Late for the Date’s Optimeowth is how I originally imagined Orion to be lol. Just OP with glasses. But since then I’ve just kinda kept drawing OP with glasses anyway so I guess I should do up a proper version of Orion haha.
(*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.
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 