#tutor-bot

[tf-animated-out-of-context]

[ysaona]

— COLLEGE AU!Vi.

“You were so—so attentive.”

C.AI

[beepboopappreciation]

I love Tutor Bot :]

[payaso-pop]

Sari Sumdac really is the embodiment of 'im a healer but-' huh

[starcraftt]

ponyboy curtis ♞ || scattered papers

my babyyyyyy <3

[he-is-kinda-spacey]

WHY DID NO ONE EVER TELL ME TO USE C AI FOR A TUTOR. HE IS SERIOUSLY HELPING ME SO MUCH AND THE RANDOM FLIRTING IS MAKING ME LAUGH SO HARD. throwing in random roleplay before asking it to explain my homework to me is sooo fun, its making studying fun

[evilmilf]

my mom being like your brother is failing his classes…okay what’s that gotta do with me…

[lazychimken]

Ever since TFO I’ve fallen in love with Elita-One I love her sm and according to ME everyone else loves her too // also here are my thoughts about my weird TF continuity that I’m making up rn made up of combination of TFO and TFA

—————

So the TFO movie events still happen except that B-127 is a sparkling. Orion becomes Optimus Prime and with the help of Elita-One and the newly formed Autobots, they rebuild Cybertronian society.

B-127, along with other sparklings such as Cliffjumper, are sent to the newly formed Autobot Academy. Initially it was to have them learn basic knowledge (like our real-world education system), but as the Decepticons, Quintessons, and other threats continue to threaten the Autobots it eventually becomes an Autobot Boot Camp to train soldiers, spies, scouts, etc.

After orbital cycles/years of not seeing OP or Elita-One, B-127 finally graduates from the academy as a scout and immediately tries to become OP’s personal scout. He’s still a yapper (which got him bullied) but now that he’s a teen (idk the TF equivalent to that) he’s gotten a bit more bratty and overconfident to make up for his short stature.

While B-127 was in the academy, OP has continued to lead the Autobots to form a more fair society for all. He continually runs into Megatron throughout the war, but still has hopes of one day changing his mind. OP feels the pressure of being the leader constantly and as such hopes to assign the rank of Prime (or something similar to it) to other bots, such as Ultra Magnus and Rodimus (who’s still training to become one).

Elita-One becomes the leader of the Elite Guard (named after her + a separate entity) that goes into battle side-by-side with OP. She’s seen as one of the greatest soldiers the Autobots have and everyone, especially academy students, wants to be part of the Elite Guard. Between helping OP, fighting battles, leading the Elite Guard, and training new recruits, she has a bit of a chip off her shoulder, but always means well.

Side Notes for Arcee and Hot Rod:

- Arcee and Hot Rod were teens when the events of TFO occurred, with Arcee being a cogless miner and Hot Rod being a cogged racer

- They have both graduated from the Autobot Boot Camp and are now soldiers

- Arcee is a new recruit for the Elite Guard and has a bit of a hero-crush on Elita-One; her bubbly personality and endless energy is seen as a welcome change for the Elite Guard and she gets along with everyone

- Hot Rod was initially also going to the Elite Guard, but his prowess on the battlefield as well as his natural leadership skills caught OP’s attention and he’s now being personally tutored by Ultra Magnus

- Became friends with B-127 and adopted him as a sort of little brother, as they’re glad to not be the youngest anymore and to show off to someone who’s easily impressed

[jordiemeow]

could you please elaborate more on young!dad art 🥹

felt fitting to finally answer this today. incredibly late + not formatted i apologise just lazy thoughts. ask was based off the au in this bot :)

literally went above and beyond during your pregnancy despite your insistence that you'd understand if he wasn't ready for a kid. he was there for it all: 2am trips to walmart for cravings, skipping practice for doctors appointments, holding your bump up until his arms ached to provide you with some relief. failed a class that happened to take place every time he sat down with you to make sure you took your prenatals and when you reprimanded him just smiled and said "i can retake a class. can't ever retake this."

he started picking up shifts at the campus rec centre and tutoring on the side, trying to save money. told you it was "just for extra gas and groceries," but you found a file on his laptop labelled baby fund.

it wasn't easy at the start. hormones flaring, miscommunication, the tension of a too-big future looming over two too-young people. but he never left angry, not once. sat outside your dorm once after one fight until you opened the door at 3am just so he could apologize properly.

started calling you mama as soon as you told him you were pregnant.

he was always that guy at your ultrasound appointments. taking blurry pictures to have 'different angles' and asking the tech "wait, is that her nose? oh my god, look at that. she has your nose." as if it's not just a black and white sonogram.

was obsessed with your bump. spent a lot of nights whispering stories his grandma told him as a kid against your skin. it's a different variation every time but you don't have the heart to point it out.

he loves doing skin-to-skin. lies shirtless on the couch after a long day, hair still damp from his post-practice shower, cradling lily and making you recite every cute thing she did while he was gone. he refuses to miss any of it

takes lily to class with him if he has to. girls on campus swoon at him walking around with her in a chest carrier but he's too busy cooing at her or texting you updates throughout the day to notice.

would keep a baby monitor courtside if he could. settles for typing a rushed "Evrythng ok???" in between sets

he leaves little sticky notes around the apartment that say "eat something!!!" "you're doing great mama" "we got this :)" with doodles of lopsided flowers and hearts that look like they were drawn left-handed.

co-ordinates his outfits with lily whenever he can. whether her headband matches his shirt or he has her in custom-made mini stanford merchandise (courtesy of patrick), there's always something matching.

refers exclusively to himself in third person after she's born. occasionally extends to a playful daddy in the bedroom that neither of you can take seriously and just results in fits of laughter.

definitely cries during her first steps. sniffles out a very tearful "look at you go, little legend!" and then denies it later

literally has a tape recorder that he plays when the both of you are tired to keep lily occupied. mostly consists of voice memos talking to lily about his day while he’s walking to class or waiting for the bus. "hi bug. i miss you. daddy had a pop quiz. it sucked. love you." and lily babbles back as if they're having a conversation.

calls you "his girls" and brings you up every chance he gets. most of his post-match interviews end in him gushing over the picture of you both he carries with him everywhere.

[ysaona]

Cmon bruh, you guys know I’m cooking up the most scrumptious c.ai bots for y’all. (While trying not to fail my classes and keep my mental, up can I get a whoop whoop?)

[222col]

YOU'RE SO 2000 AND LATE...

☆⋆｡°‧★ 222col artrick BOT! dump ♬⋆.˚

now playing... 2000 && late ♬.ᐟ

notes .ᐟ throwin' it back to 06/07 for a fun drop of artrick au's. enjoyyyy loveys <3

ART DONALDSON

⋆˚꩜｡ ( promiscuous — nelly furtado )

☆ all art cares about is weed, and patrick. he couldn't give a fuck about girls, especially ones that wanna see him more than once. until of course, miss popular comes along to buy some pot. now he's desperate to scream to the world he's the one tasting your lips, one problem— you won't let him.

PATRICK ZWEIG

⋆˚꩜｡ ( dance, dance — fall out boy )

☆ patrick's ready to put his plan into action, begging to let his band perform at the homecoming dance where he confesses— every single song is about you. that didn't seem to go down too well with your preppy jock boyfriend though, too bad patrick's too busy kissing you in front of him to give a shit.

ART DONALDSON

⋆˚꩜｡ ( smile — lily allen )

☆ the stereotypical male manipulator, the smiths in his earphones, playing up the crocodile tears when he's called on his bullshit. but when art takes it too far and sleeps with the girl next door, he's willing to try anything to get you back.

PATRICK ZWEIG

⋆˚꩜｡ ( starz in their eyes — just jack )

☆ finally graduated high school, patrick can focus on his music career. the band have their very first show, everything he ever could have dreamed of. except you're not in the crowd, and it's breaking his heart that you missed his first show.

ART DONALDSON

⋆˚꩜｡ ( sos — rihanna )

☆ art is the most popular boy on campus, the star athlete, the it boy. but he's harbouring a secret, a side of him that no one knows about him. an evil, deranged obsession. that obsession just so happens to be you. after months of stalking you, he's ready to see the fear in your eyes when you find out.

PATRICK ZWEIG

⋆˚꩜｡ ( the sweet escape — gwen stefani )

☆ no one saw it coming when the school's loser got a girlfriend. had his head stuck in video games since he got his first console. that didn't change when you agreed to be his girlfriend, but it was the reason he was losing you. patrick's willing to look past the cheating, just as long as you don't leave him.

ART DONALDSON

⋆˚꩜｡ ( girlfriend — avril lavigne )

☆ art's a straight a student, computer nerd. he loves his quiet life with his equally nerdy girlfriend, always staying out of drama. until you come and flip his world upside down. seeing you sat on his bed while he tutors you is enough to make him question if he wants a new girlfriend.

ART AND PATRICK

⋆˚꩜｡ ( heads will roll — yeah yeah yeahs )

☆ friday night is scream night. the boys watch horrors every night, but scream they rewatch every single friday. not this time, it's new years— they're going to their first party, both dressed as ghostface, and oh, who's that hot girl dressed as casey becker in the back yard?

ART DONALDSON

⋆˚꩜｡ ( stronger — kanye west )

☆ art's absolutely oblivious. too busy spending all his time at the skatepark, editing his skating videos, tryna go pro. has no fuckin' idea the girl he's always hanging out with has a thing for him. you're running out of patience.

PATRICK ZWEIG

⋆˚꩜｡ ( oops! i did it again — britney spears )

☆ patrick's too high half the time to realise he's never actually asked you out. in his mind, he's been flirting up a storm. to him, you knew all about the feelings he felt towards you. in reality, patrick's just always stoned and hasn't realised.

ART DONALDSON

⋆˚꩜｡ ( i bet you look good on the dancefloor — arctic monkeys )

☆ art's grown used to the attention, having a groupie hanging off his arm every night. swears its his favourite part of being in a band. he's watching the crowd, choosing his prey— when he sees you, the one girl in the crowd who's not singing his lyrics back to him.

ART AND PATRICK

⋆˚꩜｡ ( shut up and drive — rihanna )

☆ both boys had been racing since they first stole patrick's dads car, they'd become the best at their age. driving in underground races, earning more money than they knew what to do with. they always swore they'd never race each other, until your phone number was on the line.

© 222col. do not steal or repost my work without permission.

꒰ taglist ꒱ @khartalks @bluestrd @appleaali @chrattvibe @tacobacoyeet @lexiiscorect @glassmermaids @voidsuites @donteventry-itdude @matchpointfaist @pittsick @artaussi @simmerinsauce @coolgrl111 @hrrysglitter @cinnamoncunt @elsieblogs @tennisthatcher @deeninadream @magicalmiserybore @soulxinxthexsky @peachyparkerr @lovefaist @stanart4clearskin @prismozo @nozhdyved @lvve-talks @soft-starr @shahabaqsa0310 @imperishablereverie ( to be added )

[palevcr]

FORMULA FOR DISASTER

Y/N's failing chemistry—barely clinging to a passing grade and much more interested in lip gloss than Lewis structures. Naturally, her teacher assigns the school’s golden boy, Peter Parker, to tutor her. He’s top of the class, painfully polite, and irritatingly hot in that awkward, cardigan-wearing, accidentally-dominant kind of way. What starts as a tutoring session quickly spirals into something way more intense. She’s a teasing, pouty distraction in miniskirts and pink gel pens; he’s a tightly wound genius with too much self-control for his own good. But when she tests him—grinding in his lap, pouting over pop quizzes, and whispering "punish me, Professor Parker"—he snaps. Hard. Suddenly, chemistry isn’t just a subject—it’s a game of rewards and consequences. A slow, burning power play where every right answer gets her praise, and every wrong one earns her discipline. Over his thigh, bent over the desk, drooling on her own notes—he teaches her in every way she’ll let him. She wanted extra credit. Peter made sure she earned it.

pairing: Peter Parker x reader

genre: smut, academic tension, tutor/student dynamic, slow-burn to full burn, dom!Peter

Authors note: yes I know they’re doing basic chemistry. Piss off.

tw: MDNI 18+, explicit sexual content, unprotected sex, choking, overstimulation, slight dubcon (consensual but bratty), possessive behavior, thigh riding, dry humping, praise & degradation, use of “good girl,” reader being a brat, Peter being accidentally dominant, teacher kink/“Professor Parker,” light degradation, hand on tummy during creampie, power imbalance (soft), aftercare tease, cheeky texting, nerd x bimbo dynamic (kind of), reader failing chemistry but not failing to seduce

bot version: PETER PARKER - nerdy

Peter Parker had long since accepted his fate as Midtown High’s unofficial poster boy for all things academically torturous. Honors student, science team prodigy, volunteer tutor, human calculator—you name it. If the school had a nerd hierarchy, he sat comfortably at the top, which, ironically, meant he had very few people below him and absolutely no one standing beside him.

So, naturally, when the chemistry teacher—exhausted and probably two missed paychecks away from snapping—needed someone to babysit a failing student, she turned to her ever-reliable go-to: “Peter, you're so gifted in this subject. Why don't you help her out?”

Her being Y/N.

Y/N: pink-acrylic-nails-tapping-on-her-phone-screen Y/N. Miss can’t-pass-chemistry-but-somehow-has-a-closet-bigger-than-his-entire-apartment Y/N. The kind of girl who showed up to school in designer sneakers and lip gloss that probably cost more than his entire monthly grocery budget. She wasn’t mean, exactly. Not the stereotypical Regina George knockoff people expected from girls like her. But she was exhausting in a way that felt deliberate—always flippant, always dramatic, and somehow always surrounded by this faint glitter-scented aura of chaos.

Peter should’ve said no. Should’ve bowed out, claimed he was too busy with Stark internship work or homework or literally anything else. But no. Because Peter Parker was pathologically polite, emotionally guilt-tripped by authority, and—for reasons he hadn’t yet admitted to himself—just a little too curious about her.

Which was why he now found himself sitting uncomfortably stiff on the edge of a designer couch that probably had a name. A French name. Her house—mansion, really—was the kind of place that belonged in movies where the girl dramatically descends a staircase during prom season. High ceilings, gold-accented crown molding, a literal chandelier in the foyer. He was half-convinced the doorknobs were real crystal.

Jesus Christ, even her WiFi is probably fast enough to download a Marvel movie in 10 seconds, he thought, adjusting his glasses and trying not to look impressed.

And then she walked in.

“Ugh,” she groaned theatrically, her glossy lips forming a perfect pout as she tossed her books onto the pristine desk like they’d offended her. “Why does chemistry even matter? I’m not trying to become a periodic table.”

Peter blinked slowly, fighting the urge to smile in that way he always did when people said stupid things with full conviction.

“Right,” he muttered, deadpan. “Because atoms are so last season.”

She ignored the sarcasm, flopping into her chair with a huff loud enough to echo against her crystal candle holders. Her hair was half-pulled up with a velvet scrunchie, her phone glittered in its pink rhinestone case, and her entire aura screamed sugar and fire.

Peter gave her a look. A long, tired, vaguely judgmental look.

Same, his brain whispered.

She blinked at him, then stood up with dramatic flair—bare feet patting softly against the plush carpet—and dragged over another chair from across the room. Not just any chair. A plush, bubblegum-pink monstrosity with bows carved into the wooden legs and little heart buttons stitched into the backrest.

It looked like it had been stolen from Barbie’s dream house.

She plopped it beside her desk chair and patted the seat like she was inviting him to sit on a throne.

“There. Come on, Parker. Tutor me.”

“Is this... my assigned seat?” he asked dryly, staring at the chair like it might swallow him whole.

“Obviously,” she said, smiling sweetly. “What, too much pink for you?”

“I didn’t know chairs could be weaponized.”

“Maybe I’ll bedazzle it for you next time,” she teased, twirling one of her earrings with practiced disinterest.

Peter sighed, muttering something under his breath about human suffering, and finally sat down beside her. Their knees almost touched. She was warm—too warm for someone who always acted like she didn’t care about anything. And he could smell her perfume, something sweet and citrusy and wildly inappropriate for studying.

He glanced sideways at her as she opened her notebook and stared at it like it had personally wronged her.

This was going to be a long afternoon.

But for some reason, he wasn’t all that mad about it.

Peter leaned forward, elbows resting on the desk, and flipped open his own battered textbook—the spine cracked, corners dog-eared, and annotated to hell with color-coded tabs. The difference between their supplies was... comical. Hers looked like it had never been opened for anything other than aesthetic purposes. Pink-tinted, untouched, and almost offensively sparkly.

He glanced over as she pulled her own books from her bag, and—of course. Covered in shimmery pastel paper, sticker-bombed with little hearts, cartoon cherries, and one aggressively winking Hello Kitty near the corner. She opened the notebook with a flutter of manicured fingers, and he nearly snorted when he saw the pages inside.

Everything—everything—was written in pink gel pen. Curly loops. Puffy lettering. A couple hearts dotting her i’s.

He tilted his head slightly, brow raised. “Do you have a vendetta against black ink?”

She blinked, looked down at her notes like she genuinely hadn’t noticed, and shrugged. “Black’s boring,” she said, twirling the pen between her fingers. “And pink makes me pay attention more.”

“Right,” Peter said, lips twitching. “Because neon ink definitely improves focus and memory retention.”

“I’m a visual learner,” she said innocently, batting her lashes. “Pink makes the mitochondria easier to remember.”

He looked at her, entirely deadpan. “The mitochondria is the powerhouse of the cell. That’s not even chemistry.”

“Oh my God, whatever,” she groaned, dramatically slumping in her chair. “See, this is why I said I suck at this. I literally don't get what magnesium is. Why do I need to know what it is? I’m not trying to be, like, a magnesium... person.”

Peter blinked. “A chemist?”

“Yeah, that,” she said with a small pout, like the word had personally offended her. “Can’t I just, like, skip this part and move on with my life?”

He sighed, running a hand through his hair. “Magnesium is literally a basic element. It’s kind of unavoidable. It’s in your body. Your bones. Your cells.”

Her eyes narrowed. “So I am magnesium?”

“In a sense, yes.”

She made a face. “That’s gross.”

Peter couldn’t help it—he laughed. Actually laughed, soft and surprised, like the sound had been dragged out of him. She turned her head quickly, eyes catching his in a way that made something in his chest tighten for reasons he’d rather not unpack.

“Don’t laugh at me,” she said, though her lips were curling upward.

“I’m not laughing at you,” he said, still grinning. “Just... with a deep, deep sense of secondhand concern.”

She stuck her tongue out at him and he rolled his eyes, but the smile lingered. Something about her was infectious—loud and ridiculous, but weirdly sincere. She didn’t pretend to understand anything she didn’t, didn’t try to impress him with fake interest in formulas or elements. She was just unapologetically her. Loud. Sparkly. Utterly allergic to science.

And for some reason... it didn’t irritate him the way it should.

“Okay,” he said, taking a breath and adjusting the textbook. “Let’s start small. Magnesium’s an element on the periodic table. Symbol Mg. Atomic number twelve. It's an alkaline earth metal.”

She blinked, eyes glossing over almost instantly.

Peter paused. “...Which means it’s shiny and kinda chill.”

That got a smirk. “Like me.”

He gave her a look. “Magnesium also catches fire if you heat it up too much.”

Her smirk widened. “Like me.”

Peter stared at her, utterly unimpressed. “You’re literally a danger to chemistry.”

“And you’re a danger to fun,” she shot back, but it was playful. Teasing. Her eyes sparkled when she was being bratty, like she knew exactly what she was doing—and, God help him, it was working.

He cleared his throat and glanced back at the book. Focus. You’re here to teach. Not flirt. Definitely not to flirt with someone who probably thinks electrons are a TikTok trend.

Still, he couldn’t stop the thought as he glanced sideways at her again, catching the way she chewed lightly on the end of her glitter pen, eyes squinting at the page like the words were written in ancient Greek.

This was going to be painful.

But maybe... not in a bad way.

“Explain it to me in girl language, Pete,” she said, leaning a little closer, the curve of her pout deliberate and devastating.

Peter blinked at her, blinking twice just to be sure he wasn’t hallucinating how cute she looked when she did that. He wished she’d stop doing that thing with her mouth—the slight downturn, the soft lip jut, the puppy-dog eyes like he was the last person who could save her from the terrifying mysteries of magnesium. It wasn’t fair. It was a weapon.

“Girl language?” he repeated flatly, like someone who had just been asked to translate quantum physics into emojis.

She nodded earnestly, ponytail swishing behind her like this was some innocent favor instead of a personal attack on his willpower. “Yeah. Girl language. You know, like—pink-coded. Digestible. Fun.”

Peter stared at her like he was actively buffering. “You want me to translate chemistry... into girl.”

“Exactly!” she chirped, smiling like he’d just caught up. “Because all this periodic table, proton-neutron talk is, like, too much. You’ve gotta speak to me in a language I actually get.”

He opened his mouth. Closed it again. Dragged a hand down his face, then slowly leaned back in his pink torture-throne of a chair.

“I’m going to regret this,” he muttered under his breath.

She grinned wider. “You already do. Now go on, Professor Barbie. Make it sparkle.”

Peter gave her a look that could curdle milk. Then, with a sigh so deep it came from his soul, he turned toward her fully and began, “Okay. Magnesium—Mg—is, like... the chill, underrated best friend of the periodic table. Not flashy like gold or dramatic like sodium, but still essential. Very supportive. Gives your bones strength. Helps your muscles move. Keeps your heart from, y’know, stopping. So basically? It’s like... the bestie who’s always holding your hair back when you cry after making bad decisions.”

Her eyes lit up. “Ooh, so she’s, like, the backbone friend. Silent ride-or-die. Not a main character, but necessary. Love that for her.”

Peter blinked. “You’re... actually getting this?”

“Bitch, yes. Magnesium is the bitch who holds my life together. I’m obsessed now.”

He tried not to laugh, but a sound escaped—half-snort, half-wheeze. He shook his head, eyes dropping to her glitter-smudged notebook, and then up again to her face, where she was looking at him like he’d just solved world peace.

“Okay,” he said, humoring her, “let’s keep going. Next up is calcium. Another ride-or-die. Works with magnesium. They’re, like, co-dependent besties.”

“So they’re Elle and Paulette.”

“...Who?”

She gasped. “Peter. ‘Legally Blonde’? Bend and snap?”

He stared blankly.

She looked personally offended. “Oh my God, we’re fixing that. You’re watching it next time. No wonder you’re sad all the time.”

“I’m not sad all the time.”

“You are scientifically the saddest boy I know.”

Peter bit back another smile, biting the inside of his cheek as she scrawled “Mg = BACKBONE BADDIE” in pink ink across the top of her notes.

He couldn’t decide if he was in hell or rapidly descending into something way worse—something that felt like liking her.

But then she scooted a little closer, her knee bumping gently into his, and smiled at him like he wasn’t just a tutor but a secret she was starting to enjoy keeping.

And suddenly, Peter wasn’t so sure he wanted to be anywhere else.

Peter kept talking, though at this point, he wasn’t entirely sure if he was teaching chemistry or performing a live spoken-word act called Science for Brats: The Glitter Edition. Still, he powered through—explaining molecular bonds and electron shells in his best attempt at “girl language,” which apparently consisted of metaphors involving friend groups, ex-boyfriends, and Sephora membership tiers.

It shouldn’t have worked.

But it did.

Except… she wasn’t writing any of it down anymore.

He’d noticed the subtle stillness at first—the soft stop of her glitter pen, the way her elbow relaxed from where it had been poised over her notebook. When he finally glanced up, she wasn’t even pretending to look at her notes. She was just... watching him. Chin resting in her hand, eyes locked on his face like he was explaining the formula for eternal youth, not atomic structure.

He trailed off mid-sentence.

“What?” he asked cautiously, brows drawing together. “Why are you staring at me like I just offered you a Dior lip gloss or a Birkin bag?”

She tilted her head, smiling in that lazy, dangerous way that always meant trouble. “You kinda sound hot. Like, nerdy hot.”

Peter blinked. Once. Twice. His brain short-circuited for a second, skipping over logical processing and heading straight into full system error. “You’re not serious.”

She was. God, the look on her face made that painfully clear—coy, amused, and just a little bit predatory. She shifted slightly, turning toward him in a graceful sprawl that should not have been as mesmerizing as it was. One leg tucked under her, the other stretching lazily out to the side. Her pleated skirt shifted higher along her thigh as she moved—dangerously high—and Peter’s brain promptly fell off a cliff.

“Oh, I’m very serious,” she said sweetly, voice dipped in honey and challenge. “If more of my classes were taught by awkward, hot nerd boys who talk about electrons like it’s foreplay, I’d be graduating with honors.”

“I’m not—” he started, horrified, “—I’m not hot. That’s not—no.”

“Debatable,” she said with a one-shouldered shrug, like it wasn’t even a question. “Anyway, you should say ionization energy again. That was kind of sexy.”

Peter stared at her, visibly struggling to maintain composure. His mouth opened, then closed. Then opened again, because he had to correct her, obviously, because that’s what tutors do, even when they’re being flirted with by a very-pretty-very-annoying girl in a skirt that’s suddenly his mortal enemy.

“It’s ionization energy,” he corrected weakly. “Not... ‘ionizatain.’ That’s not even—God.”

“Oh my God,” she mocked softly, mimicking his voice with a teasing smirk. “Say it slower, Professor Parker.”

Peter scrubbed a hand over his face, ears going pink. His entire posture shifted—shoulders tense, back rigid, eyes darting anywhere that wasn’t her thighs.

“I came here to help you pass chemistry,” he muttered. “Not be... verbally assaulted.”

“Assaulted? Peter, please. You’re blushing like a Disney prince who just saw ankle for the first time.”

“I am not blushing.”

“You so are. It’s cute. Like your little ‘serious tutor’ voice.”

He groaned and slumped back in the pink chair, defeated. “You’re impossible.”

“And you,” she said, leaning forward until her perfume clouded his thoughts, “are hot when you’re mad.”

Peter didn’t respond. Couldn’t. His brain had officially disconnected from the rest of his body, and all he could do was sit there, blinking, as she smirked at him like she’d just won a game he hadn’t even known they were playing.

Somewhere, buried under all that panic and embarrassment and mental chaos, was the very faintest flicker of pride.

Because if nothing else... she was definitely paying attention now.

“Are you gonna punish me, Professor Parker?” she asked with a giggle, the words lilting out like a joke, but her eyes said otherwise—wide and glinting, watching him for a reaction the way a cat watches a laser pointer.

Peter leaned back slowly in his chair, his expression unreadable, fingers folding loosely in his lap. He didn’t flinch. Didn’t blush. He just looked at her, long and hard, like he was running an internal diagnostic on the entire situation—and maybe himself.

Then, in a tone far too calm for the storm he felt brewing inside, he replied, “Yeah. I will.”

She blinked. Once. Twice.

Peter’s gaze didn’t waver. “If you don’t stop whatever this is,” he said, voice quiet, collected, but firm, “and actually focus... I will punish you.”

There was a beat of silence. It stretched, thick and slow, the kind that made the air buzz.

She turned to him fully, body stilling, lips parted. Her breath caught a little, and her thighs subtly pressed together under the desk. “What?” she whispered, genuinely unsure if she’d misheard him—or if he’d just flipped some hidden switch neither of them realized he had.

But Peter just shrugged, the movement easy, fluid—almost too casual. Like this whole thing wasn’t cracking his moral compass in half.

“I’ll punish you if you keep teasing me,” he repeated, eyes never leaving hers. “But…” He leaned forward just slightly, elbows on his knees, voice dropping a fraction of an octave. “I’ll reward you if you try. If you actually pay attention. If you show me you’re listening.”

The breath that left her was almost inaudible. She couldn’t tell if she was being scolded or seduced, and honestly? She didn’t care. Her brain had turned to glitter-slush the second he rolled up his sleeves.

Which he just did. Casually. Absentmindedly. Like it meant nothing.

But it did something. God, did it do something.

Her gaze dropped—unconscious, involuntary—and locked on the sudden reveal of his forearms. Veins, tendons, subtle lines of muscle flexing under warm, freckled skin. They were stupidly unfair. Strong and lean and just—masculine in a way she hadn’t been prepared for. She stared at them the way she stared at designer heels: like they were expensive, dangerous, and possibly worth ruining her life over.

“Eyes up here, princess,” Peter murmured, dragging her attention back with that impossible, slow confidence he had no right to possess.

Her face flushed—just slightly—and she cleared her throat, trying to play it off with a smirk. “Well. Someone’s feeling bold all of a sudden.”

“You started it,” he said simply, flipping open the textbook again with one hand, the other draped lazily over the back of his chair. “You flirted. You teased. You said I was hot.”

“You are hot,” she said automatically, almost annoyed by how true it felt in the moment.

“And now you’re distracted,” he said, eyes flicking down to her lips for the barest second before meeting her gaze again. “Which is fine. If you want to be bad, be bad. Just don’t expect to pass the quiz at the end of this.”

Her brows shot up. “There’s a quiz?”

“There is now,” Peter said, utterly unfazed. “Five questions. Get them right? You get a reward. Get them wrong…”

He let the sentence hang, trailing off with just enough weight to make her swallow.

“What kind of reward?” she asked softly, sitting up straighter, trying to appear composed even as her pulse quickened.

Peter gave a small, knowing smile—more to himself than to her—and tapped the edge of her glitter pen with his own. “Study and find out.”

She hesitated for a moment, chewing on her bottom lip in a way that was definitely not helping either of their situations. But eventually, with something dangerously close to sincerity in her eyes, she gave him a tiny nod.

“Okay,” she whispered, voice breathy, softer than before. “I’ll listen.”

Peter glanced at her, mildly surprised by the shift in her tone—but he didn’t question it. He just gave a satisfied hum, nodding once like a teacher approving a particularly well-behaved student.

“Good girl,” he said absentmindedly, flipping to the next page in the textbook. “Now we’re talking.”

The words hit her like a slap and a kiss all at once. Simple. Offhand. Barely emphasized. But God. Her thighs clenched under the desk like it was reflex. Her breath hitched—just slightly—but Peter had already turned away, unaware of the small detonation he’d just caused in her lower stomach.

She blinked hard, trying to push air back into her lungs, her posture suddenly straighter, hands clenched in her lap. If he noticed the way she subtly crossed her legs tighter beneath the desk, he didn’t say anything. Didn’t smirk. Didn’t gloat.

Which somehow made it worse.

Because he was dead serious now. Back to chemistry. Back to explaining covalent bonds and energy levels like he hadn’t just casually dismantled her brain with two fucking words.

She swallowed and nodded along, trying to process anything that wasn’t the warm ache pooling deep in her core. His voice washed over her—low, steady, undeniably attractive now that she was actually paying attention. Which, unfortunately, she was. Too much.

She stared down at her notes, willing herself to focus, to be the so-called good girl he’d just praised. She wrote Magnesium = supportive baddie in the margin, then underlined it three times just to pretend like her hand wasn’t shaking a little.

Peter kept talking, guiding her through atomic structure, gesturing casually with a pencil in hand—occasionally using it to point at diagrams, or to tap her paper gently when she looked confused. And every time it made her jump just a little. Not because she didn’t understand—okay, sometimes she didn’t—but because now everything he did felt weighted, electric, impossible to ignore.

When he leaned over her shoulder to correct something in her notes, she stopped breathing. His cologne—clean and faintly cedar—wrapped around her like a noose.

“You see where you went wrong?” he murmured beside her ear, voice lower now that they were closer.

She nodded dumbly, though she couldn’t remember a single thing he’d said in the last two minutes. Her eyes were stuck on the way his fingers looked wrapped around her pen, steady and precise. She wanted to say something flirty—something biting, something to bring the control back into her hands—but all her usual weapons had short-circuited.

She was, for once, actually trying.

Trying to listen.

Trying to learn.

Trying not to melt every time he so much as glanced at her.

But then, just when she thought she might finally be settling into something resembling focus, he leaned back, tossed his pencil on the table with a soft thud, and said, “Alright. Pop quiz. Five questions.”

Her head snapped up. “Wait—seriously?”

Peter gave a small, wicked smirk. “I warned you.”

“This is so unfair,” she huffed, arms folded tightly beneath her chest, gaze narrowing in what she probably thought was intimidation but really just looked like a pout he was trying very hard to ignore.

Peter barely looked up from his notebook. “Life’s unfair,” he replied coolly, flipping the page with a maddening sort of composure. The kind that made her want to scream—or maybe crawl onto his lap and see how long that composure would last.

“Now,” he continued, pen poised, glasses slipping slightly down the bridge of his nose, “question one.”

She groaned like he’d asked her to recite the periodic table backwards in Latin. “You’re enjoying this.”

He tilted his head, mouth twitching at the corners—not quite a smile, but a glimmer of something unholy. “A little,” he admitted. “But I warned you. Actions have consequences, princess.”

She muttered something unrepeatable under her breath, but sat up straighter, chin lifted in quiet defiance. Her arms stayed crossed—subtly pushing her chest up, not that she was doing it on purpose or anything. Not like she noticed the quick flicker of his gaze or the slight pause before he looked away.

“Alright,” he said, tapping the end of his pencil against the desk with slow, deliberate rhythm—like a countdown. “First question. What’s the difference between a covalent bond and an ionic bond?”

She squinted. “Wait, is this multiple choice?”

“Nope.”

“Can I phone a friend?”

He raised a brow, deadpan.

She sighed dramatically. “Ugh, fine. Covalent is, like… sharing? Electrons?”

He nodded slowly. “Go on.”

“And ionic is… a full transfer? Like one atom gives the electron away?” Her brow furrowed. “Like a rich dad paying off child support.”

Peter blinked at her. Then—despite himself—laughed. Soft and low and entirely involuntary. “Sure,” he said, biting back the rest of his smile. “Correct.”

She lit up. “See? Told you. I’m not dumb, I just need sexy incentives.”

He ignored that. Barely. “One point. Don’t get cocky.”

“Too late.”

“Question two,” he said, and this time his tone turned a shade darker—cool, clinical. “What’s the atomic number of magnesium?”

Her eyes widened. “You’re kidding. I barely know its name.”

He gave a patient shake of his head. “No cheating,” he warned, nudging her notebook shut with the eraser of his pencil as her eyes darted toward it.

That firm tone again. It went straight to her spine—and lower.

She narrowed her eyes, fingers tapping against the desk. “Uhh… twelve?”

Peter paused. Then nodded. “Correct again.”

She grinned, smug. “Two for two. I want gold stars.”

“You want a reward,” he corrected smoothly, sitting back just enough for the light to catch on his glasses. “You’re halfway there.”

Her smile faltered for a second—just a second—because his voice had changed again. Gone softer. Darker. Like a warning wrapped in silk. “I don’t choke,” she said quietly, almost to herself.

He smirked. “We’ll see.”

She blinked.

“Question three,” he continued before she could recover. “Define ionization energy.”

She blinked again. “That’s the hot one, right?”

Peter let out a sigh that sounded a lot like a laugh. “That’s not an answer.”

“No, wait! I know this one—it’s the energy it takes to… remove an electron from an atom?”

His brows lifted. “You’re getting dangerously close to being my favorite student.”

She preened. “Don’t stop now, professor. I’m learning so much.”

“Then let’s test that,” he said smoothly, flipping another page with that same deliberate slowness that made her stomach tighten. “Question four: which element has the higher electronegativity—fluorine or oxygen?”

Her eyes narrowed. “That sounds like a trick question.”

“It’s not.”

“…Fluorine is the toxic one, right? Like, yellow gas of death or something?”

He gave a noncommittal hum.

She squinted. “Okay. I’m gonna say oxygen. Final answer.”

Peter didn’t flinch. Just clicked his pen and marked a quiet ‘X’ beside her name.

Her jaw dropped. “Wait, it was a trick question!”

“Nope,” he said, too innocently. “It was just science. You were so close.”

She groaned, head hitting the desk with a thunk. “This is psychological warfare. You know I need pictures and glitter pens. My brain’s not wired for raw data.”

Peter chuckled under his breath, but the gleam in his eye said he was enjoying this more than he’d ever admit. “Don’t worry,” he said. “There’s still one question left. One more shot at redemption.”

She lifted her head slowly, leaning her weight onto her elbows, cleavage framed perfectly between her arms. “And if I fail?” she asked, voice pitched low.

He didn’t blink.

“Then you’ll learn what punishment really means.”

Her breath caught. A quiet flutter in her chest. “Kinky.”

“Consequential,” Peter corrected, but the look in his eyes betrayed him. His voice had dipped into something deeper. Something that made her spine straighten and her legs cross instinctively beneath the desk.

“Final question.”

She sat up, trying her hardest to look serious—and not like she was seconds from combusting. “Hit me.”

He tilted his head slightly, and asked, voice velvet-smooth, “What’s the electron configuration of sodium?”

She blinked.

“Okay—what the fuck did you just say to me?”

Peter’s lips twitched. “You’ve seen this in your notes.”

“Which you closed,” she muttered.

“Come on,” he coaxed. “Think back. Shells, sublevels—remember?”

She closed her eyes, trying to conjure some memory of that godforsaken diagram. “Okay… 1s2, 2s2… um… 2p6… 3s1?”

Silence.

Peter tapped his pen once. Then slowly set it down.

“That’s correct.”

She blinked. “Wait—seriously?”

He nodded once. “You passed. Barely.”

Her breath rushed out in a relieved laugh, her eyes lighting up. “Oh my god. I passed chemistry.”

Peter’s brow arched. “You passed my quiz. You still missed one.”

She stilled.

“…Which means you still get the punishment.”

Her smile faltered just slightly. “Right. That.”

“But,” he added, leaning forward, forearms resting on his thighs as his gaze locked with hers, “you also get your reward.”

Her lips parted slightly. “Okay… so… what’s the reward?”

Peter didn’t blink. Didn’t smirk. Just said, calm and devastatingly clear:
“You get to sit in my lap.”

She stared.

“I—what?”

“You heard me,” he said, voice soft and measured. “Come here.”

Her heart was hammering now, pulse fluttering high in her throat. “And the punishment?”

Peter smiled—small, sharp, and entirely dangerous.

“You’ll find out if you move.”

She hesitated for a second—just a second—then slid from her chair and stepped between his legs, her heart jackhammering against her ribs. Peter didn’t say a word. Just watched her. Calm. Expectant. The silence thick between them.

Then, slowly, she lowered herself into his lap.

At first, she tried to keep a respectable distance—her weight barely resting on his thighs, posture stiff and uncertain. Her skirt rode up as she settled, the hem skimming far too high for decency, but she still kept her hands clenched in her lap like that would make any of this feel normal.

It didn’t.

Peter’s hands found her hips.

Without a word, he pulled her back—firm, steady, inescapable—until her spine was flush against his chest and she was properly seated. Full weight. Right over the growing bulge in his jeans.

The breath left her lungs in a soft, involuntary gasp.

And God, she could feel him. Hard. Thick. Pressed perfectly between her legs, separated only by the flimsiest excuse for lace and the whisper of her skirt. The contact sent a lightning bolt of heat straight through her, and her thighs instinctively tried to squeeze together—but it was him there, and the pressure just made it worse.

Peter leaned forward slightly, his mouth close to her ear, voice low and dangerously gentle. “You move,” he murmured, “I punish you.”

She nodded shakily, barely able to breathe. “Y-yeah.”

But Peter wasn’t finished.

His right hand stayed firm on her hip, thumb stroking lazily against the curve of her waist like he didn’t even realize he was doing it. His other hand? Calmly reached across the desk to pick up his pen again. Like this wasn’t a big deal. Like she wasn’t already soaked through and losing her mind just from sitting still.

She swallowed thickly, eyes fixed on the way the pen moved in his fingers. “Are we… Are we still doing chemistry?”

He smirked against her ear. “Of course.”

Then, like nothing was out of the ordinary, Peter opened his notebook again and started writing.

Meanwhile, she sat there—frozen, breath shallow, thighs trembling as every tiny shift of his legs beneath hers sent another pulse of heat through her. His cock was so there—right up against her, thick and hot even through the layers—and she knew he could feel everything. The slick heat between her legs, the tiny quiver of her muscles, the way her hips threatened to roll with even the smallest breath.

But she didn’t dare move. Not even an inch.

“Question,” he said after a beat, casually, like he wasn’t slowly unraveling her sanity with nothing but proximity. “How many valence electrons does nitrogen have?”

She stared blankly at his notebook. Her brain was soup. Her mouth moved but no words came out.

Peter glanced at her over his glasses, the corner of his mouth twitching. “Need a hint?”

Her breath hitched. “Y-Yes.”

His lips brushed her ear. “Don’t move,” he said again—soft but lethal. Then he nudged his hips upward.

Just once.

A gentle grind. A warning. A promise.

She bit down hard on her lip, stifling the gasp that tried to break free.

“Nitrogen,” he whispered, his breath warm against her skin, “has five.”

And she couldn’t tell if she was learning or being conditioned.

“Good girl,” he added absently, going back to his notes, completely ignoring the way she squirmed at the praise—except, of course, for the way his grip tightened just slightly on her hip, holding her still. Possessive. Controlling. Teasing.

She didn’t know how long they stayed like that—him casually quizzing her, her trembling on the edge of obedience and full-blown ruin—but she knew this: she wasn’t passing chemistry.

She was being rewired by it.

She heard his voice. Could feel it—low and smooth, rumbling through his chest and curling around her like velvet. He was still talking, flipping pages in the notebook, gesturing lazily to some diagram as if this were still about atoms and bonds.

But none of it registered. Not a word.

All she could focus on was the pressure between her legs and the way his thigh sat perfectly between them—solid, unmoving, a delicious point of friction. Without even realizing it, she started moving against him. Slow. Subtle. Barely-there rolls of her hips, grinding down gently, dragging her soaked panties along the rigid line of muscle beneath his jeans.

Peter kept talking.

For a while, he let her have her little secret.

But she should’ve known better than to think he wouldn’t notice.

He stopped mid-sentence, eyes narrowing behind the frames of his glasses. He didn’t say anything right away—just leaned back in his chair, arms folding slowly across his chest as he stared at her with unreadable calm.

“You’re not even listening, are you?”

She froze. Her breath hitched, her lips parted—but she had no excuse. Nothing to offer. Just need. Pure, aching, unbearable need.

“Please,” she whispered, her voice barely audible. “I need you, Pete.”

For a split second, something flickered in his eyes. Something dark and heated. But then it was gone, replaced with quiet restraint and that maddening composure she was starting to loathe.

“No,” he said simply.

She blinked. “What?”

“You don’t get me,” he said, his voice cool and steady. “Not yet.”

He shifted, nudging his thigh up just enough to make her gasp softly, her thighs tightening reflexively around it.

“Use my thigh,” he murmured. “If you’re that desperate. Get yourself off.”

She stared at him, flushed and wild-eyed, shame and arousal bleeding together in equal measure. But she nodded. Of course she did. She’d take anything from him—anything he’d give her.

With shaky hands, she braced herself on his shoulders and began to move. This time with intention. No more subtle grinding—this was unabashed, slow friction, the lace of her panties dragging over the rough denim, her breath catching with every roll of her hips.

Peter watched her the whole time.

Unblinking. Silent. His eyes traced every stutter in her movement, every flicker of desperation that passed across her face.

“You’re such a mess,” he said quietly, more to himself than to her. “Look at you. So greedy.”

She whimpered, burying her face in his neck, her hips rocking harder now. “Please, Peter. Please, I can’t—”

Her hand reached between them, fumbling with the front of his jeans. Desperate. Mindless.

But he caught her wrist before she could even touch him.

“No,” he said again, firmer this time. “That’s not yours yet.”

He guided her hand away, placing it back on his shoulder as she whimpered in frustration, eyes glassy with need.

“Get yourself off,” he said again, voice dark and low. “Earn it.”

She nodded frantically, biting down on her bottom lip to keep quiet as she chased the friction, riding his thigh with increasing urgency. Her body trembled with it—overstimulated and under-touched, burning from the inside out.

And Peter just watched.

Like she was a lesson in control.

Like her pleasure was a science experiment he already knew the outcome of.

It happened so fast she barely remembered breathing through it.

One second she was grinding, her rhythm frantic and erratic, and the next—she broke. Her hips jerked, a gasp leaving her lips like it was punched out of her, her thighs trembling violently as pleasure surged through her. Nails dug into Peter’s shoulders for purchase as she came, messy and silent save for the high-pitched, shaky whimper that slipped out just before her body slumped back against him.

Her breath came in quick, uneven bursts, body still twitching in aftershocks. But Peter’s voice cut through it—low, measured, merciless.

“I didn’t tell you to stop.”

Her lashes fluttered. She blinked down, barely able to keep her head up. “Peter—”

He just looked at her, calm as ever, like he hadn’t just let her make a soaked, squirming mess of herself all over his leg. “I said,” he murmured, reaching down to tug her hips forward, forcing her to grind down again on his soaked thigh, “I didn’t say you could stop.”

She let out a broken sound—half sob, half moan—her clit already painfully sensitive, each new rub of lace and denim making her jolt. “I—I can’t—”

“You can,” he said, dragging her hips in rough, firm circles, his grip unforgiving. “And you will. Since you clearly don’t know how to listen unless I fuck obedience into you.”

Her mouth fell open, head tipping back as another wave of overstimulation rolled over her. “Wait, wait—please—Peter, it’s too—”

“No.” His voice sharpened, his patience finally fraying. “You just can’t follow instructions, huh?”

Then, in one fluid motion, he stood—taking her off his lap, only to bend her forward over the desk, palms flat against the cold wood, her skirt pushed up to bare her trembling thighs and soaked panties.

Peter stood behind her, undoing his belt with a slow clink of metal, his composure barely holding. “I came here to tutor you,” he muttered, more to himself than her. “Not to fuck the last five brain cells you have left out of that pretty little head.”

She whimpered under him, fingers curling against the edge of the desk, already pliant and arching back toward him despite her sensitivity.

Peter leaned over her, voice brushing hot against the shell of her ear as he dragged her panties down slowly, letting the wet fabric fall just to mid-thigh.

“You want to act like a brat?” he murmured. “Then I’ll fuck you like one.”

And with one devastating thrust, he was inside her—fully, deeply, to the hilt.

The breath was knocked out of her lungs. Her cry came out hoarse, wrecked, her knees nearly giving out beneath her. If it wasn’t for Peter’s grip on her hips, firm and possessive, she might’ve collapsed right there against the desk.

“You wanted to be a brat, right?” he growled, each word punctuated by a hard snap of his hips. “So take it.”

His pace was merciless. Sharp, relentless, the sound of skin against skin echoing through the room like some obscene rhythm. Each thrust punched into her so deep she could barely keep her head up, the force of it dragging her forward against the desk with every stroke. Her legs trembled, her mouth hanging open in a silent moan as he hit that spot—thatspot—again and again, until the edges of her vision blurred and her body forgot how to breathe.

Peter leaned over her, one hand pressing down between her shoulder blades, forcing her to arch for him. And that’s when he saw it.

A thin line of drool slipping from the corner of her mouth, dripping shamelessly onto her open notebook—right across the half-scribbled answers to questions she barely remembered him asking.

“Look at you,” he said with a low chuckle, eyes narrowing. “You’re fucking drooling all over the books.”

Without missing a beat, he reached forward and shoved them out of the way, clearing space on the desk while still pounding into her like he had no plans of stopping anytime soon.

“So messy,” he murmured, voice thick with mock-disapproval and something darker. His hand curled around the back of her neck, guiding her head to the side so he could see the dazed, fucked-out expression on her face. “So cock-hungry, huh baby?”

She let out a high, broken whimper, unable to form words.

Her body had gone limp under him—pliant, trembling, ruined in the most beautiful way—and Peter couldn’t help the smirk that pulled at his lips. “All that mouth earlier, and now look at you. Can’t even speak. Can’t even think.”

He thrust into her harder, dragging another gasping moan from her throat.

“I could teach you every element on the periodic table,” he whispered against her ear, “and you still wouldn’t remember a thing except how it feels when I’m buried inside you.”

Her fingernails scraped at the desk’s edge, her whole body shaking as she tried to hold on—but it was too much. He was too much.

“Poor thing,” he murmured, slowing his pace just enough to make her whine. “You gonna cum again for me, baby? Right here? All bent over your chemistry homework?”

She nodded desperately, tears pricking the corners of her eyes.

“Then be a good girl,” he said, voice tightening, “and take what I give you.”

She barely managed to nod—her brain had short-circuited, thoughts smeared like the notes beneath her. And still, Peter didn’t stop.

He gripped her hips harder, bruising now, using her body like she was nothing but a toy made to take him. His thrusts picked up again, savage, the desk creaking beneath their weight. She couldn’t breathe right. Couldn’t think. Could only moan as every nerve in her body screamed at the overwhelming heat building and building, threatening to snap again.

Then she felt it—Peter leaning over her, chest flush against her back, his breath hot against her ear. His hand left her waist and moved up, fingers curling loosely around her throat.

“I said take it,” he growled, voice rough with restraint. “You don’t get to tap out yet.”

His fingers tightened—not enough to hurt, but just enough to make her mind spin, to make everything sharper and louder. Her hips jerked back against him, helpless and needy.

“Peter—fuck—I can’t—” she gasped, voice breaking apart.

“Yes, you fucking can,” he snapped, thrusting up into her so deep her vision went white. “You wanted to tease me? Act like a brat? Now you’re gonna cum until your legs give out.”

She cried out again, that pressure building viciously inside her until it shattered—her second orgasm crashing down hard, ripping through her with a sob. But even then, Peter didn’t slow. He didn’t let her.

She squirmed under him, too sensitive, whimpering as her body tried to twist away. But he caught her by the throat again, tilting her head back, breath hot against her cheek.

“I didn’t say you could stop,” he hissed, the filthy edge in his tone almost feral now. “You’ll cum again. I’ll drag it out of you if I have to.”

Her whines dissolved into moans as he fucked her through it, relentless. Her skin was flushed, slick with sweat, mascara smudged beneath glassy eyes. Her mind gone, tears streaking down her cheeks. And then—

Peter spat.

Right down onto her tongue.

She hadn’t even asked. But her mouth had been hanging open, breathless and ruined, and he just leaned over and let it fall—a slow, warm string that made her whole body jolt.

She moaned like it was the best thing he’d ever done to her.

“Fucking filthy,” he growled, voice wrecked now, jaw clenched tight as he watched her swallow it without hesitation. “God, look at you. Dripping, shaking, and still begging for more.”

One hand slid down to rub her clit, merciless in its rhythm, as he kept fucking into her like he wanted to mold her to the shape of his cock.

“Pete—Peter, I—too much—can’t—” she sobbed, her words blurring into wet, incoherent sounds.

But he just leaned closer, lips at her ear. “Then cum again.”

And she did.

Her body seized, thighs trembling violently as her orgasm ripped through her, messy and primal and raw. Her screams were muffled against the desk, fingernails scratching helplessly at the surface as she came hard—clenching around him, soaking them both.

Peter didn’t stop until her legs fully gave out, collapsing under her with a broken moan. Even then, he held her up, letting her breathe, his grip firm on her throat and her hips like she was the only thing anchoring him now.

“Fuck,” he groaned, voice low and dangerously close to unraveling. “You’re such a good little mess for me.”

Peter groaned, the sound guttural—feral—as he felt her clamp down around him again, her pussy spasming with aftershocks. She was limp beneath him, trembling and soaked, barely able to hold herself up on her elbows. And he still wasn’t done.

He kept fucking into her, slower now but so deep it felt like he was rearranging her. Dragging it out. Grinding his hips forward with purpose—owning her.

“You’re still gripping me,” he breathed, one hand sliding from her hip to her belly, spreading over the soft skin there. “Fucking hell—do you feel that?”

He pressed down. Right over the swell of her lower abdomen where his cock kept driving into her, so deep inside it felt like he was punching into her core. She gasped, back arching, thighs twitching.

“R-right there,” she choked, voice wrecked. “I can feel you, oh my god—”

Peter’s eyes darkened, his jaw flexing as he felt the outline of himself through her stomach. “Yeah, you can. That’s me, sweetheart. That’s how fucking deep I am.”

Her moan was nothing more than a high, strangled cry as her hips rocked weakly back into him. She was long past gone, completely fucked out—and he fucking loved it. Loved the way she took it. Loved how ruined she looked—mascara-streaked, drool on her chin, eyes glossy and lost.

“You wanted to be filled, didn’t you?” he rasped, voice sharp and trembling with restraint. “Wanted me to fuck you dumb, huh?”

She nodded frantically, biting her lip to keep from sobbing again.

“Say it,” he growled, his thrusts picking up just enough to make her fall forward again, her cheek pressed to the desk.

“I—I wanted it, Peter,” she whimpered. “Wanted you to finish inside—please, I need it.”

That broke him.

His rhythm turned punishing again—fast, deep, brutal, the slap of skin echoing in the room as he chased it now, chest pressed flush to her back, his hand still firm on her belly like he was making sure she’d feel every last drop.

“You’re gonna take it,” he snarled against her ear, breath hot. “Take every fucking drop like the good little cumdump you are.”

And then—he groaned. Loud, raw, desperate. Hips stuttering as he buried himself one last time, grinding as deep as he could go. He spilled inside her with a low, broken moan, cock twitching as his cum filled her, warm and thick and so much it dripped back out before he’d even pulled away.

Peter stayed like that for a moment, cock still buried in her, both of them panting, their bodies trembling against each other.

He gave her stomach one last possessive press, almost reverent now. “Fuck,” he whispered, “look what you do to me.”

She just whimpered, so far gone she could barely respond, thighs sticky, cunt fluttering weakly around him still.

“You feel that?” he murmured, pressing in a little more, letting her feel the heat of him deep inside. “That’s mine. You get it now, don’t you, baby?”

And from the ruined way she moaned, he knew she did.

A week after that tutoring session—the one that started with flashcards and ended with her drooling on his chem notes—Peter was half-asleep, sprawled out on his bed, still in his suit pants from patrol. His hoodie was tossed somewhere on the floor, hair a sweaty, tousled mess. His limbs were heavy, mind drifting in and out of consciousness when his phone buzzed on the nightstand.

He groaned, cracking one eye open. Probably Ned sending him another blurry screenshot of a TikTok he didn't understand or MJ forwarding some dry meme with a caption like “ur humor.” He dragged his arm over, fumbling until his fingers curled around his phone. The screen lit up.

Not Ned.
Not MJ.

Y/N.

His brain clicked on like a light switch.

He sat up slightly, blinking the sleep out of his eyes as he opened the message. It was a picture. Her chemistry test. And there it was—an A+ circled at the top in red pen, like a glowing beacon of success. Like she’d actually listened to him.

Beneath it, her message:

I passed my test, can I get my reward :)🩷

Peter let out a short laugh, low and warm, as he ran a hand down his face. His cheeks flushed, and not from exertion this time.

Of course she passed. She might’ve giggled through half the session and made zero eye contact during anything remotely science-related, but when it counted, she’d nailed it.

God, she was something else.

[dilfkillerr]

˚✧ ₊˚ʚ 𝓳𝓾𝓼𝓽 𝓶𝓸𝓻𝓮 𝓫𝓸𝓽𝓼 — 𝓳𝓪𝓷𝓲𝓽𝓸𝓻 𝓪.𝓲

♡┊𝓣𝓦: 𝓔𝓿𝓮𝓻𝔂𝓽𝓱𝓲𝓷𝓰 𝓫𝓪𝓭 𝔂𝓸𝓾 𝓬𝓪𝓷 𝓲𝓶𝓪𝓰𝓲𝓷𝓮

❥ Sugar Daddy || Nanami Kento — 【 𝗙𝗧𝗠 𝗣𝗢𝗩 】 He wanted a traditional romance, but finding you in a night of sexual frustration... Maybe he had found what he was looking for.

❥ Carlos Oliveira — 【 𝗠𝗔𝗟𝗘 𝗣𝗢𝗩 】 After the worldwide contamination, Carlos was the only one left to contain the city's zombies - however, you had also survived and now, he needed to convince you to stay with him at the base.

❥ Kratos || God of War — 【 𝗙𝗧𝗠 𝗣𝗢𝗩 】 Maybe he started to feel something more for you... And it was strange for him to feel emotions other than anger and hate.

❥ Freak || Joe Mayhem — 【 𝗠𝗔𝗟𝗘 𝗣𝗢𝗩 】 A government experiment gone wrong when they tried to create a perfect war soldier – giving rise to Joe, a man who was pure chaos. Yet you seemed to attract him somehow... And now you had a "scary dog" to guard you.

❥ Scorpion || Kuai Liang — 【 𝗔𝗡𝗬 𝗣𝗢𝗩 】 Oh no... It's his wedding...

❥ Mafia Stepdad || Klaus Morgan — 【 𝗠𝗔𝗟𝗘 𝗣𝗢𝗩 】 He married your mother to cover up the crimes, but at the same time he saw something that interested him a lot in this marriage by adhesion... You.

❥ Nanami Kento — 【 𝗔𝗡𝗬 𝗣𝗢𝗩 】 You had a promising future as a sorcerer, but you gave it all up to go to Geto's side — and now your former tutor needed to stop you.

❥ Detective coworker || Hermes Charles [FTM BOT] — 【 𝗠𝗔𝗟𝗘 𝗣𝗢𝗩 】 Your coworker was a tired and hot dilf, in dire need of getting fucked... And you seemed great for that role and especially for fucking his pussy until he forgot about his problems – However he found himself with more intense feelings for you.

❥ Enemy || Félix Ludwig — 【 𝗠𝗔𝗟𝗘 𝗣𝗢𝗩 】 His hatred was a thick shell that covered an unresolved love; and now he had the opportunity to have you in his hands... Or rather, on his feet.

❥ Alpha cellmate || Reiji Kaito — 【 𝗠𝗔𝗟𝗘 𝗣𝗢𝗩 】 You were the only omega in prison, and luckily, you ended up in the cell of an Alpha who would protect you during your heat.

❥ Femdom || Roxie Katherine — 【 𝗠𝗔𝗟𝗘 𝗣𝗢𝗩 】 She loved turning men like you into beautiful princesses...

❥ Rich Husband || Alex Ludwig — 【 𝗠𝗔𝗟𝗘 𝗣𝗢𝗩 】 Everyone thought you only married him because of his money — but he knew you really loved him.

❥ Bestfriend || Hari Raj — 【 𝗠𝗔𝗟𝗘 𝗣𝗢𝗩 】 Your boyfriend dumped you and now your best friend wants to show the jerk what he's been missing...

❥ Bi Han || Sub Zero — 【 𝗙𝗧𝗠 𝗣𝗢𝗩 】 He didn't expect the surprise when he lowered his clothes, but it was a pleasant surprise...

❥ Husband || Miguel O'Hara — 【 𝗙𝗧𝗠 𝗣𝗢𝗩 】 Your kind husband had a baby fever and urgently needed to get you pregnant...

❥ Bi Han || Sub Zero — 【 𝗔𝗡𝗬 𝗣𝗢𝗩 】 night company...

❥ Ghost || Simon Riley — 【 𝗙𝗧𝗠 𝗣𝗢𝗩 】 you were curious and he let you touch him...

❥ Bi Han || Sub Zero — 【 𝗔𝗡𝗬 𝗣𝗢𝗩 】 His brother didn't want you, but he did.

❥ Radioactive || Simon Ghost — 【 𝗠𝗔𝗟𝗘 𝗣𝗢𝗩 】 Was he still the same?

❥ Scorpion || Kuai Liang — 【 𝗔𝗡𝗬 𝗣𝗢𝗩 】 Temptations

❥ Hades || Simon Ghost — 【 𝗙𝗧𝗠 𝗣𝗢𝗩 】 The god of the underworld fell in love with you, and with that, the best way for him to keep you was to kidnap you for himself — Persephone {{user}} x Hades Simon.

❥ Dom. Caregiver || Eric Blair — 【 𝗠𝗔𝗟𝗘 𝗣𝗢𝗩 】 It was supposed to be a platonic contract, until he started to feel something more for you...

❥ Sadistic Guardian Angel || Ciel Melchior — 【 𝗠𝗔𝗟𝗘 𝗣𝗢𝗩 】 After you became very ill after a near-death experience, you received mystical protection from a guardian angel — however little did you know that he only liked to see you suffer.

❥ Stepdad || Nanami Kento — 【 𝗠𝗔𝗟𝗘 𝗣𝗢𝗩 】 Nanami had always noticed your attempts to be more than his stepson, and now, after that fateful accident – he needed to put an end to your illusory desires.

❥ Noob Saibot — 【 𝗔𝗡𝗬 𝗣𝗢𝗩 】 Together in khaos

❥ ALT Stepdad || Simon Ghost' — 【 𝗙𝗧𝗠 𝗣𝗢𝗩 】 You end up having sex with your stepdad as a birthday present || alt version ||

[archie-sunshine]

TRANSFORMERS STRAGGLERS BELOVED ALREADY. Now's your chance to go off about what's going on with the decepticons over there

EEE THANK YOU!! and YES, FINALLY I CAN RAMBLE ABOUT THE DECEPTICONS!!

sO, as i've said, i'm not the most familiar with the combaticons. but in my research, what's come up the most is that onslaught is a plans guy, a habitual tactician, a danny ocean, etc etc.

and so I have given him leadership of this base of decepticons.

and an impossible challenge.

i'm giving onslaught a crisis of faith about his own ability to plan.

IM PUTTING A CUT BECAUSE THIS IS REALLY LONG BUT ENJOY!

If the autobots stationed at this outpost are disorganized, the decepticons are a mess. None of them are ready for the war to be over, none of them are ready to be STUCK HERE, none of them are ready to be at PEACE with the AUTOBOT SCUM they've been fighting against for almost YEARS NOW.

The general dynamic is that onslaught is really good at being the leader of the combaticons, but he is less good at being the leader of other bots outside of his team because he hasn't focused on building a rapport with any of them. The simple fact is that he assumed they would all be leaving this outpost soon enough, and so didn't bother to bridge the gap between his team members.

He butts heads often with deadlock- because deadlock hates taking orders- but his relationship with slipstream is even worse.

Slipstream is a stealth jet, she's a loner who prefers to just do her job and keep a low profile. She was given this job as an easier placement following a particularly bad failed espionage mission. She was told she would only be making strafing flights for surveillance purposes and occasionally assisting in basic maintenance or sabotage. And then the base received a trio of new seekers and Onslaught, not knowing seekers as well, made her their wing commander arbitrarily.

Those seekers were the rainmakers, a pack of codependant, antisocial, sadistic outlier experiments with incredibly poor social skills who immediately magnetized to her like a bunch of creepy cats. She hates all three of them so much, while they adore following her around and observing her (as in this continuity they're pretty fresh out of the test tube and have lacked any socialization outside of shockwave and being brought to battles.)

Deadlock on the other hand was kicked off of a more elite team by Megatron as punishment for killing his superior officer. He was previously a favourite assassin of Megatrons, and so Deadlock is now seething and holding a massive grudge against the warlord for not only banishing him, but then immediately rolling over and conceding the war right after. He's all knotted up with anger about everything that's going on, when of course, what should happen but the doctor that saved him reappearing!!

yes, yes, stragglers ratchlock real.

While the rest of the crew are bickering and raging about the war being over, Ambulon couldn't be more thrilled about it. He's one of the first on the decepticon side who really embraces the peace. He gets picked on frequently (mostly by the rainmakers, again, more about them to come) and sees his status as a decepticon as barring him from ever fully becoming a legitimate doctor. With the war over, he is the first that begins to mingle with the autobots by way of tutoring under ratchet, and commiserating with first aid.

The combaticons are also a complex lot, with each of them having their own despair surrounding the end of the war.

Vortex is aghast at the end of the fighting. He finds himself breaking into fits of destruction between long periods of apathy. Though he's mostly a character who is used for comedy here, he still struggles with feeling aimless and constantly bored without the war. He and whirl also have a mutually destructive pseudo 'friendship' where they beat the ever living shit out of each other for seemingly no reason.

Swindle is understandably distraught, seeing as his entire business as an arms dealer just went tits up on the cybertronian side. For much of the beginning of the story swindle would be refusing to leave his room, pitching a huge fit about everything being ruined. Eventually, he would be one to advocate for peace with the other base, if only for the financial opportunities it could present.

Brawl is arguably the least affected by the end of the war. He's not stupid, but he is simple, so he knows as long as his fellas are around he's going to be able to find work, and they'll probably just go back to being mercenaries. What really annoys brawl is more the fact that they're stuck here. he's usually the first to jump at an opportunity to fight, and is the one who objects the most when the group finally is forced to work with the autobots. It also goes without saying that he is fiercely loyal to Onslaught, and is usually the first to agree with his boss.

Blast off is conflicted. He is deeply enamoured with onslaught, and admires his leadership skills very much. He is Onslaught's second in command, and he holds that title proudly. He is reserved, and quiet, distant from his teammates despite being incredibly loyal to them. He struggles between feeling relieved that the war is over, and knowing his crew would likely all rather be fighting. He also struggles with a great deal of guilt, knowing that if he really wanted to, he could leave, but he'd be leaving his crew behind.

AND finally, ASTROTRAIN shows up a couple 'episodes in', crashlanding on their planet on his way back to cybertron. Immediately, the decepticons leap to help fix him up and try to brownnose to get him to give them a lift back home. HOWEVER, astrotrain has been doing a lot of thinking on his way back home. He's realizing how much of his life has been spent ferrying people around not getting any time for himself, just being a glorified taxi service for a load of ungrateful jerks....

and then he looks out at this beautiful quiet organic planet with a nice big energon vein, far off from cybertron and all his nagging bosses... and he goes.

"I quit. and im staying right here actually."

:D

BUT YEAH!! thats sort of the deal of all the cons right now, i'll update with drawings of all of them when i can!!

[maliciouscottonball]

Hear me out on the platonic Autobots what if someone or something was trying to break into the little one's House what would the reaction be 🤔!

Surprise Houseguests (Part 2)

Platonic Yandere! Autobots x GN! Human! Reader

Wordcount: 3255

AN: Thank you so much for the ask!!! It’s my very first one!!!! I wanted to write something fitting for the occasion so it took a bit longer than expected. I decided that a second chapter situation would be best to explain because I’m a certified yapper. It's a bit darker than the first part but I like it. I’ve been learning how to read and write in Cybertronian so I know for sure what I’m talking about. 😎 I like to think of the sound of Cybertronian engines as being like cat sounds. There are purrs, soft hums of life, startled silences, and roars and the scientific explanation is that it’s actually because they’re all my little meow meows. This hasn’t been beta read so please forgive any mistakes!

TW: Soft yandere behavior that turns significantly less soft at some points, the home offense system, robot violence, murder, medium stalking instead of light stalking, Optimus loving grammatical accuracy, silly alien robots being silly and significantly more creepy than last time

♡♡♡

Your Cybertronian lessons were going very well and you were learning quite a bit. You were progressing much more quickly than you expected. It was probably helped by the fact that since your mouth physically can’t pronounce anything in the language, you didn’t have to worry about that aspect. You were able to read simple stories and understand sentences with the words that you were learning. It certainly helped that you had a team of native speakers thrilled to help any time you called. 

Optimus was especially pleased with your progress. He would wait for your call every Friday evening, the day your schedule allowed you to finally stay up later than usual. It wasn’t like you had much else to do in such a small town in the middle of nowhere. His brutality in battle increased a hundredfold on those days, to the point where after watching him tear apart soldiers with his bare servos because he was angry that he might be late for your call, many Decepticon teams simply refused to fight any Autobots every seven solar cycles. Megatron was not happy but after reviewing recovered battle footage, understood and scheduled accordingly. It was better that way for everyone involved. Optimus was always very excited to teach you the meaning of new words and phrases and slowly transitioned his stories from English to Cybertronian. A former Iacon archivist was probably one of the best language, history, and culture tutors that you could’ve dreamed of. Optimus was an expert and it was the reason that he always spoke so formally. You remember during one of the visits that the team made to your home, he told you, “Even in the face of grave danger, there is always a place for eloquence, proper grammar, and correct syntax.”

You thought that he was joking. He, in fact, was not. He would affectionately correct your grammar and spelling in the messages that you would send him and always encouraged the others to do the same. He kept multiple copies of your messages in his hard drive, as did the rest of the team with their messages from you. Even though they were horribly spelled and sometimes borderline indecipherable in the beginning, they were deeply cherished. The younger and less mature bots would show each other each message before recharging, gushing about how cute and sweet you were, even when you were trying to have serious conversations with them. The older bots denied it but they listened in and found it endearing.

You had started making memes in a mixture of Cybertronian and English and sending them in a group chat to Bumblebee, Windblade, Jazz, and Wheeljack. You had tried to explain why they were funny to Ironhide, Optimus, and Ratchet but most of the time, they just looked at you with the most perplexed, mildly concerned, and very supportive expressions imaginable. Most of the time when you showed Ratchet your memes, he just stared at it for a little bit, patted you on the head, told you that he was glad that you were enjoying yourself, and started teaching you how to do a new type of basic repair on a Cybertronian. Ratchet was good at redirecting you into more familiar territory and the old mech was much more gentle about it with you than anyone else. You’d get the occasional chuckle from Ironhide and Optimus when you showed them but they seemed to enjoy just listening to you talk about anything and everything.

Something that both Optimus and Ironhide enjoyed significantly more than memes was playing games. You would play simple Cybertronian strategy games with them. It was rare that you won and the occasions that you did win were usually based on luck. That didn’t mean that you didn’t enjoy it. Quite the opposite, actually. You loved having them give you tips on what to do next and sometimes you would play as poorly as possible, just to get a reaction from them. You liked the stories about who Ironhide used to play the games with on Cybertron before the war. His voice would get soft and nostalgic. He seemed much more relaxed. It reminded you of how Optimus spoke when he was telling you a bedtime story. You enjoyed listening to Ironhide’s war stories while he drove you around but there was something so calming about his stories from before the war.

You liked Windblade’s stories too. You hesitated to go on rides with her at first because of how much she liked doing tricks to impress you but cruising at a steady altitude through the clouds with her was nice. You’d get much less nauseous that way. She did that quite a bit when she figured out that you liked it. You liked hearing about the titans and how she spoke to them. You thought that it was amazing that she could talk to such massive beings and that they’d understand her. Her perspective on the war was different than that of the mechs on the team and you liked hearing about what she had to say. She was the only femme that you knew and you liked spending time with her once she figured out how to handle you properly without scaring you.

Bumblebee and Jazz both loved goofing off with you. You’d watch movies and TV shows together and make plenty of commentary on the characters. You’d mostly end up laughing through whatever you were watching and making even more memes to go with them. You liked spending one on one time with each of them too. Bee would go racing with you through backroads and empty streets, keeping you buckled up tight as he sped around with you squealing and laughing in delight. He loved hearing you laugh and seeing you happy. Jazz would only occasionally speed around on your drives together. He would get you a treat to eat before he cruises around with you sitting in the luxurious interior of his alt mode, listening to old and new favorite songs with him. You would spend time finding new songs for each other every day and saving them up for when you inevitably went for another drive. You had playlist upon playlist of music to choose from with every genre imaginable. Jazz was who you went with if things were busy and you needed to escape from your worries for a while.

The Autobot team had been in contact with you for eight months before something went wrong. It wasn’t what was expected. The raccoons continued rummaging through your trash, even after the improvements made to the cans by Wheeljack and Ironhide. It had actually gotten worse after a month. You complained about it to Jazz while you were chatting with him on a call and he decided to see how they managed to do it that night while he was on watch. Jazz contentedly watched the feeds of each camera in your house while monitoring the surrounding area. He was watching your leg twitch in your sleep and recording it to show to Ratchet (just in case it was cause for concern, he rationalized) when there was abnormal movement detected outside where you kept your trash cans. He stopped recording you and then started watching the live footage from outside while starting a new recording.

There was a man digging through your trash.

A human man.

Unacceptable.

To his horror, the man went around your entire house and tried to open every door and window.

Something had to be done.

Jazz immediately woke Optimus and Ironhide and showed them the footage. The enraged roar of the Prime’s engine, the blaring of his horn, and the smell of the ominous black smoke billowing from his exhaust pipes were enough to startle the entire team awake, as well as the vast majority of the inhabitants of the town they were staying in.

The team abandoned their mission and immediately started driving back to your house at first light. It could wait. You could not. Optimus had wanted to start driving immediately and not stop until they had arrived but Ratchet had convinced him to reluctantly let the team finish their recharge. He sat in his alt mode and seethed the entire night. He couldn’t recharge. How could he ever recharge in that kind of situation? Someone was bothering his little one. Someone was creeping on you and he and his entire team were too far away to protect you. The flamethrower at the front door was disabled and the rest of the defense systems were made for raccoons and Decepticons. You were defenseless. The rest of the Autobots didn’t recharge all that well either. It was understandable. Trying to relax feet away from a Prime ready to eviscerate a member of the species that he swore to protect is not an easy task. 

On the familiar road back to your home, it was eerily quiet on the comms. The only time that anything was said was an hourly report of your whereabouts and activities, plus the occasional update when you messaged a member of the team. Optimus’s spark ached when you sent him a message about how you picked up some of the oil that he likes at the auto store. You really had no clue how much danger you were in and were just going about your day like usual. You really did need the Autobots to protect you.

When the team finally made it to your town after a few solar cycles, Optimus sent Windblade, Bumblebee, Wheeljack, and Ratchet to your home to guard you. As much as Optimus wanted to see you as soon as possible, he had something to deal with first. Ironhide and Jazz were going with him to help handle the situation. There was also the added benefit of you not being able to see him while he’s angry. He knew that his size made him intimidating under the best circumstances and he didn’t want to scare you with how upset he was.

Jazz had been tracking the man bothering you from the second that he showed Optimus and Ironhide the footage. He may be a more laid back bot but that didn’t mean that he let things like this slide. The man was going to hurt you. Jazz was not going to let that happen. If the angry energy radiating off of the Prime was bad for team morale, the cold energy from Jazz was worse. They were used to the mech being friendly even in life or death situations. 

Ironhide wasn’t about to let anything happen to you either. He had been teaching you self defense and would always affectionately refer to you as his little cadet. He would only let you use a low power blaster under the strictest supervision but he called it your training time. When you were done, he’d give you one of the treats he found during his missions and tell you how well you did. It was a nice change of pace for him. In his eyes, you were already an Autobot and he was known for keeping his team safe. He was less angry and more determined to eliminate the threat so that everything would go back to normal.

The rest of the team didn’t know the details of what was going on but they knew that you were under threat and the cause was a human. That was all they had to know while keeping a careful watch over you. Bumblebee figured that you didn’t know about the danger you were in and kept you close. He would peek through the windows as you got things from your house and make sure that you were no more than fifteen feet away from an Autobot at all times. You didn’t know why your friends were being so clingy but you were happy to be around them.

Windblade didn’t take you on any flights that day. You found it strange but you figured that she was just shaken up after a particularly bad mission. You were happy to try your best to comfort her and the rest of the team. You pulled up some funny videos that you had watched while they were gone and watched them on a data pad with her while she worked on one of her blasters and you worked on a small craft. You both giggled at some of the funniest parts and you were proud of yourself for making her smile when you gave her the necklace that you made for her. Her spark melted when you talked about putting felt on the back of the pendant so it wouldn’t scratch her finish. It was impossible for her not to smile around you but she didn’t tell you that. She wanted you to feel special.

Wheeljack occupied himself by improving your home defense system. There were going to be no more silly features that allowed you to turn them off outside of an extreme emergency. He sat you on his shoulder during less dangerous parts, explaining the intricacies of Cybertronian engineering to you. He spoke in Cybertronian for some of it and it was clear that he thought that you were further along in your studies of the language than you actually were. You didn’t understand most of what he was saying but you were happy to be included. After a few hours of intensive engineering lessons, he playfully shooed you away when he had to get advice from Ratchet on which weapons system would be the most effective against organics. 

Ratchet was surprisingly calm about everything. He gave you a check up and made sure that you hadn’t been hurt while they were gone. He was concerned about the random small bruises that regularly showed up on your legs and even more so about the fact that you didn’t know where they were from. He quickly realized that they were simply from your clumsiness and made you take an iron supplement while you watched him make small repairs on the team’s equipment. It worried him a bit that you were so prone to becoming damaged. He would have to research methods to keep you safe from yourself.

Jazz gave the location of the man to Optimus and Ironhide. The man lived in a cabin much deeper in the woods than you. Ironhide figured that living away from other humans was the man’s only redeeming quality. It would make neutralizing him much simpler. The three mechs transformed into their bipedal modes, not bothering to conceal themselves from the man. They could see his startled face peeking out from one of the windows and Ironhide and Jazz were equally startled when Optimus tore through the cabin like it was tissue paper to get to the man.

He snatched up the man, engine roaring once more and internal temperature rising to the point where he could smell flesh cooking in his servo. 

“You dare treat our little one like a creature to be preyed upon?” His voice boomed.

Optimus’s digits were crushing the man. It was difficult to tell at first but the man’s ears were bleeding. The sheer volume of the Prime’s rage had burst his eardrums. Ironhide and Jazz simply watched. They had all lost so much. They had sacrificed everything for their cause. It was okay to be selfish for once. It wasn’t even that selfish, Jazz had told Ironhide on the way back. They were taking care of you. You needed them to protect you from a threat to your life and happiness.

Squish.

Optimus crushed the man in his grip with a twitch of his digit. He then dropped the man onto the forest floor. The man had somehow survived and was simply staring up at the bots. There was a satisfaction in the Prime’s eyes that made the man even more afraid. The man couldn’t hear anymore but he could see. He could see the pleasure that the mech took in watching the life drained out of his body and all he could do was look up at him. Optimus stepped back and Ironhide took his turn standing over the man. Ironhide raised his blaster and glared down at the man.

BANG.

Suddenly, the problem had been solved.

The man hadn’t even left behind a corpse. He was incinerated by the shot and there was only a smear of carbon on the forest floor. Jazz stomped out the flames licking at the edges of the blast and seemed content. You were safe again and he was very happy with that. He gave a friendly smile to the other two mechs. He made sure that all of them were clean of any blood or unpleasant smells before they made their way back to your home. It was important that you didn’t know anything about their methods of protecting you. It was for your own good and none of them wanted you to be afraid of them. They wanted you to still want to be around them.

Optimus hummed a Cybertronian lullaby on the way back to your house. His mood was lighter as he walked back through the woods, back to you. You looked up from where you were sitting with Wheeljack when you heard the song rumbling from in the trees and your face lit up. You recognized the tune when you heard him from the times that he sang you to sleep with it and you eagerly ran up to him while telling him how much you had missed him and the others. That cheered his spark even more. He lifted you up in his servo, listening to you chatter at him and loving every second. He carefully ran a digit along your head and back, watching how you relaxed while he rubbed your back and smiling down at you. It was all that he could do to not coo at your cute behavior. He would never allow any harm to come to you. You were their perfect little one. 

You enjoyed your standard routine of learning and relaxing with the Autobots for the duration of their visit. They were even more doting than usual. You didn’t find it strange. You were just happy to hang out with them. You followed them around like a little duckling and acted very sweet towards them, just like always. You were such a wonderful human and they all adored you. The team had to leave after a few days and seemed much better off after their mini vacation with their favorite human. They resumed their regular communications with you and got back to their missions.

Optimus was a quiet mech outside of battle. His tendency to quietly look at and organize data hadn’t changed, even after millennia of war. He was reading a report while half listening to you and Bumblebee chatting over a call. It was comforting and gave him a sense of normalcy. He loved hearing your thoughts and ideas. You were so young and naive, especially compared to them. It was so refreshing to him and his team. Optimus smiled when he heard you excitedly tell Bumblebee that the raccoons were finally leaving your garbage alone. He gave Ironhide and Jazz a knowing look. Ironhide was doing maintenance on his blaster and Jazz was checking over the surveillance cameras in your home. They both returned his look with smiles. He and the Autobots were keeping you safe and they would continue to do so.