fanni-chan۶ৎ

Hey there! Thanks for asking :]

Here are a few quick rules before you send in a request:

✨ What I Share:

You’ll mostly find content here related to Transformers (especially Earthspark, Animated, and Prime)!

📝 Requests Are Open!

You’re welcome to ask for anything—headcanons, drabbles, reactions, fluff, angst, etc. I love exploring different ideas and character dynamics!

🚫 Please DON’T Request Anything That Involves:

• NSFW or sexually explicit content

• Pedophilia or age-inappropriate ships

• Homophobia, transphobia, racism, or any form of hate

• Incest or anything just plain harmful/weird

requested?: no

The medbay had been quiet for hours.

Silent, save for the hum of idle monitors and the rhythmic pulse of generators thrumming beneath the floor. Somewhere deep in the ship, a power core shifted and sighed, stirring the silence like a breath in the dark.

Ratchet sat alone.

His optics were dim, not quite off, but faint enough to make the room blur around the edges. He didn’t need clarity. Not tonight.

He was tired.

Not the kind of tired that recharges could mend—not even close. This was the kind of tired that seeped into your metal. Into your seams. Into the hollow where laughter used to live.

In his hands, he held a plushie.

It was small. Ragged around the edges. The stitching was uneven in places—especially on the right ear, which curled a little too far inward, like someone had yanked it while they were giggling too hard to notice.

It was handmade.

Human-sized. Meant to be held in palms much smaller than his own. The fabric had once been a warm red, stitched with soft yellow thread that spelled out crooked little letters: "RATCHET’S #1!"

Its stomach had a button.

He pressed it.

"I love you!" it chirped.

The voice was tinny, muffled by age and overuse. It crackled faintly at the end like it had once been dropped—because it had. Dropped, laughed over, kissed on the head and given a bandaid. That was how you were. Everything got a bandaid and a stupid name and a warm smile, even if it had a wire poking out of its stuffing.

Even if it was him.

Ratchet closed his optics.

"I love you!" the plushie said again. Its voice echoed in the hollow of the medbay.

He didn’t cry.

He never cried.

Not even when the alarms went off. Not even when they couldn’t find your signal. Not even when he’d stood in the middle of a crater with your name on his lips and nothing in his arms but a melted scrap of the device he built for you to call him.

Not even then.

But this.

This little stuffed fragging nightmare of seams and glue and human love—this he kept.

"Y’know," you'd said once, flopping onto a bench and holding up a half-finished plushie with pride, "if you squint, it kinda looks like you."

Ratchet gave it a flat look. "I don’t squint. My optics are fully functional."

"Not the point, Doc."

"Then what is the point?"

You shrugged and pressed a button on the prototype’s stomach.

Nothing happened.

Ratchet stared.

You winced. "...Okay, that one was supposed to say ‘I love you,’ but the voice chip’s a little finicky—"

The moment you said it, you froze.

You hadn’t meant to say it like that. Like a confession. Like a slip.

But Ratchet only looked at you—long and slow—and set the wrench in his hands aside.

"Test it again," he said.

You blinked. "What?"

"The voice chip. Try again."

You hesitated. Then pressed it.

It buzzed faintly, then fizzled.

You looked up.

Ratchet raised a brow. "Well, you certainly can’t give me a malfunctioning gift."

"...So you want it?"

"Don’t be absurd." He turned away—but his hand ghosted toward the table, and the unfinished plushie sitting beside your sketchbook. "I’m simply suggesting it wouldn’t be logical to present a broken device to your superior officer."

You smiled, slow and fond. "Right. Of course."

You didn’t say what you were thinking. That maybe he wasn’t just your superior officer anymore. That maybe you liked when he grumbled under his breath but still moved the medbay interface down so you could reach it. That maybe, when you caught him asleep at his terminal, hand curled beside your gift like it was something precious, your heart did things it wasn’t supposed to do.

You didn’t say it.

You didn’t have to.

He kept the plushie anyway.

Even when it broke again. Even when your voice got fuzzier. Even when you left the base without your comm for the last time and never made it back.

He kept it.

Back in the present, Ratchet sat in silence.

His thumb moved across the plushie’s side, worn smooth with habit. He should have thrown it out. He told himself that every day. It was childish. Sentimental. Soft.

But when the Nemesis powered up one deck above him and the tremor made the lights flicker—he pressed it.

"I love you!"

He breathed in static.

"…Stupid little scrapheap."

He set it gently on the desk beside him, its button facing up.

He worked for a while. Or tried to.

But eventually, his hands began to shake.

He caught them with a hiss of frustration and buried them in his lap.

"Frag," he muttered.

A long pause.

Then—quietly, without looking—he reached for the plushie again. Not to press the button this time. Just to hold it.

He closed his optics.

Just for a moment.

Just long enough to pretend the medbay wasn’t so empty.

Just long enough to feel the ghost of your warmth again.

In the far corner of the desk, a note was tucked between two datapads. Its edges were crinkled. Ink faded in places where oil had smeared across the page.

Ratchet never read it anymore.

He didn’t need to.

He remembered every word.

Doc, This plush is technically version 4, but you don’t need to know that. Don’t open it, the inside’s kind of a mess. (Not like, emotionally. Just, wires and sewing crimes.) Anyway, I hope it makes you smile at least once. I know you don’t do that a lot. You don’t have to say anything. You never do. Just—remember you’re allowed to be loved. Even if it’s by something small and soft and ridiculous. …Even if it’s by me. —Yours, always.

Sometimes—late at night, when the medbay was still and the war didn’t feel quite so close—Ratchet would press the button one more time.

Just to hear you say it.

Just to know that, once, you did.

And maybe, in the quiet that followed, he’d whisper it back.

Just once.

your drabbles are AMAZING. the style, the way you describe the settings, the overall energy, omg its just 🤌🏻 chefs kiss. you’re so talented. please keep up the great work at your own healthy pace, I love it dearly!!

if you’d like to take a request, how bout something with Knock Out?

if he were to ever “adopt” a human (fem, gn, I don’t mind), I’ve always imagined him acting super nonchalant and almost passive about them. a little rude, even. but the truth is that after losing Breakdown, he’s got raging thanatophobia and worries constantly about other decepticons or vehicons harming them in some way, or any sort of harm coming to them at all. he tries to be chill about his anxiety over them, especially around other ‘cons. regardless, he’d probably shred anything to make sure he doesn’t lose the one he loves again. (not yandere, just secretly anxious af)

I hope this isn’t too much! and I hope you’re well. please take care of yourself and drink some water if you haven’t, ily. 💖

— 🍓

Shiny Things Break Easy

requested?: yes!

“You don’t need to hover, you know.”

You didn’t even have to look up from your seat on the cold medbay slab to know he was watching. Again. Like always. Silently. Looming just out of view, like a red shadow that smelled faintly of engine grease and expensive polish.

Knock Out scoffed from behind you. “Hovering? I don’t hover. I observe. That’s what medical officers do.”

“You’re pacing.”

“I’m inspecting. And your posture’s terrible.”

“Nice deflection.”

He muttered something under his vents and clicked away to pretend like he wasn’t standing between you and the nearest exit—again. Not that you were trying to leave. You were only adjusting your hoodie. But the moment you so much as twitched toward the corridor, he’d shifted, like a wall of cherry-red paint and controlled panic.

You sighed. “I was just cold.”

“You’re always cold,” he shot back, waving a hand like it was your fault the Nemesis ran its climate control like a morgue. “Humans and their delicate thermoregulation. I’ve seen stasis-locked Vehicons with more resilience.”

And yet, before you could respond, a neatly folded thermal blanket—Decepticon-issue, dyed black with the faint scent of ozone—was dropped at your side.

You blinked at it. “…Thanks?”

“Don’t make it a thing,” he said, too quickly. “It was laying around. Ugly as sin, but functional.”

You smiled softly, pulling it over your shoulders. It was still warm from wherever he’d tucked it away. Probably his own quarters. You didn’t say it. You didn’t need to.

Knock Out hated moments like these.

Moments where you caught him caring.

Moments where it was all too obvious—how tightly his fear had twisted itself around his spark. How tightly he had wrapped himself around you.

Because the truth was: you were supposed to be a novelty.

A curiosity.

Something to distract him from the yawning silence Breakdown left behind.

He hadn’t meant to grow fond of you. He hadn’t meant to start recognizing your heartbeat in a room full of noise. Or learning the temperature you preferred your tea. Or modifying half the medbay interface so you could actually reach the cabinets without stacking three crates.

He hadn’t meant to care.

But then came the bruises. The scrape on your cheek. The shaky breath you’d taken after a close call with a rogue Vehicon who hadn’t recognized you as “protected.” It hadn’t even touched you—just shoved you out of the way.

But the scream Knock Out had let loose had echoed through the ship like a banshee on fire.

No one had dared so much as look at you wrong since.

You’d told him it was an overreaction.

He’d told you to file a complaint.

But the truth he’d never speak—not even if Starscream jammed a data probe straight into his cortex—was simple:

You were the last thing he could lose.

And Primus help the next scrapheap who tried to take you from him.

—

Later that night, you wandered into the medbay again, sleepy-eyed and hoodie-clad, dragging the black blanket like a cape behind you. You found him standing in front of his console, pretending to read diagnostics.

You leaned against the counter, watching him.

He didn’t look up. “What is it?”

“I had a weird dream.”

“Oh, joy. Let me get the dream journal.” But his tone wasn’t sharp. Just… tired.

“It was about you.”

At that, he glanced at you, optics narrowing with faint interest. “You dreamed of me? Try to contain your swooning.”

You rolled your eyes. “You died.”

The humor drained from his face.

The silence that followed was absolute.

You regretted saying it. You hadn’t meant to sting him. It was just the truth. You’d jolted awake with tears in your eyes, hands gripping the blanket like it might anchor you back to reality. Knock Out hadn’t even been in the room, and yet—your first instinct had been to find him.

To check. To be sure.

“…And what?” he said finally. “You came to see if I’d vanished into the ether?”

“I came to see if you were okay.”

He looked at you then.

Really looked.

You were tired. Human. Ridiculously fragile. Your pulse beat beneath skin so thin it still terrified him sometimes. You weren’t metal. You weren’t a soldier. You couldn’t fight or fly or survive an Energon blast. You tripped on staircases and you bruised like berries and you cared so recklessly for someone who should not be cared for.

And that—was the problem.

Because deep down, he knew you were never built for war.

And neither was he—not anymore.

“…Don’t die,” you whispered.

And that—undid him.

He reached out, slowly. Gently. The edge of one finger brushed your hand.

“Not planning on it,” he said.

And that night, for the first time, Knock Out let you fall asleep on the medbay berth with his shadow curled around you like armor. He didn’t move. Didn’t power down.

He just sat there.

Watching.

Listening.

Protecting.

Because shiny things break easy.

And he’d already lost one.

He wouldn’t lose you too.

requested?: no

The forest had long since reclaimed the forgotten outskirts of the world.

A century ago, it may have been a battlefield. A thousand years past, perhaps a thriving village. But now it was only moss, mist, and the hum of wind weaving through half-dead pine needles. Time had smoothed over whatever pain had once been etched into the soil. It was a quiet place now. Peaceful. Undisturbed.

Until he came.

The forest groaned beneath each of his heavy steps. Birds fled their branches. Trees trembled in their roots. But the warlord did not walk with wrath.

He walked like a man haunted by ghosts.

His name was Megatron.

He no longer roared it to the stars. No longer demanded planets kneel beneath it. No longer etched it into the steel bones of enemies. Now, he wore it like a rusted shackle around his spark. A name once meant to inspire, now only a reminder.

Of her.

Of you.

He hadn’t meant to come here. His coordinates had drifted off-course. Perhaps even his processor had allowed the corruption of nostalgia to take the controls for once. But somehow, he was here, in this forgotten stretch of Earth, where twilight stained the sky mauve and the air was heavy with the scent of pine.

He stopped at a clearing.

The wind shifted.

And there you were.

You were not metal. You were not plated with steel, not powered by Energon, not built by any forge of Cybertron. You were flesh. Human. Soft. Fragile. Wearing a loose, earth-toned sweater and boots caked with forest mud. You held a worn book in your hands, its spine splitting from love. Your hair fell like quiet silk, dancing with the breeze.

You looked up.

And your eyes met his.

For a moment, time collapsed.

And Megatron’s war-ravaged spark almost stopped.

He remembered your gaze. That exact color. That exact shape. That same soul-deep stillness that used to silence even his worst tempers. It was your voice that had once steadied Megatronus, the revolutionary. It was your lips that had whispered hope into the dark corners of his forge. It was your hand he had held as the sky fell in fire.

But you were dead.

He had held your dying frame in his arms as the citadel burned around you.

He had cried out—a sound so terrible the stars turned away from it—as your optics dimmed and your servo fell limp against his cheek.

He had never forgiven himself.

Not for the war.

Not for the world.

And not for you.

And yet—

There you stood.

Flesh. Blood. Breathing.

And smiling, politely. As if he were a stranger.

"Hello," you said, your voice a musical echo of a memory long gone. "I didn’t know anyone else hiked this far out."

The warlord did not speak.

Could not speak.

"Are you... alright?" you asked, brow furrowing as you took a cautious step closer.

Megatron flinched.

Not visibly. Not in a way you would see. But somewhere deep in the architecture of him—something ancient stirred. Something scarred. Something that had screamed across solar systems for you. For this. For a moment that was never meant to come again.

"You look like you’ve seen a ghost," you said, gently. Still smiling. Still unaware of the wildfire you had just set ablaze in a war machine's chest.

He stared at you.

Your voice was not synthesized like hers had been. Your pulse beat like a drum he could hear if he focused enough. Your scent was organic, warm, touched with lilac and rain.

You were human.

You were not her.

And yet—

"You... remind me of someone," he said finally, his voice a low thundercloud breaking after centuries of silence.

You tilted your head. "I get that a lot. Déjà vu’s a weird thing, isn’t it?"

He didn’t answer.

"Did you lose them?" you asked after a beat. "The person I remind you of?"

"I destroyed them," he said.

The silence that followed was immense.

But you didn’t recoil.

Instead, you sat down on a nearby stone and gestured for him to join you. A foolish gesture—he would crush the boulder beneath him. But the offer was kind. Familiar.

You didn’t know what he was. Not yet. You didn’t recognize him as Megatron, scourge of galaxies, butcher of worlds. To you, he was just a lone man in the woods. Lost in a memory.

"I’m sorry," you said, voice as gentle as moss. "Loss never really leaves us, does it?"

"No," he rumbled. "It doesn’t."

You smiled again, and opened your book.

And then—without understanding the storm you were conjuring in his ancient spark—you asked: "Do you believe in reincarnation?"

His optics narrowed.

"I..." he hesitated. "I do not know what I believe anymore."

"I used to think it was a bunch of nonsense," you said, flipping a page. "But lately I’ve been having these dreams. Not normal dreams. More like... lives. I wake up crying sometimes, and I don’t even know why."

Megatron’s vents stuttered.

You didn’t see it.

"She always dies in the end," you said, a little laugh to hide the sting. "In the dream, I mean. There’s fire, and screaming, and this huge explosion—"

He stood suddenly.

You blinked. "Oh. Sorry. Did I say something wrong?"

His shadow fell over you like a cathedral.

"You should not be here," he said, voice barely held together.

You frowned. "Why?"

"Because you are not her."

"I didn’t say I was."

"And yet—"

He turned away.

"I buried her with my own hands," he said, so quietly you nearly didn’t hear. "I have torn apart moons in her name. I have carved vengeance across galaxies. And yet... here you are. Wearing her smile. Wielding her voice. A cruel joke of the cosmos."

Your lips parted. But you said nothing.

He did not expect you to.

He began to walk away.

But then—quietly, tentatively—you asked:

"Would she want that?"

He paused.

"All that... vengeance?"

A thousand memories surged behind his optics. Her laughter in the forge. Her hand curled against his chestplate. Her last words, too soft to hear over the roar of falling rubble.

"No," he whispered.

"Then maybe... let her rest," you said.

And then:

"Or at least—let her live through me."

That stopped him cold.

He turned.

You stood again, book still clutched in your hands, eyes wide and wet with something unspoken.

"You’re not the only one who remembers," you said. "I don’t know how. Or why. Or even if it’s real. But sometimes when I’m alone, I hum a song I’ve never learned. And it feels like it was meant for someone else."

Megatron stared.

"Sometimes... I think of hands made of silver. And a voice like thunder. And someone calling me—"

He crossed the distance between you in a breath.

You gasped.

His massive frame loomed over you, shadows and fury barely contained. And yet, he did not touch you.

"Say it," he said.

"Calling me... starlight," you whispered.

His spark nearly shattered.

That had been his name for you.

Not even Soundwave had known it.

Only you.

And now—this human child spoke it with tears in her eyes and a stranger’s face.

He knelt.

The ground shook.

Your breath hitched.

"I do not know what you are," he murmured. "A trick. A curse. A miracle. But if you are her—if even a piece of you has returned to this world..."

He raised his optics to meet yours.

"Then I will not fail you again."

You reached out.

Hesitant.

But he did not flinch.

This time, he let you touch his cheek.

Warm skin against cold steel.

"Then stay," you whispered.

requested?: no

You always loved the rain.

There was something almost musical about the way it tapped against the old windows of your apartment. A rhythm the city never quite matched. Everything slowed down when it rained—like the entire world hit pause, and you were the only one still awake inside it.

You were curled up on your wide windowsill, wrapped in a fuzzy hoodie, your feet bare and resting against the cool wood as you read. The book had gone untouched for the last five minutes, though—your eyes skimmed the same paragraph three times.

Something in the air had changed.

A low thrum.

You knew it before you heard it. That engine. That purr. Not the loud brash rev of some street racer, but a warm, low, familiar rumble—like it was clearing its throat in a whisper just for you.

Your heart stuttered.

You peeked through the glass, breath fogging a tiny patch, and there it was.

A flash of yellow in the alleyway across the street.

A Chevrolet Camaro, unmistakable in shape and soul, sitting half-in shadow, headlights flicking once like a wink. The engine cut.

And then came his sound.

That soft, bright little series of beeps and warbles—like laughter, like joy—just barely audible under the patter of rain.

“Bumblebee,” you whispered, smile blooming instantly.

You were up in a heartbeat, your book forgotten on the sill, as you bolted across your creaky apartment and unlatched the window that led to your fire escape. It squealed a little in protest as you pushed it open, letting in a gust of wet air and the gentle scent of ozone.

The rain was steady, not heavy, but just enough to kiss your skin as you stepped out barefoot onto the metal grates. It clinked softly on the rusting rails, on your hair, your hoodie sleeves. You leaned out to see him better—

And there he was.

No longer in car form.

Now standing tall, sleek, sixteen feet of Cybertronian rain-soaked glory, with his servos loosely at his sides, optics glowing that soft, electric blue you could spot in a crowd of millions.

He was looking straight up at you, helm tilted slightly, wings twitching just a little in excitement.

“Bee!” you called, laughing as you leaned your arms over the railing. “You’re gonna short-circuit standing in the rain like that!”

He chirped, head tilting the other way, as if to say So what? You’re out here too.

Another series of happy beeps followed, softer now, a little shy.

You knew that tone.

You leaned further over the railing, mock-squinting. “Wait a sec… Is that why you’re here?”

Bumblebee’s optics flickered.

One arm raised—slow, careful, the gentle grace of someone who had learned how to move in a fragile world—and his servo hovered just beneath your level. Open. Waiting.

You froze for a second, heart kicking into overdrive.

“Bee…” you whispered. “You… you want me to come down?”

He chirped again. Higher-pitched this time. More excited. A soft whirl in his engine underlined it, like a purr.

You didn’t even hesitate after that.

You slipped over the edge of the fire escape railing and dropped gently down into his waiting palm. Your feet hit the warm metal of his servo with a soft thud, and his fingers closed slightly in a loose cradle.

The second you were secure, he lifted you—slow and steady, careful as always—and brought you up to his helm.

And Primus, the look in his optics…

He was glowing.

Like he hadn’t seen you in weeks.

Like just the sight of you had rebooted something in his spark.

Rain dripped from his armor in glistening trails, making him shine under the city lights, and you were close enough now to see every little detail—tiny scratches on his cheek plating, a faint scorch mark near one vent. Real. Tangible. Yours.

“You dork,” you murmured, reaching up with one hand to brush some water off his faceplates. “You came all the way out here for kisses, didn’t you?”

He let out a series of beeps—offended, dramatic, and flustered all in one.

You burst out laughing, throwing your head back, the rain dancing down your cheeks. “Okay, okay! Not just for kisses.”

A low chirp. A soft whirl like static breath. One that translated clearly even without words: But mostly.

Your hand was still on his cheek, and his plating leaned into it ever so slightly, like he didn’t want to lose the warmth. He was so huge—all strength and steel and alien complexity—but right now, in this moment, he was soft. Gentle. Open.

“Do you have any idea how cute you are?” you murmured, pressing your forehead lightly to the place just under his optics.

A long, low hum vibrated beneath you. Happy.

You leaned up on your toes. As if it would help. As if that would get you closer to him, somehow, in a world where seventeen feet of height difference still meant nothing compared to the distance you'd already crossed to love each other.

And then, with that tiny, breathless giggle in your throat, you pressed your lips to the metal just above his mouthguard—soft and slow and warm despite the rain.

A kiss.

He beeped. Exploded into a flurry of chirps and whirls and happy static that buzzed in your ribs like a second heartbeat.

“Yeah, yeah,” you teased, giving him another. “You earned it.”

The rain kept falling around you both, like the sky was applauding with tiny wet hands, and Bumblebee cradled you closer, curling his other servo gently behind your back as a shield from the wind.

You didn’t care about getting soaked.

You didn’t care about the city.

Right now, it was just the two of you.

Him, with his soft lights and hopeful engine sounds. You, with your fingers curled into seams in his faceplates like you belonged there.

Which, of course—you did.

Because he chose you. Time and time again. You were his safe place. His person.

And when he leaned his helm forward, gently tapping it against your forehead in that soft, unspoken Cybertronian gesture of affection, you felt the full weight of it—

I love you.

Without words. Without a voice.

But never without meaning.

You smiled, eyes shining even through the rain.

The Moment I Saw the Smoke

Coming soon...

Rain on Metal, Rain on Skin

Coming soon...

Coming soon...

Where or When

Shiny Things Break Easy

Coming soon...

requested?: no

The sound of the Ground Bridge opening was supposed to be a relief.

A sign that the team had made it back safe. Another mission, another successful return. No casualties. No alarms. No last-minute comms cutting out mid-scream.

You were already prepping the medbay—just a routine sweep. A few energon scrapes, a dent or two. Maybe Bumblebee would come in grumbling and chirping about needing a cube and a recharge. Arcee with her usual tough-it-out ‘I’m fine’ energy while bleeding from somewhere. Bulkhead apologizing for sitting on something expensive again.

But it wasn’t the usual sounds you heard.

There was a tension. A beat of silence that followed the sound of the bridge shutting. The heavy thump of metal pedes hitting the base floor, but slower. Measured.

You paused mid-scan of a med-instrument. Something—it was like your spark jolted. Prickled.

And then you felt him.

“Optimus?” you called, already moving.

Ratchet looked up from his own terminal as the door whooshed open, but you were already out of the medbay, moving faster than you meant to. Your systems surged with static.

It wasn’t like you hadn’t felt it before—this pull, this thread of your sparks tied together—but when it twanged like that?

You knew something was wrong.

And Primus, when you saw him—

He was standing there, just inside the base hangar, massive frame still and squared like he didn’t want to draw attention to himself. Bumblebee was talking, fast and high-pitched, gesturing in a way that clearly meant something had gone wrong. Arcee had that coiled-anger look, like she’d punch a satellite out of orbit if it looked at her wrong. Bulkhead had a hand behind his helm, sheepish.

But you didn’t care about any of them.

Because Optimus Prime—your bondmate, your leader, your impossible, selfless mech—was hiding an energon leak.

“Why are you—why—why didn’t you say something?!”

You bolted, engines revving with a screeching whir. The others stepped aside instinctively, like they’d seen this movie before. Optimus barely turned his helm before you were there, servos skimming over his arm, over his—

The blast wound was on his shoulderplate. A clean shot. Too clean. The outer plating had blackened, crumpled inward in a molten spiral. Energon was seeping sluggishly down his upper arm, glinting in tiny streams against the red of his armor.

His frame shifted, like he was trying to pivot away from you.

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

He met your optics—those impossibly gentle, ancient pools of quiet strength—and his voice, low and soft, came out as if he were the one soothing you.

“I am fine.”

Oh.

Oh no, you don’t.

“Fine?” Your voice cracked. “You are leaking. You were shot. You—you—!”

Your digits were already glowing, scanning over the shoulder. “Don’t move. Don’t dare move. Primus, you stubborn, heroic, illogical glitch of a mech—!”

His optics flickered in something that could have been apology. Could have been affection. Could have been resignation. He always took injuries like they were just another day at the office. Another necessary sacrifice.

You could feel the bond humming now, full of worry—not his own, but yours. He was trying to suppress it. You could sense the shielding, the way he kept his own pain minimal in the bond just so you wouldn’t spiral.

That only made you spiral more.

“You shielded it,” you hissed. “You masked it from me. What if you’d collapsed before I noticed? What if I couldn’t feel it through the bond at all?”

“I could not risk you panicking during an active skirmish,” he said, calm as ever.

You looked up at him, wide-eyed. “You don’t get to make that call.”

Silence.

“Come with me. Now. Medbay. Or I swear I will tether you to a berth with surgical wire.”

There was the tiniest twitch of his mouth. A faint smile. It wasn’t mocking. It was… adoring. And guilty.

“As you wish.”

You marched back toward the medbay like your pedes were on fire.

He followed without a word.

Once inside, Ratchet glanced up, took one look at Optimus’ shoulder, and immediately let out a growl of, “Of course he didn’t mention it.” He didn’t even look surprised. Just mildly, eternally annoyed.

“Your sparkmate’s going to murder you,” Ratchet muttered. “And I’ll help hide the body.”

Optimus, for once, didn’t argue. Just eased himself down onto the medberth with a barely perceptible wince.

You were already in motion, hands trembling slightly as you activated the disinfectant drone, sterilized the laser scalpel, and began cutting through the melted plating with a gentleness that bordered on reverent.

The room was quiet except for the low hum of med-tools.

Your vents were hitching. You hated that. You were supposed to be calm. You were the medic’s assistant, the soothing one, the one who always had the cube of energon ready and the right words when everyone else was too shell-shocked to speak.

But not when it was him.

Not when it was your Prime.

“Talk to me,” you whispered.

He tilted his helm.

“I am here,” he said.

“I mean really talk to me.” Your voice shook. “Tell me what happened.”

Optimus hesitated. “We encountered Decepticons. A scouting ambush. Bumblebee was pinned. I intervened.”

You worked in silence for a beat, then paused, optics meeting his again.

“You took a hit for him.”

“Yes.”

“Even though you didn’t have to.”

“I always will,” he said, simple as air.

You exhaled shakily, finishing the patch weld and replacing the outer panel. The energon leak was sealed now. But your hands wouldn’t stop trembling.

“I hate this,” you said suddenly.

He blinked.

“I hate that you keep doing this. I hate that you don’t tell me when you’re hurt. I hate that you think your pain is less important than everyone else’s.”

You turned, struts quivering, and finally broke.

“I can’t lose you.”

And that—that got him.

He sat up slowly. Reached out. Strong servos curling lightly around your trembling ones. The bond between you flickered open again, fully this time, and what you felt was a flood.

Warmth.

Guilt.

Love.

So much love it nearly stopped your spark.

“I am sorry,” he said, and those three words from him were sacred.

You collapsed into his arms before you could think. Let yourself press against his chassis, head resting right over the beat of his spark.

It pulsed strong beneath your cheek.

“I felt it,” you whispered. “Through the bond. It was like static, like fire. Like something cracked open in me.”

His servos stroked your back with infinite care. “I was not careful. And I should have told you. I know the cost now. I will not make that mistake again.”

Your vents hitched. “Promise?”

He leaned down, forehead gently touching yours.

“I promise.”

Later, long after Ratchet grumbled that “This is still a medbay, not a cuddle chamber,” and you shooed him out anyway, Optimus was still holding you.

Still quiet. Still strong.

“You scared me,” you murmured.

He nodded against your helm. “You scared me, too. The moment I saw your face. The fear in your optics.”

“I’m supposed to help you. Keep you going. What am I if I can’t even do that?”

“You are my sparkmate. And you do keep me going. In ways I could never repay.”

You closed your optics.

And there, surrounded by med-tools, the faint scent of sterilization fluid, and the warmth of the mech you loved more than anything in the galaxy, you finally let yourself breathe.

“I’m gonna weld a tracking beacon to your aft next time you go out.”

“I would not stop you.”

This might be my first time posting here, and I know it’s a bit off-topic—but I wanted to say something important.

Some of you might know Tech (@techhiz). She was my younger sister.

Yesterday, at 5:13 PM, she passed away after a battle with lung cancer. That’s why she hasn’t been active for a while.

We miss you so much, Emilia. You’ll always be my little sister.

Here, I share stuff like Transformers (mainly on Earthspark, Animated and Prime), Epic the Musical, b99, Helluva Boss/Hazbin Hotel, and so on.

My requests are available; you can ask me anything, just as long as it isn't about N$FW, pedophilia, homophobia/transphobia, and all that disgusting and weird stuff.

_________

A list of emojis(for anon askers)!:

🌸 — Cherry blossom anon

🍃 — Leafy anon

🌙 — Moon anon

🕊️ — Dove anon

🧸 — Teddy bear anon

✨ — Sparkle anon

🌷 — Tulip anon

☁️ — Cloud anon

🍥 — Swirl anon

🐚 — Shell anon

🐝 — Bee anon

🍯 — Honey anon

🕯️ — Candle anon

🌼 — Daisy anon

🧦 — Cozy sock anon

🧁 — Cupcake anon

🍓 — Strawberry anon

🦋 — Butterfly anon

🎀 — Ribbon anon

🐇 — Bunny anon

That's all for now! Fanni signing off! (also check on my wattpad- bruhfann)