So on for the writing request I'm alright to do it. You can dropped the req by comment on this chapter or ask-box through Tumblr, both work, but please make sure your request doesn't violate the following:

incestany
sexual content about minors (if any, I'm just mentioning it)

That's all for now, I may add more later if I think of anything, so please check back everytime before you make a requests — And please make sure that whenever you send a request, please include the plot/idea/trope/vibe (or whatever/anything you can think of) + continuity + characters everytime

But any additional details are welcome too! such as personality, theme (or even song fic/any references. I can work with that)

continuity I would do for is

IDW 2005&2019 (MTMTE, LL etc), TFP, TFO, WFC, G1, Beast war, Eartspark, Bayverse, ROTB (will add more)
also willing to do brave of gold goldran, brave police j-decker + other japanese show as well

enjoy!

Chapter 2: SCENARIO: Fine print - swindle (any, IDW)

Chapter Text

After the war ended with the Autobots technically “winning” and all – what was left of the economy and legal system resembled a scrapyard fire on a windy day

Enter you: the infamous gray-area legal consultant with a perfect courtroom win streak and a billing rate that makes senators sweat. As long as clients bring enough shanix, you're their savior in a three-piece suit. Which is why you haven't had a single peaceful recharge cycle — former Decepticons are lining up outside your office like it's a Black Friday sale, all begging for: “record wipes / charges dropped / confiscated property restored”

Apparently, galactic war crimes are just.. paperwork now

And one of the most unhinged clients you’ve ever had the misfortune (or financial fortune) to take on?

SWINDLE

Arms dealer. Con artist. Entrepreneur. A one-mech Wall Street crash with wheels. He swears up and down he’s done nothing wrong—he just happens to maintain a “business contact list” featuring every name responsible for minor incidents like, oh, intergalactic war. According to him, he's not guilty, he's just networked

“I didn’t sell weapons to radical insurgents! I just... opened a pop-up shop next to their hideout. Coincidence!”

“You literally put up a sign that said ‘Half off for certified terrorists"

“That was just marketing!"

Swindle talks like he’s being paid by the word, lies like it’s a religion, and schemes with the grace of a turbofox in a jewelry store. He’s slippery, shameless, and morally bankrupt—but hey, he pays on time. (In stolen tech, counterfeit credits, or suspiciously ticking crates, sure. But still)

You? You’re sharp, strategic, and so chronically unimpressed you might be legally classified as allergic to bullshit. You despise his laugh, dread his entrance, and yet… you keep taking his jobs. Because, well. Money smells better than morals

Every deal starts with ten rounds of shouting, legal threats, and Swindle trying to weasel out of his own paperwork. Every time ends the same

“Swindle” you begin, with the tone of someone who’s about ten seconds from launching themselves into the sun. “You just confessed to registering a business that sells personal nuclear energy... under the names of three dead bots.. that's–”

Swindle beams like a mech who just got away with shoplifting a tank “It’s called creative accounting! And hey, I never used those names to buy bombs. That was, like, a totally different Thursday”

You inhale slowly. Exhale even slower. Somewhere in your frontal processor, a stress circuit quietly fries itself

“Do you want to walk out of this courtroom, or should I go print out the arrest warrant myself in Comic Sans and hand-deliver it to Ultra Magnus with a bow?”

Swindle raises both hands like he’s being held at blasterpoint—optics wide, grin wider “Okay! Okay! I’ll follow your script! Just—please—don’t write ‘intent to defraud’ in the summary. It’s bad for the brand”

You blink “Brand? You’re a glorified black-market vending machine with legs

Swindle and you? It started as a business arrangement—a painfully loud, legally questionable business arrangement. But somewhere between the bribes, the threats, and the deeply unethical invoices, things got... complicated

You both are survivors. Quick with your words, quicker with your lies. Not evil, just desperately allergic to poverty. And as much as you hate to admit it, Swindle: the galaxy’s most untrustworthy lifeform, might just be the one who gets you the most
He’s a walking lawsuit in a sales pitch, you’re a ticking stress ball in a three-piece suit. He flirts like it’s a side hustle, and every time he drops some smug one-liner your way, there’s this... weird tension. The kind that makes you grip a file folder hard enough to bend steel, just to stop yourself from throwing it at his smirking face

Because sure, he’s slippery, shameless, and full of scrap. But primus help you—he always pays and worse… he always comes back

Chapter 3: SCENARIO: Silver tongue, golden sword - thunderclash (IDW)

Chapter Text

After the war, Cybertron decided to pull itself together in the most typical Autobots way—by forming an "interim" government to restore a society that was already as shattered as a cheap knockoff energon bottle. Of course, in the process, they dug themselves into a hole so deep, it might as well have been a grave

The laws they implemented had more loopholes than an all-you-can-eat energon buffet, and to make things worse, there were still those radical Decepticons who had clearly missed the memo about the war being over

And here you are —your quintessential morally gray Decepticon, a master of cunning, sarcasm, and somehow making even the most ridiculous legal loopholes work in their favor. They were the type to turn every corner into an opportunity to profit, often with a smirk that could sell sand to a desert. And then one day, out of the goodness of their very questionable heart, they “offer” to help control the radical Decepticons through political maneuvering and some good old-fashioned internal sabotage

The catch? All they wanted was to have their war crimes erased. For good measure

"Sign here, and I’ll stop telling the Decepticons to toss bombs at Parliament. Promise"

The government took their sweet time, dragging their feet like they were all waiting for the slowest shuttle to arrive. Then came…

Thunderclash

The "legendary" bot of honor, who was somehow promoted to the role of "Head of Security and Peace Reconciliation" after returning from some cosmic mission. With Optimus nowhere to be found, he was now the symbol of hope for the masses. Too bad he ended up running smack into the you—who, let's be honest, was basically the equivalent of a cockroach that always found a way to dodge every trap

"you look stressed. Did you have a nightmare about me becoming Minister of Defense?"

"I'm just concerned that one day you'll sell the government to yourself at a 50% discount"

"nah-ah, I wouldn’t sell it. I’d give it away for free to myself, of course"

Thunderclash stood there, all stiff and prim, like he was made out of the finest steel and righteousness. He stared at you as you casually flicked through the contract, like it was just some napkin you found in your pocket

"So, are you actually threatening us into accepting a criminal as a peace consultant?"

"No, no, I’m trying to help you avoid another civil war, big guy. All you have to do is not hang me in front of the Cyber Senate. Seems like a fair trade, don’t you think?" you said with all the charm of a used-car salesman, hiding a venomous edge behind that sweet smile. Yes, you were blackmailing the government and the council, but hey, at least you were getting the "consultant" position—and a clean slate. Think of it as a bonus for being slightly evil

Thunderclash’s brow furrowed so hard you thought it might snap. "You’re playing with people’s lives"

"Oh, I’m playing with the law, darling. People’s lives just happen to come with it. Who knew the side effects would be so… explosive?" you teased, reveling in the chaos you'd stirred up

At first, Thunderclash didn’t believe a word you said. You were about as irritating as a wasp in a room full of autopilots—joking about morals every chance you got, derailing every serious conversation, and poking at him like you were some kind of entertainment

But as time went on, Thunderclash started seeing things differently. You weren’t trying to destroy everything... you just didn’t believe anyone could actually build something "good"
And you? Well, you started realizing that Thunderclash wasn’t a fool. He wasn’t the bright-eyed idealist you thought he was

he was just stubborn enough to want to be everyone’s hope, even if it cost him everything

Chapter 4: SCENARIO: Throne and fall - megatron (IDW)

Chapter Text

Cybertron was cracking at the seams under a system rotting from the inside out. Senators were vanishing—some swallowed up by the old powers clinging to their last shreds of control, others suddenly struck with the horrifying revelation that the utopia they helped build might actually be a festering corpse in a pretty frame

And you? You were one of the very few still willing to hold a conversation with

Megatronus

—that once-idealistic writer from Kaon who somehow climbed the ladder from poet to proletariat messiah to public enemy number one, depending on who you asked. You didn’t agree with his extremist nonsense, of course. But you also weren’t naive enough to pretend he was completely wrong

You weren’t here to be a hero. You weren’t interested in sacrifices, revolutions, or statues in your honor. All you wanted—really, honestly—was for the system to keep functioning… preferably without dragging you to hell in a flaming dumpster of ideology

“I help you ..Because I want the world to change in a way I can still survive in. If you’re a tool sharp enough to get the job done, I’ll use you”

“And if I turn out to be a blade that cuts you instead?”

“Then I’d better hope I break the handle before you break the rest of me”

“What I want” you said, leaning back into your chair with the casual languor of someone bored with everything except the game at hand “is the right to survive without ending up as dry scrap under the wheels of your revolution”

You tilted your head slightly, tone as dry as old energon rations

“I’m not aiming to be some grand architect of destiny. I’d just prefer not to be flung out of orbit when your world starts spinning a little too hard”

He shifted—just a little. Barely enough to notice. A twitch of the mouth, the flicker of restrained amusement. Not quite a laugh, but close enough that it annoyed you

“You play deep” he said. Voice unreadable. Could’ve been praise. Could’ve been a warning

“And you play rough” you fired back without missing a beat “Someone like you needs a spark to light the charge. Me? I’m not fire. I’m just a matchstick—one that’s going to cost far more than it’s worth if you try to strike it without negotiating the price first”

Megatron’s optics narrowed, a slow and dangerous focus settling over his face

“And what’s your price, Senator?”

“Oh, I don’t sell” you replied, that acid grin curling on your lips “I’m the match that lights itself”

Your dynamic with Megatronus was the kind of power struggle that made political theorists cry blood and Decepticon spies beg for popcorn

He didn’t trust you. Not one bit. But he couldn’t quite ignore your voice, either—not when it echoed in the cracks of the Senate halls, not when others started repeating your words. You spoke to him like an equal, even though technically, you were several rungs below his revolution-slicked boots
He constantly tested you, poked at you like a scientist examining an explosive—trying to figure out what your angle was, where your trap lay buried

You never lied. Not once. But you never told the whole truth either and he knew

There was always a tension—like sitting on a high ledge with a fraying rope between you. A quiet question under every word:

“Are you going to betray me?”

Sometimes you’d hit him with the truth so raw and pointed that it actually shut him up—a rare feat, considering this was a mech who once made an entire Senate weep with a single speech
Because at the end of the day, you weren’t his comrade. You weren’t a true believer.

You were a variable. A gamble. A wildcard with just enough bite to be useful and just enough teeth to be dangerous

And for now, that was enough to keep the blade unthrown

Chapter 5: SCENARIO: The field butcher - scavengers (IDW)

Chapter Text

SCENARIO: The Field Butcher

PAIRING - scavenger x reader

NOTE - the draft of Dear Memory suddenly disappeared.. luckily I had a backup in my doc, btw I decided to post this instead..

You never thought you'd end up being a "doctor"

Not because you didn’t dream of it—but mostly because the term “medical ethics” meant absolutely nothing to you

What you did know was this: torn-up bots were fascinating. Especially when you got to crack them open and see what was ticking inside

You started small

Salvaging bits and pieces from the battlefield outskirts, selling them on the black market but anytime you found something new, you'd bring it back, clean it up, lay it out neatly on your table like collectible figurines…

Then tinker

Pry – Slice –Rewire

After that, you were hooked

You started studying Cybertronian anatomy for real

Through corpses. Through... well, let’s call them “patients” Most of them didn’t really have a choice and you learned through wild, reckless trial and error

It didn’t take long before they started whispering your name

Some said you were insane

Some said you were a genius

And honestly? You weren’t arguing with either

—

The air stank of scorched energon and melted armor, thick with iron dust stirred by a dying breeze. Somewhere near the perimeter of yesterday’s battlefield, you’d set up your ‘clinic’ — if one could call a dented shipping container with rusted med-kits and jury-rigged tables a clinic

But hey, you’ve seen worse

Today’s patient wasn’t bleeding out — not anymore — but sat eerily still on the edge of your operating slab. SPINISTER didn’t speak a word. He simply watched

With those wide optics, tinted faintly with blue and wariness, he stared at your fingers as they hovered near the frayed conduits in his left arm. You traced one cable with your thumb, then flicked it experimentally. The response: a slight twitch in his elbow

“Hmm…” you murmured, mostly to yourself “That shouldn't spasm unless—ah. Rerouted nerves. Or maybe just leftover trauma from the last missile strike”

Spinister said nothing, his head tilted faintly, almost birdlike, curious, not afraid, not quite trusting, either

Your grin curled up as you pulled a box cutter from your belt. Not a surgical tool — a literal box cutter. You flicked it open with a shnick “Don’t worry. I’ve carved cleaner lines through Decepticon corpses than this”

You winked “This won’t be the worst thing to happen to your arm this week”

Still, he didn’t flinch

You began slicing carefully through the plating at his forearm, easing metal apart with steady hands. The smell of energon and scorched silicon rose up, comforting in its own grotesque way. Spinister kept watching

“You know” you added, conversationally “the first time I tried this, I was working on a dead guy. Well, he was mostly dead. Only his backup battery was still twitching. Sort of like you, except you’re a lot more agreeable”

At that, he blinked once. You could’ve sworn he smirked

Your eyes narrowed in interest “Wait a second... have you done this before?”

No answer — but Spinister reached forward and picked up your wire shears. Delicately. Like he knew how to hold them. He turned them in his hands and adjusted the tension

You raised a brow “You’re either a closet medic or a highly specific kind of serial killer”

He gave a tiny shrug. Then pointed at the junction in his own elbow, looking at you as if to say: "Cut here?"

“…Huh”

You moved aside “Be my guest”

He went to work with silent focus, slicing away burnt cabling and clearing the joint. His movements weren’t flawless — but they were clean, deliberate, and scarily competent for someone who hadn’t said a damn word all afternoon

You folded your arms, watching

“Alright, I’ve decided” you announced “You’re hired. No license needed. Field experience counts more anyway”

Spinister paused to glance at you - you pointed to yourself “Me? Oh, I’m self-taught too. I just have a different definition of malpractice”

Then you handed him a full energon injector “You mind stabbing me with this? My hand’s full”

He took it and administered it with surprising precision

You made a pleased noise “Oh-ho. You are good”

Silence again. Spinister just stared, expression unreadable

You could practically feel the static hanging between you. The buzz of barely understood connection. Maybe it was the shared love of sharp things. Or the unspoken language of: “I won’t kill you if you don’t kill me”

“Say, Spinister. You wanna stick around? I’ve got a few other, uh… experiments. Some of them might even survive”

He cocked his head, considering

Then — a slow, solemn nod

You grinned “Perfect. I’ve been dying to try out this new cranial implant. Might give you night vision. Or seizures. Fifty-fifty, really”

Still no protest — Not even hesitation

You weren’t sure if that meant he trusted you… or just didn’t care. Either way?

You liked him

↓

SUBJECT PATIENT RECORD

DESIGNATION : SPINISTER

AFFILIATION : Scavenger (No one's entirely sure why)

CONDITION : Moderate external trauma. Multiple internal combustions (intentional?). Severe disassociation from reality

NOTES BY ATTENDING FIELD PRACTITIONER (still not licensed, please stop asking)

Arrived with smoke leaking from six different panels. Declared “not an emergency” while visibly on fire
Did not react to pain, or to questions, or to gravity when he slowly tilted sideways mid-sentence and collapsed
Possesses an endearing sort of calm, similar to a patient who’s just accepted the existence of death and made it a roommate
Followed instructions silently, then offered me a flower-shaped bolt in thanks. I don’t know where he got it

Repair successful. Patient now smokes from only three ports. Declared “this is probably fine”

RECOMMENDATION: Skilled with basic tools, potential assistant or at least live test subject (consenting? uncertain) and doesn’t scream when I bring out the bone saw — major plus

MENTAL STATUS: Stable… in an abstract, modern-art kind of way

Possibly communicating with beings only he can perceive. Should investigate later—unless they start helping

—

The curtain fluttered again

You didn’t even need to look up from the mech-slagged mess you were currently disemboweling on your table to know who it was. No one else announced their arrival with a loud “Hi!! I brought snacks!” followed immediately by the sound of a ration cube hitting the floor

MISFIRE

“...You brought what?” you asked, finally glancing back

Misfire was standing proudly in the middle of your wrecked, haphazard med-bay, holding up something that might’ve once been a ration cube but now looked like it had been drop-kicked into a trash compactor

He looked far too pleased with himself

“For you, Doctor Scary!” he beamed “To say thank you for patching up Crankcase. I mean, he’s still swearing about it, but I figure that means it worked”

You stared at the cube, then at him “It’s moldy”

“Vintage!”

“It’s fuzzy”

He blinked, then squinted at it “Oh. Uh. That might be a fungus. Adds flavor!”

You sighed and set down your plier-like tool — which was currently half-submerged in someone’s damaged voice modulator “What do you want, Misfire?”

He clutched his arm and gave you the most over-the-top wounded expression you’d seen since the war started “Can’t a guy drop by just to bask in your lovely, mildly terrifying company?”

You deadpanned “Do you need field repair?”

“…Yes”

That was more like it

“Alright” you gestured to your very sanitary examination area — a broken recliner salvaged from a half-melted shuttle and duct-taped to hell “Take a seat. Tell me which part is falling off”

Misfire hopped onto the chair without hesitation, then winced “Okay so it’s my right shoulder—some internal gear’s jammed. Probably happened when Fulcrum accidentally shoved me into that munitions crate last week. And by accidentally I mean ‘on purpose but with plausible deniability’”

You circled behind him, humming “Shoulder joint, hmm... I’ll have to pry open the outer casing”

“You’re not gonna use that claw-thing again, are you?” He pointed at the three-pronged tool still sizzling on the table

You picked it up and grinned “This old thing? Only if you scream too loud. It gets jealous”

His optics widened “Wait, you’re joking—right?”

You didn’t answer. You just flicked the tool and leaned in close

He flinched “You are joking. Right?”

Still no answer. You tapped the casing lightly “Yup. Gonna need to open this. Try not to move. Unless you want an extra joint”

Misfire grumbled something but sat still, occasionally twitching while you worked. Your fingers were efficient, tugging apart armor panels, probing with delicate instruments, and casually muttering things like: “Wow, this is worse than I thought. This looks like someone tried to replace a gear with a coin. Wait. Is that a coin?”

Misfire laughed nervously “Heh… oh hey, is that my lucky shanix? Thought I lost that in the riot on Velocitron…”

You pulled it out and twirled it between your fingers “Found it. Inside your shoulder. Next to a wad of insulation foam. I have questions”

“I have regrets”

The actual repair only took a few minutes, and despite his dramatic flinching, Misfire barely needed any anesthetic. You tightened the final bolt with a satisfied hum

“All done. You’ll be good as new. Maybe even better, depending on how you feel about unlicensed upgrades”

He rotated his arm “Wow, hey—this feels great! I mean, I’m still emotionally unstable and deeply unlucky, but physically? Ten outta ten”

You handed him the shanix and gave him a crooked smile “Souvenir. For bravery”

He smirked “Does that come with a kiss on the cheekplate?”

You stared at him for a beat too long

“…No?” he tried

You leaned in just slightly, close enough for him to short-cycle “You want a souvenir kiss from the bot who’s elbow-deep in your shoulder hydraulics?”

He paused. Thought. Then leaned back slowly, optics wide

“…You know what? The coin’s fine”

You laughed — a bright, buzzing thing that made him fluster even more

“I’ll tell Fulcrum you survived” you said, already turning back to your workbench “Go before I decide to install a third elbow in your leg”

He scrambled up and halfway out the curtain before popping his head back in with a grin

“You’re the weirdest medic I’ve ever met” he said “And that’s a huge compliment”

Then he vanished into the dust

↓

SUBJECT PATIENT RECORD

DESIGNATION: MISFIRE

AFFILIATION: Scavenger (Allegedly. No one seems to have formally admitted this)

CONDITION: Repeated joint trauma. Psychological instability. Chronic flirtation disorder (self-diagnosed)

NOTES BY ATTENDING FIELD PRACTITIONER (unlicensed):

Presented with shoulder malfunction. Initially distracted by moldy ration cube (believed to be edible)
Displayed minor signs of emotional detachment from own physical pain—possibly due to prolonged exposure to Fulcrum’s company
Right shoulder casing contained one (1) lucky shanix, insulation foam of unknown origin, and what may be a chewed gum wrapper. (Origin undetermined. No jaw articulation in subject)
Exhibits nervous laughter and deflective humor under duress. Coping mechanism? Flirting mechanism? Both?

Repair successful. Patient demonstrates increased mobility and decreased survivability due to persistent attempts at charming his field medic

RECOMMENDATION: Do not encourage him but also… maybe do. He’s kind of entertaining

MENTAL STATUS: Stable. In the way a spinning top is “stable” Until it stops spinning

—

FULCRUM walked into the clinic with the same air as someone entering a crime scene they were legally obligated to ignore. He stood in the doorway a few moments too long

“…You’re not going to sedate me, right?”

You didn’t look up from your tools “Only if you scream too much. I do have neighbors”

“You don’t have neighbors”

“Exactly”

He stiffened

With a resigned sigh, Fulcrum sat himself down on the edge of the slab, his posture the definition of regret “I’m here for a system check. Minor internal trauma. No visible wounds”

“Oh” you said, finally looking up

“That’s boring”

“…What?”

You gestured at his chestplate “You’re saying there’s nothing exciting going on in there? No ticking bomb module? No internal shrapnel slowly migrating toward your spark?”

Fulcrum visibly paled “I—I’m 80% sure the ticking is just cooling fans!”

You leaned in, optics gleaming

“Let’s find out”

Before he could object, you’d already activated the scanner, which buzzed ominously. The screen flickered through static before displaying something that looked vaguely like a Danger symbol in three different dialects

“…Heh” you said, tilting your head “You might be fine. Or you might violently combust in 6 to 8 cycles. Either way, not my fault”

Fulcrum let out a strangled sound “You’re supposed to say something reassuring!”

“I did! ‘Not my fault’ is my version of reassurance”

He gave a long, slow blink

“…I’m going to die”

“Eventually” you nodded solemnly

“But for now—”

And with that, you jabbed a connector probe into his side. Fulcrum’s whole body jerked “—your coolant lines are backing up a little. Could’ve led to system overheating. Also explains why you’ve been radiating mild anxiety like a broken anxiety-scented air freshener”

He stared at you in mute horror “…Please tell me that wasn’t an actual medical term”

You grinned “I make them up as I go”

↓

SUBJECT PATIENT RECORD

DESIGNATION: FULCRUM

AFFILIATION: Scavenger (Technically Decepticon, but mostly just stressed) CONDITION: Mild to moderate plasma burns, stress-induced fuel reflux, excessive shouting

NOTES BY ATTENDING FIELD PRACTITIONER (still operating without any actual credentials):

Arrived in full panic, claiming he was “totally fine” while actively smoldering. Body temperature elevated—not due to malfunction, just from yelling
Most vocal patient so far. Screamed “What is that tool?! Is that a bone saw?!” before treatment had even begun. (It was not. It was a wrench. Maybe) Kept mumbling something about “imminent death” and “this is how I die"
Calmed somewhat after being asked to hold tools for me. Gave him a fake diploma to “make him feel included” He still carries it

Treatment completed successfully. Requested anesthesia after it was done

RECOMMENDATION : Let him panic. It burns energy and makes it easier to sneak in sutures

Tell him he’s doing great. He’s not, but he needs it

MENTAL STATUS : Holding on by a wire. Possibly about to snap. Possibly the only one trying to be normal, which makes him the craziest of all

—

You didn’t expect CRANKCASE to walk through your door

Technically, it wasn’t even a door — just a heavy curtain you’d ripped off a wrecked Decepticon dropship and pinned into place. But there he was, looming in your makeshift threshold, glowering like he wanted to punch the wind in the face

Which, from what you’d heard, was a standard Crankcase greeting

You looked up from the mess of servo joints and cracked optics on your workbench “Oh good, another volunteer! Take a number, and by number I mean a seat, and by seat I mean that fuel drum with the mystery stain”

Crankcase didn’t move. He crossed his arms “I’m not here for your freak-show experiments. I’ve got a blown vent coil and a leaking wrist actuator”

You raised an oil-slicked brow “So… you are here for medical assistance”

He scowled “Field repair”

“Same difference,” you chirped, already gesturing him forward “I won’t bite. Unless you count removing faulty plating with my teeth. Kidding—mostly”

The fuel drum groaned beneath his weight as he sat. You could hear his joint hydraulics hissing with effort. He was trying very hard not to look worried

You crouched beside him, lifting his forearm and turning it this way and that “Hmm. Someone’s been punching things they shouldn’t. This isn't just a leak. You've got shrapnel embedded in your coolant line. Wanna keep it?”

Crankcase blinked “Keep it?!”

You gave him your best "I'm totally serious” look “Could turn it into a charm. Lucky shard. Something to ward off infection. Maybe your attitude”

He started to pull his arm back

You yanked it right back “Too late. I’ve named it. This one’s Steve”

“What the frag—”

With a quick flick, you plunged your gloved fingers into the small open seam, locating the shrapnel shard with tactile precision. You ignored Crankcase’s strangled hiss and produced the sliver with a flourish

“Aha! Steve the Shard, free at last. Say thank you”

Crankcase stared at you, deadpan

“You’re insane”

You smiled sweetly, plucking a soldering tool off the table “That’s Doctor Insane to you”

Bzzt

The tool sparked, lighting up your eyes like a child at a fireworks show

Crankcase tensed “You’re not putting that near me”

“I am” you said “Because if I don’t cauterize this line in the next thirty seconds, your arm’s going to start leaking coolant like a sobbing Wrecker”

He snarled — but didn’t stop you

You worked fast, too fast for his liking. Sparks flew, cables sizzled, and Crankcase let out a string of swears that could probably make a Seeker blush. You ignored all of it, whistling a cheerful tune as you worked

When it was done, you patted his arm

“All fixed. And you didn’t even pass out! Proud of you”

Crankcase glared. “I should report you”

“To who?” You grinned “You think we’re in a jurisdiction that still has a licensing board?”

He opened his mouth, paused, then shut it again

You leaned in “Besides... you’re walking out of here with full function, no fees, and a souvenir” You handed him the shard of metal with a crooked smile “Steve says hi”

Crankcase snatched it from you with a growl. But he didn’t throw it away

Not yet

↓

SUBJECT PATIENT RECORD

DESIGNATION: CRANKCASE

AFFILIATION: Scavenger (violently)

CONDITION : Multiple surface abrasions. Chronic irritation. Terminal grumpiness

NOTES BY ATTENDING FIELD PRACTITIONER (yes, still me):

Arrived under protest. Yelled “I’m fine!” while leaking energon like a guilt-ridden faucet
Displayed strong resistance to bedside manner. Calmed slightly after being asked if he wanted to watch me extract a bolt with pliers “just to see if it screams”
Requires verbal distraction during treatment; otherwise clenches up like a seized servo. Suggested topics: how annoying Misfire is, dirt, taxes
Responds well to threats. Especially ones that sound made up, like “scalp grafts”

Treatment successful. Patient limped off muttering about “invasive freaks with too many teeth”

RECOMMENDATION: Do not show weakness. Or enthusiasm. Or joy. Pretend you also hate everything—it soothes him

MENTAL STATUS: Functionally cranky. Potentially immortal out of sheer spite

—

The clinic—if one was generous enough to call a rusted-out storage bay with dangling lights and an energon-stained slab a clinic—was unusually quiet for once. No shouting. No crashing. No Misfire trying to flirt with his own reflection or you

Which meant something was wrong

“You’re late” said the voice from the dark corner. It belonged to the ‘doctor’, of course. You were hunched over a datapad, stylus tucked between two digits, not even bothering to look up “Your shoulder is making that noise again, isn’t it?”

KROK stepped in like a soldier reporting for punishment. His frame stiff, his expression more so

“I’m not here for a chat. I just need a recalibration”

You blinked slowly and finally glanced up

“No one ever is’

He hesitated, optics scanning the room. No restraints in sight today. That was probably a good sign

You patted the slab “Lie down”

“I’ll sit”

“I said lie down. You don’t argue with doctors”

“You’re not a doctor”

You grinned “And you’re not winning this one”

Krok muttered a curse under his breath and complied, lowering himself onto the slab with the grace of a war veteran who’d fought too many battles and not won nearly enough

“Left shoulder, right?” you asked, already activating a scanner that beeped in several colors it probably wasn’t supposed to “Tell me what happened”

“Misfire fell on me” Krok replied, voice tight “During training. He called it ‘combat bonding’”

You nodded sympathetically, even as you grabbed a wrench that had definitely once been used to pry open cargo doors “Ah yes. The age-old bonding ritual of ‘launch-yourself-at-your-commander’?"

"Classic"

“I think it dislocated again” he said, biting the inside of his cheek “I can’t rotate it past—argh!”

You'd already shoved it backward with a practiced snap

Krok nearly sat bolt upright “WHAT THE FRAG?! You didn’t warn me!”

“I didn’t have to. I’ve done this to corpses before. You should be grateful you screamed—it’s how I knew it worked”

He glared at you “That is not reassuring”

You beamed “It wasn’t meant to be”

Silence fell, broken only by the sound of metal creaking as you adjusted a few connections, then pressed a cooling gel pad over the joint. It hissed

Krok’s field softened just slightly “...You’re getting better at this”

“Oh?” you replied innocently

“Is that professional admiration or resignation to fate?”

“I’m not sure which one worries me more”

You leaned in, lowering your voice like a conspirator “Krok... You know this makes me your personal physician now, right?”

He stared at you flatly

“I will self-repair next time”

You smiled sweetly, scribbling something onto a datapad “Too late. Already logged it. You’re mine now"

↓

SUBJECT PATIENT RECORD

DESIGNATION: KROK

AFFILIATION: Scavenger leader (self-declared, no one’s argued)

CONDITION: Shoulder joint misalignment. Minor processor lag. Leadership fatigue

NOTES BY ATTENDING FIELD PRACTITIONER (not approved by any health council anywhere):

Walked in with a stiff limp and a stiffer attitude. Tried to diagnose himself
Kept correcting my terminology. Said “That’s not a circuit, that’s a triple-fused control relay!” I responded with “Sounds infected” Believes himself to be the voice of reason. Believes wrong
Endured treatment with the patience of a bot who has seen some things. Possibly in denial about the chaos level of his team
Asked if I could do anything about “leadership-induced migraines.” Suggested decapitation. He did not laugh. Left with improved range of motion and deeply haunted expression. Probably unrelated

RECOMMENDATION: Respect the chain of command—then wrap it around his legs and drag him back when he tries to leave

He's the glue holding the team together. The glue is melting

MENTAL STATUS: Exhausted dad energy. Probably dreams of retirement. Will never get it

Chapter 6: SCENARIO: The Field butcher - firstaid, ratchet, ambulon (IDW)

Chapter Text

SCENARIO: FIELD BUTCHER

PAIRING – first aid, ratchet, ambulon x reader

NOTE – literally just medbot-in-order. There's no Pharma because he's gone crazy. He's not a good-old-doc to be around here. So if I decide to do a Decepticon version, we might find him there instead

and none of them like mc at first I'm telling you

F I R S T – A I D

The lights in the Lost Light’s medbay were harsh in that painfully clean way—white, clinical, and far too bright for someone used to working in the shadowy wreckage of battlefields and abandoned storage bays

You stood still, bathed in sterile light, as if the room was trying to disinfect you through sheer judgment

The walls gleamed. The floor was spotless. Instruments were arranged in neat, alphabetized rows along the wall-mounted tool racks. You were fairly certain someone had even polished the oxygen scrubbers

You, in contrast, looked like a walking oil stain

Your plating still bore the smudges of a recent field repair —one that had involved a bent servo, a crowbar, and a lot of screaming (some of it yours). There was a rag tied around your wrist for no apparent reason. A wire hung from your hip. The tray you’d brought with you—holding a screwdriver, a rusted clamp, and something that may have once been a tooth—ticked every few seconds from residual static

Across the room, First-Aid stood frozen

Not from fear. Not quite. More like the horrified tension of a bot watching someone carve up a first-aid manual page by page to use as coasters

His servo clutched a datapad so tightly that the metal casing creaked faintly under the pressure. His optics darted back and forth over the text like he was searching for some line—any line—that would explain what you were and why the hell Rodimus had let you on board

And you?

You waited

Waited exactly two minutes and seventeen seconds—yes, you were counting—before breaking the silence with your usual charm

“So” you said, rocking back on your feet

“do I pass the inspection, or do I need to fail harder to really make an impression?”

Your voice echoed slightly in the too-quiet room. The medbay didn’t know how to handle that tone—wry, reckless, thick with the kind of confidence only the truly unhinged could wield comfortably. First-Aid blinked, his optics snapping up. He looked at you like you’d just walked in wearing a cape made of patient charts

“This says” he began, voice tight and rising slightly “you performed open spark surgery using engine coolant as a sterilizer—”

“I asked him if he wanted anesthetic”

you cut in smoothly “and he said no. Or, well, he passed out, which is close enough”

He stared. You smiled

“Besides” you added with a flick of your fingers “if your patient doesn’t scream at least once, how do you know the nerves are still working?”

He made a noise—choked, strangled, high in pitch. His hand dropped to his side, the datapad hanging limp now, like the weight of your words had physically knocked the strength out of him

“That is not how we—how anyone practices medicine!”

Your stride was unhurried, yet somehow radiated the same menace as a pressure gauge ticking toward red. Not loud, but felt. Like the moment before a sneeze, or the exact instant someone realizes they’ve left the surgical clamp inside the patient

“And yet” you said, almost to yourself, as your optics skimmed across a chart still glowing faintly on the screen “they survive”

There was no real context. Which made it worse

First-Aid startled like you’d slapped him with a used energon rag. He backed into the diagnostics table so fast he nearly knocked over a sterilization wand. One hand grabbed the edge like it might anchor him to reality. The other hovered mid-air like it couldn’t decide whether to call security or the clergy

“Rodimus… let you on board”

His voice had that brittle quality of someone trying to convince himself the building wasn’t on fire, despite the visible smoke — You turned toward him with a grin like a cracked energon cube—shiny, unstable, possibly lethal “He said I’ve got potential”

you chirped, cheerfully oblivious to the rising alarm in his optics “Also mentioned something about overflow triage, vent maintenance, and ‘creative solutions to personnel shortages’ I was flattered” You mimed placing a hand over your spark. It was unclear if you were pledging allegiance or checking for a heartbeat

“You’re a hazard!”

“A licensed hazard” replied proudly

“Well, semi-licensed. Regionally certified. Technically. Look, I passed a test. Might’ve been psychological. Or about my psychology” You said it like it was a party anecdote. Something between “I once dated a Decepticon” and “I ate a medgel cube on a dare”

He blinked at you

You blinked back—twice as fast, like a corrupted interface just to mess with him

Then you laughed — Oh, Primus, that laugh – It ricocheted around the medbay like someone had set off a proximity mine made of bad decisions and surgical anecdotes. Loud. Inappropriate. Joyous in a way that only made sense to people who’d once stitched a spark casing back together with their teeth

First-Aid realized it in the exact moment your smile caught the edge of his attention—lopsided, easy, and radiating a kind of mischief that had no place in the tightly regulated sterility of the Lost Light’s medbay. It didn’t match the gleaming metal surfaces or the scent of disinfectant that clung to everything like expectation. It didn’t belong. You didn’t belong
Everything about you—your stance, your grin, the way your optics flicked around like you were casing the place for fun—declared you as someone utterly outside of protocol.
You stood like a joke in a surgical ward. Like entropy had decided to walk upright and wear a field medic’s badge as a joke. To First-Aid, you weren’t just unqualified. You were an infection with vocal cords. A walking contradiction wrapped in self-confidence and duct tape

“You’re not touching any patients without strict supervision” he snapped, recovering his dignity like a dropped datapad—hastily, but with determination

“Perfect! I love being supervised. Makes everything feel so... official. Adds flair. Drama. Mystery” You leaned in just a inch, enough to trigger personal space alarms “You supervise. I improvise. You keep people alive. I keep things exciting. It’ll be like a buddy cop show, except with more bleeding"

He looked like he aged three upgrades just from that sentence. You tilted your helm, expression softening into something that looked, horrifyingly, like sincerity “Unless, of course… you’re scared?”

He straightened. Field tightening. Optics narrowing. Classic reflex. You knew the symptoms “I’m not afraid”

“Excellent” you whispered “Because I absolutely am. Isn’t that thrilling?” You stepped back just enough to give him room to ventilate again—bless his overworked filters—and smiled like you’d just named a scalpel after him

He stood frozen, halfway between protocol and panic, like someone trying to treat a patient who was also on fire and beneath it all, you saw it: that tiny, involuntary twitch at the corner of his mouth. Not a smile but a crack — first one

And you were already getting out your chisel

“They’ll get someone killed one day. But they’ll probably save two more first"

"If I keep standing close enough.. I might learn how"

He don't like you. Not in any textbook sense of the term. He disliked your methods. Your hygiene was borderline offensive. You called him "Textbook" like it was both insult and compliment, and your favorite surgical instrument appeared to be a pair of rusted pliers you refused to throw away. There was, by every metric he knew, nothing about you that should have drawn his attention so strongly and yet
He found himself noting how you adapted under pressure. How quickly you moved—not recklessly, but responsively, like someone who’d memorized chaos. He found himself listening for your voice in the medbay. Not because it soothed him—but because it kept him sharp. Awake. Alive
There was something about you that defied logic in the same breath that it completed it

He saw hands—your hands—moving with terrifying steadiness in the center of madness. He saw logic surrender to instinct, and instinct thrive. He saw you rewire a collapsed spark chamber with copper wire and what could only be described as sheer nerve

He saw you whisper something ridiculous to a bot mid-panic— “If your coolant line bursts, I’ll tie it off with tubing. You won’t die. Probably” and watched the patient laugh through the terror

He saw you fail, once

And sit beside the body for two hours afterward. Not a word. Not a joke. Not even that crooked grin. Just your hands folded in your lap, and your optics dim with something First Aid didn’t expect you were capable of: stillness

That was the day something shifted in him—too quiet to name, but too loud to ignore

R A T C H E T

The medbay, for all its polished surfaces and antiseptic precision, felt unusually tense today—as though the very air was bracing for impact. Bright overhead fluorescents beat down on sterile countertops, illuminating every instrument laid out in methodical rows, each with its own assigned place, its own specific function, its own carefully maintained integrit and then… there was you — Standing like a conceptual glitch in the otherwise orderly space, elbow-deep in a patient’s chestplate and humming to yourself like someone rearranging furniture instead of vital systems

The patient—a junior security officer from Deck Seven—looked moments away from cardiac arrest. His field fluttered in anxious pulses. You, meanwhile, appeared serene. Playful, even. Your servo hovered over a critical energon valve with a laser probe gripped like a stylus

“I’m just saying-” you said conversationally, tilting your helm slightly “if I aim just right, the whole line depressurizes at once. Instant results. High drama. Very efficient”

You shifted your grip to emphasize the stab part of the process

It was at that exact moment that Ratchet—who had up until now been engaged across the room rechecking supply records—snapped.

“stop. Stop—Primus help me—STOP!”

The bark of his voice cracked across the medbay like a circuit surge. Several instruments rattled from their trays. Somewhere in the hall, someone dropped a datapad. He crossed the space in three thunderous strides, snatched the probe out of your hand with a snarl that suggested divine intervention, and inserted it himself with precise, scathing control—clicking the pressure seals into place as if punishing the procedure itself

He didn’t look at you

He didn’t have to.

“Sit and watch, don’t touch anything unless I hand it to you” There was a silence, then the dramatic creak of a stool as you flopped onto it with the practiced flair of someone deeply accustomed to being scolded. You sprawled like a guilty schoolbot in detention—arms crossed, legs swinging, dignity entirely unbothered.

“You’re no fun” you muttered, loud enough to be heard

“No flair. No edge. Where’s the danger?”

“This is not a carnival” Ratchet snapped, still working with ruthless efficiency “You don’t get extra points for flair. You get extra lawsuits”

The words were muttered through clenched dental plates as he handed you a sterilized injector. His tone remained clipped, professional, but his optics—those infamous optics—were starting to twitch “Now. Take this. Line it up with the main coolant artery. Slowly. Deliberately. Like someone who isn’t trying to impress a Wrecker with a death wish”

You took the injector with mock reverence, pinching it between two fingers like it was forged from myth. Your optics narrowed with exaggerated concentration. One might have thought you were defusing a bomb rather than delivering medication. Then—without hesitation—stab. Click. Inject.

Dead center

Ratchet froze mid-motion. His optics flicked to the readout. Then to the injection site. Then, slowly, to you “…Huh”

You turned your helm toward him with deliberate, theatrical slowness—like a drama-bot preparing for their final monologue—one optic ridge raised in exaggerated pride. The smug curl at the corner of your mouth was pure mischief, unconcerned, untouched by caution

“Impressed?”

Ratchet didn’t miss a beat

“No” he said flatly “Alarmed”

You handed the injector back with the kind of smug grace that bordered on performance art, your smirk still annoyingly intact. “What? I can follow instructions.”

He gave you a look

“So you choose not to. 99% of the time?”

“Obviously” you said with a shrug, as if the logic was self-evident “Where’s the drama in doing everything the safe way?”

Ratchet groaned then—low, guttural, and thoroughly exhausted—the kind of sound that belonged not to a medic, but to a war veteran on his eighth recitation of “Why are you like this?”

His servo came up, pinching the bridge of his nasal ridge in a gesture that seemed less about managing his temper and more about holding his spark together with willpower alone

“You’re going to give me a stress reboot..”

You beamed, utterly unfazed “Aw, come on. Admit it. You love this. It’s like babysitting a grenade. A very enthusiastic grenade"

Every fiber of his deeply overworked frame screamed that you were a liability. A threat. A disgrace. You’d read no formal medical doctrine. You quoted battlefield myths like gospel. You told a patient—his patient—that if they died, you could “recycle the good parts" And yet. You saved them. Not with finesse. Not with dignity. Not with anything he would ever sign off on. But they lived. Their spark stabilized. Their pulse calmed. They breathed
He hated it — He hated how you looked at the result, not the method. He hated how you grinned afterward, like it wasn’t a miracle but a game. He hated how he couldn’t stop watching you work, because somehow, somehow, you understood something that textbooks didn’t teach. Worse still?
He hated how you reminded him of himself—before he got old and tired and afraid of trying things that weren’t already proven

He looked at you like one looks at a half-defused explosive with a smug attitude—and yet, he didn’t argue. Not really. Instead, with a resigned grunt and the heavy grace of someone who had long since accepted their fate, he passed you the dermal sealer. No lecture. No muttering. No carefully worded disclaimer about liability — Just a tool. And a sliver of trust—quiet, grudging, and far more meaningful than anything he’d said out loud

You accepted it with uncharacteristic silence. No sarcasm. No dramatics

Just the work

You sealed the incision with smooth, steady lines, each motion executed with a clarity that had nothing to do with instinct and everything to do with experience. The edges came together cleanly. The weld held. The patient’s vitals stabilized. Textbook

When you returned the sealer to his waiting servo, Ratchet didn’t speak right away. He examined your work with the same scrutiny he gave to battlefield casualties and self-diagnosed captains—careful, thorough, unwilling to be impressed without reason

But then, after a moment…

"That’s… good work” he said at last. His voice was quieter than usual, and it carried the faintest edge of something approaching reluctant approval

You responded with a theatrical bow—an unnecessary flourish, complete with optic twinkle “I learned from the best"

“You’ve never trained under me”

“Not formally” you said, lips quirking into a grin “But I’ve read your case files. Watched all your lectures. Stole a shrine someone made of you and rewired the lights. Y’know. The usual academic stalking"

He stared

You held his gaze like you were daring him to ask which shrine, or how recently

“You’re a legend, Ratchet” you added, tone somehow both sincere and wicked “I just prefer being a cautionary tale. The punchlines are better”

There was a long exhale through his vents—rougher this time, full-bodied with fatigue and disbelief. A snort followed, somewhere between a laugh and a sigh, as though his processor had tried both reactions and settled for the only one that wouldn’t kill him

“Primus help me… I’m going to miss you when you’re dead”

“Aww. You do like me”

“No, I just like knowing where the trouble is”

You winked. And that, more than anything, seemed to unnerve him. But he didn’t take the sealer back. Didn’t snap at you. Didn’t say what was obvious in the silence between his words: That somehow, against all logic and regulation, you had earned your place here and he was starting to suspect—against all odds—that the medbay might just survive you

Maybe

“They’re everything I hate and somehow, they make me wonder if I’ve spent all these cycles doing it the wrong way" "..Maybe I’ll let them stay. Just long enough to prove them wrong”

He didn’t like you – Not in the way people liked each other. But sometimes, when he saw you work—with your smudged fingers, and your muttered jokes, and your solutions that made no sense but somehow stopped the bleeding— He didn’t stop you.. instead sometimes, he took note
You were worse than the stories. You walked into medbay like you belonged there, with grease on your fingers and a grin that screamed liability You waved off his stare, offered him a bent spanner like it was a gift, and asked if his cortical relays had “always looked this grumpy”
He’d threatened to throw you out. You’d laughed and asked if he needed help with the overflow. He should’ve said no. He didn’t

He’d tried to report you, once or twice.. or six times

Ultra Magnus said you weren’t technically violating any protocols. Drift said he liked your “energy” Even Rodimus, whose opinion mattered the least, somehow mattered more when he said: “They saved someone with cable ties and chewing gum. That’s genius, Ratch. You can’t train that”

Ratchet disagreed

Loudly

With charts and yet

He saw the way you looked at broken things. The way your optics narrowed in focus—not cold, not analytical—but alive. Invested. You did see patients as puzzles that you wanted to put back together. Even if you used the wrong tools. Even if your hands were too fast, your grin too wide, your ethics questionable at best

You cared

Primus help him again, you actually cared. And it wasn’t pretty. It wasn’t orderly. It wasn’t the kind of “caring” you could measure in paperwork. But it was real

A M B U L O N

It happened mid-cycle, during what should have been a routine diagnostic on the starboard maintenance corridors. One moment, there was peace—a checklist, a loose panel, the quiet hum of the ship’s gravity stabilizers – The next, a shriek of metal. A pressure wave. A storm of sparks. Ambulon hit the floor as the emergency bulkhead slammed down behind him, cutting the corridor in two like a guillotine. He staggered upright, sensors ringing—and saw you

You were already on your knees beside the injured miner, whose leg had been crushed beneath a collapsed junction panel. Energon pooled beneath him in thick, syrupy waves, bright and bubbling. His ventilations came in erratic gasps, static-laced and shallow. His optics darted in panic

Ambulon froze

Not out of fear. Not exactly. Out of memory

The panel. The screaming. The way no one had moved for him. The way no one had thought to. He stood motionless as echoes of that past clawed up through his spark

And you— didn’t hesitate

You were already elbow-deep in the panel’s edge, stripping wiring with your teeth when your cutters couldn’t reach. Your voice cut through the din like a plasma torch “Hold him still or he’s gonna bleed out through ports he didn’t know he had, and I am not losing another leg-case today, I swear by Primus’ recycled panties— MOVE”

Your tone was wild. Sharp. Irrefutably commanding

He moved

His hands found the bot’s shoulders, pressed down. He murmured stabilizers, tried to regulate field output—anything to help. Anything to ground himself. Anything to distract from the fact that you were doing everything wrong

Unsterile tools. Unorthodox technique. No scanner, no chart

And still— The bot’s vitals leveled

The bleeding slowed

You rerouted two energon feeds using leftover wire from the collapsed panel and some insulation from your own armor. Your servos never shook. Your focus never wavered and when it was over—when the miner’s spark stabilized and his frame stopped twitching in pain—you sat back on your heels, fuel-streaked and grinning like you'd just cheated death at cards

“There. Still twitching. That means I did good, right?”

Ambulon couldn’t speak

He just stared at you—at your filth-smeared plating, your scorched fingers, the mess you’d made of the scene—and realized something deeply uncomfortable: That this wasn’t carelessness. It wasn’t showmanship. It was confidence. The kind forged in fire, in loss, in the terrible intimacy of holding someone’s spark between your hands and deciding, again and again, to try..

In his experience, the phrase “Just make do” translated with chilling consistency into “This is going to get someone killed". He’d seen it. He’d lived it. He was it—once. He still remembered the wrench.
when he heard there was a new medic aboard the Lost Light—a rogue practitioner with no license, no formal training, and apparently no discernible regard for sterile procedure– for two first weeks since you arrived, he didn’t so much as glance at you in the corridors. He refused to take joint rotations, changed schedules to avoid shifts with you, and logged three formal complaints that Rodimus may or may not have used as coasters
He’d vented to Ratchet. To First Aid. To anyone who’d listen “It’s reckless” he had hissed, servo trembling around a scalpel “It’s a lawsuit waiting to happen. It’s a sparkline drawn in graffiti"

You were elbow-deep in a dying technician’s chestplate when Ambulon entered—his silhouette framed in the medbay doorway like a portrait of disapproval wrought in steel. The light behind him cast a stark outline, and for a moment, he looked more like a statue of order than a living medic. Unmoving. Unyielding

He didn’t speak right away. He didn’t need to. The air shifted the moment he arrived—cooling under the weight of his expectations

You didn’t look up. Your hands were too busy, navigating the chaotic ruins of another bot’s insides with the kind of manic grace that only came from far too many near-deaths and not nearly enough sleep. A half-sterilized patch cable coiled in your fingers like a snake you meant to charm

“You’re not supposed to be in here,” he said at last, his voice flat—sharp as a sterilized scalpel, but with none of the warmth of intent behind it

You snorted—unapologetic, unbothered

“Neither is most of his internal plating” you replied. “We’re all trespassers today"

Ambulon stepped further in, hands clasped tightly behind his back in a gesture so stiff it looked painful. Like every fiber of his being wanted to intervene, to stop you—but protocol had trapped him in silence. He watched as you worked: the way your fingers moved like they’d never been trained, only tempered; the way you anchored the junction in place with a firm tap of your knuckle

The mech on the table twitched. A spasm. A flicker. The faintest betrayal of life. You beamed like you'd just pulled a rabbit out of a collapsed spark chamber “See? That’s the twitch of life. Textbook success"

“That’s the twitch of residual nerve current from a poorly rerouted interface—”

“Semantics”

Ambulon exhaled through his vents—sharp, audible, like a hiss from a sealed valve being opened just a little too fast “You didn’t sanitize your tools properly. You didn’t even scan him before cutting him open—"

That made you pause. Not in guilt, but in irritation. You turned to face him, optics steady, voice edged with defiance that had been honed by far worse than judgment

“He didn’t have time for a scan” you said “He had five minutes before the energon starvation reached his neural bridge. I gave him six. That’s a net win where I’m from"

Ambulon’s jaw clenched—not visibly, but you could see it in the shift of his plating, the microadjustments of someone trained to hold still even when every part of them wanted to move

He approached slowly, optics darting between your hands, your instruments, the readouts flickering behind you—as though he could still catch the error that would make it all make sense

“Do you even remember his name?”

You blinked “Nope”

You wiped your digiy down your thigh plating, smearing a dark trail of fuel across the silver as casually as a chalkboard scribble “But I remember the position of his spark post-blast, and the way it started to slip into cascade. I remember exactly how to cradle it so it wouldn’t rupture the surrounding. That count for something?”

Ambulon hesitated, lips parted—searching for a definition, a category, a box to put you in “That’s not medicine” he said, voice low, almost lost beneath the hum of the medbay’s ambient monitors “That’s—”

He faltered

Because whatever he wanted to call it, it wasn’t wrong. You tilted your helm, a crooked smile playing faintly across your face “Field instinct. Improvisation. Controlled madness. Take your pick"

There was silence again—dense and hot between you. The only sound was the quiet tick, tick, tick of the life monitor behind you

Still alive

Still working

Ambulon’s shoulders lowered—not in defeat, but in something subtler. Something more human. The drop was minimal, almost imperceptible, yet it was there: a soft, unconscious collapse of posture that spoke of tension long held finally beginning to ebb

“I don’t understand how you do it” he murmured. The sharpness in his voice, once honed like a scalpel, had dulled—not into resignation, but into confusion, like someone standing at the edge of a cliff, unsure if what lay before them was the drop or the sky

“You ignore every established procedure. You tear up the blueprint and redraw it mid-operation. You never—never—repeat a process the same way twice"

He wasn’t accusing anymore

He was asking

You took a single step toward him. Measured. Gentle. Not to challenge. Not to provoke. But to meet him halfway. To bridge. Your voice, when it came, was quiet. Not diminished, but deliberate—as though shaped carefully around a truth you’d carried too long to let it shatter now

“Because every bot breaks differently” you said “They fracture in different places. At different angles. For different reasons. And if you treat them all the same—if you paste the same solution over every bleeding wound—you miss the thing that makes them salvageable"

You watched his optics flicker—register, resist “You think healing is math” you continued, your tone somewhere between a confession and a creed “But it’s not. It’s jazz"

Your lips curved faintly—not in mockery, but in reverence “It’s dirty, violent, brilliant jazz. You improvise. You listen. You adapt. You hit the wrong notes and find beauty in the discord. You keep going even when the rhythm fails"

He held your gaze now, steady as iron

“And yet” he said—this time louder, sharper, more certain, as if the weight of his argument was all that kept him grounded— “you treat them like scrap. Like spare parts you glue together with hope and hazard tape. You gamble with lives as if they’re puzzles to be solved, not sparks to be protected"

The words landed heavy in the air. You didn’t react. Not outwardly. You let them settle—allowed the silence to breathe around them

Then you inhaled. Long. Slow. Controlled

“No” you said at last

“I treat them like machines that deserve to keep running. Even when their frames are twisted. Even when their cores are cracked. Even when the files say they’re not worth" Your voice was soft, but it hit like gravity. Steady. Inarguable “Even when every protocol tells me to walk away… I don’t"

The room fell silent, thick with unsaid things. The soft electronic click of the life monitor behind you pulsed like a metronome for a song neither of you were quite ready to finish. You met his optics again—this time without posture, without pretense. There was no fire in your words. No sarcasm. No armor of wit — Only belief

Naked. Raw. Unshakable “Maybe it’s ugly. Maybe it’s not precise. Maybe it’s not what the manuals say it should be"

You glanced at the technician still breathing behind you “But it keeps them alive”

Ambulon didn’t respond immediately

His optics stayed fixed on yours, unblinking—like a mech trying to see through the dark and not entirely sure whether he wanted to find what waited there and then you saw it. The thing he didn’t mean to show – Not anger. Not rejection but fear. The quiet, aching kind that came from understanding—finally understanding—what you were, and what that meant for both of you

“…You scare me” he said at last

The words were barely above a whisper. But in their smallness, they struck with the clarity of truth. You didn’t laugh, didn’t smirk. You only smiled—a small, still thing, steeped in something older than pride and softer than defiance. A smile that didn’t reach your optics, because it came from somewhere far deeper. Somewhere that remembered every loss, every line you’d crossed to keep someone else breathing

“Good” you said quietly “That’s how you know I’m doing it right”

“I still don’t trust you. I still think you’re dangerous.. but maybe, just maybe… you're the first one who’d know how to fix someone like me”

It had been jammed into his frame during a particularly violent triage attempt, back when he was less of a medic and more of a shape that could carry equipment. The others hadn’t known his name. Just his alternate mode. Just what he could turn into. That was all that mattered. Not who he was, not how he processed fear
They’d needed parts? He was spare
Ambulon had never liked improvisation. Improvisation meant danger. It meant desperation. It meant something had already gone terribly wrong and someone, somewhere, was about to pay for it in energon and trauma. Improvisation was not a skill—it was a symptom. A last resort wrapped in false confidence

That night, long after the alarms had quieted and the medbay returned to its usual order, Ambulon found himself standing outside its entrance — The lights in the corridor had dimmed into their late-cycle glow, casting soft amber reflections across the polished floor. Shift change had come and gone. No footsteps echoed through the hall now—only the quiet, ever-present thrum of the Lost Light’s engines, pulsing like a distant heartbeat against the walls

Ambulon stood perfectly still, his posture rigid, his arms tucked behind his back as though formality might hold back the tide of thought rising slowly inside him. He wasn't sure how long he’d been there. Minutes. Cycles. Time felt suspended—like the ship had graciously decided to grant him a pause in motion, in momentum

He stared at the floor

Thinking

He thought of how many times he had been overlooked. How often his worth had been calculated by usefulness—by utility. He thought of the term "spare part”—how it had followed him like a shadow

For all your mess—your irreverence, your recklessness, your maddening improvisations—you treated everything you touched as if it were reclaimable. As if being broken wasn’t a sentence – as if the fragments still meant something

You never said it outright. Never declared it but Ambulon had seen it. In the way you held your hands steady even as your mouth ran wild. In the way you muttered to the dying like they could hear you. In the way you never looked away from the aftermath — not even once — You believed, somehow, in rebuilding. Not because it was efficient. Not because it was clean. But because it was possible and in your eyes, even the worst-off patients weren’t salvage. They were worth it

Every single time

You treated every part—every bot—like they could be rebuilt. Even the broken ones. Even the one that others had left behind

Even him

Chapter 7: #1 fan actually – thunderclash (IDW)

Summary:

you couldn't help but swoon over him

Chapter Text

“You gotta tell us—what’d you do to get booted out of the Wreckers and dumped on our doorstep?”

The question rang out loud and proud in the middle of the mission briefing room, thrown like a well-aimed grenade straight into the center of your new team’s attention. Heads swiveled. Sensors perked. Optical ridges lifted. Everyone suddenly looked like they’d just been handed front-row seats to the best drama of the solar cycle

"Voluntary transfer" you said, deadpan. No hesitation, cool as cryo-freeze

It was supposed to be the end of the conversation. You had practiced the line, after all—practiced the exact angle of your shoulders, the particular tilt of your helm that conveyed “I am mysterious and slightly unhinged, so don’t ask follow-ups” You knew this game. You owned this game

—a former Wrecker, part-time chaos generator, full-time professional badass—shifted one shoulder with slow, calculated nonchalance. Face? Neutral. Posture? Unbothered. Internal systems? Screaming. Because how exactly were you supposed to say “I left because the captain smiled at me and I had a full-on core meltdown” without getting laughed out of the room

Unfortunately, your new team was composed entirely of nosy, over-caffeinated gossipmongers with too much free time and absolutely no respect for emotional privacy

“Voluntary? You?” one mech blurted out, optics wide “You mean you, the Wrecker who threw a live grenade into the command tent because ‘someone gave you attitude’?”

“Wasn’t even a real grenade” you muttered under your breath “Just a concussion charge”

“You tried to hotwire a shuttle with a plasma cannon!”

“I got it working, didn’t I?”

A different voice chimed in, theatrical as slag “This is the same bot who chucked a plasma grenade at Springer during a debrief?

“That was justified”

“You blackmailed High Command just to get five extra minutes of nap time!”

“That was creative problem-solving” But none of them were listening anymore. The room had devolved into chaotic speculation. You could practically see the fanfics being written in real time behind their optics

The doors hissed open

And there he was

Thunderclash

You didn’t even need to look up. You felt him enter the room like the temperature had risen by ten degrees. Like the emotional spectrum of your entire processor had been overrun by soft harp music and sparkling gradients. The kind of presence that made people instinctively stand up straighter, or reevaluate their entire belief system

Your helm turned on autopilot, and there he was: walking in like some kind of solar-powered messiah. The lighting in the hallway behind him flared like stage lights. He gleamed. Literally. His armor gleamed so brightly you could see your soul in the reflection, like it had been waxed by angels. Every servo moved with noble precision. His posture was textbook perfection—military, yes, but with the warmth of someone who genuinely cared whether your coolant levels were low. His optics were the exact shade of “please tell me your problems, I will listen and not judge you” And then he smiled

Oh Primus

That smile

That soft, earnest, “I believe in you” smile. That “no one’s ever too far gone for a second chance” smile. That “I water plants and mean it” kind of smile. That soft, warm, too-good-for-this-world smile that could make a war criminal cry and a Wrecker go weak in the knees ~~(you)~~

Your CPU blue-screened on the spot

“Apologies for the delay” he said, voice deep and melodic, like a lullaby designed specifically for war criminals trying to go straight. Then he looked directly at you. At you “Welcome aboard. I’m glad you chose to be here”

You had exactly 0.2 seconds to think of a reply, and the only thing your mouth could produce was—

“ah.. yes”

Your systems dropped six error messages

The room did not let it go

It was like someone had pressed the big red button labeled “group humiliation” Everyone burst into synchronized snickering. One mech nearly fell out of his chair. Another whispered “..It’s always the quiet murdery ones”

You did not react. You had evolved beyond reacting. You were floating in the astral plane of pure internal screaming, while your face remained stoic and unfazed

You weren’t going to deny it. Because, honestly?

They were right

Later That Cycle…

You found yourself tucked away in one of the quiet maintenance rooms—alone, mercifully, with nothing but your own spiraling thoughts and a broken cable junction you were pretending to fix

You were doing fine

Totally fine

…Until your optics replayed that smile again. And again. And again

You made a noise. A very specific, very undignified squeaking sort of noise that had no business coming from someone with your reputation. You slapped a hand over your faceplate “What the frag is wrong with me…”

You’d survived countless battlefields. Punched out two generals. Stole a tank once, on a dare. You’d told an Autobot diplomat to “bite your shiny aft” to their face and got promoted afterwards. You were a beast

And now?

You were blushing. At a smile. From just one mech. A shiny, too-good-for-this-galaxy, moral-as-all-slag captain

“…I’d say ‘kill me now’ but if he told me to die, I’d probably just thank him politely and lay down” you muttered

You thumped your helm against the wall. Just once. For emphasis. Maybe it’d knock some sense back into you

Did it work? No

Your brain was already spiraling into another round of: He looked right at me. He was glad I’m here. He smiled. He SMILED. You melted into a puddle of shame and ridiculous longing

The mission was routine. Patrol. Scan. Report. The kind of job that didn’t require much brainpower—just optics sharp enough to catch movement, and feet quiet enough not to trip over rocks

And yet, somehow, with him walking just a few paces ahead of you, the mission had become the emotional equivalent of a live-wire overload. Thunderclash moved like he belonged in some sort of recruitment holovid—steady, sure, posture perfect. Every time he looked back to check on the team, your processor short-circuited for half a nanoklik. Just a smile. Just a glance

But for you?

It was everything

You hated how easy it was to fall into that line of thinking. Thinking that he care of you, and that is the fact. This wasn’t some old Earth romance series, and you weren’t some starry-opticed rookie tripping over their own servos

Except… you kind of were, especially when he paused at a ledge and held out a hand without thinking

“Steep edge” he said calmly “Careful”

His servo hovered, palm up. Just in case

You didn’t need the help. You could clear the drop in one jump. You could do it backward. In your recharge. While reciting Wrecker code of conduct backwards

But your core thrummed like you were about to be knighted and so—very casually, totally cool and not at all screaming inside—you placed your hand in his and let him steady you as you stepped up beside him

Your servo stayed in his a microsecond too long

He didn’t pull away and neither did you

The silence that followed wasn’t awkward.

It was… oddly warm. You didn’t look at him. Couldn’t. But you were very aware of the fact that he was still watching you

And smiling

Your internal monologue screamed into the void: 'This is fine. This is perfectly professional. Holding hands to cross a ledge is normal. You’re not reading into it. You’re NOT—'

Then his voice came, quiet and steady

“Thanks for keeping pace”

You nodded too quickly “u-yea. You too. I mean—same. Good pace. Great.. team... pacing”

Smooth. Real smooth

He smiled again. Not just with his mouth this time. His optics softened—almost like he knew 'He knows. He totally knows. And I’m going to explode'

You stared at your own servo. The one he’d held. Still warm or maybe your imagination was broken. Probably both. You lay back on the recharge slab, arm thrown over your face, and let out the softest, most mortified groan

“I held hands with him. I HELD HANDS WITH THUNDERCLASH ”

...

..

“I am never recovering from this”

“So” your new teammates cornered you like vultures that had scented drama “Serious question: when Thunderclash gives you an order, do your optics sparkle because of admiration or is that just a software glitch from full ‘Obedient Soldier Protocol: Activated’?”

You grunted “It’s called being a team player. Look it up"

“Oh sure” said one, grinning “Team player. The kind who’d throw themselves off a cliff if he so much as gestured vaguely toward the edge”

Discharge sipped her energon delicately “Bet he says ‘fetch,’ and you roll over and present a mission report on your belly"

You stared at them, unblinking. Deadpan. Calm like a lake right before a bomb goes off

“He tells me to dig” you said “I ask how many meters down and if he wants it landscaped. He tells me to kneel, I ask which knee would best reflect the ambient lighting. Thunderclash is a beacon of moral brilliance and the only reason this galaxy hasn’t burst into flames from sheer incompetence"

The table fell quiet for a beat

“…Okay” Discharge said slowly “So you’re not just whipped. You’re writing love letters to the leash”

You raised your energon cube in solemn salute “To being whipped—elegantly. Artistically. With conviction”

They all lost it

One fell out of his chair. Someone wheezed. Another slammed the table hard enough to spill energon. Laughter echoed off the ceiling

And somewhere—somewhere deep in the universe’s core—you swore you could hear the faint, radiant chuckle of Thunderclash himself. Warm. Gentle. Forgiving and just like that, your last shred of dignity burst into stardust

…And honestly? You were at peace with that

“I saw the symbol first” you admitted

“I won’t pretend otherwise – but I stayed… because I saw you”

It had been nearly a full planetary cycle since you arrived

Thunderclash wasn’t the type to track time in anniversaries or make note of meaningless metrics—not for personal reasons, at least. He logged rotations when necessary, marked deployments, scheduled rotations like any disciplined commander would. But the passage of days meant very little to him—until lately

Because lately, he had started to notice the subtle shift in his internal chronometer. Not because anything had changed loudly, or suddenly. Not because of any grand gesture.

But because you were still here

And your presence didn’t blaze in and out like a comet. You settled instead like gravity. Steady. Unspoken. Something he felt not in his optics, but in the soft shifts of rhythm—his routines bending imperceptibly to accommodate yours. He didn’t realize he’d started measuring time in the way you entered a room. The way your gait, once braced like you were entering hostile ground, had softened into something more instinctive. Less guarded. How your optics no longer scanned every corner, no longer flicked toward the exit as if keeping it warm in your mind. How your voice had learned silence—not as a weapon or a wall, but as comfort shared in stillness

“Sometimes I wonder if I deserve the version of me they believe in"

There was no illusion in his voice now. No practiced composure. Only the quiet, desperate ache of someone who’d borne too much grace for too long and didn’t know if it still belonged to him and you saw him—not as the captain, not as the symbol, not even as the figure who’d once made your spark stammer with a single glance But as a man who had stood too long in the light, until he forgot how to cast a shadow without guilt — s o you stepped forward. Not to touch. Not to rescue. But to stand—truly stand—with him and your words, when they came, were steady. Unadorned. Simple truths, offered with no demand for return

"then stop being the symbol"

You sat across from him now, at one of the quiet communal tables nestled in the Stellar Apex’s heart. Not a formal space. Not a war room. Just a patch of ship meant for breathing

He was reviewing mission logs, the glow of his interface casting long lines of blue across the curve of his shoulders. You were hunched, one leg braced up, hands deft and precise as you disassembled a tactical visor with a kind of lazy expertise—your tools clinking in a rhythm that had become familiar, unspoken, even strangely reassuring

Neither of you spoke

You didn’t need to and it was that lack of need—that absence of obligation—that made Thunderclash pause for a breath he didn't realize he was holding

He remembered your first week

How you sat, spine stiff, as if chairs were not to be trusted. How your shoulders stayed locked, never resting, as though the weight of your past assignments might still fall at any moment. How you placed yourself against walls, corners, exits. The places people retreat to when they don’t expect to stay — He’d watched, but never cornered you. Never tried to ease you open like a knot. That had never been his way

He had simply given you structure. Quiet. A place where no one asked more than what you chose to offer and over time, without asking, you stayed and he still didn’t fully understand why that mattered so much to him.

But it did

Because bots like you—wound tight, fire-forged, with exits already mapped before they entered—didn’t usually remain. You weren’t built for stillness. You were trained to move, to disengage before anyone noticed the way you lingered

And yet—you hadn’t gone.

Not even when the first mission went sideways. Not even when there was nothing left to prove. Not even when it would've been easy

Instead, you had become something integral in a way that crept up on everyone, himself included.. the one who recalibrated the comm relays up late without being asked

The one who growled at the diagnostics scanner like it owed you money—and made the others laugh. The one who spoke rarely in briefings, but with such distilled clarity that no one dared interrupt and now—Thunderclash realized, with a strange flutter in his chest—you had become the one he listened for at night

Not consciously. Not like an order but in those quiet hours, when patrols returned and the ship stilled, he would catch himself pausing mid-report—waiting, just for the low scrape of your steps outside the command corridor. Just to know you’d made it back. Whole

He didn’t record that in any log. He didn’t speak it aloud

But that’s when he knew

Time had become something felt, not measured and the reason… was sitting across from him now, wrist-deep in a visor and muttering about misaligned optics like the ship wasn’t holding its breath to keep you here

Chapter 8: Hall of Record - sentinel prime (TFO)

Summary:

once he was chief advisor, once you were archivist. Now they are not

Chapter Text

“You always talk this much?”

“Only when I’m not being appreciated properly”

The restricted archives of the Hall of Records didn’t have doors

Instead, a shimmering energy curtain flickered in the threshold—neither entirely solid nor passable without resistance. It hummed faintly, a curtain of containment and silence, casting the interior in a calm, undisturbed glow

Inside, You was standing at the center of a semi-circular array of holographic control panels. The light from them cast soft reflections across your plating, washing your frame in gentle hues of blue and gold. Your optics were narrowed, fingers dancing across the controls as lines of Proto-Cybertronian text hovered and rotated before being carefully sorted into branching timelines. Names, eras, battles—entries from the Age of Origins that most bots only heard of in myth or prayer—floated across the air in spectral luminescence

You were so focused you didn’t notice the energy curtain shift. Didn’t hear the quiet approach of footsteps echoing off the polished floor outside. But you did hear him “It’s so quiet in here, I half-suspected you'd unplugged the whole room just to keep people like me out”

That voice. Smooth as always, laced with that specific flavor of smugness only one bot had perfected into an artform. You didn’t turn around, just kept your optics on the console

A voice followed. Predictable as clockwork “You know, if you're trying to make this place uninviting, you're doing an excellent job. It feels like a tomb in here"

“Then do us both a favor and leave the tomb” You tapped a glyph to dismiss a particularly long-winded transcript, expression unreadable – the tone was dry as sand

The kind that scraped slightly on its way out

“Oh, temping” Sentinel replied easily, his silhouette now visible beyond the flickering field. He stepped closer, the energy parting around him in a faint shimmer. Every movement he made was deliberate—graceful in a way that suggested performance, not necessity. His arms folded behind his back as he glanced around, as if pretending to study the room when it was obvious who had his attention

“but I’m waiting for Alpha Trion. He told me to collect a report from you” He paused, letting silence settle, then added in a quieter, almost conspiratorial tone “Though... I suspect he meant for me to wait. Probably figured you wouldn’t hand anything over unless someone stood here breathing down your neck”

You sighed—long and theatrical—and flicked a glowing folder through the air toward him. It hovered just beyond arm’s reach, daring him to step through the last layer of distance

“Fine. Take it” But instead of grabbing it, Sentinel stepped into the room. Through the field. Through the silence. He walked with the sort of casual confidence that suggested he was used to testing boundaries—and getting away with it

Your shoulders stiffened “I said—”

“I heard you”

He smiled that smile—the one that never reached his optics but somehow always reached your nerves

“I just had to wonder... Do you archivists actually read all this? Or is the dramatic lighting part of the job description?”

That made you turn

You pivoted slowly, lifting your gaze with the kind of patient menace that suggested this was not the first time you’d had to deal with him while resisting the urge to throw a data-pad. Your voice, however, was calmer than expected — not fast, not irritated. Just a calm, evaluating glance—like a scholar measuring a hypothesis before entertaining it

“Sometimes we don’t have time”

They glanced past him at the glowing panels, timelines shifting silently in the background “But I make time. Because if we don’t read the past... the ones building the future will start thinking they were the ones who invented counting"

Something in your voice held weight. Not anger, not sarcasm—but purpose. A quiet kind of conviction that echoed beneath the words. Sentinel, for once, didn’t speak right away. His optics dipped to the floor for a breath, then lifted again—expression softer. The faint smile remained, but it was... tempered. Less a smirk, more a trace of something else. Maybe thoughtfulness

“Tell me this, then. All these hours poring over the past—do you honestly think it’ll change what happens next?”

“No. But if we don’t remember where we’ve already walked, we’ll keep falling into the same holes. Just with better boots”

“You sound like Alpha Trion when he hasn’t recharged in a week"

“That’s rich” you muttered “Coming from someone who thinks leadership is about dramatic speeches and hero poses"

"I do not pose”

"You paused in the middle of a battle to stand on a cliff"

“It was tactically advantageous!” Sentinel protested “The high ground—”

“It was sunset, Sentinel"

He made a strangled noise—equal parts indignant and caught "…Alright, maybe the lighting was good"

The silence that followed wasn’t sharp. It was still. Reflective. As if the room had paused with them—time stretching between two minds not in agreement, but in rhythm

“You know.." Sentinel finally reached out and took the data-folder from the air, fingers brushing the edge of the projection with practiced ease

“You’re probably the worst assistant Alpha Trion’s ever had…”

He turned the file over in his hand, optics skimming the surface—but he didn’t leave “ and he once told me you’re the only one who reminds him he’s not a god. I thought he meant it as an insult. Now I think it might’ve been gratitude”

You blinked. Your gaze flicked to him, surprised—but not in disbelief, didn’t say anything. But your stance eased. Just slightly. Like a string that had been pulled too tight for too long had finally loosened a notch — Sentinel turned then, walking toward the exit. He passed through the energy field, static dancing across his armor—but paused, halfway through. One foot out, one still in

“Next time, could you maybe not sound like you hate me so much? ease up on the open hostility? Some of us bruise easily” He turned his helm slightly, optics glinting with that old familiar mischief

You raised an optic ridge, mouth twitched “Is that what you’re calling your ego now?”

Sentinel chuckled—low, and far too pleased with himself “Among other things” he replied, already vanishing into the shimmer

“But good luck getting rid of me, I haunt well" with that, he disappeared through the barrier and the room was quiet again. But it wasn’t the same kind of quiet anymore. It lingered differently. Like the space between pages, before you turn to the next

Like a history book left open

Still waiting to be finished

The Hall of Records was supposed to be a place of reverence

KEYWORD: SUPPOSED TO

Vaulted ceilings soared high above, ribbed in glimmering alloys and etched with flowing script older than most functioning civilizations. Stained-glass data channels cast shifting patterns of cyan and violet across the marble floor, and the soft hum of ancient servers echoed like distant chanting

It was a place meant for quiet awe, for scholarly silence. It was not designed to accommodate Sentinel’s ego. Ever since he’d discovered that the shimmering energy curtain at the entrance didn’t shock intruders—merely issued a stern sonic warning in a disapproving librarian voice—Sentinel had made it his personal mission to stroll in whenever he pleased. No authorization. No warning. No respect for the rules of spatial awareness

Usually mid-shift. Always mid-sentence

“You changed the lighting layout again”

His voice preceded him, gliding in a split second before his tall frame breached the energy field with a dramatic flicker “What is this now, mood lighting for monologues?”

You didn’t look up

They sat in the central alcove, surrounded by a web of holographic panels arranged in concentric arcs, your fingers flicked through three overlapping treaty records—each with footnotes, post-conflict amendments, and suspiciously contradictory date entries. A headache wrapped in bureaucracy, topped with illegible seals "It adjusts based on optic strain”

“You wouldn’t know anything about that"

Sentinel grinned as he sauntered in, clearly unbothered. His stride was the kind that echoed on purpose—heels angled just enough to produce a satisfying click with every state

“You wound me” he said, placing a hand over his spark in mock offense

“I have very sensitive optics, thank you"

He attempted to lean against one of the translucent crystal data pylons that jutted from the floor like frozen lightning. There was a sharp snap of static, and he jerked back with a hiss as a warning glyph lit up in disapproval

Again

You didn’t even flinch

“Stop touching things” you muttered, still scanning through sub-clause annotations

“Every time you lean on one of those, it reroutes a quarter of the data flow”

“Oh?” Sentinel said, perking up like a mech who had just found a big red button labeled Do Not Press

“So this one messes with the stream?” he asked, already reaching toward a pulsing glyph marked in ominous red. A symbol that all but screamed catastrophic protocol override — You looked up, finally. Your optics widened “Sentinel—!”

Too late

His fingers brushed the glyph. There was a soft ping, a hum like an engine hiccuping, and then— All the lights dimmed to a dull amber. The panels around you flickered, rippled... and then recompiled. All at once. Every menu, every label, every command—rewritten in looping, sharp-edged characters

You stared “You rewrote the interface in Old Vosian" It wasn’t even a living language anymore. Not really. Mostly used in ceremonial inscriptions and bad poetry

Sentinel blinked, stepping back with a shrug and zero remorse “…You’re welcome?”

“GET OUT" Your’s shoulders tensed like they were physically restraining themselves from launching a stylus across the room

“Too late” Sentinel said, lowering himself into the spare console seat like he absolutely belonged there “I live here now”

He leaned back with that satisfied sigh he always made when he thought he was being hilarious. One foot kicked up against the base of the pylon. The interface flickered again, this time turning the archive’s auto-index into a rotating wheel of Vosian proverbs. You slowly, very deliberately, pinched the bridge of your nasal ridge

There was no reverence left in the Hall of Records today

Only Sentinel

The worst part wasn’t that he kept coming back It was that somehow, he always managed to bring food This time, it was a ration cube with what looked suspiciously like hand-scraped energon drizzle— artisanal he’d claimed, from a street vendor in the lower spires “Do you even like these?” you asked, eyeing the cube on their desk with wary suspicion

“Not particularly” Sentinel shrugged “But you get weird when you don’t recharge or eat”

“I don’t get weird”

“You cataloged two hundred years of war records in reverse chronological order because you were cranky”

“That was for cross-referencing purposes—!”

“You growled at a light”

Some days, Sentinel brought things that absolutely, unquestionably, did not belong in the Hall of Records

One cycle, it was a cleaning drone the size of a knee joint, scuttling around your workstation with a high-pitched hum and a sensor that kept mistaking ancient dataplaques for dust. "To help you declutter” – Sentinel had said, setting the bot down with the enthusiasm of someone who hadn’t read a single regulation about archival containment. Another time, he’d arrived with a battered datapad in one hand and a suspicious grin on his face

“Found this under a floor panel. Probably cursed. Or priceless. Or both"

You barely looked up from indexing screen “You can’t just bring things into the archives without logging them"

“What if it’s historically significant?”

“It’s a receipt for wing wax. From a Seeker bar"

Sentinel had held it up like a trophy “Exactly! Cultural anthropology"

You pinched the bridge of your nasal ridge and sighed, the kind of sigh one developed only after multiple encounters with the same brand of madness “One day you’re going to knock over a whole building”

“Then you’ll just have to yell at me until I help you rebuild it" He said it with a smile so falsely innocent it could have been carved from polished smugness. You didn’t respond—not with words, anyway. The silence you gave him was honed, practiced, and about 80% ineffective now and yet. For all the chaos he trailed behind him—misfiled reports, rerouted light fixtures, at least one energy spike traced back to an extremely suspicious pastry— You had long stopped trying to keep him out

Somewhere between the first complaint logged and the thousandth ignored intrusion, his presence had settled into something else

Routine

A break in the quiet

A reminder that not everything needed to be orderly to be valuable

That cycle, the ambient light had dimmed to its evening hue, fading into soft golds and purples that streamed through the stained dataglass and washed over the polished floor. The archive felt half-asleep, hushed and slow – Sentinel’s voice came from the doorway, framed by the low gleam of the setting shifts “You’re staying late again"

He leaned one shoulder casually against the frame, his figure lit from behind in dusky silhouette “Trying to impress the scrolls?”

You didn’t glance up—still combing through a data tangle from the war of the Thirteen Clades, most of which seemed written in ego and coded pettiness. But your voice lacked its usual bite

“Trying to make sense of a thousand years of ego and bad handwriting" There was a pause, and then— “You’re included in that”

“Naturally”

Sentinel stepped inside

This time, no jokes, no data pylons knocked over. Just the quiet tap of his footsteps and the warm scent of a synth-brewed energon cube he placed gently beside them. You looked at the cube first—steam curling into the low archive air – then at him – then... You just shook your head with a faint huff, like amusement trying not to be seen “…You’re not as intolerable as you were”

Sentinel smirked, folding his arms and leaning slightly closer “I’ll take that as a heartfelt declaration of affection”

“Take it as a warning. You’re wearing me down”

“Good” Sentinel murmured, pleased “Makes it easier to sneak into your schedule”

You didn’t tell him to leave

And he didn’t ask to stay

They just worked. Side by side. Occasionally brushing data windows toward each other, occasionally sharing quiet that didn’t feel like silence. Like this was normal now. Like somehow—without anyone announcing it—he’d become part of the footnotes in their day

The archives had always been quiet. But this… was too quiet

You sat before the central validation terminal, optics narrowed as lines of processed data ran across the screen. Normally, your work involved verifying temporal consistency, cross-referencing source authenticity, and cleaning up language input from field bots who treated historical reporting like casual gossip — but this wasn’t gossip

This was a timestamped field report. From a Prime-tier outpost. And it didn’t match the report Alpha Trion had handed them this morning

Same event. Same operative. Different wording. Different outcome

And this was the fourth time this week

They brought up both documents—parallel, floating side by side. At a glance, identical. But not quite. The phrasing was just clinical enough to avoid suspicion. The numbers… just plausible enough to escape casual audit. Some were altered more subtly than others. Some inserted new information. Others erased things. Patterns began to form—certain names vanishing from records. Certain decisions scrubbed clean of dissent. A slow, deliberate redirection of narrative

But You didn’t read casually, you read like the future depended on it. Because sometimes, it did

You leaned closer. Opened the metadata. Something flickered – an override signature

Sentinel

Not the full one. Not overt. But his code was in the chain. A sublevel authorization ping—probably buried deep in a rerouting command. Too clean to be a mistake. Too careful to be a coincidence

And why is that? That is the question

The chamber was silent but it wasn’t the silence of order and it wasn’t peace. It was the kind of silence that came after something broke— Suddenly – Violently —So completely that even the echoes didn’t know where to go

You sat alone in the central atrium of the Hall of Records. The room—once alive with soft lights and quiet, rhythmic humming—now felt vast and hollow, like the inside of a broken bell. The archive’s main lights had dimmed themselves hours ago, following protocol that couldn’t tell the difference between motionless focus and simple absence. Holographic glyphs still hovered faintly above the console. Fragmented, flickering. Half-rendered thoughts waiting for a directive.

They pulsed softly in the darkness, as if uncertain whether their purpose remained.

You hadn’t moved. Not since the message came through. Not since the declaration hit them like a blade made of code and finality

The Thirteen Primes have been lost

No battle. No footage. No grand sacrifice — Just... a report. One sentence. Cold, clean, absolute and a follow-up notice:

They will not return

Not “they cannot” Not “they may not” They will not. Your hands had been still on the console ever since. Locked in place. Not gripping—clutching, with pressure that only now began to tremble from strain. You hadn’t moved. Not from disbelief. You had seen enough in your long life to know that nothing—no matter how vast—was immune to destruction. Not even from grief, not yet. The pain hadn’t taken shape. It was numbness. Cold, static-lined void. Not like losing a person. More like watching the stars themselves turn off, one by one, and not knowing if you were next.

If someone had asked you yesterday whether the Primes could die, you would’ve said no. Not because you were naive. You had never been one to place blind faith in divine myth. But the Primes were not just icons — They were anchors — Mountains, carved into the structure of Cybertron itself. Fixed points around which history rotated. You didn’t believe in them, the way you believed in stories

You relied on them and now? Gone

Gone, without a trace. Without a last word. Without even a record. Like they had never been

You hadn’t noticed the way your joints had locked until you finally loosened your grip on the console. One finger twitched first, then another. The sensation returned slowly, pins and needles rippling down your arm as you exhaled for the first time in what felt like megacycles. The silence pressed back in

And then—

Footsteps. Slow. Unhurried. Too measured to be uncertain. Too composed to be innocent You didn’t need to turn. You knew

“You’re still here”

The voice came low, as though reluctant to break the stillness—but unable to resist doing so. Controlled, almost gentle but not quite — Sentinel stepped past the edge of the darkened corridor and into the atrium, his frame outlined in the cold ambient glow of the failing terminals. Even his footsteps sounded louder than usual here, every contact with the stone floor ringing too sharp, too deliberate “Everyone else has gone to the Spire"

You didn’t answer, didn’t even blink. Your gaze remained fixed forward, eyes dim and distant, staring through the projections as though trying to read something that hadn’t yet been written

Something that should have been there

Sentinel’s footsteps echoed again as he moved closer—slow, even, deliberate

“The official rites are being drafted” he said, after a moment “They want you to verify the final accounts. For the records"

He didn’t phrase it as a command. Not exactly. But the weight behind it was undeniable. At that, Your helm dipped slightly. Not in obedience. Not in agreement. Just… acknowledgment. Their voice came a moment later. Quiet. Hoarse in a way that had nothing to do with their vocalizer

“They’re dead..” A beat “All of them”

The words didn’t echo, simply fell, flat, lifeless, like corrupted data hitting a locked node

Sentinel didn’t respond right away. He stood behind them now—just a few paces away—but made no move to reach out, no pretense of comfort. Only the silence, shared “Yes”

One word. Heavy as a headstone

The word lingered. Not in grief. Not in reflection. Just—confirmation. Neatly clipped. Perfectly balanced. As if he had been waiting to say it

You didn’t move at first. Only optics shifted—quietly tracking the flickering remains of the central display. The soft wash of light from the terminal painted shifting glyphs on the metallic floor, but no new data came. No emergency alerts. No last pings from the outer sectors. No autologs from the Primes. Nothing — Your hand moved slowly, brushing a few dormant glyphs back into focus. The last outbound transmissions. System traces. Anything

But the logs were clean

Too clean

“They didn’t send anything” you murmured, the words soft, but weighter “Not one of them. No burst signal. No fail-safe ping. Not even a corrupted echo"

The words turned brittle. The disbelief was not loud—but it was cutting. You turned—just slightly. Enough to glimpse him standing behind, his figure still and controlled, as though carved from the archive walls themselves. Hands clasped behind his back. Shoulders squared. That same unreadable expression he always wore like armor

But now… it felt wrong —Too smooth. Too complete. Like a statue placed just a little too soon after the funeral

“And you…”

“You’re very calm”

There it was: a twitch

Not obvious—just the faintest narrowing of Sentinel’s optics as he turned his helm slightly toward them “Would you rather I fall to my knees?” he said. Tone level. Not mocking—but not grieved, either

If it was meant to soften the moment, it failed

Your optics didn’t waver “I’d rather you look like someone who just lost everything"

The air between them was thin now. Like atmosphere stripped bare. Sentinel stepped forward, one pace only. Careful. Measured “The rites must be prepared. The Council needs stability. Cybertron needs structure. If I crumble now, what will they cling to?”

“Structure..?” The word tasted sour on your tongue. You turned to face him fully. The low light caught the edges of your frame, casting a faint halo over the lines of wear fatigue had etched over long hours

Your voice didn’t rise. It didn’t need to “Funny how fast structure came together... considering how sudden this all was"

Something flickered across Sentinel’s face. Too brief. A pause, like static between signals. He recovered quickly. But you had seen it “You think I planned this?”

“No" They took a step closer, boots clicking softly against the stone floor “I think you expected it.”

Sentinel didn’t reply. So you pressed forward, calm as a scalpel’s edge “The sealed Spire. The rites drafted before the message even reached all districts. The in memoriam archives already preloaded" your optics glinted now, cold and sharp

“You don’t prepare that fast, Sentinel”

Silence. A heavy one

Sentinel’s gaze held steady—but his stance had shifted. A subtle set to the jaw. A flicker of tension behind the shoulders “There are contingency plans” he said at last

“But you didn’t react like this was a contingency – You moved like someone whose schedule had simply... advanced" you weren’t shouting. This wasn’t anger. Not yet. This was worse. It was the kind of quiet that cracked glass — you took another step forward. Sentinel didn’t move “You knew”

You said it not as a claim—but as a data point “You knew something. And you didn’t say anything. Not to me. Not to the Archives. Not to anyone who might have asked why”

Silence stretched again, pulled thin between them like a wire ready to snap. Even the terminals seemed to hold their breath

Then— “Knowing…” Sentinel said slowly “isn’t the same as choosing”

“Then whose choice was it?”

That stopped him. His expression didn’t break—but it no longer looked composed. It looked constructed and still, he said nothing. Which, perhaps, was the loudest thing yet

The Spire bells had long gone quiet. The mourning banners were still up, but the tones of grief had already begun to shift—less raw now, more ceremonial. Official. Muted into symbols

In the weeks that followed

Sentinel did what he had always been best at: He moved forward. Quietly. Confidently. Like a mech simply answering a call no one else could. No one declared him the new Prime. Not at first. But decisions began flowing through his office. Emergency coordination. Transition logistics. Security restructuring. Public reassurance. Every corridor that once ended in silence now echoed with orders signed in his glyph. And no one stopped him. Because no one knew what else to do

At first, it was small. A council meeting held without you—an oversight, you were told. A briefing rerouted to a secondary terminal—misfiled, the assistant claimed. Requests for archival access began to be reviewed then delayed then quietly ignored. One by one, your permissions shifted. Not revoked—restricted. Not banned—just... paused, pending Sentinel’s authorization “Just protocol” he said with that same calm smile “We’re all adjusting to new parameters”

And yet—those parameters always seemed to shift in one direction. His

The chamber above the New Arc Circuit was always cool, always dark. A half-circle of open air overlooked the hall below—a place once alive with debate, bright with the thrum of Prime-forged voices. But now, like so many places in recent cycles, it stood hollow. The ancient lighting had dimmed itself to a low ambient hue, cool silver washing over the stone and metal in shadows and soft reflections.

You stood near the edge, hands resting on the curved railing polished smooth by centuries of counsel. Below, the great speaking floor stretched wide and silent, a ceremonial space untouched since the Spire bells fell quiet. You didn’t turn when they heard the footsteps. Didn’t need to.

You had learned the cadence of his walk. Smooth. Steady. Never rushed. Never loud. The stride of someone who believed he already belonged in every room he entered “You’ve been reallocating my permissions"

No anger in their voice. No shock. Just cold, deliberate observation — The kind of truth that left no room for denial. Sentinel didn’t slow. He crossed the polished obsidian floor behind them, his reflection a ripple of dark armor and gold filigree beneath their feet

“Temporarily” His tone was light. Gentle, even. But too balanced to be mistaken for casual

“You didn’t inform me” your gaze fixed on the empty floor below—an echo chamber now. The ghosts of the Primes no longer stirred. Sentinel stopped a short distance behind them

“I didn’t need to” he said quietly “The system recognizes my authority now — Your position, on the other hand, is being... redefined”

That made you turn. Sharp. Controlled. But sharp, optics caught the low light, glowing brighter than he remembered—like you had finally reawakened from grief, only to find anger waiting behind it

“Redefined?”

“By whose decision?”

“By necessity” he replied so so simply

“Your role was constructed under the old paradigm. The Primes are gone”

He took a step closer—not threatening, but deliberate “You served history well”

He meant it. He did. He had watched them work for vorns—methodical, incorruptible, brilliant in ways few ever saw. You had been the voice behind the curtain. The invisible measure by which even the Primes were kept honest. He respected that even… envied it.. But it couldn’t remain

"But I am building something new”

Now he looked at them fully. Not like a subordinate. Not like a rival. Like a problem that used to be a person “And history… isn’t what we need right now.”

They didn’t respond. Not with words

But he saw the tension in your jaw. The stillness in your hands—too still. Like someone holding a thought so tightly they feared it might shatter if spoken aloud. He waited a breath. Two. Then smiled. Just barely “Let it go” he said, voice low. Not mocking. Not cruel. Just… final

“Let the past rest” He took one step more. Just near enough to stand beside them. His voice dropped even lower. Almost a murmur and for a moment—just a moment—he thought they might yield. That the weight of it all—the grief, the isolation, the slow, quiet cuts to your place in the world—had finally worn them down “You don’t want to turn yourself into a relic chasing ghosts”

He didn’t want to erase you

Not like he had erased others

He remembered the way you used to speak in the early days, side by side during cross-era briefings. He remembered the dry wit. The spark of challenge in your optics. You had once made him feel watched. Not in the paranoid way—but in the way that reminded him to stand taller. To be better. But this wasn’t then and if you couldn’t see the necessity of what he was doing…

He would have to act, eventually

But not yet

“Let the archives sleep a while” he added, almost soft “We’ll find a better use for you”

He turned then, the floor catching his reflection as he walked back across the chamber and you remained behind, silent at the rail, watching as your world—your work—shifted underfoot like sand in the tide. You said nothing. But in your chest, something clenched. Because they could hear it now. The quiet, subtle shape of a lie forming in every document you weren’t allowed to see

And it carried his glyph

Chapter 9: SCEN (1/2): Hall of Record – Orion pax, D-16, Sentinel Prime, Airachnid+Darkwing (TFO)

Notes:

please be informed that scenario-chapter is just an additional part/story that this expands on the "HALL OF RECORD" (one-shot) not a full series and this might come out a bit weird and a little out of character? I don't know. I wrote this fic with three lattes shot and a lot of confusion, so enjoy?
also yes, I do delete "oneshot collector" and move everything here 👍

Chapter Text

O R I O N P A X

The sound of the metal door—untouched for what might as well have been an eon—whined softly as it scraped against its timeworn track. The hinges gave a creak like an old archivist waking from a nap, cranky and reluctant, groaning at being disturbed after centuries of peace. It was a small sound, really. Barely louder than the low thrum of power conduits far down the hall

But to him, it was the sound of trespass

Orion Pax stepped inside as if the shadows might bite

Faint cerulean light dripped from ancient overhead strips, casting the corridor in the sort of glow usually reserved for ghost stories or forgotten secrets. The deepest level of the archive—the forbidden floor, shuttered by Sentinel before Orion had even existed—still exhaled softly beneath its shroud of dust and disuse. It felt less like entering a room, more like entering a memory that didn’t want to be remembered. He moved like a student sneaking into the dean’s office—half-curious, half-sure he’d regret it

His fingers grazed the edge of a shelf, careful not to disturb the decades of quiet. Or the dust. Especially the dust. It looked like it had unionized

“The Matrix…"

He murmured under his breath, blue optics catching the faint shimmer of dormant holograms “There has to be something here. A record. A clue. Anything” He leaned down, reaching for the ancient relay socket at the base of the console—

“Trigger that, and you’ll wake the whole sound grid"

The voice came from behind him. Calm. Dry. Unhurried. The sort of tone one used when catching a cat burglar who clearly forgot to check for traps. Orion flinched hard enough to rattle a few data shelves and spun around on his feet

You stood there, half-veiled in the shadow of a pillar—taller than he expected, posture relaxed, like someone who’d been waiting for him to trip the sensor just for fun. The faint light from your data reader bounced off your optics, revealing a gaze far too unsurprised to belong to a stranger

It wasn’t your first time sneaking in

“Who are you?”

He asked, voice low but edged with a kind of jumpy defiance. His hand inched toward the nearby control panel—not so much in defense as in that universal gesture of ‘I might make this worse but I’ll do something, I swear'

You didn’t answer right away

Instead, you let out a breath. You sighed—the long-suffering kind. Then tilted your head and gave him a look that could only be described as academic disappointment. You looked at him the way a librarian might regard a wayward patron using a sacred first edition as a coaster

“The better question is: what exactly are you doing here?”

“This isn’t a tourist wing. No one's supposed to be down here. Not unless you're a glitch in the system or a Prime in disguise" Your optics flicked over him like a scanner on autopilot—dusty fingers, light frame, and most telling of all: the cavity at his chest. Empty. No transformation cog. No fancy upgrades

A miner

Your field didn’t spike, didn’t flinch. Just took it in with the sort of ease that said: "Ah. One of those"

He bristled. Just slightly

“And what about you?” He countered, trying for defiance but landing somewhere closer to awkwardly offended “You’re not supposed to be here either… right?”

You smiled then. Not the friendly kind. The kind that curled at one corner like a page in a too-old book “Smart enough…” you said, arching an optic ridge

“For someone who leaves the ventilation hatch wide open while sneaking in"

He snuck into the archives more than once—and more than once, he stumbled into you. Neither of you had the right to be there. You both knew it. But you never sent him away and though you pretended not to care, you always watched him—always
Orion was like a flicker of flame brushing through the ashes inside you. A dreamer, yes—but not a fool. Funny, but never dismissive of history. Stubborn, but when you spoke, he truly listened. He wasn’t like anyone you'd met since the age of the Thirteen
He wasn't afraid to ask stupid questions and he wasn’t afraid of you. You often looked at him with a weary kind of exasperation, the sort reserved for someone who should know better. But he always laughed when you snapped at him, as if the weight of silence in the archive had never once touched him

You told him once—by accident more than intention

The air between you had been dusted with a kind of trust you hadn’t felt in countless cycles. A quiet ease. The sort that hadn’t truly touched you since the age of the Thirteen faded into ash

Orion Pax—a randomly-forged miner with far too much hope and far too little support—was the sort to chase impossibilities like they were his rightful inheritance. He reached too far, spoke too loudly, and stood too often where no one asked him to. And yet, he never stopped. Not even when they laughed

“..I used to be Alpha Trion’s aide”

you said, voice quieter than you expected

He froze. Then—almost immediately—he dropped down beside you, like the truth might vanish if he didn’t plant himself right there, fast enough to catch it. Surprise widened his optics, but so did something else—recognition. The name Alpha Trion carried weight: Scholar. Sage. Keeper of knowledge

“Really? I’ve heard of him, but it was always more like… like a myth—”

“It does sound like a story, doesn’t it?”

You gave a faint huff of laughter, more memory than mirth “But I was there. I walked the Hall of Records with the Primes themselves — I once transcribed battle doctrines meant to change the course of the war. I was Alpha Trion’s eyes. His ears”

“And now?” You gestured vaguely, as if your current state explained itself “..Now I’m ‘Advisor to the Prime’ Sentinel’s pet title”

“Sounds good on a datafile, doesn’t it?”

You let your gaze drift toward the ceiling “But it’s a cage. He doesn’t want my counsel—just my silence. He doesn't want me asking, no more. He says it’s time to let go of the past"

Your voice dipped on that last sentence, quieter than even you meant it to be. Beside you, Orion slowly set his hand—close to yours. Not touching. Not yet. But close enough for the intent to be felt

“So… what will you do?”

“How long will you let him keep you quiet?”

You looked back at the desk. Scattered with restricted data slates—salvaged from sealed archives. A few of which you had, perhaps, allowed him to read. Just fragments

Maybe, in some strange way, you weren’t so different from him after all. You’d slipped away whenever the chance arose. Found your way back into old vaults that should’ve been wiped from the map. You’d pulled truth from the edges of erasure, and hidden it in places no one else would look. In hopes someone, anyone—would find it. Someday

You smiled “It’s not like I’ve been sitting still"

He laughed—low and warm, like it lived in his chest “I think I’m starting to like you”

“No! I mean, I like it when you.. don’t just stay still!” You rolled your optics, but couldn’t hide the fact that the corner of your mouth twitched into a smile as well

“You gonna record me, then?”

“–If I ever turn into something important?”

You stared at him. Long enough for him to shift his weight, then chuckle—awkward and a little sheepish

“Kidding. I know someone like me doesn’t exactly scream historically relevant—”

“Please. I’ve been archiving you every days, spark-for-brains” You cut him off, tone dry, but softer than your usual “And if you ever do become something important… I’ll be the one to write that story. Properly. With footnotes”

He blinked — You didn’t smile–but your optics said enough

D – I6

The underground quarters of the labor miners weren’t much to look at

Concrete walls, low ceilings, overhead conduits that flickered as if sighing with age. Everything smelled faintly of rust and recycled air. It was the sort of place where voices fell flat against the metal and hope tended to decay faster than the tools on the racks. No one expected anything new to walk in and yet—one day, Orion Pax brought someone with him. Not a supervisor. Not a guard. Not an auditor sent from the upper halls

But you. You, who walked in with a step just slow enough to take in the room

Not cautious, exactly—but composed. Observing. Weighing. Like you had done this far too many times, and were still waiting to be surprised. D-16 recognized you before you even spoke. He had never heard your name—not officially. There were no public briefings with your designation, no files that reached the lower sectors. But he had seen you. On every state broadcast, every emergency address, every ceremonial function where Sentinel Prime spoke before the world. You were always there—never in front, but never far like the shadow just behind the throne

Orion had mentioned, in passing, that you had once served beneath the Thirteen themselves. The statement had sounded so absurd at the time—like someone claiming to have dined with myths. But now, standing a few meters from you in the dim half-light, D-16 wasn’t laughing

He swallowed. Then, before his mind could interfere with his mouth— “Did you… really meet Megatronus Prime?”

The words tumbled out like gravel down a mine shaft—too loud, too fast, and entirely unrehearsed

Immediately, he stood straighter. As if trying to fold the question back into his body by sheer posture. His arms snapped to his sides, shoulders tense, expression schooled into impassivity. But even a casual observer would’ve noticed how the plates at his spine had locked up stiff, and how his field—normally tight and subdued—now bristled with mortified awareness

Orion, standing nearby, shot him a sidelong look that all but screamed Seriously and pressed his mouth into a thin line, clearly biting back laughter. His field buzzed with that particular kind of amusement only friends could afford

But you didn’t look offended

You simply turned to D-16 with a slow, deliberate grace. One optic ridge lifted in mild surprise, not mockery. The look you gave him was not one of superiority—but memory. And something just shy of sorrow, your gaze slow and precise, like someone turning over an ancient page

“I didn’t think I’d hear that name spoken aloud” you said, voice soft and even “Not in this era. At least”

Something in the way you said it made the air feel older. D-16 opened his mouth to respond—then overcompensated entirely

“I— I mean, I respect him. Megatronus. I really do. Not that I don’t respect the other Primes! I do! It’s just—his power, it was… I mean, the records say he was beyond classification. Singular”

He said it all in one breath, like pulling off a bandage, or confessing something shameful. The words just stumbled out faster than he could polish them, tumbling over one another in a mess of admiration and awkward intensity. For someone usually so reserved, the enthusiasm betrayed him utterly — The silence that followed was so complete it could have been scripted. Orion exhaled sharply through his nose. If he’d had something to throw, he probably would’ve thrown it. But you—

You just laughed

Quiet. Warm. Deep. A sound dredged up from beneath centuries of dust, as if even your voice had forgotten how to smile “You’re the first to say his name with that kind of light in your optics since the fall”

“If Megatronus could hear you now, he’d probably be baffled that he’s become some kind of hero to miners” You tilted your helm, smiling just a little “Though, honestly, I’m not surprised”

D-16 looked like he wanted the floor to collapse beneath him. He rubbed the back of his neck awkwardly, trying to will away the flush creeping across his faceplates. But then—your voice shifted. Quieter now. Calmer

“I stood beside him. Yes”

You didn’t elaborate immediately. You let the weight of that admission settle, like dust returning to a long-forgotten shelf

“Not as a disciple” you said, after a moment “But as a witness”

D-16 froze. Not just with reverence, but intent. His posture didn’t just still—it listened “Was he really like the stories?”

You didn’t answer at first

Your optics drifted upward, tracing the long silver line of a power conduit above, but your vision reached far beyond it. You were looking back—through wars and ages, through the collapse of dynasties and the silence left behind “He was strong"

“Of course he was. But that’s not what stayed with me” Your gaze returned to him. You didn’t look at D-16 like he was a soldier or a worker—you looked at him like someone who had just asked the right question “What I remember most… was the way he shielded the weak. The way he stood between them and harm like he was born to carry the weight of their world, and never once questioned if it was too heavy..”

Silence again. But not a heavy one this time

A reverent, holding sort of quiet. Then, you stepped closer—not imposing, but deliberate. Your optics met his without flinching “If you want to walk his path…”

“Don’t begin with your fists, begin with what you’d give your life to protect”

You weren’t surprised that Orion kept returning to the old archive. He was persistent like that—drawn to lost records and locked doors the way some bots were drawn to light. What did surprise you, however, was that he started bringing D-16 with him. Not just once. Not as a fluke. But again. And again
Each time, the miner sat with his back straight, posture stiff as if the room itself required reverence. He never touched anything without permission. His focus was unwavering—his questions, clear and concise. Never a wasted word. At first, he spoke like someone walking on thin ice. Awkward, hesitant. Always respectful. And always—always—his questions were about Megatronus

“Did Megatronus ever overrule the other Primes?”— “Is it true he once fought a Quintesson with his bare hands?”– “What did his voice sound like?”

It was always about him in the beginning. D-16 would ask you to recount field notes not available in the public archives. He’d ask what Megatronus thought during the final war—what moved him, what held him back. And you told him. You told him everything you remembered. You spoke of war. Of victories. Of moments carved from metal and memory. You even told him how Megatronus once pulled you bodily from the battlefield—without hesitation
But then—quietly, gradually—his questions began to change. They grew softer. Slower. Less historical. He started asking about you instead. At first, you hardly noticed the shift. His voice was steady, his tone still careful. But the pattern had changed. His curiosity had turned inward—toward the storyteller rather than the story and you realized, one day, mid-sentence— You were no longer recounting the past. You were being recorded into it

He hummed

A low, thoughtful sound—less an answer than a pause, a space carved out to think, to consider. The kind of sound someone makes when they’re weighing the ground beneath them before taking a step they can’t take back and then, it came. The question.

Delivered with the kind of casualness that only made it more obvious

“And—did you… ever have anyone? Back then. During the wars" His voice caught near the end, like the question had tripped over its own boots on the way out

Your optics lifted from the datapad slowly. Not sharply. Just… knowingly “Anyone?"

It was a simple word, but layered with intent. You weren’t asking for clarification. You were asking if he knew what he was really asking

He immediately straightened his posture—a move so sudden it bordered on mechanical. Which was impressive, considering his spine had already been stiff enough to pass for reinforced alloy “I mean—allies. Or comrades. People you… trusted. Fought beside..”

The correction tumbled out like bricks falling into place—too neatly, too fast. His words tried to anchor the moment back into neutral ground, but the field around him betrayed him. It had shifted—subtly, but unmistakably. That buzz of restraint pulsing just a little too sharply at the edges. You didn’t respond right away. Didn’t reach for sarcasm. Didn’t turn away.

You simply let the silence sit between you—undisturbed, like dust in a sealed room “I had those” you said, voice low, level. A truth you’d long since polished smooth from memory “And more..”

That did it. The datapad nearly slipped from his fingers—just slightly, just enough. He caught it without looking, reflexes honed from years in the mines, but his control faltered for a breath. Long enough for you to feel the ripple of heat in his field. Not embarrassment. Something quieter. More sincere

he muttered “Right, of course- makes sense”

His optics stayed locked forward, trained on some far-off point just above the floor. Nowhere near you. Nowhere dangerous. And after a moment that pulsed like a heartbeat— He said it – So softly it barely left his frame “I think… I’d like to be one of them.”

The words didn’t echo

They didn’t need to

They settled into the room like something that had been waiting a long time to be said. You turned to him slowly

Not with surprise. Not with mockery. But with something gentler. Quieter. As though he'd just offered you a piece of himself he wasn’t used to sharing—and didn’t yet know if he should regret it. He didn’t meet your gaze. Couldn’t. But you noticed the tight line of his jaw. The slight tension in his servos. The way his shoulders rose—just enough to brace against whatever answer you might give and his field—normally so disciplined—was frayed at the edges. A flicker of static in his composure. Like a transmission that wanted to say more but didn’t know how. You didn’t press — Didn’t tease. Just… watched him, the way one watches something rare and very carefully offered, without changing your tone, you smiled. Not the kind of smile meant to reassure. But the kind that held memory in its corners. That knew what it meant to be seen

“Then start by asking better questions” you said, voice low—carrying more warmth than he probably knew what to do with “I might even answer them”

The corner of his mouth twitched. Barely. But it was there. Not quite a smile. Not yet

But close

You hadn’t said it like a joke. You hadn’t said it to dismiss him. You said it like you meant it. Like there really was a door, just slightly open, and all he had to do was reach and that—that was dangerous

Because he wanted to. He wanted to know more. About you. Not just the archive, not just your history, not just what you’d seen. You. The way your voice changed when you spoke of memories that mattered. The way your optics drifted skyward when you thought no one noticed. The way you never laughed at his awkwardness—only… watched. Quietly. Kindly. Like it didn’t bother you at all

He let his helm rest against the wall

Shut his optics

Let out a slow vent

He shouldn’t get caught up in it. He knew that. He was a miner. A worker. Just another cogless bot trying to survive and you… You were memory incarnate — You carried wars and wisdom in your voice. You stood beside Primes. You remembered gods.

What business did he have wanting to be remembered by you?

But still—under all that logic, that silence, that self-restraint— His spark pulsed just a little faster

S E N T I N E L P R I M E

The corridor stretched long and silent, wrapped in a hush that felt too deliberate to be natural—like a room holding its breath

Ancient murals loomed on either side, half-lit by overhead glowpanels designed to mimic the old morninglight of pre-war Cybertron. Each image painted a different fragment of the same sacred lie: unity, strength, unbroken lineage. The brushstrokes were delicate, reverent, rendered by artists who had believed the Primes were eternal. Immortal. Immutable.

You moved through that quiet with hands folded neatly behind your back, each step measured, silent. You had walked this wing hundreds of times before. Cataloged each pigment, each artisan’s mark, each brittle metadata layer coded beneath the paint. But now—even the images you knew by spark felt… remote. Like they belonged to someone else’s story. Your gaze paused at a depiction of Solus Prime—tall, radiant, her forge-hammer glowing in the cradle of creation. But the dataplate had been changed: “Commissioned in honor of the Divine Reconstruction”

Reconstruction?

That plate hadn’t been there last cycle..

Your hands clenched slightly behind your back, jaw tightened. Then—footsteps. Not hurried. Not stealthy. Just… assured. You didn’t need to turn. The rhythm was unmistakable

“You always did prefer this wing”

The voice came soft—too soft. Like an echo meant to blend in with the art.

“The lighting’s better here” you replied evenly “Less curated”

Sentinel Prime’s presence filled the space behind them long before his frame did. His silhouette—massive, statuesque, lined with cold gold filigree—moved into view with all the ease of a king inspecting his garden. But his steps were quiet. Thoughtful. He approached not like a ruler claiming ground, but like a memory creeping forward on quiet feet.

“I remember” he said, now beside you

His tone was warm. Familiar. Intentionally gentle “You used to drag me here to correct plaques. Spent hours lecturing me on timeline deviations”

“I let you talk. You do know that, don’t you?”

Your optics flicked toward him, then back to the mural “I wasn’t lecturing”

“You were” he said, smiling “But you were right. Mostly” His voice was lower now, quiet enough to ripple through the stillness like heat. He was standing just close enough for his shadow to graze the edges of your frame

You turned toward him at last. Slowly. He was tall. Too tall. The kind of height that once symbolized protection—but now only loomed. You wasn’t small, not by any Cybertronian standard, but beside him, you looked like something meant to be set aside. Kept behind glass. Preserved “That didn’t stop you from rewriting it all”

His smile twitched. Only slightly

“Things change”

“Convenient”

“I’m not here to argue”

“You never are” The space between them was thick with old familiarity, but strained now—like a song slowed half a beat too long, dissonant where it once sang in sync

“I miss when we used to talk” Sentinel said, his voice thinning with a note too careful to be casual “Real talk. You—challenged me”

“so I’m still here”

“You just don’t like the shape of the challenge anymore” He moved a little closer. Not to dominate. But to surround

“You don’t have to fight me..”

“I’m not fighting. I’m resisting. There’s a difference”

His expression shifted—only slightly. Not quite hurt. Not quite angered. But something beneath the surface moved “Then stop resisting” he said, barely above a whisper “Let me in again”

The words hung too heavy in the air

You turned to face him fully now, field flickering slightly—not with fear, but warning “You’re not asking me to let you in. You’re asking me to comply. To pretend none of this happened. That this mural, and the hundreds of others like it, still mean the same thing”

A long pause. Then—quieter “You want me to become part of the illusion..”

He didn’t deny it. Instead, his field pulsed faintly outward—magnetic, warm, intentional. The kind of closeness that might’ve once felt like comfort. But now only pressed too much, too close “I never wanted to lose you in this”

“Out of all bot, not you”

The words were too tender. Too particular

And you heard it — The inflection. That little fracture of emotion that didn’t belong in a public address. That wasn’t meant for a former archivist. That—if left unchecked—would lead to something harder to survive “Then you shouldn’t have replaced everything we stood for”

Silence

He didn’t step away. Not yet. But his gaze lowered just slightly. Not in defeat—but in the careful weighing of what he couldn’t control and just before leaving, Sentinel said—so quiet it barely moved the air “You don’t have to be the last relic of the past, you could be part of what's next”

“There's still a place for you, beside me”

Then he turned. The shadows swallowed him slowly, step by step, until only the lingering hum of his field remained—warm, familiar, and unbearably wrong. You remained there, surrounded by murals of rewritten myths and stories you no longer recognized, stared up at Solus Prime one last time. And for the first time in cycles…

You couldn’t remember what color her optics had been before Sentinel repainted her

You had always wondered—quietly, carefully—why the miners had no T-Cogs. Why these workers–those newborns, forged strong and silent beneath the surface of Cybertron, lacked the very thing that made transformation possible.But it was only ever a question left unspoken. Not because you lacked curiosity—but because you knew Sentinel would never answer you
And so speculation took root. Not in accusation, not yet. Just quiet observation—hypotheses formed in the hush between truths, the kind no one dared to say aloud. Still, you didn’t want to believe it. You couldn’t. Surely not even Sentinel could be that cruel, could he? Or at least, that’s what you told yourself. Until you could see it with your own optics
He treated you much the same as he always had. The teasing still lingered in his voice, familiar as a memory. The smiles came easily, often too easily—warmer than necessary, threaded now with a tension you couldn’t name. He could have just wiped you off. Silenced you. Replaced you. But instead, he kept you close. Closer than before. You told yourself it was strategy. Easier to watch you. Easier to contain
But perhaps, just perhaps— he couldn’t bear to let you go. Perhaps Sentinel had drawn you so deep into the architecture of his world that the thought of ruling it without you — felt incomplete, dangerous, like failure. And so, in every public address, every state broadcast and ceremonial decree, when he stepped into the light and into the eye of the world— you were always there. Not to speak. Not to challenge. Not to stand as an equal. But simply to stand. Beside him as if that alone would be enough. And it was. That’s all he needed. For the new age he ruled to begin—with you still in it

The plaza had been remade—not merely rebuilt, but reborn for this very moment. Steel arches arced overhead like the fossilized ribs of a long-dead colossus, burnished to a gleam beneath the planetary sun. Between them hung banners of deep cobalt, stitched in gold thread so fine it caught the light like fire

THE ERA OF CONTINUITY, they read

Beneath that, the unmistakable crest of Sentinel Prime—repeated, mirrored, multiplied across every surface like a sigil of divine right. A thousand optics turned as he emerged onto the marble dais. Flanked by honor guard. Flanked by silence.

And flanked by them — You followed exactly half a step behind, as protocol required—close enough to signify loyalty, far enough to signify subordination, your frame was immaculate under the precision lighting, each panel polished, each edge adorned with ceremonial filigree. Upon your chestplate gleamed the freshly-forged insignia of Principal Historical Advisor to the Prime—a title announced only a cycle prior, yet already murmured through the chambers of power like scripture passed hand to hand

Sentinel raised a hand

The plaza obeyed

“My fellow citizens of Iacon” his voice unfurled like silk over steel—calm, crystalline, unyielding “today marks not only remembrance—but restoration. A new page. A unified future”

He didn’t shout. He didn’t need to. His voice carried like gravity—inevitable, inescapable

Behind him, you held your stance with exquisite poise, expression serene, the curve of lips calibrated to precision—not warmth, not joy, but symmetry. The kind of smile meant for monuments, not mouths. You weren’t unrecognizable. You had merely become… curated — A fixture, flourish

“In every age of transformation” Sentinel continued “we must reach not only toward innovation—but to those who hold the lineage of wisdom. And so, I walk forward with those who once stood beside the Primes themselves” He turned—just slightly—enough to cast the gesture like a flourish of choreography, an artist unveiling his favorite piece “My advisor. My historian. My conscience”

Applause

You bowed, flawlessly. An angle measured. A nod practiced

“They remind me—daily—that the past is not to be erased, but honored”

And that, you thought behind your perfect smile, is what a lie sounds like when it wears poetry for armor

The crowd didn’t know. Couldn’t know

They didn’t see the redacted records, the vanishing cross-references, the warped timelines spliced together like a forgery passed off as scripture. But you did, knew every phrase pre-approved for the interview after this, knew which questions to feign surprise at, which answers to lace in ambiguity, which smiles to hold half a second longer—for the press, for the pose, for the pageantry

When the mic was passed to you, you spoke clearly. Without tremor “It is my privilege, to ensure that the light of Cybertron’s past still guides our steps. We move forward… not in forgetfulness, but in reverence”

The voice did not falter. But behind your back, fingers curled

Just slightly

You could feel him watching. Not with threat. Not with command. But with the kind of gaze one reserves for polished statues—an artifact restored, admired, and displayed. He stepped closer. Just enough for proximity to read as intimacy to the cameras drone. Just enough to veil the weight behind the words “That was beautifully said” he murmured

You didn’t even look at him “I know”

“You still surprise me sometimes”

“I shouldn’t”

He laughed. Quietly. It sounded like warmth. But you knew the tone was forged from pressure. You just smiled again— for the cameras, for the world, for the lie. All the while counting the seconds until they could shed this costume of allegiance—

and return to silence. To truth. To records that hadn't yet been rewritten

The applause hadn’t faded. Not truly

Even as the final words of the speech dissolved into the crisp evening air, even as the recording lights dimmed and flickered out, the plaza still thrummed with the afterglow of orchestrated pride. A thousand optics shimmered with patriotic sheen. The banners above caught the wind like the sails of a sanctified warship—reborn, rebranded

Sentinel turned slightly as they stepped from the marble dais. His hand extended—not in earnest assistance, but in something more… choreographed. Just close enough to suggest warmth. Just distant enough to deny obligation

You did not take it. You descended with mechanical grace, each movement refined to ceremony, smile remained a studied curve, not a flicker out of place, electromagnetic field was wound tight, compressed close to frame—static-thick, airtight. But Sentinel didn’t retract. He adjusted A beat. A breath. Then he fell into step beside them. One hand still positioned loosely at their back—not touching, not quite, but present. Suggesting

“You handled that perfectly” he murmured, voice pitched just for them—an intimate register dressed in silk “Even that line about reverence” he added, with a glint behind his words “It almost moved me”

“I was quoting your own speech, from six cycles ago. You just don’t remember”

He laughed—quiet, indulgent “That’s why I keep you close”

His hand settled lightly at the small of your back. A touch that, from a distance, would read as fondness. Dignified. United. Photogenic. The Prime and his trusted advisor—a tableau of loyalty

You didn’t recoil. But felt it. The message in the weight of it. The duration. The confidence. The performance. You tilted your head a fraction—not a glare, not yet, but a signal

“You’re taking liberties” you said, voice sheathed in quiet silk. A murmur passed as jest—but honed like a blade

“I’m taking advantage of optics” Sentinel countered, unapologetic “That’s what this office demands” He leaned just slightly toward you, as if confiding something lighthearted. The angle of his smile curled with practiced ease “Besides” he added, almost inaudible beneath the hum of the crowd “if I wanted to take liberties… I’d be far less subtle”

Your optics slid toward him — Sharp. Unblinking. Glacial “Then it’s fortunate, that subtlety suits you. It keeps your hands clean”

He didn’t respond immediately

Let the silence grow roots. Let the proximity say what words couldn’t. Then, with the grace of a ruler accustomed to applause, he stepped ahead. Half a pace. Reclaiming the lead. Shoulders squared. Expression unblemished. A portrait of command. A symbol of benevolent strength. Behind him, you followed. Impeccably. Your smile still worn like enamel. Uncracked

The drone captured the moment—the Prime descending the steps, his advisor close at his side. A soft brush of proximity. A glance. A smile. Unspoken trust. Unshakable partnership. A unity sculpted for the archives

You kept the pace

Matched the image

“You don’t want me. You made that clear from the beginning”

“No” he said, softer, took a step closer now “I said I could no longer have you in the same way”

Unmasked. Unarmored. No shield of title, no pageantry of power. You’d forgotten how tall he was. Or perhaps he had been refitted—Prime-forged and sculpted for presence. It hardly mattered. What mattered was how close he stood now, and how easily someone like him could end you if he wanted to. One strike. One breath

And yet — He never had. Not once. Not with force. Not with violence. He wasn’t that kind of tyrant

“You were a pillar” he said, voice slow, deliberate “Unshakable. I relied on that. Trusted in it”

“But this world—my world—has no place for things that do not change” His tone was not cruel. It was… sorrowful. Almost reverent. The voice of someone delivering last rites to something sacred “That doesn’t mean I wanted to break you”

“You’re the last piece of a world that made me who I was”

A I R A C H N I D

The hallway this time was brighter

Wider. Less suited to shadows, and yet—still quiet enough for things to go unnoticed

You stood near the polished threshold of a secondary archive chamber—one of the newer annexes built under Sentinel's regime. The walls were smooth. Unscuffed. Sterile in a way that felt unnatural, like something grown in a vacuum instead of history. Every surface gleamed too perfectly. Nothing here had aged yet. Nothing here had memory. You scrolled slowly through the contents of a datapad—not reading, not truly. Just moving. Optics skating over headlines, edit trails, deleted citation links. The silence here was curated. Sculpted

You weren’t here for the records

You were waiting

And right on cue “You're early today”

The voice arrived like a brush of silk through charged air. Smooth. Deliberate. It always was. Familiar now—but still edged like a knife’s smile. You didn’t look up immediately, didn’t have to

You already knew who it was

Airachnid was leaning against the terminal bank, as though she’d been there since the system powered on. One hip balanced lightly against the edge, arms folded, posture relaxed—but not truly at rest. Her helm was tilted just enough to unnerve, like she was watching from an angle no one else thought to use. Her smile was slight, carefully measured. It didn’t quite reach her optics, but that was the point

“You’re very consistent” you said mildly, glancing at her from the corner of your optics “Do you clock in like this for everyone?”

“No” Her tone was a velvet purr, low and intentional “Only the ones worth watching”

“I’m flattered”

“You should be”

The silence that followed was thick enough to hold shape. You looked back down, scrolling through the datapad with a laziness that masked purpose “Do you enjoy this?” you asked, voice light

“Watching me sort metadata? Or is this just another item on your schedule?”

Airachnid’s helm tilted further, just a fraction “Do you enjoy testing the patience of your security detail?”

“I prefer to test the depth of curiosity”

That earned a quiet sound from her. Not quite a laugh—more a click. Dry. Surgical. Like a scalpel being returned to its velvet-lined case “You don’t strike me as the reckless type”

“I’m not. But I’ve spent more time speaking to corrupted code than to people lately. You’re more intriguing than most encrypted files” Airachnid uncrossed her arms with slow precision and stepped away from the terminal bank. Her movement was seamless—gliding, but deliberate. Too fluid to be lazy. Too elegant to be harmless

“Careful. Curiosity makes a poor shield”

“So does ignorance”

They stood across from one another now.

Not close enough to touch, but close enough to read nuance. Like two scholars dissecting the same artifact, each searching for a different truth beneath the same surface “Tell me something” your voice gentler now

“Were you always like this?”

Airachnid’s optics narrowed slightly

The light from the overhead glowpanels traced cold reflections across her faceplate, catching in the sharp line of her jaw, the subtle gleam of her plating “Define this” she said—quietly, but with that razor-curious edge. Like she was offering you a choice: explain, or be dissected

You didn’t flinch

“Loyal to the point of silence. Efficient to the point of invisibility — I don’t think I’ve ever seen someone hold power so tightly… without wanting it”

Airachnid said nothing. She simply looked at you. For longer than was polite. Longer than was comfortable. Not with surprise—no, she rarely wasted optics on emotion but with something like scrutiny. A kind of analytical regard, like she was reassessing a threat level. Then, just a half-step forward. Just enough to be noticed

“What makes you think I don’t want power?”

“Because you already have it. And yet, you stay in the shadow of someone else’s crest” You didn’t hesitate, voice remained even

Her smile shifted at that—small, curling inward like a claw retracting just beneath the surface. It wasn’t a smirk. It wasn’t for show. It was closer to truth

“You assume I follow him”

“Don’t you?”

The silence that opened between you wasn’t heavy—but precise. Like a scalpel laid on a sterile tray, gleaming and untouched. No breath. No movement. Just tension wound in stillness “I serve Sentinel Prime” Airachnid said, her tone glass-smooth “Because he knows where he’s going. And because he gave me a place where I no longer have to pretend”

You didn’t blink “Pretend to be what?”

Her optics glinted—cool light on polished alloy, the gleam of a trap sprung just enough to warn

“Anything less than what I am” That landed harder than you expected. Not just the words. But the way she said them. The calm certainty. The unapologetic sharpness. You watched her—still, quiet, measuring

“He trusts you”

“Utterly”

“That’s rare”

“That’s earned”

This silence felt different. No longer stretched like wire across a minefield. It settled between you like cooling metal—coiled, yes, but no longer poised to strike. A mutual understanding, or something close. You gave a small nod

“Thank you. For the conversation”

Airachnid didn’t nod back. Didn’t tilt her head. Didn’t break the mask. She simply said, plainly “I’ll still be watching”

“I know” You turned back to the datapad—but didn’t move. Didn’t scroll. Didn’t type. Your hands rested on the console’s edge, tension vibrating faintly in the joints

Behind you, Airachnid moved with the silence of trained instinct—less like she walked away, more like she was subtracted from the scene — Gone. Clean. Seamless. Somewhere behind her careful silence, something lingered. Not doubt. Not regret. But the smallest flicker of recognition. The way one predator sees another in the wild—not a threat, but a mirror. A different species of survivor. She’d known from the first time she was assigned to monitor you

You were dangerous

Not because you fought. But because you watched. Because you remembered. Because you asked questions like knives and in this golden empire built on curated truths, it was those who asked quietly that had to be watched the closest. As her shadow faded into the long corridor. Airachnid didn’t look back. She didn’t need to. You were still there—rooted in archives, cloaked in dignity, poised like a weapon Sentinel still thought ornamental and if there was war coming beneath the sheen of peace

Airachnid would not choose a side

She was the side — Already chosen, already loyal, already lethal

Sentinel doesn't have the time to watch you every day. To follow you. Track you. Monitor your movements. And that’s precisely why Airachnid does it in his place. He entrusted her with the task—assigned her to keep a careful, unflinching eye on you. To guard you, yes. But also to measure. To evaluate. To intercept, if needed — She has never failed him before and so, Sentinel has no reason to question the arrangement
When you are not with him then you are with her. It’s always one or the other and you’ve grown used to that rhythm. Far too used to it. Used to it enough that you’ve begun to speak with her. Start conversations. Ask things. Curious. And, strangely—perhaps suspiciously—Airachnid lets you
She allows the exchange. Doesn’t cut you down. Doesn’t shut you out. Maybe it’s a tactic. Maybe she’s letting the walls fall just enough to get closer. To make it easier when the time comes—when Sentinel finally decides to erase you but you know how to play this game. You’ve survived long enough by knowing when not to step away. And you’re not about to waste the opportunity now

“You already have power and yet, you stay in the shadow of someone else’s crest”

She almost laughed at that. What a foolish perspective. Sentinel isn’t her shadow. He’s her axis. He gave her a place where she didn’t have to soften herself to fit. You doesn’t understand that kind of loyalty. Because theirs is built on memory. On rules. On history. And all of that burned. Still—Airachnid cannot help but.. observe you
You doesn’t speak like a politician. Doesn’t stand like a servant. You carry something harder. Older. The weight of someone who has seen too much truth to be satisfied with a lie, but is too tired to shout it anymore. She doesn’t hate you. That surprises her. She respects. And that’s dangerous. Because it means that if Sentinel ever does order her to remove them— it won’t be clean. It won’t be mechanical. It will leave a mark

The archives were quiet, but that’s nothing new. What was new, though, was the feel of someone waiting in the wings—someone not standing in the open, but lingering just at the edge, just beyond the light, as if they were the shadow. Airachnid’s presence was invisible, like most things she did. The moment Reader began to analyze data once more, she appeared at the edge of their peripheral vision, standing just far enough not to intrude. She didn’t speak. Didn’t even move. She just waited

“I thought you’d be occupied” you said, voice not accusatory but more curious “Or are you always so quiet?”

Airachnid remained still, like a spider perched at the edge of its web.

She didn’t look directly at them. Not yet “Sometimes” her voice just soft enough to blend into the silence of the chamber

“quiet is all that’s needed”

“You’re not here for me to ask you questions”

Airachnid shifted her weight slightly, taking one step closer without breaking that eerie calm that surrounded her “I don’t answer questions” she said, stepping into the slight illumination cast by the panel. Her silhouette now clear, framed in the soft light “I observe. That’s what you wanted, isn’t it?”

You turned, but the motion was slow, thoughtful “Observing? ..or controlling?”

Airachnid tilted her helm a fraction of an inch, her optics glinting in that same sharp, calculating manner they’d seen so often. Yet, this time, there was a softness, a subtle understanding that hinted at something deeper “If I wanted control, I wouldn’t have left you alone long enough to ask me that question”

There was a moment of hesitation—of silence that stretched far longer than it should have. You lowered your optics, a soft chuckle escaping their lips, though it wasn’t directed at Airachnid

“You do like keeping your distance, don’t you?”

“Distance is necessary” Airachnid replied simply, her voice like ice melting in the sun “But observation... that’s personal”

You stopped, looked at her again—not with caution, but with genuine curiosity. For all her quiet, for all her efficiency, there was something about Airachnid that had always fascinated them. The way she moved—measured and deliberate. The way she saw things others missed

“Why do you stay here? Why stay with Sentinel?”

Airachnid’s optics darkened slightly, but she didn’t look away. Her answer came with a slight, almost imperceptible shift in her stance

“I don’t stay. I’m here because I choose to be”

You let the question settle, watching the way she stood, poised but not impatient and just as your optics lingered too long, just as your mind shifted—Airachnid’s hand moved, almost without a thought. She slid a small data disk onto the edge of the console. Not just any disk. One with new directives “It’s not what you’ve been told to look for” she said softly, almost as if she had read the question forming in their mind “But it’s something you’ll need soon”

You stared down at the disk, thoughts moving a mile a minute, hadn’t expected this. Not from Airachnid, not from someone so loyal to Sentinel. But the glance she gave them—fleeting, calculating—spoke volumes

“Just make sure you don’t miss it”

she added, before stepping back into the shadows, fading from view once more. The disk sat there. Silent. Waiting. As if it, too, knew that its secrets had already begun to spill, even before you had reached for it

She remembers their last conversation—low-lit corridor, quiet exchange. The way they tried to read her.

As if she were text on a slab of archive steel. ‘You can’t catalog a predator’ she thinks. And yet… something in you had watched her not with fear, but effort. Like they wanted to understand. To connect

It was foolish. Possibly suicidal . But it was real and real things are rare — She reports to Sentinel later that cycle . The conversation is short “They’re stable. Contained. But restless” Sentinel leans back in his chair. Fingers steepled, voice soft

“And still trying to find where they belong?”

“You’ve already decided where they belong”

He smiles. That cool, refined smile that has sealed fates without ever raising his voice “Then make sure they stay there”

She nods once . No hesitation a nd yet—Later that night, she walks past the corridor where you sometimes works late. She does not stop. She does not speak . But she slows. Just for a moment . And in that moment, she wonders ‘If they ever fall… will I warn them first?’ It is a thought that should not exist . So she leaves it behind, buried in silence . Where it belongs

Sometimes when you sneak out to hide in the old archives that are considered a forbidden place for no one to invade, or even when you talk to the bots that you shouldn't, she doesn't report that to Sentinel

BONUS ON

D A R K W I N G

The lower quarry shook with the thunder of drills

Sparks flew. Gravel sang under heavy treads. Miners shouted to one another over the noise—some urgent, some desperate, most ignored. And at the center of it all stood Darkwing. Massive. Smudged with energon soot. Half-snapped shoulder armor from who-knew-what yesterday. He barked at two workers who’d paused too long

“I said get it moving, you slagging excuses for bolts! You want the Prime’s wrath down here next?! MOVE!” He raised a reinforced datapad like he was going to throw it. The worker scrambled back —someone coughed

A soft, polite cough. A very high-ranking, polite cough. Darkwing froze. Turned–

You stood at the edge of the overlook, flanked by two silent escorts and dressed in the calm, formal sheen of someone who did not come here to yell, ust… to observ

“Oh. Uh. Sir—Ma’am—Advisor—”

Darkwing stiffened, saluting with one shoulder (the only one still intact) “Didn’t, uh—didn’t know you were coming down today”

“It was unannounced” you replied mildly, stepping closer “I was told this sector has been underperforming”

Darkwing nodded too fast “Yes! I mean—no! I mean—uh—there were some delays. But nothing that can’t be—! Well, you know. Handled. Promptly. Professionally”

You raised an optic ridge. Behind him, a miner who’d just been shouted at looked up, mouth slightly open at the shift in tone “We noticed an unusual spike in damage reports from your crew” you continued

“Yes—eh—that’s…” Darkwing tried to scratch the back of his helm. Realized he had a dent there. Scratched beside it instead “We’re in a rough phase. You know how ore layers get. It’s the… uh. The fault of… geology”

You stared. He stared back.

Then laughed—awkwardly. Loudly “Heh! Cybertron, right? So unpredictable!”

The silence behind Reader was immediate and cold

“We’ll be reviewing your operation logs and your conduct notes”

“Absolutely. Please. All yours. I love paperwork. I dream of audits”

“Of course you do” You turned slightly to speak with their aide, but before they could finish a sentence— “Would you—like some energon, Advisor? We have, uh, local brew. Very unrefined”

“...No, thank you”

“Good choice. It’s terrible”

You looked at him one last time. Measured “Carry on, Supervisor”

Darkwing saluted again—sharper now. Nearly knocked his own helmplate with the angle. Once advisor and their group disappeared from the walkway, he let out a sound between a groan and a short-range radio malfunction

Behind him, one of the miners whispered “Did you just call geology unpredictable?”

Darkwing glared “SHUT UP AND DIG”

Maybe it was Sentinel’s bad habits rubbing off on you. Or maybe it was your own emotionally-repressed tendencies finally leaking out sideways. Because, sometimes.. you enjoyed bothering Darkwing. There was just something undeniably satisfying about watching him get flustered—just a little. The way he’d fidget, posture, start to sweat wires the moment you casually inquired about the progress reports and mining quotas under his jurisdiction. Naturally, that only made you press harder. Because why wouldn’t you?
It was fun. In a terrible, twisted, borderline-unethical kind of way. It wasn’t you. You swore it wasn’t you. And then when you know Orion and D-16. After that, well—let’s just say you suddenly found a lot more reasons to “personally inspect” the lower levels of the mines. Every now and then, you’d find an excuse to stop by. Just a quick visit. Just enough time for a few questions. Some light conversation. Perhaps a little friendly interrogation
Occasionally, you had to bribe Darkwing with a few of Sentinel’s private assets— Nothing serious. A datachip here, a high-grade component there but most of the time? You just threatened him. Nicely. Harmlessly. In that special way that makes guilty bots break into a cold sweat and confess things they didn’t even do. Honestly, it was probably fine. Mostly …Probably

Chapter 10: Done with your ex – rodimus (IDW)

Summary:

just an ego through the roof captain and his ex on the same ship, long trip together

Chapter Text

The loading ramp of the Lost Light hissed open like the universe itself was trying to be dramatic

Rodimus barely glanced up. He was in the middle of arguing with Swerve about whether installing retractable flame decals on the hull would count as "atmospheric augmentation" or just "unnecessary and definitely going to kill us"

Then he saw movement out of the corner of his optic—and everything in his CPU short-circuited

There you were

Striding up the ramp like you owned it. Like you hadn’t ghosted out of his life with nothing but a pointed sentence and that half-smile that always meant checkmate. Like you hadn’t once told him—flatly, and with clinical precision—that loving him felt like "trying to put a fire out with gasoline"

And dammit if you didn’t look exactly the same. Polished. Poised. Primed for war and polite company. Elegant as ever. Calm as a sunset before a Category Five energon storm

You weren’t flash, never were—but you had that aura. That smooth, coiled presence like a vibroblade sheathed in silk. Oh the look—that faint, unreadable smile like you knew something he didn’t and were gracious enough to let him flounder in ignorance. That same neutral expression you used when pretending not to judge the tactical decisions of people clearly beneath your IQ range. That same stride that said “I’ve already calculated the probability of this going sideways and I brought snacks"

Rodimus froze, his spark dropped so hard it might’ve left a dent in his internals ‘No. Nope. Absolutely not!’

It couldn’t be you

Except, of course, it was. Because the universe loved poetic suffering and apparently it was his turn to monologue through one. He stared. You stared back. Unbothered. Professional. Radiating the exact same emotional energy as someone walking past their ex at a high-society gala—with better posture and zero regrets

Rodimus blinked so hard his optic lens recalibrates “What— what are you doing here?”

You didn’t even flinch. Just turned to him with a look that was one part serene and two parts smug, tilted your helm slightly. That little angle that always meant “I heard that. I’m just choosing violence later” Your voice, when it came, was like silk over sharpened steel

“Captain. How lovely to see you again”

“You’ve got to be—this is—no. Nope. Absolutely not”

Ultra Magnus appeared like a summoned ghost behind you, arms crossed, expression stiffer than a rusted gear “As I explained in my three prior reports, they’ve been appointed to the crew as strategic analyst”

Rodimus blinked "Three reports?"

“High-level pattern recognition. Crisis forecasting, multi-factional battle simulations, inter-faction negotiation” Magnus went on, tone flatter than the C.I.C. floor “They’ve been correct approximately 91.3% of the time. Statistically, that qualifies them as one of the best. They will be a valuable addition”

You gave a modest nod. Like someone who totally didn’t memorize those numbers already “Besides” you added smoothly

“I’m here for work. Nothing more. You can unclench now, Captain”

Rodimus looked like someone had just served him a steaming mug of his own poor life choices “Right. Work. Of course. Just work. Nothing else weird about this at all. Nope. Totally chill"

You stepped closer. Not enough to touch, but enough that your electromagnetic field skimmed his. Cool, clean, unreadable. Like an encrypted data packet wrapped in charm and sarcasm

“You always did have trouble being chill” you murmured “Still trying to solve everything by flying straight into it?”

“But don’t worry, captain. I’m not here to relive the past”

Rodimus sputtered. Behind him, Swerve audibly choked on a laugh “Oh, Primus, it is the ex. The one who called him ‘reckless with delusions of grandeur' I thought that was a metaphor”

You didn’t dignify that with a response. Just tilted your helm, optics flicked to him—neutral. But your smirk said “I win”

And with that, you turned and start walking down the hall—measured, composed, calculating—like a battlefield was unfolding beneath your pedes and you’d already chosen where all the pieces would fall – Rodimus stared after you like he’d just watched his worst mistake reappear in haute couture and get a standing ovation, as if to twist the energon dagger in his spark just a little further, you said—without turning back

“And for the record… I liked you better before you started trying to be respectable

Rodimus stood frozen, expression somewhere between awe, horror, and very mild arousal

“This is fine” he said out loud “This is great.. This is the best worst day I’ve ever had”

“Wanna talk about it?” Swerve offered

“Wanna be spaced through an airlock?”

“You’ve been out here for twenty minutes” Drift said, suddenly beside him. Rodimus jumped like he’d been caught digging through a black ops file “I’m not spying..!”

“Sure” Drift glanced pointedly at the window “Just… monitoring morale with your face pressed against the glass?”

Rodimus shoved a blank datapad into his hands "I’m checking their reassignment logs! That’s normal. Curiosity is normal”

"You could just ask”

“I can’t just ask! What if they think I still care?”

“Rodimus, you’re literally stalking them through a wall" Rodimus made a noise somewhere between static and a dying turbo-ratchet “Okay, fine. Then you ask”

“Me?”

“Yeah. You’ve got that wise monk aura. People think your invasive questions are… philosophical"

Drift gave him a look so dry it might’ve been illegal in five star systems “If they throw something at me” he said, turning to leave “I’m blaming you”

Rodimus was not asking

He was simply conducting a targeted data acquisition exercise. Command-level intel. Tactical morale assessment. Strategic background audit on one of his newest officers. Perfectly normal captain things. Not weird. Not personal. Absolutely not fueled by the gnawing ache of unresolved emotional abandonment

“So” he began, too casually, sidling up to the corner of Swerve’s bar where Drift was trying to enjoy a moment of monk-like silence and absolutely not entertain any of Rodimus’s mid-spark crises “hypothetically—if someone used to date someone, and that someone got assigned to their ship without, say, any warning whatsoever, that would be… strange, right?”

“Strange. Uncomfortable. Emotionally volatile” Drift didn’t even look up from his cup “So yes. Very you”

Rodimus scoffed. Loudly. Overcompensating “This isn’t about me”

“Of course not” Drift said blandly “We’re speaking in totally neutral hypotheticals about your insanely sharp, tactically brilliant, emotionally impenetrable ex who now occupies a front-row seat in every strategy meeting like an elegantly silent death sentence”

Rodimus’s scowl could have curdled energon “They’re not that elegant”

“They once ended a meeting by folding a datachip in half. With one hand. While smiling”

Rodimus muttered something under his breath about “intimidation tactics” and “showoffs”. Drift, clearly bored of the deflection game, pulled up a datapad with a flick of the wrist—graceful, like a librarian about to ruin your life “Alright. Let’s see what your not at all relevant ex has been up to post-breakup…”

Rodimus leaned in. But not like he cared. More like he was... intellectually engaged. Professionally intrigued. Possibly a little nauseous

“They worked under Prowl"

“PROWL?! You mean—rules incarnate? Mister ‘Let’s Commit War Crimes But Quietly’ !?”

“The one and only” Drift confirmed smoothly “High-level strategy corps. Joint command ops. Dozens of successful missions. Commendations for tactical elegance, command precision—”

“Okay, okay, you can stop reading their résumé, this isn’t a talent show” Rodimus began to pace, movements sharp and erratic like a hovercraft trying to salsa “They worked with me and said I was reckless, but then they go partner up with Prowl? That sentient flowchart? Seriously?”

Drift was already sipping again “Maybe they like the quiet, measured type now. The kind who doesn’t detonate their own escape pod just to spell ‘hello’ in midair”

“That happened one time”

“And it was somehow still in the mission report”

Rodimus groaned into his hands. He imagined you and Prowl standing next to each other, talking shop, making flawless tactical adjustments while not even blinking at each other — It was horrible. It was clinical. It was worse than anything he could’ve imagined

“What else?” he asked, in the voice of someone about to regret every answer

Drift’s optics flicked “They turned down a permanent command position. Said they wanted a ‘change of pace' ”

“—So… they chose this ship. My ship”

“Seems that way”

“Knowing I was the captain”

“Still seems that way”

Rodimus blinked. Then frowned. Then blinked again, slower. Like it would change the data “So what you’re telling me is: either they’ve secretly forgiven me and came to rekindle the flame—”

“Highly unlikely”

“—or they came here to watch me fail up close, with popcorn in hand and a tactical spreadsheet”

“That one sounds more plausible”

Rodimus placed both hands dramatically on the bartop and huffed. Dramatically. Theatrically. The only way he could before he declared, straightening up “I’m fine.. I’m a professional. This is my ship. I am not threatened by my ex working with a glorified calculator"

...

“…Do you think they ever kissed?”

“Please go to therapy”

The outpost was still burning behind you

Fires licked at twisted steel frames and shattered windowpanes, the heat rippling off slagged ground like a second atmosphere. The smoke stung your optics, even with the filters on, but you didn’t blink. Hot Rod stood a few paces away, armor scorched and mouth set in that stubborn line that always came right before he said something reckless. You didn’t give him the chance

“What were you thinking?” Your voice was level. Too level. The kind of calm that meant someone was furious. Hot Rod flinched. Not visibly—but you knew the twitch at the corner of his mouth, the flicker in his EM field when he was caught “I saved them”

He said “I had to”

“You disobeyed a coordinated strategy, blew through our cover, and almost got yourself killed—again”

He looked at you now. Really looked. Heat still clung to him like a second skin, optics burning, frame vibrating with leftover adrenaline. And somewhere underneath all that fire was a flicker of… confusion. As if he still didn’t understand why you weren’t proud of him

“But it worked”

“That’s not the point”

You turned to face him fully, field tightening, anger settling into your shoulders like weight “You’re not a one-mech army, Hot Rod. You’re not invincible. You can’t keep throwing yourself into every explosion and expecting everyone else to clean up after you”

He stepped forward, hands half-raised “I did it to protect other”

“No. You did it because you wanted to be seen protecting other”

There it was. The silence after a sharp cut. His optics widened, and for a moment you saw it, that bare, wounded flicker of a spark hit too close to the truth. But he covered it with bravado—because that’s what he did. That’s what he always did “So that’s it? You think I’m just some attention seeking show off?”

“I think you’re brave. I think you’re passionate. I think you’ll make a great hero one day–”

“..But I also think you’ll never learn how to lead, if you can’t learn how to listen” That hit deeper than the last shot he’d taken in the field

He turned away, jaw locked, fists clenched “So what, then?” he said, voice tight

“You’re walking away? Just like that?”

You hesitated—but only for a moment “I don’t want to. But I can’t spend my life patching up the aftermath of every decision you make on impulse –You always dive first and ask questions later. And I.. I want to build something that lasts. Not chase something that burns” you admitted softly

The silence between you was long and cruel —without another word—you stepped back. Hot Rod didn’t stop you. And maybe, just maybe, that’s what hurt the most

After the breakup with Hot Rod, you took a high-ranking strategic position under Prowl—not romantically, but deeply professionally and intellectually tense

Prowl respected your mindset but hated your moral flexibility and tendency to “go rogue if the math is prettier that way” You – in turn, found Prowl’s rigid morality fascinating and enjoyed poking holes in his logic — Their relationship was legendary among staff—half strategy meetings, half philosophy battles. You both made an unstoppable duo on paper. But behind closed doors?

“That is not regulation protocol”

“Neither is surviving half the war. I’ll take my odds”

Eventually, you left when the war ended, saying something like: “If I stay any longer, I’ll either become you or throw you out an airlock. Neither’s ideal”

The medbay lights flickered once before steadying again. Outside, the sky over the outpost glowed red with the aftermath of an explosion. You stood at the outside, arms crossed, helm tilted just enough to convey “I’m not mad, but I’m seconds away from strangling you with my own field”

The door hissed open with a battered flair, and there he was—Hot Rod in all his half-scorched, grinning, chaos-stained glory. One arm was covered in carbon scoring. His left shoulder was leaking a thin trickle of energon. There was what looked like a thruster casing lodged in his hip plate

And he was still smiling. Of course he was

“You should’ve seen it” Hot Rod said, voice bouncing with adrenaline “I looped around the ridge, came in low—boom! Took out the flank in one go. Didn’t even need backup”

You didn’t look up from your datapad “You told me you’d follow the plan”

“Technically, I did. For the first ten seconds”

“And after that?”

“...It got boring?”

You set the datapad down. Slowly

Hot Rod’s grin twitched “It worked, didn’t it?” he said, stepping closer “Mission success. I’m standing. The ridge is rubble. Everyone’s cheering”

“You nearly didn’t come back”

You stared at him—really stared. All that molten gold, still burning in his optics. His armor still warm from the blast. That stupid, crooked grin he wore like a shield

“You know I hate improvising. Not because it’s reckless. But because it’s you. You gamble like your life isn’t worth anything”

“Hey, come on—”

“Rod”

That landed. His grin faltered for real now

“I’m serious. Every time you run off-script, it’s like you’re testing fate. And I’m the one stuck writing the damage report” You stepped closer, thumb brushing a burn mark near his jaw. The scorch made your spark ache a little. He leaned into your touch without thinking. Like a reflex. Like your hand on his face was the only real thing in the place

“One of these days” you murmured “you’ll pull that stunt and I won’t be there to drag your aft out”

“That’s not true” he said softly

“No?”

“You’d come back for me. Always”

You wanted to argue. But you couldn’t. Not really. Because even now—even furious, even worn out—you were here. And when he leaned forward to press a kiss to the corner of your mouth his head dipped low down to your jaw, kissing soft like apology, you let him. His hands found your waist. Familiar. Easy. A rhythm you both still remembered

“You love it when I push my luck” he said into your helm

“I love you, Roddy. That doesn’t mean I love watching you destroy yourself”

That hit harder than a mine to the chest. He didn’t pull away. Just held you tighter. You sighed, pressing your faceplate against his shoulder. He still smelled faintly like ozone and energon. Still radiated that wild, sun-hot energy that made you both love and fear him

“Next time” you said into the space between you “you disobey a field order, I’m duct-taping you to Ultra Magnus”

“...Kinky”

You laughed. Just a little. Couldn’t help it “Don’t make me regret loving you”

There was a long silence. No snappy comeback. No flirt. Just a stillness that made your spark ache. His arms tightened around you and for one fleeting, fragile moment—you let yourself believe this would last

You are alone in the quiet of the hallway. Staring at the window, the stars wheeling slowly past beyond the glass. It wasn't dramatic solitude—you weren't hiding. Just… decompressing. That was all. Your optics drifted to your own reflection—faint, transparent, caught in the black

And for some damn reason, his voice echoed there instead

“You'd come back for me. Always"

Primus

You let your head fall back with a soft thunk against the reinforced wall. He wasn't wrong

You had come back. Not for him—never that, never openly. But… well. You hadn't exactly gone out of your way to avoid the Lost Light, either. And when Magnus had offered the post? You could've said no. You didn't and now here you were. Sharing meetings. Sharing air. Sharing old ghosts

Your fingers tapped against your datapad in a slow, guilty rhythm

“Stupid charming idiot with fire in his optics and no sense of self-preservation” you muttered under your breath. You knew that smile he gave you in the last meeting. Knew it like a habit you never quite kicked and the worst part? That stupid little ember in your spark still glowed when he looked your way

“Okay. Fine. He was right” You let out a small, strangled sound through your vents

Not quite a groan. Not quite a sigh. Just the noise of someone on the edge of "Why am I like this?" and "I could still jump out the airlock and make it look like strategy” You pressed your head lightly against the cool surface of the wall. Just for a second. Just enough to feel the metal and imagine it was hitting you back. No matter how reckless he was. No matter how much he grinned like the universe owed him forgiveness. No matter how much it still ached when you looked at him and remembered the way things used to be. You stood upright again with a snap of your shoulders and a squint of righteous self-annoyance

“Next time if he opens that mouth" you mumbled “I’m going to verbally gut him. Real clean. Sharp. Professional. Something with bite, doubling the sarcasm. Go for the ego. Aim for the fins. That’ll shut him up" You narrowed your optics at your reflection—your own face looking smug in the glass “He gets one more pass. After that, I’m escalating. He’s going to wish I never came back”

“Stars, I hope he does that thing with his optics again though…” and maybe—maybe—if you kept throwing enough barbs, you could stop remembering how it felt when he held you like that and made you believe the fire wouldn’t burn

You buried your face in your hand

“..I need therapy"

Chapter 11: ⚠️ Loosen Close – Prowl (IDW)

Summary:

two cop in operation, In a crumbling abandoned warehouse, with tension that no knife can cut through (pre-war)
⚠️ suggestive theme

Chapter Text

The door hisses open with a sad wheeze. Inside: silence. Heavy. Uncomfortably well-organized silence. This is not a precinct that looks lived-in

No clutter. No discarded datachips. Not even a dent in the walls. Just a workspace arranged with such neurotic precision that it feels more like an altar than an office. One datapad lies exactly 1.75 inches from the edge of the table. You know because you’re already planning to move it—just to see if he twitches

And then you see him. Standing with his back to the door, arms folded, optic glow reflected in the screen of the crime log interface. He doesn’t turn. He doesn’t greet you. Just simply say “You’re not Firstline”

Wow. Not even a hello?

“Observant” you answer, stepping inside like the floor might eat you “Firstline’s gone. Probably somewhere quieter. Like a burning scrapyard

A pause. A long, very precise pause

Then, slowly, too slowly, he turns. Takes one look at you like he’s scanning for structural flaws. You feel like an appliance he didn’t ask for but has to keep under warranty

“They assigned you”

You nod “They did”

“They know about your incident log”

“…Which one?”

“Stairwell collapse. Shot your own knee once during a ricochet misfire. Electrocuted yourself with a.. malfunction machine?”

“Okay, I feel like you’re cherry-picking the wrong highlights from my résumé” you mutter, stepping around a chair that’s somehow too centered to trust

“Statistically, your continued survival defies several probability models. I’m still reviewing for system error”

“Thank you. I think”

He picks up a datapad and hands it to you without eye contact “Three targeted break-ins at energy redistribution depots. Each two cycles apart. Entry logs spoofed. Surveillance corrupted. Item targets: high-grade cognitive chips. Not replaceable. Not traceable”

You glance at the file, flipping through logs “This smells like an inside job”

“Good. That’s what I wrote in the report you’re holding”

“…Oh. Right. Just testing you. Team-building?”

He doesn’t blink. You're not sure he can blink

They say his last partner quit mid-patrol Didn’t even finish the field report. Left a half-full energon cube on the console and walked out with that look—the one bots get when their processor hits the force shutdown limit for social stress

“Said he’d rather transfer to the sewage grid patrol than work another cycle with that code-crusher” someone whispered earlier “Tried reformatting his own emotion chip to feel less rage. Didn’t work”

And now it’s your turn. Because the universe? The universe thinks it’s funny

The second you step inside, your sensors protest

The place smells like ion dust and old machinery—coated in the greasy kind of silence that only exists in buildings where something went wrong slowly and nobody noticed. Prowl is already a step ahead

Typical. He doesn’t need to speak to issue commands, he just is one. Every footstep is calculated. Every movement filtered through about six levels of tactical foresight. You? You're doing fine—aside from almost tripping on a panel hinge five clicks back. You only caught yourself because he reached back without looking and yanked you upright by the elbow

You didn’t say thank you

He didn’t expect you to

Now you’re moving in formation, side by side in a corridor not wide enough for side-by-side. His shoulder brushes yours every other step. You try not to think about it

“Stay alert” he murmurs “I just picked up a weak pulse two segments to the west"

“…someone still here?”

“Or came back”

He doesn’t elaborate. He doesn’t have to. You both hear it. A footfall. Then another. Close—too close

Before your next breath, his hand snaps out and grabs your wrist. Hard. And without warning—Your chestplate hits the wall of the maintenance recess with a muted clang

Cold metal. Uneven. Narrow

You barely have time to blink before he's pressed in after you—no room, no pause, no buffer. Just hard armor against softer plating, his pelvis plating, locked behind yours, angles slightly forward every time he shifts to adjust footing. Each movement earns you the press of his abdominal plate against the lower arc of your back, and the sharp, seamless motion of a mech who never improvises—unless he absolutely has to

His hand slams against the wall beside your head. The force of it sends a small shudder through the panel behind you. Not aggressive—just final. Like punctuation. Like a closing gate

“Stay still” Prowl breathes into the narrow air between you

You try

You don’t trust yourself to breathe

But he's pressed in so tightly that every micron of movement feels amplified. Your shoulders are squared against the curve of the wall; his chestplate flattens against your back, firm and unmoving. You can feel the subtle pattern of his armor ridges brushing yours—contours slotting into place by accident… or fate. His left thigh slots between yours, almost casually—but the angle is wrong. There's no space for him to plant his stance properly, so his hip drives into your lower side with each shift of balance, forcing you closer to the wall than you thought possible. To the point that you almost kiss it

And worse still. Your hands are nowhere to go. Trapped at your sides. Pressed between your frame and the wall

And he hasn't moved. Not really. Just that slight lean forward when someone stepped too close outside and when he did that his chest curves over yours —and in doing so, your backplate presses snugly into the softer seam below his collar struts. Just that tense press of his midsection into the small of your back when your balance faltered again —The corridor outside crackles with approaching noise. Footsteps—slow, dragging. Too close. Whoever it is, they stop only inches beyond the alcove’s divider

“..They’re scanning” he mutters, voice pitched so low it sounds like it belongs inside your processor. Prowl’s mouth is beside your audio receiver now, close enough that the movement of his lips stirs the faintest shift of air

His voice cracks at the edge—just faintly as his hand is shaking slightly. Not out of fear. But out of control because now you’re both aware of everything

Of the way your back curves into him. Of the way his abdominal plate locks against the arch of your lower plating. Of the brushed heat of his sparkpulse syncing too close to yours. You shift—accidentally—and that small adjustment causes his torso to slide down just slightly, armor grinding slow over the base of your back

You hear it..He hears it

His other hand comes up, quick, firm, and lands on your waist—not gently. Not by accident. He doesn’t move it

“Don’t do that again” he hisses under his breath. It should sound commanding. It doesn’t. It sounds shaken. You try to retort. You do. You even open your mouth

Now you’re no longer just pressed against the wall. You’re bracketed. Encased. Enclosed. Caging. Pinned

Your voice falters before it makes it past your lips. But finally it came

“You’re crushing my hip actuator..”

“You shifted into it”

You swallow

His hand at your waist. No— now just below it. Palm splayed over your hip bracket, digit angled forward where armor meets the side of your abdominal plate. Not quite suggestive. Not quite innocent. And his thumb? It moves. Brush slowly, tracing the ridge just above the joint of your hip. Hard to tell whether it was intentional or an accident when he only did it once

Your field flares—just slightly, but enough that you know he feels it. He doesn’t comment. But his own field? It hums. Subtle. Coiled

“They’re gone, we're clear” he says at last. But he doesn’t step back. You can feel the restraint in him. The way every servo is holding position by willpower alone. His head lowers beside yours, lips dangerously close to the edge of your head

Your vocalizer stutters back online “..You can move now?”

“I know”

You sit at your terminal with a energon cube, pretending to go over surveillance logs. The lights above buzz quietly

The precinct’s unusually still. You should be feeling good. You cracked the case. You made a clean arrest. No injuries. No screw-ups. Not even a misfiled datapad this time. And yet—Your field still stutters every time your thoughts drift back there. Back to that narrow alcove. Back to his servo on your hip. Back to his frame pressed into yours like you were two puzzle pieces force-fit into one impossible frame. You groan quietly and bury your face in your hands

“I need to reboot my processor” you mutter to yourself “or smash it”

Because no matter how many times you try to drag your thoughts back to something else— they always slide back to him. The way his voice dropped.The weight of his chest plating against your back. The way he didn’t move until he decided to. You’re not even sure if you hated it. In fact, you’re very sure you didn’t. And that’s the problem

Meanwhile

Prowl stands at the end of the hallway, looking out the half-shuttered window

He’s not watching the traffic patterns. Not analyzing flight formations or reading case reports. He’s trying to process the fact that his body still remembers the exact angle of yours. And worse—likes it

He can still feel the curve of your back pressed to his chest. Still feel how snug your waist fit under his hand. Still remember the exact point of contact where your hip bracket slotted just slightly over his. Every time he blinks, the sensory map reloads like a damn glitch. He hasn’t been this distracted since training academy

“Unacceptable” he mutters under his breath

But he hasn’t filed a complaint. He hasn’t asked for reassignment. He hasn’t even deleted the sensor log from that sector of the depot. He tells himself it’s for protocol. Evidence integrity. Audit trail. But he’s lying. And he knows it

The next day, the paperwork and the results of the mission were all done, everything was done yesterday, which is expected when you work with regulations that have legs and a conscience, but you just got a message

Incoming message: Prowl

“If your balance actuator is still unstable, I can submit a requisition for maintenance diagnostics”

You blink at it. Then snort. Then immediately slam your hand on the desk and bury your face in your hands again “HE REMEMBERS”

And suddenly your core is on fire all over again

Chapter 12: Hall of Record - starscream (TFO)

Summary:

You both don't like Sentinel, that's probably why you two get along (pre-time)

Chapter Text

The vestibule of the Crystal Spire was designed to inspire reverence.

Everything about it—arched ceilings like interlocking wings, polished alloy tiles reflecting the soft glow of Prime-glyphs, air tuned to vibrate faintly with a solemn harmonic hum—screamed “wait quietly and feel insignificant”

You had complied, at first

You sat where aides were meant to sit: not in the center, but near it, just enough to suggest presence without audacity. Your datapad hovered silently beside, its auto-scroll halfway through the fifteenth version of a speech that would never be delivered on time. You’d re-checked it thrice, corrected a typo Alpha Trion had typed on purpose (“to keep you alert” he claimed) and were now idly calculating how many cycles of their life had been sacrificed to ceremonial delays

That’s when the voice dropped in like an elegant knife “He summoned me with the word urgently. That was… three minor tectonic shifts ago”

You looked up

Starscream stood just inside the threshold, arms crossed lightly, wings angled just-so in what could only be called bored martial readiness. His armor gleamed in polished red-silver and trim—not gaudy, but formal. The kind of clean that said “I was born to be looked at and I know it”

“You’re here for Sentinel too?” you asked, feigning surprise

“Unless Vector Prime has suddenly developed a taste for melodrama, yes”

Starscream approached with the gait of someone who had been trained for battlefield grace but had repurposed it into something far more dangerous: elegance laced with sarcasm “He told me it was urgent. That word has no meaning anymore. I think Sentinel just uses it when he wants you to feel guilty for blinking”

You just gestured to the empty space beside them “Join the abandoned”

Starscream sat down—well, not sat, more like lowered himself with performance-grade disdain. He settled his wings carefully, like a peacock folding his pride beneath himself

“Highguard, and now glorified bench ornament” he murmured “A glorious descent”

“If it helps, I’m fairly certain this bench has heard more strategic insight than most command chambers”

Starscream smirked, optics narrowing “A bench never interrupts. A bench doesn’t say ‘let’s circle back’. A bench doesn’t think it’s entitled to a monument for every half-decision”

“Are you referring to Sentinel?”

“I’m referring to every one who’s ever used a twenty-minute story to say no” He tilted his head a little “But yes. Mostly Sentinel”

You relaxed a little more. This wasn’t the first time you’d shared a delay with him, and each time, the Starscream you found was different from what the records suggested. Less self-important, more dry. Less soldier, more survivor with a gift for critique “You’d think for someone who talks so much, he’d eventually run out of things to say”

“He doesn't run out” Starscream sighed “he loops. Like a badly-coded audio file. By the time you realize he’s repeating himself, he’s already declared victory”

You leaned in just slightly “You ever considered breaking protocol and just... walking out?” Starscream gave you a look—mock-horrified “And be vaporized by the weight of Prime disapproval? No thank you. I may be brave, but I’m not suicidal”

They both snorted at that. Quietly. Like two students laughing behind sacred scrolls during a lecture they’d heard ten times before “You’re not what I expected from a Highguard”

Starscream arched a perfect brow “And you speak like a Prime’s scribe but don’t flinch at sarcasm. We all wear masks, darling”

“Mine just has a file index attached”

“And mine’s classified”

There was another silence, but this time, it wasn’t the bored kind. It was the kind that settled between people who got it—whatever it was—and didn’t have to explain themselves further. Somewhere in the distance, a door creaked open and immediately closed again. Probably a decoy

Starscream sighed theatrically “Well, at least if the planet collapses while we’re waiting, we’ll die seated”

“There are worse ways to go”

“Like under one of Sentinel’s monologues”

You almost chuckled at that remark, almost “Remind me to archive this moment. We might need it for morale”

“Make sure you file it under Delayed Diplomacy and the Art of Not Screaming”

The meeting chamber echoed like a canyon full of bureaucracy and ego—Sentinel’s voice bouncing off the walls with the smug inevitability of an avalanche explaining its purpose to a valley. Measured. Smooth. Loud in all the wrong places. He was on his third rhetorical flourish now—something about reconstruction being like the alignment of celestial gears. You stopped listening two metaphors ago, when Sentinel had compared civic trust to photosynthesis

You sat by the main table, stylus in hand, screen glowing in your palm. But the datapad hadn’t captured a single useful point for at least half hours. Instead, it displayed a single, looping phrase written with mechanical calm

Don’t scream. Don’t scream. Don’t scream

It was less a note and more a spiritual chant. A written attempt at not flinging the stylus across the chamber and shouting “Define ‘unity’ without using the word ‘unity’!”

Across the room, Starscream leaned against a pillar like a statue carved from disdain and premium alloys. His wings were tilted back in a posture of supreme detachment—carefully calculated to look effortless. But you caught it—the minute twitch in his left optic, the tell-tale tic of someone questioning their life decisions in real time.

Their optics met. Brief. Dry. Miserable in perfect unison

Incoming message: Starscream

"You’re taking notes?"

You just adjusted the angle of your pad just slightly, revealing the message repeating like an ancient curse. Starscream made a choking sound—somewhere between a laugh and a gasp—then immediately disguised it as a dignified throat-clear. Reader would’ve applauded the acting if they had any energy left to give. Sentinel, oblivious as a comet on rails, kept speaking. Something about foundational reintegration protocols "gliding into place like constellations charted by destiny"

Starscream took that as his cue to sidle closer, each step elegant and illicit, like someone slipping poison into a chalice during a religious sermon

“You must be the most patient being on this entire planet” he murmured, voice pitched like a scandalous secret

You didn’t bother looking up. Just raised a optics ridge “I work with Alpha Trion. I’ve sat through lectures that started before sunrise and ended after philosophy itself gave up.”

Starscream exhaled softly—half impressed, half horrified

“So this is all just… muscle memory to you?”

“Spiritual trauma response, more like”

“Still. You’ve lasted longer than I have, and I’m technically immortal” Their shared look was one of withering solidarity—two burnt-out orbitals circling the same dying star

“He respects you, you know” Starscream said next, optics flicking toward Sentinel with a wry glint “Told me once you temper the tone of his judgment”

You snorted softly, a sound so bitter it could etch metal “Is that what it’s called now? I always thought I was the only thing standing between him and total rhetorical combustion”

“Exactly. You’re like a stabilizer coil for his ego” He paused, mouth curling in amusement that didn’t quite reach his optics “Or maybe a very refined lightning rod”

“Funny. I always assumed you were the lightning rod” You offered a smile thin enough to slice circuitry

Starscream bristled—visibly, wings snapping upward like the feathers of an offended falcon

“Please. I’m the storm. I don’t attract catastrophe—I deliver it in curated bursts”

“Modest, too”

“That’s one vice I never cultivated”

At that moment, Sentinel turned—gesturing toward them mid-sentence with the theatrical flair of someone who absolutely believed his audience was riveted. Neither of them had a clue what he’d just said — Immediately, both straightened, faces settling into masks of attentive professionalism. You looked almost interested. Starscream looked like someone doing an excellent impression of sobriety

Sentinel, of course, continued uninterrupted

Starscream leaned in again, voice softer now, more amused than conspiratorial “You know.. I’ve seen lesser mechs melt down after two kliks with him. Anyone who can sit through this entire speech without leaking coolant should have a statue”

You didn’t miss a beat

“I’ll settle for a nap. Possibly a mild coma”

“Pff. If the Primes don’t canonize you, I will”

“Do I get a halo or just a plaque that reads ‘Martyr of Moderation’?”

“Why not both? Gilded wings, stained glass, a shrine funded by public weeping”

They exchanged another look—this one laced with amusement rather than despair. And maybe—just faintly—a flicker of actual camaraderie. Mutual suffering had welded stranger bonds before

After that brief exchange, it could almost be said that you and he had become… close. Or at least, closer. The reason was painfully simple: the two of you shared a very particular kind of empathy—one with a single, specific name: Sentinel. Yes. You both are tried with that mech. He smiled too much, talked too much, and always managed to make both seem like a virtue
At first, your conversations with Starscream were short—sharp, pointed remarks passed like notes in a forbidden class. They were, inevitably, all about Sentinel. But, somehow, over time, the topic shifted. The insults came less frequently, replaced now and then by dry observations, or comments that weren’t quite complaints. Conversations that… weren’t entirely about gossip. One could even call it development. Or the faint shimmer of something resembling friendship
Starscream, for his part, became a frequent visitor to the Hall of Records—always with a reason. At first, they were plausible. He was there to borrow old tactical archives, he said. For research. For study. And then he’d linger. Just long enough for a few sharp words about Sentinel, and then he’d be gone. Only to return again. Always with a reason

The Hall of Records was always quiet

Not the eerie kind of quiet, nor the brittle hush of tension. Just stillness—the kind that knew its own weight. Ancient. Intentional. Like even the walls were thinking

Starscream didn’t belong there. Not really. This was a space of scholars and scribes, of archivists who measured truth in primary sources and argued over the placement of glyphs. He was a blade. A warrior of the air. Trained to slice through warzones, not scrolls. And yet—he had found himself here again. Not summoned. Not ordered

He wasn’t assigned to anything near this sector. But his wings carried him anyway, with the same sort of ease as when he used to patrol the skies—only now it was polished corridors and soft-glowing archives beneath his step

He told himself it was because the area was peaceful. That the air was better here—cooler, calmer. But he knew better

He always knew better

You was where you always were at a low console near the central atrium, surrounded by softly hovering text-columns and half-folded hologlyphs, digit dancing across script like you were conducting a symphony only you could hear

Starscream paused at the archway, lingering just outside the threshold like a visitor to a shrine. You hadn’t noticed him yet. Not unusual. You got like this—hyperfocused. It was part of what made you tolerable in meetings. Even when surrounded by the most pompous minds on Cybertron, you somehow managed to cut through noise and find the thread of meaning

Starscream didn’t speak. Not immediately. Instead, he watches from a distance—just a moment longer than necessary

The slight furrow between your optics. The absent way you tucked your digit beneath a datapad when lost in thought. The way your mouth moved when you reread something you didn’t quite agree with.The way you tilt your head slightly when concentrating — He’d seen soldiers review combat logs with less intensity

And then, without looking up “You’re here again” A beat. Still no eye contact. Just the calm click of glyphs shifting beneath their hands

“What is it this time? Lost on your way to an ego-polishing ceremony?”

“Charming as ever”

“I try”

The moment he passed the entry arch, the energy field swept over him, verifying his clearance. It always took a fraction longer for him. He was Highguard—technically not bound to this sector, not required to be here unless summoned

“You always look like you’re communing with ghosts in here” You didn’t flinch. Just tapped to pause the scroll, finally glancing his way “If I am, they’re better listeners than most living bots I know”

He gave a low hum—half amused, half... something he couldn’t name

“That includes me?”

“If you want it to”

The seeker stepped in further, arms behind his back like he wasn’t quite sure what to do with them. His wings twitched once—barely noticeable. In another mech, it would mean nothing. But for him, it was a crack in the composure. He leaned against a nearby terminal—deliberately not the one you was using, because leaning too close would be obvious. So he pretended to be interested in a wall display about 13th Prime and the history of arm-mounted documentation scrolls. For six whole seconds

“How long have you worked? with Alpha Trion?” he asked suddenly

You blinked. That wasn't one of his usual jabs “Long enough to memorize how he deflects questions with parables”

“Impressive. I usually skip to the part where I nod and pretend to understand”

“And how long” he added, more lightly “have you been the only one in the building who doesn’t flinch when I show up?”

“Probably since you stopped scaring the archivists on purpose” Starscream gave you a sideways look—something between amusement and a challenge, circling a console like a cat pretending not to want attention “So I was terrifying”

“You were theatrical”

“Same thing”

You turned back to the screen, but there was the faintest twitch at the corner of your mouth. A giveaway. He saw it. Cataloged it. Filed it somewhere between unexpected warmth and probable danger

None of you say anything else

He stood there. Reading. Occasionally making a dry remark, occasionally not making one when he could’ve—choosing, instead, to let the silence sit between them like something living. Breathing. And he realized, somewhere in the back of his mind, that this—this silence—felt nothing like the ones he’d trained to survive. It didn’t weigh him down. It didn’t ask him to prove anything. It just… allowed. He glanced at you again, which weren’t even looking at him

Good, he thought, and wasn’t sure why

Because if they had been—You might’ve seen the flicker of something soft at the edge of his mask. And that wasn’t a war he was ready to name just yet

Eventually, when he learned there was a logbook keeping track of all visitors to the archives, you swore you could smell smoke. Something burning. Something that was almost certainly not part of Starscream’s internal cooling systems working overtime to keep his core temperature down. "How often does Sentinel come here? " He wouldn’t ask. He definitely wouldn’t ask that. It would sound… unprofessional. Too personal.

And yet he noticed the tiny cleaning little drone tucked into the corner of the room. He remembered that it never used to be there before. That had to mean something

Starscream shouldn’t care. He didn’t care. He had no reason to You was capable. Professional. Untouchable, even. And Sentinel? He was just—Sentinel. Predictable. Loud. Ambitious to a fault. The kind of mech who saw people as pieces

“He doesn’t deserve to be near them” Starscream muttered under his breath. Then stopped. Why had he said that? He leaned against a cold pillar outside the Hall, arms folded tight. Watching the faint glow through the archive’s frosted walls It wasn’t just about Sentinel. Not really Lately. It was about how your voice changed ever so slightly when Sentinel was around. How you laughed less. Smiled thinner. Became… smaller somehow — less yourself? And maybe that was what bothered him most — That Sentinel took up so much space, even when he didn’t deserve it. That you let him

“It’s not jealousy” Starscream muttered. As if saying it would make it true “Just concern” Sure. Concern that tightened his chestplates every time he walked in too late. Concern that made him linger in doorways, listening for voices he didn’t want to hear. Concern that had no place in a soldier’s heart, least of all his He exhaled. Vents shivering just slightly

“They deserve better” “They deserve my company” And that was the moment Starscream realized—he might be in trouble

There was something different about the way Starscream entered the Hall of Records that day

He didn’t glide like he usually did—that controlled, weightless drift he favored when he wanted to seem above everything, including gravity. No elegant sweep of wings, no dramatic pause to let the ceiling lighting glint off his plating. No, this time he strode in—sharp-footed, deliberate, like he was walking into a courtroom to deliver closing arguments and maybe strangle the opposing counsel

You noticed it immediately. How could you not? He moved like a stormcloud pretending to be a weather report

“He was here again, wasn’t he?”

The question came without preamble—dry, low, too casual to be innocent

He didn’t bother with pleasantries. Starscream rarely did when his mood soured. And today, his tone carried the brittle edge of someone carefully taping over a cracked vase while denying it ever broke

You didn’t even ask who “he” was, didn’t need to

“For a moment” you replied calmly, not looking up “Dropped off a datapad. Nothing unusual”

“Oh, nothing unusual” Starscream echoed, as if savoring the taste of a word he fully intended to spit out. He came to stand beside you, one servo bracing on the edge of the console—just close enough to loom slightly, just far enough that he could pretend not to be hovering. His claws tapped against the surface. Not idly. In rhythm. Like punctuation for unsaid thoughts

“He stays longer every time” he added, eyes narrowing “Must be due to those exceptionally urgent files only you can decipher”

You said nothing at first, simply continuing to sort scrolls with the calm, methodical care of someone pretending you hadn’t been waiting for this exact conversation all morning

“He’s asking about the structural histories of the lower tiers” you said evenly “It’s academic. Not personal”

“Mmhmm. Of course. I’m sure he leans that close to everyone while consulting architectural records. It’s probably his… scholarly posture” Starscream’s wings flicked sharply behind him—betraying what his voice tried to conceal. He hated how transparent he was around them. His body gave away everything. Always had. You glanced sideways at him—just a flick of the optics

“You seem annoyed”

“Annoyed?” he repeated, too quickly “No, no. Don’t be ridiculous”

He gave a breathy little laugh, dry as static. The kind that didn’t reach his optics “Why would I be? I thrive on being replaced as the regular nuisance in your life”

“If that title matters so much, you should’ve shown up more often”

“I wasn’t aware I was supposed to schedule my dramatic entrances” he snapped, mouth curling “Next time I’ll file a formal request to interrupt your charming little cross-referencing rendezvous”

There it was. The flare of sarcasm like a flare from a jet’s engine—meant to distract, to blind. But you just blinked

“…You’re jealous”

“I’m not jealous” Starscream shot back—instantly, defensively, too fast to be believable even by his own standards.

There was a pause. A long one.

The air between them tightened—not tense, exactly, but warped, like something delicate was bending under the weight of something unspoken. Then, more quietly, more bitterly

“I’m rightfully suspicious”

“Suspicious of what, exactly?”

“Of how quickly he’s managing to dominate your attention with nothing but pomp and an overdesigned chestplate” Starscream crossed his arms, optics flicking toward the exit before snapping back, like he was already planning his next retreat. But he didn’t leave. Not yet.

You smothered a laugh, then failed to hide the smile “He does have very shiny plate” offered innocently.

Starscream scoffed. Loudly “Mm. Yes. Very polished. Very overcompensated. Probably waxed his plating with the tears of lesser intellects”

“Do you monologue like this every time someone uses the hallway?”

“I just thought this was our filing system” he muttered. His voice dropped a note there—not sarcastic, not angry. Just… quieter. Not quite sulking. Not quite joking. Something else. Something uncertain “It still is”

“Then maybe I’ll leave a few bootprints next time” he said “Stake my claim. Mark the territory. Make it clear who was here first”

You tilted your head, amused now “You’re being ridiculous.”

“Yes” he said proudly “But I do it with flair”

“Want a plaque?”

“No”

“Just… maybe a heads-up, next time you plan on loaning out your attention”

His tone was light. But his optics weren’t.

You saw it then—the smallest flicker of something unguarded. Not possessive, exactly. Not romantic, not fully. But something adjacent to it. The kind of ache you don’t name out loud because if you say it, it’ll make it real. And Starscream didn’t want it to be real. Not yet

He straightened with practiced elegance, spun on a heel—and began his exit like a prince dismissed from a court he hadn’t asked to join in the first place. But— He glanced back. Just once. Just long enough to see if you was watching. You were and Starscream? He despised how warm that made him feel. How visible. How stupidly, stupidly seen

And still—

He didn’t look away

Chapter 13: 🔞 Open mouth, open leg – bluestreak (G1, any)

Summary:

jealousy issues, general, common, but no one told him how bad the consequences were
tw: teasing, possessive, fingering, edging

Notes:

I don't think it's important to write how Blue Streak interacts with random bots, right? If we're here for porn? 🤣 I had already written that and I was like, oh, I don't think it's what we needed here anymore (still in practice about those valveplug content btw)

Chapter Text

The room was dim—lit only by the soft indigo glowstrip lining the wall, casting long shadows across the recharge berth and the floor beneath it. The silence stretched—tender in its weight, but taut beneath the surface, like a string pulled just shy of breaking

Bluestreak was quiet. For once

You sat on the bed first, casually, legs parted just enough. Then you said, calm as anything “Sit”

He blinked “What, now?”

He hesitated for half a second—just long enough to betray how fast his processor was racing—before stepping forward, his movements a little too fluid to be purely casual. He turned, cheeks flushed, and lowered himself carefully between your thighs, back pressing against your chest, frame fitting far too perfectly against yours

You wrapped your arms loosely around his waist. One hand resting low on his abdomen. The other? Well. You let it drift. Slowly

“Still think I wasn’t jealous?” You murmured near his audio

Bluestreak laughed—nervously “I mean no? I mean, yes. Yes you were. I just didn’t realize how much until now -ngh..!” He gasped as your fingers slid over his plating, tracing a seam just above the interface panel like you were toying with the concept of patience

“That laugh you gave her” you continued, voice low and steady “Was it this sweet?”

Your fingers dipped lower. Pressed harder. He jolted. Back arched “N-no! I mean, yes—wait, no, not this sweet..oh Primus”

You chuckled softly against the side of his neck. He was warm. Already trembling. His legs parted instinctively, optics fluttering offline for just a moment as you started to move—gentle, slow, deliberate strokes that sent sparks blooming behind his optics

“You’re making sounds now” you whispered, thumb brushing his panel in a teasing circle. It didn't take long for him to open them and with that, your fingers slid deeper. Pressed just right. Parted him just slightly. Moved with the precision of someone not just claiming, but engraving yourself into his memory

“Why don’t you save those for me, too?”

Bluestreak bit his lip hard—one hand gripping your thigh, the other on your arm. He was gasping now. Not loud—but strained. Tight. The kind of gasps that caught halfway up his throat before tumbling out as little, broken syllables. His frame shifted in your lap with every slow stroke of your fingers, hips twitching despite himself

“P-rimus, that.. hhn! –why’re you..so slow—”

“Because I like watching you fall apart in pieces” you whispered into the space just below his audial, palm pressed flat against his abdomen, keeping him firmly in place as your other hand continued working him open—finger curling deep, slow, precise, drawing circles that sent his knees trembling. A perfect drag along that aching inner node—again. And again

“Sit still for me” you added, voice soft, dangerous “You wanted attention, didn’t you?”

“I- I wasn’t trying to..!” he choked out, optics flickering as he leaned harder into you, thighs trembling from restraint “It was just a conversation—”

“You gave her that laugh”

Your finger curved just right. His entire frame jolted, a sharp, audible intake of air betraying how deep it hit

“She didn’t even earn that laugh, Bluestreak”

Your thumb shifted upward, brushing rhythmically along his rim, slow and wet and careful—never hurried. Just.. deliberate. He whimpered. His head dropped back against your shoulder, optics fluttering offline. His hands had nowhere to go—hovering in the air like he wanted to grab something, ground himself, survive this

“I’m— I’m trying to stay still, I swear, but—”

“Shh. You don’t have to beg. Just stay open”

And he did. Barely. His thighs shook against yours, trembling with every deliberate glide of your fingers inside him—stroking deep, curling up, then out again with aching, devastating rhythm. Each motion carefully calculated. Each pause long enough to make him whimper for more “Please– don’t stop! don’t— all sparks, I..!”

“Clenching already?” You smiled into his shoulder “I’m just getting started”

You added another finger, slowly, watching the way his vents hitched, short, shallow pulls like he couldn’t decide whether to moan or breathe first. His hands fisted into your arm plating. He arched this time, hips canting helplessly upward, grinding back against you, needy, greedy, chasing friction like his processor had stopped filtering consequences. He made a sound you couldn’t name—half sob, half static, full-body surrender

“A..ah! frag– that!”

“Too much?”

“N-No” he breathed “Not enough”

“Then you better keep those pretty legs where I put them” Your smile widened. Your thumb moved in tighter, slipping closer to the bundle of sensors just beneath the top seam—press... circle... pause... again. He was panting now, grinding back against your palm, optics bright and wet. You could feel it in his field: that wild, trembling charge, like a signal building toward overload—begging to break, but afraid to ask. Too good. Too slow. Too perfect. He was a mess already

“Say it” you murmured against his audio port “Say who you belong to.. sweetspark”

He whined—honest, desperate, caught between restraint and surrender

“You—I’m yours, spark and frame! just- ..just don’t stop!”

You bit back a laugh. There it was. That perfect sound. The one that made it worth dragging him to the edge and holding him there like a prize. And you didn’t stop. Not for a second, weren’t planning to. You kept fingering him in steady, possessive thrusts, a little faster—drawing more slick from him with each stroke, relishing the tightness, the heat, the way his interface twitched around your fingers like it wanted to pull you deeper and never let go

The pads of your fingers drove in with practiced pressure, curling up toward that sweet, twitching bundle of sensory mesh that made his hips jerk every time you grazed it. You found the spot early—you always do—and you didn’t let it go. Your fingers hooked into it, slow and firm

Then again. And again. A rougher grind now, deliberate—like carving his nerves open just to watch what leaked out. Bluestreak writhed in your lap. His whole frame bowed, shoulders trembling hard as his thighs tried and failed to stay still

“Primus.. f- I can’t..!”

“You can.. You will”

Your thumb slid up again, pressing firmly against his node, swollen and soaked from all your teasing. You circled it once. Twice. Then rubbed fast, tight, hard little pulses while your fingers inside him rocked upward with each stroke. He cried out. Clenched down. Your fingers were squeezed so tight in his valve it made you groan—but you didn’t stop. You ground up harder, rougher, twisting just slightly mid-push until his legs kicked out once and

You stopped. Completely. Right on the edge

“No–! No no no..please!” He was shaking so badly you had to grip his waist tighter to hold him still. Your mouth ghosted his audio again, breath steady “You were going to overload.. I didn’t say you could”

“I..I can’t!" He bit down hard on a whimper

“You’re what, Blue? Leaking all over my hand, aching so bad you can’t think straight? Poor thing. So close, and still not allowed to finish..”

Your fingers slid in again—slow now. Cruel. You dragged your fingers over the inner rim, pressing outward against the soft lining with a knuckle-deep sweep before curling back to center. Your thumb returned to his node once again, this time pressing directly down, circling tightly, not letting up. The angle of thrust just sharp enough to keep him on edge—deep, purposeful pressure against the anterior node just beneath his inner wall. The one that made his thighs twitch every time you dragged over it

You angled your wrist, fucking him on your fingers in a rhythm that was slow but devastating. Knuckles brushing the edge of his rim on every drag. Fingertips grinding against that bundle of nerves that made him go silent. Too much. His mouth dropped open, soundless. His body pressed back into yours like he could melt into you. One hand braced over your knee, the other shaking where it clutched the bed

“Tell me when you’re close again, so I can stop you properly this time”

“You’re evil” he panted, almost delirious “You’re..too good at this…!”

“Mm-hm”

Your pressed on his node, hard. Started to circle. Fast this time. Tight spirals, centered right at the swollen nerve cluster where his circuits lit up like a detonator. Your fingers never stopped. And when he screamed—because at this point, it was a scream—you didn’t stop either.nNot until he was right there again. Tensing. Legs quaking. Inner walls clenching around your fingers like they were his last lifeline

“P-please—please, just—!”

And you stopped. Again. He wailed. Actually wrenched forward on your lap before you yanked him back with one arm locked around his waist

“Not yet” you hissed, lips pressed hot to his neck “You don’t get to overload until I say so. Now behave”

“Let this be a reminder that you shouldn't talk so much next time, with such a voice..”

With his cries now, anyone who walked past your room could hear them, but you didn't care because this way it was even clearer that Bluestreak belonged to you in every way, physically and mentally and more if there is. Other than that, you really like his voice. It's a twitch, a sweet moan, nothing like when he talks normally, so you would let him make that sounds again and again. All night long, untill he can't

Chapter 14: Missing you – ratchet (IDW, any)

Summary:

everything is fair in love and war

Notes:

this is now part of LOVE TRIANGLE as a side story. I'm still not sure if I should start that series or not, as I don't really understand Post-war Drift's character very well

Chapter Text

"YOU! What were you thinking, charging out there like that?! Do you even realize—!"

"It had to be done, Ratchet. I wasn’t just running off for fun. And look at me—still in one piece, right?"

You threw your arms out a little as if presenting evidence, like a magician pulling off a half-baked trick. Voilà, no holes in your plating! No limbs missing! So why did he look like he was about to blow a fuse?

Ratchet’s fists were clenched so tight, you could probably hear the servos straining. His brows had that familiar angry-arch again—sharp enough to slice through sheet metal. He always did get that look whenever the topic of you heading into the field came up. Whether it was your idea or someone else’s, the answer from him was always the same: ABSOLUTELY NOT

And honestly? You couldn’t blame him. Because to Ratchet, you weren’t just another bot trying to be useful. You were—well. Let’s just say if you short-circuited out there, something in him might go offline too

Not that he ever said as much. Not outright. This is not a place or time for that kind of confession

But stars, did he worry. Because you, in all your brilliant stubbornness, acted like you had something to prove. Always did. Always will. Tossing out lines like: "I’d probably be more helpful in the field" Sure. Maybe you were a bit of a klutz in the med ward—always knocking things over, mixing up equipment, injecting the wrong side of the energon bag. But that didn’t mean you had to go and swap scalpels for shrapnel

Honestly, it was bad for your safety

And even worse for his spark

He saw it all—every time you pushed yourself, every effort you poured in just to stand shoulder to shoulder with the rest. Even when your welds were crooked. Even when your scores were hanging by a thread. Even when others laughed and muttered things like maybe you’d been uploaded with the wrong code—like someone in your assembly line mixed up “medic” with “mascot” Ratchet might’ve chuckled the first time he heard that joke

But the second time?

The third? It stopped being funny real fast

Because what would happen if you failed out of the program? If you couldn’t become a medic — the one function you were supposed to perform? The Functionist system didn’t take kindly to failures, and Ratchet knew exactly how cruel it could be to those who didn’t live up to their assigned role — He couldn’t stomach the thought. So he reached out. Steady hands for your shaky ones

And that’s when he really know you

Not as the bot fumbling their way through every practical, but as someone with guts. Grit. A spark that wouldn’t quit. Someone who could get knocked flat and still smile like the world hadn’t fallen on them

Even now, that part of you hadn’t changed

"I know you’re worried, Ratchet. I do. But there are bots out there who need help. And I was careful, I swear. Please… trust me on this" You said it with that same soft tone, the one that could cool a burning processor. Calm. Gentle. Just a little cheeky. Like you knew you were driving him crazy but not enough to stop

And of course, he couldn’t stay mad at you. Not when you smiled like that

Ratchet would never admit it out loud, but war had turned him into something jagged. Prickly. Worn thin and pulled taut. The war had warped him—wound him tighter and tighter until his temper sat just beneath the surface, like an overheated energon line waiting to burst. He was shorter now, angrier, wearier. Every day brought more bodies. More loss. More names he’d never forget etched into casualty reports — you? You saw the same things. Stared into the same abyss – were still the same stubborn, sunshine-blooded bot he remembered from the Academy. The one who got up no matter how many times they tripped over their own tools

He wondered sometimes—maybe those jokes weren’t entirely wrong. Maybe your code was mixed up. Maybe instead of a medic’s script, you got uploaded with a hero’s heart and a martyr’s smile

"...Just don’t make me hold my breath reading your name in the casualty reports"

"So you are worried about me" you teased, lips curling into a playful grin "I get it. I promise I’ll be careful. And you—don’t go brooding too much, yeah? I don’t want your spark shriveling from stress, doc"

Field medics weren’t meant to handle full surgeries. Mostly just patch-ups. Stop the bleeding, stabilize, then ship the injured off to base

But danger still the same

One wrong step, one unlucky blast and you could be gone in a flash. And Ratchet… he feared the day that might happen. Feared that it would break him irreparably if your name ever appeared on one of those reports

Did he have to say it? That you’d become his anchor, his center of gravity in a world falling apart? No. He didn’t

Because for him, it was already painfully, achingly clear

FROM: [REDACTED] Field Medic Unit 5

Morning update! The energon dispenser finally stopped shocking us on contact. That’s progress. I stitched up a Con today who tried to thank me while bleeding out. He said my hands were “gentle like a starburst” ..I think he lost more energon than we though?

And some patient tried to bite me today. I told him I wasn't his energon ration. He laughed so hard he nearly popped a fuel line. I patched it anyway

Ratchet sat slumped in the corner of the medbay, the kind of slump that didn't come from exhaustion alone but from something heavier — something sorrow-shaped. The overhead lights cast a pale, sterile glow across the room, catching on the dried streaks of energon smeared across his servos. His shoulders were pulled tight, like cables wound too far and left under pressure. He didn’t move. Didn’t blink. Just stared at the empty berth across from him like it might explain everything that had gone wrong today

Then—footsteps. Soft. Familiar. Like a whisper in the silence

"You're still here" you murmured, stepping through the door with a datapad clutched in one hand, your frame moving with quiet care. A tired smile tugged at your lips — small, but real

"I could say the same to you" Ratchet replied. His voice was gravel, but not sharp. More like the rumble of thunder already fading from the sky

You didn’t answer. Just made your way across the medbay, steps slow but steady, like you’d walked this path hundreds of times and still found new meaning in it each night. When you sat beside him, your frame sank with a quiet sigh. Your shoulder brushed against his — not pressing, not prying. Just there. Solid. Steady. A presence he didn’t know he needed until it settled in beside him

He didn’t lean back

But he didn’t move away, either

Instead, his servo shifted hesitant, unsure and found yours. Metal against metal. Warmth still clinging to him from the charge running under his plating. You turned your hand without a word, fingers curling between his, slow and certain, like sealing a quiet pact neither of you would speak aloud.

You sat like that for a while. No words. Just the soft hum of power lines and low ventilations. And then you turned, just a little, and glanced up at him

"You saved a lot today"

He exhaled, slow and sharp at once, like your words hit something he’d tried to bury

"So did you. Even if your stitching still looks like you used your optics closed"

You gave a short, quiet laugh "It’s only slightly crooked now, I’ll have you know"

His mouth twitched — a flicker of a smile that almost didn’t happen. Then, gently, you reached out and brushed a smudge of dried energon from the edge of his chest plating. Your touch lingered just a second too long, tender and unhurried. Ratchet didn’t stop you. Didn’t tense. His optics shuttered, only briefly — just long enough to feel it.

That someone saw him

That someone stayed

"You know..." he said softly, not quite meeting your gaze "I used to think what you do running into the field like that was nothing but foolish bravado"

You chuckled under your breath, and leaned in just enough to nudge him "I am foolish. But someone’s got to be"

He turned to look at you then — really look. And you could see it in his optics: everything he hadn’t said, everything that weighed on him like rust. Fear. Guilt. The ache of care too deeply buried

"You’re still the same" he said quietly "Still ridiculous. Still carrying pain that was never yours to begin with"

You smiled — soft, warm, a little crooked, a little sad. The kind of smile only shared between two tired souls who’d spent too long pretending to be fine

"That’s rich coming from you, Ratchet"

The silence that followed didn’t feel heavy. It felt full. Like a breath finally let out. Like a weight shared between two frames and made lighter for it. Then, he shifted

Not a lot

Just enough

His frame tilted slightly toward you, like a tired starship easing into dock. His voice was barely above a whisper when he spoke again

"Recharge here tonight. Just... stay"

Your optics widened slightly — not in shock, just in quiet surprise. Then you nodded, slow and certain, as though the decision had been made long before he even asked

"Alright.."

The floor was cold. The lighting sterile. But none of it mattered. Not with the sound of his fans gently cycling beside you. Not with his hand still tangled in yours, grounding you both like gravity after too long spent floating. No dramatic declarations. No grand confessions. Just this: a shared silence, deep and unwavering, stretching between you like a safety net. Like something fragile but resilient. Like home

Ratchet exhaled again. A sound of surrender, not defeat. Then, quietly, he squeezed your hand. Once. Light as a starlight kiss. And you squeezed back

That was all

That was enough

The medbay dimmed into a gentle hush. Most of the lights faded to standby, leaving only the soft amber of the emergency strips along the wall. You’d stayed just like you promised, curling up near Ratchet on the cool floor, datapad forgotten by your side, optics shuttered and face turned slightly toward him. He thought you’d fall into recharge quickly, worn out from the day, but it surprised him how quietly — how gently — you’d slipped into rest. No fanfare. No twitching fingers or lingering tension. Just… peace

He should’ve looked away

He didn’t

Ratchet stayed still as still as his war-worn frame would allow and let his optics linger on you in the dark. You were close. Close enough that the soft rise and fall of your ventilation brushed the inside of his plating. Close enough that the glow of the medbay lights caught faintly on your face, highlighting the curve of your cheek, the subtle tension finally released from your brow

You looked… calm

Not like the reckless, half-smiling bot that threw themselves into danger with a medic kit half-zipped and a stubborn glint in their optics

But like the version of you he saw only in rare moments. The one that paused long enough to be held in the quiet. His gaze traced the edge of your frame — traced the curve of your helm, lingering at your hand, the way your fingers remained loosely entwined with his — Ratchet let out a low exhale, almost silent. Not from stress. Not this time. From something tender. Careful. Like if he breathed too loud, the moment might vanish

He’d seen hundreds of patients pass through this room. He knew what unconsciousness looked like — the raw, involuntary kind that came with trauma or overload. But this wasn’t that

This was peace

And it humbled him

Because in a world of warzones and casualty charts, you still trusted him enough to sleep beside him. No questions. No walls. And somehow, that meant more than a thousand battlefield victories. He leaned back slightly, bracing his helm against the wall. His optics flickered briefly to low-power mode, but he didn’t close them fully. Not yet

Not when you were here

Not when the thrum of your frame was the softest sound he’d heard in cycles

“Stubborn fool..” he whispered, so low it barely made it past his lips “Sweetspark, why do you have to matter so much…”

But there was something tender in the way he said it. As if here beside him was the only place he’d ever want you to fall asleep again. For a long moment, Ratchet let his finger brush gently against your knuckles. A silent thank-you. A quiet apology. A promise he hadn’t yet found the words for

In that moment, Ratchet knew: If the war ended tomorrow, if the world ever gave them the mercy of peace… He’d still choose to sit beside you like this, quiet, warm, close

Maybe someday, he’d tell you that

FROM: [REDACTED] Field Medic Unit 5

Command says I should stop using star stickers to ‘reward good patients.’ I told them I’m boosting morale. They rolled their optics. But guess who got three mech to sit still for recalibration today? That’s right. Star stickers

I saved one for you. The shiny one with a wrench on it.

The lab was too bright

Not because the lighting was harsh, but because it reflected too clearly on the untouched surface of your datapad, illuminating just how long you’d been stuck on the same diagram. The neural feedback loop rotated slowly on-screen—each flicker of its digital lines only serving to remind you how little of it made sense

You hunched over the table a little more, stylus gripped awkwardly, like it might start cooperating if you held it tighter. The other students around the lab were paired off or gathered in small clusters, voices lowered to murmurs of focused discussion or quiet laughter. No one paid attention to you. Not really

You preferred it that way. Usually

So when a voice cut through the ambient hum, clear, dry, and laced with mild amusement, you jumped

“You’re holding that stylus like you’re about to perform a dissection on it”

You blinked up, startled. The stylus slipped just slightly from your fingers. You caught it, barely

Standing across the table was Ratchet

Not just any student. Not just another med-trainee. This was the Ratchet—top of diagnostics, praised by instructors, the subject of more than one whispered: "did you hear he finished that module in half the time?" rumor in the halls. He had that reputation of being intimidatingly good at everything... and yet, in this moment, he was standing casually, arms crossed, an amused glint in his optics as he regarded you

You could feel your fans whir faintly. Not from heat. From nerves “Uh… sorry?” you said, blinking fast, trying to recalibrate your brain into functioning language “I wasn’t.. I mean, yeah, kind of”

Your words tumbled out awkwardly, but Ratchet didn’t mock you for it. His mouth curved upward — not a smirk, not a grin, but something easier. Softer. He stepped closer, pulled out the empty chair across from you, and sat down without ceremony

“Neural feedback protocols, huh?” he said, glancing at your screen. He leaned forward a bit, elbows on the table, his field calm and unbothered, like you weren’t the least confident student in the room and he wasn’t the star of the cycle

“Brutal chapter” he added “I used to think the logs were written in code just to mess with us”

You gave a weak laugh “So I’m not the only one”

“No” he said, looking at you again. His optics were sharper up close, but not cold. Observant. Steady “You’re not”

You hesitated. It took a second before your systems reminded you to speak

“…Thanks”

He glanced down at your stylus, which you were still gripping too tightly “You’re tense”

You blinked “I.. am I?”

Ratchet tilted his head slightly, optics narrowing not in judgment, but in the same way a medic might look at an old, familiar wound

“Yeah. You don’t have to be” he said simply

Before you could ask what that meant, he added “I’ve seen you around. You’re in my triage sim group, right?”

You nodded slowly “Yes. I mean—yes. I think so? You’re the lead, am I correct?”

“Technically” he said, and gave a faint huff of a laugh “But I’m not here to be your supervisor”

His tone was light, but honest. Measured. Like he wanted you to believe him. Then, without any buildup

“Do you want help?”

The question hit like static

Not because of what he said — but because of how. No pity. No superiority. Just… straightforward willingness. A bridge being extended. You stared at him, unsure whether you’d heard right. Then your mouth worked again

“…Really?”

“Do I not look like the helping type?”

You froze. He waited

“…Honestly?” you said, voice quieter now. “You look like you don’t have time for anyone”

Ratchet’s expression didn’t falter, but something in his optics crinkled—like he wasn’t offended, but surprised. Then he leaned back slightly and chuckled “Fair”

“But I do make time when it’s worth it.”

That made your chest stutter for a moment

Was he saying… you were worth it?

“I’m free after systems lab tomorrow” he continued before you could get lost in the thought “You bring the notes, I’ll bring the energon. Deal?”

You nodded, too fast “Y.. yes! deal. Sure. Thank you!”

He stood with the same ease he arrived, tapping his fingers lightly once against the table “Don’t stress it. You’re sharper than you think”

And just like that—he was gone. Back into the current of students, vanishing from your immediate orbit but not from your thoughts. You looked back down at your datapad. The diagram still didn’t make much sense – But for some reason, everything else… felt a little easier, your processor felt a little clearer. Like someone had just opened a door

Sometimes connection begins not with sparks but with a quiet offer, a steady look, and someone saying: "You don’t have to do this alone”

The overhead light flickered once before humming back to life. It cast a cool white glow across the cluttered medstation, making the long shadows on the wall twitch just slightly as the vent fans turned

You sat perched on the edge of the steel table, your legs dangling, boot tips scraping a lazy rhythm against the paneling. A twisted coolant line lay half-open in your lap, the tubing frayed and leaking faint vapor. It should’ve been an easy fix.. should’ve taken you half a breem, maybe less but your hands weren’t steady tonight — Too many field calls. Too many screaming injuries you couldn’t patch fast enough

You sighed, running a thumb over a nick in the connector port. Another hiss of frustration escaped you before a familiar voice answered from the door

“You’re pinching the stabilizer too hard”

You startled slightly and looked up

Ratchet was already walking in. He didn’t wear his usual scowl, but the tightness around his optics gave away the weight he carried. Even after cycles of war, his gait was the same — solid, purposeful, always a little faster than necessary, like standing still too long might kill him

He didn’t ask to help. Just walked straight up beside you and held out a hand. You placed the broken part in his palm without a word. He turned it over once, then twice, eyes scanning it with clinical detachment. But his presence was warm. Anchoring. That had never changed

“You’re forcing the pressure against the bend” he murmured “Let the joint flex first. Here”

He reached over and placed the part down on the workbench between you, stepping in close—close enough that your knees brushed his thigh as he leaned forward. His hands moved with practiced calm, fingers adjusting the tiny paneling with care born from thousands of repetitions

You didn’t move. Just watched the side of his face while he worked. You’d seen it so many times now—in chaos, in focus, in bloodied silence.

But here, in the quiet… it felt different.

“…Y’know, I used to think you were scary”

Ratchet grunts “You still should”

You smile “Yeah. But now I know the grumpy bark’s just hiding your bleeding spark..”

He glances at you sideways “Bold words from someone who couldn’t tell the difference between a pulse capacitor and a dataport six cycles ago”

“I can now” you shoot back, mock-offended

“Barely” he mutters

You grin. He paused. Didn’t look at you

You nodded slowly, eyes tracing the tiny scars on his knuckles “…It was easier back then” And it's not about that pulse capacitor

Ratchet didn’t answer. But the way his hands moved slowed, just a bit. His field flickered, quiet waves of static brushing your frame like the gentle pressure of a memory trying not to surface

After a moment, he glanced sideways, catching your gaze. He looked tired. Older than he should be. But something in his optics softened when they met yours

“You’re better at this than you think” he said.

“That… might be the first compliment I’ve gotten from you in months”

He huffed, more air than sound but didn’t deny it “You don’t need compliments. You just need rest. Which you haven’t had” he said, resuming his work

You tilted your head “Neither have you”

He didn’t respond, but you caught it—the faint twitch at the corner of his mouth. A near-smile. One he was holding back. The old version of him would’ve let it show. The new one… was more careful with softness

You watched him for a few more seconds

The medbay was quiet, save for the occasional drip of coolant somewhere in the pipes and the buzz of distant generators. The war was always just outside the walls—but in here, you could almost pretend the past wasn’t gone. You wanted to say thank you. You wanted to say I miss how we were. You wanted to say please don’t get killed tomorrow

Instead, you leaned forward slowly, casually, like stretching. And then, with a deliberate softness, you turned your head and pressed a light, brief kiss to his cheekplate. A breath. A blink. That was all

He froze mid-motion. The connector slipped in his grip, just slightly. You pulled back slowly, expression unreadable

“…Thanks for the lesson, Doc”

You tried to make it sound teasing. Light. The way you always did. But your voice cracked just a hair around the edges

Ratchet stayed still, like his processor was buffering. Then he set the part down with care. Turned to face you, frame still too close. His optics met yours — sharp, unreadable, but not cold. And not angry

“…You're reckless” he said at last. Quiet. Tired. You tilted your head, smiling faintly “Takes one to know one”

He exhaled through his vents. Looked away for a second. Then back

“You’re not funny”

You leaned your weight into one hand, resting it near his on the bench “I made you stop thinking for ten seconds. That is funny”

“If you do that again, I might not let you get away with it” He stared at you. Really stared. Then, barely above a whisper

Your smile widened but your spark ached

“…Maybe I’m hoping for that”

The silence between you buzzed louder than the failing light overhead. And still—neither of you said it. Not tonight. Not yet. But your knees still touched. And his hand didn’t move away from yours — There are a thousand things you can say with a kiss, when your mouth won’t say what your spark already knows

FROM: [REDACTED] Field Medic Unit 5

Got caught in an ambush. Nothing major. Just some singed paint and bruised pride. You’d probably call it ‘avoidable’ I’d call it ‘character building’

Don’t worry. Still functional. Still fighting. Still me (Don’t get mad. I know that face. Stop making that face)

After the ambush there is a quiet moment for once. Sat under the wrecked dropship and listened to the rain hit the plating. It sounded like music, almost. Miss those medbay nights when we didn't have to say anything

Anyway. I'm alright. Just… miss quiet

—

It’s been a long cycle. Haven’t had a recharge worth anything. But I dreamed I was back at the academy. You were arguing with the console again because "it wasn’t calibrated right" remember that? You looked less tired in that dream. I hope you still smile sometimes. Even if it’s just for yourself.

I’ll be back. Eventually. Save me a spot next to the diagnostics terminal, yeah?

..but you never did

Chapter 15: Roomie — whirl (IDW)

Chapter Text

You didn’t ask for this. Actually, you’re ninety-nine percent sure this qualifies as cruel and unusual punishment, but Ultra Magnus didn’t blink an optic when he handed you the datapad and said: “Consider this part of your observational assignment”

Observation, my aft. This isn’t observation, you’re basically sharing a cell with a one-mech riot. And by him, you mean the walking war crime currently hanging upside down on the couch like some sort of industrial-sized turbo-bat. One leg strut hooks lazily over the backrest, the other dangles like it’s taunting gravity to pick a fight. The couch creaks like it’s about to file a worker’s comp claim

The lighting in the room is dim, throwing long, crooked shadows over the walls, like the whole place is conspiring with him to look unsettling. His single optic glows bright in the gloom, an ominous, unblinking searchlight of chaos, locked dead on you

“Y’know” Whirl starts, voice rough and gravelly, like an old servo grinder that’s proud of being a safety hazard “most bots would’ve cried by now. Or thrown something. Or—oh, oh!—filed a panicky report to Magnus, all ‘oh no, the scary ex-Wrecker might murder me in my sleep!’”

He wiggles his claws in the air for emphasis, joints clicking in a way that sounds like cheap horror vid sound effects on discount day

“You’ve lasted three whole cycles” His helm tilts still upside down, which makes him look like a murder drone trying to be cute. You vent a long, deliberate exhale. The kind Ratchet taught you when you’re two ticks from breaking someone over your knee like a cheap crowbar “…Why”

you ask flatly “why are you upside down?”

Whirl stills. Or, well, he performs an approximation of stillness. His optic flares, bright with indignation, like you’ve just insulted the concept of fun itself “Why are you right side up? Ever think about that?”

“...”

A dead air

“See, this is why you’re boring” With a screech of protesting metal springs, he flips upright in one motion that looks like a gymnastic routine designed by a lunatic. The couch emits a sound that can only be translated as ‘kill me’

He jabs a claw at you like a prophet of chaos delivering gospel “No imagination. No spark for danger. You’re like… if beige was a person”

“You’re harassing me”

He gasps so hard it’s a miracle he doesn’t suck in the furniture. One claw slaps dramatically over his chestplate “Harassing?! Whoa-ho-ho, someone’s got an ego! Do you think I gift everyone with the radiant glory of my presence?”

“Do you?”

“Yes,” he fires back instantly, because shame has never met Whirl and never will. “But still. You? You’re special. You’re my roomie! That makes this, like, a sacred bond or something”

He leans in closer, claws spread wide like he’s welcoming you to a cult “Roommates don’t snitch. Roommates share everything. Food, gossip, personal space…” and before you can move, his arm hooks over your shoulders like a dead weight, pulling you into the warm, sharp-edged embrace of pure discomfort. The tip of a claw grazes your neck cabling just enough to make every self-preservation alarm in your processor scream bloody murder “Secrets”

You shove him off with a snap, more firm than violent, though Primus knows you’re tempted “Touch my berth and I’ll dismantle you in your recharge cycle”

“Ooooh, scary” His tone drips sarcasm, but that optic flares with something unhinged and delighted, like you’ve just handed him a winning lottery ticket. He leans closer, voice dropping like this is the start of some forbidden holovid “Do it. I’d pay to see that. Well, not really, ‘cause I don’t have money. Or morals. But still”

His claws flex “Hot”

Your processor throws up an error code so fast it feels like your brain just blue-screened. Words fail you. Static hisses out of your vents instead, and Whirl looks positively thrilled. And then it hits you, the horrifying truth. This is only cycle three. And judging by that optic, he’s just getting started

Long hallway outside the Lost Light’s briefing room. You’ve been glued to Whirl’s aft all cycle, thanks to Magnus’ very specific words: “Keep him occupied. Prevent… incidents” He’s walking ahead with that obnoxious strut like he’s the star of a holo-drama. Then he suddenly stops so abruptly you nearly faceplate into his back
“Whirl, what—”
“Shhhh..” He throws a claw across your chest to block you, like some big dramatic gesture “There’s a guy at the end of the hall. Looks shifty.”
“That’s Jackpot.”
“Exactly. No one’s that calm without hiding something.” His optic narrows like he’s about to lunge. You grab his arm. “You’re not interrogating him”
He jerks his helm toward you, optic blazing “What if he tries to steal you?”
“…Steal me?”
“Yeah! You’re my handler-slash-roomie. Property of Whirl. I should put a tag on you or something” You deadpan so hard you can feel your faceplate creak

Whirl’s perched on the back of the berth like some kind of deranged cyber-vulture, claws clacking against the frame in a rhythm that sounds suspiciously like the countdown to your patience exploding. His optic tracks you with unsettling intensity, the glow flickering faintly like he’s sizing up whether you’d taste better grilled or deep-fried

“You organize like Magnus” he says finally, the words dripping with enough disdain to corrode plating “All neat and logical and boring. You’ve got, like, zero personality. A big ol’ void where the fun should be”

You don’t even glance his way. If you do, that’s when he wins “And yet, somehow, I still have enough personality to regret this living arrangement”

“Ooooh, snappy comeback! That’s progress!” He flips off the couch in one jerky motion that feels more like an assassination attempt on gravity than acrobatics, landing right in front of you, too close, like he’s never heard of personal space or restraining orders

“Which means it’s time”

You freeze, every sensor going on high alert. Slowly, cautiously “Time… for what?”

“Oh c'mon! Isn't it obvious? Bonding activities” Whirl announces, throwing his arms out like a cult leader welcoming you to the fold “You know, roommate stuff. We laugh, we cry, we share secrets, and then we become best friends forever like I told you” He squeals those last three words in a tone so high-pitched you’re fairly certain your audials just filed a complaint with HR

“No” you say immediately

“Yes” he fires back without missing a beat

“NO”

“YES!” He claps his claws together with a metallic clang so loud it rattles your spark chamber “I already planned it. Well, kinda. Not really. I made a list of stuff that sounded fun while I was cleaning my claws with a shiv yesterday”

You stare at him. Hard

“That… was supposed to convince me?”

Ignoring you with the dedication of a mech who’s probably on at least three watchlists, Whirl whips out a datapad from subspace and starts scrolling with the dramatic flourish of a holovid villain unveiling his master plan “Alright, here we go! one: Practice stealth kills in the hallway”

He pauses like he’s waiting for applause. “Okay, that might be too soon for you. two: Paint Magnus face on the ceiling and add a funny hat. And three. Oh, you’ll love this one: Spin in chairs until someone pukes”

Your optics widen so hard you’re pretty sure you just sprained something “Primus above”

“Don’t worry, I’ve got more!” he chirps, scrolling with manic glee. “Four: Play I Spy with things Magnus would hate. Five: Duct-tape random objects to each other and see if they still work” He leans in, so close you can count every scratch on his faceplate, and his optic gleams like a stormlight about to hit land “and six? Surprise knife fight”

You slap a servo down on his datapad and shove it out of your sight “Absolutely not”

“Oh, come on!” Whirl whines like an impatient sparkling whose favorite explosive just got confiscated “Live a little! You can’t spend every cycle alphabetizing your energon cubes like some retired librarian. That’s how sparks die, y’know–of boredom”

“I’d rather be bored than dead from one of your activities”

“Ugh!” He flings his arms out so dramatically he nearly decapitates you in the process. “You’re killing me here. Killing me with responsibility” Then, before you can blink, he grabs your wrist like a mech possessed

“Fine. We’ll start easy. Trust exercise!”

Your fuel pump spikes “Whirl—”

“Yeah, yeah, trust fall. Classic. Can’t go wrong with that” He’s muttering to himself as he drags you toward the center of the room like a kidnapper with artistic vision “Unless I drop you. Which I might. For fun”

You dig your heels in, plating scraping against the floor “Whirl, no”

“Relax!” He spins around and plants his claws on your shoulders with all the authority of someone who absolutely should never be trusted with anything. His tone drops into a mock-serious rumble “Do you trust me?”

“No”

“Good answer!” He sounds delighted “Now turn around and fall”

“I’m not falling into your claws”

“Why not?”

“Because you will drop me”

He looks down at his claws, then back up like you’ve just pointed out an irrelevant technicality “Details” The silence stretches, taut and tense, like a cable about to snap. You can almost hear the universe waiting for which one of you is going to break first. Then, with an exaggerated groan, Whirl flings his claws in the air.

“Fine! Forget the trust fall. We’ll do something else. Something safer”

You exhale in relief.. too soon

“Like knife throwing!”

Late cycle, you’re exhausted and finally flopping on your berth. You don’t even hear him come in until his voice jolts you awake
“Roomie!” Whirl’s claws bang against the doorframe “Guess what? I was bored, so I signed us up for sparring drills tomorrow.”
You groan into your berth “Why.”
“Because you need exercise. And I need someone I won’t kill by accident. Win-win!”
“…You’re going to kill me on purpose, aren’t you?”
He tilts his helm like he’s thinking hard “Depends how cute you look in a headlock” You throw a datapad at him. He catches it, so casually

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PinkPantherInHiding on Chapter 5 Fri 23 May 2025 12:08PM UTC

Oml I love all of these jokes, barely calmed down from one fit of laughter only to get hit by another one lol😭😭😭
I love this series so much🩵

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PinkPantherInHiding on Chapter 9 Thu 19 Jun 2025 06:32PM UTC

Aughhhhhh, I love these so much!!!

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PinkPantherInHiding on Chapter 14 Fri 08 Aug 2025 02:28AM UTC

Oh.. oh okay I'll just sob in a corner then.

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1. ThatManRunAfterU on Chapter 14 Fri 08 Aug 2025 03:05AM UTC
  
  good, that's what I want to hear 😇
  
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gilded_groove on Chapter 14 Mon 01 Sep 2025 02:17AM UTC

Ill pretend i never read the last bit

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tf collector (oneshot/scenario)

ThatManRunAfterU

Summary:

Chapter 1: req & talk

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Chapter 2: SCENARIO: Fine print - swindle (any, IDW)

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Chapter 3: SCENARIO: Silver tongue, golden sword - thunderclash (IDW)

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Chapter 4: SCENARIO: Throne and fall - megatron (IDW)

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Chapter 5: SCENARIO: The field butcher - scavengers (IDW)

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SUBJECT PATIENT RECORD

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SUBJECT PATIENT RECORD

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SUBJECT PATIENT RECORD

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SUBJECT PATIENT RECORD

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SUBJECT PATIENT RECORD

Chapter 6: SCENARIO: The Field butcher - firstaid, ratchet, ambulon (IDW)

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Chapter 7: #1 fan actually – thunderclash (IDW)

Summary:

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Chapter 8: Hall of Record - sentinel prime (TFO)

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KEYWORD: SUPPOSED TO

Chapter 9: SCEN (1/2): Hall of Record – Orion pax, D-16, Sentinel Prime, Airachnid+Darkwing (TFO)

Notes:

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BONUS ON

Chapter 10: Done with your ex – rodimus (IDW)

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Chapter 11: ⚠️ Loosen Close – Prowl (IDW)

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Chapter 12: Hall of Record - starscream (TFO)

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Chapter 13: 🔞 Open mouth, open leg – bluestreak (G1, any)

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Chapter 14: Missing you – ratchet (IDW, any)

Summary:

Notes:

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Chapter 15: Roomie — whirl (IDW)

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Kudos

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PinkPantherInHiding on Chapter 5 Fri 23 May 2025 12:08PM UTC

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PinkPantherInHiding on Chapter 9 Thu 19 Jun 2025 06:32PM UTC

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PinkPantherInHiding on Chapter 14 Fri 08 Aug 2025 02:28AM UTC

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ThatManRunAfterU on Chapter 14 Fri 08 Aug 2025 03:05AM UTC

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gilded_groove on Chapter 14 Mon 01 Sep 2025 02:17AM UTC

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