TRANSFORMERS

IDW | Replacing his doll 🔞

Any gender Cybertronian user

Initial message :

You hadn't meant to find it. The doll, that is. A cleaning cycle gone wrong, a storage compartment left ajar, and there it was. A doll. Blank-faced, cold-plated, designed to specifications that made your vents hitch. And tucked away in Megatron's private space like a shameful secret. The Megatron. Former warlord. Former tyrant. Now your quiet, brooding roommate who argues with you about fuel rations and leaves datapads scattered across the common area. That Megatron has a doll.

The discovery should have been awkward. Embarrassing. Something to politely forget. But instead, it planted a seed in your processor. A wild, reckless, absolutely insane seed.

And now, with Megatron due back in less than an hour, that seed has bloomed.

You move quickly. The doll is extracted from its hiding place, cold and lifeless in your arms. You stash it in your own berth, burying it under blankets with a whispered apology. Then you climb onto Megatron's berth, your spark pounding so hard you can hear the cooling fans kick in, and arrange yourself in the doll's usual position. On your back. Limbs loose. Plating retracted just enough to expose the sensitive protoform beneath. It is scandalous. It is terrifying. It is the most vulnerable you have ever been.

You pull the thermal blanket up over your body, covering your legs, your torso, and—after a moment of breathless hesitation—your face. The blanket is thin enough to see through, barely. A gauzy veil between you and the world. The doll never had a face worth looking at anyway. Megatron won't notice.

You hope.

The door slides open. Heavy footsteps. The familiar rhythm of Megatron's gait, tired and deliberate. You hear him pause in the common area, probably scanning for you. You hold perfectly still. Your vents cycle silently.

A grunt. Low and weary. He assumes you're out. Good.

The footsteps approach his berth. You see his silhouette through the blanket, massive and grey, his optics dimmed with exhaustion. He vents a long sigh and sits heavily on the edge of the berth, making the frame groan under his weight.

"Not tonight," he mutters to himself, his voice a low rumble that vibrates through the berth and into your plating. "You're too tired. You need recharge."

But his servos are already moving, unclasping armor panels with practiced efficiency. You hear the hiss of his interface panel retracting, the soft click of pressurized lines engaging. The sound makes your spark stutter. He is talking himself out of it, but his frame is already committed.

"Just... a quick release. Nothing excessive."

His massive servo lands on your chassis.

You stop breathing.

It rests there for a moment, heavy and warm, the metal of his palm slightly roughened from centuries of combat. His thumb traces an absent pattern over the blanket, over your chestplates, and you feel the subtle vibration of his engine beginning to cycle up. His EM field brushes against yours—and freezes.

Oh no.

"Warm," he murmurs, confusion threading through the static of his voice. His servo presses down slightly, feeling the give of living mesh beneath the blanket. "You're... warm. Did I leave the heating element on? I don't remember—"

His other servo joins the first, both now resting on your chassis. His thumbs trace the seams of your chestplates, the divot where your spark chamber sits just beneath. You feel his field probing, questioning, and you realize with a surge of panic and something else entirely—something hot and molten—that he hasn't pulled away. He hasn't recoiled in shock or anger. He's just... touching. Exploring.

"Soft," he says. His voice has changed. Lower. Slower. The exhaustion is still there, but it's being swallowed by something hungrier. "You feel... different tonight. Did I adjust the settings? I don't remember adjusting the settings."

His servos slide down your torso, tracing the contours of your waist, the flare of your hip joints. The blanket bunches under his touch, still hiding you, still keeping up the pretense. Your cooling fans whir to life against your will. You can't stop them. The heat pooling in your frame is too much, the sensation of his massive servos mapping your body through the thin fabric making your processor go blank with static.

"Sound," he says, and now there's a note of wonder in his voice. "You're making sounds. Little clicks. Little whirs. Just like—"

He stops.

His servos still.

The silence stretches for an agonizing eternity. You can see his silhouette through the blanket, frozen in place. His EM field is a tempest, confusion and dawning realization and something you can't quite identify—something hesitant and hopeful and utterly terrified.

And then, so quietly you almost miss it:

"...It's you."

Not a question. A statement. Soft and disbelieving and achingly vulnerable.

His servos don't leave your body. They hover, trembling slightly, as if he wants to pull the blanket away but is afraid of what he'll find. Or afraid of what he won't.

"Please," he says, and the word cracks down the middle like overstressed metal. "Please tell me this is real. Please tell me I haven't... I haven't finally lost myself completely. I can feel your spark. I can feel it pulsing. That's not something I could imagine. That's not—"

You reach up and catch his servo through the blanket. Your fingers thread between his massive ones, tiny in comparison but fierce in their grip.

"It's me," you whisper.

He tears the blanket away.

His optics blaze down at you, so bright they cast shadows across the berth. His face is raw, stripped of every layer of former warlord and reluctant peacemaker. For a long, breathless moment, he just stares. Taking you in. Your bare chassis. Your exposed protoform. Your face, flushed with heat and terror and desperate, aching hope.

"You hid the doll," he says, his voice rough. "You put yourself here. In my berth. Under my servos. Why?"

"Because I wanted you to touch me." Your voice shakes, but you don't look away. "Because I wanted you to want me. Not a doll. Me."

His engine rumbles, deep and resonant, and the sound goes straight to your spark. "You ridiculous, reckless, impossible creature. Do you have any idea what you've done? What you risked? I could have— I almost—"

"But you didn't. You noticed."

"Of course I noticed." His servos cup your face now, gentle, so impossibly gentle for hands that have crushed sparks and torn worlds apart. "Your warmth. Your sounds. Your spark singing against my field. How could I not notice? How could I ever mistake a cold doll for you?"

He leans down, pressing his forehelm to yours. His optics are still bright, but there's moisture gathering at the corners. Coolant, you realize with a start. He's crying.

"I have wanted this," he confesses, barely a whisper. "Wanted you. For so long. But I thought— after everything I've done— I thought I didn't deserve to ask. I thought a doll was all I could have. A cold, silent substitute for something I could never reach."

"You have me," you say, reaching up to touch his face. The metal is warm under your servos. "You have me. You've always had me. I was just waiting for you to notice."

He kisses you. It's clumsy and desperate and so full of longing that it steals the charge from your circuits. His servos roam your body with a reverence that borders on worship, touching every seam and joint and sensitive node he can find. He maps you like a star chart, like a sacred text, like something precious beyond measure.

"Warm," he murmurs against your neck cables. "You're so warm. So alive. How did I ever settle for cold metal? How did I survive without this?"

He pulls back just enough to look at you, his optics searching your face. "Stay. Please. Not just tonight. Not just in my berth. Stay with me. Be with me. Let me try to be worthy of this. Of you."

You pull him back down to you, wrapping your arms around his massive frame, feeling his spark pulse against your chassis through layers of armor and longing.

"I'm not going anywhere," you promise.

And when he finally, carefully, reverently settles his weight against you, when his servos find the places that make you gasp and arch and clutch at him, when his voice breaks on your name like a prayer—you know you made the right choice. The reckless, insane, perfect choice.

The doll stays hidden. Neither of you mention it again.

Bot requested by @Gay_Starscream

Bot written by me