[TFA] ASD 19 - Dedication
a/n: Phew. Been July since I last updated this. I'm sorry. >.< But now it's a flash fic fill and now it's an update and I'm rather pleased with this so I hope you are, too. Enjoy!
Title: Dedication
Universe: The Art of Self Destruction
Characters: Megatron, Optimus Prime, background Decepticons
Rating: K+
Warning: innuendo, UST
Description: Optimus receives his new brand and title from Megatron personally.
For dellessa's Flash Fiction Friday #63 prompt of TFA, Megatron/Optimus, complications
Megatron makes no effort to hide that he is watching the Prime. Or should he do away with that title and replace it with something else now that Optimus has taken the oath?
Megatron's lips curl into a smirk. He is under no illusions. Optimus is no more a Decepticon than Megatron is an Autobot. But it will be amusing to watch him play the game and attempt to deceive. Optimus may think he has scored a point, but by the time he realizes it is too late, he will give truth to his oath.
He will be a Decepticon. Megatron is quite sure of this.
Try as he might, Optimus cannot hide the dismay in his optics. Megatron sees him counting the warships at the Decepticon's disposal. He notices the moment Optimus recognizes Shockwave and understands that the Autobot defeat is inevitable. The Prime's plating ripples. His field flares, only to draw back just as quickly, tinted with shame.
Perhaps he hopes that Megatron hasn't noticed. So Megatron will play along. He'll pretend for Optimus' pride. He must nurture it, if he is truly to convince Optimus to his side.
Optimus is Decepticon to the core of his spark, he just doesn't know it.
Megatron rests a hand on Optimus' right shoulder to capture his attention, but he directs his statement to Blitzwing.
“Let me know the moment our fleet is within position and the shield falls. I suspect that the Elite Guard will contact us before we begin our assault,” Megatron says as he turns away from the massive screen and Optimus turns with him. “Our newest recruit needs his badge if he is to fight at our side, yes?”
Optimus looks up at him, his blue optics bleak but determined. “Yes, Lord Megatron,” he says, his tone a touch meek, but that will change.
Megatron grins and leads Optimus off the bridge. While it is traditional for new recruits to receive their badge in a public ceremony, Megatron doesn't want to alienate Optimus completely. He's well-aware of the Autobot tendency toward privacy. Besides, it gives him the opportunity to personalize the experience.
Beyond the bridge, Megatron directs Optimus to a nearby conference room and closes the door behind him. This gives them solitude, not that it puts Optimus more at ease. His plating has drawn tight to his frame. His energy field is so restrained as to be non-existent. He watches Megatron warily, though his optics continue to drift toward the floor, perhaps thinking that subservience is what a proper Decepticon would offer.
Charming.
“You can relax, Optimus,” Megaton says with a little chuckle. “I don't intend to eat you.”
Optimus startles and then draws himself up straight. “Sometimes, I am not so sure,” he retorts, with more spirit then Megatron would have given him credit.
Megatron laughs outright and levels a gaze at the smaller former Autobot. “Is that a request?” he asks, adding a purr to his vocals. “Have you thought about me doing so?” He steps toward Optimus and notices that Optimus takes a step back, nearly trapping himself between the table and Megatron. “Should I make such an offer? Perhaps on that very table behind you even.”
Pale faceplates flush with heat. Optimus' intake bobs. “You're mocking me,” he says, vocals that attempt to be stern but don't quite make the race.
“It was merely a question.” Megatron grins and gestures toward the table. “Sit or stand, the choice is yours.”
Optimus' optics cycle wide and Megatron is quite sure they've gone in the wrong direction. “Um.”
Megatron pulls a cloth and paint stripper from his thigh compartment. “So that I can remove that hideous face from your shoulder, Optimus. What else did you think I meant?”
The field that flickers out is flush with both embarrassment and perhaps even a tint of disappointment. Intriguing.
Optimus audibly reboots his vocalizer. “I'll stand,” he says, and crosses his arms. His shoulders hunch. He's defensive.
He really ought not be so charming.
“If you insist.” Megatron takes a step toward Optimus and there's a dull clang as Optimus' aft hits the table.
Megatron pauses and quirks an orbital ridge. “Are you afraid of me, Optimus?”
“No.” Optimus stares at him, his every armor plate screaming otherwise before he holds out a hand. “I'll do it myself.”
“I'm afraid tradition dictates otherwise.” Megatron interjects apology into his tone, not that he feels it. It is hardly a burden to be in proximity to Optimus no-longer-a-Prime.
Optimus' engine rumbles. The heat in his faceplate grows. “Fine.” He tilts his shoulder toward Megatron, offering the Autobot face.
It is with only a small amount of evident glee that Megatron tilts paint stripper onto the rag and dabs at the Autobot badge. Optimus flinches, but Megatron doesn't know if it's more from his proximity or because Optimus still feels strongly about his allegiance to the Autobots. It is pointless to ask as Optimus has committed himself to this ruse. Not that he believes Optimus would answer.
“Why?” Optimus asks.
“Because it would be inappropriate for the Decepticon Second in Command to bear an Autobot badge, don't you think?” Megatron replies as four quick sweeps of the cloth wipes away the worst of the paint. Another spill of thinner onto the cloth and he removes the rest, leaving a bright silver sheen surrounded by crimson.
“That's not what I meant.” Optimus' helm turns, his gaze finding Megatron's with a previously unseen confidence. “Why is the Decepticon Lord supposed to do this?”
Megatron wipes off a few dribbles of thinner and sets both dirty cloth and bottle on the table. He brushes a thumb over the bare metal and notices Optimus shiver beneath him.
“And I should allow some footsoldier to tend to this when you are my second?” Megatron arches an orbital ridge, letting the weight of his hand rest on Optimus' shoulder. “It is a matter of respect, Optimus,” he says, and tilts his helm, his thumb sweeping over a portion of red armor. “Have you considered a repaint?”
Armor shuffles. Optimus audibly ex-vents. “I'm not changing my paint.”
“Are you sure? Gray and purple would suit you better, I think.”
Optimus' optics narrow. “I'm sure.”
“Suit yourself.”
Paint and paintbrush are the next to appear, this time from a side panel. Megatron fumbles for a moment with the small canister, much to Optimus' amusement, but manages to pop off the lid. It has been some time since he's drawn one of these freehand, but Megatron believes he hasn't lost his touch.
Optimus cycles his optics, his orbital ridges drawing down.
“You look confused,” Megatron says with a curl of his lips. No wonder Optimus had been relying on his battle mask. He is quite expressive.
“It's not a brand?” Optimus asks.
Megatron shakes his helm as he examines the brush. “I'm giving you an opportunity to change your mind about the repaint. Besides, I haven't time for you to be in recovery right now. Proper brands are more than a little scoring. They are nanite-reprogramming. Now hold still.”
Optimus' ventilations hitch. His hands dangle at his sides as Megatron leans closer to him, eying the bare patch of silver. This will look rough, but Megatron refuses to go into battle without claiming Optimus.
He is eager to see the look on the Magnus' face when he realizes the value of what he's thrown away.
“Who am I replacing?”
Megatron dips the brush into the paint and applies the first stroke. “You'll have to clarify your question.”
“Is it Starscream?”
Two more sweeps of the brush and Megatron is halfway done. Optimus must have locked his joints because he doesn't so much as twitch.
“By half,” Megatron answers. “You are my second, but you are not my Air Commander. That honor has been bestowed upon Slipstream.”
“Starscream's clone? But… why?”
“Because she is capable and the others are not.” Megatron straightens and admires his work.
It's not the best, but at least it's not crooked. As he thought, the purple clashes horribly with Optimus' current paint job. But he is still better suited for the Decepticon symbol.
Megatron lifts a finger and gestures for Optimus to turn. “Both sides,” he says. “I wouldn't want anyone to mistake you for an Autobot.”
“No, I wouldn't want that either.” Optimus' gaze falls to his painted shoulder, his expression unreadable as he angles his arm so that he can see the glistening paint. He turns and offers his other shoulder to Megatron.
There is a minute tremor in his frame this time as Megatron quickly applies the second brand. Optimus' field is more tangible now, a rising and falling pulse within the room that displays a rapid flurry of emotion. Does he regret his choice?
Such an intriguing little mech.
Megatron applies the last swipe of the brush and steps back to admire his work. His lips curve into a smile of approval. The colors clash, but he had been right. Optimus looks much better in Decepticon purple. And when he looks up at Megatron with a determined glint in his blue optics, a trickle of heat dares dance down Megatron's backstrut.
Hm. Well. Perhaps he can explore that at a later date, too.
“It suits you,” Megatron says as Optimus looks at his other shoulder, hand rising to touch the fast-drying paint.
“And who could have guessed you were so good with your hands,” Optimus says, almost absently, only to give Megatron a sidelong look.
Megatron laughs. “There are many things about me you do not know, Optimus.”
He tilts his helm. “I guess that means you trust me enough to let me find out.”
Cute. He thinks he's playing a game.
Amusement coils through Megatron's field. But his internal comm chirps at him in that very moment.
The Elite Guard, Ultra Magnus, and the Council have made an effort to communicate. His little interlude with Optimus must come to a close.
Megatron sets the paint and brush on the table. “The time for ceremony is over.” He moved to the door and keyed it open before turning back toward Optimus and holding out a hand. “Come, Commander. We have work to do.”
Optimus looks up at him as though startled by the title. His faceplate pinks. His hands draw into fists before loosening again.
He straightens as though suddenly in possession of a new flavor of pride.
“Yes,” he says, and he joins Megatron at the door, his optics a determined shade of blue. “My lord.”
It takes all Megatron has not to smirk.
****
a/n: So. One more chapter here in part one, and yes this thing is now in two parts (possibly three) and then we move in to part two. I promise, we're getting to the really steamy stuff soon. ;)
Feedback, as always, is welcome and appreciated.
This entry was originally posted at http://dracoqueen22.dreamwidth.org/307336.html. Feel free to comment wherever you find most convenient.
Title: Dedication
Universe: The Art of Self Destruction
Characters: Megatron, Optimus Prime, background Decepticons
Rating: K+
Warning: innuendo, UST
Description: Optimus receives his new brand and title from Megatron personally.
For dellessa's Flash Fiction Friday #63 prompt of TFA, Megatron/Optimus, complications
Megatron makes no effort to hide that he is watching the Prime. Or should he do away with that title and replace it with something else now that Optimus has taken the oath?
Megatron's lips curl into a smirk. He is under no illusions. Optimus is no more a Decepticon than Megatron is an Autobot. But it will be amusing to watch him play the game and attempt to deceive. Optimus may think he has scored a point, but by the time he realizes it is too late, he will give truth to his oath.
He will be a Decepticon. Megatron is quite sure of this.
Try as he might, Optimus cannot hide the dismay in his optics. Megatron sees him counting the warships at the Decepticon's disposal. He notices the moment Optimus recognizes Shockwave and understands that the Autobot defeat is inevitable. The Prime's plating ripples. His field flares, only to draw back just as quickly, tinted with shame.
Perhaps he hopes that Megatron hasn't noticed. So Megatron will play along. He'll pretend for Optimus' pride. He must nurture it, if he is truly to convince Optimus to his side.
Optimus is Decepticon to the core of his spark, he just doesn't know it.
Megatron rests a hand on Optimus' right shoulder to capture his attention, but he directs his statement to Blitzwing.
“Let me know the moment our fleet is within position and the shield falls. I suspect that the Elite Guard will contact us before we begin our assault,” Megatron says as he turns away from the massive screen and Optimus turns with him. “Our newest recruit needs his badge if he is to fight at our side, yes?”
Optimus looks up at him, his blue optics bleak but determined. “Yes, Lord Megatron,” he says, his tone a touch meek, but that will change.
Megatron grins and leads Optimus off the bridge. While it is traditional for new recruits to receive their badge in a public ceremony, Megatron doesn't want to alienate Optimus completely. He's well-aware of the Autobot tendency toward privacy. Besides, it gives him the opportunity to personalize the experience.
Beyond the bridge, Megatron directs Optimus to a nearby conference room and closes the door behind him. This gives them solitude, not that it puts Optimus more at ease. His plating has drawn tight to his frame. His energy field is so restrained as to be non-existent. He watches Megatron warily, though his optics continue to drift toward the floor, perhaps thinking that subservience is what a proper Decepticon would offer.
Charming.
“You can relax, Optimus,” Megaton says with a little chuckle. “I don't intend to eat you.”
Optimus startles and then draws himself up straight. “Sometimes, I am not so sure,” he retorts, with more spirit then Megatron would have given him credit.
Megatron laughs outright and levels a gaze at the smaller former Autobot. “Is that a request?” he asks, adding a purr to his vocals. “Have you thought about me doing so?” He steps toward Optimus and notices that Optimus takes a step back, nearly trapping himself between the table and Megatron. “Should I make such an offer? Perhaps on that very table behind you even.”
Pale faceplates flush with heat. Optimus' intake bobs. “You're mocking me,” he says, vocals that attempt to be stern but don't quite make the race.
“It was merely a question.” Megatron grins and gestures toward the table. “Sit or stand, the choice is yours.”
Optimus' optics cycle wide and Megatron is quite sure they've gone in the wrong direction. “Um.”
Megatron pulls a cloth and paint stripper from his thigh compartment. “So that I can remove that hideous face from your shoulder, Optimus. What else did you think I meant?”
The field that flickers out is flush with both embarrassment and perhaps even a tint of disappointment. Intriguing.
Optimus audibly reboots his vocalizer. “I'll stand,” he says, and crosses his arms. His shoulders hunch. He's defensive.
He really ought not be so charming.
“If you insist.” Megatron takes a step toward Optimus and there's a dull clang as Optimus' aft hits the table.
Megatron pauses and quirks an orbital ridge. “Are you afraid of me, Optimus?”
“No.” Optimus stares at him, his every armor plate screaming otherwise before he holds out a hand. “I'll do it myself.”
“I'm afraid tradition dictates otherwise.” Megatron interjects apology into his tone, not that he feels it. It is hardly a burden to be in proximity to Optimus no-longer-a-Prime.
Optimus' engine rumbles. The heat in his faceplate grows. “Fine.” He tilts his shoulder toward Megatron, offering the Autobot face.
It is with only a small amount of evident glee that Megatron tilts paint stripper onto the rag and dabs at the Autobot badge. Optimus flinches, but Megatron doesn't know if it's more from his proximity or because Optimus still feels strongly about his allegiance to the Autobots. It is pointless to ask as Optimus has committed himself to this ruse. Not that he believes Optimus would answer.
“Why?” Optimus asks.
“Because it would be inappropriate for the Decepticon Second in Command to bear an Autobot badge, don't you think?” Megatron replies as four quick sweeps of the cloth wipes away the worst of the paint. Another spill of thinner onto the cloth and he removes the rest, leaving a bright silver sheen surrounded by crimson.
“That's not what I meant.” Optimus' helm turns, his gaze finding Megatron's with a previously unseen confidence. “Why is the Decepticon Lord supposed to do this?”
Megatron wipes off a few dribbles of thinner and sets both dirty cloth and bottle on the table. He brushes a thumb over the bare metal and notices Optimus shiver beneath him.
“And I should allow some footsoldier to tend to this when you are my second?” Megatron arches an orbital ridge, letting the weight of his hand rest on Optimus' shoulder. “It is a matter of respect, Optimus,” he says, and tilts his helm, his thumb sweeping over a portion of red armor. “Have you considered a repaint?”
Armor shuffles. Optimus audibly ex-vents. “I'm not changing my paint.”
“Are you sure? Gray and purple would suit you better, I think.”
Optimus' optics narrow. “I'm sure.”
“Suit yourself.”
Paint and paintbrush are the next to appear, this time from a side panel. Megatron fumbles for a moment with the small canister, much to Optimus' amusement, but manages to pop off the lid. It has been some time since he's drawn one of these freehand, but Megatron believes he hasn't lost his touch.
Optimus cycles his optics, his orbital ridges drawing down.
“You look confused,” Megatron says with a curl of his lips. No wonder Optimus had been relying on his battle mask. He is quite expressive.
“It's not a brand?” Optimus asks.
Megatron shakes his helm as he examines the brush. “I'm giving you an opportunity to change your mind about the repaint. Besides, I haven't time for you to be in recovery right now. Proper brands are more than a little scoring. They are nanite-reprogramming. Now hold still.”
Optimus' ventilations hitch. His hands dangle at his sides as Megatron leans closer to him, eying the bare patch of silver. This will look rough, but Megatron refuses to go into battle without claiming Optimus.
He is eager to see the look on the Magnus' face when he realizes the value of what he's thrown away.
“Who am I replacing?”
Megatron dips the brush into the paint and applies the first stroke. “You'll have to clarify your question.”
“Is it Starscream?”
Two more sweeps of the brush and Megatron is halfway done. Optimus must have locked his joints because he doesn't so much as twitch.
“By half,” Megatron answers. “You are my second, but you are not my Air Commander. That honor has been bestowed upon Slipstream.”
“Starscream's clone? But… why?”
“Because she is capable and the others are not.” Megatron straightens and admires his work.
It's not the best, but at least it's not crooked. As he thought, the purple clashes horribly with Optimus' current paint job. But he is still better suited for the Decepticon symbol.
Megatron lifts a finger and gestures for Optimus to turn. “Both sides,” he says. “I wouldn't want anyone to mistake you for an Autobot.”
“No, I wouldn't want that either.” Optimus' gaze falls to his painted shoulder, his expression unreadable as he angles his arm so that he can see the glistening paint. He turns and offers his other shoulder to Megatron.
There is a minute tremor in his frame this time as Megatron quickly applies the second brand. Optimus' field is more tangible now, a rising and falling pulse within the room that displays a rapid flurry of emotion. Does he regret his choice?
Such an intriguing little mech.
Megatron applies the last swipe of the brush and steps back to admire his work. His lips curve into a smile of approval. The colors clash, but he had been right. Optimus looks much better in Decepticon purple. And when he looks up at Megatron with a determined glint in his blue optics, a trickle of heat dares dance down Megatron's backstrut.
Hm. Well. Perhaps he can explore that at a later date, too.
“It suits you,” Megatron says as Optimus looks at his other shoulder, hand rising to touch the fast-drying paint.
“And who could have guessed you were so good with your hands,” Optimus says, almost absently, only to give Megatron a sidelong look.
Megatron laughs. “There are many things about me you do not know, Optimus.”
He tilts his helm. “I guess that means you trust me enough to let me find out.”
Cute. He thinks he's playing a game.
Amusement coils through Megatron's field. But his internal comm chirps at him in that very moment.
The Elite Guard, Ultra Magnus, and the Council have made an effort to communicate. His little interlude with Optimus must come to a close.
Megatron sets the paint and brush on the table. “The time for ceremony is over.” He moved to the door and keyed it open before turning back toward Optimus and holding out a hand. “Come, Commander. We have work to do.”
Optimus looks up at him as though startled by the title. His faceplate pinks. His hands draw into fists before loosening again.
He straightens as though suddenly in possession of a new flavor of pride.
“Yes,” he says, and he joins Megatron at the door, his optics a determined shade of blue. “My lord.”
It takes all Megatron has not to smirk.
****
a/n: So. One more chapter here in part one, and yes this thing is now in two parts (possibly three) and then we move in to part two. I promise, we're getting to the really steamy stuff soon. ;)
Feedback, as always, is welcome and appreciated.
This entry was originally posted at http://dracoqueen22.dreamwidth.org/307336.html. Feel free to comment wherever you find most convenient.