Transformers Prime Fanart Novels & Stories

I asked. Parker looked at me funny, but I stared him down until he went through his files. He finally pulls one out and smiles. “This is her. Neriah Russell. She seems feisty.” He hands me the file, and I see her headshot. Brown hair, golden skin, and hazel brown eyes. Full lips and a small mole just under the corner of her left eye. She is stunning in a unique way. She is my mate. She’s in this competition. Not just no, but hell fucking no.

between the Prime and the Architect-Cluster in the sky. ​The Architect-Prime collapsed. Her silver-white skin turned a dull, matte grey. Her eyes, once reflective mirrors, turned into a soft, human hazel, the same color as Sierra’s eyes in the basement. ​The "Standardization" of the Iron District reversed. The grey polygons turned back into rusted iron and cracked concrete. The "Noise" was triumphant. ​The Price of Peace ​The triplets gathered around Sierra and the fallen Prime. Sierra was breathing hard, her green coat tattered and her emerald eyes fading back to amber.

I blinked, my eyes sweeping across the room. The walls were covered with huge murals of Optimus Prime and Bumblebee, the colors blue and red dominating all sides of the room. On the shelves beside the bed, dozens of Transformers robots in various sizes are lined up. Some are brand new, and some look like they've been played with a lot. In the corner of the room is a small table with a blue ergonomic chair, complete with a reading lamp in the shape of Megatron's head. Most strikingly, the blanket on his bed was Transformers-patterned, with a picture of Optimus Prime looking straight at me.

“The artifact represents creation at its most stubborn. Most resistant to necessary entropy. It had to be unmade.” “By erasing everyone around me until I surrendered it.” “Yes. Regrettable but necessary.” I felt anger building despite the Void’s attempts to unmake emotion itself. “You erased entire packs. Hundreds of lives. Made it so they never existed.” “Necessary correction. Reality requires pruning, growth requires death.” The Prime’s tone held no remorse or satisfaction. Just statement of fact. “This is not cruelty.” “There has to be another way.” “Is there?” The Prime moved closer… not physically, but in attention. “You wield the artifact. Use its power. But for what purpose? Conquest?

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"He's changed hasn't he. I hadn't noticed it until the other night when you left. He lost control but not in the way that you think. You did something unexpected beyond his gaze and it infuriated him." "What are you talking about? Just tell me already," I raised my voice slightly, feeling frustrated and agitated. I just wanted somebody to say the words that I had been in denial about since the moment his knee connected with my father's skull. "Prime has awakened," he said the three dreaded words. "How do you know that," I asked slowly, watching the swirls of the mark on my arm. It vaguely resembled the at symbol but had more swirls that formed more letters. There was an 'a' and what looked l

Adam laughed at his, his lips returning to my neck as he pulled off his own shirt. "I think the word you're looking for is perfect," he said, his hands sliding up my skirt. "No." I said. "That's not it..." "Sexy?" "No." "Then what?" I thought about it for a moment. "Primal." Adam smiled as he pulled off his belt. "Darling, I can show you primal..."

“Why that of all the sculptures and other arts in the library?” She shrugged her shoulder. “I don’t know. I’m just drawn into it. It’s like when you enter a room and suddenly hear a faint sound of piano, the melody reaching out to you, as if summoning you closer.” A genuine smile crossed his lips. “The Prime is one of the ancient creatures in the world. They originated from this very land.” Chessa glanced at him. “You seemed to know about them. You also said they’re a fruit of sins and wars, right? Did you know who’s the artist that made them? I mean, they’re myth, aren’t they?”

The provisional council chamber beneath the rebuilt Apex tower had transformed into a theater of controlled terror. The long table, once a symbol of fragile democracy, now served as Prime’s stage for interrogation. Clone-Prime sat at its head, wearing Damian’s face with the cold precision of a mask carved from ice. His black suit was impeccable, open collar revealing the faint scar that mirrored the original, but the eyes held none of the fire that had defined Damian through every hell they had survived. They were empty. Calculating. Hungry for the destruction he had planned all along.

Resting his head on the top of my own, we waited until Tenny seemed to find what he was looking for. "Ah, yes." He pointed to a page that was decorated in gold and silver - actual flakes of the elements if I wasn't mistaken. "This figure is the Prime." The figure was neither male or female by external markers. Haloed in colors from concentric circles of palest to darkest, the Prime stood on what looked to be a bed of snakes. Each snake was eating the tail of the snake closest to it. Each snake was a slightly different color as well. Dozens of lines ran from Prime to the snakes. From Prime's hands, body, face, feet. Everywhere. Prime looked vaguely like a voodoo doll.