[AU] Oubliette - Chapter Ten
a/n: I'm going to say this at every chapter until it gets better. READ AT YOUR OWN RISK. NSFW.
Universe: G1/IDW AU
Characters this chapter: Megatron/Ratchet, Ratchet/Optimus, Scrapper, Megatron/Optimus
Rating: NC-17
Warnings this chapter: shock collar, physical abuse, forced exhibitionism and voyeurism, fingering, forced spark merging, gagging, valve dom
Commission fic for NK
Mood Music: "The Host of Seraphim," Dead Can Dance
Oubliette
Chapter Ten
Optimus would call this one of his worst nightmares, except that not even his subconscious could have come up with such a scenario to torment him. Only Megatron was this cruel.
Megatron pushed his knees apart, spreading Ratchet's legs further, until his panel was fully on display. Talons circled Ratchet's array over and over, tracing the seams of his concealed valve and spike.
He nibbled on Ratchet's audial with a scrape of denta. “You know how this goes, medic. Open.”
Ratchet shuddered, but his panel slide aside, revealing his valve.
Optimus looked away. There was little he could do right now, but he could at least give Ratchet this courtesy.
“No, Optimus, you are going to watch,” Megatron growled as Ratchet stifled a whimper.
“For what purpose?” Optimus demanded, his fingers scraping at his thighs. It was all he could do not to shove to his pedes, rip Ratchet free from Megatron's hold, and fight back.
The weight around his intake was so negligible, but at the moment, it kept him pinned to the floor. Helpless.
“Because I told you to,” Megatron growled and Ratchet made another noise of distress, metal scraping on metal. “So that you understand your place.”
Optimus ex-vented harshly. He forced his gaze back toward Ratchet, apology in his optics. He tried to pay attention to Ratchet's face alone, but his peripheral sensors followed the movements of Megatron's hand. The sharp plunge of taloned fingers into Ratchet's valve, over and over. The delicate pinch of Ratchet's anterior sensor that made him jerk. The barest sheen of lubrication.
“That's better.” Megatron's voice was thick with satisfaction.
He pulled his fingers free from Ratchet's valve and lifted his hand, pushing them toward Ratchet's mouth. “Suck, medic. Optimus, come closer. It seems your medic will need some assistance getting prepared for me.”
Optimus frowned at Megatron, but he obeyed. He inched closer until he knelt on the floor between Megatron's knees, faced with Ratchet's bare array. The lewd sound of Megatron fragging Ratchet's mouth with his fingers grated on his audials.
Megatron released his grip on Ratchet's intake and rested his hand on Optimus' helm, guiding him forward. “Put that mouth to use, Optimus.”
Optimus suddenly understood why Ratchet kept whispering apologies.
“Forgive me,” he murmured and did as Megatron commanded.
He leaned forward, lips parting. His glossa flicked over the rim of Ratchet's valve, teasing the white-painted folds. It was something Optimus had done before willingly. Ratchet had always been a delight to orally pleasure.
But Megatron watching them soured the experience, tainted what for Optimus had always been a fond memory. Something to keep him warm in his often empty berth.
Ratchet made an aborted sound, his hips restless atop Megatron's thighs. His valve quivered. His bright red anterior node gave a small flicker of interest. It was probably the gentlest touch he'd received in some time.
As humiliating as this was, Optimus resolved to at least provide some pleasure. The slicker Ratchet was, the less Megatron could hurt him. Optimus sealed his mouth around Ratchet's array and laved it with his glossa, treating every sensor he could reach with affection. His lips were gentle, caressing Ratchet's valve rim with little kisses.
Megatron's engine purred with approval. “Make him overload, Optimus.” His hand lifted from Optimus' helm and began groping at Ratchet's frame.
Ratchet made some noise around Megatron's fingers. His hands gripped the arms of the chair as though trying to ground himself. Optimus didn't dare look up at Ratchet and shuttered his optics. He was relieved when Megatron didn't order him to open them again. It made it easier to pretend that this was consensual.
They were back on the Ark, tumbled into berth together, Ratchet tugging Optimus between his legs with eagerness. Ratchet crying out with pleasure as Optimus tended to his valve, nuzzled at his thighs, suckled upon his anterior node. Ratchet would buck and writhe beneath him before demanding that Optimus frag him now. Optimus would comply, sliding into Ratchet's lubricant-soaked valve as affection swelled into his spark.
He'll be all right, Optimus always whispered. Because Ratchet drowned his fears and sorrows in interfacing and Optimus was willing to step in where Wheeljack could not. Better, even, were the times Wheeljack joined them and Optimus could watch them together, their steady bond both a delight and a reassurance.
The fantasy shattered in the next moment when Optimus heard the click of an interface panel and the slick slide of a spike. Hot metal bumped against Optimus' jaw and he didn't have to look to know that Megatron had extended his spike and was now rubbing it against Ratchet's aft and the rim of his valve.
He onlined his optics in time to see Megatron grip Ratchet's hips and lift him up. Optimus backed off just before Megatron pushed into Ratchet's valve, filling him to the hilt. Ratchet made a noise in his chassis, ex-venting a sharp burst.
He was probably used to it, Optimus thought with disgust. The Constructicons were of a size with Megatron after all.
“I didn't tell you to stop,” Megatron said with a fanged smirk. He circled his hips, grinding his spike in Ratchet's valve. “Your medic deserves pleasure, doesn't he, Optimus?”
The suicidal urge to attack Megatron rose up again. He glared hotly, not that it fazed the warlord.
Megatron hooked his arms under Ratchet's knees. He forced the medic into a wide splay that left nothing to the imagination, and highlighted the stretch of his valve around Megatron's girth.
“Isn't that how Autobots work?” Megatron asked, all false innocence and generosity. “Should you not take care of each other?”
Optimus glowered. “When we do so, it is generally with the consent of both parties. What you demand is nothing short of assault.”
“I didn't ask for an accusation,” Megatron hissed and Ratchet whimpered when he tightened his grip, claws prickling into the medic's delicate dermal plate. “Do as I say, Optimus.”
He narrowed his optics. “There will come a time, Megatron, when the threat of pain won't be enough,” he said, but he bent to the task in front of him.
Pleasuring Ratchet was no difficult task, but the base of Megatron's spike was too near for Optimus to ignore it. He sucked at Ratchet's anterior nub and mouthed the cables at the join of hip and thigh.
Above him, Megatron rumbled his acceptance. “Better,” he grunted. “Now. Medic. Extend your spike.”
“I have a name,” Ratchet gritted out with a sharp huff.
“You are a possession. You have as much title as I give you,” Megatron retorted. “Now extend your spike. Your former Prime wishes to service you.”
Ratchet's gears ground, a terrible grating noise, but his panel snicked aside, only the tip of his spike poking from the sheath. He was barely aroused, or perhaps had been taught to keep his spike sheathed as long as possible. Optimus doubted the Constructicons made much use of it.
Optimus needed no prompting to rise higher on his knees and pay attention to the sensor-rich head of Ratchet's spike. It was easier, again, to pretend that he was doing this of his own accord. As he worked his mouth and glossa, Ratchet pressurized into his mouth, the taut lines of his energy field relaxing enough to reach for Optimus.
They took what comfort they could.
A comfort that Megatron was quick to shatter when he chuckled and picked up the pace, slamming harder into Ratchet's valve.
"Better," he said, his grip on Ratchet's knees causing the plating to buckle. His lips and denta left impressions on Ratchet's audials and the side of his neck. His engine revved, vibrating both Autobots. His energy field left no room for confusion.
"So glad you're enjoying yourself," Ratchet near-snarled, his ventilations shallow and rapid. His hands were a death-grip on Megatron's arms, as though he could push himself up and off Megatron's spike.
Megatron chuckled. “I am, medic.” He gnawed on the join of Ratchet's neck column and shoulder, leaving a sizable dent behind. “Both you and your former Prime are where you belong. At my pedes and my service.”
“Keep telling yourself that,” Ratchet growled with a truncated gasp. “All tyrants fall.”
Pride swelled within Optimus. Beaten, enslaved, and turned into shareware they might be, but they were not defeated.
Megatron, thankfully, laughed at Ratchet's defiance, rather than take violent action. “So you say, medic. But we shall see.”
His thrusts increased in earnest, slamming into Ratchet with an audible crash of metal on metal. Optimus tried to pull back as the motion shoved Ratchet's spike down his intake, but Megatron dropped one of Ratchet's knees to grab Optimus' helm. He kept him pinned in place, shoving him further down on Ratchet's spike.
Optimus tried to push back, arms bracing against the chair between Megatron's legs, but fingers hooked around his helm. Megatron kept him in place effortlessly and Optimus moaned around Ratchet's spike, redirecting his ventilations away from the spike down his intake.
Ratchet made a noise, trapped between horror and pleasure. His spike was rigid, hot, streaming pre-fluid down Optimus' intake. All the worse as Megatron's thrusts made Ratchet's spike knock against the back of Optimus' intake, bruising the delicate lining.
Megatron released Ratchet's other knee, wrapped his arm around Ratchet's waist, and plunged up into the medic. He growled, low and deep, and overloaded. Charge snapped out from beneath his plating, attacking Ratchet and Optimus both.
His hand abruptly released Optimus' helm and Optimus scuttled back, coughing as his intake spasmed. He swallowed with a wince, the bruised mesh protesting motion. He massaged at his intake from the outside and dared a look up at Megatron and Ratchet.
Megatron was circling his hips, transfluid seeping from Ratchet's valve. Ratchet's optics were offline, his face pinched with distaste. Megatron's hand dropped from his middle, curling around Ratchet's spike.
“Tsk, tsk,” he said, peering down at Optimus. “What a poor excuse for a leader you are. He didn't overload.”
Optimus glared. “I think the fault lies with you.”
Megatron laughed. “Is that so? Well, then, you had better finish the job, hadn't you?” He grinned with a flash of denta and shoved Ratchet from his lap, roughly dislodging himself from Ratchet's valve.
Ratchet yelped. Optimus winced. They collided.
Ratchet fell to the floor, half-sprawled on top of Optimus. His plating was scorching hot, cooling fans working at max. He shook, too, but Optimus didn't know if touching him would make things worse or better.
It was awkward to disentangle their limbs, and all the while Megatron watched, relaxing back into his chair. One hand leisurely stroked his spike as though teasing himself.
“Frag him, Optimus,” Megatron said, leaning his helm on one fist, his elbow braced on the arm of the chair. “Show me an Autobot's gentleness.”
“No.” Optimus' refusal came without second thought.
“We're not going to perform for you,” Ratchet added with a growl.
Megatron's optics burned. “Is that so?” he asked, sounding more bemused than angry. “And there's nothing I can do that will convince you otherwise.”
Unease settled in Optimus' spark. Megatron still wore his fusion cannon. But would he fire at either of them?
“We're still valuable,” Ratchet retorted, full of defiance, but Optimus was close enough to taste the disquiet in Ratchet's field. His plating audibly clattered.
“You don't have to be intact to be useful,” Megatron reminded them.
“But harming us would be counterproductive,” Optimus said.
Megatron grinned. “Would it now?”
Optimus jerked as his collar lit up. He flopped backward, struggling to catch himself as the electric fire raced through his lines. It wasn't the highest setting he'd ever felt, but it still hurt like the Pit. All of his sensor nodes screamed at him. His limbs flailed.
He dimly heard Ratchet shout for him and Megatron laugh. His optics flickered.
Then it was over. It was a warning, Optimus realized as he stared up at the ceiling, panting. He felt hot and aching, as though he'd just onlined after surgery and new components were still settling into place.
Ratchet was there then, hands roaming as they checked him for damage, his field lit with fury and frustration. Optimus sympathized.
Surrender what you can afford to lose.
At what point, Optimus wondered, would he prefer death?
He reached out, grabbed Ratchet's hand, caught his medic's gaze.
I'll go down this road with you, he wanted to say. But not if you don't wish it of me.
For all that Optimus hoped, perhaps Ratchet no longer did.
Ratchet sighed and bowed his helm. He squeezed Optimus' hand.
“Have I convinced you?” The slow, slick noise of him stroking himself was an obscene accompaniment to the low command.
Ratchet slanted Megatron a look. “Do you have a preference for your show, my lord?” he demanded, tone acidic and far from deferential.
Megatron's engine rumbled. “Surprise me.”
Making it their choice was not a mercy. Optimus tried to lever himself up, managed to get his elbows beneath him, but movement was painful. His joints ached, his lines were still afire with sensation and would be for some time.
“How gracious of you,” Optimus muttered.
“I am very gracious,” Megatron retorted and made himself comfortable, touching his own spike teasingly. “And if you make it a good show, I might even be inclined to be generous.”
Ratchet snorted. “Right.” His gaze shifted to Optimus. “How do you...?”
At this point, there was nothing sacred. To Optimus, it didn't matter. He would much prefer that Ratchet choose whatever made him comfortable.
“Your discretion,” he replied.
“I'd rather not do this at all,” Ratchet hissed, frustration writ into his face.
Optimus' gaze softened. “That, unfortunately, is not an option.” He took Ratchet's hand, waiting for the medic to protest and when he didn't, brought it to his lips. He kissed Ratchet's fingers. “At least give me this.”
“Fine.” Ratchet gritted out. “Do you mind if I...?”
“Whatever you want.” Optimus tried for a reassuring smile, but judging by Ratchet's expression he fell short.
“I'm growing bored,” Megatron interjected.
“Primus forbid that,” Ratchet muttered, rolling his optics.
He reclaimed his hand from Optimus, but only to position himself better between Optimus' knees. One hand rested on Optimus' panel, fingers rubbing around the seams. “Open for me?”
His imagination had never been the greatest. Even so, Optimus hoped to pretend. So he pushed his thighs further apart, triggered both panels open, and offlined his optics. The tentative, gentle touch of Ratchet's fingers was almost alien to him. He'd learned to brace himself for pain. But this was... nice.
Ratchet's fingers traced around the rim of his valve. They flirted across his anterior node, spreading warmth through his array. Optimus' legs relaxed, falling open invitingly, and two of Ratchet's fingers pushed into his valve, achingly slow. The inner ring of sensors lit up with pleasure. His engine purred.
“Stroke yourself, Optimus,” Megatron commanded, always quick to shatter the fantasy.
Optimus grimaced but obeyed. He slid a hand down to wrap fingers around his spike. He kept his grip light, stroking his thumb over the head of his spike. Megatron wanted a fragging show? Fine. If it kept Megatron's hands off them, all the better.
“Lick him, medic.”
Ratchet huffed but there was the distinct sound of hydraulics shifting, followed by the removal of fingers from Optimus' valve.
Optimus had to bite back a groan as slick warmth covered his valve. His hips bucked of their own accord, sensors singing of pleasure. He rocked toward the joy of Ratchet's mouth and tucked his free hand under his back so that Megatron would not see him claw at the floor. His face likely gave enough away as it was.
Lubricant slicked his valve. His calipers cycled into readiness. Heat pooled in his array. Ratchet mouthed his anterior node and his fingers returned to Optimus' valve, stirring up the pleasure. Optimus couldn't remain still anymore, his frame shifting on the floor. He directed all of his sensors toward Ratchet, only dimly registering the noises Megatron made, intent on focusing on Ratchet alone.
It was the closest to true pleasure he'd had in months.
“Enough,” Megatron growled. “Take him.”
Ratchet drew back with a parting kiss to Optimus' node.
“Optimus, on your knees.” Megatron's vocals were thick with both arousal and amusement. “Chest on the floor. And look at me when he takes you.”
It took painful effort to turn over. The electric lash lingered. His joints ached. His cables throbbed. But he managed, presenting his aft to Ratchet even as he turned his helm, looking up at a smirking Megatron. The warlord's hand was painted in his own pre-lubricant, his optics smoldering with heat.
“You are where you belong, Optimus,” Megatron purred, one pede lifting to nudge against Optimus' side. “It suits you.”
Anger burned within him. “You are a petty tyrant, Megatron,” Optimus said. His valve dripped lubricant to the floor. He hated himself for startling when he felt Ratchet's hands on his aft and the medic's presence between his legs.
Ratchet's field was familiar, comforting, welcoming. But his last experiences were all ones of shame and humiliation and Optimus couldn't shake the echoes of that painful sensation.
“Don't delude yourself into thinking you'd be any different.”
“I would not have made you slaves!” Optimus snapped, shoving his elbows beneath him to look up and pin Megatron with a glare. “I would not have humiliated you and debased you!”
Megatron scooted forward, pede slamming down on Optimus' back, pushing him down against the floor once more. “You would have imprisoned us, forced us to change, no doubt executed those of us who refused. Your future is no better than mine.”
Optimus' spinal strut creaked. He winced.
“I would have had peace,” he said, ventilations squeezing within him. “I would have tried. What you do is only steeped in revenge and hatred. It is not revolution you sought, but power. You've become the very thing you sought to destroy!”
Megatron's field flooded the room, his arousal eclipsed only by his rage. He stood, pede slamming down on Optimus, grinding him to the floor.
“Mega--”
“Silence!” Megatron snarled, hand whipping out. The sharp smack of metal on metal echoed.
Ratchet, indeed, lapsed into silence, but his hands tightened on Optimus' hips.
Megatron's mass bore down. Optimus' frame creaked. His cooling fans sputtered. His vision filled with intermittent bursts of static.
This is it, Optimus thought. He prepared himself for the sound of a fusion cannon cycling into readiness, for Megatron stomp him until his chassis split open and his spark was bared.
The thought was almost not so frightening anymore.
“Medic, I gave you an order,” Megatron snarled, grinding his heel down.
Optimus couldn't help the whimper of pain that escaped him. If Ratchet replied, he didn't hear it, but he did feel the tentative press of a spike at his entrance.
“You are nothing,” the warlord continued, his weight bearing Optimus down. “I have beaten your so-called army. I have retaken my planet. I have defeated you and I have destroyed that bauble. You are nothing, Optimus, not even a Prime.”
Ratchet slid into him, the gentleness of his thrust at dissonant odds with the pain Megatron's mass caused upon his chassis. Optimus grimaced, his array primed and hot, valve clutching eagerly at Ratchet's spike. Ratchet's fingers kneaded at his cables as if in apology, but he could feel nothing of the medic's field.
“As the victor, it is my right to do with you and yours as I will,” Megatron snarled as Optimus' chassis creaked a warning. His windshield splintered. “Is that not the lesson your kind taught me, down in the filth and grime? Those with the power make the rules?”
“It makes you no better than the mechs you hate,” Optimus gasped out. If Megatron was going to hurt him, then so be it. What had silence gained him but humiliation? What did he live for? “You've become them.”
Megatron growled. Something in Optimus' back snapped and he cried out, pain making him dizzy.
“Optimus!” Ratchet whispered urgently, everything in his voice speaking of caution. Warning him, perhaps, to be silent.
“Yes, Optimus, listen to your medic,” Megatron said and there was a rustle, a shifting of weight, and Ratchet made a muffled noise of pain. “You may have a death wish, but I don't think he does.”
Optimus shook with anger. He pressed his lips together. His frame ached. Ratchet's spike sat within him and it suddenly felt as invasive as Megatron's own. Optimus' fingers scraped the floor. His engine tripped into a higher pitch.
“Nothing to say now?” Megatron growled.
“No.” He had to force out the word.
Megatron's pede bore down on him. Something else snapped. Optimus felt the warm trickle of energon, his processor reporting a minor tear.
“No?”
Optimus ground his denta. “No... sir.”
Megatron laughed. “My, but I like the sound of that.” His mass eased off, though his pede remained. “Medic, continue. Optimus, stay silent, unless you have something appropriately humble to say.”
Ratchet started to move, a slow and steady glide of his spike in and out of Optimus' valve, teasing the delicate sensors within.
“Oh. It looks your master has come to retrieve you,” Megatron murmured.
The sound of the door sliding open was barely audible over the noise of Megatron's roaring fans. Optimus couldn't see who was entering, but he assumed it was a Constructicon.
“Lord Megatron.” Scrapper. Optimus recognized his vocals. “You're busy. I can return?”
“No, Scrapper. I'm through with this one. You may take him. My pet and I need to have a discussion about his duties.”
Ratchet's field spiked with apprehension.
“Yes, my lord.”
Ratchet's spike left him and Optimus' valve twitched, empty and unsated. He felt Ratchet move from between his thighs, taking the comfort of a familiar field with him. Optimus would have keened for the loss, had he not locked such a sound within himself. The last thing he needed was to give Megatron more ammunition.
“He behaved, I trust?” Scrapper asked.
Turning his helm was an agonizing motion, but Optimus forced himself to do so. He could see, from the edge of his vision, Scrapper looking Ratchet over. He frowned at the fluid staining Ratchet's thighs. Ratchet, for his part, did not look up at either Decepticon, but his hands had formed fists.
He had a mark on his faceplate, a dent in one cheekarch. Megatron had struck him.
“I would suggest, Scrapper, that if he does not have need of his vocalizer, you remove it,” Megatron said and his weight abruptly vanished from Optimus' back.
Optimus gasped for a ventilation, his plating fluffed out to ease the pain of cramped lines.
“Insolent then.” The disapproval in Scrapper's tone was unmistakable. “I see. I will be sure to rectify that.”
“See that you do.”
Optimus got his hands beneath him, pushing his chassis off the floor. His windshield dripped glass beneath him. He ached.
He looked up, and all he could see was the indomitable Ratchet, bruised and battered and beaten, helm bowed, and optics dim.
Anger rose within him, never truly extinguished from earlier. Besides, Scrapper now stood between Megatron and Ratchet.
“We are not possessions,” he spat. He turned his helm toward Megatron, affixing the warlord with a glare.
Megatron was too quick. Optimus saw the pede coming, but couldn't scramble out of the way before it slammed into his side, throwing him onto his back. Something crumpled and he tasted energon. He tried to roll to his side and his pedes, but Megatron was there again, without words this time.
A stomp to his chest drove the ventilations from Optimus. His vision fritzed. His audials knocked into reboot. A kick to the side sent him rolling again. He tried to get his limbs beneath him, get to his pedes. Damage warnings scrolled through his processor. Mass settled over his frame again, trapping him on his back, and a hand wrapped around his intake, slamming his helm down.
Optimus shouted, scrabbling at the wrist, his senses spinning. Too many warnings. Too much pain. He thought he heard voices, more scraping of metal on metal. His engine raced. He heard snarling.
His helm was slammed down again. Dizziness replaced everything. Optimus gasped, sight and sound spinning around him. The hand vanished from his throat and fingers like iron bands wrapped around his wrists, slamming them onto the floor above his helm. The searing heat of Megatron's frame loomed over him.
“No,” Megatron growled, so close to Optimus' audial it was unmistakable. “Stay. So that the medic can see how beaten you are.”
Optimus forced his optics to reboot, fuzzy as his vision was. One of his optics must have cracked; it kept reporting errors. But he could see enough, could see Megatron looming over him, gaze like hot coals.
Optimus' wrists were transferred to one hold. Megatron's free hand pawed at his chestplates, finding some hidden catch that forced them open. A catch that had not been present before. Optimus' chestplates sprang open, as did his secondary armor, the light of his spark spilling into view between them, no longer muffled by the matrix.
Optimus froze. His vocalizer wouldn't engage. It spat static. He heard a scuffle, a muffled yell, felt panic and didn't know if it was his own or not.
There was a second click, the sound of mechanisms shifting aside, the harsh grate of barely used gears. A second light filled the space between he and Megatron. Optimus hissed static, his chassis rising upward, drawn by the proximity of another spark. His frame craved the contact.
“This is the last thing I've yet to claim,” Megatron growled.
Both hands wrapped around Optimus' wrists again, pinning them down. He couldn't move his legs either. Megatron had planted himself across Optimus' thighs. The warlord crouched over him like an animal, caging him in place. His chassis lowered by a fraction and the furthest edge of his spark reached for the radiating arms of Optimus'.
Optimus frantically rebooted his vocalizer and shrank down against the floor. He shook his helm, mouth opening, a static burst emerging. His pedes scraped at the floor. His ventilations were so rapid that they shook his frame.
His vocalizer engaged.
“Stop!” Optimus shouted, gasping as Megatron dropped closer and the distant edges of their sparks came together, pleasure flirting between them, as automatic as physical sensors on the frame.
Optimus moaned, a painful tremble wracking his frame. “Megatron, I beg of you, don't do this,” he said, static lacing his words. His vents hiccuped.
“Too late, Optimus.” Megatron's fingers flexed around his wrists. The heat of his ventilations surrounded Optimus. “I won't be happy until I have all of you.”
“Please!”
It fell on deaf audials. Megatron bent down, their sparks coming into contact, and Optimus thrashed. Energy lashed and knitted together, pleasure scorching through him, intermingled with pain. Optimus threw his helm back and screamed, the core of Megatron thrusting down upon him as surely as his spike had taken Optimus so many times.
Optimus didn't return the pulses and that made the pain worse, made him feel bombarded by Megatron's strength. His very presence seemed to wrap around Optimus' spark, swallowing him whole. Another cry caught in his vocalizer and Optimus thrashed, not that it mattered.
Megatron's weight settled over him, the edges of his chestplate notching against the edges of Optimus' own, leaving only the tiniest gaps for spark light to peer through. His spark beat at Optimus', off-rhythm pulses that snapped charge between the two coronoas.
Optimus moaned, turning his helm away as Megatron brought his face closer. Megatron took this as invitation and nibbled at Optimus' intake, all but purring. His spark thrust down at Optimus' and he shivered. He couldn't hear anything but the frantic whirl of his vents, Megatron's pleased rumblings, and the huffing of Megatron's vents. His own vocalizer devolved to spitting static again.
Charge crested and rose. He felt Megatron's spark mingling with his, giving him a taste of hunger and need and triumph and something bitterly sharp, like grit and scorched energon and ash. Optimus choked on nothing and shuddered when Megatron's spark thrust down on his again and again, a penetrating rhythm that stripped away his ability to think.
Pain and pleasure intermingled. He could feel the charge building within him, his frame shaking with it. Heat flooded every line, every sensor. His systems cycled into readiness, spike spiraling free, valve squeezing, pushing out the lubricant Ratchet had drawn. The head of his spike kept nudging against Megatron's aft, a maddening sensation that was both too much and not enough.
Optimus moaned a broken sound.
His spark retreated, but there was nowhere for it to go and the pull of another spark, so tantalizingly close, was too much to retreat. He couldn't stop himself from reaching for Megatron, knitting their energies together, pulsing in sync. Couldn't stop the rise and fall of his frame, matching the pulses of their spark. Couldn't be rid of the pleasure that stripped away his control.
Megatron purred approval, nipped at his intake and audials and took the tip of one antennae into his mouth and bit at it.
Optimus convulsed. He offlined his optics and swallowed down a rising purge. Megatron's spark thrust down on him, hot enough to burn, scorch the inside of his chassis. There was no escaping it, not the mass of Megatron's frame above him, or the stroking energy of Megatron's spark within him.
It was a fresh agony, a raw agony, and overload was more relief than pleasure when it struck him, lighting up his frame. Optimus' engine whined, his spark flaring, only to be swallowed by Megatron's as the warlord was drawn into his own overload. There was a moment where all Optimus could sense was Megatron, the taste of the other mech vile on his glossa and in his frame, and then mercifully, it went away.
Optimus moaned a sick sound. Megatron released his wrists and drew back, their sparks reluctantly disentangling. The overload sapped Optimus' energy, but did nothing to ease the physical charge. His spike throbbed; his valve ached.
He lowered his arms, grabbed his chestplates, and shoved them closed.
Megatron made a low noise in his chassis. “Very nice, Optimus,” he said and shifted his weight, leaning back, smooth armor brushing over Optimus' spike. “But we're not done yet.”
Optimus forced his optics online, the world spinning around him, and he gasped when Megatron abruptly sank down, taking Optimus' spike to the hilt. The eager calipers of his valve clutched at Optimus' spike, tingles of charge igniting every sensor node.
There was no pleasure in it. Optimus ached. Energon trickled free somewhere in his substructure where Megatron had kicked him earlier. It felt as though someone had scraped the inside of his spark chamber with acid.
Optimus' arms crossed over his chestplate, though it was far too late to protect himself. It took great effort to force his optics online and all he could see was Megatron riding his spike, chestplates at least closed. The warlord's face was filled with ecstasy, one hand pumping his spike.
Optimus couldn't watch. He covered his face with a hand, more than aware that Scrapper and Ratchet were still fragging here. They had watched the whole thing, were still watching, and there wasn't a single piece of his frame that Megatron hadn't violated. Optimus shook and the sound that built in his vocalizer had no name.
He counted and he waited and he endured until finally, Megatron overloaded above him, splattering Optimus' abdomen with his release. The pull of his calipers dragged an overload from Optimus as well, but it was a thin thing, a purely physical response. He didn't feel pleasure, just an emission of transfluid and charge.
Megatron stood and Optimus slipped from his valve. He couldn't retract his spike or close his panel fast enough and he turned on his side, away from the warlord. Motion was agony, but compared to the rest, it wasn't the worst.
His chassis ached. His array throbbed. His spark hurt.
“That was... quite the show, my lord,” Scrapper said, audibly clearing static from his vocalizer.
“It was necessary.” Megatron sounded smug, too proud of himself. “You need to make it clear, Scrapper. Make them understand their place.”
“You certainly, uh, accomplished that.” There was a rustle, a shift of weight. “Would you like me to tend to your pet?”
A long moment of silence.
“No,” Megatron said at length. “The pain is a lesson. A reminder that I am only merciful when I am pleased.”
“I understand. Shall I take my leave then?”
Megatron must have made some dismissive motion because Optimus heard the sound of their pedesteps retreating. He didn't know if Ratchet looked back. He didn't know the look on Ratchet's faceplate. He didn't want to know.
The door slid open. The door slid shut. There was silence. Unless Optimus counted his rattling ventilations and the clicking of his vocalizer. Two reboots and it was barely functional.
Optimus listened to the sound of Megatron moving around his quarters, his field occasionally touching upon Optimus', assaulting Optimus with his triumph.
The pedesteps came closer, shaking the floor. They circled around Optimus' frame until Megatron came into view. He crouched, looming over Optimus.
“Have I beaten you?” Megatron asked. His tone was mild, off-hand.
Disgust churned within Optimus. He lowered his hand, saw Megatron near him, an energon cube in one hand, helm tilted. Crimson optics were almost curious, though malevolence glowed behind them.
“You...” Optimus paused, rebooted his vocalizer a third time to clear the static. “You are a monster.”
“I've been called worse.” Megatron took a long sip of the energon and lowered the cube, swirling around the contents.
Optimus' tanks clenched. His levels hovered around twenty five percent and lowered incrementally. His self-repair, as stunted as it was, had already found the leaks.
“You are worse,” Optimus muttered.
Megatron smirked. His free hand dragged down Optimus' frame, resting at the apex of his thighs, casually fingering Optimus' closed panels. “If I am a monster, I am one you created.”
“I am not my predecessor, Megatron. I never was. You fight against an institution that no longer exists.”
“I know it doesn't.” Megatron rose to his pedes, looking down at him. “Because I defeated your armies and destroyed your bauble. Now get up.”
Optimus ground several gears. “I cannot.”
An answer Megatron would not accept. He leaned down, grabbed Optimus' arm, and hauled him to his pedes. Optimus gasped, his shoulder protesting, and fought to get his pedes beneath him. His vision swam. He wobbled and tilted against Megatron, a parody of an embrace that made him shudder.
“You used to be stronger,” Megatron commented.
“I used to be many things.” His tank clenched. Standing, the scent of energon was stronger. It was a taunt.
Worse was the proximity of their chestplates. Optimus' spark sensed Megatron's, a recent visitor, and surged within his chassis. His fans clicked on with loud rattling.
“Most importantly, right now, you are mine,” Megatron said.
He drained the last of the energon, tossed the empty cube and gripped Optimus' chin with his hand. He had no energy to fight back, not even when Megatron tilted his helm up and leaned down, kissing him.
Optimus groaned, a mix of revulsion and relief, when energon trickled past his lips. It was warmed from Megatron, and tasted sweet. He shivered as the energon slipped down his intake and into his tanks, stronger than anything he'd had in months.
Megatron's glossa followed it, sliding into Optimus' mouth with an almost gentleness. He coaxed out Optimus' glossa, sucking on it, their mouths meeting in something like a kiss.
The pain was easier to bear.
Optimus moaned and lifted a hand, trying to push Megatron away, not that it worked. He recoiled, but Megatron's mouth followed him, licking and nipping at his mouth with little pleased sounds. His engine purred. Two fingers stroked a gentle path down Optimus' neck cables.
Megatron made a purring noise. “The berth,” he said, against Optimus' mouth. “Now.”
A shiver raced across his frame, thick with dread. Optimus' internals knotted together. He swallowed down the nausea and let Megatron drag him toward the berth. What good had fighting done him?
The sweet energon warmed in his tanks, raising his energy levels to a balmy thirty-five percent. But the ache in his frame seemed to negate that. He felt listless. As if Megatron had fragged the fight out of him.
He didn't quite know what to do with a Megatron who had gone so quickly from violent to near-gentle either. Megatron covered Optimus' frame with his own, sought out Optimus' mouth for another probing kiss, and then mechhandled Optimus until he lay on his front. Glass tinkled from his broken windshield, tiny shards that glittered against the berth cover.
Megatron's mouth roamed over his helm, teasing over his audials. His knees pushed between Optimus' thighs, blanketing Optimus' frame. He rocked against Optimus' panel, demanding entrance, and Optimus resigned himself.
He slid back the covers, bared himself, and shuddered when Megatron pushed into him. He tucked his elbows underneath his frame, burying his face in his arms. Megatron rocked into him, spike grinding against Optimus' sore nodes.
His denta nibbled at Optimus' antenna. He had no real pace, no real rhythm. His spike nestled in Optimus' valve, buried to the hilt, but didn't really move. His frame settled heavier on top of Optimus, Megatron shifting around as though he wanted to get comfortable. The edges of their plating notched together. Megatron curled around him, pinning Optimus in place.
Optimus could barely ventilate. Megatron was hot, heavy, and all Optimus could sense was the warlord. The scent of Megatron's polish, the heat of his ex-vents. The suffocating press of his field. Megatron's engine ticked on, purring, vibrating Optimus' frame.
Still, he didn't move. His hips stirred in bare movements, but he didn't thrust. He seemed content to rest his spike in Optimus' valve. One arm shoved beneath Optimus, curling around his waist. The other rested on the berth, further caging Optimus within Megatron's frame. Even if he tried, he could not escape. He was both pinned and taken.
Megatron's spike throbbed in his valve, teasing the sensory nodes. He seemed disinclined to thrust toward overload.
“What are you doing?” Optimus demanded.
“Enjoying my prize,” Megatron replied. His ventilations were evening out, his frame going languid atop Optimus.
Optimus squirmed, which only resulted in scraping their armor together and further notching Megatron against him. “I cannot ventilate.”
“You won't offline. Besides, I'm quite comfortable.” Megatron mouthed at his antennae again, denta providing just enough pressure to send a sharp zip down Optimus' spinal strut. “Your frame welcomes me.”
Optimus ex-vented, not that it had anywhere to go. His valve kept fluttering, grasping at Megatron's spike as though confused. Sensation simmered in his array, not quite pleasure or pain, just sensation.
Megatron nuzzled the back of his helm, the quick flickers of his field settling. “You make for quite the convenient berthmate, Optimus.”
“Did you want a lover or a toy, Megatron? Because I think you're confused as to which of the two I am.” Optimus squirmed again. His chassis ached and Megatron's mass atop him did not help.
The warlord chuckled. “You are whatever I want you to be, Optimus. Now be quiet. I have work to do tomorrow.”
“Then disengage.”
“No, I don't think I will.” Megatron nibbled at the back of his neck. “I'm enjoying this.”
“You would,” Optimus muttered.
Megatron did not respond. Instead, his ventilations evened, his frame went fully lax, and his field turned quiescent.
Of all the...
Optimus ground his denta. His calipers twitched.
He would not recharge at all.
****
a/n: What I consider to be the worst is over, but there is plenty more terrible to come.
Feedback, as always, is welcome and appreciated. This entry was originally posted at http://dracoqueen22.dreamwidth.org/309051.html. Feel free to comment wherever you find most convenient.