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Author's Note: Because I've so many pairings and triangles I love in this fandom, I can't help but make a one-shot for each on in dedication. Please pay attention to my author's notes so you which universes I'm writing from and if I'm branching off from my "Tough Luck" story (humanized Cybertronians).
Universe: Transformers: Dark of the Moon; Cybertronian x Human
Prompt: Annoyed
Pairing: Sentinel Prime/Charlotte Mearing
She was a battleaxe, this one.
"Stop staring at me, robot," she snapped at him, light blue eyes flashing in warning behind thick black-rimmed spectacles.
It was two hours after midnight. The daily traffic and commotion of military personal, Cybertronians, and miscellaneous machinery had quieted down to a few armed guards pacing outside the doors, a technician working at a panel in the farthest region of the hanger, and two of the Autobots in stasis while Optimus and the others patrolled the city.
He scowled, straightening to his full height and crossing his arms across his worn, red chassis.
The ill-mannered femme was sitting at a terminal near the railing on the hanger's upper level, her slim fingers flying over the keys as she typed up a report, most likely on his awakening.
"Are all of you humans this disrespectful in the presence of the powerful and prestigious, or are you just the exception?" he sniffed scornfully, tilting his head up to stare her down condescendingly.
The rapid typing paused and she glanced at him over the rim of her glasses, those ice-blue eyes melting in the heat of her rising ire; however, she maintained an impressive rank of control when she spoke.
"Respect is not a birthright, Sentinel," she stated coolly, leveling him with a patronizing gaze that had him bristling. "I don't know how things worked on your planet, but here on Earth, respect is earned. And I can promise you that my twenty-eight years of military training and combat experience, successful government operations, overseeing delicate international liaisons, and following strict security protocols is not going to be moved by a self-absorbed tin can who thinks he deserves reverence because he's bigger than me and older than dirt."
She then readjusted her black-framed glasses and turned back to the terminal, her fingers returning to their storm of typing.
He was rendered speechless by her snide words. Who was this unmannerly femme, talking to him like he was a mere sparkling? He was a Prime, damn it all! A powerful being capable of manipulating space and time with his very hands.
And this barbed-tongued woman was telling him that he wasn't anymore important than those under her command?
Affronted, he stepped closer as a way to display force, the beads that bound the braids of his facial cables clinking loudly against the iron bars of the railing; however, she refused to give him the light of day. Even her vital signs showed little change except for the faint tensing of muscle.
"If you're desperate for my respect," she spoke aloofly, not looking at him as continued to type up her report, "then you're sorely mistaken if you think trying to intimidate me will get you what you want. In fact, it'll only serve to prove my point."
He simply stood there, watching her quietly. He wanted to feel resentful rage over this puny fleshling's blatant insubordination. She was insolent, crass, and rude - made of the cruelest ice with that rigid self-control and unrelenting demand for proper behavior, orderliness, and regulation.
But even a fool could see what was smoldering just beneath that frigid exterior: a heated, formidable temper with a razor tongue, ready to reduce anyone to sniveling ball of tears and broken dreams if they crossed her. She was a force to be reckoned with.
He was unable to resist the smile pulling at his mouth piece, reminiscing on the memories of strong, fiery Cybertronian females and how he had to fight to the Pit and back to have them even look his way. Those femmes weren't awed by his prominent stance in society either and because of that, they had become a personal conquest of his in his youth.
"You're a scrappy little thing, aren't you?" he chuckled, the sound rich and throaty in the wake of the genuine amusement he'd felt for the first time since his revival. When she snapped her head up, offended astonishment and stubborn feminine dignity gracing her soft features, he saw that delightful temper smoldering hot in her frost-blue eyes. "I like my femmes scrappy."
He turned from her then and walked away, leaving her to sputter indignantly and stew in the heated flush that had risen in her cheeks.
Oh, yes, she was a battleaxe.
An aged battleaxe. With chipped, dulled blades and a shabby, leather-bound grip, but was still a remarkable weapon that wasn't to be taken lightly.
Just because she couldn't render a quick, merciful killing blow anymore didn't mean that she couldn't crush bone instead, leaving her enemies writhing in agony.
He drew a fingertip up and down the length of his nose as he stepped down into the crisp, cloudless night, his enhanced audio receptors picking up the Director of National Intelligence's voice as she scorched his name with contemptuous curses and oaths.
Perhaps living on this planet won't be as tedious as I thought. Nothing like a conquest to keep the engines hot and revving, he thought with a light, male grin.