Coercion

[niyazi-a.livejournal.com]

NC-17
IDW/MTMTE
Tarn/Kaon
WARNINGS:  (Yeah, uh this is one of those) noncon, sticky, skullfucking, humiliation, in short, DO NOT READ THIS.

The melody enraptured him, caught him up, and Kaon found his tense servos loosening as he stood, even as he felt a prickly cold knot of fear swinging like a bell clapper in his belly. 

“Kaon.”  Tarn’s voice turned the word into a trill of notes, like a birdsong, that caught up Kaon’s dread, shivering it into icy shards through his systems.

“Yes.” His own voice, thready and thin, like a pulse trickling down.

“Good to hear you so...agreeable.”  A chuckle, velveteen and plush, followed by a hand, armor slick and polished, over Kaon’s shoulder coils. The blackness of Kaon’s world seemed to contract, pressing in against him, in a horrible compression, the melody swirling around ‘no escape no escape’.

“There’s no sense otherwise.”  It wasn’t wisdom so much as resignation. One of the trials of the Decepticon Justice Division, one of the coherences of the team.  Of all of them only Tarn had the power to kill without touching, surreptitiously. And he flaunted that power, sending melodies down the corridors of the ship at odd moments, little arpeggios enough to pluck at the spark, low moaning notes that seemed to well with despair.  He knew all the tones, all the mysteries of harmony. 

“Ah, and you are all about sense, aren’t you?”  A thumb stroking his cheek.  Kaon could smell the sweet tang of Tarn’s polish, hear the silken slide of enamel  over his metal face plates.  “I find it…fascinating, how you’ve compensated, Kaon.”

Kaon wouldn’t pull away, and Tarn knew it. Part of the way they danced, wary and expert, around each other.  Part of him wanted Tarn to just get it over with, the silken mockery distasteful, more of a humiliation than enduring Tarn’s favors.  But part of him resisted on principle, almost relishing his own struggle, the certainty of his own fall.

Tarn’s thumb slid down his cheek, pressing against his lower lip plate. “Taste,” he murmured. Kaon’s mouth pursed, as though touching something vile, his olfactory sensors filling with the smell of Tarn.  Tarn’s thumb pressed down, pulling the mouthplates apart, until Kaon could taste Tarn’s finger, sour and strong against his glossa.  Charge swirled through the coils on his shoulders, unsettled, the tense menace of a wild animal trying to scare off a predator. 

A purr against his EM field, his audio picking up the soft click of an interface hatch, the swirl of air as one hand moved over him. 

And then a hand wrapping over his helm, pushing down, the thumb in his mouth tipping upward, bruising his lip plates. Tarn wanted him to kneel.

He knelt, feeling the subjugation of the move like a mantle settling over his shoulders, damping the hiss of current.

“You do want it, of course,” Tarn said, in that voice, the baritone buzz that rasped past Kaon’s will, making it real. And he did want it, or part of him did, resonating with Tarn’s voice, sinful melody.  He found his mouth parting, seeking blindly for Tarn’s equipment, lipping over the brushed steel of the thigh armor, the codpiece, his helm’s crest sliding over the pelvic span. Kaon’s hands spread around the thighs, worming over the armor.

“No,” Kaon breathed, for the other part of him that didn’t.  The part that writhed at the oily, black humiliation of this, that smelled the ozoned tang of arousal from Tarn’s interface equipment, his honed senses finding the smell sharp as a blade. 

The music surged around him, and he could feel it taking hold, resonating through him.  Surrender. Surrender.  The message so quiet at first it was impossible to sort if it came from within or without, Tarn’s coercion or his own logic: surrender or it will be worse. Give in now or he will push harder. 

A click, the spike cover flicking aside, and he could feel the magnetic pull of the spike’s coils near one cheek.  Tarn’s hand was a pressure on his helm—he could trace the line of each digit, the larger mass of the palm flexing against the metal.

He turned his face, parted mouth finding the spike, the lubricant an explosion of sour sharpness on his glossa, too strong, too intense against his heightened senses. His tank roiled, even as he guided his mouth around, lipping the spike’s head, the circuit cable that wrapped its way under the head.  Above him, a sigh from Tarn, louche and musical as always. 

It wasn’t, Kaon knew,  a matter of pleasure. Pleasure was a vice of the indolent, a decadence, a weakness, an indulgent distraction from their work.

This wasn’t pleasure. This was refining. Honing, burning off the dross. Keeping the blades of Megatron’s most loyal steel-keen. Force against force, loyalty and submission, surrender of will to another’s: a sort of microcosm of Decepticon loyalty.

Kaon was loyal. He had taken the city of Megatron’s rise as his own, the crucible of the Arena, where weakness had been purged, where Megatron had hardened himself for what was to come, casting out weakness and things that did not serve.

Resistance was weakness, having a limit was weakness. 

He closed his mouth around the spike, feeling it against his glossa, the roof of his mouth, cool and hard, forcing his jaws apart.  Tarn’s hand softened against the back of his helm, giving him space to move, to slide his mouth down the spike, feeling it fill him further, until it scraped the back of his intake, and then back, the overlapping scales slick ridges under his glossa. 

Tarn purred, the music settling around Kaon like wings, and the lubricant in his mouth, thick and unctuous, melted and sweetened, the spike’s magnetic field a delicious pulse over him.  His hands crept around the broad thighs, thumbs finding the vents on the joins.  His mouth slid back, then forward, riding over the spike, the music filling him, churning in him, until the degradation felt like pleasure, the humiliation joy. He felt a warm hum in his own vocalizer, the spike thick and large in his mouth.  And he wanted--because of Tarn’s music, because of the soft murmur of half-words Tarn swirled around him--he wanted what he wouldn’t want, the violation feeling like ravishment.

Tarn pushed in, hard, his spike jamming the back of Kaon’s intake, leaving the smaller mech gagging around the intrusion, bruising at his throat.

“More,” Tarn said, rocking his hips back, pulling the spike from Kaon’s mouth with a sharp, stinging pop.  Kaon felt the intrusion of a hand, knuckles brushing his face on their way down to wrap around the spike. He heard the slick crackle as the hand spread the lubricant and his own oral fluids down the shaft, then the movement as Tarn guided the spike up his face. Kaon could feel the slick heat trace a line over his cheek aiming for....

...he flinched back, his optic shutter mechanisms clicking. He’d lost his optics long ago, another of Tarn’s whims, the shutters torn aside. But the small actuators remained, flicking nervously.

“Kaon,” Tarn said, chidingly.  “I want to.”

Kaon grimaced. He had surrendered his sight to the DJD.  Now,  this.  Nausea billowed up his system, dribbling from the corners of his mouth. The music faded, Tarn making the pleasure fade, letting him feel every inch and scrape and grate as the spike pushed through his optic socket, in the dense mesh of wires and cables, leaving a wet smear on Kaon’s cheek. 

The music began again, the frayed threads of melody retwisting themselves around him, like a net of harmony catching him up, and the long, slow thrusts of Tarn’s spike began twisted into something pleasurable, the forcing and spread of the network of cables a delightful stretch. It was Tarn’s power, that he used with maximum, consummate skill, to corrupt the line between pleasure and revulsion. 

Kaon could feel the overload build, the charge like a tingling in his skull, the music around him spiraling to a lazy crescendo, as Tarn’s hands came to brace his helm, keeping him from pulling away, thrusting harder and faster, his ventilation coming in short, hot bursts of air.

The music cut, again, abruptly, the pleasure snapping back to horror so sharply that Kaon’s senses lurched, just long enough to feel the last three thrusts in all their deep, vicious horror, scraping and harsh, and then the sudden explosion of heat and liquid as Tarn’s transfluid burst from his spike, spattering through Kaon’s cranial vault.

Kaon could hear Tarn’s purring voice, the hands holding his head, almost cradling it, pressing Kaon’s face against his thighs, his spike buried deep in Tarn’s optical socket. Long enough and too long, for the full horror, the full abhorrence, to seep in, along with the hot droplets of transfluid dripping and sliding their way down Kaon’s cables.

Tarn gave a growl of pleasure, flat and unmelodious, raw lust, pure dominance, and Kaon could feel the weight of his optics on him, taking in the scene in all its humiliation. 

And then Tarn pulled out, withdrawing his spike with something almost approaching gentleness, Kaon’s cables burning as the spike’s plates scraped raw and horrible across them.  Tarn’s hand, still on his helm, tilted Kaon’s head forward, as though wanting one last sign of obeisance, Kaon’s head lowered, bowed before him. 

Kaon felt the chill air against him, cool on the smear of lubricant, his shame-heated facial plates. And then the slick, sickening slide of the transfluid forward through his systems over the empty optical space, rushing forward to gravity.

Tarn tilted his head back, suddenly and Kaon felt the hot lines of transfluid spill from both sockets, long silver trails scalding his cheeks.

“Why Kaon,” Tarn purred, and Tarn didn’t need optics to know the self-satisfied smirk that had roosted on the other’s face. “you’re crying.”

Comments

[wind-on-wave.livejournal.com]

Tarn is gentle tyrant. Ye-es. Ye-es, it's perfect.
And last phrase.. wow. It's creeps me, but it should be so.

[niyazi-a.livejournal.com]

I find Tarn sort of creepy as all hell. :P And yeah the last image is the one that hijacked me a few days ago and wouldn't leave me alone till I wrote it.

[atomicriotbot.livejournal.com]

So the notification for this ended up waking me up... And what a thing to read at six-going-seven am.
...You know im not one for noncon, for the most part. But skullfucking...
Lets just say you really made me want to draw fanart. Even if kad already did,.and awesomely so!
I also have to point out that I love the way you write tarn. Ruthless and with such finesse. Really, really wonderful. I really enjoyed this and im not even a fan of the pairing much, so far.

[niyazi-a.livejournal.com]

I suppose it's technically dubcon of a very high sort? Kaon could refuse consent, but I'd rather overwarn than under.

Honestly with a mission like theirs, you have to figure they're a little shaky on the idea of personal boundaries and consent--no one volunteers to sit in Kaon's chair, right?

I think I'd have to get a better grasp of Kaon's character before I could say anything about proper shipping for him. BUT I'm glad you liked it. I was worried because, lol, well it is sort of extreme. ._.

[pl2363.livejournal.com]

Moody, dark, beautiful & creepy all at once. You really pushed across powerful imagery with words.

[niyazi-a.livejournal.com]

Yeah this one was sort of uncomfortable to write (as you can guess by my warnings. ) I think today calls for Drift/Wing cuddlefic, don't you? :P

[pl2363.livejournal.com]

I could use something fluffy to read right now... *looking forward to it*

[dezmid.livejournal.com]

Oh goodness that last line got me good. This is amazingly hot, I didn't think I would ever find a skullbang hot, but the mental image you left us with is too great. I like thinking that it seeped through his head and leaked into his mouth so he could taste it too.

You also write the best humiliation-sex.