#have you seen him without his helm? now you have

[whatwooshkai]

Heatwave, H E A T W A V E

Eight letters

Number 8, please :D

Heatwave is not small.

Sure, he might be a little out of the average size class for fire trucks, but that’s negligible! He wasn’t even the shortest of his friend group back in Kaon!

But apparently his size is an anomaly in Iacon, because it’s all anyone can seem to focus on.

He's never been insecure about his size before, he's never had a reason to- but the nicknames are getting to him.

Heatwave is at most maybe half a foot shorter than the second shortest mech in their class, but it's all "Hey, Half-Pint!" "What's up, Runt?" "Shortstack" "Little Guy"-

He is this close to killing someone.

“I have an assistant today who’s joining me from the Autobot Fire Force today,” their usual instructor, Rex, announces. He’s a grizzled old mech who has been nothing but the bane of Heatwave’s existence this entire class.

It’s just Firefighter One, and the damn mech runs it like a fucking boot camp.

The other mechs in the class elbow each other and start whispering. He gets some looks from some of the mechs he's friendly with, the kind you exchange when you know the instructor is going to partner you up.

“Now, I expect all of you to treat Quint with the same respect you treat me,” Rex is saying when Heatwaves tunes back in. "He has graciously offered to spend his day off with you worms, so I will not tolerate any disrespect." He glares pointedly at a pair of giggling mechs, who quickly shut up.

"Alright, at attention!" Everyone's spinal strut snaps straight, and Rex looks over the line of mechs. "Alright, everyone's par, okay." He taps away at his comm a little bit, and a silhouette appears in the doorway.

The first thing Heatwave notices is that the mech has to duck through the doorway. Then he stands to his full height, and holy shit.

He's definitely a size class or two above the average for firetrucks, standing maybe five or six feet taller than the tallest mech in the class. His shoulders alone must be twice the width of Heatwave's!

And then he notices the second pair of arms, tucked neatly against the mech's chassis. Four arms!

The mech appraises them with yellow optics narrowed, mouth set in a small frown. Finials flick from where they're pressed against his helm, and when his shoulders shift, the ladder on his back squeaks slightly.

There’s an odd, dark weld over his upper lip and little spots all over his face- and somehow he simultaneously looks like the oldest and youngest mech Heatwave’s ever seen.

“You got anything to say before we start, Quint?” Rex talks like they’re familiar, like they’re friends, but Quint gives him a detached look.

“It ain’t your Primus-given right to be a firefighter,” Quint starts, and damn, that’s a Kaonite accent if Heatwave’s ever heard one. His accent is unusually thick, like he learned Common the old fashioned way instead of just getting a universal translator installed. “You might all be firetrucks, but you ain’t all cut out for this. So don’t expect me to coddle you.”

“Well said,” Rex says with a solemn nod, and Quint side eyes him. After a suffocatingly awkward moment, Rex claps his hands. "Alright. Truck ops with me, engine ops with Quint. My guys, we're running search evolutions until you can do them blindfolded without killing each other. Engine ops, you're stretching until you drop. Alright, break!"

Quint's gaze immediately lands on Heatwave as he shuffles to join the rest of the engines. Heatwave glares right back, shoulders hiking up to his audials.

"Hey, Runt." Heatwave bristles, whirling on Quint with fangs bared.

"Don't call me that," he snaps, but Quint looks unfazed. The rest of the engines are almost at the training tower, but Quint has hung back specifically to talk to Heatwave. Probably about how it's not my Primus-given right to be a firefighter, he thinks bitterly. Fuck off with all that.

"Do you speak Kaonite?" Quint asks, in Kaonite.

Oh, uh. Not what I was expecting.

Heatwave optics go wide, then narrow. "...Yeah," he says slowly in his native tongue, quashing the thrill of hearing it from his own voice again after so long.

Quint brightens significantly, his finials flicking up happily. He gestures for them to walk. "Your accent ain't strong, but it's there. Universal translator?"

"Yeah. I assume you aren't using one?" This feels weird. He's not quite sure why. Quint's lower two arms have uncrossed and are now swinging at his sides, while the top to gesture as he speaks. Heatwave sidesteps to avoid the swinging ones hitting him.

"Nah, learned the old fashioned way," Quint hums. "But that ain't what I'm here to ask you. Why're you so small?"

Heatwave bristles defensively. "I can't control how small I am, okay? It doesn't matter at all, I'm good at what I do-"

"I ain't sayin' you're bad at this, Runt," Quint interrupts, ignoring Heatwave's angry growl at the nickname. "I'm sayin' you should be bigger."

"What?" Heatwave's tanks suddenly cramp, sending a sharp pain through his tcog. He rapidly tamps down his panic. No, not here, fuck, shit-

"You're like, squashed," Quint continues, making gestures with all four of his hands now. "Like you got more mass than your frame knows what to do with."

Heatwave's tanks cramp again. "Are you calling me fat?" he accuses.

Quint rolls his optics. "No. Forget I said anythin'." He points to the training tower. "Now get over there. You're goin' in first."

Fair enough. Heatwave transforms his smoke mask over his face and gets into position next to his fellow firefighters as Quint begins to shout directions in heavily accented Common again.

His size doesn't matter.

Heatwave tries to forget the interaction.

[tarnussy]

Moongrum, Carian Knight

[brainddeadd]

lando is a big yapper but also seems to love his quiet time alone for peace so he has the sweetest and shy gf ever and they fit perfect, when he yaps she listens and helm when he needs some comfortable quite she is perfect, and it surprised people who well they got together because he’s so loud and talkative but she sees the side of him that needs the quiet and calm

The Perfect Balance

Lando Norris was known for his boundless energy, quick wit, and endless chatter. Whether it was in interviews, streaming on Twitch, or goofing around with his teammates, he always had something to say. So, when people learned about his girlfriend—quiet, reserved, and as soft-spoken as they come—they were baffled.

“She must be so overwhelmed by him,” some speculated.

But nothing could be further from the truth.

The truth was, she saw a side of him no one else did. When the cameras weren’t on, and the adrenaline faded, Lando often sought her out—not for a lively conversation, but for the stillness she brought to his chaotic world.

They were curled up on the couch in his Monaco apartment, the soft hum of a Formula 1 highlights video playing in the background. Lando had been talking nonstop for the past twenty minutes about strategy, tire choices, and “how George absolutely screwed up his corner exit at Suzuka.”

She sat there beside him, legs tucked underneath her, nodding along. Her hand absentmindedly played with the hem of his hoodie, and every now and then, she’d let out a soft giggle at his more exaggerated reenactments.

“You’re listening, right?” he asked suddenly, leaning closer with a faux-suspicious squint.

“Of course,” she murmured, a small smile playing on her lips. “I always do.”

Her quiet voice had a way of cutting through his constant buzz like a balm. She didn’t have to say much for him to feel completely seen.

As the evening wore on, the chatter naturally began to die down. Lando stretched his arms above his head, let out a satisfied yawn, and flopped sideways, his head landing in her lap.

“What’re you doing?” she asked softly, brushing a few stray curls from his forehead.

“Just...need a break,” he admitted, his voice quieter now. He closed his eyes, letting out a deep breath.

She knew this part of him well—the version of Lando who needed quiet to recharge. It was a side that few people saw but one she cherished the most.

Her fingers carded through his hair in soothing strokes as he lay there, his eyes growing heavier by the second.

“You’re good at this, you know,” he mumbled sleepily.

“Good at what?”

“Being what I need,” he said, cracking a soft smile without opening his eyes.

Their dynamic was puzzling to those who only saw the loud, boisterous side of Lando. But she didn’t need to explain it to anyone—she understood him. The Lando who dominated press conferences and racked up podiums was the same Lando who sought out her quiet presence like a lifeline.

In turn, he loved how she listened, how she never tried to match his energy, and how her calm demeanor grounded him in a way no one else ever could.

They didn’t have to make sense to anyone else. They made perfect sense to each other.

[revelboo]

They are my very helpful children. I needed Starscream so I got him and he’s my Christmas tree topper. Surveying his kingdom as it should be.

The perfect vantage point to plot

Everything Is Alright Pt 88

IDW Starscream x Reader, Soundwave x Reader, Megatron x Reader

• Scrolling through the report, Megatron’s aware of the way Soundwave lingers. How his communications officer reaches out a servo to you thinking it won’t be noticed. The way you reach out in return to touch it and the look you two share that he pretends not to see. And again there’s a sense of having all the pieces, but not being able to figure out how they fit. Because he has the sense that you’re not actually a pet. What you are, though? That eludes him.

• How can your tension just ebb with one little touch? Smiling up at Soundwave, you run your palm over the end of his servo as he pulls back. Turning your attention back to Megatron and catching him looking at you. What had he made of that? A puppy excited to see its owner or something more? Shoulders hunching as you look away from him, it’s a reminder to be more careful around Megatron. Because he’s the real threat.

• “Take the human,” Megatron murmurs as Soundwave starts to draw back and he freezes in surprise. Sees you glance up at Megatron, just as surprised. “It probably needs food.” Grateful, Soundwave reaches out his cupped hands and you come to him without hesitation. His spark settling at the feel of you in his palms. Hadn’t wanted to show you his surprise until the cassettes were finished with it, but inclining his helm to Megatron, he heads back to his quarters with you. Knows he should let Star know you’re free early, but he wants to see your face. Wants to not share your reaction.

• Servos stroking along your spine, you relax into his touch and safety. Realizing he’s carrying you to his quarters not Star’s, you look up. “Prepared a surprise,” he says in answer to the question you didn’t ask. Just knowing what you need. Turning so his back is to the room as he enters, he slowly lowers you. Amused with him, you turn and hesitate. There’s a pine tree propped up in a corner, the floor covered in needles. Someone had used filament thin wire to string red nandina berries, dry leaves and pinecones so they’re twined about the tree like decorations. “Happy festive seasonal tree,” he adds and it clicks. He’s seen a Christmas tree somewhere outside the base and thought you’d like one. Even if he has no idea what it is, he’d tried. But. Star has taken you in early July, right? Have you really lost that much time?

• Little touches. Little glances. Both of them willing to risk pain for a human. It nags at Megatron as he rises from his throne. Secrets. Even now, they’re still keeping secrets. Lying to him knowing he won’t tolerate that above all else. Swallowing a growl, he heads down the hall determined to get to the bottom of this once and for all. To get answers.

• Feels the chaos growing in your mind and it hurts him. He’d thought this would please you, not upset you. But you’re shaking, a hand pressed to your mouth to try and suppress the noise you’re making as his spark aches with it. Can feel your pain even if he can’t untangle the why. Mass shifting behind you, he drops to his knees and wraps his arms around you, pulling you back into him, palms finding skin to try and strengthen the connection, to understand.

• Spark stuttering, Starscream’s servos stop moving across the keys. Feeling an echo of your pain through the bond and then he’s running. Panic stringing him tight as he lets the bond pull at him. To Soundwave’s quarters. Sees you in the communication officer’s arms, his frame curled around you like he’s holding you together as you cry. And then he’s mass shifting without thought of consequences, wing brushing the other mech as he kneels in front of you and cups your face in his palms. Because you’re crying. “What did you do?” He snarls, trying to shove Soundwave’s hands away, giving up when you lay a palm on top of Soundwave’s hand on your hip and reach for him with the other until he lowers his helm to rest against your forehead. “What’s upset you?”

• None of them look up or notice when Megatron stops just inside the door Starscream left open in his haste. Seeing both of them wrapped around you, mass displaced to be closer to your size. And he can’t understand it. Can’t look away as Soundwave lowers his head against your shoulder, bumping his helm against your jaw. Can hear you whispering to each other, the words too soft to catch. The scene strangely intimate as he backs away, unsettled.

Previous

Next

They’re squabbling about what goes in the case

[pawpiefawn]

𝓽𝓱𝓲𝓼 𝓱𝓸𝓶𝓮 𝓪𝓷𝓭 𝓵𝓸𝓿𝓮 .𖥔 ݁ ˖

❤︎ alhaitham x gn!reader 1.1k words alhaitham cooks you a dish from his childhood.

in the apartment you shared with alhaitham, there was no explosive rage or hurtful yelling – there were no plates thrown or doors slammed or chairs hurled against walls that had seen more than they should have.

no, home was quiet and healing. it was ivy-crawled bricks, breezy curtains and ambient lighting that was a testimony to the soft-lipped love he spoke to you, words he learnt passed down from his gentle grandmother.

alhaitham would keep you safe; he promised himself the moment his eyes met yours.

love was gently knocking on the door to tell you that dinner's ready. love did not rage or come home angry – it did not yell at you over something trivial. love was patient and whole and kind. home was love, love forgave and repented and knelt to ask for forgiveness; love forgave, without a second thought, because love was home.

home was love, alhaitham was home, alhaitham was love.

between you and love, you usually cooked – it wasn’t that alhaitham didn’t want to cook, or that he couldn’t; well . . you were just better. better in the sense that dinner’s vegetables just seemed to slice and arrange themselves neatly in obedience to the ruler of the kitchen. somehow, you measuring seasoning with your tender heart always made it taste better despite his countless accurate measurements.

cooking in the kitchen was also where love was found.

it was in the sweet, soft light that entered through your kitchen window, perfect rays broken up through the trees outside – and of course, it was found in alhaitham; his built frame leaning against the kitchen countertop, admiring you and feeling a slight twinge of envy at your proficiency in the kitchen. dishes were cooked with ease and you just had so much fun, twirling around with your wooden spatula. you gave him a sweet kiss on the cheek before turning back to stir your pot of stew.

“ah, it’s going to burn–”

“don’t be silly, it’ll be fine!” the only thing he felt in the kitchen, with you at its helm, was happiness.

perhaps he could try once again? perhaps he could– no, he would. he would make some of that happiness with his own hands, laden into porcelain bowls to share with you.

the next time alhaitham walked into the kitchen, it was with aching arms heavy with brown bags chockfull of dinner ingredients. vibrant padisarah petals, marbled chunks of beef, plastic bags filled to the brim with rice grains and aromatic spices that left its mark on your kitchen. he knew exactly what he wanted to share with you tonight.

“you’re cooking?” he hears your footsteps as you bound into the kitchen, pattering against the cool marble excitedly.

“yes, i am. dinner should be ready in a few hours.” alhaitham lets a faint smile grace his features. you wrap your arms tenderly around his waist, burying your face into his back. he couldn’t see your sweet grin this way, but that was alright. your joy practically radiated off your warm frame.

“thanks for cooking tonight.”

he lets his hands work their magic – some sort of magic he still faintly believed in. it had been some time since he cooked something like this, after all; and much less a dish he last tasted in his last remnants of childhood.

in went the beautiful cuts of meat, sizzling over hot oil, browned then mixed with all the nostalgic spices his tastebuds yearned to remember. fresh limes, red tomatoes, sweet onions, everything tasty and good were then added to the mix. white pearly grains of rice were cooked and added to the pot.

almost done, now.

all that was left was to wait for everything to meld in perfect harmony. alhaitham found himself staring at his work. the rice was a blank canvas for the myriad of spices, with familiar love and nostalgia that this dish brought together in a pot. empty dishes and cutting boards stained with effort littered the kitchen counter, and he sighed in fervent exhaustion just at the thought of cleaning up.

“oh! don’t worry about the dishes tonight, i’ve got them~” you chirped eagerly, tiptoeing to catch a glimpse of whatever was making your kitchen smell absolutely heavenly.

“you’re sure?” alhaitham raises an eyebrow. “i can do it, it’s not a problem.”

“no, i’m sure – you put in so much work for tonight! think of it as a thank you!”

always so sweet, offering to lend a hand no matter how tiresome or bothersome it was. did you know how much of an angel you were? alhaitham lets another smile slip past his weary face. thank you.

he hears the timer ding! and immediately turns to the stove, his masterful work steaming and ready – it looked incredible. warm gravy coated every grain, beef chunks tender and pulling apart at the force of a dinner fork. it smelt incredible. it was warm, spicy, fragrant with every hint of nostalgia he added.

it smelt like home.

kind, inviting, warm, hopeful, home.

“it’s done!” alhaitham lets out a quiet laugh as you wrap your hands around his waist again, peeking at the food hungrily.

“it smells so good.”

“this one’s for you.” he nods, setting down your bowl after ladling steaming hot biryani into it. he finishes it off with a few padisarah petals, turning the bowl towards you.

“alright, chef. you wanna introduce your dish?” you tease, giggling softly and pushing some rice aside to reveal the chunks of spiced beef. you spoon a portion of the biryani into your mouth, chewing thoughtfully and savouring every bit of effort he put into tonight’s dinner.

“well, i wanted you to try something i grew up eating. my grandmother made this for me in my childhood years.”

you hear your spoon clink against your bowl as you set it down to rest, staring at him.

“you made me something your grandmother used to make for you?” there is a slight quiver in your voice as you comprehend his sweet words.

this wasn’t just any dinner, then. it was a part of himself that he wished to share with you. it was young alhaitham seated at the dinner table, waiting for the food every night made by his loving grandmother. it was when three wooden chairs were swapped for two new ones, when only a good plate of homemade food could make him push aside any grief. it was his grandmother’s love in a dish –constant, reliable, and never failing to bring a hint of a wistful smile to his face.

“i did. i thought you would enjoy it.” alhaitham smiles, looking up from his bowl to see you wear a sombre, yet grateful expression; but there was no denying that you were enjoying it.

you were loving every bite, immensely – it tasted just a touch heavier on your tongue after he shared – and it was beautiful. nostalgia was the most powerful ingredient one could add, and time only told the truth – everything tasted better, when made with all the love and care and conscience in the world.

“thank you, alhaitham.”

[mossyscavern]

I still have tears to shed

_____________________

D- sorry, Megatron needed a break from his troops shenanigans.

What better way to do that than go somewhere where he won’t be bothered? Outside. It’s not the best place to go… but it’s better than having to deal with high guard now decepticons.

He just needed to breathe.

To think..

To calm himself down as to not-

‘Is that… sniffling?’ He wondered, looking around for the source.. he slowly crept around, hoping that this ‘intruder’ is somebody he doesn’t know, he already knows he’s hurt too many bots already.

But when he does turn a corner… he really didn’t expect this.

It’s bee. Bee’s crying, little hands trying to wipe away the flowing tears and trying not to sob. This concerns Megatron for he’s never seen him cry… then again, it’s not exactly healthy to not see a sparkling not cry.

With a deep breath from his vents, he slowly stood up. “Bee?”

He call out, making the sparkling squeak, wipe the tears quickly before looking up smiling. “Hi megs!” He says. Megatron didn’t like the fact that he’s hiding that he was crying.. it’s not right!

“�� what are you doing out here? And by yourself nonetheless?” He asked, arching his optic ridge at the now nervous sparkling. “N-nothing. I’m fine see!” He exclaimed, pointing to the smile on his faceplates.

“I see, and what of the dried streaks on your faceplating.” He asked, tilting his helm. This almost faulted the sparkling’s smile, but still held strong. “What streaks?” Bee asks.

Megatron sighs and sat down with bee, servo ped’s crossed. “You shouldn’t be hiding your tears.” He says, closing his optics before opening again.

“It’s not something young sparks should do.” He adds. From the corner of his optic he can see bee frowning. “Why not? You do it-.”

“I’ve always done it as a minor… I’ve always hid my negative feelings, but by the time the truth about sentinel came about, well.. you know the rest.” He explained, servo clutching into a fist.

“Bottling things up until they burst isn’t healthy, not even for younger sparks.. take my advice and… not do what I did before all this.” He advised, picking bee up and held him in his arms. “So, tell me about your days, including the bad ones.”

Megatron asked, waiting. He assumes he’s done or said something right, cause bee’s sobbing uncontrollably while trying to tell him about his bad days.

At some point he let bee cry between his shoulder pad and neck guard, telling megatron his bad days from sub-level 50, being held by sentinel (reminding him to kill the bastard again) and to that time when Megatron left without him.

His cries died down to hiccups to quiet sniffles, wiping away the rest of his tears he tiredly looks up at megatron. “What about your bad days..?”

He asked. “… I’m not ready to engulf those around with my sorrowful fury, for they’ll also spiral into their own fury of sorrows.. by primus never let anyone know my pain on that damned day.” He quoted.

An old poetry from his data pad he had used to read about betrayal, blinding fury and sorrow, he added his own spin to that quote from his processor

After a few kliks he realised it was a little too quiet for his liking, he looks down and saw bee recharging, pressing his faceplate against the mech’s chassis, with the occasional quiet beeps and little mumbles here and there.

He blinks his optics and smiled, it’s a small one but a smile nonetheless. He got up carefully, assuring himself he won’t stir the sleeping sparkling.

While inside it turns out the troops recent shenanigans involved bee’s ‘disappearance’ in the med-area and they’ve been looking for him for some time.

Megatron confirmed that the situation’s now handled without giving details and that he’ll hold onto the sparkling until further notice before walking off.

When seated on his throne, he looks down at the youngling cradled against his chassis, saw the little yellow bot yawn and snuggle against him.

Megatron swore his spark melted and held the sparkling even more. This is one of the only few things that makes megatron still feel like his old self again…

He’s not loosing that again… and he’s not loosing his baby either.

_____________________

… i did say I’m not done with it forever.

The uh… inspiration is from both this image (eepy bee and megatron) and this image (oh no bee’s crying!) and the au is baby deceptibee by @yuukirita

I… just wanna try my hand at baby deceptibee… hope it’s ok.

[smallestapplin]

hello I love your writing and I see asks are open so I had to jump in.

would it be okay to request Prowl realizing he's in love with the human that won't leave him alone? Thank you, and have a good day!

I need you to know I thrive and crave more transformers talk in my inbox so this is perfect. (Also I'm down for cybertronian readers too, or just hearing yalls rambles please

This got a little spicy! So mdni 18+ only ^^

-

-

-

Prowl couldn't stand you at first, but it's like you latched onto him and made it your goal to get him to like you, but he hates to admit that he was easy falling for you. You sassed him, pushed passed his stern warnings just to end up in his office asking if he's eaten yet.

You care so much for him and it shows.

You listen to him rant about those bastard twins and their latest prank, you give him feedback on his plans for missions, you sit on his desk as he works and then his shoulder when he needs to be elsewhere.

He's never seen without you.

And he never wants to be.

He won't show it, he refuses too, but he can't imagine his days without hearing your voice. Anytime you are set to return home he will call you, just to make sure you got home safely, any unfamiliar noise will send him into worry.

He can't lose you too.

He lays on his berth groaning at himself. How could he have fallen in love with a human? How could he picture himself with you, going on late night drives together, or imagining you sitting on his hood.

"I can't believe this." Prowl grumbles, helm in his servos as his mind is filled with thoughts of you.

You're so much smaller than him, he could break you!

Why does that thought excite him?

His doorwings twitch with the thought of your smaller softer touching them, to imagine your lips kissing his sensitive wings, cooing at him.

Or would you want him to hold you, keeping your legs spread as he bullies his spike into your pretty hole? He wants to fill you, cover you with his scent so every bot knows he is your beloved.

Prowl wants to claim you, make you his and only his.

Can humans even sparkbond? Frag, now he has questions he can't ask.

His thoughts are racing, but each one makes his valve clench and spike throb.

It is late....maybe it wouldnt hurt to-

A knock on his door snaps him from it.

"Prowl, are you up?"

Your voice so soft he could barely hear you through the thick metal. The bot wants to punch the air for the interruption but it's you, he can never deny you. Prowl quickly gets up and opens his door, optics staring down right at you.

"What are you doing here, I thought you and Bee were having some sort of gaming night."

It's true, you were showing Bee all sorts of your favorite games you knew he'd love. But you just smile up at him.

"I was, but he went to sleep a little bit ago, so I came to ask if I could room with you?"

He could kill you for making his spark flutter like this. He sighs, only to bend over and reach his hand out for you to hop up on. Your smile widens, and you giggle stepping up into his massive hand.

"Thank you, Prowlie."

"Tck, just warn me next time."

He hates how your eyes sparkle at the mention of a next time.

He's not going to get any sleep with you here, not when your intoxicating scent floods his senses, not when you're so warm against his metal body, not when you look so cute compared to him.

It's going to be a long cycle.

[paperstarwriters]

To the Soft and the Cold

Optimus Prime x Reader

Warnings: fluff

Summary: Despite being a giant metal robot, sometimes people call Optimus soft. Despite being a soft squishy human, sometimes people call you cold.

Masterlist | Transformers Masterlist

Word count: 1,397

───・❅・❄・❆・❄・❅・───

"It's funny."

"Hm?"

The wind blew past you, sweeping through your clothes and cooling you down as the setting sun kept you warm. It would not keep so kind a temperature for long—the cold seeped in more and more with every passing minute—but in the Jasper desert a little bit of cool air was a welcome gift. Which, perhaps only highlights the strange disparity between you even more.

"Despite being the soft squishy human from a hot little desert, I'm seen as cold. Despite being the giant transforming iron truck from a planet made of metal,  you're seen as...Soft."

Despite the beauty of the sunset and the growing hues of pink that burst across the horizon, Optimus never tore his optics from you—until now. Averted to the setting sun, he shifted so he was closer to you before he tucked his legs up to his chest, and leaned a little more against the rocks you stood on. His helm now within reach, you swept your hand across his audial fin ignoring the feeling of dust against metal.

Having spent so long in this little desert, the dust and debris has long since ceased to irritate you—even more once you met Optimus. It's far from the worst he's been anyways. Compared to some other times, this layer is at least very thin. It's a thing you've noted lately, how you would often find that Optimus only ever really had a thin sheen of dust overtop him, while some of the other bots like Bulkhead or Arcee, or even Ratchet seemed to have layers upon layers of sand and grime. At best, they only cleaned when it became awfully visible, at worst they'd clean only when the grime began to impede their functioning. You didn't blame or judge them of course. Cleanliness could take a bit of a back seat in the face of ensuring both your own and an entire easily squishable population's survival.

It made it easier to touch and feel him though. Sometimes you liked to think that it made it easier for him to feel you.

"Do you think so too?" Optimus asked, the fin you had been petting for a while now twitching slightly and encouraging you to reach for the bottom side of it.

Despite your temptations, you're cautious not to reach too far, knowing the twitch of his fins were hardly under his control. It's never really happened before, even as his fin twitched as your hand remained against it, but you still can't help the natural fear of a big metal object slashing through the air and slicing or crushing your arm.

"Think what?" you ask, sweeping your thumb across the metal you hold. It's hardly any movement at all, but you can see how Optimus relaxes at the feeling. It's a little hard to wrap your head around—how such a big bot can feel such a small thing—but you're grateful for the little kindness that you’re allowed to give.

"Do you think I'm soft?"

You answer immediately. You answer without thinking.

"Yeah."

His fins go still.

Could you really deny that Optimus was soft? When he leaned against the surface you stood on, placed his helm so close to you so that you could touch him. When he snuck the both of you away and carved time from his hectic and important schedule just to read poetry with you—Primus, not even just for you. When he'd offer to bring snow back for Raf to see, when Miko and Jack would struggle in their classes—a miniature, distracting problem in the face of planetary survival and war—but Optimus would still offer advice from his experience and knowledge as an archivist and help if he had an extra moment to spare. When he'd calmly console Bee or Ratchet or compliment any member of his team...

It was impossible to see him as anything but soft and tender and kind.

You knew, of course, that many criticized that. War was no place for a person to be soft. It lead to enemies being spared, left to kill another day, left to take another one of your own when you didn't take one of theirs. Optimus had been criticized many a time for that lingering trace of softness around Megatron, the sort that made him falter, and let Megatron get the upper hand.

Soft, perhaps, is an insult to someone like him.

"I mean when you're with us," you blurt trying to remedy Optimus' spiraling thoughts. "You're soft with the kids and your team, I don't think that it's a bad thing to be kind to at least—"

"I don't think you're cold,"

"…What?"

He lifts a servo and as gently as he can manage, he brushes it against your stomach and chest. It still manages to knock you back a step, but once you lean into his touch, you find comfort in the tender motions

"You're warm,” he muses, optics trained intently on the the contact between his digit and your torso. “You're soft as well."

The laughter that bubbles up in your chest isn't meant to sound mocking, but you can't help but worry if it does. You've received many cold criticisms for the cruelty of your delight, even when you never intended to mock or harm. It makes you guarded, weary.

When you look at Optimus, all you see is his soft blue eyes, bright against the darkening sky, and the softest little curve of a smile upon his lips.

Soft. Warm. Tender. When he looks at you like you hang the stars in the sky, how could you describe him as anything else?

"I didn't mean it like that," you grouch instead. Averting your eyes back to the horizon where the sun had already long slipped down. The hues of orange and gold are the only traces of it left, and the darkness approaches with astounding speed.

It's cool, and soft and, tender. A welcome relief against the desert heat.

The night is nice as well, but not nearly as kind to you as the cool metal of his digit.

"I know." Optimus chuckles a little, his smile growing wider.

In the face of it you can't help but run through anything and everything you could do to keep the broad grin on his face, knowing it was a fleeting rarity amidst all of his hardships. You wish you had met under better circumstances. Even if he was still an archivist rather than a powerful faction leader selected by an alien god, you'd still want to be with him. Perhaps then, without the weight of two worlds resting on his shoulders, you could wring a smile from his face and keep it there for longer than an hour.

Inevitably it falters, and eventually it falls away. You don't know what had caused it, but it strikes a pain in your chest all the same.

"I meant... In the way you refer to me as soft as well," Optimus clarifies, once again shifting his digit to rub patterns against what little of you he could touch. "You're warm. You're kind and sweet and tender. You say I'm soft as if you aren't warm."

Your body decides to take his words as advice, as your cheeks and chest grow warm under Optimus' scrutiny. Once more delight burst across his face, and his digits curl around you, to allow his thumb to press a little firmer against your warm chest.

"So warm..." he hums, delighting in your embarrassment.

You try, and fail to tuck yourself away from his scrutiny. You could have done a better job at it, you know, but the chance to watch the liquid delight wash over his features is a moment you would never squander. So you let him grin and ridicule you in silence, the delight in his eyes, combining with a pillow-soft look, as you settle down in your half-hiding position leaning against his thumb.

"So... Soft," you reply.

Despite your whisper, you know Optimus can still pick up the soft sound of your voice, so keenly attuned to listening for you. Even then, you continue to hide halfheartedly, still taking the chance to watch Optimus laugh and still trying to hide the warm look that was surely growing on your face.

You didn't want it to be too easy for him to prove himself right, after all.

[stellartraveler]

I've been working on my own Transformers iteration for a little while now and came to a realization about Optimus. One of his most common backstories is being a data clerk in Iacon, a job that wouldn't require much driving (if any) and wouldn't need him to move heavy things often. Yet his alt-mode is always at least adjacent to a semi a vehicle that is made to travel long distances with heavy objects. He is quite literally built for travel yet is unable to do so freely. It got me thinking about how pre-war Optimus and Megatron may have more in common than they thought. So I decided to lean into that in my iteration.

Functionalism is still a thing but it's less based on your alt-mode and more based on the unique advantages your frame has. Data Collectors have naturally strong processors that are able to store and recall information faster than other frame types so they are kept indoors to record events that they get from other sources. War-frames are known as the lowest of the low so they are sent out to do menial tasks such as helping in the mines after an accident, being temporary guards, and so on. Their most common "job" however is being a gladiator in the gladiator pits.

Below the cut is how my Orion Pax and D-16's first conversation goes

Orion walked up to the the large silver War-frame without a hint of fear as his optics shined brighter than they had in lunar cycles. "Woah! That fight was incredible! I've never seen moves like that before and I've watched a ton of the ancient holovids on fighting," Orion exclaimed practically bouncing with barely contained excitement.

D-16 stared down at the red and blue mech. He appeared to be about the same age as him though he only came up to around the middle of his chassis. D-16 let a smirk take over his faceplate as he said "Thank you. You must be a Cultural Surveyor right? It's not often we see frames of your type around the gladiator pits. What brings you here to watch us hm?"

Truthfully D-16 was slightly worried. Cultural Surveyors hardly bothered with coming to the gladiator pits unless Sentinel Prime was there and they never visited the gladiators personally. That was unless they were spying on them. He had to stop himself from stiffening at that thought. Countless War-frames had made the mistake of venting their frustrations at the conditions they found themselves in around a Cultural Surveyor and were never seen again. He wondered distantly if word had somehow gotten out about his plans but before his thoughts could fester any more the smaller mech spoke.

"You’re welcome, but I'm not a Cultural Surveyor I'm just a simple Data Collector. Heh. Truth is I'm technically not even supposed to be here right now," Orion said as he rubbed the back of his helm with a nervous chuckle. He had barely managed to convince Jazz to cover for him while he snuck out, only being able to do so by promising the mech he would be able to play whatever music he wanted in their shared living quarters for the next few solar cycles. It was definitely worth it though.

This peaked D-16's interest. He had never met a mere Data Collector before though now that he looked at the mech he could see the slight differences between him and Cultural Surveyors. He seemed to have less bulk and was slightly smaller than any Cultural Surveyor he had ever seen. His optics, though still bright, lacked the typical sheen that indicated if they were recording something. D-16 let himself relax. This mech was simply a fan of fighting and had no ill intentions. His plan to liberate all War-frames was still safe so he decided to indulge the mech in some playful banter.

"You still haven't answered my question on what brings you here, Data Collector?"

Orion jumped slightly at the question and began to curl in on himself as he answered, "W-Well you see I just, uh, n-needed to get out of the Hall of Records. I spend so much t-time in there and well transforming isn't exactly allowed within the Hall, like at all. But I really needed to j-just get out and, you know, drive and I just c-couldn't wait until my next scheduled solar cycle off as it's not for another lunar cycle or two so I convinced Ja-a friend of mine to cover for me and once I started d-driving I just couldn't stop and then I-I ended up here so..."

D-16 felt his spark twist as the mech rambled on. The mech who seemingly had no fear as he walked up to the War-frame was now as skittish as a cyber-mouse and looked as if he might bolt if D-16 did so much as vent wrong. The more he talked the more dread started to pool in his tanks. 'He wasn't allowed to transform for lunar cycles on end?! That has to be terrible.' D-16 had heard the horror stories of Seekers going crazy if being kept from transforming and flying for too long and had always wondered if something like that existed for grounders as well. He had never been able to find out as War-frames needed to be able to transform constantly otherwise they wouldn't be able to bring out their weapons. 'Maybe he just has an alt that isn't well suited for driving.' Yeah that had to be it. After all War-frames were treated as the worst of the worst and yet they still kept their ability to transform at any moment.

"If you don't mind me asking what exactly is your alt-mode," D-16 asked making sure that it sounded as casual as possible. His question seemed to snap the smaller mech out of his spiral as he froze before turning his helm towards D-16.

"Uh I g-guess I could just, uh, s-show you it," Orion said before taking a step back to leave room for his transformation. He exvented harshly to try and stop his shaking before letting his instincts take control as he turned into his alt-mode.

'Oh Primus of all the alt-modes to have...' It was worse than D-16 could have imagined. The mech before him had an alt-mode D-16 had seen countless of. Any bot he had seen with this alt he heard talk relentlessly about how much they adored being able to drive freely carrying tons of things behind them from city to city rarely staying in one place too long unless they were with their family. He could hear it so vividly how they said that their family was the only thing that kept them from going insane from being in one place for so long. D-16's spark broke for the mech just before a thought struck him.

'If this is how they treat their spies how do they treat everyone else.' That sobered him up quick. He had never bothered to think about how any of the other frame types could have been abused under the Council's heel. How could he have when all he ever heard was how good they had it and how him and his frame type were the scum of Cybertron, but now? Looking at the mech in front of him was all the proof he needed. The Council needed to go and not just for his fellow War-frames but for all Cybertronians. They all needed to rise up together.

As Orion transformed back into root mode a arm was suddenly swung around him pulling him off the ground and close to the silver mech who said, "Tell you what how about you and me go have some energon and drive around the Gladiator pits some before you head back yeah? And if you manage to beat me I'll tell you a few secrets, but you have to swear you won't record anything or else I'm kicking you out got it?"

Orion looked at the mech with wide optics as a blush started to make its way across his faceplate. One of, if not the, greatest gladiators (definitely hottest) of all time was offering to get a drink and race with him, and he took him seriously! Oh Primus please don't let this be a dream! 'Sorry Jazz gonna be a lot later than I thought!'

"Uh y-yeah! Sure! I-I'd love-I mean like to! Um, what's your name by the way?"

A soft smile cracked through the taller mech's cool facade as he began walking off with Orion still held close, "You can call me Dee."

"Oh well I'm Orion! Nice to meet ya Dee!"

[my-writings-and-musings]

Oh, I have an idea for a Mermay! If you would like to write it: merformers Megatron being tangled in a net or something and the waves threw him on the beach and he can't go back to water. When the (gn) reader finds him he's scared that they will use his vulnerable moment to hurt him but they go like: "Wow! You're gorgeous! Oh! And you need my help!" And they help untangle him and roll him back to the sea. What do you think?

Absolutely! Mermay may have passed but I'll still be answering these asks because I'm slow, so don't worry if you left any but I haven't answered yet! Also feel free to leave more as it turns out I really like writing merbots!

Apologies for the low writing volume as of late, the hits just keep on coming, and with my area of the country taking wildfire smoke I swear thinking has never felt more difficult...

Megatron was certain he was done for.

He should have known his fate was sealed the moment the harpoon had pierced his side, especially with the weight of a powerful net dragging on his every move and tangling his limbs the more he struggled, but he'd dared to hope he had a chance after managing to swim away. It was only when exhaustion had allowed the waves to force him to shore, his colossal frame crashing against the rocks in a heap so tangled he was effectively immobilized, that he had accepted the inevitable. All the weary old mech could hope for now was to be finished off by the harpoon before he was discovered by those who'd wounded him.

Memories of a long, violent life played before his optics as the waters receded and the stars began to fade with the arrival of the day, the cries of seagulls growing louder as they woke to feed and curiously circled overhead. It wasn't the end he'd wanted, but it also didn't surprise him in the slightest. He'd never been able to find peace, as the scars across his frame could attest, so he could have predicted his spark extinguishing under such painful circumstances. Perhaps the Allspark would finally allow him to rest...

He was so exhausted he barely heard the soft patter of bare feet approaching over stone and sand. 

You had been hoping to find treasures from the sea along the rocky shore when you'd woken up well before the crack of dawn, but as you approached the massive unknown thing that had washed up overnight, you couldn't have prepared for what greeted the beam from your flashlight. Silver armor tangled within the heaviest netting you'd ever seen was all you could make out at first, but more careful observations revealed a fluke the size of a large tree trunk, atop which you found a massive metal torso with its limbs bound at the front. Your heart hammered as you approached despite your better judgment, some unspeakable instinct telling you that the being before you was in a great deal of pain. You realized you were beholding a real live Thalassicon the moment your light found his face and he opened a pair of brilliant red optics, their pale iris constricting then dilating as they focused on your eyes. Fear reflected between the both of you in equal measure.

When he returned to his prone position as if to surrender without a fight, you caught a wince of pain and a pink glow along his side, which brought your eyes and the flashlight beam to a massive harpoon jutting from behind his arm. Instinctive concern welled up within you, and the haggard breaths from his vents made you certain he was enduring a great deal of agony despite his calm appearance. No amount of common sense could compel you to leave anyone to so much suffering. Coming round to his head, you aimed the flashlight to the ground so as not to strain his optics. 

"Do you... need help?" you asked uncertainly, not sure how to better phrase the question. 

He looked back at you, making a sound like a strained scoff of disbelief. His voice rumbled like a heavy wave rolling over a rocky shore as he rested his helm against the stone. "Would it matter if I did?"

"I... think so? Because I can probably help you out a bit." you said, getting a bit more of a hold over yourself. It seemed likely that you could help him escape the net, but you were going to need him to work with you, and even if he'd given up you weren't about to just let him die. Loving the ocean extended to everything living within, and that included Thalassicons, as alien to the planet as they may have been. Reaching for the tiny toolkit you kept in your bag, you were surprised when the production of a small knife made the mech tense in alarm.

"Why are you here? Are more of you coming?" he asked with his full attention on the little blade. It wasn't enough to do more than cause him a minor bit of harm, but as he'd already endured plenty of that, he had no interest in letting blind trust cost him an optic. You seemed surprised and confused by the question, which ironically made him trust that you weren't planning any harm. Humans had never bothered to feign kindness for him anyway.

"There might be more people coming once the sun actually comes up, but I tend to be the only one up this early." you explained, trying to answer the question as best you could. The answer made him tilt his helm and raise a brow, compelling you to elaborate further. "Now's the best time to collect shells. The tide is going out, but no one else is up yet. Anyway, I just got this knife, let me see if it's sharp enough to cut you free."

"You're very trusting. Are you not afraid of my kind?" he asked before you could begin, giving you a bit of pause. The whole situation was odd, but you were quite perplexed as to why this very obviously struggling bot would try so hard to convince you not to help him. It only made you all the more determined to help, but it seemed you would need to convince him not only of your intentions, but to work with you to save himself. 

"I've never actually met a Thalassicon before, but you all don't seem to start fights with humans most of the time." you said as you put the flashlight down and aimed it over where you'd be working. Dropping to your knees but keeping a final foot of space between you both, you held up your tiny knife and gestured to his tangled limbs, certain you could work at least one free with enough cutting. "If I help you get your arms free, can you pull yourself out of this net?"

Still burnt out on hope, Megatron didn't dare to believe he was really getting out of this situation, but decided he had nothing better to do than play along. Even if you were some kind of government agent playing a long game, it was more interesting to see what your plan was than to wait to bleed to death. Flexing his arms to test the net's resistance, he found them folded against his front but otherwise unharmed, and while he was incapable of reaching the harpoon he had no doubt he could untangle himself if even one limb was freed. "Possibly." he conceded, remaining limp so that you could work.

"Worth a try, then." you said with a bit of inflated confidence, still unable to believe what you had gotten yourself into. Biting your lip and committing to your desire to help, you grabbed a random section of net and began to cut. Straight away you found progress to be definite but slow, the sharp blade taking its sweet time to carve through the reinforced material even as you pushed the sharpened edge down with all of your strength. "Ugh, this might take a second, these are some seriously thick ropes."

"Take all the time you need, I'm certainly not going anywhere." he replied with a sarcastic flop of his fluke against the stones, emphasizing his lack of options. You'd have possibly found it funny were you not carving through the stubborn netting with all of your strength, jaw set tight and brows furrowed in deep concentration as you looked for possible shortcuts. It wasn't like you had all the time in the world to cut him loose. The sun would soon be peeking over the horizon, and when it did you had no doubt that other humans would be coming to the beach, some of whom you couldn't trust not to sound the alarm. Many members of your species looked on his with open fear and boundless hostility.

"Hold on, if I'm able to tear this one... ouch!" you hissed as the knife nicked your palm, compelling on you to suck at the little cut before getting back to work. Your lack of hesitation to push on surprised him even more than your initial offer of aid, and for the first time he dared to believe you might be genuine in your desire to help. He could already feel his arm gaining wiggle room with every sliced rope, the heavy weight around his limbs needing only a little bit more of a reduction before he was confident his strength would prove sufficient to break free. Sweat had begun to bead on your forehead when you gave a growl of frustration and sliced through two more holes to free his arm. "Just one second, I've almost got it... there! Can you help me work your arm out?"

"Yes, one moment." he said, barely hiding the anticipation he couldn't suppress. Still mostly immobilized, he tried to work his arm free with a shift of his shoulders, only to receive a lightning bolt of pain as the harpoon was jostled by the movement. Roaring in agony, he went limp save for a full body shudder of pain, fresh energon flowing down his side. 

You jumped to help but pulled back when he hissed in instinctive fear, vents coming in hard and fast before the initial burst of pain began to fade and he calmed down. Looking around for potential witnesses with growing concern for the lack of time, you finally settled on the only thing you had resembling a plan, ignoring every bit of common sense you had saying it was a bad idea. "Would it help if that thing came out first?"

"It... it might. But I cannot reach it." he said weakly, once more feeling the urge to lie limp and allow fate to claim him. You'd proven an interesting diversion from his demise, but it was physically impossible for him to free himself. Between the restraint and the agony he felt when trying to move, there was nothing his great strength could do for him, and the steady flow of energon from his wound was taking even that away. Self repair couldn't initiate with the offending projectile still lodged under his armor.

"How deep is it? If it doesn't need too much of a pull, I can probably take it out." you offered, self preservation briefly taking a backseat to concern. It wasn't fair for anyone to suffer like this, and despite the danger you felt compelled to do whatever a squishy human body could to help. The Thalassicon stiffened at the suggestion, compelling you to drop to your knees and talk face to face to convince him you meant no harm. This wasn't something you could attempt without his full cooperation. "Do you trust me to do that?"

Megatron was silent as he eyed you up and down, looking for signs of the betrayal he'd been certain was coming but finding only earnest desperation in your face. It would be foolish to take you up on your offer considering his history with your kind, but with the harpoon scraping his insides during every ventilation, he was compelled once more to accept out of a lack of alternate options. All you could really do was help him, or end him that much quicker. 

"I cannot leave while it's there, I suppose I have little choice." he muttered bitterly, distrust coloring every word to make it apparent this wasn't a choice he enjoyed. It wasn't an enthusiastic assent, but you took it regardless, stepping back to try and figure out how to best approach the problem when the mech spoke up with far more force. A piercing look from his bright red optics made you flinch with each harsh syllable. "Just be quick about it, and know I will take you with me if you get any ideas."

"Okay. Fair enough. I'll climb on up, just hang tight." you conceded quickly, hands up in a brief gesture of surrender to show you understood. One thrash of his massive tail could easily turn you to paste, so you were equally serious in your promise not to try anything unexpected. Fully aware of his optics watching your every move, you climbed up his shoulder by using the net as a makeshift climbing aid and his armor as handholds, following the trail of bleeding energon until you arrived at his back.

When you stood up to face the harpoon for inspection, you were shocked to find it jutting out as far as you were tall, the heavy metal gleaming even in the darkness as if it was smelted from something unnatural. Ignoring the chill the weapon created in your gut, you angled your phone light to try and get a better idea of how to proceed. The sight of the ragged wound torn into his armor made you flinch in sympathy, and even without medical experience you could tell it had been yanked about as the mech had struggled against his attempted captors. The painful site left you stumped until you realized the roughness of the wound would actually work in your favor. Struggling hadn't just moved the harpoon, it had pulled it most of the way out, far enough that you were confident in your ability to pull it the rest of the way.

"I'll try to remove it as fast as I can, I'm sorry if this hurts." you said as you grabbed the frigid piece of metal, hoping you sounded confident just for his sake. All of him stiffened beneath you, but he made no further movements, remaining silent as you secured your grip and set your feet. 

"Okay. Here I go!" you announced as you sucked in a breath, clenching your shoulders before you pulled with all of your might. At first you felt nothing but his tremble of pain, which compelled you to square your jaw and lean backwards so your weight could assist, every ounce of your willpower pouring itself into the task at hand. After a few unproductive moments the harpoon slid an inch upwards, compelling you to double down until your knuckles paled and veins throbbed along your skin. The Thalassicon hissed when you felt something under the surface give way, and the weapon popped free of the wound in a single motion that sent you toppling backwards just as the mech arched his frame and roared in pain.

Soft sand met your back as you were thrown clear, the harpoon clattering over the stones as you sat up in a daze to find the mech tearing from the net and standing upright on his tail as he shredded the restraints with a growl and tossed the remains aside. The sudden show of motion was reassuring, but the sight of fresh energon running down his side made you fear you'd only made the situation much worse. "It's bleeding, did I make it worse?!"

Your words seemed to surprise him, almost as if he'd forgotten you were there in the rush, but he turned and gingerly probed the wound with much more freedom of movement than he'd had before. "No... It will clear itself and then my self repair will begin..." he explained, relaxing his mighty shoulders as the fact he'd be okay settled over you both. Now able to see the full extent of his size and strength, you felt even smaller as he dropped back down onto his front to speak to you, expression softening in relief and gratitude as he met your gaze. "Thank you. I would not have survived if that remained in my hide."

"Don't mention it." you replied breathlessly, surprising him once more as you made no attempt to request a reward for your services. Rather, you looked at him with concern, your eyes lingering on his injuries as you picked yourself up off the sand. "Are you... good to go? The beach will probably start to see its first visitors before long."

"I can see myself off. For your own sake, it is best you pretend we didn't meet." he answered quickly, pushing himself along the rocks until he came to the edge. For all of his desire to know more about the most peculiar human he'd ever met, it was better for both of you if he cleared out quickly. There was no telling what his attempted captors would do to those who aided him, and you didn't seem like the type to leave well enough alone even if your life was on the line. Knowing that didn't stop him from hesitating as he planned the best way to drop into the dark water below.

"Oh... okay." you said, unable to keep the disappointment from your voice. You'd come to the beach with the intention of finding some beautiful sea life, and while you'd succeeded, it was still hard to accept this one wouldn't be coming home with you. Unwilling to let him go straight away, you stalled with another glance at his injuries, hoping that even if you didn't see him again you would know he was safe out there. "Are you sure you're okay? That looks really bad."

"I have endured far worse, it will heal." he promised, already planning to seek out the deep sea supplies he knew would help him heal. Compared to what he'd suffered before at the hands of humans and bots alike, this was nothing now that he had the freedom to move and swim. The news made you smile, and his spark was so softened by your continued compassion he couldn't bear to leave without some show of gratitude. "Before I leave, allow me to introduce myself. You can call me Megatron."

"Nice to meet you, I'm Y/N." you replied eagerly, wishing the first tendrils of the sunrise shining over the ocean would give you just a few more minutes. Unable to think of all you wanted to say, you ignored the hurt in your heart to bid him farewell, putting your wishes into words so they might come true. "I hope I can see you again sometime, under better circumstances."

"Perhaps, if fate allows. It would not be in your best interest, however." he replied much more sagely, swinging his tail over the edge but holding on with his upper arms. In the moments before he descended further, the position allowed the two of you to come face to face once more, and it was his turn to smile fondly as you bid him farewell.

"I don't really mind. Safe travels, Megatron."

[burningcheese-merchant]

I’d like to imagine a silentlily (silent salt x white lily) scenario (yan)

Imagine salt’s reaction to her being in a coffin again

Then her walking up

(I starve for silent lily)

Hehe

"White as Snow" - SilentLily Short Story

PAUSE: This is Yandere Silent Salt. He's a knight, he's in shining armor, but he's nobody's hero. He belongs in a cell. Or in a ditch. Or in Hell (which is both of those put together, arguably). Whatever serves White Lily better. She annoys the fuck out of me, but not even she deserves this shit

ALSO: Canon divergence here. The Beasts escape and reenter the world before White Lily wakes up, and before Pure Vanilla and the others go to Beast-Yeast

ALSO ALSO: I wanted to try to play along with a certain concept this time, which may have involved me ascribing a trait I myself possess in the real world to Silent Salt here haha. Wonder if you'll notice what it is

Silent Salt considered his sense of hearing to be more of a curse than a blessing, more often than not. Noise irritated him. Any noise. All noise. He hated it then and he hated it now. Pure, unceasing contempt.

The shrill crunch of broken glass beneath his armored boots. The blaring of those godforsaken alarms that hammered away at his helm, at his skull. The squealing of those brittle-boned creatures in white coats as they scurried about, trying to find help. Trying to stop him. The sound of flesh being stripped from bone and falling to the earth. The wet gurgle of cries for mercy dying on bloodied tongues and slipping through slit throats. The hard knock against cold metal coupled with the squelching of blood and viscera that came with each heavy footstep - away from his broken container, through the laboratory, through the main doorway. He hated it. He hated them all.

But he endured it, with whatever semblance of grace he could muster. He had always been a wanderer, in both senses of the word - allowing his mind to leave his body and find joy and solace elsewhere, while his body carried on in another direction. It was his only defense against the world and all of its cruelties. Here and now proved to be no exception.

The voices in his head saved him from the noises outside. The first - the only, most of the time - was hers. His White Lily's. Soft, sweet, melodic. Like the coo of a waking fledgling at the break of dawn. It didn't made his ears ache, quite the opposite. It... calmed him. Soothed his frayed nerves, like nothing ever did before and likely never shall again. He had long forgotten peace until he discovered her, through their new, ironclad bond through the Soul Jam. Her image. Her spirit. Her voice. Peace. Tranquility. Freedom.

The second - and this one was new - was... strange. An echo of a bygone era, risen from the depths of his memory unbidden. An... older person, he thinks. Older than he'd been at the time, at least. The voice was worn. Rough. But still warm and inviting, in its own way. Like a quilt that had seen better days, offering you a tattered embrace.

That voice told him a story. Over and over again, as many times as he asked (he thinks it might have been his favorite once). One about a beautiful princess, sealed away by an evil witch and cursed to sleep for eternity. A valiant knight, vowing to rescue her, marched across the world, slaying the monsters in his path and braving every danger without rest until he reached her. He broke the seal, he took his beloved into his arms. With true love's kiss, she woke, and so they lived happily ever after.

No longer was it only a story. The Soul Jam granted him sight beyond sight, even with half of it gone; it being in his lily's possession only enabled him to keep a watchful eye on her, even so far apart. The day she fell to the curse was the worst of both their lives: falling into a cauldron, transformed by black magic, consumed by the newfound horror of reality and hatred she felt for the world and all of its cruelties. Her very being split in two: her soul, once pure and now dark and twisted, unleashing itself upon the world, and her body - a husk - left behind. Abandoned. She wandered the world in two different directions. She existed in two places at once.

Just like he did.

No one was there when he fell. He found no light at the end of the tunnel, in that pitch-black labyrinth he lost himself in. It mattered nothing now; in time, he came to realize that the darkness suited him better, anyway. But he wouldn't allow the same to happen to her. He shall be there by her side, when no one else had been. He will save her.

She was his princess. He was her knight. What the second voice told him was no story - it was a prophecy. He understood it now. And it shall be fulfilled, with nothing and no one to stand in their way.

Silent Salt's hearing somehow sharpened during his time in prison, it would seem. Even the smallest sounds burrowed beneath his skin and pulled at his nerves now. Leaves rustling in the wind. Grass flattening as he made his way through the forests and meadows. Water droplets splashing onto his armor as he waded across a river. The beauty of nature... no such thing. There never was. The only beauty to be found in this world was within his White Lily. The story foretold such. And it was it, and his lily's sight and sound, that blanketed his soul and guided him on his path through Beast-Yeast. To that land bathed in silver. To that tree he so despised. To her. To them. To their destiny.

More noise, when he reached Faeriewood. More alarms. More yelling. Blades and bows being drawn - a slightly more entertaining detour from the defenseless squirming of those lemmings in their hideous coats and gloves, if nothing else. He hated it.

The clash and clang of his sword against theirs. Beautiful, grand structures collapsing in the wake of his rampage. Swarms of silver locusts, buzzing towards him in righteous indignation. Screams of agony as he cut them all to pieces. As he laid waste to their homes, their businesses, everything they ever built and loved. As he rended flesh from bone and ground the bone to dust. As those delicate little butterfly wings of theirs tore to pitiful shreds.

He hated it. Hated all the noise.

It was what they deserved.

The voices grew louder as he drew nearer to where he needed to be.

His dear lily, soft and sweet, mending the ever-bleeding tear in his soul. Beautiful princess, calling to her valiant knight.

That shadow, that phantom with no body and no face, comforting him with promises about the future. Wizened oracle, reminding him of his purpose.

That terrible image of his lily falling. Changing. Suffering. No more of that. Not in his mind, not behind his eyelids. Not to her. He will save her.

The last faerie left standing was quieter than the rest. Tall, regal, sword brandished with steel-eyed determination. He hardly spoke a word to Silent Salt, before their battle and during. He made his thoughts and feelings known only through the sound of his great, ethereal wings flapping, and his blade parrying and counter-striking Silent Salt's own, and his long, lavender hair whipping around in the frenzy.

But silence is gold, not silver. And this faerie he knew to be king learned this truth the hard way.

Against his better judgment, Silent Salt let him go. Left him slumped against that accursed tree, gasping for air and clutching at his wounds. His body nailed to that dry bark would have been a more welcome end to their particular tale, but... his dear lily cared for him. Silent Salt knew this. His blood boiled whenever he saw them together in the past - if only the Soul Jam allowed him greater contact than just watching through a one-way mirror - but it was fine. He loved White Lily more than he hated her compatriots. Faeriewood being sliced into silver ribbons would be enough to take in already; the sight of her friend all but crucified would be unfair to have her endure. The faerie king was vanquished; that was all that mattered for the time being. When White Lily woke, he would allow her to decide what was to be done about him. A gift from her valiant, adoring knight.

It was quiet as death when he finally found the coffin, laying so perfectly against the humble willow looming over it. Crystal clear glass. Intricate carvings, coiling around the head and foot and snaking along the sides. In the tree's trunk was the engraved image of the Light of Freedom, and words in what he knew to be faerie language.

His White Lily, his princess, under a terrible curse. Sleeping soundly in her tomb. Lost and imprisoned, just as he once was.

He took enough care to not tear off the lid too forcefully. The sound it made as it hit the ground was grating enough already. And he wouldn't dare let any glass break, at risk of it falling on her.

His hands trembled as he reached for her, letting one rest on her shoulder - so much so that he could hear the rattle of his gauntlet.

He grabbed her face, caressed her cheeks, as gently as he possibly could. Perhaps some foolish part of him hoped the shock of metal against her skin would wake her - if only so he could see her open her beautiful eyes sooner. But alas.

He could hear her breathing. Slow, steady. Soft, sweet, melodic. That gentle rhythm flowing from her ever-so-slightly parted lips, that rise and fall of her chest that reassured him that she still lived.

He admired her, for just a moment longer - her lovely figure, her flawless skin, her hair, white as snow and framing her face so beautifully - before he brought one hand back to his helm. Slowly, hand still trembling, he pulled it off. It fell to the ground with a thud. The only other noise he would tolerate.

Back to her cheek his hand went. Holding her face so tenderly, he leaned down and let his eyes flutter shut.

Destiny had finally arrived. The knight has come to save the princess. The monsters that kept them apart were now slain, left scattered across the blood-soaked earth. He would take her into his arms. He would give her true love's kiss. With it - with the strength of their bond, and with the beating of his heart - she would finally wake. Her curse would be broken.

And they could be together at last...

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

Do you think he really managed to wake her...?

[tinydefector]

IRON GIANT 3

Optimus prime x Human

Word count: 1.5k

Warnings; none

Optimus prime Masterlist

1

11

___________

It's a few days later and the child is once again sitting on Optimus' leg, a book in hand as they read Outlook to him. But commotion outside the barn catches both of them. "Look I told you I don't know, I haven't seen anything out of the ordinary, and I don't want you all scary my kid” their voice calls out from outside.

"Oppy, what's wrong?" the little one asks, sensing as keenly as any could the subtle shift in Optimus' posture at the commotion beyond sheltering walls. Optimus rumbles soft apology, lowering his helm and raising a gentle servo to offer comfort. "Do not fret, little one. Just your Par talking with people, but i must show caution." He states in reassurance, he carefully lifts the sparkling from perch on massively folded legs to cradle nestled against plating.

Transformation is quick, the little one giggles and laughs as they move around the cab of the truck, tiny hands clasp his seat in curiosity as they begin looking around grabbing at random parts. He turns his mirrors inward to make sure they are safe.

It's only a few minutes later that the doors to the barn are thrown open. Soldiers look around. The older human looks almost relieved to see Optimus hidden. The little child opens the door of the truck excitedly calling out. "Par!, Par Truck Truck goes vroooooom!"

The Soldiers continue checking things. "Come on baby let's get you down." They call out, holding their arms up to their child, small giggles come from them as they climb down into their parents arms watching the soldiers walk around. “Par, Army men!” They continue excitedly while watching them in awe.

The soldiers exchange apprehensive glances as the child's enthusiastic call draws their attention. One of the mne steps forward cautiously tapping knuckles gently against chipped red paint of the truck. “nice Peterbilt, used to have one like this back before I joined the army, trusty vehicles” he calls out.

“Ye was my father's, now it's kinda become a hobby project to fix up.” They state, trying to come up with a story without calling Optimus a He while talking. “Hopefully one day I'll get it back on the road, might even take Squirt here on a road trip” They continue while pulling their kids cheek.

It makes the man laugh as he walks closer. “Eh sounds like the life. truck got a name?” He asked and they have to stop themself but a little voice called out. “Oppy Truck!, Oppy Truck!” They state loudly. It makes the soldiers laugh at little one.

It nearly makes their parents' blood run cold and Optimus has to hold himself from panic too. “good kid you got there, Look after ya Poppy's truck then” he rumbled with a chuckle before another speaks up.

"All clear in here, sir. Just a kid's toy, and farm equipment." The voice carries an unspoken question - whether to continue disturbing what appears a scene of mere peace. Glancing between guardian and child now reunited in the doorway, another soldier relaxes stance minutely. "No signs of disturbance. Let's move out, give the family their day." boots scuffing straw.

"What is going on?. what is the army looking for all the way out here?" They ask while boosting their little one further up their hip. The soldiers share an uneasy look before themselves.

"Apologies for the disruption. We've been tracking movement in the woods, believed to be associated with...weapons trafficking. Just performing routine sweeps of outskirts as a precaution. No disrespect or disturbance meant to you or yours." A younger soldier speaks up tentatively. "We spotted unusual tracks, Still, people on edge after..." Her gaze falls realising he was giving information he shouldn't have been. "Just want folks safe, is all. You've a right to peace; we'll be gone soon and trouble you no more." As the other men begin to load up its the older man from before who had chatted about the truck. “Keep and eye or ear out, if you see any military jets overhead its best you get out of here” it's a vague warning but a warning none the less about something bigger going on.

They pull their child closer as they watch the soldiers pile back into the truck, many giving nods and glaces towards them as they drive off. They watched as the military Jeep and trucks slowly trek off the property. "Baby where's Optimus?" They ask their child, hoping It would calm their nerves by asking the silly question.

"Oppy!" The tiny one squeaks, twisting round in guardian's arms to peer back at the dishevelled peterbilt. Tiny hands point eagerly. "There, Par! Oppys! A Truck!" The excitement in their child's voice isn't lost on them.

His engine rumbles gently in response. Another sigh of relief leaves them as they press the side of their head against his door. "Are you alright, God I'm so sorry I didn't expect them and was hoping I was loud enough to give you a chance to hide" they are quiet for a moment. "They are looking for something, they weren't willing to say but they asked if I've seen any strange aircraft's, i think they are looking for someone like you"

A gentle exhale escapes vents, it was what he had feared, that others were about, and all he could hope it wasn't Decepticons out this way.

"If they seek me, I shall remain unseen. But your family's shelter comes first." They slowly slide down the wall, eyes lingering Optimus alt mode. Their child perks up. "Par, par Oppy is a truck, he turns into a truck! Isn't that cool!" They exclaimed while pointing to Optimus. "I can see that baby, he's very smart isn't he" they chuckle with a tired and worried smile. Optimus can see the worry etched in their face. “I won't let anything have too either of you” he calls out trying to reassure them. "I'm just worried, gut feeling that something bad is going to happen." They state.

His engine rumbled softly. "Troubled times stir troubled sparks," he rumbles mainly to himself, even in alt mode his attention was now on the skys.

Later that day Optimus still lingers in the barn, he had decided it was safer to stay there for now, but he remained vigilant watching both the child and their parent who was currently up a ladder, working on nailing some boards back down. "Par!, Oppy look!" The child calls out. It's Optimus who moves slightly, helm peeking out of the barn to see what they had. "Oppy, Oppy, look what I found!" the young sparkling calls excitedly, scurrying over with tiny palms outstretched. Nestled in their hands lies a cluster of strange objects smooth stones of varied hues, along with bits of coloured glass and ceramic smoothed by time.

Wide little eyes peer up at Optimus's faceplate, silently begging his praise on the tiny treasures collected. A gap-toothed smile spreads brightly. "Aren't they pretty?"

"Indeed, You have a keen eye for treasures." He states with a soft smile. “it's safe to come out if you want, I haven't seen anyone around since they left I'm sure your in the clear Optimus” they call out around the nails hanging out of their mouth. Optimus lets out a deep rumble noise as he slowly moves out of the barn, joints and gears creaking and screeching as he moves to stand outside. He watched his pede making sure that the little one wasn't at risk of being stepped on.

They had taken to playing across the yard with toys which makes Optimus vent out a sigh of relief as he moves to watch the older work. The cracking sound is what catches Optimus’ attention when the ladder gives out underneath them.

He moves around a speed he hadn't moved in a long time at the startled cry, powerful engines surging him into swift catch as the ladder hits the ground. "Careful now, I have you," Optimus rumbles, vocals soothing yet concerned as he over looks them. Ventilations exhale relief once he found no injuries. Optics crease warmly down at the human now gazing up, wide-eyed but unharmed. “are you alright, seems i caught you just in time”

Their eyes go wide as embarrassment takes over them. As their jaw drops a little. they hold onto his shoulder plating looking at him in shock. "I mean best rescuer I've ever had, I'd have to say my favourite set of red and blue" they state boldly, not thinking before they spoke.

Optimus rumbles a chuckle, warm field pulsing flattered amusement despite hint of embarrassment surfacing in his own modulated field. "Ah, you flatter me." massive digit lifts carefully to brush again their chin in gently. Optics crinkling warmly, he pauses for a moment, savouring the small moment "perhaps you should stay away from highest, we wouldn't want another fall"

His begins to lower them gently back to ground. As they are placed back down on the ground their legs wobble slightly. Optimus heads back over to the barn where their child continues to call out and ask him to play. They stand there stunned.

They had a thing for him. He was sweet, kind and he adored their child. They had a thing for an alien robot which could transform into a semi truck.

_____________

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[crying-fantasies]

First time

Masterlist

Featuring G1 Springer, smut/fluff, CW: virginity take, penetrative sex, fingering (attempted), handjob, experienced partner (not really), sassy friend (in this house we stand a sassy Arcee).

He shouldn't even think about it.

Really shouldn't, couldn't, but here he is, trying as hard as possible to not blow a gasket by your moans, your little cries of ecstasy, pain long gone.

You told him that after everything was said and done, you would never have eyes for your kind but he would like to say the same thing back at you if only his box wasn't already a glitching mess, pedes almost kicking fruitlessly to give more strength to his rocking pace.

He shouldn't have even thought of you in that way, but it was so intoxicating, making him remember the time when he couldn't look at you directly before acting like nothing happened.

If anyone knew, the embarrassment could never leave him, everyone he knew would nudge him, make fun of him, vowing to never let him live it down.

As he feared, they didn't leave him alone once the longing peeks at you were too many to don't notice, his destiny was sealed when, after seeing you for a second, he returned his sight to his team, they all had a slag-eating grin on their faceplates.

It was over before he could escape them, Roadbuster was the first to capture him and let the others have fun at his expense.

“Springer is finally living a little”

“Told you he wasn't into mechs or femmes”

“At least it is a living thing”

None of them showed real interest in the fact you were organic or the fact you were looking at them like some circus show because you've seen The Wreckers being highly valuable soldiers, consider them in high esteem, Springer did everything in his power to make sure of it, but now they were playing like human children while goading one of their youngest, pointing at you without an ounce of real care to the mortification Springer was going into when you connected the dots just then and there.

Talk about messed up.

The only way to enlighten his sour mood that day was when you mentioned something about a gasoline station near the base, where a soda bar was also running a business, Springer had to close his intake, opened by the surprise, and take his opportunity before Hot Rod tried to take it away from him.

Organics, he got to learn, loved too fast, something that could make any mech uncomfortable to some degree, it made him feel uneasy too, at first, it was to be expected, sure, too fast for him was too slow for you, it took him a very hot cycle to notice you wanted to put your little mouth over his derma, telling him that it has already been a year and all you two did was hold hands, talk, but no “kiz”, whatever that was, you said it was fine by you, but you still wanted to share something called “kiz” with him; humans loved too fast, Springer realized once again when he got near your level by almost sprawling himself on the floor of his habsuit, letting your hands drag over his helm and audio receptors to let you go at it, once you got near enough, once you did what you wanted to him, he found hard to stop his revving engines or his wandering servos.

Humans love too fast, but he soon realized that just as you loved too fast you also loved too intensely.

Springer realized, too late to his horror, that it wasn't that you loved too fast, it was that you didn't have the same time as him, and he noticed it once he witnessed your cells perish to give place to new ones, you looked different, your eyes still held that pretty shine in them that seemed to reflect what he felt for you right back at him.

It got him, and an endless wave of desperation started to burn inside his spark.

Springer was no organic specialist and he didn't have to be the brightest mind, it was draining to some degree, to ask him to rescue a bot from a whole base of deceptions and he'd do so without a leak, but trying to choose the correct words for trying to cover more space, regain time wasted on his own mistakes, he wanted to experience all he could, was it something wrong? or he should just live in the moment and go at your pace?

Is there- is there a possibility of never having that lost time back?

The idea shouldn't even pass over his processor but here he is, hearing your ragged breathing, looking straight into those eyes that reflect him like any other body of water, he can see the reflection of his optics in your eyes, how bright they are, how candid his spark sings and exudes energy when your hands guide his digits under the fabric of your clothes, the sound you made make him groan in your mouth.

Still, not even before the idea of touching under your fabric coverings was valid, and it keeps dragging on him like a sentence soon to be punished.

Frag, Kup taught him better than this, Springer could almost hear him: “Ya goin’ straight to the last race? Think about the poor, young lad and behave like a gentlemech! What's that helm of yours good for if you're only thinkin’ with your array?!”

But kissing, not “kiz”, is good, it feels great, and he can feel his valve coil at the way your lips move over his upper derma, your little tongue poking here and there, your hair flies around with the hot air coming from his chassis inner fans and it has you laughing in bliss, Springer tries to kiss you again, derma touching just right and he can feel your blood flowing under the skin of your neck, body almost going limp if not for his servo holding you against his affection, something seems to ignite on your mind, “okay, that's it”.

Springer needs a moment to lick the saltiness away, shuddering while doing so, opening his optics to a decent level once your words finally settle in and he looks back at you, “What’s what?”

He has very little time to be confused when he notices the lack of your upper covers.

Feels like his fuel pump falls and then goes up to his intake before he has words to say, “Woah! Woah!” his digits stop you from getting rid of your lower ones, “What is- what are you doing?”

Did he say the wrong thing? You look hurt, “oh, oh right, maybe you guys don't- I get it, sorry if I got strange” You started to go on and on, and took him a moment to put a digit over your little, delightful mouth, “Springer?”

“Aw love, it's not that, not at all”

Was it atypical to teach you about a mech’s array? Of course, it was, especially still feeling the gush of fluid on his valve and the strain over his spike, good thing you were too engrossed in his explanation to hear it painfully grind under his modesty panel, your eyes showed your emotions bare, your reactions showing sincerity.

Didn't take much to figure out that you already knew a little bit of what he was trying to explain, and that gave way to who had the bearings to tell you about it without fearing Ultra Magnus and a very possible retake on the Autobot code.

“Oh, so that's what the guys meant about breaking seals”

“What?”

“Well, I guess you too have a slang similar to “popping the cherry” or-”

“No, no, who told you about that?”, your eyes go to the corner of the room, “Roadbuster? Sandstorm?Whirl?” your head perked up, “it was Whirl, ain't it? Your eyes got back to him, ugh, when he gets out of here, he swears.

“Just to let you know”, your hand is holding his digits again, placing them over your beat in heart, “I'm fully aware of what is to come, and I do want you to break my seal”, you show yourself, confident and proud, enough to make him weak, “and I know you have a mass displacement mode”.

Springer wanted to scream, “Did Whirl tell you that too? That fragger” but chose to go for another thing, “Not that I don't want to but-” It’s not a great deal for his race, but it sure is for yours, he has seen the TV and every time it has been mentioned all bets are placed on it being lost or preserved, “are you sure, like, totally?”

You laughed again, very low, to preserve his dignity, “Who are you, and what you did do to my confident soldier?”

Your laugh gives him all confidence back, “I'm the same bot as always, Sweetspark, just wanted to be certain”.

It was slow, trying to figure out where things went once he was at a decent size, Springer noticed your interest in the transformation seams of his array once he let you go wild around it, “Have you done it before?” your fingers were warping around the base of his spike, bumping his anterior node, gaining a static laced “not in a while” with confidence, you hummed, pumping your hand, enough to have transfluid running down, “okay” he tried to catch his bearings for a moment, Primus, you were soft, there was nothing comparable, the base of your hand touched the red button and his valve covering gave up, your eyes went to see, your finger tried to enter but he stopped you, “Woah, hold it, Hot stuff, not sure if my valve won't break your little fingers”

“Oh, but you can put yours in mine, really fair”

Springer felt giddy, pushing his forehelm against your little head, sure grinning like he got a few lose circuits, “If anything, I think yours will break my sanity first”

He was trying to joke, turns out, it was plain reality.

Does it still count as much when there is only such a short time to bask in the passion of your life, in the warmth of your embrace as he stills and feels your hands, your nails, trying to get him as close as possible, it’s intimate, it's suffocating, but in a good way, your valve moves, not like the calipers, it's the muscles, moving like waves, compressing him, pushing all his sensor nods precisely, dragging him in for all his worth till his base pushes to the limit, you have no gestational chamber (or you do?) but something is pushing just right at the tip, makes his optics power out and on repeatedly, you fare no better, there is no longer pain but hunger, hips shifting to create more friction, chanting his designation like a prayer.

Primus, you know how to make a mech feel important, you sure did, as your legs pressed him with all your force, metal digging into your flesh, a sight to behold, engraved to his very core memory.

Later on, when he got up to get you some water, he found Arcee on the way to fetch it, she smiled and he returned the gesture, she almost sang, “Lucky you”, Springer stopped at the second, looking back at her, who had a knowing smile, “told you the mass displacement mode was going to be useful in more than one way, just a bit of information and you both were ready to go, am I right?”

She chuckled like it was nothing, walking away gracefully, leaving him speechless in the hallway.

.

Ah, Arcee being the best femme friend of Springer since the G1 days, always helping him out (she was sick of the two dancing around each other and only holding hands for a whole year).

@tf-kinktober2024

[haztory]

[fairytales: fathoms below]

⤷ john price x f!reader; fairytales!au, mermaid!reader, no warnings!

⤷ summary: a series imagining each of the cod men in fantasy/fairytale settings.

(w.c: 3.2k)

captain john price - the little mermaid 

Deep brown oak lays a steady foundation for the billowing ivory cotton. It is a formidable beast, splitting the current with a wicked ferocity that only further emboldens everything your sisters have said in the privacy of hidden corners and muttered breaths. This monster is a fearsome one, its force unparalleled. Something entirely different than what you have seen before.

Mind your distance, your eldest sister had spoken in between the echoing bellows of your father’s rampage as he raged and roared about the increased presence of the fiend in the seas. It is a frightening being. 

Yet, as you peek above the waves to peer at its high fixtures and its grand weight gliding across the water, you’re less inclined to be scared of the vessel and more curious about who could have made such a thing. Your sister’s words and your father’s fear are quickly things of the past, rendered outdated almost instantaneously beneath its shadow.

What could they know about the intent of such a thing with certainty when they themselves have never been as close as this before? If they had, surely they’d feel the same as you do now.

The ship rocks with a force equal to the volume of the men steering it. They are of varying shapes and sizes, loud as they shout at one another along the choppy water. Words you can only catch on whispering winds, syllables and sounds that are completely foreign as you try to repeat them to yourself. A pulse echoes within you, a ferocious beating of your heart that begs you to get closer, to let the curiosity that surges within you seize its grand moment. If only just to see, just to hear. 

It is one thing to see the ancestors of this magnificent watercraft on the seafloor—to play in its cracked beams and chase your sisters through the wreckage, imagining in secret what an image it would be were it fixed and afloat—but it is something entirely different to see the beast alive. 

To see it be tamed, made nothing more than a tool to be beckoned— by him.

He stands commanding on the helm, the gruffness of his voice carrying on the winds, crossing the distances to you. The men follow his calls, responding in time to his orders and moving with preciseness on the vessel, not entirely unlike your father’s guards. They are seasoned, well learned, and they follow him without question. It is truly a sight to behold, but him, he trumps it all. 

His figure is distinguishable even from afar. You’ve been able to make him out even as you trailed a couple hundred kilometers behind, curiosity consuming all reason as you followed the ship past neighboring reefs and exiting well beyond the boundaries of your father’s kingdom. He’s well cut and corded, muscle visible even if the white of his shirt didn’t stick to his skin—wet from the seawater. 

He’s wide in the shoulders, tall and lean, before it tapers down to a narrow waist; His bottom half is obscured by a dark fabric, which must be the object of your father’s frequent cursing. Legs. You’ve never seen them before, much less two of them. 

Still, his… abnormality hardly detracts from the verboten truth—your eye is caught. It hardly deviates from his powerful stance; Your gaze can wander across the bridge of the ship to the working crew, but it ends up inevitably circling back to him. Drawn into the vortex of him, water rushing, pulling and pushing, and the pang of longing that you have long held quiet finds its strength.

It tastes of wonder and the desperation to escape; To leave behind the home that you know, all that has created you, for the realization that there’s more.

You leave behind the ship before you risk the chance of it seeing you, but the appetite of fascination is hardly appeased. It becomes the bad habit. The ships are wondrous things, but you find out rather quickly that when he is at the helm, that is truly when your heart leaps and you trail even closer to its hull, eager for a sight. 

It goes this way for forty rises and sets, your eyes held on the horizon for the familiar sight of the wooden ship’s sigil and its master. 

Today, he is seen on the day of the great storm. 

The sky sits in a violent gray, lightning spreading its branches as they flare across the clouds. The air smells of the impending storm as the seas grow rougher and with it the ship rocks unsteadily—the waves beating against wood, climbing up its ridges higher each time it strikes against its side, as if it were begging to climb aboard. Despite the mayhem, he stays sharp, pointing direction from the helm and eventually leaving it to the charge of someone else when he decides to help directly. Grabbing rope and throwing it around the masts, clapping others on the back, Keep going, boys! shouting from his mouth.

You see it before they do. A crack that widens in the undercarriage of the ship, beaten open as the waves ram against it, water rushing in. You want to shout, tell them to look, but they realize it soon enough. One of the shipmates peers over the edge of the ship before turning back and shouting,

“She’s goin’ to sink, Captain!”

The Captain—finally a name to the face, one that you roll around in your mind as your eyes track his every movement; Captain, captain, captain.— moves quickly, foregoing the lugging of a rope and saying something that forces all men to divert attention elsewhere. It’s a flurry of movement from there, the men gathering supplies, hauling smaller wooden vessels by rope and filling them in a quick frenzy. Abandoning the ship. 

It’s difficult as wind and rain pellet them, obscuring vision and keeping them unsteady as they attempt to save themselves. The first lifeboat hits the sea viciously, the waves almost capsizing the vessel as they meet its surface. You don’t mean to interfere—you know you shouldn’t— but they’re terrified, and risk drowning, and you’re much more worried about them dying than you are yourself, so you swim to them; Grab the bottom of the boat and pull with as much strength as your arms and tail can muster and haul them away from the immediate danger of the turbulent waves split by the sinking ship. 

The pulley breaks when the next boat tries to descend, hitting the surface unceremoniously, but the men make it to the water.  Two wooden boats buoy a safe distance away from the main ship and the crew sits, thankfully, unharmed as they look towards their Captain, beckoning him to jump. He stands at the edge of the great being, a monolith of a man overseeing the wreckage of his great accomplishment. He must be bidding it goodbye, because he then turns, ready to jump, fortified in that decision as he realizes that all of his men are safe and it is now his turn. 

Wind turns threatening and the air ignites with a charge that speaks of impending doom. It is then that lightning strikes the mast, sparking a loud blast. It singes the wooden pillar, immediately exploding it into a shattering of pieces. The detonation’s impact pushes him off the edge, the Captain’s body hurdling over one-hundred feet. 

Your scream is hidden by the shouts of his own men. His body hits the surface of the water, plunging into the depths as the violent waves hurtle him below. 

There is no hesitation, a choice made without conscious thought. You curl beneath the cresting of a wave and immediately sink into the depth in search for him. It is significantly easier to swim beneath the hurtling waves than atop of them, pressure equalizing against your body. You glide within the water, pushing straightforwardly to the spot where his body met water. 

Your heart pounds in fear. Even if you reach him—no, when you reach him— there is no guarantee of his survival. There must be some kind of injury from falling that kind of distance, or so you would imagine. Being sucked into vortexes does all kinds of damage to merfolk, it must be of equal balance for humans. And even if by some miracle he does survive impact, humans cannot breathe under the water like you can. He must have swallowed some water, is that dangerous for him? How much can he swallow? What do you do if he has swallowed too much?

Thoughts hurtle and tumble in fast succession, but your body moves faster. Crossing the distance between your position next to the lifeboats to the spot of impact at a speed that has never before been demanded of you. Your lungs burning, your mind aching, your heart hurting with worry for a man that you do not yet know. A man that, for all you have been told, could kill you. A man whose kind has hunted yours down for sport, strung your people up for decoration. 

You should not care for this man, have been warned not to, and yet the relief you feel when you find him are the blessings from the forces of the heavens and earth. 

He’s sinking, unconsciously. His eyes closed, body suspended to the whims of the tides as they pull him down. Nearing him reveals that he is much larger than you had anticipated but it means nothing in the rapid pump of adrenaline. Hooking your arms underneath his, his back to your chest, you haul with great might. Lugging his weight with a grunt to the surface, just to get him to breathe again. 

Breaching the surface exposes you to the pellets of the ferocious rain, but it matters not. Your eyes set for direction, your head turning frantically in search of a marker, a sight, something to reveal where you are— where you can take him for safety. The lifeboats have been taken far away by the tumbling tides and the ship that was once so marvelous now roars with a fire aboard its surface. 

You have no idea where to go. You have no idea what to do. 

But the Captain is held tightly in your arms, his head rolling lifelessly on your shoulder. A quick placement of your fingers on his neck reveals a pulsing heart and while it hardly solves any of your problems, it’s all you need to do as you have always done and swim. Somewhere, anywhere. 

So, you do. 

South, in search of sanctuary.

It comes faster than you had thought it would. The shallowing of waters after an hour long haul of both he and you bleeds a hope in your soul that pushed you forward until it came into sight. A cove. Away from the large strip of land that surrounds it, remote enough to deposit him without being seen, but close enough to civilization for him to find a way home. Wherever home may be for him.

Your body is exhausted, the muscles in your tail cramping and spasming from the sheer burden of his weight on yours but you don’t stop. Even as you can touch sand with your hands, even as the movement of waves can carry you the distance to the shore— you don’t stop until he is safe. On land. 

Hauling him out of the water and onto the flattening surface of the beach is surely the worst part. Dragging him a safe distance from the water that was able to ease the pressure of his full weight on you to now being on the surface where his body seems to weigh even more, your arms trembling from trying to pull him further up on the coast, is misery. But you do it, with some herculean effort that has never been introduced to you before. 

He lays on land, supine on his back, finally safe. The rain has stopped, the sky turning from the harsh gray of before to a smattering of thickened clouds that finally allow the sun to bleed through. 

You fall beside him in exhaustion. Ragged breaths heaving your chest, your tail grateful for the much needed rest. The swim home will be significantly easier (and faster) without the man in your arms, but such a trek is daunting when physical debility renders you useless. 

But you must go, before he sees you. You have done what you needed to, you have brought him to land, and while you don’t know how to save him, or if you need to, you know his heart still beats. And that is enough to make a job well done. Rather, it should be enough to grant you dismissal.

And yet, you linger. Unable to part, waiting. Watching. You shouldn’t, and still you cannot help yourself. 

You sit up and lean over him, curious to spare him another look. 

Laid beneath you, the truth repeats like a broken mantra in your head. It is a sin of the highest offense to touch him. Being near him like this is a crime itself. But, there is an ache in your fingers that urges you forward and the desire to know eats away at you, until you blink and suddenly, your fingers are tracing the length of his strong nose.

A straight bridge, freckled with color. Your fingers move in a fixed trance, trailing across the soft of his cheek until it reaches the jagged meeting line where skin becomes obscured with hair. You feel the coarseness of his beard, trace the pads of your fingertips down the thick and long hairs. The men at home have hair on their faces, your own father does, but it doesn’t feel like this. So coarse, so rough, prickling against the tips of your fingers. Not made silk by the submergence in water, but thick and apparent. 

You don’t dislike it. At least, you don’t think you do, your fingers smoothing down the expanse of his cheek. Up and down, over and over. Feeling the vitality of this human life.  

You don’t feel the same repulsion that your father does whenever mention of the humans is made near him, nor do you feel the same fear that your sisters have at the mere thought of them. You’re drawn closer, if anything. Curious to know more. 

Wondering what would happen if he opened his eyes.

He has a nose, two ears, and a gentle prodding of his lips reveals a full set of teeth. They’re not sharpened in fangs ready to rip your throat (a rumor circulating through the schools of children) nor are they laid in multiple jagged rows (a preach hailed truth by your father). Instead, just a set of hard bones, the same as yours. He has two eyes that you don’t dare try and see the color of, and a full head of thick brown hair.

For all intents and purposes, he looks like you. The same features, the same design.

Your fingers trail downward, below the thick of his beard and down the column of his strong neck. His shirt is soaked and stuck to his skin, stretched to reveal even more tufts of thick hair on his chest. That is new to you. The men at home don’t have hair on their chest much less a kind so thick. They’re smooth, and if you thread your fingers through it in wonder, it will be a secret you take back to the sea with you.

Maybe the gods made you more similar than different. From where you sit beside him, the only obvious difference lies below. Two long limbs that hold flat appendages at the end. Feet, separated with what you can only imagine are toes. Ten of them on each one. 

Maybe in his creation there was an image of you. A curiosity that was sated by the division of a tail into legs, but otherwise remains the same. Two beings sent to their respective homes and yet destined to intertwine. It must be, otherwise these unexplainable feelings that brew within you have no source other than sheer madness. 

A kind of madness that finds you sitting beside him, staring in lingering awe at the marvels of danger.

You don’t know how long you stay there for, trailing your fingers over him. Finding them studying the feel of his skin and somehow always returning back to his neck, feeling the pulsing of his heart as reassurance. But, a long look to the horizon reveals that the sun is beginning to set and you know then that much time has passed. The sky turns to a burnt orange and the warning to return home beats within your mind. It is unwanted, but you know that you can no longer stay here with the man. Soon your father will suspect something amiss and send guards to find you. While you don’t doubt the capabilities of the human, there’s no guarantee he will be able to defend himself against the royal guards of the palace, especially in his weakened state. (There is no telling what he could do to you if he awakens in this state.)  

So you will leave him with the hope that he will wake soon, that he will recuperate enough to pull himself from the sand and walk the short distance back to the mainland. That your efforts were timely and he is able to make his way home. 

You will leave him and hope that maybe, he will come back to the cove in search of you. You will leave him and hope that maybe he will see you waiting for him in the water.

With a sigh, you turn your head back to his face. To look at him once more before you go.

Eyes as blue as the sea you pulled him from, meet yours. You gasp, jolting backwards in shock and he—the Captain, alive and awake— blinks slowly.

“You’re real.” He croaks, his voice hoarse. It still holds the same gruffness that you heard on the ship, the commandeering tone and hefty weight, but in the closeness it is twinged with gentleness. No longer addressing men at his command, but you. A softness mirrored in tone and gaze as he, for the first time, sees you. 

His hand reaches up and you hold still in fear. The conditioning of your father’s paranoia rears its head; Is this where his strength is exhibited? In the calloused palm of his that is larger

than your own? Is this where he decides to lay waste to you in a manner your father is so convinced that humans possess? 

Instead, his hand raises to your face, fingertips slowly brushing a fallen strand of your hair and tucking it behind your ear. His touch is light on your skin, brushing against the curve of your ear before trailing downward and across your cheek. Warm and soft, he stares a seriousness into you as though the only thing he intends to do in that moment is commit you to memory. 

You fall into his touch with little convincing. His skin melding to your own, as though it were meant to be there. 

“I thought you a dream.” 

You shake your head slightly. His eyes dart across your face before moving downward. Surveying you before spotting the obvious truth.

“Mermaid.” He chokes out, in reverence. His stare does not falter and his face does not scrunch upward in disgust. He looks at you much like you have always looked at him. 

Adoration disguised in the innocence of curiosity. 

“You saved me,” He says. “Thank you.”

a.n: i blame my visit to disney world for this idea. the thoughts of john price soaking wet is irresistible, and i aint sorry for it!!

simon is next :)

[revelboo]

On my knees pleading for more Invisible Monsters…. that sad old man needs love and 80 million kisses

He does-he has to deal with Rodimus and Whirl

Nah, you’re good. It’s just a bit of plot convenience nonsense to get them where I need them for that arc- Brainstorm made a highly unstable mini gate that accidentally targeted humans instead of objects and brought them to near a Cybertronian’s spark signal. Figured most of them just black out from the stress because getting ripped through space and time probably doesn’t feel awesome. Probably a big strain on the body and the ones that aren’t coping likely has an underlying problem already.

Invisible Monsters Pt 6

MTMTE Megatron x Reader

• Servos pressing against his helm as he tries to make sense of Rodimus’s rambling report, he vents tiredly. And wonders if maybe Rodimus is the universe’s punishment for everything he’s done. Because, honestly, it seems a bit much even for his sins. Movement from the corner of his optic draws his attention to you as you sit crosslegged on the screen of an old datapad and scribble with your fingers. Drawing again? As much as he likes to respect your space and privacy, he needs a distraction from Rodimus so he leans a bit to see what you’re up to. Realizing you’re writing. Is that- poetry? About him?

• Bent over the tablet, you write a line, erase it, and revise it. Oblivious to everything else as you struggle to get down all the things you can’t actually say. The wonder of hands meant to destroy that can cradle you so gently, be so warm. Of how your heart aches for him sometimes when he gets lost in thought, wanting to ask but feeling like a trespasser. Of how every innocent touch has begun sparking through you, shifting to something new and frightening. And then there’s a shadow falling across you and you freeze, heart racing. Fingers frantically flicking at the screen to get it to blank as your face reddens, because you know he saw some of your embarrassing love letter to him. Can’t make yourself look over your shoulder to see his expression. Can guess it’s pretty much horrified, though. “Need a shower,” you mutter, standing and all but running for the rigged together tiny, enclosed wash rack the scientists had made for you. Needing to hide in there for the rest of your life because he’d seen.

• Spark warming as you run and hide, he wants to reach for you, but understands that you hadn’t meant to share that yet. Maybe never would have. Retrieving his stylus, he bends over and begins to write an answer. Trying to convey that he sees you, that his life is better for it. That he hadn’t expected you or any form of forgiveness for his sins. Your warmth against him keeps the past at bay, keeps the nightmares from seizing him by the throat and he can’t explain how much he loves you for that. For accepting him without reservation. Pausing, he leaves it for you to find later. Because he’s no better at this than you are. Can’t say the actual words out loud.

• Hiding in the heat, you tip your head back into the spray and want to cry. Why had you wrote all that? You know you’d never actually show it to him, but you’d wanted to get it out because it’s driving you crazy. Because you have a crush on a giant, former warlord with gentle hands and sad optics. And now he knows it. It’s not like you aren’t aware of his past, the horrors he’s committed, but he’s trying to be better. Trying to amend and maybe he can’t. But you want to watch him become someone he hates a little less. When you finally suck it up and grab a polishing cloth to dry yourself with, he’s gone. And your chest aches even as it’s a relief you don’t have to face him. Making your way across the desk, you blow out a breath and pause. There’s something new on your datapad. In your language, the characters painstakingly precise as you read what he wrote you.

• Returning to his quarters with an energon cube, he freezes as he spots you and you tip your face up toward him. And you’re crying. Primus, is his poetry that bad? “Little one,” he growls, reaching out his cupped hands and you launch yourself into them, his spark constricting with fear that he might not catch you. Then you’re warm in his palm, head down as you reach up both hands and gesture for him to come closer. “I didn’t meant to upset you.” Leaning his face down, you stand suddenly, a small hand warm on his chin as you go up on your toes and press your soft mouth against his bottom lip. That brief contact a shock that leaves him speechless as you just sit in his hands with your back to him and scrub at your eyes. But you’d answered him and it spreads warm through his spark, a tenuous hope that he can have this. That he’s allowed this happiness.

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[vhaos-chaotic-writing]

SoundStarShock Headcanons

Sooo - I've seen many people on Twitter / X shipping Starscream, Soundwave and Shockwave thanks to Transformers One. Like - look at those 3. Appearing together? Standing together? And at the end? I need no more explanations - nothing, nada, rien.

(´▽`ʃ♡ƪ)

Starscream snuggles from time to time his helm against Soundwave's or Shockwave's - and said action has been rubbed (no pun intented) on both mechs too.

Imagine how both Sound and Shock were confused by that, but Thundercracker and Skywarp explained to them that was quite common among seekers.

(Now looking at it... TC & Soundwave = blue. SW & Shockwave = purple. Do you see what I am seeing?) Moving on.

Soundwave would gently knock his forehelm with either bots.

They def have inside jokes. And laugh togehter... menacingly.

They gossip - that ain't a headcanon, is canon.

Starscream's love language is Words of affirmation, Soundwave's is Physical touch and Shockwave's is Quality time. Make this either fluffy or toxic, anything works with these three babygirls.

Shockwave and Starscream are yappers, Soundwave is happy to listen.

The are quite protective of each other - Starscream being the sole one to be too aggressive-loud, while the two Waves are deadly silent.

Can you imagine how things would play whoever was the first one to propose the idea of being a poly relationship? Like - Imagine the potential for each bot.

( •̀ ω •́ )✧

Starscream fell first? Constantly in denial - "Ugh, feelings." - and was more irritating than he was already. But would from time to time praise the other two mechs, to then deny he did it. And in the end, he asked out demanded both mechs to become his sparkmates. "Only you two have proven to be worthy to become my sparkmates - a-and... ugh, the leader would be nothing without his Second and Third in command!" ... strangely that moved Shockwave's and Soundwave's sparks.

Soundwave fell first? Attentive, and would always try to be close or have minimun physical contact with either mech. One servo on Shockwave's shoulder, leaning by Starscream's side. You name it. He would have fell first for Shockwave, then Starscream - yes, maybe the 1st one is a tad off about his scientific research even at harsh times and Starscream can be quite flawed as a leader, but Shockwave showed passion, and Starscream tried to keep his people safe. "Soundwave: request. Starscream and Shockwave: spark bond with Soundwave."

Shockwave fell first? Alright, this is interesting. He would definitely evaluate the other two mechs, trying to be logical to deem worth the shot or to not waste his own time. And can see Shockwave approach both mechs directly to tell them he wants to test and hypothesis, therefore he needed the three of them to become romantically involved. And he was ready to just take the data he needed and step back... buuut he feels complete with them. It would be illogical to step back from his sparkmates now.

(❁´◡`❁)

Starscream loves to be right in the middle - wants the attention!

Find comfort among themselves - after losing so many things thanks to that bitch Sentinel Prime, they mourn and hold each other when they are all alone.

Imagine Soundwave playing soft tunes to either mech when they are alone - lofi beats trouple.

Shockwave sudden outburts of anger (take for example about Bee unable to not talk) make Sound and Star try to not laugh.

The three then welcomed Megatron into the pack but then divorced him whaaat

(oﾟvﾟ)ノVhaos out!