#patch antenna

[rfantennaindia]

Understanding the Antenna Design Process: From Concept to Prototype

In today's hyper-connected world, antennas are at the heart of all wireless communication systems, from smartphones and IoT devices to satellite networks and industrial automation. Antennas may appear to be simple components, but they require a complicated design approach to provide high-performance, dependable communications. This article describes the antenna design process, from first concept to functional prototype.

1. Understanding the application and requirements

The design process begins with a thorough understanding of the application, which determines all aspects of the antenna's properties.

Key Considerations:

Frequency band (for example, 2.4 GHz for Wi-Fi, 868 MHz for LoRa, and so on).

Polarization (linear, circular, elliptical)

Radiation patterns (omnidirectional, directional, or beamforming)

Size limitations (particularly for tiny or embedded electronics)

Environment (indoor, outdoor, rough, medical, etc.)

Defining these criteria ensures that the antenna meets its performance, regulatory, and mechanical requirements.

2. Choosing the Right Antenna Type

Based on the application, the designer determines the most appropriate antenna type:

Monopole/Dipole Antennas - Simple, small, and widely utilised in consumer electronics.

Patch (Microstrip) Antennas are compact and appropriate for use in embedded systems.

Yagi Antennas are directional, long-range antennas used for distant or point-to-point applications.

Helical and loop antennas are suitable for compact devices or specialized polarization.

Array antennas are used in a variety of modern applications, including 5G, radar, and beamforming.

3. Simulation and Modeling

The antenna is then virtually developed and tested using RF simulation tools, such as:

CST Microwave Studio

HFSS (high-frequency structure simulator)

FEKO

ADS (Advanced Design Systems)

Simulation enables engineers to model

Return Loss (S11)

Voltage Standing Wave Ratio (VSWR).

Gain and Efficiency

Radiation pattern

Impedance Matching

Designers optimize the antenna's size, materials, and geometries before it is physically created.

4. Material Selection and PCB Integration

Material selection has a significant influence on signal behaviour.

Copper is a popular conductive material for traces and components.

For low-cost designs, use FR4, whereas Rogers/PTFE is recommended for high-frequency applications.

Housing materials: Plastic or ABS enclosures must be RF-transparent.

For PCB antennas, integration with the board's layout is critical, including ground plane size, clearance, and location in relation to other components.

5. Prototype and Fabrication

Once the simulation findings are satisfactory, it is time to proceed to practical prototyping.

Common manufacturing processes include PCB etching for microstrip antennas.

3D printing and metal plating are used to create custom-shaped antennas.

Wire bending or CNC machining is used for big or high-power antennas.

After production, the prototype is put to the test in real-world situations.

6. Testing & Validation

Testing determines whether the prototype achieves the original performance objectives.

Lab tests include:

Anechoic chamber testing to assess gain, pattern, and efficiency.

VSWR and S-parameters analysis with vector network analysers (VNAs)

Environmental stress testing (temperature, vibration, and moisture).

If the performance does not meet expectations, the design is iterated by modifying size, tweaking parts, or improving the layout.

7. Final Optimization and Production Readiness

After the prototype is validated, the design is optimised for mass production.

Simplify the manufacturing processes.

Standardise materials to keep costs under control.

Minimise component variance to ensure consistent performance.

At this point, the antenna is ready for incorporation into commercial devices or independent goods.

Conclusion

Antenna design is a science and an art that combines RF theory, material science, mechanical design, and practical testing. From establishing use cases to building a functioning prototype, each step guarantees that the finished antenna provides dependable, high-performance connectivity.

Eteily Technologies specialises in bespoke antenna design and prototype, providing comprehensive solutions for IoT, telecom, automotive, and industrial applications.

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[hallowclave]

She para on my humans till I [GRUESOME SOUNDS OF BUG FUELED VIOLENCE]

Redraw of a skitter design I did a little over a year ago, comparison under the read more

And the sketch. As a little treat. Just for you.

[karda]

hi ^ its u :3

WHAAAAAAAAA ⁉️⁉️⁉️ THIS IS SO CUTEE (╥﹏╥) it's me ! !

[verflares]

much like i think the light dragon should be a bird i think the demon dragon should be a bug. a centipede specifically

[coffeehousecarnations]

A seasonally appropriate drawing

(Tap for better quality)

[inclusivepicrews]

skin tones (including unnaturals: green, grey, red, purple, blue), elf & animal ears (cat, dog, mouse, rabbit, fish-style webs, little wings), natural hair + protective hairstyles (twists, locs, braids of a few different styles), facial hair, fish scales, zombie skin, vitiligo, eyepatch, glasses, a fantasy-style cane, antlers/horns, wings, antennae, nun habit, hijab

[le-agent-egg]

gave patches a very slight redesign what are we thinkin

[inbabylontheywept]

Memories of Grandpa Hank

I'm eating a bag of mormon gorp that tastes like gasoline while watching the rain run down the mountain. The taste doesn't even bother me anymore - all homemade gorp tastes like this. It's just a natural consequence of everyone keeping their prepper shit in their garages. 

My dad's out in the clearing, wandering around with his GPS. He's got some pieces of wire out on top of it to try and make the effective antennae bigger, but it just makes it look like he's dowsing. Another mormon tradition. I ask him if he's close to find water yet, and he looks up at me, little rivers flowing off him, and says yeah - he can feel it. 

I'm sure he can. I settle under my tree and watch the droplets roll down the needles. Awaiting the final judgement of Judge GPS. 

A few minutes later, it provides: 

Turns out my dad forgot to record the location of the car this morning. The GPS remembers where we parked yesterday, but by luck my dad knows how to get from there to our car. Downside is that it's a nine mile walk just to get to yesterday's position, then another five miles to backtrack. That's fourteen miles total. 

I'm only thirteen. 

Think you can make it? my dad asks. And it's a kindness that he's worried, but it's not like there's an alternative. What else would I do, sit down in the murk and cross my fingers he finds me again? Ask him to carry me 14 miles? 

I'll be pretty jelly legged, I say. But yeah. I'll make it. 

Attaboy, he says. He fishes a bag of poptarts out and offers me one as - I think - a peace offering. A, sorry you're gonna have to walk 14 miles in the rain because I goofed kind of gift. 

I take a bite and, despite being individually wrapped, it still manages to taste like diesel fumes. We start hiking our incredibly long distance in terrible weather for foolish reasons, and I joke to my dad that the only way to make this day any more mormon would be by pushing handcarts. 

He laughs. Neither of us laugh again until 11 pm, when we stumble like drunkards into camp. My grandpa has stayed up late to make sure we weren’t lost, but he only stays up long enough to see us arrive. We try to eat a dinner of sweet potato stew, but after falling asleep in the middle twice, we agree to just go to bed. 

I sleep in well past nine and wake up to nobody in camp but my grandpa. My dad left with my sister to keep hunting around 5 am. I know that everyone assumes that their dad is invincible when they're 13, but I'm 28 now and part of me still thinks he's gonna live forever. That God made exactly one perpetual motion machine, and it raised me in the desert. 

---

Around noon my grandpa suggests hunting again. If it was my dad, I'd probably tune him out, but I like my grandpa's style of hunting. My dad hikes and hikes and hikes until the elk get tired and just let him shoot them. My grandpa finds the sleepiest, sunniest, coziest field and takes a nap there, figuring if the elk have any decent taste they'll come there at some point.

Man's got a knack for knowing what elk like - he's right more often than not. I think he might've been an elk in a previous life. 

I go with him, and much as I hate to admit it, the hike is good for me. I start off walking like a pirate on two peg legs, so stiff I might as well not have knees, but by the end of the mile and a half walk I'm almost normal. We make it to the edge of the clearing, and my grandpa finds a patch of grass taller and softer than the beds inside the trailer, and he curls up to sleep there. I look across the grass and I watch the comings and goings of critters through the field. Sometimes I use the scope to get a magnified view, but I never do so with my hand on the trigger. The thought of accidentally looking a person through that glass is something that sends a chill up my spine. 

Some deer wander through the glen, but it'd take a fool to mistake one of them for an elk. A few hours later, my grandpa wakes up and asks if I want to wander around a little. It's a lovely day. Rain comes in bursts in Arizona, and the day after is almost always clear as can be. And for a short while, all the desert browns turn green and lush. Hard mosses turn squishy and cacti swell up like fresh baked muffins and for a while you can get why people settled in these god forsaken wastes. 

So I go with him, and we walk on, me with my gun, him just taking in the forest. He looks so peaceful that I get a little jealous, but it's not until my grandpa stops and looks at me that I even notice it myself. Takes a mirror, sometimes, to know yourself.

Being near my grandpa is always a strange thing for me. He's quiet, and he doesn't talk much, and I don't ever get the feeling that he's particularly emotionally intelligent - but it's like he's interacting with a reality more raw and real than mine. Like I'm watching symbols on a screen and he's counting atoms. And sometimes, just being near him gives me access to that raw matter. Just something about how he is breaks the illusions of the world.

He looks at the gun like a foreign object, like he doesn't recognize it, then he looks at me. He speaks and he doesn't mince words. 

What would you do if an elk came across the path and you shot it right now? he asks. 

Well, I'd start cleaning it, I say, and he waves the words away like cobwebs in his face. 

But would you celebrate? he presses.

And I look at him, and I don't actually see any judgement staring back. He knows the answer, and he's at peace with it. He’s asking so I can see it too. He’s being a mirror so I can see my own face.

I think I might actually cry, I admit. And he nods along in agreement before reaching forward to take the gun off my shoulder. 

Lets just walk today, he says. No chance of killing anything. No worrying about that. 

Right, I say. 

He pops the chamber open and tosses me back my bullet. I catch it, and the relief I feel is palpable. 

Can I change my mind? I ask, and he shrugs.

Whenever you want. Hunt or don’t. It’s not the hunting that I’m worried about. It’s seeing you ignore your conscience.

And for a moment, I'm there in the real world with him, and my gloves are off, and reality is a metal cube in my hand: Sharp and cold and heavy.

Or maybe that’s just the bullet.

---

We make it back to camp a bit later than my dad. We get there and he’s waiting for us. If he's tired, he doesn't show it. 

How'd it go? he asks. My grandpa looks at me, and I don't know how to respond. I don't know how to explain it, and I am scared. 

Great, he replies. It's a shame Babs only has a doe tag. We saw a five-point out there. Close enough to hit with a football. 

No, my dad says. If his grin was a half inch wider, both ends of his mouth would meet in the back of his head and everything above his tongue would slide off.

Tell him Babs, grandpa says. And, not for the first time, and especially not the last, I try my hand at spinning a yarn. 

It's pretty good. But at 13, I still have a lot to learn.

[eyegens]

a ton of people have probably pointed this out already, but i found it interesting nonetheless. the prophecy depicts tenna's screen as being broken in half, effectively killing him, and it's corroborated by spamton's words if you enter battle with him

meaning that the prophecy intends for him to die. and he does indeed die if you do chapter 3 as neutral/violent – in the overworld, the tv is in disrepair in that route. however, if you do the pacifist route and recruit everyone, he merely sustains injuries and can be given a second life in both castletown and by giving him away with only his antenna patched up

no idea what that might mean, but i take it as that the prophecy's plan is for you to not be a pacifist

[doctorbeth]

Baby Elien the Alien!

Baby Elien is an orange and purple alien just the right size to cuddle against a human chest. But over the years his skin had thinned, he'd lost weight, and his eyes had cracked, and he needed help. Here are some of his diagnosis photos:

The initial treatment plan was to open him up, remove his stuffing, and fully line him, keeping some of his older scarring (which told his story of his time on earth), but recover his eyes in fabric (thereby restoring his vision) and replacing his antennae. This particular alien is aquaphobic, so no spa for him. :-)

First step, lining, is not photogenic, but you can see a bit of his lining as his heart was installed with part of his original stuffing:

Next his scars were minimized, antennae in stalled, and eyes recovered. Here are his first chubbiness approval pics:

If you zoom in, you'll see he still has some scarring around his tummy patch. At this point, his person opted to minimize that scarring too. So here he is after that one last surgery, ready to fly home (just a short hop down the coast, not all the way to his planet of origin).

His person wrote: He looks amazing! Thank you so much.

*********

If you enjoyed this post, you may be interested in my substack newsletter, doctorbeth.substack.com. It's free, and you get the stories straight to your inbox. I also do occassional retro posts from the backlog through the newsletter. But don't worry, I'll keep posting everything new here too.

[ranticore]

struck by the urge to draw Patches again but also work out how much of a Megasphinx sp. general silhouette is just aerodynamic contour scales (wings shrunk to save canvas space)

the 3rd pair of legs emerge from the thorax. my mild pet peeve when ppl design insects that walk upright/on the rear legs (not anthros but actual speculative designs) is leg attachment.. for these guys i put in elongated coxa proximal to the femur which adds an extra swivel to the leg so the 'knee' (joint between femur and tibia) can point forward for bipedalism and backward for hexapod movement. 'upright' is not a normal stance for them (they prefer hexapod stance) but sometimes you have to hold onto stuff in your hands and walk at the same time. the abdomen dragging on the ground is not actually an issue, it is really flexible and curled aloft when walking upright

also made it more obvious that the maxillary palps point up and form the 'nose'. chemoreception is handled by the antenna (in Sphingidae, males do not possess feathery antennae) and, in males, setae at the tip of the abdomen. the scales are somewhat stiff to the touch, they feel a bit like hair that has been gelled into place. they are convergent with contour feathers and extremely light, adding almost nothing to the body weight while working well to manage heat and make a streamlined shape. although Megasphinx sp. are not warm-blooded, they need a high core temperature to operate their wing muscles. if it's cold out, they'll sit around doing the equivalent of revving their muscles with their wings in neutral gear, producing enough warmth to allow flight. if it's too hot out, the scales can open up to allow air to reach the back of the thorax

the scales do partially cover the spiracles, which are used for gas exchange, but this does not affect breathing on Thera. Megasphinx sp. has a negative-pressure respiratory system unlike the passive air intake of other Sphingids and small insects, and can actively inhale. This is a necessity due to their large size but also because if they wanna go to Earth, the oxygen % in the air is far lower than what they would expect at home, and without strong breathing abilities they can become hypoxic. Flight is impossible on Earth for this reason and Theran visitors are known to trim or clip off scales occluding the spiracles in the belief that it might help the persistent feeling of breathlessness

[karver518]

https://www.tumblr.com/karver518/784512981493055488/can-we-have-pure-vanilla-and-dreamweaver-yn-3?source=share

Aww

This is sosoooo cuteee.

Imagine if we hurt out antenas (is it spellt like that?) And hes healing it ❤️❤️❤️

Y/n would be trying so hard not to suddenly jolt out of his touch since their antennas are highly sensitive, but they gotta get them patched up, poor thang 💔

[jupitermarss]

unexpected company

shy alien!chan x human!reader warnings: blowjob, corruption kink kinda, aliens, monsterfuck(?), alternative anatomy, sub!chan listen this has no coherent lore or artistic purpose, it’s pure self indulgent filth aka shy alien channie gets a blowjob for the first time ever for the vibes think the avatar’s navi meets stitch meets bang chan. 

moving slightly off grid to finally escape the noise of the city and live out your little house in the woods dream seemed peaceful. uneventful even, because the most that would happen was a hare visiting once in a few moons. that was until a little almond shaped spacecraft crashlanded meters away from your cabin, turning life upside down because not only did it scare the daylights out of you, there was also a pilot inside the ship.

his skin was tinted blue, eye scleras fully black, which, surprisingly... only made him less intimidating, somehow. the visitor was humanoid, slightly lankier than your average male, with a smooth, almost animal-like grace, somewhat primal yet contrasting with his outstanding intelligence and skill in both language and engineering.

when you’d first locked eyes with each other, it wasn’t fear or dread that struck you. on some intuitive and body language reading level, just by one look at your newfound alien company, you figured he was probably even more distressed and frightened than you were. so your initial response was laced with confusion and compassion instead. maybe, a sparkle of curiosity and suspicion, too. 

you gave him water, tried to keep your own body language neutral and non-threatening, showing you were only trying to help and meant no harm. 

this is how it started. 

to answer the question of how it’s going, there’s definitely nuance. 

first of all, he’s now living with you because he needs time to patch up his spacecraft. with limited tech resources available here on earth, it’s taking longer than it could have. 

second of all, he started speaking. he introduced his name to you first, but it sounded like a combination of sounds your mind couldn’t even grasp to then repeat. it was long, tongue twisting and unclear, so you settled on a simpler alternative that phonetically resembled the original name — chan. 

chan picked up basic english in a matter of days and was clearly of some further evolved species than humans. 

he enjoyed pineapple juice and noodle soups, and refused to consume anything else that wasn’t those two options. 

he also had little antennae on the top of his head, that you soon figured were extremely sensitive and almost sacred of a body part, because when you reached to touch them once, he hissed for a warning and sneered as his body tensed up in a reflex response. 

channie wasn’t hostile at all, though. he respected you and your space, keeping his head down and not making much sound, only asking for things when he absolutely needed them. it seemed like where he came from — was an organized and neat, highly developed society that honored manners, respect, knowledge and… modesty? you weren’t sure if it was the right way to describe this certain feeling you were getting. maybe, channie was just… shy. which, if you were being honest with yourself, stirred something inside of you that only fueled the desire to get to know him better. closer. 

“screwdriver, where?” chan asks, popping his head into the living room where you’re now resting with a book in your hands. 

“ahh, not sure? maybe look in the garage, or the kitchen drawers?” you respond and briefly glance at the clock to then realize that he’s been up since 6 in the morning and still haven’t had a breather. 

“chan, aren’t you tired? maybe have a little break?” you add a second before he disappears again, and he stops, perking up his antennae and giving you an almost confused glance. 

“need repair ship. get home!” chan waves his hands as he speaks with a thick adorable accent. 

“i know. but you need rest, too. it’s okay to take a break for an hour.”

“and do what?” 

“rest.” you repeat gently, putting away a long forgotten book and patting the sofa, as if inviting him to sit and join you.

he hesitates but listens, probably out of politeness since you’re the host and he’s the guest, and it would be rude to just walk away from you. as he’s sitting on the sofa, it’s evident that he’s waiting for some sort of instruction or explanation from you, unsure what resting really means. 

“i can help you relax if you let me,” you propose carefully, leaning closer and putting your hand on his thigh, gently caressing him with soothing repetitive motions. 

chan blinks, naive and clueless, but he can admit the touch feels nice, so his body loosens up a little as he sinks further into the pillows. 

there’s a certain level of trust between you already, and you know he isn’t scared or concerned around you, which pushes you further to test out the waters. you slide your palm a little higher to his crotch, and he immediately turns his head to you. 

“why touch?” chan asks with sincere confusion. 

“because it feels good?” 

now it's your turn to be confused. has he never had sex before? is sex even a thing where he’s from? 

“feel good? dunno, chan never touch there,” he replies, shrugging his shoulders and then looking down at his own groin. 

oh.

you swallow and try to keep your cool, even though a strange and probably inappropriate wave of excitement jolts through your body at the news. 

“i can show you. it can feel very good and relaxing. you don’t have to worry, it’s not… painful or anything. it’s nice. can i show you?” you explain and try to sound as reassuring as you can, reading his facial expressions at the same time. 

while you’re studying him so closely, you can’t help but notice how ungodly, unearthly pretty he actually is. his grown out black locks and his sharp eyebrows give him an almost disheveled look yet he still looks so put together, so deeply intelligent. your gaze trails lower and stops at his lips. they’re a darker tint of blue, plush and perfectly shaped. you can tell they’re soft and tender just by looking at them. 

his nailbeds are the same dark blue as his lips, and it gives an impression of matching lipstick and nail polish, kind of rebellious and cute, except it’s just his natural body colors. refreshing.

he’s well built, too. like he can easily climb a tree if he needs to. like he will confidently pilot a heavy aircraft with stiff gears and controls. 

“you can show,” his voice takes you out of your haze, and you refocus on his eyes and scoot a little closer, so that now your noses are almost touching. 

“you can trust me. i won’t hurt you,” you reassure him one last time before planting a gentle kiss on his lips. you hear his breath hitch. gosh.

your movements are slow, patient and soft. the last thing you’d want is to scare him. 

as you undo his pants (the ones he was originally wearing. you washed them after the crash. the fabric is weird and the clasp is some smart unusual shape you’d never seen before), he shifts in place and jerks his hips nervously. this is the first time you see him blush, and it’s an even prettier look than his regular state because the tips of his pointy ears and his cheeks change to a deep violet color. 

chan’s hot to the touch too, and if you didn’t know it’s his natural body temperature, you’d think he's running a fever incompatible with life. his skin is literally burning up which, in contrast with its cold color, makes your brain shortcircuit and buffer every time you feel him.

he’s not wearing any underwear, just his strangely tailored pants, and when you cover his cock with your palm, you gasp out of surprise at what it feels like. 

it’s different. it’s definitely different. 

the shape is closer to a tentacle than a regular cylinder length. it’s twitchy and almost.. alive. flexible and extremely responsive to every brush of your hand.

under a little dark blue tip it’s slightly ribbed and bumpy, hardened but still feels like flesh. 

the antennae on his head begin to tremble, and chan’s breath quickens in a matter of seconds. you both glance at each other confused but with a distinct spark of interest. it’s new to both of you but something nudges you two to keep going. 

you slowly slide onto the floor and get on your knees in front of him, pushing his legs apart and situating yourself comfortably while his cock is out, on full display. sensitive and starting to leak some sort of thick and sticky slick from its slit. 

“a-aah—what-” chan stumbles over his own words, clearly too heated and disoriented to be speaking a language he’d only just learned. 

“sh-h, it’s okay. i’ll touch, and you’ll feel good” you whisper as you lightly squeeze the base of his length, trying to pump him up and down and coat him with his own precum. 

at this point, you’re done fighting your curiosity, so you lick at the head of his cock to taste it, and it takes you aback. it’s… not salty. in fact, it’s the opposite, and reminds you of something close to burnt sugar. kind of sweet, but rich, deep, heavy and with a pinch of something you can’t quite name. 

you take the entire tip into your mouth and suck on it, creating a little vacuum pull with your cheeks, to which chan jolts and almost coughs on his own suppressed moan. 

"do you want me to continue or do you want me to stop?" you ask to make sure.

"no—not stop... continue. please?" he shakes his head and furrows his eyebrows, still flushed with purple hued blush. 

he doesn’t need to ask twice. it’s all the confirmation you need, so you begin to suck again, bobbing your head and trying to take him in deeper each time. he fills your mouth nice and full, hot like gentle lava and textured like a dream come true.

you can only wonder how good and stimulating it must feel against your cunt, if it feels this good against the insides of your cheeks. 

chan’s cock twitches and pulsates for you, its tip pressing against the back of your throat and the roof of your mouth as if it’s also exploring you. as if chan wants to feel up your mouth, map it out with his sensitive part and push into you some more, mutually test how far he can go. 

at some point, you’re not even sure who’s fucking who. because as you grow more confident and properly sink down on him with your mouth, chan’s playing with you back, whether he's even aware he's doing it or not—you can't really tell. his heavy length presses on your tongue which makes more saliva drip down your chin. he rubs against the velvety insides of your cheeks and pushes at them with his curious tip.  one thrust he forces himself in too far, and you gag on it with a lewd sound that makes your own cunt clench.

the little bumps on his cock feel even more prominent now, almost massaging your lower lip with each push inside your mouth, with each slide down your tongue into your throat. somehow, even though you were the one starting it, you no longer feel much in control, now relaxing your jaw and mindlessly allowing chan to use and study you.

chan fully melts into the couch and lets himself get vocal, still tugs at the fabric of the sofa with his fingers as his antennae go limp and frizzy from new overwhelming sensations. 

a release catches both of you off guard as his cock shoots a fat warm load right down your throat. you barely manage to swallow it in time, and it feels similar to drinking hot honey milk in one gulp, only slightly thicker and silkier. 

his tentacle-y length falls onto his exposed stomach with an obscene wet slap, and chan tries to look down at you, his eyes unfocused and drunk-like. 

“did it feel good?” you whisper, hoarse and raspy, licking your lips and swallowing once again. 

“yes—feel good... good,” he replies with a nod, visibly spent and still out of it. 

the image makes you chuckle and smile proudly. 

“do again?” chan asks with a tint of hope. 

“what, right now?!” 

“no, no. no now. do again later?”

you snort and tilt your head to the side, eyeing him and, once again, thinking about how cute he is in his blissful unawareness and inexperience. 

“sure.” 

[revelboo]

*makes my swarm of bug children watch Miss Spider's Sunny Patch so that they have strong positive role models who are like them*

idk I've just veen thinking for a while about how the decepticons (and some of the autobots tbf) would feel about their sparklings growing up on media that is very pro-talking-it-out and just very anti-combative in general lol

🤣 The bugsbands are just horrified at children’s cartoons

Sensitivity

Insecticons x Reader

• Hissing to find you sitting on the floor with the swarm around you watching that colorful garbage on the TV you’d wanted, Bombshell shakes his head. You’re singing along as you hold the runt’s tiny hands to make the little one dance in your lap. It’s like they’re all hypnotized, the sparklings warbling along. “You’re ruining them,” Bombshell snarls tiredly in disgust. And you sing louder. Ignoring him as you poison the swarm with this. Singing about friendship and sharing. “They’re Insecticons.”

• “They’re half human,” you singsong, pressing a kiss against the top of Benji’s helm to make him chirp, peds kicking. Because if your cannibal husbands have their way, your toddlers would be fighting to the death for supremacy. Probably while your husbands make bets on who survives. And you’re not thinking about how bloodthirsty they are, pushing that reality into the back of your mind. “And there’s nothing wrong with learning how to talk out problems instead of just beating the crap out of each other.” Or eating each other.

• “Little queen always wants to talk, talk,” Shrapnel growls as he stalks in, lip curling at what you’re making their offspring watch. And he bends to seize the biggest sparkling by a leg, the youngling shrieking as Shrapnel bares his denta with a hiss. Pleased when the youngling hisses back, swinging his tiny hands, servos clawing at the air and wings buzzing. Several other sparklings watch, their antenna back and wary. A few hissing uncertainly. Don’t you understand how vulnerable your young are just because they’re Insecticons? They can’t afford to be soft like you are, need to be able to defend themselves. “Insecticons don’t talk. We conquer and take what we want, want.”

• Chirping as he reaches to snag the upside down sparkling from Shrapnel, Kickback picks his way through the swarm and sits down beside you making several younglings scatter out of his way. Holding the little one in his lap to mimic what you’re doing, he’s aware of his brothers scowling at him. But he knows how these arguments usually end. With you and Bombshell screaming at each other. And he’s figured out it’s in his best interest to side with you unless he wants to be included in your retaliatory no touching you ban.

• Eyeing Kickback as he offers you a weak smile that shows a mouthful of sharp denta, you frown up at Bombshell. For all his anger and yelling, you usually end up getting your way and you both know it. You’d gotten a nicer, more secure home that’s not a cave, with electricity and running water, a kitchen and an actual bed that’s eight mattresses wedged together. He’s given you everything you’ve asked for even though he’d complained about not needing any of it and you making them weak. “I know they’re Insecticons,” you mutter. Because they’ve drilled it into you, that an Insecticon’s life is worth nothing to other Cybertronians. That your kids are in danger from all sides and need to learn to fight. But they’re just babies. Your babies. Resting your chin on your smallest’s head, you hate that you’re about to start crying again. And Kickback hooks an arm around you to drag you into his side. ‘We’re safe here. No one will dare attack,” Bombshell growls tiredly, stepping around the kids to rest a hand on top of your head as Shrapnel hisses at him. ‘Teach them your human nonsense. We’ll keep them alive when you make them too soft to protect themselves.’