minorisato
you might be the kindest i've ever known!
my heart escapes in the breeze
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viva misery! nothing's ever gonna-???
original work / NA / wc: 1343 / warnings: NA / notes: angel twins angel twins angel twins. created these characters for my class :) / consider commissioning me!
“So, get this,” Elmyra starts, “they’re closing Take Ten.”
Remilia raises an eyebrow at her counterpart, taking a sip from her milkshake. “So?” She asks, “They close stores in the mall every day. It’s a dying art. Take Ten wasn’t exactly special.” As far as Rem could remember, Take Ten sold clothes that only pandered to the most basic of audiences– trend hoppers who went from one to the other to the other, buying new wardrobes every three months, tossing their old ones when they went out of style. A complete waste of resources.
Elm shrugged. “I dunno, we spend most of our time here. I figured you would wanna know.” She grabbed a handful of popcorn and chomped it down. “You never know. Could be Kuroworld next.”
“You take that back,” Rem hissed, scowling. “Kuroworld better not close.”
Elm huffed, smirking. “It might. That style isn’t as popular here as it used to be. Not since Death Knell disbanded. Death Knell was, like, all this town had, and now it’s a ghost town again. Literally.” She leaned back, chuckling. “So all black is kinda out in Bractport, y’know.”
“Malls are also, apparently, kinda out in Bractport. I can’t believe we got stationed here. I wanted to go to Tokyo,” Rem sighed, stirring her milkshake. It was almost empty, the brown-white liquid clinging to the bottom, her straw unable to properly reach. She stood, dusting off her skirt, platform boots stomping against the linoleum as she made her way to the trash can. “Do you think I should get another?” She asked Elm, as it sunk down among the rest of the trash.
“I thought you were trying to lose weight,” Elm chuckled, retrieving a notebook from her hemp backpack.
“I don’t care that much.”
“Sure,” Elm smirked. “Aren’t you supposed to be tutoring me?”
“Tutor yourself,” Rem told her, “I just told dad that so he would let us stay out later tonight.”
“Wait, are you serious?” Elm asked, “Are you kidding? I’m gonna fail my Bio class, you bitch!”
“Don’t call me a bitch, bitch! I don’t even take Bio!”
They did this everyday, same argument as always. To an outsider, this would look like two completely unrelated people getting into a fight– this was, of course, because Rem had put an effort into differentiating herself from her twin. Bleaching her hair and dressing in a distinct gothic-girly style went a long way– her almost-white hair compared to Elm’s light brown, her black ruffled skirts compared to Elm’s skinny jeans and crop tops. It did nothing, however, to change that they shared the same vocal chords, the same height, the same body type, the same wings and same halo. Remilia and Elmyra Dovelock couldn’t be more different, and at the same time, they couldn’t be more similar.
And, whether they liked it or not, they were stationed in Bractport, the Angel Security Kill Squad (ASKS– nice acronym, terrible name) placing them there to “keep peace on the Earthly plane” and “make sure those damn phantom wannabes don’t kill half the population” or something. Some got stationed in London, some got stationed in Moscow, and Remilia and Elmyra managed to get stationed in Bractport– population 6742, twelve years behind the rest of the country.
It was then, during this argument (which was the same as all their other arguments,) that Elm’s phone began to ring and vibrate on the table.
“Oh, shit, it’s boss.” She cleared her throat, and answered the phone with her best customer service voice. “Hey boss! Me and Rem just got to the mall, what’s up?”
As Elm hadn’t bothered to turn on her speaker, all Rem could hear from the other end was vague mumbling. As their employer spoke, Elm nodded along, with a few “mhms,” “uhuhs,” and even one “oh.” Rem leaned over the table, in an attempt to hear, but still, the words remained incoherent. Elm smacked her shoulder in an attempt to get her to sit back down, which failed, only spurring Rem on to lean in further.
“Okay boss, no worries, we’ll get right on with that.” Another moment, more mumbling. “Yeah, alright, Fifth Street, I get it. See ya.” As Elm hung up the phone, she leaned back in her chair, letting out a groan.
“What’d he say?” Rem asked, still leaning over the table.
“Wraith Club on Fifth,” Elm replied, shoving her notebook back into her backpack. “We gotta get going, c’mon.”
“Seriously?” Rem sighed, grabbing her own bat-winged backpack.
“What else does boss call for?”
“I dunno, maybe we get a raise?”
“We don’t get paid,” Elm reminded her twin, raising from her chair, chunky heels clacking against the tile. “Our payment is getting to stay on Earth.”
Rem huffed. “It’s not our fault that Heaven is boring.”
“Correct, it’s not. Earth is more interesting.” Elm paused. “Have you ever gone down to Hell, actually?”
Rem shook her head. “No, have you?”
Elm shrugged, tossing the rest of her popcorn into a nearby trashcan. “I ran files down there once, but I didn’t really go in. Boss woulda had a fit if I did, I think.” She smirked, making her way out of the Bractport Mall Food Court, Rem following behind her. “I’ve heard it’s a constant party down there, though. Sounds fun enough.”
“Too hot for me,” Rem figured. “Earth has more variety.”
Elm, always one to keep a scrunchie on her, pulled her hair up into a ponytail. “What’s the fastest way to Fifth from here?”
Rem shrugged. “I dunno, can’t we just fly?”
“No, we can’t just fly,” Elm scoffed. “We’re supposed to be undercover, remember?”
“Maybe we should ask someone?”
“If we just ask, they’ll be wrong, and we’ll get lost.”
“You literally do not know that,” Rem groans. “If we don’t ask then we will also get lost.”
Elm tapped her chin, thinking. “We could call and ask dad?”
“Absolutely not!” Rem shut down, grimacing. “Dad doesn’t even like us being out late to begin with! I literally told him I was gonna tutor you here at the mall and that was the only reason he let us stay out this late to begin with. Normally we would be home by now.” Rem crossed her arms. “If you don’t wanna ask for directions, we’re just gonna need to fly. We can spot the Wraith Club better from above anyway.”
Elm continued to think for a moment, tapping her foot. Eventually, she relented. “Alright, fine, we’ll go outside and find a very secluded spot so we can transform and take off. But I swear, if someone sees and we get in trouble with boss, I’m gonna tell him it was your idea.”
“I kind of expected you to blame me anyway,” Rem admitted. “Did boss mention what the Wraith Club looked like? Who they were possessing?”
“See, that’s the thing,” Elm started, “normally when it’s a Wraith Club, they possess a bunch of different people all in the same area, right? But these Wraiths were all on this one guy.” Rem tilted her head in confusion as Elm continued. “And boss didn’t say it was anyone important. Which is probably a good thing, ‘cause that dude’s probably dead by now. Walking corpse.”
Rem winced. “Walking corpse?”
“Probably?” Elm shrugged. “When people get possessed by one Wraith, it makes them super sick. Imagine being possessed by, like, five. Or more.”
“I can’t imagine it,” Rem countered, deadpan. “We’re immune.”
“I know that, idiot,” Elm scowled, pushing the Mall entrance open, allowing the two outside. “I’m just telling you to imagine it. Put yourself in someone else’s shoes. It’s kinda weird, is all I’m saying, a bunch of them on this one nobody.”
“He was probably a freak or criminal or something,” Rem figured. “Wraiths are attracted to people with a guilty conscience, remember? Makes them easier to possess.”
“Yeah, but still, normally it’s not this bad.”
“Whatever,” Rem sighed. “We fly now?”
Elm tsked. “Yeah, whatever, sure. We’re still in public, but sure. Transform and fly now.”
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does it count (ten, nine, eight)
original work / NA / poetry / warnings: s.lf h.rm / notes: spat out for class
i pick at scabs until they bleed
and they leave scars.
that’s the thing;
small little scars
tender skin
with a plastic-y texture
and a slight sheen
in places where most people won’t look.
small, small scars
do you know how long
you need to pick at a scab
for it to leave a scar?
it takes
consistency.
for two or three months.
and the thing is
it will never scar
if you keep picking.
the trick, then, is to get another scab
in a new spot
which bothers you more.
it might interfere with your daily life more
you might feel it everytime you walk
the trick is to get another scab
and pick at that one instead.
that way
the first scab
will
heal
into
a
scar.
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life made you bitter, i can make you tender
transformers / dratchet / wc: 1446 / warnings: NA / notes: this is from an au i made where, during s2 of tfa, drift crashlands on earth. / consider commissioning me!
“Drift’s set to leave soon, isn’t he?”
Prowl was not asking for any malicious reason. Prowl was genuinely just curious. He has this– this processor malfunction, where everything he says sounds kind of blunt and he doesn’t understand how to ask things politely. It still makes Ratchet clench his welder tighter, and it still makes his optics twitch.
“Yes, I suppose he is.”
Prowl nods. “His ship is almost done being repaired. Bulkhead has been helping him with it.”
Ratchet notes that Prowl is trying to talk to him, which is a good thing, because it means Prowl is coming out of that weird cyber-ninja-bubble he’d been in since they met. Ratchet also notes that he really wishes Prowl was talking to someone else about this. Like maybe Optimus. Or Bumblebee. Or a wall. “That’s nice.”
Again, Prowl nods. “It’s going to be quieter without him around. Are you going to miss him?”
At that, the medic turns, and just kind of looks at Prowl for a second, because what is he supposed to say? Yes, I’m actually kinda really disappointed about it? Yes, he’s made this entire experience so much more bearable? Yes, he makes me feel like I still have a purpose, a reason to keep working? Yes, the workload doesn’t matter as long as he’s around? After a moment of silence, all he can think to do is shrug, and say “I’ve gotten used to him.”
Prowl hums, nods a third time, watches Ratchet work for a second, and then leaves. Ratchet heaves a sigh of relief when the medbay doors close behind him.
That night, the official announcement is made; Drift is set to leave three days from now. Ratchet watches from the doors of his medbay as Drift explains to the rest of the crew how thankful he is to have been taken in and given a place to stay. How he appreciates it more than they could ever know, how he’ll never forget this kindness. Sari gives his leg a hug, talks about how it was so totally cool to meet a samurai (or something,) and they all resolve to make the most of the time he has left on Earth.
Ratchet, in the midst of the jeering, returns to his medbay.
He’s keeping himself occupied, for the most part, small work to keep his hands busy. Just trying not to think about it. He is gonna miss Drift, is the thing. He’s gonna miss the extra work. He’s gonna miss his laugh, and his smile, and the way his finials twitch and jerk and poke upright. He’s gonna miss feeling like he has a purpose. He’s gonna miss feeling like he matters. He’s gonna miss how Drift would flash his fangs in a smirk, a remnant of his original Decepticon frame, and how he would say “I’ll be alright, won’t I, docbot?” in a way that made it seem like Drift really thought he could fix anything. He’s gonna miss that.
It’s approximately 3:16 AM when the medbay doors slide open. No one should be awake at this hour. Really, Ratchet also should be recharging right now. Sari has gone off to sleep, certainly, and he suspects that everyone else is in recharge, or patrolling. Probably someone back from patrol. He doesn’t turn around.
“You didn’t come to my little announcement,” Drift says.
Ratchet sighs, sets down his tools. He does not turn around. “I saw. Thought you bots had special training to know when someone’s behind you.”
Drift exvents. “I’d hoped I would get to see you, when I told everyone.”
“Why?” Ratchet asks, “Does it really matter to you? You’re leaving, I get it. I’m aware of that. Isn’t that enough?”
There’s a moment of quiet. “I suppose I just wanted to know how you felt, on the matter.”
Ratchet huffs out an exvent. “Can you guess, now?”
“It’d be easier if you would actually look at me.”
Ratchet grinds his dentae. He does, then, turn fully, looking up at Drift, unable to mask his expression. He can’t imagine how he looks– some combination of frustrated, sad, upset, worried, frustrated, frustrated. “Can you tell now?”
“Ratchet,” Drift says, stepping closer, and it’s then that Ratchet recognizes a few things. One, he’s being petulant. Two, Drift is wearing an expression of something not far from grief. Three, in this low light, he doesn’t look all too different from how he did back then.
“I’m not happy about it, Drift. I’m not happy that you’re leaving. Is that what you wanna hear?” Ratchet grits out, “I’m not happy that you get to go back to your heroism, your vigilante justice, and I’m stuck here, doing nothing. I’m not happy that I thought you were dead for a few million years and now you’re gonna go and I’m gonna think you’re dead again. I’m not happy that you’ve made yourself such an active presence in my life only to leave it again. You wanna know how I feel on the matter? I feel–” and he stops there, cutting himself off.
He didn’t really mean to say all that. It all came out in a rush, all at once, and it’s only now that he realizes just how much he let out.
“You’re unhappy,” Drift finishes for him.
He exvents. “Yes, Drift, I’m unhappy.”
Drift approaches him, and leans down, onto his knees, so that he’s optic-level with the medic. “You could come with me,” he says, voice gentle, and Ratchet can’t help but scoff.
“I could come with you?”
“You could. You don’t need to stay here,” Drift tells him. “You said yourself that you aren’t doing anything here. And I– I see it, Ratch, you aren’t respected here. Your skills aren’t valued or put to use here like they could be elsewhere.” By elsewhere, he definitely means with him. Ratchet chooses not to point that out. “You could come with me. We could help people, together.”
Ratchet’s hands shake. They’ve been glitching, recently. Right now, he isn’t certain if it’s the glitching or the anxiety. “Be serious, Drift, would you want that? I’ve got one pede in the scrapheap already. I’d be dead weight on your ship.”
“Don’t say that,” Drift says, firm, “don’t talk about yourself like that.”
“Because you care so much.”
“I do care so much!” Drift shouts, then, definitely a bit loud for how late into the night it is. “Ratchet, I’m not leaving because I don’t care about you. I’m leaving because there’s more to the universe than Cybertron and Earth. I’m leaving because I want to help, anywhere I can. And I want you to come with me because I care about you.” He pauses, and takes hold of one of Ratchet’s servos. “I’ve always cared about you.”
Ratchet looks down. “Even…”
“Especially,” Drift finishes for him, smiling softly. “You saved my life. I’ve never forgotten that. I never will forget that. You’re– I, very literally, would not be here without you. You showed me a level of respect I never got from any other Autobot. You didn’t care if I was a ‘con. You saved me anyway.” In this dark light, the pink that dusts his face is immediately visible. “Of course I fell in love.”
Ratchet stalls. Love. Love? “Is that what it is?” He asks, before even realizing he’s done so out loud.
“It is,” Drift tells him, leaning a bit closer. Drift is inches away from him. “I love you.”
“I–” Ratchet hesitates. He’d never even considered that word to describe it before, but now that he is considering it, it makes complete sense. Of course it’s love. What else could possibly describe it? “I love you too.”
Drift runs his thumb over the joints on Ratchet’s servo. “My offer–” he starts, “you don’t need to answer right now. I’m still not going for a few days. But I want you to at least consider it, if nothing else.”
“I will,” Ratchet tells him, resetting his vocals. They’re still so close together. There’s a slight heat radiating from Drift’s plating– not too intense, but enough to tell Ratchet that yes, he does also recognize that this is very close. “Drift–”
“I can go, if you’d like me to,” Drift starts, and Ratchet damn near smacks him in the head.
“That’s not it at all,” the medic grumbles. “I– will you– can we. Can we–”
Drift chuckles lightly, and a servo carefully, slowly, softly, with claws that don’t scratch, moves to cup the back of Ratchet’s helm. “Yes,” Drift lets out, voice quiet and soft. “Yes, we can.”
Ratchet wraps an arm around Drift’s neck, and melts into it.
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hi! i need money so bad
hello! okay so i am extremely low on money and, to put this extremely simply, i learned recently that my parents have kinda been stealing money from me?? i am very broke and i really need money- i am currently unemployed and i cannot drive, and once i go to my 4year in august i'm gonna need to start using public transport (which atm i cannot by any means afford.)
tldr; money is very tight and i am very small.
because of this i am opening commissions on this blog! very simply, if you send me a few dollars through ko-fi or buy something from my etsy, just send me a screenshot of the confirmed page and i will write something for you!!
every little bit helps so it would be seriously appreciated.
UTC are fandoms i'm familiar with and shit i will not write.
fandoms;
transformers (idw, g1, tfa, tfp, beast wars, cbv, rescue bots)
project sekai
vocaloid/utau/cevio/synthv
fire emblem (awakening, fates, 3h, engage)
slashers (ft13, noes, halloween, tcm, scream 1, black xmas, the boy + some others- ask)
dead by daylight
vtubers (holo-en, idol-en, phase connect)
legend of zelda (anything pre-botw)
pokemon (exclu. legends arceus)
danganronpa (thh, sdr2 + v3, not AE sorry)
original work (ONLY IF you send me a LOT of details about your ocs and possibly some examples of how they talk)
i will not write;
hardcore gore/character death
sc4t, 0mo, most paraphilias- nsfw in general is okay, just ask
any fandoms not on the list due to lack of familiarity.
thank you!!!
#🍀 minori is typing!#sorry for tag spam#commission#commisions open#commissions#boost#please boost#transformers#vocaloid#project sekai#prsk#slashers#dbd#dead by daylight#vtuber#hololive#legend of zelda#loz#pokemon#pkmn#drthh#sdr2#drv3#danganronpa#fire emblem#fea#fef#fe fates#fe awakening#fe3h
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if you insist on falling in love- you've killed me, you've killed me
transformers / ratchlock / wc: 767 / warnings: NSFT / notes: sorry for the lack of updates, i was planning to write more over my spring break but i haven't had tons of motivation. yknow how it is
The gun at his helm– roughly at his helm– shakes. Even at such a close distance, if Deadlock were to pull the trigger, Ratchet wasn’t sure it would actually hit.
Ratchet held the welder to the wound Deadlock had commanded him to fix, his other servo braced against the Decepticon’s midriff. Every now and then he’d let out a grunt and shift, and after doing so for the fifth time, Ratchet tsks, and forces the ‘con into place, gripping his middle tighter. “If you want me to do this, you need to hold still. It’s gonna be a slipshod job if you don’t.”
Deadlock bared his fangs, engines rumbling in something like a growl. “You better watch your mouth, doc.”
“Or what?” Ratchet scoffs, “You’ll shoot me? And go running back to your ship with a half-patched wound?” A small smirk stretches across his face. “Do the ‘cons even have medics?”
Again, Deadlock’s engines make that growling noise. “Better medics than you, yeah.”
Ratchet quickly looks down, certain that his actual hurt was written all over his faceplates, not wanting the larger to see. He huffs, returning to the task at hand. “If they’re such good medics, get them to fix you. Don’t need to get me to do it.”
Deadlock huffed back in response. “Maybe I like having you like this, huh?” He grins. “At the end of my barrel.”
“On my knees?” Ratchet asks, raising an optical ridge.
“That’s not–” Deadlock started, engine momentarily stalling. (Which it shouldn’t, Ratchet noted, and then quickly forced himself to stop thinking about.) The medic looks up again and sees that the assassin is actually… blushing. “That’s not what I meant,” he grit out, clenching his dentae, and that was when Ratchet heard it.
Very faintly, cooling fans hummed, just barely audible over the noise of the surrounding battle. A quick scan of Ratchet’s systems confirmed his suspicions; they’re not his.
“Deadlock,” the medic starts, “are you–”
“Don’t. Don’t say anything,” Deadlock barks at him, “just ignore them.”
Except that’s basically a confirmation, and now Ratchet can’t ignore it, and he’s suddenly extremely aware of his helm being perfectly level with Deadlock’s crotch. “You’re thinking about it,” he asks, though it isn’t really a question. He lowers his welder. “How long have they been running?”
“They aren’t running,” Deadlock hisses, “I said to just ignore them.”
Against his better judgement, and despite multiple thought trees in his processor telling him not to, Ratchet, very gently, runs a servo over the ‘cons thigh. “It’s a normal reaction to have,” he starts, attempting to soothe the larger. Why is he doing this. He should not be doing this. “Lots of mechs can be…” he resets his vocalizer. “Affected, by medical treatment.”
The problem is that it isn’t the medical treatment itself that got Deadlock worked up, and really, both of them know that (though Ratchet finds it a bit hard to believe.) “Ratchet,” he exvents, as though he’s about to threaten the medic, though no actual threat comes.
Ratchet’s processor is working against him. This is bad. This is very bad. This is treason. Deadlock has killed countless Autobots, some of them being mechs Ratchet knew. Some of them were mechs Ratchet had worked on personally. Deadlock is a brutal Decepticon, hand-picked by Megatron-himself. Deadlock is a murderer.
“I can help,” Ratchet says anyway.
Deadlock heaves a heavy exvent, engine stalling once more (still worrying,) and then his panels fold back and his spike extends. And. Oh.
It makes sense, really, that he would have mods. That part isn’t really surprising. A little intimidating, with the spines and the suggestion of a knot at it’s base, but that’s not what gets him. What really makes Ratchet’s eyes go wide is the size. It’s big enough to make Ratchet think it can’t be natural, though when he thinks about it, it’s still within the realm of belief for Deadlock’s frame size. One way or another, natural or not, it bobs in front of the medic, and his thought trees quickly stop being about how this is a bad idea and instead hone in on put it in your mouth.
Ratchet tentatively licks the tip, and Deadlock lets out the smallest, quietest whimper. He slowly takes the head into his mouth, glancing up at the larger to see that he’s shoved his fist into his mouth, attempting to stifle any noise. If the medic’s intake weren’t stretching around the spike, he’d be smiling.
Deadlock’s other servo comes to rest on the back of Ratchet’s helm, and the medic lets himself relax into it.
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wavering, a flashback, before my eyes!
transformers, original work / NA / wc: 997 / warnings: NA / notes: experiment on that guy lets go
“You’re in shockingly good condition,” Perceptor nods. “It’s rare to see human-done repairs to Cybertronians turn out so… clean.”
Betamax nods. “Yes, my sister did a very good job repairing me. I suspect I wouldn’t be here today if not for her.”
Perceptor makes a note on his datapad. “No, I suppose not. You’re quite lucky she possessed the level of skill required to repair you.”
As the two talk, Brainstorm, at the opposite end of the room, reads the patterns going off in Betamax’s processor. “See, this is very fascinating,” he announces, gesturing to somewhere low on the screen. “You can see him forgetting things in real time. Any memory file from more than seven years ago seems to have…” he waves a servo. “About a 73% chance of being deleted. The chance gets higher, the more time passes, but it doesn’t seem to ever reach 100%.”
Perceptor nods again, tapping more notes into his datapad, glancing up for only a second. “How old is the oldest memory?” He asks, making his way over to his lab partner.
“Oldest memory is from about 13 years ago, but the file itself is only a few seconds long.” He points to a different screen. “See, every 42 minutes or so, his processor randomly decides whether or not to delete it. That happens with all memories over seven years old– that one, in specific, has just been getting really lucky.” He shifts, pointing somewhere else, now. “See, there–”
Then, suddenly, the screen goes dark, and the readings stop coming in. The scientists snap around to see Betamax, holding onto the cable that had previously been attached to his helm. He simply wrenched it out.
“I just remembered,” he explains, frantic, “I agreed to meet up with the others at Swerve’s almost twenty minutes ago.” He practically throws the cable to floor, making his way out as fast as he can. “I’m so sorry, I won’t be able to stay for the rest of the tests. Maybe tomorrow.”
Both scientists stare at the doorway in shock as Betamax speeds out, and it’s only after he’s already gone that Brainstorm manages to grasp himself, attempting to chase after him. “Betamax, wait!”
Perceptor resets his optics. “Does he know,” he asks, though he isn’t asking Brainstorm, necessarily. “He knows that just yanking cables out is bad for you, right.”
Brainstorm invents, exvents, and shrugs. “If he doesn’t, he’s gonna figure it out really quickly.”
~~~~
Betamax is acting weirder than usual. It does not take a genius to notice this, which makes Psyber question why no one else has picked up on it.
He’s joking around like he usually does, with their little group they’ve accumulated, and that’s all well and good. What is distinctly not well and good is that every now and then, he’ll throw out something completely unrelated to the conversation, and act like it’s the most reasonable response he could come up with. His helm would jerk, or he would twist in a strange way, and if it was only once or twice that’d be fine, but it’s happening consistently enough that it’s surpassed strange into worrying.
After Betamax brings up Earth mammals for the third time, Psyber decides that hy’s had enough, grabbing the tape player by the arm and dragging him out of the bar.
“Where are we going?!” Betamax asks, as he’s pulled through the ship’s halls.
“You,” Psyber starts, “are going to talk to Ratchet, because you are being stupid and crazy and I am worried about you.”
Betamax scoffs. “I don’t need to talk to Ratchet. I don’t even know the purpose of beehives.”
Psyber groans. “That’s why you’re going to talk to Ratchet! ‘Cause you keep saying weird nonsensical bullshit like that!” Hy huffs. “I know you have memory problems, but you aren’t stupid, c’mon.”
When they finally do reach the medbay, Ratchet takes one look at the tape player and groans. “I promise he’s fine,” the CMO says, before they’re even fully in the door.
Behind hys visor, Psyber glares at him, shoving Betamax towards the medic. “I promise he is not fine because I know what fine looks like for him, and it’s not this!” Hy folds hys arms. “He’s saying things completely unrelated to any conversation out of nowhere, and he keeps twitching and moving in weird ways, and like, normally he isn’t this bad. He doesn’t do that. Make him stop it.”
Ratchet sighs, turning to Betamax. “Did you hit your processor or something?”
“Can you take this seriously?!”
“You,” he points at Psyber, “hush. Betamax, did you do anything out of the ordinary today? Something that might impact your processor, in any way?”
It takes him a second, but Betamax does nod. “Perceptor and Brainstorm were running some tests on my memory files, and such. They had inserted a cable into the back of my helm, in order to connect to my processor.”
Ratchet nods. “And were there any complications, or anything? Nothing going wrong, Brainstorm didn’t install anything?” As Ratchet spoke, Betamax shook his helm. “They unplugged you properly?”
At that, the tape player paused. “Properly?”
Psyber grimaced. “Beta…”
Ratchet rubbed his helm. “When you disconnect a cable from someone’s ports, there’s a safe way to do it to ensure no damage is done to their internals. In this case, to make sure no damage was done to your processor.” He looks down at Betamax. “They unplugged you properly, right?”
Betamax glances down at the floor. “I unplugged myself, actually.”
“And I’m assuming you just yanked the cable out.”
Betamax feels himself flushing a bit. “Yes, sir.”
Ratchet sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose. “That explains it.” He turns to Psyber. “He’s fine, his processor is likely still just jumbled from the cable being improperly removed. Give him a few hours and he’ll be fine.”
Psyber huffs. “Thank you for your wisdom, oh wise old-timey doctor.”
Said doctor scoffs, turning away from the pair. “Get out.”
#🧃 i wrote something!#;; transformers#;; original work#;; betamax#;; psyber#;; brainstorm#;; perceptor#;; ratchet
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even in another world, reality was just as lame
transformers, original work / miniber, background ships / wc: 1378 / warnings: past major injury / notes: dropping some psyber lore!??!!
“Don’t get me wrong,” Psyber says, burying his helm into a servo, “I’m glad I have friends. I like having friends. I’m just also terrified constantly.”
Rung nods, taking notes on his datapad. He pushes up his glasses. “It’s natural to feel anxious,” he smiles softly, “you were isolated for quite a while, after your accident.”
Psyber isn’t totally sure how hy ended up here, or why hy agreed to this. Hy swore up and down to Betamax that hy didn’t need help and Rung can’t fix hym and trying is honestly a little pointless. But then Betamax brought it up at Swerve’s, when everyone else was around, (including Minimus, dammit,) and everyone was actually agreeing with Betamax (figures) and Minimus looked at him with that half-stern-half-something expression and said hy should at least try–
And now Rung is psychoanalyzing hym, which is the opposite of what Psyber wanted. Hy can psychoanalyze hymself just fine, actually. So fine, in fact, that hy really already knows where hys anxiety about friendship comes from.
It goes like this– you live on a neutral planet for a long, long fucking time. You have friends on this neutral planet. And then you get fucking shot. They all watch you get shot. They’re there, they see it happen, and they rush you to the nearest medic to save you. But the attack is still happening. So they leave. You don’t see them again after that.
It goes like this– you’re on life support, your wound only ever half-fixed. And this life support is mobile now, sure, you can carry it around for a while, but it wasn’t always. So you couldn’t exactly go looking for your old friends for a while. Eventually, you figure, they move on, and looking for them feels sort of pointless. By the time you can actually carry around your life support and move and leave, you’re not even interested in finding them anymore. If they actually cared about you, they could always come find you, and they didn’t.
It goes like this– you find one mech who is okay. Who your processor allows you to cling to, and so you do, like your life depends on it. He’s your friend now, and you aren’t interested in meeting anyone else. He ends up garnering a somewhat large group of friends, one way or another, and that’s fine, ‘cause he’s still there, you’re there for him, mostly. So now you kind of have multiple friends again. Which is cool, sure, except last time you had multiple friends you got shot and it ruined your life, and your processor has decided to link having friends to experiencing pain, so you just have this ever-present feeling of dread following you.
Rung, essentially, repeats this verbatim, and Psyber nods along, because hy knew all this already. It’s a logical progression. Hy doesn’t need therapy.
“I think it’s good that we’ve addressed the root cause of your anxieties,” Rung smiles at hym, and Psyber continues to just nod along. “I think in our next meeting, it’d be a good idea to come up with some strategies to help you manage that anxiety.”
Psyber resets hys vocals, and pats hymself on the back for not shouting that hy doesn’t need to manage hys anxiety, and hy doesn’t need help, and it’s not a big deal, and hy doesn’t need to cope because hy’s doing fine, in the grand scheme of things. Hy stands. “Thank you for seeing me.”
Rung nods back. It’s not that Rung is a bad person, or anything. He really is sweet, and good at his job, and he’s undoubtedly helping a lot of mechs. It’s just that Psyber doesn’t need the help. “Of course,” he says. “Thank you for coming in. I understand you were reluctant, but therapy can be helpful, no matter who you are.”
Again, Psyber nods, attempting a smile and kinda failing. Hy needs to get out of here. “Good day, doctor.”
~~~~
The first thing Psyber does, upon entering Swerve’s, is beg the bartender to let hym drink.
“I know I’m not supposed to,” hy pleads, servos clasped together, “but like, please? Just one glass? Pretty please?”
“Absolutely not,” Swerve grimaces. “Pretty sure if I let you drink, I’m gonna end up thrown in the brig. We’ll probably both end up in the brig, actually. Bad enough you’ve been getting free drinks from Betamax.”
Speak of the tape player, and he shall appear, jogging up to the laptop. “How did it go?”
“It went fine,” Psyber spits, gritting hys dentae. “Nothing happened and it didn’t work. I tried therapy and it’s not for me, like I figured, and I’m not going back.” Hy huffs. “Did Swerve give you any high-grade? He won’t give me any.”
Betamax shakes his helm. “He won’t sell me engex anymore, either.” He pauses. “To be fair, I shouldn’t be drinking it anyway. Neither should you, actually. Didn’t Ratchet ban you from drinking it?”
Psyber groans, ignoring him, trudging over to hys usual spot at their usual table. Hy practically collapses into the seat, attempting to listen in for context on– whatever Chromedome is on about. Thankfully, no one asks hym what hy’s so pissy about, Betamax simply standing behind hym and rubbing hys shoulder comfortingly.
Hy actually starts to calm down a bit, until Rewind perks up, cutting off hys conjunx. “Stop drinking, Minimus just walked in.”
Psyber’s helm immediately slams down against the table. Hy lets out a little ow as small pedesteps approach their table.
“I hope everything is going well here,” Minimus begins, “you all seem to be having a nice time.”
“A very law-abiding time,” Whirl chirps, and then immediately gets smacked, probably by Cyclonus. Psyber’s helm is still pressed against the table, optics-down. “Ow. The fuck.”
Minimus seems to ignore Whirl, and for a moment, there’s quiet. Then, “is Psyber alright?”
“Not sure,” Rewind tells his fellow minibot, “hy’s been like that pretty much since hy walked in. None of us asked.” He thinks for a moment. “We probably should’ve asked.”
“Are you trashed or something?” Whirl asks, and gets smacked again. “Ow! Fuckin’ stop!”
Psyber is not trashed, unfortunately, and was actually perfectly fine with no one asking, ‘cause hy kind of wants to ignore that hy went to therapy at all and hy wants to ignore that it’s affecting hym in any way. Betamax, bless his spark, has not picked up on this. “Hy had therapy today. Hy’s just feeling a little insane about it still.”
Psyber raises hys helm just enough to slam it back down. Ow. If hy does that enough it’ll probably do some serious processor damage. (Hy considers it.)
Whirl outright laughs at hym. “You actually went?!”
“You actually went!” Tailgate exclaims, distinctly more excited than Whirl. Hy actually sounds happy for Psyber. “How did it go?”
“Yeah, I sort of… wasn’t expecting you to actually go,” Chromedome admits.
“It went fine!” Psyber hisses, lifting hys helm (and keeping it up, despite wanting to smack it down again.) “It went fine. Therapy was fine. It didn’t help, like I assumed, ‘cause I don’t actually need it.”
Chromedome makes an ehhh noise. “You can’t really judge if it helped or not after only one meeting.”
Tailgate nods. “It might help if you go again?”
Psyber grits hys dentae. “That is so fascinating. That is so cool. I am not doing that.”
“I think it would be beneficial to you to continue going,” Minimus pipes up, and Psyber snaps hys helm in the direction of the minibot. “Obviously, none of us can force you to keep going,” he resets his vocals, “but I agree that it’s hard to discern if it’s helpful or not after only one meeting. It can take multiple meetings before you start to feel it’s effects.”
Psyber studies his faceplates, biting hys own lips. Minimus is wearing that same expression he wore the first time he suggested Psyber try therapy, that half-stern-half-something look. It’s now, really staring at him, that Psyber can identify the other half as caring. Half-stern-half-caring. Minimus cares about hym. That thought does nothing to help hys a little bit insane status.
“I’ll think about it,” hy huffs, and behind hym, Betamax lets out a small yay.
#🧃 i wrote something!#;; transformers#;; original work#;; miniber#;; psyber#;; minimus ambus#;; betamax#;; rung#;; tailgate#;; cyclonus#;; whirl#;; swerve#;; rewind#;; chromedome
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gonna be smitten till the day you die?
transformers, original work / psymags, miniber / wc: 333 / warnings: mentioned NSFT / notes: i need to make magnus understand that he is my everything
“I worry it may be a bit large for you,” Magnus admits, faceplates dusted pink.
Psyber resets hys optics. “How is that a problem?”
The two are sat on Magnus’ berth– chosen for its size– both facing each other. Psyber had, upon entering, fully intended to get railed until hy couldn’t walk, or see, or breathe probably. Really, though, hy should have anticipated that Magnus would want to talk about it first. “It’s a problem because I could end up hurting you,” Maagnus explains, “which would be counterintuitive to the… objective.”
He’s talking about it like a mission. The objective, Primus. “I still don’t see how this is a problem,” Psyber smirks, “if you hurt me, I’ll probably like it.”
“Probably,” Magnus repeats, frowning. “I would rather not take that risk.”
Psyber considers this, scratching hys chin. “If you’re that worried about hurting me, we could always try without the armour,” hy figures.
Magnus’ optics widen, and he falters a bit. “Without the armour?” He repeats, as though asking for clarification. “You… would be interested in that?”
“Obviously?” Psyber says, because this is obvious to hym. “I love the colour green.”
Magnus’ frown deepens. “Psyber…”
“I’m serious!” The laptop tells him, and springs forward, grabbing ahold of the larger’s servos. “Please understand, I love the colour green. I like you whether you’re in the armour or not. I want you to be comfortable. If you’d rather wear it, that’s fine, and if you’d rather not, that’s also fine. The armour has no impact on who you actually are.” Hy pauses, flushing a bit. “If I just wanted to interface with some big guy, I wouldn’t have put all that effort into getting to know you. I like you.”
Magnus stalls. “Oh,” he lets out.
“Whatever makes you comfortable,” Psyber repeats. “I like you no matter what.”
Magnus resets his vocals, then his optics, then his vocals again. “Perhaps– perhaps, without the armour, to begin with. Just in case.”
Psyber smiles. “Works for me.”
#🧃 i wrote something!#;; transformers#;; original work#;; nsft#;; psymags#;; miniber#;; psyber#;; ultra magnus#;; minimus ambus
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smoke soda that melts away
transformers, original work / betaswerve / wc: 352 / warnings: NA / notes: my friends self insert teehee
“It’s definitely time I tell you this,” Betamax hissed, dentae clenched behind his battlemask, “I can’t drink.”
Swerve paused in the middle of pouring him engex. “What?”
“I can’t drink,” the tape player shrugged, and retrieved his notebook from his subspace. “I even wrote it down,” he explained, flipping to a certain page. He extended the notebook for the bartender to see. “Doctor’s orders. No engex. It makes the memory problems worse.”
Swerve glanced down at the notebook, and then back at Betamax, dumbfounded. “But I’ve– I’ve been giving you free drinks?”
Betamax nodded. “You have.”
“Where have they been going?!”
Betamax gestured to Psyber, a few seats down. “I used to give them to Psyber, but, uh.” He flipped a few pages forward. “Ratchet said Psyber isn’t allowed to drink anymore, either. Isn’t good for hys internals, or– or something like that. I just don’t want you to keep wasting engex on me when I can’t even drink it.”
Swerve lifts the glass from the tap. By the time he does this, it’s already overflowed onto his servo. “Psyber’s been getting free drinks?”
Betamax resets his optics. “I didn’t think that was an issue. You did say they were free.” He pauses. “I can… pay you back? Maybe? I only have cash.” At that, he pulls a pathetically small leather wallet out of his subspace, setting his notebook on the counter. “Do you take USD?”
“No, it’s–” Swerve stares at the wallet. “It’s fine, you don’t need to pay me back, I just didn’t know, I guess?”
Betamax puts back the wallet, retrieving his notebook. “Are you upset?”
“Not upset,” Swerve explains, “just… the drinks weren’t for Psyber. They were for you.”
“I didn’t want to turn them down,” Betamax tells him, resetting his vocals. “It made me… happy, that you were willing to do something so nice for me.”
The bartender’s faceplates are dusted a light pink. “I’ll get you non-charged drinks, from now on.”
Betamax nods, jotting down something into his notebook. “That would be appreciated,” he says, and if his own faceplates are pink, Swerve doesn’t mention it.
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and if it's discovered, what'll happen to this?
transformers, original work / psymags / wc: 555 / warnings: NA / notes: this is SHAMELESS self insert x canon fic.
Psyber is staring at him, optics wide and mouth agape, which is not abnormal. It’s the fact that other people are also staring at him which causes Betamax to believe he’s fucked up greatly. “Do the others not know?” He asks, tilting his helm, and Psyber grits hys dentae, shaking like hy’s struggling not to choke out the tape player.
“They didn’t,” Psyber grits out, “until now.”
“Magnus?” Swerve asks, cleaning a glass, looking some flavour of confused. “Like, Magnus, Magnus. The same Magnus who keeps throwing you in the brig for minor infractions. That Magnus.”
“Yes,” Psyber turns hys helm to the bartender, blush covering hys faceplates. “Yes, that Magnus.”
“Oh, that’s kind of cute, actually!” Tailgate claps his servos together. Cyclonus shrugs. “Sure, Magnus can be. Uh, tough? Rough? But it’s still cute. It’s nice to have someone you look forward to seeing.” At that, the purple mech rubs his arm.
“Hey,” Rewind taps Psyber’s shoulder, and when the laptop turns around, hy’s met with a blinking red light. Primus. “Every mech wants to know, do you get thrown in the brig on purpose just so you can talk to Magnus more?”
“Shut up!” Psyber hisses, and pushes the minibot away. “Everyone needs to shut up immediately forever.”
“I kinda agree with Tailgate, actually,” Chromedome shrugs, “I think it’s sweet.”
“Please, please shut up.”
“I’m really so sorry,” Betamax tells the laptop, rubbing hys tower gently in some form of comfort or consolation. “I really thought everyone else already knew. I wrote it down in my notebook, even, so that I wouldn’t be the only one who didn’t know.”
Psyber sighs. “No, it’s okay. I should’ve made it clearer that it was a secret.” Hy pauses. “You might want to, uh, add that in, to your notebook. So that more people don’t find out.”
Betamax nods, pulling out his notebook and a small ink pen. “I guess we’re lucky Magnus isn’t around, this could have gone way worse.”
Psyber rests hys helm on hys servo. “Yeah, it could’ve gone–”
“Lucky Magnus wasn’t around for what?” A voice asks, and Psyber’s helm snaps upright, and then to the source of the voice, and oh god he’s right there. “What are you all doing?”
“Nothing!” Psyber shouts, and then immediately regrets it.
“Psyber, what did you do?”
“Hy didn’t do anything!” Betamax assures the larger, waving his servos around. “Seriously, wwe were all just joking around. Hy actually didn’t do anything this time.”
Magnus raises an optical ridge, looking down at the tape player. “I’m not certain I can trust you, specifically, with that.”
“Ultra Magnus, really, Psyber didn’t do anything,” Tailgate pipes up, servos clasped together. “We were all just joking around. Honest.”
Magnus looks down at the minibot, seeming to consider this. After a few moments he sighs, and looks back up at Psyber. “You’re lucky I trust Tailgate,” he tells the laptop. “Surely you wouldn’t mind continuing your joking while I’m here, if that really is the case.”
Rewind chuckles, still recording. “Oh no, of course not, sir. We’d love for you to join us.”
“Rewind I am going to kill you,” Psyber hisses.
Betamax, again, waves around his servos. “Hy’s joking! Hy’s joking.” Betamax turns and lightly punches Psyber in the arm. “Totally joking. Talking stupid.”
Psyber huffs. “Yeah, talking stupid.”
#🧃 i wrote something!#;; transformers#;; original work#;; psymags#;; psyber#;; ultra magnus#;; betamax#;; rewind#;; swerve#;; tailgate#;; cyclonus#;; chromedome
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internet vomit party
original work / NA / poetry / warnings: s.lf h.rm / notes: originally written for class!
it's 4 AM.
“i don’t want to leave,” she whispers, fingers grazing the screen, images scrolling with it.
the smallest noises resound, lowered to the lowest, volume barely above zero, stuck on one.
“you don’t want to leave?” someone asks, usernames and icons, pixels in a line.
“of course not,” she says, “you’re nice to me here. why would i want to leave?”
“you have a life, out there.”
“not really,” she shakes her head. “it’s not worth it.”
“?”
“not worth it?”
“not worth it.”
you have class, she is told. you need to go to class to get a degree, she is told. you need to get a degree to get a job, she is told. you need to get a job to afford a house, she is told.
“i can’t be bothered,” she admits, “i can’t be bothered with any of it. i’m so tired.”
a pause. the noise seems to quiet further. three dots, back and forth.
“you don’t want to leave?”
“i don’t want to leave.”
“you want to stay? here? with us?”
she sniffles, nods. it is 4:16 AM.
“i want to stay.”
“go ahead, then,” she is told, “stay.”
her fingers dip into the screen. sharp, jagged textures. you can’t expect pixels to be smooth. it burns. this is what she wants.¹
“we’d miss you, anyway,” she is told, “if you were to leave.”
it feels nice. it feels rewarding. it hurts so bad. this is what she wants.²
past her fingers, to her palm.
paper shredders. wood chippers.
“you’ll be happier here, we think.”
palm, wrist.
“you don’t need to leave.”
wrist, elbow, shoulder, collarbone.
it hurts so bad.
this is what she wants.³
~~~~
¹ - of course, when everyone makes you miserable, you stick close to the people who don’t. it isn’t her fault they’re so far away. this decision makes sense, logically.
² - on a surface level, she’d always considered it. every maligned teenage girl does, at some point. she didn’t expect it to feel like this, but you learn something new every day.
³ - citation needed.
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added a poetry tag~~~ my queue finally ran out, but thankfully i'm on spring break! i should be able to write more over the next week or so :)
#🍀 minori is typing!#i dont actually write poetry that much but i wrote a poem the other day and . shrugs i suppose i was just feelin it yknow
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i don't know how my mind acquired these memories
transformers, original work / belocon / wc: 754 / warnings: non-consensual invasive medical procedures / i've had these ocs for forever and got possessed to write about them???
“I learned about Belonidae once,” Joy-Con admits, twiddling his thumbs. He’s laying back-down on a medical berth. He used to have therapy sessions on this berth. That felt like so long ago. “They’re a type of animal on Earth. Humans call them needlefish. That’s not their actual name, though, their actual name is Belonidae.”
“Hmm.”
“I just thought you’d find that interesting,” Joy-Con tells him, tilting his helm so that his visor stares up at the other bot. The mech above him takes notes on a datapad, tap-tap-tapping away. Belone used to tap-tap-tap on datapads, taking notes about him. It used to be about Joy-Con. That felt like so long ago. “Since you’ve picked up the mnemosurgery, and your name is Belone. Like, needle-fingers, needle-fish.”
“Hmm.”
“Why did you wanna see me, actually?” Joy-Con asks, moving to sit up. “I thought you gave up your practice.”
Belone glances up from his datapad only momentarily, just long enough to place a hand on Joy-Con’s shoulder, pushing the mech to lay back down. “I didn’t give up my practice, I lost my license,” Belone tells the other, “But it was my therapy practice. Mnemosurgery is a different practice entirely.”
“It’s also, like, not entirely legal, and pretty dangerous, I think.” Joy-Con attempts to sit up again. Why did he come here in the first place? Most bot’s ex-therapists don’t call to hang out. “Wasn’t that why you lost your license?”
“It’s not that dangerous,” Belone scoffs, and pushes him back down, harder. “It’s just a newer field. Very unregulated. You mess up once and your license is gone. I can run you through what's going to happen, if it makes you feel better. I understand new, unregulated medical procedures can be very scary, certainly not good for that paranoid personality disorder I diagnosed you with,” he deadpans. “That was also discovered on Earth, did you know that? Those humans are so much better about feelings than us.”
Joy-Con resets his vocals. “You don’t need to run through anything.”
“What’s going to happen,” Belone continues, completely ignoring him, “is that the straps on this berth are going to activate momentarily. People can thrash during the procedure, which can lead to damaged internals, so this is entirely a safety measure. After the straps activate, I will adjust the berth to give me access to the back of your neck. After that–”
Here, Belone pauses. Joy-Con glances up to his former therapist, just in time to see needles, thin, sharp and shiny, extending from the tips of his fingers. He doesn’t even notice when the straps do activate, snapping around him, keeping him helm down, in place.
“–After that, I’ll angle your neck to allow the needles to sink in without any obstruction. Should they get obstructed in any way, it could lead to irreparable damage to your processor. You would not be the same mech walking out that you were walking in.”
Joy-Con feels like he’s already not walking out of this the same, one way or another.
“I’ll be rooting around in your primary files,” Belone continues, “which you might find uncomfortable at first, but if my theory is correct, doing so should allow me to remove the core of your issues.” Belone begins shifting the berth, so that instead of laying down, Joy-Con is sitting upright, still stuck in place. “Therapy dances around the core at pokes and prods at it rather than actually erasing the problem, but mnemosurgery allows for just that. If we remove the center of all your problems from your memory, then the problems will simply disappear.”
“I won’t be the same person, though,” Joy-Con voices, “won’t this make me worse, won’t this just change who I am fundamentally?”
“Not fundamentally,” Belone explains, “you’ll still be you. Just without all that useless trauma and anxiety. Humans never got this far. They have these things, lobotomies, but their brains don’t function the same as our processors. You can’t just root through human memories like you can with ours.” He sighs. “We’re so far advanced, compared to them.”
A grin stretches on his face, and Joy-Con can only see it for a moment before his helm is forced downwards, neck presented to the mech.
“Isn’t this fascinating, to you? Aren’t you excited? This is technology no one has ever developed. We’re the first species to even attempt this. We can cure anything, like this.”
Needles graze the ports lining the back of Joy-Con’s neck.
“And you’re going to be the first mech I cure.”
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losing my destination in my present location
transformers / dratchet / wc: 761 / warnings: NA / notes: drift in tfa except i did NOT base him on the allspark almanac bc they did him dirtyyyyyyy
Hiding in a storage closet was not ideal, but it was almost better than dealing with the Elite Guard.
“I know they’re annoying,” Ratchet huffed, “just play nice for now, okay? The more you play nice the sooner you can get out of here.”
Drift leaned back against the medical berth, tsk-ing. “I can play nice. I know how to play nice. I just very seriously hate all of them and would like to never ever speak to or associate with any of them ever again.”
“Open,” Ratchet commanded, tapping a panel on the swordsmech’s side, and a second later it snapped back. “I thought you got all light of the allspark, but you’re still throwing around the word hate. Ain’t that a bit of a strong word for a mech like you?”
“Shut up,” Drift groans, and twitches as he feels his internals moving, feeling the sparks from the welder jump out between him and Ratchet. “Recognizing The Allspark as powerful and as the source of Cybertronian life doesn’t mean I’m incapable of hating people.”
“No, just means that you’re full of scrap.” Ratchet tugged at one of Drift’s wires gently, causing the speedster to jump.
“Will you stop?”
“I’m doing my job.”
“Stop doing your job.”
“Gladly.” He said that, but continued poking and prodding with his tools. “Anyway. Who knows, maybe the allspark will spontaneously offline Sentinel one day, wouldn’t that be nice.”
“I don’t think it can do that.”
“Seems like it can do whatever it wants,” the medic replied gruffly, backing away from Drift. “Close that side, open the other one.”
Drift did as instructed, and Ratchet made his way to the other side of the medical berth. “I don’t necessarily want Sentinel– or any of the guard, really– to offline. I don’t care if they do, but I’m not praying for it.” He grit his dentae as the poking and prodding resumed. “I don’t even really care that he’s so high-up in the Autobots. Your entire command structure was doomed the minute you put Ultra Magnus in charge.”
Ratchet barked a laugh. “Kid, Ultra Magnus has been in charge since before either of us were constructed.”
“My point still stands!” Drift gesticulated with one servo as he spoke. “Maybe if someone more competent was in charge, the war could’ve been avoided in the first place.”
“Someone like Megatron?” Ratchet asked, a look of bafflement on his faceplates.
“Not necessarily!” Drift continued, still gesticulating. “Clearly I don’t really believe in his cause anymore, or I wouldn’t be here right now. Just– someone more competent than Magnus. It’s not a high bar. The bar is in the pits.”
“Close that one. Open your chest plating.”
Drift did so, and Ratchet leaned over him, closer. “The war could’ve been completely avoided. You have to see that. You have to see that the acting Magnus is a moron.” Drift tilted his helm slightly, looking at the medic. “Wouldn’t you have wanted something different? Wouldn’t you have rathered if it didn’t happen?” He paused. “Things could have been different for both of us.”
Ratchet stared down at his internals, careful around his spark casing. “I’m not sure where I’d be if I wasn’t fixing wounds all day, to be honest.”
Drift leaned his helm back, staring up at the ceiling. “Doing something more worth your time, that doesn’t make you wanna rip your own plating off. Maybe even having fun for once.”
Ratchet glared at him, and pinched two wires together.
“Ow! Careful!”
“Did you just tell a medic to be careful?” Another pinch.
“Ratchet!”
“You deserve that.”
Drift huffed. “My point is that I hate the entire Elite Guard and I think they’re all idiots and I would like to no longer work with them ever again please.”
Ratchet chuckled, lifting up and away from the swordsmech. “Hopefully they’ll get off your case soon enough. You can close up, you’re all good to go.” The panel snapped shut, and Drift sat up in the berth. Ratchet moved to put away the tools he’d been using. “I’m sure you’re desperate to get off this planet. Get back to your vigilantism.”
“I don’t hate everything here,” Drift elaborated, resetting his vocalizer. “I like talking to you.”
Ratchet paused for a moment before returning to his action. “Maybe you should lay back down, actually, I should check your optics. And your processor.”
Drift exvented the smallest laugh. “Really, I mean it.” He paused. “Not everything is bad here.”
“Just the Elite Guard.”
“They’re bad everywhere.”
Ratchet smiled the smallest bit. “Of course.”
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i still dislike bitter tastes
transformers / minirod / wc: 549 / warnings: NSFT / notes: i'd been wanting to write some minirod for a while! was this what i intended? no! but it's what happened!
“Are you sure about this?” Minimus asked, looking down at Rodimus in concern.
“Minimus,” Rodimus groaned, laying back against the berth, “are you sure about this? You’ve asked if I’m totally certain, like, four times now. If you don’t wanna top, you don’t need to.”
“It’s not that,” Minimus assured him. “I do want to. It’s just… been a while, since I’ve done anything like this, and I don’t want to disappoint– or worse, I don’t want to harm.”
Rodimus huffed. “Mims, politefully, you are not going to hurt me. You’re, like, half my size.” He paused. “In fact, if you hurt me, I might actually applaud. Not like I’m not okay with that.”
“Rodimus.”
“You aren’t going to hurt me!” The red mech assured, “C’mon, I’m sure you don’t wanna be late for your next shift.” At that, Rodimus’ valve panel opened, and Minimus snapped his helm to the side, looking away from it instinctively, causing Rodimus to bark out a laugh. “Mims, it isn’t going to bite you!”
“I know that!” Minimus hissed, slowly turning his helm back to the captain. “I know that.”
The two sat like that for a moment, Minimus’ face coloured pink with energon, Rodimus staring at him with a smirk. “Well?” Rodimus asked, “You gonna be able to handle it? Should I lead you?”
Minimus glanced down. “Perhaps you should.”
“Well, first,” Rodimus began, “you should probably actually get your spike out.” The captain adjusted, so that instead of laying on his back, he was sitting on his knees.
Minimus gulped, nodded, and input the command for his paneling to open up. The nerves were making this whole thing distinctly harder than it ought to be, and that showed as his spike slowly extended from his plating. If only he wasn’t so anxious. Perhaps it’d be easier in the armour. Would Rodimus prefer the armour? No, then Minimus might have some moral dilemma about the idea of Ultra Magnus engaging in such– such activities–
Rodimus hummed, wrapping a servo around Minimus’ spike, causing the smaller mech to practically jump out of his plating. “You are thinking way too hard right now,” Rodimus told him, and Minimus was inclined to agree. “Just chill out, okay? Enjoy it. Take a load off for once, literally.”
It was easier to do all of those things once Rodimus actually started moving his servo. Minimus raised a servo of his own up to his intake, biting down on it, offlining his optics, attempting to quiet the small noises that came from him. After so long of nothing, something as simple as this felt like a lot.
Then Rodimus’ glossa ran along the length of it, and Minimus jerked, optics suddenly coming back online to stare down at the mech, letting out an embarrassing groan.
Rodimus chuckled. “Like that?”
Minimus reset his vocalizer. “Y-yes,” he let out, voice small, more hoarse than he’d been expecting it to be. Static underlined his words. “Yes, I liked it.”
The captain smiled. “You’ll like this more,” he said simply, before sinking down onto Minimus’ spike.
Minimus felt his frame momentarily lock up, rigid, hips bucking involuntarily into the red mech’s mouth, servo moving to grip tightly onto his helm.”R-Rodimus,” he moaned, “Rodimus–”
Rodimus chuckled, circling his glossa around Minimus’ spike.
#🧃 i wrote something!#;; transformers#;; minirod#;; hot rod / rodimus#;; minimus ambus#title is from romeo and cinderella bc that song has been rotating in my head for like 3 weeks now#;; nsft
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i want to be possessed by them so badly, to the point it brings me to tears
transformers / tarift / wc: 279 / warnings: NA / notes: inspired by a conversation with a friend. i loooooove narrative foils
"You're still mad about the Megatron thing."
"Mn," Tarn grunts, helm buried into Deadlock's- Drift's- middle. "Must you ruin this."
"Yes," Drift smirks down at him, "yes, I must. You're still mad about it."
"Mn."
Drift sighs. "Are you not going to say anything else?"
Tarn inhaled slowly, raising his helm. "Yes, I'm still mad about it. I have been and will continue to be mad about it, and for the sake of our continued partnership, I am going to request that you not bring this up again. Are you happy now?"
Drift ran a servo over Tarn's helm, fingers dipping into the seams lightly. "Not really," he replied, and Tarn leaned into the touch, huffing. "You know I didn't really… realize. I didn't really know."
"Please."
"Please like come on, or please like please stop talking?"
Another huff. "The second one." He paused, as Drift continued to run a servo over his helm. The (former? current? redeemed?) 'con toyed with the magnets keeping Tarn's mask attached. "It's not that I don't believe you, that you didn't notice. It just seemed so obvious to me, that. Well." He hesitated. "It never felt fair. It felt like you were constantly looking down on me, because of it. And then you left."
Drift thought for a moment, moving his servo to cup the larger's faceplates. "And now I'm back. Now I work for you."
Tarn laid his helm back down, onto Drift's torso. "You do."
"And you're still mad about it."
"I'll continue being mad about it."
Drift hummed. "Will you be able to forgive me, one day?"
Very quietly, in almost a whisper, "it's not really you I can't forgive."
#🧃 i wrote something!#;; transformers#;; tarift#;; drift / deadlock#;; tarn / damus#i am the first person to ever even consider this actually
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your face looks like you're trying to suppress your EGO
transformers / tarnstreaker / wc: 330 / warnings: NA / notes: part of a silly au me and some friends came up with. they're in art club :)
Tarn was extremely focused on his painting, and Sunstreaker was extremely focused on Tarn.
Tarn’s palette was entirely monochrome, except for the extremely, extremely small amount of purple-gray, which he’d barely touched. He was using a plastic water bottle to clean his dirty brushes, of which he had several sizes. The edges of the canvas were splattered, dripping down, and Sunstreaker had half a mind to warn him before it inevitably dripped down onto the table.
Sideswipe, (who had previously been drawing the two of them mutilating Prowl in various comedic ways,) nudged his twin with his elbow. “You’re staring again.”
Sunstreaker snapped his head back down, to his own canvas. He hadn’t even touched it. He grit his teeth; coming to Art Club was his idea, why is Sideswipe drawing more than him. He was doing this because he wanted to, because it was his passion, and he was getting distracted by fucking Tarn.
Tarn, who single-handedly got the no full-facial coverings rule revoked. Tarn, who was constantly bragging about his grade in philosophy, as though it mattered. Tarn, who would go on ten-to-fifteen minute rants about what his art meant to him (and to society, and the world, and so on, so forth.) Tarn, who writes really bad poetry.
Tarn, who Sunstreaker is unfortunately crushing on.
Sunstreaker taps his pencil against his canvas, uncertain what to draw. Normally, this wouldn’t be a problem. Normally, even if he didn’t like how it turned out, it still turned out. He glanced around the room, really trying to avoid looking at Tarn.
Swerve is doodling. Tailgate is doodling. Cyclonus is painting, actually, which he normally doesn’t do. Magnus was outlining something with a ruler, and Drfit was… whittling? Sideswipe was still drawing Prowl in various degrees of distress and injury. Boring, boring, slightly less boring, boring, potentially interesting. Inevitably, he landed back on Tarn, whose paint had managed to successfully drip onto the table.
Sideswipe, again, nudges him. “Staring.”
“Shut up.”
#🧃 i wrote something!#;; transformers#;; art club au#;; tarnstreaker#;; tarn / damus#;; sunstreaker#;; sideswipe
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