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xxsyluslittlecrowxx · 3 months ago

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𝐂𝐥𝐚𝐬𝐬𝐢𝐟𝐢𝐞𝐝 𝐂𝐨𝐧𝐭𝐚𝐜𝐭

— 𝑪𝒂𝒍𝒆𝒃

𝑷𝒂𝒓𝒕 𝟏 𝒐𝒖𝒕 𝒐𝒇 𝟐

(A/N: It's a bit long [sorry not sorry] but this is dedicated to the wonderful, @laddelulu30)

"I want your quiet, your screaming and thrashing The salt on your lips and the hands that God gave you I want your violence, your silent sedation [...] " —Flower Face, Spiracle

𝐒𝐇𝐄 𝐖𝐀𝐒 𝐂𝐎𝐌𝐈𝐍𝐆.

That alone should have meant nothing.

Farspace did not bend for names—it swallowed them. One by one, bodies moved through its corridors like white blood cells in a system too vast to care. They came with files, with ranks, with designations stamped in cold ink. And he? He signed off on them like numbers. Watched them arrive, watched them leave, and never once remembered a face.

But not her.

God, not her.

Her name wasn't just a data point. It was a wound—quiet, clean, and still bleeding.

Caleb sat behind his desk like a man awaiting judgement—not from a court, but from a god he no longer believed in. One leg crossed neatly over the other, spine a rod of iron, boots polished to a mirror-dark sheen. Everything about him was immaculate. Precise. Dead. His face might have been carved from stone—beautiful, yes, but empty, like something abandoned by its sculptor mid-devotion. Even his breath obeyed.

And yet, beneath all that stillness, his body rioted.

She was on the ship.

The knowledge of her arrival did not come with a message. It came like a pressure beneath the skin—like static before a storm. She was here. He felt it. Not through sensors or alerts, but in his bones, in that hollow place where the chip curled cold against his spine and pulsed like an unspoken name.

She'd signed a requisition form. A transfer slip buried three layers deep in cross-department logs. No greeting. No request. Just quiet movement.

She hadn't asked for permission.

Of course she hadn't.

She still believed she didn't need to.

The thought struck him like a blow. Not that she was here—he already knew that. It was the how of it. The defiance. The silent arrival. She hadn't come to be seen. She'd come to exist in his orbit again without asking.

His gaze slid—without thought, without command—to the bottle on the corner of the desk.

Apple Syrup. Still sealed. Amber and glinting in the dim light like a relic left on an altar. He hadn't touched it in years. Not since—

His fingers twitched. He stilled them.

That was rule number one: never indulge the memory.

Memory was a drug. It softened the steel.

And softness, in this place, was a slow death.

Still, the bottle remained. Unopened. A strange, pathetic offering to a ghost who had not yet arrived.

He told himself it meant nothing. Coincidence. A lapse in discipline. But the truth had sharper teeth.

His entire body was a collection of such lapses.

The arm that no longer registered pain. The mind, split down the center like a cauterized wound. The ship—God, the chip—nestled at the base of his skull like a parasite mimicking sleep.

And now—

Now it was waking.

Not in revolt.

In hunger.

He felt her.

Not in the way officers registered footsteps, or lovers caught scent—but in the marrow-deep way a sailor feels the tide turn before the waves break. No sensor had alerted him. No voice had called. But something ancient inside him stirred.

She was on his floor.

The knowledge slithered beneath his skin, static and electric, older than thought.

Not memory. Not reason.

Something darker.

It wasn't lust—though that, too, would come.

It was proximity.

A knowing so primal it predated language.

The kind that made gods beg for morality, just to suffer it properly.

Caleb did not move.

Not yet.

He let the sensation bloom inside him—slow, excruciating—a wound reopening itself by choice. Let it tear through the walls he'd so carefully built over the years. Let it remind him what it meant to want.

Not because he couldn't have her.

But because he shouldn't.

She was not a woman. Not to him.

She was his forbidden inheritance.

And desire, when starved long enough, becomes indistinguishable from punishment.

He closed his eyes.

And something old stirred in the hollow of his gut—not a memory, no, but the echo of one. Warped by time. Distorted by pain. Flickering through the static left behind by the chip they'd scorched into his spine.

She was sixteen.

Barefoot in the garden. Apple between her teeth. Juice dripping down her wrist. That grin—God, that grin—so radiant it made something writhe in his stomach.

She'd waved at him with sticky fingers. And he—older, bitter, already folding beneath weight no boy should carry—had pretended not to care.

But he remembered how the apple tasted when she pressed it to his mouth.

It tasted like belonging.

The memory was dangerous.

That was rule two.

Dangerous because it hadn't faded. Because it was still real.

He hadn't remembered much since the tunnel—not in any linear sense. There were gaps so wide he sometimes wondered if the real Caleb had been left up there, scattered among the stars.

What remained was a ghost. A weapon wearing a name,

But she—

She made him remember.

Even now.

She made him real.

The door didn't open. Not yet.

But he felt her. Paused just beyond it.

No movement. No breath. Nothing measurable.

And still—he knew.

She stood with her hand hovering above the control pad, uncertain whether to knock, to enter, or to turn and disappear down the corridor like a ghost he'd conjured too carelessly.

She didn't understand what waited for her on the other side.

Not anymore.

This wasn't Gran's kitchen or a sun-warmed garden or the makeshift family they'd once borrowed shelter from.

This was Farspace.

This was where monsters wore medals.

And men like Caleb passed for gods.

And she—

She was the last piece of proof he'd ever been human.

Part of him—small, buried, still barely human—hoped she would walk away.

That she'd feel the weight pressing through the metal, the hunger clawing just beneath his breath, and run.

Because if she stepped inside, he would not protect her.

He would keep her.

But the other part—older, deeper, honed by silence and sharpened by loss—

wanted her to walk in.

And never walk out again.

There were days Caleb believed he had been created for the sole purpose of suffering. Not in the dramatic sense. Not poetic. He had long since grown to despise both.

No—this was quieter. Older.

A truth that circled beneath his skin like a second bloodstream.

Some men learn pain. Others are woven from it.

He had not chosen the weight he carried.

Only the silence that followed.

He used to think that endurance meant strength. That if he held fast—if he broke without noise—it would carve him into something righteous.

But now he knew:

The carving was the point.

They hadn't made him stronger.

They'd made him hollow.

They gave him a new arm.

But they took something no metal could replace.

They tampered with his thoughts—gently, surgically—then told him to trust what was left.

They folded orders into his instincts like poisoned thread, then asked him to love as if nothing had been rewritten.

And worst—

worst—

they left her untouched.

Untouched by the chip. Untouched by the darkness that clung to him now like a second skin.

Untouched by the cold metal table, the vacuum of the tunnel, the until corridors where he'd been strapped down and told, yes—say yes—and we'll let you live.

She didn't know what it meant to choose survival over goodness.

And if he could help it—

she never would.

He had killed for less.

Entire squadrons, erased like bad code when the data suggested even a whisper of disloyalty. He'd signed off on transports that would never reach their destinations. Scrubbed names from rosters that once belonged to friends. Watched the Docking Bay doors seal shut behind people who still trusted him.

And he had done it all—

without hesitation.

Without sleep.

Without guilt.

But he would sooner flay himself alive than let her see him do it.

Because that was the final irony of what he'd become—

a colonel without a soul,

still measuring his ruin against the only eyes that had ever looked at him and seen a boy instead of a weapon.

He turned from the door. Abruptly.

Crossed the room with mechanical grace, boots soundless against the steel floor. At the wall, he opened the third drawer.

Inside—

a single datachip.

Unmarked. Illegal. Breathing silence.

A spare neural index. Seven months to strip the beacon. Five more to rewrite the failsafes.

It was treason.

It was contingency.

It was his.

He hadn't used it.

Not yet.

Not unless the day came when he had to run. Or erase himself. Or disappear into the tunnel again like smoke through a vent.

But still—he kept it close.

Like a rosary.

A quiet prayer to the version of himself that might still deserve to be saved.

His mind drifted.

Back to Gran's house.

Back to the days when fear was simple—missing a test, disappointing Gran, forgetting her birthday because of training.

How small those fears were. How blessed.

He had been different then.

No—not different. Just less revealed.

The darkness had always lived in him.

It simply hadn't learned its name.

He remembered waking one night, sixteen years old, heart racing like it had sensed something before he did.

She'd crept into his room—barefoot, shivering. Said nothing he could understand.

Just wide, damp eyes and a name he would die to un-hear now.

Without thinking, he'd let her crawl beneath the blanket.

She was freezing.

He'd wrapped his arms around her—the real one. The one he'd been born with.

And whispered,

"You're safe."

He had meant it.

God help him, that was what haunted him most.

Back then, it had been true.

Because if she ever knew—

what he had become,

what lived beneath the polished uniform, the bionic calm, the gleaming insignia on his collar—

she would run.

And he would let her.

He would watch her go with hands clenched at his sides, breath burning in his throat.

And then—

he would follow.

And bring her back.

Because love, when bent by time and silence and the ache of being half-alive, begins to resembled something else.

Not tenderness.

Not even obsession.

But possession, dressed in reverence.

And he—

he had never loved anyone else.

Not once.

Not in twenty-five years.

A sound—sharp, measured—broke the stillness.

Footsteps.

Steady. Controlled. Unhurried.

He knew the rhythm. Of course he did.

It was hers. But not the way she used to walk.

Gone was the careless bounce, the warm weightlessness of girlhood.

This was different.

This was the tread of someone who had learned—that being noticed could be dangerous.

She had changed.

So had he.

Caleb returned to his seat behind the desk.

Straightened his cuffs. Adjusted his collar.

The motions were familiar. Mechanical.

But beneath them—the storm was already gathering.

The door opened.

Not with ceremony. Not with hydraulics and authority.

Just a hiss. Soft.

A line of light.

And then—

her silhouette.

She didn't speak.

Neither did he.

She stood in the threshold like a question without a mark.

Framed by the corridor's artificial glow, her coat caught the light and cast faint halos along the edges.

The figure was familiar—achingly so—but time had carved her sharper.

Her posture was tense, not from fear, but from having learned to carry it

A soldier's stillness.

And yet—

when her gaze landed on him, something flickered.

Something old.

Something his.

He wondered what she saw.

Not the boy from the garden—that was long dead.

Not the one who used to kneel beside her at the windowsill, sketching stars like prayers.

The man behind the desk wore black like a verdict.

His posture was carved from marble.

His face—expressionless.

This was not a face made for reunion.

It was a mask designed to survive it.

Did she see it?

Did she know what had been taken?

Or worse—what he had willingly given?

He said nothing.

Did nothing.

Only looked.

As if she were a manuscript recovered from fire—edges blackened, but the center miraculously intact.

His gaze moved slowly, reverently.

The faint scar near her temple, half-hidden by her hair.

The crease between her brows—small, but deep enough to speak of sleepless nights.

The way her eyes, just once, flicked toward the bottle on his desk.

The same apple syrup Gran always used.

She had noticed.

Of course she had.

And for a moment, something in him cracked—because he didn't know what a single glance from her could still undo.

A small, traitorous thought bloomed in his mind:

Would she still remember how it tasted?

The syrup.

The past.

Him.

He exhaled through his nose and stood.

The movement was deliberate—unhurried, but final.

His boots met the floor like punctuation.

Sharp. Inevitable.

The room seemed to shrink around him. Or maybe he had grown—

not in height,

but in hunger.

She turned, followed his movement with her eyes—

but didn't retreat.

Didn't flinch.

Another change.

Years ago, she would've smiled. Rolled her eyes. Closed the space between them without thinking.

Now she measured it.

Not it mattered.

"You're taller," he said at last.

His voice was steady.

Controlled.

Not a compliment.

Just an observation.

She tilted her head, just barely.

"You're colder."

Not an accusation.

Just truth.

So.

It would be like this

He stepped forward.

Just once.

Not enough to crowd her—just enough to shift the air.

To see if she would move.

She didn't.

Not a blink. Not a breath.

Another change.

"You regret coming?" he asked, voice quiet. Careful.

Like asking about the weather.

Or the harvest.

A question whose answer would change nothing.

She tilted her head.

"Do you want me to?"

He didn't answer.

Because if he told her the truth—

that he had counted down to this moment like a condemned man savoring his final breath—it would cost him something he couldn't afford to lose.

She wasn't just a person.

Not to him.

She was a tether.

A thread back to something unbroken, unbought.

The living proof that he had once belonged to something other than violence.

But she didn't know that.

Couldn't.

She'd never understand what it meant to breathe in a room that held her body and still not believe he deserved to be near it.

She had walked through hells of her own—he could see it in the lines of her stance.

But he had been rewritten.

And she—

She still spoke in a language his hands had forgotten how to hold.

He turned from her.

Walked toward the far wall.

The window stretched wide across the room, a pane of reinforced glass holding back the void.

Beyond it—stars. Cold. Indifferent. Eternal.

He stood before them with his hands clasped behind his back, the way soldiers did when the needed to look composed.

It gave him time.

Not to think—

But to remember how to breathe without breaking.

"You shouldn't have come," he said, eyes on the stars.

"I didn't come for you."

He smiled.

A small, bitter thing.

She lied like she always had—

clearly,

and with conviction.

"I didn't authorize your transfer," he said.

His voice was flat.

Bureaucratic.

A man returning to the rules because everything else was slipping.

She didn't flinch.

"You didn't need to."

Her tone didn't challenge.

Didn't mock.

It simply was.

A fact placed on the table between them like a blade.

The silence that followed was longer this time.

Not empty.

Charged.

Like two live wires humming just before they touch.

He didn't speak again.

Not yet.

Because anything he said now might cost him the last shard of control he still believed he had.

Finally—finally—he turned.

Not a glance.

A full turn.

A reckoning.

He let himself look at her.

Really look.

And her eyes—

God, they hadn't changed.

Still clear. Still steady. Still impossible.

There was no condemnation in them.

No flinch. No fear.

Just presence.

Like she saw through every layer of ruin and still chose to stand in its shadow.

"Why are you here?" he asked.

The question came out raw. Almost hoarse.

She didn't answer right away.

When she did, her voice was soft.

But it landed like judgment.

"To see what's left of you."

And there it was.

The thing he feared most.

Not her pity.

Not her silence.

But her belief—

that something could be left.

She shouldn't have said that.

Not to him.

To see what's left of you.

The words echoed through him like a bell across an empty field—low, mournful, final.

He had heard many things.

Screams. Orders. The wet snap of breaking bone.

He had even heard his own voice, breaking into something he didn't recognize.

But nothing had ever struck him like that.

What's left.

As if he were debris.

As if he were a collapsed monument scavenged for sentiment.

He met her gaze.

And said it.

Low. Hollow. Certain.

"I am no longer a man in mourning."

A pause.

"I am the grave."

He took a step toward her.

Not threatening.

Not hesitant.

Just... inevitable.

She didn't move. Not forward. Not backward.

She simply held his gaze—

with that impossible steadiness she'd had as a girl.

The one that used to get her into fights she shouldn't have won.

The one that had always, always undone him.

But now—

there was something else in it.

Not fear.

Not revulsion.

Not even hope.

Understanding.

And that—

that was what broke him.

Because if she saw him—

truly saw him—

and still looked...

He wouldn't stop her.

He wouldn't protect her.

He would fall to his knees and give her everything.

"I'm not who I was," he whispered.

The words felt foreign in his mouth—too soft for a throat carved by orders and blood.

But they were true.

He wasn't asking for pity.

He was offering a warning.

A final mercy.

Her eyes didn't blink.

Didn't shift.

She saw him—

And she stayed.

"You're still Caleb," she said.

Soft as prayer.

Sharp as a blade.

And he—

He snapped.

Not outwardly.

Not with motion or sound.

But inside—

where his name had lived like a forgotten relic.

And she—

She had spoken it back into flame.

He stepped closer.

Too close.

Close enough to feel her breath ghost against his lips.

He didn't touch her.

But every inch of him—every wire, every scar, every command stitched into his spine—was screaming to.

His hands hung at his sides like weapons he no longer trusted himself to wield.

And his voice—

when it came—

was low, cracked, reverent.

"Say it again."

Her lips parted.

She didn't ask what he meant.

She knew.

"Caleb."

Just that.

No rank. No title.

Just his name,

wrapped in her voice like it had never belonged to anyone else.

He shut his eyes.

And that was it.

That was the whole damn war.

"I think of you constantly," he said, eyes still closed. "It's not memory. Not even thought."

He drew in a shaky breath.

"It's... breath. Reflex. A condition."

A bitter smile ghosted across his lips.

"I could kill a man with a flick of my hand."

But then his voice dropped lower.

"But if you were within the blast radius—

I'd tear the world inside out to keep your skin whole."

He opened his eyes.

And there it was—

the truth.

Raw. Final. Unhideable.

The kind of truth that—once spoken—undoes everything that came before it.

She whispered,

"That isn't love."

He didn't argue.

Didn't flinch.

Didn't look away.

"No," he said. "It's not."

A breath passed between them—

hot, shared, sacrificial.

"It's devotion."

And then, softer—

"Asphyxiating. Involuntary. Sanctified."

His mouth hovered over hers.

Not touching. Not yet.

But every inch of his restraint screamed.

"Devotion—when it lives too long without being answered—doesn't die."

Another breath.

"It starves."

He didn't move.

Didn't have to.

The air between them had already collapsed.

Caleb's hand rose.

Slow.

Like a man approaching fire he's begged for in his sleep.

His fingers curled midair—

hovering just at the edge of her waist.

Not touching.

But trembling.

He could feel her hear through the air itself—

through his gloves,

through the cold logic that had governed him since they cut into his spine and gave him orders instead of thoughts.

And still—

he didn't touch her.

Because if he did—

it wouldn't stop at touching.

And if it didn't stop—

he wouldn't let it.

His hand faltered.

Hung there, breathless.

Then dropped.

Like a condemned thing retreating from its own hunger.

She didn't speak.

But he saw it—

in the way her lips parted,

in the breath caught just behind her teeth,

like a question had risen before she knew its shape.

She wanted to ask.

He could see it.

Feel it.

The heat of it pulsing between them like a second gravity.

He prayed she wouldn't.

Because if she did—

he would give her everything.

Not just his hands.

Not just his mouth.

But the knife of his devotion.

The part of him no one had ever touched,

because it had always, always belonged to her.

He took a breath.

It didn't help.

His restraint was slipping at the seams.

And still—

she didn't speak.

Which only made him want her more.

"You think you're safe with me," he said.

Flat.

Cold.

A scalpel of a voice.

She didn't blink.

"I never said that."

He huffed once—

something too brittle to be a laugh.

"You don't have to."

He looked at her now—really looked.

"You've always been like this.

Brave.

Blinding.

Idiotic."

She stepped back.

Not out of fear.

Out of defiance.

And it cut deeper than retreat.

because he loved her for it.

He always had.

He loved that she wouldn't cower.

That she would burn beside him, eyes wide open,

until there was nothing left but ash—

and her name buried in the wreckage of his voice.

"Do you want to know what I think about when I wake up?"

He didn't wait for an answer.

Because her silence was already yes.

He stepped closer.

Not urgently—

but like a man reaching into fire because it's the only thing that ever made him feel real.

"You."

Not a confession.

A sentence.

A sentence he'd been serving for years.

"Always you.

Not the memory.

Not the child.

You."

Pause.

"Now. Here."

He let the words bleed.

"The way you smell when you walk past my quarters.

The way you move like you've been taught not to look over your shoulder.

The way you—"

He stopped.

Too much.

Too raw.

And she was just standing there, drinking it in.

Not mocking. Not turning away.

Just existing.

And that—

that unmade him more than any scream ever could.

He stepped back.

Not out of indifference.

Out of mercy.

Out of the last remaining shred of control still clinging to the wreckage of his soul.

"I'm not going to touch you," he said.

The words tasted like blood.

They wounded like a punishment.

Her eyes narrowed—just slightly.

"Why not?"

And for a moment—

he almost laughed.

Not from amusement.

From despair.

"Because I don't know how to stop."

The silence that followed was thick as sin.

And in it, his pulse thundered like a threat—

not to her.

To himself.

He turned his face slightly, dragging a gloved hand across his mouth. As if he could wipe the truth away. As if silence could undo confession.

It couldn't.

Not with her.

Not here.

Not now.

He had exposed too much.

And she—

God help him—

had received it.

"I'm going to give you a choice," he said after a long silence.

"I don't want one."

"You'll take it anyway."

She didn't move.

"If you walk out of this room right now, I won't stop you," he said. "I won't follow. I won't pull you back."

The lie tasted like ash.

"And if I stay?" she asked quiet.

"If you stay," he said, "then I need you to understand something."

Her eyes met his. Patient. Steady. Eternal.

"I'm not going to ask for your consent every time I think about you. I'm not going to apologize for the way I feel you in my veins. I'm not going to lie and say I can love you gently. I've already failed that test."

Another pause. His voice dropped.

"If you stay, you're mine."

She didn't answer.

The moment hung between them like a guillotine—suspended, waiting, silent.

And Caleb...

waited beneath it.

At first, he stood still out of control. Then it became ritual. Then necessity. He didn't turn to look at her. He just...

listened.

To her breath.

To her body.

To the storm of her silence.

There was no footfall. No rustle of cloth. No indrawn gasps or shift of stance.

Only stillness.

And it mocked him.

Because stillness could mean anything.

Stillness could mean no.

Or worse—it could mean yes.

And that was what terrified him most.

Because yes would mean the collapse of restraint. The death of control. The failure of every promise he'd made to himself in the months since he'd returned with blood in his mouth and nothing but her name left in his mind.

He had not imagined the moment would feel like this.

He had envisioned her angry. Cold. He had envisioned shouting, accusations, distance. The ability to keep her at arm's length by force or fury.

But this—

This was worse.

This was quiet.

She didn't move. And so neither did he. But internally, he was already bleeding.

Had he gone too far?

He replayed his words in his mind, dissecting them, slicing through their tone, their implications. Not going to ask for consent. Mine. failed that test.

God.

What if she thought he meant to take her like one of those stories whispered in the darker wings of the Fleet? What if she thought the chip had broken something fundamental in him, that he'd lost the part that knew how to love instead of claim?

But had he ever known?

Had he ever loved her in a way that wasn't possessive, selfish, desperate?

Even as a boy, he'd hated when others looked at her too long. Hated when she vanished into the winding streets without telling him. He remembered once punching a boy in the stomach when he wound out he'd held her hand during a school trip. She never found out.

He never told her.

He had been a monster long before they made it official.

Maybe the chip hadn't changed him. Maybe it only had revealed him.

And maybe... she'd known all along.

He glanced at her—just a flick of the eyes, no more—and what he saw made his heart stutter.

She was watching him.

Not coldly. Not cruelly.

A muscle jumped in his jaw. He turned fully now, facing her.

The hunger was back. Fiercer than before. Not just for her body, but for her choice.

For her to speak.

To claim.

To give him the thing he could not ask for directly—the only thing that he had every truly wanted.

Not her forgivness.

Not her affection.

Her permission to need her.

Her silence stretched.

And in it, he saw futures unraveling like thread from a blade.

Did she want him to speak again? To explain? To apologize?

He could do none of those things. There was no logic that would cleanse what he was now. No apology that could reverse the memory of that cold metal table, the way they'd opened his flesh and whispered about capacity and compliance. No language that could undo what it meant to wake up different—more dangerous, more precise, more useful.

He was not the boy she had known.

But if she reached for him now—

If she said his name again—

He would be hers.

Entierly.

Without armor. Without orders. Without escape.

He could already feel his control breaking at the edges—his shoulders locked too tight, his mouth dry, fingers twitching against the seam of his coat like he needed to hold something.

Her wrist, perhaps.

Her jaw.

Her throat.

Not to hurt.

To anchor.

He had not touched her in years. Not truly. Not without consequence. He wasn't sure he remembered how. Every instinct in his body now was sharpened for impact—designed to break, to pin, to dominate.

What would it mean to touch her softly?

Could he even do that anymore?

The thought hollowed him.

And still, she said nothing.

Her silence was like a mirror he couldn't look away from—showing him the outlines of what he'd become.

He had power. So much power. He could lift her off the ground with a thought. He could seal the doors, command the lights, override the gravity controls in this room and leave her suspended, breathless, weightless, his

But what he wanted—

What he truly wanted—

was for her to close the distance herself.

Just one step.

One step, and he would fall to his knees before her.

Please, he thought, but didn't say.

And then—God, please don't.

Because if she chose him now, he would never let her go.

He would shatter the chain of command. Burn down the mission. Tear the whole of Farspace apart and offer her the bones.

Because if she stayed, there would be no leaving. Not ever again.

He would make sure of that.

She moved.

Only a breath's worth of motion, but enough. Her arms dropped to her sides fully. Her chin lifted. Her weight shifted forward—half a step.

Just one.

It was nothing. And it was everything.

And then, she spoke.

Not loudly. Not with theatrics or declarations. Her voice came like something secret, something sacred, something meant only for him.

"Lock the doors."

Three words.

That was all.

And Caleb felt the entire axis of his world tilt.

He didn't move immediately.

Couldn't.

Not because he hadn't hear her, but because every part of him suddenly needed to confirm—had she meant it? Had she said it because she was leaving and wanted privacy? Or had she—

No. No.

He saw it now.

She wasn't running.

She wasn't asking.

She was staying.

And she had just given him permission.

His throat tightened. His breath stalled. Something old and vile and unbearably beautiful cracked open inside him like a cavern wall splitting to reveal a pit of fire.

His body was still,

but his mind was a scream.

She said it.

Lock the doors.

It echoed like scripture. Like the final sentence in a prayer no one else had ever heard before.

She had chosen this.

Chosen him.

He turned toward the panel beside his desk and pressed one gloved fingertip to the override.

The door slid shut with a hiss.

Sealed.

Soundproofed.

Final.

And still—he did not go to her.

Not yet.

He stood there, gaze locked on her form, burning her shape into memory as if it might be taken from him again.

He needed to see her.

Just see her.

Like this.

Here.

Now.

Now longer part of the past.

No longer behind glass.

Real.

"I told you not to stay," he murmured, voice low, raw.

"And I told you I didn't want a choice,"

She met his eyes when she said it. Unblinking. Steady.

And that—that—was the final break.

It wasn't the words. It wasn't even the defiance.

It was the truth in her voice.

"You understand what that means," he said, barely above a whisper.

"I do."

"You can't un-choose this."

"I wouldn't."

And that was it.

That was when the yoke of restraint splintered—not shattered, not exploded.

Splintered.

Like wood beneath pressure too great for its age, groaning at last under the weight it had borne too long.

His body moved without command.

Not sudden. Not forceful. Just... inevitable.

He crossed the space between the, slow and deliberate. Like a man walking through the last breath of his old life. Each step another piece of himself falling away.

And she stood still.

Unmoving.

Waiting.

Not with fear.

But with knowledge.

With consent.

And God help him, he had never seen anything more beautiful than her silence.

He stopped just before her. Inches apart. Her breath mingled with his. Their shadows became one, cast in the dim light of the room like two figures drawn into the same orbit.

He looked at her.

Really looked.

And what he saw there—what she let him see—was not innocence.

It wasn't trust.

It was want.

Want, edged in something darker. Something that mirrored his own.

He reached out.

His gloved hand didn't touch her. It hovered—just at her cheek, trembling, uncertain.

Her eyes fluttered. And then—

She leaned into it.

Just slightly.

Just enough.

And everything in him broke.

Her skin met the edge of his glove.

Barely. Light as air. A brush. The gentles pressure imaginable.

And yet the world shifted.

It wasn't even a real touch—just a ghost of one, an allowance—but her warmth seeped through the cold synthetic leather and struck him like a low-grade detonation.

His throat went dry. His hand stilled mid-hover, and for a breathless second he simply stood there, fingers trembling by her cheekbone, caught between need and discipline.

She was so close.

And somehow, still untouchable.

His mind rebelled against it. Screamed against it. The part of him still drenched in military training, in consequence, in control—it fought to hold him back. He wasn't supposed to take. Not like this. Not when he'd already failed so many tests of restraint. Not when his very body was a weapon.

She was soft. She was mortal. She was herself.

And he... was not.

He was a thing patched together in labs and lies. Built for command. Forged in silence and sleepless nights and the desperate promise that someday, somehow, he could come home.

But home was not a place anymore.

Home was standing before him.

And home tilted her face into his hand like she belonged there.

His heart stuttered once, then thundered.

"Why... why are you doing this?" he breathed, more to himself than her. "Why would you...?"

He couldn't finish it.

Because he didn't know which ending hurt more.

Why would you let me?

or—

Why would you still want me?

"Caleb."

Her voice. A whisper.

He stopped breathing.

Not because she'd said his name, but because of how she'd said it.

Not soft.

Not comforting.

Inviting.

That one syllable unspooled him.

Because it wasn't a request.

It wasn't even a dare.

It was a welcome.

He stared at her. Saw her watching him—mouth slightly parted, chest rising just a little faster than before, eyes wide but unafraid.

And it hit him.

There would be no undoing this.

Not tomorrow. Not next week. Not when the world burned. Whatever they crossed now—they wouldn't come back from it.

And for the first time in a long, long time...

He didn't care.

"Fuck it," he said.

And he moved.

Not with violence. Not with hesitation. But with certainty.

His gloves palms framed her jaw, his thumbs trembling where they pressed beneath her ears, tilting her face up like something fragile, something holy.

And then—finally—he kissed her.

Not gently.

Not sweetly.

Not like someone reuniting with a long-lost love.

Like a man collapsing into the only thing keeping him from falling into the abyss.

He mouth slanted over hers with raw, consuming hunger. No preamble. No breath. Just contact—hot and immediate and final.

Her gasp caught between them. He swallowed it. Drank from it. And when her hands fisted into the front of his coat, pulling him closer, anchoring him there, he groaned—deep and low, like something primal had finally found a voice.

Everything else—the chip, the blood, the orders—disappeared.

There was only this.

Her lips.

Her breath.

Her body pressed to his like a prayer answered too late.

And him. Unmaking.

She tasted like defiance. Like every breath she had ever stolen back from fate and held in her own name.

And Caleb was drowning in it.

His mouth moved over hers with a hunger that had waited years for permission. Not tentative. Not teasing. Certain. Like his lips had been shaped for this moment and nothing else. Like he was returning to something he'd never truly touched.

She pulled at his coat again, dragging him closer, and his control snapped like a cable under pressure. He pressed forward, crowding her backward until her hips hit the edge of his desk.

A growl rumbled low in his throat.

Finally.

He broke the kiss, lips brushing against hers as he rasped.

"I should chain you here."

Her breath hitched.

"I should cut the comms. Keep you in this room for days."

His voice was rough, unsteady.

"You have no idea what it took to keep my hands off you all this time."

His gloved fingers rose to her chest—slow, reverent, obsessive. He didn't tear at her uniform. Didn't rip anything. He undid her, methodically, like dismantling a weapon.

One clasp.

Then the next.

Each undone with surgical precision.

He didn't speak again. Didn't need to.

The silence between each movement spoke for him.

I've thought about this.

I've dreamed of this.

You are mine now.

He peeled the fabric from her shoulders, baring her inch by inch, his eyes devouring every detail like a starving man memorizing a meal he didn't believe he deserved. His gloved hands didn't rush. They traced the lines of her collarbones, the curve of her arms, the dip of her waist.

And when her top slid down, when she stood before him half-bared, he didn't groan. Didn't exclaim.

He exhaled.

Like he'd just laid eyes on God.

His fingers, still sheathed in leather, drifted down to the waistband of her pants, and for a moment, he didn't move. Just rested them there, heavy and possessive.

"You don't know," he said, voice like thunder wrapped in velvet, "how long I've waited to ruin this."

Her breath trembled.

He leaned in, lips ghosting over her ear.

"Not fuck. Ruin.

There's a difference."

Then—he stripped her pants from her body in a single, fluid motion.

Precise.

Hungry.

Claiming.

And she stood there in her underwear, breath unsteady, skin flushed, gaze locked on his—and he saw no fear.

Just heat.

It shattered him.

He reached up to tug the gloves from his hands—slowly.

Each finger unwrapped with quiet ceremony, until at last he touched her with bare skin.

The first contact was electricity.

His palms, callused and warm, slid up her thighs. He lifted her, effortlessly, and sat her on the desk—back flat against polished metal, legs bent at the edge.

She didn't resist. She leaned back for him, gave him access.

Gave him everything.

His hands dragged up her inner thighs, thumbs brushing dangerously close to heat, but never quite landing.

"You don't know," he murmured, eyes locked on her parted lips. "how hard it's been—pretending you weren't mine."

One hand slipped beneath her knee, pressing it outward, opening her to him.

"I used to dream about this desk," he whispered. "Dream about bending you over it. Fucking you into it until you forgot your own name."

Her hear tipped back, her breath escaping in a ragged gasp.

His mouth followed.

He kissed up her inner thigh, slow and reverent, like a priest at a shrine. The heat between her legs pulsed against his breath, and for one suspended moment, he didn't move.

He just breathed her in.

Her scent.

Warm. Clean. Unmistakably hers.

It hit him like a drug.

Like gravity.

"Mine," he whispered against her skin. "You've always been mine."

Then—finally—his mouth met the damp heat of her underwear. Not urgent. Not hurried. Just... possessive.

He mouthed at her through the fabric, tongue dragging in slow, deliberate strokes, teeth just grazing.

She gasped—sharp, desperate—and his hands clamped down on her thighs, pinning her to place.

He didn't let her buck.

He didn't let her run.

He wanted her to feel it.

He peeled the fabric aside with aching care, caring her fully, and groaned when he saw how wet she was already.

"You were made for me," he murmured, almost broken. "Every inch."

His hands gripped her thighs tighter, possessive, grounding himself in the feel of her. She didn't flinch. Didn't close her legs. If anything, she leaned further back, spreading herself wider—offering.

And that simple gesture?

It undid whatever scraps of restraint still lived inside him.

"I should keep you like this," he murmured, voice hoarse. "Here. Open. Every night."

She whimpered—just faintly. It made his cock twitch behind his uniform.

"Let me look at you," he growled, pressing a kiss to her inner thigh. "Let me see what's mine."

And then—he dragged his tongue through her folds.

One long, deep, deliberate stroke from the base of her heat to the tight little bundle of nerves at the top, where he paused and sucked, hard enough to make her hips jerk.

But he didn't let her move.

His hands still locked her thighs in place.

"Stay still," he said, voice dark. "You don't get to run from this."

And then he went back in—tongue working slow, relentless circles, savoring every part of her. Every flick, every suck, every pause designed to build, build, build.

But he never let her fall.

He kissed her like she was air after drowning.

Suck.

Flick.

Moan.

Repeat.

He licked her with unhurried greed— mine, mine, mind—and never once took his eyes off her. Not even when she arched. Not even when her fingers fisted in his hair. He wanted to watch every tremor, every gasp, every little flicker of her unraveling.

And when her thighs began to tremble?

He pulled back.

Just slightly.

Lips wet. Breathing hard. Eyes dark with possessive hunger.

"You close?" he asked, dragging two fingers up her inner thigh, letting them hover just beneath her entrance.

She nodded, dazed. Voice caught in her throat.

And Caleb smiled.

Dark. Gentle. Dangerous.

"Not yet Pips."

Then he licked her again—slower this time. Crueler.

Keeping her right there.

Her breath was faltering.

He felt it in the way her legs tightened around his shoulders, in the way her hips strained against his grip. She was teetering—right on the edge—and still, he wouldn't let her fall.

Not fucking yet.

Caleb pulled back, slow as a tide receding from shore, lips glistening, chin slick with her arousal.

She whimpered in protest—a broken sound, half-gasp, half-plea—and he nearly gave in.

Nearly.

But then... he turned his head.

And there it was. Sitting on the corner of his desk. Still unopened.

The bottle

The apple syrup.

Untouched for years.

His fingers reached for it before his mind could form the thought. It was instinct. Memory. Ritual. He pulled it toward him, cradled it in his hand for a beat, and then—with deliberate care—uncorked it.

The scent hit him instantly.

Sweet. Viscous. Almost innocent.

But it wasn’t innocent anymore.

Not in this room.

Not on her.

He looked up at her—panting, wrecked, flushed and trembling on his desk, legs still parted, skin bare and shining with sweat. Her eyes were half-lidded, dazed, still lost in the slow torture of his mouth.

He held the bottle up between them. Said nothing.

Her gaze flicked to it—then to him.

And she nodded.

Once.

Just once.

And that was all he needed.

He moved again—lowering to his knees, positioning himself between her legs with the syrup in hand.

“I used to make this for you,” he murmured, thumb stroking her thigh. “Poured it over pancakes. Bread. Once on eggs, and you laughed so hard you cried.”

His voice cracked. Just slightly. “You said it was too sweet. But you still ate it.”

He unscrewed the top.

“I never touched it after Gran died.”

Then—he tipped the bottle.

A slow, golden stream of syrup spilled from the lip, warm from his hands, and he poured it over her inner thigh—just a ribbon at first.

She gasped.

He watched it trail across her skin like it belonged there.

Down her thigh.

Over the curve of her hip.

Trickling close—so close—to where he’d tasted her moments before.

And then—he poured more.

Lower.

Directly onto her folds.

The syrup hit her heat with a wet, sticky sound, coating her in gold.

She moaned.

He dropped the bottle—gently, carefully, like it was an offering placed at the foot of a shrine.

And then—

He licked her. Again.

Slow. Deliberate. Possessive.

His tongue dragged over the syrup-coated skin of her inner thigh, lapping it up with a sound that was all breath and heat and need. He groaned deep in his throat, the taste of her and the syrup mixing on his tongue—sweet and salt and sin.

“Fuck,” he hissed. “You make it taste better than I remember.”

He pushed his face deeper between her thighs, licking the syrup from her—long, deep strokes that made her tremble. Her hands clutched at the edge of the desk, knuckles white.

He didn’t stop.

Didn’t let her think.

His mouth moved from thigh to folds, from syrup to slickness, from sweetness to heat.

And when his tongue pressed flat against her clit again, syrup still coating her, he moaned into her flesh like it was a blessing.

His hands gripped her thighs tight, holding her in place, keeping her right there.

And all the while, his eyes stayed open—locked on her.

Watching her chest rise and fall.

Watching her fall apart.

Watching her belong to him.

Every lick, every breath, every groan—

Was his.

“Mine,” he whispered against her soaked cunt. “All mine.”

Her hips lifted again, just slightly—subconsciously chasing friction. Caleb felt it in the tremor of her thighs, the faint stutter of her breath as her body tried to reach for what he kept just out of reach.

He didn’t stop her.

But he didn’t let her get there, either.

Because this—this—was where he wanted her.

Suspended.

Open.

Begging with her silence.

Sticky ribbons of syrup clung to the folds of her pussy, mingling with her slick until the sweetness was inseparable from the heat of her arousal. He dipped his tongue again—slow, deliberate, obscene—starting low and dragging upward in one unbroken stroke.

She gasped. Her legs clenched around his shoulders.

He didn’t stop.

Didn’t blink.

Didn’t even breathe for a moment.

Just stared up at her, mouth still pressed to her core, watching her body react to him like it had been made for no one else.

“Look at you,” he rasped, voice hoarse from hunger. “Fucking soaked.”

He kissed her clit.

Once.

Gentle.

Mocking.

“You get this wet for anyone else?”

She whimpered—choked and wordless.

Caleb growled low in his throat. His tongue dipped again, swirling through the syrup-slick mess he’d made of her, letting it coat his mouth, his lips, his chin.

Every taste pushed him deeper into something unhinged.

“I know what you sound like when you lie,” he murmured against her. “So if you even think about saying you’ve had better—”

He pressed his tongue flat to her entrance. Flicked upward.

“—I’ll fuck it out of you.

Again. And again.

Until you forget every name but mine."

𝑻𝒐 𝒃𝒆 𝒄𝒐𝒏𝒕𝒊𝒏𝒖𝒆𝒅…. (𝑷𝒂𝒓𝒕 𝟐 𝒐𝒖𝒕 𝒔𝒐𝒐𝒏).

— © 𝟐𝟎𝟐𝟓 𝒃𝒚 𝑺𝒚𝒍𝒖𝒔’𝒔 𝑳𝒊𝒕𝒕𝒍𝒆 𝑪𝒓𝒐𝒘

#love and deepspace #caleb smut #caleb fanfic #lads caleb #love and deepspace caleb #caleb #lnds caleb #caleb lads #caleb x reader #caleb love and deepspace #lnds

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woradat · 20 days ago

Note

For the ask, can I have IDW Prowl please? Maybe with with forced proximity that ended up with always thinking of the others/each others once they're apart? Hopefully it's clear enough, also love your works btw!!!

Loosen Close

SUMMARY – two cop in operation, with tension that no knife can cut through (pre-war)

PAIRING – prowl x reader

NOTE – that's clear enough, hope this one works for you! I spent quite a bit of time writing that scene, so I apologize if the rest of the writing looks bad (maybe not that bad, but still?)

⚠️ SUGGESTIVE THEME UNDER CUT ⚠️

The door hisses open with a sad wheeze. Inside: silence. Heavy. Uncomfortably well-organized silence. This is not a precinct that looks lived-in

No clutter. No discarded datachips. Not even a dent in the walls. Just a workspace arranged with such neurotic precision that it feels more like an altar than an office. One datapad lies exactly 1.75 inches from the edge of the table. You know because you’re already planning to move it—just to see if he twitches

And then you see him. Standing with his back to the door, arms folded, optic glow reflected in the screen of the crime log interface. He doesn’t turn. He doesn’t greet you. Just simply say “You’re not Firstline”

Wow. Not even a hello?

“Observant” you answer, stepping inside like the floor might eat you “Firstline’s gone. Probably somewhere quieter. Like a burning scrapyard

A pause. A long, very precise pause

Then, slowly, too slowly, he turns. Takes one look at you like he’s scanning for structural flaws. You feel like an appliance he didn’t ask for but has to keep under warranty

“They assigned you”

You nod “They did”

“They know about your incident log”

“…Which one?”

“Stairwell collapse. Shot your own knee once during a ricochet misfire. Electrocuted yourself with a.. malfunction machine?”

“Okay, I feel like you’re cherry-picking the wrong highlights from my résumé” you mutter, stepping around a chair that’s somehow too centered to trust

“Statistically, your continued survival defies several probability models. I’m still reviewing for system error”

“Thank you. I think”

He picks up a datapad and hands it to you without eye contact “Three targeted break-ins at energy redistribution depots. Each two cycles apart. Entry logs spoofed. Surveillance corrupted. Item targets: high-grade cognitive chips. Not replaceable. Not traceable”

You glance at the file, flipping through logs “This smells like an inside job”

“Good. That’s what I wrote in the report you’re holding”

“…Oh. Right. Just testing you. Team-building?”

He doesn’t blink. You're not sure he can blink

They say his last partner quit mid-patrol Didn’t even finish the field report. Left a half-full energon cube on the console and walked out with that look—the one bots get when their processor hits the force shutdown limit for social stress “Said he’d rather transfer to the sewage grid patrol than work another cycle with that code-crusher” someone whispered earlier “Tried reformatting his own emotion chip to feel less rage. Didn’t work” And now it’s your turn. Because the universe? The universe thinks it’s funny

The second you step inside, your sensors protest

The place smells like ion dust and old machinery—coated in the greasy kind of silence that only exists in buildings where something went wrong slowly and nobody noticed. Prowl is already a step ahead

Typical. He doesn’t need to speak to issue commands, he just is one. Every footstep is calculated. Every movement filtered through about six levels of tactical foresight. You? You're doing fine—aside from almost tripping on a panel hinge five clicks back. You only caught yourself because he reached back without looking and yanked you upright by the elbow

You didn’t say thank you

He didn’t expect you to

Now you’re moving in formation, side by side in a corridor not wide enough for side-by-side. His shoulder brushes yours every other step. You try not to think about it

“Stay alert” he murmurs “I just picked up a weak pulse two segments to the west"

“…someone still here?”

“Or came back”

He doesn’t elaborate. He doesn’t have to. You both hear it. A footfall. Then another. Close—too close

Before your next breath, his hand snaps out and grabs your wrist. Hard. And without warning—Your chestplate hits the wall of the maintenance recess with a muted clang

Cold metal. Uneven. Narrow

You barely have time to blink before he's pressed in after you—no room, no pause, no buffer. Just hard armor against softer plating, his pelvis plating, locked behind yours, angles slightly forward every time he shifts to adjust footing. Each movement earns you the press of his abdominal plate against the lower arc of your back, and the sharp, seamless motion of a mech who never improvises—unless he absolutely has to

His hand slams against the wall beside your head. The force of it sends a small shudder through the panel behind you. Not aggressive—just final. Like punctuation. Like a closing gate

“Stay still” Prowl breathes into the narrow air between you

You try

You don’t trust yourself to breathe

But he's pressed in so tightly that every micron of movement feels amplified. Your shoulders are squared against the curve of the wall; his chestplate flattens against your back, firm and unmoving. You can feel the subtle pattern of his armor ridges brushing yours—contours slotting into place by accident… or fate. His left thigh slots between yours, almost casually—but the angle is wrong. There's no space for him to plant his stance properly, so his hip drives into your lower side with each shift of balance, forcing you closer to the wall than you thought possible. To the point that you almost kiss it

And worse still. Your hands are nowhere to go. Trapped at your sides. Pressed between your frame and the wall

And he hasn't moved. Not really. Just that slight lean forward when someone stepped too close outside and when he did that his chest curves over yours —and in doing so, your backplate presses snugly into the softer seam below his collar struts. Just that tense press of his midsection into the small of your back when your balance faltered again —The corridor outside crackles with approaching noise. Footsteps—slow, dragging. Too close. Whoever it is, they stop only inches beyond the alcove’s divider

“..They’re scanning” he mutters, voice pitched so low it sounds like it belongs inside your processor. Prowl’s mouth is beside your audio receiver now, close enough that the movement of his lips stirs the faintest shift of air

His voice cracks at the edge—just faintly as his hand is shaking slightly. Not out of fear. But out of control because now you’re both aware of everything

Of the way your back curves into him. Of the way his abdominal plate locks against the arch of your lower plating. Of the brushed heat of his sparkpulse syncing too close to yours. You shift—accidentally—and that small adjustment causes his torso to slide down just slightly, armor grinding slow over the base of your back

You hear it..He hears it

His other hand comes up, quick, firm, and lands on your waist—not gently. Not by accident. He doesn’t move it

“Don’t do that again” he hisses under his breath. It should sound commanding. It doesn’t. It sounds shaken. You try to retort. You do. You even open your mouth

Now you’re no longer just pressed against the wall. You’re bracketed. Encased. Enclosed. Caging. Pinned

Your voice falters before it makes it past your lips. But finally it came

“You’re crushing my hip actuator..”

“You shifted into it”

You swallow

His hand at your waist. No— now just below it. Palm splayed over your hip bracket, digit angled forward where armor meets the side of your abdominal plate. Not quite suggestive. Not quite innocent. And his thumb? It moves. Brush slowly, tracing the ridge just above the joint of your hip. Hard to tell whether it was intentional or an accident when he only did it once

Your field flares—just slightly, but enough that you know he feels it. He doesn’t comment. But his own field? It hums. Subtle. Coiled

“They’re gone, we're clear” he says at last. But he doesn’t step back. You can feel the restraint in him. The way every servo is holding position by willpower alone. His head lowers beside yours, lips dangerously close to the edge of your head

Your vocalizer stutters back online “..You can move now?”

“I know”

—

You sit at your terminal with a energon cube, pretending to go over surveillance logs. The lights above buzz quietly

The precinct’s unusually still. You should be feeling good. You cracked the case. You made a clean arrest. No injuries. No screw-ups. Not even a misfiled datapad this time. And yet—Your field still stutters every time your thoughts drift back there. Back to that narrow alcove. Back to his servo on your hip. Back to his frame pressed into yours like you were two puzzle pieces force-fit into one impossible frame. You groan quietly and bury your face in your hands

“I need to reboot my processor” you mutter to yourself “or smash it”

Because no matter how many times you try to drag your thoughts back to something else— they always slide back to him. The way his voice dropped.The weight of his chest plating against your back. The way he didn’t move until he decided to. You’re not even sure if you hated it. In fact, you’re very sure you didn’t. And that’s the problem

Meanwhile

Prowl stands at the end of the hallway, looking out the half-shuttered window

He’s not watching the traffic patterns. Not analyzing flight formations or reading case reports. He’s trying to process the fact that his body still remembers the exact angle of yours. And worse—likes it

He can still feel the curve of your back pressed to his chest. Still feel how snug your waist fit under his hand. Still remember the exact point of contact where your hip bracket slotted just slightly over his. Every time he blinks, the sensory map reloads like a damn glitch. He hasn’t been this distracted since training academy

“Unacceptable” he mutters under his breath

But he hasn’t filed a complaint. He hasn’t asked for reassignment. He hasn’t even deleted the sensor log from that sector of the depot. He tells himself it’s for protocol. Evidence integrity. Audit trail. But he’s lying. And he knows it

—

The next day, the paperwork and the results of the mission were all done, everything was done yesterday, which is expected when you work with regulations that have legs and a conscience, but you just got a message

Incoming message: Prowl

“If your balance actuator is still unstable, I can submit a requisition for maintenance diagnostics”

You blink at it. Then snort. Then immediately slam your hand on the desk and bury your face in your hands again “HE REMEMBERS”

And suddenly your core is on fire all over again

#transformers #transformers idw #transformers x y/n #transformers x reader #transformers x cybertronian reader #prowl x reader #reader insert #cybertronian reader #⚠️

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strawberriesandroses52 · 19 days ago

Text

miscalibrated

pt 3/10

Jazz inspected the strange mecha. His curiosity itched like a rash in the back of his mind. It was just so… boxy? Inflexible? It moved smoothly, but it didn’t have any visible weapons, or any form of defense he could see. Overall, it looked like it would be very ineffective at fighting a kaiju.

Why would anyone build a mecha like that? It was such a waste of resources. Jazz huffs, Bebop’s fins flicking outward to reflect his frustration. The alien mecha watched with intense eyes at the action.

Jazz took one more long glance at the mecha. It still didn’t seem inclined to attack him. He upped his proximity sensors, and let Bebop’s system start creating a sonic map of the area. It would take awhile for her to get an accurate scan, but he had nothing but time right now.

The wreckage behind the alien mecha was scorched and looked like someone had taken a can opener and pried the thing open while drunk. He stepped closer to inspect it, letting Bebop’s sonar pings wash over it.

“ꃅꍟꌩ, ꒒ꍟꍏꃴꍟ ꓄ꃅꍏ꓄ ꍏ꒒ꂦꈤꍟ!” The other mecha said.

Bebop’s head turned 180 degrees to look the mecha in the eye.

It yelped with surprise, pulling back slightly.

Jazz snickered at the reaction, Bebop’s intercoms picking the sound up and transmitting it. The mecha narrowed its eyes at him, seemingly offended.

So they had laughter and offence in common then, given the mecha’s reaction. This day just kept getting weirder and weirder. He didn’t know what to make of the mecha fully. There was too much unknown, too much to discover. Briefly, he wondered why Percy had chosen him for the blasted experiment, but let the thought drift away.

Jazz turned to look back at the wreckage, although took a step back. He could feel the other mecha’s gaze on him as he walked around the wreckage in a large circle. It looked nothing like the tech he was familiar with on Earth, and considering he had been stationed in nearly every corner of the globe, that was saying something.

Once he completed his circuit, Jazz went back to staring at the mecha. Why had it brought Bebop back online? How had it brought Bebop back online? Jazz looked at her stats, finding his power levels at ninety percent. Nearly fully functional.

The mecha stared back, although far more wary than Jazz himself was.

Hm. They couldn’t just stare at each other forever. Jazz kneels down, motioning for the mecha to do the same.

It hesitates, but ultimately complies, sitting down with its legs tucked under its body.

Jazz pointed one clawed finger to himself, “Jazz.”

“ꀭꍏꁴꁴ?” It repeated, frowning.

“No,” Jazz flicked his fins, “Jazz.” he said again, putting stress on each sound.

“Jazz,” It said again. Although accented, it was a lot closer than the first attempt.

“Good job man!” Jazz nodded, giving the mecha a thumbs up as well.

The poor mecha seemed endlessly confused, but returned the thumbs up. It looked from Jazz to its own hand, looking almost like it was searching for approval.

Yesssss Jazz thought with satisfaction. He would forever go down in history as the first guy to ever teach an alien the thumbs-up gesture. Seven-year-old Jazz would be proud.

Jazz gestured to the mecha, hoping that they would get the message and introduce themselves.

“ꉣꋪꂦꅏ꒒.” It said, pointing to itself like Jazz had. Then, held up an uneasy thumbs up.

Jazz returned the thumbs up. “Rowl?” He tried. It didn’t sound totally right, and the syllables seemed foreign on his tongue.

“ꉣꋪꂦꅏ꒒” It said again, but going slower.

“Prowl?” Jazz tried again, this time getting a more enthusiastic thumbs up from the mecha.

So his name was Prowl. Jazz grinned, the action translating to Bebop’s systems as fully raised fins. He gave the mecha another thumbs up as well.

Prowl seemed a lot less alien, now that Jazz had something to call him. It also stroked his curiosity. What kind of pilot was Prowl? Where did he come from? And, how did he end up crashed in this desert, stuck like Jazz was?

Hopefully Bebop’s sonar map would reveal more information about their surroundings. For now, while it was developing, he would continue to try and establish more of a connection with Prowl.

Getting an idea, like a lightbulb going off above his head, Jazz took a claw and began drawing. First the sun, then Mercury, Venus, and Earth, continuing until he had the entire solar system. Then, he pointed to himself again, “Jazz,” and then pointed at the drawing of Earth. “Earth.”

Prowl studied the map, then scooted back a little to begin his own drawing.

It was far larger than Jazz’s, and took Prowl quite some time. There was a sun, although it didn’t seem to be in the center. In the center was a large planet with a lot of geometric details. Or as detailed as one could get with sand. There were smaller planets Prowl had drawn nearby, connected to the main planet with a line. Did Prowl’s people inhibit more than one planet?

When he was finished, Prowl copied Jazz’s gestures, pointing from himself to the large planet in the middle. “Prowl, ꉓꌩꌃꍟꋪ꓄ꋪꂦꈤ.”

“Kaibakon?” Jazz tried, knowing that his attempt at pronunciation was hilariously bad.

Prowl almost looked offended. “Cybertron.” Prowl said again, but slower.

“Cybertron.” Jazz repeated, earning a far happier look.

So Prowl was from a planet called Cybertron. Jazz looked back down at the map Prowl had drawn. His solar system was far larger than Jazz’s, and he couldn’t begin to place it. It held no familiarities he could connect to his own system. Still, it was knowledge gained.

Jazz cleared the solar system drawing, Prowl leaning forward to watch with interest. He started with a circle, then a wonky torso, arms, and legs. Jazz decided to draw thick lines like his braids to represent the hair, a wobbly smile, and two dots for eyes, and a thin line to represent the bridge of his nose.

Then, in carefully printed letters, he spelled out ‘J A Z Z’.

The utter confusion on Prowl’s face was almost hilarious, if it weren’t for the hurried glances from Jazz’s drawing to his visor.

Prowl pointed to the drawing. “Jazz?”

“Yes?” Jazz said, giving Prowl a thumbs up.

Prowl then pointed to Bebop, “Jazz?” he asked again.

“Yes.” Jazz confirmed, giving Prowl another thumbs up.

There was some sort of disconnect happening, but Jazz couldn’t think of what could cause it. As a fellow pilot, Prowl should recognize the difference between someone’s mech and their true self.

Jazz pointed from his drawing, then to Bebop. “Jazz. Both are Jazz.” He said, even though he knew his words wouldn’t necessarily help Prowl.

Jazz thought for a moment. Maybe it would be easier to show Prowl? He glanced at the stats, although a little lower in oxygen than Earth’s atmosphere, wherever this was wasn’t completely devoid of it. The oxygen levels were comparable to a mountain altitude.

Jazz got up from the pilot seat, flicking through the series of buttons it took to unlock the pilot pod. Bebop’s arrays went dim as the pod hissed steam, releasing the pressure locks.

There was a confused, nearly scared noise from Prowl’s direction.

The light was considerably blinding as Jazz popped his head out from the pilot pod.

There in front of him was Prowl, looking…absolutely terrified?

“You good man?” He asked, slowly climbing out of the pod and coming to stand on Bebop’s knee.

Prowl looked at him the way you look at a cockroach on the wall. The initial terror, then, the burst of bravery as you find a slipper to crush it to death with.

Jazz is lucky he spent the last seven years honing his reflexes.

Otherwise he wouldn’t have dodged the boulder that came flying toward him.

Prowl wasn’t used to the panic that gripped him recently.

There was an–an organic thing that had crawled out of Jazz’s chest. Prowl had heard of parasites before, but he wasn’t aware that mechs could get organic ones.

Blindly, he scrambled and reached behind him, coming up with a palm sized rock. Had he taken a second and aimed, he likely would’ve hit it. But it missed the mark, hitting Jazz’s dormant body instead.

The little thing survived. It stood on Jazz’s knee, as small as Prowl’s palm.

“PROWL!” The organic parasite shouted.

It shouted with Jazz’s voice.

What in the name of Primus…

“Jazz?” Prowl asked, the data in his mind scrambling to come up with an answer.

The organic spoke again, in the same language that Prowl didn’t understand, but it carried Jazz’s tones and inflections.

Before he could even ask himself the question, his battle computer gave him the answer:

This organic creature was Jazz.

Prowl stared down at …Jazz. Not just a simple organic creature, but Jazz, who was from the third planet from the sun in his solar system, a place called ‘Earth.’ Jazz, who had seemed eager to find connection with Prowl.

The organic crossed its tiny arms at him, saying something in its language.

“I’m…sorry.” Prowl said, drawing his legs back close to his body, folding his arms to his side and resting his hands on his knees. As strange as it was, for an Organic to have a giant, mech-body that it…drove from the inside? That didn’t mean Jazz couldn’t be a valuable ally.

Jazz replied with a pointed tone, his hands going to rest on his hips.

So, his only ally was actually a tiny organic. He had crash landed on this desert planet with no sign of rescue.

What else did this day have in store for them?

#tf mecha universe #mech pilot jazz au #tf jazz #tf prowl #rose's mecha au #mecha #mecha pilot jazz au #first contact #friends #no shipping #original by Keferon

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satans-codpiece · 11 months ago

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8 with screamer pls

8) oops, we were just hiding in this closet, but then the close proximity get us too turned on not to fuck

(Implicitly TFP Starscream, post-Partners. Him sneaking around the Nemesis is so good for this.)

----

You thought you were dying; that someone's finally come to kill the High Command's pet human in an idiotic power play-

Until he was shushing you.

"What are you doing here?"

You hadn't seen him in weeks, months-- you still didn't see him as talons had curled together in a protective cup. Until your demand registered in his audials and each towering rod of metal sprung apart.

"ME???" He hisses, optics wide, lighting up the room in scarlet. All around you, his thin digits twitch with indignation. He holds you at chest height, but even here he makes you look up to see him. "What do you think I'm doing? I'm running on fumes out there and-" Starscream's head whips towards the door. All at once the red light that had been bathing you is gone, illuminating dark metal. It takes another several seconds before you hear what had drawn his attention. Footsteps- several in succession. A squad of Vehicons. Were they there for him? You turn back towards him and truly take in his appearance. As bright as his lights are in the pitch black room, they're dim- dim for how blinding they should be with him keyed up, ready to fight whatever came through the door. Worse, him looking away gives you the perfect view of the horrid scratch just below his right optic.

He holds you so close, so precariously folding his limbs to fit into the closet anyway- you stretch up onto your tip toes and reach for him. "Starscream..."

Your fingertips barely brush metal. His face snaps back towards you.

In an instant you can see it, plain as though he'd told you himself. He didn't come back for you-- not that you would have expected him to, he was hardly the most dedicated of them-- but now that he has you in his servos again... The apertures of his optics spin, watching you, betraying more than he would ever want to say. Outside, the footsteps recede.

"I was worried about you." You say, "I missed you." and it's true. When you reach for him again, he lets you touch, your tiny palm against his massive, cool cheek.

"Of course you did." Starscream says on instinct. But the waver of his optics, of his derma means there's something else. Starscream quiets as he struggles to say something with sincerity. Evidently, he doesn't quite get there. "I can't mass displace." It's not what he really means to say, replaces his first-line defense of sarcasm and self-aggrandizement with second-line allusion. It's enough to give you pause- "Have to be quick." and that's enough for you to push it aside.

You nod, instantly breathless. You don't know what quick means to him right now, so you skip the formalities and kick your pants off the edge of his servo. His optics darken at the sight of you adjusting, settling back against the quickly warming plates.

And when you part your legs for him- his engine hums, spooling up despite his attempts to suppress the sound- and his glossa spills from his intake. Slick, smooth metal joints trace up your thigh- and that's all the warm-up you get before he's sliding between your lips.

A gasp rips its way from your mouth- and you quickly cover it with your hand, sinking your teeth into your fingers just to keep quiet. From the heat in Starscream's gaze and the momentary flick of his wings, you think he'd wish you wouldn't- regardless of how tactically sound that impulse is.

He drags his glossa up nice and slow, lets his optics shutter, rerouting processing power to the chemical sensors on his glossa. It's been a quartex- no, two- since he last tasted you and your strange little organic lubricant. It's sweet and so strangely inert, his drained tanks aching for energy-dense fuel, not the delicious strings of proteins you leak so obligingly onto his glossa.

His faceplate is cool when he draws his servo even closer, your thighs pressing up to rough-worn metal. You sigh for the contact, squirm in his palm as his languid licks turn intentional, the tapered tip prodding at your entrance while the base rubs teasingly across your clit.

"Star," You sigh into your fist. He must hear it- because his engine gives a stuttering, half-aborted purr and his glossa pushes in.

With so little effort, he fills you- and your warmth, your softness, your taste surrounds him. This time, his engine's spooling goes unchecked, a deep rumble that rises in pitch- and yet does nothing to hide the distinctive shnk of his panel opening.

You wish you had the time, that he had the energy to fuck you properly. It's been so long, and as nice as his glossa feels pumping into you, squirming deliciously against your walls, it's not the same.

Around you, his talons twitch again- and now you watch his arm move and stroke himself with a pace that shuns the very concept of patience. Heat bursts from his vents, fans clicking ever higher in vain. It's been too long- too long without him, too long worrying. There's no room for the nice, slow reunion fuck you each deserved.

"Close," You gasp, but he already knows. He's felt how your soft, squishing walls keep trying to clamp down on his glossa, as though you could trap him inside that soft, wet little frame-

"Yes, yes," He purrs- voice rumbling unimpeded from his vox. Red light washes over your tiny body as he re-engages his optics, watches as you squirm in his servo-

And when you cry out, "Star!" body going rigid because of him- for him- Starscream's engine stutters, skips a cycle and he moans against your skin. His arm trembles, struggles to work himself through his own overload.

He leans away, his vents hot like desert air on your skin. The light of his optics has dimmed, lowered in the wake of his spent charge- but still coat your body in a garnet gleam, every inch of you painted red for him.

You rub your hand along his, feel the grooves between plates. "Do you have to go?" You murmur, staring up him.

"I'll be back." Starscream promises, stroking your body so carefully with one long, sharp talon. "I'll find you."

#starscream #starscream x reader #transformers #transformers x reader #transformers x human #*throws confetti* first post tf writing #my writing #valveplug #transformer x human

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nowimjustastranger · 8 months ago

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Has Stcmo Ford come across a dimension that alerted him a Stanley was in danger, but he got there, everything seems fine. Keyword “seems”.

And after numerous checks, everything seems like in order. On the surface it just looks like another dimension with Ford, Fiddleford and Stan living together in gravity falls.

But there is just SOMETHING that feels immensely wrong about this dimension.

Like the way that this Stanley and Fiddleford seem a little too overly content with their lives, they aren’t seem to be lost or forgetting things so it can’t be the memory gun. And by the looks of it, the Bill Cipher of this dimension is dead.

In fact the more Stcmo Ford looks into it…

Filbrick is dead, Fiddleford’s wife Emma-May seems to be dead, Shermie is dead, newspapers on about the last few years show that many gang leaders have either gone mysteriously missing or have seemed to have been killed. Jimmy Snakes, Rico, several people who knew Stanley in prison are dead as well. Many people that would be considered a threat have been killed.

There’s something off about this Ford as well, he seems to always be watching Fiddleford and Stanley, the two always were within watch.

Like a wolf watching over his two sheep.

Not entirely sure what era this is happening in, but I'm gonna go out on a limb here and assume it's a "Mystery Trio AU" type situation, so it would be set in the early years in Gravity Falls.

Ford has been in Dimension 1R^86 for three days now and he's nearly at his wits end, he has no idea what the threat is or even where it might come from. He hasn't slept at all either, maintaining constant vigilance of the shack and its inhabitants.

Ford is currently perched in one of the large trees surrounding the shack, hidden in the branches with a direct line of sight to both entrances. There's been nothing, no activity around the shack within a fifty foot radius. Which is another thing, Ford hasn't spotted so much as a gnome rooting through the trash in the three days he's been watching.

It's... something's not right but he can't put a finger on what.

With a growl, Ford's eyes flick to the icon in the top corner of his hud, selecting it with a thought so the data flooded onto the screen, his proximity sensors online to warn him if anything tries to sneak up on him while he's preoccupied.

D – 1R^86 | 29 yo | COD: Blunt Force Trauma

No change.

Ford exited out of the data with a frustrated huff, he'd done a lot of digging into the deaths that surrounded Stan and the results all pointed toward one Ford Pines being the culprit, but the way that he watched over his brother and Fiddleford so intently made it highly unlikely that he was the threat.

The Ford in this dimension reminded Ford 419"3 of himself, an ambush predator watching and waiting for the opportunity to strike. A wolf that muzzled itself in the presence of it's sheep so they would not be afraid, because despite the wolf's nature, those sharp teeth and claws were never meant for the sheep.

They were for other predators.

Other predators that might also be watching and waiting for the wolf to stray too far from the sheep, waiting for the wolf's teeth to go dull as it grew fat and lazy within the comfort of it's den. But not these wolves who starved themselves to keep their body lean, who kept their teeth sharp with frequent hunts, who lulled other predators into a false sense of security by leaving the sheep unattended-

Wait. Shit. How long ago did the Ford leave the house?

His proximity sensors shrieked at him and Ford barely managed to dodge the first bolt that had been aimed at his side, the second burying itself in his calf. So the Ford was looking to incapacitate and not kill, not exactly a comforting realization.

Ford's landing was sloppy, his leg buckling when he hit the ground in a crouch, giving the Ford just enough time to line up a clear shot. Neither moved, both waiting to see what the other would do. The Ford's aim was steady and his finger poised to shoot, his empty stare more akin to a shark than a wolf.

"You've been scurrying around for long enough, little rat." The Ford spoke calmly, with a voice void of emotion. It was unnerving, how robotic this Ford was when he wasn't with his brother and Fiddleford, like he was removing a mask. "Give me one reason why I shouldn't kill you."

"Your brother is going to die." Ford divulged, watching the Ford's hands flex on the crossbow, indecisive. Ford could work with that. "I can stop it from happening, but only if you let me work."

"You really think I'm going to trust you at your word?" The Ford asked with an ominous tilt of his head, dark eyes studying Ford as if he were a specimen. It made Ford's skin crawl, fingers twitching with the urge to gouge the Ford eyes out just so he would stop looking at Ford the same way He used to.

"You're going to have to because if you kill me, your brother is as good as dead."

#gravity falls #side quest #somebody to call my own au #stan and ford #stan pines #ford pines #stan twins #writing #ask box #overprotective ford pines #tw: implied murder #tw: serial killer ford

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starqueensthings · 1 year ago

Text

We need to talk about Echo (and by talk I mean screm). S3 E13 + 14 Spoilers!

FRIENDS, I'M GOING TO EXPLODE. I need to talk about Echo for a minute. We need to talk about Echo for a minute, because he has spent the last two episodes in the absolute thralls of complete and total danger, and I personally don't feel like there's been enough of a celebratory uproar for me to be satisfied with the level of appreciation and love that man deserves. (Remember when Hunter ran face first into a colossal exhaust pipe and we all collectively lost our minds because it was so impressive and so sexy? Remember when Tech drove a speeder really fast through a tunnel and we all fainted? I'M A TECH GIRLY. IT WAS ME! I FAINTED!!) but, Y'ALL, Echo deserves that right now!! And for all eternity!!! Because he is wholly submurged in the harrowing potential of torture and execution, and he didn't even bat an eye to put himself there. My awe of him is all-consuming, so please forgive me if this rant reads as nothing but incoherent screaming.

Echo haters (first of all, we can't be friends....) come on this journey with me! Let's back pedal to the beginning of the last episode (13). He stole an imperial shuttle. Let me repeat, he stole an imperial shuttle. And not just an attack shuttle. Not just a lil one-pilot transport. Bro somehow stole a Rho-class medical transport, which is very large, obscenely conspicuous, and very easily tracked. And, to use his own words, it was "the best he could do on short notice." The man stole a shuttle on short notice. ON SHORT NOTICE? HELLO, HOW DID HE DO THAT. WHY AIN'T WE LOSING OUR COOL ABOUT IT.

Next stop on this I-love-Echo journey through my mind: not only did he provide his brothers transportation in the complete void of their own (RIP havoc bb), but he also came equipped with intel and clearance codes, and, as Rampart stated, those things change DAILY. Echo somehow procured top secret imperial clearance codes, and a fkn SHIP, within hours of the Batch requesting his help. Not to mention, the ship had yet to be reported missing (which means it was only-freshly commandeered), and the clearance codes worked. Of course they did. Echo never fails. Never doubt Echo. "Echo's on it."

Choochoo, next stop! Once they arrived on that station orbiting Coruscant, and made their way to the control room (lookin sexy as heck in his armour-au-noir), he broke imperial encryption, hacked into the Imperial database, almost instantly found them the location of a ship departing for the prison that holds their daughter Tantiss, AND THEN DIDN'T EVEN HESITATE TO CLIMB ABOARD AND STOW AWAY.

He didn't even remotely have a plan, or have time to make a plan. He didn't know who or what else would be on board that mysterious vessel. He didn't know where it was going other than the name of the fkn mountain (which has proven to be nothing but unhelpful thus far). He just ARC-troopered his way through that crowded hangar, dodging aggressive astromech's and inconsiderate loader droids, shirking from the perspective eyes of highly trained commandos, and snuck his way onto a heavily guarded, extremely unknown science vessel. Then, of course, he wasted no time, hacking into the ships control system (may I gently remind- there were at least three pilots and an officer prepping the ship for jump and closely watching all aspects of its controls), disabling the proximity sensors without being detected, and then seamlessly covered the troopers absence by pretending to be him (which we all know is what should have happened on Serenno but... hindsight is 20/20.)

So... SO.... now we're at Episode 14. Here we at fkn terrified station because HULLO ECHO IS ALONE ON A SCIENCE DIVISION TRANSPORT; we have literally seen them carry around Zilo beasts in that shit. What the heck else could be on there that they don't know about? Literally anything. Because THEY KNEW NOTHING before attaching themselves to it. Echo knew NOTHING before sneaking onto that thing and creepin' around. Thank heck he didnt come across a fkn fresh wave of slither vines ok?

NEXT, Echo shoots (not stuns- lol) a sassy fkn droid (they had it coming, not sorry), then another trooper. AND THEN discovered his only option for departing the ship once it enters atmosphere is going completely undercover, because (in true "we improvise everything" CF99 fashion that gives me heart burn just thinking about it), they had zero fkn plan to get off the ship. I will repeat: completely undercover. On Tantiss. COMPLETELY UNDERCOVER ON TANTISS. NO COMMS, NO BACK UP, NO RECON, NO PLAN, BARELY ANY GEAR, and I would just like to stress... no neuro brace. He left his neurobrace on that ship. Left it. LEFT IT AND TOOK A HAND INSTEAD. PLEASE FKN SEDATE ME.

We can't leave this station yet... This I-love-Echo train needs to linger at this point for a sec because I think it's lost on some people how wild this is. Echo without his neurobrace is huge. It's a bigger deal than Echo without his armour. Armour is, in the grand scheme of things, inconsequential (one can find more- see Howzer). Echo's neurobrace is not armour, it's a computer and it's so so so crucial to how his mind processes information and events. Don't forget, the Technounion HIJACKED HIS BRAIN. They took every memory from him and manipulated it for their gain. Pruned it, tweaked it, blanched it, poached it, turned it into scrambled eggs, and then fkn ate it up and used it to defeat their enemies (Echo's family- I'm sobbing). They implanted him with an unfathomable amount of information; they changed the way the neurons in his brain fire in relation to stimuli. That neurobrace is so so critical for him. Now, we know he can operate well enough without it, we saw it in the last episode of the TBB arc in season 7 of Clone Wars, but... please.... to what extent? We don't know what an extended time without that neurobrace looks like for him... especially when all other aspects compliing his surroundings foreign, unknown, and dangerous, and that scares me.

AND NOW HE'S ABOUT TO RUN AMOK IN TANTISS with Emerie who, (I'm sorry) is wishy-washy as heck (who are you loyal to!!!!! What is your history!!! Are you trustworthy and what are you looking to gain!!!), trying to adopt a collection of Jedi children whove spent maker-knows how long playing space tetris, WHILST ALSO ATTEMPTING TO LOCATE AND ESCAPE WITH HIS BROTHERS UNDER THE EYE OF THE GALAXY'S SECOND MOST DANGEROUS MAN.

So yes, short of d-d-d-di... can't say it... short of THE WORST CASE, Echo has made the ultimate sacrifice to save not only Omega who is literally the only person we've seen able to make him truly laugh, but all the clone brothers that he's been desperately trying to locate and rescue. His bravery and determination are literally unrivalled, and he did it while feasting on nothing but humble pie because that man wouldn't know arrogance if it danced naked under his perfect nose.

Okay so welcome, we've finally pulled into I-Love-Echo station. Before departing the ride, please stand and do a hip hip hurray for the miracle that is Echo, including but not limited to, everything he's done, is doing, and is willing to do for other people.

#starqueensemotionalbreaksdowns lol #long post #the bad batch #tbb #bad batch #tbb spoilers #the bad batch spoilers #the bad batch season 3 #the bad batch season 3 spoilers #bad batch season 3 #bad batch spoilers #bad batch season 3 spoilers #tbb season 3 #tbb season 3 spoilers #starqueensedits #tbb echo #echo tbb #bad batch echo #echo bad batch

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klintoris · 11 months ago

Text

I hate how I dont hate you

~ Jschlatt x Reader smut

warnings: forced proximity, ROUGH, choking, slapping, breeding kink in you squint, fluffy sorta. i think thats it.

I fucking hate Schlatt

I hate his stupid face

I hate his stupid mutton chops

I hate his nose

I hate his beautiful eyes

I hate how tall he is

Most importantly,

I hate how I don't hate him.

Going all the way across the planet with friends for a vacation is good, until your friends bring someone you despise being around. Going to japan with jack and connor was going to be a good trip based around content until they invited schlatt along since he was already planning a trip there. Fuck.

“Schlatt if you don't get that camera out of my face im actually gonna slap you” i spit at the partially bearded man with a toy camera in his hand. My arms slightly cross as I shoot a glare at him, “What's wrong toots’? You're so beautiful you need your picture taken”.

I roll my eyes at his comment, “i will slap that stupid camera out of your hand” , “awwhh look at these two flirting!!” jack squeals. Me and Schlatt both turn to him holding his camera at us, my arms drop to my sides as I groan and continue walking back from our day out towards the hotel.

As we walk into the hotel, once we check in Jack turns to me, “you and schlatt are sharing a room” he says with a shit eating grin. I look over to Connor who is also smiling like an idiot, “do you guys hate me or something”, as they start laughing, schlatt who was just walking around the hotel's lobby pipes up.

“Whats going on” i groan and turn to him with my hands on the sides of my face stressing my distaste before saying, “they are making us stay in the same room” as i say that schlatt shifts his gaze from me to connor and jack, i look into his eyes trying to find a fault in his accusatory glare, trying to see if he actually cares as much as he's putting out. I quickly turned away when he shifted his gaze back at me, “whatever, i'm tired” he turns and walks toward the elevators.

As we stand in the elevator, jack starts to film again, “alright guys we finally, after a long flight we will be seeing the hotel room-”, i tune him out and put my focus on the red numbers going up, making me anxious, i wonder if they really set it up to where there is one bed (oh no is this the one bed trope omggg). Getting kind of excited i try to reevaluate myself, furrowing my brows staring at the elevator numbers, schlatt looks at me, before saying something- ding

The elevator dings, as the doors open up, Jack and Connor gesture for me to go first, I chuckle at this and head down the hall, everyone following behind.

Walking up to mine and Schlatts room, i find jack’s and connor’s is across the hall. Tapping the keycard on the sensor, i walk in with schlatt following behind me, “are you fucking kidding” i turn to walk out bumping into schlatt on my way to scream at connor and jack.

I stumble back, “You can't be serious” i hear schlatt say once he looks up from me towards the room, “one fucking bed thats just great” he walks past me setting his bags down.

“Well you seem just happy to share a bed with me” i say setting my bags down as well, “yeah totally, sharing a bed with someone i'm not too fond of is definitely on my list for this trip” i stare at him for a second before clicking my tongue and start pulling stuff out of my bag.

As I finish doing my skincare, I put my skincare to the side, as I finish brushing my teeth I take off my bra with a content sigh. putting on my lacy panties, I pause and think for a second ‘is that really a good idea, it's gonna make you look desperate ’. Taking a deep breath I put on my sleep shorts and big shirt, I walk out, viewing a schlatt with his hat over his eyes on his back, he's clasping his hands together with his legs crossed.

I groan when i notice hes in the middle of the bed, “schlatt can you fucking move over”, no response, i grab a pillow off of the decorative chairs and whip it at him. It doesnt hit im but lands near his side, he jumps “what the fuck??”. “Move oh my god”, “no i'm not even near the other side of the bed?!” he raises his voice, as he says that i get on the bed and start moving him myself.

He grabs my hands and pushes me off him, “schlatt move!!” I fight with him, pushing him more back, he then uses force and pins me down.

I gulp, “get off me”, “not unless you leave me alone” i furrow my brows at his attempt to settle this, “dude you were in the middle of the bed how was i suppo-” i feel him kiss me, realizing what he's done he quickly pulls away letting go of my arms, “fuck sorry”.

“Nuh uh where are you going” I grab his face pulling him back down to me, the once sweet kiss turns heated as he pulls me up from under him onto his lap.

Gripping me by the waist he breaks the kiss, sucking and biting at my neck, I pull on the hair at the nape of his neck. Groaning he puts me back down getting on top of me, he pulls my shirt over my head, “fuck” he breathes out once he sees my naked chest. Kissing at the skin above my breast, he trails down to my nipple and starts suckling while pinching and kneeding my other tit and nipple.

“Fuck schlatt” when i say his name he got more aggressive, biting at my tits leaving hickies and bite marks. I moan through gritted teeth, he trails backup taking my lips in a heated kiss, this time like he wanted me so bad he hated it. Schlatt hastily takes my shorts off along with my underwear, “fuck shes so pretty toots’” i whine in response to his praise then gasp as he pushes my legs back giving him full access to my pussy. “Oh my god- oh my fucking god-” schlatt starts to lap my slick up, eating me like a starved man, he licks and sucks on my clit while still giving my hole attention. “She tastes just as pretty as she looks, wonder if she feels good too” he then pushes a finger in while still attacking my bud, i let out a choked “shit schlatt please”, he continues his attacks.

I whine as he pulls away, taking off his shirt and sweatpants, throwing them somewhere in the room, he grabs my legs pulling me towards him, leaning over my frame he grabs me by the neck pulling me up towards his face.

“Think you can hate me forever sweetheart, look at you absolutely dripping for my cock” schlatt, during his sentence, he slips his hand down towards my mound slowly rubbing circles on my clit before slipping two fingers into my aching hole.

He starts rapidly finger fucking my cunt, “shitttt please schlatt i just- ah”, “what is it princess use your words” schlatt teases.

“Please please please fuck me, oh god-” i feel the knot tighten in my stomach, “not yet you have to cum on my fingers, come on i know you want to, be a good girl and cum for me” his cock twitches at the clenching of my pussy, sucking his fingers like a vice as i cum.

“There we go” he slaps my cunt when pulling his fingers out, bringing them up to his mouth and sucking his fingers.

Grabbing at his length, I get to see his cock for the first time up close, as it stands proud, thick and long, I panic. “m’ gonna stretch this pussy, make you forget why you hate me”, i breathe heavily as he grinds against my folds lubing himself up to put his cock in.

He lines himself up with my drooling hole, pushing his tip in “so fucking tight” i gasp at the stretch “schlatt” “sh sh princess its ok” he lulls as he pushes his length further in.

“t’big” i whimper, “you can fucking take it” schlatt says through gritted teeth, pushing the rest of his length into me.

Sitting there for a second I feel so full, without letting me adjust, he pulls out for a quick second and then slams back in. All air escapes my body as he starts to thrust hard, one after the other, he slowly pounds into me.

I whimper each time he plows my cervix with his spongey tip, “f- fuck-”, he chuckles at my reaction, looking down at my bouncing tits he grabs my throat as leverage before he goes faster.

“Im not gonna hold back, im g’na fuck that attitude out of you” he grabs my hip as even more leverage, “i- i cant sc- oh fuck” i try to plead before my eyes rolls into the back of my skull, “you can't what toots’?” I stay silent. He sends a swift slap to my left cheek with the hand that was on my throat, “i asked you a question toots’” i whimper trying to catch my thoughts and breathing.

“Fuck i cant take it”, “yeah?” schlatt says before reaching a hand down to my clit, I gasp as all the air in my lungs yet again are left with no air from the pleasure. I start shaking as he hits my g spot, i grunt out “right there right there please”, he starts speeding up hitting that spot, still abusing my clit.

“ oh my god- j- fuck” i stammer over my words, “are you gonna come sweetheart? C’mon, cum on my cock beautiful.” he praises slamming into me still. I shake hard as i cum, creaming all around his cock all while gripping his cock, “holy shit” he whimpers, starting to groan. “Shes taking me so good, im so fucking close”, “cum in me please, fuck please” i beg not in the right mindset. “Fuck ill breed your fucking hole so good, ah” schlatt starts to profusely whimper, making noises id never thought id hear from this mans mouth.

He cums in me, filling me with his cum.

He topples over me putting his head in the crook of my neck, still inside me, my legs still shaking, “schlatt? Did I kill you?” he groans at my teasing.

I giggle a little while he lifts his head from his place near my neck, “so, thoughts, do you still hate me toots’?” “schlatt..” he stares at me for a second, “i don't think i can ever hate you” i smile at him, he beams kissing me.

“I don't think I can ever hate you either” he says with a smile back to me.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

idk if i like this, it took way too long to make.

#jschlatt #jschlatt smut #jschlatt x y/n #schlatt #schlatt x reader smut #jschlatt x reader

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tamapalace · 9 months ago

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Bandai Namco US Announces Tamagotchi Original Angel at “Fun With Tamagotchi” 2024 New York Comic-Con Panel

Boy was the “Fun With Tamagotchi” panel incredible at the 2024 New York Comic-Con! One of the first and biggest announcements was the return of the Tamagotchi Angel, which is now known as Tamagotchi Original Angel. Tanya Sexton, a Brand Manager at Bandai Namco was so excited to finally reveal what she's been working on.

This series includes two beautiful shells, and feature three-dimensional angel wings on each side of the upper display.

The programming on these will be named “gen 3”, and be identical to the Tamagotchi Angel from 1998. It is important to note that this model does feature the a vibration sensor where you can tap the Tamagotchi on either side of the shell or by making a loud noise in proximity to trigger the sensor.

image source: tolovelfromvine on Instagram

Preorders already up on Amazon US, be sure to place your older on the return of an ICON!

#tamapalace #tamagotchi #tmgc #tamagotchioriginal #tamagotchi original #tamagotchioriginalangel #tamagotchi original angel #angel #tamatag #virtualpet #bandai #events #nyc #newyorkcomiccon #new york comic-con #comiccon #comic-con

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mamawasatesttube · 1 year ago

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"you've got something on your face." with timkon for the ficlet prompts 🫡 i miss them so bad

"Thanks," Tim says suddenly, "for coming over on such short notice."

Kon looks over at him from the other end of the couch, his expression soft and unguarded. Half of his face is lit up in warm amber lamplight; the other half is outlined in the flickering blue of the TV. Neither of them is really watching at this point, but the steady background noise is comforting.

"Anytime, Wonder." Kon stretches his arms up over his head, visibly stifling a yawn, and slouches back against the cushions. "I told you before. You call, I'm there."

"Still," Tim persists. His chest aches with fondness as he looks at Kon, snuggled up under a plush throw blanket that's too small for his long legs. "I know you're exhausted today, long space flight 'n' all that. So I appreciate it."

"Eh, it was just out to Proxima Centauri, not that far or nothin'." Kon shrugs one shoulder, languid and at ease. His voice is a little rough with weariness. "You should see some of the distances Kal's pulled off in one day."

Tim leans over and swats him on the shoulder. "Okay, but, like. Shut up and let me be grateful, will you?"

That gets a sunny laugh out of Kon, like light spilling through cracks in the roof to chase away the last vestiges of the shadows in all the nooks and crannies of Tim's brain. He's fine, really; he just never likes being alone after brushes with fear toxin. The antidote works wonders, but he still always struggles with paranoia afterwards.

So. Hence. Kon. Because there's definitely no ninjas in the vents or Charaxes on the roof if Kon's here. Between his incredible TTK-enabled spatial awareness and the superhearing, Kon's, like, the best proximity sensor this side of the known universe. He'd never let anything get the drop on Tim. And hearing him laugh...

Hearing him laugh does wonders for Tim's heart. Not that he's ever said so out loud, but that doesn't make it any less true.

"Fine, fine." Kon rolls his eyes fondly, catching Tim's forearm. "You're welcome, Rob." His thumb rubs over the pulse point in Tim's wrist, and Tim knows he can hear his heart skip a beat in answer.

Kon must know what he does to Tim. They haven't spoken about it—Tim has no idea how to speak about it—but Kon must know. His eyes twinkle in the dimness, bright against the windows into the rainy night, and Tim's breath threatens to catch in his throat.

He leans a little closer, reaches for Kon, and Kon lets him, fingers lingering on his wrist. He cups Kon's jaw, grazes his thumb against his cheekbone. Kon's skin is warm.

"You have something on your face," he murmurs, voice softer than he means for it to be. "...An eyelash. Here."

He holds it up so Kon can see. One of his thick, long, dark eyelashes rests on the pad of Tim's thumb, stark against his skin; it's small enough to seem delicate, even if Tim knows it holds the strength of steel.

Kon looks at it. Blinks for a second. Then his lips curve into a smile, and he tilts his head like a dog, eyes fixed on Tim's face. "Make a wish."

"Aren't you supposed to be the one wishing for something?" Tim frowns. "It's your eyelash."

"Hm." Kon considers for a moment. Then he blows the lash off Tim's thumb. His breath isn't icy, but it's still colder than it should be; surely that, and only that, is the reason for the shiver that runs down Tim's spine.

"What did you wish for?"

"Pretty sure I'm not supposed to tell you, or it won't come true," Kon says, amused. He drops his arm, warm and heavy, over Tim's shoulders, and pulls him into his side. "Nosy."

Tim rolls his eyes. "Maybe so," he says, and rests his head against Kon's shoulder. He wonders if Kon's wish is the same thing he would've wished for, too. Sometimes, he thinks it might be.

#rimi writes #lemonlimestar #timkon #tim #kon #um....can i interest you in yearning

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lexicorp · 5 days ago

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Transformers Earthspark: Another Place, Another Prison

Primus did everything about this chapter take a long time- I swear I am not kidding when I say I have been writing this scrap for /months/, bit by bit

School and school adjacent scrap has been kicking my aft, but finally, it has arrived. And lemme say, these two are silly, and I love them very much XD I've been looking forward to this chapter for /so long/ and I def think that was part of what made me be so particular about tryna write it with all these dang tiny notes and phrasing and shite like oml nwviblvlwvr

Previous Chapter: Helm In The Cloud

First Chapter: The Need For Read

Next Chapter: Just A Routine Check-Up

Chapter 18: Scientific Method

Starscream found himself pacing, with his servos tied neatly under his wings. A particular line of wear on the path he trailed was becoming apparent, but that wasn’t the focus of his thoughts. Once he halted in front of that cartoonish poster–displaying Megatron’s hilariously humiliating state being tossed across that ravine–Starscream pulled a servo to rest thoughtfully beneath his chin. What were that Nightshade Terran's genuine thoughts of him?

They had arranged this room, been the first to seem enthusiastic at the start of all this, and listened to Starscream’s combat teachings with earnest; but that did nothing to give him a clear concept of their true thoughts. They said they wanted this redemption scheme to go well. They played nice quite skillfully. But was that only for some sake of their peers? Do they have a vision of their own for what will become of this ordeal? Nightshade is a scientist in their own right, and that can be a dangerous intuition.

Perhaps they’d agreed for Starscream to be in such close proximity in their own pursuit of research regarding the Emberstone, and was interested in his powers that had resulted. Sure, the kid had been oddly distanced for the majority of his stay. Nightshade seldom instigated interactions apart from that initial need for feedback. Although that did not mean this room organized by their design was not rigged top to bottom with sensors and cameras so expertly hidden that even Starscream could not expose them. They could have even conspired with Wheeljack with something embedded in the cursed device upon Starscream’s ped at this very moment.

The other Maltos appeared extraordinarily transparent with their opinions towards him. They were all quite ridiculously easy to read, even if it still didn’t always make it easier to predict how they wished Starscream to behave on certain matters; which was frustrating. Yet Nightshade was suspiciously passive about it all. They’d only nod along with their siblings, and merely stare on occasion. Any comments were relatively brief, which Starscream was starting to find…unfortunate. He was curious about that odd Terran and their potential. Now that he and Hashtag seemed to be on acceptable terms again, perhaps it would be pertinent to branch out with other connections. Especially with the arguably second most likely Decepticon amongst them.

Starscream chuckled a byte to himself as he broke away from the poster towards the room’s exit. They all thought this redemption slag was to get him on THEIR side? Ridiculous. He was slowly recruiting them to rebuild HIS armada, right under their foolish gaze. Starscream would have them eating out of his servos in no time.

Yes, he was quite confident now. Meridian’s mocking tone held no relevance. Starscream was most certainly on track to convincing them of how impressive, inspirational, and indisposable he was! It was not as if Bumblebee held any useful knowledge to pass upon the fliers of their group. They needed him, really. Those other ungrateful slaggers that left him behind would regret it when he replaced them just as easily.

Starscream exited his quarters and surveyed his surroundings. In surprising convenience, Nightshade seemed to be the only one remaining after the others had sent to the surface on their exploratory exploits. The only other Malto present was their femme mentor, Dorothy; who was sitting at one of those miniscule balcony tables on a tiny computer, typing away. Her schedule he’d logged in his files stated it was most likely business in line with her duty as a Park Ranger. Although, she typically ventured elsewhere for her station, so this behavior was more indicative of her inclination to remain at base as a supervisor. This was proven accurate as the moment Starscream’s precise ped steps tapped a light echo across the cavern walls, she looked his way. He ignored her presence. Instead, Starscream continued on his path with the intent of inspecting the project Nightshade was working on, to obtain whatever data he could on the kid, and ideally come to a satisfactory conclusion regarding his pestering curiosities.

Starscream set his servos professionally under his wings again, as he lightly leaned around Nightshade’s shoulder to peer at the split spherical device sitting partially disassembled on their workspace. “What is it you are tinkering with, Nightshade?”

“Oh!” They seemed to be startled from their train of thought by his sudden presence. “Why hello there, Starscream! This, is my Smart Trainer soon-to-be 5012! It has gone through many stages in its functioning, and although perhaps it would be more efficient to start from scratch, I am admittedly quite attached to my first design here. It is…nostalgic, I suppose. A physical little remnant of my beginnings.” They pet a scrap of the thing fondly as if it were an old cyber-dog they were too sentimental to part ways with near its end.

Starscream raised an optical ridge. “That so? What exactly do you intend this thing to accomplish?”

By the looks of the parts strewn about, it harbored potentially algorithmic software with 360 degree firing capacity. But condensed into one little sphere in the way they had it now, would only fry its processor the more weaponry it deployed. The past attempts no doubt went haywire with its logistics corrupted not long after training began if its shots weren’t limited. It was a decent design in theory, and it seemed they had mitigated that flaw by small increments through their improvements, but stubbornly restricting it to this base format was no doubt hindering their progress.

“Well,” Nightshade didn’t even flinch at the judgment in Starscream’s tone, “It is meant to be a drone that can predict patterns of combat so that it may provide a steady increase of difficulty in a training exercise. As well as give encouragement through the words of our beloved mentor Bumblebee! He…wasn’t exactly thrilled at first about my borrowing of his voice–but I am confident that I have now convinced him of the flattery! I am certain it only bothered him when the Smart Trainer 5008 malfunctioned. BUT! I have ensured the S.T 5011 to be far more conversational, accurate, and currently, I am performing some improvements regarding its weaponry! It isn’t meant to be all that powerful–as to not be dangerous–so if I can reduce the power projected into the lenses, it could also reduce the risk of overheating.” They paused a moment from their ramblings and fiddling of parts to halt and actually turn to face Starscream. “Would you… like to join me? I know Tarantulas and Shockwave as Decepticon scientists. Do you perhaps have experience with such things as well? You did work with them, yes?”

Primus. Nightshade really got to talking once properly prompted, didn’t they?

A scoff escaped Starscream’s intake. “Yes, although Shockwave more so than this Tarantulas. Disregarding them I have plenty of my own scientific prowess to speak of! I was the only seeker to get into the Iacon Science Academy after all, I’ll have you know!” He boasted proudly with a servo to his chassis. “Although mechs do not care for xenobiology or astrophysics over a good blaster, the Space Bridges certainly grew in popularity as Cybertron’s energon reserves depleted. Of which I was quite involved with! Yet a strategist and artillery construction was highest in demand entering war time of course. Which I am excellent at! So I am more than qualified to take a look at your amateurish drone. I’m sure it could be far more than a soft-sparked air blower if you were more adventurous.”

Nightshade clapped their servos together and cooed like one of those odd Earth avians their alt-mode resembled. “Ooooh, fascinating! What–” They looked just about ready to begin a flurry of questions before apparently remembering who they were speaking with–“Ah, but, I do want to reiterate that I am content with the Smart Trainer in a matter of it lending to a softer style, since it’s gone wild in the past. So perhaps-”

Starscream plucked the hemisphere from the table to get a better look at it. “Yes, of course. Now, how attached really are you to this silly thing? It would be exceedingly more efficient to remove all these ridiculous lenses dotting its surface for your weak willed lasers in favor of constructing a more complex central processor within this primary drone. Then, pair it with a set of magnetized miniature artillery that can be called back to its artificial gravitational mechanism. That would greatly extend its range in the matter of delegating defensive and offensive sub-drones to perform its duty as a formidable training opponent. Your sentimentality surrounding this impractical prototype is below you. I mean, what was your plan for when it is shot to end the exercise? Build another? We will of course need to add an energy field to the operator core and–”

Nightshade snatched back the husk from Starscream’s servos before he could further disassemble it. “No no, now wait a moment! While I admit those ideas are intriguing, I do not wish to deviate to such a degree from my current system. As I asserted previously, this one…means a lot to me. So I would appreciate it if you listened to me on the matter.”

Their expression was far more firm, despite their volume hardly raising by a decibel or two. Were they angry with him or not?? And why should they be anyway?! Starscream was only giving them solid marks of improvement on a clearly flawed design! Avoiding progress merely on the basis of one’s nostalgia was stupid. It wasn’t as if he was going to rig the drone to turn against them.

Starscream’s faceplate scrunched as he tossed out a servo in exasperation, a small crimson spark leaving its tip to electrify a nearby motor. “Do you want my help or not!? Hindering yourself with such attachments–with a broken tool no less–is only going to hold you back.”

Dorothy stood. Looking just about ready to stick her grimy hands in on the argument with more ridiculous dribble. But Nightshade barely flinched.

“That is fine.” They placed the hemisphere near its fragmented half on the other side of the table. “I do value your experience, and potentially your company in the lab–as my siblings do not share this same passion…but I insist that you heed my parameters on certain matters. Now,” Nightshade’s silly, disarming smile returned as they reached down to rummage within the cabinets, “speaking of siblings, perhaps you could create one for my Smart Trainer 5012 with your vision! We can give notes on each other's progress as we go along, and perhaps have a bit of friendly competition. Oh, we could even test them against each other in the end like one of those robo-fighter video games! I might just have to add a force field of some sort as you suggest if you intend to make yours as excessively aggressive as it sounds.”

So they do have a bit of sass in them. Interesting.

Starscream straightened himself with a sideways glance at Dorothy as she sat back down. “A competition you say? You’d better be prepared to lose.”

“Do not discredit the resilience of the S.T 5012 so quickly! We will just have to see, won’t we?” A spark of determination grew in their optics as Nightshade’s posture straightened as well at the declaration.

“I suppose we will…”

Starscream kept a careful optic on them before beginning to assess the materials at his disposal. It all was an abhorrent amalgamation of cybertronian and human technology. He didn’t care to even touch that pathetic human scrap. The thought disgusted him–although…as his servo reached for it regardless…it surely wouldn’t hurt to experiment. He even got the sense he knew just how to work it into the growing blueprints forming in his processor.

A cloud of silence fell over them that Starscream hardly noticed as his focus was far too locked upon his task. He could prove to Nightshade how much better his design was–of just how skilled he was in this common ground–and they would have no choice but to be utterly and completely impressed and enthralled by his glory! He would get this strange beastformer on his side in no time at all. This was clearly what they cared about most. Perhaps this could even be simpler than he first thought. Starscream was sure they’d value a blatant display of skill, as proven in past reception during training, after all.

They worked alongside each other for quite some time, with the only notes of conversation being those of light criticism from either side on the other’s progress. Or, simply questions of curiosity on contrasting strategies. Although Starscream intended to keep an intriguing air of surprise to up the suspense of the grand reveal of course.

It would have missiles, deflection barriers, null rays, cont–...OH! He should add a confetti cannon! Hashtag would love that. Perhaps even a separate disco drone to be deployed that’d signify the end of the exercise! That would surely put him above that bug on the, very real, mentor scoreboard. When he was done, the Auxiliary Revolator was going to have a whole fleet of secondary drones under its command! And what better voice to give it than his own? Now, filling it with meaningless words of encouragement as Nightshade insisted on for their design would be ridiculous. If they earned praise from the session, Starscream would give it himself with far more substance. The Auxiliary Revolator would be programmed to instead deal out different levels of taunting remarks. This would better serve to remind them of the need to ignore distractions in combat, or even practice their ability to conjure quick retorts!

Then, as he was searching for a suitable power cell for the reflection field to finalize the central core processor, needed before he could move to painting the casing: Nightshade’s vocalizer cut through his train of thought.

“You are surprisingly comfortable with merging human and cybertronian tech. Tarantulas and I encountered many difficulties during our partnership regarding such things to perfect his initial invention.” They were further inspecting his work, as well as the array of parts he had accumulated. “It is quite impressive!” Another irksome, unreadable grin laid flat upon their faceplate.

Starscream wasn’t certain why their statement stirred such an odd mix of bothersome emotions through him. A response failed to come to his processor for a lingering klik as he rummaged through the Autobot crate. Why did the mergence of the two make so much sense to him? It was obviously because he was an intuitive genius! Nightshade truly should be impressed. All according to plan.

“But of course it is!” Starscream’s wings fluttered gracefully as he stood with a showboated twirl to his gait as he returned to the workstation with the A.R’s new power core. “I did tell you I am quite skilled in this sort of thing! I certainly outrank Tarantulas. He was so insignificant in fact, I didn’t even remember him until you reminded me of that ridiculous old beast. It is of no surprise to me that he couldn’t figure it out without the aid of a sparkling.”

Nightshade arched an optical ridge, and this time, it was quite clear how bothered they were at his comments regarding their apparent acquaintance. “Tarantulas is not ridiculous, or insignificant! He’s my friend!” They waved their servos about animatedly as if they were mimicking a superhero from one of those absurd comics. “You do not need to tear others down in order to raise yourself upon some–higher pedestal. Is it not sufficient to be proud, and appreciate our accomplishments as they are, without comparisons?”

Starscream rolled his optics. “I wasn’t the one who brought that predacon into this conversation to begin with…” There was a pause as they continued to stare at him with those wide optics, as if he had personally defiled their designation instead. Even that Dorothy human was glaring his way in disapproval. Scrap. Now there was that other ridiculous feeling in his tank.

It had always been crucial to ones standing in the ranks to prove their superiority over others. He didn’t need Nightshade thinking this previous partner of theirs was better than him! Starscream couldn’t lose to some inferior lackey! That’d be an insult! Especially when Tarantulas was clearly a deserter since he did not reassemble under Starscream’s rule before. Perhaps he could escape Nightshade’s query with his own if they wanted to speak of that arachnid so desperately.

Starscream folded his arms across his cockpit. “Although…What do you see in Tarantulas anyway? It is not as if I’ve seen him scuttling around amongst your little group here.”

“Well yes, he does not live here. We all helped him get an apartment on the outskirts of Philly so that he could utilize our holoprojector, and follow through with his wish to blend in alongside humans!”

“Why in the worlds would he want to do that?” Starscream cut in with undisguisable disgust.

“He was…tired of war. He said the only choice he had in joining the Decepticons was choosing to survive…” Nightshade had lifted their servo in a clenched fist to their chest plate as if in reverence. “So, he wanted to disappear into the shadows. Do something else with his life that was his own. We actually still talk quite often! We started a book club! It is just us–but he has even gotten into crafting interesting little sculptures! I enjoy the fascinating, in-depth conversations we share, and he is very kind at heart, even if he can appear rather aloof.”

Sacrifice for the sake of his illusion of freedom. Living amidst humans. Delving into hobbies, devoid of conflict. Forsaking his faction in favor of his own gratification. And they all call Starscream selfish.

Nightshade seemed to notice Starscream’s expression had hardened, and tilted an extended servo in his direction as the spines on their forearms flicked flat, then flared as if bobbing their hidden wings in acknowledgement. “Do you not wish for more beyond seeking victory from an old war? You mentioned your studies in xenobiology and astrophysics? I would love to learn more! Even if I am far more focused on solid constructive means in a matter of machines or structures. I’m sure such topics could only widen the horizons for what we could do for the team! You seem to have knowledge far more valuable than how much destruction you can bring. There must be a number of passions you could rekindle! Surely, there is more to you than merely being a Decepticon as well.”

Starscream wasn’t so sure of that. A Decepticon is what he’d been for so long, it was difficult to imagine anything beyond its suffocating ambition. Was this honestly what Nightshade was interested in? Suggesting…Believing in the possibility of a stupid, passive, recreational life? Indulging in scientific study alongside those of like minds. Furthering the worlds of knowledge with exploration and academia. Living in the moments of quiet, or exuberant celebrations with comrades.

Those dreams had died with Skyfire. Those ideals had died with Thundercracker.

These kids were too, only temporary. Whatever pleasantries he could have with Bumblebee, were temporary. Any effort Starscream had made for the sake of others, had only blown up in his face. Any loyalty, twisted. Any partnership, defiled. The meaning of “good” in intentions was always in such a state of debate.

One’s own survival truly was the only thing that mattered. He couldn’t get attached.

Starscream flatly turned his attention back onto tinkering with the Auxiliary Revolator. His wings tipping back out to their poised, militant stature with a momentary downwards lilt of dismissal to Nightshade. This time, the stiff atmosphere of silence–the only sound emitted from the tapping of keys and the clinking of metal–only compounded his irritation at the thoughts spiralling in his helm.

As his stupid mystical glitch became faintly active, that feeling of ghostly strangulation only gradually increased in its intensity. A feeling which aided serrated claws in the effort of ripping wretched memories and long capped emotions from his intake. Those servos and that emblem, all too familiarly clasped around his throat. There was nothing more he could be than the same coward he’d been, clinging to the false pride and grand aspirations branded upon his wings.

Suddenly, Dorothy’s voice was the one to cut through the thick air as her incessant typing came to a halt. “How about we start small. Instead of all this worryin’ about who or what you are in the whole complicated scheme of things. Start with something manageable. Like, you two are over here talkin’ in so much science jargon, I have no idea what you’re sayin’ half the time!” She laughed casually, “So there’s obviously something you have in common there, right? It doesn’t have to be a competition, with each other or anyone else. If you’re having fun, it doesn’t have to be so serious, right?”

“Well–” Starscream and Nightshade both started before she cut them off.

“Okay fine, it can be both, but still!” Now Dorothy’s focus was aimed directly at Starscream. “Factions or status don’t matter. I know it can be hard to get yourself out of the battlefield, especially when it keeps comin’ to find you. That’s why it’s important we appreciate, and remind ourselves of the time we have like this. No ruminating about what could happen, or preparing for the worst. And you don’t have to try and prove your usefulness to stay here.”

Starscream rolled his optics at the final pathetic lie she used to punctuate her sentiment. Her words began to fade out like static. Too much old noise filling his audials.

“You don’t have to put on some bravado either. Ya ain’t impressin’ anyone with that. The only thing we need you to show us is that you’re actually on our side, as a team, and want to get better.”

“Right!” Nightshade put their digit up with a sparkle in their optics. “I’ve been a touch apprehensive about how to approach you, Starscream, I admit. You are quite intimidating. Especially after…well, everything that happened when we were on opposing sides. It is a bit difficult to know how to approach you without something comfortable to bridge the gap, so to say. Like science! Or your room! The offer for further remodeling is still there, by the way.” They leaned in briefly with a knowing sly smile and a wink like those more absurd items that had been placed in there had been some sort of baiting tactic.

What else was it they’d said? Nightshade thought of him as intimidating, yet had the gall to concoct such a ridiculous scheme as that? So, there was no true fear, then. They didn’t actually believe Starscream would retaliate in a violent manner towards them at silly, petty insults as those posters. Was that confidence in his chains or his character?

Starscream remembered when he had such foolish confidence in a mech’s character.

He shook his helm of those memories, and brought his attention back to the two in the room with him. Starscream raised an optical ridge at the looks they wore on their faceplates, and in-vented slowly. Then leaned a servo on the table with a casual grin.

“I just might take you up on that offer, Neutron.” Starscream winked at them in return. “Another time. We are quite busy with our current, decidedly not competitive, drone race.” He flicked his wings with a glance Dorothy’s way; she rolled her eyes and shook her helm, despite surprisingly not displaying any real annoyance.

Nightshade gasped softly as if in awe, “I have a nickname too? Hashtag told me you two were having such a conversation the other day! Oh, I must know: why is mine not a gem like hers?”

“Hm? Ah–” Starscream’s wing twitched back as his digit tapped the table–”well. It simply felt more fitting. Science and all, hah.”

Nightshade looked through him with those knowing optics. “Come now, that can’t be all it is! Tag said you gave quite the explanation into hers. I know neutrons are the subatomic particles of which lack a charge within the nucleus of an atom. Perhaps it is that you perceive me as a…stable, neutral force? Because they balance the atom? Um…because they play key roles in nuclear reactions and you spoke of my explosive potential…?”

“You aren’t going to let it go, will you?”

“Nope!”

“Would it be sufficient if I just gave you a gemstone designation to match? You certainly look like an emerald.”

Nightshade crossed their arms and arched an optical ridge. Clearly unsatisfied with such a proposition. Even with how equally fitting it was.

Starscream ex-vented exaggeratedly. “Fine, fine. You did make some astute observations. Although more specifically, I had a Neutron Star in mind.” As he began to absentmindedly ramble, he picked back up his tools to finish sealing the Auxiliary Revolator’s central drone. Selecting the perfect paints to detail its finish. “Now do not assume I am calling you exponentially dense by the intellectually offensive meaning of the word. More so in the way that you are…difficult to see through. Challenges are often encountered when attempting to observe neutron stars directly. As are they equally small and unassuming. They are formed when a star considerably larger than the one present in your solar system loses the battle against gravity and collapses in on itself. The stellar core itself is saved from further collapse by the quantum phenomenon known as the neutron degeneracy pressure. Which is when the neutrons within reach a point of density they can no longer exceed. These stellar constructs are occasionally referred to as a “star corpse”, due to of course–in all their creative genius–the fact that they were born from a star’s death. A grand, illustrious cosmic entity crushed by its own might…” Starscream laid out a stroke of red paint marking a sinister smirk, akin to ones he often doodled on his missiles, upon the core. A grin came back to his own faceplate as he twirled his servo. “Ah but that is a byte off topic, hm? I suppose the name simply came to mind as you remind me of myself in the old days before the war. Particularly if you were to allow yourself more spunk now and again, Neutron. Adamantly standing up for your convictions and focus with such poise is commendable.”

Nightshade blinked a moment before realizing the conversational baton was passed their way. “Ah, I see! My goodness is that fascinating–” they tapped the tip of their chin thoughtfully– “It is difficult for me to discern how these neutron stars exactly link to my reminding you of yourself… But I believe I appreciate the compliment nevertheless! And I do quite like it.”

Dorothy hummed from her perch. “Even without all that, I think it suits you baby.” She tilted her helm at Nightshade with a soft expression only these Maltos seemed capable of with one another. Then she looked to Starscream with a stare far more contemplative that he could do without. “You know Starscream. Maybe if you let go of that obsession of yours to be the best at any expense, you wouldn’t have to put who you were in the grave like that. I’m sure we’d appreciate whoever that mech was over what he became. I believe we’ve seen quite a few glimpses of him these past weeks, in fact.”

“Have you now?”

Nightshade looked between them as the gears turned in their helm. “Oh! Yes I get it now, I do believe we have as well! The moments when you were not concerned with usurping Tarantulas as my tinkering partner, were indeed particularly pleasant.”

Starscream glared at the two a moment before he scoffed and rolled his optics. Setting aside the A.R.’s central core to pick up the half constructed casing of the first secondary firing drone. “That’s ridiculous.” He glanced over at Nightshade’s partially constructed ring they had begun to design, meant to gyrate around their Smart Trainer as a deflection device. Starscream smirked and tipped his wings up in amusement. “Perhaps if you weren’t so distracted with how immensely fascinating I am, you’d have that blockage you’ve run into figured out by now. Hm?”

“Wh-I’ll have you know that I am by no means distracted!” Nightshade straightened proudly with a servo on their chestplate before lifting their device in demonstration. “And I have hardly run into a block. In fact, I have been contemplating a fix as we spoke! You see, the problem is whether the magnetism will be stable, and consistent enough to not lose control of the ring when it breaks off to become a long range block and grapple mechanism. So, I have been thinking, if I were to remove one of the Smart Trainer’s lenses, to instead act as a lock for one end of the ring extender, when it flings out to its full length it will retain ample control to not fling haphazardly to the abyss!”

Starscream nodded. “A sensible solution. One that might even allow you to build potential energy between the two as they spin to both engage and disengage quickly. As you know that such a flinging movement from the whip while attached to the core would bring it in that direction as well. If you are crafty about it, that grappling capacity could be used as a maneuverment device utilizing its surroundings. As well as dizzy your opponents by taking hold of their servo or weapon.”

“Exactly!” Nightshade beamed as they pulled back up their holoscreen to display their blueprints and simulations. “See, while I wasn’t too keen on making drastic changes, I did find your idea of exterior assistance intriguing! This addition will allow pin pointed projections of deflection shields at its sides, which can be used to keep track of how many hits it would have taken, while not actually allowing it to take sufficient damage in the exercises. Then, I got a fantastic wave of inspiration from an anime Tag had shown me recently of the potential whip-like devices can be capable of! And thus, the Smart Trainer 5012 is truly coming into view!”

“I admit it is quite impressive. Although one of my own drones has a projectile grappling hook method of its own. One that is not limited from one direction or ring, as it will have a collection of wires capable of electrifying a target from any direction. You still limit yourself through a passive lens, Neutron.”

“I am in fact simply retaining my focus on who the Smart Trainer will be used against. Electrocuting my own team doesn’t sound necessary in the slightest.”

“Oh come on. The voltage can be regulated. They are not quite that fragile that they couldn’t handle a shock as minute as a blaster set to stun.”

“Hm. Yes, I do suppose not. And if we were to use them for alternative purposes like when I lent the S.T. to Bee, a means of pacifying an opponent could be quite useful! As well as the multitude of little tentacles as you describe which could be used to input a code! From the feedback I got from Bee then, he ran into a bit of trouble with that.”

Starscream chuckled. “Oh I can only imagine the highjinx that bug could have gotten himself into without thought.”

Such casual conversation persisted as before as they both continued to work side by side on their little projects. It was refreshing to work with someone who didn’t gatekeep every circuit within their invention without considerable prying. And though it took some effort, Starscream relented to some of the sparkling’s suggestions on his own design as well. Perhaps not every piece of the drones had to lend to such destructive purposes. The Disco drone didn’t have to double as a mass laser projector. It could simply act as the deflector…with a speaker to blast victory music instead of plasma.

Dorothy had now long since entirely ceased her tapping. Having replaced it by entertaining herself with conversation with the rest of the human Malto’s who had returned from their outing. She seemed to be in a particularly in depth conversation with her conjunx, occasionally glancing back his way. But Starscream had more important things to consider as he noted Bumblebee lingering at the bunker’s entrance speaking with Jawbreaker. Nightshade’s Smart Trainer 5012 was just about complete, as well as his own Auxiliary Revolator and its trifecta armada! Now, all they needed was a test subject.

As they screwed in the sealing panels to their creations, Starscream whispered his plan to Nightshade, who snickered with delight at the idea. First, Nightshade took hold of their own creation in their servos to get the bug’s attention. Showing off the glorious new addition they had crafted. Then, Starscream readied his own fleet for deployment, with a steady digit on the switch.

“Sensors up Neutron!” Starscream tactfully interrupted the Terran’s explanation to toss his activated drones their way. A display which would no doubt get Bumblebee to spring into action, despite Nightshade themself knowing their Smart Trainer was more than capable of deflecting any blaster fire their way.

Predictably, the bug reflexively pushed them out of the way, servo blasters at the ready with an immediate shot at the Auxiliary Revolator. As the blast was easily deflected, the A.R.’s speaker rang out with mimicked laughter of Starscream’s own vocalizer, of which he couldn’t help but echo. Especially when the Taser Core shot repeated little bullets at his peds to make him dance.

“Augh Starscream!! SHUT THAT OFF!”

“Worry not dear teacher!” Came Nightshade’s triumphant line as they dutifully deployed their S.T. 5012 to retaliate against Starscream’s drone in their long awaited battle. “For we have prepared for a situation precisely like this one!”

“We??!”

Bumblebee was left baffled as Nightshade’s drone tactfully defended against the Auxiliary Revelator Armada's every attempt at getting another shot at the Autobot. Starscream would be infuriated if he wasn’t so proud. They were perfect rivals. Every shot they would get on the other would inevitably be matched, to the end that they’d go on for eternity if left to their devices. So, with a glance and a nod Neutron’s way, he had the perfect solution as he looked out at their newly arrived subjects.

“Well, as it seems our fabulous creations are far too equally matched against each other: what do you all say about a thrilling training exercise with Starscream and Nightshade’s amazing S.T.A.R.mada 5012!?” Starscream announced grandly with outstretched servos.

The S.T. gasped, “A teamup? Now that will be a great learning experience!”

The A.R. scoffed, “If you’re looking for a lesson in humility maybe! Haha!”

Jawbreaker transformed and flicked his tail with anticipation, the rest of the Malto unit converging on his location. With all of them eagerly coming to an agreement in unison, “Oh you’re on!!”

Bumblebee looked on as the struggle began with disbelief in his optics before a sigh left his intake with a laugh. “Of course this is what you two would be up to.”

Nightshade clapped their servos excitedly as they kept tabs of the drone’s condition through their holoscreen. “Aren’t they fantastic!? I would join in on the test as well but we must make certain that if there are any malfunctions they will be swiftly dealt with!”

Starscream slipped alongside them to pull up his own screen, adjusting a minor problematic variable. “Yes, I am sure the famous scout could handle a surprise simulation.” He flicked his wings tauntingly at the bug with a smirk.

Bee rolled his eyes with a grin as he began hopping side to side. “You know it Screamer, you can never catch me off guard!” He gave a ridiculous wink before dashing off to pull Thrash out of the way of a tentacle from the Skatter Whip drone.

Such a silly scene to behold. Something not unlike what shenanigans Starscream and his trine had gotten into in the past. Too many things here have been reminding him of those days. Yet he wasn’t so sure whether he hated it or not.

As his attention was pulled to the fight, he began a new petty competition for who could give the best advice to the sparklings. It was always extremely amusing to witness the bug squirm anytime Starscream interrupted his attempt at a pointer with his own, far better, interjection. Twitch began calling them out on it, but it was futile to get either to admit they were doing anything to trample the other’s peds. Besides, Hashtag seemed to find it entertaining enough.

A crimson spark flickered though his optics as his monitor closed behind him while he leaned unbothered on the rim of the table. He didn’t need any more glitches or paranoia corrupting his view at the moment. He was finally starting to gain some concept of this strange situation.

Nightshade needed a lab partner. Hashtag needed a mentor. Twitch reminded him of Spitfire if she took a dose of high justice moral fuel. Thrash was just about as ridiculous as that Moe human, yet oddly endearing from a distance. That Robby one seemed satisfied as long as Starscream played sufficiently nice with his siblings. Jawbreaker however, was an enigma he truly would never care to crack.

Regardless. They could figure it out tomorrow. Perhaps, there wasn’t such a need for rushing back into a scheme for victory or revenge. Meridian even finally ceased his incessant whining.

#transformers #earthspark starscream #tfe fanart #tfe fanfic #dorothy malto #earthspark bumblebee #nightshade malto #science duo #the sillies with a bit of sus

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