Plsplsplsplsplsplspls more prowlscream!!! (Idc if its a Playlist, art, or ranting about it!) You are fr feeding the prowlscream community
it's 8 in the morning, and i'm thinking about how prowlscream to me feels like a sleepless night in the middle of a messy, messy week. you get tired of tossing and turning in bed and you start getting frustrated. you need to do something about it, or else you'll lose your mind.
you leave your bedroom and get on the balcony, hoping that getting some fresh air will help you make sense of the mess you find yourself in. you feel like a cy-gar is the only thing that could possibly save you on a night like that, but when you get on the balcony you realise that the last cy-gar in the pack is broken. snapped in half, or you accidentally washed it when you last hit the washing racks.
either way, it was your last chance at clearing your mind, but now you can't smoke it.
and yet, right before you decide to call down god to personally fist-fight him, another bastard joins you on the balcony to light himself a cy-gar and offers you one, and that's the closest you've ever felt to a miracle in your messed up life.
it's about sleepless nights spent mostly in silence with a mech you could swear you despise with your entire being, or at least you used to.
it's about quiet, perhaps secret, but definitely unplanned meetings under starless skies that leave you wondering if even the damn stars have decided to abandon you in the trainwreck that's your existence, or if it's just something in starscream's magnetism that has forced them to get an early night, to make room for someone who you soon realise tends to shine so much brighter in the moonlight.
always, always, always in the middle of the night, always somewhere no one else ever goes, so no one can see you coming in as soon as the darkness of the night swallows cybertron, or leaving early in the morning before anyone else wakes up, always under the false premise that this, this will be the last time.
you told yourself that at least five other times.
but there's just something about the way the silver on starscream's wings seems to catch the light of cybertron's second moon just right that compels you to always come back, despite yourself.
starscream, who likes to remind you, during your secret meetings, voice so uncharacteristically quiet and barely above a whisper, that no one could ever handle you the way he can.
that his arrogant, ambitious mind matches your brilliantly cruel one in a way no one else's possibly ever could.
that no one even comes close to how perfectly your sharp edges and hollow cavities match one another's.
and all you can think about, the entire time, is if there's a way you can follow the path of fallen ashes from his cy-gar all the way back to his bed.
Please yap abt Prowlscream, I must Know and Understand
-Star-bun
well then, buckle up because you’re in for a LONG rambling session!! (thanks for asking, by the way. taking about prowlscream is my favourite thing in the word!! and also, i apologize in advance for any mistakes, english is not my first language and i’m typing this on my phone.)
i will also probably add more thoughts as i go.
ANYWAY—
this interaction (robots in disguise 2012, issue #2) is honestly what did it for me. i remember reading it for the first time and being like ‘ oh, i need like 6 seasons of this, ‘ and then it got me thinking.
they're both second-in-commands to their respective factions, both hated, both having a complex, if not often conflictual relationship with their leader, and they both tend to scheme a lot and work in the shadows.
it's one of those cases in which they absolutely despise each other, but, at least in my opinion, still have a lot of things in common.
the ' the end justifies the means ' mentality first and foremost, but i would argue that they also share an immense sense of guilt over both their actions and the bad things they have been put through that they cope with in the most horrible ways. mostly by blaming others for the mess they've dragged upon themselves, or by pushing away anyone who's ever attempted to get close to them.
both invested in political messes, both unable to sustain genuine emotional connections, both extremely lonely, and yet they seem to understand each other fairly well when many others have failed.
i don't know if it makes sense, and of course their motivations are very different, but i think (at least according to the IDW continuity, especially the robots in disguise 2012 series) their minds tend to work very similarly.
if you could get them to properly work together, cybertron would either burn to ashes for good or turn into something incredible.
i love this scene specifically. the sheer sense of horror prowl must've felt when he realised that, of all the mechs in the universe, starscream was the one who better understood his reasoning and put it into words.
same thoughts, same methods, different goals and motivations. it's just a kind of dynamic i'm very fond of, i would love to see more of whatever the hell this is.
something something ' whatever souls are made of, his and mine are the same (insult) '
not to mention the fact that their interactions are just— funny to read. as simple as that.
starscream going full on ' i bet you say that to all of your other hoes ' mode on prowl. the borderline comical cat-and-mouse thing they've got going on, like something out of a scooby do cartoon.
look at them. just look at them. don't you wanna put them in Situations™ just to see what would happen? because i do.
if enemies, why bicker like an old married couple who's going through their 82638274th divorce—
i can't post more than 10 pics per post, but there's also the fact that when they're angry, starscream has the habit of clearing tables, while prowl throws them. they're just— made for each other.
overall, i like to ship them together because they deserve each other, and not in a good way. more like a curse, if that makes sense. i'm forcing them to be in a messy situationship with each other so that the other mechs can be safe.
' he wants me so bad ' and it's starscream running away while prowl chases him with his police sirens on.
' souls forever bound to one another ' as in they'll find each other again in hell.
' i'll take care of you (menacingly, holding a gun) ' / ' it's rotten work ' / (loading the gun, already savouring the sight of the bullet going through the other's head) ' not to me. not if it's you. '
sexting sounds like ' be honest, babe. do you ever fantasize about assassinating me? '
their ideal date night is playing chess and mind games while discussing politics and their plans to overthrow the government.
their visceral rejection of any sort of emotional vulnerability? their fear of intimacy? no need to worry about any of that. if they ever found themselves thinking too much about the other, they would just assume that the other is hacking their systems and call it a day. they would meet at dawn and fist-fight each other over it, and they would both get the amount of physical contact they need to survive another day without analyzing any of their feelings.
tied together by the red string of fate, except it's strangling them both.
This was originally for a request (that I can't find) for a König X Reader fic so…
~
It was a day off.
No rifles. No radios. No blood in the dirt.
Just König and Y/N, walking through a cobbled city square, warm light reflecting off market stalls and the scent of sweet pastries drifting between them.
König had expected Y/N to be quiet. Maybe a little guarded. After all, the last time he saw her, she’d been elbow-deep in field dressings, barking at a squadmate to “quit whining or bleed out in peace.”
But this?
This was new.
She had a skip in her step.
She was chewing on a piece of candied orange peel she bought from a street vendor and humming.
Actually humming.
She darted from stall to stall like a butterfly in combat boots, lighting up at tiny glass trinkets and handmade soaps.
“Oh my God, look at this!” she gasped, holding up a handmade plushie of a frog wearing a beret.
König blinked. “It is… a frog?”
“It’s art, König. Don’t be rude.”
She was teasing him.
Teasing.
And when she laughed, full and unrestrained, warm like summer. It did something to his chest he didn’t quite understand.
He followed her like gravity.
Silent, massive, awestruck.
And then he noticed something else.
Y/N wasn’t looking over her shoulder.
Wasn’t checking corners.
Wasn’t subtly sizing up the strangers passing by.
Her guard, her entire edge, was down.
Because he was there.
Because she trusted him to notice the danger first.
She was in autopilot.
Only now it wasn’t the medic-on-a-mission autopilot he’d seen on the battlefield. This was the other side of that trust. The quiet message she sent without words:
“I’m safe with you. I don’t have to be sharp here.”
He stopped walking.
Right in the middle of the square.
Y/N turned back, a caramel stick in her mouth. “What’s up, tall man?”
König tilted his head. “You’re… happy.”
Y/N raised a brow. “That bad?”
“No!” he said, alarmed, then softened. “It’s just… I didn’t know you could be like this.”
She smiled around the candy stick. “What, not used to me being adorable?”
König flushed under his hood. “I am used to you yelling and stitching people up while calling them ‘idiots with arteries.’”
Y/N barked a laugh. “That’s my work voice.”
He stared. “So this is… your real voice?”
Y/N walked up to him, rose on her toes, and grinned.
“This is the version of me that only shows up when I’m not bracing for a fight.”
König’s chest went tight.
He opened his mouth, then shut it again.
She tilted her head. “What?”
He looked down at her, that sweet, sunshine-soft look on her face, and finally said, “I like this version of you.”
Y/N blinked.
Then. Without warning, grabbed his sleeve and tugged him toward a food stall.
“Come on. I’m feeding you street waffles now. That’s what happens when you say something that sweet.”
König let her drag him.
He was already full.
But he would’ve followed her anywhere.
~
The waffles were almost offensively large.
Golden brown, stacked high, dusted with powdered sugar, and topped with strawberries, syrup, and a melting cloud of whipped cream that threatened structural collapse with every passing second.
Y/N had already taken a bite of hers and was chewing happily, leaning against the stall with syrup on the tip of her pinkie.
König, on the other hand, was… struggling.
He stood beside her with his usual day-off getup: a plain black t-shirt turned into a hood, the raw-cut eye holes frayed at the edges, and the hem tucked securely beneath a baseball cap.
But the holes were too small.
Far too small to actually eat through.
So, like a man on a covert mission behind enemy lines, König lifted the entire bottom of the hood from underneath his chin, just enough to jab the fork upward and hope he hit his mouth.
He looked like a tactical vampire feeding under a tarp.
Y/N paused mid-bite.
And stared.
His eyes were still visible, blinking rapidly as he concentrated on not getting whipped cream up his nose. Every movement was a combination of precision and comedy. The fork went in. The syrup followed. His hood slipped just a little.
And then the whipped cream hit his cheekbone and stayed there.
Y/N burst into laughter.
Like. Cackling, doubled-over, grabbing the edge of the stall like she might fall kind of laughter.
“Are you… are you eating it from under the hood?!” she gasped, tears already threatening her mascara.
König paused, still frozen mid-lift, one hand bracing the hem of the hood, the other holding a fork dangerously close to his eye socket. “…Ja?”
“You look like you’re trying to smuggle waffles past airport security!”
“I can’t get it through the eye holes!”
“Oh my god,” she wheezed, “no shit! They’re for eyes, König!”
He dropped the hood quickly, now with a smear of cream just below one eye, his ears turning a deep, burning red under his cap.
Y/N couldn’t stop laughing.
People were staring. The kid two stalls over pointed again. A woman looked mildly alarmed.
König stayed completely still.
Mortified.
Until he saw her face.
Y/N wasn’t laughing at him.
She was laughing like he’d given her a gift.
The kind of laughter that only came from feeling safe. Real. Unfiltered.
He softened.
“I think I got some on my eyebrow,” he mumbled.
Y/N wiped at her eyes, still snickering. “You did. And some on your pride.”
König sighed. “I’m never eating waffles with you again.”
“You are, actually,” she said, stepping in, grabbing a napkin, and reaching up to dab at the smudge by his temple. “Because now it’s tradition.”
He didn’t move.
Just watched her, eyes soft behind the mask.
“Next time,” she murmured, “I’m cutting the damn eye holes bigger.”
König smiled, hidden under the hood, but visible in the crinkling of his eyes.
And then, after a beat…
“…Or I get a straw.”
Y/N howled again, head dropping against his chest as she wheezed, “A straw?! To eat?!”
“You’ll see. Tactical waffle pouch. No casualties.”
And as she stood there laughing, syrup on her fingers and joy on her face, König realized,
He didn’t need to see her scanning the crowd to know she felt safe.
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