[AU] Oubliette - Chapter Eleven
a/n: This one's damn terrible, too. They just all are. :(
Universe: G1/IDW AU
Characters this chapter: Megatron/Optimus, Soundwave, Bludgeon/Unidentified Cons/Tracks, (in flashback: Jazz, Smokescreen, Silverbolt)
Rating: NC-17
Warnings this chapter: physical abuse, observed gangbang, humiliation, on-screen character death, possibly suicide, forced oral, flashbacks
Commission fic for NK
Mood Music: "Battle Cry," Imagine Dragons
Oubliette
Chapter Eleven
Optimus was pulled from his light doze when Megatron's engine revved, the warlord's energy field rippling with restrained anger.
“Clarify,” Megatron growled.
Groggy, Optimus tried to surface from near-recharge. But his processor wouldn't respond as quickly as he liked, having shut down in response to being overheated.
Megatron's frame still rested above him, an arm wrapped around Optimus' waist. He was, Optimus realized with a shift of his hips, also still within Optimus as well. His spike was firmly emplaced within Optimus' valve. It hadn't depressurized for the entire course of Megatron's recharge.
“Explain to me how you could let this happen, Motormaster,” Megatron continued and it became clear that he wasn't talking to Optimus, but to someone over comms. “Those who fail do not deserve rewards. Shall I reclaim your prize?”
Megatron must have noticed Optimus was online, because his hand started to move, sliding from around Optimus' waist further down. He palmed the panel concealing Optimus' spike, rubbing it.
“I don't want any excuses,” Megatron hissed and he circled his hips, reminding Optimus' valve that his spike was still present and eager. “I'll send someone else since clearly you are unsuited for the task.”
His fingers flirted lower, finding Optimus' valve. They traced the rim of it, where his spike moved incrementally. His thumb and forefinger flirted with Optimus' anterior node, abruptly pinching it.
Optimus buried his face in his arms, swallowing down a sharp cry. A tremble raced through his frame. The brief recharge had done nothing in terms of repairs. His self-repair made his frame hot, responding as well as it could to all the damage. But Optimus was underenergized and undernourished. He was also laying on a berth covered in tiny shards of glass.
There was no comfort to be found.
“There are only three of them!” Megatron snapped, punctuating it with a sharper thrust into Optimus' valve.
Barely lubricated, it scraped against Optimus' inner lining. There wasn't nearly enough lubricant and transfluid left from the previous cycle. It burned and Optimus had to swallow down another cry.
Bad enough that his chamber still ached, that he felt scored from the inside out.
“I will send Barricade's team to assist,” Megatron continued, his tone seething with irritation. His thrusts into Optimus matched his anger, but at least his manipulation of Optimus' anterior sensor had eased. “I won't accept failure, Motormaster.”
His tone had a note of finality to it, one that was confirmed when he turned his attention to Optimus. He mouthed at the back of Optimus' helm, denta grazing the delicate components.
“My apologies,” he said and picked up the rhythm, thrusts sharpening. “That was quite rude of me.”
Optimus grunted at a particularly forceful thrust. “By all means, take the call. The less attention you pay to me, the better.”
Megatron chuckled. His fingers began to move again, petting Optimus' anterior node. Optimus' array dared to warm, a soft pleasure blooming in the wake of the gentle touches.
“You're so ungrateful.” Megatron ex-vented heat down on Optimus as his mouth explored Optimus' helm and neck.
Optimus ground his denta. His valve sensors responded to the careful movements of Megatron within him. Lubricant welled, easing Megatron's passage. His deepest node throbbed to life.
“You've yet to offer me anything I actually want,” Optimus retorted.
The sound of their frames scraping together grated in his audials. Megatron's rumbling engine was like an itch in his lines. His internals crawled with disgust.
Megatron rubbed circles around Optimus' anterior node, until it throbbed at his touch. “That'll change,” he said. He nibbled at Optimus' antennae, provoking a deep shiver.
Optimus groaned. It was impossible to fight it. Megatron was trying very hard to arouse Optimus and unfortunately, he was succeeding.
“And I'm not leaving until you overload, Optimus,” Megatron said. His hips ground against Optimus' aft. His spike raked against rings of sensors, lighting them up with pleasure. “This'll last as long as I need it to.”
Bastard. The human term seemed apt right now.
“I don't want what you offer,” Optimus hissed out.
“What you want is not a factor in this.” Megatron's mouth wandered up, finding and taking an antenna between his lips. His spike raked against Optimus' internal nodes and a burst of heat spread through Optimus' array.
He swallowed down a moan, finding it far too easy to succumb to the pleasure. His frame was starved for it, for the gentle touches on his nub and the slide of a spike against his lubricant slick walls. Megatron's pace was just enough to rock him toward overload, to tighten the coil of need within him until Optimus couldn't fight against it.
His spark cried out for it, aching with the need to be soothed, to be cherished. Unbidden, he was reminded of his Autobots, no particular one special to him, but all of them unique and treasured. So eager and willing to share pleasure.
A sob caught in his vocalizer. Optimus clenched his hands into fists, tightened his internals, fought against the waves of pleasure, but it was a tide he couldn't break. Megatron's ministrations were too much.
Overload stole over him, the moan trapped in his intake and buzzing through his vocalizer. His valve spasmed around Megatron's spike. His spark whirled, aching where the rasp of Megatron's spark had cut him.
Megatron chuckled darkly, slid his hand to push hard against Optimus' abdominal plate, and pinned him to the berth. He drew back and proceeded to frag Optimus hard, without mercy, his spike intermittently catching on the spasming calipers.
It hurt and Optimus pressed his face into his hands to muffle his cries. He clenched his hands into fists, telling himself it would be over soon, even as his frame shook with lingering bursts of pleasure. As it faded, the pain set in, reminding him that his frame was a litany of bumps and dents and scars and broken things.
He couldn't remember the last time he'd been in a washrack. He felt filthy, inside and out, and Primus, wouldn't Megatron just finish already.
For once, his prayers were answered. Megatron shoved into him and then abruptly pulled out. He overloaded, spike spurting all over Optimus' lower back, his aft, his thighs. It dripped into his valve and splattered the berth between his legs.
Optimus cringed.
Megatron purred and nuzzled the back of Optimus' helm. His mostly pressurized spike rubbed against Optimus' valve, slipping through his spill. He rubbed the head of his spike against Optimus' valve rim, poking at the anterior sensor.
“I don't know that I'll ever tire of your valve,” Megatron said. “Or your aft.”
“Greedy,” Optimus gritted out.
“Mm. Something like that. All of you belongs to me, Optimus. Don't forget that.” He rutted against Optimus' aft for a few moments before he completely withdrew, sitting back on his heels. One hand patted Optimus' aft. “But as much as I'd enjoy staying here all cycle, claiming what's mine, I do have work to do.”
“How unfortunate,” Optimus muttered.
Megatron chuckled and slid from the berth, giving Optimus the chance to turn on his side, though it took some effort. He cringed at the feeling of transfluid sliding down his plating and in between the gaps.
“You should be happy. I'm going to leave you here,” Megatron said and he patted Optimus on the helm, leaving a smear of transfluid behind.
“With chains no doubt.”
“I won't even bother.” Megatron's field bled satisfaction. He stood next to the berth, his array slick with fluids, and not an ounce of shame. “You won't be able to leave my quarters, though I welcome you to try. After all, where would you go?”
Where indeed?
Optimus rolled back over, showing Megatron his back. His armor twitched, his preservation protocols reminded him that it was dangerous. That Megatron wasn't to be trusted. That Megatron was Enemy.
What did it matter anymore? He shuttered his optics. All Megatron could do now was kill him. Optimus struggled to comprehend why that was such a terrible thing.
“Rest well,” Megatron said, with another one of those patronizing pats to the helm, and then Optimus tracked the sound of his pedesteps and the swish of the door.
He listened, heard the sound of the washracks starting up, and allowed himself the smallest of ex-vents. He had never desired solitude before, but now he craved it. Any amount of time without Megatron was worth it.
Optimus gradually unfurled, wincing as a sharp burst of pain emanated from his valve. He cringed, considering that he might need to examine it. But the thought of touching himself and the fluids already gumming up his armor, made him nauseous.
He tucked his hands under his helm instead.
His tanks reported a marginal thirty percent charge, but the fatigue crawled at his processor. He hadn't recharged with Megatron on top of him and within him.
He'd best take the opportunity while he could and hope that his self-repair would do something to mitigate the damage.
Optimus initiated recharge, thinking it would provide relief, but all it did, was drop him into the past.
The atmosphere aboard Omega Supreme had not lightened over the course of the journey. Sideswipe had made a brief attempt at humor, with Jazz backing him up, but neither of the two could seem to raise anyone's spirits. Especially not with a very sullen Sunstreaker wedged into a tight space, his armor pitted with scratches and scores. And even more especially with what happened to Prowl.
They'd left Cybertron, slept for four million years, made a home on Earth, and now, they were outcast again. It was sobering. Especially since they'd had to leave the Protectobots and the Dinobots behind, leaving them with promises to return. Promises which weren't nearly enough for Optimus.
Optimus sighed and sat back in his seat, offlining his optics. He should be presenting a better image but to be frank, he was exhausted. He was out of encouragement to offer.
“Blaster informs me we are still unable to contact Elita-One,” Smokescreen said, almost off-hand. There was a note in his vocals that spoke of confusion. And rightly so.
He had no better answer than any of them. He wasn't Prowl. No, Prowl was unconscious in the back of Omega Supreme, with Ratchet and Wheeljack worrying over him, and no answers to be found.
“What of Ultra Magnus?”
“Nothin' but silence, boss.” Jazz leaned across the back of his seat, his arms folded under his chin. “But that ain't news. He's been runnin' on silent for a while. I'll wager he isn't anywhere near Cybertron.”
Optimus rubbed his faceplate and reactivated his optics. He stared dully at the bulkhead. He felt he should say something, but didn't have the words. He'd failed his Autobots and he wasn't entirely sure how.
Omega Supreme lurched to the right. Optimus' spark flailed with alarm.
“Omega?”
No answer. Red and orange lights started to flash. Optimus smelled smoke. He launched to his pedes as a clamor arose behind him.
“What the frag was that?” someone demanded.
Omega lurched again and his entire frame shuddered. Optimus scrambled for a handhold to keep himself on his pedes. Others weren't so lucky and they went tumbling to the floor.
“Prime!”
The shout crackled through his comm.
“We're taking fire,” Silverbolt cried. “The Decepticons. They're all here!”
Light bloomed beyond the port-side window. Optimus' spark dropped into his tanks.
“It's an ambush,” Smokescreen said, realization turning to horror. He stared up at Optimus, optics wide. “They've been waiting for us.”
And up here, still breaking atmosphere as they aimed for Cybertron's surface, they were helpless. Because there were more flight-capable Decepticons - especially on Cybertron -then there were Autobots. And the largest of them were weighted down by almost the entirety of the Autobot army.
They were almost all in one place. Ripe for the taking.
Optimus' hand formed a fist.
There was no other explanation. The humans had betrayed them.
Optimus jerked online with a gasp, sensation trickling in from his lower half. He threw himself to the side, spark pounding in his chassis. Trust Megatron to return to molest Optimus in his recharge.
Nothing was sacred to that monster.
He drew up his legs, huddled into himself, pressed into the corner of the bunk. Sensory equipment was slow to reboot, and it took several agonizing moments of static-filled vision and muffled noises before the suite rebooted. When it did, Optimus stared in surprise.
Soundwave stood next to Megatron's berth.
“What are you doing here?” Optimus demanded. His valve tingled, he realized, and his face twisted into disgust. “Does Megatron know you're touching his pet?”
It was impossible to read Soundwave's expression. The light behind his visor did not change. “Repairs intended.”
Optimus' optics narrowed. “While I was recharging?”
“Attempted to minimize pain.”
“You failed,” Optimus said, and he warily regarded the communications mech. “Why would you bother anyway?”
Soundwave cocked his helm. “Pain preferred?”
“That's not what I asked!”
“Assistance still offered.”
Optimus cycled a ventilation. “I cannot believe Megatron would send you.”
“Retrieval intended,” Soundwave monotoned and he inched closer, prompting Optimus to inch back against the wall. “Observation, however, repairs needed.”
Optimus' orbital ridge drew down. “Why?”
Here Soundwave shifted, though it was subtle. The tight rein he held on his field wavered and Optimus received a brief taste of it. Conflict. Confusion. Disappointment. Desperation.
“This,” Soundwave finally said, and made a vague gesture, “not intended outcome.”
“Which part?” Optimus demanded. Anger gave him strength, urged him out of his defensive curl. “Where you helped Megatron slaughter my friends? Where you slapped the rest of us in chains and made us slaves? Where you ripped away any dignity we might have had left?”
He lurched forward and hissed when his valve responded with a sharp reminder that he still hurt, was still damaged.
Optimus cycled a ventilation and glared at Soundwave. “What were your intentions if not this? You cannot tell me you don't know the mech you followed.”
“Lord Megatron is... changed,” Soundwave said, a touch of true emotion entering his vocals. He shifted his weight as though he struggled to find the right words. “Initial intentions lost. Now only anger and conquest.”
Optimus snorted. “I do not think Megatron ever had good intentions. He only knew how to spin a lie.” It came with the territory, Optimus thought bitterly, when you named your revolutionary army the 'Decepticons.'
Soundwave's field flickered. “Possibility exists,” he admitted. “But original intentions remain. Those involved, now offline. No further reason to fight.”
“I have lost count of the number of times I have offered Megatron a truce and he broke it.”
Soundwave shook his helm. “Truce would not include Lord Megatron.”
Optimus' optics widened. Was there something going on? “What are you saying?”
“Repairs offered,” Soundwave replied, a complete misdirect as he gestured to Optimus' frame. “Your presence expected soon.”
An abrupt ex-vent escaped Optimus. “You are being frustratingly evasive.”
A touch of amusement drizzled through Soundwave's field. “It is necessary,” he said. “For your protection.”
“I think I am beyond that point.” Optimus sighed and stretched out his limbs, resting atop the berth.
He might as well accept the repairs. It wasn't as if there was any part of him the Decepticons hadn't seen. What did it matter if he spread his legs here for Soundwave to repair him? Soundwave stepped closer, pulling a repair kit from subspace.
“Are you trained?” Optimus asked. A twinge of anxiety whispered in his spark. Despite his bluster, he still pressed his knees together.
“Unlicensed field medic,” Soundwave explained and his empty hand touched his dock. “Cassettes prone to injury. Constructicons prone to petty revenge.”
Optimus crossed his arms over his chest. He didn't know where else to put them. “Ah. I should not be so surprised.”
Soundwave made a noncommittal noise and his empty hand reached for Optimus, though only one finger brushed his knee. “Prefer Constructicon?”
“No.” Optimus cycled another ventilation. “I've had enough of Decepticons poking between my legs is all.”
Soundwave retracted his hand. “Understood.” He offered Optimus the repair kit. “Your choice.”
“Hah.” Optimus' gaze flickered between the kit and Soundwave. His valve ached. He was sticky and could use more than a quick fix. “Can I even reach it myself?”
“Unlikely.”
“I didn't think so.” Optimus turned his helm away, unable to watch. “Just get it over with.”
He triggered his valve panel open, grimacing as a wash of old transfluid and lubricant slid free, slick and sticky. He shivered. His grip around his chest tightened.
He heard the hiss of hydraulics as Soundwave moved and felt the shift in the other mech's energy field.
There was a gentle touch to his knee and Optimus reluctantly parted them, baring his array to Soundwave. A waft of cold air brushed over his sticky components. His tanks lurched.
“Scans indicate two damaged calipers,” Soundwave said, his monotone strangely soft. “Permission to repair?”
Optimus' vents wheezed. He gritted his denta. There was something to be said about having this fixed while he was offline. But at least Soundwave gave him the illusion of choice, something the Constructicons didn't bother with.
“Yes,” he forced out.
He startled, however, when the first touch grazed his valve rim. Soundwave's fingers were warm compared to the chill of the room. Soundwave paused, as though waiting for Optimus to protest, before he continued. Two of his fingers, obviously coated with some kind of lubricant, slid up into Optimus' valve. He tried not to stiffen. Curiously, there was something a bit more reassuring about the clinical touch.
Soundwave's fingers found the damaged calipers and pain lanced through Optimus' array.
He went rigid, a sharp cry escaping him.
“Apologies,” Soundwave said, and he actually sounded contrite. His fingers pushed, Optimus twitched, and then relief spread through his array. The bent calipers snapped back into place, and Primus, they ached, but it was nothing compared to the sharp heat.
“Thank you,” Optimus said.
“Gratitude unnecessary. I am, in part, to blame.” Soundwave's fingers withdrew and he edged around the side of the berth. “Your hinges also damaged.”
Optimus shook his helm, his legs snapping back together as he faced Soundwave again. “They'll self-repair.”
His valve was one thing, his spark another. He would rather not bare it ever again if he could help it. He forced himself to sit upright, processor spinning. His energy levels dipped again.
A cube of energon appeared in front of him. Optimus cycled his optics and accepted it, drawing in the scent through his olfactory sensors. Crisp. Sweet. Probably the purest grade he'd received since the Autobots lost the war. His mouth filled with oral lubricant. His tanks gurgled.
Was it poisoned? Right now, he didn't even care. Optimus drained the cube so fast he should have been embarrassed.
“Am I allowed into the washracks or is that a privilege reserved for mecha who own themselves?” Optimus asked as he handed the empty cube back to Soundwave.
“Time remaining: ten minutes.”
“In other words, be quick.” Optimus slid down from the berth, something in his lower back twinging. But it wasn't the worst he'd ever felt.
There was obviously little Soundwave could do with his shattered windshield. Optimus poked the last few bits of glass free, resolved to no longer having them. It wasn't like he could transform anyway.
His knees wobbled. He felt Soundwave's gaze on him, but he said nothing. Optimus waited for his balance to settle and made his way across the floor. A quick rinse in the washracks would go a long way toward making him feel less... dirty.
Soundwave didn't follow him and for the first time in a long time, Optimus found solitude as the door the washracks closed. It was massive, to be expected of the Prime's suite, and all that space for just him was... well, it was a relief.
Optimus activated the nearest nozzle and stepped under the spray, letting the heated cleanser patter down on top of him. Ten minutes, Soundwave had said. Optimus planned on taking every second of it.
He thought his processor would think itself in circles. But his thoughts were strangely empty. Blank. He stared at the wall, felt the solvent drip over his plating and beneath his armor, and couldn't dredge up a single, worthy thought.
Cleaning his array and valve was a fresh brand of discomfort. Optimus hissed air through his vents as he used his fingers to clean the sticky fluids from the joints and seams around his array. There were brushes available but he was disinclined to use anything Megatron had used on himself.
And then his time was up and Optimus had to turn off the spray. He grabbed what he hoped was an unused cloth, wiped himself down, and presented himself to Soundwave.
The communications mech had cleaned in Optimus' absence, wiping the mess of broken glass and lubricant and transfluid from the berth. There had been energon, too, Optimus remembered with a wince.
“Is that what you always do for Megatron?” Optimus asked as he leaned in the frame, folding his arms. “Clean up after his messes?”
Something rattled in Soundwave's substructure. Maybe it was a laugh. “An accurate assumption.” He approached Optimus, something in his hands, which he held with a note of apology to his tone. “Lord Megatron requires it.”
Optimus sighed at sight of the leash. He straightened, unfolded his arms, and tilted his helm back. “Where would I go?”
He flinched as the lead clicked into place, adding weight to the collar around his intake.
“Away.” Soundwave wrapped the end of the lead around his wrist. “Come. Our master waits.”
There was something in the way he said it that tugged at Optimus. He frowned as Soundwave led him from the room. His pace was slow enough to accommodate Optimus' uncoordinated one.
“Our,” Optimus repeated, mostly to Soundwave's back.
Soundwave made a noncommittal noise. He didn't offer a reply and silence fell between them.
It wasn't until they left the Prime Residence that one of Optimus' earlier wonderings was answered. A dark shape flitted down from above, landing on Soundwave's shoulder. Optimus recognized the black and red shape as Laserbeak and the winged cassette affixed Optimus with a curious look.
If she spoke, Optimus didn't hear it. But Soundwave acknowledged her arrival with a gentle pat to her helm, which also attracted her attention. She nipped at his audial in what could almost be called a playful manner, and the tessellated plates of her wings rustled.
Optimus wondered if the other Decepticons had ever seen them interact like this. He didn't think such softness would be allowed under Megatron's iron fist, especially since Megatron seemed to disdain anything that steered too close to kindness.
His question was partially answered when they approached Decepticon command center and Laserbeak alit from Soundwave's shoulder to take up residence in Soundwave's dock. Maybe it was fatigue. Maybe he wanted her report. But in all likelihood, it was safer there for her.
When they entered, Optimus' sensors lit up. He registered activity, a charge in the air that stank of excitement. He heard, a noise from a distance, like the cheering that had surrounded him in Megatron's entertainment arena. A chill drove itself into his spark and Optimus' pace slowed further.
He didn't want to go in there, he realized, as they approached the double doors leading to main command. He didn't want to see what new atrocities Megatron committed.
He didn't have a choice.
Soundwave tossed him a look, it might have been sympathy, and then he pushed open the door and pulled Optimus inside. Immediately, he was assaulted with the sounds of laughter and jeering. He heard the wet slap of interface equipment, pleasured moans, and pained grunts. Red Alert's commentary droned in the background, always a shock to the spark.
There was a ring of Decepticons around Megatron's throne. Optimus only recognized half of them.
The gathered Cons cleared a path once they realized Soundwave was present and Optimus stumbled after him, dread coiling in his tanks. He didn't even startle when one of the Decepticons slapped his aft and leered at him. Did it matter who it was? Purple badge, red optics, sharpened denta - one Decepticon was the same as any other.
They broke through the crowd and Optimus drew up short, horror making his knees buckle. He covered his mouth, tank lurching, unable to tear his optics away. He couldn't imagine a more unpleasant shock.
Megatron had arranged another show for his Decepticons.
There were three, maybe four of them, all outmassing the Autobot sandwiched in the middle. A spike in his mouth, two in his valve, his chassis covered in fluids, lubricant and transfluid alike. His optics were dull with undercharge and pain. His abdominal plating bulged. Other layers of his armor were gone.
He hadn't even known that Megatron had possession of Tracks. Optimus thought Tracks had died when Skyfire went down. He didn't think anyone survived Skyfire's death.
Clearly, he was wrong. Where he'd been all this time, Optimus didn't know. Megatron had not bragged of his capture, but Tracks had never been ranked enough to merit Megatron's notice either. He must have been given as a gift to one of Megatron's soldiers.
And whatever Megatron gave, Megatron could take away.
If Tracks saw Optimus, he showed no sign. He was passive, limp between two Decepticons Optimus did not recognize. A third - Bludgeon - had a firm grip on Tracks' helm, plunging into his mouth and down his intake with little regard for Tracks' comfort.
All the while, the crowd of Decepticons watched and cheered and fought over whose turn would be next.
Megatron sat on his throne, his optics glittering, his elbow braced on the arm. He noticed Soundwave and beckoned them closer, his smile widening. Optimus stumbled as the lead forced him to follow along with Soundwave.
“Ah, Optimus,” he purred, taking the leash once Soundwave offered it. “You've missed half the show, but don't worry, I've been reassured that there will be several encores.”
It was getting harder to ventilate. The harsh slap of metal on metal echoed in his audials. The eager moans of the Decepticons made his tanks churn. Tracks was distressingly silent. Energon mingled with the fluids that slicked his thighs.
They would use him until they killed him.
Optimus' hands closed into fists. “Stop it,” he said, and his vocals were liberally laced with static. “You can't do this.”
Megatron flicked his wrist, curling the lead around it and dragging Optimus close enough that he could smell the warlord's exhalations. He wanted to think that it stank, smelling of rotted and fetid things, but instead, Megatron smelled of sweet high grade.
“I can, as a matter of fact, do this,” Megatron said, his tone mild. His free hand lifted. Optimus expected to be struck, but instead Megatron's finger only dragged down the center of his chestplate. “It would be rude to stop them. My Decepticons work hard. Don't they deserve a show?”
Optimus very nearly purged. “This is not entertainment!” he snapped. “It's pointless degradation. It's barbaric. It doesn't prove you're better, just that you're cruel.”
One of the Decepticons howled his release. From his peripheral vision, Optimus saw Bludgeon pull out of Tracks's mouth, overloading on his face. It mingled with the other fluids already present, dripping everywhere. Tracks tilted his helm down, coughing and gagging.
“Who's next?” Bludgeon asked, palming his receding spike as he stepped back with a swagger. His expression was smug, sated.
“Cruel,” Megatron murmured and he tugged on Optimus' lead, forcing all of Optimus' attention toward him. “Wouldn't it be crueler to take their show away? Or perhaps you'd rather take his place?”
Optimus recoiled, not that he had anywhere to go. This game again? Hadn't they gone round this circle with Hound and his scout still ended up in the arena? What good had it done Optimus then?
“I would do anything to protect them,” Optimus forced out, his armor clamping down. “But even I know I could ask this of you, and it would do either of us little good.”
Megatron chuckled. “True. But I could also shoot him instead.”
Optimus' engine weakly growled. It was, he realized, never about Tracks. It was, as it had always been, about Megatron's hatred for Optimus.
He cycled a ventilation. “You want me to beg,” he stated in a dull tone.
Megatron flicked his wrist again, allowing some slack in the lead. “On your knees,” he confirmed, and his optics burned brighter, his field thickening with lust. “What's the life of an Autobot worth to you, Optimus?”
Optimus ground his denta. Megatron already knew the answer, of course. Because he also knew Optimus couldn't take that chance. Megatron had proven he had no qualms about executing Autobots.
Optimus worked his intake and bowed his helm. The lead gave him just enough slack to lower himself to the ground, his hydraulics hissing and his joints creaking with ill maintenance. He felt Megatron's optics on him. He felt the regard of the other Decepticons, some of the cheering dying down as they watched Optimus.
He lowered himself to the ground at Megatron's pedes. He bowed his helm, pressed it to the floor.
“Now,” Megatron said. His weight shifted and then Optimus felt the weight on his back. It could only have been Megatron's pede. “Tell me what you're requesting of me, my pet.”
The words tasted sour. Optimus had to reset his vocalizer twice before he could get them past his lips.
“Allow me to take Tracks' place, please,” he said, and his fingers scraped the floor, hard enough to hurt.
“That's a start.” Megatron bore down.
Optimus' tank lurched again. “Master,” he forced out, and felt Megatron's immediate approval. “Let me service your soldiers. Please. For the sake of my Autobot, I--” He cut off, worked his intake, and ex-vented. “I beg of you.”
There was a hanging moment. Megatron contemplated. Optimus sagged against the floor.
“Hmm,” Megatron finally said, and then he lifted his pede and pulled on the lead, dragging Optimus upright. He looked Optimus in the optics and said, “No.”
Optimus' optics widened before they narrowed again. He climbed to his pedes, his armor shaking. “No?”
“It's a simple glyph, Optimus.” Megatron leaned back in his throne, smug to the core. “You asked. I gave an answer. Which is 'no'. As much fun as my soldiers would have with you, I don't feel like sharing right now.”
“You...” Optimus broke off, words failing him. He shook his helm, felt the heat of anger wash across his frame.
The lead was slack between them. He had more than enough room. It was pointless. All of it, so pointless.
“Perhaps later,” Megatron continued, and Optimus didn't care to hear any of it.
His engine revved. Optimus launched himself at Megatron, well aware of the optics watching him and hoping, if not to hurt Megatron, then to at least make him look the fool. Just as he'd done to Optimus.
He braced himself for the stinging lash of the shock collar. He never saw the backhand coming. It struck him across the face, hard enough to dent. Optimus spun backward, pain blossoming in its wake. He stumbled, dropping to his aft.
Megatron rose to his pedes and kicked Optimus again, though he turned at the last moment, catching the blow on his shoulder. Around them, the cheering had gone silent. The Decepticons watched, even those violating Tracks.
Optimus' processor spun. He was uncoordinated as he tried to get back to his pedes.
Megatron looked down at him, but his field didn't buzz with anger. Instead, there was amusement. “Hmm,” he said. “You may have a point. Decepticons, stand down.”
“What? Why?” one of the Decepticons whined, and only then did Optimus realize it was one of the three clustered around Tracks.
“But you said--”
Megatron's glare cut off the complaining of another one. Hastily, they disengaged, dropping Tracks to a dirty heap on the floor, square in a pool of mingled fluids. Tracks didn't bother to catch himself. He simply lay there as though moving required too much effort.
Optimus understood. He'd been there before.
Megatron gripped Optimus' lead and hauled him to his pedes. Optimus scrambled to get his pedes beneath him before his neck snapped. As it was, his intake constricted.
“You say that we're barbarians,” Megatron said, stepping down from his throne. He towed Optimus along with him, straight toward where Tracks lay. “That we're cruel.”
The dread returned. Optimus put on the brakes, but it didn't matter. Megatron yanked hard on the lead, throwing Optimus forward. He tripped over his own pedes and crashed to the floor, catching himself at the last minute with his hands. He pushed himself upright, only for Megatron's mass to come down on him, driving his torso back toward the floor.
“Then why don't you show us what it means to be nice,” Megatron finished and the shadow of his gesture aimed at Tracks. “I'm sure he could use it right now.”
Optimus recoiled. “I refuse,” he bit out.
He heard the whine of a fusion cannon cycling into readiness. He looked up and saw it pointed at Tracks's helm.
“Then he's of no more use,” Megatron declared with a tilt of his helm. “Pity.”
“Stop!”
Optimus scrambled at the floor, restrained by Megatron's weight. He was close enough to touch Tracks and he internally begged the former noble to look at him. Tracks' optics were dimly lit, but he stirred, helm tilting toward Optimus.
One optic was cracked. His cheek was visibly dented. His face was striped in transfluid, and his winglets bent out of shape. His field, what ragged remnants of it Optimus could sense, spoke of pain and despair.
Even so... Optimus had no right to make this choice for him.
“What would you have me do?” he asked, just above a whisper. The closer Decepticons could hear him, but he didn't care about their leers. Only Tracks' answer mattered.
He saw Tracks' intake bob. There was a visible dent around the former noble's throat. There was a click, a burr of static. His lips barely moved. With everything else, they'd also ruined his ability to communicate.
A shudder ran through Tracks's plating. His hand clenched and unclenched. A sigh washed out, wet with broken internal lines.
Tracks offlined his optics and bowed his helm. His field flattened.
Very well.
Optimus turned his helm away and offlined his optics. His spark hurt, more than the pain Megatron had caused him. He couldn't fault Tracks. Primus only knew what the former noble had suffered before being brought here. Or even how long Tracks had been in this room, subject to every Decepticon who wanted a turn.
“I won't do it,” Optimus said, loud enough for all to hear him this time. “I won't contribute to this offense. No matter what you threaten.”
“Are you calling my bluff, Optimus?”
He pushed up against the weight bearing him down. Megatron didn't move. Perhaps the token resistance was enough.
“We're too valuable to you,” he said instead. “I know you won't do it.”
Megatron chuckled, a dark sound. “Oh, Optimus. You don't know me very well at all. You never did.”
He heard the whine and hiss of power surging into a powerful weapon. He heard the click of a trigger, the loud bang of the shot. He felt the wash of heat past his backplate, his helm, searing the tip of his antenna. The ground shuddered as the fire slammed into Tracks' frame and hit the floor beneath him.
There was no splatter. Megatron's cannon was too hot, too precise, for splatter. But the stench of scorched energon and lubricant was thick. Nauseating.
Optimus couldn't bring himself to look. He lowered his helm, drawing his arms inward. His spark ached. The empty connectors where the matrix had been twitched.
Megatron's weight vanished from his back and the fusion cannon cycled down. He stepped away, giving Optimus room to draw himself up onto his knees at least. He couldn't lift his helm. He reminded himself that Tracks had chosen this. He, at last, had been able to decide his fate no matter how awful the two choices had been.
It did not make Optimus feel any lighter.
“Let this be a reminder to you,” Megatron declared and he was no doubt gesturing broadly, grandstanding. The end of the lead jerked with every motion. “The time where I make empty threats has gone. The Stunticons failed me, so I took their pet. Optimus defied me, so I took what mattered to him. That is your lesson.”
The lead jerked Optimus back and he sprawled backward, awkwardly flipping to his front so that he could scuttle toward Megatron. The warlord placed himself back on his throne, optics glittering with satisfaction. He watched Optimus as he slowly wound the lead around his wrist, pulling Optimus closer and closer until he perched right at Megatron's pedes, ever the toy for Megatron's amusement.
It was becoming harder to get angry.
“Now get back to work,” Megatron ordered. “And someone clean up that mess. Soundwave, find me news of Earth.”
“Yes, Lord Megatron.”
Decepticons scrambled to obey. Optimus watched them. Where would they take Tracks, he wondered. Probably where they had tossed the other Autobots Megatron executed. Ironhide and Inferno, more who Optimus probably never knew about. If he hadn't known of Tracks' survival, who else could he have missed?
The lead tugged at his intake, pulling Optimus' gaze toward Megatron. The warlord looked down at him without a trace of anger in his optics.
“Do you understand now, Optimus?”
He didn't answer. He assumed it was a rhetorical question. But he lowered his gaze. He could tremble with fury and shame. He could wallow in his grief. None of it would matter to Megatron.
The lead slackened. Megatron's hand settled on his helm, almost gentle. He stroked fingers up Optimus' audials as he shifted on the throne, making himself comfortable.
“Perform admirably,” Megatron murmured. “Be obedient. And perhaps, I might be convinced to grant you a favor. Cooperation, that's not too much to ask for your Autobots, is it?”
Optimus shuddered and swallowed down a surge of nausea. “Another agreement you won't honor?”
“That depends on you.”
Megatron's grip on his helm became a bit firmer, his palm curved around the back of Optimus' helm. Pressure urged Optimus forward, between Megatron's spreading thighs. It quickly became obvious what Megatron wanted as his panel slid open and the head of his spike peeked from its housing.
“Are you willing to take that risk that you could have saved them and chose not to?”
He was no longer their Prime. But that didn't mean he could abandon his responsibility. He'd failed them. He owed them this much.
Optimus flicked a glance at Megatron, but his face betrayed nothing. Except, perhaps, for an eagerness for Optimus to get to work. The pressure on the back of Optimus' helm increased, though not enough to force him forward.
The choice was implied to be his. An illusion of consent. There was nothing consensual about any of this.
Optimus scooted closer and bent to the task. Megatron parted his legs to make room for Optimus, and his hand rested on the back of Optimus' helm, guiding but not forcing. His field purred approval as Optimus licked at the head of his spike, attempting to encourage the unit to emerge.
He knew that the Decepticons were watching their leader get serviced. He assumed it was part of the show, Megatron proving his dominance. Humiliation gnawed at Optimus. How much lower would Megatron make him go?
He didn't want the answer to that question.
“Acceptable,” Megatron murmured. His hand started petting Optimus once more as he settled back into his throne, making himself comfortable. His spike slowly extended into Optimus' mouth and Optimus resigned himself to a tankful of transfluid.
Behind him, one of Megatron's soldiers arrived with a mop.
***
a/n: Ouch. Three more chapters until it gets better. Next chapter gives us some interludes.
Feedback is welcome and appreciated. This entry was originally posted at http://dracoqueen22.dreamwidth.org/310643.html. Feel free to comment wherever you find most convenient.
Universe: G1/IDW AU
Characters this chapter: Megatron/Optimus, Soundwave, Bludgeon/Unidentified Cons/Tracks, (in flashback: Jazz, Smokescreen, Silverbolt)
Rating: NC-17
Warnings this chapter: physical abuse, observed gangbang, humiliation, on-screen character death, possibly suicide, forced oral, flashbacks
Commission fic for NK
Mood Music: "Battle Cry," Imagine Dragons
Oubliette
Chapter Eleven
Optimus was pulled from his light doze when Megatron's engine revved, the warlord's energy field rippling with restrained anger.
“Clarify,” Megatron growled.
Groggy, Optimus tried to surface from near-recharge. But his processor wouldn't respond as quickly as he liked, having shut down in response to being overheated.
Megatron's frame still rested above him, an arm wrapped around Optimus' waist. He was, Optimus realized with a shift of his hips, also still within Optimus as well. His spike was firmly emplaced within Optimus' valve. It hadn't depressurized for the entire course of Megatron's recharge.
“Explain to me how you could let this happen, Motormaster,” Megatron continued and it became clear that he wasn't talking to Optimus, but to someone over comms. “Those who fail do not deserve rewards. Shall I reclaim your prize?”
Megatron must have noticed Optimus was online, because his hand started to move, sliding from around Optimus' waist further down. He palmed the panel concealing Optimus' spike, rubbing it.
“I don't want any excuses,” Megatron hissed and he circled his hips, reminding Optimus' valve that his spike was still present and eager. “I'll send someone else since clearly you are unsuited for the task.”
His fingers flirted lower, finding Optimus' valve. They traced the rim of it, where his spike moved incrementally. His thumb and forefinger flirted with Optimus' anterior node, abruptly pinching it.
Optimus buried his face in his arms, swallowing down a sharp cry. A tremble raced through his frame. The brief recharge had done nothing in terms of repairs. His self-repair made his frame hot, responding as well as it could to all the damage. But Optimus was underenergized and undernourished. He was also laying on a berth covered in tiny shards of glass.
There was no comfort to be found.
“There are only three of them!” Megatron snapped, punctuating it with a sharper thrust into Optimus' valve.
Barely lubricated, it scraped against Optimus' inner lining. There wasn't nearly enough lubricant and transfluid left from the previous cycle. It burned and Optimus had to swallow down another cry.
Bad enough that his chamber still ached, that he felt scored from the inside out.
“I will send Barricade's team to assist,” Megatron continued, his tone seething with irritation. His thrusts into Optimus matched his anger, but at least his manipulation of Optimus' anterior sensor had eased. “I won't accept failure, Motormaster.”
His tone had a note of finality to it, one that was confirmed when he turned his attention to Optimus. He mouthed at the back of Optimus' helm, denta grazing the delicate components.
“My apologies,” he said and picked up the rhythm, thrusts sharpening. “That was quite rude of me.”
Optimus grunted at a particularly forceful thrust. “By all means, take the call. The less attention you pay to me, the better.”
Megatron chuckled. His fingers began to move again, petting Optimus' anterior node. Optimus' array dared to warm, a soft pleasure blooming in the wake of the gentle touches.
“You're so ungrateful.” Megatron ex-vented heat down on Optimus as his mouth explored Optimus' helm and neck.
Optimus ground his denta. His valve sensors responded to the careful movements of Megatron within him. Lubricant welled, easing Megatron's passage. His deepest node throbbed to life.
“You've yet to offer me anything I actually want,” Optimus retorted.
The sound of their frames scraping together grated in his audials. Megatron's rumbling engine was like an itch in his lines. His internals crawled with disgust.
Megatron rubbed circles around Optimus' anterior node, until it throbbed at his touch. “That'll change,” he said. He nibbled at Optimus' antennae, provoking a deep shiver.
Optimus groaned. It was impossible to fight it. Megatron was trying very hard to arouse Optimus and unfortunately, he was succeeding.
“And I'm not leaving until you overload, Optimus,” Megatron said. His hips ground against Optimus' aft. His spike raked against rings of sensors, lighting them up with pleasure. “This'll last as long as I need it to.”
Bastard. The human term seemed apt right now.
“I don't want what you offer,” Optimus hissed out.
“What you want is not a factor in this.” Megatron's mouth wandered up, finding and taking an antenna between his lips. His spike raked against Optimus' internal nodes and a burst of heat spread through Optimus' array.
He swallowed down a moan, finding it far too easy to succumb to the pleasure. His frame was starved for it, for the gentle touches on his nub and the slide of a spike against his lubricant slick walls. Megatron's pace was just enough to rock him toward overload, to tighten the coil of need within him until Optimus couldn't fight against it.
His spark cried out for it, aching with the need to be soothed, to be cherished. Unbidden, he was reminded of his Autobots, no particular one special to him, but all of them unique and treasured. So eager and willing to share pleasure.
A sob caught in his vocalizer. Optimus clenched his hands into fists, tightened his internals, fought against the waves of pleasure, but it was a tide he couldn't break. Megatron's ministrations were too much.
Overload stole over him, the moan trapped in his intake and buzzing through his vocalizer. His valve spasmed around Megatron's spike. His spark whirled, aching where the rasp of Megatron's spark had cut him.
Megatron chuckled darkly, slid his hand to push hard against Optimus' abdominal plate, and pinned him to the berth. He drew back and proceeded to frag Optimus hard, without mercy, his spike intermittently catching on the spasming calipers.
It hurt and Optimus pressed his face into his hands to muffle his cries. He clenched his hands into fists, telling himself it would be over soon, even as his frame shook with lingering bursts of pleasure. As it faded, the pain set in, reminding him that his frame was a litany of bumps and dents and scars and broken things.
He couldn't remember the last time he'd been in a washrack. He felt filthy, inside and out, and Primus, wouldn't Megatron just finish already.
For once, his prayers were answered. Megatron shoved into him and then abruptly pulled out. He overloaded, spike spurting all over Optimus' lower back, his aft, his thighs. It dripped into his valve and splattered the berth between his legs.
Optimus cringed.
Megatron purred and nuzzled the back of Optimus' helm. His mostly pressurized spike rubbed against Optimus' valve, slipping through his spill. He rubbed the head of his spike against Optimus' valve rim, poking at the anterior sensor.
“I don't know that I'll ever tire of your valve,” Megatron said. “Or your aft.”
“Greedy,” Optimus gritted out.
“Mm. Something like that. All of you belongs to me, Optimus. Don't forget that.” He rutted against Optimus' aft for a few moments before he completely withdrew, sitting back on his heels. One hand patted Optimus' aft. “But as much as I'd enjoy staying here all cycle, claiming what's mine, I do have work to do.”
“How unfortunate,” Optimus muttered.
Megatron chuckled and slid from the berth, giving Optimus the chance to turn on his side, though it took some effort. He cringed at the feeling of transfluid sliding down his plating and in between the gaps.
“You should be happy. I'm going to leave you here,” Megatron said and he patted Optimus on the helm, leaving a smear of transfluid behind.
“With chains no doubt.”
“I won't even bother.” Megatron's field bled satisfaction. He stood next to the berth, his array slick with fluids, and not an ounce of shame. “You won't be able to leave my quarters, though I welcome you to try. After all, where would you go?”
Where indeed?
Optimus rolled back over, showing Megatron his back. His armor twitched, his preservation protocols reminded him that it was dangerous. That Megatron wasn't to be trusted. That Megatron was Enemy.
What did it matter anymore? He shuttered his optics. All Megatron could do now was kill him. Optimus struggled to comprehend why that was such a terrible thing.
“Rest well,” Megatron said, with another one of those patronizing pats to the helm, and then Optimus tracked the sound of his pedesteps and the swish of the door.
He listened, heard the sound of the washracks starting up, and allowed himself the smallest of ex-vents. He had never desired solitude before, but now he craved it. Any amount of time without Megatron was worth it.
Optimus gradually unfurled, wincing as a sharp burst of pain emanated from his valve. He cringed, considering that he might need to examine it. But the thought of touching himself and the fluids already gumming up his armor, made him nauseous.
He tucked his hands under his helm instead.
His tanks reported a marginal thirty percent charge, but the fatigue crawled at his processor. He hadn't recharged with Megatron on top of him and within him.
He'd best take the opportunity while he could and hope that his self-repair would do something to mitigate the damage.
Optimus initiated recharge, thinking it would provide relief, but all it did, was drop him into the past.
The atmosphere aboard Omega Supreme had not lightened over the course of the journey. Sideswipe had made a brief attempt at humor, with Jazz backing him up, but neither of the two could seem to raise anyone's spirits. Especially not with a very sullen Sunstreaker wedged into a tight space, his armor pitted with scratches and scores. And even more especially with what happened to Prowl.
They'd left Cybertron, slept for four million years, made a home on Earth, and now, they were outcast again. It was sobering. Especially since they'd had to leave the Protectobots and the Dinobots behind, leaving them with promises to return. Promises which weren't nearly enough for Optimus.
Optimus sighed and sat back in his seat, offlining his optics. He should be presenting a better image but to be frank, he was exhausted. He was out of encouragement to offer.
“Blaster informs me we are still unable to contact Elita-One,” Smokescreen said, almost off-hand. There was a note in his vocals that spoke of confusion. And rightly so.
He had no better answer than any of them. He wasn't Prowl. No, Prowl was unconscious in the back of Omega Supreme, with Ratchet and Wheeljack worrying over him, and no answers to be found.
“What of Ultra Magnus?”
“Nothin' but silence, boss.” Jazz leaned across the back of his seat, his arms folded under his chin. “But that ain't news. He's been runnin' on silent for a while. I'll wager he isn't anywhere near Cybertron.”
Optimus rubbed his faceplate and reactivated his optics. He stared dully at the bulkhead. He felt he should say something, but didn't have the words. He'd failed his Autobots and he wasn't entirely sure how.
Omega Supreme lurched to the right. Optimus' spark flailed with alarm.
“Omega?”
No answer. Red and orange lights started to flash. Optimus smelled smoke. He launched to his pedes as a clamor arose behind him.
“What the frag was that?” someone demanded.
Omega lurched again and his entire frame shuddered. Optimus scrambled for a handhold to keep himself on his pedes. Others weren't so lucky and they went tumbling to the floor.
“Prime!”
The shout crackled through his comm.
“We're taking fire,” Silverbolt cried. “The Decepticons. They're all here!”
Light bloomed beyond the port-side window. Optimus' spark dropped into his tanks.
“It's an ambush,” Smokescreen said, realization turning to horror. He stared up at Optimus, optics wide. “They've been waiting for us.”
And up here, still breaking atmosphere as they aimed for Cybertron's surface, they were helpless. Because there were more flight-capable Decepticons - especially on Cybertron -then there were Autobots. And the largest of them were weighted down by almost the entirety of the Autobot army.
They were almost all in one place. Ripe for the taking.
Optimus' hand formed a fist.
There was no other explanation. The humans had betrayed them.
Optimus jerked online with a gasp, sensation trickling in from his lower half. He threw himself to the side, spark pounding in his chassis. Trust Megatron to return to molest Optimus in his recharge.
Nothing was sacred to that monster.
He drew up his legs, huddled into himself, pressed into the corner of the bunk. Sensory equipment was slow to reboot, and it took several agonizing moments of static-filled vision and muffled noises before the suite rebooted. When it did, Optimus stared in surprise.
Soundwave stood next to Megatron's berth.
“What are you doing here?” Optimus demanded. His valve tingled, he realized, and his face twisted into disgust. “Does Megatron know you're touching his pet?”
It was impossible to read Soundwave's expression. The light behind his visor did not change. “Repairs intended.”
Optimus' optics narrowed. “While I was recharging?”
“Attempted to minimize pain.”
“You failed,” Optimus said, and he warily regarded the communications mech. “Why would you bother anyway?”
Soundwave cocked his helm. “Pain preferred?”
“That's not what I asked!”
“Assistance still offered.”
Optimus cycled a ventilation. “I cannot believe Megatron would send you.”
“Retrieval intended,” Soundwave monotoned and he inched closer, prompting Optimus to inch back against the wall. “Observation, however, repairs needed.”
Optimus' orbital ridge drew down. “Why?”
Here Soundwave shifted, though it was subtle. The tight rein he held on his field wavered and Optimus received a brief taste of it. Conflict. Confusion. Disappointment. Desperation.
“This,” Soundwave finally said, and made a vague gesture, “not intended outcome.”
“Which part?” Optimus demanded. Anger gave him strength, urged him out of his defensive curl. “Where you helped Megatron slaughter my friends? Where you slapped the rest of us in chains and made us slaves? Where you ripped away any dignity we might have had left?”
He lurched forward and hissed when his valve responded with a sharp reminder that he still hurt, was still damaged.
Optimus cycled a ventilation and glared at Soundwave. “What were your intentions if not this? You cannot tell me you don't know the mech you followed.”
“Lord Megatron is... changed,” Soundwave said, a touch of true emotion entering his vocals. He shifted his weight as though he struggled to find the right words. “Initial intentions lost. Now only anger and conquest.”
Optimus snorted. “I do not think Megatron ever had good intentions. He only knew how to spin a lie.” It came with the territory, Optimus thought bitterly, when you named your revolutionary army the 'Decepticons.'
Soundwave's field flickered. “Possibility exists,” he admitted. “But original intentions remain. Those involved, now offline. No further reason to fight.”
“I have lost count of the number of times I have offered Megatron a truce and he broke it.”
Soundwave shook his helm. “Truce would not include Lord Megatron.”
Optimus' optics widened. Was there something going on? “What are you saying?”
“Repairs offered,” Soundwave replied, a complete misdirect as he gestured to Optimus' frame. “Your presence expected soon.”
An abrupt ex-vent escaped Optimus. “You are being frustratingly evasive.”
A touch of amusement drizzled through Soundwave's field. “It is necessary,” he said. “For your protection.”
“I think I am beyond that point.” Optimus sighed and stretched out his limbs, resting atop the berth.
He might as well accept the repairs. It wasn't as if there was any part of him the Decepticons hadn't seen. What did it matter if he spread his legs here for Soundwave to repair him? Soundwave stepped closer, pulling a repair kit from subspace.
“Are you trained?” Optimus asked. A twinge of anxiety whispered in his spark. Despite his bluster, he still pressed his knees together.
“Unlicensed field medic,” Soundwave explained and his empty hand touched his dock. “Cassettes prone to injury. Constructicons prone to petty revenge.”
Optimus crossed his arms over his chest. He didn't know where else to put them. “Ah. I should not be so surprised.”
Soundwave made a noncommittal noise and his empty hand reached for Optimus, though only one finger brushed his knee. “Prefer Constructicon?”
“No.” Optimus cycled another ventilation. “I've had enough of Decepticons poking between my legs is all.”
Soundwave retracted his hand. “Understood.” He offered Optimus the repair kit. “Your choice.”
“Hah.” Optimus' gaze flickered between the kit and Soundwave. His valve ached. He was sticky and could use more than a quick fix. “Can I even reach it myself?”
“Unlikely.”
“I didn't think so.” Optimus turned his helm away, unable to watch. “Just get it over with.”
He triggered his valve panel open, grimacing as a wash of old transfluid and lubricant slid free, slick and sticky. He shivered. His grip around his chest tightened.
He heard the hiss of hydraulics as Soundwave moved and felt the shift in the other mech's energy field.
There was a gentle touch to his knee and Optimus reluctantly parted them, baring his array to Soundwave. A waft of cold air brushed over his sticky components. His tanks lurched.
“Scans indicate two damaged calipers,” Soundwave said, his monotone strangely soft. “Permission to repair?”
Optimus' vents wheezed. He gritted his denta. There was something to be said about having this fixed while he was offline. But at least Soundwave gave him the illusion of choice, something the Constructicons didn't bother with.
“Yes,” he forced out.
He startled, however, when the first touch grazed his valve rim. Soundwave's fingers were warm compared to the chill of the room. Soundwave paused, as though waiting for Optimus to protest, before he continued. Two of his fingers, obviously coated with some kind of lubricant, slid up into Optimus' valve. He tried not to stiffen. Curiously, there was something a bit more reassuring about the clinical touch.
Soundwave's fingers found the damaged calipers and pain lanced through Optimus' array.
He went rigid, a sharp cry escaping him.
“Apologies,” Soundwave said, and he actually sounded contrite. His fingers pushed, Optimus twitched, and then relief spread through his array. The bent calipers snapped back into place, and Primus, they ached, but it was nothing compared to the sharp heat.
“Thank you,” Optimus said.
“Gratitude unnecessary. I am, in part, to blame.” Soundwave's fingers withdrew and he edged around the side of the berth. “Your hinges also damaged.”
Optimus shook his helm, his legs snapping back together as he faced Soundwave again. “They'll self-repair.”
His valve was one thing, his spark another. He would rather not bare it ever again if he could help it. He forced himself to sit upright, processor spinning. His energy levels dipped again.
A cube of energon appeared in front of him. Optimus cycled his optics and accepted it, drawing in the scent through his olfactory sensors. Crisp. Sweet. Probably the purest grade he'd received since the Autobots lost the war. His mouth filled with oral lubricant. His tanks gurgled.
Was it poisoned? Right now, he didn't even care. Optimus drained the cube so fast he should have been embarrassed.
“Am I allowed into the washracks or is that a privilege reserved for mecha who own themselves?” Optimus asked as he handed the empty cube back to Soundwave.
“Time remaining: ten minutes.”
“In other words, be quick.” Optimus slid down from the berth, something in his lower back twinging. But it wasn't the worst he'd ever felt.
There was obviously little Soundwave could do with his shattered windshield. Optimus poked the last few bits of glass free, resolved to no longer having them. It wasn't like he could transform anyway.
His knees wobbled. He felt Soundwave's gaze on him, but he said nothing. Optimus waited for his balance to settle and made his way across the floor. A quick rinse in the washracks would go a long way toward making him feel less... dirty.
Soundwave didn't follow him and for the first time in a long time, Optimus found solitude as the door the washracks closed. It was massive, to be expected of the Prime's suite, and all that space for just him was... well, it was a relief.
Optimus activated the nearest nozzle and stepped under the spray, letting the heated cleanser patter down on top of him. Ten minutes, Soundwave had said. Optimus planned on taking every second of it.
He thought his processor would think itself in circles. But his thoughts were strangely empty. Blank. He stared at the wall, felt the solvent drip over his plating and beneath his armor, and couldn't dredge up a single, worthy thought.
Cleaning his array and valve was a fresh brand of discomfort. Optimus hissed air through his vents as he used his fingers to clean the sticky fluids from the joints and seams around his array. There were brushes available but he was disinclined to use anything Megatron had used on himself.
And then his time was up and Optimus had to turn off the spray. He grabbed what he hoped was an unused cloth, wiped himself down, and presented himself to Soundwave.
The communications mech had cleaned in Optimus' absence, wiping the mess of broken glass and lubricant and transfluid from the berth. There had been energon, too, Optimus remembered with a wince.
“Is that what you always do for Megatron?” Optimus asked as he leaned in the frame, folding his arms. “Clean up after his messes?”
Something rattled in Soundwave's substructure. Maybe it was a laugh. “An accurate assumption.” He approached Optimus, something in his hands, which he held with a note of apology to his tone. “Lord Megatron requires it.”
Optimus sighed at sight of the leash. He straightened, unfolded his arms, and tilted his helm back. “Where would I go?”
He flinched as the lead clicked into place, adding weight to the collar around his intake.
“Away.” Soundwave wrapped the end of the lead around his wrist. “Come. Our master waits.”
There was something in the way he said it that tugged at Optimus. He frowned as Soundwave led him from the room. His pace was slow enough to accommodate Optimus' uncoordinated one.
“Our,” Optimus repeated, mostly to Soundwave's back.
Soundwave made a noncommittal noise. He didn't offer a reply and silence fell between them.
It wasn't until they left the Prime Residence that one of Optimus' earlier wonderings was answered. A dark shape flitted down from above, landing on Soundwave's shoulder. Optimus recognized the black and red shape as Laserbeak and the winged cassette affixed Optimus with a curious look.
If she spoke, Optimus didn't hear it. But Soundwave acknowledged her arrival with a gentle pat to her helm, which also attracted her attention. She nipped at his audial in what could almost be called a playful manner, and the tessellated plates of her wings rustled.
Optimus wondered if the other Decepticons had ever seen them interact like this. He didn't think such softness would be allowed under Megatron's iron fist, especially since Megatron seemed to disdain anything that steered too close to kindness.
His question was partially answered when they approached Decepticon command center and Laserbeak alit from Soundwave's shoulder to take up residence in Soundwave's dock. Maybe it was fatigue. Maybe he wanted her report. But in all likelihood, it was safer there for her.
When they entered, Optimus' sensors lit up. He registered activity, a charge in the air that stank of excitement. He heard, a noise from a distance, like the cheering that had surrounded him in Megatron's entertainment arena. A chill drove itself into his spark and Optimus' pace slowed further.
He didn't want to go in there, he realized, as they approached the double doors leading to main command. He didn't want to see what new atrocities Megatron committed.
He didn't have a choice.
Soundwave tossed him a look, it might have been sympathy, and then he pushed open the door and pulled Optimus inside. Immediately, he was assaulted with the sounds of laughter and jeering. He heard the wet slap of interface equipment, pleasured moans, and pained grunts. Red Alert's commentary droned in the background, always a shock to the spark.
There was a ring of Decepticons around Megatron's throne. Optimus only recognized half of them.
The gathered Cons cleared a path once they realized Soundwave was present and Optimus stumbled after him, dread coiling in his tanks. He didn't even startle when one of the Decepticons slapped his aft and leered at him. Did it matter who it was? Purple badge, red optics, sharpened denta - one Decepticon was the same as any other.
They broke through the crowd and Optimus drew up short, horror making his knees buckle. He covered his mouth, tank lurching, unable to tear his optics away. He couldn't imagine a more unpleasant shock.
Megatron had arranged another show for his Decepticons.
There were three, maybe four of them, all outmassing the Autobot sandwiched in the middle. A spike in his mouth, two in his valve, his chassis covered in fluids, lubricant and transfluid alike. His optics were dull with undercharge and pain. His abdominal plating bulged. Other layers of his armor were gone.
He hadn't even known that Megatron had possession of Tracks. Optimus thought Tracks had died when Skyfire went down. He didn't think anyone survived Skyfire's death.
Clearly, he was wrong. Where he'd been all this time, Optimus didn't know. Megatron had not bragged of his capture, but Tracks had never been ranked enough to merit Megatron's notice either. He must have been given as a gift to one of Megatron's soldiers.
And whatever Megatron gave, Megatron could take away.
If Tracks saw Optimus, he showed no sign. He was passive, limp between two Decepticons Optimus did not recognize. A third - Bludgeon - had a firm grip on Tracks' helm, plunging into his mouth and down his intake with little regard for Tracks' comfort.
All the while, the crowd of Decepticons watched and cheered and fought over whose turn would be next.
Megatron sat on his throne, his optics glittering, his elbow braced on the arm. He noticed Soundwave and beckoned them closer, his smile widening. Optimus stumbled as the lead forced him to follow along with Soundwave.
“Ah, Optimus,” he purred, taking the leash once Soundwave offered it. “You've missed half the show, but don't worry, I've been reassured that there will be several encores.”
It was getting harder to ventilate. The harsh slap of metal on metal echoed in his audials. The eager moans of the Decepticons made his tanks churn. Tracks was distressingly silent. Energon mingled with the fluids that slicked his thighs.
They would use him until they killed him.
Optimus' hands closed into fists. “Stop it,” he said, and his vocals were liberally laced with static. “You can't do this.”
Megatron flicked his wrist, curling the lead around it and dragging Optimus close enough that he could smell the warlord's exhalations. He wanted to think that it stank, smelling of rotted and fetid things, but instead, Megatron smelled of sweet high grade.
“I can, as a matter of fact, do this,” Megatron said, his tone mild. His free hand lifted. Optimus expected to be struck, but instead Megatron's finger only dragged down the center of his chestplate. “It would be rude to stop them. My Decepticons work hard. Don't they deserve a show?”
Optimus very nearly purged. “This is not entertainment!” he snapped. “It's pointless degradation. It's barbaric. It doesn't prove you're better, just that you're cruel.”
One of the Decepticons howled his release. From his peripheral vision, Optimus saw Bludgeon pull out of Tracks's mouth, overloading on his face. It mingled with the other fluids already present, dripping everywhere. Tracks tilted his helm down, coughing and gagging.
“Who's next?” Bludgeon asked, palming his receding spike as he stepped back with a swagger. His expression was smug, sated.
“Cruel,” Megatron murmured and he tugged on Optimus' lead, forcing all of Optimus' attention toward him. “Wouldn't it be crueler to take their show away? Or perhaps you'd rather take his place?”
Optimus recoiled, not that he had anywhere to go. This game again? Hadn't they gone round this circle with Hound and his scout still ended up in the arena? What good had it done Optimus then?
“I would do anything to protect them,” Optimus forced out, his armor clamping down. “But even I know I could ask this of you, and it would do either of us little good.”
Megatron chuckled. “True. But I could also shoot him instead.”
Optimus' engine weakly growled. It was, he realized, never about Tracks. It was, as it had always been, about Megatron's hatred for Optimus.
He cycled a ventilation. “You want me to beg,” he stated in a dull tone.
Megatron flicked his wrist again, allowing some slack in the lead. “On your knees,” he confirmed, and his optics burned brighter, his field thickening with lust. “What's the life of an Autobot worth to you, Optimus?”
Optimus ground his denta. Megatron already knew the answer, of course. Because he also knew Optimus couldn't take that chance. Megatron had proven he had no qualms about executing Autobots.
Optimus worked his intake and bowed his helm. The lead gave him just enough slack to lower himself to the ground, his hydraulics hissing and his joints creaking with ill maintenance. He felt Megatron's optics on him. He felt the regard of the other Decepticons, some of the cheering dying down as they watched Optimus.
He lowered himself to the ground at Megatron's pedes. He bowed his helm, pressed it to the floor.
“Now,” Megatron said. His weight shifted and then Optimus felt the weight on his back. It could only have been Megatron's pede. “Tell me what you're requesting of me, my pet.”
The words tasted sour. Optimus had to reset his vocalizer twice before he could get them past his lips.
“Allow me to take Tracks' place, please,” he said, and his fingers scraped the floor, hard enough to hurt.
“That's a start.” Megatron bore down.
Optimus' tank lurched again. “Master,” he forced out, and felt Megatron's immediate approval. “Let me service your soldiers. Please. For the sake of my Autobot, I--” He cut off, worked his intake, and ex-vented. “I beg of you.”
There was a hanging moment. Megatron contemplated. Optimus sagged against the floor.
“Hmm,” Megatron finally said, and then he lifted his pede and pulled on the lead, dragging Optimus upright. He looked Optimus in the optics and said, “No.”
Optimus' optics widened before they narrowed again. He climbed to his pedes, his armor shaking. “No?”
“It's a simple glyph, Optimus.” Megatron leaned back in his throne, smug to the core. “You asked. I gave an answer. Which is 'no'. As much fun as my soldiers would have with you, I don't feel like sharing right now.”
“You...” Optimus broke off, words failing him. He shook his helm, felt the heat of anger wash across his frame.
The lead was slack between them. He had more than enough room. It was pointless. All of it, so pointless.
“Perhaps later,” Megatron continued, and Optimus didn't care to hear any of it.
His engine revved. Optimus launched himself at Megatron, well aware of the optics watching him and hoping, if not to hurt Megatron, then to at least make him look the fool. Just as he'd done to Optimus.
He braced himself for the stinging lash of the shock collar. He never saw the backhand coming. It struck him across the face, hard enough to dent. Optimus spun backward, pain blossoming in its wake. He stumbled, dropping to his aft.
Megatron rose to his pedes and kicked Optimus again, though he turned at the last moment, catching the blow on his shoulder. Around them, the cheering had gone silent. The Decepticons watched, even those violating Tracks.
Optimus' processor spun. He was uncoordinated as he tried to get back to his pedes.
Megatron looked down at him, but his field didn't buzz with anger. Instead, there was amusement. “Hmm,” he said. “You may have a point. Decepticons, stand down.”
“What? Why?” one of the Decepticons whined, and only then did Optimus realize it was one of the three clustered around Tracks.
“But you said--”
Megatron's glare cut off the complaining of another one. Hastily, they disengaged, dropping Tracks to a dirty heap on the floor, square in a pool of mingled fluids. Tracks didn't bother to catch himself. He simply lay there as though moving required too much effort.
Optimus understood. He'd been there before.
Megatron gripped Optimus' lead and hauled him to his pedes. Optimus scrambled to get his pedes beneath him before his neck snapped. As it was, his intake constricted.
“You say that we're barbarians,” Megatron said, stepping down from his throne. He towed Optimus along with him, straight toward where Tracks lay. “That we're cruel.”
The dread returned. Optimus put on the brakes, but it didn't matter. Megatron yanked hard on the lead, throwing Optimus forward. He tripped over his own pedes and crashed to the floor, catching himself at the last minute with his hands. He pushed himself upright, only for Megatron's mass to come down on him, driving his torso back toward the floor.
“Then why don't you show us what it means to be nice,” Megatron finished and the shadow of his gesture aimed at Tracks. “I'm sure he could use it right now.”
Optimus recoiled. “I refuse,” he bit out.
He heard the whine of a fusion cannon cycling into readiness. He looked up and saw it pointed at Tracks's helm.
“Then he's of no more use,” Megatron declared with a tilt of his helm. “Pity.”
“Stop!”
Optimus scrambled at the floor, restrained by Megatron's weight. He was close enough to touch Tracks and he internally begged the former noble to look at him. Tracks' optics were dimly lit, but he stirred, helm tilting toward Optimus.
One optic was cracked. His cheek was visibly dented. His face was striped in transfluid, and his winglets bent out of shape. His field, what ragged remnants of it Optimus could sense, spoke of pain and despair.
Even so... Optimus had no right to make this choice for him.
“What would you have me do?” he asked, just above a whisper. The closer Decepticons could hear him, but he didn't care about their leers. Only Tracks' answer mattered.
He saw Tracks' intake bob. There was a visible dent around the former noble's throat. There was a click, a burr of static. His lips barely moved. With everything else, they'd also ruined his ability to communicate.
A shudder ran through Tracks's plating. His hand clenched and unclenched. A sigh washed out, wet with broken internal lines.
Tracks offlined his optics and bowed his helm. His field flattened.
Very well.
Optimus turned his helm away and offlined his optics. His spark hurt, more than the pain Megatron had caused him. He couldn't fault Tracks. Primus only knew what the former noble had suffered before being brought here. Or even how long Tracks had been in this room, subject to every Decepticon who wanted a turn.
“I won't do it,” Optimus said, loud enough for all to hear him this time. “I won't contribute to this offense. No matter what you threaten.”
“Are you calling my bluff, Optimus?”
He pushed up against the weight bearing him down. Megatron didn't move. Perhaps the token resistance was enough.
“We're too valuable to you,” he said instead. “I know you won't do it.”
Megatron chuckled, a dark sound. “Oh, Optimus. You don't know me very well at all. You never did.”
He heard the whine and hiss of power surging into a powerful weapon. He heard the click of a trigger, the loud bang of the shot. He felt the wash of heat past his backplate, his helm, searing the tip of his antenna. The ground shuddered as the fire slammed into Tracks' frame and hit the floor beneath him.
There was no splatter. Megatron's cannon was too hot, too precise, for splatter. But the stench of scorched energon and lubricant was thick. Nauseating.
Optimus couldn't bring himself to look. He lowered his helm, drawing his arms inward. His spark ached. The empty connectors where the matrix had been twitched.
Megatron's weight vanished from his back and the fusion cannon cycled down. He stepped away, giving Optimus room to draw himself up onto his knees at least. He couldn't lift his helm. He reminded himself that Tracks had chosen this. He, at last, had been able to decide his fate no matter how awful the two choices had been.
It did not make Optimus feel any lighter.
“Let this be a reminder to you,” Megatron declared and he was no doubt gesturing broadly, grandstanding. The end of the lead jerked with every motion. “The time where I make empty threats has gone. The Stunticons failed me, so I took their pet. Optimus defied me, so I took what mattered to him. That is your lesson.”
The lead jerked Optimus back and he sprawled backward, awkwardly flipping to his front so that he could scuttle toward Megatron. The warlord placed himself back on his throne, optics glittering with satisfaction. He watched Optimus as he slowly wound the lead around his wrist, pulling Optimus closer and closer until he perched right at Megatron's pedes, ever the toy for Megatron's amusement.
It was becoming harder to get angry.
“Now get back to work,” Megatron ordered. “And someone clean up that mess. Soundwave, find me news of Earth.”
“Yes, Lord Megatron.”
Decepticons scrambled to obey. Optimus watched them. Where would they take Tracks, he wondered. Probably where they had tossed the other Autobots Megatron executed. Ironhide and Inferno, more who Optimus probably never knew about. If he hadn't known of Tracks' survival, who else could he have missed?
The lead tugged at his intake, pulling Optimus' gaze toward Megatron. The warlord looked down at him without a trace of anger in his optics.
“Do you understand now, Optimus?”
He didn't answer. He assumed it was a rhetorical question. But he lowered his gaze. He could tremble with fury and shame. He could wallow in his grief. None of it would matter to Megatron.
The lead slackened. Megatron's hand settled on his helm, almost gentle. He stroked fingers up Optimus' audials as he shifted on the throne, making himself comfortable.
“Perform admirably,” Megatron murmured. “Be obedient. And perhaps, I might be convinced to grant you a favor. Cooperation, that's not too much to ask for your Autobots, is it?”
Optimus shuddered and swallowed down a surge of nausea. “Another agreement you won't honor?”
“That depends on you.”
Megatron's grip on his helm became a bit firmer, his palm curved around the back of Optimus' helm. Pressure urged Optimus forward, between Megatron's spreading thighs. It quickly became obvious what Megatron wanted as his panel slid open and the head of his spike peeked from its housing.
“Are you willing to take that risk that you could have saved them and chose not to?”
He was no longer their Prime. But that didn't mean he could abandon his responsibility. He'd failed them. He owed them this much.
Optimus flicked a glance at Megatron, but his face betrayed nothing. Except, perhaps, for an eagerness for Optimus to get to work. The pressure on the back of Optimus' helm increased, though not enough to force him forward.
The choice was implied to be his. An illusion of consent. There was nothing consensual about any of this.
Optimus scooted closer and bent to the task. Megatron parted his legs to make room for Optimus, and his hand rested on the back of Optimus' helm, guiding but not forcing. His field purred approval as Optimus licked at the head of his spike, attempting to encourage the unit to emerge.
He knew that the Decepticons were watching their leader get serviced. He assumed it was part of the show, Megatron proving his dominance. Humiliation gnawed at Optimus. How much lower would Megatron make him go?
He didn't want the answer to that question.
“Acceptable,” Megatron murmured. His hand started petting Optimus once more as he settled back into his throne, making himself comfortable. His spike slowly extended into Optimus' mouth and Optimus resigned himself to a tankful of transfluid.
Behind him, one of Megatron's soldiers arrived with a mop.
***
a/n: Ouch. Three more chapters until it gets better. Next chapter gives us some interludes.
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