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keferon · 5 months ago

Note

Part 2 of Jazz and Prowl in space!

Gonna start calling it Odds of Survival.

Prowl loves entrusting his life to reckless strangers.

———————————————————————

Prowl pulled the release to the airlock and the music was swallowed by the vacuum of space.

Bursting forward, Jazz launched outwards riding the pop of escaping air. The first quintesson had its eye socket repurposed as an ankle bracelet before the second measure even began.

Ah.

Prowl probably should have specified he wanted to try speeding past rather than confront their opponents directly.

Jazz's improvised footwear writhed sluggishly before the mech twisted his ped inside its brain case, finishing it off and turning to face the next nearest opponent.

Odds of survival 26%

The white and blue mech launched himself upwards as the nearest quintesson went for a dive bomb. It's teeth breaking on impact with the sky bridge. Jazz twisted in midair.

They fell in slow motion, back arching against a starlit backdrop. An upside down visor met blue optics. Jazz nodded his head to the side, flicking one horn up and one horn down.

Did he just wink? (#^%)

The falling mech unsheathed a blade from his wrist, driving it through the sputtering quintesson.

Oh Primus has he been flirting the entire time?

Jazz spun, slicing into the next quint to close the distance.

I can not. I can not assume that was intentional. It has to be a cultural miscommunication.

The last two quintessons pounced. Swinging hard, Jazz caught one's jaws with a forearm while he kicked the downed another in the side of the head. The third was attempting to bite into his back but the teeth couldn't get a full purchase on the rounded compact plating.

Odds of survival 22%.

Prowl snapped out of his social etiquette downward spiral. Sprinting from the safety of the airlock door, he knelt behind a large section of external piping, lining up his shots.

Tacnet spun to work.

It was designed to calculate hundreds of possible variations of large scale engagements, including the number of soldiers, type of weaponry available and could even determine the approximate number of ammunitions that would be left over, provided Prowl had enough data at his disposal.

Calculating the marksmanship needed to dispatch three hostiles at medium range while distracted by a highly competent ally?

Odds of Survival 32%

Laughable.

Three shots burst through the thin atmosphere.

Quintesson wreckers were built thick skulled and stubborn. Luckily they came with easily identifiable gaps in their organic construction.

The Quints fell from Jazz, each with a smoking hole where and eye used to be. Jazz looked at Prowl, then the smoking quintessons and back up to Prowl before doing finger guns again.

Speaking of thick skulled and stubborn.

Prowl put on his best Commanders Scowl and pointed in the direction they needed to be currently running in.

Doorwing sensors hiked as he picked up on movement from behind. The incoming hostiles was palpable even in the moons thin atmosphere. Quintessons rarely favored stealth.

Prowl began running.

Jazz kept pace, half turned around to keep track of the incoming troop. Prowl kept his optics locked forward, not remotely willing to risk tripping on the torn apart path.

Tacnet locked on to a large silvery pillow that'd been exposed to the atmosphere.

Expanding LLX Lithium battery. Explosion on contact 90%

Prowl shouted a warning but the air was too thin to carry beyond his own audials.

Jazz will step on the lithium battery in 1.5 clicks (88%) and will be critically injured in at least one leg (76%).

Prowl grabbed Jazz's servo and yanked.

Music erupted in the moment of connection.

Vibrations ran up his arm and across his frame. Inside his audials, Prowl could make out the song Jazz had begun in the airlock. Looking at his visor, mouth agape, only one thought could form in Prowls mind.

How fragging loud is he playing that music?!?

Jazz perked up, and pulled Prowl around in an arc. Multiple sharp impacts thudded into the ground behind him. Prowl turned and almost wished he hadn’t.

Three heavily armored Quintesson bombers equipped with bio-mechanical ballista.

The javelin like spikes were as long as Prowls arm and designed to pin targets in place while the slow moving blimp-like body of the bomber got into position to blow them all to the Pit.

Prowl tugged Jazz in the direction of their objective, refusing to let go in case he tried to launch himself at the bombers. Prowl wasn't sure how Jazz would manage to do so, but Prowl felt an overwhelming nagging sensation in his tanks that he'd fragging try.

Jazz was evidently fine with this arrangement.

As the music pulsed between their palms, Jazz leapt at a diagonal, pulling Prowl along for the ride. The low gravity was so damn floaty. It continually forced Prowl to readjust his footing so he wasn't frantically treading air every time his peds left the ground.

Jazz was evidently fine with that too.

Another round of ammunitions impacted where the two of them had been running.

Their egress began to take on a pattern Prowl was quick to pick up on. It took the bombers 8 clicks to reload, launching at the same time, half a click after musical flair in Jazz's song. At the moment of the flair, the mech would launch them in a nearly unpredictable pattern. After the first two times of nearly getting his arm dislocated, Prowl began catching onto these moments and moved his momentum in sync with Jazz.

They'd started dancing.

The Tactician had an iron fisted focus on matching Jazz’s frankly eradicate lead. The longer the duet continued, the more data he had to work with. Prowl steadily progressed from Reacting to Anticipating. Feeling a core deep satisfaction that came from sinking into mastering a new skill.

By the time they’d escaped the bombers range, they’d made it too the base of the first hurdle.

Their reprieve would only be brief. The bombers would catch up in approximately 50 clicks (88%), giving the mechs a small window of precious semi-safety in which they needed to scale the wall before them.

Prowl craned his helm back at the barrier.

He would not be able to scale it on his own in time (95%).

Could Jazz? (65%)

While carrying him? (19%)

Jazz rapidly tapped his side.

The alien was crouched low, impossible legs bent with potential energy. He tapped his own back, gesturing for Prowl to grab on already.

Prowl threw himself over the mechs broad back. His digits frantically searched for a hand hold, flinching away from nearly digging into fragile vents.

I can’t-

Jazz leapt.

“You’re really grab-able - Isn’t that kinda stupid?”

Stupid stupid stupid.

Prowl skated off of Jazz’s rounded compact plating, that he specifically SAID was supposed to make him hard to hold on to.

He landed hard on his aft, denta clanking together painfully.

47 clicks remaining.

Jazz hit the ground beside him before Prowl had fully gotten back up. Now facing him, Jazz grabbed Prowl by both wrists and pulled him chassis to chassis. Jazz positioned his arms to link Prowls servos behind his helm, then set his own servos tightly onto Prowls waist.

Jazz nodded once, like he was satisfied with what he’d just done.

Prowl made a facial expression that a psychiatrist would find concerning.

42 Clicks.

Jazz nodded again, like expected Prowl to respond in any coherent manner, and lifted.

Prowls legs swung forward on instinct. Following the motion, Jazz wrapped them around his waist. Through the screaming haze of his processor, Prowl had the presence of mind to lock his ankles together as he realized Jazz’s true intentions, and manually aborted the logic cascade that had nearly crashed over him.

Package secured, Jazz let go and started their ascension.

Legs bent at an impossible angle to slam multi segmented peds flat against the metal walls. Despite Prowl’s body blocking most of his view, the alien mech was unfettered by the lack of vision. Jazz hardly bothered with proper hand holds, instead opting for incredibly strong magnetic grip built into his servos.

The magnetic backwash splashed over Prowls doors wings, forcing him to temporarily offline them or risk crippling vertigo. The structure they were scaling shook violently like something large had just irrevocably broken.

This is fine this is fine this is fine this is fine.

At 35 click’s remaining, Prowl centered himself enough to search for their pursuers.

Damn it!

The bombers were a fraction faster than he initially calculated. Six clicks before we’re in range (87%). Luckily, Jazz was more than a fraction faster than initially calculated as well. At this rate, they’d reach the top simultaneously.

No reason not to be proactive.

Prowl found that if he tightly cupped one servo around the back of Jazz’s helm, he had just enough leverage to bring out a side arm. After all, the bombers were already in range of him.

Steadying his elbow over the other mechs shoulder, Prowl took aim.

Five clicks.

The bombers flew in V formation.

Four clicks.

Too heavily armored for a standard sidearm to pierce.

Three clicks.

The lead bomber opened up its front in preparation for combat.

Got you.

Prowl threaded the gap, his shot skirting over the ballista in favor of impacting the bombers prodigious cargo. He watched something spark inside a split second before it succumbed to total annihilation.

The shockwave felt like a single soft papft of a breeze in the starlit air.

Jazz hefted them over the top of the wall, not dropping Prowl in favor of sprinting with him at full speed across the top of the hurdle.

One of his arms curled around to support Prowls back, allowing the Praxian to release his death grip on their helm. Prowl leaned back into the hold, allowing Jazz freedom to see again.

Jazz turned his helm around 180 degrees-

Did not know he could do that did not know he could do that.

- to look at the fire works behind them.

Jazz whistled appreciatively at the sight. He turned back to Prowl, visor locked onto his face as they carried him across the roof.

Reverberating music, nearly crashing, numbed doorwings, and a deeply satisfying kill all followed by a display of casual body horror was making Prowl just a little bit delirious. As a result, Prowl wasn’t entirely sure what expression he was making, just that Jazz was inordinately fascinated with it.

Without looking away, Jazz leapt off the end of the roof.

Prowl watched as Jazz glanced over his shoulder and back to him.

Do a double take.

And then crush Prowl to his chassis.

Jazz’s visor was over bright, both horns snapped completely forward and from somewhere inside his chassis, Prowl could feel some internal component spinning into overdrive, sounding for all the world like teeny tiny screaming.

Why are we still falling.

Prowl turned as far as possible in Jazz’s iron grip.

The sky bridge was collapsing.

Odds of Survival 4%

———————————————————————

Jazz, everytime Prowl one-shots an enemy: I need to get his number.

If you’re curious, the song Jazz is playing can be whatever you like. Personally I kept switching between listening to “I Was Made For Lovin’ You�� by Kiss and “I Feel Love” 12” version by Donna Summer while writing.

- SSTP

OH GOD AHAHJFKFK THIS IS SO FUCKING GREAT HELP

And the concept of music playing between them??? I'm s o l d. "I was made for lovin' you baby" is basically JP OST for me at this point ehehhmgmgm

Jazz: Hookay I need to transport the machinery from the point A to point B. Focus! Let's go!

Prowl: One of those tiktok videos where you can see some Reddit post and hear AI narrating it while Minecraft parkour is playing on the background. Except it's gay panic instead of reddit post and internal screaming instead of narration and even more gay panic instead of minecraft. ......and everything is overheating probably lmao

Also can you really call it a JP fic if their odds of survival never dropped lower than 10% according to Prowls brain? Ahahjgkgk all amazing JP fics have to do this. It's inevitable and I love it so much~~

#You made me think of like....#Jazz is impossible to grab unless he wants you to grab him #so whenever Prowl wants to hold/grab/stop him he can do that because Jazz lets him. Like he feels a hand touching his shoulder and stops #or smth #while Prowl is very grabbable and Jazz could just yank him by literally any part of his body lol #Cybertronians made of metal plates with pretty wide gaps between them #also often placed in layers #so Jazz could just stick his fingers literally anywhere and ta daaah~ perfect holder #....well if we don't count the fact that sticking your hands under someone's plates is extremely intimate gesture for those you're close wit #or doctors #where do I lead with this thought #idk. I just think it's funny. Cultural miscommunication do be extremely gay flavored in mecha universe what can I say #mecha writing #mecha jp writing #mecha pilot jazz au #jazz #prowl #jazzprowl

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super-ion · 4 months ago

Text

The Engineer

Part 4

(Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3)

I don't know where the pilot is taking me at first.

I am realizing that my life has just been an endless circuit of routine: Quarters. Gym. Cafeteria. Maintenance bay. Cafeteria. Quarters. Repeat. Everything outside of that has become an abstraction to me.

I can't even remember the last time I made my way up to the level. Everything here is shiny and pristine, scrubbed spotless twice a day on the off chance that some senator or general might visit. It's all clean lines, camouflaged access panels, trim little admin offices.

I very nearly have to stop and stare at a potted plant, when was the last time I saw one, verdant and alive?

But the pilot is moving with single minded purpose and I am forced to hurry to catch up.

I imagine her dragging me into the commandant’s office. I imagine her presenting me in formal complaint, the guilt of my sins, my intimacy with her machine, written plainly across my face.

She comes to a stop so suddenly that I almost collide with her. It is not the commandant’s office that we have arrived at.

The gilded signage on the door simply reads: OBSERVATION

She glances at me, briefly hesitating. In this entire encounter, it is the first moment of uncertainty that she has shown.

She swipes her wrist over the access panel, the door whispers open and I understand the hesitation and uncertainty.

Observation delivers exactly what it promises. The far side of the dimly lit room is dominated by floor-to-ceiling plex that overlooks the expanse of the maintenance bay.

My breath catches at the sight of Her.

Morrigan is resting in Her docking harness, Her heat sinks fully spread like the wings of an angel, armor plating unfolded to expose superstructure beneath, countless docking umbilicals arrayed almost organically to connect to the facility's systems.

It has been so long since I've actually seen Her, all of Her at once, that I've forgotten the scale of it all. My entire world has been the cockpit and the docking vestibule and now I can barely comprehend how small the team of techs are next to Her as they scurry along like ants.

Some tension leaves the pilot's shoulders and she strides towards the plex wall. She gazes upon the machine with adoration, the most emotion I have ever seen on her face. I start to imagine that I understand why she brought me here.

I step tentatively into the room. The door shuts behind me and the dim space is suddenly intimate.

Alone with the Pilot, her framed by the vista of Morrigan, the space feels almost holy. A shrine. A Goddess and Her human avatar.

I imagine Morrigan watching us. Maybe She can. Her visual sensors are specially designed to pick out details at a distance. Perhaps the Pilot told Morrigan exactly where and when we would be her.

Almost in answer to my thoughts, Her exposed core pulses, a blue-white flicker of light, and the Pilot places a hand tenderly on the plex.

My stomach lurches. It is no longer me alone with the Pilot in this room. It is all three of us. It is me alone with them. The suffocating sense of being an interloper returns in full force.

“I read all your reports,” the Pilot says without turning, without breaking her gaze from Morrigan. “It's like fucking Christmas for her. She just can't wait to show me what you found in your analysis.”

I stand awkwardly, unsure how to respond, or if I should respond at all.

“It's so fucking hard sometimes,” she continues, “they pull you out and you can't even tell who you are. You leave something behind and you take something with you.”

She turns abruptly, fixing me with the intensity of her gaze.

“What were you doing three nights ago?”

I had been expecting the question, dreading it, but the abruptness of it catches me off guard and fresh panic licks down my spine.

I open my mouth, but I can't bring myself to say anything.

She takes a step towards me. I step back instinctively. My back meets the wall.

“I already know,” she says, her tone unreadable. “I want to hear you say it. Your own words.”

I swallow. My eyes dart back to Morrigan. She is watching us. I know it. I know it from the now blazing light in Her core.

“I…”

I swallow again.

“I had a nightmare,” I admit. “I went to Morrigan.”

She takes another step forward. She's taller than me and I have to tilt my head back just slightly to meet her eyes.

“Why?”

“I didn't… I didn't want to be alone. I didn't know who else to go to. I... I wanted to be with her.”

Another step. She's close now, close enough to touch.

“Whose nightmares?”

Fuck.

“Yours,” I admit. “...and mine.”

“You think a lot about neural bleed.”

It isn't a question. I don't think it's a question. I nod in acknowledgement regardless.

“You think about how the patterns of thought and identity leave marks. Imprints. You're in her head, so you're in mine. The three of us, we're just this fucking tangle, aren't we?”

Fuck. What does she want from me?

I don't know if she expects me to answer that, but there's another moment of uncertainty from her.

“She wanted me to talk to you,” she says. “Or I wanted her to want me to talk to you. I don't even know. I don't fucking know who wants what any more.”

She looks… vexed now. That intense gaze of hers has taken on a slightly different gleam.

My heart is hammering in my chest and my breathing has become ever so slightly ragged.

Neural bleed. Two halves to a whole.

She is Morrigan. The human half. The physical half.

She lifts her hand and I stand motionless as she reaches out to touch my face. Her fingertips meet my cheek and she blinks, almost surprised to discover that I am real.

She takes a breath and the uncertainty is gone, leaving naked desire in its wake.

She shifts her hand, palm sliding along my cheek to the back of my neck, her fingers tangling in my hair. The feel of her skin against mine is enough to make me gasp.

“Tell me to stop and I will,” she tells me in a low whisper.

(Next)

“Please don't stop,” I beg in reply.

#my writing #writers on tumblr #lesbian #mechposting #scifi #science fiction #human x machine #mech pilot x mechanic

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sightseertrespasser · 2 months ago

Text

Odds of Survival part two: Electric Boogaloo

Part 2 of Jazz and Prowl in space!

Prowl loves entrusting his life to reckless strangers.

———————————————————————

Prowl pulled the release to the airlock and the music was swallowed by the vacuum of space.

Bursting forward, Jazz launched outwards riding the pop of escaping air. The first quintesson had its eye socket repurposed as an ankle bracelet before the second measure even began.

Ah.

Prowl probably should have specified he wanted to try speeding past rather than confront their opponents directly.

Jazz's improvised footwear writhed sluggishly before the mech twisted his ped inside its brain case, finishing it off and turning to face the next nearest opponent.

Odds of survival 26%

The white and blue mech launched himself upwards as the nearest quintesson went for a dive bomb. It's teeth breaking on impact with the sky bridge. Jazz twisted in midair.

They fell in slow motion, back arching against a starlit backdrop. An upside down visor met blue optics. Jazz nodded his head to the side, flicking one horn up and one horn down.

Did he just wink? (#^%)

The falling mech unsheathed a blade from his wrist, driving it through the sputtering quintesson.

Oh Primus has he been flirting the entire time?

Jazz spun, slicing into the next quint to close the distance.

I can not. I can not assume that was intentional. It has to be a cultural miscommunication.

Odds of survival 22%.

Prowl snapped out of his social etiquette downward spiral. Sprinting from the safety of the airlock door, he knelt behind a large section of external piping, lining up his shots.

Tacnet spun to work.

Calculating the marksmanship needed to dispatch three hostiles at medium range while distracted by a highly competent ally?

Odds of Survival 32%

Laughable.

Three shots burst through the thin atmosphere.

Quintesson wreckers were built thick skulled and stubborn. Luckily they came with easily identifiable gaps in their organic construction.

The Quints fell from Jazz, each with a smoking hole where and eye used to be. Jazz looked at Prowl, then the smoking quintessons and back up to Prowl before doing finger guns again.

Speaking of thick skulled and stubborn.

Prowl put on his best Commanders Scowl and pointed in the direction they needed to be currently running in.

Doorwing sensors hiked as he picked up on movement from behind. The incoming hostiles was palpable even in the moons thin atmosphere. Quintessons rarely favored stealth.

Prowl began running.

Jazz kept pace, half turned around to keep track of the incoming troop. Prowl kept his optics locked forward, not remotely willing to risk tripping on the torn apart path.

Tacnet locked on to a large silvery pillow that'd been exposed to the atmosphere.

Expanding LLX Lithium battery. Explosion on contact 90%

Prowl shouted a warning but the air was too thin to carry beyond his own audials.

Jazz will step on the lithium battery in 1.5 clicks (88%) and will be critically injured in at least one leg (76%).

Prowl grabbed Jazz's servo and yanked.

Music erupted in the moment of connection.

How fragging loud is he playing that music?!?

Jazz perked up, and pulled Prowl around in an arc. Multiple sharp impacts thudded into the ground behind him. Prowl turned and almost wished he hadn’t.

Three heavily armored Quintesson bombers equipped with bio-mechanical ballista.

The javelin like spikes were as long as Prowls arm and designed to pin targets in place while the slow moving blimp-like body of the bomber got into position to blow them all to the Pit.

Jazz was evidently fine with this arrangement.

Jazz was evidently fine with that too.

Another round of ammunitions impacted where the two of them had been running.

They'd started dancing.

By the time they’d escaped the bombers range, they’d made it too the base of the first hurdle.

Prowl craned his helm back at the barrier.

He would not be able to scale it on his own in time (95%).

Could Jazz? (65%)

While carrying him? (19%)

Jazz rapidly tapped his side.

The alien was crouched low, impossible legs bent with potential energy. He tapped his own back, gesturing for Prowl to grab on already.

Prowl threw himself over the mechs broad back. His digits frantically searched for a hand hold, flinching away from nearly digging into fragile vents.

I can’t-

Jazz leapt.

“You’re really grab-able - Isn’t that kinda stupid?”

Stupid stupid stupid.

Prowl skated off of Jazz’s rounded compact plating, that he specifically SAID was supposed to make him hard to hold on to.

He landed hard on his aft, denta clanking together painfully.

47 clicks remaining.

Jazz nodded once, like he was satisfied with what he’d just done.

Prowl made a facial expression that a psychiatrist would find concerning.

42 Clicks.

Jazz nodded again, like expected Prowl to respond in any coherent manner, and lifted.

Package secured, Jazz let go and started their ascension.

This is fine this is fine this is fine this is fine.

At 35 click’s remaining, Prowl centered himself enough to search for their pursuers.

Damn it!

No reason not to be proactive.

Prowl found that if he tightly cupped one servo around the back of Jazz’s helm, he had just enough leverage to bring out a side arm. After all, the bombers were already in range of him.

Steadying his elbow over the other mechs shoulder, Prowl took aim.

Five clicks.

The bombers flew in V formation.

Four clicks.

Too heavily armored for a standard sidearm to pierce.

Three clicks.

The lead bomber opened up its front in preparation for combat.

Got you.

The shockwave felt like a single soft papft of a breeze in the starlit air.

Jazz hefted them over the top of the wall, not dropping Prowl in favor of sprinting with him at full speed across the top of the hurdle.

One of his arms curled around to support Prowls back, allowing the Praxian to release his death grip on their helm. Prowl leaned back into the hold, allowing Jazz freedom to see again.

Jazz turned his helm around 180 degrees-

Did not know he could do that did not know he could do that.

- to look at the fire works behind them.

Jazz whistled appreciatively at the sight. He turned back to Prowl, visor locked onto his face as they carried him across the roof.

Without looking away, Jazz leapt off the end of the roof.

Prowl watched as Jazz glanced over his shoulder and back to him.

Do a double take.

And then crush Prowl to his chassis.

Why are we still falling.

Prowl turned as far as possible in Jazz’s iron grip.

The sky bridge was collapsing.

Odds of Survival 4%

———————————————————————

Jazz, everytime Prowl one-shots an enemy: I need to get his number.

If you’re curious, the song Jazz is playing can be whatever you like. Personally I kept switching between listening to “I Was Made For Lovin’ You” by Kiss and “I Feel Love” 12” version by Donna Summer while writing.

- SSTP

<- First Next ->

#tf mecha universe #writing #nearly fixed

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muletia · 4 months ago

Text

[tfp] obsessed!orion pax x human!reader valveplug, minors don't interact!

based on this delicious ask about orion overloading from inhaling your pheromones and some tags provided by @tom-foolery-incorporated <3

word count: 800

Holding Orion’s helm on both sides, you pull him toward you, feeling no resistance from the startled mech. His faceplate lands against your chest, and you immediately envelop him in warmth, letting him sink into the softness of your human body. The familiar shape of your torso and the rhythmic symphony of your heartbeat give him a sense of comfort and belonging, as if, after a long, exhausting day, he has finally found his way home. Orion lifts his optics to you and smiles in gratitude, though you cannot see the expression.

“I missed you,” you murmur tenderly, pressing a kiss to the top of his helm.

“I am glad that our feelings…” he begins, but his words are abruptly cut off by the sudden, unfamiliar scent flooding his olfactory sensors.

It is sweet, unmistakably yours, yet tainted with something unknown — something he cannot name. Has no time to analyze it before the scent overwhelms him, urging to flee, to pull away before it does irreversible damage to his processor. Escaping should not be a challenge; after all, you are not restraining him, granting him full freedom to move. But the problem is that he hesitates to run.

One breath. Then another. And another. Each inhale draws the scent deeper, seeping into his very core, coating his spark, his tank, until it finally reaches the most sensitive parts of his frame, teasing them mercilessly. It creeps behind his interface panel, wrapping around his spike and valve, luring them into a dance with the desire that consumes him in an instant. Just moments ago, all he had wanted was to hold you close, whispering sweet words in your ear, but now — now, the image of sliding his spike into your tight, burning-hot folds is the only thought left in his processor. The only thing he wants to think about. The only thing he can.

Orion takes another involuntary breath, stress-induced from the sudden onslaught of overwhelming need, and it seals his fate.

“[Name]!” he cries out, voice breaking. His concealed spike spasms, and from its tip, thick strands of pink transfluid spill out, splattering against his panel before slowly dripping downward, seeping into the seams, finding their way out. Some rivulets trail down his thighs, while others pool onto the floor beneath him.

“Orion, did you just come?” you ask bluntly. Watching the way his back arches, his optics roll upward, and listening to the symphony of his stifled moans, you are certain of the answer. You should be surprised — after all, you had barely given him any real stimulation to get him to overload — but you know your partner well enough to have learned just how little he needs to unravel. Still, the meaner part of you, the one that always surfaces when Orion is deliciously pathetic, wants to see undeniable evidence of his overload.

“Move your head. I want to see.”

“Ah!” Orion whimpers. “N-No, do not look,” he pleads, suddenly ashamed of the intensity of his own desperation.

His embarrassment does not last long, though, because Orion does not want to pull away. He does not want to lose this intoxicating sense of helplessness, this loss of control that breathing in your scent grants him. He wants to stay right here, drunk on your sweetness.

You roll your eyes. “Oh, now you’re getting shy? Please, I’ve seen you worse.”

“Mhm,” he mumbles, barely processing your words. He inhales again, this time intentionally, and just like before, your scent floods his body. His still-hard, aching spike throbs, pleading for another overload, and his valve clenches around nothing, echoing the demand. He has no choice but to take in more of your scent, to drown himself in it. He presses himself against you harder, as if trying to meld into your body, rubbing his faceplate against your chest in a desperate chase for another untouched, hands-free climax.

Forgetting his own immense strength, he unwittingly forces you several steps backward, making you struggle to keep your balance.

“Hey!” you yelp, giving him a light, scolding pat on the helm. “I almost fell!”

That, finally, seems to snap him out of it — at least for a moment. Orion lifts his optics to meet yours, guilt flickering in his gaze. “A-apologies,” he murmurs, but his focus does not last long. He immediately buries his faceplate back against you, sensitive olfactory sensors dragging over your torso, trying to provoke another overload.

“Ah! [Name], please, help me!” he whines, his voice raw with need. He has to be inside you. Needs to ground himself, to find something solid to cling to, or else he fears he will completely lose his mind.

You sigh, feigning exasperation. “As you wish, love.” and Orion hurriedly retracts his transfluid-slick interface panel.

#transformers x reader #orion pax x reader #valveplug

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cherry-burst · 8 months ago

Text

Zayne x MC “Rest Easy”

Love and Deepspace

Fluff/Smut | Hurt/Comfort | BJ | 4.8k Words

Zayne carefully clutched his side as he walked up to his front door. The motion sensor lights popped on, illuminating the path for him. Digging the keys out of his pocket, he let out a sharp hiss. The sound of the keys jingling might as well have been a cowbell, given how quiet he was trying to be. He carefully unlocked his door, the mechanisms in the lock slipping and clicking into place. A quick glance at his watch showed it was already 3 AM.

As he entered, he quietly closed and locked the door behind him. The house was still. The large windows allowed the moon and starlight to spill through the gauzy curtains onto the floor illuminating just enough for him to navigate without needing to turn on any lights. He slipped off his shoes at the front door and shrugged off his jacket. He hissed again, holding the coat rack for support. After a moment, he pushed his glasses back up his nose and walked quietly toward the bedroom.

He noticed a book on the armrest of his couch face down so the surface of the couch would work as a bookmark. A small glass of water was left on the coffee table next to an empty mug with strawberries decorating the rim. A smile touched his lips as he glanced around.

It was the small things in his home that were different since his girlfriend had moved in. Seeing things littered here and there, not messy, but lived in, was one of his favorite things. His home finally felt alive and cozy. The kitchen was always full of staples, every surface was free of dust, and the bed was always warm when he lay next to her. She was the lifeblood of his home now.

He still wasn’t home as often as he’d like, constantly picking up shifts at the hospital thanks to an uptick in wanderer activity. Not much had changed since she moved in, but he did intentionally take days off now just to spend more time with her. He always tried to come home at a reasonable hour, but tonight had many unexpected twists that not even a psychic could have predicted.

Zayne made his way to his bedroom and quietly entered. The curtains were pinned open washing his girlfriend, who was sound asleep in the middle of the bed, with a gleam of light. His chest warmed at the sight, making a mental note to tease her as a bed hog in the morning as he quietly changed into comfortable sleepwear.

Peeling the comforter up, Zayne calculated if he could fit in the small sliver of space she’d left him. He placed his glasses on the side table along with his phone as he tried to asses the space he had. With a sigh, he decided to give it a shot and lying beside her anyway, slowly made his way into bed. He made sure to keep his torso, which he was carefully holding, straight, and not bend toward his side.

He debated on whether to wake her up or not, thinking up an apology as to why he was home so late. In the end, he needed to nudge her to get her to move just a few inches to the side anyway so his larger frame could fit comfortably on the mattress. She roused with a soft sigh.

“Zayne?” Her groggy voice was interrupted by a yawn.

“Hey,” Zayne whispered back. “Sorry, I’m late… Something came up at the hospital and, …could you please move over just a bit? I can’t fit on my side when you’re hogging the entire center.”

“You’re home” She smiled, her tired mind taking a few extra seconds to register what he said. “Oh! Sure.”

Wiggling to her side of the bed, she gave Zayne plenty of room. He settled next to her with ease now that he had the space. She stretched her arms up, her back and shoulders popping as she yawned fiercely. Her nightshirt rode up to expose a sliver of her tummy and Zayne, without much thought, reached up and placed his hand on the exposed skin. She was warm against his palm.

“I’m home, especially now that I’m here with you.” He allowed himself a small smile, the scent of her on his sheets already easing the noise in his mind.

She hummed in agreement. “I missed you. I got worried and called the hospital, but they said you were staying late with a patient.”

Zayne nodded, a part of him sending a thanks to that employee who hadn’t told her exactly what had happened tonight. That would have made his girlfriend worry too much. She would have worried for nothing, though. He was in good hands having already been at the hospital.

He traced his fingers over her stomach, rubbing small circles. She sighed and then he sighed, feeling the drama of the night lift off his shoulders.

“Go back to sleep,” Zayne whispered.

She groaned, “But you just got here… I want to hear about your day.”

He hadn't had a chance to text or call her all day thanks to the outpouring of patients the hospital received. It was hard for him to even take a sip of water or stuff a granola bar in his mouth before another code was beeping over the speakers urgently calling for him.

He yawned, sleep already welcoming him into his warm embrace. “Sleep. Doctor’s orders.”

His girlfriend scoffed, “Are you ever going to stop using that excuse? You told me that eating a third cupcake yesterday was doctor's orders as well.”

“Well, it did make you happy, and happiness leads to wellness.” He closed his eyes, his voice groggy.

She took a deep breath and rolled over to face him. Zayne’s hand naturally slid to her back and pulled her closer without a second thought.

She cupped his face, a kiss landing on the tip of his nose. Then she froze. “Your head?!” She gasped, her fingers grazing the edge of the butterfly grip just above his brow. “What happened?” The gash was about an inch long peaking out of the bandage.

“Uh,” Zayne’s tired mind forgot the excuse he’d already carefully crafted on his way home and instead, he fumbled his words. “It’s nothing. Just a scratch.”

“Zayne…” Her voice was more alert now. “They usually don't take time to seal up wounds that are ‘just a scratch’.”

She began to slide her hand down his arm and chest. Zayne winced when her hand grazed the side of his torso. His sharp intake of breath made her stop in her tracks.

“Zayne!” She said his name again, this time louder.

He opened his eyes and stared at her half-lidded. “I had to get a couple of stitches. It’s not a big deal… just be gentle with that spot please.”

His tone was strained as she pushed up his shirt to see. He let her, of course. But gauze covered a large expanse of his side making it hard for her to assess his injury.

She conceded and let his shirt fall back down. “Why did you get stitches? What happened?” She cupped his cheeks with her hands. Zayne savored the sensations letting his eyes fall shut once again.

He rooted around his brain for a good way to explain the situation that didn’t make it sound as bad as it actually was. He wondered if he could request that they talk about it in the morning, but he knew his girlfriend well, she worried about him and would need answers immediately.

“I was… shhmmm” Zayne slurred purposefully. Okay, fine… there was no dancing around it, it was bad.

“You were what?” She used her hands on his cheek to angle his face towards hers.

“...”

“Sorry, I didn’t catch that.” She said in a more stern voice.

“I was stabbed.” He finally spoke.

“What!?” Her sudden exclamation made him jolt, causing him to gasp in pain again.

“By a patient,” He added, breathing through the ache. “They were on some sort of drug that caused them to become violent. He woke up while I was examining him and pulled a knife on me. It happened so fast…” He spoke, hardly believing it himself.

The man had been unconscious when he got to the hospital and when he awoke, he sliced at Zayne and his nurse, successfully stabbing him once before his evol intervened, holding the crazed man back while Zayne and the nurse made their escape. Luckily, he was already at a hospital and had one of the other doctors patch him up before he left.

She pulled up his shirt again, her fingers sliding over the edge of the gauze with newfound concern. The dressing just kept going up and up along his torso. “It’s huge…” Her voice wavering.

“I know… It will be fine. I was given a few days off to recover.”

“You know!?” She asked. “Zayne, it’s turning purple around your ribs…” She ghosted her fingers over the discolored skin.

“Pff!” Zayne let out a laugh wiggling away from her touch.

“Zayne? Are you… giggling?” She looked at him in astonishment.

“Don’t do that,” He laughed again and moved her hand away from his stomach.

“Are you drugged up?”

For some reason that question made him giggle even more. He burst out laughing and she thought that it must have been a very potent painkiller setting in if he was this free with his emotions.

He finally calmed down enough to answer her. “Just some minor pain medication.”

“Minor…” She looked at him indignantly. “Don’t keep trying to downplay. How much did they give you? You’re positively loopy.”

“You just tickled me is all. Don’t- don’t do that again.” He could feel that his pupils had dilated, a side effect of the strong pain medication they’d given him. He looked up at her bathed in moonlight and sighed. She was “so beautiful.” He said out loud.

“Oh jeez,” She smiled, shaking her head at him. “Your gauze is way larger than just a minor wound. Don’t you think?” She tried to put him back on topic.

He nodded in agreement.

“Zayne...” She let her head hang in defeat.

He took this opportunity to sweep the hair off her face and press a lingering kiss to her forehead.

“I will be okay.” He reassured her, his warm breath flowing over her brow.

“You need to get some sleep… Sleep off some of this medication that is making you loopy and allow your body to heal.” She toyed with his brown hair, moving it off his forehead to expose the butterfly bandage again.

Zayne savored the sensation of her touch but ultimately agreed. “Let’s get some rest and spend the day together tomorrow.”

In agreement, his girlfriend pulled the covers up to engulf both of them in its warmth. She tangled her legs with his and rested her head on his chest, careful of his wound. Zayne’s hand ran up and down her back, soothing her to go to sleep.

He didn’t feel the sharpness of the pain any longer. The medication worked to subdue the sensation but also made him extremely drowsy, or was it from working a double today? He felt a tiny peck of a kiss on his lips just before sleep overcame him.

Several hours later, Zayne found himself trying to pull the covers up over his head to block the bright sun from shining directly into his bleary eyes. His watch indicated that it was only 7 AM, far too early to wake up on his day off. Four hours was not enough sleep after the exhausting double shift he had yesterday, plus, you know, getting stabbed.

He tugged the covers harder and let out a pained hiss. Sharp jolts shot from his wound making him wince. He clutched his side, brows pinching together, pleading with his body to stop throbbing. His head swam with the rush of adrenaline his body flooded him with. The pain medication was no match for the deep stab wound. It was already fading from his system.

“Are you okay?” His girlfriend roused from sleep.

“Hmm,” He nodded, but a new wave of pain made him flinch “Ah-”

“Zayne!” Worry clouded her tone.

“I just need a moment..” He managed to speak. He really didn't want to worry her.

“Did you pull a stitch?” She moved the blanket and lifted his shirt to try and peek at the bandage.

“No, I don’t think so. But I haven't moved in a while, so...” He inhaled sharply. He looked down at the gauze she was exposing. There were tiny droplets making their way through the bandage, but nothing to be concerned about.

“Do you have more pain pills?” She covered her mouth to yawn.

Zayne looked toward the bedroom door. “Yeah, there’s a prescription in my jacket pocket. It’s hanging on the coat rack in the entryway.”

“I’ll go grab them. Wait here.” She patted his arm before springing out of bed.

He saw the humor in her words, but couldn’t react beyond a pained groan.

The throbbing was finally subsiding. He struggled a bit to reach over to the pinned curtains. Managing to grab them, he yanked until it fell closed, shrouding the room from the sun's harsh rays. Zayne relaxed back on the pillow with a long exhale.

His girlfriend was back, pill bottle in one hand and a glass of water in the other.

The sight of her opening the bottle to dispense a pill, worry etched into her face, made his heart soar. It was nice having someone fuss over him for once. He didn’t have to shoulder the mental load of getting better while she was around. He, of course, did the same thing for her when she was sick. It made a part of his mind light up, realizing that this was not a relationship to be taken lightly. There was something more here, something that ran deep like roots into the ground. It was something that neither of them would be able to easily untangle from even with immense effort.

He plucked the pill from her palm and placed it on his tongue. He carefully leaned over and took a few gulps of water to down the pill. Birds began to chirp outside as the sun climbed higher. Zayne placed the ice cold water on the nightstand while his girlfriend slid back into bed with him.

“Do you need anything else?” She asked him.

“No. No, I’m good for now.”

“Try to go back to sleep,” She spoke softly, her hand pressing all around his face.

“Thank you,” Zayne wondered what possessed her to always want to touch him. It was a nice feeling, to have someone show such blatant affection for you all the time. He tried his best to always reciprocate, even if they were in public he’d try to hold her hand even if social pressure made him feel anxious about it.

She ran her fingers through his hair, and Zayne’s eyes grew heavy. He got comfortable and tried to allow sleep to overcome him once more. He listened to her slow, even breath as she settled into her usual cuddle spot by his side. He kept his eyes closed and wrapped his arm around her tightly.

After laying there for what felt like hours, he realized he was unable to sleep. The medication was starting to do its job, rushing to where he needed it the most allowing his muscles to finally relax. It took the edge off just enough for him to take deeper and deeper breaths. But still, sleep did not come. He shifted his legs, hoping to move into a more comfortable position instead of being stalk straight on his back.

“Are you still not asleep?” Her sleepy tone indicated that she had fallen into a light sleep within the last 30 minutes despite Zayne’s struggle with it.

“Sorry to wake you, I am just getting more comfortable.” Zayne shifted, angling himself on his good side. When the throbbing pain didn’t come, he relaxed into the position, facing her.

“I’m worried about you…” She confessed, her sleepy eyes meeting his in the dim room.

Zayne kissed the back of her hand then rubbed his palm along her back in reassurance. “No need to worry. I’ll be fine. I’m more worried about your sleep getting interrupted by me.”

She shook her head to dispel his worry. “This isn’t about me. You were stabbed, for goodness sake, you are allowed to be selfish in this instance.”

He let out a quiet chuckle and nodded. “Fine, I’ll be selfish Zayne from now on until I feel better.”

“Good,” She squeezed his arm in agreement.

He hummed, pressing his face closer to hers. “At least the medication is working. But…”

“But, you’re not tired…” She finished his sentence.

He shook his head. “I am tired, but my mind feels awake right now.” It was his usual hour to get up for work, and he was used to running on only a couple hours of sleep at a time. It was hard to persuade his body to allow him a bit more rest.

“What can I do?” She asked, lacing her fingers with his. Her hand was warm, and Zayne squeezed it in his grip.

“Nothing. Go to sleep. I will eventually fall asleep once the pain medication fully kicks in.”

She sighed. “But it should already be kicking in and you’re no closer to falling asleep.” They lock eyes for a long moment. “I know you, Zayne.”

He nodded, of course, she knew him. No one else knew him as well as she did. It used to make him feel too exposed, but the more he got to know her better than anyone else, the more secure he felt in allowing her to know all of his most intimate details.

“I know.” He pressed his forehead against hers. “Even if I don’t fall asleep, I won’t be getting up from this bed anytime soon.” He hoped that thought would make her feel better about allowing herself to go back to sleep.

She was quiet for a long moment, and Zayne wondered if she had actually fallen back to sleep. That is until she spoke up. “Can I try something?” Her voice was even quieter than before.

“Try what? Like hitting me over the head with a frying pan or something. I assure you, I do not need brute force to fall asleep.”

She let out a small laugh at his joke. “No… I mean, Can I try something?” Her tone was lower than before. “I know something that always makes you sleepy afterward.”

He looked at her with a questioning gaze. “What is it?”

She ran her fingers through his hair then moved him to lay down fully on his back again. Zayne lifted one brow in question but allowed her to continue since he was now getting peppered with dozens of tiny kisses across his face.

Carefully, she maneuvered lower down to his chest. Zayne stayed still, waiting with a curious air about him. His stomach muscles flexed and tensed when she got to his torso, but the pain didn’t come.

When she lifted his nightshirt and kissed just below his navel he piped up. “What, ah, what are you doing?” He tugged on her sleeve to bring her back up, but she didn’t relent.

Her small fingers untied his sweatpants. “I want to distract you from your pain,” She gave him a small shy smile. “And help you fall asleep after…” Her eyes sparkled with mischief as she tugged on the hem of his pants.

Zayne swallowed thickly, his heart kicking into gear. “You don’t have to-” Her lips trailed lower and he took in a sudden breath.

“I want to,” She made eye contact with him while she rubbed him through his boxers.

One hand stayed on her shoulder, holding her tight like it was the only thing anchoring him to reality. His other arm came up, covering his eyes with his forearm while she removed his growing erection from its confines. His pupils blew wide with the surge of adrenaline from her kitten licks, soft kisses, and the pain medicine combination. He was sure his pounding heart could be heard from a mile away.

He held back the noises that bubbled up in his throat, restraining them and controlling them into barely there grunts and small gasps. Her kisses were slow and deliberate, moving in a way that made Zayne’s head spin. He buried his face into his arm even more, his hips reacting to her touch. The tips of his ears burned as heat rose on his cheeks.

How her lips moved over him made him groan. Her tongue was warm and silky against his skin making him grow harder with each teasing lick. Zayne dared a peak, but the sight of her made the wind rush from his lungs. She was as gorgeous as ever, her eyes closed while she focused on the matter at hand. Her soft moan as she took him into her mouth sent a wave of pleasure through him.

His moan alerted her and they locked eyes for a heated moment. She gave him a sultry stare, her lush lips wrapping around him sinfully, but Zayne had to quickly look away. It was too much, the pleasure, her touch, the way she looked, it was all overwhelming. Overwhelming yet oh-so-amazing. He bit his lip to contain the growing moan that threatened to escape, hiding under his arm once again to savor the sensations.

His heels dug into the bed when her hand aided her mouth in pleasing him. Her stroke made Zayne’s hips rock gently into her palm. He enjoyed himself, focusing on the feeling of her mouth sucking him in, her smooth tongue swirling around, and her hand gripping and pumping in time with her head. His chest heaved, his mind hyper-aware of her every move.

He’d almost forgotten about the stabbing. The only reminder was the floating sensation he began to feel as the medication ran its course. It was as if he were floating on a cloud. He only knew because it wasn’t his usual sensation when he was in bed with his girlfriend.

Her lips and tongue worked him over. Each lick felt like silk over the sensitive skin and every kiss was pillowy soft driving him absolutely wild. He wondered if the medication would even allow for him to get off like how people had performance issues when it came to drinking alcohol. However, he quickly dispelled that notion. His body was obviously responding perfectly fine to his girlfriend's ministrations.

She sucked the ridge of his head, her tongue striking out to lick the leaking moisture that ran down the edge. Zayne’s hand flexed in reaction to this. He hadn’t realized just how hard his fingertips were digging into her shoulder until that very moment.

“Sorry, sorry, ah-” He removed his hand and moved it to rest atop her head instead.

She didn’t stop her work, teasing him by licking all around instead of taking him back into her mouth. Was it a small punishment for him squeezing her? He panted, his hand pressing lightly on her head to urge her for more. The slow methodical licks she gave him drove him wild. Her tongue running up and down his length sent his body ablaze.

He knew this game well. He was well aware that no amount of begging or pleading would make her stop what she was doing until she, herself, was ready to take the next step. He kept his mouth shut, hoping she’d finally take him in her mouth again so he could rapidly find the release he knew was quickly approaching.

Zayne peeled his eyes open and watched her lips wrap sensually around him. Her gaze met his, a playful sparkle dancing in her eye. His stomach filled with butterflies when she allowed him to sink back into her mouth until he hit the back of her throat.

He gasped followed by a long moan while he sent a silent ‘thank you’ to whatever deity was blessing him at this moment. His girlfriend hummed purposefully, adding a layer of pleasure to his already overwhelming experience. His forehead broke out into a sheen, dampening the hair around his face. He grabbed the sheet, his hips pushing upward to chase his own release.

He would be fooling himself if he said he didn’t think of this often. After the first time with her, it was like the floodgates opened up and, what once was a slow stride towards intimacy, was now a full-blown sprint to the bedroom every chance they got. It was always fun with her, it always felt incredible and otherworldly. Being with her in the most intimate of ways never ceased to feel surreal to him.

Her soft lips moved further down his length, taking him deeper into the back of her throat. The tightness over the tip made him see stars. The smooth friction of her tongue and lips mixed with the added sensations from her hand gripping at the base was blissful, to say the least. Zayne’s moans were out of control. He didn’t hide them anymore as his body rocked against hers.

“I-” He spoke, a moan cutting him off. “I’m close,” He warned, his large hand tightening in her hair. Zayne made sure the action wasn’t forceful, only a gentle indication for her to please don’t stop.

She sped up, taking him in her mouth over and over until Zayne’s body arched. His legs shook while he grabbed onto the bed, his hips rocking out of sync with her actions. It didn’t matter though, he was already thrown over the edge into an eternal bliss that only she could bring him to. The pulse of pleasure coursing through him made him forget about his stab wound entirely, even forgetting about the cut on his bicep he’d yet to mention.

His girlfriend finished drinking him down before finally releasing him. Zayne let out a huge sigh and relaxed back onto the mattress with a thud. She waited a moment before tucking him back into his clothes and kissing a path back up his torso to his face. He lay there motionless, immobile by the sheer nirvana he’d just experienced. She kissed his cheeks, nose, and forehead while he caught his breath.

They finally shared a kiss. It was a long passionate moment where Zayne wrapped his arms around her body and held her close. She pulled back after a long moment, then planted several small kisses on his lips like they were a ‘P.S’ after a long heartfelt letter.

It was as if he were made of lead. His arms wrapped around her as his girlfriend found a good snuggle spot right next to him. He closed his eyes, planting several more kisses on her forehead before they shared another kiss on the lips.

Zayne could hardly believe how out of shape he felt. The stab wound really took a toll on his body made even more exasperated by what his girlfriend had just done. He hugged her tight to his chest, nuzzling his face into her neck. His breathing was beginning to even out as his heart rate started to drop.

The room was silent, a stark contrast to just moments ago when Zayne’s noises filled the room. The kick of the air conditioning filled the silence with a bit of white noise.

“Do you think you can sleep now?” She whispered, her hand cupping his cheek.

He didn’t even try to open his heavy eyelids as he nodded. “Oh, yes.” He nuzzled her harder. “I think I will be able to rest easy now. Thank you,” He signed contently. “I owe you,”

She giggled. “You don’t owe me. We’re even,”

“Oh? Is that so,” He teased,

“Mhm,” She affirmed.

“In that case, I will say that I want to owe you.” He took in a deep inhale, her scent fluttering all around him.

She let out the smallest of chuckles. “If that’s what you want, I won't stop you.”

He hummed in agreement. “It’s what I want.” It's all he can think about now. If it wasn’t for the medication mixed with the rush of endorphins, he’d already have his face planted exactly where he wanted it between her thighs.

“But first, sleep Zayne.” She urged him.

“I love you,” He said, planting a small kiss on her shoulder where his face was buried.

She gave him a squeeze. “I love you too, Zayney.”

He huffed a laugh, a smile quirking up his lips.

It wasn’t long before Zayne passed out asleep. His girlfriend rubbed his back until she heard his breathing pattern change. She then followed soon behind, sleeping soundly snuggled up against his side.

#love and deepspace zayne #zayne x mc #lads zayne #l&ds zayne #zayne x reader #zayne smut #love and deepspace #love and deepspace smut #lads #l&ds

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clubsoft · 5 months ago

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⠀ ⠀ OVER THE MOON ⠀ ⠀ PROLOUGE ⠀ ⠀ REED RICHARDS A . K . A MR . FANTASTIC / F ! READER⠀⠀

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SUMMARY ⋆ reed richards has caught feelings for his student , making their casual , sexual relationship all the more difficult for himself . WARNINGS ⋆ no powers au / professor ! reed richards / he's divorced :3 / age gap ( reader is early to mid 20s ; reed is in his 40s ) / visualized size difference ; little to none character description aside from this / no smut in this one but it's implied so MDNI ty / lovesick , pining reed richards / just an introduction so more context will come l8r / 3rd person POV ; no use of Y/N WORD COUNT ⋆ 1 . 35 k NOTES ⋆ contributing to the drought of reed richards fics !! enjoy !!

In Reed Richards’ world, the sun rises twice.

First, at 6 in the morning, when his alarm clock buzzes on the nightstand and years of routine allow the blind reach of one long arm to silence it. Weighing down his other arm is the figure of his dream come true, slumbering, a cherubic delight amongst the cushions and furs encompassing her bare shape. In that moment, he lingers, soothing his hand over the silken expanse of her back, lower, lower, and lower still, alongside her hip, curling his digits to press their tips ever so gently into the plush of her ass, fondling the flesh with care, as to not wake her. The sensation of her under his palm marks her as real, as more than a sick — amatory fantasy of an old man like himself. His fingers travel once more, inwards, dimpling her thigh, so close to heaven itself — she stirs, he retracts his hand, and sighs. A solitary ray of light sneaks in, licks at the curve of her spine just as Reed finds the hem of the blanket and slips it up to her shoulders.

Winter months don’t mesh with floor to ceiling windows, curtains of thick velvet can only retain so much heat, and a previously excruciating battle is made all the more difficult; it’s impossible enough to withdraw his warm embrace from the object of his yearning, but to do just that, and then press the soles of his feet against ice cold marble floors felt like punishment. Yawning, he heaves himself off the mattress, searches with lazy hands for his pajama bottoms, and after pulling them up his legs, pushing his feet into his slippers, making sure the girl is tucked in — snug, he yanks his knit sweater off the foot of his bed. The lights in the modern, minimalist home click to life, brightening his journey down the stairs and into the kitchen. Everything is on a sensor, finely tuned to his every need. He doesn’t even press a button, yet the coffee begins to brew in its pot; a perfect serving, one mug full. His guest doesn’t drink coffee, but she tries a sip when he asks, adamant on finding a ratio of sugar and creamer that she’d enjoy. In turn, Reed drinks a different flavor on most mornings he shares with her. He’s given up, truth be told, but he occasionally feigns continued effort, all to have her lips grace his mug so he can kiss her with each sip he takes.

Tea is more her taste. Hot water, a paper tea bag, a pinch of sugar, a splash of milk. Instead of adding a setting to his coffee machine, he makes it by hand, stands above the steaming water and pokes impatiently at the tea bag with a spoon. The goal is to return to his bedroom with a mug in each hand, the brush of his stubble, the tip of his nose tracing the length of her neck, causing her to awaken with soft groans, the sound of giggles once the ticklish feeling truly registers. He doesn’t make it in time to wake her up himself, yet he’s content, beholding the sun as it rises a second time.

The rustle of blankets, a delicate set of fingers wrinkling his half of the bed, searching for him. There’s a tug at his chest, a call to make everything right, fill his side of the sheets with his frame so that little hand finds just what it seeks, but he waits, watches, and his patience is rewarded by a soft smile as sleepy eyes finally find him, twinkling, taking in his tousled visage with a tenderness that mirrors his own.

“Tea?” He lifts her mug. It’s the first word he’s spoken, low and thick with sleep, though the smoothness of his charming old school enunciation is permanent no matter how early it is. His slippers carry him across the distance between them as she sits up against the headboard, using a gray fur to modestly cover her chest. Reed doesn’t quite understand why. He’s seen, touched, kissed, licked — tasted every divine inch of flesh, left nothing to the imagination, memorized her very being within all five senses to where seeking her out has become a sixth … and yet, she divides them still.

“Yes, thank you,” her wobbly morning voice calls him out of his thoughts, her fingers wrap around the mug, and draw it closer to herself. Reed’s large hand shoots out, takes hold of her wrist, pausing her movements altogether. Those big, youthful eyes stare at him expectantly, then shut for a heartbeat and a half when he tilts into her space to press a kiss to her lips.

“Good morning,” he murmurs, hovering inches away until she repeats it back to him.

“Morning, Reed.”

He watches her over the rim of his mug through the symphony of sips and sighs, hers rushed, his anything but, slowing down time as best as he could. The first ever morning after, months ago, he’d woken up alone, left with nothing but her scent on his pillow. With each night spent together following that fateful encounter, she granted him more and more time in the mornings; his second sunrise, making him the luckiest man in the cloudy city of Manhattan.

“Busy day today?” He inquires after his final sip of coffee. His mug is empty, and he plucks hers off the bedside table to finish what remains of her tea, getting in his kisses while she dresses herself on the opposite side of the room. Answering him with an absent nod, she trudges closer, the hem of her navy blue sweater, embroidered with the Columbia University lion, brushing her thighs. His sweater, stolen so long ago that she’s forgotten its origin.

“Do you see my panties anywhere?” she mumbles the query with utmost bashfulness, as though he wasn’t the one dragging that small strip of cotton down her thighs at sunset. Hooking both mug handles onto his fingers, Reed uses his unoccupied hand to toss the covers around. His search is uninspired, clumsy, but fruitful. Soon enough, that little white piece of fabric dangles from his fingers, a smug grin on his lips. So cute, he thinks to himself as she snatches it away, whispering, “Thank you.”

Her departure never feels real until she’s near the door, sliding small, socked feet into those damned, convenient, comfy shoes. Gators, or something silly, she calls them, not even allowing Reed the extra couple seconds that it takes to tie a pair of sneakers.

“ — you later, then, Reed,” she’s saying, squeezing all two of the large fingers she can easily fit in her hold. He frowns, just ever so slightly, returning the gesture, his hand engulfing hers. With a tug, he leans down, and she rises to her tiptoes to peck the corner of his lips.

“Later? Are you coming by again tonight?” He asks, sounding embarrassingly hopeful, still holding her hand near his chest, gaze stuck on those soft, plump lips as they part to answer. Her words strike him like a dagger through his heart, the confusion in her voice twisting the god forsaken knife until his ribs are left hollow. A dramatic internal reaction to such a simple sentence.

“Like, in class.”

“Oh… of course, sorry. Looks like I’m still waking up. Anyway, are you sure I can't give you a ride? It’s like the dead of winter outside.” How pathetic he must sound, how visible the longing in his brown eyes must be, for she places her palm over his heart, and smiles in a manner that draws the air from his lungs, easing the tenseness of his broad shoulders.

“Yes, I’m sure. I’ll catch the bus.” Fixing the strap of her bag on her shoulder, she steps backwards past his front door, turning halfway, pausing, then saying: “I’ll call you, and we’ll see about tonight.”

He nods, the door shuts behind her, and if the world was watching, they’d see the genius Reed Richards break out into a joyfully lovesick dance in his drawing room.

⠀⠀ ⠀

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tinydefector · 8 months ago

Text

Thundercracker rut cycle

Thundercracker x human

Rut cycle masterlist

Word count: 1.9k

Warnings: NSFW, Smut, giant/tiny, praising, sub Thundercracker.

This mech needs so much more with smut fics but gods did I have fun writing him getting treated to some praising.

_______________

The little human from earlier had Thundercracker's full attention. They are peacefully unaware of his burning gaze on them despite the sweet scent that came from their smaller frame, making him nearly snarl with want. His vents hitch slightly each time they shoot him a slight glance.

Venting deeply, the Seeker steadied himself. Fighting a losing battle to purge heated lines each time his frame caught a whiff of their scent, it was truly maddening to him, most times during rut he had Starscream or Skywarp, but as of recently neither of them had the time nor the interest.

"Hello, can I help you?" They call out to him their voice sounds so sinfully sweet to him that his digits dig into his servos as he watches them. They weren't afraid like many others of their species. Thundercracker vented sharply as the sweet scent of the little organic's arousal hit his olfactory sensors. His valve clenched and spike throbbed behind its panels at the alluring smell.

He reigns himself in enough to talk. Leaning down, his optics roved hungrily over the small creature's form. "Hello, fleshling," he rumbled, fans whirring loudly. The seeker cycled several intakes, struggling to override protocols screaming for him to claim a mate, he knew he should go and find one of his Trine or just another Decepticon but he was getting sick of getting sidelined over his needs.

"Your scent, it's very intoxicating" Thundercracker said gruffly. His plating felt too constricting against his frame, everything was screaming at his processor he needed to interface. The seeker loomed closer. They continue to watch him warily but relax slightly. "Oh, um thank you?" They feel rather exacerbated by the strange comment from the cybertronian. Their eyes flick to his vents that cast out loud whines with air as his plating shifts uncomfortably.

"Your species bears no reproductive cycles?" He questions helm tilted, most times all it took was remarking about their scent for Thundercracker to get someone in a berth during his rut, but now he's starting to question if humans actually have cycles. His panelling felt molten.

"Oh no, humans do have a reproductive cycle, we just don't tend to um.. smell it. Sorry you just took me off guard, I was aware that the Ark was on somewhat of a lock down due to your people experiencing some problems" They fluster slightly over saying it.

Leaning closer, the Seeker met their gaze. gritting his denta, as he tries to figure out the best way to broach the subject. "Are you alright, do you need me to get someone?" They ask softly. Thundercracker vented sharply as another wave of their scent washed over him. "Fraggit," he growled, fans whirring into their highest setting.

"I...apologise for my lack of control, it's getting to me. And no I doubt the other would be interested in helping" he vented. They look around for a moment, going quiet. "Close the door and sit down, you have to stay quiet though" they instruct while quickly making sure that they are the only ones in the room. "Do you want help with your problem?" They ask while motioning to his now leaking interface panel.

Thundercracker cycled a heavy ventilation as a whine leaves him, wings flicking at their words. "Primus, yes," the seeker growled, fans whirring loudly. He pressed the button for the door to close with a click, then lowered himself to sit on the floor. His optics burned hungrily as they roved over the human's smaller form.

The seeker cycled several intakes, fans howling as another surge of the organic's scent rolled over sensors. The moment they climb up onto his lap it has the seekers servos wrapping around their waist pulling them flush against his panel.

"Easy big guy, don't want you breaking me" they chuckle trying to make light of the situation. "Gotta be gentle with me, I'm human remember, I'm happy to help but you have to be gentle, tell me what you want pretty mech" they coo softly at him. Running their hands up his plating teasingly. Thundercracker managed to chuckle, though his voice carried a husky edge, betraying his own need.

"Alright, alright, I'll be gentle," he replied, his words laced with a mix of desire and restraint. He knew the importance of control, especially with a fragile being like this one.

They gasp as his servos cup their hips, feeling the way the metal digs into them through their clothing, They look up at him. " Is this alright?" They ask while slowly grinding against him.

The feeling has him nearly moaning as they grind against him. "Yeah, it's... it's more than alright," Thundercracker managed to reply, As they continued their slow, deliberate grinding, Thundercracker felt himself teetering on the edge of restraint. The sensation of their body moving against him, the heat and friction building between them, has groans and heavy vents of air falling from him.

Transfluid slowly leaks from the seams of his interface panel, as he continues to grind them against his heated plating. They gasp when the pink fluid begins to stick to their skin. "Didn't take you as one who liked humans" they chuckle softly,getting more comfortable as they continue to move against him.

"Oh, you have no idea," Thundercracker replied, his voice tinged with a hint of amusement. The pink fluid that now adorned the human's skin and clothing has an almost primal part of the mech wanting to just rip the fabric off them. As he continued to guide them in their movements, the sensation of their bodies moving together sent shivers of pleasure through him. "You humans have your ways of surprising me," Thundercracker remarked, a playful smirk playing on his lips.

"You seem to be handling yourself rather well for being in rut" they tease, playful touches continued to stoke the fire of his arousal. "Well, what can I say? I've had plenty of practice," Thundercracker replied, despite the overwhelming sensations coursing through him, Thundercracker found himself oddly at ease in the human's presence, much more than he would be with Skywarp or Starscream. He didn't feel like he had to put up the Decepticon facade.

"Don't get many chances for release?" They inquire, as Thundercracker begins to trace their body through their shirt, enjoying how soft and delicate they feel. "Though the Decepticons would want their troops in tip top shape " they discard their shirt for him to have more access to their skin.

"Release? Ha! You have no idea," Thundercracker grunted, his voice tinged with a mix of frustration and desire. "Peak condition? Yeah, right," Thundercracker scoffed, his movements growing more urgent as he touched their chest and stomach caressing and admiring. "The Decepticons don't care about our well-being, just our obedience," Thundercracker remarked, his tone laced with bitterness.

"Why do you stay with them then?" They hum as the cool metal of his servos trace down their chest and stomach, a deep hungry growl leaves him as the hormones and pheromones from their body make his own arousal more visible. "Why did I stay with them? It's complicated," Thundercracker began, his voice tinged with a hint of hesitation. The memories of his loyalty to the Decepticons, despite their lack of care for his well-being.

"Starscream and Skywarp are why I stay, they are my trinemates" Thundercracker explained, his movements growing more urgent.They move back enough to pull their pants off, throwing them to the floor and moving back to sit spread across his lap. "Come on pretty mech let me see what you've got hidden here, ill take care of you" Their bold actions sent a surge of desire coursing through Thundercracker's circuits, his systems humming with anticipation as they straddled his lap.

With a deep growl of longing, Thundercracker's interface panel opens his spike surge forth, transfluid leaking from it and down into his lap. "Oh woah" they stutter looking over the details and colours of his spike, the pink transfluid leaking through the ridges of his spike. they run their hands along it while moving closer for Thundercracker to grind against them. "I don't know if that will fit " the state shyly

"I assure you, it will fit just fine," he reassured them, his words carrying a hint of mischief and desire. As he lifts them up, slowly letting them get comfortable as he slowly presses into them. A loud moaned whine leaves them as Thundercracker presses his spike into their tight sex, his servos holding their hips as he grinds his spike deeper.

It is a tight grip and sinful feeling of how tight a human is wrapped around his spike. "Mmm, fuck never thought I'd be fucking a Cybertronian" they mumble thought a shaky breath. Gasping loudly as he thrust and rocks against them, never too rough with his movements.

As he grounds his spike deeper, feeling their body react to the tight grip, Thundercracker couldn't help but let out a low growl of satisfaction. "Mmm, that's it," Thundercracker's voice is a husky whisper, filled with desire. "You feel so good wrapped around me, human. Never thought I'd be indulging in such pleasures with one of your kind," he murmured, his tone laced with a newfound appreciation for the human before him. Despite the general disdain that Decepticons held towards humans and organics, he is rather enjoying himself.

Thundercracker found himself lost in the intoxicating sensations picking up his pace as he leaned back on the floor, wings twitching and stretching each time he tilted in them. feeling their tightness compared to Skywarp and Starscream, Thundercracker couldn't help but be amazed by how different it was, they are so much warmer and softer than a Cybertronian but took just as much of his spike.

"Mmm, you're something else," Thundercracker's voice was filled with admiration and lust. "You take me so well, frag im close," he confessed, his optics flicking off as he begins to buck into them. Their fingers scratch at his plating as Thundercracker growls lowly. He is so close to overloading despite not wanting to, his frame is pent up and this sweet little fleshling has him nearly a puddle on the floor due to how soft they are.

A primal moan escapes his vocalizer as he overloaded, grinding deeper into them as he holds them flush against his frame rutting into them trying to make sure they take as much of his transfluid as possible, little praises leave him as he holds them close. Loud moans leave them as they grip onto his plating as the bright pink fluid begins gushing from them, leaking into Thundercracker's plating and onto the floor. “ fuck..” they whine as they press their forhead to his frame.

“Are you alright?, your not hurt?” Thundercracker begins only for them to press back down onto his spike earning a mix of legitimate mix of words. “I'm more than alright blue but it looks like you need a lot more than just one go” they tease. Feeling how pent up he still is. He goes to move only for them to press a hand to his middle section. “Ah, ah no, I'm not done yet, pretty boy, you and I have some more getting to know each other to do” they coo at him onyk for his thrusters to flick on from their words.

Thundercracker could get used to this, he realises.

_______________

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woradat · 3 days ago

Text

SCENARIO: Hall of Record (1/2)

PAIRING – sentinel prime, airachnid, orion pax, d-16 x reader (bonus darkwing)

NOTE – please be informed that scenario-chapter is just an additional part/story that this expands on the HALL OF RECORD (one-shot) not a full series and this might come out a bit weird and a little out of character? I don't know. I wrote this fic with three lattes shot and a lot of confusion, so enjoy?

and you can tell who my fav is. I'm a little biased here

O r i o n P a x

The sound of the metal door—untouched for what might as well have been an eon—whined softly as it scraped against its timeworn track. The hinges gave a creak like an old archivist waking from a nap, cranky and reluctant, groaning at being disturbed after centuries of peace. It was a small sound, really. Barely louder than the low thrum of power conduits far down the hall

But to him, it was the sound of trespass

Orion Pax stepped inside as if the shadows might bite

Faint cerulean light dripped from ancient overhead strips, casting the corridor in the sort of glow usually reserved for ghost stories or forgotten secrets. The deepest level of the archive—the forbidden floor, shuttered by Sentinel before Orion had even existed—still exhaled softly beneath its shroud of dust and disuse. It felt less like entering a room, more like entering a memory that didn’t want to be remembered. He moved like a student sneaking into the dean’s office—half-curious, half-sure he’d regret it

His fingers grazed the edge of a shelf, careful not to disturb the decades of quiet. Or the dust. Especially the dust. It looked like it had unionized

“The Matrix…"

He murmured under his breath, blue optics catching the faint shimmer of dormant holograms “There has to be something here. A record. A clue. Anything” He leaned down, reaching for the ancient relay socket at the base of the console—

“Trigger that, and you’ll wake the whole sound grid"

The voice came from behind him. Calm. Dry. Unhurried. The sort of tone one used when catching a cat burglar who clearly forgot to check for traps. Orion flinched hard enough to rattle a few data shelves and spun around on his feet

You stood there, half-veiled in the shadow of a pillar—taller than he expected, posture relaxed, like someone who’d been waiting for him to trip the sensor just for fun. The faint light from your data reader bounced off your optics, revealing a gaze far too unsurprised to belong to a stranger

It wasn’t your first time sneaking in

“Who are you?”

He asked, voice low but edged with a kind of jumpy defiance. His hand inched toward the nearby control panel—not so much in defense as in that universal gesture of ‘I might make this worse but I’ll do something, I swear'

You didn’t answer right away

Instead, you let out a breath. You sighed—the long-suffering kind. Then tilted your head and gave him a look that could only be described as academic disappointment. You looked at him the way a librarian might regard a wayward patron using a sacred first edition as a coaster

“The better question is: what exactly are you doing here?”

“This isn’t a tourist wing. No one's supposed to be down here. Not unless you're a glitch in the system or a Prime in disguise" Your optics flicked over him like a scanner on autopilot—dusty fingers, light frame, and most telling of all: the cavity at his chest. Empty. No transformation cog. No fancy upgrades

A miner

Your field didn’t spike, didn’t flinch. Just took it in with the sort of ease that said: "Ah. One of those"

He bristled. Just slightly

“And what about you?” He countered, trying for defiance but landing somewhere closer to awkwardly offended “You’re not supposed to be here either… right?”

You smiled then. Not the friendly kind. The kind that curled at one corner like a page in a too-old book “Smart enough…” you said, arching an optic ridge

“For someone who leaves the ventilation hatch wide open while sneaking in"

He snuck into the archives more than once—and more than once, he stumbled into you. Neither of you had the right to be there. You both knew it. But you never sent him away and though you pretended not to care, you always watched him—always

Orion was like a flicker of flame brushing through the ashes inside you. A dreamer, yes—but not a fool. Funny, but never dismissive of history. Stubborn, but when you spoke, he truly listened. He wasn’t like anyone you'd met since the age of the Thirteen

He wasn't afraid to ask stupid questions and he wasn’t afraid of you. You often looked at him with a weary kind of exasperation, the sort reserved for someone who should know better. But he always laughed when you snapped at him, as if the weight of silence in the archive had never once touched him

You told him once—by accident more than intention

The air between you had been dusted with a kind of trust you hadn’t felt in countless cycles. A quiet ease. The sort that hadn’t truly touched you since the age of the Thirteen faded into ash

Orion Pax—a randomly-forged miner with far too much hope and far too little support—was the sort to chase impossibilities like they were his rightful inheritance. He reached too far, spoke too loudly, and stood too often where no one asked him to. And yet, he never stopped. Not even when they laughed

“..I used to be Alpha Trion’s aide”

you said, voice quieter than you expected

He froze. Then—almost immediately—he dropped down beside you, like the truth might vanish if he didn’t plant himself right there, fast enough to catch it. Surprise widened his optics, but so did something else—recognition. The name Alpha Trion carried weight: Scholar. Sage. Keeper of knowledge

“Really? I’ve heard of him, but it was always more like… like a myth—”

“It does sound like a story, doesn’t it?”

You gave a faint huff of laughter, more memory than mirth “But I was there. I walked the Hall of Records with the Primes themselves — I once transcribed battle doctrines meant to change the course of the war. I was Alpha Trion’s eyes. His ears”

“And now?” You gestured vaguely, as if your current state explained itself “..Now I’m ‘Advisor to the Prime’ Sentinel’s pet title”

“Sounds good on a datafile, doesn’t it?”

You let your gaze drift toward the ceiling “But it’s a cage. He doesn’t want my counsel—just my silence. He doesn't want me asking, no more. He says it’s time to let go of the past"

Your voice dipped on that last sentence, quieter than even you meant it to be. Beside you, Orion slowly set his hand—close to yours. Not touching. Not yet. But close enough for the intent to be felt

“So… what will you do?”

“How long will you let him keep you quiet?”

You looked back at the desk. Scattered with restricted data slates—salvaged from sealed archives. A few of which you had, perhaps, allowed him to read. Just fragments

Maybe, in some strange way, you weren’t so different from him after all. You’d slipped away whenever the chance arose. Found your way back into old vaults that should’ve been wiped from the map. You’d pulled truth from the edges of erasure, and hidden it in places no one else would look. In hopes someone, anyone—would find it. Someday

You smiled “It’s not like I’ve been sitting still"

He laughed—low and warm, like it lived in his chest “I think I’m starting to like you”

“No! I mean, I like it when you.. don’t just stay still!” You rolled your optics, but couldn’t hide the fact that the corner of your mouth twitched into a smile as well

“You gonna record me, then?”

“–If I ever turn into something important?”

You stared at him. Long enough for him to shift his weight, then chuckle—awkward and a little sheepish

“Kidding. I know someone like me doesn’t exactly scream historically relevant—”

“Please. I’ve been archiving you every days, spark-for-brains” You cut him off, tone dry, but softer than your usual “And if you ever do become something important… I’ll be the one to write that story. Properly. With footnotes”

He blinked — You didn’t smile–but your optics said enough

D – I6

The underground quarters of the labor miners weren’t much to look at

Concrete walls, low ceilings, overhead conduits that flickered as if sighing with age. Everything smelled faintly of rust and recycled air. It was the sort of place where voices fell flat against the metal and hope tended to decay faster than the tools on the racks. No one expected anything new to walk in and yet—one day, Orion Pax brought someone with him. Not a supervisor. Not a guard. Not an auditor sent from the upper halls

But you. You, who walked in with a step just slow enough to take in the room

Not cautious, exactly—but composed. Observing. Weighing. Like you had done this far too many times, and were still waiting to be surprised. D-16 recognized you before you even spoke. He had never heard your name—not officially. There were no public briefings with your designation, no files that reached the lower sectors. But he had seen you. On every state broadcast, every emergency address, every ceremonial function where Sentinel Prime spoke before the world. You were always there—never in front, but never far like the shadow just behind the throne

Orion had mentioned, in passing, that you had once served beneath the Thirteen themselves. The statement had sounded so absurd at the time—like someone claiming to have dined with myths. But now, standing a few meters from you in the dim half-light, D-16 wasn’t laughing

He swallowed. Then, before his mind could interfere with his mouth— “Did you… really meet Megatronus Prime?”

The words tumbled out like gravel down a mine shaft—too loud, too fast, and entirely unrehearsed

Immediately, he stood straighter. As if trying to fold the question back into his body by sheer posture. His arms snapped to his sides, shoulders tense, expression schooled into impassivity. But even a casual observer would’ve noticed how the plates at his spine had locked up stiff, and how his field—normally tight and subdued—now bristled with mortified awareness

Orion, standing nearby, shot him a sidelong look that all but screamed Seriously and pressed his mouth into a thin line, clearly biting back laughter. His field buzzed with that particular kind of amusement only friends could afford

But you didn’t look offended

You simply turned to D-16 with a slow, deliberate grace. One optic ridge lifted in mild surprise, not mockery. The look you gave him was not one of superiority—but memory. And something just shy of sorrow, your gaze slow and precise, like someone turning over an ancient page

“I didn’t think I’d hear that name spoken aloud” you said, voice soft and even “Not in this era. At least”

Something in the way you said it made the air feel older. D-16 opened his mouth to respond—then overcompensated entirely

“I— I mean, I respect him. Megatronus. I really do. Not that I don’t respect the other Primes! I do! It’s just—his power, it was… I mean, the records say he was beyond classification. Singular”

He said it all in one breath, like pulling off a bandage, or confessing something shameful. The words just stumbled out faster than he could polish them, tumbling over one another in a mess of admiration and awkward intensity. For someone usually so reserved, the enthusiasm betrayed him utterly — The silence that followed was so complete it could have been scripted. Orion exhaled sharply through his nose. If he’d had something to throw, he probably would’ve thrown it. But you—

You just laughed

Quiet. Warm. Deep. A sound dredged up from beneath centuries of dust, as if even your voice had forgotten how to smile “You’re the first to say his name with that kind of light in your optics since the fall”

“If Megatronus could hear you now, he’d probably be baffled that he’s become some kind of hero to miners” You tilted your helm, smiling just a little “Though, honestly, I’m not surprised”

D-16 looked like he wanted the floor to collapse beneath him. He rubbed the back of his neck awkwardly, trying to will away the flush creeping across his faceplates. But then—your voice shifted. Quieter now. Calmer

“I stood beside him. Yes”

You didn’t elaborate immediately. You let the weight of that admission settle, like dust returning to a long-forgotten shelf

“Not as a disciple” you said, after a moment “But as a witness”

D-16 froze. Not just with reverence, but intent. His posture didn’t just still—it listened “Was he really like the stories?”

You didn’t answer at first

Your optics drifted upward, tracing the long silver line of a power conduit above, but your vision reached far beyond it. You were looking back—through wars and ages, through the collapse of dynasties and the silence left behind “He was strong"

“Of course he was. But that’s not what stayed with me” Your gaze returned to him. You didn’t look at D-16 like he was a soldier or a worker—you looked at him like someone who had just asked the right question “What I remember most… was the way he shielded the weak. The way he stood between them and harm like he was born to carry the weight of their world, and never once questioned if it was too heavy..”

Silence again. But not a heavy one this time

A reverent, holding sort of quiet. Then, you stepped closer—not imposing, but deliberate. Your optics met his without flinching “If you want to walk his path…”

“Don’t begin with your fists, begin with what you’d give your life to protect”

You weren’t surprised that Orion kept returning to the old archive. He was persistent like that—drawn to lost records and locked doors the way some bots were drawn to light. What did surprise you, however, was that he started bringing D-16 with him. Not just once. Not as a fluke. But again. And again

Each time, the miner sat with his back straight, posture stiff as if the room itself required reverence. He never touched anything without permission. His focus was unwavering—his questions, clear and concise. Never a wasted word. At first, he spoke like someone walking on thin ice. Awkward, hesitant. Always respectful. And always—always—his questions were about Megatronus

“Did Megatronus ever overrule the other Primes?”— “Is it true he once fought a Quintesson with his bare hands?”– “What did his voice sound like?”

It was always about him in the beginning. D-16 would ask you to recount field notes not available in the public archives. He’d ask what Megatronus thought during the final war—what moved him, what held him back. And you told him. You told him everything you remembered. You spoke of war. Of victories. Of moments carved from metal and memory. You even told him how Megatronus once pulled you bodily from the battlefield—without hesitation

But then—quietly, gradually—his questions began to change. They grew softer. Slower. Less historical. He started asking about you instead. At first, you hardly noticed the shift. His voice was steady, his tone still careful. But the pattern had changed. His curiosity had turned inward—toward the storyteller rather than the story and you realized, one day, mid-sentence— You were no longer recounting the past. You were being recorded into it

He hummed

A low, thoughtful sound—less an answer than a pause, a space carved out to think, to consider. The kind of sound someone makes when they’re weighing the ground beneath them before taking a step they can’t take back and then, it came. The question.

Delivered with the kind of casualness that only made it more obvious

“And—did you… ever have anyone? Back then. During the wars" His voice caught near the end, like the question had tripped over its own boots on the way out

Your optics lifted from the datapad slowly. Not sharply. Just… knowingly “Anyone?"

It was a simple word, but layered with intent. You weren’t asking for clarification. You were asking if he knew what he was really asking

He immediately straightened his posture—a move so sudden it bordered on mechanical. Which was impressive, considering his spine had already been stiff enough to pass for reinforced alloy “I mean—allies. Or comrades. People you… trusted. Fought beside..”

The correction tumbled out like bricks falling into place—too neatly, too fast. His words tried to anchor the moment back into neutral ground, but the field around him betrayed him. It had shifted—subtly, but unmistakably. That buzz of restraint pulsing just a little too sharply at the edges. You didn’t respond right away. Didn’t reach for sarcasm. Didn’t turn away.

You simply let the silence sit between you—undisturbed, like dust in a sealed room “I had those” you said, voice low, level. A truth you’d long since polished smooth from memory “And more..”

That did it. The datapad nearly slipped from his fingers—just slightly, just enough. He caught it without looking, reflexes honed from years in the mines, but his control faltered for a breath. Long enough for you to feel the ripple of heat in his field. Not embarrassment. Something quieter. More sincere

he muttered “Right, of course- makes sense”

His optics stayed locked forward, trained on some far-off point just above the floor. Nowhere near you. Nowhere dangerous. And after a moment that pulsed like a heartbeat— He said it – So softly it barely left his frame “I think… I’d like to be one of them.”

The words didn’t echo

They didn’t need to

They settled into the room like something that had been waiting a long time to be said. You turned to him slowly

Not with surprise. Not with mockery. But with something gentler. Quieter. As though he'd just offered you a piece of himself he wasn’t used to sharing—and didn’t yet know if he should regret it. He didn’t meet your gaze. Couldn’t. But you noticed the tight line of his jaw. The slight tension in his servos. The way his shoulders rose—just enough to brace against whatever answer you might give and his field—normally so disciplined—was frayed at the edges. A flicker of static in his composure. Like a transmission that wanted to say more but didn’t know how. You didn’t press — Didn’t tease. Just… watched him, the way one watches something rare and very carefully offered, without changing your tone, you smiled. Not the kind of smile meant to reassure. But the kind that held memory in its corners. That knew what it meant to be seen

“Then start by asking better questions” you said, voice low—carrying more warmth than he probably knew what to do with “I might even answer them”

The corner of his mouth twitched. Barely. But it was there. Not quite a smile. Not yet

But close

You hadn’t said it like a joke. You hadn’t said it to dismiss him. You said it like you meant it. Like there really was a door, just slightly open, and all he had to do was reach and that—that was dangerous

Because he wanted to. He wanted to know more. About you. Not just the archive, not just your history, not just what you’d seen. You. The way your voice changed when you spoke of memories that mattered. The way your optics drifted skyward when you thought no one noticed. The way you never laughed at his awkwardness—only… watched. Quietly. Kindly. Like it didn’t bother you at all

He let his helm rest against the wall

Shut his optics

Let out a slow vent

He shouldn’t get caught up in it. He knew that. He was a miner. A worker. Just another cogless bot trying to survive and you… You were memory incarnate — You carried wars and wisdom in your voice. You stood beside Primes. You remembered gods.

What business did he have wanting to be remembered by you?

But still—under all that logic, that silence, that self-restraint— His spark pulsed just a little faster

S e n t i n e l P r i m e

The corridor stretched long and silent, wrapped in a hush that felt too deliberate to be natural—like a room holding its breath

Ancient murals loomed on either side, half-lit by overhead glowpanels designed to mimic the old morninglight of pre-war Cybertron. Each image painted a different fragment of the same sacred lie: unity, strength, unbroken lineage. The brushstrokes were delicate, reverent, rendered by artists who had believed the Primes were eternal. Immortal. Immutable.

You moved through that quiet with hands folded neatly behind your back, each step measured, silent. You had walked this wing hundreds of times before. Cataloged each pigment, each artisan’s mark, each brittle metadata layer coded beneath the paint. But now—even the images you knew by spark felt… remote. Like they belonged to someone else’s story. Your gaze paused at a depiction of Solus Prime—tall, radiant, her forge-hammer glowing in the cradle of creation. But the dataplate had been changed: “Commissioned in honor of the Divine Reconstruction”

Reconstruction?

That plate hadn’t been there last cycle..

Your hands clenched slightly behind your back, jaw tightened. Then—footsteps. Not hurried. Not stealthy. Just… assured. You didn’t need to turn. The rhythm was unmistakable

“You always did prefer this wing”

The voice came soft—too soft. Like an echo meant to blend in with the art.

“The lighting’s better here” you replied evenly “Less curated”

Sentinel Prime’s presence filled the space behind them long before his frame did. His silhouette—massive, statuesque, lined with cold gold filigree—moved into view with all the ease of a king inspecting his garden. But his steps were quiet. Thoughtful. He approached not like a ruler claiming ground, but like a memory creeping forward on quiet feet.

“I remember” he said, now beside you

His tone was warm. Familiar. Intentionally gentle “You used to drag me here to correct plaques. Spent hours lecturing me on timeline deviations”

“I let you talk. You do know that, don’t you?”

Your optics flicked toward him, then back to the mural “I wasn’t lecturing”

“You were” he said, smiling “But you were right. Mostly” His voice was lower now, quiet enough to ripple through the stillness like heat. He was standing just close enough for his shadow to graze the edges of your frame

You turned toward him at last. Slowly. He was tall. Too tall. The kind of height that once symbolized protection—but now only loomed. You wasn’t small, not by any Cybertronian standard, but beside him, you looked like something meant to be set aside. Kept behind glass. Preserved “That didn’t stop you from rewriting it all”

His smile twitched. Only slightly

“Things change”

“Convenient”

“I’m not here to argue”

“You never are” The space between them was thick with old familiarity, but strained now—like a song slowed half a beat too long, dissonant where it once sang in sync

“I miss when we used to talk” Sentinel said, his voice thinning with a note too careful to be casual “Real talk. You—challenged me”

“so I’m still here”

“You just don’t like the shape of the challenge anymore” He moved a little closer. Not to dominate. But to surround

“You don’t have to fight me..”

“I’m not fighting. I’m resisting. There’s a difference”

His expression shifted—only slightly. Not quite hurt. Not quite angered. But something beneath the surface moved “Then stop resisting” he said, barely above a whisper “Let me in again”

The words hung too heavy in the air

You turned to face him fully now, field flickering slightly—not with fear, but warning “You’re not asking me to let you in. You’re asking me to comply. To pretend none of this happened. That this mural, and the hundreds of others like it, still mean the same thing”

A long pause. Then—quieter “You want me to become part of the illusion..”

He didn’t deny it. Instead, his field pulsed faintly outward—magnetic, warm, intentional. The kind of closeness that might’ve once felt like comfort. But now only pressed too much, too close “I never wanted to lose you in this”

“Out of all bot, not you”

The words were too tender. Too particular

And you heard it — The inflection. That little fracture of emotion that didn’t belong in a public address. That wasn’t meant for a former archivist. That—if left unchecked—would lead to something harder to survive “Then you shouldn’t have replaced everything we stood for”

Silence

He didn’t step away. Not yet. But his gaze lowered just slightly. Not in defeat—but in the careful weighing of what he couldn’t control and just before leaving, Sentinel said—so quiet it barely moved the air “You don’t have to be the last relic of the past, you could be part of what's next”

“There's still a place for you, beside me”

Then he turned. The shadows swallowed him slowly, step by step, until only the lingering hum of his field remained—warm, familiar, and unbearably wrong. You remained there, surrounded by murals of rewritten myths and stories you no longer recognized, stared up at Solus Prime one last time. And for the first time in cycles…

You couldn’t remember what color her optics had been before Sentinel repainted her

You had always wondered—quietly, carefully—why the miners had no T-Cogs. Why these workers–those newborns, forged strong and silent beneath the surface of Cybertron, lacked the very thing that made transformation possible.But it was only ever a question left unspoken. Not because you lacked curiosity—but because you knew Sentinel would never answer you

And so speculation took root. Not in accusation, not yet. Just quiet observation—hypotheses formed in the hush between truths, the kind no one dared to say aloud. Still, you didn’t want to believe it. You couldn’t. Surely not even Sentinel could be that cruel, could he? Or at least, that’s what you told yourself. Until you could see it with your own optics

He treated you much the same as he always had. The teasing still lingered in his voice, familiar as a memory. The smiles came easily, often too easily—warmer than necessary, threaded now with a tension you couldn’t name. He could have just wiped you off. Silenced you. Replaced you. But instead, he kept you close. Closer than before. You told yourself it was strategy. Easier to watch you. Easier to contain

But perhaps, just perhaps— he couldn’t bear to let you go. Perhaps Sentinel had drawn you so deep into the architecture of his world that the thought of ruling it without you — felt incomplete, dangerous, like failure. And so, in every public address, every state broadcast and ceremonial decree, when he stepped into the light and into the eye of the world— you were always there. Not to speak. Not to challenge. Not to stand as an equal. But simply to stand. Beside him as if that alone would be enough. And it was. That’s all he needed. For the new age he ruled to begin—with you still in it

The plaza had been remade—not merely rebuilt, but reborn for this very moment. Steel arches arced overhead like the fossilized ribs of a long-dead colossus, burnished to a gleam beneath the planetary sun. Between them hung banners of deep cobalt, stitched in gold thread so fine it caught the light like fire

THE ERA OF CONTINUITY, they read

Beneath that, the unmistakable crest of Sentinel Prime—repeated, mirrored, multiplied across every surface like a sigil of divine right. A thousand optics turned as he emerged onto the marble dais. Flanked by honor guard. Flanked by silence.

And flanked by them — You followed exactly half a step behind, as protocol required—close enough to signify loyalty, far enough to signify subordination, your frame was immaculate under the precision lighting, each panel polished, each edge adorned with ceremonial filigree. Upon your chestplate gleamed the freshly-forged insignia of Principal Historical Advisor to the Prime—a title announced only a cycle prior, yet already murmured through the chambers of power like scripture passed hand to hand

Sentinel raised a hand

The plaza obeyed

“My fellow citizens of Iacon” his voice unfurled like silk over steel—calm, crystalline, unyielding “today marks not only remembrance—but restoration. A new page. A unified future”

He didn’t shout. He didn’t need to. His voice carried like gravity—inevitable, inescapable

Behind him, you held your stance with exquisite poise, expression serene, the curve of lips calibrated to precision—not warmth, not joy, but symmetry. The kind of smile meant for monuments, not mouths. You weren’t unrecognizable. You had merely become… curated — A fixture, flourish

“In every age of transformation” Sentinel continued “we must reach not only toward innovation—but to those who hold the lineage of wisdom. And so, I walk forward with those who once stood beside the Primes themselves” He turned—just slightly—enough to cast the gesture like a flourish of choreography, an artist unveiling his favorite piece “My advisor. My historian. My conscience”

Applause

You bowed, flawlessly. An angle measured. A nod practiced

“They remind me—daily—that the past is not to be erased, but honored”

And that, you thought behind your perfect smile, is what a lie sounds like when it wears poetry for armor

The crowd didn’t know. Couldn’t know

They didn’t see the redacted records, the vanishing cross-references, the warped timelines spliced together like a forgery passed off as scripture. But you did, knew every phrase pre-approved for the interview after this, knew which questions to feign surprise at, which answers to lace in ambiguity, which smiles to hold half a second longer—for the press, for the pose, for the pageantry

When the mic was passed to you, you spoke clearly. Without tremor “It is my privilege, to ensure that the light of Cybertron’s past still guides our steps. We move forward… not in forgetfulness, but in reverence”

The voice did not falter. But behind your back, fingers curled

Just slightly

You could feel him watching. Not with threat. Not with command. But with the kind of gaze one reserves for polished statues—an artifact restored, admired, and displayed. He stepped closer. Just enough for proximity to read as intimacy to the cameras drone. Just enough to veil the weight behind the words “That was beautifully said” he murmured

You didn’t even look at him “I know”

“You still surprise me sometimes”

“I shouldn’t”

He laughed. Quietly. It sounded like warmth. But you knew the tone was forged from pressure. You just smiled again— for the cameras, for the world, for the lie. All the while counting the seconds until they could shed this costume of allegiance—

and return to silence. To truth. To records that hadn't yet been rewritten

The applause hadn’t faded. Not truly

Even as the final words of the speech dissolved into the crisp evening air, even as the recording lights dimmed and flickered out, the plaza still thrummed with the afterglow of orchestrated pride. A thousand optics shimmered with patriotic sheen. The banners above caught the wind like the sails of a sanctified warship—reborn, rebranded

Sentinel turned slightly as they stepped from the marble dais. His hand extended—not in earnest assistance, but in something more… choreographed. Just close enough to suggest warmth. Just distant enough to deny obligation

You did not take it. You descended with mechanical grace, each movement refined to ceremony, smile remained a studied curve, not a flicker out of place, electromagnetic field was wound tight, compressed close to frame—static-thick, airtight. But Sentinel didn’t retract. He adjusted A beat. A breath. Then he fell into step beside them. One hand still positioned loosely at their back—not touching, not quite, but present. Suggesting

“You handled that perfectly” he murmured, voice pitched just for them—an intimate register dressed in silk “Even that line about reverence” he added, with a glint behind his words “It almost moved me”

“I was quoting your own speech, from six cycles ago. You just don’t remember”

He laughed—quiet, indulgent “That’s why I keep you close”

His hand settled lightly at the small of your back. A touch that, from a distance, would read as fondness. Dignified. United. Photogenic. The Prime and his trusted advisor—a tableau of loyalty

You didn’t recoil. But felt it. The message in the weight of it. The duration. The confidence. The performance. You tilted your head a fraction—not a glare, not yet, but a signal

“You’re taking liberties” you said, voice sheathed in quiet silk. A murmur passed as jest—but honed like a blade

“I’m taking advantage of optics” Sentinel countered, unapologetic “That’s what this office demands” He leaned just slightly toward you, as if confiding something lighthearted. The angle of his smile curled with practiced ease “Besides” he added, almost inaudible beneath the hum of the crowd “if I wanted to take liberties… I’d be far less subtle”

Your optics slid toward him — Sharp. Unblinking. Glacial “Then it’s fortunate, that subtlety suits you. It keeps your hands clean”

He didn’t respond immediately

Let the silence grow roots. Let the proximity say what words couldn’t. Then, with the grace of a ruler accustomed to applause, he stepped ahead. Half a pace. Reclaiming the lead. Shoulders squared. Expression unblemished. A portrait of command. A symbol of benevolent strength. Behind him, you followed. Impeccably. Your smile still worn like enamel. Uncracked

The drone captured the moment—the Prime descending the steps, his advisor close at his side. A soft brush of proximity. A glance. A smile. Unspoken trust. Unshakable partnership. A unity sculpted for the archives

You kept the pace

Matched the image

“You don’t want me. You made that clear from the beginning”

“No” he said, softer, took a step closer now “I said I could no longer have you in the same way”

Unmasked. Unarmored. No shield of title, no pageantry of power. You’d forgotten how tall he was. Or perhaps he had been refitted—Prime-forged and sculpted for presence. It hardly mattered. What mattered was how close he stood now, and how easily someone like him could end you if he wanted to. One strike. One breath

And yet — He never had. Not once. Not with force. Not with violence. He wasn’t that kind of tyrant

“You were a pillar” he said, voice slow, deliberate “Unshakable. I relied on that. Trusted in it”

“But this world—my world—has no place for things that do not change” His tone was not cruel. It was… sorrowful. Almost reverent. The voice of someone delivering last rites to something sacred “That doesn’t mean I wanted to break you”

“You’re the last piece of a world that made me who I was”

A i r a c h n i d

The hallway this time was brighter

Wider. Less suited to shadows, and yet—still quiet enough for things to go unnoticed

You stood near the polished threshold of a secondary archive chamber—one of the newer annexes built under Sentinel's regime. The walls were smooth. Unscuffed. Sterile in a way that felt unnatural, like something grown in a vacuum instead of history. Every surface gleamed too perfectly. Nothing here had aged yet. Nothing here had memory. You scrolled slowly through the contents of a datapad—not reading, not truly. Just moving. Optics skating over headlines, edit trails, deleted citation links. The silence here was curated. Sculpted

You weren’t here for the records

You were waiting

And right on cue “You're early today”

The voice arrived like a brush of silk through charged air. Smooth. Deliberate. It always was. Familiar now—but still edged like a knife’s smile. You didn’t look up immediately, didn’t have to

You already knew who it was

Airachnid was leaning against the terminal bank, as though she’d been there since the system powered on. One hip balanced lightly against the edge, arms folded, posture relaxed—but not truly at rest. Her helm was tilted just enough to unnerve, like she was watching from an angle no one else thought to use. Her smile was slight, carefully measured. It didn’t quite reach her optics, but that was the point

“You’re very consistent” you said mildly, glancing at her from the corner of your optics “Do you clock in like this for everyone?”

“No” Her tone was a velvet purr, low and intentional “Only the ones worth watching”

“I’m flattered”

“You should be”

The silence that followed was thick enough to hold shape. You looked back down, scrolling through the datapad with a laziness that masked purpose “Do you enjoy this?” you asked, voice light

“Watching me sort metadata? Or is this just another item on your schedule?”

Airachnid’s helm tilted further, just a fraction “Do you enjoy testing the patience of your security detail?”

“I prefer to test the depth of curiosity”

That earned a quiet sound from her. Not quite a laugh—more a click. Dry. Surgical. Like a scalpel being returned to its velvet-lined case “You don’t strike me as the reckless type”

“I’m not. But I’ve spent more time speaking to corrupted code than to people lately. You’re more intriguing than most encrypted files” Airachnid uncrossed her arms with slow precision and stepped away from the terminal bank. Her movement was seamless—gliding, but deliberate. Too fluid to be lazy. Too elegant to be harmless

“Careful. Curiosity makes a poor shield”

“So does ignorance”

They stood across from one another now.

Not close enough to touch, but close enough to read nuance. Like two scholars dissecting the same artifact, each searching for a different truth beneath the same surface “Tell me something” your voice gentler now

“Were you always like this?”

Airachnid’s optics narrowed slightly

The light from the overhead glowpanels traced cold reflections across her faceplate, catching in the sharp line of her jaw, the subtle gleam of her plating “Define this” she said—quietly, but with that razor-curious edge. Like she was offering you a choice: explain, or be dissected

You didn’t flinch

“Loyal to the point of silence. Efficient to the point of invisibility — I don’t think I’ve ever seen someone hold power so tightly… without wanting it”

Airachnid said nothing. She simply looked at you. For longer than was polite. Longer than was comfortable. Not with surprise—no, she rarely wasted optics on emotion but with something like scrutiny. A kind of analytical regard, like she was reassessing a threat level. Then, just a half-step forward. Just enough to be noticed

“What makes you think I don’t want power?”

“Because you already have it. And yet, you stay in the shadow of someone else’s crest” You didn’t hesitate, voice remained even

Her smile shifted at that—small, curling inward like a claw retracting just beneath the surface. It wasn’t a smirk. It wasn’t for show. It was closer to truth

“You assume I follow him”

“Don’t you?”

The silence that opened between you wasn’t heavy—but precise. Like a scalpel laid on a sterile tray, gleaming and untouched. No breath. No movement. Just tension wound in stillness “I serve Sentinel Prime” Airachnid said, her tone glass-smooth “Because he knows where he’s going. And because he gave me a place where I no longer have to pretend”

You didn’t blink “Pretend to be what?”

Her optics glinted—cool light on polished alloy, the gleam of a trap sprung just enough to warn

“Anything less than what I am” That landed harder than you expected. Not just the words. But the way she said them. The calm certainty. The unapologetic sharpness. You watched her—still, quiet, measuring

“He trusts you”

“Utterly”

“That’s rare”

“That’s earned”

This silence felt different. No longer stretched like wire across a minefield. It settled between you like cooling metal—coiled, yes, but no longer poised to strike. A mutual understanding, or something close. You gave a small nod

“Thank you. For the conversation”

Airachnid didn’t nod back. Didn’t tilt her head. Didn’t break the mask. She simply said, plainly “I’ll still be watching”

“I know” You turned back to the datapad—but didn’t move. Didn’t scroll. Didn’t type. Your hands rested on the console’s edge, tension vibrating faintly in the joints

Behind you, Airachnid moved with the silence of trained instinct—less like she walked away, more like she was subtracted from the scene — Gone. Clean. Seamless. Somewhere behind her careful silence, something lingered. Not doubt. Not regret. But the smallest flicker of recognition. The way one predator sees another in the wild—not a threat, but a mirror. A different species of survivor. She’d known from the first time she was assigned to monitor you

You were dangerous

Not because you fought. But because you watched. Because you remembered. Because you asked questions like knives and in this golden empire built on curated truths, it was those who asked quietly that had to be watched the closest. As her shadow faded into the long corridor. Airachnid didn’t look back. She didn’t need to. You were still there—rooted in archives, cloaked in dignity, poised like a weapon Sentinel still thought ornamental and if there was war coming beneath the sheen of peace

Airachnid would not choose a side

She was the side — Already chosen, already loyal, already lethal

Sentinel doesn't have the time to watch you every day. To follow you. Track you. Monitor your movements. And that’s precisely why Airachnid does it in his place. He entrusted her with the task—assigned her to keep a careful, unflinching eye on you. To guard you, yes. But also to measure. To evaluate. To intercept, if needed — She has never failed him before and so, Sentinel has no reason to question the arrangement

When you are not with him then you are with her. It’s always one or the other and you’ve grown used to that rhythm. Far too used to it. Used to it enough that you’ve begun to speak with her. Start conversations. Ask things. Curious. And, strangely—perhaps suspiciously—Airachnid lets you

She allows the exchange. Doesn’t cut you down. Doesn’t shut you out. Maybe it’s a tactic. Maybe she’s letting the walls fall just enough to get closer. To make it easier when the time comes—when Sentinel finally decides to erase you but you know how to play this game. You’ve survived long enough by knowing when not to step away. And you’re not about to waste the opportunity now

“You already have power and yet, you stay in the shadow of someone else’s crest”

She almost laughed at that. What a foolish perspective. Sentinel isn’t her shadow. He’s her axis. He gave her a place where she didn’t have to soften herself to fit. You doesn’t understand that kind of loyalty. Because theirs is built on memory. On rules. On history. And all of that burned. Still—Airachnid cannot help but.. observe you

You doesn’t speak like a politician. Doesn’t stand like a servant. You carry something harder. Older. The weight of someone who has seen too much truth to be satisfied with a lie, but is too tired to shout it anymore. She doesn’t hate you. That surprises her. She respects. And that’s dangerous. Because it means that if Sentinel ever does order her to remove them— it won’t be clean. It won’t be mechanical. It will leave a mark

The archives were quiet, but that’s nothing new. What was new, though, was the feel of someone waiting in the wings—someone not standing in the open, but lingering just at the edge, just beyond the light, as if they were the shadow. Airachnid’s presence was invisible, like most things she did. The moment Reader began to analyze data once more, she appeared at the edge of their peripheral vision, standing just far enough not to intrude. She didn’t speak. Didn’t even move. She just waited

“I thought you’d be occupied” you said, voice not accusatory but more curious “Or are you always so quiet?”

Airachnid remained still, like a spider perched at the edge of its web.

She didn’t look directly at them. Not yet “Sometimes” her voice just soft enough to blend into the silence of the chamber

“quiet is all that’s needed”

“You’re not here for me to ask you questions”

Airachnid shifted her weight slightly, taking one step closer without breaking that eerie calm that surrounded her “I don’t answer questions” she said, stepping into the slight illumination cast by the panel. Her silhouette now clear, framed in the soft light “I observe. That’s what you wanted, isn’t it?”

You turned, but the motion was slow, thoughtful “Observing? ..or controlling?”

Airachnid tilted her helm a fraction of an inch, her optics glinting in that same sharp, calculating manner they’d seen so often. Yet, this time, there was a softness, a subtle understanding that hinted at something deeper “If I wanted control, I wouldn’t have left you alone long enough to ask me that question”

There was a moment of hesitation—of silence that stretched far longer than it should have. You lowered your optics, a soft chuckle escaping their lips, though it wasn’t directed at Airachnid

“You do like keeping your distance, don’t you?”

“Distance is necessary” Airachnid replied simply, her voice like ice melting in the sun “But observation... that’s personal”

You stopped, looked at her again—not with caution, but with genuine curiosity. For all her quiet, for all her efficiency, there was something about Airachnid that had always fascinated them. The way she moved—measured and deliberate. The way she saw things others missed

“Why do you stay here? Why stay with Sentinel?”

Airachnid’s optics darkened slightly, but she didn’t look away. Her answer came with a slight, almost imperceptible shift in her stance

“I don’t stay. I’m here because I choose to be”

You let the question settle, watching the way she stood, poised but not impatient and just as your optics lingered too long, just as your mind shifted—Airachnid’s hand moved, almost without a thought. She slid a small data disk onto the edge of the console. Not just any disk. One with new directives “It’s not what you’ve been told to look for” she said softly, almost as if she had read the question forming in their mind “But it’s something you’ll need soon”

You stared down at the disk, thoughts moving a mile a minute, hadn’t expected this. Not from Airachnid, not from someone so loyal to Sentinel. But the glance she gave them—fleeting, calculating—spoke volumes

“Just make sure you don’t miss it”

she added, before stepping back into the shadows, fading from view once more. The disk sat there. Silent. Waiting. As if it, too, knew that its secrets had already begun to spill, even before you had reached for it

She remembers their last conversation—low-lit corridor, quiet exchange. The way they tried to read her.

As if she were text on a slab of archive steel. ‘You can’t catalog a predator’ she thinks. And yet… something in you had watched her not with fear, but effort. Like they wanted to understand. To connect

It was foolish. Possibly suicidal. But it was real and real things are rare — She reports to Sentinel later that cycle. The conversation is short “They’re stable. Contained. But restless” Sentinel leans back in his chair. Fingers steepled, voice soft

“And still trying to find where they belong?”

“You’ve already decided where they belong”

He smiles. That cool, refined smile that has sealed fates without ever raising his voice “Then make sure they stay there”

She nods once. No hesitation and yet—Later that night, she walks past the corridor where you sometimes works late. She does not stop. She does not speak. But she slows. Just for a moment. And in that moment, she wonders ‘If they ever fall… will I warn them first?’ It is a thought that should not exist. So she leaves it behind, buried in silence. Where it belongs

Sometimes when you sneak out to hide in the old archives that are considered a forbidden place for no one to invade, or even when you talk to the bots that you shouldn't, she doesn't report that to Sentinel

BONUS ON

D A R K W I N G

The lower quarry shook with the thunder of drills

Sparks flew. Gravel sang under heavy treads. Miners shouted to one another over the noise—some urgent, some desperate, most ignored. And at the center of it all stood Darkwing. Massive. Smudged with energon soot. Half-snapped shoulder armor from who-knew-what yesterday. He barked at two workers who’d paused too long

“I said get it moving, you slagging excuses for bolts! You want the Prime’s wrath down here next?! MOVE!” He raised a reinforced datapad like he was going to throw it. The worker scrambled back —someone coughed

A soft, polite cough. A very high-ranking, polite cough. Darkwing froze. Turned–

You stood at the edge of the overlook, flanked by two silent escorts and dressed in the calm, formal sheen of someone who did not come here to yell, ust… to observ

“Oh. Uh. Sir—Ma’am—Advisor—”

Darkwing stiffened, saluting with one shoulder (the only one still intact) “Didn’t, uh—didn’t know you were coming down today”

“It was unannounced” you replied mildly, stepping closer “I was told this sector has been underperforming”

Darkwing nodded too fast “Yes! I mean—no! I mean—uh—there were some delays. But nothing that can’t be—! Well, you know. Handled. Promptly. Professionally”

You raised an optic ridge. Behind him, a miner who’d just been shouted at looked up, mouth slightly open at the shift in tone “We noticed an unusual spike in damage reports from your crew” you continued

“Yes—eh—that’s…” Darkwing tried to scratch the back of his helm. Realized he had a dent there. Scratched beside it instead “We’re in a rough phase. You know how ore layers get. It’s the… uh. The fault of… geology”

You stared. He stared back.

Then laughed—awkwardly. Loudly “Heh! Cybertron, right? So unpredictable!”

The silence behind Reader was immediate and cold

“We’ll be reviewing your operation logs and your conduct notes”

“Absolutely. Please. All yours. I love paperwork. I dream of audits”

“Of course you do” You turned slightly to speak with their aide, but before they could finish a sentence— “Would you—like some energon, Advisor? We have, uh, local brew. Very unrefined”

“...No, thank you”

“Good choice. It’s terrible”

You looked at him one last time. Measured “Carry on, Supervisor”

Darkwing saluted again—sharper now. Nearly knocked his own helmplate with the angle. Once advisor and their group disappeared from the walkway, he let out a sound between a groan and a short-range radio malfunction

Behind him, one of the miners whispered “Did you just call geology unpredictable?”

Darkwing glared “SHUT UP AND DIG”

Maybe it was Sentinel’s bad habits rubbing off on you. Or maybe it was your own emotionally-repressed tendencies finally leaking out sideways. Because, sometimes.. you enjoyed bothering Darkwing. There was just something undeniably satisfying about watching him get flustered—just a little. The way he’d fidget, posture, start to sweat wires the moment you casually inquired about the progress reports and mining quotas under his jurisdiction. Naturally, that only made you press harder. Because why wouldn’t you?

It was fun. In a terrible, twisted, borderline-unethical kind of way. It wasn’t you. You swore it wasn’t you. And then when you know Orion and D-16. After that, well—let’s just say you suddenly found a lot more reasons to “personally inspect” the lower levels of the mines. Every now and then, you’d find an excuse to stop by. Just a quick visit. Just enough time for a few questions. Some light conversation. Perhaps a little friendly interrogation

Occasionally, you had to bribe Darkwing with a few of Sentinel’s private assets— Nothing serious. A datachip here, a high-grade component there but most of the time? You just threatened him. Nicely. Harmlessly. In that special way that makes guilty bots break into a cold sweat and confess things they didn’t even do. Honestly, it was probably fine. Mostly …Probably

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