#light-bot

[xpurplepiex]

Lost Light sillies

[hoodedjelly]

all of my favs from different object shows 🧡

[ihatebrainstorm]

big bots and small bots who travel through space

[grey-viridian]

The newest addition to the TF Girls Club!

(TF Girls Club >> Next New - TF Boys Club)

[avoidghost]

New Ratchet Vinyl Stickers added to my shop! 🚑💖

✨ Buy them here! ✨

[achillean-knight]

[reebiz]

[thelvadams]

favourite games showcased at E3 2024

[eggariesalad]

ok but like............ hes so cute

[pinkpegacorn]

they sent me to hell so week 3 of daily flying buddies only had 3 drawings. there WILL be more next week i prommy

this was day 21

[raileurta]

I just want to throw Miko with the apex armor into various different continuities.

Why?

Because it would be funny.

You know how much she could fuck up these universes? A massive fuck ton would be the understatement of the century.

Lost light? Don't know much about it but I know her being transported there would be disasterly funny.

Bayverse? She's basically just bay Optimus 2.0. She gets a gun for one nanosecond and it's just instantly over.

Aus like EarthSpark or Rescue bots???? Might as well just drop a nuke. You get the same results either way. I'm not trying to disrespect these worlds but no offense they're not Miko proof AT ALL.

[d0not-disturb]

Could you draw the trivia bot and grumbot hanging out?

BROS IN LOVE😭😭😭😭😭😭😭🙏🙏

ROBOT YAOI IN 2024😭😭😭🙏WE ARE COOKED😭🙏 AND FREAKY😜😹

[sammysammer]

Felt cute and decided to make Jax sad :3

[idyllicbby]

i’ve been in a bunch of fandoms but i have never seen any fandom constantly degrade a female character that they dislike or “gets in the way” of their favorite ship in the way the arcane fandom does with Mel Medarda. it’s like y’all purposely go out of your way to depict her in fanworks for the sole purpose of degrading her character, it’s genuinely so gross and insidious.

& the way YALL are trying to make it seem like it’s some sort of activism bc she’s a councilor IN A FICTIONAL SHOW makes it even weirder. like idk I think it’s fair to say that if you degrade a woman in power in a FICTIONAL TV SHOW by parroting misogynistic rhetoric, YOU are the person causing REAL LIFE harm that needs to be held accountable, unlike the FICTIONAL CHARACTER

[sandrakir31]

Medbots!!!

I think these two could really be good friends if they had the chance.

[megtrns]

seasonal anthologies ft. the mtmte bots, sfw !

summer is for celebrations and driving down to the beach with drift, where the air hot and thick despite the setting sun in the distance. you stick your head out the passenger window to feel the wind rushing past your ears, the excited roar of his engines bouncing off the cliffside. it's sitting on rodimus's shoulders as he runs past the shore, the spray of cold water making you squeal into the side of his helm. june, july, august — salt dissolves in your mouth while thunder rumbles in the distance. you sit by the steps of your porch with swerve, the air heavy with heat. as if the earth was holding its breath in anticipation, waiting to break and give way to rain. his big, blocky fingers awkwardly tearing through an orange for you to eat. saccharine and sticky, the fruit drips down your forearms with every bite. green is the grass between your toes, grey is the sky as it melts to nightfall. summer is when the mattress dips unequally to one side, where you and tailgate sleep back to back, skin to metal. the warmth sinks into your bone, blanket on the floor as the faint whirring of his systems lulls you to sleep. fall is for new beginnings, shorter days, and knitted scarves. where the sunlight is lighter and softer, casting long, golden shadows across ratchet's face. he displaces his mass to help you tie your coat by its belt, pulling you closer to soak in the heat radiating off his chassis—soft wool between his shiny servos. september bleeds into october, and somewhere between, where the air is so clean it shivers, cyclonus walks next to you in muted contemplation. optics quietly taking in the ocean of leaves crunching underneath his pedes. cinnamon between your teeth as you swallow your longing, fingers tracing over the holo-picture of skids. nautica says the muted colors remind her of him, but she blames it on the morning chill creeping past her cables. you tell her that fall is the season of reminiscing, of missing what is gone and what is yet to come — the ending and beginning of things, the place where all things come to die. the soil is soft and the world is asleep. this is the part where you turn off the lights and leave.

winter is for joy and relaxation, november a mosaic of warm orange windows and deep blue nights, where the moonshine falls thin and silver. minimus is determined to keep you from straying off the path, guiding you through the thick heap of snow — arms intermingled, hand and servo intertwined. your laughter rings into the night like bells, airy and light; a quiet wish, a happy prayer. for some, december is asleep. it's reclusive and shy, just like rung when he gives in to your request to stay inside, submitting to the weight of the duvet as it swallows you both. for others, the darkness only makes them vigilant. optics wide awake, prowl slinks back into the shadows, pale like the blizzard, soundless like a secret. early mornings and frozen lakes, megatron tells you the winter is cruel — barren and empty, silencing the earth. you disagree, telling him that winter is full of hope, where the snow is white with the promise of forgiveness. the promise to begin again.

spring is for waking up under the sun, where the light kisses your cheeks and shoulders; brainstorm suddenly envious of the star. you chew berries against the bark of an old, dying tree. skin buzzing with a new kind of energy, heart bursting at the sight of perceptor studying the small animals in the distance. in february, you stretch your arms to welcome a night of storms. in march, you patiently listen to whirl complain about the pollen in his cogs. finally, in april, the air is alive, sweet and rosy, laughing and singing. first aid lifts you with his open palm, across a running stream, down a winding, rocky path. somewhere behind you, misfire raises his helm to the clear, cloudless sky. drowning himself in the sound of strange birds and even stranger insects. there is a tenderness to all of this, capricious and fickle, flowers buried in the wash of green grass. a dream you don't want to wake up from, an embrace you're not ready to part with. nightbeat says he hates when beautiful things are fleeting, and you think he's no longer referring to the spring, optics sad and distant as they land on you.