#idw1 orion pax | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

heliopauseentertainments · 1 year

Text

#1 Fan

For @ariesnhope for the MegOp gift exchange.

Continuity: IDW1 Rating: Teen Relationship: Megatron/Optimus Prime (Orion Pax) Characters: Optimus Prime (Orion Pax), Megatron, Springarm Warnings: Suggestive themes, functionist politics

Summary: In which Orion Pax meets with Megatron over poetry and decides it’s time to make a change.

Crossposting: AO3 | DreamWidth

Fic under the cut

One of his staffers handed him a datapad partway through the morning, something he “ought to see” apparently.

A good way to pass the time on a rare slow day in Rodion, he thought.

Orion turned the datapad over in his hand as he sat at the desk. The dark gray casing was heavily scuffed and pitted, worn through either extensive use or carelessness. It was difficult to tell. The glass of the screen was scratched.

“Where was this found?”

Springarm checked his notes, his fingers swiping across the screen of his own cheap department-issued datapad.

“In an inmate’s subspace during intake.”

A usual place to find all manner of things, but so what?

“Sure, but why do I need to see it?”

Orion tilted his head to side, wanting to see if Springarm had more information for him.

And, sure enough, after another few swipes of his finger, he did. Springarm was nothing if not reliably thorough.

“It’s not the first one of these we’ve found, sir. Appears to be samizdat poetry.”

“Underground poetry clubs are nothing new, Springarm.” Orion slowly waved the confiscated datapad at his subordinate. “That’s hardly a threat to public safety, you know. It’s barely illegal.”

“But it is illegal, sir.”

Very technically and only because the Functionist Council had petitioned the Senate ages ago to require all legal artistic endeavors to be approved by local council chapters. Springarm had always tended towards the “letter of the law” methodology, so his concerns came as little surprise.

“Alright, I’ll take a look at it for you, screen it for any dangerous content,” he said, clicking the datapad on. The scratched screen glowed unevenly, the light refracting off the tiny planes of imperfections. “But once I’ve cleared this, I want you to return this to the inmate.”

Springarm nodded before giving a brisk salute.

“Understood, sir!”

And then Orion was alone, his subordinate returning to work at the intake desk.

Now… to see what was so dangerous about some words.

Orion hadn’t expected to spend his entire shift reading.

Not a datapad of confiscated poetry anyway.

The datapad had turned out to contain an entire anthology of poetic works in various styles, numerous tones and moods from pensive to melancholy, inspirational to romantic (and bordering sometimes on the erotic). This had clearly been assembled over the course of years before being discreetly disseminated amongst the populace.

Some pieces were clearly attempts at something new, some were desperate attempts to pull thoughts and feelings from the poet’s processor into the imperfect, blunt tool of language. Some pieces were infectious, the turns of phrase and wording digging into his processor and refusing to leave.

Sure, there were also pieces with notes of political subversion, but that was hardly worth banning the entire work.

Everyone had criticisms of the system. A few complaints here and there didn’t equate to outright seditious activity. Orion saw no problem having Springarm return this to the inmate it came from and “looking the other way” on it.

At the end of the day, there were far greater threats to society than a little avant-garde quasi-political art.

There was something oddly familiar about the writing though, something he could have sworn he had seen before somewhere, but where?

However, once Orion had started reading, he had been unable to put it down—His office’s door opened, a member of the night shift—whose name Orion couldn’t immediately recall—standing in the opening with a surprised look on his face and a report to drop off in his hand.

Oh.

Shift change already?

Orion glanced at the chronometer on his desk, only to see it flashing an embarrassingly late hour.

He was usually out hours ago.

Dammit.

“Oh, I didn’t realize how late it’s gotten. I was just doing some overtime to get caught up on reports. You know how it is.” He laughed awkwardly before getting up. “They never end!”

Orion stuffed the datapad in his subspace without thinking, squeezing past the night shift officer, and left before his half-sparked fib could be seen through.

Strictly, he shouldn’t have taken the confiscated item from the station, but it wasn’t an emergency. Orion would just bring it back with him tomorrow and no one would be the wiser.

And he could finish reading the collection at home.

Orion shouldn’t have made a duplicate copy of that datapad. It strictly continued as “production of illegal materials” and he knew Springarm would never let him hear the end of it if he found out.

All the same, while Orion wanted to return the datapad to the inmate it had come from, he didn’t want to be apart from the words that had been on it.

The poet’s words still swirled in his thoughts, the nagging feeling of familiarity interrupting him as he went about his daily business.

Petty theft of fuel was up, according to the report he was currently reading.

The desperate take what should be freely given.

Even more than a week after giving the original, practically trashed datapad back to Springarm, little lines, turns of phrase especially those from the free verse, would interrupt his work.

The powerful are freely given what should be taken.

An understandable complaint from castes lower down in the taxonomy who perceived their placement as unjust—he had even heard such sentiments from his senator friend, Shockwave—but the shape and melody of the words needled at his processor while reading case reports.

It was difficult to work like this.

The reports were set aside before he leaned his elbows on the desk and pinched the bridge of his nose.

Stone steps worn into an undulating slope by millions of passing feet.

Other bits of verse, disconnected snippets, floated to the top of his processor now that work was no longer trying to dominate his mind.

“What is the night sky?”

Asked the apprentices shy.

“Dark and empty,” came the answer wise.

“For the stars have fled their palace bright to instead reside in your eyes.”

As the words flitted about his processor, teasing him and demanding his attention, Orion knew he had to find the poet, to thank them, to tell them how moved he was by their creations. The mixture of feelings stirred up by the verse threatened to burst if he didn’t somehow vent them.

Orion needed to find the poet’s identity.

Certainly not because of lines about “rough yet tender hands on desperate arrays.”

Though that line—and several others like it—had certainly kept him warm the previous night while lying awake on the recharge slab and had decidedly given his own hand some ideas.

He pulled up the console on his desk and launched one of the databases his department used to keep track of civilians who had interactions with the local police.

While looking in the dossiers on file wasn’t the obvious next step, Orion had a hunch that the clue would be here somewhere. Given some of the political comments in the poetry—including some that were not particularly flattering towards law enforcement—Orion wondered if perhaps the author had maybe had a run-in with local authorities before.

Sure, there was no guarantee that the author had ever been to Rodion before or interacted with Rodion law enforcement but it was as good of a first step as any, he supposed. It certainly wouldn’t hurt to poke around in the files flagged with “political dissident” or “potential political dissident” to try and jog his memory.

After putting the parameters into the database, he ran the search.

Names populated the screen, a rapidly expanding list of local nuisances and loudmouths and extremists.

Of course, the list of names was massive. Rodion—and the Dead End, by extension—was a notorious hub of crime and misery that Orion had spent years trying to clean up.

Orion needed to narrow it down somehow. It wasn’t like they listed poets specifically, that wasn’t a real profession, just a questionable hobby.

Ah.

Wait.

Maybe he could make a guess based on the contents of the anthology.

There had been many references to hard labor. The author was most likely manual class, yes. Good. A good search restriction that should get him closer to any possible matches.

Orion adjusted the parameters and got an even smaller but still daunting list.

Not specific enough.

One verse came to mind.

The sun and its dance is for everyone, they say.

Every mech of every class and every pay.

Forgotten when the oft-cited idiom comes around,

“Our” beautiful sun sets only aboveground.

That still seemed like a political indictment, but paired with the genuine longing to see the sun.

Other pieces contained allusions to stone, very specific comments about mineral types… images of Functionism “bleeding the landscape dry.”

Miner, or mining industry adjacent. Not a perfect elimination since Rodion sat on active mineshafts.

Bingo.

A relatively short list after Orion excluded anyone he knew specifically that wouldn’t be the sort to write lines like those that had captured his imagination.

One name immediately popped out to him.

Megatron of Tarn, a known activist and polemicist who had been arrested a number of weeks ago on charges of disorderly conduct and assault in the local oil house before being released with the charges dropped. Lack of evidence and the brief investigation had made it abundantly clear that Megatron had been a noncombatant in the bar fight.

However, some political writings had been confiscated from Megatron at intake. Orion had looked through them back then before handing the documents back.

Now, he regretted not having made a copy at the time. He hadn’t wanted to unnecessarily create further evidence for a first-time offender, especially a nonviolent one with bad luck and worse friends. Megatron’s own words even preached peace.

Of course, Orion couldn’t believe everything he read, but his gut instinct had told him to let it go.

However, what Orion remembered of the draft work reminded him somewhat of the poetry in the anthology, certain word choices, certain images… including a particular disdain for drills as tools of oppression, even. The chief difference between the texts, aside from genre, had been the tone and forcefulness of the narrative voice. Besides, it would hardly be a leap for a political writer to also branch out into other language arts… or perhaps the other way around. Orion couldn’t be sure which genre came first.

He sat back in his chair, slumping down as the mugshot and demographic details glowed on the screen of his console.

Orion was a little ashamed he hadn’t noticed the similarities before.

Not only did he now know who the poet was, despite the absolute long-shot of a search that had been, Orion also knew how to contact him.

Strictly, he shouldn’t have been using police resources for personal gain, but he was already in this deep. Might as well.

Megatron laid down on the meager recharge slab in his dormitory, staring at the rough metal ceiling. His chronometer said it was the middle of the day, given his long-standing night shift assignment, but it didn’t seem to mean anything. Night and day were the same when everything was either dark or lit by flickering headlights and lamps.

He ought to sleep, but ever since the incident with Impactor in the bar, he’d been having difficulty resting without his roommate being crude and loud. The miners’ barracks had been far too quiet since Impactor had been imprisoned.

Who knew how long Impactor would be there? There wasn’t even a trial date yet.

Not that it mattered. The outcome was a foregone conclusion.

Megatron supposed he ought to be used to it by now. It was hardly any different than when Terminus had been taken away, though through systemic apathy rather than systemic prejudice.

A knock at the door jarred him out of his thoughts.

When he answered it, a company courier wordlessly shoved a nondescript datapad into his hands before walking off.

The company couriers never even bothered to check they were delivering to the right person since they knew most mechs on sight, but—Megatron turned the datapad over his in hands, still standing in the open doorway.

He never got mail. Only Impactor did and even then it was less “mail” and more… written copies of whatever reprimands he’d received verbally earlier in the week.

No return address or name, just a preprinted label with his name, bunk number, and the mining project’s address. The courier definitely hadn’t been mistaken.

This still didn’t look right.

This datapad was also of a nicer quality than any he had been allowed to handle before. Even Impactor’s reprimands were on flimsier files because the government-subsidized company they had been assigned were addicted to “cost-saving measures.”

“Dear Megaton—“ His name was misspelled again. “—of Tarn. I’ve gone out of my way to contact you about some of your creative pursuits. I’ve managed to get my hands on a copy of a collection of your poetry and—“

Megatron froze.

Oh.

Oh no.

Someone had found him out. Someone knew he was writing illegal poetry, somehow.

How, however, he had no idea. He had never published or circulated any beyond showing his progress to Terminus, once upon a time, or Impactor, who had always laughed at him for being too soft at spark.

Now this random stranger was going to blackmail him for something on the threat of turning him in—Oh. Wait.

He read past the first few lines of the letter.

No. No threats of blackmail.

Only glowing praise.

And no name at the end. Just… signed “a fan of your work” and a postal box in Rodion to send a reply to.

This was fan mail.

That was worse.

There was no way anyone could really enjoy his work, not like that. His work was amateur since it wasn’t licensed or approved by the Functionist Council. He had neither been afforded the option of much formal education beyond the minimal “culture” packets that had been part of his brief post-construction instruction, nor would the contents of his work have passed the censors.

There was no way he could answer this. It was undoubtedly bait.

The letter itself was already too much evidence. No one could find this.

Glancing up and down the hallway outside of his empty dormitory, Megatron double-checked that no one had seen him before tossing the datapad into his subspace.

The first letter had found its way into one of the smelters, one of the surest places to dispose of evidence. A brief, mad thought of tossing his poetry and the drafts of his polemics also crossed his mind. Luckily, a calm, rational subroutine overtook the urge, reminding him that those were the few things in life that were his, not beholden to his assigned station in life.

After throwing it in, Megatron had decided to go about his life, pretending that he had never been contacted, that it had been nothing but a bad dream.

Just a bad dream, something to let fade into the oblivion of fragmented memories.

Destroying the datapad would be the end of it.

Or so he thought.

One day when Megatron returned to his lonely dormitory—the new roommate he’d been assigned after Impactor had been formally fired was working the opposite shift as him—there was a datapad on the small table.

Identical in make and model to the one he had destroyed several weeks prior.

“Megatron,” it opened, using the correct spelling this time. “I realized that I misspelled your name on the last letter and I must apologize. I understand if you took offense and that’s why you didn’t reply back.”

What… an odd letter. This didn’t seem threatening, but then again, neither had the text of the other one.

“The last letter was probably too forward. Please don’t be alarmed.”

There was nothing comforting about the sentence “please don’t be alarmed,” but Megatron kept reading all the same.

“If you’re not opposed, I would like to meet you in person over a warm cup of fuel.”

An obvious attempt to draw him out into public.

Absolutely not. Even showing up would be as good as admitting to his petty crimes. If he were a higher status mech, that wouldn’t have mattered. Authorities would simply look the other way, but for someone like him?

So far down on the food chain that his original life expectancy had been 500,000 years? He was already more than double that and had outlived his usefulness—

That was just it.

He had outlived his usefulness and his few friends were long gone. What did he have left to lose? He had been removed from the company’s repair and maintenance budgets ages ago after reaching his warranty.

His work had already breached containment and leaked out somewhere. It could never be fully destroyed now if something happened to him.

And the thought, the naive, hopeful thought, that someone genuinely enjoyed his work made his spark swell with warmth and pride. The thought that someone would notice him….

Megatron scrambled for a spare datapad and light-pen.

Orion was surprised to receive a letter back at the postal box. He had well and truly though that he’d scared Megatron off after hearing nothing back for so long. Either that, or he just had the absolute worst luck with the postal service losing his letters on the way.

After the initial surprise wore off, a warm joy spurred his steps as he retreated to his personal quarters in Rodion to read the answer. It wouldn’t do to read this sort of letter in public, especially given that he would be acknowledging and “condoning” technically illegal behavior.

As soon as the door was shut behind him, Orion leaned back against the door and booted up the cheap, single use datapad.

It was likely all Megatron could get his hands on, but Orion had no complaints. It was everything he had been waiting for.

There was no return name or address, but who else could have sent him something at this postal box? He had only gotten it to accept just such a letter from Megatron specifically. He’d given its number to no one else.

The text of the letter was hastily handwritten, like the author couldn’t wait for the legibility correction algorithm to run and convert the text into the standard font format.

Or maybe this datapad was too low of a quality to even come with that functionality.

Regardless, Orion was grateful for it, seeing the curves and messy lines of impatient, desperate thought poured at speed onto the screen.

The writer of the letter apologized for the delay, having believed that Orion’s letters were either bait for entrapment by the police—ouch—or a scam to blackmail him.

Ah.

That had been Orion’s fault, he would concede. He had been wondering if he’d somehow offended Megatron but that wasn’t a method of offense he had considered.

He hadn’t necessarily considered all of the potential nuance that might have unwittingly accompanied his letters.

Megatron’s letter continued, explaining that while he would like to meet, the authorities could still be a threat, even if he doesn’t necessarily do anything illegal. He had seen… things happen to his colleagues over the years. Walking in the wrong part of town or not showing sufficient deference.

And, Orion realized, Megatron really didn’t know anything about Orion’s identity. He was being very trusting and… the sudden realization of the gravity of power that Orion had in this situation had him sliding to the floor, back still pressed to the locked door.

Megatron was afraid of what could happen if his work ended up in the wrong hands or if the wrong person knew.

And Orion was poised to be either that very wrong person, doing exactly what Megatron feared, or … he could do something about it.

Something that could help Megatron and other underprivileged artists, unjustly suppressed by an overly strict theocratic institution.

Orion had always enjoyed his work, when he had thought he was helping people, but the more he looked at it all, the more the verses longing for freedom echoed in his thoughts. Disappointment, cold and heavy, sat in his fuel tank, pinning him where he sat.

Perhaps he hadn’t been helping after all.

But that could change.

He could change.

The disappointment morphed into a hot anger, ignited by the words he had seen on the writings confiscated when Megatron had been unnecessarily arrested.

Powerful, damning questions to ask the Senate.

Questions Orion would ask the Senate. As a respected officer of the law, he would be permitted to stand before them long enough for that at least.

It would cost him his post, his reputation, but resignation letters were, of course, best delivered in person.

First, however, he wanted to see Megatron.

Megatron wasn’t sure what his “biggest fan” looked like, only that he would be here in a quiet, upscale café in Rodion.

It was uncomfortable waiting in a corner booth, feeling very much like he didn’t belong, with the hazard stripes required of his class being a loud visual reminder to all of the patrons and staff.

He hunched forward, trying to make himself small over the expensive, yet simple warm, flavored fuel he’d ordered to be allowed to stay. It had been the cheapest thing on the menu, but it had cost him worth two weeks of pay, all for something that would hardly fuel him for a quarter of a day.

The anxiety in the back of his mind tried to remind him that this was probably a trick, that he would be arrested, or someone was playing a cruel prank on him. It waged war with the bright hope of maybe making a genuine connection with someone about something that meant so much to him, something he had always wanted.

A shadow fell over his table.

“Excuse me.”

Megatron had heard that voice before somewhere. He looked up, spotting the bright red plating and blue headgear of that one police captain that had released him after the bar fight. The lower half of the officer’s face was obscured by a mask.

Orion Pax. That was his name—Megatron’s spark sunk in his chest. This had been a trick, a ploy to rearrest him. His work had been a pretext after all and his very presence here was practically an admission of guilt.

“I’m sorry,” he started, leaning away from Orion. “I should leave—“

“No, wait, please.” Orion waved his hands, palms open to show he meant no harm, before sitting down in the opposite seat.

“I was just waiting for someone,” Megatron said, nearly knocking over his overpriced beverage in his haste to get up from the table.

“Yes, yes, I know!” Orion reached out towards him but stop when Megatron pulled further away. “I’m sorry, I—Let me start over. I’m the person you’re waiting for.”

He froze, half out of his seat.

“… You?”

Despite the icy weight of his near immediate future, knowing he would immediately be ostracized for what he would soon say to the Senate, Orion felt overwhelmed by the warmth in his spark. His fuel tank had been full to bursting with excitement as he walked to the café where he had invited Megatron to meet him, at long last.

Megatron had hidden a fascinating fire behind the protective mask of a quiet and reserved in demeanor when they had last crossed paths, even if the circumstances of their first meeting had been terrible. Something had burned behind those scarlet optics, something that had stuck with Orion ever since.

Orion had wished, idly back then, that he could get to know him better, to see more of those thoughts protectively guarded.

And now, seated in the café across from Megatron, Orion finally had the chance to see his sharp gaze once more.

He could have never believed that that a chance encounter with some confiscated, illicit poetry would have led him here, would have led him to smile behind his mask so wide he was sure it was spilling over into view, would have brought him to meet someone who made his spark lurch in dizzying spins.

Megatron’s words were still quiet, guarded, as they conversed, but Orion didn’t begrudge him his caution. It only further cemented his resolve. That, and the staring by other patrons at the company a police captain had deigned to keep.

“You know,” Orion said at last, closing his mask again after draining the remainder of his warm fuel. “I think… I think you’ve helped me make up my mind.”

“About what?”

Megatron tilted his head to the side, visibly confused.

That was fine. Orion hadn’t warned him.

Orion waved a hand at his new… friend. Perhaps they could at least be called “friends,” for the amount of trust this sort of meeting took to even happen in the first place.

Though… perhaps more, later, if Megatron wasn’t averse. He hadn’t reacted poorly to Orion’s praise of his more intimate works. Orion would have been lying if he weren’t interested in becoming acquainted with “hands, rough from ceaseless labor.”

All the same, he continued, managing to divert the less than appropriate thoughts before he would have to dismiss a cue from his cooling systems.

“I’m… not doing as much to help my fellow Cybertronian as I thought I was.” Not nearly as much, it turned out. “You, your writings, and everything I’ve seen here in Rodion, in the Dead End, have helped me realize that. I’m just ashamed it’s taken me so long.”

“And…?” The question was understandably expectant.

“I’m going to quit.”

Megatron scoffed in disbelief.

“And do what then?”

The miner couldn’t have been writing about himself when he had written about the stars fleeing their palace in the skies to sparkle and shine in a mech’s optics, but Orion thought he could have been forgiven for thinking otherwise as he watched Megatron’s focal rings narrow in judgment.

“It isn’t as though you—”

“I know some individuals who… hold very similar opinions as you and… as I now do.” Renegades that he had been keeping a distant optic on, a favor for his old friend, Shockwave, the only senator Orion retained any respect for these days. The senator’s former students had suffered under many of the same restrictive policies as Megatron had. “I think perhaps I’ll pay them a visit, after… after I pay the Senate a visit first.”

Megatron said nothing, sitting there in silence with his hands around the drink that had long since gone cold, forgotten in the midst of their conversation. Had he ever even taken a sip? Orion couldn’t recall, having been too focused on their exchange and on burning optics.

“And it’s sudden, I know.” Orion let his hands carelessly flop across the table, towards where Megatron’s were folded. “It sounds absolutely crazy, but I want—“

Orion stopped himself, taking a deep ventilation and shifting uncomfortably. He tensed his outstretched hands into fists before relaxing them again.

Another deep ventilation.

“Will you go with me?”

Please say—

“Yes.”

#fic #one shot #maccadam #idw1 #megatron #optimus prime #orion pax #megop

50 notes · View notes

secretsolenoid-revived · 4 months

Text

2023 Secret Solenoid Gift Directory!

This is the 2023 gift directory of all of the gifts! Be sure to look at everyone's amazing work! ❤️

Some of these are various shades of suggestive or explicit. Those that include 18+ / Gore have been marked as NSFW!

[Anonymous] for sturthepotofmadness: [G1] Art (Astrotrain)

[Anonymous] for artificial-absinthe: [TFP] Fic (Megatron/Soundwave)

[Anonymous] for mxbenz: [IDW1] Art (NSFW) (Tailgate/Cyclonus)

Aecholapis for Alruin(melopardi): [IDW1] Art: (Deadlock/Megatron)

Alruin (melopardi) for utility-cavities: [G1] Fic (Galvatron & Rodimus)

apotherice for SeafoamSol: [IDW1] Fic (NSFW) (Getaway/Perceptor)

Argoxnautililus for OverlordRaax: [Bishoujo] Art (Starscream & Skyfire)

Artificial-absinthe for kagebros: [IDW1] Art (NSFW) (Orion Pax/Shockwave)

Awesomepotato2016 for Skidblast: [Soup] Fic (Starscream & Trailbreaker)

badautobot for spartyll: [TFA] Art (Starscream)

bassomega for hysterical-random-things: [IDW1] Art (NSFW) (Starscream/Shockwave)

bluecookiesabi for radiolovebot: [IDW1] Fic (NSFW) (Overlord)

blurrito for aecholapis: [IDW1] Art (Thunderclash/Rodimus)

bunny-fair for yesnomaybelobster33: [ROTB] Fic (NSFW) (Noah Diaz/Mirage)

cao-the-dreamer for undergroundoil: [IDW1] Fic (Grimlock/Misfire)

cartoonsinthemorning for mostlyhim: [G1] Art (Starscream/Megatron)

darksidekelz for luluvalu: [IDW1] Art (Swerve/Blurr)

deadangelcat for Gemmarose: [IDW1] Art (NSFW) (Rodimus/Ultra Magnus)

deadlysoupy for elmonstro: [IDW1] Fic (Brainstorm/Perceptor)

digispook for rotorarc: [IDW1] Art (Rodimus)

elmonstro for hysterical-random-things: [IDW1] Art (Tailgate/Cyclonus/Whirl)

exdraghunt for cao-the-dreamer: [ROTB] Fic (NSFW) (Noah Diaz/Mirage)

final-milf-ratchet for [Anonymous]: [IDW1] Art (Cyclonus/Whirl/Tailgate)

fowo for noodleblade: [IDW1] Art (Brainstorm/Perceptor)

friedfriedchicken for digispook: [G1] Art (Arcee)

Gemmarose for stynamo: [IDW1] Fic (NSFW) (Dominus Ambus/Rewind)

glasspunkart for cartoonsinthemorning: [IDW1] Art (Rung)

hapships for rodimusofficial: [Cyberverse] Art (Dead End/Perceptor)

hoursgoneby for fowo: [IDW1] Fic (Drift/Ratchet)

hysterical-random-things for thesharmat: [IDW2] Art (Road Rage)

Insecuriosity for megatronstillright/RHplus: [Soup] Fic (Skylynx & Astrotrain)

ivycorp for plainblackcanvas56: [TFP] Fic (Megatron/Orion Pax)

jariktig for badautobot: [IDW1] Fic (Ratchet/Pharma)

Jayspilledink (& nopes-and-dreams) for xenonmalachite: [G1] Art (Mirage)

kagebros for deadangelcat: [G1] Art (Skyfire/Starscream)

kusakichan15 for hoursgoneby: [TFP] (Knock Out/Dreadwing)

Languidly for madness-to-my-method: [TFP] Fic (Megatron/Optimus Prime)

LegendTrainer for Jariktig: [IDW1] Fic (Jazz/Megatron)

letslipthehounds (jedipati) for rinovarka: [G1] Fic (Cosmos & Omega Supreme)

luluvalu for kusakichan15: [G1] Art (Megatron/Orion Pax; Megatron/Optimus Prime)

lush-specimen for spashahoney: [G1] Fic (Optimus Prime & Rodimus Prime)

lush-specimen for undergroundoil: [IDW1] Art (Perceptor)

lyumera for theblueblazes: [Soup] Art (Soundwave/Rodimus)

madness-to-my-method for synchros (five-million-year-old-gilf): [IDW1] Art (Megatron)

mal-co-holic for nuclearjacks: [IDW1] Fic (Megatron/Orion Pax & Megatron/Optimus Prime)

martinthelandlockedmartian for exdraghunt: [G1] Fic (Jazz/Prowl)

martinthelandlockedmartian for gayrob0t: [G1] Fic (Megatron/Starscream; Optimus Prime/Ratchet)

megatronstillright (RHplus) for smoketopus: [G1] Art (Galvatron & Rodimus)

mostly-him for noritaro: [IDW1] Art (Blurr)

mxbenz for ivycorp: [TFP] Fic (NSFW) (Megatron/Orion Pax & Megatron/Optimus Prime)

noamalvaro for [Anonymous]: [IDW1] Fic (Orion Pax/Shockwave; Optimus Prime/Shockwave)

noodleblade for salicinalis: [IDW1] Fic (Drift & Rodimus)

noritaro for bassomega: [IDW1] Art (Starscream/Deadlock)

nuclearjacks for lush-specimen: [IDW1] Art (Thunderclash/Rodimus)

ohdeariemegoodness for Languidly: [G1] Fic (NSFW) (Jazz/Soundwave)

OverlordRaax for hapships: [Cyberverse] Art (Windblade/Slipstream)

pika (pikaisragingmad) for darksidekelz: [IDW1] Art (Deadlock & Drift)

pika (pikaisragingmad) for glasspunk: [IDW1] Art (Overlord/Tarn)

plainblackcanvas56 for martinthelanlockedmartian: [G1] Art (Megatron/Optimus Prime)

radiolovebot (StereoMinded) for thenamesblurrito: [Soup] Fic (Blurr)

rcxdirectrix for pikaisragingmad: [Cyberverse] Art (NSFW) (Astrotrain & Dead End)

rinovarka for lyumera: [G1] Art (Starscream)

rodimusofficial for noamalvaro: [IDW1] Art (Brainstorm/Perceptor)

rotorarc for bunny-fair: [IDW2] Art (Shadow Striker, Flamewar, Slipstream)

salicinalis for inkfamy: [Soup] Fic (Skywarp, Starscream & Thundercracker)

skidblast for jedipati (letslipthehounds): [TFA] Fic (Optimus Prime & Sari Sumdac & Isaac Sumdac)

Slyboots for rcxdirectrix: [Cyberverse] Fic (NSFW) (Astrotrain/Dead End)

smoketopus for starsh0ck: [TFA] Art (Starscream & Sari Sumdac)

spartyll for Insecuriosity: [BW] Art (Rattrap & Dinobot)

spashahoney for mal-co-holic: [IDW1] Art (Megatron/Rodimus)

starsh0ck for jayspilledink: [IDW1] Art (Ratchet/Drift/Rodimus)

Stynamo for Slyboots: [TFP] Art (NSFW) (Knock Out/Breakdown)

sturthepotofmadness for awesomepotato16: [G1] Art (Optimus Prime)

swagrez for toasty-teddy: [IDW1] Art (Cyclonus/Tailgate)

Synchros for swervesbar: [IDW1] Art (NSFW) (Chromedome/Rewind)

theblueblazes for seekertrine: [G1] Art (Skyfire/Starscream)

thesharmat for deadlysoupy: [Cyberverse] Art (Rodimus, Cheetor & Bumblebee)

Toasty-teddy for friedfriedchicken: [IDW1] Art (Chromedome/Rewind)

undergroundoil for argoxnautilus: [IDW1] Art (Nightbeat, Nautica & Skids)

utility-cavities for ohdeariemegoodness(spacecoats): [G1] Art (Soundwave & Jazz)

vitrificvitrol for bluecookiesabi: [IDW1] Art (NSFW) (Thunderclash/Rodimus)

xenonmalachite for graymercy: [IDW1] Art (Minimus Ambus & Rodimus)

yesnomaybelobster (Bremmatron33) for final-milf-ratchet: [G1] Fic (NSFW) (Cliffjumper/Mirage)

#Secret Solenoid 2023 #mod post #gift directory #index #Gift Reblog #long post

42 notes · View notes