HIATUS

ABOUT REQUEST

NOW ARE CLOSE

and for the writing request I'm alright to do it. You can dropped the req by comment or ask-box, both work, but please make sure your request doesn't violate the following:

incestany

sexual content about minors (if any, I'm just mentioning it)

That's all for now, I may add more later if I think of anything, so please check back everytime before you make a requests — And please make sure that whenever you send a request, please include the plot/idea/trope/vibe (or whatever/anything you can think of) + continuity + characters everytime

But any additional details are welcome too! such as personality, theme (or even song fic/any references. I can work with that)

continuity I would do for is

IDW 2005&2019 (MTMTE, LL etc), TFP, TFO, WFC, G1, Beast war, Eartspark, Bayverse, ROTB (will add more)

also willing to do brave of gold goldran, brave police j-decker + other japanese show as well

thanks?? I’m genuinely honored you liked it lol. I have been thinking about coming back to update, but tbh I’m deep in that “creative battery = 1%” zone right now. Life, work, health, time perception completely broken, you get it. Technically speaking, I still have a ridiculous amount of unpublished drafts about him. And other stuff. Just… rotting peacefully in my files. Untouched. Unreviewed. Unvibed. Maybe I’ll drop tiny updates, like one thing a week or something, assuming I remember.

Which is already a big assumption, because I only remembered this app exists when you guys inbox me. I legit went, “Huh? Wait. Didn’t I delete this already??” 💀

Anyway—Black Shadow. Yes. That guy. He is, by definition, a walking war crime. Built for violence, exploitation, and extremely professional tax evasion. (That last part is a joke. Mostly. He does feel like the type.) I’ve probably said this before, but I love characters who are funny or just kind of pathetic. Like… tragic but in a way that makes you laugh. And he is absolutely one of those. Man gets introduced with galaxy-level kill counts, epic scary vibes, final boss energy—and then dies to bad ASMR literally one page later. Maybe two. I don’t know. He evaporates so fast it barely matters.

(Thunderclash also belongs in this “pathetic blorbo I’m emotionally attached to for no reason” category, by the way. This information serves no purpose. I just needed to say it out loud.)

Still, I wish Black Shadow were popular enough to get his own spin-off like the others. Will that ever happen? No. Am I still delusional about it? Also yes

And please, if you want to share your work, feel free to post/send the link. I'm okay with that. I admit I've been a bit bored lately and have been more of a reader than a writer now and then 👀

Combiners, combiners… I’ve always found them weirdly charming. Like, unnervingly charming. Yes, I am very much interested—and I mean that in a biology/mechanical-engineering kind of way, because come on, if you really think about it, their structure is fascinating. Both mentally and physically.

The surface of Cybertron was a wasteland of jagged ruins and howling winds, a far cry from the gleaming sublevels of Iacon.

A faint glow caught Orion's optics in the mouth of a crumbling cave. Curiosity overriding caution (as usual), Orion ventured inside. The air grew warmer, humming with residual energy. At the far end, slumped against a wall of etched glyphs, sat a figure. Tall, armored in faded markings of the old Primes, with a frame that screamed "ancient" but somehow still sleek and imposing.

You stirred as he approached, optics flickering online. "Took you long enough. I was starting to think this cycle's finder would be another Quintesson scout."

Orion skidded to a halt, jaw dropping. "Whoa—wait, you're... you're real? Like, one of the Fourteen? I've read the archives! The Primes vanished after... after everything went down!"

You stretched lazily, standing with a grace that belied eons of inactivity. "Vanished? Nah. I just... retired. Early. Very early."

Orion's optics widened in awe. "This is just crazy. I can't believe you've been alive all this time!"

You smirked, striking a playful pose. "Heh, look pretty good for my age, huh?"

He blinked, processing, then chuckled nervously. "Uh... Prime, can I ask you something?"

"Of course. Ask anything you like. I'm basically a walking encyclopedia at this point."

Orion hesitated, glancing at the barren cave walls as if they held the weight of Cybertron's suffering. "After the fall of the Thirteen... Cybertron's energy reserves are dwindling every day because the Matrix is nowhere to be found. Why didn't you come back?"

You groaned dramatically, flopping back against the wall. "Oh, Primus, this again."

"What—?"

"Every time! One of you finds me, and it's the same damn thing. 'Why didn't you save Cybertron?' 'Why didn't you stop the Quintessons when they came back for round fifteen?' 'Where were you during that million-year war with the Quintessons?' Tsk." You waved a hand dismissively. "Do you have any idea what it was like when I ruled? Boring. Endless war, perfect harmony, everyone transforming happily into whatever, infinite Energon flowing like cheap high-grade. Yawn."

"So I left you all to it" you continued cheerfully. "Let things go properly to scrap. Made Cybertron a worse place on purpose. You're welcome, by the way."

Orion stared, dumbfounded. "So... you want things to be this way?! The surface isn't safe!"

"Good."

"There's starvation—"

"Yesss... lovely!"

"And overworking the cogless bots!"

"That's gonna shape some interesting lives. Real character-building stuff"

"How could you be so cruel?!"

You leaned forward, optics gleaming with mischievous spark. "Listen, Pax. When you get to my age, you'll– Oh wait! You will never get to my age, will you?"

"Wait—so you just—"

"Mm-hmm!" You nodded enthusiastically. "Immortal perks. I'm sorry about Sentinel, though. That one was... my bad."

"Sentinel?"

"Yeah, ever since Sentinel betrayed the Thirteen Primes and teamed up with the Quintessons to steal the Matrix ..or try to, anyway. You've all been working day and night mining Energon to make a living and survive—just for him to handover your hard work to Quinssy. And the cogs? He's the one who ripped those out of the newborns. Classic false Prime move. I probably should've seen that coming, but eh—live and learn. Or in my case, just live.."

Orion backed up a step, blaster arm twitching involuntarily. "I—I can't! You are evil! Just like sentinel, you are actually evil!"

"What were you expecting?"

"I don't know... some wise old hero or something?"

You burst into laughter, the sound echoing through the cave like thunderous sarcasm. "Oh, Paxxie.. you've come to the wrong cave."

Orion stood there, processor reeling. The legendary Prime he'd idolized from forbidden archives wasn't a beacon of hope. You were a chaotic ancient who'd bailed on responsibility for the ultimate sabbatical, turning Cybertron's golden age into a dumpster fire just to avoid boredom.

And somehow, in the midst of his shock, a tiny part of him wondered if this was the spark of rebellion he needed. After all, if even a Prime could flip the script on destiny...

Let's get straight to the point. Imagine you're his mechanic. That would be about as easy a target as Dead End, except he doesn't personally hate you that much. He might even be fond of you because why not? You fix him without being asked, and while annoying, it's also admirable. It's a much more friendly form of teasing than Dead End, who would grumble about this later. At least he doesn't eject you from him on landing like Dead End does... or slam the doors in your face every time, or refuse to open the sliding doors until you politely, sweetly beg him. He doesn't exactly enjoy being a dimensional bus, but if you're inside him, that might lessen his frustration a bit when you sweetly try to ask him into opening a locked door

Maybe he even records those to play when you're not around, to keep his morale up. And since he can't properly frag you anyway, having some kind of distraction while he's alone is better than nothing.

In the shadowed corridors of Iacon’s Enforcement Division, where the air always smelled faintly of overheated circuits and spilled Energon, Orion Pax ruled like a king who’d never bothered to learn the word “mercy” He wasn’t Prime yet just a mid-caste archivist turned enforcer with a smile sharp enough to cut plating and a reputation dirtier than the Kaon undergrid. The Autobots called it “pragmatism” Everyone else called it corruption. Same difference, really.

You were one of his lieutenants, assigned to his unit because someone upstairs thought your spotless record might “balance” him. Hilarious, in hindsight. From your first cycle under his command, you hated the way he operated: suspects disappearing into interrogation cells and emerging as broken husks who’d confess to anything, evidence lost when it pointed at the wrong elite, bribes flowing upward like smoke signals to the Senate towers.

You kept your dissent quiet. Oh so quiet because loud dissent got you quietly decommissioned. Instead, you collected. Every deleted file you recovered, every hushed conversation you recorded, every frame of surveillance you spliced together in the dark. A private archive of Orion Pax’s sins, growing fatter with every rotation.

One day, you told yourself, you’d hand it to Internal Affairs and watch him burn.

One day never came.

Orion had friends in high places specifically, one cyclopean friend with a senator’s robe and a talent for making inconvenient truths vanish. Shockwave owed Orion favors older than most of your components, and every time your evidence packet crept toward the oversight committee, it simply… ceased to exist. “System glitch” they’d say. “Data corruption.” You’d sit in your berth at night, staring at the blank screen where your life’s work had been, and wonder if the universe had a sense of humor black enough to laugh at you.

Then Orion found out.

He didn’t storm into your quarters or drag you to a holding cell. No, that would have been mercifully straightforward. Instead, he waited until you were alone in the armory, cataloguing weapons after a raid. The door sealed behind you with a soft hiss. When you turned, he was already there leaning against the rack, arms folded, optics glowing that particular shade of amused crimson that made your spark stutter.

“Evening, officer,” he said, voice low and warm, like he was greeting a lover instead of a traitor. “Working late again? So dedicated.”

Your spark lurched. You tried to step back, but the wall was already behind you. He didn’t raise his voice, didn’t even activate his weapon. He simply crossed the room in three unhurried strides, plucked the drive from your trembling servo, and crushed it between two digits as casually as snapping a data stylus. Shards of crystal rained to the floor.

“Shockwave sends his regards,” he murmured, leaning in until his plating brushed yours and you could feel the thrum of his larger, hotter frame.

“He was very disappointed. Said you’d almost made him do actual work this time.”

You expected punishment—demotion, reassignment, a blaster to the helm in some dark alley. Instead, Orion’s field flared with something dark and delighted, wrapping around yours like smoke. He tilted his head, studying you the way a collector studies a rare specimen he’s decided to keep alive.

“You know..” he said conversationally “most bots just obey. Or they scream. Or they beg. But you?” His thumb traced the edge of your cheek guard, slow, deliberate. “You fight quietly. Cleverly. It’s… intoxicating”

You shuddered, half fury, half helpless violation, and tried to pull away. His servo slide down around your throat. Not squeezing, just holding thumb stroking the main fuel line with idle menace.

“Shh” he whispered against your audio receptor. “Don’t fight it. You wanted my attention, didn’t you? All those late nights, all that righteous fury… you were practically begging me to notice.”

From that cycle forward, Orion kept you leashed closer than his own shadow.

Personal aide the roster called it. Everyone knew better. You rode with him on every call, stood at his side during every interrogation, watched him break sparks and frame innocents while his optics flicked to you every few minutes, checking that you were watching. That you understood.

He never raised a hand to you. Not in public, anyway. In private was another story. Late-night “debriefings” in his office, door locked, lights dimmed. He’d back you against the desk and trace the seams of your plating with deliberate slowness, voice soft as he recounted exactly how easily he could ruin you. How no one would believe you. How Shockwave would personally overwrite any complaint you filed. And the worst part. The part that made you want to tear your own spark out was the way your frame responded against your will: overheating, field flaring traitorously, because his presence was a gravity well of danger and power and you hated how it pulled.

Sometimes he’d let you fight just enough to wear yourself out. Pin you down with one hand, murmur praise that curdled in your audios: “There’s my defiant little lieutenants. Still think you’re better than me?” He’d force your optics to meet his while he thrust in again, deeper this time, flooding your sensors with feedback loops that blurred pain and overload until you couldn’t tell which was which. You’d come offline gasping, hating him, hating yourself more.

He never let you transfer out. Never let you file a single report. Kept you polished and presentable for inspections, a perfect ornament to his authority. And in the quiet moments. When he thought you were recharging. He’d stroke your helm like you were something precious he’d decided to keep broken.

On Cybertron, justice was a fairy tale told to fool the naive. You’d learned that the hard way. Now you lived it: chained to the mech who embodied every rot in the system, drowning in the sick realization that part of you had stopped wanting rescue.

After all, what was the point of escape when the monster had convinced your spark through terror, through twisted intimacy, through sheer relentless proximity that it belonged to him?

The jungle was the absolute worst place for a Decepticon like you. Humidity? Check. Sticky leaves slapping you in the faceplate every five seconds? Check. Random insects trying to crawl into your vents like they paid rent? Triple check. And don’t even get started on the birds those screeching little organic alarm clocks that never shut up.

But the view from this mountain peak? Chef’s kiss. The scheme unfolding below? Pure, unadulterated genius. You adjusted one last dial on the control panel, optics practically sparkling with smug satisfaction as the massive crystalline siphon hummed like a very expensive, very illegal coffee machine.

“Perfection,” you whispered, allowing yourself a tiny, villainous smirk. “Undetectable frequency, masked signature, and the Autobots are currently chasing their own tailpipes in Siberia because of my fake signal. Megatron might even say ‘good job’ without immediately threatening to melt me into scrap.”

Nothing could possibly go wrong. You’d triple-checked the math. This plan was airtight, waterproof, and monkey-proof.

Cue the universe laughing in your face.

A high-pitched whine sliced through the canopy, followed by the single most annoying voice in the known galaxy.

“Well, well, well! If it isn’t my favorite walking disaster zone!”

You didn’t even need to turn around. That cocky, sunshine-and-rainbows tone could only belong to one mech.

Smokescreen rolled to a stop in vehicle mode, transformed with his usual unnecessary flair, and leaned against a tree like he owned the jungle. Vents heaving, paint scuffed, and still grinning like he’d just won the war single-handedly.

“Smokescreen,” you sighed, pinching the bridge of your nasal ridge (or whatever the Cybertronian equivalent was). “Let me guess. You chased the decoy, realized it was fake, got bored, and decided to come ruin my day personally.”

“pretty much!” he chirped, utterly unbothered by the blaster you were now casually aiming in his general direction. “Also, hi. You look evil and brooding today. Very on-brand.”

You narrowed your optics. “The siphon hits full capacity in sixty cycles. You can’t stop it. You can’t dismantle it. You’re just here to watch me win and cry about it.”

“Cry? Nah.” Smokescreen pushed off the tree and sauntered closer, hands raised in mock surrender. “Actually,  I'm here to recruit you.”

You snorted so hard it echoed off the mountain. “Oh Primus, not this again.”

“I’m serious!” He stopped just out of arm’s reach, blue optics bright and infuriatingly earnest. “You’re too smart for this, babe. All these plans brilliant, beautiful, works of art and every single time, bam! pigeons. Random human sneezing on a power line. A literal butterfly flapping its wings in Canada”

You blinked. Did he just—?

“Don’t call me babe.”

“Too late, already did.” He flashed that stupid, dazzling grin that somehow made your cooling fans stutter. “You’re wasted on the Decepticons. Every single one of your plans is a work of art until the universe personally intervenes to slap you in the face with bad luck. You know why? Cosmic balance! Evil side = automatic curse. Switch to the Autobots and boom! your genius gets plot armor instead of plot sabotage”

You arched an optic ridge.

“You ran probability matrices on my love life with fate?”

“Three times” he said proudly. “The data doesn’t lie. You’re meant for greatness, not getting taken out by migrating ducks or a human in a wool sweater causing localized lightning.”

Despite yourself, the corner of your mouth twitched. He really did see it. The terrifying scope of your mind behind all the slapstick failures. It was… annoyingly flattering.

“Touching”

you deadpanned, raising your arm cannon and aiming it. Not at him, but at the crystal, because dramatic threats are mandatory. “Now watch me shoot my own plan just to spite you—”

As if on cue, a small, furry missile dropped from the canopy with a war cry that sounded suspiciously like “EEEEEEEE!”

It landed directly on your control panel.

With its butt.

One tiny, insignificant wire snapped.

The multi-million-shan crystal siphon immediately started vibrating like it had chugged twelve espressos. A high-pitched whine filled the air, the kind that made your dentas ache. You and Smokescreen both stared at the chittering culprit as it scampered away into the trees.

“Was that… a monkey?” he whispered.

“That,” you said through gritted teeth, “was the universe flipping me off. Again.”

The crystal let out a massive electromagnetic belch completely frying comms across the continent and turning your stealthy heist into the galaxy’s loudest neon sign screaming “ENERGON THEFT HAPPENING HERE, COME QUICK!”

Smokescreen winced. “Okay, in my defense, I didn’t hire the monkey.”

Above you, the unmistakable roar of ship punched through the clouds, descending like the wrath of a very angry warlord.

Smokescreen’s optics snapped to you, wide and pleading. “This is it. They’re gonna bench you for a thousand years. Switch sides. Right now. Come with me. I’ll take the heat, I’ll cover for you. We’ll tell Optimus you defected because of moral growth or whatever—he’ll buy it. I’ll even let you drive sometimes.”

He reached out, hand open, palm up. That same earnest, stupidly hopeful look on his face that always made something in your spark glitch.

For one treacherous nanosecond, you actually considered it.

Then nemesis loomed overhead, cannons priming. “Touch me and die, rookie.”

You hissed, batting his arm away before turning and transforming into your own alt mode, tearing away from the mountain peak in a spectacular, luck-defying burst of speed, you caught one last glimpse of Smokescreen standing alone on the peak, optics locked on your retreating form, hand still outstretched, looking way too handsome for someone this reckless

As you vanished into the jungle, dodging roots and low branches, a single, traitorous thought slipped through your processor

Next time, maybe you will let the idiot finish his recruitment pitch before fate pulls the plug.

FRENEMIES

Imagine you and Blaster are coworkers journalists, no less. But let’s be honest here: you two absolutely can’t stand each other. Like, seriously. This guy tanks the channel’s ratings with his painfully boring “exposé on truth” segments. Who does he think he is? some kind of hard-hitting investigative hero? Because thanks to him, your commission pay keeps dropping! And what’s worse? You still have to share the damn commission cut with him even though you’re the one carrying the whole network on your back and keeping the whole thing from getting shut down.

And he doesn’t seem the least bit grateful.

Nope. Instead, he accuses you of “sucking up” to the big wigs. Like—HELLO?? If you don’t do that, the worst thing that could happen isn’t the studio closing… it’s you and him (and maybe whole studio) getting tossed into a smelting pit to shut you up permanently.

And I have a second plot!

FINAL BOSS (literally)

Blaster’s that kind of journalist who just can’t stop poking the powerful. But this time? Looks like he picked the wrong target.

Because the “thorn” he kicked up… is you. And really, it’s kind of cute how hard he tries to expose your not-so-legal business ventures. You found it amusing enough that you decided to greet him properly by buying out the studio he works for. And thanks to that nice long-term contract of his, Blaster’s not going anywhere. Now he has a brand-new boss: You.

It’s hilarious, honestly. He’s probably grinding his denta right now while you sit in your CEO chair, grinning, telling him to rewrite his entire script because it doesn’t sound “hip” enough. Even though he’s supposed to go on air in 30 minutes.

Or we could take it in another direction.

Where you pretends to be just another reporter bot in the newsroom, acting like Blaster’s friendly coworker while secretly watching him dig for information… about you. You get front-row seats to him chasing your trail, connecting clues, getting excited whenever he thinks he’s onto something. Meanwhile you’re right there beside him, nodding along, offering tiny hints, “helping out” just enough, just the kind of support a good colleague should give, right?

The Ark was no longer a symbol of Cybertronian pride; it was a glorified, rusted-out cave nestled in the side of a terrestrial volcano. The air inside the makeshift base was humid, thick with the smell of unrefined Earth-metal and the constant, grating hum of life support systems running on borrowed time. There were no polished chrome floors, no glowing synth-lilies. On the Ark, your designation wasn't "High-Born" it was "Data Analyst" or "Target Acquisition Specialist.".

The war had stripped the Autobots bare. Status, fortune, and lineage were currencies that couldn't buy a single cube of Earth-grade Energon or repair a broken joint. Everyone was simply part of the War Effort.

You, were hunched over a jury-rigged terminal in the command center, the glow of the screen illuminating the focused intensity in your optics. You were utilizing your extensive knowledge. Once used to manage complex corporate portfolios to map the erratic energy signatures of a newly discovered Decepticon drill site. You were indispensable, and the work was a constant, welcome distraction from the weight of the last few million years.

Mirage was there too, of course. His silver plating, though bearing the occasional unavoidable scorch mark, was still immaculate. He was coordinating patrol routes, a task he handled with the same precise, cold logic he once applied to a High-Born tea ceremony. His disdain for the chaos of Earth and the mess of the war was palpable, but his focus was unwavering.

They had not been married. The wedding was an ancient, bitter joke. The political climate had soured, the Ark had launched, crashed, and they woke up on a primitive planet. The official engagement was forgotten, but the personal bond remained—a complex alloy of habit, love, and constant, low-level irritation.

Mirage hated Optimus Prime’s initial strategy the diplomacy, the delay. Which, in his mind, was the direct cause of their current predicament: stuck on a backwards planet, fighting a protracted, messy war. You, however, held firm.

“The efficiency of this planetary defense system is negligible” Mirage commented, his voice a low, exasperated murmur as he reviewed a sensor readout, but the comment was entirely for your benefit. “We traded a civilization for a swamp and a volcano. An objectively poor exchange, all because we chose patience over pre-emptive force.”

You didn’t look up, but your voice was firm, honed by years of defending your position. “Patience saves lives, Mirage. And we chose to follow. If the only price of peace was the end of the High Council’s rule, I’d pay it a thousand times over.”

He sighed—a dramatic, grating vent of air. “You mistake chaos for purity, my dear. And that is why I worry about you.”

The unspoken context was heavy: 'I worry about you. That’s why I’m here. That’s why I haven't left.' Before the tension could escalate, a new, jarring element entered the command center. The door slid open with a screech, and two figures: red and gold stumbled in, covered in a thick layer of fine, red Earth dust. They looked exhausted, but not defeated.

It was Sideswipe and his twin, Sunstreaker.

Sideswipe was a machine built for war, a creature thriving in the very chaos Mirage despised. His red plating was now a mottled mess of dust and scorch marks, and he was wiping grime from his optics with the back of a servo.

“Yo, we got visual on a new Decepticon beacon” Sideswipe announced, his voice carrying the rough, unpolished energy of a street hustler who had just successfully dodged a planetary traffic patrol. “Small group, high-speed profile. They’re running a recon sweep on the coastline.”

Then, his optics landed on you. And the chaos he specialized in was immediately redirected.

He didn't bother with a formal greeting. He simply grinned—that wide, predator's smirk that still carried the memory of easy money and ill-mannered charm. He’d seen you in passing on the Ark, a fleeting reminder of a life that was now dust, but this was the first chance to engage.

“Well, look who’s still keeping the Command Deck functional” Sideswipe drawled, leaning against the doorway with a cocky swagger that violated every single one of Mirage’s aesthetic principles.

“The High-Born Analyst. Still crunching numbers for the new management, I see.”

He walked over to your station, ignoring Mirage entirely. The proximity was a deliberate, tactical offense. He bent over your shoulder, feigning interest in your screen. “So, you figure out why the Earthlings keep trying to communicate with us using music yet?”

He whispered, close enough that you felt the low resonance of his vocalizer. “Seems like a waste of broadcast power, but hey, maybe it’s a distraction technique.”

You tensed, instantly shifting into your polite-yet-firm mode. You were aware of Mirage’s optics burning into the back of Sideswipe’s head.

“It’s called culture, Sideswipe. And no, it’s not a distraction technique; it’s a form of artistic expression” you explained patiently, your processor already noting the tactical implications of the Decepticon beacon he'd mentioned. “And yes, I am crunching numbers. It’s what I’m good at. In war, every specialization counts. Even mine.”

Sideswipe straightened up, turning his attention to the tension-filled space between you and Mirage, who had now taken a slow, deliberate step towards him.

“See, told you, Mirage,” Sideswipe said, addressing the silver bot with mock-friendliness. “They're totally bought the whole equal contribution bit. No more worrying about the family silver, eh? Just worrying about getting blown up by Soundwave.”

Mirage’s response was a masterpiece of cold, contained fury. “The only thing I worry about, Sideswipe, is the unnecessary risk brought on by those who mistake recklessness for courage. If you’re done contaminating the Command Deck with your particular blend of Earth-grade filth and irritating chatter, I suggest you take your intelligence report to Prime before the dust settles, and you forget which planet you’re on.”

Sideswipe’s eyes flashed with genuine amusement. He knew exactly how to push every single one of Mirage’s buttons: challenge his intellect, mock his elegance, and get close to you “Keep those numbers coming. High born”

He called out, his voice loud enough for Mirage to hear clearly. “We’re fighting a low-grade war here. We need all the high-grade brainpower we can get.”

And with a final, victorious smirk directed squarely at the furious silver mech, Sideswipe strolled out, leaving the Command Deck throbbing with the unresolved static of their colliding worlds. Mirage immediately moved to your side, his hand resting protectively on your shoulder—the gesture was meant to be comforting, but felt more like a possessive warning flag planted in the dirt.

“He is a pest” Mirage declared flatly.

“A crude, unsophisticated pest. Do not let him distract you. He only sees you as a means to irritate me.”

You looked down at the terminal, your spark unsettled by the abrupt collision of your past and present. You knew Mirage was partly right. But you also knew, deep down, that Sideswipe saw something in you that Mirage's protective High-Born logic sometimes missed: a genuine appreciation for the rough and tumble, for the chaos that Mirage so desperately tried to shield you from.

The auxiliary power core was not a place for High-Born contemplation. It was a buzzing, heavily shielded hellhole where the air was hot, smelled strongly of ozone, and vibrated with the raw, unstable power pulled from the Earth’s core. Sideswipe was there because someone had to rewire the surge suppressor that his brother, Sunstreaker, had nearly overloaded during an unsanctioned experiment.

He was focused on stripping a thick, blackened cable when he heard the approach. Not the heavy clatter of a grunt, but the light, almost silent movement of expensive, well-maintained joints.

Sideswipe paused, adjusting his gold optics, and grinned internally. Only one bot walks through a warzone like they're gliding across a polished marble floor.

You appeared, carrying a complex diagnostic data pad. Unlike the combat bots, your chassis looked clean, reflecting your dedication to command work, but there was a sheen of dust on your plating proof that even you couldn't escape the grime of the Ark. You saw him, and the usual, subtle tension entered your frame. It was the tension of someone preparing for a very polite, very tedious social negotiation.

"Sideswipe.." you greeted, your voice impeccably mannered, almost too sweet for the buzzing environment. "I.. pardon me, I didn’t realize this section was occupied. I need to run a thermal check on the phase regulators, so I'll be very quick, I promise. Please, don’t let me disrupt your—"

See? Sideswipe thought, peeling back a layer of insulation with a quick, practiced slice. Always apologizing for existing. Always asking permission to perform your own damn duties. It was like watching a perfectly tuned music box that only played a single, agonizingly polite tune.

He straightened up, letting the heavy, insulated wire dangle. "Disrupt my hustle? Nah, High-Born. I'm just making sure this place doesn't turn into scrap, so you can keep analyzing those pretty charts of yours."

He flashed his signature smirk. "But hey, you're a vision in this heat. You're giving this place some much-needed aesthetic value."

You visibly flinched at the back-handed compliment, but immediately smoothed your expression into a courteous neutrality.

"That's… a very kind observation, thank you. Though I assure you, my appearance is the least of my concerns."

Sideswipe leaned against the buzzing core. He knew why you were here. He knew your history. Mirage’s little secret.

He had overheard enough gossip during his time near the High Tower and certainly enough from Sunstreaker, who paid attention to power dynamics to understand the You-Mirage scenario: "Old Money. Arranged Match. Perfect Symmetry." The engagement was paused not because they stopped liking each other, but because Optimus Prime's weak leadership was too much of a political risk for the prestigious Mirage to officially bind himself to a war effort that might fail.

Mirage is a beautiful cage, Sideswipe judged internally. He’s always trying to keep you polished and tucked away, safe from the rough edges of reality. Mirage represented the 'System' that Sideswipe hated: effortless, untouchable wealth protected by layers of polished decorum. Mirage was perfect geometry; Sideswipe was explosive fragmentation.

Sideswipe just smirked, running his fingers over the scuffed plating of his own arm. He didn't have status, but he had authenticity. He had chaos. He had the ability to make you blush and gasp and forget your manners, even if it was only for three seconds before Mirage stepped in. He hadn't been interested in High-Caste-Things. They were too much trouble. But you were different. You were a glitch in the system. You had that anxious, sincere spark that flinched at rudeness, yet your optics were so smart. When he’d looked at you, he hadn't just seen credits; he'd seen a genuine curiosity for the messy, real life he led

"So, running diagnostics, huh?"

Sideswipe continued, his tone shifting to something surprisingly focused, a tactic he used to catch people off guard.

"Tell me, High-Born. You crunch all those numbers for Optimus. Do you ever get sick of hearing our resident silver shadow complain about how Prime is too slow?"

The question was a direct hit, aimed precisely at the stress fracture in your relationship with Mirage. You tensed again, clearly preparing the polite, diplomatic defense. "Well, Mirage merely holds a… a differing strategic viewpoint,"

You started, your voice slightly strained.

"He is an exceptional specialist, and he believes that the initial—"

Sideswipe cut you off with a cynical, dismissive wave of his servo. "Oh, I know what he believes. He believes that anything that isn't perfectly coordinated and funded by old money is inefficient. But you. You stuck by Prime's decision. You're the one analyzing the data, not running the snobby patrol routes."

He narrowed his optics, watching you intently. "Don't you ever just want to scream at him to shut up about efficiency and just get his hands dirty for once?"

The silence from the core suddenly felt deafening. Your faceplates flushed, a visible sign of distress as your polite programming fought the genuine, long-suppressed exhaustion of defending a flawed strategy to your disapproving partner.

You stared at him, your optics widening in surprise—not at him, but at the thought he had just voiced. It was exactly what you felt every time Mirage complained.

Then, the final barrier of your High-Born decorum shattered.

"Actually, yes, Sideswipe, I do" you blurted out, the words escaping with surprising force. Your voice, though still quiet, was laced with an uncharacteristic, genuine annoyance.

"I think if he spent less time criticizing the logistics of Prime's compassion and more time accepting that Cybertron is gone and we have to adapt, he might actually be happier. But no, he just stands there, looking perfectly polished, making me feel bad for choosing a messy war over a perfect, quiet, and absolutely dead life!"

You stopped abruptly, your frame freezing. You stared at Sideswipe, utterly mortified. That was not polite. That was not diplomatic. That was the raw, angry truth you had locked away for millions of years.

Sideswipe didn't laugh or mock you. He just looked completely, startlingly satisfied. Not because you were in trouble, but because he had finally cracked the perfect shell.

"There it is" He murmured, his blue optics shining with a strange mix of respect and excitement.

"..that's the real spark." He took one step closer, his voice dropping to a low, conspiratorial rumble. "See? I told you this war was good for something. It's making you interesting, High-Born."

He paused, then added a low-blow jab, just to test the waters

"And don't worry about Mirage. I know he hates the mess, but he's not going anywhere. He's too obsessed with keeping his most valuable, fragile possession. That's you out of the scrapyard."

He winked, a gesture that somehow felt less like a threat and more like a shared, scandalous secret. He returned to his work, leaving you paralyzed by the shocking honesty of your own outburst. Now he was waiting for the perfect opportunity to show you just how dull "perfect" really was.

The war, unfortunately for Cybertron but conveniently for him, provided that opportunity perfectly.

Sideswipe will run into you more often. He’ll still be cheerful and cheekily annoying, but there will be a genuine sense of respect mixed in now. And he’ll keep calling you “high born” though not in a mocking way anymore.

Sometimes he’ll send you subtle signals like a knowing eyebrow raise or a conspiratorial smile. And he might even drop bits of valuable intel for you to analyze, the kind that clearly came from… less-than-legal snooping.

When you’re assigned to work together, he’ll keep things professional, but he’ll also look at you with openly sympathetic eyes regarding the tension between you and Mirage. It’s not like he’s oblivious. The whole situation between you and Mirage is practically the Ark’s weekly gossip headline everyone knows, or almost knows.

The Ark's Observation Deck was a cruel joke a large, cracked viewport reflecting the humid, dirty green of Earth. Mirage stood alone here, a rigid silhouette of silver against the dusty glass. His systems were running hot, struggling to cope with the lingering anxiety left by your recent, unfiltered exchange with Sideswipe.

He wasn't analyzing troop movements. He was analyzing you, and the painful, efficient way he had destroyed the best thing in his life.

Inefficient. That single word, the cornerstone of his High-Born existence, now tasted like bile.

He remembered the final, defining moment in his tower. The data on the Lower Sectors, the cold command that deleted it. He remembered the look in your optics, not of anger, but of devastating realization. But before that fracture, there was a lifetime of quiet, perfect moments that now haunted him. The memories that made the present isolation unbearable.

He closed his optics, letting his processors drift back, not to the political arguments, but to the silence after the society meetings.

You had just successfully endured a particularly mind-numbing meeting with the High Council's liaison. Mirage had found you later on the balcony, leaning against the railing, your frame slumped with exhaustion from the forced civility.

He hadn't said a word about the meeting. He simply stepped up beside you and wordlessly offered his hand. You hadn't hesitated, slipping your fingers into his. Your hand in his fit perfectly—a precision connection that spoke of genetic compatibility and effortless comfort.

He remembered turning to you, your faceplate illuminated by the soft city glow. He had lifted your chin with the back of his fingers, his touch infinitely gentle, almost reverent. And then, he had leaned down, his kiss slow, deep, and utterly possessive. It wasn't a rushed, passionate kiss. It was an unhurried declaration of forever. A soft, prolonged brush of mouthplates that lasted just long enough to confirm your bond, lingering in the quiet, absolute confidence that there was nowhere else you both needed to be.

"This is our peace" he'd whispered against your plating, pulling you close, surrounding you with his sleek, silver form. "This perfect, quiet order. I will guard it for you

Mirage reopened his optics. Guard it. He had been so obsessed with guarding the order that he hadn't guarded your spark.

He remembered the scene vividly: the desperate flicker of light in your optics, the passion that flared when you defended your data on the Lower Sectors. He remembered how he had simply deleted it, replacing your messy, heartfelt idealism with the sterile, ordered logistics of the escape.

"You are too valuable, too good for this chaos. When this is all over, we will rebuild Iacon perfectly. You will be safe..."

He ran a weary, silver servo over his faceplate. Safe. That was all he had ever wanted for you. Safety, order, predictable elegance. He had seen the chaos of the encroaching war, and his only logical imperative was to construct an impenetrable, beautiful fortress around the thing he loved most. He was the lock on your gilded cage, and he saw that as the ultimate act of devotion.

The pain of that moment was not intellectual; it was a profound, aching sorrow in his spark chamber. He hadn't realized how completely he had failed you. He hadn't seen that your desire wasn't for protection but for purpose. He had offered you a quiet, beautifully crafted tomb when you were searching for a vibrant, messy life.

"I didn't defend him because he's appealing Mirage. I defend him because he's the only one who sees that the war is about more than resources. It's about us. And I thought... I thought you did too."

He was so focused on the efficiency of the outcome that he missed the value of the process, he realized, the truth hitting him like a physical blow. He treated your feelings, your vision, as a minor variable that needed correction, not a fundamental truth. Now, here they were. Stuck on Earth. The war was the messiest thing imaginable, and you were thriving in the middle of it. You were sharper, more assertive, and you were horrifyingly getting along with a mech whose very existence was an affront to all that Mirage held sacred.

He thought of Sideswipe. The red menace saw the chaos, embraced it, and now understood something vital about you that Mirage had tragically overlooked. Sideswipe saw the unfiltered fire in your spark.

Mirage clenched his fists, the polished plating straining. He knew his current relationship with you was built on the shaky foundation of "unsettled business." The only thing keeping you tethered to him was habit, history, and his own stubborn refusal to let go.

He turned from the viewport, his reflection staring back a perfect, elegant Autobot stranded on a dying planet, desperately trying to protect a love that he himself had nearly suffocated with good intentions. He wanted to preserve you, he thought, the sadness heavy in his spark. But you didn't need preserving. You needed a partner who would fight beside you, not hide you away.

And now, the one who was offering you that messy, dangerous freedom was the very mech he most despised.