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dont starve guys heres a wip of a stupid non funny shit im in the making of (unless you love combaticons, speak polish and have worst sense of humor ever then it will be hilarious)

i kinda like my brawl biggest of them all ok.....

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I need to write my swintex fanfic but I also need to write my spincrum sequel but I also need to finish my friends gift, but I also need to finish my wips but I also need to draw swintex but I also need to draw spincrumfire and i can’t do anything because I need to lock in on studying because i have a 90 point test today

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Had some short and quick scavs headcanons/sorta-fic-bits sitting around. So before I fall off the grid for awhile, I complied 4 of them here rq?

So uh, have some sleepy, slightly silly, slightly cheesy, slightly sad, but hopefully still kinda soft feeling,(though only halfheartedly edited,) scavs stuff ig? <3

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Crankcase thinks it's the dumbest thing, like, utterly embarrassing, but quietly he really really likes casually holding hands, especially out in public. He's in mild amounts of denial about it, because how pathetic is that? Wanting to hold hands? Like some love-sick, twitterpated, freshy-made-mech new to this cruel and unforgiving dammed universe?! Bah! He's better than that.

…right?

But oh… there's just something so small yet grand feeling about one of the other's casually slipping their hand into his, just because they want to, just because they can, especially where anyone could see, because they don't care, because they don't mind being seen with him, holding his hand, in spite of said cruel and unforgiving dammed universe.

In a terribly tank-churningly, butterfly-flutteringly—primus what the hell is wrong with me?!—way, that simple gesture makes him feel almost special, and in a tiny more broken way, actually truly wanted. Because they just want to hold his hand, and really… he just wants to hold theirs too.

Misfire was the first to hold Crankcase's hand like that, and therefore became the main culprit of all his internal strife and troubles. There was nothing Crankcase could have done to really avoid it though; with someone like Misfire, it was bound to happen eventually.

Because Misfire wandered, and he fidgeted, and he reached out and touched so easily. His hands always seemed to have a mind of their own, and somehow they ended up in Crankcase's. All warm and worn and solid, and eugh, a little tacky, and the bulk of their plating didn't fit together just right, and the tips of Misfire's long fingers were blunt and bitten-down against Crankcase's own short and dented ones, and he was squeezing a little too hard, but… not hurting, not tugging, just holding, swinging them together a little as they followed Krok's lead down some bustling street.

Crankcase tried real hard to argue to himself that it only made sense in a practical sort of way, that it was probably important that they all stick together in some manner. But that was giving Misfire too much credit for thinking that far, so Crankcase had balked at the sudden warm and fuzzy flutter in his tanks, tugged his hand back with a sneer, and mulled bitterly over the new and disappointing twist in his spark over the empty feeling between the grease-stained plating of his fingers.

But, like a lot of things these days, he found himself coming around to it eventually, as life with the Scavs always had a way of wearing him down, much to his chagrin.

And as time went on, with all the sensations of Krok's gentle grip steadying his hands, the worn brush of callused metal against his own, Spinister's hands fully encompassing his with care, clumsy and precise all at once, Fulcrum's cool plating interlaced between his fingers, long and delicate but assuringly firm, Grimlock's heavy warm hold settling atop his hands, uncertain at first but thoughtful nonetheless, and even Cons4eva's ever shifting and mesmerizing touch, it was Misfire's imperfect grip that felt oddly the most familiar to him.

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In a similar vein, Spinister and Krok have a habit of focusing a lot of their attention towards each other's hands, seeing as they both express stress and discomfort through them.

Spinister turns to his hands to ground himself against his surroundings, but it's not always a foolproof solution, as shadows still move in the corners of his optics, and phantom feelings curl or drip between his fingers, only blurring the line between what is real and what isn't further despite his best attempts.

In these terribly uncertain moments, most often in the privacy of the ship, but sometimes outside it if needed, Krok will take Spinister's hands into his own or rest them against his plating and call Spinister's focus to himself, real and solid and unwavering in all the varying times it takes for Spinister to steady himself and turn his attention away from what isn't there.

It's a soothing and more often than not quietly intimate moment, tucked away in the captain's quarters on a really bad day, that Krok will drag Spinister's fingers across his frame and ask the names and functions of the underlying framework, listening intently as Spinister answers slowly, thoughtfully with all sorts of odd medical jargon or "Spinister-isms" that generally go over Krok's head. But it lightens Spinister's mood when his fingers brush across Krok's scuffed plating with a familiarity of each dent and scar, and his optics crinkle when he muses aloud about having fixed or replaced this or that.

Krok himself doesn't always consciously realize all the nervous ticks he expresses through his own hands. He's aware of his attachment to… "the communicator", and his habit of clicking, frequently and repetitively, almost to the point of not realizing he's clicking it. But when it's not in his hands, he subconsciously flexes his hands over and over in its absence, or he starts to pick at the joints, and in stressful moments, digs his nails deep into the plating of his palms until they dent, break, or bleed.

Spinister, being familiar as he is with his own struggles, applies a similar approach in trying to pull Krok's attention elsewhere. Carefully he'll take Krok's hands, and subtly and casually—as subtly and casually as Spinister can be—he examines the plating for damage as he asks for help with this or that.

Maybe the medibay needs a scrub, and he could use some help, or perhaps they need to reorganize the armory again, and oh, there's this book he wanted to read, but he's busy, but maybe Krok could read it aloud for him?

Anything to get Krok away from pointless pacing and thinking; a game, a movie, a weird sound that needs investigating, and more often than not, Krok will oblige, and Spinister will quietly celebrate that little victory.

Even though Spinister isn't much for sitting and reading himself, he'll listen to Krok read for hours, and while most of it isn't anything that interests him, he knows that it gives Krok something to do, something distracting.

So he'll sit and watch the other read and gesture curiously, or work on something as he listens, waiting for that moment that Krok starts to light up again as he goes over some random report aloud, or rattle off random facts about some culture or religion he's studied, or explain the strategy and stories behind the best played games in Cybertron's mechasoccer history.

Spinister doesn't have much use for most of the information, so a lot of it doesn't get stored away, and Krok knows this, but both appreciate the moments greatly. It's a good momentary distraction to all the uncertainties and "what if?"s plaguing Krok's mind, and if the sound of his voice helps Spinister ignore the shifting shadows and phantom feelings, well, that's just a nice bonus to Krok's happier mood in Spin's opinion.

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Sometimes, during odd hours, when the crew of the W.A.P are caught in the slow, quiet, and listless part of their travels, Fulcrum will slip from berth and wander into the kitchen.

Maybe he can't shake the feeling of his own frame enough to rest, maybe bad memories keep playing out behind his optics, maybe there's too much on his mind, maybe it's all the above and more.

No matter the reason, he often finds himself in the W.A.P's meager kitchen when at a loss. Because it's quiet, and it's different. He had never really stepped into kitchens before this, so, it's new, it's present, and there's nothing he really has to do here, besides whatever he wants to do, so there's no pressure here, no stress, no worry.

Sometimes he takes a rag and starts cleaning off the scuffed metal of the old and worn counters and table under dim lights, picking up stray cups, containers, and cubes to dump in the sink or trash chute as he goes along. Just mindless, easy, quiet work to keep his hands busy and his mind distracted till he's either tired enough to attempt recharge again, or awake enough to go work elsewhere.

Other times, when their supplies are a little more forgiving, and the kitchen is already clean, he chooses to make a meal of sorts, either just for himself, to tide him over through the odd hours and lack of recharge, or as a surprise for everyone, because it's something to do, and it might lighten someone else's mood if not his own.

If he had his way, no one would interrupt him here. He'd have as much time as he needed to sort through his own troubles in the quiet, dim light of a room solely under his control. No one watching, speaking, or moving. No noise, no bustle, no hurry. Just him, his under-functioning frame and over-functioning mind, all alone in the early hours no one would dare to disturb.

Of course, that was all wishful thinking, as the universe apparently found throwing various wrenches in all his plans to be a terribly entertaining hobby.

Krok had an odd instinct for knowing someone was breaking from their usual habits and typical schedules. The W.A.P was a big ship though, one that shouldn't be all that hard to find some corner to sullenly let yourself be alone in. But somehow there he'd always be, standing in the doorway of the kitchen with a tired look of concern, and the unspoken question of whether he could come in or not.

At least he asked before bursting Fulcrum's little bubble of quiet and control, and he was never all that obtrusive after Fulcrum let him in, but his presence nonetheless defeated the whole point of, ya know, being alone.

Most of the time he wouldn't say much, just quietly shuffle in, run a familiar hand along Fulcrum's back as he passed by, and go about making himself something to drink. He wouldn't ask, or pry, no matter how much Fulcrum suspected he wanted to. But he'd watch, optics casting their sleepy, dull light over Fulcrum's frame, finding an answer to his own questions in the tension of Fulcrum's shoulders, and the exhaustion wearing creases into the mesh of his face.

He'd then lean back against the counter, politely just out of the way, the tension of his own frame creaking and popping in the quiet as he shifted around, and then he'd settle, and they'd take in the dim lit silence of the kitchen together. Until Misfire came shuffling in, and their precious silence went scurrying out beneath his feet as he yawned and stretched his plating out loudly, unashamedly popping the new bubble of calm Fulcrum and Krok had just made via an unspoken treaty.

Misfire would then grumble, mostly incoherently, all the lights in his processor not quite on yet as he'd look between them, optics still calibrating as he squinted blearily, accusingly, like they in all their offensive quiet and carefulness had somehow woken him up. But Fulcrum knew what really woke him up, what always woke him up, as Krok's grip on his freshly made mug grew a little more protective.

For once though, Misfire would actually take the hint, or maybe it was just too early for him to gather the wherewithal to attempt blatant fuel robbery, as he'd peel his optics away from Krok's drink, and shuffle noisily aside to make his own. It was with all the clatter involved in Misfire making a concoction he may have called a "morning brew", that any sane mech would have deemed a culinary sin, that had Crankcase then gracing the doorway with an expression fit to murder the very cause of all the racket.

They'd start bickering then, and Krok would try his best to catch Fulcrum's optics apologetically, before braving the sleep-muddled fight taking over the other side of the kitchen to play referee before someone went and threw precious fuel into someone else's face.

It would take whatever strength and patience Fulcrum had left in his frame to keep himself from frustratedly slamming his helm into the counter or wall until the squabbling fizzled out. But it never lasted long, as sharp petty words stumbled into grumbles and halfhearted grunts, before landing somewhere in a neutral area of tired wordless communication as Krok passed Crankcase a coolant pack for his helm, and Misfire got to making another drink in resignation.

By then of course, Spinister would be peering cautiously in from around the corner, optics cycling disbelievingly at them, maybe even a little disappointedly, as if they'd all gone insane overnight and he was the sole sane survivor of whatever recharge-avoidant virus had taken over their ship while he slept like a reasonable mech.

Once assured that none of them were a threat to themselves or anyone else from a distance, he'd then dutifully make the rounds, examining them one by one in his own bleary state. Easily dodging Crankcase's lazy swatting hands as the pilot sank down into a chair, before moving on to poke and prod at Misfire as the flier merely sipped his drink and let him, all the while mulling over Krok's repeated assurances that all was fine, though he was more than a little skeptical of the captain's words as he moved next to Fulcrum and his sorry state.

It would take some time to get Spinister to accept the fact that they all weren't losing their minds just yet, but rather just experiencing a spontaneous bout of sleeplessness together. A small lecture would follow, as Spinister grimly rattled off the side-effects of poor recharge, until his words seemingly kept escaping him, and he finally trailed off, his own exhaustion catching up to him as he stared at each of them hopelessly.

His attempt at some quiet, uninterrupted time alone thoroughly taken from him by now, if he hadn't already started cooking before, Fulcrum would resign himself to preparing something for them all. He could keep mulling over his losses and persistently poor luck in life, but the noise and distracting presence of the others shifting around beside and behind him had a way of pulling him away from those thoughts.

As a cheap mix of additives and stale energon started bubbling in the pan before Fulcrum, Krok would've already gone and flicked a switch or two as the sound of their busted radio filled the room with some old, slow, and easy song. Spinister's whistling snore would then fill the space somewhere above the long dead singer's voice, as Crankcase and Krok's hushed conversation rose and fell along with them both. Humming low and laced with sleepy, staticky crackles, Misfire would drape himself heavily over Fulcrum's back, swaying them both out of time as he fought to keep his optics open.

It wasn't what Fulcrum had wanted when he'd come in here, it wasn't his quiet, it wasn't under his control, and he knew he very well could've stood his ground at any point, kept his precious time and space from being interrupted and taken from him.

But… then again, maybe it wasn't all that bad not getting his way right now. Maybe this worked just fine.

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Hugs weren't something Spinister had assumed would be part of his duty as a medic.

It wasn't written down as a necessity on any report, or study, or patient note. It wasn't a defined cure, a designated treatment. There was no known dosage, no instructions on how and when to apply it. It wasn't something he'd ever been taught. But he'd learned it somewhere along the way nonetheless, for when he had nothing left to give, or offer.

There was no cure for the dead, nothing he could ever do to put life back in the fragile, grey, crystalline fragments of an empty spark, and even if he could, he couldn't reach across time and space to do so. But there were times he almost wished he could for Krok.

Sleeping pills and cheap spare circuit dampeners could only do so much to ward away the memories that plagued Krok's processor at night. It was if someone had carved some great, gaping wound in his chest that had never healed. It wasn't visible, but the pain was terribly real, and it reared its ugly head when the ship was quiet and still, and Krok was tired and shaken and lost in his own mind, and Spinister could do nothing to cure it.

He couldn't reach in, with all his tools and all his knowledge, and close that wound, seal it away forever, with nothing but a scar as a reminder of it's existence. There was no easy surgery for loss, no pill for the dead, no cure for a broken spark.

With nothing left to give, Spinister could only offer his arms instead. The warmth of his frame, the slow careful touch of his fingers, the gentle hum of his voice, and a willing audial as Krok blindly clawed and keened for lives he couldn't save on the cold, dark, floor of his room.

A hug couldn't bring Krok's team back, but it could pull him away from the memory of a battlefield Spinister couldn't see, back into his room, back onto their ship, and back into Spinister's arms, where he was far far away from the day that left him like this.

It wasn't a cure, there'd be another night just like this, and Spinister found himself always silently apologizing for it when it happened, but then Krok would still, and in Spinister's arms he'd dream of happier days, or of nothing at all, and he'd sleep in peace, and that at least Spinister could give him, that at least Spinister could momentarily fix.

But then there were other wounds walking about the ship, ones less hidden, ones that Spinister could also fix, but wasn't allowed.

Crankcase had made his distrust of his work and of his skill clear. It stung in ways Spinister couldn't quite describe to not be trusted, to not be wanted, but he wouldn't push, wouldn't force it. Crankcase had asked him not to, so he wouldn't.

But that didn't stop the way his fingers would twitch at his sides as Crankcase cradled his aching helm, it didn't stop his optics from glancing away from the cleaning supplies towards his surgical tools when debris wormed its way inside, and it didn't stop the feeling of uselessness growing in his tank as he watched Crankcase grit his denta and bear the brunt of his broken frame.

More circuit dampeners, more rest, more fuel, more coolant packs, and clean sterilized air, was all he could give before he began to near the line Crankcase had made.

But none of that fixed the painful hole in Crankcase's head, nor did it make Spinister feel any more useful.

It was the useless feeling that had him pulling the other close after he cleaned the wound and toed the line. He kept his grip loose, careful as he apologized for the pain, for the trouble, because what else could he do?

Maybe Crankcase hadn't needed the hug; it didn't make any difference for him, but he'd still pause for a moment, and indulge Spinister either way, patting the medic's arm as he brushed aside the apologies and leaned into the hug.

Spinister couldn't fix his helm, because Crankcase didn't trust him to, but he trusted him enough to hold him, even if it didn't fix anything, and Spinister would take what he could get.

Crankcase wasn't the only one to draw a line and put forth a limit, though Fulcrum's was much less simple.

As much as Spinister could repair, Fulcrum would let him. He feared the medberth, the knife, the circuit dampeners, even the lights. But he put his fears aside to place his trust in Spinister's hands, and Spinister tried his damnedest not to betray that trust.

But no matter how much he replaced or repaired, the damage had been done, the scars ran too deep, and Fulcrum's frame would never be the same underneath.

Without a total refit, without a completely new body, inside and out, Fulcrum would never be cured. But that's where he stopped trying, that was the line. He couldn't let go of what remained of his body before the reformatting, even if it meant living like this forever.

So Spinister replaced and repaired his frame whenever he needed it, all the while imagining himself gutting the doctors that had done this terrible work as he rewired Fulcrum's faulty sensor-net again and again, until he cursed them aloud, and Fulcrum had paused, explaining that it hadn't been a doctor at all.

His optics went dull and distant as he described supervising wardens, machinery, and assembly lines. The cold feeling of exposed sinewy cords and wires, the discomfort of his inner-framework being broken, reshaped, and reattached, before unfamiliar plating finally caged him in.

Spinister followed his words with the proof littered throughout his frame, optics flitting across all the cuts and dents and damage that hadn't been made by careless hands, but instead by machines. Unfeeling, thoughtless, automatic machines. Machines that wouldn't care if he tore into them the same way they had torn into Fulcrum.

His anger fizzled under this knowledge, directionless and uncertain and useless. But as he sealed Fulcrum's plating back in place, he once again found himself at a loss as he faced Fulcrum's far off expression.

Spinister couldn't fix his frame, thought it wasn't for lack of trying, but left with no perfect option, he reached out, gently and carefully pulling Fulcrum against his chest as he apologized for what had happened to him, for what he couldn't fix.

He hadn't expected the damp feeling of optical fluid to grow against his plating, but as choked, static-laced hiccups began to wrack through Fulcrum's frame, he held him a little tighter, a little closer.

A hug couldn't return Fulcrum's original frame to him, and even though he chose to stick it out like this, it surely wasn't easy, and for all his best attempts at being brave, Spinister couldn't fault him for moment of despair. So he would hold him close, with gentle hands, and quiet words, until the moment passed.

Spinister couldn't fix Fulcrum, couldn't reverse what had already been done, but he could nurse it, keep him functioning, repair and replace as many times as needed, and when fear dulled Fulcrum's optics and stiffened his frame, Spinister would hold him, and keep him safe.

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:P <3

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Still thinking about hcs while cleaning out my notes, and like, this one sorta goes as both a hc and a random design choice I've kept, (tho I haven't posted or saved any of the related doodles :/) but in considering how much Fulcrum's k-class reformatting changed him, I really like the idea of it throwing off his original proportions some

Like, k-classers generally all appear fairly similar build-wise.

There's a blueprint that's being followed there, and those that are being reformatted are going to have to fit it.

(Unless there's multiple blueprints, different size classes of k-cons, and Fulcrum was just caught somewhere in the middle zone size and payload-wise?)

So some mechs are going to have to be broken down to fit into this new shell, either by getting stretched out or pulled inwards to be ultimately crammed into shape.

Cybertronians of course come in all shapes and sizes, and they don't always align with humanoid-esque proportions, obviously, but I like to think the k-class reformatting offered an awkward and impractical in-between of all types.

Of course Fulcrum fit into that general humanoid-shaped category before the refit, regardless of whatever his alt-mode kibble or lack thereof would have added. But he's just the standard non-combat levels of lightly armored, average height, though a little lanky already, but generally sort of boringly, humanoidly, practically proportioned.

Then comes the refit.

To make more space for the bulk of his built-to-shatter shell, arms and legs are broken, hastily extended, and loosely jammed back in place, leaving them slightly too long, hinged a little too low and off balance, and uncomfortably loose in their sockets.

Everything but the barest essentials of his core and inner-framework are gutted to make space for the payload. Leaving his balance entirely off-kilter, with long hollowed out limbs built solely to surround the heavy core with an armored casing, that aren't at all altered with any natural movement or livability in mind.

Basically this fine specimen-

-just, a lot more refined and detailed.

Training would've essentially amounted past propaganda and how best to die, to mainly just learning how to sit, stand, and walk just enough to get to the jumping point with this new, disproportioned, and too awkwardly long, (or too short depending on the mech), k-class frame.

And like, this all doesn't stray too far from what we see of his initial design on Clemency. Him just sorta being long and awkward and scuffed to hell. But I like to think that awkward build doesn't change much after Spinister, assumedly, rebuilt his frame after Clemency.

The k-class alterations are bone deep, so to speak. To change them back at this point would require an even more strenuous and invasive refit than the first one, and safe to say Fulcrum obviously wouldn't be too terribly keen on that, even if they could afford it.

So all Spinister can really do reframing-wise, is just kinda sculpt and refine it all around his reformatted structure to turn it into less of a cage-like shell and more of an actual body.

Like bulking up plating in more natural places for balance, along with adding more breathable seams and flexible angles for better movement, while of course making sure to tighten those loose joints as best he can. Though he still has to account for the longer limbs and now empty core, so it's definitely not the same weight and balance of Fulcrum's original build. But, it is far more livable than what Styx had left him with.

I don't have much else to say on it, besides how him getting used to his frame being taller and longer is definitely an interesting nugget to roll around mentally outside of design inspo, and its one of my fav hcs to see mentioned in art, fics, or posts. (along with him having chronic pain bcs of the weird shitty joints)

Little things like him taking a few months to figure out how sit comfortably with new longer legs- folding them against himself awkwardly, or streching out in odd positions -much to the other Scav's amusement, or learning to keep himself from catching his arms and bulky shoulder plating constantly on things, which is also funny to everyone, until he knocks something over while they're trying to hide, then it's less funny.

Idk, there's tons of angst potential surrounding his reformat of course, but in canon he's all mostly vibes, so idk, it's funny to think of how he'd try his best to take his weird, gangly frame in stride outside of moments of despair. He's doing his best to make the nigh praying mantis levels of ~long~ and ~scrawny~ work ok

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Resorting to staring at my own content to get the seratonin boost i need to finish my essay. I’m so tired i have to stare at spincrum every hour to revive my energy 😭

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GOTCHAAA

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I think it’s funny people say war for cybertron and earthspark are bad when a whole prime wars exists. Like you have not seen true mid until you have seen prime wars. Like people loveeeee to complain about starscreams arc in tfe but I will take it ANY DAY over the absolute asswipe 3 season long starscream trypticon plot.

I think every hyper critical tf fan should be strapped down and forced to watch all three seasons prime wars before making judgements. You truly don’t know what bad is until you watch prime wars.

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Guh I miss swintex,,,I need enrichment

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Not a tf post but BHVR choosing to give William spring trap afton the most cracked dbd perks is kinda funny. They looked at the tumblr sexy man and said we are going to make him absolutely busted.

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silly colors i did before bed

its funny bc while in art school i couldnt paint :))))) at all, they just couldnt teach me how to :))) i was a lost cause. and now i only want to tattoo in colors and i love coloring my drawings, suck it art school, im better now and i learnt it all on my own :^))))

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I have to lock in until possibly Wednesday??? So if I disappear again welpppp school :p

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Just watched episode one of tf cyber world and it reminds me so much of cbv already! I’m actually pretty happy with it so far. I think if they pull in some rarer g1 or idw characters later on it could be pretty fun. Optimus is kind of a loser guy and i think that’s funny! The battle scenes are pretty fun and reminiscent of cbv too.

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being doomed by the narrative is cool and all but i like when a character is doomed just by being a fucking idiot. sorry that happened to you but it is entirely your own fault and you could have just chosen to not do all that

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Tf cyber world is actually looking like it might be fun from the clip they released. I hope it gets a season 2 with a more diverse cast like cbv did cause I love cbv and i think it could be good for legacy character fans

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I think this is the nicest earthspark legacy figure since the bee one tbh. Not a repaint, great articulation, A JOINTED SOUNDWAVE GUN, detailed face mold, decent paint job, waist rotation, knee joint, and he looks fucking CUNT!!!!

Edit: why is his alt mode freaky????

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I need to sleep but i have fuckin…I have no time by the living tombstone stuck in my head. How am i supposed to sleep like this 💀💀💀

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I think I’ll finally get to paint my spincrum piece tomorrow,,,I need to paint so mfing bad