Secret Solenoid

A gift exchange for Transformers fans!

[secretsolenoid]

Secret Solenoid Gift Directory!

As the end of January approaches, this year’s Secret Solenoid finally draws to a close! Thank you to everyone who participated for your hard work. If you haven’t seen your gift yet, or are interested in seeing the other gifts that were made this year, you can find a directory here.

As always, if you have questions please reach out, but for now, happy 2021!

[secretsolenoid]

Gestalt Brain

A belated Secret Solenoid gift for @aethergeologist!

Prowl stared down at his datapad and tried, once again, to focus on the words in front of him. It wasn’t going well for him. His optics were working perfectly, he had settled himself into his seat, he was even topped off on energon. There were no distractions anywhere within the same building as him. He’d made sure of it by sending the Constructicons off to help with rebuilding on the exact opposite side of New Iacon from him. 

It should have been an optimal work environment, and yet he found he still couldn’t concentrate. Calculating defense strategies seemed impossible in the moment. He could focus on the datapad just fine, he could read every word of it. He just seemed unable to retain it. 

With a growl of frustration, Prowl pushed back away from his desk, and kicked the chair for good measure (if he hit the desk, it would disrupt the neat workspace he’d finally managed to organize to his satisfaction, after neatening up all of the corners of it that the Constructicons seemed to thrive in knocking ever so slightly out of place). 

Maybe if he went out for a drive, he would be better able to visualize the city. His autobot friends might still be out, but if he was driving, he could continue on past them without being rude, and if he were honest with himself, he wasn’t sure how to deal with Bumblebee, or Ironhide, or “Orion Pax.” He didn’t know how to deal with the crew of the miraculously-returned Lost Light, either, though in perhaps a more straightforward way. Most of them he didn’t care to bother with in the first place. Ultra Magnus or Ratchet might be a refreshing bastion of sanity, but neither particularly liked him for good reason, and he had plenty of disagreements with them right back (Megatron. phah). 

Maybe a drive along the outskirts of the developing city would help to stop his processor from looping in circles. With that intent in mind, Prowl left his office and made his way down to the street, shifting into his vehicle mode and setting off with a whine of tires.

Seeing the layout of the city helped. It was much easier to focus on the changes that needed to be made when he could see the haphazard clusters of ships that had landed as they came where there was space, and the hasty reconstruction that had sprung up between and around them in the ruins of Iacon. 

The outer wall needed repairing, of course. Although the wilds of Cybertron were slightly less dangerous without aerialbots and dinobots roaming in angry packs, it was still unknown, and even if Megatron was no longer a threat there were plenty of Decepticon forces out there who would not stand down on their leader’s order. The DJD, wherever they were, would be the prime example of that.

Some of the ships needed updates as well, if they were to fly again, or could be taken apart and put to use in more immediately necessary aspects of industry. Engines had all manner of useful parts, and energy shielding, which was a necessary component of any spacefaring vessel, could be repurposed as a solution for their wall problem, even if only as a short-term or emergency measure. And of course the buildings, though solidly constructed and intended to last for eons, all showed the devastating effects of both war and time. 

Today’s construction project was one of the examples that had fared far better through battles both ancient and recent. The constructicons had found the structure to be sound down to the foundation, with no rusting or deterioration on the beams. Their current goal was to strip the other materials, find other uses for them if they could, scrap those they couldn’t, and begin refurbishing the space into actual housing, so that they could begin to permanently settle Cybertron once again. The Constructicons weren’t the only one assisting with the project-- those who wanted a first stake at housing were invited to lend their assistance, and as such several crews from the shoddy rust-bucket ships were there to strip surfacing and cart rubble as needed. 

The building, as far as Prowl could tell, had previously been the headquarters of some sort of shipping company, and contained both space for storage and offices. Both would be easy enough to convert into habitation units, using the offices for the smaller spaces and dividing up the storage into slightly larger shared living units. 

Of course, problems will arise when those present to lend their assistance try to claim the most space, and end up arguing with one another over who gets what, even though the building should be able to hold more than those who showed up to help, but arguing them down will be a simple enough plan, and it’s a trivial matter to allocate spaces based on the preferred grouping assignments of the crews, and then to direct them to the restoration of those sections first--

“Prowl? What are you doing here?” 

Prowl jerked away from the building blueprints and looked up to see a very puzzled-looking Jetfire. 

“I--” 

When he looked around, he was surrounded by the Constructicons, and the construction crew. Which should have been across the city. 

He’d intended to work on plans for the defenses all day, not to be dragged into the Constructicon’s project, and yet, somehow, that was exactly what had happened. 

“I decided to take a break from the defenses,” Prowl said stiffly to Jetfire, who shrugged and deposited several large crates of materials before leaving, apparently unwilling to question Prowl. 

Prowl had some questions of his own, however. The constructicons seemed to sense this, if the way they clumped together when Prowl turned his attention toward them was any indication. 

“I was working on the defenses,” he said, his voice cold. “A vital task for New Iacon. Would you like to explain why it is that I find myself instead drafted into the job of a foreman?” 

“Well, it’s because you are,” Bonecrusher muttered. Mixmaster sneered and elbowed him hard, and Bonecrusher fell silent. Prowl continued to stare at them, and the Constructicons all began to fidget under his stare until--

“Well, it’s the Gestalt brain, of course,” Hook said stiffly. Prowl gave him a look, and he grimaced, but continued. “It comes out for the big problems.”

“It comes out when we are combined,” Prowl said with a frown. 

“Well, sure,” Scavenger said. “Cause that’s a big problem. But the more of us are focused on one big thing, the more it kinda… pulls in everyone else.” 

“All available resources,” Hook said. “And your processor is quite a considerable resource.” 

“What you mean to say is, unless all of us are working on entirely separate projects, I won’t be able to concentrate on my own work?” Prowl said. He could feel the angry tension building an ache in his shoulders and processor both. 

“Well…” Long Haul said slowly. “Not unless you want us to help.” 

“You, to help?” Prowl asked. 

“You know. More processing power,” Long Haul said. “That’s your thing, right? So if the gestalt isn’t focused on dragging around six frames in one body, there’s a lot of extra space for your calculating thing.” 

Prowl crossed his arms over his front bumper. He did not particularly like looking up and discovering that he had already spent half the day on a project completely unrelated to his own, and the feeling of his will slowly succumbing to another’s direction, even a gestalt, sat poorly with him. But, if he could use that processing power… 

His upper limit had always been calculating the trajectory of five hundred moving objects at once. Could he hit six hundred? One thousand?

Prowl looked down at the blueprints and the half-finished list of room assignments, then looked up at the array of Constructicons. “We are finishing this,” he declared. “Then we’re testing this. Understood?” 

Maybe it was the connection between their processors that happened whenever they combined, but Prowl could feel glee rolling off of the Constructicons in waves. “Yes, boss!”

[secretsolenoid]

An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works

Chapters: 1/1 Fandom: Transformers - All Media Types, Transformers: Cyberverse Rating: Teen And Up Audiences Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply Relationships: Shockwave/Wheeljack (Transformers) Characters: Shockwave (Transformers), Wheeljack (Transformers) Additional Tags: Rivalry, Science Rivals, Enemies to ???, Flirting with Science Summary:

Working in the same room as your rival? Tired. Showing up your rival at his own game? Wired.

[secretsolenoid]

A belated Secret Solenoid gift for psymon on twitter!

“You don’t have to stay here, you know.” 

Ratchet grunts, his attention on the space bridge controls. “What?” 

Arcee, standing by the gate of the bridge, gives him a knowing look. “You don’t have to stay trapped on Earth forever.” 

“I’m not trapped here,” Ratchet says stiffly, gesturing towards the bridge. “Minor ah--hiccups aside, the space bridge is fully functional. I do not require some--of some rescue, Arcee. There is work to be done and liaising to manage with Agent Fowler. Unless you would prefer to take over management of the Earth Base yourself? Have you perhaps gained a new skill in engineering while you were away on Cybertron?” 

Arcee rolls her eyes and crosses her arms in front of her chassis. “That’s not what I meant,” she says, “and you know it. You can take a day to go to Cybertron if you want. A week, even.”

“I certainly can not,” Ratchet huffs. “Even if I weren’t busy today, it is hardly advisable to travel through the space bridge with it unattended, as you well know. With no one to take over the controls other than, perhaps, you, I cannot leave my post. Until someone else decides to station themselves here on Earth, I am going to remain.”

“You could ask for someone to stay here in your stead for a few weeks,” she points out. “I’m sure Bumblebee would be happy to send someone your way.” 

“Someone like Bulkhead, who would be better placed on Cybertron to help with the rebuilding?” Ratchet scoffs. “No, I will stay here, thank you.”

“You don’t have to,” Arcee says. “But, fine. Any messages you want me to take back? For anyone in particular?” 

Ratchet goes stiff. “No,” he says. “Just pass on my well-wishes to the team.” 

Arcee presses her lip plating together to hold in a sigh. “Ratchet…” 

“Ahp-ahp-ahp!” Ratchet says sharply. He presses his hands down on the edge panels of the space bridge’s controls. “I already told you what I’m doing, and I won’t be talked out of it. If anyone is interested in “catching up” with me, they can comm me, or come visit themselves.” 

Arcee shrugs. “Well, I tried,” she says. “I’ll let them know you said hi.” 

“You can choose to do so,” Ratchet says stiffly and does not look up from the controls as she passes through the gate. 

-

He is busy, is the thing. There are a million things to take care of around the base, even with Agent Fowler bringing in some degree of funding from the U.S. Government and Rafael to handle the programming. 

There’s still plenty of manual labor to do and plenty more specialized tools that Ratchet has to figure out how to cobble together out of materials from Earth and the few that can be spared from the rebuilding efforts on Cybertron. He is, after all, still one of the Autobots’ best medics, and that expertise means he’s the only one with the familiarity of some of the methods of repair that used to be popular in the hospitals and universities of their planet. Most medics now know how to reattach a limb or close a bleeding wound, but few know how to recalibrate a spark chamber or rewire an optic as good as new. 

Ratchet will probably have to teach them how to do it-- eventually. For now, he can’t. 

And he certainly can’t return to Cybertron when that-- that Wrecker--

“Slag it,” Ratchet curses and brings his hand to his face. He can’t blame Drift for joining up with the Wreckers. He’s had more than enough time to get over the idea of his lover in that group and has confirmation from both Wheeljack and Ultra Magnus that he didn’t do too badly in the group-- though that bothers him on its own. He knows what the Wreckers can be like. Wheeljack is a perfect example of it. Rough around the edges at their best and occasionally actively bloodthirsty when driven to it. Knowing the environment that Drift came out of, Ratchet is sure that the Wreckers were familiar, but he’s not sure if they were the best thing for Drift. 

But Drift chose to go, and Ratchet chose not to follow, and now it’s been eons since they last saw each other. And now Drift is on Cybertron, and Ratchet is here on Earth. It’s the closest they’ve been since that fateful split, and here Ratchet is, staying right where he is. 

He’s always been a stubborn fool, is the thing. He knows that, even where it counts, he is likely to shoot himself in the foot, say something he’ll regret, cling too long to what’s comfortable rather than doing what’s best for him. Maybe it’s age that’s made him so intractable. Maybe it’s the war. Whatever the case, when he thinks about going back to Cybertron to find Drift and say--something, anything--to him, he can’t bring himself to make the call. 

So instead, he’ll stay here on Earth with his anger boiling and his spark aching, and refuse offers like Arcee’s, to help. 

-

It is only two Earth days later when he receives a message from Cybertron. It isn’t a video-- they rarely have time or the bandwidth for those these days, even with the space bridge. It’s just a list of provisions in the delivery, a request for whatever tools are finished, and a note that whoever they’re sending over will need to be introduced to Earth and the humans. Another new arrival from the depths of space who doesn’t know Optimus Prime’s team and the planet where the final days of the war were fought. 

Ratchet feels a frisson of nerves at the prospect, a tingle of static that runs all through his haptic net. He pushes it aside. He’s never been the type to see conspiracies around every corner, and he refuses to see one here. It’s not the first time this has happened, and while he finds introducing other Autobots to the organic planet singularly irritating, he did sign himself up for it. He has no one to blame for it but himself.

It’s a simple delivery run. Ratchet might not like it, but he can handle it. He sends back a confirmation to Cybertron, runs the time conversion, and discovers that he has a few Earth hours before the delivery from Cybertron. Just as well. Diving into his work will give him a chance to wipe these nerves out. 

It’s probably not Drift that they’ve sent to make this delivery. And if it is, Ratchet will deal with it then. No use worrying over it when there’s nothing he can do to stop it. 

-

He manages to finish a circuit diagnostic device in those few hours, but it doesn’t stop him from feeling jumpy and on edge the entire time. He runs a whole battery of tests once the device is finished, then does them again. When the only thing that does is leave him with an instrument he can’t justify fiddling with further, he turns his attention instead to the space bridge. Running more diagnostics gives him something to do with his hands, but it doesn’t give him anything else to think about-- he’s run these tests so many times he can make the adjustments while hardly thinking about it. 

Instead, he starts thinking about the very thing he was trying to avoid. What will he do if it isn’t Drift? What will he do if it is? 

He tries to think of something to say and finds his processor simply stalling. Nothing he could say seems particularly worth saying, especially when he can’t think of what Drift might have to say to him in turn. 

When the appointed time comes, it’s a blessing from Primus. 

Ratchet receives his first warning in a message from Bulkhead. It starts with a ping, then when Ratchet answers, a video opens. It fuzzes with static due to the distance, but Ratchet can make out Bulkhead’s grinning face all the same. 

“Heya, Ratch!” Bulkhead says with his usual ebullience. “How are you doing?” 

“Just fine, Bulkhead.” Ratchet responds. “What do you have for me?” 

Tellingly, Bulkhead’s optics slide away from Ratchet’s face. “Just, uh, some supplies. And, uh, a visitor! To carry the supplies.”

“Anyone I know?” Ratchet asks. 

Bulkhead clears his throat loudly. He’s still not looking at Ratchet. “Uuuuuh, maybe,” he says. “You know what, I’ll just let him through; you two can talk about it.” 

Ratchet can’t hold back a scowl, but he manages to hold back from barking at Bulkhead, who isn’t exactly innocent but is not deserving of Ratchet’s irritation at this situation. No one is, but Ratchet can’t help the way his nerves shunt themselves in bursts of outrage at every small thing. Maybe it will be better if he gets this over with. 

He huffs but lets Bulkhead get away with it. “Send them over, then.” 

Bulkhead’s shoulders sag with relief. “Starting bridge sequence, Ratch,” he says, and the video flicks off. 

Ratchet runs one final check, lets the bridge confirm coordinates, and steps back from the control panel when the bridge powers up and the glowing blue-green vortex appears. Everything looks stable, and there’s no reason it shouldn’t be. Ratchet could operate the panel, just in case something goes wrong, but Rafael’s programming is robust in that regard, and…

He needs to see. 

A figure starts to emerge from the glowing lights. Ratchet recognizes Bulkhead’s silhouette first, particularly with the shape of the supply trailer hitched to him. Bulkhead has been making most of the heavier supply deliveries. 

There’s another figure next to him, a much sleeker shape that Ratchet recognizes as a Cybertronian alt-mode. If he didn’t know better, he might mistake the form for Wheeljack having given up his Earth mode. 

But although the frame is red and white, it has none of the green stripes that distinguish Wheeljack. Ratchet recognizes this frame, too. 

There’s a patchy quality to his paint that speaks of recent repairs. Dents, the pucker of scarred weld lines, everything Ratchet spots on Drift’s frame maps a history of damage repaired. Ratchet steps forward and traces each one, energy singing electric along his lines in a way that he knows translates to a deep scowl. He rests his hands on his hips and waits for the two to halt and transform. 

Bulkhead does so first. “Hey, Ratch,” he says, still sheepish. Ratchet hardly spares him a glance. 

When Drift transforms, it’s… 

He looks the same. 

There are changes, of course. He’s cybertronian. Of course, he’s changed his frame, through preference or necessity or both, sometime during this Primus-forsaken war. Even with the changes to his paint and some of his outer plating, his faceplates are the same. He’s kept the blue optics. He’s still got that sword, even. 

And when he looks at Ratchet, there’s something warm in the glow of his optics. 

“Hey, Ratchet,” he says. 

Ratchet can’t get his vocalizer to work correctly. Instead, he grunts and nods and steps forward. Vaguely, he is aware of Bulkhead saying something about unloading. 

Drift keeps walking towards him. Ratchet can’t look away, can’t do anything to stop him when Drift reaches out and, with a moment of hesitation, takes his hands between his. He feels the contact like a spark in his plating. 

“You look… like you’re doing well,” Drift says, but it seems like more of a question than a statement. He’s looking over Ratchet’s hands, searching for signs of wear and tear, of maintenance. He knows that their hands are a medic’s livelihood because Ratchet taught him that so long ago. 

Ratchet knows that the hardships of the war’s end are written across his hands, visible to anyone who cares to look. 

“You look like you’ve gotten into a few scrapes, yourself,” Ratchet says. It comes out stiff and distant, more than he means it to, and he sees it register with Drift in the way he winces and lowers his optics. 

That shakes something loose in him. He’s lived through the war; he’s lost his oldest and dearest friend. If he’s to live on, will he do it alone? Will he push away this one thing that’s come through the war alongside him?

“I’m glad you made it through,” Ratchet says before he can begin to question himself. It’s still gruff, still stiff, but he hopes Drift will see the awkwardness for what it is, this time. 

It’s enough to get Drift lifting his helm, his optics bright and vulnerable. “Ratch…” 

“Come here,” Ratchet rasps. He grabs Drift by the shoulder, pulls his slighter frame in to wrap arms around him, and Drift goes with the motion, wraps arms around him right back. 

He’s trembling, ever so slightly, as he holds on to Ratchet. They stand there, so long that Ratchet loses track, just the two of them, together. 

Eventually, Ratchet tunes back into his surroundings to the sound of Bulkhead resetting his vocalizer. 

“Sorry, Ratchet,” he says. “I just, uh…” 

Ratchet has to reset his vocalizer as well. “I’ll just send you back through the space bridge, shall I?” 

“Great,” Bulkhead says. “I’ll talk to you two again later.” 

-

After Bulkhead is gone, things lapse back into silence. Drift lingered close through the process of starting up the space bridge, and while Ratchet had always grouched about clinginess before, now he feels the need for closeness just as acutely. Now that they’re alone, and the initial spell has broken, though, he isn’t quite sure what to do. 

He resets his vocalizer (if he does much more of this today, he’s going to break it, he thinks to himself wryly) and turns to Drift. “Well. We can get you settled in. We’ll need to introduce you to the local Earth authorities at some point, but Fowler is due later in the week… and we could get you an alt-mode to scan, unless you’d like to watch the highway for whatever comes along.” 

Drift fidgets, glancing away and then back to Ratchet. “Honestly, Ratch,” he says, “I just… want to spend time here, for a while. Talk.” 

He reaches out for Ratchet’s hands again. Ratchet lets him. He’s the heavier of the two of them, and Drift couldn’t pull him over if he wanted to, but Ratchet lets him lead. Drift guides them until they’re standing toe to toe, and tips his head up toward Ratchet’s. 

Feeling like a magnet, Ratchet tilts his head down until they’re pressed together, forehead and lip plating. It’s awkward but so gentle, and familiar as his own spark. However long Drift meant the kiss to last, it lasts longer, and when they finally draw apart, Drift is smiling. To his chagrin, Ratchet is too, but he can’t find it in himself to squash it. 

“Talk, huh?” he says with a chuckle. “All right. We’ll talk.”

[secretsolenoid]

A Secret Solenoid gift for @yayadrawsthingz!

[secretsolenoid]

Work

A belated gift for @quatroa! I’m sorry for the delay. This is from your Jazz/Prowl prompt, with Jazz singing Prowl Earth songs. The song I used here is Nice Work If You Can Get It, from Billie Holiday.

-

Prowl has a rule about recharge: The third time he fails to fall asleep, he gets out of the berth and tries to do something productive.

He’s no stranger to insomnia, or to late nights. The same quirks of his processor that make him a good investigator often make him poor at relaxing. He will latch on to some miscellaneous detail and be unable to let it go, which is useful for following trails in an investigation or extrapolating enemy movements from minimal data, but when it prevents him from recharging, it’s less ideal. 

It used to be that the obsessions would prevent him from returning to his berth at all. He would get caught up in his work and work through until his next shift, then operate on lower efficiency the rest of the day. This problem, at least, has been solved. Jazz is Primus-sent in that regard; he has made it his mission to pry Prowl out of his office at the end of each shift, and to coax him into the berth afterward. 

It has done a good deal to improve his processing power and productivity, but it does not always solve his insomnia. Worse, Jazz is a light sleeper himself. If Prowl is tired and unable to settle, he is likely to startle Jazz out of recharge. Over time, Jazz has learned to recognize him even in recharge, and can manage not to lash out if he’s startled awake, but Prowl is of the firm opinion that at least one of them should get proper recharge. 

And thus, the rule. Three times means his processor refuses to settle, and it means he’s disturbed Jazz enough with his inability to power down. It’s better for them both if Prowl removes himself from his berth and turns his attention to his work. It rarely solves the problem of his obsessing, but feeling productive can help press back the lonely hours when the Autobots are operating on a skeleton crew. 

With a suppressed sigh, Prowl pushes himself upright. He knows exactly what he is circling around, tonight, as unpleasant as it is. Soundwave’s cassettes have broken in, and adjusting the security will be a process of weeks, on the technological and physical side both. Worse, they still aren’t sure what the cassettes might have accessed before they were discovered and driven out. In the interest of safety, he will have to rework large parts of his strategies, in a less-than-optimal timeframe. 

It’s something he can get started on, but it’s not truly what keeps flashing through his processor. He just keeps catching himself on the edge of recharge, sure that one of the cassettes will sneak in through the vents to attack him or Jazz and sabotage the Autobots’ defense efforts. 

A visit to Red Alert is in order, he decides, before he goes to his office and settles into doing something productive.

As he moves toward the edge of the berth, he hears a shifting behind him--Jazz, being awoken. 

“I’m moving to my office,” Prowl says, keeping his voice low. “Get your recharge.” 

Jazz hums, still only half-booted. Taking it for acquiescence, Prowl keeps moving, only to be stopped by a hand on his arm. 

“Hold on, Prowl,” he says. His visor is a dim blue line in the darkness, that glints off the black and white of his armor to outline his mouth and helm. “Maybe we should try something else.” 

“We have tried other things,” Prowl pointed out. “They have not proved effective. It doesn’t matter for now. We can discuss other options when you are not resting.” 

Jazz doesn’t release his grip. “Just give it a shot, Prowl,” he said. “C’mon, lie back down.” 

Prowl considers protesting for a moment. It isn’t likely to work, and the more time he lingers the more difficult Jazz will likely find it to go back to recharging. But Jazz is also stubborn, and the look on his faceplates speaks of a willingness to argue Prowl into submission if necessary. As Prowl looks at his partner’s face, he also sees a slight tick downward at the corner of Jazz’s mouth, and recognizes the tell for concern. 

He folds. 

“Very well,” he says, no longer trying to move away from Jazz’s hand. “What was it that you had in mind?” 

“C’mon and lie down,” Jazz says, patting the berth. Prowl obliges, rearranging himself on the berth facing Jazz, his door panels resting out behind him. Jazz grins and wiggles closer, until they’re bumper to bumper and Jazz can tangle their limbs together. He does so carefully, and Prowl sighs but cooperates. Once they’re settled, Jazz bumps their noses together before drawing back again. “Comfy?” 

“I suppose,” Prowl says. “Now, what did you have in mind?” 

“Optics off,” Jazz says. Prowl gives him a dubious look, but obligingly turns his optics off, resigning himself to the full darkness. His processor kicks up the gain on his audio feed and haptic sensors, but he dials it back in, focusing instead on the gentle press of Jazz’s plating against his own and the nearly imperceptible hum of his systems. 

Jazz starts humming. It’s not the full blast of his speakers, the kind that can take down enemies if he wants. It’s faint, even with Prowl pressed so close, though he can feel the resonance of it through his partner’s chassis. 

“Holding hands at midnight, 'neath a starry sky,” Jazz sings. “It’s nice work if you can get it, and you can get it if you try.” 

It’s an Earth song, Prowl thinks. Probably something bouncy, but Jazz slows it down and stretches it out, and without instruments behind it, it feels meditative, soothing. 

“Strolling with the one bot,” Jazz sings, with the faint hint of amusement in his voice at what must surely be a changed lyric, “Sighing sigh after sigh. It's nice work if you can get it, and you can get it if you try.” 

Prowl lets himself settle in. Jazz has a beautiful voice, whether he’s speaking in his own or mimicking the tones of something else. His voice has changed since they got to earth, as delighted as he is by the abundance of culture the locals have. 

“Just imagine someone waiting at the cottage door, where two hearts become one, who could ask for anything more?”

“A love song,” Prowl murmurs. 

“Only for my Prowl,” Jazz murmurs back. “Now get some rest.” 

And, soothed by Jazz’s singing, Prowl does.

[lohikaar]

very very late solenoid for @decepticonsensual ! I’m so sorry for the delay, but I hope you enjoy the wives ™

[vxnegarandsp1c3-deactivated2022]

A really belated @secretsolenoid​ gift for @notsotinyblob​ I’m so sorry for taking so long so I hope you like this! I decided to do the charlie and Ratchet option because the Bumblebee movie is like one of my favorites and I wanted some bonding stuff with Charlie and the others- 

But again- 

I’M SO SORRY FOR THE DELAY

[artificial-absinthe]

This is my @secretsolenoid gift for @rayetherna (in twitter

https://mobile.twitter.com/RayEtherna

Correct me if I'm mistaking identities).

An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works

I tried to fulfill your initial prompts, but failed. So I worked with the last one (Free reign with Megatron/Starscream/Soundwave) mixed at an extent with the first one (Starscream finds out about Soundwave's fate and seeks to set him free). Only that I do introduce canon-divergence to RID. I sincerely apologize, but I cannot work with RID. I appealed to the "free reign" concession in this matter.

That considered, in case the fiction is not enough for you, I also added to my gift some panels about the fan fiction, including a text that for some reason I didn't include in the writing. There were more sketched panels with Starscream, but time didn't permit to color them.

You asked for reciprocated dynamics. Regarding Megatron /Soundwave I considere that settled, in the other cases I suggested a developing reciprocate interaction.

I hope you like it.

Please let me know if the 4 chapters are showing.

https://archiveofourown.org/works/28607562

[secretsolenoid]

Have all of the gifts been posted?

Not yet! There are still a few that will be coming in over the next few days. There will be a couple wrap-up posts once all the gifts have been shared, along with a gift directory to make sure that everyone can find theirs on whatever platform(s) it's been posted on.

[middy-draws-deactivated20241020]

Belated @secretsolenoid for @sparkmender. ^^ Sorry for the wait! Enjoy~

[bonesofether-deactivated2026021]

Scheduled Date

Hi, hi, @starscreamwastaken. I was your Secret Solenoid this year and so I got to write up this delightful little fic for you.

Starscream manages to pull Wheeljack away from his research for a much needed date. Though not everything goes as it should, haha.

Hope you enjoy it!

—

Starscream had never been one known for his patience, and that was a part of his reputation that he was quite comfortable with. He hadn’t gotten as far as he had in Cybertronian politics and power by being one that was slow to act. The Seeker had only acquired that which he desired by pursuing it and not by waiting for it to come to him. Though his goals may have changed frequently, his methods of reaching said goals hadn’t.

And so given his current goal, it wasn’t really a surprise that the flier was striding down the dimly lit hallway of the cluster of laboratories with an obvious sense of purpose. He wasn’t quite sure where his target was exactly at the moment, but Starscream knew they had to be in one of the laboratories. Wheeljack had been cooped up in one of them at any given time for what seemed like ages; all by his own doing and volition, too.

As such, it had been a frustratingly long time since Starscream had been able to go out on a private excursion of any sort with the scientist. Wheeljack had repeatedly assured the Seeker that he would go out with them as soon as they were done with their research. Starscream was embarrassed to admit that it had taken him more than a couple times of hearing the same excuses to realize that Wheeljack was just getting caught up in one project right after another.

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[inksmellsnice]

Title: The Tour Guide Rating: General Audiences Words: 1577 Pairings: Bumblebee/Blades Summary: With Earth and Cybertron finally safe, Bumblebee officially joins the Rescue Bots Academy as a full-time mentor. Naturally, Blades overthinks everything except how much he may mean to his old friend.  External Reading: FFN , AO3  Author’s Notes: @secretsolenoid​ for @toraokami303​ !! So sorry it’s late. ;u; The prompt was Blades helping Bee unwind by taking him somewhere scenic on Griffin Rock. In the end, it ended up being more about how they got to going somewhere scenic than the actual scenic location, but I hope you enjoy it all the same! I also included a reference to one of the other prompts of Optimus relaxing, because I almost did that one instead. Yes, absolutely, Optimus needs a vacation. Let this mech rest.

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[adrian-seidelman]

my @secretsolenoid for @chronosabyss, with an art prompt from one of their fics! this was so fun to do, i hope you enjoy!

[secretsolenoid]

An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works

Chapters: 1/1 Fandom: Transformers - All Media Types, Transformers Generation One Rating: Teen And Up Audiences Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply Relationships: Skywarp & Starscream & Thundercracker (Transformers) Characters: Thundercracker (Transformers), Skywarp (Transformers), Starscream (Transformers) Additional Tags: Teleportation, Pranking, Trine Dynamics Summary:

Skywarp wants to teach Starscream to give better orders. Starscream wants to teach Skywarp not to be so annoying. Thundercracker thinks they should both stop, so he doesn't have to be stuck in the middle.

A Secret Solenoid gift for @thebestdecepticonleader!

[dontcrime]

Christmas Drabble

@secretsolenoid, @secret-egret

Soundwave & Co. use Earth’s holiday season as an excuse to have fun - pranking, festive parties, hijinks, the whole works.

Sorry it was a bit late, apparently i put it into my drafts and not my queue.

“Christmas?” Soundwave spoke clearly as he tilted his helm downwards at the cassettes that gathered around his pedes. 

“Yeah, Boss! Can we do Christmas?” Rumble asked eagerly and Soundwave looked from one to the next of his many cassettes. Even Ravage had a small tail twitch as she feigned indifference. They were all excited for whatever this Christmas was.

Tilting his helm he looked up the information, not really understanding why they wanted to participate in this human created holiday. The only thing he could think of was that they wanted to exchange gifts. But they could just do that, so why did Frenzy hold tightly to a box of something sparkly? “No garland.” Soundwave said, letting them all know he was accepting of this but not accepting of a million strands of tinsel tossed about. “If it gets caught in joints, Hook will be the one to fix you.” The threat was more than enough for the twins to look at each other and nod.

Soundwave helped the cassettes set up, cutting a tree that was large for the mini’s but small for himself, giving them little metal bits and bobs to turn into ornaments on their own, and even helping them put it on, letting Laserbeak for the ‘star’ on top. Honestly he did not care one way or another about any of this, though he was curious to see how far his little ones would go for it.

It was a puzzling thing to Soundwave, the exchanging of gifts and the cheer that seemed to come from this strange, human tradition, but if it meant that the others were happy for a little while, then he would go along, even if his field quivered with intrigue.This was not his usual interest either. He had not seen his cassettes this excited for anything since long before the war, even then his memories were not as clear about their joy as now. It felt to him like they were planning something devious, something that he would normally advise them against and have to save them from retaliation for. But at the same time he could not find anything within this little fun holiday that they could do anything too devious. Even the ‘secret santa’ gift exchange they had started amongst themselves. 

He, of course, scanned each and every gift put into the tree to make sure none of it would start a fight upon opening day- christmas day, as Ravage had corrected him but he had decided to continue to call it as such. Of course the cat herself would find great glee in the bundles of paper and promises of boxes even more than the gift wrapped away for her. Soundwave took slight amusement in a spare length of garland which he would dangle about in front of her at times, the poor beast cassette would go crazy chasing after it, trying to catch it as he wiggled it around and he found that this made for decent training for her. It clued him in on looking up other cat videos and deciding that he would toss a little laser light gift for her under the tree too.

Rumble meanwhile had been vibrating with glee as every day, every moment that passed brought opening day even closer. The only hint that the bigger mech got that he and the other twin were up to something, perhaps devious, was in the looks that they exchanged. For their sake, and the sake of fairness and equality, he picked out some gifts for them too. Stuffing them under the tree when all were in recharge, and putting only their names on the packaging so they would all have more to open. He just needed to get something for Lazerbeak at this point as most of his other cassettes were still on cybertron.

But he at least had a slight idea of what the little flyer would enjoy. Lazer always perched high, cabinets, berths, even Soundwave’s own helm was a solid perch. So why not a perch in their room? He was surprised he had never thought of it before nor that it had been brought up. Lazerbeak was usually not one to keep his beak shut about something that made life as a beast more comfortable. It was the least Soundwave could usually do for them.

Apparently this Christmas thing had caught his spark too; just the thought of the others being elated at their gifts gave him a warmth inside. It had him eager himself on opening day, when he sat down and waited for them to all online. Oddly enough it took them longer than he had suspected and when they came out he nearly stalled out. 

It seemed that his twins had done something devious’ after all. They were wearing sweaters, and hats with elf ears. Ravage’s little nose had a dollop of red reflective paint on it and antlers were upon her head along with a brown fluffy coat. Lazerbeak seemed to get away a little  easier as he was only forced to wear bells and antlers. A red hat was held out for Soundwave and beneath his mask he smiled as he pulled it on. He was dressed as santa and he had two reindeer and two elves it seemed. 

Eagerly they tore into the presents, shredding the paper and enjoying the gifts from each other and him. It made his spark swell as he watched, as he yearned to have another christmas next year. His own presents and the ones from each other seemed to blur as the memory purge was coming to a close. Soundwave knew what was next and tried to abort this ‘dream’ but could not.

Ravage put a small paw on his pede, gaining his attention and he looked down. Lazerbeak was perched on his helm and the twins suddenly held out a gift for /him/. Reaching down he took it from the duo and opened it. This was what had his cassettes so excited from the start he realized and he pulled out each and every little figure carefully. Crudely carved, painted with colours far too saturated , were the quartet in his hand before him. A small gift that he could hold onto forever and he couldn’t love it more.

Bonus! Angst ending! And honestly you can blame my editor @tiredandgrumpymedic for it.

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[the-fake-ah-crew]

My @secretsolenoid gift for @sentient-mechanism

The prompt was:

"Prowl and Red Alert run the Ark while the rest of Command go on a mission -- troublemakers beware!"

Let's just say goodbye to Sunstreakers flawless paint job after this.