ilcuoreardendo: (LJ Post)
[personal profile] ilcuoreardendo
I don't even remember writing these...

Fandom: Transformers
Rating: R-ish
Prompt:Blackout / Optimus Prime / beloved

He didn't mind the table scraps.

Oh, he knew what the others called him. Megatron's Hound. Name dredged up from that filthy, drooling Earth creature that was said to display loyalty to only one master, to follow their every whim, eat from their hand, roll over and play dead at will...

But really, it wasn't all that bad a place to be. That loyalty afforded him rank, certain privileges, and an image that others quelled before.

And, as he said, he didn't mind the table scraps... No one else would ever be granted this particular privilege.

Fans whirred as he took in the scent of hot oil and metal, spilled Energon. He trailed the tips of his claws across the blue chassis–paint faded and scraped–over the open chest. The light of a spark still lingered there. He liked to cup his hands around it, feel the tiniest pulse of energy against his plating.

It wouldn't be long now, he knew. Not long at all, until the energy faded completely. Until the blue optics extinguished.

But he would take what he could in the interim. And, perhaps Megatron would allow him to keep the protoform...

He inched closer, rested his forehead against the other's, pressed his fanged mouth to the cheek, glossa protruding to touch it lightly, leaving a smear of lubricant. He thought he felt the mech twitch and ran a hand through the open chest once more, claws raking along the spark chamber.

"Soon," he said. "You'll be all mine soon enough."

Fandom: Transformers (2007)
Rating: PG-ish
Prompt: Megatron / Bumblebee / monotony

Megatron drew back his hand with its offering at the static-spitting hiss from the Autobot scout kneeling on the floor.

One optic ridge quirked in amusement and he settled the hand in his lap.

"Come," Megatron said and watched the flare of light in those optics. Relished it.

It had taken some time to train the young 'bot, to keep him from attacking at every opportunity. Megatron smiled, recalling the spray of sparks, the smell of solder, the shriek of pain from the torn vocalizer. It was well worth it. Only...

With the murderous impulses, went most of the fire. The scout was meek and docile, though at times, Megatron sensed the recrimination inside the processor. But otherwise, he was a good pet.

Their interactions lost the flavor of rage, the spice of defiance. They became repetitive, boring.

And boring was one thing Megatron hated.

Which brought him to now. Settled on his throne, watching the Autobot quiver.

"You won't see to your own needs," Megatron said, rolling the last word from his mouth, delectable "n" and hissing "s." He held out his hand again. "Surely, you can train him as I trained you." The sedative should have been wearing off at any time. "Unless," he continued, "you would prefer for me to do it?"

Screech of metal as Bumblebee's fingers dug into the floor and then he was crawling along the floor toward the throne.

Megatron held his hand down to Bumblebee and sure enough, the small figure was beginning to stir. Its eyes opened and it coughed and looked up, croaking a single word... "Bee?"

Blue optics met red for an instant before Bumblebee grasped the organic quickly, but, Megatron noted, so gently and scrambled away from the throne.

"Train him well, pet," Megatron said, rising and moving toward the door, "I expect to see all that he has learned."

Fandom: Transformers (2007)
Rating: PG
Prompt: Optimus Prime / Bumblebee / falling

We found Bumblebee in a pool of oil and energon, armor singed and stained.

Optics black.

My spark lurched in my chest at those dark optics. The stillness. Not a tremor, not a sound. Too fearful and foolish, I didn't even think to run a scan until I heard Ratchet say "He's in stasis lock. We have to get him to medbay."

Relief surged through me, a flood of coolant, and the ground fell away and I barely remember giving the orders to move him.

Fandom: Transformers (2007)
Rating: G
Prompt: Jazz / Sam Witwicky / touch

Later he'd think about that painting he saw in his humanities class. God touching man. Fingers a breadth apart. And he'd wonder if this was how it felt.

But for right now, he was content to watch Ratchet running scan after scan, optics half shuttered, mouth pulled into a semblance of a human frown. Bumblebee fairly humming, the energy vibrating through Sam's body as he sat on the Autobot's leg, leaning against his torso. Ironhide and Optimus silent and stoic nearby.

And on the berth, Jazz, optics gone white, voice full of static as he repeated the codes Ratchet was feeding to him.

But whole. Whole and unmarked and spark--Sam marveled at seeing one for the first time--glowing like a small star gone nova.

Sam looked at his hands. Flipped them over, examined the fine lines running the palms, bisecting the arcane swirls of slowly healing burns gained in Mission City and wondered just how one errant touch could be so very powerful.

Fandom: Transformers (2007)
Rating: PG
Prompt: Judy Witwicky / Sam Witwicky / damaged

"Mr. and Mrs. Witwicky..."

Judy looked up. Another of those men in black...

She wasn't a violent woman, really, but there was something about these men–uniform clones, same pressed shirts, and close clipped hair, same pallid, sickly looking skin and sober expressions–that made her hands itch for that baseball bat she'd threatened earlier. Just to see if it might not make an impression...

"Sir, Ma'am, can you come with us, please?"

One and one half hours and four cups of coffee–three of which had enjoyed a rather strong additive by way of a flask the recently introduced Mr. Bannechek had pulled from his pocket–and she still had trouble slowing her heartbeat.

Aliens. Robotic aliens. Giant robotic aliens.

This was something out of H.G. Wells. Stephen King. Steven Spielberg.

And... Sammy. Her Sam. Oh, God...

Mr. Bannechek led her and Ron through the many ambling corridors of the government building, to a dimly lit room. Inside set a large metal filing cabinet on one wall, a table, and a prison-like cot in the far corner.

On the cot lay Sam.

She was beside him before she realized she'd moved, eyes roaming every inch of her son, taking in every wound, every bandage. When she got to his hands, she couldn't conceal her gasp.

What looked like old burns, loops and whirls like strange hieroglyphs, stood out stark in Sam's skin. She reached out and gently touched one and drew her hand back in shock as heat seared her skin.


(no subject)

Date: 2010-08-16 05:23 pm (UTC)
From: [identity profile]
Ho-ooooooly crap that Blackout one was.... whoa. xD Seriously. Whoa. DUDE THAT WAS DARK. Why do I dig it?! xD

(no subject)

Date: 2010-08-23 10:53 am (UTC)
From: [identity profile]
:D I really wish I could remember how the word "beloved" sparked such a piece.

Thanks for commenting.


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