Twilight~Na

Bumblebee x Reader Last Night

Skyfire x Reader Floating Down The River

Rumble x Reader Alcohol Eyes

Skywarp x Reader Stop Talking

Ratchet x Reader Feel Like Rain

Waspinator x Reader Worker Bee

Ironhide x Reader Hold Me Down

Vortex x Reader I Can't Decide

Grimlock x Reader Shiver

Constructicons x Reader Drive

Insecticons x Reader You (Don't) Know Me

Trailbreaker x Reader Too Tired To Wink

Hound x Reader Heavy Boots

Blaster x Reader Shoot Me In The Smile

Sunstorm x Reader Love Me Dead

Cosmos x Reader In Space

Astrotrain x Reader Sweet Tooth

Tarantulas x Reader Haunt

Flatline x Reader All At Once

Mirage x Reader Scenario-Pampered

Tracks x Reader Scenario-Angles

Shockwave x Reader She Is Afraid

Ark x Reader Lonely

Nemesis x Reader Protector

Protectobots x Reader Scenario-Home

Combaticons x Reader Scenario-Names

Barricade x Reader Calling All Cops

Scorponok x Reader Granite

Ratbat x Reader Visitor

Looking for the Scenarios for the G1/IDW stories besides EiA?

Soft AU Masterlist

Alternate Takes Masterlist

Lost Light Masterlist

TF Prime Masterlist

TF ONE Masterlist

TF Earthspark Masterlist

TF Armada

TFA Animated Masterlist

ROTB/ Bayverse

Rescue Bots Masterlist

• Stumbling toward the door, his shoulder slams into the wall. Scraping against the metal as he shudders, tank roiling. Can’t stop hearing you screaming his name. Was trying to protect you, but what if he accidentally killed you? How long can a human go without food or water? Grabbing at the wall, his servos gouge into the metal, warping it as he struggles to stay upright. Ignoring his internal systems screaming warnings at him, he takes another step, nearly falling through the doorway. And an alarm goes off as he slaps a hand on the far wall to catch himself, vision glitching. “You shouldn’t be up,” a voice growls and his head lifts.

• “Where? How long?” He slurs, voice cracking. Unable to ask what he wants to as his processor swims. Hands are reaching for him, trying to coax him back into the room. To the berth and he swats at them. Needs to find you. To feel the soft warmth of you in his hands again. To hear your laughter, the way your voice softens when you trace your fingertips over his face. Wants to feel you stretched out against him, the beating of your heart. Spark aching, he takes another step and the medic is catching him, struggling under his weight. Didn’t mean for it to go this way. To leave you there. Had thought the battle would be quick. That he’d be returning to free you and that you’d frown up at him. Tell him off for leaving you. “Where?” He rasps.

• Aware of the medic yelling for backup, he realizes his processor can’t seem to focus. How much energon did he lose? And another mech is grabbing him, trying to force him back into the room as he strains, rumbling angrily as his wings flare. Vision tunneling as he shudders, for a confusing moment, he swears he feels your hand cupping his face. That you’re right there looking up at him. Your lips moving as you say his name. Sagging as the two mechs try to drag him toward the berth, he groans your name. Struggling again.

• “Bring him here,” one of them says and a third mech is grabbing him, the three manhandling him. Away from the room he’d been in. Into a lab as he keeps fighting them. Dazedly noticing the badges. Autobots? How did he end up here? Growling, he swings clumsily at one of them and their grips tighten on him. Stumbling into a counter and snarling, one of them has him by the back of the head, pushing him toward a clear box. “We’re trying to help you.” Trying to focus, it takes a moment to realize what he’s seeing. To recognize the small shape inside the container, the leads and tubes snaking into you. That you’re breathing, but so still, hands bandaged. Reaching to curl an arm around the box, he rests his cheek against it, sagging against the counter. “They’re okay. Severely dehydrated, but recovering. We found them after we found you and realized your spark was in distress. That you had a conjunx hidden somewhere,” one of them says softly as he clings to the box, servo tapping against it. Wanting you to look at him. To smile. And a tiny hand confusedly lifts to touch the wall of the box you’re in, eyes glassy and dazed as they open and he clutches at the box.

☆ It was hard not to laugh at Kickback's enthusiasm as he tucked the grubs into their little nest, nuzzling and churring at them until they'd settled into a purring lump. His excitement was palpable, humming thick through your bond until the other two were poking in to try and figure out what had gotten him into such a tizzy. Kickback was running around like a fool the moment the grubs nodded off, snatching up whatever he felt he needed from the piles of fabrics and cushions that had gradually just filled up the center chamber for you. He kept picking up seemingly random things and bolting down into a side chamber, evidently wanting to do it right this time, and it wasn't much of a surprise to you when Shrapnel clawed his way into view and set himself to the task of helping.

You just watched, rather enjoying the spectacle. It was sweet, how hard they were trying when they didn't have to.

Bombshell didn't take long to get home. He'd been hunting, blood still smeared across his cheek, though Kickback tackled him with such enthusiasm that they both were sent sprawling to the floor from the impact, frantically licking Bombshell's face clean. Bombshell flipped them, pinning Kickback to the ground only long enough to share, mouth to mouth, before shoving him back towards Shrapnel. He was twitching his wings and grumbling under his breath as he sauntered over to you, as if it were some great chore to take care of the others, even though you could feel the soft pressure of his haughty pride at being useful.

He mass shifted to lay his head to your shoulder, nuzzling at the scars there, halfway to a question. You just ran your hand down the back of his neck, tracing the line of smooth biolights that flickered between the plating until he purred. "Later," you promised, and he tilted his head so a sharp mandible could tap against the curve of your jaw, his claws digging into the meat of your sides.

"Mn... Kickback, Shrapnel... Picky. Take a while." He licks your shoulder, shifts to give your neck the same treatment, just over the pulse. "Come outside with me."

Not worded like a question, but it wasn't like that mattered. You felt the inflection his voice could not carry brush against your soul as his wants shivered through the hivebond. "It's cold out," you mused. But even as you said the words, he was leaning back to pull a coat from his subspace, and it doesn't even surprise you anymore, how readily they anticipate what you need. He dresses you gently, claws fumbling over buttons until you're encased to the throat in a proper winter coat, the same deep royal purple of their plating. Pulling out thick pants and helping you step into them, even offering you boots before picking you up, cradling you against his chest.

It had been so long since you'd been properly dressed that it felt genuinely strange. Restrictive and heavy, the weight of heavy shoes dragging oddly on your legs. But even so, you were grateful for it when he'd carried you back out into the world without the fuss of watching over children and the cold nipped only at your face and the hands you tucked under your arms to try and keep them warm. You expected to be carted around, maybe fondled without Shrapnel and Kickback getting in Bombshell's way, but he just set you carefully down on the mess of muddy snow your grubs had churned up and took your hand.

You tried to pull his thoughts into you, but the sense of his presence danced playfully out of reach, and you gave up with a small smile, just leaning against his warm plating and letting him keep his secrets. It was too pretty a day to scold him anyway, you thought as he led you onward.

You'd always loved the snow. When you were properly small, your dad and uncle had taken turns hauling your little sled while you hung on and squealed. Then they'd taught you how to make a snowman. How to pack a snowball. How to sled downhill without going flying and breaking your nose. Your mother had always done the cooking. She'd just enjoyed it. And the winter always came with the cookies and treats she'd labeled as Christmas Specials, which just so happened to end up as your favorites. The memories burn bright in your thoughts for a long moment, unnaturally so, and it isn't until you hear Bombshell snap hungrily at nothing that you figure out it's his doing. Nosing around in your thoughts.

"I don't think they would approve of you," you tell him. "Well. Dad might have tried to understand, but Mom never would. If I called her and asked her to send me some cookies so I could share with a big metal bug, she'd probably think I was crazy." Bombshell growls softly before his hands close around your waist, gently lifting you over a fallen tree in the path. "I haven't called her in forever, though. Years. I think she stopped trying, or... maybe my phone just didn't work. I don't know."

"... want?" His voice is low and soft, deeper than the others and harder to coax out of him. You couldn't help but smile at the sound, gently poking him with the thought that he should talk more instead of just thinking in your head. He gives a wordless hum as an answer.

You think for a moment as you gaze up at the trees, sparkling with snow and icicles. "I think I would like to talk to her, yeah. At least one more time. Just so she knows I'm alive." You feel it this time, when Bombshell combs through your memories. Pulling up thoughts of holidays and being snowed in. Leaning against her side, laughing, while she acted as the event announcer for your father washing the dishes.

What's this, ladies and gentleman? Is he going for it? Is he going to do it? He is! He's going for the mug, everyone, and it's looking like a perfect setup, but can he follow through??? ..... YES! YES, HE'S DONE IT!

You wish you hadn't been so far, when it happened. You knew, of course, that you weren't the only one who'd lost him. That so very many had felt that empty space where he should have been. But you'd left your family to be with them. With the person who'd sworn you would be each other's forever. So far that you hadn't been able to visit your mother. Hadn't been able to drum up the strength. And then they'd left you and you'd been all alone. Maybe if you'd been closed things would have been different-

Bombshell nips you for that one, a sharp prick of thought that makes you miss a step and stumble. He catches you easily, pauses to lean down and kiss you in apology. "Queen... survived. Here in the hive now. All that matters."

"Right, you're right... sorry." Maybe you would change it, if you could go back. Maybe, if given the chance, you'd set your life on a different course. But that chance wasn't ever going to be real. And at the end of the day, you think that maybe you got pretty damn lucky. Looking up at him, the feeling swells in your chest until you can forget that you are a thing carved hollow, just studying the set of his jaw, the shape of his broad shoulders. You look down at the claws linked with your fingers, holding your hand on a stroll as though you were an ordinary couple. "I love you."

It's his turn to be flustered, it seems, looking away from you with his mask snapping reflexively into place, as though you cannot feel the shivering notes of pleased embarrassment that are ringing through his whole soul. Can feel the reciprocation, but you bump him anyway, your body nudging his arm. "Can you say it for me? Please? I'd like to hear it."

His wings slip free for a moment, a nervous flutter as his attention seems to wander, optics studying the path, manibles twitching softly with every harsh crunch of your steps through the snow. He pulls your hand up a tad, taps the claws of his free servo along your fingers, brushing over the joints. Fidgeting. But finally, as he leads you from the trees, he whispers a soft, purr-shaken, "Love you too."

He's taken you to the lake. You'd been so caught up in him that you hadn't even noticed. The surface is almost painfully bright in the light, frozen solid. He leads you down to it, calming your instinctive prickle of fear when he sets a pede to the ice, offering the memory of his already testing the frozen surface. "Hard winter," he muses, pausing to lower himself again, press his cheek to yours. "Frozen almost all the way... holds me." And so you follow his lead. Let him tug you forward, clinging to his arms for balance, your boots sliding across the surface with too little friction. His claws dig in easier, let him keep his balance as he pulls you onward, spinning lazily as though you were dancers. He's so beautiful that it breaks your heart, a sharp pain of desperate longing, as if you were parted from him even though he was right here, hand in dirtied hand.

He pulls you into a proper spin, drags you close to his chest while the world blurs to nonsense around you. His plating splits. You do not hesitate to shove your cold face into the gap, kiss the light of him until he is churring with soft sounds of enjoyment, his hands gently encircling your waist to hold you close. You'd thought their sparks were the same, the first time around. A near-white light that sparked and twisted with restless energy. But knowing them as you did now, you knew that you would be able to pick them out of a lineup by spark alone.

Bombshell's was bigger than the other two's. A slightly cooler tone to the shifting flares of light, suggestions of blues and greens. It turned slower, the whirling flares that reached for you spilling out in thicker waves. And always there was that feeling of calm. A certainty that he was who he was, and would receive was he was owed. A patience that soaked into you down to the bones.

When you leaned back, warm and panting, you had slowed to a stop on the ice. Bombshell all but crushed you in a hug, rubbing his scent against your neck as though he needed to make sure he could keep you. You let him, taking hold of his mandibles when he was done to pull him down to your mouth, kiss him until his wings flared.

You had time. For the first time in a very long time, you were absolutely sure of it. When Bombshell took your hands again, you did your best to take the lead, fighting to learn how to skate on the ice in snow boots with an oversized beetle of a husband doing a fair enough job of keeping you upright.

• You’re not really moving, just laying there in the water, eyes half closed. Had hoped you’d wash yourself if he put you in the tub, but you’re either too weak or you just don’t care. Running a hand over his helm, he clears his vents. Wanting to go find a cleanser for you, but also worried you might drown. Backing away slowly, he finds a container of cleanser meant for sensitive mesh and internal areas. Fidgeting with the container, he studies you. What if you have an adverse reaction to it? Or it melts your skin?

• He’s frowning down at you, his serious features unhappy as he opens and closes the lid on some sort of container that’s bigger than you are. Have no idea what he’s muttering when he growls, but he squirts some white goop into a hand and dabs the tip of a servo in it before holding it out. Eyeing him, you try to decide what he wants. Can smell the stuff and it’s strange, but not exactly unpleasant. And he bends his servo slightly before straightening it again. Wanting something, but you’ve never liked charades. Your best guess? The goo is either very unappealing food or maybe soap. Probably soap since he dropped you in the water dish. Could be seasoning, though.

• Venting in exasperation when you just chirp at him, he hesitantly touches the cleanser to your arm and pulls away as you frown down at the smear of stuff on your skin and warble at him. And despite not having a clue what you’re saying, you still manage to sound unimpressed. But you’re not howling in pain or writhing like it’s burning you. “Alright,” he murmurs, mass shifting to make you tense in response. Awkwardly climbing up with you with a handful of soap, he watches you immediately retreat to the far side of your bath. “I’m sorry, but I can smell you and it’s offensive,” he apologizes as you chirp warily at him.

• Heart racing as he circles your bath and you try to keep to the edge furthest from him, you hadn’t expected him to shrink. He doesn’t think he’s going to give you a sponge bath, does he? Apparently so. He’s got a handful of whatever that goop is as he croons at you, trying to trick you into coming closer. Those coaxing noises he’s making have you thinking of the same sounds you’d made to baby talk small animals and it’s a tiny bit insulting. Yelping when he finally just grabs you by the ankle, you kick when you’re dragged closer and an arm hooks around, his other hand soaping you and your clothes up as you swear and sputter, finding energy reserves you hadn’t even known you had as you flail to escape.

• He’s kind of adorable underneath that grumbly attitude of his, you decide as you squeeze your sponge and start washing him again. “I suppose so,” you agree and his head turns, those optics watching you. There’s something raw in the way he tracks your every move, in the way his servos flex against his thigh. Like he wants to touch you again and it has you heating, your heart beating faster. No one’s ever looked at you like this before, like you’re everything. And you have no idea what to say or do.

• “If I’m bothering you, just tell me,” he growls when the silence stretches between you and you only shake your head at him. ‘Do you want me here?’ You ask and his plating lifts aggressively at the question. Because he does, but admitting it feels too vulnerable. Too dangerous. “Do you want to be here?” He counters, looking away and uncomfortable with your eyes on him. ‘I guess it would depend,’ you finally say and he glances your way, unable to help himself. Your touch, your scent, the sound of your voice are becoming an addiction.

• “On?” He asks, voice gruff and aggressive. Making you sure that he’s not accustomed to gentle. Or flirting. If that’s even what he’s doing. It’s so hard to figure out what he’s thinking, but you’re positive that he’s lonely. That he wants you here. ‘If someone gave me a reason to stay,’ you admit and his frown deepens. And he’s looking away again as his servos flex and you remember the way he’d looked when you’d held his servo to your cheek. Hungry and afraid. Vulnerable and desperate. Like he’s so touch-starved that he didn’t know how to respond.

• “I could be your shield,” he growls, embarrassed even as he says the words. And when he says them, he means them. They’re not just empty words meant to coax you into trusting him, into choosing him. He’d kill to protect what’s his and you? You’re already his. Even if you don’t choose him. He’d still watch over you. Protect you. Rumbling irritably as you look up at him, you smile faintly before biting your lip, soapy hands running over his plating. Trying to not be irritated at your silence, he knows he should have expected it. Why would you choose a mech like him? He’s no one. ‘If I said yes, it would be to you,’ you whisper and he stills, slowly looking down at you as your shoulders hunch. “Are you?”

• Studying him as he cleans his giant, alien space guns, you keep picking at the knot he’d tied. Trying to undo it without him noticing. Even not knowing what he was saying, you’re positive that he’d been fussing at you about it. And you still when he growls at you, hearing the cadence of the noises- the whirs, clicks, and rasps of his language hostile sounding and impossible to replicate. Skin prickling, you look over at him and he gestures at you with the weapon. If he’s expecting some sort of response, he’s going to be waiting a long time.

• “Stop messing with it,” he mutters and you chirp, shoulders lifting and falling before you gesture at him. And his optics narrow as he realizes what you’re doing. Pretending to hold a weapon. Venting softly, he taps a finger on his weapon and you’re tapping the same finger in the air as you stare intently at him. “What are you doing?” He mutters, turning and setting his weapon down. Aware that you’re actively mimicking him now. Are you playing? Or trying to communicate? “That’s not the least bit endearing,” he adds, arms folding across his chassis and you follow suit.

• Frowning back at him because he’s frowning at you, you’ve at least got his attention. Slowly raising your own arm, you touch your hand to your chest and say your name. Meeting his optics, you repeat the gesture while slowly enunciating your name. And he just stares at you. Blowing out a breath, you repeat yourself as it dimly occurs to you that this is first contact with an alien race. That this is huge and you’re probably screwing it up, because you have no idea what you’re doing. That somebody a lot more qualified should be doing this. Rumbling, he growls something so far off it makes you wince and then touches his hand to his own chassis.

• Head tilting as you groan and shake your head, you wave your arms like you’re trying to clear away smoke. Before repeating your noises and touching your chest. Isn’t that what he just did? Scowling, he tries to make your strange chirping sounds and touches his chassis again. And you make a flurry of warbling chirps, legs drawing up against yourself as you hide your face in your hands. Shaking his head, he picks his weapon back up and starts cleaning it again. Doesn’t know what you’re doing, but you’re interesting to watch, at least.

• “He doesn’t abandon people like some mechs do just because they’re afraid to make changes to their lifestyle,” you mutter loudly, annoyed with him for coming back here. And at yourself for still caring about him when he’d left you. He’d decided that it was too hard to be a bounty hunter and protect you and he’d made his choice. Had dumped you on Flatline like a kitten he didn’t want. Like you meant nothing at all to him. ‘That so,’ Lockdown growls as you roll your eyes at him, pretending you don’t care.

• Venting softly and uncomfortable with the whole situation, Flatline pulls up the scan results. Aware of you smacking a hand against Lockdown while you angrily tell him to lift a plating panel. And you’re tearing loose a strip of medical tape with your teeth to make him grimace, because that’s not what he taught you. “I’m seeing an internal leak that needs to be dealt with,” Flatline mutters, watching you taping a line with quick, angry movements.

• “Lots of people have commitment issues,” you say, giving him a dismissive look. “It would have been nice if you’d had the balls to just tell me. But then, you don’t have any,” you add, brows lifting at him as his optics narrow. When did you get so fragging sassy? You’d been scared of your own shadow when he’d left you here. Rumbling as he glances at the medic, Lockdown’s jaw works. ‘You an expert on Cybertronian anatomy now? You two fragging?” He asks, trying to sound like it doesn’t matter. Like he doesn’t want to lunge for the medic and rip his throat out with his denta.

• “What do you care?” You snap, hating that maybe you take a tiny bit of satisfaction in the idea that he might care. “I’m nothing to you. Remember?” You demand, hating that dull ache. That even though you’re with Flatline and happy, you still miss Lockdown. Miss his attitude and snark. ‘I never said that,’ he growls as you tape another bleed and turn your back on him. “I’ll need your hands for that internal bleed,” Flatline says before you can stalk away to hide until Lockdown leaves. “It’s severe,” the medic adds and you turn to look up at the bounty hunter as worry whispers through you. ‘I’ve had worse,’ Lockdown mutters and you finally register how drawn his expression is, that he’s in pain. Swearing softly, you wrap your arms around yourself.

• Growling as his wings tremble at the sensation of you tangling in him, he’s dimly aware of Flatline muttering that he didn’t mean to do this in his Medbay. Ignoring the medic as he greedily pulls the warmth and light of you into himself, he sifts through you to feel your emotions and memories drifting through him. And you make a soft noise, body trembling as you arch into him, your mouth opening against his jaw. Rumbling as he finds the new spark tangled inside you, he’s dimly aware that he has no idea what to do now. Flatline said to take the spark, but when he tries, it just drifts through him like you do. Feeling you shivering against him, his mouth skims your neck. “I feel it, but I can’t take it,” he growls against your skin, feeling your hands smoothing against his chassis as your legs wrap around him.

• Suddenly aware of the new spark when he keeps trying to take it, you’re resisting him as that exhaustion that’s been plaguing you falls away. And as soon as he brought your awareness to that fragile light, your focus had narrowed to it. “If you’ll stop that, I need to run more tests,” Flatline is saying as you tremble against Skywarp, a thigh sliding against his hip. ‘It’s mine,’ you growl possessively, teeth grazing Skywarp’s chin. “I can’t run tests while you’re doing that.” Feeling his memories sparking through you, it’s hard to pay attention to what the medic is going on about. Hard to focus on anything besides the fact that you want Skywarp. ‘He said I need it,’ Skywarp counters, voice roughening.

• Plating heating as you squirm against him, he’s venting raggedly as you move against him. Knees hitting the berth as his mouth slides against your jaw and cheek, he growls. Had forgotten how it felt to have you tangled in him, your memories spilling into him. The intimacy of it almost frightening even as it’s exhilarating. “It’s mine,” you insist and his mouth covers yours, hands on your butt as you keep moving restlessly against him. ‘Tests? Remember? I need to run tests,’ the medic is grumbling as he walks away.

• Startling when Flatline douses you both with water, Skywarp’s wings flare out aggressively as you sputter and lean back, accidentally severing the connection with his spark to make you shudder. “I’m glad you’re feeling better, but please wait until you’re back in your habsuite, or just anywhere that’s not my Medbay to do that,” he’s muttering as Skywarp growls, righting his plating to hide his spark. Blinking owlishly at the medic, embarrassment lifts through you. And you rest your head against Skywarp’s chassis as the medic starts opening drawers. “I’m guessing we’re going the non-traditionally sparked route,” he mutters as you try not to laugh because the medic had dumped water on you both like a couple of cats. Though to be fair, you’re pretty sure you wouldn’t have stopped otherwise. But then you’re realizing what he just said as your head lifts. Non-traditionally sparked?