[AU] Oubliette - Chapter Fourteen
Universe: G1/IDW AU
Characters this chapter: Megatron/Optimus, Ricochet+Que+Broadblast/Mirage, Overlord/Optimus, Jazz
Rating: NC-17
Warnings this chapter: all of the previous warnings plus shock torture, genital harm, and Overlord
Commission fic for NK
Mood Music: "This is War," 30 Seconds to Mars
Oubliette
Chapter Fourteen
Starscream found nothing in Sector Twelve. A fact which enraged Megatron and prompted an old-fashioned expression of his displeasure.
It was hardly Starscream's fault, but that didn't stop Megatron from laying into him with angry fists. Optimus watched it with an odd sort of distance. He never thought he'd feel sympathy for Starscream, but he did.
There was also a deeper, more terrible part of him, that was glad it had been Starscream and not himself bearing the brunt of Megatron's fury. Starscream was far more used to it than Optimus was, no matter how long Megatron had claimed him.
Then the reports started rolling in.
An explosion in the ruins of Tarn.
Sabotage in a weapons manufactory.
Theft of a supply depot in Vos.
Daily anomalies in the sectors. Poor Red Alert was glitching on a constant basis. At least, until Trepan paid him a visit and fiddled with his processor. He still reported errors, but he didn't glitch every time he found him.
Soundwave's surveillance system crashed again. He paid for it, too. Megatron wasn't used to his favorite making mistakes. He reminded Soundwave how his Decepticons paid for failure.
Starscream emerged from the medbay by the time Soundwave staggered into it, broken and bleeding. No one was safe.
It was all little things. Guerrilla tactics. Meant to aggravate, confuse, delay. All of it could be rebuilt. Megatron had all the resources to do so.
It still managed to make Megatron furious. It made Optimus' life a lot harder. He bore the brunt of it, what little Megatron didn't take out on his soldiers.
Fury and irritation made Megatron far more cruel. It made him insatiable, taking Optimus over and over again, mouth and valve and spike, until he was raw and aching, battered and bruised. No amount of good behavior prompted mercy from his master, while bad behavior incensed him.
Optimus endured.
It was the least Optimus could do. He owed the Autobots this much. An angry Megatron was a reckless one. The Decepticons outnumbered the Autobots, but now they were spread across Cybertron. From pole to pole.
The only one who might have cautioned otherwise was Starscream, but he held his glossa. Why he'd stopped agitating Megatron, Optimus didn't know. One too many beatings perhaps. Maybe it didn't matter. It was that very cohesion that had led to the Autobots' doom.
They'd always relied on the discord between Megatron and his second. It made it easier to defeat them.
No one wanted to be close to Megatron right now. Optimus had no other choice.
Shockwave, one of many desperate to appease their furious lord and master, finally offered up Mirage. He was done, he claimed, though there was disappointment in his vocals. As though there was more use he could get out of Mirage.
No amount of begging, pleading, or good behavior from Optimus could convince Megatron to change his mind. Megatron was determined to make someone pay for the damage to his empire. Worse, all it did was encourage Megatron to bring Optimus along, to bear witness to Mirage's pain. This time, he wouldn't even have the distance of a vidscreen to separate them.
The arena was loud, raucous with activity. There were noticeably fewer Decepticons this time, likely still spread out over Cybertron. But no worry! Because Reflector was there, recording and broadcasting.
Megatron wanted to ensure that Jazz and any remaining Autobots would see it.
He sat at the very front, seats that would afford him the very best view. Optimus knelt beside him, arms bound at his back in case he “got any ideas,” according to Megatron. As though Optimus was going to leap the low barrier and go charging out into the ring to protect Mirage.
He wouldn't get more than a step before Megatron activated the shock collar. All it would gain him was pain.
Megatron's hand rested on his helm, ensuring that Optimus could not turn away from his view of the arena. He tried offlining his optics, but his master would not tolerate it.
It hurt to see Mirage, especially given his current state. The noble was in the center of the ring. They had gone to great lengths to make him look appealing. He'd been buffed and repainted until he shone like new. It almost made one look past the shackles and the collar around his intake. Or the thin, silvery lines of recent welds, obviously places where Shockwave had been “tinkering.”
Three Decepticons roared onto the scene -- two on wheels, one from the sky -- transforming and forming a circle around Mirage. They were all the new mechs.
Ricochet, Optimus remembered. He'd brought in Bumblebee. He was also not much bigger than Mirage, same height, greater mass. Hopefully, he would be a “nicer” Decepticon.
Of his companions, Que was slightly larger than Ricochet and Broadblast was the largest of them. Shuttles often were. Their smallest companion, Optimus could not recall his designation at the moment, was nowhere to be seen. Perhaps he was part of the crowd.
“They refused to keep your Autobot, but they leapt upon this opportunity,” Megatron murmured, as though driving a stake through Optimus' spark. “Que, Soundwave tells me, was their interrogator. This should prove to be interesting.”
Optimus vibrated with outrage, but he clamped his mouth shut. Since when had chastising Megatron for his actions done him any good?
A large gong sounded, signaling the Cons to begin their torment.
Broadblast was the first to move, faster than Optimus would have given the large shuttle credit for. He snatched Mirage from behind, grabbing the noble's wrists and holding them high above his helm. Not enough to lift him off the ground, but enough to have his pedes scrambling to keep beneath him and ease the strain on his shoulders.
Que and Ricochet conferred, Que juggling something in his hands that looked like a cross between an interfacing toy and a torture device. All jagged edges and ridges and far too large for someone like Mirage to take comfortably.
Optimus' own valve ached in sympathy, stretched as it was around the false spike Megatron kept in him at all times.
Ricochet was the first to approach Mirage. He grinned, visor alit with a crimson gleam, and grabbed Mirage's face with both hands. He jerked Mirage's helm forward, kissing him with violence. Que circled around the two of them like some sort of lazy predator, and Optimus couldn't have been the only one who jerked when his arm snapped forward, jabbing a shock stick into Mirage's side.
His cry of pain echoed through the arena as he tore away from Ricochet's mouth, energon dribbling from his lip. Ricochet must have bitten him.
“Interesting,” Megatron murmured as Que circled to Mirage's other side and jabbed him again. Mirage convulsed, his hands forming fists in Broadblast's grip.
Ricochet stepped back, a grin on his face. His glossa swept over his lips, cleaning them of Mirage's energon.
Que jabbed Mirage twice more, each time the shock stick slipping through Mirage's seams and into his substructure. Even from a distance, Optimus could see the spurts of charge emerging and the smoke rising in its wake. Que must have had it on its highest setting.
Que cackled, flipping the shock stick around in his fingers before he danced back, letting Ricochet take his place. Dark hands dragged down Mirage's frame, lingering on the scorched armor. He cupped Mirage's pelvic panel and said something, perhaps a demand for Mirage to open his panels.
Mirage shook his helm, optics dimming. His pedes scraped at the floor.
Ricochet laughed and turned his helm, looking all around the arena. He was putting on a show, Optimus realized.
“Tear it off!” one of the watching Decepticons shouted.
“Shock him again!” someone else demanded.
“Hit him!”
“Rip out his optics!”
The crowd built up a roar of encouragement, the dam broken as several more voyeurs started calling out suggestions.
Ricochet slid his visor back toward Mirage. He shrugged and within moments, Mirage was gasping out loud as his panel was removed and tossed into the crowd.
“He certainly knows how to entertain,” Megatron commented as a group of smaller Cons in the front row squabbled over the noble's interface panel.
Ricochet held out a hand, snapping his fingers and Que bounced up to him, handing over another interfacing toy/torture device. The one he'd been carrying earlier.
Ricochet took it, examined it, and then held it up to the crowd, producing a near-deafening roar of approval. He grinned and turned his attention back to Mirage, poking one end of the toy against Mirage's lips.
The noble grimaced, turning his helm away, but Ricochet gripped his jaw and turned it back. He pressed harder at Mirage's lips and forced the toy within, jabbing it in and out of Mirage's mouth. As he did so, Broadblast hiked Mirage a little higher. Within range, Optimus realized, of the shuttle's spike, which jutted at the apex of his legs, as thick as Mirage's forearm.
One of Reflector's units must have zoomed in on the sight because one of the large screens lit up with the image of the impossibly large spike nestled at the rim of Mirage's valve, noticeably too large. The barest minimum of lubricant glistened around Mirage's valve, not nearly enough to ease the way of such a spike.
The lead drew up short, putting pressure on Optimus' intake. He hadn't even realized he'd shuffled forward until it caught at him. Instinct, he realized. An attempt to save Mirage. A failed attempt.
Megatron chuckled and flicked his fingers at the lead, vibrations traveling down the length of it and tickling Optimus' intake.
“Powerless as ever, Optimus,” he drawled.
Optimus shot him a glare before a tap to his helm reminded him to face forward again.
Que snuck in, shock stick ablaze, and he shoved it at Mirage's spike array, charge crackling loudly. Mirage's muffled scream was barely audible over the sound of Que's laughter.
Broadblast's spike nudged harder at Mirage's valve. The close-up showed the resistance of Mirage's rim in detail, the parting of the plush lining and the recessed anterior node, not even lit with pleasure. Mirage's thighs were trembling, and even across the arena, Optimus could hear the distressed idle of his engine.
Optimus tensed, his tank churning. He realized that Megatron was right to chain him. Frag the consequences, he would have leapt into that ring and done everything he could.
A siren split the air.
Optimus jolted.
A silence fell through the arena, save for a subvocal murmur. Behind him, Megatron went still. Even the Decepticons paused, their helms tilted toward the sky.
Optimus felt it then, a low rumble in the ground. The siren grew louder, more piercing.
Megatron shot to his pedes. “Starscream, report!” he snarled into his comm, taking hold of Optimus' lead and pulling it, yanking Optimus to his side.
He turned to the south and Optimus followed his gaze. A thin stream of smoke rose into the sky, dark gray. As he watched, it grew thicker, became plumes. It was coming from the direction of the space bridge.
Optimus' optics widened.
The arena erupted into chaos. Decepticons scattered, pouring from the stands and shooting into the air, perhaps reacting to some sort of internal signal or previously delineated protocol. Megatron vibrated with tension, his anger rippling outward. He no longer spoke aloud, internally berating whoever was on the opposite side of the comm.
Even the Decepticons in the arena had departed, leaving Mirage in the hands of the servant drones who had deposited him earlier. They gathered him up, meeping to each other, perhaps intending to return him to Shockwave.
“Get me answers, Starscream,” Megatron hissed and the warning in his vocals sent shivers down Optimus' backstrut. “Or so help me it'll be you in the arena next.”
Optimus couldn't hear the other end of the conversation, but he imagined it wasn't pleasant.
Megatron rounded on him, his eyes crimson with fury.
“Your spy just blew up my space bridge, Optimus,” Megatron snarled and Optimus unconsciously backed away, not that there was anywhere he could go. “He cut off our only means of contacting Earth and our quickest means to acquire energon.”
Optimus worked his jaw. “You act as though I'm to blame. There's nothing I can do about that.”
“It is your fault. It is always your fault. Everything can be traced back to you.” Megatron snatched at the leash, closing the distance between them.
Optimus knew that glint. That was the glint of intent to cause harm. He internally braced himself.
“It's not my fault your Decepticons are incompetent. That they can't find one measly little Autobot,” Optimus retorted. “After all, weren't you the one who told me we were weak and helpless?”
He tripped on his own pedes as Megatron jerked him forward again. Optimus stumbled, dropping to hands and knees. He opted to stay there. Subservience tended to please Megatron, even if it put him in range of Megatron's pedes.
“Where is he?” Megatron demanded and his pede crashed down on Optimus' back, shoving him to the ground.
Optimus heard a snap and hissed air as pain blossomed in his right hand. Three fingers, crunched beneath his own weight. His backstrut creaked. Megatron bore down on him and Optimus' vents struggled to spin under the pressure.
“Tell me where I can find him!”
“I don't know!” Optimus shouted. His free hand scraped at the ground. The empty socket of his windshield bent inward, scraping at the armor over his spark chamber.
Megatron pulled on the lead, forcing Optimus' helm up. He gasped for a ventilation, his fans clunk-clunking as Megatron's weight kept them from spinning entirely. Heat rose in his frame. His chassis creaked.
“I will not have your little spy ruining everything I've done,” Megatron roared and he ground down.
Optimus felt something in his chassis snap, felt the trickle of fluids. Energon or coolant or hydraulic fluid - he didn't know. Whatever it was, he surely needed it.
“He's one mech,” Optimus gasped out. He forced himself to look up, to see the fury in Megatron's optics, but also, beneath it all - fear.
If one lone Autobot could do this much to his empire, imagine what the rest were capable of. Megatron was slowly but surely losing his control.
“Why are you so afraid?” Optimus asked and he knew, before he even spat the words, that it was the wrong thing to say.
Megatron stomped on him.
Something else snapped. His plating buckled. Optimus jerked, scrabbling to get his arms beneath him, to brace himself against Megatron's weight.
And then it was gone, but only because Megatron shifted his balance. Optimus didn't see the pede coming, only felt the impact as slammed into his abdominal armor and sent him rolling. The lead jerked, kept him from going far, putting great pressure on his intake. The world spun gray.
“I fear nothing!” Megatron bellowed.
He kicked Optimus again, denting his side paneling inward. Pain blossomed, thick and heavy. Something shifted wetly within him. Megatron was going to kill him. There was no Soundwave to suggest caution this time. Soundwave was still licking wounds of his own.
Optimus gasped, processor spinning. He was hot, too hot, spark spinning madly, fans clunking as they struggled to cycle.
He had to get to his pedes, to stand up. If Megatron was going to beat him to death, Optimus wanted to die standing. Like a mech. Like a living being, and not the pet Megatron had made of him.
Another kick and something rattled within his chassis. Optimus' internals rippled and he spat up fluid, a worrisome mix of semi-processed energon and coolant. He forced his hands beneath him, and then his knees. He shook his helm, but the dizziness remained. He couldn't stop the world from dancing.
There was a rushing in his audials, a roaring, screaming sound and he didn't know if it was real or a result of the damage.
His lead jerked. Optimus seized, scrabbling to his pedes as Megatron hauled him upright. Something in his intake squeezed and he gasped.
His vision swam. Bleary, he could see Megatron's snarl, his optics gleaming with malice. His lips were moving but all Optimus could hear was that roaring, buzzing.
There was movement in his peripheral vision. Then there was pain, stars in his optics.
Then there was darkness.
0o0o0
Optimus woke to pain, a dull ache settling about his entire frame. He groaned, and even that hurt. He felt bruised inside and out and it took several tries for his optics and audials to online.
He expected to find himself in the medbay, but instead, was surrounded by slate gray walls without decoration. No medical equipment was in sight. The room was empty, save for the berth beneath him, a recording device mounted on a tripod, and two tall lamps, pointed his direction.
Optimus cycled a ventilation and tried to roll over. The rattle of chains pulled him up short. He tugged on his wrists, but they were bound above him with no give. He tried to move his legs but they, too, were shackled. Each ankle was cuffed to opposite ends of the berth, forcing his legs to spread. He could wriggle his frame, but little else.
Optimus ran a quick systems scan. He'd been repaired, to an extent. Tilting his helm enabled him to see numerous patches of temporary plating and slapdash welds. Minor dents lingered. Heat gathered where larger dents had been pulled and left to self-repair. His internals ached, no doubt a result of hasty repairs to the broken lines.
His energy levels were a paltry twenty-two percent. Worse than they had been since Optimus had his turn in the arena.
He was not in the medbay. Nor was he anywhere in Megatron's quarters.
There was a single window, but he could see nothing through it but the sky, gray and overcast, probably because of the smoke from the explosion. He couldn't hear anything either, save the low drone of an atmospheric regulator. The room smelled stale from disuse.
He heard a hiss as a door opened, one he couldn't see. The berth shook, low rattles, the kind of tremors from a heavy frame stepping across the floor.
Said heavy frame came into view. Optimus' spark dropped into his tanks. There were few mechs that would have filled him with dread. Overlord was most certainly one of them.
“Good morning, Optimus,” Overlord purred.
He circled the berth, which Optimus belatedly realized that not only was it not flush against the wall, it wasn't a true berth. It better resembled an examining platform, which explained the restraints. Medical-grade. Even were he at full strength, he would have been hard pressed to snap them.
“Comfortable?”
Optimus worked his intake. “I don't think Megatron--”
“Megatron,” Overlord interrupted, “is the one who gave you to me.” He paused at the foot of the platform and rolled his shoulders in a shrug, spreading his hands. “He gave me, what your humans call, carte blanche.”
Blank check, his processor supplied. Complete freedom to act.
“That is,” Overload said as he leaned forward, hands bracing on the platform between Optimus' spread knees. “So long as I don't offline you.”
Optimus' spark raced. “Why?”
Overlord smirked and tapped his chin. “Because I'm more creative? Because he's busy? Because I asked? Who knows?” He tilted his helm toward the camera, which had an excellent view of them. “But don't worry, everyone on this planet gets to see how much fun we're going to have. Including Jazz.”
So. They hadn't found Jazz yet. And they thought this would draw him out. Well, if it didn't work before, what made them think it would work now?
“And you think that you can hurt me more than everyone else,” Optimus spat, his pedes giving a fruitless tug to the restraints.
Overlord circled to the side of the berth, one large hand easily cupping the entire side of Optimus' helm. “I'm going to make you scream,” he purred. “I'm going to make you beg. I'm going to give you pain and pleasure until you can't tell the difference. I'm going to make you cry for Megatron to save you.”
His thumb pressed to Optimus' lips, nothing gentle in the motion, hard enough to put pressure on his denta behind the soft dermal metal.
Optimus' engine revved, vibrating the berth. He glared hard at Overlord, not that it did anything but make the super-soldier laugh. He drew back, releasing Optimus' lips, and turned the camera on.
“Smile for your fans, Optimus,” Overlord drawled. “It's time to put on a show.”
Optimus jerked at his bindings. “Don't you have anything better to do?” he snarled.
“I'm sure I do. There are Autobots in need of capture after all.” Overlord returned to the foot of the berth and he felt underneath it. At once, the bottom half of the berth fractured, dropping down, leaving more than enough room for Overlord to stand between Optimus' spread thighs without having to climb onto the berth. “But torturing you? That's a pleasure in itself.”
His hands landed on Optimus' knees and slid up his thighs, scraping across dented metal. Optimus tried to tilt his knees inward, but it did little good. Overlord's thumbs brushed his interface panel, pressing against both his spike and valve housing.
“I'm going to have so much fun,” Overlord murmured with a sly grin Optimus' direction.
He winked.
And then he dug his fingers into Optimus' panel and yanked the covers off without even bothering to demand Optimus open them. Optimus' backstrut arched as he screamed, agony shrieking through his sensor net. His entire array throbbed, errors lighting up his HUD as if he didn't know.
“Don't know why Megatron bothered with these,” Overlord muttered, tossing the covers over his shoulder. They hit the ground and clattered.
Optimus collapsed against the platform, fans whirring madly. “Wh-why?” he managed, vocals laced with static.
“They were in my way.” Overlord shrugged and peered at his components, prodding at the false spike visible within Optimus' valve.
He wriggled it around a bit before the tip of a finger poked in at Optimus' spike.
“Extend it,” he demanded.
Optimus shook his helm. There was too much pain. Even if he wanted to, he couldn't. Self-preservation protocols denied his requests.
Overlord's optics narrowed. His hand formed a fist.
Optimus gasped. “I can't--”
His denial turned into a howl as Overlord's fist slammed into his pelvic array, denting the metal inward around his spike housing. Damage reports flooded his HUD and Optimus could only gasp as another punch to his array left him reeling. Darkness poked around the edges of his visual feed.
“Better,” Overlord said.
Optimus couldn't feel what he was doing and forced his optics to reboot. Dizzily, he looked down to see that Overlord had prised his fingers into Optimus' spike housing and manually extended his spike. It ached, there was no pleasure in it, and his half-pressurized unit looked tiny in Overlord's grasp.
“Practically useless, isn't it?” Overlord asked as he curled his fingers around Optimus' spike. He gave it a few loose tugs, his lips curved in a smirk.
Optimus groaned. He couldn't produce words, only static. Pain left him gasping for a ventilation. His entire frame was rigid, aching inside and out. There were so many bright red warnings that he couldn't dismiss them all.
“Do you even get to use it?” Overlord asked. He tightened his grip on Optimus' spike, firm enough that it would have been pleasant, had Optimus' array not been a thing of pain.
“Can't imagine Megatron likes spike,” Overlord continued, content to carry on a conversation with himself. “What a shame.”
Overlord's fingers clenched.
Optimus bowed inward, to the limit of his chains, the crump of delicate metal barely audible over the sound of Overlord chuckling. The pain left him gasping once again. Left his ventilations stalled. It was indescribable.
“I can't kill you,” Overlord breathed as he released Optimus' spike, his fingers dragging along the length of Optimus' array. “But I can hurt you until you wish you were dead.”
Optimus' vocalizer rebooted, freeing the cry trapped in his intake. He was shaking and he couldn't seem to stop, his entire array one throbbing mass of agony. He offlined his optics, trying to stop his tanks from roiling.
“It's nothing personal,” Overlord added.
There was a faint pressure on Optimus' array, registered in the spaces between notices of damage and spikes of pain.
“Here,” Overlord said. “Hold this for me.”
Optimus' optics onlined in time to see the false spike being shoved against his lips, a fierce pressure that bloomed into pain as it was forced into his mouth and shoved deep. The tip of it pressed against the back of his intake. He tasted lubricant and transfluid, both bitter on his glossa. His tanks rolled.
Optimus turned his helm, lips and jaw working to free the toy from his mouth, but Overlord's hand clamped over his lips, keeping it in place. Two fingers then shoved into Optimus' valve, curling inward and raking against his internal sensors.
Optmius' spinal strut arched, too much lingering pain removing all traces of pleasure. Overlord wasn't Megatron. He didn't bother to try and make Optimus enjoy it. To add humiliation to everything else. Overlord only wanted to see Optimus in pain. Optimus tugged again at his chains, to no avail. His calipers struggled just as weakly.
Overlord loomed over him, optics gleaming. His fingers roughly fragged Optimus' valve, his ventilations pouring down on Optimus, searing hot.
“Maybe he'll let me keep you,” Overlord said. The heel of his palm shoved the false spike deeper, bruising Optimus' intake.
He quickly shunted his oral ventilations away.
“You'd like that, wouldn't you?”
His fingers curled. The tips scraped the inside of Optimus' valve, tearing into the delicate mesh. He felt fluid seep free and Optimus knew it wasn't all lubricant.
He fixed Overlord with a glare, his vocalizer producing angered noises but little else.
“Sorry,” Overlord said. “But I just can't hear you. You'll have to speak up.”
Two more fingers joined the assault, all four of them jabbing gracelessly into Optimus' valve. He grunted, pain stabbing through him. Fire raked through his valve. His crushed spike ached, a dull throb, and combined, the two left his entire array ablaze with pain.
Optimus shook, fatigue clawing at him. His energy levels dipped further. His engine revved weakly.
“Come on, Optimus,” Overlord cajoled, leaning down to nip at Optimus' spike. “Can't you participate just a little?”
Optimus growled an angry sound. His jaw ached, as did his intake.
Four fingers, easily the width of Megatron's spike alone, scraped along the inside of his valve, twisting and shoving. Overlord lay his thumb over Optimus' exterior node and applied pressure, grinding it down.
Optimus whined, frame instinctively curving inward and immediately stopped by the chains. It hurt, by Primus, it hurt. His vents wheezed. He never thought he'd missed the days of Megatron's forced pleasure.
Overlord jerked his fingers free. Lubricant and other fluids splattered to the berth beneath Optimus.
The supersoldier released his hold on Optimus' mouth, both hands grasping Optimus' hips. He groaned weakly and tried to work the spike free of his mouth, intake reporting error after pained error.
He heard the click of an interface panel opening, didn't have to look to know that Overlord had released his spike. He felt the blunt pressure of it against his valve, pushing his folds, prodding against his external node. He remembered this spike, the pain of it. The only worse torture had been the triple-changer fist, tearing through his valve.
Optimus turned his helm, trying to rub his mouth against his inner arm. He hoped to snag it on an armor plate, pull the damn toy free.
Overlord's heated frame notched itself between his thighs.
“This is only round one,” he huffed, his field rising and falling over Optimus, thick with triumph. Lust was only an afterthought.
It wasn't about the pleasure. It never was.
His spike prodded at Optimus' valve, as though taunting Optimus with the intent to take him, making him wait in agony.
Just get it over with! He wanted to scream. He hated this tension, this not-anticipation, but this waiting.
Get it over with so they could get to the part where Overlord left him alone and Optimus could curl into a little ball and shake with silent agony.
He gnawed at the toy. His glossa pushed at it. He wanted it out.
The berth shook. No, not just the berth. The entire room. The camera stand wobbled. The lights flickered.
Overlord's spike paused, the head of it pressed to Optimus' opening.
The room shook again. In the distance, Optimus thought he heard something. A dull whump, like an explosion. And then, the shrill sound of alarms. The all call to battle.
Overlord cursed and drew back, dropping Optimus' hips. “Just when I was getting to the good part,” he grumbled, and stormed over to the camera, flicking it off.
“Your spy is causing trouble again,” he said as he returned, patting Optimus' valve. With great effort, Overlord stored his spike away. “But I'll be back. Don't miss me too much.”
And then he was gone. Optimus heard the door open and shut behind him, the click-beep of it locking.
Primus.
He ex-vented and allowed himself a moment to sag on the berth. His array ached. Every brush of cooler air over his components made him shiver.
He scraped his face against his arm, again and again, glossa working hard until finally, he managed to get the spike free. He spat it out, heard it hit the floor with a dull thunk and roll away. His jaw ached.
Optimus drew in several slow vents. The room shuddered again and one of the lights tipped over, hitting the ground with a crash. The noises were getting closer.
The door opened. Optimus craned his neck, only getting a glimpse of the mech who entered. Medium-build, red and gray armor with touches of black, and an orange visor. Wait. He knew this mech.
Why on Cybertron was Ricochet here?
The orange visor turned toward Optimus and darkened. “Oh, OP,” Ricochet breathed, his vocals audibly different than before. He approached the platform cautiously, like one might a cornered Sharkticon. “What has he done to you?”
“What... are you... doing here?” Optimus rasped, his intake aching.
Ricochet held up his hands, just within field range. His visor slid up, revealing the blue of his optics beneath - specialized optics, Optimus remembered. Designed to see in spectrums that few other mechs could. But it came with a drawback, mitigated by the requirement of wearing a visor.
But... that was impossible.
“Had to make some alliances I didn't want ta. Took a little longer than I wanted, too,” Ricochet admitted, and his field reached out, gently pressing against Optimus' in request. In offer.
Familiar. Achingly so.
“Sorry, 'm late, boss,” Ricochet - no, Jazz - said.
Optimus started to shake. His spark ached, a pain that wasn't so much physical as everything else on the spectrum.
He offlined his optics and turned his helm away, shame eating away at him. He felt he should say something, but there were no words sufficient. He wanted to press his thighs together, hide the damage Overlord had left him with and a part of him wondered, what did it matter? Surely it was nothing Jazz hadn't already seen.
Jazz, thank Primus, was nothing if not professional. He didn't comment on Optimus' lack of celebration.
“I'm going to untie you, if that's okay,” Jazz said and when Optimus didn't immediately answer, Jazz prompted, “I'm gonna need an answer, boss. I don't want to touch you if you don't want me to.”
Optimus managed to nod. His vents were stuttering and it took all his focus to keep them cycling properly.
Cybertronians could not weep. Not in the same way as the humans. In that moment, Optimus felt that lack.
“Okay. I'm going to start with your hands.”
Jazz's field got closer. Optimus felt him near, felt the bare wisp of Jazz's ventilations, and heard the familiar, subvocal curse as Jazz fiddled with the restraints. Then, with a click, they opened and Optimus' wrists were freed. He was able to lower his arms, much to the relief of his aching shoulders.
“Your pedes now, boss,” Jazz said.
Within moments, Optimus' ankles were freed as well and he could finally draw his knees together. Though it caused a fresh wash of pain through his pelvic array. Dented plating struggled to shift.
Optimus cycled a ventilation and forced his optics online. “Thank you,” he said quietly.
Jazz returned to his side, his expression unreadable but a tension in his frame that Optimus well-recognized. Jazz was furious and doing his best not to show it. How often had Optimus seen this look and steered Jazz away from a path of retaliation? Away from a path that would have been too Decepticon-like in nature?
How many of those times should he have just allowed it?
“I'm sorry,” he said, again.
The oddness of Jazz's vocal tones coming from a face so unfamiliar as Ricochet's would not leave Optimus be.
“You did what you could,” Optimus said and he struggled to sit upright, his frame protesting every shift and adjustment. He needed a medic. He wasn't in danger of passing out from energon loss, but pain would be a close second. “If anyone is to blame, it is me.”
“Frankly, I blame Megatron but whatever, boss bot. I know how your spark works.” Jazz shrugged.
Optimus shook his helm, giving Jazz a despairing look. “Please, Jazz. I am no longer Prime. I am not your leader.”
Jazz's field flexed against his, warm and encompassing. “I don't care what Buckethead did. It ain't the Matrix that made me follow ya. Now, can you stand?”
“I can try.” He chose to ignore Jazz's denial for now.
He scooted to the end of the platform, let his pedes touch the floor. Every part of him ached. His knees were unsteady.
Optimus lingered, dizziness attacking his processor. His array ached, both energon and fluid leaking from his uncovered valve. His spike was limp against his crumpled plating and all of it was in full view. Jazz had seen both before, they were nothing new, but not like this. Not with shame painted so obviously over every inch of Optimus' plating.
Lack of energon made his vision swim again. Optimus hesitated, gripping the edge of the berth. It felt as though someone had scraped his entire panel raw, scrubbing him with a bristle brush inside and out.
“I don't know if I can, Jazz,” Optimus finally admitted. Too many error messages. Too much pain. He couldn't seem to bring himself to stand.
Jazz's field rippled against his, warm with comfort. “That's fine. We can sit here nice and pretty until the world makes sense again, if you want. I've done my part.”
“What about--”
“Overlord? Nah, boss. Don't worry about him.” Jazz grinned, but it was razor sharp and nasty. “I took care 'o him.”
Optimus gave Jazz a sharp look before he remembered it wasn't his place to chastise Jazz anymore. And maybe... maybe Overlord deserved it.
Jazz held up his hands. “Calm down, OP. It was just a kill code. He ain't dead, much to my disappointment, just wiped. Sounders gave it to me.”
“Soundwave?”
“Yeah.” Jazz scratched at his chin, some of the tension bleeding from his frame. “Remember those allies I didn't like? He's one o' them. Starscream, too.”
Optimus cycled his optics. Now there was a surprise. Not so much that Starscream would betray Megatron, that was a given, but that he would align with an Autobot. Especially since Starscream had appeared nothing but subservient lately.
Optimus lifted a hand, touching his intake and the collar surrounding it. “And this?”
“Can't do anythin' about that, sorry.” Jazz sighed. “Need a medic. Ratchet should be able to remove it, once we get him away from the Constructicons. Bee's on that even as we speak.”
He absorbed that information with the tiniest bit of hope poking at his spark. Galvanized, Optimus abruptly thrust himself upright, ignoring the shooting stabs of pain. If freedom was to be had, he didn't want to wait for it in Overlord's room, smelling far too much of lubricant and transfluid and pain.
Almost immediately, Optimus swayed and it took a moment of bracing himself to keep from crumpling to the floor. Jazz lifted his hands as though he wanted to help, but was torn between touching Optimus and knowing he probably wanted nothing to do with contact.
“Whoa, seriously, Optimus. We can wait.”
He shook his helm. “I do not want to wait, Jazz. I do not want to be here.”
Optimus took one step, and then a second when his knees didn't immediately fail on him. He heard a hard harsh grating noise, felt the scrape of crumpled armor, but the prospect of freedom, of walking without being on the end of a lead, was strengthening.
“Nah, I get ya. But I also don't want ya to fall. That ain't gonna help.”
Jazz hovered, near enough to touch but refraining from doing so. “I'm not big enough to catch ya either.”
Optimus took another step, a little easier than the first two. He would walk out of here. He would see what his Autobots had done without him. He would witness their strength and perseverance with his own optics.
“I promise you will not need to.”
Optimus made it to the door, which had never closed behind Jazz, and inched into the hallway. It was deserted, as far as he could see. He still didn't recognize the building, though he suspected it was either the barracks or Shockwave's laboratory. There was a chill in the air that wasn't entirely the fault of the temperature.
Another boom made the building shudder. Optimus tilted against the wall, ventilations running at full tilt as they struggled to cool him down. Each step was great effort.
He heard a roar, somehow louder than all the other sounds. Optimus heard it, even from what must have been a large distance, and the very sound of it sent a shiver up his backstrut.
“What in Primus' name is that?” he demanded.
Jazz looked up at him and winked half his visor. “Grimlock.”
****
a/n:And now everyone can breath a sigh of relief because the rape, torture, despair and agony are all over. Oh, there's still the recovery and the angst and depression and all that, but the violent awfulness is gone. Well, except for flashbacks, but still! You can all breathe easy. For now. ;)
As always, feedback is welcome and appreciated.
And now's the time everyone starts guessing about the romantic relationships on their way. LOL
This entry was originally posted at http://dracoqueen22.dreamwidth.org/314242.html. Feel free to comment wherever you find most convenient.
Characters this chapter: Megatron/Optimus, Ricochet+Que+Broadblast/Mirage, Overlord/Optimus, Jazz
Rating: NC-17
Warnings this chapter: all of the previous warnings plus shock torture, genital harm, and Overlord
Commission fic for NK
Mood Music: "This is War," 30 Seconds to Mars
Oubliette
Chapter Fourteen
Starscream found nothing in Sector Twelve. A fact which enraged Megatron and prompted an old-fashioned expression of his displeasure.
It was hardly Starscream's fault, but that didn't stop Megatron from laying into him with angry fists. Optimus watched it with an odd sort of distance. He never thought he'd feel sympathy for Starscream, but he did.
There was also a deeper, more terrible part of him, that was glad it had been Starscream and not himself bearing the brunt of Megatron's fury. Starscream was far more used to it than Optimus was, no matter how long Megatron had claimed him.
Then the reports started rolling in.
An explosion in the ruins of Tarn.
Sabotage in a weapons manufactory.
Theft of a supply depot in Vos.
Daily anomalies in the sectors. Poor Red Alert was glitching on a constant basis. At least, until Trepan paid him a visit and fiddled with his processor. He still reported errors, but he didn't glitch every time he found him.
Soundwave's surveillance system crashed again. He paid for it, too. Megatron wasn't used to his favorite making mistakes. He reminded Soundwave how his Decepticons paid for failure.
Starscream emerged from the medbay by the time Soundwave staggered into it, broken and bleeding. No one was safe.
It was all little things. Guerrilla tactics. Meant to aggravate, confuse, delay. All of it could be rebuilt. Megatron had all the resources to do so.
It still managed to make Megatron furious. It made Optimus' life a lot harder. He bore the brunt of it, what little Megatron didn't take out on his soldiers.
Fury and irritation made Megatron far more cruel. It made him insatiable, taking Optimus over and over again, mouth and valve and spike, until he was raw and aching, battered and bruised. No amount of good behavior prompted mercy from his master, while bad behavior incensed him.
Optimus endured.
It was the least Optimus could do. He owed the Autobots this much. An angry Megatron was a reckless one. The Decepticons outnumbered the Autobots, but now they were spread across Cybertron. From pole to pole.
The only one who might have cautioned otherwise was Starscream, but he held his glossa. Why he'd stopped agitating Megatron, Optimus didn't know. One too many beatings perhaps. Maybe it didn't matter. It was that very cohesion that had led to the Autobots' doom.
They'd always relied on the discord between Megatron and his second. It made it easier to defeat them.
No one wanted to be close to Megatron right now. Optimus had no other choice.
Shockwave, one of many desperate to appease their furious lord and master, finally offered up Mirage. He was done, he claimed, though there was disappointment in his vocals. As though there was more use he could get out of Mirage.
No amount of begging, pleading, or good behavior from Optimus could convince Megatron to change his mind. Megatron was determined to make someone pay for the damage to his empire. Worse, all it did was encourage Megatron to bring Optimus along, to bear witness to Mirage's pain. This time, he wouldn't even have the distance of a vidscreen to separate them.
The arena was loud, raucous with activity. There were noticeably fewer Decepticons this time, likely still spread out over Cybertron. But no worry! Because Reflector was there, recording and broadcasting.
Megatron wanted to ensure that Jazz and any remaining Autobots would see it.
He sat at the very front, seats that would afford him the very best view. Optimus knelt beside him, arms bound at his back in case he “got any ideas,” according to Megatron. As though Optimus was going to leap the low barrier and go charging out into the ring to protect Mirage.
He wouldn't get more than a step before Megatron activated the shock collar. All it would gain him was pain.
Megatron's hand rested on his helm, ensuring that Optimus could not turn away from his view of the arena. He tried offlining his optics, but his master would not tolerate it.
It hurt to see Mirage, especially given his current state. The noble was in the center of the ring. They had gone to great lengths to make him look appealing. He'd been buffed and repainted until he shone like new. It almost made one look past the shackles and the collar around his intake. Or the thin, silvery lines of recent welds, obviously places where Shockwave had been “tinkering.”
Three Decepticons roared onto the scene -- two on wheels, one from the sky -- transforming and forming a circle around Mirage. They were all the new mechs.
Ricochet, Optimus remembered. He'd brought in Bumblebee. He was also not much bigger than Mirage, same height, greater mass. Hopefully, he would be a “nicer” Decepticon.
Of his companions, Que was slightly larger than Ricochet and Broadblast was the largest of them. Shuttles often were. Their smallest companion, Optimus could not recall his designation at the moment, was nowhere to be seen. Perhaps he was part of the crowd.
“They refused to keep your Autobot, but they leapt upon this opportunity,” Megatron murmured, as though driving a stake through Optimus' spark. “Que, Soundwave tells me, was their interrogator. This should prove to be interesting.”
Optimus vibrated with outrage, but he clamped his mouth shut. Since when had chastising Megatron for his actions done him any good?
A large gong sounded, signaling the Cons to begin their torment.
Broadblast was the first to move, faster than Optimus would have given the large shuttle credit for. He snatched Mirage from behind, grabbing the noble's wrists and holding them high above his helm. Not enough to lift him off the ground, but enough to have his pedes scrambling to keep beneath him and ease the strain on his shoulders.
Que and Ricochet conferred, Que juggling something in his hands that looked like a cross between an interfacing toy and a torture device. All jagged edges and ridges and far too large for someone like Mirage to take comfortably.
Optimus' own valve ached in sympathy, stretched as it was around the false spike Megatron kept in him at all times.
Ricochet was the first to approach Mirage. He grinned, visor alit with a crimson gleam, and grabbed Mirage's face with both hands. He jerked Mirage's helm forward, kissing him with violence. Que circled around the two of them like some sort of lazy predator, and Optimus couldn't have been the only one who jerked when his arm snapped forward, jabbing a shock stick into Mirage's side.
His cry of pain echoed through the arena as he tore away from Ricochet's mouth, energon dribbling from his lip. Ricochet must have bitten him.
“Interesting,” Megatron murmured as Que circled to Mirage's other side and jabbed him again. Mirage convulsed, his hands forming fists in Broadblast's grip.
Ricochet stepped back, a grin on his face. His glossa swept over his lips, cleaning them of Mirage's energon.
Que jabbed Mirage twice more, each time the shock stick slipping through Mirage's seams and into his substructure. Even from a distance, Optimus could see the spurts of charge emerging and the smoke rising in its wake. Que must have had it on its highest setting.
Que cackled, flipping the shock stick around in his fingers before he danced back, letting Ricochet take his place. Dark hands dragged down Mirage's frame, lingering on the scorched armor. He cupped Mirage's pelvic panel and said something, perhaps a demand for Mirage to open his panels.
Mirage shook his helm, optics dimming. His pedes scraped at the floor.
Ricochet laughed and turned his helm, looking all around the arena. He was putting on a show, Optimus realized.
“Tear it off!” one of the watching Decepticons shouted.
“Shock him again!” someone else demanded.
“Hit him!”
“Rip out his optics!”
The crowd built up a roar of encouragement, the dam broken as several more voyeurs started calling out suggestions.
Ricochet slid his visor back toward Mirage. He shrugged and within moments, Mirage was gasping out loud as his panel was removed and tossed into the crowd.
“He certainly knows how to entertain,” Megatron commented as a group of smaller Cons in the front row squabbled over the noble's interface panel.
Ricochet held out a hand, snapping his fingers and Que bounced up to him, handing over another interfacing toy/torture device. The one he'd been carrying earlier.
Ricochet took it, examined it, and then held it up to the crowd, producing a near-deafening roar of approval. He grinned and turned his attention back to Mirage, poking one end of the toy against Mirage's lips.
The noble grimaced, turning his helm away, but Ricochet gripped his jaw and turned it back. He pressed harder at Mirage's lips and forced the toy within, jabbing it in and out of Mirage's mouth. As he did so, Broadblast hiked Mirage a little higher. Within range, Optimus realized, of the shuttle's spike, which jutted at the apex of his legs, as thick as Mirage's forearm.
One of Reflector's units must have zoomed in on the sight because one of the large screens lit up with the image of the impossibly large spike nestled at the rim of Mirage's valve, noticeably too large. The barest minimum of lubricant glistened around Mirage's valve, not nearly enough to ease the way of such a spike.
The lead drew up short, putting pressure on Optimus' intake. He hadn't even realized he'd shuffled forward until it caught at him. Instinct, he realized. An attempt to save Mirage. A failed attempt.
Megatron chuckled and flicked his fingers at the lead, vibrations traveling down the length of it and tickling Optimus' intake.
“Powerless as ever, Optimus,” he drawled.
Optimus shot him a glare before a tap to his helm reminded him to face forward again.
Que snuck in, shock stick ablaze, and he shoved it at Mirage's spike array, charge crackling loudly. Mirage's muffled scream was barely audible over the sound of Que's laughter.
Broadblast's spike nudged harder at Mirage's valve. The close-up showed the resistance of Mirage's rim in detail, the parting of the plush lining and the recessed anterior node, not even lit with pleasure. Mirage's thighs were trembling, and even across the arena, Optimus could hear the distressed idle of his engine.
Optimus tensed, his tank churning. He realized that Megatron was right to chain him. Frag the consequences, he would have leapt into that ring and done everything he could.
A siren split the air.
Optimus jolted.
A silence fell through the arena, save for a subvocal murmur. Behind him, Megatron went still. Even the Decepticons paused, their helms tilted toward the sky.
Optimus felt it then, a low rumble in the ground. The siren grew louder, more piercing.
Megatron shot to his pedes. “Starscream, report!” he snarled into his comm, taking hold of Optimus' lead and pulling it, yanking Optimus to his side.
He turned to the south and Optimus followed his gaze. A thin stream of smoke rose into the sky, dark gray. As he watched, it grew thicker, became plumes. It was coming from the direction of the space bridge.
Optimus' optics widened.
The arena erupted into chaos. Decepticons scattered, pouring from the stands and shooting into the air, perhaps reacting to some sort of internal signal or previously delineated protocol. Megatron vibrated with tension, his anger rippling outward. He no longer spoke aloud, internally berating whoever was on the opposite side of the comm.
Even the Decepticons in the arena had departed, leaving Mirage in the hands of the servant drones who had deposited him earlier. They gathered him up, meeping to each other, perhaps intending to return him to Shockwave.
“Get me answers, Starscream,” Megatron hissed and the warning in his vocals sent shivers down Optimus' backstrut. “Or so help me it'll be you in the arena next.”
Optimus couldn't hear the other end of the conversation, but he imagined it wasn't pleasant.
Megatron rounded on him, his eyes crimson with fury.
“Your spy just blew up my space bridge, Optimus,” Megatron snarled and Optimus unconsciously backed away, not that there was anywhere he could go. “He cut off our only means of contacting Earth and our quickest means to acquire energon.”
Optimus worked his jaw. “You act as though I'm to blame. There's nothing I can do about that.”
“It is your fault. It is always your fault. Everything can be traced back to you.” Megatron snatched at the leash, closing the distance between them.
Optimus knew that glint. That was the glint of intent to cause harm. He internally braced himself.
“It's not my fault your Decepticons are incompetent. That they can't find one measly little Autobot,” Optimus retorted. “After all, weren't you the one who told me we were weak and helpless?”
He tripped on his own pedes as Megatron jerked him forward again. Optimus stumbled, dropping to hands and knees. He opted to stay there. Subservience tended to please Megatron, even if it put him in range of Megatron's pedes.
“Where is he?” Megatron demanded and his pede crashed down on Optimus' back, shoving him to the ground.
Optimus heard a snap and hissed air as pain blossomed in his right hand. Three fingers, crunched beneath his own weight. His backstrut creaked. Megatron bore down on him and Optimus' vents struggled to spin under the pressure.
“Tell me where I can find him!”
“I don't know!” Optimus shouted. His free hand scraped at the ground. The empty socket of his windshield bent inward, scraping at the armor over his spark chamber.
Megatron pulled on the lead, forcing Optimus' helm up. He gasped for a ventilation, his fans clunk-clunking as Megatron's weight kept them from spinning entirely. Heat rose in his frame. His chassis creaked.
“I will not have your little spy ruining everything I've done,” Megatron roared and he ground down.
Optimus felt something in his chassis snap, felt the trickle of fluids. Energon or coolant or hydraulic fluid - he didn't know. Whatever it was, he surely needed it.
“He's one mech,” Optimus gasped out. He forced himself to look up, to see the fury in Megatron's optics, but also, beneath it all - fear.
If one lone Autobot could do this much to his empire, imagine what the rest were capable of. Megatron was slowly but surely losing his control.
“Why are you so afraid?” Optimus asked and he knew, before he even spat the words, that it was the wrong thing to say.
Megatron stomped on him.
Something else snapped. His plating buckled. Optimus jerked, scrabbling to get his arms beneath him, to brace himself against Megatron's weight.
And then it was gone, but only because Megatron shifted his balance. Optimus didn't see the pede coming, only felt the impact as slammed into his abdominal armor and sent him rolling. The lead jerked, kept him from going far, putting great pressure on his intake. The world spun gray.
“I fear nothing!” Megatron bellowed.
He kicked Optimus again, denting his side paneling inward. Pain blossomed, thick and heavy. Something shifted wetly within him. Megatron was going to kill him. There was no Soundwave to suggest caution this time. Soundwave was still licking wounds of his own.
Optimus gasped, processor spinning. He was hot, too hot, spark spinning madly, fans clunking as they struggled to cycle.
He had to get to his pedes, to stand up. If Megatron was going to beat him to death, Optimus wanted to die standing. Like a mech. Like a living being, and not the pet Megatron had made of him.
Another kick and something rattled within his chassis. Optimus' internals rippled and he spat up fluid, a worrisome mix of semi-processed energon and coolant. He forced his hands beneath him, and then his knees. He shook his helm, but the dizziness remained. He couldn't stop the world from dancing.
There was a rushing in his audials, a roaring, screaming sound and he didn't know if it was real or a result of the damage.
His lead jerked. Optimus seized, scrabbling to his pedes as Megatron hauled him upright. Something in his intake squeezed and he gasped.
His vision swam. Bleary, he could see Megatron's snarl, his optics gleaming with malice. His lips were moving but all Optimus could hear was that roaring, buzzing.
There was movement in his peripheral vision. Then there was pain, stars in his optics.
Then there was darkness.
0o0o0
Optimus woke to pain, a dull ache settling about his entire frame. He groaned, and even that hurt. He felt bruised inside and out and it took several tries for his optics and audials to online.
He expected to find himself in the medbay, but instead, was surrounded by slate gray walls without decoration. No medical equipment was in sight. The room was empty, save for the berth beneath him, a recording device mounted on a tripod, and two tall lamps, pointed his direction.
Optimus cycled a ventilation and tried to roll over. The rattle of chains pulled him up short. He tugged on his wrists, but they were bound above him with no give. He tried to move his legs but they, too, were shackled. Each ankle was cuffed to opposite ends of the berth, forcing his legs to spread. He could wriggle his frame, but little else.
Optimus ran a quick systems scan. He'd been repaired, to an extent. Tilting his helm enabled him to see numerous patches of temporary plating and slapdash welds. Minor dents lingered. Heat gathered where larger dents had been pulled and left to self-repair. His internals ached, no doubt a result of hasty repairs to the broken lines.
His energy levels were a paltry twenty-two percent. Worse than they had been since Optimus had his turn in the arena.
He was not in the medbay. Nor was he anywhere in Megatron's quarters.
There was a single window, but he could see nothing through it but the sky, gray and overcast, probably because of the smoke from the explosion. He couldn't hear anything either, save the low drone of an atmospheric regulator. The room smelled stale from disuse.
He heard a hiss as a door opened, one he couldn't see. The berth shook, low rattles, the kind of tremors from a heavy frame stepping across the floor.
Said heavy frame came into view. Optimus' spark dropped into his tanks. There were few mechs that would have filled him with dread. Overlord was most certainly one of them.
“Good morning, Optimus,” Overlord purred.
He circled the berth, which Optimus belatedly realized that not only was it not flush against the wall, it wasn't a true berth. It better resembled an examining platform, which explained the restraints. Medical-grade. Even were he at full strength, he would have been hard pressed to snap them.
“Comfortable?”
Optimus worked his intake. “I don't think Megatron--”
“Megatron,” Overlord interrupted, “is the one who gave you to me.” He paused at the foot of the platform and rolled his shoulders in a shrug, spreading his hands. “He gave me, what your humans call, carte blanche.”
Blank check, his processor supplied. Complete freedom to act.
“That is,” Overload said as he leaned forward, hands bracing on the platform between Optimus' spread knees. “So long as I don't offline you.”
Optimus' spark raced. “Why?”
Overlord smirked and tapped his chin. “Because I'm more creative? Because he's busy? Because I asked? Who knows?” He tilted his helm toward the camera, which had an excellent view of them. “But don't worry, everyone on this planet gets to see how much fun we're going to have. Including Jazz.”
So. They hadn't found Jazz yet. And they thought this would draw him out. Well, if it didn't work before, what made them think it would work now?
“And you think that you can hurt me more than everyone else,” Optimus spat, his pedes giving a fruitless tug to the restraints.
Overlord circled to the side of the berth, one large hand easily cupping the entire side of Optimus' helm. “I'm going to make you scream,” he purred. “I'm going to make you beg. I'm going to give you pain and pleasure until you can't tell the difference. I'm going to make you cry for Megatron to save you.”
His thumb pressed to Optimus' lips, nothing gentle in the motion, hard enough to put pressure on his denta behind the soft dermal metal.
Optimus' engine revved, vibrating the berth. He glared hard at Overlord, not that it did anything but make the super-soldier laugh. He drew back, releasing Optimus' lips, and turned the camera on.
“Smile for your fans, Optimus,” Overlord drawled. “It's time to put on a show.”
Optimus jerked at his bindings. “Don't you have anything better to do?” he snarled.
“I'm sure I do. There are Autobots in need of capture after all.” Overlord returned to the foot of the berth and he felt underneath it. At once, the bottom half of the berth fractured, dropping down, leaving more than enough room for Overlord to stand between Optimus' spread thighs without having to climb onto the berth. “But torturing you? That's a pleasure in itself.”
His hands landed on Optimus' knees and slid up his thighs, scraping across dented metal. Optimus tried to tilt his knees inward, but it did little good. Overlord's thumbs brushed his interface panel, pressing against both his spike and valve housing.
“I'm going to have so much fun,” Overlord murmured with a sly grin Optimus' direction.
He winked.
And then he dug his fingers into Optimus' panel and yanked the covers off without even bothering to demand Optimus open them. Optimus' backstrut arched as he screamed, agony shrieking through his sensor net. His entire array throbbed, errors lighting up his HUD as if he didn't know.
“Don't know why Megatron bothered with these,” Overlord muttered, tossing the covers over his shoulder. They hit the ground and clattered.
Optimus collapsed against the platform, fans whirring madly. “Wh-why?” he managed, vocals laced with static.
“They were in my way.” Overlord shrugged and peered at his components, prodding at the false spike visible within Optimus' valve.
He wriggled it around a bit before the tip of a finger poked in at Optimus' spike.
“Extend it,” he demanded.
Optimus shook his helm. There was too much pain. Even if he wanted to, he couldn't. Self-preservation protocols denied his requests.
Overlord's optics narrowed. His hand formed a fist.
Optimus gasped. “I can't--”
His denial turned into a howl as Overlord's fist slammed into his pelvic array, denting the metal inward around his spike housing. Damage reports flooded his HUD and Optimus could only gasp as another punch to his array left him reeling. Darkness poked around the edges of his visual feed.
“Better,” Overlord said.
Optimus couldn't feel what he was doing and forced his optics to reboot. Dizzily, he looked down to see that Overlord had prised his fingers into Optimus' spike housing and manually extended his spike. It ached, there was no pleasure in it, and his half-pressurized unit looked tiny in Overlord's grasp.
“Practically useless, isn't it?” Overlord asked as he curled his fingers around Optimus' spike. He gave it a few loose tugs, his lips curved in a smirk.
Optimus groaned. He couldn't produce words, only static. Pain left him gasping for a ventilation. His entire frame was rigid, aching inside and out. There were so many bright red warnings that he couldn't dismiss them all.
“Do you even get to use it?” Overlord asked. He tightened his grip on Optimus' spike, firm enough that it would have been pleasant, had Optimus' array not been a thing of pain.
“Can't imagine Megatron likes spike,” Overlord continued, content to carry on a conversation with himself. “What a shame.”
Overlord's fingers clenched.
Optimus bowed inward, to the limit of his chains, the crump of delicate metal barely audible over the sound of Overlord chuckling. The pain left him gasping once again. Left his ventilations stalled. It was indescribable.
“I can't kill you,” Overlord breathed as he released Optimus' spike, his fingers dragging along the length of Optimus' array. “But I can hurt you until you wish you were dead.”
Optimus' vocalizer rebooted, freeing the cry trapped in his intake. He was shaking and he couldn't seem to stop, his entire array one throbbing mass of agony. He offlined his optics, trying to stop his tanks from roiling.
“It's nothing personal,” Overlord added.
There was a faint pressure on Optimus' array, registered in the spaces between notices of damage and spikes of pain.
“Here,” Overlord said. “Hold this for me.”
Optimus' optics onlined in time to see the false spike being shoved against his lips, a fierce pressure that bloomed into pain as it was forced into his mouth and shoved deep. The tip of it pressed against the back of his intake. He tasted lubricant and transfluid, both bitter on his glossa. His tanks rolled.
Optimus turned his helm, lips and jaw working to free the toy from his mouth, but Overlord's hand clamped over his lips, keeping it in place. Two fingers then shoved into Optimus' valve, curling inward and raking against his internal sensors.
Optmius' spinal strut arched, too much lingering pain removing all traces of pleasure. Overlord wasn't Megatron. He didn't bother to try and make Optimus enjoy it. To add humiliation to everything else. Overlord only wanted to see Optimus in pain. Optimus tugged again at his chains, to no avail. His calipers struggled just as weakly.
Overlord loomed over him, optics gleaming. His fingers roughly fragged Optimus' valve, his ventilations pouring down on Optimus, searing hot.
“Maybe he'll let me keep you,” Overlord said. The heel of his palm shoved the false spike deeper, bruising Optimus' intake.
He quickly shunted his oral ventilations away.
“You'd like that, wouldn't you?”
His fingers curled. The tips scraped the inside of Optimus' valve, tearing into the delicate mesh. He felt fluid seep free and Optimus knew it wasn't all lubricant.
He fixed Overlord with a glare, his vocalizer producing angered noises but little else.
“Sorry,” Overlord said. “But I just can't hear you. You'll have to speak up.”
Two more fingers joined the assault, all four of them jabbing gracelessly into Optimus' valve. He grunted, pain stabbing through him. Fire raked through his valve. His crushed spike ached, a dull throb, and combined, the two left his entire array ablaze with pain.
Optimus shook, fatigue clawing at him. His energy levels dipped further. His engine revved weakly.
“Come on, Optimus,” Overlord cajoled, leaning down to nip at Optimus' spike. “Can't you participate just a little?”
Optimus growled an angry sound. His jaw ached, as did his intake.
Four fingers, easily the width of Megatron's spike alone, scraped along the inside of his valve, twisting and shoving. Overlord lay his thumb over Optimus' exterior node and applied pressure, grinding it down.
Optimus whined, frame instinctively curving inward and immediately stopped by the chains. It hurt, by Primus, it hurt. His vents wheezed. He never thought he'd missed the days of Megatron's forced pleasure.
Overlord jerked his fingers free. Lubricant and other fluids splattered to the berth beneath Optimus.
The supersoldier released his hold on Optimus' mouth, both hands grasping Optimus' hips. He groaned weakly and tried to work the spike free of his mouth, intake reporting error after pained error.
He heard the click of an interface panel opening, didn't have to look to know that Overlord had released his spike. He felt the blunt pressure of it against his valve, pushing his folds, prodding against his external node. He remembered this spike, the pain of it. The only worse torture had been the triple-changer fist, tearing through his valve.
Optimus turned his helm, trying to rub his mouth against his inner arm. He hoped to snag it on an armor plate, pull the damn toy free.
Overlord's heated frame notched itself between his thighs.
“This is only round one,” he huffed, his field rising and falling over Optimus, thick with triumph. Lust was only an afterthought.
It wasn't about the pleasure. It never was.
His spike prodded at Optimus' valve, as though taunting Optimus with the intent to take him, making him wait in agony.
Just get it over with! He wanted to scream. He hated this tension, this not-anticipation, but this waiting.
Get it over with so they could get to the part where Overlord left him alone and Optimus could curl into a little ball and shake with silent agony.
He gnawed at the toy. His glossa pushed at it. He wanted it out.
The berth shook. No, not just the berth. The entire room. The camera stand wobbled. The lights flickered.
Overlord's spike paused, the head of it pressed to Optimus' opening.
The room shook again. In the distance, Optimus thought he heard something. A dull whump, like an explosion. And then, the shrill sound of alarms. The all call to battle.
Overlord cursed and drew back, dropping Optimus' hips. “Just when I was getting to the good part,” he grumbled, and stormed over to the camera, flicking it off.
“Your spy is causing trouble again,” he said as he returned, patting Optimus' valve. With great effort, Overlord stored his spike away. “But I'll be back. Don't miss me too much.”
And then he was gone. Optimus heard the door open and shut behind him, the click-beep of it locking.
Primus.
He ex-vented and allowed himself a moment to sag on the berth. His array ached. Every brush of cooler air over his components made him shiver.
He scraped his face against his arm, again and again, glossa working hard until finally, he managed to get the spike free. He spat it out, heard it hit the floor with a dull thunk and roll away. His jaw ached.
Optimus drew in several slow vents. The room shuddered again and one of the lights tipped over, hitting the ground with a crash. The noises were getting closer.
The door opened. Optimus craned his neck, only getting a glimpse of the mech who entered. Medium-build, red and gray armor with touches of black, and an orange visor. Wait. He knew this mech.
Why on Cybertron was Ricochet here?
The orange visor turned toward Optimus and darkened. “Oh, OP,” Ricochet breathed, his vocals audibly different than before. He approached the platform cautiously, like one might a cornered Sharkticon. “What has he done to you?”
“What... are you... doing here?” Optimus rasped, his intake aching.
Ricochet held up his hands, just within field range. His visor slid up, revealing the blue of his optics beneath - specialized optics, Optimus remembered. Designed to see in spectrums that few other mechs could. But it came with a drawback, mitigated by the requirement of wearing a visor.
But... that was impossible.
“Had to make some alliances I didn't want ta. Took a little longer than I wanted, too,” Ricochet admitted, and his field reached out, gently pressing against Optimus' in request. In offer.
Familiar. Achingly so.
“Sorry, 'm late, boss,” Ricochet - no, Jazz - said.
Optimus started to shake. His spark ached, a pain that wasn't so much physical as everything else on the spectrum.
He offlined his optics and turned his helm away, shame eating away at him. He felt he should say something, but there were no words sufficient. He wanted to press his thighs together, hide the damage Overlord had left him with and a part of him wondered, what did it matter? Surely it was nothing Jazz hadn't already seen.
Jazz, thank Primus, was nothing if not professional. He didn't comment on Optimus' lack of celebration.
“I'm going to untie you, if that's okay,” Jazz said and when Optimus didn't immediately answer, Jazz prompted, “I'm gonna need an answer, boss. I don't want to touch you if you don't want me to.”
Optimus managed to nod. His vents were stuttering and it took all his focus to keep them cycling properly.
Cybertronians could not weep. Not in the same way as the humans. In that moment, Optimus felt that lack.
“Okay. I'm going to start with your hands.”
Jazz's field got closer. Optimus felt him near, felt the bare wisp of Jazz's ventilations, and heard the familiar, subvocal curse as Jazz fiddled with the restraints. Then, with a click, they opened and Optimus' wrists were freed. He was able to lower his arms, much to the relief of his aching shoulders.
“Your pedes now, boss,” Jazz said.
Within moments, Optimus' ankles were freed as well and he could finally draw his knees together. Though it caused a fresh wash of pain through his pelvic array. Dented plating struggled to shift.
Optimus cycled a ventilation and forced his optics online. “Thank you,” he said quietly.
Jazz returned to his side, his expression unreadable but a tension in his frame that Optimus well-recognized. Jazz was furious and doing his best not to show it. How often had Optimus seen this look and steered Jazz away from a path of retaliation? Away from a path that would have been too Decepticon-like in nature?
How many of those times should he have just allowed it?
“I'm sorry,” he said, again.
The oddness of Jazz's vocal tones coming from a face so unfamiliar as Ricochet's would not leave Optimus be.
“You did what you could,” Optimus said and he struggled to sit upright, his frame protesting every shift and adjustment. He needed a medic. He wasn't in danger of passing out from energon loss, but pain would be a close second. “If anyone is to blame, it is me.”
“Frankly, I blame Megatron but whatever, boss bot. I know how your spark works.” Jazz shrugged.
Optimus shook his helm, giving Jazz a despairing look. “Please, Jazz. I am no longer Prime. I am not your leader.”
Jazz's field flexed against his, warm and encompassing. “I don't care what Buckethead did. It ain't the Matrix that made me follow ya. Now, can you stand?”
“I can try.” He chose to ignore Jazz's denial for now.
He scooted to the end of the platform, let his pedes touch the floor. Every part of him ached. His knees were unsteady.
Optimus lingered, dizziness attacking his processor. His array ached, both energon and fluid leaking from his uncovered valve. His spike was limp against his crumpled plating and all of it was in full view. Jazz had seen both before, they were nothing new, but not like this. Not with shame painted so obviously over every inch of Optimus' plating.
Lack of energon made his vision swim again. Optimus hesitated, gripping the edge of the berth. It felt as though someone had scraped his entire panel raw, scrubbing him with a bristle brush inside and out.
“I don't know if I can, Jazz,” Optimus finally admitted. Too many error messages. Too much pain. He couldn't seem to bring himself to stand.
Jazz's field rippled against his, warm with comfort. “That's fine. We can sit here nice and pretty until the world makes sense again, if you want. I've done my part.”
“What about--”
“Overlord? Nah, boss. Don't worry about him.” Jazz grinned, but it was razor sharp and nasty. “I took care 'o him.”
Optimus gave Jazz a sharp look before he remembered it wasn't his place to chastise Jazz anymore. And maybe... maybe Overlord deserved it.
Jazz held up his hands. “Calm down, OP. It was just a kill code. He ain't dead, much to my disappointment, just wiped. Sounders gave it to me.”
“Soundwave?”
“Yeah.” Jazz scratched at his chin, some of the tension bleeding from his frame. “Remember those allies I didn't like? He's one o' them. Starscream, too.”
Optimus cycled his optics. Now there was a surprise. Not so much that Starscream would betray Megatron, that was a given, but that he would align with an Autobot. Especially since Starscream had appeared nothing but subservient lately.
Optimus lifted a hand, touching his intake and the collar surrounding it. “And this?”
“Can't do anythin' about that, sorry.” Jazz sighed. “Need a medic. Ratchet should be able to remove it, once we get him away from the Constructicons. Bee's on that even as we speak.”
He absorbed that information with the tiniest bit of hope poking at his spark. Galvanized, Optimus abruptly thrust himself upright, ignoring the shooting stabs of pain. If freedom was to be had, he didn't want to wait for it in Overlord's room, smelling far too much of lubricant and transfluid and pain.
Almost immediately, Optimus swayed and it took a moment of bracing himself to keep from crumpling to the floor. Jazz lifted his hands as though he wanted to help, but was torn between touching Optimus and knowing he probably wanted nothing to do with contact.
“Whoa, seriously, Optimus. We can wait.”
He shook his helm. “I do not want to wait, Jazz. I do not want to be here.”
Optimus took one step, and then a second when his knees didn't immediately fail on him. He heard a hard harsh grating noise, felt the scrape of crumpled armor, but the prospect of freedom, of walking without being on the end of a lead, was strengthening.
“Nah, I get ya. But I also don't want ya to fall. That ain't gonna help.”
Jazz hovered, near enough to touch but refraining from doing so. “I'm not big enough to catch ya either.”
Optimus took another step, a little easier than the first two. He would walk out of here. He would see what his Autobots had done without him. He would witness their strength and perseverance with his own optics.
“I promise you will not need to.”
Optimus made it to the door, which had never closed behind Jazz, and inched into the hallway. It was deserted, as far as he could see. He still didn't recognize the building, though he suspected it was either the barracks or Shockwave's laboratory. There was a chill in the air that wasn't entirely the fault of the temperature.
Another boom made the building shudder. Optimus tilted against the wall, ventilations running at full tilt as they struggled to cool him down. Each step was great effort.
He heard a roar, somehow louder than all the other sounds. Optimus heard it, even from what must have been a large distance, and the very sound of it sent a shiver up his backstrut.
“What in Primus' name is that?” he demanded.
Jazz looked up at him and winked half his visor. “Grimlock.”
****
a/n:And now everyone can breath a sigh of relief because the rape, torture, despair and agony are all over. Oh, there's still the recovery and the angst and depression and all that, but the violent awfulness is gone. Well, except for flashbacks, but still! You can all breathe easy. For now. ;)
As always, feedback is welcome and appreciated.
And now's the time everyone starts guessing about the romantic relationships on their way. LOL
This entry was originally posted at http://dracoqueen22.dreamwidth.org/314242.html. Feel free to comment wherever you find most convenient.