#ghoststar x reader

Reader wondered alone, insisting that they would be okay looking for the source of where the explosion had came from...passing boulders and hills to a burned down sight, a chard circle where a white blob lied—a leucismic predacon.

You approached slowly towards Ghoststar, having seen him a few times before around Predaking, and the other predacons. Often being in front or behind the pack, never the middle.

Now just living in his own space since the Decepticons were disbanded. Waiting seemingly for the rest of his clan he's lost long ago.

Your looked him over slowly, circling him for a bit till you found where his head is tucked under his wing, your servo slowly reaching his helm and softly caressing the area between his horns. Causing the poor thing to flinch almost...leaning into your touch as he blows heavy air towards you...his white optics fluttering open as they fixed onto you.

Ghoststar's mandibles twitched, growling as his wings tucked to his frame, his chest glowing a brighter white as both your servos rubbed his cheeks with your knuckles. Almost metling into your touch.

Poor thing hasn't had much contact and care since its creation. Being subjected to plenty of phychical violence from Starscream that's made Ghoststar a bit skittish to the smallest sounds, and recently, terrorfied of any aircraft body that is a jet flying over. Either hiding or swooping down at it at alarming speed that's made you see the Allspark almost.

Ghoststar chuffs at your touch, transforming into his cybertronian form, now on his knees to be your near your height, his servos on yours to nuzzle the plams of your own. His optics half-lid with a small smile on his faceplates. His glossa sticking out slightly as you give him head rubs and small kisses.

Over time he's gotten used to you being near him and his territory. Even being less snappy at other predacons and cybertronians. Now just contently melting into your touch and small praises of being such a good lad. His chassis rumbling with a purr from his engine revving.

No longer giving you the look of a kicked puppy.

His clawed digits trailing to your waist and hugging you close to his tall frame, sitting criss-cross as you rub circles into his cheekplates, tilting his helm back as your servos rub his jawline to his chassis. Lightly patting him as he nuzzles his face against your helm.