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crocomum · 2 days ago

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if it's ok I'd like to request menasor/superion

something about missing your rival and meeting them in battle just feels right like puzzle pieces slotting in to place

no worries if that's not your thing though!!

Dead End accepts futility. He is aware that his creation has been deemed a failure. The Stunticons are a failed experiment. He is not surprised by this knowledge. As the realization that everything was pointless was the first of his onlining. Emotions were wasted efforts he could better use polishing his frame. There was only one he had allowed to occupy his processor, an uncontrollable burning of passion that not even the coldness of his candor could snuff out.

Dead End hates Motormaster.

Wildrider owns the roads. He owns any surface a tire can tread. It’s fact. Roads are loud and full and he can drive anywhere he desires. If another car or Autobot or Decepticon are where he wishes to be? Not for long. When he’s driving he can only hear the revving of engines and the squeal of tires. When he isn’t…then he hears only himself. And the other Decepticons, so jealous are they of his automotive domination, scheme against him in these isolated reprieves. They must. His spark whispers their treachery directly into his audial. It also tells him the worst offender. The most envious of all.

Wildrider hates Motormaster.

Drag Strip loves winning. He loves the very embodiment of victory—he loves himself. The rush of electricity that shoots up his circuitry after every decisive win against his enemies is what he lives for. The only reason he lives. For what other purpose is there other than winning? None. His function is to defeat Autobots, and he is the best of them at it. The Decepticons who sneer at him after every mission are only jealous. Not a fraction of their experience and he’s better. He was built better. That is why he despises the one who drags down his perfection with the selfishness that is mediocrity.

Drag Strip hates Motormaster.

Breakdown is being watched. He does not watch back. His engine shakes and rattles pieces of himself apart. Bolts and screws drop from the gaps in his armor (so many!) when he is forced to lock glowing red to red. They burn a threatening crimson, and it is a threat. Everything is a threat. They are all (all) against him and wait to catch him unawares. He is not vigilant enough. They will catch him. Breakdown’s engine sputters in terror with this knowledge. It rumbles in fury knowing the one meant (built) to protect him from them (all of them!) is the one who poses him the greatest danger.

Breakdown hates Motormaster.

Motormaster is repulsed by weakness. So why is his spark tethered to so many mental deficiencies? The flaws of his leadership lie in the many failings of his team. There is nothing wrong with his leadership style. Mocking his team’s suffering is justified. It makes them stronger. And they deserve it. They would be better if they all were him. If they were all unquestioningly obedient to their better. King of the Road. But he feels their unspoken rebellion. Their disrespect. They are the only reason he has not killed Optimus Prime. Why he has not overtaken Megatron. They hold him back. They are his only weakness.

Motormaster hates the Stunticons.

Menasor is called to exist. Menasor does not enjoy these short bursts of consciousness. They do not exist always. They cannot. Their thoughts are too scattered. Too frightened. They fear their center and none of their limbs coordinate. They are paranoid. They are tired. They are perfect. They are arrogant. They are furious. They are scared. Menasor despises a piece of Menasor that cannot be ripped out.

Menasor hates—

Superion is near. Menasor forgets they are Menasor. It is their favorite feeling. The rival combiner charges, flies, against the Menasor and shouts a heroic phrase. Menasor cannot understand it. But they can see. They can feel. White, red, and gold plating shine bright enough to disrupt their optical sensors. There is no hate in the heavy field that presses down on Menasor. There is anger. There is violence. There is pity. Menasor shudders against the one nonhostile emotion they have ever experienced. It feels good. It feels right in a way only Superion could. Superion’s fist slamming into their chassis causes their spark to burst. Their most hated part is damaged. Menasor smiles as every disconnected piece of themselves finally slides into place.

Stuck joints click into the right slot. Disconnecting cogs correct themselves and crank smoothly together. Apathy is kicked away. Paranoia forgotten in the presence of a welcome, tangible opponent. Their best opponent. All of Menasor is together and all is right. Menasor is whole.

Menasor loves Superion.

#menasor/superion #do they have a ship name?#my writ #i could ship them all together while motormaster is angrily watching from the outside not invited

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crocomum · 4 days ago

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Pine for Constructicprowl if you wanted?

[ PINE ] sender fervently resists receiver's attempts to comfort / care for them.

Prowl’s door wings lifted incrementally higher as he searched for the miscreant who had hidden himself in the dangerously dilapidated tower. Its base floor, which had been unused by its Vosian owners, was mostly filled with debris and rubble that had fallen from the floors above. The outside light shown through from breaks in the tower’s glass exterior, exposing the rust coating its rebar reinforcements and the scorch marks from battles past that lay where a missile had gone through one of the exterior walls and failed to fully detonate.

His derma thinned into a frown as he finally spotted who he had spent the last four joors searching for.

Sitting directly underneath the Cybertronian sun’s exposed rays on a mound of intentionally stacked rubble was Bonecrusher.

He slowly approached the stack of concrete and whatever else had been used to construct the mound the mech had seated himself atop of; nearly tripping on a hidden iron pipe as he did. His target’s dower mood was confirmed when the mech failed to laugh or make an offer of assistance (an often-used guise for groping).

Reaching its base, he placed his servos on his hips and with monotone vocals called up to the mech, “You’re late for your shift by five joors and have failed to answer comms. If you do not respond with an acceptable justification I will have no choice but to report you derelict of duty.”

There was no response from the Constructicon.

His frown tightened. “While I understand your…dissatisfaction with the demolition bid results, your continued sulking has significantly hindered the…your teammates’ ability to perform their duties and has brought overall construction productivity within Vos down by thirty percent.”

Still nothing—highly unusual.

“Bonecrusher, respond,” he ordered. Again, silence. The lack of response from this specific Constructicon was odd even given his current morose state. As one of the more vocal Constructicons when delivering appreciations for the Praxian, an inordinate amount of it expressed toward the details of his frame, Bonecrusher remaining silent around him meant Prowl should begin treating the situation marginally more serious.

Petulant as the whole thing was.

Huffing through his olfactorate, Prowl began to climb the artificial mound. It was four times his height and had situated Bonecrusher directly in front of where the tower’s glass had been broken open all those millennia ago. While climbing, and through labored vents, he said, “Your proposal would have increased the project’s budget by sixty-three-point four two percent and would have extended its completion date by at least three orns.”

Again, he was ignored. Prowl grit his denta and continued climbing, his digits scraping against the broken bits of building he was using to pull himself up.

“There will be nothing gained from your continued refusal to work. We have already lost an entire cycle’s worth of progress because you are the job site’s foreman.”

Nothing. Prowl might have thrown something but were he to lean back the acquired amount to launch a rock at Bonecrusher’s oversized helm, he would have unbalanced himself and fallen. Then his tac-net flashed the probability of the tactic’s success and Prowl climbed higher. He was nearly at the top when, entirely intentionally, his hold over a sharp edge of rubble slipped and his pedes scrabbled against the loose debris below. His servos released their grip over the concrete and spun backwards, soon he would fall and—a purple servo shot out and gripped his wrist, effortlessly holding his entire frame up.

“You did that on purpose,” the Constructicon accused.

“And yet you still caught me.”

Bonecrusher’s visor brightened before dimming, then the mech turned his helm back toward the hole in the glass wall. But his hold over Prowl’s wrist never left and he pulled the Praxian the rest of the way up the rubble, depositing him next to where he was sitting. After releasing him, the green mech pulled his knees back up to his chassis, wrapping his arms around them mumbling, “I’ll always catch you.”

Prowl tilted his helm but otherwise gave no acknowledgement of the declaration. He was not moved by the promise and did not believe its validity. Once the Constructicons realized Prowl would not give them what they wished, himself, they would drop such pretenses. Always was an unconditional term and Prowl had spent his entire function sub-coding that all avowed affection was a steganography full of conditions.

“How long will this ridiculous behavior continue?” He inquired.

Bonecrusher snorted and said nothing. Prowl’s optics narrowed. “You are being obstinate. Refusing to work will not change the demolition proposal’s outcome.”

“You don’t get it,” Bonecrusher complained. “You Autobot types have never appreciated our kinds’ work.”

Prowl, not about to be lured into another philosophical debate about the ended war’s beginnings merely clipped, “Explain.”

The Constructicon remained silent, the only sound coming from the mech coming from the tapping of his digits against his arms. Prowl waited, knowing that Bonecrusher required more time to gather his thoughts when speaking at length. Unless that speech involved complimenting Prowl’s bumper or wings, that kind of commentary the mech could whip out racer fast.

He did not have to wait more than a klick.

“Demolition is more than setting up the cheapest explosives and waiting for the fastest boom—it’s art.” Bonecrusher gestured out toward the wreckage of Vos seen through the broken glass, his servos continuing to move as he spoke. “Say the building is the canvas, doesn’t have to be a building, but anyway. The way the building falls is like…like the stroke of a paintbrush, get it? The flash of colors, those reds and oranges, or any other, are chosen to match the finishing vision just right. That’s the paint. And what remains after they’re set off; after every piece falls right where it was planned? A perfect painting.”

While Prowl would not pretend to find beauty in destruction, he did understand the satisfaction that came from a meticulously calculated plan being executed perfectly. Though, during his tenure it had been a rarely experienced feeling. He had also never allowed himself to languish after a plan failed or was not followed correctly. Had he, his entire career as second-in-command of the Autobots would have been spent at his own personal pity party.

The Constructicon sighed in a way that caused Prowl’s frown to deepen. He had not realized the mech’s proposal being rejected had affected him in such an emotionally debilitating capacity. It was unlike Bonecrusher to allow rejection to affect his moods. Prowl’s had never; the mech bounced back after every harsh no like it had been a soft maybe.

Continuing, Bonecrusher lamented, “It’s beautiful and not a one of those bots calling the shots appreciates beauty the way we do.”

No, they did not and nothing he or Bonecrusher could say would convince them, even if Prowl had wanted to try. He did not. Their resources were too few and Prowl would not argue against a better plan on the grounds of beauty.

Those thoughts did nothing to stop him, fully aware he was setting himself up for something dreadful, from intoning, “Oh?”

Bonecrusher nodded, “How else could you explain them working next to a pretty thing like you and not making a move? Course I’d clock their jaw if they ever tried.”

Prowl huffed a small laugh before catching himself. Then, with less reprimanding and more genuinely curious vocals, he asked, “You can still be the project’s lead; must it be your project?”

“If I can’t do it right I’m not doing it. They can shove those scrap plans right up their tailpipe,” the mech grunted in response.

Bonecrusher’s dedication to perfection was not an admonishable quality, but it was an unproductive one. Prowl gripped his chin and began processing the dialogue that might produce the most favorable result for the demolition project…and its demolitionist. Only in the pursual productivity. Bonecrusher’s passion and despondency had no impact on his next words. None at all.

“You will draft a new proposal and once complete you will send it to me. I will review and return it should the plan go over budget or delay the project’s completion. This pattern will repeat until your…performance art falls within acceptable parameters.”

Bonecrusher’s jaw might have dropped had his facemask not been in the way. “But I thought the demolition bid had already been picked?”

“The current plan is undergoing final review before being implemented.” Prowl paused, pursing his derma before admitting, “I should be able to waylay the final decision until your new proposal is submitted. So you are aware, the time it takes for you to submit your drafts will not affect the demolition’s scheduled date. If you fail to provide a plan that falls within the due date you will not get the bid. Am I clear?”

Bonecrusher just stared at him wordlessly, and if it were capable, Prowl would have thought he saw the mech’s red visor blink. Eventually Bonecrusher broke out of whatever processor glitch had gripped him and asked, “Can I kiss you?”

Prowl’s helm jerked back, and he let out an automatic, “No.”

“Hug?”

One of Prowl’s wings twitched. Bonecrusher would continue until he’d named the minimalist gesture against the Praxian’s smallest kibble. Rather than waste more time by allowing the exchange to unfold the standard route, he tipped his helm and acquiesced, “You may place one of your servos on my shoulder.”

There was no hesitation. A large servo clasped over the shoulder nearest the Constructicon. Bonecrusher then squeezed it gently before a thumb began rubbing back and forth over white plating in an uneven pattern. Prowl did not lean into the other’s touch, but his plating did not tense. Dangerous as it was, he no longer flinched when any of the Constructicons approached him, nor did he show visible revulsion after relenting to their pleads for physical contact.

It was a wasted effort he had found, as any visible reaction to their presence was enjoyed by the construction team.

His side of the bond was as tightly sealed off as ever, but he could still feel Bonecrusher’s spark pulse toward him. There was no begging in the Constructicon’s field, only an affection driven request. Prowl did not accept the request, though his denial was not vocalized. Instead, he loosened his hold on the bond just long enough to send back a quick no. It was the most he had allowed in deca-cycles.

Bonecrusher’s mask snapped back, and Prowl was met with a wide, crooked smile that should not have looked as handsome as it did. Because it didn’t. Prowl did not find Bonecrusher handsome. He had merely grown accustomed to the mech’s faceplate. So the quick flip his spark had done when that mask had pulled away made no rational sense. He would have to schedule a check-up once the demolition issue had been resolved. Spark related issues were a serious matter, after all.

A low engine rumble caused him to look away from Bonecrusher, turning his optics out toward the ruins of Vos. The collapsed towers, the rubble, and the glass that had scattered all over its roadless ground that glittered under the sun. The worst of the Constructicon’s emotions pulsed against him and he steeled his side of the bond against it.

No longer referencing the demolition project, he sighed, “You will tire of not getting what you want eventually.”

Bonecrusher’s grip switched from Prowl’s closest shoulder to his furthest, and he pulled the Praxian closer, their sides pressing against each other; the bulldozer’s engine thrum vibrating right down to the smaller mech’s protoform.

“Got what I want right here,” Bonecrusher responded, the warmth in his vocals seeping into Prowl’s plating and making it uncomfortably hot.

His spark did that strange flip in its casing again and Prowl bit his bottom derma. Perhaps he would schedule that next medical appointment sooner rather than later. The effect of the Constructicons on his spark as of late was…concerning.

#constructiprowl #idw prowl #idw bonecrusher #writing meme #my writ #Prowl my love please...

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