megtrns

[megtrns]

need his fusion canon (the other one)

[megtrns]

06 february, 2025

hi everyone ! i promised to be back in the beginning of january and here i am returning only in february, my bad... 😶 things have been hectic ! i had to move out so it was a lot of cleaning, packing and tearful goodbyes. but now i have resettled and i'm back with some free time before life becomes overwhelming once more hope you're all doing well and still into big, giant robots ! i've seen a lot of people migrate out of tumblr to exclusively post / write and read on ao3 and other platforms. so i might also move some writings to ao3 for better viewing, but for now i'm mostly posting my shorter works on here so i can also interact better with the moots <33 also to the new followers thank you for following my page ! i hope you have a great time here <3

[megtrns]

Hey there, hun!!! Congrats on 100!!! 🥰♥️ Would you be down to maybe do something with Swerve??? (SFW or NSFW, completely up to you!!!) I fear he’s quite underrated, and I feel like he’d be so wonderfully pathetic and lame around his partner/SO/romantic interest!!! It’d be utterly adorable haha!!! Happy New Year’s!!!

a/n : ahh i'm so late with this, sorry for only getting back to you now ! happy new years and i hope the first month of the year has been kind to you. thank you for the well wishes <3 i notice that you've been supporting me on tumblr for a while now and i hope you know i appreciate your presence !!! i hope you don't mind some angst and pining featuring our sweet boy !!

and then i go and spoil it all by saying something stupid (like i love you). swerve / gn!reader. sfw. angst.

swerve thinks you're beautiful. he knew from the moment he saw you from a distance. ever since then, swerve's become — as skids called it — a 'secret admirer'.

chromedome's been telling him that the whole 'staring from afar' thing is getting really creepy. rewind thinks it is creepy, period. but they just don't get it. everyone hates humans just because they're organic. getaway thinks they're abnormal. first aid was kind enough to settle with 'unusual'. but swerve thinks they're all just a bunch of bigots missing out on the fact that you're hardworking, smart, and very, very nice to look at.

(whirl once interjected his rambling to say that he has a sick fetish, but swerve thinks the ex-wrecker's just jealous that you liked to spend more time with him than anyone else.)

it's lost on him how someone as kind and helpful as you have been rendered into nothing but background noise for everyone else to ignore. slag, some people even don't know of your presence aboard the ship! as if earth had not made a big show of sending their liaison and the crew off the night before their voyage — just shows how very little these bots think of humans.

but swerve believes the little guys should stick together, because he knows a little too well what it feels like to be ignored. so the two of you have formed a sort of camaraderie that quickly grew into friendship. you'd wrap up your duties as quickly as possible to end the day with a drink at his bar, cocktails always on the house — he finds experimenting with human liquor fun, except for when you have to spit it back into the glass because he read the instructions backward.

he knows he's a motormouth but swerve just gets so excited when you're around; captivated by how your eyes glow under the dim lighting of the room. the best part of it all is that you always listen to him. and he knows when you tell him he's funny, you mean it.

(one time you told him that he's the kind of mech that can make anyone smile. and swerve is sure he's burned the sound of your voice into his processor from all the times he'd replayed the compliment in his helm.)

but your little get-togethers and movie nights have grown to become a little...dangerous. he finds himself getting worked up over every interaction with you, going as far as losing recharge and appetite for his daily rations. these days, he also gets distracted a lot whenever you talk, catching himself listening less and staring more.

the sinking realisation that he was in love with you didn't hit him like a ton of bricks. it came to him like the first lull of recharge; slow, steady, and inevitable.

he spent days and weeks trying to come up with a clever way to tell you, afraid that he was going to ruin it by saying something stupid. going so far as to practice in front of tailgate. enthusiastic as ever, the white and blue minibot insisted that everything would go perfectly, urging swerve to — as the humans say it — 'throw caution in the wind.'

hence, during a quiet part of your movie night — when you looked so beautiful against the projector's glow — swerve found himself confessing, spark was racing and optics glued to the servos twiddling atop his lap.

for the first few seconds, he felt newfound relief wash over him.until you had reached to touch one of his servos, urging him to look at you.

swerve thinks you're beautiful when you smile, like when you throw your head back to laugh at one of his jokes or when you snort into your hand at a funny part of the film. you're even beautiful when you're angry at him, with your cheeks all red and lips curled to a scowl. so it's not a surprise that to the bartender, even as a single tear slides down your cheek, you were still beautiful.

" i'm sorry," you whispered. voice small and guilty.

there were a lot of commands going around his central processor, but nothing was more important than the need to make you smile. it was reflex, 'muscle memory' as you once said. and he knows he can always make you smile, even when it feels like his spark chamber's going to collapse in itself — because that's just the type of mech swerve was.

and for you, the minibot gave the biggest grin he could muster. reassuring you that there was nothing to be sorry about.

(he knew this was stupid, he grimaced to himself, stupid.)

and when you pulled him into a hug, pressing your face against his neck cables to comfort him as best as you can, swerve tries not to look at the movie playing on the screen — the sight of the protagonists kissing under the moonlight sucker punching him in the tank.

everyone tells him this was for the best. human lives are short and fleeting; his and your existence are like two passing ships in the night, never to cross again at the end of this voyage. it made more sense now, why everyone kept the tiny human at arm's length.

but to swerve this still changed nothing, you were still the most beautiful thing he'd ever seen.

but maybe beautiful things are better admired from afar.

[megtrns]

rage, rage into the dying of the light mtmte vol #55 : the dying of the light, part 6 — do not go gentle @/heavensghost on tumblr // vincent van gogh, the sower (detail)// mary oliver from sleeping in the forest // anne carson, h of h playbook // the mortal instruments, cassandra clare // richard silken // the return of the prodigal son (1699) by rembrandt // the return of the prodigal son analysis by widowcranky// dvoyd

[megtrns]

15 January 2025

hi everyone !! thanks for being patient with me. it's good to be back on here after a short hiatus. i won't be online as often jus yet because i still have my hands full with work. however, i've ready through your requests and i'm excited to start working on them ! thanks for trusting me with your asks hope everyone had a great new years x

[megtrns]

thank you for 100 ! 🥂

hi everyone !! thank you so much for 100 followers <3

i'm so happy to know that so many of you enjoy my writing (and also my web weaving !! so expect more of that in the future x) i think this blog has been shadow-banned, not sure why...but it's perfect timing anyways because while waiting for the whole thing to blow-off, i'll be taking a hiatus from posting here to also enjoy the new years (i need to catch up on work and wanted to treat myself to some rest...🧘🏻‍♀️)

also, for the last request on my inbox about prowl, i promise to answer it once i get inspired ! but for now i'll open my inbox again for the second batch of requests. so for those interested, feel free to send in anything and i'll be happy to give it a try 🤎

i take 6-7 max at a time. this first set of requests have been so fun to write for. you can also even suggest a scene or a character for a web weaving :) see you all in january xx

[megtrns]

megtrns, could you please write about a first contact au with a alternate time period with any of your faves? (ex: first contact au but make it regency or western? the already culture shock with human lagging behind to the bots is a bit big, but now with a slightly more rigid ideals and society is fascinating and i can’t help but think about a pride and prejudice au or medieval era bc literal knights in shining armor) of course these are just thoughts, so feel free to just write about anything, or ignore it if it’s too complicated. regardless, thank you for sharing your writing and take of yourself! have a good one!

a/n : hi anon ! so so sorry this took such a long time. the reason was because i had to go through several tries before settling with this because i absolutely adore your idea!! i've thought of something similar in the past so i got so excited doing this request and wanted to do so much that i ended up scatterbrained. so if you're okay with it, i'd love to make this into a mini series. so this shall be part one and the next ones will include a regency and/or midwestern era . again, thank you for such a lovely request ! i hope this was what you wanted and have a nice day !!

stranded time au ft. the lost light crew part one : ultra magnus & the medieval era (sfw!)

00. The theory of general relativity proposes that time doesn't pass at the same rate everywhere. With that in mind, Cybertron is an ancient and archaic planet, its galaxy a graveyard of heavy celestial masses that once existed long before the birth of our solar system. Due to strong gravitational fields, time passing through Cybertron is slower than time on Earth. And because of the war, emergency escape pods would have pre-calculated coordinates to launch their users to planets where time flows faster. So that if any Autobot or Decepticon were to survive and return, years spent in the corner of that universe would be nothing more than a few days.

This was how Rodimus & co. find themselves stranded on Earth, jumping through different timelines to save their friends. Through a very unfortunate (and avoidable) accident, the ship had collided against the planet's upper atmosphere as it attempted to land. (Because Swerve wanted to watch the concert of a human band he's obsessed with and begged Rodimus to go until his vocalizer fried.) As a result, the docking station for the escape pods were breached, followed by a leak in the quantum engine that had ignited a series of them to explode — causing a chain reaction that created 'holes' in time where the missing crew members had fallen into, leaving them scattered throughout different historical ages.

With most of the ship (thankfully) intact, Rodimus and team must race against time to bring everyone home, leaping from one century to another (and hoping that the 'time portal gun' the simpatico duo had whipped up won't explode in their faces).

01. Having been on the unfortunate side of the ship that had shattered upon impact, poor Ultra Magnus was launched all the way across Europe during its middle ages, at the height of its Capetian dynasties as it stands at the end of the crusade wars. Dropped in the heart of a dark and grim forest where not even sunlight pierced through the foliage, Magnus had stumbled into a small battle. It didn’t take long for the enforcer to realise that he had accidentally intervened in the attempted kidnapping of a princess from a nearby country.

Once he finished scaring the bewildered men away on their horses (a sight he found barbaric), the princess was left by his pedes cowering in fear. In an attempt to appear less intimidating, Magnus had stepped out of his armor, feeling exposed if not undignified — yet understanding that at least this way she could look at his optics. However, this gave her the impression that he was a knight sent by the Lord to rescue her.

He wanted to correct the human (courtesy of the universal translator), but she was already prostrating by the surface of a nearby rock to pray in relief. Tears dramatically streaming down her neck. With nothing to lose and no signs of his ship, Magnus relented and spent the next few days carrying her through rivers and mountains to return the princess to her limestone castle (somewhat nervous that this breach of protocol would permanently alter the outcome of a thousand-year war). 

But when was the last time anyone ever looked at him with such admiration and awe, even when stripped of his armor? She saw him for who he was — ser minimus, she called him — her champion in shining, metal armor. During the day, he was Ultra Magnus, the giant that fell from the sky. In the night, when she leaned against his side for warmth, delicate and shy, he was just Minimus. And under the pale moonshine where she drifted to sleep against his shoulder, he was reminded of how nice it was to be just Minimus.

For days they trekked through the wildlands, staying under the cover of canopies and steering clear of cities that permanently carried the smell of burning flesh and rotting wood. This was a time of plague and famine, and Magnus couldn’t help but pity her. Because despite the comfort of her velvet drapes and high towers, she would continue to live and die in a time of war and death. He knew too well what that felt like.

Once his little quest had ended and the princess was safe and sound behind gilded gates, it was time to say goodbye. And much to her court’s fascination (and fear), Minimus had dropped to one knee to kiss the back of her palm, once, twice, knowing that this was expected of him as a knight — and that this was maybe the closest souvenir he could have from her. And just as he rose to follow the signal that suddenly appeared on his radars, she had leaned forward on her toes to kiss him. He knew he should pull away, as signaled by the choir of scandalized gasps that erupted around them. Maybe it was the pity, the proximity, or the validation he gets from seeing her gaze up at him with intense devotion, but Minimus found himself doing something incredibly reckless. Back aboard the Lost Light, Rodimus disclosed they knew where to find him thanks to a very interesting painting from the 13th century depicting a princess and her (supposedly fictional) green knight hanging in present-day museums.

" So...Magnus. Are you as good as a kisser as they paint it out to be or was that just the dramatic effect of the ‘renaissance’?" 

(Somewhere behind them, Megatron chimed in to correct Rodimus that it was actually 'pre-renaissance.' He didn't seem too happy when Whirl called him a nerd.)

Magnus refused to answer his Captain's question despite the incessant teasing, choosing to leave the room (so no one could catch him smiling).

[megtrns]

Singing Christmas songs while holding a candle at times is a pain because ow. Hot wax dripping on the fingers =_=

But now I'm realizing how the life of a human can be seen like that to Cybertronian. How the bright flame is like the vibrant energy as display, the candle itself soft and easily broken like our bodies. They are common, and yet so simple and timeless that when you really take time to look at one burning away in the dark, it's hard to look away.

But before you know it, the flame shall extinguish. Leaving behind only wisps of smoke and cooling wax as you can only wonder how something that easily seared into your vision is now a ghost in the night.

As one is left regretting not having spent more time committing it's flame to memory. All they can do is to try not to let the reflection of it in their spark extinguish, to bring forth it's second death.🕯

so beautiful 🤎 thank you for sharing your writing !! i love it, there's just something incredibly haunting yet beautiful in comparing human lives to candles. teminds me of this poem by elizabeth jennings

hope your fingers are alright :') happy holidays xx

[megtrns]

happy holidays everyone x have a shy fort max under a mistletoe

[megtrns]

a history doomed to repeat itself; on the tragedy of human and cybertronian relationships — aristotle demands that a tragedy have a terrible end, which he calls a catastrophe. the happy end is not permitted.

yehuda halevi // tfwiki on humans // a huguenot, on st. bartholomew's day, refusing to shield himself from danger by wearing the roman catholic badge (1851–52) // bumblebee (2018) // @//hanzkaz from tfw2005 // adventure time // script for bumblebee (2018) // rise of the beasts (2023) // john green, paper towns // her (2013) // warm bodies, isaac marion // rotb script // google quick search // tfwiki on earth // transformers : dark of the moon (2011) // kurt vonnegut, breakfast of champions // unknown // transformers (2007) // lieve vershuier, the great comet of 1680 // transformers prime, goodbye autobots (finale) // trista mateer

[megtrns]

seasonal anthologies ft. the mtmte bots, sfw !

summer is for celebrations and driving down to the beach with drift, where the air hot and thick despite the setting sun in the distance. you stick your head out the passenger window to feel the wind rushing past your ears, the excited roar of his engines bouncing off the cliffside. it's sitting on rodimus's shoulders as he runs past the shore, the spray of cold water making you squeal into the side of his helm. june, july, august — salt dissolves in your mouth while thunder rumbles in the distance. you sit by the steps of your porch with swerve, the air heavy with heat. as if the earth was holding its breath in anticipation, waiting to break and give way to rain. his big, blocky fingers awkwardly tearing through an orange for you to eat. saccharine and sticky, the fruit drips down your forearms with every bite. green is the grass between your toes, grey is the sky as it melts to nightfall. summer is when the mattress dips unequally to one side, where you and tailgate sleep back to back, skin to metal. the warmth sinks into your bone, blanket on the floor as the faint whirring of his systems lulls you to sleep. fall is for new beginnings, shorter days, and knitted scarves. where the sunlight is lighter and softer, casting long, golden shadows across ratchet's face. he displaces his mass to help you tie your coat by its belt, pulling you closer to soak in the heat radiating off his chassis—soft wool between his shiny servos. september bleeds into october, and somewhere between, where the air is so clean it shivers, cyclonus walks next to you in muted contemplation. optics quietly taking in the ocean of leaves crunching underneath his pedes. cinnamon between your teeth as you swallow your longing, fingers tracing over the holo-picture of skids. nautica says the muted colors remind her of him, but she blames it on the morning chill creeping past her cables. you tell her that fall is the season of reminiscing, of missing what is gone and what is yet to come — the ending and beginning of things, the place where all things come to die. the soil is soft and the world is asleep. this is the part where you turn off the lights and leave.

winter is for joy and relaxation, november a mosaic of warm orange windows and deep blue nights, where the moonshine falls thin and silver. minimus is determined to keep you from straying off the path, guiding you through the thick heap of snow — arms intermingled, hand and servo intertwined. your laughter rings into the night like bells, airy and light; a quiet wish, a happy prayer. for some, december is asleep. it's reclusive and shy, just like rung when he gives in to your request to stay inside, submitting to the weight of the duvet as it swallows you both. for others, the darkness only makes them vigilant. optics wide awake, prowl slinks back into the shadows, pale like the blizzard, soundless like a secret. early mornings and frozen lakes, megatron tells you the winter is cruel — barren and empty, silencing the earth. you disagree, telling him that winter is full of hope, where the snow is white with the promise of forgiveness. the promise to begin again.

spring is for waking up under the sun, where the light kisses your cheeks and shoulders; brainstorm suddenly envious of the star. you chew berries against the bark of an old, dying tree. skin buzzing with a new kind of energy, heart bursting at the sight of perceptor studying the small animals in the distance. in february, you stretch your arms to welcome a night of storms. in march, you patiently listen to whirl complain about the pollen in his cogs. finally, in april, the air is alive, sweet and rosy, laughing and singing. first aid lifts you with his open palm, across a running stream, down a winding, rocky path. somewhere behind you, misfire raises his helm to the clear, cloudless sky. drowning himself in the sound of strange birds and even stranger insects. there is a tenderness to all of this, capricious and fickle, flowers buried in the wash of green grass. a dream you don't want to wake up from, an embrace you're not ready to part with. nightbeat says he hates when beautiful things are fleeting, and you think he's no longer referring to the spring, optics sad and distant as they land on you.

[megtrns]

you are the knife i turn inside myself; that is love. that, my dear, is love. transformers : one (2024) // a history of my brief body, billy-ray // the fallen angel by alexandre cabane (1847) // after the movie by marie howe // psalms 41:9 // the ides of march, edward john poynter (1836–1919) // like a tattoo, sade // angels before man, rafael nicolás // richard silken

[megtrns]

Hello! Wanted to start off and say how much I love your writing, and it's awesome you feel able to do it again. Thank you, and I hope you're having a good day!!!

Secondly, if your inbox isn't too full already, could I maybe request a little scenario of idw megs receiving a painting from a secret admirer so to speak? It's not exactly hard to find out who made it, doing a painting at cybertronian scale is a huge undertaking for a human, and would likely require some assistance (something i doubt would stay secret for long), but, despite their usual spunkiness, the human just got a little too nervous to gift it directly.

a/n : hi dear, thank you so much for the sweet message, i'm glad to hear you enjoy my writing ! i hope you're having a good day too. i hope i do justice to your request because it was so fun to write for <3

florence. megatron / gn!reader. sfw !

You once told him a story about a (rumoured) condition in which people, when confronted with profound artworks, are seized by a range of mysterious symptoms—from mild dizziness to falling to their knees, with some even fainting—the Florence syndrome, as they called it. A strange and rare phenomenon in which one crumbles at the sight of intense beauty.

Megatron is aware of your passion for art. Your hands are often smudged with ink or paint whenever he sees you, dried flecks of grey and red adorning your forearms. Once, you had infamously splashed an entire bucket of paint over Rodimus, pleading to your captain that it was not premeditated. That he just had the spoiled luck of entering your makeshift art studio while you were 'experimenting'.

Work for you above the Lost Light was scarce, and in space, the days all blur into one — long and seemingly endless, no one stopped you from indulging in your hobbies. You had a range of artistic passions, but one Megatron finds curious: painting, both the act and the result of the action. The technique is different from what they did back on Cybertron. And Megatron cannot remember the last time he saw one, denied of such privileges as someone forged for the mines (and by the time he could roam the streets freely, there weren't many buildings left for him to set foot in. Regrettably, he made sure of that.)

He has seen you do it before, wrist moving in delicate concentration, guiding liquid paint — which he learned to be particles of pigment suspended in a drying oil — across a white canvas. You made it look effortless, like a dance you perform for yourself, one he privately wishes he could see more often. But these days, you were being secretive, often excusing yourself away from your usual table at Swerves to return to your studio, where the windows were tinted so that not even sly, conniving mechs like Whirl could peek inside. Everyone assumed you needed the solitude; living in a ship with over a hundred rowdy bots can overwhelm a person. So he lets you go to tend to your latest project, disappointed that even when suspended in space, the time you two shared passes so quickly.

He would be lying to himself to say that he wasn't curious, going as far as surprising himself by feeling jealous at the sight of Ultra Magnus and Fortress Maximus walking out of the studio — idly chatting in the hallway as if they hadn't just entered what is (currently) known as the most secretive place aboard the whole ship. Even Rodimus had thrown a fit at the rumour that the two point-one-percenters had seen your latest painting before he did, and Megatron was somewhat relieved that the former Prime acted as a distraction, afraid that you saw right through him, past his armour and down to his envy.

Until he sees the painting in front of his hab-suite, leaning against the door.

His servos twitched to touch, optics widening at the sight.

It was him.

You've painted him as he is, iron and silver, standing proudly under the light. His eyes red like a rising sun. It was almost like staring into the mirror, yet his image was looking away from the viewer — both he and the audience acting as discreet observers. But there was a sudden, slow pulling at his spark when he realised that even when he's not smiling in the portrait, you made him look kind. Gentle.

And the ex-warlord didn't know how to feel aside from astonishment. Is this how you see him? That despite his marred and ugly history, you see art in him ?

When he saw you the next day, optics skimming the crowd to land on a pair of nervous eyes, Megatron didn't even notice he was smiling — a small, rare gesture that had you blushing so beautifully.

You tried to act as if the painting wasn't from you, dismissing his 'thank yous' and shrugging it off with both hands in your pocket (as if Ultra Magnus and Fortress Maximus had not admitted to being the one to carry you above their open palms for hours so you could reach the corners of the giant canvas.) Megatron, however, doesn't need a confession. He didn’t miss the satisfied grin you tried to hide when you saw the painting in his room, clearly cherished by the way it hung right where he could see it at all times.

Megatron has barely received anything in his life worth treasuring, but this painting was almost like a silent admission — intimate, sweet, something so far removed from what he thought was possible in his life.

So yes, he has heard of people trembling and shaking at the sight of grandiose paintings, going so far as to weep and collapse. Megatron couldn't understand it until he pictured you standing in the middle of your studio, neck craned to admire your portrayal of him — the vision enough to make his processor spin.

[megtrns]

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

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

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

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

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

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

[megtrns]

18 december, 2024 *₊˚☕୧

hi everyone ! this is an announcement for those who sent in requests in my inbox. i am still working on your asks ! i will most likely take a while with them because i want to do my best with each one, so forgive me if it's taking some time ❀˖° also, i've come to the realisation that i'm not the same author as i was a year ago. my writing style and way of storytelling has changed, and after not writing for a long time, i've been struggling to come to terms with the fact that i will have to start from scratch again. so for those who stuck around from my previous blog, thank you for putting your faith in me. and for those new here, welcome ! i hope you enjoy your stay.

also i'm still active on @wifetomegatron, it's where i reblog pretty pictures and more transformers content ! so feel free to follow if you're looking for more writings to read from talented writers in the community *ೃ༄

[megtrns]

like a moth to a flame ( i’ll pull you in ) whirl / afab!reader. (nsfw !) (mdni !) words : 1.2k tw : rough interfacing, angst, whirl ( inspired by this song, but not relevant to the plot)

whirl and you are berth-partners with no strings attached, all is well until one of you grows uncertain about the arrangement ( hint : it’s not you).

whirl never liked humans enough to befriend one, let alone frag one. the thought of interfacing with you — a walking, talking meatbag who would most definitely go squish under his pedes if he didn’t pay attention — was absurd. the ex-wrecker thought the idea was a morbid waste of time. until he has you sitting atop his spike: soft, organic valve so tight and warm, pushing him to another round of overload. whirl hates being wrong, but not as much as he loves the sight of your head thrown back, smooth thighs made of sinew, deliciously inching down his pelvis to take him whole.

immediately after, whirl had proposed an agreement: berth-partners, no strings attached. hard, fast, and casual, he doesn't have to deal with the small talk, and you don't have to be on the receiving end of his colourful personality. you were initially appalled that he'd even suggest that, more insulted by his audacity than the proposal itself. but you were lightyears away from earth, aboard a ship full of aliens, on a voyage that could take years before completion. whirl was the closest thing you'd get to sex, and you'd be lying if you said you weren't starved (plus, when else will you find someone that will actually make you come?)

so you had agreed with the added conditions that: one, this stays a secret; two, no kissing — whirl had scoffed at that, joking about how it was perfect considering that he didn't have a mouth; and three, you wouldn't become friends.

" to clarify, whirl, you and i aren't friends," you told him," i wouldn't do... this with someone i cared about."

if he was listening, whirl would've wondered why a friend would ever be hurt by the invitation to become frag-buddies. but maybe that's why he didn't have a lot of friends, happy to trade them for a chance to worm his way into your bed.

then, it became a routine of sorts. some nights, you'd walk into your room to find that he's already there — mass displaced and waiting in the dark — claws impatient and rough as they work to bend you over a nearby table. other times, when he's feeling more civilized, he'd knock on your door to be let in. but even then, it was rare for both of you to even make it to the bed (you were starting to suspect he had a thing for pinning you against the wall). sometimes, when the mech is feeling particularly riled up, burning with excess energy from a fight, he'd steal you away from a crowd to shove you against a secluded corner — ignoring your protests over how indiscreet he's being, spike already pressurized and ready for you to put it inside your wet, pliant mouth.

he knew he shouldn't get used to this, but whirl has yet to find anything that gets his gears going like the sight of you coming undone beneath him — hair fanned out and eyes screwed shut. but maybe this was starting to get out of hand, because he had even chosen to sit out at a chance to fight a ship full of 'cons to crawl between your legs.

slag, he was starting to wonder if humans were addictive by nature: pheromones and all that crap.

swerve told him that he's rather 'possessive' of their liaison, claiming that all he does these days is get into fights with bots trying to talk to you. the blue mech told swerve he was being stupid, not realizing that he had said it whilst staring at you from across the room; the sight of you smiling up at their co-captain enough to make him to leave.

tsk, possessive is just ridiculous, whirl thinks, glaring a hole at the back of megatron's helm. ridiculous.

that night, as you slowly came down from your high — legs trembling as you straddled whirl— the claw that gripped the right side of your waist began to ascend, creeping up the side of your chest before crudely flicking the crown of your head.

" keep your optics open, fleshy. you're not sleeping here."

somewhere along the way, your arms gave up, causing your body to drape itself over his, face buried against the side of his neck cables — the sound of your shallow breathing blending with the faint thrum of his cooling fans.

with a scoff, you placed your cheek atop his autobot insignia. the silence between you oddly intimate — the watchmaker cringed at the thought, unsure of where to put the newfound feeling of discomfort.

before he could get a clever word in, you had pushed yourself off whirl. an excited smile across your face, " it's fine. i have to get ready anyway."

that caught his attention. whirl narrowed his optic, " why?"

" megatron's inviting me over to talk about the book i recommended to him last week. he said it was the best piece of human literature he's read so far."

" so far? how long has this been going on?"

zipping up your pants, you threw him a look over your shoulder and shrugged, " a while."

and just like that, the image of you inside megatron ‘s habsuite sparked an anger in him that needed to come out — that needed to be bled and wrung. something inside his chassis clicked, literally, followed by the sound of his cooling fans whirring back to life. whirl had a claw around your wrist before you could even pull your shirt on, manhandling you against the wall in one fluid movement

" this isn't funny whirl," you laughed nervously, wriggling under his weight," i'll be late."

he pushed himself closer, caging you against the metal surface.

“your stupid date can wait."

you scrunched your eyebrows together," megatron and i are just friends."

"to clarify, whirl, you and i aren't friends."

he could tell you were confused; pulse speeding up under his grip. whirl couldn’t understand it either, choosing to ignore the adrenaline prickling along the surface of his armor; gaze zeroed in on outline of your mouth. and suddenly, the image of you kissing megatron invaded his processors, horrible and unwanted.

brashly, whirl lifted you by the waist to grind your crotch against his panels, the movement causing you to yelp. 

"i wouldn't do... this with someone i cared about."

later, when he's pistoning in and out of you, pace sloppy and demanding, whirl tries his best not to think about kissing and not having a mouth. he tries not to think about you smiling and the type of conversations you’d be having with megatron. he tries not to think about the ache in his chassis and the tremble in his wires, opting to focus on the helpless, liquid noise you make everytime he pulls you close.

holding you like this, by the hips to frag you deep, was probably the closet thing to a hug whirl could offer you — and he hates to imagine megatron cradling your face, all five servos melting perfectly around the curve of your cheek.

so he sets a new, angry rythm; hoping that you won't notice the claw resting against the side of your face; metal trying to memorise the supple curve of your lips.

[megtrns]

thinking of the little moments between you and the bots experiencing intimacy together for the first time, how foreign yet exciting it must be to explore one another — the rush, the thrill, the quiet, almost hesitant interactions, where every touch and look feels electrifying. (sfw!) (slightly suggestive)

rodimus urgently running his servos down your body: metal fingers grabbing your thighs and squeezing your hips. too impatient to wait and too eager to slow down, he starts fumbling with the hem of your shirt. unsure of how to undress you, the captain glared at the material as if it had personally insulted him, almost tearing the cotton to shreds. and for a brief second, it was just the two of you standing under the half-light, laughing together as you teach him how to pull it over your neck. he tries to be careful, going as slow as he can even when his hands shake in anticipation — cooling fans growing louder with every inch of skin you reveal underneath.

minimus brushing your hair to the side to reveal your nape, the cold air of the room acting as a delicious counterpoint to the sudden press of his warm mouth against the back of your neck, causing you to shiver. the first kiss had been tentative, shy, and barely ghosting over your skin. you understand that the last thing your lover wants to do is to hurt you, but judging from the noises you're making : breathless and begging, minimus has nothing to worry about. and so the point-one-percenter carefully tilts you forward to continue a path down your bare spine, making you sing into the pillows.

skids staring at you from across the table, servos drumming against the chair. even when your eyes were cast down to read the papers in your hand, you could sense him watching—the gears in his processor turning. you knew it was because you had your glasses on, and for some reason, the mech had taken quite the fascination with them. with a call of your name, you looked up, fully expecting him to distract you with one of his usual hypotheticals. instead, he used a single servo to push your glasses up the bridge of your nose. tilting your face upwards, skids continued to shamelessly stare, flashing you a lopsided grin before swooping down to press his mouth against yours.

first aid trying his best to undo the buttons of your shirt, big, blocky servos struggling against the fabric. you didn’t want to intervene, urging him to continue and using this opportunity to steady your breathing. the medbay was void of any sound, save for the incessant whirring of the monitor systems and machinery faintly beeping in the background. once the last button came undone, it was as if every single noise suddenly ceased to exist. all you could focus on was the medic sinking to his knees, resting the side of his helm against your chest—audials trying to pick up the faint beating of your heart. he said this was for research, but even with his visor, you didn’t miss how his optics followed the flush blooming from your face down your neck.