“Let’s Put A Smile On That Face!" -Joker

• Torn between the knowledge that your assigned mech doesn’t particularly care for you and the fact that you really need this job, your jaw clenches. Have no idea what you did to offend him, but since he’s been avoiding you like the plague, you must have done something. Or maybe he just doesn’t like you. Definitely a possibility. Looking up at his face, you wonder why these guys look so weirdly human. Not all of them, but enough of them that it’s a tiny bit unsettling. You’re pretty sure you’ve read somewhere before how stupidly inefficient the human form is. Like people should have tails or something if they’re going to walk on two legs. So giant, alien robots that look like big, metal people? It’s weird, right?

• You’re frowning seriously up at him and he has no idea what you’re thinking. Or what to say. But then he’s always been that way. A dreamer better at expressing himself through his writing than out loud. Probably should say something, though. It’s getting awkward. More awkward. “Do you come here often?” Wincing as your brows lift, that’s not what he meant to say. At all. ‘Every day,’ you answer sounding mystified. But at least you’re not laughing at him. Yet. Why did he even ask that? Of course, you’re here every day. Chasing after him. At least, if he keeps talking, you might realize you’ve got better options.

• “I don’t know what I’m doing here,” he admits softly and you have no idea if he’s talking about the bad pickup line or just Earth in general. ‘Most of us don’t,’ you reply, throwing him a life preserver instead of watching him struggle. Those blue optics are shockingly pretty when they flick to you and away. Like a sky without clouds. ‘We just like to pretend so no one else notices,’ you add, looking away as your nose wrinkles. Because studying his face, his features leave you uncomfortably aware that he’d be handsome if he was human. That he is handsome. And that’s a dangerous line of thought.

• Your voice is softer now, completely different from when you’re yelling at him to come back or sounding exasperated with him. And you’re almost smiling, just a faint twist to one corner of your mouth that makes him wonder what you’d look like really smiling. Shouldn’t want to know. Shouldn’t even be here. Knows what always happens to works their war spills over onto. And your people? You’re so small. “I suppose people are the same everywhere. That’s strangely reassuring,” he murmurs, servos flexing around you. ‘You guys aren’t how I expected,’ you admit and he rumbles. “What did you expect?” He asks and you avoid his optics. ‘Monsters,’ you say honestly, your shoulder lifting and falling in a shrug as the word leaves him empty inside. Because you have no idea how much truth there is in that one word. That your kind also invited the monsters in. Are courting them.

• Smoothing his servos over the edges of the dodecahedron in his hand, counting the sides keeps him calm. Mostly. Because you’re talking to him, staring at him. Making him uncomfortable by forcing him to interact when he really doesn’t want to. Just wanted to study the geology of this world, but then the humans had sent him one of their own. Who’d wanted to touch him even though they were a stranger. “I’m sorry to waste your time, but I don’t require your services.” Handles his own maintenance and washing just fine. Needs his routines and rituals, not new things he doesn’t understand.

• Uh huh. That’s not cutting it, because you’re being paid to play nice and get on his good side. Wash him, bring him energon. Basically ingratiate yourself to this giant in the hopes that they might think twice before starting up their war again and leveling another city. Except, you’re pretty sure this one isn’t doing any rampaging. “My services? I just want to be your friend,” you lie affecting a hurt tone and he still won’t look directly at you. “You know, take care of you. You’re pretty dusty. Must be uncomfortable.”

• Truthfully, it is unpleasant when dirt and gravel get under his plating. The grit rubbing uncomfortably against his mesh. Risking a glance at you, he looks away again, because you’re making an unsettling amount of direct optic contact. “Would you like me to wash it off?” You ask when he doesn’t answer, reaching for him. And he moves back, frustrated. ‘I don’t like being touched,’ he admits and you frown slightly.

• “Okay,” you say, trying to figure out how to wash a bot that has an issue with being handled. Though, maybe he just has a problem with humans touching him. “I could spray you off then? Get the dust off?” And he’s just fidgeting with that thing in his hands, nervously turning it over and over. “Or we could just talk?” He’s not at all what you’d expected. More skittish kitten than standoffish as far as you can tell. Actually seems afraid of you. “Do you want to talk?”

• Smirking as he reluctantly lets go of your butt and you slide down onto the medical berth, he knows better than to laugh at how offended you look. “Weird?” You repeat, glancing around like you’re hunting for something to throw at the medic and he sits heavily to drag you into his lap. ‘You’re going to carry the human way. So weird and messy,’ Flatline answers and you tense. “What?” Using his servos to turn your face his way when your field shifts from annoyance to worry and the fear in your eyes has his wings lifting. What’s wrong with the human way?

• “But it’s fine, right? You know how to deal with whatever this is?” Skywarp asks, a line of runny black liner almost reaching his lip and you absently reach to wipe it off with your trembling fingers to make his optics flick to you before returning to the medic. Because the other mech is talking about a physical pregnancy, not just carrying a spark. Breathing raggedly as your heart races, you stare up at the medic and his optics look sympathetic. ‘I’ve seen it before, but I was hoping to never see it again,’ the medic admits, plating ruffling slightly with a shudder like he hadn’t been exactly entranced with the miracle of birth. ‘You two need to be bonding regularly and interfacing. Not in my Medbay, though.’

• “We’re having a sparkling,” he murmurs, squeezing you as he looks down with a grin. Except you don’t look exactly thrilled. “What?” He asks as you reach up and grip his chin, pulling his head down and he lets you. “What?” Wings lifting, he can’t figure out why you and Flatline suddenly look less than happy. How do humans make more humans anyway? Flatline had said it was weird and messy, so maybe you sort of bud off a tinier human? Had seen some organics that do that. Or maybe you lay an egg?

• Skywarp has wings, hard plating, and pointy bits. Are you going to have to birth a metal baby with wings and sharp bits? Can hear yourself breathing loudly as you swallow convulsively. The arousal shifting to worry. “You said you’ve seen it before?” You demand, attention sliding to the medic as he grimaces looking like he wants to be anywhere but here. “How does a human birth that?” You ask, gesturing at Skywarp as his wings flick up in offense. ‘What’s the problem?’ Warp asks as you try not to panic or throw up in his lap. “Protoforms are softer. Small. The plating develops after,” Flatline says, voice softening. Like he knew what you were thinking. ‘Are you going to explain what the fragging issue is?’ Warp growls, sounding like he’s starting to get annoyed as you close your eyes in relief and rest your head against his chassis beside his cockpit. ‘Seriously. What’s the issue?’

• Plating ruffling slightly as he tips his face into the spray, he reaches for the soap, lathering up his free hand before offering it to you. Feeling your tiny hands on his as you scoop up handfuls of suds and it’s so cute he feels almost out of control. Jaw clenching, he steals a glance as you slide your hands down your body, over your chest, between your thighs as his plating heats. Venting raggedly, he grimaces at himself as you chirp and hum. Softly singing some hauntingly cheerful tune as you wash yourself and he watches your hands sliding over your soft skin. Has no idea when he’d started really noticing you. When you’d gone from some helpless alien creature, to something more. Knows it’s inappropriate, though. That you’re completely dependent on him, unable to understand him. So fantasizing about you? Wanting you? It feels blasphemous.

• Skin prickling as he vents against you, it’s getting harder and harder to pretend you’re okay. That you’re not on the verge of a nervous breakdown. Scared all the time in this strange, hostile place. The only thing you’re sure of at all is him. That he’ll protect you, but even then, he’s forced into the arena regularly. Forced to leave you and every time you’re so scared that he won’t come back. Heart racing as you try to fight down the rising panic attack, you’re singing to yourself. Trying to distract yourself from the fear and anxiety. And he somehow knows. Lifting you higher as he growls softly, his deep voice thrumming and clicking over alien syllables that you know you’ll never be able to mimic.

• Feeling your field start to prickle him with fear, his head lowers and his mouth brushes against your soft body. Trying to ignore the hunger that never quite goes away when he’s touching you now. Though you’ve never responded to his field, to his need. Feels you tremble against him, a tiny hand smoothing over his cheek as you chirp. Holding onto him instead of trying to push him away, but then he’s all you have like you’re all he has. Venting against your warmth, he gives in to the urge to nuzzle against you. Murmuring softly that he has you as your field settles. Maybe he’s too alien, too other, for you to ever want him. Maybe he’ll never be anything more than your protector. Tells himself he’s okay with that, but he knows it’s a lie.

• Glancing at his face again when his grumbling engine noise deepens, you feel heat creeping across your cheeks. Those yellow optics are unwavering. Calculating. Reminding you that some of your coworkers are in relationships with their mechs. Though, yours is only ever polite and distant. Still uncomfortable with you washing him if you had to guess, though you suppose you get it. If the tables were turned, you’re pretty sure you’d want to crawl into a little hole and die of mortification. Makes you imagine one of them deciding to return the favor and letting themselves into the locker rooms. Trying to go in a shower stall with their caretaker while insisting on taking care of them.

• “What are you smiling about?” He asks, grimacing at how gruff the words come out and you sink your teeth into your bottom lip to make him frown. And you inhale when he smoothes a servo over your lip, your expression making him sure he shouldn’t have done that. Shouldn’t have touched you so casually. Like he had a right to. “Never mind,” he mutters, looking away as you stare at him. But Primus, your lip was soft. Warm. Optics flicking to your face and away, his denta clench. Whole frame straining to be still when you lay a hand on his thigh and shift to accidentally brush against his modesty panel until he’s venting raggedly. Overheating. ‘Just imagining if one of you guys tried to wash one of us. You know, tit for tat,’ you whisper, your field a confusing tangle of heat and embarrassment. Doesn’t know what that phrase means exactly, but he can guess from the context.

• Can’t tell from his expression what he’s thinking, but then he’s always like that. In his own world so you can’t really get a read on him. You’re not even sure that he particularly likes you. Especially since he’s always watching you. Usually frowning. Shoulders lifting in an awkward shrug, you keep washing him. If you were bolder, you could try flirting with him, but you’re almost certain that he’s not the adventurous type. Too by the books and withdrawn. He’d probably just stare at you and frown if you tried to hit on him. Like he’s doing right now to make this almost painful. “What would you do if a mech tried that?” He asks slowly, voice even gruffer than normal. Maybe disturbed by the idea.

• Are you? His words whisper through you and you feel like you can’t breathe. Heart racing as you watch his jaw clench, there’s no denying that he’s alien. Other. That you don’t really have a clue what he’s thinking most of the time. That the way he watches you makes you feel like you’re being stalked by a hungry shadow. And he is. That hunger obvious in the way he stares at you. Like you’re the problem and the answer. What would he do if you said yes? That you are choosing him? There are a few mixed species couples, but a part of you is scared of people gossiping about you. Judging you. Those optics flick to your eyes and away again and the errant thought that he’s lonely lifts through you. That you’re lonely.

• “I am,” you whisper and he goes still. Head slowly turning to stare at you as you squeeze your sponge to send rivulets of soapy water spattering onto your boots and down your arm. ‘Say that again,’ he growls and you briefly meet his optics, your expressive features giving away that you’re nervous. Uncertain. “You heard me,” you mumble, voice plaintive and he growls, pushing to his peds and mass shifting to startle you as his servos curl around your upper arm to keep you from bolting. ‘Say it,’ he repeats, hating how rough the words sound. Those eyes of yours are defiant when they meet his optics, like you might refuse.

• He’s far too close, too big. The alien musk and metallic bite of his scent fill your head as he leans down into your space and it feels like you can’t get enough air. Embarrassed and too aware of the heat of his hand wrapped around your upper arm. “Say it,” he growls, the words harsh and angry sounding, but his optics look almost wild. Desperate. ‘I want you here. I want-’ Words faltering when he moves closer and your butt bumps against one of the supports for his wash bench. His lips are a breath away and you can feel the warm air from his vents fanning your skin. “What do you want?” He demands.

• Frame tense as he gets snared by the flecks of color in your alien eyes, he can feel your field washing into him in waves of heat and uncertainty. “Tell me,” he insists, trying to gentle his voice. To coax instead of growling at you. Your mouth is right there, lips slightly parted. And he startles when you smooth a hand over his chassis, rocking back in surprise at the feel of your soft hand on his plating as he growls softly. Those eyes lift to his optics again, vulnerable and unsure. Rumbling as you step closer, hand sliding up to grip his shoulder as you go up on tiptoe, he’s lowering his head. Going still as your mouth brushes his. As you kiss him. Giving him your answer.

• He’s watching your every move and you’re aware of him in a way you’ve never been aware of other people before. Stealing a glance his way, you meet his optics and a shiver of heat whispers through you. He’s always so careful with you, so gentle and slow, but you’ve seen him on the battlefield. And it had made you realize that how he acts with you is an illusion. An act. That he tries to not frighten you, overwhelm you, but that it means he handles you with kid gloves. Like he thinks he’s going to break you and it’s infuriating. Especially when you want to feel those big hands on you, want to see him lose control just a bit, get a little rough. To be real with you.

• Rumbling as you reach up and your hand lingers on Fowler’s upper arm, you smile at something June says, but he can’t tear his optics away from the sight of your hand on someone else. Servos flexing as he tries to keep his temper in check, to play the part of Prime, he wants to mass shift. Punch the other human. Drag you into his frame and off to his habsuite. To claim you. But knows he can’t. Not when he’d be risking scaring you. Doesn’t want you to fear him. Jaw working, he catches your eyes and there’s a question in your expression that he doesn’t quite understand. Like you’re expecting something from him.

• He’s staring at you again. At your hand on Fowler’s uniformed arm. Meeting your eyes briefly before he looks away and you let your arm drop. Feeling childish for trying to provoke a reaction from him, but sometimes you wonder if you’re only his dirty, little secret. He’s always composed and polite with you around everyone else, like he doesn’t want them to know what the two of you do in his habsuite. Maybe he’s embarrassed. Afraid that his other Autobots will judge him if they knew what he does with you when it’s only the two of you. Refusing to look at him, you turn so your back is to him and try to ignore that uncertain hurt settling in the pit of your stomach.

The steam in the room dissipated like clouds as Leon stepped out onto the plush bath mat, water droplets tracing paths down his shoulders and spine. He looked at the bathroom mirror, the fog had an opacity that reduced his reflection to a ghostly silhouette.

He didn’t need to see himself to know what was there. He knew every inch of his own topography. Every ridge and valley. Every mark that told the story of a life spent surviving things that should have killed him. Most people tend to have tattoos as a remembrance of life experiences, but Leon had scars.

His shoulders were broader than they had been at twenty-one, it was the frame of a man who had filled out rather than simply grown into maturity. He wouldn’t describe himself as bulky, but he wasn’t exactly lean like how he used to be when he had just graduated from the police academy. Instead, he had definition, cut in the way of an athlete excelling in agility and endurance because of his work.

His forearms, reaching for the towel she left folded on the counter, showed the corded strength of a man who had pushed himself beyond extremities. Someone who had been rappelled from helicopters. Someone who had pulled himself through impossible spaces. Someone who had held weapons steady while the world fell apart around him.

He held the towel to his face -inhaling the clean scent. He savoured in the warmth and softness of the towel as he squeezed water from his hair with it. His biceps flexed and he was reminded with the memory of every door he had forced and every ledge he had hauled himself over.

He ran the towel over his chest, his fingers traced the familiar ridge of scar tissue just below his left shoulder.

Raccoon City.

He was only twenty-one then, terrified but a sense of duty had pushed him through the horrors. The wound had now healed but it remained jagged because there’d been no time for immediate proper treatment then as the adrenaline and desperation kept him moving.

Lower, across his ribs was a pale line that caught the bathroom light. He faintly remembered that it was most likely acquired from a stray shrapnel from an explosion. Then, at his right hip carried a constellation of smaller marks -a peppering of healed wounds from an incident earlier this year. Glass, maybe? Most likely something sharp that he had landed on after being throw across the room by most likely a B.O.W.

But, honestly it could be from anything - he had stopped being able to distinguish the sources after a while. The scars had faded well with time, but his fingers always still found them. But the scars had reminded him of how lucky he’d been: lucky meaning he was alive, but not lucky in the same way as being fortunate.

Leon took care of his appearance, but he wasn’t necessarily vain by any definition. He was never one to stand before mirrors flexing.

He never really derived any pride from his reflection. But, after Raccoon City, he did look at his body -himself- differently. His body was now a tool, it needed to be maintained with the same disciplined attention he gave his weapons and his training. He noted each scar because to forget them would be to forget the lessons they taught: that the world was dangerous and survival was a skill.

He finished towelling his hair, ending with a few rougher strokes. He dropped the water darkened the fabric into the basket at the corner of the bathroom. The mirror was now clearing in patches that revealed more fragments of himself…a man who looked older than twenty-nine had any right to look.

A sadness crept up in Leon’s heart, forcing him to let his eyes wander away from the reflection in hopes of finding a distraction. It was then that his sight focused on the vanity.

It was a study in organized abundance. Bottles and jars lined the counter in neat rows, with the labels facing forward like soldiers at attention. A small ceramic dish held hair ties and bobby pins. Separate glass jars for cotton rounds and q-tips sat beside a tall bottle of watery fluid. Then, beside that was a dainty silver spatula resting on top a cream jar’s lid. There was more -there were easily three times as many products here as he owned in total, yet oddly nothing felt cluttered - everything had its place, purpose, and a quiet logic. It was a landscape of feminine precision that felt foreign and fascinating.

He ran a thumb over a bottle of something labeled as “emulsion” and shook his head with much amusement.

He set the bottle down in its original place beside its kins. The vanity was tidy without being sterile, and personal without being messy. A girl’s home, he mused, was an entirely different species from a guy’s. This is what a girl’s home looks like, he thought, a faint smile tugged at his mouth. A guy throws a bar of soap in a dish and calls it a day. She has...architecture.

He stood there for a moment longer than necessary, inhaling, letting the domesticity settle.

He dressed quickly, pulling on the clean t-shirt and sweatpants he kept as a spare at her place. And his eyes caught his reflection in the mirror one more time.

The steam had almost entirely retreated thus making the image became clearer now, it showed the reflection of a worn man.

It showed the fine lines on his face. It focused tension in his jaw. It accentuated the shadows beneath his eyes.

It was the face that had once survived the horrors of Raccoon City at twenty-one. A face that had hardened through military training in his early twenties. The face that survived an impossible Spanish nightmare at twenty-seven. A face that had permanently set, reflecting the endless and grinding trauma he had gone through all before the age of thirty.

He looked older than twenty-nine.

He was all too aware of it.

The lines around his face, the permanent tension in his jaw, the shadows under his eyes deepens as time passes. He had seen the darkest pits of human despair while others his age were building careers and starting families.

His face didn’t reflect his age, but it did reflect him and all that he’d gone through.

And, then he thought of her.

She was twenty-four. There were only five years between them, but sometimes it felt like decades. She’d grown up strict -she’d told him once about her parents, the strict rules, a childhood of pressure and expectations. But at least she had also grown up normal. She didn’t have to deal with bioweapons, outbreaks, and watching people she knew transform into monsters before her very own eyes.

Because of this, she had retained something he recognized only in its absence: a softness, an innocence, a belief that the world was fundamentally kind despite its cruelties.

And that made him want to protect her. It made him want to devour her. To consume that innocence so that he could claim it as his. To wrap himself in her warmth until the cold of his other life receded into distant memory. It made him want to hold her so tightly that she couldn’t slip away -that she couldn’t be a dream his trauma had conjured to torment him with hope before snatching it away.

Taking one last look at the mirror, seeing a man who had survived and who was still surviving. A man who had somehow stumbled into a woman's apartment on a Friday evening and found himself wanting to stay. Leon turned off the lights and emerged from the bathroom with a smaller towel draped around his neck. He took a deep breath, exhaled then began to make his way to where she was waiting.

She sat on her couch, her pale nightgown ended perfectly at mid-thigh. Her hair was loose and still slightly damp from her own shower. Leon’s eyes soon caught on the small collection of colourful packets laid on the coffee table before her. They were fanned out like a hand of cards, each bearing soft watercolor illustrations and assumed Chinese characters that unfortunately he couldn’t read.

She looked up at him with an excitement that transformed her usually composed features into something almost childlike: her eyes bright and expectant.

“Come!” She chirped excitedly while eagerly patting the space on the couch beside her. “Sit. I have something for you.”

Leon did just that as he soon settled onto the space she had reserved for him. “What’s all this?”

“Sheet masks!” She picked one up, holding it before his face like a prize. “My Beauty Diary. It’s from Taiwan.” Looking very happy. “My colleague brought them back from an assignment in another state. They’re very hard to find here.”

“Hard to find skincare,” He mused, with a rather lazy drawl. “Must be serious.”

“Very.” She set down the first packet and grabbed another. “This one is Black Pearl. For brightening.” And another. “Hyaluronic Acid. For hydration.” Then another. “Aloe Vera. For soothing.” And a final one, pressed into his hands with a solemnity that made him want to laugh. “Bird’s Nest. For the ultimate nourishment.”

Leon turned the packet over in his fingers, studying the illustration of a swiftlet’s nest rendered in soft watercolor. “Bird’s nest?”

“Ummm, probably more accurately described as bird spit.” She answered, but her eyes danced with mischief. “It’s very good for the skin. Collagen, amino acids, minerals. It keeps you youthful.”

He blinked, trying to process it all. “You want to put bird spit on my face.”

“It’s not just any bird spit.” She corrected him, her lips pursed in that adorable way she always defaulted to when she was explaining something that she found very obvious. “It’s the swiftlet’s nest. Very rare, very expensive to harvest. In China, it’s been used for centuries by nobles for nourishment.”

Leon nodded, trying his best to be polite by reciprocating her interest…but he wasn’t really listening. He was focused on everything but the words coming out of her mouth.

He was watching her mouth move, how her lips formed an “o” at certain syllables. He was watching the way her nightgown strap had slipped slightly off one shoulder as she leaned forward. He was watching the flush of enthusiasm paint her cheeks, reminiscent of the other activities that had the same effects on her. She looked delectable in this light -the particular vulnerability of a woman in her own home: unaware and unguarded.

The truth is that he wanted to devour her, not the bird’s nest delicacy she was so earnestly explaining -her. He wanted to consume her softness, her sweetness, and her unconditional affection so that he could make it his and his alone. He desired to lay a claim on her so thorough that no one else could ever compete.

“-so the proteins penetrate the skin barrier.” Leon dragged his attention back to what she was actually saying.

“Which one do you prefer?” She asked, tilting her head while her hair fell across her shoulder like silk.

“They all sound the same.” He responded. “Brightening, hydrating, soothing, nourishing. Isn’t that all just... moisture?”

She let out a little gasp and teasingly swatted his arm with the back of her hand. “They are very different!” Her pout was immediate, her lower lip pushing forward in a way that made his fingers itching to touch it. “You have no respect for skincare science.”

“I have plenty of respect.” He protested, though his cheeky grin betrayed him. “I just think if I put any of these on, I’ll end up looking like you shoved a wet napkin on my face.”

“A sheet mask soaked with essence.” Her eyes narrowing in seriousness. “Very effective, and very scientific research backed essence.”

He wanted to laugh, but he suppressed it into a chuckle instead in respect to the skincare science. Since Raccoon City, since the years of silence and survival that followed, laughter had become a currency he spent sparingly. But with her, it flowed easily.

“Fine.” He said looking at the packets and then at her, before lifting his hands up and spreading his palms in surrender. “You choose. I trust your expertise.”

Immediately following up, she studied him with an exaggerated deliberation. She tapped her chin with one finger.

“Hmm. Let’s see.” Her eyes roaming his face in an assessment that made him feel very exposed. “You spend all day in that government building with the dry air conditioning. You don’t drink enough water.” Her brow rose, no doubt a jest at what he usually drank as his liquid of preference. “You have stress lines here-” She reached out, tracing the space between his eyebrows with a gentle finger. “…and you definitely don’t sleep enough.”

“Are you diagnosing me, doctor?”

“I’m simply assessing your skincare needs.” Afterwards, her expression shifted, mischief creeping into the corners of her mouth like a cat spotting a dangling string. “Honestly? You probably need everything.”

“Hey!” He recoiled with theatrical woundedness. “I’m twenty-nine, not forty-ninety. I have decent skin.”

She giggled ecstatically and leaned in close enough that he could smell her. “Don’t worry,” She whispered, letting her breath ghost over his jaw. “No matter how scaly your skin gets, I will always kiss you without any hesitation.”

His heart stopped.

That muscle in his chest, that had survived on adrenaline through the terror and bioweapon exposures, stuttered at the devotion that she had so casually announced with her words. Instinctively, he reached for her instinctively -his hand cupping the back of her neck and pulling her toward him.

“Ah-ah.” She pressed two fingers against his lips, stopping him with a sly smile that was pure of temptation. “Mask first. Kisses after.”

“That’s cruel.” Sulking, he murmured against her fingers.

“We have all night, so skincare must come first.” She climbed onto his lap with the graceful nimbleness of a feline. The silk of her nightgown riding up her thighs as her knees settled on each side of his hips. The sudden intimacy of this position…the weight of her, the heat, the way she loomed above him had sent a jolt of desire through him, one that he had to actively suppress.

“Lean back.” She instructed, her voice soft but with focus.

Leon settled back against the cushions, letting his hands find their natural resting place on her waist. The silk was cool and slippery beneath his palms, and he began tracing slow deliberate circles with his thumbs -feeling the subtle give of her flesh through the fabric. As payback for her skin shaming from earlier, he ran his hands up and down along her hips.

She let out a sigh to express her annoyance at his handsy-ness, before tearing open a packet of the infamous Bird Spit mask. And, he responded by gripping her hips with a suggestive pressure before pulling her flush against him. He felt her breath hitch, feeling the subtle shift in her posture as she became aware of exactly how close they were…and how a particular part of his body was responding to her weight atop him.

She stiffened a little, a giggle escaping her lips. “Leon. Stop. I need to focus.”

“I’m just getting comfortable.” He replied with his voice dropping to a husky tone. His thumbs stroked upward, tracing the curve where her waist met her ribs -his touch feather-light, but very intentionally deliberate. “You climbed on me, sweetheart. I’m only enjoying the view.”

She shook her head -trying to maintain her focus as she unfolded the mask, but he saw the flush beginning to creep up her neck. “Behave. I need to concentrate.”

“Concentrate on what?” He let one hand drift lower, his fingers tracing the hem of her nightgown where it had ridden up on her thigh. “On me? Oh, I’m flattered.”

“Leon.” She breathed a warning. He caught onto it and obeyed like a good boy.

She pulled the folded mask from its packet, and he caught the scent immediately -a delicate floral, like walking through a garden after rain. She leaned down to place the mask, her body pressing fully against his for one torturous moment…and he felt every curve, every breath, every heartbeat.

“Close your eyes.”

He did. The world might’ve went dark, but his other senses heightened -he felt everything at a heightened sensitivity: the press of her thighs against his, the warmth radiating from her core, the sound of her breathing above him. Then the mask made contact, and he inhaled sharply at the sensation of its cool dampness.

She worked with careful precision -letting her fingers smooth the material across his forehead, then adjusting it around his nose, and finally stretching it to cover his jawline. Her focus was absolute and utterly adorable. But his hands refused to stay still for too long, they resumed its roaming of her back, soon moving to her sides and then her hips -mapping her through the silk with a hunger he no longer bothered to hide.

“You’re impossible.”

“And you’re on top of me.” He countered with as much sass as he could annunciate his voice being muffled by the mask. “In that thing. Looking like that. And you expect me to keep my hands to myself, sweetheart?”

“I expect you to let me finish.” She adjusted her position slightly so she wasn’t situated directly above his need, her hands continuing to smooth out the mask. But he was shameless and took the opportunity to let his palms slide down her thighs, his thumbs now brushing the sensitive skin just above her knees.

“And then?” His voice smooth and irresistible.

“And…then we’ll see.”

“That’s not an answer.”

“It’s an incentive.” She teases back. “Now stop moving.” Her hands slid sensually slow down his neck to rub in the extra essence there. “There! All done, but now we wait.” She announced with pride, her hands now rested on his shoulders.

“How long?”

“Approximately twenty to thirty minutes.”

“Approximately?”

“It’s only twenty minutes.”

He groaned, his head falling back against the couch. “But I could be doing so many other things during that time.”

“Like what?” She asked with genuine curiosity as she settled more firmly against him, her weight adding a delicious pressure that made him acutely aware of every point of contact between them.

“Like kissing you.” He moved one hand from her hip to trace the edge of her nightgown where it rode high on her inner thigh, his fingers brushing the plush sensitive skin. “Like touching you. Like showing you exactly how irresistible I already am, skincare or not.”

She caught his wandering hand, but her grip was intentionally weak as she lets her fingers thread through his instead of pushing him away. “You are already irresistible to me.” She cooed, an admission of the kind of truth she usually guarded behind her usual reserved demeanor. “And, You know that.”

“Then why do I need this?” He gestured vaguely at his masked face, the movement making the essence shift coolly against his skin.

She leaned down, her lips brushing his ear, voice dropping to a whisper that sent electricity down his spine. “This will simply make you look closer to my age.”

“Hey!” His free hand shot to her thigh, gently pinching the soft flesh just above her knee. She yelped, a sound that was a soft moan and squirmed in his lap.

“Five years!” He protested, his voice rising with a theatrical indignation. “We have five years between us. That’s nothing.”

“Visually…” She teased, her eyes bright with what could only be described with naughtiness. “It’s definitely larger than five years.”

“Oh, you’re in trouble now.” His hand slid upward, dangerously grazing against the centre of her panties. He felt her tense, as the muscle quivered beneath his palm when he let his fingers nudge a little deeper…feeling the warm dampness of her heat, his movements deliberately slow enough to be both a teasing question and a promise of what’s to come.

“Leon…” She moaned with a neediness that made his blood sing. “Be good,” Her eyes dark and knowing, “and I’ll reward you for your patience afterwards.”

Her words became a promise that hung between them, charged and explicit in its intentional ambiguity. Leon felt his breath catch, the mask on his face was the unwanted barrier between him and her lips that he desperately wanted to tear away.

“Reward me how?” His was voice rough.

She smiled, secretive and sensual, as she leaned down until her mouth hovered just above his…close enough that he could taste the anticipation. “You’ll see…” she whispered against his lips. “But only if you’re good.”

“That’s not fair.”

But she ignored him to reach for her own packet and began applying her own mask with the same focused precision she’d given him. “Now close your eyes and rest. Let the essence work.”

He obeyed, sinking into the couch while her weight against him remained both a comfort and a torment. His hands remained on her hips, as his thumbs resumed their lazy circles while his mind was racing ahead…twenty to thirty minutes of this domestic torture all in the name of skincare science.

Twenty to thirty minutes.

As he lay there relaxed beneath the cooling mask, Leon felt the old familiar ache surge in his chest. It was something that happened sometimes when she was like this: domestic, tender, caring for him with a selflessness that made his throat tight.

He had lost his mother young, had grown up in the hollow spaces of a childhood that taught him early not to expect softness. Raccoon City had only confirmed what he’d already learned: that the world took away the things you held dear, that attachments were liabilities…that to need someone was to invite catastrophe.

But life had thrown him a curve ball, made him question everything he had once thought was the absolute truth. And that curve ball was her.

She looked at him like he was worthy of this…of her time, her care, her body draped across his lap on a Friday evening while she worried about how terrible his skin condition was. She loved him with a wholeness that terrified the fractured him. She loved him with a generosity that made him feel simultaneously unworthy and desperately clawingly grateful.

Sometimes, in moments like this, he had the urge to surge up and crush her against him.

He wanted to wrap his arms around her so tightly that she couldn’t possibly slip away, proving that she wasn’t a dream his trauma had conjured to torment him with hope before snatching it away. She felt too good, too kind, too real in a way that contradicted everything his life had taught him about life. He wanted to hold her until the warmth of her seeped into him, convincing him that this was possible and that he was allowed to have this…that the universe wouldn’t snatch her away the moment he let himself admit that he needed her.

But, he didn’t.

He kept his hands gentle on her hips and his breathing even, keeping his desire leashed behind the playful teasing that had become their common language. But the longing still remained in the shadows, a tide that threatened to conjure a tsunami that will consume her into his forever darkness.

“You’re quiet.”

“Just enjoying the moment.” he said, and it wasn’t entirely a lie.

She hummed in satisfaction, and settled more firmly against him. Leon let his thumbs trace idle patterns on her waist and told himself this was enough…for now. This domesticity, this warmth, this woman who looked at him like he was the best thing in her world.

He knew what she felt. He saw it in every gesture, every smile, every time she waited up for him when he came home late from work he couldn’t discuss.

She loved him.

She had said it before, those three words falling from her lips with an ease that made him simultaneously ache and recoil.

And, he felt something in reciprocation…something vastly consuming and painfully undeniable. Something that felt like the only solid ground in a life of shifting horrors. But he would never name it. As to name it would be to claim it, and to claim it would be to risk it, and Leon had learned long ago that the things he held dear were the things the world took from him.

So he stayed quiet. He let his hands speak what his mouth wouldn’t.

“Twenty to thirty minutes.” She reminded him again with a voice soft and full of promise.

“Twenty to thirty minutes.”

“I love you, Leon.”

But he couldn’t say it back. The feeling was locked behind bars of trauma and survival. It was behind the impenetrable wall of certainty that attachments destroyed the things they touched, behind the fear that to accept it would be to summon the darkness that always followed him.

So he did the only thing he could. He pulled her down against his chest, his arms finally wrapping around her with the ferocity he’d been restraining all evening. He held her so tightly that she let out a small, surprised breath. He pressed his lips to the top of her head, planting a lingering kiss that spoke everything his mouth could not.

“Skincare first, kisses later.”

• Keeping you? Mouth opening and closing, you push against his servos. “You can’t just decide to keep someone,” you try and his optics flick nervously to you and away as his wings lift. Giving away that he’s not nearly as confident as he’s pretending to be. ‘You don’t want to be with me?’ He asks, voice hitching funnily. ‘Is there someone else?’ Wait. What exactly does he think is going on between the two of you? ‘Is it Starscream? Thundercracker?’

• “No,” you blurt and he vents raggedly, running his free hand over his face to try and calm his nerves. Maybe you just don’t want him? You’re courting him, though. Unless you’re only doing it to manipulate him somehow? Are you plotting? It’s not like you’d tell him if you were. Still wants you regardless and it’s a strange thing to realize. That he’s lonely and even if you are treacherous, you’re soft and warm. Gentle. ‘I don’t know what I’d do if you betrayed me,’ he murmurs, frowning down at you. ‘But you wouldn’t, would you?’ Wants to hear you say it even though he knows he can’t really trust it. Can’t trust anyone. Wants to, but can’t. They’re all out to get him. Even you.

• Heart racing as you try to keep up with his neurotic reasoning, you force a smile. “You know I wouldn’t,” you say since agreeing with him seems the safest route and he vents to stir your hair, lifting you higher and brushing his mouth against your body. ‘I’ve made you a nest. Near my berth. Lots of soft things,’ he replies as you try to lean away from his lips as they brush your neck, shoulder, and arm with his words. You’re pretty sure that you’re being kidnapped. ‘You’ll like it. I hope you will.’ Knew some of the aliens were grabby, but you didn’t think he’d be a problem since he’s fidgety about you touching him.

• Had wanted to put your nest on his berth, but there was the nightmare. Knows you wouldn’t crawl inside him and chew his wiring. He’s reasonably sure that you wouldn’t, but there’s always a possibility. “I have my own place,” you say, sounding wary. Like he’s messing up. Is he? Wings flicking, his jaw works. How does he explain that the old, repurposed hangar creaks and settles at night? That he can’t recharge alone, but he’s afraid someone will drive a blade into his back? That he doesn’t want to be alone. And you’re too small to hurt him. Probably. ‘And now we have a place,’ he answers as you stare up at him, brow furrowing. ‘Together.’

• Watching you fidget with your blanket, adjusting it around yourself, Optimus’s spark aches. You’re just so small and fragile looking that it makes him uncomfortable to imagine you in Decepticon hands. In Starscream’s hands. The fact that you’re not broken is something he doesn’t really understand, either. “The Seeker,” he begins and you look up at him. ‘Starscream,’ you correct softly.

• Even with the battle mask hiding half his face, you can sense his frown. Looking away from those kind optics, you toy with the hem of one of the blankets. Know he doesn’t understand a Starscream that can be gentle. That smiled sometimes when you asked him about himself, his past, that brushed his servos against your back or arms like he needed the contact. The hurt loneliness you’d caught glimpses of under the arrogance and attitude.

• “Starscream,” he echoes and your lips press into a thin line. What was your relationship with the Seeker? Captor and captive is what he’d thought, but he’s not so sure that’s all. There was almost grief in your voice when you said his name just now, a wounded quality that sparks through him. Were you friends? Could anyone be friends with a mech like Starscream? “He can’t reach you here.” And your eyes drop, shoulders hunching. Not happy with that? Or is that relief?

• “That’s good,” you breathe, even as it hurts. Because you’d gotten close to Star. Might have been falling in love. Where did you realistically think that was going to go? You were going to get hurt eventually, because it was all one sided. You’d never been more than an amusement to him and once he’d gotten bored, he’d abandoned you on the side of the road like you were nothing. Left you. And you hate when you start crying all over again, hiding your face in the blanket. Unable to stop loving someone who never loved you or even really cared. Shaking as you feel Optimus’s big servos hesitantly brush against your upper back, you cry even harder.

• Making the mistake of meeting his optics, your breath catches as his scarred lips twist into an almost mocking smile. Fine hair at your nape lifting, you look away. But you know he’s still staring at you. Every day it’s getting harder to ignore the way he watches you. Because it’s predatory. Hungry. Makes you aware of him, the heat of his big frame and the rumble of his deep voice, in a way that leaves you uncomfortable. He’s dangerous. You’re sure of that. Have seen flashes of his temper from time to time even though he likes to pretend to be a civilized monster around you. But you know he’s still a monster. A warlord.

• Hadn’t expected to find you so amusing to tease and toy with. Hadn’t expected to want more. To want you. Should be annoyed that you’ve started infiltrating his dreams. That you’ve gone from being an amusement to an obsession. You look up and meet his optics and he flashes his denta at you to make you quickly look away. Venting deeply, his lips twitch. So skittish even though you’d approached him. Had said you wanted to take care of him. Put your soft hands all over him to wash him, bring him energon, and then you flee. Over and over. Maybe you want to be chased? Is that the game here? You tease him, get him worked up and then run wanting him to follow? To capture you?

• Tidying up your supplies, the big mech leans forward with his arms draped across his thighs and his clawed hands dangling between his knees. When he watches you like that, all you can think of is a cat lazing in the sun and eyeing a mouse while trying to decide if it’s worth the effort to catch it. “Would you run if I chased you, pet?” He asks, deep voice low and a shiver travels up your spine because it’s like he knows what you were thinking. Head reluctantly lifting, those optics are ancient. He’s eldritch and unknowable. Alien. ‘Why would you chase me?’ You ask, heart beating faster as his head tilts and instincts you didn’t even know you had scream that he’s dangerous. A predator. That he’s hunting you even though he’s not moved and you’re not sure how you feel about that. Excitement and trepidation twisting together.

• Venting as he touches a silken petal, his head lifts at the sound of your car pulling in and he darts into the garage, wincing when he bumps into the work bench and several tools fall down. And Charlie throws up her hands at him from the door way as he frantically gestures for her to close the garage door. ‘Are you hiding?’ She mutters in exasperation, but she closes the door and he turns to nudge the arm on the record player carefully into place, turning it on. Hoping he’s doing this right, romancing you like a human would.

• ‘He’s being weird. Enjoy,’ Charlie says by way of greeting, jerking her thumb at the garage and you hesitate. She’s younger than you are, but the teen had absolutely intimidated you, threatening what she’d do to you if you break Bee’s nonexistent heart the first time you’d meet her. Not that you have any intention of doing that, but still. That girl’s scary when she wants to be. But after realizing she was just protective of Bee, you’d relaxed some. Even if you have no idea what she thinks of you and Bee, but if she has an issue with interspecies relationships, she’s not spoken up. So far.

• Perking up when you step into the garage and a slow love long warbles from the record player, he eases down onto his knees, holding out the roses pinched in his servos. And you smile as you walk over. “These for me? Thank you.” Little, soft hands brush his servos as you take the roses and he bows forward, a hand braced on the ground beside you. Optics shuttering when you lay a hand against his face and your mouth brushes his cheek. Venting with a warble, his head brushes against yours, a big hand hovering near your side, but not touching until you lay a hand on his and gently pull. Giving him permission.

• “I can tell,” he says, voice hitching and dipping into a cute growl as he secures the door and walks over, vaulting up and mass shifting. And he grabs your wrist when you try to slip your fingers out of yourself. “Don’t stop. Please.” His palm cupping yours, he guides you to spear your fingers deep as he watches, stroking yourself. Before pulling your hand away and bending to take your slick fingers into his mouth with a rumble that makes you shiver. Feel his glossa slide and curl around them before he releases you.

• Reaching to grip his chassis, you lean back pulling at him and he shifts to cover you. “You leave me alone here while you patrol and what else am I supposed to do for entertainment?” You tease as his lips brush your jaw, down your neck and over your body. Pressing a kiss against your inner thigh before his mouth is on you and you arch. Feeling his lips and glossa stroking against you.

• Cupping your butt and hips in his hands as he slowly stretches out between your thighs, he takes his time tasting you. Listening to your whimpers and moans, those little hitching gasps and your impatient little ‘pleases.’ And you’re not the only one impatient, grinding and restlessly rocking his hips against the berth under him, painfully aware of his aching spike trapped behind his plating. Glossa driving deep again and again as he growls against you, mouth sealing against you. One of your heels hits his shoulder like you’re about to push him away and his servos tighten on you before you cry out his name as you shatter.