Fanficziz
Blackout supposed he shouldn’t be enjoying this. It was incredibly painful, after all. Prime certainly wasn’t doing it for his entertainment…
But there was something about Prime’s weight on his back, the sensation of fingers digging into his rotor blades, twisting…
He wanted more. He needed more.
Blackout was aware of just how unhealthy his little obsession with pain was. His pain, theirs… it didn’t really matter. Find the limit, then see how far past it you can push.
One of these days it was going to get him killed.
Vaguely, he realized that a fist was coming down repeatedly on his back, leaving massive dents with each blow. He was still struggling, laughter welling in his throat, egging his opponent on…
It was agonizing. It was wonderfully agonizing.
His vision was flickering, graying in and out. And Prime still had his rotors in hand, wrenching - the other hand buried in the gap he’d torn in Blackout’s armor, ripping the plate apart.
It felt so horrifically good he was going to overload on the spot, provided he didn’t pass out first.
His last conscious thought was that if he’d known the sight of the weapon specialist stretched out on the floor at Blackout’s mercy would get this sort of reaction from Prime, he would have sent pictures weeks ago…
x-x-x
Optimus Prime stood over Blackout’s body; only the occasional involuntary twitch showed that the helicopter still lived.
All his principles demanded that he stop. It went against everything he believed to strike a defenseless mech, even one who deserved death as much as Blackout.
But the image of Ironhide, bound spread-eagle on the floor of the hanger - blinded, defenseless, in a pool of his own mech fluids - Prime activated his energy sword. He would end this, and his people would never again have to fear the dark specter of Blackout. He raised his sword. One strike, straight into the exposed vitals, and it would be over -
“Prime, no!” He jerked around to see Ratchet helping the weakened Ironhide out of the hanger. “Prime, please…” Ironhide’s tone was pleading. “Please don’t… don’t kill him…”
“Ironhide,” Prime started, his voice gentle, “He-“ He hurt you.
“Please.”
There was a dull ache in his spark as he met Ironhide’s optics. The world would be better off with Blackout dead. Ironhide would be better off. But Prime found that he couldn’t deny Ironhide, not now, not after everything that had happened.
“Alright,” he said softly, deactivating his sword and stepping away from the comatose Decepticon. “Alright. Let’s go home.”
But there was something about Prime’s weight on his back, the sensation of fingers digging into his rotor blades, twisting…
He wanted more. He needed more.
Blackout was aware of just how unhealthy his little obsession with pain was. His pain, theirs… it didn’t really matter. Find the limit, then see how far past it you can push.
One of these days it was going to get him killed.
Vaguely, he realized that a fist was coming down repeatedly on his back, leaving massive dents with each blow. He was still struggling, laughter welling in his throat, egging his opponent on…
It was agonizing. It was wonderfully agonizing.
His vision was flickering, graying in and out. And Prime still had his rotors in hand, wrenching - the other hand buried in the gap he’d torn in Blackout’s armor, ripping the plate apart.
It felt so horrifically good he was going to overload on the spot, provided he didn’t pass out first.
His last conscious thought was that if he’d known the sight of the weapon specialist stretched out on the floor at Blackout’s mercy would get this sort of reaction from Prime, he would have sent pictures weeks ago…
x-x-x
Optimus Prime stood over Blackout’s body; only the occasional involuntary twitch showed that the helicopter still lived.
All his principles demanded that he stop. It went against everything he believed to strike a defenseless mech, even one who deserved death as much as Blackout.
But the image of Ironhide, bound spread-eagle on the floor of the hanger - blinded, defenseless, in a pool of his own mech fluids - Prime activated his energy sword. He would end this, and his people would never again have to fear the dark specter of Blackout. He raised his sword. One strike, straight into the exposed vitals, and it would be over -
“Prime, no!” He jerked around to see Ratchet helping the weakened Ironhide out of the hanger. “Prime, please…” Ironhide’s tone was pleading. “Please don’t… don’t kill him…”
“Ironhide,” Prime started, his voice gentle, “He-“ He hurt you.
“Please.”
There was a dull ache in his spark as he met Ironhide’s optics. The world would be better off with Blackout dead. Ironhide would be better off. But Prime found that he couldn’t deny Ironhide, not now, not after everything that had happened.
“Alright,” he said softly, deactivating his sword and stepping away from the comatose Decepticon. “Alright. Let’s go home.”