#i can see where the mixup comes from to be fair. the colors are spot on

[vyrion]

i keep thinking that your pfp is darling charming from eah but now i’m looking into splatoon and it seems rlly cool

YESASSSSS YESSSSS!!! JOIN ME IN MY BEAUTIFUL WORLD.. i love octoling skateboard its one of my favorite assets from the game. look at them

arent they awesome. i love it so much. its technically just a recolor of some agent 8 promo art but i like it alot :3

[scintillating-galaxias]

Love Notes: Chapter 2

day 2 of thunderrod week! today’s prompt was ‘build’. i have come to realize i fail at actually using these as prompts. instead, they just become words i include in the fic. oh well. enjoy! -

Rodimus sets out to find a second note.

(read it here on ao3!) -

“Someone’s in a good mood.”

Rodimus stopped in his tracks and frowned at Blaster. “What gave it away?”

“You walked in without moaning and groaning about how much recharge you could be getting right now,” Blaster plainly informed him without once looking away from the communications console.

“I don’t do it that often.”

“You do it every time,” Doubletap deadpanned from the navigation consoles. “Also, you were practically skipping a second ago.”

“You do,” Blaster said. “And you were.”

“Well, it’s true. I could be getting a lot more recharge,” said Rodimus, electing to ignore the skipping comment. Captains didn’t skip. He didn’t skip, at least. He had no idea what Megatron got up to in his free time, but—

Blaster stood up. “Well,” he said, yawning, “I dunno about you, but I’m ready to catch up on said recharge. See you around, Captain.”

Rodimus nodded and sat down in the newly vacated seat. Right. Communications watch. Why did he put himself on communications watch, again? It was dull, mind-numbing work. You sat there in front of the consoles waiting for any incoming signals from any nearby planets or ships, and you occasionally made announcements. That was the most exciting part of the job in Rodimus’ opinion, and therefore his favorite part. But he always got a note from Magnus reprimanding him for improper usage of the ship’s intercom. At least he wasn’t Siren. He swore he could still sometimes hear his audials ringing if it was quiet enough, and it’d been weeks since the last… schedule mixup.

But the Lost Light was thousands of miles from any immediate planetary body. Not a single ship blipped the radar. The consoles were utterly still now. The only signals they would be receiving were radio waves produced by nearby stars. That left Rodimus plenty of space leftover in his processor to be filled with thoughts of the note. He furtively glanced around the room; no one was looking at him. As quietly as he could, he opened his subspace and discretely brought the note out to stare at it. Last night, he’d been curious about the sender. An amount of curious any reasonable mech would have after receiving an unsigned love note on their door. Now, though, he was absolutely dying to know. The need itched along his plating, worming its way to nip at his very protoform. The long game had never been one he’d been any good at.

You put the brightest of stars to shame. That was—That was sweet. That was tender. That something someone infatuated with another would say. Rodimus had no idea what to do about it.

“You look mighty concentrated on that there, Captain.” Crossblades voice cut through the silence as easily as his namesake. “What is it?”

Rodimus shrugged, suddenly cagey. “Just a note,” he said offhandedly. “Someone left it on my door last night, and I’m trying to find who.”

“What’s it say?” Hound piped up.

All optics in the room were on him. Rodimus opened his subspace and put the note back. “Nothing big, just some… request for a private meeting.”

“What kind of meeting?” Crossblades asked with a particular twinkle to his visor that Rodimus did not like at all.

Hound frowned. “Is it not signed? Doesn’t that make it pretty redundant?”

“Yeah, and why would they need a paper note to do that? We all have your frequency.”

“Dunno. I just know they’re trying real hard to remain anonymous.” Rodimus shrugged again. “To each one’s own.”

“And that isn’t the least bit suspicious to you?” asked Sunstreak. Bob chirped in agreement.

“Nah, it’s nothing that serious. Unless there’s another mutiny underway”—more than one mech in the room flinched slightly—” and someone’s trying to trick me into getting killed—points for creativity—I don’t think it’s anything malicious. It’s just a little weird is all.”

The mechs in the room made noises of disengagement, and the air returned once again to a sleepy quiet. Huh. That’d been easy enough. Rodimus brought out the datapad he’d snagged from his desk before leaving for his shift this morning and crossed out a few more names. Surely, if someone here had been the sender, they’d have had more of a reaction.

The note floated away entirely from the forefront of his processor as the day went on. He finished his shift on the bridge, then went and got his morning engex. He poked Drift, who didn’t respond (meditating), and then after that… A usual blend of meeting, meeting, squabble with Megatron, squabble with Magnus, write up the next shift schedule, approve a few requests for materials and new viable experiments, squabble with Megatron again, renew Swerve’s bar license, another fragging meeting (how in the Pit was there so much stuff to meet about?), his evening engex. Then, just like that, the day was done.

Drained how only a day of talking could make one drained, Rodimus dragged himself back to his hab suite. He pressed his thumbs against his jaw joints to chase away the aches that had somehow managed to settle in there. He’s looking forward to merely collapsing into his berth and zonking out for the next twelve hours. But first…

He scanned the doorway for any sign of another note. Nothing. His spoilers sank in disappointment, far further down than he expected. That couldn’t be… it though, could it? No. They’d probably only been brave for that one day. Maybe tomorrow, they’d try again. He entered his hab suite, set the note on the nightstand, and fell into a deep recharge filled with dreams of sparks and smiles.

But the next few days came and went with no sign of the sender or of another note. He and Drift met up a couple of times, only to run into the same dead ends over and over again until Drift, brilliant Drift, suggested, “Maybe we need a change of scenery. Why don’t we go to Swerve’s for the night?”

“Please,” grumbled Rodimus. Sick of looking at the note, he left it behind on his desk as he and Drift meandered towards Swerve’s.

“We can ask around while we’re there,” Drift said. “Perhaps more than one mech is involved.”

“Ooh, maybe. Do you remember how many of us it took to get Toxin and Aquastar to just talk to each other?”

“Not our finest plan ever.”

“Hey, it worked, so it’s a win in my book.”

The sound of chatter and laughter grew louder and louder as they drew closer to Swerve’s. Ten spotted them from his usual spot at the doorway and waved at them.

“Hey, buddy,” Rodimus called as they approached. “Been holding up alright?”

The dents that were Ten’s ‘eyes’ curved into a smile. As Drift handed off his swords to him, he idly said, “Perhaps they’re shy.”

Rodimus snorted. “They’re shy, so they decided to take a shine to me?” he asked incredulously.

“Hm. Fair point. But we can’t always control our feelings.”

“Tell me about it,” Rodimus muttered against his better judgment. Drift’s optics lit up with a dozen questions. But before he could start drilling Rodimus with any of them, an enormous weight shifted the floor just in front of them.

“Captain Rodimus! Drift,” Thunderclash exclaimed with a polite nod in Drift’s direction. “Good evening. I wasn’t expecting to see you—either of you—tonight.”

Rodimus flashed a grin up at him. “When did you ever think you could predict me?” he said, placing one curled servo on his hip.

Thunderclash chuckled, biolights turning from a sparkling red to a pink shade that could have almost been red if one didn’t have an optic for color. “Fair enough,” he said. “Oh, but I really did have a question for you, Captain.”

“Shoot.”

Thunderclash’s chest swelled in a motion that could have been mistaken as him steeling himself if Rodimus didn’t know better. “Could I get you a drink?”

“Uh.” He glanced at Drift, who nodded encouragingly with a mischievously sharp grin. “Yeah, sure.”

Thunderclash beamed. “Wonderful!” he said, clasping his servos together. “It’s my treat, of course.” Drift waved his digits teasingly (what was up with that?) at Rodimus as Thunderclash led them to a table where a half-finished drink had been clearly abandoned. He pulled the seat back and gestured for Rodimus to sit. “You usually get a Solar Sweep, correct?” Thunderclash asked as he waved down a serving droid.

“Yep,” Rodimus said as he sat. “How’d you know?”

“It’s, er, a hard drink to not notice. You—it caught my optic more than once.”

Fair enough—the drink in question was a garish cocktail of neon purple and glowing orange. Swerve was a genius for somehow figuring out to keep the two from mixing into a muddy brown.

“Shame we don’t get to catch up more often,” Thunderclash began easily as he placed his shanix on the serving droid’s tray. “Though I suppose your duties as captain far outweigh your free time.”

“Everytime,” Rodimus sighed, “everytime, I think, ‘I’m done with today’s meetings!’ And then I’m not! And then I’m not!” he repeated, his voice straining in a slightly hysterical whisper. “I genuinely have no idea how there’s so much time in the day that can be spent in damn meetings!”

“Goodness.” Thunderclash rubbed the bridge of his nose between two digits. “Believe me, I can more than sympathize. Forget a life support machine, they should’ve just turned the Vis Vitalis into one enormous board room.” Rodimus snorted into his drink. Thunderclash’s smile grew. “But meetings aside, how have you been?”

“Eh,” Rodimus said with a shrug accompanied by a tilt of his helm, “you know.”

“Neither here nor there?”

“Pretty much. Oh, something weird did happen a couple nights ago…”

Thunderclash went oddly still. “What was it?” he asked carefully. “If you don’t mind me asking, of course. I’m simply curious.”

The serving droid returned with Rodimus’ drink then. He picked it up, tilting the contents to and fro and watching the colors flawlessly shift into one another. “Someone left, like, a love note on my door.” Thunderclash’s optics went wide. “I know!” Rodimus exclaimed, mostly into his drink. He swallowed before continuing. “I have no clue who it sent it, though. I’m trying to figure out through pure sleuthing skills, though. It’s kinda hard. No clue how Nightbeat does it all the time.”

“You’re plenty clever. I’m sure you’ll figure it out,” Thunderclash said warmly. But the warmth vanished beneath a suddenly cool, serious expression. “Did you find it at all… odd? Discomforting? If so, you ought to tell someone.”

“Not really. I—Primus, this is sappy,” Rodimus huffed, lazily tracing his glass’s rim with a digit, “It’s the definition of corny, but also kinda sweet?” Too focused on keeping his smile from growing too large, he did not notice the strange tension vanish from Thunderclash’s shoulders. “I just wanna know who wrote it and talk to them, ’cause I mean, this stuff is… I’d feel bad if I just ignored it.”

Thunderclash hummed thoughtfully. “Perhaps it’s more than a note,” he said mildly.

Rodimus furrowed his brow. “What else could it be? A clue? What is this, a treasure hunt?” His optics blew wide with a hot rush epiphany. “A treasure hunt!” he shouted, causing a few mechs to turn his way. “Wait, wait, hold on, I gotta—” He fired out of his seat, knees clunking the bottom of the table hard enough to nearly upset the drinks. He snatched up his Solar Sweep, downed the rest of it, and set the cube down as quickly as he could without shattering it. “Thanks for the drink!” he called over his shoulder, leaving a faintly bemused Thunderclash to stare at his spoilers as he dashed out of the bar. He transformed in the hallway with an excited roar of his engines, neatly dodging Rewind, who yelped as he went blazing past.

The note had mentioned stars. So maybe Rodimus was meant to find the next note in a place to do with stars. He slowed as he rounded a corner into a less populated hallway. The Lost Light was an interstellar spacecraft. Everything about it was meant for space travel, and by extension, the stars. How was he supposed to find one specific spot on the ship that had to do with stars? Maybe the observation decks? Lots of mechs liked to head up there just to watch the void of space roll by. Personally, Rodimus never really saw the appeal, but to each one’s own.

There were ten main observation decks on the Lost Light. He had half a mind to page Drift and ask him to come and help him look, but a quick look at his messages with him revealed he’d put himself on Do Not Disturb. For Drift, that very literally meant to not disturb him unless it was urgent. Resigning himself to an hour or two of his time possibly being wasted, Rodimus made his way to observation deck one.

There were a few mechs on duty when Rodimus arrived. He could feel the inquiry in their fields as he scrutinized the doorways, searched the tops of the desks, even looked underneath the chairs and benches. Nothing. Onto the next one.

After the six observation deck, Rodimus was beginning to suspect his initial guess had been incorrect. He was tempted to start looking somewhere else, but if he had to come back here and finish looking at all of the observation decks after all, then way more time would be wasted. Then again, he really didn’t want to have to answer ‘what are you looking for’ for the seventh time.

He slowed to a roll, engines rumbling in thought. After a moment, he pulled up the Lost Light’s diagrams and began picking through it level by level. He had no clue if this place even existed, but he had to try, right?

After a few seconds, his efforts were paid off. There, on the fifth level, was a huge circle labeled “PLANETARIUM”.

“Why do we even have a planetarium?” he muttered. This was a spaceship. It flew through space. Why would they need some more fake space inside of the ship when one could just… look outside? “Whatever. Worth a shot.”

The drive up to the planetarium was uneventful. Rodimus flipped to a stop in front of the doors, scanning it up and down for any sign of red. When he didn’t see anything, he stepped forward, the doors smoothly gliding open before him. He stood in the doorway for a moment, squinting into the empty darkness. Perhaps there was something further inside.

The second Rodimus stepped in far enough for the doors to automatically close behind him, the projector switched on with a hum, and the heavens of Cybertron glittered to life over his head.

Rodimus whistled. He walked out further inside the room, one slow step at a time, until he was in the center of the viewing platform. He craned his helm back, drinking it all in. He’d become familiar enough with Earth’s skies after his time there in the desert, working to build his way to freedom alongside the Decepticons. But Cybertron’s skies? His home? He had no clue. It was difficult to imagine. He only remembered neon lights in a city of noise and movement; bristling, dark clouds of engineered acid storms; smog from smoldering ruins of recent immolation. He took a step backward, only to freeze when something made a soft shuffling sound beneath his pede. He looked down.

There, poking out from beneath his pede, was an orange piece of paper.

Grinning, Rodimus knelt to pick it up. He opened it, and in words lit by starlight, he read:

To build the greatest empire is nothing compared to the honor of being by your side.

The hunt was officially on.

[haro-whumps]

Box Boy Meeting Mama

(CW: slavery, dehumanization, creepy + intimate whumper, implied noncon, videorecording, possessive behaviors)

Tag list:  @thatsthewhump @whump-it @ashintheairlikesnow @fairybean101 @finder-of-rings @comfortforthepain @shameless-whumper @that-one-thespian @burtlederp @castielamigos-whump-side-blog @raigash @im-not-rare-im-rarr 

Part 1

“Mama! Mama!” Ren called to the open front door, bouncing down the steps excitedly.

Their mother was a stunningly tall woman, with heavy brown hair that waved like a product model and a solid, masculine build. Her shoulders were broad, her wrists thick, and she had a jawline that could only be drawn using squares. Although her skin was free of wrinkle or blemish, she could never be described as youthful, her presence heavy and sharp in any room she entered. Her color palette was almost exclusively red, with some black and rare gold, and anytime someone told her that a woman of her size shouldn’t wear high heels, she bought herself a taller pair.

“Hello duckling,” she greeted with a bright smile, hugging her child, the only person in the world who would ever describe her as warm or loving.

“Soren!” they called over their shoulder, only half-stepping away from their mother, “Heel! Position 1!”

Soren had been told he’d be meeting Ren’s mama that morning, and had been dressed up for it, wearing what could only be called a toga and gold sandals that stretched up to his knees. He rushed to them and stood with his feet slightly parted, arms at his sides, spine straight.

“Oh there he is,” she said curiously, eyeing him over as though to judge if his presence lived up to the rumors. He stood close to Ren, nervous around the looming woman, with her sharp eyes and strong arms. Ren was his owner, so of course they could do whatever damage they wanted to him, but they knew that to a whumpee, their mama cut a much more intimidating figure. She could do as much damage with a closed fist as Ren might with a belt. Maybe more.

“You’re right, the short hair really isn’t suiting him,” she commented at length, lifting a lock of Soren’s hair, which now skimmed his shoulders. The products were doing their job. She tilted his chin and her eyes lingered on the birthmark. “But you are a cute little thing, aren’t you pet?”

“Thank you, um, m-ma’am?” he said hesitantly, body tense, and Ren giggled.

“Aw,” Ren’s mama said with a knowing click of her tongue. “Did you call my child ‘ma’am’ and get scolded for it?” she asked with a small chuckle shaking her impressive shoulders.

“Uh--um, well,” Soren stammered, which was too cute, so Ren took pity on him and kissed his pretty temple.

“He’s been perfect, lately; hasn’t messed up since, have you angel?”

“No, Exalted,” he said, obviously relieved that Ren had stepped in.

“Oh, Exalted!” Ren’s mama crooned, “I like that, that’s so classy!”

“Thanks!” Ren said cheerfully, beaming up at her. “The other option is ‘Honored One,’ which I think has a similar ring to it.”

“Good choices, good choices,” she agreed. “Well, off to Sunday brunch?”

“Mm!” Ren hummed. They gave Soren a quick kiss to his cheek, petting his hair in a smooth, swift gesture. “Behave yourself while I’m out, Soren. I’ll be back in a few hours.”

“Have, have fun,” Soren said, glancing between them and their mama, timid around her, but that was fine. If Soren wanted to see Ren as the only safe thing in all the world, that was a-okay by them.

They climbed into the passenger seat of their mama’s red luxury car, one of the smaller ones today, and arranged their skirts around their legs. Best part of skirts: Ren looked phenomenal in them and they showed off their calves. Worst part of skirts: maneuvering in them.

“He really is,” Mama murmured as she started the car with her thumbprint, “That’s your sweet little Soren.”

“I know!” Ren said with a laugh, “I can still hardly believe it sometimes!”

“Well, he seems healthy and whole, at least.”

“Mama! Of course he is!”

She snorted and pinched their cheek, eyes still on the road. “I didn’t say I ever thought you wouldn’t take care of him, dumpling. But you know how those whumpee-vendors can get, sometimes. Every couple of months, it seems like there’s some new scandal that everyone just needs to flood the news streams with.”

Ren sighed knowingly, very put upon. “It’s true. I mean, really, you’d think we’d be past the whole ‘Oh hey let’s lose our shit over this’ phase of whumpees, right? They knew the risks when they signed themselves over, and it’s not like they’re actually people anymore.”

Mama hummed. “Do we want to go for cheese and pasta or are we thinking seafood today?”

“I could go for somewhere with refried beans and pork, if you’re up for it,” Ren stated.

“Oo, fancy today.” Mama threw on her turn signal. “Guaca Maya’s always a safe bet.”

“So, did I not, express, to Soren, enough, that I loved him and liked taking care of him when we were younger? Like, why didn’t he come crawling back to me?”

“Duckling,” Mama crooned, like when they were acting just a little unreasonable about how life wasn’t fair.

“It’s been bothering me since I found him, Mama. I would have forgiven him! He had to have known that, right?”

“Honey, sometimes poor people just… behave in strange ways. They’re not rational.” She gave their thigh a sympathetic squeeze. “The more you try to make sense of them, the more frustrated you’ll get.”

Ren sighed and stroked their brow, probably messing up their eyebrows but ah, such was life. “I know, I know. It doesn’t matter, I have him now,” they said, flaring out their fingers.

“And so cute, too; he’s so nervous!”

Ren giggled. “Oh, oh! Once we get seated I’ll show you; remember how I told you I was buying all those cameras?”

“Oh, that’ll be nice,” she said, parking the car. 

They were seated at one of the better tables, the waitress accidentally calling Mama “sir” before she noticed the mixup, and after they’d ordered their food Ren pulled out their phone and tapped through the application, searching for their boy.

“Ha, there he is,” Ren said, holding out the phone screen so Mama could look. “He really likes that balcony.”

“Good thing, too, his freckles are so pretty when they’re dense,” Mama commented, taking the phone in that way the previous generation had, instead of just looking while Ren held it. Soren was seated on a patio chair, plush but waterproof, and was dozing in the late morning sun. 

“I’m glad I got him the two in one sunscreen and lotion,” Ren remarked, staring gleefully down at the screen, chin in their palm. Even though it would be fun to poke and prod at the burns, they thought privately. Such things were not meant to be shared with their mama; she would scold them for casual violence. 

“You’re such a clever kid,” Mama said proudly, handing the phone back, “Always the most prepared out of all your peers, I don’t know where you got it from.”

“Statistically speaking, probably you,” Ren said, and they both laughed. Brunch went by pleasantly, the two of them catching up on the events of the week. Mama knew a good portion of Ren’s week, since they had kept on delightedly texting her throughout, but it was always fun to eat and chat. Mama enjoyed flaunting her wealth as much as Ren did, and tipped equal to the bill, then drove Ren home.

“Same time next week,” she said before they got out of the car, “But not the week after--”

“--because you’ll be overseas, so we’ll have to videochat,” Ren confirmed, leaning across the consol so she could kiss their cheek affectionately.

“You got it. Alright darling, have a good one.”

“Bye Mama!” Ren called brightly as they got out, and returned inside. Brunch with Mama always left them feeling pleased and calm, and knowing that they were returning to Soren left them positively bouncing, skirt flaring out around their knees. They went to the kitchen to put their leftovers in the fridge,

and their mood turned on a dime.

“What are you doing with those scissors!?” they bellowed, crossing the kitchen in an instant, catching him by the wrist so hard he dropped the blades, their nails pressing bleeding crescents into his skin.

“E-Exalted, I--”

“The fuck do you think you’re doing?!” they yelled, slamming that fragile arm into the pantry door, grabbing him by the front of his toga and lifting, furious, spots swarming their vision.

“Nothing! Please!”

“The hell does nothing need scissors for?” they shouted, their face so close to his that spit flew onto it. “Do you seriously think you can just--”

“Thread! There’s a loose thread!” Soren wailed, free hand desperately pressed against Ren’s chest. They stopped, breathing hard, rage still curling in them but paused, just for a moment. Soren hiccupped on his little sobs and shakily moved his hand to point at the strap of his toga. “T-*hic* There’s a l-loose thread, Honored One,” he said, lifting it so they could see. Thin, unnoticed when the clothing was delivered, hardly even visible without someone pointing it out. “I, I was snipping it. I would never hurt you, Exalted, Ren, please, I would never, I’m not a fighter, I wouldn’t hurt you, please,” his fingers curled in the front of their blouse, “please, never, never. I wouldn’t, Honored One, please believe me, I wouldn’t, I wouldn’t.”

Ren released his wrist, their fingers trailing down his skin and leaving bloody marks. They took a deep breath, and let it out, releasing his toga and lifting their hands to his face, cupping his cheeks. “Oh, baby,” they murmured, trying to calm their heartbeat. “Oh Soren,” they said, pressing up against him, his back flush against the pantry door, their face pressed into his hair. His gorgeous hair, that he wasn’t going to cut. He hadn’t even been thinking about it. His first concern was that Ren thought he would hurt them, use the scissors to fight; cutting his hair was so far from his mind it never crossed it. 

They stood there, pressed up against his quietly crying body, for an indeterminate amount of time. They pulled back when they were calm enough, and silently took the thread between their fingers. They leaned down and bit it, snapping it easily, and then kissed Soren’s birthmark.

“Go ahead and clean up the mess you made,” Ren said, glancing at their leftovers, which were now spilled across the kitchen tile. “I’ll go get some disinfectant for your wrist.”

“Thank you,” he said, high and quiet and Ren felt okay enough to smile at him. They kissed his pretty lips, thumbing at the tear tracks, half-dried, and left the kitchen. But not without first grabbing the scissors, taking the blades with them.

Next