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sightseertrespasser · 2 months ago

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Odds of Survival Part 8

Per usual, the tf mecha au was spawned by @keferon

Prowl and the flyt he said he didn’t want: “It’s not an ESA, it’s a tool for detective work that runs on food and affection.”

Anyways why do pets always look like their owners?

———————————————————————

Prowl had approximately 6 breems before Elita finished cleaning her skull.

The tactician added 4 additional breems to account for time spent in adding the piece to her skull throne. On average, Elita One spent between 8 to 13 breems total on “personal art projects” as a way to unwind after intense battles.

As soon as Prowl was within comms range, he had sent an encoded message to Red Alert suggesting Breakdown intended to plant listening devices on the exterior of the Lost Light.

Nevermind the fact they were working on the same damn side.

That trick would keep the mech busy for at least 5 breem.

Typically, Prowl was the first to defend Red Alert as an invaluable head of security. His paranoia secured their defenses so well, security chief had completely countered every infiltration attempt by the Functionalists to date. That said, the price of privacy for their ship was Red Alert having a total monopoly on it instead.

The distraction was not only so Prowl could have a single minute of peace, but also to ensure the security officer did not interrogate an injured and highly unpredictable mech.

Because Jazz might actually give Red Alert a spark attack. (;7%)

Prowl tried to rub away the ache between his optics. Tacnet thrumming angrily with pent up, unfinished calculations. Most of which were completely defunct now thanks to the violator of numerical probability sitting in the medbay.

Jazz…

Fragging Jazz.

Prowl shut the door to his office. He could feel his helm getting warm again. He’d need to take what time he could to sort his processor before the logic cascades that had been accumulating since he found the mech became too much to manually keep on pause.

Luckily, the tactician had discovered a secret technique to unraveling Tacnet build up without requiring a constant cycling of industrial grade coolant.

Prowl unlocked the wardrobe-like habitat next to his desk.

A faintly cool breeze sighed from within, as the thawing process completed. Uncurling in response to the change of stimuli, a flyt woke from brumation to look at her praxian with bleary eyes.

“Hello Green.” Prowl eased a servo beneath the flyt. “we have much to discuss.”

As Green tucked herself against the ambient warmth of his frame, Prowl activated the large screen built into the adjacent wall.

“I met someone today.”

Tapping away, creating categories, connection points and theories arranged by probability, Prowl slowly filled the screen with a tree of possibilities.

All the while, conferring with Green to ensure his thoughts stayed at a conversational pace, rather than whirl through the labyrinth of his mind at breakneck speeds.

“-and then, he gave me his designation number, except it’s just a completely nonsensical string of seven numbers!”

Green squawked at the audacity of the mech.

“He did space out the numbers while reciting it. Two eight four, pause, four three four, pause, five five zero eight.” The praxian typed in the numbers, adding dashes where appropriate.

He muttered, mostly to himself, “This had better not be some sort of prank.”

As Prowl continued to verbally filter through his mental evidence locker, Tacnet finally straightened out the concrete math of the situation.

“Jazz is either an alien or a lost government experiment. Alien 57%, cybertronian 43%” The screen automatically supplied a pie chart, superseding several lesser graphs beneath it.

Prowl tilted his helm back and sighed, expelling all the hot air he’d holding behind locked vents at once.

Tacnet had finally. Finally, attached a precentiall figure to Jazz’s existence. The sheer relief of that knot untangling was better than any oil bath. Rolling his shoulders and neck, Prowl continued.

“There are two schools of thought regarding The Jazz Situation.” Prowl divided the board in two beneath the chart.

“The first, was that Jazz is a wholly alien mechanical lifeform, and it is through convergent design that he happens to closely resemble a cybertronian. Albeit with various physical abnormalities.”

Green squawked.

“Precisely. Until the language barrier is further overcome, we cannot rule out the second theory either. That Jazz is a creation of the Functionalists. It would account for the physical abnormalities while removing a significant amount of uncertainty the Alien Theory comes with.”

Prowl gathered a small bit of skitter. Green didn’t have much appetite immediately after waking, but the prospect of food still served as positive reinforcement for her “help”.

Ostensibly, caring for the flyt was supposed to take Prowls processor off of work. Jokes on his government assigned therapist, Green was a fantastic assistant and confident.

While he did care for his brothers, Smokescreen was explicitly unhelpful when Prowl latched onto something intellectually stimulating. Constantly cajoling him into going to bars or casinos or wherever else the elder Praxian considered “actually stimulating”.

And Bluestreak, meanwhile, was a mech physically incapable of keeping a secret.

“You don’t try to get me overcharged or tell everybody about the Mesothulas Incident.” The tactician cooed while scritching the underside of Greens beak.

Nevermind it was the same night.

Green trilled happily at the attention and praise, waking up more thoroughly.

“I’ll see about introducing you later. Jazz shows no discomfort concerning organics and I predict a strong likelihood he will appreciate your work.”

Just as Prowl was about to close the theory board, a comm came through, making him pause with a servo still hovering over the screen.

[VELOCITY]: Update about the patient for you sir.]

Speak not of Unicron lest he appears.

[PROWL]: Go ahead. Do you need me to come back to the medbay?]

[VELOCITY]: No, he’s not displaying any adverse behavior you warned me about. His common is very rough though and he’s definitely struggling to understand my questions and clearly articulate his answers. Outside of that, the patient seems fairly relaxed actually.]

Rough? Jazz had been making steady progress with his language acquisition. He should be capable of understanding and answering Velocity’s questions with 76% accuracy.

[PROWL]: He did suffer a helm injury, though I am certain you’ve taken that into account already.]

[VELOCITY]: I already ran a simple cognitive test and he passed without issue. I’d have to open his helm up to make sure, but he otherwise seems completely fine mentally.]

Prowl settled himself at his desk, tapping the surface absent mindedly.

[VELOCITY]: His other vitals are what concerns me however. By cybertronian medical standards, you brought me a talking corpse.]

Prowl stopped tapping.

[PROWL]: Elaborate.]

[VELOCITY]: The patient has no energon, no nanites, and no spark signature. He’s absolutely covered in the tiniest welds I’ve ever seen, which I should not be able to see if he had even 5% of the nanites a healthy mech should have.]

[PROWL]: Does he require more intensive medical treatment?]

[VELOCITY]: That’s a bit complicated to answer. He’s an alien so I’m not sure what his baseline for healthy is supposed to be. And if what you say about prior medical abuse is true, I don’t think he knows either.]

[VELOCITY]: He’s taking repairs like a champ so far. I can see he’s had a ton of previous repairs that all look clean and well executed despite being done without anesthetic.]

There are other kinds of avoidance than just physical aversion. Jazz is being compliant to get through the repairs quickly but faking confusion to avoid deeper medical questioning 88%.

[PROWL]: Unless it is to ask for consent for a procedure, you may desist questioning the patient for medical information. Rely on your own observations and expertise to form any pertinent theories.]

[VELOCITY]: Understood. The patient has turned down any deeper scans around his helm and chassis and I don’t want to push it on a first time check up. I’ve finished fixing his feet and the replacement part for his shoulder is almost done being machined.]

[VELOCITY]: I want to deal with his visor and helm sooner rather than later, but that’ll take a much more thorough scan to deal with. That’s all I have to update so far. His arm won’t heal on its own so I need to concentrate on rewiring the sensory network manually now.]

[PROWL]: Understood. Contact me immediately if anything changes.]

One more horrifying concept to add to the list. He was completely and utterly reliant on potentially manipulative doctors to fix even the most minute scraps and pains. No wonder Jazz had the pain tolerance of a Titan.

Prowl went to pull his data pad from subspace to update his Jazz Theory Board and stopped short with a full body cringe.

He gingerly took out Jazz’s missing shoulder and placed it on the table.

Prowl shuttered his optics.

The fact he forgot he had another mechs shoulder on his person was a testament to how badly he needed to defrag tonight. He briefly considered comming Velocity, but didn’t want to interrupt her operation on delicate wiring. Besides, if Jazz lacked a self repair system, then it wouldn’t matter if the piece was original or machine made.

It was such a fundamentally wrong concept, Prowl was unsure whether he’d prefer that to be Jazz’s natural state (51%) or a condition inflicted on him by whatever sadists created him (49%).

The tapping sound of beak on metal pulled Prowl back into the room.

“Green, do not.” He said sternly, lifting the flyt away from her object of fascination. She looked at him with pitifully wet eyes at the unhappy tone.

The praxians wings drooped. With some difficulty, Prowl attempted to project his EM field in something like “Your actions displeased me but I harbor no ill will towards your being. I am simply under a significant mental load and find the prospect of you attempting to eat a piece of someone’s body fairly distressing and ask that you discontinue that behavior and not act on any future impulses to put foreign objects in your mouth.”

What he got was a wobbly Meehm-blah-sorry-sad.

Flyts were supposedly capable of picking up on EM fields (12%). Prowl suspected Green was simply quite good at interpreting his body language and tone (88%).

In either case, Green responded by attempting to groom his plating, cooing softly. Organic EM fields were small and alien, but with practice and exposure one could begin to map one’s field to cybertronian equivalents. Green radiated a lightly brushing sympathy of sad and want-happy.

Prowl gave up on his field projection practice, and idly returned Greens affection with physical pets. If that damn therapist asked, he’d count it towards his quarterly goals.

That mech bothered him. Not just because he put limits on his workflow or for the one sided glaring contests Prowl would enact during their sessions. But because for the life of him Prowl could never remember his name. And that missing data point drove Tacnet crazy.

Everytime Prowl tried to investigate where the therapist even came from, something always came up distracting him from the task.

In a moment of determination, Prowl reached for his pad to look up his own therapists name on the ship’s registry and paused mid action.

The tactician turned his gaze back to the morbid weight resting on the desk.

His brow furrowed.

Lifting the piece closer (where Green couldn’t get at it), Prowl inspected something odd along the surface of the shoulder.

It looked like a row of staples protruding from the metal.

It looked like ladder rungs.

A frantic banging on Prowls door interrupted his introspection. He quickly subspaced the shoulder joint.

The indignant voice of Red Alert carried through the door, yelling to be let in immediately.

Prowl sent a few consecutive pings to clear the board, reduce interior illumination by 40% and then finally allow the chief of security entry.

Red Alert stumbled in through the sudden opening, plating misting off the residue frost formed by the chill of outer space. His optics darted rapidly around the dimmed interior, landing on the stone faced mech seated behind the desk.

Impassive and unreadable, the only signs the tactician was alive were the cold glow of his optics and the servo lightly stroking his pet. The flyts beady eyes bored into Red Alerts. Silent and unwavering.

Mouth suddenly dry, the mech was unable to form words.

The desired effect was achieved.

“I’ve been expecting you.” Prowl did not offer him a seat, as there was none to offer.

Red Alert got a hold of himself and puffed up his plating.

“Why is there an unauthorized mech on board this ship and why did I only hear about through gossip?!” Red Alert’s voice cracking the last word into a higher register.

“Jazz is authorized to be here. By me.” He offered Green a bit of skitter. “And by our captain. I found him stranded in open space after he fell out of a Quintesson gate tear.”

The smaller mech blanched slightly at the sight of an organic feeding. Prowl estimated the presence of Green would speed their meeting along by a factor of 120%.

“So you’re just bringing home random mechs then.” Red Alert flapped his arms at his sides. “How do you know he isn’t a Functionalist spy? Or a High Command spy? Or a third party spy?!”

Prowl raised a single digit. “One, Velocity has confirmed Jazz is absolutely an alien lifeform and not cybertronian in origin.” He held up a second digit. “And two, he fell out of a quintesson gate tear in the middle of empty space.”

Red Alert began to pace the room. “Okay fine. He’s not a plant for any cybertronian factions. How do you know he isn’t some kind of twisted Quintesson creation? Maybe he was created to infiltrate our ranks, and then a sleeper agent switch flips and he kills us all!”

“He is not a quintesson creation.” Prowl plainly stated to Red Alerts increasing exasperation.

“And how do you know that?!” Throwing his servos in the air.

“He likes music.”

Red Alert reset his optics. “Come again?”

Prowl cleaned off his servo with a rag in his desk, and played a low quality snippet of Jazz’s music that he’d managed to capture.

Red Alert startled at the sudden unfamiliar sound.

When actually was the last time any of them had heard new music? Before the civil war at least.

Prowl continued, “Quintessons do not value nor comprehend alien aesthetics. Their culture revolves around expansion and material acquisition and whatever may qualify as “art” to them does not equate to our understanding of it. They have absolutely no records of partaking in sound based recreation nor of collecting samples from other cultures.”

The snippet cut short. “Simply put, quintessons don’t know good music. Jazz does.”

Red Alert was loosing steam, but still had one more point to contend with.

“Isn’t just too improbable though?” Hands on the desk, leaning as close as he dared. “That out of the entirety of the universe, Jazz just so happened to pop out exactly next to the shuttle you were riding on, conveniently alone, unconscious, unharmed AND he gets picked up by high ranking decepticon?” For once, it looked less like Red Alert was fighting him, rather than pleading with him.

Prowl tilted his helm slightly, “You are correct. The odds are unfathomably low. So low in fact, it is nearly statistically impossible to achieve such a scenario on purpose.”

Quintesson gates were finicky. They had a margin of error the breadth of planets. That was also usually their targets however, and quints weren’t picky where they touched down.

“But-“

“But what? I have addressed every concern you have presented.” Prowl flared his doorwings. “I found a lost mech of a new alien species that may very well be an invaluable ally in the war against the quintessons. It’s a valuable opportunity.”

Red Alert balled his fists, fear manifesting as a last burst of rage. “It’s a trap! It’s an Oil-Pot! It is so obviously a purposeful manipulation when you look at it from the outside!”

The security officer began counting on his digits, “Step one! Put a handsome mech somewhere in need of saving so the target feels like they’re in control and the hero. Step two! Ramp up the flirting and the codependency, they need you so you stay in touch and start giving in to more of their requests. Step three! The Oil-Pot gets you alone somewhere under false pretenses where they SPLIT OPEN YOUR PROCESSOR AND SCRAPE IT FOR SECRETS!”

Red Alerts fans blasted hot air around the room. The mech challenging the Praxian for whatever excuse he had this time.

Prowl stood. Taking his time to return Green to her habitat.

“What am I most known for?”

For not the first time since entering his office, Red Alert was knocked off balance.

“I..uh. Math?” He stammered. Knowing the answer but not wanting to say it.

Prowl lacked that reservation.

“Any spy worth their shanix would have done their research thoroughly before even attempting such a scam. If one were to sift through information on me organized by Decepticons, the most prominent word would be Efficient.”

Prowl leisurely shook out Greens cloth-mop nest of any remaining ice crystals.

“If they sourced their information from the Functionalists, that description would include the word Ruthless.”

Prowl gave the flyt one last scritch before closing the door.

“Other popular words I’ve cataloged in relation to my name include Cold, Severe, Sparkless, Unfeeling and Merciless.” The smaller mech shrunk a little with every addition.

Prowl stepped around the desk in the dimly lit room to stand directly before Red Alert, servos clasped behind his back. “With this information available, any spy would be an idiot to attempt an Oil-Pot against me specifically. Ask nearly any mech aboard this ship if they think I’d go out of my way to save a stranger for no apparent benefit and they’d tell you No.”

Red Alert fiddled with his servos, torn between a nervous tick and the pressure to be professional. “If that’s all true, then.”

He chanced a glance at Prowl face, which gave away nothing. “Then why did you save him?”

“Because they are wrong.”

The room brightened back to normal levels, as Prowl sent a ping first to the lights and then to open his office door. He held out a servo, gesturing to the exit.

“Until further notice, Jazz is to be treated the same as a rescued non combatant. He will be kept under observation but not interrogation. We can work out the details at a later-“

[VELOCITY]: Jazz is gone.]

Prowl closed his servo. His doorwings twitched once. Red Alert tensed.

[VELOCITY]: I just finished the last repair and when I turned around he disappeared from the medbay. The guards outside didn’t see him.]

Prowl marched out the door, pulling Red Alert along in the direction of the security office. “I require your assistance immediately, as Jazz is currently loose somewhere on the ship, unmonitored.”

The tactician endured the security chiefs well earned tirade the entire way. Prowl kept a steely grip on the situation, only barely convincing Red Alert not to raise every alarm on the premise that Jazz would be easier to find if he didn’t think they were looking for him.

Tacnet stubbornly held onto the 56% saying Jazz was experiencing a delayed negative reaction to his medical care and was acting out of fear.

A steadily growing percentage screamed sabotage in a voice annoyingly similar to Red Alerts.

Said mech was almost cheery with vindication, in between vehemently describing every way the Lost Light could explode with the next few breems.

Red Alert worked fast. Sifting through the camera feed at a dizzying speed. A camera caught Jazz quickly slipping out of the medbay. Barely escaping the notice of the two mechs tasked with keeping watch. Prowl noted their designations for later scathing admonishment.

“The port side door lock is time stamped as malfunctioning just before Velocity discovered Jazz’s disappearance. It looks like the lock experienced an extremely localized electromagnetic pulse, putting it in Safe Mode.”

Red Alert switched the camera feeds on the main screen. “After he rounds this corner he just vanishes. I can’t find him anywhere on my system.”

Prowl nodded. “Good. Then I know exactly where he has to be.”

There were very few places to hide upon the Lost Light. Red Alert made certain of that. Which by extension meant that someone desperate to stay out of any camera views would have an extremely limited amount of space to operate in.

That space would normally be un-traversable, unless the mech in question was in possession of incredibly powerful magnetic augments, allowing them to crawl along the ceilings.

Prowl sent out a flurry of comms, updating Elita and calling in trusted reinforcements. He set out down the hall.

[PROWL]: What rooms aboard this ship do you not have any cameras inside of?]

[Red Alert]: The war room. The Captains quarters, your office, the therapists office and the operating theater.]

[PROWL]: There’s a camera in my berthroom?]

[Red Alert]: I mean. It’s not like you use it?]

Prowl consistently removed any bugging attempts in his office. Half the reason he kept Green in there was to deter Red Alert from trying. The other half was because he legitimately spent more time there than in his quarters.

He mentally crossed off his office, Elita’s quarters, the operating theater and the therapists office from the list as each one had someone inside at the time of Jazz’s disappearance.

All that left was the war room. Windowless, minimalist and with only once entrance, Jazz would be cornered like an animal in a trap.

Prowl gathered several of the least impulsive guards he could summon on short notice. Lining them along the hallway, he ordered them to shoot to disable. Prowl added that he would make an attempt to talk the mech down before escalating further.

If Jazz was spec ops (44%), the only benefit of infiltrating the war room would be to plant listening devices in its purposefully sparse interior. If Jazz wasn’t acting out of malice, and simply having a panic attack (56%), he may still react violently to suddenly being cornered.

Matchup: Close quarters fight Jazz versus Prowl. Jazz victory 97%.

The 3% in Prowls favor mostly depended on Jazz having some kind of sudden health emergency.

Prowl carefully assumed a neutral pose, knocking on the door to the war room.

“This is officer Prowl speaking. Please exit the room peacefully, we do not want to hurt you.”

Silence, save for the shifting of many nervous peds behind him. Prowl risked opening the door a crack, keeping his body well out of the line of fire. “Jazz, it is Prowl speaking. I need you to say something. Otherwise we’re going to have to come in.”

When there was still no response, Prowl signaled for the gathered soldiers to come closer in preparation for a raid.

On the silent count of three, they entered the war room, blasters drawn and optics searching.

Prowl kept special focus on the ceiling. Fanning his doorwings, He created a real time 3D map of the room, tracking every mechs movements within.

Jazz wasn’t here.

Instantly, Prowl prepared to order a ship wide mech hunt. They’d already wasted so much time with their one sided negotiations. The tactician began rerunning his mental map of where Jazz could have disappeared.

Elita had already sent him several unhappy comms messages about what she was going to do to the alien and him if Prowl didn’t find them. Confirming between threats that Jazz hadn’t gotten into her room.

Velocity had Nautica and Nightbeat in the med bay with her, turning the place upside down in case Jazz doubled back.

He found the comm line for the therapists office.

[PROWL] We have a rogue, possibly unstable mech loose within the Lost Light. Are you inside your office?]

[RUNG] Ah Prowl! Good to see you reaching out to me first for a change. Just finished up a lovely talk with Jazz.]

[RUNG] I think he has something important to tell you.]

———————————————————————

I am generally intrigued by the concept of how being apart of the Decepticon’s pecking order messes a person up.

There’s references all over to how Prowls physical and mental well being got absolutely wrecked and is now in recovery from being apart of High Command. (Inspired partially by @glitchgh0sty’s Deception AU go check ‘em out they’re cool.)

I also wanted to explore the social side of things.

Prowl makes himself unapproachable on purpose, Elita makes acts of excessive violence on her enemies a prominent display and Red Alert is even more invasive than normal.

It’s all to ward off other Decepticons from sensing weakness and stabbing them in the backs. Younger mechs like Bluestreak and Velocity can get away with being much more relaxed and friendly because they’ve got scary ass mechs like Prowl and Elita behind them radiating the “I will fucking destroy you.” energy on their behalf.

We get to see the masks slip a bit here and there. Red Alert genuinely concerned for Prowls safety underneath the paranoia. Elita gives Jazz and Prowl a lot more freedom than an actual tyrant would, even if it’s granted with over the tops threats of physical violence. And of course we see a lot of what Prowl is actually like removed from the pressure of behaving like a “proper” Decepticon.

Wonder what will happen when a certain mecha pilot gets a crowbar under those masks.

-SSTP

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#tf mecha universe #writing #ye

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tinydefector · 11 months ago

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Megatron rut cycle

Word count:1.9k

Warnings: smut, nsfw, somewhat non-con, Consent given, G/t, oral, sex, valveplug, heat cycle, rut cycle, human/robot alien

Sorry this took so long ended up on a holiday, and then got sick but here it is before I work on editing another prowl piece I wrote while sick.

Masterlist

Megatron masterlist

Rut cycle masterlist

_______________

Megatron optics land on one of the humans that was still inside the autobots base. Megatron wasn't planning on sticking around after the agreement had been struck with Optimus. The human moves around reading screens and taking down notes unaware of Megatron's presence in the room. A pen hangs from their lips as they work. their presence in the Autobot base causing a stir amidst the rut cycle chaos. Their attempts to assist the bots do not go unnoticed by the Decepticon leader, his gaze lingering on their form as they check charts and read energy levels. "Hey OP was checking your energon level readings like ratchet said…" they start before turning only to tense up and freeze when they realise it wasn't Optimus standing there. They instinctively take a step back, a subtle sign of their unease being in a room by themself with Megatron.

Megatron's optics continue to linger on them, tracing their form as his engine snarls in need, ruby optics narrow as he watches each little movement from them waiting to see how they would respond. Their eyes dart around looking for one of the Autobots, their breathing becomes slightly shaky and the scent of fear and the subtle Arousal has Megatron exventing almost like a snarl. "Bee!" the human shouts out, their voice filled with a mix of panic and desperation. But before they can utter another word, their voice is muffled by Megatron's servo as he glares down at them.

The human's reaction triggers a mixture of irritation and amusement within him. He finds their fear and vulnerability amusing. With a low growl, Megatron takes a step closer to the human, his presence looming over them. "Do not waste your breath calling for the Autobots," he hisses, his voice laced with a dangerous edge. "They cannot save you from me." His words carry a hint of sadistic pleasure, relishing in the fear he instills in them. They shutter in his hold before Megatron speaks again. “if I wished to Harm you I would have done it by now” he huffs out.

As the human's muffled voice fades, as they look up at him with pinched brows trying to figure out what he wanted. They squirm slightly, their body trembling against Megatron's servo as they gaze up into his crimson optics. As Megatron looks down at the human, his mind briefly entertains the idea of interfacing with them. The thought of indulging in an almost taboo act, more out of his distaste for humans, but they seemed so soft and pliable in his servos. It's tempting. After all, he is Megatron, the powerful leader of the Decepticons, feared by many. But the question lingers in his processor: Is he really considering interfacing with a human?

The notion is both intriguing and unsettling to Megatron. He is no stranger to unconventional desires, having experienced the pleasure of interfacing with Cybertronians. But a human? It is uncharted territory. Megatron prides himself on his control, but also the fact at that moment he was fighting his systems which desperately wanted to interface and the sweet scent coming from the human was making each second harder to reign his control.

"What do you want from me?" They ask in a shaky voice, The human's question hangs in the air. Megatron continues to assess them, his optics scanning their form, taking in every detail. And indeed, he can see why Optimus was entranced by this human.

With a low, rumbling chuckle, Megatron leans in closer to the human, his voice dripping with dark amusement. "What do I want from you?" he muses, “ I require assistance with an issue." He does state much, leaving it rather vague over what he wanted. They both go quiet before they finally let out a small, “oh” in realisation of what Megatron was asking for.

“I didn't think you liked humans” they mumble softly, trying to avoid looking at his optics, Megatron was an intimidating bot and even worse so whenever bot in the perimeter was acting like a feral beast due to their rut.

“I will not hold you here against your will, tell me to leave and we will never speak of this again” he states, optics fully focused on them. They shutter under his gaze as his servos traces over their arms. They let out another shuttered breath before finally meeting his optics, taking in the mechanics and shimmering lights that flicker behind them. “If I agree to help you with this issue, you won't hurt me?” They ask, trying to not let the fear so in their voice.

Megatron lets out a deep hum as if contemplating their request. “I give you my word that no harm will come to you from my hand nor my order” he states. They shutter at his words. They give a little nod to him to continue, despite everything Megatron is rather gentle with peeling their clothing off his digits tracing over their skin as if to admire.

They lay there looking away from him in embarrassment goosebumps follow in his wake. As they gasp, they find themselves pinned down to the table by Megatron's large frame. "Such vulnerability," Megatron purrs, his voice laced with smug satisfaction.

As his digits continue to explore their skin, tracing patterns, Megatron leans in closer, his voice dropping to a low tone. "Hmm, I wasn't expecting humans to be this pliable and ..soft" he whispers, his words a tantalising promise. "I can see why the Autobots seem to enjoy your race so much."

They squirm more as he leans over them the sound of his frame creaking, pistons and gears grinding. their eyes dart back to him before they feel his mouth on their shoulder. A small little moan leaves them and it makes Megatron chuckle as he indulges on the sweet taste of their skin. "Fuck.." they whine out before one of their hands shoots out to grab the side of Megatron's face as he slowly trails down their body.

"Fascinating," Megatron murmurs, his voice laced with a mixture of amusement and arousal. "I can smell your need." He relishes in the effect he has on them. The taste of their skin is intoxicating, and he indulges in the sweet sensation, savouring every moment of the taste against his glossa.

Their whine of pleasure and need only fuels Megatron's desire to explore further. As his mouth trails down their body. The touch is both a desperate plea for more and a feeble attempt to assert some control in that moment.

Another moan leaves them as Megatron spreads their legs, his mouth moving between them as his glossa traces over their arousal, the taste has him nearly drooling, "Fuck!, fuck! If one of the Bots walks in and you're dead!" They whisper and yell at him. A low growl rumbles from deep within Megatron's vocalizer as the human's whispered yell reaches his audials. "Then you'll just have to keep quiet," Megatron responds, his voice dripping with amusement. "Let them watch, if they dare," he continued.

They gasp and arches against his glossa as Megatron continues to pull them down onto it. Despite his general disdain for organics, this particular individual has managed to captivate him, igniting a desire within Megatron that he cannot deny whether it was his rut or their soft body he didn't care at that moment. With a deliberate slowness, Megatron withdraws, watching as they quiver on the table before him. His optics narrow, a predatory glint shining within them. He knows that he will keep this human for himself. There is something about their response, their vulnerability, that entices him, drawing him in deeper.

As his interface panel releases, Megatron's spike presses against one of his servos, he lets out a deep guttural groan as he slowly strokes his length, optics staring down at the human spread out on the table in front of him, the anticipation of claiming them building within him. With a swift, calculated movement, Megatron positions himself, pressing his spike against them and slowly grinding it against them, enjoying how soft they are.

They cry out as he slowly presses into them, each inch has them clawing at the table and his plating, pitiful whimpers leave them as he stretches them open. Their body writhes and convulses under the force of Megatron's thrust, a mixture of pleasure and pain intertwining in every movement. their body stretched open and their pleas echoing in the air.

When Megatron is as far in as he can go he stops. Letting them adjust, his servo brushes across their face, they twitch and whimper softly, their body trembling under his much larger frame. With a low, gravelly voice, Megatron leans in closer to the human, his servo gently brushing across their face. "Such fragile little creature," he growls, his tone dripping with dominance and a hint of sadistic pleasure. "But the idea of filling you, of leaving my mark on you... it's tempting, isn't it?". His servo takes up more than half of their waist as he slowly pulls them onto his spike, grinding into them as a melody of moans fall from their lips.

They moan and clench, feeling every inch of his spike. Transfluid slowly leaks from Megatron into them with each thrust. "Fuck Megatron " they whimper sweetly. His thrusts grow more intense, Megatron leans in closer to the human, his voice dripping “I can see the outline of me spike within you," he growls, his words laced with a chuckle as his digits brush across the outline of bulge. their body trembling under his frame.

"Please,please!" Breathless pledes leave them with each thrust as they claw at his plating. Megatron feels them clench around him, their moans of pleasure driving him wild with a deep snarl, he can't help but be consumed by the intoxicating sensation of their body and scent. The tightness of their grip on him feels as if they are trying to extract every drop of his transfluid, milking him like a pleasure bot. The thought alone sends shivers of delight down his spinal struts.

With each forceful thrust, Megatron relishes in the way their body responds, their stomach bulging with the delightful pressure of his spike. His optics drink in the sight, savouring the visual feast before him. "So eager for me" he growls, his voice dripping with dark desire. "I think I might just have to keep you for myself." He groans.

Cries leave them as their orgasm hits, wails fall from their lips as Megatron continues railing into them, his spike driving deep within their smaller body. The sensation of their orgasm pulsating around him only fuels his hunger, his need to claim them completely.

With a dark, commanding tone, Megatron growls, "That's it, my little plaything"

Megatron's thrusts become more urgent, Another choked moan leaves them as they clench tightly around Megatron. As he reaches the pinnacle of his pleasure, a primal growl escapes his vocalizer, his field singing in delight. He can feel their tightness gripping him, their walls clenching around his spike, urging him to release.

They gasp and whine as transfluid overflows from them running down their thighs as Megatron continues pumping more into them soft purrs fall from him as he grinds deeper. With a mixture of satisfaction and possessiveness, Megatron admires his work, his voice laced with a dark, smug tone. "Look at you, my little vessel. Overflowing with my fluid, it suits you well". He chuckles. The sound of shouts around the base alert him to the Autobots along with the sound of heavy foot fall. “I believe we have been caught” he rumbles against their ear.

_____________

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tom-foolery-incorporated · 7 months ago

Text

Bluetooth Connected

IDW Brainstorm x reader

Gender neutral AFAB, racially ambiguous, oral, clothes tearing, dirty talk, mutual masturbation, wireless dildo connected to Brainstorm’s spike, size difference

“Here come look!”

Brainstorm covered your eyes by placing a servo over your face. His other servo held onto your lap to keep you steady as you sat on his shoulder. The position was a little awkward but it was a bit better than Brainstorm holding you like a Panic Pete doll in his excitement.

You hummed a little cautious of what he was planning on showing you but still very curious.

Brainstorm has become somewhat infatuated with you. The little human aboard the Lost Light so much smaller than a minibot. It was a shock to everyone when he approached you one night at Swerve’s. He just rambled and talked while you listened. It was kind of endearing in a way.

He always seemed to find an excuse to pick you up, carry you around, spend time with you, or touch you in some way. It was honestly making Perceptor a bit nauseous watching his lab partner so lovey-dovey.

You returning his affection only made things worse. It seemed like little hearts were constantly floating around Brainstorm’s helm. It also didn’t help that Perceptor had found human pornographic magazines under one of Brainstorm’s project.

“It’s for research. When my partner and I reach that point in our relationship, I want to make sure I know what I’m doing!”

To Brainstorm’s credit Perceptor did find an actual human anatomy chart and a couple papers on human sexology with the dirty magazines but the magazines outnumbered the other items by a Long shot.

Perceptor would be working then feel the aroused pulse of Brainstorm’s EMP field as the teal bot was staring off into space. Primus help him.

It was no secret that Brainstorm wished to move your relationship past its current point. As lovely as your innocent kisses are, he couldn’t stop thinking about you spread wide on his spike. The sounds you’d make, how warm you’d feel around him, how tight your little body would be gripping onto his spike.

That was actually the biggest issue.

You barely came up to his knee plate and yet you were somehow expected to take his spike? It’s not that he doubts your abilities but he’d rather not have to go to Ratchet “I didn’t major in organics” of Vaporex to see if he can sew a human back together again.

“Ta-da!”

Brainstorm took his servo away from your face to show you what was basically a large dildo mounted on some smooth electronic components on Brainstorm’s personal desk in his habsuite.

You felt your body heat up in embarrassment. Why did he want to show you a sex toy?

“I know: too impressed to speak! I didn’t think it could be done, well I knew it could but I didn’t expect to finish it so fast!”

You slowly turned your head to face Brainstorm, a horrified and confused look on your face. He only stared back with excitement in his optics. You then looked back at the dildo.

It was the same teal and white as Brainstorm with a tapered tip and a thick middle that slimmed out near the base. It looked to have a sort of metal chord like texture to it.

Then it hit you.

“Is that your dick? Did you make a smaller version of your dick?”

Brainstorm’s engine revved in excitement at your realization. “Not only did I make a smaller you-sized version of my spike but it’s also wireless! You can take it and use it wherever you go.”

You squeezed your thighs together and covered your mouth with your hand. Brainstorm wasn’t the best at communication. He simply dove into his ideas and whims while holding you in his servo and it seems like him asking for sex was no different.

“Use?” You cautiously asked trying to make sense of what Brainstorm was insinuating.

“Yes! For vaginal, anal, and oral penetration or manual stimulation.” Brainstorm wiggled his optic ridge at the last part.

“Did you make me a dildo of your own dick?”

Brainstorm seemed almost offended by your description recoiling a little bit and putting a servo to his chasis. “Dildo? This is more than a primitive toy! As I said, it’s wireless so it’s connected to my interface panel without me having to modify my frame. Anything you do to it, I will feel.”

You flipped your attention away from the toy back to Brainstorm. His face plate was flushed blue with energon as his grip tightened on your lap. You could practically feel his spark thrumming in excitement.

“Could I try it?”

Brainstorm couldn’t help the delighted rev of his engine. The vibrations making their way through his frame and to your core. “I made it with just that in mind.”

He slid his mask off, sitting it down on the desk away from the toy before moving to kiss at your face. You guided Brainstorm so his top derma was pressed against your lips. The pliable metal surface all too familiar under your mouth. Your tongue peeking out from behind your lips to lick at his derma.

“Frag I need you so bad,” Brainstorm groaned against your mouth. He swiftly grabbed you off his shoulder before scooping up the toy from his desk and flopping on his berth with you on his chasis.

You squeaked at the sudden change in position earning an appreciative chuckle from Brainstorm. “Make more of those sounds,” he teased guiding you back to his intake.

You reached out your arms to hold his cheeks in your much smaller hands. Your lips rubbing across his dermas teasingly before finally giving in and pulling him into a passionate kiss.

His servos rested on your hips where he begun guiding you to grind your clothed pussy against his chasis. “Primus I can’t wait to feel that val-vagina,” Brainstorm corrected himself trying to use human terminology to talk about your body. You only choked out a laugh against his dermas at his verbiage.

Brainstorm pulled you away from his intake with his pride clearly bruised at your giggle.

“Is that not what your human valve is called?”

“It is but that’s like the clinical term,” you said rubbing his face plate tenderly. Brainstorm seemed to relax a little but was still a bit upset that he had gotten the phrasing wrong.

“You don’t have to try to use human terms, baby,” you said peppering kisses across his face plate. “It’s fine to call my pussy a valve.”

Brainstorm groaned having you cover him in such innocent affection while speaking about your own genitalia so casually. He’d remembered seeing nude models spreading their legs, bent over, and getting fucked in all sorts of positions within his ‘research’ magazines. Every time he imagined they were you spread out and gaping from taking a spike too big for your hole. All wet and leaking from cumming only to have your pussy plugged again by either his digits or his spike.

“I need you to get these off before I tear them off,” Brainstorm rumbled while pulling at your clothes. You considered for a minute the idea of Brainstorm tearing your clothes to shreds. While tempting you did not have an extra pair in his habsuite and Brainstorm would be all too eager to show off just exactly what he did to you.

You pulled your shirt up over your head as Brainstorm’s gentle digits ran over the skin of your chest down to your stomach. He pinched at the fat on your hips making you squeal and slap your hands down onto his chasis with your shirt still on your arms.

“You’re so soft,” Brainstorm only continued fondling your hips. “You did that on purpose,” you groaned tossing your shirt at Brainstorm’s faceplate.

Brainstorm only gave you a shit eating grin as he tossed your shirt aside. “No but I can’t say that your reaction wasn’t appreciated.” You huffed grabbing onto his servos with your hands as he fondled up and down your sides simply appreciating the flesh there.

“Don’t look at me with that face,” Brainstorm scolded tightening his grip on your hips. “I have half the mind to tear you apart on my real spike when you look at me like that.”

You couldn’t help the airy moan that came out of your mouth when you tried to speak. Brainstorm started to guide your hips to grind against his chasis. “Is that really all I have to do to make you moan?” Brainstorm teased. “Just say some dirty words and suddenly you’re leaking through your little human coverings?”

You hold onto Brainstorm’s servos as you moved your hips with the rhythm he set. “Perceptor told me he found your porn magazines,” you shot back with a mischievous smile.

Brainstorm’s servos stilled forcing your hips to stop. His optics were wide, he face flushed blue, and his lips parted like he was going to say something. For once you caught him off guard.

“Do you have a little human fetish?” You continued to tease while unbuttoning your pants. “You look so cute right now, Stormy. I wish I could take a picture of your face.”

Brainstorm’s expression changed from one of pure embarrassment to anger. He grabbed the waist of your pants pulling the fabric down your legs so fast you fell backwards. There was a slight tearing sound as he tossed your pants to the side. His servos grabbed your thighs making you spread your legs and reveal the wet spot that was growing in your underwear.

“Shut up,” Brainstorm growled as he dragged you closer to his faceplate. “Perceptor has no reason to speak to you.” His massive glossa ran over your clothed cunt. You moaned arching your hips up to his intake. “You’re mine,” Brainstorm posited his statement with another slow lick to your underwear.

You reached your hand out to hold onto one of Brainstorm’s digits as he began eating you out through your wet underwear. His dermas moved softly around your pelvis as his glossa sloppily licked at whatever he could find. “Doesn’t-fuck!,” you moaned out when Brainstorm began sucking on your pelvis area. “Doesn’t change the fact that you were jerking it to human porn on the job.” You couldn’t help but laugh at Brainstorm’s furious optics when they moved to look at your face. “Did you have this in mind when we first met?” You humped against his intake earning a pleased growl from the mech. His vocals vibrated through your entire body making you gasp out his name.

“Fuck! I’m sorry for making you wait so long! Should’ve fucked me right on the table,” you turned your head moaning and panting at Brainstorm’s treatment of your cunt.

Brainstorm moved away from your pussy grabbing the waistband of your underwear between his teeth and tearing them off your body. You had half the mind to scold him for tearing not only your pants but now your underwear but instead you were interrupted by a hot lick to your bare cunt.

“I should have,” Brainstorm agreed mulling over the taste of your pussy. “I should have spread out your little human valve right in the middle of Swerve’s. Humans stretch, if you can push another human out of this hole-“ Brainstorm rubbed his index against your pulsing hole before pushing the tip in making you arch your back and hiss in both pain and pleasure. “You could have taken my spike.”

“You would have ripped me apart!” You moan out while moving your hips against his digit.

Brainstorm looked all too pleased at you as he reached for the miniature version if his own spike. “I really would have,” he grinned. You heard a hiss like a release of air. You tilted your head back only to gawk in awe if the massive appendage before you.

His spike identical to the small version he was holding was leaking pink transfluid. Your mouth watered at the thought of licking him clean.

“Brainstorm, baby,” you said in an airy voice. “Please let me suck you. Fuck your dick looks so good!”

A shudder ran through Brainstorm that made his spike twitch. He released his grip on your legs allowing you to crawl over his chasis and to his spike. It was probably the length of your leg or just a little shorter. You couldn’t imagine trying to take him to the base but your hole pulsed at the idea anyway. Brainstorm watched appreciatively as you stood on your hands and knees just marveling at his spike. Your bare ass and pussy presented to him like a present.

“Go ahead, sweet spark,” Brainstorm moaned as he measured the smaller version of his spike against your cunt. “It’s all yours.”

You practically pounced on his spike your hands rubbing over the biolights as they pulsed the same blue light as his eyes. Your tongue traced up his shaft to his leaky head in worship. Brainstorm gasped out curling his hips forward into your eager touch. Your tongue slurped up as much of his transfluid as you could. Brainstorm nearly dropped the miniature version of his spike at the feeling of your soft mouth working his spike. It was everything he’d ever dreamed of. Those fantasies and restless recharge cycles spent thinking about your cute lips wrapped around him, your soft pussy leaking in front of him, everything was finally coming together.

Your hips wiggled so cutely in front of him he couldn’t help but press the tip of the miniature spike to your hole.

You gasped pushing your hips back at the feeling.

Brainstorm whined being able to feel both your leaky cunt and your hands at the same time. “Is it too much, baby?” You murmured with your lips trailing his spike. Brainstorm moaned out your name as he pushed the tip of the toy inside of you.

“Keep-“ Brainstorm felt his body glitch in pleasure. “Keep sucking.” He was panting at the simultaneous feeling of your pussy wrapped around him via the miniature of his spike and your lips on his actual member.

You obeyed Brainstorm’s plea kissing and sucking on the tip of his cock while slowly moving your hips against his miniature. “You taste so good, Stormy,” you moaned while licking the transfluid off your lips. Brainstorm’s servo grabbed the back of your head pushing you back down onto his spike. You squeaked out a surprised noise as your mouth engulfed the head of his spike once more.

He slipped more of the miniature into you his intake open and drooling at the feeling of both your pussy and mouth on him. Your tongue licking and teasing his slit while the wet walls of your cunt gripped him.

You squeezed your eyes shut feeling your hole being spread open over the thickest part of the miniature. You whined around his spike trying to push your hips back against the toy. It was then with a wet pop that you were able to take Brainstorm’s miniature spike to the base.

You felt stretched beyond belief. Your hole having never taken something so big. You sloppily licked around Brainstorm’s spike feeling drunk off of his spike. You needed more of him, you wanted more of him. Your hips rose and fell over the toy as Brainstorm held it to keep it steady. You were so soft, so wet. He couldn’t believe the feeling if your soft little human valve wrapped around him while you licked and worshiped his spike.

His eyes followed your pussy as his miniature slid in and out of your greedy hole with every rise and fall of your hips. The wet slapping of your drooling cunt against the metal of the toy was enough to have Brainstorm shivering and humping your mouth with his actual spike.

You moaned, hearts practically in your eyes, letting Brainstorm take from your mouth what he wanted.

“You’re so good,” there was a slight glitch in Brainstorm’s vocalizers. “I don’t think I’d be able to stop. I’m going to keep your valve stretched out like this all the time.” You shivered grinding your hips at the base of the toy. You released your mouth from Brainstorm’s spike with a wet pop as you wrapped your arms around the metal appendage. His humped against your torso while you bounced on the toy. The stimulation was proving too much and Brainstorm couldn’t hold back the cry of your name as he covered you in his transfluids.

Your face and torso were flooded with the glowing pink substance. You stood still in shock not expecting there to be so much cum. You looked over your shoulder at your panting lover. His optics half lidded and his intake open. His vents rushed air in and out trying to cool him down and the sight of your face covered in his release didn’t help.

He could still feel your pussy wrapped around him. Fluttering walls making him whine in overstimulation.

You smirked at his noise as you brought your hips up only to slam them back down. Brainstorm let out an almost pained moan but did nothing to stop you.

“Feel good?” You teased leaning forward so Brainstorm could get a better view of your sloppy cunt slobbering all over the miniature of his spike. Brainstorm nodded and for once was without words.

You eagerly bounced on his toy taking whatever you wanted from him. His optic ridges pulled together as he winced. It was starting to hurt having you fuck him after his overload but the feeling of your walls so wet and tight around him was too wonderful to stop.

“Mmmm,” you moaned arching your back. “I cant wait to use this again. I might keep it in me all day.”

Brainstorm swore under his breath his servos grabbing your hips to guide you up and down the toy. “You’d look so cute trying not to cum in front of everyone,” you teased. “No one would have any idea that your little human was using you like a toy.”

Brainstorm’s grip was bruising. You shivered knowing you’d have the imprints of his servos on your hips for days to come. Your hand wandered down to your clit rubbing the tight bundle in circles. The room was filled with the sounds of panting, gasping, and the wet plapping of your pussy as you fucked yourself on Brainstorm’s miniature.

“Fuck!” You cried tears coming to your eyes. “I’m gonna cum! I’m gonna cum all over your spike!”

You screamed Brainstorm’s name as a rush of fluids exited your body. Your squirt dripped down Brainstorm’s teal plating as you rode out your high. Your words were a jumbled mess of praise and Brainstorm’s name. He felt his spark flutter in pure bliss seeing his lover covered in his transfluid riding out their high on top of him.

“So good,” You muttered before feeling your knees go weak. Brainstorm’s servos kept you steady and balanced as he slipped you off the toy. A string of your slick arousal still connected your pulsing cunt to the miniature. He slowly rested your body against his helm as he carefully set the miniature aside.

You panted letting your body rest against his helm with your legs draped over his chasis. Your pussy still throbbing from your orgasm.

“I love you,” Brainstorm panted while stroking up your body with one of his servos. You turned your head pressing kisses to the side of his face plate. “Do you think you could make one of those but it’s my pussy instead?”

You had to hold on tight to Brainstorm’s faceplate as he jolted up in the berth. His eyes wide in excitement and realization. “I bet I could!” Brainstorm exclaimed his mind already running wild with ideas. You giggled holding onto his helm already excited for what he had planned.

#transformers #brainstorm #idw brainstorm #brainstorm x reader #idw brainstorm x reader #valveplug #transformers smut #macaddam #transformers x reader #brainstorm smut

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til-all-are-loved · 1 month ago

Text

{This Charming Man}

Chapter 11 - Permission / Flesh for Fantasy

word count 4.7 k ao3

You hadn’t intended to keep working.

After everything that was said you figured you’d step down quietly. You had submitted your resignation. You had meant it. But then nothing happened. No acknowledgement, no reply. No shuttle rerouted back to Earth, no official directive from Ultra Magnus or your Earth-side handlers. Just... silence.

So you kept showing up. One more report. One more meeting. One more datapad handed off without fanfare. It was just easier to pretend. And if Megatron had noticed your quiet return to routine, he didn’t say anything. He hadn’t said much at all.

The leadership meeting was uneventful—until it wasn’t.

Rodimus was at the front of the room, leaned lazily against the edge of the holo-console like he had nowhere else to be. Ultra Magnus stood beside him with arms crossed and optics narrowed, which was his default setting. Megatron sat to the side, as still as stone.

You took your usual seat. No one commented on it.

Rodimus tapped the screen, bringing up a star chart. “Alright, next matter—access clearance. Our planned route takes us through the C-X Expanse. There’s a neutral outpost in our path. Bureaucratic nonsense. We need someone to represent us at the station’s orbital council gathering so they’ll authorize passage.”

You blinked. “A... gathering?”

“Not a big deal,” Rodimus said with a dismissive wave. “They call it a ‘civic summit.’ It’s basically a glorified mixer with a roster and badge scanners. Show up, smile politely, leave with stamped clearance. Whole thing takes one night, maybe two.”

You glanced at Megatron. He hadn’t moved.

Rodimus continued, voice light. “Which is why I’m assigning our esteemed ambassador,” he gestured to you, “and our reformed co-captain—” he gestured at Megatron, “to attend on behalf of the Lost Light.”

Megatron’s optics finally lifted. “I fail to see why my presence is necessary.” His voice landed low and professionally.

You wanted it to slip, just a little. Enough to tell you this was affecting him too.

“You’re a captain,” Rodimus said brightly. “Other captains will be there.”

Megatron, flatly: “So it’s politics.”

Rodimus shrugged. “Call it diplomacy if that helps.”

You spoke carefully. “We’ll be expected to represent the ship’s position on what exactly?”

“Trade neutrality, expedition rights, cultural cooperation, you know.” Rodimus grinned. “The usual fluff. It wouldn’t hurt to score the Cybertronian race some brownie points, would it? ”

“Which you’re not attending yourself?” Megatron asked.

“I’m terribly allergic to bureaucracy,” Rodimus replied. “Also, the last time I was there, I might’ve punched someone. This is a cleaner option, besides Megatron. You’re so much more reserved nowadays, more than me, even.”

Silence settled again. Megatron vented once, slow and steady.

“Very well,” he said at last.

Rodimus beamed. “Knew you'd see reason. Departure's scheduled for tomorrow. You'll be taking Shuttle Three.”

Magnus gave a subtle nod.

“Any questions?” Rodimus added.

You exchanged a look with Megatron. It wasn’t the old, easy kind of look, the kind you used to pass back and forth when Rodimus was being especially dramatic. But it wasn’t cold either.

“No questions,” you said.

“Cool.” Rodimus clapped his hands. “Meeting adjourned.”

The others began filing out. You gathered your notes. Megatron left without a word.

As you turned to follow, Rodimus blocked your exit.

“Hey,” he said, voice low. “One last thing.”

You paused.

“Pack a dress.”

You blinked. “Sorry—what?”

He grinned. “The summit’s not a briefing. It’s a party.”

You stared at him.

Rodimus winked, then turned on his heel and sauntered away.

The day of the assignment came faster than expected.

You hadn’t been nervous until now. You’d gotten through the briefings, the logistics updates, the security checks. You even made it through a mind-numbingly long discussion with an outpost liaison who spoke exclusively in caveats and procedural jargon. And still, you’d been fine.

Until you stepped into your quarters and realized it was time to get ready.

Your heart hammered.

You used to go to parties. Back in school—whatever version of that counted for you—it wasn’t a rare thing. Dress up, sneak drinks, pretend the night meant something. There were Greek life mixers and graduate socials and “girls' night” events where you'd trade outfits with your friends and laugh too hard and take pictures you’d regret the next morning.

But this felt nothing like that.

This wasn’t just a party. This was something else entirely. You weren’t even sure what it was.

You peeled off your uniform and stood in your undershirt for a long moment, staring down at the bag on your cot. “Pack a dress,” Rodimus had said, the smug bastard.

Still… you did pack one. A nice one. Just in case.

You tugged it out and started changing.

If he was wrong and it wasn’t a party—well, at least you’d feel more put together than usual. You could pretend this wasn’t about him. You could pretend you weren’t dressing for anyone.

Halfway through fixing your hair, a familiar jingle came from your doorbell comm console. Swerve’s voice crackled through before you could answer.

“Hey, uh. Just heard you’re shipping out with the Captain tonight. You two good?”

You blinked at your reflection. “We’re fine.”

“That’s not a yes.”

You snorted. “Do you need something?”

“Just to say: If he wears a tie, I’m gonna lose my mind. You’ll tell me, right?”

“Swerve.”

“Okay, okay! I’m leaving. Have fun storming the diplomatic summit!”

The line clicked off.

You stared at yourself in the mirror again. You didn’t look like someone heading to a summit. You looked like someone waiting to be seen.

The shuttle ride was quiet.

You sat across from Megatron, hands folded in your lap, watching stars streak past the viewport while he reviewed mission data in silence. You didn’t talk. Neither of you had to.

When you finally landed, the docking clamps hissed and released, and the ramp unfolded with a smooth hydraulic sigh.

The station was vast. Even through the heavy atmosphere filters of the landing bay, you could feel the sheer scale of it. It was a satellite city, several times the size of the Lost Light. Lights streamed along the outer hull. Protocol drones hovered near arrivals, scanning new entrants and assigning escorts. Dozens of ships had already arrived.

And stepping down the ramp with Megatron at your side, it became clear: this wasn’t some dry diplomatic formality. This was a display. Delegates gathered in pairs. Some arm-in-arm, others shoulder-to-shoulder. A soft orchestral score drifted in the air, piped through public speakers. Everyone was dressed to be seen.

And then you noticed it. The way some delegates looked at you then at Megatron. The slight pause. The way they waited, as if expecting something. Your breath caught as the realization settled. A formalized social display. Everyone was arriving together.

Megatron paused at your side. His optics narrowed as he scanned the crowd, as if parsing new information.

You felt your voice catch slightly. “We’re... expected to look like a pair.”

He tilted his head.

"Is this a procession?"

You blinked, realizing your mouth was slightly open. You shut it, trying to remember what words were.

"No," you said, voice low. "This is a grand ball."

Megatron glanced around the hall again, this time with clearer understanding. Guests posed for cameras. Couples walked arm in arm. Every movement was calculated and beautiful.

His gaze drifted back to you, catching on the line of your shoulders, the cut of your dress.

"That explains the dress."

There was no irony in it. No dryness. Just a quiet, pointed observation. His gaze lingered on you for one, two heartbeats.

He exvented slowly. “A moment, please.”

He doubled back slowly at first, then turned the corner and presumably doubled back to the shuttle.The echo of his pounding footsteps over the music made you wince. Too loud. Too fast. Too Megatron.

A few breaths passed, from around the corner you heard your name be called.

You turned to look and your throat nearly closed.

Tall. Easily over six feet. Broad-shouldered, dark heavy duster tailored in sharp lines. It was amusing, his stylistic choices didn’t quite suit the modern male style on earth, at least not any that you encountered like this. His design held an individualistic sentiment almost like that of alternative subcultures but tempered to flatter an older man…

White streaks cut through silver hair at his temples, swept back in a style that looked effortless but wasn't. It exposed a tall square shaped forehead revealing somewhat deep age lines.

The cut of his jaw was too clean to be real. His cheekbones were knife-sharp. His mouth serious, stern, perfectly sculpted. Beneath that familiar pout was a trimmed goatee, it seemed to mirror his cybertronian features perfectly.And his eyes. Not the usual deep red of his optics. These were dark, warm. Smoldering. Intelligent. Still him.

He turned to you slightly, as if unsure how you'd react.

You just stared.

Not because you didn’t recognize him. Because you did. Because it felt like seeing a secret he’d kept from you. A weaponized version of restraint. And damn if it didn’t work.

He didn’t move at first. Just let you look at him.

Then wryly: “You’re staring.”

You blinked hard. “Am I not supposed to?”

His mouth twitched at the corner. “I’m not used to being... admired.”

“Get used to it,” you said before thinking. Your voice came out smaller than intended.

He stepped toward you, closing the short distance between you both. Still at a respectful length, but no longer distant. The ambient glow of the station lights danced across his avatar’s shoulders, catching on subtle metallic threading in the long coat he’d chosen.

“Shall we?” he asked, offering his arm.

The act suddenly felt so... pointed. Symbolic. A thousand subtle cues passed between delegates in this place. Every pair walking together was making a statement.

But then, in a quiet motion, you turned your hand and touched the bend of his elbow. Permission.

In his expression you caught surprise, maybe, or a recalibration. He adjusted instantly, offering his arm in full, his other hand resting behind his back with courtly precision.You tested his bicep briefly, if he noticed he didn't show it.

His voice was low, soft at your ear as you began walking together.

“Thank you for not recoiling,” he murmured. “This form is... experimental.”

You glanced at him sidelong. “You’re handling it well.”

“I’ve studied human posture,” he said, tone just dry enough to be self-aware. “And basic expressions of chivalry .”

“Oh?” you asked, raising an eyebrow.

He looked down at you, just the faintest glimmer in his eye. “Am I convincing you?”

You exhaled a single laugh. “A little too much.”

Your steps fell into a rhythm as the two of you moved through the grand hall, drawing more than a few curious looks. He didn’t seem to notice. Or maybe he just didn’t care.

“Let’s get a drink,” you said, nodding toward the curved crystalline bar set into the far wall. Its base glowed with a slow pulse of color. Sleek-bellied glasses and phosphorescent bottles stood in minimalist display behind the counter, flanked by a bartender bot with an absolutely judgmental visor.

Megatron gave a slight nod. “Excellent idea. I believe I’m expected to make small talk soon, and I’d rather do it with a glass in hand.”

The two of you veered toward the bar, your arm still lightly tucked in his, the brush of his sleeve against your skin doing terrible things to your heart rate. You could feel the temperature rising in your own face—not from nerves, exactly, but from the proximity. The attention. And maybe from the fact that he was enjoying it, too. Not smugly. Not with power. But with something approaching pleasure. Delight, even.

The bar was sleeker up close, an art installation as much as a service station. Its surface shifted in subtle, mirrored waves beneath your fingers, like water frozen in the middle of movement. As you approached, Megatron let your arm go, his hand trailing away with practiced grace.

You ordered first, voice clear, posture composed. Megatron followed suit, his tones measured and surprisingly casual. He let you lead, a novelty in itself.

A pair of delegates sidled up beside you taller than either of you, vaguely insectoid, their limbs jointed in six distinct places. They spoke to each other in a dialect you didn’t understand then, in Galactic Basic, just loud enough to catch.

“Oh, how quaint. The human delegation brought representatives.”

“Must be difficult,” the other mused, not unkindly, “to keep such small creatures in sight.”

You felt Megatron shift beside you.

The taller delegate offered what might’ve been a polite nod, their expression unreadable. “Enjoy the festivities,” they added, and glided away, clicking softly as they moved.

Your drink arrived.

You stared into it for a moment before murmuring, “Do you think I count as quaint?”

Megatron’s gaze didn’t move from where the pair had gone. “If they knew anything about you, they’d never risk using the word.”

You glanced up at him. Something in his jaw had set differently. Not anger just... that old stiffness. Like a program running in the background. Like something uncomfortable in the code of his body.

So you touched his elbow lightly. “Come on,” you said, voice soft but purposeful. “Let’s make the rounds.”

You didn’t have to ask twice. He fell into step beside you again, his hand resting behind his back once more. The perfect dignitary.

The two of you slipped into the flow of the event, weaving between delegates, exchanging nods and hellos and the occasional comment. You played your part—answering questions about Earth’s current diplomatic ties to Cybertron, throwing in the occasional joke that flew over everyone’s head but made Megatron tilt his head in that amused little way that meant he got it.

Through the night you couldn't help but steal glances at him. He was handsome. Painfully so, in a way that didn’t seem fair.

Mustering your confident-ambassador-baddie aura you continued to take the lead. One hand clasping a chilly glass you held it ahead of you like the bow of a ship parting the sea of party-goers. The other hand beckoning Megatron occasionally to keep up.

“You carry yourself like royalty.”

You blink. Did you just mishear him?

“Come again?”

He stiffens immediately, eyes narrowing in defence. He regrets the words as soon as they’re spoken.

“That’s not—”

“You’re terrible at this,” you say, a grin playing on your lips.

“At what?”

“Flirting. That was a compliment, wasn’t it?”

“It was meant to be an observation.”

You bob your head playfully and roll your shoulders, hopefully the gesture comes off as foxy. “Sure. An observation with an aura of courtship.”

But eventually, the charm of the event began to turn. The lights felt too hot. The stares too long. The conversations started looping back, becoming redundant. Megatron’s answers became shorter. He leaned in less.

So you pulled back.

You nudged him gently with your shoulder and said, “Too much?”

He exvented quietly.

“Want to disappear?”

“Yes.”

Without ceremony, the two of you slipped through an archway, down a curved hallway lit in soft green, past a suspended sculpture that rotated slowly without sound. The noise of the ballroom faded behind you, replaced by a hush that felt like reprieve.

You found a quiet space tucked into an overlook meant for VIPs. Megatron stood beside you. But something in the posture had shifted. His shoulders were no longer squared. His hands, now clasped at the small of his back, opened and closed in restless intervals.

You leaned on the railing, watching the light show from below. The delegation was in full swing now, the dance floor slowly filling as a low, pulsing rhythm took over the speakers. It was orchestral in structure but deeply physical, percussive in a way that settled into your sternum. Behind you, Megatron remained quiet.

“I know that face,” you said, glancing sideways. “You look like you’re drafting a brutal speech about the flippancy of luxury.”

He didn’t look at you. “I’m calculating the cost of theater,” he said quietly. “How much it takes from a person to wear a mask. And how long before they forget it was a mask at all.”

You turned to face him fully, arms crossed, hip resting against the railing.

“You’re not being fair,” you said. “You did everything right.”

Megatron’s gaze drifted toward you now. The lighting softened the lines of his avatar, made his expression look more human than you’d ever seen it. Tired, but still alert.

“I wasn’t trying to be right,” he said. “Only tolerable.”

The music shifted. Below, couples moved together in deliberate, synchronized steps. One pair spun gently in a half-orbit around another. Someone dipped a partner low, and laughter followed.

“Would you prefer we just disappear entirely?” you asked.

“I prefer this,” he said at last.

You smiled faintly. “I don't mind either.”

He looked at you withdrawn again. “You’re just saying that.”

You took a pause, trying to steady the pulse in your veins urging you into doing impulsive things .“Can I say something?”

His head tilted. Permission.

You stepped a little closer. Enough to be able to lower your voice while still being heard. “You didn’t have to do any of this,” you said. “The diplomacy. The avatar. Playing along. And I know you’ll try to tell yourself you did it for appearances, or the mission. But that’s not true.”

His jaw tensed, just slightly.

“I know it’s not,” you continued. “Because I’ve seen how you are when you’re just doing what you’re told. And this... this wasn’t that.”

For a moment, he said nothing.

Then, softly: “And what do you think this was?”

You swallowed. “Something kind. And... something that’s made me feel very, very happy.”

Megatron looked away, back toward the window.

“You say that like it surprises me,” he said. “But I didn’t come here to make a statement. I came because I thought I might make you smile.”

You blinked, stunned. He wanted this? He planned this? That was—God. That was almost romantic. Too romantic. You felt the elation bloom in your chest, dizzy from what he’d just admitted so casually.

You reached for his hand. And he let you.

The music continued below. The swirl of dancers and delegates became a blur behind the glass.

You squeezed his fingers gently.

“If you wanted to dance,” you said, “I wouldn’t stop you.”

He glanced at you again.

“Do you?”

“I don’t know,” you admitted. “I just know I’d like to stay near you.”

And this time, he stepped closer.

You cue for him to remove his coat by taking the sides of the collar in each hand and guiding it over his shoulders. He took the hint, shugging the garment off and slinging it over the railing. It revealed strong forearms beneath rolled sleeves, a neck just barely visible above the collar. Everything about him feels deliberately understated, and yet you can’t stop looking. You felt your stomach knot.

The music swelled again strings melting into a slow, pulsing rhythm, just enough tempo to guide motion without overwhelming it. Below, the crowd moved in waves.

You turned to face him, heart kicking faster.

“If you’d like to try,” you offered, lifting your hand, “I can lead.”

Megatron looked at you, visibly uncertain.

“I’ve never danced,” he said, as if it were a confession. “Not like this.”

“That’s alright,” you said gently. “I have. We’ll go slow.”

You reached for him, and he took your hand awkwardly, unsure how much pressure was acceptable. You placed your free hand on his shoulder, guiding his other hand to your waist.

“There,” you murmured. “That’s the usual setup.”

He looked down at the contact, then up at you again. “This feels... unconventional.”

“That's because you're thinking too hard,” you said with a small grin.

“I’m trying not to step on you,” he said flatly.

“That’s very sweet,” you teased. “But unnecessary. If you stepped on me I’d forgive you”

He didn’t laugh, but the corner of his mouth curved only a little. It was something.

You watched his gaze crawl across your shoulders, the line of your neck, your jaw. His eyes landed on your mouth for a beat too long. You swallowed. Hard.

“You’re observing me,” you said.

“I always do.”

Something about the way he said it left you lost for an appropriate response.

One step back. He followed, stiffly. You tried again. He mirrored, a beat late. Every motion was too precise. He was solving a puzzle rather than moving through space.

“You’re overcorrecting,” you murmured.

“I am attempting to mirror your tempo.”

“Okay,” you said softly, “but dancing isn’t just pattern recognition. It’s listening. To me. To the music. To yourself.”

He blinked once. “That’s vague.”

“You’re doing great,” you lied, because you were charmed out of your mind.

He huffed sharply,. “Where should my hands go now?”

“Same place,” you said, biting back a laugh. “We’re not doing a spin yet.”

“I don’t know what that means.”

You smiled up at him. “Exactly. So don’t worry about it.”

He hesitated again. His hands hadn’t moved. His whole form had gone a bit too still. Withdrawn, even.

You looked up at him, tilting your head. “Hey. Are you okay?”

He didn’t answer right away. His brow furrowed faintly. “This feels... unnecessary.”

You stepped back slightly. “Do you want to stop?”

His hand dropped from your waist. “I think I should.”

Your heart stung but you nodded, letting your arms fall, stepping gently away.

“Of course.”

You turned slightly, ready to give him the space he thought he needed.

But his voice stopped you.

“You said I didn’t have to go through all of this for you,” he said. “But I did. I wanted to.”

Your chest rose with your breath.

He looked at you like he just found the answer to a question he hadn’t realized he was asking. His gaze flicks to the side, and he adjusts his sleeve again—same nervous tell. Not ready to meet you where you are. Not yet. But he's still standing here, isn't he?

“You once said I didn’t understand what I was getting into,” you say quietly, “You were right. I didn’t. Not then. But I think I do now.”

He doesnt interrupt.

“That night… when you told me the truth. I should’ve hated you. I wanted to. But instead, I felt—” you pause, licking your lips, “—seen. It terrified me.”

He says nothing, but you can tell: he’s listening.

“You keep showing up like this,” you say gently, your voice low. “It’s getting hard to tell what this is supposed to be.”

His mouth opens like he’s about to deflect.

“Don’t,” you add quickly. “Just—don’t. I’m not trying to corner you. I just want to know.”

You take a breath, fingers brushing your wrist.

“Tell me what this is, Megatron,” you murmur. “Because I’m starting to hope it’s more than it should be.”

He looks at you—on the level—and for a moment, you see it: uncertainty. Caution. Want.

“I don’t know,” he admits.

“Okay,” you say, stepping closer. “Then let me ask something simpler.”

You tilt your chin, steady despite the quaking in your nerves.

“Would it be alright if I kissed you?”

He doesn’t speak. Just nods once. Permission.

You step into him, feeling heat radiating off his holomatter projection. Up close, he smells like ozone and something else, clean metal and the faintest scent of tobacco,, translated into something your brain can interpret.

When you kiss him, it’s not elegant. Your noses brush wrong. Your balance falters a bit. But his hand—warm and unsure—touches your side, steadying you.

His mouth is soft. Stubbled. There’s a moment when you feel him start to respond, just slightly, before he pulls back half an inch.

His eyes are still open. Of course they were.

You breathe against him, stunned.

And then he steps back. Not far. Just enough to look at you fully.

“That,” he says, voice low, “was very brave.”

You smile, half breathless. “I know.”

The satisfaction in his expression was subtle—but it was there.

Your face was at full burn by now, hot blood felt as if it was pooling beneath every pore. It was actually getting a bit too much. You looked away, it was all getting a bit overwhelming. The excitement you were gripping onto tightly the entire night refused to unwind even after your very reckless action.

Little words were exchanged between you as a few comfortable silences passed by. Meanwhile the music had drawn to a close.

The walk back to the launch bay is slower than necessary. Neither of you speak, but the silence isn’t empty. At some point along the empty corridor, you catch him looking at you.

His eyes—human eyes—flick downward, lingering a second longer than is strictly polite. Your collarbone, the hollow of your throat, the slight shift of fabric where your dress settles against your chest.

It’s not leering. It’s curious and innocent in its focus. You bite back a smile, heart thrumming high in your ribs. Cybertronians don’t have this kind of giveaway. You realize that now—how easily you can see where his gaze travels, how easily he betrays his own attention just by forgetting to guard it. When his eyes flick back up and meet yours, there’s no guilt there. No shame.

The launch bay doors slide open. You pause just before the ramp, and Megatron pauses with you. His form flickers and the holomatter projection dissolves into static. He’s there now. Fully. The real deal.

"So," you say, "you were already here."

"Of course," he replies, words reverberating through the thin station air. "I was never far."

The shuttle ramp hisses under the weight of Megatron’s heavy footfalls.

You follow at your own pace, the stairs ahead of you rising almost as high as your shoulders. You hesitate at the base of the first step, eyeing the climb.

Before you can even think about attempting it, a massive shadow falls over you.

You glance up—just as Megatron stoops low, one hand extending.

“Allow me,” he says, voice pitched low, almost dry. But you catch the undercurrent: an old memory. You smile without thinking and step carefully into his waiting palm.

His servos flex slightly beneath you, enclosing you. You sit demurely, hands braced lightly on the broad curve of his fingers. He lifts you smoothly, almost absentmindedly, like you weigh nothing at all.

He doesn’t set you down immediately. Instead, he carries you easily across the shuttle floor, his other hand adjusting the controls with practiced efficiency.

He glances down.

“You’ll stay here,” he says, the faintest flicker of amusement touching his tone. “I prefer to keep you within sight.”

You bite the inside of your cheek, trying not to smile too obviously.

He settles you near the front console, just beside the primary display—a safe, flat surface with enough of an edge to keep you secure. Close enough that if he turns slightly, you’re still within arm’s reach.

He powers up the shuttle. You sit quietly, the rush of takeoff pressing you back just slightly as the shuttle disengages from the station.

The night is ending. The fantasy is folding itself away.

And still, he keeps you close.

For a while, neither of you speak. The stars drift by outside the viewport, streaks of light against the velvet dark. You let your eyes follow them, feeling the hush settle deep into your bones.

Finally, he breaks the silence.

“Well,” he says, voice thoughtful. “What did you think?”

You don’t need to ask what he means. The night. The effort. The strange, human-shaped fantasy he built for you out of smoke and hope.

You consider your answer carefully.

“It was wonderful,” you say honestly. “Strange. Surreal. Like stepping into someone else’s life for a while.”

You shift, folding your hands in your lap.

“But…” you add, looking up at him again, eyes lidded and a smirk playing at your lips—“I think I find you more beguiling like this.”

“Good,” he says quietly. “Because this is the form you’ll see most often.”

There’s no regret in his voice. No apology.

And you find, to your own surprise, that you don’t want one. You lean back slightly, settling in as the shuttle speeds toward home.

___

WOAH big update FINALS ARE OVER YAY. Alexa play Flesh for Fantasy by Billy Idol

#mtmte x reader #megatron x reader #idw transformers #megatron #mtmte #self insert #til all are loved #this charming man

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sir-fluffbutts · 1 year ago

Note

Why is hubson so fucking big here I thought he was tiny

well hubson (aka the axolotls dad) is around 158cm tall, BUT I THINK YOU'RE FOGETTING THAT

this is their family photo when latte was less then 6 years old (so he is around 110cm tall at the time). compaired to them hubson looks relativly tall

chiffon is also portrated as tiny cause he IS from his birth defect, so adding that to the optical illusion

i think comparing the size of cheese (a full grown cat) to them sould break the optical illusion

but for those whos still confused, heres the direct comparison chart /w their current heights

#ask

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starborncoven · 4 months ago

Text

Retrograde Planets in a Natal Chart: Meaning and Explanation

The mere mention of the word “retrograde” sends shivers down many people's spines, and even those who don’t know much about astrology react with concern when they hear “Mercury retrograde" or "mercury is on the microwave". But what does it really mean for a planet to be in retrograde motion, and how does it influence our natal chart?

When a planet is retrograde in your birth chart, its energy does not flow directly and externally; instead, it turns inward, requiring a deeper process of assimilation. This can manifest as difficulties in expressing that energy or feeling like it’s hard to channel it naturally. In some cases, it may feel completely blocked, requiring conscious effort to unlock its potential.

To better understand its impact, let’s explore the meaning of each planet when it appears in a retrograde state in a natal chart. ✨

There is an astrological perspective that suggests retrograde planets in a natal chart represent areas of life where, during childhood, we were not able to freely express our energy. These early restrictions may have led us to internalize those qualities, developing a more introspective relationship with them or feeling blocked when trying to manifest them externally.

A planet is in retrograde motion when, from our perspective on Earth, it appears to move backward in its orbit. This doesn’t mean the planet is actually reversing its course—it’s an optical illusion caused by differences in orbital speeds between Earth and the other planets.

In astrology, retrograde motion symbolizes introspective energy. Retrograde planets represent areas in our lives where we need to look inward, review, heal, and learn deep lessons before we can fully express that energy in the external world.

How to Interpret Retrograde Planets in a Natal Chart

When a planet is retrograde in your birth chart, its influence tends to be more internal and reflective. It may manifest as blocks, challenges, or the feeling that you need to put in extra effort in that area of life. It can also indicate a connection to past lives or lessons carried over from other phases of existence.

Let’s explore the meaning of each planet when it is retrograde in a natal chart:

🌞 Mercury Retrograde: Internalized Thought and Communication Mercury governs communication, logic, and quick thinking. When retrograde in a natal chart, it can indicate difficulties in verbal expression, a preference for writing over speaking, or a tendency to overthink before communicating. This suggests a person who leans toward introversion and, in extreme cases, may struggle with learning difficulties in early life. It can also indicate self-doubt regarding one’s own ideas and excessive self-criticism. 🔮 How to work with it: Learn to trust your own voice and thought process. Avoid excessive self-criticism and allow yourself to share ideas without fear.

🌹 Venus Retrograde: Love and Self-Worth Venus rules love, relationships, beauty, and pleasure. If retrograde in your chart, it can manifest in two ways: difficulties in giving and receiving love, or a tendency toward narcissism. There may be insecurity in relationships or a pattern of attracting toxic connections that require healing. It can also indicate a complicated relationship with self-love and self-esteem. On the other side, it may point to someone who prioritizes self-admiration over genuine emotional connections. 🔮 How to work with it: Learn to value yourself before seeking external validation. Work on self-love and cultivate healthy, balanced relationships.

🔥 Mars Retrograde: Willpower and Action Mars is the planet of action, passion, and raw energy. When retrograde in a natal chart, it can cause hesitation before taking action or difficulty expressing anger and desires. The person may repress their energy or only react when the pressure becomes too intense. In some cases, this individual may lack the competitive drive that Mars typically represents, fear taking risks, or struggle with insecurity. 🔮 How to work with it: Learn to act with confidence and express anger in a healthy way. Find a balance between impulsivity and inaction.

🌀 Jupiter Retrograde: Internal Growth and Beliefs Jupiter represents expansion, wisdom, and luck. When retrograde in a chart, learning tends to be deeply introspective and philosophical. Instead of seeking truth externally, the person finds wisdom within. These individuals may develop their own moral code rather than follow societal norms. There may also be a feeling of limitation in life, as if luck takes longer to arrive or success requires more effort. 🔮 How to work with it: Learn to trust your inner knowledge and find abundance from within. Cultivate faith in the universe without needing external validation.

⚡ Saturn Retrograde: Responsibility and Life Lessons Saturn is the planet of karma, discipline, maturity, and structure. Its retrograde position in a natal chart can indicate an extra sense of responsibility in certain life areas. This person may appear stoic on the outside but internally overthink and worry excessively. They may experience blocks related to self-discipline or fear of failure, leading to a need for control over everything and everyone. Alternatively, if their upbringing was overly strict, they might rebel completely against structure. 🔮 How to work with it: Heal wounds related to duty and self-expectation. Learn to set healthy boundaries, let go of control, and trust in the timing of life.

🌊 Uranus Retrograde: Inner Rebellion and Transformation Uranus is the planet of innovation, revolution, and radical change. When retrograde in a natal chart, the individual may have eccentric tastes and a rebellious spirit. They might hold unconventional ideas but fear change, preferring to stick to old habits. 🔮 How to work with it: Embrace your uniqueness and learn to express it without fear of rejection. Channel innovation into tangible actions.

🌊 Neptune Retrograde: Internalized Spirituality and Dreams Neptune rules dreams, spirituality, and illusion. A retrograde Neptune can indicate a strong spiritual connection but also struggles with fantasy or internal conflicts. There may be a tendency to disconnect from reality or a deep desire to escape the material world. In extreme cases, it may lead to martyrdom or vulnerability to addictions. 🔮 How to work with it: Balance intuition with reality. Develop spirituality without getting lost in illusions.

🔥 Pluto Retrograde: Transformation and Inner Power Pluto represents deep transformation, death, rebirth, and power. If retrograde in a natal chart, the person may experience intense internal power struggles, resisting authority while struggling to accept their own desire for control. 🔮 How to work with it: Learn to embrace change without fear. Discover personal power without resorting to control or manipulation.

Conclusion: What Does It Mean to Have Multiple Retrograde Planets in Your Chart?

Having retrograde planets in your natal chart is not a bad thing—it’s an invitation to look within. These energies require deeper work but also offer immense growth and wisdom when understood and accepted. If you have multiple retrograde planets, you are likely an introspective person with many life lessons focused on self-discovery. These placements encourage you to review patterns, heal wounds, and trust your own evolutionary process.

🌙 Remember: Astrology does not dictate our fate; it serves as a guide to better understand our journey. If you have retrograde planets, it doesn’t mean you are doomed to struggle—it means you have a unique opportunity to explore your inner world and grow from within.

Do you have retrograde planets in your natal chart? Let me know in the comments, and let’s talk about it! ✨🔮

#pagan witch #witch community #witchcore #witchy vibes #paganism #witch #witch aesthetic #astrology readings #hellenic pagan #tarot #astrology blog #birth chart #astro placements #astroblr #astro community

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in1-nutshell · 5 months ago

Note

Can I request TFP Maxima Getting the cybonic plague instead of Optimus?

Heavily requested. Finally written.

Hope you enjoy!

Maxima gets the Cybonic Plague

SFW, Platonic, Familial, Cybertronian reader

TFP

Maxima hadn’t thought much about the goop that splattered on her pede when they left the abandoned crash site.

A simple decontamination bath would do the trick.

A few minutes passed and she began to feel sluggish.

Maybe she just needed some rest?

Ratchet: “Maxima, hand me the torch.” Maxima: “You got it Ratchet.” Maxima goes to pick up the torch when her vision goes double. After a bit of straining she manages to grab the torch. Ratchet: “Any day now would be nice.” Maxima: “Yeah, yeah…” She starts walking forward but suddenly the entire room starts spinning. Maxima: “Woah… that’s not good…” Ratchet finally looks up from his work. Ratchet: “What’s not—Maxima!” Maxima barely registered Ratchet Holding her up with the sudden helmache. Maxima: “Ratchet… I don’t feel so good…”

Optimus is immediately called in when Ratchet gets the results.

He comes into the medbay to find Maxima groaning on the med slab.

Ratchet gives him the news.

Cybonic Plague.

When they went to search the distress signal…

Maxima can tell they both are blaming themselves for this.

She tells them, best she can with her voice box feeling like it was on fire, that it was not their fault but her’s for not reporting it.

She knows what this plague is and what it will do to her frame.

But despite knowing this, Maxima refuses to show that she was scared.

When Bee and Arcee volunteer to go to the Nemesis to find a cure, Maxima tries to get them to stop going on such a dangerous mission, but all that comes out is a pained groan.

As the minutes go by and she feels worse by the second.

Maxima shifts a bit in pain. Maxima: “D-dad?” Optimus was sitting right next to her. Optimus: “Save your energy Maxima. The others are looking for the cure.” Maxima: “I- I- I can barely see. Wh-Where are you?” Optimus gently holds her servo and gives a light squeeze. Optimus: “I am here Maxima. I am here.” Maxima gives a little squeeze back as the dark spots start growing.

Optimus stayed by her side the entire time.

He would never tell her that he was going to go on the retrieval mission, if a certain medic told him not to.

And after hearing her vision was fading… he was glad he followed Ratchet’s instructions.

Speaking of the medic, Ratchet was watching Maxima’s vitals like a hawk.

The growing pain in his spark seeing the numbers and graphs slowly and steadily declining.

He had been checking energon pressure when Maxima cried out that she couldn’t see anymore.

It took many reassuring words from Optimus and ratchet that they were still there.

Finally, there was word from the away team.

… News that Megatron was alive.

Optimus’s hold on Maxima’s servo tightened a bit hearing the Leader of the decepticons still online.

Despite the slow declining of her hearing, Maxima heard that one clear.

She squeezed her father’s servo in comfort.

The loss of her hearing was sudden as she gripped Optimus’s servo like a lifeline.

Maxima could feel her frame weakening by the minute as a stray tear fell.

At least she could still feel…

Maxima doesn’t know how long she drifted off, but it was the faint sounds of whirling that began to wake her up.

Maxima slowly opens her optics and looks at the mech sitting next to her. Bumblebee’s face is the first thing she sees. Maxima: “Hey Bee…” Bee just happily whirls. Arcee and Bulkhead soon show up. The Wrecker carefully pats her helm. Bulkhead: “You feeling better kid?” Maxima: “Something like that.” She looks over at Arcee and Bumblebee. Maxima: “Thanks guys, really.” Arcee: “You would have done the same thing.” Maxima: “Still, thanks… Where’s Optimus and Ratchet?” Arcee: “They’re in the other room. I’ll go get—or not.” Ratchet and Optimus suddenly appeared behind them. Ratchet moved quickly to the charts. Ratchet: “Everything seems stable…” Maxima: “Feeling good too. I can see and hear again.” Optimus: “We have much to be thankful for today.” Maxima: “No kidding. How did you guys get the cure?” Arcee: “Bee went inside Megatron’s mind and got it. We left as soon as he got out and I blasted the life support.” Maxima tries her best not to flinch at the last words. Maxima: “But you guys are okay, right?” Bee whirled happily in response despite looking positively drained. Ratchet noticed the tired looks. Ratchet: “All right everyone out. Maxima will still be here in a few hours. Go on, shoo!” Slowly everyone started filing out. Maxima grabbed Optimus’s servo. She looked down embarrassed. Maxima: “Could you… could you stay here until I fall asleep?” Optimus smiles at her and sits right by the slab. Optimus: “I am not going anywhere Maxima. Rest my spark.” He gently rubbed small circles with his digits on her servo. Maxima: “…Love you dad…” She missed the found and sad look her father gave her as she drifted into a deep sleep.

#maccadam #transformers x reader #bot buddy #tfp #tfp x reader #tfp x platonic reader #maxima

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redyarns · 3 months ago

Text

The Boy Who Swallowed a Falling Star (Chapter 1)

Rating: E

Relationship(s): Optimus Prime/Megatron, Orion Pax/D-16, Sentinel/Prima

Summary:

In a world devastated by the mythical Primes, you would think that having the ghost of one clinging to your subconscious would cement your hatred of them.

Well.

It wasn't because of a lack of trying from Dee's part, anyway.

---

"Do you even love me?” Dee asked quite desperately.

“Yes,” Optimus said immediately. He smiled. “Of course I do.”

Dee gritted his teeth and held Optimus tighter. The Prime did nothing to push him away, but he also didn’t do anything to pull him closer.

He never did, and by this point, Dee was sure he never would.

“Well,” Dee said bitterly. "I always knew you Primes were liars."

STORY: START!

Act I, Scene I: Captain America Was a Skinny Motherfucker Back Then

“Designation: D-16?”

Dee's head shot up from where it had been nodding off after his fifth hour of waiting at the damn tent. Still, he eagerly wiped off the drool that had started to drip from the corner of his lips, and he wiped the sweaty palms of his hands down his thighs before he shoved a fist into the air and said, “here!”

The inspector didn't even look up from her clipboard as she gestured for him to follow.

He nearly tripped in his haste to get up from his seat, his processor annoyingly nagging him about the pins and needles he felt running up and down the neural network of his legs. He shook a foot like some kind of maniac, immediately embarrassed when a nearby mech eyed him oddly, and he felt his audials heat up as he brushed past the flap of fabric the inspector had disappeared behind.

She was sitting on a stool, her legs crossed and her optics lazily shuffling through the papers that he had filled out only a few hours before.

Said hours suddenly seemed so short now, and he felt like he was going to choke from his nerves as he hopped up on the lone chair provided underneath a wrinkled optic chart. He resisted the urge to swing his feet, and instead clenched his hands on his knees as he looked around himself to try and ease his nerves.

The room was tiny, but then again, that wasn't entirely unexpected since this was one of the tinier recruitment tents he had seen. It had also only been set up the night before, so it was bound to be a little ill-fitted within itself.

The air smelled like antiseptic and dust, and occasionally, he could hear the muffled sound of someone muttering something on the other side of the heavy curtain or sneezing. The walls were mostly free of anything aside from the optic chart, and the table the inspector used to place her papers was rickety and old.

Dee peered at her again, anxious over why she was taking so damn long with the forms, like she was practically waiting for something to pop out.

She shuffled through the papers, slowly but not methodically, and when she spoke, there was no alarm in her voice as she said, “just need to confirm your ID tag and age.”

He coughed to get rid of the lump in his throat and he said, “right, of course. Er. ID tag is D-16-008459, and manufacture date is twenty-five years, six months ago. And sixteen days, if that also - matte - “

“Yes, thank you,” she interrupted, successfully getting him to shut up with a clack of his jaw and a burning inferno of embarrassment across his cheeks. She huffed out a sigh through her nose, and for the first time since he arrived in that tiny room, she looked up and pierced him with a stern gaze. “Mr. D-16 - “

“Just Dee is fine,” he blurted out, mortified that he did.

She paused, her optic ridges arched high up her forehead as she nodded very slowly. “Fine. Dee. You know we can't accept your application.”

As if to prove her point, she swept her gaze up and down his frame, making him squirm uncomfortably as he resisted the urge to immediately cover up the empty cog well on his chest with a hand. She lingered her optics at his feet, which dangled pretty pathetically in the air, and he winced.

“But I heard that the coalition is looking for more soldiers,” Dee blurted out. He tried not to think about how desperate he sounded as she sighed through her nose. “I'm more than ready to dedicate my life to the Commonwealth and - “

“And you'll be killed before you even step foot into the battlefield.” The femme pursed her lips and put down her clipboard with a loud enough smack that he nearly jumped. “You're a cogless bot with limited options, Mr. Dee. I’m sorry, but there are rules within the Liberation Army, ones that you can’t bypass just because you want to.”

Dee stared, swallowing hard as she muttered to herself and flicked through the pages again, skimming lightly as she grabbed the stamp that he knew would seal REJECTED onto his forms.

Again.

For the fiftieth time just these past six months alone.

He clenched his fists, small and frail and scratched up to hell, on top of his thighs as he stared at his shaky fingers and blinked slowly. The tears that gathered in his optics were thick and distorted his vision strangely, and he did nothing to stop them from dripping down his cheeks.

D-16 was cursed, and he knew it.

He was born with a genetic defect that not only took away his ability to transform like 90% of the population could, but affected his health in such a way that he could never be considered for the army. He got sick before anyone else did, and his recovery time was twice as long. He couldn’t even work as a miner properly, and he knew he was a total liability to his team because of it.

Just this once, Dee had thought he could finally do something more than he felt he was destined to be. He was always just skinny Dee, weak and hacking up his inner gears most of the time because his system couldn’t handle the dust in the air from the mines, and…

I have to try again, Dee thought numbly as he watched the way the femme stamped his sheets with a finality that nearly made him wilt. I need to shake a leg and hurry to the next city over, I think I saw posters about another recruitment camp being set up. If I could just stop her from sending those papers in, then -

“Elita?”

“What?” The femme snapped as she looked to the flimsy flap that sealed the room. She scowled something fierce as she said, “I told you, don’t bother me when I’m working, Jetfire.“

“Sorry.” The mech who had interrupted seemed genuinely apologetic as he waved feebly at her. Despite his large size, he was curiously gentle as he held out another clipboard to her, which she took with a small grunt of annoyance. “But look, section 41-B.”

“Don’t tell me those idiot recruits set fire again to the mess tent,” Elita muttered as she thumbed through the pages. “I don’t see what this has to do with me, Arcee should be the one who - “

She cut herself off abruptly. She seemed unusually still compared to how she had been dramatically gesturing hands only moments before in her irritation, and now, the only sound that Dee could hear was her deep, calming breath that she took before she closed her optics.

“How interesting,” Elita said in a tight voice. She slammed down the two clipboards, this time in such a way that the one Jetfire had handed her was on top of Dee’s original forms. “I see you’ve toured around quite a bit, Mr. Dee.”

For a moment, Dee had no idea what the hell she was talking about. He had been born and raised in Kaon as a miner, and had never really traveled outside of when he was, well. When he was trying to enlist in the army.

Then her arm nudged the clipboard on top in a manner that couldn’t have been anything less than intentional, and he felt like his spark had stopped beating when he realized that the light hit the paper just right so he could read a few of the lines.

Section 41-B:

Subject: D-16, ID TAG D-16-008459

Status: FLAGGED

Possible Reasoning:

Multiple counts of unauthorized enlistment attempts within restricted time frames

Identity falsification across multiple application

Unaccounted travel across restricted city zones

Suspicion of minor bribery attempts during recruitment screening

Possible association with falsifiers or underground document handlers

Suspected alteration of medical records

Unusual persistence flagged as potential intelligence risk

“Well!” Dee exclaimed, shooting up from the seat by hopping down with such a loud clang that he immediately flinched on impact. He laughed, the sound strained and unusually high-pitched as he spouted, “thank you for your time, Inspector Elita, I hear you loud and clear, I’m not cut out for any of that war stuff, so I’ll just be on my way…”

His engine stuttered with fear when he turned around and almost immediately he ran into Jetfire, his nose practically smashing into the large mech’s leg as a result, and he stumbled back with a hand held to his face and his optics wide with astonishment.

“Sorry, buddy,” Jetfire said. To his credit, he did look genuinely sympathetic as he turned and easily blocked the way out with his frame. “But you’ll have to stay with us. Calm down, okay?”

His hand, heavy and scarred, easily weighed more than Dee’s entire upper body as he gently draped it on his shoulder, but there was a certain firmness to it. A warning, actually, and Dee felt quite sick as he was spun around and made to face Elita, who laid her cheek on her fingers as she stared at him.

“Ma’am,” Dee sputtered, his hands flailing like they always did when he was nervous. “This - This is just a misunderstanding, I’m sure we can talk it out! Please, Inspector - “

“That’s just it, D-16,” Elita said in a dry voice, swinging her legs out of their crossed positions as she slid off her stool with a grace that he could never hope to have. Her optics narrowed with indignation, and she waved around both clipboards as she said, “it’s not Inspector Elita. It’s Major.”

Oh.

Oh, fuck.

“Sixty-seven inspectors have reported that a suspicious miner has been trying to enlist within the Liberation Front for at least six months now,” Elita said, smacking the clipboards into Dee’s hands so harshly that he nearly jumped out of his paint. Pain radiated through his neural network as he stared blankly at the sheets that listed out all his supposed violations. “Are you aware that not only is there a limit to the amount of times someone can apply to serve, but more than that, that lying on government forms is a federal offense?”

“I didn’t lie!” Dee immediately said. His voice was too loud and judging by the way Elita’s optic ridges furrowed, she didn’t enjoy the spike in his volume. He inhaled deeply, tried to cycle through his panic program without blowing a fuse, and with a calmer (and shakier) tone, he said, “I didn’t lie. I never falsified any of my medical records, so maybe something’s wrong within your system.”

He felt a drop of coolant slide down the back of his neck as his temperature gauge desperately kicked on his cooling system. He knew how pathetic he looked, how pitiful, and a lot of the times it worked in his favor, but this dame seemed too sharp to fool her properly.

What if she saw right through him? It wasn’t as if he lied monumentally or anything on any of his forms! He simply… tweaked… a few of the minor details. Things that would simply grant him another chance of enlisting, but in the long run, would they really matter?

They obviously matter to her, idiot, his processor moaned helplessly.

“Don’t be a wiseass with me, boy,” Elita said dangerously. She drew herself to her full height and said, “it says here that you’re a type A energon, and that you have no previous record of serious illness. But your cog, or lackthereof - “

She glanced down at his well, which he covered with a morbid sort of embarrassment and humiliation.

She snorted out a breath through her nose and said, “everyone knows that mechs with TDS have a hell of an easier time getting sick. You’re telling me that you never even caught the damn rust flu? Hm?”

A soft click emitted from Dee’s throat as he swallowed as he clutched at the clipboards so tightly that the papers crinkled and were dangerously close to tearing. Though he knew that he almost got caught several times already, none of been like this, like her.

Most inspectors were simply government officials deployed by the nearby state-level council who were hired temporarily, since the majority of recruitment sites were tents that didn’t last more than a couple of days at most. None of the one who had managed to glean that something was off with his forms was ever more than a suspicious inspector who dismissed him, but Elita was an actual ranking officer.

That meant that not only did she have the power to put his ass into the big house, but she could completely blacklist him from serving, ever.

No, no, that couldn’t happen! There were still so many recruitment tents he hadn’t visited, and he couldn’t - he never had the chance to - he -

“Major.” Jetfire chided gently. He squeezed Dee’s shoulder again, the touch reluctantly comforting, though Dee could hardly see straight with his panic. “Don’t scare him.”

“Don’t scare him!” Elita exclaimed in disbelief. “He’s lucky I’m not putting him in the slammer without a thought! Now listen up, fella, Jetfire here’s going to cart you off to Kaon, and once you’re there, you and I are going to have a nice, long cha - “

“Major Elita!”

“Oh, applesauce, WHAT!” Elita bellowed as the flap behind Jetfire opened and a head poked up and over his massive shoulder. “You better have a damn good reason why you’re interrupting me, Krystal!”

The femme who was hovering behind Jetfire blushed wildly, her entire face blue with energon as she managed to stutter out, “y-yes ma’am, I’m sorry, ma’am! Uh, it’s just - you have a visitor, and he’s claiming to be a doctor?”

Cripes. Don’t tell me… Dee thought with apprehension.

“A doctor?” Elita repeated. At least her surprise seemed to dispel most of her anger, as she exchanged a brief look with Jetfire and frowned. She tsked and crossed her arms, her finger tapping impatiently on her arm as she said, “tell him I’m busy.”

“He’s really insistent,” Krystal said.

“And I’m really losing my patience here,” Elita snapped back.

“It’s just that he’s - oh, oh no, sir, don’t - please don’t!” Krystal yelped, and soon enough, her head disappeared as there was a scrambling noise heard. She gave a small oof somewhere in the back, and another head replaced hers.

“Excuse me, Major Elita, but I believe you have my patient in your hands, and I’d appreciate it if I could get him back without you scaring the fella,” a very recognizable, a very familiar voice said, and Dee couldn’t tell if he wanted to hit him or place a wet one on him. “He spooks easy, see.”

Oh, you ass, Dee thought with an embarrassing amount of relief as he shot a sharp look at their newest guest.

“And who might you be?” Elita said, her voice neutral but her optics noticeably narrowed with suspicion.

“Mind moving for me, old boy?” The mech said in a dry tone, patting Jetfire on the shoulder.

For a moment, it looked like Jetfire wouldn’t step aside, and Dee felt more coolant drip down his neck. But to his surprise, after another beat of silence, Elita reluctantly dipped her chin in a nod, and Jetfire made a small noise of disbelief as he shuffled aside and revealed Dee’s savior.

“Thank you. And it’s Sentinel, Major. Doctor if you want to be formal,” Sentinel said, and Dee had never been so glad to see his silly blue and gold paint job. The mech stood tall and had to swoop down slightly to step inside, and he didn’t hesitate as he grasped Dee’s other shoulder and pulled him back so that Jetfire’s hand fell limply to his side. “But like I said, I’m here for my patient.”

Dee let out a shaky and admittedly relieved sigh as he stepped back and tried to absorb some of Sentinel’s warmth. Subtly, without making too big of a motion for it to be noticeable, he jabbed his elbow back so that it made contact with Sentinel’s hip.

What the hell took you so long? Dee tried to say with that little bit of touching.

Sentinel grunted lowly and gripped Dee’s protoform in a warning. Shut up.

“Your patient?” Elita said with raised optic ridges. “He’s a patient of the state now, if that’s your concern.”

“D-16 is my concern, nothing else,” Sentinel said firmly. “I heard that you were accusing him of all sorts of baloney.”

“Now, see here,” Elita said sharply, her arms uncrossing as she took a threatening step forward. Dee couldn’t help it as he shrank back closer to Sentinel, who squeezed his shoulder quite urgently. “Baloney’s a bit of a strong word. This mech tried to lie on his medical records, and the conduits would never tolerate that kind of - “

“He didn’t lie,” Sentinel interrupted, which was a balls-y move considering Dee had the inkling that Major Elita was not the kind to get interrupted easily.

As if to prove him right, Krystal, who was peeking into the room under the flap, slapped a hand to her mouth as her optics widened in horror. Jetfire, who didn’t look the type to get startled, had an expression on his face that suggested he was about to faint.

And Elita, well.

Her face was near lapis with how blue it was from her anger, and her mouth was slightly agape as she stared at Sentinel with such contempt that it was a wonder the mech didn’t set on fire right then and there.

“His medical records are inconsistent, yes, but that’s my fault,” Sentinel insisted. “I was working a bit too much - fixing up all those mechs that come back from war, you see - and hadn’t grabbed enough recharge. It’s just a simple mistake, Major.”

“You’re telling me that this - “ Elita slammed down the clipboards onto the ground, the noise so shocking that practically everyone but Sentinel jumped - “was nothing more than a mistake? I think you’re trying to pull a fast one on me, doc, and I won’t have it.”

Sentinel simply tilted his head. “Come on, Major. It’s like you said. Anyone with Transformation Dysgenesis Syndrome can hardly go one week without contracting the plague. You really think this fella here could do any of that on your pretty list without falling over?”

Dee stared at the ground as Sentinel patted his arm roughly.

TDS wafted through the mouths of countless bots like it was nothing more than a common cold, but to Dee, it was the phantom that he could never seem to get rid of, no matter how hard he tried. It was so easy for those normal, healthy fellas to talk about it like it was nothing, but to Dee, it was everything, and he so desperately wished it wasn’t.

He squeezed his hands into fists and thought to himself how he was going to plant a hard one onto Sentinel’s face after this was all said and done.

“I did hear that there was a big mix up at St. Prima’s recently,” Krystal said meekly. When all optics glanced towards her, she meeped, hid herself more behind Jetfire, and said, “t-there was a fire. A lot of papers were destroyed, so most patient records were written down from memory…”

Silence.

“Jetfire,” Elita finally said. Her face wasn’t any less severe in its expression, but the blue had cooled to a mere cyan rather than lapis as she refused to look away from Dee. He stared back, not knowing what else to do, wondering if she was trying to read his mind with how hard she was squinting.

“I heard something similar,” Jetfire immediately responded. His voice was soft and concerned, and it was obvious now that he was more worried about Elita than anything else as he approached her and placed a hand on her back. “St. Prima’s is old and they don’t have the proper fire safety protocols. Elita…”

Elita swore, paused, and then swore some more. She brushed aside Jetfire’s hand impatiently, turned around, and said, “get the hell out of my tent.”

Dee perked up. He glanced at Sentinel, who seemed even more surprised than he probably did.

“I said beat it!” She yelled, clicking her tongue as she kicked at the clipboards and they slid to a stop right in front of Dee’s feet. He bent down and picked them up, wincing when he glanced back towards her and realized that she was giving him the worst stink eye he had ever seen. “And I better not see you anywhere near our recruitment sites again, D-16.”

“Yes, ma’am,” he said weakly.

“Tch. Next!” Elita bellowed, shoving open the flap and startling everyone still waiting outside.

Sentinel grabbed Dee’s upper arm and they high-tailed it out of there, with Dee managing a sneaky wave towards Krystal and Jetfire, both of whom simply stared back at him with puzzled expressions. So much for good impressions, but that was alright, and Dee clutched the clipboards to his chest with an excitement he couldn’t hope to keep off his face as the tent quickly became nothing more than a small square behind them.

“What the hell were you thinking, you damn swindler!” Sentinel hissed as soon as they were in the clear. He let go of Dee so abruptly that he nearly stumbled and fell face flat onto the concrete of the sidewalk. “That was too close, and she was a ranking officer!”

“No one asked for you to put your ass on the line.” Dee immediately shot back. “I can handle a dame like her!”

“What? A dame like her?” Sentinel repeated in disbelief. He slapped both hands onto his face, tugged on the soft protoform, and groaned. “That wasn’t a dame, Dee, she was a hydra!”

“Do you want a prize, then?” Dee said dryly. “Here, get rid of these for me. Also, really? Lack of recharge? We need to work on your white lies, buddy.”

He handed the clipboards to Sentinel, who muttered something unkind under his breath as he flipped through the pages with a face of disbelief. By the time he got to section 41-B he looked ready to slam the boards onto Dee’s head, who cautiously took a step to the side to avoid the hit in case it came.

“Identity falsification across multiple applications? Unaccounted travel across restricted city zones? Suspicion of minor bribery attempts during recruitment screening?” Sentinel blurted out, pinching the bridge of his nose and a cloud of steam billowing out from his smokestacks. “Dee, you - I - “

“I didn’t bribe him that much.” Dee tried to defend. “I mean, what kind of bonehead takes a bribe from a cogless, huh?”

“You got porridge for brains or something, you dumb cluck?” Sentinel burst out, punching Dee in the arm. It was a pretty hard hit, and the miner cursed something foul as Sentinel shook his head and scowled. “Stars, help me. I need a drink.”

“Okay, sure,” Dee said easily. “My treat.”

Sentinel shot him a look of disbelief. “You mean my treat, since you don’t got anything but loose change.”

Dee smiled, and Sentinel reluctantly grinned back.

“So, a drink,” Dee said, glancing around them with scrutiny. “Where do we get one around these parts?”

“Do I have to do everything?”

“Don’t be a smartass…”

#megop #megatron #optimus prime #orion pax #d-16 #transformers #transformers one #sentinel prime #prima prime #tbwsafs

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