[TFA] Boundaries
a/n: I'm still planning on editing through the previous chapters and re-uploading the newly edited, new material but that's gonna have to wait for the weekend when I have the time to sit and re-upload all those chapters. Until then, have an update!
Title: Boundaries
Universe: The Art of Self-Destruction, TFA
Characters: Optimus, Onslaught, Megatron
Rating: T
Warning: canon-typical violence, mentions of sexual harassment
Description: Optimus is getting a little too comfortable in the presence of Decepticons.
For jeegoo's flash fiction prompt of Megatron/Optimus, peripheral
Another day, another spar, the only difference is his dance partner.
Onslaught is smaller and less massive than Megatron, but it's a difference of degrees because he still outclasses Optimus in every aspect. Onslaught, at least, doesn't mock Optimus for his shortcomings. He shows more patience than Megatron.
He's also quite a bit more handsy than Megatron.
Optimus pretends not to notice. He needs allies more than he needs to preserve his dignity or his personal space. If a little grope of his interface panel or a hand sliding down his aft or a flirtatious nip at his audial makes Onslaught more inclined to listen, all the better.
He's heard rumors. He listens when mech thinks he's not paying attention. Onslaught is not as perfectly loyal to Megatron as most of the mechs on this warship. There's a friction there, a source of contempt. Optimus doesn't know the source of it yet, but he'll find out. And then find some way to make use of it.
Thank you, Sentinel, for teaching him that much.
Wham!
Optimus hits the mat, processor swirling as he struggles to recover from the sudden impact. He forces himself to roll to his side and then into a crouch, warily watching as Onslaught circles him.
“You're not paying attention, Optimus,” Onslaught says, his visor glinting with humor. His battle mask is retracted; he never bothers to close it. “Your thoughts are elsewhere.”
“Do you want me to apologize?”
Onslaught chuckles, rolling his helm about his shoulders as though gearing up for a great attack. “I would like for you to try again.” He lifts a hand, beckoning Optimus with a single finger. “Come a little bit closer this time.”
The last is about a purr, the dark tones rippling through Optimus' audials and across his substructure. Not for the first time does he suppress a shudder. Given a different situation, perhaps he might have been genuinely attracted to Onslaught. His preferences had always been a closely guarded secret.
Autobots aren't meant to like warframes. But Optimus has always been drawn to them. To their size, their power. His presence on the warship is a unique kind of torture, his interface systems pinging him at the proximity of so many larger warframes, while his processor supplies him with all the ways they can tear him apart. It's jarring, the push-pull between terror and arousal.
It makes his interactions with Megatron all that much more complicated. And it also means that letting Onslaught grope him is a mixed bag of emotions. Part of him shudders with revulsion. Another, less wiser part of him, reminds Optimus that it has been a long, long time since he's had any hands on his spike but his own.
Optimus pushes himself to his stabilizers and gives his plating a good shake. His cooling fans are working full bore and condensation has gathered on his armor. But he's far from exhausted, and any training is good training at this point.
He'll find a way to be free yet.
Optimus launches himself at Onslaught. It's a matter of leverage, not force, he reminds himself. He thinks to encourage Onslaught to strike at him first, to turn the mech's own momentum against him.
And then he isn't quite sure what happens next, only knowing that his advance is thwarted quicker than Optimus can cycle his optics. One pede sweeps out from under him and he tilts forward, destined to hit the mat, only Onslaught's other hand scoops him up as though he weighs nothing, wrists easily trapped by the scope of said hand.
Optimus is not quite dangling, but it's a near thing. And it's effective, because he doesn't have enough leverage against the floor to do anything more than try and brace his weight against his protesting shoulder servos.
Onslaught pulls him closer, large frame venting heated blasts down on Optimus' own.
“You see, Optimus,” Onslaught purrs. His hand skates down Optimus' back, fingers nearing the curve of his aft. “I now have you right where I want you.”
It takes all he has to repress the tremble in his plating.
“Onslaught.”
The vocals send an abrupt shiver down Optimus' spinal strut. From the corner of his visual feed he can see Megatron standing at the edge of the mat, his arms crossed over his chestplate. The cannon on his arm seems particularly shiny. As does the baleful look in his optics.
Optimus staggers as Onslaught lets him go, all but pushing him away.
“Lord Megatron.” Onslaught half-tilts into a deferential bow. “Did you come to observe our training session?”
One orbital ridge arches. “Is that what it was?” There is no amusement to be found in Megatron's low growl. “I was under a different impression.”
Optimus glances between the two, watching Onslaught's battle mask slide shut with a quick snap as Megatron stares at his subordinate. Optimus might as well not be standing here for all the attention he is being paid.
“It was training alone,” Onslaught assures.
“Training you encouraged, if I'm not mistaken,” Optimus adds, tired of being forgotten. And maybe it's not the smartest thing to do, to provoke Megatron who is already clearly agitated, but he's tired of the games.
If Megatron is going to scrap him to the Pit and back, he needs to get it over with. Show himself for the creature he really is instead of all this pretending.
Megatron's gaze shifts to him. Optimus plants bravado on his face, returning it evenly. And then Megatron steps onto the mat and Optimus braces himself.
That's it, he thinks, show me who you really are.
“You're dismissed,” Megatron says without looking at the other mech.
“Of course, my liege.”
“And Onslaught?”
The other Decepticon doesn't turn, but he does pause, a certain tension to his plating that hints at the underlying friction between them. “Yes, sir?”
“I will see you in my office later.”
Onslaught's armor clamps tighter to his frame, if that is even at all possible. “Yes, Lord Megatron.”
And then he is gone. So, too, is their audience. Whether because Megatron had cast them all a scathing glance or they recognized the dark buzz to their leader's field, Optimus did not know. But he feels just a bit more unsafe knowing there are no witnesses save the cameras.
Not that there is anyone who will step in to protect him. His greatest defense has always been the mech still eating up the distance between them, nothing welcoming in his expression.
Still, Optimus is going to stand his ground. Being wary of Megatron and being afraid of Megatron are not the same thing.
“You've grown braver,” Megatron observed and there's a lot less.... anger in his vocals than Optimus would have expected.
He blinks, confused. Where is the beating? He glances at Megatron's hands, but they are loose at the warlord's side.
“I've never cowered,” Optimus retorts and his gaze drags back to Megatron's face, which has lost some of it's furious cast. “Are you going to tell me now that I can only train with you? Or maybe you're going to put me back in chains? Will you keep me by your side at all times?”
And no, interface system, that is not a cue to stand up and take notice, thank you very much. Optimus forcefully shuts those protocols down and hopes that Megatron attributes the whir in his vents to his recent exertion.
Megatron snorts a ventilation. “Hardly.” He reaches for Optimus and Optimus sidesteps the hand. If Megatron wants to grab him and beat him, Optimus is going to make him work for it.
“Then what's your objection?” Optimus demands. He wishes for his axe, if only because it'll serve as a better defense.
“Your choice in training partners.” Megatron's lips twist in a sneer. “You have poor taste.”
Optimus pops an orbital ridge. “He's your soldier.”
“There are others.”
“I suppose you want me to seek your approval every time then.” Optimus steps to the side again and notices that Megatron turns to keep an optic on him, something curious in his gaze and almost calculating. “Might be better to keep me locked up like the prisoner I am.”
“Hmm.” Megatron tilts his helm. “Where did you find those bearings, little Prime? You are unusually charming today.”
“Charming!” Optimus chokes on a vent.
Anger abandons Megatron, leaving amusement in its place. “As I said.” His engine gives a rumble that might be mistaken for a laugh. “I suppose Onslaught must think the same. Or have you decided that seducing my Decepticons is your best course of action?”
Optimus coughs, his faceplate turning red. Seducing?! Outrage bubbles up inside of him but all he can manage is a splutter. And he isn't even sure what to characterize that look as. Is Megatron disapproving? Is he amused? Is he angry? Is he looking for a reaction?
Optimus doesn't know Megatron well enough to guess.
“I am a prisoner,” he manages to grit out, hands balling into fists.
Megatron stares at him, the distance between them no greater than the length of his arm, but he doesn't make a grab for Optimus again. “That could change.”
“I'm not joining the Decepticons!” Optimus snaps and resists the urge to stomp his stabilizer as he'd witnessed Sari do on more than one occasion.
“Your loyalty is admirable, if not foolish. Why give your allegiance to a faction that has cast you aside?”
Anger flushes through him, chasing out the indignation. He ignores the shards of ice gathering in his tanks, all the things he's asked himself in the dead of night. Loyalty should not be so easily abandoned.
“I am one mech,” Optimus says hotly. “I can't expect the Autobots to sacrifice everything to rescue me. There are greater concerns and I'm--”
“-- not worth the effort?” Megatron finishes and the dark cast returns to his optics, and closes the distance between them in one stride, fishing something out of a side panel. “You underestimate your value, Optimus, as poorly as the Autobots do.” He holds his hand out, a datacube pinched between two fingers.
Optimus gaze flicks between Megatron's face and the presented cube. “What is that?”
“Proof.” Megatron's tone softens. “The Autobots are the ones who aren't worth it, Optimus. They may try to dismiss you, but I am not going to make that mistake.”
Optimus narrows his optics, but what does it hurt? He takes the cube. Might as well see what lies Megatron is trying to weave now.
“I'm not going to change my mind no matter what is on here,” Optimus says.
“We'll see.” Megatron gives him another long look and then turns, clearly dismissing Optimus and the conversation.
Optimus gnaws on his bottom lip, unsure whether he's irritated, angry, or exasperated. As it is, Megatron is almost out the door by the time he gathers himself enough to ask something that's been nagging at him for days.
“Megatron.” He might as well take the chance.
The Decepticon leader pauses, half-turning toward Optimus. It is all the gesture to continue that he's going to get. And maybe he's feeling charitable enough to give Optimus an answer. This particular question had been bouncing around his helm since the last time they'd had a discussion.
“How did you survive?” he asks and then rephrases because that could mean any number of things. “On Earth. How did you online again?”
And Megatron gives him one of those sharp denta smiles, full of dark and dirty things that carry over into Optimus' recharge.
“The human child's key,” he says, and he quits the room, leaving Optimus to flounder as he digests that bit of information.
Megatron could have been lying, Optimus reasons. But it's equally impossible to think that Professor Sumdac had somehow learned enough about Cybertronian biology to both fix Megatron and bring him out of what had to be a permanent stasis lock. Especially considering how long Megatron had been trapped in that state.
It is too much to be a mere coincidence.
What that means, however, Optimus isn't sure. Because he knows Sari wouldn't have chosen to revive Megatron on her own. But her key did have the odd habit of reacting to things of its own accord, almost as though it is ruled by a sentient energy.
Optimus sighs and looks down at the datacube, turning it over and over in his fingers. He's half-afraid of what is on it. Truth or lie? How will he know the difference?
He had thought that his presence on this warship could not get any more complicated. Clearly, he was wrong.
****
a/n: And here is where I introduce some headcanon. Hopefully it doesn't come too much out of nowhere. I will admit that I had no idea this story was going to actually grow plot and become more than just a couple of ficlets. But the idea hit me and now it won't leave me alone. I've got to try and catch up! :D
Feedback is very welcome and appreciated
This entry was originally posted at http://dracoqueen22.dreamwidth.org/283405.html. Feel free to comment wherever you find most convenient.
Title: Boundaries
Universe: The Art of Self-Destruction, TFA
Characters: Optimus, Onslaught, Megatron
Rating: T
Warning: canon-typical violence, mentions of sexual harassment
Description: Optimus is getting a little too comfortable in the presence of Decepticons.
For jeegoo's flash fiction prompt of Megatron/Optimus, peripheral
Another day, another spar, the only difference is his dance partner.
Onslaught is smaller and less massive than Megatron, but it's a difference of degrees because he still outclasses Optimus in every aspect. Onslaught, at least, doesn't mock Optimus for his shortcomings. He shows more patience than Megatron.
He's also quite a bit more handsy than Megatron.
Optimus pretends not to notice. He needs allies more than he needs to preserve his dignity or his personal space. If a little grope of his interface panel or a hand sliding down his aft or a flirtatious nip at his audial makes Onslaught more inclined to listen, all the better.
He's heard rumors. He listens when mech thinks he's not paying attention. Onslaught is not as perfectly loyal to Megatron as most of the mechs on this warship. There's a friction there, a source of contempt. Optimus doesn't know the source of it yet, but he'll find out. And then find some way to make use of it.
Thank you, Sentinel, for teaching him that much.
Wham!
Optimus hits the mat, processor swirling as he struggles to recover from the sudden impact. He forces himself to roll to his side and then into a crouch, warily watching as Onslaught circles him.
“You're not paying attention, Optimus,” Onslaught says, his visor glinting with humor. His battle mask is retracted; he never bothers to close it. “Your thoughts are elsewhere.”
“Do you want me to apologize?”
Onslaught chuckles, rolling his helm about his shoulders as though gearing up for a great attack. “I would like for you to try again.” He lifts a hand, beckoning Optimus with a single finger. “Come a little bit closer this time.”
The last is about a purr, the dark tones rippling through Optimus' audials and across his substructure. Not for the first time does he suppress a shudder. Given a different situation, perhaps he might have been genuinely attracted to Onslaught. His preferences had always been a closely guarded secret.
Autobots aren't meant to like warframes. But Optimus has always been drawn to them. To their size, their power. His presence on the warship is a unique kind of torture, his interface systems pinging him at the proximity of so many larger warframes, while his processor supplies him with all the ways they can tear him apart. It's jarring, the push-pull between terror and arousal.
It makes his interactions with Megatron all that much more complicated. And it also means that letting Onslaught grope him is a mixed bag of emotions. Part of him shudders with revulsion. Another, less wiser part of him, reminds Optimus that it has been a long, long time since he's had any hands on his spike but his own.
Optimus pushes himself to his stabilizers and gives his plating a good shake. His cooling fans are working full bore and condensation has gathered on his armor. But he's far from exhausted, and any training is good training at this point.
He'll find a way to be free yet.
Optimus launches himself at Onslaught. It's a matter of leverage, not force, he reminds himself. He thinks to encourage Onslaught to strike at him first, to turn the mech's own momentum against him.
And then he isn't quite sure what happens next, only knowing that his advance is thwarted quicker than Optimus can cycle his optics. One pede sweeps out from under him and he tilts forward, destined to hit the mat, only Onslaught's other hand scoops him up as though he weighs nothing, wrists easily trapped by the scope of said hand.
Optimus is not quite dangling, but it's a near thing. And it's effective, because he doesn't have enough leverage against the floor to do anything more than try and brace his weight against his protesting shoulder servos.
Onslaught pulls him closer, large frame venting heated blasts down on Optimus' own.
“You see, Optimus,” Onslaught purrs. His hand skates down Optimus' back, fingers nearing the curve of his aft. “I now have you right where I want you.”
It takes all he has to repress the tremble in his plating.
“Onslaught.”
The vocals send an abrupt shiver down Optimus' spinal strut. From the corner of his visual feed he can see Megatron standing at the edge of the mat, his arms crossed over his chestplate. The cannon on his arm seems particularly shiny. As does the baleful look in his optics.
Optimus staggers as Onslaught lets him go, all but pushing him away.
“Lord Megatron.” Onslaught half-tilts into a deferential bow. “Did you come to observe our training session?”
One orbital ridge arches. “Is that what it was?” There is no amusement to be found in Megatron's low growl. “I was under a different impression.”
Optimus glances between the two, watching Onslaught's battle mask slide shut with a quick snap as Megatron stares at his subordinate. Optimus might as well not be standing here for all the attention he is being paid.
“It was training alone,” Onslaught assures.
“Training you encouraged, if I'm not mistaken,” Optimus adds, tired of being forgotten. And maybe it's not the smartest thing to do, to provoke Megatron who is already clearly agitated, but he's tired of the games.
If Megatron is going to scrap him to the Pit and back, he needs to get it over with. Show himself for the creature he really is instead of all this pretending.
Megatron's gaze shifts to him. Optimus plants bravado on his face, returning it evenly. And then Megatron steps onto the mat and Optimus braces himself.
That's it, he thinks, show me who you really are.
“You're dismissed,” Megatron says without looking at the other mech.
“Of course, my liege.”
“And Onslaught?”
The other Decepticon doesn't turn, but he does pause, a certain tension to his plating that hints at the underlying friction between them. “Yes, sir?”
“I will see you in my office later.”
Onslaught's armor clamps tighter to his frame, if that is even at all possible. “Yes, Lord Megatron.”
And then he is gone. So, too, is their audience. Whether because Megatron had cast them all a scathing glance or they recognized the dark buzz to their leader's field, Optimus did not know. But he feels just a bit more unsafe knowing there are no witnesses save the cameras.
Not that there is anyone who will step in to protect him. His greatest defense has always been the mech still eating up the distance between them, nothing welcoming in his expression.
Still, Optimus is going to stand his ground. Being wary of Megatron and being afraid of Megatron are not the same thing.
“You've grown braver,” Megatron observed and there's a lot less.... anger in his vocals than Optimus would have expected.
He blinks, confused. Where is the beating? He glances at Megatron's hands, but they are loose at the warlord's side.
“I've never cowered,” Optimus retorts and his gaze drags back to Megatron's face, which has lost some of it's furious cast. “Are you going to tell me now that I can only train with you? Or maybe you're going to put me back in chains? Will you keep me by your side at all times?”
And no, interface system, that is not a cue to stand up and take notice, thank you very much. Optimus forcefully shuts those protocols down and hopes that Megatron attributes the whir in his vents to his recent exertion.
Megatron snorts a ventilation. “Hardly.” He reaches for Optimus and Optimus sidesteps the hand. If Megatron wants to grab him and beat him, Optimus is going to make him work for it.
“Then what's your objection?” Optimus demands. He wishes for his axe, if only because it'll serve as a better defense.
“Your choice in training partners.” Megatron's lips twist in a sneer. “You have poor taste.”
Optimus pops an orbital ridge. “He's your soldier.”
“There are others.”
“I suppose you want me to seek your approval every time then.” Optimus steps to the side again and notices that Megatron turns to keep an optic on him, something curious in his gaze and almost calculating. “Might be better to keep me locked up like the prisoner I am.”
“Hmm.” Megatron tilts his helm. “Where did you find those bearings, little Prime? You are unusually charming today.”
“Charming!” Optimus chokes on a vent.
Anger abandons Megatron, leaving amusement in its place. “As I said.” His engine gives a rumble that might be mistaken for a laugh. “I suppose Onslaught must think the same. Or have you decided that seducing my Decepticons is your best course of action?”
Optimus coughs, his faceplate turning red. Seducing?! Outrage bubbles up inside of him but all he can manage is a splutter. And he isn't even sure what to characterize that look as. Is Megatron disapproving? Is he amused? Is he angry? Is he looking for a reaction?
Optimus doesn't know Megatron well enough to guess.
“I am a prisoner,” he manages to grit out, hands balling into fists.
Megatron stares at him, the distance between them no greater than the length of his arm, but he doesn't make a grab for Optimus again. “That could change.”
“I'm not joining the Decepticons!” Optimus snaps and resists the urge to stomp his stabilizer as he'd witnessed Sari do on more than one occasion.
“Your loyalty is admirable, if not foolish. Why give your allegiance to a faction that has cast you aside?”
Anger flushes through him, chasing out the indignation. He ignores the shards of ice gathering in his tanks, all the things he's asked himself in the dead of night. Loyalty should not be so easily abandoned.
“I am one mech,” Optimus says hotly. “I can't expect the Autobots to sacrifice everything to rescue me. There are greater concerns and I'm--”
“-- not worth the effort?” Megatron finishes and the dark cast returns to his optics, and closes the distance between them in one stride, fishing something out of a side panel. “You underestimate your value, Optimus, as poorly as the Autobots do.” He holds his hand out, a datacube pinched between two fingers.
Optimus gaze flicks between Megatron's face and the presented cube. “What is that?”
“Proof.” Megatron's tone softens. “The Autobots are the ones who aren't worth it, Optimus. They may try to dismiss you, but I am not going to make that mistake.”
Optimus narrows his optics, but what does it hurt? He takes the cube. Might as well see what lies Megatron is trying to weave now.
“I'm not going to change my mind no matter what is on here,” Optimus says.
“We'll see.” Megatron gives him another long look and then turns, clearly dismissing Optimus and the conversation.
Optimus gnaws on his bottom lip, unsure whether he's irritated, angry, or exasperated. As it is, Megatron is almost out the door by the time he gathers himself enough to ask something that's been nagging at him for days.
“Megatron.” He might as well take the chance.
The Decepticon leader pauses, half-turning toward Optimus. It is all the gesture to continue that he's going to get. And maybe he's feeling charitable enough to give Optimus an answer. This particular question had been bouncing around his helm since the last time they'd had a discussion.
“How did you survive?” he asks and then rephrases because that could mean any number of things. “On Earth. How did you online again?”
And Megatron gives him one of those sharp denta smiles, full of dark and dirty things that carry over into Optimus' recharge.
“The human child's key,” he says, and he quits the room, leaving Optimus to flounder as he digests that bit of information.
Megatron could have been lying, Optimus reasons. But it's equally impossible to think that Professor Sumdac had somehow learned enough about Cybertronian biology to both fix Megatron and bring him out of what had to be a permanent stasis lock. Especially considering how long Megatron had been trapped in that state.
It is too much to be a mere coincidence.
What that means, however, Optimus isn't sure. Because he knows Sari wouldn't have chosen to revive Megatron on her own. But her key did have the odd habit of reacting to things of its own accord, almost as though it is ruled by a sentient energy.
Optimus sighs and looks down at the datacube, turning it over and over in his fingers. He's half-afraid of what is on it. Truth or lie? How will he know the difference?
He had thought that his presence on this warship could not get any more complicated. Clearly, he was wrong.
****
a/n: And here is where I introduce some headcanon. Hopefully it doesn't come too much out of nowhere. I will admit that I had no idea this story was going to actually grow plot and become more than just a couple of ficlets. But the idea hit me and now it won't leave me alone. I've got to try and catch up! :D
Feedback is very welcome and appreciated
This entry was originally posted at http://dracoqueen22.dreamwidth.org/283405.html. Feel free to comment wherever you find most convenient.