Y/n*Putting on an apron you bought in the galactic market, found some human stuff, and smiles, getting ready to cook yourself a good meal in the electric stove brainstorm and Percy made for you, smiles seeing Rodimus arrive*Hey, Roddy!
Rodimus*Sees the apron and reads it, instantly grins*...
Y/n*Knows that smile and sees him approaching you*...
Y/n*Makes a run for it, chucking towards him the apron*!?!
Rodimus*Chasing after you*IT'S THE RULES Y/N!IT'S THEEEEE RULES! IT'S THE RULES!-
As you run, You passed by Tailgate, Rewind and whirl who see you rinning from rodimus but he tells them about the apron and now you got FOUR AUTOBOTS Chasing after you to kiss you...and THAT day the bots realize how much HARDER it is to catch a human who doenst want to be caught, from getting into vents, sliding under pedes and making it to the elivator
Y/n*Pants and sees tailgate and rewind cornering you and drive in to grab you for kisses, only for you to jump over a table, making them crash into each other helm first*
Tailgate & Rewind: AAACK!?
You run up to the medical room and run to hide behind Ratchet. He looks at you, worried, and sees Rodimus, Whirl, and the two mini-bots and starts to lecture them, making them back. You think it's finally over until...
Whirl*Holds the kiss the cook apron to show ratchet*IT'S THE RULES DOC!
Ratchet*Glares at the four then facepalms until he looks down at you with a smirk*...
Y/n*Blinks and shocked gasp, and once again you sprint away from them and the other med bots as they joined the group in getting you*"He's one of them-"
Rodimus*Is now speaking on the comm speakers of the ship, ' THE HUMAN WORE AN APRON THAT SAYS KISS THE COOK, I REPEAT KISS THE COOK BY HUMAN CULTURE, RULES WE MUST NOW KISS THEM!"
The human currently:
When you finally get saved by the ONE Autobot, Ultra Magnus takes you into his office, hands you some water, gives you some cookies and puts you on his desk. You rest up and slump down to sit on the edge
Ultra magnus*Is patting your head and goes around his desk as you smile at him, he seems to pull something out from the cabinet and puts on the you "Kiss the cook" apron. He lets out a small, short laugh at your shocked and dumbfounded face of defeat*...
Rodimus*Comes down out from under his desk with a triumphant smile*
Whirl, Tailgate & Rewind*Appear at the door with glee that their plan works*!!!
Y/n*You see behind them a line of known and unknown cybertronians, Swerve, Brainstorm & Percy, Rung, Ravage, The scaveners, DJD, Megatron, MEGATRON?.... THE DJD!?*....
NOTE - the draft of Dear Memory suddenly disappeared.. luckily I had a backup in my doc, btw I decided to post this instead..
The air stank of scorched energon and melted armor, thick with iron dust stirred by a dying breeze. Somewhere near the perimeter of yesterday’s battlefield, you’d set up your ‘clinic’ — if one could call a dented shipping container with rusted med-kits and jury-rigged tables a clinic
You never thought you'd end up being a "doctor"
Not because you didn’t dream of it—but mostly because the term “medical ethics” meant absolutely nothing to you
What you did know was this: torn-up bots were fascinating. Especially when you got to crack them open and see what was ticking inside
You started small
Salvaging bits and pieces from the battlefield outskirts, selling them on the black market but anytime you found something new, you'd bring it back, clean it up, lay it out neatly on your table like collectible figurines…
Then tinker
Pry – Slice –Rewire
After that, you were hooked
You started studying Cybertronian anatomy for real
Through corpses. Through... well, let’s call them “patients” Most of them didn’t really have a choice and you learned through wild, reckless trial and error
It didn’t take long before they started whispering your name
Some said you were insane
Some said you were a genius
And honestly? You weren’t arguing with either
—
But hey, you’ve seen worse
Today’s patient wasn’t bleeding out — not anymore — but sat eerily still on the edge of your operating slab. SPINISTER didn’t speak a word. He simply watched
With those wide optics, tinted faintly with blue and wariness, he stared at your fingers as they hovered near the frayed conduits in his left arm. You traced one cable with your thumb, then flicked it experimentally. The response: a slight twitch in his elbow
“Hmm…” you murmured, mostly to yourself “That shouldn't spasm unless—ah. Rerouted nerves. Or maybe just leftover trauma from the last missile strike”
Spinister said nothing, his head tilted faintly, almost birdlike, curious, not afraid, not quite trusting, either
Your grin curled up as you pulled a box cutter from your belt. Not a surgical tool — a literal box cutter. You flicked it open with a shnick “Don’t worry. I’ve carved cleaner lines through Decepticon corpses than this.” You winked “This won’t be the worst thing to happen to your arm this week”
Still, he didn’t flinch
You began slicing carefully through the plating at his forearm, easing metal apart with steady hands. The smell of energon and scorched silicon rose up, comforting in its own grotesque way. Spinister kept watching
“You know” you added, conversationally “the first time I tried this, I was working on a dead guy. Well, he was mostly dead. Only his backup battery was still twitching. Sort of like you, except you’re a lot more agreeable”
At that, he blinked once. You could’ve sworn he smirked
Your eyes narrowed in interest “Wait a second... have you done this before?”
No answer — but Spinister reached forward and picked up your wire shears. Delicately. Like he knew how to hold them. He turned them in his hands and adjusted the tension
You raised a brow “You’re either a closet medic or a highly specific kind of serial killer”
He gave a tiny shrug. Then pointed at the junction in his own elbow, looking at you as if to say: "Cut here?"
“…Huh”
You moved aside “Be my guest”
He went to work with silent focus, slicing away burnt cabling and clearing the joint. His movements weren’t flawless — but they were clean, deliberate, and scarily competent for someone who hadn’t said a damn word all afternoon
You folded your arms, watching
“Alright, I’ve decided” you announced “You’re hired. No license needed. Field experience counts more anyway”
Spinister paused to glance at you - you pointed to yourself “Me? Oh, I’m self-taught too. I just have a different definition of malpractice”
Then you handed him a full energon injector “You mind stabbing me with this? My hand’s full”
He took it and administered it with surprising precision
You made a pleased noise “Oh-ho. You are good”
Silence again. Spinister just stared, expression unreadable
You could practically feel the static hanging between you. The buzz of barely understood connection. Maybe it was the shared love of sharp things. Or the unspoken language of: “I won’t kill you if you don’t kill me”
“Say, Spinister. You wanna stick around? I’ve got a few other, uh… experiments. Some of them might even survive”
He cocked his head, considering
Then — a slow, solemn nod
You grinned “Perfect. I’ve been dying to try out this new cranial implant. Might give you night vision. Or seizures. Fifty-fifty, really”
Still no protest — Not even hesitation
You weren’t sure if that meant he trusted you… or just didn’t care. Either way?
You liked him
↓
SUBJECT PATIENT RECORD
DESIGNATION: SPINISTER
AFFILIATION: Scavenger (No one's entirely sure why)
CONDITION: Moderate external trauma. Multiple internal combustions (intentional?). Severe disassociation from reality
NOTES BY ATTENDING FIELD PRACTITIONER (still not licensed, please stop asking)
Arrived with smoke leaking from six different panels. Declared “not an emergency” while visibly on fire
Did not react to pain, or to questions, or to gravity when he slowly tilted sideways mid-sentence and collapsed
Possesses an endearing sort of calm, similar to a patient who’s just accepted the existence of death and made it a roommate
Followed instructions silently, then offered me a flower-shaped bolt in thanks. I don’t know where he got it
Repair successful. Patient now smokes from only three ports. Declared “this is probably fine”
RECOMMENDATION: Skilled with basic tools, potential assistant or at least live test subject (consenting? uncertain) and doesn’t scream when I bring out the bone saw — major plus
MENTAL STATUS: Stable… in an abstract, modern-art kind of way
Possibly communicating with beings only he can perceive. Should investigate later—unless they start helping
—
The curtain fluttered again
You didn’t even need to look up from the mech-slagged mess you were currently disemboweling on your table to know who it was. No one else announced their arrival with a loud “Hi!! I brought snacks!” followed immediately by the sound of a ration cube hitting the floor
MISFIRE
“...You brought what?” you asked, finally glancing back
Misfire was standing proudly in the middle of your wrecked, haphazard med-bay, holding up something that might’ve once been a ration cube but now looked like it had been drop-kicked into a trash compactor
He looked far too pleased with himself
“For you, Doctor Scary!” he beamed “To say thank you for patching up Crankcase. I mean, he’s still swearing about it, but I figure that means it worked”
You stared at the cube, then at him “It’s moldy”
“Vintage!”
“It’s fuzzy”
He blinked, then squinted at it “Oh. Uh. That might be a fungus. Adds flavor!”
You sighed and set down your plier-like tool — which was currently half-submerged in someone’s damaged voice modulator “What do you want, Misfire?”
He clutched his arm and gave you the most over-the-top wounded expression you’d seen since the war started “Can’t a guy drop by just to bask in your lovely, mildly terrifying company?”
You deadpanned “Do you need field repair?”
“…Yes”
That was more like it
“Alright” you gestured to your very sanitary examination area — a broken recliner salvaged from a half-melted shuttle and duct-taped to hell “Take a seat. Tell me which part is falling off”
Misfire hopped onto the chair without hesitation, then winced “Okay so it’s my right shoulder—some internal gear’s jammed. Probably happened when Fulcrum accidentally shoved me into that munitions crate last week. And by accidentally I mean ‘on purpose but with plausible deniability’”
You circled behind him, humming “Shoulder joint, hmm... I’ll have to pry open the outer casing”
“You’re not gonna use that claw-thing again, are you?” He pointed at the three-pronged tool still sizzling on the table
You picked it up and grinned “This old thing? Only if you scream too loud. It gets jealous”
His optics widened “Wait, you’re joking—right?”
You didn’t answer. You just flicked the tool and leaned in close
He flinched “You are joking. Right?”
Still no answer. You tapped the casing lightly “Yup. Gonna need to open this. Try not to move. Unless you want an extra joint”
Misfire grumbled something but sat still, occasionally twitching while you worked. Your fingers were efficient, tugging apart armor panels, probing with delicate instruments, and casually muttering things like: “Wow, this is worse than I thought. This looks like someone tried to replace a gear with a coin. Wait. Is that a coin?”
Misfire laughed nervously “Heh… oh hey, is that my lucky shanix? Thought I lost that in the riot on Velocitron…”
You pulled it out and twirled it between your fingers “Found it. Inside your shoulder. Next to a wad of insulation foam. I have questions”
“I have regrets”
The actual repair only took a few minutes, and despite his dramatic flinching, Misfire barely needed any anesthetic. You tightened the final bolt with a satisfied hum
“All done. You’ll be good as new. Maybe even better, depending on how you feel about unlicensed upgrades”
He rotated his arm “Wow, hey—this feels great! I mean, I’m still emotionally unstable and deeply unlucky, but physically? Ten outta ten”
You handed him the shanix and gave him a crooked smile “Souvenir. For bravery”
He smirked “Does that come with a kiss on the cheekplate?”
You stared at him for a beat too long
“…No?” he tried
You leaned in just slightly, close enough for him to short-cycle “You want a souvenir kiss from the bot who’s elbow-deep in your shoulder hydraulics?”
He paused. Thought. Then leaned back slowly, optics wide
“…You know what? The coin’s fine”
You laughed — a bright, buzzing thing that made him fluster even more
“I’ll tell Fulcrum you survived” you said, already turning back to your workbench “Go before I decide to install a third elbow in your leg”
He scrambled up and halfway out the curtain before popping his head back in with a grin
“You’re the weirdest medic I’ve ever met” he said “And that’s a huge compliment”
Then he vanished into the dust
↓
SUBJECT PATIENT RECORD
DESIGNATION: MISFIRE
AFFILIATION: Scavenger (Allegedly. No one seems to have formally admitted this)
NOTES BY ATTENDING FIELD PRACTITIONER (unlicensed):
Presented with shoulder malfunction. Initially distracted by moldy ration cube (believed to be edible)
Displayed minor signs of emotional detachment from own physical pain—possibly due to prolonged exposure to Fulcrum’s company
Right shoulder casing contained one (1) lucky shanix, insulation foam of unknown origin, and what may be a chewed gum wrapper. (Origin undetermined. No jaw articulation in subject)
Exhibits nervous laughter and deflective humor under duress. Coping mechanism? Flirting mechanism? Both?
Repair successful. Patient demonstrates increased mobility and decreased survivability due to persistent attempts at charming his field medic
RECOMMENDATION: Do not encourage him but also… maybe do. He’s kind of entertaining
MENTAL STATUS: Stable. In the way a spinning top is “stable” Until it stops spinning
—
FULCRUM walked into the clinic with the same air as someone entering a crime scene they were legally obligated to ignore. He stood in the doorway a few moments too long
“…You’re not going to sedate me, right?”
You didn’t look up from your tools “Only if you scream too much. I do have neighbors”
“You don’t have neighbors”
“Exactly”
He stiffened
With a resigned sigh, Fulcrum sat himself down on the edge of the slab, his posture the definition of regret “I’m here for a system check. Minor internal trauma. No visible wounds”
“Oh” you said, finally looking up
“That’s boring”
“…What?”
You gestured at his chestplate “You’re saying there’s nothing exciting going on in there? No ticking bomb module? No internal shrapnel slowly migrating toward your spark?”
Fulcrum visibly paled “I—I’m 80% sure the ticking is just cooling fans!”
You leaned in, optics gleaming
“Let’s find out”
Before he could object, you’d already activated the scanner, which buzzed ominously. The screen flickered through static before displaying something that looked vaguely like a Danger symbol in three different dialects
“…Heh” you said, tilting your head “You might be fine. Or you might violently combust in 6 to 8 cycles. Either way, not my fault”
Fulcrum let out a strangled sound “You’re supposed to say something reassuring!”
“I did! ‘Not my fault’ is my version of reassurance”
He gave a long, slow blink
“…I’m going to die”
“Eventually” you nodded solemnly
“But for now—”
And with that, you jabbed a connector probe into his side. Fulcrum’s whole body jerked “—your coolant lines are backing up a little. Could’ve led to system overheating. Also explains why you’ve been radiating mild anxiety like a broken anxiety-scented air freshener”
He stared at you in mute horror “…Please tell me that wasn’t an actual medical term”
You grinned “I make them up as I go”
↓
SUBJECT PATIENT RECORD
DESIGNATION: FULCRUM
AFFILIATION: Scavenger (Technically Decepticon, but mostly just stressed)
CONDITION: Mild to moderate plasma burns, stress-induced fuel reflux, excessive shouting
NOTES BY ATTENDING FIELD PRACTITIONER (still operating without any actual credentials):
Arrived in full panic, claiming he was “totally fine” while actively smoldering. Body temperature elevated—not due to malfunction, just from yelling
Most vocal patient so far. Screamed “What is that tool?! Is that a bone saw?!” before treatment had even begun. (It was not. It was a wrench. Maybe) Kept mumbling something about “imminent death” and “this is how I die"
Calmed somewhat after being asked to hold tools for me. Gave him a fake diploma to “make him feel included” He still carries it
Treatment completed successfully. Requested anesthesia after it was done
RECOMMENDATION: Let him panic. It burns energy and makes it easier to sneak in sutures
Tell him he’s doing great. He’s not, but he needs it
MENTAL STATUS: Holding on by a wire. Possibly about to snap. Possibly the only one trying to be normal, which makes him the craziest of all
—
You didn’t expect CRANKCASE to walk through your door
Technically, it wasn’t even a door — just a heavy curtain you’d ripped off a wrecked Decepticon dropship and pinned into place. But there he was, looming in your makeshift threshold, glowering like he wanted to punch the wind in the face
Which, from what you’d heard, was a standard Crankcase greeting
You looked up from the mess of servo joints and cracked optics on your workbench “Oh good, another volunteer! Take a number, and by number I mean a seat, and by seat I mean that fuel drum with the mystery stain”
Crankcase didn’t move. He crossed his arms “I’m not here for your freak-show experiments. I’ve got a blown vent coil and a leaking wrist actuator”
You raised an oil-slicked brow “So… you are here for medical assistance”
He scowled “Field repair”
“Same difference,” you chirped, already gesturing him forward “I won’t bite. Unless you count removing faulty plating with my teeth. Kidding—mostly”
The fuel drum groaned beneath his weight as he sat. You could hear his joint hydraulics hissing with effort. He was trying very hard not to look worried
You crouched beside him, lifting his forearm and turning it this way and that “Hmm. Someone’s been punching things they shouldn’t. This isn't just a leak. You've got shrapnel embedded in your coolant line. Wanna keep it?”
Crankcase blinked “Keep it?!”
You gave him your best "I'm totally serious” look “Could turn it into a charm. Lucky shard. Something to ward off infection. Maybe your attitude”
He started to pull his arm back
You yanked it right back “Too late. I’ve named it. This one’s Steve”
“What the frag—”
With a quick flick, you plunged your gloved fingers into the small open seam, locating the shrapnel shard with tactile precision. You ignored Crankcase’s strangled hiss and produced the sliver with a flourish
“Aha! Steve the Shard, free at last. Say thank you”
Crankcase stared at you, deadpan
“You’re insane”
You smiled sweetly, plucking a soldering tool off the table “That’s Doctor Insane to you”
Bzzt
The tool sparked, lighting up your eyes like a child at a fireworks show
Crankcase tensed “You’re not putting that near me”
“I am” you said “Because if I don’t cauterize this line in the next thirty seconds, your arm’s going to start leaking coolant like a sobbing Wrecker”
He snarled — but didn’t stop you
You worked fast, too fast for his liking. Sparks flew, cables sizzled, and Crankcase let out a string of swears that could probably make a Seeker blush. You ignored all of it, whistling a cheerful tune as you worked
When it was done, you patted his arm
“All fixed. And you didn’t even pass out! Proud of you”
Crankcase glared. “I should report you”
“To who?” You grinned “You think we’re in a jurisdiction that still has a licensing board?”
He opened his mouth, paused, then shut it again
You leaned in “Besides... you’re walking out of here with full function, no fees, and a souvenir” You handed him the shard of metal with a crooked smile “Steve says hi”
Crankcase snatched it from you with a growl. But he didn’t throw it away
NOTES BY ATTENDING FIELD PRACTITIONER (yes, still me):
Arrived under protest. Yelled “I’m fine!” while leaking energon like a guilt-ridden faucet
Displayed strong resistance to bedside manner. Calmed slightly after being asked if he wanted to watch me extract a bolt with pliers “just to see if it screams”
Requires verbal distraction during treatment; otherwise clenches up like a seized servo. Suggested topics: how annoying Misfire is, dirt, taxes
Responds well to threats. Especially ones that sound made up, like “scalp grafts”
Treatment successful. Patient limped off muttering about “invasive freaks with too many teeth”
RECOMMENDATION: Do not show weakness. Or enthusiasm. Or joy. Pretend you also hate everything—it soothes him
MENTAL STATUS: Functionally cranky. Potentially immortal out of sheer spite
—
The clinic—if one was generous enough to call a rusted-out storage bay with dangling lights and an energon-stained slab a clinic—was unusually quiet for once. No shouting. No crashing. No Misfire trying to flirt with his own reflection or you
Which meant something was wrong
“You’re late” said the voice from the dark corner. It belonged to the ‘doctor’, of course. You were hunched over a datapad, stylus tucked between two digits, not even bothering to look up “Your shoulder is making that noise again, isn’t it?”
KROK stepped in like a soldier reporting for punishment. His frame stiff, his expression more so
“I’m not here for a chat. I just need a recalibration”
You blinked slowly and finally glanced up
“No one ever is’
He hesitated, optics scanning the room. No restraints in sight today. That was probably a good sign
You patted the slab “Lie down”
“I’ll sit”
“I said lie down. You don’t argue with doctors”
“You’re not a doctor”
You grinned “And you’re not winning this one”
Krok muttered a curse under his breath and complied, lowering himself onto the slab with the grace of a war veteran who’d fought too many battles and not won nearly enough
“Left shoulder, right?” you asked, already activating a scanner that beeped in several colors it probably wasn’t supposed to “Tell me what happened”
“Misfire fell on me” Krok replied, voice tight “During training. He called it ‘combat bonding’”
You nodded sympathetically, even as you grabbed a wrench that had definitely once been used to pry open cargo doors “Ah yes. The age-old bonding ritual of ‘launch-yourself-at-your-commander’?"
"Classic"
“I think it dislocated again” he said, biting the inside of his cheek “I can’t rotate it past—argh!”
You'd already shoved it backward with a practiced snap
Krok nearly sat bolt upright “WHAT THE FRAG?! You didn’t warn me!”
“I didn’t have to. I’ve done this to corpses before. You should be grateful you screamed—it’s how I knew it worked”
He glared at you “That is not reassuring”
You beamed “It wasn’t meant to be”
Silence fell, broken only by the sound of metal creaking as you adjusted a few connections, then pressed a cooling gel pad over the joint. It hissed
Krok’s field softened just slightly “...You’re getting better at this”
“Oh?” you replied innocently
“Is that professional admiration or resignation to fate?”
“I’m not sure which one worries me more”
You leaned in, lowering your voice like a conspirator “Krok... You know this makes me your personal physician now, right?”
He stared at you flatly
“I will self-repair next time”
You smiled sweetly, scribbling something onto a datapad “Too late. Already logged it. You’re mine now"
↓
SUBJECT PATIENT RECORD
DESIGNATION: KROK
AFFILIATION: Scavenger leader (self-declared, no one’s argued)
CONDITION: Shoulder joint misalignment. Minor processor lag. Leadership fatigue.
NOTES BY ATTENDING FIELD PRACTITIONER (not approved by any health council anywhere):
Walked in with a stiff limp and a stiffer attitude. Tried to diagnose himself
Kept correcting my terminology. Said “That’s not a circuit, that’s a triple-fused control relay!” I responded with “Sounds infected” Believes himself to be the voice of reason. Believes wrong
Endured treatment with the patience of a bot who has seen some things. Possibly in denial about the chaos level of his team
Asked if I could do anything about “leadership-induced migraines.” Suggested decapitation. He did not laugh. Left with improved range of motion and deeply haunted expression. Probably unrelated
RECOMMENDATION: Respect the chain of command—then wrap it around his legs and drag him back when he tries to leave
He's the glue holding the team together. The glue is melting
MENTAL STATUS: Exhausted dad energy. Probably dreams of retirement. Will never get it
more scavengers bc i love them and they're neglected on this app 💔
and more human reader bc why not?
scavengers and their human s/o
krok
similar to fulcrum, he's more private with his love life
he really just treats you like one of the crew in public, although more doting and careful with you
krok has picked up the habit of rubbing his thumb across your back when he's holding you, or petting your head/hair when lounging around, or when he's anxious and overwhelmed
he keeps an eye on you, especially around misfire and spinister. he doesn't need you going underfoot or getting shot at
krok is a cuddle bug, but he'll never admit it
he likes to lounge with you, watching shitty comedies with you sprawled across his chassis
his favourite name for you in private is "my love" or "darling"
in public, he generally just uses your name, or "hun"
crankcase
you genuinely can't tell if he hates you or if he's just like that when you met
turns out that's just his face, don't take it personally
yall spend a lot of time shit talking your crewmates, all in good fun (most of the time)
he's mastered the perma-frown due to his injury, but he swears you might literally kill him one day by making him crack a smile
you're his favourite (and only) co-pilot, he'll teach you how everything works and lets you help him fly the WAP when he needs a break
in public, he uses your name to address you. in private? he's a secret romantic
"love", "sweatspark", "princess/prince", and "baby" are his favourites
fulcrum
he'll probably never fully get over the whole human/organic phobia, but you made it this far with him, and that's to be commended
he still finds all of the fluids and oils distasteful, but he can admit, they certainly help on certain occasions
there will be days he just can't stand it, and does not want to be touched.
and that's what he loves about you: you're patient. he appreciates every bit of caution and leeway you give him
as a partner? he's not too open about it all in public, he's more of a private lover
of course, once he gets more used to the whole "having a partner" thing, he gets more comfortable being romantic in public
he's a sweetheart, and a total nerd
the rest of the scavengers will often find you two giggling/cackling in a corner over your inside jokes, of which yall have many
don't climb him. he will freak out and kick you off without even thinking about it
he calls you "hun" and "babe"
misfire
most likely of the scavengers to get with a human
he's the kind of guy who'll try anything once, and boy does he love his human
easily the most open with affection and proclaiming his love
he ALWAYS has to be near you, loves having you on his shoulder or in his hands
but be careful, he forgets your there sometimes. expect to be jostled around in his hands while he talks, he uses his hands to express himself while talking
and hold onto something when on his shoulder, he's constantly all over the place
he's gotten many a talking-to from krok for endangering you with his forgetfulness
he's the embodiment of adhd, so be patient. he will not remember things you need him to, but he will remember tiny, insignificant details about the most absurd things. it's just how he rolls
he calls you all sorts of borderline humiliating pet names and the get progressively worse
"sweatspark" , "pumpkin", and "babe" aren't too bad, but he goes further with the intent of flustering you, like "pookie", "snookums", "cutie patootie"... etc etc
do not let him teach you how to shoot
spinister
when you met, of course he tried to squash you like a bug
that's just how he is
but once you cracked his shell? he won't let you out of his sight
with all of the crazy shit the scavengers get up to, he's beyond worried about your safety and well being
he always has you safely perched on his shoulder
he teaches you medical malpractice cybertronian medicine and care, though you probably shouldn't be touching energon
he could give less of a fuck what the other scavengers hear him call you
he's oddly romantic, using names like "my love", "my dear", "darling", "angel", or "my light"
tumblr deleted the first draft of this and i forgot everything i wrote. it was originally much longer but tumblr had to be mean about it
Not a good idea. He goes like, "yeah, sure!" but the moment you are gone he'll drink it. He does it on purpose with no regrets. What did you expect? He's a glutton and he steals food all the time, even from friends! And he won't buy you a new one either. "Sorry y/n i don't have any money on me right now"
Misfire: 0/10 trustworthy drink holder.
Spinister
He will also say 'yes'. But you shouldn't take too long, it gotta be quick! It could go two ways; either he gets distracted and forgets about your drink and you won't find it. Or the longer he looks at the drink the more suspicious it looks. "It looking at me funny, I think I will shoot it"
"NO!"
Spinister: 2/10
Grimlock
He will just stand there, holding your glass. Not knowing exactly what to do. Looking around and then on the drink without moving and looking confused. If it was Grimlock with better mentally health, then he would be the same but more protective and more confident and looking like a bodyguard.
"Nobody touch y/n drink on my watch!”
Grimlock: 8/10
Nickel
Honesty, she doesn't really want to, but she holds the glass anyway if it isn't too big. Don't expect her to hold your drink multiple times though or you will get the: “Why are you asking me all the time? Can't you just hold your own drink or ask someone else?” 😑 We know she was reliable with the D.J.D and it’s the same with you and your drink as well. The way you left your drink with her is the same way you get it back.
Nickel: 9/10
Fulcrum
"Oh okay". It's not a bad idea to ask Fulcrum. He will hold the drink with no problems…until he starts to second ask himself and overthink the situation. What if ‘someone’ he doesn't know approaches him with bad intentions and wants your drink? If that happens he will give the drink and run away. Hopefully he hasn't been shaking while thinking about it or the liquid in your glass will be less than when you left it.
Fulcrum: 5/10
Krok
Is the most ‘normal’ about it. He just holds it for you and still does what he is doing. Doesn't do anything weird with it, no drinking, just holding it. He doesn't bother asking what took you so long, unless you completely forgot about it.
However, he expects you to say ‘thank you’, or he won't do it the next time. (Krok deserves at least some appreciation).
Krok: 10/10
Crankcase
It depends. You most likely get a no, but if you ask again nicely, he'll might say yes. If he still says no, then it's better to ask someone else or he will be irritated and complaining. But if he says yes, he'll most likely just be sitting down and drinking his own drink in the other hand and looking grumpy around until you come back. If you take too long he is going to complain. "What took you so long?”
Crankcase: 6/10
Bonus: I can see Crankcase as the typical grandpa sitting in the corner of a party drinking beer and judging/watching people making fools of themselves on the dance floor and then use it against them later.
Thank you for reading! Have a good day! ^^ Reblogs are very appreciated 🥰
it'd be super fun and cool of you if you'd also write a Krok x reader. Angst or not I don't really care anything goes
A/N: Of course I can the Scavengers are some of my favs ♡ I could so see this being a multi-part slow burn so feel free to ask for more!
WARNING: Mention of nightmares, claustrophobia & loneliness. Mild angst if you squint cause you as reader are petty.
[ Strays ] Krok x Reader (Pt 1?) - Word Count: 1,538
You woke up with a start, sitting up to look around in the dark frantically. You quickly recognized the engine sounds of a spaceship, causing your mind to settle. With a sigh, you lie back to stare at the ceiling. Somehow, you kept forgetting that you were in space now. You had been launched into deep space in the newest line of space exploration efforts. This time, scientists had crafted a space pod that aerodynamically was capable of lesser warp speeds. The catch was that only one person could fit in these pods. After many tests, you were found to be the best fit for the first human solo trip into space within these new pods.
Accepting the offer with pride, you were shot into space, but now, some nights, you regret it. It was lonely in space. At times, this pod felt claustrophobic, especially after bad dreams. You have had a few doomsday dreams since the pods' launch. Ones of being sucked into space, or the engine sputtering out. But this last one felt so real.
The blaring of sirens, red lights flashing, as the pod squealed around you, making noises no spaceship should make. The desperate clicking of buttons before you abandoned hope and began the dash for a spacesuit. Even the burn of your lungs as you felt oxygen pressure dropping in the pod's cabin had felt so real. It sent a chill down your spine.
You didn’t think you could go back to sleep, so you sat up, ready to wander into the front cabin and watch space go by through the viewing window. Something about watching the stars and planets go by always calmed you. As you sat up to make the familiar trek to the front cabin, the door to your sleeping quarters slid open. In the doorway stood a giant robot.
Your heart dropped into your stomach. This was not your space pod.
You had somehow mistaken this ship for yours, except now you were starting to realize everything was far too big to be yours. Somehow, you had missed this crucial detail in the dark. Scrabbling up to your feet, you looked over the side of your previous sleeping area to the ground far below. There was no way you could jump. Turning back to look at the robot, you finally started yelling out demands. “What have you done with me?! Where is my pod?! What do you want from me?!”
The giant tilted its head, and you watched its lit eyes cycle, clearly focusing on you. The mechanisms on either side of its head twitched, making a calibrating click sound. “English… you speak English,” it finally spoke in a halting tone.
“That’s not what I asked,” you snapped.
“Calm down,” the robot tried to soothe as it stepped closer to you.
“No, no–no,” you pulled your shoe off to hold it up menacingly, “don’t come any closer until you answer my questions!” It stopped, allowing you to continue. “Why am I here? What happened to my pod? What do you want from me?”
“From you… nothing. As for what happened… I’m not quite sure how it came to be –but your little pod fell apart around you. Literally. When we found you… you were haphazardly stuffed into an oxygen suit, floating in debris. We saved you.” The robot's English left something to be desired, but you were grateful to be communicating with it at all.
“We,” you asked?
“Me and my crew.”
“They call us the Scavengers,” piped up a second voice, and you looked around the first robot to see another pink one. You let out a scream before throwing your shoe, hitting the pink bot directly in its chest. “Nice throw,” he chuckled.
“Misfire,” the first robot wheeled around to reprimand the pink one, “I told you to wait, we don’t want to overwhelm them.”
“Well, I got bored,” Misfire rolled his eyes, before looking at you, “besides, you’ll like my company more than Krok here.” He pointed at the first bot while sticking out his tongue in mock disgust.
“Whoa, whoa, slow down,” you shook your head. “My pod broke, and then you rescued me? And you have a crew? Called the Scavengers?”
“Why did you say it like you hate the name? I think it’s a good name,” Misfire piped up again. His tone was indignant.
“That’s because it was your idea,” Krok shot back, pushing Misfire back. As the pink bot stumbled back, you realized two more heads were peeking around the doorway. The orange one with goggles pulled his head back, his face looking scared. The other stood his ground, narrowing his eyes.
“It has a second projectile,” he eyed the shoe still on your foot, “I think we should get rid of it.”
“No, Spinister,” Misfire turned to the suspicious bot, “we are caring for the organic, remember? Besides, their feet covers don’t hurt when they throw them.”
“They’re called shoes,” you snorted at Misfire, “and I am very dangerous, so don’t try anything.”
“Yeah, alright, Squishy, whatever you say,” the pink bot flipped his hand carelessly. Turning back to you, Misfire pretended to quake in fear. Fuming, you wrenched off your other shoe and threw it at him, hitting him in the shoulder this time.
“Wow, twice in a row, it has better aim than you, Misfire,” spoke the orange bot, he was back to peeking around the doorway. You made eye contact with the orange robot, and he immediately spun back around the doorway, muttering, “why did it have to be a human?” The way he said it made you sound like you were a bug to them; then again, looking at your size compared to them… maybe you were.
As if reading your thoughts, Krok spoke, “ignore Fulcrum, he has a weird thing about humans.” The way he said ‘thing’ made it sound like perhaps he was afraid of you. How ironic would that be? A giant robot is afraid of little old you. Krok approached the slab you had been sleeping on, causing you to break from your thoughts. He gently deposited your shoes onto the slab next to you. “Here, your… shoes… I think you called them.”
“Yes,” you picked them up, “thank you.” Giving Krok a friendly enough smile, you put them back on. “So my pod, it was destroyed?”
“Affirmative, unsalvagable,” Krok shook his head, his voice leaking with pity.
“Oh,” you lowered yourself onto the slab so you could hug your knees, “then I guess I’m stuck in space… lightyears from home.” Kneeling, Krok brought himself almost eye level with you. The look he gave you seemed similar to one you’d imagine a person giving a wounded animal.
“You can stay as long as you need, it’s kinda what we do. Pick up strays, that is.” His words made you sick. A stray? Is that all they thought of you as? Were you now doomed to be the equivalent of a stray cat to these robots? You didn’t want their pity or sad looks. You wanted your pod. To go home. To take back everything and just stay on Earth.
“Oh, you’re leaking,” Krok leaned forward from his kneeling spot, only for his hands to nervously flutter in the air around you.
Reaching up, you wiped at your face, and sure enough, you were crying. “Fuck,” you huffed, “don’t look at me.” Krok’s eyes squinted almost questioning before he looked down at the floor, respecting your wishes.
“I’m sorry, I’m sure none of this was as you planned, but you’ll find none of our lives have gone as planned. We are all kind of strays, so to speak… that’s why we call ourselves the Scavengers.” Krok's tone was low and comforting. “And now that you’ve joined us… that makes you one too, if you want.” At his words, you balled up your fists and slammed them down on your slab. A primal yell left you.
“That doesn’t change the fact that I’m lost in space, at the whim of giant alien robots. Look how far up I am from the floor! I gotta beg just to be let down,” you snapped. Flinching at your words, Krok slowly reached out, messing with the bottom of the slab. You felt it shift, and slowly he lowered it as far as he could. It slid down like a hairdresser's chair. When it finally stopped, you were just a few feet above the floor.
“Most of this ship is minibot compatible; it should help you adjust a little bit.” Turning away from him, you huffed stubbornly.
“Just –go away!” You were being petty, you knew that. But you wanted nothing to do with them right now; you just wanted space. It didn’t matter to you if you hurt their feelings or overstepped; you just wanted to be alone. You didn’t want to think about joining them or navigating the rest of the ship; you just wanted to wallow. With a vent of air, Krok stood before turning and herding the others out silently. The door shut behind him with a definitive click. Finally, you were alone.
The silence was deafening, almost overwhelming, but you needed it. Wanted it.
krok finds humans disgusting. at least, that's what he tries to convince himself. afab!reader. nsfw. mdni! drabble.
Pores, hair, skin — they were filthy. Organics were an insult to evolution and an affront to nature. He stands by that even if he's not a decepticon anymore. Partly because the prejudice's always been there. And he'd be giving them too much credit to say it's some kind of hatred. Indifference was more like it. He couldn't care less about fleshies. About you.
Then again, words were much easier to believe when his body wasn't reacting to the sight of you wiping your brow with the back of your palm. Your chest, heaving up, down, up down to intake air. Sweat, dripping past your neck and down the fabric of your —
He stopped himself, manually turning off his cooling fans as they clicked to life. Appalled, he stood up from his position, abandoning the rest of the members who were arguing over the manual ( no one noticed that Spinister's been holding it upside down).
You called it a morning run. You need it to keep yourself fit. Which was stupid and weak and terribly inconvenient to think about — sinew and muscle burning and tearing to become stronger. At least that's what he makes of it. He doesn't care. Whatever it is, you've been doing it almost every day now. Ever since the W.A.P.'s been stranded on Earth. While the rest of the team busted their afts off to get the ship back up in the air, you've been indulging yourself.
The audacity.
Krok tells himself that this is his way of correcting your insolence. That rocking himself against your body, with both your thighs — so soft and sticky and obscene — straddling his hips, was all part of his plan to punish you for your transgressions. Your body was warm, breath fanning against the side of his neck cables. He wants to fight off the feel of your hair in between his servos — soft. Silky. He didn't discourage the urge to curl a few strands and tug, earning him a moan.
There was a list in his head. Of things he wants to yell at you for. His vocalizer doesn't seem to work at the moment so he punctuates each complaint with a thurst forward: For not helping, for jogging, for looking up at him with eyes that widen and watered. His interface panel tightened as lubricant leaked out of your valve — cunt. That was the word for it. He should use the proper words. You weren't Cybertronian. Not with a pretty little, wet thing like that. And the smell. It made him heady. Made him want.
He readjusted himself, bouncing you against his upper leg. You yelped at this, mumbling against the side of his temple.
" More," You whined, " Fuck, Krok I —"
" What was that?"
He wasn't thinking. His palm squeezed your aft, plush and pliant, the surface was already turning red.
" Sir," You repeated, sounding breathless. Such a strange, alien way to describe it. And yet his cooling fans were now roaring, spike out, and pressurizing.
You were repulsive. No armor, no metal — your body was practically defenseless as it melted against the shape of his. Everyone knows he hates them. And he does. But in the small, space of his berthroom, when the lights are off and everyone's gone to look for spare parts in this barren, wasteland excuse of a planet, he can make an exception.
You ducked down to sloppily kiss his faceplate, hip surging forward. Yeah. Krok can make an exception.
Krok*Sees you taking your "coffee" walking away to the shared berthroom you all have now, as he steers the ship to go buy you whatever you want after all you not only saved their lives once but twice, and you can fight against cybertronians*....
Crankcase:...
Spinister:..
Fulcrum:...
Misfire*Was in a trance also but looks at the others*Well, Marked scared and horny...
Krok, Spin, Crank & Fulcrum*All of them look at him, annoyed and with judgment* COME ON!?/ughh keep it to yourself.../This glitch...
Misfire: OH LIKE YOU ALL DIDN'T GET LIL TURNED ON!?!
Krok, Spin, Crank & Fulcrum:NO!?
Misfire*Flinches at that and huffs, turns to leave them flipping them off after you taught him what that means*You know what, screw you guys! I'm going to check on the human!?!
Krok: Fraggin degenarate...
Fulcrum: I think imma be sick...
Spinister & Crankcase*Nods*...
All of them*Remember when you got on all fours, growled, and managed to evade being shot at trying to defend them, and they feel their fans kick in at the same time*...
Krok*Seeing you in a hospital bed, and sighs in relief seeing you awake* Y/N YOU'RE ALIVE!!!
Wolve!Y/n*Who just survived being blown up after they saved Spinister from a couple of bots in a bar* I SAW THE GRIM RIPPER! AND I KICKED HIM IN THE STONES AND SPIT IN HIS EYE AND TOLD HIM "I AIN' GOIN' YET!"
The rest of the scavengers come in to check on you and seem pleased that their immortal human with claws is alive. Even Fulcrum, who wanted to be the first to check on you at the door, was happy
Fulcrum: Well, alright, Y/n!
Wolve!Y/n*Looks at the ceiling*I also saw the fitty men I killed...there UPTHERE WAITING FOR ME AND THEY'RE ANGRY!!!...
Wolve!Y/n: But I also saw my shins...they looked good!~
