I’M SO SORRY FOR BEING LATE FOR THIS AGAIN BUT RAREPAIR TF WEEK I’M BACK
Here’s last’s month’s promt with Impactor X Jetfire! I do like Ratchpactor (or whatever name the ship is called lol) a lot but ever since I imagined that Impactor and Jetfire were once friends before WFC I couldn’t stop thinking of them in an angst ship. Yeeee the left one is the ‘final’ image with Jetfire reminiscing on old friends and the second is me filling in Impactor all the way because yes
ALSO I ACCIDENTALLY FORGOT THIS MONTH’S THING SO I JUST MADE A MOOD BOARD INSTEAD SORRY! All the images I used I got from Google Images and the TFWiki and I don’t claim ownership of them at all!
More messing around with @rocksinmuffin’s Megahusband AU (seriously check it out):
You don’t know what happened; actually, you do. It was the usual Decepticon plan-of-the-week but it featured a patented Wheeljack-what-the-frag-is-that invention.
Of course, it ended up on fire because why not?! But between Starscream’s stray null-ray shot, the Constructicon’s random mixes, and the Sideswipe’s updated molotov cocktail, the last thing you remember was a beam of bright, Barbie pink hitting you so hard to fly off the table and right into Lalaland via concussion.
Wheeljack had managed to squirrel you away upon the Autobots’ retreat and you woke up to a new reality of being absolutely Tall and Metal.
You’ve been secluded inside the Autobot medbay getting prodded, poked, and scanned every inch of your new body.
You should have far more panic but a good chunk of your adult life has been composed of absolutely random events fit for a protagonist of a reverse isekai, scifi anime. Or maybe an action-comedy since you originally dated Megatron to gain an upper-hand for the Autobots, and married him out of absolute spite to ruin that smug look on his face when he proposed through the Jumbotron at the game.
Speaking of the devil, you and everyone else in a 50-mile radius can hear Megatron bellowing outside the thick, protective walls.
“We could use the fire hose.” Ironhide says, far too casual in that way where someone really wants to do it but just waiting for another person to vaguely agree to go ham on it.
“No. I got it.”
“Are you sure, Y/N? You could take a few more days off to get used to it.”
“I got the anti-gravs and the shrinking down pat down. Might as well get it over with.”
_________________
Starscream listens to his Trine-mates bicker with the rest of the Armada, scrapping like a few of the groundpounders. All of them bored and cowed by Megatron’s shortfuse as their glorious leader keeps howling your name.
Staracream can only admire all of those spiteful acts of pettiness that cumulatived into a sham marriage between you and Megatron. And after years and years of domestic, married life, the active warfare turning cold, and this farce of a semi-functioning family, Starscream could say that Megatron had developed a begrudging sense of affection towards you. Or at least some sort of feeling to trigger his posessiveness.
Enough for the warlord to keep you on his shoulder whenever you’re at the base and actually recharge at that tiny dwelling where he needs to shift a ridiculous amount of mass into his subspace to fit through the door instead of his berth on base.
(During one of his snooping raids, Starscream had found a sparkling dollhouse, outfitted with the amenities for a human to stay as well as a bust of your scowling face.)
Unsurprisingly, a chunk of the Decepticon forces are outside the Ark as you haven’t left the orange monstrosity for a week and the Autobots stopped picking up their transmissions.
Finally, there’s movement. But it’s no human strolling out of the open hatch, it’s a new Cybertronian. One with a familiar walk and familiar expression of exasperation and they call out:
“Morning, my Titan sweetcheeks!”
It’s definitely you, and you’re annoyed.
Megatron’s sputtering, voice trailing off as you step in front in him, rivaling his height as a Seeker femme. All the mechs around stare unabashedly at your new frame. Games stop. Brawls still. His Trine-mates fall silent.
Everything. From digits to pedes to broad wings, all the armor and peeking protoform are a solid shade of Decepticon logo purple. The only exception is your newfound optics: a bright, searing shade of fuchsia.
“Pits, Screamer,” Skywarp’s poor attempt of a whisper echoes out. “Your step-creator’s slaggen hawt!”
Skywarp’s squeak of terror from the simultaneous hums of his null-ray and a fusion canon is music to his audials.
