hi I've never really requested/asked something like this before so I'm sorry if this is incredibly awkward LOL
my bad if you've written something similar before, idk I haven't read too much of your stuff... but what if... autobot character finding out their lover, who they thought was also an autobot, was actually a decepticon spy who got REALLY into their role... it would be cool with anyone, but maybe bee or ratchet...? ok that's all thank u for reading ^_^
Sure! I hope this hurts (・∀・)/~♡
"So much for my happy ending" GN BOT Reader x Bumblebee, Ratchet [TFP]
⦉Summary ❥ ⦊ The conversation with the Decepticons on the soon to be battlefield turns when one points out rather casually- that you were actually a Decepticon the entire time.
⦉Genre/theme 𖥔 ⦊ Angst
⦉Warnings ✘➥ ⦊ Emotional break downs, betrayal, You fuck up on godly levels of fucking up.
⦉Pronouns ★ ⦊ You, Your, Yours
⦉Notes ✚ ⦊ Yes this is titled after the Avril Lavigne song, cybertrionian reader, Long time double agent reader
There's a delayed reaction in Bumblebee. Because how- how could they even say that you were a Decepticon!? Do they think they'd just believe that? That he'd believe that? There's a warbling call from him. At the insanity of it- the audacity of it! Like they'd believe that. Bumblebee thought they would at least have some practice at deceit as Decepticons. But they really just decided to pick the craziest option for throwing them off their form.
"Do you believe-" Bumblebeegoes to ask if you could even believe the thing they were trying to sell them. What they were saying you were. To maybe crack a smart aft comment about it too. Glancing at you to share what he'd expect would be a baffled look with him. Over the shared disbelief.
But you're not looking at him.
You're not looking at any of them.
He cuts himself off and he looks.
Really looks at you.
Because you looked...
Off.
You're looking off to the distance, but Bumblebee can see your expression. Your optic ridge worried, a slight scrunch to your look, and a grave air about it all.
Your optics flick- they find his.
And Bumblebee doesn't really get what he sees there.
It didn't make sense- considering the context. It was just an absurd ploy (an insane one!). Bumblebee was expecting the same reaction as him to hearing the baffling play at distraction. For you to give him the same look he’d been in the process of giving you.
Of disbelief and surprise that they'd try that of all things to say.
Furrowed optic ridge and almost some hint of amusement to it all. As if that would even do anything but make them scoff.
So why did you look... grim?
You look away one more time- your optics shuttering closed, and your optic ridge ends up worrying.
You looked-
Bumblebee ends up finally placing the look on your faceplate and his door wings twitch.
A short clipped sound catches in his buzzing vocalizor. It still hums in the back of his own throat despite the fact it wasn't audible anymore. He swallows it down and it goes down his intake harsh. It's a sour taste. The residue it leaves behind almost gives him the urge to pull back his mouth guard- just to spit the oral lubricant in his mouth out. Like it would stop the almost sickening feeling settling in his core.
Because you were ashamed- apologetic.
But that can't- that can’t be what's actually happening right now. It just can't.
Because that couldn't be true.
It wasn't.
He wants to, say... something- anything! Butit feels like his already faulty vocalizor is glitching on him suddenly. He swallows down the oral lubricant- an aching flavor burning his mouth and his core from the inside out.
But Bumblebee forces himself to try to work through the malfunction.
He says your designation- hums it. He flinches at the sound of it coming. It clips and it has a touch of static even hanging onto the edge of it. More poison pools In his mouth when he's realizing just how much he hates saying your designation like that. Saying it should be warm- soft. And affectionate.
Saying your designation should feel like a buzzing fuzz in his spark. Because everything he felt for you would just sometimes slip out of him with a sincerity that almost even embarrassed himself. Only making his spark hum a little louder than it originally had been. Before he'd reminded himself of how much he actually loved. Leaving those warm static fits to play with his struts from the inside out.
But he didn’t feel that right now.
He's scared.
You stand tall.
You face him again.
Your expression still devastating.
"It's true."
Everything stops.
His thoughts, the fear in him, the fight around you both.
It's just you and him standing there suddenly.
So Bumblebee looks. He stares.
His optics readjust- to use the more advanced parts in his visual feed to look at you. At what was in front of him- you.
His glossia is sitting in his unused mouth like asphalt and it threatens to slip down his throat in one suffocating slide. He chokes anyway. On nothing. On his actual vocalizor trying to kick on instinctively. To use it. To physically ask you to tell him you were lying. (Like it wouldn't make it true. Like you weren't ripping his spark out right now). His broken vocalizor clicks and he tries- without full thought. Still reeling. There's a spit of warbled static followed by a click and a rough grind. Agony sears in his throat and in his mouth from the botched attempt- at what he knew would hurt. What he knew wouldn't work- (for what he knew wasn't true.)
He aborts a grinding cough the pain wants to bring out. Knowing it'll hurt even more to try to use his faulty equipment. When you turned and followed after the leaving Decepticons.
Bumblebee is rooted in his place. He can't move his pedes. To rush over like he knows he needs to. To chase after you and grab onto you. Make you stay and tell him everything.
To tell him that's not true-
To tell him you were joking.
To tell him you were sorry.
To tell him it's not true-!
To grab onto your metal and not let go no matter what.
For you to tell him you loved him.
But he doesn't do any of it.
You don't do any of it.
Cold drenched his internals and he's stuck frozen on the spot.
It feels like he's been run over by a shuttle when a bot grabbed onto him and promptly picked him up. Pressed against green plates- he thinks he hears Ratchet for a moment. Just the moment- before it fully begins to hit him. That you were gone. That you left.
That you were a Decepticon.
That it might not have been true to begin with.
That you and him were nothing but an assignment.
That you might have never loved him to begin with.
He feels like his plates are gonna fall off of his frame in a painful but inevitable collapse. The damage severe enough, no medical care would fix his already botched frame ever again.
Because this couldn't be happening!
This was just a bad recharge reflux-!
Once he registers the color of the base Bumblebee shoves Bulkhead away from him, and rips himself away from a concerned em field. He stumbles and just dropped to his knees right there. Frame hunching over himself. Shaking when he brings his servos up to look down at.
It makes him feel like he might purge.
A drop of liquid hits the floor right underneath himself. Before more fall alongside it.
His faceplate is wet. He doesn't realize he's leaking coolant from his optics till the fat drops start speckling his palms.
White and orange are trying desperately to get his focus but he just- can't.
Bumblebee chokes back a sob- pain splitting through his throat again when he does. When his broken pipes sting with no sign of mercy in sight.
It still isn't nearly as agonizing as the hollow ache in his chassis. Every hiccup and broken noise trying and failing to form properly only makes both pains more overwhelming.
Ratchet's em field pressing reassurance against his frame only serves to make Bumblebee cry harder.
Because it wasn't yours that was holding him right now.
It's so absurd of an idea that Ratchet actually almost barked a laugh in surprise. At the absurdity of the claim. The notion. The sheer gall to even make the claim to begin with. He has to even resist the urge to roll his optics and respond with "Please-! Like we'd believe that." Because this was a serious situation. Regardless of the failed comedy routine that's suddenly been attempted.
But it does goes quiet. Because everyone still glances at you instinctively at your designation and the frankly ludicrous claim.
And you freeze.
You look at the Decepticons- then you look at him.
Really look at him.
And his processor stalls when he quickly registers the look in your optics.
(One he’s seen staring back at him too many times from his own reflection)
...
Guilt.
You were guilty.
As soon as he comprehends that he feels rather sick.
There's a sinking feeling that hits his chassis and it's coupled together with disbelief.
"You-" No. No. No. No-! Thats not- that's not possible- it's not true. It's not true!
You look away from him and Ratchet feels apart of himself go with it.
He moves and he pushes between Bulkhead and even hits Optimus's servo away from himself. Once he's almost at what he would consider close to you he stops. Just left standing only a couple pedes away from you. His pedes are rooted on the spot.
Because he suddenly can't bring himself to get any closer.
But he's still almost frantic because- because-! That can't be true! There's no possible reality were that's actually true! That's ludicrous-! Insane!
Ratchet says your designation and his servos clench in open air in front of himself struggling to even find what to say.
To beg.
He almost wants to beg. Beg you. To tell him it's not true.
That that look you'd just given him was nothing- that it had absolutely nothing do to with what they'd just said. (You were devastated for a moment before you'd looked away- for a fraction of a micro moment. He saw it.)
(He knows it.)
Ratchet forces himself to take another step closer to you, a hushed and struggled small whisper of the word "Darling-" slips out of his derma. He wants to grab your faceplate between his servos and make you look at him.
To have you tell him that's not true-! That he was worrying (crumbling) over nothing-! For you to smile and tell him he always worries too much for his own good like you always do.
To tease him while you step closer to invade his space. Servos that he knows almost as well as his own finding their place underneath his jaw. For you to try and manually smooth out the tension there.
To tell him everything would be alright and if it wasn't you would figure it out.
And the world freezes when you simultaneously take a step backwards the same time he took that single step forward.
Ratchet stops. Freezes in place along with.
You're a few pedes away from one another physically.
But when you look back up at him it abruptly feels as if there's a universe of distance between you and him.
"It's true." Ratchet watches you mouth those words.
...
And it feels like he suddenly isn't there. That he's not physically there- nor is his processor. He feels like a blur- a smear. An afterthought hastily shuffled out of existence. A mistake that was the result of faulty handling- causing a deep mark on what was once a pristine project.
You stare at one another for what feels like an eternity.
He almost assumes he died in the middle of the words. Because he’s stuck there. Still comprehending what had just happened. What was happening-! What you said- What that meant-! What that look in your optics spelled promise for. Promises that are anything but kind- let alone merciful. He’s still- as if he actually were nothing more than a mindless machine and never had been anything more.
It feels like a dawning nightmare when it even takes you breaking optic contact for a sharp ping to bolt through his chassis.
Before you turn and then dart for the retreating Decpticons- and you follow after… Taking his spark along with.
He lately registers blaster fire that had been flying when he turns to follow your frame with his optics.
Red and blue is in his peripheral vision- familiar em field grasping onto him firm.
It makes Ratchet fully flinch and his denta grit together painfully tight.
He shoves his faceplate into his servo. Over his optics- they burn from the excessive heat behind them.
He still can't fully hear the blaster fire around him correctly. His frame not processing it like it should. Muffled. White noise rearing it's incessant existence. Ringing in his audials.
His derma press together tight. Otherwise Ratchet will make a sound to accompany the desolation occurring inside himself. And Ratchet doesn't know if he'll be able to pick up the pieces that will shatter inside him and will accompany it right here in the battlefield if it slips out now.
A buried cry of anguish.
There's a servo on his frame and he knows who it is when the em field rolls over him again. Familiar. Strong. Solid. He's moved- his frame obeys the direction he's being dragged in.
He only realizes they're in the base when the sudden silence is somehow deafening compared to the active battle zone.
It's not a merciful thing. The quiet itself hems and stabs directly between his plates and hums sharply against his spark. Spark that's already quivering in its chamber. The subsequent stab the unrelenting silence brings, has him half believe his spark went and lost a frequency then and there.
But no matter how many shuttering tight shifts of his plates are made, there is no sudden complete spark failure to take him.
No comfort even in a sudden and easy death.
Ratchet simply made to endure.
Forced to.
No solace in oblivion.
He vents and still doesn't remove his servo from his upper face. His optics are fizzing when his processor starts running itself fit to risk a shortage, with how much activity was behind it.
A frame bigger than his own now hovers even closer to him. Red and blue. Servos both on his frame now holding Ratchet up- holding him. Em field pulsing and rolling against his frame. The only thing keeping him together and preventing him from shouting- screaming.
Wailing.
He squeezes his free servo tightly into a fist against his own chassis. His plating quivers audibly against the tension wounding in himself.
Raw wound still leaving him reeling and struggling to even still accept the facts as actual truth.
Because if he accepts it then he has to face it fully and utterly- he'll have to face you again.
Despite everything.
Red and blue was solely the only thing keeping him from breaking entirely from the gaping gash in his chassis you'd left in your wake. Tearing his spark out and leaving Ratchet just as easily as you'd harmed him.
Ratchet wants to feel disgusted with himself when he feels despair curl in his spark- When he overhears Arcee murmuring in hushed rage to Bulkhead, How she was going to kill you.
He can't feel worry for you- he cannot be worried for you! To fear you losing your life. He- what would he even mourn-?! If everything you had together was- fake?!
... Who would he even mourn?
If who he thought he'd known better than himself never even existed in the first place..?
RB from source Support divider credit: @/cursed-carmine,
