Chapter Text
"Labradors have a great sense of smell, and are very often used for their sense of smell when tracking people. There are tales of labradors being able to find people... even after weeks had passed." -Animal Care Center of Smyrna.
♤ The reconnection of his long-range communication systems snapped through him hard, his whole system getting a harsh shock as broadcasting information from several galaxies ripped through him all at once. His plates bristled against it, gritting his teeth against the pressure building in his processor until the initial surge faded and the data began to be sorted. He hadn't realized how very quiet it had been until his whole frame was ringing with his responsibilities again, an army's worth of begging nonsense filling him up until his horns ached from it. He silenced most of the calls. Nonsense noise from mechs who should have learned how to lead themselves by now.
He sends out a signal to the planet's single moon, waits until a return ping hits from the ship's computer, his signal locked. He could send the ground bridge request now. But he doesn't. Instead, he hesitates. Looks down at the small structure that houses you, lowers his head to look through the window into your bedroom where you sprawl, a mess of thrown-wide limbs and wrenched around bedsheets. You won't know where he went. Why he left without a word. You'll call for him, he's sure, and he will not hear it.
But you are not the first thing he has left behind for the sake of his war and he knows you will not be the last.
He invents deeply regardless, drags the smell of you through the whole of his frame, and wonders idly if he will ever find time to visit. It sound foolish even as the shape of the thought settles in his processor, but he cannot deny the appeal. He cannot stay, and as it stands you would not survive being taken with him, but... He shakes off the thought with a twitch of his horns and a ruffle of his armor, turning to test the thin place in his plating only to have an excuse to look away from you. There is too much to do to risk lingering longer.
By his hip, Leader-1 claws open a port that he knows is sensitive, clips in so harshly that it burns, but Megatron forgets to scold him in the rush of heated power that always follows. Marvelous things, the minicon race, the purest batteries anyone had ever managed to produce. He hauls himself to his pedes, looks towards the softly glowing moon, and does not allow himself a final glance as he pings the ship for transport. It takes only seconds for the request to be accepted.
The feeling of the space bridge is one he has long since gotten used to, the drag on his wires, the pressure in his tanks, the uncomfortable prickling beneath his plates, it was familiar enough that nausea no longer followed. But he would always hate the moment after touchdown when his vision was broken and blurry, his optic sensors two steps behind, because it was a weakness. One that, this time, left him standing defenseless while his creation aimed a wingblade at his throat.
Starscream's soft face only really looks like his own when he is angry, Megatron thinks as he stares at the Seeker. As he stands now, expression one of pained shock, he only looks like Optimus Prime. "L-Lord Megatron?" That reedy voice cracks over it, the sheer depth of his disbelief, and Megatron only stares in silence as Starscream's grip on his wing tightens. "No. No, Megatron is dead. I saw him fall. Who are you?"
"You really have to ask?" He watched his creation for a moment, the torn look on that face he could not bear to study more often than not. Starscream surely had lead the Decepticons in his absence. And though his heir had never seemed prepared to force his way to an early leadership, it was entirely possible that this experience had given him a taste for it. It would only make sense. After all, he was Megatron's creation, no matter how disappointing he very often turned out to be. So, he would play it careful.
The silence stretched, Starscream's orange optics flicking down to where Leader-1 was clipped snugly to Megatron's hip. He took in the minicon and the harsh glow of energy slowly faded from the wingblade in his servos until he was gingerly resetting the weapon, twitching his wings until they realigned with one another. "It's... it's really you? How? I- We looked for your signal for days, where have you been?" Megatron stepped down from the bridge platform, closer to Starscream, raising a hand when his creation's wings hiked higher in alarm. "If you are my Lord, then prove it. Now."
"I did raise you to be a bit paranoid," he murmured, studying the aggression in Starscream’s posture and calculating the quickest way to get the jet back in line. "Alright, alright... but come now, Starscream, you haven't seen me in so long and you only call me Lord? We're on our own. It's alright."
Suspicion. Uncertainty. Something acidicly angry. But Megatron did not miss the way those wings twitched higher in wanting. He could see the considering shift of Starscream's tight jaw, the look of calculation on his face. "... Sire." He murmurs the title, helm tilted just slightly lower, and Megatron understands the test. After all, out of every being in the galaxy who knows the truth of their bond, only they know the actual shape of it.
'What is Starscream to Lord Megatron?' A not uncommon question, and one met with two answers. The first, that he had been second in command for most of the war and Megatron was simply too used to him to bother with finding a suitable replacement, or the truth that they were creator and creation. The lie that they were sire and son.
He holds out his hand, watches the way that Starscream fights to hide his flinch, and says, low and gentle, "I said, it's just us, Starscream. Is that any way to greet your carrier?"
The light in those fierce orange optics dulled just in time for Megatron to catch the way all that delicate cogwork spiraled open, those begging eyes on his face, and then Starscream is on him, faceplates pressed to chest in a desperate hug he knows he has to tolerate. Gently petting the shaking line of his wings, Megatron churrs at Starscream, listening to the soft chirps that come from his second in response, and wonders why it is always so very easy to make sure his creation falls into line. Shouldn't a piece of his spark have taken the same shape that he did? Shouldn't it take more that a soft reassurance and a pet to the helm? But there is nothing concealed in the shiver of Starscream's EM field, nothing hidden in his voice when he mutters, "Carrier," just loud enough to hear.
Fighting back the urge to twitch away in distaste, Megatron wraps his arms around his daughter and pretends he does not notice the quickly-concealed bolt of alarm that colors Starscream's code. When he lets go, Starscream looks up at him with something like hope. Something wanting enough that Megatron is sure he can work with it. "Now, tell me how leadership has treated you. I assume you took the throne in my absence?"
"Of course, carrier." His wings lock in a position of respect. "I've acquired seven new minicons in your absence. Six of them have continued work on the spaceship, while the last has remained with me." There's a flicker of movement behind the thick glass of Starscream’s cockpit and for a moment, Megatron's thoughts flicked to sparklings. But that was ridiculous, of course. The Seeker was just storing his minicons in there, though it was a strange choice. He filed the observation away, the beginnings of a thought pricking at the back of his helm.
With a servo low on Starscream’s back, he started to herd his creation from the room, exhausted and aching. Starscream kept chattering and Megatron let him, wondering if he could cajole the Seeker into giving him a new coat of paint while he caught him up to speed.
☆ For the first time in all your life, the forest feels empty. You were pushed from your home only by necessity, the threat of hunger driving you into the trees. But there is a hollowness to the birdsong. Something mournful in the shift of uncountable leaves brushing in the touch of the breeze. There is nothing of the wonder that had always lived just beneath your heart. Nothing of the curiosity. You ache. It hurts so very badly.
You don't notice your path until you are at the end of it. Your body betraying you. And then you were stepping through the last line of trees to stare out over the scarred clearing, the places where her claws had scraped the earth, the harsh divot where the angle of her hips had caught at the ground beneath. The evidence of your giant paints the ground here. And you know there is no room for it as you walk forward, pick up a broken piece of her, but you hold it in your arms anyway. Proof that he was real. That you are not merely a thing driven mad.
But you feel mad, more and more often as the hours drag themselves into wounded days. Sitting down for dinner only to find it eaten, a taste lingering at the back of your tongue, but no memory of having touched it. Blinking away a touch of grit-carrying wind only to find that darkness had fallen in the time it took to clear your eyes. Things move without your mind holding the memory of it and you cannot stand it. Your life cracking to pieces.
This is why you hate people. The reminder comes sharp as a backhand. This is all that people do. Even beautiful ones. Even ones of metal and wire. All people know how to do is leave.
You are standing in the doorway, a coffee mug in your hand, looking out across your backyard. The day dawns again, as it always will, and you can feel it twisting up inside of you, dark and sick and nauseous. You're mostly sure that you hate him. You hate his stupid, beautiful face, hate the timbre of her deep voice, hate the shape of those so intricately articulated hands. How dare she fall into your life and then simply leave without a word? It makes you sick. It makes you so fucking angry. Your grip tightens on the handle of your mug until your entire hand aches and you want to scream.
Maybe you really were nothing to her, you think. Nothing at all. And really, what had she done to prove differently? She spoke with you because you happened to be here. Carried you home because you had helped her first. You knew she was going to leave. She'd already told you she was going to leave.
So why did you feel betrayed? Why did you feel like- like a scorned lover?
Even as you think it, you feel ridiculous for it, but it won't go away. It just gets darker and louder, twisting all through you like thorns. When you throw the mug, it hits an oak tree so hard that it explodes, a mess of porcelain shards, embedded in the earth like bone. And you know you should pick it up. That something innocent will step on those broken, jagged pieces and walk away limping. You want to scream. Instead, you shuffle forward and go down on one knee, picking white shard from dark earth. You cannot stop thinking of the angle of those horns.
♤ They think he's angry, he knows. And perhaps he is, the emotion lingering under every motion he made, but it is not the worst of his problems at the moment. He does not absently dig his claws into Leader-1's plating out of anger. It is mortifying, even contained within the privacy of his own processor, but every time he catches himself dragging claws over tiny, delicate wires it is because his overheating frame is desperate for the sharp snap of charge that jumps from the minicon's wiring to his own.
He's still overcharged, pent up and frustrated, but dealing with running a galactic army left little time for cavorting about. And he wasn't particularly inclined to debase himself with the company of any of the fools he currently found himself surrounded by. Soundwave would have been good for that, Megatron thought ruefully, sunk low in his throne, half listening to Demolishor and Cyclonus argue over nonsense. The beautiful cassette host had always been sweet on him and knew how to keep his mouth shut. But Soundwave was just another thing that the Autobots had stolen from him now.
Leader-1 was slumped, strutless, over his thigh, purring in a low static tone. The thought comes then to just let the minicons deal with it. Give them a break from their job of construction to give them something a bit more... delicate. But nearly as soon as it spawned in his wreck of a processor, he was dismissing it with a twist of revulsion. His claws tapped the ground in a pattern of anxious discomfort as he sits low in his uncomfortable throne.
In the shadows of the chamber, something too green to hide shifts in place, and Megatron considers. The Constructicon that Starscream had allowed into their ranks was a part of Devastator, he was mostly certain, but he couldn’t remember what had happened to the rest. Long Haul was on Cybertron, he thought, but the rest... Well, it wasn't important. The fragment of a gestalt was little more than a glorified bounty hunter now. Even if he had been to Megatron's taste, there was still the matter of his being so beneath him in status as to be sullying. He wasn't so desperate yet.
"Lord Megatron." The background chatter of his soldiers' argument cut off at the sound of Starscream's voice, his creation bowing as he enters the room. "The computer has picked up another minicon signal. It seems to be in a dense woodland. Who would you like to send?"
He can almost smell it, if he lets his mind wander, pine sap and cedar wood. Damp earth and a warm breeze. His spark twists harder than he was expecting, the uncomfortable alarm of it sharp enough that Leader-1 blearily raised his head to look up towards Megatron's face. He doesn't like the way his frame heats with longing at the thought of your soft, limp shape, lying helpless in your bed.
"Take care of it yourself." He was dangerously close to having his fans click on audibly. "You seemed to be capable of doing it with me gone. Let's see you do it under orders." Starscream's wings flicked, a shocked set twitching quickly into something like a stretch, trying to hide his emotions. But he never could hide from his father.
He bowed again, those golden orange eyes lowered respectfully. "Of course, Lord Megatron. Scavenger? With me. Cyclonus, stay on the line. I'll comm if you're needed. Let's try to make this quick." Starscream spun on a heel and stalked back out of the room, the Constructicon slinking after him. There was something remarkably efficient about the Seeker, a tempered control he hadn't had before. Or perhaps Megatron simply hadn't noticed. Maybe his creation would turn out halfway worthwhile after all. If he could only beat a bit more fierceness into him, then he might even make a halfway decent warlord.
As his soldiers make themselves useful, the base begins to quiet down, nothing but the absence space leaves. It annoys him deeply, just how much he misses sound. The rustle of organic leaf was not the soft, crisp tones of his glass garden on Cybertron, but it was something. It was not this absence. And of course, inevitably, his thoughts drag back to you. The warmth in your voice. The way your hands slid into his seams. The fragile brush of your field against his own. His fans finally clicked on and he ran a servo over his faceplates into mortified annoyance.
He needed to take care of this issue before it got any worse. The question was simply how.
☆ You'd taken a piece of her back with you, when you finally left that clearing behind, proof that she had been real. It had sat on your kitchen table for days, a twist of violet metal that you're sure you'd never find a match for. Nothing of this earth. It is cold against your fingertips every time you reach out to touch it.
You don't remember much of the last month. You know it passed, because you remembered to mark your calendar. But it doesn't feel real. Everything is distant from you in a way that you hate, everything one step away. Even you, yourself. A step back from your own skin, watching your life shuffle by in third person. It's miserable. You ache. You thought you had moved past the capacity for loneliness. You're starting to wonder if anyone ever really does.
You love her. You're sure that you do, in a way that had burrowed sick and ugly in your chest. You hate her in equal measure. Hate her so much that it burns, that he simply left you here. Left you behind. When you lower your head to hide against the shelter of your folded arms, leaned over the kitchen table, your own broken sobbing matches your understanding of what loving someone looks like.
You only get up when your stomach twists in hunger. Hauling yourself to your feet, you fumble about your familiar kitchen, making a simple meal more out of habit than wanting. Following the memory of your mother's guiding hands as she'd taught you how to dig, how to climb and take and squirrel away, and finally how to put it all together into something that would keep you alive. Because you had to keep going. You had to carry on, just as you always had.
The knock at the door terrifies you. You nearly choke, fumbling for something close on reflex, only for your eyes to drift to the hunting rifle mounted carefully on the wall. The thudding fills your small home, a heavy, violent slamming absent of any pleasantries. Your thoughts flicker briefly to the police, but no. There was no reason for them to come after you, you reassure yourself as you lift your gun off the wall and shuffle into the hallway, level your weapon at the door. You hadn't left any evidence behind.
There was no identifying call, no shout for entry, just a rhythmic, powerful thudding, like the person on the other side were trying to simply batter their way through the wall. You shift closer, as silent as you can make it on habit, though it likely wouldn't have mattered with the racket they were making. Your rifle is braced against your shoulder. The banging stops. Still, there is no question, no call, no voice from the other side. The handle shudders in its place, the lock refusing a turn, and then it just... kept going. Squealing with the sound of tearing metal, something popping deep inside, dragged open by force alone, and then the door is opening and Megatron is ducking through the doorway.
You freeze. Everything moves in halfspeeds, the world slowed to a molasses crawl. You take in the shape of her face, her beautiful, terrible face, the red of those eyes, the set of that mouth. The edge of a horn scrapes the ceiling, quiet but unmistakable, and you find that your eyes lock themselves on the gouge mark. This physical evidence that she is real. She takes a step closer, forces the door back in its place, hunched awkwardly down in this space that had never meant to hold a thing so large. How is she here? Even so much smaller, she is still a giant compared to you. Those horns angle back, flattened like an irate cat's ears, a soft, mechanical whirring filling the silence before the tire-tread towers on her shoulders lie back, disassemble themselves, buried somewhere in the construction of her back. And even then, she cannot stand straight, but as she settles back on her haunches to look at you, her head does not quite brush the ceiling above.
"H-How...?" It's all you can manage, weak and quiet as the rifle lowers. Megatron reaches forward, takes it from you gently, and you aren't sure what to do. What to say. You want to scream at him. Want to throw things until he goes away for good this time. Want to drag her down, bury your face in her neck, and promise that you will take care of her if she just... stays. That's all you'll ask for. Just stay.
"There is much about my kind you don't know." The humor threaded in that deep voice makes your entire chest ache. The tears come against your will, and when Megatron comes closer, carefully navigating your home on all fours, you do not avoid her. A massive hand cradles your head as her face lowers to nuzzle at your shoulder. "I need your help with something, if I may ask one last thing of you." That voice seems to reverberate straight through your bones, murmured against your neck like love. You aren't sure when it was exactly that you forgot how to speak. "I find it difficult to think as of late. You started up an old need in me and I've little in the way of relief." Teeth testing the fabric of your plain shirt, claws carding through your hair, tracing down the length of your spine, touching so very carefully.
When she raises her head it is to meet your gaze with that fierce, burning red that you lose yourself to so easily. It's warmer than you expect it to be, when she kisses you. Her lips are not soft, there is no give in the pressure that urges your mouth to submit, just a smooth heat, almost textureless, just flawless steel. When his tongue pushes past your teeth, fills your mouth with the taste of warm oil, your own tongue catches on ridges and patches of rounded, rubbery nodes, like something were embedded along the silvery surface. You reach up with shaking hands to touch her face, and Megatron purrs, that familiar, so-missed sound, and your entire chest aches.
You back away, try to shove her back as if you could ever control anything so grand, and she just blinks at you, looking only the slightest bit confused. It's a sick feeling, the thing that lives under your heart, and you hit her before you can think the action through, clenched fists coming down against her shoulders. The impact hurt, ringing up through your bones, but you hit her again anyway, tears fogging your vision. "You left me." Your arms hurt. There was no indication she could even feel the desperate punches you slammed to her metal body. "You left. You didn't even- Why did you do that?"
Hated it. Hated the way you could not seem to breathe in deep enough, hated the tears that wet your face, hated how much you needed her. How everything inside of you felt as though it had simply clicked back into place the moment she walked through that door.
"I told you I would have to leave." His hands hold onto yours, so large and so much more beautiful than your own, layer upon layer of delicate metal.
"You were supposed to say goodbye." And it sounds so stupid, so small and pedantic. You don't know how to say it right. Surely that is the only issue. You do not know the words to explain the wound that had grown in you, the ragged-edged hole where your life was supposed to be.
When he lowers his head to you again, you just accept the kiss he offers. Let his claws test the fabric of your clothes. His mouth brushes your neck, pauses over the shiver of your pulse. "I should have said something," he murmurs, soothing and low. "But I feared I was running out of time." You're touching her face, tracing the line of her jaw as you had so longed to, and when your hand finds the base of her horns, a deep growl starts low in her chest. "I came back," he murrs by your ear, voice rough with something you find yourself desperately wanting.
You don't question it when he starts to herd you through your home, padding through the space, the house creaking in protest of his presence. You stumble dumbly forward with the gentle nudges of his hand, the soft way he brushes his cheek against your shoulder. It is not so surprising when you find yourself in your bedroom.
He turns you around, and you do nothing but raise your arms when he makes to pull your shirt over your head. You had been so numb. So broken to pieces. Every place she touches you comes alive again, feeling and warmth and wanting following every place his claws touch until you feel dizzy with it. Her hands, when they come to rest against your sides, encircle you completely. Thumbs brushing softly over your stomach, fingers interlaced against the plane of your back. She stares at your chest, such a serious expression on that beautiful face, until she finally mutters just loud enough to hear, "Take it off?" And the laugh that comes out of you is thick with tears as you nod, reaching awkwardly behind yourself to unclip your bra and shrug it to the floor.
You're close enough now to see it, through the glow of her eyes, the machinework behind the lens. Hair-thin wiring, overlapping plates that pull open in a spiral, such fragile things. Nothing like the folded muscle of your own iris, but so inarguably beautiful. She leans closer, presses her face to your chest, and the hiss of air that pushes through her vents sounds almost like a sigh. Megatron rubs against you, purring, hands shifting to cup the weight of your breasts, and you wonder suddenly if this thing of sharp metal and claws has ever touched anything soft in his life.
He seems so harmless like this, sitting on your bedroom floor, purring hard enough that you can feel it vibrate through you. Your hands follow the lines of his helm, tracing seaming, until his horns shift, pricking upward like a dog's ears, nearly caging your head. And your thoughts flick to the way she had blushed, looking away from you. Sensitive, she had called them. You drag your hand up one, holding the warm metal firmly, and she goes still against you, the sound of a fan running on high suddenly filling the silence. Rubbing at that horn, letting your fingers dig into seaming, you cannot deny the heat that pools low in your stomach when she groans, frame shivering.
When you step back, intending to lead him properly to your bed, his hands wrap around you again, lift you completely off your feet, and he lays you down on your back, hauling himself above you. There's a massive crack and a sharp jolt as something in the bed gives way, but when he twists to looks, plates raised in alarm, you just reach out, grab him by the jawguard, and drag him down to kiss you. Claws catch in the waistband of your pants and you lift your hips to let her drag your clothes off of you. There's a familiar sound of metal sliding over metal, and it is suddenly, incredibly clear what had embarrassed her so much the first time you'd heard it, because when she pulls away from you, shifts to nudge your legs apart, you look down to see the heavy cock revealed between her thighs.
You reach down to touch it without thinking, and she shifts to accommodate your eagerness, lets your fingers close around the surprising heat of it. It pulses softly against your palm, a gentle swell, red lights flashing in rhythm down the length. You let your thumb trace the lights, the slightly rubbery texture odd in contrast to the smooth metal that made up the bulk of it. There was something that almost reminded you of fabric beneath the metal, something soft and giving, a meshwork that allowed for the plates to shift. Megatron made a soft sound, something between a gasp and a moan, hips rolling against the touch, and you thought you could listen to that forever.
She shifts forward, crawling up your bed until the heft of that impressive member is close enough to kiss, and you lean forward to lick it from head to base before she can ask. There's no mistaking the relief in her groan as she reaches down to cradle your head, supporting your weight as you press a kiss to the lights between the plating. They pulsed slightly against your lips when they flashed. You'd expected the taste of metal, but as you mouth along the length, there's just a faint sweetness. The viscous fluid that leaks from the tip is a bright, unnatural pink.
She shifts her hips, just enough to drag the head of her cock against your cheek, smearing wet against your skin. Your whole body flushes hot and you turn your head to take her in your mouth. It barely fits, bumping uncomfortably against the back of your throat far too soon, your jaw aching dully from how wide it was being forced open, but when your wrap your hand around the length you couldn't fit, his entire body shudders. His hips roll, careful not to hurt you, and even though you couldn't take all of him, it was obvious he was enjoying himself, purring and shivering, soft moans breaking halfway over static. You rubbed your thighs together, trying to ease the impatient ache, but you didn't want to push her away either, the odd sweetness of that thick pink fluid filling your mouth. You almost wanted to finish her like this, just to know what it would feel like.
But as his thrusts got rougher, your jaw began to ache harshly, the pain distracting and getting worse. You pushed at his hip and he growled harshly, stilling for a long moment, before dragging slowly free. Hot air rushed from the vents on his hip, almost pleasant against your naked skin. She moves down again, flushed and panting, and you love her so much that you don't know what will be left of you when she leaves again.
"You're small," she murmurs the words against your throat before kissing at your pulse again, trailing down along your collarbone, presses her face to your breasts with a wobbly purr. "But I'm sure you'll take my spike well." Lower, tongue testing your navel before kisses are being pressed to the meat of your hips, so teasingly close. He doesn't make you beg. When you raise your hips trying to make contact somewhere, she finally presses a kiss right over the soft heat of your pussy, licking an exploratory stripe over the folds before she simply lays her mouth over you, so big that it covers the totality. That broad tongue jabs and prods awkwardly for a moment before finding what he'd been looking for, bullying his way inside of you with a force that bordered on painful. Her purr sends shockwaves through you now, shivering all the way through your body as she works herself deeper, those cherry-bright eyes locked on your face.
Everything prickles oddly, too warm, too much, so turned on your face was going numb. Your back archs without your input, body simply doing as it wished, trying to press harder against Megatron's touch, and you're sure, as his mouth twitches against your skin, eyes narrowed slightly, that he's smirking. Cocky bastard. It doesn't help that he pulls away far, far too soon, leaving you painfully empty, an absolutely mortifying sound ripped from your throat as you reach for her. This time, when she goes to kiss you, the press of that tongue past your teeth is matched by the nudge of her spike between your legs, and your whimpering is choked off by anticipation as you raise your hips, kiss him back with all the force your can muster.
He misses the first time, the blunt head dragging across your clit, the ridges of her spike drawing shivers from you. The second time, she aims a bit better, and with a short thrust, she had pushed past the entrance. The sound of fans whirring somewhere in her chest picked up loud, that powerful frame curled around you. His voice sounds almost strained, laced with static, but he manages, "Your valve can barely take me." A soft bump of the hips, sliding deeper inside of you, only to be stopped up short by the first ridges. Your hips ache, but you reach upward anyway, get ahold of her by the horns just to watch the way her expression falls into listless pleasure.
She's leaning into your touch, letting you do whatever you like to a piece of her that is so delicate. The shallow rutting that bumps those ridges against your entrance over and over gets rougher, more desperate, until Megatron's claws finally just close around your hips and force it, dragging you down until they simply pop inside with a brief bolt of pain that fizzles out into liquid heat as he settles just that little bit deeper. He growls with a furious frustration as the problem repeats itself, stuck on her spike, and you just lie there as he pulls his hips back to shove himself just that little bit harder against the resistance of your body. Determined to break you in.
You never let anyone break you for anything. You were the wild horse, screaming bloody murder, bucking off anything that dared grace the sacred throne of your back. The feral dog just a little bit too clever to be caught, washed, and resold as something pretty. The life you lead was one of solitude by choice. You were alone by choice. And maybe somewhere along the way, it had become a thing of stubborn pride, that none could catch you. That no one had ever owned you.
You wrap your arms around her neck, hold her close with all the strength of your too-fragile body, caught. When his hand slips between the bed and your back, you just let him hold you steady, press kisses to the thin plating of her neck. He is going to leave you. Everyone always leaves, even if in your leaving them behind. He would leave. You're so sure of it.
When she shifts the angle of her hips, you brace yourself against the bed, push yourself up to meet his effort, and it is with a bone-deep ache that your body finally concedes, the sharp angles of her hip pressed to the soft lines of your own. She sighs as she leans back, sitting up and getting ahold of you by the waist again. Her thumb traces idle shapes over your stomach before pushing down, the feeling of being too full getting worse for a heartbeat. "I can feel myself, just here," he speaks so quietly, almost to himself, but there's something soft in the lines of her face. Something you don't dare hope for in the way those hands trace up your sides, your chest, your arms, just looking at you. He guides your hands, makes you feel for yourself, the way your body manages to take her, but only barely. You'd be lucky to get out of this with little more than bruising.
♤ There was nothing soft on Cybertron, not really. He'd thought there was. But he knew the truth now. Your body was truly soft. The berth he's sure he's destroyed with the weight of himself is soft, in a way he never would have been able to even conceive of. When he squeezes your hips just to feel the meaty give of them, flesh submitting to the pressure of his hold, it is with the foolish awe of a mech much younger.
He barely fits, but barely fitting is still fitting. You have difficulty with the ridges, but when he holds you still, drags himself back from the warmth of your valve and then shoves himself back in, nothing breaks. You just make a little sound that he's mostly sure is your replacement for purring, a quiet half gasp. The charge that had been tormenting him for so long now finally had a place to spill and it was licking through his wires with enough force that it was difficult to control himself. He wanted to hold you down properly, take what he was owed, but what he wanted would break you completely, he's sure. And he wants you alive more than he wants a quicker overload.
Your body is strange to him, but he finds he likes it. There was little to taste when he'd forced you open on his glossa, a few odd textures, and an absence of internal calipers that had made him wonder how you were supposed to work, if he'd misunderstood something about your biology. But when he began to roll his hips in earnest, an easy rhythm of short thrusts he was sure wouldn't harm you too badly, something clearly started to work in you, because your valve was working around his spike in a way that made him purr harder than he had in a long time. It rumbled deep in his chest as he grabbed the small servo you reached towards him, let his derma brush over the delicate working of your digits. The sensors around his mouth pinged his processor with information about the structure, parts that were not cable or strut or wire, but worked much the same. He wondered how much of you was an inefficient simulacra of his own kind, an organic picture remade from a blurry image.
The relief that colors his code lines his thoughts in pale lilac. The warnings for overcharge that had been periodically annoying him flickering out in favor of an overload indicator and a running chart of his frame's internal heat, everything warming up. He pulls back almost completely, watches the way you stare at his wet spike, then forces himself back in to the hilt, hard enough that your whole, soft little body jolts with the impact. You spit something he's sure is a curse, but you don't try to wriggle free, don't smell like pain or fear. He can't stop the way his plates ruffle in unconcealed excitement.
You're panting, the motion making your chest rise and fall. He touches one of the soft paddings there again, rolls it against his palm. He almost wants to ask what it's for, but it's hardly the time for talking he thinks as he lowers himself over you again, presses his face to your enthrallingly soft chest. Your hands find his horns again, slipping into every tender spot with the ease of a long-held lover. He knows you feel it when his thrusts get knocked out of rhythm over it because you do the same thing again, trying to make him feel good, and he wonders what it says about him, that his spark actually twists in its chamber at the thought of you caring. But then, why wouldn't you? What truth of himself had he offered?
Almost easy, to block out the distant roar of an endless life and an endless war, almost easy to just lay her head to your chest and feel the pulse of your beating heart.
☆ She's purring, her weight an uncomfortable press, but you can ignore it as the bumps and ridges on that spike drag a heat through your body you're sure you'll never find with anything else. She's ruined you for anyone else, if nothing else. And in a weird way, as she rubs her face against you again, one hand coming up to support your right boob solely for the purpose of better mashing her face against it, you almost feel... maybe not pretty, but wanted. Worth holding like that. You brush your finger down the bridge of her nose and one cherry eye cracks open to look at you. "You act like you've never seen a boob before."
"Mn." She just grunts at you, pressing your hips together, grinding slowly in a way that sends your vision flashing white for a moment, some ridge at the base of that spike ground against your clit. It didn't help that her purring was vibrating her entire frame now. You have the instinct to wrap your legs around him, hold him close, but you're certain that you wouldn't even be able to encircle his waist. He's pulling back sooner than you'd like, that tight knot of aching tension denied the release of the snap, and a moan slipped between your gritted teeth. "H-Here, you- this is where you touch." You put your hand to his, gently showed her how to touch you right, desperate to tip over that threshold. And the fondness you're sure you will never pull from your chest turns corkscrews through your heart when that heavy, handsome brow furrows in a moment of concentrarion, smooth metal fingers drifting curiously over your nipple.
You want to tell her you love her. It is stupid and fleeting, but you want it so badly that you cannot breathe around it. Luckily, she chooses that exact moment to redouble her efforts, hips knocking yours in a way just shy of painful, and your breath is stolen for an entirely different reason.
Your back archs into the climax, whole body shaking with tension. Her claws test your skin, teeth graze your breast, the spike in you throbbing hard enough that you can feel the swell of it, a pressure against your guts that drags everything out longer. He does not ease you through it. The pleasure rolls over into some close cousin to pain with her desperate pounding never slowing down. You couldn't find the words to stop her even if you wanted her to stop, your thoughts cracking to fragile pieces against the force of the sensation. Your entire body twitched and shuddered, unable to twist away from the assault from the sheer weight of her frame.
Something choked and nonsensical escapes from your throat just when she raised herself up above you and her chest split. She presses into you, as deep as she can make herself fit, while the broad, grey expanse simply separated, panels pulling back, folding away, shifting clear until the purest light you'd ever seen was bathing your face. You reach for it, without thinking, watching as lavender light curls around your fingers, pressing into your skin. The further your hand breaches, the less of yourself you find you can feel, until the warmth of it sits, something just shy of solid, against your palm. She is bleeding through you and you can feel it so sharply, the depth of her need, the fierce tide of her pleasure, and you follow the half-memory that is flickering through her thoughts, brush your fingers through her light until everything explodes again.
Flickers pass from her to you in the place you hold her soul, the soft ache of the intrusion buried under the pleasured relief that pulsed through her entire frame with every pump of transfluid from that heavy spike. It was far too much for you, her tank emptying itself in your willing body, overflowing around the base to run down your skin and stain the sheets. That pink is never coming out, you think dully.
It feels like you're missing something, when she pulls away, your hand slipping free of her chest. The plates fold back into place, her vents hissing out steam like a sigh. You want her back. Want that light against your skin again. Want to shove your head inside to swallow her whole.
She doesn't bother pulling out, grinding against you slowly with drowsy purrs, licking absently at your hair. "Primus, I needed that." You're not sure who Primus is, but you make some noise anyway that you intend to be an agreement. Everything in you feels loose, warm and slow, the burn of overstimulation faded to a low heat by her gentle movement. You tilt your head up. You want to see her, want to say something, but she licks into your mouth, hand fumbling yet again to take the weight of your breast, and you simply forget.