#Optical pressure sensor

[dvid2van]

https://www.futureelectronics.com/p/semiconductors--analog--sensors--pressure/bmp388-bosch-sensortec-1097861

High pressure sensor, low pressure sensor, Water pressure sensors

BMP388 Series 125 kPa 3.6 V Digital Barometric Pressure Sensor

[electronalytics]

Non-optical Pressure and Temperature Sensors Market

[sightseertrespasser]

Sunny Side Screw-Up part 3

Bluestreak comes up with an entirely new way to be murdered, Sunstreaker gets drooled on and Sideswipe is not a medical professional.

Credit to @keferon for coming up with the OG AU!

———————————————————————

Tacnet Dilation: {^#%

Bluestreaks plating prickled with dings and dents from the spray of rocks torn up by his wheels.

He was redlining on nothing but fumes and fear. No matter how hard he pushed himself they were still right there.

Sprinting.

Impossibly fast for something on legs and not wheels.

Sunstreaker was on his right side, regardless of how frantically Bluestreak swerved, his distance to the yellow mecha remained the same. Like they were fragging magnetized together.

Close behind was Sideswipe, soaking up all of Bluestreaks peripheral awareness like a goddamn black hole.

The desert was scorching. He’d run out of coolant and Bluestreak had the horrifying revelation that he could feel something wet dripping out of his frame.

Bits of his internals were melting.

Comms weren’t working.

Tacnet wasn’t working.

His own voice wasn’t working.

The Earth was a fragmented blur that repeated in pattern every few miles.

Bluestreak tried something different and was rewarded by running over a large sharp rock he hadn’t seen coming. The ripping away of momentum was enough for Sideswipe to make the final lunge.

The red earth and blue sky streaked by at a diagonal across his vision.

Kicking futilely at the dirt, Bluestreak was wrestled sunwards, arms clamped in place behind his back.

He expected to feel his doorwings to be crushed and pinned, yet despite having his back pressed against Sideswipes front, Bluestreak felt nothing but empty air.

His scans weren’t making any sense. Mind numbing random waves crashed over his sensor net from the mecha beside him. Was it on purpose? It made everything go fuzzy around the edges in bright starbursts of feedback. He couldn’t understand it.

Giving up on reading his surroundings, Bluestreak started frantically pinging his doorwings for help.

He didn’t have time to think further. Swiftly, Sideswipe forced them both into a kneel as Sunstreaker swept towards them. Heavy claw attachments almost brushing the ground for how low the mecha crouched, stalking ever closer.

Bluestreak tried again to talk. To scream. But nothing was responding. He frame wouldn’t listen to him.

No one was coming.

No one could.

He was completely isolated. But not alone.

The blue tinge of Sideswipes visor hovered at the edge of Bluestreaks vision. The subtle weight of his head resting on his shoulder like a lover.

Bluestreak couldn’t turn his helm.

A servos breath away from his face, Sunstreaker’s visor hung in space.

Impassive.

Emotionless.

Alien.

Bluestreak tried to jerk. To kick. To make anything come out of his vocalizer. He wasn’t even venting anymore. He couldn’t remember when he’d stopped.

Despite the lack of facial features. The lack of fields. Bluestreak felt the moment they both shifted their focus down, where his spark was screaming on his behalf.

Pops of static was all that came out of his mouth. Numbly, Bluestreak was jostled, limbs still unresponsive.

Sunstreaker reached out a hand to his chassis.

And knocked.

Freezing, Bluestreaks doorwings locked in place as his optics rapidly jittered between the hunter and his goal. He croaked, body suddenly feeling ice cold.

I can’t.

The pressure on his shoulder kept up and the knocking came again. Slightly more insistent.

I can’t.

Desperately trying to shake his helm No, the praxian could barely twitch. Pleading with his mostly frozen face to stop stop stop.

The knock came harder.

A haze of errors colored his peripheral vision.

Tacnet Dilation: #==%

He kept calling for his brothers.

Tacnet Dilation: ^#=%

He didn’t feel well.

Tacnet Dilation: [===%

They wouldn’t hear him here.

The knocking stopped.

Before he could react, Bluestreak felt the press of a hand against his face.

The shift was quick enough his processor failed to manufacture a matching visual, disjointing the sensation from reality. The touch was soft enough and such a deviation from the thread of what was happening that Bluestreaks thoughts stuttered to a squealing stop.

Smashing out of defrag, he came online with a half cut off, “GUH.”

Leaning into his space, Sunstreaker was tightly holding him upright by the shoulder. His hand retreated from Bluestreaks face as the Praxian subconsciously crossed his arms over his spark. Shuddering.

Just in front of them, Sideswipe was exactly as they’d left him, about where Sunstreaker had ended up in Blues defrag.

A hand waved in front of his blank face, unconsciously drawing the Praxians focus back to the other twin.

The yellow mecha tilted his head at him and held up the “OK” symbol.

Optics wide and over bright, Bluestreak turned his fans back on full blast and shot out a couple small rocks and a cloud of dust. He checked his processor. His internal temperature had risen well above comfortable levels from sitting in the desert Sun without running his vents

Coughing, Bluestreak mimicked Sunstreakers gesture. Croaking out a rough, “I’m okay.”

Hesitantly the hunter mecha released his shoulder, nodding slowly.

Still recovering, Bluestreak took his time resetting his systems, stretching and cringing at the sound of a few transformation seams popping back into place.

“Okay so, forcing myself into defrag seemed like a great idea at the time. It’s technically the same as human sleeping. I think?” Bluestreak leaned back on his elbows while Sunstreaker watched him closely. “And there was no way I was going to pull off holding completely silent while conscious so I shut down everything but my proximity sensors and my comms-”

His face and doorwings dropped.

“Oh fucking slag my comms.”

Flinching, Bluestreak cringed and squinted internally as he checked his backlog.

Over thirty incoherent messages sent to Prowl and Smokescreen. Each.

The former was currently pinging him every 30 seconds in a tightly measured way that appeared professional (if not a bit mircomanage-y) to any outside observer, but that Bluestreak knew was Prowls way of pacing a hole through the floor.

Groaning into his servos, Bluestreak prepared to apologize for what was ultimately the fault of an overheated defrag with no recharge.

————

“Sideswipe.”

His idiot counterpart groaned in response over the radio.

“Sideswipe wake up.”

Something that vaguely started out as “Che ore” before devolving into mumbled nonsense was Sunstreakers only indication of intelligent life within the red mecha. How he slept through the cacophony the radio had been assaulted with earlier was beyond him.

“The mecha had a nightmare.”

Finally, Sunstreaker heard the telltale scratch of a microphone being readjusted. “Say again?”

“The mecha had a nightmare.”

There was a pregnant pause as his self appointed “Twin” tried to decipher what he’d just stated. The sound of a shitty cot creaking echoed across the connection as Sideswipe sat up.

“…so do you want me to sing him a lullaby or something?”

Sunstreaker was going to kick his ass for real next time.

For now, he settled for throwing a rock at Sideswipes mechas head, enjoying the slightly delayed sound of its impact through the radio.

“Ahem, you will behave in front of guests young man. No throwing stones in the garden!” Sides chided as he put on a ridiculous British nanny accent.

“Shut it you dumb bastard. Did you not hear what I said?”

The microphone shifted again as Sideswipe moved from his bunk to the pilots seat. “What, that the new guy had a nightmare? Yeah man, that’s kinda standard out here. Shit Sunny, it took you two weeks to get through the night without yelling in your sleep after our first drop.”

And it took you over two weeks to stop sleepwalking, fuckin hypocrite.

Sucking in air between his teeth, Sunstreaker measured out the last of his patience. “The mecha had a nightmare.”

It started out sensibly. Sunstreaker was on watch and invited Angel mech to sit with him. He had some plans to draw in the dirt to figure out a bit more of where the hell he came from, but then Angel curled up on himself and looked ready to puke.

Which, fine. The mecha was freakishly emotive but if this was some kind of super expensive prototype then sure why not. The pilot definitely shouldn’t have been out here and Sunstreaker had half a mind to politely tear whoever put them in there a new one.

Afterwards the mecha looked like it powered down and for the first time since they’d met, Angel went quiet.

Only slightly disappointed he couldn’t keep listening to him ramble, Sunstreaker resigned to keeping watch alone.

Then there was the thunk against his left shoulder.

Still appearing to be powered down, the mystery mech was leaning against his own.

Okay, he’d thought. This was clearly a fancy show model what with the face and weird design. It probably didn’t have the same locking mechanisms as a Hunter class so the pilot had to improvise to stay upright. Carefully, Sunstreaker maneuvered to get his arm around the smaller mecha, ensuring they remained stable.

Being untethered inside a falling mecha was a lot like crashing down in an overloaded elevator. A messy way to die.

Aside from looking like an awkward first date, nothing about this registered as too weird. It was just machines. Basically a couple of parked cars in the middle of the desert.

Normal.

And then a couple hours later, the “powered down” mecha squirmed, wriggled and shuffled around until it was using Sunstreakers lap as a pillow.

Significantly less normal.

“So then they started screaming and flailing?” Sunstreaker waited to answer that until Sideswipe finished reconnecting to their mecha, visor flickering back to life and limbs unlocking with a satisfying series of ka-clunks.

“Not exactly. Remember that weird popping interference we kept getting over the radio?” He got a simple hum in response, which was Sideswipe for “I’m taking something seriously for once.” The yellow pilot would never admit it, but he hated when chatty people got quiet. Set him on edge like nothing else.

Beside him, Angel was still uncharacteristically reserved, watching Sunstreaker and his partner with an exhausted wariness.

“Well the radio started freaking out at the same time his back panel wing things started flailing. Sounded like if a fax machine was being dragged to hell.”

A low whistle came over the speaker. Whoever said what they were both thinking first would have to deal with the other making sane counter arguments. And as much as Sunstreaker wanted to be the reasonable one, Sideswipe wasn’t giving him that option.

“The mecha is alive Sides.”

The nickname made the red pilot pause, faintly cursing over the connection.

The mecha in question brightened up a bit watching Sideswipe go through his warm up routine. A slow trickle of foreign words resurfacing to brush away the silence. Some of the tension Sunstreaker had been holding onto bleed off as the chatty mecha seemed to come back to himself.

“Alright, maybe this is an especially over integrated mecha and the brass are testing the effects of leaving someone plugged in overnight?” The red mecha slowly tested his range of movement, gradually speeding up until he was shadow boxing.

Mentally, Sunstreaker took note of the way the sand and dust lifted to swirl around the red mecha’s legs, noting the shapes for later reference while sketching.

Sunstreaker shook his head, “Wouldn’t test that without active observation.”

“Okay maybe it’s haunted?”

“Haunted.” He threw another rock at him.

Sideswipe pivoted to point a finger at him in their silent conversation. “You’ve heard the stories about Mecha 11, freaky shit happens.”

Aside from the radio, Angel didn’t behave much like a trapped soul. Too lively for one. Too friendly for another. If Sunstreaker had to pick a genre this most reminded him of it’d be…

“I think he’s an alien.”

Sideswipe wrapped up his routine and plopped down next to Angel. “An alien? Shaped like a mecha?”

Leaning into their space, he blatantly looked the smaller mecha over for signs of green ooze, tentacles and a general air of homicidal intent. Angel smiled nervously, wings turning forward and back at the same time a the radio fuzzed with interference again.

Neither commented on the static. Didn’t need to. Sideswipe sighed leaning back on his elbows. “I kinda get it. It’s not normal, but it’s nothing like what we saw in Yukon.”

“It’s not like Yukon. Just watch him okay?”

He could practically feel Sideswipe grinning, “Suuure, I’ll ask him which is the prettier earthling, me or you.”

Wordlessly, Sunstreaker set his mecha into a stationary position. Pulling out of the Drift almost put him out right in his seat, Still, Sunstreaker had enough willpower to crawl his way back into the travel cabin.

Sipping on a bottle of electrolyte water, Sunstreaker pulled out his sketch book, flipping past stark black scrawlings to a fresh page. The pilot began to lightly pencil in the contours of his current object of fascination. Giving his brain a chance to cool down and think.

He’s seen some shit during his time as a pilot.

It was no secret that Hunter class pilots would usually come back a little different. You spend days, maybe weeks alone in the most isolated places on earth. Tracking down the monsters that bleed across the planet from gashes between the stars.

What most folks didn’t know, and would hopefully never learn, is that when one of those creatures get to place down roots?

It starts changing things.

Hunter class weren’t just sent to put down aliens. They got sent to put down their mutilated victims too.

Squirrels melted into tree bark like screeching aphids. Seals with spines exposed, alien surveillance equipment hotwired into their nervous systems. Rivers ran with toxic sludge and anything alive got repurposed into either fuel or tools.

They found a town once. Way up north. So small and out of the way it wasn’t on any maps.

Their third hunter wanted to donate the “survivors�� to R&D. Sides and him vetoed the bastard but he’d already contacted dispatch without telling them. Mr. Opportunity got the all clear to go in and collect what was left of town.

Something held them back. Sunstreaker couldn’t tell if it was coming from him or Sideswipe but neither moved closer.

They returned to dispatch alone. Every question of what became of the third hunter or the little town in the middle Yukon was met with ice and silence.

Rumors scattered, staff came up with their own answers, no one wanted to work with the “Terror Twins” anymore.

That was fine. Sunny and Sides always worked better as a pair anyways.

They’d seen some shit. The kind of shit you can’t just explain to a therapist because they could never understand.

Art helped. Got all of the horrible things inside his head on the outside. Sideswipe too, though he’d never say it out loud. The bastard never left him alone, and it was his best-worst trait.

Narrowing his eyes, Sunstreaker paused in his sketching at the faint sound of thunking against the top of his mecha.

Yanking down the wall mounted mic Sunstreaker yelled over the radio. “Are you fucking stacking rocks on my mecha again you bastard?”

The sound of snickering and another thunk was Sideswipes response. “C’mooon. It’s not like it’ll hurt you! Plus I got Roberto to crack a smile.”

“Wha- wait Roberto?”

The thunking continued. “Well yeah, he’s a robot. Robot sounds like Roberto. Knowing you, you probably named him something uber deep and meaningful like Hubert.”

Sunstreaker sputtered, shaking his head like a slapped dog, “Why the fuck would I call him Hubert?”

“Cause he’s the patron saint of Hunter’s you dumb bastard.” And before Sunstreaker could grumble about fuckin’ Catholic school kid, Sideswipe cut off his internal thoughts. “Wait.”

Sideswipes voice carried the timber of sudden epiphany. “Wait, did you name him-“

“No.” He swatted down the probe.

“You mentally named him some shit like Angel didn’t you?”

“No.” He said far too defensively to be anything other than a damning confession.

“Oh my god you did!” The yellow pilot could only groan as he listened to his partners cackling. Followed closely by the thundering cascade of all the rocks he’d been stacking tumbling down his mecha.

“Haha ha ha! I can’t even- I- Wait hold on.” Gasping for air, Sidswipe started to trail off.

“I swear to fucking god if my paint job-“

“No, no shut the fuck up he’s doing something.” The sudden drop of his makeshift twins normal tone had Sunstreaker scrambling back into the pilots seat.

“Doing what?” Fast as he could, Sunstreaker started the Drift boot up process, face set in a mask of intensely focused calm.

“He’s.. pointing his gun at a cloud?”

The Drift swallowed all sensation. It felt not unlike having a densely woven bag pulled over your head, only to have it ripped away to reveal the ground a hundred feet lower than it was before. Bursts of color exploded across his brain until Sunstreaker came online just in time to hear a booming ~KUFF~.

For once, Sideswipe was speechless. An aborted voice crack marked he was still breathing.

“…what the fuck did he just shoot?”

————

“Uh oh.”

Optics trained straight up, the sniper started walking backwards.

The quint corpse broke through the cloud cover and Bluestreak switched to running.

“Move move move move move move!” It didn’t take Tacnet much to calculate where that thing was impacting.

Going straight for the only just onlining yellow mecha, Bluestreak got a hold of one arm and yanked the stumbling hunter to his feet.

Meanwhile, Sideswipe finally caught on to the rapidly approaching problem.

Bluestreak had about one click to appreciate his spectacular fuck up of creating a poor-mechs orbital strike before two heavy bodies slammed him into the dirt.

Several tons of biomechanical monstrosity exploded in a shower of shrapnel and slag. The three of them bunked through the shockwave.

Blue-ish gray flaming viscera continued to rain down for a few extra clicks, the dull sound of it bouncing off of the hunters armor.

Bluestreak creaked.

Trapped under the combined weight of the two larger mecha, the Praxian had one arm free and used it to start slapping the twins heads.

With the drunken grace of a slumber party when one person needs to get up to use the bathroom, the hunters rolled off of the smaller mech.

Sharp and twisted pain radiated out from his back. He kept his ventilations even.

[Pain - Repair - Reset - Doorwing (2)]

It was jammed out of place, still on the highest setting from scanning out as far as he could earlier. His sensor net was shrieking and everything on the left side of his perception was hyper detailed to the point he could practically taste the texture of the dirt.

It was dialed high enough to penetrate through the surface of the soil slightly, giving Bluestreak the nauseating sensation of all his surroundings on that side registering as a liquid.

[Pain - Repair - Reset - Doorwing (2)]

“Okay okay okay okay okay okay okayokayokayokayokay.” He ran his mouth to keep it too busy to scream.

He stayed on the ground, face hidden from the aliens. He had to not shake. To not make any expression of pain.

He felt something wet leaking from where his right doorwing connected, trailing crosswise down his chassis.

“It’s just a dislocation and a tiny tear in a fuel line. Not even that noticeable!” He wasn’t even hurt in a way that’d require significant medical attention. It’s easy! It’s easy.

“Just- just don’t feel anything. You aren’t a person right now you’re a machine that can’t be injured, it’s just.. you know, damaged. You wouldn’t cringe because your shuttle got damaged would you? So don’t you dare make that face or they will kill you.”

He kept his face in the dirt. Memories of defrag glitched to the surface. The chase. The capture. Stuck on the knife’s edge of something terrible about to happen.

They wouldn’t find out if he can just hide his face a couple clicks longer. Throat too tight, optics over bright. A faint tremble held at bay by locking every joint in place.

Hands came down on his arms and shoulders and Bluestreak couldn’t scream.

Tacnet Dilation: 100%

[Pain - Repair - Reset - Doorwing (2)]

The world wobbled 90 degrees and he was unsteadily pulled to his feet.

Locking his jaw, Bluestreak set himself into a parade rest. Optics lasered into the middle distance.

One set of hands stayed on him as the other mecha moved into his field of vision. With the limited gestures they had in common, Sideswipe pointed to Bluestreak and then an OK gesture with his other hand.

The question was implicit, “Yep. Yeppers. Neeever better. Almost bored in fact! I’ve had closer calls than that and really that shot doesn’t even break my top ten! I didn’t even use any ricochets or double KIH-“ He gasped, optics fritzing.

He’d felt a tug on his doorwing and Bluestreak clacked his jaw shut as he instinctively shoved Sunstreaker off of him.

[Pain - Repair - Reset - Doorwing (2)]

Vorns of training kicked in just to kick the bucket as Bluestreaks servos snapped up then came up empty, as his rifle was still on the ground between the two mecha.

Tacnet Dilation: 200%

Even with the odds of certain death, the sniper was sorely tempted to dive for it anyways. Just to die with it in his servos.

The sun bore down like a vindictive parole officer, salivating over the prospect of eminent violence.

The hunters… raised their hands.

Placating.

Gaze rapidly darting from one twin to the other, Bluestreak held perfectly still, waiting for their next move.

Slowly, and not just because of Tacnet, Sunstreaker knelt, picking up his rifle with a pink stained hand. Raising just as slowly like Bluestreak would bolt if he didn’t, the yellow hunter held out the weapon handle first.

He took it quickly. Almost cradling it to his chest.

Tacnet Dilation: 125%

While Sunstreaker returned his rifle, Sideswipe was drawing in the dirt.

Eight crude, simple glyphs, made rougher for the material they were carved into.

Flipping through the miniature dictionary Prowl had been sending him in piecemeal over comms, Bluestreak quickly translated the message.

HOW HELP?

He stared at the words in the dirt.

[Pain - Repair - Reset - Doorwing (2)]

Swallowing, and smiling thinly, he said “You guys don’t know how to relocate a doorwing do you?”

The twins looked on blankly and the praxian sighed, wiping a hand down his face. “Okay! Okay. It really can’t be that bad! I mean, it’s just incredibly painful and not actually life threatening so let’s give a shot! Who needs trained medical care anyways? Me? Psh- naaaw. Come here Sideswipe! I need someone to demo with.”

At the sound of his name, Sideswipe visibly jolted. “RIGHT. Right. I shouldn’t know your name! Ha haha haaaa. Oh I’m so going to die.”

Either it wasn’t that weird for Bluestreak to know his name, or the three of them were far enough beyond the bounds of normal for it to not matter anymore, because Sideswipe walked up to where Bluestreak wanted him.

Turning Sideswipe into position so his back was to them, Bluestreak waved for Sunstreaker to join him.

“Okay! So this joint,” the praxian pointed it out over his shoulder, “Can get forced out too far and then get stuck on the edge of my armor.”

He mimed the correct motions onto Sideswipes back, “What I need you to do is push up on my doorwing and twist it back in place like this.”

[Pain - Repair - Reset - Doorwing (2)]

“Yes! Thank you processor, I am very aware of what’s gone wrong and I am working on it.” He hissed under his ventilations.

Turning back to Sunstreaker who was watching closely, the mecha faced him. “You got all that? Yes? Good? Great! I’m going to keep talking through this so just do what you need to while I try my best to disassociate here.”

Shaking out his servos and turning his back to Sunstreaker, the praxian manually locked Tacnet down to the lowest setting.

A hand settled in the middle of his back and Bluestreak resolutely stared forward. Processor blank.

A second hand closed around the dislocation and Bluestreak started involuntarily stepping in place.

Both hands vanished. Like a new build discovering the concept of rear view mirrors, Bluestreak haltingly looked behind him.

“What, what are you doing?” He faltered. Waving for his attention, Sideswipe opened a panel on his thigh, producing some kind of tool. It had the look of a tiny fire extinguisher, a rounded cylinder with hose and nozzle attached.

While still fiddling with it, Sideswipe waved Sunstreaker over.

Instantly, the yellow hunter stepped back, shaking his head side to side.

When it became clear his twin wasn’t coming any closer, the red hunter turned to him more fully. Palms up, shoulders raised, gesturing like he was trying to sell some questionable homebrewed high grade.

Sunstreaker responded by angrily pointing at Sideswipe, then Sideswipes unoccupied hand. Nonplussed, the antagonising mecha simply gestured to the tool in his other hand.

After a few tense clicks of staring each other down, Sideswipe straightened and pointed directly to Bluestreak, dropping his hands dramatically.

One more click passed with Sideswipe staring at Sunstreaker, Sunstreaker looking at Bluestreak, and Bluestreak watching them both.

Throwing back his head, Sunstreaker glared at the sky before rejoining his twin and breaking one of his own fingers.

“Why does every human I meet have such a casual relationship with body horror? I know that’s only three data points but that’s enough to form a pattern. Why. I am so confused and in so much pain right now I can’t- Just why??”

Completely indifferent to the sparking digit and Bluestreaks slack jawed commentary, Sunstreaker presented his broken pinky to his brother.

Pressing down on a lever of the tube, Sideswipe sprayed a misting foam onto the broken joint. Handing off the device to Sunstreakers working hand, Sideswipe proceeded to pop the no longer sparking finger back into place.

The red twin stepped back and threw his arms forward like a game show presenter.

He kicked Sunstreaker.

The yellow twin dispassionately jazz handed.

The praxians remaining doorwing twitched. “Is this what my brother went through? Oh Primus it is. But doubled. I mean, neither of you have dropped me off a building yet or forgot me in an elevator shaft but hoooly shit fucks I am never giving Prowl Slag about his human again. This is about what it was like meeting Jazz for the first time except I’m in your home.”

He vented harshly, turning his injury to the hunters.

“Everything you people do is confusing, disturbing and yet somehow weirdly charming.”

Clapping his servos with false enthusiasm, Bluestreak smiled brightly, “Okay fellas, let’s spray the mysterious alien substance into my open wound! Maybe I’ll get some cool powers out of this? Or an infection! Probably an infection.”

[Pain - Repair - Reset - Doorwing (2)]

“…Please just get this over with as quickly as possible.” He mumbled as the yellow mecha moved into his line of sight.

Inexplicably, Sunstreaker took one of his servos between his hands. Firmly pressing in a way that didn’t hurt but captured Bluestreaks fluttering focus.

Bluestreak remembered something.

“Hey wait so you guys don’t need or use actual anesthetic right? So what is that stuff supposed to feeEEAL OH-KAY THATS COLD. That is COLD. Huuugh. Haha ha ha heeeuu-HYEK.” He articulated his feelings on the experience with expediency.

The electrical signals running through his second doorwing dimmed and weakened. The sudden drop in sensory input left Bluestreak off balance.

“Woah.” Resetting his functional doorwing, the praxian lowered its range to minimum, then offlined it completely.

The twins registered as indistinct fuzzy blobs to what was still functioning from his remaining doorwing. They switched places. Tensing again as he felt Sunstreakers hands return to position against his back, Bluestreak didn’t have time to over analyze what came next as Sideswipe was literally jumping for his attention.

Before he could rhetorically ask what the hunter was doing, Sideswipe picked up a couple rocks and started throwing them in the air in a series of high arches.

Failing to catch every last one.

Sideswipe looked down at the sad little stones with an expression that somehow looked forlorn.

Some string of sanity finally gave out under the tension that’d been building since his defrag, and Bluestreak started to break down laughing.

“What?! What was that? Was that juggling? Why the fuck are you juggling?! How did we get here? How did- I can’t- I can’t process this right now.” Bluestreak heaved and only when he was crouched with his head in his servos did he notice the repair pings were gone.

“I-“ He felt his relocated doorwing by servo, not believing his processor. “I didn’t even feel it.”

Slowly, Bluestreak pulled his dooorwings back online, cycling from the very bottom of his range to the top.

{{See? Just like pulling a tooth.}}

He got some garbled interference for a click, but couldn’t afford to investigate that right now. The smoldering corpse of the quint was a stark reminder of what he’d picked up earlier.

Gingerly, he raised them back to the highest range, memory compensating for the slowly melting numbness on his second sensor net.

Sunstreaker was checking in with him again, doing the tried and true OK? And a head tilt. Brow furrowed, Bluestreak returned the gesture and concentrated on his scan, “I need to check back on something real quick. Don’t worry. Yet.”

There.

A heavy mass was buried into the earth slightly beyond the horizon. A spattering of smaller dots swam through the air.

Rising, the sniper pointed to their most recent near death experience.

“Bad news first, that was a scout. A scout from a fragging massive nest judging by the sheer scale of what I’m scanning.” Compulsively, he counted his ammunition already knowing the number.

The twins returned to a flanking position on either side of the praxian. He’d failed completely in not showing pain, by all rights they should know he’s not one of them, and yet he was still here. Protected.

Maybe they were waiting for more information. Maybe they knew what he was but didn’t know what to do with him.

The humans were cut off from their command structure. All Bluestreak knew for certain was that whatever choices the twins made out here, it was their decision alone.

His wings felt staticky.

Dialing up his sensor net as high as it could go was giving Bluestreak an intimately detailed 3D mapping of the twins, the landscape and several cloud formations.

More importantly, Bluestreak was getting distant fuzzy pings off of larger objects that registered as at least partially metallic to his processor.

Two in fact!

One was the Quintesson nest he picked up earlier, the other was probably..

Shuttle 88%

“Oh.”

As Sunny and Sides investigated the downed quint, stomping through any intact organs to ensure its expiration, Bluestreak drummed his digits on his rifle.

“I could run.” The sniper spoke to himself.

“I could leave you two to fight on your own. But you might follow me. The shuttle probably has some damage I’d need to patch before take off. It’d take time.”

He looked over the horizon hiding his ship. “And you would catch up to me.”

Tacnet Dilation: 75%

“Unless I made sure you couldn’t.” Bluestreak forced his processor to focus on limbs instead of chests or heads.

“Shattered knees wouldn’t kill you. Wouldn’t even hurt you actually.” He shrugged, optics taking on a flinty look. Sharp and blank.

Far far in the distance, the loss of their scout registered with the hive. They buzzed faster around their progenitor

“But the Quints would.”

Unawares, the twins seemed satisfied with their pulverization. Turning their attention back to the Praxian, Sunstreaker raised a stoic thumbs up. Sideswipe raised two.

He should comm Prowl.

Optics tight, Bluestreak raised his own in solidarity. “My brother would tell me to kill you.”

“I would give him all the information I have on you two and the nest, and then he’d run the simulation.” Bluestreak monologued quietly to the hunters. “He would pause, he always pauses with this sort of thing, and then Prowl would order me to shoot you both.”

Returning to his side, the red mecha clapped Bluestreak on the shoulder. Excitedly waving to the quint, his gun and the sky above. He smiled back, “He’d make it an order to make it his responsibility. The others would forgive me. If it wasn’t my choice then it wasn’t my fault.”

Prowl always made a point of signing his orders, making it clear to anyone who searched that he decided the deaths of countless mechs.

Bluestreak was recorded by position, rather than name.

The tactician knew who their best sniper was, and utilized them accordingly.

It was always discreet.

Familiar.

“I am my brothers favorite executioner.” He quietly spoke.

Doorwings held high, Bluestreak was hyper aware of the hunter’s movements, yet it still startled him when Sunstreaker tapped his shoulder.

The yellow hunter pointed to the dusty ground where human glyphs were crudely etched into the surface. Bluestreak flipped through the dictionary again.

“How many? Where?”

He chewed the inside of his cheek.

[BLUESTREAK]: Prowl can you run a simulation on something for me?]

[BLUESTREAK]: What’s the match up for two Hunter class mecha against an established Quintesson factory hive?]

[PROWL]: One moment]

Stalling for time, Bluestreak walked in a circle pretending to be searching for clues, the mechas loosely trailing him.

He rambled to fill the silence.

“Has anyone ever told you you’re terrifying? Because you guys are terrifying. I mean, you’re actually really nice in person but on a sub processor level I’ve been fighting for my goddamn sanity here.”

Pretending to search through his scope, the sniper mentally catalogued his supplies. He had 31 rounds left on his person, 160 more in his subspace, along with 4 cubes of energon, a basic knife and the largest med case he could cram everything else around.

He pointed his rifle back down, “You’re kind. Scary as pit but legitimately kind. I can tell, you know, when people are faking it. I’m used to people being polite and all when I go on a streak but you guys actually notice when my tone changes or… or check in when I get quiet or you do something stupid just to make me laugh and I-“

[PROWL]: 13% chances of success, assuming both pilots are fully operational and are aware of the threat. The swarm of scouts are the most likely cause of defeat as Hunter class are not well equipped to deal with large numbers of small fast moving hostiles]

[PROWL]: Do you have any means of escape?]

Glancing over his shoulder, Bluestreak took stock of the pilots following his lead. For them, there was no such thing as escape. The quintessons had reached Earth and the humans had no other planet to retreat to. This was their Cybertron. This was their final frontier and the humans would fight to protect it to their very last.

The sniper mentally pinned the location of his shuttle.

[BLUESTREAK]: No]

He stopped, and the hunters stopped with him. Bluestreak raised a servo towards the horizon of death and spoke in patchwork English, “There. Many small. One large.”

[PROWL]: Understood. I’ll pull up what files I can and send it along. Exercise extreme caution]

[PROWL]: Please]

The hunters had already begun trekking in the direction of what was to date Bluestreaks worst plan ever.

[BLUESTREAK]: Will do. I’ll keep you updated as information comes in]

Swinging his peds as he walked, Bluestreak couldn’t help but feel a little giddy. “Someone told me once that your spark will know when you’re an about to die, and it will fill you with this serene sense of peace. Something about preparing to return to the Well or the Allspark or the loving and probably a little disappointed embrace of Primus. Hard to say. I wasn’t raised religious.”

He hopped forward to pull up in between the two hunters.

“And you know what? I’ve had a lot of near death experiences but not once would I ever have described it as serene.”

If he did have to pick a word, it’d probably be Loud.

“I think I can finally feel it. That sense of spark deep calm. Like it knows how I’ll die now.”

He smiled at the yellow star shining down, venting deeply.

“Prowl is going to Fucking kill me.”

———————————————————————

What the twins were saying during the freeze gel “demonstration”:

“Aight, let me break your finger."

"What? No!"

"C'mon! I need to do a demonstration."

"Then break your own finger asshole!"

"I can't. Because I'm using the freeze gel! Look do you want to reassure him or not?"

“..fine but I’m breaking my own finger.”

The twins are very aware that Bluestreak is not normal, but are going to find out shorty just how “not normal” Bluestreak really is.

Next time is Sniper time baby.

-SSTP

[capricorn-writes2]

Hey! Can I Get a headcannon of Wheeljack, Bulkhead, Optimus and Ratchet with S/O that got infected in cybonic plague?

Wheeljack, Bulkhead, Optimus and Ratchet with S/O Who Got Infected with Cybonic Plague

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I try my best to make the portrayal of their character based on their personality, and I would like to apologize for replying to the ask late because I had horrible carpal tunnel syndrome in my right hand and depression, and I had to focus on finding jobs as well as therapy. Thankfully, I graduated in July from my university and able to get a quick 6 months of internship before leaving to find a new job.

Gender: Neutral

Warning: Angst to Fluff, sickness, mention of injuries and Profanities

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OPTIMUS PRIME - Autobot

When Ratchet first tells Optimus you're infected, his spark clenches. He masks the fear behind his usual stoicism, but his optics dim. The Cybonic Plague is a deadly, ancient virus, and he vows silently that you will not meet the same fate.

Optimus spends long hours at your side, even when he should recharge. He watches your spark signature fluctuate on the monitor with quiet intensity. Every labored intake of your vents feels like a countdown ticking louder.

He searches the archives for ancient medical data, something even Alpha Trion once wrote. Sleepless and single-minded, he sifts through fragments of forgotten science. If the answer lies buried in the Well of All Sparks itself, he’ll find it.

When Megatron offers a cure to him but in exchange a cruel price. Optimus would consider surrendering himself if it means you’ll live going through Megatron’s database to get the cure. He volunteers instantly to deliver it, no matter the danger.

Inside your subconscious, he finds a corrupted image of yourself. It’s terrified, glitching, dissolving into plague data. He kneels beside it, shielding you with his own spark energy.

The process nearly destabilizes both of you. Your systems scream under the pressure, and Optimus begins to fade. But his spark surges, wrapping you in protective light.

After what feels like forever, your optics flicker back online. You see him there, battered and dim, but smiling just for you. “You… stayed,” you rasp, and he nods, servos brushing your cheekplate.

Recovery is slow, and he never rushes you. He adjusts your routines, brings Energon himself, and reads to you aloud. No mission takes priority over your healing, not even war. He keeps a fragment of your corrupted code stored away safely. Not as a reminder of the pain, but of the strength you showed.

Your near-loss changes him, even if subtly. He becomes gentler in the quiet moments, less afraid to show his affection. When you reach for his servo now, he squeezes back without delay. He lets you stay by his side in the command center now.

Sometimes, he wakes up from recharge fearing he lost you again. You always pull him close, resting your helm against his chest plate as your arms wrap around him to comfort your sparkmate. “No plague. No pain. I’m here,” you remind him.

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The first symptom was a flicker. Just a minor glitch in your visual sensors, nothing big, just a half-second blackout that you chalked up to fatigue. But then came the spasms. Your servo twitched, then locked. The base lights blurred, the floor shifted beneath your feet, and Ratchet’s voice faded into a muffled hum. By the time you collapsed in the medbay, Optimus was already on one knee beside you, calling your name repeatedly.

Ratchet’s diagnosis was quick, in a second, and brutal: the Cybonic Plague. A virus from Cybertron’s darkest past. You barely heard the details, lost in a haze of heat and static, but through the buzzing in your head, you caught one thing: from your receptor, the fear in Optimus’s voice. No, he didn’t shout; he didn’t panic. He never did. But when he asked, “Ratchet, is there a cure?” The weight behind his words could’ve cracked stone.

You drifted in and out of stasis, each moment flickering between memory and dream. Sometimes you were back on Cybertron, laughing in golden-lit corridors. Other times, you were locked inside your own mind, fighting the virus as it twisted your code. On the other hand, the leader of the Autobots sat beside you, silent, his servo resting against yours.

When your vitals began to crash, Ratchet proposed a dangerous solution: someone had to enter your mind through a neural link and manually inject the cure. Optimus didn’t hesitate. “Prepare the link,” he said. "Optimus Prime, Are you sure?" Ratchet was surprised. The medic even warned him of the risk, of the chance he might not return, but Optimus had already decided. “She is worth the risk.”

Inside your mindscape, the virus had created a corrupted version of you. It was ugly, fractured, glitching, and afraid. Optimus found you there, curled in a pit of static. He didn’t rush to pull you out; instead, he knelt beside you, his sparklight flickering in the dark like a pulse. “You’re stronger than this,” he said, his voice echoing like thunder through the data storm. “And I’m not leaving without you,” His voice was louder. You reached for him with a trembling servo as his hand gently held your hand.

The battle inside your mind was like drowning in code, each surge of infection trying to rewrite who you were. But with every wave, Optimus pushed back, pouring light into the cracks. He shielded you with part of his own spark signature, even as his systems began to flicker too. “Stay,” he whispered when your form began to fade. “Stay with me.” And this time, you did.

You woke to the soft hiss of medbay monitors and the familiar warmth of his servo against yours. Your optics blinked open, and there he was, damaged, dim, but alive. And smiling. “You’re back,” he said, as if those two words were enough to rewrite the universe. You tried to speak, but all you could do was nod, the heat of tears burning behind your eyes. He leaned forward, pressing his helm gently to yours. “I believe in you; I know you could do it.”

Recovery was slow, but he was patient. He helped you walk again, holding you up when your joints trembled. He sat through quiet recharge cycles with you, read aloud during your checkups, and let the others take the front lines so he could stay close. The war could wait, he told them. Because for the first time in a long while, the hope had won against the cybonic plague virus.

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RATCHET - Autobot

Warning: The doctor is tsundere

The moment Ratchet scans you and detects the Cybonic Plague, his spark skips a beat. He double-checks the readings, then checks them again. But the data doesn’t lie, your code is breaking down. “…No. No, no, not them. Not you,” he mutters while already grabbing tools.

He doesn’t even try to hide how shaken he is, there’s no time for pride. His servo trembles for the first time in centuries. You try to joke about him being dramatic while the rust starts to form, but he silences you with a look.

Ratchet keeps a close vigil at your bedside, monitoring blinking over your spark signature. He rarely leaves your side, only to mix compounds or pace violently. The others offer help, but he snaps at them without meaning to.

He digs into archives older than the war itself to find a possible cure. Your medical file grows thicker by the hour, stained with energon smudges. He barely recharges, too afraid that he’ll wake to silence from your berth. Your steady pulse is the only thing keeping him from destroying himself.

When your systems crash temporarily, Ratchet genuinely breaks down. He slams a servo into the wall, a spark roaring behind his chassis. The monitors scream, and he’s barking orders at the others like a war general. No one dares disobey him when you're on the line.

He eventually constructs a prototype antivirus—but testing it is risky. Ratchet debates for only seconds before deciding: he'll inject it directly. If it fails, it could speed up the deterioration… But doing nothing is worse. “Better to die trying than to watch you fade.”

He injects the cure with a shaky servo, optics locked on your frame. You seize up, systems sparking, and he nearly overloads from panic. But then your vitals stabilize a little. It was not perfect, but enough. He doesn’t breathe until your optics flutter open.

He’s exhausted, hunched over your berth like a rusted-out frame. When you whisper his name, his entire posture softens. “Don't ever do that again,” he says quietly, voice raw. But there's relief under the gruffness, and it bleeds through.

Ratchet orders a full scan every two hours after your recovery. No exceptions, no excuses, even if you insist you're fine or if you just have a simple cough from dust. It’s annoying… but deeply sweet in a Ratchet kind of way.

He brings you energon personally, even if he pretends it's 'standard check-in protocol'. He triple-checks its composition, temperature, and nutritional balance. When you smile at him, He huffs and mutters, “Don’t get used to this.”

Ⰶ║ ⵈ ⵈ ⵈ ⵈ ⵈ ⵈ║Ⰶ

You were just teasing him over another one of his grumpy lectures when it happened. A sharp pain cracked through your spark, and suddenly your systems seized up, dropping you to your knees. Ratchet barely caught you in time, optic panels wide in alarm, shouting your name like it was a medical emergency code. “No, no, no! Stay with me!” He barked, already scanning you with shaky, frantic digits.

The diagnosis was something Ratchet had hoped he’d never see again: the Cybonic Plague. A virus so ancient and insidious that even whispering its name made bots flinch. You were already twitching, glitching, fighting to hold onto reality as the virus gnawed at your code like rust in your processor.

Ratchet didn’t react with panic. No, panic was inefficient. But his voice lost its edge of sarcasm, and his hands never once stopped moving. “You are not dying on my table.” The others offered help "Ratchet What happened?!" Bulkhead asks with panic in his voice. "We can help you," Arcee tried to step up as Bumblebee buzzes.

But Ratchet didn’t let anyone else touch you. Instead, his optics silently glare at the other Autobot teammates and blocking them away. “No one knows their system like I do!” he snapped, the words heavy with something more than professional pride. "You all step away from (Y/N)!"

He worked tirelessly for hours, then days, ignoring recharge and energon warnings, digging through corrupted Cybertronian medical files older than Orion Pax. You were more than just a patient. You were the only one who’d ever made the old medic feel again, you're his sparkmate and the only one who could understand him.

Every time your spark signature flickered, something in Ratchet faltered. He’d pace the medbay like a caged beast, muttering equations under his breath, cursing the virus and whatever careless god had let it survive this long. He really wishes that time Megatron hadn't made a virus as the biology weapon as he remember all of those passing comrades who rusted away from the cybonic. Even when Optimus offered to assist, Ratchet nearly shouted him down. “Don’t take this from me! I have to be the one to save (Y/N)!”

When your systems dipped into emergency stasis, Ratchet broke protocol. He ignored the risks, activated a neural bridge, and entered your mind full in desperation and determination. Inside, your consciousness was a mess of static and corrupted data. He found you in the center of it, your voice distorted and broken, barely able to reach out. But he knelt beside you anyway, optics locked on yours, his touch gentle as he whispered, “I am not losing you, too.”

Fighting the plague from the inside was like performing surgery in a hurricane. Every data spike you sent at him nearly knocked him offline. But he kept moving forward, shielding you with pieces of his spark signature, injecting the antivirus into your core line of code while taking damage himself. “You're worth every scratch,” he said quietly, even when you begged him to leave. “Don’t ask me to walk away from the only thing that makes me feel alive.”

You came back slowly, stuttering and disoriented, optics dim but conscious. Ratchet was there, slouched in his chair, faceplate smudged with energon and exhaustion. When your hand twitched, his optics widened, and the relief that washed over him nearly dropped him to the floor. “You stubborn glitch,” he whispered, and for once there was no bite in his voice. Just soft gratitude, like your survival had rebooted something inside him.h

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WHEELJACK - Autobot

Wheeljack doesn’t panic often, but the moment Ratchet says 'Cybonic Plague' his spark freezes. He clenches his servos so tightly they spark. He’s used to battlefield injuries, not watching someone he loves slip away without a fight. “You’re not fraggin’ leaving me,” he growls, already planning something reckless.

He tries to play it cool around the others, but you can tell he’s on edge. His optics flicker faster, and he paces like a caged beast. He gets into three arguments and almost punches a wall in the first hour. No one dares call him out, except maybe Ratchet.

He hates not being able to fight the plague with his blades or explosives. But he sits beside you anyway, blades sheathed, just watching you breathe. Because being there is the only fight he can win right now.

Wheeljack once storms into the medbay covered in Energon because he thought you flatlined. Turns out it was just a system recalibration. Ratchet yells at him for scaring everyone and nearly bleeding out but he doesn't care, he just wants to see your condition.

When Ratchet finally gets a possible cure, Wheeljack insists on testing it himself. He offers his own code as a host “Load me with it. I can take it.” Ratchet refuses, but Wheeljack doesn’t stop trying to bargain.

He holds you through the injection of the antivirus, despite Ratchet’s warnings. You’re spasming, screaming, nearly overheating, but he won’t leave. His armor gets scorched, his frame rattles with yours. “Easy, sweetspark. You’re tougher than this thing. Just hold on.”

Once you are awake when your vital stabilized, , he cracks the dumbest joke to make you smile. It’s so bad you groan, but it breaks the tension. Of course he does this is because he wants to distract you and himself from what just happened.

He actually hugs Ratchet after the cure works, and then immediately denies it. The medic bot would pushes him away, rejecting his hugs but secretly the doc was smirking and says nothing. Everyone at base teases him about it for weeks.

Wheeljack would secretly builds a private recharge chamber for the two of you. It’s lined with Wrecker badges and LED lights shaped like stars. It is a sanctuary for you two.

He puts your spark signature into his own HUD overlay. He monitors it 24/7, even when you're fully recovered. Says it helps him 'focus' but you know it just helps him breathe easier because after what hapened he became twice more protective around you as he tries not to show it (but it's too obvious).

Ⰶ║ ⵈ ⵈ ⵈ ⵈ ⵈ ⵈ║Ⰶ

You didn’t even feel it at first. Just a flicker in your HUD, a small static delay in your vision. You chalked it up to a power drain or a bad line of code from your last mission. But when your limbs started locking up mid-step and your systems spat out unfamiliar alerts, you knew something was wrong.

The moment Wheeljack caught you collapsing in the hallway, optics wide and frantic, you knew things were about to get worse before they got better. He carried you like you weighed nothing, sprinting to the medbay with a speed that would’ve impressed Flash from the DC Universe.

Ratchet was already scanning your systems before your optics flickered out. His voice is grim, “It’s Cybonic Plague.” That’s when Wheeljack went completely still. Not in fear but in that deadly kind of stillness that comes before a storm. “You sure?” he asked, voice low and dangerous. “Because if you’re wrong—” “THE DATA IS NOT WRONG!” Ratchet snapped. "Get out of my way and let me try to save them.” But Wheeljack didn’t leave after Ratcher ordered him.

He stayed by your side like a guardian drone, arms crossed, pacing only when the tremors in your frame got bad. He didn’t speak unless spoken to, but the tension rolled off him in waves like a bomb waiting for someone to trigger it. His fists were clenched the entire time, even when your body seized and your vents wheezed like you were drowning on dry air. “I’ve seen ‘bots fall apart in my hands,” he muttered one night, eyes locked on your dimmed optics. “Never thought it’d hurt like this.” His voice cracked for just a second before he stuffed it down.

No one else saw that moment. He made sure of it. But you heard it—through the haze of pain and corrupted data, you heard the fragging heartbreak in his voice. The worst night came when your spark signal flatlined for 4.3 seconds. Ratchet got it back, but Wheeljack didn’t speak for an hour after. Not one word.

He just stared at you like he was memorizing everything in case it was the last time. When you jolted awake with a scream during the antivirus injection, he held you down himself, letting your thrashing scorch the paint off his arms. “Easy, sweetheart. Come on. I’ve got you,” he whispered like a promise.

When it was finally over, and your vitals stabilized, he didn’t cheer like the others. He just slumped into the wall and let his optics close. You’d never seen Wheeljack rest before, it was almost unsettling. He didn’t speak until you weakly reached for his servo, and he took it like it was the most precious thing in the universe. “Welcome back,” he whispered, smiling with that cocky lopsided grin that always made your spark flutter. “Told you you were tougher than scrap.”

Late at night, when the others were recharging and the base had gone still, he’d sit beside your berth and tell you Wrecker stories, a wild, impossible tales of explosive stunts and near-death victories. But there was always a pause at the end. A breath. A moment where he looked down at your frame and whispered, “Nothing I survived out there scared me half as much as this did.”

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BULKHEAD - Autobot

Bulkhead instantly panics the moment you stumble mid-step. You’ve handled worse injuries before, but this was different. Your optics dimmed, and your balance gave out. He caught you before you hit the ground, yelling your name so loud it echoed through the base.

When Ratchet announces it’s Cybonic Plague, Bulkhead nearly shuts down. He’s heard of it, he���s lost Wrecker comrades to it in the war, and the thought of you having it nearly crushes him.

Bulkhead refuses to leave your side, even when ordered to. He snaps, “I don’t care if Megatron walks through that door. I’m not leaving them.” Miko tries to convince him to get some rest, but he just shakes his head.

He strokes your helm gently whenever you’re unconscious. It’s a side of Bulkhead few ever get to see, soft, wordless care. His massive servos are surprisingly gentle, brushing away coolant leaks and static from your face. Sometimes he whispers old Wrecker stories, just to fill the silence.

He threatens to storm the Decepticon base for a cure if needed. When Ratchet mentions the cure once came from Soundwave’s systems, Bulkhead's optics flash with rage. “Tell me where, and I’ll smash my way through if I have to.” The team knows he means it.

When Ratchet tests an experimental antivirus, Bulkhead is the first to volunteer to help. He doesn’t care about the risks. “If it saves them, then I’ll take ‘em all.” He’s the wall that keeps everyone moving forward.

He keeps a record of your vitals and treatment schedule. It’s scrawled in messy handwriting on datapads. “Just in case someone else gets sick. I want them to have a head start.” Even in your worst moment, he’s thinking about helping others.

When your systems finally begin to purge the virus, he almost collapses with relief. “They’re stabilizing,” Ratchet says. Bulkhead just lets out a broken laugh. “You fraggin’ did it, sweetspark!” The first time you speak after recovery, he nearly sobs.

He organizes a celebration after your full recovery, but it's more of a quiet hangout with the team. He brings Energon treats and music, keeping you close. The way he smiles when you're laughing? Pure sunshine.

He starts spoiling you with homemade energon treats. They’re not great. He accidentally makes them too spicy, too sweet, or too burnt. But he tries, and he beams every time you take a bite. “It’s the thought that counts, right?”

Even after you recover fully, he watches you like a hawk. He pretends to be casual, but you catch him staring every few minutes. “What? Can’t I look at my favorite bot?” he teases. But deep down, he’s still guarding your spark with all he’s got.

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Bulkhead had seen a lot in his time, explosions, Decepticon traps, close calls that would make any normal mech fold under pressure. But nothing could have prepared him for the moment you collapsed right in front of him. One minute you were laughing, teasing him about how slow he was on recon, the next, your legs gave out, and you hit the ground with a terrifying clang. “(Y/N)?!” he shouted, running to you so fast the ground shook beneath his feet.

Your optics flickered, static buzzing through your words. You tried to smile. Primus, you tried, but all that came out was a pained whisper of his name. Ratchet didn’t need a scan to know something was wrong. “We need to get them to the medbay. Now.” Bulkhead didn’t wait for anyone else; he scooped you up like fragile crystal, whispering your name like it was the only thing tethering him to reality.

The word 'Cybonic' nearly made him drop. He’d heard it before, on the battlefield, whispered like a curse. It was a plague that turned circuitry against itself, shutting down bots from the inside. “ You’re kidding,” he muttered to Ratchet, his voice cracking. But the medic just gave that grim look he always wore when hope was wearing thin.

Bulkhead never left your side. He sat beside your medberth with Miko’s blanket wrapped awkwardly around his shoulders, your servo gripped tightly in his own. He didn’t care if the others thought he was being dramatic; he’d rather be dramatic than alone. Every time your frame spasmed or your systems flickered, he flinched like he’d been hit. It was like watching the world end, one glitch at a time. “C’mon, Y/N… you’re stronger than this,” he murmured on the third day, optics bloodshot from lack of recharge.

His voice was soft, nothing like the boisterous Wrecker tone everyone knew. “You still owe me that race through the canyon, remember?” His laughter broke into static halfway through, and he leaned forward, pressing your servo to his cheekplate.

On the sixth day, your vitals dropped, and Ratchet yelled something Bulkhead didn’t understand, some medical code, some numbers, some urgent demand. But all Bulkhead could see was the way your body arched, seizing, like it was rejecting life itself. “No, no, no! Stay with me, (Y/N)!” he begged, almost in tears. The world blurred, and he wasn’t the strong, dependable Wrecker anymore. He was just a mech in love, losing his everything.

When you stabilized the next morning, he didn’t dare believe it at first. Ratchet hesitated, then finally said, “They’re responding to the treatment.” Bulkhead didn’t say anything. He just slumped forward, his forehead resting gently against yours, shaking. You were still there. You were still here.

The day your optics lit up fully again, the first thing you saw was Bulkhead slumped in a recharge chair next to your berth, snoring loudly, with dried energon streaks staining his cheek. You reached out and poked his shoulder. He jolted up like he’d been shot, optics wide. “Y/N?!” he shouted, voice cracking. You smiled. “Hey, big guy.”

The energon tears shed openly, and unashamedly. Not the silent kind, not the pretend-tough tears. Real ones. He gathered you in his arms so gently it nearly hurt, rocking you like you were the last spark in the universe. “Never—never—scare me like that again,” he whispered. You could feel the tremble in his voice, but beneath all of it… you felt the safest you’d ever been.

Ⰶ║ ⵈ ⵈ ⵈ ⵈ ⵈ ⵈ║Ⰶ

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[sunnydbeam]

I want to politely ask Alpha to bend down so I can kiss him on the cheek and see his reaction (whatever happens, I'm ready)

SFW. Fluff Word count: 1500+ I can't draw, so I'm trying to get back to writing.

edit: Link to AO3

______

Alpha isn't quite sure what to anticipate when you ask him to stoop down a little to meet you. In his optical sensors, you register as polite, perhaps even... endearing. So, after a slight tilt of his head, he complies, leaning his tall frame forward. Even bent, the height difference remains significant, almost comically so.

Alpha lowers himself further, bringing his face level with yours. Your gaze meets his; the red eyes are void of expression, yet somehow intensely questioning. That signature robotic seriousness washes over you, unsettling.

You feel judged somehow, a wave of nervousness making you feel small and foolish. The truth, however, is far simpler: Alpha isn't thinking about anything in particular.

"Like this?" he asks simply, his voice a flat monotone.

You manage a hesitant nod, doubt flickering within you. The robot tilts his head again, a minute adjustment, and a knot of anxiety tightens in your stomach. Was this really a good idea? What intricate calculations were running through his complex positronic brain as he stared? Would delaying anger him? Would your intended action infuriate him even more? Unbeknownst to you, Alpha's mind remains a blank slate regarding your intentions.

Taking a shallow breath, you edge closer. Tentatively, trying not to make any sudden movements, you gently rest a hand against his cheek. You instantly notice a flicker of confusion in his red eyes, though his imposing frame remains perfectly still. He doesn't push you away, but your doubt blossoms into genuine fear. Will this next action sign your death warrant?

You decide words are useless now. Instead, you lean in further and finally, delicately, press your lips against his right cheek. It's brief, just a fleeting pressure, but firm enough, you hope, for the contact to register.

His reaction is instantaneous and explosive, startling you so badly that you fling yourself backward, scrambling away as fast as your legs allow. And thank whatever higher power exists that you did, because you know, with absolute certainty, that if you hadn't moved, the robot would likely have grabbed you, and that would have ended very badly for you.

Alpha snaps upright to his full, intimidating height, towering over you. His eyes blaze wide and bright, his fists clenched tightly at his sides. He stares down at you as if he could bore holes straight through your skull with his gaze alone. He doesn't move an inch, yet every fiber of your being screams at you to apologize profusely and flee for your life. The way he looks at you feels like a terrible, deadly omen. You swear your intentions were completely innocent!

You stumble as you try to get to your feet properly, poised to turn and run when Alpha makes a sudden, stiff movement. You freeze mid-motion — partly from shock, partly from fear, and partly from a morbid curiosity desperate to know what he thinks, what he'll do. But the sight of those four flexible, weaponized limbs extending slightly to his sides certainly doesn't look friendly.

"What was that?" he questions, his voice surprisingly less agitated than his threatening body language suggests.

Your mouth opens, your mind racing for a convincing explanation, but nothing comes out except the unvarnished truth, which you fear might enrage him further. "Just... a kiss? Out of curiosity..."

The words tumble out before you can stop them, your posture radiating nervousness, timidity, and worry.

To your immense surprise, honesty turns out to be the best possible approach. Alpha stares at you as if you've suddenly sprouted a second head, yet simultaneously, as if he's just encountered the strangest, most baffling phenomenon imaginable. The robot steps closer, looming, almost cornering you. You tremble like a leaf.

"Kiss?" His voice is softer now, less aggressive than you'd expect, laced with a strange sort of curiosity. Thoughtful, almost, as if he's genuinely pondering the concept. "Why do humans do that?"

"I-it's just... a way to show affection..." You stammer, unable to meet his intense gaze. You could cry right now from sheer stupidity, from acting on impulse without considering the potentially lethal consequences. "I-it wasn't anything bad, I promise..."

"Affection," he repeats the word, tasting it, analyzing it. He leans closer again, his face near yours, his gaze scrutinizing. "Why would you do that?" Why him, of all beings?

You don't answer. He doesn't press.

"Are you afraid?"

You shake your head quickly, a blatant lie contradicted by your trembling body and the tears welling in your eyes. Everything about you screams, "Don't be angry, please don't hurt me." Alpha may or may not fully parse the sentiment, but he certainly observes you with a softening gaze, perhaps finding your vulnerable state... adorable. To him, you are a lovely creature. You, however, remain oblivious to this internal assessment.

Alpha places a large hand gently on top of your head. "Were you being... affectionate... with me?" he asks, a surprising note of naïveté in his tone.

You blush crimson, the heat rising in your cheeks. "Huh..."

He analyzes your reaction. "I still make you nervous. Scared?" His hand drifts down, the tip of one gloved finger lightly tapping the bridge of your nose. "Don't be afraid."

You give him a pathetic look. "... You're not angry… ?"

"No."

"You're not going to kill me...?"

"Why would I do that?"

You avert your gaze, deciding not to answer that. Instead, a reckless impulse takes over. "C-can I give you another kiss?"

Okay, what on Earth possessed you to ask that?

Alpha's eyes narrow fractionally. His hand lowers, fingers curling under your chin, gripping firmly, tilting your face to the side as if forcing you to look away. The grip is strong, bordering on painful. Yet, you can distinctly feel his red eyes boring into your very soul, a threatening, ominous aura surrounding him.

"Don't move."

With deliberate slowness, Alpha leans forward. He presses his brief, experimental “kiss” to your cheek, a light brush of coolness mimicking your earlier gesture. Even as he holds you fast in his steel grip, seemingly ready to counter any hint of movement or escape, he then surprises you by sweetly nuzzling his face against your hair.

"Like this? Am I doing it correctly?" he whispers, his voice muffled slightly against the soft strands. His grip on your face loosens but doesn't release you entirely. "Showing you... affection."

Your face flushes hot again. What is even happening?

"Yes... I mean— W-why would you do that?" You stammer, your voice slightly distorted by the pressure on your cheeks. Your question seems to mildly irritate Alpha; apparently, he doesn't know the answer either. But he felt the impulse — the need to investigate, to understand why that brief contact had felt... surprisingly not unpleasant. Why does it make him feel less cold?

"Curious," he states simply.

A particularly brave part of you wants to argue, to question why he had to grab you like that just to try it, but something in his simple admission feels... oddly endearing.

"...And? What conclusion did you reach...?" You venture, emboldened.

Alpha regards you for a long moment, his expression unreadable. He traces the line of your jaw with a gloved index finger, a flicker of fascination in his otherwise impassive features. "Uncertain. I still don't understand it... Why do it that way..." He touches his cheek briefly as if committing the strange, yet not disagreeable, sensation to memory. "What conclusion did you reach?"

You blush for the third time, a reaction the robot does not miss. "I don't know... Honestly, I thought you were going to murder me for trying."

"Is that what you want?"

There is no way he just asked that as casually as discussing the weather. Now you're profoundly disturbed and feel an urgent need to escape.

Alpha releases your chin as you instinctively try to pull back, and you just pray he isn't serious. You stumble backward on unsteady feet. He watches you from his still-crouched position, a massive question mark seemingly hovering over his head.

"Oh, look at the time! They must be looking for me, haha..." You spin around to leave, but a large hand clamps onto your arm, pulling you back firmly to face him again, bathing you once more in the red glow of his optics.

“If you’ll allow me, I’d like to show you my favorite human gesture of affection before you go.”

You're too stunned to react. When you don't struggle, he gently pulls you towards him, against his chest. His four arms wrap around you, engulfing your smaller frame. You're initially surprised and tense, bracing for the worst. But then, slowly, you feel one of his hands carefully stroking the hairs on the back of your neck, and you realize... He's holding you with such unexpected tenderness, such comfort, that you feel yourself practically melting against him.

Alpha rubs your shoulders and back with slow, careful, circular motions as if consciously trying to soothe you. It works. Soon, your tension drains away, and you find yourself relaxing, hesitantly wrapping your arms around his torso. He is incredibly good at hugs.

"Cute," he murmurs.

You stay like that in silence for a while, enveloped in the strange, secure embrace. Eventually, Alpha seems to decide it's sufficient. He loosens his hold, though he doesn't let go completely. You, however, don't release him yet.

"You may leave now," he informs you.

You cling tighter.

"Just a little longer..." you mumble, your face buried against his chest. "They can wait."

_____________

[ Have to be honest here: I was one sentence away from making Alpha go weird, but the only thing that stopped me was how long this was getting :p ]

[tom-foolery-incorporated]

Swerve x Reader Blurb: The Panty Raid

Gender neutral reader, racially ambiguous, very short, Swerve being a pervert

Swerve was kind of glad he could fit in the human quarters. 10 feet of minibot was probably as short as a mech could be but with the humans on board he felt massive. It was so strange being so much bigger than someone and he honestly didn’t expect to find it so endearing.

That’s probably how he ended up in his situation with his servos digging through your laundry.

Swerve found the shirt you wore yesterday to work out and brought it up to his olfactory sensors. The armpits of the shirt was still a little damp from your time at the gym. He ran his tongue over the sweat mark shivering at the salty taste of your skin still left over on the shirt coupled with the sweet taste of your deodorant made his engine rev.

Swerve sniffed every inch of that shirt before gently placing it next to your hamper and started digging through your soiled garments once again. His servo hooked on something small near the bottom. He pulled his arm out of your laundry basket only to stare at his prize with wide optics.

Your underwear.

Your used underwear.

Swerve held both ends of the elastic waistband in both his servos displaying his find before him. His optics were glowing brightly through his visor in excitement. The fabric was so soft and the pattern was so cute. Really, you could wear anything and Swerve would find it cute because it was on your body.

He looked over his shoulder plate to make sure your door was still shut before indulging in his new found treasure.

Swerve brought the crotch of your underwear to his intake giving his glossa a once over. The deep musky scent of your genitals remained on the fabric and Swerve could practically taste your sweet arousal on them. His engine revved in delight as he bunched the fabric against his olfactory sensors. His spike was practically leaking behind his modesty plate.

Swerve fantasized about cumming in your underwear. You’d hold your pants open for him as they bunch around your knees. Maybe you’d be rubbing his spike for him.

“I love your spike,” you’d say desperately. “I love you!”

Swerve doesn’t know how long he’d be able to last with his spike in your hand. Could you even get your hand around his spike? Fuck, you were so small and cute!

He’d be moaning your name desperately bucking his hips into your hand until his overload hit him. Glowing pink fluid would erupt from his spike making a mess of your underwear. It leaked down over the leg holes of your underwear making a mess in your pants. Being the gentleman he is Swerve would offer to clean you up but then you’d pull your pants up and rebutton them. His transfluid now snug against your arousal. Your pelvis practically drowning in his overload.

Swerve moaned into your underwear at the thought of you going about your day with his overload in your pants. His overload inside of you, on you, on your face, your chest, your hands.

He spike was fully pressurized and pushing against his modesty panel just thinking about your innocent face. You have no idea he’s doing this. You talk to him and joke with him so happily while completely unaware that he’s been sneaking into your room while you work to sniff your used clothes.

[lunatf-ao3]

SICK CARE ☀︎︎

[TFP] Megatron/Human!Reader

[⚠︎]: Isolated fever

...

-

Megatron's claws tap impatiently on the armrest of his throne, his optics occasionally turning to your tiny figure in the corner of the room, right next to his recharge berth.

Small, vulnerable, and sweaty. Even from a distance, his sensors could tell that your temperature was high.

You were too far away from him for his liking.

Knockout had said you were sick, according to his brief investigation under Megatron's 'pressure' (threat). He said it was common in humans and not dangerous.

He simply ordered rest and wait.

But Megatron wasn't going to wait.

"Soundwave, report," he growled, claw on his communicator. The response took no more than a click to arrive. He still hadn't gotten anything.

The news frustrated him, but he didn't bother to say anything to his third in command. He trusted that Soundwave was doing everything possible to get the so-called 'medicines' that would speed up your recovery.

He took the time to investigate himself, of course.

"Hm." He gave you another look. You were trembling, muttering things in your sleep. Nightmares, as humans called them?

Finally, he decided to go for you. It took only a few long strides for his claws to gently wrap around you, carrying the sheets that enveloped you along with you.

He laid you down with a gentleness uncharacteristic of him on the left armrest of his throne. "Megatron...?"

Your murmur is weak, tired, and somewhat confused. "Do not waste your energy, weak little human."

You stir, rubbing your face against the sheets to wake yourself up completely. "I don't think I can sleep anymore... I wasn't resting well anyway."

You sit up for a moment, then cover yourself again with the sheets, lying on your back. Your eyes are hot, heavy, and teary.

"Megatron..." You almost sob, too sensitive, too weak. He didn't respond, processing your tone, his spark reacting. "I'm boiling."

"Is that all it takes to make you cry, pathetic human?" He growls with false sarcasm, bringing one of his claws to your cheeks. You cling to him, pressing your hot skin against the cold metal.

He picks you up, carrying you like a piece of glass to his chest. "So weak, a species like yours should not even exist."

You don't respond, finding relief in his cold structure.

"Without a sense of danger, it seems. Fragile and ridiculous. You humans are only good for what you are." He lifted your chin with a gentleness that contrasted with his words. "A pet."

You barely have the energy to sneer. "Liar."

"You dare?"

"I'm hungry," you murmur.

"Huh? So what?"

At his response, you growl pitifully, hugging his badge.

"If you are going to beg, you will have to say it with words, little one."

But you refuse, and the silence stretches on for several minutes.

Until he gives in and a small grape stuck in his claw hits your lips, those fresh grapes he always had for you in case you wanted something. You receive it happily without saying anything, not wanting to provoke him more than necessary.

It doesn't satisfy you, but you still rest your head against him to rest, letting out a heavy, hot sigh.

His presence comforts you a little.

He likes yours too.

[peachypede]

Creation Day

Father's day thing for Ratchet with my oc. This is pre-war so Ratchet is a bit softer. My au Ratchet is a combination of many different Ratchets. IV is a forged Cybertronian made by him and this is the day she gets turned online. All fluff here.

The ceiling is red, blue, and yellow in a simple dotted pattern. 

Pretty.

She lifts a servo up, as if attempting to touch the colors.

“Ep, ep, ep! No moving yet!” The sharp voice startles her, causing her pull back her servo immediately. There’s a larger mech, red and white with a stern face, beside her berth. He moves closer to gently put her servo down beside her on the berth where it had been before she came online. His servo then comes to rest on the top of her helm, gentle and reassuring. There is a computer in front of him that he types into. “You just turned online today. We need to calibrate you properly. Make sure I did everything right…”

She knows him despite never really meeting him. He’s Ratchet, one of the most proficient doctors on Cybertron, but her coding tells her the most important thing about him to her is that he’s her creator. 

And he loves her. 

“Hello.” She says as she smiles up at him with bright blue eyes. The pupils of them white like little stars. It earns the first of many gentle smiles she receives from her creator.

“Hello, my little starlight.” He chuckles, rubbing her helm. “I’m glad your voice box is working properly.”

She blinks.

“Is Starlight my name?” 

“No, no.” Ratchet is chuckling again. “Your name is IV.”

“IV…and I am a medical assistant!”

“Yes, you are. For your formative years, at least. After that, who knows. Maybe further schooling...” He types a bit more on his computer. IV realizes she has sensors all over her frame and innately she knows these are for taking medical readings. “You have a systolic pressure of 180…sparkthrum is 30 cycles per minute…”

“Those are normal readings for a bot my size.” 

“Yes, they are. Good. Your programmed knowledge is working.”

IV beams, happy to gain his praise. 

“Now you can move a bit. Lift your helm up and down, please.”

The new forgeling does so, nodding her helm against the berth.

“Good. Now lift your servos…”

They go on. Meticulously. Step by step. Ratchet is thorough in testing if her systems run well and IV is happy to follow every order. The ceiling is those colors and patterns for a reason she finds out. A way to properly calibrate her optics with introducing her to various different colors as the first thing she sees. 

Once her optics, arms, servos, legs, and pedes are all checked for proper movement, Ratchet begins to take off her medical sensors and prompts her to sit up in the berth.

“Careful now. If everything is correct, and it should be, then you should be able to walk with no trouble at all.” 

Her creator holds out his servos, expectant, and IV places hers in them. They’re big and warm compared to hers. The sensitive pads on her palm and digits detect textures of worn metal in them. His servos are the first thing she’s ever properly felt other than the berth and she is distracted. The smaller digits trace the worn textures and find tiny dents. Her creator is an older mech, worn down by time, and it’s her first realization of age as well. Strange, new, and fascinating. 

Ratchet can’t help but gaze fondly down at his creation, also distracted by the curiosity she takes in his servos. Cycles of work, all of the free time he had off, all poured into his creation before him that was finally moving and exploring the world. Her creation day. A day he had been looking forward to for a long, long time.

He gently closes his digits around her servos. This gains her attention as she looks up at him.

“First steps. Come on.” He’s excited. Anticipation made him rush the moment a bit. His internal camera is waiting to take the pictures, even though he already had taken multiple of her first smiles. 

He begins to help her pull away from the berth. Her pedes touch the floor and she’s slightly shaky but her systems calibrate and she begins to walk. The larger medbot lets go of her for a bit, she stumbles slightly but re-calibrates again and she walks normally once more. 

IV grins and laughs and does a small spin.

“Careful! We’re not doing anything special here!” Ratchet can’t help but laugh as well, grabbing onto her before she was about to attempt to run. He hugs her tightly and she returns it, her face nuzzling against his chassis. He hums and rests his chin on the top of her helm. 

His sparkling is perfect.

[squibsformers]

Silken Synapses

Jazz x Reader (NSFW)

AN: Happy Valentines Day. Reader has a dick but no pronouns are used.

The way the city lights filtered in through the blinds of your apartment window made Jazz stare up at you like you had to be the Allspark incarnate.

Streaks of vibrant blue danced over your skin with every bounce, your body leaving your silhouette cast across the wall. Violet caught the hard line of your jaw and optic ridge, and a rose highlights your aft as you rock and move. You looked like you were painted in neons and the midnight hour. And the noises you made? Felt like they were ripped from the stars themselves, bright and calling to his spark in the dark of the night.

Your hips rolled again, and the sound he made was all static and buzz, his vocoder struggling with how his sensors were running wild at the pleasure racing through him. One of your hands slid across his exposed panel, wires all on display for your discretion. And you made good use of such a treat, fingers skimming along rubber, dragging a nail lightly down one until the friction caught, and you opt to instead tug the flat cabling.

Jazz's intake dropped open in a drawn out groan.

“Frag, baby, you're filthy.”

His skittered, scrambled visual field was splintering, fracturing, his view of your form multiplying like a kaleidoscope of delight. Watching your other hand trail down your chest and slowly nearing your own spike- penis? Dick, cock, rod, too many words that made his currently overheated processor scramble to fit in one slot and overwhelm it.

…SPEAKING of fitting in slots, you began bounce on his spike more, slick and warm and- PRIMUS, that, that nasty little trick you kept doing, squeezing and tightening around him before relaxing again and moving quicker. It made Jazz grit his denta, throwing his helm back with a hiss each time.

“Tease…!”

The mass displaced mech was rewarded with a husky, silky chuckle that he swore, up and down, was weaving through his audials and caused lightning to zip down his backstruts. Jazz felt like he was going mad, ESPECIALLY as you looped a digit around a green wire in the upper left quadrant and unplugged it, dragging your tongue along the tip of the metal jack plug and sucking lewdly on it. He knew you wouldn't pull out anything important, he'd marked what could and couldn't be toyed with. But it didn't change the fact that when these were toyed with, they made his EM field buzz and flicker.

“Swear I can feel that. It's like my nerves are all tingling…”

You gasped, biting your lip and arching your back. Fist your member and begin stroking faster as you ride him harder, the sound of the flesh and skin clapping against the steel of his plating and the slick of lube and transfluid making for obscene noises ripped from Jazz's fantasies and sounding like a salacious symphony. His biolights flicker in patterns, that he can barely see through your skin every time he sinks deep into your aft- ass. Spike painfully pressurized and hitting deep within your depths, bullying your prostate pleasurably. Hellishly.

Grunting, he gripped your hips, and began helping you move quicker, venting in puffs and his cooling fans whirring louder.

“You close, my pretty little Porsche?”

“Mhm…!”

“Good.”

Bottom left quadrant had the most wires you could pull, and pull you did. In fact, you looped the whole mass around your hand, and yanked as you gasp and release into your condom. His systems went haywire briefly, optics locked onto the glitchy, iridescent image of you, and Jazz's overload crashed his systems like a powersurge, making the porsche unload into you.

[crying-fantasies]

Spark play

Masterlist

Featuring G1! Sideswipe and Sunstreaker, smut/fluff/humor, CW: sensual thoughts, heavy make-out, the twins being a menace (what's new?), Sunny vowing to kill his brother (what's new??), jealousy, almost oral (giving and receiving), spark electricity, a little of bit of foot (how else are we supposed to touch them while being so little?)

Sunstreaker, upon learning the primitive concepts of human courting, among all the options available that made him gag or feel irritated, if not both, seemed to be partial to the concepts of long-term relationships and exclusivity of a couple.

Well, there is exclusivity between you, him, and Sides. His brother's preferences weren't entirely known to him, and boundaries and limits may be few between spark-split brothers. Nevertheless, the last thing Sunstreaker wants to know from his brother is what he does in the berth with a partner he doesn't like, just to feel everything at the other end of the bond at the end of the cycle.

It's the headache of having a twin, and having that very same moron forget he has a twin before banging.

It started with a little flash between the cycles of his optics, just a fleeting moment, a glimpse of the left side of your face, reading something before he is taken back to the detailing suit, Sunstreaker puts his datapad down, venting with both light irritation and amusement, knowing full well he won't get any real work done now that, as evident as possible, Sideswipe is with you, streaming overflowing fondness into the bond by just looking at you.

In any other circumstances he would've made fun of his brother, but he gets it, that tingle of warmth is familiar and welcomed to this point in life, yet again, this isn't Sideswipe's turn to be with you, and now Sunstreaker understands why you haven’t come with him to buy some cleaners and foundation, another flash passes by, gracing him with the image of you kissing his brother, heavy charge promising to fry his circuits, sending a wave of arousal burning from his spark, Sunstreaker tries to seem unaffected as he walks out the door; Mirage, Hound, and Cliffjumper look at him funny, asking to himself what in the world are the last two doing there when he looks at the fallen noble, Sunstreaker is fast to turn the other way, closing the door as he goes, totally unchanged, once the door closed his pedes tried to get him faster to his destination.

On the other hand, Sideswipe is soon to burn down some delicate circuitry by the way you press those tiny lips against his upper derma, he can not contain himself anymore as he pushes down to your neck, derma heavy against your skin, he can feel the rise of energy in your little electric system, albeit weak, he can feel all of them peak and glow anew, going from any sensor you have inside your skin, he can almost see their work, sending electric pulses to your processor, it takes a lot of concentration, to which he normally has none, still, it’s incredible sexy how much charge it gets into his system, totally worth the struggle to keep up with every shift inside your neural system.

Sideswipe chokes on a groan when you hold on to his audial receptor, bringing him back to your waiting, loving, acid-spilling lips, “Someone is eager-”, you love his boyish motor mouth but right now you need it in other places, holding him now by the crevices of his faceplate, your little footsies doing pressure over shifts in his armor, applying enough pressure to touch the protoform beneath, pushing him back first to the floor, you shriek by his actions, reminding him to be careful while holding onto his faceplate, “Oh Ho, now we play safely, who are you and what have you done to my-”

There is not much to say, or more like you don't let him finish, plopping your hips just above his chin, dragging your center just shy of his derma, “I’m the same as always”, he is practically screaming internally, he loves it, he loves this, he loves when you are all timid and he has to work for your arousal and necessity, or the moments of your sleepy gazed eyes while just waking up, full of energy but still dragging on tiredness enough to let him get full access, but he loves the moments you get horny as hell, that playful side of yours looking at him as the last mech in existence, it isn't long until his communicator pings, he puts a digit up for letting you know to wait, “Yeah-?”

“Hey, Sides”, it’s Sunny, of course, it is him, “care to say where our dear human is right now?”, Sideswipe looks at the ancient clock you keep in their living space, you were supposed to go with his brother more than fifteen minutes ago, then he looks at you, who is now looking very interested, extremely interested, to his chest plate.

His optical ridges perk up when your fingers trace over the seams in the armor, his interest overwhelming any whining when your hips get away from his intake, “Um, sweetspark is doing some owed maintenance on yours truly”, your fingers finally get into his plating, reaching the fingertips into sensitive wires, his HUD crashed there for a second, you find everything but refusal when his spark chamber opens, taking a step back before reaching out again, the feeling of your nails and fingers over the glass casing making him shiver “uhum, really nice, overdue since forever”

“Sides”, his brother calls sternly, Sunstreaker needs a moment, or better yet make it two, because he feels that tremble inside his chest compartment, closing his optics for a moment so he has a great view of your ass before you get in a comfortable position over his spark, his brother's spark, Sunstreaker finally transforms, speeding to his limit and impart some words, “of course, you can't wait for your turn, you always take mine!”

“Hey”, his vocalizer glitches with static at the feeling of your tongue over the glass protecting his spark, his helm was thrown back, digits massaging your scalp, your soft hair, his pedes dig into the soft mattress when he can't kick to get the excessive charge out, “At least I'm showing you, be a little more grateful”.

“Oh right”, Sunstreaker’s words are heavy with jealousy, still, he needs a moment to park and let the electric pulse over his network cool down a little before he gets involved in some stupid accident inside the stronghold, “how considerate of you”.

Considerate enough to at least let him see, Sideswipe is being very merciful by showing him and not doing the same his brother did the last decacycle, it was his turn, Sideswipe’s turn, one he had prepared for, anticipated every minute, he would dine and wine you as human costume, put a little bit of spice on it at the end as many movies, a perfect date. A perfect date went to waste as Sunstreaker, the show off that he is, took you at the last second to go see him at the shooting room, almost parading himself while holding the blaster like he was some model for a magazine, doing stupid poses to make his finish stand above the others, preening like a seeker.

So, this was revenge, while groaning and moaning and overwhelming their shared bond Sideswipe could feel his brother about to blow a gasket by the way he was trying to seem normal in front of bystanders.

A hiss of steam surging from his intake has him rendered relaxed, feeling the surge of charge over his interface array when your little hands reach around and in between his spark, Sunstreaker feels it, too, making it difficult to drive while having the annoying pressure of his modesty panel, but his desire overwhelmed it, he can see you, he can feel you, your fingers dragging along the wires, the connections, tugging a little too soft for his liking but it has Sideswipe moaning like he is in those cheap human reproduction movies, exaggerated and loud if it is sincere or he is just teasing Sunny, you are not the wiser, but Sideswipe would vow on his favorite assault manual gun that it came from his very spark because when you look at him like that, with the most scorching love you can offer while reorganizing his entire wiring, he can only do so much; still, it just feeds his mischievous nature, he can feel Sunstreaker desire from the other side of the bond, the intensity with which he is looking at you through his very optics, wouldn't it be funny if he just closed it?

Oh dear, it is hilarious, “we’re waiting for you so don't take long, bu-bye!”

One instant he is so hot, every venting of cool air a struggle, he could feel the phantom plush sensation of your lips over his spark, the next it is ripped away, “Sides?”, Sunstreaker needs a moment to realize what happened, one moment he is soon to come undone under your touch, feeling like the center of your universe in the way your breath fans over his spark chamber, then, he has nothing, “SIDES!”, he transforms back, wishing for his brother to hear his pedes near their habsuit.

“Is Sunny coming over?”, your sweet voice, one innocent not because you're feigning, on the contrary, you really do believe Sunstreaker willingly left his turn of the day to him, believed you were all alone with him, Sideswipe could hardly stop himself from grinning with absolute mischief, expecting to see your surprised face and Sunny’s pent up one.

His smirk can barely be covered when the door opens with a kick.

.

I love how unhinged and destructive but also affectionate this pair of twins can be, a dream come true.

@tf-kinktober2024

[rawmeknockout]

For a request may I have fluffy smut with Ambulon? He's so cute and deserves all the praise!

His back is warm, wet, against your chest, rumbling under the armor in that way Cybertronians do: like an idling car. The distinct sound of his systems is hard to make out over the drum of solvent over his armor. But the sensation of it sends goosebumps rippling across your skin, arms twining about his shoulders as you press kisses to the nape of his neck cabling. You can already see the flush of heat overtaking Ambulon’s cheekplates, but he presses back, needy, into your embrace. He loves the touch of your flesh upon his sensors despite how abashed he is, too mortified by his own starvation to ask for more. As if begging for sustenance in the midst of ravenous hunger would be worse than dying of need.

Your nimble organic fingers press between the seams of his armor, work warmth into the tense cables overlapping protoform. Years of stress and uncertainty knotting beneath his metal, a strain that would take years to work out. For tonight, it would be enough to work away the stress from the last few hours of his shift. He melts into your touch, back pressing ever firmer to your chest as he allows his shoulders to gradually slope under your loving hands. As if finally aware of his own tension, the tautness of his body begins to ease, his jaw growing slack and upright spinal strut bending under the weight of his own frame, optics long having slipped closed.

Ambulon doesn’t fret or fluster as your hands wander his frame, blissful under your warm touch and the spray of solvent that pounds his open frame. You think he would crumple from the looseness of his cabling if he didn’t have you to ground him. Your fingers find the armor of his hips, the seams of his thigh joints, before your dominant hand cups his interface panel. A gasp stutters from his vocalizer, helm tilted back to rest upon your shoulder. It’s a moment of petting, fingers sliding back and forth upon slick, hot metal, before his panel clicks away to bare his half-pressurized spike and scantly wet valve. He lets out a barely there sigh as you take him in hand, stroking over the smooth segments of his shaft, coaxing him to full pressurization. Ambulon’s servos find purchase on the arm you curled about his midsection, seeking you to ground and hold him steady as he thrusts upward on unsteady pedes.

His helm lolls to the side, cheek pressing into your temple, frame open and wanting. In the quiet of the shower stall, hidden away from the universe, Ambulon unfurls under your hands. You press your lips to his pauldron, stroking him steadily towards overload; your conjunx letting you pull apart his stress tangle by tangle. Your name is but a whisper from his vocalizer as he arches into your touch, transfluid shooting from under the pad of your thumb as it swipes over the sensitive, bulbous head. He lazily picks his helm off your shoulder to lean back and kiss at your hairline, a soft, tired smile stretching his derma. As gentle with you as he is when he’s meticulously cleaning the medbay equipment; steady and placid.

[nasa]

For the Benefit of All: Assistive Tech Developed from NASA Tech

What do modern cochlear implants and robotic gloves have in common? They were derived from NASA technology. We’ve made it easier to find and use our patented inventions that could help create products that enhance life for people with disabilities.

October is National Disability Employment Awareness Month, which highlights the contributions of American workers with disabilities – many of whom use assistive technology on the job. Take a look at these assistive technologies that are NASA spinoffs.

Low-Vision Headsets

The Joint Optical Reflective Display (JORDY) device is a headset that uses NASA image processing and head-mounted display technology to enable people with low vision to read and write. JORDY enhances individuals’ remaining sight by magnifying objects up to 50 times and allowing them to change contrast, brightness, and display modes. JORDY's name was inspired by Geordi La Forge, a blind character from “Star Trek: The Next Generation” whose futuristic visor enabled him to see.

Cochlear Implants

Work that led to the modern cochlear implant was patented by a NASA engineer in the 1970s. Following three failed corrective surgeries, Adam Kissiah combined his NASA electronics know-how with research in the Kennedy Space Center technical library to build his own solution for people with severe-to-profound hearing loss who receive little or no benefit from hearing aids. Several companies now make the devices, which have been implanted in hundreds of thousands of people around the world.

Robotic Gloves

Ironhand, from Swedish company Bioservo Technologies, is the world’s first industrial-strength robotic glove for factory workers and others who perform repetitive manual tasks. It helps prevent stress injuries but has been especially warmly received by workers with preexisting hand injuries and conditions. The glove is based on a suite of patents for the technology developed by NASA and General Motors to build the hands of the Robonaut 2 humanoid robotic astronaut.

Smart Glasses

Neurofeedback technology NASA originally developed to improve pilots’ attention has been the basis for products aimed at helping people manage attention disorders without medication. The devices measure brainwave output to gauge attention levels according to the “engagement index” a NASA engineer created. Then, they show the results to users, helping them learn to voluntarily control their degree of concentration. One such device is a pair of smart glasses from Narbis, whose lenses darken as attention wanes.

Anti-Gravity Treadmills

A NASA scientist who developed ways to use air pressure to simulate gravity for astronauts exercising in space had the idea to apply the concept for the opposite effect on Earth. After licensing his technology, Alter-G Inc. developed its anti-gravity G-Trainer treadmill, which lets users offload some or all of their weight while exercising. The treadmills can help people recover from athletic or brain injuries, and they allow a safe exercise regimen for others with long-term conditions such as arthritis.

Wireless Muscle Sensors

Some of the most exciting assistive technologies to spin off may be yet to come. Delsys Inc. developed electromyographic technology to help NASA understand the effects of long-term weightlessness on astronauts’ muscles and movements. Electromyography detects and analyzes electrical signals emitted when motor nerves trigger movement. Among the company’s customers are physical therapists developing exercise routines to help patients recover from injuries. But some researchers are using the technology to attempt recoveries that once seemed impossible, such as helping paralyzed patients regain movement, letting laryngectomy patients speak, and outfitting amputees with artificial limbs that work like the real thing.  

To further enhance the lives of people with disabilities, NASA has identified a selection of patented technologies created for space missions that could spur the next generation of assistive technology here on Earth.

Want to learn more about assistive technologies already in action? Check out NASA Spinoff to find products and services that wouldn’t exist without space exploration.   

Make sure to follow us on Tumblr for your regular dose of space!

[suzukiblu]

love is being stupid together  please please please!!!

He supposes he could test how effective the system setup would be. There are temperature, pressure, and EMG sensors involved, so significantly more developed than the typical fingerprint or optical scan, which implies just cutting off an authorized user’s hand or ripping out an eye wouldn’t actually work. The design is clunky and in definite need of streamlining, and definitely not suitable for mass production, but . . . well, a setup along those lines could be useful, considering.

He makes a mental note, the plans already effortlessly committed to memory, and debates what he’s actually expected to do with the actual paper. Stick it on the fridge back at the penthouse, he supposes. That’s the traditional approach, as far as he’s aware.

[kissingraine]

Will the Seacons ever get a follow-up? I rarely see anyone writing about them☹️☹️

AAAA- i didnt think y'all actually liked that:') (Hopefully, I can update the other stories since we have the next week off)

Stray — Seacons x Mermaidf!Reader (2)

There was nothing in the void. But that suited Snaptrap just fine. Silence was the natural state of predators—no boasting, no declarations, no wasted noise. Only the slow, steady hum of readiness, of proximity alerts in the background. The stars watched indifferently. So did he. At least, that's what he first thought. It was meant to be a simple mission: reclaim the coordinates to the lost sea bridge buried on some forgotten organic mudball. Earth. A nothing-world, once contested, now beneath attention. Their war had left it gutted, for the most part. That’s why the small natives that lived on it left. Almost exactly like they did when Cybertron fell. But the thing was, this planet didn’t remain in decay or rust like metal—it thrived.

Persistently. Like a weed under pede. No matter how many times it was stepped on. For that, he’d at least give the planet some credit. But that’s about it. His target remained submerged underwater. That was the only detail that mattered to him. He belonged there. Though admittedly, Snaptrap spent his years in the bog as a mechling until he earned his title as commander.

Around him, his unit idled. Quiet for once, void of the usual bickering he was subjected to. Even Tentakil was silent—Snaptrap merely suspected the other was weaving something elaborate in the dark behind his smug stillness. Overbite stayed his twitchy self, smelling pressure changes before the sensors could register them. Muttering over static-warped sonar files was Nautilator, and by the rationed coolant was a sulking Skalor. Every bit as annoyed as he was that they’d been sent here to fight a what? A losing war. The sea bridge had mostly been another Decepticon’s idea. A pathway they could use to remain hidden just in case the worst-case scenario came to fruition.

He realized his crew’s unrest might have been tied to that, too. They were significant figures in battles that occurred beneath the waves, and now? They were forced to search for a way to hide. Snaptrap couldn't say for sure, but he knew a losing side when he saw one. And his Seacons—afraid of becoming irrelevant in this century-old war—knew, in some parts of themselves, that this was unavoidable. That none of the things they were promised to fight for were going to matter. And he’d write their supreme leader a strongly worded letter if he could, but not until he was sure his crew was safe with the coords. At the very least, they would be able to flee. Though divided, they might not be Piranacon once more.

Snaptrap’s focus returned to the descent vector. A sharp slant through Earth’s atmosphere, aimed like a harpoon straight into the largest trench in the planet’s ocean. A fall from orbit, to return to the depths. This would perhaps be their final reclamation, if their prior ones ever counted at all. His claws flexed, systems humming with the promise of cold pressure—the familiar grip of deep water crushing his frame in ways no land-based combat ever could. Water dulled nothing for him. It only amplified his protocols, because down there, he was the apex. Down there, the pressure drowned his enemies before they could scream.

“Ten kliks to atmospheric breach,” Seawing said over the comms.

Blinking once with narrowed optics, he expected darkness. Heat. Impact. And while those did ensue in the following moments—before the Seacon commander realized Earth's gravity had ripped the hull of their ship open—he didn’t expect songs. Eyes. And certainly not her.

You weren’t in any of the files. Weren’t even supposed to exist. But you did. He faced gods, monsters—and devoured them both. Yet he found himself clueless as to how to fight the taste of salt that lingered in his mouthplate days after you escaped. He did not know how to silence the echo of that voice. Because as brief as the meeting was, Snaptrap remembers everything clearly. Vividly. As if he could still feel the softness of your scales brushing against the living metal of his faceplate. Even now, when he closes his optics, the deep is no longer quiet.

• When you felt the surface water ripple with waves as something heavy sank further down, you had been so surprised to see that there were more of him. Towering, like sunken monuments that moved in predatory grace amongst the darkness. The archives mentioned these beings once. But almost all knowledge of them was lost during the Hidden Age. The surface was dangerous to be explored then—other mermaids had lost the ability to shift their tails from legs because of it. Scrolls told you they were capable of rendering your home to ash, something about a war—and that eventually became the reason why humans built their ride to get off Earth.

• Two others circled once they made contact with the seabed while your tail was still pinned in what felt like a clam’s grip. You’re pretty sure you just chipped off a scale with how much you’d thrashed—and still, the metal beast kept you in its unyielding hold. Watching you with sharp red hues. Glowing. A mask covered his face when the others finally got close enough, hiding those incredibly human-like features.

“Flesh. But not weak.”

A low growl, speaking in a language he thinks you can’t understand. Snaptrap imagines it must sound like metal just grinding against metal. “Pretty thing,” he notes absentmindedly, with a voice that reminded you so much of a submarine’s death-knell. Tentakil drifted near your side, murmuring something ancient to him in Cybertronian before he could think about snarling at the tendril-covered mech. Is she prey? Or a lure? Pit if he knew—but he doesn’t argue with the fact that you are, pretty much, a lure. A shiny, soft-looking one.

• Your heart pounds, burning under their gazes. Their presence suffocated you, unblinking—so you sang. More of a scream than a melody: sharp, pure, primal. It hurt them. And you could tell—it made them reel back. Not physically, but in something deeper inside them.

His SIC had to be held back by Tentakil, restraining the shark mech with tendrils while the sly octopod gave a strained laugh. Snaptrap recoils, your voice carving into their processors like seafoam into a ship’s hull. His hand spasming, and you bite him. Your denta may have been blunt, but they were strong enough to leave a small scratch in his coating—metal bent just barely under the force of the bite. His grip loosens and you dart away once more. Bolting successfully into a shaft of volcanic warmth rising from the trench vents, into a crevasse no mech could fit in.

Gone, like a ripple in the deep.

Previous

[givemeyams]

It's Raining Cybertronian

Content: Rung X (GN) Reader [Fluff], discontinued - no idea if I will ever finish this

Warnings: None

Word Count: 2.1K

-Rung-

It took all but a nano-second before Rung could register the feeling of free fall. He knew what was coming. He had been ejected from ships before. Watching his transport sizzle past the cloudline, he did not have the strength to turned towards the ground. He just braced for impact - just a few clicks more..

System Reboot.. 3. 2. 1.

He woke up in pain. It wasn't from the impact, it was like some of his armor was melted off. Most likely from a explosion but how?..

Pressure senors were the first to come online. He could feel liquid precipitation against his armor. Dihydrogen Monoxide his internal database supplemented: non-lethal, a chemical compound common on class-M planets, essential for most organic life.

Next his audio and olfactory sensors. Accompanied by the rain, he could hear a cackling of fire. It was close enough that he could smell the burnt metal and plastics. Strange enough, next to him, someone or something was talking in Galactic Standard. "This is y/n of the Dee Ai, requesting cybertronian medical support, I repeat, requesting cybertronian medical support."

Immediately when his optics flickered on, the pacing creature stopped all movement and sound. It was a bipedal organic a third of his size walked towards him. It was hard to tell what species they were when layered in a dense synthetic material, most likely to keep them insulated from the air precipitation and other natural elements.

He immediately tried to get up, only for the small thing to run to him, two servos motioning steadily, "Easy big bot, you were hurt badly," they said.

Sure enough, warnings overloaded his hud. He only managed to get to an upright position when he clenched his side. Like he suspected, most of his body sustains burns, his lower half suffering the most damage. His peds were practically warped by extreme heat.

"I believe you are correct in that assessment," he groaned. He looked around, sure enough there was a smoldering pile of metal behind him. He was under the treeline, though it offered minimal protection against the elements. "Who are you and where am I?"

"Call me Buddy. I'm a cartographer. You are on a Class-M planet, 2nd to the sun, in the Centuro System. I'll have to get back to you on the exact coordinates. How are you feeling?"

Rung's optics shut off trying to parse through his internal diagnostics. It was no use, whatever radiation was affecting him, was also messing with his systems. "In pain," he groaned, "Might be able to override my pain inhibitors."

"Wait, I might be able to help," said the being. Before running to a land base vehicle. A truck built for off world exploration. They came back carrying a machine wrapped in a flexible material. "I have a EM generator here. If you'll allow me, I can put these clamps on the areas that hurt the most."

He just nodded. Ordinarily, he would be curious as to how this organic knew about his biology, it'll have to wait. The creature was talking to him again. "It's going to feel weird but I am going to have to climb on you, speak up if its too much,” they said.

Rung just watch. It was odd. His pressure sensors were reacting both to the water and to the beings scuttering around his chassis. They were much more spritely than he previously thought, moving fluidly against the metal plating. With each clamp, the pain ebbed away and so did the helm ache.

"There, that's the most I can do for now." They said, holding out a servo, "We'll just have to wait until the rain stops until we can do more."

His vents were already circulating un hindered, a cybertronian sigh of relief. "You have done more than enough, Thank you. I heard you sending out a distress signal, have you received anything back?"

They shook their head, "No luck. I think it's the storm. This planet has some weird electrical anomalies. I was out measuring them when you crashed on my ship."

His optics went wide. The burning mass at the center of the clearing was a ship. Their ship. Rung started to panic. "Goodness, I am so sorry. I didn't realize.. you were not hurt were you or anyone else?"

The small creature pinched their nose arch, "Easy there big bot. No one here but me and I'm fine. I'm more dumbstruck than anything else. What happened to you?"

"I don't know. All I remember is taking a shuttle for shore leave and experiencing turbulence. Next thing I know, The exterior hatch was gone and I was jettisoned out." He rubbed his neck, "I know what it may seem but I had no intention of destroying your ship."

They laughed dejectedly. "I believe you, it's just, this isn't the first time my ship turned to scrap for an inexplicable reason."

Rung stared at the being. Were they being serious? "Is this a common occurrence for you?"

"Once I rebuild the Dee Ai again this will be the sixthteenth iteration."

“How much?" If they caught his surprise, they chose to ignore it.

"A story for another time. By the way, what is your name? I can't keep calling you 'big bot' afterall."

He tipped his helm. He would comply, but he actually liked the nickname. "My designation is Rung."

There was excitement in their voice. It made his spark flutter. "It is a pleasure to meet you Rung."

It was curious to watch them makeshift a shelter between the doors of their vehicle. It would have been easier just to shelter inside, but they were determined to keep within audio distance of him. They were considerate, asking multiple times if he was okay. The constant rain was a nuisance but nothing life threatening. If anything, a welcome distraction from his more serious injuries.

Finally, for what seemed like a joor, the being unmasked their head covering. Much to his surprise, he recognized their species. "Forgive me if I am wrong, but are you human?"

Their head tilted. Was that a sign of curiosity? "I am. I am surprised that you know. Do you have any experience with my people?"

"A friend of mine is fascinated about your culture." Rung chuckled at the memory, "actually he would be ecstatic to meet you."

The human was drying what looked like fur at the top of their head. "I don't know about that, depends on what he is interested in."

Rung thought fondly of the drinking establishment. "He runs a bar on the ship. Very expressive and well versed in human idioms that I admit have trouble understanding. As for interest, I believed he called the media 'sit-coms'."

They chuckled at the comment. "That might be a problem. It's been so long since I consumed human media I wouldn't know where to start. Ask me about history, biology, or even psychology then we can have a conversation."

His spark jolted. "Your species has a science for studying the mind?" he could not hold the excitement in his voice.

"Sure, we have whole institutions dedicated to it. There is nothing like human ineffability."

"You say that as if your species is impossible to understand."

The individual sighed, "Without getting too deep, Humans are contradictory in nature. We can be just as caring and compassionate as we can be violent and brutal. We are individualistic yet our survival depends on our cooperation with each other. We have a deep seated fear of the unknown, yet we are natural explorers, having populated nearly all of Earth's continents with nothing but tools made out of sticks and stone."

Did he hear that correctly, their entire planet with basic tools? "Your entire planet? Surely your exaggerating."

They shook their head, "Not at all. Once my ancestors mastered fire, they had everything they needed to survive the harshest environments of our planet."

"I have heard of how resourceful your species could be. I shouldn't be surprised. After all, our civil war ended with your planet." he muttered. "As a psychiatrist by trade, I feel like my woeful ignorance of psychology in other races has hindered advancement in the field."

They shrugged, "You shouldn't beat yourself up about that. It's not your fault that relationships between organic and inorganic lifeforms have always been tentative at best. Honestly, it's usually easier just to avoid the other class of lifeforms most of the time."

"Yet you pulled me out of a fire and continue to talk to me." Rung countered.

"I rather not have someone burn in front of me if I can help it. Besides, what are the chances that, on a random planet, a cybertronian falls from the cloud line, only to land on my ship. Your practically the size of said ship" They laughed, "I can't even be mad at how ridiculous that is. The least I could do is have a conversation."

That's right. It was his fault that they were in this situation. And yet, the small being seemed so at ease. They seem to talk as if he was one of their own. A realization struck him: In all his millions of years, this was the first time he held a conversation with another organic lifeform. A full conversation, not some trading banter or a parsed out order. He was mortified, and here, this human managed to bridge that gap without him realizing it.

He wanted to commit this individual to memory. He had read reports about humans. Their faces bore an uncanny resemblance to cybertronians. He could attest to that, as their glassy optics stared steadily up at his. Familiar yet other worldly. Their body were covered in protective material. Their servos and head only exposed. Their epidermal layer looked soft, no doubt rivaling the mesh of his protoform.

A voice cut through his thoughts, "Are you okay Rung? Your optics flickered for a second."

They noticed that? Right, his glasses were burnt up in the fire. "Apologies, I do that when I am thinking."

They chuckled, "Good to know. So why travel to this end of the universe."

"My captain had declared that he would gather a crew to search for the Knights of Cybertron."

"So why did you sign up?"

Rung was stumped. No one actually ask him that. It was his job, yes, but it was a deliberate choice made of his own will, "At first, I wanted to find Cyber-Utopia too. But now, I don't think I was ready to go back to Cybertron. Not yet."

Their face softened. "That as good of reason as any."

They sat in a comfortable silence. Even then, Rung watched the human. A pang of guilt rippled across him. It was his fault they were stranded, so he made a promise to himself that he will do all that he can to help this individual. To repay their kindness.

The patter of the rain reduced to a light drizzle. Soon enough sunlight was filtering through the treetops. The human moved from under the shelter to stretch their limbs toward the sky. They started laughing. "It's about damn time and we're in luck. There's a Rainbow."

"A Rain-Bow?" He asked curiously. Rung followed their gaze. A multicolored arc of refracted light hugged the nearly cloudless sky. Beautiful. Then again, he looked back at the obvious joy of the human and his spark fluttered. He would have never seen this back on cybertron.

– BREAK –

Within the joor, Ratchet, Rodimus, and Ultra Magnus was on the ground. It was curious to watch the different reactions play out. Ratchet and Ultra Magnus seemed to regard the human with suspicion while the Captain could barely contain his excitement. Even at a distance, he could feel Rodimus EM field flaring. Yet the humans were unperturbed by the mechs towering over them..

Rung lost track of their conversation when the human took the commanding officers to the remains of their ship.

"I can't tell if you have the worst luck ever or that your the luckiest mech alive," Ratchet grumbled as he went to work.

"Thanks I think?"

"No no no. I mean it. Your peds are practically melted off. Radiation poisoning throughout the frame and fuel lines are laced with trace amounts Dark Energon."

"That would suggest that the human’s ship was fueled by that element." Rung shuddered. It was a deadly chemical to all Cybertronians.

"No doubt about it. The miracle is that I never seen such a robust fuel circulation like yours before. Your spark is literally cleansing itself of the radiation."

"If my body was that irradiated, shouldn't I be in more pain," There was an uncomfortable silence. "Ratchet."

The old medic groaned, "Your pain inhibitors are being dulled through a series of makeshift EM clamps. Nothing lethal. The tech is practically archaic, but the clamps are placed on key points along your frame for maximum effectiveness.

He continued, "Combined with the proficiency in welds throughout your body leads me to conclude that this human is quite familiar with our biology. Uncharacteristically so."

"What do you think, Ratchet?"

A long pause. "I think they are dangerous."