rosalynx03 - Tumblr blog

rosalynx03 · 1 day ago

Text

Hall of Record

SUMMARY – You both don't like Sentinel, that's probably why you two get along (pre-time)

PAIRING – tfo starscream x reader

NOTE – I accidentally deleted the inbox. sorry for that🙏🥲 also can't remember which Starscream you asked for. So I made a sequel instead. sorry again

The vestibule of the Crystal Spire was designed to inspire reverence.

Everything about it—arched ceilings like interlocking wings, polished alloy tiles reflecting the soft glow of Prime-glyphs, air tuned to vibrate faintly with a solemn harmonic hum—screamed “wait quietly and feel insignificant”

You had complied, at first

You sat where aides were meant to sit: not in the center, but near it, just enough to suggest presence without audacity. Your datapad hovered silently beside, its auto-scroll halfway through the fifteenth version of a speech that would never be delivered on time. You’d re-checked it thrice, corrected a typo Alpha Trion had typed on purpose (“to keep you alert” he claimed) and were now idly calculating how many cycles of their life had been sacrificed to ceremonial delays

That’s when the voice dropped in like an elegant knife “He summoned me with the word urgently. That was… three minor tectonic shifts ago”

You looked up

Starscream stood just inside the threshold, arms crossed lightly, wings angled just-so in what could only be called bored martial readiness. His armor gleamed in polished red-silver and trim—not gaudy, but formal. The kind of clean that said “I was born to be looked at and I know it”

“You’re here for Sentinel too?” you asked, feigning surprise

“Unless Vector Prime has suddenly developed a taste for melodrama, yes”

Starscream approached with the gait of someone who had been trained for battlefield grace but had repurposed it into something far more dangerous: elegance laced with sarcasm “He told me it was urgent. That word has no meaning anymore. I think Sentinel just uses it when he wants you to feel guilty for blinking”

You just gestured to the empty space beside them “Join the abandoned”

Starscream sat down—well, not sat, more like lowered himself with performance-grade disdain. He settled his wings carefully, like a peacock folding his pride beneath himself

“Highguard, and now glorified bench ornament” he murmured “A glorious descent”

“If it helps, I’m fairly certain this bench has heard more strategic insight than most command chambers”

Starscream smirked, optics narrowing “A bench never interrupts. A bench doesn’t say ‘let’s circle back’. A bench doesn’t think it’s entitled to a monument for every half-decision”

“Are you referring to Sentinel?”

“I’m referring to every one who’s ever used a twenty-minute story to say no” He tilted his head a little “But yes. Mostly Sentinel”

You relaxed a little more. This wasn’t the first time you’d shared a delay with him, and each time, the Starscream you found was different from what the records suggested. Less self-important, more dry. Less soldier, more survivor with a gift for critique “You’d think for someone who talks so much, he’d eventually run out of things to say”

“He doesn't run out” Starscream sighed “he loops. Like a badly-coded audio file. By the time you realize he’s repeating himself, he’s already declared victory”

You leaned in just slightly “You ever considered breaking protocol and just... walking out?” Starscream gave you a look—mock-horrified “And be vaporized by the weight of Prime disapproval? No thank you. I may be brave, but I’m not suicidal”

They both snorted at that. Quietly. Like two students laughing behind sacred scrolls during a lecture they’d heard ten times before “You’re not what I expected from a Highguard”

Starscream arched a perfect brow “And you speak like a Prime’s scribe but don’t flinch at sarcasm. We all wear masks, darling”

“Mine just has a file index attached”

“And mine’s classified”

There was another silence, but this time, it wasn’t the bored kind. It was the kind that settled between people who got it—whatever it was—and didn’t have to explain themselves further. Somewhere in the distance, a door creaked open and immediately closed again. Probably a decoy

Starscream sighed theatrically “Well, at least if the planet collapses while we’re waiting, we’ll die seated”

“There are worse ways to go”

“Like under one of Sentinel’s monologues”

You almost chuckled at that remark, almost “Remind me to archive this moment. We might need it for morale”

“Make sure you file it under Delayed Diplomacy and the Art of Not Screaming”

The meeting chamber echoed like a canyon full of bureaucracy and ego—Sentinel’s voice bouncing off the walls with the smug inevitability of an avalanche explaining its purpose to a valley. Measured. Smooth. Loud in all the wrong places. He was on his third rhetorical flourish now—something about reconstruction being like the alignment of celestial gears. You stopped listening two metaphors ago, when Sentinel had compared civic trust to photosynthesis

You sat by the main table, stylus in hand, screen glowing in your palm. But the datapad hadn’t captured a single useful point for at least half hours. Instead, it displayed a single, looping phrase written with mechanical calm

Don’t scream. Don’t scream. Don’t scream

It was less a note and more a spiritual chant. A written attempt at not flinging the stylus across the chamber and shouting “Define ‘unity’ without using the word ‘unity’!”

Across the room, Starscream leaned against a pillar like a statue carved from disdain and premium alloys. His wings were tilted back in a posture of supreme detachment—carefully calculated to look effortless. But you caught it—the minute twitch in his left optic, the tell-tale tic of someone questioning their life decisions in real time.

Their optics met. Brief. Dry. Miserable in perfect unison

Incoming message: Starscream

"You’re taking notes?"

You just adjusted the angle of your pad just slightly, revealing the message repeating like an ancient curse. Starscream made a choking sound—somewhere between a laugh and a gasp—then immediately disguised it as a dignified throat-clear. Reader would’ve applauded the acting if they had any energy left to give. Sentinel, oblivious as a comet on rails, kept speaking. Something about foundational reintegration protocols "gliding into place like constellations charted by destiny"

Starscream took that as his cue to sidle closer, each step elegant and illicit, like someone slipping poison into a chalice during a religious sermon

“You must be the most patient being on this entire planet” he murmured, voice pitched like a scandalous secret

You didn’t bother looking up. Just raised a optics ridge “I work with Alpha Trion. I’ve sat through lectures that started before sunrise and ended after philosophy itself gave up.”

Starscream exhaled softly—half impressed, half horrified

“So this is all just… muscle memory to you?”

“Spiritual trauma response, more like”

“Still. You’ve lasted longer than I have, and I’m technically immortal” Their shared look was one of withering solidarity—two burnt-out orbitals circling the same dying star

“He respects you, you know” Starscream said next, optics flicking toward Sentinel with a wry glint “Told me once you temper the tone of his judgment”

You snorted softly, a sound so bitter it could etch metal “Is that what it’s called now? I always thought I was the only thing standing between him and total rhetorical combustion”

“Exactly. You’re like a stabilizer coil for his ego” He paused, mouth curling in amusement that didn’t quite reach his optics “Or maybe a very refined lightning rod”

“Funny. I always assumed you were the lightning rod” You offered a smile thin enough to slice circuitry

Starscream bristled—visibly, wings snapping upward like the feathers of an offended falcon

“Please. I’m the storm. I don’t attract catastrophe—I deliver it in curated bursts”

“Modest, too”

“That’s one vice I never cultivated”

At that moment, Sentinel turned—gesturing toward them mid-sentence with the theatrical flair of someone who absolutely believed his audience was riveted. Neither of them had a clue what he’d just said — Immediately, both straightened, faces settling into masks of attentive professionalism. You looked almost interested. Starscream looked like someone doing an excellent impression of sobriety

Sentinel, of course, continued uninterrupted

Starscream leaned in again, voice softer now, more amused than conspiratorial “You know.. I’ve seen lesser mechs melt down after two kliks with him. Anyone who can sit through this entire speech without leaking coolant should have a statue”

You didn’t miss a beat

“I’ll settle for a nap. Possibly a mild coma”

“Pff. If the Primes don’t canonize you, I will”

“Do I get a halo or just a plaque that reads ‘Martyr of Moderation’?”

“Why not both? Gilded wings, stained glass, a shrine funded by public weeping”

They exchanged another look—this one laced with amusement rather than despair. And maybe—just faintly—a flicker of actual camaraderie. Mutual suffering had welded stranger bonds before

After that brief exchange, it could almost be said that you and he had become… close. Or at least, closer. The reason was painfully simple: the two of you shared a very particular kind of empathy—one with a single, specific name: Sentinel. Yes. You both are tried with that mech. He smiled too much, talked too much, and always managed to make both seem like a virtue

At first, your conversations with Starscream were short—sharp, pointed remarks passed like notes in a forbidden class. They were, inevitably, all about Sentinel. But, somehow, over time, the topic shifted. The insults came less frequently, replaced now and then by dry observations, or comments that weren’t quite complaints. Conversations that… weren’t entirely about gossip. One could even call it development. Or the faint shimmer of something resembling friendship

Starscream, for his part, became a frequent visitor to the Hall of Records—always with a reason. At first, they were plausible. He was there to borrow old tactical archives, he said. For research. For study. And then he’d linger. Just long enough for a few sharp words about Sentinel, and then he’d be gone. Only to return again. Always with a reason

The Hall of Records was always quiet

Not the eerie kind of quiet, nor the brittle hush of tension. Just stillness—the kind that knew its own weight. Ancient. Intentional. Like even the walls were thinking

Starscream didn’t belong there. Not really. This was a space of scholars and scribes, of archivists who measured truth in primary sources and argued over the placement of glyphs. He was a blade. A warrior of the air. Trained to slice through warzones, not scrolls. And yet—he had found himself here again. Not summoned. Not ordered

He wasn’t assigned to anything near this sector. But his wings carried him anyway, with the same sort of ease as when he used to patrol the skies—only now it was polished corridors and soft-glowing archives beneath his step

He told himself it was because the area was peaceful. That the air was better here—cooler, calmer. But he knew better

He always knew better

You was where you always were at a low console near the central atrium, surrounded by softly hovering text-columns and half-folded hologlyphs, digit dancing across script like you were conducting a symphony only you could hear

Starscream paused at the archway, lingering just outside the threshold like a visitor to a shrine. You hadn’t noticed him yet. Not unusual. You got like this��hyperfocused. It was part of what made you tolerable in meetings. Even when surrounded by the most pompous minds on Cybertron, you somehow managed to cut through noise and find the thread of meaning

Starscream didn’t speak. Not immediately. Instead, he watches from a distance—just a moment longer than necessary

The slight furrow between your optics. The absent way you tucked your digit beneath a datapad when lost in thought. The way your mouth moved when you reread something you didn’t quite agree with.The way you tilt your head slightly when concentrating — He’d seen soldiers review combat logs with less intensity

And then, without looking up “You’re here again” A beat. Still no eye contact. Just the calm click of glyphs shifting beneath their hands

“What is it this time? Lost on your way to an ego-polishing ceremony?”

“Charming as ever”

“I try”

The moment he passed the entry arch, the energy field swept over him, verifying his clearance. It always took a fraction longer for him. He was Highguard—technically not bound to this sector, not required to be here unless summoned

“You always look like you’re communing with ghosts in here” You didn’t flinch. Just tapped to pause the scroll, finally glancing his way “If I am, they’re better listeners than most living bots I know”

He gave a low hum—half amused, half... something he couldn’t name

“That includes me?”

“If you want it to”

The seeker stepped in further, arms behind his back like he wasn’t quite sure what to do with them. His wings twitched once—barely noticeable. In another mech, it would mean nothing. But for him, it was a crack in the composure. He leaned against a nearby terminal—deliberately not the one you was using, because leaning too close would be obvious. So he pretended to be interested in a wall display about 13th Prime and the history of arm-mounted documentation scrolls. For six whole seconds

“How long have you worked? with Alpha Trion?” he asked suddenly

You blinked. That wasn't one of his usual jabs “Long enough to memorize how he deflects questions with parables”

“Impressive. I usually skip to the part where I nod and pretend to understand”

“And how long” he added, more lightly “have you been the only one in the building who doesn’t flinch when I show up?”

“Probably since you stopped scaring the archivists on purpose” Starscream gave you a sideways look—something between amusement and a challenge, circling a console like a cat pretending not to want attention “So I was terrifying”

“You were theatrical”

“Same thing”

You turned back to the screen, but there was the faintest twitch at the corner of your mouth. A giveaway. He saw it. Cataloged it. Filed it somewhere between unexpected warmth and probable danger

None of you say anything else

He stood there. Reading. Occasionally making a dry remark, occasionally not making one when he could’ve—choosing, instead, to let the silence sit between them like something living. Breathing. And he realized, somewhere in the back of his mind, that this—this silence—felt nothing like the ones he’d trained to survive. It didn’t weigh him down. It didn’t ask him to prove anything. It just… allowed. He glanced at you again, which weren’t even looking at him

Good, he thought, and wasn’t sure why

Because if they had been—You might’ve seen the flicker of something soft at the edge of his mask. And that wasn’t a war he was ready to name just yet

Eventually, when he learned there was a logbook keeping track of all visitors to the archives, you swore you could smell smoke. Something burning. Something that was almost certainly not part of Starscream’s internal cooling systems working overtime to keep his core temperature down. "How often does Sentinel come here? " He wouldn’t ask. He definitely wouldn’t ask that. It would sound… unprofessional. Too personal.

And yet he noticed the tiny cleaning little drone tucked into the corner of the room. He remembered that it never used to be there before. That had to mean something

Starscream shouldn’t care. He didn’t care. He had no reason to You was capable. Professional. Untouchable, even. And Sentinel? He was just—Sentinel. Predictable. Loud. Ambitious to a fault. The kind of mech who saw people as pieces

“He doesn’t deserve to be near them” Starscream muttered under his breath. Then stopped. Why had he said that? He leaned against a cold pillar outside the Hall, arms folded tight. Watching the faint glow through the archive’s frosted walls It wasn’t just about Sentinel. Not really Lately. It was about how your voice changed ever so slightly when Sentinel was around. How you laughed less. Smiled thinner. Became… smaller somehow — less yourself? And maybe that was what bothered him most — That Sentinel took up so much space, even when he didn’t deserve it. That you let him

“It’s not jealousy” Starscream muttered. As if saying it would make it true “Just concern” Sure. Concern that tightened his chestplates every time he walked in too late. Concern that made him linger in doorways, listening for voices he didn’t want to hear. Concern that had no place in a soldier’s heart, least of all his He exhaled. Vents shivering just slightly

“They deserve better” “They deserve my company” And that was the moment Starscream realized—he might be in trouble

There was something different about the way Starscream entered the Hall of Records that day

He didn’t glide like he usually did—that controlled, weightless drift he favored when he wanted to seem above everything, including gravity. No elegant sweep of wings, no dramatic pause to let the ceiling lighting glint off his plating. No, this time he strode in—sharp-footed, deliberate, like he was walking into a courtroom to deliver closing arguments and maybe strangle the opposing counsel

You noticed it immediately. How could you not? He moved like a stormcloud pretending to be a weather report

“He was here again, wasn’t he?”

The question came without preamble—dry, low, too casual to be innocent

He didn’t bother with pleasantries. Starscream rarely did when his mood soured. And today, his tone carried the brittle edge of someone carefully taping over a cracked vase while denying it ever broke

You didn’t even ask who “he” was, didn’t need to

“For a moment” you replied calmly, not looking up “Dropped off a datapad. Nothing unusual”

“Oh, nothing unusual” Starscream echoed, as if savoring the taste of a word he fully intended to spit out. He came to stand beside you, one servo bracing on the edge of the console—just close enough to loom slightly, just far enough that he could pretend not to be hovering. His claws tapped against the surface. Not idly. In rhythm. Like punctuation for unsaid thoughts

“He stays longer every time” he added, eyes narrowing “Must be due to those exceptionally urgent files only you can decipher”

You said nothing at first, simply continuing to sort scrolls with the calm, methodical care of someone pretending you hadn’t been waiting for this exact conversation all morning

“He’s asking about the structural histories of the lower tiers” you said evenly “It’s academic. Not personal”

“Mmhmm. Of course. I’m sure he leans that close to everyone while consulting architectural records. It’s probably his… scholarly posture” Starscream’s wings flicked sharply behind him—betraying what his voice tried to conceal. He hated how transparent he was around them. His body gave away everything. Always had. You glanced sideways at him—just a flick of the optics

“You seem annoyed”

“Annoyed?” he repeated, too quickly “No, no. Don’t be ridiculous”

He gave a breathy little laugh, dry as static. The kind that didn’t reach his optics “Why would I be? I thrive on being replaced as the regular nuisance in your life”

“If that title matters so much, you should’ve shown up more often”

“I wasn’t aware I was supposed to schedule my dramatic entrances” he snapped, mouth curling “Next time I’ll file a formal request to interrupt your charming little cross-referencing rendezvous”

There it was. The flare of sarcasm like a flare from a jet’s engine—meant to distract, to blind. But you just blinked

“…You’re jealous”

“I’m not jealous” Starscream shot back—instantly, defensively, too fast to be believable even by his own standards.

There was a pause. A long one.

The air between them tightened—not tense, exactly, but warped, like something delicate was bending under the weight of something unspoken. Then, more quietly, more bitterly

“I’m rightfully suspicious”

“Suspicious of what, exactly?”

“Of how quickly he’s managing to dominate your attention with nothing but pomp and an overdesigned chestplate” Starscream crossed his arms, optics flicking toward the exit before snapping back, like he was already planning his next retreat. But he didn’t leave. Not yet.

You smothered a laugh, then failed to hide the smile “He does have very shiny plate” offered innocently.

Starscream scoffed. Loudly “Mm. Yes. Very polished. Very overcompensated. Probably waxed his plating with the tears of lesser intellects”

“Do you monologue like this every time someone uses the hallway?”

“I just thought this was our filing system” he muttered. His voice dropped a note there—not sarcastic, not angry. Just… quieter. Not quite sulking. Not quite joking. Something else. Something uncertain “It still is”

“Then maybe I’ll leave a few bootprints next time” he said “Stake my claim. Mark the territory. Make it clear who was here first”

You tilted your head, amused now “You’re being ridiculous.”

“Yes” he said proudly “But I do it with flair”

“Want a plaque?”

“No”

“Just… maybe a heads-up, next time you plan on loaning out your attention”

His tone was light. But his optics weren’t.

You saw it then—the smallest flicker of something unguarded. Not possessive, exactly. Not romantic, not fully. But something adjacent to it. The kind of ache you don’t name out loud because if you say it, it’ll make it real. And Starscream didn’t want it to be real. Not yet

He straightened with practiced elegance, spun on a heel—and began his exit like a prince dismissed from a court he hadn’t asked to join in the first place. But— He glanced back. Just once. Just long enough to see if you was watching. You were and Starscream? He despised how warm that made him feel. How visible. How stupidly, stupidly seen

And still—

He didn’t look away

#ooo loved the dynamics between reader and starscream #transformers x cybertronian reader

76 notes · View notes

rosalynx03 · 2 days ago

Text

_groove x reader

upon arrival home from work, you've come to expect the familiar sight of your garage light being switched on. how Groove does it entirely undetected still escapes you, but he is partial is to be found sitting up against one of the walls whilst toying around with the old projector set up for your typical Thursday evenings.

when you slip through the interior door, the sound of the creaky hinges captivates his attention all at once. somehow, he's surprised to see you every single time, a charming smile adhering to his expression and remaining there.

"Welcome back!" he hums, setting the projector back atop the small table to his right, immediately opening up his now empty arms to you. "You're a little later than usual, everything okay?"

your bag falls at your feet, ambling down the three steps that lead to the concrete floor of the garage. it doesn't take very long for you to enter his hold, one of his servos cradling your head as the other wraps over your waist. in return, your arms wind around his neck, peppering kisses to the underside of his jaw and across any plating you could reach on the tips of your toes.

"Yes," you reply, mumbling into the crook of his neck. "Sorry. I got a little sidetracked, and didn't realize the time."

"You never have to apologize," Groove affirms, pulling back slightly if only to capture your gaze, searching to see if you were telling the truth.

he'd believe you without second thought, but he's also well aware of your tendency to become vague when it's time to discuss the days events. if you've had a wonderful day, he wants to hear it, and the same goes for a not-so-great one.

"Tell me all about it," Groove murmurs, melting when your palms come to his cheeks, thumbs making comforting motions underneath his visor.

it doesn't take very long for the both of you to settle into your respective spots, atop the blanket and pillow nest you've come to build against the furthest wall. Groove was quicker than his usually impatience to join you at your side, tugging you close as the projector whirs to life at your front.

"What did you pick?" you whisper, freeing ticklish laughter as he leaves a trail of kisses up your arm, ending on your cheek.

"St. Elmo's Fire," he answers, somehow impossibly shuffling closer to your form. Groove has watched this more times than you can count on two hands after viewing it for the first time about seven months ago. you don't know why, every time you ask he just claims that he loves it, and the conversation evidently dies there with no further explanation.

you'd never complain, it is an amazing film, but you'd love to know the symbolism behind it as to why it means so much to him. you would memorize every thing in the world that made him happy, entranced by his enthusiasm and contagious positivity.

tonight, however, he isn't as enthralled by the film as he normally is. he appears preoccupied, and when you come to inquire if everything is alright, he's staring at you.

"Groove?" you mumble, feeling his digits furl a little tighter around your waist, never enough to hurt, but certainly wound enough that there was no escaping. "What's wrong?"

he should be the one asking you that, having been studying the side of your face for the past fifteen minutes, the only aid to be found was the fuzzy light from the projector. you are so beautiful, and once Groove has his processor set on something, it's extremely difficult to get him to divert off the set path.

"Nothing.” he returns, trying his damndest to sound sincere, but the unintentional waver to his voicebox disrupts the truth. "I mean- okay, maybe I'm a little distracted. Er- a lot. I'm a lot distracted."

a twinge of guilt finds him when you try to sit up, attempting to console his crowded processor. he won't allow it, successful in placidly pinning you to the nest of pillows, large servos engulfing your side.

"By?" you query, fingers softly trying to unwind his digits from your waist, but it proves futile.

Groove's has long realized he's deeply in love with you many times before this moment, but hasn't gathered the nerve to actually spill the sentiment quite yet. he's fairly certain you feel the same, but the thought of actually speaking it aloud has him in a consistent nervous frenzy.

he gets caught moderately often studying you, observing your mannerisms and body language with utmost love. he receives an elbow to the gut amongst company, mostly curiosity of Rook, alerting him that he's been at it for an inordinate amount of time.

"Nevermind." Groove hums, settling back against the wall, simultaneously tugging you closer to his side. sensing the look you were giving him, he sends a sweet smile down your way, insistent. "I'm serious. You're just a little distracting, s'all."

melting a little when you laugh lightly, he can't resist swooping down to steal a few kisses from your lips and scattering some across your cheek.

"It's okay," your fingers come to lay atop the back of his servo, a comforting touch. "You're just as distracting, if not more, G."

Groove's laugh is warm and benign, reverberating through his chassis. "Now, I know that's impossible,"

perchance tomorrow, he'd divulge his feelings. for now, though frustrated with himself, he's content with letting this opportunity slip through his digits. some moments are just too perfect to disrupt, thumb drawing mindless shapes over the soft cotton of your pants.

50 notes · View notes