Work Text:
He knew.
He had never done this before, of course. Tarn had none but one indulgence, which was far from such nature. But he understood this, by concept. It was no….at all.
For one to truly enjoy domineering, must one enjoy the mind of the dominated. A mindless brute might simply glee in the act of kill and maim. Neither one of them was that base.
There was a certain allure to lose to a respectable adversary. And Megatron had never treated Tarn otherwise. At least, he told himself so.
“You like it,” he sneered down at Megatron. “I had always knew you had it in you. Is that what you desired with Optimus Prime?”
Such a vile thing to say. He aimed to humiliate, to invoke reactions.
But Megatron simply uttered one word, weary optics fallen on his, with hint of a plea, still layered with a quiet winter, “Tarn…”
And he plunged down, plunged at that mouth, jolted Megatron further onto his lap, tighter in his grip, and he plunged and plunged, violent, uninhabited, finally taking what he had never even dared to fantasize. A starved beast feasted upon its fallen master. Disgraceful, but he did not care.
He was close, but it couldn’t be over yet.
He forcibly pulled away from that immense satisfaction, and hissed into the side of his former leader’s audio receptor, “You are weak, Megatron.”
He had always knew, how could he not? Megatron was his faith. Millions and millions of years ago, his life focused on one singularity, and he searched, clutched, and absorbed with gluttonous appetites every bit of information this world could ever offer. Of Megatron. He had the first edition of Toward Peace, framed on the wall facing his desk; he had all the poems that ever circuited the underworld, stashed away in the safest closet.
He had always knew.
The long-deceased, soft-sparked pacifist weakling his leader once was, had found a way to live on, through the quiet dignity that flew underneath the turbulent currents which had became Megatron. A sign of weakness unfit for his lord, and the Decepticon cause.
He had always knew. He just never chose to acknowledge it.
Instead, he had chosen to kneel at Megatron’s feet, to be the extension of his hand and sword, to do what he did not desire to dirty himself with. In his privatest moment, Tarn could admit to himself, he hold this most exquisite piece of knowledge sacred in his spark. He chose to protect and devote all he was to his lord, ready to die at a flimsy whim.
Yet, Megatron had abandoned his own preach.
The most grievous betrayal.
Thus follows Megatron now no more than a pathetic defector, a filthy traitor, one among many. Only that he had never done this to any other traitor.
“You are weak,” he repeated, disgusted (at whom), vengeful (for what).
Fallen, splayed on the ground, dirty, desecrated, Megatron still managed to hold his stare.
“No one,” said Megatron, shakily, “can become your delusion of a god. Not even me.”
Tarn snarled, fighting the hurt those truthful words threw, and slammed with punishing forces into Megatron.
Yet. After all these, he still couldn’t purge all the devotions out. And Megatron knew it.
It was him who was the weaker one.