#tranformers

Ratchet never wept.

Ever.

The pristine white and red plating, the symbol plastered all over his frame. It meant strength.

It meant safety.

Being emotional compromises the whole purpose of being someone in his line of work. It meant weakness. No one would be safe if the people meant to keep them all together couldn't handle themselves.

And Ratchet can handle himself. He could handle himself well.

Ratchets optics searched through themselves in the mirror. The Teal color spilling from behind and bathing himself and the washracks around him in its light. It's a terrible, sad, weak color.

His servos trembled against the sink. Trembling, shaking, always moving against his will.

He furiously looked down at his upturned palms, his digits twitching occasionally, swaying like a frail branch in light wind. It was frustrating.

He had been dealing with this for a while–the shaking. His servos seemed to grow less and less reliable by the day, his work taking almost twice as long. There weren't enough materials on the Lost Light to replace his servos. He repaired what he could. But it was never enough to satiate his terribly aging hands. It. Was. Frustrating.

Ratchet's vision began to blur. Fearing something was now wrong with his optics, he looked back into the mirror. What looked back was a pair of watery optics, one tear already falling over and running down his cheek.

Disbelief.

Ratchet immediately scrubbed his face, cursing himself internally. His servos trembled as they rubbed harshly at his optics, removing what was left of that weakness.

He couldn't let himself be weak.

A gentle knock tapped at the washrack door.

“Ratchet? I’m sorry, are you alright?” First Aid. Of course. Ratchet had been in the washrack for almost a jour now.

“Just finishing up something.” Ratchet spoke, stealing his voice to prevent any signs of his weak state of mind. “I’ll be out in a click.”

First Aid seemed to shuffle on the other side.

“Oh yeah, of course! Sorry!” He was always worried nowadays. Ratchet scoffed and glanced one more time in the mirror.

He looked fine. Regular, old, aging.

Primus..

Trembling, unsteady, inefficient.

Frustrating.

How many words can he use to describe how terrible it was to have to focus with servos like this?

He returned to the medbay shortly after his moment in the washracks. He didn’t want to worry Aid, or anyone. So, he relieved Ambulon and First Aid to prevent it and try to take back some semblance of dignity.

Primus forbid anyone find out about his weakness. Primus forbid Drift found out. The thought of the terrible expression he would–no doubt–have on his face made Ratchet's tanks churn. Worry, always worry. He disliked it.

He wasn't exactly comfortable with others caring about him so deeply. He dealt with things alone most of the time. All of the time.

Then Drift came along.

One single recovery had changed him for the better. Then the worst. And now, the best. Drift had been doing incredibly.

Well… as incredible as someone can be after switching sides and being exiled could.

His pedes were firmly on the floor, Ratchet had made sure of that. Ratchet liked having control over things, liked being there for others even if he won't really admit something like that aloud.

He liked being able to help Drift.

Ratchets optics scanned over the datapad. It was later in the day, the medbay was scarce of injured mechs, so that left bust work and closing.

Inventory. Datapads. Words and numbers!

The datapad swayed with his shaking servos. This again.

Ratchet sighed and sat the datapad down, looking into the large storage room. It was a lot like always, but he's done it so many times that he just went through the motions, the flow that usually came with counting and marking with a shaky grip. Shaky…

A bottle went crashing to the ground. He was almost done.

It crashed loudly. Ratchet didn't even attempt to save the damn thing as his grip faltered for the umpteenth time.

The contents of the bottle spewed from the cracks and pieces, now in a messy pile because of him. His fault.

The liquid pooled by his pedes and he could see his reflection looking back.

He knelt down to try and clean up his failure, getting a closer look at himself in the reflective fluid. His hands trembled violently as he attempted to pick up the broken shards of the glass.

His vision blurred.

He didn't realize until a sob ripped from his vocalizer. An unfamiliar sound. Unfamiliar tears fell, splashing in the mirror at his knees, disrupting the lines of his reflection.

It was just a broken bottle.

“--Do you know what he told me?” Rodimus’s boisterous voice filled the viewing room, the large window out to space bathing the room in a light shine from the stars.

Drift, a hand on his hip the other at his side, listened to his amica with interest.

“What.” He asked just a click before Rodimus was just going to tell him anyway, his aura shown frustration, unpleasant but humorous, so Drift better just sit back and let him rant.

Rodimus spoke in his best Ultra Magnus impression, “your ideas are young, maybe a bit too young.” He sighed dramatically, speaking with his hands. “Mind you, this was after he basically insinuated I wasn't doing my job correctly. Like, I'm the one making this cake, you just put it in the oven!”

Drift chuckled. What on Cybertron was an oven?

“Hey, are you listening?” Rodimus asked, mirroring Drift's posture.

“Whuh– oh, yeah. Ultra Magnus up your aft again.” He basically summarized Rodimus's incredibly long rant. Rodimus turned and crossed his arms over his chassis.

“Sure is. I just want to be taken seriously for once in my life! I was entrusted with this role, let me do my job primus damn it!” He said furiously.

Drift smiled at him, stepping closer. He extended a servo to rest on Rodimus’s shoulder comfortingly.

“You’re great at what you do and you know it. Don’t let something like that get under your plating.”

Rodimus met his gaze and smiled right back.

“Yknow, I am great! Some people just need to start realizing that.” Rodimus huffed triumphantly and lightly punched Drift's shoulder. “Thank you for listening to me, you are literally my number one supporter.”

Drift punched him right back, “I’ll always have your back, I’ve learned that’s what's really important.”

Drift had been betrayed before, hurt before. Being exiled had been one of the hardest things he had to become totally okay with super fast, he really wasn't. He knew why he had to leave, he had accepted it now and hey, he wouldn't be as close with Ratchet now if he wasn't!

Ratchet…

Drift checked his internal chronometer. It was about the time most everyone hunkered down. Ratchet should be cleaning up the medbay by now.

“Ratchet will be done soon, I should probably go check on him.” He'd been walking Ratchet to his quarters every night since they both returned to the Lost Light. He really didn’t want to stop now.

Rodimus chuffed. “Dear old Ratchet needs an escort..?” He said, clasping his servos together against his cheek and looking off to the side dreamily. “When should I expect the ceremony”

Drift punched him again.

They had said their goodbyes and parted ways soon after. Drift clasped his hands behind his back idly and continued down the desolate walkways towards the medbay.

The Lost Light was very large, filled with places and corridors that anyone could get lost in. Drift–however–knew this place like the back of his servo and had made the trip to the medbay so many times now that he could just figure it out if he got lost.

It was getting later now as he strode, Drift pondered if he was leaving Ratchet waiting.

Hopefully not.

Drift liked thinking about Ratchet–something he did often. Ratchet was a bright light, an angel.

That's actually one of the first thoughts in Drift's head when he had woken up from his near death overdose.

Am I dead? Has an angel come to save me? The red and white medic had smiled at him, ushering the larger bluer one away before placing his servo on his shoulder.

Drift would never forget the gift Ratchet had given him. Hope.

Even during his time in the Decepticons, Drift–Deadlock was always watching. Ratchet had saved Drift in the Dead End, and Deadlock had saved Ratchet a million times after.

Even if he didn’t know it.

Drift had been vindictive, careless, angry. He wanted to feel useful, needed by anything. He wanted to make something of himself. Becoming a Decepticon was a terrible idea, but he wouldn't be who he is today without that insecure part of him.

He had gone through a crisis when he was exiled. He struggled to really truly find himself, but he had succeeded enough to make himself useful, helping others when he wasn't and finding comfort in spirituality, his swords.

When he finally settled in Ratchet's shuttle, Drift found himself more comfortable than he had been with anyone. Comfortable enough to open up and confront his identity struggles, he opened up to Ratchet.

And he wept. Ratchet was there. He always was.

He neared the medbay. The hallway was dark save for the light filtering through the open doorway. Something didn't feel quite right he approached.

Usually he’d hear movement or see someone working. There was nothing.

He felt it before he heard it. The aura, dark and red seemed to perviate the whole bay. Then he heard it.

A cry, a sob. And it sounded like Ratchet. Had he cried before?

“Ratchet..?” Drift spoke softly, entering and following the source of the sound quickly. He found himself standing in the storage room doorway. His spark sank.

Ratchet was in there, kneeling, his trembling hands struggling to scoop shards of a bottle into a small pile. He had been crying, tears escaped his optics with great, painful effort. Ratchet turned quickly as Drift came into view and he choked.

“No– don’t..” His venting hitched harshly, “Th–this– I can’t–”

Drift felt like he couldn’t vent properly. He'd never seen his medic like this before. So.. broken.

He walked further into the room and Ratchet flinched, his field was all sorts of untethered and erratic, even though he tried to pull it closer to himself as soon as he had noticed Drift's presence.

“Ratch. What happened?” Drift spoke quietly, catching Ratchet's optics as they looked up at him in terrible sorrow.

Ratchet couldn't get out another word.

Why did he have to come here, now, at this moment when he was at his weakest.

What happened?

He doesn't know. A broken bottle.

Ratchet choked on a sob and turned away from Drift sharply to avoid looking any worse than he did.

That expression, just like he thought.

Ratchet couldn't prevent the next broken sound from escaping his vocalizer. And then the next. And the next.

He was defeated. This was pathetic, crying over a broken bottle like this, and he couldn't stop. It was so much, so much emotion, time he spent focusing on others and never himself all coming out like it had been trapped, violently escaping when the bottle cracked enough for it to seep through its shards.

He curled over himself, squeezing his optics shut as he sobbed. Light servos slowly slid down his shoulders, making him jump slightly. Arms wrapped around him from behind, the servos settling around his own. A helm pressed against the back of his neck, the frame warm behind him.

Drift’s spark had broken. He couldn't stand seeing Ratchet like this any longer. He knelt down behind him and wrapped his arms protectively around his frame, servos clenching Ratchet's trembling ones.

Ratchet seemed to cry harder against him. Drift’s grip tightened.

Ratchet was trembling, his frame shaking with every sob and hitched breath that forced its way from its unwilling participant.

Beautiful. His beautiful Ratchet was unraveled, how had Drift not seen the warning signs of this deterioration?

Drift's servos gently rubbed Ratchet's chest plating, a comforting touch meant to prove he was there, easing his pounding spark.

“I’m so weak.” Ratchet spoke softly, finally able to speak words between his hitching breaths.

“What..?” Drift asked, turning his helm to rest slightly over his shoulder.

“A broken bottle was all it took.” Ratchet chuffed without humor. “A b–broken bottle.” He whimpered, words breaking off with a vent.

Drift removed himself from behind Ratchet, cold seeping into the space between them before he settled down right in front of him. He couldn't be avoided now.

“Was it just the bottle?” Drift asked, slowly wrapping his servos around Ratchets. They were trembling.

“I don’t want to be weak–”

“You’re not weak.” Drift said sternly, squeezing his hands. “It’s not just the bottle is it?”

Ratchet looked at him finally, his optics helpless.

“I.. I don’t know.”

Drift seemed to contemplate this, glancing at the glossy mess and broken glass.

“How did the bottle break?” He asked softly, care seeping into every word he spoke.

Ratchet swallowed the building sob in his throat.

“I dropped it.” He said, his servos clenching into fists underneath Drifts. “I didn’t grasp it properly.”

“An accident then?”

“I’ve been having too many of those recently.” Ratchet spoke coldly. Drift’s optics lit slightly in recognition.

“Is this about your servos?” He asked, looking down at their hands, opening them up to expose Ratchet's palms.

Drift knew about Ratchet's frustration with his hands, he didn't know it was this bad, however. Ratchet didn't make a huge deal of it, a slight complaint here, terribly disguised joke there. Drift knew it was bothering him deep inside.

He hated how it had to boil over like this. Why hadn’t he noticed sooner?

Ratchet's optics avoided his, looking down at where they joined.

Drift let go of his servos and held his face instead. Ratchet was reduced to hitching vents and soft sniffles by this point, looking ready to crack again at any moment.

Ratchet's gaze met his again and Drift swiped a thumb underneath one of his optics, drying the tears there.

“You don’t need to be strong all the time. You can tell me these things.”

“I can’t.”

“Why?”

“.”

Drift frowned tightly.

“Does speaking of your feelings make you weak?” Drift searched Ratchets optics. “Would that make me weak?”

Ratchet seemed speechless for a moment.

“No, of course not–”

“So why you?”

Ratchet didn't need to think of a response for long.

“I’m a medic. I can't afford it.”

“Is that all you are?”

“What else would I be?”

Drift's expression softened.

“You’re a cybertronian like everyone else. You aren't some drone without feelings.”

Ratchet recognized those words. You aren’t a drone without feelings. He had said that to Drift that day he spiraled on his shuttle. He remembered that?

“Ratchet.” Drift said, sliding his hands down to Ratchet's shoulders. “I need you to be honest with me. Tell me what's going on.”

Ratchet had to swallow his pride, reminding himself he had just broken down and.. Drift was right. Ratchet had been nothing but a hypocrite this entire time. He wanted to be open with him.

“I’ve been frustrated. I’m not performing like I used to.” He grit his denta slightly, “how useful can I be if I can't even perform simple tasks like these.” Ratchet motioned to the broken bottle.

Drift looked at the broken bottle as well, a completely different mind set taking place.

Ratchet saw failure, Drift saw Ratchet.

“As a mech on this ship. You are more than a medic performing tasks.” Drift's expression hardened, “you’re so important to everyone here, you’re amazing at what you do. Mistakes beyond your control don't define who you are.”

Ratchet's mouth formed a tight line. Drift continued.

“Do you want to know what I think?” he asked, lowering himself to look up at Ratchet seriously.

“I think you are the most important bot on this ship.”

Ratchet shook his head.

“You don’t mean that–”

“I do.” Drift spoke soft but stern, like he wouldn't change his mind. “You see yourself through this lens of everything you can't do–everything you do wrong, when all we see–all I see, is a mech who's keeping everything together, pushing everything down in favor of helping at least one more person.”

Drift let out a breath, glancing down for a moment before smiling softly and leaning in just a bit more.

“You’re the most selfless person I know, Ratty,” he spoke softly, “for now, tonight.. Let’s focus on you for once.”

Ratchet hardly even said a word this entire time, being psychoanalyzed by this glowing mech looking deep into his optics with so much care, far more than Ratchet thought he deserved. The look really made Ratchet believe him–and even for a bit–maybe that was okay.

“That's it, that's the smile I love so much.” Drift said fondly, placing his servo back on Ratchet's cheek.

Has Ratchet been smiling? Even if it was the softest thing, it was still there.

His tears had long been dried, and that look on Drift's face wasn't making anything better. He looked as though Ratchet had hung the stars, looking at that little smile like it was the origin of all that is good.

And it was.

“I guess.. Just for tonight.” A victory. One Drift would savor. He stood up slowly, offering a servo out to Ratchet who took it.

“Let's get this cleaned up.” He said. Ratchet held his hand, looking down at the mess. He wasn’t as bothered anymore.

“Okay..”

Drift really meant the night was about him.

Cleaning up his mess wasn’t so hard with Drift there to help him. Ratchet's servos were unsteady, but Drift was incredibly patient with him throughout and it didn’t take long at all.

Then, they walked to the washracks.

Ratchet had kneeled in the chemical spill, it was all around his legs and in his servo joints. Gross.

Drift placed Ratchet right under the spray. It was nice, just the two of them. It was so late that nobody was really walking around, only the night shifts. They had the washracks to themselves.

Ratchet was facing the water as it sprayed down on his frame, getting into his joints and loosening him up. Drift was behind him, perhaps closer than a friend should be, but neither of them really cared about that.

Perhaps they weren't friends.

Drift reached around Ratchet for his servos, gently taking one in both of his. Under the solvent, he rubbed between his joints, caring for each one.

Ratchet was helpless and exhausted to Drift's talented servos, not entirely wanting to be helped anyway. He’d never really been washed like this before, his washrack trips usually being one click away from recharge ultimately doing nothing but wasting solvent.

Drift moved onto the next servo. His trembling died down a bit, relaxing under the hot liquid easing his trembling.

“How does that feel?” Drift asked. Ratchet didn’t even realize he was pressed against him, Drift against his back.

“Good.” Ratchet said with a softness he wasn’t used too. Drift hummed behind him.

This felt.. Intimate. They hadn’t really been this close since their trip back. It was nice–Ratchet decided.

Drift moved to his arms, gently using a cloth to get into his seams. Drift was slowly taking him apart, panel by panel.

Eventually, Drift’s servos flatted around Ratchet's midsection affectionately, the cloth in one swiping across his pelvic plating. Ratchet stuttered forward.

“Are you alright?” Drift asked in that annoyingly caring voice.

“Maybe I should take it from here..” Ratchet said, his voice slightly shaky at the edges.

Was he heating up just because of the solvent?

“At least let me get your legs first.”

Ratchet sat down on the ledge against the wall, Drift knelt before him. He began at his pedes and worked his way up Ratchet's leg. The angle that Drift was cleaning him, Ratchet could now see him fully.

Drift wore a soft expression, like he was focusing intently on something delicate. Like Ratchet was something delicate to be cared for.

Ratchet found himself staring at Drift, a heat growing on his cheeks as he watched him. He’d never been cared for like this and by Drift of all mechs!

He really liked it.

Drift missed being this close to pristine white plating. Ratchet's plating, and he was right there, Between his legs, with Ratchet looking at him like that.

It's been so long.

Drift's movements slowed when he neared his pelvic plating again, the cloth sweeping the line right in Ratchet's inner thigh.

Ratchet shivered.

Drift looked up at him, their optics met.

Ratchet had a slightly shaky servo covering half of his face. His optics were lowered, their light dimmed slightly. He was enjoying this.

Drift smiled triumphantly. Exactly what he wanted–Where he wanted Ratchet to be.

Drift mirrored Ratchet's expression, still looking up at him as he placed his cheek against his inner thigh, relishing in the heat coming off of him.

“I missed you, Ratchet.” Drift said, slightly nuzzling into the hot plating where he was planted. Ratchet's leg twitched slightly.

“I missed you too.” Ratchet said back, lowering his hand.

A simple phrase, it meant so much to both of them. An unsaid agreement portrayed with so little words.

Drift kissed his inner thigh, Ratchet jumped. Drift kept kissing.

Ratchet spread his knees more, welcoming drift into their embrace between them. Drift continued his descent upward, a searing kiss placed right against his pelvic plating.

The sounds of the solvent hitting the ground fell into the background as Drift paid special attention to that panel. Ratchet seemed to be fairing oddly.

He began to breathe a bit heavier, his frame tasseled with charge that circulated, building up.

“Tell me you want this.” Drift said, his derma brushing against that hot panel. Ratchet's knees wobbled a bit.

“I want this, I want you, please..” Ratchet whispered, only for Drift to hear. And with that, his panel slid away.

Drift felt his intake salivate slightly at the sight.

Ratchet’s valve was always perfect, blue anterior node strobing gently, practically begging for him. White lips laced with red stripes. Drift cupped the beautiful thing in front of him, thumbs pulling the lips apart to peer more intimately inside.

The valve before him clenches, the main channel was slick. Arousal coiled in Drifts tanks at the sight. How long had he been wet like this?

He looked up at Ratchet again. He was struggling at this point, agitation in his gaze at why he hadn’t done anything yet.

“You’ve seen me plenty of times before. You don't need to study it every time.” He spoke, his agitation laced with anticipation and a slight tremble that let Drift know that yes, Ratchet may be nagging him, but he was on the right track.

“So, shut up and get to work then?” Ratchet went to say something at that but Drift–still basically holding him open–planted his glossa right against his main channel, slightly sinking in. Ratchet's frame tensed up and he bucked up against Drift's faceplate with a gasp.

“D-Drift!” Ratchet gasped. Drift hummed a short ‘mmhm?’ in response and the legs around him shook. “Drii–iift.”

Drift chucked, wrapping his arms around Ratchet's legs, hoisting him closer to his face. He delved in deeper, sucking slightly at the channel like he was starved. Ratchet's taste was incredible, something that definitely could not be replicated or replaced by anything else.

Drift moaned, his brow furrowing as he focused hard on getting as much as he could from that glorious channel. He smooshed his face as far as it would go against him. Ratchet jumped above him.

“Whhhhuh–what are you do-doing!” He said breathlessly. Drift moaned gratefully and nuzzled impossibly closer. “Drift!” Ratchet bucked, his knees coming up around Drift's helm.

Drift groaned and pulled back for breath before diving right back in, trailing his glossa right up to Ratchet’s anterior node. Ratchet gasped and moaned outright. His node was sensitive, a lot more than his channel was and Drift knew this and he took full advantage of that.

Drift sucked lightly at the blinking node, his glossa running circles around it.

“Hhuh– Ah!” Ratchet jerked upward against Drifts intake, his servos jumping forward and landing on Drifts sharp finials who in turn, looked up at Ratchet and moaned right against his node.

And he just kept sucking.

Ratchet sobbed, overwhelmed. Drift was trying to get him to overload now, sucking and licking without stopping. He was putting his whole frame into it now, rising slightly on his knees to keep himself as close as possible.

Ratchet's vents hitched harshly, his back arching and hips rising. His optics went wide, intake open in a silent shout.

He was going to overload. Hard.

“W–wait– Frag! Frag!” Ratchet shouted, his legs closing around Drift's helm tightly, charge zipped around his frame and his helm tilted back. “Drift!”

For a moment, everything went still. And then he overloaded.

Processor melting pleasure swelled from his pelvis, all originating where Drift sucked desperately against him, harsh.

Something gushed from between his folds, the overwhelming stimulation Drift couldn't seem to stop giving him forced his body to convulse and string taunt, arching up against him until overstimulation forced Ratchet to jerk and shy away from Drift's intake.

“Mmmh.. wait–” Drift gasped, chasing Ratchet's valve with need.

“Auhh-! Too much–” Ratchet whimpered. Drift licked up whatever remaining fluid that had leaked from Ratchet during his overload with a sort of frantic desperation only Drift could have.

Drift's attention slowly stopped, a soft kiss placed right against his channel before Drift pulled away finally.

Ratchet had tears in his optics, his chest heaving.

Drift wiped his mouth on the back of his servo, raising from where he had been kneeling. His back popped slightly as it straightened into place, relief from his knees and back not being bent like they were anymore.

Drift was on him again, but softer this time. He kissed Ratchet's cheek, his jaw, gently on his neck. Ratchet moaned softly, tilting his helm for Drift’s attention.

Ratchet giggled, actually giggled, a soft smile playing on his derma as Drift pulled back slightly. Ratchet immediately leaned in and gently pressed their dermas together in a soft touch of lips. Drift deepened it, taking his servos in his own and holding them against his chest plate.

Their glossas tangled together in a deep kiss, soft breaths against one another in their entanglement. The taste of sex and something distinctively each other overwhelmed their embrace, strangely comforting and deeply full of affection. Drift pulled away with one final kiss to Ratchet's mouth. Ratchet leaned forward as Drift pulled away, chasing his lips subconsciously.

“Oh–Ratchet, I love you. “ Drift sighed, nuzzling his helm into Ratchet's neck. Ratchet slid his arms around Drift's helm, holding him close. He felt so vulnerable, many emotions were felt in less than a cycle, but Ratchet was already feeling a bit better about getting through it.

It would take time to become fully comfortable with himself, but right now, he wasn't worried.

“I.. love you too..” Ratchet ran his servo over one of Drift's finials, a soft purr rumbled through Drift’s systems and he leaned into the touch.

…

“We should probably stop wasting so much solvent.” Ratchet chuckled.

The berth was so much more comfortable when you had someone to share it with. Someone you loved and cared about deeply.

They looked into each other's optics, Ratchet gently stroking the side of Drifts helm.

“Thank you.. For.. everything.” Ratchet began quietly. “I don't know what I’d do without you in my life.”

He really meant it. This mech he once saved became one of the most important people in his life.

“Good,” Drift began, “because I don't plan on leaving any time soon.” He smiled a silly smile, one that filled Ratchet's spark with annoyance, a fond aching that he could get used to.

Ratchet chuckled, sliding a digit over Drift's finial. It twitched and Drift's smile widened. He leaned down and tucked his helm under Ratchet's chin, his arms resting comfortable around his waist. Ratchet–similarly–had his servos limp around Drift in a loose grip.

..

Drift hitched, and then sighed in annoyance.

“What is it?” Ratchet asked, his optics fluttering open with dim light,

Propane "Simple but Easily Ignited"

Affiliation: Autobot

Pronouns: he/him

Alt-mode: fuel tanker transportation truck

(Like this ^)

About him:

Has an integrated flamethrower. Has been called an “oversized lighter”. Just wants to cook (flambe type shit) but is quite annoying about it. The bots really just ignore him when they don’t need to actively work with him (they get annoyed but like in an affectionately exasperated way - its giving “OK gramps, lets get you back to bed” - they know sometimes if they’re low energy he just needs to talk before slowing down - leads to him spending a lot of time leeching energy and talking to himself in the kitchen). Able to process and refine simpler fuels/compounds into forms usable by Cybertronians without the need for converters. Generally does not see active combat and instead works with the scientists/medics (he can synthesize fuels with specified concentrations given enough time and raw material and a blowtorch that you can voice-direct and has fine control over temperature and size is useful) due to his fuel production capabilities. His scare response (fight, flight, freeze) is to freeze.

When he’s at the main base he mostly hangs with Bluestreak/Blurr/Mirage/Trailbreaker/Other Spec-ops bots (they can be found hanging out in the kitchen). One-sidedly on thin ice with Hot Rod/Rodimus because apparently having an integrated flamethrower is “encroaching on his brand” (oh wow! Big words Roddy! I didn’t think you knew those ones! - Mirage, probably).

Fucks heavy with Ratatouille, Hell’s Kitchen (but if faced with someone like Gordon Ramsay he would start crying), Iron Chef, Chopped. Really vibes with the human belief that “everyone can cook” and thinks its really cool that humans of all kinds of backgrounds can become professional chefs (was onlined on Cybertron in the specialty transport caste - lower middle class - and thus unable to access the luxury chef/foods producer class which is kinda upper middle class/lower upper class). Also likes boy bands!

The fuel tank on his alt mode is fully auxiliary and splits into 2 separate tanks in his root mode. The larger half on his back is a kinda backpack type thing (can share with others or transfer fuel to his flamethrower as needed) and the smaller half is on his arm as the fuel for his integrated flamethrower. Give him some pretty little light strips around the tanks and bumper. The flamethrower arm fuel tank is a wartime modification to avoid drawing from his personal fuel stores for flamethrower fuel. Boxy like TFP!Ratchet/G1!OP but has fewer sharp corners. Very Rounded.

Skyrocket "Reaches Unforeseen Heights"

Affiliation: Insecticon (technically Decepticon but loyalty to the Hive comes first)

Pronouns: they/he

Alt-mode: Meganisoptera/Griffinfly or giant dragonfly (still ironing out the details)

About them:

 Like 6 or 7 m wingspan? (Tbh I'm tempted to go bigger but I also want him to be smaller than Propane). In bipedal mode the back legs are used to walk and the other two sets of legs fold around the chassis (which is the folded up abdomen/thorax) crossbody X style (digitigrade legs!!) though they can unfold if so desired. Their wings become bipedal arm blades (the forewings fold into bipedal mode arms, hindwings are the arm blades), compound eyes as like,,,, ski goggles that slide over the optics when transforming. Big stupid jawface (affectionate). Still technically connected to the Hive but has less of an influence in either direction since their role has more scout-esque/assassin-type tasks (kind of like a bounty hunter but more like, monitors potential threats to the Hive and then gets rid of them when signs appear that they’ll threaten the Hive). Chitters mostly (Insecticon dialect) but can speak (common dialect) if motivated enough.

Has taken to eating Propane’s leftovers/culinary experiments (free energon! Yippee!). Has siphoned from live/dying mechs before but times have changed (the war has simmered down and fewer live battlefields are being fought which means less hunting more scavenging). Personally thinks that Propane’s full potential is not being reached in the Autobots (what a great addition to the Hive he would be….. He can process inedible material into edible material that tastes good, is strong, and can defend himself if needed).

The aforementioned idiot plot:

Their first meeting is late at night when Propane can’t recharge so he does some late night cooking outside of base nearby. Finds Skyrocket rummaging through the leftovers he hid at his outdoor cooking spot. They freeze, looking at each other before Propane comes to his senses, then shrieks really fucking loudly, and the Insecticon takes off.

Later down the line, Propane notices there’s now little chunks of rare unrefined energon left at his kitchen workspace. He’s… not going to think about it too hard (not looking the present horse in the snout or whatever the humans say).

There definitely has to be an accidental kidnapping somewhere in this. I'm just figuring out how it'll go. But after the kidnapping, there is a noticeable influx of visitors (that are not Skyrocket) and on one hand he’s like “holy shit what are these Insecticons doing here” on the other hand he’s horribly flattered that they like+appreciate his culinary works.

The vibes: