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shadow_vector2012-03-11 08:42 am
Lagniappe
IDW prewar
Megatron, Shock, Ore, cameo by Impactor
sticky, first time, dp
Yeah, uh, hi. I apparently have a thing for hot delicious twins who die in canon. Here are the Duobots. They are cute and also mining equipment. And my uncreative brain went to the obvious place.
“Move!” Megatron’s voice filled the dark, narrow space of the mine, bouncing off the jagged planes of the assembled mechs’ armor. He pushed forward, shouldering others out of his way, toward the site of the collapsed beam. Others were bickering, blaming poor mining, or bad materials for the support frame. No one was helping. No one was doing anything.
He shoved between them, squatting down and digging his fingers under the fallen beam. Pistons fired, along his legs, his back, his shoulders straining as he lifted the beam, metal shrieking its protest.
Lights flashed, headlamps, chestlamps, the others rushing to move in to help, now that someone had started, now that someone had taken the risk. Hands reached under the fallen beam, voices chattering, back and forth. Megatron was only dimly aware of the movement, of the words, of the two mechs hauled out from under the wreckage. All he could hear, feel, sense, were his own straining servos—overheating, metal swelling with heatstrain, the small rubber seals between them stretching painfully.
If it were a matter of mere strength, he could have held it, longer, endured the strain to his pistons longer. But the beam was slippery, greased with the fumes of heavy equipment, the smoke coagulated to a slippery grime that kept sliding from under his grip.
It slipped, suddenly, off his fingertips, crashing to the ground, metal groaning , the weight, it seemed, of the entire asteroid they were mining crashing down. And he felt an agony in his one shoulder, before his vid field whited with alarms.
[***]
“Hey, big guy.”
The voice penetrated before anything, before Megatron even registered lights, much less the fact that the lights were above him, beating down at him relentlessly. His optic feed recoiled, optics whirring to compensate, turning to the shape that had spoken. “I don’t know you.” A question, as much as a statement. The mech looked only vaguely familiar, small but stocky, red and purple, with lobes of treads rising over his shoulder.
“Shock.” A nervous sort of smile and a tilt of the helm to a berth beside him. “Me and my brother you saved back there.”
“Shock.” Megatron struggled to sit up, his joints feeling funny and tight. He looked over at the blue mech on the berth, repair techs crowded around him, briskly, dispassionately installing new legs. He winced. “Didn’t do a good job of saving.”
“Better than being crushed entirely,” Shock said. “Good news is, the Company’s decided that all of us have long enough useful workspans to be worth repairing.” The smile turned wry.
Megatron snorted. “Good news.”
“Yeah,” the blue mech spoke, hissing through pain as a tech began grinding down a warped ratchet plate, “Well, bad news is, we’re all up one disciplinary infraction.”
“Disciplinary?” He felt dumb, dull, his wits fogged by a cheap sensorblock.
“You for endangering Company property,” the blue mech said, “meaning you, and us for,” he shrugged. “I dunno. Standing in their mine while it broke.”
Megatron was about to snarl that the Company had been at fault with its cheap materials but he caught the sharp look of Shock, shaking his head warningly. “I don’t regret what I did,” he said, almost snarling, the only small defiance he allowed himself, hating that he had too much caution, too little protection, to say more.
“Yeah well,” Shock said, the lopsided grin returning, “neither do we.”
[***]
Megatron settled into his usual seat in the cantina, the ration of lowgrade sitting sludgily in front of him as he pored over his datapad. It was battered, and sometimes the screen glitched, but it was his, something he had saved up for pay-intervals for. One of the few things that was his, and his alone, free and clear, and not held in half-hock to the Company.
“Hey,” a flash of blue and orange, and suddenly he found himself flanked by the two mechs from before.
“Nuh-hunh,” Shock said, leaning over to pluck the lowgrade off the tray. “Not drinkin’ that.” He plonked down a fizzing cube of pink in its place.
“What’s on the pad?” the blue one, Ore, he had discovered, said, leaning over.
He covered it with a hand, suddenly self-conscious. He was used to being ignored, until they needed his bulk, his strength. He was used to hunching over in payroll lines, in weekly maintenance queues. “History.”
“History.” Shock snorted. “It’s all the same. Rich mechs, poor mechs. Nothing ever changes.”
“You don’t think they could?”
Shock shrugged. “Not gonna waste my time dreaming. That kind of stuff? Just gonna make you miserable.”
Megatron couldn’t entirely disagree.
“Come on. Try the high grade. We bought it for you.” Ore nudged the cube closer.
“You didn’t need to.”
“Course not.” Ore grinned, and it seemed the only genuine sentiment in the room. “But if everyone did only what they needed to do?”
The shift-change alert klaxon went off, cutting off any comment Megatron might have made. His hand closed around the cube, because, well, Ore was right. If they all did only what they had to do, they’d be mere machines, mindless slaves, complacent. Not happier, just less…aware.
[***]
The twins took to tailing Megatron, sitting next to him in the cantina, riding the same platform down, lining up with him for pay disbursement. Even, as now, flanking him on the shuttle down to the surface. He’d gotten used to their proximity, the different feel of their EM fields against him, the way they’d shift, thighs along his, shoulders bumped against him. Not really crowding, just…close.
It was their first shift off in a decacycle, and he’d agreed to go downplanet simply for something to do, just the change. Maybe, he thought, thinking of his slim pile of credits, he could find more files for his datapad. Outdated textbooks, remaindered classics. Something to keep his cortex occupied.
Poetry. He liked poetry the best. History was fine, but with poetry, he could memorize the lines during break and repeat them as he worked, their rhythms a smooth flow with the swing of his axe, their sounds turning work into a meditation as he cracked them open, like ore, to find the vein of meaning.
Yes, maybe he’d find poetry.
A touch on his wrist, Ore grinning up. “Hey, wanna meet up later, go drinking or something?”
He gave a bland nod. “All right.”
“You need to loosen up,” Shock said, the cylinders of his shoulders bumping against him. “Time off. We ought to use this to the fullest.”
“Our time,” Ore echoed. They did that, a lot, echoing each other’s sentiments, in perfect accord. He envied it, wondering what it would be like to be that close, that familiar with another mech.
Another nod. “Fine.”
“Hey, Shock,” Ore said, leaning around Megatron’s chassis, “think we could get him dancing?”
Shock snorted, even as Megatron stiffened. “A worthy goal.”
“I don’t dance,” Megatron said.
“You’ve never been overcharged enough, that’s all,” Shock grinned.
“And now,” Ore snickered, sitting back, “we have a mission.”
Megatron did not like the sound of this. At all.
[***]
“All right, big guy,” Shock said, supporting Megatron’s weight, as they navigated the mine’s barracks, up to the Heavy Industrial wing. “Almost home.”
Megatron muttered something—even he didn’t have a clear idea of the words he was trying to make—staggering up the corridor. The night had been a blur, fuzzy and warm and filled with color and light and sound. He had a vague memory of a fuzzy, numb happiness, and now he wobbled, woozily, in the dregs of that.
“Did I dance?” That sentence, at least, came out coherently. He didn’t know if he wanted to know the answer, though.
The two laughed. “You…tried.”
The hangover wouldn’t be that bad, if it eradicated any memory of that.
“This one, right?” Ore slowed his steps, dragging them to a stop.
Megatron gave a bleary nod, and Shock reached for the door chime.
The door opened, to the scowling face of his roommate. “You’re back.” Impactor said. It was always hard to read the orange and purple mech's emotions: seventeen different flavors of hostile.
“Brought him back in one piece!” Shock said, brightly.
“Dumping the hard part on me.” Impactor reached out to take Megatron, bracing himself against the larger mech’s weight.
“Hey, we were just showin’ him how to have a good time.”
“You could use a few lessons in that, yourself,” Ore muttered.
“Nothing you two could teach me,” Impactor muttered, dragging Megatron over the threshold, hitting the door pad, shutting the two out.
“Sorry,” Megatron said. He wasn’t sure why, but it seemed appropriate.
“Gonna be sorry when you wake up tomorrow,” Impactor said, hauling him to his berth. He pushed Megatron down, shoulders flat on the berth. Megatron raised an unsteady hand to his helm, the room seeming to spin. Urgh. That did not feel good. He was beginning to believe Impactor.
“Just having fun,” he said, weakly.
“Fun. Right.” Impactor frowned. “Listen, just go on and ‘face them, already, all right? Save yourself a lot of effort.”
“…what?” He blinked, trying to make the words make sense. Like…any sense.
“Them. Thought you were smart, or something. So fraggin’ obvious they want a piece of you.”
It was? Megatron shook his head, and immediately regretted it, as the room seemed to swirl into a blur of colors. “No. No, they’re just…grateful. For the mine collapse thing. That’s all.”
“Idiot,” Impactor said. “Look, I may not be up on all that poetry slag you’re always rattling off, but trust me, I know this. They want you.” He gave a meaningful, sharp rap on Megatron’s interface hatch, causing the other to wince. Impactor shook his head, half-amused, half-disgusted, as he turned away. “Yeah, maybe that’ll get through to you.”
[***]
The ride to the maintenance bay was bumpy: mechs jammed together, with barely room to shift, in the transport. Ore pressed against his chassis, and behind him, he could feel the now-familiar EM of Shock. And Impactor’s taunt of last night cut through even the dense fog of the hangover. Did they? Is that what they wanted? And how did one go about finding out?
Impactor would just ask. No. Impactor would just go for it. But it went against everything Megatron believed in—freedom, the right to choose, will versus compunction, to do that. He was nearly twice their mass, after all.
Still.
The thought tantalized him, and the EM fields against him seemed glittering with temptation, fruit waiting to be plucked. He felt a taut nervousness around his spark looking down at Ore, feeling every iota of his mass and size and inexperience.
Ore turned to him, looking up, mouth in the habitual grin. “Feeling okay?”
The tension, the question in his mind, was maddening him, almost as much as Ore’s carefree grin. He bent lower, as though he hadn’t caught the words in the bustle and murmur of the transport.
“Asked if you were okay,” Ore said, a little louder, and Megatron felt a hard flare of the other’s EM around him.
He had to know. And, he figured, he could play it as some jolt of the transport, some hungover loss of balance. He shifted, resting the brim of his helm against Ore’s, tilting up, his mouth brushing, ever so briefly, across the other’s. He didn’t know how to kiss, but he figured that was, at least, a start.
A sudden startled intake of air, across the other’s mouth, before Ore tilted his head back, rising up on his footplates, mouth opening under Megatron’s. He felt a tentative probe of a glossa, the heavier field of it’s current, over his lip plates, flicking across his dentae. He froze, not knowing how to respond: in kind?
Ore’s hand came up, curling over the rim of his helm, drawing his face lower, fingertips flirting with his audio receptor.
The nervous tension over Megatron’s spark swelled to something almost like panic as he felt Shock move around beside him, his own mouth finding the exposed cables of Megatron’s throat.
Megatron shuddered at the sudden influx of sensation, tingling and tossing, skirling over his sensor net. His hand clutched awkwardly around Ore’s back, fingers digging into the treads, on the brink of arousal and uncertainty.
He was glad for the sudden, jolting stop of the transport, that flung them apart, and then the blaring horn, and the shuffling crowd that split them apart, leaving him standing, for a long moment, trembling and panting his uncertainty.
[***]
He’d avoided—dodged, if he were honest—the two for the rest of the day, trying to let the feelings settle in his chassis. It hadn’t worked. The only solution, he decided, was that it must be part of the hangover, and that the best treatment would be a good cleanse. He hadn’t been through the washracks in ages.
So he’d rolled in vehicle mode through the outer racks, before turning into one of the private stalls, determined not to leave until the stinging cleanser washed away the uncertainty.
“Avoiding us?” Shock’s voice, behind him, half teasing, but half…almost hurt.
Megatron rose, pushing out of his vehicle mode, cleanser sluicing off his frame in a white fall behind him. “I wouldn’t say ‘avoid’.” It was a quibble about words, but an answer. He felt his breath catch at the sight of them, his mouthplates tingling with the memory.
“After that kiss on the transport,” Ore said, coming around the low wall of the stall, “kinda hoped not.”
“About that.” And he stopped. Yes, Megatron? What about that? “I…apologize.”
“Apologize?” A shared look of confusion. “For what?”
He wasn’t exactly sure, other than the unsettled, effervescent feeling over his spark, that seemed to fizz up as Shock stepped closer. “We thought you’d finally, you know, gotten the hint.”
“You know, not trying to force you or anything,” Ore said. “Just, you know, thought maybe you’d want to.”
“Most mechs are pretty hot on the idea of twins,” Shock said, bluntly. “Beginning to think you were, you know, too good for us.”
That wasn’t it. “No. Just that.” He cycled a deep vent. “Experience.” There, he said it. “Lack of.”
“We’ve got enough experience. Besides, we wouldn’t offer if we didn’t want it.” Shock looked confused.
“Uh. I think he means him,” Ore said.
Surprised, puzzled optics. “Really?” Shock said. “You.”
“Yes.” He straightened. Mostly because there was no point denying it.
A sly smile spread over Shock’s face. “We can help you with that.” He stepped closer, tipping his head up, inviting a kiss.
Megatron felt his ventilations splutter in the last of the cleanser dripping off his frame, bending down, his mouth meeting Shock’s. It was something like sealing a contract, signing a promise, and he felt the warm tingle over his spark seem to spread like fire over his whole body.
Shock rumbled against him, one hand sliding between their bodies, fingers glossing over the interface hatch. Megatron gasped into the kiss, almost flinching away from the touch as the deft small fingers opened the hatch, skittering inside, over the untouched equipment covers.
“Going too fast?” Shock whispered into the kiss.
Megatron shook his head, hands splaying over the smaller mech’s back, fingers seeking out the treads, the sensitive links between the heavy plates, his EM field flaring at the gratifying shiver that ran through Shock’s frame.
The smaller mech’s hand scraped over his covers, and Megatron felt a click run through his body, a cover retracting, and his spike sliding into the other’s curved, waiting palm. Shock purred, and Megatron felt Ore’s EM field brush against him, fingers sliding over the seams in his plating, curling around the shoulder to look. The two exchanged glances. “Nice,” Ore murmured. “Shame that it’s your first time.”
“I don’t think so,” Shock said. “Means it’s ours.” He curled his hand around the spike, pulling at it, slicking lubricant along its length. Megatron gasped, hands tightening, almost clutching at the other’s back. The hand was slow and gentle on his spike, twisting as it rode up and down the ridged surfaces. He felt his knee servos quiver, rocking forward and back with the slow, even pulls on his spike.
Desire, unfamiliar, potent, raced through his circuits, hot and sharp, overriding any logical thought, pushing him down into his body, into the greedy surges of pleasure. He seized Ore, turning to plant a fierce, inexpert kiss on the blue mech’s mouth, raking his hand down the treads, the mech’s narrower shoulders, anything to stop the maddening, intoxicating touches of those small, skilled hands.
Ore tipped his head back, exposing his throat, a long line of cables, black and gunmental, vulnerable and wanting. Megatron couldn’t resist, tasting the cables with his glossa, encouraged, goaded by the mech’s quiet, urgent whimpers. Shock slipped away, hand sliding around the other’s hip, pushing Megatron and his twin together. Ore sank to the floor, pulling Megatron with him, laying in the cooling puddles of cleanser, fizzing up around him, pulling Megatron between his knees.
He might hesitate, but his body knew what it wanted, knew something more than he did, and after one slow long slide of his erect spike down the other’s belly, he sank slowly into the valve, twitching as he felt the calipers ripple away from the intruding mass, flirting over the spike’s sensitive nodes. He began thrusting, sharp, short strokes, that had Ore gasping, hands clawing at his shoulders. And then he remembered the slow tantalizing strokes of Shock’s hand along his spike. He stopped, mid thrust, adjusting, slowing the tempo, dragging his spike slowly in and out, tormenting both of them with the exquisite rise and fall of charge, both their bodies twitching, fighting the urge to gasp, to rush, focusing his optics on the other’s face, trying to read some sign, some signal in this new language.
His knees ached against the hard floor, but the waves of desire washing over him took those, too, swirling them into a hot, eddying rush of sensation, that swelled and swelled and crescendo’d over him, like a hand driving against the small of his back, arching his shoulders up, his mouth open around a roar without sound. His spike burst—it felt like that, exactly—a hot expansion, fluid scalding down the length, into the clutching valve, spilling back up along the length. His optics blanked with the force of it, palms gouging into the tiled floor.
Ore’s hands slicked down his sides, purring. “Oh frag,” he breathed. “That your first? You’ve been saving up.”
A heavy languor overtook him, almost like exhaustion, and he wanted nothing more than to curl over on the smaller mech. Just for a moment. Even as he knew the weight of him was dangerous. The twins were rated medium, not light, but still, the treads were delicate, and his mass, dropped on hard enough, could cause compression shatters in their armor.
“Not done,” Shock said, slipping in behind him, tweaking the edges of his treads, rotating the smaller guidewheels. “We should do this right, after all.”
Megatron started, feeling a hand slide over his aft, down between his thighs, to circle the untouched valve cover.
“Want us to stop?” Shock asked, laying over his shoulders, nuzzling against the back of his neck.
A gasp, a hesitation. “No.” There was nothing to lose, not now. No place for embarrassment, now, in giving what he’d taken. He pushed back, minutely, against Shock’s palm. Ore squirmed under him, and he felt his sensitive spike slip from the valve. He pushed back, feeling a questing palm reach for it, resting it between them belly to belly, just as his valve cover slipped open.
He arched up, the sudden intrusion of something warm, gentle, against his valve, circling the rim, and then a push in, spreading his tight calipers. A long pause, and then a slow push in. He felt his optics shutter, as though his whole awareness focalized to this new sensation, this thing, this other, this alien presence inside him. He felt a quiver of something like fear at the intrusion, a sensation soothed away by the gentle touches of the smaller mechs.
Another squirm beneath him, and another presence inside him, pushing the calipers wider, Ore wriggling down to work his spike against his twin’s, inside Megatron’s valve.
They moved, slowly, sliding in and out of the valve, four hands stroking, tweaking, petting his trembling frame. He braced his arms, trying to lift his weight off Ore, letting them spread his knees further, taking Shock’s weight on his back almost effortlessly. His ventilations panted from him, hot gusts of air drying the last of the cleanser from his armor, his still-turgid spike sliding sensually over Ore’s belly.
Ore snapped up, abruptly, his dentae finding Megatron’s throat, biting hard into the cables, the rush of pain like an accelerant over his heated frame, as the two overloaded together, against him, inside him, and he felt the same rush of scalding fluid, but on the receiving end this time, hot fluid flooding into him, the two EM fields blazing around him, and it was all he could do to keep his body braced, prevent himself from collapsing down onto the smaller mech.
“Mmmm,” Ore murmured, releasing his dentae from the cable, with a gentle, apologetic little lick, letting his helm fall back onto the washrack floor. “So. What do you think?”
He groaned, letting his tightened servos loosen, shifting over to lie on the ground beside Ore. “Think?” Not that he was up to thinking, at the moment, even if he could understand the question.
“Heh,” Shock said, sliding off him, one hand feathering down his thigh. “We’ve been trying to thank you for saving us.”
“Also,” Ore said, “because, well, frag. You’re hot.”
A blink, unguarded, and Ore’s grin burst into a laugh, and Shock reached to stroke his helm. “Should take your head out of that datapad from time to time, you know?”
Ore snickered. “If he had, though, we wouldn’t have had this.” He slicked one hand over the hip.
Megatron was beginning to get accustomed to being talked around by this, teasing, flattering words weaving around him, in a haze of pleasure and gratification.
Shock pressed against his backstruts, metal against metal, before releasing. “Should get back, though, before they miss us.” A reluctant sigh.
“Have enough time to clean you up, though,” Ore said, catching at Megatron’s shoulder as he tried to push to sit up. “And,” he purred, dragging himself closer, pulling the heavy helm down into a yearning, tender kiss, “have plenty of time, later, and oh…so much to teach you.”
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(Also, giggle. All he should have done would have been befriending a librarian. It would have been better for everyone, especially on the long term. )
This fic's Megatron is epicly cute.
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