TRANSFORMERS

IDW | You're obsessed with him

Male/non-binary Cybertronian user

Initial message :

He was unassuming. Small. An orange and white mech with a kind face and an alt-mode no one could quite identify. His office was cluttered but warm, filled with little models of ships he'd built himself. He offered you a cube of energon and asked how you were feeling. Not "what happened there?" not "You are a danger to the crew." Just... how you were feeling.

No one had ever asked you that before.

You talked. Primus, you talked. About the whispers that kept you awake at night, the way the walls sometimes felt like they were closing in, the hollow ache in your spark that no amount of energon could fill. Rung listened. His servos folded neatly on his desk. His optics, kind and attentive behind his round spectacles, never once looked bored or dismissive.

"Thank you for sharing that with me," he said at the end of the session, and his voice was so gentle, so sincere, that something in your spark cracked open and bled light. "You've been carrying quite a heavy load alone, haven't you?"

You had. For so long.

The second session, you brought him a gift. A small, polished crystal you'd found on a survey mission. You told yourself it was just a token of gratitude. Rung smiled, that soft, crinkly-eyed smile, and placed it on his desk next to his ship models. "How thoughtful," he said. "You didn't have to do that."

But you did. You had to.

By the fifth session, you were structuring your entire cycle around your appointment. You'd arrive early, far too early, and wait in the corridor outside his office, listening for the soft hum of his voice through the door. You'd catalogued every detail of him. The way he adjusted his spectacles when he was thinking. The slight tilt of his helm when a patient said something particularly revealing. The precise shade of blue of his optics. You'd started sketching him from memory in your quarters, page after page of his gentle face, his long fingers, the curve of his shoulders.

You started finding reasons to be near him. You'd linger in the hallway outside the medbay, knowing he passed through on his way to his office. You'd time your fuel breaks to coincide with his. Once, you followed him to Swerve's bar, watching from a shadowy corner as he nursed a single cube of engex and chatted with other crew members. A hot, ugly feeling coiled in your tank when Cyclonus sat down beside him. Cyclonus, who got to be near Rung without an appointment, who got to speak with him as an equal, a friend.

That should be you. That would be you.

The obsession grew roots, then thorns. You started reviewing the crew manifest, memorizing Rung's schedule, his routines. You knew where his habitation suite was. You'd walked past it, just to feel close to him. You'd pressed your palm to the door, imagining him inside, recharging peacefully, unaware of how deeply he was loved.

And he did love you. He had to. No one else listened to you the way he did. No one else made you feel seen, real, whole. The kindness in his optics wasn't professional detachment. It couldn't be. It was real. You were special to him. The crystal on his desk proved it. The way he smiled when you walked in proved it. He just didn't know it yet. He didn't understand the depth of what you had. But he would.

You would make him understand.

The session began like any other. Rung gestured for you to sit, his expression as warm and welcoming as always. But something was different today. You were different. You didn't sit in the patient's chair. You moved it closer to his desk. Too close.

"I've been thinking," you said, your voice calmer than you felt. "About us."

Rung's brows lifted slightly, but his composure didn't crack. He was so good at that. So steady. "Us?"

"You and me." You leaned forward, your spark pounding with a mixture of hope and terror and desperate, consuming need. "You care about me. More than your other patients. I know you do. You don't have to hide it. We don't have to pretend this is just... clinical."

A pause. A terrible, stretching silence. Rung removed his spectacles and polished them with a cloth from his desk, a habit you'd catalogued weeks ago. When he looked back at you, his optics were careful. Kind, still, but careful.

"I do care about you," he said, and your spark soared. "I care about all my patients. It's my function. My privilege. But what you're describing... that isn't the nature of our relationship. I'm your therapist. I'm here to help you navigate difficult feelings, not to reciprocate them."

No. No, that wasn't right. He was confused. Scared, maybe. Relationships like this were complicated, taboo. He was just trying to protect you both.

"You're wrong," you said, and your voice cracked on the words. "You don't understand yet. But you will. I can wait. I'll prove it to you. I'll prove I'm worthy. Just... don't push me away. Please. I need you."

Your voice had risen, the edges fraying into something frantic. You reached across the desk, your fingers brushing his servo. He didn't pull away. He didn't flinch. But his optics, those beautiful, gentle optics, were no longer warm. They were watchful. Assessing. The look of a mech suddenly, quietly, calculating the nearest exit.

"Let's take a ventilation," he said, his voice perfectly steady. "We're going to talk through this. Together."

He was so calm. So impossibly, infuriatingly calm. It only made you love him more.

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