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Mature Content Filter is On
(Contains: sexual themes)

A/N: A tad rushed; I usually take weeks to write a thing, but here's a little something. Takes place on Cybertron after PR. Smokescreen x Bumblebee, ficlet, weird kink, puke warning.

May be using Smokescreen as a therapeutic vessel to alter my perception of things like grief, loss, anxiety and vomiting, yadda yadda. I went a good few months without one attack like that, but it suddenly happened earlier this week. Feels good to get this out of my system. This is why writing is so neat, man. Isn't writing so wonderful? Anyway, here's Wonderwall. (Happy belated birthday, Skymachine! This-a one goes out to you—What would the world BE without your kink plague bombs. Getting people into all kinds of shit, man. Respect.)



Smokescreen started slightly in his seat and looked up at Bumblebee. "Hey," he said back, internally wincing at how much static was in his voice.

Bee heard it but didn't ask anything yet. He sat on the berth and let a servo rest on his friend's backstrut. Smokescreen's plating was tight and his field fluttered like a moth in a jar.

Things had been busy. The good kind of busy, though. Working all day long with the Vehicons to get shelter built, charge so low by nightfall that sometimes they didn't even have the energy to hit the washracks.

Everything was coming along nicely. Cybertron was glowing. They were home. Sometimes Smokescreen got a little emotional about it. Somehow he felt guilty and uneasy. Like he had a tank full of rocks and tar.

The older bots had a lifetime of memories here. They knew what it was like to live normal lives. To pay the bills. Stay up late to avoid expediting another long, wistful day of work.

To greet another bot with a hello instead of a blaster.

Bee pulled him close. "You okay?" he asked, faceplate in his friend's neck for a little nuzzle.

Smokescreen responded to the closeness immediately, wings flicking at first in tired confusion and then holding the other mech right back.

"Yeah," he said at first. "No. I mean—I'm fine, I feel like scrap but I'm not—uh—"

"Hey, hey," Bumblebee pulled back a little. "S'okay, Smokes."

"Sorry." Smokescreen's servo went on top of his head as he cringed. Bee always caught him when he was about to ramble. It was a nervous thing. He never wanted him to feel nervous when talking about anything, so he tried to reassure him verbally from time to time. Catch him and slow him before he chases his tail.

Thing is, Smokescreen didn't know what he was nervous about. Everything was fine. Right?

"I thought I got over it," he said, and didn't even know how that had been wrenched from the back of his processor.

He thought about Optimus every sol but he hadn't cried about him being gone in a while. It was hard on everyone. But they had to start moving. Everyone managed to find a little place in building homes or newspark nurseries, or processing fuel for 29 hours straight, etc., that helped them not break down when they remembered he was gone.

Smokescreen felt so guilty when he realized that he'd actually forgotten he was gone. He felt guilty that he was happy even though Optimus was dead. Then he would start thinking about Ratchet alone on Earth and the way Wheeljack holds his cube every morning and kinda looks up and out there like he's trying to say something. That would spiral into knowing their human friends would be long dead by the time Cybertron was back to being a thriving planet.

And down the drain he'd go, following the white rabbit.

He'd been doing so well. He was doing well. He was happy. Where did this come from?

Bumblebee squeezed him without a word, though his energy field seemed to have a lot to say. Mostly it said, I understand.

Smokescreen relaxed so much he almost shock-cried. Bee was so amazing. Bee was so amazing, they were home, they had OIL BATHS, and again Bee was so amazing and Smokescreen felt stupid but he was happy and that was okay, damn it.

He went right ahead and kissed Bumblebee, who bwooped with the intent to sabotage.

And Smokey fell for it because he always did, and laughed.

"C'mere," Bee suddenly vocalized low. His optics were doing the thing—THE THING, HE WANTS TO DO IT.


Spark racing, he felt like someone had kneed him in the gut and before he could pull away from Bee hungrily coming in for a proper kiss—he purged—

Right there in his boyfriend's mouth.

It was like it happened in slow motion.

When time returned to normal, Smokescreen whipped his helm away and spluttered the rest of it out on himself.

"SMOKES—" Bumblebee's entire body went rigid and sharp and all he could do was stare and sort of grasp the air.

"I'm so—" His glossa felt like a dead whale and Smokescreen turned to purge again. "Frag, Bee, sorry! Holy slag."

They were covered in half-digested fuel.

When Wheeljack barged in looking for something to smoke, they ended up spending half an hour trying to convince him that this WASN'T what "the kids are doing these days" and that it had happened on accident. They weren't some purge-freaks!

The Wrecker was practically in tears by the end of it, and finally left them alone.

They cleaned each other up with drooping doorwings.

"At least I feel better. We could frag in the washracks?"

Bee tried to ignore that little voice that said you dirty frag.

Technicolor Yawn [Transformers Prime]

A/N: A tad rushed; I usually take weeks to write a thing, but here's a little something. Takes place on Cybertron after PR. Smokescreen x Bumblebee, ficlet, weird kink, puke warning.

May be using Smokescreen as a therapeutic vessel to alter my perception of things like grief, loss, anxiety and vomiting, yadda yadda. I went a good few months without one attack like that, but it suddenly happened earlier this week. Feels good to get this out of my system. This is why writing is so neat, man. Isn't writing so wonderful? Anyway, here's Wonderwall. (Happy belated birthday, Skymachine! This-a one goes out to you—What would the world BE without your kink plague bombs. Getting people into all kinds of shit, man. Respect.)…

Mature Content Filter is On
(Contains: sexual themes and strong language)

A/N: Experimental human AU TFP Wheeljack x Ratchet (Wheeler Jackson x Ramsay Wyatt). Based on setting established in RP where Wheeler is a car mechanic with a blunt sort of charm about him and Ramsay is a wealthy older surgeon possibly having a midlife crisis, lmfao. Contains adult language, references to sex and drugs (YEEHAW!), and one NSFW scene.

This took a few months of me to get a feel for. Wheeler and Ramsay are pretty natural to write but I was so out of practice. It was incredibly satisfying to finally get written.

Feedback appreciated!

It was like they were magnetized. Always running into each other since they met. So they'd wait in line together or Wheeler would follow Ramsay, cracking jokes and making up obnoxious nicknames until the doctor groaned.

Then their meetings started being on purpose. Even if only to bug Ramsay at work or walk to the convenience store together during his break. Wheeler always wanted something spicy, and Ramsay was there to offer his spring water when he breathed fire.

"At least there'll be holes in your stomach to match the ones in your head," he said once as his companion chugged.

"Bet ya say that to all the guys in leather jackets."

Ramsay swiped his bottle back.

It was like this for a little while. At least up until the embarrassing one night stand. Wheeler tried to shrug it off as just some random wild gay experience and Ramsay filed it under "why on earth did I think a straight car mechanic would be good in bed? I must be an idiot."

After that they went on with their usual bullshit lives. Or tried to. Well. Ramsay could've gone to a different shop when his car broke down two months later. He glared a hole into the business card for seven minutes, the name Wheeler Jackson burning up in his eyes.

By the time the tow truck pulled his car there, he was ready to throw something at that stupid idiot for A) Not fucking fixing his car right the first time and B) Being a LOUSY FUCK!

But he wasn't there. Of course he fucking wasn't. Ramsay haggled the other mechanics even harder so he could ignore the realization that he'd wanted to see him. And that he was even angrier because he didn't get to.

That night he ripped up the business card and ordered a new bed spread online.

There. All better. He could just pretend it never happened.

Back in the hospital the next morning, Ramsay felt relief and a clear head. As the days went by, his mood got better and better. The nurses even commented on the spring in his step and were delighted when he joined them for lunch one late afternoon.

A lunch that lurched in his stomach when he rounded to corner to his office.

There Wheeler stood at his door with two fragrant bags of takeout, looking like the sorriest dog he ever saw.

Ramsay's teeth grinded, chest tightening, careless mood gone. He put up a hand to silence the other before he could begin explaining anything, practically stabbing the door with his key and waiting for Wheeler to go inside before slamming it behind them both.

He flicked the lights on in silence as Wheeler stood there, and finally took a very, very deep breath and turned to face him, arms crossed, waiting.

"I—" Wheeler started, fumbling a little. "The guys said you came by the shop. I felt bad, so..."

Ramsay's eyebrow ticked. "You felt bad," he repeated.

Wheeler glanced at the wall for a nervous moment. "I woulda given ya better service."

The doctor's hand went straight to his face. "Better service," he grumbled, half-muffled.

"Yeah, so—" Wheeler held up one of the bags of food. "I brought Thai."

Ramsay sat down heavily in his chair.

That was one of those "is this my life?" moments. Was he having a fucking midlife crisis? Messing around with some probably mid-30's piece of ass from a car shop?


He heard the irritating rustle of plastic bag and peered through his fingers to see two heavy to-go soups being set down. He could already smell it.

Ramsay sighed sharply. "I have already eaten."

Wheeler was just about to set spoons and forks down. "Alright," he said, feeling like a colossal idiot. He put everything back into the bag and tied a tight knot.

Loud chatter passed through the hallway and they both remained still until it passed.

Another sigh. "Wheeler, what on earth are you doing here?"

The car mechanic stiffened before waving at the bag he'd just tied. "I just fuckin' said I brought Thai food—"

Oh boy. Ramsay tried to interject, "I just meant—"

"We were doin' this shit for a while, I was ridin' all the way here just for lunch, meetin' up just to walk around—"

"Wheeler, will you—"

"Then ya fuck me once and that's it, huh?"

Wheeler's eyes were bright, wound fresh in his voice. Ramsay stared uselessly before he pressed his palm into an eye, feeling a headache coming on. He stood and closed the blinds as more loud nurses passed by, and looked to his companion.

"It wasn't..." Shit. What could he even say? He didn't even really know what happened. It just... did. And it had sucked. He could've argued that Wheeler hadn't even tried to contact him either, but it wasn't about who was wrong.

"Whatever, Doc, enjoy the food."

Ramsay sidestepped around his desk quickly, grabbing the bag and pulling at the knot. "We are going to eat this together, Wheeler."

Wheeler scowled, hands deep in his jacket pockets. "You said you already ate."

Ramsay waved a hand. "Salad."

Wheeler stared for a moment before sagging his shoulders. He shuffled over to help with the bag. "Doc, look, now I feel like a jackass. I shoulda called or somethin' first," he said, grabbing the napkins.

"If you don't shut up, I'm going to send you down the hall for stitches," came Ramsay's smooth threat, and Wheeler tried to keep from smiling.

He tore into the bag, finding a drink and stabbing it with a straw.

"Y'like Thai iced tea?" he asked, handing it to his friend, who stared at it suspiciously.

"These have a lot of sugar in them."


Ramsay gave him a look before finally taking a sip. His face looked like it was going to melt and Wheeler barked a laugh loud enough to startle whoever was in the hallway.

"Shh!" Ramsay threw a pitiful straw wrapper at him, which only made the laughter worse. Ramsay grabbed him by the jacket, feeling riled up in wild way, a feeling he tried to push back behind the line of awareness.

"What, we in a no laughter zone?"

"Exactly," Ramsay said, right in his face.

Wheeler's hands dug into that lab coat but he smirked up at the doctor even more. "Too sweet for ya?"

"Quit yammering," Ramsay ordered, thumbing at the other's waist.

That shut him up alright.

Too sweet? Just maybe. Bad for his health? Definitely. Ramsay pressed his knee forward, putting agonizing pressure on Wheeler's crotch. His hands squeezed ass through worn out jeans. Wheeler groaned at the touch, feeling a jolt to his pelvis.

"Fuck," Wheeler warned as Ramsay nibbled at his collar. The scent of grease and oil and fumes radiated from the mechanic's clothes, making Ramsay crazy. He held his breath and rocked against Wheeler, still gripping his behind.

"If my car breaks down again, I want a membership discount," the doctor murmured into an ear.


"I want a fucking discount."

"Alright, cool, get me some drugs then."

"What?" Ramsay pulled back.

"I thought we were tradin'."

"No! Christ, no, I'm not giving you drugs."

Wheeler shrugged. "Thought it was worth a shot. Some Ritalin might get me through the work day."

Ramsay was certain his eyeballs were about to shoot into the back of his skull. He grabbed at the mechanic's ass again and yanked him close.

The food was getting cold and Ramsay was getting hot. He wanted to eat Wheeler alive. Stupid grin and all. He glanced at the door. Fuck. He'd have to move fast before the interns started bothering him. His desk was already an unorganized mess at the moment, it wouldn't do to have Wheeler sit there. Maybe he could get him on that chair.

"Come here," he said quietly, stepping backwards towards his desk and pulling Wheeler along with him.

"Whoa, really? Here? "Wouldn't peg ya for public fuck—whoa—"

The mechanic tripped over Ramsay's foot and promptly nailed his head on the side of the desk with a solid thunk.

• • •

"Here, Dr. Wyatt."

"Thank you."

Wheeler looked at the nurse's butt when she finally walked away, and cut his gaze back to the man in front of him.

"Hey. Quit makin' that face," he said, and winced a little when Ramsay fixed the bandage into place.

"I am not making a face," the doctor said quietly, glancing to make sure no one was walking by. Dragging Wheeler into the ER out of nowhere had turned a few heads and he was paranoid of their gossip.

"Y'look like ya ran over a nest of baby birds."

Ramsay glared and felt his ears burning. "Well... I'm not so sure you should ride home."

"I took a cab here—'sides, I've had worse than a desk corner to my noggin, Doc."

Ramsay's eyebrow ticked at the nickname, and he paused in thought. "You are staying with me so I can keep an eye on your 'noggin'."

Wheeler looked like he was trying really hard not to laugh, then he blinked.

"You invitin' me over?"

Ramsay put his hands on his hips.

"No pizza for breakfast this time," the doctor said, grabbing his briefcase.

• • •

Once inside, Ramsay removed his coat and squinted at the thermostat. Was it cold enough to start using the heater? He kept forgetting to bring the small space heater inside. At the very least it kept his legs warm while he stayed up late reviewing and editing reports. But it might be nice for his guest's return.

He rolled his eyes at himself. Couldn't believe he'd brought this guy home again. He was getting too old for this shit, but he couldn't say no. He could never say no.

He looked to Wheeler who stood by the door with the takeout. It was definitely cold by now. And for Christ's sake, he could smell the cigarettes, cologne and car oil on Wheeler even stronger in here. He could get hard right then.

Slowly this time was probably for the best though.

"Go ahead and have a quick shower. I'll heat up the food."

"What should I, uh—" Wheeler tried to make a gesture (could he ever talk without moving his body?) and Ramsay took the bags from him.

"Towels are above the geranium."



"Nothin'. Pants?"

"I will handle that."

Wheeler smirked that fucking smirk of his and went up the stairs before Ramsay was able to get snippy.

The doctor exhaled. His new bedspread had just arrived, cleansing him of his last sexual encounter. Fuck it. Maybe the reasoning was he was told old not to do this. Why not enjoy it. He wasn't some young hot guy in medical school anymore. But he could still have fun. He'd have another story to tell Ulysses anyway.

He flicked the kitchen light on and got lost somewhere in the space between his atoms as he warmed their soups and rice on the stove.

He heard the metal squeal as the shower faucet was turned one floor up. He pulled the iced tea out of the bag and glanced at the ceiling. Hm. He indulged in one more sip of syrupy sweetness before lowering the heat and covering their food. Upstairs he went, and slowly entered his room in case Wheeler was for some reason not in the shower yet. He heard the water running steadily and went to his dresser.

Ramsay was sure he had a pair of pants with a drawstring that could—there. Might be a little loose. But it was something clean. He scooped the dirty jeans and t-shirt up with a hum and caught himself smiling as he trotted down the stairs to his washing machine. He forced his mouth into more of a line and slammed the lid shut.

Timing as perfect as always, when he returned to the kitchen, the food was well warmed up and steaming again. The living room should be fine again, he thought, and set their meal up on the coffee table.

"These are nice pants, Doc."

Ramsay blinked and looked to the stairs where Wheeler hopped down in... He hadn't given him anything particularly fancy. How does someone respond to a pajama pants compliment anyway?

"Eat," Ramsay casually ordered the other, stirring his coconut soup. First all he could smell was their fragrant dinner, but now the lingering scent of bodywash was all he focused on.

Wheeler was all smiles as he sat and stuck a fork in rice. "Y'know," he started. "Didn't really, uh. Expect to be back here."

Ramsay found he wasn't really prepared to talk about it and for a moment he felt a little silly. There hadn't even been any time to talk about what had happened last time. It just kind of crashed and burned and he wanted to erase it from his memory. But—there was some kind of calm settling in him right now. He liked it.

"Well. As long as you do want to be here, Wheeler..."

" 'Course I do."

The lack of delay jarred Ramsay a little bit. Of course he should've known by then that his companion wasn't exactly subtle. Did he still consider himself straight? Maybe it wasn't the time to bring that up. Labels scare a lot of men, Ramsay had learned in all his years.

"Thank you for the meal," he said simply. The two settled into small talk between the kind of silence you get when the food is really good.

Wheeler sat back after a big gulp of water (his iced tea didn't make it but a few minutes into the meal) and exhaled contentedly.

Ramsay was downing the rest of his water as well. The spice seemed to add up and ambush the senses. It was incredibly satisfying.

"Fuck," Wheeler groaned at how full he was. Some sort of spark flickered in the doctor's chest.

"I can see why you eat this often," Ramsay said, pretending to be interested in the television remote for a second. He went up two channels for no reason and found that it wasn't as hard to relax and be still in the moment as he thought it would be.

"I got asked to be on one of these fake court shows, y'know," Wheeler said.

"They don't seem to have that big of a budget."

"No shit, they wanted to give me $50 for a whole day. I can make ten times that in half a day at work."

Ramsay snorted. "That is a wonder since you failed to properly repair my car."

Wheeler sat up. "Hey, you were lucky I had your part. And I gave ya my favorite tires."

"Oh, your favorite? Interesting."

"You're a fuckin' trip," Wheeler immediately said through a laugh.

Their eyes were only caught a moment before Ramsay had his hands on his guest.

Wheeler was sucking air through his teeth the second cold fingers slipped under his shirt. He pushed his body up, burning already. He didn't even have the mental capacity left to question or try to defy it. All he had was a hard dick and a neck just waiting to be bruised.

Ramsay hummed against that clenching jaw as he kept his touch just barely there on Wheeler's abdomen, brushing and pressing but never for too long.

"C'mon," Wheeler finally rasped, boner practically tearing through his borrowed pajama bottoms. What a sight.

The doctor said nothing and let his teeth graze against hot skin just as his fingers slipped under the waistband of those poor pants. Within minutes he had Wheeler clinging to him and groaning into his shoulder.


Ramsay moved his arm in a few more quick tugs before he let go completely. Wheeler gripped him and seemed to forget how to breathe as everything tightened up—yet there was no release. He panted dramatically, still aching and visibly straining.

"Didn't think you could make that one," Ramsay said with a smile before sliding his hand back down. He could've sworn Wheeler turned redder.

A slow start made him practically whine and when his breathing became erratic again, Ramsay pressed their foreheads together lightly, mindful of the bandages. (There was a fleeting, "is this fucked up?" that he chose to ignore.)

"There?" he asked in a low tone, squeezing his hand.


Wheeler's body seized up, seeing stars in the ceiling when he finally came in Ramsay's tight grip. It took him a good minute of breathing to come back to the planet. He was spent.

Ramsay was practically about to ruin his pants, and from the blatant staring, it was obvious Wheeler noticed.

"Hm," Ramsay hummed, turning to grab a spare napkin from their dinner to clean the exhausted mechanic on his couch. "I'm going to shower and finish a little bit of paperwork. You may sleep down here."

Wheeler grunted after a moment, "You're weird."

And Ramsay slipped into the banter immediately.

"And how am I the weird one?"

"Ya give me a handjob and tell me to sleep on the couch."


"Last time I slept in your bed."

Ramsay gave him a look.

"Christ," he said, giving up. He stood up immediately. "Pull your pants up and get upstairs."

• • •

Ramsay awoke slowly. Once his ears registered the sounds of morning, he shot upright to squint at the clock. Wait. He had the day off.

As soon as he relaxed, he remembered that he hadn't gone to bed alone and was momentarily lost in the memory of fucking Wheeler on his lap. How late had they stayed up? He hadn't even touched his paperwork, had he?

He finally turned, only to find the space next to him empty. He tried to ignore the drop in his chest as he rose and tried to find his pants (they were all the way across the room).

Well, if Wheeler had already left, he shouldn't be disappointed. He was a grown man.

Going down the stairs, he was met with more silence and he really did think he'd been left alone. Things hadn't gone wrong this time, at least not from what he remembered. Right?

Might as well get the coffee started. He headed straight for the kitchen, and saw a figure just outside the sliding glass door to his back yard.

Wheeler stood out there with a cigarette in his fingers wearing only the same borrowed pants, and Ramsay would've been content to watch him all morning.

When the mechanic finally noticed he was being looked at, he smiled and quickly stamped his smoke out.

"Mornin'," he said to the doctor when he stepped back inside.

"Good morning."

It was weird how easy this felt. If anything that's what made it awkward, in a backwards sort of way.

"Are you hungry?" Ramsay asked, going for cupboards.

"Yeah," Wheeler answered. "You're out of pancake mix, I already checked."

Ramsay gave him a look. "Well. It's almost lunch time anyway."


Wheeler and pizza. He had said no pizza. Fuck it.

"Yes," Ramsay snorted before grabbing a few mugs to rinse. "Pizza and coffee for my first meal. Why not."

He'd probably never understand why Wheeler's grin made him both angry and stupidly happy at the same time, and right now he couldn't care less.

Lost, Found, Fooling Around [Transformers Prime]

A/N: Experimental human AU TFP Wheeljack x Ratchet (Wheeler Jackson x Ramsay Wyatt). Based on setting established in RP where Wheeler is a car mechanic with a blunt sort of charm about him and Ramsay is a wealthy older surgeon possibly having a midlife crisis, lmfao. Contains adult language, references to sex and drugs (YEEHAW!), and one NSFW scene.

This took a few months of me to get a feel for. Wheeler and Ramsay are pretty natural to write but I was so out of practice. It was incredibly satisfying to finally get written.

Feedback appreciated!



A/N: Smokescreen x Wheeljack, or rather; Smokescreen crushing hard on Wheeljack as he becomes aware of his taste in older mechs and falls into the routine of living with Team Prime.

Kind of a teaser fic. Could be persuaded to write a second part. Fuzzy made up timeline that enables Magnus and Smokescreen to both live at base with everyone while Wheeljack is adjusting to becoming part of a team again. Sometimes it's nice to pretend nothing bad happened yet on Earth and they're just a big bot family with issues. Sob.

I used to be neighbors with one of the child actors in Smoke Signals, and lately I've been thinking about that movie a lot, and the poem about fathers at the end. Somewhere while writing this I had some thoughts about Smokescreen and father figures. Well. Anyway. Enjoy. :

Mask up and audials pointed back, Wheeljack was nano-kliks away from losing his patience and bursting into the clearing in the cave. His fingers twitched at his swords.

"C'mon," he gruffed. They'd been waiting for hours. He could've been in an out of there with a subspace full of raw energon in 20 kliks. But now that he was part of the team he had to do it their way. And their way was slow and steady with minimal kabooms (that's actually bullslag). He was at least trying to be a good 'bot.

"Not yet, Sparky," came Arcee's smooth voice on the commlink. Smokescreen and Bumblebee tried not to laugh as Wheeljack physically turned to look at the femme across the cavern in protest to the nickname. Oh, boy. Here we go again.

He looked like he was about to start something with her when Magnus sent out a punishing pay attention! ping and everyone went still and silent again.

After another few kliks, Wheeljack rapped and tugged Smokescreen's shoulder. The rookie blinked stupidly at him but readied his blaster. (Scrap, something about that mask... Did he have a thing for masks? Optimus, Bee, Wheeljack... Holy frag, he did.)

"Got a visual," Wheeljack announced while pointing to the Vehicon loading raw fuel, gesturing vaguely with his helm to confirm that Smokescreen remembered their game plan. When the 'bot nodded hurriedly, Jackie smiled with his optics. "Ready to engage, commander."

Smokescreen was never unimpressed with Wheeljack's strategies during missions. There was something about the way he just went for it.

Everyone thought of them as the lowest because they existed to die first but Wreckers had to be technical geniuses in battle. The first time Smokescreen went on a mission with Wheeljack he was stunned at his precision and his ability to take hits that would knock the gas out anyone else's tanks. And he was always so cool about it even if he'd just narrowly avoided decapitation and deflected 48 blaster shots aimed at his chassis. That smooth fragger even made time to flirt with 'cons.

Smokescreen was realizing his taste in older mechs had a pattern to it: gruff old living legends. Magnus was the most serious of them all but watching him swing that hammer was an experience. And Optimus was someone he could always find inspiration in.

But Wheeljack was a rookie's wet dream. He was roughed up, shook up, had a great laugh and the way he smoked cygs after fights with Ratchet made Smokescreen wonder about their relationship. When he didn't think anyone was looking, the old war hero looked like a sad dog but as soon as you got his attention he was grinning and telling stories about the good old days.

Smokescreen realized he was staring at his friend when Ultra Magnus finally gave the okay.

Wheeljack just strolled up to the Vehicon like he was out enjoying a walk and within seconds he had a whole squad chasing him with blasters. Total chaos.

But it worked.

And that was their cue.

• • •

Joints ached as Smokescreen lifted the large crate over his head. He shuttered his optics, tilting it and feeling every sensor prickling as the hot water washed over him, cleansing the energon from his plating. He ex-vented in a puff of steam and stared at the blue fluid trailing towards the drain in the center of the washracks.

He had to admit, when he'd joined the team and discovered their base was an old missile silo, he wasn't expecting them to even have warm water. Apparently it wasn't always this nice, and during droughts they had to go weeks without a wash unless it was an emergency. But Ratchet, being Ratchet, would demand Fowler find a way to bring them at least enough water to keep their wounds and vents clean.

He was grateful for today's hot water and the steam billowing around his sore frame. It had been a successful but tiring mission. After this he'd be happy to power down with a tank full of warm fuel.


Wheeljack's deep voice brought Smokescreen out of his sleepy thoughts and he peered across the steam. The Wrecker stood in a pool of dirty water, ventilating deeply, the rest of him still caked in dirt and grime and energon.

"They were packin' some new toys today," he said suddenly, and that's when Smokescreen caught himself staring again, this time at some of those scars.

"Yeah," the rookie answered, cutting his gaze up and away. He needed to write QUIT STARING AT MECHS on his arm or something. He hoped no one had noticed. How embarrassing.

And he peeked over once again when Wheeljack dumped another helping of hot water over his helm. Despite the scars, his white plating was a sight. Maybe the scars are what did it for him, though. What about the ones on his mouthplate? He hadn't heard that story yet, mostly because it was too awkward to ask.

Scrap, he needed to quit acting like a blushing newbuild.

He started scrubbing at his leg furiously. Focus. It's time to get clean. Right. Don't think about the experienced older mech getting all wet and soapy over there. Nope. He was just by himself having a nice washy wash—

"Ow—frag!" Smokescreen swore suddenly, a bit of energon running down from his leg. After blinking a few times he squinted at the plating there and sure enough there was a large crack. Frag it, he must've fractured armor without realizing it. The 'cons really had been good shots today, for once.

"You okay, kid?"

Smokescreen nearly jumped out of his plating. The steam was starting to clear as his team mate walked over, dragging a crate noisily along with him. Wheeljack still had bubbles on his chassis. Primus help Smokescreen.

"Y-yeah, just... cracked plating. Nothing bad," he answered, silently scolding himself as he held his knee where it bled.

"Ya took some hard hits today." With all the grace of an old black ops soldier, Wheeljack thunked down on the crate and motioned. "C'mere."

Smokescreen stared dumbly for a moment before he realized Wheeljack wasn't asking him to sit on his lap, but to come closer so he could look at his injury. Primus, what the frag is wrong with me, he screamed in his processor before awkwardly moving forward.

He watched as the older mech gently lifted the affected leg, guiding and flexing it. Smokescreen thanked Primus for the steam hiding the extra heat to his faceplate.

"It didn't hurt until just now, I'm fine," he assured the other, squinting a little.

Wheeljack noticed the funny look. "I picked up a few tricks."

"From Ratchet?" Smokescreen blurted and then wanted to retract his helm into his fragging chest and die.

Wheeljack got a funny little smile on his faceplate that made Smokescreen feel less like a shithead (but all the more curious). The Wrecker skipped the question, turning the leg in his servos gingerly. "I used to be an engineer, y'know," he said.

Smokescreen had almost completely forgotten about his leg or bringing Ratchet up like an idiot and was staring excitedly with big blue optics. All at once he had funny images in his helm of a younger Wheeljack as a regular working mech in the city.

"Yeah." Present Wheeljack shrugged. "Maybe one day I'll tell ya some stories. Alright if I...?" the Wrecker asked as he reached over to grab a cloth.

"Huh?" Smokescreen asked. "Oh, uh—yeah, thanks." He wobbled a little and held onto his friend's shoulder armor as the cloth was given a nice dunk into warm water.

The two of them fell into a floaty sort of silence as Wheeljack showed what a gentlemech he could be. At least it felt floaty to Smokescreen. Washing another mech was a good way to bond, right? He tried to hold in hot ventilations as the older mech took it nice and slow. Wheeljack was extra gentle around cracked plating, and made sure to get the dirt and energon out of every little crevice on the front of that leg.

Though Smokescreen had gotten to know Wheeljack a little bit during missions, he hadn't really spent much time with him. Alone, at least. Optimus permitted and encouraged the team to refuel and play together often; he valued that closeness even if he didn't participate in it himself (or... did he?). Always went for a drive when they wanted to party.

And at those parties, they had a good lob and then came the stories. But he hadn't heard anything normal or everyday. Just war stuff. Which was always great, Wheeljack's stories never let anyone down. But Smokescreen found himself wanting to know what things were like before the war. He and Bumblebee didn't really know much about that. At least Bee had gotten to experience the war, while Smokescreen slept through it. How would he have turned out if he'd gotten to be a soldier and grow up with everyone else? Would he still be bright-eyed like the Scout, or would he be tired and sad, like the older mechs?

"You could tell me a story now," Smokescreen said, trying his best not to be awkward about it. He genuinely wanted to hear. But he also maybe wanted Wheeljack to keep washing him.

Wheeljack's funny optics cut up to meet Smokescreen's interested stare, and suddenly he felt young again. Wouldn't hurt to share a little bit now, right? He deserved a little attention after such a drawn out mission.

He set the leg down and lifted the other one, searching his processor with a little hum as he tried to think of a good one.

"I took a lot of repair jobs for awhile," the Wrecker started, scrubbing slower at Smokescreen's plating. "Liked makin' my own hours. More time to be an idiot.

"Got a ping from a client one day when I was dealin' with a hell of a hangover. Happened a few times, but this was the worst."

Wheeljack lifted Smokescreen's leg more so he could clean a pede, and the younger mech tried to stay balanced.

"Why? Did you purge on their floor or something?" he asked, looking at the bubbles all over Wheeljack's hands.

"Nah," the mech answered. "Turned out to be my—"

"Your two nano-cycles in the washracks is up, soldiers!"

Both bots scrambled at the sound of Magnus's booming voice over their commlinks. Smokescreen slipped in his friend's hold and in the excitement, the Wrecker's bonked against his chest plate loudly.

"Whoa, whoa," Wheeljack said with a laugh, suddenly on his pedes and holding Smokescreen up with slippery servos. "Don't break your aft, I need ya out there."

"I'm sorry, scrap—"

"Relax, kid."

Right. Relax. Smokescreen had steady footing now, though Wheeljack's servos lingered. Cleanser suds slid and dripped down his legs. By now most of the steam was gone but it didn't stop Smokescreen from feeling like he was full of hot air.

They looked at each other for a moment, and the Wrecker gave a casual shrug, fingers twitching on Smokescreen's waist.

"Guess I'll save that story for next time," he said.

Smokescreen stared stupidly before cutting his gaze down, certain that his faceplate was a different color by now. His spark swirled.

Wheeljack figured they should get to rinsing off, and started to loosen his hold and move away. To his surprise, Smokescreen practically yanked at his hands, keeping them in place.

"Y'know, if, uh," the younger bot started, already kicking himself mentally. "If ya don't mind overtime, I'd be up for more story... time." Frag, that sounded stupid.

But Wheeljack practically beamed and wasted no time in nudging him with his big stupid helm like a wet and happy rhino. Smokescreen nearly popped an optic from the sudden affection and sort of froze a little. He'd heard that helm nudging was something older mechs did a lot in place of kissing, but he'd never really... Wow. Being on the receiving end from a fragging war hero was kind of surreal.

"No patrol in the mornin'," Wheeljack murmured between nudges. "Gonna be in the Jackhammer tonight."

It was a soft invite (for Wheeljack, anyway) that a Smokescreen took eagerly in the form of shoving his face forward in an attempt to nudge the Wrecker back, and instead smacking into an audial.

Wheeljack started slightly, plated audial snapping back in a way Smokescreen sometimes noticed it did on the field. Or when Magnus was lecturing. For as stoic as Wheeljack could be, he was deceptively expressive with body language. Don't even get him started on those winglets. He wondered if he'd get the courage to ask if he could touch them. Frag knows he wanted Wheeljack to squeeze his doorwings until his vision shorted out. Primus, where was his processor tonight?

"Sorry—" Smokescreen tried, but shut up when he found his chin held—Wow, Wheeljack had really really big hands.

"That a yes?"

Smokescreen was practically steaming out of his intake.

"Yeah." His servos found his friend's sides and gripped plating when he finally found the courage to give a proper helm nudge. In exchange he received a chuckle and a glowing gaze.

Smokescreen arched against him and was... a little embarrassed at how ready he felt.

Why did he care though? He was on Earth, he was on a dream team with his idols, and he felt comfortable with Wheeljack right now. Maybe comfortable wasn't the best word for this moment, seeing as he wanted those soapy servos dragging down his backstrut and he was about a second away from asking for it right then and there—when a banging noise reminded them both they were being waited on.

Magnus glared holes into their heads when they exited the washracks still dripping. His "my soldiers are having fun" alarm was likely going off and Wheeljack took pleasure in teasing him.

After confirming their little date, the rookie went shuffling off to the med bay and Ratchet didn't even bother asking what his big stupid smile was about.

Smoke Signals [Transformers Prime]

A/N: Smokescreen x Wheeljack, or rather; Smokescreen crushing hard on Wheeljack as he becomes aware of his taste in older mechs and falls into the routine of living with Team Prime. 

Kind of a teaser fic. Could be persuaded to write a second part. Fuzzy made up timeline that enables Magnus and Smokescreen to both live at base with everyone while Wheeljack is adjusting to becoming part of a team again. Sometimes it's nice to pretend nothing bad happened yet on Earth and they're just a big bot family with issues. Sob.

I used to be neighbors with one of the child actors in Smoke Signals, and lately I've been thinking about that movie a lot, and the poem about fathers at the end. Somewhere while writing this I had some thoughts about Smokescreen and father figures. Well. Anyway. Enjoy. :>


Chibi Commissions discount! $5 sketches avail! by newvagabond
Read that deviation to find out. Have a ref ready and send a PM my way!


Artist | Professional | Varied
United States
I'm an actor and model but I like to write detailed studies on the relationships and sociocultural dynamics between giant alien robots. And from time to time I'll draw a lil something.

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KatrueYumeNikki Featured By Owner Mar 25, 2014  Hobbyist General Artist…

here's the new species i made based in your adorable cloned pegasus :3
newvagabond Featured By Owner Mar 25, 2014  Professional General Artist
KatrueYumeNikki Featured By Owner Mar 26, 2014  Hobbyist General Artist
Thank you so much! And, since you come with the original design, 031, you can make these for yourself without asking me.
Oh, and some more thing: can i sell permission to people to make them? You can sell customs of them if you want too.
newvagabond Featured By Owner Mar 26, 2014  Professional General Artist
Of course, I'd love to see what people come up with as long as they link back to you and me. :D
Deskleaves Featured By Owner Mar 23, 2014  Professional Digital Artist
Hoh. I follow you on tumblr. -Huge creep.-
newvagabond Featured By Owner Mar 24, 2014  Professional General Artist
Deskleaves Featured By Owner Mar 25, 2014  Professional Digital Artist
xD Wow,  you replied and everything.

I'm really glad I finally realized I could go here, I always want to see your art and photos, but I miss it on my dash way too often and it's a pain to hunt through everything.
newvagabond Featured By Owner Mar 25, 2014  Professional General Artist
Of course. :D 

And yeahhh, I've had a dA since I was 13, haha. Tumblr is a little too hectic right now. I can never stay caught up.
(1 Reply)
OtomeNishiki Featured By Owner Mar 10, 2014  Hobbyist Digital Artist
Thank you for the watch C:
newvagabond Featured By Owner Mar 10, 2014  Professional General Artist
Of course, you've got lovely stuff.
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