Title: Willing Prisoner
Author: dreamerchaos
Fandom: IDW Universe, 'Escalation'.
Rating: MATURE!! Dubious consent.
Pairing: MegatronxPerceptor.
Disclaimer: All recognizable characters are owned by Hasbro.
Summary: Altering things quite a bit. Adding Perceptor to the team of Autobots on Earth. Optimus Prime wasn't given time to recover from his wounds after Megatron's attack in Brasnya. Now that the rest of the Autobot team are their prisoners, Megatron and his forces track down the final two members of the team.
I needed a semblance of a plot in order to allow me to smut to my content.
Note: Ignoring the entire Headmaster business. See? Wave my magic wand and 'poof'. No more.
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The sight of Megatron…Megatron…and his cohorts striding towards the edge of the lake and the sunken, hidden Autobot ship. Perceptor and Bumblebee, alongside their small organic companions, watch in horror, staring at the live audio feed from the ship's surrounding security perimeter cameras.
"H-How.." Bumblebee stutters. "Prime and the others…t-the Decepticons won?"
"Isn't Optimus like the…the big guy?" Hunter wrings his hands, "He can't be beat, right?"
"…Jimmy. Hunter. Verity." Perceptor's hands tremble as they begin to fly across the keypads, "I need you three to stay with Bumblebee. Bumblebee…the Decepticons will breach the ship in little to no time. Find one of the emergency shuttles and get aboard."
"What about you?" The Minibot asks.
"I will remain here."
The organics and Minibot raise their voices in unison.
"No, Perceptor, you can't―" Bumblebee gasps.
"Come on, Percy!" Jimmy pleads, "We're not going to leave you!"
"We need to stick together!" Hunter agrees.
"What about Prime and the others?" Verity demands. "Prowl..Ratchet..Jazz! We have to find and help them!"
"Do as I say." Perceptor cuts down their disagreement with his harsh tone, "I will not leave this ship. Not without first purging its data files. The information is far too valuable to allow for it to casually fall into Decepticon hands."
Bumblebee, clearly not happy with his orders, bows his head in solemn submission. "…I'll data-burst the coordinates to you once we find a safe place to duck down for a while…We'll wait for you. I promise."
Perceptor glances over his shoulder, offering a faint smile to try and comfort the Minibot. "Later, then." He nods.
Slightly appeased by the microscope's gesture, Bumblebee kneels down, whispering to the young organics, delicately nudging their fragile shoulder blades and gracefully arched spines, coaxing the sullen and resisting young men and woman to follow him as the Minibot guides them down into the bowels of the ship to seek out one of the emergency shuttles.
Perceptor quickly turns back to the computer terminal, the smile dropping from his lips. His fuel tank couldn't stomach the idea of crushing Bumblebee's spark by admitting that there was nary a glimmer of a chance that any of them possibly outlasting the Decepticons during the next solar cycle.
And judging by the widespread array of metal carcasses of overturned cars and military equipment and the frail, broken shells of the organic soldiers and civilians left in a wide trail at the Decepticons' backs, the scientist hardly believed that anyone would escape, Megatron and his ilk not bothering to hide their presence now that the Autobot threat was scattered, the Prime and his loyal, elite followers now their prisoners.
Hands flying, Perceptor flinches as his audios detect something…no, someone, what else could it be…thumps against the side of the ship. The hollow thud of metal against metal. The ships screens popping up with tiny windows warning of hostiles inside the vessel's perimeter.
'Hurry. Hurry..' His CPU races. Additional windows pop into existence on the massive video screen.
Purging Systems…Authorization Required.
The microscope typed in his designation and assigned password.
Confirmed. Autobot. Perceptor. Please Provide User Name And Password Of Superior Officer.
'…What?' Panicked, Perceptor hastily typed in Prowl's name.
Autobot Prowl. Please Provide Password To Confirm System-Wide Purge.
"This can't be happening…" Someone must have upgraded the systems before the team left for Brasnya. Perceptor punched in a random password.
Error. Please Confirm Password Autobot Prowl.
"Slaggit…" Perceptor hissed. Slamming his hands onto the console, "Don't do this to me now!" He begs.
The system isn't moved by his frustration nor his pleas. Confirm Password. The command lights the large video screen.
'No!' As if sensing his mounting horror, a rising tempo of pounding metal and security warnings fills the room, emergency lights flashing red, warning of a breach, one of the air locked doors under attack.
He knew that the ship would not be in danger from the water, the security system designed to redirect the tide of water should the hull begin to fill.
Perceptor was more concerned about the mechs trying to board the ship, rather than worrying about the watermarks that would stain the walls and the floors.
In desperation the Autobot pulls his blaster out of subspace. Taking aim, he fires several shots at the video screen.
Popping static and bedraggled clumps of wires and circuit boards rain down upon the floor. Lowering the blaster, he fires this time into the console, the numerical key pads rocketing into the air as the weapon discharges.
Moving quick and systematic, Perceptor resorts to brutal tactics, destroying the computer terminal, not wanting to leave any possible chance of a Decepticon up-linking into the ship's system.
When the keyboard and array of lights crackle and pop, the displays flashing red before the rising hum dies with a soft sigh, ruby fading into obsidian as the computer terminal stutters and dies, Perceptor breaths a short sigh of momentary relief.
But he can not allow himself to become complacent. The main computer terminal had been destroyed by his doing, but the entire room had back-up terminals and systems. He needed to finish with the rest.
Racing to begin his desperate action to steal a small victory from the assaulting Decepticon force, Perceptor rushes to the nearest computer terminal. Using the same tactic as before, he raises his blaster and with a remorseful grimace at the thought of destroying the faithful ship's systems and uploaded files, he aims and fires.
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Perceptor is just finishing with the third computer terminal when the sealed entrance doors to the ship's helm shudder violently.
'They've already breached the ship.' A wave of calm settles over him, leaving him strangely removed, like an out of body experience as he turns towards the sealed doorway.
The doors screech apart scant inch by inch. The large Decepticon snarls, thrusting purple hands between the thin break in the doorway.
"Found you." Astrotrain sneers. Throwing his shoulder against the door, he grunts as his armor shrieks across the shuddering metal frame, shoving his broad shoulder through the gap, fingers outstretched across silver as he wrestles with the resisting frame.
The Autobot fires at the intruder, and Astrotrain ducks his helm to shield his face and optics from the blasts. Snarling barbed curses as the scalding laser blasts streak charcoals of black across his paintwork, singing his tough dermal plating.
"When I get my hands on you…" The triple-changer growls in threat.
Perceptor darts forward ― but not too close, not foolhardy enough to risk getting within reach of the enraged Decepticon― he sweeps up and swings a sparking and crackling, jagged circuit board directly at the mech's hunched helm.
Astrotrain shrieks in rage, intermingled with the searing pain of scorched metal and serrated points raking across his hypersensitive optical glass and face. He retracts through the doorway as if yanked back by a taut cable, disappearing into the dark gloom of the hall, momentarily lit by a wash of red emergency lights.
Vents panting, adrenal pulses surging through his capillaries, Perceptor only narrowly lowers his weapon. Not daring to test his show of good fortune.
There is a warning growl of "Move" from a new voice, when suddenly the shriek of fusion cannon fire scorches the partially opened doors. Perceptor dives for cover behind the main computer workstation just when a second attack rips the doors from the entryway, hurling the warped and partially melted metal panels through the air to bounce off the farthest wall.
Perceptor coughs through the billows of dust and hot raining metal from the blast, swiping the charred and curled slivers of metal off his ducked helm.
"One mech is the cause of your troubles?" Perceptor shivers at the voice of the Decepticon warlord, the slow, loud footfalls signifying that the large mech was stepping into the room.
"He hit me on the face," Is the sullen answer from the chagrined triple-changer.
"Cosmetic damage." Megatron huffs in annoyance, "And here I thought my soldiers could handle a few dents and scuff marks."
Perceptor shifts, rising and swinging the blaster up and around, preparing to fire in the tyrant's direction. Before he can pull the trigger, he has to duck down for cover as Astrotrain and several Decepticon soldiers who have joined the gun-former and triple-changer fire wildly at his hideout.
"Stop, you fools!" Megatron bellows over the screams of laser fire, "I want him online!"
The wild shots stutter then cease. Runabout lowers his weapon, black shoulders sulking, while his silver companion, Runamuck, sheepishly clutches his blaster against his chassis.
"Come out and play, Autobot!" Astrotrain charges the computer terminal. Kicking out with a massive leg and his pede sends the terminal video screen into a flip backwards, the heavy workstation groaning and tilting under the severe blow.
Perceptor stumbles aside to avoid having his helm crushed by the falling terminal. Rolling onto his side, he fires the blaster again. The blast searing through the triple-changer's knee joint.
Astrotrain growls, dropping down onto his uninjured limb, damaged knee dripping energon.
The microscope realizes too late what the triple-changer is planning.
Luring the Autobot into a false sense of minor victory, the triple-changer squats down onto one knee as if to clutch at his wound. Once in his crouch, he uses his heavy bulk as a weapon, pushing off the floor with his pedes and barreling towards the Autobot just when Perceptor is hastily making to stand up.
Atmosphere whooshes out of his chassis as the triple-changer tackles him like a footballer, the Autobot and larger Decepticon only stopped by one of the remaining intact computer terminals.
The back of Perceptor's helm cracks against the metal structure, his optics flashing static, equilibrium circuits disarrayed. Sprawled against the large computer tower, with the growling Decepticon slowly crushing his chassis, pinning him like an insect against the ground, his blaster spills from between slack fingers, chin lolling to drop onto his chassis, CPU spinning and system warnings flashing across his optical screen.
Astrotrain doesn't allow the concussed Autobot the chance to regain his equilibrium.
Perceptor's head snaps sideways as the Decepticon smashes his fist across the smaller mech's dark cheek. A streak of lavender paint bruising the stunned Autobot's cheek, the metal dermal layer crumbling like aluminum beneath his curled fist.
Perceptor groans softly, mandible flaring hot with agony. Awkwardly he tests his jaw's mobility, relieved to note that the brute hasn't broken his mandible with the cruel blow.
"That's enough." Megatron halts Astrotrain's attack with the harsh command, forcing the triple-changer to lower his raised fist before he can strike a second time, "Get him ready for our trek back to base." The tyrant motions the other two Decepticons to examine the ship's computers to determine whether any files or data could be salvaged after the microscope's attempts to purge the system hard-drives.
"Yes, Lord Megatron." The triple-changer is unnecessarily harsh when he plunges his fingers into the Autobot's neck, striking the neural sensory node that he requires.
The Autobot seizes, optics overshadowed with stark surprise before the wide cobalt gaze flickers, light swallowed into black as he powers down, tumbling into enforced stasis and dropping down limp across the floor at the mech's pedes.
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The low hum and pulse of energon cell bars do not surprise him when Perceptor finally comes online.
It is a slow and awkward process to push his weight onto his arms and knees with his wrists tightly locked in stasis cuffs. Quietly he surveys the tight confines of his dark cell, the only trace of light emanating from the soft glow of the vertical energon shafts.
He bounces a signal across his comm. link in an effort to hail his companions, but his response is only static. Either the Autobots' communication systems were being blocked by a rival signal, or…
…or the others were deactivated.
Perceptor swiftly deleted that sickening thought.
"…Prowl?" He whispers, voice echoing across the bare cold walls of his cell. The hollow call echoing through the prison ward as he calls out for his companions, "Ratchet? Jazz! Sunstreaker…?"
"…Perceptor?"
The scientist gasps. "Hardhead?! Y-you were captured as well…"
The tank dares to edge as close to the hot energon bars as possible, his cell sitting diagonal across from the scientist, "Hard to offer a noticeable resistance against a trine of Seekers," His cuffed hands lying within his folded lap, the mech not appearing too damaged beyond the shiny metal weld that had been slapped onto a jagged wound upon his right shoulder.
"I am left to assume that we are inside the Decepticon base?" Perceptor questions the large olive-green mech.
"Very astute," Hardhead sighs, disappointment painting his features, "I caught a glimpse of Ratchet and Sunstreaker before they were hit by a blast from Blitzwing. Sunstreaker put up quite a fight, but Ratchet was knocked offline by the Decepticon's strike. Between Blitzwing and Astrotrain, the two weren't able to hold them back."
"Bumblebee and the organics Hunter, Verity, and Jimmy were aboard the Ark-19 with me." Perceptor submits a short report, "I ordered them onto an emergency shuttle while I attempted to purge the ship's files."
"Were they successful in abandoning ship?" Perceptor can not provide a positive or a negative answer, instead shrugging his shoulders. "What about the files? Were you successful in that?" Hardhead continues to prod the other Autobot for answers.
"…I don't think so." The scientist admits, "I was forced to destroy the main system terminal, but I did not have the opportunity to destroy the rest of the terminals. No doubt the Decepticons will find a way to hack into the systems and break down the firewalls."
"…Blast." Hardhead's helm thumps against the wall as it drops back, the mech glaring at the ceiling.
Both mechs jerk in surprise as the prison ward hallway lights up, optical lights flickering at the sudden glare of bright light. The thick doors at the end of the long corridor growl like an ancient, slumbering dragon as they slide apart to allow inside the Autobots' visitor.
The two mechs shudder and fall back, away from the tall energon bars as the Decepticon leader strides into sight. Ruby optics scanning his two guests with slow, intent interest.
He turns his attention to Perceptor's cell, "…You'll do." The tyrant punches in the access code that commands the energon bars to hum, fading into the floor and ceiling to allow the Decepticon access.
Hardhead raises his voice as Megatron grabs the scientist by his cuffed hands. Perceptor is too numb from shock by the infamous tyrant's presence to make a sound, easily yanked off his knees by the larger mech's strong grip, "Let the Autobot go!" The tank shouts at the Decepticon's broad silver back.
Megatron sneered at the infuriated prisoner. "You boast loudly, as if you hold any power to command me."
"Hardhead, no―" Perceptor begins to plead.
"Coward!" Hardhead spits the insult in Megatron's face, venom lacing his tone, "Showing your true colors. Manhandling a restrained mech…who knew that the great and terrifying Lord Megatron needs to have his prisoners cuffed and contained lest they abuse his paintwork with their graceless hands."
If Hardhead is pushing towards successful distraction, he is quite an accomplished maestro; playing the Decepticon like a well-oiled instrument, directing the tyrant's simmering fury in his direction.
"You complete, utter fool," Megatron's voice is glacier-cold, shuddering up the tank's back strut like nails across a chalkboard, "If you are that eager to offer forth yourself as a source of entertainment, then by all means let me reward you by demonstrating my rapt attention." He turns partially around to face the prisoner, a hand twisting upon the scientist's shoulder to keep him in place, while his right arm slowly rises, aiming at the mech trapped within his little steel cage. Fusion cannon thrumming softly, initially, before a steady whine of gathering energy created a bead of lilac within the deep muzzle of the cannon as the barrel began to generate a small blast that would sever the Autobot's head from his trunk.
"NO!" Perceptor latches his bound hands as far around the Decepticon's thick wrist as he possibly can. Hanging onto the raised arm, on his knees pulling down with both hands, using his grip and forcing his slighter frame to act as a weight to try and drag the direction of the barrel away from Hardhead. "Please do not harm him!"
Megatron redirects his attention, fusion cannon slowly powering down. Two gleaming red optics locking with cerulean.
"Just – just take me instead. Leave him alone." Perceptor begs, trying to reason with the larger mech, "You don't want him; you want me to come with you. I won't…I won't offer resistance."
"Perceptor―"
"Be quiet, Hardhead!" The scientist snaps with rare intolerance, "Do not speak unless your input is required." Perceptor can not allow Hardhead to unleash another verbal attack, thus sealing his fate and digging his own grave within the cold, thick walls of the Decepticon prison ward.
"Don't do this…" Hardhead hisses under his breath, "Please. Primus, not this."
Perceptor grimaces in discomfort when Megatron grasps him by the mandible, curled fingers digging into the hypersensitive and still slightly bruised and scuffed dermal plating. Locking the microscope in place with his grip and firm gaze.
"Do try not to prove to be as great of a fool as your friend." The tyrant follows the barbed threat by pulling Perceptor onto his pedes, grasping the stumbling mech by the collar, Perceptor bumping several times into the Decepticon's side before he can manage to walk in a straight line while struggling to balance his weight between the grip on his collar and the awkward pull of his cuffed wrists curled protectively against his chassis.
His fellow Autobot shouts at their back, voice cut off as the doors slam shut behind the warlord and the prisoner. Perceptor looking over his shoulder as far as he can manage with Megatron's hand dragging him alongside, the scientist dismayed by the augment hollers and clanging of Hardhead throwing himself against the walls of his cell in undirected aggression.
Megatron jerks his attention around and back, leading with the hand upon the shorter mech's collar.
Perceptor ceases to pay attention to his surroundings, not taking the opportunity to note the twists and overlay of the base's corridors as he is led seemingly deeper into the bowels of the Decepticon nest.
He quakes sharply as they pass several closed rooms, low, agonized wails and stifled retorts spilling from inside the sealed quarters. The scientist shuddering, whimpering as he succeeds in recognizing a few of those voices, his fellow Autobots cursing their captors, pinned or bound under Decepticon hands and enduring their 'infamous mercy'.
"Y-you allow your soldiers to…" He cringes as another sharp cry trickles through the locked door.
"What my soldiers do in their spare time is of no concern to me," Megatron deigns to answer his stuttered inquiry, "As long as my prisoners receive no irreparable damage."
"So you accede to the maltreatment of your prisoners."
"Prisoners are granted a choice." The warlord's hand clenches tighter upon his collar, dragging a sharp hiss from Perceptor, "Comply and be treated well; resist and due force will be used."
To confirm his statement, when Perceptor's tense frame lessens, the warlord allows his clenched fingers to relax. "Learn your place, Autobot, and you will suffer very little." Megatron addresses the scientist complacently following his every step.
When the large Decepticon arrives in front of his private chambers, he keys in the access code, pushing the Autobot ahead of him and into the room. Shutting and locking the thick metal door behind him.
The momentum of his push throws Perceptor forward, the scientist grunting as he sprawls across the heavy, wide berth. Folded wrists catching him before his chin can smash onto the smooth silver surface.
Megatron chuckles sibilantly at the mech's unintentionally appeasing display, "A most intriguing position to be explored later." Perceptor shudders at the cool, dark promise.
The sound of the Decepticon's fusion cannon releasing a pulse of pressurized air as Megatron removes the barrel of his weapon, laying the long, broad obsidian column against the wall, further confirms the scientist's worst fears about the mech's intentions.
"I…I do not have any desire to be forced to interface with you…"
The Decepticon huffs with annoyance, "Do not insult me, little mech." The warlord admonished, "Not once have I forced a mech or femme to lay with me. I do not aspire to waste my time or torment my audios with the screams and struggles of unwilling berth mates."
He turns Perceptor around to lie on his back, the scientist defensively raising his hands to protect his face, "You have several choices, Autobot. Acknowledge that you and I will share interface, and it will be pleasurable for the both of us. Deny me, and you will be removed from this room. And perhaps you will suffer through one of my soldiers' affections, several who may not be willing to listen to your denials or pleas." Megatron grins at his horrified expression, "I am willing to bet that Astrotrain has not forgotten about the damage that you caused him."
"……" Perceptor's voice box fails to address the mech looming above him. Neither choice truly desirable; consent to lay with Megatron, and remain online, or step out of the room and back into his cell and endure the rough fumbling and assault from some nameless soldier. "…why me, when you could have any mech?"
Megatron's lips twist into a smirk, "And whom would you imagine would interest me?" He asks.
"O-Optimus…Prime?"
The tyrant chuckles, "A very pleasing idea, yes. But while Prime is undergoing repairs after our skirmish, and the Matrix is extracted, you will provide me with entertainment." He traces a black-painted fingertip down the smooth ridge of Perceptor's cheek, "Perhaps when he is suitably restored, I can amuse myself with both of you."
The scientist whimpers.
"To answer your question from earlier," Megatron's hand splays down, smoothly sliding the expanse of the microscope's tray, "I find your design and demeanor overall pleasant to look upon, and your presence does not tire nor annoy me like several of the Autobot prisoners would. Your display upon the Ark-19 was remotely impressive, given your lack of power and weight compared to my soldier, and yet you still fought to salvage the ship while purging its valuable file system."
'A whole lot of good I did.' Perceptor sourly notes.
"Your ship and its system files are now mine." Megatron proudly boasts of another victory over the Autobots' failed attempts to stave the warlord from conquest, "and as we speak Blitzwing is returning to base with your little yellow friend."
"…but, the organics―"
"I care little about the casualties of such small, insignificant insects."
Perceptor flinches. "They had designations, like your or me. Verity. Jimmy. Hunter…"
"Enough." His hand pins the microscope down, growling at the mech's doggedness to persist in supplying him with data about members of the organic population that were so beneath his notice, "So easily distracted…You should be more concerned about your answer to my proposition than the capture of the Minibot and the loss of your tiny friends. Make a choice, Perceptor. Yes. Or. No."
Perceptor's shoulders clench taut, chassis shuddering at the mech's terrible offer. Affirmation or dispute…it did not matter. He wasn't escaping the same fate as the other Autobots. Pinned beneath Decepticon hands, twisted and splayed to their every whim.
The question was whether or not he could endure the warlord's crude affections while remaining composed, assured that he was an Autobot ― a soldier who had earned his title whilst standing back to back and beside his allies, his friends― And victim or otherwise, he would feel little shame or apology that he was compulsively laid in the position as Megatron's berth mate, and not by his own whim?
"…Yes.."
His cuffed hands are pulled taut as Megatron grips the solid binding. With an unseen switch of a electronic key or code, the shackles snap apart, clinging like a old bell tolled as they hit the floor of the room, rolling beneath the large berth.
As if testing Perceptor's resolve, Megatron leans forward. Never breaking optical contact as he presses cool lips to the scientist's, and Perceptor feels his smaller, dark painted hands splay across silver chassis. He whimpers low, gasping into the warm flick of glossa splitting the seam of his lips.
Pushed back to recline along the width of the berth, shoulders and helm pressing against the wall, Perceptor's plating groan from the pressure of the larger frame pressing upon him, Megatron's greater bulk easily pinning him, the scientist sensing his thighs spreading in what feels impossibly wide to accommodate his considerable partner.
Megatron curls an arm around the scientist's neck, molding the braced helm against the solid plates of his forearm, arching Perceptor, his lean neck column bending to allow the warlord more ease to taste and bite, piercing his partner's lips far deeper, delving to tangle with his glossa, raking the smooth, long muscled silver appendage along the interior of the quivering mech's mouth.
Perceptor's hands reflexively curl upon Megatron's shoulders, bracing his smaller frame as the larger mech rocks hard against him, chassis groaning together like two tumbling feral beasts, hitching a weak cry of perverse pleasure from the scientist as the friction warms his microscope tray.
The suction between their dueling lips makes it difficult to tear them apart. A sharp pop of air as Perceptor twists away, gulping air through his mouth, his vents overworking to struggle to keep his temperature under control.
He stutters a sharp cry as Megatron laves his throat, the warlord diverting his lustful advances upon the thick, hypersensitive tubing and protective metal dermal skin work, gnawing sharp eye-teeth into a particular cable until beads of energon trickle forth. The Decepticon laps up the droplets, dragging his denta along the dimpled cut, luring more energon to the surface of the wound.
"..Aaah ― s-stop…" Perceptor curls against the warlord, burying his face into Megatron's neck. Shuddering at the wet sound of the mech suckling at his throat, flicking his glossa up and down to chase the straggling rivulets of lilac energon. "…please!"
The Decepticon pulls away with a reticent sigh, gracing his silver lips with his tongue as it curls over the clear, lubricated skin to snag the final bead of energon glistening in the corner of his mouth. "If you insist…I will satisfy my hunger elsewhere."
Perceptor doesn't understand.
Not until Megatron pulls his hips to rest precariously close to the edge of the berth, the Decepticon kneeling down, broad silver shoulders splitting his long, mercury colored thighs.
"W-wait!" The surface of his palms squeak against the berth as he tries to slip away.
Megatron nips warningly at the inside of the scientist's hip, the susceptible layer of dermalplasty and wires stretching between hip plate and thigh. "Are you stainless?"
Perceptor scowls at the crude Cybertronian term for a mech or femme that has never bared nor had their interface array caressed. The word so derogatory to his CPU that he immediately bites back with a sharp, "Of course not!" He was no 'virgin', as the humans labeled one not accomplished in sharing a berth with another.
But at the same time his partners had never pressed their mouth parts so close to his interface array, and Perceptor trusted Megatron far little anywhere in proximity to such fragile parts!
"Then you have no excuse to deny me." Megatron deems Perceptor's refusal as moot. Dragging his thumb upon the sealed plating protecting the inner workings of his interface array, "You should have no problem commanding your port or cable to unlock."
"B-but―" Megatron pierces him with a look that wordlessly states he is beginning to tire of the scientist with his endless supply of excuses.
Bottom lip pinched between his denta, the Autobot's optics power down for the moment it takes for him to access and confirmation to unseal his latched plating.
The cool air circulating throughout the room brushing upon his bared interface port drags forth a tickling shudder. The silver array outlining the entrance of the smaller mech's inner workings; Perceptor would have covered his intimate parts at the hungry look on Megatron's face if he felt he would be allowed to move in such a manner to prevent the warlord of his perusal.
"Ooh!" Perceptor squeaks in alarm, the cool air replaced by the warm brush of atmosphere as Megatron drags the rough, flat surface of his glossa along the rim of his port. The temperature of the Decepticon's mouth causing Perceptor's systems to automatically respond, the first trace of lavender lubrication beginning to veneer the flexible silver, sensory node laced walls of the valve.
Perceptor whimpers, voice twisted with guilty pleasure and a tingle of unadulterated terror. He, like other Autobots, is privy to the knowledge that the Decepticon's throat and mouth had been modified to endure the discharged heat and firepower of a powerful laser, not unlike a blast from his fusion cannon except this outpour of of destructive lilac fire and lightning tore forth from within the warlord's massive chassis, marked by a gaping maw of black until a glimmer of warning light swallowed the darkness and sprang forth a pillar of destructive might. More than once Megatron had used such an attack to vaporize an opponent, or shear their face off their metal skeletal structure. So much power…capable of such unsightly, agonizing damage…the traces of heat that pooled between his legs, waves of energy induced from the very weapon that the mech has used time and again on the battlefield…
A tinny shriek escapes his vocalize as Megatron rakes the tip of his glossa inside his valve, hitting several sensory nodes, the reaction rocketing throughout his chassis and internal systems. His hips thrust instinctively against the invader, the Autobot's facial plating heating, vents sputtering while his chassis heaves from his internal responses, lubricant flowing from within in response to Megatron's trespassing stroke and glide.
Megatron captures the microscope's rocking hips and rattling thighs, dragging a low groan of displeasure from his berth mate as he halts his movements. Perceptor whimpers, his weak, trembling sounds drawing a delighted growl from his partner. Megatron, mindful of his denta, carefully ― precisely, with a surging thrust ― plunges the length of his glossa into the mech's valve.
Perceptor is quite certain anyone in the neighboring chambers could discern his voice as the gesture results in his helm falling back, optics flaring like a compact cerulean star, a sharp scream echoing Megatron's actions. His entire frame quakes, thighs trembling as they lace over the Decepticon's shoulders, hips trapped by large black hands so that he may not rock helplessly or thrust against the caress.
He moans in displeasure when Megatron slips away, "Nnn-". Body betraying him, he reaches out towards his partner, hands trembling upon silver, clutching at the mech's shoulders. Whimpering, wriggling as much as he is allowed, trying to chase the electric prickle and warmth that had dragged him so close to perfection, overload sinking further away from him with each passing astrosecond.
A small flash of fear works wonders to snuff out any desire as the Decepticon stands. Perceptor's wide, frightful gaze adjusting to the sight of the warlord's plating snapping apart, allowing his cable to be freed from its chambers. The soldered column of metal, overlaying spirals lay upon each other like an architect's greatest masterpiece, and small beads of mercury rimming the length of the Decepticon's cable, more bunched together at the head of the cable and the base, creating a cluster of nodes that would drag perfectly over the sensory nodes of the Autobot's port.
"Y-you wish me to…reciprocate?" The size of the mech's cable leaves him slightly squeamish, not at all certain that the appendage will fit inside his valve. Let alone fit if he was required to commence in oral pleasure.
"Another time, perhaps, when you look less ready to purge your fuel pump," Megatron grins knowingly at the mech's look of surprise, "When I can trust you not to bite the hand…or any other appendage..of your master."
Perceptor opens his mouth to refute any claim of ownership, but immediately his denta click sharply together as he snaps closed. How could he argue, when the mech held his every fate and whim in his hands?
"Lay down." The Decepticon commands.
Perceptor slowly pushes back, one hand shakily rising to release the latches of his shoulder, carefully removing the scope from his shoulder. He is completely surprised when Megatron takes the scope from him, placing the smaller barrel alongside his black cannon before returning to the microscope just as Perceptor lies back along the length of the berth.
Again his thighs stretch wide apart to accommodate his partner, the large silver mech looming above him, hands and arms stretched on either side of his helm. Perceptor gulps nervously, staring down the length of their pressed frames, optics absorbing the proximity and girth of the Decepticon's cable. "It won't fit.." He gasps.
"It will."
"But it will hurt―"
"For a moment."
"..ah!" Perceptor curls his arms over Megatron's shoulders, wincing as the mech presses him down. Fingers digging in between the seams of the Decepticon's shoulder plating, bumping against the long silver barrel mounted upon the length of the gun-former's back.
The slow, determined push of the cable piercing his valve, the head dragging its beaded sensors within the gate of his port, causes a heady relay of sensation from his sensory nodes, a low moan of gratification breaking free.
When Megatron thrusts, spearing the microscope entirely, the walls of his valve practically screaming in agony as they are forcefully stretched to accommodate the large invader, drags an echoing cry of pain from the Autobot.
He groans into the warlord's shoulder, the area between his thighs feeling as if it was dangerously close to tearing apart. "Take it out!" He begs, trying his best not to move or wriggle against the hard length within, lest it result in another wave of agony.
"Calm down." Megatron rigidly instructs his partner, large hands curling around Perceptor's helm and shoulder, holding him in place while the microscope thrashes and moans, trying to pull free from the cable spearing his insides.
A weak sob of distress answers the Decepticon's curt order.
The warlord shows great patience and a small thread of benevolence for his berth mate's whimpers and pain, remaining unmoving upon him, neither rocking inside of him, but not deigning to pull out. Forcing Perceptor to settle in wait for his frame to accommodate the Decepticon.
Through the shards of pain slicing along his insides like glass, Perceptor senses that his valve reacts to the harsh invasion, lubricants released in excess to coat his passage, providing some semblance of relief, the warm fluid slicking down the quaking walls of his stretched port.
Megatron's chassis thrums with the subsonic growl that rattles his frame, cable pulsing in reaction to the warm pulse of lubricants, indicating his partner's success in slowly adapting to his invasion.
Perceptor clings to the mech's shoulders as Megatron, slowly, mindfully, rocks his hips, pulling partially out. Lubricants following the cable's passage, the microscope wriggling at the tickle of the lilac fluid escaping and trickling around the cable and down the seams of his thighs and posterior.
The Autobot shudders as the cable's beaded nodes drag across his sensors. He whimpers at the static relay. Crying out in surprise and a small, shocking burst of pleasure as Megatron thrusts the length entirely inside once again.
This time the pleasure far outweighs the painful agony from before, the vestiges of pain echoing from his stretched walls as his port makes room for Megatron's cable.
Perceptor meets the Decepticon halfway as Megatron stifles his small mewls and cries, lips meshing, the microscope forced to hang on to his much larger partner, the warlord's thrusts almost pushing the scientist across the berth if he wasn't caged within the mech's unbending embrace.
The Autobot whimpers with each thrust, the spiraled ridges and beads of soldered metal causing so much drag and friction against his insides. He is forced to drag atmosphere through his mouth once more when his vents prove unable to keep up and properly cool down his core temperature. Lips wet with clear lubricant, Perceptor tears his mouth away, helm lolling upon the head of the berth as he tries to regain a proper air flow.
Overload is quick to tease him, dancing just beyond the edge of his sensors. Perceptor whines, hips rolling, chasing the temptress. Meeting the Decepticon's thrusts with his own.
He cries out in unfeigned frustration when the Decepticon halts his movements. Megatron smirking as the Autobot mewls and wriggles, pumping against his cable.
"Please!" Perceptor begs, fingers curling and dragging faint grooves down the warlord's back strut. The Decepticon growls in approval, "Please…oh Primus, please…M-Megatron.."
"Yeessss." The warlord hisses. "State my designation. Shout it until Primus and Unicron can hear your prayer."
"..please!" Perceptor clings to him, rubbing his chassis against his mate's, "Please, Lord Megatron―"
That whimpered title is the catalyst that severs the last remnants of the Decepticon's restraint.
Perceptor's vocalizer squeals, his hips pushed back until his thighs press along the sides of his torso. Hanging on for dear Spark, the Decepticon trying to split him apart with every thrust. Every mounting pulse, dragging a sharp appeal from his mate, the scientist thrashing weakly, waylaid by the tsunami of uncontrived pleasure as his sensors are mapped and conquered.
The Autobot's internal systems hit overload, a massive pulse of energy discharged, filtering out from his core, pulsing throughout like a compact nuclear bomb. His vocalize pitches static, Cybertronian, English, Mandarin, German, and a slew of otherworldly dialects as his systems and frame rattle and thrum as overload sends him crashing.
Megatron roars loudly as the port walls clench around him, tight like a vise around his cable, his own sensors firing signals that race up his thighs and up his torso like lightning. Neck strained taut, he groans beneath his breath as overload crashes down upon him. Dark, viscous lubricant spilling from his cable, the black oil filling the mech's port, cooling the hot walls and overheated sensory nodes.
Perceptor grumbles a surprised whine as the layered spirals of Megatron's cable hiss and unwind, expanding, the ridged edges locking into the barely discernable hollow dimples of his walls ringing his sensors. He squirms against the touch, shocked to find that he can not move easily, seemingly tied to the large Decepticon. A strange upgrade for a Cybertronian to possess, most likely the design originating from some sort of organic base where one mate would be bound to the other to ensure offspring? Absurd by Cybertronian standards, since they did not procreate in such a manner, but apparently some mechs or femmes had found other organic worlds to have intriguing, and slightly amusing adaptations.
Megatron chuckles as the microscope wiggles and tests out his newest shackles. The customized design of the Decepticon's cable not allowing the mech to pull free until the locks released. The warlord mumbles in low pleasure as the nodes of his cable settle against the microscope's internals, sensory systems emitting small pulses of pleasure to one another even as overload releases the two berth mates.
Perceptor moans as his hypersensitive valve must remain as accommodation for the mech's cable. Thighs beginning to ache, arms weakly hanging around Megatron's neck, "…tired."
"Do not get comfortable. You proved to be highly entertaining." Megatron purrs, kissing and possessively running his mouth and denta up the mech's throat and along the dark skin of his mandible, "Since I plan to keep you, I have so much more in store for you."