Arcee spends six years killing Jhiaxus, again and again. Overlord really enjoys watching her work, but he enjoys more those rare times she takes a break.
Title: Overcee
Warning: Gore? Nonsexual BDSM of not exactly healthy nature, but it's definitely consensual.
Rating: R
Continuity: IDW
Characters: Overlord, Arcee
Disclaimer: The theatre doesn't own the script or actors, nor does it make a profit from the play.
Motivation (Prompt): Inkfamy commissioned me to write nonsexual, consensual, everyday BDSM with Arcee topping, in a "what if" scenario wherein Overlord discovered Arcee during her Jhiaxus-killing phase.
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She tracks energon wherever she goes.
He's never loved anyone before, never thought himself capable of it, but a sensation wells up in his spark like fuel from a stab wound as he watches her stalk around him. It defies description. Warm? Ha. It's hot, cold, burning, freezing, and everything in between. Liquid? It's more solid that he could have ever imagined, dragging him to his knees as if an entire universe had compacted into one cancerous lump in the center of his very being. It's benign one second and malignant the next, tearing pleasure and pain from him in equal measure. The moment he pinpoints one specific piece of his body to amputate to be rid of the sensation, he's found it's spread, it's evaporated, it's infected his thoughts and rushes through his lines like fuel. He breathes it in. It poisons and powers him.
She tracks energon around him in an inward spiral with him at the center, and the pattern hypnotizes him. She smells of death, burned circuitry, and spilled fuel, and he breathes deep, mouth falling partway open to draw in long draughts of her scent, dense enough he fancies he can taste it. She smells of a carnal house, of slaughter, of a hatred so intense anything he feels pales before it. He can't get enough of it, or of her. By the time she comes to a halt in front of him, feet braced apart and hands on her hips, chin jutted out to assert her dominance, he's under her spell. She lifts one hand, curling a finger to beckon him down, and Overlord kneels without a thought.
His knees hit the ground in the middle of her pink-stained footprints, the only clean point in the entire cavern, but that's how she likes it. It's how she likes him. She likes to see him clean, a hulking weapon of mass destruction standing on the sidelines doing nothing but observing her. She likes to make him wait while she works, and then she likes to get him dirty at her leisure.
He likes it, too. A shiver goes down his backstruts as he waits. This is how she controls him, and he surrenders to her control, on his knees with his optics on her, breathing deep of her addictive scent.
Her teeth bare in what might be a smile if she was capable of being happy. With Jhiaxus' energon on her hands and a full day of torture behind her, her teeth are just another weapon. She smiles the way she draws her swords: in readiness to flay her victim down to the struts to satisfy a primal, unslaked lust.
"Clean me," she says, stepping back. Her feet smear the shallow puddle stopping for even a few seconds has collected. When she languidly extends her arms out to the sides, energon drips in slow rain from her elbows. Fresh fluid creates wet pink trails downward through a dimmed, dried coating. Rolling her wrists plays the energon in scrawling tracks, pink on pink, and doesn't allow the energon to fall. It's an ever-changing paintjob.
The motion mesmerizes him, and he bends to the task she's set him. She can't make him. She's small. Fragile, on the outside, but inside -
Inside, whatever she once was is changed by pain and suffering into a vicious killer, set on vengeance to the exclusion of all else. It's no coincidence her paintjob is as pink as the energon she's covered in. Overlord's a killer by nature, but Arcee is unnatural, and Jhiaxus succeeded in synthesizing perfection beyond what nature can forge in her creation. She's a warped and twisted finished product, as ready to tear him apart as indulge him.
Overlord can't resist her. Her smile draws across the linkages of his throat like the knife it resembles as he crouches on his knees. As small as she is compared to him, he's forced to place his hands on the ground on either side of her feet just to come down to her level, and he locks optics with her. His reflection looks back at him as though she's a mirror, but it's a subtle mockery staring him down. The mech in her optics is better than he could ever be, beyond control and in control.
He keeps his optics on hers, the person in her optics mocking his surrender until at last he has to break optic contact and concede defeat. He bows his head before her, bending down to the ground to start at her feet.
She tastes of charred metal. "Like this?" he asks between long, dragging licks, and his voice is husky because he knows what she will say.
"No." She lifts the foot he's bathing with her tongue, and the liquid, solid, hot and cold thing clenching in his fluttering spark surges in anticipation. She gives him a bare moment to savor it coming, but it's not about him. It's never about him. He can feel her use him in how she stomps down.
His face slams into the ground, pink energon splashing everywhere, and he moans. A shudder goes through him as she grinds his face into the fuel.
"Start there."
It's an order. An order that can go on for as long as she wants, however, as energon runs off her as fast as he can lick it up. It's an order he's doomed to fail. Futile as the attempt is, he laps the still-warm fuel from the puddle as best he can considering the way she pushes his face into it.
"Better?" he says in what shouldn't be a purr but is. Her heel comes to rest on his antenna, and oh yes. Overlord is literally under her heel, a slave to her whims and beneath her contempt, and he loves it. His fingers curl into the ground as he squirms in anticipation of what he knows comes next.
Arcee, his lovely lady of slaughter, smiles her bladed smile as she steps on him. His antenna takes all her weight as she lifts herself off the ground. He grunts as the metal creaks, optics closing to feel it bend. It bends under her just as he always has, as he has since the day he found this marvelous, perfect little murderer tucked away in a neverending killfield cave.
She was unafraid of him. He remembers that like a shot of highgrade, memory hitting hard in the darkness behind his optics. She was, and she is, too broken to fear being broken further, utterly uncaring of who he is and what he can do. All she cares about is what she can do to him.
It's what she does to him that brings him to his knees before her. The day he found her, she tracked a line of pink life-fluid footprints up to him and reached up with an energon-covered hand to press her middle two fingers against his lips. Smiling that dangerous weapon of a smile, she painted them in slow, dragging swipes back and forth, coloring in his smile to match her own. Her fingers brushed over his mouth, dipped between his lips, left vivid pink marks like a claim on his teeth.
He licked his lips, and she rolled her head back, almost lazily contented by his defiance. It made him real in her optics, something more than Jhiaxus but not an obstacle, either. That's important. He yields to her whims and stays out of her revenge, so he barely registers on her radar as more than a toy to play with when she's tired for the day. Most of the time, she probably doesn't even remember he's there.
It's the rest of the time he lives for. Because she didn't stop him when he grasped her hand, pulling her arm up to lick a long swathe clean from wrist to the inside of her elbow, never breaking optic contact the entire time. She laughed, wild and totally confident, and turned her hand in his grip to seize his chin and run her thumb across his lips as though marking his mouth as her own. All that is pink is hers. She is murder, she is mayhem, she is the killer unchained that he's always wanted to be.
He left the stain on his lips. Left it, and followed her.
He groans under her heel, claimed territory. "Command me!"
"Mmm." It's a directionless sound. He lifts his head after she steps down, and she's looking out over the carnage. There are always more Jhiaxus to kill. Regeneration, immortality, a mech from the Dead Universe unable to die while trapped in this cave with her; it doesn't matter. She sees him and must destroy him, in so many ways Overlord has lost count and can only admire her ingenuity.
It's rare to get her attention enough for even this, but she's growing restless. He's failing to distract her sufficiently.
He dares lick a stripe up her shin, and her optics dart back to him, narrowing. "Did I say you could do that?"
"No," he says, lips moving against her knee, "but you didn't say I couldn't."
Her face goes eerily blank, but her optics are madly gleeful, amused at last. He thrills as her sword sings out of its sheathe. That is a smile, for Arcee. It is as close to happy as she can be, and he braces his hands on the ground, hunching over them to offer her his back for her pleasure, as an outlet for her ever-present rage.
He occupies his mouth worshiping her feet to make up for his insolence, adoring kisses pressed to the metal even as she takes payment out of his plating. It's true punishment when she steps away, taking her feet out of range. Overlord moans a thick sound of protest that becomes a sharp scream as she uses the new angle to push her sword in through one of his shoulder mounts. Shuddering, he kneels without offering a fight, hands gripping the ground and optics flickering at the intensity of the pain she inflicts on him. He is submissive to her will, he is subservient before her wrath, and he bows his helm as her humble servant.
It's his energon on her feet this time, freshly bled tracks over the old fuel right in front of his optics, and it's strangely beautiful. It's beautiful in the same way her paintings are beautiful, fingers smoothing pink over his back as if she's eking out a map of her territory on the vast expanses of blue armor. One dripping line at a time makes him hers. He belongs to her. She owns him, and Overlord's mouth hangs slack as he pants, pulling in huge breaths that fail to cool stressed systems. A hand on his unbent antenna yanks his head back, forces him to face her, and he looks up at her through dim optics.
The blade smiles. It bites as deep into his other shoulder mount as her teeth do into his lower lip. He screams, not because it hurts but because it makes her laugh long and loud into his mouth, her hands working the sword deep into his shoulder. The swords stick out like handles, and when she takes them in hand, she doesn't bother to release her bite before wrenching him back down to where he belongs, ripped lips pressed to the soiled ground beneath her feet.
"And stay down," she says to him, to Jhiaxus, to the ghosts she can't stop fighting.
Overlord, at least, obeys her.
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