Being able to sleep in almost any situation or position
Irresistible urge to chase squirrels and rabbits
Hating the vacuum cleaner
Wanting to do everything with friends
Loudly and repeatedly announcing to housemates that someone is at the door
Long, shouted conversations to other werewolves across the neighborhood (bonus points at 2am)
Taking advantage of any and all free food
Werewolf-vampire solidarity
Fighting any animal that trespasses into the backyard
Boundless energy
Too much energy
Eating out of the trash if it smells tasty
Being bad at sports because you don’t want to let anyone else take the ball from you. Then destroying the ball in front of everyone because you want to make a point
Trying to fight things 10x your size like a fucking idiot
Being unable to hold a grudge for more than a few hours
Trying to make people feel bad for you over mundane things that aren’t actually that bad. And somehow succeeding.
Snoring
Needing to try a bit of your friends’ food, even if you’ve tried it 5645674 times before and have never once liked it
Getting way too friendly with random strangers
Being in a love-hate relationship with water
Digging. For no reason.
Thinking you’re a badass despite being a hyperactive ball of emotions and hedonism
Loud sobbing while pressing yourself up against the sliding glass door at your friends who locked you out because they were tired of your bullshit and wanted some goddamn peace and quiet
There’s something wild and desperate in the light that bleeds out of Rodimus’ optics, the tremor that runs through his frame, and the way his field screams and scream and screams.
Drift’s spark aches at seeing how wounded Rodimus is and, for a second longer than he’ll like to admit, realises that perhaps this is the real Rodimus.
Not the burnished gold of his armour or the easy airs of his charms, but, rather, the dents hidden underneath the layer of glossy paint, the fragility in his smiles. The things that makes him seem so vulnerable and frail that all Drift wants to do is hold him tight and never let him go.
He tries to. He takes a step forward and regrets his decision instantly at how quickly Rodimus recoils from him, as if afraid of him. Something about Drift’s suggestion, his persistence of Rodimus to raise the sparkling, had finally broke something in Rodimus that the Nyonian has been struggling to keep at bay for so long.
(Drift can’t help but fear that this is irre—)
“I can’t,” is all Rodimus, wide-opticked and fearful, can repeat. He violently shakes his helm like he can shake off the thoughts, the suggestions, the possibilities that plague him and plague and plague him like the way the screams will always plague his dreams. “I can’t I can’t I can’t— I can’t raise them.” There’s so much hurt in his voice to admit that, to confess the truth and be forced to face his flaws and sins. “I’ll ruin them, Drift. I’ll ruin them like how I ruined Nyon.”
“You didn’t ruin Nyon,” Drift says, desperation creeping into his voice as he moves forward, keeps moving forward because Rodimus scrambles away from him. “You had no choice, Roddy. You could have done nothing to stop it.”
“I did! I should have at least been better prepared!” Rodimus struggles in Drift’s embrace. He burns in Drift’s touch, Drift’s kindness because he’s unworthy and has always been unworthy since that day, that day on the hill, the detonator weighing so heavily in his shaking servo. “I should have organised the escape routes better! I should have given the others more time to run, to escape, to flee! I should have saved the sparklings! I should have— I should have— Starlite—!”
Rodimus can no longer speak, for something in him breaks and it breaks even. His words dissolve into static and hiccups, feedback and shame, and all he can do is press himself into Drift’s hold and protection and cries.
And all Drift can say in the wake of this is a stunned, “I’m sorry.”
For what else can be said?
There’s something wild and desperate in the light the bleeds out of Rodimus’ optics, the tremor that runs through his frame, and the way his field screams and scream and screams.
Drift’s spark aches at seeing how wounded Rodimus is and, for a second longer than he’ll like to admit, realises that perhaps this is the real Rodimus.
That underneath all that is Rodimus, burnished gold and fragile smiles, is Hot Rod.
Forever trapped in the moment he whispered, ‘Forgive me.’ and knew he would never find redemption for what and who he lost.
Alyonian back at it again with stabbing me in my fucking heart with a feelz sword.
Hetcis: “Finally, another heterosexual around here. I’m tired of the gays shoving their propaganda in my face.”
Colress: *bites directly into a whole raw onion* what
At first I misread it as gay and was about to be very upset but then reread it and was like “Wait what?” and was very pleased by the following gifs and texts
^^^ Back when we found out what Cyberverse Wheeljack would look like. ^^^
^^^ One of our friends needed motivational support. ^^^
Eclipse's Transformers Headcannons 
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