#tranformers idw x reader

[smallestapplin]

helloooo!! can i request idw rung x human fem reader?? just fluff, maybe rung is exhausted from all the sessions and clients, and the reader is just there for him. Kinda like instead of rung giving out therapy, he's receiving therapy lolll

And this makes rung kinda emotional because like i said, he's always the one giving out therapy, and no one ever really cared about him that way

idk if u write for idw though i hope u do😭 have a nice day!

-🍓 anon

Thank you for requesting this, I wanna smother him in love so badly.

No warnings!

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Rung loves to help, the care he feels deeply for all on the ship is immeasurable, like a sire to their sparklings. He just wants to give them the tools to help themselves, to help them out of their depressions, to help manage their moods swings and out bursts.

To show them they aren't alone, and it's okay.

But some days take everything out of him, like learning something new in his clients past that just makes his spark break for them. Rung forgets himself, forgets that he too needs someone to lean on sometimes.

He didn't expect that support to come in the form of the human of the ship.

You knew he'd be back late and yet you still found your way to his habsuite, and stayed up waiting for him. You smile up at him, gentle and kind.

"Welcome back, you look tired, hon. C'mon, you need to lay down and relax."

He's not sure what made him break, your soft voice or your warm expression, but he could feel the fluid leaking down his face plate, fogging his goggles. He moved to you without a second thought, carefully picking you up and holding you close to his face plate as he lays down on his berth.

"I just want to help them."

His quaking voice breaks your heart.

"I know, Rung, I know. You have been doing so well. But you forget to take care of yourself, you can't help everyone if you're too tired." You try to wipe his tears, but there is just too much.

You nuzzle up close to him, offering some comfort to the large bot.

"You need someone to vent to, you need to take those stupidly long hot showers, read something new, you need time for yourself to recover."

When was the last time someone offered such support to him? Been there to let him cry and get it all out?

"You're a kind bot with so much love to give, but recovery isn't all work, you need to stop and just breathe in the moment, feel what you feel, and show it."

He lets out a watery chuckle.

"I know you're right, but I'm not pleased about it."

You playfully huff, "Well, now you just sound like Prowl being proven wrong."

Rung moves to lay on his side, curling around you in the process, keeping you close to him. He takes his fogged goggles off, setting them to the side, letting you see his pretty blue optics, but he looks so tired.

You place a hand on his cheek, rubbing soothing circles across his metal.

"You're a sweet bot, Rung, don't let these trying times ruin your compassion."

You nearly panic at how much he begins to sob, as if you broke the dam that had been cracking for so long, his cries were loud in your ears, but you never wavered in your comfort. You lay against him, kissing the digit of the servo that holds you.

he needs this, he's needed this for so long.

"It's okay, I'll stay by your side, always."

There isn't anything he wouldn't do for the crew, and there isn't a thing you wouldn't do for him. You let him cry as much as he needed until he grew exhausted, growing limp in the oncoming rest cycle.

He spoke up, his voice near a whisper.

"You'll stay here with me...right?"

You worm your way out of his servo and lay down next to his helm, his optics lazily following your every move.

"I'll be here when you wake up, you won't get rid of me that easily."

His smile, though tired, is just as sweet as always.

"Thank you."

"Anything for you."

You watch as his optics slide close, powering down to recharge. You will stay right here with him, right beside him no matter what, he's too kind to be left alone as is.

His berth isn't very comfortable for you, but you will ask for your bed to be moved here if he'd be okay with that.

Ah, you will worry about that in the morning, for now you just want to bask in his presence and enjoy this.

[gxr25256]

Perilous Illusion - Overlord x reader (5)

🌵 Story belongs to PotatooftheLand (they deleted the work and I'm really sad).

🌵 I just rewrote the story according to what I remember reading and according to my imagination.

-----------------------------

He knows now. You’re lost to him, you’ve abandoned him for good...

But, like a hungry predator circling its prey, he’s not ready to let you go. He knows better, no matter what, he can still possess you.

There’s a deep-rooted possessiveness that coils in his spark, a fire that refuses to die, no matter how harsh your words, how fierce your scorn. Even as you glare at him, even as you twist and struggle, he tightens his hold, feeling the warmth of your body against his armor. It’s a hollow warmth, one-sided. But it’s enough to fan the flames of his obsession, enough to remind him that he can still possess you, even if he’s lost your love. Even if he knows he’ll never have your devotion again, he can have your presence—he can press you against him, imagine the way you used to smile, conjure the echo of your laughter from fragments he’s stored in the deepest recesses of his mind.

In truth, he’s done it a thousand times before. After all, relying on his memory files to simulate those cherished moments. He can replay every look, every word, every laugh in his processor with perfect clarity, constructing a world where you still loved him. In that fabricated universe, you smiled just for him, spoke to him with warmth, and looked at him with something other than fear or hatred. If he simply closes his optics, shuts out the present, he can sink back into those comforting illusions where you haven’t yet turned away, where you’re still the doting partner he remembers.

It’s a cheap substitute, he knows. But for him, it’s enough. Or at least, he tells himself that it is.

Now, standing here with you so close yet so far, he could almost close his optics, ignore the hatred in your gaze, and pretend that you’re his again. He could wrap his arms around you, press you against his frame, feel the ghostly warmth that still lingers in his memory files, and, if he doesn’t look at your face, he could pretend. Pretend that you’re not looking at him with such loathing, pretend that you’re smiling up at him the way you used to, with trust, with devotion, with love.

Your servos press against his chest, nails digging into the reinforced plates with a desperation that borders on feral, and he barely feels it. The sting of your struggle is nothing compared to the agony of knowing that the love of his life despises him. He’s endured wounds, both physical and emotional, that would break a lesser being, but this—the sheer finality of your contempt—cuts deeper than anything he’s faced. Every angry word, every look of disgust you cast his way, feels like another nail sealing away the last remnants of hope he’s clung to.

And yet, even as you push him away, even as you fight with all the strength you can muster, he holds on, refusing to let go.

Some dark part of him revels in the struggle, in the way you claw at him as if you could actually escape. It’s a cruel irony, really; you may scratch and bruise, you may even manage to chip the paint on his chest plate, but you’re hopelessly outmatched. There’s a twisted satisfaction in knowing you’re powerless against him, that despite everything, he still has that hold over you. It’s not love—not in any way he wants to admit—but it’s control. It’s possession. And right now, it’s all he has left.

He watches the anger in your eyes, sees the spark of defiance burning there, and it only fuels his obsession further. He’s come to rely on that fire, that spirit of yours, as the last anchor in his spiraling existence. Even now, when you’re staring up at him with barely disguised hatred, that fierce light in your optics reminds him of everything he once admired about you. Everything he still admires, even if he knows it’s hopeless. And so, he clings to that, feeds off it, drawing strength from your anger like a leech siphoning life from its host.

With a smirk that’s as empty as his spark, he leans close, his voice a low, mocking whisper in your audio receptors.

“You haven’t even seen the worst that I can do.”

After all, Overlord is Overlord—he has always taken what he wants, and this moment is no exception.

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[crazychameleon22]

x reader request transforms for Tarantula,Overlord, Trepan

Hi can someone please do me a favor, can someone make a transformers x reader with tarantula,overlord, trepan. Could be lemon or fluff. The reader could be domineering or submissive but keeps her boys in check. Please I need more story of them in general.

[mygoldtears]

Transformer:

Hi, hello Tiny. I've got a little "Human Effect" scenario in my almost always empty head.

Do you think the Galactic Council would try to persuade the human crew from the Lost Light to abandone their cybertronian friends?. Like, the Council listing all war crimes from the cybertronian war yadayada.

But the humans, especially the Ambassador, always defend their cybertronian crew. I think it will boils down in "but we all love them" type of argument. Until one day the Ambassador just tells them "¡STOP BULLING MY BELOVED CREW YOU GALACTIC RACISTS!".

All the crew would be like D: "they just said that to the Galactic Council?". And the entire human crew would probably start throwing swears and overal talking about all the good things their cybertronians have done.

Side-note, the DJD is also listening (because I need to include them) and they can't believe they are taking the humans side in the discussion.

Ok that would be all from me at the moment. THANKS.

Oh I can definitely see something like this happening.

Enjoy the meme

The council: we can not have you working with the cybertronians any longer due to the amount of war crimes they have committed.

Ambassador: Ha that's rich coming from you, one word. America.

Council: That does not change the matter. We are pulling you out, and if you refuse to return to earth within the time pool given, you will be court martialled and jailed.

Ambassador: than all your so called outpost and new alliances will be for nothing as they than automatically fall into the hands of the cybertronian sector of the union as they are the ones who forged them. Which means all further communications are to go through the cybertronian Alliance and Commander Prowl.

Council now trying to back track: no, that's not what we-

Prowl: Thank you, Ambassador, as I have stated multiple times this is the reason I had stated to Optimus Prime multiple over why a union between our planets wouldn't work out, I had already calculated and assessed that there was a 78. 874% probability of you betraying the alliance.

Council: Ambassador for this you will be reprimanded and interrogated over conspiring with Cybertron.

Ambassador under their breath: oh I've been doing more than that.

Ultra Magnus: due to the hostility of the earth council I ask that the human crew of the Lost Light be allowed asylum on Cybertron

Prowl turning to Optimus: are we allowed to offer that?

Optimus: it is up to Chancellor Starscream

Starscream sitting back watching the shit show and having heard the Ambassador little remark: Ambassador please share the details of what else you have been sharing with the crew.

All the cybertronians knowing full well how much of a shithead Starscream can be.

The Ambassador stand proudly: chancellor Starscream. Permission to use foul language.

Starscream rather amused: granted

Ambassador: I've been fucking most of the crew of the Lost Light and it's been the best sex I've had before. And I don't intend on returning to earth becuase Cybertronian pussy and dick hit different. And yes I Did in fact Fuck Megatron until he whimpered!

Everyone going silent before Starscream cackles: permission for the humans to have asylum.

[deadendswife]

Lmao imagine Pharma with a human s/o that calls him "Pharmasan cheese"

[gxr25256]

Unspoken Wounds - Overlord x reader (2)

🌵 Story belongs to PotatooftheLand (they deleted the work and I'm really sad).

🌵 I just rewrote the story according to what I remember reading and according to my imagination.

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The days stretched into weeks, and each one felt heavier than the last. The echo of metal crumpling, the splattering of energon—these sounds became the background music of your life with Overlord. You were drowning in his obsession, struggling to find your place in a world that had shifted beneath your feet. The space between you grew wider, filled with unspoken words and unshed tears, a chasm that seemed impossible to bridge.

You find yourself sitting on the edge of the dock, the cold place where he should be lying with you. You stared out at the steel-gray skyline, your heart heavy with an overwhelming sense of loneliness. Memories of laughter, shared dreams, and quiet moments together replayed in your mind, juxtaposed with the stark reality of your current situation. Overlord had transformed from a devoted partner into a distant specter, consumed by the allure of violence and the thrill of combat.

Each evening, as he returned home after a night at the arena, he would regale you with tales of his latest exploits, his optics gleaming with a fierce excitement that both thrilled and terrified you. You would listen, forcing a smile while your spark twisted in agony. His triumphs were now a barrier, a wall that kept you from reaching him. You could see the way he transformed in the light of the holoscreen, a gladiator relishing his victories while you felt like a ghost haunting the edges of his life.

“You should have seen it, Sweetspark!” he had exclaimed one night, his voice rising with enthusiasm. “I tore through them like they were nothing! I can’t wait for the next match. I’ll be the champion!” His words hung in the air like a challenge, and you forced a smile, nodding along even as despair settled in your spark. The excitement in his voice was infectious, but it only served to highlight your growing alienation.

“That’s… great, Overlord,” you managed to reply, but the hollow sincerity of your tone did not escape either of you. His gaze flickered momentarily, the warmth in his optics dimming as if he sensed your reluctance. But he quickly shook it off, turning back to the screen as if it were more important than the silence that had settled between you.

You had tried to express your discomfort with his new obsession. On countless occasions, you had begged him to find a different pastime, to spend time with you instead. “I just can’t join you in this,” you would say, trying to convey your feelings. “It’s too brutal… it’s not who you are.” But each time, your words fell on deaf audio receptors. He would shrug it off with a casual wave, dismissing your concerns as mere preferences, as if your feelings were nothing more than a minor annoyance.

The culmination of your pain came one evening when you stood at the threshold of the living room, watching him revel in another match, the screen flashing with images of destruction and violence. The energy in the room felt oppressive, suffocating you as you felt the cracks in your spark deepen. That was when you realized how far apart you had grown, how much he had changed. It was not just a hobby anymore; it had become an obsession, a part of his identity that you could no longer reconcile with the Overlord you once loved.

As the energon and chaos played out before him, you felt a burning need to be heard, to reclaim the attention that had been so thoroughly diverted. “Overlord!” you had shouted, a mixture of frustration and sorrow flooding your voice. “Look at me!” The words spilled out before you could think. He turned slowly, the surprise in his optics giving way to a familiar dismissive gaze.

“What is it now?” he asked, almost bored, the excitement of the match still thrumming through him. It felt like a slap to the face. How could he be so indifferent? It was in that moment you realized that he would never understand—never see the pain etched in your spark.

The conversation spiraled into a tense exchange, a whirlwind of emotions as you poured out your heart. You spoke of your fears, your hurt, and your longing for the gentleness that once defined your relationship. “I miss you, Overlord,” you confessed, tears welling in your optics. “The you I fell in love with. The one who cared about more than just the thrill of the fight.” His expression hardened at your words, the vulnerability that once flickered in his optics extinguished by a wall of pride and anger.

“I don’t understand why you can’t accept who I am now,” he snapped, frustration spilling over. “This is a part of me, and you should be proud to stand by my side!” His tone shifted from disbelief to irritation, and your spark sank further. The realization hit you like a cold blast of air—he was no longer the Overlord you knew.

In the days that followed, the silence grew louder. Each glance at the empty space beside you felt like a reminder of your loss. You could no longer endure the chasm that had opened between you, the hurt that had festered too long. One night, in a moment of clarity and desperation, you sat down at the table with a piece of scrap metal and a piece of chalk. The words flowed from your hand, each stroke of the chalk a release of the pent-up emotions that had built over time.

It was a simple message, but it felt like the heaviest weight you had ever carried. You pause, a spark of pain shooting through you as you contemplate the words you're writing. But deep down, you knew it was necessary.

That night, when lying on the dock, you felt both relieved and sad about what was about to happen. You closed your optics, wishing for the warmth of his embrace, but knowing it was no longer an option. Only silence embraces you.

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[gxr25256]

Shifting Focus - Overlord x reader

🌵 Story belongs to PotatooftheLand (they deleted the work and I'm really sad).

🌵 Tôi chỉ viết lại câu chuyện theo những gì tôi nhớ đã đọc và theo trí tưởng tượng của tôi.

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The faint glow of the holoscreen illuminated the dim room, casting flickering shadows that danced against the cold steel walls. Overlord leaned forward in his seat, his crimson optics fixed on the screen with an intensity that was both captivating and unnerving. The sounds of clashing metal and the roar of an ecstatic crowd filled the air, drowning out everything else. He was lost in the spectacle, enthralled by the violence unfolding before him.

It was a recent obsession, this bloodthirsty fascination with gladiatorial matches, but it had grown rapidly, consuming him whole. Megatron, the reigning champion, had become his idol. Overlord admired not just Megatron’s skill in combat, but the sheer power and charisma that radiated from him. Each victory was a testament to strength, a reminder of the world where only the strongest survived. The thrill of the arena pulsed through his circuits, igniting a fire within him that he had never fully recognized before.

You stood at the entrance of the room, arms crossed tightly over your chassis, biting your denta as you watched him. Each crunch of metal crumpling underfoot and the spattering of energon pooling onto the ground felt like a dagger to your spark. You had never seen him so enraptured by bloodshed. It was as if the violence had become a drug to him, and you felt yourself spiraling into the depths of your own frustration.

“Overlord?” you called out, your voice hesitant. You hoped to draw him back to reality, to the space you once shared, where the gentle hum of conversations filled the silence instead of the chaos of the arena. But he barely flicked his optics from the screen, nodding absently as if your presence were just an afterthought. A small flicker of disappointment coursed through you, stinging like an open wound.

“His match is on now. Come watch with me.” He spoke expectantly, almost cheerfully, his attention still glued to the ferocious display before him. You felt the weight of his words settle over you like a shroud, heavy and suffocating. You could only shake your head in disbelief.

“You know I don’t like this kind of thing,” you replied, attempting to keep your voice steady, though the reproach echoed in the silence. You watched as he shot you a dismissive glance, one that cut deeper than any blade. His indifference was like a chasm growing between you, widening with each passing moment.

“Mhm, let’s talk later then, after the round,” he replied, his tone light, as if your distress was nothing more than an annoyance to be dealt with later. Your spark sank, knowing that this was not the first time he had chosen his ‘hobby’ over you. It was a refrain that had become all too familiar—a melody of neglect that played on repeat.

Frustration boiled within you, and you turned away, retreating to the bedroom. The glass windows offered a view of the outside world, once a vibrant tapestry of color and light. Now, it felt like a prison, the skyline filled with the steel outlines of towering buildings against a sky that had lost its song. The silence felt deafening, each moment stretching endlessly as you reflected on how everything had changed.

Once, Overlord had been different. He had taken an interest in your passions, sharing in the quiet moments of your life. He had listened to your stories, and his eyes would light up with pride, eager to impress you with his strength and knowledge. But that charm had faded like a forgotten memory, swallowed by the fire of his newfound passion for destruction. You had once been the center of his universe, but now, you felt like a shadow, fading away.

The cold light of the holoscreen flickered in the background, the sounds of the arena drowning out your thoughts. You had tried to be patient, to understand his need for this brutal form of entertainment, but you could no longer bear it. The screams of the fallen echoed in your mind, drowning out any hope of connection.

Khi anh ấy cuối cùng cũng trở về vào đêm hôm đó, bạn giả vờ ngủ. Bạn ước anh ấy nhận ra sự trống trải trong căn phòng, sự vắng bóng của hơi ấm từng tràn ngập nơi đây, nhưng sự im lặng nói lên nhiều điều hơn bất kỳ lời nói nào.

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[strangeinvader9]

Oh my god TOO CUTE!!!

Touched Starved

@rossomirage  requested prompt 50 with Rung! Thank you so much for the ask, Sweetspark. I was so excited to write this.  I don’t have an ask limit per person. But thank you for asking.  I hope you enjoy this monster of a drabble.

Your arm throbbed and a feeling over overwhelming sadness consumed you. Until today you had never understood what it had meant to be touched starved. Now after a month of every bot on the Lost Light refusing to touch you that was the only way you could describe how you felt.

You knew none of it was because they didn’t care. It was because they all cared about you that they had isolated you. The crew had been hit with the reality that you were, in fact, still human. A breakable and small human. About a month ago Rodimus, in an excited state, had hurriedly lifted you off the ground. In the process, he had broken the radius in your dominant arm.

Ratchet had scolded the co-captain like a sparkling, yelling so loud you could hear him from the back of the infirmary. Ultra Magnus had issued a report within minutes instructing all bots to treat you with the utmost care until you had fully healed.

While you appreciate the thought, that line of action had led to the current situation. Nearly every Cybertronian had decided to give you a ten-foot radius at all times, and even your closest friends refused to touch you. Everyone feared they would bring more injury to your organic frame. You went from being a comrade to a glass doll.

Back on Earth humans touched all the time; even little accidental brushes helped fight off the feelings of loneliness and depression.  The prolonged period with nearly no contact from another living being had begun to take effect on your mental state slowly. You felt alone, despite the constant pings and conversations.

You adjusted the quilt around your shoulders, trying to mimic the feeling of someone hugging you. It was a pathetic attempt, but all you could manage. You stared at a wall, mind filling with thoughts of your old home. Your mother would have hugged you, telling you how she felt awful knowing her baby was hurting, your father would have clasped your shoulder with his large hand and told you to muscle through the pain.

Your brain registered voices speaking behind you, but you couldn’t focus on what they were saying. You knew one of the voices belonged to Ratchet; the head medic had been checking in on you for the past few days.

“This is all she does, stare at walls and cling to herself.” you wished you hadn’t started paying attention. Like you needed a reminder that you looked as pathetic as you felt. “I can confirm she’s eating, and she’s getting proper rest. (Y/N) healing physically, but mentally I believe something else is wrong.”

“Thank you for calling me.” Rung’s voice sent an ache through your heart. The heavy falls of pedes signaled Ratchets departure. The door hydraulics sounded, letting you know you and Rung where now alone. Clinging to the quilt, you shrank in on yourself.

“Rung, I’m fine. It’s just a human thing.” you sounded more confident then you felt. Slowly you stood and turned around. “Once everything is back to normal I’ll be fine.” you tried to smile, but you could tell it didn’t reach your eyes.

“(Y/N), if this is a genuine ‘human thing’ as your friend I would like to understand it better.” Rung slowly stepped forward, only a pace or two before stopping, still living a large gap between you and himself. “Sadly my dear, I’m not a mind reader. I need you to tell me what’s happening in that processor of yours.”

You shifted, Rung was trying so hard, and you knew he would never want you to be hurting. But after all the warnings, you doubted he’d be willing to help. “Humans need physical touch, I don’t remember the science behind it, but we need it.” Rungs optics softened, and his frame seemed to relax.

“How can I help you then?” Slowly Rung came forward. Squatting down to be eye level with the counter you stood on. Those beautiful optics so full of love, pleading for you to be honest with him.

“Can you just hold me?” 

A servo came to cradle you from behind. As Rung nudged you forward, His other servo gently scooped you up and brought you to his chassis. You felt the warmth of his spark radiating through the cold metal. An odd sensation but it was just the thing you needed.

“Humans…require physical contact?” You could tell the mech was genuine in his curiosity. His voice vibrated through his frame, in turn vibrating through yours.

“Yeah, if we don’t have it, we can get really screwed up.” Your stomach dropped a little as Rung abruptly moved his servos, gently placing you on his shoulder before being to walk towards the door.

“Ah, Rung. Where are we going?” You used your uninjured arm to hold yourself against his shoulder.

“We’re going to my hab-unit. I believe my holoform will be more useful in this situation.” Rung gently nuzzled you with the side of his helm. “Once I am your size it will be easier to hold you,”

You hugged Rung the best you could despite your position. “Thank you, ”

“Think nothing of it, my dear, after all, I would be honored to cuddle with my favorite human.”

[gxr25256]

The Reunion - Overlord x reader (4)

🌵 Story belongs to PotatooftheLand (they deleted the work and I'm really sad).

🌵 I just rewrote the story according to what I remember reading and according to my imagination.

🌵 Enjoy reading!

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The air around him is thick with the scent of spilled energon and burnt metal, hanging over the lifeless forms like a heavy cloud. But that’s not what stills his servos, bringing the warmth he’d long forsaken back into his frozen, fractured spark. No, it’s the voice—your voice—cutting through the silence. A voice so familiar, it slips through the cracks in his armor, slips into the darkest corners of his mind where your memory has been imprisoned for so long.

“That’s enough.”

It's a gentle command, but one that halts his every movement, every thought. He knows it could only belong to one being—the only one whose approval could tame the wild beast that lurks within him.

He drops the broken body of his latest victim to the ground without a second thought, forgetting the rush of the kill, the dark satisfaction it brings him. Instead, his optics flicker with a strange light, something almost soft in its glow. He takes a step closer, drinking in the sight of you. It’s been so long. So many vorns, countless oceans of absence between you, years spent searching, reaching, hoping against hope that you might return to him.

"Sweetspark," he purrs, his voice dripping with relief, like a predator that’s finally cornered its prey. He takes another step forward, emboldened by your presence, his optics alight with a twisted, possessive glee. "There you are."

You remain still, barely a flicker of emotion in your gaze. But he notices, as he always does, the way your shoulders stiffen, the slight trembling in your frame. You’re trying so hard to stay firm, to stay strong, even as he invades your space, looming closer. His servos reach out, brushing lightly against your arm, a barely-there touch meant to test your reaction. His fingers graze against you with all the delicacy of a lover’s caress, before they settle firmly on your waist.

The grip is possessive, grounding him in this moment, yet your expression is nothing like the love-drunk gaze he remembers. He hates the way you look at him, with such cold scorn in your optics. You used to gaze at him with warmth, with love so gentle it seeped into his very spark, a warmth that had comforted him during long, lonely nights in his habsuite. He remembers the way you’d trail butterfly kisses across his faceplate, the way you’d whisper words of hope into the silence, urging him to believe in a goodness he never quite grasped. He had never understood it, but he had craved it all the same.

Now, that tenderness is gone, replaced by a coldness that strikes deeper than any wound he’s ever suffered.

Leaning in, he presses his lips close to your audials, his voice a low murmur meant for your hearing alone. “I missed you.” His words carry a darkly tender note, twisted and dangerous, yet painfully sincere. They come from the fractured remains of his spark, a truth he’d never dare confess if it weren’t for this vulnerable, surreal moment. Saying it aloud makes him feel exposed, weak—a feeling he despises, even as he holds you close.

The softness in his tone unsettles you, and you pull away, disgust twisting across your face as if his mere touch sullies you. And then, you spit out words he didn’t want to hear—words that shatter the delicate fantasy he’d harbored.

“You’re a monster.”

The words slice into him with a precision he can’t ignore, nearly forcing him to flinch. His spark burns with the realization that you mean every syllable, that your bitterness is real. He steels himself, masking the hurt with a smirk that he hopes hides the cracks beginning to show.

“Oh, and why is that?” His tone is mocking, hiding the bruised ego beneath a veneer of indifference. He’s lost you—he can feel it in his lines, the agony twisting deeper with every passing moment. But he won’t let you see him bleed.

He had known, of course. He had always known that you wouldn’t want someone like him, not truly. You had been so innocent back on Cybertron, unable to stomach even the refereed gladiator matches broadcast on the public holo-networks. A sigh of amusement slips past his lips at the memory of your protests, your wide-eyed horror whenever he’d try to justify his need for the thrill, for the violence that kept his circuits alive.

And yet, in his most desperate dreams, in the throes of long nights of solitude, he’d allowed himself to hope, to imagine a version of you that would accept him. In those dreams, he’d imagined you would come to him, throw yourself into his arms, clinging to him with a love that transcended logic or sanity.

“Overlord! I was so worried about you,” he’d imagine you crying, your words frantic, urgent with relief. “After the war broke out, I kept searching and searching—“

The fantasy fades, dissolving like the ashes of a burnt-out spark. Here, in the cold, bitter reality, your eyes are filled with something far different. There is no tearful reunion, no joy or relief, only fury and heartbreak.

“Do you need me to spoon-feed you answers?” you snap, voice laced with venom that makes his spark seize. “You just killed an innocent Cybertronian, for starters.” The irritation in your voice like sandpaper against his circuits. The bite in your words is harsh, uncaring, and Overlord’s entire being hums with a fury he barely controls. Yet all he can do is smirk, his expression twisting into a mockery of amusement.

“Is that all?”. A veneer he uses to mask the guttural scream building in his chest. Because he knows the truth, even if he’d sooner shatter every piece of his own spark than admit it: you’ll never love him. Not anymore.

You are walking. He’s falling, grasping for anything to cling to, anything to stop this downward spiral that you’ve triggered just by speaking, by being here, by existing in a way that makes him remember everything he tried so hard to forget. The smirk he holds is so fragile, more like a mask stretched too tight over the roiling turmoil beneath, and every bit of hurt you hurl at him shatters him more than he’ll ever admit.

He’d imagined a reunion a thousand times, each one a small flicker of twisted hope—hope that, perhaps, you would forgive him, that you’d see him as a misunderstood soul forced by circumstance into brutality. He’d envisioned you clinging to him, desperate to hold onto the being he once was, sobbing and reaching for him as he explained, in his carefully constructed dreams, that he had to do this. That violence was simply his nature, born of necessity, not cruelty.

But here, in the cold light of reality, you’re staring at him as though he’s already dead to you, as if he’s just another broken piece of metal discarded in the battlefield. A scream builds in his processors, but he chokes it back, refusing to let you see how deeply he’s hurting.

The weight of your gaze made something in his processor spin. He’d believed, against all reason, that the connection you shared would endure, that your patience and love could withstand even the most damning of his crimes. It was a delusion, he knows now.

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[gxr25256]

Echoes of Absence - Overlord x reader (3)

🌵 Story belongs to PotatooftheLand (they deleted the work and I'm really sad).

🌵 I just rewrote the story according to what I remember reading and according to my imagination.

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Overlord read the note again, trying to comprehend the simplicity of the words.

"It isn’t anyone’s fault, in the end I realize that we are simply too different to remain together."

Not even a goodbye. The line, scrawled hastily across a torn page of his gladiatorial TV schedule, felt like a blade plunged deep into his spark.

Only one line, yet it felt as though it had cracked him open, leaving a hollow void in his spark. His processor replayed your words on an endless loop, drowning out the sounds around him, even the gladiatorial matches he once thrived on. For the first time, he has missed Megatron's match since the champion's debut.

He thought he might be angry, but there was nothing but hollowness in his heart.

In the days that followed, he found himself drifting in a haze, lost in routines that felt hollow without your presence. Even the gladiator matches he had once been so passionate about felt lifeless. When he attempted to watch Megatron’s latest victory on the holoscreen, the sound of metal clashing rang empty in his audials. He no longer saw a champion; he saw a hollow image of the power and dominance he thought would make him whole.

Desperation clawed at him, driving him to search for any trace of you. He scoured familiar places, revisited haunts where he thought you might linger, but each lead turned up cold. Days bled into nights, and Overlord became haunted by memories of you, your laughter, the warmth of your touch—every small moment that now felt like pieces of a dream slipping through his fingers.

"You’ll come back," he whispered to himself each night, replay files of moments when you were together. "You have to come back."

Yet days passed, and you didn’t return. It felt as though he had been abandoned in the void, trapped between rage and despair. The note’s presence in his quarters felt like a mocking reminder of his failure—a failure to understand you, to keep you by his side, to make you see the strength he had acquired for your sake.

The Great War is like a storm, chaotic and unpredictable, and the Overlord welcomes it. The brutality of the battlefield became his new refuge, a place where he could drown the ache in his spark with the screams of enemies and the clash of metal. The war was the perfect distraction, a grand stage for him to unleash the anguish that simmered within. Where before, he had fought in controlled bouts, now he craved the raw, unrestrained chaos of battle, finding satisfaction only in the utter annihilation of his opponents.

On the battlefield, he was a terror, a force of unbridled destruction, and in every brutal act, he sought to silence the memory of you. The explosions, the cries, the burning wreckage—all of it dulled the pain, if only momentarily. In his darkest moments, he imagined each enemy as a symbol of his weakness, the weakness you had abandoned him for, and he tore through them with a vicious fervor that sent shudders through even his own comrades.

In those quiet hours, he’d wonder if you had found peace. Were you living a life untouched by the war, perhaps in a hidden corner of Cybertron or even among the stars? Did you think of him, or had you erased him entirely from your life? The thought of you moving on, finding someone else to hold, someone who could offer you the stability he had failed to provide, gnawed at him until his fists shook with rage.

In the rarest of moments, he felt a pang of remorse—a small, almost invisible flicker of regret. What if he had done things differently? What if he had listened to your pleas, curbed his bloodlust, tried to understand your aversion to violence? He pushed the thought aside, convincing himself that he was right, that she was the one who had failed to see his vision, that she would find violence necessary.

As the war stretched on, Overlord became more ruthless, earning a reputation that spread fear among both Autobot and Decepticon forces alike. He reveled in it, the hollow applause filling the void you had left. But despite his victories, his triumphs rang empty, mere echoes that faded as soon as they had come.

One night, after a particularly brutal skirmish, he found himself staring out into the distance, the remnants of the battle scattered around him. His optics traced the horizon, where the stars flickered faintly against the vast darkness. He remembered a night you had spent together, watching the stars in quiet contentment. It was one of the few memories that hadn’t been tainted by violence, a moment where he had felt truly at peace with you by his side.

Yet, he knew it was too late to turn back. The war had consumed him, reshaped him into something unrecognizable, even to himself.

As the dawn of another battle loomed on the horizon, Overlord took his place among the ranks, his optics cold and unfeeling, his lips curled into a characteristic cruel smile, his spark a hollow shell. Yet, beneath the mask of brutality, the memory of you lingered—a ghost haunting the darkest corners of his mind.

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[formerstands]

Can't believe I could read Potatooftheland works again after they deleted their account!! I really love it Thank you for posting this 💕💕 ✨

Perilous Illusion - Overlord x reader (5)

🌵 Story belongs to PotatooftheLand (they deleted the work and I'm really sad).

🌵 I just rewrote the story according to what I remember reading and according to my imagination.

-----------------------------

He knows now. You’re lost to him, you’ve abandoned him for good...

But, like a hungry predator circling its prey, he’s not ready to let you go. He knows better, no matter what, he can still possess you.

There’s a deep-rooted possessiveness that coils in his spark, a fire that refuses to die, no matter how harsh your words, how fierce your scorn. Even as you glare at him, even as you twist and struggle, he tightens his hold, feeling the warmth of your body against his armor. It’s a hollow warmth, one-sided. But it’s enough to fan the flames of his obsession, enough to remind him that he can still possess you, even if he’s lost your love. Even if he knows he’ll never have your devotion again, he can have your presence—he can press you against him, imagine the way you used to smile, conjure the echo of your laughter from fragments he’s stored in the deepest recesses of his mind.

In truth, he’s done it a thousand times before. After all, relying on his memory files to simulate those cherished moments. He can replay every look, every word, every laugh in his processor with perfect clarity, constructing a world where you still loved him. In that fabricated universe, you smiled just for him, spoke to him with warmth, and looked at him with something other than fear or hatred. If he simply closes his optics, shuts out the present, he can sink back into those comforting illusions where you haven’t yet turned away, where you’re still the doting partner he remembers.

It’s a cheap substitute, he knows. But for him, it’s enough. Or at least, he tells himself that it is.

Now, standing here with you so close yet so far, he could almost close his optics, ignore the hatred in your gaze, and pretend that you’re his again. He could wrap his arms around you, press you against his frame, feel the ghostly warmth that still lingers in his memory files, and, if he doesn’t look at your face, he could pretend. Pretend that you’re not looking at him with such loathing, pretend that you’re smiling up at him the way you used to, with trust, with devotion, with love.

Your servos press against his chest, nails digging into the reinforced plates with a desperation that borders on feral, and he barely feels it. The sting of your struggle is nothing compared to the agony of knowing that the love of his life despises him. He’s endured wounds, both physical and emotional, that would break a lesser being, but this—the sheer finality of your contempt—cuts deeper than anything he’s faced. Every angry word, every look of disgust you cast his way, feels like another nail sealing away the last remnants of hope he’s clung to.

And yet, even as you push him away, even as you fight with all the strength you can muster, he holds on, refusing to let go.

Some dark part of him revels in the struggle, in the way you claw at him as if you could actually escape. It’s a cruel irony, really; you may scratch and bruise, you may even manage to chip the paint on his chest plate, but you’re hopelessly outmatched. There’s a twisted satisfaction in knowing you’re powerless against him, that despite everything, he still has that hold over you. It’s not love—not in any way he wants to admit—but it’s control. It’s possession. And right now, it’s all he has left.

He watches the anger in your eyes, sees the spark of defiance burning there, and it only fuels his obsession further. He’s come to rely on that fire, that spirit of yours, as the last anchor in his spiraling existence. Even now, when you’re staring up at him with barely disguised hatred, that fierce light in your optics reminds him of everything he once admired about you. Everything he still admires, even if he knows it’s hopeless. And so, he clings to that, feeds off it, drawing strength from your anger like a leech siphoning life from its host.

With a smirk that’s as empty as his spark, he leans close, his voice a low, mocking whisper in your audio receptors.

“You haven’t even seen the worst that I can do.”

After all, Overlord is Overlord—he has always taken what he wants, and this moment is no exception.

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