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shadow_vector2010-09-14 07:18 am
Giving Way
R
sticky
Megatron Origin
Megatron/Thundercracker
mid-issue four of Megatron Origin, may be some spoilers.
Yet another faily attempt at the scar-fetish kink for the kink meme. Yeah, this one sucks as a fill for that, too. I give up.
He held himself rigid until the door closed. Then he allowed himself to sag. No, more that he simply stopped fighting letting the pain show. As a leader, he had to keep an appearance in front of his troops. However, also as a leader, he needed to know when to stop. When, and around whom, he could let down his guard.
“Sir.” A voice from the darkness.
The tension flooded back into Megatron’s shoulder struts, causing one actuator to spark into failure. He winced, involuntarily. His head turned, slowly. The blue tetrajet. “Thundercracker.” Questioning by his tone why the jet was here. And not, well, fighting.
“Starscream sent me to protect you.”
Protect me. Megatron almost laughed. Keep an eye on, report on, more likely. Starscream had significant abilities that adapted well to combat. Just…different from the skills Megatron himself had transmuted to war. But, a flash of tactical ability. He had not come himself, and had not sent the other one, the unstable one. Some discretion, then, in that white tetrajet’s cortex.
“Indeed,” he said, quietly. Leaving aside all his speculation. Leaving aside the borderline insult that he, of all mechs, needed protection. He moved to the flat area on the floor he had claimed as a berth. Better accommodations would come in time. For all of them. He would not claim even that privilege above them, yet. Even though he regretted his idealism right now, as he eased himself painfully to the floor. He stretched his legs out, propping himself against the wall, weariness weighing on his circuitry like sludge. But he would not lie down. Not…yet.
He felt the blue jet’s optics on him, studying him, as if tracing a map of his injuries: armor charred and bent, heat-rippled, stained and spattered with interior joint lubricant, hydraulic fluid, energon. A ghastly rainbow of injuries.
“Thundercracker,” he said, sharply. The optics snapped up, guiltily. He could see, in the jet’s face, why he had refused to let the jets fight in the Arena. Not only that he’d had better use for their abilities than mindless entertainment, but that, well. They were…fragile. Borderline dilettantes. Cushioned in their soft lives, playing at soldiers. Adapting, but…slowly. The Arena would have broken them open. Shattered them. The way the tetrajet was staring at his injuries—a mix of awe and horror—told Megatron that story clearly enough.
“Sir.” Thundercracker mastered his voice well enough, at least. And in combat, he had performed admirably. Obviously. Else Megatron would not have kept him around. Still. It was time for this one to learn.
“You have, I presume,” and Megatron allowed a silky doubt into his voice, “some knowledge of basic repair?” He fought a grin as the jet bridled. He had won today. Against Sentinel. He deserved some small amount of amusement as a reward.
“Yes,” Thundercracker said, mouth working. Not knowing, Megatron thought, how much outrage and insult he should show. None, Thundercracker, Megatron thought. And all of it. Welcome to the contradictory nature of war. We live to kill. Kill to live. Destroy to create. Disrupt for peace. This? This is the smallest of paradoxes.
“Good.” Megatron gently probed his shattered shoulder armor. He tilted his head. “Must I make it an order? Have you no initiative?” Goading, deliberately. Testing this one’s mettle. A warrior, or a follower? This is your chance, Megatron thought, to pull yourself from behind Starscream’s gleaming shadow.
The mouth twisted into a sneer. Ah. An old rivalry among the three, perhaps? Megatron filed this away, as Thundercracker knelt beside him. “I did not presume above my station,” Thundercracker said. A rebuke? A challenge? Definitely something in his tone that could not be called humility. Not that Vosians were known for it.
Megatron forgot about the pain, the exhaustion. He studied the blue jet as Thundercracker bent to work on an open line in his thigh. He watched through lidded optics as Thundercracker worked, clamping down leaking lines, twist-patching wires, wrapping damaged connectors in contact-braces. Field expedient fixes, all of them. It apparently did not cross the jet’s mind to do something about the pain.
When had anyone, though, cared about Megatron’s pain, including Megatron himself? Even now, it was not a consideration, other than what Thundercracker’s omission said about the blue jet’s motivations and character. A puzzle. All of them were: he was leading troops who were unknown quantities to him.
But…it would have to be that way. He couldn’t lead an insurrection and know each of his troops. He knew this—he KNEW this. It was just that Soundwave’s…recent imbroglio had made a wound in Megatron’s self-assurance. Something else he hadn’t seen, some factor with which a miner didn’t have to contend. Hard stone and ore, yes. The soft vicissitudes of politics and psychology? They were agonizingly beyond his experience.
Thundercracker bent lower, concentrating on a recalcitrant hydraulic line, his hand bumping against Megatron’s pelvic armor. Megatron twitched, the battered armor hypersensitized from the heat of Sentinel’s Apex System. The pain from all over his superheated armor was so much smaller than the other injuries that the signal got lost. Until now, flaring red across his sensornet.
Thundercracker flinched, jerking his hand away. Yet…not quite bringing himself to apologize. Megatron not quite bringing himself to demand an apology. A tense moment, optics somehow fluttering past each other’s gaze.
Thundercracker bent back to work, and Megatron tilted his heavy helm back, resting it against the wall. At first he merely watched the working jet from under lidded optics, but slowly, almost imperceptibly, his wary watching gave way to a sort of aroused drowsiness, the exhaustion combining with the now-careful touches of Thundercracker’s fingers on his damaged armor. So different to the hard, neutral touches of the mine’s medics. This was his now. To command. To enjoy?
He gave, abruptly, a shuddering sigh, his systems warming. Thundercracker jerked back, again, alarmed, yanking Megatron out of his delicious reverie. Megatron frowned. “Continue.”
“I…,” Thundercracker looked down. “The legs are stabilized as well as I can do them.”
Megatron gave a careful shrug. “I have other injuries.” He had forced himself to say the word. ‘Injury.’ The fact that he nearly stumbled over it showed him he was already becoming hard. Perhaps too hard. Too closed off.
Thundercracker hesitated, before moving around to work on the shattered armor of a shoulder. This close, Megatron could hear the high hum of the tetrajet’s core. Nervous. For some reason, his nervousness sent delighted prickles across Megatron’s sensornet, that magnified and collided with the fingers probing under his armor, picking out shards of metal. The jet’s discomfort delighted and puzzled him both at once. “What are you thinking?” he probed back, an uncomfortable intimacy for an uncomfortable intimacy.
“Thinking?” The helm darted up, dropped again. One finger ran over an old scar on Megatron’s forearm. “Not the first damage you’ve had.”
“The arena.” Self-explanatory. His frame had been the book in which he’d inscribed, in pain and energon, his slow rise to victory.
“This is older than that.”
Megatron curled forward, craning to see the scar the jet was indicating. “Per…haps.” The ripple in the metal certainly looked old, faded to just the slightest discoloration, the metal bumped up from the lips of the wound it sealed. “I do not recall that incident.”
Thundercracker’s black finger traced along the jagged line of the scar, down the shoulder, his optics picking up a possible continuation on Megatron’s torso. “You’ve had to do a lot of self-repair.”
Megatron shrugged, one corner of his mouth tugging up. “Not a lot of concern expended on how you look. When you work in the dark.” He was surprised to hear a bitterness in his voice. He didn’t care. He’d never cared how he’d looked. Had he?
“I didn’t say anything like, well, that.” The optics tilted up to him, faint, hesitant. So unlike his own blazing, incandescent red.
Megatron shifted, not from the pain this time. “I suppose it is…disfiguring.”
“It doesn’t matter,” Thundercracker said, a trifle too quickly. His hand froze over another sign of old damage. It bothered Megatron—distantly—that he could not recall how or when he had received that injury. Was his entire frame a map of pain? Where did it lead?
“Well,” he muttered, “if nothing else it shows I have more to lead by than charisma or looks.” Unlike the High Council. A poor joke, even if he’d a reputation for humor. Which he did not.
“You do,” Thundercracker said. His hand lowered, stroking gently over a map of intersecting scars, like a tracery. “It’s a testament.”
“To my failures. To the times I let my guard down.” He forced himself unmoving as the gentle exploration, as much as the words, sent shimmers of color and light down his sensor net.
“To your ability to endure. To survive.”
Megatron snorted, softly. “That sentiment seems more suited to Starscream.”
The optics flickered, hurt. “I have…done nothing to earn your distrust.” The hand stilled, palm flat.
“And what to earn my trust?” A challenge, open, wild, borne on the crest of a wave of desire. He had suffered. He had studied pain. But of its opposite, he knew so very, very little.
“Obedience to your orders,” Thundercracker said. He quivered, as if suddenly or newly aware of how close he was to Megatron, his face only a handspan away.
“Obedience.” It was a darkly thrilling word. Megatron rolled it around in his vocalizer, sweeter in its way than the candy Soundwave had shown him. “If you follow me, if you hope to survive, one day your body, too, will be covered in scars.”
The optics flared, redder and strong. “It will be for a reason. It will be worth it.”
Megatron risked a touch, raising his hand to the jet’s arm. Thundercracker jolted, like a wild animal, but held himself still. “It will mar your looks,” he taunted. “I understand that tetrajets are notorious for vanity.”
“There’s a pride in appearance, and a pride in…something less ephemeral,” Thundercracker said. He started. He had been leaning into Megatron’s touch. “Pride in the right cause, for the right reasons.”
Megatron snatched at the black-fingered hand. “And do I? Have the right…reasons?” Escalating, physically, verbally. He was a leader. He took what he wanted. That is, after all, what it meant.
But…he did not want to take entirely unwilling. “For now,” the words tried to be defiant, rebellious. Tried to push the moment away. And failed.
Megatron grinned, even though the action hurt a gash on his cheek. “I shall have to give you better.” A hopelessly trite line—he recognized it even as it pushed past his vocalizer. Words, obviously, were not his allies in this, either. Action was his better venue. He tugged at the hand, pulling the blue jet off balance, the jet’s other hand coming up to brace itself on his shoulder. He gasped at the pain, snaring one wing in his arm, pulling the jet against him.
Thundercracker reared his head back, optics whirring to attempt to focus on Megatron’s face. Megatron’s lip curled into something like a smirk, the hand sliding over the blue wingspan. Thundercracker shuddered. “Like what,” he said, clinging to his crumbling defiance. His optics skittered across Megatron’s face, taking in, Megatron knew, more old scars, more ancient damage mingled with newer injuries, a deep palimpsest of survival. Perhaps…Megatron hoped…wisdom.
He gave a soft laugh, his chassis vibrating against the amber cockpit. “We shall have to find out.”
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I like your take on Thundercracker in this. He's more confident and sure of himself than my take on him, and it's quite the refreshing change. And the way you portrayed Megatron's voice...it just rolls around in my stomach rather pleasantly. I think you hit his tone spot on!
I don't know why you think this is a fail because this is an EPIC WIN!
*adds to memories*
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This is the only Megatron I find remotely sexy; I'm not sure why. (And it's not just The Frill, honest!)
It has to end where it does because in a sense that's where the conflict of this section ends. The rest would just be tacked on bonus pronz. Which isn't *bad*(hahaha noooooo) but isn't really what the conflict is about.
At this point in canon, TC's been implicated in a number of assaults, kidnapping, and the like (copy/paste the list of charges read out against Starscream): I just can't see him as entirely marshmallow. I don't think he's quite as (deliciously) smirktastic as Starscream about it, but he's been steadily proving himself with a string of victories. So in my pea-brain I see him as semi-confident? At least at that part. But being approached by Megatron...? (woof)
glad you liked!
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Fff...I just had this image of Megatron dancing to "Too Sexy" and going, "Too sexy for my frill. Too sexy! Uh-huh!" |DI envy you can find the point of conflict and wrap it all nice and neatly into one chapter. I...still do not have the skill to do that. I just keep going and going until I tire myself out. Whoops!
I think anyone would become quiet while being approached by sexy!tron! I know I would! <3 Seriously though, he's not entirely marshmallow, you're right. I just have romantic notions about TC. |D I like that there's the tension between the attitudes, the slight friction there. I think you've done a wonderful job with that.
(And how could I not like?)
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Most of the time it works pretty well, and shows me that the reason I was fighting the muse so hard is that that part of the story was *told* and done with.
Pfff I woobie the fuck out of Barricade, so I'm not trying to high horse someone who romanticizes a sexy jet like TC!! It's just *my* headcanon off a character who barely does anything in Megatron Origin--others can fill in the blanks their own way and it's all good!
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Megatron Origins
Ohhh this pairing is GORGEOUS. And so well written too <3
*glances at icon* I LUV that scene in the comic, but for the life of me, to this day, I STILL can't figure out the symbolism and such of that scene.
Does offer a lot ot questions and thoughts about it, with no clear answers, at least on my part. XD
Re: Megatron Origins
Yeah...I have no idea what's going on with The Frill, but... I want to lick it O_O
Re: Megatron Origins
LOL I can TOTALLY agree about the reaction and want when said Frill comes into play (Note how it is capitalized XDD). Nommable and touchable.....>.>...at least until Megatron threatens us with a fusion cannon muzzle to the face. rofl
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Thundercracker is confidant but I still think he's a tad unsure about Megatron, still like mpinsky said, it's different from how he's usually written but it's a good difference because it's awesome 8D (lol fail!logic because I'm still drooling a little :3)
I just adore how they both come across and I can't quite put into words why. It's just like, perfect 8D
“If you follow me, if you hope to survive, one day your body, too, will be covered in scars.” This gives me bunnies oh yes.
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I think he's an interesting character because of him questioning his loyalties--that means he's savvy and clever in a way neither Starscream or Skywarp are. So he may be a bit inexperienced, but I don't see him as naive or in need of protection--I mean, he was the one who started off that first big raid the three did! With that big kabooomy sound effect!
But that's just me: personally I think you write him much better: I love your gladiator fic! (The best part about fandom is we can have so many different takes on the same character--and they're all fun!)
yay bunnies!
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Kabooomy sound effect was awesome 8DDD I think TC is a lot less woobie than fandom usually makes him, lol myself included but I can never get him to do anything else :3
*squee* Thanks 8DD
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