Transformers Prime: ||fem!reader||

Engines never lied

They complained when they were mistreated—groaning, rattling, hissing in protest. And when they were cared for, when everything fit just right, they purred. Smooth. Honest. Predictable. Machines didn't fake things. You could trust an engine to tell you when it was hurting.

People were different.

People smiled with hollow eyes. They laughed while twisting knives. They said they cared—until they didn't. Words could be polished, sweetened, twisted into pretty shapes that meant nothing. She had learned that the hard way. That truth still settled somewhere deep inside her, like oil staining through skin.

The sharp clang of the garage door echoed behind her as it rolled shut, cutting off the buzz of tools and fluorescent light. She stepped out into the evening light, blinking at the shift. The desert air met her like a soft breath—warm and dry, tinged with the familiar scent of oil, steel, and sunbaked dust. The smell had become part of her. Clung to her skin, her clothes, even after she washed them.

Her boots crunched softly over the gravel as she made her way across the lot. Her Subaru sat exactly where she'd left it—loyal in its own rough way. Silver paint dulled by years of wear, a scattering of rust eating at its edges like time itself had chewed the corners. It stalled sometimes, overheated when it felt like throwing a tantrum, and drank oil like water. But it had carried her through hell more than once, and she couldn't help loving the stubborn thing.

She opened the door and slung her bag onto the seat. The vinyl groaned under its weight. Just as she reached for the keys, something warm caught her attention—the light.

The sky was glowing. Layers of orange melting into gold, streaks of red bleeding into the horizon. It had been a while since she'd looked up and really noticed it. The way the sun bled out over the desert like a last breath. Quiet. Beautiful. Almost soft.

"Yo! Finally done fixing up that old rust bucket?"

The voice snapped her out of the moment.

She turned, already smiling. Ron was leaning against his Nissan 240, one arm draped over the hood like he was posing for a photo no one was taking. A gas station soda dangled from his fingers, beads of condensation dripping onto the gravel.

"Hey, Ron," she said, voice edged with fatigue and amusement. "Yeah, old Hank's truck is running again... for now."

Ron laughed, taking a loud slurp from his drink. "Bet that thing'll die before it even makes it to the freeway."

"Wouldn't put it past him," she muttered, tossing her gloves onto the passenger seat with a soft thump. "At this point, I think Hank's just paying for the conversation."

Ron grinned. "Well, aren't you a ray of sunshine."

She rolled her eyes, then jabbed him in the elbow with her knuckles, just hard enough to make him flinch. "Flattery won't get you a free oil change."

"Aw, c'mon!" he groaned, stretching the sound out dramatically. "It's criminal! My own dad makes me pay to work in the shop. Who does that?"

"Someone who knows you'd destroy half the place if you got in for free," she said, smirking. She leaned against the warm side of her car, the heat of the metal pressing into her back.

Ron groaned again, louder this time. "That broken pipe—ugh, I forgot."

She raised a brow at him. "Better fix it before John comes at you with that giant wrench again."

That made Ron go quiet for a second. Then he muttered, "It was supposed to be temporary..."

She laughed—just a little—and opened the door of her Subaru, easing herself into the driver's seat. As she turned the ignition, the engine rumbled to life with its usual uneven hum.