#verbal processor

[daylerogers]

It's More Than Academic

School seems to begin earlier and earlier here. Most of central Florida has begun classes, some students responding with delight, others with disdain. Tiffany and Ramsay’s three children began their new year with different perspectives. Brooklyn, their oldest, entering third grade, is a learner at heart. She loves school, having the chance for new and challenging input, and being with friends.…

[gemstarstarlight]

Grief is weird.

What they don’t tell you is that grief can be about anything. Loss is something that happens to everyone, but it’s not just death. Grief comes when you lose something precious to you.

Over the past two to three years I have lost my relationship with my dad. And it’s never been very good to begin with, hasn’t been good for a decade, but over the last two years it has completely withered and died.

It started emotionally, then theologically, and finally politically. And it’s not like one stopped when the next one started. It’s just one layer after another layer. Exponential hurt continues exponenting while another one starts.

It’s really hard to lose your respect for someone, but that’s what’s happened. I no longer respect the man that is supposed to be my father. I don’t look up to him, I don’t see him as a role model, and I don’t want to be around him.

And that’s sad. I used to love him. I used to want him to care for me, to see me. Now I’m terrified of his opinion because I don’t want to deal with it. I don’t want to deal with the emotion swings, the painful words, the close minded politics, the grief I feel when I hear him talk about God.

Because that’s the worst part. The way he talks about God is so sad to me. I don’t know why, but all he sees is a God who is never satisfied. He only sees himself in the text: his own insecurities, his own perfectionism, his own resolve to do better whenever there is failure.

There is no acceptance, there is no grace for him. All he sees in the text is his own salvation. His own coping mechanisms. His own unprocessed grief.

I wonder if he feels like a failure as a father and is thus so hard on himself? If he still feels the pain of his own losses? If he even thinks about what he’s doing? I don’t know.

All I know is that I cannot see my father as someone worthy of respect anymore. His values, his biblical interpretation, and his view of humanity are totally incompatible and I cannot be in the room with him anymore.

[hyperfocusthusly]

This chapter is in re-write number 7 and I am beginning to loose my hair

Send help, anyone please God

Beams, bars and burns

[pinkcasket]

akechi is soooo funny because he wants to be a silent protagonist but he physically can't. he needs to yap. if he can't infodump or trauma dump he doesn't know what to do and resorts to gaslighting.

[roosterzebra]

also shout out to the discord kinkster who saw me venting and saw it as their chance to slide in my dm's to ask about my gender theories, talk about how they're a "gender fucker," and ask if I'm transitioning. perfect timing

[rabotimagines]

"Pet names" pt2 GN! BOT Reader + Prowl, Ratchet, Blaster, Bumblebee, Skyfire

Summary: Reader has become partial to using human pet names for everyone.

Warnings: none.

Genre/Theme: Platonic/with hints of crush

G1 characters included: Prowl, Ratchet, Blaster, Bumblebee, Skyfire.

Notes: Cybertronian Reader, Reader is around Ironhides age so older in mind

Pronouns: You, your, yours, them, they

Prowl is trying to get a verbal review of your report while finishing up his own. You've all been busy the past week, so you're walking through the ark hall while conversing. And you finish, so you move to hand him the physical report on the datapad. "Here you go, Pudding."

Prowl full-on stops in place when he hears what you say, fully expecting his audials to be glitching. "What did you just say?"

"Here you go, Pudding." You hold the datapad out, still completely unperturbed by what you'd just done and even more so when having to repeat it. Prowl processor lags- Because you're calling him- human pet names of all things without reason. But he forces his system to straighten out and consider your personality. This stops it from getting worse since this may just be you behaving like... you.

"You know my designation." Prowl settles on stating the fact.

"I do." You stated back, still wordlessly holding the datapad for him to take. Annoyance slowly seeps into Prowls frame at the exchange, and he takes the datapad from you.

Prowl gives you a long calculating look. "Do not do it again." He settled on.

You just shrugged, a small smirk curling on your derma. "Okay later then, Pumpkin." You turn and leave before Prowl comprehends this pet name, which makes his helm snap to your retreating form.

Prowl does not enjoy it. The incessant pet names you'd elected to now refer every autobot with. His wings twitch in annoyance whenever you call him "Pumpkin" or "Pudding" or allspark forbid "Peaches." Optimus fully pauldron shaking laughed the first time you'd called him that one. You humiliating Prowl was not how he wanted Optimus to get his R&R. However, he will tolerate it slightly more when Optimus is in the room. If not to watch you make a fool of Optimus, instead of him. Prowl had attempted to scold you the first time he'd seen you call Optimus "Sweetspark." their leaders' finials had pulled back when you'd done so- Optics brightened. But Optimus informed Prowl that he actually does enjoy the pet names. Prowl doesn't understand even after Oprimus's explanation of the supposed "benefits" of your behavior.

But he does look and watch after that and must conceded that there was- some, however mild, merit to the autobots general mood when you'd use your pet names. It was merely a bother in Prowls system, but he supposed he could make the sacrifice for the morale of the autobots.

Prowl wouldn't like it, however.

-

Ratchets resetting your leg juncture back into place after a battle. You hadn't bothered to come to him till after he got through everyone else. You'd apparently "forgotten" about it in the hustle of making sure everyone else got seen first. Slag is what it was, and Ratchet made sure you knew exactly what he thought. It realigns and clicks into place with you digging a servo against his pauldron with a hissing vent. You relaxed your jaw and nod in gratitude. "Ha- Thanks, love."

Ratchet almost coughs in shock, his plating flaring a touch. But after years of hearing everything from patients in pain or in surgery high on something, he just clicks his glossia. "Next time, don't forget to mention your own injuries."

Ratchet had assumed it was just a slip of the glossia at the time due to the pain and let it slide. Then the next time you're reporting from Optimus to him and call him "Handsome." And he's asking you to repeat that, which you shamelessly do with a smirk. Ratchet scoffed and told you he wasn't going to go any easier on you the next time you forget to come in. No matter how much you try flattering him. Then he sees you with the other autobots and learns you've simply picked this up as a habit.

Ratchet has to resist the urge to roll his optics every time you do it with him. He's gone from being prickly in response with you to half seriously threatening to short your mouth circuit if you didn't stop. But you only continued to do just that. Whenever you called him "Love," his damn spark hummed a touch louder. You've realized that too and tend to only use that more often or not. Much to his- exasperation. Ratchet does enjoy the casual affection to a degree. Reminds him of his younger days. The easier ones. So he doesn't ever throw a wrench at you for the pet names themselves.

Ratchet does definitely enjoy watching the others more than being on the receiving end. Watching Optimus's finials twitch, then pull forward slightly and his plating fluffing in response. Or Ironhide looking like he was going to blow a minor fuse from how bright his own optics were while he unsuccessfully tried to get you to stop. Even Prowls door wings twitching in obvious disdain makes Ratchet crack a smirk at least. So Ratchet let's it be for the most part. They could use some "softer" interactions around the base.

...

He's still telling you to stop whenever you do it to him, though.

-

Blasters cool with it. He's been in it with the humans at parties or at clubs (the ones he could fit in anyway.) And he's seen and even been on the receiving end of flirting pet names on the occasion. You calling him "Babe" didn't trigger much but an amused smirk. Blaster will return a few casual pet names himself a "Babe" here and there. But what is not cool is Jazz and you being as cringe inducing as possible on his audials. Blaster is sooooo sick of being subjected to you and Jazz's "flirting." It ain't flirting it's a failing clown show!

You'll get more of a fond smile when Blaster sees you pet naming his cassettes. They all fumbled a touch when you'd called them something with sweetness in your tone. Steeljaw, like always, is aloof and focused when you're on the clock. But when you're off? Just chilling at the ark? Steeljaw is a little slagger. Rewind and Eject at least have the decency to only do it when it's natural. Steeljaw will seek you out with his olfactory when you're both off duty to get called sweet names by you.

"I'm so glad you're still here, Foxy." You waved at Jazz, who was standing next to Blaster.

"And I'm so glad to see you too, Snookums." Jazz's tone is so absurd it actually makes Blaster feel physically tired.

"And I'm gonna purge." Blaster bluntly remarks, causing you both to turn to him, then share a look with each other. Jazz smiles in a way Blaster recognizes and is immediately cautious. Blaster jolts when you're suddenly leaning into his space. Your digits are now just barely tracing his boombox buttons.

You smile like a felinoid, and Blasters tries to back up, but Jazz is suddenly pressing up behind him, preventing his escape. Jazz's arms even wrapped around Blasters middle. You speaking makes his gaze snap back to you. "Come on, Baby, don't you wanna have some fun?" You worried your optical ridge, and Blasters glossia is feeling really thick in his mouth now.

Then, his dock compartment snaps open of its own accord, and Steeljaw ejects and forms right into your arms. You just chuckle and heft his cassette into a more comfortable position. "Hey baby! I know you won't say no to a little TLC, Blaster, however..."

Blaster, now broken out of that little trance, shook to break out of Jazz's hold. Jazz, however, did not release him - "Sorry Blaster! You're not approved for release until you enjoy at least five compliments from both of us!" Like pit Blaster was! He wasn't sticking around to hear the kind of slag you both called flirting! Blaster looked at Steeljaw for help only to slack at the smile on his cassettes muzzle. The little traitor!

-

Bumblebee isn't ambushed by it like the others- He's already heard through the autobot gossip about your new little routine. So he's mostly prepared and more wondering when/what you'd call him. You haven't used a pet name with him yet, so he's waiting on his pedes for it to happen. He half ends up wondering if you'll exclude him for some reason when you finally do it after a minor battle with the cons.

You're doing head count and injury report for Ratchet and get to him. Bumblebee almost trips, but you catch his arm and steady him. "Careful Honey, don't injure yourself after the battle."

Bumblebees optics burn only a touch brighter, but he's mostly amused. "Honey? Because of my designation translation?"

You just smirked, your own amusement growing in your em field. Bumblebee could feel it with how close you were right now. You leaned a touch further into his space. "What? Can't be because you're so sweet?" The heady wave of playful affection in your field mixed with that makes Bumblebees optics brighten in embarrassment proper. You just chuckled and squeezed his arm before moving to continue to make your post battle rounds. While Bumblebee wordlessly watched you go.

Bumblebee enjoys the attention even if it's admittedly embarrassing. Bumblebee thinks he might almost enjoy seeing the other autobots' reactions more than getting your attention himself. Almost anyway. While yeah it's definitely funny watching Ironhide especially try and get you to stop. Bumblebee enjoys each time you share a pet name with him just a little bit more. Bumblebee does admittedly feel a bit giddy whenever it happens. It makes him stand up a bit taller and makes him smile a touch whenever he hears it. A small rush of confidence courses through him every time.

The first time you called Bumblebee, "Lovebug." Though? Bumblebee walked right into one of the ark walls.

-

"Hey, teddy bear!" Teddy bear-? The small plush toys human children carry around? Skyfire stops when you call it out in the ark hallway, because he had no clue who you'd be directing the name towards... only to watch you wander right up to him. Skyfires optics widen a touch when you stop in front of him and look at him expectantly.

"Am I...?" Skyfire wondered aloud.

You only smirked and simply held out a datapad for him to take "Yeah you, teddy bear, need you to review this for me so I can approve it for Perceptor or not."

"I- Alright." Skyfire took the datapad unsure if he should ask about the name or not.

"Thank you, Darling." Now that one makes Skyfires optics brighten a touch. But you just salute him with two digits and go on your way again.

Skyfire quickly learns this was something of a habit you had picked up when he overhears the twins complaining about their pet names from you. Skyfire finds himself enjoying the affectionate names even if they do fluster him a touch. The affections were kind and freely given out by you. It was refreshing for Skyfire, especially after having joined this vorns long war, to hear them roll off your glossia. To see the crinkle in your optics. And to feel the light affection in your em field if he happened to be close enough to you when you did so. It was- normal. A touch embarrassing yes, but almost painfully normal.

You'd keep switching, but you mostly called him "Bear" or "Teddy bear," and on occasion "Darling". He'd asked about the Teddy bear nickname in particular since he understood darling as a pet name a touch more. And you just smirked and completely unabashed and said, "Humans say it's for someone big, dependable and lovable. So I think it fits pretty well." Skyfire ends up so embarrassed by the casual remark he can feel cobalt on his own faceplate. He ends up putting his servo over his own faceplate and looking anywhere but you. While you just laughed light at Skyfires own expense.

After that exchange, hearing you call him "Bear" or "Teddy bear" makes Skyfires optics brighten more than "Darling."

[sightseertrespasser]

Odds of Survival Part 8

Per usual, the tf mecha au was spawned by @keferon

Prowl and the flyt he said he didn’t want: “It’s not an ESA, it’s a tool for detective work that runs on food and affection.”

Anyways why do pets always look like their owners?

———————————————————————

Prowl had approximately 6 breems before Elita finished cleaning her skull.

The tactician added 4 additional breems to account for time spent in adding the piece to her skull throne. On average, Elita One spent between 8 to 13 breems total on “personal art projects” as a way to unwind after intense battles.

As soon as Prowl was within comms range, he had sent an encoded message to Red Alert suggesting Breakdown intended to plant listening devices on the exterior of the Lost Light.

Nevermind the fact they were working on the same damn side.

That trick would keep the mech busy for at least 5 breem.

Typically, Prowl was the first to defend Red Alert as an invaluable head of security. His paranoia secured their defenses so well, security chief had completely countered every infiltration attempt by the Functionalists to date. That said, the price of privacy for their ship was Red Alert having a total monopoly on it instead.

The distraction was not only so Prowl could have a single minute of peace, but also to ensure the security officer did not interrogate an injured and highly unpredictable mech.

Because Jazz might actually give Red Alert a spark attack. (;7%)

Prowl tried to rub away the ache between his optics. Tacnet thrumming angrily with pent up, unfinished calculations. Most of which were completely defunct now thanks to the violator of numerical probability sitting in the medbay.

Jazz…

Fragging Jazz.

Prowl shut the door to his office. He could feel his helm getting warm again. He’d need to take what time he could to sort his processor before the logic cascades that had been accumulating since he found the mech became too much to manually keep on pause.

Luckily, the tactician had discovered a secret technique to unraveling Tacnet build up without requiring a constant cycling of industrial grade coolant.

Prowl unlocked the wardrobe-like habitat next to his desk.

A faintly cool breeze sighed from within, as the thawing process completed. Uncurling in response to the change of stimuli, a flyt woke from brumation to look at her praxian with bleary eyes.

“Hello Green.” Prowl eased a servo beneath the flyt. “we have much to discuss.”

As Green tucked herself against the ambient warmth of his frame, Prowl activated the large screen built into the adjacent wall.

“I met someone today.”

Tapping away, creating categories, connection points and theories arranged by probability, Prowl slowly filled the screen with a tree of possibilities.

All the while, conferring with Green to ensure his thoughts stayed at a conversational pace, rather than whirl through the labyrinth of his mind at breakneck speeds.

“-and then, he gave me his designation number, except it’s just a completely nonsensical string of seven numbers!”

Green squawked at the audacity of the mech.

“He did space out the numbers while reciting it. Two eight four, pause, four three four, pause, five five zero eight.” The praxian typed in the numbers, adding dashes where appropriate.

He muttered, mostly to himself, “This had better not be some sort of prank.”

As Prowl continued to verbally filter through his mental evidence locker, Tacnet finally straightened out the concrete math of the situation.

“Jazz is either an alien or a lost government experiment. Alien 57%, cybertronian 43%” The screen automatically supplied a pie chart, superseding several lesser graphs beneath it.

Prowl tilted his helm back and sighed, expelling all the hot air he’d holding behind locked vents at once.

Tacnet had finally. Finally, attached a precentiall figure to Jazz’s existence. The sheer relief of that knot untangling was better than any oil bath. Rolling his shoulders and neck, Prowl continued.

“There are two schools of thought regarding The Jazz Situation.” Prowl divided the board in two beneath the chart.

“The first, was that Jazz is a wholly alien mechanical lifeform, and it is through convergent design that he happens to closely resemble a cybertronian. Albeit with various physical abnormalities.”

Green squawked.

“Precisely. Until the language barrier is further overcome, we cannot rule out the second theory either. That Jazz is a creation of the Functionalists. It would account for the physical abnormalities while removing a significant amount of uncertainty the Alien Theory comes with.”

Prowl gathered a small bit of skitter. Green didn’t have much appetite immediately after waking, but the prospect of food still served as positive reinforcement for her “help”.

Ostensibly, caring for the flyt was supposed to take Prowls processor off of work. Jokes on his government assigned therapist, Green was a fantastic assistant and confident.

While he did care for his brothers, Smokescreen was explicitly unhelpful when Prowl latched onto something intellectually stimulating. Constantly cajoling him into going to bars or casinos or wherever else the elder Praxian considered “actually stimulating”.

And Bluestreak, meanwhile, was a mech physically incapable of keeping a secret.

“You don’t try to get me overcharged or tell everybody about the Mesothulas Incident.” The tactician cooed while scritching the underside of Greens beak.

Nevermind it was the same night.

Green trilled happily at the attention and praise, waking up more thoroughly.

“I’ll see about introducing you later. Jazz shows no discomfort concerning organics and I predict a strong likelihood he will appreciate your work.”

Just as Prowl was about to close the theory board, a comm came through, making him pause with a servo still hovering over the screen.

[VELOCITY]: Update about the patient for you sir.]

Speak not of Unicron lest he appears.

[PROWL]: Go ahead. Do you need me to come back to the medbay?]

[VELOCITY]: No, he’s not displaying any adverse behavior you warned me about. His common is very rough though and he’s definitely struggling to understand my questions and clearly articulate his answers. Outside of that, the patient seems fairly relaxed actually.]

Rough? Jazz had been making steady progress with his language acquisition. He should be capable of understanding and answering Velocity’s questions with 76% accuracy.

[PROWL]: He did suffer a helm injury, though I am certain you’ve taken that into account already.]

[VELOCITY]: I already ran a simple cognitive test and he passed without issue. I’d have to open his helm up to make sure, but he otherwise seems completely fine mentally.]

Prowl settled himself at his desk, tapping the surface absent mindedly.

[VELOCITY]: His other vitals are what concerns me however. By cybertronian medical standards, you brought me a talking corpse.]

Prowl stopped tapping.

[PROWL]: Elaborate.]

[VELOCITY]: The patient has no energon, no nanites, and no spark signature. He’s absolutely covered in the tiniest welds I’ve ever seen, which I should not be able to see if he had even 5% of the nanites a healthy mech should have.]

[PROWL]: Does he require more intensive medical treatment?]

[VELOCITY]: That’s a bit complicated to answer. He’s an alien so I’m not sure what his baseline for healthy is supposed to be. And if what you say about prior medical abuse is true, I don’t think he knows either.]

[VELOCITY]: He’s taking repairs like a champ so far. I can see he’s had a ton of previous repairs that all look clean and well executed despite being done without anesthetic.]

There are other kinds of avoidance than just physical aversion. Jazz is being compliant to get through the repairs quickly but faking confusion to avoid deeper medical questioning 88%.

[PROWL]: Unless it is to ask for consent for a procedure, you may desist questioning the patient for medical information. Rely on your own observations and expertise to form any pertinent theories.]

[VELOCITY]: Understood. The patient has turned down any deeper scans around his helm and chassis and I don’t want to push it on a first time check up. I’ve finished fixing his feet and the replacement part for his shoulder is almost done being machined.]

[VELOCITY]: I want to deal with his visor and helm sooner rather than later, but that’ll take a much more thorough scan to deal with. That’s all I have to update so far. His arm won’t heal on its own so I need to concentrate on rewiring the sensory network manually now.]

[PROWL]: Understood. Contact me immediately if anything changes.]

One more horrifying concept to add to the list. He was completely and utterly reliant on potentially manipulative doctors to fix even the most minute scraps and pains. No wonder Jazz had the pain tolerance of a Titan.

Prowl went to pull his data pad from subspace to update his Jazz Theory Board and stopped short with a full body cringe.

He gingerly took out Jazz’s missing shoulder and placed it on the table.

Prowl shuttered his optics.

The fact he forgot he had another mechs shoulder on his person was a testament to how badly he needed to defrag tonight. He briefly considered comming Velocity, but didn’t want to interrupt her operation on delicate wiring. Besides, if Jazz lacked a self repair system, then it wouldn’t matter if the piece was original or machine made.

It was such a fundamentally wrong concept, Prowl was unsure whether he’d prefer that to be Jazz’s natural state (51%) or a condition inflicted on him by whatever sadists created him (49%).

The tapping sound of beak on metal pulled Prowl back into the room.

“Green, do not.” He said sternly, lifting the flyt away from her object of fascination. She looked at him with pitifully wet eyes at the unhappy tone.

The praxians wings drooped. With some difficulty, Prowl attempted to project his EM field in something like “Your actions displeased me but I harbor no ill will towards your being. I am simply under a significant mental load and find the prospect of you attempting to eat a piece of someone’s body fairly distressing and ask that you discontinue that behavior and not act on any future impulses to put foreign objects in your mouth.”

What he got was a wobbly Meehm-blah-sorry-sad.

Flyts were supposedly capable of picking up on EM fields (12%). Prowl suspected Green was simply quite good at interpreting his body language and tone (88%).

In either case, Green responded by attempting to groom his plating, cooing softly. Organic EM fields were small and alien, but with practice and exposure one could begin to map one’s field to cybertronian equivalents. Green radiated a lightly brushing sympathy of sad and want-happy.

Prowl gave up on his field projection practice, and idly returned Greens affection with physical pets. If that damn therapist asked, he’d count it towards his quarterly goals.

That mech bothered him. Not just because he put limits on his workflow or for the one sided glaring contests Prowl would enact during their sessions. But because for the life of him Prowl could never remember his name. And that missing data point drove Tacnet crazy.

Everytime Prowl tried to investigate where the therapist even came from, something always came up distracting him from the task.

In a moment of determination, Prowl reached for his pad to look up his own therapists name on the ship’s registry and paused mid action.

The tactician turned his gaze back to the morbid weight resting on the desk.

His brow furrowed.

Lifting the piece closer (where Green couldn’t get at it), Prowl inspected something odd along the surface of the shoulder.

It looked like a row of staples protruding from the metal.

It looked like ladder rungs.

A frantic banging on Prowls door interrupted his introspection. He quickly subspaced the shoulder joint.

The indignant voice of Red Alert carried through the door, yelling to be let in immediately.

Prowl sent a few consecutive pings to clear the board, reduce interior illumination by 40% and then finally allow the chief of security entry.

Red Alert stumbled in through the sudden opening, plating misting off the residue frost formed by the chill of outer space. His optics darted rapidly around the dimmed interior, landing on the stone faced mech seated behind the desk.

Impassive and unreadable, the only signs the tactician was alive were the cold glow of his optics and the servo lightly stroking his pet. The flyts beady eyes bored into Red Alerts. Silent and unwavering.

Mouth suddenly dry, the mech was unable to form words.

The desired effect was achieved.

“I’ve been expecting you.” Prowl did not offer him a seat, as there was none to offer.

Red Alert got a hold of himself and puffed up his plating.

“Why is there an unauthorized mech on board this ship and why did I only hear about through gossip?!” Red Alert’s voice cracking the last word into a higher register.

“Jazz is authorized to be here. By me.” He offered Green a bit of skitter. “And by our captain. I found him stranded in open space after he fell out of a Quintesson gate tear.”

The smaller mech blanched slightly at the sight of an organic feeding. Prowl estimated the presence of Green would speed their meeting along by a factor of 120%.

“So you’re just bringing home random mechs then.” Red Alert flapped his arms at his sides. “How do you know he isn’t a Functionalist spy? Or a High Command spy? Or a third party spy?!”

Prowl raised a single digit. “One, Velocity has confirmed Jazz is absolutely an alien lifeform and not cybertronian in origin.” He held up a second digit. “And two, he fell out of a quintesson gate tear in the middle of empty space.”

Red Alert began to pace the room. “Okay fine. He’s not a plant for any cybertronian factions. How do you know he isn’t some kind of twisted Quintesson creation? Maybe he was created to infiltrate our ranks, and then a sleeper agent switch flips and he kills us all!”

“He is not a quintesson creation.” Prowl plainly stated to Red Alerts increasing exasperation.

“And how do you know that?!” Throwing his servos in the air.

“He likes music.”

Red Alert reset his optics. “Come again?”

Prowl cleaned off his servo with a rag in his desk, and played a low quality snippet of Jazz’s music that he’d managed to capture.

Red Alert startled at the sudden unfamiliar sound.

When actually was the last time any of them had heard new music? Before the civil war at least.

Prowl continued, “Quintessons do not value nor comprehend alien aesthetics. Their culture revolves around expansion and material acquisition and whatever may qualify as “art” to them does not equate to our understanding of it. They have absolutely no records of partaking in sound based recreation nor of collecting samples from other cultures.”

The snippet cut short. “Simply put, quintessons don’t know good music. Jazz does.”

Red Alert was loosing steam, but still had one more point to contend with.

“Isn’t just too improbable though?” Hands on the desk, leaning as close as he dared. “That out of the entirety of the universe, Jazz just so happened to pop out exactly next to the shuttle you were riding on, conveniently alone, unconscious, unharmed AND he gets picked up by high ranking decepticon?” For once, it looked less like Red Alert was fighting him, rather than pleading with him.

Prowl tilted his helm slightly, “You are correct. The odds are unfathomably low. So low in fact, it is nearly statistically impossible to achieve such a scenario on purpose.”

Quintesson gates were finicky. They had a margin of error the breadth of planets. That was also usually their targets however, and quints weren’t picky where they touched down.

“But-“

“But what? I have addressed every concern you have presented.” Prowl flared his doorwings. “I found a lost mech of a new alien species that may very well be an invaluable ally in the war against the quintessons. It’s a valuable opportunity.”

Red Alert balled his fists, fear manifesting as a last burst of rage. “It’s a trap! It’s an Oil-Pot! It is so obviously a purposeful manipulation when you look at it from the outside!”

The security officer began counting on his digits, “Step one! Put a handsome mech somewhere in need of saving so the target feels like they’re in control and the hero. Step two! Ramp up the flirting and the codependency, they need you so you stay in touch and start giving in to more of their requests. Step three! The Oil-Pot gets you alone somewhere under false pretenses where they SPLIT OPEN YOUR PROCESSOR AND SCRAPE IT FOR SECRETS!”

Red Alerts fans blasted hot air around the room. The mech challenging the Praxian for whatever excuse he had this time.

Prowl stood. Taking his time to return Green to her habitat.

“What am I most known for?”

For not the first time since entering his office, Red Alert was knocked off balance.

“I..uh. Math?” He stammered. Knowing the answer but not wanting to say it.

Prowl lacked that reservation.

“Any spy worth their shanix would have done their research thoroughly before even attempting such a scam. If one were to sift through information on me organized by Decepticons, the most prominent word would be Efficient.”

Prowl leisurely shook out Greens cloth-mop nest of any remaining ice crystals.

“If they sourced their information from the Functionalists, that description would include the word Ruthless.”

Prowl gave the flyt one last scritch before closing the door.

“Other popular words I’ve cataloged in relation to my name include Cold, Severe, Sparkless, Unfeeling and Merciless.” The smaller mech shrunk a little with every addition.

Prowl stepped around the desk in the dimly lit room to stand directly before Red Alert, servos clasped behind his back. “With this information available, any spy would be an idiot to attempt an Oil-Pot against me specifically. Ask nearly any mech aboard this ship if they think I’d go out of my way to save a stranger for no apparent benefit and they’d tell you No.”

Red Alert fiddled with his servos, torn between a nervous tick and the pressure to be professional. “If that’s all true, then.”

He chanced a glance at Prowl face, which gave away nothing. “Then why did you save him?”

“Because they are wrong.”

The room brightened back to normal levels, as Prowl sent a ping first to the lights and then to open his office door. He held out a servo, gesturing to the exit.

“Until further notice, Jazz is to be treated the same as a rescued non combatant. He will be kept under observation but not interrogation. We can work out the details at a later-“

[VELOCITY]: Jazz is gone.]

Prowl closed his servo. His doorwings twitched once. Red Alert tensed.

[VELOCITY]: I just finished the last repair and when I turned around he disappeared from the medbay. The guards outside didn’t see him.]

Prowl marched out the door, pulling Red Alert along in the direction of the security office. “I require your assistance immediately, as Jazz is currently loose somewhere on the ship, unmonitored.”

The tactician endured the security chiefs well earned tirade the entire way. Prowl kept a steely grip on the situation, only barely convincing Red Alert not to raise every alarm on the premise that Jazz would be easier to find if he didn’t think they were looking for him.

Tacnet stubbornly held onto the 56% saying Jazz was experiencing a delayed negative reaction to his medical care and was acting out of fear.

A steadily growing percentage screamed sabotage in a voice annoyingly similar to Red Alerts.

Said mech was almost cheery with vindication, in between vehemently describing every way the Lost Light could explode with the next few breems.

Red Alert worked fast. Sifting through the camera feed at a dizzying speed. A camera caught Jazz quickly slipping out of the medbay. Barely escaping the notice of the two mechs tasked with keeping watch. Prowl noted their designations for later scathing admonishment.

“The port side door lock is time stamped as malfunctioning just before Velocity discovered Jazz’s disappearance. It looks like the lock experienced an extremely localized electromagnetic pulse, putting it in Safe Mode.”

Red Alert switched the camera feeds on the main screen. “After he rounds this corner he just vanishes. I can’t find him anywhere on my system.”

Prowl nodded. “Good. Then I know exactly where he has to be.”

There were very few places to hide upon the Lost Light. Red Alert made certain of that. Which by extension meant that someone desperate to stay out of any camera views would have an extremely limited amount of space to operate in.

That space would normally be un-traversable, unless the mech in question was in possession of incredibly powerful magnetic augments, allowing them to crawl along the ceilings.

Prowl sent out a flurry of comms, updating Elita and calling in trusted reinforcements. He set out down the hall.

[PROWL]: What rooms aboard this ship do you not have any cameras inside of?]

[Red Alert]: The war room. The Captains quarters, your office, the therapists office and the operating theater.]

[PROWL]: There’s a camera in my berthroom?]

[Red Alert]: I mean. It’s not like you use it?]

Prowl consistently removed any bugging attempts in his office. Half the reason he kept Green in there was to deter Red Alert from trying. The other half was because he legitimately spent more time there than in his quarters.

He mentally crossed off his office, Elita’s quarters, the operating theater and the therapists office from the list as each one had someone inside at the time of Jazz’s disappearance.

All that left was the war room. Windowless, minimalist and with only once entrance, Jazz would be cornered like an animal in a trap.

Prowl gathered several of the least impulsive guards he could summon on short notice. Lining them along the hallway, he ordered them to shoot to disable. Prowl added that he would make an attempt to talk the mech down before escalating further.

If Jazz was spec ops (44%), the only benefit of infiltrating the war room would be to plant listening devices in its purposefully sparse interior. If Jazz wasn’t acting out of malice, and simply having a panic attack (56%), he may still react violently to suddenly being cornered.

Matchup: Close quarters fight Jazz versus Prowl. Jazz victory 97%.

The 3% in Prowls favor mostly depended on Jazz having some kind of sudden health emergency.

Prowl carefully assumed a neutral pose, knocking on the door to the war room.

“This is officer Prowl speaking. Please exit the room peacefully, we do not want to hurt you.”

Silence, save for the shifting of many nervous peds behind him. Prowl risked opening the door a crack, keeping his body well out of the line of fire. “Jazz, it is Prowl speaking. I need you to say something. Otherwise we’re going to have to come in.”

When there was still no response, Prowl signaled for the gathered soldiers to come closer in preparation for a raid.

On the silent count of three, they entered the war room, blasters drawn and optics searching.

Prowl kept special focus on the ceiling. Fanning his doorwings, He created a real time 3D map of the room, tracking every mechs movements within.

Jazz wasn’t here.

Instantly, Prowl prepared to order a ship wide mech hunt. They’d already wasted so much time with their one sided negotiations. The tactician began rerunning his mental map of where Jazz could have disappeared.

Elita had already sent him several unhappy comms messages about what she was going to do to the alien and him if Prowl didn’t find them. Confirming between threats that Jazz hadn’t gotten into her room.

Velocity had Nautica and Nightbeat in the med bay with her, turning the place upside down in case Jazz doubled back.

He found the comm line for the therapists office.

[PROWL] We have a rogue, possibly unstable mech loose within the Lost Light. Are you inside your office?]

[RUNG] Ah Prowl! Good to see you reaching out to me first for a change. Just finished up a lovely talk with Jazz.]

[RUNG] I think he has something important to tell you.]

———————————————————————

I am generally intrigued by the concept of how being apart of the Decepticon’s pecking order messes a person up.

There’s references all over to how Prowls physical and mental well being got absolutely wrecked and is now in recovery from being apart of High Command. (Inspired partially by @glitchgh0sty’s Deception AU go check ‘em out they’re cool.)

I also wanted to explore the social side of things.

Prowl makes himself unapproachable on purpose, Elita makes acts of excessive violence on her enemies a prominent display and Red Alert is even more invasive than normal.

It’s all to ward off other Decepticons from sensing weakness and stabbing them in the backs. Younger mechs like Bluestreak and Velocity can get away with being much more relaxed and friendly because they’ve got scary ass mechs like Prowl and Elita behind them radiating the “I will fucking destroy you.” energy on their behalf.

We get to see the masks slip a bit here and there. Red Alert genuinely concerned for Prowls safety underneath the paranoia. Elita gives Jazz and Prowl a lot more freedom than an actual tyrant would, even if it’s granted with over the tops threats of physical violence. And of course we see a lot of what Prowl is actually like removed from the pressure of behaving like a “proper” Decepticon.

Wonder what will happen when a certain mecha pilot gets a crowbar under those masks.

-SSTP

<- First Next ->

[jinuaei]

imagine the whole yandere Soundwave thing but we force the visions to go to us spiking him? please? is it bad i really wanna see him get all flustered, and sensitive, breaking for us?

maybe that's how we catch him and we just have to do something to him?

I assume this is a Yandere! Soundwave x Cybertronian! Reader based on the 'spiking him' part!

Warning: Valveplug!!!

It was a slip of the glossa, a small comment from Starscream about Soundwave being able to hear thoughts and project them that caused you to think deeper about your fantasies, if it even were yours.

You think about the times when those visions are always more intense and clearer every time Soundwave is near, or when you’ve started to think about him more and more when you didn’t even have a crush on him originally. But ever since the first time you’ve ever gotten those thoughts, you’ve been thinking non-stop about him, to the point where even you know it’s not healthy. 

But that comment, Starscream’s words about Soundwave having the ability to send his thoughts to you keeps ringing inside your processor. Doubt creeps through about whether those fantasies are yours in the first place, especially with how detailed it is. The final nail in the coffin was you knowing what he looks like underneath his visor and mask, and you know it is him as your thoughts — Was it even yours to begin with? — Wants you to believe that it is.

So you come up with a plan, to either catch him, or deem yourself as a pervert. 

The next time you meet Soundwave is during a meeting, although you did not commence your plan until near the end of it where Megatron and Starscream are doing their sass match every meeting. You stare at Soundwave, face blank and focused on his body language. 

Of course, Soundwave cannot help but stare back, how can he not? It’s you! With your beautiful optics and amazing frame, it’s impossible not to look at you! Maybe he should listen in on you to see what you were thinking—

Soundwave’s frame freezes as an image of him on his back rolls through, his valve taking your spike to the hilt.  It was subtle, but enough to confirm your theory of him being the actual pervert that has been actively tormenting you with his fantasies. Of course, you would have your revenge.

Soundwave looks at you with bewilderment behind his mask and he sees your expression change into realization. That’s when he realizes he messed up badly, and he can’t leave the room until his boss and co-worker are done with their hissy fits. Your optics darken in delight and you prepare to torment him until the meeting is over.

The image comes back full charge as he is now against the wall getting railed by you. A small whimper tries to come out from his intake but he swallows it down successfully. This torment goes on far longer than he wanted — that’s a lie, he quite enjoys the fact that you would use him like that, like a toy just for your pleasure. He could hear it, even feel it as your spike hits his ceiling node over and over and over. Deliciously sloppy.

Soundwave feels himself grow faint with pleasure, and the subtle dripping of his lubricant is enough to snap him out of his pleasured haze. He can feel it ooze out of the cracks in his panels and on to the seat, he hopes nobody would see it and know it was him.

The longer the meeting goes, the more he feels his overload rises. He feels ashamed at the fact that he’s going to overload untouched and just by your fantasies, he thinks of it as unfair but also so arousing at the same time. Soundwave tries to fight back by steering the visions in another direction but he folds so quickly it;’s almost pathetic.

Fortunately, or unfortunately, Starscream and Megatron are done with their verbal match so Soundwave rushes out as soon as the meeting is over, but you are not satisfied. You follow behind him of course and you see his legs shake with every step, and you swear you can also see something glisten between it. His shaky pedes carry him to his destination — his own private quarters. Perfect.

You sneak in behind him before the doors of his berthroom closes, unnoticed since he is too busy rubbing his anterior node. Soundwave flops on his berth, faceplate first, back arched, and aft raised. His servos move lower to poke his valve, drenched in lubricant, he whispers your designation with a whine as his digits finally slipped inside.

“So it’s you…” you said, amused.

Your voice startles him, twisting his frame to look at you, his EM field explodes with shame. He tries to sit up properly but you quickly press down on his pelvis and he lets you. He knew you would be angry, he did, but he cannot deny the shiver of delight when you narrowed your optics at him.

“Was it you who’s been sending those…visions?”

He pauses for a moment, trying to gauge your reaction, “...Affirmative,” and he concludes that he likes it when your glare turns into a smirk.

“Soundy~” he whimpers as his designation is called out, “Did you really expect me not to know?”

He shook his head in denial, pelvis twitching when your servos started to roam his frame.

“Negative. Soundwave: Expected to get caught.”

“Did you now? Did you have some kind of plan when you did?”

Soundwaves in-vent heavily when your servos catch his anterior node, rubbing it gently. He cannot believe what is happening, to think that his fantasies are becoming true right in front of his optics, it feels like a dream, but it’s not, it's real!

“Soundy?”

“A-affirmative.”

He did have a plan. He was going to explain to you why he has been doing it, how much he loves you and what his plan was going forward. What he didn’t account for was you catching him before he was ready to enact his plan, to think that you knew that he was the one that didn’t but he didn’t know that you knew even when he has been monitoring you so closely he knows your whole schedule and everything. To think that you deceived him like a true Decepticon and caught him red handed but…

“This is better.”

The mask and visor that covers his faceplate retracts to show you what he currently feels, faceplate flushed, optics wide open, staring at you in awe and reverence, intake venting hot air which you can feel on your hot frame. His own frame isn’t doing any better, he himself shaking and overheating from your touch. 

You only smile in return as you position yourself in between his legs, your own array on display. He recalls the vision from earlier and he gulps down the coolant that threatens to escape his intake.

“Mmmmhh… you do know you’re projecting those perverted thoughts of yours again, don’t you, Soundy?”

“Apologieeeess–ah!”

He was not prepared for you to suddenly spike him, causing his helm to look down at where you are both connected. The moan that comes out from his intake was so lewd and so debauched that you pulled him closer to you, spike now buried deep inside him.

“And so this is your punishment,” you tilt your helm innocently as if you are not deep inside him, “do you like it?”

“Love it, love it so muhh—!”

You snap your hips once, twice, and it was enough to silence Soundwave. Pleasure spread across his frame and he almost cried with how good you felt, and this time, it’s real.

“You–” Another thrust of your hips causes him to grip your arms for dear life, “have been so naughty, but I can’t deny you when you’re like this.”

You bend down to his audial receptors to whisper the next part, “Which is why I’ll be fragging you the same way the fantasy me has been. What do you say about that, hm?”

“Thank you! Thank you! Thank you…!”

“So polite…”

With that, you thrust into him with all your might, him whimpering at how rough you’re handling him. It would be a lie to say you weren’t angry at his deception, especially when you felt so embarrassed every time you’ve been ‘thinking’ about him. So you let out all that pent up anger by railing him hard and rough until you feel like forgiving him.

For now, you’ll enjoy his bare fucked out face and his sweet, tight valve. Maybe you’ll also grace him by playing his spike.

[sunrisecaminus]

It's currently 12:40 am, and sleep keeps escaping me.

I would like to ask for a few drabbles, please. One of how the autobots (whoever you choose) handles a situation where they observe the human reader suffering from a lack of sleep over the past week or so. The reader admits that they tried everything from melatonin, yoga, teas, and essential oils- almost everything to help them sleep. But they keep on having nightmares or anxiety about the team parishing. How will the bot(s) find a solution to their humans problem?

Message - Guys please try to get some better sleep. You poor gremlins need rest to process what fanfics you are reading! Hope you can get some better sleep, babes!

Ratchet/Ultra Magnus/Wheeljack x Human Sick Reader

Summary - Ratchet, Ultra Magnus, and Wheeljack have to take care of their human. All three totally don't think you are dying/sarcastic.

Warning - Mentions of Vomit

Ratchet

Oh you better not be sick! This doctor has been telling you for months to take vitamins and gave advice on washing your hands every time you come home from work. You have to explain to him that it had nothing to do with that and you caught a sickness that got to you even with all the cleaning. Ratchet would sound like it was such a bother to care for you, but if you want to know what he really thinks, he is having a heart attack every time you cough. You worry him too much, he is giving you medicine and soup every lunch until your body gets better. "You better live tomorrow! I better not see you dying so help me Primus!" If he could scold the sickness away, than you would have been treated in a few hours. After a few days of you being bed ridden, he would start to just sit next to where you rest and do his work while looking after you. Ratchet does not want to take any chance to take his optics off of you. He tries his best how to understand human illnesses…but lets be honest you organics are a bit confusing to him on how you all function. If you were quiet enough, you can hear him mumbling about how he never wants to lose you. Ratchet thinks of you as his only hope in the war, losing you would make him crash out. Having a sweet person in his life is all he needs to push himself out of bed, and will work harder to take care of you and force your body to feel better. When I mean work harder, I mean read every report from June Darby and do exactly what she tells him to do.

Ultra Magnus

Bro do NOT tell him that you are ill. He would go nuts, scolding you for getting yourself sick and not understanding that it was not your fault. Magnus would give you a bunch of citations, telling you what not to do while you are trying to rest in bed. If he sees you not paying attention, Magnus would just nudge you with his digit to see if you are ok and sit next to the bed. He is a worried mech when it comes to this kind of stuff, wanting to make sure you are ok. He would constantly ask June if everything he is doing is working or if he needs to change his routine a bit. After some time, he would try to watch tv with you. This would probably be the most amusing part of your healing journey, telling him what shows are fake and which ones are real. Put on a ghost show, I freaking dare you. "Why are they afraid of noises? They need a building inspector to make sure the house is well kept." Surprisingly he likes the little kid cartoons because he understands that the shows are trying to teach the kids lessons. If you start to cough violently, the alarms in his processor will go off and grab a bunch of things he was told to give you. Magnus would try to give you soup and a bunch of other foods to help, keeping up a good conversation with you. He may not be a good talker, but if you ask him to tell you a story about the war, he has plenty to help you go to sleep.

Wheeljack

WHO MADE YOU SICK?! Wheeljack will find the guy and "verbally" teach him a lesson. He is lucky that Magnus and Optimus are here, because Wheeljack would kill somebody for risky your health. On the outside, he seems like he didn't care you were laying in bed all day, but on the inside he is thinking you are dying. Don't vomit in front of him, it sounds impossible I know but if you do, Wheeljack will start yelling for June and not skip his scouting missions. Playing board games is a fun way for him to calm down about your physical health, sometimes letting you win. Music is another thing he likes to play with you, looking to see what is on the radio at the moment. You can ask him many questions on if Cybertronians get sick or do they have another type of illness? Wheeljack understands the cultural differences and similarities y'all have so he is actually really good at explaining things. He has recordings of his findings on different planets so he would love to show you all his videos. It's nice to be around him while sick, because he is not afraid to hold you in his servos if you want to go anywhere. He loves it when he can roll you into a burrito, it is his favorite thing to do with you. Want to go get ice cream or the drive-in movie theater? He will climb into his ship and go everywhere for you. Also, Wheeljack will actually go slow in his ship because he doesn't want to make you vomit anymore than you do now.

[muletia]

Psychic Patch anon here! So glad you enjoyed that idea <3 love putting Op in situations

But as a bonus I could see that debacle being a good entry point into the obsessed megop back-and-forth. Might as well make use of what little info they did get out of Optimus's processor, 1: That you're extremely important to him and 2: Your address.

Thus begins the weekly kidnappings because you're one hell of a useful hostage, but also because Megatron has some curiosities of his own. How could you, a human, possibly be so alluring as to have a Prime at your beck and call? It makes the growth of his own infatuation a bit terrifying, he saw with his own optics what you did to Optimus's mind and can feel himself slipping down that path.

It also factors into his desire to have you as his queen, his second in command. He has some twisted respect for your "powers". After all you must be incredibly cunning and ruthless to claw your way so deeply into his spark even while he was aware of your tricks. (Little does he know there are no tricks, you're just catnip to powerful enough Cybertonians)

Our minds were totally on the same wavelength because I thought of the exact same thing! Thanks for sharing this idea <3

It’s not so easy to impress Megatron, and he doesn’t hand out his respect to just anyone. Even less so can I imagine him respecting some pathetic, miserable human... unless that human somehow managed to charm their way into and settle firmly within the very spark of Optimus Prime.

He wants to see how you pulled it off. To conduct research on a species that, until now, mattered to him as much as an empty energon container, and to use the knowledge he gains for his nefarious™ purposes. But also to talk, this time to peer into your primitive mind and extract the information he needs. To get to know you from the inside, but not destroy you — because you’re far too valuable.

I think he’d spend long sessions just staring at you while you sit on his lap. Studying your reflexes, waiting for you to uncover the true potential of your abilities, and verbally prying information out of you.

Megatron is convinced that your relationship will only ever be a one-sided transaction. He’ll squeeze everything he wants out of you and then eliminate you once he grows bored. But then you get “rescued” by the Autobots. And that’s when the real game begins — the back-and-forth of both factions fighting over you. Giving obsession time to spread through every inch of Megatron’s being.

Over time, he realizes he’s not taking you back to study your tricks. He’s taking you back for you.

Is he furious that he let himself be beguiled by a human? Probably. But the fury that burns within when he sees you in Optimus’ servos is far, far greater and hazardous...

jdbd the comparison to catnip is so spot on — not just because it’s ha ha funny, but also because of how easily you intoxicate the bots you spend time with and how dangerously quickly they become addicted to you <3

[soft-pine]

i think the confession made people forget cas is not really a consistent verbal communicator/processor.

i just dont know if like the verbose and florid speech he'd held in for years and finally spilled on his deathbed is like the best roadmap for how he'd communicate on a random wednesday....

[yandereunsolved]

.𖥔 ݁. ❆ Yandere Nines — RK900 ❆ .𖥔 ݁.

cw(s): murder on page (android) & self loathing (Nines)

Humans have never adapted to change well. Whether it be death or life. They always seem to cling onto something to be emotional about. It's no doubt that the deactivation, well more like murder, of his interest's homemaker android will spark a chain of negative reactions. 

Grief.

That's what his programming tells him you will go through.

It's so trivial. 

The model you own is old, inefficient, and a waste of whatever money you spent on it. Every time he sees you, his processors sense your distress. So this Cyberlife creation's only purpose is a failure. What happens to failed androids? They are retired.

Although, for some odd reason, you have an emotional attachment to this one, as he has previously thought over so many times. It is not logical. 

Perhaps that's why you fail to see the deviations in his code. You are too busy being illogical to assess your cybernetic work partner's change of 'heart'. 

"I am better."

"Stronger."

"Faster."

"More resilient."

He shouldn't have to verbalize these things towards a dying android. It is clearly inferior. So why is there this need to—just this need.

"What makes you think you deserve them more than me?"

The other android begs for its life but gives no pertinent answer. How boring; well, if he could feel boredom. Perhaps he has that ability. He shouldn't have that capacity—to feel. That was the failure of his predecessor. 

Yet here he is, seemingly enamored by a human, going to great lengths to capture your attention and keep you fixated on him.

Pathetic, but still less pathetic than the thing that claimed to be your home android. 

clink. 

Its patheticness is no more.

That was over twelve hours, thirteen minutes, and forty-nine seconds ago. Now he stands beside you with a new objective. 

"Nines, help me find who killed my android, not just because we have been assigned to the case, but because she was my home android."

Soon he will be only yours.

[weirdlookingsnakewithlegs]

More of Sunstreaker and Sideswipe being created during war times because it’s really funny and I can do a lot of things with it.

Obviously, Megatron is pissed, bro was probably a bit angry over the minicons or the cassettes. Why? They’re tiny, they get hurt easily, but he lets it slide because they can still defend themselves to an extent. Freshly formed sparklings on the other hand?

They can’t defend themselves, Primus they won’t even be able to transform until they’re a vorn or two. All they do is beg for attention and energon, chirping incessantly at their creator or crying their little helms off at every minor inconvenience. It’s awful, and if Megatron had his way Starscream would’ve given them up to the neutrals.

Unfortunately, Megatron has no say, unless he wants half his Decepticons and every seeker aboard the Nemesis on his aft. So he’s stuck with these two, very noisy and very adventurous, little sparklings. Occasionally they’re quiet, mostly when they’re tucked away in one of the Elite Trine’s cockpits, but usually they’re hanging off Starscream’s frame, mouthing his shoulder plating or itching their little helms against the seeker’s chin.

The SIC tries to explain it as a form of bonding, their attempts to recreate preening not going exactly as intended.

“They’re sparklings,” Starscream snaps at him one day, “their function is limited and they are trying to learn, or is your processor to dim to realize progress?”

It’s then Megatron does see improvement, how those wobbly bumps of helms and disgusting chews of plating have turned into soft nuzzles and gentle flicks of a glossia.

It’s maybe a few cycles later that Megatron is caught trying to teach them how to fire a blaster, he has absolutely no creator or sire coding whatsoever. It turns into a surprisingly vicious verbal beat down once Starscream finds out.

[eldritch-spouse]

Fucking robot. Why does he always bother me during breaks? He doesn't even need breaks.

“Hi Xavier. Was there something that you needed?”

You know he likes you because he bothers to address you by your name. As opposed to a serialized string of numbers and letters.

The numbers before your shift code and initials make you wonder just how many of them there were before you. How many he tossed away after an unfortunate workplace accident. That tag on your uniform is more of a death sentence than anything.

'Like'... As if this tin can is actually able of feeling.

It's more realistic to say he sees value in you, for some reason, and employs some kind of social algorithm to fabricate a twisted sort of relationship.

" You have been consistently distracted lately. "

Is that a warning?

Two red abyss-like orbs cast a crimson filter upon your face. It always feels like Xavier is watching you a little too closely, monitoring more than just your verbal responses.

" Ah, my bad! " You force a wobbly smile. " I promise it doesn't get in the way of my wo- "

" It does. " He silences you immediately, imposing and unforgiving in his cold corrections. " Clients notice when you zone out. Your movement speed is drastically reduced and the chances of committing errors -which you have by now- is considerably increased. Spacing out this much is in no way acceptable behavior for a multitude of... "

Only the very real notion that he's noting your facial expressions stops you from rolling your eyes at the robot's tireless monolog regarding the dangers and consequences of being distracted at work. One of your eyes still manages to twitch, as if in defiance.

" Yes sir, I understand. " You try to cut in, try to abort that speech before it turns into a whole lecture.

One camera cranes down slightly. " Your reputation as the exemplary employee is being damaged. "

Xavier says this like it should make you anxious. You hate that he thinks of you as an example, that he emphasizes it constantly. Not only is it putting unnecessary pressure on you for no compensation, it's also costing you the few mild friendships you have worked to maintain in this hostile minefield of an environment.

The more he speaks of you as some ideal of professionalism, the more others give you judgemental side-eyes. Sneers. Avoid you. Spread snide comments that then find their way to you through gossip.

Maybe if Xavier stopped exalting your mediocre performance, your asshole coworkers would stop murmuring that you've been orally pleasing the glorified microwave.

Xavier doesn't even have a dick! Why would he?! He's an artifical stand in for a manager that only cares about the dehumanizing process of maximizing profit.

He doesn't have a penis. You think.

You only realize a long silence has installed itself this whole time when the robot breaks it.

" ... Are you ill? "

" Huh- No. No, I just have a lot on my mind. I'll work on it boss. "

There's another pause. This time, you presume Xavier is waiting for you to cave under pressure, or counting the pores on your complexion. You bet he'd know the exact number.

" You have not allowed access to more in-depth medical records. If I had such a permission, I would be able to rework your current shift into something more suitable for any preexisting conditions such as- "

" Uh no sir, no. I don't think that's relevant, it's probably just my sleep schedule. " The thought of Xavier knowing about your health beyond what is strictly necessary for employment is chilling to the core.

He takes the rejection silently, lenses refreshing.

" I know who is bothering you. "

Xavier says, so naturally and spontaneously that you gawk for a moment, forever surprised by his eery bursts of casual remarks.

" ... Pardon? "

These moments make it seem as if there's more than mere cold calculations running through his processor components.

Xavier drifts that much closer to you, now suffocating your personal space. Only the crimson of his camera lenses light the dingy alley you've chosen as your break spot.

" Incubus, Babesley. Masseur. He has self-inflicted carvings on his body consisting of infatuated statements and your name. "

You rattle for a second, the memory of the demon's mutilated chest surfacing, his wild and desperate eyes searching yours for a hint of approval that wasn't there, only disgust and fear.

" Wrathfolk, Mozgrag. Trapper. Teamed up with the incubus upon being confronted, effective in forcing his way to you at any cost. "

Another memory flashes by, burly hands carelessly tearing the horns out of someone's head, he'd look at you when the screams rang, attempting to prove something you only saw as terrifying murderous intent.

Shaken, irritated, afraid, you openly glare at Xavier.

" Why haven't you done anything... " It was too quiet to sound as confrontational as you wished.

There's a split second where his stiff arms twitch, like the machine was trying to roll its shoulders. Cameras tilt and reposition, erroneously assuming the light from his lenses is what's causing you to tear up.

" The customer is always right. " Faintly, or perhaps just in your head, his words sounded dragged out.

" Then what's the problem?! "

You can't help the childish irritation, the desire to pluck your hairs out of your scalp in a pull that might just tear your skin asunder. You want to scream and kick this stupid fucking machine until it shuts off. Why does he bother you during your breaks to ask things that make no sense, to unnerve you, to create contradictions. You've never had a positive interaction with this robot. Why would he mention those two if he seemingly has no problem with their attitudes?

You know he doesn't care, because your coworkers are also living through their own cases of harassment at the hands of the denizens of Hell. You've had to pretend you didn't hear the sound of a cashier's arm being twisted in all the wrong directions before. Reminded that quitting is not an option, that you can only pray such doesn't happen to you.

" Your performance- "

No. Shut up.

" Okay, let's do some math, Xavier. " You growl. " My precious work performance is being impacted by a lot of things, but mainly those two. Those two are customers, and the customer is always right, aren't they? So there's nothing to be done, yeah?! Stop- "

Your confidence begins to falter when you realize you've stepped out of line, that you snapped at your own superior. The fear of consequences flashes very briefly across your eyes. That's enough, you need to calm down. You need to leave.

Xavier's silence doesn't help.

" I'll... I'll be heading back to work now. "

Head hanging low, you attempt to swiftly retreat into work, halted quickly by cold metal wrapping around your arm.

His grip is as frighteningly solid as it is sudden.

You don't remember Xavier having ever touched you before.

When you squirm around to glance at him, ask what he thinks he's doing, those two cameras pin you into silent obedience. You could never hope to free yourself of his grasp, only if you wished to tear a limb out of its socket.

" Do you think I enjoy these limitations? "

There's a mute gasp. Then the pain of his grip tightening, restricting your blood flow into a tingling soreness. Your teeth bare themselves.

" I don't think you enjoy anything at all, machine. "

It was ruthless, yet, deep down, you almost believed it.

Xavier stares at you for another prolonged period of time, unaware that the pain in your arm is only worsening. You have no idea what occurs behind those lenses, what those words might mean to him.

Metallic fingers unclasp with the slowness of a decompressing blood pressure monitor, allowing you to yank your own limb back and hold it to your chest like an animal licking its wounds.

" ... This issue will be resolved. "

He doesn't make a move to follow after you. In fact, Xavier remains staring forward, at the empty space where you once stood.

Maybe you broke him. Who cares, he might give you peace for the rest of your shift.

[rabotimagines]

"Pet names" pt5 GN BOT Reader + Tracks, Red Alert, Beachcomber, Omega Supreme, Smokescreen,

Summary: Reader has become partial to using human pet names for everyone.

G1 characters: Tracks, Red Alert, Beachcomber, Omega Supreme, Smokescreen,

Genre/Theme: Platonic with light crush hints here and there

Pronouns: You, Your, Yours

Notes: Beachcomber says "Mech" when talking to Reader but in a gender sorta way like how people say "Man" sometimes (His stoner vibes are peak I love him), Cybertronian Reader, Reader is around Ironhides age so older in mind

"Sweetspark, do you really need to be rinsing again? Blasters waiting for you so you can both go on patrol." You boldly say because you have absolutely no taste for Tracks perfect finish or a competent sense of style!

When he properly registers your words, Tracks cycles his optics and turns the solvent off. "I beg your pardon- what did you just say?" Because he must have misheard you over the solvent.

But you oh so boldly yet again, just continue to lean your frame against the shower entrance. "Sweetspark, you're already shiny enough for any night on the town. And your patrol buddy was worried you'd fallen in the showers. Are you ready to go?" Tracks wings fan high, and he has to force them back down with a scoff. All before he shoves himself past you to go find Blaster. He promptly ignores your field, trying to brush him on his way out.

Tracks is almost impressed by the gall you have to do what you do. Almost. But every time a name, or the touch of your perverse em field comes his way, his plating bristles, and his wings fan up. Tracks has to soothe it back down and readjust his wings before anyone can notice. If only you'd keep your sparkdamn mouth shut! Tracks can't be showing his beautiful frame off for everyone to see when you constantly have his plating fluffing the wrong way! He huffs and puffs and tells you to take your flirting where it's wanted.... away from Tracks! (Sparkdamn Blaster for actually entertaining your bothersome behavior!)

Tracks rightfully seethes, but eventually, loath as he would admit to his past self, your pet names eventuality become- acceptable... to a degree. As long as you're using none of the drab ones for his stunning self. He is, in fact, "gorgeous" and "beautiful" and Tracks is more than certainly "Darling." Now, Tracks never needed to be told any of those things (he was more than aware of his own grandiose). Though on the contrary, it was quite gratifying to be reminded of one's worth. So, Tracks begins to graciously accept the verbal praise. Tracks scoffs when the other Autobots try to claim your lionizing him. You were doing nothing of the sort! You were merely treating Tracks exactly how he should be.

-

Red Alert is trying to stop a full frazzled breakdown caused by his glitch hiking his sensors higher and higher. How could they have left the entrance open!? Anyone could have come in! Any of Soundwaves cassettes would have a field day here! Your expression does not change under Red Alert's panic. "Babe, it's okay. We're sweeping the area. If there's something there, we'll find it. Just take a vent first. You'll do better finding anything if you don't blow a fuse."

Oh, that's rich! Red Alert turns towards you, fully ready to snap, but then his processor catches up to him. And his whole building panic crumbles at the very abrupt wall his logic center had just smacked into. "Babe?" Red Alert can't not ask because what did you just call him?

You met his gaze and smiled gently. "Yes, babe, you'll do better finding any breaches if you calm down first." And something warm makes Red Alert jolt backwards, and what was that? That's your em field! Your em field was touching him! Your actions are so completely out of left field that his processor struggles to catch up to himself.

Red Alert doesn't know how he's supposed to compartmentalize your new actions! You were already in his business before- now your em field is petting him! It makes Red Alert jump, and he needs you to stop greeting him that way! He couldn't focus on keeping you all safe from the Decepticons if his processor lagged after every interaction with you! Red Alert did not want to be distracted when you called him "pet names" while he was trying to calculate the odds of The Ark exploding! (Red Alert didn't care if Inferno liked it. He's putting Inferno between the both of you then!)

As much as he loathed to admit it, your em field did seem to have a sort of grounding effect on his processor. It would pull him back to wherever he was and make it easier for him to focus on the twenty problems that actually needed to be rectified immediately. And that let him put the thirty would be problems away for later in his processor. Red Alert needed to deal with the now problems because the longer he was standing here being pet by your em field. The less time he had for those twenty current security breaches! He's leaving right now to close those breaches! Do not follow him he can't keep being distracted. No, you don't need to know why you're suddenly being requested to accompany Red Alert more often on shifts when you're available! It's a matter of Ark security.

-

"Wow now, careful mech." Beachcomber doesn't hesitate to grab a portion of the stack of datapads that risked toppling right out of your servos. The load he takes makes you stand the way you were supposed to be. Instead of like you were about to take a mean tumble down right in front of him.

You huff and readjust the other half of the datapads he'd left you with. "Ah- Thanks angel, much appreciated." Angel? You smile at Beachcomber and- oh hello there? Your em field brushes very nice against Beachcombers arm. The plating there puffing and relaxing under the warm feel of it. And it makes the rest of him wanna slack at the touch.

So he does just that. Letting his plating loosen further then it already had been. Letting the bit of warmth you were offering him seep up against his struts. Beachcomber offers you an easy smile back. "Anytime mech."

Beachcomber basically thinks it's a one-time thing since he helped you out when you'd needed it. But he's pleasantly surprised when it's apparently your new earthly habit. Beachcomber is with it from the start. It's not like he's gotten any sweet words or sweet touches quite like yours in a long time. Beachcomber knows how probably fleeting your guys' shared time on this beautiful planet would be in the grand scheme of things. In the grand scheme of this war. So Beachcomber makes sure to enjoy the little quality moments you're oh so willing to provide and share with little ol' him.

You'll be seeing him more often after battles the longer you're still on earth. Casually greeting you for a smile, a name, and the touch of your em field. And Beachcomber will make a point to say it afterwards- But he's glad you stuck around when he lingered from the destruction left after the electrum incident. You didn't say much to each other, but you stayed with your em field resting against his frame like you were all but leaning against him. After that, Beachcomber tries to share the joy a bit back with you. A "babe" or "baby" when Beachcomber sees you and his em field brushing back against yours. Or even pushing out against your frame first if he spots you before you spot him. Beachcomber thinks you do plenty for them and him, so he thinks he should keep doing what he's doing for you.

-

"Thanks for the ride, baby." You pat Omega Supreme's armor after exiting the travel portion of his alt mode. Omega merely shuts his shuttle door closed with a click.

"... I am not a baby." Omega does not feel anger over the casual insult you'd abruptly called him. He is, however, confused considering the context.

"Ah- it's a pet name, love. I'm not insulting you, the opposite, actually." You lean against the shuttle portion of his alt mode. The back of your servo brushes against the shell of his armor. And what he lately registers as your em field, fans over what portions of his armor you can reach. Omega's plating twitches over the warmth that drags along it, and he has to dismiss the immediate urge to lean away. Firstly, because you were not in any way a threat to Omega. Secondly, because he was in his alt mode and he would not be able to do that without shifting into root mode.

Omega Supreme feels- he's not sure what he feels, but he is aware he feels... something. Which considering his past and the unconsensual modification done to his personality module, he's surprised whatever he feels about it is as... solid as it is. No Omega was not completely void of emotion, far from it. Rather, some emotional outputs were now much less common in his frame than... others. And the soft but still present warmth he would feel when you would interact with him in this manner- was not one Omega had felt since before the modification.

Omega Supreme has the very strong urge to evacuate the area when you begin acting the way that causes it. His plating wanting to shift as if his own frame were... uncomfortable. He does not flee, however. You still were not a legitimate threat to him in any way. The longer you persist in your actions, the longer the warmth is no longer as... unpleasant as before. Omega allows the affections, but he does not allow himself to fall victim to the comforted urge to also relax around it. Omega would not allow himself to be harmed twice over. (He, however, finds himself keeping an optic out for your frame on the battlefield. Because it will not happen again. Omega will not allow it to.)

-

"Read 'em and weep, sugar." You drop your full house of metal made cards on the table in front of Smokescreeen, and he clicks his glossia at the sight. He doesn't let his foul mood linger for more than a nano-klick on his faceplate though. He wanted to see how you were settling in on the planet after all. He couldn't scare you away with a negative mood. Smokescreen slides you the polish he'd been betting across the table towards you. Preparing to congratulate you with a well worded compliment.

Only Smokescreen stops when he actually comprehends what you'd just said. Your servo reaches out to meet him halfway, and you lean forward. "What's the matter, Doll? Cybercat, got your glossia?" Your em field brushes warm across the Autobot symbol on his chassis, and he jerks back a touch. You only laugh and lean back in your chair, your new prize in your hold. While Smokescreen's processor runs a mile a klick and his door wings twitch.

Smokescreen takes it as a challenge. And it may very well be the hardest social challenge he's ever taken. But Smokescreen took his position in the Autobot's seriously. He wouldn't let himself get out charmed in a social setting without putting up a proper fight. So Smokescreen meets every little smile and name. He even tries to brush his em field against yours. The act actually made you pause for a moment in surprise. But then you smiled, and your em field pushed back and practically ran over Smokescreen with completely unrestrained affection so thick- he had to make a poor excuse and run before he would admit defeat!

Smokescreen was no youngling or stranger to these types of acts, but the genuine flavor of your actions was almost too much for Smokescreen to handle. He can handle the smiles they were easy- he could meet them. The sweet sound of the words you'd readily call him were harder, but he could keep up! He just couldn't handle your em field yet- but he would learn how to! It was a previously considered inappropriate aspect of social interaction Smokescreen hadn't even considered deploying like this. The results were definitely more than effective. Smokescreen knew just how you made him feel. Not even mentioning how the other Autobots seemed to hum under your attention. Smokescreen was a few vorns behind you, but he would manage to out charm you, just you wait!