guys what is with the uproar with this ai in your writing? It makes your story boring like wth for example I’ll be searching for some x reader and I come across the most chat gpt ass writing ever like are “writers” getting extremely lazy to the point of using ai? Cmon guys stop letting ai write your prompt and you do it your damn self 💔
Bonus!: Complimenting their alt-mode and transformation is seen as hardcore flirting back on Cybertron, personal hc, but I thought it was fun to include:)
Note: Please lmk if the ‘read more’ doesn’t work as I’ve has some problems with it on mobile lately! I feel like I might’ve written too much for this one. Also, OOC for a few of them but oh well:) I’m just here for fun lol
CW/TW: MDNI, SFW but suggestive especially Rodimus, gender neutral human reader, some established relationships and some not! (Yet;), I clarified which were newly established and which weren’t by the character names!
Characters: Optimus, Jazz, Mirage, Ironhide, Rodimus, First Aid, Vortex, Hound
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Optimus - not established but is after
The echoing sound of the bases massive garage doors opening has you curiously walking down the halls to the main warehouse, where Prime had just pulled in after going on a supply run with Arcee and Bumblebee. You stay mostly out of the way, the other mechs at base helping to unload his trailer while you head to the front of Ops truck mode to catch up after the long day, eager to hear his gruff but soothing voice.
You two share small talk about your days, he’s telling funny stories from the supply run and you complain about the paper work you’d had to complete, needing to go through annoying phone calls to complete it. His presence soothes any ache from work away too quickly though, it has you noting how your crush on the leader seems to have become much more difficult to sweep under the rug and keep hidden, even earning knowing looks and nudges from some of the other bots.
Within no time the team is done unloading everything, and you make way for Ops to transform, eager to finally catch a glimpse as he doesn’t let you come on patrols or missions with him for safety reasons, so you hadn’t seen it before.
Perched atop one of the raised warehouse walkways after scurrying up one of the long ramps, you’ll be about chassis level with him now.
He detaches his trailer after backing it into the normal spot- red and blue metal plates begin to shift and move across his body, interconnecting with other pieces of metal, his tires rotate then flip sideways and his exhaust pipes move further towards his back as he stands to full height, taking a few steps towards the walkway you’re perched on to face you, (well, mostly.) He looks so leader-like. Confident and caring nature seeping off him in an aura.
And here you are, too stunned to speak, shocked at how intricate and intriguing his transformation was and you can’t seem to stop gawking from your position, now eyeing his chassis before staring up at him, mouth slightly agape.
He lets out a little confused grunt, expression the equivalent of furrowing his eyebrows, “Are you alright?” He sounds concerned, you’ve been staring for a solid minute now and you’re very warm when he reaches to place a large servo on your back. “Do you need me to take you somewhere private?” You shake your head to break your trance, heart rate a bit higher than it should be, and you realize he probably thinks he’s scared you or something. “Oh, no no! I’m fine, just a little shocked is all-“ His servo is checking your temperature now, “Your transformation is just fascinating, I haven’t seen it before.” His lips part a bit, and he vents inwards almost imperceptibly, a little shocked at your words. It’s been a while since he’s received a compliment like that, let alone someone flirting with him, even more so that someone being you, the human he’d taken interest in romantically but had yet to do anything about.
He lightly shakes his helm, optics shutting off for a klik while he gives you a small chuckle, low and rough. He pets his servo down from your head to your back lovingly. “Thank you, I appreciate that. And I’m glad you’re alright.”
You notice Jazz- who was very well aware of your feelings for Ops- out of the corner of your eye, and before you can even respond to Optimus, Jazz is cupping his servos around his mouth yelling from the other side of the warehouse, “That’s some hardcore flirting where we’re from!” And you see Ratchet shove his head forward so he walks away, cackling his aft off down the hall.
You stiffen in his servo, painfully aware that Optimus can feel how warm you’re getting again and see how flustered you are, “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean- I mean I do mean it, I just-“ He finds your stammering cute as it is unnecessary, happy to have received any praise from you at all but still planning to give Jazz a lecture for putting you on the spot.
“It’s alright, no need to worry.” Does he know his voice is that soothing? Is he doing it on purpose? The way he smiles so gently down at you has you thinking he does.
“If you’d like, I can take you for a drive? There are many scenic spots around the base. Apologies for having not offered sooner.” He wanted to confess to you at a good time, somewhere romantic and private but it seems he won’t get that chance as you steel yourself to the utmost, finding a confidence in Jazz’ words that you previously hadn’t known, “It’s okay, you mean like a date?” You look so genuine and hopeful- but he can feel your little hands shaking slightly, clearly still flustered- he takes a few kliks just to commit that look in your eyes to his memory banks.
As if his smile could soften any further, he bends down to place a slow, chaste kiss to your cheek, patting your head and enjoying the way you nearly squeak in response. You can hear that delightful gruff chuckle again through his breath, “I’d like that.”
Jazz - newly established
You’re checking your appearance one last time in the mirror, moving around the house swiftly to prepare for your first proper date tonight with Jazz.
See, you two had gone on many late night drives together, stayed up and marathoned movies, even cooked dinner for one another- it was fun to have him taste test so many human foods and see his reactions- but you had yet to go on a proper first date. Tonight, however, that was going to change! You couldn’t be more excited, and also nervous.
Your anxieties were quickly cut short by the sound of loud cheesy late 70s music playing from your garage, startling you into nearly dropping your phone- you’d given Jazz a key a long while ago even before making yourselves official, as he’d be over at your house practically everyday anyways- so you knew it was him. Rolling your eyes with a snort at ‘it feels like the first time~’ coming from his radio, knowing damn well he had the biggest smirk on his face waiting for you.
Entering the garage which had been occupied more by him than you at this point, you’re presented with a variety of your favorite candy alongside what is probably the largest bouquet of flowers you’d ever seen resting atop a rickety old workbench- you had never bothered to replace it. Next to it, Jazz was parked, singing along with the music so loud you can hear the smile in his voice. He’s flashing his lights and wiggling his tires in a funny little dance that has you laughing loud enough he can hear your sweet voice over the radio.
He turns down the volume down as he backs up a bit, shifting out of his alt-mode and back to the form you’ve grown so familiar with. You’ve seen his vehicle mode before but never his transformation sequence, always managing to miss it by a hair.
But now your curiosity is more than sated- seeing the metal plating retract and shift across his frame, his chassis coming up and his door wings moving to their rightful position behind him. You can all too clearly see his mesh flex underneath the rotating metal on his thighs and his servos pushing himself off the ground before he kneels down to reach out to you.
You didn’t think you could be so flustered by such a sight but here you are, kind of wanting to cancel the date and skip to the aftermath. And he definitely notices your reaction. He’s Jazz after all, he’d be nothing if not observant.
“Well don’t you look lovely, care to join me tonight?” He’s not even trying to hide how smug he is, engine revving when you come close enough he can feel the fabric of your outfit brush against his arm. It’s so soft, he recognizes it as one of your favorite outfits and he thinks you look almost too enticing.
Meanwhile you’re desperately trying to cover up how loud your heart is beating right now, clearing your throat before you speak, “You don’t look too bad yourself, I have yet to see your transformation. It’s so smooth..” Your voice is trailing off, but from Jazz’ perspective, you sound so genuine he can’t stop his engine from revving again, a little euphoric from your comment, even knowing you’re unaware that you’re coming on to him hard right now according to his culture.
He lets out a signature chuckle, servo coming around to cup your back protectively, “Ya know doll, that’s considered flirting where I come from,” he’s got that teasing lit to his voice even though you can tell he’s being honest, his vents ticked up a notch now.
“Ah, well-“ pressing your noticeably warm cheek against his chassis to avoid his optics and wrapping your arms around him as best you can, he’s stroking up and down your spine tantalizingly, “it’s a good thing we have a date planned then, right?”
Mirage - not established but is after
Feeling squeaky clean and freshly buffed, Mirage makes his way into the base with a grin so wide it barely fits his face. He looks not unlike a pleased cat after they knock something down, a little cocky.
“You sure seem chipper,” your comment is only met with bright optics, happy to hear from his little crush. He poses dramatically when he nears you, pointing his thumbs at his chassis before giving you finger guns, “Why wouldn’t I? Ya boy just got a nice detail and new rims, I’m feeling fantastic!” You can’t help but think he’s so cute when he’s happy like this, his confidence and cheerful nature both infectious.
“Oh yeah? Show me!” He’s never shown you his transformation to his alt-mode before, having always done it out of sight so as to remain incognito.
He offers you a sweet laugh, “Yeah? Wanna piece of the Mirage? Best and fastest speedster around?” He steps back a few paces from you, incredibly swift with how he switches to his Porsche alt, legs swooping around him almost like he’s breakdancing. You can see how his wheels join together in the middle, new rims on perfect display, his chassis shifts in a way you’ve never seen before and invisible seams appear in his metal plating. His biolights are brighter than before- what with how you’re gawking at him- and he decides to show off a bit, he’s favorite thing to do when you’re around, you’ve learned.
“Oh, ya like that? That’s not all-“ he cuts himself off by spinning into a different alt, a Ferrari this time, that new buffing he just got doing him favors you were unaware could exist on a car. But you can’t look for long before he’s switching to other sports cars, some you’ve never even heard of and he’s spouting off names and models like an auctioneer.
He ceases his impromptu fashion show with another steady transformation and little hop onto his pedes, thoroughly enjoying your expressions, amazed at all you’d seen. “Ha, impressed? Why thank you~” he’s so proud of himself, but internally he’s flustered to the max, hopes you can’t hear his fans when you scurry a bit closer to him, reaching a small hand to his arm when he kneels down to your level.
“That was awesome!! Your transformation looks so cool! I love the rims and your finish looks great!” He’s choking back a stutter, trying to seem as suave as possible while you praise him so earnestly, has no clue if you know what you’re saying to him right now but by Primus does he not want to correct you if you don’t.
He feels too guilty to let you offer him so many compliments without informing you that you’re hitting on him, “Heh, you realize you’re flirting with me, right? Compliments to alt modes and transformations are like, flirting 101 back on Cybertron.” He really hopes you’re not uncomfortable, wants you so desperately to continue it’s not even funny.
“Oh- I did not,” and his spark sinks a little at your tone, excitement dropping from it only momentarily, he honestly thinks you’re going to reject him and he hasn’t even confessed yet, “but I don’t mind, I mean it.” You’re smiling? His optics shoot wide, his lips parted and you catch a hint of his glossa peaking from behind them, had he been biting it?
“You- wait seriously??” He sounds happy and confused all at the same time, shaking his helm as if he heard you incorrectly, “You actually don’t mind that you just flirted with me? Hang on, I did say that, right? Like out loud, not just thought it? I don’t know if I explained myself-“ and you cut him off by laughing- that sweet giggle he’s come to dream of in his recharge- wanting to stop his stammering.
“I don’t mind Mirage, and yes I’m serious. I like you anyway, so what’s the harm?” He swears his spark just stopped. You look so content with what you’d just said, like it wasn’t hard for you at all, like you’d known for so long. Had you? Oh- If this is returning to the All-spark he’s happy to go, being praised by you is nothing short of divine and finding out you like him back? He can offline happy now.
He takes a moment to run a quick system check just to make sure he isn’t in one of those dreams from earlier, still shocked he’s not. “No fraggin way- when we’re you gonna tell me? Did you- Ya know what, scrap that, I’m taking you on a date. Hop in,” and he’s eagerly shifting back to his alt-mode while you laugh, the melodious sound continuing while you two speed off to who knows where.
Ironhide - not established but is after
The wind carries sounds of clanking metal straight to you as you watch from your little makeshift perch, Ironhide and Cliffjumper were sparing out in the field below, though not too far from you, far enough they could freely move and shoot without risking you getting hurt.
You’d been watching for an hour now, having been checked up on a few times by Ops and the others just to ensure you’re good. You enjoy watching Ironhide spar, it’s a nice way to pass the time actually. You’d grown to have a big crush on the grumpy mech, even though you didn’t get to see him as often as either of you would’ve liked given his schedule.
Unbeknownst to you, Ironhide had an equally large crush on you. Cursing himself for acting like a damn youngin trying to impress you without even meaning to. You’re just so funny and sweet, but why would you want an ole mech like him? He’d subconsciously resigned to not confessing unless you came to him first, thinking you’d probably be more interested in some of the less busy, less cranky bots. Though he tends to be much less cranky when you’re around, your voice and presence offering him much appreciated respite.
He and Cliff finish up around the time you shake yourself out of your daydreaming, and you watch as Cliff speeds off after Ironhide pats him on the shoulder. He glances up to your perch, and you offer him a small wave. You realize you’ve never actually seen him transform after watching Cliff head off, and after tossing a few things off their makeshift sparing arena, he starts shifting to make his way towards you.
Watching in fascination as his chassis moves, his servos land on the ground and you can see the mesh underneath his metal which has your mind reeling, he’s quick in his short drive over to you- only a few hundred feet but figured driving was faster- before he’s shifting back and you’re thankful you get to watch his sequence up close this time.
He’s more than a little surprised when you start complimenting his transformation and sparing with such excitement, praising him in ways he hasn’t heard in a long time. He has to force the surprised expression on his face to return to a grumpy pout to hide how he’s actually feeling. Realizing you probably don’t know what you’re saying to him right now.
“Hm, shouldn’t go around saying that stuff or you’ll be askin for trouble,” he’s honestly worried you’d given many of the others the wrong idea if you’d complimented them like that, and he’s a little grouchy at the thought. “To us, that’s flirting.”
You’re a bit surprised at the information he’s provided you, but see this as an opportunity to feel out whether or not he’s interested in you, I mean he seemed a little flattered by your words so, might as well try?
“Ha, sorry, I didn’t know. But I still mean it, you look good! If it helps, I only say this stuff to you.” You emphasize the last word and now he’s unable to hide how he’s feeling, embarrassed and flustered but still the grumpy pout you’ve come to know and love resting atop his face. Though there’s a hint of a smirk under there too.
He clicks his glossa and shakes his helm in realization, you’d felt the same way the whole time and he hadn’t noticed. Mentally notes he needs to get his optics checked next time he goes to Ratchets.
Standing above you only slightly in your little perch, “If ya told me sooner, I would’ve taken you on a date like a gentlemech should,” he’s smiling now, not bothering to keep up any facades around you, offering you a servo, “Care to let an ole mech make good on that, love?”
Rodimus - newly established
He’s pouting, that much you can tell, even from your spot on the side of the racetracks. Rodimus had just pulled off the main track and into a pit area alongside Drift and Blurr. They had been racing for a while, placing bets against each other and low and behold, the fastest himself, Blurr beat everyone by a long shot.
Roddy had managed to pull ahead of Drift and get second, not even considering beating Blurr, but he was still a bit peeved he hadn’t managed to beat his personal best time yet again. Had he just been on a different level that day? Was his matrix doing something? He didn’t know, but he did know it was annoying.
He exchanges a few words with the others before pulling over to the side where you were, eager and needing to hear praise from his beloved little human partner after such a race.
You’d only been together a short while, and work had been super busy, so you hadn’t really caught his transformation sequence before, at least not up close. You’d caught the tail end of it earlier when he was on the track, but missed the real show.
Bright red and orange begin peeling off to different areas of his frame as he moves to stand, arms and legs appearing and pushing himself upwards almost like a push-up, you can see his red biolights revealing themselves once again on his abdomen area. He stands tall next to the guardrails decorating the edge of the seating area, reaching to lay his arms crossed atop it in front of you.
“How’d ya like the show, hmm? Enjoy seeing your future conjunx race?” He’s almost playing coy with the way he wants your praise right now- always seeking it out like a moth to a lamp- little more than just bummed at not beating his record in front of you.
“I loved it, you looked so good! You guys were so fast I can hardly keep up,” your genuine laughter spreads warmth through him and you can feel the way his em field brushes affectionately against you. Warm, familiar and protective, slightly tingly like static.
“Aww, you’re so sweet, thank ya love.” He’s happy to hear it but wants more, feeling all too greedy for you all the time. Realizing what he wants, you offer him honest praise, compliments you’d been waiting to give him since you caught the end of his shifting earlier. “You know Roddy,” he’s looking at you expectantly now, “I never get the chance to see your transformation,” you’re fawning internally over the smoothness, “and I don’t get to see your alt-mode often either. It’s a shame, you’re so pretty.”
He’s practically beaming, fans kicking on and the smile on his face grows ten times larger, showing his denta when he laughs. He leans forward to brush his helm on your forehead, “You know if we weren’t already together I’d think you were trying to get in my panels right now,” he’s just being a tease but you figure it would be fun to give him a taste of his own medicine, maybe distract him a bit sensing he’s a little down and in need of that right now, he always has been easy for you to fluster.
“Who says I’m not, huh? I mean, have you even seen yourself? It’s a wonder there aren’t more people throwing themselves at you, Captain.” And the title slips off your tongue way too deliciously, his biolights are pulsing and he drops his helm to your shoulder when you place a small hand on his cheek. “Hah, realize what you’re sayin right? I mean if you wanted a ride that badly all you had to do was ask~“ oh he thinks he’s funny, “Yeah? Right now? You’ll take me for a spin around the track then?” He’s perking up at your words, having just been poking fun at you before, now he’s excited for where this is going. “You really want that? I’d be happy to!” He looks so eager, happy to have you slotted nice and safe in his front seat while he shows you how fast he can go.
At your nod he takes you into his servos and pulls you against his chassis, nuzzling his faceplate against the top of your head before he’s shifting around you, setting you down gently in his drivers seat and clicking your buckle into place.
You instinctively place your hands on his gearshift and wheel and it has his engine stalling for a moment as he backs onto the track again, you’re flooding him with compliments about how cool that transition was, how excited you are, and he’s eating it up, em field brushing up against you even more now that you’re in his chassis.
Seeing the way you light up as he takes off, your smile so bright it could put a spark to shame, maybe he’s not so upset he didn’t beat his record after all.
First Aid - established
The sudden ringing of your phone startles you, interrupting your current work flow on what was frankly, incredibly boring paperwork. You heave a sigh, annoyed it will take you a few minutes to get back into your groove, but you’re still quick to pick up the call when you see it’s your partner calling.
First Aid had been out getting some supplies for the med-bay a few hours prior, leaving you very bored in the base. While some of the other Protectobots were home, they’d been pretty busy with patrols today, so you chose to help out by plowing through some of their paperwork for them. Needless to say, your boredom was alleviated by your partners call, happy to hear his soft voice again.
“Hi honey, headed back?” Eager to hear about his impending arrival, you don’t even give him time to greet you in return before asking about it. You hear his amused hum from the other end of the call, “Hm, hi pretty, I’m on the way now. Could I trouble you to help me bring a few things into the med-bay when I get there? If you’re not busy, that is,” and he’s always been considerate.
“Yeah, course! I don’t mind at all, I’ll open the warehouse door outside the bay, ‘kay?” While you’re happy to see him and help out, you’re also just glad you won’t be doing mind numbing paperwork anymore. Evidently he was only a few kliks away when he called.
“That’s perfect, cause I’m already here,” he laughs lightly at your little choked noise of surprise, immediately rushing up to go open the door, abandoning your phone at your desk.
Low and behold he’s patiently waiting when you rush to smack the button, and you watch as he backs in towards you and opens his rear doors. It’s not often he transforms these days- only really doing so when necessary or to stretch a bit- which is good honestly. The less ambulance rides the world needs, the better.
“Could you grab those boxes on the right? I don’t want to jostle them around too much shifting back,” already nodding, moving to step inside and bring the hefty boxes out to the counters nearby, you can hear liquid sloshing around inside the bottles the box contains.
It doesn’t take you long, only a few things needing to be moved, and you two make small talk about the past few hours. The nice humans he spoke to today at the hospital, your finishing of some paperwork for the guys. He’s happy to hear your voice after working all day, finding it hard to remain focused while missing you.
“Okay, I can get the rest, thank you love,” he doesn’t want to push you, hearing how busy you’d been, you deserve a rest.
He slides forward a few feet, closing his rear doors before the metal exterior of the ambulance starts to move, decals splitting apart and sliding to lock into place elsewhere, glimpses of mesh and biolights visible beneath his plating as he transforms carefully, grabbing the leftover boxes from within before they can fall. He makes it look so easy, having done it so many times.
You don’t realize you’re silently staring until he finishes setting the last of the supplies down onto the counter next to you, only barely stifling a chuckle, he brushes a gentle servo against your cheek.
“I appreciate the gesture, but you’re staring hun.” You shake your head a bit to break your daze, instinctively placing a hand on the servo resting against your cheek. “Right- sorry,” you laugh a little at the moment, the two of you both finding your ogling humorous, “your transformation looks different whenever you’ve got something in your box, it’s fun to watch.”
His mask clicks out of place and you glance up at the sound- squishing your cheek further into his servo- to find his softened expression aimed down at you.
“Thank you, seems I’m not the only one who’s been missing someone today?” his naturally soft spoken voice only amplifies the teasing lit he’s got now, liking the way you roll your eyes at his words. “I always miss you, I was only staring because your sequence looked different, it’s charming-” your breathy laughter not doing him any favors right now, you’ve known for too long what complimenting an alt-mode does to a bot. “Besides, it’s not my fault you’re so cute.” You’re giving him a playful smile, placing a slow kiss to his servo, knowing his hands are particularly sensitive.
That feels way too good after a long day, and he’s glad he’s got so much self control or he’d ask you not to stop, right in the middle of the med bay.
“Heh, you think so? How about we finish putting these supplies away and then head back to the habsuite? I’m sure we could both use a break after working all day,” and he knows exactly what that not at all innocent smile on his face does as he moves to go back to work, leaving you to turn shades of red that match his paint job behind him.
Vortex - not established but is after
You had successfully made your way to the roof of the base, a big yellow helipad greeting you when you finally managed to force open the heavy door leading outside. Vortex liked to hang out up here, presumably to get some fresh air along with some peace and quiet. It was often noisy in the Combaticons base, cacophonous sounds of rowdy mechs ringing through every hall, random brawls taking place over lost bets.
The breeze felt lovely, the small hairs that framed your face lightly shifting. It makes sense that the helicopter of the group liked heights and the wind. It helped that the view was lovely.
The copter in question turns only his head, glancing over his shoulder at you from his spot at the edge of the rooftop. It wasn’t very tall, but he wasn’t letting you get too close without a servo prepared to catch you if necessary. He’s not entirely convinced your kind can’t be blown away with how small you are.
“Found me I see, do ya need somethin?” He’d sound uninterested, annoyed even, if you weren’t already familiar with his speech patterns. You’d spent enough time with him to know when he was really unhappy, and learned he seemed to particularly like you.
“Just wondering where my favorite mech had flown off to, is all.” You plop yourself down next to him, happily observing both the view and the way his rotor blades on his back shift when he moves back to his original position- leaning back on his servos with his legs kicked over the edge. Swindle had once mentioned that you could always tell how bots with wings and rotors were feeling based on how the body parts moved, but you weren’t sure how much you could believe from him at the time. Getting to know Tex just solidified that the con was in fact honest, though.
He seemed pretty content at the moment, even letting his optics shut off when the breeze picked up a bit, faceplate removed and angled up towards the sky, “Your favorite, huh? I’ll make sure the others hear about that,” he’s trying to sound teasing and tough but he can’t help how his spark thrums at your words, internally cursing himself for being so wrapped around your finger and not even being your partner. Yet, he hopes.
You’re only mostly listening, curiosity peaked at the memory of Swins words, reaching to gingerly lay a hand on his rotor, lightly brushing your fingers against the smooth metal. Immediately he stiffens, servo catching your wrist so fast you don’t even see him move before you’re looking up at wide optics. Noting the facial expression he’s making, you’ve never seen it before.
“Huh? Is that embarrassment I see?“ he’s quick to shush you with bared denta and a low growl, “Shut it,” letting go of your wrist before turning his head away, back to the sky, “You could get cut, be more careful.” He’d almost sound stern if it weren’t for his vents kicking on and the way his rotors were slightly idling-
Great! He’s not gonna be able to get that sensation out of his processor now, and he’s mentally thanking you as sarcastically as possible- though he’s very much hoping you’ll do it again at some point, maybe a bit more private. He does consider himself pretty adventurous though, so then again, maybe not.
He allows you to continue though, post warning, trailing a single finger along the center of one of his rotors. You don’t miss the way his plating resembles that of a bird with the way it almost ruffles up at your touch.
“You know, I’ve never actually seen you in your alt-mode.” You’ve been curious for a while, but his mode of transport doesn’t exactly allow you to see it very often, let alone join him for a flight. Though he’d never ever let something happen to you, he might still tease you about what he does to those unlucky autobots.
“Oh? Curiosity killed the cat, doll.” He’s smirking down at you, a little cocky given your interest in his alt appearance. But you’re used to his antics, you know how to give back what he gives you, “And satisfaction brought it back.” You say confidently, it’s the perfect conditions for a flight today after all.
“That’s how it is huh,” He seems to be humored by that, pushing off his servos and hoping swiftly to his pedes, making sure to bend down and push you away from the edge with a single servo. Smirking when you tumble back a bit. “Fine, I’ll bite. Wanna fly me that bad? I’ll show you heights you’ve never seen,” and he’s sauntering over to the center of the helipad, turning back to you when you follow several meters behind him, staying outside the circle.
You’re already a little flustered at his offer to make you see new heights and the implications of that, but it’s increasing rapidly watching his transformation sequence. Metal glides across metal, it’s almost too fast for you to catch the details. The way his biolights become obscured and covered by plating, folding in on himself yet moving in a manner that retains his large size, his rotors spinning into place as he comes off the ground by a few feet before landing expertly. The wind from his rotors whips across your face but it isn’t as harsh as you’d expected. You suspect he did that on purpose.
“There, happy? Or are you just gonna stare?” You know he’s just teasing you but you’re all too enticed by the way he just moved- which has you questioning many things- and red in the face.
Moving towards him when he slides open his door, he’s keenly aware you are completely oblivious to how much you’re flirting with him when you offer him compliments and praise with every step. He clicks his glossa, feeling your barely perceptible weight as you step into the cockpit and plop yourself into one of his pilot seats excitedly, “Back home, that level of flirting would’ve just earned you a date, or a drink at least.”
You take a moment to process his words before realizing what he means, feeling a bit too warm for comfort all of the sudden. “I- I didn’t know!” Your incredulous stammering just makes him laugh, a bit maniacal in nature as was typical for him, but you start laughing along too after a few seconds, still a bit embarrassed. “I don’t regret it, though.” and your voice is almost a whisper, but he can hear you loud and clear.
He takes a minute to process the situation himself, mentally freaking out for a moment before swapping back to his more suave self, “Sounds like I’m taking you for a flight then.” He’ll ask you on a more official first date when you two get back, but for now, he wants to hear you spill more of that sweet praise just for him.
Hound - not established but is after
Hound is a big sweetspark- you’d come to know that like the back of your hand- always worrying for you and wanting to ensure you get home safely from the base. Or anywhere really. If you tell him about your plans to go out with friends, he’s gently reminding you to give him a call or shoot him a text to let him know you’re home safe. He doesn’t mean to come off as possessive in some way, he’s painfully aware that you two are just friends, and he hopes that’s only for now, he really does just want to make sure you’re alright.
The weather forecast had shown heavy rain all morning when you’d been picked up from your house by Cliffjumper, who had oh-so-lovingly pointed out that you were only calling him because you were too shy to ask Hound. Smacking his dashboard only causing him to retaliate pettily, “Ha!- Wanna be like that? Fine, you can have Hound take you home then.” You’re giving him the most ridiculous look now, and he finds it hilarious. “I mean you could always walk too, what’s a little rain gonna do-“ and you smack him a second time. It’s not enough to hurt, and you two had been besties for so long now he knew how you were gonna respond to his teasing before he’d even said anything.
Work went by smoothly at the base, though the team had kept the weather channel opened basically all day on the TV in the common area. Hound had been checking it periodically, and it wasn’t letting up, pouring even more than that morning. Worried about you making it home safe, knowing you lived pretty far out from base. Maybe he should tell Cliff to take you home- knows you two are very close- but when he makes way to do exactly that, the red bot only laughs and throws a hand up, “Nope, you can take ‘em. I’m sure they won’t mind. And I know you won’t either,” he’s sauntering off after shooting Hound a wink, knowing the green mechs feelings for you already.
Cliff was honestly just sick of being a part of you twos song and dance these past few months, and was using every excuse he could to get you two to finally confess.
Hound exvents heavily, worried he might come off a bit weird asking to take you home when you’d always gone with Cliffjumper. But it appears that little slag won’t be helping him out- and he makes the mental note not to do him any favors this week- so he heads out to find you.
You’re curled up in a blanket on the couch with some of the others, weatherman yammering away on the TV as you guys wait out the storm. Bumblebee is upside down with his pedes over the back of the couch next to you, and Ratchet is standing with his arms crossed behind the two of you. Jazz had already tried to alleviate everyone’s impatience with some music which was nice.
‘Severe thunderstorms set to continue throughout the night until tomorrow morning, watch out night drivers!’ And you’re internally cursing at Cliff for his dramatic display this morning. Know he’s petty as fuck too, he will not be taking you home. He’d probably let you sleep in his berth though, rather you’d just punch in the code that only he’s supposed to know to his hab and sneak in to spend the night since he barely ever rests. You’re not too keen on not being able to brush your teeth or shower though, so you might just have to grovel an apology at him.
You’re brought out of your ‘smacking Cliffjumper a third time’ trance by a gentle tap on your shoulder, careful not to snag at your blanket. You glance upwards behind you, meeting Hounds gaze, Ratchet now missing, immediately growing a bit nervous.
He’s so friendly and sweet, he always makes sure you get home safe, calls you ‘doll’ and ‘sweetspark’ and ‘darlin’. He asks you questions about life as a human, enjoying your company. You think your crush is starting to inhibit your ability to work at the base at this point.
“Rainin pretty hard, asked Cliff if he’d take ya home but he’s not havin it tonight.” He sounds exasperated at your friend, and you hope to everything Cliff didn’t mention this morning to Hound. “Oh, yeah he already let me know this morning he wouldn’t be taking me home,” you hope you don’t come off as dismissive, “I was thinking of staying here but I don’t really have my things so-“ your voice trails off, you hadn’t thought of a solution yet so you weren’t exactly sure how to finish your statement.
“How ‘bout I take ya home then? Don’t worry, you’ll be safe, promise.” And he’s making your heart rate pick up with the way he’s smiling softly down at you. You quickly nod before thinking, “That sounds nice, thank you so much, are you sure it isn’t too much trouble?” You’ve managed to wiggle your blankets edge free out from under Bumblebee, who whines, standing to round the couch.
“No trouble at all darlin,” you throw the blanket over Bee and he happily chirps at you, waving you goodbye, “Ready to head out?” He walks you to the garage door at your nod, backing up after pressing the button, which was nearly smashed from so much use.
The green mech begins to transformer behind you, catching his knees meeting the concrete floor as they shift into his undercarriage, wheels roll into their place and his doors all shut in time with his final movements. You’d even caught a sneak peak of his mesh and biolights beneath his plating. ‘They’re so pretty’ but your thoughts are interrupted when he pops open the drivers side door, already turning on the heat so you wouldn’t catch a cold in the rain.
“Let’s get ya home doll, need to stop anywhere on the way?” You slot so perfectly into his front seat, small gentle hands on his wheel nearly has his engine stalling, “Nope, but there’s no rush,” you mull it over in your head to ask him about his transformation. What does it feel like? What do those lights underneath mean? What’re they for?
“By the way, when you transform, what does it feel like? I’ve never asked,” he’s definitely going to stall if he doesn’t get going now. The seat behind you feels a little warmer than before.
“It’s like a human stretchin, that’s what Ratchet said anyway. If ya don’t do it for a while, ya start gettin stiff in the joints.” He’s pulled out onto the long dark road leading to the base.
“Ah, I see,” silence fills for a few minutes while he drives, the rain dripping down the windows, not really thinking much of your next comments, “I liked your lights, they’re really pretty.” His engine revs unintentionally, and he brakes for a half second causing you to abruptly jolt forward.
“Hound? Sorry, did I say something offensive?” Immediately aware that you don’t actually know if it’s taboo to say that sort of thing. I mean they are often hidden, you’d only seen them a few times, usually after you’d given him a hug or talked about traveling with him someday. He clears his throat, already back to driving like before, but you can definitely feel how warm his steering wheel is now.
“No no, it’s not offensive sweetspark. Quite the opposite actually,” he chuckles awkwardly, hoping to ease your discomfort but painfully aware of how flustered he is now. Knows you have no idea that complimenting biolights is usually only something you do with a partner or someone you wanna interface with.
“For us bots, saying somethin so sweet about our lights ‘s usually a way of showin you’re interested in someone. It’s flirtin,” you could honestly let the world swallow you whole right now. Ten minutes into the drive and you’d basically just laid your feelings on the table without even knowing it, how long until you’d get home?? Can you survive the next few minutes?
“I’m so sorry,” you cover your face in embarrassment, sliding a hand down and sighing loudly, but you laugh despite the thickness in the air.
“I don’t mind, comin from you it’s appreciated,” he debates changing the subject for your sake, deciding he’ll feel it out based on how you respond.
“Coming from me?” You let the question hang in the air, and silence lingers between you two for a moment before he vents out a sigh of his own,
“Guess it’s time to come clean, huh?” He mentally prepares for a rejection that won’t come, “I like ya a lot doll. Such a sweetspark, I adore your company.. No pressure of course, I understand if you’re not interested, and I’ll still make sure ya get home safe like always, no matter what.”
You’re scrambling, choking for a response out of yourself, he really thinks you’re not interested?? “Wait- I didn’t say I wasn’t!-“ he waits for you to finish when you wave your hands in front of you as if to stop him, “I like you too, a lot, actually.”
He takes a few kliks to process your confession, smiling to himself. “Ya do, huh?” And you nod so cute at him, pulling into your driveway around this time, stopping out front.
“In that case, how bout I pick ya up tomorrow mornin, and we can go somewhere nice after work, sound alright?” You smile so wide at his words, offering him a melodious laugh, “That sounds perfect.”
Still thinking about smacking Cliff a third time though.
——————————————————————————————————————
Note: Thinking of doing a part two with: Arcee, Hotspots, Blurr, Dratchet, Nautica, Bumblebee, maybe Windblade and Swerve. Don’t know yet tho! Lol, lmk if that’s something you’d wanna read:)
Imagine how cybertronians would react to humans having multiple chronic illnesses.
Like what do you mean your blood pressure drops to the point you pass out and then a few minutes later you’re fine? You deal with chronic pain from your nervous system attacking itself so you have to use a chair with wheels to get around outside your home? You’re not even out of your 20’s and you take five pills every day?! You get a triple digit fever just by ignoring your bodies demands to rest and then you’re bed ridden for days?!
You know Ultra Magnus would be on top of everything for the chronically ill girlies thou 🥹🙏
I just know that the bots who do know about human’s chronic illnesses, best believe that they will turn into the worst helicopter parents, and suddenly every one is a doctor (only ratchet and first aid can have an opinion about that to an extent even)
I can also relate to that since I have psoriasis and other autoimmune diseases problems,
The bots try to not pity us, but it is so hard for them. Something about humans with their already short lifespans have to deal with all that pain that often times hinders their daily lives, imagine being betrayed by your own body turning against you.
Heck, most of them think that they don’t deserve their own metal frames, where we could use them to our advantage, at least make our short lives a little more worthwhile to enjoy.
It hits Ultra Magnus , ratchet and first aid the most, they would try to figure out ways to help us, make more advanced prosthetics, perhaps even threatening human scientists to finish their researches and find more cures faster, to them it’s just not fair, but life is and was never fair, that is why they also admire humans all the more, after all that is what we have. Getting into terms with at and adapting to it.
And if you think the above three have it worst?, nawww, you couldn’t be any more wrong, cause it hits Optimus the hardest, big man OP tries to hold his coolant tears the most every time you have a cold and he is over there like “poor human, fighting for your life despite how short it is, you can hold my servos if it will help you feel better”
I’ve been really stressed, freaked out (over stuff I could be doing with my time instead of resting) and sad- I feel like it’s all because I’m sick and I feel pretty terrible… especially since I started working more normal again since I was off because we had a slow season. But since I’m sick and it started picking back up and I’m working my normal times I just feel bad cause of course I had to get sick and I don’t want to call off cause well… yea. But your stories (especially the comfort ones) give me something else to focus on and kinda relax to realize I don’t need to worry about some simple problems that are an easy fix (I tend to worry a lot about silly things…) but sorry about ranting about all this! Anyway I’d love to see some more comfort stuff (maybe with Optimus or First Aid, Ratchet, Drift? Idk whatever you think works), with maybe a sick or stressed human and their bot assures them they have nothing to worry about or how they are taking care of them- only if you want to of course!
Hopefully you feel better soon! Here aresome nightmare fuel figures I found at Walmart that are so bad they might cheer you up. Or give you nightmares. This is probably the stupidest $6 I’ve ever spent
Care
First Aid x Reader
• Servos flexing as he stretches at his desk, he clears his vents. “Fuel Time,” he says, glancing over at your little nest of blankets. And you’ve buried yourself completely again. The first time you’d done that, he’d immediately uncovered you worrying that you’d suffocate under all that. You’d given him a sulky look, chirping unhappily and tugging the blanket back over your head. Still doesn’t like it when you do that, but he’s used to it now and you’d reassured him that you can breathe just fine once you could understand each other. “Hungry?” He tries and he sees you moving around under your blankets, but you don’t answer him or poke your head out.
• How can you be sick? There are only two other humans even on Delphi and you’re rarely ever around them, so how could you pick up a bug? Definitely feels like you’re sick, though. Full body ache, pounding head, shivering and sweating at the same time. And you feel First Aid nudge you in the butt with a servo. “You can’t sleep all day,” he says and you almost regret that you can understand each other now. Mostly because you can’t tell him to go away without hurting his feelings.
• Nudging the lump that’s you under the blanket, he clears his vents when you smack at his servo. But you finally sit up, hair in disarray and expression tired. And he goes still as you rub at an eye with the heel of your palm and don’t smile. Don’t laugh and ask for five more minutes. Reaching for you, his servos brush your arms and you lean back with a frown. “That’s cheating,” you mutter as he tries to mine your weak field. ‘Then talk to me,’ he says reaching for his scanner, sharing a meal forgotten.
• “It’s just a cold.” Probably. Leaning back when he tries to pass the scanner over you, no matter how many times he insists that the thing is safe, you can’t help but wonder if he’s irradiating you when the the light plays over you. And he’s frowning at the screen as the servos of his other hand cup against your side. ‘Your body temperature is actually elevated,’ he mutters and your mouth opens and closes. Too tired to figure out how to explain that a cold can mean temperature or being sick.
• Frowning at the readout, he reaches to scoop you up and you huff up at him as he cradles you in a hand. Aware that he doesn’t know nearly enough about organics. That he doesn’t know how to help. You’d called it a cold, but you’re warmer than normal. Should he cup you in his hands and try to warm you up with his body temperature? Try to cool you down? “How do you treat a cold?” He asks and you slump over against his chassis. ‘Rest. Chicken noodle soup,’ you mutter and he vents softly. What’s a chicken?
How they react to you being disrespected by Cybertronians.
Characters ── First Aid [IDW] | Rodimus [IDW] | Shockwave [TFP] | Soundwave [TFP] | Vortex [IDW]
Reader is ── Gender Neutral | Human
Story is ── Romantic | Headcanons + Drabbles
Warnings ── N/A
First Aid
✦ ── This sweet medibot has seen some things as of late, and he's got three hundred and thirty-two logs of pure inspiration on how to show someone a world of hurt.
✦ ── Unfortunately, he has to stick to imagining beating the slag out of whoever insulted you. If he did act on his impulses, he'd also be the one fixing them, and that sounded unappealing.
✦ ── But he will fire back at them verbally and show you that you're worth defending with his words. How someone can look down on you, such a talented human who fits right in with the team, is beyond him.
✦ ── When that bot next enters the medibay for treatment, he is ready for his less...ethical payback. Oh, did that hurt? It's only a pinch; no need to be dramatic about it (he totally made it hurt).
✦ ── May or may not have sneakily switched their F.I.M. chip so next time they go for a drink, they don't feel the effects of it. Petty, but at least they'll waste one night and a few shanix on nothing. It's an easy fix, anyhow.
"You didn't!"
You were giggling beside his keyboard, laughing as he slipped his mischievous deed to you.
"That sounds like a gross instance of medical malpractice, Aid." Despite the teasing tone, you were still grinning wide.
He leaned his helm in closer, optics looking around in a mock attempt to ensure the area was clear before he whispered.
"Keep it between us. I'll flip his chip back when he returns."
It was worth it, seeing you smile after you'd been so down about the bot's comment.
Rodimus
✦ ── Critique him for being captain all you want; he can laugh it off or rage about it alone where no one can know it affected him in the first place. But insult you?
✦ ── Immediately at Magnus levels of upset. Yeah, calling you any variety of names or doubting you should be punishable by several cycles in the brig. Of course he can't, no matter how much he wants to.
✦ ── But he is the king of smack talking. He is on them about every little insecurity they do or should have. What's that? Want to speak up about his favourite little human? Could have sworn he heard the same mech that nearly pissed himself last mission saying something about you.
✦ ── They earn themselves a spot at the top of his shit list. Left out of more fun missions, forced into the nasty ones, whatever makes him feel better. He won't tell you, but he'll make sure you find out all the funny details that paint them in a bad light.
✦ ── Is he going too far? In his humble opinion, it isn't far enough. But this will just have to do. Whatever sets the precedent on how to treat his human right, then so be it.
"—aint is all scratched, and it's going to take hours to buff! I hate these stupid missions." The seething bot walking past you and Rodimus barely spared you a glance.
Their paint was scratched clean off with several deeper lacerations. They seemed to be returning with a group of other bots who'd gone to the planet below to handle a skirmish.
At least this time they hadn't said anything rude about you.
"Can't believe they were that damaged from such a simple mission. Should have sent someone who knows what they're doing, huh? Bet you could have done a better job." Rodmus grinned, tilting his head towards where you sat on his shoulder.
"You're just saying that to flatter me." Your hands came up to playfully smack the part of his helm getting too close for comfort.
"Is it working?"
Shockwave
✦ ── Insults were not unusual. Any human amongst the Decepticons could brush them off. Nicknames that painted you in a dehumanizing light weren't much of a threat, anyhow. You'd learned to accept them.
✦ ── Shockwave never seemed troubled by them, either. Not that you expected him to. You were capable of handling yourself; he'd picked you as his lab assistant for a reason.
✦ ── It is one comment from Knockout that stirs a reaction out of the scientist, though you'd tuned it out. It was hard to ignore the aftermath of Shockwave practically slamming what he was holding down.
✦ ── Not the kind to outright attack, but his ability to intimidate is next only to Megatron himself. No one wants to be on the bitter end of his malice.
✦ ── And malice it is indeed. For what little Shockwave expresses of himself, he is clear and concise when it comes to your importance to his research. By extension, importance to him.
"You would be of far better use to me if you knew when to withhold your unnecessary comments, doctor." The scientist had turned towards Knockout, taking one heavy step in his direction.
You watched in awe.
"Right, yes, of course. I just thought a Cybertronian might be of more help." Knockout's hands were waving in front of him, trying to defuse the situation.
"You have not only thought wrong but also insulted my choice-making. My assistant is most valuable to our cause and has the highest projected success rate."
Knockout stood frozen.
"You are dismissed, Knockout."
Soundwave
✦ ── Fortunately for you, your acceptance by Soundwave meant very little was said about your human qualities. The Vehicons weren't troubled by your presence, and Megatron had better things to do than complain about the organic who'd done more for him than Starscream.
✦ ── But that was exactly the issue. You'd earned more respect as a fleshling than Starscream did as the second in command. Anytime he saw you on your own, he'd manage to slip a hurtful comment to you.
✦ ── It'd be stupid to bring it up to Soundwave. The third in command was busy. But Soundwave captures all, and the first time he catches one of those comments? Well, he would hate to break command, so instead he's going to make the SIC's life a living hell.
✦ ── Recommending Megatron send him for missions Soundwave knows the mech would hate. Sending portals in just a bit too late, so the mech gets a few more hits from the bots. Being far less lenient to Starscream's demands of him.
✦ ── And if Soundwave is anything, he is persistent. He will not let up until Starscream is begging for him to stop. Lord knows Screamer takes forever to get over his own ego, too, so it lasts a damn long time.
"Apologize to the human!? Have you lost your damned mind?" Starscream was seething, sharp nail pointing at you as if he wanted to skewer you.
Soundwave nodded his helm once, replaying the audio recording of his insult to you.
When the TIC refused to back down, Starscream grumbled before crouching closer to you.
"Human... I am sorry you felt bad about what I said—" He scrambled away when Soundwave's tendril shot toward him in threat, a squeal escaping him.
"I'm sorry, okay! I'm sorry!"
Vortex
✦ ── If it's one of the guys making a comment about you that he doesn't like? They're breaking out into a semi-serious fistfight that has no clear victor.
✦ ── The Combaticons do respect you more than they would any human, hence the kinder beating. Usually it's Brawl making the comments. Vortex has no idea Brawl apologizes to you in private and is only doing it for the fight.
✦ ── If it is literally anyone else, some no-name con or, god forbid, a bot? Fucking hell. They are in for a world of pain. Vortex needs an excuse to fight, and this just gave him one.
✦ ── You have to watch. He is doing this for you, so sit back and enjoy. Whatever bot just insulted you is getting sliced, thrown, and beaten till they're on the brink of death.
✦ ── Would go further, but he kind of wants them to live in fear of you. Yes. Spread the word that any comments about his lovely little human will result in great bodily harm. It gets his engines revving and his rotor blades perked up.
"Did you see that? Cracked his visor right into his optics! Medics 'll be picking little fragments out of there for hours." Vortex was carrying you in energon-stained servos.
He was in surprisingly good shape considering the size of the bot he just took down. You were certain he took some of those hits on purpose, for the thrill of the pain.
"Thank you, 'Tex."
"Huh?" His lips finally stopped moving, gleaming red visor tilting down to get a good look at you.
"For defending me. Thank you."
"Well, someone's gotta."
Author's Note ── Oh my lovely bots and cons, how I cherish them... TF requests are open!
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
