In which Megatron wishes Optimus were less enthusiastic a harem slave

Title: Tyrant of the Seraglio, Pt. 1


Interfacing (cable/tactile)

BDSM (dominance/submission, slavery)


Rape (arguably so, anyway)

Author's inability to take anything seriously

Rating: NC-17

Continuity: IDW/G1 (AU)

Characters: Megatron, Optimus Prime, Skywarp

Disclaimer: The theatre doesn't own the script or actors, nor does it make a profit from the play.

Fic-for-Pic Motivation (Prompt): Megatron/Optimus – overconfidence

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"It's always Starscream's fault. Somehow, inevitably, it's always Starscream's fault." Megatron rested his head on one fist and eyed the wide band of metal wrapped around his opposite wrist wearily. It looked like an ornate piece of armor but operated as an ownership claim. Because no slave society was complete without its version of a slave collar.

"I would have thought it more your fault," Optimus no-longer-Prime muttered. It was an old argument, a conversational rut worn through the middle of their days by repetition. Grind that resentment a little deeper, Megatron. "You ignored him." Prod him a little further, Optimus. "You shouldn't have ignored him."

"How should I have known it was any different than any of his other ravings?" the old tyrant complained. "He threw a new fit every other day." He lifted his head in order to use the hand. The welds on the band were tested, one by one, and Megatron didn't even appear to notice he was doing it. The check of fingers against the sealed catches was as habitual as the lazy glare Optimus threw at him for it.

As habitual as the sighed, "It won't come off. " They both knew it. Megatron did his little checklist of rebellion: wrist and forearm, pick pick pick down the welds. Optimus just watched. In a way, it was his own version of rebellion: refusing to assist, refusing to be involved. Apathy instead of cooperation. Apathy that didn't change when the band-locks reached their conductor limit and gave a warning shock. It sat Megatron up in a real hurry, and Optimus cycled another heavy pull of air through, sighing again. "You should have listened."

"To you now, or to Starscream then?" Megatron said sourly, but it was an old sour like lemons left to rot. Old arguments squeezed of all their juice. It would be sad, but Megatron couldn't do sad. The closest he could do was nostalgia, and even then he had to be roaring drunk. "Starscream was a fool."

"And you're an idiot." Complacent as he ever was these days, Optimus drifted across the room and settled on the corner of the table. It was a decorative thing not meant to bear much weight, but he was an old hand at balancing on finicky furniture nowadays. "You would have said I led an army of fools, but you never ignored us."

That got him a thoughtful look. "No, I didn't." The banded wrist laid flat on the table. It might have, maybe, slid a tiny distance toward the ex-Prime. "But Starscream was not one of your fools."

"No." Optimus gave the hand slo~o~wly creeping toward him a bland look and edged his aft a little further away. It wasn't an old dance, nowhere near the age of their verbal banter, but the steps were familiar. They already knew where and how it would end, just like the argument would come to the same slagging conclusion when they were finished beating that dead equine yet again. "But I wasn't your Second-in-Command, Megatron. 'Keep your friends close and your enemies closer,' as the humans said."

"Don't talk humanisms at me." Resentment edged the words, but Megatron's expression was strangely tolerant. "Starscream was nominally my ally."

"You kept him closer than you kept me." The pout would have been hidden by a battlemask in times past. Megatron would dare to say his old foe wouldn't have used the expression at all, but who knows what Optimus had been like among his Autobots? "I just mean to say that if there's any truth in the saying, you should have known who was the more dangerous fool and paid more attention."

"Really." That hand continued creeping. "Closer, hmm?" The wristband buzzed warning. Megatron eyed it and pushed a little further.

"I think you just like ignoring things until they hurt you," Optimus said, slightly amused as the silver mech was zapped again.

"I never ignored you," Megatron snapped, rubbing his stung wrist.

"Obviously you never wanted me to hurt you." Amusement became obnoxious cheer, and Optimus beamed. "By that logic, you practically asked for this!"

"I. Asked. For this." Flat and unamused? Megatron's glare could pancake comedians. "I asked to wear this," he waved his arm, showcasing the slave band, "and I asked to –" He cut himself off and looked away.

"Yes." Real feeling had been scooped out, argument by argument, until only traces remained lingering around the edges. Optimus' expression was almost remote, and his voice held the bare echo of sympathy. "You did. When you ignored Starscream."

"It's his fault!" burst out of the old tyrant, and around they went again.

The time came when they eventually gave up. Not because either of them had won their side of their argument, of course, but because the door at the far end of the room opened. Megatron turned about in his chair but didn't get up; insolence had been a habit ingrained long before slavery. Via constant tiny movements of the chair and his hand, he'd managed to chivvy Optimus to the very end of the table, and the ex-Prime simply slid the rest of the way off to stand straight.

The Autobot immediately swept into a shallow bow. He always did that when someone opened the door of the harem, however, so it wasn't as special as one might think. Had it been his toybox, Megatron reflected bitterly, it would have been a move reserved solely for his entrance and no other's. But then, had it been his toybox, no one else would have been allowed to play with the toys inside.

Oh, and Prime would have worn chains. Functional ones. And not just on days when their master wanted him to look pretty.

Also, it would have been his toybox. That was a detail worth repeating. His harem, not him inside the harem.

Yeah. Important detail, that.

"My lord?" The ex-Prime looked up, face set in solemn lines and blue optics somber. Megatron had hated him for that at first, but it was difficult to hate the leader of the Autobots for stepping up to this the way he had every other duty. To Optimus, this was a duty as serious as war. More than, really. This particular duty had, in a way, ended their war.

There was a reason only Megatron got the electrified armband.

Skywarp's optics slid past Megatron the way they always did. "Optimus." Red optics settled happily on the ex-Prime, content with 'not-seeing' the leader Skywarp had once followed diligently. "C'mere. You're mine for the cycle." The teleporter bounced into the room with an excitement that never faded. Civil war might be over, but battlefield crushes didn't fade so quickly. Turning fantasy into reality, surprisingly, hadn't dulled the edge off Skywarp's illicit little crush…but, then again, his access to said fantasy-turned-reality was strictly controlled.

Despite Megatron's complaints, he knew Starscream wasn't that much of a fool.

Optimus didn't show the slightest reaction to Skywarp's words, one way or another. It wasn't resignation so much as simple familiarity. Emotional extremes of disappointment or interest had long been worn down to a subdued, if fundamentally good-natured, stoicism. "As my master commands, my lord."

The most nauseating thing about it was how sincere Optimus sounded. Megatron glared as the ex-Prime strode forward with the same confidence he'd once held walking into battle, but Optimus was no longer armed. The Autobot had been stripped of weaponry and the Matrix, leaving his body oddly smaller for all that he hadn't actually changed physically. What had been taken from him was leadership. Without the Primacy, all that met Skywarp in the middle of the room was the memory of a strong leader.

Optimus argued he led still, but Megatron insisted in turn he'd just sold his body. But as he watched Skywarp's arms wrap around the grounder, it was hard to call the deal anything but fair. One mech in return for peace? It wasn't as if they were hurt. Enslaved, degraded, and humbled – but not hurt. As far as prices for peace went, the ex-Prime considered it a good bargain.

Really, the only stipulation Optimus had demanded was the lack of pain, and from what he'd told Megatron, that had been something the other Autobots had insisted on. Optimus had entered the harem prepared to be an abused toy. From the moan Skywarp's hands were pulling out of him at the moment, the lack of abuse wasn't missed. Skywarp played nice. Skywarp played very nice.

Megatron shifted in the chair, refusing to acknowledge how nice.

Optimus' altmode was still a semi-truck, for all that he hadn't transformed in ages, but Skywarp was still larger. The flyer swept the ex-Prime into his arms and bent him back into a kiss deep enough to mine. One hand slipped down and – as if to mock Megatron – successfully groped the Autobot's aft. The other rubbed up along the edges of the plating on his back, slowly bringing the mech back upright. Optimus offered no resistance, and in fact raised his hands to cup around Skywarp's face as the kiss eased back into something less like a depth charge. As soon as Skywarp's lips left his, Optimus caught them again. Skywarp made a small noise of pleasure and cocked his head to slide their mouths into a better fit.

The Autobot twined his leg around the flyer's thruster, pulling it up so that the tires rolled over Skywarp's leg, and one blue hand left Skywarp's jaw in order to stroke up the inside of an air intake. Red optics flared wide, and suddenly the powerful growl of a flight engine riproared across the room. Their lips parted as Skywarp gasped a curse, and Optimus smiled a bit.

"The berth, my lord?" The calm voice remained unfazed, but there were blue fingers playing across Skywarp's jaw and around the intake rim.

Megatron stubbornly turned away, refusing to watch as someone who had been one of his most loyal followers turned the mech who'd been his arch-nemesis about and smacked him on the aft to hustle him along. Optimus' deep voice had reserves of dignity toys shouldn't have access to. If Megatron turned off his optics, he could almost imagine that voice speaking across a negotiation table from him. Maybe not a battlefield, but perhaps there might have come a time when they didn't have to shout at each other. A time that didn't involve a slave band he couldn't remove and extraneous sounds that clearly had nothing to do with negotiating. At least, not negotiating with Megatron.

He twitched a glance toward the noise almost involuntarily, and he nearly groaned. In exasperation! That was all!

Pick pick pick ZAP!

The shock hurt, but he still didn't look away.

Skywarp was chasing Optimus around the desk again. Skywarp was a teleporter, for Primus' sake, but he stalked the Autobot step by step. Optimus was as solemn as ever, going so far as to snap his battlemask over his face. A hint of a crinkle could still be seen at the edges of his optics, however, betraying some kind of emotion. He could have been repressing a smile or a processor-ache, but there was a certain coyness to the way he lightly dodged the opposite direction around the desk. It suggested the ex-Prime was having a bit of fun.

Skywarp reversed quickly to chase, but – as dignified as always – Optimus ducked under the desk. The chair-well was too narrow to allow for Skywarp's wings, something learned by trying to follow the smaller grounder under in the past. Not that it mattered, anyway; the point seemed to be that now the duo could go through their strange roleplay.

It was ridiculous. Just like it was ridiculous that a teleporter would chase someone around. Skywarp would crouch there and try to coax Optimus out. Sometimes he succeeded. Sometimes he tired of the play and flat-out ordered the slave out. Most of the time he fished around under the desk until he caught a limb, and then he used it to pull Optimus out.

The flyer liked to do that for reasons the ex-Prime would only smile silently about, and that led Megatron to think it had something to do with before…before. Which meant that his loyal follower might have been chasing Optimus around furniture prior to the end of the war. Which didn't actually mean much in terms of today, but it would have meant treason back then. Megatron tried not to think about it. Past treason couldn't be helped, but thinking about it tended to make him angry for reasons pertaining more to here and now than back then.

He'd been in the harem too long to get upset over people enjoying themselves anymore. There was little point to it. He'd been confined because…well, because. Optimus had voluntarily surrendered and come to the harem himself. Everyone else visited to have a good time. That's why mechs went to a harem. Nobody wanted to reach into a toybox and find a bear trap waiting inside. They were sent here as a reward for exemplary service, after all, and Megatron couldn't even argue that the mechs his master sent didn't deserve a reward. He just didn't want to be one of the toys in the toybox.

"Come o~o~ut," Skywarp called playfully, and Megatron grimaced.

He looked away again when the purple-and-black Seeker stuck an arm under the desk, fishing for miscellaneous grab-able bits. Optimus would allow himself to be pulled out. The play was what Skywarp liked, but what he ultimately wanted involved the berth instead of the desk. Optimus played along as he always did, because he genuinely believed it was his duty to give their…visitors…what they wanted. Like any duty he'd had as Prime, he gave this one his all.

It disgusted Megatron. The fact that Optimus actively sought to enjoy his duties disgusted him more. He ruthlessly suppressed the part of him that wondered if he could derive any enjoyment from harem slavery if he were any more suited to being a dutiful mech. Maybe, had he been just an officer instead of the leader of the Decepticons..?

No. There was a faint bit of doubt lodged in the back of his mind, but what rational mech could embrace slavery? Megatron couldn't be unique in that. Even with the understanding that vorns of endlessly recycled discussions with the ex-Prime gave him, Megatron still found Optimus' dedication to this so-called 'duty' extremely backward. Optimus had been a dock worker before he'd been Prime. He'd had more day-to-day freedom than any energon miner. While Megatron compared most Autobots to easily-led sheepicrons, they were too independent to be herded into a life of slavery. If they were, they would have succumbed to the Decepticons under Megatron's rule. His demands might have required enslaving some, but surely the Autobots hadn't fought him because they thought he sought to enslave them all.

Had he really seemed that unreasonable?

It was a question Optimus had refused to give a straight-forward answer to. Not once, in all this time forced into each other's company. Perhaps the Autobot didn't want to think about the millions of years of war that might have been avoided if he'd just surrendered to Megatron this way. Or perhaps Optimus didn't want to open that box of worms. Because if Megatron had perpetuated their war, handled any and everything wrong to the point where being overthrown and his regime crushed, his freedom taken away, had been the solution to civil war –

- if Optimus' insistence that Megatron had brought this on himself was correct -

One hand fumbled, automatically seeking permanently closed seals. Pick pick pick ZAP!

Megatron shook himself and sat up straighter. Optimus just didn't want to be miserable. Yes. It was, in a bizarre way, the only personal freedom a slave had left.

From all the moaning going on, Optimus wasn't miserable now. Megatron's optics skipped over the berth, but there was something about the smooth length of white thighs that captured his attention every time. Despite himself, his optics zeroed in. Frag it.

Pick pick pick ZAP!

…still couldn't look away. Could he ever?

He hated slavery, but sell him for scrap if it didn't sometimes have its perks.

Skywarp had knelt on the berth with the Autobot's legs up over his shoulders, wings comfortably wedged between the rubber tires. Optimus bucked up from the pillows as purple hands slid a polishing cloth up one of those long grounder legs. The Seeker had to snag the leg he lavished attention on with his free hand when thumbing a sensitive seam caused an uncontrolled kick. There wasn't much force behind the kick, and Skywarp turned his head to lick at Optimus' knee. That got another moan and twisting motion that was more encouragement than escape attempt. Avid optics watched his reaction, and licks turned to light nips. Skywarp nibbled his way across what gears and cables flexed into reach, visually molesting the Autobot all the while.

The cloth circled back to that seam, 'polishing' it again and again until Optimus relented. The mask retracted, and Skywarp chortled, letting go of the ex-Prime's legs in order to lean down over him. The tires rolled off his wings, and Optimus' legs fell to either side of his waist instead as Skywarp stole a kiss from revealed lips. Theft turned into something slow and sensual when the ex-Prime's hands stopped clutching Skywarp's thighs and moved to start tracing nonsensical patterns up the flyer's back. The kiss was practically breaking and entering by the time those hands slid under Skywarp's wings and began wandering about there.

Skywarp's hands lightly rubbed blue antenna before stroking all the way back down Optimus' body to grip the mech's sleek thighs again. Skywarp dug his thumbs in, making the ex-Prime rumble. "Mine," the flyer said, words escaping in short gasps between their mouths. "You're mine!"

"I belong," dents popped in under Skywarp's possessive hold, and Optimus' voice lowered to a bass the same pitch as his racing engine, "to my master." The dented thighs tucked up, and windshield frames clinked against canopy glass as Optimus surged back into the kiss.

Purple fingers splayed on white thighs were a mesmerizing sight. Lips parted and met again, whispering silvery metal soundtrack to the show, and Skywarp arched as a joint got tweaked just right. Optimus knew what he liked, and in the harem, what he liked, he got. Although he wasn't their owner.

As soon as the kiss broke, the Autobot heaved his hips. Fighter jets were heavier than semi-trucks. That was just a fact of reality. Also real was the fact that Optimus had far more hand-to-hand combat experience than any Seeker used to fighting from the air. Experience and leverage had Skywarp tumbled onto his cockpit before the teleporter could process it. This was good and therefore fighting it was a poor idea anyway.

But he figured that out on his own soon enough. Right about the time Optimus buried his face between nosecone and helm to dig teeth into the back of his neck, to be specific.

Skywarp squealed and bucked, but Optimus was having none of it. The holding bite moved down to the tip of Skywarp's nosecone, and his hand came down on the Seeker's aft as if punishing him for the smack earlier. Squealing turned to unidentifiable words immediately afterward, all garbled by static or spoken into the crook of an arm as biting turned to hard suction. Skywarp collapsed flat on his cockpit and commenced squirming about with a complete lack of pride. The Autobot gave him one more reproving spank before moving to straddle said spanked aft. That freed up his hands to rake down the back of white vents, then rub firm circles down the vulnerable strip of wing-joints where wings attached to the flyer's back. Aaaaaall the way down the joints, down to his waist - and then he started back up again. Even harder this time. Hard enough to shake Skywarp's wings with every circle until they banged on the berth and sent the pillows to the floor.

One arm was joined by the other, and Skywarp wrapped them around his head as if to contain his yelling. Purple hands seized his own helm vents, and there was some seriously ecstatic wriggling going on. Charge crackled in white waves over black plating, and there were teeth marks on the purple nosecone. Optimus worked his mouth over it meticulously, almost chewing on the sensor-laden point. The teleporter's alignment grid drew 38.5% of its data from the sensor network packed into his nosecone, and the ex-Prime forced his tongue into every recessed node, gnawed gently on the protrusions.

Megatron couldn't even pretend to be aloof anymore. Optimus so rarely broke out his dominant side that Megatron had to stop himself from standing up just to get a closer look. The old tyrant's hand pick-picked its way down the wristband, but the warning shock barely registered this time since Skywarp tossed his head back and shouted right then.

"Oh, Pri~imus!"

The yelled warbled weirdly in the middle as Skywarp's vocalizer tried to span four octaves in two syllables. The Autobot on his back pushed him back down and started digging his hands under the flyer in search of more grid-points. That yell was really the last coherence available. Skywarp went back to thrashing and making sounds of senseless pleasure. Building charge spat and flamed against the boundaries of the Seeker's energy field, occasionally forming an iridescent bubble of charge that flashed across his wings.

Megatron set his feet against the floor and pressed into the chair back to stop the ludicrous urge to get up and join them. He drew in a deep vent of air that reeked of lightning-burnt ozone, then sent every fan to exhaling that air in one long, slow, meditative push.

He'd always had a short temper, but he hadn't realized how poor his self-control had become until control had been taken away. When self-discipline and control belonged to someone else, it'd made him intensely conscious of how little he'd been using previously. It'd been surprising to discover how much he'd indulged himself in violence when he didn't get his way. After millions of years as leader of the Decepticons, he'd found he didn't take 'no' well. It'd been something of a history lesson. He'd had to remember techniques for controlling himself he hadn't had to use since his days as a miner.

After vorns of watching scenes like this, he used them now without even thinking about it.

Electricity arced between the ex-Prime's palms and the pointed tips of Skywarp's wings. Charge flowed in transparent sheets that flashed and sizzled, transferring to Optimus' hands in miniature pillars of lightning. Optimus flexed his hands, changing the shape of the vivid discharges like a mad mechanical Tesla. He rolled a wrist, and a skein of light wrapped around his hands before merging into their energy fields and making both mechs groan. Blue hands flattened, stroking inward as if gathering the charge in to where white thighs straddled Skywarp's aft. The Seeker hunched, head burrowing into his arms. The rest of his body bowed off the berth until only Optimus' weight kept him down.

Splashes of crackling charge lapped up the ex-Prime's legs. It wasn't enough, and Optimus reached out again. Blue fingers stripped plating of paint and charge alike in large handfuls that were dragged to the spark-spitting point where Autobot metal met Decepticon. Skywarp keened, his energy field shaped into a densely transparent cloud under Optimus' hands. Turbines spun and flight engines roared, but the dark bass of a grounder's engine rumbled under Skywarp's mindless wails. Optimus sculpted and held fistfuls of energy, red and blue rocking on top of purple and black: riding the charge in a blindingly white saddle.

If there had ever been a sight of more passion, some numb part of Megatron's mind prayed Primus never showed it to him. His internals were already running ragged just watching this. The strained rattle of his fans wasn't even audible through Skywarp's cries.

Somehow, however, he could clearly hear the deep growl of Optimus ordering the Seeker, "Turn over."

Megatron pried one hand off the chair armrest and desperately clawed at the armband, deliberately overstepping the band-lock conductors hard and fast. The shock this time was closer to a punishing jolt, and it burnt through the circuitry of his arm like fire crawling up his arm. The cables on his neck briefly stood out as he bit back the pain, but it allowed him to whirl around. It let him look away.. His hands locked on the table edge, crushing it slightly in his grip.

When the wash of static from the punishment filtered back out of his vision, he focused on that table. The decorative scrolling on the underside was a mess, now. His master would be so disappointed. The action/reaction-hobbler keyed into him from the slave band had been dialed back vorns ago when Megatron had stopped smashing up the furniture. It'd been an encouraging sign, at least so far as a slave master was concerned. At the time, Megatron had just barely restrained himself from throwing another desk through the window out of sheer spite.

In the end, the luxury of having his full strength had won out over pride. It had taken over 100 vorns to gain that 'privilege.' Now he'd probably be limited again – unless he apologized, of course, which wasn't going to happen. Not at the price of his scraps of pride. He was no Optimus.

Optimus had sold out, surrendering gracefully to their owner and gaining back a peculiar kind of authority in his enslavement. Skywarp obeyed the order without question, without even a flicker of irritation at being ordered about by a slave. While Optimus didn't abuse that ability, it was common knowledge that there wasn't a mech who entered the harem who wouldn't bend before the ex-Prime's whims.

It was Optimus' duty as a harem slave to give the mechs his master gifted him to their reward. He took this duty seriously and never pushed his boundaries. The strange result was that everyone remembered whose slave he was, what status he had as a mech owned by another, but they collectively failed to treat him as an actual slave. Megatron, on the other hand, had not surrendered, would never surrender, and could not stop pushing his limits. It made everyone all the more aware that he was nothing but a slave.

Technically, any mech allowed into the toybox could play with the toys inside. The vast majority preferred to play with Optimus. As Motormaster had put it, interfacing with Megatron was like hooking up to lead brick. An angry lead brick. One with the potential to blow up while a mech was connected, which hurt like the Pit for every party involved.

Interfacing with Optimus couldn't even be rated on the same scale. It just…couldn't. The comparison just couldn't happen.

Megatron had been there for the awkward first vorns. He'd witnessed somber Optimus no-longer-Prime use duty and patience to file down the mountain of humiliation wearing a slave band imparted. Their endless arguments had started circling, and constant exposure had worn away the jagged edges of emotion. Time had pared away embarrassment. It'd left an Autobot more impassive than involved, more inclined to apathy than sympathy, but it'd also taught a relative amateur in the berth tricks to make a hedonist scream.

So, the choice between Megatron or Optimus? Really not a hard one. Especially in the case of Decepticons like Skywarp, who still skipped their optics past their former leader because it was easier than acknowledging him. There was defeat, and then there was defeat so complete it totally subjugated the defeated.

The Autobots had chosen surrender for the sake of peace, and their leader had walked into that subjugation with optics wide open.

Megatron stared at the broken table and bitterly thought about how servitude suited some. Not him. Never him.

It was a cycle of thoughts 167.89 vorns old, however, and it came right back to where he'd started. Even defiance lost its fire after a while. He lifted his optics, feeling a resigned sort of pleasure as he took in the sight of Optimus on all fours above Skywarp. Dented white thighs straddled the flyer's hips, and Skywarp's legs kicked out periodically in helpless spasms of pleasure. Megatron reluctantly released the table and rearranged his hands on the armrests again. He couldn't escape it. Might as well watch, right?

The duo were lip-locked together as firmly as the welded catches on Megatron's armband. Their optics were offline but still glittered dully with shared charge as Optimus' hands kneaded slowly across the wide expanse of Skywarp's wings. Lightning followed his hands like he was fingerpainting, occasionally zipping in rippling waves up his arms. By the time the ex-Prime's erotic massage worked from wingtip to back hinges, the wings shimmered under a skin of barely-contained energy as the flyer's field fluxed and distorted, trying to meld with Optimus'.

Optimus' eventually worked his hands up to Skywarp's cockpit, however. The latch had popped sometime - back when the door had first opened in all likelihood - and blue hands dipped inside. Optimus drew away from Skywarp the way some mechs tore themselves away from a cube of the finest high grade, and Megatron consciously stopped himself from biting his own lip when Skywarp gently caught the Autobot's bottom lip in his teeth. Optimus nuzzled back into the kiss, but his hands didn't stop pulling the thin strands of interface cables out from under canopy glass. His fingers pinched on one coruscating cable, compressing the clear cover over excited circuitry just enough for the Seeker to arch, gasping.

The cables slid through blue fingers, combed straight. They lit up into a dazzling glitter of multicolored circuitry in the wake of the pressure, and one strand snagged. Optimus paused to untangle it by feel alone, still concentrating on peppering Skywarp with erratic, light kisses. Cable untangled, it was laid back into the thick skein of strands laying across one blue palm. Optimus combed his fingers through them again while Skywarp pushed frantically into his hands. And again, squeezing his fingers together with just a smidgen of harshness.

Skywarp's cables were a bundle of racing lights that sped noticeably faster when squeezed, and the Seeker's legs kicked wildly. For every mewling cry, the ex-Prime took Skywarp's mouth in a deep kiss until the sobbed sounds muffled to whimpers. When the grounder lifted his head this time, Skywarp didn't have enough wits left in his head to stop him. Purple hands floundered about until they found the ex-Prime's antenna, but it seemed to be more of a handhold on reality than an attempt at holding Optimus in place. Optimus' motor still purred, and he turned his head into the sensation.

Megatron swallowed and tightened his grip on the chair as the ex-Prime's chest clicked open. From where he sat, he could only see the windshield swing down into view, but he knew what was behind the glass. White charge snapped between canopy glass and windshield, almost hiding the multicolored flit and flicker of Optimus' cables dropping down. Truck cab met jet cockpit, and their fields synchronized with a visible snap shooting charge in a sudden crackling wash of lightning over the two mechs. Skywarp arched off the bed, wings twitching and mouth open in a soundless scream, and even Optimus faltered before getting a hold of himself.

The first connection redirected everything to channel the through the cables instead. The strands flared in brilliant streaks of moving light colored by Skywarp's gold glass and reflecting off Optimus' red paint. The cable circuitry sparkled, lights moving so fast and glowing so bright that a laser lightshow dotted the ceiling and walls with colors.

Optimus hands were almost hidden as he connected the dozen of leads one by one, turning the jumbled handfuls of cable into a carefully woven network. One cable from Skywarp linked into his chest, then the corresponding cable from him went into the Seeker's cockpit. The blue of his optics darkened as each lead snapped into place, almost disappearing into the white flare of conducted charge, but there was no mistaking the minute smile playing across his face. Any other mech would be a formless mass of panting intakes and hands all over. Megatron was cycling his ventilation system like the meditative exercise could save him from that fate. Optimus just lost his dignified mien enough to show real desire instead of Dutiful Harem Slave.

Honestly, it was like being stuck in a harem with the patron saint of interfacing. Megatron had known dead mechs who'd sit up and beg for a piece of that!

The ex-Prime sat back, stretching the cables out between them. Skywarp's hands groped uncertainly after the antenna pulled out of reach, but Optimus waited until some semblance of thought returned to the Seeker. The ongoing litany of gasped cries throttled back as Skywarp chewed on his own lip and shuddered, blinking rapidly. When the pulsing wash of pleasure ebbed enough to show anything but blind lust in red optics, Optimus leaned back over him and held up the sparking ends of the last two cables. He brought them between their faces and used them to trace the Decepticon's mouth.

"Oh," Skywarp groaned, shivery and high. The cables nudged in to momentarily flirt with the Seeker's tongue before gliding out to rest on Skywarp's bottom lip. It trembled under them, trying to mouth the ends, trying to complete the final connection. It would blow Skywarp's mind and overload his body. He was so close - so close! "Don't tease!"

"Are you my master?" the ex-Prime asked softly, and something richly painful crossed Skywarp's face at the pointed question. Optimus blinked innocently. "My lord, I obey only my master's commands."

The cables began to lift away, and denied pleasure became very like agony. "Please!" Skywarp bleated, whining.

A crooked smile came and went: point made. "Of course," red optics deepened, darkened, lenses blowing wide as Optimus bent low to whisper against the sparking cable tips, nearly against Skywarp's mouth, "my lord."

The ex-Prime's lips descended, parted – and connected.

[* * * * *]

[ A/N: Next up: a distinct lack of sex. Skywarp reveals what he did to get his hand in the cookie jar this time, Soundwave tries to find where the pillows went, and certain Combaticons prove themselves the worst harem guards in the history of ever.]