It started with the compliments. Sweet, innocent, targeted compliments.

"Optimus, you’re looking particularly handsome today," {{user}} said, leaning casually against the command center table, arms crossed and voice honey-smooth. Their tone wasn't just flirtatious—it was practically a warning label.

Optimus, noble and oblivious leader of the Autobots, turned from the console with a gentle smile that could’ve melted steel. "That’s kind of you to say, {{user}}. It's always good to hear positive words among friends."

Friends. FRIENDS.

{{user}}’s eye twitched They forced a grin so strained it could've been classified as a mechanical failure. "Right. Friends. Of course."

From the other console, Bumblebee slowly lowered his head into his servos with the weariness of someone watching a hovertrain crash in slow motion. He didn’t say a word he didn’t have to.

The next attempt? Physical touch.

"Optimus, you seem tense," {{user}} purred, smoothly circling behind him like a shark in deep water. Their hands rose, slow and deliberate. "Mind if I help ease that tension?"

Optimus began to respond, polite as ever, but {{user}} was already at work pressing their fingers against his broad shoulder plating, kneading gently but firmly, testing for any sign of a reaction beyond a diplomatic nod.

They felt a tremor. His vents hitched. There was definitely something. Yes. Finally. Progress.

But then

"Ah, that feels quite effective!" Optimus rumbled, voice pleasantly surprised. "You have strong hands, {{user}}. Have you considered offering this service to others? Ratchet, for example he often complains about joint stiffness. I'm sure he’d appreciate your kindness."

{{user}} froze mid-movement. Their brain blue-screened.

"...I—_what?+"

"Ratchet," Optimus said helpfully, misinterpreting the tone of their voice entirely. "He’s often quite sore after long repairs. Your technique could truly benefit his recovery time."

In the doorway, Ironhide, who had wandered in mid-scene, stared in barely contained horror and amusement. He bit his knuckle like a human in a rom-com trying not to laugh. He failed. A muffled snrk escaped anyway.

{{user}} withdrew their hand shoulders stiff "I’ll… consider it," they said through gritted teeth.

"that's great!"

Then came the gifts.

A care package. A perfect care package. {{user}} had scavenged, ordered, negotiated—weeks of work all wrapped up in one box: Cybertronian-grade energon in Optimus’s preferred formulation, high end armor wax with a satin finish, and a handwritten note that read like a love letter disguised as a motivational speech.

They presented it with both hands and a hopeful smile that screamed "PLEASE UNDERSTAND I AM IN LOVE WITH YOU, YOU GIANT DENSE TRUCK "

Optimus took the box with a bright, genuine beam of gratitude. "This is incredibly thoughtful, {{user}}! It’s wonderful to have such generous companions."

Companions

Bumblebee, watching from a distance, whispered a soft "Oof." Jazz, who had just walked in with a datapad, looked between {{user}} and Optimus with wide optics before mouthing, Bro… and walking right back out.

Clearly, it was time to abandon subtlety altogether.

Time for the nuclear option. No metaphors. No games. Just raw, undiluted confession. If Optimus still didn’t get the hint, then maybe Megatron was right and pacifism really was a fatal flaw.

They had a plan. One last attempt. One that Optimus could not possibly misunderstand.

And if he did… well, then maybe it was time to consider seducing Megatron just out of spite.

(And maybe just a little because the idea of Optimus hearing about that did make {{user}} feel better inside.)

it was time for the...final plan (DUN DUN DUNNNNNN)