#thunderclash x reader

• Skin prickling as you look up at the group of aliens frowning down at you, one gets smacked roughly by another to rock him forward a step and you nervously retreat away from those big peds. “Congrats,” the mech laughing wheezes out and you fidget, glancing from bot to bot. Is that one your assigned mech, then? They hadn’t given you a picture, just a name and the big mech rumbles softly, looking none too happy about you asking for him. HR had warned you that some of them didn’t like baths and would need convincing and you force a hopeful smile. “Hi, I’m here to take care of you.”

• “While I appreciate it, it really isn’t necessary,” he says, kneeling since it feels somehow disrespectful to loom over you and talk down to you. And the stricken look on your face goes straight through his spark, making him feel guilty even as he realizes you hadn’t been sure who he was. Meaning you hadn’t chosen him. An arranged conjunx match? Knows such things had happened back on Cybertron, but it doesn’t really sit right with him. Mouth opening to gently refuse you, he hesitates. Kup’s human had been oddly insistent on him. Almost desperate. What if you’ll just be given to someone else if he won’t accept you? Maybe a Decepticon. Kup’s human’s insistence suddenly making a lot more sense. ‘I’d do a good job,’ you add, sounding worried and his resolve crumbles. Can’t condemn you to the Decepticons, to a conjunx who might hurt you. Abuse you.

• “I know you will,” he croons and you shy away when he reaches for you, but you’re not fast enough. Servos close on you and you inhale as your feet leave the ground as you’re cupped to his chassis, your heart racing. ‘Sir?’ No one had warned you that they were grabby. “You can take care of me,” he says, striding away and you have no idea what’s happening. But he’s apparently going to let you do your job. ‘It’s stall three, Thunderclash, sir,’ you mumble, wanting back on the ground, because he’s big and you’re realizing you don’t particularly like heights.

• Can’t imagine you in Decepticon hands, but he knows they’re here. That humans are courting them, too, just hadn’t realized that the poor organics had no say in their potential mates. You need him to protect you from that fate. He doesn’t have to fully claim you, just cooperate. As long as your people think he’s happy with you, they won’t try to give you to some Decepticon sadist. More than willing to do this to protect another. To keep those innocent eyes happy. “You’re going to be a wonderful conjunx,” he soothes, easing you down inside the stall and you smile up at him, expression confused and eerily Cybertronian as you start mixing soap for him. You poor thing, you need him.

Trudging yourself into your shared habsuite with Thunderclash, the dim lighting that clings to the walls of the room is a stark contrast to the bright white lights that hang overhead in the main areas of the ship. It's a welcome change, one that the dull throbbing in your head appreciates with a deep gratitude.

Days like this are never easy. You've been hunched over reports and communications nearly all day, putting out various fires in your company, all whilst juggling your responsibilities as the human liaison on Thundercracker's ship. Your back aches, the kind of ache where you feel like you need someone to stand on you whilst you're flat on your front. That isn't ideal, considering you share your living space with multi-tonne mechanical beings, who would likely crush you to death if they tried that.

"You look worse for wear, my sweet," the deep, booming voice of Thunderclash strikes through the groggy fog hanging overhead. He's currently sitting at his desk, at full size, perusing through various reports and whatnot. There'll probably be some of yours in there somewhere.

"Thanks," you reply tiredly, trying to have an edge of sarcasm, but semi-failing due to the sheer exhaustion.

"I didn't mean it in a bad way," he adds, turning on his chair to stand up. He takes two steps over to you, as that's all it takes at his colossal size. "What's troubling you, darling?"

You sigh heavily, dropping your head, before realising that makes the pain worse. You straighten up again, arching your back to bend your back the other way to see if that helps.

"Just a fuck load of work," you mumble, but he still catches it.

"Y'know, as Captain, I could have it waived," he says, crouching down to collect you. He wraps his servo around your middle before lifting you, carrying you over to the small room that's been set up for you in his quarters.

"I'm not sure how well that'd go for me back at the company," you answer, appreciating his suggestion, but shooting it down.

"Nonsense," he retorts, squatting back down to place you on your bed. You immediately relax back into the pillows, grateful for the sturdy headboard behind to give you some support.

"I call the shots around here," he says, mass displacing at the same time. You usually enjoy watching the process, but right now, you're far too run down to give it your full attention. "So if I say you get a break, you get a break."

He moves over to your bed, ushering with his servo to get you to shuffle forward, leaving space for him behind you. You comply, letting him quickly slot in. You sit in between his legs, and his servos caress your arms tenderly.

"Tell me where," he mumbles against your shoulder. You huff lowly, feeling too lethargic to even answer him. He places a soft kiss against your top, pulling away just a fraction to start gathering the hem in his deft servos. He bunches the fabric, tugging it up your body. With heavy limbs, you allow him to slide it off you, leaving you in your bra.

"Here?" He asks, placing his servos on your trapezius before using his thumbs to massage deep circles at the base of your neck. A pleased hum simmers in your mouth, rolling your head as your knotted muscles start to get worked. Your daily life is a storm, but he is the clear and calm air that follows once it's through. When the day is too strong to bear, he is the morning mist that reminds you that things will ease.

"Yeah, that's the spot, isn't it?" He chirps softly, his voice tender and smooth. He has servos fitting of a God, he truly can work miracles with them. Whether it's massaging you or prying orgasms from you, his servos never disappoint.

He provides a kind of relief that's hard to put into words. All you know is that your body melts under his touch, and you wish it'd never end. His touch is so attentive and careful, like a cloud that drifts without urgency.

"Let's take this off, hm?" He proposes, skipping his digits down to the band of your bra. He doesn't even wait for your response, already undoing the clasp with expert ease. The band loosens around you, the article of clothing slipping off your shoulders to drop in between your legs.

His touch focuses there, exactly where the band of your bra hugs your body. He pushes and pulls the skin in deep, circular motions. Every ounce of tension is slowly being sucked out of your body, channelled through his divine touch to discard it.

"How about some tenderness and attention here? That always makes you feel a little better," he suggests, slipping his servo between your legs to palm at your clothed cunt. You whimper, the friction is so little but so effective.

"I wouldn't say no," you say, trying to be modest and discreet about it. You lean back into him to relax into the serenity of his looming frame.

His other servo wraps around you as well, sliding them down to disappear under your skirt. He hooks the elastic waistband of your underwear over his thumbs, prompting you to lift your hips a little so that he can shimmy them off you. They glide down your thighs, until he can't push any further, otherwise he'd bend you in half at an awkward angle. You take over from there, kicking them off your legs and ankles. You take the initiative to remove your skirt, tugging on the material. It follows the same path as your underwear, leaving you now entirely bare in his arms.

"Such a beautiful body," he coos lightly, dipping his servo down to find your pussy once again. He strokes along your slit, gathering your excitement to lube his digits. A pang of anticipation whistles through you, eager for his touch.

Pushing two digits in, he immediately curls them to beckon against your G-spot. Your body jolts as you gasp, not expecting such a strong start. He chuckles before he presses his derma against your shoulder. He vents, taking in the natural scent of you.

Whilst his digits work inside of you, his other servo cups your tit. He rolls the plushness under his strong hold, massaging you further. A whimper catches in your throat, feeling entirely manhandled by this large mech.

"So warm," he hushes, trailing kisses along your shoulder. Every asset of his is entirely devoted to you right now. His touch is a novel torture in itself, but one that always has the most gratifying results. He goads endless bliss from your body, greedily demanding every ounce of it.

He unravels you, touching you in the most intimate part of you, an area that he's grown so incredibly fond of. To call him horny wouldn't exactly be accurate, but his libido still impresses you. A mech who grounds himself on composure, strength and resilience, yet folds under your heat within mere moments of being graced with its presence. There are worse traits to have, you're sure.

Ecstatic, unchecked need floods through you as he curls his digits against your upper wall, making sure to catch your sweet spot every time. You whine, mewl and whimper, biting back the urge to fuck yourself against his palm. Are you closer to damnation or salvation right now? Sometimes, it's hard to tell.

His derma ghost up to the column of your neck, conquering a new part of you. He maps your skin, charting every inch in his mental map of you. You roll your head, giving him a wider berth to take what he wants from you. The sensation of hot slick trailing down from your hole between the valley of your ass is unmistakable, some of it gathering between the seam of his connected digits as he continues pumping.

"That's my sweetheart," he burrs, "Keep up those pretty sounds for me."

Dull dentae graze your sensitive neck, teasing you just a little bit to get your pulse racing faster. You moan, low and breathy, unable to resist bucking your hips. You grind against his palm as his actions never falter, working as best you can within your current means.

Thunderclash's processor is already in a haze, plagued with thoughts of other nights you've shared together. His kneading on your chest gets more intense as he starts recalling how loud you moaned and screamed for him last time he had his helm between your legs, gulping your sweet elixir into his starved tanks. How you begged him for more, even after you'd already climaxed once. He can't properly remember, but he thinks he got about four orgasms out of you that night before you had to tap out.

Your clit throbs against his palm, and your noises refuse to cease, especially when his fondling of your tit turns into acute attention to your nipple. He takes it between his thumb and fore-digit, rolling it easily and mindlessly. Your back arches, pushing yourself further into his touch.

"Mph— fu— Thunderclash!" You moan out as you feel the tight coil winding in your stomach finally reach its breaking point. It springs free, sending a powerful orgasm hurtling through your body as a result. You gasp, placing your head back against his shoulder as your legs recoil, dragging them further towards your chest.

Your legs tremble, feeling your body finally ease. The swollen clouds of your ardour have finally permitted rainfall, leaving you feeling refreshed and made anew.

He takes his digits out of your hot cunt, popping them in his intake to suck your pleasure from him. He usually likes to drink it straight from the source, but for now, this'll do.

"Switch with me," he requests, already moving to part from your back. You lie flat on the bed as he brings himself before you as he sits on his haunches. He keeps close to you, letting him wrangle your legs over his thigh struts so he's semi-tucked underneath you.

He leans forward, propping your hips up. He aims for your neck, placing warm, loving kisses on the delicate skin he finds there.

"Come on, let me give you some love," he hushes against you, spreading his knees further so that your legs widen for him. You mewl quietly in return, rolling your hips up to brush against his interface panels.

He disengages his panels, letting them slide open to reveal his spike, which has been thumping away at the interior panels with an urgent need for stimulation. His length protrudes out, crawling up your abdomen to make your stomach somersault.

"Please put it in," you request eagerly.

"I've got you, sweetheart," he reassures you, angling his hips to drag his tip to your hole. Your legs fall open a fraction wider of their own volition, hoping to give him easier access.

With a soft push, he parts your pussy over his spike. He slides his length into you, and each inch feels like heaven renewed. You sigh a pent-up moan, your legs already quivering, and he hasn't even started yet.

"I can feel how tense you are," he mutters lowly. The current resistance of your pussy is an uncharacteristic element of your usual lovemaking sessions.

"But don't worry, I'm going to make it all better," he continues, starting up his movements. His hips roll smoothly, like a complete natural. There'll be no ruthless, desperate fucking tonight, that much you're sure of.

High-pitched, breathy noises leave you whilst he makes hot love to you, your back already arching to press your tits up against his chassis. His frame surrounds you entirely, like a safety blanket made of metal and wires. With the way your legs are propped over his thigh struts, you aren't able to ground your feet on the bed for any kind of purchase. He's just too broad, every part of him. He is your gargantuan lover, and you're usually left a little sore after a night with him.

Your body moves with his, keeping the two of you in tandem with each other. Even the pitches of your moans and groans mix into a beautiful harmony with the type of blending that even the most renowned musicians would envy.

You throw your head back against the pillow, ejecting a sharp moan that fizzles into the air above you. Streams of tears slip from the corner of your eyes, rolling down your temples and cheekbones. Your breath shudders as the pleasure rattles through you at an alarming rate, leaving your senses fried.

A startled gasp echoes deep in his vocaliser, and his hips come to an abrupt stop, leaving his spike snug all the way inside you. You blink a couple of times, unsure why he's so suddenly stopped. You look up at him, your vision blurry from the film of tears balancing over your eyes.

"What's wrong?" He says, his optical ridge pinched with concern.

"N—Nothing," you answer, slightly confused with a shaky voice.

One servo cups the side of your face, using his thumb to disrupt the path of tears currently etched down your skin. "Then… Why are you crying?"

"I—" you start, bringing your hand to lay it over his. "I didn't realise I was. I'm not upset, I promise. But it feels really good, so good it brings me to tears, and also it's alleviating my stresses."

"Thank Primus," he exclaims, the relief evident on his features. "I thought maybe I'd hurt you."

"No, of course not," you console him with a light voice, "You're far too gentle with me to ever do such a thing."

You roll your hips slightly beneath him, grinding over his spike just enough to remind him of what you're in the middle of. He groans, enjoying the way your pussy treats his sensitive spike.

"My apologies for the interruption," he remarks, moving his hips once again.

He places his forehead against yours, amplifying the physical touch between you. Your hands snake behind his neck to keep him anchored to you whilst his angelic hips roll into you like it's his natural response. So seamless and effortless, he makes loving you seem as easy as breathing.

The two of you let out strings of breathy moans, letting them tangle in the space between you. The language of your love could form an entirely new galaxy, letting it spawn in the energy that encompasses you whilst you're together.

"You feel amazing," he mutters hotly, "Your body feels like home to me."

He's driving against that spongey spot inside you, making sure the tip of his spike knocks against it with each push of his hips. You're unfiltered in your moans for him, wholly believing he's deserving of hearing each one. He's doing such a good job of earning them, after all.

"Wrap your legs around my waist," he requests, needing more of you to be touching him. He wants to be as physically connected with you as possible. Which is funny, considering he's currently seven inches deep in you.

You comply with his wishes, curling your legs around his middle before locking your ankles together. The change of angle makes another deep moan rattle in your throat.

"You're the perfect person for me," he whispers. He leans his weight onto one arm strut, sliding his other servo down your arm to lace your fingers together. He brings your hand up to your head, squeezing it delicately.

"Oh, Thunderclash, I love you," you confess to him, one confession of many over the years.

"I love you, too," he reciprocates.

His face is so stunningly beautiful. Carved from gold like the priceless being he is. You couldn't ask for a better partner. He has been your rock and safety in this whirlwind of a life you're living.

"Fuck," you huff, "I'm so close."

You slip your free hand between your bodies, going straight for your clit. It's the last little bit you need to push you over the edge. Thunderclash normally does it for you, but you're enjoying the affectionate handholding far too much to put an end to it.

"Hmph," he hums in a closed-intake moan, "You squeeze me so nicely right before you're about to cum."

"Kiss me," you plead with a glassy sheen to your eyes.

He concurs almost immediately, dipping his helm to join your lips. Even the shape of his derma are perfect against you. Every fibre of you and every atom of him seem like they were bonded with the other being taken into consideration.

An electricity crackles through you right before the lightning strikes, slicing through your mind with absolute clarity. You moan into his mouth as your end snags the seams of your psyche. Your toes curl, and you grip his servo tighter whilst you coat his spike in your pearly release. His hum vibrates in his intake, trilling against your lips lightly. The passion of the kiss increases as his actions become slightly more selfish, now seeking his own peak.

Bolts of electricity shoot through you as your body unravels from your orgasm. You slip your finger away from your clit, moving that same hand to cup the back of his neck. Your fingertips brush over the exposed wires, your touch so featherlight it makes his frame shudder.

"Inside?" He whispers into your mouth as he breaks the kiss.

"Please," is all you respond with.

He kisses you again, letting his sounds get locked in his vocaliser as the pleasure starts to come to a head.

The static ripples through his circuits, his fuel lines pumping harder as his release overcomes him. He moans, he moans, into your mouth, deep and gravelly, whilst his spike paints your pussy pink. It's hot and potent, and fills you more than any human could ever hope to achieve.

His kiss becomes slow and drawn out, as if the fatigue has spread to every corner of him. His servo slips slightly from yours, instead holding it loosely and running his thumb in circular motions over your palm. Pulling away from the kiss, he gazes down at you with love brimming in his optics.

"How are you feeling?" He hushes.

Drift and Ratchet

You wake up, mind foggy, unable to have control over your body, not that you were even aware you had a body right now. Everything around you was overwhelming and weird. Weird just like the two big guys at your sides.

"Hello yn, how do you feel? You've been sleeping for the entire day." says the cat-looking rather handsome dude.

"Huh?"

"They're still under the effects of anesthesia, so don't be surprised if they are uncoordinated." says the big pretty orange one.

"Yooo, where is there? who the fuck are you, pretty boys?"

Drift hides his smile behind his servo, and Ratchet looks at your vitals, finding it funny your heartbeat sped up at the 'pretty boys'. Your weak organic EM field radiating confusion.

"How do you feel yn? Any discomfort?"

You look at Ratchet in the eyes, yours almost closed, maybe trying to decripte him.

"Discomfort?"

"Yes, are you comfortable?"

"YOOOO-"

"yn don't scream."

"Oh, you look comfortable. Both. Kitty kitty kitty pspsps~" you call Drift, extending your arms as if you were really trying to catch the bot's attention.

Drift tries to not loose it. He takes your so tiny hand in his servo, giggling. You look down to your hand and give him an horrendious look.

"Why you so big, kitty? Why do you have hands? We can't have cuddles sessions like that, you'll crush me".

"Don't worry *wheezes* we will have plenty when you're free to go, sweetspark".

"Nooooo, you're too tall, you'll crush me..." you start having tears in your eyes sobbing style, really sad to die crushed by the big cat you want to pet. "I want neow. Where's big boy? BIG BOY I WANT CUDDLE NEEOW!"

Drift hold his tank, laughing so hard he coughs while Ratchet tries to calm you down, dries your tears, asking you to remain calm, to not scream, that you will have your cuddles but not while you're still on the medbay's slab.

In the end, you won, both laying by your sides with their arms protecting you from the light, and you felt asleep again holding onto them like your life depends on it. They both knew you were having a very good sleep when drool came out of your mouth, babbling about your tall boyfriends transforming into a sandwich and leaving for the war. Ratchet had to silence Drift from laughing at your state for not risking waking you up.

Cyclonus and Tailgate

Emerging from the darkness of anesthesia, you saw two dots of colors. Not aware you were moving your arms, your left hand splats on the purple grey face in front of you and the blue one reach for your hand, trying to gently remove it.

"Oh, purple, my favorite color... pretty purple, pretty" you say as you pet not so elegantly.

Sharp but carefull digits come to take off your hand from his face plate, he helds it like a fragile treasure he found.

"Hello yn, are you feeling well?" says Cyclonus

"You're finally awake! I started to worry yn."

You just blankly stare at them, but not really at them, rather the void that is catching your attention. Big zoom out.

"Are we having Taco Bell? I want- I want a burrito with... oh my god..."

Cyclonus and Tailgate look at each other, not knowing what the hell you're talking about, but Ratchet did say you were gonna be weird for a moment.

"Purpuuuule, i love you, i looove you so muuuuchh purple!"

"Shush, yn, don't get too loud, lay back."

Tailgate gently makes you lay back on the slab and you finally notice his presence.

"Oh you're beautiful. Can we have Taco Bell later?"

"What is Taco Bell, sweetie?"

"Fast nom nom, duh."

Oh the attitude.

You close your eyes, going inconscious for a bit, then waking up again.

"I WILL NOT TOLERATE THAT BEHAVIOR!" you scream, imitating Ultra Magnus repressing Rodimus.

"SHUSH shhhh! Yn you can't scream like that, we're in the medbay!"

Tailgate put his servo on your mouth to muffle your screams. Loud stomps are heard before Ratchet comes in in a rush.

"Are they okay? What happened? Why did they scream like that?"

"No worries doctor, they are just... still out".

"They were just imitating Ultra Magnus, no worries."

Ratchet still check on them and their vitals, his presence seems to keep you calm. Once Ratchet left, you turn to look at Tailgate.

"Who's that?"

"It's Ratchet."

"He scary".

With Cyclonus lovingly rubbing his thumb over your tiny hand and Tailgate telling you about some adventures, you fell back asleep, leaning into the minibot's frame.

Ultra Magnus and Megatron

Waking up, blinking, looking around, and two massive forms appear in front of you, and you just stare.

"Hello yn. You're finally awake. How are you feeling."

You stare at the blue one, the one who talked.

"Who are you?"

"It's me, Ultra Magnus dear."

"Oh, oohh Ultra Magnus, you know, i've always admire you, you do such a beautiful work, you're so strict, i like that, thumb's up mate."

"And there's Megatron. We're here for you."

"Oh, Megatron... "

You sound disappointed, okay, no problem.

You do grabby hands at him, blank eyes demanding him. He leans in, carefull to not overwhelm you with his size. Your soft hands grab his cheeks and you tug on his helm, approaching him to your face until your two forhead are connected. You close your eyes, soaking in his presence. Megatron covers your little hands with his, big thumb gently rubbing your skin.

"Meggie... megsie-pie... you're a pie..."

"Heh, if it is to your liking."

"I have pies... my two pies... magnus apple pie... meggsie rhubarb pie..."

And without notice, you bite his nose. Magnus turns his helm to not show his smirk and Megatron just... accepts.

"Is it to your taste?"

"You're scrompulitiously delicious."

With great care, he marks you let go of his nose and gestures to Magnus to join him. They lay back on the slab, you kept on Megatron's chest. With precise patern on your back and the soft rumble of his internals, you mumble again about pastries and marmelades before drifting back to sleep.

Rodimus and Thunderclash

Opening your eyes was a heavy task. All the muscules in your body felt limp, your eyelids tired. There are two guys in front of you, and they seem to be into a conversation. you slide your hand on a bigger one, blue connected to a very big arm.

Thunderclash turns his helm towards you, feeling your little fingers move against his palm. Rodimus does the same, and both their expression relax.

"Hello yn, how are you feeling?"

Still unable to talk, too lost to even know where you are, their presence is somewhat calming. Rodimus brings his own servo to you and you take it, eyes closing and opening. Trusting them both.

A third guy enters, talk to your two mechs and takes a look at the machines you rely on. Then leaves.

Rodimus and Thunderclash have both their focus on you.

"Hey buddy, you took a good nap during surgery? I bet you did. Still sleepy aren't you?" softly says Rodimus.

"You did great. It was scary but you did it like a champ. You deserve a good rest and a little gift. You have been so brave" says Thunderclash before opening his subspace and pulling out a oh so tiny plushie and places it next to you. Rodimus pouts and rolls his optics, mumbling that Thunderclash was doing too much, but the bigger mech didn't mind, liking that Rodimus has that blue tint on his cheeks.

You see a plushie being brought to you and you take it slowly, not breaking eye contact with the kind big guy. You close your eyes and bring the warmer hand to your head, holding the plushie near your chest. You feel tired, but comfortable. You have two kind guys looking after you, taking care of you.

Rodimus caress your hair in a single pattern, spark softened by you. You were really scared to go through the surgery, asking him and Thunderclash to be by your side to prepare yourself for it. Trusting him.

Thunderclash falls deeper in love with you, just like that, your little hand holding onto him. Even if it seems you don't remember them now, too lost into the effects of anesthesia, you trust them. Your little heart knowing their love for you.

“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 — so 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