I was scrolling through YouTube shorts and came across the Bone Museum and I immediately thought about how Ratchet, Ambulon or First Aid would react to seeing all this medical history of the human body. Imagine if in your mass displacement soft AU, the caretakers snuck the tiny bots out and brought them to the bone museum as a field trip. 🤣 it would be so fun to see their horror but also just to feed there medical curiosity.
🤣 nice
Mass Displacement Mayhem-Soft AU- Field Trip
Ambulon x Reader
• “Stop squirming. You’re supposed to be pretending to be a toy,” you whisper as he leans forward in your arms. Haven’t seen anyone else in the museum exploring except the rest of the caretakers in your group, but still. You don’t want the tiny mech to be noticed moving around by someone not in the know since what’s happened to the Cybertronians isn’t public knowledge, yet. And that’s probably for the best since some people don’t exactly love the aliens. ‘Then carry me closer to the display,’ he grumbles, venting noisily. ‘Please.’
• Embarrassed about being carried around like a sparkling, he rumbles softly as you move closer to the case of oddities so that he can study the skulls housed inside and read their placards. The specimens at least helping to distract him from the warm softness of you. Knew organic life could be messy, but seeing the samples of genetic mutations and diseased skulls just leaves him unsettled. Aware that your kind are even more fragile than he’d assumed. Weirder, too. “Do Cybertronians have anything like this?” You ask and he follows your stare to two conjoined skulls. ‘Not like this,’ he mutters, plating ruffling slightly.
• Turning when you hear one of the Decepticon medics loudly saying “you have how many bones in your hands” in a horrified tone, their caretaker is already hushing the tiny mech before you can. Adjusting Ambulon in your arms, he’s rumbling as he studies the cases. And he makes a dismayed sound when he notices the skull with hundreds of extra, badly developed teeth crowding the roof of its mouth and pushing out of its jaw. “Is this a common issue?” He asks, sounding like he doesn’t actually want to know the answer as he notices the second skull. And the third.
• “It happens,” you reply, shrugging and you’re frowning at the skulls when he looks up at you. “I’ve actually got an extra, tiny tooth in my jaw,” you add as you adjust him against yourself, a finger touching your chin as he stares. ‘Doesn’t it need to be removed?’ And you just shrug again. Like it’s nothing. “I mean, it’s not actually hurting anything. My last dentist thought it might be a bone chip from an old injury, but my new one was able to confirm it’s a tooth.”
• “But it’s not supposed to be there.” He sounds horrified as you smile faintly. Though coming from him when he barely takes care of himself without you nagging him, it’s kind of funny. Rubbing at a patch of flaky paint on his shoulder, you lift your brows and he vents softly. “That’s not the same and you know it.” Eyebrows going higher, you don’t argue with him. Mostly because you want to enjoy the museum. Noticing another skull that almost looks to be covered in stone or maybe fossilized, you’re carrying him that way.
Not fond of these fluffy guys. Red velvet ant. Not in fact an ant. More commonly called a cow killer around here because you definitely want to leave them alone
After you finished, you switched the screen to a human female body with the title, making a lot of the bots in question stop oggling at the screen
Y/n:*Looking at them with an 'innocent smile'* Okay, guys~It's time for my favorite time of this class...The Female Anatomy ~
Misfire*Giggling in his chair*Heheh~This is the best day of my life~
Half of the bots cheer while others gulp at their gutter like minds HOPE you would show videos or even show personal demonstration sparks "beating" faster...till you open your mouth-
Y/n: We are gonna talk about menstruation~
Bots:...Huh-What?
Pharma*Chuckles sitting next to Ambulon, in the corner of the class with the other medics*
Ratchet*Takes a sip of wine*Hahah~...The look on their stupid faces
Y/n*Preses the next button to show a visual of a VERY realistic animation of what goes* Once a month, an egg travels to the uterus, and if it's not fertilized ~
Megatron & Cyclonus: Oh, Primus...
Y/n: The uterus will all shed its lining~and is expelled as a bloody discharge!~
Bots*Screams in horror at the explanation as you proceed to show the slides with real pictures*AAAAAAAAAAH!?
Perceptor: OH MY PRIMUS!?
Rodimus: WHAT THE FRAG-
First Aid *Sees Fulcrum fainted, looks at his superiors*Fulcrum fainted, sir's
Ratchet*Waves him off*Leave them alone, these imbeciles have been through worse
Whirl*Confused and looks at the others*What is wrong with you all? It's not a big deal...Its biology
Y/n: ...Well, he is an unlikely ally
Y/n: Now periods can be excruciating, sometimes as painful as a heart attack
Tailgate*'Gasps in horror*You're serious?! Oh, my Allspark...I'm so sorry you human femmes have to go through that! I'M GONNA BRING CHOCOLATE TO WORK EVERY DAY! I heard it makes it better!
Grimlock*Nods, and grumbles knowingly*...I will also bring the brown sticky thing
Y/n*endeared by tailgate and grimlock's support* Aww~that's so sweet~
Sunstreaker*Curses under his breath," and gives an accusatory glare at his twin* Frag, they got affection points, why didn't you tell me about this chocolate thing!
Sideswipe*Elbows his twin just as angry*OH, NOW YOU WANT MY STUDIES ON HUMANS! DONT YOU DARE KINKSHAME ME AGAIN!
Red alert*Poking Fulcrum and other crewmates who fainted*Uh...these guys are still out, should we help?
The Medics continue to cackle at the misfortune of the crew
Part 1/Part 3
Wait till they find out that what helps with cramps is coitus-
• “Bend down a bit,” you whisper and he vents tiredly, his smile wry as he leans down. Straddling his lap and bare skin still damp from your shower, you shift against him, fingers dipping into the little pot of oil before you massage it into a spot of rust on his helm and his optics shutter in pleasure. Breath catching when his lips brush your neck, you keep working oil into those sensitive spots of raw plating to protect them. Feel one of his big hand sliding up your spine, servos kneading gently as his other hand grips your hip.
• “You’re distracting me,” you whisper, body trembling as his mouth opens against your jaw. Listening to your breathing shift as you take care of him, his palm slides up your spine. ‘I’m not the one plastered naked against you,’ he counters and you huff out a soft laugh that makes his spike stir behind his plating like he hadn’t just had you in the shower. “Aren’t you always naked?” You say and his mouth opens, lips and denta teasing your chest to make you groan his name.
• “Ambulon!” You gasp as he shifts and eases you down on your back, the little pot of medicinal oil rolling to spill everywhere as he covers you, mouth sliding against your body. Clutching his head to yourself as he rumbles to thrum through you, his spike releases to pressurize against your inner thigh. His mouth alternates between pressing kisses and bites against your chest until you’re arching, gasping his name as his spike brands your thigh with heat.
• Don’t know why you chose him. Why you keep choosing him, but he’s so thankful for it. Knows he’s a joke, that he has to hide his useless altmode. That other Cybertronians whisper about his flaking paint or ask if it’s contagious. But none of those things matter to you. Growling against your skin, he feels you hook a thigh against his hip, wiggling under him. And he’s aching to be inside you as he shifts over you, the head of his spike sliding against you.
• His head rests against your forehead as he presses deep, those yellow optics locked with your eyes. The added intimacy of him needing to make eye contact during had been uncomfortable at first, but now you need it as much as he does. Love seeing his jaw clench, watching the subtle shifts of his expression as he rolls his hips to make you both groan before he’s finding a rhythm, hips rocking against you. Hanging onto him as he moves inside you, he’s kissing you, hips pumping more urgently.
Ensuring my Polaroid camera is less attractive to thieves 🤣 I’m really hoping the bigger airport I’m using isn’t slammed and TSA is willing to hand inspect the camera and film since the CT/Xray scanner can ruin the film. I have three sealed boxes of film and I’m hoping having it still sealed in the aluminum pouches and original packaging satisfies them. I have no problem with them opening the film boxes, just please don’t put them through the scanners. These cameras are so finicky and they’re sensitive to heat and cold, too 😭
NOTE – literally just medbot-in-order. There's no Pharma because he's gone crazy. He's not a good-old-doc to be around here. So if I decide to do a Decepticon version, we might find him there instead
and none of them like mc at first I'm telling you
F I R S T – A I D
The lights in the Lost Light’s medbay were harsh in that painfully clean way—white, clinical, and far too bright for someone used to working in the shadowy wreckage of battlefields and abandoned storage bays
You stood still, bathed in sterile light, as if the room was trying to disinfect you through sheer judgment
The walls gleamed. The floor was spotless. Instruments were arranged in neat, alphabetized rows along the wall-mounted tool racks. You were fairly certain someone had even polished the oxygen scrubbers
You, in contrast, looked like a walking oil stain
Your plating still bore the smudges of a recent field repair —one that had involved a bent servo, a crowbar, and a lot of screaming (some of it yours). There was a rag tied around your wrist for no apparent reason. A wire hung from your hip. The tray you’d brought with you—holding a screwdriver, a rusted clamp, and something that may have once been a tooth—ticked every few seconds from residual static
Across the room, First-Aid stood frozen
Not from fear. Not quite. More like the horrified tension of a bot watching someone carve up a first-aid manual page by page to use as coasters
His servo clutched a datapad so tightly that the metal casing creaked faintly under the pressure. His optics darted back and forth over the text like he was searching for some line—any line—that would explain what you were and why the hell Rodimus had let you on board
And you?
You waited
Waited exactly two minutes and seventeen seconds—yes, you were counting—before breaking the silence with your usual charm
“So” you said, rocking back on your feet
“do I pass the inspection, or do I need to fail harder to really make an impression?”
Your voice echoed slightly in the too-quiet room. The medbay didn’t know how to handle that tone—wry, reckless, thick with the kind of confidence only the truly unhinged could wield comfortably. First-Aid blinked, his optics snapping up. He looked at you like you’d just walked in wearing a cape made of patient charts
“This says” he began, voice tight and rising slightly “you performed open spark surgery using engine coolant as a sterilizer—”
“I asked him if he wanted anesthetic”
you cut in smoothly “and he said no. Or, well, he passed out, which is close enough”
He stared. You smiled
“Besides” you added with a flick of your fingers “if your patient doesn’t scream at least once, how do you know the nerves are still working?”
He made a noise—choked, strangled, high in pitch. His hand dropped to his side, the datapad hanging limp now, like the weight of your words had physically knocked the strength out of him
“That is not how we—how anyone practices medicine!”
Your stride was unhurried, yet somehow radiated the same menace as a pressure gauge ticking toward red. Not loud, but felt. Like the moment before a sneeze, or the exact instant someone realizes they’ve left the surgical clamp inside the patient
“And yet” you said, almost to yourself, as your optics skimmed across a chart still glowing faintly on the screen “they survive”
There was no real context. Which made it worse
First-Aid startled like you’d slapped him with a used energon rag. He backed into the diagnostics table so fast he nearly knocked over a sterilization wand. One hand grabbed the edge like it might anchor him to reality. The other hovered mid-air like it couldn’t decide whether to call security or the clergy
“Rodimus… let you on board”
His voice had that brittle quality of someone trying to convince himself the building wasn’t on fire, despite the visible smoke — You turned toward him with a grin like a cracked energon cube—shiny, unstable, possibly lethal “He said I’ve got potential”
you chirped, cheerfully oblivious to the rising alarm in his optics “Also mentioned something about overflow triage, vent maintenance, and ‘creative solutions to personnel shortages’ I was flattered” You mimed placing a hand over your spark. It was unclear if you were pledging allegiance or checking for a heartbeat
“You’re a hazard!”
“A licensed hazard” replied proudly
“Well, semi-licensed. Regionally certified. Technically. Look, I passed a test. Might’ve been psychological. Or about my psychology” You said it like it was a party anecdote. Something between “I once dated a Decepticon” and “I ate a medgel cube on a dare”
He blinked at you
You blinked back—twice as fast, like a corrupted interface just to mess with him
Then you laughed — Oh, Primus, that laugh – It ricocheted around the medbay like someone had set off a proximity mine made of bad decisions and surgical anecdotes. Loud. Inappropriate. Joyous in a way that only made sense to people who’d once stitched a spark casing back together with their teeth
First-Aid realized it in the exact moment your smile caught the edge of his attention—lopsided, easy, and radiating a kind of mischief that had no place in the tightly regulated sterility of the Lost Light’s medbay. It didn’t match the gleaming metal surfaces or the scent of disinfectant that clung to everything like expectation. It didn’t belong. You didn’t belong
Everything about you—your stance, your grin, the way your optics flicked around like you were casing the place for fun—declared you as someone utterly outside of protocol.
You stood like a joke in a surgical ward. Like entropy had decided to walk upright and wear a field medic’s badge as a joke. To First-Aid, you weren’t just unqualified. You were an infection with vocal cords. A walking contradiction wrapped in self-confidence and duct tape
“You’re not touching any patients without strict supervision” he snapped, recovering his dignity like a dropped datapad—hastily, but with determination
“Perfect! I love being supervised. Makes everything feel so... official. Adds flair. Drama. Mystery” You leaned in just a inch, enough to trigger personal space alarms “You supervise. I improvise. You keep people alive. I keep things exciting. It’ll be like a buddy cop show, except with more bleeding"
He looked like he aged three upgrades just from that sentence. You tilted your helm, expression softening into something that looked, horrifyingly, like sincerity “Unless, of course… you’re scared?”
He straightened. Field tightening. Optics narrowing. Classic reflex. You knew the symptoms “I’m not afraid”
“Excellent” you whispered “Because I absolutely am. Isn’t that thrilling?” You stepped back just enough to give him room to ventilate again—bless his overworked filters—and smiled like you’d just named a scalpel after him
He stood frozen, halfway between protocol and panic, like someone trying to treat a patient who was also on fire and beneath it all, you saw it: that tiny, involuntary twitch at the corner of his mouth. Not a smile but a crack — first one
And you were already getting out your chisel
“They’ll get someone killed one day. But they’ll probably save two more first"
"If I keep standing close enough.. I might learn how"
He don't like you. Not in any textbook sense of the term. He disliked your methods. Your hygiene was borderline offensive. You called him "Textbook" like it was both insult and compliment, and your favorite surgical instrument appeared to be a pair of rusted pliers you refused to throw away. There was, by every metric he knew, nothing about you that should have drawn his attention so strongly and yet
He found himself noting how you adapted under pressure. How quickly you moved—not recklessly, but responsively, like someone who’d memorized chaos. He found himself listening for your voice in the medbay. Not because it soothed him—but because it kept him sharp. Awake. Alive
There was something about you that defied logic in the same breath that it completed it
He saw hands—your hands—moving with terrifying steadiness in the center of madness. He saw logic surrender to instinct, and instinct thrive. He saw you rewire a collapsed spark chamber with copper wire and what could only be described as sheer nerve
He saw you whisper something ridiculous to a bot mid-panic— “If your coolant line bursts, I’ll tie it off with tubing. You won’t die. Probably” and watched the patient laugh through the terror
He saw you fail, once
And sit beside the body for two hours afterward. Not a word. Not a joke. Not even that crooked grin. Just your hands folded in your lap, and your optics dim with something First Aid didn’t expect you were capable of: stillness
That was the day something shifted in him—too quiet to name, but too loud to ignore
R A T C H E T
The medbay, for all its polished surfaces and antiseptic precision, felt unusually tense today—as though the very air was bracing for impact. Bright overhead fluorescents beat down on sterile countertops, illuminating every instrument laid out in methodical rows, each with its own assigned place, its own specific function, its own carefully maintained integrit and then… there was you — Standing like a conceptual glitch in the otherwise orderly space, elbow-deep in a patient’s chestplate and humming to yourself like someone rearranging furniture instead of vital systems
The patient—a junior security officer from Deck Seven—looked moments away from cardiac arrest. His field fluttered in anxious pulses. You, meanwhile, appeared serene. Playful, even. Your servo hovered over a critical energon valve with a laser probe gripped like a stylus
“I’m just saying-” you said conversationally, tilting your helm slightly “if I aim just right, the whole line depressurizes at once. Instant results. High drama. Very efficient”
You shifted your grip to emphasize the stab part of the process
It was at that exact moment that Ratchet—who had up until now been engaged across the room rechecking supply records—snapped.
“stop. Stop—Primus help me—STOP!”
The bark of his voice cracked across the medbay like a circuit surge. Several instruments rattled from their trays. Somewhere in the hall, someone dropped a datapad. He crossed the space in three thunderous strides, snatched the probe out of your hand with a snarl that suggested divine intervention, and inserted it himself with precise, scathing control—clicking the pressure seals into place as if punishing the procedure itself
He didn’t look at you
He didn’t have to.
“Sit and watch, don’t touch anything unless I hand it to you” There was a silence, then the dramatic creak of a stool as you flopped onto it with the practiced flair of someone deeply accustomed to being scolded. You sprawled like a guilty schoolbot in detention—arms crossed, legs swinging, dignity entirely unbothered.
“You’re no fun” you muttered, loud enough to be heard
“No flair. No edge. Where’s the danger?”
“This is not a carnival” Ratchet snapped, still working with ruthless efficiency “You don’t get extra points for flair. You get extra lawsuits”
The words were muttered through clenched dental plates as he handed you a sterilized injector. His tone remained clipped, professional, but his optics—those infamous optics—were starting to twitch “Now. Take this. Line it up with the main coolant artery. Slowly. Deliberately. Like someone who isn’t trying to impress a Wrecker with a death wish”
You took the injector with mock reverence, pinching it between two fingers like it was forged from myth. Your optics narrowed with exaggerated concentration. One might have thought you were defusing a bomb rather than delivering medication. Then—without hesitation—stab. Click. Inject.
Dead center
Ratchet froze mid-motion. His optics flicked to the readout. Then to the injection site. Then, slowly, to you “…Huh”
You turned your helm toward him with deliberate, theatrical slowness—like a drama-bot preparing for their final monologue—one optic ridge raised in exaggerated pride. The smug curl at the corner of your mouth was pure mischief, unconcerned, untouched by caution
“Impressed?”
Ratchet didn’t miss a beat
“No” he said flatly “Alarmed”
You handed the injector back with the kind of smug grace that bordered on performance art, your smirk still annoyingly intact. “What? I can follow instructions.”
He gave you a look
“So you choose not to. 99% of the time?”
“Obviously” you said with a shrug, as if the logic was self-evident “Where’s the drama in doing everything the safe way?”
Ratchet groaned then—low, guttural, and thoroughly exhausted—the kind of sound that belonged not to a medic, but to a war veteran on his eighth recitation of “Why are you like this?”
His servo came up, pinching the bridge of his nasal ridge in a gesture that seemed less about managing his temper and more about holding his spark together with willpower alone
“You’re going to give me a stress reboot..”
You beamed, utterly unfazed “Aw, come on. Admit it. You love this. It’s like babysitting a grenade. A very enthusiastic grenade"
Every fiber of his deeply overworked frame screamed that you were a liability. A threat. A disgrace. You’d read no formal medical doctrine. You quoted battlefield myths like gospel. You told a patient—his patient—that if they died, you could “recycle the good parts" And yet. You saved them. Not with finesse. Not with dignity. Not with anything he would ever sign off on. But they lived. Their spark stabilized. Their pulse calmed. They breathed
He hated it — He hated how you looked at the result, not the method. He hated how you grinned afterward, like it wasn’t a miracle but a game. He hated how he couldn’t stop watching you work, because somehow, somehow, you understood something that textbooks didn’t teach. Worse still?
He hated how you reminded him of himself—before he got old and tired and afraid of trying things that weren’t already proven
He looked at you like one looks at a half-defused explosive with a smug attitude—and yet, he didn’t argue. Not really. Instead, with a resigned grunt and the heavy grace of someone who had long since accepted their fate, he passed you the dermal sealer. No lecture. No muttering. No carefully worded disclaimer about liability — Just a tool. And a sliver of trust—quiet, grudging, and far more meaningful than anything he’d said out loud
You accepted it with uncharacteristic silence. No sarcasm. No dramatics
Just the work
You sealed the incision with smooth, steady lines, each motion executed with a clarity that had nothing to do with instinct and everything to do with experience. The edges came together cleanly. The weld held. The patient’s vitals stabilized. Textbook
When you returned the sealer to his waiting servo, Ratchet didn’t speak right away. He examined your work with the same scrutiny he gave to battlefield casualties and self-diagnosed captains—careful, thorough, unwilling to be impressed without reason
But then, after a moment…
"That’s… good work” he said at last. His voice was quieter than usual, and it carried the faintest edge of something approaching reluctant approval
You responded with a theatrical bow—an unnecessary flourish, complete with optic twinkle “I learned from the best"
“You’ve never trained under me”
“Not formally” you said, lips quirking into a grin “But I’ve read your case files. Watched all your lectures. Stole a shrine someone made of you and rewired the lights. Y’know. The usual academic stalking"
He stared
You held his gaze like you were daring him to ask which shrine, or how recently
“You’re a legend, Ratchet” you added, tone somehow both sincere and wicked “I just prefer being a cautionary tale. The punchlines are better”
There was a long exhale through his vents—rougher this time, full-bodied with fatigue and disbelief. A snort followed, somewhere between a laugh and a sigh, as though his processor had tried both reactions and settled for the only one that wouldn’t kill him
“Primus help me… I’m going to miss you when you’re dead”
“Aww. You do like me”
“No, I just like knowing where the trouble is”
You winked. And that, more than anything, seemed to unnerve him. But he didn’t take the sealer back. Didn’t snap at you. Didn’t say what was obvious in the silence between his words: That somehow, against all logic and regulation, you had earned your place here and he was starting to suspect—against all odds—that the medbay might just survive you
Maybe
“They’re everything I hate and somehow, they make me wonder if I’ve spent all these cycles doing it the wrong way"
"..Maybe I’ll let them stay. Just long enough to prove them wrong”
He didn’t like you – Not in the way people liked each other. But sometimes, when he saw you work—with your smudged fingers, and your muttered jokes, and your solutions that made no sense but somehow stopped the bleeding— He didn’t stop you.. instead sometimes, he took note
You were worse than the stories. You walked into medbay like you belonged there, with grease on your fingers and a grin that screamed liability You waved off his stare, offered him a bent spanner like it was a gift, and asked if his cortical relays had “always looked this grumpy”
He’d threatened to throw you out. You’d laughed and asked if he needed help with the overflow. He should’ve said no. He didn’t
He’d tried to report you, once or twice.. or six times
Ultra Magnus said you weren’t technically violating any protocols. Drift said he liked your “energy” Even Rodimus, whose opinion mattered the least, somehow mattered more when he said: “They saved someone with cable ties and chewing gum. That’s genius, Ratch. You can’t train that”
Ratchet disagreed
Loudly
With charts and yet
He saw the way you looked at broken things. The way your optics narrowed in focus—not cold, not analytical—but alive. Invested. You did see patients as puzzles that you wanted to put back together. Even if you used the wrong tools. Even if your hands were too fast, your grin too wide, your ethics questionable at best
You cared
Primus help him again, you actually cared. And it wasn’t pretty. It wasn’t orderly. It wasn’t the kind of “caring” you could measure in paperwork. But it was real
A M B U L O N
It happened mid-cycle, during what should have been a routine diagnostic on the starboard maintenance corridors. One moment, there was peace—a checklist, a loose panel, the quiet hum of the ship’s gravity stabilizers – The next, a shriek of metal. A pressure wave. A storm of sparks. Ambulon hit the floor as the emergency bulkhead slammed down behind him, cutting the corridor in two like a guillotine. He staggered upright, sensors ringing—and saw you
You were already on your knees beside the injured miner, whose leg had been crushed beneath a collapsed junction panel. Energon pooled beneath him in thick, syrupy waves, bright and bubbling. His ventilations came in erratic gasps, static-laced and shallow. His optics darted in panic
Ambulon froze
Not out of fear. Not exactly. Out of memory
The panel. The screaming. The way no one had moved for him. The way no one had thought to. He stood motionless as echoes of that past clawed up through his spark
And you— didn’t hesitate
You were already elbow-deep in the panel’s edge, stripping wiring with your teeth when your cutters couldn’t reach. Your voice cut through the din like a plasma torch “Hold him still or he’s gonna bleed out through ports he didn’t know he had, and I am not losing another leg-case today, I swear by Primus’ recycled panties— MOVE”
Your tone was wild. Sharp. Irrefutably commanding
He moved
His hands found the bot’s shoulders, pressed down. He murmured stabilizers, tried to regulate field output—anything to help. Anything to ground himself. Anything to distract from the fact that you were doing everything wrong
Unsterile tools. Unorthodox technique. No scanner, no chart
And still— The bot’s vitals leveled
The bleeding slowed
You rerouted two energon feeds using leftover wire from the collapsed panel and some insulation from your own armor. Your servos never shook. Your focus never wavered and when it was over—when the miner’s spark stabilized and his frame stopped twitching in pain—you sat back on your heels, fuel-streaked and grinning like you'd just cheated death at cards
“There. Still twitching. That means I did good, right?”
Ambulon couldn’t speak
He just stared at you—at your filth-smeared plating, your scorched fingers, the mess you’d made of the scene—and realized something deeply uncomfortable: That this wasn’t carelessness. It wasn’t showmanship. It was confidence. The kind forged in fire, in loss, in the terrible intimacy of holding someone’s spark between your hands and deciding, again and again, to try..
In his experience, the phrase “Just make do” translated with chilling consistency into “This is going to get someone killed". He’d seen it. He’d lived it. He was it—once. He still remembered the wrench.
when he heard there was a new medic aboard the Lost Light—a rogue practitioner with no license, no formal training, and apparently no discernible regard for sterile procedure– for two first weeks since you arrived, he didn’t so much as glance at you in the corridors. He refused to take joint rotations, changed schedules to avoid shifts with you, and logged three formal complaints that Rodimus may or may not have used as coasters
He’d vented to Ratchet. To First Aid. To anyone who’d listen “It’s reckless” he had hissed, servo trembling around a scalpel “It’s a lawsuit waiting to happen. It’s a sparkline drawn in graffiti"
You were elbow-deep in a dying technician’s chestplate when Ambulon entered—his silhouette framed in the medbay doorway like a portrait of disapproval wrought in steel. The light behind him cast a stark outline, and for a moment, he looked more like a statue of order than a living medic. Unmoving. Unyielding
He didn’t speak right away. He didn’t need to. The air shifted the moment he arrived—cooling under the weight of his expectations
You didn’t look up. Your hands were too busy, navigating the chaotic ruins of another bot’s insides with the kind of manic grace that only came from far too many near-deaths and not nearly enough sleep. A half-sterilized patch cable coiled in your fingers like a snake you meant to charm
“You’re not supposed to be in here,” he said at last, his voice flat—sharp as a sterilized scalpel, but with none of the warmth of intent behind it
You snorted—unapologetic, unbothered
“Neither is most of his internal plating” you replied. “We’re all trespassers today"
Ambulon stepped further in, hands clasped tightly behind his back in a gesture so stiff it looked painful. Like every fiber of his being wanted to intervene, to stop you—but protocol had trapped him in silence. He watched as you worked: the way your fingers moved like they’d never been trained, only tempered; the way you anchored the junction in place with a firm tap of your knuckle
The mech on the table twitched. A spasm. A flicker. The faintest betrayal of life. You beamed like you'd just pulled a rabbit out of a collapsed spark chamber “See? That’s the twitch of life. Textbook success"
“That’s the twitch of residual nerve current from a poorly rerouted interface—”
“Semantics”
Ambulon exhaled through his vents—sharp, audible, like a hiss from a sealed valve being opened just a little too fast “You didn’t sanitize your tools properly. You didn’t even scan him before cutting him open—"
That made you pause. Not in guilt, but in irritation. You turned to face him, optics steady, voice edged with defiance that had been honed by far worse than judgment
“He didn’t have time for a scan” you said “He had five minutes before the energon starvation reached his neural bridge. I gave him six. That’s a net win where I’m from"
Ambulon’s jaw clenched—not visibly, but you could see it in the shift of his plating, the microadjustments of someone trained to hold still even when every part of them wanted to move
He approached slowly, optics darting between your hands, your instruments, the readouts flickering behind you—as though he could still catch the error that would make it all make sense
“Do you even remember his name?”
You blinked “Nope”
You wiped your digiy down your thigh plating, smearing a dark trail of fuel across the silver as casually as a chalkboard scribble “But I remember the position of his spark post-blast, and the way it started to slip into cascade. I remember exactly how to cradle it so it wouldn’t rupture the surrounding. That count for something?”
Ambulon hesitated, lips parted—searching for a definition, a category, a box to put you in “That’s not medicine” he said, voice low, almost lost beneath the hum of the medbay’s ambient monitors “That’s—”
He faltered
Because whatever he wanted to call it, it wasn’t wrong. You tilted your helm, a crooked smile playing faintly across your face “Field instinct. Improvisation. Controlled madness. Take your pick"
There was silence again—dense and hot between you. The only sound was the quiet tick, tick, tick of the life monitor behind you
Still alive
Still working
Ambulon’s shoulders lowered—not in defeat, but in something subtler. Something more human. The drop was minimal, almost imperceptible, yet it was there: a soft, unconscious collapse of posture that spoke of tension long held finally beginning to ebb
“I don’t understand how you do it” he murmured. The sharpness in his voice, once honed like a scalpel, had dulled—not into resignation, but into confusion, like someone standing at the edge of a cliff, unsure if what lay before them was the drop or the sky
“You ignore every established procedure. You tear up the blueprint and redraw it mid-operation. You never—never—repeat a process the same way twice"
He wasn’t accusing anymore
He was asking
You took a single step toward him. Measured. Gentle. Not to challenge. Not to provoke. But to meet him halfway. To bridge. Your voice, when it came, was quiet. Not diminished, but deliberate—as though shaped carefully around a truth you’d carried too long to let it shatter now
“Because every bot breaks differently” you said “They fracture in different places. At different angles. For different reasons. And if you treat them all the same—if you paste the same solution over every bleeding wound—you miss the thing that makes them salvageable"
You watched his optics flicker—register, resist “You think healing is math” you continued, your tone somewhere between a confession and a creed “But it’s not. It’s jazz"
Your lips curved faintly—not in mockery, but in reverence “It’s dirty, violent, brilliant jazz. You improvise. You listen. You adapt. You hit the wrong notes and find beauty in the discord. You keep going even when the rhythm fails"
He held your gaze now, steady as iron
“And yet” he said—this time louder, sharper, more certain, as if the weight of his argument was all that kept him grounded— “you treat them like scrap. Like spare parts you glue together with hope and hazard tape. You gamble with lives as if they’re puzzles to be solved, not sparks to be protected"
The words landed heavy in the air. You didn’t react. Not outwardly. You let them settle—allowed the silence to breathe around them
Then you inhaled. Long. Slow. Controlled
“No” you said at last
“I treat them like machines that deserve to keep running. Even when their frames are twisted. Even when their cores are cracked. Even when the files say they’re not worth" Your voice was soft, but it hit like gravity. Steady. Inarguable “Even when every protocol tells me to walk away… I don’t"
The room fell silent, thick with unsaid things. The soft electronic click of the life monitor behind you pulsed like a metronome for a song neither of you were quite ready to finish. You met his optics again—this time without posture, without pretense. There was no fire in your words. No sarcasm. No armor of wit — Only belief
Naked. Raw. Unshakable “Maybe it’s ugly. Maybe it’s not precise. Maybe it’s not what the manuals say it should be"
You glanced at the technician still breathing behind you “But it keeps them alive”
Ambulon didn’t respond immediately
His optics stayed fixed on yours, unblinking—like a mech trying to see through the dark and not entirely sure whether he wanted to find what waited there and then you saw it. The thing he didn’t mean to show – Not anger. Not rejection but fear. The quiet, aching kind that came from understanding—finally understanding—what you were, and what that meant for both of you
“…You scare me” he said at last
The words were barely above a whisper. But in their smallness, they struck with the clarity of truth. You didn’t laugh, didn’t smirk. You only smiled—a small, still thing, steeped in something older than pride and softer than defiance. A smile that didn’t reach your optics, because it came from somewhere far deeper. Somewhere that remembered every loss, every line you’d crossed to keep someone else breathing
“Good” you said quietly “That’s how you know I’m doing it right”
“I still don’t trust you. I still think you’re dangerous.. but maybe, just maybe… you're the first one who’d know how to fix someone like me”
It had been jammed into his frame during a particularly violent triage attempt, back when he was less of a medic and more of a shape that could carry equipment. The others hadn’t known his name. Just his alternate mode. Just what he could turn into. That was all that mattered. Not who he was, not how he processed fear
They’d needed parts? He was spare
Ambulon had never liked improvisation. Improvisation meant danger. It meant desperation. It meant something had already gone terribly wrong and someone, somewhere, was about to pay for it in energon and trauma. Improvisation was not a skill—it was a symptom. A last resort wrapped in false confidence
That night, long after the alarms had quieted and the medbay returned to its usual order, Ambulon found himself standing outside its entrance — The lights in the corridor had dimmed into their late-cycle glow, casting soft amber reflections across the polished floor. Shift change had come and gone. No footsteps echoed through the hall now—only the quiet, ever-present thrum of the Lost Light’s engines, pulsing like a distant heartbeat against the walls
Ambulon stood perfectly still, his posture rigid, his arms tucked behind his back as though formality might hold back the tide of thought rising slowly inside him. He wasn't sure how long he’d been there. Minutes. Cycles. Time felt suspended—like the ship had graciously decided to grant him a pause in motion, in momentum
He stared at the floor
Thinking
He thought of how many times he had been overlooked. How often his worth had been calculated by usefulness—by utility. He thought of the term "spare part”—how it had followed him like a shadow
For all your mess—your irreverence, your recklessness, your maddening improvisations—you treated everything you touched as if it were reclaimable. As if being broken wasn’t a sentence – as if the fragments still meant something
You never said it outright. Never declared it but Ambulon had seen it. In the way you held your hands steady even as your mouth ran wild. In the way you muttered to the dying like they could hear you. In the way you never looked away from the aftermath — not even once — You believed, somehow, in rebuilding. Not because it was efficient. Not because it was clean. But because it was possible and in your eyes, even the worst-off patients weren’t salvage. They were worth it
Every single time
You treated every part—every bot—like they could be rebuilt. Even the broken ones. Even the one that others had left behind
Synopsis: Reader was Ambulons human conjunx prior to his death and is coping with it now- sorta. ANGST WARNING.
Note: I don’t write angst requests, this was just an exploratory piece! But I think I’m happy with how it turned out:p I don’t personally crush on Ambulon but this thought was too good to pass up lol
CW/TW: MINORS DO NOT INTERACT, ANGST WARNING, character death and potential spoilers, suitable for afab and amab readers, gender neutral human reader, established relationship, hurt comfort, SADNESS OWIES PAIN.
Characters: Ambulon, Pharma, First Aid, Ratchet, Rodimus
——————————————————————————————————————
——————————————————————————————————————
How long had it been? Since you’d seen your grouchy medic- the one that psychopath took from you. How long had it been since you’d felt his touch? Seen his smile as you surprised him in the med-bay with energon goodies? Helped him with his chipped paint? Heard his exasperated venting as you told him a dirty joke he shouldn’t find funny but did- Heard his voice?
How long had it been since you’d felt his spark go out? And the pain sets in thinking about it again. Did it ever stop?- The bond you two shared, such an intimate thing held between you, so sacred that it became a part of you. The pain of losing your literal other half, not even being there to help- keenly aware you couldn’t have known Pharma would harm your lover- but angry about that powerlessness. Nausea builds inside you at the thought. Sickeningly familiar now.
Ratchet and First Aid have been visiting you, checking on you. Rodimus imported flowers from Earth by pulling strings on his connections, he delivered them to you. First Aid had the thought to let you into his workshop, you know Ambulons passing hit him hard too. He decided against it, seeing your mates lifeless form being- worked on- it could be a lot. Especially so soon.
Ratchet let’s you spend your days in the med-bay, in the small office space Ambulon used to occupy. A picture of you two sits on his old work area. None of the other medics have dared touch his stuff, leaving it as it was for your sake. Maybe for theirs as well? It’s not as though he wasn’t their friend, after all.
Your shared habsuite is cold now. The metallic musky scent is fading. Your shared berth didn’t retain any scent, but you don’t hold it against the metal- do you? The clothes and blankets your partner had obtained when first bringing you over- the mixed scent of you both almost gone now. Replaced by nothing but your own, and more bitter than before.
Everyday. It feels like you’re being pulled apart at the seams. Dissected. It hurts, you know in your heart- eventually- you’ll be okay again. This agony, it gets easier. You’ll regain some strength. But right now, you just want to rest.
a lot of people have requested many characters however, no one has provided me with any blueprint to work with here and im occupied with a lot of other fics so, to those of you who see this post, if you have any suggestions/storylines/scenarios/fantasies with the following characters, make sure to "hit me baby one more time":
idw ambulon
idw preceptor
idw senator shockwave (nsfw fic)
i really wanna write for more underrated characters cause i know the pain of it first hand during my experience in other fandoms.
i'm currently working on:
idw impactor
idw kup
tfp predaking x reader x tfp starscream
tfp arcee
a shitton of tarn and overlord
trying to construct a very angsty series with idw megsy
I absolutely love your Ambulon writing- you feed my deepest needs. So, how about him and cybertronian reader having a day off together?
Having a day off as a medic was nearly unfathomable. Especially in the middle of a war. Yet there Ambulon was, with a big bouquet of blue cyberflowers, grinning like an idiot at your front door. When you opened the door, he held the flowers out and smiled even bigger.
“Care for a date, lovely?” He tried to sound suave and cool, but he thought it made him sound dorkier than ever.
Your responding smile warmed his spark. “What’d you have in mind?” you ask. You accepted the flowers and led him into your apartment.
Ambulon followed you with an embarrassing amount of pip to his step. He leaned against your kitchen counter and watched as you found a vase and put the flowers in it. “Well, I have a few ideas but they all start the same.” He came up behind you and wrapped his arms around your waist, turning you gently.
You giggled and looped your arms around his neck. “Oh? And what’s that?”
He grinned and leaned in close, losing himself for a moment in those stunning optics of yours. “A kiss for my sweetspark,” he said before closing the distance between you and kissing you tenderly. His servos held you close, your chassis’ pressed against each other. Ambulon sighed happily, always loving the feel of you against him, the taste of you on his lips, the tingling of your em field meshing with his. You felt —to him— like heaven and reality clashing and flipping him on his head every time.
Ambulon and cybertronian reader where he has a breeding kink
Sorry for the absurd wait!
Your head lulled to the side as Ambulon attacked your neck. His thrusts were becoming erratic and harsh and your hitched sounds echoed his franticism.
“Frag,” he groaned, “‘M so close.”
You locked your ankles together behind his back. “Overload inside!” you cried, desperate to feel the weight of his load inside you.
Ambulon hesitated. “I don’t have a code blocked,” he whispered, almost mournfully.
You cupped his face and smiled sweetly. “Neither do I. I want you to spark me up, baby.”
His optics cycled wide before turning to dangerous slits. “I thought you’d never ask,” he said. He thrust hard enough to bruise your hips, and overloaded seconds later.
You moaned, but felt slightly disappointed. You thought he’d be more into it than that. But when he finished overloading, Ambulon resumed his punishing pace. You gasped your surprise and held on for dear life.
“I thought you —ah— were done,” you moaned.
Ambulon grinned. “Not by a longshot. I’m still so hard, I might just go all night.” He leaned in and nibbled on your finial. “You aren’t leaving this bed until you’re round with my fluids and one hundred percent knocked up,” he rumbled.
