Chapter Text
The battle took place in a gritty desert.
Megatron shouted orders, leading his troops as they gained terrain. He was enjoying himself, fighting dirty as became a true Decepticon. The promise of destruction made the energon in his fuel lines boil, excited him in a dark, terrible way. The smell of burnt components filled the air, and shouts echoed across the cliffs.
It wasn’t a good day for battle, and the fight had lasted far too long, but Megatron could not pull out until he was sure Soundwave’s mission had succeeded.
The skirmish continued into the valley. It had been simple to fool the Autobots into a trap. It didn’t surprise him when they came after him, but where was Prime? Megatron’s pride demanded a worthy foe, not lackeys. A dark shape came out of the dust. A lowly grunt. The Autobot slammed into him, trying to drag him down. Megatron tore his arm off.
“Insignificant little gnat.”
The mech yelled and Megatron sneered, dropping the arm. He lifted the screaming mech and hurled him straight into his running peers. From the left, Ravage attacked them with a savage snarl. Megatron put his hands on his hips, smearing them with fluids.
So much for that.
He moved along, scanning the field, looking for his nemesis. The sun burnt the very air, scorching him from within with every intake he drew. He ached for some coolant and blessed shade, but there was no time for such daydreams. Mechs were fighting, throttling each-other into hard rocks, breaking their armour against the bare ground. Dust covered everything in its path, made it impossible to get a proper overview.
The warlord coughed some of it out of his vents. He needed to put some distance between himself and those fighting. The battle-field had erupted into a cluttered, disorganised brawl. He snarled in annoyance, kicking a small bot out of his way as he climbed to higher ground.
Nobot saw him leave, but from below he could hear shouts and the sound of blasters being fired. Leaning against a boulder, panting in the heat, he realised something was amiss. He counted, then frowned. There were fewer participants than he’d expected. Where were the others?
::Soundwave, report.::
No answer.
Megatron crushed the boulder as he hit it, growling under his breath. Where was Starscream? Had the coward acted against his orders, again? He pulled his full height and turned his gaze towards the small power-plant. Far from sufficient, but useful still. If Prime was engaged in a battle against Soundwave, they could still harvest some energy and convert it to a small share of energon.
Something pulled his attention back to the battle-field. He scanned it, cursing under his breath. Less than eight Autobots? Where were the rest? And where was the Command Trine? If Starscream, the coward glitch he was, had pulled out before he’d said so...
He grit his denta, staring at the scene unfolding beneath him. It was all wrong, but what set his sensors into a frenzy was something entirely else. No sound was heard, but the silence was no longer empty. It crept upon him. He pretended ignorance, played along. He would shoot Starscream in the face. Twice.
”You can come out now, coward.”
No answer? Megatron fumed, then turned with his cannon powering up. The sun blinded him for a crucial moment. He was struck with a blow to his temple, and the last thing Megatron knew before falling into stasis was a large, threatening shape blocking out the sun.
*~*~*
It was the straining in his joints that woke Megatron up. He shutter-blinked, then tried to put his arms down. He didn’t succeed.
Reality crashed down and jerked him out of the foggy state he’d been in for the last five kliks or so. He pulled harder, fought the restrains that kept his arms in such a vulnerable position. He didn’t bother asking why he was in such an undignified situation; it reeked of Starscream.
He huffed, then shook what could only be energon-enforced chains. He got nowhere, and tired of the darkness. He switched to infra-red and... nothing. What? What was going on? Had his optics been tampered with?
Starscream, I will tear your helm off!
He shifted more fully onto his knees and tried to yell. His optics widened in shock; his jaw was locked around something. Something that only let him produce an indistinct groan. Megatron shook in rage; this was undignified!
Engines revving in anger, he threw himself to the sides, trying to dislodge his arms. He would not be the laughing stock of both armies! Damn that Seeker! How dare he do this to his leader? He tried to lean forward and growled, realising that it put him in a worse position. He fought the restrains, but couldn’t break their grip.
Megatron howled in rage and shook, fighting to get free. He failed, and calmed down, panting loudly. He needed to plan his way out of this predicament. When he tried to hail Soundwave again, he found his signal jammed and cut short, as if broken.
He hung his helm between his shoulders and tried to plan ahead, tried to ignore that nagging sensation of something being wrong. Starscream would have been gloating, taunting him, kicking him in the guts. He would have been toying with him. So, if it wasn’t his traitorous second in command – who was it?
*~*~*
The sound of steps coming his way pulled Megatron out of a violent daydream. He cocked his helm and tried to gauge the distance between him and his captor. The mech approaching him sounded heavier than what he’d expected. He frowned. Starscream wasn’t a small mech, compared to many others, but this one sounded really heavy-duty.
The sound was distorted along the way, but it didn’t matter. Megatron tried to smirk around the metal locking his jaw in place. What did this useless piece of slag think of him? That he wouldn’t be able to figure out where he was being kept? He scoffed. He hadn’t left the assembly line yesterday, for frag’s sake.
He started sorting memory-files out, looking for any kind of rocky terrain close to the battle-ground. He needed to find an area with a cave system, somewhere near the place he’d been taken. He was a big mech, and a bot couldn’t just take off with him that easily. He was sure he would figure his whereabouts out, sooner or-
Ah!
Megatron jerked as something stroked his arm. He turned his helm, tried to force his optics to function, but he remained blind. He growled and curled his hands into fists, trying to break the energon-enhanced chains. It... didn’t work. No, no, no! He wouldn’t put up with this, he would not accept being kept like this!
The mech walked around him, steps heavy, determined. Megatron’s armour shifted and tensed under the quiet gaze. When he was touched again, he prided himself with keeping perfectly still. He would not break under the strain, he would not panic.
The glitch came to stand before him, and Megatron grit his denta. He held his helm high, and awaited a swift execution. When none came, he arched an optic ridge. Interesting. He waited some more, drawing deep, soft intakes. The tension made his energy fields ripple, made his shoulder-plating rise. He was being watched, was being held a hostage.
He wasn’t being killed.
Under different circumstances, he would have been expecting Starscream’s victorious monologue. He would have been expecting rough touches, purring words of conquest and the vile heat those words drew from the depths of his processor. He shook as his frame responded to the memory of such a time. He snarled. This was not the time for shameful secrets.
Something prodded his chest-plate. Megatron drew back from the alien touch, no longer in the mood for these games. His lips worked around the gag, making infuriated sounds. The touch returned, more bold than before. It went from his chest-plate to down to his hips. It wasn’t a hand that touched him, but some device with a soft end. He shook in rage as it rounded his upper thigh. How dare he? How dare he touch him – Megatron – like this?
Only Starscream had the gall to do it. Only Starscream had gotten away with it, too.
He felt the heat rise to his armour. Uninvited, loathed, yet so very real. His core temp kicked up a notch, and Megatron’s growl held a desperate edge. His panel was next, and his hips jerked at the loathed, yet wanted, caress. He gave an angered shout when the soft device teased its way down between his thighs, rubbing the delicate plating of his interface panel. No matter how much he squirmed, it kept touching him, kept teasing.
I’ll kill you!
The snarl came out as muffled sounds only, but the glitch stopped. He did not allow himself a sigh of relief. His captor had an agenda, and Megatron was quite sure it had nothing to do with ending his life. So, when the device was exchanged and a hand gripped his codpiece instead, he moved as fast as he could and helm-butted the malfunctioning piece of slag.
He didn’t hit a helm, nor did he hit somebot’s midriff. He hit a shoulder, barely denting it, but it forced his assaulter away. He was surprised and not so little suspicious. There weren’t many mechs of his size, were there now? At least the hand was gone, and the slagger would have to rethink his ambitious plans of molesting him.
Chained, gagged and blinded, he still was the ruler of Cybertron, and no bot’s push-over!
This close, he could hear the other mech’s intakes. He swallowed. He felt his captor’s fields press down on his own, forcing another wave of heat through his cabling. The glitch shifted and Megatron was suddenly acutely aware of his vulnerable position. He wondered how it must look for the other, and his processor dug up those old memory-files he’d kept away from everything. Himself included. Files he was pretty sure he’d discarded and deleted long ago.
”You look good like this, Megatron. It suits you, being bound. Such a pity for your duties as a leader. Perhaps I should inform your loyal army that their lord will be busy for the rest of the day? Perhaps I should tell the Autobots, that the great Megatron will not join the battle...”
Megatron’s engines gave a loud rev, and his optics widened. No. No, no and no! He was not... He didn’t enjoy this! It did not matter what his traitor of a frame enjoyed, he was not willing! He pulled his processor away from that loathed memory and forced himself to concentrate on the now. He pulled at his restraints again, refusing to accept his predicament.
”There are mechs who would do anything to be in your place,” an unknown set of vocals said against his audio, startling him. “There have been mechs willing to die for the honour. They all knew what it truly meant to serve.”
Megatron’s optics were wide, his spark a pulsing mass of repulsion and need. He felt rage curl like a wounded beast in his tank, and he snarled. What was this? Who dared to speak to him in such terms? His intakes rattled in his chest and he ignored how the other’s proximity seemed to turn his frame into a traitor.
The other mech stroked his helm, angling it backwards as his large fingers curled around Megatron’s neck. The grip was strong, and squeezed his fuel-lines until Megatron was forced to divert his intakes. He kept his reactions on a leash, refused to be forced into action. He couldn’t move, was completely in the stranger’s mercy.
Why did it affect him so? His armour felt hyper-sensitive and tight. Being put into this position should have made it crawl. He swallowed hard when the other spoke against his audio again.
”You don’t strike me as the kind who would understand such a thing. You are the kind who would demand everything, play with those beneath you. You lack self-discipline and have no self-control.”
It was a scolding. It was uttered with cold, almost bored, vocals. It wasn’t said in passion, it wasn’t said in anger. It was nothing but a clinical observation, and yet Megatron felt the bitter taste of disappointment in his mouth. It tasted like ashes. He growled. He did not care for that tone, and he certainly didn’t care for the critique.
....then why did he feel so ashamed?
“You are unfit to be a leader.”
Megatron shook and snarled, then howled in anger. His hands curled and uncurled, fingers clawing the air. He tried to bare his denta, pulling at his chains. He couldn’t move his helm away, but tried anyway. The gag made it impossible for him to speak, but it didn’t stop him from trying. It didn’t matter, and soon he was fighting as much as he could.
It brought him nowhere, and for all his worries, he got less than a pat on his helm as his captor stood up and walked around to face him again.
”What do you know about serving, I wonder?” the glitch eventually said. He stroked Megatron’s bound arms with his hands, standing close enough to disturb Megatron’s whole system, yet too far away to kill. “Have you ever served those you rule?”
He snorted, then laughed. It sounded ugly, but Megatron didn’t care. He held his helm high and proud. Let the cog-sucker see the warlord the whole universe had learnt to fear. Megatron was proud of his own achievements, and he would not be made less than he was. Serving was for those too weak to lead, and every bot under his rule knew his place.
”No,” the mech said, fingers trailing along the delicate wiring in Megatron’s elbows and upper arms. He crouched before Megatron. “You’ve never served anybot, have you? I wonder what would happen if you actually learnt how to lead. It would be the end of the Autobots, I think.”
To that, Megatron had no idea how to react. He frowned. The other was too close again, and he didn’t like it. The pressure on his energy field was increasing, and his vents kicked up a notch. It was mortifying, how this proximity made him want to throw himself into that heat and just... just let go. He snapped out of it, cursing himself for being weak, and tried to find his balance again.
Hands were stroking Megatron’s armour and there was no place to hide. He felt himself react to the caress and writhed. He shook his helm, blinded and held in place, made vulnerable. He should hate it, he should refuse to feel anything at all, but when those skilled hands reached his panel and fondled it roughly, he arched into the touch.
His dignity was gone the instant those fingers found the latch and opened it. He gave a weak gasp, loathing himself for it. There was no mistaking the sudden peak of his core temp rising. It was disgusting. How could he be enjoying this? How could he let himself tremble at the idea of being ravished like this? He shook, feeling the tension rise. His desires were twisted, so very wrong for a mech of his stature. At least nobot knew...
But that was a lie, wasn’t it? He’d let one mech see and look where it had taken them. It had ruined everything. They’d never been able to move beyond that point either, and it weighed down on them, tore them apart. Shredded whatever it was they’d had in the first place. Megatron had learnt the hard way that some things you cannot share with those you thought you could trust.
This situation was something else entirely. He was bound, and as much as he hated to admit it, completely vulnerable and helpless. He drew a deep intake and tried to gather his wits. What could he do, more than allow his feverish frame to enjoy itself? If his captor wanted him dead, he would have gotten rid of Megatron before the warlord woke up. So, what ever the mech wanted, probably didn’t involve death.
Unless the glitch wanted to torture him.
He was open, bared for the world to see. The thought made made his valve tighten up, made it wet. Here he was, the great tyrant, bound and forced open. He shuddered and caught the scent of his own excitement. It was heady, sweet and utterly wrong. When the unknown mech touched his bared interface array, he threw his helm back in protest. He tried to move away from those fingers, but he had no place to go.
The fingers reached him, stroked his sensitive plating gently. Megatron grunted, jerked his hips once, then stilled. Fear pooled in his tank, and his spark spun wildly in its chamber. His captor didn’t go for his valve, but rubbed his spike housing, as if testing his self-control. At this point, Megatron had none, but he fought valiantly, and kept his spike sheathed. It was hard, so very hard to remain in control.
He hung his helm, intakes shallow, fast. He heard the chains tremble, was acutely aware of the other mech’s touch. It left invisible prints all over him, specially when those fingers stroked gently, yet persistently.
”You hate weakness,” the stranger said, and Megatron couldn’t detect any mockery in his vocals. “You destroy it everywhere you see it. I wonder if it’s yourself you are killing over and over again. You loath yourself, don’t you? You hate what you want, and you hate that you want it.”
Megatron was fuming. He couldn’t pull back more, but the sting of humiliation felt far worse now. Who was this mech? Who was he?!
“You should have been trained in the art of serving long ago, but something tells me it never got that far. Somebot betrayed your trust, didn’t he? Somebot used you, left you broken.”
...Trained?
Megatron’s lips worked around the gag, his face set into a furious scowl. Serving?! How dare he? Megatron, trained like a... Like a pet?! He snarled, flushing in anger and excitement both. He hated the conflict, was disgusted by it. He forced himself to concentrate on the anger and pulled strength from it. A warlord did not serve, and Megatron would never-
He howled when the stranger pulled at his outer node, pinching hard, rolling it between his fingers. The pleasure-pain blazed and moved like a bolt through his frame, left him weak. He panted, shook his helm, but the glitch wouldn’t stop. He kept tormenting him, rubbing and pulling, pinching and playing until Megatron gave a thin cry and gave in. When his spike pressurised, the rough play stopped.
Nothing but blessed silence followed, and Megatron was left to collect himself. The cold air caressed his spike, and the proximity of his captor was as intoxicating as frightening. He sampled that fear and tasted it, loathing himself for wanting that very mix used against him. He hated this weakness of his, that much was true. His intakes calmed down after a few kliks, and then the other spoke again.
This time Megatron was all audios.
”I’ll teach you to serve,” the other said, and his hand curled around Megatron’s spike, tugging at it. “I’ll make you crave it, to be used and fucked until there’s nothing in your processor but the need to submit.”
Megatron’s processor was reeling, his hips pumping into the mech’s hand. He groaned when a thumb wiped some transfluid from the spike’s head. When the stranger resumed his actions, Megatron moved with him, willingly shifting against him, needing the contact to ground him.
He was terrified. He was furious. He was burning up.
I’ll never submit, but I’ll accept this and learn who you are, and then... Then I’ll find you, shoot you and break your frame apart, limb after limb. I will kill you.
~*~*~
Megatron shifted, spreading his thighs open. He was on the verge of coming again, but the device fastened to the base of his spike refused him his release. He growled, pulled at the chains, fighting the bonds weakly. He needed to come, he wanted it, he could taste the overload. He tried to override the toy for the fourth time and gave an annoyed growl when he failed.
”No,” the his hated captor said, forcing his helm back. “Not yet.”
Then, when?! Megatron wanted to howl, but he was still gagged. His face must have shown his steadily increasing annoyance, because two sharp lashes later, his helm was roughly pulled back and his captor’s breath tickled his face.
”Not yet, I said,” the other growled. “You won’t come until I give you permission, do you hear me? Next time you try to break the rules, I’ll use you and won’t let you come. Is that clear?”
The whip’s soft end stroked his aching spike and Megatron nodded. He forced himself to relax, let the tension bleed out of his frame. When his intakes were as calm as they would get, his captor let go of his helm and started to fondle him again. Hands everywhere, even lips, suckling and licking every inch of him. The toy fastened around his spike started vibrating again, and he gave a low whine, shaking with the force of it.
He knew who held the power, and it certainly wasn’t him. His captor had made that clear, and Megatron was no novice in the art of war. Things like these had happened before, and the poor fragger caught like this never came out of it alive, or whole. Or sane. He guarded his processor and spark, forced himself to get lost in the now. If he survived this little lesson, he would make sure to deal with whatever trauma it left in its wake by killing several Autobots.
“Again,” the cog-sucker said, this time facing him. “Spread your thighs for me again, and show me your valve. I want to see your lubricant drip.”
Megatron’s core temp rose to worrying levels, but he did as he was told. He felt the heavy gaze weigh down on him, and his fields crackled. His valve tightened and his spike ached – his whole frame felt too sensitive already. He sucked in some air and cycled a shuddering sigh, willing himself to produce more lubricant. Just knowing his valve was being inspected like this made his tank flutter.
”Being bound suits you very well,” the other commented all of a sudden, a hand stroking his clenched fist. “You look regal, even like this. Especially like this,” his captor said with a dark growl.
The words made him shiver, and he angled his hips to give the glitch a better view. He was ashamed, but it made him only crave more. He turned his helm away and hissed when he felt a single drop of lubricant slide down his thigh. His face burned, and he felt mortified at being forced to perform such a disgusting act of... of...
He lost what ever thought he had when he felt the wip rub against the folds of his valve. He jerked and squirmed, but the mech knew what he was doing, and wouldn’t let him get away. The softness of the whip’s tip followed him, moved with him, and when Megatron moaned and stilled, it still played against him.
”You are wet. Hmm, all ready for me, aren’t you?”
Megatron shook his helm, his spark and processor denying the truth. No, he wasn’t ready for anybot! He was Megatron, for frag’s sake! Tyrant, feared and loathed. Strong, competent, leader of the best army of killers throughout the universe! How could he ever be ready for anybot?
The tip pushed in between his folds and Megatron yelped. The sound came out muffled, but there was no mistaking his reaction, or what he felt. He shook his helm, optics wide, but the glitch angled his hold of the whip and pressed the tip inside.
It burned his insides. Megatron shouted, face-plates rigid, but the sound came out as a sobbing moan. His captor didn’t stop. He kept thrusting, his movements lazy. Now and then he murmured filthy, encouraging words.
The world was crumbling around him, he was falling to pieces, and Megatron did the only thing he could – he clung to the sound of those unknown vocals. He didn’t even notice that he was being told to do something. He didn’t pay attention, and when the whip slid out, he slumped forward.
Thank Primus, it had stopped... It had stopped.
A sharp sting threw him out of his daze. He hissed and tried to get away, but the whip hit his valve again and again. It didn’t actually hurt, but he snarled in distress, hating the sting for all the warmth it brought forth. He was too hot, felt overcharged, and soon he couldn’t do much more than tremble, and wait for the next lash. He lost count of how many times the whip hit his valve and spike.
By now, he hung from his chains, letting them support his entire weight. His vents whined, and he shuttered his unseeing optics. He couldn’t take it any more, he just couldn’t. He pulled at the chains, shaking his helm from side to side, unable to process what he was feeling. The pain came mixed with pleasure, and he keened in desperation, the sound raw and wounded.
The stinging stopped, and nothing but blessed silence followed.
Megatron trembled, exhausted in a way he couldn’t begin to understand. He swallowed hard, then drew a broken intake. His spike ached, and his valve was dripping wet. It felt sore. He hadn’t been breached for millions upon millions of years, and the whip had been too much. He woundn’t be able to take a spike, would he? It would be painful at best. The thought made him tense, and his fields shrunk into his frame, weak and distorted. He felt like he was dreaming.
A hand grabbed his chin and forced his helm up. The fight had gone out of him, and he sighed, let himself be manhandled. He swayed, wishing his captor would let their frames touch.
”Can you hear me?”
Megatron nodded, dizzy, but the world held a dream-like quality. Hands stroked his helm and face, caressed him until he could concentrate on something else but the strange state his frame had put him in. He swallowed hard, tried to say something, but the gag wouldn’t let him.
”When I talk, you listen,” his captor said, and Megatron found himself nodding again. “If you don’t, I’ll punish you. I did warn you, but you wouldn’t listen. Let this be a lesson.”
He shuddered. A lesson? He’d been battling for millions of years, had been mortally wounded so many times he'd lost count. He’d faced enemies of every kind, and he’d come out of it alive. Despite this, dread filled his spark. Punishment of this kind... It could break him, and he wouldn’t be able to process if such a thing happened again. Not like this. Not when bound, gagged and blinded.
Lesson learnt, Megatron nodded, and waited for instructions.
Nimble fingers reached around his helm all of a sudden and the hiss of a mag-lock was heard. His captor murmured soothingly, and continued to remove the gag. With it gone, Megatron felt more in control. He opened his mouth to demand answers, but shut it quickly when he felt the tip of that hated whip nudge his inner thigh. The conflict that followed made his processor reel; rage and lust battled the horrible need to submit. In the end, he chose the latter.
He vowed that he would find this mech and kill him. As for now...
Submission.
”Did it hurt?”
Megatron hissed, bucking his hips. The whip was caressing his valve again. Had it hurt? Yes, and no. It had made him feel weak, helpless. It had made his valve throb, had made him feel the pulse of his spark between his legs. There had been a sting, but it had become a blanketing warmth, and he’d been lost in it. He opened his dry lips and worked his jaw. The whip pushed against his folds and Megatron felt true despair for the very first time in his existence.
When he finally found his vocals, they were filled with static. “...Yes.”
He’d been wounded in his long life, but nothing had hurt more than this. Nothing had made him feel more helpless. Nothing had damaged him this deep. He loathed that whip, and he craved it. All of it. His face gave him away, he knew that, but he couldn’t control his features. His captor leaned closer, and a strong hand fisted his spike, pulling and tugging. Megatron made a sound like a dying beast.
“Do you want to come?”
These games were taking everything from him. He wanted to scream, but the whip pushed against the rim of his valve, and he remembered the burn. He shuttered his optics, tried to find something to hold onto. There was nothing. Everything had been taken away from him. He’d been robbed of control, entirely.
The nameless mech waited for his answer, and his grip of Megatron’s spike increased. Megatron drew a sobbing intake, shaking his helm, protesting. He... He couldn’t! But, when a thumb wiped transfluid from his spike, he knew the battle was lost. It cost him his dignity, his pride and everything he’d carefully told himself over millennia. It shattered him, but the choice had been taken from him.
“Yes.”
“What do you say, when you want something?”
Give it to me!
”...Please.”
The hand slowed down, and Megatron slumped tiredly. The chains held him in place, held him up. It felt... good. He panted, frame so very hot. A hand gripped his helm and angled his face, and then a glossa licked his lower lip. He jerked, then relaxed into the soft treatment. He knew he could bite the other, but what would happen to him then? He would most likely be subjected to pain, and he didn’t enjoy the idea of listening to his own screams.
His captor nipped his lip and Megatron gave him the access he knew the other wanted. The kiss was ardent, almost brutal, and he moaned into it. Still the fragger wouldn’t let their frames touch, and he found himself holding onto the chains, clinging, as the kiss became deeper. His moans were muffled, and he was happy to hear his captor groan too.
What madness was this?
It ended far too soon, but Megatron didn’t protest. Now hands roamed his frame again, touched everything. He willingly spread his thighs open when the warm palms reached his hips. He felt... No, he didn’t, he snarled back at his traitorous frame. He would endure anything to get out of this alive, and then forget all about it. He certainly wouldn’t be made to beg. He wouldn’t-
”...Nnnghh!”
He bit his own glossa, and that to keep the embarrassing things he’d been about to blurt out. His captor touched his valve, and his other hand angled his aft. Megatron tried to pull back, but failed. Fingers spread the soft petal-like folds, opened him, and stroked the rim of his valve. He gasped at the alien sensation, shaking his helm. No. No, no, no! It didn’t stop the fragger, and the fingers slid gently against the slick, hyper-sensitive metal.
”How does this feel?”
”Wrong,” Megatron snarled, shaking so hard it was ridiculous. His captor chuckled and he hissed, then bucked. He writhed when a finger pressed down upon the outer node, teasing it mercilessly. It felt good, and he hated every moment of it. It felt so good he wanted to scream.
”Too bad,” the cog-sucker murmured. “I’m enjoying myself. Your valve looks so very pretty... All silver, slick and wet. You look like a well-trained drone, oh mighty Megatron. And now, you are my drone.”
Megatron choked on those words. He snarled and threw his helm back, howling in rage. The nameless mech purred at his reaction, and then Megatron froze. The rage left him and dread filled his tank. He couldn’t see, but he still moved his helm, angled it, tried to see.
”That is a finger,” the hated mech told him as he slowly worked said finger into him. “It’s not the longest or the thickest one, but you are too tight for anything else. And this,” he growled, “would be your sweet-spot.”
His optics were wide, and his mouth jaws worked, but no sound left Megatron, no matter how hard he tried. His intakes came too fast, his vents spluttering as they fought to keep him from overheating. He didn’t know what he was feeling. It wasn’t pleasure, it couldn’t be. It was too acute, to strong. It burned...
It was the best thing he’d ever felt.
”S-Stop,” he whispered. “Stop... don’t!”
”You aren’t the one giving orders here,” his captor said, and Megatron heard the smile in his vocals. “I can feel your frame react to this manipulation. When I press here, aaah, yes. That’s the spot, isn’t it?”
Megatron groaned, shaking his helm in denial, but his frame didn’t obey him. Every time that finger slid in and out and rubbed the soft membrane it was tormenting, Megatron’s hips would jerk and push down. The glitch was talking again, and he desperately clung to those words.
”I will add another finger now, and I will make your valve come. The mag-lock stays around your spike. Now, spread yourself for me.”
He obeyed before he knew he was doing it, and then it was too late. Two fingers...? It felt far worse than that, and he grit his denta. It hurt, but only for a moment or two, then the pain turned into loathed pleasure. He gasped, spreading his thighs wider, welcoming the intrusion. Primus, what was he feeling?
He knew pain. He knew pleasure. He’d never known both, at once. The fingers moved in and out of him, went deeper, and Megatron heard his own intakes, heard the sounds he was making. Now and then, his captor would stroke his aching spike, and his processor would be lost in the bliss that followed. He nodded and angled his hips, not just accepting the violation of his frame, but craving it. He wasn’t willing, couldn’t be, would never be, but this...
”Ask for it,” the sound of those loathed vocals told him. “Beg me for it, Megatron.”
He screamed in defiance, holding onto the last strand of self-control he had. He wouldn’t beg, w-wouldn’t...
Another finger, and the world shattered.
”Beg!”
Megatron didn’t recognise his own vocals, but it didn’t matter. All that mattered was the release. He swallowed his pride, his dignity, and gave in.
”L-Let me come, you fragger, j-just let... Let me, please! Please!”
The stranger growled and Megatron felt it in his valve. He cried out when those fingers suddenly rotated and pumped harder and deeper than before. He arched and howled, his sweet-spot being hit every singly time. There was only so much of that he could take, and within a klik, his valve convulsed and tightened until he wailed. He came so hard, and for so long, he lost it.
Rasping intakes, his own, greeted him when his systems rebooted.
His spike ached, and his valve felt sore. He shifted, frame weakened by the intense overload, and the whole situation. He was still blinded, but the gag had been put away, at least. Primus, if he’d woken up with it...
”How do you feel?”
Used. Violated. Spent... exhausted. Broken.
”Alive,” he sneered. He hadn’t expected to come out of it alive, of course. What was the point of this, really? A lesson? He frowned, then shifted. His spike, locked in arousal, twitched. He snarled quietly, felt the other’s gaze move down his frame, felt it settle between his thighs.
No answer but silence. Undisturbed, save for his laboured intakes, it seemingly went on forever. Eventually, Megatron cycled a sigh. He slumped, his aggression bleeding out of him He had nothing he could use against this mysterious mech, had he? Not like this, anyway, and not now. He lifted his helm, blinded still, and tried to imagine who it was. Who he was supposed to kill. He wouldn’t be able to live with himself if he didn’t kill this fragger. To erase this shameful experience, he needed to kill him.
The mech’s proximity increased, and Megatron tensed. What could he possibly want now? His valve? Three fingers had hurled him into stasis, screaming his spark out. Three fingers were far from a spike, and his captor was a big mech. The idea of being taken, bound and blinded, made his armour crawl, made his spike strain. His valve, sore and wet, liked the idea.
The mag-lock around his spike fell off, deactivated. Megatron shuddered, biting down on a groan. When his captor palmed his spike, he did his best to stay docile. No order had been issued, but he wouldn’t put himself through another round with the whip. It was hard, however, to keep quiet. It was even harder to force his hips to remain still. Soon, his intakes were coming faster, more shallow.
”I want you to count down from ten when you feel your overload approaching,” the nameless mech said. “And when you are almost there, you will hold it back until I give you permission to come.”
He did something with his hand, twisted it, and Megatron gasped. “You... You want me to h-hold back?”
How the frag was he supposed to do that? He arched, gasping for air, then moved into the glitch’s hand. They set a steady rhythm, and Megatron could feel the other’s fields push down on his own. Pleasure pooled in his tank, made him vocal. A few tugs later, he felt the tension rise.
”I, aah, I... Nnghh-!”
”Count,” his captor snapped, and Megatron hated him, but followed his command.
”Ten, n-nine...”
Eight, seven and six. Five, four and three, two and... and... And, Primus, how he fought himself. He did his best, forced to hold the overload back. He grit his denta, moaned, and shook so hard he heard the chains protest as well. His thighs trembled, and the strain made him light-headed. He wouldn’t be able to hold it back, he...
”A leader,” his captor said, vocals steady as if Megatron wasn’t on the verge of coming, as if he wasn’t fondling his spike and now, valve too, “serves his people. A leader controls himself. A leader does not give into his basic needs, nor does a leader put his own needs above others'.”
Megatron cried out, his whole frame tensing until he couldn’t process, and yet he kept his audios locked onto those vocals.
”A leader knows his own failures, and learns from his mistakes. A leader knows how to sacrifice himself, if needed. A leader,” the nameless mech continued as his fingers pumped and stroked Megatron’s straining spike, as he spread Megatron’s valve open, “knows that he’s duty is to serve those who follow him.”
It was too much, and Megatron wailed, forcing the scorching pleasure back. He clung to the chains, and angled his hips, silently begging. He couldn’t afford to say anything, couldn’t draw another intake, couldn’t take it any longer. He sobbed and opened unseeing optics, face set into a pained scowl.
His captor leaned forward and pulled him into a rough kiss. Megatron moaned and let himself be ravished. There was little else he could do. He gasped into the kiss when fingers slid inside him, fucking him hard and deep. The hand around his spike stroked faster, and he sobbed, overwhelmed.
”O-One,” he whispered into the kiss. “One, o-one, one...”
The mech bit his lip until the scent of energon filled Megatron’s olfactory sensors, and then he latched onto it, tasting Megatron’s life substance. When the mech kissed him again, Megatron heard the rumble of strong engines and knew his captor was enjoying himself. It was such a bestial display of dominance that Megatron ruled out every single Autobot from his list of suspects.
He was on the very edge, and his hips snapped and ground down on those thick fingers, craving more. His spike pulsed, and Megatron pulled back from the kiss. The pleasure was pain-laced now, and he snarled, desperate to come, yet unwilling to submit himself for yet another round of that whip.
”One,” he rasped, “o-one...”
When he’d first woken up, he’d expected torture. He’d expected a swift and painful death. He’d expected mockery and molesting, some degradation too. He’d expected quite a lot, but never this amount of pleasure, nor the tightly controlled pain. He’d never known the combination. He'd never tasted the sweet fear that drowned everything out, had never known how much he wanted it.
This mech, unknown and so strong, was doing something outrageous to him, forcing him to accept truths he’d never wanted to face. He made him crave his mastery, made him need it. He felt like he was falling, yet never reaching the end. He felt like the universe was made out of needles, each one of them slowly pushing into him, ripping him apart. He felt exposed and used, taken and claimed.
His frame jolted and convulsed, and he cried out. This was torture, and he was on the very edge of a bottomless hole, almost falling, almost...!
”One, one, one, o-one,” he chanted in despair, his vocals coloured by equal amounts of pain and pleasure.
”Do you want to come?” asked the hated glitch that had done this to him, his denta raking over Megatron’s jawline.
Megatron nodded, vents roaring. He let his captor see what he’d done to him. Let him behold the raw fear, the desperate need, the conflict within. This mech had managed to capture him, to bring him down. He’d broken Megatron, fiercest of warriors. There was nothing left. He was nothing but an instrument in the hands of this stranger.
”What does a leader do?”
The words were uttered like a lover’s words, right onto his audio. Megatron sobbed, grinding down onto those fingers, loving how they marked him from within. The pain was gone, and all that remained was the steadily climbing peak. He grit his denta and forced himself to remember. What... what does a leader do...?
Lead. Take command. Control. Dominate. Fight for power! Kill any glitch in his way. A leader... a leader...
”...s-serve,” he whispered. “A leader serves.”
”Well done,” the stranger said, and pushed a third finger inside, using the strength Megatron had suspected him to have. “Now you may come.”
Megatron opened his lips, but not a single sound was heard. It had been too much for too long, but now he was allowed to feel another frame against his feverish limbs. He threw his helm back and screamed silently. He came while the other mech told him how he looked, and how he felt.
It hurt, it hurt so good, finally being allowed to come. It was like his frame had been holding back just for this single command.
His spike made a mess between them, but Megatron was beyond caring. His intakes came in weak, shallow sobs. He’d had lovers. He’d taken lovers. He’d felt pleasure, but that was nothing compared to this. He writhed, pulled helplessly at the chains holding him in place. His spark seemed to pulse in rhythm with his valve, and then his captor decided to make him come again. He screamed, pushing down onto those perfectly shaped fingers, just as they assaulted his sweet-spot.
His tormentor bit him, and he fell, and the world was no more.
*~*~*
There was floor beneath him when he came around.
”...Aah, w-where... am I?”
He was weak, drained, and not quite awake. He felt quite wonderful too, almost overcharged. When he tried to move his arms, he found them chained. It should have bothered him, but Megatron had no strength left. He would fight another day.
”In a human-made cave-system,” those mysterious vocals answered him. “We are beneath ground.”
Ah.
Megatron shifted, kept his optics shuttered. He felt the mess between his thighs and squirmed. He was filthy... It brought a flush to his face, and he knew his captor was watching him. Again. Fragging glitch. He made an attempt to move, but changed his processor. Who was he trying to fool? He’d been made tame, and by a Decepticon nonetheless.
He frowned and turned his helm. Shame clawed at his spark. To be seen like this... No Decepticon would follow a leader who secretly yearned for being bound. Taken. Pushed beyond his limits. No Decepticon would let him lead. He’d learnt that long ago, hadn’t he? When he’d been stupid enough to share a few, nice secrets with Starscream. He’d trusted the Seeker, had liked him well enough to show him what he truly liked. He cursed that decision, and would forever loath the mistake he’d made. It had been the wrong thing to do, had been a risk too high, and look where it had taken them.
Starscream still thought him to be unfit to be a leader.
This wasn’t Starscream, of course. Starscream would never have been able to pull this stunt. The amount of self-control... It made Megatron wonder, who would be able to keep their spike sheathed even though their lover and prey was screaming in release. It would have taken him every inch of self-discipline...
Who was it?
Soundwave? Hook? Who?
If this came out, for how long would he stay a leader? How long, before the balance would break, and he would be forced to submit? His warriors were feral, just like he liked them. He didn’t enjoy the idea of them seeing him as something to use. No, he’d rather die, and before that, kill.
He curled his hands into fists and snarled. There was no strength in his frame, and he knew why – emotional strain, the shock of processor-shattering pleasure. The horrible truth revealed, of what he liked and how.
Stasis-cuffs.
“Will you let me go?”
Instead of an answer, Megatron heard, then felt, how the mech get onto his knees and in between his thighs. He swallowed hard, and then grit his denta before he said something that would put him in a bigger disadvantage. He’d learnt what it meant to annoy this mech. He was sore and spent, far from interested in another round with that whip. It had been humiliating enough to come like he’d done before.
He gave a sullen glare to the world in general and cycled a few, deep intakes. He would survive this, and then he would spend every cycle awake trying to figure out who’d been his assailant. Once found, he would be terminated in the most painful way possible.
”You are a mess,” the mech murmured, pushing Megatron’s thighs open.
”What did you expect?” Megatron snapped, cursing himself twice over. This was a mech who’d looked up to him, once upon a time. This was a mech who had never seen his leader’s valve, either. A mech who would brag about this, no doubt, to half the army. A threat.
A dead mech walking.
There was a chuckle, some rustling, and then Megatron grunted. His thighs were pressed up and to the side, opening him up. He gave a quiet snarl and tried to hide his face again. He felt a stream of air hit his valve and his spike-housing. He swallowed, squirmed, but couldn’t get away from yet another vent.
Oh, for frag’s sake, what now?!
What did he want, this fool? A nice shot of his used valve, still wet and sore? Did he want to humiliate him even more? What-
...oh. Oh!
”What... What are you doing?!”
Megatron felt his face-plates burn, and he lifted his helm off the ground, tried to stare at his captor. He was, of course, still blinded. It didn’t change anything, and he gasped loudly. His helm fell back, and he groaned, shuddering over and over gain. He grabbed the chains and held onto them, desperate to ignore the wet, prodding, slick glossa soundly licking and lapping his fluids right off his... his...
This was no Decepticon.
The sounds his captor was making, purrs and suckling noises, left his processor reeling. Why would... Who the frag would... But, there was no mistaking that glossa, and how it licked him clean. He moaned despite his efforts not to, and undulated his hips. Strong hands grabbed his aft and lifted him off the ground, and a face pushed right against his tender plating, and the protective folds of his valve.
It was filthy and yet, so deliciously tender.
He shook his helm, knowing that no Decepticon with an inch of self-respect would do this, clean a victim this way. He swallowed a groan and fought the rising sweetness spreading from his valve and throughout his frame. He felt restless, weird. There was no taunting, and no mind-games in sight. The way he was held open, how those fingers kneaded his thighs, and the way the glossa and lips would almost lovingly lap and clean him...
When the glossa dipped inside his valve, Megatron arched, worrying his lower lip. He felt the first signs of a sweet overload approach. His processor was desperately trying to find clues of his captors identity. So, if it wasn’t a Decepticon...
Then who was it?
It went seemingly on forever. Slow and sweet, hands caressing him gently, helping him to relax until the climax hit. He gasped and moaned, riding that glossa, loving and hating it both. When the heady wave of bliss finally withdrew, he was left with a sense of dread, buried deep beneath the intense pleasure. The way his sated frame had come to accept this kind of dominance was terrifying. It was far worse than the promise of punishment or the threat of exposure.
The identity of his kidnapper still remained a mystery. He had battled so many, and while there weren’t a lot of big mechs around, he still couldn’t gauge his captor’s actual size. Big hands, strong frame, but there were so many mechs it could be. He knew now, for sure, it wasn’t a Decepticon. It simply wasn’t in their coding to take care of somebot this way, unless bonded, and that wasn’t something he encouraged.
Decepticons ruled out, he was left with one question: exactly when had Autobots started to crave their greatest enemy’s submission this way?
Megatron sighed and shuttered his optics. He was too tired to move, too drained to give a damn. If he was to be killed, he’d at least gotten the best frag in his life. He felt a calm settle over his frame and spark both. It was strange, how safe he could feel, even when bound and spread open.
Between his legs, his captor was currently closing his interface panel with careful fingers. The mech was kneeling now, gently stroking his thighs and peds. He was probably watching his handiwork. Megatron felt his lips curl into a wry smile, knowing that he cut a rather impressive picture this way.
One last thing remained to be asked.
”Will you let me go, or will you kill me now?”
”Perhaps I should let you live. I think you’ll want to find me,” his captor replied, the smile audible in his vocals. And not just a smile, but pride and a cock-sure strength that made Megatron’s valve tighten.
He snarled and pulled at the chains, made weak by stasis-cuffs and pleasure both. Who the slag did he think he was? How dare he...? He tried to lift a pede to kick the glitch, but the stasis-cuffs sucked his strength right out of his system. He gave a wounded grunt and gave up.
”I’ll find you,” he panted, “and make you wish you’d killed me.”
It was a promise.
For the longest time his captor kept his silence, and then, there was the sound of a gun being loaded. Megatron tensed and pulled harder at the chains. He didn’t want to die, slaggit, not until he’d crushed his tormentor's helm against the ground. He snarled and pulled again, and again.
”Until next time,” the malfunctioning drone said, and then Megatron knew no more.
*~*~*
When Megatron woke up, his vision was blurry. He felt faintly sick, and had to curl into himself as his processor raced. His hands shook against his chest-plate, and he fought bitterly to collect himself. Once he could trust his systems, he lifted his helm and crawled up into a sitting position. He looked around, trying to find any landmark he recognised.
Nothing.
He touched his helm, then lowered his hand to the obvious bite there. A love-bite, or a mark of possession. Either way, he surely wouldn’t let his officers find him with it. He sat back, his back against a boulder, and stared at the rocky ground. What had happened...?
There was no logic behind the assault. There was nothing but those mocking words, and later, the processor-shattering pleasure, the sweet pain. He grit his denta and snarled, hated the glitch who’d done this to him. He... he’d been made anew, he’d been broken and put together.
He’d been marked.
When he looked up, the sun was settling. He looked at his frame, but saw no colour but his own. Slag. If his tormentor had any mark left, he’d at least been granted a good guess. Now he would have to start actually paying attention to those annoying Autobots he fought. He would have to listen to their vocals, just to recognise the one who’d dared to touch him.
Megatron growled and started going through everything he knew about the Prime’s troops, those on this mudball and the ones scattered across the universe, too. Among them, there would be a slagger who was strong and intelligent enough to capture himself a warlord. And, when Megatron found him...
Mercy would be a swift death, but Megatron hadn’t taken his seat by showing mercy, had he now...?
He set out to plan, his spark set on revenge.