Faded Blues

Chapter 2: Throne Rules

Megatron slightly rose up off of the little Autobot he had been pounding into the throne for most of the evening. The blue Autobot merely bit his lip and turned his head whimpering, oily tears threatening to spill. Megatron, still in between those luscious blue legs, shifted inside the port some more, gaining a cry of pain from the Elite bot.

That dry scream alone almost made the warlord hard again, but instead he smiled petted the uninjured side of the blue mech’s helm. Sentinel bit his lip harder, shivering, as if just waiting for the next assault to happen. Megatron could only smile at the reaction. This grounder was an incredibly resilient little Autobot. Megatron had taken him four times that night, half of them impregnation attempts because he found … he liked the little Autobot the most when he struggled against those attempts.

Especially, with such a resilient, vain, and proud spark in that chassis.

He also never gave up trying to get away if the opportunity presented itself.

Not that he would be taking those bindings off again anytime soon. His dented thigh was lesson enough.

Petting, the blue mech’s face some more, smiling, Megatron purred, “My… a resilient little whore you are. My pleasure bots were lucky to last even over one night, but you… I have a feeling I could take you night after night for a vorn and you would still fight me when you had the chance… I like that. In fact, I really like that idea.”

Sentinel shivered as Megatron placed a sharp talon under his aching jaw and titled his face up, those red optics shifting in their socket as if he wanted to take in every detail he could. The warlord even chuckled when Sentinel tried to shift his aching abused jaw away, merely to have it grabbed again as the flier mocked, “Yes… I really, really like that idea.”

Sentinel, mentally preparing himself for another assault almost jumped out of his armor when there was a knock on the doors that led to the throne/control room. Frowning, Megatron turning his head from his cute little Autobot that was draped on his throne… cum everywhere it seemed. He chuckled, wondering who it would be and if they would blush … or ask for a try.

Not even bothering to cover himself, he walked up to the door and opened it, his smirk slowly failing at who he saw.

Yes, there was a blushing from cold Blitzwing and surprisingly a Strika and crew. For a moment he almost covered himself, old programming telling him never in front of a femme. Then again… Strika wasn’t much of a femme. Though it was rumored she had carried once … though the sparkling must have died, the ugly little green thing, because he hadn’t seen it in vorns.

“Ah, Strika. I would have cleaned up if I was expecting … guests,” he said elegantly as he motioned towards the Autobot behind him, legs spread wide… valve dripping for all to see. The blue mech, immediately looking up, whimpered in his throat and looked away, offlining his optics… mortified as he weakly tried to close his abused thighs.

She raised a brow, confused, “I heard you were torturing an Autobot, not what I was expecting at all.”

Megatron chuckled, “He wasn’t screaming just right… so I took some liberties.”

“So… Instead you’ve chosen a mate?” suddenly came a voice from a generally silent source, everyone turning to look at Cyclonus.

Expression becoming a little harder, Megatron hating that word because it reminded him so much of his creator… a mad mech called Galvatron, he replied dryly, “Mate? An Autobot. Hardly. I merely took what I wanted.”

Looking confused, a look that Cyclonus rarely used, the purple mech continued despite the glares he was getting from most of the group, “But then why are you letting us witness an ancient Decepticon tradition? You have taken a mech onto your throne and bred him… and from the look of it, many times.”

Megatron, frowned suddenly gaining a look of realization as he recalled the ancient Decepticon proclamation that was passed down to him from the Fallen himself. Frag, how could he forget that? Lip twitching, he replied, “Ah … yes, I ...”

He dared not say forgot for it may waver the belief of some more of the traditional Cons. Traditional Cons were mechs that were born from older Cons and that came from the deepest reaches of space. It was rumored some of these mechs were from the Ancient War, a time that apparently had only been one Prime with his Matrix of Leadership. Strange fraggers, all of them, but he had enough trouble with Starscream trying to kill him. He didn’t need an assassin coming from the Fallen himself, so he replied, “… I liked his spirit, but I fear I have chosen badly out of instinct. Perhaps it is best if I deactivate him.”

Coming forward, a mech of old breeding, Cyclonus walked forward into the room, his large form stalling in front of Sentinel. He stared for about a minute before he walked around the throne as if documenting the shaking Autobot that was still defiant enough to glare at him and then even spit at him as he leaned down as if trying to look down into his ripped open spark chamber.

Strika actually grunted, expecting a hole to be created in her lord’s makeshift throne but instead Cyclonus merely stood up straight, wiping the spittle away as he added, “My lord … he is very spirited. Though, it is considered a bad omen to strike down a mate that might be with sparkling. You just popped him, yes? He is bleeding heavily.”

Sighing, walking forward to grab his cod piece, having a feeling that this was going to turn into a political nightmare, Megatron clicked it on and added bitterly, “Yes, he was a virgin which is why I initially thought taking him would be a good idea. He even came a few times for me, didn’t you?”

Sentinel bared his teeth, too exhausted from the assault to do much more.

“So, he hadn’t been corrupted by another spike, is young, and had no plug. His probability of becoming impregnated is not unlikely. The only way to know is to continue the breeding for another seven mega-cycles as per tradition. Then, when you present him to the Fallen, if he is not Heavy by then … you can deny him. To do so before then may insult our ancestors.”

Optic twitching, hating the old Decepticon beliefs and the cultural traditions that had developed over the millennia in the cold reaches of space even long before their last war to reclaim Cybertron, Megatron nodded. He had become the current leader for his strength and unfortunately … as an heir himself of Glavatron, one of the Fallen’s eldest followers.

His creator had been mad and Megatron’s rise in ranks was not met without distrust, not that Con’s trusted anyone too much, but many worried he would be like his creator… raving on that Unicron was real and other nonsense. He had never wanted to reproduce just in spite of that mech, but here he was … taking an Autobot no less.

Perhaps the blue mech would meet an unfortunate accident. Then again, having no responsibilities but coming inside of the little Autobot for the next seven mega-cycles sounded terribly pleasurable. He was getting sick of this mud ball and in the slight probability an heir would rally enough Cons to enforce an attack on the Autobots … he was not against it.

He was sick of their people slowly being confused with Pirates and Neutrals in the outer territory. Perhaps creating an heir for his dictatorship would reinstall fear in the out-land mechs that had just become use to the Con’s almost nomadic disposition since the Ancient War.

Frag, how many generations had it been since a Con had been born on Cybertron … and not in a cell with his creator. He deserved Cybertron just as much as the Autobots did.

Soft smile forming as he took a rag and wiped his thighs, noting that some of the more forward Cons had walked past him to stare at the probable mate, Megatron walked up behind them and stared down at the exhausted looking Autobot, adding, “Perhaps you are right. I am getting older. An heir might be a good idea. I have timed this badly though. I need to destroy the Autobots on this planet and the irritating Prime that nearly offlined me.”

Strika, having walked up behind the warlord to look down on the blue Prime who was well built for an Autobot, added, “It would be an honor to take up the position of crushing the bots and reclaiming the shards of the All Spark for you, my lord!”

Optics shifting to look down at her bulky frame as well as her team, the warlord slowly nodded, “Yes, that will be reasonable. I will head back to the Black Space Colonies to speak to the Elder Decepticons with your ship. During which… I will finish the seven days of breeding.”

Then leaning and grabbing a hold of Sentinel’s damaged jaw, he asked almost wickedly, “Won’t we?”

Sentinel, not liking the sound of this conversation nor that Megatron was leaning down to pick him up, suddenly kicked out, barking, “No! Don’t touch me! Don’t fraggen touch me! I am not going anywhere with you ”

The Con’s who had all been nearby the throne, took a step back, some of them laughing as the Autobot kicked out and tried to sit up.

Megatron, who looked slightly bemused, tisked and made a grab for one of those legs, catching one effectively. Sentinel merely twitched at this and the lecherous grin that covered the large mech’s facial plates, a tug nearly pulled him off the throne as he kicked loose.

“I won’t go with you freaks! Just deactivate me! Torture me! I am not a brood mare! Let me go!” screamed Sentinel as Megatron came closer to him, dodging those kicking out legs, not wanting another dent.

Then, enjoying the Autobot’s renewed fight at the thought of being taken even farther by the Decepticons, backhanded the blue mech. Sentinel, pain biting through his jaw, disoriented, barely had time to look straight before he felt a large set of arms come under his legs and back, lifting him off the throne and into a bridal-like carry. For a moment, all Sentinel could do was blush, embarrassed and enraged and now being treated like a femme after her wedding night … to sore to walk.

Something that the mad Con didn’t fail to notice.

“Look at the blushin’ bride, ha ah ha!” coughed crazy Blitzwing as he added. “Should ve get him a veil and throw some rice for vertility.”

Sentinel shrunk into those huge grey arms, blush burning his facial plates. He wanted to yell at the large Con and tell him to shut his insane mouth, but his jaw hurt and he … knew he was in no position to be screaming. His vocals hurt from a night of Megatron’s attention. Instead, he growled, twitching when Megatron took his first heavy step out of the cavern.

Somehow Sentinel resisted the urge to jump out of the warlord’s arms. He had to think. He had to plan. Frag, he wished he was just as crafty as Jazz was, a smooth talker as well. Though he knew he was not a smooth talker. He was a straight forward rule enthusiast.

Frag, he had to think, but he ached and hurt and he felt sick, was hungry and his optics were heavy. H-he needed to recharge, but it wasn’t safe. He wasn’t safe, but the pain had finally stopped and his systems, though they ached, were also telling him that they were sated. He had been sated … it made him sick that Megatron had apparently sated him. Not that it wasn’t true. H-he came for the warlord more than once. Frag, he felt sick and numb and tired … and his optics were dimming.

N-no. he had to keep them online.

But his optics kept slowly offlining and then onlining until all the stress fell from his limbs and he fell into recharge, having not heard a word as Megatron told someone to grab his pieces. He needed to be presentable. After all, the Fallen would just love to meet him…

…

Optimus transformed in their base, his lip bleeding and his form looking terribly cracked and damaged, energon dripping onto the floor. Ratchet gave the young-mech a glare as he looked away from the surveillance feed, growling, “It has been nearly two mega-cycles, Prime. I know Jazz took most of the beating when Megatron attacked, but you took quite a beating as well.  Let me look over your wounds or … use Sari’s key.”

Noting the slight embitterment over the key, Optimus shook his head and murmured, “I just need some oil … or energon would be better. I-I can’t find a sign of the Cons. I need to find them… W-who knows why they took Sentinel and what they are doing to him.”

Ratchet, feeling his age, knew all too well what was happening. The young-bot was being tortured for information. He was a high ranking officer, and even if he knew nothing of the All Spark shards location or Sari’s key, he knew secrets about Cybertron security and the Magnus himself.

Though how Megatron knew that Sentinel was so highly placed in the Elite Guard was beyond Ratchet… He could only fear that there was a spy in their midst.

Not wanting to upset the young-bot, he merely murmured, “Sentinel has been trained to be an Elite Guard… He knows how to deal with bad situations.”

Optimus, though definitely angry at Sentinel for his treatment after Elita’s apparent deactivation, did not hate his old friend. He still cared about Sentinel because the other Prime was still in pain … that was why, despite all the irritation and insults and basic jerkiness, Optimus never struck out seriously. He couldn’t … he felt too guilty about what happened on that spider planet.

Especially with … his later discovery that Elita wasn’t really as dead as everyone thought.

He hadn’t even got to tell the other.  With Sentinel’s fear of organics … it would just be cruel.

“I doubt it. He was in complete denial until recently that there were any Con’s on the planet and he’s scared of Sari, Ratchet. All organics… I… can’t just leave him. I know he’s a complete jerk, b-but he was also my friend once,” said Optimus, looking crestfallen.

Sighing, leaving surveillance for a moment, he took the taller Prime by the shoulder and slowly walked him toward what passed as a med bay in the building, speaking as they walked, “You’ve always been too loyal for your own good, but that is a sign of a good Autobot… so I won’t blame you for caring about the lunk-head jerk.”

Finally getting into the bay, throwing a brief look at Jazz who was still unconscious though repaired on a berth, he directed the Prime to another berth. Optimus, too exhausted from his two days of desperate searching, could not fight off the medic and lied down, fluid prickling at his optics.

“B-but … We are Autobots. We can’t just leave one of our own behind,” said Optimus almost desperately, twitching when he felt his wrist open and Ratchet find line. He was going to get an IV, or at least the Cybertronian equivalent, with a dose of sleeping nanties probably as well.

Sighing, he was about to sit up and pull the line out, but Ratchet smacked him with a wrench in the forehead, growling, “Back on the berth. You … will be no use to Sentinel daft-in-the-helm if you are too tired to fight for him.”

Frowning, hating this feeling of helplessness, Optimus could only whisper, “I hope he’s okay. I don’t ... Elita, the old Elita, would forgive me.”

Ratchet, Optimus having confided in him about the half-organic, knew all too well he spoke of the femme she had been. The femme she was now … if she saw her old lover, for that was what they had been according to Prime’s observations, would she do anything at all?

“Primus … make it a quick death,” was all Ratchet could whisper to himself as the younger mech’s optics went offline, the old healer fearing he would soon be examining the offlined shell of Sentinel Prime. The kid was too young to survive the wrath of Megatron. He was good as deactivated … Poor, young-mech.

He just didn’t have the spark to tell Optimus that Sentinel was already as good as deactivated. Poor Sentinel. No young-bot, even one that needed some discipline, deserved to die that way.