#smokescreen x reader

• It shouldn’t be this hard. All he has to do is transform and go talk to you. Instead of stalking you. What’s the worst you can do? Say no? Well, pointing and laughing while you say no would probably be worse. Engine rumbling as he follows you, it’s a little disconcerting that you never look back. Don’t even seem to notice he’s there. But be guesses humans don’t really need to constantly be on alert for threats.

• Anxious because you know it’s one of them, you keep moving. Pretending nothing’s wrong. You’d caught a look out of the corner of your eye when you’d rounded a block and there’s no one driving. Definitely isn’t a Waymo, either. Maybe he’s just lost. Or bored. Know there are thousands of these guys still on Earth despite the world governments making it clear they’re not exactly welcome. You’re pretty sure the only countries not actively trying to kick them out are the ones that haven’t had cities leveled by their fighting.

• Just say hi. One word. Shifting on his tires, he transforms and your head turns at the sound. But you don’t look surprised. Mass shifting, he forces a smile and your expression is guarded. Wary. “Look, I already have a car, okay?” You blurt and his door wings lift in surprise. “I’m running because I like it, not because I don’t have a vehicle, so don’t try to follow me home like a stray puppy hoping to live in my garage.” Shutting his mouth when he realizes it’s open, his plating lifts and settles slightly in offense.

• Knows you weren’t flirting with Wheeljack. Knows it. But he can’t help but not like it when you’re laughing at something someone else said. Smiling at someone else. And how silly is that? It’s pathetic. Hates himself for it but he can’t seem to let you go either. “Yeah,” he grumbles, pressing his face against the crook of your neck as you dangle in his arms against his chassis. Probably thinking he’s acting like a sparkling. Groaning against your skin, he clears his vents. “I’m good.”

• Uh huh. Hanging there in his arms as he presses his face against your neck, you awkwardly pat his arm. Is he actually jealous about you talking to someone else? It’s not like he has any reason to. Wheeljack isn’t your best friend. Isn’t the one you have a crush on. Flustered, you squirm in his grip trying to get down where you can see his face. “Can you put me down so we can talk?” You ask, exasperated when he makes a soft sound suspiciously like a growl. ‘We’re talking,’ he mumbles and you laugh.

• Door wings flicking, he doesn’t actually want to set you down. Doesn’t want you to see his face and realize how embarrassed he is right now. Knows he’s being irrational, but when it comes to you, he can’t help it. You matter to him. You’re the only one that doesn’t treat him like some kid instead of a grown mech. But what if you realize he’s jealous like a sparkling not wanting to share his favorite toy? Maybe you’d lose all respect for him. Maybe you’d start treating him like an inexperienced rookie, too. Groaning against your neck, he awkwardly sits on the ground and you make a startled noise.

• “All done,” you say, swatting his aft to get him moving because he usually just drifts around behind you while you clean up. Getting in the way and looking forlorn. Stretching a kink out of your back from bending over him for hours, he’s still lingering and you look up at him. Seeing the startled confusion on his face as his door wings lift. Maybe he’s offended you smacked his butt to get him going. His mouth opens and closes, before he backs up a step, obviously flustered.

• What was that and why did you do it? Did he do something wrong? Doesn’t think he did anything to upset you, but you’d smacked him. Bewildered as you ignore him to clean up, he reaches back to touch his aft. Knows he’s missing something here. Some nuance of human social behavior that he’s not getting. Clearing his vents, he reluctantly leaves the stall since you’re ignoring him now. “See you tomorrow?” He asks, still confused and you lift a hand in agreement. Walking out, his door wings flick when he spots Knockout leaning against a wall.

• “That was the singularly most painful interaction I’ve ever witnessed,” the Decepticon medic says and his door wings lift aggressively. “Are you really that oblivious?” Walking away, he hears the Decepticon push off the wall, following him. ‘Why were you spying on me?’ He growls and the medic laughs, falling into step beside him to his annoyance. “Why are you so awful at human courting? Don’t you know what it means when one of them does that?” Knockout asks and he studies the other mech. Jaw working because he does want to know, just doesn’t want to find out from a Decepticon.

• Moving through the base, you glance at your phone again. Checking the picture and name for the third time as you hunt for your newly assigned mech. And you’re still jittery about finally being promoted to caretaker. Need the money and honestly, you’re curious about the giant aliens. You’ve been watching them from a safe distance, but haven’t been brave enough to actually try to talk to one of them. A little intimidated by how big they are.

• Venting softly as Arcee punches Wheeljack on the arm to make the Wrecker chuckle, Smokescreen turns away. Because the faint smile twitching at one corner of Arcee’s lips had been telling. As much as she grumbles, she likes the human trying to court her. What would that be like? There are so many humans scurrying about, but he’s not really interacted with them. They look soft, though. Fragile and strange.

• There. Spotting a group of the aliens, you recognize yours and it’s a relief when you spot the Autobot faction badge. Know there’s a truce, but the Decepticons make you a little nervous. They’re rougher around the edges, quick to growl or snarl if you get too close to them. Jogging over, your bot turns away and starts walking. “Smokescreen? Sir?” Breaking into a run when he doesn’t respond, you sprint after him.

The jungle was the absolute worst place for a Decepticon like you. Humidity? Check. Sticky leaves slapping you in the faceplate every five seconds? Check. Random insects trying to crawl into your vents like they paid rent? Triple check. And don’t even get started on the birds those screeching little organic alarm clocks that never shut up.

But the view from this mountain peak? Chef’s kiss. The scheme unfolding below? Pure, unadulterated genius. You adjusted one last dial on the control panel, optics practically sparkling with smug satisfaction as the massive crystalline siphon hummed like a very expensive, very illegal coffee machine.

“Perfection,” you whispered, allowing yourself a tiny, villainous smirk. “Undetectable frequency, masked signature, and the Autobots are currently chasing their own tailpipes in Siberia because of my fake signal. Megatron might even say ‘good job’ without immediately threatening to melt me into scrap.”

Nothing could possibly go wrong. You’d triple-checked the math. This plan was airtight, waterproof, and monkey-proof.

Cue the universe laughing in your face.

A high-pitched whine sliced through the canopy, followed by the single most annoying voice in the known galaxy.

“Well, well, well! If it isn’t my favorite walking disaster zone!”

You didn’t even need to turn around. That cocky, sunshine-and-rainbows tone could only belong to one mech.

Smokescreen rolled to a stop in vehicle mode, transformed with his usual unnecessary flair, and leaned against a tree like he owned the jungle. Vents heaving, paint scuffed, and still grinning like he’d just won the war single-handedly.

“Smokescreen,” you sighed, pinching the bridge of your nasal ridge (or whatever the Cybertronian equivalent was). “Let me guess. You chased the decoy, realized it was fake, got bored, and decided to come ruin my day personally.”

“pretty much!” he chirped, utterly unbothered by the blaster you were now casually aiming in his general direction. “Also, hi. You look evil and brooding today. Very on-brand.”

You narrowed your optics. “The siphon hits full capacity in sixty cycles. You can’t stop it. You can’t dismantle it. You’re just here to watch me win and cry about it.”

“Cry? Nah.” Smokescreen pushed off the tree and sauntered closer, hands raised in mock surrender. “Actually,  I'm here to recruit you.”

You snorted so hard it echoed off the mountain. “Oh Primus, not this again.”

“I’m serious!” He stopped just out of arm’s reach, blue optics bright and infuriatingly earnest. “You’re too smart for this, babe. All these plans brilliant, beautiful, works of art and every single time, bam! pigeons. Random human sneezing on a power line. A literal butterfly flapping its wings in Canada”

You blinked. Did he just—?

“Don’t call me babe.”

“Too late, already did.” He flashed that stupid, dazzling grin that somehow made your cooling fans stutter. “You’re wasted on the Decepticons. Every single one of your plans is a work of art until the universe personally intervenes to slap you in the face with bad luck. You know why? Cosmic balance! Evil side = automatic curse. Switch to the Autobots and boom! your genius gets plot armor instead of plot sabotage”

You arched an optic ridge.

“You ran probability matrices on my love life with fate?”

“Three times” he said proudly. “The data doesn’t lie. You’re meant for greatness, not getting taken out by migrating ducks or a human in a wool sweater causing localized lightning.”

Despite yourself, the corner of your mouth twitched. He really did see it. The terrifying scope of your mind behind all the slapstick failures. It was… annoyingly flattering.

“Touching”

you deadpanned, raising your arm cannon and aiming it. Not at him, but at the crystal, because dramatic threats are mandatory. “Now watch me shoot my own plan just to spite you—”

As if on cue, a small, furry missile dropped from the canopy with a war cry that sounded suspiciously like “EEEEEEEE!”

It landed directly on your control panel.

With its butt.

One tiny, insignificant wire snapped.

The multi-million-shan crystal siphon immediately started vibrating like it had chugged twelve espressos. A high-pitched whine filled the air, the kind that made your dentas ache. You and Smokescreen both stared at the chittering culprit as it scampered away into the trees.

“Was that… a monkey?” he whispered.

“That,” you said through gritted teeth, “was the universe flipping me off. Again.”

The crystal let out a massive electromagnetic belch completely frying comms across the continent and turning your stealthy heist into the galaxy’s loudest neon sign screaming “ENERGON THEFT HAPPENING HERE, COME QUICK!”

Smokescreen winced. “Okay, in my defense, I didn’t hire the monkey.”

Above you, the unmistakable roar of ship punched through the clouds, descending like the wrath of a very angry warlord.

Smokescreen’s optics snapped to you, wide and pleading. “This is it. They’re gonna bench you for a thousand years. Switch sides. Right now. Come with me. I’ll take the heat, I’ll cover for you. We’ll tell Optimus you defected because of moral growth or whatever—he’ll buy it. I’ll even let you drive sometimes.”

He reached out, hand open, palm up. That same earnest, stupidly hopeful look on his face that always made something in your spark glitch.

For one treacherous nanosecond, you actually considered it.

Then nemesis loomed overhead, cannons priming. “Touch me and die, rookie.”

You hissed, batting his arm away before turning and transforming into your own alt mode, tearing away from the mountain peak in a spectacular, luck-defying burst of speed, you caught one last glimpse of Smokescreen standing alone on the peak, optics locked on your retreating form, hand still outstretched, looking way too handsome for someone this reckless

As you vanished into the jungle, dodging roots and low branches, a single, traitorous thought slipped through your processor

Next time, maybe you will let the idiot finish his recruitment pitch before fate pulls the plug.

• Cradling the tiny sparkling to yourself, you feel her servos fist in your shirt, wide green optics almost closed as she yawns. Don’t really want to hand her back over, immediately missing the weight and warmth of her in your arms when you do. Never really thought about kids much, but now you are. What would Smokescreen’s kid look like? Chest aching, you realize you want that. Want to hold his baby in your arms. And he’s avoiding looking at you, door wings flicking nervously. It’s not like you’re even his conjunx, yet. Haven’t even discussed anything like that. Know he’s dedicated to the Autobots, to Optimus. Would he even want a kid someday? Or would duty come first?

• Flustered as he watches Ratchet’s human take the sparkling, he glances at you and you meet his optics, expression unsure. Hopeful. ‘Humans and sparklings need more rest than we do,’ Ratchet murmurs and he feels almost panicky as the medic scoops his mate and daughter up. Leaving the two of you alone. “So,” he says, awkwardly picking at the plating near his wrist after the others are gone. “Ratchet made a cute sparkling.”

• “She’s adorable. Do you like sparklings?” You ask hesitantly, not sure how to just come out and ask if he wants one someday. Unsure what you’d say if he doesn’t when you do. And his head lifts, those blue optics meeting your eyes and darting away. Like that about him, that you can read his expressions so easily. “Have you ever thought about having a kid? I don’t mean now, but eventually?” Door wings tucking closer to his frame, he grimaces and your shoulders slump. Because he’s obviously uncomfortable.