• Can scent you, feel the soft warmth of you against him and hear the faint clicking of the needles. Knew organics liked to wear cloth coverings, but he’d never bothered to think too much about them. Or how they’re made. Optics hooded as you keep patiently adding to whatever it is you’re making, he rumbles when you lean to find another color of yarn. Weaving it in to make a new pattern. You’re making art he realizes and his servos flex as longing lifts through him.

• “If a mech wanted art supplies, how would he go about requesting them?” He asks softly and your hands still. Art supplies? ‘Like paint and canvas type art?’ You guess and he vents to stir your hair. “Yeah,” he says. That’s something you never considered. That the Cybertronians might have hobbies. Might miss doing them. ‘The mech would ask their caretaker and they’d requisition it from supply,’ you answer and his servos flex against your yarn like he enjoys the softness. ‘I’ll put in a request in the morning,’ you add and his chin brushes the top of your head.

• “It was just a hypothetical question,” he growls, feeling the warmth of your field sinking into him where you’re touching him. And the hooks are clicking again as you make a low hum of noise. ‘I know, but maybe I want to see what Cybertronian art looks like,’ you counter. “What’s human art look like? Aside from that,” he asks, gesturing at what you’re doing and you laugh. Misses the feel of creating something with his own hands. ‘This isn’t art. It’s relaxing,’ you tell him and he huffs through his vents to nearly make you drop your project.

• Hadn’t expected the way it let his mind wander as his hands move. Hadn’t really thought his hands could move like this. Weaving strands of yarn together over and over. There’s something oddly relaxing about the movements. In letting his thoughts drift. Creating something instead of destroying. Still feels like something like this isn’t allowed. Not for mechs like him. But he keeps thinking of you as he works. Remembering that you’re always cold. The pattern isn’t quite what he’d imagined. It had become a messy chaos of white bleeding into red and gray. Frowning as he keeps looping the thick cables of soft material, he knows it’s not good enough. That it’s imperfect. But then, so is he. And you seem to like him.

• Imagines draping this across your shoulders. Something he made for you. Not a real conjunx gift, but something of him for you. Servos brushing the soft material, he can’t deny that he likes the idea of you wearing his colors. Wrapped up in something made by his hands. Clearing his vents, he finishes the last edge and gathers the blanket. It seems so small in his hands, but it’s bigger than you are. Probably too big. Staring at it, he glances at his habsuite door. Wondering what you’ll say. If you’ll smile.

• Sitting on your cart, you’re about to go hunt him down when he finally steps into the wash stall. And his expression is surlier than normal, plating slightly lifted like he’s annoyed about something as he rumbles. Refusing to meet your eyes when he strides over. “Is something wrong?” You ask, wondering if you offended him somehow. Maybe he’s still annoyed that you’d tried to reach him to knit as an outlet for that restless energy? Watching him crouch, he holds out something and you lean to take it, fingers sinking into the soft material. “You kept at it?” Hadn’t expected that. Smoothing your fingers over the mottled colors, you spread it out slightly. Realizing he’d made a blanket. A huge one.

• Venting as he smells the strange things you use to clean your hair, he feels your field slowly calm and bank until it’s just a soft hum. Relaxing at the warm, contented sensation you’re sinking into him, his own stress ebbs. Do you have any idea how good that feels? That when you’re like this, your field is addictive and almost drugging. Makes him want to wrap his arms around you and curl up to recharge. Feels safe in a way that’s almost embarrassing. Servos brushing your hair to play with the texture of the strands, he sets the brush aside.

• Making a little noise when he slides his servos from your upper back to the base of your skull, your eyes close. Still can’t believe that you’d managed to accidentally convince him that massage is a very vital part of daily self care. Servos rubbing against you, you push back into his touch. Probably should be an adult and tell him the massages aren’t exactly necessary, but he’s shockingly good at it. Able to find and work out every knot. And it’s not like you actually lied, you just didn’t correct him when he’d misunderstood you saying you needed a massage.

• It’s like being a sparkling again. The memory of safety and home. It hurts even as he’s desperate for it. Wants to just stay in this moment, floating in the warm sea of your field. When you try to get up, he hooks his arms around you with a growl, chin on top of your head. And you don’t protest, just relaxing again. Gripping your hands in his, his servos rub, feeling those fragile, little bones. “A little longer,” he murmurs in your ear and you yawn again, making a soft sound of agreement.

• Grunting when you laugh so hard you accidentally push his spike out, his door wings tremble slightly. And his head thumps softly against your shoulder as he starts laughing, too. “You honked!” You gasp and he’s shaking laughing. ‘I’m allowed to honk,’ he manages, hearing you snort and he’s losing it all over again. “I think I’m deaf in that ear now,” you cackle and he eases down to lay on his back beside you. ‘Oh, come on, you make noises all the time.’

• Snickering as you look at him, you raise your eyebrows. “They’re cute noises,” he adds at your look as you try to rein yourself in. Up until he breathily moans ‘Blue’ in a bad mockery of your voice and you start laughing all over again. ‘I don’t sound like that,’ you protest, grabbing his chassis and swinging yourself up to straddle him, seeing his optics brighten with heat. ‘Where’s the accidental sex horn?’ You ask, fingers running along the gaps in his seams to make him squirm under you.

• “Stop,” he laughs, catching your wrists and venting to scent you. Feeling the dampness of you against his plating where you’re sitting on him to make his spike pulse. ‘Why? It’s cute,’ you tease, fingers wiggling in his grip and he lets his head fall back. “It’s kind of embarrassing? Please, don’t tell anyone I did that, okay?” Feels you tremble with laughter as his lips twitch into a rueful smile. “The twins would never let me live it down.”

His hot breaths are starting to create condensation on the cold metal desk you have him bent over. Working your hand tirelessly up and down his spike, squeezing the head on every other and making your grip that little bit firmer to drag along every node those pretty segments hide.

Your free hand moves up to steady yourself by his side, planting little soft kisses up his spinal strut as his legs lift to chase the hand on his spike. Arching into your hips against his, pressing back with a little whimper.

His servos have stilled against the desk, pen held in a fist as he tries to plant his forearms better. The half-finished doodle right by his helm a reminder of just what had overtaken his mind before you decided to bless him with your presence.

And oh, a blessing you are being. Pumping him that little bit faster to have him shaking in your hold as he stays right on that edge. Scream growing somewhere in his throat, though vocalizer purposefully silenced to not allowed him to make a sound.

• Meeting your eyes as he eases back to sit on his legs, his hand lifts and he licks the edible paint from his servos. Sees the surprise, then heat in your eyes as you realize what the paint is to make him smile. Taking a moment to admire how you look, decorated in spirals of his color and Cybertronian glyphs, he knows you can’t understand the words. Wouldn’t know the significance of what he’d painted on your skin line by line. You’d probably laugh if he tried to translate the formal words for acknowledging and claiming a conjunx. Knows they’re meant to be spoken, but this had felt right. His words. His colors on your skin. Spike stirring behind his plating, he leans over you.

• Heart racing when he catches your wrist and brings it to his lips, need twists through you at the feel of his mouth on your skin. Kissing and licking the paint off of you. Had wanted to ask what he’d written on you, recognizing the strange glyphs of his language, but you’re distracted by his mouth sliding over your body. Hanging onto him as he slowly works his way down your body, denta grazing your hip. And it’s hard to care what he wrote on you when he cups your thigh and his mouth strokes against you. Back arching on a moan, you feel his glossa slide against you. Tunnel inside you as your toes curl.

• Growling as you whimper his name, he presses his mouth more firmly against you. Feeling you tremble, hips tilting as your head falls back. Servos gripping your hips, his head lifts and he smiles when you shoot him a frustrated look. Releasing his spike to pressurize, he shifts over you and rocks himself against you. And you’re reaching for him, gasping against his chassis when he slowly stretches you. Groaning at how tight you are, his hips roll. Moving against you when you relax and let him sink deep. Those strange, alien eyes meeting his optics as he moves inside you, savoring the wet heat of you wrapped so tight around him.

• Rumbling as he ties off the makeshift bandage, your eyes flick back to his face the second his attention drops to your leg. Why are you staring at him? Annoyed and defensive, he can feel your field washing into him. The intimacy of it uncomfortable. Like you’re projecting your uncertainty and fear at him to try and make him pity you so he’ll take care of you. “I’m not going to hurt you, so stop that,” he snarls and your brow furrows. Hooking a servo in your top covering to check you for more injuries, you swat him again. Then cringe again before he can even snarl. Huffing through his vents, he shakes his head. Frowning, his optics narrow as you chirp nervously.

• He’s staring hard at you as your skin prickles under his scrutiny. And he taps a servo against your bandaged thigh before gesturing at you with a wave of his hand and growling. Is he asking you something? “I can’t understand you,” you mumble and he points at the bandage again, servo jabbing at it like an exclamation point, but not touching you. Is he asking if you’re hurt anywhere else? Brow furrowing, you check yourself over.

• Watching you look yourself over, he shakes his head incredulously. How can you not know if you’re hurt? Then you warble at him, holding up an arm to show him a scrape on your elbow that’s not even bleeding that red stuff. Shaking his head as you hesitantly show him a discolored spot of color on your other leg. “No, those aren’t life threatening,” he growls tiredly. He’s reasonably sure those little injuries are harmless, but who knows when he doesn’t even know what you are. “What am I supposed to do about that?”

• Staring up at him as he growls, shaking his head and gesturing, you guess he doesn’t care about your boo-boos. Only that you’re not bleeding. Unsure how to respond, you reach to mess with the knot he’d tied on your bandage. Tying it too tightly around your thigh. And he pushes your hands away, growling. “It’s too tight,” you mutter, trying to untie the bandage so you can fix it and he grabs both of your hands in one of his, still growling at you. But you’re staring at his big hand wrapped around both of yours. Breath catching when his servos slide against your trapped hands as he fusses at you even though you can’t understand him. But he’s playing with your fingers. Eyes lifting to meet his optics, he grimaces and abruptly lets go of you. Grumbling in his awful language as he gestures at you and stands. Grabbing your pants and flipping them in your lap with a growl.

“You can’t do this to me…” His forehead rests against your nape, arms holding you close to his front as you all but hum at his complaint.

Not even slowing as you continue to sign the various reports and logs, he has refused to do up until now. You’re able to fake his signature accurately enough by now – but even if Magnus noticed the difference, he has never once expressed it. He’s just happy they’re getting done.

Shifting your hips to sit straighter and all you end up doing is drawing a shaking breath from Rodimus behind you. Digits clawing at your sides as you clench down on the spike buried in you to keep his attention away from your conduct.

Rodimus has used every excuse in the universe to get out of doing any actual captain work. You’re certain no one is complaining about your frequent visits to his office even if they originally did, because now stuff is actually getting approved or denied depending on the urgency.

Kisses pressed to your cold back between whines, small and useless prayers for relief. He knows where to place them to have you shiver in his arms; where to place them to rile you up to meet his desperation. They share with you the need of his processor.

You have no way to stop the little bucks and jerks he does. He’s strong enough to move you however you want, but there certainly is a layer of desolation to how compliant he is to you. Being so careful with what you have, appreciating your willingness to keep up with someone like him.

The hands on your chassis start prying at anything they can get at, seeking someplace to anchor him to, and finding nowhere near satisfying enough. Scratching at your paint to make you annoyed enough to wrap it up.

He has been good. You have to give him that. You’d managed to get through more approvals than ever before. This is certainly something that should be repeated if he is this docile through the entire time you do his work.

Calmly clearing the desk of anything important; stacking the datapads at the corners and setting the pen in its holster like Rodimus never does.

Stretching your arms to prepare for the soreness that will surely hit you later before leaning down and pushing back against him. Making the curve of your aft fit perfectly against his housing, giving him a view that makes him lose all focus on the sheer torture of being so hard and so desperate to stare silently.

“You’ve done a lot better than I anticipated, baby,” your helm rests in your hand. The only rest you’ll be getting, you bet. “Such a good boy to have waited so patiently for me to finish.”

Not a single word you’re saying is getting processed in that head of his as you start to roll our hips, grinding down.

“Come on then, Roddy,” you do your best to look smug as you smile over your shoulder. “I know you want to- ”