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Ironhide, Prowl, Mirage and Sunstreaker hated Megatron.
They had all the reasons to, doubtlessly, but they also understood the merit of allying with him when there was a common danger threatening Cybertron (this time it was zombie Sweep invasion; seriously? How many times did they have to be killed?). And so, when they combined into Optimus Maximus and their hatred multiplied, solidified in one great fiery feeling blazing in their chest, they still managed to keep it under control. In a way, it only helped to stabilize their combined state, which was supposed to be based on unity of thoughts and wishes.
The problem was that Optimus brought quite different emotions with him.
He couldn’t hide those emotions, not when the five of them were one, and so the four Autobots – no, Optimus Maximus – saw it all, felt it all. Deeply rooted respect. Frustrated annoyance. Carefully repressed longing for a mech that didn’t exist anymore – a gentle miner with sharp words and honest spark.
Desire.
Okay, that one was a bit freaky, and Ironhide, Prowl, Mirage and Sunstreaker would’ve freaked out if they could, but for now they all were parts of a combined whole, and that powerful desire coursed through them, igniting the energon in their veins. It was there on the background as they fought the undead legions, it fueled their rage when light from laser fire danced on Megatron’s silvery plating, reflected in the energon spots on his bloodied armor. And it didn’t fade with the roar of the battle, when the day was won and they stood on the scorched and ragged surface of Luna-2 among the remains of the fallen army. The rest of the Cybertronian defenders were wise to keep away from the chaos the unstoppable Optimus Maximus and the former Decepticon warlord wrought, so now they were alone, only the crackling of fire burning upon spilled energon breaking the silence.
“That went well.” Megatron put his hands on his hips, looking around in that proud manner that made Optimus Maximus growl. Megatron wasn’t allowed to be happy. Megatron had done too much evil – tricked him into selling out the Autobots, made Bombshell manipulate his mind, killed so many of his friends, desecrated and defiled the ideals of equality and freedom – he should have been punished, must be punished… Optimus Maximus’s colossal fists clenched, but he didn’t move. He was the defender of all sentient beings, and that meant he couldn’t harm Megatron if the ex-tyrant wasn’t doing anything incriminating. Which he wasn’t, if one didn’t count that cocky smirk, and that way he angled his hips as he stood there all smug and infuriating, and that heat that radiated from his frame, and those scuffs and dents on his armor, like reminders of a rough night of fragging…
Images flooded Optimus Maximus’s mind, all fantasies which plagued Optimus Prime’s dreams and which he chased away during his “alone time”, because the leader of the Autobots did not masturbate to the image of his archnemesis. He had no control over them now, though, when they mixed with his other four parts’ emotions and turned into something different, something darker.
Megatron, to his misfortune, remained unaware of the gestalt’s inner struggle.
“Funny how it turned out,” he said, strolling to Optimus Maximus, and seriously, that slight, subtle sway of his hips should be illegal. “I tried to get a combiner of my own for so long, and this is how I get one.” He grinned and patted Optimus Maximus’s leg. Possessively. Condescendingly.
Unacceptable!
Optimus Maximus roared, the primal sound echoing across the plateau. His next movement was swift: faster than it seemed possible for such a large creature he grabbed Megatron and swept him in the air.
“No! Optimus Maximus not belong to Megatron!” the combiner snarled. Megatron writhed in his grasp, so small and vulnerable, arms trapped by huge fingers wrapped around his middle.
Something fierce, hot and poisonous unfurled inside the gestalt.
It would be so easy to squeeze tighter, to see the armored plates crack and break, to crush this mech in his fist like a doll… But even now, with his mind already slow and bleary, he remembered who he was. Optimus Maximus, the champion of justice. A hero. An Autobot. He didn’t want to kill anyone.
He wanted something else.
“Optimus Maximus not belong to Megatron,” he repeated, bringing his captive closer to his face. “Megatron belong to Optimus Maximus!”
A certain sound came from below – a very familiar clicking sound, only much, much louder. Optimus Maximus seemed as surprised as Megatron, so they both glanced down. There was a sharp gasp from Megatron right after that.
“Oh…” He bit his lip, optics shimmering with a feverish tone of red. “Woah.”
All parts of Optimus Maximus, were they capable of separate thoughts right now, would have agreed with him. The gestalt wasn’t aware of the fact that he had a spike – but now he was staring right at it.
It was big – not as big as it could’ve been, considering the combiner’s size, but still half of Megatron’s height in length, and thicker than his thigh. Megatron licked his lips, cold excitement running through his fuel lines; he was never fond of fancy euphemisms concerning interfacing equipment, like “rocket” or “cannon” or “sword”, but this… thing definitely counted as a weapon of mass destruction. Valve destruction. Oh damn…
Optimus Maximus’s frame rattled with a rumble of his enormous engine. All doubt and caution were gone, carried out of his head by the current of lust that came from his core, where Optimus Prime’s spark swirled like mad, overwhelming and subduing the faint consciences of his gestalt mates. Their hate flowed through this tide, and Optimus Maximus wanted to possess, to dominate and conquer.
He adjusted his grip, using his other hand to push one of Megatron’s legs up.
“Mine,” he roared, scratching the exposed interface panel with one finger. “Mine!”
It was a claim and a demand at once.
He roared again – this time in victory – when the black interface panel slid open. His prey was being good… Cooperation is rewarded, a concept from Prowl’s part of their common conscience surfaced, and hate waned a bit, allowing Optimus’s lust to reign supreme. Arousal more powerful than any of them was able to take on their own clouded their unified mind; now only base instincts ruled it.
An enormous finger probed the dark grey array between Megatron’s legs. Optimus Maximus let out a confused grunt: he knew spike was supposed to go there, but there wasn’t enough space. Must be Megatron’s fault – Megatron always defies them, common memory reminded. Growling, the combiner grasped his captive better and pushed.
And there it was – the much desired give and the hot tightness constricting around his finger. Megatron gasped and squirmed in his hand, but Optimus Maximus didn’t care anymore: grinning, he began pumping his finger, testing the stretch and confirming that yes, everything was in order, which meant he would get what he deserved. The hole was kind of small, but it didn’t really register in Optimus Maximus’s brain. Not now.
Megatron, however, wasn’t so optimistic. He considered struggling for real when he saw the combiner’s mammoth equipment, and he was fairly sure that he could escape if he decided on it (after all, he did take on Devastator once, and that creepy combined form of all Decepticons too). But then the wave of the gestalt’s arousal hit him, unbridled EM field raging around him, suppressing and taking over Megatron’s own... And he reconsidered.
When will he ever get a chance to frag a giant, savage, unspeakably hot Optimus Prime?
It would be wise not to anger the combiner, though, he obviously wasn’t in full control of himself. Megatron forced back a chuckle; who knew Optimus was so possessive of him? It was rather flattering, to be frank. And the sheer assertiveness with which Optimus demanded entrance to his frame, that rough, unforgiving finger ramming into his valve… Megatron couldn’t deny how all of this was affecting him. The combiner’s grip around his middle added a tangy thrill to the whole endeavor.
But then the finger retreated, and a hungry guttural grumble came from the gestalt. Without further ado he grasped his spike with his free hand and began lowering Megatron on it.
The warlord froze when he felt the spike’s head press to his valve lips. It was slagging huge! No way it would fit without damage. There was some lubricant down there, which now coated the round head as it was poking at Megatron’s array blindly, but the spike was simply too wide to find its way into the valve. Optimus Maximus was clearly able to think of his own pleasure only, and, judging by the way he solved the problem with the finger by simply shoving it inside, he wasn’t going to be gentle. Fortunately, Megatron didn’t come unprepared.
Mass shifting was a miraculous tool, and Megatron never used it to its full extent. When he was what everyone considered his normal size, he actually had some mass in his subspace – just in case he needed extra power put into a punch or, say, to avoid some critical damage. Which came in handy, now that Optimus Maximus was pushing that monster of a spike into him. Shutting his optics, Megatron concentrated and called for that additional metal, widening his hips (he didn’t need his hip joints crushed, thank you) and enlarging his valve. At the same time he cast some of the internal circuitry into subspace (again, he didn’t want his insides mashed into pulp by a giant spike).
It was not a moment too soon, because Optimus Maximus, irritated by yet another obstacle, snarled and simply forced Megatron down. Megatron’s optics flashed white as pain shot through his frame; he heard something crack – that must’ve been the interface array – and sparks burned the bared circuits, wires and mesh ripping under the relentless assault. But with the pain came another sensation: unbelievable, incomparable, impossible fullness. Gritting his dental plates, Megatron dug his fingertips in his palms and called for his mass shifting, throwing everything he had left to his valve – and he felt it, felt every inch stretch and strain to accommodate the immense intrusion. Megatron let his head loll back, optics dark, back straight and tense like a string. He was being impaled, split, skewered – and it felt slagging amazing.
Finally the spike hit the ceiling node, there was no place to push further – and, fortunately, Optimus Maximus seemed to understand at least this, for he stopped. His spike wasn’t buried even halfway, but when Megatron collected himself enough to online his optics again, he saw the combiner’s face. At some moment his mask retracted, and now Optimus Maximus – who looked so much like Optimus it blurred the lines of reality – was panting heavily, his mouth open and his optics cobalt. But then their gazes met – and Optimus’s EM field flared with aggression. Growling, he pulled Megatron up and brutally shoved him back on the spike.
“Ah!” Sparks flew before Megatron’s optics, blocking his sight, and then he couldn’t hold back his cries anymore. His valve’s abused inner walls were trying to ripple and failing, every violent thrust rubbing them raw, energon was trickling down Optimus’s spike and staining Megatron’s thighs that were spread so wide the joints were probably dislodged (but he couldn’t really tell with pain wrecking his entire lower half, his interface array the center of agony that somehow only made his engine run hotter). And Optimus Maximus roared over him, tall, feral, triumphant.
“Yes!” Another thrust that tore a wail out of Megatron’s throat. “Mine!” The free hand forced Megatron’s leg even further up. “Only mine!” And then Megatron was overloading, convulsions racking his frame and EM field pulsing wildly, caught in the hurricane that was Optimus Maximus’s field.
The gestalt never stopped, though. He fragged his captive through his climax and beyond, using the limp body like a fragtoy, until Megatron was moaning and arching into him again, the charge going up despite the pain and exhaustion. He certainly felt like a fragtoy, helpless and compliant in Optimus Maximus’s hand, giving in completely to the ferocious combiner ravaging his wrecked valve. And he had never felt better. Nothing to do, nothing to care or think about: just drop the reins and ride the storm.
Another overload was wrought out of him before Optimus Maximus followed: Megatron was still shaking in the aftershocks when the combiner plunged into him as deep as he could and bellowed, throwing back his head. A stream of hot, viscous fluid hit Megatron’s ceiling node, pushing at the poor, bruised inner walls and overflowing instantly. That last assault on his senses was too much; at last Megatron’s body refused to take the stress and shut down, knocking him into oblivion. Optimus Maximus vented loudly above him.
The haze in the combiner’s mind was clearing. Broken chunks of words and syllables were forming into more or less coherent thoughts, and he was able to assess what he saw before him – the dribbles of transfluid and energon on his spike, the stained ground, Megatron’s unconscious frame in his hand and a horrible mess of twisted wires and bloodied mesh in place of his interface panel…
Optimus Maximus’s immense body shuddered – and fell apart into its components.
Ironhide managed to prop himself on all fours, ground spinning before his optics and a sour taste filling his mouth. To his right Prowl threw up, shaking and trying to cover his mouth in vain. Mirage looked like he was going to puke too, and only his high-class upbringing helped him to hold it back. Sunstreaker was spitting curses that would make Kup blush.
Optimus was the first to collect himself enough to scramble to his feet and half-walk, half-crawl to the prone form of Megatron, who was still knocked out and had a disgustingly blissful smile on his face.
“Megatron!” Optimus’s voice had never sounded so weak and full of panic. “Megatron, oh Primus, no, no… Oh Primus!”
Sunstreaker sat up on his haunches and began laughing, voice breaking into hysterical squeals now and then.
“Primus?” he sputtered between cackles. “Primus won’t help here.”
Prowl threw up again, only small puddle of sickly pink energon coming out of his mouth this time.
“Seriously, Optimus,” Mirage muttered, trying to stop his hands from trembling. “Why in the Pits couldn’t you resolve your issues with Megatron before we combined?”
“I’m sorry,” Optimus breathed out, and Ironhide couldn’t really tell whom he was addressing. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry…” His hands were hovering over Megatron’s shoulder, as if Optimus wanted to pull the warlord into his lap but was afraid to touch.
Ironhide wasn’t surprised at this. And, for once, he fully agreed with Mirage. He never wanted to frag Megatron. He never wanted to frag Megatron like that. Pits, he never wanted to frag anyone like that!
“I’m calling Ratchet,” he grumbled, reaching for his comm line. “And you’ll be the one explaining to him what happened here, Optimus.”
~Epilogue~
What bothered Ironhide the most was the fact that among all of them Megatron appeared to be the least affected. He walked out of the medbay with the same slag-eating grin and lightness in his stride. In fact, Ironhide actually overheard him comfort Optimus about the… incident on Luna-2.
“Oh come on, Optimus, it’s like you don’t know me. If I didn’t want it you wouldn’t have gotten me; you know I can take a combiner in combat.”
“It doesn’t change the fact that I didn’t care for your consent!” Optimus’s voice was muffled, like he was hiding his face in his palms.
“If I were you I’d be more worried about your combiner mates. I think they’re taking it badly, although I’m not sure why.”
Ironhide really wanted to punch the slaghead at that time. Shows how well he thought of the Autobots if he didn’t understand why they were repulsed and traumatized by their participation in what was ultimately rape, even if the victim turned out to be willing (and a bastard). Prowl and Mirage were still having sessions with Rung.
Rung’s conclusion after he got the full report of the incident, however, was short.
“That Enigma of Combination really should’ve stayed buried on Earth,” he said, adjusting his glasses. “Combining random people can’t be healthy – or safe.”
Ironhide fully agreed with him, but if anyone asked him, he would add that bottling up one’s feelings wasn’t healthy or safe either.
So when he heard the telltale sounds of Megatron changing his comforting tactics to something more physical, he couldn’t help but sigh in relief.