#wheaty writes

[thelancehunter]

all our words will linger on

When best friends Lance Hunter and Bobbi Morse agree to start a band. neither one of them could have predicted that it would be the start of a crazy adventure.

Rated Teen

Alt Links To Come

[vos-porwave]

fuckin writing blog fuckin deleted so gotta here 

fuck you

He knows his time is running out. He is. Tired. He feels the ache in his bones, a static in his brain. His lungs wheeze as he tries to breathe, keep breathing. But he can’t keep going. Not like this.

He doesn’t know where one thing starts, and where another ends. He doesn’t want to move. He doesn’t want to go anywhere. There’s nothing he cares for anymore. Nothing works. He doesn’t even feel sad anymore. Now it’s just a heavy, yet empty exhaustion. One that laces his mind and his muscles like poison. Whispers that he isn’t enough. That what he does is bad. 

It goes on for days. It hurts. He wants to sleep. He wants to sleep forever. His skin itches. But underneath. In a way only a certain feeling can subside- only one way to scratch. The same way a phantom grip haunts his neck. The same way nothing encourages him to move. To feel. To live.

He takes the scissors from the side. And begins to make thin, red lines across his wrist. One. Two. Three. Four. It slips across skin and leaves its mark. So on, so forth. He pushes down the fear. His heart thumping in his chest, willing him to take aim, to dig a little deeper. 

He stares at water trailing over his hands. Boiling. Steaming. Scalding. It feels good in a way he can’t describe. Like it’s peeling back the blood and the dirt. Purifying. Cleansing. His skin turns red and blotchy. And as it begins to feel like melting, he moves away. It’s not enough. It’s never enough. His skin itches again. His lungs ache for a breath of poison he can’t give. His mouth salivates for a fix, a dizzying drive that almost convinces him.

The emptiness of his wallet may just be the only thing that stops him.

He longs for a lighter- just to hold. To feel the flames licking away layers of flesh. He wishes to fight. To be hurt again. To feel their knife mark him, and to feel their hands leave welts and bruises. 

But they are gone now. And he does not want them back. Only their harmful hands. Their exquisite torture. Shove him to the ground. Force him under your heel. Do not allow him to move. Do not allow him a choice.

The concept terrifies him. But it is also freeing. He is tired. He doesn’t want a choice anymore. He just wants to rest. Rest, and slip away. Into distance and darkness. 

He wears a choker too tight around his neck. His hands pull to choke. Take away his breath, take away his voice, take everything from him, please. Please give him freedom. Stop his brain from buzzing, too full of static and desperation. Stop his skin from itching, his lungs from bursting. Stop the ache of desire, of addiction. Take away choice.

But that is not truly what he wants. He wants peace. He has never truly known it, after all. 

To which he supposes he has slipped again. A painful relapse in his attempt at healing. 

But he has gone too far. Breath is shorter than he remembers. His heart thunders like a war drum. His eyes are wide and he gasps for air he's sure was there a mere moment ago. He is alone. He is afraid. He does not want to fade, yet he does. He does not want to breathe, yet he tries. A conflicting conundrum of swirling emotion and panic. Pain. Truth. Choice. It poisons his mind in a way he can’t describe. He wants to stop. There is no way out. It’s like a maze made of stone. There is no Exit, there is no way out. He is afraid. He is afraid. 

It creeps up on him. The feeling like tendrils over his arms, around his neck. It chokes him. This is not what he wanted. He wanted peace. He wanted peace.

 This is not peace. He can’t come down. This isn't funny anymore. He can’t sleep. His eyes are wide and his breath is shaky. He can’t get enough air. His mouth is wider than his eyes. his lungs burn like he's been running. Saliva drips from his teeth, sharp like a monsters, and his heart pounds in his chest. War drums. Echoing in his head. His back burns like its been scraped and scratched. He feels sick.

He comes down to earth. Dizzy. Confused. Afraid. Cold.

He wants peace.

He wants to go back to sleep.

[wheatys-writings]

im still alive tho friendly reminder

He regretted a lot of things in his life, it occurred to Teenamock as he watched a red lightsaber sear through the flesh of his apprentice. He regretted agreeing to the separatists ideals and plans. He regretted cutting off Masjis legs. He regretted letting Ywetlah drink themselves half to death during training time. He regretted leaving home, leaving the jedi order, hell, he regretted not eating something for breakfast that morning. 

The murder of younglings had the force bleeding agony and misery. Ynetbah had revealed in it, delighting in every force sensitive screaming out as they felt the pain and sorrow from the unnecessary deaths.

Teenamock didn’t feel like admitting it unsettled him more than he cared to admit.

What he didn’t expect was that he was next. The newly named Darth Vader stood in front of him, lightsaber down and ready. Taunting every poor choice the Mirialan had ever made in his life. Teenamock stared him down, swallowing his fear. It was clearly going to be a fight to the death. And while he didn’t feel particularly too inclined to be enraged at the loss of his apprentice there was an element that he should probably cry for revenge. Or something like that.

So he held his lightsaber high, internally apologising to himself for not ensuring his survival, and waited for his fate to step forwards and strike him down.

Except. He didn’t. 

In fact, the very second he took a step forwards, there was gunfire from the sky. Missing Teenamock, but nearly hitting Vader. The Mirialan blinked, brain running on blanks. The ship fired again a few times, keeping Vader at bay with skill that was almost impossible. It kept Teenamock safe as it lowered, closer and closer to his form, on his side. He ran through names in his mind, trying to think of anyone, anyone, who would dare fight a sith to come to his rescue. 

His answer came in a flash of blue, black and purple, leaping down from a now open bay door. They rolled across the dirt, hand held out over Teenamock’s stomach, where they only just reached. Their eyes flashed with what Teenamock could swear was a purplish red rather than their usual blue, and their hand swung out.

He didn’t have to feel it to know the push they had given would have stung like a good punch to the chest. He knew both from previous experience, and by the sheer intensity that their hand swung. He could have sworn he almost felt the force dragged from around him to give it the power it so needed. Darth Vader was sent back, unprepared for the sudden addition to the fight. The ship hovered just above ground behind them, and Teenamock stuttered for a sentence to say. Still dazed and confused.

“I- this isn't a fight you can win.”

Ywetlah gave him a disbelieving look, as if he had just insulted their intelligence. “Yeah, fucking duh! So are you gonna get in the ship or not?!”

Get in the ship. As in, get to safety. Somewhere where he might not be killed. They were offering him safety, the choice to live, and if he didn’t know better, redemption. Some part of his mind screamed at him to say yes, to run back and get on the ship, but the sheer nonsense of the situation told him that this had to be some weird dream, some torture sequence to make him believe he was safe. But the irritated roll of blue eyes, and a sudden arm around his waist told him it was real that they’d came to save him.

“Unbelievable. I spend twenty minutes asking Masji to make sure you’re alright when we sense it’s not just the jedi and this is the thanks I get?”

They didn’t seem sincere in their complaints, force jumping up into the hanger, slamming their free hand on the button to close the doors behind them. Teenamock just kinda hung over their shoulder, feeling stupid. They were half his height. How could they even hold him like this. Why didn’t they show this strength when they were fighting? What ridiculous concept of absolute laziness stopped them from using this power. 

They put him down on some seat, and yelled (unnecessarily loudly) into a comms device. “Yo Masji, I got Sunsnake-” Teenamock raised an eyebrow. ‘Sunsnake’? What was that supposed to relate to? “-over here, door’s closed, red-hot-chilli-pepper is dead, get driving before we’re next!!”

“Why do you insist on coming up with shitty nicknames?” Teenamock resisted the impulse to freeze when he heard Masji’s voice, tired and irritable. Ywetlah shrugged, despite their Master being unable to see them do so.

“I donno. It’s just more fun that way I guess.”

“Sometimes I think it’s just to do with the fact that giving people names makes you care about them more.”

Ywetlah pouted into the mic, and Teenamock jolted at the sensation of entering hyperspace. “Hey, no psycho-analysing in closed quarters. Doesn’t end well for anyone.”

They hung up, and shrugged at Teenamock as if to say ‘whatever’ before sobering up and shoving their hands down, as if they anticipated having pockets. “Alright, he’ll be down here later to talk to you about this mess. But I’ve got another mess to clean up and it’s called ‘my room’. So I’m gonna be a lil’ busy. Just stay here and if you throw up or anything don’t bother cleaning it up cause we got it.”

They clicked their tongue, shooting what they called ‘finger guns’ at him, and Teenamock paused for a moment.

“… Are you drunk?”

“Actually no,” they sounded disappointed, but shrugged and started walking off. “But hopefully I will be when we stop off at our next place. You just stay there. Masji will be down later.”

The door slid shut behind them, and Teenamock sat where he’d been placed, hands digging into the fabric of his trousers and teeth digging into his bottom lip.

He’d nearly died. And those two were the only people who came to even try and help him. The two who he’d tortured and manipulated for his own personal gain.

What fucking sense did this world even make.

[wheatys-writings]

no

The instant Rodimus had picked up the matrix, he had known that something was different. Not with his fellow cybertronians, but with the Quintessons. The two behind the one they knew as death, in reds and yellows, suddenly looked unsure, perhaps even a little worried. But Death had been the one who reacted the worst. Though not in his usual, commonplace anger and irritation.

This almost seemed like fear.

“Rodimus,” he started softly, a hand held out haltingly as if he meant to take it from the redhead forcibly. “I will ask you, politely, once, to put. The Matrix. Down.”

Rod squinted at the Quint suspiciously, looking between him and the object in his hands. This wasn’t right. Something was wrong here- the Quints didn’t act like this usually. He blinked, lifting the matrix up slowly.

“Rodimus,” Death hissed through clenched teeth, eyes slowly becoming more slitted. “Put. It. Down.”

The Cybertronian went to, but hesitated, returning back to his usual state. “Now hold on-“

“Roduimus.”

“No no no, hold on a moment,” he glared, taking a step back, holding the matrix in both hands, close to his chest. He heard a choked noise, and eld back a grin. “Why? Why does it bother you so much?”

“Why would that matter to your kind?” Death snapped, not once taking his eyes off the Matrix as he took two careful steps forwards. “Listen, just. Put. It. Down.”

Rodimus backed up a little as Death took steps towards him. The Quintesson froze, swallowing hard as Rod stared him down. “No.”

It wasn’t anger on the mans face, that was for certain. But could he say it was fear in absolute certainty? Unlikely. What would terrify him so thoroughly to make him react in such a way?

“Rodimus you do not understand what you hold so for the love, of every god that I know- put. The Matrix-!”

“But why should I?” Rod interrupted, ignoring the hosed warning from his dad. “What is it? Why are you so afraid? What power does it have over you that you don’t want me to have?”

Death didn’t answer, which was enough to reveal to Rod what he needed to know. He lived the Matrix to eye level, to see if there was anything written on it that would reveal its meaning to him. But all that happened was he heard Death take another few hurried steps forwards.

“Rodimus Prime, sTOP!! STOP PUT IT DOWN!!” His breath came in sharp pants, and the two behind him looked like they wanted to intervene but were thinking better of it. His eyes were wide and his teeth bared, alongside his near debilitating panic. “PUT THE MATRIX DOWN!!”

Rodimus stared at his through the blue tinted glass, and nearly missed the next whispered words out the Quintessons mouth, that he doubted anyone else would be able to hear.

“Rodimus, please.”

His hand still reached for the matrix that they both knew Rod wouldn’t give up. For a moment time seemed to freeze, silence overtaking them both.

And then chaos erupted as Rodimus raised the matrix higher.

He didn’t understand the words that came out of Death’s mouth, a garbled shriek as he leapt for Rod. Who lifted the Matrix higher so that he wouldn’t be able to reach it (even if Death was far taller than him).

The next thing he knew was a pulse of blue that overtook his sight and blinded him for a few seconds.

When he next blinked, he didn’t recognise where he was. Death was still stood in front of him, arm outstretched, but face now contorted in overwhelmed terror. The rubble that now surrounded them, Rod vaguely recalled to have the same colour as the room they had been in before. And his dad, Megatron, and the other cybertronians that had come with them were there too. But the other two Quints were gone. 

And Death looked mortified and actually quite sick.

He whispered something out, in a cracked and desperate tone. Then repeated it. He closed his eyes shut, and repeated it a little louder. As he spun around on his heel, it clicked in Rod’s head that there were in fact two, very, very, bloody messes half fused to the ground where the two once stood.

He was nearly sick when Death started screaming, verifying what he thought the mess might be. 

The Quint shrieked, screamed, screeched, and roared in varying degrees of emotion that Rod wasn’t sure he’d ever quite place, and certainly would never forget. 

He said something that didn’t quite register in his mind as something he’d actually said, but Death turned with the fury of thousands, hand raised in murderous rage. 

“YOU IDIOT!!!!” He snarled, hand above his head, fingers clawed as he seemed to prepare himself to tear Rodimus apart. “DO YOU HAVE ANY IDEA WHAT…!!!” 

He paused, a strange look crossing his face as his eyes flicked to his hand. 

“….you’ve just…”

His hand fell, as did his entire form. Collapsing onto the floor, staring at the cracked and ruined surface with the exhaustion of someone who had been alive for far longer than they should have been. Rod could have sworn, that in that moment, he could see decades of pain, centuries of regret, and weariness on his face.

Tears started to leak from now closed eyelids, and Rod felt wrong in that moment to see his childhood monster, the nightmare that haunted Cybertronian life, sobbing on the floor of his own palace.

“Done.”

[wheatys-writings]

i don't think you understand how exceedingly and needlessly dramatic i am

Walking into base while it was quiet was extremely uncommon, and Snapjaw was not too proud to admit he intentionally tried to avoid it. The lab where Akinator was commonly found was empty. His computer left on, and unattended. “Uh, Snapjaw?” Horizon’s hushed voice came from behind him as he continued walking in. The little shuttle had been increasingly jumpy since his capture by the Misfits. “Shouldn’t we wait for him to come back?” Snapjaw looked over his shoulder, looking briefly at the others before making a call. He smiled as reassuringly as possible. “Hey come on, inputting data reports into files won’t be that hard. He probably has a log on there for it.” The computer was needlessly large, especially for someone of Akinator’s size. The screen was segmented, but the times Snapjaw had been in here it tended to either be turned off for his arrival, or showing one large picture. Which it currently did, an ellipsis blinking across the screen as he approached. “Are you sure, Snap?” Skyline crept up to him, her head poking cautiously past his arm to address him. “What if he gets mad?” “He’s not going to get mad,” he rolled his optics as they reached the computer. “We’re just inputting  data. That’s nothing he’s gonna get mad at.” When he reactivated the computer, the screen flashed to show a list of options. Some, Snapjaw could make sense of. Finances, Base Operations, Personnel Files, Data Log, something called ‘Project O’. But then there were the two he couldn’t make sense of. “Uh, Snap?” Waterjet stage whispered. “I don’t mean to be rude, nor presumptuous, or any other weird adjective the guy might yell at me that I can’t make sense of; but what kinda mech has ‘Allies’ and ‘Threats’ on his loading screen?” Snapjaw opened and closed his mouth for a minute before resetting his vocaliser with a quick shrug. The entirety of Sigma team seemed to stare at the options, before looking at each other. Snapjaw didn’t dare voice any opinions. This looked… suspicious, to say the least. Even someone, as a paranoid neutral on uneven ground, shouldn’t really be keeping a literal checklist. They shouldn’t be looking at this, he realised. And yet it sat there, tauntingly. Menacingly. A secret not meant to be heard, a box meant to remain unopened. He recalled a human tale. Pandora’s Box, with all its darkness and evil kept locked inside until someone opened it. Perhaps, unlike within the tale, they should keep it closed. “Snap, I think we should check.” He turned his head quickly, as did most others, to look at Seadown, about to ask her if she’d knocked a few screws loose before she explained herself. “If Akinator doesn’t see us as allies, we shouldn’t be working with him. We don’t know who he would determine a threat. And if he sees us as one, who’s to say he won’t do something about us the second we’re no longer needed?” “But he wouldn’t! He’s not mean, he’s probably just scared- this war’s been hard on all of us!” Skyline looked to Snapjaw imploringly. “Right…” He nodded, decisively. “Right- he asked us to bring the members of The Commune in alive. I don’t think he’d intentionally hurt anyone himself.” “Of course, that’s why he builds weapons.” “Waterjet!” “I’m just sayin’!” He held his hands up in mock defence. “It’s not like we’ve seen them or anything. And I doubt he organised a trip home for ‘em. Or a tea party.” Snapjaw wished he could snark back, but instead just settled on a glare, before turning to Horizon for his opinion. The little shuttle shuffled for a bit before resetting his vocaliser and voicing it. “I think we should. Just to be on the safe side.” The leader of Sigma team nodded and taking a deep breath, clicked on the file named ‘Threats’. Instantly, pictures flashed on screen, A few seconds passed and Snapjaw felt his insides freeze as he heard a few of his teammates gasp behind him. Name after name, picture after picture, mech after mech and femme after femme, Decepticons and Autobots alike flashed up on screen. Their name, their fraction, a brief description on how they were a threat. And then a large, red TERMINATED, over their picture. He watched them flashed by, sickened. He felt Skyline grip his hands, shaking. A few names Snapjaw tried to memorise once the shock had passed. Uplink, an Autobot, intel runner, security risk. Terminated. Clutch, Decepticon, weapons smuggler, ‘knew private information’. Terminated. Heat-Coil, Decepticon, weapons manufacturer, security risk and threats made, terminated. Floodlight, Autobot, Anti PCC, terminated. He forced himself to look away for a moment, to the others. While Waterjet was undecipherable, Seadown was clearly horrified. Horizon seemed unsettlingly unsurprised. Skyline still clung to him like a terrified sparkling. Snapjaw looked back to the screen. Names still hadn’t stopped coming. Overheat, Decepticon, former Commanding Officer, Terminated. Cooldown, Decepticon, Anti PCC, terminated. Welder, Bot, developed enhanced PCC weapon drones, terminated. Solar-Shield Bot Anti PCC terminated. Steam-Force, killed ‘Full-Throttle’. Terminated. Orbital-Strike, killed ‘Full-Throttle’. Terminated. Mega-Hurt, Terminated, Terror-Bit, Terminated, Short-Circuit TERMINATED. It seemed like the list went on and on and on, with no end in sight. But he began to notice a theme. With each passing name, certain words seemed to stick. Anti PCC. Former Officer. Threatened. Knows. Akinator was hiding something, a secret big enough for him to demand the death of anyone who knew about it. When the list of those dead ceased, Snapjaw was all but ready to leave and pretend he never saw anything, but Seadown’s shaky voice interrupted his thoughts. “That’s just the list of people he’s killed. We still don’t know about us.” Snapjaw was about to voice his opinion anyway when Waterjet interrupted him. “She’s right. And judging by the size of this list, we really need to know.” The leader of Sigma team swallowed hard. A search bar sat tauntingly at the top of the screen, and he clicked it, haltingly typing in his own name. Snapjaw- Autobot- Leader of Sigma team. Ally. He felt relief run through him and was about to call it as that when he noticed the looks of the others. Snapjaw needed to check their names too- it wasn’t comfort enough knowing just he was safe. Seadown- Autobot- Member of Sigma Team. Ally. Waterjet- Autobot- Member of Sigma Team. Ally. Skyline- Autobot- Member of Sigma Team. Ally. Horizon- Autobot- Member of Sigma Team. Threat. Associated with members of ‘The Misfits’, may feel suspicious or rebellious under orders to remove them. Snapjaw stared disbelievingly, and then turned hurriedly to Horizon, who stood shakily under the scrutiny of his teammates, near tears. “I-is he going to kill me?” “No, no I’ll make sure of it.” Snapjaw grit his denta, optics flashing in a slight panic. Just meeting with the Misfits made Horizon a threat? “Maybe we should… check the other people we know here?” Waterjet almost seemed afraid, body language defensive as he almost crept closer to Horizon, as if ready to protect him. “To get an idea of how paranoid this little scientist is, I mean.” Wordlessly, Snapjaw spun back around to the computer, typing in the glyphs for the others they knew around the base. Reload- Decepticon- weapons master. UNKNOWN. Waterjet whistled and Seadown hissed air between her denta. “Ouch. I thought they were friends.” Snapjaw said nothing, and instead continued typing. Wireframe- NOT FOUND This one seemed to shock them all the most. Skyline actually blurted out a hurried sentence. “But- they- I- I thought they were Conjux?” “That’s… admittedly very unsettling. Particularly if it doesn’t even recognise him on the Allies list.” “Maybe you spelt his name wrong?” Snapjaw gave a short thought to this, and then proceeded to type in five variations on the spelling of Wireframe, but still turned up with nothing. Then they continued. Liege- Decepticon- Current Co-Commander of Base 407265. Threat. Knows too much. Snapjaw felt his spark stop beating for a moment. Not even a neat and clean justification like the names before. This secret deemed too large for Akinator to even acknowledge peoples uses past their threats. Snapjaw would have hated to be one of the people to know it- particularly now. “Well… we’ve already gotten this far,” they all turned to Waterjet with faces between curiosity and dread. “Might as well figure what else he’s hiding on here.” Snapjaw had to agree, and nodded slowly, turning back to the screen. He exited the lists of Allies and Threats, and looked though the list once more. Finances spoke on obvious levels, Base operations could probably be looked at on a later date, Personnel Files interested no one, and Data Log was what they came for in the first place. But Project O. It sat pretty under the two lists. It didn’t have any hint of what it could mean, and Snapjaw had heard of no such project. And besides, what Project was so important, that it wouldn’t be covered under Base Operations? Time almost seemed to slow. Sigma team seemed to take a collective breath. Snapjaw scrolled almost painfully slow, as if asking for a way out. As if stalling. Seconds passed like minutes. Even as he hovered over the choice, he debated changing his mind. What if this got them all to be threats? He clicked, and the screen changed. Five ‘Phases’ appeared on screen, with no further explanation. A brief glance back to his team had him take another deep breath. He clicked Phase One. “What are you all doing in here?” The entirety of Sigma Team jumped, spinning away from the screen to see Akinator standing in the doorway, a data pad under one arm. As Snapjaw stuttered an excuse, Akinator looked up to the display screen. His face contorted from a moment. Optics wide and lips filled back. The data pad clattered on the floor, and before anyone could look to see what had Akinator so… afraid, the first real form of emotion they’d ever seen on his face aside from snide irritation, he had shot past them all, a crack of mental on metal telling them he’d just about punched the off button for the display screen. “Did no one tell you not to pry into matters that were not your own?” The snarl his voice took, almost glitched and contorted beyond what he had ever sounded like, and his optics a sudden low crimson rather than their usual orange, had Snapjaw jumping back, away. He’d only ever felt threatened enough by a commanding officer to want to tell his team to retreat one other time. And it was by a mech almost twice Akinator’s height, with a truck for an altmode, and had more than just commanding power over him. But the smaller mech very, very quickly collected himself. And although the ominous and deadly look stayed on his faceplates, he appeared outwardly calm. “I shall assume you are here for reports- and I will ask you kindly locate and tell Wireframe instead, as I am currently unavailable. Should you be unable to find him, please redirect yourselves to Reload, as he will relay the information to me at a later time. Now if you please, get out of my lab.” The majority of Sigma team tripped over themselves a little upon leaving, Snapjaw one of them. But he moved with intended slowness and falsified grace. As he exited, he looked behind him, to see Akinator. Not working. But watching them leave. Only when the doors began to slide shut did the scientist move. And through the crack of the closing door, Snapjaw saw something he wished he hadn’t. “Phase Three: Spark Extraction and Preservation”.

[wheatys-writings]

i can't stop watching dracula untold and SIAU is fun

“This is not a game!!” Megatron hissed, nearly spilling his glass across the spotless sheets as he surged forwards, offended by the Quintessons implications. “Ah, but what better way to endure eternity?” Death laid back in his throne, throwing a single hand out to gesture over the table, filled with foods he would not eat and drinks he would not pour. Not once did he raise his own glass, nor take a bite of the meat, despite the fact that he had so cleanly proven it was not poisoned. “For this, little Prince, is the greatest game.” He stood slowly, taking measured and careful steps along the length of the table. He ran his claws over the fabric, eyes tracing the cut he left behind. “Light, versus dark. Hope, versus despair. And all the worlds fate,” he stopped merely a metre away from where Megatron had risen, and flicked graceful fingers out to curl around a wine filled goblet and lift it as if in the form of a toast. “Hangs. In the balance.” Megatron stared at the shining metal, holding the strangely strong smelling wine out in front of him. It reeked of a scent he could not place. But soon he grabbed the cup from the slender fingers, snarling. “Then it will be my great pleasure to disappoint you.” Death raised both hands as he almost floated backwards, movements of his feet hidden by his extravagant drapes, yet amplifying them in such a way it was almost intimidating. “Drink,” he stared at the taller man, smile wide and voice crooning and honeyed as Megatron stared into the golden cup, and its sickly red contents. “And let the games begin.” Megatron was unsure why he obeyed. Perhaps it was the sharpened teeth sliding out of pressed lips, perhaps it was his presence, intimidating through pure existence. But the second the liquid touched his lips he knew something was wrong. It was too much flavour for too little liquid. It was like a punch to his seances, a mixture of harsh iron and thick salt, like seawater and copper, with the consistency of wet bread. Nearly sickened by the broth he threw the cup aside before realising he had drank it all. The dark carnelian dripping from his teeth and to the tiles of the floor, where is stood out like rust on silver. “What now?” He choked out between breaths, staring up at the man in disgust. “Now?” Death made a slight face of contemplation, turning in one graceful movement, amusement in his tone. “You die.”

[wheatys-writings]

(rock) bottoms up

“He worries about you, you know.” Ywetlah stopped, glass millimetres from their lips as the voice reached their ears. Lowering the glass, they looked at the ex-sith leaning against the doorway, squinting as they put the glass down. “What’s that to you?” Teenamock shrugged, taking a few steps into the room before shoving his hands in the pockets of his cape. “I’m just saying. He worries about you, your bad habits included.” “You don’t seem too worried. And it’s not like he’s my dad.” “No, he isn’t. But he is your friend. And isn’t that enough?” Ywetlah scoffed, rolling their eyes. Irritated, they went to take another drink from the glass, only to have it stopped once more as Teenamock’s hand covered the rim, forcibly lowering it. “What’s your problem?!” “What’s your problem? It’s all you do! Drink, take drugs, go out partying, do things you regret and things you know people don’t like you doing, and then spend the next few days being quiet and irritable. I thought when you were with me you were just acting up, but as it turns out- no. It’s how you normally behave,” Teenamock glared, lifting his hand from the glass and backing off by a few steps. “What is it? What makes you so desperate to drink yourself to ignorance, to ignore the teachings of your master, the words of your friend, and to keep doing this?” He stayed silent for a moment, but after about a minute passing without him receiving an answer, he moved to sit opposite the younger human. He placed his hands down on the table, where they could be clearly seen and not interpreted as a threat. “What are you so afraid of, that you have to completely take your mind off it? Why do you run into things unprepared, uncaring for its outcome? Why do you run away when there might be a confrontation that isn’t physical? Are you afraid of yourself, is that it? Are you scared to show your true strength to people who never believed in you, who were afraid of you?” Again, he questions went unanswered, and Ywetlah remained quiet. Teenamock sighed, staring at the still full glass of multicoloured liquids, stacked on top of each other. “Why drink the bad ones too? You don’t like the taste. Is it just because it gives you the effect faster, for longer? Because it drags on the effect after the initial reaction has worn off?” “Why are you still here.” The question took Teenamock off guard slightly, eyebrow raising as his head tilted slightly. “I’m sorry?” “Why are you still here- you didn’t have to stay with us, you probably would have been safer alone. You could have made yourself a new, untraceable life. You didn’t have to stay. So my theory is that you stayed for him,” Ywetlah looked up from the glass, glare almost deadly. “You stayed for him, and it makes you angry that I don’t appreciate him the way I should. That I treat him like shit despite very clearly caring for him. It confuses you, but at the same time, it makes you angry because you know he doesn’t deserve bad treatment, right?” Teenamock went to open his mouth to answer, but was cut off with an extravagant and dramatic hand gesture. “But it doesn’t matter- you’re going to cover it up with false concern for me instead. You don’t care about me, but it’s a convenient excuse to not admit you care about him. And the effect I have on him.” “You don’t think I care about you?” “Don’t start,” Ywetlah pointed an accusing finer at him, jabbing forwards slightly with their head low. “I know you don’t. You don’t need to start up pretending you have morals about the life of others now. Maybe I effect him, maybe I don’t. But I don’t think he cares about me either. I doubt he cares for me any more than he does most other living creatures. I’m not all that important, we both know it. From the start I was leverage to you. Leverage to him. I’m just middle ground. Another stepping stone.” “You have a very poor outlook on yourself.” “No. I have an honest outlook on myself. I have no more worth than any other living creature does- I’m not an idiot.” Teenamock was silent for a moment, before a look of pity crossed his face with a sigh pressed through clenched teeth. “You still haven’t answered a single one of my previous questions.” Ywetlah merely scoffed, once again going to take a gulp from their drink, and yet again being stopped. Their glare turned murderous, their voice raising. “Do you mind?!” “Maybe not,” Teenamock let go, standing and going to leave. “Maybe I only care about you through him. But that doesn’t stop the fact I do care about you. And it certainly doesn’t stop him worrying about you.” They snorted, purposely avoiding eye contact by staring into the liquid in their drink as Teenamock stopped in the doorway, looking over his shoulder. “He’s not my dad.” Their voice was perhaps a little weaker, a little more lost, but the ex-with didn’t dare bring attention to it. “He’s still your friend.” As he left, Ywetlah gave a small bark of a laugh, muttering something under their breath in a language he didn’t recognise. He didn’t look back to see them lift the drink once more. But it meant he didn’t see them pour it down the sink either.

[wheatys-writings]

sometimes i do this cool thing called “alright who can i shove my emotions onto right now”

sometimes it makes me feel better

this. wasn't one of those times.

Their plan was foolproof. It had to be. All they had to do was convince Prowl to come out on the balcony and answer their questions, and the journalists under them would (hopefully) do the rest of the matter for them.

The general plan was just ‘get Prowl to talk about his feelings, get everyone to realise how damaging it was to him’. The rest of the secrets he would inevitably spout would be other peoples job to clean up, not Prowl’s. At the most, he’d have to give a quote that it was not received from a proper interview. And he had five eyewitnesses to confirm.

Getting him outside wasn’t actually the problem. He could be tempted with sweets and drinks and the view of the nightlife, he loved the balcony as much as his stunted personality allowed him to show. It was really the questions that was the struggle. Prowl avoided them even on the best of terms, let alone in a mock interrogation he would be unprepared for. But hopefully the sweets and treats would convince him to play along for at least a little while. And Primus forbid this was all a waste, if Prowls answers weren’t truthful but the journalists took them for it.

But that’s what they were there for.

It was actually Bonecrusher who was the one to convince him out, a hand wrapped around his waist in the most nonintrusive way he could manage, talking softly of drinks and treats.

“I… I guess. It’s not like I have any paperwork that’s pressing…”

“Great!” Hook was next to come out, with champagne in one hand and six glasses in the other. That was when Prowl seemed noticeably suspicious, and Bonecrusher jumped to calm his paranoia down. “We got some real fancy stuff, wanted to share it with you. Some sugary jelly treats. That and bubblegum. I know you like bubblegum so?”

Prowl sighed, nodding his head weakly and taking the offered glass, although not drinking just yet. “And the others?”

“Will be coming out after they finish up what they’re doing.” Hook confirmed, sitting down opposite the policeman and taking a careful sip from his own glass. 

Bonecrusher gave an awkward smile. “Probably should have warned you beforehand. Sorry about that.”

Prowl took a breath in, as if he was about to speak, but cut himself off by drinking from his own glass. They watched him swirl the liquid around in the glass for a moment before haltingly talking. “I. What. What kind of sweets did you get?”

“Chocolates, mostly. Some weird crystal gel things that apparently taste really nice. The jelly things and bubblegum I mentioned earlier. A bit of taffy, some jelly beans and those weird sherbet flying saucer things.”

“Oh.”

That seemed to be the end of it, Bonecrusher and Hook shared a look between them. Prowl was upset about something and they were gonna pry it out of him. He was upset the wider majority of the time, honestly. They suspected he dealt with depression, honestly. Though if they were right he was to be commended totally on his ability to power through most days.

But this was a day where they were gonna break the concept of the ‘emotionally lacking’ officer. Prowl was just stubborn. And beat everything back with a stick unless it had an appointment. He took another sip of the champagne, and Hook leant in closer.

“Alright, so what’s up?”

Prowl recoiled slightly, tapping his finger against the glass and staring into the bubbling liquid. “Nothing’s ‘up’.”

“Yes there is- something’s bothering you and you don’t want to talk about it. So you’re not talking at all in case you say something wrong, or out of line, or however you want to call talking about your feelings.”

The tapping on the glass sped up, and Prowl looked visibly uncomfortable. “When will the others-?”

“Prowl. Come on, don’t change the subject. Something’s wrong and we want to help. We know you’re upset, and who knows. Maybe we can help. But you beating your emotions down isn’t going to,” Bonecrusher glared halfheartedly. “So. What’s wrong?”

“Nothing is wrong. Everything is just how it should be. Everything is going as expected, as is normal.”

“Please don’t start getting robotic on us,” Hook frowned, reaching out to take Prowls free hand. “You know you can talk to us.”

Prowl visibly winced, and stuttered briefly. “It- it doesn’t matter, you know it doesn’t, my emotions have no relevance in context of situation and will therefore be ignored. That’s just how it works. I shouldn’t express emotion unless it’s relevant, and dwelling on said emotion will just get messy.”

“And messy is wrong?”

“Yes!” He made an exasperated sigh, trying to reign himself back. “I mean- no, no, it’s. It’s not appropriate. Not in a work setting.”

Scavenger was next to come out, sitting next to Hook, one chair closer to Prowl. “Are we talking about how Prowl shoves everything he feels down again?”

“I don’t shove everything down!!”

“Except you do,” Bonecrusher gestured vaguely with his glass, taking a gulp of the liquid before speaking again. “You shove it down under layers of protocol and orders, no matter how much you personally disagree, and at the end of the day you come back and drink yourself halfway into a coma. Sometimes you don’t even come home- you change clothes at the station and head right off into a club where no one is going to recognise you as anything other than another person too drunk to care where hands go investigating.”

Prowl, to his credit, blushed a decent amount of red, sipping idly at his drink. He opened and closed his mouth in a few abortive movements before apparently finding words that fit. “It. It works.”

“No it doesn’t,” Hook interrupted, glaring slightly. “You my dear, out of all of us, are the one most likely to be found drunk off your ass. And we’re construction workers. You have this strange and unusual habit of ignoring all your problems as if they’ll go away.”

“That’s- that’s not- you’re just- was this intended to be an interrogation?!”

“No, but you were upset. And we knew you weren’t about to talk about it yourself.”

Prowl sighed, leaning back and thanking Scavenger softly as he refilled Prowl’s glass. “So, what, you didn’t intend this to be a makeshift therapy session, but while you’re at it? What do you think you’re going to achieve from this?”

“Stop you shutting down, for one. You seem to be under the impression that any form of imperfection means something bad is going to happen.”

“Can you prove otherwise?” The desperation in Prowl’s voice was almost painful. “I know the things I order, the things I do, aren’t good in the moral sense of the word, but what else am I supposed to do? How else can I keep the peace without having to stand back, not think about reason, and just do the right thing? If I so much as stop for one second to question myself and my choices people could die!”

Silence ran between them for a few moments as they digested what was said, Scavenger being the first to pipe up. “You put lives over feelings?”

“Yes!” Prowl practically sobbed, laughing weakly. “What else am I supposed to put first? People can feel bad all they want, but no amount of apologies of well intended wishes will ever bring back the dead! You, you lot of all people should know that! Scrapper isn’t going to come back no matter how many times Earth politicians apologise, and Spike will get what’s coming to him-!”

“Stop,” Hook’s voice was resolute, but shaky. “Prowl, stop, you’re. You’re scaring us a little-“

“You should be!” Prowl made a choked noise, tipping back in his chair. “Do you even realise what kind of orders I’ve given on that mentality? I’ve told others to do horrible things, I’ve been the one to give orders to shoot to kill, I’ve been the one to organise strikes on hideouts. I can’t stop being this awful person or else no one else can do what I need to do!”

“What you need to do, or what in general needs to be done?” The arrival of Longhaul seemed to take Prowl by surprise more than what he said did. “You’re implying you don’t know which one it is. But it’s very apparent it’s not for your benefit- and it’s more apparent to us.”

“I- what do you mean by that?!”

Longhaul sighed, taking the glass offered to him by Bonecrusher with a small ‘thanks’. “It’s simple. You keep secrets, you come home only to pace around for hours without eating or drinking, you take all the mirrors down, or at least avoid them. You jump at every sound you hear, no matter what it is. You struggle on most days, whether you drink yourself to half death or not. You shut yourself down to the point where people only describe you as cold.”

Prowl spluttered for a moment, before almost spitting out a response. “I can’t help that!”

“You shouldn’t have to.” Longhaul didn’t say another word, only glaring slightly before leaning back and letting a tense silence fall.

It stayed that way for a long time, Prowl and the others drinking and helping themselves to the sweets Longhaul had brought with him. Mixmaster appeared soon after, joining the silence without disturbing it, and joined the mutual drinking and eating. It stayed that way for a good while before Prowl spoke again.

“Are you scared of me?”

They looked among themselves before answering softly. “Do you want us to be?”

“No,” Prowl slumped, putting his glass down and covering his eyes with his palms. “No. I don’t. I don’t want anyone to be scared of me. I know they’re not really, but I know they hate me. I don’t want them to hate me either, but there has to be a scapegoat. It can’t be someone who’s supposed to be good and kind, like Optimus, it can’t be the leader of the gangs because we don’t know for definite who that is or even how much influence they have. We don’t know anything beyond speculation- and until we have someone to blame for certain we have to use other people. It’d be disrespectful to blame anyone dead so.”

“So you have to take the place?”

Prowl nodded, letting out a shuddering sob and leaning against Scavengers body. “Who else will if I don’t? I can’t question myself, at least not publicly, and I- I don’t know how much longer I can keep this up. It’s so hard to keep together. I can’t let anyone know how- how difficult it is to keep doing the right thing. They have to think it comes easy- that I’m cold and detached.”

Savengers arm wrapped gently around Prowl’s shoulders, his voice quiet and gentle. “Is this part of the mentality that you’re a form of merchandise?”

“Can you prove I’m not?” He croaked, looking up sadly. “My labour is sold. I am meant to follow orders- take input to give the expected output. I am not meant to have opinions, nor thoughts, that are intended for anything other than completing assignments and jobs. I am supposed to meet all expectations of me or else I will be replaced. Should I express any defective piece I need to be fixed, or else be replaced. Isn’t that how merchandise works?”

No one could really bring up a valid point against it, but Hook tried regardless. “But you’re alive, aren’t you? You’re a living being.”

“I’m part of a machine,” he countered bitterly. “Isn’t that the Autobot motto? ‘You’re a cog in the great autobot machine’? Makes sense. A cog can be easily be replaced if it gets broken. You may be working for something bigger, but you’re easily replaced, and even more easily disposed of.”

They were silent again for a few minutes before Prowl spoke again, much quieter, and staring blankly up at the cloudless sky, stars seemingly darker than usual. “I’m trying so hard not to let it show. But I can’t keep it up for much longer. And when I fail, I will be replaced. I will be kept only as a scapegoat- every problem will stem from me somehow. Everything I’ve done will be exposed to cover up the other monsters in our ranks. And I will not be able to say a thing against it. More than likely, I may be assassinated to assure my silence.”

He crawled slowly onto Scavengers lap, resting his head against his chest and closing his eyes as hands wrapped around him. “I want to live. I’ll do everything I’m asked to- I won’t say a word. I won’t think, I won’t do anything unless I’m asked to.”

“…Prowl,” Bonecrusher’s voice was far softer than usual. “Are you. Are you scared?”

Prowl didn’t answer, fists clinging to Scavengers shirt and eyes closing tighter. Eventually, he gave a harsh whisper. “I promised myself I wouldn’t get attached to you all, but I don’t want to let this go. But I can cling to you as much as I want, and you will never force me to let go, and even better, you hold me back. You stop the pain, you stop the screaming inside my head, you ease the loathing. You hold me above water, stop me drowning. I try to get away, cry and complain about everything you do, but you’re stuck here, with me, in me. And I don’t want to let go and I- I just…”

A loud sob escaped him, and he buried his face before turning to face them. “I’m sorry I fell in love with you all, I’m sorry it was me you felt attached to, I didn’t mean to at all, I’m sorry I fell in love at all, but can we please, please just pretend it’s mutual? Can you pretend to love me back?”

The constructicons reached in, Hook wiping away Prowl’s tears, Scavenger holding him tight around his waist, Longhaul and Mixmaster holding his hands and Bonecrusher’s hand resting on his shoulder.

“We don’t have to pretend,” Mixmaster whispered. “We do love you back. We love you too.”

Prowl seemed to freeze for a moment, before hiccupping and sobbing almost violently. His hands clinched around Longhauls and Mixmasters, as they moved in closer collectively.

“We love you so much Prowl,” Scavenger whispered. “You’re not as bad as you think, you’re not as coldhearted and evil as people make you out to be. We know that. And if others can’t see that, then it’s their problem.”

“But- but the others!” Prowl sniffed, hiccuping and coughing. “Jazz, Chromedome, they- they got closer and they- they didn’t-!”

“They didn’t expect to find a human then,” Longhaul’s voice was bitter. “They saw your professional face and thought it was you. That was their mistake. Not yours. It’s not your fault if they were looking for something you’re not.”

They moved in closer, and closer still, as fast as they risked moving. The night ended as a giant pile of snuggles, around a still sniffling Prowl. Although eventually they moved inside to the bed, bringing the sweets and drinks with them.