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capricorn-writes2 · 1 month ago

Note

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.”

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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).

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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.

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smallestapplin · 3 months ago

Note

Do you have any headcanons for the Rescue Bots dealing with a drunk human s/o?

I can do you one better and give you scenarios cause I’m in love with this and need you to know so you give me more rescue bots

Also i apologize, my character limit is three so I picked Chase, Heatwave, and Blades, but if anyone wants Boulder lemme know in my inbox!

Chase

It’s not uncommon for you to spend the night or come over at odd hours, Charlie gave you a key and Chase permission to have you over at anytime, if only to help the bot loosen up and come out of his shell a little more. However when you didn’t arrive Chase grew a little worried, of course he didn’t ask if you would as you have a home of your own, but he likes having you over.

He hates to admit it but his berth feels larger and emptier without you, however he does shoot you a message around one in the morning asking if you had arrived home safe, and yet nothing.

He can’t recharge in these conditions. Until the sound of the door opening reaches his audials, how odd everyone should be asleep by now. Chase leaves his habsuite, flicking the main light on just to see you squinting under the bright light.

“Dear, there you are! I was quite worried about you, how was your friend’s creation day?” Chase makes his way to you, bending over to try and pick you up, only to blink when you stumble forward and practically fall in his servos.

You smell of something his Olfactory Sensor can’t quite determine though he doesn’t find it very pleasant. His spark hums with worry as he gently lifts you up, but blinks confused when you lean against his thumb, looking up at him with such a glazed over loving expression he wasn’t use to seeing.

“You’re pretty.”

His brain module nearly short circuits as you kiss his thumb but keep your eyes on him. He clears his intake, resetting himself from this momentary shock.

“Thank you, as you tell me. But what happened, should I awake the chief?” His scanners show no signs of damage, nothing seems to get harming you.

“Nooo, I..I wanna go to bed with my boyfriend.” You look so sad it makes his engine purr lowly to tr and comfort you as best he can.

“We can go to my habsuite and let you rest-“

“No! I need my boyfriend, I need Chase.”

The bot stands there, optics squinting trying to figure this out, you informed him humans refer to their pre-conjunx endura’s as ‘partner’s or ‘boyfriend and girlfriend so, isn’t that him?

“But that is me, correct? Aren’t I your boyfriend Chase?” He even glances at the calendar to ensure he remembers correctly you two have been together for a little over a year now, it’ll be three months ten days and two hours until your next anniversary.

You blink lazily at him before squinting up at him. Chase tilts his helm in mild confusion at your act and behavior, though it seems all is forgiven when you perk right up, big smile on your face as you reach up for him.

“Chase, I missed you! Come here, please, I wanna smooch my bot.” You try to move closer, but he is already raising you closer to his face.

“I am not sure how you missed me when I have been here with you for the last thirty seven minutes, but I missed your presence too.” He tries to quell the need to bwoop his siren at you, even now he still wishes to show you cybertronian courtship while you smother his metalic cheek in so many messy kisses.

“It is late, may I take you to my habsuite for a recharge?”

“Mhm.” You aren’t even listening just nuzzling your squishy cheek against his like a happy cat.

Once he lays down with you to his chassis you are out like a light, curled up and holding one of his digits sleeping soundly, until of course morning. Chase is an early riser, always awaking with the sun, but that has never been your style, even now when your eyes slowly open and the weight of a migraine hits you.

Your pained groans stops Chase in his tracks, optics swiftly looking for any bruising of injury he might’ve missed or accidentally cause, but you just curl into him tighter.

“Dear?”

“Please….ask Charlie for some migraine relief…and a ginger ale…and water.”

He sets you gently on his berth, making sure the makeshift bed you made here is comfortable for you before rushing off to ask for the exact things you requested. Though Chase is now being told about human drinking and the side effects it causes, which explains your behavior last night.

Though Charlie gives him a few extra things, snacks to get something in your stomach.

Blades

A little celebration never hurt anyone! Movie night with friends made it even better, what’s the harm in a little drinking after a rough week? You don’t drink often, but it was nice on occasion. Dani was trying to speak to you, but you were already long gone mentally, your elbows on the mini table while your chin rested in your hands, your eyes locked onto Blades.

Dani was struggling not to laugh at how utterly smitten you looked, she swears if this was a cartoon you’d have little hearts surrounding you as you gazed at your big Cybertronian boyfriend. Blades wasn’t oblivious to it either, he could see you and feel your eyes boring into him, it made him flustered for you to do it so openly.

His cheeks flushed blue with energon as he tries to look back at you but he keeps looking away, his thin wings fluttering with his spark thrumming loudly in his chassis. Dani calls your name, and you can barely answer with a hum.

“You know you’re the one who picked this movie, don’t you wanna watch it? Or are you gonna stare holes into Blades all night.” She snorts as you just sigh dreamily.

“But he’s s’cute, Dani.” You groan, your head spinning but you swear you’re whispering, though to everyone else in the room you most certainly are not.

Blades giggles covering his face with his servos, he enjoys your public displays of loving him but he will never get use to knowing you love him so much that you want to show off, and let everyone know just how much you do love him.

“Dani,” you whine your friend’s name, “do…do you think I have a shot?”

“What?” Dani raises an eyebrow at you, devilish smile on her face as she realizes where this is going.

“What?” Even Blades looks at you confused, what do you mean ‘have a shot’ with him? You two are already together? He even did the human dating rituals perfectly you said!

“Why don’t you ask him yourself, I’m sure Blades would love to.”

In your drunken haze you stare at her with a pout before looking to Blades’s confused face, your expression instantly softens at the mere sight of him. The second you stand up you lose your balance, the world spinning a little too fast for you. Blades stood from the couch quickly, easily catching you and holding you gently as he places you in his lap, as he has many times before.

And yet you were staring up and him like he was he worlds greatest hero.

“Are you single?” You breathed out, hushed and airy.

Blades blinks, his yellow optics flickering between you and a very smug looking Dani as he tries to figure out if this is a test or not, is this like the time he asked you if you’d love him if he was a worm?

“No, I’m not single, you-“ blades cuts himself off when he notices the instant shift, how your eyes fill with tears and how you try to very poorly hide how you’re sniffling.

“See, I told you, no bot this pretty would be single!”

Dani pats Blades’s arm with a shake of her head, “You have fun with this, I’ll be sure to have some stuff ready for their pains in the morning, good night!” And with that she leaves him to deal with his drunken beloved.

Blades shushes you softly, placing kisses all over your face until you’re giggling at how ticklish it feels.

“I’m with you, silly!” He smiles at you, glad you stopped crying but there you go again looking at him like he hung the moon and stars, his spark can’t take it!

“Wow….”

Blades whines, finally breaking from your voice sounding so in awe.

“I got so lucky.”

“Stooop.” Though he can’t stop the giggles that leave his intake, who knew having a drunk partner could actually be so fun and silly? Though he gets the feeling you won’t be pleased about it in the morning, seems your high grade effects you like it does cybertronians.

Heatwave

Heatwave only asks for one day, just one for some peace, he just wants to spend downtime with his conjunx but since it’s Kade’s creation day (or birthday, as the humans say) his team, you, and the Burns are together to celebrate. the party stretched on, and the second Cody went to bed Kade busted several differen oddly shaped bottles, as far as Heatwave was concerned it was nothing.

Despite having sat in a dark part of the yard watching the chaos unfold, you mostly sat with him on his shoulder, cuddling up to his helm, only occasionally requesting down when you wanted a drink or a snack from the food table. Heatwave clenches his jaw noting you’re taking longer this last time, you haven’t come back yet.

Glancing over to the party goers he sees you swaying but not to the beat of the music, more like you’re going to fall, though Graham is there first, easily helping you sit down, which is enough to finally worry him into going over and making sure you’re okay. Once Heatwave is close enough he can hear your conversation.

“My Conjunx will be grumpy you’re touching me.” You’re pouting angrily, squinting your eyes at Graham as your muddled mind barely remembers a thing.

Though it makes Graham laugh, “When isn’t he grumpy? Please, just stay here and let me get you some water.”

The engineer mutely sighs when you refuse, determined to stand up and find your lover, until you are shoved back into your seat with a single finger. You blink, trying so hard to glare up at the cybertronian that pushed you back down.

“Go get them that water, I’ll keep ‘em here for ya.”

“Thanks, Heatwave.” Graham says, rushing off into the house o get you that cold water.

Meanwhile you are staring up at Heatwave with a less than pleased expression, making him tilt his helm at you.

“Well, don’t you look like a ray of sunshine tonight. What’s got you up in arms?” He teases, smiling as your pitiful glare only grows more fiery.

“Hands off! I need to find my Conjunx, he’s probably worried by now.”

You are far too cute for your own good, do you know that? Heatwave will remind you of that when the high grade wears off, or whatever humans call it. Though he can’t help but chuckle, at least he knows you’d fight people off with a stick if you must. The large bot crosses his arms, smug smirk on his face.

“Oh yeah? Tell me about this Conjunx of yours. Must be a great guy to land a little thing like you.” His voice purrs in tune with his engine.

You finally smile wide, your eyes sparkling under the starry sky as you look so happy to be asked such a thing.

“He’s a big grump with a heart…a spark of gold, I swear I don’t think I could’ve gotten anymore lucky than him. I miss him…I miss him a lot.”

Heatwave cries to hold back a chuckle but fails horribly as he mocks a coo at you, “Aw poor thing, where if your conjunx?”

You flop back in your seat with such a sad whine, “I don’t knooow!…I want my Wavey.”

“Sweetspark, I’m right here, you dork.”

You look back up at him, squinting your eyes suspiciously at the large mech.

“Oh yeah? Prove it.”

Heatwave rolls his optics, shaking his helm at your drunken antics, “Our spark bonding ceremony was last fall, per your request mind you.”

“Anyone could guess that!”

Heatwave stare at you meeting your judging gaze for a solid minute, long enough for Graham to come back and hand you a bottle of water, and leaving you once more since Heatwave is there to care for you. Though you two don’t break your staring contest.

“That ring on your finger was given to you by me, I only had the Chief’s help to get it for you.”

“Mhm that’s what they all say!”

“….If it weren’t for the fact I loved you I would throw you.” He sighs, but that doesn’t stop his playful tone.

You stick your tongue out at him and turn to focus opening and sipping from your water bottle, grumbling how Heatwave would make you do this if he was here. One last ditch effort, you are picked up, much to your loud complaints as Heatwave turns, making sure his back is facing any potential people as he opens his chassis, right to his spark chamber.

Your eyes widen at the dark blue spark glowing, thrumming loudly now you can hear it. The hairs on your arms stand on end as his EM field washes over your body in a silent caress. Heatwave closes his spark chamber back up and looks at your with a raised optic ridge.

“Hi Wavey.” You coo, “I missed yooou, it was awful, I was gonna die.”

Heatwave snorts a chuckle rumbling deep in his chassis as he places you back on his shoulder.

“I’m sure were, but I missed you too, it was awfully lonely without you.” He mutters, optics glowing warmly as you cheer softly and nuzzle into the side of his helm.

You’re so cute, too cute.

The hold you have on him is one he could never explain, even in the morning when you’re pulling your blanket over your head and whining in pain, declaring you’ll never drink again. His cute little conjunx, even when you look at him so pitifully he can’t help but fall in love all over again.

#transformers x reader #transformers x reader fluff #rd blades x reader #transformers rescue bots x reader #rescue bots x reader #rescue bots blades x reader #rescue bots heatwave x reader #rescue bots chase x reader #transformers x human #gn reader #rd chase x reader #rd heatwave x reader

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therobotsarestuckinmyhead · 9 days ago

Note

ngl I want to see more cyberverse optimus prime x readers their is only one rn I need more x readers of him he is so handsome <3

♡ “FAR TOO LONG” — Optimus Prime [TFC]

i am so sorry for the extended time i took with your request! i apologize if this is short but i couldn't think of any other way to continue this

scenario: you're Optimus’ partner and he's been waiting for some relaxation like this for years, you start sweet talking him.

setting: after the peace treaty between Autobots and Decepticons in S3, post-Megatron death.

Finally, finally. After thousands of millennia of fighting, of violence, of death, Optimus can finally rest knowing that it's all over— That the war which consumed their planet is no more! Optimus feels better, so much better. The treaty was signed, the Decepticons are docile now that… Megatron was… terminated.

Optimus rather not speak about that though. He still had mixed emotions. It was late at night too, he wanted some quiet recharge so he collapsed onto your shared berth. His finals perks up when he realizes you're sitting there reading a datapad right across him on the berth, you put it down and slowly make an effort to sneak up on him but it's futile.

Cycles of war have made his motion sensors rather keen. He can tell you're approaching him and doesn't flinch when your servo gently traces the back of his helm, it's a gentle affectionate touch. It reminds him of a time before with you. He slowly looks up and a soft smile curves up his dermas as he sees that affectionate look in your optics.

“Tired?” You ask softly, the gentleness of your servos soothes whatever possible sourness he could've had from this day.

“Relieved. I feel relieved for once.” He replies, his voice firm yet gentle— unquestionably hopeful that it was all finally over. Optimus’ blue optics return the affection you look at him with, as if it was a mirror reflecting the warmth of the light that falls upon it. And that warmth seemed to flow out of his vents too, still so easily flustered…

And there's that smile on your face, relief.

“Me too. Now I can make sure you're taking proper rest for once.” Your servos never stop their actions and it's making Optimus melt under your touch, his frame relaxing. It's a rare sight, he's always been so visibly stiff and upright, as if he were expecting a stray meteor to fall onto him any day.

“I appreciate your concern. However,” Optimus slowly gets up as he speaks, his tone almost playful, sitting right next to you on your shared berth and your servos begin to gently creep up your lover's faceplates. You don't miss the way his optics still subtly widen or the subtle heat from his face but you chose to spare him for now.

It's been millions of years yet it always felt like the first time for Optimus.

He clears his vocalizer, a futile attempt to hide himself from your gaze despite knowing the fact that you've been with him long enough to tell.

“I was planning on… making up for lost time.” You smile wider at that and his spark skips a beat, again. Oh, how he wished he weren't some lovesick fool when you showed him affection.

“...I guess I can put off making sure you're recharging properly for a bit then.” You bring his face closer to his, he leans in willingly despite his own flustered demeanor. His EM field tucked so tightly to himself that it might implode— It's been far too long since he's loosened up. First it was duties with the Autobots, then it was duties to rebuild Cybertron and then it was delegation. It was like he could never catch a break.

But now he could and…

He really didn't know what to do with it.

The Prime's servo awkwardly grips your pauldron as he lets you guide his face to yours.

“It doesn't mean you're off the hook though.” There's barely any distance between your faces, he's so stiff. It had been far too long.. you don't really blame him.

“Relax, dearest.” You place a soft kiss on his dermas, his vents expelling out more heat. The flustered look is almost adorable on the Optimus Prime. But the tenderness of your words and that… look in your optics made his frame relax, a lot quicker as one servo decided to resume its ministrations on the back of his helm.

He's melting under your touch and he can't do anything about it. And he doesn't want to do anything about it. The idea of feeling safe in your servos after being the pillar of protection and guidance for the Autobots was beyond enjoyable, leadership had its toll. You know it will take a while for Optimus to get used to such uninterrupted intimate moments between the two of you but you've waited a whole war, you can wait a few days.

You gently take his helm right under your own, his helm against your chassis and he can hear the quiet rhythm of your spark. Optimus hums, his servos moving to wrap around your torso. His frame leaning against you now, you were sturdy enough to support his weight.

His optics flicker, as if his systems feel worn. He might really need this recharge, you figure. The smile on his face and the way the lights of the room seem to bring out every contour of his faceplates to view.

He's absolutely stunning.

Not in the way he used to be though, there's a slight rugged charm to him almost unlike the innocent look he used to have. Gentle optics even if his faceplates had all sorts of tiny marks and dents from the constant fighting— It was like a distant memory you'd want to lock up and throw away now. But every single dent, scratch and weld mark on your lover's frame had a story to tell. A tale of persistence through the trials of war, standing tall when all hope seemed lost.

A beautiful mech.

And your Conjux.

“You look absolutely handsome.” You say, almost as if the air had been knocked out of your vents; breathless. And he can tell you mean it from the way you're looking at him, the way your field is brimming with all sorts of emotions. But his flustered demeanour at the start has lessened for now.

“As I recall, you used to be more creative with your attempts at flirting.” Optimus chuckles heartily but with his frame relaxed, his EM field is no longer tucked away. You can feel the fondness and affection in the air, it might have overwhelmed any other bot in vicinity but, this sight— these feelings were reserved for your optics and your optics alone. He gently kisses the side of your neck and notes the heat rising to your own faceplates.

“It seems you're not the only one that's gotten old..”

You just hope it goes like this forever from now on.

#transformers #transformers x reader #cybertronian reader #reader insert #optimus prime #optimus prime x reader #transformers cyberverse #tf cyberverse #ik that's not the OG OP and is the OP from the other matrix of leadership from the other universe but like #HIS SMILE IS SO PRECIOUS IT IS EVERYTHING #I NEEDED TO USE IT #i apologize for how short this is anon

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fazedlight · 2 years ago

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Write (supercorptober fluff)

Great idea, walking into a Luthor’s office while solarflared, Kara thought.

It’s not like she could tell Snapper “no” to interviewing Lena Luthor - she was a rookie reporter, and she needed every article assignment she could get. Besides, walking into Lena’s office while solarflared was only risky if Lena both knew who she was and intended to harm her. After their first encounter… Kara just didn’t think either was likely.

But Rao, Kara was still kicking herself. After her last battle, Alex had told her to cool it with her powers to recharge. Now Kara was going to have to explain that she solarflared after a short flight across the city. Oh well, she thought, as she walked into Lena's office. “Well, I'm glad to see you decided to give reporting a shot,” Lena said, rising from her desk as the niceties were exchanged - Kara’s bus flub thankfully went unnoticed. “Although if you're here on the same day the president is in town to sign her Alien Amnesty Act, then…”

Kara grinned. “I must be here to ask the sister of Earth's most notorious alien-hater for her take on the president's executive order.”

“I want to show you something,” Lena said, barely containing her excitement as she tugged her desk drawer open, revealing a small device inside. “It's an alien detection device - it allows humans to find out who among them is not truly one of them.”

Kara’s jaw dropped as Lena removed the device from the drawer. “W-why?”

“It’s the best of both worlds,” Lena explained. “The aliens will get the amnesty they need, and people will be able to tell who they are when they need to.”

“Don’t… don’t you think this device will force aliens back into the very shadows the president is trying to shine a light on?” Kara said weakly.

Lena furrowed her brow. “If aliens want to be citizens, that's now their right. But… if humans want to know which of their fellow citizens aren't actually one of them, then that's their right too.”

Kara’s body was screaming run. Or fly. Not that she could, when she was solarflared. But this device set a panic through her veins - what were Lena’s intentions? “How does it work?” Kara asked weakly, as her mind frantically searched for an excuse to leave.

“A simple skin test,” Lena said, pressing her thumb to the sensor for a demonstration, watching the device flash green. “This device is going to make us a fortune. Unlike my brother, I'm going to do it for the good of the world.”

The good of the world, Kara thought, eyes falling on the device. She supposed that a woman steeped in a family of lies might rebel by seeking truth. Kara could see how one could think that simply revealing truth would be good for the world…

But this woman had no idea of the danger that the truth could put people in, if not carefully concealed. They simply didn’t exist in that kind of world.

Kara’s stomach dropped as Lena held out the device for her to try, a playful smirk on the CEO’s face as she encouraged the cub reporter to test the device herself. No heat vision, Kara thought, wishing she could simply fry a wire. It would definitely be too suspicious to leave now.

But the look on Lena’s face… Kara was certain that the CEO had no idea what was about to happen. She was misguided - and hopefully that’s all she was - but Kara clung to the fact that she didn’t seem to have a clue who Kara was. She was just a woman trying to take control of a narrative, desperate to turn away from her brother’s path.

And that gave Kara hope.

As Kara pressed her thumb down on the device, she prayed her instincts were right, that the woman wasn’t the monster everyone suspected her to be.

The device beeped, and Lena stared down, confused at the bright red that flashed in front of her. In that moment, her entire demeanor shifted, as she slowly - achingly, worriedly - looked back up at Kara.

Kara watched as the emotions flit across Lena’s face, a complicated array that passed in mere seconds as Lena realized what she had done. Kara could feel the pounding in her own heart - but there was no hiding the remorse on Lena’s face.

But Lena was clever, and Kara sensed what was happening as Lena’s eyes moved from Kara’s glasses to her ponytail, the CEO mouthing flew here on a bus silently. Discovering that Kara was alien was just a small step from knowing who Kara really was.

But hope continued to bloom in Kara’s chest, as she watched the concern in Lena’s gaze. Perhaps it was foolish to trust the Luthor so early, but Kara just sensed… she wasn’t sitting across from her nemesis. Perhaps they could rewrite the narrative.

“A super, at the mercy of a Luthor,” Kara said softly, rising from her seat, proud that her voice didn’t waiver. “I should be terrified.”

Lena’s eyes darted between Kara’s, but Kara gave a small smile that she hoped conveyed I believe in you, before turning and making her way out the door. Snapper would have to get his interview another day.

Lena stood silently at her desk for a moment, staring after the reporter in confusion and awe, before a small smile crossed her own lips. Lena reached down to her phone, tapping at a couple buttons. Had Kara had her superhearing intact, perhaps she would’ve smiled at Lena’s words.

“Jess, put me through to R&D. I need to cancel a product.”

#supercorp #supercorp ficlet #supercorptober #supercorptober2023 #mel writes ficlets #write #fazedlight #fazedlightgif

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keysnocar · 2 months ago

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“Why can’t I remember?”

“…”

My Transformers AU Prime Numbers: Lore drop bellow!! More soon.

——————————————

• 37 hasn’t said much to the others about how he ended up in the middle of their scuffle with the seekers, when they’d first met him and he joined the autobots.

• He'd explained briefly that he’d worked as a miner before the war, simply “sorting mineral content data for his supervisors beneath Iacon.” It made enough sense that they hadn’t wondered about it, they needed the extra servos, he needed to get out of the line of fire amongst that squabble- it had worked out at the time.. but he really hasn’t told them anything about how he ended up in that rubble at all- much less what he was doing wandering around a half decimated city many miles off from Iacon’s remains.

It was a vague history, sure. Even though 37 had only been with the bots for almost half a vorn now, if there was something really off with him, they’d have noticed by now…right?

• Ratchet was annoyed that he avoided his regular scans and after mission medical checks, but half of the outpost avoided his scrutiny anyway. It was no use pestering a grown bot over something he seemed to insist on writing off. But now that he thought of it, had he ever done a proper scan on the bot..? Ratchet supposed It didn’t matter really, His time would be better spent helping a bot that needed it, 37 was perfectly functional to his external sensors- no matter how distant he seemed to act.

• Elita did think it was unusual how he tended to simply..disappear. The others hadn’t seemed to notice when he’d quietly walk off and into the depths of the base in the middle of energized conversation like she had. That being said, The first time she’d found him in one of the storage hangars distantly attached to the outpost- it had been startling.

- She’d gone there seeking a moment of peace and isolation- only to be greeted with the rhythmic whirr of deep venting coming from above. Sure enough, there was what she could barely make out as 37, stuck up high in the rafters between dusty shelving…apparently recharging.

- Since then she’d been the designated ‘go find 37’ bot. She guessed it wasn’t so bad being the “37 whisperer” as Blurr had deemed her. What did she know-maybe he just..liked the quiet away from everyone else, like she did? He was nice enough, anyway. Polite, well spoken when needed, and he wasn’t so loud like the others, which was a plus. It didn’t bother her to go discover one of his new hiding nooks in search of him, as long as 37 wasn’t late for patrol.

• Magnus had scolded him countless times for lingering around Jazz, Mirage, and especially Skyfire- when he was meant to be doing a rescan of a specific sector’s Decepticon activity. Did the bot truly need to follow around the larger bots just out of noticeable range like a lost pet?

- Instead of in his usual work area or wherever else he hid- Magnus of course would spot him looming just a few feet behind the larger bots every other cycle it seemed. His face fixed with an off putting, sort of guilty expression. The commander had always felt a little off about the small bot, but he did good work- remained quiet when being instructed, followed orders, and seemed quite capable with handling and keeping track of the autobots slowly growing archive of gathered intelligence. Maybe the bot was a bit uncanny, but Magnus was never one to act on premonitions of familiarity.

• Sure, Sunstreaker could have bet cold hard fuel that it was 37’s small frame he saw in the dimmed light, during his night patrol of the base. Standing there, rummaging around the energon stores quietly. A small image in the corner of his optics before he seemed to notice being watched and disappeared. Though Sideswipe teased him into believing he was simply seeing things after a few days of cautiously glancing at 37 during debriefs with Commander Magnus. Even if it had been 37, everyone was entitled to a snack now and then.

• Blurr was starting to wonder what he was even reading all the time. How could a bot possibly sit still and pour over so many datapads without wanting to pluck off a bolt or two from the boredom? Who would pick ‘just some research’ over hanging out with another bot? The aspiring racer was practically burning with curiosity about what made 37 so calm, but Blurr had just kind of gotten used to it. He guessed it was alright to not know every last detail, as long as 37 kept Blurr’s embarrassing tendency to run into debris on recon missions to himself.

• Wheeljack considered himself a bit strange, so why would he fault 37 for his quirks? He liked having a bot to bounce his equipment upgrades and calibration changes off of who didn’t immediately walk away when he started talking physics.

- Maybe 37 didn’t say much, but he always at least pretended to intently observe all the diagrams and technical details of his abysmal base upgrading hopes. Which was more than could be said of the rest of the habitants of their outpost.

- 37 was actually quite Intelligent, even in solving Wheeljack’s issues with the infrastructure Decepticon occupation interfered with. He’d suggested rerouting needed shipments for the base through the old Core Miner ventilation systems, beneath the larger cities to avoid interceptions...why hadn’t Wheeljack thought of that..?

It seems to the Autobots that 37 is... acceptably unusual.

————————————————

Aren't we all? lol

Thanks for reading if you’ve gotten this far! Iva had a lot of trouble deciding how to go abt posting for this au, but I’m just going to hop and and see where it goes at this point. Gotta start somewhere :)

I wanted to include some of the other bots and their perspectives on 37, Ik it’s a strange format, but I think it does well enough to explain!

art above is mine. (This isn’t rlly edited so I might have messed up punctuation etc IM SORRY.)

@ghotstx gaslighting you into thinking this is the first time I’ve posted this

#transformers #transformers g1 #new au idea #orion pax #prime numbers #transformers fanart #i love him #optimus #transformers au #digital art #prime numbers au

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rawmeknockout · 2 months ago

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Request!

A snipet of the daily life of DJD and cyberformed!liason, please?

Tarn's the only one who can relieve you. Here, on the Peaceful Tyranny, he's the last authority. The final word. He delivers the light and the darkness, brings life and death. His phantom touches all over your HUD, all over your settings. Tarn gently, condescendingly, talks you through the almost constant alerts that pop up on your HUD when he has the time. He's had his servos on your frame, inside and out. There's not a fragment of your new body he hasn't touched; his gaze upon you even when you're split open on the medbay berth. No portion of your new mechanical body, so novel and alien to you, is safe.

It feels like he's within your processor, even outside of the cable-based interfaces. He's connected to your processor so many times, forced his way past your meager mental barriers, that it almost seems Tarn is there outside of interfacing. It sets you on edge. That your thoughts, even what you are perceiving through your sensors, are not safe.

Most days are colorless nothing, a dull expanse of time that blends together into a numbing eternity, all contained in the four steel, gray walls that Tarn graciously said was all yours. Your room barren of life save for your mech shell idling quietly. It’s hard to tell what time it is when you wake from recharge, whether it’s been a full day or only a few hours, and your HUD is still so confusing you are usually unable to even find your chronometer much less read it properly. Cybertronian timescales are still a mystery, even though Tarn promised you would go over it in your lessons. You can only assume it’s been a few months on the Peaceful Tyranny. Tarn only comes to you when he wants.

Sometimes you think he’ll forget about you in your out-of-the-way quarters altogether, then everyone on the Peaceful Tyranny will forget you’re there. Waiting for them. You think you would feel equal parts relief and agonizing, mortifying betrayal. Only Tarn can extend you any mercy, the only one on the Peaceful Tyranny who has the power to, the desire to, keep you from dying of neglect. Sometimes you want to bid him come see you, remember you exist. Invade your processor if he must. Anything to relieve you of the stifling quiet, left in this new body. No longer worthy of interest. You want to root around in his mind as he has yours, find a way to mentally prod him, but there are so many nuances to your Cybertronian body you still do not understand.

You fear you will never understand them, forever cursed with alienation from humans and mechs alike. There is a secret language Cybetronians speak that you have not been invited to, a mockery of them they can see immediately.

Kaon is most often the only one to willingly shatter the all-encompassing quiet, unless ordered otherwise. He brings with him the terrifying, shivering, drooling mess he calls his Pet. Where you used to find it a vile caricature of an Earth animal, now you only see pity. Sympathy. It shambles on clawed feet, optics peering up at you from its hunched position. If Kaon is feeling nice he lets you pet it before starting on your lessons. The barest hint of a smile on his gaunt face, but you can’t get comfortable enough to even attempt returning it. Your teacher slowly works through Cybertronian history with the patience of a saint. There isn’t much to feel grateful for in your situation, but Kaon’s quiet perseverance is one of them. Even when you’re so terrified, stuck between rage and despair, you don’t want to be in the same room as him. Kaon is patient and ever-smiling, finding amusement in your situation.

If Tarn knows you worry, he doesn’t mention it on his visits. You let him run his too large hands over your helm, cup your cheeks. You’re just happy to ingratiate yourself to him, shame and hate coiling acridly in your intake, trying desperately to gauge his desires.

You wonder, worry, that maybe your friends on the Lost Light have forgotten you. Perhaps it would feel better if they had, because you’re starting to forget what each of them sound like. Recalling the complex details of Rodimus’ helm or the way Rung smiles becomes more difficult by the day. You desire desperately for Brainstorm to take you to his lab and explain something far too complicated for you. You desire desperately for Swerve to talk at you until you want to claw your own ears off. You desire desperately for Ultra Magnus to scold you about the grammar in your reports. Most importantly, you desire desperately for them to never see what you've become.

#asks #txt #transformers #reader insert #reader imagine #transformers idw #tf idw #transformers mtmte #tf mtmte #valveplug #sort of #tarn #tf tarn #idw tarn #mtmte tarn #kaon #tf kaon #idw kaon #mtmte kaon

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esysense22 · 3 months ago

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The ESYSENSE Motion Sensor Rechargeable Light provides instant, hands-free lighting wherever you need it. This Motion Sensor Light automatically turns on when motion is detected, making it perfect for closets, hallways, staircases, and more. With its USB Rechargeable Light feature, it eliminates the need for disposable batteries, offering a cost-effective and eco-friendly solution. The Sensor Rechargeable Light is easy to install and delivers bright, reliable illumination, enhancing both safety and convenience in any indoor or outdoor space.

#Motion Sensor Light #USB Rechargeable Light #Sensor Rechargeable Light

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informationessentials · 2 years ago

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Which E-Commerce Platform Is More Popular For Baby Items Shopping Online?

I am writing this blog to share my shopping experience with a new platform called Information Essentials. But I would like to call it a marketplace. It is an e-commerce website but different from others. It gives lucrative discounts but many things take it out of the competition. I recently bought Christmas decorations items near me from this site.

Visit us - https://informationessentials1.blogspot.com/2023/11/which-e-commerce-platform-is-more.html

#Baby Items Shopping Online #Home Improvement Products Online #Motion Sensor Rechargeable Light #Portable Pet Hair Remover #Pet Hair Remover For Clothes #Pet Hair Remover Roller

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stevebattle · 2 months ago

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MITEE 8 (1995), by David Otten, MIT. MITEE Mouse 8 came 2nd in the 16th All Japan Micromouse Competition in 1995, losing to Ssing Ssing 3. The video is an excerpt from "UK Micromouse 1998."

"One of the fastest micromice, MITEE 8 by David Otten of MIT, contains two DC motors with encoders, six 225mAh NiCd rechargeables and weights about 200 grams. Side sensors consist of infrared emitter and a PSD sensor, whose output is proportional to the distance independent of reflectivity of the surface." – A Survey of Robotic Competitions, by Richard Balogh.

"Triangulation sensors [were] pioneered by David Otten. These sensors consist of a narrow beam emitter coupled with a Position Sensitive Detector (PSD) which has a lens in front of it. The idea is that the emitter illuminates a spot on the wall and then the lens images the spot on to the PSD. As the distance between the sensor and the wall changes, the location of the spot on the PSD moves. By determining the location of the spot on the PSD, you can tell how far the wall is from the sensor. What is super nice about this approach is that it is wall reflection intensity insensitive. The downside is that it requires precise location of the emitter, detector, lens and two trans-impedance amplifiers per PSD." – Micromouse Sensor Design, by Harjit Singh.

"Mitee Mouse 8 is another micromouse from David Otten of MIT in collaboration with Tony Caloggero. It is driven by DC motors and gets its power from six 225mAHr NiCd batteries. Total weight is about 200g. The sensors are side-looking and use an assembly consisting of an IR emitter, lenses and hamamatsu position sensitive detectors. A spot of light is created on the wall and its image focussed onto the PSD. The result is an output that should be independent of the reflectivity of the walls and proportional only to distance. Demonstrated linearity and range of these sensors is remarkable. The underside view show encoder disks attached to the wheels for velocity feedback. Separate encoders 9with the small black tyres) are mounted just inboard of the drive wheels for distance/position sensing." – Pete Harrison.

#cybernetics #robot #micromouse #UK Micromouse 1998 #MIT #MITEE #1995 #All Japan Micromouse Competition #16th All Japan Micromouse Competition #maze solvers

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redyarns · 7 months ago

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caught in the undertow

Chapter: 6/?

Part: 1/5

Rating: E

Relationship(s): Orion Pax/Megatron, Optimus Prime/Megatron, Sentinel Prime/Bumblebee

Summary:

When Megatron, leader of the rebellion, escaped from prison, everybot knew one thing, and one thing only: he stole an innocent with him.

---

"I'm not a sheep, how dare you!" Orion hissed, bristling at the insult.

"Oh, really?" Megatron drawled. His red optics glanced up again, and Orion's glossa went dry.

Scrap.

Who knew the cruel and ruthless leader of the blasphemous rebellion was so... handsome?

Special note: This is a ROUGH DRAFT. It will go through some changes before it is officially posted on AO3. The majority of the themes will remain the same, but please don't be alarmed if the final draft on AO3 reads differently.

Scene: START!

Act I, Scene XIV: Atropa belladonna

It took Sentinel several kliks of lying completely still in unfamiliar sheets before his processor began to urge him to at least open his optics. He groaned lightly, his voicebox hoarse and crackling with static. He winced at both the sound and the sensation of his throat clicking in pain, and he tried to raise a servo to rub at it, wondering why the hell he was so -

His servo caught on something. He froze, feeling a bit dumbfounded when he realized that the prickling sensation of his arm wasn’t because of some residual injury from training, but instead because it had spent the last - he checked his chronometer - four joors tucked tightly underneath Elita’s frame.

The aristocratic femme was recharging silently beside him, her spinal strut curled slightly inwards with her facial plates towards him. If he listened carefully, he could pick up on the soft, whirling pattern of her slow vents. She was snuggled close so that her nose was pressed to his chassis as his servo curled up and over her dorsal plate to touch her hip.

The light of Helios streamed in gently through the two windows of the room, and Sentinel felt his helm hit the pillow again as he sniffed the air and his cheeks burned at the lingering scent of ozone and transfluid. The lune cycle had certainly been… something, his processor provided meekly, flashes of last night (the way she arched on top of him, his frantic servos scrabbling uselessly at her sides, his spike throbbing as he choked) running across his vision in a decidedly unhelpful manner.

That had been - uh - good. Very good. A bit too good, actually, and he felt shame as well as guilt burn through his frame as he thought about the way he had gripped her waist so desperately that bruises had almost instantly bloomed. As if to prove his dreadful thoughts right, he hesitantly lifted his helm again, his gaze roaming her figure.

His optics lingered on her midsection, where, just like he suspected, there was a distinct pattern of five, circular bruises that lined up too easily with the length and spread of his digits. He almost brushed his servo against them, his guilt gnawing at him as he let his helm fall with no small amount of regret.

Slag. He shouldn’t have been so rough; he was always too unaware of himself and his extremities, especially since he hit fifteen vorns and practically shot up in height, frightening his carrier into thinking he was going to end up being a roller rather than a flier.

He lifted a servo and stared at it, clenching and unclenching his digits. These digits hurt Elita, he thought to himself. He had gotten carried away, too enthralled by her and the scent of charge, his olfactory sensors tingling with her smell of jubiline, and in his naivety and eagerness, he had allowed himself to slip out of his careful control.

It felt awful, the more he thought about it. He hadn’t lost control like that since the first time he attempted to fly with both Bee and Orion and ended up gripping them so tightly that they both had bruises around their waists for cycles. It had horrified him to the point he refused to fly with them for vorns after that.

Keeping control was important. Crucial. Essential.

“Control yourself. You’re unsightly, Sentinel,” Ultra Magnus had once said to him. When was that? Sentinel’s processor whirled, and he blinked slowly as he recalled the way energon had dripped slowly down from his forehelm and how he’d tried hastily to wipe it away with a shaky wrist.

Ultra had taken one look at his shallow breaths, cracked plating, and had made an expression of such disgust that even now, Sentinel’s processor had a hard time bringing up that particular memory file. It was distorted and filled with static, almost like he couldn’t remember properly, which was ridiculous since it only happened a sol ago.

As if on cue, something twinged smartly in his shoulder, and he couldn’t stop himself from flinching as his neural subsystem practically shouted at him that he was pinching something. He grunted, his entire frame jolting, and his pain bled into guilt as Elita shuffled from her position on top of his arm.

“My Prime?” She muttered, her spinal strut arching slightly as she stretched, an effortlessly seductive look on her as she slowly onlined her optics. She blinked them several times before she smiled up at him. “What are you doing?”

He gave her a hesitant smile, feeling rather defeated as the pain reluctantly subsided and instead left him with nothing but a sense of embarrassment. His cheeks were warm and no doubt blue with energon, and he mentally groaned as he struggled to provide an answer.

He was as eager to tell her the truth as much as he wanted to stick his bare aft over an open flame, so not at all. Instead, his sluggish processor (something he found was common around her and her beauty… urgh) simply made him smile stupidly again, and he said, “uh… good morning.”

She laughed, a light and airy sound that made his spark jolt as she rolled over, the top half of her now draping across his chassis as she winded her arms around his neck. Like this, the top of her helm brushed alarmingly close to his dermas, and he swallowed as she smirked and said, “good morning, my Prime. Did you recharge well?”

Sentinel shifted his gaze to the side, clearing his throat as he muttered, “of course. It was - fine. What about you?”

Elita tilted her helm and didn’t answer as he prayed she wouldn’t see through his lie.

Though that hadn’t been the worst sleep he had ever gotten, it still hadn’t been good. He always had trouble recharging even before Ultra took over the majority of his training, and now, well… He considered himself lucky if he only had the one nightmare or two.

“You seem distracted,” Elita said, staring up at him with her large optics as he hastily began to try and distract himself by going through the notifications he had missed last lune. When he didn’t reply right away, she pouted, a subtle push of her full dermas as she leaned up and pressed a kiss to his chin. “Busy already? We’ve been awake for less than ten kliks, my Prime.”

“I’m sorry,” he said sincerely, already feeling like he was messing up as he hesitantly reached down to peck her forehelm. It was apparently the right move, since she smiled widely up at him and giggled as he chuckled quietly. “There’s just a lot that I have to sort through. But as soon as I’m done then maybe we can spend the… spend the… uh…”

He mumbled something incoherent as his processor pulled up the notification that had been bothering him up until now. He had made a note a long time ago that any message from Orion or Bee was to be marked as urgent, and he felt his spark lurch as he realized that this was the first time in vorns that he hadn’t managed to write back right away.

He sat up, leaning against the headboard and mumbling a sorry to Elita when she protested, claiming she wanted to lie on him some more.

He felt dread gnaw at him from the inside out as he quickly began to slide through Orion’s messages, which started off well enough, but quickly devolved into frustration after Sentinel completely glossed over them.

Private Comm Link (ID: #628317): Sentinel Prime? No, Sentinel Prick

Incoming message…

DES: Orion Pax - ID: OP-001628

:: Sentinel! ::

:: Look, Sen, I really need your help. I'm assuming you're still at the party, so could you get me Hot Rod's private comm line if you can? ::

:: I know it's a lot to ask but I seriously need to talk to him. ::

:: … Sentinel? ::

:: Sen, come on. Whatever happened between you and Bee, we can fix it. Don't be too upset. I seriously need you right now, buddy. ::

:: Sen. ::

:: Sentinel!!! ::

“Slag.” Sentinel swore quietly, running a servo down his face, his wings stiffening as they fluttered with his anxiety before he forcefully stopped them from moving so much. Primus, would he ever learn how to control them?

“What happened?” Elita asked.

“Nothing,” he said automatically. When she continued to stare at him in an unimpressed manner, he ex-vented slowly, and tried to think of what to say. “It’s - nothing. I promise. I guess I just forgot to reply to my friend last night, and… that hasn’t happened before.”

Elita hummed. There was a glimmer to her optics as she leaned up and kissed him, the touch soft and coaxing, and he shuddered as he parted his dermas a little too eagerly and held her close when she traced the tip of her glossa against his bottom dentae.

“Is this the same friend that Hot Rod reminded you of?” Elita muttered curiously, her small and nimble servos cradling his helm gently, like he was the most precious thing she had ever held. It melted him, and he felt his engine start to purr quietly in his chassis as Elita smiled into their kiss.

“Hm?” He said dreamily, feeling rather off kilter as he tried to chase her when she broke contact and gently pushed him back, her legs swinging so that she was now straddling his lap as he fell onto the pillow again with a soft oof. It took him a few micro-kliks to try and remember what she was talking about, since, oh, Primus, she was a vision. “Oh, yes, that one. He’s very close to me, and I feel bad for not being able to respond right away.”

“There’s no need to feel bad,” she said sympathetically, her digits fluttering across his collar plates and causing him to tremble slightly. His wings in particular were practically vibrating, and he gave up any pretense of controlling them when she stroked a particularly sensitive spot. “Your friend sounds like he’s difficult, don’t you think?”

“I wouldn’t say that,” Sentinel said rather hoarsely, his optics squeezing shut when she leaned down and bit gently at his neck cables. “Ah - he’s a great friend, he’s been there for me for vorns - oh, frag - “

Elita clicked her glossa gently, the sound both fond and exasperated. “If he’s really that precious of a friend, then shouldn’t he be understanding that you have your own life to live?”

“Well… I mean…” he said, trailing off weakly as she stared at him pointedly and settled more in his lap, her wiggle pressing her interface panel right up against his as energon pumped wildly in his veins.

It was difficult to think through the haze of charge that ran through him, though his processor did pause to whirl on what she said. It wasn’t like he was lying; Orion really was a great friend, and he and Bee had been the biggest pillars for Sentinel ever since they met as sparklings. There was very little Sentinel wouldn’t do for either of them, stuff that he wouldn’t do even for Ultra.

But it did bother him, just the slightest bit, how Elita’s words resonated with him. Though he knew that Orion always had his reasons, sometimes those reasons were just so ridiculous that it caused him more stress or trouble than it was worth. He couldn’t think of one decent answer as to why Orion needed to speak with the newest to-be-named trailblazer, though some part of Sentinel dreaded the thought that he had an idea as to why.

Megatron. These sols, every single thing that Orion did led to that blasted mech, and Sentinel honestly didn’t understand. Initially, he had indulged his friend because a tiny part of Sentinel had been curious, too. The names Megatron and his rebels had been more of a myth than reality at that point, and he’d feebly wondered what the real mech was like.

After finding out, he had simply categorized Megatron as the criminal as he was. So when Orion had insisted on feeding the damn bot, and even worse, began to extend sympathy… Sentinel feared for his friend, he really did. There was only so much someone could play with a line before they fully crossed over.

And Orion asking for the personal comm link of a mech who was about to climb the ranks and become an elite was definitely hopping over that line. Obliterating it, even.

“I should text back, shouldn’t I?” Sentinel said in a small voice, now feeling more unsure than ever as Elita paused on top of him.

She tilted her helm, and for a fleeting moment, her gaze sharpened. It was razor-thin and so quick that he began to doubt if it ever even happened, and when she spoke, it was still as sweet and soothing as ever. “If you want. Just tell him you were busy. He doesn’t need more than that.”

Right.

Right, because - because Sentinel had other things to do than just lounge around for Orion like some messed up pet waiting on its master. (Don’t you already do that? No, he didn’t. Really? Ultra only likes complete obedience from you. Because he was Sentinel’s mentor. Because you don’t deserve decency? Because you don’t deserve dignity? Fine, then. You're pathetic. Stop it. Why? Because you're ashamed? Some future Prime you are. You can't even protect yourself. How are you going to protect the world? Enough! So shameless. So selfish, stupid, nothing's ever enough - )

Private Comm Link (ID: #628317): Sentinel Prime? No, Sentinel Prick

Outgoing message…

DES: Sentinel - ID: SN-402021

:: Sorry, I was… occupied.::

Almost immediately, Sentinel's communication chip pinged him that a call was coming through, and of course it was Orion. But before he even had a chance to acknowledge it properly, Elita was pressing down on him more insistently, and he felt like he was floating as she kissed him again.

The call rang at the back of his mind, mixing into a hazy mix with the amount of notifications his charge was sending through his interface subsystem. He flailed slightly, still unused to any of this even after joors last night learning how to touch and be touched, but he had already ignored Orion for too long, he should at least pick this call up.

… Right?

“H - Hold on - “ Sentinel mumbled in between kisses, feeling rather disoriented and overwhelmed as Elita simply hummed and pressed closer. Already, her servo was dragging down his chassis, and he shivered at the touch, unable to stop himself from ignoring the hot, sweet sensation of her dermas, but also unable to completely snuff the comm call line, which was ringing insistently. “E-Elita, just - just one micro-klik, okay?”

“I’m doing a bad job at this if you’re still thinking of taking that call.” Elita huffed, but her swollen intake was pulled into a smile as she let out a small, exasperated sigh and then fully draped herself over him, her arms crossed across his chassis as she tilted her helm and smirked. “Fine, then. Answer it, my Prime.”

He gave her a shaky, nervous smile, his servos flexing with uncertainty on her warm hips as he cleared his throat, accepted the annoyingly insistent call, and hesitantly said out loud, “hello?”

“Sentinel!” Orion’s voice blasted through his processor at a decibel so high that he immediately flinched. He turned down the volume hastily, grateful that at the very least, Elita wouldn’t be able to hear Orion’s side of the conversation regardless of the noise. “Dude, why the hell didn’t you respond to my comms last lune?”

“I do actually have a life outside of you, you know,” Sentinel said in exasperation, darting his gaze down and trying not to gulp when he saw and felt the way Elita began to trace loop shapes on his paint. Holy shit, he needed to wrap this call up yesterday. “Get on with it, O - “

He barely managed to bite back Orion’s name in time as Elita pressed a small, fleeting kiss to his collar. It was hard enough to keep his focus with her in the same room as him, but with her entire frame firmly on top of his, and worst of all, with her flirting… She was a temptress and knew just how weak he was for her.

He needed to be careful. It was already a risk to accept Orion’s comm and have Elita listen to Sentinel’s part of the conversation. If he slipped up and revealed too much about who Orion actually was, then there was no doubt to Sentinel that Elita wouldn’t approve.

Him, a high caste bot, but more than that, the future Prime, talking to a miner? And addressing him so kindly at that, as well? Dire consequences would surely follow. Sentinel still bore the marks and sting of the last time he had made that mistake in front of Ultra. His wrist twinged slightly as it rested against Elita’s waist.

“I told you, I needed to speak with Hot Rod,” Orion said impatiently. Sentinel could practically see the way he must have looked at that moment; tilting his helm and rolling his optics because he was just that obnoxious when it came to getting what he wanted. “Please don’t tell me he’s already left.”

“Why do you need to talk to him?” Sentinel forced out, placing a servo on the back of Elita’s helm in some poor attempt to both stop and encourage her as she began to nip at his neck cables. He coughed, a small amount of static running through his hoarse voice as he said, “you can’t just ask me for something and not tell me why. That’s not how this works. And I already told him good luck for you.”

“Well, I was wrong. Luck has no place within the ceremony,” Orion said tightly. He sounded different, tense, and it was enough of a change that it made Sentinel frown, smile apologetically at Elita, and then sit up, gently wrapping his arm around her waist so she wouldn’t fall.

Her optics narrowed and she was definitely displeased, but she still hooked her elbows around his shoulder plates and leaned her cheek onto one of them as he said, “what are you talking about?”

There was no answer.

Sentinel's face pinched as he went through a quick systems check with his processor, but everything was fine. It was already hard enough to shut Orion up over text comms, but verbal comms were a whole thing altogether. And Sentinel had known Orion since they were sparklings; maybe Sentinel even knew Orion more than he knew himself, so it was easy to pick up on the uneasiness of his tone.

Something was wrong.

“Hey,” Sentinel said more gently this time, allowing his previous annoyance to soften into empathy. Though he couldn't deny that maybe Elita had been right in that Orion could be pushy, that didn't take away from the fact that he was still one of Sentinel's closest friends. “Come on, talk to me. What's going on?”

“There's more to the ceremony than we know,” Orion finally said, his voice strained. It was gruffer than usual and there was a small shuffling noise on his end, like he was climbing something. What the hell? “Just - look. Is he still there or not?”

Sentinel squinted up at the ceiling as he tried to make sense of whatever Orion was rambling about. His weird insistence to talk to Hot Rod was already a bit strange, but the ceremony on top of that… As far as Sentinel was aware, Orion had never been that interested in the Iacon 5000 or the subsequent trailblazer ceremony that followed.

Why was he suddenly expressing such blatant regard for it now?

“You mean Hot Rod?” Sentinel said after a klik of silence. Elita moved slightly on top of him, and when he glanced down at her, she gave him a look of what's going on? He tried to reassure her with a smile, but she simply nudged him, which he tried to brush off. “Of course not. I don't know where he is, he and Ultra left together last night I think.”

“Fuck.” Orion swore. “He was my only chance! Shit. Okay, it's… okay. That's fine, it just means I have to go see Megatron sooner than I thought I would.”

Okay. That was definitely not what Sentinel had expected nor wanted to hear.

He practically leapt up from the berth, mouthing apologies to Elita, who was left sprawled on the sheets with an indignant expression twisting her pretty face. She huffed and draped herself more elegantly across the mesh as he hissed way too urgently, “what the frag are you talking about, you bucket of bolts? No! It's been less than a sol since you last saw him, are you fragging kidding me?”

“He has the answers that I need, Sen!” Orion pushed back. “He's the only one who can help me figure out what's actually going on!”

Sentinel felt like ripping the paint off his helm as he buried his face into his servos and tried to vent steadily. He couldn’t fucking believe this. All this trouble and flack for, what, Megatron? Again? Why was Orion like this? Why was he so obsessed with a mech like him? What could Megatron have possibly said to sway one of the best bots Sentinel knew?

“You promised me that you weren’t compromised,” Sentinel said, his voice edging into something sharper, more dangerous. He paced steadily on the rug beside the berth, occasionally sparing Elita a glance whenever she made a small noise of inquiry, but he shoved away any distracting thought about her as he was mortified instead by the way Orion remained silent. “Answer me. Tell me that you aren’t actually starting to care for that - that - “

He couldn’t even say it. Not even because uttering it out loud would reveal too much to Elita, who continued to observe him with wide optics, but because Sentinel honestly felt sick as he realized that something had shifted. Whatever change had occurred, it started last night, when he was too occupied to be a proper friend and dissuade Orion from getting involved in something he very well could never get out of.

“What’re you implying?” Orion snapped. He sounded agitated, on edge, and there was a muffled noise from his end of the comm, like he had just slammed a door shut. His words were tense and Sentinel didn’t understand. “Why’re you interrogating me, Sen? You know I never do anything without reason! Why’re you acting like this?”

Sentinel was floored, and he sat down abruptly on the edge of the berth, the force of him doing as much so impactful that it lightly bounced Elita on the sheets. His wings drooped on top of the mesh out of his shock, and he knew that he was staring directly at the bland painting hung on the wall across from him, but he couldn’t even begin to comprehend it as he tried to digest what Orion had just said to him.

“What?” Sentinel said, his voice almost hysterical as he gripped his servos into fists and his wings began to tighten so much that they were practically flat against his spinal strut. “Why am I acting like this? Why the hell are you acting like this, you afthole? Are you trying to spin this and pin this onto me when I’m not the one who’s compromised? Huh? Don’t you fucking dare - “

“Primus, Sen! You’re seriously getting mad over something that isn’t a big deal - “

“It actually is a big deal, you’re literally asking me for another favor, again, and you won’t even - “

“It’s not a favor! Oh, for - it’s a freaking solid, and you and I always - “

“Always what?” Sentinel spat, and by this point he was shouting, his voice hoarse and crackling with static as he gripped his own patellas so hard that it was a wonder the armor didn’t crack. His helm was spinning and he couldn’t vent properly; had he ever yelled at Orion before? “Go on, say it! It’s always you and me, except it’s me getting dragged into another one of your master plans that ends up getting us in trouble in more ways than one!”

“This is bigger than just you holding a petty grudge!” Orion hissed. It occurred to Sentinel just then that Orion was shouting, too. He had never heard it before, honestly, and it was jarring. Maybe a little scary. Not because Orion himself was a particularly menacing mech, but because they had never done this before. They had never… fought, and Sentinel felt sick. “Can’t you see that? I’m sorry that you have such a busy life, I’m sorry that you’re doing all your fucking aristocratic bullshit - “

“Aristocratic bullshit?” Sentinel cried out. He couldn’t tell if his vocalizer was cracking from the anger that boiled inside of him like magma, threatening to spill over and eagerly burn every part of this conversation, or worse, because of the tears that were starting to well up in his rapidly blinking optics. “You know it’s not like that! I’m working my fragging aft off so I can be a good Prime! So I can be a good Prime for you!”

“For fuck’s sake, Sentinel, I never asked you to be Prime!” Orion shouted.

Silence.

Sentinel’s ragged venting filled the room, his breathing off and inconsistent as he stared dizzily at that damn painting, unable to make sense of its swirls and colors. He sat there, lost, hurt, angry, everything he had never felt for Orion, his dearest friend. Orion, his biggest supporter. Orion, his brother.

Orion…

Who had just told him he never wanted Sentinel to be Prime. Sentinel had never known anything but how to be one. He had been raised on this, told that this was his path, and that nothing could lead him astray. For a long time, he had believed Ultra who told him that everything, including friends, could be a distraction. But Sentinel had told himself that just this once, he could ignore Ultra.

Just this once, he could pretend that he was a miner like Orion and Bee, who weren’t miserable even despite their ranks, and seemed happier than Sentinel, who felt like he was often carrying the weight of the world on just his shoulders alone.

Just this once, he had allowed Orion liberties, taken him places he couldn’t, and let him do things that Sentinel would never allow anyone else because Orion had never once not told Sentinel with the uttermost confidence: “you’ll be a better Prime than any of the Thirteen were.”

The tears fell.

They were warm and soft on his cheekplates, and his hardly functional processor told him that he was running low on tear solvent. Of course he was running low on tear solvent. These weren’t the normal kind of tears he usually cried during moments of pain or frustration or even dramatic manipulation for when he needed one of the staff to do something for him and he wanted to appear extra pitiful.

These were tears of hurt.

A servo draped gently over his own. He watched blankly, his vision swimming and watery, as slowly, digits smaller than his own curled in between his and held them in a way they had never been held before.

“Sentinel,” Elita said. He could barely focus on her. Her voice was like a phantom to him. “Enough.”

Enough, Sentinel repeated. Enough of this.

“Aren’t you tired?”

I am.

“Don’t you deserve better?”

Do I?

“He isn’t worth anything.”

That’s not right…

“He’s nothing.”

No, that’s…

“Let it end.”

But…

“Stop.”

“Stop,” Sentinel muttered.

“You’re right,” Orion said after a brief pause. His voice was thicker, and he cleared his vocalizer. Almost like he was sorry. Was he, though? Was he sorry? Was he sorry for implying that Sentinel was only that, an aristocrat? Was he sorry for taking back all his support as Sentinel strived harder and harder to be a good Prime? What was he sorry for? Was he sorry at all? When did he and Sentinel stop talking? When had they been reduced to this? “I should have stopped. That - that was low of me. I’m - “

“Figure it out, Orion.” Sentinel interrupted. He stared at the painting. His voice was hard and cool, and there was no more room for argument. “I’m done saving you.”

He ended the call with a soft click. He immediately blocked the notification of Orion trying to reconnect, and instead found himself blinking through his tears as Elita practically leapt into his lap, her engine purring something fierce in her chassis as she leaned up and began to smother him in kisses.

“You did so well, my Prime.” Elita practically purred, her optics gleaming and her touch purposeful as she stroked his audials, then his cheeks, and rubbing away any of his tears with a surprisingly firm nudge. “You don’t need the likes of Orion. You’re the next Prime. You’re the most intelligent. The strongest. The best. You don’t need anyone.”

Oh, Sentinel thought to himself dully, slowly leaning down to press a kiss to Elita’s eagerly waiting dermas, though for the life of him, he couldn’t stop looking over her shoulder, right at that framed painting that he had been staring at the entire time. Except it wasn’t a painting.

It’s a mirror, he realized.

For a moment, he thought he saw Ultra in his place.

Just for a moment.

Scene: END!

Next scene: coming soon!

#megop #optimus prime #orion pax #megatron #sentinel prime #transformers #tf one #transformers one #okay well i at least finished this scene #even tho it was a pain in the ass #oh my god #undertow

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saphronethaleph · 5 months ago

Text

Mothballs

“Checklist step forty-seven,” Mira Tern said, glancing down at her datapad, then back up at the computer systems. “Check that battery power is above eight percent charge… where’s the indicator for that…”

TY-3 whistled, and Mira glanced at the astromech.

“Thanks,” she replied, returning her gaze to the control panel. “And it’s, uh… right, twelve percent. I guess we’ve been going a bit slower than we should, huh?”

They’d have to be, if the generator they’d brought in had recharged the ship’s emergency batteries that much.

She flicked her comlink on. “Hey, Flynn, what’s the status on the reactors?”

“We finished providing the reaction mass and hypergolic slug for reactor one twenty minutes ago!” Flynn answered. “Everything down here is closed up and ready, you’re the one who’s delaying us at this point!”

“Right, right, I get it,” Mira replied, rolling her eyes, then checked her datapad again. “Step forty-eight… okay, here we go.”

She flicked two more switches, activating self test, and the emergency lights flashed on and off once.

A holo of the ship appeared, and Mira and Tye both gave it a once-over.

“Looks all green to here, Tye,” she declared, and the astromech rocked back and forth slightly in confirmation. “Great. Step forty-nine.”

She triple-checked the numbers, then flicked a control. Another.

Some of the switches on the panel lit up, others went dim again, and Mira moved back and forth between three different duty stations as she followed the flowchart on her pad. Then, finally, everything converged on a single control, and she took a deep breath.

Then pressed it.

There was a kind of subliminal thump, the whole ship trembling slightly, then telltales and indicators lit up all across the board.

“Reactor one start,” she reported, into the comlink again. “Everything looks good from up here, Flynn!”

“We’re all good here, too,” Flynn replied. “Reactor one is running smoothly, we’re getting a good efficiency curve, within five percent of nominal. They mothballed this ship well.”

“Then let’s get on with activating the rest of the reactors,” Mira decided. “How long until I can begin the start procedure for Two and Three?”

“We’ll be good in… fifteen, twenty?” Flynn said. “That’s for Two, we’ve been doing some of the prep work while we were waiting. Make yourself useful and get some of the other systems unlocked and online.”

“Hey!” Mira protested, shaking her head, then tutted. “Well, whatever. I’ll bring up… shields, I guess? Does One have enough power for that?”

“It should, but let’s not chance it until Two is online,” Flynn said. “Sensors should be better.”

“Got it, sensors it is,” Mira agreed, signing off, and switched to another file on her pad. “Okay, step one is… of course it’s on the other side of the bridge…”

She picked up her toolkit with a huff, and began schlepping it across the bridge to the sensor control station.

Halfway there, she paused, and looked out the armoured window.

The ships in the Chommell Sector Reserve Fleet were far enough apart that she could only see even the capital ships as toylike shapes, lit by the distant sun, and the escorts were not much more than points of light. Much closer, though, was the Makepeace, the Nebulon-B all the reactivation teams were working off, and she smiled a not particularly charitable smile as she looked out at the engineering support frigate… and four of the five other Star Cruisers that they were here to reactivate.

Bringing the Reserve Fleet from mothballs to full active status would take months, of course. They were operating off canned air and only pressurizing certain rooms, and there were less than a dozen engineers per ship for a truly vast war vessel. But it was happening, and it was inexorable… and it was happening for hundreds of Reserve Fleets, all across the galaxy.

Star Cruisers, Star Destroyers, heavy frigates, cruiser squadrons… the Military Disarmament Act limited the strength of the New Republic Defence Force, the active military, but putting everyone serving the arms industry out of work straight away would have been an economic catastrophe in a galaxy that had sorely needed to avoid them.

And the result was… something the First Order could have no idea was coming. Otherwise, they wouldn’t have been foolish enough to pick a fight with the Republic.

TY-3 whistled, and Mira sighed.

“Yeah, yeah, I’m on it,” she said, finishing her trek to the sensor panel. “Plug in and start the self test, will you? Now we’ve got reactor power this should go quicker…”

#star wars #Palpatine will have a bad day in a few months #mothballs #mobilization #fleets take time to reactivate

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crookedkryptonitebeliever · 1 year ago

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Okay i lied , im not cutting off yandere sources cause i need Yves to cope with the high stress.

So here's some Yves content at the supermarket

Yves pays close attention to how and where your eyes linger at. Especially at grocery or other retail stores where there are a wide variety of objects. He notes down what catches your attention first, next and last, what caused you to do a double take and for how long. What colour, what texture, what shape and etcetera etcetera. He keeps count and remembers the sequences too.

It's fascinating, your habits change depending on the lighting, temperature, humidity, atmospheric pressure, smell and loudness of the area. Even the feeling of the flooring beneath your shoes would affect the duration you're willing to look at a product.

Yves would pretend to check the nutritional information of an item that claims to be "healthy" and "organic". But in actuality, he's watching you; do not underestimate his peripheral vision, it's almost as if he has eyes on the back of his head.

He would get a small rush of excitement whenever he predicts your next move successfully, shock and slightly more delightful when he's wrong; because that means he has discovered something new about you and must document his findings immediately.

How strange, you're exhibiting signs of under stimulation despite the fact that supermarkets usually fulfill your sensory needs, most of the time, overloading you. So Yves peruses the aisles even more, letting his heels clack against the tiled floors, pushing the shopping cart slowly and observing if the extra disturbances around you will do anything to your predicament.

But no, you're still uncomfortable. How interesting, how can Yves help you? He's dying to know, but he must run multiple tests discretely to find out.

However, before he could proceed, you walked up to him and stared at Yves in the eyes.

He replaced the can of diced tomatoes back onto the metal shelf before peering down at you. Yves intentionally chose to wear one of his taller heels to create that subconscious "guardian" role, making him ridiculously tall.

"Yes, dear?" He asked, bringing his fingers to your hair, gently brushing them away from your face. This seems to improve your mood, it made his heart skip a beat when he realized that you were craving for his touch.

You told him that it's nothing, you just wanted to see him.

Now that's not true, you wanted more but you're too shy and nervous to outright ask for it.

Yves smiled, softly coaxing you closer to his side, which made you automatically cling onto him and bury your head in his torso. Yves stroked your back rhythmically up and down.

While he lets you recharge in the side hug, Yves uses a free hand to inspect more canned items, he also likes guessing what additives might be added into each product and how much of each nutrient does it contain.

It's impressive how his brain works like a supercomputer with trillions of servers, his eyes, nose, ears, skin and tongue work as the world's best sensors. Yves is actively gathering the smallest, most detailed information about you, the environment, himself and whatever he has on hand. All that, without a struggle, without any clashes in thoughts or confusion in data. All that without overwhelming himself, not at all. He's in fact, very relaxed.

You let go of him when you had enough, but it seems you're not willing to fully part from his form yet as you're holding onto his large, smooth and manicured hand.

He walks to the next section of the aisle, pushing the trolley along with him and enveloping your smaller hand in his. He noticed that you've lost interest in looking around as canned goods bore you and you would very much rather look through shelves of candy and other junk foods. Where the companies work their predatory marketing tactics on unsuspecting customers like you.

If you wanted to, you would have left him alone to entertain yourself by now. But you're still stuck next to him as he reads the next list of ingredients.

He doesn't need to hide a delighted smile from you, as you're pushing your face against his lowest rib. Yves can express his glee at your very sweet and considerate gesture to accompany him despite your boredom.

He wanted to see how long you would last before he loses your consideration. That's why, Yves kept going through each can with you inching along next to him. Surprisingly, you're durable. But you're not exhibiting signs of weariness anymore, but instead, you're simply content and comfortable.

Strange. The buzzing, blinding lights above you and him, the monotony of the labels, the droning and other bustling noises would have driven you out of this aisle five minutes ago, let alone allow you to express... Happiness for being present. This isn't usual, Yves knows. He has observed you more times than you can count in this exact setting. Everything is more or less the same: the luminescence, the air quality and the decibels that your ears are picking up.

Except, the only variable that changed was him. His presence.

He gently called out your name, which prompted you to look up at him.

Yves pecked you on the lips, leaving a faint stain of his lipstick on your kisser.

"I love you." He whispered, biting onto his tongue immediately because he wanted to say much more. So much more. But he couldn't, it would be horrific for you to learn what he sees without your knowledge.

You stared at him, confused. Of course, you returned his words of affection. What baffled you was this glimmer in his breathtakingly beautiful, smiling eyes that would only appear if you did something extravagantly sweet and loving for Yves without expecting anything in return.

Like giving him a meaningful gift that you toiled for, trying your best to serenade him with an original piece of romantic music, going above and beyond to please or pamper him... What did you do?

Yves lets out a soft laugh as he watches you struggle to contain your excitement at the prospect of receiving that reward later at home. He can feel your tremors as you hold onto his hand.

Well, whatever it is, it surely earned you a very big reward. You're not one to look a gift horse in the mouth, so you gracefully accepted the silent message from Yves.

But for now, he must buy the groceries needed for the week, and all the ingredients to make your favourite dish of all time.

He pushed the cart to the next aisle, bringing you along with him.

#yandere #yandere oc #yandere x reader #yandere male #oc yves #yandere concept #tw yandere #yandere oc x reader #yandere x you #male yandere oc x reader

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rhamrhanch · 8 months ago

Text

Shepherd of Death, Don't Herd Me

Part Seven: In the Light of Day

Rating: Mature

Pairing: Ramattra/Reader (gender-neutral pronouns)

Word Count: 5.1K

Warnings: canon-typical violence, hurt/comfort

Next Chapter // Masterlist

A/N: had a lot of fun writing this chapter, hope you all enjoy ;)

chapter under the cut ↓

---

“—mattra?”

The Ravager woke slowly, pulled from hibernation by the sound of someone calling him. As his visual sensors restarted, blurred and unfocused, he could barely parse the image of his arms sitting limply in his lap.

He must have slipped into a sleep state by accident. The remaining power running through his body was even lower than he thought. His head felt heavy as he sluggishly lifted it to meet the eyes of whoever had woken him.

It was you again. Crouched in front of him, you had a concerned look in your eyes as they searched his face plate. Your attire was more casual than what he expected, having traded your usual coveralls for a plain shirt and loose pants. Was it your day off? Surely not—you would not have wasted it on coming here.

It took him longer than usual to realize you had called him by his name.

“My name…” he murmured, muffled as his vocalizer retuned itself. You leaned in closer, tilting your head toward him.

“Pardon?”

“How do you know my name?” Everyone who knew his name was either dead or did not speak to him anymore, and after becoming the sole leader of Null Sector, he had not shared it with anyone since. Not even Talon had knowledge of it—or if they did, they never dared refer to him as such, knowing that they could have only uncovered that information against his will.

“Oh.” You stood up straight. “I saw it carved into your hip the… last time you were here,” you finished, carefully avoiding any mention of that day. He understood why; it was not a pleasant memory for either of you.

“I see.” Something stirred within his chassis, a simmering heat building in his processor. Being known this way by someone other than friends long gone was new. He wasn’t sure if he liked the feeling, but the way his name sounded in your voice registered as pleasant in his system.

Your eyes danced around the room, feeling the awkwardness of the moment, before returning to him. “Were you asleep?”

Instinct urged him to lie, but how could he deny something you had seen with your own eyes?

Your gaze lingered on the flickering red of his LEDs, and in that moment Ramattra resented how astute you were. It certainly made you a talented engineer, but it also made it nearly impossible to hide things from you. He did not enjoy the feeling of being read so easily.

“You’re running out of power.”

He remained silent, in stubborn refusal of your observation. You crossed your arms, a curious shine to your eyes as they looked him up and down.

“How do you usually recharge?” you asked.

Ramattra hesitated. He did not want to reveal the existence of his power relay technology, nor did he want to indulge any more information about the inner workings of his body. You knew where his central processor was, as well as the fact that he housed multiple power cores within him. That was already far beyond what he would have been comfortable sharing.

“It is none of your concern,” he replied, hoping you would take the hint.

Your gaze softened, as though his words hurt you. “I’m not—This isn’t…” You bit the inside of your cheek, taking a moment to find your footing. “If you just tell me, then I can help you.”

I can help you.

Ramattra shuddered at the memory of those exact same words, choked out as he crushed your throat in his hand. Your help was what led him here in the first place, your kind gaze and gentle touches imprinting you in his memory. That short interaction had been enough to confuse him to the point of weakness. If you helped him again, he had no idea what it would do to him now.

“I do not need your help,” he snapped, perhaps crueler than necessary. “Leave me alone.”

You lingered for a moment, an unbearably pitiful look in your eyes. When once he might have sought your gaze, now he only hated it. That miserable way with which you stared at him, like he was a beaten animal—he couldn’t stand it.

A commanding growl echoed from his vocalizer. “I said, leave.”

You set your jaw, looking like you wanted to say something more. But you only walked to the door, leaving him to let his power degrade in peace.

---

You never attempted to talk to him again after that. But it was as if you couldn’t stop yourself from gravitating toward him, like a comet caught in his orbit. Every time you passed by the conference room, you slowed your pace, drawing it out as long as possible. Ramattra had since lost all strength required to lift his head, but he imagined you wearing that same insufferable expression on your face.

He could no longer tell how much time had passed, his body drifting through listless periods of semi-awareness. The tiny dregs of power he had left allowed him some movement, but he did not want to waste it. For the next however many days, he remained still, sat forward with his arms on his knees, propping up what was now the empty metal husk of his body.

“All right, I can’t let this go on any longer. Will you stop being so stubborn and just let me help you already?”

Your voice was sharp and pointed, cutting through the constant static of his aural processor. Having lost nearly all visual acuity, your figure was little more than an indistinct blur on his HUD.

It no longer mattered to him if your intentions were earnest. Disassemble him, destroy him, he didn’t care. He didn’t have the energy to fight you anymore.

“On my ship,” he drawled, the words elongated and lagging. “That is where… I… recharge.”

He could not distinguish your face through the fog of static, but he pictured you with your brows drawn together, worrying your bottom lip between your teeth. It was a habit of yours he had observed over your various chess matches together, something you did absentmindedly when you were thinking. Which is what he assumed you were doing, considering the long silence that followed.

“What about solar power?” you asked eventually. “I’m sure you have the capacity for it.”

Your suggestion bewildered him. Where in the world did that come from? What part of his origins as a war machine indicated that he would have been built with such capabilities?

“I…” He was about to shut down your absurd claim with a snide remark, but the certainty with which you said it made him hesitate. “I do not… know.” After a moment, he added, “Though I doubt it would be useful here.”

Your head twisted to follow his gaze, as if just now realizing where you were. The front wall of windows where the door to the conference room was faced the inside of the base, and the rest were solid. Sunlight could not reach him here even if he wanted it to.

There was an unreadable expression on your face when you turned back to face him. Then, you rushed to the door, only to pause for a second after you opened it. “I’ll be back in a moment.”

Before he could even think of a response, you ran out the door, the echo of your rapid footsteps fading quickly.

Twenty-seven minutes passed before you finally returned.

There was a beeping from outside the door, though in a pattern unfamiliar to Ramattra. It was not the usual rhythm that signaled the door opening.

A blurry shape reappeared in his field of vision when you knelt down in front of him.

“Would you be willing to open your chest for me?”

The brazenness with which you phrased your request left him taken aback, and he could not help voicing his hesitation.

“Why?”

“If my theory is correct, there may be another way to restore energy to your body. In order to do that, though, I need to see where your power supply units are.”

Ramattra considered your answer. The fact that you were asking at all indicated that you did not plan to pull him apart, at least not immediately. If that was truly your intention, you would have done that by now.

Wordlessly, he leaned back as the metal ribs of his external armor clicked and shifted, making room for the under panels of his chest. There was a hiss of air as the panels unlocked and opened outward, the inner heat from his chassis turning to fog in the cold of the room.

You didn’t move for a moment, simply observing his internal machinery. He felt a bit exposed suddenly, finding himself actively resisting the urge to shift in place. It was nothing you had not seen before, but he hardly had any say in it last time. Whatever self-consciousness he might have felt had been immediately overshadowed by the indignant fury of having been forced open so brutishly.

“I’m going to have a closer look,” you said calmly. “Is that all right?”

He nodded slowly. Carefully, you placed a knee between his crossed legs, resting both hands on his shoulders as you leaned forward. Ramattra planted his hands on the floor behind him, reclining back to give you more space.

Your fingertips ghosted over parts of his chest, a shudder wracking his body when you grazed the switches on his motherboard. It was an indescribable sensation, the feeling of someone else inspecting the inner workings of his body. The numerous times he repaired himself never felt anything like this.

He nearly choked when your hand dug under the cables connected to his power cores, worming your way to their matching ports. Your fingers scraped the casing, tugging on the wires in a way that made his processor burn with searing heat. It was too much, it was overwhelming—he couldn’t do this, he needed—

“Stop!” He grabbed your wrist, and you stilled instantly. With your face this close, he could see the way your eyes flitted across his face plate.

“Are you all right? Did I hurt you?” you asked, beginning to retract your hand from its place in his chest.

“No, I—” His hand tightened, halting you in place. “I just… need you to…” The words wouldn’t come, jumbled in his processor as it crackled with residual warmth. “Go slower,” he finished.

Your eyes widened slightly, before the neutral mask slipped back on your face. “Okay.” Ever so cautiously, you pulled your hand back, slipping it from his grasp. Once it was fully out, you gently placed it against the hard case of one of his power cores.

“I have to unplug your power supply units,” you said. “I will reconnect them to the junction box here.” You tapped on the right side of his chest, where a small row of ports was inlaid among the circuited surface of his chest cavity. “Do you think you can handle that?”

Your constant questioning felt a bit patronizing, but it reassured him slightly to know the specifics of what you were going to do.

“Yes.”

You nodded once before slowly reaching back into his chest, fingers closing around the first connector. You pulled it out in one quick motion, a short jolt running through his body as it readjusted to its absence. The cable twisted as you redirected it to the other side of his chest, firmly plugging it into the port with a resounding click.

Ramattra lurched instantly, his hand surging forward to grasp your waist tightly. His circuits crackled with redirected electricity, something popping in his sensors as his central processor scrambled to make sense of the new input. A flurry of error messages lit up his HUD, completely blinding him in a flood of red and orange. Whatever you were doing had better be worth it.

“How are you doing?”

As he methodically cleared the messages away, Ramattra suddenly became aware of his hand resting against your hip, the fabric of your shirt bunched in his fist. Mortification gripped him immediately, but you seemed unphased by it.

“Yes. Fine. I’m… fine.” He waited for his sensors to calm down before speaking again. “Continue.”

You did, repeating the same process for the next power core. A strong current rocked his chassis once again, and he grunted in displeasure.

Gently, you patted his shoulder, as though trying to comfort him. “Almost done,” you murmured. Your voice was soft, a contrast to the sharp jolts of electricity that thrummed in his sensors.

Ramattra had no lungs, nor the capacity to breathe, yet he still huffed a facsimiled sigh of relief at your words. This ordeal was absolutely humiliating, the tatters of his dignity held together only by the way you did not acknowledge his reactions.

As abruptly as you had for the previous two, you reconnected the final cable to the port in his chest wall. His fingers dug harshly into the divot at the base of your spine, but you made no sound, remaining still as the spark of discomfort worked its way through his body. Eventually, its numbing effect faded, regained sensation in his hand allowing him to loosen his fist where it stretched the hem of your shirt.

Now that it was all over, he did not notice anything significantly different. Only that his body felt colder than before, dulling the precision of his sensors ever so slightly.

His hand slipped from your waist, coming to rest on his thigh. Only then did you lean back, removing your knee from its place between his legs and straightening up. You took a moment to smooth your hands down the front of your shirt before fixing him with an expectant look.

“How do you feel now?”

Ramattra opened and closed his fist, feeling the last prickles of electricity itch the tips of his fingers. “Cold.”

Strangely, you smiled and crossed to the wall adjacent to him. To his surprise, what he thought had been solid cement began to split in the middle at your approach, the panels sliding back and revealing a wall of floor to ceiling windows identical to the one parallel to it.

Blinding white rays speared through the glass, descending directly onto his face plate. Their effect was immediate, warmth spreading throughout his body as the black panels of his arms and chest beneath his exoskeleton greedily drank in the sunlight. His visual field slowly refocused with renewed energy, finally allowing him to see you clearly.

The sun cloaked your body in a veil of gold as you stood with your back to the window. It cast a shadow over your face, hiding your expression from him, but he could hear the gentle smile in your voice when you spoke.

“Is that better?”

The answer came to him in an instant as he took in your silhouette.

“Yes.”

You hummed, pleased by his affirmation, before moving to sit beside him. His optics followed you as if the light clung to your body, chasing the vestiges of that unbidden warmth as much as he could.

Leaning back on your hands, your eyes drifted halfway closed, turning your head up to meet the sun. Ramattra finally found the word to describe what you must have been feeling in that moment, having searched for it since the day he first saw that look on your face.

You were happy.

“Would you like to begin another game?” The offer came before he could stop it, awkwardly disrupting the peaceful air between you. Why did he say that?

Your eyes opened as you angled your head towards him. “Hm?” Then, as if remembering where you were, “Oh, right. No, that can wait until you’ve fully recharged.”

Your rejection surprised him. “Why?”

“Well, it wouldn’t be fair!”

It was hardly fair as it was. A human standing against a Ravager in a game of strategy did not spell favorable odds for you.

“In this state, I am less of an adversary to you,” he said. “You have the greatest chance of winning now.”

You tilted your head, eyes turning up at the ceiling thoughtfully. “You’re probably right about that.” A grin spread on your face, determination shining through. “But when I finally beat you, it will be because I outsmarted you. Not because you lacked the energy to outsmart me.”

Ramattra said nothing for a moment. Then, the modest prelude of a chuckle began echoing from his chest, before quickly overflowing into booming laughter loud enough to make his shoulders shake. When he finally looked back at you after it died down, you were staring at him with eyes wide as saucers.

“You are quite a confident human.”

You blinked at him once, and then your face relaxed into a grin. “So you’ve said.”

Silence fell between you again, though not from discomfort or anger. It was a pleasant quiet, one he greatly preferred to the hollow silence that always surrounded him on his ship.

The comparison sparked a memory, and he finally voiced a question that had been brewing in his processor since this all began.

“How did you know I had the capacity for solar power?”

“It seemed obvious,” you answered casually, facing forward.

He tilted his head, intrigued. “In what way?”

“Well, you were created by Anubis.”

The reminder of his creator sparked something unpleasant in Ramattra’s processor, and it showed through the bitterness in his voice when he asked, “What does that have to do with it?”

“You don’t know?” You sat upright, turning to face him. After he did not answer, you continued. “Anubis’ original purpose was to assist in ecological conservation. If you were made in an omnium that Anubis itself created, then it’s only natural it would have built you with the ability to sustainably power yourself.”

Your explanation rendered Ramattra speechless as a strange emotion he could not name stirred within him. He had never actually known much about his creator’s original purpose, beyond what he had seen of its aftereffects. The idea that Anubis, a god program he had only known to be a harbinger of destruction, had designed him so thoughtfully… He wasn’t sure how to feel about it.

“I never knew that,” he said after a while. His processor felt lighter somehow, as though a weight had been lifted. “Thank you.”

Confusion showed on your face, but it disappeared in an instant. “Of course.”

---

You leaned back against the door to your workshop, closing it behind you. As soon as you heard the lock click, you let out a heavy sigh before pressing your hands to your face. Warmth flooded your cheeks as the memories came rushing back to you.

You weren’t sure why it flustered you so much. You had repaired hundreds of omnics before, but this was different. All your previous repairs were much less hands-on than this, and now you understood why. That close, everything felt more personal—almost… intimate.

It didn’t help that the omnic in question, usually so stoic and unyielding, unraveled so quickly at your touch, clinging to you like a lifeline. It had taken every ounce of professionalism in you not to react at all in that moment. Seeing Ramattra, once willing to be crushed under the weight of his own pride, stumble over his words did… something, to you. Something you could not name and refused to think about any longer because it would only be a waste of your time.

You searched your workshop, desperate to find something, anything you could distract yourself with. Of course, now when you actually wanted work, none of your fellow agents needed any equipment repaired.

You scanned the projects you had hanging on the wall, before picking up the self-loading pulse rifle and dropping it down on your worktable. It was practically finished at this point, but if you didn’t take something apart soon, you were going to lose your mind.

With more force than was necessary, you loosened the screws that held the rifle together and shucked the pieces off, ignoring the loud clatter as you tossed them on the table. Then, you snatched a rag from one of the hooks on the wall and began vigorously cleaning every single nook and cranny of each part.

As you gathered the bundled wires that connected the battery to the trigger, you were unwillingly reminded of Ramattra once again. How tightly he had grasped your waist, hand trembling as he clenched his fist against you. The way he dug his fingers into the small of your back, his thumb pressing into your hipbone.

You hissed in pain as you accidentally pinched your index finger between two parts of the rifle, having begun reassembling it at some point while distracted with your thoughts. Growling in annoyance, you massaged the tip of your finger, alleviating the pain slightly.

You had left the windows of the conference room uncovered so Ramattra could recharge on his own, something you had insisted upon when arguing with Winston about it. You managed to convince him by reminding him, perhaps a bit too loudly, that it would not help Overwatch’s case as an ally to omnics to deny an omnic prisoner the equivalent of water or food, to which he begrudgingly acquiesced.

But the build of a Ravager was still relatively new to you and considering the size of Ramattra’s frame and the high processing power you had observed from him, it would take a considerable amount of time for him to recharge to a level that allowed him to function normally.

Perhaps some distance would be good for you. The less you interacted with him, the less you would think about… whatever that was. Thinking about it more would only confuse you further, and you were of no help to anyone like that.

Giving up on putting the pulse rifle back together, you left your workshop and headed straight to your quarters. Once inside, you lazily kicked your boots off and collapsed onto your bed, barely disturbed from how rarely you slept in it.

It felt like only a second passed before you were abruptly woken by your pager beeping from where it sat on your bedside table. It was from Winston—a request for you to continue his repairs on his Tesla cannon and jump pack, since he would be preoccupied with observing Ramattra until he finished recharging.

You slid out of bed with a groan, blearily rubbing your eyes. If this was the price you had to pay, then so be it.

---

After the ninth day of charging from dawn to dusk, Ramattra finally felt like he was at an acceptable power level. The process had been torturously slow, having been spoiled by the efficiency of his power relay up till now. What took over a week for little over half of his full charge would have taken only a few hours for a complete recharge on his ship. But he had not spoken to you since the day you reset his power cores, and he was growing tired of sitting alone.

Which was how he had ended up, once again, playing chess with you. And, once again, you were losing.

You had taken one bishop, two pawns, and one rook from him.

He had taken both knights, one rook, one bishop, and four pawns from you. And if you would just finish your turn any time soon, he would also be taking your queen.

That was an undeniable truth. No matter how you moved, your queen would be lost. And yet still you sat as you had been since your turn began, leaning forward with your chin in your hand as you stared blankly at the board. No amount of thinking would change your reality, and it was beginning to frustrate him how long it was taking for you to accept that fact.

You were stalling.

Unable to wait any longer, Ramattra’s voice cut through the silence. “It has been five minutes,” he said. “Make your move.”

But you said nothing, wide eyes fixed on the board. His fans hissed their displeasure. You lifted your chin slightly in acknowledgement, though still not looking at him.

“I’m trying to think,” you hushed him, before pressing your thumb into the corner of your mouth pensively.

What else was there to think about? He had you in check with his knight—if you did not move your king, you would lose. Your back was against the wall, you had no other choice. Surely you knew that.

But this was the longest a game had ever lasted between you. He noted that you had improved considerably since your first match, and it was showing now. Your moves were more calculating than before, and you fell quickly into the rhythm of the game.

Another two minutes passed before you finally reached a decision, and even then, you moved slowly, the tip of your finger pausing on top of the cross that adorned your king. Slowly, as if unwillingly, you dragged it one square to the left, safely out of range of his knight.

Ramattra wasted no time in taking your queen with his bishop, plucking it from its square and deftly placing it next to the board in the graveyard of the rest of your fallen pieces. You had put up a valiant fight until now, but with your queen gone, the game would not last much longer.

You made a dissatisfied sound, muffled by your hand as you reconsidered your position.

You moved a pawn forward one space.

He moved his bishop.

You took his pawn.

He took yours.

You took his knight.

He took your remaining bishop.

You let out a frustrated groan, leaning back on your hands and letting your head drop backward. His optics lingered for a moment on the exposed column of your neck before refocusing to the board.

“This is too unfair!” you whined.

“This was your idea,” he reminded you. “If you mean to give up this quickly, why challenge me again in the first place?”

Your head snapped back up. “Who said anything about giving up?”

He looked down at the board, then back to you. You only had your king, one rook, and three pawns left. A pitiful army. “Do you honestly believe you can win?”

A defiant grin grew on your face. “The game isn’t over until you’ve put me in checkmate.”

Ramattra crossed his arms over his chest. Your resilience was admirable, if a bit foolish. Though he should not have expected otherwise. You were the kind of person who had the moxie to point a gun at a Ravager, twice. Of course the idea of conceding would be unthinkable to you; you had survived less favorable odds before.

The pieces danced on the board as you entered a standoff. Him, attempting to corner your king into checkmate, and you, narrowly defending your position at every turn.

Throughout the game, Ramattra noticed one of your pawns inching toward his side of the board. He considered taking it, stamping out any attempt of recovery on your end. But he let it go, curious about what you would do with your newfound advantage.

You barely cloaked your eagerness when your turn arrived again, hastily pushing your pawn to the farthest square on the board as if it would dissolve into thin air if you moved any slower.

Ramattra waited for the satisfied expression he expected to appear on your face. But your eyes were uncharacteristically dull as you replaced the pawn with your revived queen. You were tired, he realized. More than tired, he amended as you blinked sluggishly. Exhausted.

It became more obvious the longer the game drew out, the time between your turns lengthening bit by bit. Ramattra sat quietly as he waited, your eyes having drifted closed at some point during his turn. About a minute passed before they abruptly snapped open again and you shook your head slightly in an attempt to wake yourself up.

“You are tired,” he remarked.

You reached forward to move your queen diagonally, dismissing him with a wave. “I’m fine. Make your move.”

But he didn’t, his hands planted firmly on his knees. You sighed, annoyed, and rubbed your forehead. “I’m fine,” you insisted again. “I’ve pulled all-nighters before.”

Ramattra was no fool. He knew what an advantage keeping him weak and powerless would have been for Overwatch, so the fact that you had been allowed to recalibrate him meant it had taken some significant bargaining on your end. He saw its effects in the dark shadows lining your eyes, the wear of exhaustion taking its toll. A burden you had undertaken to ensure his well-being.

“You require rest.”

You ignored him, loosely motioning to his pieces. “Just make a move, already.”

Ramattra’s chin dipped as he looked down at the board. He was going to win eventually, there was no doubt about it. But you were too stubborn to concede. If you continued dodging his offense, there was no telling how much longer this match would go on.

“Your loss is inevitable,” he said. “Delaying it by several hours will not make a difference.”

You quirked a brow at him. “Is that supposed to be convincing?” When he did not respond, you let your head drop into your hands, rubbing your temples. “I can’t leave the board behind. Let’s just finish this game.”

“I will remember the state of the board.” Your eyes flickered up at him, something unreadable in your gaze. His voice softened. “Sleep.”

Your mouth flattened into a contemplative line. Then, with a sigh, you straightened your back and stood up. “Thank you,” you said, the corners of your mouth turning up in a tired smile. As you approached the door, you looked back at him over your shoulder. “Until tomorrow then, Ramattra.”

He watched you leave, ensuring you went in the direction he knew led to your quarters. When he could no longer see you, he finally released his auxiliary vents, letting the warm air exit his body with a sigh. You had caught him off guard with his name once again, still not quite used to hearing someone else say it. Regardless, he hoped to hear it again.

The sky was a black curtain through the windows of the conference room. Ramattra let his internal clock project in the corner of his visual field, watching the minutes pass until the sun would rise again and herald your return.

---

You didn’t.

#overwatch 2 #overwatch #ramattra #ramattra x reader #ramattra x you #reader insert #fanfic #rhamrhanch

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