LynnHF

• Wheezing as you hook a finger in the neck of your shirt while sweat slicks it to you, you’re startling when servos brush your temple. Staring up at him as he leans down, his head tilts slightly, visor brightening. “I’m good,” you manage, guessing he’s worried. He has to be used to you gasping and sweating after a run at this point, though. “Just feeling that burn.” Which is supposedly a good thing, but you’re not loving it.

• Hand still extended as you slowly straighten, he has the urge to hook his servo in the neck of your covering. To tug you into his frame. Instead, he lets his hand fall. This fixation with you isn’t healthy. Far too close to obsession. The smart thing to do would be to back off. Let you have your space. Knows the war is officially over, but a part of him is still waiting. Still expecting Megatron to return defiant and angry. Because the corruption on Cybertron had started back up almost immediately. It’s why he’d stayed here. Why so many had. Living here, but not really living. Not belonging. Not home.

• He’s just staring at you without moving as your skin crawls. It’s not like you haven’t seen him do this before, but it’s always unsettling. A reminder that he’s alien. Not human. Makes you wonder what he’s thinking right now as his visor dims. There are so many of them here on earth. Living and working, but you know a part of you will always see them as other. He’s your friend, your coworker, but he’s not like you. Doesn’t think like you do. Doesn’t think or act like a human. “Soundwave?”

• Shuddering slightly as he straightens, he buries that urge to drag you closer. To hold you. To pursue something more. He’s used to wanting anyway. Before Ravage had taken him in, he’d been hungry all the time, scared, and overwhelmed by an ability he couldn’t understand or control. Can protect you, look after you, but nothing more. No matter what he wants. If Megatron returns, he knows he’ll return to the warlord’s side. “Ready?” He asks as his servos curl into a fist to fight the urge to touch you and you groan, but nod. Trying to ignore the way his spark aches, he’s never been uncertain like this before. Conflicted about what to do. But you make it harder to know his next move. Make him want to believe in a future where he might belong. And when he imagines it, you’re there.

Once everything was set up and ready, you tell him to take off the mask. Not wasting a second, he rips the thing off his head, his brown hair now a mop of a mess that makes him unfairly attractive, as his eyes go wide at the surprise you had in store for him. 

“Baby,” he whispers, walking closer to the new Spider-Man suit you had made him. 

You smile, side-stepping so he can get a full look at it. 

“Your old one was getting a lot of tears in it, so I thought I’d try to make you a new one. I also tried to stick to your design cause I know you like it, but–“ 

You’re quickly cut off by hands resting on your cheek and hip, lips on yours, and the wall suddenly against your back as Peter’s kissing you. You can’t help the small laugh that escapes you, causing Peter to smile against the kiss. It’s all teeth and smiles before he’s pulling away, gently holding your face in both hands like you’re the most precious thing in the world, before he starts kissing every inch of your face. 

“I take it you like your surprise?” You ask through laughs. 

He nods, mumbling “love it, love you more though,” in between kisses. 

You’re not sure how much time passes until he pulls away, leaving you a breathless, giggling mess as his eyes flicker between you and the new suit you had made for him. 

“I can’t believe you made me a new suit,” he whispers, shaking his head in disbelief. “Thank you,” he says, kissing your lips once again. 

“If this is how you’re going to react when I make you a suit, I might just make you a new one every day,” you joke. 

Instead of responding, Peter kisses your forehead, as if he can’t get enough of kissing you, as if none of it was enough. Before he can start his onslaught of kisses again, you’re gently pushing him away from you, laughing at his pout as you nod your head towards the suit. “Go try it on!” You exclaim with a laugh. He eagerly nods, stealing one more quick kiss before grabbing the suit and heading to the bathroom. 

“Fits like a glove!” He exclaims, exiting the bathroom with the suit on, and what you think is supposed to be a poor attempt at jazz hands. He does a small spin, letting you see the full suit on him as you grin a wide smile that almost makes your cheeks hurt. 

“Looks great!” You tell him. 

Peter scoffs, ripping the mask off his face as he strides towards you, cupping your face as he kisses you once again. This time, soft and slow, as if he’s trying to pour all his love and gratitude for you in that one kiss. “Looks perfect,” he mutters when he pulls away. “Feels perfect, seriously, baby, thank you.”

You shrug with a smile. “Course,” you say through another fit of giggles as he starts pecking your face with kisses once again, like he’ll never get tired of this, of you. 

“Love you,” he says, with a final kiss to the tip of your nose. 

“Love you more,” you reply. 

Peter scoffs, rolling his eyes in feigned annoyance as he kisses you one more time to tell you that no, he loves you more, actually. 

peter flufftober taglist: @ireadmorethantalk @bingsbitch @njdluvr

• Venting raggedly, his servos gingerly touch his side and come away wet. His self repair systems trying and struggling to deal with the extent of the damage. Easing himself down, he knows Lazerbeak will bring supplies to deal with the damage. A field triage kit. Just has to wait. Annoyed at himself and the Wrecker, his tendrils weakly flick as his internal systems bombard him with alerts about the damage, like it thinks he’s not very aware of the fact that he’s bleeding out energon at a dangerous pace. That his processor feels muddled, struggling to stay online and coherent. Remembers the gladiator pits suddenly, the bite of energon in the air. He’d survived that place, this strange world won’t end him.

• Moving through the trees, self loathing twists through you. Because you know better. Love laughing at the idiots in those slasher movies that walk toward the killer to see what that weird noise was. Had always felt superior watching them, because who’d really be that dumb? You, apparently. And the sun is slowly sliding below the horizon behind you to make the shadows stretch. Bringing up the flashlight on your phone, every little noise has your skin crawling. Your instincts screaming to get out of the woods, because you’d very much like to live. Stumbling to a stop as you notice something big ahead, you play the light over the angular lines of the thing as your breath catches.

• Hears the noise of steps coming closer and knows it’s the Wrecker coming back to finish the job. Tendrils weakly lifting and coiling, his head turns, the sides of his helm scraping gouges in the dirt and pine needles. Visor flickering, he stares tiredly at a lone human. Weakly lifting a hand to shield his visored optics when you shine a light directly in his face, he hears you say a word he doesn’t know. Before repeating it. Several times. Wants to flare his plating. Lash out a tendril to chase you off, because you’re a problem. What if you bring other humans? Arm dropping to the ground, he clears his vents as his own frame fights him. Too weak. Knows he’s lost too much energon. It wasn’t supposed to be like this.

• “Just thinking how unfair it is that you seem more at home here than I am when it’s my world,” you mutter and he vents silently, a servo hooking under your chin to tip your face up. “It’s fine. I’m not salty about it at all,” you add, your tone not matching up with your words as you reach up and grip his servo. And you laugh when he picks you up, tucking you against his chassis under his chin as he keeps walking. Using his tendrils to push aside branches so they can’t scratch your soft skin. “If anyone’s out here hiking, you’re going to give them a stroke,” you say.

• Maybe he’s got some weird, alien sound dampening field going. He’s so big and heavy, he should be making a lot more noise than you do. Relaxing into his frame even though he’s warm enough that you immediately start sweating, you sit up slightly when you see the glimmer of light reflecting off water through the trees. Lifting a hand as the sun temporarily blinds you, you’re hanging onto his servos when he lowers you to your feet. His hands lingering on you as he scans the area, plating lifting and settling with a soft whisper of noise before he lets go.

• Satisfied that the area is safe, he watches you head right for the water. And his cables whip restlessly when you toe off your shoes and strip down to the less substantial coverings you wear underneath your other layers before you’re wading into the water. Still finds it unsettling to watch you swim when his own heavy frame only sinks in the water. Clearing his vents, he follows you in, stopping where he can touch bottom without his head under water. Spark thrumming as you swim around him, his plating ruffles when you disappear under the surface to become a hazy, sleek shape. Until you seem more alien than ever.

• Plating ruffling up slightly, the noise you’re making is unsettlingly wet, your breaths gasping. And you scoot away from him, grabbing the other end of your blanket and rolling. Cocooning yourself in an attempt to ignore him. Rumbling as he mass shifts and steps up onto the berth, he bends and you stutteringly swear at him when he hooks an arm around you and picks you up. Sitting and settling you in his lap as you struggle to fight free of the blanket, it’s amusing how flustered you are. Angry eyes glare at him as he catches your chin and lifts your face his way so he can study you. Has no idea how to take care of a sick organic.

• “Just leave me alone,” you growl, hating that the words come out as a tired whine. ‘What is it you need? Human medicines?’ He demands as you shove at his hand. “Just let me sleep it off,” you groan, giving up on getting away when he hooks his other arm around you. “Please?” Not above begging at this point, because you feel awful and you just want to rest. Would love some soup. Maybe some ginger ale. And sending him to hunt for it would get you some peace and quiet. Though you’re half afraid he’d just raze the town to ash hunting for anything you ask him to find, because he’s hardly subtle. Or patient.

• Leaning to stretch out slowly on his side with you pinned against his chassis, his rumbling dips. Roughening into a ragged sounding purr that’s meant to soothe. The sort of noise used on sparklings. And he hears you mutter that he sounds like he’s gargling rocks as he fights the urge to bite you for that. Rubbing a hand against your back, he feels at a loss. Ill-equipped to deal with caring for others. Feels your forehead rest against his chassis as you seem to give up on escaping. Letting him watch over you.

• “Well,” you begin, unsure how to explain that since she insists on mothering you like you’re a lost kitten, you’d wanted to thank her. Except now you’re wondering if she might find the oversized doggy bed insulting. Had just thought that since she stretches out on the ground or on walls all the time that she might appreciate something soft to lay on. Maybe not, though. Maybe she prefers to sleep on hard objects because she’s living metal? “You don’t have to use it, I just thought you might like something soft?”

• Circling you and the bed, she vents. Aware that you’re watching her. A gift? Hardly needs such soft things. Head lowering, she seizes the bed in her mouth and drags it into the middle of the stall, leaping up onto the bench with it and dropping down inside it to roll onto her back and stretch. “Come enjoy the sun, kitten,” she mutters, embarrassed and pleased that you’d thought of her. “We have catching up to do. Is that nasty Stunticon still trying to talk to you?” She asks as you climb the ladder to join her.

• “Not since I told him what you taught me to say.” Have no real clue what she’d taught you to say in her awful, alien language, but you’re guessing it wasn’t particularly nice. Especially with how offended the mech had gotten. ‘Good,’ she growls, legs stretching as you sit beside the oversized bed and she gives you a disproving look until you sigh and stretch out beside her in it while hoping no one walks by to see you goofing off instead of working. ‘Most mechs are only after one thing,’ she adds and you smile even though you really don’t see the harm in washing one of them. Especially since it’s your job.

• Venting because you just look puzzled, she has to resist the urge to swat you with a paw. Had already had to drive off two mechs that had been trying to sweet talk you into giving them a bath and into their berths. How you’ve survived as long as you have when you’re so painfully innocent and soft is beyond her. “We might be smaller than they are, but we won’t surrender our autonomy to any mech and we’ll draw first energon if we must to defend our right to choose,” she says watching you stretch in the sun. “Show me your fangs,” she adds and you grimace before growling and baring your pitifully blunt teeth to her exasperation. That’s your war face? You’re hopeless.

Images of Dai Atlas from TFW2005… poor guy can barely see over his tits. We’re getting a Tarn and Cyclonus, too

>> You’re the glitch

>> Yeah, they don’t like that. Humans need several joors of rest

>> That seems excessive. Are you sure yours isn’t just lazy?

>> No, from a medical standpoint, if you’re forcing yours to wake up after only a couple of joors repeatedly, you’re going to cause mental health issues. Let them sleep

>> What does it mean if my human is being clingier than usual? I’m talking like constantly touching me and making an uncomfortable amount of optic contact?

>> They wish to frag

>> Wait- are you serious?

>> Don’t assume that and whip it out. Some of them are just cuddly

>> Or cold. They prefer warmer temperatures than we do. Yours may just be clingy because they’re cold and you’re warmer than they are

>> How do I know which it is?

>> Lay down, mass shift, and whip it out

>> Don’t

>> Humans require finesse. Romancing.

>> Are you all fragging your humans? I thought they were exotic pets. I’m surrounded by fragging deviants

>> Don’t knock it until you try it

>> I don’t want to try it. Why are you all like this?

>> It’s been a long, fragging war

>> Subject change, please. Look at this :image: :image: :image: :image: :image: Aren’t they cute when they’re sleeping?

>> So you just watch them sleep? And document it?

>> :link: Human unhappy? I have access to a finely curated collection of specialty human supplies guaranteed to help. Including toys

>> What’s wrong with watching them sleep?

>> It’s just kind of weird?

>> Says the mech fragging theirs

>> This is a JUDGEMENT FREE ZONE

>> It’s not. I’m judging. A lot. You’re all disgusting

>> What kind of toys?

>> :image: :image: :image: :image: :link: Only the best quality merchandise

>> Stop spamming rubber spikes in chat! I know that’s you, Swindle. No one wants to see that

>> They’re silicone, not rubber

>> No one cares

>> This is why we keep losing to those fragging Autobots.

>> Rubber spikes?

>> Idiot. I’m surrounded by idiots

>> Settle this for me- someone said I’m not taking care of my human the right way. If they like eating something, what’s wrong with letting them?

>> Because some things are bad for them

>> What are you, a medic?

>> Yes. Stop letting your human eat only junk food

>> Hey, what’s it mean if they’re holding up a single finger at me?

>> They wish to frag

>> Depends on the finger

>> Is everything about fragging to you? Can we vote people out of the chat? I want a vote

>> It’s a human insult when they do that

>> Actually, it kind of is all about fragging to humans. Bunch of horny deviants. It’s a wonder they accomplish anything

>> You ever think that maybe something is just wrong with yours?

>> Nope. But I do like them weird

• Scrubbing ‘ET go home’ graffiti off the side of his house, First Aid vents tiredly. Can understand some of the hostility, though. Guesses the humans had assumed they’d all leave after the war ended, but some of them don’t have anywhere else to go. Just trying to make a life. Turning when he catches movement from his periphery, he sees you holding up a badly mangled envelope. “I got your mail again,” you call out and he drops the sponge back in the bucket. “I’m sorry,” you add, looking up at the graffiti and he’s not sure why you’re sorry. Knows you had nothing to do with it. You’re not the type.

• “This is actually nice compared to some of the things they write,” he says, shrugging as he bends to reach for the letter and hesitates, his servos wet. “Could you put in by the door, please?” Saying sure, you look up at the huge, metal hangar that’s his home. Your neighborhood has plenty of these, low rent areas like this, you get Cybertronians, but you’ve never had an issue with them. Sure, there’s rumors that some of them are pretty nasty and there was the one who was arrested a year ago when they realized he was a serial killer behind several missing persons cases and had kept souvenirs. But First Aid is a sweetheart. Normal for a giant alien. “Thank you,” he says, staring up at the graffiti.

• “We’re not all like that,” you say and it’s sweet that it bothers you. That you care. You at least bring him his mail, the elderly human on the other side never does and he’s almost positive the man’s gotten his packages a couple of times even though he can’t prove it. “How are your classes?” You ask and he rubs at the back of his helm. Because organic medicine is proving so different that he’s being challenged. But he wants, needs, to help. Misses it. Learning so he can qualify as a medic for humans and Cybertronians both.

• “I think I’m getting the hang of it finally,” he says and you smile, but it wavers staring at the ugly red paint on his wall. Knowing that’s not exactly uncommon. That a lot of humans despise Cybertronians, want them deported off Earth or at least shuffled to a different country to be someone else’s problem. And most of them just want to be left alone. To live. ‘Maybe I’ll be your first human patient,’ you say. In the summer he’d brought you some impatiens after a neighbor’s dog dug yours up. Sometimes the two of you sit on his porch and just talk about nothing. His school, your work. He’s not human, but he’s nicer than a lot of humans are. “I’d like that,’ he says, bending to grab his sponge and start scrubbing again.

• Passing by your room, he glances in to check on you and your younglings. Can’t seem to help himself, attention gravitating toward you wherever you’re around him. And he sees one of your students handing you a paper ornament. Sees you smiling, relaxed and unguarded as you say something to the youngling. Head lifting, you meet his stare like you could feel his optics on you through the glass. Feeling oddly guilty, like he’d been caught doing something he shouldn’t, he turns away.

• Standing up, you set the ornaments on your desk and open your door, staring at his back as Soundwave walks away. You know he’d brought supplies to let his kids make ornaments this morning, too, but you wonder suddenly what he makes of the holiday. Is it just confusing and strange to him? A reminder that he’s an alien here, that he’s separate no matter how much he’s trying to belong. “Soundwave, wait.” Don’t want him to feel like he’s on the outside looking in, because you know too well what that feels like.

• Turning when you call out his name, you’re jogging after him, face flashed. “None of your kids are still here, right?” You ask, brushing at your clothes to scatter glitter everywhere as you avoid meeting his stare. Knows most of the younglings’s parents took them out of class early, that there’s only a handful of kids whose parents couldn’t left on the building. But his class is all gone leaving him alone. Told himself it was a good thing, he could work on lesson plans, but he’s just restless. Lonely. ‘No,’ he admits.

• Watching the human younglings playing, he vents and moves to join you on the slightly oversized, reinforced bench meant to hold the weight of a mass displaced mech. Noting that your boots can’t touch the ground as you sit on one side of it, legs swinging. “Hey,” you greet him, smiling faintly, though your eyes never leave the younglings. And as he sits beside you, he tries to imagine Cybertronian younglings among the human ones. Playing together. Feeling that longing ache through him as he watches the young play. “Your kids excited for the book fair this week?” You ask.

• “Very,” he replies, deep, tonal voice somber as always. Serious. Maybe that’s why his kids behave so much better than yours. You’ve never heard him raise his voice or get angry. Or it could be that he’s Cybertronian, not human. Maybe he intimidates them, though you immediately dismiss that. His kids love him. Breath fogging slightly in the air, you hunch deeper into your coat, watching the kids for signs of drama or fighting. “They start their physical training soon?” He asks and you smile. Because it’s mostly the kids running laps around the gym as part of a fitness initiative, though you’d pitched in with a couple of others to get them some frisbees and hula hoops to play with.

• “Gotta keep them active,” you reply, head falling back. “I’m going to have to start jogging on the treadmill to keep up,” you add and he rumbles studying your profile as you smile slightly. “Can’t really ask them to run if I can’t do it, too.” Servos flexing, you both look when someone squeals, a couple of little girls running and playing tag. Happy in a way that hurts him. Knows their medics and scientists are trying to figure out why they can’t create new sparks. Why they’re slowly dying out. But he still can’t help but want his own family. His cassettes moving on after the war, finding their own lives to leave him lonely.

• “We could train together,” he offers and you eye him. With the visor and mask and that serious voice, it’s hard to tell when he’s messing with you. Maybe he actually means it and just doesn’t realize how out of shape and slow you are. He’s going to get a rude awakening. ‘Sure,’ you agree, leaning forward to drape your arms on your knees as two kids start arguing over the same swing. ‘Hey! No biting!’ You scream, lunging to your feet and running. Because of course, it’s your kids causing a fuss. It’s always your class.

• How did they really think this was going to work? Because you’d guessed the aliens wouldn’t understand you, but your assigned bot’s blank stare confirms it. Maybe your boss had just assumed the Cybertronians wouldn’t want to talk to the help. Smiling weakly, you pull your backpack off and dig your tablet out. Writing out a message and holding it up, belatedly wondering if they can even read your language. On the bright side, you can curse your boss out to his face later for this, because as long as you’re smiling, he assumes you’re signing something nice or asking a question. He’s never bothered to learn a single sign.

• Leaning, arms resting on his knees, he reads the tablet you’re holding up and frowns slightly. You’d introduced yourself, explaining that you’re deaf, but can read lips if he speaks slowly. “This,” he says slowly, trying to make the same gestures you had and your nose wrinkles slightly. “It’s like chirolinguistics?” And you only shake your head, hands moving again before you make a face and write on your table. Explaining that you don’t know that word and he reaches out a hand, hesitating before mass shifting and you startle, shying away. “May I?” He asks, reaching again.

• Staring at those big, metal hands as your heart races from the surprise of seeing him just shrink, you curl your fingers under, pressing your hands to your body. Before looking up at his too human face and those blue optics. Almost want to refuse, because if he hurts you, accidentally crushes your fingers, you won’t be able to sign. Will be even more isolated than you already are. Blowing out a breath as you search his face again, you reluctantly hold out a hand.

• Rumbling at how small your hand is in his even mass displaced, his servos brush your fingers. “This. Cybertronians have a language used to talk with our hands, too. We call it chirolinguistics,” he explains, though he doesn’t bother to explain that it’s more than just touches and motions, it’s reading fields and yours? You’re telegraphing like you don’t know how to guard your emotions and it’s endearing in a way that you’re so open with him. Reminding him that you’d chosen him even though he’s not sure how good a conjunx he’d be. If you’d still want him if you knew his past, knew the things he’d done. “Can you teach me?” He asks and your lips part slightly, surprised.