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ikkosu · 3 months

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PROWL HEADCANNONS

a/n: prowl on 'how he'd fall for you' headcannons because I’m bored and I love this war criminal to bits. (human gn.reader btw) warnings : just me rambling about prowl. might make part two of this idk.

I feel like prowl wouldn’t be the type to seek out someone; the only reason he’ll fall in love with you ( or in his case, have an illogical, spur of the moment, chemical reaction) is because you’ve been working him long enough to understand how his mind works

you’re gonna have to be the calm type, smart enough to know he’s off his rockers — since you’re going to have to tolerate him, anyway

or dumb enoug you don’t know wtf’s going on half of the time and just,,,supports what he does — he keeps you around for that

either ways, you're only there because the high council needs someone to keep tabs on prowl. in case he gets bored and decides to scheme another conspiracy to overthrow the government

(an exaggerated bias, as he'd say)

dumb is like his emotional support golden retriever, and calm is also the same, except less rowdy and just stares into his soul when he fucks up. But he stares back though and you're not one to give up either (in the end he does)

(Trope dynamics of loud dumb x smart and internally seething calm x smart is what I’m thinking lol)

calm would be someone in the science field or in the medical field, sassy, knows a lot (because if you’re going to lose your shit, it’s likely you’re never going to win an argument against him so = logical sympathetic + done w/ his shit + I stick around bc I care )

and for dumb loud would be someone in his profession, like buddy buddy cop + someone that just tags along because, hey, you like pissing him off

‘in both cases, if he falls for you it’s either because (for internally seething calm) you’ve managed to sooth him down from another temper tantrum or understand how he feels, in a way.

[i]

it’s not his usual tantrum, he’s a lot more emotional today and you’re incredibly concerned. this is prowl of all people! what’s got him so worked up? he's the least logical when he thinks someone's about to betray him

you notice the whispers as you saunter along the halls, everyone passing their remarks about the earlier supposed argument between the autobot SIC and his commander

brother was going off on the walls of his office when you slip in, punching holes, flipping tables — lotsa tables — and datapads were strewn across the floor, stylus pens cluttering about. it’s a barren hell hole. more barren than clemency combined

all this you’re not so interested in, it’s a normal thing, a three to four stage process : you’ll listen as he rants. you’ll nod and slowly, not so subtly in his peripheral, coax him to sit on the couch as you fix up the place.

"His perception of justice is too idealistic!" He chuffs and you'd reply “Oh? Optimus is not taking your advice again? I thought he’s a lot more understanding…”

something like that

today, however,

The moment you slinked inside the room, swiftly locking the door, you're greeted with his back is turned, helm hunching over his taut shoulders

your gaze swivelled from the upturned tables to the mess around and it's only then you notice energon plinking down to the puddle on the floor then energon seeping from the crevices of his fist.

Your eyes find the similar smear on the wall, then to the glass shards of a fractured cup on the floor, glinting

he’s bleeding

your medical instincts take reign, voice soft with concern.

“prowl—“

“don’t touch me.” He reels away.

His vents are shuddering, a staticky sporadic bursts of chuffs. He’s not breathing well, much too fueled by his own anger, his optics dart around the place, unable to focus, jittery and restless.

he paces around the room, servos unable to still

you know that hopeless feeling. The desire to do something , anything, but rooted at the inability to do so purges all instincts

you inch closer, palms up placatingly, treading on a light rake of glass. “It’s alright. Breathe. think about your three senses—"

“I said don’t touch me.’’ his voice is louder, more defensive, the kind you see a lot given you're his partner and the fact not all his propositions weren't taken so well. you can guess that's what happened today, or an altercation he's taken a lot too personally.

"I won't. I just want to see your wound."

"Its nothing. I said leave." his door wings flare up, a prey cornered with no where to go, lashing out as its last primal instinct to survive

pity spools into your chest

"it's alright, prowl. It's just me." you're halfway close and he backs up against the wall. "Let's talk like we always do, hm? Talk to let out some steam. Talk about what happened this morning or we can talk about something else."

"you don't understand." his voice wavers off a little, still having that tinge of sharpness yet it's loosing it's edge. his optics fail to meet yours. It's lodged to your feet. somewhere there. he's never been this vulnerable

"I won't have to understand." You say, and your hand curls experimentally over his own, testing to see if he'd lash out

When he didn't you intertwine you hands with his, easing down the stress of his knuckles. "You don't have to tell me anything. Just let me see your hands. I'll leave after once I fix everything up."

A moment — a beat; he relents.

Or more accurately, he's reeled silent as you tow him to the couch, clutching an ivory medical kit in the other hand.

With his servos on your knee, you work delicately, picking the fractured shards from the crevices of his digits that were lodged deep into the cords

His expression doesn't betray much pain plaguing his face with the usual pinched, dour look as he gazes outside the window. Though, he tenses up when you'd come across a deeper wound

then something hard on your shoulder startled you. You blink when you feel the crook of his nose nestle your shoulder blades. he's never been this affectionate and while you prefer to assault him with all kinds of question, you chose not to

It's like handling a startled cat; you're afraid of overwhelming him in case he'd draw back again. So you follow along, leaning a bit back so he's neck is comfortable with the bend.

The white bandages were purged a purple mauve when you roll the fabric around his digits, tying the loose ends with a dainty little bow.

You fix up the kit, his head still on your shoulder and you were about to leave when something grasps your sleeves. It's a tight clutch, digits curling around the fabric.

Prowl's now staring at the ground, any emotion on his face is imperceptible. Later punctuated by a remark, soft yet demanding, he uttered :

"stay."

#prowl x reader #transformers #maccadam #transformers x reader #transformers idw #idw prowl #prowl #prowl idw x reader #idw prowl x reader #mtmte prowl

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driver270 · 2 months

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Forewarned 🤖☕️

#Plastic Robots #Robots With Coffee #Toy Photography #Transformers #War For Cybertron Siege #Prowl #MTMTE Prowl #Transformers Generations #Swerve #MTMTE Swerve #MTMTE #Lost Light #Maccadam

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yummyranch · 3 months

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wip (I'll never finish it)

#my first time drawing prowl #prowl #tf prowl #transformers fanart #transformers #transformers idw #tf mtmte #sins of the wreckers #mtmte #drawing #fanart #lost light #maccadam #idw #mtmte prowl #idw prowl #wip

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skullfacedlady · 1 year

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Hello, officer…

#art #digital art #illustration #my art #artists on tumblr #drawing #prowl #prowl fanart #mtmte prowl #transformers maccadam #maccadam #now i had to give him my own sunglasses

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wetsocksinbed · 10 months

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Prowl: You have the right to remain silent

Hot Rod: I choose to wave that right

Hot Rod: *screams*

#incorrect quotes #incorrect transformers quotes #incorrect mtmte quotes #hot rod #rodimus #rodimus prime #prowl #mtmte hot rod #mtmte rodimus #mtmte prowl #transformers prowl #IDW #maccadam #maccadams #IDW continuity #transformers 2005 #text post #shitposting

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g00sya · 12 days

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#idw transformers #transformers #idw tf #idw #mtmte #prowl autobot #mtmte prowl #idw prowl #prowl #photo #my photos #photography #action figures #food

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michaela-o · 2 months

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Prowl vip (´•᎑•`)♡

#transformers #transformers headcanons #digital art #transformers x reader #small artist #yandere transformers #transformers mtmte #prowl x reader #mtmte prowl #idw prowl #transformers first contact #reader #art #procreate app

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lycoris-artcorner · 10 months

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Uncharacteristically smiley prick car

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delectableworm · 1 month

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Drabble? Idk something short bout Prowl x Cybertronian gn! reader before dozing off. I wrote this half-asleep🎀

Anyway yay, a tf fic. Any prowlhnhh

"What is that you're doing?"

You looked up and saw Prowl hovering over you with crossed arms over his chassis, his usual scowl plastered on his faceplate. Currently, somebot thought it'd be a good idea to mess around in the office and ended up tripping over a small statue figure, breaking it in the process. The fact it was a gift from you to Prowl for your Conjunx anniversary makes it even more frustrating.

Yes, you're angry, but you can get angry later. You need to fix the statue first. "Fixing this."

"It broke?"

"It fell. I'm sorry," You apologize, watching a piece you had glued fell off again. "I'll try to fix it."

You heard him sigh then a servo came onto yours, "There's no need for that. Gather the pieces and leave it on my desk. After that, you're going straight home." He told you and picked up a piece that was next to his pede. "I'll be home after."

"But-"

"Leave it on my desk then go home." He wasn't letting you win and left no room to argue. You let out a few unsatisfied huffs, a thing you'd do when you're upset and also a thing Prowl likes about you. He thought your huffing and puffing reminded him of an electro-toad protecting its territory.

Once all the pieces have been collected, you were about to make your way to his office before he stops you. ”Name?"

You blinked. "What?"

He rolled his optics, "Who broke it? I need names."

"Prowl, you don't have to-"

"Name." He's not going to let you win and you know you're not going to win as usual so you defeatedly mutter the name. He nodded and leaned forward, pressing a chaste kiss on your forehelm. "Get back safe. I won't be long."

You nodded and left to drop the pieces on his desk like he told you to. Now, to find the bot that broke his gift. He'd make sure they glue it right and even if a small piece was missing, he'd just have to use the bot as spare parts then. (Jokingly. Unless...)

#tf prowl #mtmte prowl #idw prowl #tfa prowl #any prowl #i dont know prowl #transformers x reader #prowl x reader #pspspspsp ikko #maccadam #transformers

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ikkosu · 3 months

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SOME WORDS UNSAID

(prowlxfem.reader)

author’s note : hello yes, I bring another angst. whew another long, long fic I’ll probably never look at agn. a draft that's been rotting for like months now. had the chance to finish it now. (a bit inspired by the prowl headcannons)

summary : prowl soon realizes the extent of his own loneliness is something he pushed away for far too long. (alternatively, the three times he's asked you to stay; you were never able to.)

warnings : a bit of smut. death. blood. emotional manipulation.

[i]

He's yet to understand these patrons. Why they frequent the bar so often. Drink away to forget their problems.

Prowl leers at the purple ripple, watching it crest before it breaks out into a wave. His digits were deft and tense, wrapping around the mug, rims caked with the same kind of sludge. Pressed against the table, his helm buzzes with the clamour of the bar.

'It's simply illogical, how can someone be so reeled into their thoughts it becomes a plague? 'He'd chastise Chromedome once.

Now, his face is a clear visage on the engex, seams of a frown present, yet the more he glared, the more it churns into something different. Into something alien. Into something unlike him.

"I think it's time we open up that box of problems," Rung's voice was gentle. Unbiased. Not sickly sweet, not monotone, just a clean middle ground where it doesn't ring a bell to punch.

"There are two ways a Cybertronian choose to store their memories." A digit juts out, perking in tandem of his list. Prowl holds back the urge to roll his optics.

"One is much like a gift, wrapped with an abundance of colors. Sparkly and bright. All the good things you'd want to store. The other is a safe haven. A comfort you can dwell when weather comes hard. The last—''

"Let me guess, garbage?" He says dismissively, unbothered to hold the spectacle-looking bot his gaze.

He’s looking at the wall behind him, at the certificates and little ‘toys’ lodged up on the shelf. Is he even a licensed psychiatrist? He'll have to review his profile in full.

"If you want to put it that way, yes." He eventually voices, then seemingly with a more cautious tone he edges on. "Are you bitter about what transpired?"

"Don't even try." Prowl grips the armchair with a vice "There's no point talking about this. What's done is done; it's all in the past. Locked away, tucked neatly from where it came from. I don't get why some people think it's a good idea to re-open up the memory lane."

Rung smiles, often directing his gaze back to the scribbles on the datapad. "I'm sure to you it won't mean much but it helps to understand the underlying emotions of your own grief."

"Yeah? Well, what' it going to do, bring back the dead? " An accusing digit juts out to Rung's chassis. "So, immediately after I open up, it's all sparkles and glitter and everyone lives happy? Is that it? You think it's going to do something?"

'bring her back to life?'

"Loss is something we inevitably face. Avoiding that prospect only broils more complications." He tries to explain.

"Oh, forget it. Why did Rodimus thinks he can be bothered enough to urge you to 'talk' to me about how 'oh-so-feel'?"

"It wasn't his orders, actually. It's Chromedome." He fixes his spectacles, still treading on the gentle tone.. “ He was, ah, in his own terms, worried about how you'll approach the situation...."

Prowl grits his teeth, bristling. "You think I'm mad? You think I need help?"

"Prowl, please." The datapad is laid on his lap as Rung tries to reason. "Nobody thinks that way. In fact they're all worried about you despite your unnatural disposition—"

"About me." He laughs. A bitter one. "About me?"

Prowl stands up with a kick of the chair. It's sent sprawling to the other side of the corner. Momentarily lost, Rung doesn't notice Prowl inching up close to the psychiatrist, snarling much like a jaguar.

"Listen here, goggles." Every enunciation pelts him like a bullet. "If they're so worried about me they would've listened to my concerns the moment I tell them something's about to go wrong. You think I want this? You think I'm mad enough that I need help?"

Rung winces when his helm hits the headrest, avoiding prowl's domineering gaze when he leans in. Nose to nose. Up and personal.

"I'll say it once and I'll say it again. So don't pester me with all this ridiculous requests. I. Dont. Need. His. Help. Yours, either. Everyone's too. So, don't expect me to come back here."

[ii]

None of his business.

Prowl grips the hinds of the door, staggering out from the bar. The engex pounded his helm. It reeled him senseless, mindless. The ground spins beneath him. He's dizzy, close to stumbling. He ignores whatever the bartender chattered about as he left. Something about straightening out the local punks causing trouble. Something about graffiti.

The city lights are a mingled mass of blur as he sauntered across the pavement. Funny looks were thrown at his expense. The ironic visage of his own authority dawdling off like a drunkard. Every organic he sees churns his spark. Forget about transforming, he can't even think straight. Can't even discern which left was his right, or which right was his left. Or if anything was anything, for that matter.

Wherever his mind wanders, his pedes too follows, and against his better judgement, he finds himself stumbling onto your bed. His nose dives into the soft cushion of your pillow, satin silky, a citrus kind of cushion. He closes his optics.

It still smelled like you.

"perhaps it is time you should come to peace with it..."

Maybe, just maybe. Now?

Not yet

[iii]

"You're what?"

"Leaving." You say, a cheery disposition bounces off your tone as you're packing your things, shoving and stuffing whatever you could nab from your desk and into your bag. The leather satchel you're so fond of.

"Leaving? You're kidding me." He scoffs and bristles when you're also grabbing the snow globe from the counter. "Look at me for a second and would you put that thing down? You're seriously leaving."

The snow globe dawdles above the pouch. "Uh huh."

He reels away, mollified. "You're joking."

"Not this time I'm not."

"You too? First, Ratchet, Chromedome and now you? Did he bribe you to come along? Is this some horrible stunt you're pulling to piss me off again? If it's about the time i—"

"What? No! Just..." You look up then away. "Look, Rodimus made a good deal—"

"A lie is what it is!" He grits out, following, as you pawed around your workstation for your trinkets. Those little boxes you marked with stickers. Insides are souvenir of your travel off-world.

"—Sugarcoat, sweet, crafted lies meant to reel you along to ridiculous shenanegans. And for what? A waste of time! An officer of the law like you should know better than to trust those kinds of bots!"

You whirl to face him, clutching the duffel bag like a barrier. "And, as the officer of the law I'm obligated to aid my people into doing right."

"Your people?" He scoffs. "By joining a ship filled with, Primus knows who, on there?"

"That's exactly what I'm going to do."

As you're about to turn away he grabs your forearm, grip unrelenting. "You're making a mistake."

"What do you want me to do here?" You manage to break free, exasperated at his eagerness to coop you up in this place. " The war is done. All opposing factions already withdrew. Organics and Cybertronians are living with each other now. There's nothing to be done anymore!"

"Why does everyone say that?" He equals your look of irritation, servos gesticulating abrasively to prove his point. " No, it's. Not. Just because the war is over doesn't mean the repercussions are gone. We're living off the effects of the war. I need officers, soldiers, anyone who can listen to rebuild the structural order of society." His hand holds out, placatingly. "I need you."

"You don't."You look away. " You need someone better."

"You're better."

"Prowl, please."

"Look, I just." He looks away from a moment, chuffing out a quick vent. It's all transpiring so quickly his emotions pass through the filter in almost a sporadic breeze. "Can we talk?"

You kick the ground, not holding his gaze.

"What's there to talk about?"

The wide, spanning glass, overlooking the myriad of buildings were veiled by the darkness of space, freckled with an occasional shimmer of stars. You're looking off to the side. He's turned away, fixed on the datapad on his table. It's his list. A list of your travels.

His mouth opens. Then, it closes, uncertain. He wants to say those words. Purge them out like his spark is on its last grip. Maybe you'll stay. Maybe, you won't. It doesn't matter because, despite the strange churning in his spark, he can't find himself to do it.

"Stay." He tries for a last grip of hope. It's almost imperceptible to your ears. A daunting whisper. He doesn't bother regarding your apologetic eyes.

"I can't."

[v]

He's lying but he thinks about you a lot. He thinks about how different you are to him, an oxymoron of some sort, baring the usual 'opposites attract' kind of shtick. It was ridiculous, really.

"Who's this?" Prowl waves off the profile dismissively.

Chromedome holds it up with a raise, "New recruit from Iacon. Heard she's a heavy hitter. No, actually— I meant in Forensics. Uh, the Organic department. You know, like, ah, dog sniffers?"

Prowl does a slow one eighty turn. "....Dog sniffers?"

Silence.

"Forget it." He tosses the datapad to the desk. " Just be nice."

"I'll give you a week max before she quits."

And in typical Prowl fashion he'd already did a background check on your profile, pulling up a list of your 'miniscule' crimes, like missing the crosswalk by a second when the signal churns red, or eating in public when you're not suppose to.

Those kinds of stuff.

Chromedome stares at the datapad, scrolling down the 'list' as they trudge towards the conference room. These aren't even illegal. They're just insanely normal things to do. He's not sure how Prowl thinks they are.

"Primus, Prowl. Isn't that a bit kind of creepy?"

"You're a Mnemosurgeon, Chromedome." A mocking croon pelts back. "You go through brains. Isn't that kind of creepy?''

Like a newly wrapped gift, you turned up in front of their office, dressed in a neatly tucked police uniform, wide smile and sparkling eyes, hands primly folded behind your back. The desperate detective wannabe.

"It'll be a pleasure working with you both."

Intuitive yet naive, idealistic yet grounded. He hated that you couldn’t choose a middle ground.

"It won't be, trust me."

[iv]

Under the autumn tree, you held up one leaf to your eye as you peer over to prowl, sizing him up with child-like curiosity. He's hunched over his shoulder, grimacing at the data pad. Sometimes, he thinks if you're even capable of dropping the act.The typical junior constable, laughing under the shade. The occasional spool of light from the crevices, reflects the white of your eyes.

“You know the people that sat next to me on this bench..." You begin, pelting a rock across the river.

It skidded three times before it dawdles off.

"Are mostly held up in vases. Those customs where they put the dead's ashes in. Keep them on a table and light an incense stick to honor them."

He leans against the bench overlooking the lake. In his servos, his digits clamp around an ice cream cone, half melted. He'd spent more time scrutinizing the germs on the sludge, more than he indulged in the taste.

"Y'think you can beat that?"

His tongue shoots out warily, curling up to lap at the cream. "Beat what?"

You threw another rock. This time it doesn't skid. It just sinks, the water rippled after, breaking into a gentle wave.

"Turning up dead."

[vii]

“Wait!”

"Why are you still here?" You snap back, legs unable to upholster your balance.

He managed to grab your arms but you struggled, wrangling away from his grip.

“You don’t care about me." You laugh. A bitter one. "Wait, why should you? I thought we were friends, Prowl. Friends. friends don't do this. Friends don't disrupt the only trust you have with them!"

The sky thundered, dark clouds rolling. The gentle pitter patter of rain prickles your uniform. The cold seeps into your back. You're too messed up to care. He made you mad. Made you angry. He'd call you useless, a martyr. You’re slurring, staggering.

You’re upset.

"Is that why you wanted to leave? To see if I cared enough to ask you to stay?”

"You think I'm asking you to care? You think I wanted you to care?" You jabbed a finger to his chassis. Alcohol reeks from your breath, sweet and ozone tangy. He doesn't move, the scowl on his face undeterred. Your lips quiver, nose scrunching, eyes misty.

"You know what's funny? You always go on about this and that, paranoid about the people who'll betray you, when you're exactly the type to— actually, no the person who went behind my back and tampered with my files—"

When he opened his mouth you cut him off with venom.

"—And don't you even try to cover it up. You know what Red Alert told me this morning? That I was an anomaly! That I couldn't go in!"

"I ensured your files were of proper order. Nothing beyond that is tampered."

"Stop— when will you stop lying to me!"

Against his better judgment, his servos fisted your collar and he reeled you in, "You think I enjoy doing this?"

Before you could reply, his lips catches your own, pressing you up against the wall. The rain is pelting now, soaking you both. Your lips, mingled with the alcohol, tasted sweet. Almost, electric. He can't get enough. So soft, pliable.

You try to break away. He only deepens the kiss, pushing his tongue into your mouth, suckling your own, forbidding you the chance to speak.

His digits curl into your waist, clutching the fabric, holding you close. He needed you to stay. He needed you where he could see your face. Where you're there. Somewhere, close to him. You can’t leave him.

You can’t.

“I don’t care.” He breathes against your lips, "I don't care. Not now. Not yet."

It was a blur. Before long, you find your back dipping against the cushion of your bed, servos palming your thighs, chassis against your bare chest. Uniform fumbled and peeled away to the ground.

Maybe it was the alcohol talking. Or maybe you were too tired to protest. It didn't didn't matter. His lips latched onto your neck, suckling on a light bruise as he rolled his hips, yours moving in tandem, rocking against the bed.

“Prowl—“ He kisses you again.

Don’t speak yet.

Even when you’re pulling the sheets, arching against the soft bed, whimpering, straining out every sound he wrangles out from you, he's erratic, just how he’s rutting you up against the headboard, gripping your wrist, not your hands, face pressed up against your neck

“Stay.” Is a breathless whisper against your flesh.

"I—I can't."

He pulls you into a deeper kiss before you could say anymore, transfluid unspooling, purging the bedsheets mauve.

[viii]

The next morning he’s gone.

You’re alone.

You curl into the blankets, cheek against the pillow, not sure what to think. Perhaps it's a better goodbye than whatever you had in mind. It's not like Prowl is the sentimental type.Theres a note on the floor though, but it’s crumpled, torn apart, pieces littered in a clean pile. The pen is discarded in the kitchen counter. A last reign of control.

Tiptoeing across the cold floor, you scrape it against your palm and dropped it in the bin. It was better not to pry his thoughts. But there was something there, a glimpse of the words you always wanted to see, but still. You don’t believe it.

It's better when things are left unsaid.

'yes, yes. Hello! This is Rodimus speaking! Heard your files were a bit in a pickle yesterday. No worries! I managed to convince Magnus to let you in. Apparently, the system is now of working order. Strange, huh. Should hire better engineers, am I right? Anyways, how about a tour round the ship?'

[viiii]

It’s been months.

You were tinkering in your habsuite, a screwdriver in hand, fisting the electrical cord on your lock, the mini-enabler (a made up name as per Brainstorm's insistence for it to be so) when the communicator on your table pinged. A quick glimpse of the name blared out five familiar characters : Prowl.

Prowl? Your Prowl? What's he doing at this hour? He's, like, miles away. In that space station or whatever. What could he possibly want?

You were tempted to ignore it, reminded of your last meeting with the cop-bot that's likely to grant an awkward reunion. Then, you think with a grimace. What's the point? He'll probably forget about it, avoiding his feelings like the purge of the black plague.

So, you went through and now you're both staring at each other. Expression, neutral. Not sure what to say.His military-like stance contrasted your casual one. Though, he loosed up when the scowl on your face deepened. The holographic display did an impressive job at scaling his actual height. You had to crane your neck to see the light, cyan blue fizzle of his face.

One of Brainstorm's better invention, if you must say.

He looks around, scanning the interior of your habsuite, taking note of the cluttered books on the table, the snow globe you perch on your desk beside your datapads. A complete replica of the cubicle beside his own before you left.

"You’re not..." He trails off, unsure if it's safe to proceed. "...living alone are you?”

With a you huff, you cross your arms.“If you’re here to be a piss baby about it, leave.”

He vents, "I'm not here to be a 'piss baby', I'm here to check up on you."

“Right. So, you can what? Go behind my back and do something stupid again?"

He stiffens up on the immediate defensive. "Fine. I admit it. I did that. But you have to understand—"

"Yeah, well there's nothing to!" You throw up your arms, "You think you can just, I don't know, leave me hanging by a thread then call me five months later when you feel like it? Don't you care about how I feel? Or—"

"Can you listen for a moment?"

"Oh, now you want me to listen. What else, you want me to hear you voice out your justification of being an ass?"

"I did that because I..." The hologram looks away, glitching slightly, "...Because I don't exactly trust the crew enforcing their responsibility over you."

The thrum of the generator lulls over the silence. You stare at him, exasperation fading away. He's no longer staring at your feet, directing his gaze firmly to your eyes.

"It's not that I don't trust you." He says. The hologram takes a step close. You don't turn away, basking in the attempted touch of his servo on your shoulder. It phases through your arm, anyway. Even when it's an affectionate gesture, his expression is strained.

"You've got the knack to pull yourself in unpredictable situations."

You turn away with a huff. "If this is your way of trying to butter me up it's not working."

He looks off to the side, fixed on the snow-globe. "How about a tour of your room for a change?"

You're silent for a moment. "...We can start with the trinkets. "

[viiiii]

The alarm blared before you could think.

Prowl is half-way inspecting another faulty contraption upon your urge when the room is flared in a dark, crimson red, a sporadic bursts in tandem of the swirling siren. The connection is momentarily lost and the hologram fizzles away.

"What's going on?" His voice is a warbled glitch from the datapad. The visage of prowl in his office greets you.

"...The alarm sounded." You stammer, clutching the datapad close, a desperate reign of touch for him here, "That...that doesn't happen often. Well, sometimes . I think. But that was false alarm.

"Then, stay in the room." He commanded. "I'll try to get in touch with Magnus. There's a probable breach going on."

"You think so?" You pace around, a nervous twitch of your fingers, glancing to your door. "But this is. This is different. Usually, Magnus would pinge us. Tell us the situation. Last time, with the sparkeater—"

"Sparkeater?"

"Oh, you can arrest everyone later!" You huff. "My lock's broken, Prowl, what if—"

A distant explosion sounds, rattling the ship just slightly. It's muffled. You vaguely hear the clamour of pedes running, the yelling, the clang of metal scraping — then the storm. It's footsteps. Quick, loud footsteps pattering along towards this hall. Louder and louder. Heavier and heavier. Something clenched your heart tight. Whatever's raging through the ship can't be heading this way, can't it?

Prowl seemed unnerved. "Stay where you are."

"I'll try to close the lights. Maybe it'll disguise me here."

It's proved futile as the moment you reached your door, the shadow does as well, and you're sent sprawling across the floor as your habsuite door is torn wide open. The perpetrator tosses the flimsy metal to the side.

"Oh, dear. Wrong room." The familiar drawl dances through the air.

Your head swivels up, trailing along the path of the navy blue paint scheme, to the notorious curve of a grin, then to the eyes — blood lust.

Over lord.

"My, my, my. Have I seen you before? You look quite familiar."

He starts sauntering towards you. The datapad is clutched taut against your chest. Your eyes flail around for an exit. You're crawling, backing up against your desk.

"I was hoping it was the dreadful warden. You see I've got unfinished business with the latter — but you'll do as well."

"Get out of there!"

Prowl's yell was enough to deter his focus for a moment. You lunge for the space between his legs, rolling across the ground to the other side.

"Feisty little thing!" You hear him croon.

It wasn't long before you pick up the pace and start belting. Boots pounding the metal floor. At the end of the hall, you spot two figures from your periphery : Chromedome gesturing to the trapdoor on his side. Rewind jumping to get your attention.

"Lead him here!"

You yell back. "I've got a better idea!"

"Absolutely not!"

"But he's behind me, Prowl! We can't keep him here forever! Uhnf—"

The momentum of your sprint sent you stumbling into Chromedome and the Archivist, Overlord, following along, clattering against the wall of the hull. The one meant to trap the six phaser. You feel your lungs give out, grime scraping your elbows. Prowl's visage momentarily glitches as it clatters to the ground. Chromedome managed to toss Rewind out in a fit of panic. When it's your turn to grab his servos, you realized it's a spliced out limb from the swift shutting door, energon spooling out from the chafed sockets.

Rewind's staring at the window with despair. Chromedome is slamming his fist against the window, yelling.Prowl grips the screen tight, digits denting the rims of his datapad. He's not breathing. He's lightheaded. He can't get you. You're out there. He's here. You're there. Get out. Get out. Get out!

"Prowl?" Your voice is shaky as you speak. You're hunched over the datapad on the floor. He can see the shadow looming above becoming more prominent. More darker. More daunting. Two crimson flicker for eyes.

“Stay."

Don't let go yet.

Don't let go just yet

“I can't."

#transformers #maccadam #transformers x reader #idw prowl #transformers idw #prowl x reader #Overlord #idw prowl x reader #mtmte x reader #mtmte prowl

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bombdiggity666 · 2 months

Text

Here Comes Judgement Day Pt.2

A few years ago, I attempted to draw a fan comic to resolve the ambiguous ending of the MTMTE/LL Comic series. I managed to complete one panel, but lost the other three when my computer crashed.

Now, after some time has passed, I feel encouraged to try again. This time, I've written a multi-part story to better guide my comic.

It's worth noting that when I began this project, I was feeling edgy, so it's all based on the song posted below

A Summary:

Megatron faces his impending execution in Garrus 9. As he reflects on his fate, Ultra Magnus grapples with his role as a witness. Through introspection and discussions with Rodimus, Ultra Magnus ultimately decides to attend the execution as Minimus Ambus, embracing his true self and honouring Megatron's last request. Tensions mount as the time draws near, with Rodimus struggling to cope as Megatron's death approaches.

Was he in a different room now? He couldn’t activate his optics, but the environment felt colder than before. Prickling static sensations danced across his arms and chest. Surprisingly, he could feel another medical program running behind the overbearing corruption code that idled in his systems menacingly. Luckily, its suffocating presence was still dulled by the sedative. This new program, he recognized, was a standard vitals systems check. A quick yet inhibited jolt of his right servo revealed a second medical cable jacked into his wrist port, this one far more comfortable. He huffed a vent to test his surroundings.

"Take Me Away"

Megatron regained consciousness quickly, or so it felt. His heavy-duty engines metabolized narcotics swiftly, especially when deprived—a function that had aided him through many of Starscream’s assassination attempts. As he searched for his chrono, the inability to gauge time reminded him of his current situation. Stirring slightly, he realized he was restrained once again, but this time in a far more exposed position. He lay on a different berth now, a surgical one with arm boards. The hum of the stasis restraints felt stronger; testing them, he found he couldn’t even lift a finger. ‘Do they think they're immobilizing a titan?’ he pondered loosely, his head still spinning with disorientation.

“I know you’re awake,” came a confirmation, not an irritated remark. The muffled voice, unmistakably from Evac, gave his ringing audio receptors something to focus on.

“What-” He was cut short with a static cough, his vocalizer rebooting as slowly as his optics.

“Shh, right here.” He felt a light servo’s touch on his right shoulder, more haunting than comforting.

“You were out of it; I brought you the rest of the way.” The servo ran down his arm, stopping at his wrist to fiddle with the connection.

Unable to respond in a civilized fashion, Megatron's engine subconsciously revved low and primitive in a threat display. The frequency resonated throughout his frame, communicating his irritation efficiently.

“Stop that. It was just me. No one saw. You got here all on your own.” Evac brushed off his display with a smack to his forearm, as if such behavior from him didn’t bring opponents in the pits shaking to their knees.

Where was here? His frustration grew.

“Okay, just let me…” He could hear typing, “There, try now.”

His optics onlined with the assistance of Evac’s manual start-up code. The room slowly cleared into focus. His revving engines stalled.

The execution chamber.

He was bound at a slight incline, his frame fully exposed to a viewing window where live witnesses would soon be sitting. The room had a solemn feel, nowhere near the clinical setting as before. A dull light lit the immediate area around them, but Megatron couldn’t spot the source, just glad that it wasn’t above him like an interrogation or operating room. He glanced to his left; the uncomfortable cable was still spooled and strapped to his wrist. A loose end hung ominously, but still unconnected to whatever equipment held the kill code.

“Hey,” Evac tried to pull his attention softly, using her servo to redirect his optics.

Megatron groggily gazed up at her. She must work with sparkling’s with how effectively she corrals his attention away from unpleasantries.

She sat near the right of his helm, monitoring the large screen exhibiting his vitals. The displays left nothing to the imagination: spark pulse, processor activity, fuel consumption ratios, all of it on display for the viewers. He doubted any of it was legitimate medical monitoring.

Looking past her smile to the screen, he could see a diagram of his own frame. It was spinning slowly, with certain pieces of his armor colored red. ‘Strange,’ he thought. All bots of Tarnish origin exhibited some degree of leucism, him being mostly affected with the exception of red pigmentation of his upper arm plating and abdominal vents. This model was wrong; he didn’t have red wrist or chest plating. In fact, he didn’t have wrist armor at all at the moment…

Oh.

No.

He gawked, stunned, as the realization of what he had seen washed over him. Evac noticed his expression changing.

“No no no, don’t-“

But her warning came too late. He dropped his helm in a lightning-quick reflex which should have been inhibited. He nearly threw Evac out of her seat as she attempted to grab his faceplates.

His Spark was exposed, pulsing and spinning fast, it bathed the room in an ebb of twisting light. His chest plating gone. Removed entirely. He was utterly exposed, freezing cold, and completely vulnerable. A touch could kill him right now.

He heard Evac speaking, though neither words nor tone registered. Distantly, he felt the medibot pulling at him, trying to get him to lay back down. Despite both physical and chemical restraints, she didn’t have hope in the Pits of moving him. The glare of his spark lit his reflection in the field of the viewing window, catching him by surprise. Barely recognizing himself as he had never before been forced to examine his appearance; especially in such a position. In the mines, mirrors were nonexistent. Any Pit mech who glanced at the monitors for even a nanosecond in the arenas where slaughtered. He never paid any mind with Autobot propaganda…

It wasn't until the Necro world, standing before the statue of his youth that he truly understood the monstrosity he had become. A cold calloused war monger, hungry for control and blinded by it.

But now? He looked frail. Bare. Weak. Yet, he was closer to his true self than he had been in millions of years.

The hardest part wasn’t seeing his exposed lifeforce or his restrained frame. The hardest part was staring into his own optics and finally seeing that once youthful face. The face that once held the resolve and determination for a better world. The naive slave from Tarn who had once foolishly thought he could change the world with his rhetoric. He couldn’t see the monster anywhere, and with the clarity of it, he felt the urge to apologize for failing them both. A bitter smirk pulled at the corner of his lips. ‘I know you wanted to change the world,’ he mused.

‘And you did,’ he recalled his session with Rung on the Lost Light. ‘But not for the better.’

“No,” he murmured. “But now…” his optics softened, losing focus on his reflection before offlining as he slowly rested his helm back against the berth. “For the better.”

Evac remained silent, unsure of what to say. Words seemed inadequate in the face of Megatron's internalized closure. He seemed to be coping well. She reached out and placed a servo firmly on his clavicle plating, messaging her thumb along the unnatural coolness of the metal beneath her touch. Megatron didn’t flinch, so they stayed like that for as long as they could, the weight of their shared silence hanging heavily in the air.

She glazed over at the chrono on the monitor before sighing lightly, leaning in close to whisper into his audio receptor.

“It’s time”

A bell sounded, stirring them from the peaceful silence.

---

Cycles blurred together after Rodimus’ final conversation with Megatron, the weight of sleeplessness pressing down on him like a relentless burden. Though he was well aware there was never going to be an out between the two verdicts, he clung to a faint hope for some kind of miracle. Megatron always seemed to conjure those when backed into a corner. Downing the rest of his engeX, he slammed the container down to join the mounting pile at his side.

The oil house was bustling tonight, everywhere was, streets, parks, fragging libraries were ablaze with hollering, singing, and dancing in celebration and anticipation for the viewing of Megatron’s execution. The enormous monitors, typically reserved for sporting or political broadcasts, stood ready, awaiting the live transmission of the ‘event’ from Garrus 9. Rumor had it that the council would likely declare this day a new Cybertronian holiday. 'Sick,' he thought, sarcasm thick on his glossa. He could fix that. He waved down the bartender, gesturing towards his empty pile of Engex containers, indicating his displeasure with a circling motion of his finger. 'Keep them coming,' he thought, not trusting his voice right now after his conversation with Minimus resulted in a good sob-fest out in the back alley. It was hard to maintain his composure in a bar full of retired Autobots and neutrals; being on the verge of black-out drunk was somewhat helpful, or so he thought.

The bartender placed a glass down in front of him with a concerned look. “You wanna slow down there, kid? The slagging screening hasn’t even started yet, and you’re 12 deep.”

Rodimus scoffed in indignation, his servo rising to his chest in offense. “I can count, my guy.” Dodged that one like a pro. The bartender rolled their optics as they whisked away, too busy to babysit a drunkard on a day like today.

He swirled the liquid in the glass, unsure of what else to look at. He was too drunk to hide all his feelings and fought to avoid catching optics with anybot. He really shouldn’t have come here today, but he thought being around others might help him through the process. That their excitement might rub off on him. A true extrovert at spark. Honestly, he just didn’t want to be alone…

A soft servo landed gently on his back. ‘Or maybe I did,’ he deliberated.

“You’re hard to find when you want to be found.”

Rodimus paused, processing the vague and confusing attempt at a pick-up before slamming his servos to the countertop of the bar, nearly spilling his Engex, and knocking several empties over. Hopefully this display was enough to dissuade any other onlookers from approaching; he wasn’t in the mood for flirtatious conversation right now, too drunk and distraught. Spinning around in his seat, he attempted to address this bold bot directly.

“Who would fragging be looking in the first pl-“ He was caught off guard immediately.

Drift stood behind him with a soft, sorrow-filled smile and a consuming presence of warmth. He didn’t move his servo from Rodimus’s back kibble; instead, he applied more comforting pressure, sprawling his fingers to cover more area. Rodimus continued to stare, confounded, his intake opening and closing as he chewed over words. He had not spoken to anyone in person since the sentencing, purposely isolating himself in his pain until his dumbfounding decision to be here today. He had specifically hidden from Drift, as he didn’t think he would be able to understand his conflicting emotions over Megatron’s Verdict. He shrunk in on himself suddenly, and after a moment, he managed a shaky question.

“…Minimus?”

“Ratted you out, yes,” Drift soothed, moving to sit in the seat next to Rodimus’s hunched frame, nonchalantly pushing the empty Engex containers off the bar with his forearm, earning a scathing glare from the bartender across the counter. He seethed back with equal intensity momentarily, enough of a threat to make the bartender turn on his heels.

Rodimus stared down at his drink, optics spacing out in broken thought. “You didn’t…” he quickly brought the glass to his intake to shoot it down, conversation was difficult. “You don’t need to-”

“Yes, I do.” Drift hushed assertively, placing a servo over the glass of Engex Rodimus was preparing to down, easing it back to the countertop with little convincing.

Rodimus looked at him from the corner of his optics, unwilling to turn his whole body. A prickle of shame sprouted somewhere distantly in his mind, which was silly; Drift had definitely seen him in much more embarrassing states. However, being in such a drunk grief over a bot who murdered little over half the known galaxy, including himself at least once, probably came pretty close to ‘taking the cake’. Drift was Ex-Decepticon, he likely knew the spell Megatron casts on ones psyche. When their goals aligned, that is.

“We are still a team, you know,” Drift lightly shoulder checked him in camaraderie, hoping to capture Rodimus' full attention. It didn’t work, so he persisted. “Even without the Lost Light. Without a mission, without an adventure, I’m still on your team. Whatever happens today, tomorrow, cycles from now, I’m going to be on your team.”

A flicker of a grin flashed on Rodimus’s faceplates as he offlined his optics. After a moment, he scrunched his facial plates and dropped his helm to the bar counter with a resounding thunk. Drift looked up apologetically to the patrons it may have startled. After throwing his whole arm across Rodimus’s shoulders as he pulled himself closer and leaned into his audio receptor. “And teams are stronger together,” he said, placing his hand over Rodimus’s, squeezing it in a grounding manner. “So we are going to do this together, understand?”

A snort, or perhaps a strangled sob from Rodimus, was muffled by the metal of the counter, his shoulders jerking, concealed from onlookers by Drift’s supporting arm.

“…Thank you,” Rodimus murmured, rolling his head slightly towards Drift. “You're too good to me.”

-----

From across the oil house in a darkened hallway, Ratchet stood leaned against the wall as he watched Drift console the hot mess of his former captain. There on 'standby', he had no intentions of taking part in today's celebrations. Not that he didn’t agree with it, just done with the war and all of the remnants of it. To see a society so excitable over the death of another bot filled him further with pessimistic bitterness. To him, it was just another bot dying for nothing. No progress would be made of it.

Despite his bitter nihilism, Ratchet cared deeply for a select few and how this would affect them. Drift predominantly, and if Drift was worried about Rodimus, well then he was worried about Rodimus too.

There was a buzz of static and a flash of light which blared from the monitors, resulting in an uproar from the crowds gathered in both the oil house and throughout the streets. Bots flooded in closer to the screens as the voice of a council orator began to speak.

Ratchet cursed, swinging his head away in disdain. He had no interest in watching this garbage today; he had seen enough death in his lifetime, so watching a screening of it on his free-time would be absurd. He glanced back to where Drift was consoling Rodimus. His cold spark pinged slightly at the state of him. Such an impressionable bot, getting so unhealthily attached to anything that remotely resembled a parental figure. Disgusting that Megatron was ever given the chance in the first place. Optimus set the poor kid up to hurt before promptly dying there after. Idiot.

He looked back again towards the monitor, following Rodimus’ saucer-optics stare to find Megatron, restrained with spark exposed. He was slightly taken aback by it. He never imagined a day where he would see Megatron so tolerant of such ministrations to his frame. Than again, he never anticipated seeing the day Megatron renounced Decepticonism either. As a doctor, such imagery had little effect on him, he’d seen bots in such position of vulnerability millions of times; However, for Rodimus, it was likely quite distressing. ‘For the love of Primus,’ he thought, as if his scolding thoughts could reach Megatron’s processor. ‘Don’t you dare make this any worse for Rodimus.’

-----

The resonating ting of his pattering steps down the metal corridor was comically light. Minimus pressed on with speed and purpose, his frame devoid of Magnus armor now, though it wouldn't matter; they already had his spark signature on file. He marched towards the witness hall, attempting to subdue the pit in his tanks with a false air of superiority. Passing two guards, who stared for far too long with dumbfounded expressions, he noticed their perplexed glances shifting between him and their scanner before they yelled out after him.

“Hey, you! State your role and purpose-”

“That would be 'Excuse me, Sir'!” he chastised, spinning around aggressively.

Approaching him somewhat cautiously, the guards looked down at their spark scanner while also placing servos on their weapons. “These scanners are saying that you are Ultra Mag-“

“That is because I AM Ultra Magnus,” he declared, his servos landing on his hips as he leaned forward in a posturing position. “And you are keeping me from my assigned role as a witness to the execution. Which I better not miss.”

The two guards exchanged confused glances. One of them pressed a finger to their audial, undoubtedly sending out a com. Minimus realized this was not going to be as simple as he thought.

“Forgive us, uh, sir?” One of the guards began, patronizingly. “But you are going to need to step aside and-”

“WHAT?” Minimus roared, holding out his identifier tag now. “Two spark scans and an identifier code, and you still don’t accept-“

“You don’t look anything like Ultra Magnus,” one guard interrupted, moving around Minimus to box him in.

“Yeah,” the other guard accused bluntly. “You’re looking more like a Decepticon minibot to me.” He reached down quickly, snatching Minimus’s upper arm with a powerful jerk.

Really?! How astoundingly racist. Were his red optics enough to be considered a Decepticon? Three authentication procedures be damned?

“Release me this instant! This is a major violation under- URK!” A fist smashed into his left faceplate, sending him whirling to the floor, his frame skipping twice off the metal.

“Shut up, a MAJOR violation would be impersonating a senior officer. Pick him up.”

Dazed from the hit, Minimus struggled to prop himself up, his servo lifting to his olfactory sensors only to come away bloodied in fresh energon. Distantly, he heard a bell ringing, and with stark realization, he knew that it was the start of the Execution screening. He only had minutes now.

“No,” he coughed, attempting to move towards the noise. Rough servos clasped his shoulder plating hard enough to dent the metal, lifting him clean off the ground. “You’re making a mis-“ a punch to his abdominal plating had him keeled over, peds not even touching the floor.

“Let’s get him out of here quick, I wanna watch that fragger die in real-time,” one guard murmured to the other, dragging Minimus in the opposite direction of the Witness room.

“No… wait,” he pleaded weakly, unable to catch a vent as his bent fans kept stalling.

“At ease!” An approaching voice hollered from behind them. The two guards stopped immediately, standing tall and leaving Minimus dangling in the air, fans clicking and vents hitching. He knew that voice…

��What is all of this about, soldier? Explain.”

The smarter of the two began, stuttering over their words at first. “Sir! We found this Decepticon trying to infiltrate the witness hall, claiming to be Ultra Magnus, Sir!”

“Ultra Magnus, huh?” the voice began to round on him with the speaker almost in his line of view. “Definitely doesn’t seem to fit the build, now does he?” The bot stepped in front of him. Minimus cowered slightly. Prowl. He and Prowl haven’t exactly been seeing ‘optic to optic’ as of late. Their relationship had soured further with Minimus’ appointment to Megatron’s case. Now would be a perfect time for Prowl to do what he does best. Act out about it.

“…Prowl...please,” he wheezed.

“Would we know each other, little bot?” Prowl teased while leaning down, olfactory sensors remaining high and mighty. He smirked. Minimus's spark sank.

“I- I know we have never agreed on methods, Prowl,” he started, his voice still shaky. “I-”

“-Was just going to stroll into a live broadcast and shatter the legend for everyone on Cybertron, and on such a joyous, sought-after day? All to make your best friend happy? How incredibly selfish, Minimus,” Prowl spat venomously in a mocking sneer, leaning in close to minimize what his underlings heard.

“Magnus, the Armor, I’m done with it. Through,” Minimus continued, hissing through dentae at the effort. ”After today, we can go our separate ways.”

“I think we can do that right now, actually,” Prowl smirked, standing to his full height. “Brig this Decepticon sympathizer, I’ll deal with him after the show,” he ordered the two guards before turning back to the execution chamber. “I don’t want to miss Megatron’s face when he realizes you’re not coming.”

“NO, PROWL,” Minimus thrashed, kicking but unable to land anything substantial. No longer having might on his side, he had to think. He had to think of something fast. What would work on someone as cynical, calculating, and arrogant as Prowl?

Blackmail.

“Overlord!” Minimus shouted, craning his neck back towards the direction Prowl was walking. He stopped abruptly. Listening.

*I am aware of your involvement with the release of Overlord, Who is still out there! Don’t you think for a second that anyone has forgotten* Minimus commed, the blackmail would fall short if others listen in.

*As I recall, your crew played an unmistakable role in that…Mishap* Prowl didn’t move, back stiff. Calculating.

*Under your direction, discretion, and trusted advisement. Overlord was a prisoner assigned to you and you foremost.* Minimus bit back, he was getting further and further away. He could hear the orator beginning to read out the jury’s sentencing.

*And?* Prowl spat back, turning his head to glance, a sliver of blue shining from his silhouette.

*Nobody needs to know* There was no reply. Minimus panicked briefly, knowing any further discussion or clarification would ruin the offer. He just needed Prowl to take the hook.

“Drop him,” Prowl commanded to his bots after careful consideration. Mimimus hit the ground hard, crumpling to his knees. He could hear Prowl approaching quickly. “Dismissed,” he hissed with a wave of his servo. The guards nodded, continuing their march down the hall. Before he could rise, a ped slammed into the crease of his back painfully, pinning him back down into a crouched position.

“You’re going to go in there, make googly optics at your genocidal BFF, watch him die, and then I am never going to see you again. Do you understand?” Prowl leaned down to whisper the threat directly into Minimus’ audio receptors.

“I wouldn’t have it any other way…” Minimus grunted, shrugging Prowl’s ped off his back. A rag fell to the floor in front of his face.

“You tripped on your way here, smashed your face into the bulkhead. You needed a minute to look presentable. That is why we are late,” Prowl hummed as he walked away.

Minimus took the rag, dabbing the drying energon from his faceplates as he rose shakingly to his peds. Perhaps he was a Decepticon sympathizer, he thought as he began to limp after Prowl’s steady steps. Never has he ever thought so lowly of the Autobot peacetime they had created.

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