Title: Overcee
Warning: Gore? Nonsexual BDSM of not exactly healthy nature, but it's definitely consensual.
Rating: R
Continuity: IDW
Characters: Overlord, Arcee, Hardhead.
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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Part Three
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She tortured Jhiaxus unconscious. It's the only reason she's lit upon this new obsession, and Overlord's optics flick toward the mangled body every time she turns away. "Stay down," he prays. "Don't wake up."
Because every second Jhiaxus remains unable to feel pain, Arcee turns her attention elsewhere. The only other source of amusement in this cavern is Overlord, so to him she turns, and Overlord wants to keep her to himself. He wants her to slice his lines open, bend his joints the wrong way, take pleasure in his pain. Jhiaxus has no idea how precious Arcee's attention is, nor how much Overlord wishes he could take the scientist's place.
In all this time, Jhiaxus has never stayed unconscious long enough for Arcee to tire of how Overlord's throat moves against the palm of her hand when she lovingly grinds her foot into his exposed interface array. An ununtrium-coated endoskeleton does nothing to protect fragile equipment once he opens himself to her. She unraveled his cables, yanking on them to make the mountings strain. He kept his optics on her as she deliberately dropped them one by one to the ground, smiling that dagger-edged smile that does more damage than the hard pinch she gives his ports, one at a time so he winces in anticipation between each crimp.
She leans in, putting more weight on the foot pinning his cable against the ground. Her optics glint mad as she watches his reaction, eager to catch every involuntary flinch as slow pressure crumples fragile internal parts. Wires mash against wires. There's a barely audible crunch as the casing cracks, and he whimpers when her hand gentles on his throat as if she might let go.
"Shhhhhh," she says, but it's mockery. Her optics gleam as she leans down to whisper her lips across his cheek for no other reason than to put her audio that much closer to his mouth, listening for the stifled grunt as her heel comes down once more. She enjoys his suffering. Another cable casing cracks open, smashing flat under her heel. She shifts her weight onto the connector itself, and he groans.
When he attempts to straighten up - even on his knees she can't loom over him - the fancy bit of frippery she wound around her fist goes taut. She pulls it, and he bows the moment it threatens to snap. The collar around his throat will break long before she could actually haul him down, but hints of her strength make him buckle at the knees every time.
She guides him down further into a groveling bow, and he should feel ashamed but he can't suppress the helplessly smitten optics he turns up toward her. He cranes his neck to gaze up at his mistress, his owner, his tormentor and charnel house goddess.
Balancing on one leg, she kicks him lightly under the chin. Lightly for her, anyway. His ventilation system stutters as his throat closes off, and he gags on the collapsed intake. Then she wraps her foot in the leash, smiles wickedly, and slams it to the ground in a harsh stomp onto a previously-abused section of his main interface cable. Sparks spit into the dirt, the outer coating splitting apart, and Overlord shudders, fingers digging helplessly into the ground beside his own broken connector. The leash holds him nearly face-first into her foot.
She shifts, putting her weight on the toe gradually, and he pants from far more than a crushed air shaft as his already-cracked connector bends inward, metal creaking. A single, snapped-off prong pops out. It pings off his forehelm and sticks out of the dirt like a spectator watching him writhe.
He holds a cry in, clawing for enough control not to scream. Jhiaxus screams. She doesn't torture Overlord for his screams. She doesn't bend down to hear his agony.
Thick, pleasure-laced pain comes out in a quiet, "Ah-ahh-hhn," and he can almost feel her chuckle, it comes out so low and deep. The sound caresses him like the hand she generously pets down his back.
His systems shiver inside him, squirming under the praise of her pleasure. The glittering, thread-thin leash she tied around his neck now lies slack in the dirt as he surrenders completely to her control. Bending forward, he bows in humble worship to her.
She stands over him and rocks her ankle to slide broken parts together in his connector. Wires scrape rock. The broken metal of his connector grates along the ground, prongs jiggling loosely in their slots. Overlord moans throatily and raises his head, optics blurring as his fans struggle to keep him cool. It hurts, a prolonged ache he'll carry behind his panel for days if he even bothers to close it. He probably won't. Anything to encourage a proprietary hand on his unprotected equipment is a good idea.
Handfuls of dirt compress to stone in his fists, and he presses a kiss to the arch of her foot as his connector crackles close enough to singe his lips. She laughs again, and the leash goes taut as she pulls him up to see his face. The sight of her smile slashes fierce joy across his spark, a lash like a whip, and sparks suddenly spit from his connector. Overload discharges in a pent-up flash, electricity skittering through the dirt as she thrusts his face back into it, and he gasps air hot enough to burn the back of his throat.
"How many times can you do that?" she asks. What would have been a filthy whisper from anyone else is a frank question delivered in a conversational tone. "Get yourself off. I don't want to waste my time tending to a charged-up pet, so you get your hands on it. Stuff your ports. I don't want to hear what you're imagining when you're finger-fragging yourself. I don't care. I just want to see it." She wants to watch him obey her. The way he pants on her feet pleading for simple acknowledgement entertains her.
Overlord fumbles, system-shock hitting him in the backwash of the pain-driven overload, but it's simple work to reach underneath himself and find his eager ports. The latchkeys are warped from her play. It's a delicious pain as they click against his fingertips. Brushing against the hot metal, he teases himself even as he begs, "Please, mistress…"
"Stop wasting my time."
His other hand closes over her foot, thumb rubbing under the toe since she hasn't moved. If anything, all her weight now balances on the crimped connector she stands on. Sizzling flashes of pleasure so intense it feels like pain, pain so deep it can only be pleasure ram into his sensory system as he strokes himself. Overlord blindly presses open-mouthed kisses to her foot, unable to see more than a smudge of pink as he ramps back up toward a second overload.
She hauls his head up by the antenna, the heel of her hand on his cheek, and he dims his optics. His world is pink, her pink, his whole world is pain and pleasure and her. Fingers drag across his lips as if cleaning the dust away as he feels everything she inflicts on him and dares ask for more.
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