Revel

• Huffing through his vents as he spots you looking for him, he follows you. Amused at how oblivious are you. That you have no idea he’s even there. But then his kind are obviously superior. Even if the other Cybertronians mostly ignore him or call him tiny. Tell him he’s in the way. Watching a new arrival step in front of you, your neck cranes as you lift a hand. Probably greeting them, asking them about their day. Trying to be nice. And the mech bends down, servos carelessly shoving you down before they grab the energon off your cart.

• But hitting the ground hard enough to jar you, your jaw clenches as the stranger lifts the barrel and drains it. Know better than to argue or to try and tell him off, though. Flinching when he crushes the barrel and almost drops it on you, the mech sways slightly on his peds. Is he drunk? Had seen an internal memo warning about some of the mechs drinking some kind of alien bathtub hooch, but hadn’t paid much attention to it. Getting to your feet, you reach for your cart and yelp when he shoves you back down and pins you there while laughing. Ribs aching at the pressure, you struggle to get out from under his servos.

• Snarling when you scream, he’s striding your way as the other mech lifts his hand enough for you to push up to your hands and feet before seizing you by a leg and yanking you backwards, your jaw smacking the ground. “Let go,” he demands, pointing imperiously. Furious at the blood at the corner of your lip and on your chin as you stay down, trembling. ‘Scram. Find your own toy,’ the mech growls, reaching to knock him away and he goes sprawling, head turning to meet your frightened eyes. Because against a full size mech? He’s as helpless as you are and he hates it.

• Grimacing as Orion gestures for him to walk over, D-16 swallows a groan as his peds drag. Glancing at you, it’s almost eerie how Cybertronian your features are. Shouldn’t aliens look more alien? Though if you did look wholly other, he probably wouldn’t be able to tell that you don’t really buy a word of Orion’s story. Your eyes lift to meet his optics and he hurriedly looks away. Staring at your cart instead as Orion tries to smooth talk you while you’re loading your stuff in your vehicle. Trying so hard to not think about all the trouble they’re going to be in. That he’s going to be busted down so many ranks. They both will, not that Orion cares. Always dreaming. Wanting. And it takes him a klik to realize you must have asked him something because you and Orion are both staring at him.

• Venting in amusement as D frowns, Orion tosses his arm around the other mech’s shoulder. Introducing him to you as you smile and repeat your own name. “I know a few places that cater to Cybertronians,” you say, stumbling slightly over the word like you were about to say something else. Aliens, maybe? Though, he knows there are other more insulting things some humans tend to call them. “If you want to transform, you can follow me,” you add and D vents as Orion awkwardly rubs a hand against the back of his neck. ‘About that.’

• “We can’t transform,” the gray one, D-16 mutters as Orion nods, echoing him and you stare. Aren’t they transforming, alien robots? Had thought that was their whole thing. That might also be something sensitive that you shouldn’t ask, even if you really want to. So are there aliens that can transform and some that can’t? Or maybe these guys are too young? Are these alien teenagers lost and alone on a strange world? Probably scared. They have to be. Maybe they’re runaways? Locking your vehicle, you inhale. ‘Come on then.’

• And you’re gesturing for them to follow you as you start walking. Just like that. Plating ruffling slightly at the thought of following a stranger somewhere without a clue where they’re going, he rumbles as Orion just immediately falls in behind you. Leaving him no choice but to follow. You’re so small, he doubts you could hurt either of them anyway. But it does make him nervous. Has heard rumors about Cybertronians disappearing on Earth. Horror stories about alien chop shops after Cybertronian tech. And you’d changed your mind about helping pretty suddenly. Maybe you are talking them to a chop shop.

• Rumbling as your breath hitches when his servos brush higher, palm pressing against your chest to feel the quick beat of your heart. Aware of how terrible his odds were. Of not only ending up on this far flung, unknown world, but actually finding you. “I don’t mind it,” he says, hating how gruff the words come out. Because they’re not the words he wants to say. But all that pretty stuff, the poetic, romantic things you deserve? He has no idea how to say those things. How to make them be right. “Gets me closer to you.”

• Flustered as his rumbling deepens, you know there’s work to do. There’s always work, always demands on your time and his. So these moments? They’re everything. And you huff out a surprised laugh when he tugs you flush against his frame, head lowering so his helm brushes against your forehead. So you can feel the warm air from his vents on your skin like a shared breath. “We should get up. Shower,” you make yourself say, feeling his palm slide to your lower back. Sliding lower to cup your butt and tug your hips against his.

• “We should,” he agrees, voice dipping to a growl as he moves against you to tease you both. “We’ve got a lot to do.” Hips rolling in lazy undulations, you make a soft sound, hands on his chassis. “Then again, the work can wait.” Pushing up and dragging you onto your back as he straddles you, warmth spreads through him at your laughter. At the scandalized way you gasp his name. Is almost positive you can’t sense fields at all. That you’d be horrified if you knew he could. That all your anxiety and stress are right there for him to feel. So if he can distract you? Make you feel something else, something good, he’s going to take that opportunity every time. You’re his.

• You ask him things like that and his resolve wavers, servos flexing to reach for you. Moving slowly so he doesn’t startle you, he reaches to brush a servo against your cheek, fascinated with the softness of you. “All’s well,” he replies even though he’s not so sure. Wanting things he shouldn’t. Like you. A future. An after. Letting his hand fall, you reach for him. Sliding your palm into his as you swallow, your smile uncertain and he can’t look away from your small hand in his. ‘So what movie are we going to?’ You ask and it takes him a klik to even realize you asked a question. Too transfixed by your hand in his. That you’d reached for him.

• And you’re pretty sure your awkward self just made this weird because he’s staring at your hand in his. Why had you grabbed his hand? It’s not like this is a date. It’s just two coworkers going to a movie together. Platonically. Trying to pull away, his servos interlace with your fingers. Refusing to let go. Thoroughly flustered, you can feel your skin prickling with awareness of how close he is. The heat of his frame. “Yours Forever and Always,” he murmurs and your mind blanks. “The movie?” He adds as you want the ground to open up under your feet. That’s the new cheesy romance flick, isn’t it?

• “Sure. It’s a date,” you answer, staring at the ground before you run your other hand over your face, eyes closing like you’re in pain. Your field an embarrassed mess even without your emotions and fractured thoughts spilling into him with his telepathy. Fans cycling on, he gives in to the urge to rub his servo over your knuckle and your shoulders hunch. Doesn’t know what to say now. What to do. But he doesn’t want to let go. Has a feeling you’ll run if he does. That he’ll chase. “Not a date-date. Just two friends. Together. Watching a movie.” Lips twitching behind his mask as your shoulders shake like you’re silently laughing, that need to protect you lifts through him. And it’s that same urge that had made him refuse to let you get fired.

• Feeling the awkwardness sliding inexorably into almost painful territory, he’s still holding your hand. While asking if you want to go watch a sappy romance flick with him. You’re pretty sure this is the real reason why coyotes gnaw their legs off when they get caught in traps. Struggling with the urge to laugh at the ludicrousness of this whole situation, you only resist because you don’t want to hurt his feelings. Like him too much for that. And that thought stops you short as you blink. You like him. Do you actually have a crush on him? When had that happened? Wait, is this a date-date?

• Skin prickling as the mass displaced Cybertronian behind the counter stares you down, you gesture at the stack of paper targets behind him. “Some more of those, too,” you say, trying to get him to back off and let you have the box. ‘Shooting angry,’ he mutters and you can’t tell if there’s any real censure in his words or if he’s amused by that. You’ve seen the mech around town a few times, but hadn’t realized this was where he worked. And it has to be strange to be the only Cybertronian in town, but then maybe he moved here just to avoid his own kind. Don’t really know anything about him except that he’s got a handsome face. That he’s the reason you’re here alone and angry. Because your ex had caught you checking out the alien in passing and had at least had the decency to wait until you were both home to blow up about it since he and his family are apparently part of the “Our World” movement actively protesting Cybertronians on Earth and you hadn’t even known.

• “Is that a problem?” You ask and he shrugs, keeping a servo on the box as he leans to grab a stack of targets. ‘Only if you make it one,’ he growls. Though that anger of yours is so tempting. Making him want to push, because anger like that? It’s something he understands all too well. Feels like a ticking time bomb sometimes. Had stayed here because of the promise of a fresh start. No corrupt senate. No aristocracy. No war. He could be what he wanted to be. Live how he wanted. Isn’t sure why he’d expected humans to be any different than Cybertronians, though. Aware of the looks he gets on the street. The judgement. ‘Don’t really like aliens, do you?’ He guesses.

• Laughing despite yourself when the question catches you off guard, your face flushes. Trying to tone down on the hostility as you realize how you’re coming off, you force a smile you don’t really feel. It’s not this guy’s fault your fiancé lost his shit screaming at you. You’re the one who’d been looking. Who’d been curious because the internet is full of stories about interspecies relationships and you’d wondered what that would be like. What he was like. “Liking aliens is why I’m now single,” you mutter, embarrassed to admit it as you grab the box and tug at it, stumbling back when he lets you have it, those pretty optics watching you. His head tips slightly, lips pressed into a thin, serious line. Making you wonder if he just always looks mad at the world.

• Venting in amusement as you grab the targets, his lips twitch. “Hey, do you have a sharpie by any chance?” You ask, some of the angry tension fading. ‘Depends,’ he answers and your brows lift. “I want to doodle my ex’s stupid face on some of these,” you add holding up the targets and his lips twitch. Almost smiles. Guessing you’d messed around with a Cybertronian and had gotten caught, which is none of his business. At all. Some humans chase after aliens. Reaching under the counter to find a marker, he slides it over. And you start to turn away, but he spots the folded paper sticking out of your back pocket. ‘Is that your best one?’ He asks and you look back, embarrassed again as you pull out the target to show him your abysmal pattern as he rumbles. ‘Frag,’ he growls, locking up the gun he’d been checking and coming around the counter. ‘Let’s go.’ Because someone needs to teach you how to shoot properly.

Next

• “Want some company?” He asks, draping the cool, damp rag across your eyes and forehead. Spark aching as you take a slow, shuddering breath. “Or I can go if you need quiet?” Never knows how to help when you’re like this. You’d asked for a wet cloth once and he’s just brought you one every time since he doesn’t know what else to do. ‘Stay, please,’ you whisper, voice rough. Servos flexing as he sits, he reaches for you. Lifting your head and dragging your pillow into his lap as he scoots closer.

• Eyes closed as he eases your head back down on the pillow in his lap, you inhale through the wave of nausea from being moved. And his big servos rub your shoulders. “I can feel your field,” he mutters and you draw your legs against yourself. “It’s awful.” Pushing up to move away, his hand gently presses you back down. “I want to try something.” Shivering as his hand slides under the back of your shirt to find skin and you’re freezing when the pain halves. Reaching to lift the corner of the cloth, you stare at him.

• “Is anything happening?” He asks, jaw clenching. Because he’s definitely feeling it. Pulling your field to him and pushing his own into you. Taking some of the pain. And you look almost shocked, making him guess you can feel it. ‘How did you do that?’ You ask. “This? It’s nothing.” It is something. Excruciating. No wonder you curl up into a little ball of misery when this happens. “Is it helping?” Because if it, he can deal with this for you.

• Studying the other mech as he leans his elbow on the table to prop his chin on a fist, Chop Shop keeps smiling even as annoyance whispers through him. Because this guy is in his way. His competition. “You’re a con, right?” He asks, tapping his own badge and the mech’s extra limbs shift restlessly. Like he isn’t sure if he wants to step inside or not. ‘Former,’ the other mech mutters, arms crossing over his chassis. “Well, we’re all former cons, aren’t we? War’s over, isn’t it?” Watching the mech fidget, the mask and visor make it hard to get a read on him. All those extra legs, though? They make it too easy. Fighting a laugh when the other mech finally steps in and closes the door, he stretches out his own legs. Pretending to be completely relaxed and not worried at all. Always enjoyed a challenge anyway.

• Checking the room number you’d gotten, you awkwardly knock since you’re not sure if you’re supposed to just walk in or wait. Not really sure how this works, but you’d been promised an alien love connection that would satisfy your love of monsters. Something more exotic than the normal, more human looking Cybertronians. And you rock back a step, nervously messing with your hair out of habit when the door opens. Because there are two of them. One with extra optics, one with so many extra limbs. Flustered, you smile. “I wasn’t really expecting two of you,” you manage as the one who’d opened the door flares out all those extra limbs. “I mean, I’m not complaining.”

• Tensing as you look from him to the other Decepticon, Tarantulas has to fight the urge to reach for you and tug you closer to him. Especially when he’s never seen this other mech before. Knows nothing about him and you’re soft and warm. Human and fragile. You’re also not running as he lifts himself slightly on his extra limbs to draw your attention, his visor brightening. “This doesn’t frighten you?” He asks, extra limbs flaring aggressively and you give him a slow a once over that leaves him flustered. ‘Are you going to hurt me?’ You ask and your bluntness takes him by surprise. “No,” he sputters.

• Running a servo along the brim of his hat, he rumbles and the other patient waiting scoots their chair away from him, the legs scraping noisily on the floor. Another alien had walked into the building, saw him, and had walked right back out. Knows it’s his species’s reputation of warmongering violence, but it’s starting to get on his nerves. “Taking a while,” he says loudly and the receptionist hunches, tucking their spiny limbs closer to their body. “Maybe you ought to go see what the hold up is. Or I could go.” Because if something went wrong, if they’re stalling because you’re hurt, he’s only going to reinforce that reputation.

• Clearing his vents as the receptionist hurries into the back, his optics narrow and he glances at the other patient. And the grub looking thing squirming in their arms. That a sparkling? Makes him wonder what a human sparkling looks like. Has to be better than that thing. Doesn’t even have eyes, just a gaping hole on one end that keeps extending a toothy inner mouth. Head turning when the receptionist returns wheeling out a round gurney, his plating lifts. Because you’re slumped on your side, an arm dangling. Shoving to his peds with a snarl, he strides over as the aliens babble about trying to wait on the anesthesia to wear off so he didn’t overreact. Reaching to turn your head his way, your eyes open, pupils blown so wide that the ring of color around them isn’t visible.

• Wincing when you slur something that might be his name, your arm lifts and flails to smack against his thigh and modesty plating as you start sliding off the gurney and he bends to hook an arm around you. Lifting you against his chassis as you laugh, you’re strangely boneless. And the aliens are frantically saying it’s just the anesthesia. That you’re fine as they scuttle back. Venting angrily as he tries to not drop you, you lay a hand on his face. “If this doesn’t wear off, I’m going to be back,” he growls as you grab his face, your fingers in his mouth while telling him his optics are pretty. Maybe whatever they gave you shorted your organic brain?

• Why are you so weirdly limp? “Darling, as much as I love having those soft hands on me, it’s hard to properly threaten people when you’re doing that,” he mutters, adjusting you in his arms as you start giggling. Trying to slide out of his grip in a puddle. Are you humming? Exasperated when you won’t be still, he hefts you up on a shoulder as aliens stare. “Got a problem?” He demands, spotting one of the natives with a communication device pointed his way and you fumble with his hat, trying to steal it as he growls. What are you singing? Something about saving a horse and riding a cowboy?

• “I can walk,” he mumbles and he sounds almost embarrassed as you smile faintly. Fighting the urge to hug him when he’s so small, because the Cybertronians are just so cute and harmless this size. Know the harmless part is probably not true since they all have built in weapons, but they seem much less intimidating this size. ‘I know,’ you reply, shifting him against yourself. ‘How often can I carry you, though?’ Because normally, he’s hoisting you up onto his shoulder to ride as he walks through the base.

• Wants so bad to rest his head against you. Would that be weird? Probably, but it’s just so rare to be held like this. To feel warm and wanted. Not like he’s too big and in the way. Only useful if someone needs his strength or a bruiser. And that’s not really him. Would almost rather stay small. Maybe he could stay in your apartment in the dorms. You could find him art supplies and he could paint and draw. Learn an instrument. Do all the things he’s always wanted to do, but was denied because of his frame. Told that he couldn’t be what he wanted to be, that he was only good for physical labor.

• Feeling him slump slightly, head against you, you’re wondering if he really wanted to walk on his own. If you’ve upset him. Crouching slightly to put him down, his strange hand grasps your fingers. “I want to go with you,” he says, voice gruff and you slowly stand again with him. ‘Everything okay?’ You ask and he vents softly, servos flexing on your fingers. “Think we could get some paint? Or just something to draw with?” He asks and you blink down at him.

• Heart racing as you huff out a startled laugh, it’s not that you hadn’t known he could do that, just that he never warns you first so you flinch every time. “Are we good?” He asks, servos flexing against your arms as you meet his optics and see the concern on his face. “If I did something, just tell me. I can take it. Or you can smack me.” Exhaling slowly as one corner of his lips twitch even though his expression is still uncertain, you shake your head. Hating that he noticed something was off when you’d thought you were masking. And it’s so weird to know that the giant, alien robot you take care of is the only one who’d noticed that you weren’t okay.

• “I’ve just got some personal stuff going on at home. Drama,” you mutter, forcing a smile that doesn’t quite reach your eyes. “Sorry.” Why are you apologizing to him? Giving in to the need, he pulls you flush into his frame. Feeling the softness of you and the chaos of your field as he wraps his arms around you. ‘You want to talk about it?’ He asks and your breath catches, like you didn’t expect him to ask or care. ‘I’m not going to pry, but I’m here if you do need to talk.’

• Eyes burning, you don’t trust yourself to speak. Afraid you’ll come apart if you do, because sometimes the stress feels like it’s tearing you apart, like it’s dragging you down. But opening up about it? Burdening someone else with your problems? What if they don’t care? What if they mock you or decide you’re too much and leave? So you bottle it up and smile. Pretend everything is fine. And it works. People see what you want them to. Except him. He’d known. Because he knows you and that realization is humbling.

• Feels your fingers curl on him. Holding onto him as you take a deep, shaky breath. Sliding his hand against your back, before hooking his other arm under your butt, he lifts you against himself. Venting against your throat as his cheek brushes yours and your arms loop around his neck. And you’re still silent as you cling to him, but you’re letting him hold you and you’re not pushing him away. “I’m not going anywhere,” he murmurs. “Whether you want to talk or not, I’ve got you.” Though, he hopes you will talk to him. Let him help. Share whatever is bothering you.

• Venting as he transforms and flies over to your desk, he swaps back to his bot mode and walks onto your book as you make a dismayed sound. Now trapped even smaller than he’d already been, he can’t get into anything. Can’t lift hardly anything. Or open anything. It’s infuriating. Had expected a little compassion from you, but you’ve been staring at these books, leafing through them and chewing on the end of your archaic writing device. “Calculus? This is math for sparklings,” he mutters and you tap the chewed up end of your writing utensil on the desk. “Why are you reading this?”

• Because you need it for your degree, but you’re afraid any answer you give is going to make him want to help. Watching him walking around on your textbook while scoffing about humans and how it’s the wrong way to do calculus, you stand and walk over to your dresser. Crouching, you pull open the bottom junk drawer and dig. Know it’s in there somewhere. Had grabbed it for your little cousin and then forgotten about it. And you find the box under your socks.

• “Bet you can’t build a spaceship,” you say, dumping out a box of brightly colored bricks with funny circles on them at his peds. ‘What?’ He growls, using a ped to nudge one of the bricks and realizing they’re made to fit together. “Spaceship,” you repeat, gesturing as you sit and reach for your other book. Optics narrowing, he clears his vents. Knows you’re just trying to distract him so you can go back to your sparkling math. Why are you even studying that?

• “What are these? For sparklings?” He asks as he picks up two blocks and fits them together. “No challenge at all.” And he’s digging through the pile to find another piece as you start reading. Relaxing when he goes quiet except for the soft clicking of bricks going together, you’re not sure how long you’re working on your assignment before you look up and stare. Because that’s not the ship on the box that he’s supposed to be building, but you suppose it still counts. Watching him grabbing a piece and climbing to attach it, he’s kind of adorable this size. Making you want to reach for him and hug him. But if you do he might take an interest in what you’re doing and want to help.

• Your field is a tangle of unease and wariness as it prickles him and he presses his face against your neck, venting deeply. Never really even seriously considered being a sire. Not with the war and how unstable his life was. Had wanted to spark you, though. Just hadn’t thought he could. And this changes everything. Mouth brushing your jaw, he rumbles. Hungrily mining your field for the feel of that new spark. “You shouldn’t have avoided me,” he admonishes, more worried than upset with you. “I’m taking you to Knockout for scans.”

• Isn’t that his Decepticon medic bestie with the deeply unsettling smile and the saw? “I feel fine,” you protest, trying to wiggle loose as he starts walking with you. ‘We should have been bonding. Regularly,’ he mutters with a frown and you flush remembering the intimacy of being tangled in him while being intimate. He’s got to be mistaken, right? He can’t possibly know if you and him are pregnant. Wouldn’t there be symptoms? Morning sickness? Something? What if these guys have babies like the Giger, wetdream movie aliens? Is a tiny alien robot going to just burst out of you?

• You’re so anxious that your field is putting him on edge. “Do you know what a chest burster is by any chance?” You ask and he clears his vents as he shoulders the lobby door open and carries you outside into the sun. ‘No, why?’ Frowning down at you as you cover your face with your hands, he adjusts you in his arms. Writing it off as a weird human thing. Chest burster? What does that even mean? Unless that’s how humans reproduce? Plating ruffling slightly, the phrase just sounds violent. Do human sparklings claw their way out of their carrier? How do you survive that? Do you survive that?

• Trying to calm your nerves as he carries you through the base toward the Decepticon side, you really hate your brain. Because it’s offering up any and every possible worst case scenario it can now as he starts to jog with you to jostle you. And you have no idea how this is even happening. He’s a giant, living metal alien. You’re very much organic and soft. This shouldn’t be possible. The math isn’t mathing. “Is human reproduction normally messy and traumatic?” He asks suddenly and you lower your hands to stare at him. Why is he running? ‘Yes?’ Why ask that? He’s wrong about you being sparked. Must be. Humans don’t work like that.

• Gathering your fragile light to himself, it’s a relief when you don’t flinch away. Don’t cringe. Knows you saw enough that you should be horrified. But also that you saw enough to understand him in a way no one else can. Or ever will. Living every moment, every injustice, every cruelty with him. You shift against him with a soft, broken sound that lays him open and his head lowers. Are you grieving for him? For what he’d lost? Lips brushing against your cheek, tasting your tears as you cry for him instead of calling him a monster. Tugging you deeper into his memories as he eases down to settle himself in the cradle of your thighs, mindful of his weight, he tries to find happy moments. Beautiful things to show you. And the memory of you lifts through him. Finding you. Choosing to help. Your smile, your laugh. The way you look silhouetted against the sky at the edge of the cave entrance.

• Shivering at the dissonance of seeing your first meeting and every moment after cascading through him from his point of view, you feel him rocking against you. Rubbing his modesty panel between your thighs as his rumbling spills into you and your breath catches. Tangled in his spark, his memories, and aware of your body under his. That you’re moving with him. Everything. That’s what he’d demanded and it’s what you want. He could have broken from what had happened to him before he’d taken on the name Megatron. You would have. Instead, he’d let it forge him anew. Had refused to let them silence him.

• Hips rolling as he aches for more, hungry to claim all of you as his, he’s struggling to not rush you. To ask instead of demanding. Growling when one of your thighs slides against his hip, you shiver under him with a breathless sound. And your memories are spilling into him. A life so different from his own that it’s almost incomprehensible. Pain and joy. Hope and despair. Your emotions sharper, brighter and more visceral. Quicksilver and alien. Frame straining as his mouth opens against your throat, your feelings for him sink into him. That trust with no hesitation, no reservations humbling him even as he’s desperate for it. To be seen and accepted. Known. Loved.

• Trembling as he moves against you, your hands cling to him. Head falling back, you whimper and he growls against your skin. Needing more as you heat and wind up, but wanting to stay tangled in him. To experience it all. To know him completely. He’s palming your hip, servos exploring as he lifts up slightly and you arch into him. Trying to maintain that connection with his spark. “Don’t go,” you gasp, fingers gripping his plating as his mouth slides behind your ear. ‘I’m right here.’ And his hand slides under your shirt, servos exploring as you whimper his name.

• Yawning as his mouth and chin brush against your body, you stretch in his hands. “Did I fall asleep?” You ask, even though you’re pretty sure you already know the answer. Hearing and feeling the vibration of his rumbling as his lips press against your neck and shoulder, you lay a hand on his cheek. ‘You should have said something,’ he mutters, voice gruff and almost embarrassed. ‘You missed a meal interval.’ Nose wrinkling, you know he’ll just frown if you argue with him, because he took the three meals a day thing for humans very literally. Reaching as he brings his hand to his shoulder, you pull yourself up and wedge your body against the warm mesh of his neck.

• “I’m fine,” you say on another yawn that has him rumbling doubtfully. Because he’s certain that you’d say that regardless. But you’re sleepy and yawning, your field a warm current washing into him. And your energy is probably low since you skipped a meal. Hand still up to catch you if you slide on his shoulder, he moves over to the cabinet housing your setup and finds your nutrient bars as you make a sound suspiciously like a groan. Venting, he puts them back and raids his dwindling supply of grossly overpriced human food he’d gotten from Swindle. Feeling you shifting on his shoulder. Interested in what he’s doing now.

• Reaching for the blue and white package when he holds it up, a servo brushes your stomach like he thinks you might actually overbalance and pitch yourself off of his shoulder trying to get to the snack. “One,” he growls as you peel open the package and put two cookies in your mouth as he grumbles in his own language. Grabbing another when he reaches for the package, you let him take it as you stretch out on his shoulder. ‘I’d kill for home cooking,” you say as you chew and his head turns, but you know he can’t see you where you are.

• “Not yet,” he answers, feeling bad about waking you, but he couldn’t resist reaching for you. Mask retracting, his mouth skims your neck and you make a soft sound that goes straight through him. Rumbling as he pulls you back into his frame, you shift against him. Your butt brushing his modesty panel as his denta tease your skin. “Go back to sleep.” Smiling when you huff out a laugh at him, he vents against you. ‘You’re making that really hard.’

• “Am I?” He asks, tone teasing as his mouth presses kisses down your neck and over your shoulder to make your breath catch. Body heating as he lets go of your hand and his big palm skims over your stomach, servos brushing your inner thigh. “I can stop if you want me to.” Shivering as his low voice deepens, you love when he’s like this. Playful and teasing. Relaxed enough that he can just be Optimus, not the Prime weighed down by responsibility and impossible choices. “Do you want me to?” His lips brush your earlobe and you tremble.

• “Don’t you dare,” you whisper, voice catching as he insinuates a thigh between your own. Still finds it hard to believe how uncomfortable he’d been at first about recharging mass displaced. Can’t imagine not having you in his arms now. Though he does remember all too well how embarrassed he’d been about letting you sleep on top of him, those first few months. The pillows and blankets you’d dragged up on his chassis to make a nest. Hadn’t understood why you’d needed the closeness. Why you’d kept reaching for him. Now he’s the one reaching for you constantly.

• Feeling his hand slide under the waist of your sleep pants to cup you, your eyes close. Trembling as he strokes you, your breath hitches. Can’t help but wonder what woke him, but then, he sometimes wakes to nightmares. At least, you’re almost sure that’s what they are. He never wants to talk about it and you don’t pry even though it bothers you when he just stares at nothing, haunted and lost in some memory. Gasping as you move against his hand, he growls to string you tight, his hips rocking against you. Teasing you both.