Title: Siege: After
Warning: Overlord's not a good guy. Seriously, Overlord's not nice. Overlord = bad. Outright rape and torture.
Rating: R
Continuity: IDW, AU.
Characters: Overlord, Fortress Maximus
Disclaimer: The theatre doesn't own the script or actors, nor does it make a profit from the play.
Motivation (Prompt): The bits and pieces of Siege from before and after, taken out of Candy From Strangers and finally assembled.
[* * * * *]
He did so love the little out-of-the-way outposts. The Decepticons sent the dregs of the faction out here to rot, fermenting in their own perversions far away from public outcry. Why execute the criminally unacceptable when there were conveniently isolated borders of the Empire to send them away to? Label them guards and get some use out of them.
Overlord reclined on the cramped shuttle berth, turning his head to pillow it on the arm folded behind his helm. It gave him a different perspective to study the already intriguing device the sadist with the machine shop had sent him. It was the best use for a 'guard' he'd ever seen, and he thoroughly approved. Decorative restraints were a joy to use, especially on someone tamed to heel. Fortress Maximus could but didn't snap out of the lacy things, and that made all the difference in Overlord's enjoyment of putting him in the things.
These restraints, however, were far more delightful. Something practical but painfully over-the-top. It provoked such a lovely reaction.
He smiled and lifted his hand off his chest to twirl a finger. "Turn, Maxy."
It had been a couple of months since the last time he'd gotten an honest reaction out of his pet, but everything was on display today. Fortress Maximus couldn't hide the shame shaking him. Optics lowered, the former warden slowly turned in place.
"Stop."
The treads mounted on Fort Max's back were already taut, but turned, exposed to Overlord's lascivious gaze, they drew tight enough to vibrate on their mountings. He stopped as told to, despite that. Tensed, dreading what would come, he stood obediently facing the wall. Except for a large dent he likely remembered all too well, the wall was polished to a mirror shine. Overlord made certain his pet kept it reflective just for this purpose. It faithfully reflected every depravity he subjected the ex-warden to, forcing Fort Max to see what he'd become. What Overlord had made of him.
Today, the mirror reflected the panicked blaze of an opened spark chamber. Downcast optics or not, Fort Max had to squint against the terror-bright light of his own naked spark, and Overlord chortled a rich mocking rumble at the uncomfortable, absolutely mortified expression laid out across his pet's face.
Watching his pet witness such an abject humiliation amused the Warrior Elite, but the view from behind was quite nice on its own. Overlord pulled his optics from Fortress Maximus' shame and instead traced them over the gift he'd been sent. He'd have to remember to send a Thank You note. Really, the restraints were ingenious, and a thoughtful gift besides. The Decepticons banished to the borders knew him so well!
"Maxy, do remind me to thank Findkeep," he ordered lazily, and the network of straps criss-crossing broad shoulders shifted as his pet cringed. Pale red optics flicked from side-to-side, evading the steady, amused reflection of Overlord in the wall. It smiled, menacing kindness from in front and behind, leaving him nowhere to retreat. "Maaaaxy. I believe I gave you a command. Don't make me repeat myself."
The straps creaked, Fortress Maximus cringed in on himself so far, but the Autobot slave nodded once in quick, reluctant acknowledgement of the order. He'd remind Overlord later.
"Good," Overlord said just to see his pet flinch. Sweet praise of Fort Max's obedience always ground him that much further down.
It wasn't as though Overlord really needed the reminder. He'd remember fine on his own, but it tickled his sense of humor to give Fort Max little tasks like that. By now, daily duties piled up on the ex-warden's back, a list of small humiliations he bent under. He kept a stoic mask, but Overlord could feel the fierce licks of hatred and teeth-gritting willpower filling the mech's EM field as Fort Max had to choose obedience, over and over, knowing and hating that he was doing as he was told like a good, well-trained slave should. It was a painless, domestic, everyday agony Overlord added new tweaks to whenever he could, and the results were a torture as ruthless as if he'd stretched Fort Max on a rack, the turn of the handle slowly tearing him apart. Praising him afterward was simply adding sand to his joints. It was a little irritant magnified to a grating pain in context.
The threat of consequences made a battle of obedience versus avoidance a long battle Fortress Maximus inevitably lost. If he obeyed, Overlord patted him on the helm and praised him. If he dared disobey, punishment loomed. Worse, Overlord loomed. The Decepticon waited, optics gleaming anticipation as he watched Fort Max fight to be tame, to bide his time.
He'd lost that fight today, and Overlord had enjoyed his pet's loss of control immensely. He took his time enjoying the aftermath as well.
Overlord enjoyed tying the ex-warden up in knots until the mech surrendered to whatever crushing servitude he ordered, but there was something to be said for taking any sort of control away. The pleasure found in Fort Max's trembling hands coaxing his knees to part was exquisite, as was a bleeding mouth leaving wet, hate-filled marks up his inner thighs, but the jerk and struggle while overwhelming the Autobot, pinning him down and tying him up, his pet knowing all the while what was coming and yet unable to stop Overlord no matter how hard he fought…well. That got him every kind of excited.
Overlord had been revved up from simply taking the harness out of the gift box and seeing fear dawn in Fortress Maximus' stoic expression. The strapping had looked a tangled mess at first, but as Overlord patiently sorted it out, the clamps at the ends had made abrupt sense. Fort Max's fans had skipped and rattled, hitching in complete horror. Overlord's arousal had grown to a delicious burn as he'd advanced on the former warden, cornering him, and Fort Max had retreated. It was a useless, futile gesture of defiance, a refreshing change from dull surrender. Overlord had let him attempt to stay out of reach, pursuing him in a slow chase through the shuttle. There was nowhere to go, but Fort Max had shied away despite knowing better. Crushing defeat should have been a familiar weight by this point, but wasn't that the thrilling part of keeping this particular pet?
The Decepticon's lust had reached a lurching, piercing peak almost like overload when Fort Max snapped. The ex-warden actually attempted to fight back! It had been months since the last time he'd lashed out, and this hadn't been planned. It'd been foolish, doomed to fail, but that excited Overlord so much more. A spontaneous attack, violence born of sudden overwhelming fear and the kind of despair that convinced prisoners they had nothing left to lose, was amazing at this point in his pet's training. Fortress Maximus should have been brought to heel long ago.
Oh, the spirit in this one. Every time Overlord thought Fort Max broken past recovery, there remained an ember unsnuffed, just waiting for the opportune moment to burst back into flame. He didn't think he'd ever tire of toying with this pet.
Holding the semi-conscious, dazed mech down as he put him into the harness had been a joy. Overlord had savored the moment Fort Max recovered his wits enough to start struggling again. Even beaten to cowering, he refused to tamely accept this.
Good. The lust burning in Overlord's tanks hadn't been stoked this high in months. It drew claws through his chassis, running live wire fires under his armor as he let his gaze linger on the buckles laid flat on Fortress Maximus' plating. Lacing up the back, the harness could be controlled by pulling the straps through various buckles. It was a cruel concept by itself, since the straps couldn't be loosened by the one strapped into the harness. Pulled taut, the harness held the its wearer open.
Not helpless, but open. Overlord had taken care of the helpless part.
Fists shook at the small of Fort Max's back, locked in cuffs Overlord hadn't needed to use on his darling ex-warden since dragging him to their most favorite bar for a particularly memorable lesson on why a good pet should be grateful to have a kind Decepticon like Overlord for an owner. There had been a lengthy tour through the barracks of one of the more isolated outposts afterward, just in case it wasn't clear that a good pet should demonstrate his gratitude often, lest his owner feel unappreciated and, perhaps, less than kind.
Fortress Maximus had been such a good pet since then. The cuffs hadn't been necessary.
Until today, but a minor behavioral slip-up could be forgiven. He seemed to regret his earlier disobedience, for the most part. "Turn," Overlord commanded again. "Face me this time."
Treads twitched in another cringe, but Fort Max shuffled about to face him. The Autobot kept his optics downcast, helm bent as if humbled, but it was humiliated fear that kept him bowed and they both knew it. The ball gag stuffed into his mouth turned panted breaths into small, panicked noises. Every time he worked his jaw, the too-tight strap dug into the sides of his mouth.
"Ohhh, does it hurt?" False sympathy filled Overlord's voice, brittle shards of glass intended to slice Fort Max to the quick. A muffled sound, maybe a whine or a growl, answered him. Overlord tsked and sat up, taking his time.
His lust swelled in equal measure to the terror whirling the ex-warden's spark into a fast, fear-bright spin. Leisurely standing, he meandered closer to his pet, telegraphing every move in exaggerated strides and overdone motions of his hands. Fortress Maximus flinched back, optics darting to his face and away, but Overlord had tested him many times today. This time, he saw Overlord coming and forced himself to stay in place as he'd been ordered.
"Much better," Overlord praised him. He deliberately reached one hand out very slowly. Misery radiated off of the Autobot, dropping into cold shame the closer his hand got.
The shame wobbled into relief when his hand changed direction at the last second, going up to finger the strap cutting into Fort Max's mouth. The relief tinged with sick gratitude, and it poisoned itself into a new, churning brew of humiliation that stood out from his pet's energy field in heavy spikes. The Autobot was grateful his master had decided not to violate him, and he hated himself for being grateful for that.
Being spared was a privilege, one he treasured. He didn't want to, but he did, and he knew exactly how Overlord manipulated him using that tiny sliver of mercy.
Overlord smiled. "Look at you," he mocked. "All dressed up and nowhere to go. Yet, hmm?"
His hand dropped to Fort Max's shoulder, and the Autobot hunched forward in an involuntary attempt to protect what had been pried apart, propped open, and put on display in a blatantly sexual abuse of a Cybertronian's most private, vulnerable part. Overlord had taken his spark many times and in various painful ways, but this sadistic harness wasn't a torture tool. It was meant for decoration. It was meant to display a living being as a thing. It was meant to emphasize how powerless its wearer was, show him as broken slave and well-trained pet, and it flattened Fort Max under cringing, whimpering shame. He couldn't handle the helpless exposure.
He was naked for anyone and everyone to ogle, molest, and use. His core self was open to whatever was done to it, and he couldn't do anything.
It was going to get worse. It always got worse.
Humiliation and horror filled Fortress Maximus' EM field. Fear tightened the shutters around his optics. Overlord's tanks jolted as hopeless optics looked up at him, begging for mercy, for not this, for anything but this. Lust crested in one of those pleasurable ripples deep in the Decepticon, and he grunted. Fort Max was intimately familiar with that sound. He shuddered. He knew Overlord had no pity, he had to know that, but slivers of hope fed his pathetic begging.
It was wonderfully satisfying to watch the Autobot grovel. Overlord licked his lips and asked, "Are you ready to behave?" His thumb rubbed the inside of a peeled-back chest panel, hinting at going further.
His pet whined, vents puffing hot air and fear pouring off his energy field. What Overlord meant, they both knew, was whether Fort Max would cover his spark with his hands again if the cuffs were taken off. Overlord had reintroduced his pet to the heights of agony after a single defiant attempt at tearing the harness off, but breaking Fort Max of the little habits of self-defense was proving more of a trial. Fortress Maximus had a cute but annoying habit of standing in otherwise well-trained obedience except for the flutter of frantic hands in front of his exposed spark. Overlord had beaten him, but it seemed that pain alone wouldn't break him of the bothersome habit.
It wasn't as if Fort Max's hands provided any sort of real protection, but Overlord wanted an unimpeded view. Resistance was a pastime he wanted his pet to trot out another day. Right now, he had a new toy. He wanted to play with it. Fort Max's feelings on the matter were unimportant. Training was therefore necessary.
Fortress Maximus begged with his optics, energy field straining to mesh with Overlord's. Overlord allowed the gesture, idly savoring the pleading pushed at him by his pet, but the ex-warden's shaking became more violent at the vicious pleasure swamping Overlord's powerful EM field.
"No? Hmm. Obviously I'm indulging you too much if this is the result." Overlord's field pulsed satisfaction as already pale optics blanched.
Optics wide, Fort Max immediately dropped to his knees, bending forward against the harness and his bound hands. Muffled words denied that fervently as he nuzzled at Overlord's feet. No, no, discipline wasn't needed! Overlord's good pet was ready to do as ordered. He was a good pet, a grateful slave, and he'd obey, he'd obey.
Stark terror lapped trembling waves of electromagnetic energy over the Decepticon's feet. Fort Max's circuitry bled shivering ripples in sync with the whirl of his spark. His pet, Overlord had noticed, would do practically anything to avoid being welded to the floor of a bar as a public fixture a second time.
So he wasn't surprised that the Autobot obeyed this time around. His hands shook, curled into helpless claws half-raised at his sides when Overlord took the cuffs off, but Fortress Maximus sucked in a deep vent and locked his arms to his sides. Overlord bent over him, watching closely. A reflexive flinch brought his hands up, but not for long. Overlord laughed softly as the ex-warden forced them back down a moment later, leaving that pretty spark exposed for his pleasure.
And it was indeed a pleasure.
"Much better."
[* * * * *]
[* * * * *]
Fortress Maximus - "harmless"
[* * * * *]
**
Long, long afterward. After rescue, on the Lost Light, but Fortress Maximus still can't quite believe he's been saved.
**
Rung called them harmless fantasies. Frag dreams: the things the mind thought of when the body needed release. The mind still knew right from wrong, but sometimes the body desired. And it was alright, he said, hand soft on Fortress Maximus' arm as if he didn't dare apply any pressure. It was the first time the warden of Garrus-9 had outright asked his advice on something, and even though the psychotherapist knew the topic was a delaying tactic to dodge more questions until the end of the session, he still answered.
"Our bodies gather charge in different ways, and often in ways we don't wish." A wry smile twisted the slender mech's thin lips. Fort Max saw it and wondered. "Imagining what you wish to release it does no harm. It's a fantasy. Some fantasies can be given form, but not all." He leaned forward, eyeridges asking the question about just what his patient was dreaming about that he was so uncomfortable. But Rung didn't press verbally; not about this. "There's no shame in using your imagination, Max."
There was. Fortress Maximus hunched over the edge of his too-small berth and marinated in it.
Yet some part of him had fastened on the psychotherapist's assurance. The little mech was millions of years older than him. As stubborn as Fort Max was when it came to acknowledging the therapist might be right about opening up about what had happened at Garrus-9, the depths of his mind wanted to believe Rung about this. No shame. No need for embarrassment or humiliation. It was just a harmless fantasy that never had go beyond the door of this room, that didn't have to last a second beyond what it took to get release.
He glanced around the room, licking his denta. The camera was blocked, which he was sure would drive Red Alert mad, but Fortress Maximus wasn't the type who could screw under surveillance. Even - no. His glossa ran around his mouth again, less nerves than an automatic gesture being in a coma hadn't stopped. The medics at Delphi had done a good job. His denta were all in place again. He'd only been missing three from the left side, but every absent denta had held significance. He wondered what they'd thought of that: his perfectly unharmed mouth, but for those three pulled-out denta. Everything else had been worked over, pried at and raked over and mutilated, but not his mouth.
He didn't want to think about what they'd thought while repairing his interfacing equipment. His internal threads had been stripped. It'd been a long and painful process of repeated violation by too wide a diameter that'd - why was he even thinking about that?
The warden glanced around the room again, gaze lingering on the console. He'd turned the communication frequency on and left the volume on low. He couldn't tell who was talking, or about what. The voices murmured erratically, which was what he wanted.
The room was never silent.
Shame slowed him, but not as much as he kind of wished it would. He pulled his legs up on the berth and rolled until he was up on his knees. His glossa ran another automatic circuit around his denta, probing the places there'd been holes, and he tried to feel more shame than sick arousal for caving this way. His body wanted this, but did he really need to give in to it? It seemed he did.
On his knees, he retracted his interface panel and unfocused his optics. It added up in his mind: the distant sound of voices, the dim lighting of the room, kneeling back on his heels this way. The perverted desire burning in his circuits brought his screw turning out of its tap. That already was more than he'd managed in the washracks listening to Rodimus's clever fingers coax Ultra Magnus into forgetting every footnote ever memorized. That should have been hot enough - frag, who didn't have half an optic locked on their captain's aft at all times? - but it hadn't been.
Fort Max stroked his fingers up between his own threads, and it wasn't Rodimus' flirty colors that ran through his mind's optics. He wished it was.
Fantasy. Harmless fantasy. Most of a memory, but whatever his body needed to get rid of the charge, right?
His screw finally extended all the way, teased out as far as he could manage like this, and he let his head fall back. One hand worked the helix, petting between the threads and trying to force the turning. His interface systems whined, grinding angrily the longer he stalled this way, and Fort Max groaned. Of anyone, of any place his charge could fixate on, why this? There were a thousand reasons why this was a bad idea, a million reasons his hate should eradicate lust, but still his body didn't listen to reason. The quick, vivid mental images roused his systems no matter how he tried to purge them. His imagination clung to Rung's assurance, and his body just didn't care.
He lowered himself grudgingly, joints hissing. Down, subjugated by nothing, bending before no one but the shadows in the corners and his secret fantasy. Lower and lower until his chest pressed to the berth and his aft was the highest part of him. His knees spread
feet carelessly kicked apart before the nails were pounded through, and he'd only just managed not to scream
until the blunt tip of his screw rested against the berth's surface. That felt entirely too good. The slight burn in his hip cables from his knees being positioned this way felt even better. He grunted quietly as his screw gave a turn, and his hips swayed in a small circle that worked the tip against the berth. It wasn't someone's tap, but the small spot of contact had his optics flickering already. He hesitated, scrunching his face against the berth as shame fought a squirming battle in his gut with the blaze of building charge, then reluctantly extended his arms up underneath his shoulder treads. His hands slid up the berth, depriving him of their support completely. His wrists crossed
one nail through them both, angled just enough that he had no leverage to pull it up no matter how hard he strained
but kept restlessly moving. His systems heated rapidly, something about the debased position revving his engine even as his mind tried to block the hot rush of lust. His hips bucked slightly, working the tip of his screw in tiny, blissful circles on the berth, yet it wasn't enough. Not quite. Something was missing, and he was ashamed that this couldn't be enough. Why did his body need so much re-creation? Why, if Rung was right, couldn't this stay a mental exercise? A harmless fantasy that could stay hidden in his head. He could stare into space and daydream while his fingers squeezed between his threads and his screw drilled into his tight fist over and over until the charge finally tripped.
Why couldn't that be it?! Over and done with - but the charge wasn't going anywhere. It was still building. It still had his hips flexing and a muted sound of shuddering lust trying to escape his throat. It just wasn't bleeding off. It kept climbing higher without discharging, because it lacked something.
Blind with the heavy curl of pleasure snagging his hips in a twisting thrust against the berth, he reached over and fumbled on the berthside table. He found something suitable after knocking a couple things to the floor. It was a box for things. Polishing cloths, maybe. Who cared.
He put it under his chin, propping his head up at an incredibly awkward, almost painful angle, and crossed his wrists far up on the berth again. Yes. Yes, this.
Fortress Maximus couldn't muffle his moan, and his hips jerked. His screw's turning picked up, drilling an indent into the berth surface. The blunt tip rubbed into it, lapping waves of indomitable, sick and filthy pleasure up the inside of his thighs in small surges of charge.
His glossa licked, and he chose to pretend there were missing denta. Just one. It'd…it'd gotten worse after the second one, and the sickness in his tanks swelled too far if he thought about that. So he kept his chin up on the box, his limbs down on the berth as if they were nailed there, and let himself sink into the memory. Later, he'd hate himself for how his screw spun to it like a fantasy. Later, not now.
He wasn't allowed to look away. The gag in his mouth kept him from shouting protests, and the nails kept him down. Nothing prevented him from shutting off his optics, but his mechs deserved this much from him. He couldn't stop their suffering, but he could at least witness it.
The Autobot on his knees before Overlord had suffered much already, and Fortess Maximus cringed inside when the Decepticon pushed the used guard away. "You know what I want, Fortress," came that silken, liquid voice. It sounded almost kind. It'd sounded the exact same when Overlord had ordered the guard to open his mouth and suck him. It hadn't even changed pitch when the poor mech refused, but the warlord's lips had curled in a pleased smile. The smile had stayed while he picked up a pair of pliers and set about making the guard want to obey.
The Autobot at Overlord's feet now had no denta left, and wide strips of upper palate had been peeled out of his mouth before Overlord had pretended to notice the screamed pleas. They'd been shrieked for an hour before then.
Fort Max steeled himself and snarled a refusal behind the gag.
"Oh?" Again with the pleased smile. His refusal had been predicted. From the smile, probably anticipated.
Charge snaked up and down the rib crests as Fort Max's screw turned. He ground the tip against the berth faster, the friction less important that what was happening in his head. His fingers opened and closed, helplessly wriggling even though there was nothing holding him down, and his optics dropped to a dim, unseeing light. His hips hitched up slightly, pushing and dropping in miniscule thrusts that were the best he could manage in this position.
He could move, but he wouldn't. The imagined restraints made the bottom drop out of his tanks and a fire lick at the root of his screw, tracing fingers of aching pleasure up it in a slowly twisting spiral. The box dug under Fortress Maximus' chin, and the warden's glossa worked inside his mouth, licking obsessively at his own denta.
"Then perhaps you'll give me what else I want." The pliers were picked up and examined, apparently uncaring of the dripping trail of vital fluids meandering down his wrist from them. The guard huddled on the ground mewled, completely terrorized by the sight, but Fort Max turned the gag against his missing denta and swallowed before jerking his head as much as he could in denial. "I'd say it's a pity, but I enjoy this too much to regret your willfulness." The smile stretched wide. "That's not to say you won't."
His hips squirmed, dropping and bucking until the first narrow thread caught on the berth cover, then rotating upward to scrub the sensitive upper half over it again. His optics blindly watched a fast-forwarded memory of the first guard put through Overlord's terrible game. The mech had sobbed and begged as the massive pistol rested against the top of his head and Overlord shoved his screw back into the empty hole of the tortured Autobot's mouth. Overload, it had been promised, would be met with a single shot.
No hope. No escape. Just using Fort Max's mech for a sadistic frag to punish the warden for refusing. Afterward, the corpse had been kicked to the side, and Overlord had laughed at the warden's helpless fury. Then came the pliers, and an extraction.
And repeat.
He couldn't surrender. Aequitas was more important to the Autobots than any garrison, no matter that they were his.
That didn't mean he didn't want to just give in as Overlord purred his honeyed lies to the disfigured guard. "Make him overload, and I will allow you to leave this room. Understood?" Oh, he'd be allowed to leave the room. In pieces. Fort Max had already seen that promise come true. "Good. Then get to work."
Obedience won nothing from this Decepticon, not until he won everything, and only absolute conquest would be enough. Fortress Maximus could not allow that, no matter how high Overlord kept setting the price of defiance. He braced himself to pay that price yet again.
A whimper of apology came from behind the nailed-down warden, and he yelled furiously behind the gag as the smaller Autobot scooted between his knees. A head nudged under him, the top of a helm wedged up against his belly, and then poor guard set about licking and sucking Fort Max's screw out. It did not, shamefully enough, take too much effort. It spiraled out, and that's when the real horror began for the warden.
Primus, he wished this wasn't firing him up this much. His hips shuddered in tiny motions, more circling in place than making individual thrusts, and his screw turned and turned. The feel of a glossa stroking against his threads was a vivid memory. A vivid, gross memory of pushing against damaged stripes of raw wounds on one side while a frantic glossa worked on the other. He remembered the gaping, hollow place where denta should have been, how they should have scraped into the roots between threads, and but they hadn't. They'd been pulled out to the tune of screamed, pathetic pleas and had been scattered on the floor of the room that had never been silent. The contented rumble of Overlord's engine echoed out of Fort Max's memories, and the stuttered whine of distress from the guard who'd been trying so hard underneath him.
It had all somehow made the soft, continuous motion of lips all the worse because it'd felt so fragging good. That skyrocketing pleasure hadn't faded. The memory still had him gasping in lust more powerful than humiliation or hatred.
He was a monster. This wasn't a harmless fantasy. This was bucking and quivering to a memory, and yet he couldn't stop
thrusting against the hot suck and building charge. Overlord couldn't make his tap react no matter how he fingered the warden's threads, but a screw's reactions were far more involuntary. That's what made this so very terrible. The drive to finish was physical pressure that had Fortress Maximus keening as his limbs twisted desperately against the nails. His neck ached, his wrists shrieked pain, and his hips were pumping into the guard's frenzied mouth. His screw turned, trying to catch internal threads that weren't there, and the lack drove the charge higher. It'd be a painful shock into the smaller Autobot's jaw when he finally discharged; there were reasons that oral wasn't very popular.
But that wasn't what had Fort Max bellowing protest into the gag. Overlord had put down the pliers in front of him - a promise for later, for another denta - and held up his pistol with a sinister grin.
The Decepticon walked around behind the pinned warden and waited. They both knew for what.
The hopeful, despairing guard kept sucking. The hips bucking into his face blocked his view of the pistol pointed at his spark.
Fortress Maximus' hands flattened to the berth, fingers clawing. His back arched up as the overload snapped, at long last, over his systems.
When he could unlock his joints again, his optics had reset so he could see more than static. Trembling with the aftershocks of pleasure, he nudged the box under his chin aside, and then the warden hid his face between his arms. The fantasy had driven him to the peak, past the point of caring that it'd gone beyond imagining and down into wallowing in memory. He couldn't even pretend it'd been a dream he'd climaxed to.
Even so, it hadn't been as good as the real thing. Not…not even close.
He tried not to think about it, but trying not to think about it made him think instead about next time. He burrowed his face into the berth, muffling a pained groan because he already knew, loathe himself though he did, that there'd be a next time.
Rung had been wrong. It hadn't been harmless.