#tf blast off

[zeropro]

So What Are The Combiners Like And I Mean All Of Em

The youngest Decepticons, born on earth from thawed sparks placed inside earth vehicles. The Stunticons are a close knit family unit and do anything Motormaster tells them. They don't really know or care what the Decepticons are fighting for, as long as they get to have fun and wreck havoc.

my friend mimkana helped me with the design with these!! check out her stunticon kobd fic

The Constructicons are one of the oldest combiner teams, and were some of the first mechs to join the Decepticon cause. They're like the glue that holds the faction together, working behind the scenes on any non combatant jobs that need done and sometimes literally holding the base together after an attack. They take pride in a task well done, and don't concern themselves too much with politics, trusting those in charge to guide the ship while they focus on keeping it running. They are loyal to each other first and the Decepticons second, and look forward to the day they can start rebuilding Cybertron.

Starscream's brigade, former criminals that were given a second lease on life when Starscream stole their personality chips from a prison cell on Cybertron and reformatted them into a combiner team for his own purposes. The combaticons hate each other (except Onslaught and Blast Off, who are dating), and aren't too fond of Starscream either, but they're stuck together due to the nature of their combiner programing, which forces them to combine together when given the command to do so. After failing to help Starscream overthrow Megatron, the gray tyrant installed kill switches in their processors to insure they do as they are told.

Way back in the day, Beastformers were not considered people and were often experimented on for science. The Predacons were the first successful attempt at creating a combiner out of separate individual mechs. The Predacons really would just like to be left alone, but they will follow whoever is the strongest, and currently that is Megatron.

[spect-era]

High command drinking party and cybertrons most invasive coworkers

[vvronax]

silly colors i did before bed

its funny bc while in art school i couldnt paint :))))) at all, they just couldnt teach me how to :))) i was a lost cause. and now i only want to tattoo in colors and i love coloring my drawings, suck it art school, im better now and i learnt it all on my own :^))))

[fenostarvedemon]

Big daddy watching you👁️

[presscshoot]

doodles

[boop-bop-bap]

lwky scared to make transformers art/comics again because i feel like i’m regressing and i haven’t been as active so i’m prone to mischaracterisation, but here is my latest tiktok <3

[tackytacs]

four shuttles trapped in an elevator, this can’t get any worse…

my piece for the 2024 @tf-bigbang, thank you again to my writing partner @gayrob0t for being an absolute blast to work with!

will link their fic “Shuttle Scuffle” once posted

[rotbit]

(G1) Combaticons adopting a human

Brainrot so strong. I think about the sillies and my brain feed becomes a stream of "MY FRIENDS MY FRIENDS MY FRIENDS MY FRIE-" on loop. Can be read platonic (intended) or arguably romantic, if you really squint.

Vortex probably picked you up, thinking you might have some valuable information on the Autobots.

But like, his dumbass didn't even check if you were involved first. Just yoinked at random and hoped for the best.

And unfortunately, now you know the location of their base, which makes you a threat, so they have to keep you. I don't make the rules, Onslaught does.

In terms of who's the most knowledge about humans in general, that has to go to Swindle. He spends the most time around humans, scamming them cutting deals with them. But, I don't think that necessarily translates to knowing how to take care of a human. More like he understands your jokes and slang more than the others, leading to a lot of inside jokes.

So you're going to have to communicate your needs ToT

Like how "refueling" isn't enough, and you'll get cranky if you don't sleep (which you mostly have to remind Vortex of).

Vortex and Brawl are BANNED from preparing food for you. Not only do they both consistently set things on fire. But also Vortex nearly poisoned you once. ("I was just making sure it got its greens... What do you mean there are some plants it can't eat?")

While we're talking about Vortex, he loves to take you for "roller coaster" rides in his alt mode. If you get easily motion sick... idk, good luck. You're not getting out of it.

Another bot that enjoys taking you for joy rides is Swindle. Although his never tend to be planned, and are more spontaneous car chases as you outrun the cops. This guy has so much contraband.

You're not allowed in Brawl's alt mode. Not since he went charging directly into a skirmish with you still inside.

Don't get me wrong, he's extremely protective of you. If anyone dared harm his weak, little human, they'd be beaten out of history. Along with any poor bastard in a 5 mile radius. But he also doesn't exactly think when it comes to your immediate safety.

Onslaught dedicates far more time and energy than he'd like to admit into keeping you alive. From doing all the proper research, to making sure the others don't accidentally squish you into paste. It's a tough job with all the chaos that normally takes place.

Despite how much effort he puts into you, he never seems to factor in... actually spending time with you. Out of everyone, he's by far the most distant. Sometimes he'll let you hang out on his lap or his shoulder while he drafts up his strategies, but if you start asking too many questions, or Primus forbid try to make suggestions, you're out of there.

The one bot you can always rely on to be a calm escape is Blast Off. It's a very mutually beneficial arrangement. You keep him from getting lonely, and you get a moments reprieve from yelling, explosions, and Swindle trying to rope you into his latest negotiations.

Granted, he can't exactly take you to orbit. He tried to once, but Onslaught had to stop him and remind him that you need. Air. To Breathe. And he's not exactly equipped as an organic friendly vessel.

You dodge death every damn day with these idiots.

[writinginkpen]

I've been thinking about the combaticons from mecha au a lot. This is my take on a closer look at what reactions might have been to finding out about Vortex's death.

warnings: discussion of death , mentions of blood, mentions of unethical experiments

(inspired by events of keferon's mecha au)

————————————————-

“Vortex is dead.”  The lab technician in front of Onslaught shifts from foot to foot as he says the words. 

“There was nothing we could do.”  He gestures vaguely in the direction of the cockpit of Vortex’s mech.

The mech is dark.  Empty.  Silent.  Stained red with so much blood Onslaught wonders whether it will ever come out.  He hopes it doesn’t.  Wonders if it will remind them in the future of what they’ve done here today.  Because maybe there was nothing anyone could do.  But of everyone Onslaught can see moving around the catwalk they clearly haven’t even tried – the techs’ lab coats are all a pristine white, unsullied and unstained.  There is not a medic in sight.

Mecha doesn’t hold funerals for pilots.  Too many die too often.  But even if they did.  Fuck.  Judging by the state of things, there’s nothing left of Vortex to even try and bury.

“I’m sorry,” the lab tech says.

He doesn’t sound sorry at all.  Or at least not sorry in the way one would be sorry about the loss of a human life – not grieving, not sad.  He looks more – disappointed, like a student that just found out they failed the project.  The thought makes Onslaught sick.  He clenches his fist, presses it close to his side in an effort to refrain from teaching the tech before him just what it would mean to be sorry.

Onslaught spins abruptly on his heel and marches back down the hall the way he came.  It doesn’t matter.  The tech is replaceable.  They all are.  Nothing would change.  Except that Onslaught might lose what little standing he’s managed to gain in mecha.  The standing that allows him command, that allowed him to negotiate into keeping their small group – the combaticons – together.

That had been the plan.  He stands between the others and mecha.  He coordinates their missions.  They bring in the results.  It was supposed to be enough – to let him watch over the others provide what little breathing room, what little safety he could.  It hadn’t been in the end.  Mecha had sent Vortex out alone.  Without telling him.  Had violated the unspoken terms of his command. 

They have lied – to Onslaught’s face – about Vortex, about the mission he was on.  Because this is no inevitable failing on Vortex’s part.  No getting caught unawares by the aliens.  Vortex is many things, but to lose focus – to lose himself during a fight as they implied?  No.  Vortex was the fight.  If he lost himself, it was because they – mecha – drove him to it.

There is nothing left of the body.  No way to prove it.  And if they can do everything else, who’s to say that mecha hasn’t engineered that too?  Ensured that even if there had been some evidence left of Vortex – that it is gone now.  Try to ensure that the truth of whatever happened has died with him.

And if they can do that to Vortex.  They can get to any of the others.  Onslaught will have failed them as he has failed Vortex.  That cannot happen.  That will not happen.  The combaticons have the reputation they have on the battlefield for a reason.  Mecha has just declared war.  Onslaught intends to respond in kind.

But first, the others have to be told.  There is no point hesitating at the door.  Putting off the inevitable will not make the words any easier.  Only once the words have been said can they be processed.  And only then will they be able to move forward and do something.

------------

“Vortex is dead.”

Brawl finds himself on his feet before his mind has fully registered the words coming from Onslaught’s mouth. 

Vortex.  Is dead. 

Vortex.  Dead. 

Tex….

It can’t be true.  Brawl refuses to believe it’s true.  Brawl peers around the side of where Onslaught is standing in the door, half expecting the little shit to pop out from behind Ons laughing at the looks on their faces.

Brawl doesn’t know whether he would crush him or hug him.  Probably both.  And Tex would bite him on the arm again.  Brawl subconsciously rubs the spot on his forearm in memory.

Only Vortex doesn’t appear.  Just Onslaught, still standing in the door, stone-faced and grim.

Vortex is dead.

Brawl can see it.  This is no joke.  Not that Ons would joke about something like that, really.  Tex maybe.  But…. But Brawl hadn’t wanted, had hoped….

The room suddenly feels too small.  Brawl feels too big, standing in the center of it.  At a loss.

He looks down at where his hand rests against his arm.  At the small indents – scars, only an impression of Vortex.  Brawl had hated how Vortex would bite.  But that’s all that remains of Vortex now – impressions. 

The thought makes Brawl want to rage -- want to make a mess of things.  Vortex would, if he were here, Brawl knows.  Tex would have screamed and swore.  And Brawl would have joined him.  Would have broken things.  They would have made a mess -- together.

Brawl wants to break something.  But the bunk bed is where Vortex slept.  The bookshelf has the books – books that Vortex got sticky more than once.  The space is too small.  There is too little.  And everywhere is Vortex.  And Vortex is nowhere.

Brawl turns back to his own bed in frustration, picks up the only pillow – a small lumpy, worthless thing, and slams it into the floor.  The pillow explodes in a shower of feathers.  Brawl thinks it is the most satisfying use he has ever gotten from that pillow.

--------------------------

Vortex is dead.

The thought spirals through Blast Offs’ mind like the feathers from Brawl’s pillow had spiraled through the air when it exploded.  Feathers that Blast Off has spent the past hours meticulously picking up from every corner of the room.

Any other time he would be angry.  He is angry.  At mecha.  Was angry at Brawl, for making such a mess.  But the mess was also a distraction.  The cleaning has kept him occupied.  Kept him focused on something other than that one singular thought – that Vortex is dead.

But he’s also found the remains of Vortex everywhere, suffusing the room just as much as the remains of Brawl’s outburst.  Old wrappers mixed with the feathers under their shared bunk.  A barely opened packet of cigarettes shoved next to the books on the bookcase. 

Blast Off had pocketed those.  He doesn’t know why.  Any more than he knows why he spent time meticulously picking the feathers out from around the wrappers so that they would remain undisturbed under the bunk.

What he does know is that he is exhausted by the time he is done.  Whatever grief, whatever rage he felt at Onslaught’s initial words has been tempered by time and work.  All that is left is the exhaustion.

By the time the day is done, all Blast Off wants is sleep.  For those words “Vortex is dead” to fade slowly into the darkness with all of his thoughts.  And Blast Off knows it’s a petty thought, but at least there will be no screams through the night or rain of debris and cigarette ash.  Maybe he will actually be able to sleep.

Only the darkness closes in and sleep doesn’t come.  The room is too quiet.  Too still.  Swindle’s presence may as well be unnoticeable.  Brawl snores softly from his bed.  And Blast Off lies awake.  Eyes open – staring up at the bunk above him.  Searching for the familiar presence.  Waiting for the noise, the chaos – the comfort of a familiar routine that doesn’t come to pass.

There is no other distraction from his thoughts now.  No work to retreat into.  Only the darkness and the silence – worse than any screams or any nightmare.  Blast Off feels his eyelids droop, feels himself drift.  He is tired, so tired.  Of all of it.  Mecha.  Piloting.  The violence.  The deaths.  The screams echo in his mind.

Vortex is dead.

Blast Off had not seen the body.  Does not know how exactly it happened.  But his mind has no lack of information to speculate on.  Possibilities flash through his dreams – each more horrible than the last.  The screams echoing in his mind slowly taking on the sound of Vortex’s voice.

Blast Off’s eyes fly open.  The room is silent.  No Vortex.  No screams.  Nothing from the bunk above his.

Vortex is gone. 

Vortex is dead.

Blast Off searches in vain for some evidence of Vortex’s presence in the bunk above.  Something to stop the thoughts spiraling around his mind.  He takes a deep breath.  And nearly chokes on the scent of the cigarette smoke lingering in the air. 

Vortex.

Blast Off’s hand fumbles in the dark, reaching first for the pack of cigarettes he pocketed earlier in the day and then for a lighter.  He feels the tightness in his throat ease, even as the smoke burns.

-----------------------

Vortex is dead.

Dead and gone and not coming back.

Swindle glances up at the bunk as he passes, at Blast Off lying underneath.  He isn’t even sure it matters whether he’s quiet.  Because the top bunk is empty – no one there to disturb anymore.  Because although Offy’s eyes are open, they are fixed in such concentration on the bottom of the bunk above him that Swindle suspects Off is blind to just about everything else in the room at the moment.

The light is still on in Ons room.  Onslaught is hunched over a table, scribbling notes.  He looks up as Swindle passes the doorway, their eyes meeting briefly.  Ons should stop him.  They aren’t meant to be out this late at night.  And if Swindle gets caught, if anyone found out Ons knows what he does, it will only mean more trouble.  But Swindle never gets caught.  And Ons just nods as he passes.

Swindle needs to get away.  Away from the pilots’ quarters.  Away from the mechs.  Away from the labs.  Away from anything to do with mecha.  Away from the reminders of what’s been done to them all.  Away from the reminder of what’s been done to Tex.  Because Swindle has no doubts that Vortex is only dead because of mecha.

Swindle knows he should be more cautious going through the halls.  Should perhaps even feel afraid, knowing what mecha can and will and has done.  He isn’t.  Or rather he is.  But not in the sense that he wants to run.  Mecha has them all cornered anyways.  Swindle isn’t sure there would be anywhere to run to even if he tried.  And he isn’t willing to bet his life on that uncertainty.  So he’s afraid, yes, but he’s determined to fight – in whatever scheme it may be that Onslaught’s crafting.  In whatever way he can to undermine the system that thinks it can control them. 

Make that Vortex’s legacy.  Swindle can’t undo what’s been done.  But maybe he can spit in mecha’s eye – metaphorically at least -- on Vortex’s behalf.  Though…. Swindle glances through one of the lab windows on his way out of the building.  Thinks of Vortex – how many times he meddled, tampered with samples, even literally spitting in them to keep Swindle and the others off those same lab tables. 

Swindle thinks about it.  And moves on.  Not worth the risk.  Not tonight.  Tonight is for him to do what he needs to do for himself – to grieve, to remember, to forget.  So that when he rejoins Onslaught and the others in the morning his mind will be clear.

And what Swindle needs right now is to just be.  Not a pilot.  Not a mecha employee.  Not a scammer or a schemer.  Just Swindle.  There’s only ever been one place -- one person -- where he can be just himself.  Swindle looks for the brightest light on the city skyline and heads for it.

----------------------

Vortex is dead.

He’s known it, from the moment he walked out of the lab that morning.  Had known, when the call came to take his mech out, alone, that he wouldn’t be coming back.  Had known that if he came back, they’d think they succeeded.  And they’d do what they did to him to the others, if they thought it would keep them in line.

Vortex wouldn’t be kept in line.  Wouldn’t give in or go down without a fight.  He was glad at least, that they’d sent him out alone.  That the others wouldn’t be there to witness.  Or to try and interfere.  Because it had been a fight, down to his last moments – pouring more and more of himself into his mech systems to escape the failing body mecha had tried to control.

Vortex had expected to die.  That that would be the price to finally be free of their experiments – of their control.

And so when he first becomes aware of the dim red glow in the dark, he tells himself that he must be dead.

Vortex is not dead.

That much becomes clear as the red glow flickers and brightens, resolves before him into the powered up visor of his mech.  He can sense the consoles, the wiring, every joint and screw.

Vague outlines of movement resolve into a sense of figures – technicians – poking through the mech’s – his – consoles. 

Vortex concentrates harder.  Power surges along wiring into one of the consoles.  Sparks fly outwards towards the technicians.  He narrows his focus further and one of the cables twitches bumping against a leg.

The technicians jump and run.

Vortex is not dead.  But he is not alive.

Vortex is the mech.  The mech is Vortex.

Vortex could laugh, if he had a mouth still.  Instead, he contents himself with sending another, larger shower of sparks hissing through broken cables to shoot outwards from the visor.  He takes in the fear on each of the techs’ faces, the way the red light of him is reflected in the depths of their eyes.  Vortex relishes how, as more of his systems come online – as he comes back to full consciousness, he can track their movements – down to the fluctuations of their breathing, the racing of their pulses. 

They tried to destroy him.  Tried to control him.  Made his life a living hell.  Only they failed.  And in so doing, have made him into something he now realizes they’ve always feared he could be – a weapon that could turn against them.  Because they have always known, as Vortex himself knows, that that’s what he is --  a weapon, built to fight. 

And he will.  He will give them hell for what they’ve done.  And by the time he’s finished, he hopes that red glow will haunt them the same way their white coats have haunted him.  He will never let anyone control him again.

[spect-era]

Another batch of mecha au doodles with the addition of design concepts for pharma and ambulon bc I like them…

[vvronax]

Blasty

[fenostarvedemon]

You can call it a small redesign, probably🦄 I really love combaticons, I want to draw more of them❤️❤️❤️ So I made myself such a micro reference✍️ P.s Sorry, I drew the humanoid faceplates for everyone. I love the variety of faces, like the different angles of eyes or the silly noses:-P

[silence-ofthe-llamas]

TexAid returns and comes with the gore! Whooo!

They were all fucking insane.

First Aid staggered down the hallway armed with nothing but the flare gun they kept in their cockpits for emergencies. He didn’t know how much damage this would even do – it would probably hurt him more when he fired it than it ever would against a quintesson, but he had to hold some form of hope. If he didn’t have hope, he had nothing.

Vortex was offline. His last words to him still echoed in his head, bumping around between his ears and ringing in his ears.

GET LOST. I HOPE YOU DIE.

Stupid idiot. Stupid, stupid. First Aid wiped his face. He didn’t know if he was wiping away sweat, or if they were tears. He could feel that he was dying. He didn’t need to make any stupid grand gestures to try and hide it, to get him to unplug before he felt his core splutter out. He knew that if he’d stayed connected, there was every chance that he’d die too. He knew it, he wasn’t- he wasn’t a fool. He knew where to get help and he wasn’t about to go ahead and die before he’d even tried.

Damn it. God damn it. He was so, so terribly fucked.

The usual tell for a quintesson being in the vicinity was the smell of one. It hit the back of the throat and burned like alkali, clawing through the soft tissues of the nose. It tingled in the lungs, popping and pinging against neurons in the brain, activating the fight or flight instinct more powerfully than anything had before. And he was bathing in it right now. Each direction felt exactly the same, he didn’t know if they were just behind closed doors, or were stood waiting for him around a corner, and he didn’t know what scared him more – the fact he was so vulnerable, or the fact that Vortex wouldn’t even know.

They were all fucking insane. Each and every one of them in their command structure. Nobody seemed willing to acknowledge what was happening right now – in what fucking world was it fine to leave a medic and a pop idol in a fucking enemy space ship? To tell them that they were on their own, that they’d figure it out? That their mechs would be more than enough? Because they weren’t. He’d last seen Blast Off and Cosmos getting launched off the starboard port by a cannon and Vortex was in a crumpled heap in the storage room he’d managed to stagger him into, totally inoperable. He was on his own, nobody was coming to help, and he was furious. He had no idea what he was meant to fucking do, and no doubt if he miraculously made it back, they’d grill him and berate him for not doing enough. For not doing more than survive. For not having any ideas or plans magically pop into his brain whilst he tried not to think about the state of Vortex and the impending sense of doom that fell upon him, crushing him under its weight. He was going to die out here, and all he could think about was how pissed he was about it.

He didn’t know the first thing about mechanics or engineering or how he was built, but fuck if that didn’t stop him from trying. The two repair droids who Vortex had reprogrammed and kept stashed in his shoulder were hard at work when he’d managed to drag back his first offering. He didn’t know what it was, but it looked mechanical and it looked useful, and he vaguely recognised some of the bits inside it, so that had to count for something, right?

The droids seemed to think so. They were scavenging from it before he’d even put it down.

His third trip had him panting and shaking and almost vomiting from exhaustion. He dry heaved in the corner, coughing and cramping as his body tried to empty itself of a toxin that wasn’t there. Is the air poisoning me? He wiped his mouth and swallowed, legs shaking as he steeled himself for what was to come next. He’d need to go and help with the repairs. The droids weren’t fast enough, they were squabbling – if he could just get the important parts in place, he’d stop that leak and protect his core. If the core was protected, he stood a better chance of getting him back to Earth in a state they could properly repair him in.

Toolkit in hand, he stood by the gaping hole in his abdomen. The core whirred, visible tendrils of light and energy reaching out towards him. His eyes flew over the wreckage, assessing what could be salvaged. The droids helpfully began putting the disassembled parts at his feet, ready for the human to deal with it. A smile tugged at the corner of his lips, and he swallowed nervously.

He couldn’t get this wrong. He’d never forgive himself if he did, and he didn’t want to die like this. Vortex had promised him his death – he couldn’t deny him that.

It took over an hour until he could get the big, red visor to flick online, Vortex’s systems groaning and slowly whirring as he booted back up again. The crackle was audible, electricity arcing over his frame.

“You’re awake!” First Aid exclaimed in delight, slumping down to his knees in exhaustion. “Oh, Tex, I am so glad-”

His hand slammed down just behind him, and First Aid froze as the sudden blazing heat registered, the head-splitting sound of a quintesson gun being fired resonating inside of the cavity of Vortex’s abdomen.

“I thought I told you to go fuck yourself.” Vortex’s voice sounded in his helmet, and First Aid could have sobbed.

“You actually told me to die.” He corrected. “I guess you didn’t want me dead that badly.”

“I didn’t want them to shoot my core, actually. Now, what’s your plan with the squishy?”

“Uhm.” First Aid looked down at the flare gun on his hip. “I guess shoot them?”

Vortex’s laugh sounded pained, and his helm thunked back down against the floor.

“Oh, we are so dead.”

He heard something bigger and heavier behind him, and a familiar choom. Gasping, he threw his head around, peering around Vortex’s arm-

“Blast Off!” He leaned against Vortex’s too-hot arm, not caring how it burned him through his gloves and the tingle of it against his cheeks. “Vortex! They survived!”

“Yippie.” He sarcastically replied.

First Aid’s eyes fell to the alien corpse. Fresh. Ready for harvesting. An idea slowly formulated in his mind as he looked between Vortex and the body.

“Hey, listen… I’ve got an idea.”

“Does it involve filling me with corpse organs?”

“You make it sound so weird.” First Aid grimaced. “I’m just saying… I think I can splice your two systems together. Just enough to get us back to Earth.”

“I’m game if you are.” He softly swore in Ukrainian. “As soon as we get back, I’m killing the lot of them.”

“I’ll try and find you a new gun too, then.”

“You know the way to my heart, darling.”

First Aid stood and waved up to Blast Off, gesturing for Cosmos to come down. Blast Off knelt, visor opening, and Cosmos slipped out, carefully climbing down before sprinting over to him.

“Oh, thank god you’re both still alive!” She hugged him tightly. First Aid awkwardly patted her back.

“Not for long if we can’t get that corpse over here. Can you guys move it for us? Vortex’s nervous system was severed, he can’t move his legs.”

“What?” She pulled away, holding his shoulders tightly as she frowned. “What do you want that for?”

“I want its spine.” First Aid said matter of factly.

Cosmos grimaced. “Its… spine? Alright.” She nodded firmly, expression setting into determination. “We’ll help.”

Work went much more quickly when a mech was involved. Cosmos watched and handed him tools when it came to the fine-tuning, Blast Off sat back and silently watching. First Aid got the impression that he hadn’t figured out how to move independently yet – a feat Vortex had only managed with time and effort himself. So he silently watched them instead. He wondered what he was thinking.

“Is… is he okay?” He quietly asked Vortex when he was deep in his internals and Cosmos was out of ear shot.

“He’s fine.” Vortex replied a bit too quickly. “Just adjusting.”

He left it at that. Vortex was sounding weak, his voice strained. He double and triple checked his work before he went to make the final connection, the one that would have Vortex’s system finally shake hands with that of the quintessons. And with that, he quickly scrambled out to look at him and assess his work.

The organic flesh twitched and glowed a sickly blue colour. Black oil smeared and pooled on the ground, pearlescent and pungent.

“How’re you feeling, Vortex?” First Aid nervously asked. Blue was bleeding into the red of his visor, a bright toxic blue that was so much like the blood the aliens bled. He didn’t reply, and all he heard over their comm link was static.

“What’s going on?” Cosmos asked. “Why is he blue?”

“I don’t know.” First Aid frowned. “He’s not speaking to m-”

Vortex’s hand shot out faster than it moved naturally, catching them both by surprise. Without thinking, First Aid roughly shoved Cosmos out of the way, her head bouncing off of Vortex with a loud bang, her helmet splintering as cold metal fingers closed around him.

His helmet was suddenly alive with sound. Morse code. The same pattern he’d filled Prowls with all that time ago.

MINE.

He couldn’t breathe. The fingers were too tight around him, crushing him like a snake. His lungs burned, his vision swimming. He faintly heard a cracking sound and pain bloomed in his chest and something wet ran down his chin.

The mechs will keep you safe.

His mech was currently crushing him, and yet he’d never felt so safe in his life, so assured in where he stood in the universe.

“Tex, I can’t breathe.” He gasped. First Aid didn’t know if he was yelling or whispering – the beeping was so loud in his ears he couldn’t even hear his own thoughts. “Please stop, I can’t breathe-” he wetly choked, blue splashing down his chin.

Fuck. He had been poisoned. This just couldn’t get any worse, could it?

Vortex made a loud groaning noise, wet and spluttering and threatening. His hands tightened, and he couldn’t even scream.

The black spots were starting to overwhelm his vision. “I’m all yours, Svastjan.”

That much he was certain of. Everything else struck him as being distinctly wrong. The idea of belonging to someone had always turned his stomach, but if it was Svastjan? It felt like a warm blanket, a firm hug, like everything was going to be okay.

His helmet took the brunt of the impact as he hit the floor, Vortex’s grip suddenly releasing. It cracked, and First Aid whimpered, curling in on himself to cradle his wounds. Shit. Why did it all have to hurt so much?

He needed to get inside of him. It possessed him, overtook all common sense and thought. Shifting to be on all fours, his stomach cramped and he emptied its contents, red mixing with blue in a mirror of Vortex’s visor. Suddenly, the pieces slotted together in his mind and he was on his feet and staggering towards him before his brain caught up with his vision.

Vortex had been poisoned too. He’d done it. It was his fault, it had been his idea. He should have known better. Blue ran down his helm in a mockery of tears, and he felt his heart wrench.

First Aid didn’t know how he got there so fast. He’d blinked and he’d somehow managed to scale up his shoulder to his face, his hands pressed against the glass of the cockpit. “Let me in!” He banged against it, his ribs screaming at him to stop. He didn’t listen. “Let me in, let me in, let me i-!” He yelped as it suddenly opened and he fell in, back bending awkwardly as he ended up like a scorpion on the floor. Loudly groaning, he forced himself up and staggered to the pilots seat. Exhaustion was starting to settle in, adrenaline just not enough to keep him going any more. He tried to shove it to the back of his mind, to keep himself going for as long as he could, to do as much as he could before the broken bones and split flesh registered and he passed out.

[RUN] flashed on Vortex’s visor aggressively. First Aid ignored him, fighting with the harness to get into the pilots seat. Vortex was fighting back aggressively, trying to keep him away.

“Stop it!” He shouted. “Fucking- let me help you!”

[CAN’T STOP IT]

“Then I will!” First Aid roughly ripped the harness away, the stitches giving out. He threw himself into the seat and grabbed the controls, taking command of his arms. What remained of the harness tightly wrapped around him, holding him in place. The cable that connected him to Vortex’s systems roughly shoved itself into the port on the back of his head, and he screamed at the feeling of sharp digits shoving themselves through his skull. He let go of the controls to grab his head, to try and keep it together as it split and burst. The harness tightly wrapped around him, holding him still as he thrashed and tried to rip the cable out.

It wasn’t Vortex. There was something else in there, something that was roughly shoving him and his hands out of the way. It made his skin crawl, to think of something else in there with them, interrupting them and sullying their connection with its infected hands. Through the pain, through his screams through gritted teeth and the burn down his spine as his body twisted and arched and bended in ways it wasn’t designed to, through the searing burn over his skin, he reached inside to find out where they came from.

He knew quintesson biology. He’d cut up enough of them to feel confident and familiar with it, it was the only reason he felt comfortable splicing their organic systems with Vortex’s artificial ones to keep him alive. But he’d missed something. Why was the quintesson in his system? Why were they still alive?

The mechs hands moved with his mental search, tracing down over his chest and to the gaping hole in his abdomen. The fingers dug into the new flesh, still wet and oozing and wriggling. Pain wracked through him and he whimpered, brow creasing and teeth gritting, but he persisted. They’d missed something. There was something they’d not seen before, something new to be explored. Quintessons had two brains. One in the head, and another down at the root of their lower limbs. There must have been a third one, an even more primitive brain that they hadn’t ever been looking for before, one that they’d never spotted, one that had made its way in as he mixed blood and bone and metal. The pain stung and burned like he was being slowly flayed by a scalding hot knife. The sharp claws dug into his skull twisted and turned, pulling him this way and that in a desperate attempt to get him to stop. He felt wet, his vision was obscured by bursts of white and bright colour, but he didn’t stop. He couldn’t. He was a medic, his job was to save people, and he needed to save Vortex.

The panic became intense as he explored the spine. His own popped and cracked, his body seizing and his vision spluttering in and out. He faintly heard Vortex’s voice, but he couldn’t stop, he couldn’t let himself get distracted, not when he was so close. Digging in deeper, blunt digits slowly mapped it out, tracing over familiar structures and shapes until they bumped against something foreign and unknown.

Fear flooded him, and he faltered. Found it. He felt familiar hands wrap around his own, and suddenly he didn’t feel so afraid any more.

Vaguely, he wondered if they’d have any issues if a third consciousness died whilst they were connected, but he didn’t care. He wanted it gone.

“Get out of my body!”

It came out with a wet squelch. First Aid felt his consciousness tremble, he felt Vortex’s flickering in and out of being. His throat felt raw and his chest weak, all he could manage was a broken whimper as he reached out towards him to try and grab onto him, to hold him there, to make sure he was still a part of him.

He felt the pressure of someone pulling him into a hug, oh so very gentle against the remnants of his body. He didn’t realise how fragile he felt until he was being held like he were made of glass. Stubble brushed against his cheek, a rough scratch against softer skin. A hand tangled in his hair, brushing it back away from his face, and a clammy forehead pressed against his own with a sigh of relief.

[shnowyfox]

Swindle gets confiscated

I Stealz So I Can Feelz from Centaurworld

How did he find a guitar big enough for himself.. and also know how to play it? Probably all the plot holes he stole effecting the fabric of reality. my mans got rule of funny, he's got pinkie pie like swagger.

and the first pics i ever drew of him before i was like "mm. he stealz." literally drawn in the same file as the animatic lol.

[czcreation]

speak of uncomfortable conversations I accidentally start by not knowing things; your Blastoff is so big, (how big is he?) he looks like he has room for a whole Skyfire in his alt.

Sorry I took a while to answer, I got really distracted.

Anyway since their both space shuttles so I think they would be closer in height to one another.

[indragonsaur]

Blast off redesign