#mtmte x reader

[fizzyy-pop]

i often think about what it would be like if you were friends with cybertronians and they didn't know about humans and their weird gut-instinct thing. because they don't really have that!! we gained that through evolution due to being a predator-prey species for so long, they didn't.

thoughts under cut due to length!!

imagine living with them/hanging out with them in their ship or base, and suddenly you get this deep, sinking feeling in your stomach, your heart starts racing and your senses are on high alert. you feel like something bad is about to happen, so you make the bots around you aware. they don't believe you at first, because you're all just hanging out! nothing is happening at all, there hasn't been any enemy activity in a while either. 'maybe you've been hanging out with red alert too much lately,' one of them muses, shrugging off your concerns.

a short time passes and the feeling has only gotten worse. you're gripping onto the fabric of your pants and have your head on a swivel. the bots around you keep glancing at you in concern, worried that their sweet little human friend might be sick. one of them leans over to you, about to ask if you need to go see ratchet when suddenly��

there's a cacophony of shrill sounds, alarms and yelling, maybe even the sound of metal tearing somewhere? you can't tell, you're too busy being whisked away by someone; big, strong metal hands cradling you close to a chassis as they frantically try to get you somewhere safer.

after the whole fiasco involving enemy infiltration had been dealt with, a couple of bots who remembered your statement that something bad was going to happen tried asking you how you knew. you tilted your head in confusion, saying that it had just been your gut instinct. after a short explanation on how it works in humans, many just laughed it off saying that it was ridiculous to believe that primal instinct of all things could warn you of danger that hasn't even happened yet. 'that's like saying your subconscious mind can see into the future, it's impossible.' one of them says.

however, it soon happens again with a sparkeater attack. and again with another enemy ambush. and again, and again, and again. you just keep saying you feel like something horrible is about to happen and it does. you're right every time and no one knows how you keep doing it!

it happens so often that now whenever you make it known that you feel wary of a situation, everyone's plating immediately squeezes tight to their frames, and they're constantly on the lookout for danger. if you say you don't trust somebody, everyone is automatically keeping a sharp optic on them, not letting a single odd activity from them slide.

if you're on the lost light, i just know brainstorm would call you his early early early warning system. he would also try to run experiments to see just how far your instinct can go, and then would proceed to get in trouble with ultra magnus for putting you in dangerous situations. and red alert would like you in every universe, you're like his security buddy! he would seriously appreciate having someone who can let him know in advance that something is about to go down so he has ample time to prepare.

in other words, some of the bots are pretty freaked out by our weird instincts and abilities. however, they can see how it's beneficial! they all love to have you around, strange future-danger-sense or not. :)

[robolvrr]

f-r-e-a-k !‿⁠✷｡✧

lost light members react to human porn (and develop some preferences of their own.)

ft. skids! megatron! rodimus! swerve! ultra magnus!

nsfw under the cut.

rodimus prime - top-five ranked

when he first heard actual, genuine human content had reached aboard his ship, he had quickly formed a half-assed meeting to announce that he, of course, being captain and all should review with ultra magnus.. and perhaps rewind too, before dispersing it out to the crew.

of course when ultra magnus expressed his surprise at this new leaf turned, eager to scour through intergalactic protocol he simply let one word out the other audial and made some grave, grammatical errors to distract the mech and let the captain do his own decision making.

he spends a lot of time nitpicking. he doesn't like movies as much so he reserves those to swerve nor does he care too much about books.

a functioning computer however....

he's bored. and curious. two demons that never dwell well together in the same room.

clearing browser history? never heard of that!

good thing the previous owner has lots of bookmarks, because he finds it infinitely easier to sift through links there than carefully type.

"porn...hub? what's that? must be some kinda uh.. uhhh... uh."

cue the fan whirring. he's hunched over and slack jawed, staring at the frankly color-clashing archive and almost pushing himself away when the cursor hovers over a video - and the humans in it start moving.

clicked the first video with a bold "#1 ranked". he really shouldn't. he really, really should just toss this tempting contraband out the nearest garbage disposal.

"unhh! harder! haaarder! ♡"

he's focused hard on the spike - cock, he learns, or dick, humans got lots of funny terms - ruts rough into you, forcing you to melt forward and squeak through sheets.

the loud, exaggerated moans make him pitifully decide otherwise. imagine him, all weak in the knees, sliding down to sit as he watches transfixed.

flesh on flesh hitting sounds a lot better when it's this and not fighting.

sooner or later, he's huffing into his servo, jacking off his spike and squeezing the tip so rough he's almost jealous seeing you bouncing away. you'd be so, so fragging soft. he can imagine squeezing your limbs and twisting you around to his liking.

overloads fast. he's almost ashamed enough to be embarrassed.

now? can't reach his climaxes unless there's some raunchy, wet-coated squeals in his memory banks. doesn't bother searching up anything because he doesn't have the patience to cultivate. you just happen to be at the top so he gladly sticks watching your holes get sticky any cycle.

skids - playboy bunny

"oh for prime's sake, chromedome don't make me feel like i'm trading for somethin' illegal."

won a "mystery stash" from a late night gamble. of course, not all of rodimus's finds stayed quiet.

he isn't sure why it's such a big deal. the cardboard box which spills open easily under a digit's care isn't filled with weaponry or bombs.

it's almost funny, this giant picking up a magazine in a pinch, helm tilted and keeping it an arm's distance away like the pages might bite.

he looks at the front cover for a long, long time.

his processor isn't catching up. then he squints. gets reaaaaal close.

there's you! all dolled up, as the humans would say. except you're really not, because half of your squishy aft is out, and your servos are covering up your chest but aren't doing a good job.

neither is the bright, blue bow christened at your pelvic area, where he realizes with a jolt is lacking any modesty panels of any kind.

flips a page. oh, it's you again. curved over a lounge. cheekily spreading yourself with a... gathering of lace twisted around your frame.

another one. you got something round in your mouth. he looks carefully at your lips.

and then he's flipping through all of it, and digging into the box and oh, he's found a jackpot because it's all you.

now he understands why it's got the markered "collectors items" on the side. he doesn't question too much when he spits lubricant down onto his spike. dedicated some of that cotton candy gossamer all over your february edition of playboy in approval.

megatron - classic erotica

a true mech of literature. now, unlike many of the lost light, he's had his run in with humanity before. not that he particularly got or wanted to enjoy their culture back then.

though when he did find his way back onto a possible path of redemption, he did indulge once upon a time.

at his spark, he's a poet. a linguist. enjoyer of golden age, art and craftsmanship.

earthen literature has its.. moments. he reads novellas and lost to the history manuscripts, plays, all of which have almost all been uploaded to more convenient means as upkeep for the paper is a pain.

however, he has found one book. a funny looking book, with a funny looking cover.

he observes, rigidly, the scandalous embrace of what he assumed to be the characters, how clothing lacked in areas it shouldn't and skin was almost.. glistening. "seven nights of passion." a chuff left his dermas.

ah, to pit with it. why not?

megatron finds himself slowly involved with the chapters despite the comedy of its advertisement. the writer, you, no doubt under a penname, push development shockingly far.. for a human.

and the intimacy? interfacing? so descriptive. while he has not seen what he is reviewing, he can imagine it. images of sweaty bodies, grinding and yearning and crying.

cybertronians have no reason or function to. the thought of a human, pushed to the brink overloaded with stimulation is... stimulating.

it is a shame when it comes to an end but he might in his free-time peruse for more. leaves his plating warm and intake dry.

the authors note suggests that your inspiration drives from personal experience.

his ... array fizzles at that. fascinating.

swerve - r-rated movie night

"wowza. that's hh. haha. woah! they all do that.. ?"

first movie he flipped onto the projector was supposed to be an "action and feel-good film with hints of romance, angst and sci-fi elements."

not even halfway through, you, the imaginary captain of the imaginary "roman's ravager" have your uniform shimmied down to your ankles, mouth mashing against your supposed rival, who everyone has been heckling for the past forty-five minutes.

some of the mechs cheer, other grumble and argue to skip, others squirm and grimace. swerve watched you push the other down, head tilting back as the camera zooms to your face.

"it's just acting, ya' degenerates, stop acting like protoforms!"

it isn't until he feels a servo smack upside his helm that he starts fumbling for the remote. too much noise but now he's getting a comm from mags asking about what the rackets for so! fast forward he goes.

at 1x.

while the chaos starts to settle, he peeks between digits. catches glimpses of your open mouth. the goosebumps down your chest. how you shake at the insinuation that someone is between your legs, servicing.

slag. when's the last time he's even played with his valve?

movie night was a hit regardless of the commotion. he has to clean up after, which thankfully didn't result in any expelled energon or skid-marks.

that also means he's alone. alone, in his bar. all by himself, staring at the rest of the discs with your pictures on the front, credits humming in the background.

it'll be good for the economy. (all of it is pirated.)

maybe it's for the best. because now, he's realizing you really are a great actor, in lots of different genres, able to adapt and really grab his attention.

it's not as if his spark pulses seeing you in costumes, or using that soft voice you do in all your roles when you make a point.

not like he's riding his digits and crunching into a fist when you're running on the beach, sand dappled and leaving little to imagination.

ends up on his back, charged up and shaking. hurts to speak, to move or to dab up the puddle of transfluid, laughing deliriously when his panels are even too much effort to close.

ultra magnus - audio praise

"you're doing such a good job. you're perfect. you know that, right? yes you do, so good for me."

when he first heard you, he damn near crushes the auditory device and full-blown shudders in the confines of his hab. he's sputtering, optics wide and there's a million reasons he should report this to rodimus and question just what he's given him.

"to help ya uh... research? take the edge off pal."

half-contemplates storming back to the bridge himself if it weren't for your sugar-coated mumbles still coming through the unpaused recording.

you'd think he was dealing with a ticking blast with how he warily handles the device, gruffly spitting out curses that he'd otherwise never allow in crew vicinity.

"i want you to reward yourself. you earned it, honey. can you do that for me? here, listen."

to his horror - and crumbling interest - a slick cacophony of sound rattles in his helm. there's panting, a shift of material that he assumes is tangled around you and frag, he's able to think up you and a thousand faces.

what's worse? is he's hypnotized. you don't demand. you coo to him, just loud enough to let him know you'd be broken too. if he let himself let down that wall, just for the twenty minutes you sing in his audials, he'll know it's done with you just as weak.

"g—gooood job ahhhh!" that does it. ultra magnus groans, shutting off his optics entirely. his large servo feels up along his frame as you suggest.

"i wish you were here. hah.. mmn! could see me. see me fucking myself to you. let you kiss me. you deserve it, sweetie. deserve me on you."

magnus and the sobbed growl to his motors reminds him just how lonely he's felt. always monitoring. always stressed. hearing the spit collect at your throat as your commands grow hoarse makes you feel real.

would you... would you kiss him? would you let him pick you up, rest you flat on his servo and have his glossa lap up your want?

he towers over nearly all. having a partner so much smaller, tinier than even an minibot, shouldn't run up a charge but it does.

he overloads when he's sticking digits near the casing of his spark, ignoring the spurts of pre sizzling down his thighs.

"w-was that as fun.. for you as it was for me?"

dazedly falls onto his berth. this isn't leaving his dermas unless he's had a drink.

a/n : a little haha funny idea i had. there's just something so funny thinking of these giant old robots realizing just how much porn is out there.

[sparkriddledfever]

Gi-Give me married/conjunx endurae Rodimus.

He's such a simp for his spouse but it's so sickeningly adorable really. He be slumped in his chair, twiddling or drumming his digits against his thigh. Sighing for god knows how long that it makes Magnus twitch and Megatron roll his optics before shaking his helm.

It was cute in the first half, now? It makes them wanna purge. He's whining about how he rather be with his spouse than out here, wanting to know what you're up and missing you like crazy even though you both saw each other 5 hours ago.

He likes his space from time to time yet to his processor, it's pure agony to be away from you.

When he's able to get off shift, he's zooming down the halls, ignoring Magnus yells while on his way to you.

He loves his spouse, you guys.

[justarandomweeb]

Otay, saw requests were open and just wanted to yeet a Drabble idea/scenario so basically my sleep riddled brain had a thought “which Yandere LL bafoon would absolutely totally not misuse their knowledge of a Y/N who has tics with echolalia”

Context: I had a recent tic where I heard someone say “I love you” and I just started ticking “luv ya” for a minute. So imagine Rodimus “accidentally” setting off a tic like that. Or Rung realizing that tics get violent when stressed so he ever so kindly offer to be a grounding presence (basically a living weighted blanket) for when tics get bad to prevent the dear sweet liaison from getting hurt. Totally not because he wants to hold them noooo

Sorry if this makes zero sense I’m about to hit the hay like a sack of bricks.

(A/N) I didn't wanna offend anyone with tics since I don't know much about tics but, I definitely understand the struggles of having vocal stims and unconsciously saying words that that does not have aaaany correlation to the talk.

Oh its definitely Rodimus, he may laid back, and annoying but god you can't deny that he can be smart and sneaky and at times. Especially after the trigger, now that Tailgate has a taste, being the chatter bot he is talking about this encounter to Cyclonus and Whirl in the bar and now who in all ears? Swerve and if it hits Swerves radius, sooner or later every bot in the ship are trying to make you repeat those sweet sweet words of I Love You, treating you like a damn parrot.

Oh Rung, he's probably one of the bots you honestly say I love you without any embarrassment, he's such a nice bot that you don't feel any shame when you say those words compared to others. He has such a calming presence that those affectionate and warm feelings makes you feel happy that you'd even say I love you to him. But of course its definitely embarrassing to say I love you to anybody, especially your co-worker, maybe after the whole fiasco you can definitely tell him.

Ultra Magnus and Megatron is a 50/50, they got that imposing presence, but at least they won't make it into a big deal and make fun of you by cooing and asking you to say those words again. Right...?

Naudica, Skids, Tailgate, Rewind, Drift and Swerve, you can tell them I love you platonically, pfft I mean its not like they're into you so hard and delulu. Noooo its not like they have you saying I love you rent free in their processor, giggling like school girls in their rooms, no sirrrrrr.

[xaythefreak]

I love Rung and Swerve so much, like imagine being in a relationship with both of them and it's just "us and the bad bitch we pulled by being autistic" /hj

silly losers who cling onto you at all times and kiss you all day </3

[megtrns]

not to sound insane but i'm bedridden at the thought of being intimate with these giant bots — no, not interfacing (although that's also great), but rather the nervous brushing of fingers against servos, the firm press of skin against metal, the bend and curve of muscle to cradle the shape of their armors. 

fort max, who came to life in the crux of war and violence, wiping a stray eyelash from the corner of your eye, servos faintly trembling as they tentatively cross the space between your bodies. unsure and afraid of hurting you, he tries not to exert too much effort, constantly reminding himself that just because his mass was displaced doesn't mean he didn't have the strength to tear mechs apart with his bare hands. his optics, garnet red under the distant starlight, soften the moment you lean your cheek against his open palm; the skin under his touch, smooth and organic and alive with a warmth he didn't know existed. 

brainstorm running his digits playfully over your face — tickling your nose, your chin, your ear — causing you to giggle against the pillows as he conducts a thorough examination for the purpose of 'science', using it as an excuse to 'stimulate your nerves' and make you smile. here, face to face with him above the mattress, with laughter embracing your bodies like a weighted blanket, you let him gently trace his servos across your lips. the scientist, drunk on studying you. 

swerve letting you throw your arms around his neck — body melting against his chest plates, nose already buried at the crook of his neck cables to express your sympathies. you were one of the few people who see through the chink in his optimistic armor, always trying to cheer him up even before he even realized he needs the comfort. and how can he not feel better already, when you were looking up at him like he hung the stars for you? 

perceptor catching himself in awe of human irises and the myriad of colors they take after. he thinks it's beyond fascinating that, for some, the eyes reflect the color of their seas, cerulean blue dissolving against white foam. and other times even the forest, their strange and halcyon woodlands dense with emerald trees that sway with the wind. but most curious of all, he thinks, is the color of the earth : darker than rust yet radiant like the sun — a shade that doesn't naturally occur on his planet, swimming like liquid gold behind your eyes.

megatron, elusive and distant, anchored by the delicate weight of your fingers above his servos. when he saw your hand sliding across your lap from under the metal table — using the distraction caused by whirl in the middle of a crowded night at swerves — to move closer to his, megatron had thought about stopping you. he thought about retracting his hand to excuse himself back to his hab-suite. but the ex-warlord is tired and worn, powerless against the sight of your affections. so he let it happen — and it was fleeting, only a brush and barely a touch. yet it went straight to his spark like a jolt of electricity. just like that, under your fragile, tiny hands, the mighty has fallen. 

[alice-angel12x]

Transformer mafia Au

I made an animatic a while back, forgot to finish it, but here is most of it. Here is a fun little MTMTE transformer animatic au I made. The lost light comes across a Space mafia, with their mysterious and scary leader.

[safisufa]

[drabbletron]

The French Variety??

Premise: Lost Light members learn of human “French” kissing. || Cybertronians already know about kissing (as they use the term a few times in the comics), but what about French kissing?? Is tongue/glossa common use? Potentially. If we look at Alex Milne’s multi-volume transformers zine (exclusive to conventions to my knowledge) Hot Motor Oil. There is an image of the pairing MegOpLita and in it we see that there is a strand of saliva (pink as they are cybertronians) connecting Megatron and Elita-one’s mouths. For the sake of this idea though, I will pretend that they don’t really go that extra mile to shove their glossa in each other’s mouths. || Swerve has the most knowledge of this practice and its name from the fact that he has consumed so much Earth media. He has always wanted to try it with someone, but so far no one has been a viable option.

Tailgate unfortunately cannot participate. He wants to so badly, but he has no glossa and no lips. That doesn’t mean he can’t use a holomatter avatar, but he really wanted to do it as a cybertronian.

Fortress Maximus has never heard of it. Since he was built during the war there’s hardly been a need to investigate those kinds of things. He isn’t opposed to trying it if his partner is into it, but he hasn’t really had the chance as he was a warden for so long.

Megatron was never one to be interested in those sorts of things and is in a similar bucket as Fortress Maximus. He has commented on being lonely but handling that sort of thing requires a lot of trust and patience, something that he is so very new to (depending on whether this occurs after the events in the Lost Light comic).

Rodimus is super all in about it and has seen humans doing that up close and personal once or twice in his time on Earth. It was weird at first, but it ended up growing on him. He would totally be down to learn to do it and is fully interested in practicing with you.

Skids is intrigued as he is very good at learning new skills, and if this skill can be used against you in some way then he is doubly for it. He masters it so easily and he is always wanting to learn and do new things with you so expect lots of questions about it and other things of that nature.

Trailcutter/Trailbreaker is caught off guard at the idea, but he can easily be brought around to the idea of doing that sort of thing. He does write it off as some sort of thing that humans do that’s a little on the weird side, but nothing he can’t handle. He’s surprisingly good at it when he applies himself to it.

[cyberrose2001]

HUMAN PET AU <3

Ratchet finally comes home from working all day at the med bay, the poor medic is tired as hell and just wants to relax in the comfort of his own berth. Fortunately enough, ratchet owns an exotic pet. A human he has grown fond of. They are fully trained and even have their own collar (with the message “Please return to Ratchet if lost” written on it), they have also learned how to help Ratchet de-stress by letting him use their hole as his personal flesh light <3 His happy little human loves becoming his cum dump to help him get his frustrations out, such a helpful little pet <33

any continuity of ratchet is fine (pick ur fav!), afab but gender neutral reader please and thank you moni 🙏❤️‍🩹

A Sight For Sore Optics - Human Pet AU

IDW/MTMTE Ratchet x human! afab! gn!Reader

Hi Gem! Thank you so much for your request, I was literally foaming at the mouth ready to write this. To make this more anatomically possible, Ratchet's spike transforms to a more "safer" size. So I hope this is good please be good (I haven't finished reading mtmte yet so forgive me). Also if I have missed any tags please let me know!

Warnings: Xenophilia, Size Kink, Collaring, Oral (both receiving and giving), Masturbation, Praise Kink, Cum Dumping, Mild Dubious Consent (?)

Word Count: 2.3k

18+ ONLY MINORS DNI

Another day, another few thousand miles of endless space, another few sickly bots. Additionally, a few unkempt humans requiring attention due to poor conditions from their previous owners. With the new organic additions to the Lost Light at the captain's approval, Ratchet had found himself biting off more than he could chew, looking after bots and humans. Oh, how he wished he took up an organic health course or something other than primarily relying on Brainstorm's fervent research on the tiny creatures. Between juggling it all, Ratchet was unsure how much more his threadbare servos could take. Still, there was one thing the old medic was unmistakable about. He was tired.

One good thing, he must admit, is that he gets to return to you. His own human pet, a personal 'Thank you' gift on behalf of the entire crew for his selflessness and hard work, provided with you a basket with fundamental necessities. But the basket had long since been used up, and he had transformed it into a makeshift cot for you. It'll do for now, he had thought.

He was initially still trying to figure out what to think of you. Apart from very rudimentary health checkups and nutritional foods, there wasn't much that Ratchet could provide for you. There's not many enriching activities for such a tiny human like yourself. Until that is, he discovered something quite unusual that had been exhibited in almost every human adopted by the crew so far.

You have an insatiable libido.

Ratchet was unsure, if not downright nervous if other owners were to discover how incredibly beneficial humans could be. Whether or not they had already learned was an entirely different story. It wouldn't surprise Ratchet if that was the very reason why human pets were approved, though it seems shocking. It all seemed so innocent enough, adopting humans for the cuteness factor for the mechs on board. But as with most things, there's always more than just the surface level of what the optic sees. And Ratchet was already way too far below the surface.

Punching in the code for his hab suite, Ratchet waits eagerly for the door to open with twitching digits. He steps inside, tossing whatever work essentials he has on hand on the first bench he sees. He'll worry about reorganising later. Right now, he needs some pet therapy and a well-overdue overload. The dull ache behind his panels only gets stronger as his pedes carry him to his berthroom to you, curled up on his berth. It looked as if you neglected your rudimentary cot, choosing to sleep on his berth instead. The medic can't help the softened expression as he melts at the sight. Of all the things he didn't think he deserved, he never once expected it to be such an adorable little thing like you.

He lets his pedes wander over to you, like countless times before, careful and delicate. He always told himself that this 'fling' he had with you was only temporary and that it was purely for his curiosity, but he tends to find himself aching for you repeatedly. He can't help how his racing neurocircuits seem to fizzle out and calm down when he lies with you.

A roughened servo brushes over your hair to slowly stir you. It looked like you had been napping for some time now, which he believes is a good thing. Brainstorm did say that humans tend to sleep better in environments they consider comfortable. The gentle brushing causes you to stir and lift your head to greet him, though in a language yet to be deciphered. It's a pleasant greeting, and Ratchet can tell they're happy to see him. Something along the lines of 'I missed you,' he'd like to think.

"Hey, squishy. I missed you too," Ratchet smiles warmly. He brushes the hair away from your neck to reveal a collar, "You haven't ripped it off yet. Seems like you like it, hm?"

A slight, sleepy nod in confirmation, you've grasped at what he said. Ratchets' digits trail down to the collar, a small silver plate that reads 'Please Return to Ratchet If Lost - HabSuite ###" engraved in Cybertronian. Not that you tend to wander off, but more or less a just in case. Plus, he gets a thrill seeing his name attached to you. He thumbs it gently, admiring his handy work.

"I'm glad you do. It took me quite some time to make," Ratchet tugs at it softly, beckoning you to come closer. He watches you climb onto his lap, "Such tiny adornments are complex to create, 'specially with hands like mine." A servo cups your back, his thumb moving to play with your soft chest. He shivers when he hears a tiny whimper from you, and you seem eager to play with him already.

"I've had a busy day," A mechanical noise of shifting gears as his spike slides out of its housing, "I think you know what I need." It's well and truly bigger than you, much bigger than your tiny body could ever take. But the way your eyes light up in excitement assures Ratchet that you are more than pleased, already desperately taking off your quirky frame coverings. He eyes off your cute organic valve, notices how dripping wet it is, and staves off a moan.

"C'mere for a second," Ratchet scoops you into his servo to bring you closer to his face. He gets a whiff of your arousal, so earthy and addicting. The more you spread your thighs for him, the more he can smell. He brings you to his intake and licks one hearty stripe up your folds.

Oh yes, he thinks. Better than energon. Better than any high grade to ever pass his dermas, like a warm drink that soothes and revitalises his senses. It thickens on his glossa, groaning at the taste as he swirls it around your little node. He watches intently as you squeal in delight, your thighs trembling around his cheeks and how your little face contorts into one of pleasure. Well, he had always presumed it was in pleasure; you've never exactly shied away from his glossa. He hums when you feel him grinding, desperate little ruts chasing the vibrations.

Ratchet licks one last time at your slick, pulling away to observe. Oral lubricants coat your valve thickly, the sensitive area reddened from his torment. His optics wander up; your soft skin is already flushed and glistening with sweat. He wonders how close you were to overloading; it wouldn't have taken much longer if he had kept going. But his spike grows restless, throbbing against his abdominal plating, begging to be touched by much softer palms than his own.

"Do you want my spike? Hm?" Ratchet teases, "My big spike?" He knows you can't fully understand him, but he can't help but vocalise his salacious fantasy. Holding onto you carefully, he lounges back onto the berth. He bites his bottom derma and lowers you to his lap, showing you his engorged spike, "Go on then, have at it. I'll frag your little brains out soon."

With an encouraging nudge from Ratchet, you straddle the shaft. To anyone else, it looks ridiculous. A tiny human desperately attempting to wrap their arms around a spike that's two times taller than they are. But to any depraved fleshy fragger, it's a sight to behold. Ratchet once thought of snapping a picture to potentially maybe sell it to the highest bidder for those who crave the feeling of such a soft body grinding on them, for he is sure there's a market out there somewhere, probably more than half of the crew onboard. Still, the shame of it all prevents him. There's an image to uphold being the resident medic.

Besides, he'd much prefer to keep you and that curious tongue all for himself.

He feels your little licks along him, a tiny tongue wiggling through the grooves and smooth surface, reaching crevices with hidden nodes that cause his pedes to curl. Soft ruts of your hips press your soaked valve right up against him. He knows what you want. The medic brings a servo to grip around his spike with you squished between, only tight enough to keep you in place as he begins self-servicing himself. He hears you letting out a surprised gasp, then a muffled moan, feeling your grip tighten around him.

"Yeah? You like that, squishy?" Ratchet moans, moving his servo slightly faster, "I bet you-nghh do. You look so cute like that. So tiny pressed against my spike."

Only a taste of your warmth is given through your body, like the little tease you are. Ratchet feels the perspiration dripping off you, likely due to the rise of his internal temperature and the energon being solely diverted to his array. It makes for a mediocre yet acceptable lubrication. He could spike you with it alone, but Ratchet prefers to use alternate practices in the interest of your health. Primus knows how careless other Cybertronians can be with their pets.

The medic is becoming increasingly aware of his overload and yours by the looks of things, your little optics squeezed shut, and your limbs clamped tight around his girth. He consciously decides to stop before you reach it. The idea of you squirming on his spike played on his processor a bit too well. He hears your soft whine at the loss of friction, which Ratchet can't help but chuckle at.

"I know, I know. I'm so mean, aren't I? Hold on, squishy." Ratchet lets you rest against his palm while his weeping spike whirs and clunks inwards to a much more manageable size for a human. His spike may be smaller, but there's not much difference in sensation. Thank Primus for the minicon-compatability modes, "You alright?"

A small squeak from you, yes. The medic watches intently as you waste no time climbing on, guided by his careful servo. You press your little valve against the tip, hissing as it barely slips through. Ratchet digs his pedes into the berth at the intense sensation, gritting his dentae as you bottom out. The feeling is incomparable to anything else; it's uniquely organic, warm, and so, so much softer than mesh.

He then wraps his entire servo around you, effectively turning you into one perfect spike sleeve only for him. Perfectly snug inside you, his grip clenches and unclenches around your torso before gently unsheathing himself from you again.

Ratchet is always careful when he uses you in this manner, ensuring his grip isn't too tight. He pushes you back down again, and he feels you melt into his servo. He hears your little whimpers and cries for him, to go faster, he believes. He learned a long ago that he doesn't need to understand your verbal mumbles when your fleshy hips try to hastefully force yourself down onto him, only halted by his own hand. His grip ever so tightens and gives in to your desperation, or more or less his own.

"You're so good for me, squishy. Hah- Lettin' me use your little valve like a toy." Ratchet mewls, his helm lolling off to the side as his optics flick between your face and the way his spike disappears inside you, "Such a helpful little pet you are."

He feels your velvet walls clamp down on him with each and every praise he gives, your little arms draped over the top of his thumb, clinging on for dear life. Every now and then, he massages your breasts pressed up against it, eliciting more dirty moans from you. Such softness that he can't help but take advantage of.

"So- ngh- tight," Ratchet vents heavily, "Primus, you've ruined me for my own race."

He felt a twinge of shame hearing himself; it was as if he had entirely let himself go. But he knows he can no longer turn back, not when you're the best little creature to ever stumble into his life. Despite him having you wrapped around his digits, it is indeed him wrapped around yours. The relief you bring to him after every gruelling shift, after every stressful day upon this damned ship, had him truly addicted.

And with an internal affirmation of decadence and with your soft little valve clenching and pulsing around his spike, he's sent right over the edge.

"Frag yes, sweetspark!-" He glitches out, pressing you down on his thick shaft as far as your soft little body can tolerate. His energon pulses deeply and shocks his entire body with an overload, shooting gush after gush of transfluids into you. His frame lurches forward, his hips driving into the berth as he milks his throbbing spike, his servo driving it deeper into you in a lust-filled daze. Your whines and cries only spur him on more, and he doesn't stop until you're shaking like a leaf in his hold.

It takes only a few more moments for a spent Ratchet to collapse back with you still in his grip, albeit slumped against his thumb. You're panting hard, and he can only just feel your tiny heart pounding against him. You must have had your own overload by the looks of it if the bliss-filled smile on your soft lips is anything to go by. His optics linger down to your soft, distended stomach and the dripping mess that splatters across your thighs and onto his pelvic plating. Now that truly is a sight for sore optics, he thinks to himself.

Ratchet huffs, bringing his other servo to pat the top of your head, "Now there's my happy little human, huh?" He smiles warmly when he feels you leaning into his touch, "How 'bout I fill you up some more?"

If this was what it took for the old medic to de-stress and relax, then so be it. If he were to be exposed to the rest of the crew, then may he join the rest of them. In secret, for now, he will proudly declare himself a lover of organic flesh.

[michaela-o]

Here’s some evening doodles before playing path of titans again😌❤️

I love the concept of human lialison on the Lost Light. Literally can’t get enough of it🥹❤️❤️

[fizzyy-pop]

thinking about cybertronians with a human reader who proves their love and loyalty to them by going against their own species.....

although you've told them countless times how you want to help them– whether it's helping the lost light crew find the knights of cybertron, or helping the g1/tfp bots find a way to get back home to cybertron, ect– they also understand that humans stick together above anything. they're also well aware that you have dreams and aspirations of your own, aching and yearning to fulfill them, and have pushed them aside temporarily to help them reach their goal.

that's why they tense up and fully expect the worst when they run into the enemy team with you by their side (whether it's M.E.C.H or G.H.O.S.T or some random stray corrupt government group) and instead of fighting, the bastards turn to you and try to remind you of where your loyalties should lie; with other humans. not an invasive, destructive alien species. they offer you everything you could ever want in return for backstabbing your beloved giant mechs and femmes... free schooling for your passions, infinite materials to create or research or explore. a perfect home in the perfect place, the one you've dreamt of since childhood.

imagine their surprise when instead of throwing yourself at the offer, you throw yourself into a screaming tangent about how stupid and insane they must be for even thinking that you would ever betray your friends, your family. when you said you would do anything for them you meant it, and absolutely nothing they offered you would change your mind.

the bots absolutely light up– literally. their optics blazing bright and their plating shivering as they realize how serious you are, to have turned away your own people and the ability to live the dream life you've always deserved because you believe their missions and their goals are far more important than anything.

after that incident, you'll find yourself drowning in soft glances and gifts, sweet praise and blatant admiration. every request you make is fulfilled swiftly and thoroughly by your big bot friends. and although you can't understand why just yet, you will soon come to discover it's their way of paying you back for your loyalty and kindness; because if you always do the most for them, who would they be to do the bare minimum for you?

[sparkriddledfever]

I'm normally not big on babies, however, i can't help but melt at the thought of these tough, war torn bots cooing and playing with the little uns.

Optimus is usually a busy mech, always at the ready should someone need him. Though it's tough for this soft giant to peel himself away from the cooing baby in their playpen; call it whatever you want but it makes his coding purr happily whenever the baby squeals joyfully when he comes into sight.

"Have you been good for your parent?"

Cue baby babbles.

"So I heard."

He's always got that baby to sleep easily. Nobody knows how he does it, but the parent appreciate it all the same.

Ratchet no matter how many times he tried to deny it. His day and others in the medbay brightens up when the liaison swings by with their bundle of joy. It took so much to keep himself from cooing when the liaison points at him "Who's that, huh? Is thhaaatt Ratchet? Wanna say hi hi?"

His spark clenches when the baby cries after getting their updated shots. He may be a grouchy grump, but he never liked hearing little uns cry so he may or may not have played peek a boo which made that smile come back quickly.

No, First Aid, he does not have a clue what you are talking about. If he finds out this gets out, he will skewer your lines.

Drift and Rodimus always seem to find their way to get some playtime in with the youngest crew member. Drift definitely felt himself ascend to some place cause the little gummy smile with the two teeth peeking out up at him had him dying and crying.

"They're so cute," he sobbed, "how do you do it?"

"Oh trust me, It takes a lot to keep myself from kissing their cheeks aggressively at bay."

Rodimus making funny faces or tickling them always makes his day. He definitely ranked them to the "most official cutest baby around".

No, Rodimus, you cannot throw them in the air.

Bumblebee is always so good with kids, but imagine his surprise when they start picking themselves up. He had to drop everything, lower to his knees and watched in awe as they started slowly and stumble their way over to him on their feet.

Frag it! He should have a camera! This is important! He cheers when they collapse in his servos, door wings fluttering while quickly comm'ing their parent.

Jazz is another mech who got a soothing presence. He always entertain the baby babbles, humming them to sleep, etc. He's the most relax and easy going that you could call them buddies since the baby is always wanting JUST him if Optimus is not there at the base.

He always laugh when they squeal happily at the sight of him. Taking them into his arms and going on a "lil ride" around the base.

Ironhide. Ohhhh, he was a sucker immediately. He can hide it under all that grouch like Ratchet, but the little tiny hands on his while holding their bottle made him vent. His optics are staring fondly as sleepy, dropping eyes stared back.

Don't tell him about the fact when you press your thumb against their foot their toes curl. Almost to mimic as if they're curling their hands around your finger.

"Why are you fraggers so cute?"

"What was that, Ironhide?"

"Nothing."

[wifetomegatron]

perceptor wants to study you. afab!reader. nsfw! drabble. skirt mentioned.

Perceptor is a scientist. It is his job to learn. To observe. In many ways, when the situation calls for it, it is also his job to solve things. The most reliable questions to answer were equations, solid and truthful: numerical variables were tangible enough to pull apart and rebuild without straying too far from his reality. They only have one answer.

But you were different. A moving target that never stood still. Always changing and taking him by surprise. You were a blow to his ego. And that caught his attention. A beauty that had no source in his stout and unyielding world. The possibilities were endless.

He wants to drink you dry.

" Open your mouth."

His voice was barely short of a whisper. Do all humans have this ability to render sentient beings speechless, to rob the room of any sound? Maybe they are also capable of manipulating magnetic fields: of defying the laws of gravity to knock their opponents off their axis. That would be dangerous. It was a good thing that you didn't see him as a threat. Not when you were looking at his past your lashes, eyes coy — fingers drawing circles around his shoulders.

" My," You hummed, " How bold of you, Perceptor."

Have you always had this lilt to your voice? He searched his processor for a comparison — the water running down the creek back in your green organic planet, the lonely echo of bullets as they ricochet, the tentative hum of a spark as it reignites. None of them comes close. He feels sick. Dizzy. Maybe he needs to go and see Ratchet.

" Open your mouth, please."

He repeats himself. Voice surprisingly level, even though it felt like his vocalizer was going to snap. And that earned him a smile. He did nothing to warrant your laughter, and yet you indulged him like you always do. Tongue — pink and wet — peeking past the row of pearls you call teeth as you tilt your neck gently backward. His hand moved instinctively, dwarfing the back of your head for support. 

He pressed the pad of his thumb flat across the soft surface and felt the metal sink. Your eyes fluttered shut, legs, slightly parting to let him slot his body in between. He held you in place. Chest to chassis, the thin fabric of your shirt did nothing to hide the subtle race of your heart.

Sinew and muscle, humming, unlike anything he's ever heard. 

This is for science, Perceptor tells you, retracting his servos to pick up his PADD, mind bursting with a flurry of thoughts. He couldn't even remember what he wrote down. He will have to review it later. 

He runs a few more exams. Medical needs it. And yet he had offered himself to run them. He says it was also crucial for his research. 

What kind of research, Ratchet had asked him.

A personal one, he had replied.

No one stopped him, especially not when you were so eager to help.

He kissed you on the lips. Tentatively, once, twice. You sighed into his mouth. Lips soft. Too soft. He needed to know if you were just as delicate between your —

This is for science, Perceptor tells himself, already sinking onto his knees. You were a plethora of texture, so different from his biology. So far from the mundane. While he clings almost religiously to the dependable — facts, numbers, metal — the purest, rawest form of science is the unknown. He nudged your knees with his nose, wider, and you wordlessly complied. 

Every scientist is an explorer at heart. And what is more unfamiliar than the feel of your skin? 

Perceptor rubs up and down your thighs, feeling you shiver. His cooling fans clicked to life, reacting, responsive. And this pleased you. And you pleased him.

Prettiness is symmetry, all things in the right place. And yet you were an artifact of unknown beauty, with no origin, no source. All things have to start somewhere — stars were born out of gases, sparks out of a mass of positrons supercharged by energon. But where did you come from? So alien. So different.

If the Earth was your creator, then you must be molded out of clay, shaped by her gentle hands, not carved, for he was sure even under his touch you would break. That the slightest misplace of pressure would shatter and scatter you into pieces.

But humans were known to be resilient. He likes to call you generous instead. Ever so giving, ever so kind.

Today, you wore what you called a skirt. Isn't it pretty? He doesn't have much to say about its color other than that it was practical and worn with a purpose. An invitation.

You mewled in encouragement when he pressed a kiss square against the plush, wet slit of your cunt.

Perceptor is a scientist. It is his job to learn. To observe. In many ways, when the situation calls for it, it is also his job to solve things. And there is still so much he wants to learn from you. He wants to map every sensitive spot that made you gasp and writhe. He wants to chart every delicate twitch, every clench. And with your body arching atop his table — sweat dripping down your brow, you were his muse.

But make no mistake, this was a symbiotic relationship. You were also studying him, changing him. ( He was certain you've ruined him for anyone else.)

Perceptor knows he should have stayed as an objective observer, standing on the sideline. Yet you were a very seductive hypothesis, just waiting to be kissed to life. There was lubricant leaking down his chin as you reached your high, nails scratching the back of his helm. Objects cluttered off the table in the distance, yet he continues to drink.

You broke his idea of truth, and Perceptor lets you.

[til-all-are-loved]

{This Charming Man Part 8}

MTMTE Megatron x Reader | SFW

Word Count 2.3k ao3

You exhale. Then again, slower.

It was nothing. Just a pleasant exchange. Nothing more.

Except, the satisfaction of knowing you entertained him, pleased him, earned that rare reaction—should have ended at that. A small, private victory. 

But it doesn’t. It lingers in the way your skin feels too warm, the way your mind replays that half-smile, the way he said goodnight.

Like a glass of water and oil that had been shaken violently, the satisfaction curdled like tiny bubbles of oil reconstituting themselves. 

“I can’t believe I was able to pay attention to the whole movie!” Tailgate interjected, reminding you that you weren’t alone. 

On a night like this back home you would be driving home purely alone, with nothing but the open road and mixtape in the CD player. A blink of silence with Tailgate was enough to make you forget that the vehicle you were currently a passenger of was a whole other person. Secretly you mourned the peace of driving alone.

“I’m glad you stuck around,” you murmured quietly “next time I’ll pick something animated. Promise.”

Tailgate dropped you off at your door, dithered about wanting to see Cyclonus, and sped off.

You would end the day in satisfying solitude. 

---

The bridge was quiet at this hour, save for the occasional murmur of a passing officer. You had decided to head there early to do some writing. You sat tucked away at one of the terminals, fingers poised over the keys, your “report” already well underway. It was, at this point, a self-indulgent habit rather than a duty. Two weeks had passed since the last movie night, in that time there was absolutely zero correspondence from Earth Command. 

You had debated rescinding your resignation. Even if something was done about it, it's not like you could even go back to Earth. The Lost Light wasn’t scheduled to return to your solar system for another year, not even your human handlers could force them to drain the quantum engines to turn back. 

And if Earth didn’t know that you had become compromised, then there really wasn't any reason to let the command of the Lost Light know either. You’d keep your secrets in the pages of your own digital diary.

Typing away at a surprising pace, your thoughts flowed effortlessly onto the document. Unburdened by the need to uphold professionalism.

Cycle 631, 04: Megatron called me to the docks. I went, no hesitation. I’m beginning to think that’s a problem. He took me beyond the ship. Just a short flight, for the first time I saw the Lost Light from the outside. I don’t know if he meant to give me that sight, or if he simply wanted to see what I would say if we were alone. He spoke of history like it was a wound still splitting open. And then he listened, I believe he listened—as I told him I believed he was trying to mend it. The way he looked at me then… No, I won’t write that down. Cycle 631, 06: I invited him to movie night. I don’t know what I expected, but then he showed up anyway. Honestly I don’t think I really payed the movie much attention. And when it was over, he said— He liked it. That alone would have been enough to send my heart skittering, but then, as he looked at me he smiled. Not a smug asshole smirk, an honest-to-god, genuine attempt at a smile. It wasn’t practiced. It wasn’t perfect. It was just real. I haven’t stopped thinking about it. I don’t think I want to.

You paused before diving into the entry for the present day

Cycle 631, 30: No messages from Earth. No word, no acknowledgment. I should feel lost, unmoored, but instead I feel like my mind has been refocused on being part of the Lost Light. I write these records like they matter, like they’re for someone. But they’re not. They’re just for me.  Megatron has sought me out on occasion lately, for instance the other day. Not on the bridge, not under the guise of duty, but me. He said he was checking on my “health and wellbeing”. And the way he spoke—made me feel like the tepid water between us was finally starting to feel warm. Or at least that's what I think.  I caught myself smiling when he left. Ridiculous. This is getting out of hand. I can’t write his name without my fingers hesitating over the keys. I can’t replay conversations in my head without feeling light. This is nothing. It has to be. At least I can believe my feelings are completely one-sided and at least that feels safe. 

Ridiculous. Absolutely ridiculous. 

You hit send abruptly.

---

The early hours passed you by as you kept busy. You hoped that you appeared studious while bouncing around the web. Your search queries included academic topics like: Poetry Analysis Techniques, Literature To Impress Your Crush, and Top Rated Alien Romance Novels. Very critical and work-related research. 

Bots filtered in and out, submitting reports, and conducting their work. Their mechanical workings created a unique atmosphere of busyness. Until, the typical ambience was interrupted by heavy pedes pounding into the room.

From your place near the secondary console, you could see the tension unfolding—a verbal storm brewing between mechs, their voices rising and falling in clipped, controlled bursts. It wasn’t your business.

Rodimus stood his ground against a senior officer, an Autobot lieutenant. His name didn’t matter—his presence did. He was stationed on the Lost Light from launch, before Megatron’s co-captaincy, and he wore that history like armor.

“You’ve been operating this ship like an experiment,” the mech’s voice edged with frustration. “This was meant to be an expedition, not a political stage. The crew grows restless. And you—” he jabbed a finger in Rodimus’s direction, “—allow too much slack. What is this ship if not a rogue element at this point?”

Rodimus, to his credit, looked exasperated rather than riled. “Sounds like you’re saying I’m the problem,” he quipped, arms crossed. “Which, hey, fair. But unless you’re gunning for my job, I suggest you get to your actual point.”

“My point,” the commander snapped, “is that too many compromises have been made. Too many allowances for distractions, for—” his helm wrenched sideways—directly at you.

You stiffened.

“—for irrelevant personnel.”

The words landed firmly. A clean dismissal.

You weren’t the focus of this discussion, yet suddenly, you were.

Another mech, emboldened by the sentiment, cut in.

“She doesn’t belong here.”

It was said so simply, so carelessly, like you were just another logistical issue to be sorted out.

“Ambassadors don’t have clearance to oversee command-level disputes, like schedules,” the officer continued. “She is not a ranking crew member, nor does she hold authority in any sector of ship operations. At best, she’s a guest. And at worst—” the implication hung there.

Your fingers curled against the edge of the console. Rodimus straightened, clearly about to step in, but he wasn’t fast enough.

The temperature in the room dropped.

“She remains exactly where she is.”

The conversation stopped. The tension in the room froze. Pin drop silence.

Every optic turned toward him.

He was still seated, still composed, but something in his expression was razor-sharp. Megatron’s optics burned like embers beneath the focus of his glare, locking onto the mech who had dared to speak out.

“She is not here by your permission,” Megatron continued, voice dangerously close to a snarl. “And she will not be removed at your whim.”

A beat of silence.

Then, the bot ex-vented sharply, clearly not one to back down. “Megatron, this is a command space. If nothing else, protocol dictates—”

He moved.

It wasn’t loud. It wasn’t violent. But in a single, fluid motion, Megatron stood.

Pedes scraped against the metal floor as he rose to his full height, shoulders squared, every inch of his frame settling into an overwhelming posture.

It was rare for Megatron to throw the weight of his presence into a room like this. He didn’t need to. His authority was written into every part of this ship’s hierarchy. But this—this—was different. He wasn’t asserting command.

He was asserting something else entirely.

Most of the uninvolved mechs resumed their duties, the air of efficiency resumed. The lieutenant shifted uncomfortably but was not ready to back down yet..

“You would bend rules for an organic?” the second mech scoffed. “I thought you, of all people, understood the cost of—”

Megatron moved again.

Faster than you could process, he turned—and in a single, controlled motion, he reached for you.

You barely had a moment to realize he closed the distance towards you.  Before his massive hand closed around you, lifting you with frightening ease. His servos pressed around you with a restraint so deliberate, you could almost mistake it for gentleness.

His claim over you unmistakable as he placed you at his side near the central command console.

Standing beside him, disoriented and heart hammering, you barely registered the way his fingers briefly curled against your frame before pulling away. You swiftly tidied your clothing and appearance before quickly standing at attention with your hands behind your back. It took everything to peel your eyes away from your feet. 

Then, his voice—steadier now, but no less sharp:

“You seem confused.”

He turned his optics onto the mechs.

“She is not optional.”

The lieutenant  looked as if he wanted to argue. But there was no space left for it. He exited the bridge. 

Megatron had spoken.

And the matter was closed.

The murmurs resumed gradually, like the tide rolling back after a storm. No one addressed what had just happened. Optics darted toward you before quickly returning to their stations. No one wanted to be the one to dwell on it. 

You waited. Not immediately, not foolishly, but long enough for their attention to fully drift elsewhere. Then you turned your gaze upward.

Megatron was already watching.

It wasn’t a piercing stare, nor was it the unreadable scrutiny he so often wielded. It was something settled. A silent knowing passed between you, neither of you smiling, it was unmistakable. A look exchanged between allies. Between friends.

You inhaled softly before speaking. “Thank you, Captain.”

His expression didn’t change.

“Am I dismissed?” you asked, voice measured, professional.

A pause. Then, with the same gesture as before, Megatron lifted you once more, lowering you carefully back to the ground. As soon as your feet touched the floor, his hand withdrew, as if the act had never happened at all.

You nodded once, adjusting your stance, ignoring the way your knees wobbled. Then, without another word, you turned and left.

—-

You weren’t sure how you ended up here, tucked away in one of the ship’s quieter observation decks with Megatron standing just a few feet away. Maybe you had wandered. Maybe he had led you here. Either way, the bridge was long behind you, and the lingering weight of all those staring optics had finally peeled off your shoulders.

The silence between you wasn’t strained. Your hands felt a bit too clammy, your body still buzzing with the leftover adrenaline of being claimed so publicly.

“You didn’t have to do that,” you finally said, keeping your voice steady.

Megatron didn’t turn right away. He stood near the massive viewport, arms crossed, watching the endless stretch of space. “Would you rather I had let them dismiss you?”

You huffed, shaking your head. “No, but... Megatron, that wasn’t just asserting authority. That was…” You gestured vaguely, because how the hell were you supposed to put that into words? That was something I don’t know how to name.

He finally looked at you, unreadable as ever, but his optics weren’t hard—not like they had been on the bridge. Whatever fire had been in them earlier had cooled.

“If you do not yet understand,” he said slowly, voice firm, “then let me make it clear.”

His gaze didn’t waver.

“You are not insignificant to me.”

The way he said it—so simple, so matter-of-fact, like it wasn’t even up for debate.

You swallowed, blinking up at him.  Your fingers curled at your sides before you hesitated and—

“…Can you pick me up?”

Megatron blinked. Then, after a moment he ex-vented, bent down on one knee and lowered his hand.

You stepped into his palm, feeling the way his servos adjusted around you as he lifted you effortlessly. His other hand came up, shielding you from the open space, like he was instinctively keeping you protected. It made your stomach do something weird, but you ignored it.

“Closer,” you beckoned.

If he was surprised by the request, he didn’t show it. He brought you to his chest, and you shifted forward, pressing against the broad, solid plating of his frame. Your arms didn’t reach far—couldn’t, really—but you still held him, as much as you were able.

He went very still.

His plating felt warmer here than his servos. Embracing it felt like leaning against a steel door that had been facing the sun– or, well, like a hot car. Soft clicks and hissing tubes could be heard beneath his armor, undercut by a very low thrum.

For a second, you thought maybe you’d overstepped, maybe this was too much, but then his fingers curled ever so slightly around you, holding you in place.

You shut your eyes, exhaling softly. “Thank you.”

Megatron didn’t respond right away. But eventually, you felt something—a shift in the way he held you, the weight of his presence easing just a fraction.

“…You are welcome,” he murmured.

You stayed like that for a little while longer. Just long enough to let it mean something.

---

[star-gxze]

asking for them pads

reader with period!!!!

rodimus

rung

ratchet w/ drift (?)

whirl

starscream

pt2??

gn lovlies

zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz