C.M.D: I keep telling myself that I won't write anymore fairytale-related TF stuff and then these little plot bunnies come nibbling in the night and... Well, yeah. I have nothing to say on the matter; I am just really weak when it comes to my muses. Anyways enjoy the newest little story in this ever-growing collection (only one story, sorry!) and happy Spring-can't-figure-out-it's-not-winter April update!
King Thrushbeard
Once upon a time, there was a mech -so slender and quaint, with optics of liquid gold -whose humble beauty and size masked the cruel persona underneath. He was a witch, or a spawn from the Pit... None were really sure. All that was known was his ability to reach into the minds of others; warp them, break them or wipe them, with frightening quickness and talent. Kept in the company of Dukes and Barons, the crafty mech from unknown origins rapidly became spoiled: his actions crueler, his words unchecked, his mannerisms arrogant. He was, at most times, easily dismissible still.
But one eve, the Duke Proteus threw a grand party for his affiliated shady friends and foes. All came to be present for the latest schemes and to perhaps buy the services of the mind-witch. Dressed up in the finest, the mech was showered in sly affections and many praises and though it made his chest swell in pleasure, it did not detract from that venomous glossa making itself heard.
"Climb into your berth? Ha! And where would I fit beneath that blubbery tub you call a frame?"
"Have you seen the grimy tar oozing between your gaping seams? I would sooner catch a case of the rustflakes than spend an orn being spilled on, you antiquated shaft-grinder."
"My, those lips are bigger than your gaze, lecher! Tell me, dear whore-lips, how often do you suckle at the tip of his Dark Majesty?"
Duke Proteus watched as his greatest asset openly mocked his guests, that quaint, little chuckle echoing cruelly in the descending silence. His optics were aflame with unspoken rage, fists curling under his cloak, unable to close around their proper prey for fear of making a bigger scene. Alas, this embarrassment could not go unpunished. His helm turning an inch to his ally, Baron Ratbat, Proteus hissed a single command.
"Prepare a set of iron shackles for our dear witch. It's time Trepan be made an example."
xXx
It was a cold, dreary morning, where the wind howled and the grounds swelled with too much rainfall, creating a bog out of the surrounding land. A better orn spent away, tucked warmly in a soft berth. Despite this, Proteus sat in his grand audience hall, watching in mild boredom as a passing wretch performed minimal tricks and illusions for his pleasure. Successfully "vanishing" a set of coloured balls, the small mech bowed, servos clasped before him imploringly.
"If my show has pleased you, oh grand Duke, please might I have a couple credits or the scraps from your table in exchange?"
Proteus scowled, leaning forward in his chair. His first thought was to deny the beggar and have him thrown out at once, then the grand hall scrubbed of the wretch's filth, but he was interrupted by the head of his guard. Pausing politely, the knight moved forward as he was beckoned, taking care to lean in close to have his words unheard by lesser audios.
"My lord, the witch still refuses to eat. He has bitten another of my mechs, this time lacerating the tender spot of his neck cables. He grows feral the longer he is in those cuffs; his shrieking indicates no repentance."
The Duke's scowl darkened as he glanced at his guard, squeezing the arm rest of his chair in a crushing grip. It seemed that his punishment was lost on the feisty Trepan and that infuriated Proteus to no end. He had no need for useless possessions. As he glanced between the knight and the waiting beggar, a wicked idea was slow to bloom in the Duke's processor. Grinning darkly, he whispered quickly to his guard and sent him off; folding his servos and facing the peasant amicably. "Good sir," Proteus nearly crooned, "For a show that magnificent, I dare say you are deserving of more than a few pitiful credits and scraps. Please, allow me to present you with something even grander!"
There was muffled noise in the hall -the clanging of armor and swords, the soft swish of clothe- yet the Duke did not allow himself to be distracted, even as a knight strode in, carrying a sinewy pile of silk in his arms. "May I present to you my charge, Trepan?," Proteus announced, gesturing for the guard to walk towards the beggar. In doing so, the wretch was able to look upon the witch's beautiful, drug-induced rest and it did not pass anyone's notice how his optics lit up excitedly at the sight.
"Gorgeous, isn't he?," the duke smirked. "And unattached, currently. As his benefactor, it is my duty to see to it that my charge rests in good servos and after the exemplary skill you displayed today, I believe you possess those very digits. If you find this a fair trade, my servants will supply you with a horse promptly, so you and your new mate may ride on to home in comfort."
"Y-your lordship is much gracious!," the peasant gaped, clapping his servos merrily. "I accept your blessing!"
"Of course you do," Proteus chuckled, waving his servo once again. Immediately, the knight turned to march from the room; carrying the unconscious Trepan down to the stables, where in a few short kliks, he would be far from the splendors and riches he had become greatly attached to.
xXx
Trepan woke cycles later, groggy and aggravated from the sleeping drought's effects. With bleary optics, he surveyed his surroundings, expecting the minimally-decorated, but still lavish, room in Proteus' manor. After several long kliks of staring, realization sunk in and the poor mech's spark nearly snuffed itself out there and then at the filthy squalor he had awoken in. He sprung to his pedes at once, letting out a shrill grunt when his joints could not support him and instead upended him onto the dirt floor of a pitifully tiny hut.
"Ah, careful my doe!," an unfamiliar vocalizer chirped merrily, the sight of a patchy-clothed beggar stepping through the narrow doorway. He looked daft and the worst side of homely, made all the more egregious as he greeted Trepan with a smile, as though they were life-long acquaintances. "It's a little early to be soiling such a lovely dress of yours; at least let's wait til dinner has been finished."
"Excuse me?!," the mind-witch snarled, slapping at the offered servo as he scrambled up onto shaky legs. "Are you actually implying that you have a chance to get under my plating?!"
The pauper looked affronted at the Autobot's hasty denial. "That is what is expected of mates," he replied simply, "And the gracious Duke Proteus gifted you to me for such a purpose. Now, fret not, my spark; we have a roof over our helms and, though meager, some food for the night. Tomorrow we can talk of how to get you settled into our home."
Trepan stood in shock as the words pieced themselves together within his own mind, still disbelieving at what his audios had registered. Alas, he had not the time to dwell on this betrayal long before he realized the mud-covered wretch was swooping forward for a kiss. An unholy shriek left the smaller mech immediately; his slender fingers lashing towards his assailant. He wanted to pierce the beggar's ugly face and crush his bolt-sized brain, but his claws -so thin to be misconstrued as needles- would not come forth at his spark's silent demand. In his rage and confusion, Trepan had forgotten all about the iron shackles clamped around his wrists... but no matter: his slender fingers tapered into sharp enough points all the same, and it was with these that the Autobot clawed deep gouges into the unsuspecting pauper's face and shoulders.
"Y-you're no beauty!," the beggar yelled, struggling to keep his new 'mate' from slashing at his throat or optics. Though appearing of lesser straits, the mech was still marginally stronger than the other and he finally wrestled Trepan off enough to shove him to the floor. "You're a beast! A pretty package of a pox the Duke cruelly beset upon me!"
The mind-witch growled back in response, poising to spring again as the pauper grunted irritably.
"Well, a shame it is more to you than me then!," he spat at the smaller mech's pedes. "You are mine now-"
"I rather get the Rust!"
"-And you will learn to love your home and master. If you can not," the beggar continued at a bellow, "You can sleep in the mud like the strays and nibble your meals off the carrion not even fit for the birds!"
Then the beggar turned and stormed back out of the hut, leaving Trepan to angrily assess the situation he now found himself in.
xXx
The mind-witch was trapped. He had no clear direction of where the Duke's manor lay, nor could he make sense of any correct path to outside cities, for he discovered quickly he was kept in a well-isolated little community. Only fifty hovels and huts filled the valley of a dead volcano, surrounded on all sides by jagged mountains of blackened rock that jut high into the sky, keeping the sun from reaching the wizened trees and craggy plots of farmland. It was almost like sitting in the cavernous maw of a gigantic monster. The only traffic made was from the dreary-looking manor up the southern hillside; black and shadowed and a miserable two storeys. Mechs with unsheathed swords and shields rode from the manor, to town, and out of the valley often, but little else activity was seen. Escape, were he even able to climb the steep and unstable path up the mountain walls without notice, Trepan realized, would be a wasted endeavour. There was no way to plot exactly where in all the land this grim community lived.
What a cruel twist of fate that had befallen on Trepan.
To make matters even worse, the Autobot's husband was insistent on putting his new "wife" to work. Each orn he made a new attempt. Cleaning, cutting, cooking -Trepan wouldn't, couldn't and had no understanding of how to do those things. Weaving? Stitching? Perhaps trash-collecting? Outrageous! Not a chance! The mind-witch snarled and attacked at any mention of manual labor; he threw fits and tried to gouge out the peasant's optics after his delicate fingers cut and bled, trying to work the sharp switches or thread into something useful. After several orns of this, the beggar became fed up and dropped all attempts of getting Trepan to work. He made a selection of poor clay pots, packed them into a box and gave them to the grouchy mech.
"Go to the square and sell them!," his mate grumbled. "At least you can bring home a couple credits that way and we may feed ourselves this week."
Trepan wanted nothing to do with the moldy bread and couple jugs of muddied energon that was the beggar's meal every orn, but food was better than no food, and the mind-witch grabbed the box from the other's servos before marching out onto the rough village path. Perhaps some time in the square would allow him to garner the attention of the "knights" he saw passing from the volcano's gloomy manor every once in a while; attention that he could use to help him flee this miserable community.
xXx
It had taken nearly a month longer, but finally Trepan found himself in a more favourable situation... somewhat. Having been summoned to the manor early one dreary morning (after a drunken idiot on a horse had stampeded through his miserable stall), the mind-witch found himself thrust into the kitchen and given a run-down from the head cook. They were apparently short of servos and needed servants to tidy the kitchen, bring in supplies and run food to the Lord and his guests when required. The possibility of meeting the mysterious mech in charge of this estate thrilled Trepan. Yet, despite the weeks that followed, he saw neither helm or pede of said master. It seemed the "Lord" took to travelling quite frequently.
The Autobot was irked by this revelation but he took advantage of this time to prepare. It wasn't hard to convince the cooks to spare him from the more tedious, dirty chores -a few well-placed touches, some false promises and of course enduring the expected gropes that followed- nor was swiping the leftovers from lunch and dinner much of a problem. True, Trepan burned inside at the humiliating lifestyle Proteus had brought him too; he hated the idea of scavenging for anyone's unwanted food, yet he couldn't deny his systems moaned in pleasure as fresh bread, fruit and succulent strips of roasted meat once more filled his tanks. It was better than the slag his beggar of a mate could provide and the slim mech felt a third of the strength he'd lost since waking in that dilapidated hut return to him.
Spurred on by his sudden increase of energy (not to mention the grateful distance put between him and the pauper during the long work orns), Trepan took to swiping bits of gold, jewels and any other useful trinkets he could get his servos on, storing them in his servant robes until he could move them to a safe hiding place he'd discovered in a loose brick behind the stable house, near the kitchen doors. The mind-witch glowed with glee; his last couple orns of thievery and counting informed him that he nearly had enough to pay his way back to Proteus and then some. And in a few more orns, a supple carriage would arrive at the manor -a carriage that the Autobot was certain to sneak aboard so as to escape this little pit of a village. Revenge was so close at hand.
Lost in his own cruel fantasies, Trepan nearly missed the hustle of the usually lax kitchen as he entered; snapping out of his daydreams when a short apron was snapped in his face. "You're late," the head cook gruffed, ignoring the scowl directed at him. He slapped the mind-witch's aft, squeezing momentarily, before using his handhold to shove the Autobot forward faster. "Hurry up and take the trays out to the ballroom! The Lord's guest are already here and the party-goers require their high-grade and snacks."
A party? Guests? This surprised the thin mech, who worried how the Lord's unexpected return would interfere with his plans. It would have to be something to worry about afterwards, Trepan decided, tying the apron in place and with a distasteful grunt, grabbing the nearest laden tray of copper drinking mugs. His first step into the ballroom and the Autobot nearly tripped as his pedes came to a sudden stop. So many of the halls and rooms were left dark during the master's absence, furniture covered, gathering only dusts and insects. Trepan never had a chance to view the rooms for what they really were in such a pitch blackness. Now, cobweb-free and dusted, the ballroom had been shined to a diamond brilliance; sparkling in gem tones of red and purple and gold, beneath three dozen chandeliers of tall candles, hanging lowly from the steep ceiling.
A band of minstrels and one flutist played in a far corner to a loud, jeering crowd of mech and femmes, all dressed in finest silk and over-decorated in jewels and gold. None of the faces were recognizable (perhaps all new in their riches) but faced with the splendor of a hundred or so guests, Trepan felt comparably like scum. His cheekplates burned in silent rage, cursing Proteus for the umpteenth time for throwing him to the streets. He would see the ignorant Duke writhe in slow, merciless agony by the next season, the mind-witch promised himself, finally moving out onto the floor. For now, he had a party to examine.
Despite the lack of servants toting drink and food, the party-goers did not seem to mind. In fact, as Trepan moved deeper into the throng of guests, he realized that the others were a little too preoccupied with their quickly unfolding orgy. "Sickening," the Autobot mumbled, sneering as a femme fell to the yanking of a few mechs. This was the last place he wished to be, plans or not.
Trepan spun on his heel to return to the manor hall (to hide himself elsewhere until things had died down), but crashed into a solid frame before he could get very far. Highgrade and the mind-witch toppled to the floor, causing a raucous round of laughter to erupt from nearby 'bots.
"Ah, look at this tramp," a burly mech -the one that had tripped Trepan- spoke, grabbing at the Autobot's soaking collar and hefting him up onto the tips of his pedes, "Use a little bit of drink and they actually look half-decent beneath that grime!"
A femme closed in, pouring her own glass of highgrade over Trepan's helm, before giving the cringing mech's audio a long lick. "Hmm, better... but he still has a hint of ash. It ruins the flavor."
"You dare-!," Trepan snarled, twisting in the mech's grasp, slashing at the femme's optics. She moved back quickly as his captor chuckled uproariously, pressing the Autobot against his chestplates; a wandering servo yanking his robe's hem up and over his hips.
"A feisty one! I love them with spirit," the mech growled lustfully, holding Trepan tighter when he tried to struggle; kicking and biting at his assailant's fingers.
"I'll get the knife," the femme cooed, groping quickly between the mind-witch's legs, "These wet clothes will stick otherwise."
"Let's move to the table," a third mech suggested, intakes short with desire, as the femme disappeared from sight.
"Just keep the drink nearby," the burly mech agreed, walking away from the open floor, "I'm going to want to season our 'dish'."
Fraggers! Trepan thought, pulling again to no avail. If he had his claws, they'd all be bleeding out on the floor this very moment.
"Wait!," a vocalizer shouted, interrupting Trepan's attackers. They paused, half-turning to the newcomer jogging across the ballroom.
"What do you want, small fry," the burly mech huffed, "Can't you see I'm busy!"
A more formally dressed mech, clean and proper, came to a pause before the trio, scowling in a fashion that seemed all too familiar to Trepan... "This one is not for your games. He is the sole property of the great Duke Proteus, and though he is undergoing punishment for his insubordination, he is not to come to permanent harm," the newcomer informed. "Any damage you inflict upon him will be derived from your plating tenfold, so I strongly suggest that you occupy yourselves with one of the other servants present."
"You-!," Trepan hissed, putting the pieces together in his mind, "You are that despicable beggar! ...THIS HAS ALL BEEN A SET-UP BY THAT FRAGGER?!"
The beggar -no longer that, as discovered- glared at the mind-witch, opening his mouth to speak. But the words that followed came in a baritone purr so unlike the traitorous mech's own tenor range.
"My, my, my... Isn't this an interesting turn of events..."
Trepan winced as the burly mech clutched him closer in a momentary panic, his optics noticing that all helms were turned to the latest addition. Slowly, almost as if in a daydream, the Autobot found himself following the path of all other gazes, inching up long legs until his optics rested on the smirking face towering so high above, an inaudible gasp escaping past slacken lip components.
"L-lord Overlord," Proteus' servant bowed hurriedly, a tremor running down his legs as he folded in half. "I a-apologize profusely on this interruption. I was... unaware that these specific lands belonged to you. I would never have let my charge and I trespass in your manor if I had."
Overlord wasn't even watching the mech. He only had optics for Trepan and the mind-witch could not be certain if that was a fortunate thing or not. After all, he too was one of Proteus' associates and in their first meeting he'd mocked him and called him 'whore-mouth'...
Still smiling in unsettling fashion, the Decepticon stepped closer, his gaze roaming up and down Trepan's frame languidly. "Yes...," he drawled. Everything about his tone was rife with mirth, as if the entire conversation was a hearty joke. "I had specifically made certain that Proteus and Ratbat were misled about this community. After all, what better way to get our dear mind-witch far away from that moron than to take advantage of his easily triggered pride."
"Y-you-," the pretend-beggar stuttered, growing indignant. "You planned for him to be brought here?!"
A weary sigh left Overlord, answering dully, "Yes, of course. If he's just going to throw him away, someone's going to snatch up the mind-witch. Your mind is quite slow catching up, isn't it?"
"You cannot have him!," Proteus' servant yelled angrily, stepping up into the Decepticon's space. "He belongs to great Duke Proteus and you-" Trepan stopped paying attention, suddenly aware that the music had stopped playing. His optics flittered about the room quickly, catching the last couple of servants slipping past closing doors. In the silence between the pretend-beggar's ringing words, the grinding thunder of several barricades dropping into place echoed for all to hear. At once, everyone except the still shouting mech realized that they were locked within the ballroom.
Tension settled over the wary party-goers at once.
"-if you do not release Trepan from your abode this very klik, I shall send a message to Duke Proteus about your betrayal!," the mech was still shouting, "He shall send his armies and raze this entire-"
One of Overlord's massive servos snapped forward, covering the servant's face and smothering his rant. "That's nice," the Decepticon chuckled. "But I'm afraid I've grown bored now."
And before all their optics, the Lord tightened his fingers rapidly until the smaller mech's helm burst under his servo like an over-ripe melon. Panic erupted immediately; shrieking in terror, the guests ran for the doors, shoving and trampling over any 'bot unfortunate to fall. Alas, now barricaded, there was no way to escape the ballroom and no windows to the outside world. All of which Overlord clearly knew and took enjoyment in, for he threw his helm back and laughed heartily as chaos unfolded all around him.
"Not so fast," the Decepticon chirped as the burly mech dropped Trepan to the floor, attempting to sprint past the maniac. Grabbing the mind-witch's would-be suitor by the neck, Overlord gave one mighty kick towards his hips while snapping his occupied servo back, effectively ripping the mech in two and spraying energon everywhere.
Covering his optics with an arm, Trepan was unable to avoid the warm liquid, finding himself doubly soaked now. This was madness! A tremble made its way down his spinal struts as he looked back up in horror, finding Overlord's attention once more on him. He'd never felt so frightened and small in all his function...
The mind-witch flinched as the blue mech stepped forward, yelling wordlessly for his legs to get up, run- do something other than sit there on the floor like a lame duck! He could only cycle a shaky intake rapidly, fearing that he had finally reached his end, as Overlord grabbed his wrists and yanked the Autobot up towards him. "Don't look so uncertain," the larger mech smirked, his servo slowly tightening around Trepan's captured wrists. "I'll just be a moment with these party favours."
There was a loud, shattering sound that caused the smaller 'bot to jerk in terror, but the lord merely withdrew his servo; letting shards of iron clatter to the floor as he turned away from the mind-witch. Trepan could only stare in shock at his shackle-free wrists, feeling his unearthly essence blow from an ember to an inferno once more. This... He was... Trepan turned his helm upwards, watching calmly as Overlord made short work of the remaining guests; still in a strange tranquility even when the Decepticon returned to him.
"Now, for you my dear mind-witch...," Overlord smiled cruelly down on the smaller mech.
Trepan returned it with a vicious smirk of his own. "You have no clue as to what I am."
"On the contrary," the blue mech cooed. "I know so much more than anyone does or ever will. For example, your illegitimate heritage. You look so simple but you're really not so, are you... half-breed?" That stunned the Autobot and he glared venomously, causing Overlord to smile wider.
"Whether or not you know the reality of my energon," the Autobot spat, "Does not mean that I will be kept by anyone as some pet!"
He lunged suddenly, claws extending until they looked like needles thirty inches long, snapping through the air with a speed quicker than the shadows, aiming directly for Overlord's lowered helm. Millimeters before they pierced, the mind-witch's wrist was snatched, red optics burning brightly as they gazed down upon Trepan.
"Pet?," Overlord intoned deeply, slowly pushing his wincing captive to the energon-drenched floor. "Oh no... definitely not. Proteus was a fool; he under-appreciated you so, my dear witch. But I... I see such potential in you... And you already are so perfect in value. No, you will never be my pet," he husked, pressing close as the Autobot lay in the leftover carnage; his plating scalding against Trepan's cooler frame. "You will be my everything."
His mouth opening in protest, only a moan escaped Trepan as Overlord began his final siege.
xXx
The moon had already reached its nightly zenith as a slender Autobot strutted down shadowy corridors. Fine, silk robes whispered against the tiles, echoing in time with every sharp tap of his pede, carrying the mech all the way back to the ballroom. Freshly cleansed and polished again, panels in the rafters had been pulled back, bringing in heavy beams of starlight as illumination to the once-more quiet room. At the far end, a throne had been erected, twin floor candelabras lit on either side; plush satin cushions decorating the seat and standing trays waited with fresh fruit and a tall glass of deep red high-grade- all for him and him alone.
Smothering his pleased smile, Trepan rose quickly up the podium, nestling himself on the grand throne as Overlord stepped out of the shadows with nary a sound. "Are you content now, my lovely Trepan?," the blue mech purred.
His clean and fragrantly waxed fingers clutched at the gleaming arm rests, enjoying the view over the dark ballroom. "I suppose this is a start...," he huffed. "And what of your own master, Megatron? I'm aware of your indentured servitude under his name -surely he doesn't approve of your 'hobbies'."
The Decepticon chuckled, catching a side-glance from the mind-witch. "Megatron does not know everything and I have plans outside his comprehension. As for this place, fret not my Nightshade, this is merely a playhouse. I'm certain my real abode will be more pleasing to your wants... Of course, it is your decision to come along when I leave or stay here in this dull villa."
Trepan scowled, ready to give the big brute a well-deserved glossa lashing, but Overlord distracted him from his ire by dropping to one knee; bowing at the edge of the large throne as if he was a simple commoner. "I would be much amiss of your company if you did remain here though," the blue mech added slyly, glancing upwards as a servo stretched out in offer.
Feeling his spark swell suddenly, the Autobot quickly gave a false sigh, rolling his optics to enhance the effect. "I suppose I should go. Someone has to give a half-brained twit such as yourself direction, after all," he answered, resting his fingers delicately in the larger mech's open palm.
A predatory smile stretched itself across Overlord's face in response, drawing a small, cruel one from Trepan.
C.M.D: Super hardcore ship these two. They're my favourite psychopathic/sociopathic couple of all time~
Enjoyed? Be kind; give me your mind~ REVIEW, please?