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keelywolfeTitle: We All Fall Down
Author: Keelywolfe
Fandom: TF: Prime
Rating: NC-17
Pairing(s): Megatron/Ratchet, Optimus/Ratchet
Notes: I need to start another series about as much as I need a hole in my head, but I'm rather jetlagged at the moment and travel-bleh, so what can I say. It seemed like a good idea at the time. I outlined this story while on a cross-country flight so, to the person who was sitting next to me, if you were reading over my shoulder…er…sorry about that. Due to the content, I think this is the only place I'll be posting this, though possibly AoO when I get another chapter in.
WARNINGS: Let's be clear, this story is NON-CON. Got that? Non-con, as in rape, as in, don't read it if you will find that disturbing. I can't be any clearer than that.
NON-CON, got it? You've been warned. Last chance to back out...and here we go.
Summary: Set near the end of the TF:Prime episode, S1;E22, Stronger, Faster. MAJOR SPOILERS FOR EPISODE, so if you haven't caught it on youtube yet, might want to do that first. It'll make more sense for starters. You can find it here: Part 1 l Part 2
~~*~~
As little as Ratchet even wanted to know about humans, he had managed to pick up tidbits of data here and there. In some ways, they were similar to Cybertronians; they required food, recharge, the basic amenities that were conducive to life. But in many, many ways they were strange, organic beings, and once, Raph had complained of having a nightmare, tried to explain that during their recharge cycle, a human's brain could feed them frightening images.
At the time, Ratchet had dismissed the knowledge as useless human trivia and it was only now, as he lay dying on the hard-packed dirt that made up the floor of a Decepticon energon mine that Ratchet thought he understood. Coming off the rush of the synthetic energon was like a strange, sick processor cleanse, his logic coming back into brilliant focus even as his energon bled away, staining the floor with the glowing residue that represented his ending life.
Had he really believed he could kill Megatron? That any chemical could bloat his confidence that high spoke volumes about his questionable sanity while using it. A mistake, a fatal one, Ratchet decided dimly, and more than anything, he regretted, the flashes of what he'd done the past day aching through him as much as the gaping wound Megatron had opened in his chest.
He heard movement, the creak of another mech crouching next to him and Ratchet tried to flinch as clawed fingers traced the wound they had just caused, skirting the trickling flow of the Synth En from Ratchet's body. No fool, Megatron, to mess with an uncertain chemical. Less a fool than Ratchet.
"Find out what this is," Megatron said, the mere sound of his voice sending a shudder through Ratchet, as it would any sane Autobot. "If a chemical can do this to Optimus Prime's lapdog—" Megatron hesitated, optics narrowing, and then to Ratchet's hazy surprise, he leaned in further, venting audibly. His low chuckle made Ratchet's processors prickle with wariness, like another brush with insanity.
"Ahh, not so much a lap dog, then, but a toy that he enjoys playing with." Not ungently, he nudged Ratchet's feet apart and knelt between them, leaning over him without touching. "Do you like to play, Doctor?"
Blearily, Ratchet blinked up at him, crimson optics peering into his own confused ones. His processors were fogged with pain and the last vestiges of the synthetic energon still leaking out of him. With an effort, he managed not to cringe at the feel of sharply-taloned fingers unexpectedly sliding over him. Rarely had he been so close to Megatron, not in eons, but he had seen what those fingers could do, had watched in horror as they tore through plating, shredded cables, plunged through chests to rip out a mech's still-pulsing spark. He waited for the agony to slash through him, waited to Megatron to finish it.
His last words to his comrades would be ones of anger, and to Optimus—
Primus, forgive me, Ratchet thought, refusing to allow Megatron to hear his final prayer.
To feel those sharp fingers instead sliding between his legs was incomprehensible, inconceivable, his newly-awakened logic circuits reeling to process it. It wasn't until his searching fingers found the manual lock on his interface panel that his intentions came into focus with crystal-pure clarity.
So very rarely he and Optimus were intimate with each other, old friends offering momentarily physical comfort and just this morning, filled poisoned confidence, he had offered and Optimus had warily accepted…the traces would still be viably identifiable for anyone who did an olfactory scan and Megatron obviously had, he was—
"No!" Ratchet gasped out, shocked to his very core. With the little energy he had left, Ratchet tried to shift away, his feet digging feebly into the soft soil beneath them, hands scrabbling for purchase. Another hand settled on his chest, Megatron's weight heavy as he leaned on it, stilling him.
Between his legs, Megatron's touch was persistent, startling in its skill, deft fingers that had just critically wounded him ludicrously gentle against his valve, delving inside to press against delicate sensor nodes. Ratchet was braced for pain but had no defense against this…this seduction? It was an obscenity, his autonomic mechanisms responding as they were meant to even through the agony clouding his senses from his wounds. At his best, Ratchet would have been able to override them; not now, here, where with every moment passing more energon seeped from him, weakening him further.
Lubricants were flowing freely within moments, deadly fingers withdrawing from his valve as Megatron shifted his weight. His hands, one slick with Ratchet's lubricants, pushed Ratchet's thighs further apart. Not roughly, not enough to jar the gaping wound in his chassis, only widening the space between his legs to allow Megatron to crowd between them, the startling potency of his personal EM field viciously merging against Ratchet's another layer of forced intimacy. Worse, so much worse, was the soft click of an interface panel opening, audible even over the whining force of Ratchet's internals struggling to continue as his energon levels rapidly declined into critical levels. A heavy line of searing heat nudged his inner thigh, the familiar ridged feel of spike swollen with pressurized hydraulics unmistakable.
Desperately, Ratchet offlined his optics, disbelief warred with a growing, horrified certainty that this was how he would die. And perhaps he'd earned his death, his own chemical arrogance and desperate need to help his comrades driving him here but he didn't deserve this, surely, didn't…didn't want to see the darker body wedged between his own pale thighs, didn't want to see that thick spike ready to drive into him. It was enough that he could feel it, heavy thickness of it resting against him, the slipperiness of his own lubricants slicking the insides of his legs.
There was very little left to Ratchet but feeble defiance and he held that tightly, gagging back protests that clogged his vocalizer when Megatron shifted his weight. The tip of his spike rubbing briefly against Ratchet's valve, a familiar seeking touch, searching and finding the proper angle for entrance and—
"Look at me," a low rumble of sound above him, closer than Ratchet had expected, a wash of damp heat from someone else's, from Megatron's, exvents. No, no, he would not, and the weight on him shifted, a large hand sliding up his frame, skirting over the throbbing agony of his wound, up to his throat where it tightened warningly. Again, a soft growl of words snarled out, "I said, look at me!"
Ratchet tried not to obey but some deep, automatic process that kept him from simply allowing himself to die overrode him and he forced his optics to unshutter. Glaring red optics looked back at him, the deep molten fire within them like stories of the fiery Pits of Unicron.
Ratchet didn't look away, staring into those crimson optics, saw the spark that lit in them as Megatron arched his hips and slowly pushed the thickness of his spike into him. The slick lining of his valve expanded as Megatron pressed inside with all the tender care of any lover Ratchet had ever had. Large, but not painfully so, each ridge dragging against the sensor nodes as they were meant to, sending wild sparks of pleasure to ignite in his neural net. Optics locked together, his vision blurring as Megatron moved again, back out slowly, slowly, letting the charge ramp up with astonishing quickness.
Again, slowly, the thud of his pelvis against Ratchet's a low counterpoint to his quick, quick ventilations, Ratchet desperately stifling cries that tried to escape his vocalizer, shamed to his very core that they were sounds of pleasure. It felt good, every thrust, every withdrawal moving in him with exquisite skill and that it was Megatron doing this, hands with the energon of only Primus-knew how many mechs staining them were touching him, a low, pleased rumble coming from deep inside Megatron, more vibration than vocalization.
A soft scuffing sound made Ratchet jerk in surprise, dragging his optics towards it, and saw the other, forgotten, Decepticon was still there, watching them with greedy avarice. Knock Out, that was his name, nothing but a vicious butchering thug pretending to be a medic. The rhythm faltered, the charge diminishing in the briefest moment of relief. That internal rumble shifted into an angry growl vibrating against Ratchet's chassis as Megatron glared silently at Knock Out.
His expression smoothed into blandness in an instant and he gave them a little bow before he turned away, "My apologies, Lord Megatron."
Too short a reprieve, not long enough for Ratchet to do anything and what would he have done? Logic had a firm hold now in his dimming senses; fighting Megatron was suicide, had been suicide, it would seem, it only seemed proper that Megatron would refuse him even the relief of oblivion.
Instead, he began again and this time a low squeal escaped Ratchet's vocalizer that he cut off with a harsh burst of static. Not quick enough, not by far, and Megatron's low chuckle seemed to echo around them.
A slow shift of weigh, pressing that hard spike just a little deeper, as Megatron whispered, low, "Have you ever taken him?"
For a long moment, Ratchet managed to hold his silence, until the hand on his throat tightened warningly. "Answer me."
"Yes," Ratchet gasped as his vision disintegrated into static. There was no question of who Megatron meant. Rarely, but yes, he had, the memory of those so few times hovering in his peripheral sensor files. The hand on his throat clenched, pressing into his main energon line and even the static began to fade into darkness. He was about to die and all he could feel was relief, even as his hips tried to stutter upward, even as he tried to move with his own degradation. Then that grip loosened, the warm flood of dwindling energon to his processors dizzying.
"Yesssss," Megatron hissed. "As have I. But I do believe you may be tighter than he ever was. Ratchet." His own name, breathed in that voice, punctuated by a hard thrust that was enough to jostle his wound. The twinge of agony made Ratchet mewl a protest and instantly, Megatron gentled his movements, a mockery of any lover Ratchet had ever had.
It seemed endless, the long, slow slide into him, followed by the equally slow withdrawal, and again, ebbing and flowing as the overload charge built, faltering with each throb of pain from his wound, and yet still rising inexorably. Worse was the inescapable knowledge of who was doing this.
Megatron was raping him. That one, clear thought stood out in his processor. He was dying on this dirt-covered planet, bleeding out energon and Megatron was raping him, Megatron, whose spike was scraping in and out of him like a well-oiled piston. Megatron, who'd done much the same to their planet, their species, a cruel metaphor for Ratchet's life and it was going to end with this literal, visceral…Megatron was raping him, Megatron was inside him, the low throb of charge from his spike growing with sickening speed.
"Enough," Ratchet managed, a mangled whisper of sound, past any point of feeling humiliation. Weakly, he moved, pressing his hands to Megatron's chestplates, trying, pathetically, to push and nearly sobbed in frustration as much stronger hands firmly grasped his wrists, forcing his to the ground over his head without even enough pressure to hurt. He wanted it to hurt, anything but this building pleasure. "Please, enou-ah!"
His faint protest cut off on a crackling whimper, a powerful thrust shifting his entire body and the hot flare of pain from his wound was overshadowed by the heavy crackling charge that thrilled through him.
"Not enough," Megatron whispered, his red optics glowing avidly, drinking in every soft cry that spilled from Ratchet, helpless whimpers of protest. "Not until he finds your corpse splattered with my fluids. Not until he can smell your scorched circuitry. Oh, little toy, I want him to know that you loved it."
"…don't," Ratchet slurred out, his fingers twitching as he tried to clench them into fists. Brilliant warnings were flashing in his vision, overload imminent, low power cautions, flash, flash, flash, the buzzing hum of his systems oddly loud.
"But you do," Megatron's voice was a low growl in his audials, as close as he could get to anything as benign as a purr. His own pleasure sparked hot in his optics, each slow withdrawal a prelude to a deep, so deep, thrust, the pace quickening as a rush of electricity sparked hard between them. Megatron optics never closed, even at the pinnacle of his overload. Ratchet watched as a sparkling flare of energy ghosted through his optics, heard his sharp ventilations, felt the hot spurt of transfluid into his valve, seeping into his inner workings. With a low sob, he finally allowed his optics to close again as the hot wash of Megatron's overload flooded his EM field, forcing his own. Arching up was agony, mixed pain and pleasure signals pounding against his neural net as Ratchet moaned.
Offlining would have been a blessing, one denied him as Megatron roughly withdrew. Ratchet yelped aloud, any control over his autonomic reflexes long since lost. The spike was replaced once again by clawed fingers. No gentleness now, they scraped against his sensitized valve roughly, sliding through the transfluid slowly leaking out. He felt Megatron lean into him again and the thought that he wasn't finished, that he might do it again, was more than his possessors could handle. Logic fled, reason bleeding away with his life energon and Ratchet only lay apathetically, waiting for whatever was next to come.
But there was no touch, only a soft whisper, the hot ventilation searing against Ratchet's cooling armor. "I should paint your plating with my fluids and your energon. A pretty picture for Optimus to find."
A delicate cough startled Ratchet into flinching, a smooth, cultured voice interjecting, "I don't wish to spoil the mood, Lord Megatron, but that may well contaminate the sample you wish for me to take."
The weight on him shifted, lifting, and Ratchet opened his optics a mere slit, watched as Megatron vented impatiently. "Very well."
With a rough jerk, Megatron forced Ratchet's panel closed, trapping their mingled fluids behind it. Rising to his feet, he stepped over Ratchet as though he were already dead and perhaps to Megatron he was. Something to be used and discarded, Megatron striding away without a backwards glance.
It wasn’t until he felt Knock Out crouch next to him that his words made it through the smoggy cloud over his processors, that he understood what the mincingly quick touches against him meant. Knock Out's expression was one of distaste, his lips curled in a moue of disgust as he took the sample of the Synth En.
No.
He couldn't let the Decepticons get a sample. In the end, he could suffer for his own mistakes but he could not let the other's suffer for him. With the last of his strength, Ratchet overrode his energon failsafes, cycling the remnants of his fuel to motor function, bracing himself for one last fight.
~~*~~
Waking was nearly as painfully as offlining had been, Ratchet decided later. Painful or not, he could at least be gratefully that he had woken, the dull magnetic pressure of a energon drip against his chest as oddly soothing as the gentle touch of Optimus's hand on his chest.
"Easy, old friend," Optimus said, softly, when he tried to sit up and Ratchet shuttered his optics briefly, let the gentle voice of his Prime soothe him. "You lost a lot of energon, good and bad."
He didn't know, Ratchet realized wearily. It was not possible that Optimus could know and still greet him with that faint smile. And why would he know? Ratchet had probably been covered in various fluids and unless any of them had taken an olfactory scan, he doubted they'd notice a few tiny splatters of transfluid, not with most of it locked behind his valve panel. On the medical datapad hanging next to him, he could see the indication of a recent interface and that too was to be expected; Optimus would assume it had been between them, not…not…
(look at me!)
"I didn't intend to hurt anyone," Ratchet said, slowly, haltingly. "I just wanted so badly to—"
"Help us? We know," Optimus said, that little smile lingering and finally Ratchet closed his optics again, listened as Optimus expressed his fears at their nearly losing a good friend. A good friend. Yes, of course, a friend. He had never asked nor expected more from Optimus.
(have you ever taken him?)
The Synth En needed much more work, much more testing, that much he could say and did, his vocalizer static-rough with lingering pain. Anything else he choked off, held back.
"Testing can wait," Optimus said, another gentle touch, this time on Ratchet's arm and he swallowed hard, did not, would not, flinch. "Get some more rest, old friend."
Rest, yes, rest would help, and he waited until Optimus walked over to the others, too far to read the messages scrolling across the medical datapad before Ratchet deliberately blocked off his recent memories, shoring up a firewall with every ounce of coding expertise that he possessed. Much as he'd want it to, the block couldn't hold, that he knew, and Optimus would have to know, soon. Once Megatron found out he hadn't died…yes, this was not a secret that would keep long.
But for one night, he could pretend, have one last night of peace before…his thoughts cut off as the firewall solidified and Ratchet relaxed, cycling into a restful recharge while his Prime walked back, silently watching over him.
tbc
Author: Keelywolfe
Fandom: TF: Prime
Rating: NC-17
Pairing(s): Megatron/Ratchet, Optimus/Ratchet
Notes: I need to start another series about as much as I need a hole in my head, but I'm rather jetlagged at the moment and travel-bleh, so what can I say. It seemed like a good idea at the time. I outlined this story while on a cross-country flight so, to the person who was sitting next to me, if you were reading over my shoulder…er…sorry about that. Due to the content, I think this is the only place I'll be posting this, though possibly AoO when I get another chapter in.
WARNINGS: Let's be clear, this story is NON-CON. Got that? Non-con, as in rape, as in, don't read it if you will find that disturbing. I can't be any clearer than that.
NON-CON, got it? You've been warned. Last chance to back out...and here we go.
Summary: Set near the end of the TF:Prime episode, S1;E22, Stronger, Faster. MAJOR SPOILERS FOR EPISODE, so if you haven't caught it on youtube yet, might want to do that first. It'll make more sense for starters. You can find it here: Part 1 l Part 2
~~*~~
As little as Ratchet even wanted to know about humans, he had managed to pick up tidbits of data here and there. In some ways, they were similar to Cybertronians; they required food, recharge, the basic amenities that were conducive to life. But in many, many ways they were strange, organic beings, and once, Raph had complained of having a nightmare, tried to explain that during their recharge cycle, a human's brain could feed them frightening images.
At the time, Ratchet had dismissed the knowledge as useless human trivia and it was only now, as he lay dying on the hard-packed dirt that made up the floor of a Decepticon energon mine that Ratchet thought he understood. Coming off the rush of the synthetic energon was like a strange, sick processor cleanse, his logic coming back into brilliant focus even as his energon bled away, staining the floor with the glowing residue that represented his ending life.
Had he really believed he could kill Megatron? That any chemical could bloat his confidence that high spoke volumes about his questionable sanity while using it. A mistake, a fatal one, Ratchet decided dimly, and more than anything, he regretted, the flashes of what he'd done the past day aching through him as much as the gaping wound Megatron had opened in his chest.
He heard movement, the creak of another mech crouching next to him and Ratchet tried to flinch as clawed fingers traced the wound they had just caused, skirting the trickling flow of the Synth En from Ratchet's body. No fool, Megatron, to mess with an uncertain chemical. Less a fool than Ratchet.
"Find out what this is," Megatron said, the mere sound of his voice sending a shudder through Ratchet, as it would any sane Autobot. "If a chemical can do this to Optimus Prime's lapdog—" Megatron hesitated, optics narrowing, and then to Ratchet's hazy surprise, he leaned in further, venting audibly. His low chuckle made Ratchet's processors prickle with wariness, like another brush with insanity.
"Ahh, not so much a lap dog, then, but a toy that he enjoys playing with." Not ungently, he nudged Ratchet's feet apart and knelt between them, leaning over him without touching. "Do you like to play, Doctor?"
Blearily, Ratchet blinked up at him, crimson optics peering into his own confused ones. His processors were fogged with pain and the last vestiges of the synthetic energon still leaking out of him. With an effort, he managed not to cringe at the feel of sharply-taloned fingers unexpectedly sliding over him. Rarely had he been so close to Megatron, not in eons, but he had seen what those fingers could do, had watched in horror as they tore through plating, shredded cables, plunged through chests to rip out a mech's still-pulsing spark. He waited for the agony to slash through him, waited to Megatron to finish it.
His last words to his comrades would be ones of anger, and to Optimus—
Primus, forgive me, Ratchet thought, refusing to allow Megatron to hear his final prayer.
To feel those sharp fingers instead sliding between his legs was incomprehensible, inconceivable, his newly-awakened logic circuits reeling to process it. It wasn't until his searching fingers found the manual lock on his interface panel that his intentions came into focus with crystal-pure clarity.
So very rarely he and Optimus were intimate with each other, old friends offering momentarily physical comfort and just this morning, filled poisoned confidence, he had offered and Optimus had warily accepted…the traces would still be viably identifiable for anyone who did an olfactory scan and Megatron obviously had, he was—
"No!" Ratchet gasped out, shocked to his very core. With the little energy he had left, Ratchet tried to shift away, his feet digging feebly into the soft soil beneath them, hands scrabbling for purchase. Another hand settled on his chest, Megatron's weight heavy as he leaned on it, stilling him.
Between his legs, Megatron's touch was persistent, startling in its skill, deft fingers that had just critically wounded him ludicrously gentle against his valve, delving inside to press against delicate sensor nodes. Ratchet was braced for pain but had no defense against this…this seduction? It was an obscenity, his autonomic mechanisms responding as they were meant to even through the agony clouding his senses from his wounds. At his best, Ratchet would have been able to override them; not now, here, where with every moment passing more energon seeped from him, weakening him further.
Lubricants were flowing freely within moments, deadly fingers withdrawing from his valve as Megatron shifted his weight. His hands, one slick with Ratchet's lubricants, pushed Ratchet's thighs further apart. Not roughly, not enough to jar the gaping wound in his chassis, only widening the space between his legs to allow Megatron to crowd between them, the startling potency of his personal EM field viciously merging against Ratchet's another layer of forced intimacy. Worse, so much worse, was the soft click of an interface panel opening, audible even over the whining force of Ratchet's internals struggling to continue as his energon levels rapidly declined into critical levels. A heavy line of searing heat nudged his inner thigh, the familiar ridged feel of spike swollen with pressurized hydraulics unmistakable.
Desperately, Ratchet offlined his optics, disbelief warred with a growing, horrified certainty that this was how he would die. And perhaps he'd earned his death, his own chemical arrogance and desperate need to help his comrades driving him here but he didn't deserve this, surely, didn't…didn't want to see the darker body wedged between his own pale thighs, didn't want to see that thick spike ready to drive into him. It was enough that he could feel it, heavy thickness of it resting against him, the slipperiness of his own lubricants slicking the insides of his legs.
There was very little left to Ratchet but feeble defiance and he held that tightly, gagging back protests that clogged his vocalizer when Megatron shifted his weight. The tip of his spike rubbing briefly against Ratchet's valve, a familiar seeking touch, searching and finding the proper angle for entrance and—
"Look at me," a low rumble of sound above him, closer than Ratchet had expected, a wash of damp heat from someone else's, from Megatron's, exvents. No, no, he would not, and the weight on him shifted, a large hand sliding up his frame, skirting over the throbbing agony of his wound, up to his throat where it tightened warningly. Again, a soft growl of words snarled out, "I said, look at me!"
Ratchet tried not to obey but some deep, automatic process that kept him from simply allowing himself to die overrode him and he forced his optics to unshutter. Glaring red optics looked back at him, the deep molten fire within them like stories of the fiery Pits of Unicron.
Ratchet didn't look away, staring into those crimson optics, saw the spark that lit in them as Megatron arched his hips and slowly pushed the thickness of his spike into him. The slick lining of his valve expanded as Megatron pressed inside with all the tender care of any lover Ratchet had ever had. Large, but not painfully so, each ridge dragging against the sensor nodes as they were meant to, sending wild sparks of pleasure to ignite in his neural net. Optics locked together, his vision blurring as Megatron moved again, back out slowly, slowly, letting the charge ramp up with astonishing quickness.
Again, slowly, the thud of his pelvis against Ratchet's a low counterpoint to his quick, quick ventilations, Ratchet desperately stifling cries that tried to escape his vocalizer, shamed to his very core that they were sounds of pleasure. It felt good, every thrust, every withdrawal moving in him with exquisite skill and that it was Megatron doing this, hands with the energon of only Primus-knew how many mechs staining them were touching him, a low, pleased rumble coming from deep inside Megatron, more vibration than vocalization.
A soft scuffing sound made Ratchet jerk in surprise, dragging his optics towards it, and saw the other, forgotten, Decepticon was still there, watching them with greedy avarice. Knock Out, that was his name, nothing but a vicious butchering thug pretending to be a medic. The rhythm faltered, the charge diminishing in the briefest moment of relief. That internal rumble shifted into an angry growl vibrating against Ratchet's chassis as Megatron glared silently at Knock Out.
His expression smoothed into blandness in an instant and he gave them a little bow before he turned away, "My apologies, Lord Megatron."
Too short a reprieve, not long enough for Ratchet to do anything and what would he have done? Logic had a firm hold now in his dimming senses; fighting Megatron was suicide, had been suicide, it would seem, it only seemed proper that Megatron would refuse him even the relief of oblivion.
Instead, he began again and this time a low squeal escaped Ratchet's vocalizer that he cut off with a harsh burst of static. Not quick enough, not by far, and Megatron's low chuckle seemed to echo around them.
A slow shift of weigh, pressing that hard spike just a little deeper, as Megatron whispered, low, "Have you ever taken him?"
For a long moment, Ratchet managed to hold his silence, until the hand on his throat tightened warningly. "Answer me."
"Yes," Ratchet gasped as his vision disintegrated into static. There was no question of who Megatron meant. Rarely, but yes, he had, the memory of those so few times hovering in his peripheral sensor files. The hand on his throat clenched, pressing into his main energon line and even the static began to fade into darkness. He was about to die and all he could feel was relief, even as his hips tried to stutter upward, even as he tried to move with his own degradation. Then that grip loosened, the warm flood of dwindling energon to his processors dizzying.
"Yesssss," Megatron hissed. "As have I. But I do believe you may be tighter than he ever was. Ratchet." His own name, breathed in that voice, punctuated by a hard thrust that was enough to jostle his wound. The twinge of agony made Ratchet mewl a protest and instantly, Megatron gentled his movements, a mockery of any lover Ratchet had ever had.
It seemed endless, the long, slow slide into him, followed by the equally slow withdrawal, and again, ebbing and flowing as the overload charge built, faltering with each throb of pain from his wound, and yet still rising inexorably. Worse was the inescapable knowledge of who was doing this.
Megatron was raping him. That one, clear thought stood out in his processor. He was dying on this dirt-covered planet, bleeding out energon and Megatron was raping him, Megatron, whose spike was scraping in and out of him like a well-oiled piston. Megatron, who'd done much the same to their planet, their species, a cruel metaphor for Ratchet's life and it was going to end with this literal, visceral…Megatron was raping him, Megatron was inside him, the low throb of charge from his spike growing with sickening speed.
"Enough," Ratchet managed, a mangled whisper of sound, past any point of feeling humiliation. Weakly, he moved, pressing his hands to Megatron's chestplates, trying, pathetically, to push and nearly sobbed in frustration as much stronger hands firmly grasped his wrists, forcing his to the ground over his head without even enough pressure to hurt. He wanted it to hurt, anything but this building pleasure. "Please, enou-ah!"
His faint protest cut off on a crackling whimper, a powerful thrust shifting his entire body and the hot flare of pain from his wound was overshadowed by the heavy crackling charge that thrilled through him.
"Not enough," Megatron whispered, his red optics glowing avidly, drinking in every soft cry that spilled from Ratchet, helpless whimpers of protest. "Not until he finds your corpse splattered with my fluids. Not until he can smell your scorched circuitry. Oh, little toy, I want him to know that you loved it."
"…don't," Ratchet slurred out, his fingers twitching as he tried to clench them into fists. Brilliant warnings were flashing in his vision, overload imminent, low power cautions, flash, flash, flash, the buzzing hum of his systems oddly loud.
"But you do," Megatron's voice was a low growl in his audials, as close as he could get to anything as benign as a purr. His own pleasure sparked hot in his optics, each slow withdrawal a prelude to a deep, so deep, thrust, the pace quickening as a rush of electricity sparked hard between them. Megatron optics never closed, even at the pinnacle of his overload. Ratchet watched as a sparkling flare of energy ghosted through his optics, heard his sharp ventilations, felt the hot spurt of transfluid into his valve, seeping into his inner workings. With a low sob, he finally allowed his optics to close again as the hot wash of Megatron's overload flooded his EM field, forcing his own. Arching up was agony, mixed pain and pleasure signals pounding against his neural net as Ratchet moaned.
Offlining would have been a blessing, one denied him as Megatron roughly withdrew. Ratchet yelped aloud, any control over his autonomic reflexes long since lost. The spike was replaced once again by clawed fingers. No gentleness now, they scraped against his sensitized valve roughly, sliding through the transfluid slowly leaking out. He felt Megatron lean into him again and the thought that he wasn't finished, that he might do it again, was more than his possessors could handle. Logic fled, reason bleeding away with his life energon and Ratchet only lay apathetically, waiting for whatever was next to come.
But there was no touch, only a soft whisper, the hot ventilation searing against Ratchet's cooling armor. "I should paint your plating with my fluids and your energon. A pretty picture for Optimus to find."
A delicate cough startled Ratchet into flinching, a smooth, cultured voice interjecting, "I don't wish to spoil the mood, Lord Megatron, but that may well contaminate the sample you wish for me to take."
The weight on him shifted, lifting, and Ratchet opened his optics a mere slit, watched as Megatron vented impatiently. "Very well."
With a rough jerk, Megatron forced Ratchet's panel closed, trapping their mingled fluids behind it. Rising to his feet, he stepped over Ratchet as though he were already dead and perhaps to Megatron he was. Something to be used and discarded, Megatron striding away without a backwards glance.
It wasn’t until he felt Knock Out crouch next to him that his words made it through the smoggy cloud over his processors, that he understood what the mincingly quick touches against him meant. Knock Out's expression was one of distaste, his lips curled in a moue of disgust as he took the sample of the Synth En.
No.
He couldn't let the Decepticons get a sample. In the end, he could suffer for his own mistakes but he could not let the other's suffer for him. With the last of his strength, Ratchet overrode his energon failsafes, cycling the remnants of his fuel to motor function, bracing himself for one last fight.
~~*~~
Waking was nearly as painfully as offlining had been, Ratchet decided later. Painful or not, he could at least be gratefully that he had woken, the dull magnetic pressure of a energon drip against his chest as oddly soothing as the gentle touch of Optimus's hand on his chest.
"Easy, old friend," Optimus said, softly, when he tried to sit up and Ratchet shuttered his optics briefly, let the gentle voice of his Prime soothe him. "You lost a lot of energon, good and bad."
He didn't know, Ratchet realized wearily. It was not possible that Optimus could know and still greet him with that faint smile. And why would he know? Ratchet had probably been covered in various fluids and unless any of them had taken an olfactory scan, he doubted they'd notice a few tiny splatters of transfluid, not with most of it locked behind his valve panel. On the medical datapad hanging next to him, he could see the indication of a recent interface and that too was to be expected; Optimus would assume it had been between them, not…not…
(look at me!)
"I didn't intend to hurt anyone," Ratchet said, slowly, haltingly. "I just wanted so badly to—"
"Help us? We know," Optimus said, that little smile lingering and finally Ratchet closed his optics again, listened as Optimus expressed his fears at their nearly losing a good friend. A good friend. Yes, of course, a friend. He had never asked nor expected more from Optimus.
(have you ever taken him?)
The Synth En needed much more work, much more testing, that much he could say and did, his vocalizer static-rough with lingering pain. Anything else he choked off, held back.
"Testing can wait," Optimus said, another gentle touch, this time on Ratchet's arm and he swallowed hard, did not, would not, flinch. "Get some more rest, old friend."
Rest, yes, rest would help, and he waited until Optimus walked over to the others, too far to read the messages scrolling across the medical datapad before Ratchet deliberately blocked off his recent memories, shoring up a firewall with every ounce of coding expertise that he possessed. Much as he'd want it to, the block couldn't hold, that he knew, and Optimus would have to know, soon. Once Megatron found out he hadn't died…yes, this was not a secret that would keep long.
But for one night, he could pretend, have one last night of peace before…his thoughts cut off as the firewall solidified and Ratchet relaxed, cycling into a restful recharge while his Prime walked back, silently watching over him.
tbc
