#On the Holoscreen

[imperiallife]

Tick

Tock

Tick

Tock

Tick

A man walks through an idyllic city.  The past drags behind him like an anchor.  The cobblestones are superficial.  They conceal split bedrock.

Tock

Two sides meet.  Relationships fracture.  

Tick

The fall is slow.  It has already happened.

A clock booms.

It’s an echo.

They are out of time.  All the time.

Winter has come to Alderaan.

GONCHAROV

Come enjoy the revival of this classic masterpiece, newly remastered and adapted to holotheaters for its 500th anniversary.

Everyone is talking about it.

Shouldn’t you?

[jasminebythebay]

10 spidey engineers vs one (1) bug, who wins?

[probadbatch]

Thinking about Hunter's nearly black armor in that one trailer... the boys are really going through it, aren't they? Hunter's not taking care of himself at all when he's worried about Omega. Makes me really worried about him. Well, all of them, really.

This season better end with everyone safe and in one piece happily repainting their armor somewhere peaceful or I'm gonna riot.

[kismetconstellations]

[mushroom-through-the-stargate]

current mood - gagging at the tollan architecture

[ciphernull]

servers are down, time to over-edit screenshots

[spotsupstuff]

Theres been professional fighting game players who are blind, do you think notos would enjoy Fighting games?

If only to kick haboobs ass in Mortal Kombat.

GJKLSDMCKL VILE ACTIONS TAKEN AGAINST THE BOOBIE???!!?? who id be lying to, ofc Notos would. sister culture praised you be...

dunno tho, dunno, Notos is lukewarm on like anything ever. it'd be down to try it out and if there's that benefit of playing with Haboob it might end up liking it for that!

[starrun]

Between sleep deprivation, the stress of the US political climate, and a massive wave of derealization, I have been having a time. But in light of my brain being goo, it has also triggered a lot of noemata to pop up in my mind's-eye, very vivid and quite a different experience than what I am used to when it comes to noemata.

Like usual, most of the new noemata were very mundane and involved a lot of day-to-day living, different routines, and random tidbits about my ship and life. Specifics under the cut~

A lot of my noemata and what I was "seeing" a lot of visuals that were overlayed with real life, things felt mirrored and like I was both in my meatspace body and my kintype's body. This was a very new and unique feeling.

I got a pretty decent "look" at what my personal sleeping quarters looked like. It is a pretty small room, my bed is inlaid in the wall with storage both above and below the mattress. There is a small shelf cut out of the wall next to the bed, like a nightstand. My droid would sometimes rest there, though he also often sleeps on the bed with me. The room is sparsely decorated and kept clean. There wasn't any kind of computer set up because anything I would need to do, I would do from the cockpit or on a commpad. - I found some art that reminds me of how the room looked, but I really should draw it myself.

Even though the ship has a kitchen, I don't think I utilized it to cook very often, I think I more often opted for the MREs or easy to prepare meals. My mando crewmate cooked more often than I would.

There is definitely some kind of YouTube/video streaming sites in source, though they worked differently than this-world. Because long-range communication was difficult and limited, before people start space travel they will typically download a whole library of content they want to watch; movies, podcasts, and other kinds of entertainment. - Unlike what's shown in the films, hyperspace travel takes time, and entertainment is necessary.

The ship has a small entertainment area in the communal living space, with a television for watching movies. I should also draw out what this looks like.

Card games and strategy boardgames are also common forms of entertainment.

When I was still unable to sleep in my cabin, and instead was sleeping in the ship's cockpit, after we had a heart-to-heart talk it was not uncommon for my mando crewmate to have sleepovers in the cockpit with me.

[luveline]

Omg ok Jade my love can I request a princess soulmate au with Steve? Where reader is Prince Steve’s soulmate but maybe she’s not royal herself and is struggling a bit with being the future princess?

Almost like similar vibes to some of the loser gf with rockstar Sirius things you’ve done

thank you sm for your request! (sci-fi fairytale au) prince!steve

cw talk of losing weight to fit into a dress 

Prince Steven sits across from you with a bowl of grapes and a pair of embroidery scissors. He's going to stab me, you think morosely. I'm wretched and boring and he's going to stab me and then the stars will give him another soulmate and he'll forget this whole misfortune.

He seems lost for words as you are, or uninterested. You think he's going to talk and he eats another grape instead, hair fluttering in the breeze that filters in from the balcony, his eyes trained on the holoscreen. He's pretty —soft face, softer hair, almond shaped eyes that seem perpetually amused— but more alarmingly, he's fit. Physically fit from years of sports. Royals do all manner of olympiad competition, evident in his toned shoulders and his sun-kissed skin. 

"How's your embroidery?" he asks suddenly. 

You startle, pretending you'd been attending to that rather than staring at him uselessly. "It's going well, Prince Steven," you lie. You've never embroidered before —you have practical sewing skills for darning scuffed trousers and patching elbows, but embroidery is a labour of time. Time is a luxury you haven't had. 

"Steve," he corrects. 

"Do I… Is it really okay for me to call you that? Won't people think I'm presumptuous?" 

"Ten dollar word." He slides the bowl toward you, a beautifully glazed ceramic piece that likely cost more than your month's rent. "Well, they usually let me have whatever I want, and I want you to call me Steve. And to relax. And eat more." 

"I can't. They said I need to fit into my wedding dress." 

"The wedding dress needs to fit you," Steve says, the simple cut of his button down pulled snug to his chest as he leans back in his chair. "Not the other way around. Is that why you didn't eat much at breakfast? Or was it just gross?" 

"It wasn't gross," you say softly. 

"You don't have to do any of that stuff, either, if it's boring." 

You run your finger down the creamy linen stretched between your bamboo hoops. "I don't know if it's boring. I can barely do it." 

"You're too mean to yourself," he says. 

Steve stands and puts his arm behind his head, pushing his elbow until something clicks. Embarrassed by his dismissal, you stare at your hands and fume at yourself when they begin to tremble. 

It's too much. All of it. The cruel Palace attendants who know you're not good enough. Steve and his good nature. The wedding dress, the fine China, your wonky stitches. 

Steve steps to your side. He holds out his hand, and you pass him your embroidery without meeting his eyes. Your mood worsens at the sharp slink of snipping, sure that Steve will cut your pattern from the sketch and tell you to start again. 

"Sorry, your white knot at the back was bothering me. Pass me a slimmer needle? I'll tuck it behind your stitches." 

Astonished, you pass Steve a smaller needle from the pin cushion. His brows creases gently as he works, rewiring the white thread with patience and efficiency. 

"There. It looks really nice, honey. You're a fast learner." He passes you the hoop. You take it a beat too slow and he either doesn't notice or doesn't make a fuss, chucking you under the chin softly. "Don't worry so much. I'll talk to Cordelia about your wedding dress, the idea that you need to fit into it like it's one size fits all is dumb. It's made for you. Like, what are they expecting?" 

"They're probably hoping this is all a big mistake." 

"Did someone say that to you?" 

"Nobody had to say it to me, I can tell from the way they look at…" Steve takes your face into his hand, effectively killing anything you'd been trying to say.  

He seems royal, then. Used to getting his way, maybe, the disapproving lining of his otherwise sweet eyes. You get a flash of a memory, the morning you'd been presented, Steve in his finery with his platinum crown like a beacon in brown hair, you in your best dress, embarrassingly drab in comparison, your hand offered. He'd been meeting with eligible women all week. 

You were there as a formality. Never for a second did you think your soul mark would react to his, lines of light around your opposite wrists. 

To think you'd worried about touching him. You could never imagine how beautifully careful he is, how tender. You didn't know men were like this until Steve showed you, his niceness apparently bone deep and in everything he does. 

"If people are being jerks, you have to tell me." You never imagined how casual and vulgar he'd be either. "What's the point in being a princess if people don't respect you?" 

"I'm not a princess," you say. Your heart is a hummingbird as he turns his hand and strokes your cheeks with the backs of his fingers. 

"You will be. Nothing can change that. You're going to be a princess, and you can do as much or as little as you want, because those dorks left me in charge and I say so. I can decree it, if that makes you feel better," he says, dropping his hand, the phantom of it lingering like static shock. 

"What if I'm not meant for this?" you ask quietly, shy but terrified enough to ask. 

"I was meant for you," he says, tone matching yours in timidity. His sleeves rolled up as they are, you can see the soft light of his soul mark taking a pink hue. "Right?" 

Your soul mark glows a gentle pink to match his. Because you and Steve don't know one another well, not yet, but the feeling is there, thrumming under the skin like a pulse. Not love, not not love, a glowing desire. A want to know him.

There have been moments where you wished he wasn't a Prince, but then there's no guarantee you ever would have met. 

"Right," you mouth, offering him a small smile. 

"We were meant to be together…" Steve bends at the waist, meeting your eyes. He's yet to kiss you in the week since you met, but his touches come braver everyday, the unfamiliarity between you melding into butterflies. His smirk shakes them awake. "So let's be together the way we want to. Think of princess-ing as optional." 

"And you as mandatory?"

"I'm also optional," he says with a warm laugh. "But dinner is not. I need to know what you like, if we're going to get married."

You practically gulp. Right. You're going to be his soulmate, his princess, and his wife. 

"Don't be scared. I'm not cooking it, chef Joyce is." Steve brushes hair from his eyes like a model from the giant holo screens, unaware of his own attractiveness. "I'm a shitty cook. My talents lie in other things," he drawls grandly, "like lacrosse, and neck massages." 

He winks. You laugh genuinely for the first time since you met him, and his face splits with glee.  

—

if you want to request anything for this AU please do! steampunk princess soulmate and her smitten prince is my new fave thing

[microsff]

Treasure hunters

The derelict is enormous, a galaxy-class carrier ship from centuries ago. The captain brings it up on the holoscreen, our ship a tiny dot beside it.

"There are still people there," the client says. "Descendants of the surviving crew, fallen to barbarism."

"Why didn't they leave?" the captain asks.

"That ship carried fighters. Small and nimble, without hyperjump capability. In this system, there are no inhabited planets or stations. With the carrier's engines dead, they couldn't leave."

"And our target?"

"In the main hangar, they bury their kings under large mounds built from debris and fighter parts."

"And?"

"They bury them with treasure," the client says.

The captain frowns. "Like, things they have found in the ship? Do you know what kind of things? Maybe we could try to avoid the people there and look around for-"

"No!" The client shakes his head. "That's just stuff. But what's in the mounds, that's treasure!"

The captain nods. Can't argue with that logic.

[imperiallife]

On the Holoscreen: Life Day Classics

On the Holoscreen by Kasyni Ral

With Life Day just around the corner, for many families throughout the galaxy it is time to turn to the Holonet for all manner of holiday viewing, whether it be events and films dedicated specifically to the festive season, or for special episodes of popular favorite holo-serials.

Certainly, everyone has their favorites- many turning to nostalgic works such as the comedic romp Holm Alone or the animated classic How the Gand Stole Sithmas. Then there’s the action hit Old Habits, about which some poor misguided souls do the rounds every season trying to argue that it is not in fact a festive film, but try telling that to the millions of holonet viewers who tune in to the re-airing year after year! However there are some works that many would argue a Life Day without would simply be incomplete, which we here at Imperial Life would like to highlight - just in case you’ve spent the last two decades trapped in a wampa cave.

I*M*S*U is a classic series, beloved across Imperial Space, following the trials of the dedicated staff of an Imperial Mobile Surgical Unit as they deal with the stress of front line field medicine with humor and camaraderie. And its Life Day specials always prove to be stunning episodes that balance the drama of war with sincerity, heart, and a reflection of the honest Imperial values of loyalty and an impeccable work ethic. From the comedy of watching the unit’s chief surgeon dropped into the field to perform emergency field surgery in a wookiee costume to the tender words of the unit’s Sith counselor writing to loved ones home on Kaas, each special truly has something for everyone.

A slightly polarizing production, depending on what corner of the galaxy from which one hails, it nevertheless can’t be denied that Sith Actually is a holoflick synonymous with Life Day. Set to a backdrop of holotrees and snowy streets, the film follows a series of interconnected love stories throughout Imperial Space, and the Sith who influence the course of events to either make or break the various relationships, nudging reluctant lovers in the right direction, or revealing unfaithfulness with dramatic satisfaction. While many argue that it demonstrates the comfort that common Imperials can take in knowing that the Sith are always looking out for them, there have been those who seem to lack appreciation of context and nuance who claim the film’s tagline, ‘Sith, actually are all around’ and overall themes come across as something of an ominous threat.

No Life Day film, however, could ever top the timeless classic A Sithmas Carol in terms of essential viewing. Based upon the novel of the same name by Marles Pickens, which has seen countless adaptations from the silver holoscreen, to a musical production with state of the art puppetry, to live dramatic theater, the tale never fails to warm the heart with true Imperial spirit regardless of the iteration. It tells, of course, the classic story of the bitter and selfish arms factory worker, Kruge, who wishes to take time off for the holidays with absolutely no regard for the lull in production it would cause, nor the welfare of the frontline troopers reliant on their weaponry, nor even for the loss of profits for the factory owner, Moff Ratchit who depends on the funds to support his very ill child. That is, of course, until Kruge finds himself visited by a trio of Sith spirits who take it in turns to show him what was, what is, and what could be, in an effort to steer his conscience right.

A true family favorite throughout the Empire, one would not be alone in stating that Life Day would simply not feel right without gathering around the holoscreen to watch one’s favorite adaptation of A Sithmas Carol with loved ones while feasting on roast koja nuts and homemade kneebnog.

Kasyni Ral is an Imperial Life contributor on matters ranging from entertainment to literature to food. A Twi’lek of impeccable taste, he claims his lekku provide him a “lek sense” that guides his movements and enables him to pick out only the best in Galaxy-wide culture. We believe him. When the lek start tingling, there is a find to be found.

[yaut-jaknowit]

Could you write Male reader x male yautja maybe even Vic'tao and Uihoy where they had really limited human contact and even less knowledge about dating. I love the concept of Yautja trying to court someone but ultimately just freaking the human out more and then changing their ways. This exactly, pls. Where they try to court the reader, maybe even kidnap him to show him that they are very strong etc. bring him skulls and at first they don't understand why he keeps rejecting them and fighting back until one day when they finally give him some device to understand each other and he just tells them what absolute monsters they are etc. And then obviously some fluff where they slowly win back the reader's trust and eventually the reader falls in love

You can obviously chose which yautja actually shows up I just like the two but you can definitely choose someone else, i would just like a male yautja

Lost in Translation

Pairings: Vic'tao (Male Yautja) x Male!Reader x Uihoy (Male Yautja)

Word Count: 4462

Summary: On their first trip to earth, Vic'tao and Uihoy were excited! New creatures to hunt, a new planet to explore. Vic'tao spots you. There's something about you that interests him. He can't shake it. So, he does what any sensible Yautja does: courts you. Hey! Why are you screaming?

Author Note: I love this classic idea. Because in all reality, if any Yautja came up to the average person and offered a skull, you would sprint away screaming. I also love the fact I'm getting so many male reader asks! I didn't know their was so many of you out there.

Masterlist

Ao3

For centuries, Yautjas and oomans have interacted in more way than one. Yet, it all boils down to prey and predator. Vic’tao and Uihoy come strictly for the hunt. Oomans are prey. There’s nothing much else to them.

Not until they saw you.

In a dense city, filled to the brim with oomans that meander to one place to the next, there was you. Vic’tao didn’t understand what is was about you that caught his attention. In all honesty, you looked just any of the other prey that traveled in your city. But, he stopped stalking to sit upon the roof of a build across the street to watch you.

Uihoy paused as well when he noticed his mate no longer was trailing behind him. The older male huffed and shook his head. Youngsters and their short attention span. He headed back towards the mustard yellow and blue male and crouched besides him. The two of them invisible to the naked eye.

They watched as you did your oomanly duties of trading credit for a colorful drink. Uihoy nudged at Vic’tao with his shoulder. “What is it? I don’t think that ooman is much of a worthy kill,” Uihoy questioned and settled down on his haunches. The random ooman strolled out of the building and got into their vehicle.

Before you could escape from Vic’tao easily, the younger of the two threw a tiny puck. The device attached itself to the outside paneling of your vehicle. Then, you were off.

On Vic’tao’s forearm gauntlet, he checked to make sure it was tracking you. A small yellow dot followed the exact pathing on the holoscreen pulled up. He chittered to himself then turned to Uihoy. “We may go now,” he brushed off and jerked his large head in the direction they were originally heading.

The other male quirked a brow from underneath his biomask at his mate’s strange interest in that specific ooman. Uihoy didn’t get an answer. So, he started off the same path they were taking through the city.

Their hunt was about to get more interesting.

On a hot summer morning, a book in hand, you laxed on your balcony. The weekend weather is wonderful to sit outside and enjoy it. A small fan sat off of a round coffee table, blowing air up towards your face. You turned to the next page only to tense up at the feeling of being watched. All of your focus on the book was lost. You placed the book off onto the coffee table and sat up. The feeling followed like a stormy cloud. A shutter ran down the length of your spine. You finally turn on your heel and head back inside to break free.

Once the curtains were shut, the tension that filled your body fell off of you in one huge wave. Strange. You shrugged it off and headed into the kitchen for some water. Hopefully, the water could clear your head about that strange occurrence.

The refreshing water rushed down your throat and helped down your heating body. The outdoors nearly a sweltering heat during the summertime. Your gaze glanced back over to the closed curtains and tilted your head. Whoever was watching you? Your apartment’s balcony faces a tree line. So, it couldn’t be others from another apartment.

A frown broke across your features. You refilled the empty cup of water and head back towards closed curtains. With a deep breath to calm down your rising heartbeat, you pulled them back.

Nothing raised the hairs on the back of your neck.

You shrugged then reentered the tiny balcony. The eyes didn’t return. As you go to sit down back on your comfortable chair, you paused. An animal’s skull sat upon the railing.

Instead of freaking out, you were completely confused. That wasn’t there a moment ago. The glass was set down by your book. Carefully, you stepped up the random skull and peered at it closely.

It was a predator by the looks of the teeth. A canine as well. If you had to guess, it was a wolf’s skull. Amazed by the fact there was a wolf’s skull in front of you yet completely puzzled on how it got here in the span of five minutes tops. You’re on the second story. It’s not like it could fall from the sky or someone just randomly set it there.

This was purposefully.

As much as you wanted to walk away from it, you didn’t want it to fall and break. Or someone else to have it. You glanced around the tree line to possibly search for the owner or a reason to why it was here. You came up empty handed. A sigh left your lips when nothing was in sight. You carefully picked it up and brought it inside with you.

A look around the interior brought upon a place to set it on. One of the shelves in the living room. All you had to do was shift a couple of books and other décor out of the way. Once it sat upon the shelf, you stood back and admired the skull in its new home.

What was someone else’s garbage is your new treasure.

While standing there, you felt the watchful gaze of someone again. Your head snapped back over to the open balcony door only to find nothing there, eyes narrowing. You marched over to the sliding glass door then stopped.

Something was… off.

A shiver ran down your spine the longer you stood there. It took a moment for your senses to finally feel the presence of someone in front of you. Your entire body tensed up before you ripped the glass door closed. So hard, you were surprised it didn’t shatter before you. The lock was thrown. You stumbled away from the closed door, eyes wide as you stared in terror.

There was something you couldn’t see. You felt it. A heat rolling off that invisible thing. What was that?! You trembled in the middle of your living room like scared prey. What you couldn’t see terrified you. Eyes blown wide.

Whatever there moved. The thing moved. You watched as the air rippled, distorted before your eyes as it unrooted from its spot. The figure stepped up to the railing then leaped over it. Then, it was gone. You rushed forward and swiftly shut your curtains before it could return to watch you again.

To calm your racing heart, you leaned against the curtains and placed a hand on your chest. Your heart on the verge of beating out. The feeling it gave you… You felt like prey amidst a hunter.

Once you calmed down enough, you pulled away from the glass door about to head to your bedroom when you remembered something. “Fuck,” you cursed. Your book was still laying on the coffee table! And, you were in a good spot as well.

A stupid, stupid idea came to mind. You peered around the curtains and saw the coast was still clear. When your gaze snapped to the coffee table… the book was gone! Your jaw dropped. Anger flared inside of you.

“You motherfucker! Stealing my book. I was in a good spot,” you screamed, hopefully whatever that thing was could hear you. Not only did it scare you but it stole your book. Oh, you were furious now. No one steels your books.

From the outside, the Yautja could still hear your shouts after the terror Vic’tao caused you. Neither of them expected less. Uihoy was entertaining Vic’tao’s fascination. What would have a Yautja interested like this. Even Uihoy himself was curious.

“Looks like the ooman took it well,” Uihoy teased his mate and patted the mustard yellow Yautja on the shoulder. The two of them still had their cloaks activated. They didn’t want their presence known to anyone besides their intended target. Vic’tao huffed and shook off Uihoy’s grip with a unseen glare thrown his way.

“Oh shush. I knew this was to happen. Oomans are prey.” Then, he lifted up the book he snatched from their target. “Look at what I got. We can learn more about the ooman.”

A deadpanned fell upon the older Yautja behind his biomask. “You stole a book.”

Vic’tao gave a scoff and purposefully shook his tresses to make them rattle. “This ooman. I want to learn more about him. Like some of things they teach you on the mothership. Oh, wait, you weren’t born on a mothership,” Vic’tao teased. All jester between the two male Yautjas

Their beginning may have started off rocky with disgust of the other, here they are.

Then, the yellow male wapped Uihoy with the book. “Learn about your target, yes? They should’ve at least taught you that.” Despite a hateful start to their relationship, they now can joke about their cultural differences. “You never know. Maybe this book has information about our target.”

Uihoy groaned and lulled his head backwards. “Dumbass, you can’t even read any of the ooman languages,” he grunted then tilted his head back to look at him.

Vic’tao raised a finger to tell the purple Yautja off, sucking in a breath before falling flat. He glanced down at the paper book in his hand and slumped on his shoulders. “I hate it when you’re right,” he mumbled, ready to throw the book when an idea struck him. “Wait! We can translate it back on the ship.” Their ship, more like Uihoy’s, had the capabilities to translate any known language into Yautja.

Another deadpanned look was thrown at Vic’tao who couldn’t see it. “Or, you can use your gauntlet,” he offered instead and tapped at the mentioned device. “This wonderful technology that be entirely versatile or did they only teach you basic hunting skills at the moment.” Vic’tao scoffed then stood up on the branch they each shared. Uihoy followed suit.

In one moment, Uihoy was free. The very next, Vic’tao pinned his into the trunk of the tree. A tight grasp wrapped around the purple Yautja’s throat and trapped him to the tree. Though, the Yautja was short, he wasn’t one to be messed with.

“I’ve got you stuck here, don’t I?” he rumbled into his ear, eyes gleaming behind his biomask.

The ground left Vic’tao’s feet. His back met the rough texture of bark, biting into his scales. Above him, Uihoy had him pinned instead. “Checkmate.”

A few days have passed since that incident occurred. Your book was long gone at this point. Another had been ordered and should be arriving in the next day or two. Despite your apprehension to leave home to go to work, you’ve pushed through and left the very next day for a stupid paycheck.

Nothing happened. No eyes. No feelings of being watched. Nor the next day. It too was free from that torment. Even on the fourth day, today, nothing has happened.

That caused you to question if it happened at all. If it wasn’t for the skull and missing book, you would’ve believed it was a fluke. A nightmare that you don’t remember waking from. Only it happening and now haunting you. The book, you could brush off as miss placing it someone stealing it from work. Besides that, the skull was your hard evidence.

Never had have you ever seen a wolf, let alone its own skull. The whole thing mystified you. All you could do in the end of scratch your head about it. How in the world does this happen to you?

Thousands upon thousands upon thousands of people in your town and this thing targets you.

Now wasn’t the time to maul over your misfortune of the situation. With a sigh, you stepped out into the hallway. Your foot knocked into something on the ground. A brow quirked up as you glanced down only to find a box on the doormat. Confused, you picked it up off the ground.

It wasn’t a package. It looked like someone just randomly dropped off a box. The box itself wasn’t big. At most a foot wide and long barely even three inches tall. You checked the time on your phone really quickly before spinning on your heel and going back into your apartment. The closed behind you. You walked over to the dining table and set it down.

A short list of people who could’ve dropped it off listed off inside of your head. Yet, you felt like any of them would’ve notified you of the package. With your lips pressed tightly in a line, you carefully pulled the top of the box off.

The lid fell from your grasp before falling to the ground with a light tap.

Bones filled the small box. Horror flashed over your features. What the fuck?! You stumbled back and knocked into the kitchen counter behind you. Bones. But from what? Animal or-or human? A full body tremble raked your body.

The first thought to enter your frenzy brain was to call the police. Then rational thinking rose to the surface. They would think it was you or they may think you as crazy if these aren’t human. What were you suppose to do now? You’ve got work in less than thirty minutes and some crazy person dr-was it that thing you saw a couple of days ago?

A cold sweat rolled down your back. You had hoped it was only a one-time issue… not a recurring stalker. Wait. Do you have a stalker? Is this considered stalking?

You took a deep breath then quickly threw the box into the garbage. The bones rattled as they fell into their new and forever home. You shuttered at the sound, praying they weren’t human and damning yourself to throwing away evidence. Evidence that could paint you as the killer if they were. You ran your fingers through your hair before marching out of the door for work. Not another second to be wasted.

From his corner inside the ooman’s dwelling, Vic’tao bristled when they threw away the gift he graciously offered. He hunted down dangerous beasts for those bones and presented them to you. Then, you cast them aside.

Strange enough, you accepted the skull but refused the rib bones and femur packaged away in that box. It stumped the yellow Yautja as he meandered over to where you carelessly discarded the bones. The skull was set upon a shelve in the main room of your small dwelling. He moved over to it and peered at it. What made it different to be accepted rather than the other bones he offered to you?

He tasted your fear in the air and shrugged it off. Not that he was expecting less from a weaker creature such as yourself. Yet, there was something about you that caught his attention. Vic’tao had to try and win your hand and favor.

When you returned home, you set your keys and bag down on the kitchen counter. A peak into the garbage revealed the box was still there. Another tremble racked your body.

All day, you had hoped it was just a strange daydream or some hallucination. Clearly, that wasn’t the case.

When you’re about to enter your bedroom, something out of the corner of your eye caught your attention. You screeched to a halt, head whipping to find the balcony curtains opened. Just wide enough to reveal another white, shiny skull sitting on the small coffee table. Long, sharp canines veered from its mouth. Empty, eyeless sockets staring at you.

Your feet froze to the spot, refusing to move. All you could do was stare in terror at the sight.

This was purposeful. Someone was doing this on purpose. Tormenting you.

After you gained function of your limbs, you raced into your bedroom and slammed it shut behind you. The door rattling on the hinges from the force you exerted. Your back is pressed to it to ensure it stays in that same position. Your chest heaved with lungful breaths.

Vic’tao tilted his head at your reaction and huffed. Oomans are completely bewildering. Last time, you liked and accepted the last skull. So, he pulled another from his collection and even set it out in perfect sight for you. Then, you go ahead and act terrified of it.

The younger Yautja grunted and marched outside to retrieve it. This time, he held it in his hands and stood in front of the door you closed. His cloak revealing himself to the empty room. Like a patient hunter, he waited for the time to strike.

Inside of your bedroom, you heard a noise come from your living room and tensed up. What was that? You gnawed on your bottom lip then slowly pulled open the door. With it being dark, it was hard to peer through the darkness. Yet, from what you could tell, nothing had changed. You released a sigh of relief and took a step out of your room.

Only to freeze when you heard clicking. Not mechanical. As if something or someone was making the sound. Then, your eyes adjusted even to spot a figure towering in front of you.

A scream ripped at your lips. Immediately, you threw your fist at what looked to its head only to be met with metal. Your hand throbbed immensely afterwards. You screamed again then spun on your heel and began to run away. Only to smack yourself into the doorframe. All you could see was darkness fill your vision… then nothing.

In a span of less than minute, you had somehow knocked yourself out cold after trying to attack him. He chittered to himself under his mask with an amused smirk. The yellow Yautja peered down at your lifeless body then glanced over to Uihoy. “Well, that went well,” he snarked before reaching down and scooping you up. It seems like you weren’t getting the message. So, Vic’tao would have to force you to understand.

Uihoy came over and grasped your limp chin then picked up your head. His other hand ran his thumb across your cheek bone. “They’re not bad looking,” he muttered mostly to himself then let you fall limb against Vic’tao again. He looked up at Vic’tao. “What’s your plan with him?”

“Since he doesn’t get the hint, I’m going to straight up tell him. If he accepts, he accepts. If he doesn’t, we’ll let him ago,” Vic’tao answered before securing the skull to his belt. Once that was settled, the younger male left through the sliding glass door and climbing to the room of these small, compact dwellings. Uihoy’s ship was at least three times the space inside than just your dwelling alone. If you were to accept their advantages, you would get a huge upgrade. Plus, two Yautjas to protect you from any harm.

A snort came from Uihoy as he shook his head. His short, greying tresses swayed with the movement. “This is a ooman you’re talking about. They aren’t the most knowledgeable nor wise,” Uihoy chuckled and followed Vic’tao through the back door. Said door was slid shut after him.

The two of them got on top of the apartments and entered their ship that was hovering just a few feet above the roof. No one was none the wiser to this.

Vic’tao took you to the common area and let you rest on the longest couch there. Uihoy took to the helm of their ship and flew it higher into the sky. Neither of them could risk any ooman seeing them or else… death to that ooman. You are a special case as they try to woo your hand.

A pounding in your head had you grasping it, blocking out the light shining down on you. A groan voiced from your throat as you strained to sit up and held your head in two hands.

Man, you must have start a wild night of drinking to have a headache like this. No wonder why you woke up with a raging migraine.

When you finally fight off the first wave of pain to hit you, you opened your eyes and glanced around. Confusion filled your head. What in the world? This isn’t place you’ve ever been to. Fuck, you must still be asleep… yet that pain felt so real.

A mechanical whooshing caught your attention. You whipped your head around. A grave mistake but pushed through the pain that flared up.

An imposing figure stood in the doorframe. Its height easily dwarfed yours. Your jaw dropped, ready to start screamed when a massive head covered your mouth. That only caused you to freak out more.

Harsh clicking entered the air. You stared wide up at the figure leaning over you from behind, spiting out growls at the other one. The lone form before you rolled its bright orange eyes and let’s its crossed arms fall. Then, it began to stalk closer towards you. You shouted from behind the hand and scrambled backwards, only to knock into the figure.

The purple one advancing one you stopped when the yellow one spat something at it. Then, yellow tilted its head down at you.

Four sharp fangs were all you could notice on its alien face. This wasn’t something on earth. You got kidnapped by aliens! The top two raised in some sort of grin. It clicked something at you but its alien tongue went straight over its head. The purple one made a snide comment to its friend who snarl, hand tensing around your mouth.

For a moment, you fear it would accidently snap your neck. Until its hand fully fell away. Yet, it stayed behind you. Now, you were trapped between the two of them, unable to move.

The creature behind you raised a finger, as if telling to wait a moment then moved over to a wall. Its fingers pressed against a hidden button. A hiss entered the air.

Before your very eyes, the wall started to retract panels. In sort of a strange transformation, the panels revealed a hidden compartment you were shocked to see. Before you grew nervous and disgusted. Skulls and bones lined the space in the wall… like a trophy wall. Were they showing the place they would soon put your skull? Are they going to kill you?!

You gasped and launched off of the couch. The purple one reacted quicker than you could even blink. It was upon you in a moment and shoved you back down on the oversized couch. You choked on air and stared up at the imposing figure. All it did was return the gaze in a lazy fashion. Like it was bored.

“What do you want?” you finally find your voice and asked them an important question. The purple creature tilted its head then pressed a button on its strange gauntlet. It held out the device towards you again and made a motion to go again. “What do you want?”

The only thing you could think of was a translator or something of the sort. You waited impatiently for the device to do its thing and repeat what you had said.

Yellow made its way over to the two of you leaned over the couch, entering your personal space a little too much. Instead of purple answer, the other one took the time to speak towards the gauntlet.

“We are trying to court you,” an automated voice repeated to you in English. Your brain blanked at the response, jaw dropping in shock.

“Court?! Like-like dating? What the fuck?” you practically screeched at the top of your lungs and sat up higher on the couch only to accidently knock into yellow. “You guys are monsters!”

Another pause as your words are translated to them. At first, you froze at the realization of your insulting words. They could possible still kill you if they felt like it. Specially, talking like that to them. You sat there, fretting if you just signed your death notice.

Instead, the beasts tilted their heads. “Not monsters. Yautja. We are Yautja. Yes, we like to court you. We are proud hunters who if you accept us, will protect and provide for you.” Yautja? Strange name for a species. That thought was kept to yourself before you damned yourself further.

Protect and provide. That actually for you thinking for the moment. Your eyes scanned the open area around you. Wherever they’ve taken you is spacious just in this spot alone. At least twice the size of your living room alone. They called themselves hunter which is evident by the many skulls adorning the nearby wall. There was even a skull that was about the size of you.

If they could take down something of that size… you swallowed down the lump in your throat. “Can I have time to think about this? Learn about you guys? Humans don’t just walk into relationships without learning about the other people first,” you questioned, nervously fretting with the hem of your shirt.

Yellow’s eyes brightened. The figure began to purr by the sounds of it and chuffed at its partner in crime.

Purple gave a thinking face. “I did not realize human customs were different than ours. We hadn’t thought of that." This came from yellow this time. It moved from around the couch then got down on its hunched and offered the skull you saw before.

Instead of being canine this time, you realized this must be feline or something close to it. You timidly reached out and accepted it from yellow. You were thankful it didn’t outright kill you at first and took that as a good sign. “Thank you.” Yellow lifted those upper two mandibles again at you. “Um, do-do you guys have names?”

This time, purple let his arm fall to not catch his next words. “Uihoy.” He pointed towards himself. Your eyes bulged out of your head. What in the world? Not a name from this world.

“Vic’tao.” Yellow joined in and motioned towards himself. How do they expect you to form those kind of names?

Embarrassed, you scratched the back of your neck. “Can you try that again?” you asked, hoping not the offend them any way possible.

For the next few moments, they helped your learned how to pronounce their alien names. In that moment, you learned quickly they meant no harm to you. They weren’t going to hurt you.

You waved goodbye after they dropped you off on the balcony of your apartment. Feeling a little giddy, you walked back inside and head towards your bedroom with a new skull. Despite all the fear you endured from them, they weren’t bad to hang around with. Maybe, once you grew to know them, you would allow for this to continued.

[spreadwardiard]

Megatron Does NOT Drunk Call His Ex

Rating: Teen and Up Audiences

Megatron/Orion Pax, Megatron/Optimus Prime

Summary: Megatron laments his break up while watching Orion Pax's coronation as Prime on the holoscreen.

Notes: I wanted to try my hand at the whole 'drunk calling your ex' trope, and had some fun with it. Takes place in that time between the disasterous senate meeting and optimus being formally named prime by the government. This is TFP/ Aligned

Megatron scowled as he smashed his digits roughly against the keypad to his door.  The numerals on the far left section of the pad were stuck again, not wanting to register his touch. He swiftly punched the mechanism in annoyance, and then tried again.  Percussive maintenance did its job and the pin finally registered.  

He tried not to think about how Orion had complained about the lock for at least a vorn before… Megatron grumbled at himself to stop that thought. Thinking about Orion Pax brought nothing but pain, but even Megatron knew that nothing would stop the onslaught of thoughts, memories and feelings that were certain to come for him in the night. 

It was a battle he had lost many times before, ever since their separation. It was easier to call it that, rather than what it really was: a break up. One he hadn’t actually even wanted to happen. One that was his fault- 

Megatron took in a deep vent, tried to reorient his thoughts to anything but Orion Pax. How the slag was he supposed to do that when he fragger’s coronation as Prime was scheduled to air any klik now? He hadn’t even seen the mech in what felt like ages… not since the argument. 

Frag… He’d already lost the battle, and it had hardly even begun. Megatron’s scowl deepened as he admitted defeat, and against his better judgement, grabbed a bottle of his finest high grade. He grimaced as he actually looked at the bottle in his servo, decorated in golden filigree and ornately etched glyphs. It was the bottle Orion had given him in preparation for their Rites. The thought stung like acid rain. 

He snorted out a forced laugh. The idea of he and Orion binding their sparks seemed laughably distant now. How fitting that he consume the high grade now, for Orion’s big hurrah. He didn’t even grab a cube to pour it in. He wouldn’t need one, he knew himself. The bottle would be empty before the night was over. 

Megatron popped the lid and brought the bottle to his derma, prepared for a harsh, but effective, high grade to assault his glossa. He hated that it was delicious, that Orion had probably paid more for this bottle than Megatron spent on fuels for half a vorn. He hated that it was supposed to be special… shared between them… that he had ruined it. 

At least his revolution was still going strong. The betrayal of Orion Pax may have hurt Megatron personally, but it ultimately strengthened the resolve of his followers. It was a bitter victory, he thought as he slunk back into his sofa, limp as an old thermal sheet. 

If he hadn’t lost his temper and let his paranoia get the better of him, he’d be at that coronation with Orion, not having to watch it on the holoscreen. He took another drink, as large as his intake would allow, before he turned on the screen, and found the correct broadcast. 

The newsmech drawled on about the excitement happening in Trion Square. Thousands of mechs had arrived to meet the newly designated Prime. Megatron snorted again as the crowd cheered in excitement.  They were imagining a glorious leader to light their darkest hour, but all Megatron could envision was the dorky archivist that used to recharge in his arms and who couldn’t remember to fuel himself. 

The bottle was at his derma before the grief that followed the previous thought could hit him. It settled hot in his tanks, and he forced a smile at the knowledge that liquid relief would be imminent. Once the warmth set in, the dulling of his processor would soon follow, and that aching emptiness wouldn’t be so painful. 

He missed Orion Pax and now that nearly a dozen stellar cycles had passed, he would finally get to see him again. On the holoscreen… But that was better than nothing, right? 

The newsmech continued their useless prattle, and Megatron watched lazily as the cameras panned the crowd, every so often freezing on the ornately draped balcony that he assumed Orion would appear from. Even from his out of date holoscreen, he could tell how exquisite the embroidery on the drapery was. It must have taken vorns to do by servo. It looked distastefully splendent next to the polished golden accents that Iacon was known for. 

How many drinks had he had already? His processor was starting to feel a bit foggy. He couldn’t remember. He took another. It didn’t matter anyway. It wouldn’t change what he’d done. It wouldn’t bring back what he’d carelessly thrown away in a foolish fit of paranoia. 

Megatron was ruthless with his words that cycle. He tore into Orion like a vicious beast. Orion visibly crumbled at his accusations of betrayal, and when he accused him of using their relationship as a means to gain power, Orion looked as if Megatron had stabbed him through his spark chamber. He would never forget the pain that had flashed through Orion’s field… 

He was such a slagging fool… It wasn’t until after Orion went off the grid to seek out the Matrix that Megatron put it all together. Orion had never betrayed him at all. The entire situation was carefully orchestrated by the Council to drive a wedge between them, and it had succeeded in that aim. Now, Orion was their puppet, without Megatron there to fend them off and it was all his fault. 

Megatron tore his optics from the holoscreen and looked at the bottle in his servos. It felt too light, and it took him a moment to register that he’d already drank nearly half of it. Orion hadn’t even appeared yet… It wasn’t his fault this stuff was so slagging good. Besides… this was a ‘drink to forget’ sort of night, and he sure as slag hadn’t forgotten scrap yet. Megatron took another drink.

It was harder to focus on the holoscreen. The newsmech was now apologizing for delays. Megatron couldn’t stop a laugh at that. Typical Orion Pax; late for literally everything. He’d have been late to his own forging if that were possible. 

Slag… he felt heavy as a load of cement… What the frag was in this? He hauled the bottle up to his helm, and shuttered his optics, before squinting at the glyphs. He couldn’t focus on them, they just appeared as far off, fuzzy and jumbled nonsense. There was about a third of the bottle left…. Maybe he’d had enough?

He should apologize. Megatron knew that. He’d thought about it time and time again, usually when he was like this and had nothing else to distract him from his woes, but his pride refused to allow that. He never had been good at admitting when he was wrong, and was even worse when it came to apologizing for it. 

What would he even say? Where even was he to start? ‘I’m sorry’ didn’t feel sincere enough, and anything beyond that was likely to just be excuses for his behavior.  He deserved this… what he’d said was inexcusable. 

Megatron ex-vented heavily. His frame felt like dead weight, and the longer he allowed it to melt into his sofa, the more annoying the constant pinging in his hip strut was. How long had it been alerting him of his discomfort now? He wasn’t paying attention. The ache in his spark was worse anyway. He took another drink. 

It wasn’t fair. He wished he could share the enthusiasm shown by the crowd on the holoscreen, but how could that even be possible? With Orion now under the watchful optics of the Primacy, he was as good as lost. The Prime may have had power of his own, but they always followed the will of the Council. Orion would be no different. The Council had too much sway, too much power, for one mech to defy them alone.

The pinging of discomfort in his hip was becoming too much to ignore. He shifted his mass to the side just enough to allow gravity to crash his upper frame into the sofa cushions. The high grade sloshed dangerously in its bottle, but miraculously did not spill from his sudden readjustment, even as he pulled his legs up with him and shifted for relief. 

The holoscreen was mostly forgotten. Instead, he pulled up his HUD and braced for the inevitable sting as he selected an image from his gallery, of Orion Pax lounging in berth. He had a datapad in his servo, and a soft, gentle smile on his face as he read aloud some poetry from the collection he’d been browsing. The poem had been romantic, though Megatron couldn’t remember it now. Orion had only read it to him once, and afterwards they’d ended up indulging in each other’s frames. 

Megatron remembered the interfacing, not the poem, and it stung more than he would admit even to himself. He wished he would have saved a memory file so he could hear Orion recite it over and over again. He wished he could hear him recite anything right now. He hadn’t heard his voice since- 

He cut himself off by forcibly closing the image, which, unfortunately, landed him right at Orion’s commlink. He stared at it for several kliks, toyed with the idea of calling before shooting that idea down with a slovenly scoff. No, the time for that had long passed, and Orion would be too busy to answer anyway, if he even wanted to. He’d convinced himself long ago that Orion had likely already blocked him from contacting him anyway. 

He closed out of his HUD and shuttered his optics. His frame was running hot from the high grade, and his fans finally kicked in to dispel the excess heat. Slag… he must look as pitiful as he felt. The great and mighty Megatron, The Champion of the Pits, brought to his knees over a slagging break-up. He was patheti-

His self degradation was cut off by a loud and sudden ping. It was a comm request, marked urgent. It was from Orion. It flashed at him across his HUD in bold, red glyphs, but that was impossible. There was no way it was real… His mind was playing tricks on him again. 

His optics darted to the holoscreen. Orion was supposed to have made his debut some time ago, but even with his optical inputs distorted from the drink, he could plainly see that Orion Pax was not where he was supposed to be. The ornately decorated balcony was still empty, and several important looking mechs shuffled around in distress at Orion’s truancy.

Megatron’s intake went dry, and that aching emptiness in his chassis returned full force as he, against his better judgement, accepted the incoming request. He tried to speak, but found his vocalizer needed rebooting. 

“Megatron?... Please, don’t hang up…” It was him… He sounded different than Megatron remembered. The reverberation of his voice was slightly off, like his vocalizer was now housed in a larger frame, but the voice was unmistakably Orion. 

Megatron wanted to respond, but his rebooting vocalizer prevented him from uttering more than a distorted and shaky “Hmmm?” 

“Thank Primus, you accepted my call. I was worried you wouldn’t wish to speak with me. I’m sorry I didn’t contact you sooner. There was so much happening, I hardly had a moment to myself befor-” It almost didn’t feel real. He’d so deeply convinced himself that he and Orion were too damaged for him to ever reach out. He had been certain that Orion had blocked him from contact. 

“...and after that I was taken to this strange tunnel system where they placed me in some purification pool…” Orion was rambling, but it didn’t matter. It just felt good to hear his voice again. It slid into Megatron’s processor like the richest of energon, and he was starving. 

“... -fter that I was chased by a small hoard of hibernating scraplets. I genuinely thought that I was going to offline down there…” This whole thing felt far too good to be true. Orion didn’t sound upset with him at all. There was anxiety in his tone, and judging by the speed of which he was speaking, he had a lot to say that he wanted, or needed to say quickly, but there was no anger or resentment, like Megatron expected.

“...-atrix of Leadership…” Slag… he wasn’t actually paying attention to what Orion had been saying this whole time, the high grade had only allowed him to process the smooth timbre of his voice. He tried to think back over what he’d heard, something about a pool of scraplets in a tunnel? . Slag… he still wasn’t paying attenti-

“Megatron… are you listening to me?” He flinched at the question. He was really regretting drinking as much as he had. If he’d have known Orion was going to comm him, he wouldn’t have had nearly as much. Megatron wet his derma before replying. 

“I’m listening.” He sounded weak, and he knew it. He hoped Orion didn’t catch the waver in his tone, his tell that he wasn’t being entirely truthful. 

Orion audibly sighed, but whether it was in annoyance or relief, Megatron couldn’t tell. 

“I know, I’m rambling, I’m sorry. What I’m trying to say is that the Matrix makes me feel things far more intensely than I did before. All it lets me think about is you, and our last meeting… how I fragged everything up that cycle… How much I miss you. I’m sor-” 

It took him several kliks to actually process what Orion was saying. Did he say: missed? He felt his spark practically jump in its chamber. Was that actually what he’d heard? That couldn’t be right… not after the cruel things he’d said. 

“You miss me?” Orion went silent, and Megatron realized that he’d cut him off, mid-sentence, likely in the middle of something important. Something that he, again, wasn’t listening to. He grimaced at his stupid mistake.

“Yes, I did say that.” Megatron tried to sit up, but found he only had the strength to roll onto his back. His frame was too heavy for him to hoist up. He draped his arm over his optics instead, to quell the spinning as his processor tried to adjust to his movement. He definitely had too much. The high grade was flooding his frame now.  It was a struggle just to keep his optics open. 

“Will you say it again?” He cursed himself for how desperate his request must sound. Orion was silent for several kliks, but the time felt like eons as Megatron waited.

“Have you been drinking?” 

Megatron groaned at the question, and that seemed to suffice as an answer for Orion. 

“I miss you, Megatronus.” He let out an ex-vent that he wasn’t aware he was even holding in. Maybe all hope wasn’t lost after all? Maybe he hadn’t completely destroyed the bond he held so dear to his spark. 

“I miss you too…” Megatron’s words slurred together and came out a jumbled mess. He barely got them out. The bottle he forgot he was holding fell from his servos, and he flinched at the sound of it crashing into the floor, the remainder of its content’s splattering across the tiles. 

“Primus… you are absolutely slagged…” Orion laughed softly, and it sounded like bells to his audials. The soothing sound reminded him of cycles long past, when they were happy together. 

“I miss you, Orion.” That wasn’t what he’d meant to say… He meant to ask Orion what the slag was in that fancy high grade to make him act like this. He’d be embarrassed if he weren’t fighting a system shutdown with all of his might. 

“Mega…” Orion’s voice wavered, and the pet name burrowed into his audials. Megatron wondered if he was going to cut the link. He wouldn’t blame him for doing so. He’d fumbled this opportunity in a grand fashion. “Can I come see you? Please?”

 Megatron almost couldn’t process that request. It was so far off from what he was expecting Orion to say that the glyphs simply didn’t make sense for several kliks. 

“Where are you?” Wasn’t Orion supposed to be doing that important thing right now? In Iacon? Halfway across the planet from him? Megatron turned his helm just enough to see the holoscreen. The balcony was still empty. The crowd was still in place. 

“I’m in Kaon… I-I fled my coronation and I… I didn’t know who else to run t-” 

“Please…” He didn’t even attempt to hide the desperation in his tone, he was too tired at this point. His frame may have been in the process of powering down, but his spark thrummed in a mixture of disbelief, longing and joy. 

“Give me just a few kliks… I won’t be long.”  Orion laughed again, clearly with relief and again Megatron was soothed by the sound more than he would care to ever admit. “Thank you, Mega. I was afraid you would turn me away. I was afraid we were…. Over.” 

“I don’t want us to be.” Megatron mumbled and vented softly. His processing subroutines were shutting down faster than he could reboot them. Orion said something after that, but Megatron could no longer process his vocals into anything that made sense. But at that moment, it didn’t matter. The blackout took him as Orion continued to croon softly to him.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

Megatron came online slowly in the morning. His helm was aching, but not as badly as he expected. He sank into his berth comfortably, and that helped to ease the discomfort his frame should have been feeling. After rolling onto his side, he slowly shuttered his optics, half expecting to be struck with pain, but pleasantly surprised that he was granted a painless view of his berth-side table. 

There was a nearly empty energon cube sitting precariously close to the edge of the table, with a straw sticking out of if. He couldn’t remember getting a cube before he shutdown… Come to think of it… he didn’t remember much of anything that happened after he fell sideways onto the sofa last cycle. 

He slowly sat up, while scratching the back of his helm as he tried to remember how the slag he’d gotten into his berth to begin with. He made a point of not recharging here. It was too big without Orion beside him.  

Orion! 

Orion had commed him last night! The ache in his processor surged as the memory of their conversation struck him all once. Orion called him and he bungled the entire conversation, but Orion had asked to see him.

Against his better judgement, Megatron swung his legs out of berth.  His left pede hitting the rim of something, and sending it careening against the berth-side table: a trash bin, likely set there in case he purged during the night. As he stood, the scent of fuel preparation struck his olfactory sensors. It smelled like fried mineral cakes and thickened energon syrup, the scent of the warmed syrup almost sickeningly sweet. His intake watered, and his tanks clenched in discomfort at their emptiness. 

There was no way… that had to have been a dream, a recharge flux from the high grade and the torture of watching Orion’s coronation.  A hallucination created to torment him for his mistakes.. Right?? There was no way Orion had really come and put him to berth, with a drink… right? 

He lurched towards the door, pausing only long enough for it to register him and open before stumbling out into his living quarters. He could hear the fuels sizzling in his prep station. Slung over the back of the sofa was a thermal sheet, folded, with a pillow resting on top.  

 It must be Soundwave… he must have checked in on the security feeds and saw him passed out on the sofa, and had come to clean up the mess. That had to be it… Even so, it he found more difficult to draw in a vent the closer he came to the dividing wall separating his living space from his fuel preparation area. 

“Megatron? Are you online?” 

Megatron paused in his steps as the unmistakable voice filled his audials. His intake went dry the moment he tried to speak, and he found himself at a loss for words. It wasn’t all a dream. Orion had called him.  He had wanted to see him. He was here… Right there, on the other side of the wall. 

He rounded the corner, needing to see it to truly believe it. Orion stood with his back towards him, obviously engrossed in the meal he was preparing. His frame was new…. He no longer wore a civilian model. He was taller, with a much sturdier chassis than before, and his arms thick with armor and weaponry. It was clearly the make of a warframe, but his colors were the same, familiar red and blue.

He finally felt like he could vent again, and when he did so, Orion turned his helm with a hopeful grin on his face. Their optics met, and Megatron had to rest his weight upon the wall to keep upright. He was beautiful. 

“Orion…” It was all he could say as a million thoughts and words tried to bombard him at once. There was so much he wanted to say, so much he needed to apologize for, so many questions he wanted to ask. 

Orion shut off the flame on the unit, and slid something onto a plate before turning around fully. 

“I know there are many things we need to discuss. But I hope that it can wait until after breakfast. I made your favorite.” Orion held up one of the plates, stacked with mineral cakes, to emphasize his point, and as if on queue, Megatron’s systems loudly pinged a low fuel warning.

Orion laughed. “I guess I still have perfect timing. Sit down, I’ll bring it to you.” 

It was like they hadn’t fought at all… Megatron sat at the table, forcing a reboot to his vocalizer. Orion sat a hefty plate of mineral cakes in front of him, followed by utensils and the thickened syrup, ready to be poured. 

Orion sat down across from him, and reached across the table, where Megatron eagerly met him with his own servo, curling their digits together, as they used to do before meals in the past. His palm was warm, and it radiated down his frame, directly to his spark. Megatron looked up to see Orion smiling at him, in what appeared to be relief. 

Megatron returned the smile, before withdrawing his servo, his nerves now eased. Things were going to be okay, better than okay, if the cakes were anything to judge it by. Orion’s field tentatively reached out to his own, and he replied with his own. It was a quiet reunion, but it let him know that their love still stood strong, and that knowledge allowed him to fully enjoy his refueling. 

Afterwards, they would work out the rest, together.

[suzukiblu]

WIP excerpt from the one where Krypton lives and Kara did not sign up for this.

Only Kal would manage to get his DNA stolen on a planet called “Earth”, of all the godsdamned stupid places.

Might as well just be named “The Planet” or something, she swears. 

“All three it is,” Kara says, waving open her wall storage and grabbing her rice pot out of it. She only has the one because she's never had to cook for anyone else in her life, much less anyone who was staying with her, but she'll make it work. 

Somehow. 

Can't be any worse than pulling off mission-critical military maneuvers in shit conditions with untried and under-trained new recruits, she figures. 

. . . though she is admittedly more prepared for that situation than this one, if it comes to it. 

Look, that’s just experience, alright? She’s been on a thousand maneuvers and missions she didn’t have the resources for, but Kal doesn’t get cloned every day. 

Well, at least not when he’s not on incredibly uncreatively named alien planets, anyway. 

Kara dumps three times the usual amount of rice into her rice pot while Thirteen hovers just outside the kitchen and Match stands very, very still beside him. Neither of them says anything else, though Thirteen looks like he might want to. He seems to be the talker, from what Kara can tell. 

Or at least, he’s the one they’ve designated to be the talker. He asks more questions, and sometimes Match looks at him like he’s expecting him to ask a question. Even if they don’t necessarily get along, they seem to be cooperating at least that much. 

Well, it makes sense. They’re the only other successful Kryptonian-human clones that anyone’s aware of existing, and they know cloning is illegal on Krypton, and Kal isn’t here right now. Who else are they going to rely on when meeting a total stranger? 

Even a total stranger who is, technically, family. 

Or at least arguably, anyway. 

Her house communicator plays a familiar identifying little melody as she’s juggling her spheres of katso sauce and dried spygin in one arm while trying to dig out the last couple of bly fruit she <i>knows</i> she had shoved in the back of her cold storage, which admittedly is a bit cluttered with premade meals right now. Or . . . always, pretty much. 

In her defense, she really doesn’t cook very much. Or very well. Or . . . at all, really, when she can avoid it. 

She’s a grown woman and a decorated general, alright? She doesn’t need to cook if she doesn’t want to. 

“Accept call,” she instructs briskly, and the communicator’s holoscreen materializes to her side. Thirteen startles slightly; Match doesn’t so much as twitch. Doesn’t so much as breathe either, though, so she’s pretty sure he was startled too. At least, that’s the impression she’s been getting from the way he’s reacted to things so far. 

Avoided reacting to things, more like. 

“Oh, look who’s finally calling,” she says, eyeing Kal’s image on her projected screen. He looks just barely harried and the slightest bit sheepish, and she can see a dark-haired woman who’s presumably his new wife sitting behind him in his home office wearing peculiar clothing that is definitely not Kryptonian, but also doesn’t look nearly as indecent as what Thirteen and Match both showed up wearing. She seems occupied with a reader, and keeps activating and deactivating it like she’s never seen anything like it before. 

So probably the wife, yes. Lois Kal-El, née Sam-Lane, according to Kal’s previous calls. Though he also says that humans have slightly different naming schemes than Krypton does. And apparently more varied ones than Krypton does, too. 

Why Kal apparently made sure his grown wife was more appropriately dressed than the children were is beyond her, though.

[korpuskat]

Twines Counterclockwise

[Ao3 Mirror] Pairing: Ramattra/Reader (Gender Neutral) Rating: T WC: 3.6K Warnings: Hanahaki's Diseases, Blood, Injury =

It starts with an itch in your chest. Just the faintest inclination you needed to cough- which would’ve been fine, a normal little human thing that nobody thinks much of. Except that in front of you is a holoscreen, displaying blueprints in glowing 3D, spinning as their creator motions to various features and systems. His fingers are long and shine brilliantly when they cut through white, hovering lines. It’s his updated design of the slicer’s laser, modernized, faster start-up, less heat emission, and-

“Sorry,” You interrupt, turn away, and cough.

He stops long enough to look at you, but with his unemotive faceplate, whatever he’s truly thinking is lost. Probably irritation for impeding his explanation, which makes you resist the urge to duck your head. It’s unprofessional, you tell yourself. Instead you settle for purposefully looking at the design, “Please, go on.”

He waits a moment- perhaps debating how worth it is to snap at a human trying to give him orders. Finally, he continues. If he notices your gaze wandering off the crisp, white lines and back to his hands, he says nothing.

You don’t think much of it, even if you’re having to clear your throat repeatedly just to rid yourself of that itchy feeling. Probably a cold, or perhaps the icy antarctic air has finally started to wear on you. It’s nothing, a quirk of being human in a place so intensely not made for humans, an annoyance- until it isn’t.

And of course, it’s when he’s escorting you through his waiting production lines. Motioning up above to the never-ending converters, arcs of welders and robotic arms, waiting so long to be tasked again. He speaks in that rumbling, low voice of his, explains the modifications he will need to make before mass production can begin. His synth loses its regulation when he gets excited, sounding less deceptively almost-human and more robotic. It’s not a bad sound.

He points overhead towards one line. Even for his size, his movements look graceful, fluid. Each joint is wellkept, oiled, and the gold design on the few scraps of cloth that he wears shimmers in the low lights. He motions again, then turns and looks at you- bright red array, empty black optical slits.

Right. The production line.

You fight to keep the facade of professionalism. He continues. This line needs repairs, did not work with London, couldn’t source the parts for it without raising flags he didn’t have the resources to cover. He would need it to be updated and-

And you’re softly coughing into your fist. Ramattra’s head turns subtly, glancing at you from the corner of his vision. You hold up a hand, one finger in a silent plea for him to wait just a moment. This isn’t a big deal. It isn’t.

But you don’t stop coughing, turning first towards your inner elbow- but it won’t stop. Your throat burns, itches- but each spasm of your diaphragm isn’t doing anything to help. Each cough brings on the next, and the next-

“Are you… alright?” He asks, and oh, you can almost convince yourself there’s actual worry there. It would be a pain if a Talon agent died alone in his omnium, so soon after their tentative agreements. You nod, try to smile between coughs- but it must not work because he follows it up with “Are you sick?”

You don’t get the chance to dissuade him, because you’re doubling over, falling to your knees. Coughs turn to retches, full-body shudders and there’s something in your throat. Tears burn at your eyes, blur your vision, even as three silver claws step in front of you. You can’t stop coughing, can barely breathe between each one and all you can do is flex your throat, hunch over, squeeze your eyes-

Something falls into your hand, still cupped over your mouth.

The itch is gone. Tears cover your face. Finally, you can breathe again, taking in lungfuls of cold, antarctic air- which feel like knives in your irritated throat. With the back of your hand, you wipe at your face, trying to hide the evidence of tears and spittle. You’re so far beyond presentable and the whir of Ramattra’s internals, so close to you now, crouched down to your level, only makes you wish you had declined this promotion entirely.

“Sorry,” You try to force another fake smile, but don’t know if it even really makes it past the intention. “Don’t know what that was.” Ramattra’s head tips, looks you over. He waits there, watching as you struggle to pull yourself together before you finally wave him on, “Give me a minute, please.”

He makes some sort of noncommittal noise before standing up again and wandering down the walkway, giving you some space. He watches, however, keeps you in his field of view.

When you’re sure he can’t see it, you uncurl your clenched hand. Inside, is a pale purple flower bud, just beginning to open.

It doesn’t get easier. A week passes and a small collection of lavender flowers has gathered on your nightstand. Each coughing fit is all-consuming, burns out every other sense until the next part is hacked up. Here, at least, in the privacy of your makeshift quarters you can reach into your mouth and try to grasp at the stem. You touch it- and retch as it twitches deep in your throat, tears springing to your eyes as you reflexively begin to cough again.

On the counter, your phone lights up, buzzes with a call.

You can’t even entertain taking it, no matter who it is. Another failed attempt to catch the stem- which is prodding painfully into the roof of your mouth- launches another round of coughs and tears. The mirror- maybe you can see it? You stumble across the room and switch on the light. Opening your mouth as wide as you can, you still can’t quite make out the shape that’s lodged itself in your windpipe. The flashlight on your phone, however, does help.

And amidst the red, inflamed flesh of your throat is a single, green-brown vine curling against the roof of your mouth. Just beyond your tongue, another purple flower clings to your tonsils, glistening with spit. With the aid of the mirror and light, this time you catch the end of the stem firmly between finger and thumb. You pull--

And pain shoots through you like lightning, sharp and crackling down your throat, across your chest, clawing and twisting into your lungs- and around your hand you cough, eyes pinching shut, dropping your phone as you struggle and yank.

It’s caught somewhere. The vines dig into every crevice they can find, desperately latching onto you. You brace yourself, take as deep a breath as you can and yank again. This time, the stem snaps. A red-dotted string of flowers splatters into your sink.

Your chest clears somewhat, still burning from where you’ve ripped the vine free. Even as you gasp in air, another growth wavers in your chest, dancing with each inhale. Before long, you’ll be back here, pulling another one out.

You really didn’t think it was that bad. Sure, you thought about him often and enjoyed every conversation that managed to veer away from Null Troopers and omniums… but the flowers? How could it have gotten so bad?

You press on one purple petal, swipe away the blood that stains it crimson. The flowers range in ages, a few at the tip not yet opened, tight, darker indigo buds, while the ones at the other end, where the stem is thicker, broken, have popped into lilac blooms. A large flat, open petal atop one tightly still curled.

You love him.

You knew, honestly, but having it be presented to you so blatantly is still… unnerving. And-

bzzt. You startle, drop the flower and look down. On the floor- where your phone had landed- is a face you really do not want to see right now. With a grimace you pick the device up, wipe any blood away from your lip, and answer.

“Hello?”

“You’re lucky I bothered to call twice.” Her voice bites out. You’ve just answered and she’s already bored with this conversation.

“Sorry. What can I do for you, Dr.O’Deorain?”

“Actually,” She almost singsongs, “It’s about what I can do for you. Your gracious host informed me that you are unwell. And while I’m sure he must have bothered to make his workshop more habitable for you, there are several fascinating viruses that live in glaciers.”

Oh.

Ramattra called her.

You grimace, feel another wave of shame that you’ve been sick enough he’s bothered to contact Moira of all people. “It’s not…” You pause- because on one hand, Moira would know how to deal with this. And on the other… even admitting it would show much of a liability you’ve been. Your chest itches already, another creeping vine ready to climb out of your throat. “I know what it is.”

“Oh? I somehow doubt even an omnic would be so concerned about a cold.”

“It’s… Hanahaki.“

She sighs and you can hear her rolling her eyes. “Just because you’re coughing-”

“Full flowers.” You stare down at the purple and red in your sink. “It’s Hanahaki.”

All the frustration leaves her voice in a heartbeat. “Send me a picture.” You do, of the one you just coughed up and the handful of flowers and petals you’ve collected. After a minute, she says something under her breath. “Wonderful.. You, what, had a crush on someone here in Rome and couldn’t confess before you left on a months-long Antarctic tour?”

You bite your tongue. Wouldn’t that be nice? A friendly coworker you could just message about your feelings. As it turns out, you don’t have to say anything at all. She’s too sharp, your silence a little too damning.

“You’re joking.” She scoffs, “Actually unbelievable.”

The urge to cough settles in your chest. Through the tightness you bite out, “Just… tell me what I can do.”

Moira sighs once more, “I don’t suppose talking it out has already crossed your mind?” You don’t answer her. “Of course. Then the only other option would be major surgery. That has its own assortment of risks, the least of which would be you would feel nothing for him anymore.”

That… should almost be comforting. Tears prick your eyes. He’s about to wage a war on the vast majority of humanity, has lectured at length the atrocities he’s seen your kin commit. There’s no chance. And yet… it hurts. Despite the damage that’s come to your body and the shame that follows: being unfit to continue working, for making things awkward, for having feelings for… him. Despite that, it’s still been nice. The warmth that follows him, that settles inside you when he speaks, the way he tips his head when he’s sketching out a new idea, the way his posture shifts, relaxes, when he must think you aren’t looking. Would that all become nothing to you?

A cough sneaks up your throat. You hold your phone at arm’s length, would mute yourself if you could focus long enough. You can’t; another flower has broken loose, tumbles from your lips into the sink to join its brethren.

On the phone, Moira curses in Gaelic. “I am advising you as a doctor to talk to him. I’m sure you kids will be able to figure it out.” Silence is your only response. After all, what was there to really talk about? You’re human.. She sighs irritably, but slowly perks up as she speaks: “Fine. I have some colleagues in Oasis who should be able to assist. You might be the first case of omnic-borne Hanahaki. Would be a fascinating case study.”

It takes a few hours to work up the courage to message him. Taking medical leave, No more than two weeks. Need transport to Oasis.

His response is almost instantaneous: Understood. Shuttle ready.

You pack lightly. Very little of your clothes are appropriate for the wildly different climate awaiting you after a ten hour flight. It’s mostly your work gear, things you haven’t needed while so firmly stationed away from any wetwork. Regardless, you enter the shuttle bay with a single suitcase, in casual clothes covered by a heavy jacket. As it is, the coldness already seeps through the single outer layer, bringing a chill to your toes- and to your chest.

The itch becomes unbearable as soon as you lay eyes on him. The back of the shuttle is open, waiting for you- but so is he. Why? Why must he see you off now?

Ramattra straightens up, folds his hands behind his back. With how thin his waist is, the action doesn’t hide much of his arms. “Agent,” He greets you stiffly, awkwardly, as you approach. “I assume this is more than a simple cough, then?”

“Afraid so.” The back of your throat burns just from two words and his head shifts, almost bobbing back in surprise. Has your voice gotten so bad?

“I see. It is… serious?”

“Yes.” You clear your throat, hope to shoo away as much hoarseness as you can. “I’m sorry for any inconvenience. I’ll return as soon as I am able.”

Ramattra’s white faceplate tips off to the side, a blatant display of curiosity. In what exactly you don’t know. Probably why Talon isn’t just replacing you, reassigning you after your treatment.

“I hope you…” He pauses, seems to taste the words before he says them, “feel better soon.” It’s awkward in his voice, stilted, a phrase so wildly unused, perhaps he’s never even said it. But he gives you that courtesy, even if only because it’s polite- and it makes your heart ache.

And that makes your lungs itch. You can’t even suppress it down to a small cough into your hand. All at once you’re doubled over, heaving coughs into your elbow. The thick taste of iron coats your tongue, blood spraying from your lips. Then, the smooth, suffocating feeling of the flowers.

Purple follows red- and you quickly fall to your knees, unable to catch a single breath between thundering spasms in your chest. Your ribs creak, strain from each movement, the pain in your lungs radiating out and you pinch your eyes shut, wait for it to be over.

His knee clanks to the floor- you don’t need to open your eyes to see that it’s him. A cold, firm hand touches your back. It’s… skittish, unused to the contact, too light of a touch to be reassuring, but it’s alright because every cough jostles you away, brings waves of pain and nausea as a string of buds clings to your uvula.

Another good cough and the vine breaks, half expels the raceme from your mouth. With the other hand you rip it from your lips, throwing it to the floor while gasping for air. For the moment, your lungs are clear- despite the burning pain of frigid air on the open wounds of your throat, the joy of breathing again overtakes all.

Until you open your eyes- and through tears you see the splatters of red- and the long string of purple. In fear, in shame you snatch the evidence of your illness- but it was hardly just the one raceme. A half dozen little buds and broken flowers dot the floor- and as quickly as you can grab them, you still can’t stop Ramattra from picking one up. He pulls his other hand off you, bringing both up to cup the tiny thing.

It’s paler than the purple enamel coating on his plates, laughably delicate as he prods open the two petals, revealing the pistil inside. He stares at it, then mutters, “Wisteria sinensis .” You fight to read any emotion in it at all- but it doesn’t matter, because his next question drips with confusion. “You have… Hanahaki’s disease?”

You can’t bear to look at him, staring instead at the flower. It’s so small in his hand, more like a stray drip of paint than proof of your traitorous heart. All you can give him is a nod, lips held in a tight line, unwilling to address what feels like the obvious.

“I see.” He says quietly, bringing his palm in closer to his faceplate. “Your trip to Oasis is for treatment?”

You nod again, “Surgery. Have to cut the roots out.”

Ramattra stays quiet, his focus not leaving the purple petals. Even when you find the courage to meet the slits of his optics, he does not return your gaze.

“I am… sorry.” As soon as the words leave his synth you look away. This is what you didn’t want. Fuck, it’s what you’ve been trying to avoid. You don’t need his pity or the undeniable knowledge that you loved someone who would be happy to end your entire species- who must hardly spare you a thought beyond the annoyance of financial oversight. Tears burn at your eyes again, but you blink them away, biting your tongue and willing yourself not to cry in front of him.

But he notices your turmoil, and speaks anyway. Hesitantly, a faltering in his voice you’ve never heard before. “I understand suffering because you care for another, yet human relationships confound me. I hope your treatment lets you find peace…” He trails off, but a low hum of his synthesizer lets you know he’s not done. His tone turns quiet, severe. “Know that they are foolish to reject you.”

In an instant you’re dazed, head swimming as your mind parses his words again and again. It doesn’t make sense. That’s- it’s Impossible. There’s something more there, under his words- more than just an empty placation. Something else builds in your chest and you can barely bring yourself to ask “What?”

Ramattra shifts awkwardly, clarifies: “The object of your affection.” His big fingers smooth out the tiny petals as he thinks, “I scarcely think they will meet another more interesting than you.” He draws your hand open to reveal the half-crushed raceme. The sight darkens his voice, “Do they even know how they’ve hurt you?”

Your chest feels tight- and not, for once, because of the flower’s roots. “Ramattra…”

His gaze lifts from your hand to your face. Unemotive, you can’t even begin to read what he’s thinking, but you stare into the black, angular slits for his optics and hope. Hope that he understands what you want to say, the words that have burned in your mind for days, weeks.

Something changes: the soft purr of his system builds, until he makes a noise like an inhale, his ventilation kicking up hard.

And you laugh, feel the tears gather in your eyes again because how could you be wrong? “It’s you, Ramattra.” You smile and you can breathe.

“You…” He starts, looks at the cluster of flowers again, his voice straining, his synth slipping. “Me? I did this to you? I- I thought-” And before doubt can take your heart, Ramattra’s hands move to you- just barely ghosting your side before you’re all but throwing yourself in his arms. His voice drops, quiet in disbelief. “I thought I was protecting you.”

His cowl is soft, silky on your cheek. It chafes where the tears have begun bubbling over. “From Talon? I don't care.”

“From me,” He murmurs. So close now his voice box buzzes in your ear, sending shivers down your spine. “I… I couldn’t swear how suitable a partner I would be; a relationship cannot be a priority to me when liberation is so close.”

You sigh, focusing on the feeling of his cold ribs under your palms, on the smell of machine oil and incense. “I wouldn’t ask you to set that aside. It’s just- I thought you wouldn’t…” Your lip wobbles, disappointment or fear fighting its way forward. “Since I’m… human….”

“Believe me, I was as reluctant to accept that as you are.” His hands drift over your back, drawing shapes onto your coat.

As nice as it is, there’s a faint itch in your chest. You need… you need to hear it. You draw back- and Ramattra’s idle shapes still as his hands resettle onto your hips. You look up, stare into the black slits once more. “But you… you do have feelings for me?”

He stiffens, voice turning uncomfortable, reluctant to speak it into existence. “You… were an unexpected complication. I had not planned on… caring for any one in such a way.” His fingertips are cool on your skin, tracing chilled lines along your jaw. “Yes. And I am… so sorry for hurting you.”

“It’s okay,” You murmur back, touching each side of his neck. Wordlessly, you draw him down. His movement stutters, awkward as he follows your lead- pulling him closer until you can lay your lips across the lowest part of his white faceplate. His head is somewhat warmer than his hands, leaving your lips tingling and you laughing softly at the absolute unreality of being able to kiss him.

You almost expect him to be offended. Instead, Ramattra’s hands guide your chin down, tipping your head forward-- and the bright reds of his array press to your forehead. You sigh, and slowly open your eyes to peer into the black void of his optics’ slits. Anything else in the world ceases to exist, all that matters is the slowly building warmth in his head and chest, the hum of his components and fans, and the soft press of his hands to your skin.

[in1-nutshell]

Hey, not sure if you're down for writing a continuation of the “Megatron 'accidentally' adopting human Buddy who fears nothing” post. But there was a line “Rung has a line of bots that express the same worry for Buddy one day doing something dumb and not being able to come back from it.” that I think should be expanded upon. Dangerous things are constantly happening to the lost light crew and Buddy must have the devil's luck to come out of everything that happens unscathed. I'd like to see that luck run out. I'd like to see the crew panicking because Buddy got hurt badly and there's been no news if they'll recover or not. I want to see Megatron deal with the impending mortality of his newly adopted kid poorly. And I want to see everyone on the lost light panic even more because if Megatron doesn't start a war if this kid dies, Whirl absolutely will. P.s please let buddy live, I may crave angst, but not that much.

Have a good day, love your writing

Ooooh! Have you been peaking at some of my drafts? haha! I have been thinking about what would happen if Buddy ever got hurt on Megatron's watch. But now more bots are going to watch.

Hope you enjoy!

Megatron and Fearless Buddy who gets seriously hurt

SFW, familial, platonic, angst but happy ending, mention of injuries but nothing graphic or detailed, Human reader

MTMTE/LL

As we all know Buddy fears nothing

And this put some stress on their friends and new dad, Megatron.

“Hey Megs!”--Rodimus

“Rodimus, don’t call me that.”--Megatron

“Yeah, not gonna happen. Anyways I was wondering if you’ve seen Buddy anywhere. They were supposed to show me something?”--Rodimus

“Show you what?”--Megatron

“Something about being a present for being Brainstorm’s ‘Guinea pig’?”--Rodimus

Buddy flying by on a jet pack.

“Hi Roddy! Hi Megs! Bye Roddy! Bye Megs!”--Buddy

“…”—Rodimus and Megatron

CRASH!

Both mechs start running

But as time continues to go on, their little antics are just normalized. Sure, there are still some bots that know the true fragility of the human life span. Such bots included but not limited to Ratchet, First Aid, Velocity, Swerve, Rung, Megatron, and Whirl

“Where are you going with those pilars?”—First Aid

“It’s nothing illegal, yet.”--Buddy

“What type of answer is that!?”—First Aid

But for the most part the crew thinks Buddy is almost as durable as they are. Yes, even Megatron has been guilty of this type of behavior. He isn’t too proud of that.

“C’mon Fleshy jump and do a flip!”—Random Bot

“Bet—”--Buddy

“I think not.”--Whirl

“Whirl?!”--Buddy

“If you break your dumb fragile bones who else is going to come with me on planet expeditions? Cyclonus? I think not. He sucks out all the fun.”—Whirl

“I am literally right here.”--Cyclonus

So, let the angst begin.

The place was being invaded by space pirates.

The pirates where taking the bridge and had successfully barricaded themselves in.

“Why can’t we just break the door down?”--Buddy

“The main room has delicate equipment. One wrong move…”--Megatron

“Okay that’s a bad idea then.”--Buddy

“We just need an opening from the main door and we can figure out the rest.”--Rodimus

“Hey, I’m tiny enough to fit through the crack under the door. I can open the door!”--Buddy

“Absolutely not.”--Megatron

“For once I’m agreeing with him.”--Whirl

“Hey, its not like we have many options here. Unless someone else has a better idea then I am quite literally the only thing stopping these guys.”--Buddy

“…go then…”--Megatron

He was going to regret saying it like that. The computers dashboard in order to unlock the door or at least give it an opening. So, when they were sure that the aliens weren’t looking, they sprinted over to the console by swinging up with a grappling hook to the chair and began running towards the buttons.

They had indirectly activated the plasma screens.

These were holoscreens all over the ship that would show what was happening on the bridge. Everyone had a front row seat to Buddy sprinting across the console. There where cheers as Buddy was coming closer and closer to the button

“They made it!”--Rodimus

“Way to go Buddy!”--Tailgate

“Just press the button.”—Ultra Magnus

“That’s my Amica—”--Whirl

It was right there…

The alien came out of nowhere…

“EW! A Rat!”--Alien

“A ra—"--Buddy

They swatted Buddy across the room in one swift movement. They’re tiny body hurdling across the room and off screen. A small sickening crack was heard.

It was barely noticeable.

But it caused a deafening sound across the entire Lost Light.

 Good news for the crew, Buddy’s shoe came off from the force of the hit and successfully pressed the button opening the door.

Everyone is lined up to take these aliens down.

Megatron and Whirl are at the forefront of it.

Megatron is trying to find Buddy while Whirl is absolutely destroying everything.

Megatron spots Buddy slumped over in the far corner of the room.

No motion, nothing

He is just frozen in place.

“Buddy…”--Megatron

“…”--Buddy

“Megatron! Move!”--Ratchet

Ratchet snaps him out of it as he is trying to help Buddy.

Megatron snaps out of it a cover him.

Buddy is rushed out an into the medbay.

Everyone is waiting.

The sudden gravity of Buddy’s mortality weighs heavily on the minds of everyone involved.

Megatron sulks in his room thinking about how he failed them. He can’t bear to sit by Buddy in the med bay. Ratchet understands and tells him that he when Buddy wakes up.

Whirl on the other hand, stays by Buddy’s bed side the entire time.

“Hey Tiny. It’s been a hot minute since you’ve open those little eyes… You mind opening them up?”--whirl

“…”--Buddy

“Fine be like that…”--Whirl

“…”--Buddy

“Well, you’ve missed a lot since you took that hit. One you have a ton of inner most energon by your room and a growing number of get-well gifts. I personally made sure none of you’re a secret bomb. Megs is still in his room and its giving everyone the creeps.”--Whirl

“…”--Buddy

“… Don’t tell this to anyone… but we miss you, you scared the ever living Pits out of us.”--Whirl

“…”--Buddy

Whirl has lost every good thing in his life. He is going to make sure that this one thing does go so soon.

Buddy does wake up

“Hye Whirly Bird?”--Buddy

“Buddy?!”--Whirl

“Why you looking at me like that? Someone died?”--Buddy

“You nearly did Tiny!”--Whirl

“But I didn’t, huh? It takes more than a hand to stop me.”--Buddy

“…I guess huh.”--Whirl

Megatron is zooming over when he hears. Buddy is trying to play off their injuries to try and keep the peace.

“Hey Megs.”--Buddy

“Buddy…”--Megatron

“You okay? You look like you’re dying.”--Buddy

“… that was a poor choice of words.”--Megatron

“Yeah I guess— woah, Megs?"—Buddy

Megatron gently holding Buddy’s hand the best he can

“Just let me hold you please, just a little bit.”--Megatron

“Sure Megs.”--Buddy

As they are recovering Buddy is treated with a bit more respect than they had before. Good thing too, they did after all manage to save the ship after all.