“B,” he says finally, which… is better than nothing, you suppose. You’re surprised Jazz isn’t having a field day with this guy’s paranoia. Ya’ll ain’t got bombs fallin’ on ya heads or no clue if mech ya love will live past the next battle, dunno why ya so freaked all tha time he’d said once, and it… hadn’t cured your anxiety, but it had certainly made it look like a little bitch.
Someone afraid of Big Brother certainly sounds like something he’d get a kick out of.
I'm pretty sure GOK and LS are the two favorites of my fics currently, so i apologize for being so slow with updates on those lately ;v; Here's a little snack from the current chapter, with an exctended cut as a thank you to my Ko-fi supports!
(Story excerpt below the cut)
Delicate Artisan Trash published a supporter-only post on Ko-fi!
The massive surge of a gushing fuel-flush hitting your engine as it cycles up about three gear-shifts in one revving lurch, is probably answer enough for how much you want that. The priority-alert ding you ignore on your overwhelmingly cluttered visor-- what the heck do those strings of numbers even mean?! --would be easier to ignore, if it wasn’t highlighting a probability factor of improved strategic advantage, because knowledge was power and your systems are desperately hungry for any shred of data pertaining to Soundwave and Lazerbeak’s wellbeing.
The heat that simmers briefly in the air around you like a desert mirage, says you should probably consider if you can afford to replace the device you’d be loaned, because there’s a non-zero chance you’ll end up breaking it.