In The Wake of Stars (Optimus Prime x Reader): Chapter 36
Summary
In a world torn apart by war and infused with strange, unpredictable magic, the Autobots fight to reclaim Earth from the Decepticons while a human rebellion rises in defiance. Amidst the chaos, you—a skilled mechanic—are thrust into the heart of a secret project involving hybrid human-Cybertronian technology.
Hey there! Not sure if you write for him, totally cool if not, but could I request some tfp Bulkhead x tomboy reader fluff? Maybe with her being kind of a mother figure to Miko? Idk whatever you come up with works!
Again all good if you don't wanna write this or don't write for Bulkhead though!
Hello lovely anon!
Thank you so much for being the first Bulkhead request!! I don't mind writing him at all!! I hope I did him justices for you, they're just so sickly sweet.
“Steel and Soft Hands.”
Pairings -> Bulkhead x Tomboy!Y/N
Warnings -> n/a
Genre/Theme -> fluff, teasing, bantering, comedy and mutual pining.
Note -> n/a
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The first sign that tonight was going to be one of those nights was the sound of a guitar string snapping.
You winced, instinctively jerking away from the noise even though you were not the one holding the instrument. Across from you, Miko groaned dramatically, holding her battered guitar like it had just lost a leg in battle.
“Noooo! My baby!” she wailed, shaking it in the air before glaring at you like you had personally hexed it.
You raised your hands in defense. “Hey, don’t look at me. That is what happens when you think tuning is a competitive sport.”
She narrowed her eyes. “You just don’t understand my genius.”
You tilted your head. “Mmhm. Genius doesn’t usually sound like a cat choking on a kazoo.”
That earned you a scandalized gasp and a half-hearted swat to the arm. You caught her wrist mid-swing and held it there with ease, smirking. It was not hard to play the “annoying older sibling” role with her, though you knew you would shift into mom-mode soon enough once she really started testing limits. The girl had energy to burn, but zero interest in taking care of herself, and somebody had to balance her out before Ratchet’s vents started hissing.
Miko groaned again, this time flopping backward onto the couch in the Autobot base with the kind of boneless collapse only a teenager could manage. Her guitar clattered beside her, still buzzing faintly from the broken string.
“Face it, you killed it,” you said, scooping up the guitar carefully. “But lucky for you, I know how to resurrect the dead.”
“You can fix it?” she perked up instantly, dark eyes wide with hope.
You grinned. “What do you take me for? Of course I can. Tomboy survival skill number three: patching up instruments after band practice disasters.”
Miko blinked at you. “What were numbers one and two?”
“Changing tires and punching jerks who make fun of your sneakers,” you said without missing a beat.
That got you a laugh. Not the quiet kind, either. Full-blown, head-thrown-back Miko cackling. The sound filled the base like sunlight cracking through steel walls.
You were grinning too, shaking your head as you dug around the little stash of supplies you kept here. Spare strings, duct tape, random odds and ends you had learned were lifesavers when hanging around Autobots who did not quite understand how fragile human stuff was.
“You are ridiculous,” you muttered fondly, crouching to restring the guitar.
From across the room, someone let out a low, amused rumble.
You did not need to look up to know who it was. That voice, deep and gravelly and steady, was stamped into your brain as surely as Miko’s laugh.
Bulkhead.
The massive green bot leaned against the far wall of the base, arms crossed, watching the whole scene like it was the best show in town. His optic ridges were lifted in that barely-there smirk he only ever showed when Miko was being especially Miko.
“What?” you asked, glancing up at him with mock suspicion. “You have got that look.”
“The one that says ‘ha, the human’s trying to herd cats again.’” You raised a brow. “You know you could back me up here.”
Bulkhead chuckled, low and warm. “Nah. You have got it handled.”
You narrowed your eyes at him, though your lips betrayed you with a twitch of a smile. Easy for him to say. He was perfectly content to watch you play mediator while leaning against steel plating like it was a bar stool.
Miko sat up just long enough to point dramatically at him. “See? Bulk gets it! He does not nag me about stuff. He is cool.”
You snorted, tying off the new string. “Yeah, Bulk is so cool he nearly had a meltdown last week when you tried to skateboard down the base stairs.”
“That was not a meltdown,” Bulkhead protested. “That was… concern.”
You arched a brow at him. “Pretty loud concern.”
Miko clapped her hands, delighted. “See? He cares!”
You gave Bulkhead a sidelong glance as you plucked the new string, testing its sound. “We all care. Difference is I am not about to let you faceplant and call it bonding time.”
Bulkhead’s vents gave a soft huff. Not quite a sigh, not quite a laugh. Something in between. You did not realize until a beat later that he had not looked away once since this whole back-and-forth started.
You looked down quickly, pretending to focus on the guitar.
~
The evening wore on in its usual rhythm. Miko bouncing from one idea to the next like a human pinball, you wrangling her with half patience and half sarcasm, Bulkhead hovering nearby with that steady presence you had come to rely on more than you would admit.
At one point, you managed to get Miko to sit at the console with her homework spread out. It was not easy. She complained, groaned, and tried to negotiate snack breaks every five minutes, but eventually she was scribbling math problems with dramatic sighs. You leaned over her shoulder occasionally, pointing out mistakes or nudging her back on track when her attention drifted.
Somewhere behind you, Bulkhead shifted. The sound of his plating moving was unmistakable, a heavy scrape softened by hydraulics. You did not need to turn to know he was still watching.
When Miko finally slammed her pencil down and declared herself done forever, you confiscated the half-finished worksheet and gave her a look. “Nice try. Finish problem twelve or I am telling Ratchet you used the med-bay scissors to cut guitar picks.”
Her gasp was audible across the base. “You would not.”
You grinned wickedly. “Oh, I would.”
That was enough to get her hunched over her paper again, muttering about betrayal.
“You are good with her,” Bulkhead said quietly.
You blinked, glancing up. His tone was not the usual joking rumble. This was softer, almost thoughtful.
“Good?” you repeated.
He shifted his weight, optics steady on you. “Yeah. You know how to keep her grounded. I try, but half the time I feel like I am just running behind her with a catch net.”
The image made you chuckle, though your chest felt warmer than it should. “You are not wrong about the net part.”
Bulkhead’s mouth plates curved faintly. “But she listens to you.”
You tilted your head, smirking. “Oh, so you are jealous.”
Bulkhead made a sound somewhere between a scoff and a laugh. “Jealous of you trying to wrangle Miko? Not a chance.”
“Uh-huh.” You leaned back in your chair, crossing your arms. “Sure sounded like it.”
He did not rise to the bait this time. Instead, he just looked at you. Really looked, in that way that made the air feel heavier. His optics were too bright, too steady, and you found yourself looking away first, fiddling with Miko’s worksheet like it was suddenly fascinating.
~
By the time Miko finally crashed, curled up on the couch with her guitar like it was a stuffed animal, the base had gone quiet. Even the hum of the consoles seemed softer, as if respecting the rare peace.
You tugged a blanket over her, smoothing it out automatically. She mumbled something incoherent but did not stir.
When you straightened, Bulkhead was still there. Still watching.
“You did not have to stick around all night,” you said softly, stepping closer.
He shrugged, massive shoulders rolling. “Did not feel right leaving.”
You swallowed, suddenly very aware of how small you looked next to him. “She will be fine. You know that, right?”
“I know,” he said. His voice was quiet, steady. “I just feel better when you are here too.”
The words hit harder than they should have. You blinked up at him, caught between warmth and something dangerously close to fluster.
“You are gonna make me blush, big guy,” you tried to joke, but your voice did not quite carry the tease.
Bulkhead’s optics softened. He did not press, did not tease back. He just looked at you with that steady, unshakable presence. The same way he always looked at Miko, but now with something else threaded through. Something that made your stomach flip.
Soundwave and his many, many, many eyes… they don’t look like eyes, but they are… really, who needs friends when you’ve got Soundwave, who is always there, listening and watching you? He’ll listen to you laugh, and he’ll watch you cry; maybe there’s a comfort to know that even if you don’t see him, he’s there and he sees you
Hellooooo! Absolutely LOVE your Ratchet pieces, and I was wondering if I could offer a request? How about a reader who get a tad too tipsy, and hilarity ensues as our dear Dr. tries to reign them in?
Hello! Very late, took an impromptu hiatus due to burn out. However, I just had a sudden spark and needed to write this! I don't think I've hit the quota though.
Thank you again for enjoying my mini Ratchet series!! Have some more "lore"... I kinda want to write an actual story now...
“Slip of the Tongue.”
Pairings -> Ratchet x Y/N
Warnings -> Mentions of alcohol
Genre/Theme -> fluff, teasing, bantering, comedy, mutual pining and angst.
Note -> n/a
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You did not plan to end up here tonight. At least, not like this.
The base was quiet when you staggered in, the kind of quiet that made your uneven footsteps echo far louder than they had any right to. Your head buzzed in that syrupy, not-quite-drunk but not-quite-sober place, and the world tilted a little too easily whenever you turned too fast. You were not plastered, you told yourself. Just pleasantly warmed. A tad too tipsy, maybe. Okay, fine. Definitely tipsy.
The monitors glowed across the room, and behind them stood Ratchet, posture sharp, optics fixed on the readouts like the entire planet depended on him personally glaring it into safety. Which, to be fair, maybe it did. He was muttering something under his breath about human inefficiency or Autobot protocols or maybe both.
You tried very hard to sneak by, to make your way up to the mezzanine and pretend you had not wandered in here in your current state. You even tiptoed, because that would surely fool the giant alien medic with hyper-sensitive sensors.
“Y/N,” Ratchet’s voice cut through the air like a scalpel. He did not even look up from his work.
You froze, caught mid-slink, one foot raised like a burglar in a cartoon. “…Yes?”
He finally turned his head, optics narrowing. “You are… compromised.”
“I’m not compromised,” you said, hand dramatically clutching your chest like he had wounded you. “I am, at worst, mildly marinated.”
His optic ridges furrowed into a look that would have withered lesser beings. “You reek of ethanol.”
You flopped down on the stairs, resting your chin in your hand. “You say that like it’s a bad thing. Ethanol is practically a food group.”
He pinched the bridge of his noseplate, venting air like he already regretted acknowledging you. “Honestly. Of all the humans to ally with…”
“Hey, that’s uncalled for,” you said, wagging a finger up at him. “I’m delightful. Ask anyone.”
Ratchet’s optics flicked over you, scanning, assessing, silently calculating just how many bad decisions had led to this exact moment. His expression settled into long-suffering disapproval. You grinned. Victory.
You sprawled out on the stair, legs dangling, looking up at him. “Sooo, what riveting emergency are you handling tonight, Doc? More Energon reports? Another thrilling round of ‘stare at the screens until my optics bleed’?”
“I am monitoring field activity,” he said, posture stiff.
“Uh-huh. And has anything happened in the last hour?”
His silence was telling.
“See,” you said, pointing at him again, “you’re bored too. You just won’t admit it.”
“I am not bored.”
“You are the definition of bored. If I looked up ‘bored’ in the dictionary, it would be a picture of you right now, frowning at a screen, pretending you don’t secretly want to play Uno.”
He glared down at you, voice dry as a desert. “I do not play card games.”
You gasped, clutching your imaginary pearls. “How do you live like that? No poker? No Go Fish? Not even Crazy Eights?”
“I live productively,” he retorted, turning back to his monitors.
You scrambled up to your feet, weaving only slightly, and marched across the platform until you stood beneath him. “You’re scared Bumblebee would beat you.”
His optics snapped to you. “Bumblebee cheats.”
“Aha!” you said, jabbing a finger at him. “So you admit it! You’ve thought about it.”
“That is not what I said.”
“Guilty conscience,” you sing-songed, rocking on your heels.
Ratchet vented air through his noseplate again, which you decided to interpret as the robot equivalent of a laugh. “Your logic is flawed.”
“Nope. You’re just afraid to have fun.”
“I am not—”
“You are!” You threw your arms up in triumph. “I just made you laugh.”
“I most certainly did not laugh.”
“You did! With your vents!”
“That was a sigh.”
“Ratchet, buddy, that was the sound of joy escaping your cold, medic heart. Don’t deny it.”
For a moment, something flickered in his optics. Amusement, maybe. The tiniest softening of his mouthplates. It was gone as soon as it came, but you saw it.
“Ha!” you crowed, bouncing back on your heels. “Gotcha. You like me.”
He looked down at you with the weight of an entire dying civilization in his optics. “You are insufferable.”
“And yet, here I am,” you shot back, grinning.
You leaned against the railing, tilting your head at him. “Okay, so maybe cards are out. What do you actually do for fun? Don’t say ‘work.’ That doesn’t count.”
“I work,” he said flatly.
You groaned, dragging a hand down your face. “That’s not relaxing, that’s masochism. Do you even know how to relax?”
He gave you a look that said he had probably never heard a stupider question in his long, storied existence.
“I mean it,” you insisted, poking the railing. “If I have to take it easy sometimes, so do you. It’s only fair.”
“I do not require—”
“Yes, you do.” You crossed your arms, swaying just slightly but keeping your ground. “You’re five typos into the first two lines of that report you’re working on.”
His optics widened just a fraction before he snapped his head back to the monitors. “How do you—”
“I lied about reading” you interrupted quickly. “But you always use the same format for those Energon storage reports. And you messed it up. Which means you’re tired.”
He went very still, his optics narrowing at the screen as though it had betrayed him.
You grinned, triumphant. “Gotcha again.”
He muttered something under his breath, maybe about nosy humans, maybe about faulty keyboards.
“You’re not as sneaky as you think, Doc,” you said, leaning in conspiratorially. “I notice things too.”
His gaze flicked down to you, studying, weighing. For a heartbeat too long, the air between you held something almost soft. Then he turned back to the monitors with a dismissive noise.
You stuck your tongue out at his back. Childish, maybe, but satisfying.
You turned, misjudged the step behind you, and promptly stumbled. Your arms flailed wildly, your balance shot to pieces, and the floor seemed to lurch up to meet you.
Except it didn’t, because a pair of massive servos scooped under your arms, steadying you with humiliating ease.
“Honestly,” Ratchet muttered, holding you aloft like a misbehaving cat. “Must you?”
Your face burned, partly from the alcohol, partly from sheer mortification. You twisted in his hold to look up at him, your words tumbling out before you could stop them. “Thanks, Ri—”
The wrong name slipped out. Not his. The name you were not supposed to say here. The one that belonged to the partner you were supposed to be with, the one who was not Ratchet.
Silence dropped over the room like a weight.
Your breath caught. His optics froze on you, unreadable. You wished you could rewind time, shove the words back into your mouth, erase them before they had a chance to exist.
Ratchet’s hold on you did not waver, but something in his expression shifted, just slightly. A wall slamming back into place.
“…I am flattered,” he said finally, voice dry as dust, “to be mistaken for someone else.”
You laughed, high-pitched and too quick, scrambling for cover. “Slip of the tongue. Totally. Didn’t mean anything.”
But you felt it, in the pit of your stomach. You knew exactly what it meant. And the worst part was that the name you had wanted to say was his.
He set you carefully back on the couch, his servo lingering a fraction longer than necessary before pulling away. “Perhaps you should sit down before you cause yourself actual injury.”
“Bossy,” you muttered, cheeks still burning. You sank onto the steps anyway, head in your hands.
For a while, the only sound was the hum of the monitors and your own uneven breathing. Then, softly, he said, “You are not useless.”
Your head snapped up. “What?”
“You claim that standing around doing nothing makes you feel useless,” he clarified, optics still on the screens. “You are not.”
Your throat tightened unexpectedly. “Yeah, well. Doesn’t always feel that way.”
He finally looked at you, his gaze steady, unwavering. “You are not useless,” he repeated, firmer this time.
You swallowed hard, blinking back the sudden sting in your eyes. You hated how much that meant, coming from him. You hated how good it felt, that little ember of pride sparking in your chest again, the same one that lit whenever he let you help, whenever he smiled, whenever he treated you like you mattered.
You leaned back against the couch, staring up at the ceiling, trying to laugh it off. “Careful, Doc. If you keep saying nice things, people might think you like me.”
His mouthplates twitched, almost but not quite a smile. “Perish the thought.”
You smiled anyway, a small, tired thing, and let your eyes drift shut. The alcohol hummed warm in your veins, pulling you down into the edges of sleep.
Just before you slipped under, you thought you felt the faintest brush of a servo, gentle and careful, adjusting the blanket Ratchet must have draped over you without you noticing.
And in the quiet, you almost let yourself believe you heard him murmur your name, soft and fond, like something precious.
When you woke in the morning, he was back at his monitors, frowning at the screens, walls firmly back in place. But his gaze lingered on you a heartbeat too long before he turned away.
And you thought, maybe, just maybe, you had not imagined it after all.
“This is stupid. And I hate that I like it so much.”
Prompt by @/creativepromptsforwriting
Pairings -> Ratchet x Y/N
Warnings -> None
Genre/Theme -> fluff, teasing
Note -> n/a
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It had started as a joke. A silly, throwaway comment during one of the quiet evenings in the base. Smokescreen had found an old human board game in the wreckage of a nearby town and convinced everyone to play. You, always up for a little chaos, had joined in immediately, dragging Ratchet into the mix despite his protests.
“This is a waste of time,” Ratchet had grumbled, crossing his arms as he watched you and the others set up the game.
“It’s called relaxation, Doc,” you replied, grinning up at him. “You should try it sometime.”
“I relax by working,” he muttered, though he made no move to leave.
What followed was chaos. The game required everyone to draw cards with ridiculous prompts, many of which were designed to embarrass the players. By the time it was Ratchet’s turn, the room was filled with laughter, mostly at Bulkhead’s failed attempt to balance three tools on his head.
“Your turn, Doc,” you said, sliding the deck toward him with a teasing grin.
He sighed heavily, his optics narrowing as he picked up a card. As he read it, his frame stiffened, and you could see the faintest flicker of annoyance in his optics.
“What’s it say?” Smokescreen asked eagerly.
Ratchet glared at you instead of answering, holding the card up. “It says I have to wear this ridiculous hat for the rest of the game.”
You burst out laughing, holding up the object in question: a bright, glittery party hat that someone—probably Smokescreen—had thrown into the pile of props.
“This is absurd,” Ratchet growled as you placed the hat on his head, adjusting it so it wouldn’t fall.
“It’s perfect,” you said, grinning.
“I’m a medic, not a party decoration,” he grumbled, though he didn’t remove the hat.
The game continued, but your attention kept drifting back to Ratchet. Something about the way the glittery hat sat atop his crest, juxtaposed with his usual grumpy demeanor, was downright hilarious.
“Why are you staring at me?” he asked, his tone sharp as he caught you glancing at him for the third time.
“Because you look amazing,” you replied, unable to keep the laughter out of your voice.
“This is stupid,” he muttered, his servos twitching slightly. “And I hate that I like it so much.”
Your grin widened. “You like it?”
“I said I hate that I like it,” he clarified, his optics narrowing.
“That’s not a denial,” you teased, leaning closer.
“It’s a statement,” he shot back, though the faintest flicker of amusement danced in his optics.
By the time the game ended, the room was filled with laughter, and even Ratchet seemed more relaxed than usual. The hat stayed on, though he muttered complaints under his breath every time someone pointed it out.
As the others drifted off to their respective quarters, you lingered in the med bay, tidying up the leftover pieces from the game. Ratchet was at his workstation, the glittery hat still perched on his head as he typed away.
“You know,” you said, crossing the room to stand beside him, “I think the hat suits you.”
He sighed, setting down his tools. “If you say that again, I’ll ban you from the med bay.”
“You wouldn’t,” you replied, smirking.
“Don’t test me,” he muttered, though his tone lacked its usual sharpness.
You reached up, gently adjusting the hat so it sat at a slightly jauntier angle. “There. Perfect.”
He gave you a flat look, though there was no real irritation in his optics. “This is still ridiculous.”
“And yet, here you are, still wearing the hat,” you said, crossing your arms with a triumphant grin.
He didn’t reply immediately, his optics flickering briefly before he sighed. “This is your fault, you know.”
“Oh, I know,” you replied, laughing softly. “And I’m never letting you live it down.”
For a moment, he simply stared at you, his frame relaxing slightly. “You’re lucky I tolerate you.”
“I’m lucky you like me,” you corrected, your grin softening into something warmer.
“Don’t push it,” he muttered, though the faintest smile tugged at the corner of his mouth.
When you passed through the med bay the next morning, the glittery hat was sitting on one of the shelves, carefully placed as though it were something valuable.
“You kept it?” you asked, raising an eyebrow.
Ratchet didn’t look up from his work. “It’s a reminder,” he said simply.
“Of what?”
“That I need to stop letting you talk me into ridiculous things,” he replied, though his tone was more fond than annoyed.
You laughed, leaning against the doorway. “Too bad, Doc. You’re stuck with me now.”
He glanced at you, his optics softening briefly. “I’m starting to realize that.”
The base was quiet, the aftermath of a long day settling over the halls like a heavy blanket. You sat on the med bay floor, leaning against the wall with your knees pulled up to your chest, staring absently at the distant glow of the monitors. Across the room, Ratchet worked at his console, his servos moving with practiced precision as he repaired a damaged scanner.
You weren’t hurt—at least, not physically. The mission had been successful, but something about the close call lingered in your chest like a weight you couldn’t shake. You hadn’t said much since returning to the base, and Ratchet, for all his usual grumbling, hadn’t pressed you.
“You’ve been quiet,” he said suddenly, his voice breaking the stillness.
You glanced up, surprised to find him looking at you over his shoulder. “Just tired,” you replied, forcing a small smile.
His optics narrowed slightly, as if he didn’t quite believe you. “Tired doesn’t usually make you sit in silence for this long.”
You shrugged, looking away. “Just thinking.”
“About what?” he asked, turning fully to face you now.
“Nothing important,” you said, your voice softer.
Ratchet’s frame shifted slightly, his servos twitching as if he wanted to reach out but wasn’t sure how. “Y/N,” he said, his tone gentler now, “if something’s bothering you, you should say so.”
“It’s nothing, really,” you insisted, though your voice wavered slightly. “Just… today was close. Too close.”
He studied you for a long moment before stepping closer, his massive frame looming but not intimidating. “That’s part of war,” he said quietly. “But it doesn’t make it any easier.”
You nodded, your hands fidgeting in your lap. “I guess I just… needed a minute to let it sink in.”
“That’s understandable,” he said, his tone softer than usual.
You glanced up at him, your lips twitching into a faint smile. “Thanks, Doc. For not pushing me too hard.”
“I push you because I care,” he replied, his optics flickering. “But I know when to stop.”
For a moment, the two of you sat in comfortable silence. Then, almost without thinking, you murmured, “You know… I wouldn’t mind holding your hand. I guess.”
His optics widened slightly, his servos stilling as if the words had short-circuited his processors. “What?”
You laughed softly, rubbing the back of your neck. “Forget it. It was stupid.”
He hesitated, his optics dimming briefly before he reached out, his massive servo lowering to your level. “It’s not… stupid.”
You blinked, staring at his outstretched servo. “Wait, really?”
“I wouldn’t offer if I didn’t mean it,” he said, though his voice carried a hint of awkwardness. “Besides… if it helps you feel grounded, I suppose I can make an exception.”
A soft laugh escaped you as you reached out, placing your hand on his. His servo was warm, the metal surprisingly gentle as it curled slightly around your smaller hand.
“Thanks, Ratchet,” you said softly, your voice barely above a whisper.
He glanced away, his optics flickering. “Don’t make a habit of this.”
“Of course not,” you said, smiling. “But, for the record, you’re really good at it.”
“Good at what?” he asked, his tone defensive.
“Comforting people,” you replied, squeezing his hand lightly.
He sighed, shaking his head. “You’re impossible.”
The two of you sat like that for a while, his servo resting gently around your hand as the tension from the day slowly melted away. You didn’t say much, and neither did he, but the silence was comforting rather than awkward.
When you finally felt ready to stand, you gave his hand one last squeeze before letting go. “Thanks, Doc. I needed that.”
He watched you for a moment, his optics softer than usual. “Anytime,” he said quietly.
“Too bad, you need to sleep here now. I can’t seem to sleep without you anymore.”
Prompt by @/creativepromptsforwriting
Pairings -> Ratchet x Y/N
Warnings -> None
Genre/Theme -> fluff, teasing
Note -> n/a
✦ . ⁺ . ✦ . ⁺ . ✦ . ⁺ . ✦ . ⁺ . ✦ . ⁺ . ✦ . ⁺ . ✦
The med bay was dark, the only light coming from the faint glow of monitors and diagnostic equipment. You sat perched on a crate, your knees pulled up to your chest as you watched Ratchet finish his nightly maintenance. He didn’t need to do it every night, but you knew it gave him something to focus on when the base was too quiet.
“You know,” you said, breaking the silence, “it’s kind of unsettling how you can just keep going without ever needing to sleep. Don’t you get tired?”
He glanced at you, his optics flickering. “Cybertronians don’t need sleep the way humans do. Rest cycles are sufficient for our systems.”
“Yeah, but you don’t even rest,” you pointed out, stretching your legs out in front of you. “You just keep working until something breaks—whether it’s you or the equipment.”
His optics narrowed slightly. “I’m perfectly functional, Y/N.”
“Uh-huh,” you said, smirking as you hopped off the crate and walked over to him. “What about mentally? Emotionally? You ever give that a break, Doc?”
Ratchet sighed, his servos pausing mid-motion as he turned to face you fully. “I don’t need you psychoanalyzing me at this hour.”
“It’s not psychoanalyzing,” you said, grinning as you leaned against his workstation. “It’s called concern. You know, that thing people feel for other people when they care about them.”
“I’m aware of the concept,” he replied dryly, though the faint flicker of something softer passed through his optics.
“Good,” you said, crossing your arms. “Because I’m concerned that you’re going to work yourself into the ground.”
He huffed, turning back to his tools. “You’re relentless.”
“And you’re stubborn,” you countered, stepping closer. “So, I guess we’re even.”
You reached out, resting a hand lightly on his arm. The motion made him pause, his optics flickering toward you again. “Seriously, Ratchet,” you said, your tone softer now. “You need to take a break. Just… shut down for a little while. Recharge. I promise the world won’t end if you’re not working for five minutes.”
He studied you for a moment, his frame relaxing slightly. “And what about you?” he asked. “You’re still awake, too.”
“Yeah, but I’m not the one holding this place together,” you said with a small smile. “I just can’t sleep.”
“Why not?” he asked, his tone curious but cautious.
You hesitated, your gaze dropping for a moment before you met his optics again. “Because you’re not there,” you admitted quietly.
Ratchet blinked, his servos stilling completely. “What are you talking about?”
“I’m talking about the fact that I’ve gotten used to you being nearby,” you said, laughing softly. “And now, when I try to sleep somewhere else, it just… doesn’t feel right.”
“That’s ridiculous,” he muttered, though his voice lacked its usual sharpness.
“Maybe,” you said, shrugging. “But it’s true. So, too bad. You need to sleep here now. I can’t seem to sleep without you anymore.”
His optics widened slightly, his frame stiffening as if he didn’t know how to process your words. “Y/N, that’s—”
“Sweet?” you interrupted, grinning. “Adorable? Completely unexpected from someone as grumpy as you?”
He groaned, dragging a servo down his faceplate. “I was going to say ‘unnecessary.’”
“Too bad,” you said, stepping back and crossing your arms. “You’re stuck with me now. Deal with it.”
Ratchet sighed heavily, shaking his head. “You’re impossible.”
“And yet, here I am,” you said, smirking.
He glanced at you, his optics softening slightly. “I suppose there are worse humans I could be stuck with.”
“Was that a compliment?” you asked, feigning surprise.
“Don’t push your luck,” he muttered, though the faint flicker of amusement in his voice didn’t go unnoticed.
When the silence stretched out between you again, it wasn’t awkward or tense. Instead, it was warm, filled with unspoken understanding. You sat back down on the crate, leaning against the wall as you watched him work.
“Seriously, though,” you said softly, your eyes starting to drift shut. “Don’t stay up all night. The base needs you. I need you.”
He glanced at you, his frame stilling for a moment before he turned back to his tools. “I’ll rest. Eventually.”
“Good,” you murmured, already half-asleep. “Because I sleep better when you’re here.”
As your breathing evened out, Ratchet turned to look at you again, his optics dimming slightly. For a long moment, he stood there, silently watching you sleep.
“You’re insufferable,” he muttered under his breath, though the warmth in his tone betrayed the words.
Finally, he set down his tools, his frame relaxing as he leaned back against the wall. He wouldn’t say it aloud, but he found himself agreeing with you: it was easier to rest with you nearby.
“How do you always make me love you even more when I don’t want to?”
Prompt by @/creativepromptsforwriting
Pairings -> Ratchet x Y/N
Warnings -> None
Genre/Theme -> fluff, teasing
Note -> n/a
✦ . ⁺ . ✦ . ⁺ . ✦ . ⁺ . ✦ . ⁺ . ✦ . ⁺ . ✦ . ⁺ . ✦
The med bay was dimly lit, the quiet hum of machinery filling the air as you sat on the edge of a supply crate, patching up your arm. Ratchet was at his workstation nearby, silent except for the occasional sound of tools clicking together. It was a comfortable kind of quiet, one you’d grown used to in the time you’d spent here.
But tonight, something felt… different. The tension between you was heavier than usual, his shoulders stiff as he worked. You hadn’t missed the way he’d growled under his breath earlier when you came in with a fresh injury, or the sharpness in his optics when he realized how close you’d come to getting hurt again.
“Okay,” you said finally, breaking the silence. “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing,” he replied, his tone clipped, though he didn’t look up.
“Ratchet,” you said, standing and crossing the room to his side. “Come on, talk to me.”
He sighed heavily, setting down his tools and turning to face you. “What were you thinking out there?”
You blinked, caught off guard by the frustration in his voice. “I was thinking I needed to help Smokescreen before he got slagged. Same as always.”
“You could have been killed,” he said, his optics narrowing. “Do you ever stop to think about that? About how reckless you are?”
You crossed your arms, meeting his gaze evenly. “I’m not reckless. I’m just doing what needs to be done.”
“At the cost of your own safety?” he shot back, his voice rising slightly. “You act like you’re invincible, Y/N, but you’re not. You’re human.”
“I know that,” you said, your voice softening. “But this is a war, Ratchet. We all take risks.”
“That doesn’t mean you have to throw yourself into danger at every opportunity,” he muttered, his servos clenching at his sides. “Do you have any idea what it’s like to watch you run headfirst into a fight, knowing you might not come back?”
The raw emotion in his voice caught you off guard, your breath hitching as you realized just how deeply this was affecting him.
“Ratchet…” you said softly, stepping closer.
He sighed again, his optics dimming as he looked away. “I’ve seen too much loss already. I can’t… I won’t stand by and watch you become another casualty.”
You hesitated for a moment before placing a hand gently on his arm. “I’m sorry,” you said quietly. “I didn’t mean to scare you.”
His gaze flickered toward you, the tension in his frame easing slightly. “You scare me every time you step onto the battlefield,” he admitted, his voice low. “And yet… you make it impossible for me to tell you to stop.”
You blinked, your heart skipping a beat at the weight of his words. “Why’s that?”
He hesitated, his servos flexing slightly before he spoke again. “Because of you. Because of who you are. No matter how much I want to protect you, I know I can’t take away what makes you… you.”
Your lips curved into a small, soft smile. “Is that your way of saying you care about me?”
He huffed, his optics narrowing slightly. “Don’t push it.”
You chuckled, stepping closer until you were standing right in front of him. “You know, you could just admit it. Might make things easier for both of us.”
He shook his head, his expression softening despite himself. “You’re infuriating, Y/N. And yet…” He trailed off, his voice growing quieter. “How do you always make me love you even more when I don’t want to?”
The words hung in the air, heavy with meaning, and for a moment, you couldn’t breathe. Then, slowly, you smiled, your hand brushing lightly against his.
“Maybe because I’m just that lovable,” you said softly, your tone teasing but warm.
He sighed, shaking his head. “That’s one explanation, I suppose.”
For the first time, Ratchet didn’t turn back to his tools or brush you off. Instead, he held your gaze, his optics softer than you’d ever seen them.
“Y/N,” he said, his voice steady now, “just promise me one thing.”
“Anything,” you replied.
“Don’t make me regret this,” he said, his tone a mix of gruffness and vulnerability.
You smiled, your hand tightening slightly around his servo. “I won’t.”
This time, when the silence settled between you, it wasn’t tense or uncomfortable. It was warm, filled with unspoken understanding. And as you sat together in the quiet med bay, you realized that maybe, just maybe, this grumpy medic wasn’t as unreachable as he seemed.
It had been another long day at the Autobot base. A minor skirmish with the Decepticons had left the team rattled but intact, though you’d been kept busy patching up Smokescreen and Bumblebee while Ratchet handled the more serious repairs. Now, with everyone stabilized and resting, the med bay had finally quieted down.
You leaned against a counter, watching Ratchet finish his post-mission diagnostics on the monitors. His frame was tense, as always, his focus unshakable. You couldn’t help but smile softly at the sight. Despite his gruffness, he cared more deeply for his team than he’d ever admit.
“Thanks for helping me earlier, Doc,” you said, breaking the silence.
“I didn’t do anything special,” he replied, his optics flickering toward you briefly before returning to his work.
“You kept Smokescreen from bleeding out all over my boots,” you countered, grinning. “Pretty angelic of you.”
He froze for a moment, his servos stilling mid-motion. “Angel?”
“Yeah,” you said, still grinning. “You know, like a guardian angel.”
Ratchet turned to face you, crossing his arms as his optics narrowed slightly. “Don’t call me angel.”
“Why not?” you asked, your grin widening. “You don’t like compliments?”
“It’s not accurate,” he replied gruffly.
You tilted your head, feigning thoughtfulness. “I don’t know… you swoop in, save lives, and grumble about it the whole time. Sounds pretty angelic to me.”
He sighed, muttering something in Cybertronian before turning back to his workstation. “You’re impossible.”
You pushed off the counter and moved closer, unable to resist the urge to prod him further. “Oh, come on, Doc. Don’t act like you don’t like being appreciated.”
“I don’t need to be called ridiculous names to feel appreciated,” he muttered, his tone sharper now.
“Fine,” you said, leaning against his workstation with a smirk. “Then what should I call you? Grumpy guardian? Metallic messiah?”
He gave you a flat look. “How about nothing?”
“Oh, no,” you said, your grin turning mischievous. “I’m calling you angel, and you’re just going to have to live with it.”
He groaned, dragging a servo down his faceplate. “Don’t call me angel. You’re the angel!”
The words came out so abruptly that it took a moment for both of you to register them. He froze, his optics widening slightly as if he couldn’t believe he’d just said that.
You blinked, stunned into silence for once. “Wait… what?”
He turned back to his workstation abruptly, his servos fumbling slightly as he reached for a tool. “Forget I said that.”
“Not a chance,” you said, recovering quickly as a slow grin spread across your face. “Did Ratchet, the grumpiest medic in the universe, just call me angel?”
“I misspoke,” he said stiffly, his optics fixed firmly on the screen in front of him.
“Oh, no, no, no,” you said, stepping closer. “You didn’t misspeak. You meant it.”
“Drop it, Y/N,” he muttered, his tone a mix of irritation and embarrassment.
“But why would I do that?” you teased, leaning into his line of sight. “It’s not every day I get called something nice by you.”
He sighed heavily, finally setting down his tools and turning to face you. “You are relentless.”
“And you’re deflecting,” you replied, crossing your arms with a smirk. “Admit it—you meant it.”
His optics flickered, his frame shifting as if he were debating whether to argue further. Finally, he sighed again, his shoulders slumping slightly. “Fine,” he said, his voice quieter now. “I meant it.”
Your teasing grin softened into something warmer. “Well, that’s a first. Ratchet giving me a compliment without me dragging it out of him.”
“Don’t get used to it,” he muttered, though his tone lacked its usual sharpness.
You stepped closer, resting a hand lightly on his arm. “For the record… I think you’re pretty angelic too.”
He huffed, his optics dimming slightly as he looked away. “Don’t push your luck, Y/N.”
“Wouldn’t dream of it,” you said, grinning again.
As you left the med bay, you glanced back over your shoulder to find Ratchet still at his workstation, his frame slightly more relaxed than before.
“Goodnight, Doc,” you called out. “Sweet dreams, my guardian angel!”
gAAAAHHH, can i just say that i came across 'in the wake of the stars' earlier today and im already on chapter 12 and immensely hooked. like- i absolutely love slow burns and your writing style and i've been trying to pace myself to save more of your fic for later on so i have something to look forward to. oh my gosh though i just had to come over here and tell you that it's really good and please take breaks, drink water, take care of yourself and keep up the great wORRKK💛💛💛
Hello!! Thank you for dropping by!! I'm so glad you're hooked!! You're so sweet!! This story has being a huge passion project of mine.
I 100% get you with wanting to pace things out; I've just uploaded a new chapter today so you're going swell!! It makes me happy that you're enjoying it this much haha, I feel so bashful now.
I'm recovering well and taking it slow myself with these chapters!! I hope you manage to catch up soon mightytato!!
“I personally like it, but you do look silly like this.”
Prompt by @/creativepromptsforwriting
The med bay was unusually quiet after the morning’s chaos, and you were taking full advantage of the rare downtime to reorganize supplies. Ratchet, predictably, was not. Instead, he was hunched over his workbench, tinkering with a repair drone that had been acting up during the last mission.
You glanced over at him, watching as he grumbled under his breath and reached for another tool. A thought crossed your mind—a mischievous, borderline reckless thought that made you grin.
It started innocently enough. A stray length of medical tape, a sharp flick of your wrist, and suddenly Ratchet’s right forearm had a white stripe wrapping around it.
He froze mid-motion, optics narrowing as he glanced down at his arm. “Y/N,” he said slowly, his voice low with warning. “What are you doing?”
“Helping,” you said innocently, already flicking another piece of tape in his direction. This one landed on his shoulder.
“Helping?” he repeated, turning to glare at you. “Explain how this is remotely helpful.”
“You looked tense,” you said with a grin, stepping closer with another strip of tape. “I figured a little decoration might cheer you up.”
He sighed, his shoulders slumping slightly as he crossed his arms—completely forgetting the tape on his arm in the process. “I don’t need cheering up. I need a functioning repair drone and less interference.”
“Aw, come on, Doc,” you teased, circling him as you carefully applied another piece of tape to his back. “A little fun won’t kill you.”
“This isn’t fun,” he muttered, though he made no move to stop you.
“Maybe not for you,” you replied, laughing as you added a strip of tape to his head, just above his optic.
He froze again, his optics narrowing dangerously. “Did you just—?”
“You’re welcome,” you said, taking a step back to admire your handiwork.
Ratchet turned slowly, his optics locked onto you with an expression that would have made any other Autobot quake. But you just grinned, tilting your head as you crossed your arms.
“I personally like it,” you said with a playful smirk, “but you do look silly like this.”
“Silly?” he repeated, his voice full of disbelief.
You gestured toward his reflection in the nearby console screen. The medical tape crisscrossed his frame like a child’s art project, with one particularly daring piece sticking to his crest like a makeshift party hat.
He stared at his reflection for a long moment before turning back to you. “Y/N…”
“Yeah?” you asked, grinning.
“I’m going to give you exactly five seconds to start running,” he said, his tone deceptively calm.
You bolted, laughing as you darted out of the med bay and down the hallway. “I’m only helping, Ratchet!”
“You’re insufferable!” he shouted, his heavy footsteps echoing behind you.
“I thought you liked me!” you called back, glancing over your shoulder.
“I’m rethinking it!” he retorted, though there was no real malice in his voice.
You skidded around a corner, nearly colliding with Smokescreen, who looked between you and Ratchet with wide optics. “Uh, what’s going on?”
“Y/N is testing my patience,” Ratchet growled as he thundered past.
“Seems like a normal day,” Smokescreen muttered, stepping aside as you disappeared around the next corner.
Eventually, Ratchet caught up to you in the storage room, his massive frame blocking the only exit. You leaned against a crate, still grinning despite the way your chest heaved from the exertion.
“Alright, alright,” you said, holding up your hands. “Truce?”
He crossed his arms, his optics narrowing. “Are you done?”
“Yeah,” you said, chuckling as you straightened. “I promise. No more tape.”
He sighed, rubbing a servo over his faceplate. “You’re impossible.”
“And yet, here we are,” you replied, your grin softening. “Admit it—you’re not actually mad.”
He glared at you, though his optics flickered with something closer to amusement. “You’re lucky I have work to do. Otherwise, you’d be scrubbing the med bay floor for the rest of the week.”
“Fair enough,” you said, stepping past him toward the door. “But, for the record, I think the tape suited you.”
“Out,” he barked, though you caught the faintest trace of a smile before you disappeared down the hall.
