Desiderata 5/?

[stainless]

Title: Desiderata
Characters: Megatron/Starscream
Verse: IDW? G1? I don't even know.
Wordcount: 3,400ish
Rating: MA
Warnings: References to sticky. Very sticky. Violence. D/s. Don't sip the delicious, sexy Haterade if it doesn't agree with you.
Summary: Starscream (finally) receives Megatron's brands. In front of an audience. A big audience.

Also on FFN : http://www.fanfiction.net/s/7648576/5/

Thanks to dogstar for beta.

The oration rang in Starscream's audio receptors.

 He stared out over the audience, only half seeing. The lower tiers of the hall of audience were full of grounders, big-framed and noisy, whose engines rumbled as they shouted Megatron's name. Their frames were stained with black grime and pitted with scars, some from the deathmatch arena, some from the daily hazards of work in smelters or factories, and some from ordinary brawls. But their optics shone a bright, fierce red, and the roar of their cries echoed through the hall.

 Perches ringed the space above them, and Seekers stood or sat on them or hovered above them. They cheered as well, revving their engines and twitching their wings.

 Politics, Starscream thought, snarling. They knew full well what Megatron wanted from them. They cheered because they had no choice, just as Starscream himself hadn't.

 All around them hung banners bearing Megatron's device, a dizzying array of them. Too many, too much, and they said everything Megatron had said anyway.

 Your pretty words don't matter, brute, he thought, trying to ignore the words echoing through his mind and the mech who had just spoken them.

 "Vos has stood alone for far too long," Megatron had said. "The spires of the city rise above all others, looking out over our world. And yet the Vos of old was a city of warriors, not watchers. The Seekers were once lords of the air, not schemers in high towers."

 Starscream's dark mouthplates twisted into a snarl, remembering. He had expected Megatron to call for war, of course. He hadn't expected the direct insult.

 "Yet enemies gather, envious of Vos and fearful of Kaon. We are the fist of a new Cybertron, rising from the fires and smoke of the old to strike down the fearful and the weak. With this alliance, Vos becomes its wings."

 Starscream couldn't recall what Megatron had said next. He remembered only the voice and its cadence, now rasping and quiet, hissing secrets fit only for those he'd chosen, now thundering as if already calling his legions to battle, Seekers and Kaonians alike.

 It made his valve throb. Focus, Starscream, he snarled at himself, his vocalizer emitting a faint, staticky hiss. It's not war you're here for. Not yet.

 "Then there is only one thing left to be done," a voice beside him said. His wings twitched; it startled him to hear the voice outside his own head.

 He turned, slowly, not wanting to look at the contraption behind him.

 But Megatron's optics were on him already, crimson and bright as the flames that would someday rise for him. He nodded once. Maybe that would appeal to the big mech's sense of formality and they could get this over with.

 Starscream shuddered as he straightened. He could see the device in the corner of an optic. It was too small, barely big enough to hold him, and he hated the thought of something holding his wings still.

 He stared at Megatron instead. The gladiator's silver plating gleamed under the stage's lights. Clearly, the big mech wanted to impress his new allies. Just as he'd wanted to impress Starscream, that first time the Seeker had visited him in Kaon.

 Starscream smirked. Imposing as Megatron's frame looked, and elegant as the careful polishing made it, it remained scratched and dented, scarred from countless battles in the deathmatch arena. And as before, even the best polishing job couldn't get all of the soot out.

 Starscream's wings of Seeker warriors probably couldn't see that, but Starscream knew it. Interesting what you learn when you get too close. Don't you think, Lord of the Pits?

 But as Megatron turned to face him, he saw something the big mech's plating hadn't bore before: a brand in the center of his chest in deep imperial purple, a ring of dark, burnt metal around it clearly marking it as fresh.

Starscream winced. Three days ago when Megatron had visited him, he'd worn that insignia painted on his chest plate, not branded there.

 You really mean this, don't you, gladiator? Starscream thought, fighting not to shiver. You're taking the same pain you're giving the rest of us.

Then he did shiver, his spark crackling in his chest, giddy with sick anticipation. Now it comes to it.

He stepped toward the device and turned, crying out some silly comment about the glorious alliance. He couldn't remember what exactly it was, but he'd practiced it often enough that he felt sure it would please Megatron and impress his Seekers alike. What the brutes of Kaon thought, he hadn't guessed.

And couldn't guess, not now that the arms of the device held him frozen and Megatron's frame was looming closer and closer still. Starscream

Starscream tossed his head; a clamp caught it and held it still, automatic and uncaring. He spared a muttered curse that the crowd probably wouldn't hear over its own noise, and then willed himself to silence.

 

I said I would do this, he thought, snarling. He too came from a city of warriors. Your little dramatics don't frighten me.

 He brightened his optics and would have flared out his wings, but he couldn't move them. The device already held them extended anyway. Not in the display of defiance he wanted to make, but exposed. It presented every surface of his wings to Megatron -- and to the tools Megatron would use to sear them.

 His spark pulsed again, its energies whirling. Lightning zipped through his circuits, a nervous heat that pooled in his valve as the thud of Megatron's steps boomed closer. Its sound echoed in Starscream's audio receptors, pure and untouched by the noise of the crowd.

 Starscream glared at Megatron, his optics burning. His lip plates parted. Megatron stared back, his optics flickering. Emboldened, Starscream licked his lips, just enough so that he knew that Megatron would see even if the cameras and the crowds failed to notice.

 Megatron turned away, seemingly unaffected, but Starscream caught the low roar of his cooling fans as he passed by. The gladiator was close enough to Starscream that he could feel the heat of the air cycling through Megatron's vents.

 He smirked, exultant, suddenly glad for the contraption holding him still. It would make his gloating less obvious to anyone besides the one he wanted to notice.

 Megatron waved a black hand and the crowd hushed. Starscream snickered. You fools are acting like this is a pit fight you've all come to watch.

 But Megatron had more in mind than the melodrama of the fights, apparently. A group of groundpounders filed onto the stage. They walked almost like priests of Primus, their steps measured and slow. Their engines hummed, the rumble of Kaonian engines sounding almost like a chant.

 Starscream looked over the stands and the perches and saw the Seekers click their wings, some leaning closer to see. Their Winglord only chuckled, recognizing the group of mechs. They were the ones who had repaired his quarters some days earlier.

 That might impress this crowd, Megatron. But it won't impress me.

 Four of their number carried small, translucent containers. Inside them lay small objects that stilled Starscream's whirling spark in his chest. Objects he would have known anywhere, despite that right now they lay dormant and facedown, only the small handles that a wielder would use to grip them visible.

 Funny, Starscream thought, letting loose a peal of high-pitched laughter before he could stop himself. I didn't think he meant to brand me himself.

 Starscream's spark pulsed with renewed rage, watching Megatron walk over to the first of them and wrap his hand around the handle of the first branding iron. If the gladiator meant to do this by hand, why bother to bind him? Did he think his new Air Commander couldn't hold still?

 He'd expected Megatron to rely on the device to do it for him -- that he would set them into their places and the machine would press them into Starscream's wings, precisely even, exactly measured.

 And, most importantly, that the machine would do it all at once. He had no desire to feel each strike, one after the other.

 But Megatron had already pulled the first branding iron out of its holder. He twisted his wrist and it flared to sudden life, bright purple energon racing down the channels in the handle, making the insignia at its end glow bright, optic-piercing purple.

 Megatron held it out in front of him, studying the energy flickering over the design. Starscream's engines sputtered, staring at the purple light, reflected on the silver of Megatron's frame. He whimpered, too loudly, and felt his hips twitch in helpless, horrified response.

 The symbol burned in his vision. Lightning crackled over it, wreathing it in heat and light, and it glowed, first lavender and then so brightly it went white, the light scalding Starscream's optics, filling his vision with snow-staticky errors as he stared. But he could not look away.

 He wondered for a wild moment just which wing Megatron would press it to and where. What would it look like, the black new burn against the white of his wing, he wondered. Spark contracting with morbid curiosity, he turned his head to watch.

 But Megatron, always the showman, had apparently decided not to give the Seeker or the audience the satisfaction of seeing it right away. Instead, he stepped behind Starscream. The Seeker felt heat at his left wing and trembled. He's only lining it up, he reminded himself, cycling shallow pants of air in a futile attempt to calm himself down.

 Then pain exploded through his wing. White light burst before his optics and his frame twitched, shaking, under no power of its own.

 Every part of him burned, the agony speeding through his circuitry until his spark itself was aflame with it. His valve clenched in helpless response to the overwhelming sensation, but not in anything he could understand as pleasure.

 He did not curse. He did not move.

 Megatron endured this, he reminded himself. He might have said it aloud, if he could have vocalized anything more than a sibilant, bitter hiss. If he endured this, so can I.

 But then another thought, unbidden and unwelcome: He endured this -- once. But he's giving me one on each side of each wing.

 Cycling air in heavy gasps, he willed himself to stop trembling. He heard a rumbling purr from Megatron behind him and gave a short, sharp bark of laughter. Be careful, brute. They might see.

 That thought sent new heat to the very places he would most need to hide, and he only laughed louder. Behind him, he could hear Megatron moving away again. A moment later he saw him, the great silver frame crossing the stage to take the second brand from another of the brightly colored mechs.

 Again Starscream watched Megatron's hand, and again one of the brands flared to life. The pain in Starscream's wing flared again as he watched, and he thrashed in the bonds holding him as Megatron moved behind him again.

 Barbarian. At least let me see. At least let me know when it's coming.

 Then he felt fingers on his wing, light as a gust of wind, and shivered. Megatron was -- touching him? Here? In front of everyone?

 He snickered. Starscream's small frame, and the lattice of clamps and clasps that held it, couldn't hide everything. Especially not from the optics of his Seekers. Seekers were fight-capable warriors, their optical apparatus optimized to focus precisely on things far away. With their attention fixed on the spectacle, they'd know where Megatron's fingers were now, even if they didn't guess why.

 A moment later Megatron's hand left his wing. Starscream barely had time to miss it before he heard the crackle behind him and felt the heat as Megatron lifted the brand. Spitting a curse between clenched dental plates, he steeled himself for the impact.

 Then it came, blanking his vision, and his frame twitched anew. His hips tilted up through no will of his own. Although he couldn't move far, he laughed to think of something so obviously obscene. And something everyone would miss, most likely. He didn't have the freedom of motion to make it obvious right now, even if he'd wanted to.

 Megatron would understand it, if he could see it. But, disoriented as he was from the new shock of pain, Starscream couldn't tell how far Megatron had moved. He could feel the thudding vibration of the big mech's steps against the floor, but his vision took several moments more to clear. By the time it did, the third brand had crackled to life and Megatron was holding it in his hands.

 He stood in front of Starscream now, holding the burning insignia out in front of him. It filled Starscream's vision, stinging his optics. Above it, Starscream could see the bright red of Megatron's optics. He tilted his head as best he could, staring back into them.

 Go ahead. I've come this far.

 Megatron nodded once, as though he understood. Starscream kept his optics fixed on Megatron, watching the flicker of red, the bright swirling color of molten metal, to keep himself from looking down.

 He thought of the promises Megatron had made, the war that would sweep Cybertron, the red of the flames that would scour their planet pure again. And the red of molten metal, of the burning of their enemies.

 Then he himself burned.

 He howled, his mouth opening and opening. By now he knew the pain and expected it and knew he could endure it. But somehow, seeing Megatron there in front of him made it real. Made it more than simply some agony visited on him, some torment wreaked upon his wings by an unseen and hated enemy who had tricked him into offering himself up.

 When the static cleared from his vision, Megatron's optics still glowed, bright pits of red. Starscream narrowed his own optics, not wanting their glow to hypnotize him, and turned his head to look at his wing.

 In its center lay the mark, its lines crisp and perfect, at least for the moment. It was a deep purple, almost black for now, darkened because of the fresh burn. A few small sparks of energy still crackled over it, and it shimmered where the light caught it. It had been made by an energized brand, and when the light caught it properly, it would gleam like that again.

 Heat surged through Starscream's systems, pooling in his valve. He canted his hips again, a tiny movement that sent a wave of desire through his interface equipment. He thought of Megatron's order to keep his cover open when they were alone together and for a wild moment thought of opening, right here and right now.

 Megatron smirked, staring at his handiwork. Starscream grinned back, brazen and blatant.

 Yes, Lord of Kaon. I bind my fate to yours. Let's hope for both our sakes that you can handle it.

 The fourth mech hesitated and then stepped forward. Starscream's optics widened. Megatron had moved to take them from the others before. But now the last officiant was moving toward Megatron himself, apparently anxious to see the ceremony finished once and for all.

 He heard Megatron growl, perhaps in displeasure, and saw the black hand reach down and slowly tighten around the last of the handles. His engines sputtered, thinking of Megatron's hands tightening around his wings. Of Megatron's dental plates, biting into the cabling of his joints or his neck. Of Megatron's spike inside him, and the inevitable end of this little ritual, which none of the machines gathered here would have the privilege to see.

 Starscream's turbines whirled. His cooling fans kicked on, whirring loudly. He stared out at the crowd, at the glitter of optics fixed on him and fixed on the big mech marking him. Had they heard it? Would they hear it, magnified by the acoustics of the hall of audience? The lights flickered in his vision as he struggled to hold his head up, gritting his dental plates against a new wave of pain.

 His sensornet flashed with warnings. Emergency shutdown imminent. He sneered, ignoring them.

 "There is one more," Megatron said, echoing Starscream's thoughts.

 The big mech looked only at Starscream as he lifted the last branding iron. He spoke in a rasping whisper, too low to excite the crowd or to sway his new followers.

 "There is," Starscream answered, his dark mouthplates twisting into a bitter grin.

 Megatron smiled, turning his hand. Lightning danced over the surface of the brand with a hissing sizzle.

 Starscream's optics irised open, their aperture widening, taking in more and more light from the glowing insignia Megatron held. It scorched him to look at it, patterns of color and errors dancing in his vision, but he only opened his optics wider and cycled air hard through his vents, waiting for the greater burst of pain.

 His glossa darted out to lick his lips again, and he made no move to hide it. He laughed, a mad giggle, and then laughed even louder when Megatron snickered in answer.

 His spark pulsed, and his valve echoed it, clenching over nothing. He could hear the crowd whispering, the click of Seeker wings and the hum of Kaonian motors, the nervous fidgeting of the others in the ceremony, the jittery, irregular noise of someone's engine as it stalled.

 Starscream only laughed louder.

 I bind my fate to yours.

 A rolling vibration came from Megatron's frame. Its rumble drowned out all else, and Starscream's laughter died. His vision flared white as something approached him, bright and dangerous, and for an instant he could see nothing at all.

 A moment later, every part of him was pain. The sensors in both of his wings, taxed to their limit, flared all as one, agony speeding through Starscream's systems. He felt it everywhere. His wings, his optics, his shoulders, his chest. His spark surged with it, overfull, the energy expanding too far too fast, overheating the casing his spark rested in.

 His every circuit flared with it, fire speeding through him as though it would melt him from the inside out. He opened his mouth and keened, a high cry no vocalizer but his own could ever have emitted.

 He felt the floor tremble -- Megatron, again, his frame rumbling with concentration or approval or concern or pain of his own, hearing so piercing a sound? Or his own imagination, making the world shake around him, reflecting what had happened to him, inside? Starscream could not guess -- and was in no condition to do so, alive to nothing but the agony that left no part of him untouched.

 "Megatron," he whispered, a curse and a plea all at once.

 The thing searing him withdrew and he panted, hanging limp in the device that bound him, only its clamps and braces holding him up. His wings hurt, terribly, perhaps more terribly than they ever had before. Or would again, he hoped.

 But that was only pain. Only something to be felt and experienced and lived through. Nothing like whatever had just invaded and transformed him. He cycled a sigh of relief more vast than he had ever felt before.

 "Starscream," answered a voice, rich and resonant and possessive.

 The Seeker shuttered his optics -- they hurt too, from opening too wide and letting in too much light a moment ago -- but lowered his head to face the source of the voice. Then, slowly, he opened his stinging optics again.

 His valve cover clicked, wanting to open, as though in response to some command. Beyond reason, Starscream almost obeyed it.

 But the influx of visual data as his optics opened again showed him pinpricks of light all around him. They ringed Megatron's form like a halo of lights. Like apparitions that would follow him, down into war and chaos, igniting the places where he passed.

 Most of the lights were red. Starscream peered at them a moment longer and realized they were the optics of others, thousands of them, staring and hungry.

 He did not know who they belonged to, not through the mist of his agony. He did, however, know that they did not deserve to see what belonged to only one other. Whimpering faintly, he held himself closed.

 "It's done," he croaked, giving the one who had baptized him a crooked, tired smile.

 The last thing he remembered before his tired systems shut down right there on the stage was Megatron turning and repeating his words in the ringing voice of an orator, and the thunderous sound of the cheers that answered it.

 Politics, he thought, smirking at the sea of faces as the darkness claimed him.