#secret solenoid 2021

[artobotsrollout]

"No way!!" "WAY"

"I heard him order Soundwave to get Laserbeak to record several fights for him. At first I thought it was a gladiator thing, studying your opponents moves and whatnot... but I swear he spends more time admiring paused moments of him standing over Optimus after he trips or something than actually studying the moves."

Have some detail closeups

Starscream and Knockout being the "gossipy divas" they are for @plushi! Thank you for having such a fun prompt! I will send you the link to the higher resolution images! And listen I needed an excuse to give them the dramatic lighting they deserve so leaning against a console it is!! Two versions, one with text and one without.

Woo! I was practically vibrating with excitement to post this submission for the @secretsolenoid event! This was a blast!

[cissyswonderland]

Here it is @secretsolenoid ! Happy Solenoid @pikaisragingmad ! Your prompt was adorable and I'm glad I had the chance to draw these cyberverse boys! I hope this is sweet enough!

[salsadifragola]

my @secretsolenoid for @FurryRetrowave on twitter :)

They asked for Rodimags with Magnus carrying Rodimus on his shoulder! 

Hope you enjoy, Happy new years 💜💖

[secretsolenoid]

Gestalt Brain

A belated Secret Solenoid gift for @aethergeologist!

Prowl stared down at his datapad and tried, once again, to focus on the words in front of him. It wasn’t going well for him. His optics were working perfectly, he had settled himself into his seat, he was even topped off on energon. There were no distractions anywhere within the same building as him. He’d made sure of it by sending the Constructicons off to help with rebuilding on the exact opposite side of New Iacon from him. 

It should have been an optimal work environment, and yet he found he still couldn’t concentrate. Calculating defense strategies seemed impossible in the moment. He could focus on the datapad just fine, he could read every word of it. He just seemed unable to retain it. 

With a growl of frustration, Prowl pushed back away from his desk, and kicked the chair for good measure (if he hit the desk, it would disrupt the neat workspace he’d finally managed to organize to his satisfaction, after neatening up all of the corners of it that the Constructicons seemed to thrive in knocking ever so slightly out of place). 

Maybe if he went out for a drive, he would be better able to visualize the city. His autobot friends might still be out, but if he was driving, he could continue on past them without being rude, and if he were honest with himself, he wasn’t sure how to deal with Bumblebee, or Ironhide, or “Orion Pax.” He didn’t know how to deal with the crew of the miraculously-returned Lost Light, either, though in perhaps a more straightforward way. Most of them he didn’t care to bother with in the first place. Ultra Magnus or Ratchet might be a refreshing bastion of sanity, but neither particularly liked him for good reason, and he had plenty of disagreements with them right back (Megatron. phah). 

Maybe a drive along the outskirts of the developing city would help to stop his processor from looping in circles. With that intent in mind, Prowl left his office and made his way down to the street, shifting into his vehicle mode and setting off with a whine of tires.

Seeing the layout of the city helped. It was much easier to focus on the changes that needed to be made when he could see the haphazard clusters of ships that had landed as they came where there was space, and the hasty reconstruction that had sprung up between and around them in the ruins of Iacon. 

The outer wall needed repairing, of course. Although the wilds of Cybertron were slightly less dangerous without aerialbots and dinobots roaming in angry packs, it was still unknown, and even if Megatron was no longer a threat there were plenty of Decepticon forces out there who would not stand down on their leader’s order. The DJD, wherever they were, would be the prime example of that.

Some of the ships needed updates as well, if they were to fly again, or could be taken apart and put to use in more immediately necessary aspects of industry. Engines had all manner of useful parts, and energy shielding, which was a necessary component of any spacefaring vessel, could be repurposed as a solution for their wall problem, even if only as a short-term or emergency measure. And of course the buildings, though solidly constructed and intended to last for eons, all showed the devastating effects of both war and time. 

Today’s construction project was one of the examples that had fared far better through battles both ancient and recent. The constructicons had found the structure to be sound down to the foundation, with no rusting or deterioration on the beams. Their current goal was to strip the other materials, find other uses for them if they could, scrap those they couldn’t, and begin refurbishing the space into actual housing, so that they could begin to permanently settle Cybertron once again. The Constructicons weren’t the only one assisting with the project-- those who wanted a first stake at housing were invited to lend their assistance, and as such several crews from the shoddy rust-bucket ships were there to strip surfacing and cart rubble as needed. 

The building, as far as Prowl could tell, had previously been the headquarters of some sort of shipping company, and contained both space for storage and offices. Both would be easy enough to convert into habitation units, using the offices for the smaller spaces and dividing up the storage into slightly larger shared living units. 

Of course, problems will arise when those present to lend their assistance try to claim the most space, and end up arguing with one another over who gets what, even though the building should be able to hold more than those who showed up to help, but arguing them down will be a simple enough plan, and it’s a trivial matter to allocate spaces based on the preferred grouping assignments of the crews, and then to direct them to the restoration of those sections first--

“Prowl? What are you doing here?” 

Prowl jerked away from the building blueprints and looked up to see a very puzzled-looking Jetfire. 

“I--” 

When he looked around, he was surrounded by the Constructicons, and the construction crew. Which should have been across the city. 

He’d intended to work on plans for the defenses all day, not to be dragged into the Constructicon’s project, and yet, somehow, that was exactly what had happened. 

“I decided to take a break from the defenses,” Prowl said stiffly to Jetfire, who shrugged and deposited several large crates of materials before leaving, apparently unwilling to question Prowl. 

Prowl had some questions of his own, however. The constructicons seemed to sense this, if the way they clumped together when Prowl turned his attention toward them was any indication. 

“I was working on the defenses,” he said, his voice cold. “A vital task for New Iacon. Would you like to explain why it is that I find myself instead drafted into the job of a foreman?” 

“Well, it’s because you are,” Bonecrusher muttered. Mixmaster sneered and elbowed him hard, and Bonecrusher fell silent. Prowl continued to stare at them, and the Constructicons all began to fidget under his stare until--

“Well, it’s the Gestalt brain, of course,” Hook said stiffly. Prowl gave him a look, and he grimaced, but continued. “It comes out for the big problems.”

“It comes out when we are combined,” Prowl said with a frown. 

“Well, sure,” Scavenger said. “Cause that’s a big problem. But the more of us are focused on one big thing, the more it kinda… pulls in everyone else.” 

“All available resources,” Hook said. “And your processor is quite a considerable resource.” 

“What you mean to say is, unless all of us are working on entirely separate projects, I won’t be able to concentrate on my own work?” Prowl said. He could feel the angry tension building an ache in his shoulders and processor both. 

“Well…” Long Haul said slowly. “Not unless you want us to help.” 

“You, to help?” Prowl asked. 

“You know. More processing power,” Long Haul said. “That’s your thing, right? So if the gestalt isn’t focused on dragging around six frames in one body, there’s a lot of extra space for your calculating thing.” 

Prowl crossed his arms over his front bumper. He did not particularly like looking up and discovering that he had already spent half the day on a project completely unrelated to his own, and the feeling of his will slowly succumbing to another’s direction, even a gestalt, sat poorly with him. But, if he could use that processing power… 

His upper limit had always been calculating the trajectory of five hundred moving objects at once. Could he hit six hundred? One thousand?

Prowl looked down at the blueprints and the half-finished list of room assignments, then looked up at the array of Constructicons. “We are finishing this,” he declared. “Then we’re testing this. Understood?” 

Maybe it was the connection between their processors that happened whenever they combined, but Prowl could feel glee rolling off of the Constructicons in waves. “Yes, boss!”

[inksmellsnice]

Title: The Tour Guide Rating: General Audiences Words: 1577 Pairings: Bumblebee/Blades Summary: With Earth and Cybertron finally safe, Bumblebee officially joins the Rescue Bots Academy as a full-time mentor. Naturally, Blades overthinks everything except how much he may mean to his old friend.  External Reading: FFN , AO3  Author’s Notes: @secretsolenoid​ for @toraokami303​ !! So sorry it’s late. ;u; The prompt was Blades helping Bee unwind by taking him somewhere scenic on Griffin Rock. In the end, it ended up being more about how they got to going somewhere scenic than the actual scenic location, but I hope you enjoy it all the same! I also included a reference to one of the other prompts of Optimus relaxing, because I almost did that one instead. Yes, absolutely, Optimus needs a vacation. Let this mech rest.

“…And that’s the plan to get Bumblebee to stay at the Academy full-time when he comes to visit tomorrow!” Blades said with a flourish, gesturing once again to a map of Griffin Rock, pinned haphazardly to the wall of his quarters and absolutely slathered in sticky notes, looking to Cody for a reaction.

Blade’s map included the site of every daring adventure Rescue Team Sigma-17 had gone on (that Bumblebee hadn’t accompanied them for).  A variety of other dangerous locations were also noted, and Blades seemed a little too hopeful something bad would happen at one of them during the tour… not that there was any way said tour could really be completed in a day; it had taken the copter-bot all afternoon just to explain it. Cody smiled, concerned but amused. “I thought Bumblebee already agreed to teach full time?”

Blades straightened up and stammered. “W-Well, I mean, technically yes, but I need to show him just how exciting Griffin Rock is so he doesn’t even think of changing his mind!” 

Cody leaned forward in his seat on Blades’ berth. “But what happened to all of the things you said you wanted to do with him when you had time? You never got to sing karaoke together, or play video games, or just… take a walk and catch up without some disaster cutting you o-“

“Booooring.” Blades waved his hand dramatically. “I told you I wanted to do those things years ago¸ Cody! You were like… half your height!” He crossed his arms and took a dignified stance. “I’ll have you know you’re not the only one who has matured since then.”

“Uh huh.”

It only took Cody staring his old friend down for a moment for Blades to sink on his pedes. “…And, well… Bumblebee is a war hero now. I mean, he already was, and of course even before that he was my hero, but now he’s saved Earth and Cybertron twice! Which means his tour has to be twice as impressive! I still can’t believe he’s going to be coming here to teach with us when he could be signing autographs or going on late-night talk shows, or… or…”

Blades’ started pacing. Once again, Cody knew, Blades was overthinking things, but saying that would just make him overthink more. He frowned and tried to choose his words carefully. “It just doesn’t seem like you included much time to be yourself and spend time with your friend.” 

(And obvious crush, Cody thought, but he wasn’t going to open that can of worms when Blades already looked like a single additional atom of anxiety could make him shatter like glass. Now was not the time to meddle.)

“Whaaaaat, of course I did! I’ll be giving him the tour and being my whole, extremely cool and heroic self the entire time!” Blades looked at the map again, perplexed. “Was something in my pitch not clear? Do I need to go over it again?”

“N-No!” Cody shot up from his seat with placating hands. “No, I got it the first time, buddy, and I just remembered I have… a thing. In a place. Somewhere el-”

Cody was saved from thinking up an elaborate excuse by a knock at the door.

“Blades? You in there?”   

It was Bumblebee. 

Blades squeaked and looked at the wall clock. 6:30! Bumblebee arrived half an hour ago and he wasn’t there to welcome him! The medic scrambled to the door of his room, Cody all but forgotten, smashing the button to slide open the door. “B-Bumblebee! You’re here!”

“Is everything okay? Figured you’d be outside when I-”

“When you got here! Right! I meant to be and then I just…” Blades put his hands on his helm in a panic. “I am so sorry, I-!”

Bumblebee stepped forward and wrapped his arms around Blades, cutting his flailing friend off and chuckling. “Easy, pal. I was just worried is all.” 

“…Oh,” Blades responded meekly.  Bumblebee pat him on the back and Blades sunk into the reunion hug, returning the embrace with a tight, long squeeze before backing away. “Yeah, I was…uh…” He rubbed the back of his helm sheepishly. 

Cody smirked. “Blades was just telling me about the elaborate tour he was going to take you on, all over Griffin Rock, just the two of you.” 

(Okay, maybe now was the time to meddle just a little bit.) 

Blades’ fans clicked on and he glanced at Cody with equal parts betrayal and flusterment before turning his attention to the map that had looked brilliant up until the moment Bumblebee entered the room and now looked like the rambling mess of a crazed fanbot. But Bumblebee had seen it, no turning back now. “Right! Exactly!” Blades scrambled over to the map and gestured to it. “There’s so many places I wanted to show you and so many stories I haven’t told you yet! I figured tonight you’d get settled in, and then tomorrow we could start at Old Canyon Road. One time, Jerry was transporting a truck full of chattering teeth and uranium, and…”

Bumblebee stared at the map with a flat expression and drooped optics. 

“…You don’t look excited.” Blades frowned.

“Oh, uh, it looks awesome Blades,” he said with a forced smile, “and we should totally go check all of these things out, but…” Bumblebee chose his words carefully – Blades had clearly put a lot of effort into this, no matter how casual he tried to act about it now. As it was, he felt bad for not putting on a face for his friends’ sake sooner. “Was the plan to do all of this in one day?” 

“…Too much?”

Bumblebee smiled, amused, much like Cody had before. “Maybe a little.” The helicopter sighed and his shoulders slumped. “Hey,” Bumblebee put a hand on Blades’ shoulder. “I’m not shooting it down or anything, but what’s the rush? I’m here full time now, remember?”

“I know, but…” Blades looked away from Bumblebee, to Cody, who coaxed him to keep going. “Bumblebee, you’ve gone on so many amazing adventures and saves worlds and I’ve just… I can fit nearly everything I’ve done on this map. I just thought if I didn’t show you how exciting life with us can be right away, you might change your mind and go find something cooler to do.”

Bumblebee stared at Blades for a moment. He always knew Blades looked up to him, but how long had he been feeling this down on himself? “Blades,” Bumblebee closed the distance between them, smiling softly. “I didn’t agree to teach at the Academy because I thought every day would be some big adventure. Heck, if I’m honest, I’m kind of glad that I can finally relax a little, you know? Even Optimus has been taking it a little easier.”

Blades blinked at the idea of Optimus relaxing, momentarily distracted by the strange mental image of the idolized titan chilling out with a data pad in an oil bath with a cup of high-grade. In a less serious discussion, he wouldn’t have been able to keep a straight face, but they could talk about that later.

“None of us wanted to be fighting a war forever,” Bumblebee continued. “Besides, Griffin Rock is a nice place and all, but I didn’t come here for the island…”

Bumblebee took Blades’ hand in his with a gentle squeeze, and Blades’ optics instantly locked onto his incredibly soft ones.

“…I came here to spend more time with the people I care about.” 

Blades almost fainted right then and there, because when did the bot he admired more than anybody else come to care so strongly about him in return? “O-Oh… In that case… maybe tomorrow we could take a walk and catch up…?” Blades stared at their hands for a moment, and found himself emboldened to interlace their fingers, but once he had he didn’t have the nerve to look up at Bumblebee’s reaction.

(Cody smiled and quietly made his exit while the two bots were focused on each other. Now was definitely the time to meddle.)

But, after a moment that felt like an eternity, Bumblebee bent down into Blades’ field of vision, smiling.

“Why not now? You can’t tell me you don’t know a great place to watch the sunset around here. Then after, maybe we could finally get around to that karaoke session you always talk about?”

And with the way Bumblebee looked at him, the way he said that – his hushed voice and piercing optics - it almost sounded they were discussing a date. 

Or maybe Blades’ imagination was getting away from him. Either way, he knew his answer.

“That sounds perfect.”

[perictione]

MegOP fluff anyone? I wrote this for the @secretsolenoid gift exchange for @ladprisonmechanic 💒

By My Love, By My Passion by perictione

6k words, Rated T, MegOP

Tags: Offscreen Sexual Content, Post-War, Mutual Pining, Miscommunication, Wedding, Extra Soft Fluff, Decor Optimized for Instagram, Megatron Attempts Romance, Optimus Prime Does Not Get Any Memos, Canon-Typical Dramatics

“We are gathered here to invest this mech with the powers and responsibilities of the Lord High Protector of Cybertron, the Chosen of the Chosen, the Prime’s Consort.”

[thebestdecepticonleader]

2021 Secret Solenoid

@secretsolenoid @doodle-machine​ Continuity: IDW Generation 1 Comics (2005-2018), IDW Comics: More than Meets the Eye/Lost Light Characters: Scavengers (can be the group or focus on specific one(s)) Prompt: The brainstorming session or circumstances that lead to their ship being named the WAP.

[aethergeologist]

@secretsolenoid gift for @cavalierconvoy! Hope this year goes better than the last

[spacecoats]


My @secretsolenoid​ gift for @something-something-artist​ / @hyuch1h4 
Happy new year!!!!!!!!!

[mesothulass]

Lost Planet Blues

This is my @secretsolenoid gift for @hold-my-flowercrown! Happy New Years! I hope you enjoy!

Read on ao3.

“Oh for Primus’ sake,” Tailgate sighed. Cyclonus glanced over at him from the corner of his optics, spark clenching in his chest. “I can’t believe they just left us here!” A twinge of guilt hit Cyclonus.

“I’ll cover for you and get us off planet,” Whirl had told Cyclonus the night before, “and then I’ll stall for about a day or so. All you gotta do is make sure Tailgate knows he’s loved, y’know? You’re the most romantic bot I know, so make sure it counts!” 

“What’re we gonna do?” Tailgate said, whirling around to face Cyclonus, visor sparking, “are they gonna come back? Are they just gonna forget us here? What if their engines are broken? What if we’re stuck here for months? What if we get injured? What if-”

“Tailgate,” Cyclonus said, voice quiet. His Conjunx quieted immediately. Tailgate’s anxiety was almost always infectious. “It’s going to be fine.” Tailgate huffed.

“Easy for you to say,” Tailgate muttered, hunching into himself. Then he gasped, grabbing for Cyclonus’ servos. “Wait! Cyc, you must be nervous too, right?” Cyclonus nearly ducked away from the ever-terrifying ordeal of confessing any part of him. It was only the way that Tailgate waited, smiling in that strange manner one did when they didn’t have a face, that managed to get Cyclonus over it.

He really did love Tailgate. Every part of him, from his small stature to his overwhelming strength to the intelligence that hid under his anxious demeanor. Enough to let Whirl experiment and screw over the Captain so that Cyclonus and Tailgate could get a well deserved break together.

They hadn’t had enough of those lately.

“I am,” Cyclonus said. Tailgate nodded, understanding as always. It wasn’t a lie. Cyclonus was nervous - he and Whirl had never done anything like this before.

Cyclonus wasn’t a very trusting mech. That he’d even told Whirl, chaotic and careless as he was, that he’d wanted some time with Tailgate to himself? Without worrying about the crew and the ship? Without having to accommodate Tailgate’s friends barging in at any possible moment? Even Rodimus would drop by when he felt like it, and while technically he was a friend, there was a certain distance that Cyclonus should maintain from his captain.

That this was even happening right now was very much brand new and vulnerable. And Cyclonus honestly didn’t know how to feel about it. But if it was for Tailgate. . . 

“That’s understandable,” Tailgate said. He led Cyclonus over to a nearby tree - the world they were stranded on was a mainly organic one. The Lost Light had landed in the middle of a field, and that was the same field that Cyclonus and Tailgate had been left on. There weren’t many tree’s - even this one was long rather than tall, and had sparse leaves. 

“It is?” Cyclonus asked. Tailgate nodded, tugging Cyclonus to the ground. Cyclonus followed easily. Tailgate clambered onto Cyclonus’ lap like he owned it - and he did, to be honest. Cyclonus would give Tailgate any part of him that he asked for.

“Yeah,” Tailgate said. He hesitated, then reached up to touch Cyclonus’ cheekbones. “How do you feel about talking emotions right now?”

“If you want to talk, then I’m not opposed,” Cyclonus said. Tailgate shifted to get comfortable. 

“I think,” Tailgate said, looking up at Cyclonus with a suspiciously knowing look on his face, “that getting stranded scares you.” Cyclonus eyed his Conjunx and waited for him to continue. It took a minute for Tailgate to get his thoughts together. “You travelled a lot with Galvatron when you were younger, right? And you guys. . . you ended up in the Dead Universe. Even after all your planning and safeguards.”

“Tailgate,” Cyclonus interrupted. It felt like electricity was crawling over his chassis. He couldn’t meet Tailgate’s visor. 

“I know, I’m sorry,” Tailgate said, standing up to kiss the underside of Cyclonus’ chin. “I know you don’t like to talk about it. But it makes sense that you’d be nervous - what if it turns out the same as it did back then?” Cyclonus turned his face away. That was a thought he’d been trying not to entertain. A small servo turned Cyclonus’ helm back towards Tailgate. “Cyclonus.”

“Tailgate.”

“I promise you,” Tailgate said seriously and Cyclonus’ engine hitched. He’d never get used to Tailgate staring at him so seriously, or the glittering of his biolights, or the dedication Cyclonus could practically feel through the gentle touch of his servos on Cyclonus’ faceplates. Tailgate was - Tailgate was glorious. “Listen to me, ok? I promise you that, no matter how long we’re here, no matter what happens, I’ll protect you. I’ll be here with you and I’ll take care of you. Ok?”

And slagit, Cyclonus really loved Tailgate. 

“Ok,” Cyclonus murmured. He leaned his head down, slow so as not to surprise his Conjunx, and pressed his helm to Tailgate’s. Tailgate’s engine pitched down, rumbling pleasantly in a way Cyclonus’ jet engine had never been able to. Such was the curse of being a flightframe - his engine was high pitched and screeched while Tailgate’s was a soothing low rumble. “Can I - I need to tell you something.”

“Go for it,” Tailgate said, pulling back. Cyclonus shifted underneath his Conjunx’s frame before gathering up the courage to answer.

“We’re not - Whirl offered -” Cyclonus stopped, giving Tailgate a pleading look. Tailgate shook his head; he couldn’t guess based off the four words Cyclonus had forced out of his mouth. “We’re not technically scrambled - I mean stranded.”

“Scrambled-” Tailgate spluttered, breaking into a beautiful laugh. “You - Cyc!” Tailgate buried his face against Cyclonus’ chestplates. Cyclonus relished in his Conjunx’s laughter. It wasn’t like he didn’t hear it a lot. Quite the opposite, Tailgate laughed at every opportunity.

But there was a definite feeling of accomplishment from hearing Tailgate express his joy so openly and earnestly. On some level, Cyclonus was still accustomed to the social customs from six million years ago, when such joy was frowned upon.

“I should’ve known you and Whirl had something to do with this,” Tailgate said once he’d calmed down, “it was kinda suspicious that no one else was stranded but the two of us. I’m not mad though. I’ve been missing you too.” Cyclonus relaxed, wrapping his arms around Tailgate. 

“Thank you,” Cyclonus said. Tailgate shook his head. 

“That really makes me feel better now,” Tailgate said, “as soon as Whirlybird lets up on whatever he’s doing, they’ll be back, right?” Cyclonus nodded. “What made you agree, though?”

Cyclonus tilted his head. “I wanted to uh, to be with you.”

“But you’re scared of being left behind,” Tailgate said so frankly and so kindly that Cyclonus almost forgot to be embarrassed, “and with me here, it must be worse, right? Cuz you have to protect me? Or well, you don’t have to, but you feel like you have to.”

Cyclonus shifted uncomfortably, glancing out over the fields. The sun was setting now, painting the sky in many beautiful colors that Cyclonus couldn’t even begin to describe.

“I just,” Cyclonus forced through his vocoder, “I wanted to be with you for a day.” Tailgate stared at him.

“You’d come all the way out here,” Tailgate murmured, “and purposefully get yourself stranded, just to spend time with me?” Cyclonus nodded.

Tailgate tugged Cyclonus’s head down, his mouth cover sliding down as he tugged Cyclonus into a very passionate kiss. Cyclonus melted into it, comfort settling over his shoulders like a warm blanket. Tailgate was such a good kisser, despite his lack of tongue or lips. Cyclonus had enough of both for the both of them, and he carefully licked around Tailgate’s rubber outer lining. Tailgate’s engine burned louder as he pulled away.

“I love you,” Tailgate said, voice very serious. Cyclonus’ engine stuttered and turned over as looked away.

“I love you too,” Cyclonus murmured, gathering up the courage to look Tailgate in the visor as he said it. Tailgate beamed, biolights flashing and sparkling in the growing dark. Primus, he was beautiful.

“Yeah, I can tell,” Tailgate said, voice trembling with the force of the emotion behind it, “Primus, I love you. I love you so much. I’m gonna pin you down and love you all night. Stay right there, don’t move.” Cyclonus immediately relaxed completely under him, unable to keep the smile off his face. “And I’ll make sure nothing bad happens the whole night, understand?”

“I understand,” Cyclonus murmured. “I trust you.” Tailgate’s engine stuttered. He nodded.

“I trust you too.”

[lush-specimen]

Chapters: 3/3 Fandom: The Transformers (IDW Generation One) Rating: General Audiences Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply Relationships: Rodimus | Rodimus Prime/Thunderclash Characters: Rodimus | Rodimus Prime, Thunderclash (Transformers), Ultra Magnus (Transformers), Megatron (Transformers), Minimus Ambus (Transformers), Riptide (Transformers) Additional Tags: Fluff, Teamwork, Christmas Party, Crushes Summary:

Rodimus distractedly agrees to plan the Lost Light’s annual Christmas party during a command meeting with Megatron and Ultra Magnus. Focused more on helping his crew with everyday tasks, he totally forgets about it until Megs mentions that he’s actually looking forward to the party tomorrow.     Scrambling to get everything prepared in secret at the literal last minute, he accidentally crashes into Thunderclash and enlists his help.  

My @secretsolenoid gift for @tjdrewthis

[npc-toastied]

My Secret Solenoid Gift @secretsolenoid , for @ariesnohope !!! 

Their request was for some secret MegOP confessions, so I hope I did that some justice!! 

Hope you had a lovely Christmas, and have a wonderful Happy New Year of 2021!!! 🎊✨💞 ✨ 🎊

[lalit1234]

Used Transmission

Would it be a good idea for me to Buy a Used Transmission? Utilized Transmissions and the Risks They Pose  There Are Other Options Available to You How Is used  Transmission Service Unique?  Why Is used  Transmission Service Necessary?  How Does An used  Transmission Respond?  Is used  Transmission Service Different From used  Transmission Service?  Used Transmission  Buying a used transmission from the auto memorial park presents huge monetary dangers 

It's shrewd to be savvy with your cash, to save more than you spend, and when shopping, to search for the best arrangement you can discover. However, regarding the matter of purchasing a used transmission, an aphorism applies: "You get what you paid for." at the end of the day, buying a used transmission is never a smart thought except if you're doing it as a transitory measure to expand the life span of a more established vehicle. 

Utilized transmissions can be found all things considered auto wreckers. Large numbers of these providers offer guarantees, normally for a time span going from 30 to 90 days. However, recollect that you're scrounging for a used transmission in an auto junkyard. That implies you don't really have a clue what condition a used transmission is in, what its set of experiences is, and there are no promises it will function as you expect for long if by any means.

Present day transmissions are PC controlled wonders including a variety of sensors that continually screen and transfer data to the PC to guarantee the transmission is performing at an ideal level. Your vehicle's motor control unit is the thing that oversees everything from eco-friendliness and emanations to changing gears. In the event that fixing your present transmission is certainly not a feasible choice, you can pick to supplant it with a modified model, or you can buy another one and have it introduced. 

Modifying a fizzled or bombing transmission might appear to be problematic, however you have the advantage of knowing its set of experiences and who overhauled it. In addition, there's no stressing about whether or not the transmission gears are the ideal counterpart for your vehicle. 

Transmission revamps at used  Transmission fix shops incorporate a year guarantee (which can be moved up to three or five years). It's that drawn out cross country ensure that should give you the certainty to put resources into fixing your current transmission. Additionally, it finds some kind of harmony between being financially dependable and experiencing the harmony of psyche the maintenance will go as arranged.

August 16, 2021 | By used  Transmission 

How Is used  Transmission Service Unique? 

Programmed transmission administration is the majority of what we do at used  Transmission. Yet, how is programmed transmission administration not the same as used  transmission administration? 

Your transmission, similar to the wide range of various parts in your vehicle, needs incidental help and support. Without enough transmission liquid, a programmed transmission will overheat and cause harm. Erosion surfaces that are too worn out will not have the option to take care of their work any more. Broken sensors will mean your transmission isn't working as expected. And every last bit of it could see your vehicle get out of stuff, granulate and oppose when you switch gears, and, eventually, neglect to convey capacity to your wheels. 

The transmission conveys power from the motor to the axles, and accordingly the wheels. All the more explicitly, the transmission conveys the perfect measure of force. At the point when you start driving from a stop, your wheels have a rotational speed of, all things considered, zero, regardless of whether you had been firing up your motor for 15 minutes. The transmission changes this unevenness, similar as the stuff shifter on a bike. In the event that the stuff is excessively high, you'll experience difficulty getting rolling; excessively low and you'll pedal and accelerating and not getting anyplace exceptionally quick. 

In a used  drive transmission, you should physically switch gears yourself utilizing the stuff shifter. This is basically a similar guideline likewise with a bike. Programmed transmissions, then again, naturally switch the gear proportion as your vehicle is moving. Programmed transmissions permit the motor to give a scope of force and speed yields while the motor keeps a generally high rotational speed. At last, a programmed transmission requires less work from the driver. Along these lines, many discover driving a programmed transmission simpler. In any case, others incline toward driving a used  transmission since it gives them more command over their vehicle, and on the grounds that used  transmissions will in general be somewhat more eco-friendly. 

The majority of what we do at used  Transmission is programmed transmission administration. We're entirely proficient and glad to support used  transmissions, as well, it's simply that by far most of vehicles in Canada are programmed. used  transmissions may just make up 9% of Canadian vehicles. As far as administration, the distinctions are insignificant. Normal programmed transmission administrations incorporate fixing up the programmed transmission liquid, depleting it and supplanting it with new liquid, supplanting blemished solenoid packs, and resealing spills. To look further into programmed transmission administration, if it's not too much trouble, read about our Multi-Check Inspection. 

At used  Transmission, we're glad to perform programmed transmission administration, just as used  transmission administration and CVT administration. To find out additional, kindly reach us. We have a thorough COVID-19 approach to guard everyone. 

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What Transmission Do I Have? Manual Or used?" 

Many individuals asking us or themselves, "What transmission do I have?", need to realize what kind of transmission it is, i.e., manual or programmed. This is an essential inquiry and it may appear glaringly evident to a considerable lot of you perusing, however for new drivers, the transmission is regularly a secretive and frustrating part of their vehicle. It's normal to be befuddled with regards to these things when you initially begin driving. Particularly since here in Canada, by far most of drivers drive a programmed transmission. (Manual transmissions represent just an expected 9% of vehicles.) 

At the point when you see it by and by, it's really simple to recognize a programmed from a manual transmission. A manual transmission vehicle requires the driver to utilize the stuff change stick and the grip pedal to change gears dependent on the vehicle's speed. A vehicle with a programmed transmission doesn't need the driver to change of gears along these lines. Generally, when driving a programmed transmission, one just necessities to change gears from park, to switch, to drive, etc. Programmed transmissions are simpler to drive, and they permit the driver to zero in out and about, while manual transmissions permit drivers to have more command over their vehicle and they don't use as much gas. 

"What Transmission Do I Have? A CVT?" 

CVT means "persistently factor transmission". The distinction between a CVT and a programmed transmission isn't as simple to recognize in light of the fact that, practically speaking, there is almost no distinction to see as a driver. Without a doubt, a CVT is really a sort of programmed transmission. A CVT consistently changes through a boundless scope of stuff proportions while other programmed transmissions offer a proper number of stuff proportions and can have hard moves between these proportions. In numerous ways, the CVT is an enhancement for the customary programmed transmission, so they're turning out to be more normal in more up to date vehicles. 

"What Transmission Do I Have? Which Make And Model?" 

To know the particular make and model of transmission you have might must have a transmission professional gander at it. On the off chance that you drive a Nissan, you presumably have a Nissan transmission. In any case, which make? Also, it can get confounded when vehicle organizations join on transmissions, similarly as with the GM-Ford 6-speed programmed transmission. 

Used Transmission 

Used Transmission can assist you with recognizing the make and model of your transmission, just as deal full transmission support and fix administrations. To find out additional, if it's not too much trouble, get in touch with us. We additionally have a far reaching COVID-19 arrangement to guard everyone.

[secretsolenoid]

A belated Secret Solenoid gift for psymon on twitter!

“You don’t have to stay here, you know.” 

Ratchet grunts, his attention on the space bridge controls. “What?” 

Arcee, standing by the gate of the bridge, gives him a knowing look. “You don’t have to stay trapped on Earth forever.” 

“I’m not trapped here,” Ratchet says stiffly, gesturing towards the bridge. “Minor ah--hiccups aside, the space bridge is fully functional. I do not require some--of some rescue, Arcee. There is work to be done and liaising to manage with Agent Fowler. Unless you would prefer to take over management of the Earth Base yourself? Have you perhaps gained a new skill in engineering while you were away on Cybertron?” 

Arcee rolls her eyes and crosses her arms in front of her chassis. “That’s not what I meant,” she says, “and you know it. You can take a day to go to Cybertron if you want. A week, even.”

“I certainly can not,” Ratchet huffs. “Even if I weren’t busy today, it is hardly advisable to travel through the space bridge with it unattended, as you well know. With no one to take over the controls other than, perhaps, you, I cannot leave my post. Until someone else decides to station themselves here on Earth, I am going to remain.”

“You could ask for someone to stay here in your stead for a few weeks,” she points out. “I’m sure Bumblebee would be happy to send someone your way.” 

“Someone like Bulkhead, who would be better placed on Cybertron to help with the rebuilding?” Ratchet scoffs. “No, I will stay here, thank you.”

“You don’t have to,” Arcee says. “But, fine. Any messages you want me to take back? For anyone in particular?” 

Ratchet goes stiff. “No,” he says. “Just pass on my well-wishes to the team.” 

Arcee presses her lip plating together to hold in a sigh. “Ratchet…” 

“Ahp-ahp-ahp!” Ratchet says sharply. He presses his hands down on the edge panels of the space bridge’s controls. “I already told you what I’m doing, and I won’t be talked out of it. If anyone is interested in “catching up” with me, they can comm me, or come visit themselves.” 

Arcee shrugs. “Well, I tried,” she says. “I’ll let them know you said hi.” 

“You can choose to do so,” Ratchet says stiffly and does not look up from the controls as she passes through the gate. 

-

He is busy, is the thing. There are a million things to take care of around the base, even with Agent Fowler bringing in some degree of funding from the U.S. Government and Rafael to handle the programming. 

There’s still plenty of manual labor to do and plenty more specialized tools that Ratchet has to figure out how to cobble together out of materials from Earth and the few that can be spared from the rebuilding efforts on Cybertron. He is, after all, still one of the Autobots’ best medics, and that expertise means he’s the only one with the familiarity of some of the methods of repair that used to be popular in the hospitals and universities of their planet. Most medics now know how to reattach a limb or close a bleeding wound, but few know how to recalibrate a spark chamber or rewire an optic as good as new. 

Ratchet will probably have to teach them how to do it-- eventually. For now, he can’t. 

And he certainly can’t return to Cybertron when that-- that Wrecker--

“Slag it,” Ratchet curses and brings his hand to his face. He can’t blame Drift for joining up with the Wreckers. He’s had more than enough time to get over the idea of his lover in that group and has confirmation from both Wheeljack and Ultra Magnus that he didn’t do too badly in the group-- though that bothers him on its own. He knows what the Wreckers can be like. Wheeljack is a perfect example of it. Rough around the edges at their best and occasionally actively bloodthirsty when driven to it. Knowing the environment that Drift came out of, Ratchet is sure that the Wreckers were familiar, but he’s not sure if they were the best thing for Drift. 

But Drift chose to go, and Ratchet chose not to follow, and now it’s been eons since they last saw each other. And now Drift is on Cybertron, and Ratchet is here on Earth. It’s the closest they’ve been since that fateful split, and here Ratchet is, staying right where he is. 

He’s always been a stubborn fool, is the thing. He knows that, even where it counts, he is likely to shoot himself in the foot, say something he’ll regret, cling too long to what’s comfortable rather than doing what’s best for him. Maybe it’s age that’s made him so intractable. Maybe it’s the war. Whatever the case, when he thinks about going back to Cybertron to find Drift and say--something, anything--to him, he can’t bring himself to make the call. 

So instead, he’ll stay here on Earth with his anger boiling and his spark aching, and refuse offers like Arcee’s, to help. 

-

It is only two Earth days later when he receives a message from Cybertron. It isn’t a video-- they rarely have time or the bandwidth for those these days, even with the space bridge. It’s just a list of provisions in the delivery, a request for whatever tools are finished, and a note that whoever they’re sending over will need to be introduced to Earth and the humans. Another new arrival from the depths of space who doesn’t know Optimus Prime’s team and the planet where the final days of the war were fought. 

Ratchet feels a frisson of nerves at the prospect, a tingle of static that runs all through his haptic net. He pushes it aside. He’s never been the type to see conspiracies around every corner, and he refuses to see one here. It’s not the first time this has happened, and while he finds introducing other Autobots to the organic planet singularly irritating, he did sign himself up for it. He has no one to blame for it but himself.

It’s a simple delivery run. Ratchet might not like it, but he can handle it. He sends back a confirmation to Cybertron, runs the time conversion, and discovers that he has a few Earth hours before the delivery from Cybertron. Just as well. Diving into his work will give him a chance to wipe these nerves out. 

It’s probably not Drift that they’ve sent to make this delivery. And if it is, Ratchet will deal with it then. No use worrying over it when there’s nothing he can do to stop it. 

-

He manages to finish a circuit diagnostic device in those few hours, but it doesn’t stop him from feeling jumpy and on edge the entire time. He runs a whole battery of tests once the device is finished, then does them again. When the only thing that does is leave him with an instrument he can’t justify fiddling with further, he turns his attention instead to the space bridge. Running more diagnostics gives him something to do with his hands, but it doesn’t give him anything else to think about-- he’s run these tests so many times he can make the adjustments while hardly thinking about it. 

Instead, he starts thinking about the very thing he was trying to avoid. What will he do if it isn’t Drift? What will he do if it is? 

He tries to think of something to say and finds his processor simply stalling. Nothing he could say seems particularly worth saying, especially when he can’t think of what Drift might have to say to him in turn. 

When the appointed time comes, it’s a blessing from Primus. 

Ratchet receives his first warning in a message from Bulkhead. It starts with a ping, then when Ratchet answers, a video opens. It fuzzes with static due to the distance, but Ratchet can make out Bulkhead’s grinning face all the same. 

“Heya, Ratch!” Bulkhead says with his usual ebullience. “How are you doing?” 

“Just fine, Bulkhead.” Ratchet responds. “What do you have for me?” 

Tellingly, Bulkhead’s optics slide away from Ratchet’s face. “Just, uh, some supplies. And, uh, a visitor! To carry the supplies.”

“Anyone I know?” Ratchet asks. 

Bulkhead clears his throat loudly. He’s still not looking at Ratchet. “Uuuuuh, maybe,” he says. “You know what, I’ll just let him through; you two can talk about it.” 

Ratchet can’t hold back a scowl, but he manages to hold back from barking at Bulkhead, who isn’t exactly innocent but is not deserving of Ratchet’s irritation at this situation. No one is, but Ratchet can’t help the way his nerves shunt themselves in bursts of outrage at every small thing. Maybe it will be better if he gets this over with. 

He huffs but lets Bulkhead get away with it. “Send them over, then.” 

Bulkhead’s shoulders sag with relief. “Starting bridge sequence, Ratch,” he says, and the video flicks off. 

Ratchet runs one final check, lets the bridge confirm coordinates, and steps back from the control panel when the bridge powers up and the glowing blue-green vortex appears. Everything looks stable, and there’s no reason it shouldn’t be. Ratchet could operate the panel, just in case something goes wrong, but Rafael’s programming is robust in that regard, and…

He needs to see. 

A figure starts to emerge from the glowing lights. Ratchet recognizes Bulkhead’s silhouette first, particularly with the shape of the supply trailer hitched to him. Bulkhead has been making most of the heavier supply deliveries. 

There’s another figure next to him, a much sleeker shape that Ratchet recognizes as a Cybertronian alt-mode. If he didn’t know better, he might mistake the form for Wheeljack having given up his Earth mode. 

But although the frame is red and white, it has none of the green stripes that distinguish Wheeljack. Ratchet recognizes this frame, too. 

There’s a patchy quality to his paint that speaks of recent repairs. Dents, the pucker of scarred weld lines, everything Ratchet spots on Drift’s frame maps a history of damage repaired. Ratchet steps forward and traces each one, energy singing electric along his lines in a way that he knows translates to a deep scowl. He rests his hands on his hips and waits for the two to halt and transform. 

Bulkhead does so first. “Hey, Ratch,” he says, still sheepish. Ratchet hardly spares him a glance. 

When Drift transforms, it’s… 

He looks the same. 

There are changes, of course. He’s cybertronian. Of course, he’s changed his frame, through preference or necessity or both, sometime during this Primus-forsaken war. Even with the changes to his paint and some of his outer plating, his faceplates are the same. He’s kept the blue optics. He’s still got that sword, even. 

And when he looks at Ratchet, there’s something warm in the glow of his optics. 

“Hey, Ratchet,” he says. 

Ratchet can’t get his vocalizer to work correctly. Instead, he grunts and nods and steps forward. Vaguely, he is aware of Bulkhead saying something about unloading. 

Drift keeps walking towards him. Ratchet can’t look away, can’t do anything to stop him when Drift reaches out and, with a moment of hesitation, takes his hands between his. He feels the contact like a spark in his plating. 

“You look… like you’re doing well,” Drift says, but it seems like more of a question than a statement. He’s looking over Ratchet’s hands, searching for signs of wear and tear, of maintenance. He knows that their hands are a medic’s livelihood because Ratchet taught him that so long ago. 

Ratchet knows that the hardships of the war’s end are written across his hands, visible to anyone who cares to look. 

“You look like you’ve gotten into a few scrapes, yourself,” Ratchet says. It comes out stiff and distant, more than he means it to, and he sees it register with Drift in the way he winces and lowers his optics. 

That shakes something loose in him. He’s lived through the war; he’s lost his oldest and dearest friend. If he’s to live on, will he do it alone? Will he push away this one thing that’s come through the war alongside him?

“I’m glad you made it through,” Ratchet says before he can begin to question himself. It’s still gruff, still stiff, but he hopes Drift will see the awkwardness for what it is, this time. 

It’s enough to get Drift lifting his helm, his optics bright and vulnerable. “Ratch…” 

“Come here,” Ratchet rasps. He grabs Drift by the shoulder, pulls his slighter frame in to wrap arms around him, and Drift goes with the motion, wraps arms around him right back. 

He’s trembling, ever so slightly, as he holds on to Ratchet. They stand there, so long that Ratchet loses track, just the two of them, together. 

Eventually, Ratchet tunes back into his surroundings to the sound of Bulkhead resetting his vocalizer. 

“Sorry, Ratchet,” he says. “I just, uh…” 

Ratchet has to reset his vocalizer as well. “I’ll just send you back through the space bridge, shall I?” 

“Great,” Bulkhead says. “I’ll talk to you two again later.” 

-

After Bulkhead is gone, things lapse back into silence. Drift lingered close through the process of starting up the space bridge, and while Ratchet had always grouched about clinginess before, now he feels the need for closeness just as acutely. Now that they’re alone, and the initial spell has broken, though, he isn’t quite sure what to do. 

He resets his vocalizer (if he does much more of this today, he’s going to break it, he thinks to himself wryly) and turns to Drift. “Well. We can get you settled in. We’ll need to introduce you to the local Earth authorities at some point, but Fowler is due later in the week… and we could get you an alt-mode to scan, unless you’d like to watch the highway for whatever comes along.” 

Drift fidgets, glancing away and then back to Ratchet. “Honestly, Ratch,” he says, “I just… want to spend time here, for a while. Talk.” 

He reaches out for Ratchet’s hands again. Ratchet lets him. He’s the heavier of the two of them, and Drift couldn’t pull him over if he wanted to, but Ratchet lets him lead. Drift guides them until they’re standing toe to toe, and tips his head up toward Ratchet’s. 

Feeling like a magnet, Ratchet tilts his head down until they’re pressed together, forehead and lip plating. It’s awkward but so gentle, and familiar as his own spark. However long Drift meant the kiss to last, it lasts longer, and when they finally draw apart, Drift is smiling. To his chagrin, Ratchet is too, but he can’t find it in himself to squash it. 

“Talk, huh?” he says with a chuckle. “All right. We’ll talk.”

[secretsolenoid]

Work

A belated gift for @quatroa! I’m sorry for the delay. This is from your Jazz/Prowl prompt, with Jazz singing Prowl Earth songs. The song I used here is Nice Work If You Can Get It, from Billie Holiday.

-

Prowl has a rule about recharge: The third time he fails to fall asleep, he gets out of the berth and tries to do something productive.

He’s no stranger to insomnia, or to late nights. The same quirks of his processor that make him a good investigator often make him poor at relaxing. He will latch on to some miscellaneous detail and be unable to let it go, which is useful for following trails in an investigation or extrapolating enemy movements from minimal data, but when it prevents him from recharging, it’s less ideal. 

It used to be that the obsessions would prevent him from returning to his berth at all. He would get caught up in his work and work through until his next shift, then operate on lower efficiency the rest of the day. This problem, at least, has been solved. Jazz is Primus-sent in that regard; he has made it his mission to pry Prowl out of his office at the end of each shift, and to coax him into the berth afterward. 

It has done a good deal to improve his processing power and productivity, but it does not always solve his insomnia. Worse, Jazz is a light sleeper himself. If Prowl is tired and unable to settle, he is likely to startle Jazz out of recharge. Over time, Jazz has learned to recognize him even in recharge, and can manage not to lash out if he’s startled awake, but Prowl is of the firm opinion that at least one of them should get proper recharge. 

And thus, the rule. Three times means his processor refuses to settle, and it means he’s disturbed Jazz enough with his inability to power down. It’s better for them both if Prowl removes himself from his berth and turns his attention to his work. It rarely solves the problem of his obsessing, but feeling productive can help press back the lonely hours when the Autobots are operating on a skeleton crew. 

With a suppressed sigh, Prowl pushes himself upright. He knows exactly what he is circling around, tonight, as unpleasant as it is. Soundwave’s cassettes have broken in, and adjusting the security will be a process of weeks, on the technological and physical side both. Worse, they still aren’t sure what the cassettes might have accessed before they were discovered and driven out. In the interest of safety, he will have to rework large parts of his strategies, in a less-than-optimal timeframe. 

It’s something he can get started on, but it’s not truly what keeps flashing through his processor. He just keeps catching himself on the edge of recharge, sure that one of the cassettes will sneak in through the vents to attack him or Jazz and sabotage the Autobots’ defense efforts. 

A visit to Red Alert is in order, he decides, before he goes to his office and settles into doing something productive.

As he moves toward the edge of the berth, he hears a shifting behind him--Jazz, being awoken. 

“I’m moving to my office,” Prowl says, keeping his voice low. “Get your recharge.” 

Jazz hums, still only half-booted. Taking it for acquiescence, Prowl keeps moving, only to be stopped by a hand on his arm. 

“Hold on, Prowl,” he says. His visor is a dim blue line in the darkness, that glints off the black and white of his armor to outline his mouth and helm. “Maybe we should try something else.” 

“We have tried other things,” Prowl pointed out. “They have not proved effective. It doesn’t matter for now. We can discuss other options when you are not resting.” 

Jazz doesn’t release his grip. “Just give it a shot, Prowl,” he said. “C’mon, lie back down.” 

Prowl considers protesting for a moment. It isn’t likely to work, and the more time he lingers the more difficult Jazz will likely find it to go back to recharging. But Jazz is also stubborn, and the look on his faceplates speaks of a willingness to argue Prowl into submission if necessary. As Prowl looks at his partner’s face, he also sees a slight tick downward at the corner of Jazz’s mouth, and recognizes the tell for concern. 

He folds. 

“Very well,” he says, no longer trying to move away from Jazz’s hand. “What was it that you had in mind?” 

“C’mon and lie down,” Jazz says, patting the berth. Prowl obliges, rearranging himself on the berth facing Jazz, his door panels resting out behind him. Jazz grins and wiggles closer, until they’re bumper to bumper and Jazz can tangle their limbs together. He does so carefully, and Prowl sighs but cooperates. Once they’re settled, Jazz bumps their noses together before drawing back again. “Comfy?” 

“I suppose,” Prowl says. “Now, what did you have in mind?” 

“Optics off,” Jazz says. Prowl gives him a dubious look, but obligingly turns his optics off, resigning himself to the full darkness. His processor kicks up the gain on his audio feed and haptic sensors, but he dials it back in, focusing instead on the gentle press of Jazz’s plating against his own and the nearly imperceptible hum of his systems. 

Jazz starts humming. It’s not the full blast of his speakers, the kind that can take down enemies if he wants. It’s faint, even with Prowl pressed so close, though he can feel the resonance of it through his partner’s chassis. 

“Holding hands at midnight, 'neath a starry sky,” Jazz sings. “It’s nice work if you can get it, and you can get it if you try.” 

It’s an Earth song, Prowl thinks. Probably something bouncy, but Jazz slows it down and stretches it out, and without instruments behind it, it feels meditative, soothing. 

“Strolling with the one bot,” Jazz sings, with the faint hint of amusement in his voice at what must surely be a changed lyric, “Sighing sigh after sigh. It's nice work if you can get it, and you can get it if you try.” 

Prowl lets himself settle in. Jazz has a beautiful voice, whether he’s speaking in his own or mimicking the tones of something else. His voice has changed since they got to earth, as delighted as he is by the abundance of culture the locals have. 

“Just imagine someone waiting at the cottage door, where two hearts become one, who could ask for anything more?”

“A love song,” Prowl murmurs. 

“Only for my Prowl,” Jazz murmurs back. “Now get some rest.” 

And, soothed by Jazz’s singing, Prowl does.

[secretsolenoid]

A Secret Solenoid gift for @yayadrawsthingz!