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

• “Did I do something wrong?” You ask, looking up at him with those eyes and his resolve begins to crumble. Has no idea why you’d picked him to court when there’s so many other bots to choose from, but he doesn’t want to hurt your feelings by outright refusing. Possibly ruining your confidence. What if he’s your first choice? If you’ve never tried to court anyone before him? Feeling worse now as you just look up at him. “You can’t even give me a chance? Am I that bad?”

• Maybe you’re laying it on too thick? He’s just staring at you, expression strained. “That’s not it at all,” he says, looking uncomfortable as he shifts on the bench. Servos fidgeting together, he clears his vents as his shoulders hunch higher. “Wouldn’t you rather spend time with someone else?” He asks and sensing victory, you start mixing up soapy water. Because he’s definitely the best option from what you’d seen. Some of those Decepticons are kind of creepy.

• “Why would I? Don’t you want to spend time with me?” You ask, dunking a sponge in your bucket and part of him wants to run for it. Isn’t sure that he’s cut out for a relationship. Has so many responsibilities and you turn back toward him, those eyes innocent enough to break his resistance completely. “I promise I’ll take good care of you.” Why him? What about Prowl or Bulkhead? Even Ratchet?

• Watching you look around, he feels a little foolish hiding like a youngling with a crush. But just outright telling you that he likes spending time with you, wants to spend all his time with you, is harder than he’d imagined. You go back inside your home and come out with a glass of water and scissors. Watching you snip off a few of the blooms to drop them in the water, he wonders if that means that you like them. Or maybe those plants are edible? He’s seen humans drink from similar glasses before. Maybe he just gave you breakfast?

• Carrying your slightly wilting flowers inside to set on the kitchen counter, you know your secret admirer has to be your assigned mech. Why the secrecy, though? It’s kind of cute how awkward he gets sometimes. Like when you touch the back of his hand and his fans cycle on, optics looking everywhere but at you. And maybe you should gently discourage him, but it’s kind of nice having someone that likes you. Sees you. At least as more than a conquest or a one night stand. Arranging the flowers in the glass, you smile.

• Hand on the wall as he leans to watch you through the window, he wishes he was closer. That he could see you better. You’re so small that short of mass shifting, it’s hard to pick out the minute details of your face. And every time you tend to him it’s harder to not give in to that urge. To mass shift and hold you. To see what those strange eyes really look like up close. Would you let him do that? Or does he still need to earn that?

• Groaning as you make the face. Widening your eyes dramatically at him, he can feel his resolve weakening. “Please?” You ask, clasping your hands together and it’s not fair. You shouldn’t be able to make him cave just by doing that. He’s a hardened, trained spy. All he has to do is put his ped down and say no. So why does he groan louder and transform? Why does he feel warm when you grin and run over, your excitement making him feel light? “Windows down, please.”

• He’s muttering nonstop about undignified, indigenous organic customs as you fit the antlers in his window tracks and have him roll his windows up to secure them. And he gets louder when you strap the red foam nose to his grill. Muttering about indignities and that he’s supposed to not be drawing attention to himself. But he’s also making no attempt to stop you as his engine rumbles moodily. And you slip your phone out, pulling up the camera and snapping a picture.

• “What did you just do? Did you record me?” He demands, transforming. Or trying to. Those things you’d put on him are snagging inside him. Grimacing, he awkwardly turns in a slow shuffle, partially transformed. And your little communication device makes the clicking noise again. “Give me that right this klik. Don’t you run from me!” Because you’re dancing backwards out of reach, cackling as you record him struggling.

• Overtaking Rodimus when the other mech slides in the dirt on a corner and nearly launches himself off the track trying to over correct, this is almost too easy. Hardly the same as a real race, but he’s pent up here. Bored. This at least is a thrill even if it’s a mild one. But when he’s bored? Everything slows down to a crawl and when the world around him seems to move so much slower than he does anyway? It’s physically painful. Doesn’t have anything against peace, all for it in fact, but he needs something to do. Some fun.

• Walking down the hill to join the other human spectators, you squint at the vehicles racing and bumping each other, scraping paint as another caretaker groans. And they notice you, smiling tiredly. ‘You get one of the speed demons? Hope you know how to buff out scratches,’ they mutter, gesturing as one car with a Decepticon badge swerves to hit an Autobot’s rear quarter panel and sends them spinning and bouncing off the track. Are these Cybertronians feral? Searching the speeding shapes, you spot blue. Yours was mostly blue in the profile picture and he’s also winning. By a lot.

• Aware of the Wrecker and a Stunticon both coming after him, in his processor he pictures the chaotic, living jumble of Iacon. The noise of roaring engines and crowds almost deafening. The feel of the road under him, learning to read it so well that he reacts without conscious thought. Going so fast that even though he’s ground bound, it feels like flying. Feels like being alive. Doubts anyone else would understand this. That he’s only truly alive when he’s in motion.

• Casting about for something to throw at him, as much as you like the handsome bot, right now you’re not in the mood. Hurting and mortified because you’re bleeding and have nothing to use to hide that fact. This is just one more indignity heaped upon you after what’s felt like nothing but indignities since you found yourself here in giant robot land. “Give me my blankets. Please,” you say. And he’s scooping you up instead as you squeak. “Blurr!” Getting jostled as he takes off at a run, you cling to his servos.

• Stumbling and almost going down when you grab his servos, your field slams into him. Almost crippling him. Doesn’t know what’s happening to you, but you must be dying. How else could you feel this awful? Lurching out of his habsuite and into the bar proper, he realizes he’s headed for the medikit under the bar. That’s designed for Cybertronians, not delicate organics. “What do I do? How do I help?” He groans, shuddering as your pain needles him.

• Why’s he staggering around like he’s overenergized like some of his patrons sometimes are? Have no idea what his malfunction is, but you just want to hide in your little wash rack, soaking in the warm spray. Maybe cry a bit, because without supplies, you’re going to ruin what little clothes you have. Have to field awful questions from him and the other aliens that hang out at his bar, too. And how do you explain periods and hygiene products to a giant, alien robot? Crying is sounding like a solid plan. “Little one? Don’t die on me, okay? Talk to me,” he says and you eye him. Die?

• Realizes he’s just turning in a circle, he has no idea what to do, how to help. What even happened to you? Why are you bleeding? “Where are you hurt? I smell blood,” he says and you blanch staring at him as he trembles with the echo of your pain. “Tell me how to help,” he pleads and you just thump your head against his hand without answering. Did you pass out? Your field is still screaming at him, though. ‘Please just let me die,’ you groan, embarrassment mixing with the agony inundating him through your field. Doesn’t understand what’s happening with you. Are you hurt? You have to be to feel like that, right?

This should hopefully help with folks finding me at the cons. Looks like the next batch of stuff has shipped. Finalizing designs on the last batch to order

• Resisting the urge to just stomp on his gas pedal and hold it down, you let your head fall back against the seat. Why couldn’t he have decided to balk before you paid for the best wash option? Actually, why did he have to drive through a swarm of extra large, greasy bugs? Because you can’t even try and get them off without gagging. “It’s fine. Just stay in the tracks. See the tracks at the bottom? I swear I’ll hand wash you after the bugs are gone, just please pull forward.”

• Rumbling skeptically, he reluctantly rolls forward and jolts when a horn sounds right before he’s blasted with water. From underneath. Swearing as he shudders, he freezes. Dimly aware of you telling him he has to pull forward as he sinks slightly on his shocks. And holy Primus. Or maybe Unicron, because that’s absolutely fragging wrong. So wrong. Especially that angle right there. He’s trembling, rocking slightly into the aggressive blast, fighting back a groan.

• What is he doing? “Did you get stuck?” You ask, poking a finger against his steering wheel. And you swear he groans. Is it hurting him? Maybe the water pressure is too high? “Blurr? Are you okay.” He’s trembling all over around you as you worriedly smooth a hand over his dash. “Blurr, talk to me.” How much trouble are you going to be in for accidentally hurting your assigned mech?

• And he’s tossing a leg over yours, muttering in Cybertronian before his mouth opens and he grips your shoulder in his denta, rumbling and engine revving. “Blurr,” you try again, reaching back to push at his head as clears his vents and growls louder in his recharge. “Zippy, cut it out.” Awkwardly patting his head as he wiggles even closer, you don’t want to have to smack him.

• Squirming to try and get loose, he just groans when you roll onto your belly to drag yourself away. And he rolls with you, head landing on your butt and an arm sliding under you. Using you as his pillow. “Zippy, you’re squishing me.” Hear him say something unintelligible in answer, his servos flexing to dig against your belly to make you suck in a breath.

• Grunting online when you plant a hand in his face and push, his optics open. “What is it? What’s wrong?” Shoving up as his plating lifts slightly, he looks around at his quiet space. Hunting for threats. ‘You’re heavy and I need to pee,’ you say, a leg sliding against his hip as you pull yourself free of him. And he clears his vents in exasperation. “Are you coming back?” He finds himself asking as he watches you swing your legs over the edge of the low berth he shares with you while mass displaced.

• Startling when Sideswipe smacks a hand against his stall, Blurr frowns as the other mech grins. “What? What is it?” He asks as Sideswipe cackles and takes off without a word. Apparently amused about something. And then you’re rounding the corner and his lips part. Because you’re in his colors, your covering patterned after his plating. Rumbling softly when you look up at him and smile, for the first time in a long time, he’s speechless.

• Can’t tell from his expression what he thinks of your new outfit, but his silence is telling. Making you pretty sure wearing his colors is offensive. “I can change if this isn’t okay?” You ask and he shakes himself, plating lifting slightly before settling. And he’s silently shaking his head, staring at you. Has he ever been this quiet for this long? It’s a little unsettling. Definitely not normal.

• “Blurr?” You’re looking up at him expectantly. Waiting for him to say something. And sure, you’ve been courting him. Been set on him, but this is a declaration that you’re his. A flag waved. Had you decided he wasn’t moving fast enough? Clearing his vents, he mass shifts and you hesitate, those strange eyes uncertain. ‘You can wear my colors,’ he manages, thinking they suit you. That you should wear them, wear his scent, have a real conjunx gift. Maybe that’s it. You’re hinting for him to make his move.

• “What have i said about biting?” You demand, twisting to try and see if he broke your skin and he’s laughing uncontrollably, running a big hand over his face as he tries to get himself back in control as his personalities war amongst themselves. Furious that you ignored him then struck him. Aroused at your defiance. Lonely and wants you.

• “Just a little taste,” he growls, face blurring into the calm personality. “No harm done.” Blowing out a breath, as he hooks an arm around you and drags you into his lap, palm splayed on your belly, there’s not much point in arguing with him. “You struck me?” He roars, swapping again and you ignore the anger. It took some getting used to his whiplash personalities, to get to know him and realize he was more a danger to himself than you. And you’d begun pitying him and softening toward the broken mech.

• “You bit me,” you counter, as he growls. Struggling and losing control again, nuzzling against your throat and venting to pull the familiar scent into himself. Grounding himself with the feel of you against him. Because one thing his broken psyche can agree on? You’re his. His mate, toy, tasty, little mouse. And laughter bubbles out of him as he bites again, pleased when you swear.

• ‘Oh. Sorry,’ he says, seeming to just notice he sprayed you in the face. How did you get stuck with the alien ADHD poster child? “Sir, please,” you say, trying to resist the urge to smack him again. Repeatedly. Know you should definitely respect the fact that he could squish you like a bug, but you’re just too tired to even care at this point. Sweaty, exhausted and now you’re wet. “Please, just sit down and let me finish. I really want to go home.”

• Frowning, he looks down at you hanging there tucked against his chassis. Because there really wasn’t a lot of information about the nature of the agreement with the organics. Knows they’re here looking for potential conjunxes, but that’s it. “You’re not staying with me?” He asks and you make a funny noise. “I mean, I just thought we’d spend some time getting to know each other.” Did he offend you somehow? You’d gotten soapy, so he was trying to help.

• No. Absolutely not. Can’t say that, though because you’re not supposed to offend them. Can’t afford to let your sass get you fired from this job. Certainly can’t afford to pay back your sign-on bonus. “When I said home, of course I meant with you,” you say through clenched teeth. And he starts walking as you press your face against his warm servos and fight the urge to scream. Or beat your head on his hand.

• What do humans eat? Doesn’t have any ideas, but you definitely stay wet better than he’d thought you would. Your coverings starting to feel cool and damp against his servos. Had thought you’d probably dry fast with your skin, but apparently not. And you’re already shivering against his servos. What does he do about that? Doubt you’re going to like his berth, you’re too soft for a hard surface. Unless you sleep standing? Or hanging upside down? Venting, he cradles you to his chassis, trying to share his frame’s heat and you stare up at him, not looking that happy with him. He’s trying, but he can get a bit distracted sometimes.

• “And then I get stuck here, find out there’s a truce and that Longarm Prime is the Decepticon spy I’ve been looking for this whole time. Can you believe that?” Pacing in agitation, he’s aware of you chasing after him, huffing and flushed. Feels the slide of the sponge against his legs. Because now Shockwave is here. Exposed and it doesn’t even matter because of the truce. Everyone locked in a tense standoff. And then there’s the humans. Trying to arrange conjunx matches. Like you. Trying to court him.

• You wonder if he’ll even notice if you have a stroke or an asthma attack and keel over. When he pauses, you scrub as much of him as you can reach and he seems to finally notice you. “Everyone wants to pretend to get along. To find conjunxes and start over. But it’s not over. It’s never over.” Have no idea what he’s on about, but he’s not walking, so you’re running to drag the hose over to spray him down. Hadn’t expected washing an alien that transforms into a car to be so intensive.

• “You don’t want a conjunx?” You ask, dunking your sponge awkwardly in the bucket and resuming trying to wash him. And it leaves him immediately guilty. Because you’re trying so hard to take care of him, to prove yourself a good conjunx. But he really doesn’t know much about you. Spent most of his time with you venting, because he needed to get it out. Pour out all the frustration bubbling up inside him. Realizing he probably just hurt your feelings, made you feel rejected. Like he doesn’t want you.

• “I, maybe?” He says, sounding uncertain and you have no idea what a conjunx is, but he’s holding still so you don’t really care. “I don’t know, it’s a big commitment. I’m not saying no,” he adds, crouching slightly and you take advantage, scrubbing his chassis since you can reach now. Freezing when servos brush your side, curling partially around you. Making you painfully aware of how big he is compared to you. ‘Sir?’ Voice wary, those blue optics are so serious as he stares at you. “Spies lead dangerous lives.” What is he even talking about? Your feet leave the ground when he picks you up and you drop your wash brush. And he’s cuddling you to his soapy chassis like a lost kitten as you try to figure out why, starting to pace again as you hang there. You’re never going to finish washing him.

• Nerves jangling at walking alone this late at night, if you hadn’t needed the money, you would have never agreed to pick up another shift at work. And your skin prickles at the low, predatory rumble of an engine, your eyes flicking to the sports car at the light as the driver revs the engine. Bored teenagers? You expect the car to take off with a squeal of tires as soon as the light changes. So you tense when it rolls slowly forward to keep pace with you. Ignoring the car as your heart hammers, you feel for your pepperspray keychain on your backpack.

• Prowling lazily beside you as he notes the way you steal nervous glances at him, he almost chuckles. You have good instincts at least. Transforming and mass shifting to startle you so badly you nearly fall into an alley, you stare up at him, arm outstretched and whatever you’re holding pointed at him. “Easy now, cher,” he purrs, lifting his hands as you stumble, eyes darting as you look for help. “What’s a soft thing like you doing out here alone?” He asks. “Don’t you know it’s not safe?” You’re not running, but you’re wary of him. Still. You’re listening to him and he studies you. Because there’s one way to get your people off his case so he can move freely.

• Heart racing because it’s one of them. You’ve never actually seen one of them in person before, just on the news. Hadn’t even realized there were any in your town. And you have no idea what to make of that lazy drawl of his or his disarming, crooked smile. “What do you want?” You ask, realizing you’re still pointing the pepper-spray at him even though you seriously doubt the stuff can do anything against a Cybertronian. Except annoy them. ‘What makes you think I want anything more than to see you home safe?’ He asks, his biolights drawing your eyes distractingly. Lowering your arm, you study him. Maybe he’s just a good samaritan, but your money is on him wanting something from you. What exactly, you have no idea.

• Smiling tiredly before wrinkling your nose, you wrestle his energon off the cart. “You know me better than that,” you say, pressing your knuckles against the base of your spine. How much do those barrels weigh? Don’t know, but you’re definitely getting a workout. “My ex showed up for the last of his junk and tried to talk me into taking him back.” Which isn’t happening. If you want drama, you can watch it on TV.

• Ex? Freezing as he clears his vents slowly before pulling air back in to scent you. Picking up someone else’s scent on you as he rumbles, servos flexing. Knows you’re after a mate, that’s why you’re tending to him, trying to court him like a proper conjunx. And it sounds like you’d courted a mate before, that your previous choice has decided they want you. Is that their scent on you? Bending, he reaches and you startle, dropping your bottle of soap as his servos carefully close around you and he lifts you. “Sir? Wheeljack?” You say, voice hitching when he presses his face against you, venting. Hating that strange scent.

• What is he doing? “This ex put their hands on you?” He growls, engine rumbling aggressively as he noses against your body. Making you painfully aware of how small you are compared to him. He’s never picked you up and you have no idea why he’s growling. Does he think your ex hurt you? You’d given him a hug to make him leave because he’d looked like a sad, wet puppy. It’s not like he was a bad guy, just had too much baggage to deal with. “Hurt you?”

• ‘So what did we learn?’ Mirage asks as Wheeljack shudders. Hadn’t imagined humans could lash out like that when you’re normally so sweet and soft. Also hadn’t imagined it could be a turn on. Flustered as his vocal indicators flash pink, he rumbles. ‘For Primus’s sake,’ Mirage grumbles, throwing up his hands and Wheeljack looks away, a shoulder lifting in a shrug before he’s struggling out of Hound’s grip and heading after you.

• Striding through the base, you’re not surprised that there’s never a guard around when you need one. Maybe you can just find and hide near one of the aliens? Whoever that guy was, he’s not supposed to be here and some of the Cybertronians are a bit protective of caretakers. And you risk a glance over your shoulder. Only to see the creep limping after you. Had thought you’d punted his balls into the back of his throat, but maybe this guy has a thing for pain? Or he’s stupid.

• “Back off,” you snarl as he follows you and that raw aggression in your tone’s doing things to him. Things he really doesn’t want to examine too closely. ‘It’s me. Wheeljack? It’s an avatar, okay?’ He calls out and you hesitate, eyes narrowing. ‘I thought maybe we could explore? As humans?’ Spend some time together. “What?” You demand, brow furrowing. Approaching warily, he lifts his hands palms out. Would rather you didn’t knee him again. ‘It’s Wheeljack?’ He repeats hopefully.

• Staring at him, your mouth opens and closes. Registering his hesitant, sheepish smile. The shape of his face. Recognition sparking through you as you flush. “Why are you- why do you look like that?” You mumble, realizing you kneed him. Hard. And you just want to turn and stride away. Pretend this isn’t happening. ‘I wanted to surprise you?’ Looking past him, you spot two other Autobots watching curiously. His actual body leaning around the wall with them as he and the avatar both lift a hand in the same goofy wave. “Are you okay?” You ask, embarrassedly pointing down and his smile becomes even more strained.

• ‘In movies, they do,’ Mirage grumbles, eyeing him until he fidgets. ‘But you’re taking your human on a date. Don’t you want to look nice for them?’ Yes? At a loss, he looks over at Hound and the other mech grimaces. Avatar’s shoulders slumping, he sighs. “Alright,” he says, reluctantly letting the other two make adjustments to his avatar, because he definitely wants this to go well. To not embarrass you. What would it be like to walk down a human street with you without other humans recoiling? To pretend.

• Grabbing a cart from the supply room, you tug it over to the locked cabinet of prepped energon and unlock the gate. Stepping up on the platform they’re stored on, you inhale slowly and work to shimmy one over onto your cart without tipping it over. Your arms and back are aching by the time you get it to the edge of the platform and someone touches you in the middle of your back to startle you. Reeling away, eyes wide, you stare at some guy you’ve never seen before and he’s grabbing you around the middle to keep you from pitching off the platform.

• “There you are. I’ve been looking all over for you,” he says as you go rigid. “Here, let me help you down.” And you’re so soft. It’s not like he hadn’t known that already, but it hits different with the avatar. Lifting you, your eyes go wide and you suck in a sharp breath. Little hands grabbing his. Before you dig your blunt little nails into him, the pain a surprise as the avatar’s sensory nets register it. ‘Let go of me,’ you snarl and his mouth opens, realizing you don’t know him like this. That’s right, hadn’t Thundercracker’s human panicked, too? “No, see it’s okay. You know me.” Grip tightening so he doesn’t accidentally drop you when you start squirming, he’s not sure what he’s doing wrong. He’s not hurting you. You’re hurting him though, clawing at his hands before you knee him.

• “How do you think it’s going?” Hound asks and they both wince at a human screaming ‘help’ right before they see you running out of the supply room. ‘Yeah, that’s about what I expected,’ Mirage mutters as they watch Wheeljack stumble out and fall to his knees, cupping himself. “Come on,” Hound says, venting tiredly as he walks over to the avatar. “Did you even tell them who you were?” The other Autobot only whines softly, slowly falling over and curling into a ball. ‘Maybe we should dull the pain receptors,’ Mirage suggests as Wheeljack wheezes.