#Sentio

[thats-why-i-used-it]

note: i used the pic from under the cut for this. their apearances are based on the official character moodboards on tiktok.

based on this post.

Levio (left) Sasha (middle) Quentin (left), Queshio from Wrongwayisland by @bigmack2go

#wrongway island #queshio #wwi #sashio #sentio #quentio #sashtin #sasha #quentin #levio #levio wrongway island #sasha wrongway island #quentin wrongway island #wrongway island tag #art #fanart #Wrong way island art #wrongway island fanart #queshio fanart #sentio fanart

[bigmack2go]

Here are some of the ships of my book. Including non-canon ones, past ones and unrequited ones. Shipnames were all made by my bsf but she doesn’t have tumblr so i cant tag her. Anyway see the tags for more of them

Sentio/queshio(/ghostseeker): sasha x Quentin x levio c (sorta p)

Penne: Parker x nevio ur c

Pelle: parker x levio p

Royalfighter/fighterprince: peter x diego c

Smash: smilla x sasha c p

smashio: smilla x sasha x levio (c(?)) p

Lightweight: liv x parker hc (I honestly have no idea where that even came from)

Lesther: liv x esther c

Tilo: lilo x tom c (p(?))

Smom/smombie: tom x sam x smilla (basically just all the bad guys lol) hc

Ghosthunter: levio x Quentin c p

Quasha/lonleyghost: sasha x quentin hc (sorta p)

#wwi #wrongway island #wrongway island tag #edit later tag #queshio #sentio #sentio wwi #wwi queshio #penne #penne wwi #pelle #pelle wwi #royal worrior #royal worrior wwi #smash #smash wwi #smashio #smashio wwi #lightweight #lighzweight wwi #lesther #lesther wwi #tilo #tilo wwi #smom wwi #smom #smombie #smombie wwi #headcannons

[lyrics2world]

If We’ll Ever Be Remembered Lyrics - Martin Garrix & Shaun Farrugia

If We’ll Ever Be Remembered Lyrics – Martin Garrix & Shaun Farrugia

If We’ll Ever Be Remembered Lyrics from Sentio is the latest English song sung by Martin Garrix, Shaun Farrugia.If We’ll Ever Be Remembered song lyrics written by Albin Nedler, Martin Garrix, Shaun Farrugia and produced by Martin Garrix.This song published by STMPD RCRDS. If We’ll Ever Be Remembered Song Details Song: If We’ll Ever Be Remembered Album: Sentio Singer: Martin Garrix, Shaun…

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#Martin Garrix #Sentio #Shaun Farrugia

[transingthoseformers]

In an universe where budding is a thing, maybe two (or more) bots can split off metal for the same sparkling? Then it'd be less of a mass loss for each bot and more recoverable? Then it'd propably also look like a mix of the parents, unless the soark dictates the appearance and altmode.

(I'm not talking about sex, i'm talking about them literally splitting metal off into a single protofor

That makes sense! Kinda?

It's sexual reproduction without the sex part but definitely not asexual reproduction which is one individual. Somewhere in between maybe? Maybe I'm trying to biology out a nonbiological process

I'm imagining it's a lot less of a randomized process, except maybe when it comes to altmode because iicr in your works spark typically determines altmode. But I can see this process certainly determining a general size estimate if we're involving mass displacement here, perhaps the color palette we're working with, and some design aspects that have little to nothing to do with altmode such as helm shape?

#maccadam #transformers #tf worldbuilding? #i feel like in this scenario it's both the protoform and the spark that determines how they look #if spark transplants are possible in this au i'd imagine the reborn individual would look somewhat different but somewhat similar #retaining the same altmode and some design details but perhaps different color palette and some design differences? #kind of a little bit like how bayverse Megatron changes in DSotM and AOE as he's rebuilt? #KSI used his cna they didn't know what cna as a blueprint but new ''transformium'' (which is legit just sentio Metallico) #every fic i have read has made that connection too #maybe ignore me

[fascinationex]

my starscream × oc fic only grows and I've really indulged in the horror implications of the s1 finale

like: if earth is unicron's undying but slumbering body, then all these energon deposits feeding the decepticons are just clots in the ancient wounds of an eldritch god,,,

like: if the humans evolved on his husk then they're basically space scraplets gnawing on the bones of a fallen deity, and they're made out of the same stuff as cybertronians are in different, carbon-heavy, wet ratios—

me: and isn't starscream just so enriched by all this perspective I've given him!!!!

starscream: ...I hate it here.

#starscream × oc fic #each new thought makes him just a little queasier #like the unmitigated horror of discovering sentio metallico in a human #these mutant parasites arranged in a mockery of cybertronian shape...

[sketchtxt]

I haven't been sharing any of the refs for an au I'm working on (they're outdated by now anyway) but I couldn't help sharing my little guy :) I'm very proud of him.

also I kind of forgot I drew this on a big canvas so you can't see all the little details that well. but that's okay

#🌵 art tag #yes his name is a reference #i actually named them all after the characters from pokemon 😭 cogito/sentio/volo #but “cogito ergo sum” is most-known i believe

[lord-squiggletits]

Before I realized that sparks (in most continuities) are actual physical organs in the body of TFs, I always imagined sparks as just intangible orbs of light floating inside a protective shell or something similar. And whenever I was interested in writing about sparklings (which I rarely do, because I don’t really like Transformers sexual reproduction), I imagined that new sparks are created from spark merging. The newspark simply orbits around the carrier’s spark and slowly gathers its own energy until it’s strong enough to be placed inside of a frame. Newsparks can also be moved between partners as long as the host mech’s spark is strong enough to handle a newspark orbiting around inside of it.

#squiggposting #sparklings #idk i was just thinking about this again #i just think if i had to have TFs reproducing that's how i'd do it #they just make new sparks and then the sparks can be put inside a constructed body #or i guess a forged one if they're near a hotspot with sentio metalico? #anyways. just imagine little baby sparks orbiting the parent's main spark #parents transferring the spark back and forth between their chests with repeated spark merges #i just think it's cute

[askvectorprime]

Do Transformers have scars?

Dear Cutting Remark,

Yes. Our metal, like your skin, is alive. The sentio metallico that often covers us was originally a more rigid external shell to provide our internal components with radiation shielding, or protect us from energon loss. (In fact, the Pretender process could be considered a second iteration of this idea.) But eventually, the shell became alive, and a part of us. When it is damaged, time and energon will repair it. Sometimes even unliving metal can be metabolized into sentio metallico with a sufficient amount of energon.

Unless energon or components are particularly scarce, it is usually a conscious choice not to repair damage to our bodies—sometimes informed by religious or cultural beliefs about the sanctity of the Cybertronian form, but often for personal, individual reasons. Many of the victims of the battle of Babu Yar chose to bear the wounds inflicted by Gideon’s Glue. After Cyclonus learned of Tailgate’s terminal diagnosis, he kept the scratches he gouged into his own faceplate. The scratch Wheeljack bore across his Autobot insignia served as a reminder of Hot Shot’s betrayal. It goes to show that our scars are as much mental as they are physical.

#ask vector prime #transformers #maccadam #sentio metallico #living metal #pretenders #energon #idw transformers #cyclonus #tailgate #unicron trilogy #wheeljack #hot shot #thunderbolt50

[deathbyoctopi]

hahahaha to think that Xue Yang is such an unrestrained hurricane of chaotic murder in the Canon events (kills people, ends entire sects, tortures, manipulates, goads, threatens, played the evil scientist for the Jins, talked the only person he ever loved to death, has a body count probably in the triple digits and don’t get me started on the necromancy)...

...that “just” massacring the chang clan can be considered Not Doing That Much Horrible Shit in this au. See, this is a restrained xue yang. what a good boy. Give him a medal XDDD

The Prisoner of Jinlintai by @fieri-sentio-et-excrucior   Read it. 

#mdzs fics #the untamed #xue yang #fieri-sentio-et-excrucior #xuexiao #at least so promise the tags #let's wait and see #thank gods for ao3 and every single one of its writers

[iamsancho]

#these are two of the many definitions of the word 'sentio' on wiktionary #and the phrasing and placement is so funny #hahaha

[mer1099]

Odi et amo. Quare id faciam, fortasse requiris.

Nescio, sed fieri sentio et excrucior.

I hate and I love. Why I do this, perhaps you ask.

I know not, but I feel it happening and I am tortured.

#nimona #nimona fanart #nimona art #nimona novel #ambrosius goldenloin #goldenheart #ballister x ambrosius #ambrosius x ballister #ballister blackheart #blackloin #nimona comicsverse #nimona book #nimona webcomic #nimona comic

[cozy-brew]

I would love this room :)

Source: sentio design studio

#cottagecore #cottage aesthetic #cozy cottage #cottage life #fairy core #fairytalecore #fairy aesthetic #fairycore #cozycore #fairy cottage

[wifetomegatron]

a study in metal and silk. mtmte imagines.

I think there's just something about the stark contrast between fabric and metal that makes me feral. The sharp, striking counterpoint of sentio metallico against human skin. It makes me lightheaded to think of the gentle brushes and soft strokes exchanged between cybertronians and their humans lovers — how painfully tender these titans try to be with hands that have most likely torn ships apart.

Fort Max holding your coat up and letting you glide one arm in after the other, cashmere wool against cyberium — and to think that when in oil form, it has the chance of poisoning you. Yet welded into his armor, the metal was ( what you claimed ) your favorite thing about him. You'd pepper kisses along his servos, feather-light and playful, against each finger to thank him for being such a gentlemech. He was always at a loss when it came to your soft gestures as if his hands hadn't been bloodied and torn and scathed with energon. Yet he doesn't have the strength to protest when you lay your cheek against his palm, which was big enough to cover your entire head, even with his mass displaced.

First Aid helping his beloved into their shirt, your eyes barely open as the sunlight hits you square in the face. You wanted to ask him why he had opened the curtains this early in the morning, on a Sunday too, but you can't seem to focus on anything else but his servos. The bed creaked and dipped on his side, the mattress straining under his weight even if you've lined it with a layer of metal below. He looks funny against the pristine blankets, and despite his reputation for a set of steady hands, they were still bulky and square. So he takes his time looping the buttons into their respective holes, and you rest your forehead against his shoulder, already lulling back to sleep. Your heartbeat was a strange, distant sound against the humming of his spark.

Minimus slowly eased his human out of their ballet slippers, untying the ribbons one by one: careful, patient, servos already soothing the irritated skin. The pink satin looks alien against his grip, out of place. And yet he handles them with care, knowing how much you prize them. His mouth ghosts over your knee, trailing down as he massages your ankle. He's saying something about not pushing yourself too hard, and you want to call him out for being a hypocrite, but it's impossible to speak when you're drowning in the sensation of his touch as it brushes over the hem of your skirt. So you sit in silence; admiring, watching, as he continues to give you a lecture (lovingly, of course).

Rodimus, adjusting you as you cling onto his back, arms looped around his neck as he grips both of your thighs on either side of his waist. He gives you a playful squeeze, and you laugh into his jugular cables, high heels — black leather and polymer — dangling off your fingers as he piggybacks you back home. He tells you that you should've gone with the more practical choice, and you tease him about sounding like his co-captain. Relishing in the subtle thrum of his frame against your chest, slumping forward to press your lips against his cheek — smooth, unbending, yet warm to the touch. Different from your perception of what metal feels like, you have to remind yourself living metal is far from cold. 

Ratchet sliding your gloves over your hands, the article of clothing an inconvenient little thing to a Cybertronian. And yet, for you, they help keep the cold out — especially when insulated by wool. The golden brooch by the ends of each wrist glinted under the streetlamp. Above, snowflakes danced in the light, a choreographed ballet conducted by the gentle wind. You tell him you feel warmer already, yet the medic doesn't seem convinced, holding your arms and lifting your fingers to his intake. He ex-vents, once, twice, the air warm enough for you to feel past the fabric. He then lays your palms across his chest and scoffs, pulling you flush against him. Ratchet says that if you were cold, you should've said it ages ago.

(suggestive, mdni!)

Megatron kneeling before you, servos dextrous as they give your stockings an experimental tug upwards, before rolling them down to your knee in one fluid movement. He hovers his intake over your inner thigh, the stiff arch of his helm, dipping against the curve of your skin. Your breathing quickened, and he seemed to hear this, already moving to undo the other leg. He holds you like you'll break any second. As if you were a porcelain doll, a thing of glass. You tell him that you can be malleable. That you can learn to bend and embrace him — and he seems drunk at the thought. He pushed the straps of your chemise, thin and flimsy, down each shoulder. Easing you back on the bed. And the fabric pooled around your waist to reveal your chest, silk moving like water against the seams of his plating.

#this is just an excuse for me to write about my wardrobe #considering that i have two wardrobes #i shall be writing more of these #transformers x reader #transformers x you #first aid #transformers idw #tf mtmte #mtmte #transformers mtmte #idw mtmte #mtmte x reader #mtmte imagines #lost light #idw transformers #transformers lost light #tf headcanons #tf imagines #tf idw #transformers headcanons #transformers hc #tf hc #lost light x reader #lost light au #rodimus #ultra magnus #minimus ambus #ratchet #imagines #transformers imagine

[anon-e-miss]

A Tough of Sight - 9

Somehow, Prowl lost all concept of time. They lingered at the lunch table. The soup Punch had served a crusty loaf of energon bread to dip in it, was rich and flavourful. Prowl could not think of a time where he had tasted better fuel. It was simpler fare than he had been served in the palace and superior in every way. Perhaps his regular diet of cheap cubes had dulled his pallet but he did not believe that to be the case. Punch’s cooking was not about impressing his betters, it was about fuelling and comforting the mechanisms he fed. Bluestreak did a happy wiggle as he ate the soup and Prowl smiled as Smokescreen snickered. Though Prowl could not see Bluestreak’s face, his doorwings did not have the sensors for such fine detail, he could see his shape, see the cant of his doorwings and Prowl new he was enjoying his meal.

“Such a sweetspark,” Punch praised Bluestreak. “Did ya wanna help me wit the tapestry ‘m weavin’? O’ course ya won’t wreck it, Bitlet.”

“Bluestreak has never taken so easily to any mech,” Prowl told Jazz as he stayed at the table as Jazz cleared it.

“Except for you, Creator,” Smokescreen corrected him.

“It was really more you he was taken with, Smokescreen,” Prowl told his creation. “He was quite terrified me when you brought him to me. In fairness to him, I could not have been pleasant to look at.”

“How’d ya find Bitty Blue, Smokey?” Jazz asked. Prowl’s sparked fluttered in a funny way. It would have been unheard of for anyone to be so familiar with Smokescreen, even Prowl had been to free in their interactions. They were sweet pet-designations.

“I was looking for medicine for Creator,” Smokescreen explained. Prowl listened to the harmonics in Smokescreen’s voice, ready to hush him and to warn the Lord Inquisitor off but Smokescreen’s voice was clear and strong. “Creator doesn’t complain but he was in so much pain and he was running a fever ‘cause the burns were infected. He was resting and I wasn’t supposed to go far... but I did. I heard running energon. We hadn’t had anything to eat or drink in... forever it felt like... I thought it would help, maybe. I followed the sound into a cave. I found Bluestreak all alone sitting on the far side of an underground river. Everything before that had been scorch but the river must have stopped it because everything on his side was... perfect.”

“How long were the three o’ ya travellin’ alone for?” Jazz asked.

“A quartex,” Prowl replied. “I think. We stumbled upon a refugee camp.”

“They tried to chase us off,” Smokescreen had a sneer in his voice.

“They were scared,” Prowl hushed him.

“You were hurt,” Smokescreen countered.

“I was not the only one,” Prowl replied.

No, Prowl had not been the only injured mechanism in the camp. The stench of infection had been been everywhere Prowl had turned. There had only been one mechanism in camp with any training in first aid, a farmer’s creation who had learned to tend the ills of the sheepacron they had raised. With smoke still hanging heavy in the air, it had kept the odour of rotting sentio-metallico from fading. There had been no solvent, no coolant and no clear source of energon. Prowl had taken the mechlings away from camp in search of a few breaths of clean air. He had almost missed the faint tinkle of the wiluite they walked past. His audials and doorwings had not been so well tuned then and he had felt blindly along the ground for a while before uncovering a cluster of crystals under the broken root of a fallen tree. Another survivor had found a creek and between the two pumices and tisanes had been brewed and more of the wounded had survived thanks to these interventions than otherwise might have.

“I learned I could find crystals blind,” Prowl explained. “I did not plan to forage for our living but I learned quickly that begging is a dangerous way to try and survive. Traffickers tried to buy the mechlings from me and I knew I had to do something else lest one of these monsters snatch them from me when my guard was down. I trained my doorwings and my audials to guide my servos. We do not prosper but we do well.”

“I can see clear as crystal how well ya take care o’ these two,” Jazz said. “Ya must o’ had Blue seen by a medic.”

“There is no physical cause to his mutism,” Prowl explained. “And so nothing for them to treat. Often, even his servos are mute, his doorwings usually are. I do not know precisely what he saw but I know it was a horror because that is the story all Praxians share. Every time he becomes a little surer of his “voice” something spoils it. I am amazed at how well he has bounced back this time.”

“This time?”

“The teacher at the temple screamed at him for not answering,” Smokescreen explained. “He knew Blue doesn’t talk but he thought we were making excuses and making him weak. I got in his face and he hit me. See? You can see the scar. Fixit said it’ll probably disappear since I’m young and healthy.”

“Did ya report the slagsucker?” Jazz asked, his tone dark and foreboding as he looked over Smokescreen’s servo. He did not apologize for his crass language. Prowl elected not to scold him.

“The medic I called did,” Prowl replied. “The priest we spoke to at the Cornerstone took issue as well. I believe the cur will be disciplined.”

“Good,” Jazz said. “If they leave anythin’ for me, I might put some licks in o’ my own.”

“You do not need to trouble yourself,” Prowl replied.

“Ain’t trouble,” Jazz replied. “Scrappin’ bullies is a pleasure.”

Prowl imagined Jazz meant it. He knew the duties of the Lord Inquisitor did not end at operating a spy network and he doubted Jazz prioritized keeping his servos cleaning when enemies were revealed, either from within Iacon or beyond its borders. The Optics of Praxus had not been so different, though Prowl could not picture Camshaft walking through markets to recruit his agents, Praxus chief spy had bloodied his servos when the situation called for it. Prowl had lived his whole life under the watchful gaze of hundreds of spies, both those employed by the Optics and those employed by any number of dukes and earls, each of them waiting for him to make a misstep and he had always thought Camshaft to be the exact same sort until the last Optics of Praxus had defied Nightstalker and abetted the escape of the sparklings of executed lords, “traitors” to the Emperor’s reign. Camshaft had paid for that act of mercy with his life. Faced with the same situation, Prowl believe Jazz would make the same choice but perhaps that was just wishful thinking.

Somehow, they visited so long with Jazz and Punch that Punch insisted they might as well stay for dinner. Smokescreen had been delighted by the invitation to help with dinner. He had never cooked, neither had Prowl, princes did not dirty their servos with such menial tasks. If a prince wished to occupy his servos, he might go hunting, write poetry or arrange crystals. Though the nobility often had greenhouses on their estates, they were usually staffed by gardeners. They might play about with propagation but they did not turn the soil or weed the garden beds. Prowl had been consider eccentric for his tending his own crystals and for dancing for them. As it had stood, many of his predecessors had been known for eccentricities and his gardening hobby had been quite mild compared to those of his ancestors, and his elder brother.

Jazz dug out a bag and marbles and showed Bluestreak how to play the game. Prowl stretched his doorwings wide and basked in moment. Smokescreen snickered at something Punch said and Bluestreak’s near mute doorwings fluttered as Jazz praised him. These were good mechs, truly good mechs. Prowl could believe Jazz did the work he did for the sake of the citizens of Iacon and not for fame and fortune. They both appeared to shun the temples and yet they were more godly mechs than any priest Prowl had known. He doubted he would be of much use of to Jazz, beyond reporting on counterfeit coin or petty scams. Apart from his time spent selling crystals, Prowl was reclusive. It was not an accident that he put his mat down well away from the corner of the market most Praxians. Though neither he or Smokescreen wore the armour of royalty, Prowl feared someone might one mega-cycle recognize them. His burns served as something of a mask and Smokescreen had largely been kept from public view but even if it was unlikely, it was not impossible that they might one mega-cycle cross paths with someone who had attended court and there was nothing that scared him more.

“Let me walk ya home,” Jazz said after dinner.

Prowl thought he should demure. He knew the market, as did his creations but Prowl knew Jazz would insist and Punch would as well. Beyond that, Prowl found he liked the Lord Inquisitor’s company. Bluestreak’s doorwings danced on his back. They did not move in a manner that “spoke” glyphs but in emotion. Bluestreak held knit lupinoid toy to his chassis. Punch had given it to him from his stock. It was now the single most precious thing in Bluestreak’s world. Smokescreen gave Bluestreak and “Woof” a piggyback ride as Prowl walked behind with Jazz, keeping his creations “in sight” in the only way he had. The air was cool on his plating but not unpleasantly so. Soon Saltus would give way to Calor and the dark-cycles would become unpleasantly hot. Such was the way of the seasons. In the next quartex Prowl would need to forage for the crystals that would disappear or go dormant during Calor, to awaken the next Saltus. He would treat them with a tincture to preserve them for sale for the quartexes to come. Prowl paused at the door when they reached his building. Jazz opened the door for him.

“Ori’d expect me to see ya all the way home,” Jazz said. Prowl smiled and he supposed that was true but Jazz, for all his lack of courtly manners was a gentlemech to his core. Insisting on his originator’s behalf was simply a convenient excuse.

“If you wish,” Prowl replied. “Thank you. Your originator is a wonderful mech.”

“When he told ya to come by any time to take a meal, he meant it,” Jazz said. “I hope ya know. He’d love to see more o’ yer bitties. He’s got a hankerin’ for grandbitties and he don’t got any comin’ from me or Rico.”

“Neither you nor your twin have intendes or conjunxes?” Prowl asked.

“Rico’s sweetspark died in riot back in Polyhex,” Jazz explained. “Don’t think he’s even ready to look for someone to open his spark to again. ‘N I... guess I’ve always thought wit my work, it would be too dangerous. I got enemies ‘n I can handle’em but I couldn’t handle’m comin’ after my family.”

“Are you afraid for Punch?” Prowl asked.

“More afraid for anyone dumb ‘nough to test’m,” Jazz replied. “I learned everythin’ I know from ‘m. I thought he outta have this job ‘n not me but he’s where he wants to be.”

“He seems... happy,” Prowl said. “Genuinely so.”

“Thank ya,” Jazz sighed. “I always worry ‘m just bein’ hopeful thinkin’ the same. It was hard, real hard when my genitors died. A part o’m died wit them and he lived for our sake. I was startled to feel like he was findin’ his joy again.”

“I do believe he is,” Prowl turned his helm to “look” down at Jazz and smile. He paused as he stepped on the next stair. “Oh! Swindle fixed the lose step!”

“I may o’ had a glyph wit’em,” Jazz told him. “He knows I got ya in my... protection I guess. He won’t give ya trouble. Mech’s so scared o’ bein’ poor again he’s stingy but he’s more scared o’ me than losin’ his coin.”

“You are familiar with each other?” Prowl asked.

“He’s a useful mech to know,” Jazz replied. “Sell information, it’s usually good. I killed his conjunx so he gives me a good deal... He deserved it. Sold their mechling a creep that fancies youngling.”

“The monster,” Prowl hissed.

“I got Devcon back for’m and made’m a window so even though a scare the scrap outta him, Swindle, sorta likes me,” Jazz explained. “Was this the only suite available when ya came lookin’ for a place?”

“It was,” Prowl said. “With some many refugees, it was hard to find any place we would not have to share. Swindle is... stingy but in his defence, I never complained about the step. I wanted us to be left be he does and that’s all I really ask.”

“If ya e’er find yerself in a bind, go to ‘m,” Jazz said. “If ya can’t find me or Ori. He’ll keep ya safe ‘til I can take over.”

“Are you sure?” Prowl asked.

“100%.”

“I’ll let ya get to berth,” Jazz said. “Wit the mechlings started their new school in the light-cycle ya probably wanna get’em down quick.”

“Thank you, yet,” Prowl said. The priest we spoke to spoke some chirolinguistics. He promised the instructors would all be made aware and they provice meals to all their students.”

“Sounds like a good place for ‘em for sure,” Jazz said. “I’ll see ya soon.”

“Good dark-cycle, Jazz.”

The mechlings said their goodbyes. Bluestreak gave him a quick hug. It really had been the perfect mega-cycle. They had good fuel in their bellies and the promise of more. Fuel alone might help Smokescreen find some value in his class. Prowl had a loaf of bread for a snack as he sold his crystals throughout the cycle and Punch had told him to expect a visit around lunchtime. He would likely be well-fuelled to. It had been a perfect mega-cycle but it had been a long one. The mechlings had been gathering with him for joors before Jazz had appeared and they would normally have gone to their berth a joor earlier but none of that mattered. This would be a mega-cycle Prowl would dream about for a long time. Smokescreen crawled into berth first, followed by Bluestreak would curled up with his new toy and made a silent, blissful sigh. Prowl crawled into berth last, with doorwings uncovered, facing the door, watching the door, as they recharged.

“Jazz thinks your pretty,” Smokescreen said as he made himself comfortable.

“Oh I do not believe that at all,” Prowl’s intakes flexed and his glossa felt thick and awkward.

“He couldn’t stop looking at you and smiling with googly optics,” Smokescreen replied.

“He has a visor,” Prowl said. “I know the shape.”

“Doesn’t stop googly optics.”

“Silly mechling,” Prowl huffed. Smokescreen snickered as they all snuggled together under their one blanket. Prowl drifted down to recharge with Smokescreen’s glyph repeating in his helm. He rarely dreamt in colour but this dark-cycle he saw his processor’s imagining of Punch’s shop and all the colourful things Bluestreak had been delighted by. There was laughter in the kitchen as Punch prepared a treat with the mechling. He imagined one of the laughs as Bluestreak, sweet and innocent. Jazz pulled him towards a private corner. Prowl threw off the blanket as he broke into a coughing fit. It was too hot. The air was heavy with acrid smoke. He walked towards the door and felt a wall of heat too intense to pass. Prowl heard it crackling. Fire.

“See the demon burns? See? See?” Prowl heard his crazed old neighbour yelling a mechanisms that were not there. “Yes... Yes... I will’ll be transformed.”

“Aiiiiiie!”

“Creator!” Smokescreen called out, coughing as he did.

“To the window!” Prowl ordered, between coughs. “There is no other way out!”

#anon-e-miss writes #maccadams #valveplug #tf prowl #tf jazz #tf punch #A Touch of Sight