⛽gas station banshee💀

• It’s like Orion doesn’t understand that what they do is vital. That they’re an integral cog in the Cybertronian machine as miners. Exploring exotic, alien worlds? That’s the domain of other bots. Not them. And even worse, Orion wants to find a human conjunx so that they can’t be forced back to Cybertron. Wants to keep playing space explorer. “I mean, that is an option, but you know as well as I do that we’re meant for more,” Orion insists and D rolls his optics, clearing his vents noisily. ‘We’re meant to be miners. You know, to do our job?’ He growls and Orion throws an arm across his shoulders. “There’s one. I’m going over. Try to look less angry. Maybe smile,” Orion says and D grabs for the other mech, but he’s already striding for the organic coming out of the lawn and garden store. ‘Pax,’ he hisses angrily.

• Looking up when you see one of the alien refugees heading your way with a wide smile, your shoulders hunch. Walking a little faster with your cart of plants, you hope you’re wrong. That he’s not about to hassle you as his buddy throws up his hands and turns away. “Hi,” he says moving to intercept you and you’re forced to stop or run into him with your cart. And he’s smiling charmingly as he catches the front of your cart like he knows you’re trying to find a way around him. “Me and my shy friend over there, we’re pretty new here. We were hoping you might be able to show us around?” Glancing at his surly looking buddy when he gestures at him, the other mech awkwardly sort of lifts a hand. But mostly he just looks really uncomfortable and you know the feeling. ‘Sorry, I’m not looking for a husband,’ you mutter. Especially not husbands plural.

• Keeping his smile in place, Orion shrugs. “Who said anything about husbands?” He counters as he puzzles over the word. Is that your people’s term for a conjunx, maybe? “D, I mean he’s too embarrassed to admit it, but he can’t read your human language,” he adds, gesturing at the writing on the front of the nearest building. “Makes it a little hard to figure out what places are Cybertronian friendly. Where to find energon.” And your brow furrows, but you’re not trying to run. Or screaming at him to go away. “We’re just lost. Hungry.” Which isn’t exactly a lie.

• Rumbling as he feels your exhausted field prickling at him, his servos brush your hand. “I heard you, little song bird. Singing by yourself,” he admits and you make a soft huff of sound. Teasing one of your little fingers, he still doesn’t understand why you’re allowing him to hold you. But maybe he just finally broke you. Maybe there’s no fight left and that’s a hollow, empty victory. Likes your fire even as it frustrates him and sends him over the edge, ignites his own temper.

• “That’s what ruined my life? Singing?” You ask raggedly, shoulders shaking and it’s just so stupid, so arbitrary. You aren’t sure if you want to laugh or cry. Swearing softly, the arm draped across you tightens some. ‘Ruined,’ he echoes with a growl and you can’t feel sorry for him. He has to realize this isn’t okay. Isn’t a healthy relationship. You’re his prisoner. That he’s obsessed with you hardly makes it better. You shouldn’t have to be his plaything. His normalcy.

• “We could be happy,” he mutters and you make a rude noise that has him shuttering his optics. Is that really so hard for you to believe? That he could take care of you, that you might grow to love him? That this strange dependence, this need to be needed could be love. Pushing up, he leans over you and your expression is immediately wary, hurting him.

• “This isn’t love,” you whisper as his optics narrow and he’s far too close. Reminding you of how short that fuse is. That while he’s never laid a servo on you when he’s angry, he’s taken it out on his ship before. ‘It could be. Someday,’ he says and you almost pity him. “No. It couldn’t.” And he leans his head down, laying it against your shoulder as he growls in his own language. Maybe cursing you. Or himself. Both of you. Staring at the ceiling, you’re not even surprised when he roughly growls at you to sing for him. Wanting you to smile, to pretend. Be his happy, little caged bird that sings so his world isn’t so silent and lonely.

• Optics shuttering, the question isn’t a surprise. It’s one you’ve asked so many times. Sometimes screaming it at him. He’s just so tired of fighting. Knows what he’s doing is wrong. So why can’t he stop? Feels that familiar anger stir, but it’s banked. Exhausted. Didn’t mean for things to get so out of hand. “Just forget about it,” you mutter, tiredly. And you’re right there. So close. But so distant.

• Why did you think he’d give you a straight answer? Or any answer? Almost want to cry, you’re so frustrated, but you don’t even have the energy for it. Just tired. Of fighting him. “I like it on my own. No one to be accountable to. Works better that way for everyone,” he murmurs and you ignore him, breath catching when his servos barely ghost up your spine. “No wasting time while old mechs that haven’t been in the field in millennia argue politics.”

• You don’t move away from his touch and he’s not sure what to make of it. Even if you don’t respond, either. Are you as tired of fighting as he is? Shifting closer until his chassis is against your back, he slowly drapes an arm across you. Half expects you to shove him away, so it’s a surprise when you don’t. Ignoring him, but that’s nothing new. How many times has he had to deal with your sullen silences? Your anger? So used to laughing off his loneliness, pretending nothing touches him. Doesn’t want to pretend anymore.

• He’s warm against your back, his arm across you and his hand brushes your arm. Need to distance yourself, but a guilty part of you enjoys the feeling of someone holding you. Even if it’s him. Know you shouldn’t allow this. “So you’ve always just been awful at dealing with other people,” you mutter and he chuckles, the low sound unexpected. And you hate yourself a bit for smiling despite yourself.

Previous

• Reaching up, he runs a big hand over his face, painfully aware of all the mistakes he’s made. That he keeps making with you. Not cut out for this, for gentle and soft. Rolling onto his side, he reaches to brush your hair away from your temple and he freezes when your eyes open, that familiar wariness in your stare leaving him suddenly exhausted. Doesn’t want to fight with you. Watches your eyes dart to his servos then his face.

• Know you should scoot away from him, get some space between you both even though he’s an arm’s length away as he slowly draws his hand back. And you’re just staring at each other, his optics tired. Maybe sick of fighting just like you are. “You hate me, don’t you?” He asks, deep voice rumbling and your mouth opens, ready to blurt yes, but you stop yourself. Because you know how that ends. Just because he’s being nice now, doesn’t mean it’ll last. And smarting off always pisses him off, but you can’t seem to help yourself.

• “If you were me, wouldn’t you?” You ask slowly, tone guarded. Lips twitching into a rueful, crooked smile, it hurts, but he deserves that. Knows it. Screwed this up so badly and now he’s not sure how to move forward or if he even can. Maybe there’s no fixing this and all he can do is watch it burn down around him. It’s what he’s best at, his collateral damage taking out everything and everyone around him. Living up to the Wrecker name.

• “Why did you help me if you hate me?” He asks, reaching out and laying the back of his hand between you both, palm up. “Why bother?” He persists as your eyes narrow. What does he want? For you to forgive him? Say you like him now? That he’s not that bad and reach out to hold his hand? ‘Because I’m not like you,’ you mutter sullenly thinking he’ll pull his hand away, curl his servos into a fist. Instead, that crooked, little smile grows. Somehow that affectionate smile, like you’re flirting with him is worse than his anger. Don’t know what to do with it, so you roll over so your back is to him.

Previous

• “And why would I want to do that?” You counter angrily, eyes narrowing up at him and that familiar guilty feeling hums through him. Because he knows he did wrong by you. Took you and refused to let you go. Running a hand over his face, he slowly lays back on the berth, aware of you backing away warily. Not trusting him at all and that’s his fault. Can’t even really explain why he’d taken you, that for a klik, your singing had reminded him of a better time before the war that he’d thought he’d forgotten. And he’d taken you, trying to cling to those old memories. To remember when he’d actually been happy not just pretending nothing bothers him.

• And he rolls toward you, a massive hand reaching to close around you and pull you to him as he mass shifts. Tensed and ready for a fight even though you’re exhausted, you push upright and he just lays his head in your lap and curls an arm around you so you can’t escape. You can feel one of his head fins digging into the inside of your thighs as his optics shutter and you wonder how much energon he’s lost. Trying to get comfortable, you blow out a breath. Is he recharging? Because if he offlines, you’re going to be stuck here on his berth. He looks peaceful right now, venting softly and you half want to smack him. Repeatedly. Glancing at his shuttered optics, you run the tip of a finger over the scar on his lip.

• You’re touching him? Staying still, he tries to figure out what you’re thinking. Knows you hate him for trapping you, so why are your hands so gentle right now? Wants to apologize for all of it, but when he tries to talk to you, it always ends with you both angry and yelling. Wonders what would have happened that day if he’d just approached you. Let you keep your freedom and came back to you. Talked to you and gotten to know you. Would you have let him? Trusted him? Or would you have been scared of him. Hid in your home hoping he’d leave.

• Why did he have to ruin your life? It wasn’t like you had that much going on, but it had been your life. You’d been free to make your own choices and he’d barreled into it like a wrecking ball to destroy everything you had. And maybe you’d not been particularly happy, but who really is? Tracing one of the brow ridges above his optics, his hand lifts to wrap around yours. Pulling it to his mouth, his warm lips brushing the inside of your wrist as you freeze. “Don’t go,” he murmurs, rough voice strangely vulnerable and you know it’s just the injuries talking. That he’s likely delirious. But you still whisper ‘okay,’ even though you owe him nothing.

Previous