My name is Riri, i use she/her/hers and i'm a 21-years-old college student, i opened this blog to post Transformers themed fanfiction, being a big fan of the franchise (maybe I'll bring the Brave series too later). — And that's all you need to know about me, except that I'm also a metal and rock fan, so many of the titles will be references to the various songs. (English is not my first language)
REQUESTS:
This blog will feature: One shots — Head canon — Scenarios — Series (when I get inspiration) — Drabbles
For now, the genres will be limited since I haven't written in a while, so I need to get back into the swing of things! Please be patient. I'll have my own time to post!
The genres I will write: Fluff 💕 — Angst 💔 — Crack 🔥 — Yandere 🩸— Hurt 🥀 — Comfort 🫂 — Nsfw 🔞
I don't approve of my works being translated into other languages or posted on other sites, obviously I will then take care of moving to other sites.
Unfortunately there aren't a lot of works for Gn or male readers (don't worry, you're about to get some attention from me too :3 I'll give you all the love you need on my blog!) Even though the franchise is a masterpiece, I noticed that the works are scarce and so I decided to give my contribution even if I haven't been in for a long time :< but I'll do my best! Thanks for the trust!
(A small favor, please be as specific as possible with your requests, so everything will be clearer to me. Thank you so much, my loves :>>>)
I WILL WRITE:
★ Romantic: ( Cybertronian x Cybertronian Reader)
★ Platonic Relationship: (Cybertronian + Human reader) and ( Cybertronian + Cybertronian reader)
★ Polyamorous Relationships.
★ Gender neutral and male reader (Maybe female readers too) - When making your request, please be specific with the gender and the pronouns.
★ AUs (Alternative Universes)
★ Crossover/Crossovers between the various universes.
★ Nsfw (Mature contents) - (specify in the request the types of kinks you want)
I WILL NOT WRITE:
★ Characters x characters.
★ Any type of romantic relationship involving humans x Cybertronians (Yeah no-)
★ Anything disgusting involving: r*pe, p*dophilia, and all that sh*t. (and anything else I might feel uncomfortable with)
For now I do: Transformers Bayverse, Animated, Armada, G1, Transformers One, Cyberverse, MTMTE, Transformers Prime, Beast Wars, Shattered Glass, Metal Cardbot - I'm slowly trying to catch up on all the shows and comics, I apologize for this :<
My ao3: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Yo_thereitsririiii
My Quotev: https://www.quotev.com/Itsririonlive/published
Hi, i'm that anon Req blaster x Mini-cassete reader. I know it's late cuz I haven't active this platform but I want to say that thank you for taking my request! The way you write him accurately how I view him.
Alsoo doodle of blaster and mini cassette y/n as thank you :)
Awww how cute is Blaster's expression, it looks like a dad who wanted to take a picture with his child, I love it when you guys send such messages!! THE DRAWING IS SO BEAUTIFUL TOO!! <3333 (I will most likely save the drawing!!!)
Hi its me 👋, the anon who asked for the tfa bumblebee x intelligence officer reader, I just wanted to thank you for taking my request, I very much appreciated it
No problem! It's rare to see Yandere Bumblebees around, though it was really interesting to write about! I hope you enjoyed it!!! :DD
Hi 👋 since your request are open, I would politely ask if you could do a yandere tfa bumblebee x gn cybertronian elite guard or intelligence officer with the scenario of them reuniting after meeting each for the first time at bootcamp where the reader was the only one who sticked up for bee when he was getting builled by wasp or sentinal and generally being the only one kind to him (expect for bulkhead and longarm ofcoure) plus, if you don't mind, maybe make bee a little bit mad if its fine with you
This is new, I can say maybe Bumblebee of all the Transformers characters is the only one that I will never be able to see as a real yandere - But still it's always nice to experiment! - P.s Since i'm in my exam period, the requests will come out a little more slowly!
Yandere! Bumblebee x Gn! Intelligence Officer! Reader
(Scenario)
How could he forget you? It was impossible, simply unthinkable. You had been his refuge in the darkest moments, the light that pierced the shadows that surrounded him. He had seen you emerge before his optical sensors just when all hope seemed lost—when Sentine humiliated him, when every hour in that training camp weighed on him like torture. And yet, you had been different. You hadn't laughed. You hadn't ignored him. You had stopped. And you had said those words: "Sentinel, enough."
To him, you weren't a dream. Sure, sometimes you were too perfect to seem real, almost untouchable... almost a guardian angel. But now... you were there. In front of him. With the same intense gaze, the same sharp, delicate faceplate, but with a different look. You no longer smiled when you looked at him. That spark in your optics—the same one that once shone only for him—was gone. Perhaps the vorns had changed you, given you a new form that no longer resonates with who you once were. Or perhaps it was those chains of stasis that held you back and oppressed you, mercilessly tightening your metal wrists.
Tw: Yandere themes.
Length: 5.8k
In the blue sky of the Autobot Academy's main field, the artificial sun shone brightly, illuminating every corner of what was considered one of Cybertron's most prestigious institutions. There, young Mechs and Femmes, full of enthusiasm and potential, were transformed into fearless warriors, tempered by extreme training to protect their planet. This renowned academy was led by legendary heroes: veterans who had experienced the fiercest battles against the Decepticons on the front lines.
Among these prominent commanders was Ultra Magnus. Tall, imposing, and with a firm stance, Magnus was considered a symbol of authority and discipline. His extensive field experience had made him a pillar of Cybertron's defense, having protected its destiny in dark times. Now he tirelessly dedicated his life to training future elite soldiers, instilling in them the same strength and determination that had made him a living legend.
Ultra Magnus, however, was not the only one in charge of the academy. Working alongside him was Sentinel Prime, whose reputation preceded him. Rigid to the limit and sometimes arrogant, Sentinel was in charge of overseeing the training of the young cadets. His teaching methods were renowned for their harshness: long runs under the scorching sun, grueling physical exercises, and relentless battle simulations. As if these trials weren't demanding enough, he often combined them with biting sarcasm and merciless criticism.
Having Sentinel as an instructor meant facing a relentless barrage of scathing rebukes and venomous jokes. Every mistake was an excuse for derisive laughter, and anyone who dared to show vulnerability had to deal with his sharp tongue. Only a few, gifted with extraordinary patience, could endure these methods without breaking.
Among the cadets was Bumblebee, a young, enthusiastic mech who—for reasons he could not fathom—had become a favorite target of Sentinel Prime's criticism. When he was admitted to the Academy, Bumblebee had big dreams and hopes: he wanted to become as strong as Ultra Magnus and develop the unwavering courage that distinguished the famous commander. He was driven by a passion to defend his planet and grow not only as a soldier, but also as an individual.
However, his days under Sentinel's critical eye quickly turned into a test of mental and physical endurance. No matter how hard he tried or how much dedication he displayed during grueling training, the Prime always found a way to challenge him.
"Slow! That's not even close!" "You're not precise!" "You're more complicated than a malfunctioning Decepticon!"
The barrages of sarcastic remarks seemed never-ending. Every progress was met with criticism, and every mistake amplified by scathing judgments. For Bumblebee, who only wanted to improve and prove himself, the situation was becoming unbearable. Yet, in his heart, the determination not to give up continued to burn. Even though it seemed impossible to gain Sentinel's respect, he was willing to try again.
Bumblebee's lively and cheerful personality—always hyperactive, optimistic, and full of energy—seemed to embody everything that bothered Sentinel Prime.
Bumblebee was the very essence of joy: he never lost his smile, even after the longest and most tiring days. He was the first to crack a joke during breaks, to engage his fellow cadets in playful pranks, or to organize small gatherings in the academy courtyard. His bright and infectious personality made him beloved by almost everyone, like a ray of sunshine illuminating even the darkest corners of Cybertron.
He was surrounded by friends wherever he went.
But on Sentinel Prime, things were different. To him, that constant and sincere cheerfulness was more than annoying: it was irritating. In his worldview, a serious soldier shouldn't smile too much, nor show too much sociability. Even less should he overshadow his commander with a natural charm that captivated every optics.
Bumblebee was like a rising star, always the center of attention, but not always in a good way. His popularity and the ease with which he won over everyone he met often sparked jealousy, fueling feelings of inferiority in those around him.
Sentinel Prime was no exception. In the commander's eyes, Bumblebee was overly friendly with veterans and overly easygoing with more experienced cadets like Bulkhead and Longarm. To Sentinel, such behavior was completely inappropriate for a mere trainee.
Not a day went by without Sentinel taking some opportunity to tease him. Whether it was with public reprimands for his exuberant posture ("Walk politely! Be disciplined!") or with embarrassing admonitions during practice exercises, he never failed to assert his authority. However, Bumblebee was never completely alone.
Bulkhead, always loyal and ready to support him, was an irreplaceable ally in combat simulations. Longarm, for his part, dispensed technical advice that often proved decisive at critical moments during training.
Among the cadets, however, was Wasp. Unlike the others, he wasn't Bumblebee's friend. He didn't openly despise him, but he didn't hide a certain uneasiness toward him. He saw Bumblebee as too carefree, someone who cracked jokes at every opportunity, even at the most inopportune moments. But what probably bothered him most was Bee's natural ability to draw all the attention to himself, as if he were destined to always be in the spotlight.
Bumblebee was well aware of Wasp's latent resentment and quickly realized that any attempt to get closer would be a waste of time. For this reason, he decided to keep his distance and avoid unnecessary conflicts that would only make life at the academy more difficult. If Wasp wanted to harbor that resentment, then so be it. Bumblebee had bigger goals to pursue and energies he'd rather spend in far more constructive ways.
At the center of the main field, the cadets lined up in precise rows, their steps synchronized and their gazes steady. The artificial sun shone brightly above them, warming the synthetic turf of the training area. The day's exercise was a standard one: hand-to-hand combat strategy.
The training objective was clear and focused: to overwhelm the opponent with precision and speed, relying more on cunning than brute strength or sustained physical endurance. Mental and physical agility were the required skills. Muscle was used only when necessary, but the processor was always the first ally.
Sentinel Prime paced among the ranks of the cadets, resembling a general ready to inspect the troops.
Among the cadets, Bulkhead, Longarm, Wasp, and, of course, Bumblebee stood out. Almost as if chosen by fate—or perhaps simply by the luck of a random draw—it fell to Bumblebee to inaugurate the exercise.
The first fight pitted him against Bulkhead.
But Bee wasn't afraid.
The two robots stared into each other's optics, immersed in an electrically charged silence. They awaited the start signal like steel statues ready to spring to life at command. A tiny droplet slipped across Bumblebee's smooth faceplate: pure tension, hidden beneath calculated movements and a stoic expression. The servomotors quivered just beneath the metal surface, but Bee forced himself not to appear nervous.
No unnecessary movements.
No obvious signs.
Every mechanical muscle under complete control.
But Sentinel Prime had already noticed that small signal from afar. His face twisted into a cold, venomous smile: that classic mischievous grin he reserved for when he was ready to unleash cutting comments on cadets he deemed "useless." His contempt was always well hidden behind a veil of false politeness, but it felt like a blade scraping the air.
Time seemed to stand still for a moment. Then the order came like a sudden volley.
"Begin!"
Sentinel's authoritative vocalizer roared through the silence, cutting the suspense with surgical precision. His crooked grin was still there, as if the mere thought of humiliating another young cadet was a form of subtle personal pleasure for him.
As soon as the last word left his derma, Bumblebee moved. A flash of lightning, pure dynamism in action. He didn't give Bulkhead the luxury of making the first move; Taking full advantage of his innate agility as a young cybernetic mech, he darted to the right, miming a frontal attack. But at the last moment, just when it seemed predictable, he changed direction with astonishing speed.
He was fast. An unstoppable flash unleashed by a charge of living energy.
The fight was over in the blink of an optic, as was to be expected whenever Bumblebee faced a mech as powerful as Bulkhead.
A single punch.
That was all it took. A blow delivered with the mighty Bulkhead's left arm, calibrated to avoid irreparable damage to the young mech but still imbued with terrifying energy. The impact struck Bumblebee squarely in the metallic torso, hurling him away like a leaf in the gusts of a merciless whirlwind. His flight ended beyond the limits of the training field, where he landed noisily on a shock-absorbing platform at the edge.
A faint groan escaped Bumblebee's helm, more laced with surprise than true pain. The blow had inevitably been devastating: Bulkhead's colossal size made him nearly unstoppable. There was no cruelty in his gesture, only the mechanical brutality of his physical structure, an inevitable consequence of what he was.
Bumblebee bounced a few times before coming to a stop. His structure shifted cautiously as he tried to regain his footing, but the world around him still seemed to sway, making the task arduous.
Amid his struggles and the annoying buzz still reverberating in his hearing circuits, an all-too-recognizable voice broke through his audio sensors. It was a harsh, cutting vocalizer, approaching with commanding steps that bespoke unquestionable authority. Soon after, the unmistakable figure of Sentinel Prime emerged with all his haughty presence.
Chin raised, posture as inflexible as if carved from pure adamantium. In the background, Longarm wore a neutral expression; Bulkhead, meanwhile, humbly lowered his optics, clearly gripped by guilt. A few paces away, Wasp observed the scene with obvious satisfaction, a hint of a wry smile that seemed to be already savoring the spectacle.
Fighting against the dull heaviness of his joints, battered by the blow, Bumblebee attempted to get to his feet before Sentinel appeared in front of him. But his movements were slow and uncertain, the servomotors still numb and resistant to the processor's commands.
And finally, the moment arrived.
Sentinel smiled.
It wasn't a welcoming smile, nor one that inspired comfort. No, it wasn't meant to offer support or warmth.
It was the kind of cruel smile that belongs to someone who knows exactly where to strike to inflict the most pain. Precise, deliberate, calculated.
His blue optics shone with a cold light, imbued with mischievous amusement. It was the same look that always accompanied his contemptuous pronouncements, carefully calculated to humiliate. Bumblebee could feel it clearly: his entire structure tensed in anticipation of what was to come, a pain not physical but deeply psychological.
"I see," Sentinel began, "that you have failed your training…"
His vocalizer was composed, almost mockingly gentle in appearance. Yet his tone was imbued with the harshness he reserved for "useless cadets," for "weaklings," for those he deemed constantly on the verge of collapse.
As he spoke, Sentinel never took his gaze from Bumblebee's flickering optics. Those unsteady optics that couldn't keep control. Those optics dilated with shame. That faceplate that betrayed helplessness…
Oh, yes. He was aiming with surgical precision at the most vulnerable point.
His words fell heavily, like boulders.
"I still wonder if it's worth it…"
Every syllable was a sharp blade. There was no need to shout or raise his vocalizer: the icy calm of his voice made the moment unbearably sharper. Every sentence seemed like an irrevocable declaration, uttered by someone who believes himself unattainably superior, in rank and valor.
And then, the thrust: "And isn't it pathetic… that a mech like you actually thinks he can become something?"
"Pathetic."
The word echoed through Bumblebee's processor, burning like a brand. He didn't react. He remained still. His optics trembled slightly, involuntary effects of his cybernetic nervous system turbulent under a tidal wave of suppressed emotions. Cybertronians don't cry, but inside? Inside, everything was collapsing, overwhelmed by the wave of contempt.
He couldn't answer.
He shouldn't answer.
It was against protocol.
A direct insult to a Prime would mean an official reprimand… Or perhaps something even worse.
And he hated reprimands above all else.
"Look at how you're fidgeting," Sentinel continued, pleased. "Like a puppy who hasn't yet figured out how to function in the world."
He took a step forward, and Bumblebee felt his metallic stomach tighten in an almost painful spasm.
"Are you afraid? Of course you are. And rightly so. This is no place for incompetent mechs."
He paused for a moment. Too brief to release the tension, but long enough to make every subsequent word count.
"You're small. You're weak. A useless soundbite…"
Then came the final blow, the one that ended the psychological demolition with definitive effectiveness:
"I still wonder why you're here… if this place isn't for you."
And that was enough.
Sentinel didn't have time to finish his tirade. A firm touch landed on his shoulder, bringing with it an aura of inevitability that rendered almost any attempt at resistance futile. It was a matter of a moment, brief and silent, but imbued with an almost tangible force.
He hadn't heard it coming. Too absorbed in his outburst, too focused on his hostile tirade against Bee to notice those determined footsteps behind him, inexorable and unhesitating. And when that metal hand touched the cold, shiny surface of his pauldron, Sentinel flinched with an almost theatrical movement, taken by surprise and overwhelmed by the realization that he was no longer alone.
The blue optics shot up and then swiveled sideways, feverishly searching for the source of that silent interruption. And there you were.
Your figure loomed large, shrouded in an aura that needed neither words nor gestures to declare its dominance. Like a concrete shadow filled with compressed energy, you stood there: stable and immobile, yet pregnant with the power of what was about to happen.
There were no signs of anger or emotional outbursts on your face. No overt threat shone through your appearance; but your gaze spoke. It was a tangible weight, a pressure that Sentinel felt instantly, and which proved more overwhelming than any insult he could have spewed.
Then you spoke.
Your vocalizer shattered the dense silence with a startling echo. It wasn't loud, nor angry. It was low. Deep. Every inflection measured with surgical precision.
And yet, those few letters had the power of a sharp blade, carved from vibranium, flowing with the same inexorable certainty. "Sentinel." Your tone didn't even rise by mistake.
"Enough."
There was no need for threats. There was no need to shout. Yet those words possessed a quality that surpassed any form of violence: an uncompromising gravitas, the unmistakable reminder of the impassable limit.
A wave of silence engulfed everything, transforming the atmosphere into a rigidly stagnant field, suspended in expectation.
Sentinel turned to stare at you, and for a fleeting moment—barely perceptible—even he faltered. Then, almost involuntarily, his jaw clenched in a hard, irritated spasm; the circuitry in his faceplate betrayed the tension as an expression of pure annoyance sculpted his features. Being silenced was not in his nature, much less by someone like you—a subordinate, at least according to his overly inflated personal hierarchies.
"Don't meddle, (D/n)" he roared, his vocalizer icy, glaring at you with venom. "Or have you become his guardian angel?"
(D/n) reaction didn't match Sentinel's expectations; in fact, it was surprisingly unexpected. They remained still, unmoved, unmoved by any trace of nervousness or agitation, firm and immovable, like a mountain of living steel.
Bee, on the other hand, remained motionless, clutching the hope that this daily routine of psychic torment would end soon. However, your arrival, with its unexpected consequences, had awakened in him a kind of curiosity mingled with a palpable emotional tension.
You didn't deign to answer the question posed to you. You ignored it completely, walking past Sentinel with quick but incredibly light steps. Your seemingly calm movements betrayed an unwavering determination as you made your way toward the small mech.
Reaching him, you raised one of your servos slowly and carefully, as if afraid even to touch him lest you cause any harm. You placed your servo gently on Bee's shoulder, barely stroking his yellow armor in a gesture as brief as it was meaningful. It was a silent but eloquent message: "With me, you are safe."
You didn't utter a single word; you didn't even glance at Sentinel. After that gesture, you helped him to his pedes, freeing him from the crushing weight of anxiety that seemed to have immobilized him in that position for so long. You gave him a discreet but warm smile, a ray of reassuring light that seemed to dispel the shadows of his inner torment.
Carefully and slowly, you began the walk together toward the academy entrance. Each step seemed measured, carrying a silent promise of protection. Just like a mentor accompanying a young mech to be protected from the judgment and cruelty of the outside world.
Side by side, you walked in a silence charged with meaning. Your heavy, rhythmic steps alternated with Bee's more hurried, nervous ones, forming an unconscious harmony between your imperturbable solidity and his vulnerable soul, seeking peace.
Sentinel, for his part…
He remained still. He remained in the same pose for what seemed like an eternity. He didn't move a muscle until your figures disappeared beyond the threshold of the door. It was then that an internal turmoil struck him violently.
His servos slowly clenched into fists, exerting so much force that his servomechanisms groaned under the increasing pressure. A tremor of rage rippled through his metal arms. The anger he had been holding back until then suddenly erupted, overwhelming his synthetic nervous system like an uncontrolled fire. An emptiness born of the wounded pride at the core of his being from that scene he had never foreseen.
He, a Prime, a high-ranking figure, admired and respected by all, an authority that instilled fear in even the most promising cadets of the prestigious academy.
He had been ignored.
Worse still: cast aside by two insignificant beings, little more than tiny pebbles in his path… yet they had managed to walk away from him with a gesture of contempt, as if he were dirty air.
Anger boiled within the Prime, but he couldn't fight back. No rule had been broken.
And that was precisely what drove him mad with rage.
(D/n) wasn't the type for long speeches or constant chit-chat—but when they sought out Bee, they did so with a gentle persistence, a calm but determined insistence.
Bee was easy to find appearing in the academy corridors without warning.
Or if they spotted the little Autobot struggling with the small tasks assigned to him, they went to him. Silent, always ready to keep him company. Not necessarily with words, but even just by sharing silence; because sometimes, that silence was all you needed.
Or you'd walk into your small office during your lunch break. As soon as you arrived, you'd find Bee already seated at a small table carefully placed in the corner. That table wasn't just for documents or equipment: in quiet moments, it became the perfect place to share quick lunch breaks.
Bumblebee always made sure to take two trays: he'd set one aside for you, without you having to say anything, and the other, of course, for himself. And with that, he'd take a seat at the small table and begin eating calmly, waiting for you so you could eat together as soon as you arrived.
No grand speeches or declarations were necessary. It was a simple invitation, a "friendly" gesture that, over time, had given birth to a deep "sibling friendship" between the two of you.
And then there were those small, everyday gestures that repeated themselves time and time again: you'd unthinkingly hand over an extra energon cube, he'd accept without a word. When Bee returned exhausted after demanding days of training, you were the one to look for him, to help him get up if his strength failed. You accompanied him to his room, where he could finally rest in peace.
Unfortunately, for you it was just a brotherly relationship, a pure and friendly bond. For Bumblebee, however, it wasn't like that at all.
He never said it, he never spoke about it with anyone.
But inside him, something burned. Something hot and possessive (and twisted), a tumultuous force that burned like an artificial star in the midst of its energy cycle. It all began after that incident with Sentinel: the moment you didn't hesitate to save him from the clutches of the ruthless Prime.
Since then, the thought of you had never left him. Not for a moment, not for a single nano-click. Whether it was during grueling training sessions, in the midst of simulations, or at the end of the day, when he retreated to his quarters for a well-deserved recharge, you were always present, at the center of his thoughts.
He was completely overwhelmed by that feeling. Perhaps, rationally, he knew it all might seem "wrong" or out of place, but that didn't stop him. In fact, that awareness—that incessant turmoil boiling inside his chassis—enjoyed it more than he was willing to admit to anyone.
When he saw you laughing with someone else—someone other than himself—a pure, relentless jealousy overwhelmed him. It wasn't a feeling he fully understood; he couldn't explain that cold grip at the core of him, that uneasiness that devoured him from within. But deep down, it seemed natural, given the intensity of his love for you.
And yet, dark thoughts swirled within him. He wondered how he could extinguish that spark in the optics of someone who dared to make you laugh in his absence, how he could wipe that smile from the derma of someone who dared to attract your attention more than he did.
And worse. When someone called you during your time together—perhaps in the middle of your lunch break—a blinding irritation would explode inside Bee, like a short circuit ready to send everything up in smoke. It was pure rage, irrational and suffocating, which seemed to saturate every fiber of his metal frame.
It was amazing how much hatred could condense in that small structure, how much dark energy would coagulate just because someone dared interrupt those stolen minutes with you. And when a impertinent cadet or a casual superior smiled at you for too long… then yes, madness completely overtook him.
In those moments, if he had been immune to the consequences, he would not have stopped. He would have destroyed that smile just as he would have annihilated the structure of anyone who dared to chain their thoughts with the fear of losing you.
But he couldn't. Not yet. He couldn't risk compromising everything, not when you represented his greatest chance at completeness. So he held back; he gritted his denta, endured in silence. Yet, deep down, he prepared to calculate every move necessary to eliminate anyone who tried to get too close.
Because what he felt wasn't the love others know. It was something more visceral, immovable: the absolute conviction that you were his. Only his. Forever his. And if anyone ever tried to come between you… Bee wouldn't hesitate. He would intervene mercilessly, grabbing any insolent bot and, without a second thought, breaking it like a fragile piece of metal. Without remorse. Without hesitation.
Dark, obsessive thoughts flowed beneath the surface:
If you left your office without telling him, he'd scour every corner of the academy to find you, making up a meaningless excuse to justify his search.
No one was to touch you, stare at you, or treat you the way he did. Because you were his, his angel.
If you ever went offline… he'd follow you. He'd rather disappear, give up his own spark, crush it underfoot, just to reach you, wherever you were.
That was the storm raging in Bee's processor. Internally, absolute chaos… but externally?
On the surface, Bumblebee remained the same: lively, cheerful, present. No sign of excess, no word that betrayed possessiveness.
And yet, his optics told a different story. Those clear, seemingly innocent blue eyes hid dark, unfathomable depths, like the depths of the sea. They spoke for him, sending silent messages that could completely rewrite the fate of every situation you found yourself in.
Every time you smiled at someone else—even just a polite smile—his servos would unconsciously tighten. His thermal sensors would overheat, rising in temperature.
And if someone held you close for too long, someone other than him…
Well, we get it.
As much as Bumblebee tried, the future had granted him nothing but separation from you. After the humiliation of his demotion and his final expulsion from the Autobot Academy, all hope of seeing your face again seemed to fade. It wasn't a ban that kept him away from you. He could have searched for you, had he wanted. But fate had proved unyielding: you had been transferred elsewhere, moved to an unknown sector of the vast system. No trace, no coordinates to rely on.
And him? Trapped between stringent regulations and restrictions on classified information, he couldn't even investigate freely without raising suspicions. This consumed him, but he fought to keep it all buried inside himself. The smoldering fury never showed itself. It was like an unstable energy field, locked in the circuit of his processor.
It wasn't just anger. It was pure, raw, and unceasing pain. A dull emptiness that seemed to suck every spark of life out of him, an absence that left an unfillable wound within him. His chassis remained intact, but inside it was silently crumbling.
As his group wandered through unknown places aboard that spaceship, the stars chased each other beyond the window, blurry and unfeeling. Every moment spent without you was meaningless. The hours faded into a blur, but your image continued to return to his thoughts. He thought of you constantly...
And that emptiness? It showed no signs of diminishing as time passed. Where were you? What were you doing? Who did you share your solar cycles with? What if someone had hurt you? The very thought tore him apart. No matter how far away you were or how many planets separated you, deep down he knew he would find a way. He would not hesitate to act.
There was no force capable of challenging him on this. No one could dare touch you with malicious intent without suffering the consequences. Not even from a thousand light-years away.
His unbridled imagination gave him no respite. He visualized scenarios that inflamed him with jealousy and hatred: he saw other Autobots treating you badly, or superiors exploiting your noble loyalty. And in those visions, he was already ready. Ready to take merciless revenge to protect you.
He was possessive, almost obsessively so. You were his. Not even distance, time, or a parallel universe could alter this unshakeable truth. If there was even a fraction of a chance of reaching you, he would take it. A fragment of energy, a silent vow: to see you again, no matter what.
But then... reality abruptly called him back. A familiar vocalizer tore him from his thoughts. It was Bulkhead, from the adjacent cabin, seeking his attention. He, too, seemed marked by that forced journey to an unknown destination.
Bumblebee responded distractedly, walking slowly and carrying the weight of an absence that consumed his soul... that of you, his distant angel.
That sudden call, like a flash of lightning ripping through the sky, broke the spell of his daydream. Bee was forced to emerge from the depths of his thoughts and return to reality. With a barely audible sigh, he reactivated the hyperactive mode he had refined over time: rebellious, instinctive, yet always well hidden behind shields of forced discipline.
Not a word betrayed the internal turmoil that agitated him. Silence was his response to his emotions. Showing no sign of slowing down, he moved toward Bulkhead with the ease of one who has never wavered. Yet, the thought of (D/n) remained there, rooted in his processor. A thought that would not abandon him, not for a single solar cycle. Regardless of the time that had passed or the infinite distances of the galaxies that separated them, the memory of that faceplate continued to shine within him like an unshakable star.
It was that faceplate —so vivid in his memory—that took him back to the solar cycles it all began: their first meeting, those fragments of time that seemed eternal. But more than anything, it was the thought of the future that inflamed his spirit. A future designed by fate, or perhaps by Primus himself, where their paths would cross again.
Bee wasn't a mad dreamer, nor did he cling vainly to illusory hopes. That wasn't it. What drove him was a deep certainty, irrational yet incredibly strong. He was convinced, with every fiber of his being, that that moment would come. Sooner or later.
Whether it was light-years apart... Devastating wars... Heartbreaking betrayals... Losses impossible to overcome... Nothing could truly break his conviction. It was engraved within him like an unshakable promise: the two of you would see each other again. When? It didn't matter. How? Not even. For Bee, the only thing that mattered was knowing that the meeting was written in the stars.
As if fate had truly heard Bumblebee's silent pleas. As if it had decided, against all odds, to oblige.
And so it happened: your meeting.
It was an ordinary day at the base, or so it seemed. Bee was returning from a reconnaissance mission with Sari. With his trademark ease, he entered the main room. And there, right in front of his optics, he found you.
You were deep in conversation with Optimus. Your posture showed serenity and concentration as you observed him intently. But Bee? He wasn't expecting to see you.
In an infinitesimal instant, everything froze for him. Pure joy exploded like a flash deep within his energetic core, a colossal relief invaded every fiber of his being—the same feeling one feels at the end of a long war. Yet, right next to the happiness, something different crept in: a sharp chill, a silent yet fierce anger directed at Optimus. Why him? Why were you giving him your undivided attention?
A slight tremor ran through Bee's left servo, uncontrollable and fleeting. He remained still, his gaze fixed on you, unable to look away as your conversation continued undisturbed. His movements were so subtle that no one seemed to notice his presence. No one, except Sari.
Without drawing too much attention, she coughed lightly to make you turn. That was when the impossible happened.
Gently, your optics moved toward the entrance. And there, before you, you recognized that little friend from long ago. Still. Identical to the last time you'd seen him. The same small, agile structure you remembered, the same clean design that exuded energy and vitality. Despite the many cycles that had passed, he didn't seem to have changed at all.
Your optics betrayed a spontaneous, sweet smile—the kind only you could offer Bee. That unique smile, full of nostalgia and sincere affection, that spoke of distant days and precious shared memories. And as you approached him with rapid steps, the sound of your pedes on the metal floor seemed to echo in Bee's sparks like celebratory drums.
Your derma… those derma he had secretly imagined and desired so many times… finally moved to form a word. His destination.
"Bee?" You called.
But it wasn't a mere call, nor the kind you'd address to a mere teammate. No, your vocalizer spoke his name as if you were seeing an unexpected mirage, as if you were chasing the ghost of a happy memory or trying to grasp a dream you'd feared lost forever.
In that moment, you too seemed to falter under the weight of your emotions. There was sweetness and uncertainty in your gaze, an unspoken story intertwined with dormant emotions finally resurfacing.
And Bumblebee? He felt something awaken inside him. For the first time in so many cycles, the tumultuous beating of his heart—whether mechanical or not—vibrated with such force that every single bolt in his structure shook.
Was all this really possible? Had fate truly managed to intertwine the separate threads of your paths?
And yet… that immense joy that had filled Bee in the first instant… that pure, tear-jerking moment of reunion… now seemed destined to vanish. The passionate smile you had immediately given him with such sincerity? Suddenly it was gone.
It was as if he had vanished into thin air, dissolved into a now-evanescent memory.
Where compassion and warmth once lived, now there was only the cold reflection of eyes that betrayed something dark. They shone with fear. Of silent horror, directed at that little mech you had loved so much, and who now seemed unrecognizable.
Bumblebee reached out to your metallic cheek with almost solemn slowness, a gesture that concealed a delicacy that seemed angelic, even if it was made of gears. But instinctively, you tried to turn away, to escape his caress. A futile reaction.
The static handcuffs on your wrists told a different story. They were a relentless obstacle, making every attempt futile. You felt imprisoned, helpless. Every movement was an enormous effort...
And him? He didn't seem to realize anything. Or maybe he did, but he chose to ignore it.
For weeks, perhaps months, he had worked to create that solitary refuge. A place invisible to others, far from everything and everyone. A place where no one would ever find you. Where no one would ever come to free you. Without communication, without contact with the outside world.
A perfect refuge? Yes. But only for him. For you, it had become a prison with few escape routes. Or perhaps none at all.
And yet, in the eerie calm of that forced silence, there was something disconcerting in his actions: a painful contrast between his distorted vision and your harrowing reality. For him, all of this was a possibility: a chance to make up for lost time. Together.
This thought seemed to comfort him as he brought his servo to your metallic cheek once more. His digits grazed the lined skin: dents here and there, scars left over from past battles. Yet, he didn't seem to care at all. He still loved that time-worn faceplate.
In his spark, a disturbing certainty resided: with time, you would yield. He would mold you to obey only him, his will. The rest of the world would no longer exist for you in that place forgotten by all.
A smile played on his sculpted derma, but it wasn't your usual smile. It didn't even remotely resemble the warm, reassuring expression that once warmed your soul. This was different: lopsided, calculating, illuminated by a new, sinister power.
Who would have ever imagined it? How could that small, docile-looking mech, the companion of so many lunch breaks spent laughing and gazing at each other, hide such a dark abyss? Where had this disturbing side of him come from? This unstable side... this dangerous side?
It was hard to believe it was Bumblebee who was there with you. Or rather, this was no longer the version of him you knew and loved. It was something distant, a distorted shadow of him. This Bumblebee had been forged by an obsession that had spiraled out of control.
And now you were the one who had to suffer the consequences.
Every caress of his had lost meaning and empathy; it was a touch as cold as the metal of the invisible bars that surrounded you. Every smile was nothing but a disguised threat: you didn't need words to understand the incisive message that shone through his gestures.
You won't run away.
Your spark was pounding in your chassis —but there was no love in that furious thumping between your ribs.
It was fear. Pure and simple fear.
The sweet, benevolent angel he remembered so nostalgically? It seemed dead now, leaving him with your faded image: an empty shell of who you once were.
Hey, may I request platonic yandere IDW Megatron with a teen techno organic child reader headcanons? So the reader is a prime alongside rodimus but! The reader had to be put into a medically induced coma or stasis(Like a Cybertronian) why? Because they got shot, badly. So the reader is stuck at age 15. I always headcannoned that IDW comics take place like 1,000 years from 2005(the canon year from G1 movie where rodimus becomes a prime..) If this makes no sense, you can skip(I’m just bored and I don’t see that many yandere writers for transformers)
SO I NOTICED YOUR REQUESTS AND I CAN SAY THEY ARE ONE MORE BEAUTIFUL THAN THE OTHER - but anyway I'm slowly making them so here's the first one for you :3
★ This is shaping up to be interesting. The first time Megatron seriously laid optics on you was after the last epic clash between the Decepticons and the Autobots. It was the day the brave Prime met his end.
★ Despite this, you weren't entirely unknown to him. He'd noticed you in the past during battles on Earth, but he'd never really taken you into consideration. In his eyes, you were nothing more than another of those common organic beings, one of the many "white-flesh" infesting that planet he considered completely irrelevant. Ew.
★ Every time he passed one, that thought resurfaced. His internal circuits quivered, as if by instinct, at the sight of your species. So fragile… so vulnerable… inextricably linked to the oxygen that nourished you, like plants incapable of living without sunlight. To the Cybertronians, beings who considered themselves superior in every way—and to a pure Decepticon like Megatron, even more so—organic organisms had only one value: providing raw energon, extracted from Earth's resources. Nothing else.
★ You were not worthy of moral esteem, nor considered intellectual in his optics. That was his judgment… at least until that day.
★ That was how he perceived you. Useless. Devoid of purpose. Too weak to deserve anything more.
★ An ephemeral race, destined to last less than a decade. A mere blink of an eye compared to the immensity of Cybertronian time.
★ For Megatron, this was an unalterable reality: organic beings deserved neither respect nor consideration. To him, they were little more than insects, crawling creatures bound to the Earth's soil.
★ Nothing—absolutely nothing—could break that conviction, forged over millennia of incessant war, lust for power, and contempt for anything not made of living metal or fueled by a pulsating spark.
★ Not even evidence. Not even direct contact. Not even the rhythmic, visceral sound of a heartbeat (that annoying, wet pum-pum) could ever shake his emotional coldness or crack his rock-solid intellectual certainty.
★ And yet, those unchanging thoughts were also his last. Until the moment he saw you in action, there, in the midst of the final clash between Decepticons and Autobots. It was a fraction of a second, but it was enough to shake everything he knew. You weren't just another insignificant organic being. You weren't mere flesh destined to perish, or a fleeting creature to be ignored. No… you were different. You moved with an unwavering determination, a clarity and courage that few young Cybertronians could have matched in your place.
★ And it was then—amid the blinding glare of the explosions and the incandescent shrapnel—that Megatron realized: you no longer belonged to the category of "pathetic humans."
★ You were something unique. Something extraordinary.
★ You were a Techno-Organic, an extraordinary creature, one of a kind. A perfect hybrid of flesh and technology, perhaps the first, perhaps the only one Megatron had ever encountered in his millennia of existence. Not a simple organic being with human limitations, but something quite different. Behind your seemingly fragile adolescent appearance lay an extraordinary strength. Your body had been enhanced by cutting-edge technologies since you were a child: strengthened muscles, neural connections optimized to react in a fraction of a second, as if you were designed rather than born. You hurtled faster than the wind and saw details no human eye could ever grasp—even amid explosions and chaos, nothing escaped you.
★ Now, imagine the scene. Megatron, the implacable Warlord, the undisputed leader of the Decepticons. The being who never trembled in the face of loss, who knew no hesitation, ready to pull the trigger to defeat Optimus Prime once and for all. And then… there was you. A seemingly insignificant figure—a human. But not just any human: you were a living bolt of lightning, a bolt consumed by rage. The pure determination in your eyes spoke of a boundless strength coursing through you.
★ Megatron watched you as you ran toward him, intent on stopping him. And it was in those few moments, when your limits already seemed beyond human, that the unthinkable happened: you began to change. It was as if your organic body were a detonation of incandescent metal, a living, pulsating eruption. Your appearance rapidly changed, transforming you into a far larger and incredibly advanced form: pure mechanical power mixed with human vitality.
★ Megatron's reaction was priceless, beyond anything anyone could have imagined. The unyielding tyrant who had faced countless battles without ever flinching… stood still, frozen in an unreal moment. His red optics widened beyond all limits, an instinctive reflection of his deepest wonder. His stiff derma opened slightly, almost imperceptibly. It wasn't fear that had gripped him, nor awareness of imminent danger. What he saw astonished him in the purest and most raw way. It was dismay mixed with admiration.
★ It was in that moment that his unhealthy obsession came to life. It wasn't triggered by a specific event, nor by a word. It was a simple look that triggered everything. Your gaze—burning, imbued with hatred and protectiveness—directed directly on him. Only on him. As if, in that infinite battlefield, you could see only Megatron.
★ And then, the attack. Violent, desperate, yet innately precise. You struck not to destroy him, but to keep him away from Optimus. To protect the Prime's wounded structure. To defend him, when it was already too late.
★ In that moment, it seemed as if time itself had cracked. Your gaze—full of fury, courage, immune to fear—didn't just strike him externally. It pierced him. It reminded him of something, someone. Himself, in a now distant past. Before the war. Before he ascended the throne. Before the absurd madness of total power consumed him.
★ Megatron had been a gladiator on Kaon: strong, brutal, but driven by a pure cause, even if he would never admit it openly. A rebel who opposed Cybertron's corrupt society, with the same sacred ardor in his optics he now saw in yours.
★ It was fate. Megatron had no doubts. You didn't belong with the Autobots, you weren't one of them, you weren't one of the "good guys," much less a "hero." You were a Decepticon. Born to be one, even if you weren't aware of it yet, destined to inherit his cause, willingly or not.
★ Megatron sensed it in his plates: in you resided the essence of the pure rebel, the fearless warrior, as he himself had once been on Kaon. It was only a matter of time, it would happen. Whether or not you fought against this destiny, nothing would change.
★ Megatron was not, nor had he ever been, a sire. Cybertron itself did not contemplate the idea of "organic fatherhood." Sparks could be considered heirs or descendants, but that instinctive bond he felt… that was something different. He wasn't made of Energon. It was something older, more visceral.
★ He saw you as his child, though he would never admit it, not even to himself. Yet, every time his optics rested on you, he felt an impulse rise within him: pure protection. The desire to guide you. To shape your fury into something extraordinary.
★ Perhaps he would be your mentor. Not just to teach you how to fight better or develop more effective war strategies. No, it wouldn't be just that. Megatron would introduce you to the art of terror. He would show you how to make your enemies tremble before they even saw you. How to dominate a room with your presence alone, letting the silence chill their Energon. How to make your name a threat so fearsome that even the innocent would shudder at the mere thought of speaking it.
★ Every time his thoughts turned to you, a smile would appear on his derma. Small, crooked, perhaps even sickly, but undeniably sincere. He himself was searching for a successor, someone worthy of carrying on his legacy and carrying on the Decepticon banner. If, after all, he himself would ever find an end. Yet, even if that future remained only a distant possibility, one thing was certain: he would keep you by his side.
★ He would protect you with the ferocity of a warrior defending his heir. He would pour into you everything he had to offer: resources, training, power. For anyone who dared threaten you, the price would be high—perhaps an arm less, or even two. Not as a warning, but as a painful punishment, a tribute for daring to touch what would take his place. Because yes, you were theirs, not by your own will, but by his inviolable conviction, rooted deep within his spark. He would shape you with care and discipline, like a craftsman with clay; not with aimless violence, but with rigor and his ideals as implacable as steel. He would open your eyes to what he called the truth: the Decepticon cause, the path of courage and rebellion against the false promise of an illusory peace.
★ A thousand years had passed since the end of the last great war between the Autobots and the Decepticons. Since the fall of Optimus Prime. Since the birth of Rodimus Prime, the young Hot Rod reborn with a name and responsibility. The centuries have changed Cybertron: the planet, wounded but resilient, now attempts to rise from its ashes. Fragile and hesitant, it gropes for a lasting peace. Earth has become a distant memory. New generations of mechs have joined the Autobots: young idealists or redeemed old Decepticons who have chosen a new path.
★ And you? You too have changed. You became a Prime alongside Rodimus. But not by chance or luck. The Leadership Matrix itself had chosen you.
★ Rodimus wasn't thrilled. Not that he hated you, nor that he distrusted you as a person. But… a Prime? In his opinion, you were young, too young. Too emotional, too idealistic… and, above all, not ready.
★ Bad luck seemed to be raging against the Lost Light, but in a unique way… against you. What had happened? Nothing extraordinary, at least on the surface. During one of your usual missions, everything seemed to be going smoothly, until Rodimus—too impetuous for his own good—found himself in the path of an attack. An instant, not even a heartbeat. You didn't think twice: you threw yourself in front of the beam to protect him.
★ There was no room for calculations or orders. Only pure instinct: to sacrifice yourself to save Rodimus. And it was an extraordinary gesture. But also the biggest mistake of your life. Why?
★ The impact severely damaged a crucial part of your central processor, compromising not only your motor and cognitive functions, but also endangering the stability of your Spark. You didn't die. No. It was much worse.
★ You were enveloped in a deep stasis. And Rodimus…he saw everything. He lived the exact moment your structure collapsed, unresponsive. He never stopped tormenting himself for what he considered his failure. Because you were alive, yes… but unreachable. Trapped in eternal silence. Every single day, without exception, he visited the medical stasis room where you lay.
★ Your alternate form rested motionless, protected by the cryogenic field. He remained there, beside you, silent and immutable, like a solitary guardian. He continued to watch over you, hoping, waiting for that long-awaited moment: for your optics to slowly rekindle, and for you to finally tear your gaze from the darkness to meet his again.
★ Because you weren't just a traveling companion. You were like a little brother to him: the brave young soldier who'd given everything without a moment's hesitation.
★ That day, Rodimus vowed something to himself: Never again. Never again would anything like this happen to you, as soon as you emerged from stasis.
★ The hardest part? It wasn't just the medical stasis. It was what happened next.
★ When you entered deep stasis, your system activated extreme conservation mode—exactly as emergency protocol dictated for significant processor damage. But something… went wrong.Time stopped for you. Completely. Completely frozen.
★ Not in the normal way: the way a Cybertronian slowly evolves through solar cycles or experiences, accumulating wisdom over the years… No. For you, it was different: you were stuck at a precise physical and energetic age, the exact moment you entered the Lost Light's cryogenic pod.
★ And now…What if you had emerged from stasis after months? Years? Decades? You would have remained the same, mentally and physically, as you were on the day of the accident.
★ Another unexpected event shook life aboard the Lost Light: the arrival of Megatron. The reactions were immediate and intense. When the name echoed through the official announcements—"The Supreme Leader will join our crew"—it was as if an earthquake had rippled through the heart of the starship. Silence. Only incredulous looks. Some couldn't even trust their own optics. For centuries, for generations, that name had been synonymous with terror on Cybertron: the tyrant, the destroyer, the murderer who had reduced entire cities to dust during the Civil War. And now, he himself was preparing to set foot on the Autobots' most secure mobile base, without any fanfare, as if it were a routine occurrence. Nonsense.
★ The news sparked heated debates everywhere: in the ship's corridors, in the soldiers' mess hall, even among the most experienced commanders, heated arguments erupted. Although it was a legally correct and politically justifiable choice—the peace treaty signed by Ultra Magnus himself and the Interstellar Supreme Court guaranteed his safety—it was a moral and emotional blow to swallow. Welcoming him as a normal passenger seemed unbearable. Yet, slowly and with great difficulty, the crew of the Lost Light had to come to terms with the inevitable. There was no joyful or peaceful acceptance; rather, it was rigid tolerance, enforced by the sense of justice that permeated every corner of the ship, a place founded on forgiveness and pacifist principles.
★ It wasn't long before Megatron learned of your presence aboard. At first, he was unaware, as no one had thought to inform him. He was certainly not the type to be interested in the crew's personal details, much less those concerning seemingly irrelevant figures like a "young bot" in deep stasis. Chance intervened. During one of his rare walks through the main corridors, he overheard a conversation between two medical technicians: "…the bot in deep stasis… pure techno-organic… hasn't shown any signs of recovery for months…"
★ Those words didn't disappear into thin air. They struck something deep within him, reawakening a buried emotion that flared violently and unexpectedly like a flash of lightning in his chassis. Megatron couldn't quite pinpoint what he was feeling. It was fair to say he'd almost completely forgotten about you, but suddenly those words—that fleeting echo—resonated in the recesses of his memory like a fragment of a lost time. The feeling was too strong to ignore. Soon, curiosity overtook him, but not the cold curiosity tied to the pragmatism of war. It was something more human, genuine: a sincere desire to know if you were really you. He didn't wait for opinions or authorizations. He didn't inform Ultra Magnus or ask for official permission. With a determination unexpected and inexplicable even to himself, he decided to see you in person.
★ The first time he saw you… in a coma. He didn't make a sound. He didn't move a muscle. He was motionless, a stone figure, his optics glued to your silent structure, encased in the cryogenic pod of the advanced medical room.
★ On the outside, he was impassive. But on the inside? Inside, hell burned. Every fiber of his being—every circuit—throbbed with an unstoppable fury against whoever had reduced you to that state. Every impulse screamed for vengeance, a dull wail hidden beneath his cold armor.
★ The pain was so sharp he felt it in his spark, that vital spark that glowed in the center of his chassis. With every artificial breath you took, its light seemed to dim. It was the raw, excruciating pain of someone realizing they've failed to protect the one they cared about the most in the world.
★ He knew what would happen if he let the fire burning in his heart explode: they would drive him away from the Lost Light forever. And so he would lose you too. Silence. Emptiness. Strategy. He bottled up his anger, gritted his denta, and stayed there. He remained silent so as not to lose even a single day beside you.
★ Each time, he returned to the medical room to sit next to your capsule, in a watchful silence filled with repressed feelings. He watched you there, imprisoned by that unnatural darkness, while time around him seemed suspended. And he waited patiently for a sign. A spontaneous breath. A spark of awakening. Anything that would restore the sense of hope he refused to let go.
★ Your dull optics…imprinted an indelible memory on his processor. He would wait, as long as it took, until you awakened. No one dared approach you. Not even the most benevolent. Anyone who set pedes in the stasis room for even a glance… was immediately met with his chill. A hard stare, accompanied by a low, menacing growl. Two mechs were repelled without hesitation. At that, Magnus issued a warning: "You cannot prevent others from seeing them." The order wore him down, but respecting it was inevitable. Yet, deep down, Megatron neither forgot nor forgave.
★ If anyone were foolish enough to touch you… they would be eliminated without mercy. His vengeance would be swift and lethal: he would tear out the enemy's spark without hesitation or remorse. To him, any action would be justified. Whoever dared to violate your space was already marked. To Megatron, you were more than just a life to protect. You were like a child. Not by energon, but by spark. And in Megatron's optics, that bond transcended all lineage. He would move galaxies if necessary. He would trample deserters without a second thought. He would give you everything his power allowed him to offer… because he wanted only the best for you, every drop of perfection in that vast and cruel universe.
★ No act was too small or too immense for him: moving planets? If it had to, he would have done it without hesitation. But never—never—would he do anything that would terrify you or drive you away from him. He only wanted you close… forever. Megatron knew the weight of his past. He was painfully aware of the wreckage he'd left behind, how many lives he'd shattered, and how responsible he'd been for their destruction. But now all that didn't matter not in the way it should have before. Now he had only one goal: to make amends. He longed for you to see him with new optics, free of fear, filled instead with affection. With admiration, even respect.
★ He had to show himself differently in your optics: an example, a father worthy of being followed, even if he had to impose himself by force to achieve that. Because deep down, he longed for acceptance as much as he longed for redemption. Every day, Megatron returned to you with small gestures, invisible to many but deeply meaningful to him. He brought you energon, sat beside your pod, and spoke to you, whispering sweet words when no one was listening, like promises made secretly to the wind.
★ And when duty demanded, he didn't turn away: he filled out paperwork at your pedes, while his optics continued to rest on your still, silent structure. Even though no answer ever came from your half-open derma, he never stopped talking; his vocalizer filled that empty space, day after day. At times… when silence enveloped everything and no one was watching… he barely resisted. His optics would water, and silent tears would chip away at the image of a ruthless tyrant. But he never allowed weakness to show itself in front of others. Anyone who suspected anything might even consider him crazy: no outside opinion would undermine his sole moral imperative. Inside, he knew it well: all this pain could have been avoided.
★ It had been a thousand years ago. Since then, he had never completely forgotten you… not even when everything in his life had changed.
★ And here he was now, standing before you: Megatron, the former leader of the Decepticons…converted to peace out of necessity… transformed into the silent protector of your body, asleep in advanced medical stasis aboard the Lost Light.
★ He had become deeply attached to you; a protectiveness taken to excess; prey to an absolutely unstoppable inner urge. No one would dare touch you or harm you as long as he was present.
★ And if anyone dared try? Megatron would crush them to dust. It didn't matter who they were.Autobot, Decepticon, civilian, or commander. There was no authority—not even Ultra Magnus—that could stop him when it came to you. He had become your guardian.
So loves, tomorrow the request I'm working on will obviously be released, and obviously I'm also starting to work on the tarn special, and to put the icing on the cake now this blog will also be Metal Cardbot themed, since I started watching the show and it is absolutely spectacular!!
-Little by little, all the requests you're sending me will come out, always happy to be able to satisfy your ideas! And I love all these requests, each one prettier than the other.
hii!! I love your writing so much and i cant just go without leaving a request here😭 so i had an idea for Armada!Starscream x GN!Seeker !reader?
Both of them working out the next step of their mission for Megatron but while working Starscream decides to pull the reader onto his lap😭. Reader trying to wriggle free from his grasp but just giving up after realizing the chance he will let them go is just absolute zero percent.
Also again i love your writing!!
Probably after posting this Fanfiction I'll go and read some stories about Starscream 😭 — But anyway It's soo sad that Armada is not so much let's say calculated as a series it's very nice and the character designs are all very nice (Hot Shot I'm talking about you too-) — (obviously this is fluff)
Lay All Your Love On Me.
Starscream x Gn! Seeker! Reader!
Tw: ///
Length: 6.8k
The rhythmic sound of heavy, metallic footsteps echoed through the empty corridors of the temporary Decepticon base, hidden on the surface of the Moon. The atmosphere was oppressive, the air thin and the artificial lighting casting bluish shadows on the cold steel walls. (D/n), swift and stealthy when they chose, was returning from one of their regular reconnaissance missions to Earth.
The information gathered did not promise any great revelations: it was simply approximate coordinates for possible unexplored deposits of raw energon. It was common knowledge between the two factions that Earth was one of the richest planets in the system when it came to this precious crystalline energy. However, the most accessible deposits were either exhausted or heavily guarded by the Autobots, protected by sophisticated automated defense systems.
The mission had been assigned directly by Megatron: a single soldier would minimize the risk of attracting attention or setting off unwanted alarms. No open conflict or sudden clashes, no interference that could alter the fate already decided.
With a quick shift of his shoulders, an instinctive, almost human gesture, (D/n) seemed to want to rid himself of all the fatigue accumulated during the long interplanetary journey. Without further ado, they quickened their pace. Their magnetic feet thumped rhythmically on the metal floor, marking their march toward their next task.
They was headed for the bridge, even though that hadn't been the initial plan. The temptation to stop in their bunk had crossed their processor: rest for a few cycles, remove his dusty gear, and finally, take his time with his reports. However, the course of events had taken a different turn. Megatron had called them urgently via communicator. There was no room for contradictions or delays.
As they approached the heart of the operations center, a sudden red signal lit up in their helmet visor, pulsing like a warning. No formal message. No explanation. Only that urgent call that ran through their circuits like a chill, despite their accustomed nature to the rigidity of their faction.
Anxiety began to creep in, snaking through their joints like a cold current. But (D/n) remained steadfast, wearing the neutral, determined expression their brothers knew so well. No one would have glimpsed the slightest hesitation or uncertainty as they continued toward the chamber, feeling the heavy tension that hung like an invisible storm—a reflection of Megatron's presence.
The first contact with his leader had been abrupt, sharp, and menacing, like a rifle shot. The communication, barely a breath in the digital ether, had lasted long enough to issue a single order: "Come to the bridge immediately. Don't waste my time." Megatron's vocalizer, inhuman and icy, was capable of instilling terror even in the highest ranks. No formality, no opportunity to reply. The transmission ended abruptly, ending with unprecedented violence.
(D/n) remained frozen for an infinite fraction of a second. With their structure still facing their now unreachable bunk and their (O/C) optical sensors lost in the void of the deserted corridor, they felt an internal rift between what they desired and what was imposed on them. Then they sprang forward, abruptly reversing course and heading toward the bridge with a determined stride but a heart filled with doubt.
A silent storm reigned within them. Why them? Of all his companions, why had Megatron chosen them? They was certainly not an illustrious commander, nor a brilliant strategist, nor someone the fearsome leader recognized as having any particular ability. They was simply one of many, someone who followed orders without ever drawing attention to himself. Being up there was no honor for them. Quite the opposite: answering the call simply meant saving theyr life for another cycles.
Refusing? Unthinkable. Disobedience would have been certain doom. And so he marched on, dragging the weight of uncertainty and the shadow of dismay toward an unknown fate.
(D/n) slowly advanced toward the bridge, a whirlwind of thoughts silently swirling in their processor. They had never been a warrior by choice. They had never believed in the great "destiny" of war, nor in the grandiose ideals of Megatron or the Decepticons.
If they had had a choice, if life had offered him an alternative, perhaps they would have stayed on Cybertron before everything went to pieces. Or they would have taken a civilian ship vorns ago, heading for a distant planet, safe from the conflict, where energon was abundant and peace could be enjoyed in tranquil solitude.
In that distant place, they would have found serenity: without imposed orders, without false recognitions. No battles in which he would lose their comrades, no betrayals between allies who suddenly turned into enemies.
But things had taken a different turn. They had joined the Decepticons to follow his old friends, those with whom he had shared his childhood in the working-class neighborhoods of Kaon City. Saying "no" had never been an option; it would have meant appearing weak, a coward. And besides, who would protect them? Who would have their back when the conflict erupted?
Over time, the war had taken those familiar faces. Some had fallen on the battlefield, others had deserted, choosing to join the Autobots or retreat and become neutral. Some had disappeared without a trace, and their silence weighed like a final loss.
But there was one thought that (D/n) had always tried to banish, yet it remained embedded in the core of their nervous system: what if Megatron, exhausted by perpetual uncertainty, one day decided to purge the faction of those who didn't fully embody the cause? What would happen to them if it were discovered that they wore the Decepticon armor not out of conviction, but out of resigned survival?
It was a common secret among the adepts: the Warlord had no patience for the weak or the hesitant.
Faced with this knowledge, most of his comrades preferred to face the sacrifice in the flames of combat, with a modicum of dignity, rather than risk being dismantled in the silence of oblivion. It was better to die on the battlefield than to be eliminated in the shadows, deemed "superfluous."
(D/n) knew that fate likely wouldn't be spared them. However, there was a subtle reassurance: as a Seeker—an elite within the Decepticon ranks—they had earned a special status. Perhaps this was enough to guarantee them a modicum of protection… at least for now.
With the exception of Starscream—the Commander of the Air, the elite of the Seekers, a lethal pilot possessing extraordinary skill and fierce pride—he was simultaneously the primary target of Megatron's cruelest humiliations. For no apparent reason. It seemed to happen simply because he could.
There was no praise for him when he completed a mission or won a battle, only scathing criticism for the slightest mistake or when he lost. No recognition, only curt orders and reprimands in front of everyone. And if something went wrong? It was always Starscream who paid the price.
The Seeker's pride crumbled slowly, but silently. He dared not rebel openly, nor did he give in to pleas or tears that might betray his fragility. Instead, he endured everything with ostentatious dignity, his jaw clenched and his eyes blankly staring into nothingness, while Megatron continued to treat him like a disposable instrument.
At times, (D/n) couldn't help but feel sorry for him. No one should suffer such abrasive treatment, such systematic humiliation. Even the arrogant and unscrupulous have their moral limits, limits that this sadism far exceeded.
But loyalty didn't matter to Megatron. His only goal was results: concrete numbers, victories traceable in strategic reports, accumulated resources, objectives accomplished. Anything that would support the grand design of his domination.
In this context, (D/n) was just another statistic: relevant as long as it was useful, irrelevant if it failed or became insignificant.
Proceeding down one of the many corridors leading to the bridge, (D/n) movements were measured, their posture careful and rigorously composed. The (O/C) optics scanned the room without real interest, capturing now-familiar images of colleagues absorbed in their datapads or technicians focused on repairing damaged equipment. No one greeted them; Nor did he bother to linger on their faces any longer than necessary. It was an unwritten rule among the ranks: if they don't speak to you first, ignore them as if they were intangible shadows.
They had walked down that corridor many times: hundreds? Thousands? The doors lined up identically on either side—dark gray metal illuminated by faint, flashing blue lights—outlining a veritable, armored, soulless labyrinth, perhaps designed to disorient novices or intruders.
And how many embarrassing moments had been consummated right there…
You couldn't help it if every room looked identical, as if the design sought to stifle any trace of personality. The ceiling was smooth metal, the floor composed of gray magnetic plates, the walls bare and illuminated by a cold glow of blue lights. Only small details betrayed a different function.
After countless mistakes—incorrect doors accidentally opened, forays into restricted areas, and moments of pure bewilderment, like a malfunctioning drone—(D/n) had memorized every inch of this lunar labyrinth. Their orientation was now infallible.
And now they arrived at the massive doors of the bridge. They were imposing barricades of heavy alloy, coated in the gleaming chrome of the Decepticons and protected by a forceful seal that opened only for authorized personnel. As they approached, a beam of light automatically scanned your identity. As soon as the system recognized it, a subtle click signaled permission to enter.
An involuntary sigh escaped their derma as they became aware of the tension that, without realizing it, was tightening their internal circuits. Even the mechanical servos in their structure seemed to vibrate under the weight of anxiety, a spontaneous reaction to the rapid, nervous walk that had brought them here.
They couldn't afford to appear fragile, indecisive, or worse, incompetent. It was a state Megatron could not tolerate, especially in the midst of a face-to-face meeting. The mere thought of appearing hesitant or awkward in front of his leader was almost paralyzing. A trembling, unsure Seeker? That would only draw Megatron's icy wrath and his own undisguised derision.
(D/n) metallic wings responded to their uneasiness as if they were a direct extension of his emotional state. Among Seekers, lowered, trembling wings were unmistakable signals: fear, yes, but also submissive recognition of absolute authority. It was a body language capable of betraying unspoken truths, comprehensible only to the expert optics of those who shared the same anatomy.
The doors swung open with a hydraulic hiss that seemed to accentuate the weight of the surrounding atmosphere. Inside the bridge, an almost oppressive silence reigned, broken only by the subtle hums of the monitors and the faint metallic sounds of the machinery in action.
Megatron was there, a monolith of his infinite presence. He sat on his throne—it was black metal decorated with Decepticon symbols that emanated a faint glow. His figure was a condensed image of glacial authority: perfectly erect, hands clasped over the cold, polished surface of his domain.
No unnecessary movements. No visible signs of emotion on his flawless faceplate. Megatron observed and, as always, let the silence speak for him, more eloquent than any words.
In front of him, Starscream.
The Commander of the Air.
The wings, proud and impeccably aligned behind him, almost as if to emphasize his authoritative bearing. The perfect structure, without imperfections, and that neutral yet tense expression—as if he had just faced a verbal confrontation or received cutting criticism.
Starscream, in response to the sound of the doors opening, signaling the entrance of a new figure, couldn't help but twist his helmet abruptly, aiming his sharp red optics straight at (D/n) as soon as the sound of footsteps broke the silence. No hint of a smile, no wave. Just that familiar expression: a mix of suppressed irritation and subtle contempt, reserved for anyone… but especially so-called "inferior" Decepticons like himself.
He himself was accustomed to commanding the spotlight when it came to carrying out superior orders. Now, however, another figure had materialized without warning, upsetting that balance.
You, a small seeker of secondary importance.
He didn't know you, or rather, perhaps he'd noticed you fleetingly during some ceremony or operational meeting. But to Starscream, ultimately, it mattered very little.
It took him a few moments to label someone: useful or useless. And in this case? Definitely useless.
In response, (D/n) felt a knot tighten in their metallic stomach.
They couldn't explain Starscream's presence, nor understand the reason for Megatron's unusual summoning.
The answers, however, were not long in coming.
Megatron's vocalizer rose in the air, sharp and without hesitation:
"I've gathered you for a specific task."
The voice echoed in the austere, silent room.
No unnecessary introductions.
No formalities.
A shiver ran down D/n's metal spine. It wasn't fear, but a cold, sudden realization, sparked by that short sentence.
They'd been called for teamwork.
But that wasn't the worst part.
Absolutely not, the worst part was with whom:
With Starscream.
With the Aria Commander.
The proudest, most arrogant, and most competitive Seeker in the Decepticon fleet.
And you'd been promptly notified when your turn would come, as the rumors circulating about him weren't at all reassuring:
Collaborating with Starscream meant facing an impenetrable wall of oversized ego, fueled by competitive jealousy bordering on obsession and an eternal need to prove one's superiority, even when hierarchy had no real weight. There was never room for negotiation: he demanded command as if it were an innate right. When missions involved separate but somehow related tasks, it was almost a given that he would find a way to grab the best part—the most prestigious or strategically relevant one, regardless of who was theoretically better qualified to carry it out.
And if things didn't go according to plan? Well, that was obvious. The responsibility inevitably fell on the other. His ability to find a scapegoat was matched only by his arrogance.
After sharing a mission with him, many came to the same grotesque conclusion: even being captured by the Autobots and subjected to physical torment seemed preferable to the psychological and emotional torture of having to collaborate with that unbearable personality trait. Even suffering punishment from Megatron, however sadistic and merciless, seemed less draining than working alongside Starscream.
And yet, no amount of criticism or gossip could truly do justice to the frustration of being around him. Only those who had experienced it, those who had the courage (or misfortune) to team up with Starscream, could fully understand the essence of his difficult character.
Meanwhile, the warlord's crimson optics scanned the environment like relentless danger sensors, until he began alternating his gaze between you and Starscream. There was no room for doubt: he demanded your full attention, zero distractions.
You immediately perked up. No hesitation, no visible sign of hesitation. Just a studied calm as you returned your attention to the Leader. (As if you hadn't been internally freaking out just a few clicks ago.)
His words came through clearly, cutting like razor-sharp blades.
"I won't repeat it: the two of you will organize the operation to track down and recover the missing Mini-Cons."
A moment of tense silence followed.
"I don't care how hidden they are or how zealous the Autobots are in protecting them. I want them under my control. And above all, I want them intact."
Starscream, always ready to don a hypocritical mask and insert himself with feigned devotion, leaned into an excessive display of respect.
"Certainly, Lord Megatron," he replied in a mellifluous voice. "A mission that deserves the utmost of our skill. I will personally ensure the plan is flawless—the Mini-Cons will have no chance."
His words dripped with lies. Deep down, he was already relishing the opportunity to carry out this task entirely alone, eager to collect praise and glory in the eyes of your leader.
What a presumptuous opportunist. A sycophant steeped in envy and deceit.
You felt an uncontrollable surge of annoyance within you, but you quickly suppressed it. This was not the time to fuel unnecessary conflict with the Second-in-Command.
With icy discipline, as per Decepticon protocol, you offered your response to Megatron.
"Orders received, Sir."
A stiff nod. Dry, devoid of emotion. No nods of approval or unnecessary words. Only the cold obedience that represented the ideal Megatron seemed to value above all else, especially compared to Starscream's unctuous affectations.
He, still kneeling in his servile pose, shot you a fixed gaze, filled with icy hostility. It was like a venomous snort of profound contempt, directed unmistakably at you.
He remained silent.
Yet that look spoke for itself—more eloquent than a thousand accusations unspoken.
The clicks ticked by, and you tried to remain impassive. You wanted to resist the silent provocation, to find a respite from the tension, but it was all in vain. In an instant, you gave in. You returned his gaze, but yours lacked intensity. The light in your optics was dull, weak, consumed like a candle on the verge of going out. It was only an instant: barely two clicks in which your optics touched.
Then the noise shattered that moment.
A single, lightning-fast movement of Megatron's metal leg shattered the silence with a crash. His pedes struck the floor with the force of thunder trapped in a sealed room. Brief, brutal, and full of meaning.
The sound reverberated like an ancient warning. The blow reverberated through the air like a slap to the very laws of suspension: time seemed to stop flowing. It shook you to the core, making every fiber of your chassis tremble. Your sensors instinctively zeroed in on him, barely registering the crack in the metal beneath his massive foot.
The floor groaned under the colossal pressure.
Megatron didn't scream. He didn't need to.
That gesture was already more deafening than a thousand shouts. It was as if the room itself understood him: every component of the ship seemed to tilt under his absolute command. A miniature earthquake, a declaration that left no room for doubt: 'I'm in charge here.'
Your and Starscream's optics focused on him in unison, frightened and tense. No one in that room dared breathe, no one dared move even the smallest gear in his structure.
The atmosphere was overwhelming, as if the oxygen had been sucked away, leaving only fear.
Then he spoke.
"Enough."
A single word. Two dry syllables that fell as heavily as the stroke of his pedal. Sharper and more piercing than any energy blade.
It was an indisputable verdict. A sentence that brooked no objection or appeal.
In a voice that echoed like a warning of past convictions, Megatron pronounced:
"You have twenty cycles to complete the strategy and locate the Mini-Cons."
And without waiting for a response, he added with a calm that crept like icy poison:
"Failure will mean your removal from command… or something… far worse."
The last words came slowly from his derma.
You both felt them: Starscream and yourself. Words that seemed to have physical weight, like blades embedded in the fabric of your being. They struck you directly at your most vulnerable point, leaving you cold, perhaps already defeated.
And without even allowing you a moment to reflect or regain some sense of dignity, Megatron barely moved the servo. A sharp nod toward the door, yet it carried the force of an imperious command:
"Out."
No formality. No concessions to empty rituals or polite farewells. Just that single word.
You walked away in silence, carrying with you the heavy echo of his threat. The message was clear: failure would not be tolerated. And now… you had to act.
The door slammed shut with a pneumatic hiss, plunging the Nemesis corridor into an unnatural silence. Artificial lights, reflecting off the smooth metal surfaces, cast sharp shadows that cut through the space like invisible blades.
Starscream, tall and sinuous in his black and red armor, whirled with lethal precision. His optics, now narrowed to crimson slits, exuded pure contempt.
"You."
The word fell heavily, like a drop of acid.
Without pleasantries.
Stripped of any formality.
Without hesitation, he pointed the digits of his left servo at the Decepticon crest on the other seeker's chassis, a gesture deliberately excessive but laced with venomous disdain. He positioned himself strategically in the center of his interlocutor's field of vision, imposing himself with a physical presence that seemed to force anyone to confront them with a subtle sense of inferiority, at least psychologically.
(There was no real imminent threat… but Starscream had always enjoyed intimidation for its own sake almost as much as the thrill of war. Every opportunity was good to erode the mental stability of his opponents, fragment by fragment.)
Starscream's expression darkened further, as if someone had activated a hidden device capable of unleashing his deepest rage. His "eyebrows"—thin, moving lines of steel embedded in the details of his faceplate—raised, exuding pure disgust.
His dentas clenched almost imperceptibly. A small tic, an involuntary and revealing gesture, known only to those who had known him for a long time: the great Starscream was visibly irritated.
And all because of that bot in front of him—(D/n)—who stubbornly refused to look away.
No one dared confront him openly like that.
No one dared speak to him without cowering or fearing him.
Until now.
"You even try to get in my way of doing this…"
Every word tumbled from his derma with icy precision, his sharp tone rising to express the fierce rage boiling within him. It was the unmistakable timbre of a mech on the verge of a fatal reaction: cold and deadly like a laser beam before striking.
Starscream advanced with a resolute, heavy stride, and the clang of metal against the ground echoed like a foreboding threat. But it wasn't just his physical presence that dominated the scene: his entire aura was an oppressive concentration of superiority, like a dome of compressed energy ready to crush anyone who dared challenge him.
(D/n) instinctively took a step back.
Just one.
Starscream continued, speaking in a gravelly voice laced with menace.
"And I swear on my own spark…"
His optics, thin red slits like open wounds, never left (D/n) for a moment.
A fixed gaze.
Pure.
Total.
(D/n) tried desperately to maintain that optic contact, but the details betrayed them: their artificial eyelids blinked slower than normal, a micro-tremor barely shaking the frames of their optics… imperceptible yet unmistakable signs that cracked that facade of impeccable strength.
No fear… yes, perhaps.
Tension? Without a doubt.
And that subtle gap between ostentatious courage and barely disguised fragility?
Clear.
Terribly evident.
Starscream savored it all.
Nothing was more delicious to his senses: the pride beginning to falter under the mounting weight of emotions; that poignant contrast between pride and weakness that ignited a perverse satisfaction in the Seeker.
Suppressing a smirk of pure complacency was almost an exercise of willpower for him—the smile, that sinister, mischievous grin, was already creeping across his metallic features. But it was his optics that gave everything away: red, incandescent like burning coals, they reflected the cruel anticipation of someone who knows he's in total control.
"I'll make you regret it…"
He moved forward.
Slowly.
Step by step, he gained ground, pushing (D/n) against the cold metal of the corridor wall. The contact with the rigid steel strained the other's thin mechanical wings, causing them to tremble almost imperceptibly, transmitting every vibration to the deepest layers of his sensory structure.
Starscream hadn't missed a single detail: the slight creaking of his joints under strain, the involuntary reaction to the cold… even the quick glance (D/n) had cast toward the two openings on the sides, possible escape routes, placed there like a mirage.
But Starscream was leaving no escape.
It was already too late.
Before (D/n) could even dream of moving in any direction, Starscream's right servo snapped like lightning. Precise, fast, inexorable. A metallic clang echoed briefly in the confined space as the commander's fist landed just beside (D/n) helm. It wasn't a destructive blow; there was no absolute violence, just the threat implicit in the calculated force of the gesture, enough to obliterate any possibility of reaction.
End of the race.
(D/n) was trapped. His back pressed against the metal wall, his wings slightly bent due to the narrow space. And Starscream? He was there… so close their frames almost touched.
Closer.
More closer.
Until there was only a thin layer of air between them, heavy with static, vibrating with tension.
With calculated slowness, Starscream lowered his chin and tilted his helm to the side. He seemed to want to kiss them… approaching (D/n) derma with an inappropriate intimacy… But no.
Starscream lowered his faceplate with calculated slowness, tilting his helm in an elegant, almost theatrical motion. It seemed like the gesture of a lover preparing for a kiss, not that of a predator poised to destroy. But the illusion shattered the moment he uttered his first words.
"I am your second in command..."
His vocalizer was low, but sharp enough to make the metal plates of the floor resonate beneath them.
No trace of tenderness, no hint of feeling. Just pure dominance.
And that closeness… that imposing body rising so high it almost touched (D/n) was a carefully crafted performance. Every gesture, every look whispered the same threat: you cannot escape me.
To the casual observer, it might have seemed intimate, perhaps even romantic. Two Cybertronians so close together in a confined space, their heads tilted toward each other, almost as if they were exchanging whispered confidences… or, more embarrassingly, on the verge of kissing.
If a Decepticon soldier or someone from the Trine had witnessed that scene, their processor would have been assailed by doubts and inappropriate questions.
But no one could have grasped the truth.
There was no tenderness, no loving gesture; everything was designed to be a raw psychological pressure—disguised as mere physical proximity.
And then there was the smell.
A detail that would slightly infiltrate (D/n) processor, already overheated by the situation. The scent Starscream exuded from his internal chassis was powerful and unmistakable—a sophisticated blend of refined energy and metal nourished by the purest oils.
A combination that confused the olfactory sensors and sapped any remaining clarity.
Starscream sensed everything.
The effect of his structure on (D/n) structure was evident: the hesitation in their optics, the unsteadiness of his reasoning, the subtle vertigo caused by the dominant scent. And he, with the mastery of a consummate manipulator, exploited the situation without hesitation.
Never looking away, his optics fixed on (D/n) fearful but indomitable ones, he spoke with icy calm:
"And you will comply-
In everything I command you during this mission."
There was no implicit choice. No interrogative inflection, no room for debate. Each syllable flowed with the heaviness of an irrevocable decree, the unquestionable will of the second-in-command.
Then he fell silent.
He waited.
He waited for what he knew would come. And right on time, it came.
Slightly, almost imperceptibly, (D/n) helm inclined in assent. A barely perceptible nod, a silent surrender to Starscream's absolute will.
A small gesture.
To Starscream, however, it was an insignificant gesture.
Superficial.
Deeply unsatisfying.
Starscream advanced another few millimeters.
Just the slightest movement, almost imperceptible… but it was enough.
(D/n) felt as if the wall had swallowed them whole. There was no more space—neither physical nor mental. Every fiber of his robotic body reacted to the increasing pressure: the artificial heat radiating from Starscream's chassis, that intake—a perfect emulation of human breathing—that crashed against his faceplate like a shockwave.
The Seeker's crimson optics scanned every tiny reaction on the other's faceplate with obsessive precision: the tension in the artificial lines of his jaw, the barely perceptible vibrations in his nervous system, minutely analyzed…
"Words, soldier."
(D/n) vocalizer came—finally. Trembling, reduced to a thin, unstable thread, distorted by the vocal system: "Y-Yes, Commander."
He spoke for the first time since Starscream had pinned them against the wall. Their surrender wasn't just verbal: it was physical, emotional, visible in every tense nerve and every nuance of insecurity that leaked from their vocalizer.
Starscream savored that lost, uncertain 'yes, commander' that forced respect laced with nervousness… and, for a fraction of a second—as brief as a circuit fuse—something inside him snapped.
No one gave up so easily on him. Not even the lowest subordinates in the chain of command dared stammer so miserably in the presence of him.
And yet, (D/n) had just done it.
Fascinating? No.
Of little use in the long run… but in that precise moment? Extremely satisfying.
Especially since his opponent's optics continued to wander elsewhere, shy, as if searching for a nonexistent escape route.
With a faint metallic hum—the sounds of his joints adjusting and the servomotors redefining his posture—Starscream stepped away from the wall, with studied slowness. Elegant. As if nothing had happened… as if he hadn't just crushed the young man beneath him with a psychological pressure as crushing as it was invisible.
The crimson gaze remained anchored to (D/n) faceplate for a moment longer. Two fiery red slits, piercing like blades driven straight into the soul. The physical distance was now increasing, but the mental imprint still burned, clear and indelible like a searing brand.
Then Starscream stepped back.
One step… two steps back.
His wings unfurled with impeccable pride, those graceful metal plates rising with the contemptuous elegance of one claiming superiority without needing confirmation.
And then he showed it.
That smile.
Not big.
Not forced.
Just a slight smile.
Then he spoke, his vocalizer flat but full of venom:
"Well, then, I'll see you tomorrow to get started."
And now that Starscream had made it clear who was in charge (and, more importantly, how (D/n) should behave), he considered their confrontation officially over.
He turned calmly, swiveling, and his pedes clicked rhythmically on the metal floor, clack clack clack, as he crossed the corridor. His figure advanced with a stiff, almost solemn posture, perfectly suited to the innate nobility of a purebred Seeker.
No sign of second thoughts.
No additional words.
Just his commanding figure walking away without hesitation, leaving (D/n) immobilized, pressed against the cold metal of the wall, their thoughts swirling ever more chaotically, their wings tense, still trapped in the grip of accumulated tension.
(D/n) didn't move.
Not the slightest hint.
Not a whisper.
They remained still, leaning against the wall, so rigid it seemed integrated into the cold steel. Their wings, sensitive to even the slightest change, trembled imperceptibly, a visible echo of the shock he had just experienced. There was no damage to his external structure, but their entire internal system was screaming at the limit: the circuits overloaded, the deepest connections in disarray.
A faint but inexorable redness persisted on the faceplate, an uncontrolled indicator of the chaotic whirlwind wreaking havoc on their nervous system. Their derma—opened and closed emptily, drawing in air that, by its very nature, was completely unnecessary.
Their optics remained locked.
Without blinking.
Without any visible movement.
They stared stubbornly at the exact spot where Starscream had disappeared from the horizon, vanished around a corner just ahead. Had it been just a moment? A few seconds? Or had entire minutes passed? They couldn't tell.
Because there was one sentence, just one, that ricocheted insistently in his robotic mind, like a faulty track on repeat:
What the hell had happened?
From the next cycles, you and your second-in-command got straight to work, focusing on the task assigned by the Leader. The events of the previous cycles seemed to fade into a fever dream, a distant and hazy memory, as if they had never actually happened.
And that was fine. As long as neither of you brought up the subject again.
And yet, you couldn't lie to yourself.
Every time those moments resurfaced in your processor, a blush crept across your metal cheeks, and a subtle shiver ran down your spine. Even though you had resolved to move on, those feelings persisted, like stubborn shadows nestled in the farthest corners of your memory. It would take time for them to fade completely.
Damn Starscream and what he had made you feel yesterday... and what you continued to feel today.
Despite that small incident, surprisingly, the two of you managed to collaborate effectively in your daily teamwork. Some days brought progress, small steps toward the goal. Other cycles, however, passed with no results: no updates on the mission, no new information... just deafening radio silence.
In the morning, you found yourself with a dull, blank processor. Meanwhile, Starscream clenched his fists tightly on the console, trying to contain his growing frustration.
Spoiler: failing miserably.
Suddenly, without a word, he began shredding documents he deemed useless or irrelevant. The gesture had become a sort of ritual: watching him as his engine seemed to quiver with irritation as he gradually transformed reports into a shower of confetti. Maybe he should learn to relax every now and then... but you knew that wasn't like him.
You were opposites in every possible way. Fire versus ice; chaos versus discipline. Two extremes that constantly clashed… but that, despite everything, managed to balance each other perfectly, finding an unexpected equilibrium in your differences.
Despite these minor annoyances, many small victories had been achieved during the preparations for the next attack. The Leader would surely be satisfied—or so you hoped. After dedicating time and resources to this complex operation, you were convinced that this time success was within your reach.
During the teamwork, however, you noticed something curious, a subtle yet insistent detail. Starscream's taunts towards you had increased. They weren't words or direct comments, but gestures, hidden attitudes.
When he thought you were focused on a terminal screen, his optics seemed strangely restless. He would slowly travel up to your visor, then slide to the faintly flickering edges of your wings, before returning to their task almost effortlessly. Everything happened in a matter of moments, as if nothing had happened.
Yet, the sign of his satisfaction was betrayed by that mischievous smile that touched the corner of his derma, reminiscent of a cunning cat that had just knocked over a glass without being detected.
And then there were those touches. The pointless ones, yet so charged with meaning. Those prolonged moments that, against all logic, made you feel electrical discharges along the circuits—gestures that, theoretically, Starscream should never have allowed himself to make.
The elbow contact; when you leaned over a terminal and he approached, crouching beside it "to show you something." On those occasions, his servo invariably found your elbow... and stayed there. Three long, endless clicks of hot metal resting on your structure.
No apparent reason.
Just... heat.
The fake shoulder charge; once, as he rose from a position behind you, passing by you, his shoulder barely touched yours. "Sorry," he murmured without much conviction, almost distracted. An insignificant touch? Perhaps it should have been—at least to anyone else. But for you, every nerve suddenly ignited, as if a short circuit had ripped through your system.
And the worst, or perhaps the best—that single digits under your chin. A lightning-fast gesture, lasting barely an instant as he adjusted the data on a floating screen before you. Nonchalantly, he tilted your faceplate slightly upward using his index digits, to align his optics as best as possible. That touch was accompanied by a subtle, almost imperceptible smile—but one laden with a provocation as clear as it was deliberately intentional.
And then there were those ambiguous remarks.
"Your core temperature is high today... stress?"
A seemingly innocent question, but it was accompanied by a low, insinuating tone that betrayed anything but casual intentions. He almost sounded like a calculating predator, camouflaged behind a mask of naive curiosity as he studied his prey.
Even more unbearable: "You're so tense... you should relax." Starscream's vocalizer laced with false concern, perfectly aware of the effect it would have on you.
Every time he uttered those words, your systems went into overdrive. Heat spread like a wave through your chassis; your circuits seemed to freeze in panic. You were horrified by how he could shake you so deeply, by how his smug grin deepened every time he sensed your vulnerability.
And worse: those touches, seemingly fleeting, seemed to burn into your metal like indelible etchings... and you hated the intensity with which it all recurred within you.
Despite your attempts to repress them, those moments resurfaced relentlessly in your processor, eventually drowning out every other thought.
An unexpected turn of events occurred following a peculiar incident, during one of those seemingly ordinary cycles. You had just returned from completing yet another reconnaissance mission assigned by Megatron. It was a routine task: identifying new sources of energon, given that the reserves were gradually depleting. Despite the fatigue weighing on you, you continued without complaint, heading straight for your shared station with Starscream.
In the control room, you stood before a console, motionless, scanning the incessant streams of data from previous expeditions. Your wings lay still, while your structure remained rigid and focused. Your (O/C) optics followed every single detail scrolling across the glowing screen, allowing no distraction or even a moment's pause. Every single piece of information demanded your undivided attention.
Starscream was there, as usual, crouched in the chair next to your console, a spot he'd claimed since cycles one and never truly left. Over time, you'd learned to accept his territorial habit, even if it still made you feel vaguely irritated.
That cycle, however, seemed to be testing your endurance. As you juggled reviewing reconnaissance data and planning strategies for the next operation, you felt your legs shaking uncontrollably.
A sharp pain shot through them, the inevitable consequence of the excessive exertion you'd put in during the patrol. Deep down, you already knew: pushing yourself beyond your limits would take its toll. Yet, your pride, or perhaps your stubbornness, categorically prevented you from letting your pain show.
Starscream, immersed in his own world, noticed nothing. Gazing intently at his screens, he muttered tactical observations to himself in his usual cold, detached tone. If fate had been even a little on your side, he would have continued like this: without questions, without interference.
A faint, painful buzz escaped you, inevitable. The fatigue and pain in your legs returned, sharp and relentless. Even with one of your servos, you tried to gently massage the aching metal joints in your legs. Obviously, with minimal success.
Even though it didn't seem like it, Starscream had already noticed, long before your discomfort. From your iron grip on the datapad... slight tremors in your servos.. microexpressions of discomfort that flashed across your visor when you thought he wasn't looking. He observed everything silently, his optics following every detail with that unsettling precision of his.
Then came another involuntary sound, another tremor in your legs. Your visor now betrayed pure exhaustion; not even Starscream could ignore it anymore. Without yet looking away from his screens, he interrupted the hum of the machinery with a single question: "Are you okay?"
His tone? Flat as always... but underneath? Something unusual flashed, almost like concern. (If he could have proven it.)
Beneath his usual coldness lurked something fragile, jealously guarded deep within, as if reserved only for you.
You'd given him an immediate answer: "Good." Too quick, too devoid of warmth. A lie.
And Starscream? He called it out without hesitation.
At first, he pretended to ignore everything… but when your groans of pain intensified, when you began to struggle to stand without seeking support, his patience reached its limit.
The climax was a violent spasm, a sharp stab that ran up your leg; a muffled sound of metallic pain escaped you before you could contain it. The servant moved to help you again… but this time, Starscream intervened first. With a firm, decisive movement, not aggressive but authoritative, his servos reached out and gently, but unhesitatingly, pushed you onto his knees.
The chair creaked under the sudden weight of your structure. Before you could mentally form a protest, his arm wrapped around you firmly, pinning you against him; immediately afterward, his vocalizer echoed powerfully through your structures: "It's not 'nothing.'"
All the while, you thrashed, pushing against his armor, your wings flapping in agitation.
"Starscream, this is highly unprofessional." Your vocalizer was steady despite the tremors of exhaustion.
You fought against his iron grip... but it tightened every time you struggled. Your faceplate burned a deep blue, your (O/C) optics flashing with a mix of frustration and something else, as he refused to move.
Minutes passed. The battle had drained you completely; your strength faltered from the fatigue.
Starscream noticed the exact moment you stopped resisting, how your structure finally collapsed against him in resigned stillness.
Seizing the opportunity, he tightened his servos around you even more, not painfully, but possessively, as if preparing for an escape attempt that wouldn't come. (Not when every system screamed exhaustion)
A soft sigh escaped your air vents.
What now? He was in complete control... and neither of you would be moving anytime soon, unless he allowed it.
So since it's the first time I write smut or spicy scenes I changed something, hoping you don't mind, and in the meantime I hope you also get the one shot, being that stupid me took the screenshot and thus lost the request. :') — ( I apologize if the writing of the spicy scene is a bit crappy 🥲)
Do I Wanna Know?
Brainstorm x Mech! Captain Mercenary! Reader.
(Slightly Spicy 🔞)
Tw: Mental breakdown, isolation, Make out session(?), Bites, Kisses on the reader's neck, light Dub-Con, slight suffocation, Dacryphilia(?)
Length: 8.7k
Brainstorm was, without a doubt, a multifaceted mech. Calm and thoughtful by nature, he displayed enviable patience and always maintained a rational attitude. His every action was executed with precision, every thought followed a well-defined method, and his approach to work was rigorous. This was the ideal picture that described him: not only a brilliant scientist aboard the Lost Light, but also a reliable ally in scientific explorations alongside Perceptor.
He was known for his reliability, both in the lab and outside: when there was an experiment to be carried out or a technical problem to be solved, Brainstorm was among the few bots one could truly turn to.
It was therefore not surprising that he had been chosen to temporarily serve as fourth-in-command. That moment—still deeply etched in his processor—he still remembered in minute detail. And it was precisely after that event that, for the first time, he found himself a pillar of support alongside their beloved Captain Rodimus.
It was a sudden recognition, but fully deserved: not only for his intelligence or technical expertise, but also for his emotional serenity and composure, qualities that allowed him to make decisive decisions with firmness.
Or at least, that seemed to be the reason for his choice.
Rodimus could certainly have chosen someone else. There were higher-ranking mechs, experts in command tactics, or seasoned war veterans. Yet, when Brainstorm saw the captain rush into the laboratory, visibly agitated as if an attack were imminent (which wouldn't have surprised him much), he immediately knew something serious was about to happen. But strangely, there was no emergency. No alarm. No explosion.
Instead, Rodimus knelt slowly before him, his servos clasped in solemn prayer, almost with the devotion reserved for a Cybertron deity. Then, in a voice filled with gravity and hope, he made his request: to temporarily accept the role of fourth-in-command.
Many had already declined the task, considering it an inconvenient burden for such a short time. Too much responsibility for such a fleeting assignment. Yet Rodimus still believed, or perhaps stubbornly hoped, that he would say yes.
And who knows what had driven him that day to make such an unusual choice. Perhaps it was a feeling of compassion, that rare spark he rarely allowed to surface, that momentarily filled the void in his usual reasoning. Watching Rodimus so overwhelmed, tense as if he were holding the weight of an entire planet, had struck a chord in him, the ones he always tried to keep hidden.
With a barely audible sigh, mixed with resignation and an inexplicable sweetness, Brainstorm moved his servos. He raised them, placing them with an almost unnatural delicacy on his metallic forehead. His impeccable precision, always the fruit of his perfectionist nature, took over as he worked to soothe the discomfort Rodimus had brought with it: the typical mental overload, inevitable proof of what his fateful decision would lead to.
And then came that crucial moment.
He nodded.
He said yes.
It had been a reluctant yes, burning in his intake and processor, but it brooked no misunderstanding: it was a clear, definitive acceptance. And as soon as the word left his dermas, something he had fully expected happened. The ship seemed to respond like a living organism. Rodimus's energy shifted instantly, illuminating every corner of their metallic world with a joy so genuine it seemed tangible. Even the darkest corners of the hull seemed to vibrate with a new light, as if even Cybertron, light-years away, had found solace.
And Brainstorm? While all this was happening around him, he could already feel the wave of regret rising within him. Every fiber of his being confessed what he didn't want to admit: he shouldn't have said yes.
Yet he had.
And now there was no turning back.
And there he was: busy maintaining control of the ship while Rodimus and his entourage descended on an unknown planet for an unexpected "resupply."
It wasn't necessary at all—they'd done it six cycles ago, and the Lost Light's warehouses were already full of supplies. It was a terrible cover, so transparent that even a mech fresh from the assembly cube would have spotted it in two clicks.
Rodimus hadn't gone to resupply with energon or technical parts... no. He looked like he was fleeing, as if Primus himself were waiting for him on that dusty planet, his cheeky smile and the twinkle in his optics that meant only one thing: adventure, danger... and zero responsibility.
And Brainstorm? He stayed on the ship to handle emergencies of his own making, because someone had to. A small sigh escaped the soft derma beneath the metal mask—an almost imperceptible sound, like the whoosh of a system relieving pressure. Brainstorm never complained out loud, but right now he was alone.
Sitting in the control room, he held the data pad in his servos. Nothing urgent: just minor research—data for Perceptor to analyze later. Tests on unstable energy crystals, calculations to improve the auxiliary engines—nothing that required immediate attention. But they absolutely had to be completed. Because if he didn't do it now... who else would? Certainly not Rodimus.
And Perceptor was counting on this information for his experiments the next day. So he continued typing, patiently... while the silence of deep space reigned outside the ship.
He was so immersed in his research that he didn't hear the footsteps in the main corridor. He didn't notice the metallic echo of feet on the deck plates or the faint echo of voices. Rodimus was back—you could tell by the lively chatter, by that exuberant tone that only he could have: loud, animated, almost shouted, as if each sentence were a planetary announcement.
But beside his tone of vocalizer, there was another equally unfamiliar vocalizer, utterly alien.
You weren't a member of the Lost Light. Not someone Brainstorm had filed in his personal databases, nor a resignation that had ever surfaced in any reports. As Rodimus laughed and talked nonstop (probably improvising to hide some detail), that unfamiliar vocalizer responded: Calm? Curious? Maybe even hostile? Brainstorm couldn't say for sure, because his optics were glued to the datapad, immersed in his orderly, methodical world.
Rodimus and the mysterious individual entered the captain's main lounge. The doors opened with a familiar pneumatic hiss, letting in the sounds of their arrival: laughter, hurried footsteps, Rodimus's visibly enthusiastic tone as he introduced the stranger as if he were a recently won prize. But Brainstorm? No reaction.
He remained still. No sign, no sign of interest. he was still bent over her trusty datapad, focused on a series of data that undermined all her previous calculations: unstable energy samples? Nuclear reactions outside the expected parameters? Something was profoundly anomalous, and every sliver of his attention was absorbed in trying to solve this seemingly irreconcilable technical problem.
The others' vocalizer's became a faint buzz on his audials, a metallic background noise that couldn't shake him from his state of total concentration... until something forced him to break his trance. An unexpected pressure settled on his pauldron: a servo, positioned with an almost unsettling familiarity, that would have startled anyone. But not Brainstorm. Even immersed in his "science loop," he barely managed to suppress an instinctive flinch, and the data pad almost slipped from his grasp.
Almost.
He managed, if only barely, to maintain some semblance of composure. Only just. Rodimus called his designation, "Brainstorm?", with the usual note of concern tempered by his trademark indulgent smile. When he noticed something strange or out of place, he wore it like second nature. Brainstorm's response was icy: a fleeting glance, quick and well-calibrated like a directed laser beam. A clear warning.
But Rodimus ignored it, wisely refraining from pressing him—he knew the risks of pushing him too hard. Still, he didn't give up entirely: with those quick but strangely thoughtful gestures, he continued to tap the servo on the joints of his shoulder, eventually managing to gently turn it in a new direction.
That's when Brainstorm saw you.
With Rodimus's touch still firm on his back—a warm, familiar pressure that contrasted with his newly accumulated irritation—Brainstorm found himself pushed forward, almost compelled to move toward that unfamiliar figure.
As you gazed at everything with rapt optics, as if studying some sort of crystallized magic, every detail seemed to enchant you: the illuminated walls of the main corridor, the glowing technical panels on the ceiling... even the cyberglyph writings etched on the doors captured your attention, as if part of some arcane, magnetic language. Then, with a slight clearing of the intake from Rodimus, you slowly returned your (O/C) optics to him and Brainstorm, waiting for one of them to speak.
He, of course, wasted no time. With that smile only Rodimus could display—wide, naive, almost childlike in its infectious joy, as if he'd just earned the title of savior of the universe—he dramatically raised a servo to introduce the LL scientist to you.
"(D/n)! Meet Brainstorm! The most brilliant... and also the most annoying scientist in all of the Lost Light!" he exclaimed in a ringing vocalizer, brimming with his usual exuberance.
The last part of his announcement? Yes, it was clearly an affectionate tease—to be honest, perhaps even a little vindictive—but it was delivered in a cheerful, uninhibited tone. Rodimus laughed as he spoke, letting everyone know the comment was just a little teasing between comrades.
Brainstorm, on the other hand, didn't seem the least bit perturbed by the adjective "annoying"—he was too accustomed to hearing that term from much of the crew. However, his optics didn't move even a micron. They remained fixed on you. Silently.
He studied you meticulously. Every detail of yours was the focus of his analysis: the design of your faceplate, the structure of your joints, any signs of wear or identifying symbols scattered across your shoulders. He seemed intent on searching for any clue to your identity or past. His observation was detailed, precise, almost surgical.
Your structure stood out for its elegance. Not because it was imposing or hulking—in fact, you were about Brainstorm's height, or perhaps slightly shorter—but because of the way it blended seamlessly into its overall form. You didn't need bulk to draw attention: your presence was magnetic because of the aesthetic balance of your proportions.
Your frame was a paragon of strength and grace: your shoulders were broad and defined but not disproportionate; your tapered chest tapered to a sculpted waist to highlight the dynamic thrust of your body. There was nothing heavy or crude about it: every line of your frame seemed designed to convey agility and efficiency.
The angles of your structure smoothed into soft, natural curves, far from the aggressive roughness that characterizes Cybertronians designed for modern warfare. The polished, flawless surfaces suggested an obsessive attention to detail: each plate was smooth and perfectly integrated into the subtly colored joints. The hues of your upholstery—a (C/C) that gently faded to (F/C)—created a fluid and harmonious visual effect, as if the metal itself were alive under the glare of the lights.
There was a disarming calm in your every movement: a controlled fluidity that betrayed precision and experience. You seemed to move unhurriedly, yet with a constant awareness of your surroundings, as if you had lived long enough to know that letting your guard down is a luxury few can afford.
Curious? Yes, you were. Your optics moved incessantly, leaping from one detail to another: the overhead lights, the monitors on the technical panels, Brainstorm's profile... Yet, beneath that alert surface, there was a palpable tension in your metallic muscles—that characteristic, controlled posture of a mech always ready for action.
It wasn't nervousness, no. It was something deeper, almost primal: you were in a state of constant alert. As if a moment's distraction were enough for someone to take advantage of the situation and stab you from behind.
Brainstorm noticed it immediately.
Rodimus broke the heavy silence—a silence filled with gazes studying and assessing one another—by placing a hand on your metallic back. A seemingly casual, almost paternal gesture: the kind of touch that whispers, 'Don't worry, everything's fine.'
At that moment, he spoke again.
"Brainstorm… this is (D/n)! A mercenary leader for longer than I can remember…"
Rodimus's gaze shifted between the two of you as he spoke. His tone betrayed pride and a certain admiration. He described you as an expert in close combat, but he didn't stop there; he also spoke of your proficiency in rescues. For two years straight, he emphasized, you had kept your word to the cause without ever betraying it.
Every word he spoke piqued Brainstorm's growing interest. Mercenaries… a resource that can prove both strategic and unpredictable. Yet, two vorns of dedication and loyalty? A rarity even among veterans of the Lost Light.
As Rodimus continued to expound on your qualities with infectious enthusiasm, you gazed at him, and he gazed back. There was something determined in that moment: a profound intuition hidden beneath Rodimus's characteristic frenzy. Perhaps he hoped for a connection between the two of you, some spark. He didn't know exactly what, but deep in his worn-out processor—worn by battles and responsibilities—he felt that bringing you together had been the right choice.
Perhaps he saw in your dedication the same relentless tenacity that bound you: you, the iron-disciplined mercenary leader; Brainstorm, the uncompromising scientist. Two personalities tempered by adversity and unwilling to give in.
Or perhaps it was the loyalty he recognized in both of you: an absolute dedication to ideals and causes. Brainstorm had devoted himself to the Lost Light and its principles; You, to the cause you had defended for years without ever wavering.
But perhaps it wasn't just that.
Perhaps what he had sensed—almost without being fully aware of it—was the weight of the glances you were exchanging. Intense, steady, charged with meaning that went far beyond simple introductions.
Brainstorm couldn't fool himself.
There was something magnetic about you. It wasn't just the refined design or the perfect color scheme. It was everything: the elegant proportions of your faceplate, the soft play of light reflecting off the clean metal, your chin gliding along a flawless, harmonious curve. And those derma… they seemed so soft. You were definitely one of those mechs who took care of their own structure.
The ridge of your nose was rounded just right, never aggressive, without unnecessary edges. And then there were those optics… which were slowly becoming familiar: so intense yet welcoming.
He couldn't find any flaws in examining you. And the truth? Even if there had been one, it wouldn't have changed anything. Not at that moment. In fact, paradoxically, those imperfections might have made everything even more authentic, even more… fascinating.
The more he looked at you, the harder he found it to look away. For your part, you were certainly not inert. Your (O/C) optics scanned its complex, multifaceted structure with equal attention. From the faceplate frame to the sculpted chest plates, passing through every minute curve of its blue-and-silver-hued chassis. Every detail captivated your processor with meticulous curiosity.
Yes, you were studying it too. Two mechs analyzing each other like two Cybertronian animals in unfamiliar territory, silently drawing invisible lines: friend or foe?
But Brainstorm sensed it distinctly. Something was different this time. It wasn't simple intellectual or circumstantial curiosity. No, it was deeper than that.
A familiar warmth ignited within him. A spark of long-forgotten life that brought color back to his monochrome thoughts. It was a small fire, but strong enough to warm his numb processor and shake the electronic melancholy that had enveloped him for time immemorial. He felt a placid calm descend upon him like a blanket: it was as if the long, cold distance separating machine and soul had narrowed into an eternal moment.
You stood there in silence, frozen in time. Your gazes met like an unspoken promise. After all, it had been a long, long time since Brainstorm had felt anything like this again.
The last time had been with Perceptor. A bond between two brilliant minds, united by a passion for a science, born of dialogue and intellectual exchange. But now… now it was different. There was something more than simple mental harmony: a latent intensity he couldn't ignore.
His spark couldn't lie, because right now it was pulsing so strongly. Each beat amplified every time it met your watchful, attentive gaze. He didn't want to extinguish that newborn flame—he wanted to nurture it, protect it, and understand what had made it burn so brightly after so long in the darkness.
And then there was Rodimus.
There beside you, he watched in silence, rigid as a statue but alert as a sentry, ready to intervene at the slightest hint of conflict or misunderstanding. And as he studied you both with a look of curiosity and concern, the relaxed expression he usually wore began to crack under the weight of his doubts. Perhaps you weren't as similar as he'd initially thought… or were you too similar?
The tension slowly built in the air… until it broke in a sudden but incredibly natural gesture.
Brainstorm acted first. With deliberate calm, he raised his servo toward you for a handshake. A small but crucial step to break the tense silence.
His warm servo against yours, cooler but far from hostile: with that simple gesture, your defenses lowered slightly.
Just a little. At least for now. But that would be enough.
In time, he was sure, those barriers would crumble completely. He felt it with the same firmness with which he knew that two plus two equals four: his calculations never lied. Not this time.
Rodimus watched in silence, his spark throbbing in his chassis, accelerating to the rhythm of an emotion that was growing uncontrollably.
At first, he had had doubts… What if you didn't get along at all? What if Brainstorm was too rigid? What if (D/n) was proving too mysterious? And yet…
Now he saw them there, awkwardly engaged in a formal handshake. Shy, yes… and yet something was already in the air. A subtle, imperceptible click.
A sincere smile spread across Rodimus's faceplate, wide and bright like a new dawn on Cybertron after centuries of conflict.
He knew he'd made the right decision.
Time passed like lightning during a storm, so fast it seemed impossible to perceive with the human eye.
As the vorns passed, many things changed aboard the Lost Light: technical challenges to overcome, dangerous missions, tensions among the crew… But, amid all these events and changes, a deeper transformation was silently taking place.
The relationship between Brainstorm and (D/n) grew stronger, enriching itself vorn after vorn. A special bond united them, strengthening almost without them realizing it. They spent much of their free time together: whether in Brainstorm's labs or in the corridors when one of you needed to reach a specific destination, it almost seemed as if you followed each other like two magnetic poles attracted to each other.
Your connection was astonishing. You understood each other instantly, as if your thoughts were flowing through an invisible channel. An incomplete idea was promptly completed by the other. A glance or a nod was enough to communicate what needed no words.
Anyone observing them could have said that such a bond was born from a long and deep friendship. Instead, surprisingly, it all began almost by chance. A formal handshake had ignited a spark that could transform into something wonderful: a friendship so genuine and rare that even describing it in words seemed impossible.
At first, everything was simple. Brief, polite exchanges of greetings: "Hello." Then came the warmest greetings in the corridors and a few words exchanged before going off to perform their duties. The meetings in the labs had begun as a purely professional-technical relationship; you were there only to pick up something or request an analysis for Rodimus. But slowly, those encounters transformed into moments of unexpected complicity.
Gradually, there was room for a few smiles, then for brief but sincere laughter, contrasting with Brainstorm's serious and composed side. And over time, those small details became more frequent, like a melody that gains rhythm and enriches itself.
Even meals were part of that daily ritual. The energon cubes consumed between conversations. There was nothing extraordinary: just two mechs eating together. And yet it was enough.
It wasn't long before whispers began to circulate among the crew: a few curious glances, whispered chatter in the corners of the corridors. Your obvious friendship attracted the interest of many, including your closest ones—Rodimus first and foremost—who insinuated romantic ties between the two of you, even going so far as to suspect that you were conjux or sparkmates.
At first, you distanced yourself from these assumptions. Your denials were categorical, almost automatic: "No, that's not the case at all. We're just friends!"
No romantic feelings, and above all, no intention of the latter. Right?
Brainstorm certainly wasn't the type to imagine himself in a relationship. He had neither the time nor the patience to care for a Sparkmate, let alone give him attention, understand his feelings, and respond to his needs. He was convinced that no one, ever, would want to be with him. Too demanding, too obsessed with order and perfectionism… and above all because science always came first. His research came first: before rest, before social interaction.
And yet… if that were the case…
Why, all of a sudden, had he started thinking about it? Why had he found himself thinking about you… in a relationship with him?
He couldn't find an answer either. You had upset every well-calculated plan he'd had, carved into logic since he'd arrived on the Lost Light. And that sudden chaos, that wonderful mess, bore the designation: (D/n).
But that mess? He didn't hate it. Not at all.
It had all started so imperceptibly, so subtle he almost didn't notice. The touches: brief, completely casual. A quick brush between the servo… then he began to lengthen those touches, albeit just a little. Two seconds? Three? He hoped you wouldn't notice, much less ask him why. Otherwise, how could he justify them?
He wanted more than those brief touches. Nothing that would make you uncomfortable, of course: simple gestures like holding your hand or putting an arm around your shoulders as you walked together. Small, silent things, but they meant the world to him.
When it came to spending time with you, he found any excuse to be near you. In the cafeteria, he always sat next to you; in the labs, he followed you even without a real technical need. And what was most surprising was that you didn't mind at all. In fact, you seemed to enjoy sharing those moments with your dear friend.
When you weren't by his side, he felt an emptiness in his spark. A cold, incomplete sensation that penetrated his most hidden circuits, as if something vital were missing right there, deep inside.
Even his HUD stubbornly tried to remain glued to yours, almost begging for constant contact: persisting until the very last moment.
You'd also both found new ways to spend more time together. Hours spent together in your bunks, talking nonstop until one of you got tired. What if you were the one to fall asleep first? He'd stay awake, simply staring at you.
Your delicate yet tired features; that small, serene smile plastered on your faceplate as you calmly and peacefully recharged…
He observed you without disturbing you, in an almost religious silence. Until, after long minutes, he turned off his optical devices and curled up next to you, to find that rare moment of peace he'd so longed for.
Deep down, a vague idea had already crept into Brainstorm's processor, beginning to give him nuanced answers to the reasons for his actions, but it remained a thought he hadn't yet had the courage to confirm out loud. However, the real turning point came when Perceptor saw him enter the lab.
Brainstorm was calm, as always: he entered with measured steps, placed his tools on the desk, and immersed himself in his daily work, showing no signs of change.
Perceptor looked up at him. He studied him for a moment… and then, nonchalantly, asked:
"So… you have a crush on (D/n), right?"
His vocalizer had that subtle tone, a hint of a mischievous smile that made it impossible to ignore. And, as expected, it worked.
Brainstorm froze.
His demeanor changed for a fraction of a second, a detail Perceptor noticed immediately. After all, he'd been among the few to notice the subtle changes in his friend: the more hesitant gestures, the moments stolen from the terminal, when he seemed to be searching for you almost without realizing it. And above all, the time he'd begun to spend with you more than with any other bot aboard the ship.
And Perceptor was obviously happy about that.
Finally, he thought, Brainstorm had found someone with whom he could share what truly mattered to him: his emotions, his most intimate reflections, those small pauses between a complex calculation and a brilliant idea. A safe space where he could be himself with someone who understood him without having to explain himself too much.
Just like they had, so long ago.
But Brainstorm's response was swift and perhaps overly defensive:
"No! What are you saying? We're just friends!"
But his haste in responding betrayed him. His vocalizer was too loud… and then the color of his face mask, which turned a bright, vivid blue: a phenomenon Perceptor hadn't seen in vorns.
Perceptor studied him carefully for a moment and, without saying a word, smiled. A small but eloquent smile, the triumph of someone who has just proven a theory without further verification.
Perfect.
This unexpected conversation, however, would prove more useful to Brainstorm than he had ever imagined. The overwhelming embarrassment and blatant denial confronted him with an undeniable truth: something inside him was growing. Something sincere and inevitable.
New sensations… intense… warm, like a pulsating energy flowing to the rhythm of the spark.
He tried to remember the last time he'd felt so alive and powerful, even invincible. But what he knew for sure was how much those moments with you had begun to mean to him, more than he'd ever admit.
Your smiles… so natural they lit up the room, and the rarer but profound ones, like an eclipse.
Your gazes… intense, as if they could penetrate him deeply; not with the technical curiosity with which others studied him, but with sincere affection.
Your attentions… those small, thoughtful gestures: checking if he'd slept enough; if he'd eaten; if he seemed more tired than usual.
And those fleeting caresses… light but full of meaning: a servo placed on his shoulder after a challenging task.
They were small details, but to Brainstorm, they were worth an entire universe.
And then there was your vocalizer… that calm, reassuring tone you used during your late-night conversations.
He was watching you. He was watching you as only someone in love can: with infinite sweetness.
And those derma he so desperately wanted… the idea of pushing you against a wall, devouring you completely. He imagined his slightly larger servos wrapped around your waist, his tongue exploring every corner of your mouth… and how, finally, you would surrender to him. What sounds you would make if he took the liberty of biting one of the exposed cavities in your neck, sensitive to the slightest touch—
OK, OK! IT'S CLEAR THAT BRAINSTORM WAS MADLY IN LOVE WITH YOU!
Nothing, absolutely nothing, could ever extinguish those feelings he felt.
They were intense, deep… and above all, authentic. They grew with the calm, natural rhythm of a flower blooming under a gentle warmth.
There was no rush, no pressure. He enjoyed every second at your side: the light conversations during breaks, the moments in the lab punctuated by those silent, languid glances that had nothing to do with technique or work…
But for now?
He kept them inside himself.
All those feelings were sealed deep within his vital spark, well protected. He didn't want to risk compromising what the two of you had patiently built vorn after vorn; he couldn't bear the thought of losing you. Losing you would be like losing a star in the night sky… an unfillable void.
Because for him, you were his star.
Like all moments of peace, those on the Lost Light were destined to end.
No one was safe.
Not even a certain scientist who spent his days between laboratories, discoveries, and fun breaks.
Unknowingly, Brainstorm was living his last moments of tranquility.
Before the storm arrived.
A merciless storm. Inexorable. Inevitable.
And no one would have been truly prepared to face it… least of all him.
How he wished he had been the first to notice it, to identify it in time… to stop it with his bare hands, to use his brilliant mind to nip it in the bud.
But nothing can be prevented when fate is already written in the stars. Inevitable. Immutable.
Unless you are Primus himself.
It was the dead of night on the Lost Light.
Brainstorm was hunched over his data pad, absorbed in one of the reports Perceptor had left him before retiring to his quarters. He'd thanked him with a brief "thank you"… and so Perceptor had left, wishing him a good recharge, before venturing into the dimly lit corridors. A distracted reply, nothing more than a suppressed grunt, had escaped his lips as he immediately returned to his work.
The monitor, flashing intermittently, displayed the topic of the moment: "Pure Energon Synthesis from Uncommon Minerals – Vox-7 Sector."
The analyzed data came from a desolate moon recently visited during a mining mission. Those minerals were a mystery, so rare they had never been thoroughly studied before.
Brainstorm's optics remained glued to the text. The processor worked furiously, elaborating complex chemical formulas and evaluating fragile energy balances…
Every word of the report was absorbed and analyzed relentlessly.
He was so immersed in his study that he didn't hear the silent opening of the lab doors. The faint click as they closed was almost lost in the air.
A slight movement roused him: the stretching of metal limbs, tired from long inactivity. His structure was begging for respite after hours of incessant work.
It was then that the audials caught a sound: light footsteps, barely audible. Footsteps that seemed designed not to disturb. They would have succeeded, if at that precise moment Brainstorm hadn't decided to shift position in his chair.
He sensed a presence behind him.
Not just any presence. A familiar one.
The mech's HUD field gave a barely audible twitch, as if it could detect you without even turning around: like a secret frequency shared only between the two of you.
However, he decided to hold back. Maybe it would be fun to pretend nothing was happening. Play one of those little pranks he loved so much, see that adorable pout appear on your faceplate, and then hear your unmistakable laugh, the one that made something vibrate deep within his spark.
A thin, hidden smile curled his derma behind the metal mask. His posture in the chair seemed to slowly relax. His optics continued to stare at the screen in front of him… but there was nothing he could really read anymore.
Finally, he broke the silence:
"Oh? Perceptor, have you forgotten something?"
His voicalizer was tinged with a playful edge, because he already knew perfectly well that it wasn't Perceptor.
And when he heard your light laughter resonate in the air, his spark seemed to pause for a moment, only to begin beating again with irrepressible intensity at the sound of that angelic echo.
The only melody he would listen to continuously, so light and delicate, he loved deeply, just like everything about you.
"Hmm? Are we sure it's Perceptor?" you asked, an amused smile curling the corners of your derma.
Gently, you tilted your helm and rested your chin against Brainstorm's right shoulder pad.
Your warm breath—slow, almost imperceptible—caressed the sensitive hollows of his neck.
He reacted instantly: a visible shiver ran through his entire frame.
The situation had changed so quickly: from a quiet, slightly playful moment to a suddenly intimate, unexpected one.
Brainstorm couldn't help it: his circuits activated.
Familiar sensations flooded him—ones he recognized so well.
And you… were turning him on. Gradually.
Not only that: your closeness sent tingles along the exposed wires of his neck.
The cables quivered, pulsating more intensely under the warm touch of your breath.
Brainstorm's servos—first delicately placed on the desk as he completed the last tasks of the day—now began to twitch. Almost imperceptible micro-tremors ran through his optics.
The dim light of the room (the mech scientist's personal choice) hid those barely perceptible tremors.
If you had continued like this…
Brainstorm would have lost control.
Every logical protocol—those rigid rules that governed his every action—would collapse.
Suffocated by primal impulses: deep instincts that no programming could repress.
One of them? To claim you. Right there.
But for now… he knew.
He couldn't do it.
As much as every fiber of his structure screamed at him to act—electrical impulses vibrating in a loop—his moral code held.
It barely held him back, like invisible chains stretched to the limit.
But it wouldn't last much longer: he was certain of it.
The barrier between instinct and reason was thinning… minute by minute… warm breath against his sensitive wiring…
And above all: the gentle pressure of your chassis against his back… right where the sensitive beginnings of his wings were.
That gentle touch sent further jolts of pleasure through his circuits, threatening guttural moans from his metal throat if I continued.
His valve pulsated uncontrollably, swollen with desire. The unexpected pleasure made him clench his metal legs together, desperately trying to relieve the burning heat that was growing relentlessly between his thighs.
Thankfully, the desk top hid the underside of his frame, preventing me from seeing him in that condition… and mistaking him for a pervert.
He could hear the vents activating with a barely audible hiss.
On his optics' display, a red alert flashed:
[Thermal Overload in Progress - System Alert]
The internal temperature was soaring beyond safety limits—dangerous levels. Dangerously high.
And he knew it well: the situation was getting worse by the clicks… it was becoming suffocating, oppressive… it was making it hard to breathe… hard to think clearly.
But he didn't complain for a nanosecond.
But the worst part?
Was that you didn't even notice.
You looked at him with those optics: so innocent, so familiar… the same ones you always used. When he was mentioned in conversation. When you bumped into him in the hallways.
There was no way I couldn't see the devastating effect you were having on him in that precise moment.
Either you were incredibly naive—stupidly pure, beautifully unaware…
or… you were doing it all on purpose.
And then suddenly—by a miracle or not…
—everything stopped.
The moment was shattered by a slight, amused snort.
Then, calmly, you raised your chin and returned to your starting position, as if the incident had been nothing more than a friendly, insignificant gesture.
For you, it was merely a casual act.
But for Brainstorm?
It was anything but.
Regaining control in that precise moment was complicated.
Regaining clarity after that brief, intimate exchange was anything but simple.
Somehow, Brainstorm had done it.
For him, what had happened just an instant before—that fleeting moment of intimacy—seemed already fading… like a distant, blurry memory.
But his inner core?
It still vibrated. He burned with desire for that sudden burst of lightheartedness to happen again… for it to return immediately.
But he knew it was unlikely: moments so spontaneous rarely happen twice.
With a slight sigh, halfway between acceptance and resignation, he let the chair move, slowly turning him around…
He could see you clearly now: your metallic frame gleamed faintly under the soft light of the room… and your faceplate stared straight at him.
A faint, serene smile settled on your faceplate.
Then you calmly raised your servos, carefully revealing what you had brought with you: two energon cubes.
You held them as if they were a gift of great value… and perhaps to him they truly were.
You knew his habits well. Brainstorm was one of those mechs who stayed up late at night, immersed in his calculations, reports, and technical analyses in the lab. He was a tireless worker, just like you.
You saw no reason to reproach him: he was certainly not an inexperienced youth or a youngling. He was an adult, experienced and seasoned.
And yet, despite everything… you'd brought him something to eat.
Even though you were both adult mechs, that small gesture of thoughtfulness never faltered.
He showed it with simple things: an energon cube brought late at night, an extra word in the quiet corridors… small acts of sweetness that whispered "I'm here for you" without words.
And every time it happened?
For Brainstorm, it was always like it was the first time. Not only but also because he was getting used to your affection, but because the warmth you radiated continued to ignite him, keep him alive. Every moment shared had a unique value.
He remained awkward, unsure of how to respond, what to do with that energon so delicately offered to him.
A quick glance: from your optics to the servo holding the energon, and finally to the cube.
Then, with hesitation but also determination, he reached out and took it. In that moment of absolute calm, they were building other small fragments of memory.
No grandiose events. Just that: two mechs in the lab, a little energon in their servos, and the sweet silence broken, every now and then, by the occasional exchange of words.
And yet, for you two? Those moments were as valuable as your own two spark—perhaps even more so.
They were moments that would carry with them through the most difficult times: through the dark days, through the long, lonely shifts… through the empty nights when everything seemed unbearable.
The previous tension was now completely dissolved, vanished like a file deleted from the system. As if nothing had ever happened between you.
Only peace.
A shared solitude.
It would be a while before Brainstorm recovered from all this.
Meanwhile? He would definitely have trouble to recharge.
Damn you.
Just as he raised the glass to his derma for another sip of energon…
A sudden thought struck him. A mental flash that instantly froze the energon in his digestive circuits.
He truly hoped… with all his moral programming… that he hadn't stained the chair with his lubricating fluids during that moment of intense sexual tension.
After that incident, many things happened on the Lost Light. Unpleasant, at times contradictory events.
It wasn't just the loss of more crew members—the ship captained by Rodimus shrank further, now less populated than ever. Something also happened that marked a sharp and sudden rift between you and Brainstorm.
The bond that was forming between the two of you began to slowly fray, giving way to a deep and significant rift.
That nascent spark—delicate but real—began to gradually fade.
Brainstorm noticed this almost immediately… but initially seemed to ignore it. Perhaps because, as their duties and scheduled missions increased, spending time together would become increasingly rare anyway.
And it was inevitable, albeit painful, that he would accept your absence. Visits to the lab during breaks became increasingly rare, and the moments you spent together became sporadic, almost like a faded memory.
You weren't often together anymore, and as unbearable as it was, Brainstorm chose to grit his dentas, facing it all with silent determination. He clung to a faint hope: sooner or later, this difficult period would end, and together, you would be able to make up for lost time.
Oh, poor little Brainstorm.
As the vorns passed, however, that hope collided with a reality far from his expectations. Not only did you see each other rarely, but even the evenings spent together, talking or helping him in the laboratory rooms, had become but a distant echo. Those shared hours had become like a forgotten book on a shelf, covered in dust. With each passing moment, your detachment became even more evident.
A subtle yet continuous estrangement, invisible to the unwary but painfully obvious to those who observed you attentively. And for Brainstorm, it seemed only a matter of time before that void became unbridgeable.
But his fighting spirit kept him from giving up. After all, he was considered the most brilliant scientist aboard the ship; for his sharp and brilliant processor, there were no insoluble puzzles. Yet, no formula or theory could fill the abyss left by your absence. His spark felt empty, a gaping chasm that not even the infinite mathematical possibilities or the hours spent in the lab could fill.
Even his structure's advanced systems began to show signs of emotional distress: unstable energy, disturbed cycles, and chronic artificial insomnia were taking their toll. He denied the obvious, refusing to admit how much this situation was wearing him down. It was Perceptor who tore through the veil of silence. His friend could no longer bear to see him like this and pushed him to act.
And so, finding his fading courage, Brainstorm decided to seek help from someone deeply close to you: Rodimus, your dearest confidant, the unfailing presence at your side for years.
Rodimus, in his kind and understanding way, did nothing but offer vague advice, words that sounded both optimistic and evasive: "Maybe he just needs space. Give him some." A servo placed affectionately on his shoulder tried to offer comfort along with his words.
But Brainstorm found this unsatisfactory. With a brusque, nervous gesture, he shook Rodimus's servo off his shoulder. The scientist's cold expression betrayed more melancholy than anger, and without another word, he quickly turned to return to his place of refuge: the laboratory.
There he found himself once again surrounded only by the cold glow of glowing screens and equations that seemed to be escaping his control. He pondered, searching incessantly for an answer, while a deep fear grew within him: that the fragile bond that had always united you was now close to being definitively broken.
The thread that held your relationship together was growing a little tighter every day. And Brainstorm feared that one small mistake, one wrong word, or one misinterpreted gesture would be enough to shatter it completely.
It was a prospect that terrified him. How could he lose what you had shared? Those long nights side by side in the lab. Those fleeting, warm moments stolen during breaks, where stifled laughter echoed in the silent corridors. It was all still there, vivid in his processor, yet it seemed to slip from his grasp like sand blown away by the wind.
He would never forgive himself, nor would he let you shut it all down with silence. For Brainstorm, your silence wasn't an end. It was a challenge.
So, tired of waiting, he made a decision: from that moment on, he would seek you out, day after day. Before starting work. After he finished. Even avoiding breaks with Perceptor and ignoring the advice of those who suggested he leave you alone.
Enduring your icy isolation was already unbearable. But facing it, confronting you, head-on? It seemed like the only way forward.
And so he did.
Every time he entered your room—always immaculate, flawless, and as cold as you had been lately—you ignored him. No greeting, no glance. No sign of his presence.
It was as if he were invisible. As if those incursions into your world had never happened.
Each time he left, he paused for a moment in the corridor. A heavy sigh broke the silence, filled with a mix of frustration and a darker, harder-to-define emotion… anger? Perhaps.
Exasperation?
Of course.
Every sincere attempt to get closer to you felt rejected. Every gesture of affection and patience that came along seemed to transform into a new barrier erected by you. And you did nothing to break it down.
You didn't speak. You didn't respond. You withdrew into yourself, like a capricious child who refuses to listen. And he… couldn't stand that wall of stubbornness any longer.
But the limit was reached that vorn.
He entered your room without knocking. He didn't need to: he knew the access code by heart. You had given it to him, a long time ago, when smiles were common and there was still trust between you. "Keep it, you'll need it if you ever forget something," you had said then.
It had been one of your simplest yet most meaningful gestures for him. It had filled his core with joy in those carefree days that now seemed so far away. But that happy moment was now just a bitter memory, tainted by a tired and melancholic determination.
That evening was different. It wasn't the usual Brainstorm who entered your room armed with unwavering patience and love.
No.
The tension radiating from him was almost palpable, unstable like a short fuse ready to explode at any moment. And you felt it immediately: a shiver ran through your structure, and your breathing hitched slightly.
You realized how much you had changed. A sharp thought flashed through you like a bolt of lightning: if the you of a few weeks ago could see you now… it would have given you one moral shock after another for all the stupidity you had displayed.
You were fine with it. Absolutely.
No regrets.
No guilt.
Just emptiness.
And that emptiness inside you had already transformed into something very different—something you didn't even fully understand.
And that fragile balance was shattered when the faint sound of footsteps broke the silence of the room: Brainstorm had moved. Slowly, with studied calm, he sat down next to you, but not too much, wanting to give you the space you needed.
And you? As always, you ignored him.
You looked away, staring at an indefinite point: the wall, the floor… anywhere but him.
An oppressive silence followed, heavy as lead, filling the air with its immaterial weight.
Then it happened. A dry sound came from his throat, trying to get your attention.
He tried himself. He wanted to talk. But he also wanted you to listen.
With a deep sigh—yes, almost exasperated—he broke the tension. His voice, calm, always precise and measured, made itself heard:
"Then can I kn—"
But you didn't give him a chance to finish. You interrupted him with icy contempt.
"Why don't we end this charade?"
Your words were full of cutting detachment, devoid of warmth or feeling. Just pure, raw venom.
Another wave of silence filled the room, even heavier than the last.
And then you continued, pushing further: "There's no point in you keeping coming here every time, as if I were a mech craving pity."
A barely perceptible movement passed through you—perhaps a forced sigh, perhaps just a mechanical reflex. Your optics remained blank, staring into nothingness.
"You're making a fool of yourself," you continued in a flat, monotone tone. "I know full well… you don't really care. You only do it out of a sense of duty. Out of pity. Because you think it's just a phase."
You were cruel and direct, but that didn't break him. No, it was the next blow that made him snap:
"And as for that pity… you can stick it straight in your a—"
You didn't finish your sentence.
In an instant, you found yourself lying on your back on the bed, your wrists locked above your head in a firm, implacable grip. He had never been so brutal before, but now something had changed. He was on top of you. Brainstorm. And apparently he was now also without his metal mask.
The gaze he was giving you was different. His usually calm eyes now burned with a piercing, almost predatory cold. A fury not shouted, barely contained, but equally devastating in its quiet intensity.
It was the silence he was giving you that frightened you the most. Those optics fixed on you… so cold, so charged with a sharp disappointment, palpable frustration, and something darker—deeper—that you'd never seen in him before.
His servos, delicate in other instances when they adjusted your wires or rested on you as if in a gesture of care, were now as rigid as tempered steel. They held you in place on the berth with a pressure measured enough not to hurt you… but enough to remind you that you had no escape.
You tried to call out to him pathetically.
"Brain-"
But your words were cut off by his servo around your wrists, which now tightened with an unstoppable force, his slightly larger body pinning you beneath him on the bunk. His gaze was a storm of pent-up anger and frustration. "I don't care?" His vocalizer was a metallic growl that shook your plates.
He began by bringing his maskless faceplate closer and closer to you until you were just inches apart, your skin brushing against yours, like a provocation. And then:
"I'll. Show. You. If. I. don't. care."
Without warning, his metallic derna crash against yours in a violent, merciless kiss, forcing your mouth open. Your protests are lost in his assault, his slave continuing to squeeze your wrists with gentle force as his tongue forcefully invades your mouth.
You tasted so good.
Your feeble struggle is crushed under the weight of his body and the ferocity of the kiss. "Stop struggling," he hisses against your derma, his cooling systems already revving up. "You wanted to spit poison? Now you'll drink it all."
His hot, rough tongue slips between your derma again, exploring your mouth with cruel possessiveness. His body presses even harder against you, one of his knees slides between your legs, brutally pushing them apart. Your trembling legs push feebly, to no avail.
Seeing your inability to push him away, he took advantage of it, slowly but firmly pressing his knee against your modesty panel. He began massaging it in small, slow, tortuous circles, drawing small moans from you against your will as his derma moved down your neck.
"Aaahn!" a rather lascivious moan escaped your now-free derma. As Brainstorm continued his assault on both your modesty panel and your sensitive neck, you took advantage of the situation by letting out more moans. As the stimulation of your modesty panel increased, he could hear a:
"Ngh… oh Primus…"
Instead of stopping, Brainstorm continued to attack your neck with small kisses and bites. Until he found a specific spot, and it didn't take long for his teeth to sink into that particular spot on your neck, a metallic growl vibrating against your throat as he sucked and bit brutally. Just a few touches were enough to make you come like a prostitute, and he was confirming it himself.
"Look, you look so pathetic," he whispered hoarsely between bites.
Leaving more deep marks on the hollows of your neck, his dentas continuing to sink mercilessly into other parts of your structure, drawing more moans from you that you couldn't hold back.
Your struggle slowly stopped.
You were apparently enjoying this whole situation.
And he could tell, even from the fact that your valve was starting to leak like a broken fountain.
And he hadn't done anything yet, he was just touching you.
Who knows what he would have done if… without thinking twice, his free servo, which was leaning against your helm, moved to your neck, enveloping it completely, applying gentle pressure, eliciting another lascivious moan, accompanied by your lubricating fluid that continued to overflow from under your panel.
Now that was a dirty little novelty, one he would have noted mentally.
As he continued his torture of your most sensitive sensors, you swore you began to feel a little drool slowly dripping from your derma…
I wonder what you looked like at that moment…
More coolant was dripping from your optics from the excessive pleasure you were receiving at that moment.
Brainstorm was enjoying the state he was reducing you to, you could tell by the little devilish smile plastered across his faceplate.
It was what you deserved, and now you were slowly paying the price. But, as it continued… you didn't mind anymore.
Looks like we have a winner!! Thanks to everyone who voted, and to those who followed me these past few days, a big kiss :D I think the reader will be male and I can't wait to start writing it!
Hey iI came across your sentinel prime fic, AND LET ME SAY IT WAS SO FRAGGING GOOD BRUH. I WAS FEASTING ON IT AHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH
Anyways, since your request is open may I request Cheetor from TF:Cyberverse? Fluff and male or gn reader please^^
For scenario, I was thinking about Reader cuddling with him in his alt mode and maybe a few kisses here and there in his bot mode👀 But if you want you can also add in a few stuff of your own ofc>3<
And that's all for my request. Make sure to take breaks and hydrate. Anon rolling out!!!
Awww thank you so much! It always makes me smile a little when I see people still enjoying one of my early fanfictions! But anyway, here you go! — I'm sorry if the scenario came out longer than my usual length, I got carried away but I hope you enjoy it anyway!!
Cheetor x Mech! Autobot! Reader.
(Scenario)
Scenario: After a long day on the Ark, spent training recruits, planning strategies, and helping your friends, the cycle finally comes to an end. You're exhausted but satisfied, and you waste no time in heading to your bunk, not only to rest but also to see Cheetor, your sparkmate. As soon as you cross the threshold of the cabin, he's already there: sitting on the edge of the bed, with that smile that seems to light up the entire room. His optics sparkle with love just for you. Without saying a word, he opens his metallic arms, overflowing with the affection accumulated during the hours apart. Primus, how you loved him.
Tw: Only Cheetor who is a big cuddler :3, and lots but a lots of kisses, cheetor is so down for his man
Length: 3.2k
That cycle had finally come to an end.
A slight yawn, accompanied by the creaking of your stiffened limbs, could be heard by anyone near you. The fatigue weighing heavily on your circuits, like molten lead.
Meanwhile, the Ark's artificial lights caressed your armor, almost making it feel like a second layer of warm skin. And to make matters worse, there were those constant little buzzes in the air that didn't help at all.
You would have collapsed on your feet if it hadn't been for Optimus. With a firm gesture yet filled with almost paternal warmth, he placed one of his massive servos on your pauldron. That simple gesture and the intensity of his gaze held an affection that only he could convey. He didn't say anything at first: it wasn't necessary. Then, with that calm, deep tone, he delivered his customary wisdom and encouragement:
"You've given so much today… you can go recharge."
Optimus embodied the ideal of a leader everyone should emulate. If the world had more leaders of his caliber, perhaps conflicts would have been avoidable and the universe would have breathed peace. His dedication to the group was total: a pillar everyone relied on in the darkest moments, capable of instilling hope when no one else saw it. And, above all, he managed to choose the right words with surgical precision when the situation demanded it.
Doubting his leadership was unthinkable. There was an uprightness about him that inspired respect and unconditional trust. Despite everything, he always found a way to care for you, your structures, and your fatigued processors—a stark contrast to the cold cynicism of those on the other side, yes, you were referring to him: Megatron.
The mere mention of his designation was enough to make your internal circuits tingle with irritation…
A slight jolt brought you back to reality: Optimus was calling you into presence with a perceptible touch, staring intently at you under the shadow of his attentive, questioning mask, patiently waiting for your response.
But there was no need. With a small nod of his helmet and a quick "Thank you" accompanied by "Have a good recharge, too," you passed your leader without hesitation… heading for the quarters.
During the night walk, the Ark was wrapped in an almost sacred silence: only a few distant whispers or distant technical noises filled the void—like an artificial lullaby lulling the entire spaceship into its nocturnal peace…
But that background noise didn't bother you at all; on the contrary, it instilled a kind of subtle warmth in you. It was a reassuring feeling, especially now that new recruits had begun to populate the corridors. The movement had intensified, it's true, but for you, that wasn't a problem: on the contrary, it was a sign of hope. Each new bot that joined the right cause, the faction that chose to protect rather than destroy, was a small victory in this endless war.
A soft sigh, almost imperceptible, escaped you as you reflected on how much I preferred this situation to inhabiting a ghostly ark, empty and desolate like the unmanned wrecks drifting in space.
A few other mechs passed by you in the corridor: some heading to their quarters for a well-deserved recharge, others intent on completing their last tasks of the day. But nothing seemed to disturb the almost unreal calm of the earthly night.
Lost in your thoughts, you hadn't even noticed you'd quickened your pace. Your metallic feet seemed to move with a precise goal in processor: to reach your quarters. And more importantly, your bunk.
You longed with every fiber of your being to get there, not so much for the simple need to recharge, but for something far more important: the moment when you would finally see Cheetor again, your sparkmate. The previous evening, you'd parted with an implicit promise— "Tomorrow night"—and now that moment had arrived.
The hours we spent together were few, you could count them on a servo's digits. Yet, neither of you dared complain about it. On the contrary, you welcomed those fragments of time as a precious gift, living them intensely with affectionate gestures, light caresses, and intimate conversations. And when would he transition into his alternate animalistic form? On those occasions, he never wasted time wrapping himself completely around you, exuding a familiar and comforting warmth, creating the illusion that you were the only two living presences in the entire universe.
Keeping a relationship alive in times of war was anything but easy. If things had been even a little more complicated—on the battlefield or inside the Ark—perhaps you would have had to give up. But miraculously, that had never happened. In fact, your connection had proven strong and profound, a rare bond capable of withstanding every test.
Cheetor was a lifeline for you, a constant in an unpredictable world. You could never get enough of his presence; it was as if every moment beside him soothed the chaos around you and offered you a shield against life's storms. You missed him every day, every moment. Your processor was constantly crowded with thoughts of him: his unique scent, artificial yet imbued with familiarity; His crystalline laugh that resonated like a sacred melody through your spaces; his constant purring when he assumed feline mode in the berth; his luminous green optics, two beacons of love capable of illuminating even the thickest darkness.
And then there were his dermas—that sweet desperation with which they incessantly sought you, fearing you would vanish in his arms if they even for a second sought you. His metallic arms held you as if trying to capture that eternal moment in his processor, as if he could stop time and make that moment infinite.
Being with him was like falling asleep in the warmth of a living, pulsating stove, a perfect refuge that protected and warmed the other half of your soul. He was there beside you, irresistible and indispensable. Just where he was supposed to be.
Another incident in particular that had happened a few times—rare, but enough to stick in your memory—was that your need to be with Cheetor had made you late for a few meetings. A couple of scoldings from your superiors, a few stern looks… nothing truly serious. However, from those times on, you stopped, not wanting to risk your position on the Ark. As much as you loved spending every free moment by his side, you knew that duty came first. And he understood that. Cheetor had his responsibilities, too.
Your train of thought broke when your (O/C) optics lingered on a familiar door: the one to your quarters.
A faint smile appeared on your faceplate, so subtle it was almost invisible, yet charged with emotion. As you approached the cabin, that shy smile transformed into an explosion of uncontrollable joy, as if a current of positive energy coursed through every fiber of your chassis, from the spark to the external plates. It was impossible to contain the euphoria: who could not yearn to see their partner again after hours apart?
Even before you approached the door, you could already feel his presence, a palpable sensation through the faint magnetic field he emanated. It was the most you could share for now. (As much as you would have liked a room together, for now it wasn't possible, and despite that, you had to make do.) He was waiting for you inside, with that seemingly calm air that in reality hid all the impatient trepidation of someone who has counted every second.
You couldn't help but smile to yourself as you imagined the scene: Cheetor in there, perhaps busy keeping his processor occupied, while he kept scanning the entrance, as if he could sense your footsteps or your arrival in advance. The image made you let out a faint electric buzz, a faint laugh. How adorable he was in his naive, passionate way… There was no doubt about it: that pure, all-encompassing affection was just one of the thousand reasons you loved him.
And who or what had brought him into your life? What extraordinary fortune had you amassed to deserve such a gift? Cheetor seemed to have stepped out of a dream, a blessing that almost defied every law of the universe.
This was certainly not the time for further reflection. You had to see him.
In three long, quick strides—almost like a turbo—you reached the door. Your magnetic fields intertwined naturally, like twin stars attracting each other after a long separation. You felt his field gently tighten around yours; it was as if he were desperately trying to hold you in his orbit, yet so delicately, as if you were made of porcelain. And you willingly surrendered to that sweet connection.
You quickly entered the access code on the panel, while a soft click confirmed the door before you had opened. The door slid silently on its tracks, revealing the interior of the room. But inexplicably, your steps, once quick and energetic, now became more uncertain and slow. A timid hesitation filled you for no apparent reason; perhaps it was the intensity of the moment or the emotion itself that held you back.
When you finally crossed the threshold, the door closed softly behind you, sealing that intimate space where you could finally be together, far from the world.
And there, standing before you, was him: Cheetor.
He was sitting on your bunk.
You stared at those familiar green optics, so etched in your processor. They were trained on you, glowing with a silent joy. In that moment, their intense glow made them look like two full moons illuminating the darkness. The expression on his faceplate had that feline touch you so loved, like the steady rhythm of your own spark.
He kicked his metal feet lightly, a nervous tic that betrayed his impatience to check the time again and again. The gesture wasn't just an outlet, but also a way to mask the boredom accumulated in the hours spent without seeing you. The thought of the two of you, separated like lovers divided by planets and galaxies, made every encounter even more precious. And so, every evening the same scene repeated itself; a ritual that never seemed to lose its charm.
Without a word, his arms opened in a silent invitation, a gesture that said it all without words. There was the call of an embrace, of that reassuring warmth that only he could give you. There was no hesitation as you threw yourself into his strong, metallic arms; they themselves felt like a living blanket, as large and warm as they were welcoming thanks to the soft fleece that covered them.
He had no intention of letting you go that evening, and you were more than fine with that. You lost yourself in that long-desired, familiar warmth, the only thing you truly needed in that moment. Your helm found its place on the right shoulder strap of his frame, with a gentleness that revealed all your exhaustion. Your legs adjusted effortlessly to the sides of his hips, as if they were meant to fit there.
Straddling him, you wrapped your arms around his neck, holding him in a full embrace. He reciprocated immediately: his delicate servos positioned themselves firmly around your waist, ensuring you remained stable, safe, without the risk of slipping or falling.
His unspoken promise seemed to vibrate in the air: there, in those arms, nothing would ever happen to you.
Then it began. The purring. A deep hum—almost imperceptible, if it weren't for how close you were—came from the core of his own chassis. You watched him without looking away, fascinated. Nestled against his right shoulder pad, you scrutinized the elegant, decisive lines of his structure, as if carefully sculpted. For a moment, a thought crossed your processor: it was as if Primus himself had smiled as he shaped that magnificent mech.
His arms tightened around you in that sweet embrace, so well-deserved after a long day of work. Those were precious moments, little treasure chests of serenity that you jealously guarded, to be recalled during endless missions, when the distance became almost unbearable.
Everything was wrapped in the most eloquent silence, until his vocalizer gently pierced it. Calm yet forceful, with that warm edge he always used to affectionately break the ice. "So… how was your cycles?" he asked softly, his muzzle gently resting on your soft, metallic cheek, rubbing against it with slow, rhythmic movements…
With a soft sigh, you began to recount your cycle. It had been exhausting: new Autobot recruits arrived from Cybertron, military strategies to develop to counter your enemies, and even a little help offered to friends with less important tasks. Your words flowed calmly, unhurried, following the natural rhythm of your thoughts.
And him? Completely enthralled.
He listened to every syllable with such profound devotion that it seemed he was breathing your emotions. He didn't simply follow out of courtesy, but absorbed every detail as if your story were a precious gift.
For Cheetor, your relationship was a bastion of beauty and meaning in an often cruel and difficult world. You were his anchor, the main reason he faced every challenge, even Unicron. And, if necessary, he would travel the universe only to offer you the rarest and most splendid flower, knowing that no wonder could ever match the brilliance of your spirit.
He was deeply captivated by you, lost in your gestures and your essence, infatuated to the point of spark.
As you continued to share fragments of your cycles, his thumbs traced small circles on your waist, offering a gentle massage that seemed to dissipate the accumulated tension. His touch always had the same calming effect on you.
Every time you asked his opinion on a detail, he not only answered, but with a feline smile, warm and radiant like the horizon at sunset, he began showering you with kisses:
*MWUAH*
A kiss on the cheek.
*MWUAH*
One on the tip of your olfactory crest, which inevitably made you laugh.
Your smile, that overwhelming smile, lit up everything around him like a star-studded night sky. It was his guide, the light in a day otherwise marked by darkness.
*MWUAH*
Finally, another kiss… this time bolder. With a firm yet delicate gesture, he took your chin and kissed the spot closest to your derma.
"Wrong place, sweetspark." you joked with a vibrant laugh.
But there had been no mistake. It had been a deliberate choice. As soon as you finished your story, he seized the moment: the last kiss was fleeting and deliberate.
His derma finally found yours for a brief but incandescent moment… which soon transformed into something deeper and more engaging. Without words, your derma sought each other and intertwined like magnets drawn by an irrepressible energy.
In that instant, time seemed to stand still as the fusion of your souls translated into a passionate and sensual play. Your flavor enveloped him completely—bold and unique, sweet and warm—tingling every fiber of his being.
His clawed servos tightened around your waist, as if he feared you might dissolve into thin air. He held you pinned to his knees, as if you were a fixed point, untouchable. Meanwhile, your servos scratched softly at his helmet… and the purr, already sweet, grew louder. You were pampering him unreservedly, without reserve.
He was convinced he could never experience such feelings. The pure, sincere love he saw in his former companions seemed unattainable. And then, you appeared. If old Cheetor, the skeptical and disillusioned one, could see himself now, he would slap himself for doubting: you were like an angel sent by Primus himself, sent to rescue him from solitude just as the shadows were about to overwhelm him.
He watched you silently as you spoke, losing himself in the movements of your derma, the ones he could never tire of kissing. Every time his optics rested on you, his spark seemed to beat faster, as if the mere sight of you lit a sweet, unstoppable fire.
When you parted, he seemed immersed in a sweet melancholy, almost as if he longed to continue claiming your kisses forever. Yet he understood, and so he let go of your derma, abandoning it very slowly.
Your slightly amused smile took him by surprise. He hadn't expected that reaction and, overcome by a slight embarrassment, he lowered his gaze, trying to escape your optics, filled with affectionate irony for those tender moments.
With delicate grace, you placed your servo on his cheek. That touch, so full of sweetness, immediately brought him back to you. His sensors focused entirely on the contact, and he abandoned himself to the moment: his optics closed in apparent tranquility, while his chassis seemed to breathe rhythmically slowly… as if enveloped in a sensation of pure bliss.
Softly, your words drifted through the air, caressing the silence: "I'm sorry, love… but you're incredibly adorable like this." And him? He melted, completely overwhelmed by the sweetness of your vocalizer, capable of transforming every part of his existence.
Then came the long-awaited promise: "Tomorrow I have the whole day off… we can spend as much time together as we want." A sigh of relief, filled with joy, escaped his derma. It was a dream come true: an entire day just for the two of you. He wouldn't pass up that opportunity even if the world were to end.
But your moment was interrupted.
A slight yawn floated through the air. This time, it was Cheetor who intervened without hesitation. Gently, he lifted you as if you were the most precious gem at the center of the universe—and to him, you truly were. He didn't hesitate to pull you against him, and you effortlessly wrapped your arms around his neck, abandoning yourself to the reassuring warmth of his chassis and already feeling sleep gently approaching.
The journey was short, little more than a couple of clicks, yet his pace remained carefully measured, thoughtful, so as not to disturb your peace. Arriving near the berth, he lowered you with a gentleness that seemed impossible to attribute to his powerful frame. Every movement was a caress, as if you were made of crystal.
Finally, it was time to lie down next to you. To make his embrace even more enveloping and comfortable, without taking up too much space, he transformed into his alternate mode. His imposing figure compacted into a slimmer and more hospitable shape.
As soon as he reached the other side of the bunk with a nimble leap, Cheetor jumped on it without hesitation. He curled up next to you, still in alternate mode, and you reacted immediately: you held him close as if he were your favorite pillow.
Your arms wrapped around him tightly, while a tired but affectionate kiss touched the tip of his muzzle. You murmured in a whisper, "I love you… thank you for everything, Cheetor." Those were the last words before the recharge overwhelmed you.
He didn't hesitate to reply sweetly: "Me too… rest well, sweetspark." Then he settled closer to you, not only to keep you warm, but also to feel closer to you; he was like a living stuffed toy, made of metal and love.
Finally, slowly, you fell asleep like this: cuddled together, immersed in perfect tranquility.
transformers animated x a fem Autobot reader who’s like… a BIG BUFF/STRONG!! She’s like much taller than them and strong. With a slight loud and confident personality, though a certain medic has caught her attention and she’s very interested in… RATCHET?!
((One shot and a slight HC of the teams reaction that Ratchet has an admirer?!))
NYEHEEH, I love all this love you give towards Tfa Ratchet he is so cute :3 and then it's a combination that I see well, we will be his princess charming.
Who Run The World?
Ratchet x Buff! Femme! Autobot! Reader.
(One shot/Headcanons)
Tw: ///
Length: 6.0k
"BUMBLEBEE, LOOK OUT!" Bulkhead's booming vocalizer rang out across the chaos of the battlefield, a cry of alarm that snapped Bumblebee out of his moment of distraction. The younger scout reacted instinctively, darting to the side and narrowly dodging a Decepticon's attack, confident he could catch the Autobot off guard. The blow, however, shattered into nothing, leaving his opponent empty-handed.
Deftly regaining his balance, Bumblebee fixed his blue optics on his enemy with a look of incandescent determination. "Nice try! Now it's my turn!" he exclaimed with a challenging grin. In an instant, he transformed, his engines erupted in a burst of metallic roars, and with a burst of pure energy, he launched himself at his opponent, determined to leave no room for a counterattack.
This battle was far from over.
Across the city of Detroit, nestled in the blackened ruins of an abandoned, smoke-filled industrial area, Optimus Prime faced Starscream in a fierce battle. Their figures dominated the horizon, casting imposing shadows beneath the intermittent light of the null rays that tore the sky above them.
"You pathetic Autobots almost make me feel sorry," Starscream hissed with mocking arrogance, his vocalizer filled with the venom accumulated over eons of war and resentment. With swift, snake-like movements, he masterfully avoided a devastating blow from Optimus, laughing to himself as he positioned himself behind him. His faceplate, masked by a perpetual grin of satisfaction, betrayed the belief that every battle was already won by his cunning.
Yet, that defiant look belied something else. Beneath his apparent security, Starscream felt the crushing weight of reality: another battle with an uncertain outcome that would likely end in the usual defeat—an endless cycle that seemed to bind the Decepticons since the day Megatron had regained command. It was a bitter knowledge that corroded his pride like rust on hot metal. Even so, he couldn't completely suppress that insidious glimmer of hope, that remote possibility that maybe—just maybe—this could be it.
"Prime, behind you!"
Prowl's determined cry cut through the tense atmosphere like a sharp blade. In an instant, the Autobot ninja leaped forward, hurling his shurikens with deadly precision. The weapons flew swiftly and silently, striking the most vulnerable joints in the Seeker's armor. Starscream roared in rage and pain as glowing streams of energon began to flow from his new wounds—painful, yes, but still not enough to permanently disable him.
"YOU… HOW DARE YOU?!"
Starscream's vocalizer emitted a growl that mingled with a metallic, almost rhythmic growing up, amplifying the fury devouring him. Every inch of his frame seemed to vibrate with pure indignation, while the sound of his engine filled the air like a war cry. His scarlet optics glowed with a sinister light, a living, breathing warning directed at Prowl. The Autobot ninja had made the grave mistake of interfering at the crucial moment of his clash with Optimus Prime, disrupting the duel's rhythm and robbing Starscream of his long-desired triumph. That minimal disruption had been enough: an unforgivable distraction that Optimus, with his usual quick wit, had exploited without hesitation. In the blink of an optic, the leader had leaped forward to strike, taking advantage of the momentary imbalance caused by Starscream's rage.
*SWOSSH*
But Optimus missed. His attack barely grazed the air where Starscream had been a moment before. In a lightning-fast leap, the proud Air Commander rose into the sky with unexpected agility, leaving behind only a whirlwind of dust and pent-up rage. His sensors, honed for battle in the cosmic skies, had detected the movement even before Optimus's attack could materialize. Floating above the battlefield, his vocalizer pierced the air with a shrill, contemptuous note: "Fools! Did you really think a measly surprise attack could hit ME? You're more pathetic than I imagined!"
With these words, Starscream unleashed a furious barrage of neutralizing beams at Prowl. The Autobot ninja did his best to avoid the relentless bombardment, performing rapid maneuvers that only his ninja training allowed him. Still, fatigue was taking its toll; the long moments of battle were wearing him down. His movements were still impeccable, but no longer as precise as they once were. Fatigue clouded his sensors, slowing his reflexes.
*FSSSHHH—CRACK!*
An enemy beam whizzed past his right arm, leaving it black and smoking. Another struck his side, eliciting a strangled groan of pain. Forced to retreat, Prowl gritted his dentas, fighting back a wave of frustration along with the growing awareness of his own vulnerability. The duration of the battle seemed endless; time had stretched out like a relentless grip, pressing down on his exhausted structure. Drops of hot oil dripped onto his visor like mechanical sweat, mixing with the steam that escaped irregularly from his now-overloaded air vents. His breathing had become a ragged, rasping moan, almost drowned out by the sound of his internal lights flashing bright red.
[WARNING: CRITICAL ENERGON LEVEL]
[COOLING SYSTEMS OVERLOAD]
Starscream watched it all from above, savoring the spectacle with a cruel satisfaction that was reflected in his twisted smile. Every nerve in his mask seemed to bend in a sneer, celebrating his newly reaffirmed superiority. His neutralizing beams blazed ever brighter, charging with destructive energy as the air commander prepared to finish what he had started.
"Well, well," he muttered in a sharp vocalizer. "It seems the great Autobot ninja has finally reached his limit." The circuits in his arms hummed, building energy in an eerie crescendo, like a dark omen. "That was… fun."
A metallic click.
The charge was over.
"But now… DIE."
Optimus instinctively clenched his fists, helpless: too far away to intervene. Even with all his strength, it would be impossible to reach Prowl in time.
Until then.
*ZING!—THUNK!*
Suddenly, a glowing stasis tether shot out like a bolt of lightning, wrapping itself with surgical precision around Starscream's leg. "GAH—?! WHAT—?!" The Seeker let out a strangled sound, his vents contracting, revealing surprise and bewilderment. Getting distracted, such was his fatal mistake.
"Sorry to interrupt your plans, Starscream." The vocalizer was calm, soft yet powerful, resonating through the air like an imperious call.
A new figure emerged; the firm sound of her metallic footsteps against the asphalt seemed to announce an inevitable doom."But for today… enough."
*CRASH!*
In an instant, the cable tightened, and Starscream, in disbelief, was torn from the sky with brutal force. His metallic body crashed relentlessly to the ground, generating an impact that shook the earth and raised a curtain of dust and debris. When the smoke cleared, a smoking crater marked its ruin: in the center, the air commander lay in a pitiful state.
His slender, graceful wings were now reduced to twisted wreckage, quivering in intermittent spasms. Erratic sparks raced along his ravaged torso, while torn fibers and cables dangled from his disemboweled joints like dying snakes.
His left optic—that fiery red that had struck terror into the hearts of so many enemies—gleamed intermittently, a flickering, shapeless light. His right optic, however, was blank, its cracked glass reflecting only the vast sky above.
A raspy, fragmented breath escaped from his damaged air vents, accompanied by sporadic splashes of energon. His long, clawed fingers gave one final convulsive spasm as he vainly attempted to rise, before his arm fell heavily to the ground with a metallic thud.
In that excruciating stillness, only a faint sound remained audible in the air:
*PLINK!*
A single, perfect drop of sweat rolled down your temple in true anime style as you realized you'd perhaps slightly overestimated the amount of force required.
Oops.
Your processor analyzed the situation at lightning speed:
Starscream? Still intact. More or less.
The surroundings? Fine… just a couple of cracks, nothing too serious, right?
Optimus Prime? He was staring at you like a bot whose operating system has just crashed.
An awkward silence fell suddenly, heavy and cumbersome.
The young prime remained completely still, his optics wide in a surreal expression. You could almost feel a giant '404 ERROR' flashing in his circuitry.
"Um…" you muttered, scratching your helmet in the hope of hiding your discomfort with a casual gesture. "You know… the first shot is always a bit… let's say, trial and error?"
It wasn't true, of course.
As you clumsily attempted to ease the tension with nervous, awkward jokes, Optimus peered at you intently, taking his time to analyze you in detail.
You were definitely a Femme, but not the delicate type many were accustomed to. Your frame was lithe yet powerful, a perfect balance between grace and power. Your armor shimmered with vibrant colors: (A/C) - (S/A/C), almost contrasting with the dull grayness that enveloped the battlefield.
There was something about you that relentlessly captured attention. Your stance exuded confidence; your every movement expressed controlled strength. And then there was that small detail that was hard to ignore: you were slightly taller than him.
For the briefest of moments, something faltered in his systems. You didn't resemble any Femme he'd ever met before.
You weren't a Prime. That much was clear to him immediately. You didn't have that aura of a leader. But when his optics focused on the emblem you wore proudly on your chassis, a spark of understanding flashed through his circuitry.
The Elite Guard.
'An Elite Guard,' he mused. The connection was almost immediate: Ultra Magnus must have sent you personally.
Yet, among all the implications your presence raised, one question in particular burned in his thoughts:
Who are you?
The curiosity was almost unbearable. He, Optimus Prime, wanted to know everything about you. Who you really were. Why you'd been sent to Earth. How you'd struck down Starscream as if he were little more than a sand sculpture, dispatching the threat with shocking ease and saving Prowl in one fell swoop.
He was about to speak. Seriously. He'd even activated the voice circuits to formulate the question when—
Beeep! Beeep!
The communicator on his arm suddenly broke the silence.
From the other end, Bumblebee's lively, breathless vocalizer boomed out: "Hey, Bossbot! Soo… things are a little heated up here! Bulk and I urgently need—"
*CRASH—!!*
Bumblebee stopped abruptly, having to narrowly dodge a vehicle that had been hurled at him with brutal force.
"—urgently need a backup!" he concluded with a high-pitched laugh, more laced with nervousness than actual humor.
Optimus wasted no time in confirming. With a firm nod, he ended the transmission: "We're on our way."
However, turning to you, his gaze immediately fell on Prowl: the ninja was semiconscious, his visor flickering, as if on the verge of shutting down entirely.
"I think you'd better take care of him first," you suggested. Then, with a quick jerk of your chin, you indicated the smoking crater where Starscream (or what was left of him) lay, "while I take care of this… er, 'little guy'."
Optimus was about to protest, opening his vocalizer—
*THUMP!*
Your pat on his shoulder shocked him so much that he let out an embarrassed, surprised "OOF!" But before he could say anything else, your determined, confident smile blocked any objections still lingering in his processor.
"All clear?!"
"Wait, I—"
"Great! Then it's decided!" you replied enthusiastically, whipping around toward the crater. Your arms were already preparing for the effort.
"Wait—"
Too late.
Before Optimus could finish his sentence, you had already shot forward like a rocket launched at full speed. Behind you, only dust and wind rose… and the Prime stood there, frozen, like a bot who had just witnessed the AllSpark explode completely before his optics.
And he remained like that.
In that position.
For a long time.
His processor?
Filled with nothing but emptiness.
A desert of wind and sand, with perhaps a solitary intermittent pixel flickering in the background: 'Reboot needed?'
The communicator's tinkling BEEEP! finally snapped him out of this mental catatony. A name appeared on the screen: Bulkhead.
Scrap.
(Because if Bulkhead was calling instead of just yelling randomly in the background, the situation must have been seriously "we just lost half the city" level.)
With a deep sigh that sounded more like 'Why today?!', Optimus shook off the residual shock and sprang into action, running without hesitation toward his struggling companion.
The mission had been a success!
…Or rather, it would have been a complete success, if it hadn't been for the thunderous MEGA-SCREAM that was now shattering the eardrums of everyone within a five-kilometer radius.
Ratchet, the Autobot medic, wasn't simply speaking: he was a blast of pure sonic fury. His vocalizer thundered with such power that it rivaled that of a jet engine in full throttle, so much so that even the tiles on their base vibrated almost in empathy. In the midst of this dangerous acoustic storm, Sari, the small human, was crouched behind a table, her hands pressed tightly over her ears in a desperate attempt to protect herself.
The poor thing was visibly shocked: "If I can get out of here with even one working ear, I'll call it a miracle!" she thought to herself, squeezing her eyes shut every time the thunderous voice echoed through the room. For a moment, he even swore he saw a metal glass shake so violently that it fell off the table with a resounding clang, as if to free itself from that auditory torture.
But who were the targets of the Autobot medical officer's fury?
The answer was simple and blatantly obvious: Optimus Prime, Bumblebee, and Bulkhead. All three were perfectly aligned, sadly aware of being the targets of the most deadly murderous glare ever seen on Cybertron. Ratchet was wasting no time in sparing no detail while making them feel like insignificant particles.
And Prowl? He had been lucky to escape the reprimand: he was already lying in "forced stasis" on a medical table, with the seraphic air of someone grateful to Primus for his semi-consciousness.
The real curiosity, however, concerned Optimus. How did his designation end up on the list of culprits? What did he have to do with all this mess?
Well… the leader had tried to intervene as per protocol, believing he was helping. But instead of solving the problem, his contribution had turned out to be the perfect equivalent of pouring gasoline on a fire already out of control. And when even a Prime makes the situation worse, it's clear that everything can only go downhill.
The doctor hadn't found the chaotic turn of events amusing or comprehensible at all.
"Not only have we practically lost half the city—but your 'plan'… WHAT EXACTLY DID YOU DO? RUN INTO…?!"
Ratchet looked like he was about to explode further, but something—or someone—interrupted him before he could complete yet another sentence with a volcanic eruption.
A new voice broke through the air. It was a foreign presence to three of those present (Actually, four, including Prowl, even though he was still in stasis). But to two bots in particular, it wasn't an unfamiliar voice at all.
Not at all.
A sudden, unmistakable thought flashed through Optimus's processor:
It was her.
The Femme he'd met that morning.
The one who'd dismantled Starscream with such ease that the feared Decepticon seemed little more than a pesky insect to be squashed.
That memory suddenly resurfaced, bringing with it a familiar sensation:
A dull ache in his shoulder.
It wasn't intense, but it was enough to be noticed. Annoying, persistent.
Your "gentle touch" had left a mark, a small physical reminder of your encounter. As if he truly needed another reminder.
And yet, one crucial detail persisted. He still didn't know your name.
That doubt crept inside him, silently gnawing at his circuitry like a creeping, insidious virus. That void of information echoed in his processor, obsessive and unstoppable, more cumbersome than any military order issued.
And then there was the legacy of your presence: the memory of your firm touch, a symbol imprinted on his armor, almost branding him.
He waited. Until the next time.
If there actually was one.
And that moment materialized; You quickly reappeared.
Meanwhile, in Ratchet's processor, turmoil began. Fragments of a past he had repressed or deliberately buried resurfaced, like forgotten shadows now illuminated by your voice.
And at that sound, Ratchet's internal system processed a single piece of data: your designation.
(D/n).
A whirlwind of emotions and frantic thoughts overwhelmed his every circuit. He tried to maintain a stoic facade, concealing his inner turmoil as best he could. But his weathered faceplate betrayed him; his metallic features revealed something even he couldn't fully control.
A tiny crack in his steel mask became visible to those who knew him too well. Optimus Prime caught the change instantly, a subtle signal that spoke louder than a thousand words: surprise, disorientation, and… something unexpectedly sweet.
In that fleeting moment, Optimus understood everything. Not only did Ratchet know you—he knew you well. Too well.
Your irreverent vocalizer broke the atmosphere of carefully calibrated tension:
"Ratchyyyy, you really should not strain your voice box—"
You emerged from the darkness with incredible grace, like a well-modulated whisper that seemed borrowed from silence itself. Your temporary hiding place had enveloped you in the space where artificial light gave way to the thickest shadows—a dead zone that served as perfect cover. With your optics off and your breathing rate under control, you had been a ghost between the mechs and the human in the room.
Not even Prowl, with his legendary attention to detail, would have noticed your maneuver. Had he awoken from his forced stasis, he would most likely have begged you to teach him the technique; but you knew all too well that it was a skill you jealously guarded, for yourself and no one else.
The others stared at you with a mixture of disbelief and confusion: how had you found their base? And more importantly, how had you evaded every single alarm system without triggering anything?
Ratchet, however, wasn't surprised. He knew you too well to be. You'd used this trick before during missions in enemy bases, and it was precisely this that had made you one of the most extraordinary soldiers under Magnus's command. Your reputation was justified: no wall was too high, no sentry too vigilant, no technology too advanced to stop you.
And as always, your brazenness quickly resurfaced:
"Unless you want to blow some circuits…"
You chuckled as you confidently approached the gruff doctor. Your arm rested gently on his shoulders, while you, with a casual gesture, cupped one of his plump, metallic cheeks with your servo.
His cheeks flushed slightly blue, a clear sign that, despite the passage of time, the memory of you was still fresh in his processor.
Your moment was abruptly interrupted by a sudden cough.
Almost reflexively, you looked around at the others in the room. Bulkhead was clearly the one responsible for the noise: he was fiddling with his servos, awkwardly, trying to clumsily draw attention to himself.
"Um, a-are we—" he stammered, stubbornly avoiding optics contact with his large optics. His digits made a nervous clicking sound, cute and slightly involuntary. His expression? Pure, simple, embarrassed confusion.
With a chuckle, you turned your full attention to the shy wrecker.
"Oh~ Absolutely not, big guy!" You began in a cheerful and theatrical tone, momentarily abandoning Ratchet to walk over to Bulkhead. You stared at him intentionally, exaggerating your movements, as if to disarm him further.
Oh yes ~ . This would have been very amusing.
"Look at that, you look almost more tense than a freshly oiled engine!" Your playful tone floated through the air, accompanied by the exuberant movements of your servos. Your energy seemed unstoppable, and no mech in the compartment could ever match your crackling enthusiasm.
Without even realizing it, you had already dragged poor Bulkhead into a vortex of overwhelming audacity and chaotic improvisation. It was your trademark, that irresistible mix of spontaneity and overconfidence. A combination that sent everyone around you into a tailspin, including him… but it was best not to reveal it too openly.
That was you, Undeniably yourself: the same one who wouldn't have thought twice about laughing carefree even in front of Ultra Magnus, if only it weren't for that little detail called "keeping your job."
Ratchet watched the whole scene, seemingly impassive but with an aftertaste of inevitable resignation. You were destined to upset the delicate balance of the team, that much was clear. It was only a matter of time before you also became familiar with Bumblebee and rallied the entire group for some epic adventure or organized disaster. And yes, he was already sighing at the mere thought.
A slight headache was beginning to creep into his processor. Resigned, Ratchet let out a barely audible snort of frustration. Best not to think about it for now.
May he be granted plenty of energy.
A sudden sound—your vibrant chatter—brought him back to reality. He shook his thoughts away and fixed his optics on your larger frame again. You seemed tireless, dominating the scene with your incomparable vitality.
"Oh, but where have my manners gone… "You began, clearing your intake with a theatricality reminiscent of a student on their first day of school. "Designation: (D/n). Currently an Elite Guard and… an old 'friend.'"
The conspicuous movement of your digits, emphasizing the word "friend" in quotation marks, went unnoticed by most of those present, except for small, silent human that had approached with a stealthy, discreet step.
"…of your grumpy doctor," you continued, your tone a little more relaxed. "I was sent here by Ultra Magnus to—"
Your introduction came to an abrupt halt as your optics finally captured the small figure of a human, now standing a few feet away, staring directly at you.
"Look who we have here…"
Fluidly and without any stiffness in your movements, you lowered yourself to your knees, bringing yourself to a visual level close to that of the little human. As you settled, you could hear the faint hum of your metal plates finding a more stable configuration.
"…Hello, little one."
The smile that accompanied your words was kind and sincere. With studied and deliberately delicate gestures, you placed the open servo in front of the child—a clear, yet unforced, invitation.
She examined that servo for a few moments. Then, hesitant but intrigued, she accepted the invitation.
When you lifted Sari to your faceplate, your demeanor changed to one of extreme sweetness: "What's your name, darling?"
The little girl's name came timidly, almost whispered: "S-Sari…"
Click. The mechanisms of your faceplate adjusted imperceptibly into a softer mimicry, the touch of your expression becoming something incredibly human.
"Sari, huh?" You repeated with an intonation that exuded warmth. One of your metal fingers cautiously reached out to touch one of her pigtails, as if they were the most precious thing.
"A perfect name… as sweet as your beautiful face."
With the tip of your digits, you traced a small circle in the air, just close to her cheek but never quite touching it. The gesture had more the feel of vigilant protection than of invasive curiosity.
Meanwhile, Sari was thinking about how incredibly cool you were! Sari couldn't take her eyes off your sinuous lines, the way you moved with a natural grace that seemed innate. She'd never had the chance to observe a cybertronian femme up so close, and everything about you fascinated her like never before.
She wonder if you would have liked playing with her..… She ran a finger across her lip, holding back a smile as her imagination already imagined her walking on your shoulder during missions or chatting with you, proudly showing off her Earth-bound gadgets.
Maybe you could even teach her how to fight!
The desire to get to know you better grew by the minute. She wanted to learn more about you, what it meant to be such a strong warrior. And maybe even something about your connection to the Autobot medic.
As time went by, you and Sari began to spend more and more hours together. Without even realizing it, you had become a guide for her, a reassuring presence: that figure so much like an older sister, a bond Sari had never experienced but had always longed for. It didn't matter if you weren't truly one; for her, that was enough.
By now, your company was a constant. During missions, when she was left behind at the base, she no longer felt alone. Your days were filled with shared moments:
You told her stories of your home planet, opening up an unknown world for her.
You helped her navigate schoolwork, which she often found boring or difficult.
And you simply stood by her side, a silent but reassuring presence.
Over time, your closeness grew, so much so that it truly seemed as if you had welcomed her like a little sister to protect. She too felt over the moon, admiring your strength and skill with the enthusiasm and wonder of someone observing their idol up close.
But, as often happens in life, the moment came to face a question you'd rather avoid.
That day, you were together in his bedroom: a cozy and well-kept space, almost a personal refuge that contrasted sharply with the functional disorder of the Autobot base. The walls were decorated with posters of old Earth bands and images of mythological creatures from distant worlds. Curious, your gaze wandered everywhere: shelves and tables were laden with gadgets, toys, and electronic devices of every kind, intricate and fascinating in their fragility.
Next to the bed, a workbench showcased her creative spirit: among the scattered metal components and cluttered tools, the soul of a brilliant little inventor could be seen.
At that precise moment, she was absorbed in combing the silky hair of one of her dolls. And obviously, you were doing the same, with a delicacy unusual for your usually robust nature, caring for another doll. Your digits handled it with extreme care, perfectly aware of the intrinsic fragility of a human toy, so different from the sturdy, metallic ones of your childhood days on Cybertron.
Suddenly, the rhythmic motion of the brush stopped in Sari's hands. The little girl looked at you with a questioning look, filled with that innocent curiosity that characterizes small humans, while her mind was clearly buzzing, filled with questions ready to explode.
Immersed in your work, focused on what you were doing, you hadn't noticed those eyes that continued to search your face, full of unexpressed thoughts. It wasn't until you heard that hesitant little voice call out to you: "Um… (D/n)?"
The call of your designation immediately snapped you out of your concentration. Your helm rose in a fluid motion, the optics focusing on Sari with an expression so perfectly confused it seemed straight out of an anime—as if you were expecting to see a giant question mark materialize next to your helmet.
With your facial plates tilted just enough to radiate curiosity, you stared at her patiently, waiting to understand the reason for her interruption.
"Can I ask you something?" Sari asked. The seriousness in her tone couldn't go unnoticed; a hint of shyness added further depth to her request. What could she possibly ask you?
A nod was all she needed to gather her courage. You noticed her nervousness hidden in small gestures: her eyes wandered around the room, trying to find the right words from the void to formulate the thought buzzing in her head.
"Why do you always smile when you talk about Ratchet?"
Your optics widened for an infinitesimal moment, a meticulous mechanical movement that betrayed surprise. Immediately afterward, you attempted to compose yourself.
"Smiling? When did I ever—"
The answer wasn't enough to stem the enterprising girl's gust of cunning. A mischievous smile began to appear on her face. "Yessss! Like now! And yesterday too, when she scolded you for touching her tools… you made that face!"
Your energy field underwent a visible change: the air around you seemed to tremble slightly under the weight of your embarrassment, which was no longer concealable. And if there was one thing Sari knew well, it was precisely that reaction: the unmistakable signal that she had you trapped, with no way out.
"What a spy you are…" you finally confessed, without even attempting a plausible defense.
It seemed like a conclusive admission, enough to settle the debate. But Sari? She was never prepared to leave things hanging.
"SO IT'S TRUE!" Her triumph exploded in a cry of victory as she clenched her fists in exultation. "I can help you! I've seen plenty of romantic movies with Dad… I know exactly how—"
You cut her off with a curt, "No plans, little star," your metal fingers mimicking a slash through the air. "That old wreck is… complicated."
Too bad the word "complicated" turned out to be the fatal ignition for the most dangerous mechanisms in the universe: the brain brimming with ideas of an eight-year-old girl determined to solve what you were desperately trying to ignore.
Oh no.
Oh no no no!
And you knew it. Inside that miniature skull, the alveoli were already smoking. Star-shaped pupils, nails drumming on her chin as the evil plan in her head was beginning to take shape with frightening speed.
OPERATION: SPARKS IN LOVE. COMMENCED.
— HEADCANONS —
— Of course, Sari would be the first to notice that rascal never misses a beat. One day, she explodes into the common room, not only shouting out your interest in Ratchet but also adding, "COME ON GUYS, IT WAS OBVIOUS, HOW COULD YOU NOT NOTICE?!"
— Well, better late than never, right?
— OPTIMUS PRIME —
— When Optimus finds out from an enthusiastic Sari that Ratchet has an admirer, his emotions will be decidedly ambivalent. Of course, he'd be happy for his grumpy friend, but at the same time, he might be surprised to see Ratchet in a relationship, given his cold and aloof nature. Optimus might mull over, "Is it really possible that our old doctor has a hidden side?" But ultimately, he'd know that Ratchet deserves a little happiness in his life.
— Ratchet has never been the type for romance or sparkmates—he's always preferred solitude, believing love to be an inefficient distraction. But apparently, he was wrong. And while Optimus would be the first to agree, he'd also admit—with a barely perceptible smile—that the idea of their gruff doctor in a relationship… well, it still feels a little weird to him.
— Not that Ratchet would ever let him comment on it out loud, anyway. A single scowl and Optimus would throw up his hands in surrender.
— It might not seem like it, but Optimus would be the kind of mech to pepper you with questions about what attracts you to Ratchet. He knows the old medic all too welland those little tips he'd give you on how to handle certain sensitive topics? They'd work. Without fail. He knows exactly how to approach that stubborn guy.
— Optimus doesn't seem like the type, but he's extremely protective of his friend. He certainly doesn't want your crush to be just a brief infatuation—he knows how much it would hurt Ratchet if he were disappointed. To him, preserving his friend's hope is far more important than any personal curiosity.
— Optimus would have that you work alongside Ratchet more often. Not only to increase the time we spend together, but also to try to get you to open up a little more. Maybe, spending more time together, you could make a difference...!
— BUMBLEBEE —
— Bumblebee would be the one dropping his jaw like, "RATCHET?! SERIOUSLY?! How did he do that?!" Then he'd pepper him with questions until the poor doctor finally gave him one of his death glares.
— Yet, beneath the shock, he would be overjoyed that the old doctor finally has someone (even if he still doesn't understand how it's possible).
— Bumblebee would be jealous of how the old doctor has an effortless admirer while he has nothing. Yes, he has unfinished business, a war to wage, defending the humans, and blah blah blah, but... he'd still feel a little jealous.
— Like Optimus, though, he hopes your interest in Ratchet isn't just a passing crush, but something more solid and lasting—a spark of true connection.
— Beware of little Bumblebee, who's not to be trifled with—despite his innocent appearance, he could turn the tables and get the two of you to spend a lot of time together. After all, who knows: maybe you'll end up becoming Conjunxes.
— If there's one thing Bumblebee is determined to do, it's to make this budding couple blossom. And he's determined to use any excuse to keep you two stuck together. Nothing can stand in the way of his plan—not even Ratchet, that's for sure. With the help of Sari, perhaps (and later, Bulkhead), they'll do everything they can to make everything go smoothly.
— Bumblebee will be your second-biggest fan of the your ship (Sari is the number one), ready to use any excuse to tease you both. Be careful, because that little mech is hell-bent on watching his favorite couple set sail—even if that means you'll have to be incredibly patient with him and his antics!
— BULKHEAD —
— The most overreaction? Probably Bulkhead's. The big mech will be the first to drop his jaw, seeing how the old doctor has captured the heart of a belle femme—obviously without any effort (or so he pretends). Bulkhead can't keep up with the situation, and has no idea what's about to happen... but one thing he knows for sure: it's going to be crazy.
— Bulkhead, in his typical exuberant style, couldn't contain himself, jumping up and down with excitement—"RATCHET?! WITH A FEMALE?!"—as if this were the discovery of the century. His naiveté would lead him to ask very direct questions like, "So… do you like it when he grumbles? Because I usually run away."
— Imagine: Bulkhead accidentally destroying a passageway, just to force you to spend time together. And the wrecker would give a trademark toothy grin and shrug: "Oops? Anyway, Ratch, that's not so bad. At least you can talk a little, right?"
"BULKHEAD, I SWEAR I'LL BREAK YOU TO PIECES AND BUILD YOU BACK AS A VACUUM CLEANER—"
— But ultimately, he's just another important member who cares about you two, and wants to see this little love blossom and flourish.
— PROWL —
— Prowl would be the last one to expect it—Ratchet? With an admirer—and yet, against all odds, he'd remain strangely calm. Perhaps because, beneath all that ninja composure, he's still happy the old doctor has found someone. (But don't say that out loud, or he'd deny it all with a 'Hmph. Inefficient.')
— Naturally, he'd keep all his thoughts to himself—not that he's usually much of a talker, after all. But underneath it all, the mech-nin would be curious to see how things unfold between the two of you. After all, everything that happens on the ship interests him, too—in a more general way, of course. Certainly not because he's interested in Ratchet's love life.
— If Ratchet has truly found someone for him, it's important that everything unfolds according to plan—and the doctor is known to never have things under control. In that sort of thing, at least. Maybe he should keep an eye on him and you... to make sure everything's okay. Of course, he'd only do it for Ratchet's sake—nothing more.
— Ultimately, Ratchet is just a good mech who deserves a little happiness. Sure, he's grumpy and grumpy, but underneath that steel armor lies a good heart. Someone will have to make things work between him and you—and if necessary, Prowl will be ready to step in, for the sake of general safety, of course.
— And as Prowl continues to observe your accidental encounters arranged by Bee (with Bulkhead casually pushing Ratchet towards you every time), something in his spark tells him that... maybe this relationship could actually work. But it's Ratchet, so you better prepare for a cosmic-level emotional disaster before the happy ending.
What Ratchet and the Reader reminded me of while i was writing :
Mtmte Fort Max x reader scenario where reader promises to protect him? The LL found them in a different universe where the autobots succeeded in creating their own phase sixers and reader was one of them. The reason they left their dimension behind was because they completed their task: slay all the decepticon phase sixers, but lost everything and everyone they ever cared about. Reader tells him that they’ve slain phase sixers before and they’ll slay even more if it makes Max feel safe.
My favorite autobot big boy FORTRESS MAXIMUS :D - HERE YOU GO!!!
Fortress Maximus x Gn! Alternate Universe! Phase Sixer! Reader.
(Scenario)
Scenario: Finally, peace had enveloped the universe. The Lost Light had accomplished the impossible: it had neutralized the last threats and found the legendary Knights of Cybertron. Yet, victory had a bitter taste. Too many familiar faces were absent, too many scars marked their structure. That illusion of serenity was shattered by a distorted distress signal, lost in the depths of the cosmos. Following that call, the ship would find itself at the edge of an unknown universe. And there, in the unknown depths, a figure as familiar as it was enigmatic awaited them: A Phase Sixer. But not just any Phase Sixer. An Autobot Phase Sixer.
Tw: The Fortress Maximus of the reader's universe dies, war is mentioned, and the reader violently k*lls all the Phase Sixers in their universe.
Length: 2.3k
Finding themselves in another universe was decidedly out of the ordinary, even by the standards of the Lost Light. After everything they'd faced and seen—vanished civilizations, Decepticons reborn as saints, a pacifist Megatron—this seemed like just another addition to the long list of 'Things we thought impossible, but happened anyway.'
After all, when had they ever stuck to anything ordinary? Aboard that ship, fate had developed a habit of delivering at least one catastrophe a day. Was this the result of Rodimus' chaotic leadership? Probably. But fortunately, Ultra Magnus and Drift were there to 'hold the pieces together with duct tape and a ton of regulations,' as some among the crew quipped.
What was irreparable, however, were the losses. Too many faces that didn't add up, too many betrayals etched like scars in the memories of those left behind. It all started that day. After the death of Optimus Prime.
That designation continued to echo, heavy as the burden of an entire galaxy. The Prime. The one who had managed to earn the respect even of his adversaries. Sitting in the command post, Rodimus drummed his digits nervously on the armrest while absentmindedly chewing an energon goodie, lost in thought. 'Someday I want to be like him. But the more I try, the more impossible it seems…'
A sudden sound brought him back to reality. "Rodimus."
Ultra Magnus's determined voice called him back. The silence of the deep cosmos enveloped them as the Lost Light moved at cruising speed; their mission seemed complete: Phase Sixers eliminated, Cybertron at peace. And yet…
"We've intercepted a distress call."
Rodimus didn't falter for a moment. "We're taking action."
Drift advanced slowly, his blades clinking lightly behind him. "Rodimus," he began gravely, "the call is coming from a multidimensional rift."
The atmosphere on the bridge became tense, almost electric. Even the constant hum of the ship's systems seemed to have died down, waiting for a response. Rodimus remained silent for a few moments, drumming his digits nervously before glancing resolutely at everyone.
"A distress call is a distress call." He finally broke the silence, his vocalizer surprisingly steady. "It doesn't matter where it comes from." He paused briefly, then added with a tired smile that failed to hide the uneasiness in his optics, "And anyway, when did we ever choose the safe route?"
Drift stared at him, his arms crossed and his gaze twisted with doubt. "Rodimus, this time is different. Dimensional tears don't follow the same rules as quantum jumps. We could be dealing with something completely—"
"We could also be dealing with someone who needs our help," Rodimus interrupted decisively, rising from his seat. "And we are Autobots. Helping isn't just what we do; it's who we are."
Ultra Magnus sighed, the sound of his vocalizer accompanied by a faint crackle of static. "Regulation 17-B, Section 4, Subsection…"
"Magnus, please, let's forget the rules for once." Rodimus ran a servo over his faceplate, the weight of exhaustion sagging his shoulders. "We've seen enough horrors in this war. If there's even a chance to do the right thing, we must take it."
In the control room, the distress signal continued to flash on the main monitor, its intermittent rhythm like a heartbeat on the verge of dying. The coordinates pointed to a precise destination: a dimensional rift that loomed on the screen like an abyss of unstable energy, a gaping wound in the fabric of reality itself.
"Start the engines." Rodimus's command rang out firmly as he turned to the crew. "Plot a course for those coordinates. And… let's prepare for whatever lies ahead."
The Lost Light slowly rotated, pointing its bow toward the dimensional rift. Rodimus seethed with uneasiness; he couldn't shake the thought of who or what might be on the other side.
When they arrived at their destination, the scene that greeted them was far from comfortable. Everything was eerily reminiscent of Garrus-9: the same twisted rock formations, the same canyons carved by the relentless winds of the cosmos. But everything was pervaded by death. No artificial light to illuminate the darkness, no trace of life energy. Only battered structures and battle scars etched into the planetary crust like deep claw wounds.
"It's as if someone took Garrus-9 and drained every last drop of life from it."
Drift advanced cautiously across this familiar yet unrecognizable terrain, his trusty blades emitting an unsettling resonance. "It's not just abandoned here… it's been desecrated."
Rodimus remained silent, his gaze fixed on a distant feature: a broken tower rising against the sky like a silent accusation. It had once been a maximum-security prison. Now there was no trace of the cells, nor of the imposing defenses. Only metal hulks and melted debris bore witness to what had happened.
Ultra Magnus broke the silence with his firm tone. "Scans complete. No lifeforms identified, however…" His vocalizer stopped abruptly as his circuits began to process something unexpected.
"What, 'however'?" Rodimus asked, his gaze alert and penetrating.
"There's an energy signature," Magnus replied, his vocalizer laced with a strange hesitation.
Fortress Maximus intervened with his usual authority. "What does that mean, exactly?" he asked, disrupting the fragile balance of the conversation. The giant Titan-class mech, always prepared for any eventuality, had already activated every weapon system before abandoning the Lost Light. The ominous hum of its weapons echoed in the void like a warning signal.
Garrus-9.
The mere name of the mech brought back moments of torment. Buried memories resurfaced for a violent instant, but Fort Max, with a deliberate effort, bent those emotional impulses under the weight of logic. 'One can never be too careful', he told himself, as he scanned the bleak landscape. His optics shone like searchlights, ready to capture any hidden threat.
"It's Cybertronian energy," Ultra Magnus clarified, his analysis precise but tinged with puzzlement. "However, something isn't right… there are anomalies I've never seen before."
Fort Max was silent for a moment before giving a slow nod of understanding.
A heavy silence settled between them, broken only by the wind whistling through the ruins like a wail. The four of them turned their audials up to maximum sensitivity, ready to pick up even the slightest rustle amid the surrounding desolation.
Drift was the first to break the palpable tension, his blades already drawn and ready for use. "I don't like this place at all," he said, giving voice to the sense of unease the others preferred to suppress.
They didn't even have time to respond when a dissonant vibration suddenly rippled through the ground beneath them. The group reacted instinctively, every metal fiber in their bodies springing to attention.
Fortress Maximus was the quickest. His weapons automatically reoriented, snapping into position with the precision of a killing machine. His rifle emitted a menacing buzz, already configured for the fearsome maximum lethality mode.
"Someone is approaching," Drift whispered as he tightened his grip on his twin blades, synchronized to the frantic rhythm of the pulses in his circuits. His optics narrowed, he scanned the horizon like a predator awaiting prey.
Rodimus raised his pistol, but the usual sarcasm that characterized his comments had evaporated, giving way to a tense, unironic grin. "Friend or foe?"
Ultra Magnus preferred not to waste unnecessary words. The metal of his weapon made a cold click as he prepared to fire.
"Friend."
A single word. Cold. Yet laden with a weight that made their circuits tremble more than any battle cry could.
Weapons still raised with steady, attentive hands, they slowly turned toward the source of the noise, ready to discover what had alerted them. What they saw left them breathless.
Behind them loomed the imposing figure of a Phase Sixer… but they looked nothing like the ones they had known in their old battles.
Your armor, once a shining symbol of invulnerability and supreme strength, now bore the unmistakable marks of centuries of battle and suffering:
Chipped, like glass cracked by a myriad of blows, it even bore visible etchings in the smallest details, as if cosmic entities had tried in vain to strip it of its essence.
And finally, it was faded, its paint worn by time, and it spoke of incessant battles, fought with obstinacy.
But it was your optics that captured their full attention:
Completely dull and lifeless, they were a dull shell that expressed only bewilderment. They should have embodied the flame that once burned tirelessly, but now there remained nothing but ashes.
The long scar that ran across your metal cheek seemed to etch not only your faceplate, but your very core, a silent reminder of past battles.
And finally, what truly shocked them: the Autobot emblems etched into your metal arms. Still clearly visible, those symbols were charged with memories, tangible representations of a loyalty that would proudly display before anyone's optics.
A Phase Sixer Autobot?
Was it really possible?!
Rodimus felt a slight tremor in the servo holding the pistol. No one had ever mentioned the existence of a Phase Sixer among their ranks. It defied all logic, every tale they knew…
Ultra Magnus was the first to break the silence of waiting, speaking in a deep, firm vocalizer: "Identify yourself." The tone was as cold as tempered metal, but a faint tremor betrayed his caution.
You didn't respond immediately. When he finally spoke, your vocalizer echoed like distant, slow thunder:
"I am the one who sent the signal."
Rodimus crossed his arms, but without loosening his grip on his gun. "What is… the reason for your emergency message?"
A deep sound, like a sigh distorted by a malfunctioning vocalizer, emanated from the colossal individual.
"My universe…"
Your vocalizer trailed off, leaving a void hanging in the air. Your servos clenched into fists and then slowly relaxed, as if struggling to formulate your thoughts.
"It's slowly dying…"
Fortress Maximus snapped to attention. "What do you mean?"
"As if reality itself were crumbling," you explained, your bright optics pulsing faintly with a hint of despair. "It's as if the fabric of the multiverse has been torn, dragging fragments from other dimensions into the void. I… I believe i'm among the last survivors. When i sent the signal, only you responded."
Rodimus frowned, confused and disturbed. It was difficult for him to comprehend the scope of such a tragedy.
"Wait… you mean your entire universe is… about to collapse?" he asked, almost a whisper choked with disbelief.
A slow, resigned nod of your helmet was the answer. Accompanied by your gaze, now tired and dull for decades.
Drift turned to Rodimus, concern etched into the features of the faceplate. "If what he says is true… it could put all the multiverses at risk, including ours."
Ultra Magnus finally lowered his weapon, but his tone was still as sharp as a blade. "We cannot afford to let our guard down… not in the presence of a Phase Sixer." His sensors carefully scanned your hulking form before him. "Not especially when Phase Sixers and Autobots have never been synonymous."
In response, you let out a broken laugh, laced with bitterness and exhaustion. "In your universe, perhaps. But in mine… things are different. We were created as a last resort to fight the Phase Sixer Decepticons."
You raised a massive arm, displaying the worn Autobot crest, barely visible amid the scars of countless battles. Your optics then lowered to the damaged servos, the trembling digits still bearing the weight of painful memories.
"In my world, the Autobots also developed a Phase Sixer program as a last resort," you continued, your vocalizer heavy and tinged with pain. "For a time… it worked. We were used to counter the advancing Decepticons and their own Phase Sixers. We fought with every fiber of our being to protect vulnerable planets…"
Another pause. The vocalizer produced a faint crackle of static—a sound like a sob being held back.
"… until the day they took away what I loved most."
Your dull optics settled on Fortress Maximus with agonizing intensity, as if each resurfacing memory inflicted a new wound.
"My Fortress Maximus. He was struck down by an enemy Phase Sixer during the siege of Crystal City. I… I didn't see him fall. But I felt the bond between us fading, his life signal dissolving in my connections."
With a slightly trembling servo, you touched the scar on your faceplate, an instinctive gesture, as if that memory still burned beneath the surface of his armor.
"When I returned to the field… there was nothing left to bury. Only his rifle."
Drift pressed his derma together, holding his breath, as Rodimus lowered the weapon he held completely, his faceplate rigid in an involuntary expression of pity.
"So I did what I was built to do," you continued, your vocalizer cracking with a harsh note of anger and pain. "I hunted down every single Phase Sixer Decepticon. One by one, I found them. I faced them. I destroyed them with my own servos. And when the last of them fell…"
You turned, looking up at the dappled, dark sky of Garrus-9, desolate in its shattered vastness.
"…I realized I had nothing left. No one to fight for anymore."
At that, Fortress Maximus let his defenses falter. It was only for a moment—a slight flicker in his optics, an involuntary relaxation of the metal structure—but that moment was enough.
You chose not to let that opportunity pass you by.
With measured, deliberate movements, you approached him. Drift started to intervene, but Rodimus stopped him with an almost imperceptible gesture.
Wait.
You lifted your left servo—the least compromised one—and placed it with incredible delicacy on Fortress Maximus's metal cheek. At the sudden contact, a slight shudder left Fort's derma.
Your gaze tightened, while your vocalizer manifested itself as an unwavering promise.
"No Phase Sixer—no being—will ever harm you again. I will destroy them before they can even speak your designation."
