Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The summer of 1987 changed things in Brighton Falls.

It changed you, too – and Charlie, and Memo. 

And Bee. He’d fallen off the map following the incident at the Junkyard. He’d heeded Burns’ warning; no doubt for the best. You’d sworn you’d seen S-7 snooping around at the boardwalk earlier that week. 

It had broken all of your hearts: to think you may never see the yellow Autobot again. Charlie and Memo, though, had found the solace in each other’s presence. It was cute, honestly – they made a nice pair.

Spending time with your best friends helped numb the dull ache that plucked at your heartstrings with the absence of Bee. 

Your house, just down the end of the cul de sac, had become the new hang-out. Charlie’s garage made you all sad. Too many old memories. But, after everyone had gone home? There was always that silence. 

August brought more of that dreaded silence. 

More hours at the Boardwalk, churning lemonade with Charlie and riding home with her and Memo. 

But it was quiet. 

And after Bee and the Decepticons and Sector 7…?

You hated the quiet.

The night air is hot – your fan doesn’t do much to help, and you find yourself tossing and turning into the late hours of the night. Outside, the sounds of the California night don’t even come close to helping put you to rest. 

It’s too quiet.

And then you hear it.

“I heard you on the wireless back in fifty two – Lying awake intent at tuning in on you –”

The slow build of Video Killed the Radio Star startles you out of your own silence – it takes a second, but so suddenly your heart is kicked into a flurry as a ‘67 Camaro’s engine roars to life outside your window and you jump. You peel out of bed, tripping over your sheets and skidding to the window. 

Your jaw drops.

“Bee!?” 

He’s there, parked, headlights flashing in a wink.

“That’s – ZZzzt – my name! – zzrT – don’t wear it out, kid!”

You’re throwing yourself down the stairs, bursting through the front door – you land in the arms of the transformed scout. He whirs, chirping softly as he swings you in his arms. You’re crying, he notices, and a gentle finger prods at the skin of your cheek. 

“S-Sorry! I know. I just – I’m really, really happy, Bee.”

“Me too,” it’s some movie star’s voice, “Back to the – zZrt – girl – zz – I love.”

Your heart sings and his spark feels it.

In a blink, he’s all racing stripes and the roar of an engine. You climb in, barefooted and in nothing more than a big, old Judas Priest shirt and shorts. He peels away from the curb, hell-bent on getting away from the quiet. His radio hums awake, dial spinning as you admire the new upholstery. 

“Like what you see, baby?”

“Talk about an upgrade, Bee!” you laugh, pushing a hand through your hair. It whips around from the open windows. Bee rocks a little on his bearings and you smile, “It’s sexy.”

His engine roars at that, and his speedometer flies into the seventies as he tears into the open highway. 

You laugh, leaning back into the seat and let him drive. After a few moments, you speak up.

“Where you takin’ me, Bee?”

“You’ll see soon enough,” his radio crackles out, flipping through channels, “Hold on tight!”

“Wh – woah!” you yelp, clinging to his doors as he careens off the highway and into the rough terrain of the desert – Brighton Falls has always been all beach, all sand. Sure enough, travel in-land enough? And you’ll find the opposite of water. 

Bee’s headlights cut through the dust as he dodges cacti. You’re laughing and he’s really pretty delighted with himself. You bounce a bit in his cab, swatting at his wheel as you swear he’s doing it on purpose.

Maybe a little.

You’re having fun, after all. 

“Bee?” you ask through laughs, “Where the hell are we going? And what about Charlie and Memo?”

“Later – zzt – Now, look at this!”

About three miles off the road lay an abandoned scrap yard. You’d heard about this place – the owner had died years ago, leaving the place to rust where it stood. It had been picked over be looters, leaving it nothing but rotted out frames and the bare bones of a structure. 

But the lights to the yard were on.

“Old Maccadam’s Junkyard? Bee, this place is a scrap heap…”

His headlights hit the gates and the groan open. 

And… you see eyes.

Blue optics, like his, peering back in the dark and you nearly jump out of your skin because you’ve never seen another Cybertronian before (aside from Dropkick and Shatter) – this one is all black, bigger than Bee, and his face is twisted into an unimpressed snarl.

Grumpy.

Your jaw drops for the second time tonight.

“Bee…? Who…?”

“Thanks, sweetheart!” his radio chirps out as he rolls by the guard in question. 

“Yeah, yeah.”

The scrap yard is huge – and clearly being re-purposed. You lean out the window, eyes widening as you notice the tall building originally used for storing boats has movement. And lights. And… talking?

“Home sweet home.”

Bee comes to a stop right outside the storage unit, and you find yourself gripping the wheel tightly.

“Come on now – zzrRT – don’t be shy!”

“This is where you’ve been,” it’s more of a statement, less of a question, filled with some amazement and nervousness, “And there’s more… More Autobots.”

“Distress signal – zsrt – intercepted.”

You laugh then, stepping out of his cab and meeting his hood with a loving pat. He transforms then, eagerly pushing his face into your hands and humming so sweetly, your knees go soft. His antennae dip low, optics slipping shut as he enjoys the touch – shamelessly so. 

“I missed you, Bee.”

You step back, hands moving to your hips as Bee prods at his own chest, mimicking a prideful puff. He taps his fingers together, enjoying the sight of you and your wind-swept hair. Those gates grown open again, tearing you out of the moment.

“We’re back!”

“YAHOOOO!”

You find yourself watching as two Lamborghini’s peel through the junkyard – followed by an ambulance, and a State Police cruiser. The headlights catch you as the rumble past; only to have the four stop dead in their tracks.

“No way.”

“Bumblebee –”

“Optimus is going to have your aft.”

They transform fast, moving in to surround you and Bee; you blink, and then you’re poked by a red servo. “You brought a squishy here?”

You stumble back, brows knotting. “Hey! I am not ‘a squishy’!”

“We beg to differ,” the State Patrol cruiser chirps, scoffing as he wanders off, “You squish when you’re stepped on.”

You snarl. “Eugh. Gross.”

“Ooh! Do that again, that little sound,” the red Lamborghini hums, “This fleshy is pretty cute!”

“Don’t get too close,” says its yellow counterpart, “I hear they bleed.”

Bee hisses angrily, throwing his hands in the air and moving to shove the two Autobots in question. 

“Hands off!”

“You heard Bumblebee,” steps in the ambulance, “Sunstreaker, Sideswipe, report to Optimus. Give him details of your patrol. And stop bothering the human.”

“Thank you!” you shout, throwing your hands and finding yourself making the same expression as Bee. 

The ambulance smirks, kneeling to offer a digit as a handshake. You take it, eyes wandering over the plates and mechanisms whirring in his figure. He’s bigger than Bumblebee, older too – with wise eyes. 

“The name’s Ratchet,” he croons, “And you must be the one we’ve heard so much about.”

“Me?”

Queen blares from Bee’s speakers as his shoulders bob. He moves happily, eyes glowing. “I can’t get used to living without, living without – Living without you by my side!”

“That ol’ mech by the gates is Ironhide,” Ratchet snips, “Excuse him, he’s got a century worth of pipe up his aft. Prowl is no better.”

“There’s… a lot of you.”

Ratchet laughs at that. But, it’s bitter. “There used to be more. Now, come on. Optimus has been asking after you both, Bumblebee.”

“Both of us?” you ask, voice soft.

“You’re one of us, now, kid.”

Bee whirs, so happy, so proud, and you laugh.

“I’m one of you.”

“Couldn’t – zzsrsT – do it without you, you, you!”

You stumble into that storage unit with wide-eyes, marveling at the sudden realization that they must have been working on this set-up for weeks… a communication system, GPS, wires all over the place. And at the head of the makeshift hub stands a towering figure in blue and red.

“Hello, little one,” he greets you.

He speaks and you see why they all followed him into war. 

Optimus Prime shakes your hand. Thanks you for protecting Earth and the last hope of the Autobots. He calls you a hero.

On the ride back to your house, you cry.

Bee whines and it’s full of worry, but you give his dashboard a soothing pat. “It’s okay, Bee. I’m just happy. I thought… I thought I’d never see you again.”

“Couldn’t leave my – zrt – best girl – all alone.”

“… Bee?”

“Yeah, honey?”

I think I love you. But you don’t say it.

You just smile and kiss his dash, riding into the sunrise with prospects of Brighton Falls not being so quiet anymore.

Chapter Text

“…Bee?”

You push your hair from your face, groaning as you prop yourself up on both elbows and peer out the window to your left.

Outside, the warm glow of headlights cast shadows on the ceiling of your room. The sounds of the warm, California summer night are accompanied by the slow vocals of Fleetwood Mac.

“I wanna be with you everywhere…”

Hobbling out of bed, you stumble to the window to find the VW Beetle rocking on its bearings at your appearance in the window.

Bee’s engine revs softly, careful not to wake the other inhabitants of your home, as he flickers his headlights in a cautious hello. He spies a smile break across your face and that’s enough to kick a flutter into his spark. In recent weeks, he’d seen little of you – between your summer job down at the Boardwalk and his own business at Old Maccadam’s, he’d found himself without your company.

It was wearing on the scout.

Primus, he wishes he could just tell you.

Instead, his radio chirps a quiet. “Hiya, baby.”

You roll your eyes, shimming your top half out the window to point at the garage. “Be down in a second, you flirt.”

Sure enough, a moment later – after you’d snuck downstairs and into the garage – you appear in the glow of his headlights. All legs, pulling open the door for him to roll on in. Bee’s optics sweep across you. He really has missed you. 

Once inside, he transforms quickly; he’s careful not to bump the ceiling in fear of waking your creators. He feels like a sparkling again, sneaking around like this. Though, really, Prowl knewwhere he was. He’d requested the night off from patrol anyways. 

“How you doin’, Bee?” you ask softly, hands moving to meet the joints of his servo, “Haven’t seen much of you.”

It’s the Mary Jane Girls that roll out of his speakers, spurring a laugh. “All night long! I’ve waited for your love to come!”

His door-wings bob, optics fluttering shut as he moves forward. His face-plate presses to your cheek, nuzzling there with eager intent. You grin, fingers pushing into the plating there – he gives a soft whir at the touch. 

“I take it you missed me.”

A slow nod, servos pushing at your backside. You pat his head, nodding and smiling gently. 

“Alright, alright,” you mutter, “I see. Come all the way over here to wake me up. Just to cuddle. Charlie shoulda nicknamed you Cuddle-bug, not Bumblebee.”

He snorts at that, but the sound gets garbled in wake of his absent vocal processor. Frustration bites at the back of his processor and you notice – sometimes Bee wonders how you got so good at reading the fleeting emotions on his face-plates. 

Maybe you two were just meant to be.

You move then, climbing over his legs and settling in his lap as he props himself against the far wall of the garage. His frustration is forgotten in wake of the warmth you radiate. His spark hums underneath his plating – happy and awake.

You, on the other hand, are tired. Bee can see it in your eyes. Heavy lids pull open to drop a lazy peck to the yellow paint of his chest. You give him a smile, slow and sweet, and Bee’s cooling fans kick on.

Primus, he wishes he could just… tell you. About how you make him feel. It’s different from Charlie and Memo. This is different. 

As you drift asleep, Bumblebee curses Blitzwing for taking his voice.

For taking his ability to talk to you.

Chapter Text

Your forehead bounces off the dash, impact hard and fast as the brakes – seemingly on their own – cut your 83 mph run short. You screech, hands moving to grip your nose as blood, a lot of it, starts to pour through your fingertips. 

“Motherfucker.”

The Dodge Diplomat had looked like an easy target – parked beneath the overpass right outside San Fran. Empty, no one in sight. Despite being a Highway Patrol cruiser… easy target. You’d hot-wired harder things. 

It was an easy target, but maybe not a smart target. Then again, how were you supposed to know Prowl was just trying to get some fragging peace and quiet? I mean, you didn’t even know the car had a name.

“Stop bleeding on my interior.”

The car, now sat in a dead stop in the middle of Route 11, is filled with the low grovel of a male voice – one that has you frantically looking over your shoulder to try and find the source.

Was the cruiser bugged?

You pinch your nose, groaning as more blood runs down your chin.

“I told you to stop,” the voice continues, full of irritation, “It’s getting everywhere.”

You blink. “I’m… sorry?”

The car then starts to roll forward.

And you scream.

“What the fuck, no no no no,” you try to stomp on the breaks, but to no avail – and then, the wheel turns. The cruiser does a U-turn in the middle of the empty highway, all while you clutch your nose in a desperate attempt not to bleed on its interior. “How… How the fuck –”

“Can you keep it down?” an irritated groan, “You humans really can be rather shrill.”

Humans?

The speedometer is rising, and the car – seemingly driving itself – has reached speeds of 55 mph. And you’re not touching anything.

So, like any rational human, you try the door handle because this is not fucking normal and you are not about to be an X-Files case. 

The lock the second you touch the door handle. 

Blood smears on the window.

“Ugh, gross.”

You’re quiet, deathly so, because this just is not making sense in any way to you. 

Prowl wonders if you’ve bled out, but after doing a quick scan of the cab he finds that you’re still alive (sadly), flaunting an elevated heart rate and spike in adrenaline. Typical human response. It’s not the first time he’s seen it. Just… not so up-close.

Finally, finally, you muster the words to break the silence in the cab.

The cruiser rolls along.

“Where are you taking me?”

“To my leader,” Prowl mocks spurring utter fear to fly across your face, before cutting it short, “Kidding. I’m taking you to Brighton Falls. There’s a station there. You’re under arrest for committing Grand Theft Auto. You won’t give them any trouble, I hope.”

“What?!”  

“ – Be a shame if I had to walk you in there myself.”

Sure enough, when the station comes into view, the driver-less cruiser is greeted by the Sheriff with a tap of the hood – it rolls right into booking and you’re hauled out of the driver’s seat by two officers.

“Pleasure doing business, kid,” the car chirps after you.

“I hope my blood stains!”

Chapter Text

“You okay over there, ‘Bee?”

There’s a slow whir from his corner of the garage. He’s got both optics glued to the television screen – the glow of the screen creates a ball of a silhouette. From your place on the bench, you have to laugh. Abandoning the disassembled Walkman, you make your way over to ‘Bee to see what has him so enthralled. 

He coos, antennae jumping up at your appearance beside him.

He’s watching Top Gun.

Suddenly, Berlin’s love ballad is drifting from his speakers; slow and soft and gentle. He’s singing along.

‘Bee has figured out that romance is something also valued here on Earth – and he’s been trying… Late night drives, surprise visits, gifts (okay, maybe a Decepticon transformation cog wasn’t a great gift, but that guy was an aft anyways). You’d liked it enough! Even if you didn’t know what it was.

“Take my breath away…”

You blink. ‘Bee has this gooey look on his face. Soft. Lovey. He watches eagerly as, on screen, Tom Cruise and Kelly McGillis kiss. His eyes shut a bit as he whirs happily, a bit dreamily, and you grin. 

“You like romance movies, ‘Bee?”

He blinks, tearing himself away from the TV and Top Gun, back to you and that look your serving him. He shrinks a bit under your gaze, wiggling in his spot on the floor. 

In the recent weeks, you’d both become more than just… friends. There was something there. ‘Bee knew what it was – I mean, you were perfect. Pretty and smart and nice and funnyand you laughed at his jokes and understood him. He didn’t feel so broken and forgetful with you be his side. 

His spark ached at the mere thought of you.

“You should try RomComs,” you continue, “You’d love those.”

No, no, not… not the movies, just romance. In general.

“Watching I keep waiting – Still anticipating love…” Bee whines, moving to lean forward on big servos. You pop your hands on your hips. Bee likes it when you do that. He presses his face to yours, cooing. “Never hesitating to become the fated ones.”

You break into a fit of giggles then, enjoying the warm fan of hot air that sweep from his vents. Holding his chin, you shake your head and marvel at him. 

After a moment, ‘Bee throws it all to the wind.

His spark whines and so does he.

“I love – zzrt – you, honey bee.”

It’s genuine, real. A confession throw into the quiet of the garage, smothering his spark by leaving his scarred processor. The radio provides only enough – and you don’t hear the reality of the words. 

“I love you, too, Bee,” you chirp, misreading and oblivious to the scout’s innter turmoil, “You’re my best friend.”

Bumblebee curses Blitzwing for the millionth time.

Chapter Text

Shit.

Charlie had woken you up out of a dead sleep, rattling your window frame with rocks much larger than pebbles to indicate the urgency – sure enough, her and Memo were saddled up on her bike. 

Leaning out the window, you hush them both.

“What?” you whisper-yell, “Shh, stop yelling, you idiots –”

“The junkyard!” Charlie finally gets out, eyes wild, “Something’s going on. Something bad. We need to help them.”

Sector 7? The Decepticons? 

The blood drains from your face. You don’t even respond, just begin to tear your room apart in a desperate attempt to throw on a sweater and jeans and tuck the long-distance Sonic Ranger radio into your back pocket  – your Adidas beat down the stairs as you burst through the door, meeting Charlie and Memo half-way down the cul-de-sac. You’re running, hair wild and sleep forgotten. 

“How’d you know?” you ask, lungs burning as the three of you beat the tarmac in the direction of Old Maccadam’s Junkyard. Charlie’s electric bike has a lot on you, peddling like a bat out of hell, “Is ‘Bee okay?”

“We got a call on the radio – sounded like a distress signal – a lot of yelling –”

You move, tugging the walkie talkie from your jeans and clicking on the signal. There’s a lot of static, and then you press the receiver.

“’Musketeers to base, I repeat, Musketeers to base.”

Nothing. Just endless static.

“What the hell?”

“I know,” Charlie says, “Sideswipe always has the frequency on. No one’s responding.”

Suddenly, headlights flood over the three of you. 

“Charlie –”

“Shit.”

You turn, still peddling, spotting the paint-job of s Dodge Diplomat behind you. 

“Is that Prowl?” you ask, confusion flooding your voice as your eyes bounce to Charlie next to you. She blinks, turning to look. 

Memo, upon hearing the name of the Autobot Second-in-Command, brightens visibly and begins waving his arms wildly. “Prowl! Hey! It’s – it’s us! Your friends! You know –”

Suddenly, the police cruiser surges forward and it’s lights paint the night sky red and purple.

The Decepticon insignia on the hood sneers in your face. 

“Not Prowl!” Memo screeches, “So not Prowl! Bad guy! That’s a bad guy!”

“Shit!”

You both turn fast, dipping off the road and into the rocky path towards the run-down scrap-yard turned Autobot base in attempt to shake the sudden predator who’s tailing you too close for comfort.

The sand and rocks and cacti don’t do much to dissuade Barricade, though. He’s trudged through worse to track down Autobot filth. In this center console, Frenzy vibrates – his senseless chatter seems to grow as nimble metallic servos tune his own radio to Judas Priest.

“BREAKING THE LAW, BREAKING LAW!”

Barricade doesn’t mind this Earth music too much.

The three of you hit the Junkyard’s wall fast, breaking in opposite directions along the fence. You break hard, kicking up sand and peddling as fast as you can along the western side of the scrapyard.

“‘Bee! Optimus!” you screech, “For fuck’s sake, Sunny! Anyone!”

The growl of the engine behind you startles a scream from your throat.

You cut the handlebars fast, turning into the back-end of the scrap yard and hauling your bike over the fence as fast as you can. Slipping through the gaps in the chain-link, where it’s curled and rusted, you take off on foot and are fast to duck into the shadows of the scrapyard’s rusted and gutted cars. 

At first, Barricade rolls by.

You look around wildly, wondering where the hell they all were. 

They were twenty-foot tall alien robots. They weren’t hard to misplace. 

Suddenly, the large flood lights fixed high above the Junkyard crank on – and Barricade spies you duck fast beneath a bottomed-out Buick. From your spot, you see Charlie and Memo climbing the cat-walk, desperate to get a sight on the Autobots normally here. 

The yard is silent. 

For a second.

And then, Barricade transforms.

You reach for the radio, shaky hands tuning the dial. You whisper desperately.

“Musketeers to Car Show, we’ve got a problem here! So, I dunno, return to base!”

He seethes, peeling away the fence and taking his time to stroll through the Junkyard. “So this is what they call home now.”

Charlie and Memo freeze, gripping one another tightly. 

Barricade seems to ignore the reaction, seems to ignore them both completely. He isn’t interested in fleshlings – he’s interested in Optimus. And that fragging scout of his. 

“Where are they?” Barricade asks casually, “Where are the Autobots?”

Red optics sweep around, no doubt trying to get a read on the absent energon signals. Even still, the three of you are silent. 

A ped crushes the car next to you like a tin-can and you squeak. 

“Frenzy,” Barricade rumbles, “Handle the humans. Pick their bones.”

“Pick our bones –?!”

“Shit!”

The compartment in his chest bursts open, revealing the three-foot tall death mini-con hankering from a snack. 

You scream then, launching yourself over the Buick and throwing the walkie talkie as hard as you can. It nails Frenzy straight between the optics, giving you enough time to book it to the main storage space – but, Frenzy is hot on your heels with sharp denta snapping at your knees. You trip, landing hard on the concrete as Frenzy’s servos dig into your ankles. You scream, landing a hard kick that sends the mini-bots servos offline for a second. 

You bound up the catwalk, just in time to see Bumblebee make his entrance. 

Sometimes you forget he’s a soldier – he’s strong and fast and lands lightning punches that nearly cripple the Decepticon in a seconds time. His battle-mask is up and ready, blue optics narrowed in an angry determination. 

With Barricade on the ground, those blue optics connect with your gaze. He seems to go soft for a moment, waving slowly. You laugh – dirt covered face cracking into a grin. 

You’re enthralled, completely and totally, but the current Decepticon threat ruins the moment. Barricade pulls the scout down by his door-wings just as Frenzy chatters out a sharp cackle and continues his hungry pursuit of you.

“Get off of me, you gear shift!” you holler, hands winding into the spaces in his plating as you toss the bot to the catwalk stairs. The whole thing rattles and Charlie, up above, shouts your name.

“Catch!”

A 12″ wrench.

Or, in this case, a blunt-force weapon. 

You swing down hard and fast, catching the minibot as it rolls away and shrieks. 

Suddenly, the junkyard is flooded with more Autobots – Prowl is first through the gates, landing a hard hit on Barricade as Bee staggers back from a blow to the processor. Optimus is next, full of grace and power as he draws his gun and nails Barricade’s shoulder amidst the scuffle. 

Frenzy, now corned by the three of you, has set it’s sights back on your ankles – he clings, scaling the skin there and landing a harsh bite on your thigh. 

“Son of a bitch!” 

“FRENZY! RETREAT!”

You unceremoniously throw the minicon off you, hammering home with the 12″ wrench. It’s barbaric and the move even has Ironhide wincing as the small Decepticon dashes from the premise and follows the taillights of the Dodge Diplomat into the night. 

You huff, hands dropping to your knees.

“Jesus.”

Charlie, behind you, has a hand wound in Memo’s shirt. They both look shaken, albeit safe. Silence settles in the junkyard. Along the comms, Ooptimus is barking out orders. You can tell by the way his optics move.

‘Bee is by your side in a second’s time, rolling onto his knees and eyeing you with a wide and worried look. He coos, offering a gentle prod. Blood is running down your leg, ruining your jeans and splattering on your Adidas. 

“Bad dog – zzrt – he’ll bite ya! Woof!”

And then you laugh.

And then Charlie does. And Memo, too. 

And Prowl looks at you three like you’ve shorted out. 

“I’m gunna need,” you say between breaths, “A tetanus shot. He bit me. That fuckin’ thing bit me. It bit me.”

‘Bee whirs again, sounding sick with worry. 

Ratchet steps in then, gesturing the rest of the crew to get to work at cleaning up the mess the scuffle made. He kneels, servos gentle as he narrows his optics and blinks at the wound.

“Let me clean his up,” he says slowly, “You three are lucky we came when we did.”

“We tried calling,” you mutter, “But no one was home.”

“We were trying to locate Barricade. He’d broadcast-ed a distress signal when he landed. Though, it seems our Musketeers found him before we did.”

Ratchet transforms, opening the back doors of his alt. mode. You crawl in, accepting the ride to the main hangar. ‘Bee follows close behind, the rush in his systems starting to quiet and cool. Right now, you’re the main focus of his worries – he’ll rip Frenzy to shreds later. 

“Pants off.”

Ratchet says it so curtly, Charlie and Memo take it as their cue to leave – so they make their way to Optimus leaving you and ‘Bee and Ratchet in the main hangar. You grumble softly at the command, rolling your eyes slightly and tugging at your belt buckle.

“Could at least take me to dinner first.”

‘Bee chirps angrily from his spot behind Ratchet. 

“Bumblebee,” he sighs, “I need to clean the wounds. I have no intent on seducing your mate.”

Your eyes widen. You blink. ‘Bee has worked himself into a flurry at that, waving wildly and buzzing more like a wasp than anything.

“What did you just call me?!”

“Will you sit?”

You do as your told, wiggling your pants off and hissing softly at the sting. There’s a lot of blood – the gashes are deep, too. Just seeing them makes your face run cold. Settling on the edge of the bench, Ratchet deploys his holoavatar.

Older, with white hair and a kind face. His hands are gentle. ‘Bee watches the whole way. 

You try to distract yourself. 

“See ‘Bee? Nothing more than a scratch. I’m fine.”

“These are deep wounds,” Ratchet counters. You whack the shoulder of his holoform. It fizzles out at the rough contact. He yelps. “I am just being honest!”

“Yeah, well,” you chirp, “Stop being a good doctor and tell me I’ll be fine.”

“You will be fine,” he mutters, “If I can ensure you don’t get any Cybertronian-prone bacterial infections.”

‘Bee nearly wallops Ratchet himself.

“Great,” you breath, “Nice. Here I am, no pants on in the middle of the base, bleeding, and that little Decepti-freak might have given me robo-rabies.”

‘Bee drives you home that night. By the time you make it in, the sun is starting to creep up along the horizon. You crawl out of the cab, moving to tug the garage door up. You’d borrowed a pair of shorts from Charlie – she’d had some in the basket of her bike – and Ratchet had done a nice job at patching you up.

The bandages are tight.

‘Bee rolls into the garage. You sigh, patting his hood. He transforms slowly.

“Long night, huh, buddy?”

An affirmative coo.

“You were a bad-ass out there, though. You handed Barricade his aft.”

“Not – zzRt – as cool as you!” ‘Bee’s gaze is heavy though. He whines a bit, nudging his face into your hands and nearly purring at the contact, “Glad – srt – you’re safe with me.”

You hum, enjoying the attention. A delicate servo has secured itself to your back, nudging you close to his chest. You can feel his spark vibrate under the plating there. Two hands splay across the glossy paint there. Bumblebee coos – it’s happy and content, not full of worry like it had been earlier. 

For a while, you two settle in like that. You crawl into his lap, curled up around a big servo. His optics dim, going from a vibrant blue to a soft, pale glow. 

But, after a moment, you break the silence.

“‘Bee?”

His antennae twitch.

“Why did Ratchet call me your ‘mate’?”

Shit.

Chapter Text

He’s… bubblier than usual. He teeters into the garage and transforms so fast he nearly takes you out – but quickly apologizes and smothers your shouts of surprise with a warm nuzzle and content buzz. He’s bouncing, chattering so quickly you can hardly get a word in.

“‘Bee! ‘Bee… Slow it down,” you say softly, eyes worming shut as he chirps against your cheek, “Okay, okay, I missed you, too, but –”

“Take you for a ride – zZRT – baby!” he swoons, “Got somethin’ special – sRt – what a nice surprise.”

You laugh, abandoning the miscellaneous spare parts on the work bench as he transforms.

It’s late – past dinner – and the roads are nearly empty, save for a few local kids headed to the beach for the usual Saturday night hang-out. So, you’re shocked when ‘Bee starts to roll in the same direction.

“Where do you think we’re going?”

“Must be the night fever!”

“‘Bee…”

You’re not really looking forward to seeing Tripp or Tina or any of those other Brighton High classmates of yours. It’s summer. This is the time of year where you get to avoid them. ‘Bee knows that. ‘Bee also knows how much you hate Tina. Ever since you’d seen the way she treated Charlie? You hadn’t let the grudge slip.  

So, why the hell is he headed to their usual spot?

On a Saturday night.

Sure enough, ‘Bee rolls in nice and slow, headlights dancing across the number of people already settling in for the usual beer and bongs – the sun is setting, and your thankful it’s dark enough no one can tell it’s you in the front seat of the yellow and black Camaro.

“Ugh, ‘Bee.. This… Why did you want to some here?” you ask as he parks. Your eyes are turned out the window, peering over by the California plate U WISH. Tina’s dad had gotten her a new car apparently. You scoffed.

‘Bee, meanwhile, is quiet. And when you turn to ask him what’s up –

You come face to face with someone.

Someone in the passenger’s seat.

You scream, throwing yourself back against the driver’s side door as the man’s face twists from pure joy to unadulterated horror -- suddenly, ‘Bee’s doors lock shut and the kid lunges forward, warm palm smothering the shrieks of panic rising from your throat.

“Nooo! No, no! Shh!” he whisper-yells, “No! That’s… This is not how I thought this would go –”

You freeze.

“… Who the hell…?”

“It’s me,” he says, “It’s… It’s me, Bumblebee. I mean, not really – I’m… this is, uh… Hm. I… I don’t really know the logistics of it, y’know? That’s more a Ratchet and Perceptor sort of talk. You can ask them –”

He’s rambling.

His mouth is moving.

He’s talking.

The human in the passenger’s seat is breathing and talking and he’s drop-dead gorgeous in this stupid way and you know it’s ‘Bee. Your heart is screaming in your chest and you can hardly breathe as he continues to chirp on and on, moving his hands just like he moves his servos –

“I’m going to puke.”

“Oh… Oh! Oh! Primus, I… Oh, is it that bad? Charlie helped me pick it out, Memo said the shirt was nice – y’know the face and things… I… Okay, you’re going to puke. Right.”

‘Bee’s AC kicks on fast and you grip the dash so tight you leave little half-moons in the leather. The holoform’s face winces and you can tell it hurts him – you release your grip.

The holoform sags a bit in relief.

“You felt that.”

‘Bee blinks at you. His eyes are blue. He has dimples when he smiles.

“You… oh my god.”

‘Bee winces. “Is… I can turn the holoavatar off? I can. I thought it would be a nice surprise –”

“No!” you nearly yell, quieting yourself down as you crawl over the seat and stare – he looks like ‘Bee. But… human. “Are… Is this a hologram?”

“Uh, more like a holomatter sort of situation – I… I think it’s different from light particles –”

“And your voice?” you poke at his chin. He’s solid. You yelp.

‘Bee laughs.

It sounds nice.

“It’s a projected vocal algorithm – not my real voice. Just… something to mind the gap. It’s shorts out sometimes. You caught me at a good time. Ratchet’s working out the kinks.” 

“It’s –”

“Cool, right?” His brows raise. 

You heart hammers home.

“So cool,” you finally laugh, eyes wide and glued to the way he smiles back at you. “Like, so frickin’ cool. You’re… And you can feel it? When I touch you?”

‘Bee swallows, his adam’s apple bobs. You thank Ratchet for an attention detail. Delicate fingers scale his throat and ‘Bee’s spark whines deep in it’s chamber. He shifts a bit, nodding. 

“Yeah. Y-Yeah, I can –”

It suddenly clicks.

“Did we come here so you could –”

Suddenly, there’s a knock on the window behind ‘Bee’s head. 

“Hey there, handsome.”

Tina’s got her fingers all over ‘Bee door, leaned over and motioning for him to roll the window down. You have to bite back a snarl, fingers moving to loop around his tightly. ‘Bee is wide-eyed.

“What do I do?” he asks, whispering.

“Roll the window down,” you mutter, “So I can spit in her face.”

‘Bee blinks, raising his hands to try and quell the sudden fire in your voice. “No – don’t – Please don’t fight –”

You lean over his lap, rolling the window down sharply after Tina knocks again, looking smug as all hell. 

The blonde had spotted the Camaro when it had rolled into the beaches parking – half the girls there had. Pure American muscle. Rumors had spread fast about who’s car it was andfinally, Tina had grown so tired of wondering, she decided to settle it and find out. Her usual gaggle followed eagerly.

Safe to say, you were her last guess.

But… the boy beside you?

Hell yeah. 

“Hi sweetie,” she breathes, bending over and cocking her head to the side, “You’re new.”

“Uh –”

“He’s not interested, Tina. Don’t you have a list you can make your way through or…?”

Tina scoffs, trying not to look offended. The group of girls behind her, though, smother laughs into their hands. 

“Why don’t you let him talk, yeah? You’re wasting my air.”

“Then choke, Tina.”

You’re full-blown over ‘Bee’s lap at this point, hands braced on the door – and as nice as it is to have you be territorial over him, ‘Bee is sensing that this is going to get out of hand fast if you keep it up. 

“Hey, okay, uh, let’s not –”

“No, let’s –”

“Honey –”

Tina’s laugh cuts him off.

“Oh? Honey, huh? You two… are you, what, together…?”

You blanch. You blink back at ‘Bee with wide eyes. He’s got the same expression. 

So, he fills the gap.

“Yeah. We’re together.”

“Yeah,” you chirp, watching the way he smiles when he says it, “He’s my boyfriend.”

“This is my girlfriend.”

“Yeah.”

“Booooyfriend,” you say, trying to smooth out the kinks, “He’s my boyfriend.”

‘Bee blinks, grin blooming.

Tina blinks between the two of you. She pauses, crosses her arms. And then she laughs. So does the gaggle behind her and angry heat flares on your cheeks. 

“You two are dorks – listen, when you decide you’re done with some second-rate loser, call me, okay?” Tina grins, leaning through the window to pat ‘Bee’s cheek. She speaks slowly, “Ipromise I’m better in bed.”

Your jaw drops. 

Oh no.

‘Bee tries to get a hold on your middle, but you’ve thrown yourself out the door and in a flash, latched a hand into a ball-full of Tina’s hair. She shrieks and you give out a war-cry to which ‘Bee has to throw his holoform after you.

Strong arms latch around your middle and he hauls you up and away, dragging you back from Tina kicking and screaming. 

By now, a small gathering had formed, watching Tina try and come back at you swinging – only to get a sneaker to the face. ‘Bee yelps, bouncing off the back-end of his alt mode and cursing. You’re scaling him now, trying to worm out of his grip.

“Babe! Can you – ow! – that’s my face!”

Suddenly, the group parts and Tripp arrives.

He grapples with Tina, tugging her away from you and ‘Bee – eyes wide and mouth pulled into a frown.

“What the fuck, dude?” it’s turned towards ‘Bee. 

‘Bee gawks. “Me?”

“Control your girl, man!” 

You stop fighting, but ‘Bee holds onto you firmly – with one hand, he hauls you over his shoulder and with the other he jabs at Tripp’s chest.

“She can do whatever she wants.”

“Including kick you ass, Tina!” you yell from over ‘Bee’s shoulder as he unceremoniously dumps you into the passenger’s seat. He slams the door, leaning through the window and hisses. 

“Stay put.”

“Oh, come on –”

‘Bee rounds the car, eyeing the crowd gathered around. He’s starting to wonder if Charlie picked this holoform for a reason. The girls are staring along with a number of the men. He shoves his hands into his pockets, kicking the sand as he passes Tripp. 

“Tina?”

The blonde is clutching her cheek. 

“She’s better in bed,” ‘Bee offers, “Trust me.”

He climbs into the driver’s side, dropping the ‘76 Camaro into reverse and pulling away fastfrom the beach, kicking sand into the faces gawking. He pulls onto the highway – the engine roars underneath him, and you watch from your spot next to him. ‘Bee’s jaw is tight, brows set forward in a mean sort of look; you like it, though, and clamp a hand over your mouth as you snort.

‘Bee blinks at you.

“What?”

“Oh my god.”

“What? Why are you – what’s… Heh, what the frag, you little monster?”

You’re cackling now, leaning back into the seat and propping your sneakers up on his dash. ‘Bee’s laughing, his holoform’s chest shaking as he does. He’s watching you, eyes bouncing between the road and you in a very human way. 

“God, I’m sorry,” you snort, “I… You wanted a nice night and – and I… ha!”

‘Bee laughs, eyes bright; he pulls over then, dropping his alt mode into park and leaning his arm on the back of your seat. 

“So, girlfriend –”

“Oh, here we go!” you cry, smile big, “I knew I shouldn’t have fed into that!”

You both laugh, eyes glued to one another’s faces in a dreamy sort of way. In the light of ‘Bee’s headlights, he looks less boyish. More wise, more of a soldier. You like the way he smiles, though, and how he looks at you like you’re some angel. 

And you are to him. He’s seen you up close before, but not this close. Not close enough to kiss you like they do in Top Gun. 

After a moment, he speaks. He clears his throat. “I’ve been trying to tell you something for a while –”

You reach, hand smothering the words in his mouth. You move, sitting up and leaning over the center console to grip his chin. 

“‘Bee?”

“Yeah?”

“Can I kiss you?”

‘Bee’s entire world stops. Everything comes to a screeching halt and at first he’s not quite sure he even heard you right – but, before he knows it he’s nodding, nodding again and again, and you laugh and then… your lips are on his.

His engine roars alive.

You smirk.

He feels it.

He knew that there was a lot to digest as far as sensory information went. The feeling of the shirt fabric on his skin, the feeling of the wind, or the temperature, or the salt in his hair. He’d gotten used to it with Charlie – but now? You’re warm and you’re pressed right to his chest. Your fingers are winding into his hair, mouth fitting nicely with his.

‘Bee’s frozen in place. 

And then he remembers what Charlie told him.

Just go with the flow. Do what feels right.

His engine cuts, lights dimming and lips red as he pulls away.

“Back seat?” he asks, short of breath and eyes wild.

You swallow, eagerly nodding. “Back seat.”

He scrambles over the center console and you follow shortly, landing in his lap with a goofy grin – his radio dial turns, flooding the cab with Say Hello, Wave Goodbye by Soft Cell. You blink, straddling his lap. He gives a sheepish look.

“Setting the mood.”

“God, you’re such a dork.”

Any other protests are silenced by an eager kiss – and this time, ‘Bee moves in tandem with you. Hands scale your back, tugging you closer and fleeting to your thighs. He’s exploring, you realize, he’s learning what you like. Your breath hitches in your throat when he pulls away, mouth darting lower on your jaw.

You push your fingers through his hair.

“Who taught you this stuff, ‘Bee?”

“Memo and I talked.”

You are going to laugh – but he kisses a sweet hickey to your neck then, spurring you to whine softly. ‘Bee’s engine rumbles again and you swallow.

“You can feel it when I touch your holoform?”

“Mm,” he nods, eyes heavy-lidded, “You’re warm.”

Your mind goes a little hazy at that – you drag your nails down the back-seat interior and he shivers. At that mere touch, he flips, pressing you into the back seat and hovering over you. His hands scale beneath your shirt, eagerly taking in how soft the skin is there. His gaze is dark and you loop your legs around his waist.

“How long have you wanted to do this?” it’s cheeky.

‘Bee meets it with another long kiss. “Too long – I… I’ve lo–”

“BUMBLEBEE.”

Suddenly, the fogged back window is light up red and blue. 

‘Bee growls, face falling into irritation so fast you have to clap a hand over your mouth to smother a laugh. 

“Is that –?”

‘Bee moves, jamming the back window down and throwing his holoform’s torso out. “What thefrag do you want, Prowl?!”

“Turn your comms back on. You’re missing your patrol shift. Optimus’ orders. Back to base. And quit interfacing on the side of the highway, will you?”

Chapter Text

You’re booked, you get your mugshot taken. You can’t post bail. 

They put you in the drunk tank for three days. They let you out around noon on the third day, despite the felony offense. They say something about good behavior and word from up the chain. 

You step outside, shielding your eyes from the hot and bright sun,

You look like hell, really. Your hair is mess, miniskirt hiked a bit too high and t-shirt wrinkled from operating as a makeshift pillow. Your make-up has left dark circles under your eyes, and as Prowl cruises up beside you outside the station, he can see the visible irritation rolling off you in waves. Along with the black eye and remnants of your bloody nose. 

Cute.

“Learn your lesson?”

“Fuck off, pig.”

You’d had the last few days to think that close encounter through. And, from the look of it, you weren’t the only one that self-controlling cruiser was able to turn in. He had a penchant for catching the baddies, it seemed. 

Yet, you were the only one who’d been dumb enough to try and steal him. The only one who’d even almost succeeded.

“Ouch,” his radio chirps, “That stung.”

You turn promptly, thigh-high boots colliding with his door so hard it leaves a nasty dent. The Autobot Second-in-Command reels, processor spinning as his engine roars in protest. His lights flick on, purely out of habit, and he swings his door to clock you in the rear. 

It sends you forward and you catch yourself – you spin around, eyes wild.

“Can you just fuck off? You got me arrested – isn’t that enough?”

“I didn’t get you arrested. You committed a felony. I merely caught you.”

Your eyes narrow. “What even are you?”

“I’m a Cybertronian. A sentient mechanical self-configuring modular robotic lifeform. My designation is Prowl.”

“I didn’t ask for your name,” you grumble, starting off down the sidewalk again, “I don’t care.”

He groans, vocal processor hitching. “Will you stand still?”

“No,” you snort, “I’m going home.”

“Walking?”

“Yeah,” you snap, “Running, maybe, if that gets me away from you faster.”

The Dodge Diplomat stops then, driver-side door swinging open slowly. But, you continue down the sidewalk. Away from him. Prowl rolls his optics. He flashes his sirens to get your attention.

You keep walking.

And you flip him the bird.

“I’m offering a ride.”

“And I’m out of your league.”

Suddenly, a jet-black Pontiac Firebird rolls up. In the driver’s seat is a human male – probably by your standards handsome. He’s littered in tattoos with a crooked.

“Hi, Pookie.”

Prowl notices how you recoil at the nickname.

Your tone says otherwise.

“Hi, baby.”

Prowl tries not to seem so… upset. The Firebird’s engine starts with a throaty roar and he watches as you pull long legs into the passengers seat. 

As you pull away, you spare the Dodge Diplomat one last look.

He’d be seeing you soon.

Chapter Text

“Son of a bitch.”

The Highway Patrol cruiser that pulls behind you on your motorcycle is hellbent on ruining your life. You’re convinced. This is the second time this week Prowl has pulled you over, just to interrogate you on how you managed to break in and short-circuit his own transmission cog. All while he recharged.

You’d cheekily told him you were good with your hands.

His headlights illuminate you on the night road. You plant a boot down, long legs extending as you roll off the bike and kick the stand up. You’re in the usual – miniskirt and a tight cropped top. Thigh-high boots.

You’re like something out of one those racy Earth movies Memo showed him in passing. A dream, maybe.Primus, he hates you.

The helmet on your head is being wrangled off and he’s about to say something – but you’re suddenly marching towards him so fast he has to drop it into reverse and peel backwards.

You wind up, throwing your helmet at his windshield.

“Is there something you want, huh?!” you shriek, “I told you the deal – you slept through it. Sorry you missed me fondling your insides, asshole.”

Prowl growls, transforming quickly. 

The fact you don’t recoil, don’t stand down, don’t seem scared drives him up the wall and back down again. The white and black Second-in-Command moves fast, leaning down on servos to jab a digit your way. 

You snarl. “Don’t touch me, pig.”

“Will you – I am not a porcine!”

“…What?”

“A pig. Porcine.”

You close your eyes, dropping your head and exhaling as you move to pinch the bridge of your nose.

That’s when Prowl notices it. 

A black-eye. This one is different form the one you’d managed when you’d carjacked him. This one is purple and green and angry, sweeping along your cheekbone and coloring the orbital socket dark. 

“That’s new.”

His tone is heavy.

You recoil then, narrowing your eyes and gritting your teeth. “Fuck off, Prowl.”

You turn then, retreating back to the bike on the side of the motorway. You flip him the bird as you saunter back. 

“He’s a piece of slag and you know it.”

“I don’t know what slag is!” you call over your shoulder.

Prowl groans, standing at full height and following. He crosses his arms over his spark-chamber. His faceplate is set in a grimace, optics trying to gather enough from your body language alone. 

Strategy and number-crunching don’t work with you. You’re unpredictable.

“Pull me over again,” you turn, helmet snug on your head, “I’ll slash your tires while you sleep.”

“That a threat?”

“More like a promise.”

And with that, you tear off into the night leaving the Autobot battling a good servo-full of feelings he never thought he’d have for a  squishy. 

Chapter Text

He hasn’t seen you in a while.

(And by seen you, he means pulled you over.)

Prowl starts to wonder if you’ve finally skipped town – he tries to hide his evident disappointment around the others; he covers it deep with anger (more than usual) and evenRatchet doesn’t escape the wrath of the strategist. Every ‘bot knows something is up.

Even Charlie, Memo and ‘Bee’s human avoid him like the plague. 

So, imagine his damn surprise when he sees that slagging Firebird fly by him on the interstate. 

His lights are on before he even registers it, sirens waling in a bitter sort of way as he rolls right up on it’s bumper. 

He can see your outline in the passengers seat, eyes darting backwards to spot the Dodge Diplomat in the rear-view. That mate of yours is driving – smoke drifts from the cab as he rolls the sport car to a stop.

Then, Prowl’s holoform steps out of the cruiser.

Sunglasses are perched on a sharp nose – the notepad in his hands is purely for show. He’s already writing the ticket as soon as his holoform is out of the car. He takes his time surveying the Firebird. He even gives the tire a good tap with his boot. 

When he reaches the window, you’re locked in a stare straight ahead. 

“Nice ride.”

“Thank you, sir,” remarks the male; he’s meaner looking up close. Tattoos and a crooked grin – Prowl, momentarily, wonders what you see in him. Not a new thought to cross his processor. 

“You know why I pulled you over?”

Prowl, behind his sunglasses, sees you wring your hands.

You’re nervous.

“No, sir.”

“Speeding. Twenty over,” Prowl says slowly, “Ma’am?”

You turn then, and Prowl’s spark nearly stops dead in his chest. 

You’ve got a nasty bruise crawling up the side of your face, wrapping around your eye and painting it purple and green. Your lip is split. You look like you’re about to say something, but it’s quickly shut up when you see the name on his badge.

Ofc. Prowl.

Prowl doesn’t give you the chance to give an excuse.

“Sir,” he snipes, “Step out of the car.”

You swallow.

“I’m sorry?”

The notepad is being shoved into the black of his uniform slacks, hand reaching for the door handle. Prowl swings it open.

Don, your boyfriend, shares a look with you – one of skepticism and confusion – but you know what’s about to happen.

At least… you thought. 

“Come around the front of the vehicle, please.”

“What’s this about?”

Prowl pulls his sunglasses off then, tucking them into the collar of his uniform – and then, in one fast move, Prowl lays the dirtiest punch you’ve ever seen straight into Don’s mouth. In that moment, your entire heart sings – not just from the relief that Don’s getting a taste of what he deals, but the fact that Prowl… well, it’s a nice sight. 

He drops at the front of the car out of view and you lean, trying to get a good view.

It doesn’t stop there, no, because Prowl proceeds to kick Don while he’s down before bending over and, with two fistfuls of Don’s shirt, pick him up and throw him on the hood of the car. You can see the split across his knuckles from here.

“Here’s the deal,” Prowl seethes, losing every sense of professionalism he normally holds in uniform, “You ever even think about touching her again, I skin you alive.”

“I didn’t touch her! Th-This isn’t –”

“Legal? I don’t give a frag.”

You move quickly then, pulling yourself from the cab and watching with wide eyes.

“Prowl!”

“You know this guy?!” Don spits, blood running down his chin, “Are you fuckin’ kidding me, Pookie?”

“Get in the cruiser,” Prowl says slowly, blue eyes set on you hard, “Get in and wait for me.”

“And then what, huh?” you screech, “You gunna kill him?”

“Yeah!” he shouts, then, “Maybe!”

“Listen, man –”

Prowl winds up again, landing another sickening blow to Don’s nose which cripples him to the dirt once more. 

“I’m serious,” Prowl says, finger pointing fast in your face, “Get in the cruiser.”

“Pookie, baby, c’mon, tell him about how you fell – I didn’t lay a hand on her. She fell! She was drunk. Weren’t you, Pookie bear?”

Prowl stiffens at that, eyes turning to you. Anger boils at that moment, cruising through you as you round the front of the car and shove Prowl right off.  And then you spit right in Don’s face.

Prowl smirks.

“I’m not your fucking Pookie bear.”

“Pookie –”

“Go wait in the cruiser,” Prowl says then, hands gentle on the sides of your arms, “I’ll be a moment.”

You want to protest – to tell him to fuck off, but he’s so dead-set you give in. You linger a moment, watching Don on the ground. 

“Rot in hell, Don.” 

“You bitch –”

You walk away before Prowl lands another blow, pulling open his alt mode’s door and slipping into the passenger’s seat. From his spot fifty feet up, he feels you settle there – he’s trying to ignore the hot pain spreading across his knuckles as he lands another punch on Don. 

When he finally drags the man up from the ground, he shoves him roughly against the driver’s side door with one arm. 

Don cowers.

“Get out of here,” Prowl seethes, “And if I ever see you again, you’ll be wishing I put you in the ground today.”

Don is fast to peel away in that damn Firebird.

You watch as long legs carry Prowl back to the cruiser. His uniform is astray, tie loose – but he moves smoothly, pulling the sunglasses from his collar and dropping then back on his face as he swings the driver’s side door open and settles in. 

His knuckles, wrapped around the gearshift, are bruised and bloody.

You turn, eyeing him.

“What’s this?”

You gesture to the lanky human male in the driver’s seat.

Prowl stiffens, clearing his throat. “Hologram. To help me blend in.”

“And beat on domestic abusers?”

A trace of a smirk digs into his cheeks. It’s charming. You lean then, hands braced on his center console. You loop a hand along his tie, tugging him close. Prowl swallows, eyes behind his sunglasses jumping to your mouth. You see it. And you capitalize on it, leaning nice and close as you speak softly.

“Did you do that because you’re jealous?”

“What?” he recoils slightly, “Really? You think I’d –”

You hum. “I was kidding, Prowl.”

He swallows. Your eyes jump to his mouth.

The tension in the cruiser is so thick Prowl feels like his spark might just go out.

Then you speak.

“I hate you, you know.”

You don’t.

“Oh?”

“Yeah,” you chirp, “So drive me home, pig.”

You shove him then, his back hitting the driver’s side door.

His engine roars a little louder as he peels off towards your address. 

Chapter Text

So what it’ll it be tonight?

Vodka sodas. A lot of them. 

When 2am rolls around, he’s poised outside the bar – legs crossed as he leans on the hood of his alt. mode. From the doorway of the bar, he looks… good. A breath of fresh air. And you take your time admiring the view. He’s in uniform, eyes glued to the ground ahead of him as he leans into his radio and says something quickly.

There’s two other cruisers, each with their lights on, and in the back of them sit two unfortunate bikers who’d started a quarrel loud enough to get Brighton Falls’ authorities involved. 

Seeing him here is like a welcomed punch in the face – it sobers you up enough to hide the glow of the vodka sodas you’d been hammering back all night long. 

You push through the gaggle of girls you’d made your way to The Pink Flamingo with, world glowing in the lights of the cruiser in question. The second your boots hit the dirt, the headlights flick on – and the sharp eyes of the Officer’s holoform connect with yours.

“I’m surprised you weren’t the one throwing punches.”

It’s the first thing he says to you when you reach the cruiser. You hands skim the side panel as you lean against his door. His engine idles. It sounds like a purr.

You’re all starry-eyed under his gaze. Prowl can tell you’re inebriated from the way you grin – without restraint, without faux-malice. You’re pretty like this, with your hair down and makeup smudged. 

He tries to remind himself he’s on shift. He’s got a job to do.

“No,” you say slowly, “I was dancing.”

Primus, you are drunk.

“Dancing?” he says. laughing a bit in shock, “I didn’t know you danced. Was it part of somesacrificial killing, or…?”

You snort at that. “You’re being mean, now.”

“Surprise.”

“Big surprise,” you chirp, swaying a bit on your feet. You cross your arms, chattering a bit in the night air. You eye the uniform, “You done for the night?”

“No,” Prowl grumbles, “Another six hours. Then I can recharge.”

You hum. Disappointment sticks on your face. Your usual guard is down and Prowl capitalizes on it. “What is that look for?”

“Shame,” you shrug, toeing the dirt, “Woulda asked you for a ride home.”

“Oh?” his brows raise sharply. His processor is distracted by how your hands move along his side paneling. His door-wings, naturally sensitive, are burning against the touch. He tries to keep his tone even. “What’s stopping you?”

“I’m drunk,” you nudge him, “And you’re on duty.”

“Can’t have you drunk driving,” Prowl offers, “I’ll log it as community outreach.”

You pause. You blink up at him and he has to fight the urge to just… squish your dumb squishy face. 

Primus, he’s in deep.

“Really?”

Prowl’s eyes dart to the other officers pulling away. Then he nods his head in the direction of the passenger side door.

“Go ahead, get in. I’ll turn the heat on, you leech.”

You happily oblige, settling in fast as Prowl does the same and turns out of the bar’s parking lot and back onto the long stretch of highway leading back into Brighton Falls. 

The ride is mostly silent, but Prowl can feel your fingers drawing slow circles against his door. It’s a building sensation that winds around his spark in the most distracting sort of way – he steals glance after glance at you. And finally, after five minutes of the touching and the view of your skirt hiked up high on your thighs, he peels into the dirt outside your drive-way and throws himself into park.

His voice has an edge to it that you’ve never heard before.

“I can feel that,” he quickly says, “The… you’re – my door.”

You blink. It’s slow, but suddenly, you realize exactly what kind of tone he has. And, had you been sober, maybe you would have played it off a bit – but your filter is gone.

“You’re turned on.”

“I’m – I am not, I’m just trying to drive –”

That eggs you on and you drag a nail across the leather there.

Prowl’s holoform shivers visibly, hands tightening on the wheel.

“Do… Do you mind?” 

“No,” you say, continuing the deliberate ministrations, “Do you?”

“Yes,” he nearly whines, reaching to pull your hand away from the door fast. You let him, looping your fingers in his as soon as the contact is made. Prowl seems to jump at this, notknowing what exactly to do until you plant a heavy kiss on the bruised knuckles there.

It’s been a week and a half since Prowl ‘convinced’ Don to skip town.

“I never said thank you, y’know.”

Prowl stammers. “Yeah, well, you’re welcome –”

“When I’m sober,” you grin, “Remind me to really say thank you.”

He doesn’t know exactly what you mean, but you’re slow to climb out of his cab. You close his door with another brush of your fingers before leaning through the open window and serving him this beautiful, glowing smile.

“Prowler?”

That’s new.

“What?” he breathes.

“Thanks for the ride.”

The wink you give him spurs his engine to roar – and he wants to throw himself into the Pit when you laugh like it’s the best thing you’ve ever heard.

Chapter Text

He sings, sometimes, when he’s got his holoform up and running and you two are just driving for the sake of driving. He’s excited to stretch his limbs and walk around in the forest on the northern side of Brighton – it’s got ‘Bee in a mood you wish you could just… bottle up and keep forever. 

“You like this song?”

“Fleetwood Mac?” ‘Bee calls over the wind rushing through the cab, “Oh yeah, wait – Lemme play my favorite.”

His dial flips fast

Little Lies.

You have to laugh.

He’s shameless about serenading you, hand moving from the wheel to cup your cheek ecstatically as he croons along. You watch – enamored and gooey with the feelings you have for this big idiot. He’s so damn cute, you don’t even mind when he misses the high notes and laughs all boyish and sweet.

“S-Sorry – ha! I… I can’t sing very well. I’ll stick to – y’know. Being a kick-ass Autobot scout.”

“Go ahead, Bee,” you grin, “Toot yor own horn.”

“Toot toot.”

His horn honks. 

You laugh so brightly ‘Bee has to smother it with a kiss.

Chapter Text

“The kids are throwing a party,” he says to you three days before New Year’s Eve, “Back at Maccadam’s. Charlie’s been talking about it for a week already.”

Prowl says it, feigning carelessness. He tries to act like your response doesn’t matter, that he couldn’t care less. It shows. You’re groaning, face pressed to the hood of his cruiser as another Brighton Fall’s officer nervously pulls the cuffs off your wrists.

He’s standing there, watching, and when you stand back up – you rub your wrists and shoot the young officer behind you a look. He steps back, hands raised in surrender. 

“You know,” you start, “You don’t have to arrest me to ask me out.”

“I’m not –”

“I’ll be there,” you cut him off, shoving his shoulder, “Only because you care.”

“I don’t care,” his holoform sputters, lips curled in a sneer.

“Yeah,” you snort, stepping back away from his cruiser, “You do.”

You run your fingers along his door, giving his back tail-light a loving smack before you start off towards your bike. Prowl jumps at the contact, wheels rocking forward and holoform wincing. 

The officers involved in the arrest are staring, too – watching you throw long legs over the motorbike and tug on a helmet.

Prowl shoots them a look. They all disperse, dodging the infamous Prowl outburst that could shortly follow. 

Then, he calls out to you. “No more racing.”

“Right,” you say, “Sure, Officer.”

You roll up to Old Maccadam’s junkyard around 8pm that night – already, you can tell there’s a bit of a party going on inside. Music is drifting from one of the storage hangars and the excited chatter of voices rises above the gates.

You give the bike underneath you a loud rev. 

Ironhide’s optics peer over the gate, narrowing.

“Password?”

“Prowl has a stick up his aft.”

“Let her in!” it’s Sideswipe shouting then, followed by the loud thump of someone making contact with the back of his helm. 

Ironhide grits out a smile, pulling the gates open as you hop off the bike and opt to roll it in. The weapon’s specialist gives you a nod, voice gruff in greeting. He closes the gate in one swift tug. He’s big. Bigger than Prowl. 

It never gets old.

“Hey, kid.”

“Hey, ‘Hide,” you grin, “Where should I park?”

“Anywhere,” he says slowly, “Prowl didn’t think you were coming.”

“Oh?” 

“He’s on his third cube of high-grade. Sulkin’ in the back of the hangar. Best go find him.”

“I guess I should,” you laugh, propping the bike up by the shipping container near the gate, “Thanks, ‘Hide.”

“You made it!”

It’s Charlie who greets you next, boots digging into the dirt as she nearly launches herself into your arms. Behind her, Memo and Otis and her parents have bright expression’s on their face. Sideswipe and ‘Bee and Sunstreaker are all gathered around a makeshift T.V. station. The long extension chord running to the generator makes you laugh.

“Hey, you,” you grin, hugging her tightly, “Thanks for the invite.”

“Prowl said you weren’t coming – I’m so glad you’re here. My parents brought wine and, uh, there’s champagne and stuff – we got the T.V. going. The ‘bots are in the hangar, refueling from patrol. I think Prowl’s –”

“In there,” you finish, rolling your eyes, “Sulking. I heard.”

Charlie grins. 

“I’m going to go find him,” you say quietly, “God knows that when he’s in a mood, it brings everyone else down.”

“Yeah,” Otis says, “He’s a frickin’ party pooper.”

“Moody,” you chirp, high-fiving the karate kid on the way by, “Isn’t he the worst?”

“Stop teasing,” Sally Watson says, waving her hands to gesture you in for a hug. You laugh, especially as Ron shrugs.

“Love is a silly thing.”

“Hey – we’re not –”

“Mhm,” Sally chirps, waving you on, shooing away your raised finger, “Go ahead. Say hi to Officer Downer for us.”

“You’re all the worst!”

Sure enough, the hangar – it operates as a makeshift HQ now, outfitted with wall to wall screens and spectrometers that are all foreign to you – has a gaggle of ‘bots lingering within. Optimus is pouring over reports by the far wall, and beside him? Prowl. 

He’s got a bright pink cube of energon in his servos. It’s half empty.

He’s talking slowly, gesturing to surveillance footage of a local gas station. There’s another cruiser on the screen there – like his alt. mode, but tinted windows and a purple decal crawling up the side. Beside Prowl, Ratchet watches carefully.

You linger by the catwalk, making eye contact with Ratchet.

The old medic grins, offering a gentle wave. He then knocks Prowl. 

His door-wings pin themselves to his back as he catches his energon cube before it can spill. Some of the pink liquid flies onto his servos and the buzzed Second-in-Command quickly ducks the digits into his mouth as Ratchet gathers his attention. 

He was sulking.

His door-wings hike up high, eyes widening substantially the moment he sees you standing there.

Optimus – in the calming and wise baritone of his voice – laughs and dismisses Prowl quickly. “Go ahead, old friend. Tonight is a night of celebration. Barricade can wait, if not for another cycle.”

“Of course, sir,” he drawls, optics glued to you, “Thank you.”

“You’re dismissed. You as well, Ratchet.”

Black and white peds carry him close and Prowl tries to cast off the surprise in his demeanor. He narrows his optics, a servo moving to prop itself on his hip. Blue optics scale you once, then again. And you laugh.

“You thought I wasn’t coming.”

“I – I did not know. I had assumed –”

“Are you drunk?”

He sputters. “No. I… I am indulging.”

“Oh? And sulking?” you grin, “Afraid you wouldn’t have a New Year’s kiss?”

His lip curls, face-plates set in a sudden flare up of embarrassment. The Dodge Diplomat huffs, vents exhaling in blow of hot air. He grumbles, then. “Perhaps.”

You smile then, rolling your eyes and shaking your head. “I’m here now, so stop sulking and come watch T.V. – no more grumpy ‘bot, okay? Just… I’m here to spend time with you. Don’t make me regret it.”

It’s said in jest.

His spark sings a little at that, energon downed and empty cube ditched on the catwalk.

He’s pulled you away from the other’s – you’re both settled in the back of the junkyard, watching with drinks in hand and servo, the on-goings of the festivities. Charlie is desperately trying to teach Optimus about charades, while the rest watch with amusement on their faceplates. The Prime, hulking and strong, doesn’t quite seem to get that he isn’t supposed to say the word he’s acting out.

Prowl, underneath you, rumbles with a deep chuckle.

You gawk, sipping your wine. 

“Was that a laugh?”

Prowl rolls his optics, digit pushing up along your spine – the touch is gentle, a bit like a reminder that he’s here. You smile at the touch, leaning back against the warm plating. “I can laugh.”

“Surprising.”

You both go quiet again, settling back into a content sort of silence. 

“I was always going to come, y’know,” you say, “You didn’t need to sulk.”

His spark purrs. “You had me convinced otherwise.”

“Why? Because I was mad you pulled me over and slapped me in cuffs?” you chirp, “If you wanted to see me in handcuffs bent over your hood, you could have just asked.”

Prowl chokes on his energon. There’s nothing subtle about it. His cooling vents kick on with an angry vengeance as you smother a loud laugh behind your hand. 

The eyes of the other Autobots are on Prowl now – he desperately tries to deflect. 

“Sorry – I… Wrong pipe.”

“Pipe, huh?”

He shoves you then with that digit, spurring you into loud laughter that has his own following. He’s buzzed, you can tell, because the dazed look in his optics isn’t hidden behind the usual guise of… well, anger. 

“You are insufferable.”

“You love it, Prowl.”

“… I do,” a gentle huff, “I do.”

He’s parked between two rusted out Buicks behind the hangar. 

Five hundred feet away, around HQ, the rest of the gang has dissolved into various merriment. Charlie and Memo had left to bring a sleepy Otis home with ‘Bee, the twins had ducked out in search of races, and the older ‘bots? Happily settled with Ron and Sally watching the ball drop.

So, as the fireworks paint the sky overhead, no one is looking for you, pinned under Prowl in the backseat of his cruiser. 

He’s all around you, and the slow burn of your buzz is nothing compared to the way he presses his hands into your waist – he’s breathless and drunk and he’s kissing you like there’s nothing else that matters in this world. 

The tension that had been building for weeks had finally spilled over – it had scorched you both, spurring you into the arms of each other. Lingering touches and long stares turned to something real; Prowl, in a desperate attempt to avoid his own infatuation had given in completely the second the high-grade had entered his system.

You didn’t mind.

You were tired of pretending that you hated him.

“Happy New Year’s,” you moan, fingers tugging dark salt and pepper tufts of hair, “Glad you finally – ah – came to your senses, Prowler.”

His hand is braced on the window, eyes wild as he cants his hips against yours. The rut is enough to have you dipping your hips and arching your back. Warm hands scale your thighs, gaze hungry. “Me?”

“You,” you battle back, sitting up half-way and tugging him by his uniform’s tie back down for a searing kiss, “You and me.”

He moves quickly, mouth biting yours and hands tugging your skirt up and off. You can see a slight tremble in his hands as he moves – uncertainty bites at his spark. But, you spur him on. Pushing your legs apart, you’re happy to guide a hand to your core. 

Prowl laughs, then, holoform’s lips curled into a smile. “This? You’re okay with this.”

Two long digits press to the lace fabric there and your words die in your throat. 

“I’ll take that as a yes.” 

The police officer in question ducks down again, catching you in another kiss that disorients the both of you. It seems to last forever, you think, and when Prowl comes up for air you’re busy working at his tie. 

“As much as I love the uniform,” you huff, “I think I’d like it better on the floor.”

“Right,” he muffles against your shoulder, knee planted between your legs as he stretches in his cab and tugs off the dress shirt. His badge flies across the cab, landing somewhere in the front seat, discarded. 

“What a New Year’s kiss this is.”

“Shut up and fuck me, Prowl.”

Chapter Text

“She’s going to love it.”

Memo, really, doesn’t give good advice often. Charlie knows it, Otis knows it, ‘Bee knows it.But, for some reason, the Autobot scout always ignores the blaring red flags in the back of his processor in favor of: well, it must be Earth culture. 

In reality, Cybertronians and humans aren’t so different – socially, at least. The whole big ol’ mechanical being thing is what really sets you apart. 

“Y’think?” ‘Bee asks, holoform’s eyes narrowing on box in his hands, “It’s not too much?”

“I mean –” Memo falls in step with ‘Bee, the two of them working their way back through the outdoor mall and to the ‘76 Camaro waiting faithfully in a parking spot. “You said you wanted to tell her how much you –”

“Love her, yeah,” ‘Bee nods, blue eyes shining a bit as he smiles, “But, how does this…”

“It’s all about spending time together. Getting to know each other,” Memo chirps, “What makes each other tic. If this gift works, you’ll know she’s the one.”

“But,” ‘Bee raises a finger, box tucked under his arm, “I already know that.”

“Make a night of it, y’know?” Memo says, shrugging, “Chicks love board games.”

“I, uh, I have something for you.”

He looks sheepish, smile pulled into an upturn – his dimples dig in, cementing the gooey look in his eyes; you love it when he’s like this, clearly excited, trying to play it off. Bumblebee isn’t a cool guy, he’s a dork, but he really tries. 

So, when he sits you on your bed and urges you to close your eyes, you’re a little worriedabout what he’s about to put in your open palms. 

“‘Bee, you know you don’t have to get me things –”

“It’s okay,” he chirps, excitement in his voice, “Memo helped me –”

Oh, god. 

The box that lands in your hands is big. 

You bite your lip. This is either going to go one of two ways. And, from the weight of it, you have a feeling… well, you hope Memo isn’t pulling the same moves on Charlie for her sake.

“Open you eyes!”

He’s landed on the side of the bed next to you, mouth dipping to your cheek and hand dipping into your hair. He’s watching you – watching carefully – as you pull open your eyes and blink at the box in your lap.

Immediately, you blink up at him, lips pulled into a tight line.

“‘Bee.”

“Oh no.”

You dissolve into laughter then, planting your face into the crook of his neck as ‘Bee looks on, eyes jumping around.

“Oh no,” he says again, “Is… This is bad. This is a bad gift. I’ve been trying to find something to tell you –”

“No, no,” you hush yourself, hand meeting his jaw, “No, ‘Bee it’s a great gift – but… was this supposed to be romantic?”

“Is it not?” he urges, leaning forward and poking at the box, “Memo had said –”

“‘Bee, listen,” you coo, “Only you could make gifting Dungeons & Dragons romantic.”

The scout’s chest puffs a bit at that. “Wait – really?”

“Yeah,” you croon, propping the box up on the bed behind you and moving to press yourself close to ‘Bee. His smile goes mushy again, eyes full to the brim with something soft and gentle that you can’t quite place, “Thank you, you lovebug.”

‘Bee’s spark soars when you kiss him, fragging board game discarded.

Chapter Text

The first time ‘Bee sees you naked does not go how you’d thought it might in your head. You’d imagined dinner, candles, maybe a movie or two. 

But, instead, you’re just trying to change after work –

“’Bee!”

“Oh, Primus,” he’s so fast to slap a hand over his holoform’s eyes, the projection frazzles itself. In the garage, you can hear the roar of the ‘76 Camaro’s engine – more in a sudden startle than anything, though. “I’m sorry – oh, I’m – I didn’t mean to, I just…!”

“‘Bee, the door!”

He’s still got a hand over his eyes when he slams the door shut behind him, turning to plant his forehead against it. Thwunk. 

You’re standing there, towel on the ground, desperately trying to wiggle on a pair of underwear and bra before ‘Bee turns back around. He’s clearly mortified, having walked in and caught all back-side and your shriek of surprise – but, his cheeks are hot with embarrassment and something else. You quickly grab a t-shirt, crossing the room and speaking as you do.

“You can turn around – god, do they not teach Autobots how to knock in the academy?”

‘Bee’s gone from sheepish to silent, blue eyes watching as you rummage through drawers by your window. He doesn’t say anything – or, well, rather can’t, because he’s too busy being distracted by the slope of your back and the curve of your bottom; your skin looks soft, still wet in some places from the shower. 

You’re tugging the t-shirt on over your head when the hands of his holofrom secure themselves on your waist. You jump, heart skipping at the touch that roams south – fingertips press into the soft flesh of your thighs, his nose darting across your shoulder.

You laugh, breathless and quiet. “’Bee.”

“Sorry, Sorry,” he says, recoiling his touch, “You just – you’re so beautiful. I really… I didn’t mean to barge in, I was just excited to see you and –”

His hands toy with the waist band of your underwear, fiddling as you turn in his arms and plant a sturdy kiss on his jaw. He hums at the contact.

“Stop apologizing,” you chirp, “You’re more than welcome to see me naked, just… give a girl a warning, yeah?”

“I need to warn you if I want to see you naked?”

You muffle a laugh, kissing his cheek again and again. “I mean – that works, too, I guess.”

“Alright – well,” ‘Bee’s fingers slip up your stomach as he rumbles out his words, “Consider this a warning.”

Chapter Text

“You know I’m going to die someday,” you scream, hands in the air as he walks away, “I’m going to die – and we don’t have a lot of time together… and I don’t want to spend that timefighting, Prowl.”

It’s like a shot to the spark. 

He knows you’re right. For the Second-in-Command to ignore his stubbornness, to ignore his anger, to ignore all the things that make him so volatile? It’s simple statistical fact. It’s logic. 

And he’s being irrational. 

He realizes you’re crying when he turns around, optics landing on the tears as his servos find her face – a thumb sweeps them away and his spark whines so loud in his chest you hear it. 

The apology on his mouth is hushed like a prayer; it’s gentle and coaxing and you know he’s upset. He lacks all the fire and attitude he normally lives on. Instead, his optics are sad and his words are sincere. 

“You’re right – I’m sorry,” he hushes, nose pressed to your frame, “I… I am trying not to be –”

“Insufferable?” you sniffle, pressing a hand to your cheek and swiping at tears. Your voice is heavy with affection, “You’re trying, Prowler, I know you are.”

He smiles, then, transforming and popping open a door – his lights flick on for a moment, and his voice crackles from the cab. 

“Want to go for a ride?” he says, “We can talk about it like adults. And I won’t walk away. No more walking away.”

He loves you – for now, he pushes the fact he’ll eventually lose you away and he drives into the sunset with you by his spark.

Chapter Text

It’s hard to scare Prowl.

He’s had a high bounty on his helm for as long as he can remember – as a high-ranking member of Autobot High Command, they’ve wanted him dead as long as they’ve wanted Optimus. 

He’s had his run-ins with death – he’s come inches from being off-lined more times than he can count. But, somehow, through millions of years of war, the Autobot Second-in-Command has survived. And, after it all? Stead-fast and unwavering. 

You’re no different, in a lot of ways – you’re hard to scare. You’ve lived a life full of the dangers of high risk; you’ve lost plenty of friends, lost plenty of parts of yourself in your rise to adulthood on the streets. You’ve fended for yourself. You’ve lived a hard life. 

The Junkyard is frantic the night you get a panicked call from Prowl.

He’s screaming over the line – vocal processor cracking. The bad cop facade is broken in exchange for fear. You clutch the landline so tight, you nearly snap it in half.

“They have Charlie – they have the fragging kids!”

They know it’s Barricade – they know the Decepticon had snagged Charlie and Otis from their home. They know he’s on the move. They know they’re trying to barter – but you don’t know that. 

You don’t even know there’s a Decepticon pulling up behind you until you see the frantic face of Otis in the back cage. A breath leaves your chest; you can see them screaming, waving their hands. 

Telling you to run.

Your bike roars alive under you, boots kicking it into drive and wrists cranking the handles back. You peel out, leaving the Decepticon in a hail of smoke, dirt and rocks. You fly into a scream of 66 mph in less than a blink, bike tearing down the stretch as the wail of sirens follows you.

Barricade knows who you are – he can smell Prowl all over you from your spot ahead of him on the road. There’s a moment of disgust that fleets through the Decepticon’s processor. He wonders if you’re some sort of pet. 

“Pull over.”

His speakers announce it – his voice is cutting. A low garbled threat.

You raise one arm, middle finger to the sky as you lean forward on your bike and begin to duck onto the off-ramp. You’re leading him away, away from the scarcity of the highway and into the middle of Brighton Falls – a transformation here will draw a crowd, will draw Sector 7.You trust he knows that.

Barricade does. 

“Son of a bitch.” 

He floors it, cutting you off in the emergency lane. Your bike bumps his hood, hand planting fast to balance yourself. Charlie connects gaze with you in the back seat – and in anger, you land a hard punch on the hood. Your boot hits the front bumper, pulling the delicate frame back with vengeance.

That hurts.

Barricade roars. 

You duck hard and fast into the traffic of the rush hour, bike wheels peeling underneath you as you nearly clip a mirror. In your rear-view, you see the cars begin to part for the Decepticon police cruiser – eyes following the pursuit with wonder and amazement. 

That’s when you see them on the bridge. The glint of yellow and red.

The twins. 

The next exit is to the ironwork’s yard, discarded after a fire ten years ago – so you weave through the traffic and leap onto that on-ramp, head swiveling to catch Sides and Sunny on the bridge. Their engines roar, both of them peeling in the direction of you and Barricade.

And, then, you feel it. 

A jarring hit – your heart stops before you can brace for it.

You’re flying over the hood of the jet-black SUV, bike going from 60 to 0 – and the impact? It’s so hard you don’t remember it. You don’t remember the burn of the road under your sides. You don’t remember the impact that shatters your helmet’s visor. You don’t remember not being able to breath – you don’t… remember it happening.

You look horrible, crumpled on the pavement with deep gashes covering your legs and knees and elbows and wrists. Your helmet’s visor is shattered, jeans and t-shirt torn to shreds. A few feet away, your motorbike lay twisted and totaled. 

When you peel your eyes open, when your lungs kick awake, you’re in the back of an ambulance.

You groan, moving to press yourself up onto your elbows. But, a gentle hand presses you back down to the stretcher. You blink, hand moving to push away the oxygen mask strapped to your face. 

Charlie and Otis.

The twins.

Barricade.

You make a sound, something panicked and worried, and the paramedic – an older man with gentle eyes – says something. You don’t know what. Your chest is on fire and you can’t breathe and you need Prowl.

When you wake up, the roof of the ambulance isn’t there. It’s a different roof.

There are voices.

You pulls your eyes open, again and again, trying to wake yourself up – gradually the hike of the heart rate monitor silences the voices in the room. 

Sally Watson is by your side in a flash.

You’ve never been so happy to see her.

“Mrs. Watson –”

“Shh,” she coos, “You’re alright, you’re fine, you’re in Mercy Bay.”

Mercy Bay. You’re still in Brighton? You blink again, swallowing and speaking slowly. Everything feels groggy. You exhale, blinking down. There’s a cast on your leg. You can see bandages on your arms. 

It rushes back to you.

Panic rises. “Prowl.”

It’s the first thing you say. “Where’s Prowl? He’s – Where…? I’m… Does he know I’m –”

The thought that he’s scared, that he’s alone – it breaks your heart.

You can’t help the tears that begin to rush over your cheeks. You can’t help the fear in your chest and the hiccup of worry that fills your lungs. Sally coos, running a hand through your hair. She quiets you, telling you he’s coming – and a minute later he’s throwing himself through the doors of the hospital room like his life depends on it.

“Primus –”

“Prowl –”

He’s so gentle, so slow, you nearly think it’s not him. The hands of his holoform clutch at your cheeks, lips dipping to the slope of your nose and the crease in your brow and he’s wiping away the tears that won’t stop. He replaces Sally at your bedside, voice low and quiet.

“I’m here,” he breathes, “I’m here, I’m not going anywhere.”

You hiccup, fingers looping with his as he settles into the seat by the bed. He looks tired, and you figure that his holoform is reflecting his own state of mind – he’s got dark circles under his eyes and a jaw scratchy with stubble. 

“Charlie – is… and Otis –”

“They’re fine,” Prowl says, “You – you were plowed down by Crankcase. Another Decepticon. But, we cornered them both. You slowed them down.”

You exhale. Relief floods your chest. Prowl’s still placing kisses along your knuckles, hand knotting itself in the mess of hair strewn about the pillows in the bed. 

“Never do that again.”

Chapter Text

The first shock of the new cycle comes when you roll over, processor groggy, and come face to face with Sunstreaker – the yellow ‘bot, upon being rolled ontop of, is just as surprised as you; your joined chorus of shrieks wakes up the second shock of the morning, prompting Sideswipe to sit up from his side of the berth with dim optics. 

“What the frag…?”

“Will you get off, you’re chipping my paint –”

“Ow, ow, ow – hey! Careful with those wings –”

You land on the floor of the hab-suite with a loud clank, desperately scrambling to pull yourself upwards and eye the two twins with wide optics. 

The dull burn of the morning after high-grade is there; there’s no denying the fact that you had too much last night. Your servos curl around the edge of the berth, face-plates pulled into a look of disbelief as your gaze jumps back and forth between the two twins.

“Oh my god.”

Sunstreaker is having the same realization – Sideswipe is seven kliks behind. 

“Please don’t tell me we…?”

Sideswipe’s optics widen, scrambling backwards in a recoil that sends him diving backwards off the berth. “No! No, no, no! This is not happening.”

Sunstreaker turns to eye his brother and you slap a hand over your mouth.

“Sunny –”

“What?!” he snaps at your tone, optics widening as he follows your gaze and slaps a servo over the delicate plating by his neck. He feels the soreness in the plates there; he doesn’t have to see the streaks of your paint-job to know it was your doing. 

In reality, you’re no better – yellow and red paint marks litter your sparkchamber and wings, even between the plating of your legs. It doesn’t take a ‘bot like Prowl to figure out what happened last night, because Sides is the one to announce it to the room.

“Happy New Year to us, I guess.”

Chapter Text

Bumblebee loves you.

There’s no point in denying it – he doesn’t want to anyway. He loves you and he’s immensely proud of it, too. Even when you’re a few too many in, clutching a Corona as a come-down and talking animatedly about dogs. He could listen to you for hours, y’know? The way you smile and laugh and your nose does that little scrunch thing. I mean – seriously, you couldn’t pay him to not stare at you like you’re the best thing in the world. 

And later that night, when you’re crumpled on the floor with your head in the toilet of Charlie’s bathroom? Bee still looks at you like you’re the best thing this universe has ever offered him. He knows how to be grateful. And he knows what being overcharged feels like.

You know you’re going to be in a bad place tomorrow morning – but, Bee’s touch does enough to stave off the self-loathing for now. The room is spinning dangerously fast as you sit there, fingers gripping the porcelain, and you croak out a soft apology. 

“M’sorry, Bee.”

Blue eyes crinkle a bit, voice quiet in your ear as he moves to pull your hair back from your face. He’s got a scrunchie around his wrist – Bee tries to do the thing you do where you just…loop it through, but it comes out bad and he kinda just… tucks some of it back in. 

“Don’t apologize, sweetspark,” he croons, “Happens to the best of us.”

“Even you?”

“Even me.”

The room finally hits it’s breaking point and rockets off it’s hinges, sending you into a flurry of retching and regret – but Bee stays, unwavering and hand pressed to the small of your back. Charlie, from her spot in the doorway, watches with worry. But, Bee waves her off.

He’s got this. 

“Water,” he says after a few minutes of no spinning and no puking, “Here, baby, this should help. And then we can get you home.”

“I don’t,” you hiccup, taking the water bottle from his hands, “wanna puke in your alt mode.”

“We’ll sit for a bit before we go. And, hey, even if you do,” he says slowly, “It’s cleanable,y’know. And if that means I get a wash…”

He wiggles his eyebrows and you, drunk and bleary-eyed, have to laugh. 

It’s late by the time you sober up enough to climb into Bee’s cab – he drives home with his holoform’s arm around you the entire time. He feels like home in moments like these. There’s a trust there that’s so heavy you can feel it in his kisses. 

“C’mon, sweetspark,” he breathes, carding a hand through your hair, “Let’s get you t’ bed.”

He follows you upstairs then, hand pressed to your bottom as you make your way up the flights slowly but surely – you’re gripping your water bottle, eyes heavy with sleep and the aftermath of the New Year celebrations. You’re still beautiful, especially when you collapse on your bed and huff.

Bee has to laugh, watching you try and wiggle out of jean shorts and into a sleeping shirt – he’s posed in the doorway, watching you stumble around the room. Finally, though, after one too many bumps and bangs that were probably loud enough to wake your parents, he steps in and ushers you to the edge of the bed. 

Bee tugs at your sneakers, ditching them over his shoulder.

Your fingers move to his hair, playing with the sandy locks there – he peeks up at you, offering a silly grin and a kiss of your palm before tossing your other show over his shoulder.

“Belt,” he says, nodding to your waist.

You pout. That’s why they weren’t coming off.

You change quickly, fingers moving to tug Bee’s makeshift scrunchie situation out – landing in bed, you take an eager sip from your water bottle and smile back at the Autobot scout watching from his spot against your desk. 

“Stay?”

Bee’s spark soars, face going soft as he lurches towards your bed and peppers kisses along your cheeks. 

“For a bit,” he says, clambering over you to his usual side, “Then I should recharge.”

“Mm. I agree,” you coo, “Bee?”

“Yea, sweetspark?”

Your eyes are closed, face pressed tightly to his neck and arms thrown around his chest in a sleepy hug. Your legs tie under the sheets, both of you fitting on the bed tightly.

“I love you.”

Bee doesn’t sleep that night.

He spends it wondering if you really mean that. 

Chapter Text

“Stop looking at me like that.”

Bee’s holoform winds up, toilet paper clutched in a study grip, and he lobs it over the roof of the Brighton Falls’ residence. 

“Nice toss.”

“Yeah, well,” he chirps, “Beats the last time I was here.”

“Does it?”

You tilt your head, tossing your own roll up and down. Bee turns, giving you a look over his shoulder – you grin, cackling a bit as he rushes forward and secures his hands on your waist.

“I didn’t know –”

“That you weren’t supposed to demolish the car?”

“Shut up,” he mutters, lips pressed to your cheek, “And toss the roll. That way we can get out of here…”

You step out of his grip that lingers, lob landing over the other end of the tree in Tina’s front yard. Bee, from his spot behind you, is watching with a loving look – only you could make a grunge and some much needed revenge romantic. 

“Remind me why you hate her so much…?”

“Because she’s the worst,” you chirp, eyeing your handiwork, “And she thought she could flirt with you right in front of me.”

It’s late, well into the wee hours of the morning, and on the front lawn of Tina’s freshly T.P.’d house, Bee swears you’ve never looked more beautiful. 

When you turn back around, you’re swept into a kiss that knocks the air out of your chest – one that has Bee’s hands winding around your waist and you managing fistfuls of his Smith’st-shirt. There’s nothing gentle about it. It’s all tension, all heat, all roaming hands and biting lips. 

Bee’s hand moves south, grappling with your bottom as you laugh – he grins against your lips, other hand winding close along your jaw and tugging you close. 

“You’re hot when you toss toilet paper.”

“Loser.”

“Yeah,” he mumbles, “Your loser.”

You whine at that, arms looping around his neck as you dig your fingertips into his scalp. 

Just two teenagers, making out on the lawn of their mutual enemy. 

And then, your hips roll against his. 

He can’t help it – I mean, he’s trying to focus on not shorting out, and sometimes his processor can’t negate the very physical things that happen to his real form – it’s not his faultthat his engine lets out an ungodly roar the second your press against him like that.

You both pull away, dazed and lips red. 

“Daddy? …Did you hear that?”

From inside Tina’s house, there’s lights flicking on. 

“Go! Go!” you whisper, pushing Bee’s holoform back down the driveway of the Brighton Falls home – you both dash to his alt mode, leaping into the ‘76 Camaro as Bee’s engine starts up.

“Sorry!”

Chapter Text

And he feels the hot heat of your back as you sprawl out in the back seat, face flush with arousal as hands tug at the soaked swimsuit around your hips.

Bee feels everything — every keen and arch and hot breath that leaves your chest as you press onward and writh in pure bliss against his interior. He can feel the spike in your heartbeat, feel the intoxicating haze of hormones rolling off you.

Bee can feel everything.

It’s not fragging fair; he’s stuck in his alt mode and you’re enjoying it. It’s far too busy at the beach for him to transform, but that’s not stopping you from having a good time with yourself in the back seat and that’s driving him crazy.

He takes it upon himself to watch, though, to enjoy the sight of you spread and rocking into your fingers in the back seat.

“Lookin’ good, baby girl.”

You laugh, smile half-there and half-gone. You’d been dirty talking up a storm minutes ago, chirping about how handsome he was, about how much you loved him. And now?

He can feel everything.

Especially when you arch and dig your nails into his door panels and say his name so many times, higher and higher and so sweetly his entire spark almost bursts from the anticipation of your mounting pleasure — and when it all comes crashing down, he feels it, too.

Breathless whimpers and embarrassed glances.

He feels everything.

Chapter Text

“What are you —“

“Shut up.”

He listens — but only because his internal diagnostics are hooked on the sudden elevated hormone levels radiating off you like your own body heat. He’s not sure why, you both had been bickering; and when you unceremoniously toss your top off, Prowl slams on his breaks so hard you have to catch yourself against his dash.

“We are in broad daylight —“

“You were being annoying.”

“Primus, woman —“

You lean, ass in the air as you climb over the center console of the cruiser and land in the back seat. Prowl’s engine is idling, processor flying into a million outcomes but —

It all dies when you wiggle out your skirt and press yourself to his back seat. Prowl has no idea he enjoyed the sight of lace so much.

“Keep talking,” you purr, “I might even let you join in.”

“You’re insufferable —“

“And you’re turned on.”

His growls out a soft Am I not supposed to be? before giving in, attitude dissolving and focus narrowing in on the slow rock of your hips and press of your fingers against the pink fabric.

He hums, “Maybe we should argue more.”

He’s going straight to hell.

He doesn’t even regret it.

Chapter Text

His spark is going to give out.

Right now. On your front lawn.

He can die happy — he thinks — definitely. Soapy, clean, being washed down with warm water, the girl of his dreams pressed to his paintjob. Yeah. Bee is totally fine with dying right now.

I mean, you have other plans. It’s apparent.

Every touch is calculated — he’s sitting there, optics lulled shut and processor going a little numb from the way you pursue every spec of dirt under his plating. You’re climbing over him, hips settling across his high as you bend and dip over his side and work at a particularly gritty patch of paint.

His chest shudders with a mechanical sigh. You grin.

“Like that, ‘Bee?”

“Careful,” he warns with the drawl of a Hollywood cowboy, “Make sure you can finish what you start.”

You give your hips a little rock against the plating of his leg, spurring his optics open. He blinks down at you, vents kicking on nearly immediately.

Your bikini is askew, hair swept up and eyes dark with the sort of look you get before you put him in his place. He eats his words when you make him overload twice in the span of five minutes from your touches alone.

His spark is going to give out. Especially when you roll off him and hose yourself down, free of soap.

He’s totally fine with dying.

Chapter Text

He’s so… fragging soft.

For you — really. I mean, he’d do anything for you. Absolutely anything. He’s been around for a while. Not as long as Optimus or ‘Hide or even Prowl, but he’s seen enough to know he’s so desperately in love with you he’d go to the ends of the universe if it meant seeing you happy.

And you, right now, are very happy.

What girl wouldn’t be, though, pressed in his backseat with his holoform’s face between her legs? Pressed flush, naked, to his leather interior and back arched with every press of his tongue and every dip of his fingers?

You tug his hair and say his name so sweetly, breath hitched and voice cracking from the sheer burn of the pleasure tightening in your gut.

He’s so fragging in love with you.

Chapter Text

It’s late. 

You’d both opted to skip town for the day, citing stress and the nice weather as excuses. With ‘Bee back and forth from the Junkyard and patrols, you hadn’t seen nearly as much of him as usual. It was clearly wearing on him just as much as it was you.

You’re curled up in his passenger side, blanket slung around your shoulders and head pressed neatly into spot against the window. 

Your breathing pattern is deep and slow and enough to lull Bee into recharge if he lets it. But, for now, he cruises down the highway and back towards Brighton Falls after a long, much needed day up north.

He stretched his legs, you hiked around, you’d even got in some much needed stress relief – all in all, a good day. 

His heat kicks on, noticing you stir a little and tug the blanket closer. 

You peel your eyes open for a moment.

“Bee?”

“Almost there – zRt – sweet thing.”

You happily accept that, reorienting yourself to nod and snuggle farther back into his interior. He doesn’t blame you for getting comfortable – even his own joints are sore from all the walking you did today. 

When you wake up again, Bee’s holoform is carding cold fingers through your hair; they brush your temple, lips following as his voice is slow to ease you awake. 

“Come on, honey, up we go.”

You pout, digging yourself deeper into the blanket and pressing yourself deeper into his interior.

“Can I sleep here?”

Bee couldn’t deny the request even if he wanted to – instead, he presses a handful of light kisses to your cheeks and relinquishes the holoform. 

The Camaro’s engines cut, dying down as he settles on his bearings.

It’s late, and you’re both happy. 

Chapter Text

I mean, the concept is… close across species. 

You put the thing in the thing.

You don’t have to put it in. You could just… you get the picture, right? There’s a lot of similarities to human sexual intercourse and Cybertronain interfacing. Spike, valve, penis, vagina – overload, orgasm. It’s not too far off, but it does take one or two terrible, awkward, horrible, emotionally-tolling conversations with Prowl to smooth out.

“Sooo, have you and her –” his inner, private comms click on and in Cybertronian, directed towards the officer only a few feet from him, Bee speaks slowly. “Uh, y’know…”

“Don’t,” the Second-in-Command raises one single digit, optics glued to the datapad, “Do notask me for sex advice, Bumblebee.”

“I don’t need advice, I’m just –”

“Ask Ratchet.”

“Yeah, I did,” Bee groans, throwing his servos, “But he doesn’t –”

“Have a human mate.”

“Yes,” he breathes, comms going silent for a second, “So, have you?”

“Yes.”

Bee’s optics widen a mile and Prowl tilts his helm. The Second-in-Command speaks quickly.  “You’re telling me you haven’t? I’m surprised – we had thought for sure…”

“I’m just afraid I’ll do something wrong, okay?” Bee huffs, antennae pulling back in irritation. 

Prowl, in that moment, feels for the young scout – he’d had the same sort of fears until he’d finally swallowed the pit in his tanks and asked the woman in his cab about it. Sex and interfacing, it seems, have the same sort of taboo. Say it aloud and it’s either dodged or capitalized on.

Prowl capitalized on your reaction, found out what you liked, and made good work of his hour break between patrols. 

“Just speak with her on the matter,” Prowl says, throwing a servo and tucking the datapad away into the makeshift desk, “Human females are quite receptive to talking about it. It’s supposed to be enjoyable. Just… talk.”

“Right.”

“I’m serious.”

“Yeah,” Bee’s voice cracks on the comms, “I know, I just have to –”

“Find the time?” Prowl’s optics ridge raises, “Take her out – dinner, maybe. Ask it on the way home.”

Bee has to fight the look of sheer amazement off his face as the strategist shrugs his shoulder plates and begins to wander back to the hub in the back of the hangar. 

That smooth bastard.

Chapter Text

“Ironhide — Will you…! Cut it out! Stop moving!”

“Well, are y’ done yet?”

You’re posed over his hood, hips pressed flush to his front bumper. The step-ladder you’re on teeters a bit as you move to check the pistons by his engine and he rolls on his bearings to try and deter you from even doing so.

“Quit it.”

Your rag connects with his side-paneling and it shuts the lifted Chevy truck up. From behind you, you can hear Charlie and Memo snicker from their place in the hangar.

You move to wipe sweat from your forehead, huffing a bit.

“See, ‘Hide, I could be over there with Charlie and Memo,” you mumble, “Enjoying lemonade in the shade but here I am, hanging into your engine makin’ sure you’re running right and what do I get? An attitude and heatstroke.”

It is hot. Well into the 90’s. You bunch your t-shirt up to wipe at your face and Ironhide’s vents kick on at the sight of more skin. You knee his front bumper.

“Quit staring.”

“Yer on top a’ me —“

“Yeah, well I’m about to be underneath you if you keep moving,” you huff, “If you run me over, I’ll never let you live it down.”

Ironhide does stop moving, only because he’s trying to not get caught in thinking about you underneath him in any context.

He’s too old for this.

He can feel your hands — small and fast and gentle, and they’re coaxing him along into a lull that makes him want to drift off to recharge. And then you hit a patch of delicate wiring. And recharge is forgotten about because he’s trying to push back the knuckle biting pleasure the touch is dredging up.

You know what you’re doing. ‘Hide hates you for it.

No, he doesn’t.

After a moment or two, though, you perk up and give a soft Aha! before tugging at something under his hood.

In an instant, the sharp grinding that had been nagging him along his back strut is gone — and you emerge from his hood covered in grease but smiling.

In your hands, you’ve got a large stick. Must have gotten stuck on a patrol.

“I told you I could fix it.”

He transforms them, rolling his shoulder joints and settling down in a loud plop on a makeshift seat made from two scrapped cars. He plucks the stick from your hands, eyeing it with blue optics before snorting and tossing it over the fence. You scramble, crawling up his leg and standing on his knee.

You’re doing that thing where you put your hands on your hips.

“No thank you?”

Ironhide grumbles, optics fleeting between you and Charlie and Memo. The two teenagaers seemed enthralled with the dynamics between the two of you. Ironhide’s vents exhale in a hot puff of air.

“Thank you.”

“I’m sorry,” you call out, leaning forward on his hip joint. The look on your face is playful, “I didn’t quite hear that—“

“Thank you,” he says again, albeit louder, “Thank you getting the stick out of my gears.”

“No problem, ‘Hide.”

You pat his knee, scrambling down his plating and proud of your title as the only human around who ‘Hide even tolerates.

“Go cool off.”

“I plan on it. Don’t say I never did anything for you.”

Chapter Text

‘Hide is at a loss, really. 

You’d called him from a payphone on the side of the road and asked softly into the receiver if he could come get you and Charlie. You told him where you were – a nice diner in the middle of town. He’d been against it at first. It was late, he wanted to recharge, but then he heard it – a muffled sob. 

It wasn’t you – you hushed the tears, pressing the receiver to your shoulder.

“Shh,” you say, hand wound in Charlie’s hair, “It’s alright. I’m calling ‘Hide. Nobody has to know. He’s good at keeping secrets.”

Ironhide peels out of the Junkyard, processor racing a mile a minute. In recent weeks, Charlie had started to grow on. She was always willing to help, always following you around the scrapyard. Together, you and ‘Hide had developed some sort of off-hand paternal bond that neither of you really minded. 

‘Hide acted like he did. That was just his way of showing he cared.

When he pulls up and he sees you and Charlie, poor Charlie, his spark aches. The girl, younger than you by a handful of years, is trying desperately to not look like she’d been crying. You’ve got a hold around her shoulders.

When he pulls up, you two are talking on the side of the road. Hushed. Charlie is nodding. It’s a pep-talk, he thinks. He can tell by the way you smooth her hair out of her face.

You greet ‘Hide with a light pat to his front bumper. He can see the look of worry painted on your face. He swings his passenger side door open for Charlie, and you hop up on the side-steps, settling into the driver’s side. 

“C’mon, Charlie,” you say gently, “Let’s get you home.”

The ride is silent, and ‘Hide keeps his mouth shut – you’re thankful for it. You love the weapons specialist to the moon and back, but… He’s not great with emotions. Or kids. It’s better he tiptoes around this entire situation more than anything. 

When Charlie’s house comes in sight, though, he does speak. “If y’ need anything, kid, you call.”

“Thanks, Ironhide,” Charlie says softly, hands patting the dash. She reaches, securing a hug around your neck, “And thank you.”

“Memo will come to his senses. I promise.”

You wait to make sure she gets in okay. And then, when the lights in the house go out, ‘Hide finally asks the question that’s been burning into his processor. 

“She say what was going on?” 

“Her and Memo,” you sigh, leaning back into his driver’s seat and pressing your fingers to the bridge of your nose, “They aren’t ‘talking’ right now.”

“Oh?” ‘Hide says slowly, “I thought –”

“Me too,” you sigh, drumming the wheel, “I didn’t get much out of her – she was pretty upset… I don’t think she wanted Bee to see her like that.”

A low hum fills the cab. You smile lightly after a moment or two, eyes turning back from the window and landing on his radio.

“Thanks for coming, old man.”

His laugh is gruff. “Sure, sure.”

“I’m being serious,” you say, patting the dash, “This is a serious thank you moment. These are rare – you were the first person Charlie asked for.”

“… You’re lyin’.”

“No,” you say, insisting as you wriggling in his seat, “Because Charlie knows, under thatterrible little facade you put on? You care.”

“I don’t care.”

“Now who’s lying?”

He is.

Chapter Text

“Get in. All of you.”

Charlie sputters, eyes jumping back and forth between Otis and Memo. She’s about to say something, but ‘Hide cuts her off. His radio grovels out an irritated baritone.

“Now.”

The three soaked teenagers climb into ‘Hide’s backseat with dejected looks on their faces and not a word of protest; ‘Hide pulls away from the beach, and you’ve got your eyes set on the road, grip tight on the steering wheel as the three go quiet in the back. 

“What made you three think, yeah, throwing myself off the bluffs is a good idea? Huh?” you say finally.

It comes out sharper than you intend. 

“Easy,” ‘Hide grumbles, seat nudging you a bit. 

“Sorry,” You huff. 

‘Hide continues, “What she means is that you three coulda’ drowned. What were you thinkin’?”

“Tripp –”

“If Tripp threw himself off a bridge, would you?”

Charlie sighs, throwing her hands and turning to look out the window. Otis shivers between her and Memo, curls damp. He raises a finger, voice quivering.

“I’d just like to say that I didn’t –”

“No,” both you and ‘Hide chirp. “No excuses.”

You spare the Chevy’s radio a look, brows knotted – recently, the two of you have reallystepped into the roles of protector for the three of them. Sides, Bee and Sunny were really no help. Prowl had his own things to handle, Ratchet, well… He was worse than ‘Hide when it came to punishment. 

You two are on the same faux-paternal wave-length.

“Right, yeah, totally,” Otis says, “No excuses.”

When the three of them are finally dropped off at home, Sally Watson gives you and ‘Hide an appreciative look. 

I don’t know what I’d do without you two.

Chapter Text

“Time t’ go home.”

You’re saying your good-bye’s to the others, footfalls heavy and sloppy – you give Charlie on last hug, tell ‘Bee to get those three home safe and blow Sally Watson a kiss.

“Happy New Year’s!”

You’ve been like this all night – overly affectionate and extremely chipper, which, had ‘Hide decided to splurge past his single energon cube, may have been more emotionally well-equipped to handle it. He hates how happy you are for someone who’s just ingested enough liquid depressants to put down a cow. 

“C’mon,” he ushers you, door swinging open, “Up y’ go.”

You’re slow to hop into his cab, holo-avatar materializing behind you to spot the high climb. ‘Hide doesn’t use his often – but he’s big, with broad shoulders and big hands and a kind face that’s usually twisted into a grimace behind a thick beard. 

“Aw,” you chide, closing the door behind you leaning down to blink at the holoform. You hiccup out a laugh, “Don’t look so sour, ‘Hide. You can catch me anytime. I’m always falling for you.”

Tonight’s going to be a long night.

Chapter Text

“What are you –”

“Is smiling even in your programming, ‘Hide?”

Ironhide ex-vents, grumbling under his breath as Charlie aims the camera back at the two of you – you’ve gone and propped yourself against his knee; the weapons specialist pulls a smile, but in reality is says nothing but pain. 

The Polaroid churns out of the camera and Charlie gives it a good shake before passing it your way. In moments time, you’re gawking up at the Chevy. 

“Oh, my god. ‘Hide, I was kidding, but now you’ve got me seriously wondering –”

“Let me see it.”

You raise the photo, blinking between it and him. “Wait, wait, look at me. Look – ha! Look at me and smile.”

He rolls his optics, ignoring your antics. “Charlie, take another photo, please.”

The teenager gives him a sympathetic nod, readying the film and winding the camera up as you continue to berate the big Autobot.

“Yeah, but I’m keeping this one – because you’re really something, ‘Hide.”

 “I don’t do smilin’.”

“Yeah, yeah,” you slap his plating, shaking your head, “Just… take a nice picture with me, alright? So when you finally get tired of me and drive off into the sunset I’ll have something nice to remember you by.”

“As if.”

“I know,” you chirp, the comment settling nicely in your heart, “But still. I want a nice picture of us.”

“So y’ can show yer friends?” he says through clenched denta. He feels like he taking his I.D. picture back at the Academy. He hates it – but, it’s making you happy. The idea of you keeping the photo just because is a nice feeling.

“What friends?” you grit out through a smile, hands posed across Ironhide’s knee.

“My point, exactly.”

“Oof.”

Chapter Text

He’s been parked at this rest stop for the last three days.

His landing had proved rough, careening him through Texas and planting him somewhere in the Southern part of the state. Optimus had emerged from the wreck touting wounds that would sort themselves out eventually, if he rested. So, the Mac truck finally settled on a rest stop 50 miles west of the closest city.

And he rested. 

It was an… interesting way to gather information on Earth culture, as well. 

And you. 

Adjacent the rest stop sits a… gentleman’s club. Though, Optimus has gathered enough from the sort coming and going that it’s far from it. The neon sign outside of it reminds him of some of the seedy energon joints back in Iacon – it has a dancer of some sort, legs flashing up and down. 

Every night, you’re the last one out – dirty boots kicking at the dirt as you sling your bag into the hatchback three spaces in front of him.

Optimus watches, each night, as you settle in and lock the door and curl into the back seat. And you sleep. And then, come morning, when he wakes up from recharge… You’re already gone. Optimus assumes inside the Pink Drink. 

On the fourth night though, things change. 

“Get off of me, you fuck –”

Optimus’ processor snaps awake, stirred by the shouts coming from the direction of the bar. In a second, he realizes it’s you, surrounded by a group of bigger men; you look like a cornered turbo-fox, teeth barred and stance tight.

“C’mon, beautiful, I just wanted a kiss –”

One of the men moves, and you battle back, shoving him with two hands – and that is enough for his friends to jump into action. You, however, seem to handle yourself for the most part. You’re terrifying, really, nails digging into the face of one of the men as you let out a war-cry. 

A gathering has assembled outside the bar, onlookers excited to see the outcome, but Optimus isn’t.

“Hey!”

A booming greeting that sounds odd coming from the human hologram stepping from his cab. A few heads turn, eyeing the sudden addition of the 6′3″ man in red plaid. But, the fighting continues and Optimus is convinced this is not usual human behavior. His pace quickens, brows set in anger as he nears the scuffle.

“Get off her,” he snaps, moving to shove one of the assailants back with a hard grip, “Leave her alone.”

You’re thrown then, landing hard in the dirt of the parking lot as the focus has shifted to the sudden hero that’s stepped into the arena. 

“And who the hell are you?” they pluck, circling around him.

“Cease the fighting, men, and disperse immediately.”

“You talk funny.”

You blow a piece of hair out of your eyes, watching as the land a hard crack of a punch on the red plaid adorned hero’s nose. He staggers backwards, cursing in some weird language as his hands fly to the bridge of his nose. 

Ow. 

The blow stirs anger in the Prime’s chest – in a flash, the man has barred teeth and fists flying wildly; it’s impressive, really, and suddenly the others seem to realize he isn’t a joke. 

They drag their friend back to their trailer after a minute under the fists of the new guy. 

As the scuffle disperses and you dust yourself off, you spare a breathless glance towards the hero of the night. He’s wiping the blood from his chin, eyeing it on his hands with a confused look. You nearly laugh, hands on your knees as you try and catch your breath.

“I had ‘em on the ropes.”

He turns, blinking at you. “What?”

“I had it,” you say, standing and tugging on your skirt, “I can handle myself.”

He only raises his brows. 

You stand, then, full height and narrow your eyes. “Who the hell are you, anyways?”

Optimus swallows. No time like the present.

Chapter Text

Chapter Text

The prospect of a wash sounds… divine. Really – it’s like the best thing he could have imagined after the hellish patrol he was just dragged on by Prowl. His treads and wheel-wells are caked in mud, dirt caked in his base-boards and tailgate and front grill. ‘Hide is half sure there’s a small pine tree lodged in his under-carriage. All in all, he needs a wash. Not to mention the old ‘bot is very much into the idea of you giving him one. 

But when ice water, an entire bucket full, hits his windshield?

“Mother of Primus! Woman!”

He’s starting to realize why you were so adamant. 

You’re laughing, smile pulled tight as you drop the bucket as soon as his holoform materializes; you’re fast, shrieking as he comes at you with arms open. He snags your waist, hauling you upwards and towards the hose – you’re pleading now, voice hitching with laughter.

“I’m sorry – ha! – ‘Hide, please, no, I have a white shirt on!” 

“Shame.”

Chapter Text

“Son of a bitch.”

Like that, you’ve got an entire pitcher of beer down the front of you – the fault of a local one too many under. The Pink Flamingo was busy; the holidays have brought folks from all over to the coastal town. With it comes the sloppy ones – and you come out of the bar with a skirt and tank soaked. 

Prowl’s posted by the entrance, his usual hang-out. He says he catches a lot of drag racers down this strip – but, you have your suspicions that he just likes to keep an eye on you when you go out. 

He can see the irritation rolling off you in waves from all the way across the lot. As you near, he can tell why. 

The officer kicks from his cruiser, long legs of his holoform following you as you near his trunk. He eyes you closely, squinting as you knock on the paneling there.

“Please?” he says, hand on his hip.

“Please,” you mock him for a moment, “Is there a shirt back here – a towel… anything?”

Prowl squints. “Yes. Memo keeps forgetting it.”

“I’m soaked,” you whine as you dig in the trunk, “This idiot nearly dumped the whole thing on me. I’m half convinced it was on purpose –”

You’re silenced by the pointed look of the officer. You sigh. “Sorry – I’m just… I’m freezing –oh! Yes!”

You pull the t-shirt from the trunk and sigh happily; Prowl rolls his eyes, moving to give your backside a small tap. You grin at the contact.

“C’mon,” he says, “Get in. I’ll turn the heat on.”

“God, I love you,” you mumble, moving to hop in the front.

He ignores the way the words kick his spark into over-drive. 

He hasn’t even pulled out of the Pink Flamingo’s drive-way when you begin to wiggle out of the skirt around your hips. Prowl’s attention is pulled from the road and to the bare expanse of your thighs. The cruiser swerves. You grab his door panel and give him a look.

“Sorry.”

“Yeah,” you mutter, “Look all you want, but… don’t kill us, okay?”

Harder than it sounds.

You’re fast to shimmy out the soaked top, too, leaving Prowl frustrated and distracted and everything in-between. You can tell – it’s written all over the Autobot’s holoform’s face. He exhales heavily, eyes darting to you pressed against his seat in nothing more than your underwear. 

“Like what you see, Prowler?”

“I’m driving.”

You pout, advances shot down; you get the message, so you tug the t-shirt on over your head. 

Prowl pauses, voice dipping low.

“Take it off,” he says finally, “You look better without it.”

Chapter Text

Bee just turns into a puddle of mush — coos and beeps and whirs and is even more cuddlierthan usual. Lots of face nuzzles and prodding with his fingers. You’re so soft and warm! He loves you so much. He gets so sleepy he just… sits there and watches you talk and… Primus, you’re so pretty!

Oh, wow, he… wow. You’re just — you’re just the best thing that’s ever happened to him and he’s suddenly really, really ready to drag you to the back of the junkyard and do whatever it takes to have you make those pretty little sounds you do when he’s got his mouth-plate buzzing between your legs —

Oh. Right. You’re talking.

A happy coo.

More energon please.

Chapter Text

He’s on cloud nine, optics lulled shut processor floating somewhere between drowning in love and clawing through lust — all while you’re above him, hips pressed flush to the curve of his jaw as he whirs happily and you gasp.

He loves it when you get like this; all whimpers and moans and soft whispers of his name. Your fingers grip the plating of his face tightly, his own hands gently urging you forward in a slow buck — you say his name then, thigh quaking and back arching.

Your sundress has been hiked up and ignored, Bee’s mouth-plate buzzing happily against the lace underwear underneath. It’s disorienting how good it feels. Bee’s vision is swimming, spark keening at the mere sight of you. The high-grade in his system has him looser than usual; sweet and sloppy.

Primus, he loves you so much.

He wishes he could tell you how beautiful you look, crying his name and bucking against his face. He wishes he could shower you in praise and kisses and encouragement — keep going, he’d chirp, show me what you’ve got, honey.

He just wants to make you feel really good — the way you make him feel when you say his name or kiss his face.

So that’s what he does.

Chapter Text

“Why don’t you frag off, yea?”

You’ve never heard his voice get like that – raised and angry. His shoulders are squared, jaw tight and fingers twitching. 

Bee was already in a mood. He’s stressed; blame it on patrol and Barricade toying with them. Drive-by’s and chases all leading them to nothing but empty leads and no Decepticon in custody. After Charlie and Otis got grabbed, they’ve all been on edge. So, you thoughtbringing him up to the beach for a late Saturday night drive might be nice. You weren’t opposed to getting to the stress relief bit up at the beach’s lot. 

You’d settled in on Bee’s bumper when Tripp noticed you; and apparently still wasn’t over the fact you’d landed a nasty punch on Tina four weeks prior. Tina, however, was no where to be seen. No doubt she’d dipped the second she saw the ‘76 Camaro roll up.

It started with the egging on, and when you waved him off and told him to get a life, he started in with the sleaze bag routine. It wasn’t until the beer in Tripp’s hands was launched at you, spraying you with Miller Lite and sending Bee into a spiral that was a long time coming.

And, so, for the first time ever? You’re trying to pick your jaw up off the ground as Bee implodes, rage projecting straight into the holoform in front of you. You can’t gawk for long, because fear replaces the attraction in a blink. You’re scrambling off Bee’s tailgate, hands flying to loop into the back of his holoform’s t-shirt before he can one more step closer to Tripp.

“Bee, stop, it’s not worth it –”

“Aw,” Tripp mocks, “Listen to your girl, man. She knows I’ll kick your ass.”

You freeze then, blinking once. Then twice. Then you let Bee go.

You pull Bee off Tripp after ten seconds, dragging the scout’s holoform backwards and towards his alt mode. Tripp’s scrambling backwards, hands pressed to a nose that’s gushingblood. His friends are watching, faces pulled into shock. 

“Fuck, man, what the hell –”

“You asked for it,” you shrug, walking backwards as Bee throws himself into the driver’s seat and slams the door, “Watch yourself, Tripp – that was nothing.”

The Camaro tears out of the lot the second you close your door. You let Bee get it out, maxing his engine out on the stretch of the highway – the roar is threatening in a lot of ways. He’sfuming in the seat beside you and all around you. You can feel him trying to kick the A/C on to cool himself off. 

Finally, you speak. It’s gentle.

“You alright, Lovebug?”

His holoform jumps. Almost like he forgot you were there. He did, he was too busy in his processor, cursing out Prime and Prowl and Tripp and Barricade and Megatron and everyonebecause all he wanted was a nice night, with you and him, and there he was, losing his cool in front of everyone –

“Honey bee?” 

Blue eyes blink back at you. When he speaks, he’s a little breathless. “Sorry. Sorry, I… Just trying to –”

“Cool down?” you finger moves to tape the temp. dial on the dash. It’s cranked all the way into the blue. 

Bee laughs, sheepish and quiet. The heat slowly returns to the cab. “Sorry.”

“Pull over.”

“What?”

“Pull over,” you say again, gentle and sweet, “So I can tell you to stop apologizing and start kissing me.”

Bee’s brows raise – he pulls over anyways, really liking how your voice sounded just then. He drops his alt mode into park as his holoform turns and eyes you carefully. In a blink, you’re draped over the center console and working your fingers into his hair. The kiss you plant on him stirs his spark into a flux – hot and fast and hard – and the scout can only melt right into it.

“That? The whole,” you mumble, “Fighting for my honor thing?”

“Yeah?” he’s swept back into another kiss, one that has him shoving his arms underneath your bottom and scooping you straight into his lap. Your back meets the steering wheel, hands pressed to his jaw.

“That was hot.”

“Good to know,” he chirps, grinning into another hard kiss you press to his mouth. Your nails graze down the back of the interior behind his holoform and his entire cab shakes – the hologram beneath you frazzles, a throaty groan dipping from his chest.

“Anything else,” he asks, mouth bruised, “that got you all hot and bothered?”

“How stressed you are,” you breath as you peel your top off, “But, I’m going to fix that.”

Primus, this is heaven. He’s dead and this is heaven. 

Chapter Text

“I knew you talked funny for a reason.”

He doesn’t so much mind the fact you’ve got your boots up on his dash – you’re comfortable,and for the first time since he’s met you? You’ve actually… relaxed. It’s charming, actually. Even a bit cute. You wiggle in his front seat and Optimus clears his throat.

“Because I am an alien?”

“Bingo, chief.”

He laughs then – a deep rumble – and you fight a grin.

You feel bad for the Autobot; he’d dragged you out of the bar with a hand over your mouth three days earlier after you’d screamed in laughter at him explaining his origins and mission. You’d attracted a lot of eyes with the outburst and Optimus, in all honesty, panicked. So, after one ride out to the desert and a transformation later, you got over the whole x-files laughing fit thing.

You roll the window down, settled back in his seat.

“You ever gonna leave this place, Chief?” you ask after a while, “Y’know, to find the others?”

You can hear him thinking – the way he works through the logistics rumble in the form of a grunt through the cab. 

“I must,” he says, “At some point… What of you?”

“What?” you laugh, “You want me to come along?”

A pause. “… Why not?”

That was the first time you ever wondered what you were getting yourself into. Two days later, you skip town with nothing more than a duffel bag of cash you’d made stripping and a change of clothes. 

Doesn’t matter though. You got the hero of the story by your side.

Chapter Text

He’s tired. You can see it in the slope of his door-wings, the way he’s pouring himself over his data-pads and trying desperately to keep his optics open.

“Prowler.”

His helm snaps up, optics landing on you in the doorway of the Junkyard’s hangar. You look pretty like that – hair mussed and hands on your hips. You’re tired. A quick read on your vitals proves it. 

“What time is it?”

“Time for recharge,” you urge, moving forward as the Highway Patrol cruiser steps back from his post and ditches the datapad in exchange for a fast transformation.

“I should bring you home.”

“No,” you chirp, slapping his hood, “Come on. I’ll stay here tonight. But, you need to recharge. Promise me –”

He’s about to protest, about to insist on pouring over one more patrol’s report, but you cut him off.

“Holoform,” you say curtly, waving to the spot in front of you.

Dejectedly, the police officer in question materializes and you hum. His shoulders are slumped.

“See,” you chirp, “I don’t know a lot about Cybertronian physiology, but I do know what exhaustion looks like in humans. And you can’t even try and hide these bags.”

You’re poking at the spots beneath his eyes. He squints them shut, shooing your hands.

“I’m fine.”

“No,” you hum, moving to card a hand through his hair, “You’re tired. So, stop denying it and come snuggle up with me under the stars.”

Prowl nearly purrs at the touch, leaning into the way your nails graze his scalp. His alt mode hums with the same pleasure, engine flaring up for a moment. 

How could he say no to that?

Chapter Text

It kick starts this… obsession. 

It all started with “No Rain” by Blind Melon – he’d heard it on the radio in the Junkyard and made you go out and buy the tape the same day. He wore it to shreds within a week. It seemed like it was always playing whenever you were with him; humming it, mumbling it, all of it.

And then he moved onto Soft Cell. And The Cure. And now Springsteen. 

You’re thankful –  because The River is a little bit more romantic than his previous choices, especially when it’s a late summer night and you’ve got the windows down in his alt mode and your feet up and his holoform is holding your hand like it was his one thing he was created to do in this world. 

You pluck at his scarred knuckles in your lap, blossoming under the gentle smile he gives you. He runs his fingers over the smooth skin of your thigh, the movement burning into his processor. He wants to remember how you feel – he won’t have this forever. If war has taught Ironhide anything, it’s that.

We’d go down to the river…

Chapter Text

Jazz lands on Earth later than the rest of the Autobots. 

With the Fall of Cybertron came the fall of everything else, and the Second-in-Command was left trying desperately to piece communications together with Prime. 

Imagine his damn surprise when Prowl answers the sent data-array with system stats of Jazz’s ship, cheekily sending back a coordinate to a small planet in the Milky Way with a “See U Then” attached. 

He plummets to Earth in the middle of a thunderstorm, rocketing into piece of land in upstate Alabama. Mud. Lots of it. And the winds are something, too. Jazz is wondering how in the PitSunstreaker is dealing with these types of conditions. No doubt the Diva is have a meltdown every ten kliks. Jazz makes quick work picking twigs from his plating.

Then, a single stream of light hits him and that’s when he meets you. 

You’re soaked from the rain, eyes wide in shock. The coat around your shoulders is soaked to the bone and in the distance, he can see the lights of a trailer. You’d trekked out, no doubt at the sound of Jazz’s entrance into the atmosphere.

The 

“Uh…”

“Oh my god.”

“Hiiiii,” Jazz says slowly, albeit sheepish, servos raised, “Hi – uh, don’t freak out – it’s all cool, it’s all good. No reason to –”

It’s talking. 

Thunder and lightning crack above him.

You’re freaking out. Jazz doesn’t know anything about Earth’s inhabitants but he thinksscreaming is kinda universal when it comes to fear. 

His holoform drops the ground in front of you, all charming smiles and coaxing posture.

You faint on the spot.

Chapter Text

He gets used to the idea of you being… sought after. There’s no denying you’re attractive, even if he’s speaking as a member of a completely different species. There’s something incredibly endearing about the way you carry yourself – spite-fire and southern drawl. 

From his spot in the drive-thru’s parking lot, he can see you in the line inside. You’re ignoring the chatter of the boy beside you; some bus boy who’s furiously scribbling down his phone number on a paper napkin. A human courting custom. You had to explain that to him after some chick at a rest-stop handed his wide-eyed holoform seven digits scrawled on a receipt in the parking lot. 

“Call me, big guy.”

Prime nearly laughs – it’s comical, seeing you take the napkin, blink at it then the busboy before tucking it right into your top. The reaction seems to send the busboy into a flurry. His hormones shoot through the roof. Prime can smell them from the parking lot. 

When you emerged five minutes later with a bag and drink, Prime’s engine rumbles in a quiet greeting.

“Mind if I eat in here, chief?”

You’ve got a steak and cheese in your hands, mouth full as you chew and prod at his door. Optimus swings it open for you, cautious not to move as you teeter up on the kick-board and climb into the high set driver’s seat. 

“How is it?” he asks, internal processing analyzing the details of your meal. Little nutritional value. But, you seem to be enjoying it. And, a week into your road trip, Optimus has settled on the fact he’d do anything to keep you happy. He likes you quite a lot. You’re a good companion.

“Good,” you chirp, crossing your legs and digging the napkin out to wipe your mouth.

Optimus nearly scoffs; the number is ignored. His tone is, dare he say, amused. “Were you not planning on calling that young man?”

You give the radio a pointed look and take another bite out of your steak and cheese. 

“Y’ know,” you chirp, “I coulda made you roll through the drive-thru. But I didn’t. Y’ wanna know why? Respect, Optimus.”

He laughs at that – a deep rumble that makes you quirk a grin. 

“Besides,” you hum, leaning back and sipping your soda, “I don’t need some seventeen year old bus boy. I got you, chief.”

“I suppose we do make quite the team.”

“I think so.”