威震天教了霸王最后一件事。
原文地址没有留存，于是贴在这里留档。原作者保留著作权。
啊啊啊实在太辣了>///<！！
"You did well today, Overlord. I'm proud of you." A heavy pause, then, "I think you're ready."
Ready — ready for what? Overlord blinked, his processor reeling, the slippery tang of bled energon hot and tart on his lips. That was — that was Megatron's voice, and that was Megatron, looming above him, arms crossed, smiling, victorious. Overlord felt a pulse of confused anger pull at his spark, and he wanted nothing more than to reach up and rip that smug grin off Megatron's face, but —
"I expect you'll find yourself mostly immobile. That was a nasty blow to the head." Through raging, ragged static, Overlord watched as Megatron stalked closer, the glow of his red optics swallowed by the sterile, stark brightness of their training cell. "You are going to be a fine warrior, Overlord. You are going to be near-invincible. After today, you will join the vaulted ranks of the Warriors Elite."
Megatron crouched beside him, and Overlord so desperately craved to snarl some caustic retort, but the words, whatever they would have been, died in his throat: a digit ran down the side of his face, over his parted, bloodied lips.
"You will be indestructible, Overlord, and you will submit to me."
A blaze of hatred. "I — will do — no such thing." The words were slurred, lacking the measured, rich precision of Overlord's normal timbre.
"You forget," Megatron hissed, slamming one powerful knee between Overlord's thighs, "that you — are — mine."
Overlord snarled; Megatron lunged forward, lips closing over his and swallowing any further objections. The Decepticon warlord bit, hard; Overlord could only whine in muffled indignation as a hot, slick glossa invaded his mouth. The knee between his legs slid upward, and then it was pushed flush with his pelvic housing, a warm hum against his own shameful, scalding arousal.
Megatron pulled away, his lips still ghosting against Overlord's, and murmured, "The badge on your shoulder is my mark. Your expertise in combat is my mark. And this —" gunmetal gray digits pressed against Overlord's heated interface hatch, "— will be my mark, too."
Overlord's limbs gave a twitch. He felt his fingers move, felt them curl into a fist — but his arms would not budge, and they laid limply at his sides, paralyzed, dead. The hot pressure against the junction of his thighs heightened, Megatron's digits outlining the tight seam of Overlord's interface panel.
"Open up."
An attempted kick: but Overlord's leg gave only a weak convulsion, rattling uselessly against the plating of the floor. He fixed Megatron with a defiant glare, bruised and bloodied lips twisting into a challenging smirk. "Make me."
"Make you? Oh, I don't think that will be necessary." The stroking persisted, harder, strong fingers cupping that pelvic span, and Overlord felt Megatron's electromagnetic field swell against his own, pulsing with a potent charge of dominance and steady control. "Open — up."
Overlord's contemptuous grin faltered, and between the harsh caress of the fingers on his interface hatch and the dizzying pull of Megatron's EM field, his prized self-restraint began to crumble away. Another drag of those digits, and finally, not breaking eye contact with his mentor and master, Overlord yielded, his port cover snapping aside, his spike pressurizing between them.
Megatron grinned; it was a victorious, appraising smile. "That's more like it. You always have been a fast learner." A hand worked its way down Overlord's abdominal armor, tracing the recessed sockets of the hidden turret guns, sweeping over the heated pelvic housing, coming to rest on a thigh. "Yes, you will be a fine warrior, indeed." The praise made Overlord's processor spin, and he barely noticed the jerk of his leg as it was hiked skyward, until it was bent awkwardly against the tank treads that jutted from Megatron's back.
Pelvic armor rasped on his own, rough against his open port. Overlord hissed, not quite in pain, as two thick fingers plunged into him.
"Nothing to say, Overlord?" Megatron's face was a mask of absolute control; even his electromagnetic field, though charged with indomitable power, betrayed no sign of lust or longing. A third finger jabbed its way into Overlord's port. "You're usually so defiant. So proud."
Overlord didn't rise to the bait. He knew that no matter what he said, Megatron would twist his words, use them as a weapon against him. Instead Overlord just glared and gritted his dentae, managing to rock his hips upward and impale himself further on the digits in his port.
"I see," Megatron said dryly. Without another word, he withdrew his fingers, grasped Overlord's other thigh, and hiked that leg up, as well. Overlord groaned, his optics still locked with Megatron's, his arousal hot and slick and heady. He felt the internal components of his port clamp down around nothing, searching, despicably needy and desperate. Oh, Overlord hated this: not what Megatron was doing to him, but that his body was betraying him, exposing him, begging.
He belonged to no one —
There was the quiet click of shifting armor, barely audible over Overlord's whining vents, and then with a short, sharp thrust of his hips, Megatron plowed himself into the dripping port, his spike cleaving through too-tight calipers, base smashing against the sensitive rim. Overlord hissed, his head lolling to the side, processor swimming again with the sudden rush of movement. Megatron withdrew, then rammed himself back inside; there was a wet, mechanical squelch and Overlord felt his own hot fluids trickle down his aft, pooling beneath him.
The grip on his thighs tightened, and Megatron set up a brutal pace, his mouth a thin, satisfied smile. Again they locked gazes; Overlord tried to ignore that haughty smirk, instead focusing on the dig of his digits into the floor — on the scrape of the deck against his back — on the slick, burning throb of Megatron slamming himself repeatedly into his port. He would not relent — he would not give Megatron the satisfaction of vocalizing his twisted, shameful bliss. That alone, Overlord knew he could control.
Still thrusting, Megatron released his grasp on one of the thighs, sweeping his hand down the leg and seizing Overlord's spike. He wrapped his fingers around the turgid, searing length, his grip almost too tight, but Overlord bucked into the touch, reveling in the hot pressure against his oversensitive plating.
"Your obedience is hardly endearing," Megatron growled. "It is, however, exactly what I expect from you, from this point forward." His hips slammed against Overlord, his hand pumped tightly, savagely — and Overlord felt his frame start to quake — felt the lubricants dribbling down the small of his back — felt his fans running so high they rattled within him. Megatron's smile morphed into something else: a vicious scowl, red optics overbright, dentae bared. He thrust, mercilessly — something tore — and with a shouted curse, Overlord tipped over the edge, overload coursing through his frame, painful and wonderful all at once. His optics switched offline, and the world became a dark haze of grinding clamor and sweet, slick bliss.
Megatron continued to plow into Overlord's body as it shuddered and convulsed beneath him, erratic pace fast and bruising. "Look at me," he hissed, fingers punching dents through Overlord's thigh. "Look at me!"
Red optics flickered back on; Overlord felt his lips curl into a sated, euphoric smile. "My Lord."
Overlord liked to think the words pushed Megatron to his climax: the Decepticon commander snarled as he overloaded, scalding transfluid jetting into the still-quivering port, grip nearly crushing the thighs in his grasp. He chased his overload, thrusting until he was spent, optics not once straying from Overlord's face. And then Megatron leaned in close, frame hot and heaving, lips mere inches away from Overlord's, and he whispered, "Do not forget, Overlord: you are mine. You always have been, and you always will be."
Fin.