lefttowanderrrd - Tumblr blog

lefttowanderrrd · 21 days ago

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Runaway

The man of your dreams, after an abusive one. You find out you're pregnant and despite everything, you can't stay. Until he comes back to find you, for a second chance.

warning: pregnancy, language, mentions of sex, slightly-unedited

a/n: still trying to heal after ai. getting some of my creative composure back.

In the middle of nowhere. In the dark. Sharp treeline. Dense trees pack around a winding gravely path that ventures deeper into the surrounding woodland.

It gets darker and darker as the path eventually empties into a clearing: big enough for a small cabin, a generator at its exterior and heating system, and a parking space for a standard size car.

The cabin only stands one story. Cedar logs (cut down from the many of the cedar trees standing straight up from behind the cabin) are packed atop each other to create the sturdy structure. Two carvings on either side of a mahogany door make windows. There isn’t much to see from the window view—translucent curtains block out the eyes and the light from the inside.

The interior is only composed of a kitchenette, which steps down into a standard size living room (no bigger than a prison cell) with a carpet lying flatly on the creaky wooden floor. A shiny leather rocking chair and a coffee table pin the material to the floor.

In another corner, unopened, unmarred crates are stacked, crooked, amongst each other. And then a door, right beside said crates. Locked from the inside—standard, no deadbolt. Inside, another rug across another creaky wooden floor. A dresser against one wall and a small, metal-framed bed against the other. A tall mirror—cracked slightly from its corner—stands on its one in a particularly dark corner of the room.

And a pool, big enough for several people, sags, heavy with warm water (above average body temp), in the middle of the bedroom—there is a closet, which makes it a bedroom.

A woman rests against the inflated sides of the pool. Heavy breathing, forehead perspiration, and frequent tension in the muscles of her body.

Contractions. Again, frequent, and strong. She knows this child she’s been carrying is just about ready to make their way into this world. And as alone as she might be, she’s ready for this. She’s ready for the now: to push in agony and in the strength it takes just to bring a child into this world. Except, she isn’t ready for what comes after. What she’ll do with the child… …because she isn’t ready to be a mother.

—

You should’ve planned for that better—knowing Prowl—you should’ve planned to dump your phone for a burner, just in case this all went sideways.

But as this baby was coming—his baby—you weren’t thinking of the possibility of him. Showing up. Interrupting.

Interrupting because you had run from him. The minute you picked up the stick and the electronic mini-screen read ‘pregnant’, you were already formulating a plan to get out of the city you resided in, the state… …anything to get away from him. You waited months, down to the last detail, to finally execute what you had planned. It was in the knick of time: just when you started to show.

You took weapons, food, medical supplies, birth supplies… …anything that would’ve assisted you in giving birth alone. And sure—you’d had your doubts. About pushing. Complications. About miscarriage—holding the limp body of a small baby who wasn’t crying. Or what about a cord around their neck. Something you couldn’t control, something you couldn’t prevent. But the overwhelming desire to avoid Prowl and confrontation about this—this mistake—it was stronger than any of those doubts screaming in your head.

Another ripping contraction around your waist and you felt it through your entire body. Your head rolled up from resting on of your shoulder. Looking around, you found everything covered in a dark haze. A weakness in your muscles had your chin rolling down to your chest, looking down at your swollen belly, which was covering everything between your legs in shadow.

You bring a hand to the tender and taunt skin of your belly, applying a gentle pressure with your palm if only to cease the burning pain within each contraction. The problem? It doesn’t work and you silently plead for anything to make it stop.

Sweat continues in long rivers from your neck, down your collarbone and in between your breasts, which are pushed together in a polyester sports bra. Your legs are bare, spread open and ready to push, but you aren’t ready yet—whether your body isn’t actually ready or you aren’t--you can't meet the baby that's been housed inside your stomach for the past 8 months.

The water makes your skin shine, even in the dark. You filled it high enough so it drowns half your belly and creates warmth around your stomach ,where you know it will be the most painful.

Another contraction and you shift—and shift completely. Your legs crisscross each other, so you can roll over—like a beached whale—and get on your knees, your forearms resting on the inflated pool edge. Your back arches deeply, your belly weighing it and you down.

You shakily take a breath in through your nose and out through your nose. This was the thing you've practiced the most in the months of confinement in this place: taking breath after breath. An attempt to calm yourself in the anticipation for this day.

Breathe.

Just breathe.

—

Prowl wasn’t going to take your disappearance as a sign to stay away.

It had been so sudden. And too soon and you hadn’t picked up the phone when he called those numerous times.

After 48 hours of you missing, he did attempt at a more thorough investigation. But no evidence, no investigation: no signs of a struggle, no ransom notes or anonymous calls. No forceful entry, blood, even Decepticon activity had been at an all time low. Despite how his average workload required him to walk upon many social interactions interwoven with a hurried and packed schedule, when it came to a case like yours, it lead Prowl to the middle of nowhere. All quiet on the western front, and you were still nowhere to be found.

He took the matter into his own hands---and, it wasn’t like he couldn’t trust you, he just couldn’t trust a cruel world such as on the planet Earth. Couldn’t trust how your affiliation with him wouldn’t put you in danger. Get you killed. Without your permission, software was installed—just to keep an eye on your location. Harmless. But now, with the consideration that you’d had your phone on you—or if you were kidnapped, they had your phone—the said tracking software was going to be his salvation. Your damnation.

He was no tech genius, and his hands were limber, but large. Maybe he should've been asking Ratchet, maybe the base IT, but it was a last minute impulse. A decision to make a two-way conduit between your cellular device and his: he was going to install the same software in his device, while, at the same time, attempting to ping any other device under the similar installed software. It would be his tracking device all the way to you. It would work (he hoped, though he was confident).

The first person, or let’s say bot, to interrupt the steady going silence of his office quarters was Ratchet. Why? Well, another one of those meetings, that Prowl was pretty sure he’d marked down somewhere on one of the data pads, but he couldn’t recall, because something in him finally snapped: you were more important than a damn meeting.

“I’d figured in recent events you’d isolate yourself, but I didn’t think you’d get pulled into the undertow.” Ratchet ever so kindly, in his ‘medical wisdom’ announced his presence, as if Prowl didn’t sense it before. But he didn’t seem to acknowledge his colleague.

Until… “I’m busy. Is there something you need at the moment?” And he kept tinkering away, until he was somewhat satisfied with the work he’d produced before his eyes. Now—it’d be no miracle worker—

The door was burst in again, because where there was Ratchet, there was Ironhide. “You’re both late!” The other bot announced his presence, just with higher decibels.

Prowl slowly stood, as if on cue by Ironhide’s words. He could’ve rolled his eyes or put up a steady fight using only his words, but he chose not to do either.

Just you. Only you.

“Since when do your concerns lie with our politics, Ironhide?”

“Since everyone in that room doesn’t stop their goddamn complaining.”

Prowl had already boarded the ‘Fuck It’ Train and the last stop was to you, wherever that may be.

“Let them.” He grumbled, possibly exhausted (though he himself couldn’t tell). He swiped the device from the desk service, with a wind powerful enough to knock some loose paper from his desk.

It surprises Ratchet: Prowl doesn’t keep any papers loose on his desk surface, nor does he let them fall to the ground… …so messily.

Hide narrowed his eyes. This kind of Prowl exhibited disturbing behavior. “What will Prime say if he knows you’re still on this?” Ratchet’s attention moved from the fallen papers back to Prowl at Hides’ words.

The bot merely shrugs. “He already knows. This is my priority. No other bot needs to be involved.”

Ironhide grumbled.

Ratchet got involved. “I’m under the assumption that you’ve located this feminine?” This made Prowl stop in his boot-covered tracks to his office door. There he stands still, almost rigid, as if he doesn’t want to say anything, but the words are there and they come spilling out anyways. “It’s a possibility is what it is.” Ratchet raised a brow. “Known Decepticon territory?” Prowl finally turned his head, to his associates curiosity. “Not sure. But that’s hardly one of my concerns.” He said slowly, looking Ratchet up and down. “Are you suggesting something?” Ratchet crossed his arms and exhaled a little huff. His eyes trailing from Ironhide, to Prowl and back again. “Perhaps. The Director would have our heads if we did, but it wouldn’t be any better if we let you go alone.”

Prowl was catching on, slowly. He was frustrated by the mere fact he was standing here and not going after you, but he was more intrigued Ratchet offered his help.

“Ironhide could provide backup. And you aren’t sure of the condition she could be in right now.”

Ironhide was the one to exhale a huff. Ratchet glared at him—like a frustrated wife to a husband—and Prowl lowered his chin, thoughtful of it all: if it came to it, he was strong enough to hold out, he did have sufficient medical training, he knew how to handle a gun. But—

What. If.

Scenarios kept breaking down the sureness and hope he had towards finding you—finding you alive. You could be half way across the country right now or buried under loose dirt, lifeless body that’s two or three days old. Perhaps tortured or unrecognizable.

No. No. No.

He refused all possibilities. That wasn’t who he was. Wasn’t his mindset and he was stubborn as hell. You were going to be fine. You were going to be ‘rescued’ (as he didn’t know it yet) and brought back home safely.

“We’re waisting time then.”

—

The three were on the road faster than they had ever been.

Base officials had tried to stop them in their departure and since Ironhide was the one driving, he drove right through the gate. Though he wasn’t one to bitch about his paint job, the metal from the broken links scratched across his doors, sending a sharp tingling sensation across his body.

Prowl sat passenger, barely registering how many basic traffic laws had been broken—the irony—and finally, with his hope being at its fullest, activated the software within his device.

It projected over a 10 mile radius, while on his screen, 3D imaging mapped out his detailed surroundings. The highway, the suburbs, the urban areas, all the little homes and buildings of humans stood so realistically on his screen. Now he needed to think: if you’d been kidnapped, where would they take you?

Possibly an abandoned building, maybe a personal home establishment, maybe no where near here, maybe somewhere with a little more depth.

“What about the woodland?” Ratchet peeked over the seat from the bag. His medical bag sat lumpy right beside him. Prowl shook his head. “I’m not getting anything.” His eyebrows scrunched together, as if almost in confusion. Ratchet nearly almost continued with what he would’ve said next: “It’d be the most likely. If dense enough…etc…”, but he stopped himself, reached a hand over from his side and pressed on the screen.

“Map service, Prowl. You should’ve selected Location service.” The screen changed instantly. No longer was it a 3D map of the surroundings (that practically flew by), but now it was cell towers, pings of similar devices in certain standard size circles/radius’.

But… …as Ratchet had so nonchalantly predicted, there was a weak signal, branching out from the middle of nowhere woodland. About 30 minutes out.

Prowl slid the phone into Ironhide’s mount on the dash. “Go there.” Were his only directions, now that the signal was properly typed in, in coordinate form, Ironhide finally had a destination.

—

Regrets.

This was your biggest one.

Gripping the inflatable pool edge wasn’t enough. Rocking your hips back and forth was enough. Rubbing a soothing hand over your belly wasn’t enough. Breathing wasn’t enough… …so you started to push. As any panicked, mother to be would’ve.

At first, it was slow, soundless. Little intervals where you tensed up your body, your face twisted to show incredible pain, your cheeks puffed up and then you let it all go. You felt weak after, weaker than before and then the next contraction came and you almost fell into the rib-high water (at least on a 5’6 person such as yourself).

You were so convinced that, the moment you’d found out you were pregnant, it was over. That very moment. Your life was going to fall apart, although it was only in that moment that your life was falling apart. It wasn’t realistic. You weren’t being realistic and now you were here. Feeling as if every breath, every push was like death creeping up around you. Waiting to grab you by the throat and squeeze the life out of you.

In the hours and next day to come, you wouldn’t have remembered the exact moment you felt like that. Only the adrenaline rushing side by side with the searing pain. But, the reason you felt so much like death was because you weren’t breathing. You weren’t inhaling and exhaling those soothing and tight breaths. Instead you were hyperventilating, gasping, sobbing. Never in that moment had you wanted the pain to stop…

You bore down again, this time, a scream forcing its way from your throat. Through all that pain, this was the first time you’ve made any sound, worried it might awake something in the surrounding darkness. But once nothing happened. You inhaled at such a speed and forced another guttural sound from the pit of your stomach.

Your own screams echoed in your ears. The silence after seemed to be even louder.

You pushed again, harder this time, hoping to see some progress while palming between your legs. The pattern repeated: bare down, tense yourself, scream, then inhale upon exhaling. As you exhaled, a burning was finally felt between your legs, and with gravity, being on your knees, it was felt even greater: the stretch of your baby’s’ head. You felt it gently under your fingers, almost disgusted by it, but in a disgusted sort of disbelief.

Something was coming out of you. And it was going to be alive. And it was part Prowl and—

Oh. GOD!

The entire head slipped free and the intense burning subsided, mercifully allowing you to breathe for only a moment. It began again on the next contraction and on that contraction you pushed as hard as you could, hoping to force the rest of the body out.

It was beginning to seem pathetic. You had abandoned all reasonable methods of pushing, now on your butt, legs spread, trying to guide your baby through with soft tugs, but it wasn’t budging. With fear that your baby could drown by being underwater, you attempted to shakily stand up, almost to fall down instantly.

An intense crash to your knees and pain was blooming, but you’d caught yourself and now remained in the exact same position you had been in before: on your knees, begging for this to be over.

Now, you were going to take some time to breathe. To breathe softly even with every strangling contraction. You palmed over your belly, allowing all your weight to list to own side without falling over: this made your thighs quake. But even in your exhaustion, you were determined to hang on.

The silence seemed to almost lull you to sleep. Just your own breaths and your own soft touches in between contractions, though there were many and so few moments of relaxation.

The sound seemed to fade out, whispering to you some invisible lullaby that hyper your exhaustion, causing it to run wild. You could just close your eyes. Just close your eyes and take a breath, then you’d open them. Get right back to work. Deliver your own baby…

But sound. And you lifted your head. The easy, but patterned creak of the cabins’ wooden floor.

One, two. One, two. One, two.

Three sets of footsteps. Heavy. Cautious. Possibly prowling out for you or whomever may be here, but that was only you. At least for the time being.

You didn’t sense immediate danger, but from the beginning of this reckless escapade, you’d damn sure been cautious. A gun, loaded, safety off and two extra rounds. Right by the pool side, resting on an old, lopsided bedside table.

Your entire body shook, but you’d managed to steadily wade around the bowl of the pool to your weapon. Your hands were shaking until you grabbed it: the familiarity of it seemed to calm you. It was such an intense calm, that you’d missed how the screen of your phone lit up as it was turned screen side down.

Bracing yourself against the unsupportive pool edge, you slowly got to somewhat standing: there was a bend in your knees. You raise your firearm, the barrel of it following the sound as it came closer. Closer.

Approaching the door.

Turning the knob. Twisting it. Finding out it was locked. That the door didn’t budge.

The shaking in your body didn’t stop, even the water was rippling around your weak knees. You knew this was a recipe for bad aim, but you were hormonal and in pain greater than you could process. Fuck anyone who was gonna come through that door…

—

The signal led the trio up a winding gravely path. Packed on either side with tall pines and shaded by thick bristle leaves. The further Ironhide drives down the path, the darker it seems to get.

The path opens into a clearing half-a-mile down the path. Still, it’s dark. Shaded. Ironhide switches on the headlights. The illumination up ahead reveals the one-story cabin, built with stacked cedar logs, a mahogany door in the middle, and two windows on each side of the door. Secluded. In the middle of the nowhere.

“Shut down the lights.” Prowl murmured firmly, enough so that Ironhide did exactly that.

The black bot sat back, undoing the belt that he didn’t desire to where, but Ratchet remained up his aft about safety and slag, since the moment he’d started driving— “We should go ‘round back. Seems standard, no more than a two to one. There probably aren’t any windows in the back.”

Prowl raised a brow, his expression relaxed, but tense all in the same. His head back against the head rest. “Two to one?”

“Two windows. One door. Maybe another in the back. We can’t be sure.” Ironhide exchanged a look with Prowl, until their attentions were both drawn back through the windshield.

Prowl spaced out: he couldn’t just sit here, couldn’t just do nothing and contemplate on a possible plan of action. He needed action now. Little did he know that Ironhide was just waiting for his cue, a movement from the other bots holo-form to execute the plan formulating in his processor.

Prowl couldn’t wait any longer and he stepped out from the Jeep confiscated from base. A crunch sounded under his foot when his boot hit the ground. It was the natural mix of forest ground that broke the early-evening silence. Ironhide stepped from out of the Jeep as did Ratchet, but the medic held back. Ironhide’s’ holoform slid a loaded gun across the hood and Prowl caught it with ease.

“I’ll go ‘round back. If an entrance is possible, I’ll comm you. You take the front. On three, we’ll enter… …Ratchet, you move in when I give you a signal.”

The medic nodded briefly, standing—now leisurely—against the vehicle. He didn’t take the defensive stand at all: whether or not he should back up Prowl or Ironhide, but he was just as equally not about to argue. Ironhide’s’ stubborn demeanor knew no bounds, even when it came to Ratchet.

—

Moving stealthily, steadily and smoothly along to the back of the house, Ironhide found no door. Nothing at the back except the extension of this clearing: the stumps of the trees whose logs had been harvested for this here cabin.

Ironhide then retreated back to the front. The instant Prowl spotted his holoform’s shadow, he took a step back from his position at the front door then took a powerful step forward to break it down.

It was a sharp, echoing, loud sound. Another shatter in the silence, Prowl became tense once more. Gun poised, forearm muscles and veins popping through his human-like skin.

Dark interior, but there were shadows of still-life objects: the kitchenette counters, appliances, the leather rocking chair, shining, the rug, the coffee table.

His eyes were wide, chest expanding even wider at each quick bunny breath he took through his nose and out his mouth. He was taking in his surroundings, piece by piece, but you, whom he’d hoped to find, you weren’t standing right there, where he’d hoped you be.

Ironhide charged in right after Prowl, gun poised. His blue optics scanned the room quickly, taking in his surroundings as best he could with minimal light, but as Prowl began to lower his gun, Ironhide did the same. Silence. Only their heavy breaths and the growing tension.

With the door being open, some light entered the room. It was soft, nothing compared to the blaring Jeep headlights, which would really be helpful right about now.

Now the room was spinning. As Prowl settled his breathing, his head began to pound. He didn’t understand. He expected you to be right here. Standing in front of him. Or tied to a chair. Or held at gun point. Whatever the scenario was, he just wanted to see your face.

This was a small, one-story cabin. Not many nooks and crannies needed to be combed through, searched or torn apart. But the police bot certainly wanted to. Though he could do much more damage in bot form, his holo-form would have to do.

“Door.” That one word had Prowl perking up like a dog. Ironhide came up behind him, before he could turn around to face the other mech. Two taps on Prowls’ shoulder urged him to move forward. He could hear Ironhide breathing just as heavily over his shoulder as he had been before, but it was nothing compared to the loud creaking of the wood floor. Prowl was in no way calm, spark still racing, but he was calm enough to notice how loud this cabin was.

He held his gun close to his side, approached the only door leading elsewhere and he solely hoped it wasn’t to the outside.

You.

Hopefully, it led to you. Prowl wasn’t a fan of miracles. But he needed this.

He braced himself. His chest twisted. His muscles hardened and he kicked in yet another door. Another burst of sound rang in his ears, yet briefly, as his ragged breathing was quick to replace it.

His gun stepped in first. Then the hand holding the gun, then the arm manning the hand.

Much like the other rooms, this one was dark. But this one… …it had sound. Small drippings and drops of water that were coming from somewhere.

Right.

His head turned that direction: his processor had him like a stringed puppet.

If the door had been any closer to where you’d set up the pool, your own gun would be close enough to hit his stomach dead on. The target would be large enough, at maximum size and perfectly in your range. You were a shaking mess: even with closing one eye, your aim was going to be off.

But, one thing your previous job had taught you: never shoot the innocents. They have no part in this. No matter if they’re holding a bomb under their clothes: never shoot. Explore other options first. Lethal is never first. Those innocents could’ve held the world in their hands, your world, the world of your dated squad, but never shoot first.

And you can’t. You can’t shoot Prowl. Who, replicating your confusion, lowers his gun just the same as you. Blue optics wide, shining with, what could be, relief, desire, worry—a thousand things at once that you couldn’t comprehend, because you didn’t care.

He couldn’t be here.

No, no, no.

But he was here.

He can’t look down.

But your shock was keeping any other protective movements at bay.

You couldn’t cover yourself.

No.

—

There was a horrific shock you in your eyes that Prowl could only replicate.

You were standing there and that made his heart drop, twist, speed up all at once. You were standing there, half drenched in sweat, half drenched in water.

Water from what?

The damn inflatable pool filled more than halfway.

But why were you in a pool? In the most enclosed room in the cabin? In the middle of nowhere?

His eyes fluttered down. Eyes narrowing almost, but his eyebrows scrunched inwards first, beating his optics by a dashing second.

You were round. From your breasts compacted in a sports bra, down to your hips, you were round. Large. Stomach bulging from what could only guess was an organism. A baby. A sparkling.

You were pregnant.

Pregnant.

And he couldn’t stop staring.

I mean, sure, it was you. You were the first to open him up, peel his outer layers apart in an attempt to get to his core—you already had, but he’d never admit it. Drinks, dates, extended bed hours in the morning, showers—all of it, and it was the first time Prowl learned how soft humans were.

His hands on your skin, in your sex, your gummy warmth that had him plummeting into this spiral in which he never wanted to be pulled out of.

That’s why he was so crazed to find you…

Now he stands here, before you, absolutely breathless. You’re beautiful, but… …he doesn’t know what to think.

Ironhide steps from behind the statue mech to see exactly what Prowl sees. You, barely standing, round at your midsection: pregnant.

He takes a step back and retreats from the room. He goes for Ratchet immediately.

You begin to breathe heavily, clutching at your rounded stomach as you drop the gun completely. From the height you drop it, you’re surprised it doesn’t instantly fire. You drop back down into the warm water, face scrunching up in pain. And you try to control it. Try to shove it down as to not showcase to Prowl the entirety of this situation: you were pregnant and in labor.

But Prowl is soft for you. He rushes to you immediately, shoving his gun in his back pocket. He doesn’t know what to say, just kneels beside the pool, hands out, but he’s afraid to touch you.

You exhale sharply, your lips pursing together. Your shoulders relax, as does the tension in your lower back. The contractions haven’t stopped. Your baby’s’ head is still between your legs.

You’re in the middle of labor and Prowl is here.

He’s here, in the middle of you making this mistake.

#tf prowl #transformers #transformers bayverse #au writing #creative writing #writers on tumblr #oc #x reader #ironhide #ratchet #pregnancy

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lefttowanderrrd · 25 days ago

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btw I hate character ai for all the AI reasons but I do also think you should hate character.ai for hijacking the social rewards system of a million teenager's brains. that shit is poison and im not exaggerating

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lefttowanderrrd · 2 months ago

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I want to say ‘I love you’ - chap. 1

—

warnings: mentions of su1c1de, d3pr3ssion, s3lf harm and use of language. DO NOT INTERACT IF THIS IS A SENSITIVE TOPIC FOR YOUR PERSON!

disclaimers: not based on true events! Ironhide, Ratchet and all other Cybertronian characters rightfully belong to Micheal Bay!

—

coupling: oc x ironhide

description: If you live a life where you believe that are no chances left for you, you might actually start to believe it…

Jax was at the end of her rope. Just barely pulling through another blunt military job after being dropped from active duty.

Her only mission now is to end it all. If she didn’t feel like tearing her skin off, if she didn’t feel she had to keep up appearances, if she didn’t have to try—at all—she’d be at peace.

Unlucky for her endgame, a certain mech has taken interest in her person, enough to ensure that she keeps going. Will it be enough? To tackle with a man just as stubborn as her and with her own insecurities?

In this unlikely form of healing, maybe it’s worth being around for just a bit longer.

a/n: Gonna try this out again. Finally quit AI for good and want to get back into writing. Enjoy!

—

(Narrator)

Ratchet had been reviewing the diagnosis over and over again in his head: ‘GSW to the head; bullet narrowly missed; left side skull fracture; post—operation status—pending.’

It was someone he wasn’t close to. But he was close to someone who was.

To bear the news and have to tell it to Ironhide, he’d never seen the face of the mechs’ holoform go so white.

For the last 5 hours, while Jax was unconscious and in critical condition, Ironhide had done nothing but sit by. He’d done nothing but waited with his patience withering.

Although Ratchet had done the same, watching from the overhead box of the operating room while the surgeons below moved their hands, desperately attempting to stabilize Jax laying motionless on the table.

And it began with a simple phone call…

—

(Ironhide)

I remember her voice. It rings in my processor like a sad, faint memory.

She seemed distant, almost distracted, as if something had been drawing her speaker away from the receiver.

I still remember being in the armory, maintaining the handgun I’d frequently been using. Using the same rag that had previously always dirtied the pads of my fingers, the grime seeping into the edges of my holoforms’ nails.

We’d been talking for the hour. But what I had said to her last, now, it’s haunting:

“Are you there, Jax?”

My voice barely echoed my true concerns for what I felt. And perhaps every time I had been with that human, it barely echoed how I really felt.

“… …yeah… …I’m here, Hide…”

I could hear the smile on her lips, a growing chuckle in her voice and then it died. She sighed.

“…Who do you do it for?…”

I raised a brow, my fingers had moved steadily along the piece. The piece I’d set aside to move around the phone, trapping the device between both my hands. Staring into the reflective screen, I asked, “What do you mean?—“

Jax sighed again—heavy, almost exhausted. I remember that detail particularly well because now I’m exhausted. Exhausted in my guilt and regret—I couldn’t save her. I didn’t think—

“Well—you know Hide—we all have a purpose. No matter its gravity. What matters is fulfilling that purpose, making it something to live for even with all the other shtick… … …I just… …I don’t know what I’m fighting for anymore. I can’t—“

Her voice twisted and faded back into the silence on my end. I’d been listening so intently to her voice, imagining her speaking to me on several different occasions.

She’s a desire and perfect illusion in my mind—maybe always has been. But I don’t confront the thought now because it was a distraction. A distraction of the reality of Jax—who she really turned out to be.

“You can’t—“

“—Do this anymore.” She’d cut me off and that’s what concerned me. Hearing her voice twist even more, I couldn’t stop myself when I grabbed the device and held it to the side of my face, marching out of the armory.

“… …I’m exhausted, Hide. Truly… …if someone were here to take the reins from me, I’d be able to keep going… …I just—nothing is ever enough. Nothing I do or the person I am—“

I had to stop to fully absorb the words she was speaking right in my ear.

I had a firm tone speaking back into the receiver. “Don’t say that. That isn’t true—“

And, as if she meant it casually, “It is, Ironhide. You don’t know me. I may put up an excellent front, but that’s all it is…. … …I just wish—…maybe…”

I didn’t give her another moment to degrade herself—and now I realize that’s what she was doing, on a level that was more burdensome.

She felt like a burden, to herself.

“I’m coming to get you. Where are you?” It might’ve spooked her because what she did next, it spooked me.

“Don’t come for me, Hide. I’m at peace…

…

Let me be at peace.”

I heard her breathing uneasily. Almost shaky as she seemed to get farther and farther away from her phone.

I willed my holoform to disappear, fizzle out into nothing so I could return to my original form.

I kept her audio going through my dash, hearing her shaky breathing throughout the truck.

It was like the breath of a ghost, perhaps of someone not quite alive but not dead either. It’s twisted—enough for me to deny it entirely as well—but that was her in that moment.

BANG!

That was her fire. From her own gun. It was loud and it strangled me, the sound like hands at my throat, that I couldn’t call out her name. It was fear I felt in that moment—I realize that now too.

Fear with a coupling of anticipation: Had she shot herself? Or did she miss?

Human medical got there before I could and Ratchet was right at the hospital, after I sped after the entire unit trying to reach the place.

I couldn’t see her then, but she looked dead. Being swarmed by people who knew what they were doing, still, I didn’t trust them with her. I wanted her in my hands.

They did their assessments in bursts of action that made it impossible for Ratchet to pull me aside.

They took her into emergency surgery.

She was still breathing… …so she missed.

Ratchet only confirmed my initial observations later: she’d missed, only by an inch. The bullet fired, but at an angle where it only pierced her skull.

Still, the situation was fragile. The situation after, would still be fragile. Ratchet couldn’t predict any outcomes, not until she was out of that operating room.

It left me to wait and ponder and regret:

Why hadn’t I done anything?

Why couldn’t she have told me?

What was wrong with her?

Who would want this for one’s own self?

For four hours I sat with myself, my processor muddled. My fingers were still dirty, but I didn’t bother to wash them. I’d wash them if she woke up. I’d wash them if I could hear her voice again. If I could touch her again, I’d touch her with my ligaments shiny fucking clean…

(Narrator)

Almost two hours into the next morning, Ratchet finally appeared in the hallway, coming from the direction in which he disappeared into the operating room overhead box.

He looked exhausted and like much of the general staff, was still dressed in his white coat.

When he saw Ratchet, it was like a gift from Primus and he couldn’t contain himself from jumping up on legs that were shaky and had been still too long.

“How is she?—“

Ironhide’s voice was strained and it caught Ratchet’s attention just enough to make himself appear more conscious…

“Stable… …She’s stable for now, but we’ll have to wait…”

He held your new chart under his arm. Ratchet wanted to burn it or pass this on to someone else who could bear this better than he could.

“Will she survive?”

“I don’t know!” Ratchet’s voice was irritated, as if he couldn’t take Ironhide’s’ anxious energy. He had enough on his plate, but his irritation faded knowing that he couldn’t be selfish at a time like this.

When people needed him.

He took a puff of air in and tried to make himself upright as much as possible. “Like I said, we’ll have to wait—till morning. There wasn’t any bleeding in her brain or any other—… …external wounds… …at least none that were severe…”

Ironhide raised a brow—unknowingly, his shoulders were tense and he was just as wound as the moment he heard that gun fire over the phone. “What does that mean?” His asked, directed toward the medic who stood close enough at his side. Ratchet looked down, wanting to avoid what was needing to be faced.

“She—… …The patient had… …gashes—across her wrists. Deep ones. Some were recently done others were just scars.”

Ironhide’s eyebrows scrunched in. “She did it to herself?”

“Yes.” Ratchet nodded softly.

Ironhide felt his spark nearly crumble inside his holoform’s human chasis. He seemed shocked and horrified equally the same. All the color seemed to leave him and it scared Ratchet enough that the medic stepped forward and took him my the wrist.

“This goes deeper than you think. It isn’t anything you did and nothing you could’ve done would’ve helped. Tonight was not your fault. It wasn’t hers either…”

Ironhide’s’ expression seemed to darken. He agreed with Ratchet, but the initial shock of it all—he wanted to blame the woman. In a span of several months did he fall hard for Jax and now look what she’d manage to do to herself.

“She shot herself—“

“She was in pain, Ironhide. You couldn’t understand it either—“

Ironhide stepped forward, ready to be angry and intimidating. “Then explain it to me.”

Ratchet shook his head, standing up straighter, but the other mech would always be taller, even with his holoform designed by Ratchet himself.

“I can’t.”

Ironhide’s’ eyes narrowed, flicking up and down Ratchet, as if there was something about the medic to be judged. “Why not?”

Ratchet then immediately held up Jax’s chart, and not only today’s observations, but files that go back years.

“Patient confidentiality.”

“Bullshit.”

Ratchet stepped forward, finger pointed dead at the other mechs’ chest. “If she wakes up—you can ask her. But it remains private. She’s under my care now.”

Ironhide seemed to back off, seeing Ratchet’s response to his own hostility. “You shouldn’t get to decide that.”

“I just did.” Ratchet shrugged him aside with a mere bump of his shoulder and Ironhide turned slightly, a blood boiling beneath his veins, coaxing him to grab the medic back. This argument wasn’t done.

But Ratchet beckoned from further down the hallway—already—turning to look at the mech. “And it’s out of your hands!”

With the look in Ratchets’ similarly blue optics, Ironhide knew that this argument was over.

He had lost Jax in the hands of Ratchet’s care. He could be no more grateful, Ratchet was the best, and he had the least of scars from the deepest of wounds to prove it. But Jax would be his greatest. If anything could get him so bogged down it was seeing that lifeless face, strapped into a breathing tube with life support surrounding her body. It was a privilege that Ratchet granted him the moment he was able to release his own pent up steam.

He sat down at her bedside and held her hand as if she were fragile. Feeling each and every joint of her thin fingers beneath his thumb and raising her hand to press her knuckles to his lips. He truly was a romantic, if he weren’t in so much pain. Ironhide’s’ pride wouldn’t let him kiss her hand for some time if her eyes were opened. Only in secret would he realize how much the truly loved this woman, no matter her scars.

He found himself leaning into to touch the cheekbone ridge beneath her skin. It was prominent, which means she lost weight. It scared him, but not as much at the thought of losing her completely. Of having to never see her alive. And so he stroked just beneath her right eye, where death seemed to touch her the most: dark, almost black, bags under her lashes meant no sleep. His thumb reached up to soothe across those distressed lines, but they wouldn’t fade away. In that moment, too, he realized she’d been suffering. She’d been suffering for a long time. No hand holding, knuckle kissing, or cheek stroking was going to take that away.

Ironhide backed away, moving off the beds edge and into the seat beside it instead. He didn’t want to touch her, to soothe her skin in her sleep, if he couldn’t make her feel better. He had even washed his hands, or wiped them down enough so they were passable. But, he couldn’t, for all that he was, couldn’t touch her.

So he watched.

He waited.

And he’d wait.

#transformers bayverse #transformers #writers on tumblr #creative writing #ironhide #ratchet #oc #21+ content

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lefttowanderrrd · 3 months ago

Text

a short prompt - oc x reader

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a/n: just a writer trying to cure writers block w/o AI. Interpret however you want. I. Tried.

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warnings: sexual content, profanity

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...you're his sweet little candy. The juices of your sweet cunt running down his chin; his beard is soaked through. But yet, his tongue swirls along your folds, around your puffy clit, inside your tight warmth... He eats you alive, like a man starved. An animal between your legs, tasting your natural womanhood.

He holds you down with a massive forearm across your hips. They buck wildly: you're close and the bastard between your legs knows it.

His tongue curls. Its rough texture setting you off into another string of wanton moans from your already kissed-on lips.

You'll never forget his body on yours--chests pressed together. He throws you to the mattress, kisses you, his tongue nearly down your throat. You'd clawed at his shoulders, fingers bunching his shirt, trying to tear it from the skin hiding beneath while trying to contain your inhibitions. But he stops you. His hands grab your wrists, lock them together under one of his veiny hands, and kiss down your body. His other hand removes your cute little skirt, forcing it up and then the fat of your inner thighs apart. Your glistening panties are shine like a diamond in his eyes... He kisses along your hips, your pelvic bone then--

Oh.

You lift your head. You cry for him, beg for him not to finish you off so savagely yet again. But he's a gentleman: he won't wreck your pussy, just your brain.

This man has lips, lips that swallow your pussy whole, sucking you up. Your nails scratch at your own skin, as he keeps your hands restrained, locked together (still) under his hand and at your bare stomach.

Your legs shake so much from being apart. Your hips follow them in a routine. Every time his tongue flicks your clit, there it is: that coil getting tighter. It rests in your lower belly, but you feel it throughout. Your body shakes knowing it could unravel soon--

So close.

Your head falls back into the sheets--which have absorbed the entirety of your lustful body heat--into the hot, hot sheets. And they carry you forward into your sweet oblivion.

A man like this can't just relinquish control to a tiny little thing like you, but he knows he'll have to do no such thing. He knows you know he's in control. His eyes, watch you from your stuttering chest and abdomen. His dark orbs run over your nipples, where he's sucked them, hardened them and the bones of your hips, which have their own memory on his own hips. Upon his legs are a pair of dress pants that had fit so well for the earlier evening, but now trap his pulsing bulge. He's getting harder, tighter, more impatient---

His tongue curls violently, once more. Then, as if shy his tongue retreats back inside his mouth and, to drive you insane, his lips give final closure over your clit.

Your orgasm hits you. On his lips, you spiral as the coil within you snaps. It's the pressure along your hips releasing into a breathless euphoria: your head pressed back, neck exposed, lips wide, yet no sound comes out. Your eyes roll back, casting the room in a shadow while stars fill the rest of your field of vision.

Between your legs, your cunt twitches into his mouth. A delicious wetness spilling out onto his tongue, which has wriggled out of his mouth. It tastes you while he still can.

His forearm slips from your hips, allowing you to come down from your high as freely as you can, but your wrists remain bonded by his hot fingers. With a pop, he draws his face from your dripping heat.

In the pale dark, he can hardly see the remnants of your orgasm, but he finally realizes how much he's missed the sight of your naked skin. Your panting body bathes in the afterglow of your pleasure--pleasure he's given you so willingly.

He stands up between your legs, knees bracing against the framing of the mattress. Chin dripping with your slick, his eyes don't catch yours, but rather, they wander. They wander until your body is pulling them in. Until his face and torso is falling back into your, breaching your surrounding heat kissing your nipples. His lips touch those hard little nubs, you squirm and your eyes flash open, lids heavy.

In the darkness, you see the animal's returned to his eyes, but its hazy. Like a drunk bear stumbling through the forest--if you can imagine it. He kisses your other nipple, his lips pulling away pursed.

He licks over them, his eyes catching yours. You still can't seem to find your breath--if there is any oxygen floating between your lustful auras'--but your heart beats faster. Your body holds itself limp, still recovering. In his eyes, you see now, his intention was to make you weak. Pathetic. A brain-mushed slut under his control.

His fingers squeeze your chin, eyes boring into yours. His chin, now shining, tilted up, making his eyes shine just the same--from whatever light pools in. His breath rests on your cheek in soft pants. You tickle his stubble with your harsh breathing.

Those same, shaped lips--cupids' bow (full)--whisper against yours before they swallow you, taking your breath and the view you have of his hulking form over yours. His tongue stabs yours. In an attempt to fight back, his clothed knee presses against your sensitive cunt, grinding as if it was with harmful intention. You squirm, but don't pull away. Submissively, your tongue retreats and he shoves his down your throat.

His stubble scrapes against your jaw as he twists and turns his head, as if a manual screwdriver, trying to drill his mouth into yours. From his lips, you get a taste of yourself. The strong scent of sweaty womanhood--salty, but not obscene--swirls into your nostrils and tangs into an acquired taste on your tongue. He pulls away, pushing your face away from his. But he lingers, the electric passion fucking with your head, fuzzy-ing your atmosphere.

His hand comes up, releasing your wrists, but not without leaving a redness on your skin. It aches in your bones, but you ignore it, and your arms fall back to your sides, fingering the sheets. The sleeve of his shirt is pulled up over his fingers and he drags it across the bottom of his lip, wiping away your slick. The rest, however, you see on his lips.

A little reminder just of how you tasted, and he looks at you, wondering if he should do it again. The sweetness of your cunt--a taste, an opportunity, too good to pass up--still weighs strongly on his tongue, but its fading. He needs another taste, but his little darling will need a break.

Instead, he licks over his top him, over the top of his stubble, and gets the rest of you inside his mouth.

And you're sweet...

...like candy...

His candy.

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wc: 1.1k

#oc x reader #oc #reader insert #random #writers on tumblr #writers block #ns/fw

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