#transformers headcanons

[3ic95id864pg]

Metal cardbot 💥💙🚓

[michaela-o]

Liar

[itztheebrybry]

I love doing stupid draws like this.

[classjezter]

Okay I know this is a common meme but… DO sparklings have the new car smell?

100%

[two-tonexiptr]

My human from the pit

You know the "my cat from hell" tv series where the cat whisperer helps all of these "bad/menace/evil" cats and discovers that like 80% of the time they are lacking privacy or enrichment? I love imagining any form of AU or situation where this happens with humans on cybertron, just humans being feral and big robots being sad and then working it out:

--- Human: *keeps running in circles, climbing things they shouldn't climb, repeatedly pushing their body off the ground and back on it?!, jumping in containers of water and flailing about, ect* Cybertronian (Distraught): "I just dont know whats wrong, please tell me they dont have a brain tumor!!!" Another cybertonian, the human whisperer: "See, humans were persistence hunters, meaning they require a certain amount of exercise: not only for entertainment but to stay in shape. I think your homework will be to give them some way of releasing that energy in a safe way " Cut to the human the next week with a comically large exercise room the size of an actual gym with swings, an olympic ropes course, a pool, a rock climbing wall, a vaulting pole, and weights. The person is having a fricking blast The next clip is the cybertonian looking to the camera with the (exhausted, sweaty, but very happy) human slumped in their servos "Thank you human whisperer, me and the human have been on way better terms ever since we took your advice!" --- (In tv dramatic voice) Next time on... my human from the pit Cybertronian: "I dont know why, they keep on finding sharp objects to attack me, squirming, throwing things at me! its like they are possessed!!" Then it shows a clip of the human, yelling profanities, and throwing anything it can lift near it at the cybertronian as they try to pick it up (Its revealed the cybertronian was holding them wrong and moving them too abruptly, the human whisperer teaches them how to move slower and to hold their palm out flat: to which the human just casualy plops themself down)

[this post isnt only for transformers!! i need more reality tv headcanons!!! send them my way if you wish using the #my human from the pit tag! aka my last tag on this post im CONTENT STARVED]

[hoiststowline]

_jetfire x reader

neutral party Jetfire hasn't gathered the courage to approach Autobot territory, but has finally accepted that returning to the Decepticons is no longer an option. he spends a lot of time in solitude, a sense of being tugged in two separate directions overwhelming him to the point of supposing that it may be best to remain impartial. it would be an outright lie to say he enjoyed the isolation, but as many things do, his desertion came with a price. it's hard to decipher what one truly wants when faced with an ultimatum, yet somewhere deep in his chassis, he knew what he truly desired when he parted ways so tersely ago.

it's all but confirmed when you enter his desolate picture. terrified at first, rightfully so, and after a first interaction Jetfire would rather forget, you don't return to his company for a good week. his voice box had been hitched from disuse, a garbled mess in the beginning that horrified you even more alongside his pleas that he wouldn't hurt you. for some reason he hasn't been able to inquire you of yet, you come back, a second, and then a third time- enough that he finds himself in a struggle to get through hours alone when he had been so accustomed to it prior. you arrive with a smile, always asking him how his day was first, even if you're the one who interacted the outside world today, not him. your morale and compassion is admirable, enough that it's become futile to try and disregard the overprotectiveness Jetfire possess when it comes to you.

perhaps the first time it caught him off guard was when you had tripped over something he had left lying around, a bout of fear rising well beyond his chassis and upward into his throat. immediately, albeit fully aware of his ungracefulness and looming shadow, he comes to his knees to ask if you were alright. a servo had met you halfway, still scared to touch you, but it was a natural reaction to offer you assistance. you're downright embarrassed, trying to fight the redness that coats the tips of your ears and the apples of your cheeks, yet Jetfire thinks you're truly hurt. his servo falters, dropping a few more inches in the air, and without thinking you place your palm atop one of his digits, coming to your feet on wobbly knees. eventually, you regain your balance, entirely unharmed.

unbeknownst to you, Jetfire is frozen in place, mesmerized and simultaneously panicked at how small your hand is. organics are delicate but incredibly resilient in general, and he's seen your hands about a hundred times by this point in time. however, it's the first instance where your warm palm has made contact with his chilly plating, touch hardly detectable to his sensitive sensors. it's rendered him not only speechless, but frightened to even move an centimeter, not wanting to hurt you further, but feeling that he doesn't deserve this gentleness from you.

you had thanked him, as kindly and genuinely as your usual self, and carefully pulled your hand away from his. it wasn't a quick motion, slow and purposeful as if you were hesitant to remove it in the first place. it crosses your mind briefly if Jetfire realizes how overly cautious and empathetic he is, but it also persists that this was the first time the both of you made physical contact. perchance he wasn't offering his assistance to help you up, so instead, you freeze, tilting your head back with a embarrassed look on your face, stumbling over once easy words, an apology heavy on your tongue.

quietly, he lowers the same servo even more, this time, making it fully obvious he was extending his hand to you. "What are you apologizing for? No need." he hums, delighted to find that you understand his silent request. delicately, a single digit hooks under your hand, your palm curving over the angle of his touch. his thumb then ghosts over your fingers, not quite courageous enough to hold your hand in it's entirety, but settling nearby with distracted hopes that you would discern his double meaning.

Jetfire is awarded graciously when your free hand then comes to rest atop the other, solidifying that you had zero intentions of reeling back any time soon. he knows that he hasn't earned this, but he's certain that your impossibly tiny touch was satisfying years of seclusion and indecision, confirming that he truly had made the right choice.

[smallestapplin]

What if the Cybertronians saw the reader drinking blue gatorade and thought it was Energon.

I went with Prowl headcanons, he doesnt get enough love.

-

-

- Energon is known, at least to the autobots on Earth, to be toxic to human, Ratchet stressed after an accident that no human companion of theirs should be exposed to it for too long and to never ingest it for it could at minium do serious harm, but more likely kill their little human.

- Prowl does not mind you always bothering him as he works, he’s grown use to you and your antics making it easier to block you out or at least still get things done. So when you walk into his office, greeting him as always, he doesn’t look away from his data pad as he greets you in return.

- You climb up his desk (with the stairs he absolutely did not build in so you could climb up it safer) and sit near his servos.

- You chat with him with ease, asking about his day which he tells you little about, but he’s still nice to be with.

- Bright blue catches his attention off the corner of his optics, he almost assumed you brought him the worlds smallest Energon cube, until he turns his head and sees you drinking it. His optics widen a fraction and before you know it you’re being yanked into the air, you bottle falling from your hands spilling the liquid all over his desk, but he doesn’t care.

- You ask him what’s wrong but he doesn’t even answer you as he’s speeding out of his office, swiftly transforming making your head spin as you find yourself in the passenger seat. His sirens blaring as he drives, speeding down the hall making any autobot jump to the side to get out of his way.

- “Prowl, what’s going on!?”

- “You are a fragging idiot! We can make it to Ratchet, I won’t let you offline.”

- You’re so confused. Prowl slams on his brakes as he bursts through the medbay doors, gaining the attention of a newly pissed off Racteht, before transforming once more, this time holding you out to the medbot.

- “They drank energon!”

- And like that Ratchet is taking you, setting you on the medical berth and hooking so many things up to you as he’s loudly scolding you for even touching energon. But you can’t remember drinking energon, you didn’t have any! The only time you’re even near it is when you’re around them as they drink it.

- Prowl and Ratchet talk amongst themselves, though it’s clear they are both worried. Ratchet is not trained to handle humans, your bodies are so much more fragile and complex than he studied for. It takes Prowl telling Ratchet the story for it to finally click in your head.

“That wasn’t energon, that was a Gatorade!”

The two bots look at you, optics narrowed, squinting at you in suspicion.

“Aren’t gators those lizard things you spoke of with the powerful bite force? Why would they need aid?” Prowl questions, crossing his arms over his chassis.

“And why would you be drinking it?” Ratchet follows up.

You have to pull up your phone to look it up in bigger words to get it through their processors that you really are fine, it was just a tasty drink! Though it doesn’t help the two bots groans, shaking their helms and muttering something humans being weird, and making odd scrap as always.

But as Prowl holds you in his servo as you two leave the medbay, he looks at you with a stern expression.

“Don’t you ever do that to me again, understood?”

You have to fight back a smile, knowing how worried he must’ve been, “I promise Prowl, I’ll make sure to let you know what I got before hand.”

He’s a worry wot, give him a break.

[eridanus-01]

I'm so happy with how it's turning out

[dailymothanon]

I wonder if how Soundwave’s original toy being named CassetteMan so it possibly being his original name is kinda embarrassing to him 😔 so incredibly on the nose it’s like Optimus being named TruckBoy… it’s the worst day of his life all because he decided to let these two morons know about it 🙄 and you know those two would never let it go smh

[yandere-wishes]

⚙︎ Just same quick Yandere Transformers One thoughts

Imagine Sentinal Prime taking you as his darling. It's so easy for him to make you disappear, to erase you from a semi-functional world. He snaps his fingers and you're kneeling before him, optics wide in fear, servos bound behind you. All Cybertron runs through his digits, and you little girl should be utterly honored to have caught his optic.

He colors you in the richest of paints, upgrades you with the newest enhancements in all of Cybertron.

Reconstructed as the perfect doll, sitting pretty in his lap as his golden wings gently caress your back. Maybe if you're particularly feisty, rebellious, and tenacious he'll even remove your T-cog. Making you watch as he crushes your metallic organ in his fist.

"Don't forget your place, my dear. Don't make me remind you again"

Sentinal always has you propped up pretty on his lap. Trailing his fingers over your arms and thighs. Half-heartedly tracing stars and swirls as he's forced to listen to Cybertron's newest developments and his latest orders. The senate's conversations are unfiltered, they peel away the senator's golden facades leaving only the monstrous truth. Sentinel especially is the wickedest of all. Diabolic traitor playing king-prophet. You fight the urge to sink your teeth into him, biting and ridding until only scrap remains...

But the truth is too brittle. You have no power, no strength compared to him. And you're too terrified of Sentinal's punishments to step out of line.

Sometimes when the conversations get too grotesque to drown out, your desperate optics weave to an open window, peering helplessly at a world that's forgotten you. It's usually Senital's cold lips that melt away the melancholy trance. Reawaking you into your nightmare...

── .✦⋆˚☆˖°⋆｡° ✮˖ ࣪ ⊹⋆.˚ ✦ . ──

Imagine D-16 finding you as he's defeating Sentinal. You look so bruised and battered, so broken. Maybe he knew you once, a transformer who was always sweet and kind to the miners. Maybe it's the look of utter despair and hopelessness in your optics that catches his attention. Almost like a mirror of his pain. His servos itch to wrap around your neck, to crush wires and circuits, to eliminate anything that Sentinal has ever held dear.

But he can't...

His broken spark screams in pity. You're just another helpless bot trapped in Sentinel's web of deceit. He saves you for himself, a shivered war prize he's convinced he can fix. He makes plans to seek out Solus Prime's T-cog to lay within your chest. He wonders if Megatronus would approve.

But it doesn't end that way now, does it?

Destiny is too cruel for such fragile hopes.

⛧°。 ⋆༺★༻⋆。 °⛧

Alternatively, Maybe Orian is the one to find you, sacred confused, and utterly alone. He's so eager to lend a helping hand. Wanting so badly to wrap you in his arms, to give you warmth and hope. He plucks you away from Sentinal's tarnished castle. Pulling you away into a life that tastest of saccharine daydreams and sugar-laced optimism.

And Orian -or rather Optimus- is perfect, sweet and loving, and hopeful...

But he's also tasted loss and duplicity. Bitter truths leading to his jaded obsession. He's so careful with you always having a servo on your hip, always listening to every conversation. He can't have this fragile world hurt you again. He needs to protect you from everything at every cost.

Sometimes when your body is curled next to him recharging peacefully. He'll reminisce about the other Primes, wonder if they've ever felt such a love that bites so sharply at the spark. He wonders if he can really make Cybertron the perfect world for you...

[3ic95id864pg]

Thundercracker [Twitter:@percivore]

[michaela-o]

Here’s my take on this ☺️🧡

[niiwa-angel]

"Optimus doesn't take time off because he's too self sacrificing"

Wrong!

Optimus can't take time off because he knows the second he isn't white knuckling the riens, Elita-One, Ironhide, Jazz, and Prowl are going scorched Earth on the Decepticons. It will end the war but it may also classify as a total annihilation.

Optimus, sleeping slightly deeper than he usually would: 😴

Prowl: Optimus is out of commission, I am now in charge. Elita, break out those plans we told him we didn't make, Ironhide, ready the acid bombs, Jazz, grab us a jet. We're ending this war tonight.

Elita "the ends can justify the means" One: You know, I don't think we've properly considered the elegance of germ warfare. We wouldn't even have to get our hands dirty.

Ironhide "I'm just showing him my cannons" the Weapons expert: That'll take too long. Nukes, that's the best way to go.

Jazz "I lead the most lethal fighters on this team" the Spy: We've got one shot, I can sneak in and stash some explosives in their barracks, they'll never catch me. Blow their whole base sky high.

Optimus, waking up in just the nick of time: I am begging you to stand down!

Ironhide: Told you we should have slipped a sedative in his high grade.

~~~~

Optimus, literally fighting to get out of the Medbay: You don't understand! They're plotting!

Ratchet: You have a broken leg and a head injury, sit your ass down!!

First Aid, who's been secretly trying to help the four of them end this thing: I'll grab a sedative. He may need a week of bedrest.

Meanwhile

Elita-one: Now, I did some research and did you know that half of our war crimes aren't considered war crimes on this planet?

Jazz: Fascinating. What a creative group.

Prowl: Indeed. And Optimus does want us abiding by the laws of this planet.

Ironhide, nodding along: He does.

Prowl: Whelp! Gotta follow orders obey the laws of this planet. It's not a war crime here, Jazz, get the rust bombs.

[classjezter]

What is the max amount of sparkling can a bot carry at once

Most carriers typically carry just one sparkling, though 2 or 3 are common enough, especially in certain frame types. Carrying four is rare and considered risky, but manageable with close monitoring and proper care. Five is generally seen as the upper limit; it’s extremely dangerous, and most medics recommend removing at least one to protect the carrier. Anything beyond that poses too high a mortality risk for the carrier, and medical intervention to reduce the number of sparks becomes necessary.

[doctorsilverhead]

Hello. I really like your stories. You can write something with Optimus Prime Bay, please? Thank you very much in advance. :)

Between Metal and Mayhem (Bayverse Optimus X Human Reader) Oneshot!

Summary: You’re a street racer, living life in the fast lane, until a mysterious semi-truck (Optimus) ends up in your garage with battle damage. You patch him up without knowing who he really is—until the Autobots come knocking.

Warnings: none.

Word limit: 718 words

The first time you saw him, he was half-dead on wheels.

A massive red and blue semi-truck, battle-scarred, barely holding together, rolled into your garage at two in the damn morning. You’d been working late, tinkering with your prized ride—a matte black beast of a car—when you heard the sputtering engine outside. The truck looked like it had been through hell: deep gashes in the plating, shattered windows, and one side dented like it had taken a direct hit from a wrecking ball.

"Whoa," you muttered, circling the vehicle. "You get into a fight with a freight train?"

Silence.

You frowned. No driver in sight. Odd, but you’d dealt with stranger. The city’s underground racing scene wasn’t exactly known for law-abiding citizens, and you’d had your fair share of mystery clients before.

Sighing, you grabbed your tools. "Alright, big guy. Let’s get you fixed up."

A week later, your garage was starting to feel… watched. Maybe it was paranoia, or maybe it was the sentient truck you’d unknowingly adopted.

You didn't know Optimus was listening when you got into an argument with your least favorite racer, Joshua. The guy was all ego, no skill, and he had a bad habit of running his mouth.

"You’re seriously entering the next race?" Joshua scoffed, arms crossed. "Please. The only thing you’re good at is talking big."

You leaned against your car, smirking. "You’re right, I do talk big," you admitted. "But at least I can back it up. You, on the other hand? Last time we raced, you wiped out so hard I thought you were auditioning for a Fast & Furious crash scene." Joshua his pride taken down, exited from your garage muttering some curse words.

A low chuckle rumbled from behind you.

You turned, heart skipping a beat.

Optimus had been silent this whole time, parked like an ordinary truck, but now… he laughed?

"You find this funny, huh?" you mused, running a hand over his hood.

"If confidence is measured in words, you would be unmatched," Optimus rumbled, his deep voice nearly making you jump out of your skin.

You stumbled back. "WHAT THE—"

Optimus just sighed. "We need to talk."

So, yeah. Turns out, your truck was an alien. And now, his alien war was your problem.

The Decepticons came looking for him two nights later.

You were out testing your car when the first explosion rocked the street. A sleek, black Decepticon with glowing red optics skidded into view, gunning straight for you.

"Shit, shit, shit!" You swerved, tires screeching, narrowly avoiding a blast that took out a lamppost.

"Get clear!" Optimus' voice boomed through your earpiece.

"Kind of trying here, boss-bot!" You yanked the wheel, cutting down a narrow alleyway. The Decepticon followed, but it was a mistake—you knew these streets better than anyone.

"Let’s see how well you handle corners," you muttered, shifting gears.

You pulled a handbrake turn so sharp it should’ve been illegal, sending the enemy bot skidding into a concrete wall. Before it could recover, a streak of red and blue thundered past you—Optimus, in all his towering, sword-wielding glory.

"You drive like a Cybertronian," he remarked, cutting the Decepticon down with one brutal swing.

"Thanks," you panted. "You fight like a pissed-off gladiator."

"Not inaccurate."

You should have been terrified of him. He was a giant alien robot leading an intergalactic war, and you were just some grease-stained street racer with a death wish. But instead? You found yourself intrigued.

One night, while patching up his plating, you decided to test something.

"You know," you said casually, tapping a wrench against his side, "for a guy with a war record longer than my grocery list, you’re pretty easy on the eyes."

Optimus didn’t react immediately. You figured he'd either ignore it or give you some wise, noble response. Instead, he tilted his head, optics glowing in amusement.

"I could say the same about you," he said smoothly.

You blinked. "Wait. Hold on. Did you just—did you just--?"

He chuckled, low and deep. "Merely an observation."

You pointed at him, grinning. "You so did...flirt. Don’t think I won’t remember this, Prime."

"I would be disappointed if you didn’t."

Oh. Oh, you were in trouble.

[hoiststowline]

the summer crowd was vastly different than the regulars you're accustomed to, finding immense difficulty to keep up with new faces and names when they're exchanged, if at all. if only to make your life easier, you try, eyes skimming the room when it becomes almost impossible to move around, the weekends holding firm to the college horde. you don't think you've ever made so many shots in such a short time frame, yet auto pilot kicked kicks in a little more forcefully than you intend.

with minimal deftness, fingers move on their own volition, eager to hold fast within a rhythm so steady that it causes the clock to move a little faster. this overcrowded room was your first interaction with a rush, lest in the bartending scene, so a clumsiness consumes you, even with an experienced bartender on your left.

suddenly, there was a quiet shift in the tone of the evening, almost imperceptible at first. it began as the crowd had started to thin, somewhere between one or two in the morning, a tall stranger slipping through the door without so much as a sound. your co-worker's side of the bar is full still, mostly of their regulars, yet yours remains sparse. not that you could find it in you to particularly care, fingers wound around a dirty rag as you scrub the sticky counter.

rather smoothly, the man catches your eyes, fingers finding the brim of his unmarked baseball cap to nod your way, a simple greeting. he's got a charming smile, one you fumble to return, alongside the wave of your fingers in a hello. he enters alone, never looking around the room or toward the door as if he was waiting for someone to join him. effortlessly, he takes the stool right to your left, not quite in front of you, but close enough.

upon your greeting, he had asked you what your favorite beer was, something that typically doesn't happen in a bar full of dirty martinis and green tea shots. it had taken you a second to gather your thoughts, caught off guard before ultimately pouring him a draft, your favorite local pour. you can feel an undeniable rosy hue arise to your cheeks as he watches you carefully, dare you say a hint of awe adhered to his face, but that could be misplaced.

freely, he grabs and seizes attention throughout the night, nursing the same beer you’d given him just after he arrived. from the short interaction, the blonde man behaved like a gentleman, thanking you politely in a deep southern accent before staring at the contents of the stein intently.

you never gathered the courage to ask his name that first night, but you had gathered a few things from the quiet man. he was an observer, blue eyes moving around the room but never lingering on anyone for too long, surveying the bars content with some delight, a radiating happiness permeating from him. though, you’d noticed he’d hardly touched his beer, causing a twinge of confusion and guilt to settle within your chest. perhaps he didn’t like it, and your choice didn’t suit his expectations, but every time your lips parted to ask if he wanted something else, another patron called your attention.

it’s around two in the morning that he leaves a eerily crisp twenty on the counter, tipping his hat to you once more.

“G’night,” he'd drawled, freckles prominent under the soft lights from the tv’s overhead. “Appreciate yer kindness, y/n.”

suddenly, your mouth goes dry, stumbling over a reply. “Get home safe.” you scrounge, fingers raising to ghost over your name tag, partially forgetting you’d ever put it on in the first place.

he returns the same time the following day, and once more your curiosity consumes you. as unassuming as you can, you peer just past the glass door to find a deep olive jeep wrangler, a silver star adorning the passenger door, some mud caked on the tires, likely from the earlier rain. he steps from the vehicle, brown work boots hitting the concrete before making his way across the parking lot, head on a cautious swivel.

the same as the night before, his posture stayed formal, yet his fingers slide in the front pockets of his jeans. as the door opens, you busy yourself with nothing in particular, doing your best to appear nonchalant as he slips into the same stool as the night before..

"Evening, y/n," he smiles warmly. "How's your day goin'?"

briefly, your heart skips a beat, suddenly remembering your name tag was most definitely sitting in the cupholder of your car. he went out of his way this time, and the least you can do is return the favor.

"Evening," you hum, forcing your posture to relax. "So far so good. How was your day...?"

he chuckles, eyes almost alight. "That's what ah like to hear," he rumbles, leaning forward an inch. "All good. Friends call me Hound."

he stares at you earnestly, as if he expected a certain reaction at his revelation. though unconventional, the crucial part to that was he said his friends call him that, surely bypassing some formalities between the two of you.

"Glad to hear it, Hound." you reply, a genuine smile unable to leave your face. "What are we having today?"

"I never caught the name of it," Hound breathes, arms resting atop the bar casually. "But whatever ya poured yesterday. Yer favorite,"

his shoulders sag briefly when you return a look of confusion, brows furrowed. "I thought-" you start, but promptly shake your head to dismiss the notion. "Nevermind. Sure, be right back."

you turn to grab the glass from the shelf behind you, still feeling Hound's eyes as you move behind the bar. he isn't checking you out, he's surveying your hands and the other many bottles along the wall, curiosity always peaked.

the beer is hardly half poured when Hound speaks again, an additional cheery twinge to his words. "'M a lil new 'round here, y/n. You have any recommendations fer some stuff to do?"

"Such as?" you inquire, pulling the glass from the spout and simultaneously grabbing a coaster, setting the beer in front of him. "Not to burst your bubble, but unfortunately, here is kinda the middle of nowhere."

"Thank you." he says, another award-winning smile send your way. "And, ah don't mind about that. Jus' wanted to hear what you like to do fer fun."

"Me?" you respond, dumfounded once more. "How about I put together a list, and I can send it your way the next time I see you."

Hound's entire face somehow brightens even more, fingers holding the glass placidly, yet still never taking a sip. "I'd appreciate that, a lot. Deal."

[a/n: this has been in the drafts for a whilee. i've been putting off polishing it up, but I'll leave it here so maybe eventually a part two :) i love this trope, could not help myself!]