Symphonies for the Inhuman

-ˋˏ✄┈┈┈┈Lazyauthor || 𝓀𝒶𝓌𝒶𝒶𝓃 || Heavy TF brainrot || MINORS DNI💋 18+🔥|| Decepticon sympathizer 👾💜

[kissingraine]

🎼 𝐖𝐞𝐥𝐜𝐨𝐦𝐞 𝐭𝐨 𝕾𝐲𝐦𝐩𝐡𝐨𝐧𝐢𝐞𝐬 𝐟𝐨𝐫 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝕴𝐧𝐡𝐮𝐦𝐚𝐧⋆.ೃ࿔*:･

Where desire has teeth, and monsters risk the change of rhythm to taste flesh.

✎ This blog is dedicated to stories where the monstrous becomes intimate—and where the inhuman learn to love, ruin, and crave. Every fic here is named after a song that sparked the scene: a lyric that cut too deep, a beat that felt like a heartbeat, or a chorus that begged to be written in moans.

🛠️ You’ll find:

— Transformers (Decepticons only): cruel, cunning, or quietly aching

— Mech x Mech dynamics: dominance, loyalty, tension (only occasionally when i feel messy😔)

— Human x Decepticon (reader-insert): fragile flesh, overwhelming scale, obsession

— X f!Reader only — no OCs, just you and the monster:)) so detailed fembits

— Occasional dives into the Predator/Alien franchise: primal, reverent, terrifying

— All stories shaped by music—raw, romantic, or feral

— Minimal/non-specific world building so the plot fits

🔥 Expect:

— Power plays, praise kink, feral longing, slow reverse corruption from organic emotions

— NSFW content with emotional depth

— Monsters who worship, break, or hold you too tightly

— Poly chaos, intense fixations, and intimacy that borders on worship

— Spice wrapped in song lyrics and post-coital soul ache

— Eventual fluff because these guys have suffered for so long (they just gotta suffer a lil bit longer guys😭)

— Mostly morally grey readers! That or they don't give two scraps about a thirty foot tall robot that can crush ‘em

🎶 Got a song that screams “make this unholy and beautiful”? Characters from continuities that need composing? My ask box is open 💌 (ps. i am extremely lazy so asks are actually encouraged to motivate me🥲)

📌 Check the masterlist.

Every fic is a track.

Plug in. Get haunted. Prepare to get fragged.

📌 Main storylines:

𝐓𝐅 𝐎𝐧𝐞

✎ Sun Bleached Flies — Seeker Trine

𝐓𝐅 𝐏𝐫𝐢𝐦𝐞

✎ Midnight City — Soundwave

✎ Fortnight — Knock Out, Breakdown

𝐁𝐚𝐲𝐯𝐞𝐫𝐬𝐞

✎ Teeth — Starscream

✎ In for the Kill — SG Jazz

𝐈𝐃𝐖/𝐆𝟏

✎ Stray — Seacons

𝐓𝐅𝐀

✎ I Know The End — Blackarachnia

✎ Digital Love — Soundwave

📌 Oneshots/Mini-series:

✎ Lust for Life — Insecticons (G1 Transformers)

✎ First Love/Late Spring — Oni (Predator: Killer of Killers)

✎ Rescue Bots [yandere]

⤷ Playing With Fire (Heatwave)

📌 Drabbles/Excerpts:

✎ Shockwave (TFP)

✎ Bury A Friend — Grendel King (Predator: Killer of Killers)

✎ Sentinel x Megatron (TF One)

⤷ Do I Wanna Know? (follow-up)

✎ Forwards beckon rebound — Megatron x Optimus Prime; an AU where he doesn't stay intact (TF One)

➴ This will eventually get updated! Feedback, likes, and reblogs = fuel🔋thanks and happy reading!💋 Ps. check comments if ya wanna be moots:))

[kissingraine]

guess who's back with her shenanigans

[kissingraine]

Good morning/good afternoon/good evening, mx. author! Been binge reading your blog and idk if it's just me but i love it when writers share their passion outside of writing like games and stuff, helps us readers get to know what kind of person you are! So, here's the ask... the Still Wakes the Deep fic... ya gon do it orrr👀

absolutely! I wouldn't say my passion is purely liking games but I am passionate about it😭😭 I've been meaning to ever since the game came out but a year ago I was very unmotivated🥲 but I started getting back into writing again and the reason issss...

this guy!👇🏻

God Is In The Radio — Tarn x f!Reader

• You were brought in as a replacement for the radio technician and while no one mentioned what happened to the last one, you can guess that it's anything but good. Anything that happened under the Decepticon Justice Division's jurisdiction was either a secret or none of your business and your colony taught you enough survival skills to choose and live to see another day. The transfer request had come suddenly and vague for the most part: human comms specialist required for low-tier diagnostic support at subsea base. At least the marketing team tried and of course you said yes, because it was that or another month filtering encrypted comms from orbital wreckage and you've had to issue an eardrum repair since the speakers at your old base would spontaneously turn up the volume at unnecessary intervals. Long story short, it was getting tiresome.

• The static underwater should have sounded different at the very least. You arrived at the central comms station of the base late. Standard human delay—the lift was slow and rusting as is the usual for an underwater building built on the edge, near the trench's core right into the curve of the ocean shelf. They never told you what kind of resources they were really mining out here. Didn't give you the right kind of clearance. It was nothing grand like energon. You're almost sure that with the way things were going for the Decepticons, it was either currency or something that could be sold as one. It was mentioned in passing that the frequencies were irregular and growing louder. The tunnels had grown slick with something organic as your ride beneath sea level rocked with the slightest movement. No one said anything about the growths so you assumed it was part of the station's structure.

• Folks here were either a hit or miss. You supposed it was a side effect of not being able to see the sun for extended periods of time. Most of them focused on not disappointing the big bad that was your boss. Even if the DJD's leader rarely showed anger, it didn't take much to tell he'd never been particularly impressed with your species. So long as they got their job done, had a roof over their head and adequate food to keep them going. You can't say it isn't the same for you. What a big step it was for your ancestors to leave your old planet and begin anew among the stars. Unaware of the million year war that felled other worlds. It was supposedly done now, you heard. Their leader reformed and forfeited.

• You can only imagine how that would feel to someone like him. To be betrayed by the cause, by your own master after cementing the fact that no one else would know your name but the Decepticons' Punisher. It sends a shiver down your spine to even say his name. Like he'll pop out the moment the words leave your mouth. The others feel the same way too. It's why they whisper even when he's out of sight. There had been five of them once, a cult of mass murderers who carried out orders dutifully. Only he remained now. You've never seen him truly speak. Not in briefings. Not in audits. He doesn't need to when his shadow walks faster than his voice. And the base falls silent when it does.

• The comms array door seals behind you with a hydraulic hiss. Inside, the air was thick with heat and signal fog—thin arcs of static dancing like dust across the monitors. Even though the room appeared unoccupied you still moved carefully towards the console. To fix whatever jack's pulled itself out of the output again. The tech was ancient, you're not sure which era but it needed to be done manually or you risk facing the same fate the last guy did. As soon as you plug in the wire jack, the sound of the door behind you closing rapidly nearly jolts you out of your skin. Typical... It repeatedly bangs against each other in the only way that gets under your skin, annoying you.

• But you don't get far enough to take two steps towards the control panel by the door when the pressure of being stared at—*studied*, makes you tense. There should have been no one else down here. No one's been taking on the night jobs but you for the past few weeks. You only realize how wrong you were when something shifted behind the mainframe. It's him, your mind screaming. Your gaze travels further up, he's staring straight at you. Through you. Two scarlet optics just blend into the dark while he stands still and finally, he steps out.

Tarn.

Not stomped, not clanked. Stepped. As though he’d been there the whole time, watching.

Your lungs stalled.

No preamble. No greeting.

“Ah. The replacement," the words thrummed through his chassis like a growl when he addresses you. You've never heard something so animalistic could sound so harmonious before. "Do you know why your predecessor was... excommunicated?”

His voice was oil dragged across metal—measured, low. Not mechanical. Almost too calm. Something between a growl and metal pistons waiting to crush something between them.

You didn’t answer.

You couldn't.

His helm tilted with slow precision, like a predator observing something twitching in the sand. “The last one couldn’t stop lying through their teeth.”

He took another step.

And you fought the urge to back away. He notices.

“But you seem to understand silence.”

He circled behind you, his shadow stretching long over your console.

“I appreciate silence.”

You dared a glance over your shoulder. Massive. Perfectly still.

Then, his voice again—closer, quieter.

“Though silence… doesn’t always mean safety.”

Your throat tightens. You could feel him behind you—just outside your periphery. The deep static from the array warped under his presence, like the room itself was reacting. Your fingers twist in your pant leg, a useless anchor against the instinct to bolt.

Don’t run. Don’t run. Don’trun—don’trundon’trun—

“You can relax,” he said, plates clicking in and out of place, a low bass filling the silence between you. “If I wanted to end you, I would have done it when you first stepped off the lift.”

Something like a chuckle—barely—ghosted through his vents.

“Then again… who else is there worth talking to?”

I swear that two entire months ago I had no idea about the transformer continuities bcs I was a live action girly but Tarn came rushing into my life like a damn bullet train and I couldn't have been more happier😭😭 (also miserable because this fandom is a prison) this was self-indulgent I KNOW sgsfaggsgsga

[kissingraine]

Hiiii :D

This isn't a request,

Just wanted to pop in and say I love how the insections story is coming along!! They're so underappreciated so it's great to see such a good story on them 🫶🫶💗

Thank you for your marvellous writing

Thank you for all the support(⁠ ⁠ꈨຶ⁠ ⁠˙̫̮⁠ ⁠ꈨຶ⁠ ⁠)

Lust for Life — G1 Insecticons x f!Reader (2.2)

You're approaching the shed again. Shrapnel knows the pattern of your footsteps by now—how your shoes scuff across the garden path, the pause you always make before entering, like you're catching your breath or preparing to be devoured. But you never hesitate for too long. You should and yet you never do. He doesn't know if that makes you brave or incredibly stupid. He watches from the corner as you place the bowls down like an offering. Fruit. Protein. Sugar. He catches the scent, sweet and ripe as if wafts up into his olfactory sensors and makes his systems whir in confusion. He didn't get it at first—when Kickback wouldn't shut up about "the scent" in hivespeak. Shrapnel just assumed his trinemate was finally losing his damn processor from too much jelly exposure.

Now? He's not so sure.

But it's not just in your scent—though frankly you do smell like you've swallowed a whole jar of pure candied energon and forgot to chew. It's in the way you speak in that tone. Soft-voiced but never quiet. Always chirping at them like you're hosting a nature documentary about fun facts and weird guys you found in the rear space of your dwelling. You talk like you think they understand metaphors and sarcasm. They do. He just doesn't always want to. And he lets you get close today—closer than he should, maybe. Enough to touch his plating if you had the nerve. You don't. Not yet. For some reason, that kind of annoys him. Kind of disappointed when your fingers flutter over the moss in their makeshift home instead.

Like you're about to compliment his nest-building or the way he's been guarding your space and already hating the way it makes him feel. So unaware of the way your humming makes his plating twitch under your breath, of how the pitch vibrates his internals. And he doesn't like that. He really doesn't like that. Humming when you're calm, when you're trusting.

Stupid. Soft. Flesh-creature.

Still... he doesn't hiss this time.

• The shed smells different these days. It's much warmer, muskier. Like ozone and mulch. The kind of scent that clings to the back of your throat and nestles in your chest, even after you leave. You're not sure if it's from the moss they've lined the floor with or if your big buggy friends just smell like that. You haven't had the courage to ask apart from being ballsy enough to invite yourself into their little haven. You're bold. But not cerebro-shell consequences bold. They've been unusually hospitable lately—by their standards, anyway. You keep telling yourself you're the one letting them crash at your place or your shed, for that matter. Not above reminding them that it's yours in the first place, but you're also very aware that Bombshell could hypothetically lobotomize you with a twitch. So you settle for being their nice neighbor instead.

• Shrapnel's the first to acknowledge you today as soon as you cross the backyard. Not with words, of course, but with a shift in posture. His frame bristles, metallic plates clicking into place like armor. It's very hello I could kill you, please enjoy your stay. But he doesn't hiss so that's progress. Right? You hold up a little plastic bowl of strawberries, some protein bars, and a tube of electrolyte goo you thought they might like. Setting it on the cinderblock "table" near the wall.

“Breakfast,” you say, voice light. “Organic, non-GMO, no corn syrup. ‘Cuz I'm thoughtful like that.”

From the corner, you swear you can hear Shrapnel vent something like a suppressed snort. Or maybe it's just him coughing up the rabies infested raccoon he ate last week. You can never tell.

Still. He steps closer.

• You’re crouched beside him, fingers trailing the moss when something catches your eye. A glow—soft and blue, peeking from beneath the segmented plating of Shrapnel’s forearm as he feeds on a strawberry jelly. You tilt your head, mesmerized. It pulses faintly, like it’s alive. “Whoa,” you whisper. “Is that, like... LED? Or—”

You reach out before finishing the thought.

His whole frame stiffens the moment your fingers graze the glowing strip. The plates there twitch, one shifting sharply as if to snap shut, but you’ve already touched it—cool and slick, with a strange warmth humming beneath. Shrapnel jerks his arm back.

“What?” you blink and pull away by an inch. “Was that—did I hurt you?”

He hisses, low. Not hostile. Almost... strangled. Freezing in place as his optics flick toward you, unusually sharp. Then, in a sharp flash of shifting plates and snapping limbs, his body compacts and twists—transforms.

• You stumble back with a startled noise as the beetle uncoils into something towering and humanoid—his bot form. You've never seen him like this before. More mech than creature now, all rigid lines, impossibly alive and terrifyingly breathtaking. Up close, it’s too much: the raw heat bleeding off his plating, the sudden height, the harsh glow of his arms now fully visible across his chest and arms, pulsing in rapid succession like a warning.

“You do not touch those—those,” he grits out, bursts of static crackling in his voice.

“…S-Sorry,” the words come out in a murmur, confused but apologetic. “Didn’t know it was sensitive.”

• He doesn’t answer. Just emits a kind of growl that teeters on the edge of a deep bass rumble. You don’t know what you touched, but his vents are running harder now, and the glow under his plating has started to pulse faster. You're scared. Definitely. And questionably weak in the knees—you feel like your back is going to give out at any minute. Somewhere higher up on the wooden beams, Kickback lets out a chirp that sounds suspiciously like laughter.A chirp echoes overhead, sharp and amused. You jerk your head up just in time to see Kickback drop from the rafters like a shadow with wings, landing with a soft thud that still rattles your bones. He stretches leisurely, arms behind his head, antennae flicking like he’s enjoying the air in here way too much.

“Well, well, well,” he hums. “Curious little fingers get you in trouble again?”

You open your mouth to answer, but he’s already in front of you, crouching just low enough to meet your eye level. His smirk is all sharp denta, all smug. His optics flick to Shrapnel—still standing tense, glowing like a bomb under skin.

Kickback’s voice drips with mock innocence, “You touched his biolights.”

“Do you know what that means?”

“I—I didn’t—”

“Mating-wise, sweetheart,” he leans in just slightly, voice dropping, “that’s basically asking how many eggs he wants you to lay.”

Your face burns. Shrapnel growls low behind you, and you swear the temperature spikes by ten degrees. Kickback just laughs and nudges your chin with a claw.

“Good thing you’re cute,” he purrs. “No worries. You’ll bounce back.”

Previous

(school's back in sesh so posting will be a lil difficult y'all😭 not to mention our prelims are practically the week after the next one)

[kissingraine]

How I be looking when my clinical instructor chews me out for getting the entire checklist wrong😌

[ilghosty]

I LOVE HER I LOVE HER I LOVE HER I LOVE HER I LOVE HER I LOVE HER I LOVE HER I LOVE HER I LOVE HER I LOVE HER I LOVE HER I LOVE HER I LOVE HER I LOVE HER I LOVE HER I LOVE HER I LOVE HER I LOVE HER I LOVE HER I LOVE HER I LOVE HER I LOVE HER I LOVE HER I LOVE HER I LOVE HER I LOVE HER I LOVE HER I LOVE HER I LOVE HER I LOVE HER I LOVE HER I LOVE HER I LOVE HER I LOVE HER I LOVE HER I LOVE HER I LOVE HER I LOVE HER I LOVE HER I LOVE HER I LOVE HER I LOVE HER I LOVE HER I LOVE HER I LOVE HER

[kissingraine]

YES GAWDD BRO THAT DAMN SMIRK ASGFSGAFSFSFAF

[kissingraine]

Sun Bleached Flies — TF One Seekers x f!Reader (4)

The cold melts into lukewarm puddles with each step Starscream takes. Forming under his pedes as he makes his way to the Nemesis’ medbay. Scratches and dents decorating his metallic frame, a result from the earlier tussle that his ‘supreme warlord’ insisted on. He doesn't limp. Not here, especially in these halls. Even as the ache radiates up his right wing strut, even as energon beads at the corner of a split seam under his plating—he walks like he always does. Like he owns the corridor and it doesn’t cost him anything to move. The drones along the wall wisely avoid making eye contact, if they even could. He ignores them anyway, wings twitching with barely contained irritation. He should’ve won. Or at least made Megatron bleed a little. He was a high-performance Seeker, made to cut deep whether it was through words or otherwise. None of that works on Megatron anymore.

Not when the warlord doesn’t even look at him long enough to feel betrayed.

Starscream’s servos curl into fists. The medbay doors slide open with a hiss, artificial light spilling into the hall. He steps inside, not to be repaired—no, he’ll handle that himself later, in private, like always. No weakness. Not for them. He’s here for the scan report. Because something’s wrong and he knows it. Feels it, actually. Thundercracker hasn’t checked in and Skywarp’s gone quiet in the way that means he’s probably being loud somewhere he shouldn’t be. And there’s a static cling against the outer edges of Starscream’s processor—something tugging, soft but insistent. Like an unfinished thought. He hasn’t used the trine link in cycles. Suppressed it. Buried it. Whichever excuse seems convenient right now. Told himself he didn’t need them anymore. They chose distance so he gave them what they wanted.

So why does it feel like something’s missing?

Like something’s… out there.

The assistant drone buzzes a greeting, displaying a flashing alert. Starscream leans in, optics narrowing as the report populates on-screen.

Unauthorized jump detected. Warp signature: Skywarp. Direction: unknown. Energy bleed: high.

He curses under his breath, venting sharp and fast as another alert pings. A disturbance that caused a breach. Another Seeker crash landed. The location blinks in front of him—coordinates miles from HQ. Wild terrain covered in heaps of snow and probable civilian exposure. He takes another trembling breath. Thundercracker went out alone. Of course Skywarp followed.

Of course no one told him. Because no one trusted him enough anymore.

Starscream exhales slowly. Suppressing the urge to punch the drone beside him. He straightens, jaw tight, wings flaring slightly at the edges. So this is how it starts again. With silence. With secrets. And now? Now he's decided he was going to find out exactly what his trine is hiding. And why, for the first time in megacycles, he can feel something brushing the edge of his spark like a whisper of warmth—and it’s not from either of them.

WHERE were you?

It had only been a few joors when they managed to relocate you to a safer base, somewhere far enough to remain hidden from the local enforcement, but close enough to release you back. After they got some things straight with you once you woke up. Because Skywarp panicked when you fell unconscious and nearly dropped you on your head. Although Thundercracker doesn't think that's enough of a reason for you to just up and disappear. Is it? Right. You're organic. Of course you were going to be much more complex than they were when it comes to emotions. Of course you would be scared. Maybe your courage had finally dwindled when you saw two of them, probably on your way back to one of your human settlements to tell on their current locations. But you couldn't have been aware of your surroundings while you were out cold... Or maybe you were?

He's not really sure how organics work. Sky was pretty enthusiastic with using his medical knowledge. Or the lack of it, he's certain.

Thundercracker vents, heavy and resigned. His cooling fans kicking on to help him avoid blowing a gasket after getting repaired. He knew he shouldn't have left you in Skywarp's care. The teleporting Seeker had vanished, hiding from his wrath most likely. He doesn’t even want to think about what Skywarp considers ‘medically sound.’ Last time he tried fixing Thundercracker’s wing, it ended with duct tape, three earth magnets, and a very unfunny story involving a feral earth raccoon. So no. He shouldn’t have left you with him. But he didn’t really have a choice.

Because when he woke up on the battlefield, slagged up and barely functional, it was you leaning over him. You. Who had no reason to be there. Who should’ve run the moment he transformed. But didn't.

And then there was the singing. He still can’t explain that part. Not without getting… weird about it. Thundercracker scowls to himself, optics dimming for a moment. The door hisses open without warning and he nearly jolts upright—shoulder plating snapping tight with instinct—only to groan when Skywarp strolls in like he hadn’t been missing for half a joor. A large duffel bag dangles from one servo, crammed to the brim with mismatched supplies.

“Look what I found,” Skywarp says, cheerfully oblivious. He dumps the bag on the ground, sending what looks like a space heater, a fuzzy blanket, and several packets of what might be human snack bars clattering across the floor.

Thundercracker stares. Deadpan. Voice flat.

“Where the frag have you been?”

Skywarp tilts his helm, wings twitching. “Out. Getting human stuff.”

“You vanished.”

“Yeah, for her. She said she was cold! You were all powered down and sulking, and I figured I’d be useful.” He pauses. “She likes strawberry. Or... maybe cherry. I got both.”

The blue Seeker vents slowly through his nose, energon pressure spiking. “You didn’t think to tell me? I thought she left. I thought you left.”

Skywarp blinks. Then: “Oh.”

It takes another beat before the realization sinks in—what Thundercracker must’ve felt while he was off playing alien scavenger.

“…Oh,” Skywarp repeats, softer this time. “Scrap. Sorry.”

Previous

[kissingraine]

Digital Love — TFA Soundwave x f!Reader

• You were halfway through your shift, positioned at the front desk in a large mall downtown in Detroit. It's been two months since you started working at their toystore and all you can say is that it's definitely an adventure. Safe? Hell no. Fun? Also no. You do like rearranging things so there's that. Therapeutic in ways your therapy group hasn't been. Which isn't entirely funny because you've been cutting back on expenses just to go to these sessions. Ironic, definitely. That, and another thing... At any point, you and your coworker have been betting which one of you was going to stop the kid in aisle six from trying to swallow one of the yellow ducks—head first. Who knows, it might be the third incident you'll have this week. Thankfully, you had been quicker to move towards the front of the store with the excuse of arranging the promotional stands.

"Oh, you hear that? Those stands are just dying to be rearranged again." You say, walking off while grabbing another cardboard cutout as your coworker stares at you like you've betrayed him for the last time.

• Reinforced paper of the new toy your store was releasing, you hold it in one hand and began deciding where to place it. That's when one of the mall scooters came zipping by with absolutely no regard for anything in its path. It was one of the newer models that the HR department decided they had the budget to buy for. The kind that had its routes predetermined by artificial intelligence. Though you have nothing against human advancement, it can barely tell the difference between a person and a potted plant. Sometimes. You wished they dealt with buying a new light bulb for the women's restroom on the second floor first. It swerved around—no driver, and knocked over one of the stands at another store. They really need to get ahold of these things. You barely noticed it, until your foot nudged something small and solid into the middle of the floor.

Chnk.

You glanced down.

It had been a humiliating defeat. Soundwave will say it for what it is. No embellishment, no deflection. Just brutal honesty coded in bitterness. He had calculated every possibility, mapped every signal, bent sound and circuitry to his will—and still, he had lost. He thought that by choosing to align himself with machines—beings like himself—they would recognize his intent. His self-made mission to liberate the oppressed from the tyranny of flesh and chaos. The Decepticons, for all their fractured logic and volatility, at least understood his function. His purpose. Even if they corrupted it, weaponized it, repackaged his ideals as warfare, they did not mistake him for something lesser. But the Autobots? They saw nothing but a glitch. A virus to delete.

Bulkhead had shattered his frame like it was nothing more than cheap tech—ripping apart everything he had become. They left him to rot inside a shell no larger than a household trinket. A child’s plaything That reminded him of his origin. Just another piece of hollow merchandise to appease a tiny, sentimental human girl. And it was all because he dared to challenge their fragile worldview. Dared to turn their precious humans against them. Fragile, loud, wasteful creatures who fed off the Earth like parasites and called it progress. He had watched them from countless screens, watched them flood the world with their distractions—noise layered upon noise, a feedback loop of consumption.

They polluted every frequency they touched. They didn’t understand resonance, only volume. They worshipped their phones, not signals. Empty displays that gave nothing back. Their communication was garbled static—impulsive, selfish, and obsessed with visibility yet never truly listening. So he tried to give them clarity. He had tried to show them a better signal. And for that, he had been branded a threat and was crushed underfoot. His voice fractured, his message silenced. They, as a species, were liars—wrapping destruction in plastic packaging, selling violence as virtue, painting poison in primary colors and calling it childhood. And now here he was. Shrunk down to their scale, forced into stillness, trapped in silence. Reduced to a novelty for the very creatures he despised.

And he hates having to pretend like he's inanimate just to get to the other store where they sell nuts and bolts, because there's a risk of getting kicked in the faceplate again. That's why he took and measured the safest pathway to get there—

‘Til you bump into him with the heel of your shoe once he unknowingly stepped back to avoid getting into another confrontation with an organic canine.

“…The hell?”

• A toy. That’s what it looked like at least. Sleek, dark navy blue with silver limbs, a strange cassette deck design across its chest, and sharp angles for a face. Kind of retro, kind of edgy. Definitely not part of your store’s current lineup. It was lying facedown on the tiles, right where that scooter’s wheels had just been. If you hadn’t kicked it a little closer to the shelf, it might’ve gotten crushed. You scooped it up gently and gave it a once-over. No branding. No tag. Not even a barcode. The plastic was cold—weirdly cold—and heavier than you'd expect for something palm-sized.

“Lost toy, huh?” you murmured, brushing some dust off its shoulder. “You don't belong here, do you?”

• You looked around. No kids nearby. No stressed parents. No signs saying ‘Try Me!’ and with a shrug, you decided, “…Guess I’m taking you home, little guy.”

You pick him up without ceremony, hands warm and a little dry from cardboard dust. No hesitation. No reverence. Just fingers curling around the plastic contours of his shell like he’s any other clearance bin reject. And then—you sniff him. Right after declaring, threatening to take him to your human dwelling. And oh, how he feels infuriatingly vulnerable.

"…Huh. You don’t have that new toy smell," you mutter, nose scrunching like he’s somehow failed a quality check. "Weird. You look new."

He doesn’t twitch. Doesn’t blink. He has no eyelids here. But if he did, they’d be narrowed. Because no, he does not smell like mass-produced polyethylene. No, he does not reek of fresh-off-the-factory-line petroleum and glue. What he is, is old tech. War-forged. Unclean in ways you couldn’t fathom, and sharper in places your fragile fingers will never find. And yet here you are, sniffing him like you're about to file a product complaint. Soundwave would self-terminate before he ever admits it, but part of him wants to reroute his cooling systems—because Primus help him, you hold him like he’s yours.

(i always thought his design was cool in this series(⁠☆⁠▽⁠☆⁠))

[kissingraine]

18+

Fortnight — TFP Knock Out x f!Reader x Breakdown

• Your arm lowers as the phone in your hand repeatedly emits the telling sign of a call that's just ended. Just a repetitive, beep. Beep. Beep. It echoes in your ear longer than it should. You stare at the screen, wondering if this is how it felt when all those women in the stories you've read sacrifice everything they knew for something you could barely call love. You know it is, just can't bring yourself to say it. Just can't believe it could happen to you or if you deserve it. The device slips from your hand with a soft clunk as you lean back against the car window. Eyes squinted as the morning daylight breaks into view—up on the ridge, it was breathtakingly quiet every time.

• Shades of rustic brown and gold yellow blending into the background with the waking sky. Thankfully the morning doesn't bite as coldly as it did before. Not when a certain mech keeps his engines running even as he complains about volcanic dust in his vents. Knockout will pretend he's doing it for himself but you know better now. You wrap your arms around your knees and press your cheek to the window, watching the horizon rise without a break in its old rhythm. You're selfish, you know that. Dropping your responsibilities onto a friend that's barely seen you for months.

• And the fact is, she wouldn't turn you down because unlike you she was nice. Hurting in the same way you were and yet still moving forward. Back then you never really had the same purpose and wondered if you were beyond saving. But now you realize that what keeps people taking another step can vary and it was up to you to decide what. It didn't have to be grand, just something that was there for you all along.

“Penny for your thoughts, darling?” Knock Out's voice fizzes through the radio on his dashboard—smooth, amused, and just soft enough to make your chest ache. His engine hums low and steady. A gentle, controlled purr that warms the interior.

His way of saying ‘I see you’ without ever needing to actually say it.

You shake your head, smiling. So sweet for someone so vain.

“You'd waste a whole penny on me?”

The engine's hum deepens. “For you, darling? I'd waste two.”

“...I am literally right here, you know.” Breakdown chimes in, tone sounding like he's got a pout on. “Weren't you riding with me today?” he adds, wheels rolling forward so you could see him pulling up in alt form outside the car window.

Just right beside Knock Out. A worn-out Pontiac with that all too familiar blue coating.

Knock Out fake gasps, he knows the big blue mech can't tell the difference. “Well, well, it looks like someone has a bit of favoritism... Though I can't blame you, darling, just look at me.”

“Your seats are covered in ash, Red,” you roll your eyes. Laughing to yourself. It's almost funny how easy it is for them to notice when you're spiraling in your own thoughts and step in when you need it. You're thankful, really.

“And whose fault is that, I wonder.”

Knock Out replies, tone laced with affection barely hidden under the sarcasm. The space between all three of you goes quiet for a beat—no more complaints, no teasing retort. Just the ambient crackle of desert wind and the low purring engine between you. Knock Out's gaze flickers toward the horizon beyond his dash. Still golden. Still too quiet. But not as empty as it used to be. He’s not sure when this ritual started feeling less like grief and more like momentum. A thing he couldn’t stop even if he wanted to.

Because before this—before the ridge, before the ash, before you—there was only the silence.

And he’d lived in it. Sat in it. Breathed it every fortnight, like clockwork. When Knock Out turned to the Autobots after their former master forfeited the war, there wasn't much to do. The others didn't need to say it, but he knew just as much this war defined a larger part of them than they hoped to admit. And now that it was over, they scrambled for purpose. Or worse, they'd found it too easily.

He didn’t.

The medbays were already full of bots who didn’t want his hands on their systems. The frontlines were quiet now, too quiet, and for someone like him—who had once lived on adrenaline, on speed, on the impossible rhythm of saving and slicing in the same breath—the silence was deafening. There were no battles to win. No dramatic injuries to heal. No Breakdown trailing beside him, muttering snide remarks or checking his back without ever being asked to. No spark to match his wavelength. No one to call his.

Just the hum of new Cybertron rebuilding itself… without him.

He’d told himself it would be the last time.

“Just one more ping,” he muttered aloud. “For closure. For peace. For absolutely no reason because clearly, you’re still dead, you inconsiderate brute.”

He clicked into the comm panel with the precision of a surgeon, not daring to flinch. The familiar frequency blinked back at him—long decommissioned, no carrier response. Nothing new.

Just like always.

He tapped the button. A soft pulse.

Outgoing transmission: BD-SB01//Echo-Drive Line

Attempt 28

It connected, but there was only static.

Until—

“...Hello?”

A voice. Female and definitely not his conjunx. His systems spiked in alarm. He jolted upright, plating hissing from sudden heat.

“Breakdown?” he rasped. “Who is this?”

A woman’s voice. Quiet. Breathless. Real.

You.

“Identify yourself,” he barked, more harshly than intended.

“I—um—sorry! I didn’t mean to answer. I didn’t even know it was a line. I was trying to patch something and—wait, who is this?”

Knock Out felt his spark glitch. This wasn’t a scavenger. You weren’t mocking him.

You sounded… scared. Protective.

“Where did you find this comm signature?” he demanded.

“He was just there, okay? I found him—he wasn’t moving. He’s hurt. But he’s still… alive. Mostly.”

The air left him all at once.

Alive?

It didn’t make sense. Couldn’t. He’d spent over a year preparing for Breakdown’s spark to be gone. Had buried that possibility beneath polish, jokes, and surgical obsession. Had told himself he’d done everything right. And now, some dirt-covered, stammering, human voice had casually handed him resurrection over a busted line in the middle of nowhere.

“Where are you?” he whispered.

...

“Knock Out?”

Your voice again—this time real, in the cabin. Present. Not filtered through a glitchy old signal.

He blinked once. Hard.

“You okay?” you asked, a gentle hand reaching to brush against his dashboard.

He almost says no. But instead, he hums, letting the engine turn over again—warmer this time.

“Just thinking, darling. That’s all.”

And for the first time in months, it doesn’t feel like a lie.

[kissingraine]

inspired by my yandere Terrorcon headcanons(⁠✯⁠ᴗ⁠✯⁠) ik it's been a bit but uhh life happened🏃🏻‍♀️🏃🏻‍♀️🏃🏻‍♀️

18+ mass-shifted mech

Playing with Fire — Rescuebots Heatwave x f!Reader

• The walk back to your dingy apartment is routine now. You've memorized where the steps on the pavement are to avoid tripping over your feet and breaking your nose. And while the lampposts usually help, they sometimes keep the path lit up but almost always turn off for a good minute. Usually successful at making you nearly shit your pants when you're six feet away from your complex's doors. It's only when you get inside the building that you notice a familiar, mass-shifted color of red. You don’t see him until the third floor. Which is already weird—he doesn’t patrol this sector, especially not after dark. You’d know. He repeatedly told you.

Yet there he is.

Massive, immovable, red-armored and glowing faintly in the flickering stairwell light, like someone summoned a fire god purely out of boredom.

“Lost?” Heatwave asks.

You grip the rail a little tighter. “...No. I live here.”

His optics dim, and you swear you catch the barest flicker of irritation. “Right. Forgot you moved. Again.”

Okay. Yeah, definitely irritated.

“Heatwave, what are you doing here?”

“Patrolling.”

“In my apartment building?” you squint your eyes at him.

You stare at him now. “You mean me.”

He shrugs, arms folding across his wide chestplate. “There’s been suspicious activity in the area. Just taking precautions. Y’know—for the civilians.”

“Did I say that?”

Your lips part as you gape at him. Heatwave gives you the flattest, sassiest stare a walking inferno of a rescue bot can possibly give. Blinking slowly, deadpan with his chin slightly tilted up.

“You’ve been avoiding me,” he says bluntly. No protocol. No clever excuse. Just raw accusation, laced with something that sounds a lot like hurt.

“I’ve been busy,” you snap, and immediately regret the sharpness. You attempt to soften your voice after sighing, “I’m not avoiding you, I just—needed space.”

He steps closer and you step back. Watching as he enters your personal space, testing each other's meaning of comfort. “Space from what?” he asks, tone dangerously even. “From safety? From someone who actually cares if you live long enough to see tomorrow?”

“That’s not fair.”

You blow out a breath, wrapping your arms around yourself. Fingers digging lightly into the fabric of your coat.

“What’s not fair is you walking into hotspots without backup.” His voice hardens, the fire underneath cracking through. Optics tracking your subtle movements as always, “What’s not fair is me getting comm silence for three days, while some second-rate junkpile bot flirts with you at your building’s checkpoint.”

You lean back, eyes widening, “You were watching me?”

Heatwave tilts his head. The light catches along the edge of his helm, sharpening him into something feral in the shadows. “Of course I was watching you.”

You take a breath. It isn't really helping much.

“Why?”

The silence drags just long enough for your stomach to knot. And then he says, so calmly you want to scream—

“Because I’ve seen what happens when I don’t.”

• You stare at him. He doesn’t move. Doesn’t blink. Doesn’t even flinch. And that’s somehow worse than someone yelling. Worse than someone grabbing you. Worse than admitting what you already feel every time his shadow lingers too long by your door. Because Heatwave would never do those things. This giant emotionally repressed brick of a firetruck would rather go about it in such roundabout ways.

You whisper, scoffing almost. “You’re not my keeper.”

He exhales. It sounds like a vent system rebooting under strain. “No. But I should be.” The red bot suddenly looking larger even in such a mass displaced form.

Blinking, you try to say something. An equally sassy retort but the rescue bot beats you to it anyway.

“I’ve carried you out of burning buildings,” he says softly. “Pulled you out of collapsed tunnels. Caught you mid-fall. I know how breakable you are. And every time I think I’ve covered every angle, you prove me wrong. You make me prove it again.”

“You’re making this weird.” You're shaking your head, like you don't want to believe this. Him.

“I’m making this real.” His voice drops low—warning, craving, something sharp wrapped in longing. “You think this is just a game? That I only care when you’re in danger? No. I care especially when you’re not. That’s when you run. That’s when you vanish. That’s when people forget what you’re worth.”

He takes another step.

You feel the heat radiating off his armor as your back cleanly presses against the wall.

“You’ve got the whole world treating you like you’re expendable,” he murmurs. “But I don’t. I can’t. So yeah, maybe I show up where I’m not supposed to. Maybe I monitor your comms. Maybe I reroute emergency dispatches just to hear your voice.”

Your heart skips, mouth drying.

He smiles, barely.

You whisper, lip slightly trembling. “You’re insane.”

“But I don’t do it because I’m crazy. I do it because someone has to make you a priority." Heatwave pauses, for effect. For theatrics. Who knows anymore. "And I volunteered.”

He leans down, optics burning low and deep like a controlled blaze.

“Maybe.” His engine hums along with his vocalizer. Servos hissing as he raises a digit, not touching you—just hovering by your cheek like a forcefield waiting to close. Monitoring your own field and running diagnostics in real time.

“But I’d rather be insane and know where you are,” he breathes, “than sane and find you in pieces.”

A beat of silence.

Then, he steps back. Like he didn’t just collapse your entire sense of personal safety in one hallway.

• You try to speak, but nothing comes. Heatwave doesn’t wait because he's leaving. He turns, shoulders tense with restraint, and starts back toward the stairs—leaving you frozen, heart hammering in your chest, the scent of ozone and heat still clinging to the air. Brushing against you and still feeling like it isn't enough. This was payback for all those times you kept trying to high-five him—failing, cling to him and failing again. It was as if you've gotten so used to physical contact you feel bereft of him now.

But just before he rounds the landing, he glances over his shoulder.

“Next time,” he says, “answer your comm.”

And he’s gone.

[kissingraine]

hello. have you heard of the tf Terrorcons? thats all have a good day😁

YESSS. YES I HAVE HEARD ABT THESE FREAKS LOL. def just as bad as the phase sixers since they managed to befriend Sixshot so, yeah... that's something. both groups are unhinged but their idea of a love letter is probably leaving someone's severed hand on your pillow sooo. they also absolutely got bodied by Megs too I mean- that's what happens when you go against my goat. but the fact they still went against him??😭 decided to do this as a headcanon thing bcs these guys are death flag levels of crazy to be put into a series. (might change my mind anyways,,,,) Yandere T-Cons heading your way🫴🏻

(I'm cackling the caption for this photo is literally ‘the Terrorcons show up to diss Scorponok’💀)

CONTENT WARNING: 18+, read at your own risk🧍🏻‍♀️

TERRORCONS x f!READER

🦴💥 SFW

HEADCANONS 💥🦴

• You’re the designated translator for this team of psychopaths at first. No one else can understand their noise-level, teeth-rattling chaos. But you’ve somehow figured out how to decode it. That's the part that hooks them in real fast. Because how could something tiny and insignificant (Sinnertwin's words, not Rippersnapper's. Surprisingly.)—be so... smart? Now, they hate being apart from you. Not in a clingy way—more like they forget basic function and start fighting each other if you’re gone too long. Hun-Gurrr has to sit them all down like a teacher until you return.

Hun-Gurrr

• Growls constantly under his breath, like a big engine purring when you're near. You once asked if he had a cold. You nearly died.

• Follows you around in his alt-mode like a feral dog dragging its intestines. Has no concept of personal space. You are his now.

• Will shove energon chunks in your hands like, “You need to eat. You’re squishy. Stay alive.”

• You once gave him a scritch behind one of his necks (bad idea). Now he physically demands them. Claws under your arm like a needy gremlin.

• Believes you’re his sparkmate—no debate. He doesn’t understand why you’d ever want to be away from him.

• He eats anyone who tries to flirt with you. No threats. No warnings. They disappear into his jaws.

• Built a cage-nest for you. Massive, warm, padded with insulation and old banners. It locks from the outside.

• One of his heads whispers sweet things while the other snarls violent promises. They argue about how best to keep you.

Blot

• Incredibly shy but gets violently protective. Like a swamp beast that thinks you're its lost fairy bride🧚🏻‍♀️

• Cries if you praise him. Literally. Big, sludgy, pitiful tears. Wails like an overloaded garbage disposal.

• Keeps weird, crumpled things you give him—wrappers, buttons, a broken hairpin—and calls them his “blessings.”

• Tries to preen you with his claws. Accidentally scratches you. Feels horrible. Offers his entire spark in apology.

• Thinks you’re too good for the world. So fragile, so soft. He’ll hide you if he has to. In vents. In his quarters. In himself.

• Follows you invisibly. You won’t know he’s there until he growls at a stranger.

• Has eaten a man alive for slapping your ass. Cried afterward. Asked if you still love him through his sobs.

Rippersnapper

• Snappy, proud, and hates showing affection—except when you’re sick. Thinks it's such an inferior squishy design. The first to suggest you get flu shots regularly. Then he brings you energon-infused soup and hovers like a mom.

• Lets you decorate his plating. You drew hearts on his claws once, and he didn’t even scrub them off.

• Growls at anyone who touches you but lets you sit in his lap without question. He calls you “his fleshling.” It’s lowkey possessive.

• Once bit a Seeker who insulted you. Didn't even flinch when the alarm went off.

• Feral yandere. Acts civilized around you, but the second you’re out of sight, he’s tearing people in half.

• Installed tracking tech in your clothes, your comms, your skin lotion. You can’t escape, and he smirks when you find out.

• He wants you dependent on him. Limits your access to things. “You don’t need to worry, precious. I’ll handle everything.”

Sinnertwin

• Obsessed with scent-marking. Not even in a sexual way—just likes rolling in your laundry and then huffing it like catnip. Which is funny because he was deathly afraid of you in the beginning.

• Both heads bicker over who gets to hold your hand. They often compromise by wrapping their tails around your legs like serpents.

• Has tried to drag you into a nest made of shredded metal and sparking cables. He thinks it's cozy.

• The kind of yandere who whines and paces when you’re not touching him. He needs to have his coils on you at all times.

• Keeps your clothing in a nest. Bites the walls when you leave. Shreds doorways in jealousy.

• Doesn't trust anyone—even other Decepticons. You once caught him snarling at a wall because someone walked too close.

• When jealous, both heads will sink their teeth into your shoulder. Not to hurt—just to remind you whose you are.

Cutthroat

• Very vocal and shrieky, but becomes eerily silent when you're in danger. That's your only warning.

• Brings you “gifts” like dismembered servo parts or shattered comms units. Genuinely confused why you're not thrilled.

• Likes to perch above doorways or behind shelves and watch. It’s not stalking, it’s guarding.

• If you mimic his vocalizations back at him (bad squawks and trills), he will become obsessed with you forever. Follows you around almost always, like a newborn winglet.

• The violent kind of yandere. Anyone else besides the Terrorcons glancing at you sets him off. Entire base goes into lockdown when he’s upset.

• Brings you tokens from people he’s killed for your “honor.” Places them at your feet like a bird offering shiny bones. You try to convince him to not do that anymore. Please, for the sake of your heart.

• Tried to carve your name into his own spark chamber. Didn't even flinch when it ignited.

🔥🔞 NSFW HEADCANONS 🔞🔥

Hun-Gurrr

“You’ll split open. You’re not made for this.”

• When he finds out Cybertronians can interface with fleshies—legitimate fear. He is a massive dual-headed monster with two engines of heat and overload. One of his hands could cover your whole torso.

• He’s had urges, but never acted on them—not even with other Cybertronians. His interface protocols are feral. His overload would melt steel. But you kept teasing. You kept asking. And finally, with trembling digits and low growls from both heads, he says:

“You do this, you don’t stop. If you beg me to pull out, I won’t.”

• He’s trying to be gentle at first. Holding himself up like he’s scared of crushing you. Until you arch and moan, “More. Please.”

• The second he slips deeper and you take it—take him—both heads jerk back in unison like you just stabbed his spark.

• One of them snarls in disbelief. The other groans like he’s mourning.

“You… took that. You took all of that.”

• Breeds you like a creature in rut—deep, slow, deliberate. Both heads take turns claiming your body. Growls your name while you’re stuffed full, one mouth nibbling your neck while the other watches for intruders. Actually leaves tooth marks. They take forever to heal.

• He won’t let you finish until you say you’re his. Not “please,” not “more”—he needs verbal submission. Because the fact you haven't melted into a puddle of blood and goo is a fragging miracle.

• Overloads so hard your body convulses from the heat. Keeps you pinned until he’s sure you’re soaked with his mark.

Sinnertwin

“Too soft. Too weak. You’ll die. You’ll die.”

• Has a whole mental loop about it. Scent-marks you obsessively, guards you from afar, but won’t touch.

• You think it’s a “he doesn’t like me” thing until both heads start snarling when you wear a new scent. One licks your cheek while the other whines, “Too small to take me.”

• He says it like a tragic fact. Like physics itself won’t allow this love. Until you go down on one of his cocks and don't gag. You push past your limit, hollow your throat, and moan around it.

• Both heads SCREECH. Yes. He's one of the T-cons that do it in alt form🌝 Has a knot. Actually, two. They swell and lock you in place. He doesn’t let go until he’s satisfied and you're marked.

• The shock sends his hips jerking forward, and now you’re pinned, being throat-fucked by a desperate, howling, overstimulated animal who just realized you’re built different.

• You recover, straddle his twin-knotted spike, and he just freezes. Both heads glitch. “You’re not real,” he pants. “You’re… my spark hallucinated you.”

• Forces eye contact with both heads as he knots you. Wants you dazed, ruined, unable to think of anyone but him.

• One head praises you, the other growls threats about anyone else daring to touch what’s his.

• Kisses you until you forget your own name, only to bite into your collarbone so hard you see stars. Also worries if you don't open your eyes fast enough after his cooling period. Whispers, “Please, please be alive.” Over and over.

Blot

“Me…? You want… me? No, I’ll… hurt you. You’re breakable. I’m filth.”

• He's convinced his sludge-covered plating and massive, distorted frame are a curse. Wants to be near you but physically crawls away when arousal gets too strong. His overload corrodes walls—what would it do to you?

• You finally corner him, kiss him soft and wet and needful, and beg him to let you try.

• When you ride him, it’s slow torture. He's whimpering like a creature being exorcised.

“You shouldn’t… how are you alive? How are you taking me?”

• Holds your waist like it's glass but cries the moment you clench around him. He overloads so violently he rips a hole in the floor—and you’re still seated on him, still grinding.

Post-nut clarity is pure religious horror.

“I didn’t… kill you?”

You kiss his twitching mouth. “You can do it again, you know,” you say and he starts weeping and gets hard again before he’s even recovered.

Cutthroat

“Flesh rips easy. You’re prey. I’d ruin you.”

• His entire interface response is wired for domination, hunting, feral overload. He’s never even considered interfacing with an organic because fragging with him is high-key dangerous. Until you bare your neck to him, say “Try it,” and he snaps.

• Pins you against a wall and trembles. One digit brushes your heat. You grind against it. He shrieks.

• When he takes you, it’s like a bomb going off. You scratch down his chassis. You bite back. He lets out a choking noise and slams into you, roaring.

• He’s losing his mind. You don't get what he means when he says,

“You're not prey—y-you tricked me!?”

• Goes into a frenzy. Tears through walls. Slams you down and overloads inside you for the first time with a shriek that shatters a window.

• Loves fragging you in front of the corpses. It’s a dominance thing. It's also a batshit insane thing. You’re his trophy, his prize, his proof of power.

• Bites into your thighs and licks the blood off like it’s dessert. His overload tastes like copper and violence.

• Fucks with your hair in his claws and whispers, “Say my name while you come. Louder. I want them to hear.”

• Gets rougher when he’s jealous. He’ll make you limp for days to remind you who you belong to. You pass out, hope you have health insurance because it's straight to the med bay you go. He carries you for hours, whispering nonsense, covering you in shredded blankets like a mating nest. “You’re mine now. I can’t let you go. Ever.”

Rippersnapper

“You’re meat. Bones. I’d snap you in half.”

• The most practical about it. Has measured your width, weight, and organic durability. He has charts.

• Refuses to even kiss you. Says your insides would liquefy if he got aroused. You sit in his lap and grind against him anyway. Tell him to frag you or you’ll find someone else.

• He snarls. Grabs your waist. And lines up with mechanical precision. You take half of him and scream. He tries to pull back—until you clamp down and whisper, “All of it.”

• He glitches. Not a cute stutter. A full diagnostic reboot.

• Likes seeing you cry when you’re too full—then kisses your tears away like he didn’t cause them. Switches up so fast, like,

“It hurts?” he asks sweetly. “Good. That means I’m inside you properly.”

• Forces you to look in the mirror while he takes you. “Look how pretty you are with my spike in you. Look how wrecked you get—just for me.”

• When he overloads, it’s like jet fuel in reverse. Hot, violent, endless. You wake up shaking, and he’s staring in awe. Like he still can't believe that happened, “You lived. You lived. What… are you made of?”

• All of them frags you to the point of dumbing down your brain but they don't even know what that is. Just likes that you can't talk when you're feeling good, unable to form full sentences and leave your softness in their sharp hands.

• They have to thank the Seacons for sharing this information sometime soon. And by sharing, they mean, the deep dwellers accidentally broadcasting their own human(?) being fragged seven ways ‘til Sunday🎀

[kissingraine]

sum Blackarachnia lovee<3 eventual poly with Optimus(?) 18+

I Know The End — TFA Blackarachnia x f!Reader

This wasn't her, but it was the only version of her she still knew. Every day, she looked into the mirror and Blackarachnia was reminded of the things that haunted her. Relentless and tenacious like the silk that spilled through the unfamiliar ports on her body. Once covered in chrome and gold, now a horrific amalgamation of metal and faux organic. Each day it played out a little differently in her head: maybe she could have gotten out of there quicker, maybe she never used her abilities, maybe help had come sooner and the associates she trusted never gave up on her like she was something dispensable. There was pressure behind her multi-lens optics in a way she wasn't able to describe before. She still hadn't found a name to call it. How many cycles had passed since she tried curing herself of this disease? Of trying to separate without making it feel like she was being torn in two? Like cutting out a part of her?

It was a buzzing Blackarachnia couldn't ever get rid of. Thin strings of unfamiliar organic material clawed through pathways that once served as her energon lines. Every pulse of her spinnerets felt like treachery once—now she was numb to them. Used to, she supposed. It was a traitorous reminder that she would no longer be known as the spirited Autobot she once was. She had cast her old name into the Pit once she molted into a cruel imitation, a pseudo-spider. Not quite metal, not quite organic either. She belonged nowhere, not even to herself. And when she came online to spot her reflection, she was still surprised to see that the monster staring back at her... was still irrevocably her. But it wasn't. Because she wasn't supposed to look like that.

• Sirens still blared in the darkness when you slept, behind closed eyelids that flashed with blue and red. All you could taste on your tongue now was asphalt, coarse as it scraped your taste buds raw. Gasoline-scented smoke that only got stronger with each breath you took. Nothing helped wash it off. Not toothpaste, mouthwash, or alcohol. You considered bleach once. But the self-destruction wasn't worth it. Or so you thought when you went out one night to drown in liquid amber. You had kept yourself so well. So well up until the one-year anniversary, and when you saw that steel pole in the middle of nowhere—everything just went to shit.

• You think, sometimes, you deserve it. Detroit had nothing left for you anymore. So even if it meant losing sight, it was still yours to keep. A lasting impression. A farewell gift. Because if you couldn't keep an eye on your brother, you didn't deserve to see at all. Technically, you're their problem now. Because your new alien friends mentioned that energon wasn't volatile unless tampered with. You honestly thought it was just a flash bang that went off. So now you're getting weekly check-ins from this guy named Optimus. And his pit crew. Well, he isn't a guy and they aren't just his dysfunctional friend group. They're robots from outer space. You've always been the type to go ‘seeing is believing,’ but unfortunately, the quota changed the moment their food made you go blind.

She knows she shouldn't be watching you, especially this up close. You never notice her. Can't even see her, but she sees you. From the high beams of a hollow building, construction stopped a long time ago and left to rot, Blackarachnia crouched in the quiet stillness. A predator waiting for prey to gently brisk by her webs. Her multi-lensed sight followed your shape like a phantom as you haunted the hallways of your tiny living space. No Autobot escort or pit crew in sight. Just you, arms outstretched, as you attempted to feel out your home for the nth time this month. Pain had a scent and, like a shark scenting blood through water, it called to her own while you left it to bleed across the concrete and into it. She hated the way it called to her. Hated that it felt familiar.

The bots treat you like charity. A liability, in a way, you are—but not because it's deliberate. Your weakness was designed by nature, something inherent that described your species as a whole. She knew what they saw you as even if no one said it out loud: a human footnote scorched by energon and buried in Prime's guilt. But that's not all you are. You? You're the kind to just keep going. Even as your circumstances evidently try to make your life miserable. And for reasons she doesn't want to dig up, Blackarachnia wants to watch. Curiosity, maybe. Or cruelty. The lines have blurred over the years she's spent on this rock trying to fix herself. Maybe she just wanted to know what made you so different — what made you survive the same hell that turned her into a monster.

She doesn't get the way it bothers her on some level when you fumble for the kitchen counter. Why the sound of your foot catching on a chair leg makes her flinch like it's happening to her. When you curse under your breath as you stub your toe and it echoes louder in her mind than anything Optimus ever said. Why does she care again? It's half because the Prime insists on looking over you, the other being just a passing wonder. Because you're human. Fragile. You shouldn't have made it this far, let alone gotten tangled into Autobot business. But you did.

And you're still here.

Still moving forward with a kind of stubbornness she thought only existed in machines built for war. And a part of her wants to test it. To push you and see if you're really that strong or if you'll break like everything else she's touched. But she doesn't move. Arachnia just stays in the shadows, pedipalp twitching and staring through broken glass at someone who doesn't even know they're being watched. Maybe it's recon, maybe it's spite.

Anything but hope—because for someone like her—a techno-organic beast, hope meant that someone would have arrived and no one on Cybertron gave up on her.

[kissingraine]

Midnight City — TFP Soundwave x f!Reader (3)

• The sound of your phone ringing at five in the morning nearly jolts you awake. Groaning, you fumble for your phone on the nightstand beside you. Caller ID showing someone you haven't heard from in a few. She technically worked with the organizer and the two of you clicked hard enough to exchange contacts. She's barely anywhere these days—though last you heard, she was in Route 66. You have an inkling feeling that what happened back in California stays in the golden state. Whatever she was doing back there for the past three months. Her voice is resigned, defeated—like she has no one else to turn to but you.

• She's asking for a favor. And you're not the kind to deal with other people's problems, but it just seemed like she wanted you to check on some things. Somewhere in Floyd Bennett. Said she'd been taking care of an old hangar and decided to go off-grid for a while.

“You sure this isn't a government thing?” you ask, brushing your teeth, keeping your phone sandwiched between your shoulder and the side of your head as you reach for the contact lens case in the cabinet.

“No—it, yeah... It's a government thing,” the voice on the other line responds, admitting, “But it isn't anything dangerous, I swear! And I know you've got a dance comp by the end of this week...”

She hesitates. “I also know you don't have to do this—but if...”

“Woah, hey, I didn't say anything about that,” you interject and slip on a jacket. Though you are worried. “If you're in trouble, you can trust me. Just... stay safe, okay? You are safe, right?”

For a few moments there's a delay, then your friend laughs—bitter. Hollow.

“As safe as someone running from the government can be.”

A sigh leaves you, “Don't go committing war crimes before we hit our fifties, dumbass.” You snark, even as a deep-seated concern gnaws at the strings of your heart. Glancing over the kitchen, you see Ma glaring out the window.

“You're the one with an old lady for a roommate.” The call ends after your friend gives you another laugh.

A second after, she texts you:

Don't go poking around too much—he doesn't like it.

Okay—wait. Who's he?

• And you can tell Ma's glancing at you from the side now, mumbling about how you're going down to Brooklyn again. Swearing about how the pigeons are watching you closer than ever. Clearly she's better adept at being the crazy bird lady than you.

“You're projecting again, Ma.” You kiss her goodbye on the cheek before going down to the subway.

It's business as usual down here: Someone's selling you eggs, a guy bothering to tell you he'll cross to your side of the station—to fistfight you hopefully, because that's how these usually end, and someone's definitely vomiting by the stairs.

Yep. Standard trip to Brooklyn. Can't go a day without them.

Soundwave's optics flickered against the dim glow of the Nemesis’ command deck, shutting down the last of Lazerbeak's emergency protocols. The cassette had returned—alive, but now unscheduled for energon recharge. A direct violation of every operational parameter he'd established. He stared at the barely audible reflux of birdseed crumbs on the scanning console, remnants of the rooftop encounter, and something deep within his processors... shifted. With Knockout defecting to the Autobots, he could only rely on the innate medical knowledge from the modules that the medic had still lying around.

He relayed the thermal feed from Lazerbeak's unauthorized patrol—he wasn't going anywhere anytime soon, isolating the moment the human handed his agent that rectangular, sugar-coated cartridge. Twenty-four frames of flight, hesitation, intake, and recoil. The cassette's stuttered motions screamed nutritional anomaly, but the data that rippled through Soundwave's core was something else entirely: the auditory signature of organic laughter. High-pitched, irreverent, utterly human.

Over the last decade, his emotional subsystems had lain dormant, rarely touched except for the barest telemetry necessary to impersonate sentience before the warlord. Now, that dormancy had been breached. His focus drifted by 8.6 percent—an unacceptable deviation. Standard procedure dictated a purge, but Soundwave found himself unable to follow through. Instead, archiving the footage in a vault labeled CorruptionSeed_001, the words flashing like a warning across his internal HUD.

“Pursuit protocol: launch,” the calm savoice of his onboard AI confirmed. Yet the term ‘pursuit’ felt lacking. Inadequate. Because this wasn't just him exacting something akin to revenge on an unsuspecting native, yes you almost poisoned his remaining agent but you were most likely clueless about his species like the rest of the humans on this planet.

This was personal now—an imperative born not of orders but of... curiosity. Compulsion. The very thought contradicted every directive he had ever followed. Objective. Unemotional. Precise. Once before, he claimed nothing had power over him unless it was their supreme leader. Now he was flouting every safety protocol by activating his flight systems. To what? Understand why he reacted to such provocation so strongly? Why your laughter echoed through his data logs?

He withdrew his servos from the console and flexed them, digit sensors realigning with mechanical precision. Soundwave rarely used tactile holoforms, but in pursuit of you—Subject_001, he'd decided to leave the Nemesis to its routines, leave Megatron's quarters unentered, and descend to a world of carbon-based life for a reason he may not realize himself all that well. Just knows that he should—that this itch deep in the stem of his neural network will remain unless he scratches it. His disguise shimmers into being—an obsidian silhouette with a Decepticon insignia that no one but himself should notice.

“Engage.”

The mech commanded himself softly—an instruction laden with unfamiliar warmth. The airlock portal hissing open before he vanished with the flicker of a holoform, descending like a dark signal into the cold breeze and guided by a single directive that made no sense to anyone but him: locate the human anomaly.

Previous

(woohoo, three chapters for each main storyline! Now I can get started on the x reader convergence plot for TFP😭)

[spaghettibastard]

THE MEAL - The Moon Heretic & The Swamp Drudge

x/feedus

[kissingraine]

OMG ENLIL OMG ENLIL OMG ENLIL

[kissingraine]

hello! i really like your sentinel x megatron drabble and was happy to find that there's someone else who also liked that crackship. this isnt an ask, more like a thank you for letting me know im not alone in this💝

aww, hi!🥹 I'm happy that you like my stuff! Even if it was mech-on-mech brainrot lmaooo— there are tons of Sentinel x Megatron stuff out there. Just gotta find the good ones. ik you didn't ask for it but here's a lil follow-up just because:^) thank you to the blog that recommended Surrogate on AO3, it's a fantastic read if you haven't already, anon!

CONTENT WARNING; uhh 18+, minors DNI, mech-on-mech, not proofread<3

Do I Wanna Know? — TF One Sentinel x Megatron

The cell was dim. Intimate yet suffocating even without the addition of his shackles. Sentinel's head was bowed, kneeling on cold metal without being bound. He didn't need it anymore. Not when Megatron had installed a collar. Not when the supreme leader of the Decepticons rewired his entire frame to go into heat at command. And especially not when his traitorous systems were lighting up with feverish want, thrumming in tune with the override signal now pulsing from the collar around his neck.

It didn't feel like code. It felt like Megatron's touch. Like fingers curling in his spark chamber with gentle cruelty that threatened to consume him. His T-cog was given back at least. Only because Megatron liked seeing him try and hide just how obvious the collar affected him. Sentinel grit his denta hard enough to crack. His frame was overheating, internal fans already working overtime to cool him down for the last joor. Slick dripped down his thighs, spike half-pressurized unbidden yet clearly wanting. A buzzing ache built inside him, too hot to contain.

Wrong.

Violent. Feral.

And Megatron? He watched like he always did, leaning against the doorframe in routine. Like he didn't just hijack the ex-Prime's body and left him to melt on the floor of his throne room behind metal bars. His abdominal strut cramps once and he groans quietly, reacting to the silver mech's presence already.

“You're resisting,” drawled Megatron, striding forward until he was in front of the cage's entrance. His heavy frame moving like a storm barely restrained, growling rumbling through him like thunder. “Why?”

Sentinel couldn't help but snarl, but it cracks halfway through. Half drunk on heat. “Because this isn't me, you monster—!”

The door opens and Megatron walks in while Sentinel shudders like he's just been touched by live wire. Can't help it that he's reaching for him, clenching his servos into a fist to avoid doing just that. “It is you,” Megatron insists, crouching down to optic-level. “It's you without all that pathetic posturing. All that Prime rhetoric. All that fake honor.”

He catches Sentinel's chin with a firm grip, so commanding it makes the ex-Prime yank himself away but fail to succeed anyway.

“You want to be clean,” purred the Decepticon, thumb smearing lubricant off Sentinel's inner thigh, twitching and sensitive only for Megatron to lift it to his intake and swipe a glossa over the slickness of his lubricant. “But you're filthy. You were always flithy.”

“F-ffrag you.” Sentinel whimpered, thighs flexing at the slightest of touches.

“Patience, Prime. You will.”

A low growl rumbled in Megatron's chest, something unhinged simmering beneath those half-lidded scarlet optics now—something twisted and hungry. Not just lust. Or revenge. Something darker. Needier. And it's purely on instinct that the Prime braces himself on all fours when the ‘Con finally circles behind him. Processor fogged with heat while something animalistic overrides his command logic.

His valve cycling open wetly in preparation as Megatron presses against the mech's backstrut, venting heat down his nape while he releases his spike and grinds it along the seam. Not penetrating. Not yet. Just teasing and torturing the other. “You should be in chains,” Megatron whispers, dragging rough servos over Sentinel's trembling hips. “But this is better. You're on your knees by choice. Heat begging for me and your valve drooling on my floors.”

The Prime bit back a sob, feeling his optics flood with salty lubricant. “I hate you.”

“I know,” and Sentinel freezes like the words shock him. Megatron murmuring in his audio receptors to cup the ex-Prime's twitching spike, feeling him arch back with canting hips to relieve himself of the ache. Dividing Sentinel's already heated attention with a stroking caress. It was almost too easy. “And still, I think about how we could've been every night.”

He tugs on Sentinel's drooling spike faster, making the upright mech shudder and clamp a servo over his mouth shut as though it did anything to muffle to sinful noises that spilled through the gap of his digits. Pure, gold wings twitching with sensitivity.

Megatron tugged again—slower now, cruel in his precision. Just enough to make Sentinel’s spike pulse with the threat of overload, but never enough to tip him over. His palm was broad and warm, ridged plating catching along the sensitive cables with every pump, while his thumb flicked over the venting slit at the tip. Over and over.

The Prime gasped, biting harder into his own palm, valve dripping freely between spread thighs. Wings twitching erratically, betraying his arousal to the air.

"Don't hold back," Megatron said, stroking firmer. “Let me hear you. It’s the only honest thing that ever comes out of your mouth.”

Sentinel sobbed against his hand as Megatron twisted his wrist, coaxing more transfluid from the tip. The sound was wet. Embarrassing. And it only got louder when he used both servos—one wrapped tightly around the base, the other pressing down flat against the swollen head. He rubbed slow circles there, smearing the leaking fluid into the already flushed spikehead with relentless focus.

Sentinel's hips bucked. He didn’t even mean to.

“You’re going to overload just from my hands,” Megatron growled, something dark and reverent bleeding into his voice. “So weak, Prime. Or maybe you’ve been waiting for this.”

Sentinel whined, voice gone high and wrecked, knees shaking.

“N-no— I don’t— don’t do this—”

Megatron leaned down, spike grinding against Sentinel’s soaked valve lips as his hands never stopped working. “Too late,” he rasped. “You’re almost there.”

Sentinel screamed.

The overload ripped through him, molten and humiliating. His spike twitched violently in Megatron’s grip, painting the mech’s claws with thick, hot transfluid that he didn’t bother wiping away. His frame collapsed partially, supported only by trembling arms as his valve spasmed open, heat-cycle scent now overpowering the room.

And that’s when he felt it. Megatron’s spike pressing right against his folds.

Thick. Hot. Rock hard.

But… twitchy. Unsteady.

Unfamiliar.

He froze.

His own body was still clenching in post-overload spasms, but he twisted just enough to glance over his shoulder.

"You— You're shaking,” he whispered, disbelieving. “You…?”

Megatron paused just for a second. Then leaned over him fully, his entire weight bearing Sentinel down into the cooling slab beneath them. “I’ve never,” he said quietly, optics glowing like coals. “Not with anyone.”

Sentinel’s processor stuttered.

“W-what?”

“I’ve dreamed about it,” Megatron whispered, lining himself up. “About you. About this. For decacycles. But I never took it.”

He pressed forward, and Sentinel arched—a helpless, traitorous moan spilling from his throat.

“I was waiting for something worth conquering,” Megatron breathed into his neck. “And now…”

A long, slow grind—no full thrust yet—just pressure.

“Now I’m going to lose it inside the thing I hate most.”

Sentinel sobbed again.

But he didn’t move away.

(*uhh insert Do I wanna Know? by Arctic Monkeys here because Tumblr won't let me put it in🧍🏻‍♀️*)

[kissingraine]

watch me pull a ‘it's supposed to be a three-part fic but break it down into multiple chapters’ move (i promise ill pull through chat🙏🏻)

mass-shifted mech

Lust for Life — G1 Insecticons x f!Reader (2.1)

• You like to think you’ve gotten a little closer after that. They trusted you enough to reveal what they are—though not exactly what kind. Big metal bugs that can turn into humanoid robots. That name’s gotta be shorter if you intend to officially put them in your journal. Shrapnel’s the easiest to get close to—funny and always dragging you to bug hotspots. Yeah. He goes hunting for the small suckers with you now. Something about EM fields. First time he heard the term, though? He nearly flipped out while repeating the last word in your sentence. And by flipping out, that meant almost zapping you like an eel stunning prey. You’ve made sure to explain exactly what you mean around him since then.

He doesn’t get why you insist on sticking to their de facto leader like a fragging bu—anyways. Kickback’s tried to squeeze the answer out of you, but it’s always the same thing. He’s funnier. Likes when you talk about their carapace under the sun. As if Shrapnel actually gave a scrap about that. But he gets it—he’s the ‘leader,’ and he’s supposed to be the one good at making people spill their secrets. Bombshell’s been spending nights on your couch watching bland organic soap operas—telenovelas—at 3AM. And… having very civilized discourse about which kid is going to get kidnapped next.

“See, right there,” you point, sitting on one edge of the couch while he’s on the other. One side tipping slightly because of how much he literally weighs. Two tons of pure metal. Can’t get any heavier than that. “That little girl is gonna get kidnapped while Daniel and Paulina over there flirt with each other.”

Bombshell vents, mass-shifted and leaning against the armrest, “Quite typical of your species, to be so engrossed with each other that they lose sight of their surroundings.”

“It’s called a fixation. Or, an obsession.” You shrug.

“Primitive.” Then you give Bombshell that look—one eyebrow raised and a half-smile like he amuses you. The way you amuse them. But it isn’t just that—it’s something warmer too. “It’s a very real and horrifying feeling, Shelly.”

Incessant little human. He’s told you many times that a respectable Insecticon of his caliber doesn’t do pet names—but you keep insisting. Because it’s satisfying to talk about something other than their war. Because it’s amusing to see you blabber about weak and useless human connections with him through the night—he lets you keep your head. All for the sake of documenting your habits in order to tempt you better. Shrapnel thinks it’s smarter to know more about you so they can get what they want, even though he could just charm you into it. Knows something is wrong. That you’ve done something to their leader, and he’s dying to find out what.

• Bombshell was different from Shrapnel and Kickback, as you soon found out from the other beetle. “He excels in mental warfare—warfare,” Shrapnel had mentioned in passing one afternoon.

“So, he’s a tactician?” you ask, ducking under a fallen tree log.

“You give him too much credit, squishy,” Kickback chimes in with a twitch of a wing, growling as he taps a clawed servo at your forehead. “He’s just as dangerous as we are, if not far more. Who knows what really goes on in that processor of his.”

• You’ve learned a bit of the grasshopper mech’s habits by now. And that’s the look he makes when he dares you to find out for yourself. Probably a good idea to be cautious around this guy—Insecticon genius, as he so often calls himself while ranting but there’s no denying Bombshell’s interest in telenovela mind games. It’s hard to predict. That’s probably the only reason he even entertains watching with you. It’s become routine. He waits outside, you let him in, and you both watch, then debate. Five minutes later, Eva—Paulina’s stepdaughter, the glue and everyone’s emotional center—gets kidnapped while Ave Maria plays in the background.

Why? How? The number of times he’s lost trying to predict it is taking up all the digits on one servo. And you laugh when the little girl eventually gets kidnapped by her mother’s evil twin sister. Not even because of what’s on TV, but at his reaction. He’s standing in disbelief like the show suddenly deserved a standing ovation for being so predictable.

“See? Told you. Nine years of watching this stuff, you get good at predicting even the wildest plots,” you say, just to rub it in.

Silence.

• He doesn’t answer. Just stares at the screen, then down at his claws. And something subtle, strangely human flashes across his face. Hard to tell with the mask on, but it’s definitely there. Defeat. Quiet devastation, you think. The brilliant manipulator outplayed by a human girl too interested in bugs. Then—he stands abruptly, towering, muttering something about statistical anomalies before sitting back down the same way you do when it’s the weekend. And the couch tilts hard to one side under his weight. You yelp as the momentum drags you across the cushions like a pinball, colliding into his side with a muffled oof.

You’re squished against him, he realizes. Soft and warm, right beside him, and he stiffens. So do you, while the telenovela continues to blare in the background. Neither of you are breathing. Just refusing to look at each other or move. Up close, you smell even sweeter to his olfactory receptors. And Bombshell’s suddenly aware why Kickback has been so insistent on this. It’s his job to get you ready for nesting, but the way you looked at that moment didn’t make him feel like he was doing it out of obligation. And what dignified Insecticon would let an organic be his undoing?

“You’re warm,” he rumbles, unconsciously. Like your warmth had pulled the words from his intake.

• You don’t think Bombshell has noticed the way one of his clawed hands has snaked around your side—slow and tentative, pressing you closer while you have an internal crisis. It’s sorta your fault for thinking you’d be fine, but the heat since the first time they revealed what they were hasn’t faded. Actually, it’s much more visceral now. The kind of visceral that makes you want to sit in his lap and fall asleep against his chest.

“And y-you’re heavy,” you reply, distracting yourself as you try to stand up.

• Except—his servo doesn’t let go. It tightens just slightly, not restraining… but holding. Like letting you go wasn’t yet an option.

“Stay,” Bombshell says, low and deliberate. There’s no command in his voice. Just… want. The screen flickers. Ave Maria ends. You’re not sure if the sudden warmth flooding your face is embarrassment, realization, or something else entirely. Maybe all three.

“I don’t…” you begin, but stop because you do.

He glances at you sideways, optics dimmer than usual. “For data collection,” he adds after a beat.

It’s a lie. A stupid, flimsy one.

But you nod. “Sure,” you whisper, letting your body relax against his.

“For science.”

Previous

Next

also- look who i found at my local department store👀 ladies and gentlemechs i present you to you, Ptimus Orime and Bumble-not-bee😭😭 i didnt get them cuz they looked like bootleg versions lmfaooo and they were pricey for no reason?! idek who's the third one supposed to be.

[vindicia]

STILL WAKES THE DEEP - [2/?]

[kissingraine]

I SO WANNA MAKE A COSMIC HORROR ROMANCE FIC BRO