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Alexithymia	By : RedIckarys Category: Transformers > Beast Machines Views: 2638 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: Beast Wars/Machines and all the characters included in the series do not belong to me, and I am not making any profit off this work of fiction.

Chapter List
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I came online to the feel of cold fingertips on my cheek and red optics boring into my display unit. Megatron. My creator. No, not my creator. My Saviour. Megatron rescued me from a fate worse than deactivation and granted me new life as a Vehicon. Not just a Vehicon, a general. More than a puppet in his plans, but a servant just the same. I love him.

My mouth opened as his finger pressed against my lips and sucked the digit into my oral cavity. I pressed my glossa to the tip and was rewarded with a deep, pleasured purr.

“Oh, yyyeeesssss. Beautiful.”

Beautiful. The word rings within my audios, bouncing around my processor through barely connecting circuitry until it clicks into place in my consciousness. I am beautiful. I am pure. I am machine.

I bite down on the finger intruding in my faceplate, and ruby red optics narrow. He doesn't feel the pain as my dentals crush the metal tubing and tear through wires; it is not his finger. I jerk my head to the side, completely ripping the ruined digit off the false hand. I chew it up, swallowing down chunks of metal and strings of wire, then slide my glossa over my lips.

He is pleased. I cannot read the expression on his face through the cage of his mask, but I can feel it. Energy particles dance in the air around him, conveying his message through electrical signals, but he is not their source. It comes from the wires that extend from the back of his neck. It's unnatural, but familiar, like the simulated presence of another bot in a holovid. Megatron cannot produce the signals himself. He is flawed. He does not deserve my perfection.

I did not think he could detect my thoughts, but as soon as the code left my CPU, his optics narrow and he pulls the ruined hand away from my face. I detect his fury in the electrical signals, then feel it as the false hand connects with the side of my head, sending me toppling to the ground. The impact reverberates through my frame, and I hear something rattle as I bounce against the floor.

I am not sorry for my thoughts, but he regrets his actions immediately. He drops down to my side and helps me back to my feet. I am unsteady.

Looking down, I see that I do not have feet; I have wheels. Black rubber tires with silver rims and yellow casings. I must have broadcasted curiosity, for I can feel amusement in his simulated signals and he takes my servos in his hands. Hand. One is a tri-phalanged pede, but it grips the flat of my servo just the same. He supports me as I test my wheels, find my center of gravity, and begin to move.

It is a dance. We move around the chamber in tandem, him urging me on whenever I falter or hesitate. Soon, I am the one leading the dance, guiding him in circles as he hangs suspended from the ceiling like some sort of horrific ornament. He doesn't get mad at me, this time. I can feel his sorrow and his pride. He acknowledges his flaws and yearns to be as perfect as those he creates. He loves me.

I twist out of his grasp, confident now in my own abilities. I fall purposefully against a panel of computers, my servos gripping the desk beneath for support. My glossa runs over my lips slowly, slicking them with lubricant. I arch my back and rest my weight completely on the machinery behind me. One servo drifts over my hip and touches my groin. A panel slides away, revealing the tip of my plug. There is hunger in his optics as he drifts closer, but I raise a servo and wave a finger at him, my lips quirking into a contemptuous smirk. He can look all he wants, but he cannot touch.

“How DARE you deny ME!” he bellows, angry with me again. I don't care. I lick my finger and touch it the tip of my plug, the lubricant from my oral cavity conducting electricity from my powerful output unit to the slick digit. I hear a gasp, and know that it was me. The thick, rubbery walls of my port clench within their own panel, and I can feel the lubricant protection begin.

“You will submit to my will!” he growls, rattling his harness and hovering ever closer. The anger in the air sparks along my hull dangerously, but it only fuels my denial. If he is so flawed that he can't take me, I don't want him. “Is this how you repay me? I'm your creator! I gave you life!”

“No,” I tell him, and he jerks his hand back to strike me again. “You're my hero.”

For some reason, this soothes him. He lowers his arm, reaching out instead to touch me, but I am too quick. I roll to the side, stop with my abdomen on the desk and my aft in the air. My port is exposed to him now, and I crook one arm, pushing my face into it while the other slides up my thigh. I finger the heavy rollers that cover my input slot, coating them with lubricant, and I feel him move towards me once more.

Hasn't he learned? I will not give myself up to him unless he can prove himself to me. I do not let him touch me as I move around the room, striking provocative poses and touching myself when I can. His anger rises quickly, and I am bent over as it finally consumes him. I feel sharp claws on my back and thick fingers wrap around my thigh, jerking my legs apart. These are not the hands of the harness; they are warm, yet callous, manipulating me like a toy. I comply, cooperating as his greater weight presses me down, trapping me. It feels wonderful.

My servos grip the back of the desk and my wheels leave the ground. My legs spread and bend at the knee, wheels pressing into his back. Something big presses against my port and I press back against it, wanting to feel stretched to my limits and full. Now he is the one who teases as his hand leaves my thigh; I think it might grip the base of his plug, but I can't see behind me. I feel it rub over my input, though, spreading lubricant until it drips over my gearbox and splats onto the ground. I moan, because it feels good, and I know it's what he wants me to do.

“Now,” he purrs, bending over me so that his lips brush over the side of my head and warm air puffs over my cheek. “Will you yield?”

“I will never yield,” I tell him, and he slaps my aft with a snarl. I gasp. I don't know why, but the simple, brief contact makes my port clench and sends shocks of pleasure through my neural net.

“Oh, so you like that, do you?” he chuckles, and slaps me again. I squeak, press my aft up into his hand, and finally, the tip of his plug nudges into my port. My rollers are pushed as far apart as they can go, and still it's a tight squeeze. It makes Megatron grunt and buck into my, and a new feature is brought to my attention.

There are sharp ridges on the shaft of his plug, and their jagged edges scratch as they push into me. A squeal erupts from my lips, yet I push down onto that plug anyway, the pain heightening my awareness of the pleasure. He commands me to hold still, but how can I when my sensors are overwhelming me with feedback? My display flickers with static as the second ridge pops into my port, then a third is pushing in.

I take each sharp ring one at a time, until my port is full to the brink and can't hold anymore. There are five total, each one thicker than the last. It feels as though his plug pierces me straight to the fuel tank. It's so big, and I'm so much smaller than Megatron. He knows it. His hands completely encircle my waist as he pulls out, his fingertips overlapping on my stomach. I no longer squirm, but I clench down around him, trying to keep as much as I can inside. I gasp and whimper, feeling so empty even though the tip of his plug stays inside my port. The shaft has been soaked with my lubricant, I can feel it slip over the globes of my aft and down my thighs.

“Yeild,” he demands again, and though I could not, would not fight him now, I deny him. He growls and slams into me, and my back arches. I curl back so far, I can see his face, now uncovered and scowling down at me. He devilishly handsome, despite the flaws I can see clearly now, and I think that he should not hide behind a mask.

He smirks now, leaning down and pressing his lips to mine. The kiss is hungry and demanding and strains my neck, but I return it eagerly, matching his passion with mechanic precision. His hands roughly slide up my sides as his tongue forces its way into my oral cavity, dominating and unrelenting.

I yield.

He commands me with his body, hard and smothering. His hips rut against my aft, sending his plug ramming into me. He's an animal in heat, blinded by a lust that I can hardly fathom. It dredges up a memory buried within my spark of sharp dentals and grasping claws. A name burbles up in my vocalizer, and it passes my lips before I can stop it.

“Dinobot,” I moan, and he suddenly stills. After the exposure to the violent fucking, it's maddening, and I want more. I squirm and whine, begging him to move and finish what he started. He doesn't.

“What did you say?” he hisses instead, diamond-tipped claws digging into my superstructure. It hurts, but I like it just the same. I think I like it more than the pleasure.

“I don't know,” I answer him truthfully, for the name is gone as suddenly as it arrived. I struggle stay still and think, but his plug still fills me. Each little squirm lights up my circuit boards and sends my thoughts flying in a million different directions, reduced to nothing more than fragments of code. I like it, so I wiggle and writhe, impaling myself on his ridged plug. He growls, and my lips move of their own violation, my vocalizer forming words that sounded strange, but so familiar. “C'mon, Lizardlips, MOVE! I ain't getting' any younga'!”

Megatron lets out an enraged bellow, then he's moving again, with vigor. He pounds into my aft so hard, our bodies clang and vibrate with each thrust. He drives into me, and his plug slams against a node hidden in the depths of my port. My display goes black, then explodes with static and I shout.

“Yeah, dat's it!” I cry, my engine revving and wheels whirring to life. I can smell scorched leather and burning rubber. “Yeah, make th' filthy Pred lova' scream!”

I'm spouting nonsense now, but it spurns him on and he fulfills my poorly worded request. I scream and convulse, my body twitching and jittering as electricity jolts through my wires in large bursts, frying my circuits. My audios blow out, my display crackles and goes dark, and I'm left alone in my CPU but for the feel of Megatron still moving in my port. When he overloads, energy surges from his plug to my port, and with one last shriek, I'm lost to everything.

When I come online, his back is to me as he converses quietly with his drone, once more strapped firmly into his harness. I am lying on the floor in a puddle of my own lubricant, and I feel dirty. He pays no mind as I clumsily get to my wheels, smearing myself more with the slick, sticky liquid, or when I turn to leave.

Platforms rise and click together in front of me. I'm almost to the door when he speaks to me, in a cold, casual tone.

“If you ever try anything like that again, I will personally dismantle you and put you back in the organic shell I saved you from," he croons, his deep voice rumbling like a threatening black wave in the middle of the sea. "Do you understand me?”

I don't answer him. The transformation switch is flicked, and my body moves of its own accord, folding down into the shape of a sleek golden motorcycle. It's comfortable, and I zoom out of the chamber with a roar of my engine.

As I rocket out the outer doors, into the open air of the city, I pass a large, silver construct. Something green and brown dangles over the front of it, and I feel my fuel tank churn uneasily. I don't stop to inspect it; I speed up. It's irrational, but I don't want to be near that thing if I can help it. I don't want to think about why.
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Alexithymia