#mxestro

[red-in-revolt]

Hello sweetling.

Did you miss me?

Redstrike glances up from where he's been trying to read. He hadn't been having the easiest time of it. Not because he found reading to be difficult, but because the material the Prime gave him often made no sense to him. He shifts and reaches for a leash that isn't there and frowns a little before looking to the other bot.

"Yes." He says automatically. It isn't a lie. "I ... I still don't understand this place. Or what the Prime wants from me. And I...I don't like speaking to others. I don't know if I'm allowed to." He says, clasping his hands together in his lap and drawing himself in small.

[transformiing]

@mxestro

“I think your attempt at silently judging needs some work.”

[wcrkerbee]

@mxestro ;; via.

     It takes all of his restraint to quell reflex, to keep his helm in those servos rather than pull away as his frame screams for; the important part is that he doesn’t, that Hornet stays, because he wants to. Mannerisms learned from others don’t get to taint what good things he has. His frowning face turns to meet Maestro’s golden shine, and he only squints because of how bright it is.

     ‘The same ones,’ he says, movements terse. ‘As always. The ones you can’t touch. I hate them.’

     Other Autobots who sneer and whisper among their petty camaraderies, a high command whose optics always avert at the most convenient times. Perhaps unspoken even to Jazz, a Prime that he once clung to -- a Prime that he now hopes burns away in whatever rancid thing their embers have become.

     He can feel his plating vibrate with the intensity of his anger, his frustration, so he presses his face into dangerous claws with abandon. He knows that they still won’t cut him.

[red-in-revolt]

I have seen you dance in the moonlight. The way the light flowed down your seams and onto the small manacles on your wrists and ankle-joints.

Tell me.

Would you like to dance in the moonlight with me?

Redstrike shivered, tucking his hands closed to his chassis. He had no real idea how to answer such a request. He'd never been allowed to dance on his own. He'd always danced for others. Things had changed since his last owner had died and he'd been passed from hand to hand. But his conditioning ran deep.

Cautiously he bit his bottom lip and extended his hand with a nod. "I...you...you won't inform my master, will you?" he asked, pouring out as much of his nervous baiting as he could without tipping the other off that he was after anything in particular. It was difficult, toeing that line. But he was good at finding the line.

[twcwheeler]

Don't mind him draping languidly over a piece of metal to peer at her.

"My, aren't you a pretty thing."

" Thanks." Response is quick, automatic towards such a kind compliment from... somewhere. Blink. With a blink, optics track the source, brow arching towards the mech with a curious head tilt. It was that, a compliment, right? Could she embrace it as a genuine one?

" Haven't heard that too much. So far you don't look bad yourself, but might require a closer look, if you would. "

[transformiing]

May I ask you an odd question. Is martyrdom something that is inherit in your coding? Or was it something you acquired over time? (also hiiiii, I'm Maestro-mun.)

Optimus’s optics narrow.

“You mean to insult me.”

[doorwings]

Lounges on your desk.

"Hello."

Sits in his desk chair and simply stares.

"Hello."

[photobombingcryptid]

Tosses treats in the middle of the room to see if the zoomies stop.

They don't stop.

The treats disappear strangely enough.