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transformers-spike · 7 months ago

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"Is this why the Autobots are fond of humanity? To indulge their sweet heat cycles? How many human mates has Optimus taken for himself? It seems as though their motives to protect them were never altruistic, much less noble." PLEASE, PLEASE GIVE US A SUB-STORY WHERE THIS TIME IT'S OPTIMUS AND A HUMAN SO IN THEIR HEAT CYCLE PLEASEEEE

Idk am I creating a humans in heat universe for the TF Fandom? I know people like making the bots go through it but I think the humans being affected is so much funnier. Just begging these massive robots to fuck us lmao

How must it feel to burn from the inside out? Betrayed by your own body, rendered unable to function by the fire in your core. You described it as an aching, an insatiable need to appease the hormones overtaking your nerve endings. A mere touch is enough to worsen the ache, it’s what your body dictates in the throes of a heat cycle.

Cybertronians are forged by Primus Himself, their interfaces exist for recreational pleasure and bonding, but your species is biologically programmed to reproduce, like most of the fauna of your planet. It’s a systemic sacrifice, one rendered obsolete by the sentient status of your species. Drugs have been produced to suppress your heats, or at least lessen the effects. Unfortunately, among a dozen varieties of medication, you are either allergic or completely immune to them, leaving you susceptible to your hormonal whims. He is sorry. You must go through so much pain every few months, but you barely show it, brushing off his concerns with a laugh, saying “it is what it is” and moving on as though your body isn’t on a timer. He admires you for it. In spite of your discomfort, you haven’t given up. Once, you told him: “So what if they don’t work on me? I just gotta roll with the punches and hope for the best, it’s been my M.O. since I got the damn thing.” Meeting them for the first time… was turbulent to say the least, but you’re safe and sound, relocated to Jasper, having adjusted to your new life with the help of Agent Fowler. You’ve told them many times you’re infinitely grateful to be in their lives (barring the near death experience at the servos of an Insecticon). For them it’s a pleasure to ease your burden. You’ve eagerly established your consent, although only Arcee is the right size to properly take care of a human. Digits and glossas can only do so much compared to a spike. He tries not to pry, your privacy is yours to divulge at your leisure, but he cannot ignore the charge building up behind his interface when he sees you with the others. Yes, he is an occasional participant, but he will rather cover shifts and allow them some well-deserved respite in your berth. They deserve it. He dares not imagine Arcee’s spike pumping in and out of you, satiating your aching body, filling you to your limit as you beg for more.

Your scent lingers in the air, caressing his sensors, a gentle hand tugging him along by the servo, pulling him in your direction. They try to keep it to themselves, but his team is beyond a doubt intoxicated by your presence alone. Thankfully, it has (almost) never impeded their judgment during missions; perhaps it has even served as motivation to make it back to base in one piece. He tries to ignore the gleam in his old friend’s optics after quelling your urges, if only for a night. Or Bumblebee's praises coming to you as a slow stream of beeps while he nuzzles your face. Or Bulkhead cradling you to his chassis like a precious artifact as you discuss what late night movies you should watch. Or catching Arcee kissing you over the mezzanine and pulling back with a smile she hasn’t worn since Cliffjumper’s death. You bring them together in your own special way, even if you blush and sheepishly deny it, claiming you should be thanking them instead Recent discoveries have yielded an impressive increase in energon and brought forth new opportunities. With unparalleled quantities at their disposal, they can now mass displace. The transformation is no small feat, it exhausts their system and rapidly drains their energon level. But he will not forbid Bumblebee from using it to play with the kids as long as it’s not in excess. Nor to join you during heat cycles. Much like Bulkhead. And Wheeljack. And especially Ratchet. Primus forbid, his old friend has every right to enjoy himself to the fullest after all of his back-breaking work. He’s been meaning to pay you a visit, but he hasn’t found the time until now. In the temporary abode you set up in the base, away from the prying eyes of the kids, you prepare yourself for another heat. Some refurbishing was done to meet your needs (in no small thanks to June Darby and agent Fowler’s financial help); the mattress and the mini fridge was a given, but you’ve added a variety of personal belongings and entertainment; a television, a writing desk, a few “bean bags” here and there, and a pile of old magazines to scrapbook. He wonders if you consider this place your home more than your actual house in Jasper. You greet him while downing a bottle of water, holding up your hand to signal for him to wait. Once emptied, you place it next to the mini fridge, among a wide array of bottled water crates. That would explain the groceries June had brought in with Arcee’s help. As a medical professional she’s especially fretful over your condition, doing her best to prevent the risks of heat cycles, bringing you plenty of calorie dense fuel to combat the massive loss of nutrients. He has not forgotten the fear they experienced when they found you shaking from the deficit, having completely overlooked your hunger in a midst of desperation. In this form, he can appreciate the full extent of your body without fear of hurting you, kneading the supple flesh beneath his digits as you giggle and pull him into you. He does not tower over your reclined form as much as he encases you in a careful hug, hearing the rapid thrum of your human spark directly against his audials; he may sense your pulse rate, but experiencing it is a new wonder of its own. You tell him you missed him and you wish he would let himself go and come out to “obliterate your pussy” more often. He nods and apologizes for his absence even as you shush him and insist he enjoy himself as well. He is… the largest Cybertronian you’ve taken, you remark while adjusting to his size.

“Except maybe Wheeljack,” you add cheekily, already bucking into him. Your composure evaporates as he works you up, not to say that he is much better. He steadies himself over you, charge trickling down his interface as your walls clench around him in a vice-grip. You beg him for more, plead that he frag you until you can’t take it anymore, but he has grown used to your requests and knows when your body has reached its limit. You whimper and claw at his back plates, flush against his frame yet dragging him closer as though to merge your human spark to his.

If only he could.

Slow and steady, he frags you through your overloads, each one adding a new surge of spark down his frame until he comes to his end. You are small and shaking, but in this form he can properly hold you against his chassis and comfort you through the afterglow, bringing you another bottle of water and a Clif bar (chosen for the human scaling a mountain with “If you eat this you can kill God” in big bold letters).

You stir and sit up on shaky knees to accept his offerings. Halfway through your meal, you eye him up and down.

“Are you going to stay some more?” you ask with hopefulness, still chewing on the “ultimate nuts and banana power” concoction advertised on the packaging.

“I’m afraid not, Ratchet has been hard at work deciphering Decepticon encryptions, I will be taking on his duties for the night,” he tries to break it gently, expecting crushed expectations, not your bemused expression looking up at him.

“So you’re sending him my way?” You give a chuckle. “Wish we could have spent more time together, but work is work. Just…” you crawl into his lap and hug him as tight as you can, head resting against his chassis. “Please come back tomorrow. Or after tomorrow. I miss seeing you this way. I won’t get between you and… whatever you have going on, but please visit me more often. You have no idea how nice it feels to be around you.” His gaze softens, glowing faintly against your hair. “So I’ve been told,” he says, a smile on his lips. “As long as it lightens your burden.”

#transformers x reader #transformers x human #transformers prime #optimus prime #tfp optimus #tfp arcee #tfp bulkhead #tfp bumblebee #tfp optimus x reader #tfp ratchet x reader #tfp arcee x reader #tfp bulkhead x reader #tfp bumblebee x reader #omegaverse???#damn the reader gets all that spike #tfp wheeljack x reader #valveplug

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jpitha · 1 month ago

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With Friends Like These...

The alarm startled N’ren. It had a mechanical, animalistic howl which hurt her ears. It was so loud, that she could feel the deck plates vibrate under her feet, tingling with noise. As she looked around, she could tell that it bothered the humans too, but other than a small flinch when it went off, it seemed to energize them. They all got more focused, more serious and moved faster.

The trip had been a whirlwind of sights, sounds, smells, and other sensations. N’ren Kitani, as the ranking officer of the Mel’itim - The Discoverers - was selected by the Captain to go over to the human ship and meet them. The fact that she was part of the secret police, and if she were… killed by human treachery it would not be considered that much of a loss to the crew was not lost on N’ren, but as much as she disliked the taste of that thought, she had to admit it did make sense. She had more training on body language and politics than anyone else aboard. Even if she didn’t know the details of the human’s political situation, she - probably - could see the larger picture easier than anyone.

She needn’t have worried about any human treachery. They had been more than accommodating to her and her needs, and everyone was fascinated by her presence. She knew that they were merely curious, but their close set eyes following her as she was given a tour of the ship was unsettling.

Menium - the K'laxi ship - had been in contact with the human’s own ship AI - called Longview - and between the two of them they had worked out a rough translation of the two sapient’s languages. Their language was an unintelligible garble of sounds and phonemes to N’ren, but Menium was an excellent translator, and she had managed to understand and be understood.

They had invited her to a meal and while she attended to gathering gladly, she didn’t eat anything. Not only was eating unknown food from a new group of sapients she had just met madness, Menium had warned her that some ingredients the humans used was toxic.

After the meal, N’ren had explained the war with the Xenni, how they were trying to expand their territory, and how - without some help - the war would last for decades at best, and be over quickly with the K’laxi being subjugated by the Xenni at worst. Three K’laxi border colonies had already been captured, and a dozen deep space stations had been destroyed outright. Almost exactly as she finished explaining the war, the Xenni came through the system gate and the humans’ long range sensors had detected the missile launches. N’ren had warned that they tend to go after ships with their energy weapons after the missile launches, and sure enough everyone aboard Longview heard the thunderclap report of the energy weapons ablating part of the Starjumper’s thick hull.

N’ren knew that the discovery of the humans, with their gigantic starships and wormhole generators was exactly what the K’laxi needed to turn the tide of the war. She needed to get back and report this new race to Fleet Command.

She was jolted back to reality by a human shouting at her in that staccato language they had, full of fricatives and harsh consonants. Menium spoke to her as the translator and she was able to get a sanitized and generalized version of what they actually said. N’ren didn’t think Menium needed to do the voices for different people though. Still, the point got across. It was time for her to go. Now.

“Leave? But, the checks aren't finished! Does my Captain know? She’ll need to make preparations.” N'ren said, worried.

"No. No time. Go Now. Your ship talked to our ship. They figured it out." The human was hurriedly putting on an armored pressure suit while talking to N'ren.

<Human Francine is right N'ren.> Menium said - in their regular voice - through the comm. <Longview and I have worked out the details and I know - mostly - how to operate their wormhole generator. Can you believe they’re actually giving us their own FTL drive? The Mel’itim command’s fur is going to puff out to twice it’s size when they see it.>

<Mostly operate it?> N’ren said back to Menium, worried. <Is it dangerous?>

<Is it more dangerous than getting captured or destroyed by the Xenni?> They countered. <No. Is it more dangerous than taking the Gates? Most assuredly.>

<Wait, never made contact?> N’ren hadn’t had time to speak to the humans about the other sapient groups they knew, but she had assumed they had met someone.

While N'ren put on her pressure suit - unfortunately not armored like the humans' - she wondered why Menium sounded so excited. They had never exhibited this kind of behavior before. It was more like she was talking with a person instead of the flat, matter of fact speech of a ship.

As she tightened the last ring on her gloves, she felt, rather than heard the strikes. Huge booming thumps along the bottom of the human ship and suddenly her suit shrieked that the pressure was dropping rapidly. Her large inner ears along with her prehensile tail gave her a better sense of balance than the humans; she was able to feel Longview start to rotate along it's axis.

"What's going on?" she asked Francine, the human that had been helping her thus far.

"Longview's rolling to keep your ship out of the firing line." Francine said, though Menium’s translation. "Longview's a big, old ship, she can take it" she said, and grinned through her helmet.

“Old? How old is Longview?”

Francine stood up and stared off into nothing for a moment. “She must be at least two thousand years old at this point.” She said and moved her head up and down vertically, once. “Yes, about two thousand years old."

Two thousand- <Menium, is that a translation error?>

Another brace of explosions rippled down the hull, knocking everyone off balance. Francine put her hand on N'ren's shoulder and pushed. "Go. Now." There was another explosion, this one larger. "RUN.”

As N'ren ran down the halls of the Longview, Menium reminded her to run on the right side of the hall as humans - all in pressure suits - ran with purpose around her. She noticed that more than a few humans were carrying weapons. <Why the weapons?> N'ren asked her ship.

<They're preparing to be boarded.> Menium said.

<What? The Xenni don't do that!>

The idea of humans forcibly docking with an enemy ship and pouring in, attacking gave N’ren chills. She made a mental note to report this to the Mel’itim.

N'ren made it to the umbilical that connected the two ships. There was a group of humans bustling around the docking room, checking settings and tossing crates through the umbilical towards Menium. A human engineer noticed her arrival and waver her over. “N’ren, your ship is ready. Our ship taught your ship how to work the wormhole generator and we're ready to set you off and escape.” He gestured towards the umbilical as he spoke. “We're going to push you with the docking arms, so don't hesitate to fire your main drive. Our hull is thick, your drive exhaust will be barely a summer breeze to us, we'll be fine." He grinned and stepped back.

“What about you? What are you going to do?" she asked.

"Oh, Longview is very old. She was a Starjumper before we developed wormhole generators. She’s practically more engine that ship. We'll turn our Stardrive on them as they come around. No worries!"

What did that mean? She wondered. Aloud she said “Sorry, I meant your wormhole generator. Aren't we taking it?"

Impossibly, the engineer grinned harder. "Oh, no we bottled a message and used the generator to link a beacon back to human space. Someone will come and bring us a new generator in a week or two. We'll be fine."

More explosions wracked the ship. The engineers grin fell as the ship began to vibrate worryingly. "Go. We'll be fine, but if you hold up much longer there won't be any ship left!” He clapped her suited shoulder and gently directed her towards her ship. “I’m glad we met. Go and tell your people."

****

Back on the command deck of Longview, the ship was relaying information to Captain Erlatan.

"Captain, Menium has been pushed away, and they're boosting away from us at their full speed. A small group of attacking ships has peeled off and is giving chase."

Suddenly, there was a blinding flash, and Menium was gone.

“It looks like Menium figured out the wormhole generator." Captain Erlatan said. "Excellent. Longview, shall we shake off our attackers?"

"With pleasure, Captain. Permission to engage War Emergency Power and thrust at 6 gees for 3 minutes?"

"Permission granted. I authorize you to use War Emergency Power. In the case I am incapacitated you are free to make your own decisions to continue the mission, save the crew, and save your own life in that order. Acknowledge."

“Acknowledged, Captain. War Emergency Power engaged. Fuses and limiters removed. We can operate at WEP for eighty three minutes before permanent damage occurs.”

If someone was watching the battle from a great distance, they would see Longview begin to rotate along the axes of the massive flywheels deep in the center of the ship. N’ren didn’t even get to see them in the tour. The humans were friendly and accommodating, but they knew that everything they showed her would get reported back. No need to give away all their secrets.

Longview oriented itself until the rear of the ship was facing the swarming Xenni ships. Thinking they were turning to run, the Xenni pressed their attack, and grouped together to concentrate their fire. When they were a few dozen kilometers away, Longview lit its old relativistic Stardrive and a jet of pure white, kilometers long, shot out the back as the ship thrust away at a withering six gees. Everyone on board was secured in acceleration couches or command chairs and while it was very unpleasant, it was over soon enough.

Moving too quickly to dodge the jet of pure physics, the Xenni ships were destroyed the instant the torch of exhaust played over their hulls. None survived to report the incident back to the Xenni Consortium.

I bet you thought I forgot about you! I'm still around, I'm still writing, though you'll probably see my stuff more on Royal Road or Reddit these days. I'll still post here when I can though. This is a major re-work of a very old story of mine, and I'm planning on expanding it out into a full length novel about first contact between the humans and k'laxi.

#writing #humans are deathworlders #humans are space orcs #sci fi writing #humans are space oddities #jpitha #humans and aliens #humans and ai

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smallestapplin · 2 months ago

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Do you have any headcanons for the Rescue Bots dealing with a drunk human s/o?

I can do you one better and give you scenarios cause I’m in love with this and need you to know so you give me more rescue bots

Also i apologize, my character limit is three so I picked Chase, Heatwave, and Blades, but if anyone wants Boulder lemme know in my inbox!

Chase

It’s not uncommon for you to spend the night or come over at odd hours, Charlie gave you a key and Chase permission to have you over at anytime, if only to help the bot loosen up and come out of his shell a little more. However when you didn’t arrive Chase grew a little worried, of course he didn’t ask if you would as you have a home of your own, but he likes having you over.

He hates to admit it but his berth feels larger and emptier without you, however he does shoot you a message around one in the morning asking if you had arrived home safe, and yet nothing.

He can’t recharge in these conditions. Until the sound of the door opening reaches his audials, how odd everyone should be asleep by now. Chase leaves his habsuite, flicking the main light on just to see you squinting under the bright light.

“Dear, there you are! I was quite worried about you, how was your friend’s creation day?” Chase makes his way to you, bending over to try and pick you up, only to blink when you stumble forward and practically fall in his servos.

You smell of something his Olfactory Sensor can’t quite determine though he doesn’t find it very pleasant. His spark hums with worry as he gently lifts you up, but blinks confused when you lean against his thumb, looking up at him with such a glazed over loving expression he wasn’t use to seeing.

“You’re pretty.”

His brain module nearly short circuits as you kiss his thumb but keep your eyes on him. He clears his intake, resetting himself from this momentary shock.

“Thank you, as you tell me. But what happened, should I awake the chief?” His scanners show no signs of damage, nothing seems to get harming you.

“Nooo, I..I wanna go to bed with my boyfriend.” You look so sad it makes his engine purr lowly to tr and comfort you as best he can.

“We can go to my habsuite and let you rest-“

“No! I need my boyfriend, I need Chase.”

The bot stands there, optics squinting trying to figure this out, you informed him humans refer to their pre-conjunx endura’s as ‘partner’s or ‘boyfriend and girlfriend so, isn’t that him?

“But that is me, correct? Aren’t I your boyfriend Chase?” He even glances at the calendar to ensure he remembers correctly you two have been together for a little over a year now, it’ll be three months ten days and two hours until your next anniversary.

You blink lazily at him before squinting up at him. Chase tilts his helm in mild confusion at your act and behavior, though it seems all is forgiven when you perk right up, big smile on your face as you reach up for him.

“Chase, I missed you! Come here, please, I wanna smooch my bot.” You try to move closer, but he is already raising you closer to his face.

“I am not sure how you missed me when I have been here with you for the last thirty seven minutes, but I missed your presence too.” He tries to quell the need to bwoop his siren at you, even now he still wishes to show you cybertronian courtship while you smother his metalic cheek in so many messy kisses.

“It is late, may I take you to my habsuite for a recharge?”

“Mhm.” You aren’t even listening just nuzzling your squishy cheek against his like a happy cat.

Once he lays down with you to his chassis you are out like a light, curled up and holding one of his digits sleeping soundly, until of course morning. Chase is an early riser, always awaking with the sun, but that has never been your style, even now when your eyes slowly open and the weight of a migraine hits you.

Your pained groans stops Chase in his tracks, optics swiftly looking for any bruising of injury he might’ve missed or accidentally cause, but you just curl into him tighter.

“Dear?”

“Please….ask Charlie for some migraine relief…and a ginger ale…and water.”

He sets you gently on his berth, making sure the makeshift bed you made here is comfortable for you before rushing off to ask for the exact things you requested. Though Chase is now being told about human drinking and the side effects it causes, which explains your behavior last night.

Though Charlie gives him a few extra things, snacks to get something in your stomach.

Blades

A little celebration never hurt anyone! Movie night with friends made it even better, what’s the harm in a little drinking after a rough week? You don’t drink often, but it was nice on occasion. Dani was trying to speak to you, but you were already long gone mentally, your elbows on the mini table while your chin rested in your hands, your eyes locked onto Blades.

Dani was struggling not to laugh at how utterly smitten you looked, she swears if this was a cartoon you’d have little hearts surrounding you as you gazed at your big Cybertronian boyfriend. Blades wasn’t oblivious to it either, he could see you and feel your eyes boring into him, it made him flustered for you to do it so openly.

His cheeks flushed blue with energon as he tries to look back at you but he keeps looking away, his thin wings fluttering with his spark thrumming loudly in his chassis. Dani calls your name, and you can barely answer with a hum.

“You know you’re the one who picked this movie, don’t you wanna watch it? Or are you gonna stare holes into Blades all night.” She snorts as you just sigh dreamily.

“But he’s s’cute, Dani.” You groan, your head spinning but you swear you’re whispering, though to everyone else in the room you most certainly are not.

Blades giggles covering his face with his servos, he enjoys your public displays of loving him but he will never get use to knowing you love him so much that you want to show off, and let everyone know just how much you do love him.

“Dani,” you whine your friend’s name, “do…do you think I have a shot?”

“What?” Dani raises an eyebrow at you, devilish smile on her face as she realizes where this is going.

“What?” Even Blades looks at you confused, what do you mean ‘have a shot’ with him? You two are already together? He even did the human dating rituals perfectly you said!

“Why don’t you ask him yourself, I’m sure Blades would love to.”

In your drunken haze you stare at her with a pout before looking to Blades’s confused face, your expression instantly softens at the mere sight of him. The second you stand up you lose your balance, the world spinning a little too fast for you. Blades stood from the couch quickly, easily catching you and holding you gently as he places you in his lap, as he has many times before.

And yet you were staring up and him like he was he worlds greatest hero.

“Are you single?” You breathed out, hushed and airy.

Blades blinks, his yellow optics flickering between you and a very smug looking Dani as he tries to figure out if this is a test or not, is this like the time he asked you if you’d love him if he was a worm?

“No, I’m not single, you-“ blades cuts himself off when he notices the instant shift, how your eyes fill with tears and how you try to very poorly hide how you’re sniffling.

“See, I told you, no bot this pretty would be single!”

Dani pats Blades’s arm with a shake of her head, “You have fun with this, I’ll be sure to have some stuff ready for their pains in the morning, good night!” And with that she leaves him to deal with his drunken beloved.

Blades shushes you softly, placing kisses all over your face until you’re giggling at how ticklish it feels.

“I’m with you, silly!” He smiles at you, glad you stopped crying but there you go again looking at him like he hung the moon and stars, his spark can’t take it!

“Wow….”

Blades whines, finally breaking from your voice sounding so in awe.

“I got so lucky.”

“Stooop.” Though he can’t stop the giggles that leave his intake, who knew having a drunk partner could actually be so fun and silly? Though he gets the feeling you won’t be pleased about it in the morning, seems your high grade effects you like it does cybertronians.

Heatwave

Heatwave only asks for one day, just one for some peace, he just wants to spend downtime with his conjunx but since it’s Kade’s creation day (or birthday, as the humans say) his team, you, and the Burns are together to celebrate. the party stretched on, and the second Cody went to bed Kade busted several differen oddly shaped bottles, as far as Heatwave was concerned it was nothing.

Despite having sat in a dark part of the yard watching the chaos unfold, you mostly sat with him on his shoulder, cuddling up to his helm, only occasionally requesting down when you wanted a drink or a snack from the food table. Heatwave clenches his jaw noting you’re taking longer this last time, you haven’t come back yet.

Glancing over to the party goers he sees you swaying but not to the beat of the music, more like you’re going to fall, though Graham is there first, easily helping you sit down, which is enough to finally worry him into going over and making sure you’re okay. Once Heatwave is close enough he can hear your conversation.

“My Conjunx will be grumpy you’re touching me.” You’re pouting angrily, squinting your eyes at Graham as your muddled mind barely remembers a thing.

Though it makes Graham laugh, “When isn’t he grumpy? Please, just stay here and let me get you some water.”

The engineer mutely sighs when you refuse, determined to stand up and find your lover, until you are shoved back into your seat with a single finger. You blink, trying so hard to glare up at the cybertronian that pushed you back down.

“Go get them that water, I’ll keep ‘em here for ya.”

“Thanks, Heatwave.” Graham says, rushing off into the house o get you that cold water.

Meanwhile you are staring up at Heatwave with a less than pleased expression, making him tilt his helm at you.

“Well, don’t you look like a ray of sunshine tonight. What’s got you up in arms?” He teases, smiling as your pitiful glare only grows more fiery.

“Hands off! I need to find my Conjunx, he’s probably worried by now.”

You are far too cute for your own good, do you know that? Heatwave will remind you of that when the high grade wears off, or whatever humans call it. Though he can’t help but chuckle, at least he knows you’d fight people off with a stick if you must. The large bot crosses his arms, smug smirk on his face.

“Oh yeah? Tell me about this Conjunx of yours. Must be a great guy to land a little thing like you.” His voice purrs in tune with his engine.

You finally smile wide, your eyes sparkling under the starry sky as you look so happy to be asked such a thing.

“He’s a big grump with a heart…a spark of gold, I swear I don’t think I could’ve gotten anymore lucky than him. I miss him…I miss him a lot.”

Heatwave cries to hold back a chuckle but fails horribly as he mocks a coo at you, “Aw poor thing, where if your conjunx?”

You flop back in your seat with such a sad whine, “I don’t knooow!…I want my Wavey.”

“Sweetspark, I’m right here, you dork.”

You look back up at him, squinting your eyes suspiciously at the large mech.

“Oh yeah? Prove it.”

Heatwave rolls his optics, shaking his helm at your drunken antics, “Our spark bonding ceremony was last fall, per your request mind you.”

“Anyone could guess that!”

Heatwave stare at you meeting your judging gaze for a solid minute, long enough for Graham to come back and hand you a bottle of water, and leaving you once more since Heatwave is there to care for you. Though you two don’t break your staring contest.

“That ring on your finger was given to you by me, I only had the Chief’s help to get it for you.”

“Mhm that’s what they all say!”

“….If it weren’t for the fact I loved you I would throw you.” He sighs, but that doesn’t stop his playful tone.

You stick your tongue out at him and turn to focus opening and sipping from your water bottle, grumbling how Heatwave would make you do this if he was here. One last ditch effort, you are picked up, much to your loud complaints as Heatwave turns, making sure his back is facing any potential people as he opens his chassis, right to his spark chamber.

Your eyes widen at the dark blue spark glowing, thrumming loudly now you can hear it. The hairs on your arms stand on end as his EM field washes over your body in a silent caress. Heatwave closes his spark chamber back up and looks at your with a raised optic ridge.

“Hi Wavey.” You coo, “I missed yooou, it was awful, I was gonna die.”

Heatwave snorts a chuckle rumbling deep in his chassis as he places you back on his shoulder.

“I’m sure were, but I missed you too, it was awfully lonely without you.” He mutters, optics glowing warmly as you cheer softly and nuzzle into the side of his helm.

You’re so cute, too cute.

The hold you have on him is one he could never explain, even in the morning when you’re pulling your blanket over your head and whining in pain, declaring you’ll never drink again. His cute little conjunx, even when you look at him so pitifully he can’t help but fall in love all over again.

#transformers x reader #transformers x reader fluff #rd blades x reader #transformers rescue bots x reader #rescue bots x reader #rescue bots blades x reader #rescue bots heatwave x reader #rescue bots chase x reader #transformers x human #gn reader #rd chase x reader #rd heatwave x reader

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akula-blue · 2 months ago

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Ok so we've talked about mech dysphoria and dysmorphia before yeah? Your body doesn't feel the same when you climb out of a mech, doesn't feel 'right' anymore.

Too few limbs, not enough sensors, everything feels too big, now that you're not? There's no more combat stims and pleasure chemicals either, you're down to just your stock standard dopamine, which you have a clinical deficiency of now, btw. You struggle to pick objects up, your hands an unfamiliar shape, with not enough strength. You struggle to get out of bed sometimes because you can't tell what proportions things should be anymore?

Yeah, all that has been discussed to death.

What about communication?

What about pilots who, just, can't talk outside of their mech? Become socially inept without all the assistant systems they plug themselves into within the cockpit?

Think about it, mech combat becomes very disorganised very fast if it's allowed to. We are talking clashes of potentially dozens of war machines, the size of buildings, with enough guns to level cities. Orders need to be direct, easily understandable, followed immediately, actually projected onto the pilot's vision.

Every order, every report, every sentence, is punctuated by hundreds of layers of feedback. Tactical simulations and overlays, attachments for battlefield plans, every order having many implied conditions transmitted to the pilot through code and dictionary references to make sure a pilot cannot POSSIBLY misinterpret it in the few seconds before the command should be executed. On top of that, each order can also be wired to project a different cocktail of stim/pleasure chems/whatever have you, ensuring a pilot knows exactly what to feel about the order, establishing the priority of it through the pilots own brain chemistry.

And the same can be true about communications between squad mates! So much of it would be sending those same simulations around as sit reps, or enormous data packets containing not just the words the pilot is trying to say, but also links to relevant information and mountains of meta data, establishing tone, intention, context. Within the cockpit, a portion of the onboard AI is delegated to parsing this metadata, projecting it into the pilots consciousness, speeding up the process of understanding these mountains of digital documents to mere moments.

Now put a person used to that in a social setting. Where they are not made instantly aware of what someone is talking about or referring to. Where they cannot just query an AI and receive every piece of relevant info at once. Where they have to understand the subtext of what that person is saying without any metadata to indicate sarcasm, annoyance, disinterest. Where they are unable to understand the many nuances of communication and body language and expression without the helpful hand of their mech's processors. Hell, where they don't know how hearing certain things should make them feel without the presence of the chemicals to guide their response. Imagine them seeming lost outside of their mech, unable to talk or connect anymore, the social, human part of their brain having atrophied from disuse much like their neurotransmitter production. Imagine them scurrying back to the safety of their mech where, in the digitally overlaid world, everything is so much clearer and understandable and-

HAS THIS BECOME AN AUTISM METAPHOR???

#mech posting #mech #mecha #mech pilot #mechsploitation #autism #autism metaphor #neurodivergent #neurodiversity #lancer #lamcerrpg

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tinydefector · 3 months ago

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Human Effect - Scientific studies SMUT

Perceptor x Reader x Brainstorm

Word count: 3.8k

Warnings: Valveplug, Smut, fingering, oral receiving for the reader.

Masterlist

_____________________

It's a few days later when the Ambassador walks into the laboratory, their skin is flushed and they look uncomfortable over the whole situation. "Perceptor, can you run some tests for me? I came into contact with one for the flowers Traxies has, he's finally opened up and I was chatting with him and he was showing some of the flowers he has, and I think I'm having an allergic reaction to it" they call out while moving closer as both Brainstorm and Perceptor watch them.

"Christ I feel like I'm burning up and it's too hot in here" they huff out while climbing the stairs up onto the table. Preceptor's field immediately flared with concern as the ambassador entered the laboratory, their flushed complexion and strained voice instantly catching his attention. His cooling fans kicked into a low hum as he stepped forward, his optic scanning the ambassador with a practiced precision. As he presses a digit to their forehead. "An allergic reaction, you say?" Perceptor murmured, his tone calm but laced with urgency. He gestured toward a nearby diagnostic bench. "Please, take a seat here. We shall run the necessary tests to determine the extent of your reaction."

Brainstorm, on the other hand, was already leaning forward from his workstation, his optics narrowing as he observed their clearly distressed state. curiosity and unease, though a faint flicker of something else lingered just beneath his optics. "Burning up, huh?" the engineer remarked, his voice tinged with a hint of intrigue. Both mechs involuntarily stiffened, their sensory arrays picking up on the subtle but unmistakable spike in their hormone levels. The scent hit their olfactory sensors like a jolt.

Perceptor's vocalizer clicked faintly as he focused on maintaining his composure. "I must ask," he began, his tone measured, though his field betrayed a faint ripple of unease, "was this flower one of the specimens Traxies recently acquired? If so, it may possess properties we have yet to fully document. He tend to bring back a large variety of them from expedition" His servo hesitated briefly before gesturing toward the scanner. "I will need a sample of your blood to confirm the presence of any allergens or foreign compounds."

The ambassador nodded, their discomfort evident as they sank onto the diagnostic bench. " I didn't think much of it at first, but now I feel like my body’s on fire," they muttered, their voice strained as they pull at their collar trying to cool doen their body temperature. They glanced between the two mechs, their flustered expression deepening as they noticed the subtle hum of their cooling fans. "And why is it so damn hot in here?, I thought the laboratory was cold, Is it just me?"

Brainstorm makes an awkward static buzz, his optics darting toward Perceptor before quickly looking away. "Uh, nope, definitely not just you. I mean, it's warm here, but, uh..." He trailed off as he tried to focus on the readouts rather than the ambassador's flushed appearance. Perceptor shot Brainstorm a warning glance, his field rippling with a subtle reprimand towards the other scientist before he turned his attention back to the ambassador. "If the flower does indeed contain an unknown compound, it may be inducing a reaction within your system that requires immediate attention."

As Perceptor takes a quick blood sample, his optic flickered with faint unease. The scent in the air was undeniably affecting his systems, even as he fought to suppress the distracting signals flashing on his Hud. though a subtle warmth crept into the edges of his frame. Beside him, Brainstorm fidgeted, his cooling fans audibly kicking into a higher gear as he struggled to focus on the task at hand.

"Right," Brainstorm said, breaking the tense silence. "So, uh, if this is some kinda weird alien aphrodisiac thing because I can currently see every atom and molecule of their scent right now and my sensors are blaring with warnings and notifications." His optics darted back to the ambassador, his field pulsing with barely concealed apprehension. "Not that I’m saying that’s what’s happening or anything! Just, uh, covering all the bases." Preceptor's field flared with a sharp pulse of exasperation, though his voice remained calm. "Brainstorm, please refrain from such crash terms. The priority is ensuring the ambassador's safety, not indulging in baseless hypotheses."

The ambassador, still visibly flustered, let out a soft groan as they leaned back against the bench. "I don’t care what it is—just fix it. I feel like I’m gonna combust if this keeps up," they muttered, their voice tinged with desperation. Preceptor's optic softened slightly, his voice gentle with reassurance. "We will resolve this, ambassador. Rest assured, you are in capable hands."

As the scans begin, both mechs work in tense silence, their fields betraying their mutual determination to stay focused despite the distracting scent lingering in the air. It was clear that the situation was affecting them both, their systems struggling to suppress the reactions triggered by the ambassador's elevated hormone levels.

As the two scientists work their optics flick back to the Ambassador to check on them, they are sprawled across one of the medical benches in the lab half their uniform discarded as they fan themself trying their best to lessen how hot they feel, the cold surface of the table helped. "Please tell me you guys have found something?" They ask eyes fluttering open to look at the two mechs, the Ambassador nearly whines at how cold Brainstorms servo feels against Their flustered skin when he comes over to check them.

Perceptor cleared his vocalizer with a faint click, his optic narrowing as he focused on the scanner's readouts. "We are making progress," he assured, though his voice carried a slight strain. "The compound from the flower appears to contain a potent pheromone-like substance, one that our physiology is reacting to." Brainstorm’s servos twitched, his optics flickering with both concern and a barely concealed nervousness. "Yeah, uh, it’s kinda like an aphrodisiac, but cranked up to eleven, we don't have a cure for it" he added, his tone hovering somewhere between clinical and awkward. "It’s messing with your system pretty bad, huh?"

The ambassador let out a soft, frustrated groan, their head tipping back against the cold surface of the bench. "You think?" they muttered, their voice thick with discomfort as they fanned themselves with a loose sleeve. "I feel like I’m going to melt into this table. And whatever that flower did to me, it’s making everything feel a hundred times worse," they added, their gaze flickering toward Brainstorm as his servo brushed against their arm. A shiver ran through them at the coolness of his touch, and they let out a soft, involuntary whine. "God, your hands are freezing... Thank God."

Brainstorm froze for a moment, something between alarm and barely contained fascination flashes through his system. "Uh, yeah, well, y’know, mech servos are good for more than just tinkering," he said, trying for humor but failing to hide the nervous edge in his voice. Perceptor shot him a pointed glare, His voice softened slightly, his tone laced with a rare gentleness. "The cold surface will help mitigate your symptoms temporarily," he said, gesturing toward the bench. "However, until we can synthesize an antidote or at the very least, a suppressant we must ensure that you remain hydrated and as comfortable as possible."

The ambassador nodded faintly, though their breathing remained uneven, their flushed skin glistening faintly under the lab's artificial lights. "Comfortable, right," they murmured, their voice tinged with a mix of exasperation and helplessness. "I don’t think ‘comfortable’ is even possible right now."

" uh, Perce, how long do you think it’ll take to whip something up?" His voice trailed off as his optics flicked over the ambassador again, his field pulsing with barely concealed heat. "This doesn’t exactly look like something we can just wait out." Preceptor's optic narrowed as he focused on testing the blood samples with different chemicals in hopes of finding something that will dull the effects of the aphrodisiac, his servos working with practiced precision despite the distracting scent in the air. "If the compound's structure is as straightforward as it appears, I should be able to synthesize a suppressant within the next hour," he replied, his voice tight with concentration. His field pulsed with a subtle warmth, betraying his own struggle to maintain focus. "In the meantime, Brainstorm, ensure that the ambassador remains hydrated. Their elevated body temperature could lead to dehydration if left unchecked due to sweating."

Brainstorm blinked, his optics widening slightly as he processed the request. "R-right, hydration. Got it!" he stammered, quickly moving to retrieve a small bottle of water from the lab’s supplies. He returned to the ambassador’s side, his movements uncharacteristically cautious as he offered it to them. "Here, uh, drink this. It should help... a little, at least." The ambassador’s fingers brushed against Brainstorm’s digits as they took the water. "Thanks," the ambassador murmured, their voice soft and a little breathless as they took a sip. Their gaze lingered on Brainstorm for just a moment too long, and the mech’s optics flickered with a mixture of guilt and fascination.

The Ambassador presses themself back into brainstorm servo trying to get as much of the cold metal surface pressed against their body. A soft moan seems to leave their lips as Brainstorm let's his digits trace over their skin. "Please, it's too hot, your servos feel nice, don't feel like I'm burning" they mutter softly to Brainstorm.

Preceptor's frame stiffening as the scene before him unfolded. His optic flickered toward Brainstorm, who stood frozen, his optics wide and glowing faintly brighter as the ambassador pressed closer to him. Brainstorm’s field spiked with an overwhelming mix of arousal and hesitation, his digits twitching as the ambassador guided his servo between their thighs. The scent of their hormones, now impossibly potent, flooded his olfactory sensors, sending his cooling systems into overdrive. "Uh, I—" he stammered, his vocalizer glitching slightly as his optics darted to Perceptor for guidance. But the scientist, for once, seemed just as flustered as he was.

"Ambassador," Perceptor began, his voice strained as he tried to maintain some semblance of professionalism, "This… this reaction is a result of the flower’s compound. Your judgment may be… impaired." His optic flickered down to where the ambassador clung to Brainstorm, their flushed skin pressed against the cool metal of his servo trying desperately to grind against it. “yea well it feels like my body is melting and this makes it not feel as ablazed” the ambassador manages to call back at him.

"Not that I’m, uh, complaining or anything, but… are you sure this is what you want? I mean, you’re burning up, and—" He cut himself off with a sharp intake of air as the ambassador shifted, pressing closer.

Their voice, soft and pleading, sent a shiver through Brainstorm’s frame, his field pulsing with a heady mixture of arousal and concern. "Please, just help me " they murmured, their breath hitching as they guided his digits further as they fought with what's left of their clothings trying to get it off as quickly as possible. their flushed skin trembling at the coolness of his touch. "Stars, that feels amazing." They basically moan out.

Brainstorm hesitated only a moment longer before his digits began to move, tracing slow, deliberate patterns against their skin. "Look, Perce, they’re asking for help," he murmured, his voice low and tinged with a heat that matched his field. "And if this is what helps them feel better, then who are we to argue?" The ambassador let out a soft moan, their head tipping back as Brainstorm’s digits pressed more firmly against them. Their hands clung to his arm, body trembling as they sought out every inch of cool metal they could reach. "I'm giving you both my consent, please just help me with this," they whispered, their voice thick with relief and desire.

Finally, with a soft sigh of resignation, Perceptor stepped closer, "See, Perce? Teamwork," he said with a faint grin, though his voice trembled with the weight of his own desire. "We’ll have them feeling better in no time." His servos pull away making the Ambassador whine only for them to be replaced with Preceptor's. “Hush now” he hums while Brainstorm positions his faceplate between the ambassador’s thighs. They arches their back. The Ambassador’s breath hitched sharply, their back arching as Brainstorm's glossa dragged over their sensitive sex, his mouth enveloping them with agonizing slowness. His lips sealed around them, his movements slow as he studies and learns as he goes, savoring every reaction they give him. His digits traced a teasing path up their trembling thighs, the sharp edges of his servos sending shivers through their overstimulated body.

“Sweet Primus,” Brainstorm murmured against them, his voice muffled but laced with mischief and hunger. “You taste so good, Ambassador. I could do this all cycle.” He flicked his glossa over their most sensitive spot, eliciting a moan that made his optics brighten with delight. “Keep making those little sounds for me, won’t you? You sound divine like this.”

The Ambassador’s fingers clutched desperately at Preceptor's plating, their body writhing as the effects of the aphrodisiac heightened every sensation as Brainstorm's glossa teases them and works them into a state of bliss. Perceptor, ever the observer adjusted his grip on their waist to steady them, holding them open for Brainstorm and to make sure they don't hurt themself on any part of Brainstorm's helm. His digits moved with measured precision, gliding down their body in soothing strokes.

The Ambassador whimpered, their head falling back against Preceptor's servo and arm plate as his cool touch sent a wave of relief through their flushed body. they gasped, and buck against Brainstorm’s mouth, the dual sensations driving them closer to the edge.

Preceptor's optic softened, his digits brushing across their damp forehead. “You’re handling this remarkably well, considering the circumstances,” he murmured, his tone gentle as his digits pressed into a pressure point along their side.

“Wasn't expecting to get fuckin Sex pollened by a flower” the ambassador states trying to make a joke out of the situation only to gasp and cry out as Brainstorm's glossa presses I to them. “Oh fuck, oh fuck!” They moan out, eyes fluttering closed. Brainstorm’s digits dug lightly into their thighs, holding them in place as he worked. “Brainstorm,” Perceptor chided lightly, though his own digits slid lower, tracing the curve of the Ambassador’s hip as he leaned closer to press his lips to their temple. “We’re here to help them, not overwhelm them.”

“Oh, I’m helping,” Brainstorm retorted with a grin, his glossa pressing firmly against their most sensitive spot before pulling back slightly. “Tell him, Ambassador. Tell Perce how good I’m making you feel.” Their hips jerked against Brainstorm’s mouth as their hands clutched at Preceptor's arms for support. “don't stop, please don’t stop,” they stammered, their words barely coherent as their body quaked between the two mechs.

Brainstorm hummed in satisfaction, his mouth redoubling its efforts as his servos spread their thighs wider, giving him better access. The Ambassador’s trembling hands gripped the back of Brainstorm’s helm, their fingers tangling in the delicate grooves as they tried to pull him closer, desperate to feel more of the overwhelming pleasure he was giving them with each flick of his glossa. Their body shuddered uncontrollably beneath him, hips jerking in time with the teasing, deliberate movements of his glossa. Little mewls and whines spilled from their lips, each sound betraying just how much they were unraveling between the two mechs.

The Ambassador whimpered softly, pressing themselves closer to Preceptor's solid frame, their trembling body seeking refuge. “P-Perceptor…” they gasped, their voice breaking as their hips instinctively bucked against Brainstorm’s mouth. “It’s so much... I can’t—” “You can,” Perceptor interrupted softly, his tone a perfect mix of reassurance and command. tilting their head slightly so their flushed face was angled up toward him. “Focus on me. Breathe. We’ll take care of you.”

Brainstorm let out a low chuckle, “You’re doing so good,” he murmured, his voice dripping with praise and satisfaction. The Ambassador’s fingers tightened on Brainstorm’s helm, a strangled cry escaping their throat as his glossa drove harder into them teasing their most sensitive spot. Their eyes fluttered shut for a moment before snapping back open. “Oh God Brainstorm!” they cry out basically rutting against his mouth as they sob, before going limp in Preceptor's servos.

When Brainstorm finally pulled away, his lips plate glistening and his expression smug with satisfaction, the Ambassador’s trembling form clung to Perceptor for support. Their chest heaved with uneven breaths, their flushed face pressed against the scientist's plating as they tried to steady themselves. But Preceptor's optic never left them. “You’re doing remarkably well,” Perceptor murmured, his voice as calm and soothing as ever, despite the slight static crackle betraying his own restraint. One servo rested lightly on their hip, grounding them, while the other shifted lower.

The Ambassador whimpered softly, their body still quivering from Brainstorm’s ministrations, but they didn’t resist as Preceptor's digits ghosted between their thighs. The cold touch of his metal sent a sharp shiver through their overheated body, a stark contrast that made them inhale sharply. “Easy,” Perceptor murmured, his tone gentle as his digit dragged slowly between their thighs, his movements deliberate as he searched for what he was looking for. “I need you to stay relaxed. This will be much easier if you trust me.”

“You’re doing amazing, Ambassador. Just let him take care of you.” Brainstorm states as he presses a kiss to their thigh. Perceptor ignored Brainstorm’s commentary, his focus entirely on the Ambassador as his digit finally found what he was seeking. He paused, his optics flickering up to meet their tear-filled gaze. “There,” he said softly, almost to himself, as if confirming a calculation. “Now... this may feel a bit intense. Tell me if it’s too much.” With the utmost care, Perceptor pressed the tip of his digit against them, his movements painstakingly slow as he began to ease it inside.

The Ambassador’s breath hitched, a choked sound escaping their lips as the coolness of his metal sent a wave of bliss crashing through their body. They nearly sobbed at the sensation, their hands clutching desperately at Preceptor's arm plate as their head tilted back. “P-Perceptor,” they gasped, their voice trembling as tears pricked at the corners of their eyes. “Shh,” he soothed, his free hand moving to cradle the back of their head as his digit pressed deeper, careful and deliberate. “You’re doing wonderfully. Just focus on your breathing. I’ll take care of the rest.” His tone was clinical yet impossibly tender, treating the Ambassador as if they were the most delicate thing in the universe.

Brainstorm let out a low hum of approval, his optics narrowing as he leaned closer to watch Preceptor's precise movements, watching the way his digit disappeared into the ambassador before reappearing. “See? I told you he’s good with his servos,” he quipped, though his voice was softer now, lacking its usual sharp edge. The Ambassador sobbed softly, their body trembling as Preceptor's digit moved inside them, the smooth, cold metal easing the unbearable heat that had consumed them.

The Ambassador could only nod weakly, their body trembling with each deliberate stroke. “You’ve got them practically falling apart, Perce,” he said, his voice low and amused. The Ambassador’s cries grew softer, their body sagging against Perceptor as the overwhelming sensations began to blur into a haze of bliss. With each careful motion of his digit, the heat that had consumed them began to ebb away, replaced by a soothing coolness that left them trembling and utterly pliant in his arms.

“You’re doing so well,” Perceptor murmured, his voice soft and reassuring as his free servo stroked their back in slow, calming circles. “Just a little longer, and we’ll have you feeling like yourself again.” The Ambassador whimpered softly, their fingers clutching at Preceptor's plating as they nodded, their trust in both mechs absolute. needy whimpers escaped their lips. Preceptor's digit continued its slow, deliberate movements, each stroke carefully calculated.

The Ambassador gasped sharply, their body jolting at the curl of Preceptor's digit; the sensation had them rocking back against Preceptor's servo. The Ambassador’s head tilted back, their eyes fluttering shut as their body arched instinctively toward the dual sensations. Preceptor's slow, precise movements inside them and Brainstorm’s teasing kisses along their thighs sent their mind spiraling, each touch feeding the fire that burned within them. “Brainstorm… Perceptor…” they whimpered.

The Ambassador’s body tensed suddenly, their breath catching in their throat as the overwhelming sensations reached their peak. A broken cry escaped their lips, their back arching as the pleasure crashed over them in waves, leaving them trembling and writhing in the arms of the two mechs.

Perceptor was the first to react, his optics brightening as he registered the shift in their body. His digit stilled inside them, holding steady as he allowed the Ambassador to ride out the intense sensations without overwhelming them further. His free servo pressed gently against their lower back, supporting their quivering frame as he murmured soothingly, “There... that’s it, Ambassador.”

Brainstorm, on the other hand, was anything but restrained. A low, satisfied growl rumbled from his vocalizer as he watched the Ambassador tremble and cry out, their body convulsing with the intensity of their climax. “Primus,” he muttered, his optics flashing with a mixture of pride and arousal. “Look at you. You’re absolutely beautiful like this.”

He leaned in, his lips brushing over the Ambassador’s thigh as his hands gripped their hips, steadying them as their body shook. The Ambassador whimpered softly, their hands clutching weakly at Preceptor's plating as they rode out the last waves of their climax. Tears streaked their flushed face, their body utterly spent yet still trembling from the aftershocks.

Perceptor carefully withdrew his digit from them, his movements slow and deliberate to avoid overstimulating their already sensitive body. He gently adjusted their position in his arms, cradling them against his frame as his servo moved to stroke their back in soothing circles. “You did exceptionally well,” he said softly, his voice filled with quiet pride.

Brainstorm sat back slightly, his servos still resting on the Ambassador’s hips as he looked up at them with a wide grin. “That was more than remarkable, Perce. They were absolutely breathtaking.” The Ambassador let out a soft, breathless laugh, their body slumping against Preceptor's as the last remnants of their climax faded. “you two are fuckin fiends,” they murmured, their voice shaky but filled with gratitude. “Thank you...”

Preceptor's optics softened, his servo cupping the side of their face as he gazed down at them with quiet affection. “There’s no need to thank us,” he said, his tone gentle. “It was our privilege to assist you.” Brainstorm chuckled, his grin widening as he leaned in to press a soft kiss to the Ambassador’s temple. “You’re welcome, sweetheart. Anytime you need us, you know where to find us.” He winked, his tone playful but sincere as he added, “And next time, maybe don't get yourself dosed up by an Aphrodisiac flower. Sounds good?” The Ambassador blushed deeply, their face burying itself in Preceptor's plating as they let out a soft laugh.

____________

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eminemily05 · 4 months ago

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Ratchet x AFAB Reader—Periods—

Currently, I’m battling some cramps of hell of my own. And I wanted to write a story to make myself feel better. Now that I have, I’m sharing it with you all.

I hope this at least helps some of you feel better. Periods are never fun, but always make sure you take good care of yourselves. Treat yourself to sweets, take a nice warm bath, and just..be kind to yourself.

It may suck, but your body is actively doing what it does best for your health. Even if that means cramps every month…or few months, depending on your situation..

Now, please enjoy this little Drabble I’ve made. And I hope it brings some warmth to your hearts (and cramps, 🙏)

———————————————————————————

“Ratch…”

Your soft call tore the medic away from his current focus at the main console. Voice wavering and weak…was that hurt he sensed..?

Looking over, he glanced at your small form. Curled up atop the tatted yellow couch, head perked slightly. Your expression was scrunched in one of discomfort and pain. Olfactory sensors flared and flagged a key chemical scent wafting over.

Blood.

Immediately, he abandoned his current project. Taking a few hurried steps to stand behind the raised platform, glancing down at you with worried, appraising optics. You looked back up at him, a pained whine leaving your throat.

You squirmed around, hands pressing down against your abdomen to try and quell the spikes of discomfort. “I-It hurts…”

Scanning you, he gave a soft sigh. Concern flashed through his optics, antenna dropping just slightly. He knew this was a rough time for you.

You had explained to him what it was the first time this had happened. Naturally, it was going to occur in their presence, within the months you’d stay there. So, you figured if anyone needed to understand your predicament with periods, it was Ratchet.

At first, he’d been horrified. Not at you. Gods never. But at the fact that this was so normal. The idea of a Cybertronian bleeding Energon every couple times of a Quartex nearly sent him into shock. Not to mention how painful you had described it to be.

I mean, on par with a human heart attack? For something so small, your species seemed so durable.

But, as the team’s hybrid medic for human and machine, he took it upon himself to learn. Through the web, and you. He learned what he could, and asked for help when he needed more explanations. Now, he felt well equipped.

Ratchet gently set a digit against your lower belly, taking a measure of any inflammation or otherwise unseen pain. He could just hear how painful the cramps sounded.

“Did you take any anti-inflammatory medication? Pain relievers or Acetaminophen?” He glanced at your face as you nodded. Hmm…clearly it hadn’t kicked in yet..

You gripped onto the digit against your lower stomach desperately. “I-I took them some few minutes ago…but I forgot my heating pad at home…” Looking up at his optics, you gave an expression of discomfort.

His spark flared at the sight, audials flicking down as he sighed.

“Of course…” Glancing back at the console, he weighed his options.

He still had piles of work to do. Formulas to refine, tools to repair, files to decode. Then, he looked at you. His human. His pained human, and he didn’t need any other convincing.

Gently, he lifted you in both servos. Whining slightly at the sudden movement as a flare of cramps spiked in your belly. He pulled you against his chassis, engine rumbling gently just under the surface.

“Relax, Sweetspark…I have you..” he mumbled softly, finials clicking up just a notch as you nodded and curled your body against his frame.

Carefully, he made his way to his habsuite. Cautious, as not to rile more cramps in your poor body. His engine gave a worried whine as he glanced at you, body desperately seeking warmth. He crooned at the sigh, optical ridges drawn in concern. “I know…I know..”

Curse your biology for making you suffer like this. He couldn’t even imagine the pain you were dealing with. And it hurt that he couldn’t do much to relieve it.

As he punched the code in for his habsuite, he pressed you to his warm chassis and entered. Metal thumb rubbing soothingly against your hair.

He carried himself over to his berth, settling into the malleable metal that accommodated his back kibble. Gently, he settled you on his chassis. Watching as you squirmed around for a comfortable position.

Eventually, you rested flat on your tummy. Stomach pressed against the warmth radiating from his chassis as soft whines left you. The pain continued to spike as you sought out the heat.

“Ratchet..” You cried desperately, soft hands gripping onto any purchase of his frame you could find. “I-It hurts.!”

His spark flared, plating hissing at your pain. He couldn’t help but feel helpless, useless. Watching his little partner as they wriggled and cried, unable to really do anything.

Curse the gods for bringing this upon them. If he could smite this pain-

Without even thinking, his engine rumbled and revved loudly. The vibration, combined with the rising heat of his cylinders firing, seemed to quell you somewhat. He watched as your little frame untensed a hair, and he needed no more time.

Gently, he set his engine to a low rumble. Idling it quietly and relaxing as the vibrations and warmth slowly settled into your form. Your brow unclenched, a soft sigh of relief escaping as you glanced at him.

He sighed, resting a large servo over your form. The metal acting as the perfect insulation—and bonus weighted blanket— for your body. Steadily, you relaxed and practically melted against his plating.

Yet, he couldn’t help but still feel bad. “I’m sorry…I wish there was more I could do to relieve you of this..” he grumbled, tone full of annoyance but optics full of silent shame. Shame he couldn’t help his own mate.

A gentle kiss against his chassis soothened his thoughts. You looked up at him, eyes lidded with a sense of exhaustion.

Had they taken that much out of you? Curses!

“This is perfect, Ratch.” Your soft smiled cut through the berating thoughts of his spark and pride. “Best heating pad I’ll ever need.”

He chuckled softly as he watched you settle in against the plating. Eyes closing softly as the warmth pulled you closer to sleep.

“Besides…” you mumbled, a happy smile on your face. “Having my big, metal partner to help me makes it feel just a little bit better. Don’t beat yourself up.”

The last part was a bit muffled, as your cheek pressed against his chassis and you were out like a light. Humming, he ran a thumb over your hair. A soft smile graced his faceplate as he watched you subconsciously lean into it. Shutting his own optics in the process for recharge.

“Sleep well, sweetspark…I’ll be here when you awaken..”

#fanfic writers #writing blurbs #writing #tfp ratchet #ratchet tfp #tfp ratchet x reader #tfp #transformers ratchet #ratchet transformers #transformers prime ratchet #transformers ratchet x reader #ratchet x reader #transformers prime #period cramps #period comfort #period writing #tf ratchet #tf ratchet x reader

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after-witch · 1 year ago

Text

Damn Your Eyes Chapter 2 [Yandere Ren Hana x Reader]

Title: Cream and Sugar [Damn Your Eyes Chapter 2] [Yandere Ren Hana x Reader]

Synopsis: A fateful meeting at a bookstore between you and Ren Hana, years upon years after your escape from Strade, turns into a coffee shop date. You're not supposed to accept drinks from strangers, but Ren's not a stranger--so it's fine, right?

Word count: 5,322

notes: yandere, descriptions of violence/death/wounds, drugging

AO3 LINK

How did one get over something like Strade? Get over that house and that basement? How do you move on with your life when you’ve seen someone’s guts spill out of their body while they’re still alive, and you’ve been instructed to pick them up and play with them for the delight of sick fucks watching it all on a paid stream?

The pretty answer, the one everyone recites when asked, because that’s what you do: with therapy and time and forgiveness for yourself. You take it one day at a time. You treat yourself.

The real answer: You didn’t. You don’t. You can’t.

Not fully. Because “getting over” something like that means it will eventually no longer affect you, no longer being a part of you.

And sure. You will, eventually, go about something that feels like an ordinary life.

You will walk into a grocery store with a tidy little list, you will roll your eyes at the rising cost of laundry detergent, you will smile at a cashier who says they like your outfit. You will date and drink coffee and sway to your favorite song while making dinner.

But inside, inside of you , you are still there--still hovering at the last step of the basement stairs, listening to someone’s guttural shrieks as their skin is blow-torch melted down. Still clinging to Ren in the middle of the night, flinching when his hands wander over a recent gouge, a hastily stitched cut--an accident, he whispers, and you’re never sure if you believe him.

And that is what happened to you.

It took years, of course, to even get close to that semblance of normalcy. A few years were spent in feverish hiding, running from place to place with no paper trails that might lead some gorehound that subscribed to Strade’s torture porn sniffing at your door, hungry for more.

But you settled down, in time. Slowly. Bit by bit, piece by piece, inch by inch.

That took years, too--the settling.

It started with staying in an apartment for more than three months at a time. It started with going to the grocery store wearing only sunglasses, instead of sunglasses, a wig, and the most nondescript clothing you could fish out of a bargain bin. It started with applying for real jobs, not just seedy work that paid cash, quick.

It ended here, in this quaint little home that you shared with your husband for the past five years, though you’d lived together for longer. It ended here, with a modest marketing career that you’d built up after going back to college. It ended here, with a life you built for yourself; frail and a bit unorthodox, but a life nonetheless.

You wouldn’t have been able to survive, if you hadn’t adapted. There is only so much terror the human man can manage before breaking entirely, and so--adaptation.

It was a gift that your husband didn’t mind your… differences. The heavy insistence on home security, the desire for privacy, the slow way you gave trust to strangers--if you gave it at all.

Some things did bother him. He grumbled about your lack of social media presence, and you’d once had an awful fight when his sister put a photo of you on Facebook that you’d demanded, in furious tears, be taken down.

But, deep down, it wasn’t like you could blame your husband for bucking against your near tantrum-like reaction. For the way he sometimes sighed as you locked the front door with triple locks, and an electric sensor. For the way his jaw sometimes set, when you did something that wasn’t normal to anyone who hadn’t been the extended torture victim of a serial killer that doubled as a snuff porn producer.

Because you knew--deeper down--that you were still haunted by the ghosts in that basement. Strade and the torture victims and Ren and yourself, shaking like a leaf, bleeding onto concrete. You knew, even if the man you slept beside in a bed every night had no inkling of it, that you could never step back across that threshold and be the way you were before.

But.

And there’s always a but, isn’t there?

But… that was okay. It was okay that you could never go back; it was okay that you were someone new; it was okay that you weren’t okay, and you’d never be okay in the fullest sense of the word.

Your life was a life you created out of shaking fingers, something clawed out with dirty fingernails. It wasn’t perfect, but it was yours.

What more could you ask for, after Strade?

What more could you ask for, after anything ?

Books are a vice. More than smoking, more than sex. You could give up sex, you could swear you’ll never buy another pack of smokes, but you could never give up books.

Okay, okay. You’re being over dramatic and theatrical. But how can you think of books as anything other than a sinful pleasure when you’re surrounded by these shelves and stacks, imagining that one day you can afford an extension on your home and dedicate an entire room (or two--why not, in a daydream?) solely to books?

You’re not even supposed to be here today. It was your day off, and your calendar was packed to the brim with mundane errands. Today’s schedule certainly didn’t leave room for indulgently browsing at a bookstore, but sometimes you just have to live a little, don’t you?

Although if you come home with yet another bag of books, your husband is bound to shove his face into the nearest couch cushion and scream. But c’mon. It wasn’t your fault that you’d long since run out of shelf space and were prone to stuffing the books into boxes that cluttered the closests.

Your fingers wander over the spines of the books crammed onto the shelves, catching the uneven mismatched spaces between with every dip. The spines are often worn and weathered, some of them even peeling a little.

This was why you preferred secondhand bookstores. No neat lines of fresh new books set up to catch the eye and make a sale here. No, instead there were countless books shoved together with no care for size or color or sometimes (depending on who was stocking that day) even genre.

For instance, today you find a battered paperback copy of Carrie by Stephen King right next to a suspiciously pristine How to Keep Your House from Drowning that probably still has an uncracked spine. That poor soul, with a messy house. Maybe they should have read the book.

You’re about to keep moving when, on second thought: Your partner might get a kick out of finding that book on his nightstand. Or he’ll chuck it at your head (lovingly) for bringing it into the house. It’s a 50/50 gamble that you’re willing to take.

And so you go to pull it out, a private little grin on your face, just as another hand reaches across for Carrie.

Fingers and elbows bump together and you feel that slight flush of awkward embarrassment rush to your cheeks as you sputter out, “Sorry!” Your voice even goes up an octave, an annoying habit that you’ve been trying to train out of yourself.

The stranger pulls away and mutters their own low apology. They sound just as awkward as you, which makes you feel a little better, at least, so you turn to look at them and offer an embarrassed smile and you think, briefly, maybe you’ll grab Carrie for them or cheekily ask if they were going for the cleaning book--

But when you turn to look at them, all thoughts and cheek are snuffed out.

Not because the man in front of you is wearing a nicely tailored business suit and matching fedora hat; a dark gray complimented by a muted burgundy tie. Like he’s off to a meeting or comes from a big city where such outfits are often found in shops and cafes during lunch hours.

Not because the man in front of you is attractive, with red hair with a bit of ever so slightly silver sticking out from underneath his hat; his cologne, soft but spicy, tickles your nose.

But because the man in front of you is Ren.

Older, yes. His hair and face peppered with signs of time, just like yours. There are scars on his face that you remember--some etched onto his flesh right in front of you, and some from that gray area of before, when Strade had yet to take you--and some you don’t.

Your body is lead, your throat is closed up. Speech and movement are now foreign, unknowable things, because Ren is standing right in front of you.

It takes you a moment to shake it off; no, two moments. No, three.

And then you can finally speak, although the word comes out hoarse and whispered, like every ounce of spit in your mouth vanished the instant you saw him. Perhaps it did.

“ Ren ?”

He blinks. His eyes narrow, eyebrows furrowing. For a terrible moment, you find yourself thrown back down the basement steps, when knowing the difference between Strade’s brows furrowing in annoyance or amusement could mean the difference between the degree of your upcoming burns.

And then his expression opens, widens, just enough for you to recognize that he knows who you are now and you’re here, in a bookshop, decades on; not there, not in the basement, where you left Strade’s corpse to rot.

Ren--for he is Ren, and you know it--lifts his hat, his lips turning up in a smile that makes your heart twist painfully, and shows just the bottom edges of his ears in greeting.

He says your name and your ears ring, high and tinny. Out of the corner of your eye, you see a cashier standing at the till rearranging trinkets while clearly spying on whatever bit of vaguely interesting gossip this might turn into during their lunch break.

You had, in truth, imagined this moment before. Countless times. Usually at night, though you weren’t terribly picky; a long trip on a bus, head pressed against the window glass, was also a great time for such thoughts.

You’d imagined finding Ren some day, in many different ways.

In some fantasies, you look him up in the phonebook (a stupid idea fit only for a fantasy, because Ren would never put himself out there like that, just as you hadn’t) and give him a call and meet up at a park and you apologize until your lungs stop working. In another, you run into him somewhere else, a store or park; a coincidence just like this one. In still others, he finds you, offering to meet in a public space because he knows you’d be scared and he wants you to be comfortable and Ren would definitely think of things like that, considering your shared experiences.

In your daydreams, you had a speech prepared. It was always moving, of course. It culminated in a soft, unbearably sweet hug where the two of you squeezed out the pain from the preceding decades and parted in mutual understanding. Maybe with each other’s phone numbers on slips of paper.

But those were daydreams. This is real life.

In real life, your throat feels closed up; your eyes burn with hot tears that want to spill out, and everything from your chest to your cheeks feels hot and swollen. In real life, it is not the daydreams but your nightmares that worm their way into your brain: those nightmares you have (yes, have, still--even this far down the line) where he hates you, where he tells you that you left him there like he’s nothing, where he throws back all your whispered conversations in the dark back in your face.

In real life, you can only stammer out, expecting the nightmarish worst: “Ren. I’m s…sorry. I’m sorry . I shouldn’t--I shouldn’t have --”

Ren raises his hand; his brows furrow again. He says your name, once, twice. Softer. Gentler.

“It’s okay,” he says, low. You don’t know if he means that it’s okay that you left him (it isn’t, is it?) or that it’s going to be okay or that he’s okay or--

Ren must sense your upcoming lack of steady breathing, because he places one steady hand on your shoulder. The way he used to do, when you started thinking about the fact that you were going to die in that house, and it would be an awful death, and the thought of it made you want to tear into your own skin.

It brings you back down to the ground, which only makes you want to cry for a different reason.

Ren’s face has a touch of sticky pity on it when he smiles at you.

“Why don’t we go somewhere we can sit down and talk?”

You are sitting in a coffee shop across the way from a fox man who used to be tortured with you in the basement of a serial killer's home that doubled as a snuff film studio. There are people around you, but they might as well be invisible, be nothing at all.

Because every nerve in your body is focused squarely on Ren, sitting in front of you with a muted awkward expression as the pair of you wait silently for the barista to call up your order.

Neither of you have spoken since you sat down.

Sweat is beginning to stick to your neck, but you don’t want to move without warning--don’t want to startle Ren. If you do, maybe he’ll run off, and… no. He wouldn’t run off now. You can tell. He’s not like he used to be, and neither are you.

There are decades between you, and yet--and yet that thread is still there, isn’t it? You could never fully cut it. Maybe it pulled, instead. Pulled and pulled and eventually lost all of its slack on this unassuming afternoon, when the two of you met again in a bookstore. Reaching for books with cracked and weathered spines, lines creasing over the paper like scars on the skin.

Your scars. His scars.

How many times have you traced over the marks on your skin? How many times has he? Maybe he didn’t do it anymore. Maybe he was in a much better space than you, and that’s why he looks so awkward and you feel like your heart is about to pound right out of its chest. Because he’s moved on and you, stupid thing, just woke up in the basement in the middle of a sunny afternoon.

His shoulders straighten; you imagine, under his hat, that his ears have perked. For a moment,, a familiar sensation washes through you. Danger. He’s coming down the stairs and it’s going to hurt.

But Strade is dead. And you are alive, and Ren is alive, and his attention only raised because the barista set both of your coffees down on the counter. Nothing more than that.

Slowly, the world seems like it regains its normal gravity. The sweat clinging to your neck feels silly and not ominous. You can breathe, and the world of the coffee shop seems to settle around you like it would have on any other day.

“I’ll get them,” Ren says, quietly, eyeing you with wariness–like he’s the one worried about you bolting. Fuck. He’s probably right to think that; a moment ago, you might have been the one to run.

Ren pauses after he stands up, and there’s something soft and sad in his eyes when he looks at you. Part of you thinks he’s about to say that he’s going to leave, that this was a mistake. But instead, his lips curl and the softest of smiles, and he asks:

“You still like cream and sugar?”

Oh.

“Yes,” you say, automatically. But you don’t. Not anymore. Tastebuds change and you drink it black with no cream, when you do bother to drink it. It’s not worth correcting, and you don’t. You just watch as he grabs both cups and heads over to the counter on the far side of the coffee shop, where there’s oodles of sugars (and sugar substitutes); creamers; and little tins of milk to add to your drink.

Then your phone vibrates, and the “fuck!” that comes out of your mouth is involuntary. It was about the time that you should have been heading home, bookstore stop notwithstanding. What were you going to say to him? That you’d run into someone from your past that used to get tortured with you? That you remember what Ren looks like when his flesh is sliced into and pulled apart?

You heading home? Took ground beef out for dinner. Tacos?

Your thumb hovers over the phone screen. You’re going to lie. You already know that. Even if you were ready to tell him about your past, it would not be like this. Even you, not particularly attuned to mobile etiquette, knew it was better to confess something like this in person. Although the temptation to confess it all and add silly emojis to punctuate the gritty details was very strong.

Ran into an old friend , you type, finally. They want to hang out a bit. Tacos are fine, don’t wait up! Xoxoxo.

It feels so normal. And that’s okay, isn’t it? That you’re being normal right now. It’s a sign that you’ve come so far, if anything. And you’ll take any of those signs that you can manage to get, so when the text comes in–

Can’t wait to hear about it!

I don’t guarantee there will be tacos left.

Kidding.

… Maybe.

–you let that normalcy wash over you, and it helps you settle as Ren returns, coffee mugs in hand.

His expression is lighter, too. He probably notices the weight off your shoulders, the way you’re trying to look interested and perhaps even excited to see him, rather than looking like you’re about to throw up on a half-empty stomach.

He slides your mug across the table and you can tell at a glance that it’s going to be sweet. A hesitant sip, your tongue curling back from the warmth and inevitable sugar, confirms it. Milky and creamy, just like you used to take it.

“Do you live around here?” Ren asks, taking a sip from his own mug.

Such an average question. It’s almost enough to make you snort. Really, you should be asking him when he got out of that basement and whether or not he ever thought about cutting you open and if he still had dreams, like you did.

Instead, he’s asking something you might ask an old high school friend that you haven’t seen in twenty years.

Fuck. What a world you live in.

Maybe he senses your thoughts. Maybe the two of you really are in tune from what you went through together. Because he cracks a smile, the edge of a sharp tooth showing. And then the smile spreads and turns into a little chuckle. It’s not the giggling snort he would sometimes fall into at the house. It’s something older and more reserved, but that shouldn’t surprise you. You’re the same way.

You take another sip of the coffee. It really is too sweet. That’s how you took it at the house, though. It was better to drown your sorrows in creamer and packets of sugar–pilfered from diners that Strade went to, sometimes to scope for victims–than mope about them all the time.

“I really am curious,” he says, voice light. “If you’re okay with telling me.” Something different in his tone. Offense, maybe? God, it’s strange, being on the lookout for what someone’s tone really means again.

But it’s just Ren. You shouldn’t be so worried about it.

“It’s fine,” you say, just as light. “Yeah, maybe about half an hour away? I have a little house…”

Ren’s eyebrows raise. Not in surprise, exactly. But in interest. It relieves you, just a little, that he didn’t let out some sarcastic remark about having your own place away from him.

“Do you have a garden?” He asks. “You always did talk about getting one.”

A twinge in your heart. Bittersweet and old. Sometimes at night, when the two of you were allowed to curl up together, you would talk about a fantasy world. A world where you never came here; where you’d be and what you’d do. Sometimes, you’d be in a pretty little cottage with a pretty little garden in a pretty little town.

Well. Your garden is pretty, even if your house isn’t an adorable cottage and you live at the edge of sprawling suburbs where you have to drive 20 minutes to get to anything useful. Close enough?

You tell him about it. The house and the garden. You even tell him about your partner, and maybe his smile does quirk down a little, then. But you could be imagining it.

“Do you have kids?” Ren asks, next. If he were anyone else, it would be a mundane question--the kind you ask every couple who's been together a while. In Ren, it feels different. Serious. Sincere. He tilts his head a little, taking another sip of his coffee, which prompts you to do the same.

Kids. Hah. It wasn’t like the thought had never crossed your mind. But it didn’t happen. For a lot of reasons, it didn’t happen. Mind and body and the basement worked against you, and maybe there was a part of you that was afraid to bring anything into the world, because you knew it could be taken away. Taken to someone’s basement and hurt and hurt and hurt –

Ren says your name.

Ren’s hand is on yours.

You glance down at his hand–see a familiar scar, see that your hand underneath his is curled up and tense–and then look up at his face.

Oh, the passing of time.

“Me neither,” he says, softly. Like he knows why you didn’t and couldn’t, and maybe he was the same way.

It hurts too much to think about. So you clear your throat and slowly pull your hand away, letting it rest on the now cooling mug of coffee. You take another swig, despite it not being to your taste anymore. Ren really did put in a lot of creamer.

“What about you?”

His head tilts, almost slow, almost curious.

“Me?”

He blinks.

You blink back.

“Do you live around here?”

A smile–an Ahhh sort of smile.

“No,” he says, simply. He shakes his head. “I travel a lot.” He nods his head. “For business.”

“Oh,” you say. “What sort of business?”

A flicker in his gaze. Something sharp and familiar. It’s gone too soon to matter.

“This and that,” is all he says.

And there’s a strange sort of realization in your head. A fuzziness that seems to spread right to your scalp. This is all too casual, too normal. It’s not at all what it was supposed to be, when you met. Asking about homes and gardens and kids and what you do for work; fuck, you two had been tortured together. Had watched people die. Had helped other people die.

This should have been about more than banal pleasantries. This should have been about reconnecting. About that thread between the two of you that couldn’t be cut, even now.

Maybe it’s that fuzziness in your scalp and maybe it’s the lurching of your heart, but you reach out your hand again towards Ren; your hand and your heart reaching and aching –

“Why did you run that day?” Soft and to the point. All the years have led to this question.

The question drops your hand straight to the table. The thud feels harder than it sounds. What ease your heart had mellowed to earlier melts away entirely, and you can feel adrenaline beginning to pump, your heart pounding and racing. Your ears hurt.

Why did you run? It’s the question you wanted him to ask, isn’t it? The question that would lead to your big sappy explanation and apology and the sentimental hug before you two parted ways, perhaps with phone numbers in your pockets?

But now that Ren is real again; now that he’s here, lines around his eyes and a touch of silver in his hair, you don’t know how to answer.

You ran because you were scared. Scared of people from Strade’s fucked up streams finding you in that house. Scared of Strade’s corpse rotting in the basement. Scared, too, of Ren. Of being chained to him, or by him, and you could never be sure which was more likely.

You ran because you weren’t strong enough to face whatever was left behind for you in that fucking house.

Thickness lodges in your throat but you swallow against it. This is not a daydream. This is real life. And you have to own up to what you did now.

“Ren, I–”

The words don’t come, because the world suddenly spins. The fuzziness prickling on your scalp, your ears ringing, your heart going too fast–this has all been too much for you, you should have known that. There are brief thoughts–heart attack, stroke, fuck, fuck, FUCK–and then Ren’s hand is gripping your upper arm so you don’t fall out of the chair.

“Are you okay?” Your vision is clear enough to see the concern in his face. His brows furrow together and he looks around, telling someone– ”Yes, I'm going to get her home” --and you’re about to tell him not to take you to the hospital because your insurance has a high deductible for the emergency room when another dizzy spell hits you, and you’d rather be in debt than dead.

“Should I call an ambulance?” He asks, voice low, calming. Your mind latches onto it. You’re not alone, it’s going to be okay. Someone is here to take care of you, and if you have to go to the emergency room, well, it couldn't have happened at a better time.

Ambulances cost too much money, though, and Ren

“Could you drive me?” Even as you talk, you know something’s wrong. The words come out too slow, a little slurry. Almost like you’re drunk.

Ren starts to shake his head and your dizzy self makes a pitiful sound.

You swear you can see Ren’s ears twitching underneath his hat. You don’t have the presence of mind to think about why–where and when he’s heard that pitiful whimper before–so you just cling to him as he gently pulls you out of your chair.

He grabs your purse and carefully leads you out of the shop. Someone holds the door open, and he tells them that you’re going to the emergency room, thank you for the concern. Your head swims and you might mumble thank you to them, too, but you’re not entirely sure. Are you dying? Is it a stroke? Will the last thing you texted the love of your life be about dinner? It’s funny in that awful, delirious sort of way.

“Ren?” You ask, helpless. You’re holding onto him as tightly as you can, but your fingers feel fuzzy. Your whole body feels fuzzy, actually. Heavy and strange. Drunk and leaden.

“It’s all right,” he murmurs. “Let’s get you into my car, all right?”

You don’t have the presence of mind to wonder why his car is already out on the curb, running, with a driver in the front seat. You aren’t coherent enough to think about things like that; but then, even before you drank the coffee cup laced with a sedative, you didn’t notice the black car following the pair of you down the road to the coffee shop.

You didn’t notice it follow you to the bookstore, either, nor did you give it a second glance when it pulled out of the lot after you stopped in at the grocery store to pick up a few miscellaneous items.

You really had lost your touch after all these years.

Ren grips you carefully while he opens the back door to the car. It’s roomy, expensive. Clean black leather seats that probably don’t show stains. Up front, a driver sits, wearing a hat and sunglasses and a uniform.

There’s a brief thought–Jesus, what does Ren do for a living to afford this?--before Ren is helping you crawl into the backseat.

The movement only makes you dizzier, and you’re telling the person in the front seat, whoever they are, that you need to get to the nearest hospital please.

They don’t even turn to look at you. It’s strange. But then Ren is there in the backseat with you, and you’re mumbling the same thing to him. Rattling off your symptoms–dizzy, fuzzy, confused, tingling hands. You try to remember the test for a stroke but can’t.

Ren smiles at you.

Why is he smiling? That thought comes through loud and clear, but it doesn’t stick for very long.

“Ren,” you say, slurring. “The hospital, the nearest one is… I think it’s… you have to…”

And those words, difficult as they are to get out, slowly drop away. Because while your mind is not capable of many things right now, it is capable of registering something unusual.

Ren.

He doesn’t look worried anymore. No more concern furrowing his brow, no more softness.

Instead, he looks pleased. There’s a smug smile on his face, and you’ve seen it before, but it’s older now. Wiser. Less impulsive and more assured.

A cat–a fox–that caught the canary. And you, what little remains of your logical mind tells you, are one dumb bird.

And he knows that you know. Because he jerks his chin at the driver in the front, who must press some kind of button; the doors lock. Loud. Hard. Your numb hands fumble for the door handle but no matter how much you try to shove the door open, it doesn’t budge.

You're locked in.

“Back to the hotel for now,” Ren says. Not to you. To the driver. Who–to your horror–begins to pull away from the curb.

“Oh, no–” You try to scream. It’s not quite loud enough. Not quite sharp enough. but maybe someone can see you, even through the tinted windows. Or they’ll hear you and tell someone, who will maybe tell someone else, who might call the cops. If you’re lucky.

Ren’s hand cups your mouth firmly.

“Don’t waste your energy, you’ll need it soon.” The hand moves from your lips to your cheek, resting there. The look in Ren’s eyes is blurry–whatever he drugged you with is making it hard to focus–but you recognize bits of it, because you felt the same damn thing.

The awful mixture of nostalgia, regret and ache.

Maybe if you explain everything. Tell him why you ran. Apologize like hell. You won’t be hugging after this, but you won't be drugged up (what did he give you?) in the back of his car, either.

“Ren– the hous e–I ran–I–let me explain, it–”

Ren’s hand trails back to your mouth. The sharp edges of his nails graze against your nose.

“Hush. We’ll talk about all that later.”

Later?

Oh, fuck –

There’s an awful, stabbing pain in your thigh–you look down and see Ren pulling away a syringe with a bright silver needle.

Ren–you try to say his name, but when you open your mouth, nothing comes out. Your lips gape and close and words no longer form.

Your head is swimming now, all highs and lows, dipping and rising over waves that never seem to end. It’s like you're falling asleep in the worst way, hard and rocky.

Like you’re falling backwards down the basement stairs.

Ren’s voice is the last thing you hear before you black out.

“Sweet dreams.”

#the price of flesh #boyfriend to death #ren hana #ren hana x reader #tpof x reader #afterwitch writes #thank you voice to text you saved my marriage. i mean my fic. same thing.#i feel like I'm aiming for... 4 chapters? Maybe 5. Definitely 4 though.

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legendarycherryblossomlove · 3 months ago

Note

Megatron x liaison reader at the lost light

[IM SO SORRY IF THIS TOOK SO LONG I WAS THINKING WHATS SUITABLE FOR THIS!]

"Beloved."

(A short fluff fic. Megatron x Human!Reader)

Megatron is in office, finishing off reports as Ultra Magnus told him to do so. Time seemed so slow that he already finished the first batch. He's silently praying there won't be anymore.

He sits there, fidgeting some datapads. He thought of making another poem to pass the time left. He was so lost in thought that he didn't even know that there was someone knocking on his door slab.

He cleared his throat. "Come in." His tone sounded so serious because he thought it would be either Rodimus or Ultra Magnus.

But that tone quickly died down as soon as you came into his office. His gaze slowly softening. "Ah. It's just you, beloved." He muttered as he gave you a soft smile.

You gave him your usual, cheerful smile which never fails to make his day better. You then walked towards Megatron till you're infront of him.

Primus, you sometimes forget that you're a human. Of course, every mech and femme in this ship is HUGE!

Megatron's servo then snaked to your waist, pulling you close and making you sit on his lap. Of course, you let yourself be. After all, he does this everytime whenever you two are alone or in a secluded area.

He nuzzled against your neck, his sensors activating as soon as he sniff your scent. God, you smell like strawberries but to him, you smell like a perfectly good engex that was left for ages but still tastes pretty good.

"Calm down, loverboy." You said teasingly as you booped his bucket-helm shaped. Megatron lets out a chuckle before giving your neck light-feathered kisses.

"My dear, just by your presence alone brings me refuge." He said as he continues showering his devoted affection to you.

He just loves you so much. You're the only human that brings him peace and solidarity in times of sorrows.

I love Megatron man.

#transformers idw #transformers x reader #lost light x reader #tf mtmte #maccadam #transformers #megatron x reader

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gardens-light · 7 months ago

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hello!

I love your work and I wanted to ask if you would be interested in writing a D-16 x techno-Organic reader?

I would like to see his reaction to the fact that part of her body is soft.

Hi! Thanks for the feedback and for this awesome prompt. I've always liked the idea of a techno/Cybertronic- human/organic hybrid reader, and there definity needs to be more fanfics of it.

Hope you enjoy and apologies for keeping you waiting. :)

Of Flesh and Steel

Expecting the usual deal transaction, the Quintesson ship landed upon the vast plains of Cybertron, sending harsh vibrations through the metallic ground. Their leader scanning the area with a studious gaze, as D16 and his Decepticons greeted with polite bows and hidden, false smiles.

Once their guard was down, Megatron withdraw his cannon. The weapon whirling to life, as he held the barrel against the Quintessons neck with a smug smile. His crimson gaze giving a silent demand, as his glare narrowed.

Amidst disruption and confusion, you made your escape. Forcing your already tired, broken and battered body to run as far as you could. Desperate to put distance between you and your creators, only to lose yourself among the strange foliage of this unknown world.

Content: D16/Megatron X GN Cybertronian/Human Hybrid Reader. Events takes place after TFO.

Word Count: 1,300

The dense metallic forest of Cybertron shimmered under the glow of the twin moons, its landscape a strange fusion of natural beauty and mechanical precision. A forest filled with copper-like leaves hummed faintly, the sound of energon flowing through their veins filling the air like a distant song. Amidst the alien tranquility, D16 and Shockwave moved with purpose, their sensors tracking an erratic and unfamiliar signal.

His towering frame gleamed in the moonlight, while scanning the area with piercing optics. Claws flexed instinctively, prepared for whatever this anomaly might be. Beside him, Shockwave’s singular optic glowed a cold, analytical purple, his detached demeanor betraying no hint of surprise nor curiosity.

Cautiously approaching a clearing, the signal became stronger. Much stronger. Finally brushing away the branches and leafs, D16's and Shockwaves optics widened as their gaze fell upon the most peculiar sight.

You.

Despite having distinctly Cybertronian characteristics. D16 could see something more... organic to you. His optics roamed over your frame, but your... human like skin glistened faintly with a metallic sheen under the moonlight.

Your human-like facial features had the most beautiful optics the Decepticon leader had ever seen. Their unusual colour held a strange depth, as if they contained circuitry woven into your very soul.

Oddly articulated armor covered your arms and legs, segmented like plating- similar to his own.

A small gasp escaped your lips, as your startled gaze finally met theirs. Feeling D16's gaze, as he tried to study more of you. His processor attempting to make sense of the impossibility before him.

Shockwave tilted his head, his optic narrowing as he scanned you. “ "A hybrid of Cybertronian and something... organic? Unprecedented. Likely a Quintesson experiment. Curious anomaly. Should we secure it for study?”

You quickly flinched at Shockwave's imposing presence, pressing yourself harder against the tree as if trying to merge with its metal bark. Breath quickened, and a faint, glitchy sound escaped your lips—a broken plea in a language that Shockwave couldn’t decipher.

“Hold,” D16 sharply spoke, raising his arm to block Shockwave’s advance. His cannon clicked softly as it retracted back into his forearm. His crimson optics slightly softened, as he approached you, his massive frame towered, but his movements were calculated, almost measured.

A whimper softly escaped your lips, while you clutched onto a crude tool—a shard of Quintesson metal that you scavenged during your escape.

It was hardly a threat, but your grip upon it was desperate. Daring to aim the shard at him, feeling D16's optics study your movements for a little longer.

He could see the fear in her optics. Your... words was something he couldn't understand, but the trembling of your frame and the way you recoiled told him enough.

“Their fear is irrelevant,” Shockwave replied coldly, his scanner continuing to process data. “The priority should be understanding their origin and purpose. We should capture them for further analysis.”

Giving a subtle nod to the suggestion, D16 lowered himself to one knee, coming more to your eye level. Softening his voice to a low and steady tone.

“We’re not here to harm you.”

His usual tone returned once opening a private channel to his comrade. Analyze their signal patterns. I want a full breakdown of their language and physiology. But handle them delicately, I don't want you to get too... 'carried away' with your research.

Shockwave inclined his head, his optic flickering. Understood. Prepare for transport?

Not yet. Gain their trust first. It’ll be easier to extract information if they're more cooperative.

"Here..." Your studious gaze narrowed upon D16's outstretched servo. The back of his digits gently encouraging you to lower the Quintession shard, while edging his palm closer. "Take my servo. We'll keep you safe."

Hesitation eased your uneven breath as your optics studied his open servo. Your expression softening slightly while you slowly dropped the shard.

His hand...? His body...? It's... similar to mine...

Optics trailing up his arm, falling upon his faceplate. Placing your small, organic servo into D16's palm, silently allowing him to help you onto your pedes.

The sensation was startling for both of you. To him, your touch was alien—warm and pliant, a stark contrast to the cold steel he was accustomed to. But to you... his hand was immense and unyielding but not entirely hostile. Unfamiliar yet comforting at the same time.

Your touch still trembled within D16's servo, as your optics met his once more. The Decepticon leader felt the faint warmth of your organic flesh through the sensors in his plating. He tilted his head, observing you more closely.

Another sound escaped you, more urgent this time, your voice broke as you spoke to the pair in a pleading, desperate tone. Though your words were incomprehensible. D16's optics softened slightly, and for the first time, a flicker of something unfamiliar stirred within him— pity?

"Calm yourself," he said in the gentlest tone his imposing frame could muster.

You didn't understand his words, but his modulation slightly eased your trembling frame. Bring your spark closer to it's regular pulse. Your grip upon his digits slightly tightened, yet he could still feel your servo trembling.

Shockwave stepped closer, his ever-analytical gaze fixed upon you. Their integration of organic and Cybertronian elements is intriguing. There are no known processes that would yield such a seamless fusion. A study upon them may represent... a new frontier.

D16's crimson gaze flickered up towards his comrade, replying over his private comlink. We’ll take them back to base, but remember—this isn’t just a subject. Proceed with care.

Clutching onto his servo, looking up at him with a mixture of fear and fragile hope as you quietly followed D16's lead through the forest. He occasionally gave you a slight side glance, hiding the storm of suspicion and calculation within him.

Your trembling digits brushed against his metal palm, causing him to freeze for a fraction of a second. You were... impossibly soft—alien and fragile in a way he had never encountered. Cybertronians, even the most delicate among them, were made of metals, alloys, and composites. The sensation of warmth and yielding flesh against his cold plating was... utterly foreign.

While running his thumb over your smaller servo, his optics flickered briefly as he tried to process the sensation. The texture of your servo was smooth yet uneven, faint imperfections running beneath the surface—a network of tiny veins, a pulse of warmth radiating outward.

Something... stirred within his chest. An urge wanted to pull back, to break contact, as if touching you might do damage—or worse, compromise him. But he forced himself to remain still, his vast reserves of discipline locking his servo in place.

They feel.. soft. So soft. Soft, gentle and yet... resilient?

The fact that you had somehow survived the harshness of the Quintessons and the wilderness of Cybertron seemed at odds with the fragility of your form.

Your grip tightened slightly around his digits, pressing your body warmth deeper against his palm. D16 caught himself feeling an odd pang of... Pity? No, that wasn’t it. Understanding? Closer.

The softness of your skin, your frame it was... too exposed, too... unprotected. It stirred something in him that he didn’t like—a flicker of vulnerability, perhaps even responsibility.

He glanced briefly over his shoulder at Shockwave, whose single optic remained fixated upon you with clinical detachment, as he steadily followed behind. For a fleeting moment, the Decepticon leader envied that cold, mechanical focus. For D16 felt his own reaction felt far too... personal.

Clenching his jaw, he pushed the sensation aside and refocused on the situation at hand. “Their physiology is... unique.” He muttered, almost to himself, his voice was steady, but there was a faint tension in it.

Oblivious to his inner turmoil, you looked up at him with a soft gaze. Your trembling seemed to lessen slightly, as though his presence—even as alien it was offered you some sort of... reassurance.

To you, he was a savior. To him, you were merely an enigma—one he would unravel.

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