#soft au

• “We’re not finished, yet,” Ratchet says, frowning as you shoot him a dirty look. ‘What exactly do you want me to do? Pantomime sex? Do some pelvic thrusts?’ You counter and someone in the class holds up a hand. ‘Pretend my crotch is itchy?’ Scowling at you, the hand slowly goes back down. “This is important. If they don’t know, they’ll keep making the same mistakes over and over. And the medical staff will have to deal with it,” he growls. And the hand is back in the air again.

• “What?” Ratchet growls, turning to scowl at his class. And you raise your brows at Flatline and First Aid, looking for support. ‘How toxic is energon to humans?’ A bot you don’t know asks. ‘Is it like a little is fine deal or instant death?’ Turning to stare at the mech, you’re pretty sure you’re making the same face all the medics are making. “If you’re talking about normal, non-internally processed energon or engex, it’s instant death,” Ratchet says. And you know the question is coming. Can see it in the resignation on all the medics’s faces. ‘If it is ah, internally processed?’ They ask.

• Optics shuttering as he presses his servos against his aching head, he glances over at the other medics. Catching the face you’re making, nose scrunched, he tries to find the strength to deal with this. “Try to limit how much they swallow, you deviant,” Pharma growls, saving him from trying to think of a politer way to say the same thing. “It’s all fun and games until we have to deal with an accidental poisoning.”

• Mouthing the word ‘poisoning’ at Ratchet, the medic grimaces. “It would take a lot to get to that point,” First Aid mutters softly to you as Ratchet gives him a look and your brows lift, filling that bit of unwanted alien trivia away. ‘Like how much?’ You whisper back in morbid curiosity and the same mech in the crowd has his hand back in the air. “Swerve, put your hand down,” Ratchet growls before pointing a servo at First Aid in warning. ‘You could just not frag the fauna and then these questions wouldn’t matter,’ Pharma grumbles.

• “Happy birthday,” he says, ped sliding on your sheets to make your soft berth creak under him. ‘There’s whipped cream on your spike,’ you say, brows lifting. “I know, I know. I’m already so sweet, but I thought you might enjoy a birthday treat,” he purrs, spike aching and fully pressurized. And sticky. He’d had a cherry on top, but it slid off at some point while he was waiting. ‘Funny, because this,’ you say gesturing at him, ‘looks more like a treat for you.’

• “It’s for both of us?” He says, sounding uncertain and hopeful. Fighting the urge to roll your eyes as you watch a glob of whipped cream and chocolate drip on your sheets between his spread thighs, you crawl up on the bed and it creaks under your combined weight. ‘Uh huh,’ you mutter, a hand on his inner thigh for balance as you lean down. ‘So that means you’re going to return the favor, right?’ You ask, tongue sliding against the underside of his spike and he whimpers.

• “Of course,” he groans, visor brightening as your lips part and your mouth closes on the head of his spike before your tongue slides against him. Head falling back against the mattress, he trembles with the urge to thrust. To move. Making himself be still instead when your head bobs, taking more of him as you suck and run your tongue over the seams of his biolights. “Don’t stop. Primus, don’t stop,” he whines, servos fisting in your blankets.

• Shrugging as he reaches to take the collar, he holds it up, imagining it on you. “Hey, to each their own freaky, little need,” he says and you wrinkle your nose at him. “Want to try it on for me?” He coaxes and you snort. ‘No, but I could put it on you,’ you counter and he grins. ‘Not that I want to put a collar and leash on you,’ you add quickly and his smile widens at how flustered you are. “No, no. Let’s play this one out,” he says, holding the collar against the mesh of his neck.

• His expression is a dare. Taunting you to play along. Flustered as you meet his optics, your own eyes narrow. Because you know he’s just messing with you out of boredom. If you push back, he’ll likely cave immediately. Turning, you grab his chassis and swing up to straddle the mass displaced mech’s lap, reaching to buckle the collar. “Actually, pinks looks pretty good on you,” you admit as he stares, that smile still in place. “I’m not calling you baby girl, though. It’s weird.”

• “What do you want to call me?” He asks, resting his hands on your waist so you can’t just slide out of his lap and run. And you meet his optics even though he can tell you’re embarrassed. That you thought you could tease him without repercussions. “Hang on. We need a leash for authenticity.” Hooking an arm around you to press you against his chassis, he leans to find a leash and straightening, grabs your hand and presses the leash into it. Grinning when you slowly clip it into place and wrap the end around your hand, he waits.

• And he’s chasing you. Face heating, you move a little faster as you round a corner. What’s he want now? Does he just delight in messing with you? He has to have something better to do. Like writing raunchy smut of you and him apparently. Shouldn’t be thinking about that. Shouldn’t be curious at all. Why is he still following you? Is he walking faster? Catching his optic, he smirks at you and your heart goes racing.

• You look back to nervously meet his optics and that heat shivers through him to make his plating feel restrictive. Rumbling as he tracks you, he chuckles when you almost run into another human. Servos flexing, writing out his fantasy is one thing, but he wants more. Wants the real thing. Following you around a corner, his lips curl when you end up cornering yourself in a dead end. “Why are you chasing me?” You demand, chin lifting.

• Backing up as he chuckles, you tense when he mass shifts suddenly to make your skin prickle. “I thought you were curious about what I was writing?” He growls and his deep voice sinks into you. “Perhaps you could go over it with me. Lend your human perspective.” Flustered as he approaches and you back up, your back hits the fence and you tense. “We could act out a few scenes I’m having trouble with.”

• Venting to pull your scent deep, he smirks at how flustered you look. “What kind of scenes?” You ask, voice shaky and he steps closer, resting his hand on the fence by your head. Rumbling as he leans into your space, his lips twitch. ‘I’m having some trouble with how the love interest would react to something like this,’ he growls, refusing to be embarrassed. Free hand resting on your hip to tug you into his frame, his head lowers so his lips can brush your ear and you shiver against him. ‘What do you think should happen next?’

• 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.

• Rumbling as he crosses his arms over his chassis, Barricade’s head turns at the sound of your boots. And his optics slide over you, realizing that you’re in his colors. That it’s an invitation. A statement that you accept him. Pushing away from the wall, he stalks your way as you hesitate. “About time,” he rumbles, door wings lifting. “You finally decide you can do better than him?” Mass shifting as he approaches, he can hear Prowl growling at him in their language. Ignoring his brother, he reaches and grips your chin to tip your face up. “You’re overdressed.”

• Door wings trembling in outrage, Prowl’s jaw clenches. But you are wearing both their colors and he knew this day would eventually come since Barricade is as bound to you as he is despite not even claiming you, yet. “You don’t want a bath?” You ask, voice soft and breathless to make his spike stir. ‘Rather have you,’ Barricade growls, head lowering and mouth covering yours. Plating lifting as he strides over, he’s mass shifting to pull you away from the other mech. But then he catches the shift in your scent. Groaning as you make a breathless noise when Barricade’s mouth skims your throat, he grits his denta and meets his brother’s optics over your head.

• Maybe you stroked out from the heat? Because you’ve got one of them behind you, hands sliding possessively over you as the other one kisses you stupid. Hear material rip and one of them snarls but then you’re fumbling for the zipper on your coveralls and trying to squirm out of them. Hands catch your hips and lift you and you’re not sure which of them it is as your underwear digs into you before ripping. And you feel Prowl’s spike release to pressurize against your butt at the same time Barricade’s own spike pressurizes. Belatedly realizing how much bigger than you they both are even mass shifted, you have a moment to feel slightly concerned before Barricade is moving against you, the head of his spike stretching you even though your coveralls are caught on the tops of your boots so you can’t wrap your legs around him.

• Straightening, he’s thankful the ceilings are at least high in here so his helm isn’t scraping anything. But staring at the flimsy looking tables and chairs, dread that he’s going to embarrass himself spills through him. Especially when he’s positive those chairs won’t hold his weight. And he startles when you grab his servos and tug him toward a serving counter. Studying the trays of strange, alien food as you order, he clears his vents. “Energon?” He asks the serving human and they glance from him to you looking lost. ‘Supply,’ you whisper and they’re leaning to yell at another human to run to supply for energon.

• “Sorry,” he mutters as you grab your tray with one hand, the other hand still gripping his servos. ‘It’s all good,’ you mutter, thankful the person on KP duty didn’t make it a big thing. To be fair, there’s no rule against the Cybertronians being in here or eating in the commissary. No one had thought that they might want to, either. Eyeing the tables and chairs, you glance back at him. Because there’s no way the cheap plastic and metal chairs are holding his weight even mass displaced. And sensing your dilemma, he tugs out a chair at the closest table for you before moving another out of the way and just sitting on the ground.

• The two humans already at the table are staring at him as you sit down with your tray. “What’s wrong with humans?” One of them mutters under their breath and you go still, your pronged eating utensil in hand. Plating lifting slightly as your jaw works before you smile sweetly, you gesture at the other human with the eating utensil. ‘Xenophobic much?’ You ask and they frown at you. And you’re turning his way, back to them. ‘My place or yours after lunch?’ You ask, still smiling even though your eyes are angry.

• Flustered and annoyed as you meet his optics, he reaches to grip your free hand and tug it to him. Head ducking to brush his mouth against your knuckles as the other person stiffens. And you’re not even surprised when they grab their tray and pointedly move to another table. It does surprise you when the other person just grins and keeps eating. “Sorry about them,” you whisper as you see someone hurrying out of the back with a barrel of energon, a glass, and a measuring cup on a cart. ‘I’m not, because now you’re coming back to my place,’ he says and your face heats because his expression is dead serious.

• Relaxing marginally when you shake your head, he rubs a servo against your cheek, ignoring when you try to push him away. Likes how small you are, how soft. That you’re quiet. Can’t hurt him. Though he’d had an unsettling nightmare about you crawling inside his chassis to chew on his wiring, but he’d come online afraid and aroused. Very confused, too. “I didn’t even do anything wrong,” he mutters, trying to not remember that nightmare. Pacing restlessly with you, he vents against you and a soft hand lands on his face. “Everyone always picks on me.”

• Tensing as his mouth brushes your body, you give up fighting him and just accept that this is your life now. Though you’re not exactly sure if you’re his stress toy, his safety blanket, or a stray kitten. Just like you have no idea what to make of a giant alien that’s afraid of his own shadow. Literally. He’d scared you one time by catching movement from the corner of his optic and flinching with a scream only to realize it was the shadow of his wing. “They’re always plotting against me. You’re not plotting, are you?” He asks, holding you up so you cling to his servos.

• Watching you quickly shake your head, he nods and cuddles your warmth against the mesh of his neck again. “We could fly away somewhere quiet,” he mutters, though he knows he won’t actually do it. Because that’s even scarier than dealing with everything here. Too many unknowns. Risks. It’s safer here because he knows what to expect. Has his routine. You bring him energon and wash him. Court him. Knows to expect those things. “You’re on my side, aren’t you?” He asks, holding you up again as you cling to his hand. “I can count on you.” Isn’t entirely sure he really believes that, though. Because where do you go when you’re not with him? Who do you talk to? Maybe you laugh at him. Mock him.