Opposites
Title: Opposites
Universe/Continuity: G1-ish
Rating: T
Warnings: kissing, references to interfacing(sticky), angst
Characters: Optimus Prime, Ratchet, Megatron
Pairing: Optimus Prime/Ratchet, Optimus Prime/Megatron
Prompt: “You're more than just a medic to me.”
Notes: Written for the Lj tf-rare-pairing fanwork-a-thon challenge.
Megatron was angry and sneering all through the celebrations, remarkably resembling to a heavy acid-storm cloud looming over the helms of the cautious, sometimes outright scared courtiers. Optimus Prime tried to ignore the darkening mood of his Lord High Protector, but his gestures of concession, calming and soothing went unseen and ignored. He also tried to lift the mood of the court and make the celebration… well, more celebratory-like - but without much success either. The occasion was a quiet diplomatic disaster and at the end they left it in matching mood.
In their shared quarters he barely had time to turn towards Megatron after the door slid closed behind them, the frustrated words not quite able to leave his vocalizer, when he felt the hungry, possessive mouth on his. Pushed backwards, into a wall, Megatron’s jagged denta made painful bites on his lipplates and his servos roamed forcefully, possessively over his frame, reclaiming what was his. He retaliated likewise, more than a little fed up with Megatron’s dark mood, the Lord High Protector’s uncanny ability to make his energon boil with lust and at the same time make him push away, weary, faintly nauseous, dissatisfied and angry.
“What is it again?!?”
Megatron growled darkly into his audial when Optimus turned his helm away from him, pressing him into the wall under his larger, heavier frame.
“Nothing. I’m… tired. Not in mood for… what you call an interface.”
He winced at the carelessly voiced sentence and Megatron’s tight embrace loosened on him.
“What I call… WHAT???”
He was pushed back again, held by suddenly tightening fists against the wall, but Megatron’s thigh that had been trying to wedge between his own was gone. It seemed he was bristling with indignation, the spikes on his armour rising threateningly.
“This.” - Optimus waved indiscriminately towards him, suddenly weary - “This show of power, this dominant posturing every dark joor, the aggression and force… when we are bondmates.”
“So... what?” - Megatron was truly bewildered, it was carved into every line of the great, silvery frame. His clawed servos lifted, fluttered back and up again, like he suddenly wasn’t sure what to do with them.
“I just… don’t want it, Megatron. I don’t want out interfaces to be fights.”
“But… but you always enjoy them?!?”
A claw accusingly pointed to the blue interface panel that was undeniably stained with lubricants already, betraying Optimus’s arousal. His faceplates were nearly comically confused though. Optimus sighed inwardly. He was in no mood for this talk either, not for the thousandth time. Megatron seemed to forget or ignore it every time he tried to explain this.
“I do. We ARE bondmates and your lust affects me too.” - he winced. The sentiment was not something that should be uttered between mates, but Megatron didn’t seem to pick up the underlying meaning as he continued to scowl uncomprehendingly - “But I’d prefer sometimes if you were a bit… gentler.”
The Lord High Protector balked and shifted backwards. Suddenly he turned, leaving Optimus stand alone and unsupported on shaky legs by the wall. He stalked deeper into the room, his growl wafting behind him.
“I’m not… gentle.”
Megatron spat the word like it burned his vocalizer. He was gone to the next room by the time Optimus whispered his answer, sad and hopeless.
“I know…”
He stood there for a klik, shaking before collecting himself. Then he turned and left the rooms by another door, a side corridor that led to another set of chambers. He knocked, knowing that the inhabitant was at home and waiting despite the late joor. The door opened quickly.
“Come in.”
Ratchet’s optics roamed over his frame as he stepped in and sat on a med-berth heavily, seeking out any injuries, warranting the visit. When he found none he lifted a brow-plate.
“What is it this time?”
“Nothing really… just a few bites.”
His mask parted to show ravaged lipplates. Ratchet’s servos tightened on a tool but he scooted closer. The bites were shallow, but one was still bleeding energon and needed to be cleaned up. He also noted - but left uncommented - the smell of lubricants wafting from the Prime’s panel, curiously not accompanied by transfluid smells. He started to tend the small wound when he felt the temperature of Optimus’s frame going up by several degrees and fans starting up quietly.
“Optimus…?”
“Nothing.”
The Prime murmured embarrassed, shifting nervously under the medic’s servos. Ratchet was confused. The jump in the Prime’s core temperature without a visible reason was… worrying to say at least.
“I’ll be the judge of that.”
The old snap, the one he is famous for was back in his tone. Whipping out a scanner he pointed it at the Prime, moving along the larger frame… ohh. He understood the embarrassment at least. Unresolved charge was acutely uncomfortable, but there was only one way to disperse that and why didn’t Megatron the slagger… he stopped the thought there and then. What the Prime and his bondmate were up to between each other was definitely not his concern. Wasn’t it?
He pulled his servo away, setting the sensor down to a side table. As he turned away, he felt the Prime’s digits ghosting his shoulder-plate, the touch quite electric on his frayed nerves. The touch was light as feather and was gone as fast as he whirled back surprised.
“I’m… sorry…”
He never saw Optimus Prime quite so flustered. Not that he was any better. Not that he understood it any better. Words momentarily deserting him, Ratchet stared at his long-time friend who, apparently had to exert quite an effort to restrain his servos. His own cooling fans embarrassingly whirred to life too at the sight, at the thoughts coming unbidden, at the ideas forming in his processor that should not, that must not…
“You want to…” - slag he couldn’t just ask that from Optimus Prime - “You want me to…?”
That regal helm opposite to him just dipped slightly, nodding almost imperceptibly to his question. The blue optics had a quiet desperation in them, mixed still with embarrassment and fighting with decorum.
“B-but… why me…? Meg…”
The sudden lurch that pulled the blue helm facing away made him stop before he could say the designation.
“Please… don’t...”
A blue servo came up again, hesitant, nearly touching the scratched white plating, but hovering over it in indecision, fear and a silent plea. He couldn’t say no to that plea, perhaps he’d never wanted to really.
“But I’m just… a nomech. Unimportant. A medic.”
The digits landed on his plating, their owner obviously sensing that he was just making excuses. They caressed a burning path over his shoulder plate, down the windshield and over the slats. Wherever they went, his sensors fired into life, swamping his system with charge. Ratchet stifled a deep groan and tried not to jump him. When they stopped, he looked up, into blue optics burning with inner fire, discarding the caution, the decorum, the consequences.
“You're far more than just a medic to me.”
Universe/Continuity: G1-ish
Rating: T
Warnings: kissing, references to interfacing(sticky), angst
Characters: Optimus Prime, Ratchet, Megatron
Pairing: Optimus Prime/Ratchet, Optimus Prime/Megatron
Prompt: “You're more than just a medic to me.”
Notes: Written for the Lj tf-rare-pairing fanwork-a-thon challenge.
Megatron was angry and sneering all through the celebrations, remarkably resembling to a heavy acid-storm cloud looming over the helms of the cautious, sometimes outright scared courtiers. Optimus Prime tried to ignore the darkening mood of his Lord High Protector, but his gestures of concession, calming and soothing went unseen and ignored. He also tried to lift the mood of the court and make the celebration… well, more celebratory-like - but without much success either. The occasion was a quiet diplomatic disaster and at the end they left it in matching mood.
In their shared quarters he barely had time to turn towards Megatron after the door slid closed behind them, the frustrated words not quite able to leave his vocalizer, when he felt the hungry, possessive mouth on his. Pushed backwards, into a wall, Megatron’s jagged denta made painful bites on his lipplates and his servos roamed forcefully, possessively over his frame, reclaiming what was his. He retaliated likewise, more than a little fed up with Megatron’s dark mood, the Lord High Protector’s uncanny ability to make his energon boil with lust and at the same time make him push away, weary, faintly nauseous, dissatisfied and angry.
“What is it again?!?”
Megatron growled darkly into his audial when Optimus turned his helm away from him, pressing him into the wall under his larger, heavier frame.
“Nothing. I’m… tired. Not in mood for… what you call an interface.”
He winced at the carelessly voiced sentence and Megatron’s tight embrace loosened on him.
“What I call… WHAT???”
He was pushed back again, held by suddenly tightening fists against the wall, but Megatron’s thigh that had been trying to wedge between his own was gone. It seemed he was bristling with indignation, the spikes on his armour rising threateningly.
“This.” - Optimus waved indiscriminately towards him, suddenly weary - “This show of power, this dominant posturing every dark joor, the aggression and force… when we are bondmates.”
“So... what?” - Megatron was truly bewildered, it was carved into every line of the great, silvery frame. His clawed servos lifted, fluttered back and up again, like he suddenly wasn’t sure what to do with them.
“I just… don’t want it, Megatron. I don’t want out interfaces to be fights.”
“But… but you always enjoy them?!?”
A claw accusingly pointed to the blue interface panel that was undeniably stained with lubricants already, betraying Optimus’s arousal. His faceplates were nearly comically confused though. Optimus sighed inwardly. He was in no mood for this talk either, not for the thousandth time. Megatron seemed to forget or ignore it every time he tried to explain this.
“I do. We ARE bondmates and your lust affects me too.” - he winced. The sentiment was not something that should be uttered between mates, but Megatron didn’t seem to pick up the underlying meaning as he continued to scowl uncomprehendingly - “But I’d prefer sometimes if you were a bit… gentler.”
The Lord High Protector balked and shifted backwards. Suddenly he turned, leaving Optimus stand alone and unsupported on shaky legs by the wall. He stalked deeper into the room, his growl wafting behind him.
“I’m not… gentle.”
Megatron spat the word like it burned his vocalizer. He was gone to the next room by the time Optimus whispered his answer, sad and hopeless.
“I know…”
He stood there for a klik, shaking before collecting himself. Then he turned and left the rooms by another door, a side corridor that led to another set of chambers. He knocked, knowing that the inhabitant was at home and waiting despite the late joor. The door opened quickly.
“Come in.”
Ratchet’s optics roamed over his frame as he stepped in and sat on a med-berth heavily, seeking out any injuries, warranting the visit. When he found none he lifted a brow-plate.
“What is it this time?”
“Nothing really… just a few bites.”
His mask parted to show ravaged lipplates. Ratchet’s servos tightened on a tool but he scooted closer. The bites were shallow, but one was still bleeding energon and needed to be cleaned up. He also noted - but left uncommented - the smell of lubricants wafting from the Prime’s panel, curiously not accompanied by transfluid smells. He started to tend the small wound when he felt the temperature of Optimus’s frame going up by several degrees and fans starting up quietly.
“Optimus…?”
“Nothing.”
The Prime murmured embarrassed, shifting nervously under the medic’s servos. Ratchet was confused. The jump in the Prime’s core temperature without a visible reason was… worrying to say at least.
“I’ll be the judge of that.”
The old snap, the one he is famous for was back in his tone. Whipping out a scanner he pointed it at the Prime, moving along the larger frame… ohh. He understood the embarrassment at least. Unresolved charge was acutely uncomfortable, but there was only one way to disperse that and why didn’t Megatron the slagger… he stopped the thought there and then. What the Prime and his bondmate were up to between each other was definitely not his concern. Wasn’t it?
He pulled his servo away, setting the sensor down to a side table. As he turned away, he felt the Prime’s digits ghosting his shoulder-plate, the touch quite electric on his frayed nerves. The touch was light as feather and was gone as fast as he whirled back surprised.
“I’m… sorry…”
He never saw Optimus Prime quite so flustered. Not that he was any better. Not that he understood it any better. Words momentarily deserting him, Ratchet stared at his long-time friend who, apparently had to exert quite an effort to restrain his servos. His own cooling fans embarrassingly whirred to life too at the sight, at the thoughts coming unbidden, at the ideas forming in his processor that should not, that must not…
“You want to…” - slag he couldn’t just ask that from Optimus Prime - “You want me to…?”
That regal helm opposite to him just dipped slightly, nodding almost imperceptibly to his question. The blue optics had a quiet desperation in them, mixed still with embarrassment and fighting with decorum.
“B-but… why me…? Meg…”
The sudden lurch that pulled the blue helm facing away made him stop before he could say the designation.
“Please… don’t...”
A blue servo came up again, hesitant, nearly touching the scratched white plating, but hovering over it in indecision, fear and a silent plea. He couldn’t say no to that plea, perhaps he’d never wanted to really.
“But I’m just… a nomech. Unimportant. A medic.”
The digits landed on his plating, their owner obviously sensing that he was just making excuses. They caressed a burning path over his shoulder plate, down the windshield and over the slats. Wherever they went, his sensors fired into life, swamping his system with charge. Ratchet stifled a deep groan and tried not to jump him. When they stopped, he looked up, into blue optics burning with inner fire, discarding the caution, the decorum, the consequences.
“You're far more than just a medic to me.”