I Made This For That Thing I Wrote. Pick The Color You Like Best.

I made this for that thing I wrote. Pick the color you like best.

Lol I only colored one thing

TFA memes part 2! Some are general and some are POV you live in the one city in America that has giant alien robots duking it out in the middle of downtown.

Truce AU/ceasefire AU (or just an AU where the Cons have to be civil with Team Prime to survive some obscure writer’s block threat) and Blitzwing gets a crack in his under wing that stretches too far for it to be safely used.

He’s out of commission, until Ratchet can get to his location. When he does, he barks orders at the other Cons and anyone in his way to give him space and secure the area.

It feels like a lot of fuss to Blitzwing, but he bites his glossa about saying so.

Ratchet has him lay on his stomach, using his arms to pillow his face so he can watch Ratchet work on his extended wing. Watching the medicbot lift it in his careful servos from underneath its shadow.

Ratchet’s gentle- he stops working anytime he feels Blitzwing tense. Tentative scarlet optics betraying nothing.... but Ratchet knows better.

It’s throwing Blitzwing for a loop, all this worrying....

Decepticon medics wouldn’t tolerate anything more than a few twitches and pained shudders from an injured bot- having to provide resources to the masses of war frames without proper conditions to treat them, and especially without proper resources. Taking their time, looking for signs of discomfort, slowing down or stopping if their patient isn’t at least to the point of passing out.... all unheard of.

Ratchet stops again to pat his side, making Blitzwing flinch.

“Ok, kid. This parts gonna hurt, so feel free to tell me allll about it, as loud as you want.”

Ratchet checks his work over first, granting him those few precious kliks before the misery to come. Glancing at Blitzwing’s confused face one final time, then retrieving his welder.

Blitzwing doesn’t lash out, despite the obvious burn in his chassis.

“You’re doing great, by the way.” Ratchet hums, physically feeling the need to ease the ache *somehow*. The Con’s doing amazing, even, considering the rawness and lack of sensor blockers Ratchet’s having to work with.

Blitzwing stays absolutely still, so as not to bother Ratchet any further beyond all the effort he’s expended on him. But damn the pits and back again, it *hurts*. It hurts...

He buries his helm into his arms and waits there for it to be over. Vaguely aware of the bug bot’s EM field prickling and surging from where he watches on jittery pedes with his teammates.

Finally, the welder pulls away, followed by a warm servo offering another reassuring pat. This one lingers.

He receives Ratchet and Megatron’s approval that he’ll recover after a solar cycle of proper rest. As if any of them can afford that right now.

It isn’t until Ratchet checks up on him later, poking around his wing and lifting it to test whether his hinges are taking the weight of the injury well enough to fly so soon that Blitzwing thanks him for.... his kindness. His civility. His respect and care. Confusing as it all is.

“Bah. Don’t bother thanking me, you’ll get yourself in medbay before my work will’a paid off anyway. Reckless bunch a brutes.”

Which wasn’t true, as thus far, the Cons had been substantially more suited for keeping themselves out of stupid mishaps compared to the bug bot and Bulkhead. And Prowl, by seemingly continuous bad cosmic luck.

Then Ratchet smooths a servo down his good wing, wearing a somber look as he turns tired optics on Blitzwing’s wide ones at the contact.

“Just don’t do anything to yourself I can’t fix. I’m your medic now, but I’m not a miracle worker.”

He doesn’t say how it’d be beyond him to fix Bee’s processor, if something fatal ever happened to the Lieutenant. Or that he’s already put his much work into showing a ‘brutish’ war frame the care he honestly deserves for looking out for Ratchet and his own. This is all very new and all very sensitive for everybot right now, and Ratchet’s not ready to give any of those troubling thoughts life just yet, much less voice them.

“My...medic?”

Ratchet blinks for a moment, trying to connect the importance of that bit in particular to Blitzwing. He hadn’t gotten wise with age by hiding his helm in his servos all this time. It makes sense all the sudden that’s be the thing the war frame focuses on (Unfortunately, as Ratchet really, *really* hates having to be obvious about his concerns for others).

“Yeah, kid.” He snaps, hands on his hips and glaring accusingly.

“You’re one of ours now, however long this peace slag lasts for, so I’m in charge of your bonkers aft. Don’t make me use restraints on you in the future.”

Blitzwing understands defensive language much, much better than soft touches and careful words, and something shifts and fills and *burns* deep in his chassis.

He understands, then, that he’s going to learn to speak through tenderness, too, because he’s one of *their’s* now. One of Rathcet’s.

—- ——

✨anytime after when Blitzwing gets a minor scratch, he dutifully sits very still for Ratchet to buff it out and just basks in all the affection.

Also when anyone he cares about gets hurt, he goes full frantic getting them to the angry, tender medic man, Ratchet, because he knows Ratchet will dote on them in his rude, brackish way just for being Blitzwing’s comrade. Because he CARES ABOUT HIS TRIPLE CHANGER FOOL FRIEND, AND HE’S BLITZ’S ADOPTED DEN MOTHER

(watch me coddle a poor baby war machine)

obsessed w this bastard rn

Them…

✨Optimus asking Prowl for advice on how to write Megatron suitable poetry. Not even romantic or cathartic, just something ‘more suitable’ than “Every time I see you, I think about my favorite datapads.”

Like “Prowl, WHAT DOES THAT MEAN?! It’s true, but I shouldn’t say it!”

Prowl realizes how far gone he is by that statement alone.

“Suitable? It’s expressive literature- you’re appealing to opinion and emotion. This isn’t a test.”

Optimus jolts and makes a move like he’s about to reel him in by the shoulders.

“So you know how to write this stuff?!”

“.... I don’t practice it, I just muse on it when the inspiration strikes... and all in passing thought. I have nothing recorded to draw from. Nothing you’ll find useful.

Optimus’ audial fins dip low. Optics wide.

Looking like a lost puppy in the headlights of a barreling semi is enough of a disturbing look on his leader to convince Prowl to quickly reassure him they could try pushing him through some sort of ‘lesson’ on the matter. All unofficial, of course, and all very much just Optimus feeling like it’s out of his range of understanding and terribly pointless to try.

Well, he understands the purpose of poetry, and his own intent in the chaotic ‘pieces’ he’d wrote to send his respective associate (which thank Primus he’d asked for advice before sending that hot mess).

Prowl explains that he means to tell Megatron the other mech reminds him of his favorite pleasures in life, because Megatron *is* one of those favorite pleasures in life. He finds comfort in Megatron the way he does his favorite datapads.

Great, simple enough. But he hasn’t managed to put that into words even remotely poetic.

“So write it out like that. Like a report... on your... feelings.” Prowl hopes that’s decent advice. He’d use it if the situations were reversed, because inaction is far worse than looking like an abysmal slaghead about writing poetry of all things.

Optimus shares this sentiment at least, but...

“True, but... H- he just keeps sending me these.... beautiful, well written... Um... I just want to give him something... *good*... because he’s so good at this... and....”

Prowl sighs and hangs his helm. His Prime is worse than their resident troublemaking minibot somehow.

—— —- -

Megatron wasn’t actually expecting reciprocation in this form. He was more than happy to express his interest- his affections, to be blatantly honest with himself- to the little prime without receiving the same in kind. Mostly because.... well, Optimus was substantially less theatrical than himself. ‘Dramatic’, Strika grunted on several occasions prior.

And that was more than fine- Optimus Prime wasn’t meant to be anything but himself in order for Megatron to love him.

And then, the afternoon following the latest piece of amorous declarations he’d sent his way, the ex-war lord received a message that wasn’t just conflicting Energon regulations or complaints about Blitzwing using boxcars for target practice too close to human habitats.

This message was....

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

//-/Optimus Prime to Lord Megatron:

///In regards to your works presented biweekly, assigned exclusively to my reading, I have prepared a response. Though significantly less capable of expressing my thoughts in the same effect, this is an address to you in full. Please read with the sender’s confidentiality in mind. Thank you.

“My time with you is too short. We talk for hours, until the stars come out, and I’m missing another night of essential recharge, but still I find our interactions limited.

I’ve recently discovered that spending time with you, as restricted as I feel it may be, is infinitely more rewarding than my time spent any other way, in any other company.

We greet each other in passing, when our busy schedules allow, and those insignificant moments seem to fill me as substantially as our intended meetings do- even the ones that leave me exhausted from the day, yet fawning in the privacy of my own room later when recalling your companionship, I’ve noticed that the barest of your attentions satiate my need for your closeness all the same.

Any time I’m with you, I think about my favorite datapads. I imagine myself at my old desk with those obscure fictional writings I find so much joy in reading, despite knowing them practically word for word. Resting heavy in my palms.

Your hand always feels heavy in my own in that same familiar, calming way- even still, heavier. A weight that settles in mine and gives only at your whim. You are so much to hold tight to, and I find myself able to at all, because of your subtle efforts to tailor yourself to me. I feel like we’re a team in this way. You give me exactly what you know I can handle, and I try to receive as much of you as I can, as gratefully as I can. I hope I don’t fall short.”

//My further, even less sensical elaborations- at the behest of my cohort- are below:

“You’re dark chassis and pleated armor are black as night and shimmers like stars.

Looking into your optics is like reading my precious datapads all over again- it’s something I feel I know thoroughly and yet am happily surprised to find they enthrall me all the same each time. I can never tire indulging these joys, as much as I can never tire of you.”

-Thank you for your consideration. Yours, Optimus Prime.///-/

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

“Oh.... OH MY PRIMUS... T-this is- Hngh!”

Megatron scrambles a servo agaisnt the thrumming of his spark in his chest and practically jams his digits into his commlink.

“S-Strika. Strika, help me.... HELP- I need you to offline me at your earliest convenience. Don’t hang up! I order you to- StriKA, I’LL GIVE YOU A RAISE!”

—- —— —

Bonus is Megatron reciting this to the personnel in his high command, by memory, with wine in hand and treating it like a prepared speech to raise the masses for war. It’s all their problems now, because Strika refused to follow through with their millennia old arrangement to kill him, should he ever wish to spark a petulant little civil frame.