🖤💜🖤💜

Yes

welcome back to things I want but don’t need so I give them to shockwave because why not

Previews #312 [Textless] (2014)

Art by: Sarah Stone

Let's not forget...

Reminder for when he “saves” it. He was the one who wanted this, and now he gets to be the hero and win favour with young constituents. Don’t give him the credit for fixing his own problem.

They totally do...

him and scream gossiping about megsie

Take me back to my childhood <3

I’m rewatching a childhood classic. >:3c

The decision to detour was bred from a distinct sense of dread that filled him at the thought of returning to the base. He hated these scouting mission debriefings. Especially when they yielded no interesting results. So when the unfamiliar energon signature had popped up on his radar, he'd almost felt releived. Yet this begged the question...

"Who the frag are you?"

A covert approach was needed here. Setting the Jackhammer down amid a sparse cluster of pines, he continued on pede. Being at ground level meant losing his aerial vantage point; a necessary risk if he wanted to catch this mystery bot unawares. Mindful of his steps, Wheeljack listened intently for any sign of them, hearing only the chatter of native fauna. Whoever they were... they were sneaky.

So sneaky in fact, that he nearly blew his cover. The wrecker all but threw himself behind a craggy outcropping of rock, peering around the opposing side as they continued their approach.

Feline in shape, the bot stood around the same height as his knee - a deployer perhaps? Regardless, that was a Con if he'd ever seen one.

At this point he knew he had two options. He could engage, or he could call it in and await orders. A smirk pulled at his scarred lip components. He never had been the patient type.

Cannon humming to life as he stepped into their path, Wheeljack chuckled in response to the snarled threat he received. "Nice night for a walk, innit?"

@gutter-bot liked for a starter.

Since returning to his host's side, Ravage rarely left the Nemesis. Soundwave was protective- rightfully so-, and Ravage's frame just wasn't what it used to be. After his near death experience that lead to the separation from his host on Cybertron, he never quite regained his full strength.

However, that didn't mean he was useless. On the contrary, in fact. Ravage could still perform his strong suit exceptionally well; that being his work as a spy. It helped that the Autobots were unaware of his existence.

He had been slinking back from a successful intel gathering mission when things went wrong. Wheeljack, as he was last informed by Laserbeak, was not supposed to be in the area. Apparently, things had changed. He froze at the glowing blaster aimed at his helm, a low growl ripping itself from his throat. "Back off," he snarled, red optics narrowing beneath the Soundwave-esc visor that covered most of his helm.

Shamelessly plugging my own OC here... trying to get some semblance of my shit together with this blog so I can use it to engage with other blogs. Eventually will have art and details up, but for now starting with a good old fashion origin story.

Countless optics slid over her as she passed by, some gazes fleeting, others not. Those that lingered were assessing, measuring, judging. She kept her helm tucked low, expression giving nothing away but the appearance of calm. Paying them no mind, she cut her way through the swath of patrons that occupied the Grand Salon, noting they seemed busier than usual. Others like her milled expertly, Keepers directing guests according to their desired experiences. Larger parties were ushered into separate parlors for entertainment, and couples or smaller groups toward the upper floors where the private rooms were situated.

She entered a lift, along with a cluster of others, noticing the mech to her right seemed rather interested in her status. The patches adoring his glossy pauldron suggested a high-ranking Elite Guard. Turning in a tight circle as she moved to face the door, she ensured her servos – both closed into neat fists behind her back – would be visible to him. Noting this, he glanced away, expression momentarily displaying his disappointment until the pretty little mech already hanging off his side snagged his attentions once more.

Her own optics swept the crowd below as the pod ascended, tracing the slim fingers of golden light that spilled through high, towering windows. The floor, a complex mosaic of reflective slabs, cast the sun’s rays into every corner of the vaulted room, where it caught against the intricate detailing that accented columns and framed doorways, making them gleam. She glanced down at the fragile metal mesh draped over her. The delicate crystals fixed into the garment were made to catch that same light with every subtle, tinkling shift, sending a myriad of colored pinpricks dancing across nearby surfaces. A deliberate addition, to snare the attention and interest of their clients.

Exiting the lift on one of the upper floors, she pressed on in silence, husky promises and tittering laughter falling away as – pair by pair – the others branched off into their own rooms.

The final stretch of hallway was mercifully empty, and she slowed her pace, savoring every moment of peace - of solitude - as she closed the distance between herself and the room at the end of the corridor, where her client awaited. The soft, tinny clack of her heel struts against the tile echoed faintly, their frequency and tone reminiscent of a death knell. Fitting, as these walks always felt a little like an execution march.

She paused a moment at the door, glancing up to catch her reflection in the polished metal as she lifted a servo to knock. A vision of perfect contentedness… but inside… a yawning, empty chasm that longed to be filled. Her spark was a restless thing in her chassis, always hungry. Desperately so. Why? She had everything she needed; much more than so many others, as the Masters liked to remind them. Draped in the most luxurious finery, surrounded by opulence… attending lords, council members, and bots from walks of life that most could only dream of meeting. So why didn’t she want any of it? Was she flawed? Was there anything that could satiate the desperate, aching need for something she couldn’t name that chiseled away at her?

She closed her optics, silencing the riot in her processor and composing herself as she allowed her digits to rap gently but crisply against the ornate slab. A voice, soft and low, bid her enter.

“This is all I need,” she told herself – the lie cold and bitter on her glossa.

Mmmmm yesssss

Reblog daily for health and prosperity