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wifetomegatron · 7 months

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one hundred and one nights (overlord/reader)

summary : reader gets abducted by overlord. he has an infatuation. pairing : overlord (idw) / afab! reader fandom : transformers idw continuity, more than meets the eye rating : e for explicit and mild descriptions of gore & dubious consent, minors don’t interact (mdni!), not safe for work (nsfw!) warnings : descriptions of violence, references to human disembodiment, human!reader, smut, sticky sexual interfacing tags : a lot of references to fairytail / folklore, mostly one-hundred and one nights & this goyard painting.

I. You've heard stories about him. Luna two, Garrus-nine, Hell's point. Albeit not from Swerve, or Chromedome, or Rodimus — that would be ridiculous. Impossible, even, when his name is already non-existent in the space of a ship big enough to fit thousands of Cybertornians. Not even a whisper, as if people were afraid that a slip of his name would be mistaken for a prayer and he would come to life, emerging from the shadowy corners of the Lost Light. Optics, sickly artificial red as they burn holes through the veil. But not even Primus would be as cruel as to materialize Overlord here. At least, you had hoped.

Only several nights before were you and Ratchet discussing him. The doctor knew you deserved an explanation for what transgressed over the weekend with Fort Max, Whirl, and Rung. On who he was, what he has done, and what he will continue to do if his spark wasn't sealed in a white vacuum — serpentine green drowning in nothing. The silence stretched for what felt like years, minutes solidifying themselves midair to bake the air thick. And your mouth was dry, face drained of its color. You didn't ask further, choosing to retreat into your room, where you made the last-minute decision to sleep with the lights on.

It was an irrational fear, you thought. To be afraid of someone light years away, deconstructed and stuffed in a box.

And yet here you are, trapped inside a prison chamber with him — limbs suspended, mouth curled into a grin.

II. It was a stupid accident. A stupid, preventable accident that could have been avoided if everyone had just sat down and listened to the noises Red Alert had been talking about. Their audials would have picked up the voices, the whispers, traveling through a crack big enough for you to slip into. Down the rabbit hole, you fell very slowly before hitting your shoulders square against the crown of Overlord’s head. Slipping ungracefully down an arm, and into the palm of his chained hand. You should have never taken directions from Whirl, because God knows how long it’ll take for the crew members to realize you were gone. And how many seconds left do you have to live, considering that you had conveniently fallen into his grip? A curse. A gift.

“What’s this?” He asked aloud. A dragon waking from his slumber, voice heavy as they echo throughout metal walls, “ Hm. They brought me a plaything.”

You couldn’t speak. Stunned mute as your head barely manages to recover from the impact. The chains rattled slightly, and he squeezed you — yet you were still intact. Surprisingly whole, save not for a few bruises. He says it’s because he’s bored. And that there’s no fun in having you bleed all over when he can’t clean himself up after.

He demanded you to speak and so you did, finding courage in your voice. Yet it sounded so tiny compared to his. And Overlord reveled in this. The more you tried to prove you weren’t afraid the more he’d tighten his grip, horrified to know that this level of self-restraint had (most likely) earned you a broken rib. You wonder what would happen if he had less motivation to keep you alive.

So you became Scheherazade and spoke softly in between trembling breaths. The boiling temperature inside this circular prison may very well be the Sahara, and if you flutter your eyes shut you can hear the sand dunes sing with the wind. And you lay in a dimly lit room with your new husband, spinning him a story so that he won’t plunge his blade past your sternum — the tip of his silver knife shimmering under firelight as they nick your pulse point. Overlord was your Shahryār, yet you wondered if he was just as curious as the prince or if he was too clever to be outwitted by a story. Most likely the latter. Yet maybe he’s just willing to play along, knowing that he will always be the cat, and never the bird. That there’s only one ending — for he has robbed you of your sunrise and conquered all your dusks— so might as well make it count.

III. But maybe Overlord should’ve killed you. He should’ve snapped you in half, and if the sight would have delighted him into a good mood, it would even be painless, quick. Yet instead, he decided that you were worth more than that. This cat wanted to play with his food. Wanted to hear it sing. And so he performed a massacre and took you with him.

At least it spared Chromedome the pain of having Rewind aboard the compartment with Overlord. Instead, he had you. And ever since then you've been drifting, deeper and deeper into darkness. Swallowed by the void of space, where nothing seems to glow brighter than his optics.

IV. You continued telling him stories. It became the only thing you knew how to do, rather than the only thing that kept you alive. You were now at an abandoned spaceport, where your captor sought temporary refuge. It conveniently hovered above the organic civilization living below on Saturn. He jokes about colonizing them, yet you didn't laugh, quietly staring at the man Overlord just squished under his foot. He must've been a routine worker sent to check the premises. He could have alerted the planet below. And could've called for help.

Bile was rising into the back of your throat.

Maybe he came with a friend. Or maybe Overlord had their way with them already. As you silently wept, you turned the other way — opting to blankly stare past the window. You can see his reflection approaching, the metal beneath you tremble with each step.

" What did I say about your crying?" He crooned, a digit forcefully dragging your chin upwards. You tried to be defiant, to puff out your cheeks and stop your lips from trembling. Yet there was blood on his armor, sprayed across his face. And now there were some on your cheek, wet and sticky, enough to make the tears fall faster.

Then, amid the silence that has crowded the room, between the background hums and noises coming from the machine arose the subtle, clicking noise of a cooling fan. He pushed the tip of his thumb against your bottom lip, the red shade of his optics burning into a deep shade of garnet.

" Look at me when you cry," He commanded, " I want to see it."

V. You told him a story of the Roman titan who devoured his sons one by one — afraid they’d overthrow him. Eat or be eaten, was that what Megatron thought when he installed a killswitch in his head? You hoped this would flatter him. It did. A little too much.

VI. You usually don't talk when he's inside of you. When his spike is stretching you almost too painfully, you never make conversation, it is always the sound of your shallow breathing and his indulgent moaning, mingling together in the air. He didn't force you, no. A part of you had wanted this. Out of sheer fear or stress, you're not sure.

Either way, it's safe to say that Overlord doesn't want you dead anytime soon. Yet he's starting to get bored. Or rather, tired, of wanting. Of fighting this internal disgust in himself for ever thinking of having you like this: underneath him, writhing and struggling to have him all the way to the hilt. He has always been more glutton than prideful. And so here you two were, with his mass displaced yet hands still big enough to cover the expanse of your back — thumbs draped against your nipples. Squeezing, circling. His optics leered at the hickeys and bruises loitering your skin. He has a fascination with how they turn purple and bleed red, sometimes blooming into blue before fading. You tell him as long as he's gentle enough not to break anything, he's more than welcome to have you like this.

As insatiable as he is, that was enough for him.

" If I had known...organics were this pliant. I would have gotten myself a plaything eons ago."

He roughly snapped his hips upwards, dragging you against the berth.

" Sing for me."

Nothing made sense anymore. Not when he has you by the talons like a wild animal, hunched over to devour its prey. Atoms would condense and cluster and sink onto your skin, crowding you with heat from the brutal pace he's setting. You're afraid he'd snap your hip as he hikes up your right leg. Angling you, using you, to his pleasure. And there is pleasure out of this for you too, molten liquid tightening around your abdomen. So you indulge him. He likes seeing you cry, and so you did. Begging, whining — which only causes him to hold you closer to his chassis. The thrum of his spark against you is loud enough to send you into a headache.

It's too much. You wanted to say. But you know it's futile. So as you reached your high — spent and overstimulated from this newfound obsession of his — you could do nothing but brace yourself for the rush of trans fluid spilling down your legs. Your cunt, sore and aching as he finally pulls away.

He says you're funner this way. That's the closest thing you'll get to a sunrise.

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