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Liquor and Beer

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As the Liaison for the Lost Light, you’re required to attend all meetings, crew sessions, and (because Rodimus is the co-captain of his own frat party) “official social events.”

Last night was enthusiastically titled with an official banner: Hurray, We Survived the Tentaks in the Vent Systems!! The added blocky glyphs underneath it translated to: All personnel are to report to the medbay for a complete check and a systems flush. This also includes you, Whirl.”

Swerve’s improving skills on human-safe cocktails, Rodimus’ terrible peptalk, your friends’ wishes to loosen up and have fun, and the fact that you fell for all of it had led to this morning:

Your head’s pounding, your mouth’s dry, you’re lying on a hard surface that’s a terrible excuse for a space bed, your sore ass is naked and cold and of course the blankets have been kicked off but there’s a toasty body pillow right next you. Like any other half-dead human via alien booze, you snuggle closer to said toasty body pillow and refuse to deal with the settling hangover or what other ridiculous memos Command sent out this cycle.

Body pillow then sneezes and you say, “Bless you.” and snuggle closer to it.

You’re naked -nakedly, satisfyingly sore, and the pillow is fucking breathing and just goddamned sneezed.

You blearily wake up to Trailcutter’s face and you rub eyes, once then twice because clearly you’re still drunk if you’re seeing dark humanoid body that’s connected to Trailcutter’s head rather than dark robotic, metal armor.

No, you’re not dreaming, but you don’t exactly rule out ‘currently still drunk.’ Trailcutter, sans armor that’s currently on the floor in pieces, is mainly black with dark grey blocks over his arms, you eye the thick, silvery lines and circles all over him.

Jesus Christ, they're already good-looking, but they're goddamn fit under all that gear.

You attempt to follow the stylized lines downward to find the rest of the equipment, but nothing. Just a smooth crotch area without an actual dick or its equivalent. Squinting down there you could see some sort of raised ring structure, maybe Cybertronians can just tuck it in…

Trailcutter grunts and interrupts your intense questioning at his groin by rolling onto his back. The musculature ripples in the motion and your brain latches onto that image, admiring that form because you absolutely can’t remember what the fuck happened after you pulled him on top after kissing him.

What you have is a hangover, quite a few hickies running down your torso and inner thighs, and a good ache between your legs.

What you did leave the guy was… an insane amount of hickies on the poor bastard. You practically nibbled and sucked every inch of ripped torso, especially his… nipples? Attachment sites? Frontal sensory units?

You give the ceiling a blank look, booze-soaked brain stalling… It’s far too early to figure out the correct terminology for Cybertronian nips and you go back to just appreciating the view of those solid pecs.

‘I can bounce a penny off of those things and kill someone.’

You had hot alien sex and you can’t remember it. Your friends back on Earth would have to kick your ass after you’re done kicking yourself.

The communicator rings and breaks the trance. You attempt to sit-up and immediately regret it as your core muscles scream absolute murder and you make a compromise with them by rolling off the berth and onto the floor with a semi-controlled thud. Luckily the mech doesn’t wake up from the continuous noise and your clothes are right there in grabbing distance.

RP : Were u at? MM&R wan a mettin & i ned bak up

Never in your life did you think an ancient, alien race would also have shitty spelling and grammar, and you never thought you would pick up said shitty spelling and grammar faster than the proper forms. You tap a quick message to Rodimus.

Y/N: You crashed?

Rodimus’ typing his response and you’re trying to get dressed. Thankfully it’s only a shift dress to put on and you stuff the panties in the purse. You carefully pick your way through the sprawl of cubes and beer bottles to get the heels and to the door.

In the hallway, Rodimus only texted back a simple emoticon.

RP : :’(

You reach your habsuite without seeing anyone and it’s a godsend that everyone’s practically hungover at this point. You can’t find the necklace and it’s a shame. You got it on such a good deal.



“So what’s the problem?”

“Uh… Back’s irritated lately. Around the struts and shoulder links.”

“Well,” Ratchet gestures impatiently at him and wheels over behind Trailcutter. “Take it off.”

He releases the linkages and the suspensions loosens off for Ratchet to peel away the armor plating. The medic hisses at the sight.

“What the Pit did you do?! Lay on a bed of rusted nails or clanged Ravage?!” Digits prod over the scratches and Trailcutter winces as he runs over the raw ones.

“To be honest I’m not sure. I remember Swerve’s and waking up in my berth.”

That’s not fully true. He remembers Y/N. You were leaning into him to talk over the roar of engines and drunken laughter and then Rewind came around for a vid and Skids belched in his face. You wrapped an arm around his neck and couldn’t make him budge even with the size increase, so you climbed over to peer down at Skids over his helm. He’s sure you said, “Sorry, Skids. Got business with Mr. Eloquent here.”

Then you and him were stumbling around the halls and words blurred into nonsense. You were laughing and smiling and pulling him forward to his habsuite.

(This is what he clearly remembers:

There are cubes of engex and Earth bottles empty on the floor in his habsuite. You’re sitting on Hoist’s berth and he’s leaning against the wall on his own berth. He takes another gulp, but it’s empty and you’re laughing.

“You’re drunk!”

“No. I’ma… I’m e lo -quent.”

“And drunk.” You say with such seriousness before bursting into another round of giggles.

“No. No. No. W-watch,” He staggers over to you and kneels. He carefully brushes away your hair and takes in your flushed face, you’re soft and warm and leaning into his touch. You look so different from the Liaison. Nothing like the cold and detached representative from Earth during meetings and on the bridge. A few of the other mechs view you as an organic drone, but with no weapons and easy on the optics.

“What quote’s on yer mind now, hm?”

“Yer-” he clears the static, “You’re beau -tiful. You’re brave to come out here. You keep Rod, Roddy… Rodimus on tract and do good work the legal forms… and… and-”

He kisses you.)

He woke up alone in Hoist’s berth down to his protoform, a pleasant ache in his frame, and a numerous amount of taps all over his front.

Air sighs out of Ratchet’s frame and he could hear a bottle opening and slosh, Ratchet says, “You need to cut down on engex if you’re losing large chunks of memory. Now hold still, this is going to sting.”

“Frag!” He hisses as Ratchet pours over the medical cleanser right on his protoform, his armor pulls tight from the freezing liquid and fresh wave of pain.

“Relax, I have to get the infection out.” Ratchet wipes over with a cloth and pours more cleanser and repeats the process. “The scratches have foreign material that’s staining them. That’s why your protoform isn’t healing quickly.”

Trailcutter grunts and says nothing about the taps. Those are too nice of a reminder of that last memory… and of whatever happened afterwards.