I guess I can blame Steamy for this 1920s TFA AU
This is before Optimus is kicked out of the police force’s trainee program and becomes a firefighter. He then joins a team consisting of a paperboy, a grouchy medic, a policeman, and a strongman/construction worker. Sentinel tells the papers that the country doesn’t have a gang problem– until the Decepticons reveal themselves as the largest and strongest gang in all of North America.
tho a silly thing, &
i know I’ve still got a ton to learn art wise, I’m just having a minute now, so happy with how far I’ve come in art just because of this crazy little cartoon- it’s fun and easy to draw style inspired 11 year old me to really study and practice art about 10 years ago. Thanks TFA ❤
Ah, Seekers. Rulers of the Skies, Death from Above, and most grounders agree, some of the most frustrating mecha to ever be built.
Seekers are part of the warbuild line; built for battle and trained for war However, they are also the only warbuilds that had a rank and standing in the caste system of the Golden Age. Somehow, while the rest of the warbuilds were far more oppressed and controlled, Seekers managed to maintain their unique culture and at least a voice (if not complete autonomy) in the the rule of their City, in the form of the Air Commander.
Graceful, prideful and dangerous, Seekers tend to draw the attention of all others who interact with them. However, they are also notoriously short-tempered and vicious when they feel they’ve been crossed or rejected. Many find them seemingly changeable at a whim and confusingly hard to read.
This is mainly because of the highly-developed Seeker wing-language and their attention to body language. Grounders often leave a conversation with a Seeker feeling as if they had missed half the conversation – with the Seeker leaving the same conversation thinking that the grounder was uncommonly dense. A mere tilt or flick of the wing could have a dozen meanings from invitation to a warning that the owner is becoming irritated beyond tolerance.
(*peeks under pile of trash* You’re fine! Come on out of there and have a fic. :))
Megatron’s General towered over him almost as much as he himself did over Optimus, and yet the warlord never looked the slightest bit intimidated, lounging in Strika’s lap as if it were a throne, his wicked grin discreetly half-hidden by the glass of vintage highgrade he was sipping. Optimus watched them from where he knelt on the floor, his head pillowed lazily against Strika’s thigh and Megatron’s fingers caressing his helm almost lovingly.
“My loyal soldier,” Megatron purred, setting Strika’s engines rumbling, “and my clever little Autobot pet.”
“I have a name,” Optimus protested, then broke off, flushing hot; Megatron’s dark, gravelly voice had made his fans kick on audibly, causing the Decepticon leader’s smile to widen even further.
“Of course you do,” he murmured as he curled a finger and tilted the Autobot’s chin up, running his thumb over those plush lips, “Optimus Prime.”
I did not know I needed this in my life and then it existed and filled a void.
Day 15: Megatron for Lost Light Fest on twitter
Listen I know anti-matter and murder flowers aren’t original but hashtag aesthetics….
My first contribution to this fandom~
When the Great War is consigned to history, Medic Ratchet thinks to himself, they had better tell the story of this night, too – of a night of stillness and frost, gaggles of boys barely more than children playing football in their contrasting uniforms in No Man’s Land, of the night when we all remembered we were human before we went back to turning each other into sausage meat.
He starts a little as the big, grey-haired sergeant in enemy colours settles in next to him, then relaxes and accepts a cigarette, and offers a swig of brandy in return; there’s a little schoolboy French on one side and some scraps of workaday German on the other, enough to bridge the barrier, enough that Ratchet understands when the sergeant sighs and reflects, “The charade seems cruel, does it not – if you would try to kill us, then do it, do not taunt us by playing at friendship.”
Ratchet bristles, but the sergeant’s voice is so unutterably weary that he finds himself softening, and only replies, “Perhaps the rest is the charade, and this is real.”
When Megatron first said, “I don’t fear you,” he meant it as defiance, and he was unprepared for the sheer delight, the sheer longing, that emanated from the being in front of him, ploughing into Megatron’s EM field like a physical wave.
“What do they call you?” he murmurs now, much later, his claw-tips gently stroking a tendril of dark matter that is there and not there; the being doesn’t speak, but an idea presents itself in the forefront of his mind: I Am First And Best, and Megatron would scoff, were it not for the sadness that accompanies the words, as if they are a burden rather than an honour.
“I will call you something new, more befitting a protector rather than an emperor,” Megatron muses, then offers, “What about Hunter of Peace – Orion Pax, in the old tongue?” and the dark void, so black it gleams with a kind of reverse light, settles happily against his frame, and tangles its essence around him.
Cybertronian Database 