow. 

He feels like a broken record. “Oscar - I want… red. Red, please - I can’t anymore.”

Oscar does laugh then, at the sound of their safeword. Sweat’s dripping from Carlos’ forehead now. The pleasure is so overwhelming like this, focused on that tight bundle of nerves. Nothing he can grasp at with his hands to channel some of the energy, no way to work out the pain. 

And then - “You asked for this, remember?” Oscar says. Carlos’ stomach gives a painful lurch at the realisation that Oscar’s genuinely not moving, that saying red hasn’t done anything, and then it’s a sickening freefall into oblivion. 

Carlos does remember, is the worst part. After two glasses of wine last week with dinner, curled up on the sofa, enjoying a rare moment of private time. He’d said - he’d asked Oscar to do this. To ignore it when Carlos begged him to stop. Ignore it, even if Carlos uses his safeword. Oscar had been concerned by the idea. Carlos had pushed. It’s his fault. 

It’s Carlos’ fault that this is happening to him.  

It’s a strange feeling, the sensation of pure, unadulterated panic. It’s not something Carlos is accustomed to feeling with Oscar. To know that there’s genuinely no way out - nothing he can say to get Oscar to stop doing this to him. It’s electrifying and horrifying in equal measure. 

“Oscar–” Carlos croaks, hissing when the vibrations increase again. He can feel his legs moving on the bed, but there’s no control behind it, nothing he can do to stop it. “I - Oscar, I can’t – can’t anymore,” he says - begs, really. “I’m sorry,” he finishes weakly, hating the feeling that he’s letting Oscar down, denying him what he wants. But Carlos really doesn’t think it’s possible for Oscar to wring another orgasm out of him - he’s so sore. Probably doesn’t help that the two of them have been fucking like rabbits basically since the season ended, no concern for sore muscles or tight backs when they don’t have to be in the car again for months. 

“Don’t be sorry,” Oscar says, voice steady. “Be better.” 

Those works sink into Carlos slowly, the steady drip of their impact muted, like he’s underwater. How many times has he heard those words - from his coaches, from his father? And now. From Oscar.

“Because you can be,” Oscar continues. “You’ll give me another one, right?” 

Oscar’s doing what Carlos asked him to do. He’s ignoring the safeword. Pushing Carlos past his self-imposed limits. Carlos scrunches his eyes closed, takes a steadying breath, ignoring the feeling of blood pounding in his head. 

Oscar moves closer, thighs bracketing Carlos’ own. He can hear the material of Oscar’s shorts rustle as he moves. “You’ve been so good for me,” he practically croons. He’s certainly improved at the whole dirty talk thing. Especially compared with the start of the season, when he could barely say the word cock without blushing. “So good, and all mine, Carlos.” 

Mine. The word reverberates around Carlos’ mind, driving him to distraction. 

Oscar’s hands smooth over the sore skin of Carlos’ ass, the skin hot to the touch. His hands are blessedly cool. And then, like the shock of touching a livewire, Oscar’s fingers find the base of the plug. He twists it in a cruel motion, bearing down on the base of it. The pressure is unrelenting, almost unbearable. 

“You can do it, right?” Oscar asks. “Just one more. One more and I’ll untie you.” 

Carlos opens his eyes, stares at the crumpled bedsheets in front of him, and lets the word no die on his tongue. 

He lets his head hang between his shoulders, no longer trying to crane around to look Oscar in the eyes. He dips his head once, a slow, purposeful motion, to communicate to Oscar what he’s asking. What he’s agreeing to. He can’t say it out loud - can’t be party to his own unmaking in such an intimate way. This will have to be enough. 

It seems it is, for Oscar at least. He moves closer, and his hands roam the bare planes of Carlos’ skin. His ass, his lower back. Oscar presses his thumbs into the dimples of Carlos’ spine, hitches his hips higher in the air. It helps take some of the pressure off his shoulders, and like an idiot - like some unthinking, drooling whore - Carlos can’t help but arch into it. 

His cock’s half-hard, probably the most it can manage after two orgasms already, leaking steadily like a tap. Carlos cries out when Oscar wraps his hand around it, thumbing over the stickiness, spreading it around the length of him. Even that stimulation is too much, and he bucks backwards, trying to escape it, only to find Oscar’s crotch pressed against his ass. 

Carlos can feel his cock, hard and wanting. Oscar grunts slightly, no doubt as a result of the vibrations from the plug pressed up against his dick. With his free hand, he bumps the vibrations up another couple of notches, until Carlos really can’t handle it anymore. He thrashes violently against the restraints, anything to escape, anything to get away from the steady creep of pleasure-pain that threatens to overwhelm all his senses. 

He screams when Oscar reaches for the plug again, twists it cruelly, hand still stroking his cock gently, steadily. It’s a crude facsimile of fucking, Carlos realises. Between Oscar’s hand on his dick and on the plug, Carlos is rocking back and forth between the stimulation. He keeps bumping against the hard planes of Oscar’s body. 

It’s not a choice, not really. It’s the illusion of one, whether to buck into Oscar’s hand or to let him force the plug against that bundle of nerves. It’s a flagrant attempt at undoing, at complete surrender. 

Whatever it is, it’s working. 

Carlos can feel it approaching, drawing up from deep within him. He’s never - not since he was a horny teenager has he been able to come in such quick succession. 

That’s what initially drew him to Oscar. His sense of responsibility, his work ethic. Carlos recognised something within him, something similar enough to make him reach out, even though he couldn’t stand the guy on track. And look at where it’s gotten him. 

Carlos can feel himself quivering. He grasps the headboard as best he can with his hands tied, something to hold onto. To ground him. 

Oscar leans forward, covering Carlos’ back with his chest. Skin on skin, sweaty and sticking. 

“C’mon,” Oscar pants, breathless himself now. “Just one more. For me.” 

Carlos cries out at a particularly vicious thrust of the plug, Oscar’s hand tightening around his cock. It’s coming, and it hurts, it’s too much too much too much –

Carlos comes with a yell, still only half-hard. There’s barely a dribble of come, his cock spent and sore. His vision goes fuzzy, or he nearly passes out, he’s not sure. All he can feel is the overwhelming pain-pleasure. It aches, like sinking your fingers into a bruise. There’s enough pleasure to drown out the sharpest edges of it, but only just. 

There’s a sickening moment, where Oscar’s hand remains on his cock, heel of his other palm pressed to the plug, still vibrating. Oscar could - if he wanted to. He could do anything. Carlos asked him to. 

Thankfully, he decides Carlos has had enough. The plug stops vibrating, but Oscar doesn’t take it out. He does take his hand off Carlos’ cock though, for which Carlos is grateful. 

Oscar undoes the ties with a deft movement, and Carlos definitely won’t be making fun of him for tying quick-release knots anytime soon. He pitches face-first onto the bed, arms too weak to hold him up. 

Oscar snickers behind him, and then there are hands, cool and callused on his sides, rolling him onto his back. Finally, Carlos can look at Oscar’s face. He’s flushed pink with exertion, spreading down to his chest. 

Oscar presses in close, kneeling over Carlos’ thighs. “That was so good,” he says, and despite it all Carlos feels the familiar hum of pleasure rush through him. A job well-done. “Fucking unbelievable,” Oscar says. “Fuck.” 

Carlos hums, suddenly bone-tired. He wants to smile, reach out for Oscar, but his body won’t do what he’s telling it to. 

Oscar seems to realise that. He cradles Carlos’ face in between his hands, presses a searing kiss to his mouth. 

It’s long, heated and slow, and ends with a healthy dose of tongue. It’s - Oscar’s licking him, Carlos thinks absurdly, and then realises. He’s licking the tears from Carlos’ face. Tears, because Carlos has started crying. When, he’s not sure. It should frighten him, to feel this disconnected from his own body. 

It doesn’t though. Not when Oscar’s holding him like this. 

They kiss for a long time, long enough for Carlos to again grow aware of how desperately he needs a shower. He’s sticky with dried come and sweat, and he feels disgusting. He wants a bath - maybe with those special bath oils Oscar’s trainer likes him to use. 

He also grows aware of another pressing matter - hard, throbbing, and right up against his hip. 

Carlos doesn’t have the energy to move his head, gestures weakly to Oscar’s crotch. “I could - with my mouth?” He offers weakly, still massaging feeling back into his wrists. 

Oscar frowns at him, tilts his head. “Why would I want your mouth?” he asks. Carlos doesn’t understand. Not until he continues – “When you’ve got a perfectly good hole right here.”

He’s tracing around the edge of Carlos’ rim, stretched around the base of the plug. Carlos shudders, shoulders going tight. Oscar pulls it out in one slow movement, lingering at the widest part of it, stretching him out even more. Until suddenly, blissfully, it’s out, and tossed onto the bedsheets. 

“Spent all that time getting you ready for me,” Oscar shrugs. “Be a waste not to put it to good use.” He punctuates the statement with his fingers, two of them, stuffed unceremoniously inside Carlos. 

Carlos makes a noise so high-pitched he’d thought himself incapable of it. He’s loose from the plug, and it’s - he can’t tighten up, not even around two of Oscar’s fingers. He can feel his hole clenching desperately.

“Yeah,” Oscar laughs. “You want it.” 

Carlos shakes his head, doesn’t know how he could possibly muster up the energy to let Oscar - after three.  

“No?” Oscar probes, with his voice and his fingers. He locates Carlos’ prostate with ease - he’s spent all afternoon torturing it, after all - and bears down with his fingers. 

Carlos’ cock twitches, weakly against his thigh. Oscar laughs at the sight of it, and Carlos barely resists the urge to cover himself with his hands. He’s not - before Oscar. He’s not used to this, he’s never… he’s always been the one in charge. He’d thought that would continue with Oscar. Hadn’t expected to be shown another way, 

“Seems like you do,” Oscar comments, like he’s discussing the weather. 

That’s not fair, Carlos wants to tell him. It’s just a bodily reaction - nothing he can help. 

“I’m tired,” Carlos tries, knowing there’s no way out. No escape. 

Hating, more than anything, that he likes that. 

Oscar smiles at him. It’s nothing different to his usual smile - goofy, wide, kind. Front teeth hooking on the skin of his bottom lip. But the words he’s saying are a stark contrast to his expression. “You just lie there - let me take care of you. And this hungry little hole.”

Carlos could move, now he’s been untied. He might be shorter than him, but he’s stronger than Oscar. And his exhausted muscles aren’t that much of a challenge - not really. He’s clambered into the car feeling worse than this, hurled himself around corners going hundreds of miles per hour. He could get up, wrestle Oscar into submission. If he wanted to. 

He doesn’t move.

And it’s that inaction which damns him. 

Oscar’s quick about it, fumbling for the lube, lost in the bedsheets when he’d first opened Carlos up on his fingers, eased the plug into him until Carlos was babbling. He slicks up his cock with efficient movements, spreads Carlos’ thighs wide with his hands. 

They end up hooked around Oscar’s hips. Like this, Carlos is terribly exposed. He can feel his hole clenching in desperation, his body betraying him. He’s spent and exhausted, but he still wants. 

That’s always been his problem. He’s always wanted too much, the weight of his desire threatening to swallow him up. It usually winds up in disappointment. He’d thought, signing with Ferrari - that might - but no. They hadn’t wanted him either, in the end. The depth of his desire too much for anyone to handle. 

Maybe apart from Oscar. 

His hole flutters when Oscar presses the spongy head of his dick to it, and Oscar laughs, watching the point of connection between their bodies. “Look at that,” he comments, and Carlos feels his cheeks burn. 

Oscar moans as he slides into Carlos, and the feeling is mutual. His cock isn’t as thick as the plug, but it’s longer, penetrating deeper into Carlos. His hole is sore with overstimulation, but it still feels good. Good in a way it hasn’t with anyone else for a long time - in a way only Oscar can bring out of him, these days.

Oscar doesn’t waste any time, rutting into him with abandon. He pulls out as far as he can without sliding out completely, slams home with a muffled grunt. 

“So good for me,” Oscar says, voice tight and strained. “Carlos, fuck,” he groans. “So tight. All for me, yeah?” 

Carlos nods, licks his cracked lips. “Yours,” he agrees, squeezing his tired legs around Oscar’s hips. 

Another surprising thing about Oscar. He’s sort of possessive. Hand on the back of Carlos’ neck, brushing against his waist when they cross paths in the paddock. Like a claiming, a reminder. Of who he belongs to. 

“Knew you could take it,” Oscar rasps. “Never enough for you, is it? Always - fuck, always want more.”

Carlos’ face burns at the truth in Oscar’s words, and he nods, looking down and away. Well, trying to at least, because Oscar’s hand on his chin stops him before he can. Hips still pistoning, Oscar yanks Carlos back to face him. Until he has no choice but to meet Oscar’s gaze. 

“Don’t you?” Oscar demands. 

Carlos really might fall to pieces, soon. 

“Yes,” he gasps, at a particularly vicious thrust. “Yes, I want - Oscar.” 

That seems to be answer enough for Oscar, who buries his face in the joint between Carlos’ shoulder and his neck. Licking and sucking at the sweaty skin there, leaving marks they can only get away with for a brief window of time. 

It feels good, like this. His cock is lying limp against his stomach, no chance of hardening again. Carlos doesn’t think he could come again even if Oscar fucked him for hours - like he’s passed some invisible threshold. But it’s nice, like this. It’s a gentle, warming sort of pleasure, one that fills him up from the inside. 

He’s still crying, Carlos notes with some surprise. It’s not bad though, not like this, with Oscar pressed up inside of him, covering him with his body. The surrendering of control, the thing Carlos has always hated, feared the most. It’s not as bad as he’d thought it would be. 

Oscar’s thrusts turn jerky and uncoordinated, his groaning louder. He’d not touched his cock once, during the time Carlos spent tied up. He must be pretty close, need it badly. 

Carlos tilts his hips up, squeezes around Oscar’s cock as best he can. Oscar’s breathing and the sound of the bed creaking under their combined weights are the only sounds, aside from the blood rushing in his ears. 

“Oscar,” Carlos says. He threads his heavy, uncooperative arms around Oscar’s neck, cards through the hair starting to curl with sweat. “I want it - please.” 

It’s as close to begging as he’s yet come. Not in words perhaps, but in meaning. He wants to feel Oscar finish inside him, wants to feel that stamp of ownership he can’t even truly admit to himself that he craves. 

“You want it?” Oscar asks, breathing raggedly. “I know you do. Come on,” he says, hands finding Carlos’ hips, thrusting harder, harder. 

“Fuck,” Oscar pants. “So good, so - Carlos,” he nearly growls out the name. “Can’t believe you,” Oscar says. “Fucking insane, the things you let me - oh, fuck,” Oscar says, and then his hips are stuttering once, twice, and he’s spilling, hot and sticky inside of Carlos. 

It should be disgusting. It is, a bit. 

It’s nice, all the same. 

Oscar keeps fucking into him, until his cock softens enough to slip out. It’s only then, after an indeterminable length of time, that Oscar finally collapses next to him on the bed. He’s breathing hard, like he’s just finished a race, but he looks quietly satisfied. There’s a glow off him. Carlos thinks he might look similarly, from the smile Oscar gives him when their eyes meet. 

“What do you say?” Oscar asks, quiet voice somehow loud in the silent room. 

There’s a halting pause, where Carlos thinks it over. He’d asked Oscar for this. To wrest control from his grasp, push him beyond his self-imposed boundaries. To say - to lay himself bare for Oscar like that… 

There’s no coming back from that. 

Oscar watches him with a quiet smile, like he can read every thought thrumming through Carlos’ overtired mind. Carlos wonders if he knows before Carlos himself does when he makes the decision. When he opens his mouth. 

“Thank you,” Carlos says, and somehow, agonisingly, finds that he means it. 

[starpelted-dove]

I personally think that the fanon interpretation of tfp ratchet and starscreams portrayal of mental breakdowns should be swapped more often.

Instead of the usually messy and crying starscream, which i think is pretty unlikely, id like to see more catatonic disassociation. I feel like starscream is the kind of person to go from blind, lashing out and feral rage, to a state of numbness in a matter of seconds. Ive never really been able to see him in a state of actual emotional vulnerability such as crying.

Ratchet on the other hand, should be shown crying more in fan media. Hes actually a very emotional character compared to most. Hes similar to that of arcee, in the sense that hes very emotionally driven, and quick to emotional outbursts. The amount of times where he has literally been seen on the verge of tears compared to the others speaks for itself(examples: the scrapyard scene after op’s “death” and the scene where the team return from cybertron and break the news that their “only hope to restore cybertron” is destroyed.)

Starscream is an emotional character, but his range of emotion is usually restricted to fear, anxiety, rage, and jealousy. He doesn’t tend to show “weakness”(in his mind) like crying. He’s moreso the kind of person to cover up any sort of vulnerability by lashing out and redirecting with violence.

All this to say, i still enjoy portrayals of an emotional tfp starscream, but id like to see more of the other end of the spectrum.

[emergency-vehicle]

TF1 OptiRatch headcanons, go!!!!

...oh my god... so i just spent the last two ish hours writing a little drabble that has been stuck inside my brain, only for tumblr to make me take a screenshot of it instead of letting me copy paste the whole thing. anyway, irrelevant. the drabble has allowed me to come up with this list of headcanons!

Ratchet

the first time orion and ratchet meet is immediately after the iacon 5000

ratchet HATES the iacon 5000. he thinks its an utter waste of time and resources.

when they meet, D-16 is still very mad and he kind of lashes out at Ratchet too, but Ratchet is like ??? aint no way this bot is mad at me but in the suspicious way, not the angry way

anyway, the entire situation makes ratchet think theyre conjunxes, its very funny.

still ratchet gets absolutely enraptured by orion

big, blue doe eyes are his weakness, and boy howdy does orion pax possess those.

orion is actually very free with his field and while it kind of startles ratchet at first, he realizes that he really likes the way orion's field feels

orion is still very, very giddy and coming down from the adrenaline rush of the race. he's all smiles and laughs and jokes, which pulls ratchet in even more

the best way to describe him is absolutely enigmatic

without even realizing it, ratchet accidentally spends way more time with orion than he does D-16.

Ratchet has always been...suspicious of cogless bots. He knows that there is something seriously wrong. Not with the bots themselves, but with the fact that they have no cogs.

While the medical records had been wiped clean regarding the fact that all bots are born with cogs (unbeknownst to ratchet), he finds it very curious that bots are born with the place for a cog, but no cog itself.

so, ratchet has begun to do some digging on the side. mostly just making notes of patients regarding their frame types and the curious ailments they come in with

orion is not exempt from this

his hands are much too delicate for mining, far more sensitive and dexterous than sturdy and forged for manual labor.

he has to keep reminding himself that theyre not in his private office, nor is this something that he can look into.

ratchet really, really wants to be the one to repair orion's hands. anything to see this very curious bot one more time

D-16 is not having it.

when ratchet leaves he has to catch his breath. it was so hard for him to be professional when orion's big eyes were staring at him like he held all the knowledge of the universe

ratchet does not consider himself someone who falls easily, nor does he really consider himself romantic at all

even then, he felt this pull towards orion. he chalks it up to curiosity, even though it's obviously deeper than that.

plus its not like it even matters, ratchet wouldve sworn up and down that orion and d-16 were a thing.

Orion Pax

orion is fucking grateful that finally it's not just him and D-16 in the room

dgmw, he loves D-16 with his whole chest, but orion always, always struggled with him when he gets like this. mans is not emotionally intelligent enough to deal with his bestie's BPD (yes this is my personal D-16 headcanon, i will die on this hill)

so when ratchet comes in, he almost instantly relaxes

he thinks ratchet is kind of stuffy at first, like he's obviously uncomfortable and the way he talks is very indicative of that

orion immediately wants to help him loosen up. man cannot deal with two socially inept bots at one time. so he opens his field to him

to his surprise, ratchet reciprocates, but only slightly

orion ALSO likes the way ratchet's field matches with his. instant "i want to be your friend" vibes here

when ratchet pays special attention to his hands, orion is internally screaming the entire time

hes generally not used to gentle touch, and theres something about the way that ratchet is holding his hands that makes his spark flutter

he is desperately spinning code so his aux fans don't kick on. this guy gets flustered so easy. he cannot bear the thought of D-16 making fun of him for almost instantly getting a crush on this doctor

that doesnt stop his processor from failing to form thoughts. he knows ratchet is asking him important questions, but all he can think is "pretty mech touching my hands"

if orion didnt already have his gay awakening, this would've been it

i feel like after ratchet leaves theres a good 15 minutes of silence between him and D-16 where orion is just trying to get his Gay Thoughts(tm) under control

final yapping

in the end, i think its incredibly funny to make orion pax like this far less mature version of optimus. he feels everything x10 and doesn't really know what to do with the feelings, so he just kind of acts like a fool.

meanwhile ratchet is out here like "yeah he's pretty but i have a job to do." that doesn't mean orion doesn't haunt his thoughts after though. he definitely does. the image of his big eyes staring at him won't leave ratchet for a long time.

theyre both gay fools. the tiny crush is mutual. its forgotten about though throughout the events of the movie. orion has much more important things to worry about than a pretty doctor who gently held his hands.

the next time they see each other is after orion became optimus. this was for a standard check up, in which ratchet had to run a full diagnostic of him. ratchet can't help but begin ranting about how he knew something was up with sentinel, with the cogless bots, with that entire fucking situation.

the check up ends with optimus listening to this clearly autistic (positive) mech explain every red string he put together, and how the revolution confirmed all of his missing pieces. (im projecting here because this is my personal brand of autism)

tbh, optimus is impressed. they quickly do become friends, and as the war begins, he realizes that ratchet is a very talented doctor and quickly they earn each others trust. they become good friends, too. optimus likes to listen to ratchet talk about science, talk about new medical breakthroughs. he will often bring ratchet decepticon medical tech he finds out in the field for him to reverse engineer.

optimus absolutely enables ratchet's special interest (medicine) and ratchet absolutely loves optimus for it.

in conclusion, theyre gay neurodivergents your honor.

[cozzzynook]

After Optimus has Hot Rod. He's a very fussy sparkling. He's always crying and has a hard time sleeping and eating. He also has a spark condition which is hard on him.

Optimus is exhausted and is struggling to bond with Hot Rod. He's also dealing with the war and one day Hot Rod won't stop crying and he lashes out. He yells at him and pinches him.

Realizing what he has done he takes a step back. He decides to give Hot Rod to Ratchet and Drift to raise because Hot Rod seemed happy with him. He'd stop crying when they held him and would sleep whenever they watched him. They both knew how to take care of his medical problems. Ratchet better than him.

I..*sobs*

*claps* this is perfect angst.

I have no notes. No words.

*sobs* my heart 😭

Optimus is forever going to suffer under the guilt of what he’s done to his sparkling.

Ratchet is so disappointed in him and I’d like to change it a little and say Drift is still Deadlock when they get Hot rod who is the sweetest sparkling they’ve ever seen. He plays so well with their own sparkling First Aide and Hot rod only gets fussy with them like he did with Optimus when he was in pain.

It kills Optimus to know his sparkling was in pain and he didn’t even notice. He thought his sparkling was just bad. He didn’t realize he was hurting.

Deadlock is so protective of both bitties he truly forgets Hot rod didn’t come from Ratchets valve like First Aide did and he gets angry when bots bring it up until he remembers. And then he just says Optimus has no claim to their sparkling not caring how it hurts Optimus until Ratchet tells him Optimus probably had post carriers down spiral.

Deadlocks stops saying it then and doesn’t make anymore hurtful comments to Optimus and apologizes but Optimus feels he doesn’t deserve it because deep down he didn’t want Hot rod and he thought it was karma.

Taking it a step further.

Hot rod knows optimus is his carrier and has the memories from being a bitty.

He’s distant from Optimus and hides that he knows and remembers.

The step further is Optimus having bitty bumblebee and just..having so much love for the sparkling that was so adorable and so much easier. Bee had problems too but not as serious as Hot rods spark condition that couldn’t be cured. Bee may always have nutrient and mineral absolving problems but his treatment is so much easier.

And Hot rod seeing his carrier love and raise his little brother with so much love and caring optics that he never gave him…

It fuels him to become a prime so his carrier will finally look at him like he looks at bee.

Hot rod may have a spark condition but he’s incredible in battle and terribly smart and tactile when he isn’t insecure or doubting himself.

Of course he becomes a prime because he’s shot in the spark but this time by Galvatron and he’s reborn as Rodimus prime.

He comes back ready to see his carrier and show he’s worth something now. Worth loving. That he’s not bad anymore if the matrix accepted him.

But then he just….

Stops…

And something in him breaks because he never had to prove a thing to Ratchet and Deadlock now Drift.

He never had to prove a thing to First Aide his brother or Bee he who came to know and never showed ill will towards. He was jealous for a while but one look at the bitty and he just..felt the need to protect him like he did First Aide and how First Aide excelled in spark conditions to protect him.

Bee was smarter than he let on and admitted he figured out they were brothers in private and asked Rodimus, at the time Hot rod, if they could be brothers outside of blood and Hot rod agreed so easily.

Remembering all these things, how Ratchet never once looked at him different from First Aide or how Deadlock now Drift has always said he has two sparklings and acted like it…

He turns and goes home.

He knocks on his creators door where he knows First aide is also at and waits..they haven’t seen his new frame, don’t know his new name and haven’t heard whats happened to him.

He hopes they welcome him with open sparks and arms like always and waits…

It feels like hours thats really nano kliks until the door is open and First Aide turns his helm to greet the bot at the door when he stops and pauses.

“Hey banders, I um..Its me..Roddy..I,” he goes to explain that he inherited the matrix, still insecure of not being enough, when the mech buries him in a hug.

He’s shocked but hugs his brother back before the mech is pulling back still holding him and dragging him in the house frantically yelling, “carrier! Sire! Roddy! Its roddy! He’s back!”

The silence that envelopes the home as First Aid drags him into the living den makes his spark stop until he hears heavy pedes hitting the floors and his creators are staring at him with wet optics in the doorway.

“Hot rod..”

He smirks sheepish, spark pulsing from emotion that his medicine counteracts making it painless as he stands there blushing, crying, smiling.

“Its um..its um..its Rodimus now..Rodimus prime..,” he bumbles, caught completely off guard when Ratchet and Drift envelope him and First Aid in a frame breaking hug as they splatters tears onto their frames.

“My bitty, you’re okay,” Drift cries ever the secret not so secret emotional sire like always. His carrier scanning him internally not at all trying to hide it as he keeps him close.

“You idiot, you went and got yourself shot in the very thing we drilled into you to protect,” his carrier sobbed, kissing his helm over and over again. Not missing a beat doing the same to First aid who buries his helm in Roddy’s neck cable.

Rodimus can’t, he can’t help but ugly sob…

“I’m sorry..i’m sorry…but I came back..I came back like I promised,” he wails, gripping them tight the best he could.

He feels the injection to keep his spark from overstimulating in his side and knows his sire did it.

Drift always carried his medicines just like his brothers, yes bee too the sweet little slagger, and carrier did.

“I’m sorry i got shot carrier,” it feels so good to say that to the mech who deserves to hear it. To the mech he owes everything to but would have nothing better than his family safe.

“Don’t forget your sire brat, I almost went out to get you,” Drift laughed making him beam.

For a klik Drift and Ratchet saw the sparklings they used to carry in their arms who held servos because it made them feel safe and he cried for a new reason.

“Don’t..don’t leave again okay, roddy?”

“I won’t banders, I won’t,” he kissed First aids helm and the two held servos like when they were sparklings.

“I’m on paperwork and med duty, I won’t be going back out unless another war breaks out and we all know no bots want that.”

Roddy stays home that night and he’s happy to see Bee the next day and reunite with his little brother and lift him even further off the ground.

Now he can be even more of a menace to his little brother, Bee grumbles but doesn’t move away from how close he stands to Roddy, like always, and he joins his brother to see First aid at the new oil shop that just opened.

First aid is blushing like mad as Ambulon flirts with him and Bee flutters his door wings at the sight of Starscream waiting for them. Drift and Ratchet sit at a table with a few of their friends and Roddy joins his brothers and their future conjunxs. He teases them through the comms about conjunxing ceremonies and they throw forks at him making him laugh.

He isn’t laughing so much when he sees Optimus enter the outdoor shop but he hides it and pays the mech little mind.

Things are going well so long as he ignored the way Optimus kisses Bee’s helm and sits with the others after greeting everyone in a friendly way.

The mech doesn’t notice he’s his sparkling right away and Roddy shakes his helmet at his creators and goes back to chatting.

He’s having a good time when he feels a digit tap his shoulder plating after noticing bots have gone silent. He feels a warmth behind him that makes him turn a little. He waves at Magnus and Megatron who sit side by side with the older bots before looking up and feeling his spark be stolen once again.

“H..hey sound,” he stood, smiling at the mech who tipped his helm in what he knew to be a smile.

“Greetings: Hot rod. Happiness: at seeing you well and recovered. Frame: beautiful star.”

The words made his intake dry and his medicine injected into his spark to stabilize it. He turned his optics blushing as a smile took over his face plate.

“Umm..do ya wanna join us? I missed..I mean..it’d be really cool if you joined us,” he vented a little off and he felt his carrier and brother shift closer only for Soundwave to pull out a medical mesh adhesive he had Shockwave design.

He gently lowered Rodimus back into his seat and placed the adhesive on his neck cable just as he did when they were in and out of battle off world.

“Pleasure: would be soundwaves to join.”

The mech politely nodded at everyone and specifically Ratchet, Drift, First aid and Bee before sitting beside Rodimus who couldn’t stop his spoiler from fanning in subtle court ship display.

Starscream smiled behind his cup of oil before saying something that had Bee elbowing him and grouching at the mech making conversation flow and the attention leave them.

Mostly.

He felt his creators watching him and Soundwave and knew they would be grilling him and doing a thorough vetting on Soundwave like they did Ambulon and he looked flustered glancing at them.

They gave him the look and he knew he was cooked.

Rodimus. A grown mech. And still about to be grounded by his creators.

“Hot rod creators: loving. Soundwave: happy to know Hot rod has love he deserves.”

That made Rodimus smile like a love sick puppy in a romance novel until he remembered.

“Oh, my designation..umm..its Rodimus now,” he looked nervous at Soundwave, since they’ve gotten closer he can better read the mech. So he was looking for anger or disappointment at this next part, “Rodimus prime,” he spoke the last part quietly. Unsure of how Soundwave felt.

There was silence until Soundwave suddenly slipped his tentacles on Rodimus and felt his frame.

“I’m okay Sound, all my injuries are healed up,” he giggled, actually giggled like he was some school bot.

“Previous actions: forbidden from repeating,” Soundwave’s deep voice made him smile and he nodded along as Soundwave still checked him over.

He had nothing to worry over. Soundwave would be his friend through anything.

“I’m on paperwork and medic duty now. I’m not doing anymore fighting any time soon,” Roddy assured, seeing his creators give an approving hum. A step in the right direction of a long road.

He was glad.

Though Soundwave resting his tentacle around his waist was not accepted and Drift came over removing it and Rodimus burst out laughing when Soundwave started egging his sire on harmlessly.

The mech was such a troll.

He loved it.

He didn’t notice Optimus horrified look at not immediately recognizing his own sparkling nor did he notice Optimus lower his helm in shame.

Optimus wasn’t at fault for not being able to initially connect with his sparkling after emergence but he was at fault for not bridging the gap and leaving it broken.

[in1-nutshell]

Another thought just popped in how about some possible more interaction with old Predacon buddy and the other cloned predacons maybe just predacon buddy just trying to make sure the other predacons don't get into trouble and basically grounding them

More Old Predacon Buddy coming up! Quite the popular Buddy I see.

Hope you enjoy!

Bot Buddy the Old Predacon with Predaking, Skylynx, and Darksteel

SFW, Platonic, Cybertronain reader

TFP

Buddy needed to take a break.

They had been couped to the base for the last 3 months and hadn’t been able to fly due to the amount of work that needed to get done on base.

The recent Decepticon activity, everyone was on edge.

And Buddy’s patience was running low.

It was bad enough they had to deal with the constant bickering between their teammates over stress, but now they couldn’t even go out without someone telling them otherwise.

Well… Buddy needs their little flight break.

Right.

Now.

“I’m heading out.”--Buddy

Ratchet looks at them.

“What do you mean out?”--Ratchet

“I’m going flying Ratchet.”--Buddy

Ultra Magnus stands in front of them.

“We are to stay in the base until its time to deploy. You especially given your alt mode.”--Magnus

Buddy straightens their back struts and looks at him dead in the optics.

“I am going to go flying Magnus, or are you going to try and stop me? Because believe me, I need an outlet for everything that is being pent up in my chassis. Do you want to be that outlet?”--Buddy

“Let the go Magnus.”--Ratchet

“Ratchet—”--Magnus

Buddy moves past him and runs to the entrance of the base and shoots for the sky.

Magnus just looks annoyed at Buddy’s form.

“Trust me Magnus. You do not want to have Buddy get like that when they are already looking for peaceful solution.”—Ratchet

Magnus grumbles a bit, but silently agrees with Ratchet as he walks back to his habsuite.

Buddy knew better than to go flying to densely populated airspace and areas.

But they did know a place that hardly anyone went to.

To their surprise, someone was there.

Well, more like several bots were there.

It was Predaking and… two other Predacons?

Buddy immediately shot down and surprised Predaking when they landed next to him.

“Predaking.”--Buddy

Buddy walks over to their fellow Predacon.

Predaking nods curtly.

“Buddy.”--Predaking

Skylynx and Darksteel are still tussling around.

“Who are they? I didn’t know there were others like us.”--Buddy

“Shockwave.”--Predaking

“Ah… that explains it.”--Buddy

Buddy tries to introduce themselves but the two are suddenly interested in fighting them.

Predaking is about to lash out at them, but Buddy makes him stand down and dares them to attack them all at once.

Predaking is a bit stunned by the dare but knows full well that Buddy could handle themselves.

“Now boys, on the count of three, I want you to attack me in any way you see fit.”--Budy

“Buddy…”--Predaking

“Its fine Predaking.”--Buddy

“You want us to attack you?”—Darksteel

Buddy stretches out their wings.

“Yes.”--Buddy

“Deal old timer.”—Skylynx

Buddy gets in the ready stance and nods at Predaking to start the count.

“3…”--Predaking

The two Predacons get ready to pounce.

“2…”--Predaking

All their limbs are ready.

“1.”--Predaking

The two Predacons leap at Buddy.

They don’t last 3 minutes.

Buddy standing over them.

“Now, what do you have to say about this old timer?”--Buddy

The two Predacons beneath Buddy are in awe by how this clearly older Predacon managed to handle two younger Predacons at the same time.

They try to edge Predaking to fight Buddy.

Buddy playfully edges him too.

But Predaking already learned his lesson from last time.

The four of them fall into a comfortable conversation before Buddy needs to head back home.

Buddy says goodbye to the others and flies back home.

Buddy lands outside the base entrance panting a bit.

“Buddy!”—The kids

Buddy looks up to see the kids running up to them.

“Why hello to you too.”--Buddy

“You just got back?”--Miko

“Yes…”--Buddy

Buddy takes a sharp intake feeling the dent on their side.

Jack is the first to notice.

“Woah… Buddy are you okay?”--Jack

“I am fine Jack.”--Buddy

“That doesn’t look fine to me.”--jack

“I’m an old bot Jack, I’m bound to get some dents that take longer to heal than others.”--Buddy

“Yeah, but that one looks like someone rammed their head into your side.”--Miko

“…Anyways—”--Buddy

“Don’t change the subject!”--Raf

“…What if I told you tomorrow instead? I’m about ready to drop into stasis.”--Buddy

The kids look a bit unsatisfied but let Buddy go on their way.

They will get the answers one way or another.