Shackles

[niyazi-a.livejournal.com]

R
IDW AU
Wing, Megatron
noncon, pnp, sexual abuse, tactile
for dark_bingo prompt 'sexual abuse' so, warnings for that, as well.
This AU:Wing has been captured by Megatron in the early days of the war.  Prior to the war he worked as a Courtesan Class--a class of mechs that existed as sort of storehouses of memories, and the pnp interfacing allowed the client access to many of the courtesan's memory files.  Some can be encrypted, as in removed from use, but in this world, Shockwave's long ago ripped out those firewalls.

Wing shuddered awake. Everything hurt, and his optics clouded for a moment with HUD alarms of systems on the edge of collapse.  He wanted to—as much as he could want anything, anymore, roll back into recharge, and give a mute prayer that it would end, be over, succumbing to death.  But he knew that consolation was beyond that.

And all he’d done, his great crime, had merely been to hope. To trust that Megatron would listen to reason and compassion, and let the innocent citizens of Uraya leave in peace.

“You’re awake.” The velvet dark laugh, behind him. Somehow, Megatron knew, through some sense he learned in the mines, or the Arena. He always knew, and Wing had no moments of relief from his kind of monitoring, the awareness he was being watched, was a mere thing. 

“Yes.” His voice a whisper, reedy with surrender. He’d lost his fight long ago, defiance earning him nothing but agony and shame. He bought enough of both with obedience.  And he thought perhaps Dai Atlas would be disappointed, the entire Circle would shake their heads at his surrender, but he would give anything, honestly, to face their judgment, if it meant he survived this long enough to see them again.

He was a creature made to surrender, built into his protocols, in a sense, from his life before the Circle.  He’d been a Courtesan, one of the cosseted and pampered mechs, whose storehouse of lovely memories and pleasures were for rent.  And it hadn’t taken long for Megatron to make use of that, once the purple mech, Shockwave, had pointed out the access hatch on Wing’s side.

The hatch’s cover was gone now, long lost, torn away, his jack port exposed to the open air, as though marking him as something different, something lesser, something whose memories and life and joys were available to anyone. Even his firewalls, those that tagged and encrypted certain memories to be private, his, unsharable, had been dismantled and he lay, each time, entirely exposed, entirely vulnerable, every pleasure, every fear.

It was no wonder Wing often merely lay in Megatron’s quarters. It was the strange calculus of abuse that he’d rather one assaulter than many, rather one set of rough hands on him than a host of strangers. It was awful and strange, an intimate enemy, one he came to know.

But one who knew him more.

One of those coarse miner’s hands curved over his side, drawing Wing back down onto his back, pressing his folded wingstruts onto the cold callous metal of the berth, while his other hand was already reaching, with his jack, toward that exposed port. 

Wing winced, in spite of himself, in spite of the fact he knew it did no good, as the jack slid home in his port. It seemed to sour a thousand pleasurable memories, where he’d worked with clients, selected memories for them, relived them anew and brighter for the companionship: flying, dancing, sunbathing, all the simple pleasures of life.  Megatron didn’t want to share, he wanted to own those memories, rifling through Wing’s tagging system without Wing’s input, sorting through memories like wares in a stall.  Until he searched his own name, this time, activating those memories, and Wing felt himself, all unwilling, tumbling through those moments of fear and terror and revulsion, of violation and shame.

And the worst of it was that Megatron enjoyed these, feeding upon Wing’s despair like a nectar of triumph, enjoying the slow, deliberate re-infliction of the wounds of memory on the jet, feeling Wing tremble and shiver beneath him, even as he ran his hands, in a secondary level of possession, over the jet’s sleek curves, stirring the latent, built up charge along with the feedback of Megatron's own feral pleasure, like an ache, turning despair, through some horrible alchemy, into desire.