Revel

• Clearing his vents, he mass shifts and reaches out to ghost his servos against your arm as you frown at him. “You look good in my colors, though,” he says as you roll your eyes at him. Playing hard to get even though he can scent you. Know you want him as much as he wants you. But apparently you enjoy denying him. “Though I’m betting you’d look better without the coverings in my berth,” he adds and you laugh, mixing up soap. ‘Dream on,’ you tell him with a smile.

• “Every night. You’re insatiable in the berth,” he purrs and you fumble your sponge in the soap bucket, face heating. Shoulders hunching, you try to think of a comeback, but your mind blanks so you just huff out a laugh. Know he’s going to have that damn, attractive grin on his face if you look back at him. Because he loves messing with you. ‘You’ll never know,’ you finally say. ‘Though in my dreams, you’re just freaking needy.’ Hear his engine rev as your face burns. Why did you say that?

• “So you have been dreaming about me,” he says and you shoot him an exasperated look. Why won’t you just admit you want him? He wants you. It doesn’t have to be some big deal or a commitment. ‘No,’ you blurt, but it’s too late and you both know it. Walking over, he leans against the wall beside you. “You have. You want me,” he growls possessively and you snort. ‘Not really.’ Venting slowly and deliberately, he grins when you glance at him, brow furrowing. “Yeah, you do.”

• Clearing his vents when one of his older sons desperately makes optic contact, Shrapnel adds another log to the fire and stalks over. And you frown when he grabs your arm to spin you toward him, grinning to show his sharp denta. “Let him frag the seeker if he wants. It’s what Insecticons do best, best,” he purrs, ignoring the youngling making disgusted noises when he drags you into his frame to slide a thigh between your own. ‘I’m going to need massive amounts of therapy now, sire. So thanks,’ Stygian mutters and he chuckles as your newest sparkling chirps hungrily at your back. “What’s wrong with fragging?” He growls as you laugh and lay a hand across his mouth to push him away. “Makes more Insecticons and it’s the best thing in life, life.”

• “Behave,” you say as Styg’s plating ruffles up in teenage disgust. Not that you blame him, because his dads have no censors. “Ignore your dad. He’s old and only has one thing on his mind,” you add as Shrapnel hisses at you. “Two if you count eating.” Smiling as Styg’s face turns up toward the high ceiling of the lair, you’re rubbing another smudge of dirt off his arm as he gives you an aggrieved look. Making it hard to resist the urge to ask again if he’s fooling around with the seeker he has a crush on. Hopefully he’s not since her dads aren’t exactly on friendly terms with your husbands. ‘Stop embarrassing him. Let him go tear his own place in the soft meat of this world. Eat and frag. Make your own hive,’ Bombshell calls from where he’s watching a soap opera with several sparklings recharging on him.

• “I don’t want to talk about this. Why can’t you all be normal?” Stygian growls and Shrapnel smiles crookedly, circling you as you give him a look. ‘Bring back something tasty and still squirming for your younger siblings,’ he says as you retreat and he follows. ‘They need to learn how to tear the throat out of something and make the kill.’ Venting as your eyes flash, his rumbling shifts to a coaxing purr. And his son is hurrying away, growling about therapy again as he catches you and tugs you into his frame.

• Smiling as you touch his bottom lip, your edges seem softer. That ever present anger subdued. “What now?” You whisper and he brushes his mouth against your fingers, feeling you take a slow breath against him. When’s the last time he’s been truly happy? When he could smile and mean it? ‘Whatever we want,’ he says and you smile even though it doesn’t quite reach your eyes. “I didn’t think you knew how to lie,” you whisper as his lips tease your thumb.

• Shrugging defensively when he meets your eyes and waits, you huff out a soft laugh. “We both know what this is,” you murmur, chest aching. Wishing you could shut up. Just pretend for a little while longer. Heart racing as he pushes up and shifts to cover you again, you can’t look away from those bright optics. ‘And what is it?’ He asks sounding genuinely curious, servos cupping the side of your face as the heat of his frame sinks into you, his weight braced on his arms off of you but his hips pinning yours.

• “Something that can’t last,” you whisper as his head lowers, mouth brushing the corner of yours before sliding down to your neck to chase the wild thrum of your pulse. Maybe this is wrong. Obscene. But it’s hard to care. Spent so long worrying about being the Prime, weighing every choice, every decision and how it will be viewed by the people counting on him. Putting them, their needs, first. Sacrificing himself. Wants to choose this. Choose you. ‘Who gets to decide that?’ He asks.

• “You know it’s true,” you say and he moves against you to make your breath catch. ‘I know you. Know what I want. What I choose,’ he rumbles, voice dipping into an almost growl. Hanging onto him as his hips lazily flex against you, there’s no looking away from those optics of his. Wanting to believe him. That this can last. Can mean something. That if push comes to shove, he’ll choose you. And that terrifies you even as you desperately need it. Pulling him down to you, your mouth finds his. Even if he’s deluding himself right now, you want to believe in the fairy tale. That you can have him. Keep him. Be happy.

• “So I’m a snack?” You ask and your expression gives away nothing of what you’re thinking. Are snacks a bad thing? ‘You’re meant to be savored,’ he tries, refusing to back down. Aggressively flirting with you one of his favorite games. It doesn’t hurt that the desperation is all real. Would love to get you alone in his habsuite, but you keep friend-zoning him Sari called it. And one of your brows lifts. “I don’t think you’d know anything about savoring. You strike me as a quickie kind of bot,” you counter and he freezes, engine revving. Are you actually flirting back? You usually just laugh. What’s he supposed to do now?

• “The kind of quickie that lasts all night, maybe,” he growls and he braces a hand on the other side of your hip, leaning into your space. Apparently doubling down on playing bad innuendo chicken. ‘Is that a promise?’ You tease and he rumbles. He’s so close you can smell him, metallic and alien. Can feel the heat radiating off his frame, too. Know encouraging him is probably a bad idea. Sleeping with your best friend usually is, but that doesn’t stop you from being curious. ‘Because I know I can outlast you,’ you whisper, grazing your teeth against his chin and his optics widen.

• Catches that shift in your scent as you lean back smiling and his processor blanks. Because you’re absolutely interested and he hadn’t thought this far ahead. Hadn’t thought you might like him like that. Making jokes about interfacing and flirting is what the two of you do. Well, what he does. “That so?” He growls, voice breaking and you laugh as his plating ruffles up in offense. And he can’t come up with a good comeback. Something to turn it around. ‘I bet you wouldn’t even know what to do with me, would you?’ You ask as you grab his shoulder and twist to throw a leg across him, straddling his lap as he nearly groans.

• Feeling his antenna brushing the top of your head over and over, you study those big, guileless optics. Remembering how much he’d scared you at first. How ugly you’d thought he was. A monster. It seems crazy that you’d thought that now. Reaching up to smooth your fingertips against the side of his head, he leans into your touch, legs sliding against yours. All the frustration, all the misunderstandings, should upset you. Had lost your home because of him. So why doesn’t it bother you more?

• Chewing as you meet his optics, it’s strange to not feel the need to cringe away from your stare. To not be uncomfortable because usually when anyone pays this much attention to him it’s going to hurt. Moving slowly, he catches your hand. Staring at how small it is in his as he smooths his clawed servos against your fingers. And you smile faintly, turning your hand to fit your palm to his as his wings flick. “Same,” he says watching you interlace your fingers with his servos. “Different but the same.”

• Staring at his big hand clasping your own, you tug your joined hands up and press the back of your hand against the berth. See his optics brighten as his antenna lift and he’s shifting to straddle you. But otherwise he’s still. Waiting like he needs permission still. Reaching up your other hand, you find his and link your fingers with his servos. Bringing that hand up so they’re both pinned by your head even though he’s not holding you down and he’d immediately draw back if you pulled your hands away. His wings fan out slightly and the translucent material catches the light behind him, creating prismatic rainbows as his rumbling becomes a near growl.

• Staring down at you with your hands pinned over your head, he rumbles and tries to guess what you want. Knows you won’t punish him if he’s wrong, but prefers when you just tell him what to do. What you need from him so he can’t mess up. Wings buzzing restlessly, he knows what he wants. You. His plating heats as you stare up at him and your scent shifts to make him ache to claim you. Head lowering, he lets go of your hands when you tug free, laughing and pressing your palm over his mouth. “Baby, put down the treat first,” you say and he obediently drops it in your hand, watching your nose wrinkle.

• Watching you roll your eyes, he catches you and lifts you to sit on his makeshift table. Before handing you some merchandise. “Perv. I’m not helping you peddle your smutty toys,” you say, but you’re laughing as he pulls his hands away, refusing to take back the stuff from you. ‘Toys? These are essential, human health products,’ he says, pretending to be offended and you’re laughing harder as he drapes the lacy covering across your lap. “You wouldn’t catch me dead in this,” you’re saying as he clears his vents.

• “Even if I got on my knees?” He teases and you look away, flustered. Shouldn’t like him. He’s awful and you know it, but apparently you like awful mechs. ‘Not even then.’ Shaking his head at you, he turns to dig in his boxes and you hear heavy peds. Looking up as Optimus Prime rounds the corner and Swindle is backing away. Hurrying to get the table and you between him and the big Autobot. “Hey, big guy,” he growls, voice strained and far from his usual laid back, manipulative purr. Glancing back at him as the Prime frowns down at him and keeps walking, you feel Swindle lay a hand on your thigh and waist, servos flexing like he’s thinking about grabbing you and booking it.

• Plating slowly settling as he clears his vents, he watches the Prime walk away. “Are you scared of Otimus?” You ask and he rears back, forcing a laugh. ‘Who me? Why would I be scared of him?’ He growls, trying to get back into character when seeing Optimus put him on edge. It was the one time. And probably an accident, but a mech tends to remember getting flattened by a much bigger mech. Definitely remembers the time stuck in a med berth. “I don’t know. Why?” You ask and he bends to grab a ball gag to toss in your lap.

• Feels your breath catch and knows he should let you go. Give you space. Can’t seem to make himself move now that he has you in his arms, though. Venting to pull your scent deep, you’re all heat and need. Drugging him as his rumbling deepens. Maybe it’s because he’s not human. Maybe he’s too alien for you to ever think of that way. “What if I did need you?” You ask, the words a barely there whisper. Servos flexing against you, his lips ghost against your neck.

• “Then I’m yours,” he growls and you feel his mouth moving against your skin as he speaks and heat spreads through you. The way his voice dips, roughening when he’s always calm and collected spins you tight. Makes you want to find out what taking care of you means to him. How rough his voice gets when he’s aroused. “Do you? Need me?” He asks and you shiver feeling his denta barely scrape your skin as one of his big hands slides against you, smoothing down over your belly to make you inhale.

• Wants to carry you to the waterfall. To show you the beauty of his favorite place. To strip you slowly, explore the softness of you with his servos and mouth. Feels your hand cover the back of his and he waits when he wants to slide his hand lower. Almost feral with the need to claim you as his, but he needs the words. Needs you to say you want him. Engine rumbling aggressively, he knows he should let you go. That he’s probably overwhelming you. Your fingers brush his servos as you inhale slowly. “If I did,” you repeat, your field washing into him to make it even harder to be patient.

• Can’t make yourself just say it. To admit that you think you might like him. That you might want to be more than friends with him. “If you did,” he prompts, lips against your neck. “Then I’d claim what’s mine.” Breathless with the way his voice rumbles into a low growl, you shiver. What would that be like? To be his? For him to be yours? “If you wanted me.” Knees weak, you want to guide his hand lower. To encourage him to touch you. Because really? Life’s too short and you don’t want to regret saying no when you really want to say yes.

Previous

• You look calmer. More focused and less like you’re coming apart as he lingers just inside the door. Watches you nervously track Ratchet as the medic walks past to busy himself organizing supplies, before you glance back at him. Knows this must be a lot for you. That your kind believe you’re alone in the universe. “You know, I never really bought into the whole little, green men thing,” you say suddenly and he isn’t sure if you’re talking to him or the other human. “Wouldn’t have bet on giant robots, though.” Glancing at Ratchet’s human, they just shrug at him.

• Meeting his optics briefly, you hesitantly wave your spoon at him in greeting. “I don’t think we were really introduced,” you say, feeling that frazzled hysteria lurking on the edge of your mind. Don’t know if maybe it’s the soup or how calm the other person is about all this lunacy, but you feel marginally less freaked out. Telling him your name, you have the errant thought to wonder if aliens are like the fae. If there’s power in names and you just made a mistake.

• “You were coming to terms with a lot at the time,” he says and you make a sound that’s not quite a laugh as you stir the stuff in the bowl, attention dipping to the contents like you’re searching for answers in it. ‘Thank you. For not leaving me there,’ you reply and he goes still. Do you really think you owe him your gratitude for saving you? Leaving you was never an option. “Would you have left me if our roles were reversed?” He asks and your eyes drop.

• Your knee jerk response is to say no. Of course, you wouldn’t just leave someone hurt and in need. You’d help. Except, you can’t make yourself say it because you’re not sure. He’s so big, so alien. If you’d found him, you’d like to think you’d help. That you’d be brave. But you’re scared that you’d have run. Fidgeting with the spoon, you startle when he comes closer and gently touches the top of your head with a huge servo. “You’d have helped me,” he says for you, sounding so sure of it that you can’t meet his optics. Want to be that person, but you’re not nearly as sure as he seems to be.

• Those miserable, hitching noises you’re making have his spark aching. Have him cupping a hand against you to hide you from prying optics as he carries you to his habsuite. Will need to take you to a medic to be checked out, but you’re so fragile feeling in his hands. So light, you’re almost insubstantial as he lets himself into his room and shuts the door behind himself. You wear ragged coverings, so he’s assuming you might be sentient. But really? He has no idea. Starting to put you on his berth, he stares at your dirt matted skin and hair and changes his mind. Cupping you to his chassis as you chirp up at him, he finds a dish to fill with warm water and sets it on his desk wishing he had a tarp to spread out under it, because you’re going to make a mess.

• Swallowing convulsively when you see the water, you strain against his servos. Thirsty and desperate to reach the big bowl. You almost fall in your urgency, tripping over the blanket when he sets you down near the bowl. Running and draping yourself against the side as you lean over the edge to reach. You use your hands to scoop up mouthfuls before nearly choking when you stick the lower half of your face directly in the water, drinking urgently until you’re coughing. And you belatedly realize that the water tastes off. Tastes metallic. That it might be poisonous. Still coughing as you make yourself stop greedily drinking, your empty stomach aches hollowly at the hot water.

• Spark constricting as you just lay against the side of the dish, coughing, he hadn’t expected you to do that. Had thought to wash you. But you’re that thirsty. Probably hungry, too. Maybe starving. And you shake, retching before purging most of the water and mewling again. Too much at once or can you just not drink it? Doesn’t know. Frustrated as you cough and then shakily lean up to start drinking again, he hooks a servo against you to tug you away from the dish. Your head lifts, but you don’t meet his optics as you chirp and warble your nonsense. “Slowly,” he says and your attention swings back to the bowl, expression longing. “I’m not going to take it away.”

• Sick to your stomach, as soon as he lets go, you’re shakily scooping up handfuls of water, aware that your hands are filthy. That you’re drinking dirty water. That the old you would be horrified, but then, the old you couldn’t have survived this long. You’d had to get tougher. Angrier. More desperate. Because this world? It isn’t kind. It doesn’t care if you live or die. Glancing at him, you wonder why he’s helping you as you keep drinking and try to keep it down this time. Have no idea when the next time you’ll see water will be. If his benevolence is an act or legitimate. What he wants with you. Maybe you’re a pet? A curiosity? Or maybe you’re still destined for a display board or a specimen jar.

• Rumbling irritably, he doesn’t know how to explain what he needs. Mostly because it’s mortifying. Scowling around at the almost deserted lobby, he stares the remaining humans down until they get up and decide to go somewhere else. Irritated, he hooks an arm against your legs to push them off the couch as you huff at him. Slumping beside you, he presses his servos against his helm. Trying to get his out-of-control field to calm because it hurts. His processor an aching, muddled mess of stress and frustration.

• Maybe he was just lonely? He looks angry, though. But you can’t think of anything you might have done to offend the prickly mech. And he shoots you an annoyed look before slowly leaning over so his head is in your lap and you freeze. What’s he doing? Hear him mutter something irritated sounding as he grabs your hand and pointedly drags it over to lay on his helm. Feeling a little lost, you awkwardly stroke his head and his wings sag slightly as he vents. “Do you want to talk about it?” You hazard since he usually likes to complain. At length.

• “Quiet,” he rasps, feeling your field prickle him with your annoyance. “I just need quiet. I can’t think,” he adds, trying to gentle his tone and you exhale slowly. But you allow him this, fingertips stroking him as your field washes into him to distract him from his own misery. Optics shuttering, he relaxes into the feel of you. Focusing on that instead of the fact that his helm feels like it’s splitting right now. Knows he could seek out a medic, but that means asking for help. Letting someone mess with his processor. Trusting them not to meddle with him. Knows something is wrong, but it comes and goes. He can deal with it. Mostly.

• Staring out at the quiet alley you’d ducked into to hide, he listens to your ragged breathing and sniffles as you get yourself back together. Had felt your distress prickling at him, so in tune with you that he’s constantly reaching for the chaos of your organic thoughts. Unable to stop himself from listening because you ground him. Help keep all the other noise at bay. “I’m good,” you mumble and he slowly reaches to drape an arm across you.

• Huffing out a soft laugh when he slides you over until you’re touching his frame, he leans his head against the top of yours. Not denying your claim, but offering comfort anyway. Relaxing into the warmth of his solid presence, you exhale slowly. Know he won’t pry. That he won’t demand you tell him what’s wrong. But he’ll listen if you want to talk about it. Staring at his big hand, you reach up and grip his servos, leaning your head against him.

• Letting his rumbling dip to a low crooning, he feels you slowly relax, your breathing calming as your emotions stop prickling him. Catching your fingers, he gently squeezes as his cheek brushes the top of your head and you inhale deeply. “Thank you,” you whisper as you wiggle closer. Likes that you trust him enough that his presence comforts you. That you see him as your safe spot, your shelter. Tucking you closer against his side, he interlaces his servos with your fingers. But you don’t need to thank him for taking care of you.

• Feeling you shift against him, he rumbles and rests his chin on top of your head. Realizing slowly that there were no nightmares. That he’d recharged without any dreams at all. How long has it been since he’s come online feeling so relaxed? Servos lazily playing with your fingers, he lets your weak field spill into him. Knows this isn’t his, that you’re not his, but he wants to enjoy the sense of connection. The feeling that someone needs him. “Hungry?” He asks, venting to pull your scent deep and knowing it’s going to cling to him.

• For those gritty nutrient bars? No. But you know you have to eat something. “Five more minutes?” You ask and he shifts at your back, his presence solid and comforting. That low rumbling of his sinks into you until it’s hard to stay awake. Know a big part of it is probably how weak you still are. That even after he’d bonded you, you’re not back to normal. His servos smooth against your palm and a lonely ache lifts through you. How long has it been since someone’s held you like this? Even aware that you need to discourage him, a part of you just wants to be allowed to have this. To play pretend with him.

• Has no idea how long your units of time are, but doesn’t argue. Mostly because he’s enjoying the soft warmth of you in his arms. That he’s never recharged with someone like this before you. Most of his life prior to the Decepticons spent alone. Spent hungry and desperate. Had learned quickly to trust no one, to lash out first. To take what he could. Had only gotten worse after joining the Decepticons. More violent, his temper shorter. Holding you like this feels like it’s going to make him come apart at the seams.

• Feel his arm tighten around you, his face against the back of your shoulder. Hanging onto you like you’re the only thing keeping him afloat. Like you’re his lifeline when it’s the other way around. A memory lifts through you. Those angry eyes watching other Cybertronians pass him by, going out of their way to avoid looking at him. Like his hunger and desperation might be contagious. Feeling the memory of his urge to scream at them to look at him echo through you and you’re clinging to his arm as your eyes burn with a memory that isn’t even yours, but still hurts so viscerally as the two of you huddle tighter against each other.

• “You’d never forsake me for someone else, would you?” He growls against your skin as your field sinks into him. Why won’t you say it? Say that you’re his? Maybe you are thinking about leaving him for someone else? For whoever’s scent this is on you. Annoyed, he nips your earlobe and you suck in a breath. “Right?” He croons, losing his patience and you shiver against him. ‘Sure,’ you blurt and he rumbles.

• Are you in danger? You feel like you are, but that it might be of a good time nature. If you were into aliens. And you’re not. You’re almost positive you’re not. Feeling the heat radiating off his big frame, you’re far too aware of him. Of how those big hands feel on you. Makes you wish you hadn’t heard the late night gossip in the lobby. That you didn’t know how compatible humans and Cybertronians are. Because you do know and despite yourself, you’re curious. Shouldn’t be, but you are. “If I was yours,” you begin and he growls, the inhuman noise startling you.

• “Then I’d claim you. Take you to my berth and keep you there for joors,” he growls in your ear, feeling you shiver against him as his plating heats. That shift in your scent is becoming more noticeable, smelling like heat and need. “I doubt you’d be able to walk after,” he adds and you inhale slowly. And the more he thinks about it, the more he’s certain. That you’re going to be his. It doesn’t matter that you’re only human. You’re his.

• Is that a threat or a promise? You’re not entirely sure, but you’ve never been so tempted before in your whole life. There’s nothing saying this has to be a commitment. Would it be so bad to sample what he’s offering? To be able to mark ‘slept with an alien’ off your bucket list? It doesn’t have to actually mean anything or be any deeper than curiosity. An experience. “If I was yours,” you repeat softly, turning in his arms to look up at him. ‘Are you mine?’ He growls, the words a challenge as his wings lift and you flush. Can figure out what set him off later, you just want to enjoy this and worry about consequences later.

• Feels less out of control when he can touch you. It’s like you somehow ground him. Or maybe you’re the only thing he’s certain of anymore. Before, he hadn’t cared. The fragments of memories had been errors that meant nothing to him. Now they haunt him like your eyes, your anxiety. Isn’t sure that he likes this feeling, this dependency, but he can’t give you up, either. Needs you even though you distract him, complicate everything, make him question his goals. Head bowing toward yours, his servos flex against your arm. Wants to remember.

• Wish you could tell what he’s thinking better. Can sort of gauge his mood with his antenna or the restless tapping of his cannon against his thigh, but those things just clue you in on when he’s agitated. “You still haven’t answered me. What am I to you?” You whisper even though you know this question bothers him. The way he reacts makes you think that he doesn’t know himself. And his antenna go back as he stares at you. His head bumps your forehead, that single optic bathing your face in red light. Stumbling into his chassis and almost clipping your chin on his chest when he tugs you to him, he presses your palm firmly against his chassis.

• “I don’t know what this means,” you say, shoulders slumping. “I can feel that thrumming inside you, sort of like a heartbeat, but if you’re trying to tell me something, just say it.” Antenna flicking, he wonders if there’s even anything to bond to. Organics aren’t compatible that way. Knows that, but he can’t deny the obsessive need to confirm it. To try to bond you anyway. To claim you as his in every way possible. ‘I want you,’ he growls and you huff out a laugh. “Already?”

• He’s just staring and your free hand goes to the blanket wrapped around you. Not about to take it off unless he insists. “Sex doesn’t make a relationship,” you mutter. Even toe curling, urgent, distractingly good sex. And his plating shifts as he moves your hand away. Transfixed by the pulsing, writhing mass of light in his chest, a shiver of awareness whispers through you. Making you realize that you’re leaning toward whatever that is. That you want to reach for it. Making yourself rock back, you look up and he’s just watching you. “I don’t understand,” you say. What does he want you to do? Why show you this? Feel like this matters to him, like it’s important, but you’re left confused and in the dark. Fumbling to figure out what he wants from you.