[AU] Oubliette - Chapter One
Aug. 7th, 2015 09:37 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
dracoqueen22a/n: This is a commission for NK, one I was thrilled to take as it gave me an opportunity to tackle a trope that's been sitting in my periphery for a long, long time. Oubliette is part one of a two part series. It is eighteen chapters long and it is brutal. It is based in the G1 universe, but I borrow a LOT of characters from IDW to fill up my cast. (What I mean by this, is while some of these characters have G1 equivalents, I'm using their IDW characterization because I'm not familiar with G1 S3)
I have edited this several times to the best of my ability, but I am only human. Please feel free to point out any mistakes I might have made.
Title: Oubliette
Universe: G1/IDW AU
Characters: Autobot Ensemble, Decepticon Ensemble, focus on Optimus, Megatron, Soundwave, Starscream, Ratchet, Grimlock
Pairings: Megatron/Optimus, Ratchet/Wheeljack, Multiple others in passing
Rating: NC-17
Description: For Optimus, the war has never been personal. Hate has never been part of the equation, not even for Megatron. Pity perhaps, but never hate. Now, with the weight of shame on his shoulders, he begins to understand where loathing might have its roots, and how it can so easily slide into hate.
Warnings: Oh so many, too many to list, but NonCon/Rape being of most importance. Read at your own risk. If there's something that triggers you, it's probably in here. I'm working on a masterlist for the warnings, characters, and pairings. It'll be ready by the time I have the second chapter ready to post.
Mood Music: "Hunted," Steve Jablonsky
Cyberton was a large planet. Even so, Optimus Prime was running out of places to hide.
Their war had left it a ruin. Shattered buildings. A burnt husk of a landscape. Roads that were impassable. The lack of a sun made illumination intermittent. The atmosphere alternated between being far too cold and far too hot. He had lost count of the number of times he'd woken to find frost on his armor.
Right now, he was tucked in the remnants of a general goods store, with the debris of a collapsed roof and several walls to serve as dubious shelter. Scavengers had picked the store free of anything of use over the centuries, but one wall was better than none. With the dirt on his frame, he blended in with the dust and destruction.
He couldn't stay here long, but hopefully, long enough to steal a few hours of recharge. He'd almost crashed twice, black outs caused by lack of defragging and suitable energon intake.
Twenty-three percent.
The numbers stared dolefully back at him, bright red and blinking in the corner of his HUD. He couldn't remember ever being so low. Pits, he couldn't remember a day he dipped below eighty-five percent. Ratchet would have had his fanbelts for garters if he didn't keep himself at full capacity.
He worried for Trailbreaker. His systems were dreadfully inefficient and his best defense would drain him far faster than any other action. He might doom himself in the process of protecting himself. If he hadn't been found already.
Optimus popped the panel on his forearm and activated the tiny communications console. It was encrypted, but not enough that he dared risk being found by Soundwave. He only intended to link with the public newscasts.
The shows were meant for him after all.
He skimmed the recent events and announcements, but there was no word of another Autobot capture, not since the Stunticons had sussed out Inferno, south of what remained of Protihex. Optimus' only consolation was that Inferno had not lived long enough to suffer what the other surviving Autobots currently endured.
Optimus closed the panel and bowed his helm.
He did not know how many were left. He could form a fair guess, but without the ability to contact any of them for fear of Soundwave, it would only be that. A guess. There were distant hopes of reuniting with his scattered forces, of forming a stand against Megatron and rescuing their friends. But they seemed as unobtainable to him as a cube of fresh energon.
Optimus sighed a soft ventilation and rummaged about in his subspace. He knew already what he would find, but there was a part of him that thought if he looked hard enough, perhaps something new would appear. But no, nothing but the same cube of recycled energon, a grade so low it was better used in machinery.
Optimus would know. He'd drained it from an old assembler he'd found in a ruined fabrication plant yesterday.
He opened his battlemask and sipped at the cube, but not before he turned off his olfactory sensors. The energon was foul, both to taste and smell, and he had to remind himself that it was necessary. His energy levels crawled up to a measly thirty percent, but it would keep him going for another decaorn if he was cautious.
He choked down the rest of it and stowed the empty cube back in his subspace. If he was lucky, he might find another abandoned machine or – Primus help him – a recently deceased frame. It was the only worse energon to consume, but it was better than nothing.
His tank churned at the mere thought and Optimus offlined his optics. He closed his battlemask as well, forcefully turning his thoughts away. He couldn't afford to lose what he'd consumed.
He hoped the others were faring better. Jazz, he was sure, was probably doing the best out of all of them. No doubt he'd already raided the Decepticons and had a stash of high grade. He'd probably already concocted some wild and crazy plan for causing Megatron grief and rescuing their fellow Autobots.
If only Prowl were here...
He heard a rustle. Optimus froze, his optics snapping back online. He stalled his ventilations. He peered through a gap in the debris but couldn't see anything moving out there. He carefully shifted and peered out the other side. Nothing. He didn't dare risk a scan.
His spark fluttered.
Optimus dimmed his optics and stared into the gloom. The shapes of buildings, most of them bombed to their foundations, loomed like eerie sentinels against the backdrop of a starry night.
Something shifted. A darker black. There was a flash of crimson.
Time to go.
Optimus eased out of his shelter, crawling out of the ingress he'd made for himself. He scanned the dark street in front of him, but lacking the ability to see anything, feared he would have to take the risk.
He bolted from his tentative cover and no sooner had he emerged from the building did laser fire light up the night. Optimus ducked, biting back a cry of pain as a glancing shot seared across his side. It seared his plating, minor damage.
He whirled, blaster leaping into his hands, and fired blindly in the direction of the shots. He heard a shout, a scrabble of pedes in debris, and his systems reported a doleful lack of charge for his weaponry.
Frag it all.
He sent out a ping, the landscape reading back to him. There was a road, rough and pitted and scattered with debris, but drive-able. It would do.
Transforming was agony, the rust and grit of poor Cybertron trapped against every gear and cog. He could feel it grinding. Ratchet would have a fit if he knew. Optimus even had to force a bent strut into place, and his engine had a worrisome knock to it.
He couldn't think about any of that. The moment his tires hit the streets, Optimus slammed on the pedal and shot across the road. Debris kicked up against his undercarriage with audible scrapes. He winced. But far worse were the Decepticons on his tail, one taking potshots at his aft.
Thank Primus he didn't have his trailer to slow him down.
Optimus checked his rearview and sideview mirrors. He could hear the roar of the chasing Decepticons, though he couldn't see enough of them for identification. But they were flight mechs. He knew this much.
His headlights picked up what looked like a hole in the street. Cybertron was honeycombed with many, many underground levels. Most had collapsed during the war. Others were still passable. But they were narrow, suffocating, and uncomfortable for flight mechs to navigate.
Optimus did not know them very well, but Jazz had. And Jazz, for whatever reason, had given Optimus the specs long ago. Maybe because they would sit and reminisce about the planet they could no longer call home. Maybe because they both longed to return and fervently believed it might happen.
Optimus didn't know what was below him. He didn't know the condition of the lower levels or what Empties might lurk in the dark. But he did know that given his current state, the Decepticons chasing him would catch up sooner rather than later.
It was worth the risk.
He jerked to the left, aiming for the collapsed section of roadway. A flyer screamed overhead and bullets peppered the streets around him. Optimus swerved to avoid them as shrapnel pinged his sides. His engine screamed at him, kicking back, his entire frame shuddering.
This was going to hurt.
Optimus hurtled toward the hole and fell into darkness, forcing himself to transform the moment his tires left the roadway. Thank Primus for his sensors because he couldn't see anything, and Optimus hit the ground hard, tucking his momentum into a roll. Pain ran like lightning up his right leg.
He cut off his vocalizer to hide his groan and dragged himself to his pedes, limping into the dim. This was a transport tunnel, he gathered, the remnants of rail lines evident beneath his pedes. They would take him all over the city, provided they were unblocked. He could still hear the Decepticons above him, though more distant. He had no doubt they were still hot on his trail.
Returning to alt-mode was a special kind of fresh agony, but it would be faster. His knee ached, making anything faster than a limp impossible.
Optimus kept his headlights off, relying on his sensors to navigate. He hoped that the hole was too small for his pursuers. His engine echoed eerily in the tunnel. He heard a steady drip-drip-drip, and knew it came from his undercarriage.
His energy levels dipped back down to twenty-three percent, wasting the cube he'd forced himself to consume.
Above him, he heard a heavy thump. Dust rained down. He felt the heavy swamp of a questing field, and pulled his own toward nil. Another handy trick Jazz had taught him. He held his ventilations, his sensors, his frame running silent.
He waited, tires inching across the ground. Breath caught in his throat, as Sparkplug might have said.
The sound of voices was muffled. Either the ground had been truly thin, or sound traveled far too easily. Optimus waited, creeping forward, aiming himself toward relative safety. The tunnel sloped downward, taking him deeper as it grew narrower.
Optimus did not relax for a great distance. He listened intently, jumped at every noise, and continued on, watching his energy levels slowly tick down. He wanted to put as many miles between himself and the Decepticons as possible. He didn't know if they could track him underground, but he didn't want to take the risk.
At least it wasn't Soundwave and his minions. Optimus would have been doomed otherwise.
The ache in his frame worsened. His altmode compressed his shoulder joint and something was grating against the blaster wound. He would have to take a look at it. If he could. Ratchet was going to be furious.
The minutes bled by until they became an hour. His engine rattled. His gears ground a disturbing rale that was probably painful, but lost to the other agonies. A branch loomed ahead with an access ladder nearby. Only then did Optimus allow himself to slow. He returned to root mode and staggered against the wall of the tunnel as compressed relays shouted their irritation.
His processor swam. His tank gurgled. He was down to twenty percent. Energon slicked his side and when Optimus pressed a hand to it, he felt the buckled plating. His armor had caved inward and punctured an energon line. It was a minor injury, but his self-repair couldn't get to it.
He offlined his optics, gritted his denta, and grabbed the dented plating. He pulled, forcefully bending it away from the puncture. It was by no means a delicate fix, but it would do for now. Ratchet would be appalled.
Optimus pulled a few strips of static bandage from his subspace. He had only a few left, but this tear would worsen if he didn't cover it. Particularly if he had to transform again.
Leak handled, Optimus sagged against the wall, cycling his ventilations. He ached everywhere. There wasn't a part or gear or strut on him that didn't cry out for mercy. He onlined his optics, their dim glow illuminating the ruin around him. This section of tunnel was fairly intact. Far ahead, it branched off, one curving deeper, the other climbing upward.
He needed energon. He would have to risk it.
Optimus allowed himself a minute more of rest before he headed for the access ladder. He looked up into the darkness where it vanished into the ceiling. This had probably once been a service access ramp, meant for the maintenance bots. It was going to be a tight fit, but Optimus had lost much of the bulk of his battle armor. He could make it.
He cycled a ventilation, dragged a hand down his face, and then began to climb. He hoped his temporary patch held.
His shoulders scraped on the walls of the access. Dust trickled down on top of him, into the gaps of his plating, joining the other dirt and grime he'd accumulated. He didn't think he'd ever get clean.
His ventilations echoed around him, no matter how much he tried to keep them quiet.
Cybertron was a dead planet and it showed. Never, in all his memory, could Optimus recall a time of silence. There had always been a sense of life, a subtle hum to the very structures of Cyberton that kept it from being silent.
Now there was nothing. His spark ached to think of it.
Optimus reached the top and cautiously peeked out of the access hatch. It was a maintenance room, the building itself still intact. This room had probably once been used for rest periods. There were a couple of average-sized berths, a table and chairs, and a row of lockers. All were sized for mechs close to Jazz or Smokescreen in size, the typical mass of a maintenance worker.
Optimus hauled himself out of the hatch and approached the dirty window. He couldn't see anything in the streets beyond it. No movement. Nothing. Hopefully, he remained in the clear.
He rummaged about the room, opening the lockers and peering under the berths, but there was no energon to be found. He did, however, come across a small medkit that he tucked into his subspace. More static bandages could always come to use. He lowered himself to the berth and tucked into the corner. It was far from comfortable, but it gave him a good view of the windows.
The tiny subroutine he had monitoring the newscasts chirped at him. Optimus popped open the panel and activated the network. Dread curled within him.
The dim glow of the holographic screen reflected across his face and he angled his frame to keep it from being visible beyond his makeshift shelter. The audio, however, came in loud and clear through his comm systems, beyond the hearing range of his trackers.
Megatron had brought his newest acquisition on stage, surrounded by the victorious trackers. A crowd of Decepticons laughed and cheered below. His forces had grown in the past several decaorns, responding to Megatron's summons, his gleeful announcement of victory.
Come back to Cybertron, he'd told them, victory is ours!
Optimus didn't know if there were any more Autobots out there to form a resistance. He didn't know if they'd heard Megatron's announcement and decided to stay away for their own safety. He couldn't fault them for it if they had. Not knowing what fate had befallen his forces already present.
Stay away, Optimus hoped. Stay far, far away.
The crowd grew louder. This was a show, produced not only for their benefit, but for Optimus'. Otherwise Megatron would not have bothered.
Ratchet.
His spark sank.
More valuable alive than offline, Optimus gathered, though clearly his captors had taken the opportunity to enjoy their prey. Ratchet could not have put up enough of a fight to warrant such damage.
He was as scraped and dirty as Optimus himself. The bright whites and reds of his paint were dull due to lack of energon and hiding himself in the gutters. His windshield was splintered, most of the glass missing. His hands were bound in front of him, and the cameraman – Reflector – made certain to zoom in on their twisted nature.
So cruel, to damage a medic's hands. Hook could fix them, no doubt, but Optimus knew that wasn't the point. Ratchet suffered for the crime of being an Autobot. For daring to stand against Megatron and serve alongside Optimus. Ratchet had also been a member of the elite, a class Megatron loathed.
Despite his condition, Ratchet stood on the stage, his helm lifted with pride. He flinched, however, when Megatron moved beside him, clapping one hand down on Ratchet's shoulder.
“The Autobot chief medical officer,” Megatron declared, his smug tone coming through loud and clear. Optimus' internals rippled with fury. “Ours at last.”
Ratchet's face contorted with disgust, but he said nothing. Whether because he couldn't – judging by the dent around his intake – or he didn't dare, Optimus didn't know.
“I am almost impressed,” Megatron continued as he stepped around to Ratchet's other side. His hand dragged along the top of Ratchet's frame, skirting the fractured windshield. “It's rare that a medic outpaces my Decepticons. After all, the others did not. Did they?”
He looked back toward the camera with a smirk.
Optimus' engine growled. Hoist, too, was dead, though not due to execution. He hadn't survived Omega's crashlanding. Grapple had been distraught, not that he'd lived long enough to suffer his grief.
First Aid had been left behind on Earth, with the rest of the Protectobots. Optimus did not know their fate. He feared the worst.
Ratchet bared his denta, and now, Optimus believed he couldn't speak. Otherwise he had no doubt the stream of vitriol to leave his officer's mouth would have been vile.
Megatron laughed and his hand slid to Ratchet's throat, fingers flirting over the impressions already present. Ratchet went still though his broken fingers twitched.
“Are you watching, Prime?” Megatron purred, circling Ratchet until he stood behind him, fingers wrapped ever so carefully around Ratchet's intake.
Reflector zoomed in and Optimus could see that Ratchet was shaking beneath the bravado. It could have been fear or exhaustion, either way, it pained Optimus to see it.
“Come out, come out, wherever you are,” Megatron taunted and his fingers flexed. “This one's already mine. How many more until you give yourself up?”
The crowd roared. Ratchet shuttered his optics.
Optimus' energon levels dipped to nineteen percent. He didn't have enough energy to power his blaster or his blade, even if he rerouted what he had left to the bare minimum.
“You see?” Megatron said, less taunt and more challenge as he dropped his hand from Ratchet's intake and addressed his loyal audience. “He would rather hide than rescue his soldiers. He cowers in the ruins of the war he lost.” His arms made grand gestures; he'd certainly learned how to put on a show.
Megatron looked straight into the camera, lips curled with a smirk, his optics glowing a baleful red. “Your Autobots are suffering, Prime,” he purred. “But don't worry, I'll take very good care of them.”
Optimus' helm snapped up, his attention dragged from the holographic screen. He snapped it shut, turning up the gain on his audials.
He swore he'd heard something. A shuffle. A ventilation. A whisper of footsteps in the ash and rust. He dimmed his optics until they barely glowed. He held his ventilations. His hand crept toward his blaster, though it held no charge. His opponents didn't know that however.
He peered through the broken glass of the window. The streets were empty. Nothing moved. Nothing stirred. He didn't dare send out a curious ping. His instincts screamed at him to move, but without knowing where his pursuers were, he didn't know which way to bolt. He scanned the streets again.
Nothing.
Something above him creaked. Optimus tensed.
The roof came crashing down on top of him. He ducked, arms covering his helm as he was pelted with heavy sheets of metal and debris. Pain lanced through his right leg as a thin pole pierced his upper thigh, pinning him to the floor.
Above the noise, he swore he heard laughter. He felt it the heavy, swamping field of a massive mech, one who had the energy to spare for his field. Something hit his helm, knocking his processor fuzzy. He smelled ash and energon.
Optimus threw himself to the side, the rod tearing through his plating to the tune of ripped cables and lines. He stifled a sound of pain, pulling himself forward on his elbows. A heavy weight landed on top of him, one equal in size to him if not larger. There weren't many Decepticons who could match him in mass.
Optimus threw himself to the side, out from beneath his assailant. He cringed as blasterfire lit up the dark around him, a lucky shot searing through his left shoulder. He scrambled to his pedes, the stench of scorched plating thick on his sensors.
There was movement in his peripheral vision. Optimus turned his helm but not in enough time to avoid someone much larger barreling into him from the side. Optimus went flying into a piece of furniture, crashing through the table as though it were made of paper and not solid steel. He groaned and tried to push himself back upright, his gyros reeling.
He never saw the blow coming, only felt the impact as it sent him crashing into the floor, rolling across it like so much scrap. He couldn't ventilate, couldn't see anything in the dark, but blurs of movement. His vision splintered, as though he'd cracked an optic, and he tried to push himself upright, managing to get to hands and knees, his left arm a blaze of pain.
A pede landed in the middle of his back, flattening him to the floor, his battlemask scraping across shattered transsteel. Optimus heard his plating buckle and warnings flashed across his HUD. Something snapped and he felt a trickle of energon worm its way through his substructure.
Someone laughed. “The great Optimus Prime,” a mech said, his voice unfamiliar, but then, there were few Decepticons Optimus could recognize by voice alone. “Well, aren't we lucky, Astro?”
Astro.... Astrotrain? Which meant it was Blitzwing above him, as one was never found without the other. No wonder it felt like a railcar was standing on top of him.
Optimus' vision went hazy. His energy levels ticked down another two percent.
Debris in front of him was lifted and tossed. Smaller pieces were kicked away by a pale gray leg. And then Astrotrain crouched in front of him, arms braced on his knees as he looked down at Optimus.
“Luck don't have anything to do with it, Blitz.” He smirked, his optical band brightening. “He's about as meek as a sparkling right now. Poor little Autobot.”
They laughed in unison.
Optimus' blaster was buried in the rubble. Not that it mattered since he couldn't use it.
Blitzwing pressed down harder. A groan escaped Optimus as gears ground together with a screech. Something else cracked. His vents struggled to pull in air and found nothing but dust.
There would be no begging with these two. They served either themselves or the Decepticon cause. He could not appeal to their mercy. They had none. But perhaps they were just dumb enough to trick.
“You cannot kill me,” Optimus said. “Megatron would--”
“Aww, we already know that,” Astrotrain said and his hand settled on Optimus' helm, giving him a condescending pat. “He'd have our sparks if we took that away from him. But that doesn't mean we have to bring you back in one piece.”
Blitzwing chuckled. “No, it doesn't mean that at all.”
Dread coiled low and heavy in Optimus' tanks.
The hand on Optimus' helm was hot and heavy, and as it dragged down the side of his face, a thumb pressed on the seam of his battlemask. “We can have some fun first. Since we don't have an Autobot to play with yet.”
Optimus' engine growled, his hands curling into fists. What Megatron had done to his soldiers was unforgivable!
Blitzwing snickered. “I don't think he likes the sound of that.”
His pede disappeared from Optimus' back but before Optimus could summon the wherewithal to roll over, to try and launch himself away from them both, Blitzwing plopped himself down on Optimus' upper thighs, the edge of one armor plate digging into the wound caused by the rod. His hands settled on Optimus' aft, fingers pushing into the gaps at his hips.
“It's not about what he likes,” Astrotrain said, and he looked straight into Optimus' optics. “Not anymore. You lost, Prime. To the victor go the spoils. Isn't that what your precious squishies always say?”
He opted for silence. It was the only defense he had left.
“Looks like he doesn't want to talk either.” Blitzwing's engine rumbled, rattling Optimus' frame, and his hands pushed harder, to the point of pain.
“That's all right. I'm not interested in him talking.” Astrotrain's thumb pressed harder against Optimus' mask, the plate bowing inward. “Open.”
Blitzwing laughed. “You think asking nicely will work?”
“Doesn't have to. It's just a warning.” Astrotrain leaned closer, close enough to touch, until his ex-vents blasted heat against Optimus' face. “Open or you lose it.”
Optimus' optics narrowed and he abruptly shifted his weight. He swung a fist at the triple-changer, landing a solid hit against Astrotrain's jaw, and as Astrotrain reeled backward, Optimus lunged for the blaster on his left hip.
Slam!
Astrotrain cursed. Optimus' optical feed fritzed as his helm hit the floor, what had to be Blitzwing's hand slamming him face first into the debris-strewn metal. He flailed, lashing backward with an elbow, but large fingers wrapped around his wrist and jerked his arm back, causing the shoulder joint to crack and the blaster wound to ache. He howled, hearing the snap of his joint as Blitzwing pinned his arm to his back, pressing it down against his spinal strut.
Optimus gritted his denta. He rebooted his optics to restore his visual feed in time to see a pede smash down onto his hand, grinding it against the floor. He felt and heard the joints buckle, the splatter of energon, the crunch of his plating. Two fingers went numb; his HUD screamed warnings at him.
“That was pointless,” Astrotrain huffed, all trace of amusement gone from his vocals.
Blitzwing, however, laughed. “Should've seen it coming.”
More pain raked through Optimus' hand as Astrotrain bore down, grinding Optimus' hand beneath his pede. The weight on his helm grew heavier, fingers clamping tightly around it.
“Whatever. Gimme those cuffs.”
Optimus struggled to draw in a ventilation. Blitzwing's legs blocked one of his lateral vents and the other churned along with a rickety creak that spoke of his ill health.
Optimus heard a rattle before the weight across his back shifted. Astrotrain lifted his pede in the same moment that Blitzwing released Optimus' helm, but there was no time to form a defense. Blitzwing grabbed his other wrist and cuffed both behind Optimus' back, the hum of the stasis cuffs immediately making both arms go numb.
Optimus could not ventilate a sigh of relief. Not when Blitzwing's weight vanished from his thighs, but only because the triple-changer had a grip on Optimus' bound wrists and hauled him backward, up onto his knees. His world swayed, a smear of gray and purple and red. Optimus' visual feed sharpened into the sight of Astrotrain standing above him, his pelvic plating in discomfiting proximity.
Blitzwing kept his grip on the stasis cuffs, but his other hand planted on Optimus' helm, tilting it back. Astrotrain stared down at him, his hands fisted at his sides.
Optimus opted for silence. Words would not convince them to stop and he would not give them the pleasure of begging.
“Now that's a nice view,” Astrotrain growled. “Optimus Prime on his knees. Looking up at me like some two-bit buymech.”
“Bet he sucks spike like one.”
“Me, too.” Astrotrain's mouth twisted into a sneer. “But first....” He reared back and Optimus read his intentions in a split-second.
He twisted his frame, tried to avoid, but Blitzwing's hand might as well have been welded to his helm. Astrotrain's punch hit him square in the jaw, whipping his helm to the right. Pain exploded in his face; his battle mask denting with an audible pop. He never saw the second punch coming, or the third as they struck his abdomen, buckling his ventral armor.
Optimus doubled over, his tanks churning and his face aching. His battle mask was more than dented, it was cracked and he wondered if he could even trigger it open now. His ventilations rattled, and then seized when Blitzwing hauled him backward, his hand gripping one of Optimus' antennae this time. He was forced, once again, to look up at Astrotrain.
“That was for punching me.” Astrotrain flexed his fingers.
“I'm getting bored,” Blitzwing said.
“Yeah, yeah. Keep your thrusters on.” Astrotrain crouched in front of Optimus again, their helms even now. He tapped Optimus' mask. “So. Easy way or hard way? Your choice, Prime.”
His optics narrowed. “It is no choice.”
Astrotrain grinned. “Sure it is. The more you cooperate, the less it hurts. But since you insist--” He grabbed Optimus' face, fingers curled on the edges of his mask. “We'll do it the hard way.”
Before Optimus could jerk his helm away or form a protest, Astrotrain dug his fingers in and pulled. Optimus shouted as fire erupted across his face. Empty connectors spat static into the air. Astrotrain tossed the mask over his shoulder where it clattered away, lost to the darkness.
Damage reports streamed across his HUD. Optimus shunted them aside to join the dozens waiting for acknowledgment and permission to begin repairs. He would need to conserve his resources.
Blitzwing grabbed his hips and jerked him back. Optimus' legs spread wide, thighs straddling Blitzwing's, his hip joints creaking under the stretch. His aft collided with Blitzwing's burning interface panel. Blitzwing held him in place as he ground against Optimus' aft, the harsh whuff of his ventilations blasting heat down on Optimus.
“Impatient much?” Astrotrain snickered.
“Megatron'll be wanting a report soon and you know once he finds out we got Optimus Prime, he'll want us back.” Blitzwing's fingers tightened, digging into the narrow gaps in Optimus' plating and forcing them wider.
“True, true.”
Optimus groaned. His helm drooped forward as he pressed his lipplates shut. Errors and warnings and more red letters screamed at him. His processor spun. His energy levels sank.
He heard a pop as a wet, heavy shaft nudged against his aft, applying pressure to his valve cover.
“Move it or lose it, Prime,” Blitzwing said. He ground hard against Optimus' aft and interface cover and the thinner metal bowed inward.
Because what Decepticon soldier wouldn't leap at the chance to have their enemy's commander at their heels? Optimus was under no illusions. This wasn't about pleasure.
It was and always would be about power.
Make it easy, Jazz had once said.
A necessary course, Ratchet insisted. Lessons on how to survive Decepticon captivity. All command level members of the Autobots were ordered to take them. Even Optimus.
Especially Optimus, Jazz had said.
Make it easy, but not too easy. Decide what you'll endure, and what you'd rather offline than suffer.
Lose what you won't miss. Watch and wait. Take a chance only when there's no other option. Sometimes, cooperation is better. It's not the same thing as consent.
Optimus ground his denta and sent the command for his panel to slide open. He kept his spike shielded. He doubted they wanted to make use of it and he didn't want to invite their attention to it.
“Much obliged,” Blitzwing drawled.
The head of his spike – larger than anything Optimus had taken before – nudged at the rim of Optimus' valve. He was not lubricated near enough to take the spike, though he felt the moisture of Blitzwing's seeping pre-transfluid tease his sensitive rim.
Large hands grabbed Optimus' helm, tilting it upward. He smelled hot metal and transfluid before he saw the bio-lit spike aimed toward his mouth. It, too, was larger than Optimus had taken before. The sheer girth of it would stretch him open, would strain his jaw. Astrotrain's thumbs pressed at the corners of his mouth.
“If you bite me,” he growled, “there will be consequences. We have to keep you alive, but that doesn't mean you need your optics. Or your audials.”
“Or both legs,” Blitzwing said.
He continued to still rut against Optimus' valve but not pressing into him just yet. The scrape-scrape of the head of his spike on Optimus' rim was maddening. Disgust couldn't chase away the light tendrils of pleasure that dared flicker through his array. It was just painless enough that his systems wanted to register it as pleasure.
Automatic responses didn't much care for emotional input, no matter how negative.
“Or arms,” Astrotrain chimed in and he looked down at Optimus. His visor burned and the tip of his spike nudged Optimus' lips. “Open.”
Cooperation can keep you alive.
His Autobots were suffering worse. Surely Optimus could endure the same, be with them in spirit if not frame.
Optimus offlined his optics and parted his lips. The rounded head of Astrotrain's spike moved closer and a drip of pre-transfluid landed thick and heavy on Optimus' glossa. His tank lurched.
Blitzwing chose that moment to jerk Optimus' hips back, impaling Optimus on his spike.
Optimus spasmed. He cried out in and Astrotrain took advantage of it by shoving into Optimus' mouth and stretching his jaw wide. Optimus' valve calipers spasmed as they were forced open, more than a few straining around Blitzwing's girth. Blitzwing bottomed out and held Optimus there, filled to the rim of Optimus valve. His spike throbbed within Optimus' valve.
Astrotrain made a pleased noise. The first third of his spike stirred around Optimus' mouth, forming a heavy weight on his glossa. Optimus' intake worked, oral solvents filling his mouth and trickling down his intake. His fingers drew into fists as his thighs trembled.
“Any smaller and I wouldn't have fit,” Blitzwing said.
He circled his hips, his spike moving mere inches within Optimus' valve. It did not qualify as a true thrust, but a slow and steady scrape of discomfort over Optimus' sensors.
He was barely lubricated, if at all, and the rasp of Blitzwing's spike caused a flush of fire through his nodes. His calipers kept trying to cycle shut to ease the ache, but all it did was cause them to tighten around Blitzwing's spike.
“We'd have made you fit,” Astrotrain said and he rocked his hips. His spike pushed deeper into Optimus' mouth, until the head of it brushed Optimus' spasming intake.
“Frag right I would have,” Blitzwing said.
They laughed. Their vents blasted down on Optimus, heating up the atmosphere around him, until his cooling fans could pull in nothing but their ex-vents.
Dear Primus let it be over soon.
Blitzwing moved. He withdrew from Optimus' valve by half, only to plunge back in again, a harder, sharper thrust. It rocked Optimus' forward, further onto Astrotrain's spike. One hand kept a grip on his jaw, the other moved to his helm, keeping it angled better for Astrotrain's use.
“Nice,” Astrotrain hissed.
“Gonna be better,” Blitzwing huffed and his fingers tightened on Optimus' hips, audibly denting the metal.
There was a scrape of metal on the floor as Blitzwing shifted his weight. He snapped his hips and thrust into Optimus again and this time, there was no delay. There was only the plunge-retreat, plunge-retreat of Blitzwing slamming into Optimus. His array slapped against Optimus' aft. His spike forced Optimus' calipers open until at last, they ceased trying to squeeze him out.
Astrotrain moaned. His fingers flexed their grip on Optimus' helm. His spike trickled pre-fluid down Optimus' throat, more than the average mech.
“Please tell me you're recording,” Astrotrain said, his vocals thick with arousal.
“Frag, yeah.”
Of course they would.
Blitzwing's grip tightened. Warnings flooded Optimus' HUD anew. His hips ached, the relays crushed. Would he walk after this? He didn't know. Astrotrain's spike swelled in his mouth and forced his jaw wider. It pushed deeper, bumping the back of his intake to the rhythm of Blitzwing pounding against his ceiling node.
“Frag!” Astrotrain cursed and though his grip didn't loosen, he eased off Optimus' intake, allowing him a moment of relief.
Blitzwing paused, spike half-filling Optimus' valve. “What is it?”
Astrotrain didn't answer. One hand lifted away from Optimus' helm. “Astrotrain here,” he said.
Blitzwing rumbled. “Lord Megatron?”
“We've found and captured Optimus Prime. I don't care if you don't fragging believe me. You'll see when we get back! Astrotrain, out.”
“Out of time,” Blitzwing said.
“Better make it quick,” Astrotrain agreed.
Optimus braced himself. Not that it mattered. There was little he could do but endure as their thrusts increased in earnest. No more savoring. No more enjoyment. Just the sheer, mindless pursuit of an overload.
Astrotrain no longer left Blitzwing to dictate the pace. He thrust into Optimus' mouth with abandon, off rhythm to Blitzwing. Optimus writhed between them, barely able to catch a ventilation.
The room was filled with the sound of metal on metal. With the whining buzz of two triplechanmbers' cooling fans and rapid ventilations. With Astrotrain's moans and Blitzwing's gasps and Optimus' embarrassing, unpreventable whines. He hurt, he ached, though a part of him had grown numb to it.
Blitzwing was the first to go, his grip tightening to the tune of crumpled armor as he yanked Optimus back onto his spike and jetted transfluid into Optimus' valve. It was hot, burning as it seared over his damaged nodes and scraped lining. On and on, spurt after spurt, as though determined to coat Optimus' valve in his transfluid.
His moan of pleasure echoed in Optimus' audials. His field was ripe with no satisfaction.
“My turn.” Astrotrain gripped Optimus' helm in both hands and rutted into Optimus' mouth.
His spike swelled again, until there was barely any room to move. He thrust hard against Optimus' intake and lingered, his hips performing tiny circles that rubbed the head of his spike over and over against the delicate lining. Little grunts of pleasure spilled from Astrotrain's vocalizer before he stiffened and curved over Optimus' helm, spike pulsing down Optimus' intake.
He had no choice but to swallow. There was nowhere else for the transfluid to go, and it slid down his throat in sticky globs. His tank rebelled and only great force of will kept him from purging. Astrotrain's hands kept him from pulling away and Optimus knelt there, impaled on both ends, waiting for it to stop.
His energy levels crawled back up to a measly twenty percent. There wasn't much energon in transfluid, but just enough that more than a few mechs on their way to Empty had turned themselves into buymechs to try and stay alive. Optimus knew the stories. It had been part of what he'd wanted to change before the war began. No mech should force himself to his knees to survive. No mech.
Astrotrain's spike deflated at the same rate as the transfluid spilling down Optimus' intake. Clearly, he'd been modded at some point. It was several long, revolting minutes before Astrotrain pulled free of his mouth, though not without a final spurt of transfluid that landed on Optimus' windshield.
Optimus onlined his optics, getting a view of Astrotrain massaging the base of his spike before he retracted it. Blitzwing was still half-pressurized within Optimus, and would likely have gone for another round if not for the comm.
Astrotrain patted Optimus on the helm. “Much obliged, Prime. Too bad we can't keep you.”
Blitzwing barked a laugh. “Yeah. No way Megatron's gonna share.”
He pushed Optimus off his spike and his lap, and Optimus tumbled forward. He threw himself to the right, landing on his shoulder instead of his faceplate, and cringed at the trickle of transfluid leaking from his valve. If he closed his panel, it would only trap Blitzwing's spill inside. If he left it open, he would leak all down his thighs and it might be seen as an invitation.
“You must be proud,” he said as the two mechs rose to their full height, jostling each other like a couple of high school age humans. The satisfaction in their fields was hard to miss.
Astrotrain kicked him, a solid blow to the midsection that made Optimus curl inward. Something crumpled in his chassis and the sound of grinding mechanisms echoed in his audials.
“Megatron's pinging me,” Blitzwing said, tapping his audial. Otherwise, they made no acknowledgment that Optimus had spoken.
“Me, too.” Astrotrain sighed and shook his helm. “Playtime's over.”
No, Optimus realized as Blitzwing reached down and dragged him to his pedes.
It was only just beginning.
****
a/n:... Ahem. Seventeen more chapters to go. It gets worse. Trust me when I say, it gets worse. Oubliette is the catalyst, the inciting incident. Salvage, the sequel I'm currently working on, is the aftermath and recovery. Real Life willing, I hope to update this on a regular basis. I hope I didn't forget anything in the header but feel free to ask me if I did.
As always, feedback is welcome and appreciated.
And yes, I am still taking commissions.
I have edited this several times to the best of my ability, but I am only human. Please feel free to point out any mistakes I might have made.
Title: Oubliette
Universe: G1/IDW AU
Characters: Autobot Ensemble, Decepticon Ensemble, focus on Optimus, Megatron, Soundwave, Starscream, Ratchet, Grimlock
Pairings: Megatron/Optimus, Ratchet/Wheeljack, Multiple others in passing
Rating: NC-17
Description: For Optimus, the war has never been personal. Hate has never been part of the equation, not even for Megatron. Pity perhaps, but never hate. Now, with the weight of shame on his shoulders, he begins to understand where loathing might have its roots, and how it can so easily slide into hate.
Warnings: Oh so many, too many to list, but NonCon/Rape being of most importance. Read at your own risk. If there's something that triggers you, it's probably in here. I'm working on a masterlist for the warnings, characters, and pairings. It'll be ready by the time I have the second chapter ready to post.
Mood Music: "Hunted," Steve Jablonsky
Chapter One
Cyberton was a large planet. Even so, Optimus Prime was running out of places to hide.
Their war had left it a ruin. Shattered buildings. A burnt husk of a landscape. Roads that were impassable. The lack of a sun made illumination intermittent. The atmosphere alternated between being far too cold and far too hot. He had lost count of the number of times he'd woken to find frost on his armor.
Right now, he was tucked in the remnants of a general goods store, with the debris of a collapsed roof and several walls to serve as dubious shelter. Scavengers had picked the store free of anything of use over the centuries, but one wall was better than none. With the dirt on his frame, he blended in with the dust and destruction.
He couldn't stay here long, but hopefully, long enough to steal a few hours of recharge. He'd almost crashed twice, black outs caused by lack of defragging and suitable energon intake.
Twenty-three percent.
The numbers stared dolefully back at him, bright red and blinking in the corner of his HUD. He couldn't remember ever being so low. Pits, he couldn't remember a day he dipped below eighty-five percent. Ratchet would have had his fanbelts for garters if he didn't keep himself at full capacity.
He worried for Trailbreaker. His systems were dreadfully inefficient and his best defense would drain him far faster than any other action. He might doom himself in the process of protecting himself. If he hadn't been found already.
Optimus popped the panel on his forearm and activated the tiny communications console. It was encrypted, but not enough that he dared risk being found by Soundwave. He only intended to link with the public newscasts.
The shows were meant for him after all.
He skimmed the recent events and announcements, but there was no word of another Autobot capture, not since the Stunticons had sussed out Inferno, south of what remained of Protihex. Optimus' only consolation was that Inferno had not lived long enough to suffer what the other surviving Autobots currently endured.
Optimus closed the panel and bowed his helm.
He did not know how many were left. He could form a fair guess, but without the ability to contact any of them for fear of Soundwave, it would only be that. A guess. There were distant hopes of reuniting with his scattered forces, of forming a stand against Megatron and rescuing their friends. But they seemed as unobtainable to him as a cube of fresh energon.
Optimus sighed a soft ventilation and rummaged about in his subspace. He knew already what he would find, but there was a part of him that thought if he looked hard enough, perhaps something new would appear. But no, nothing but the same cube of recycled energon, a grade so low it was better used in machinery.
Optimus would know. He'd drained it from an old assembler he'd found in a ruined fabrication plant yesterday.
He opened his battlemask and sipped at the cube, but not before he turned off his olfactory sensors. The energon was foul, both to taste and smell, and he had to remind himself that it was necessary. His energy levels crawled up to a measly thirty percent, but it would keep him going for another decaorn if he was cautious.
He choked down the rest of it and stowed the empty cube back in his subspace. If he was lucky, he might find another abandoned machine or – Primus help him – a recently deceased frame. It was the only worse energon to consume, but it was better than nothing.
His tank churned at the mere thought and Optimus offlined his optics. He closed his battlemask as well, forcefully turning his thoughts away. He couldn't afford to lose what he'd consumed.
He hoped the others were faring better. Jazz, he was sure, was probably doing the best out of all of them. No doubt he'd already raided the Decepticons and had a stash of high grade. He'd probably already concocted some wild and crazy plan for causing Megatron grief and rescuing their fellow Autobots.
If only Prowl were here...
He heard a rustle. Optimus froze, his optics snapping back online. He stalled his ventilations. He peered through a gap in the debris but couldn't see anything moving out there. He carefully shifted and peered out the other side. Nothing. He didn't dare risk a scan.
His spark fluttered.
Optimus dimmed his optics and stared into the gloom. The shapes of buildings, most of them bombed to their foundations, loomed like eerie sentinels against the backdrop of a starry night.
Something shifted. A darker black. There was a flash of crimson.
Time to go.
Optimus eased out of his shelter, crawling out of the ingress he'd made for himself. He scanned the dark street in front of him, but lacking the ability to see anything, feared he would have to take the risk.
He bolted from his tentative cover and no sooner had he emerged from the building did laser fire light up the night. Optimus ducked, biting back a cry of pain as a glancing shot seared across his side. It seared his plating, minor damage.
He whirled, blaster leaping into his hands, and fired blindly in the direction of the shots. He heard a shout, a scrabble of pedes in debris, and his systems reported a doleful lack of charge for his weaponry.
Frag it all.
He sent out a ping, the landscape reading back to him. There was a road, rough and pitted and scattered with debris, but drive-able. It would do.
Transforming was agony, the rust and grit of poor Cybertron trapped against every gear and cog. He could feel it grinding. Ratchet would have a fit if he knew. Optimus even had to force a bent strut into place, and his engine had a worrisome knock to it.
He couldn't think about any of that. The moment his tires hit the streets, Optimus slammed on the pedal and shot across the road. Debris kicked up against his undercarriage with audible scrapes. He winced. But far worse were the Decepticons on his tail, one taking potshots at his aft.
Thank Primus he didn't have his trailer to slow him down.
Optimus checked his rearview and sideview mirrors. He could hear the roar of the chasing Decepticons, though he couldn't see enough of them for identification. But they were flight mechs. He knew this much.
His headlights picked up what looked like a hole in the street. Cybertron was honeycombed with many, many underground levels. Most had collapsed during the war. Others were still passable. But they were narrow, suffocating, and uncomfortable for flight mechs to navigate.
Optimus did not know them very well, but Jazz had. And Jazz, for whatever reason, had given Optimus the specs long ago. Maybe because they would sit and reminisce about the planet they could no longer call home. Maybe because they both longed to return and fervently believed it might happen.
Optimus didn't know what was below him. He didn't know the condition of the lower levels or what Empties might lurk in the dark. But he did know that given his current state, the Decepticons chasing him would catch up sooner rather than later.
It was worth the risk.
He jerked to the left, aiming for the collapsed section of roadway. A flyer screamed overhead and bullets peppered the streets around him. Optimus swerved to avoid them as shrapnel pinged his sides. His engine screamed at him, kicking back, his entire frame shuddering.
This was going to hurt.
Optimus hurtled toward the hole and fell into darkness, forcing himself to transform the moment his tires left the roadway. Thank Primus for his sensors because he couldn't see anything, and Optimus hit the ground hard, tucking his momentum into a roll. Pain ran like lightning up his right leg.
He cut off his vocalizer to hide his groan and dragged himself to his pedes, limping into the dim. This was a transport tunnel, he gathered, the remnants of rail lines evident beneath his pedes. They would take him all over the city, provided they were unblocked. He could still hear the Decepticons above him, though more distant. He had no doubt they were still hot on his trail.
Returning to alt-mode was a special kind of fresh agony, but it would be faster. His knee ached, making anything faster than a limp impossible.
Optimus kept his headlights off, relying on his sensors to navigate. He hoped that the hole was too small for his pursuers. His engine echoed eerily in the tunnel. He heard a steady drip-drip-drip, and knew it came from his undercarriage.
His energy levels dipped back down to twenty-three percent, wasting the cube he'd forced himself to consume.
Above him, he heard a heavy thump. Dust rained down. He felt the heavy swamp of a questing field, and pulled his own toward nil. Another handy trick Jazz had taught him. He held his ventilations, his sensors, his frame running silent.
He waited, tires inching across the ground. Breath caught in his throat, as Sparkplug might have said.
The sound of voices was muffled. Either the ground had been truly thin, or sound traveled far too easily. Optimus waited, creeping forward, aiming himself toward relative safety. The tunnel sloped downward, taking him deeper as it grew narrower.
Optimus did not relax for a great distance. He listened intently, jumped at every noise, and continued on, watching his energy levels slowly tick down. He wanted to put as many miles between himself and the Decepticons as possible. He didn't know if they could track him underground, but he didn't want to take the risk.
At least it wasn't Soundwave and his minions. Optimus would have been doomed otherwise.
The ache in his frame worsened. His altmode compressed his shoulder joint and something was grating against the blaster wound. He would have to take a look at it. If he could. Ratchet was going to be furious.
The minutes bled by until they became an hour. His engine rattled. His gears ground a disturbing rale that was probably painful, but lost to the other agonies. A branch loomed ahead with an access ladder nearby. Only then did Optimus allow himself to slow. He returned to root mode and staggered against the wall of the tunnel as compressed relays shouted their irritation.
His processor swam. His tank gurgled. He was down to twenty percent. Energon slicked his side and when Optimus pressed a hand to it, he felt the buckled plating. His armor had caved inward and punctured an energon line. It was a minor injury, but his self-repair couldn't get to it.
He offlined his optics, gritted his denta, and grabbed the dented plating. He pulled, forcefully bending it away from the puncture. It was by no means a delicate fix, but it would do for now. Ratchet would be appalled.
Optimus pulled a few strips of static bandage from his subspace. He had only a few left, but this tear would worsen if he didn't cover it. Particularly if he had to transform again.
Leak handled, Optimus sagged against the wall, cycling his ventilations. He ached everywhere. There wasn't a part or gear or strut on him that didn't cry out for mercy. He onlined his optics, their dim glow illuminating the ruin around him. This section of tunnel was fairly intact. Far ahead, it branched off, one curving deeper, the other climbing upward.
He needed energon. He would have to risk it.
Optimus allowed himself a minute more of rest before he headed for the access ladder. He looked up into the darkness where it vanished into the ceiling. This had probably once been a service access ramp, meant for the maintenance bots. It was going to be a tight fit, but Optimus had lost much of the bulk of his battle armor. He could make it.
He cycled a ventilation, dragged a hand down his face, and then began to climb. He hoped his temporary patch held.
His shoulders scraped on the walls of the access. Dust trickled down on top of him, into the gaps of his plating, joining the other dirt and grime he'd accumulated. He didn't think he'd ever get clean.
His ventilations echoed around him, no matter how much he tried to keep them quiet.
Cybertron was a dead planet and it showed. Never, in all his memory, could Optimus recall a time of silence. There had always been a sense of life, a subtle hum to the very structures of Cyberton that kept it from being silent.
Now there was nothing. His spark ached to think of it.
Optimus reached the top and cautiously peeked out of the access hatch. It was a maintenance room, the building itself still intact. This room had probably once been used for rest periods. There were a couple of average-sized berths, a table and chairs, and a row of lockers. All were sized for mechs close to Jazz or Smokescreen in size, the typical mass of a maintenance worker.
Optimus hauled himself out of the hatch and approached the dirty window. He couldn't see anything in the streets beyond it. No movement. Nothing. Hopefully, he remained in the clear.
He rummaged about the room, opening the lockers and peering under the berths, but there was no energon to be found. He did, however, come across a small medkit that he tucked into his subspace. More static bandages could always come to use. He lowered himself to the berth and tucked into the corner. It was far from comfortable, but it gave him a good view of the windows.
The tiny subroutine he had monitoring the newscasts chirped at him. Optimus popped open the panel and activated the network. Dread curled within him.
The dim glow of the holographic screen reflected across his face and he angled his frame to keep it from being visible beyond his makeshift shelter. The audio, however, came in loud and clear through his comm systems, beyond the hearing range of his trackers.
Megatron had brought his newest acquisition on stage, surrounded by the victorious trackers. A crowd of Decepticons laughed and cheered below. His forces had grown in the past several decaorns, responding to Megatron's summons, his gleeful announcement of victory.
Come back to Cybertron, he'd told them, victory is ours!
Optimus didn't know if there were any more Autobots out there to form a resistance. He didn't know if they'd heard Megatron's announcement and decided to stay away for their own safety. He couldn't fault them for it if they had. Not knowing what fate had befallen his forces already present.
Stay away, Optimus hoped. Stay far, far away.
The crowd grew louder. This was a show, produced not only for their benefit, but for Optimus'. Otherwise Megatron would not have bothered.
Ratchet.
His spark sank.
More valuable alive than offline, Optimus gathered, though clearly his captors had taken the opportunity to enjoy their prey. Ratchet could not have put up enough of a fight to warrant such damage.
He was as scraped and dirty as Optimus himself. The bright whites and reds of his paint were dull due to lack of energon and hiding himself in the gutters. His windshield was splintered, most of the glass missing. His hands were bound in front of him, and the cameraman – Reflector – made certain to zoom in on their twisted nature.
So cruel, to damage a medic's hands. Hook could fix them, no doubt, but Optimus knew that wasn't the point. Ratchet suffered for the crime of being an Autobot. For daring to stand against Megatron and serve alongside Optimus. Ratchet had also been a member of the elite, a class Megatron loathed.
Despite his condition, Ratchet stood on the stage, his helm lifted with pride. He flinched, however, when Megatron moved beside him, clapping one hand down on Ratchet's shoulder.
“The Autobot chief medical officer,” Megatron declared, his smug tone coming through loud and clear. Optimus' internals rippled with fury. “Ours at last.”
Ratchet's face contorted with disgust, but he said nothing. Whether because he couldn't – judging by the dent around his intake – or he didn't dare, Optimus didn't know.
“I am almost impressed,” Megatron continued as he stepped around to Ratchet's other side. His hand dragged along the top of Ratchet's frame, skirting the fractured windshield. “It's rare that a medic outpaces my Decepticons. After all, the others did not. Did they?”
He looked back toward the camera with a smirk.
Optimus' engine growled. Hoist, too, was dead, though not due to execution. He hadn't survived Omega's crashlanding. Grapple had been distraught, not that he'd lived long enough to suffer his grief.
First Aid had been left behind on Earth, with the rest of the Protectobots. Optimus did not know their fate. He feared the worst.
Ratchet bared his denta, and now, Optimus believed he couldn't speak. Otherwise he had no doubt the stream of vitriol to leave his officer's mouth would have been vile.
Megatron laughed and his hand slid to Ratchet's throat, fingers flirting over the impressions already present. Ratchet went still though his broken fingers twitched.
“Are you watching, Prime?” Megatron purred, circling Ratchet until he stood behind him, fingers wrapped ever so carefully around Ratchet's intake.
Reflector zoomed in and Optimus could see that Ratchet was shaking beneath the bravado. It could have been fear or exhaustion, either way, it pained Optimus to see it.
“Come out, come out, wherever you are,” Megatron taunted and his fingers flexed. “This one's already mine. How many more until you give yourself up?”
The crowd roared. Ratchet shuttered his optics.
Optimus' energon levels dipped to nineteen percent. He didn't have enough energy to power his blaster or his blade, even if he rerouted what he had left to the bare minimum.
“You see?” Megatron said, less taunt and more challenge as he dropped his hand from Ratchet's intake and addressed his loyal audience. “He would rather hide than rescue his soldiers. He cowers in the ruins of the war he lost.” His arms made grand gestures; he'd certainly learned how to put on a show.
Megatron looked straight into the camera, lips curled with a smirk, his optics glowing a baleful red. “Your Autobots are suffering, Prime,” he purred. “But don't worry, I'll take very good care of them.”
Optimus' helm snapped up, his attention dragged from the holographic screen. He snapped it shut, turning up the gain on his audials.
He swore he'd heard something. A shuffle. A ventilation. A whisper of footsteps in the ash and rust. He dimmed his optics until they barely glowed. He held his ventilations. His hand crept toward his blaster, though it held no charge. His opponents didn't know that however.
He peered through the broken glass of the window. The streets were empty. Nothing moved. Nothing stirred. He didn't dare send out a curious ping. His instincts screamed at him to move, but without knowing where his pursuers were, he didn't know which way to bolt. He scanned the streets again.
Nothing.
Something above him creaked. Optimus tensed.
The roof came crashing down on top of him. He ducked, arms covering his helm as he was pelted with heavy sheets of metal and debris. Pain lanced through his right leg as a thin pole pierced his upper thigh, pinning him to the floor.
Above the noise, he swore he heard laughter. He felt it the heavy, swamping field of a massive mech, one who had the energy to spare for his field. Something hit his helm, knocking his processor fuzzy. He smelled ash and energon.
Optimus threw himself to the side, the rod tearing through his plating to the tune of ripped cables and lines. He stifled a sound of pain, pulling himself forward on his elbows. A heavy weight landed on top of him, one equal in size to him if not larger. There weren't many Decepticons who could match him in mass.
Optimus threw himself to the side, out from beneath his assailant. He cringed as blasterfire lit up the dark around him, a lucky shot searing through his left shoulder. He scrambled to his pedes, the stench of scorched plating thick on his sensors.
There was movement in his peripheral vision. Optimus turned his helm but not in enough time to avoid someone much larger barreling into him from the side. Optimus went flying into a piece of furniture, crashing through the table as though it were made of paper and not solid steel. He groaned and tried to push himself back upright, his gyros reeling.
He never saw the blow coming, only felt the impact as it sent him crashing into the floor, rolling across it like so much scrap. He couldn't ventilate, couldn't see anything in the dark, but blurs of movement. His vision splintered, as though he'd cracked an optic, and he tried to push himself upright, managing to get to hands and knees, his left arm a blaze of pain.
A pede landed in the middle of his back, flattening him to the floor, his battlemask scraping across shattered transsteel. Optimus heard his plating buckle and warnings flashed across his HUD. Something snapped and he felt a trickle of energon worm its way through his substructure.
Someone laughed. “The great Optimus Prime,” a mech said, his voice unfamiliar, but then, there were few Decepticons Optimus could recognize by voice alone. “Well, aren't we lucky, Astro?”
Astro.... Astrotrain? Which meant it was Blitzwing above him, as one was never found without the other. No wonder it felt like a railcar was standing on top of him.
Optimus' vision went hazy. His energy levels ticked down another two percent.
Debris in front of him was lifted and tossed. Smaller pieces were kicked away by a pale gray leg. And then Astrotrain crouched in front of him, arms braced on his knees as he looked down at Optimus.
“Luck don't have anything to do with it, Blitz.” He smirked, his optical band brightening. “He's about as meek as a sparkling right now. Poor little Autobot.”
They laughed in unison.
Optimus' blaster was buried in the rubble. Not that it mattered since he couldn't use it.
Blitzwing pressed down harder. A groan escaped Optimus as gears ground together with a screech. Something else cracked. His vents struggled to pull in air and found nothing but dust.
There would be no begging with these two. They served either themselves or the Decepticon cause. He could not appeal to their mercy. They had none. But perhaps they were just dumb enough to trick.
“You cannot kill me,” Optimus said. “Megatron would--”
“Aww, we already know that,” Astrotrain said and his hand settled on Optimus' helm, giving him a condescending pat. “He'd have our sparks if we took that away from him. But that doesn't mean we have to bring you back in one piece.”
Blitzwing chuckled. “No, it doesn't mean that at all.”
Dread coiled low and heavy in Optimus' tanks.
The hand on Optimus' helm was hot and heavy, and as it dragged down the side of his face, a thumb pressed on the seam of his battlemask. “We can have some fun first. Since we don't have an Autobot to play with yet.”
Optimus' engine growled, his hands curling into fists. What Megatron had done to his soldiers was unforgivable!
Blitzwing snickered. “I don't think he likes the sound of that.”
His pede disappeared from Optimus' back but before Optimus could summon the wherewithal to roll over, to try and launch himself away from them both, Blitzwing plopped himself down on Optimus' upper thighs, the edge of one armor plate digging into the wound caused by the rod. His hands settled on Optimus' aft, fingers pushing into the gaps at his hips.
“It's not about what he likes,” Astrotrain said, and he looked straight into Optimus' optics. “Not anymore. You lost, Prime. To the victor go the spoils. Isn't that what your precious squishies always say?”
He opted for silence. It was the only defense he had left.
“Looks like he doesn't want to talk either.” Blitzwing's engine rumbled, rattling Optimus' frame, and his hands pushed harder, to the point of pain.
“That's all right. I'm not interested in him talking.” Astrotrain's thumb pressed harder against Optimus' mask, the plate bowing inward. “Open.”
Blitzwing laughed. “You think asking nicely will work?”
“Doesn't have to. It's just a warning.” Astrotrain leaned closer, close enough to touch, until his ex-vents blasted heat against Optimus' face. “Open or you lose it.”
Optimus' optics narrowed and he abruptly shifted his weight. He swung a fist at the triple-changer, landing a solid hit against Astrotrain's jaw, and as Astrotrain reeled backward, Optimus lunged for the blaster on his left hip.
Slam!
Astrotrain cursed. Optimus' optical feed fritzed as his helm hit the floor, what had to be Blitzwing's hand slamming him face first into the debris-strewn metal. He flailed, lashing backward with an elbow, but large fingers wrapped around his wrist and jerked his arm back, causing the shoulder joint to crack and the blaster wound to ache. He howled, hearing the snap of his joint as Blitzwing pinned his arm to his back, pressing it down against his spinal strut.
Optimus gritted his denta. He rebooted his optics to restore his visual feed in time to see a pede smash down onto his hand, grinding it against the floor. He felt and heard the joints buckle, the splatter of energon, the crunch of his plating. Two fingers went numb; his HUD screamed warnings at him.
“That was pointless,” Astrotrain huffed, all trace of amusement gone from his vocals.
Blitzwing, however, laughed. “Should've seen it coming.”
More pain raked through Optimus' hand as Astrotrain bore down, grinding Optimus' hand beneath his pede. The weight on his helm grew heavier, fingers clamping tightly around it.
“Whatever. Gimme those cuffs.”
Optimus struggled to draw in a ventilation. Blitzwing's legs blocked one of his lateral vents and the other churned along with a rickety creak that spoke of his ill health.
Optimus heard a rattle before the weight across his back shifted. Astrotrain lifted his pede in the same moment that Blitzwing released Optimus' helm, but there was no time to form a defense. Blitzwing grabbed his other wrist and cuffed both behind Optimus' back, the hum of the stasis cuffs immediately making both arms go numb.
Optimus could not ventilate a sigh of relief. Not when Blitzwing's weight vanished from his thighs, but only because the triple-changer had a grip on Optimus' bound wrists and hauled him backward, up onto his knees. His world swayed, a smear of gray and purple and red. Optimus' visual feed sharpened into the sight of Astrotrain standing above him, his pelvic plating in discomfiting proximity.
Blitzwing kept his grip on the stasis cuffs, but his other hand planted on Optimus' helm, tilting it back. Astrotrain stared down at him, his hands fisted at his sides.
Optimus opted for silence. Words would not convince them to stop and he would not give them the pleasure of begging.
“Now that's a nice view,” Astrotrain growled. “Optimus Prime on his knees. Looking up at me like some two-bit buymech.”
“Bet he sucks spike like one.”
“Me, too.” Astrotrain's mouth twisted into a sneer. “But first....” He reared back and Optimus read his intentions in a split-second.
He twisted his frame, tried to avoid, but Blitzwing's hand might as well have been welded to his helm. Astrotrain's punch hit him square in the jaw, whipping his helm to the right. Pain exploded in his face; his battle mask denting with an audible pop. He never saw the second punch coming, or the third as they struck his abdomen, buckling his ventral armor.
Optimus doubled over, his tanks churning and his face aching. His battle mask was more than dented, it was cracked and he wondered if he could even trigger it open now. His ventilations rattled, and then seized when Blitzwing hauled him backward, his hand gripping one of Optimus' antennae this time. He was forced, once again, to look up at Astrotrain.
“That was for punching me.” Astrotrain flexed his fingers.
“I'm getting bored,” Blitzwing said.
“Yeah, yeah. Keep your thrusters on.” Astrotrain crouched in front of Optimus again, their helms even now. He tapped Optimus' mask. “So. Easy way or hard way? Your choice, Prime.”
His optics narrowed. “It is no choice.”
Astrotrain grinned. “Sure it is. The more you cooperate, the less it hurts. But since you insist--” He grabbed Optimus' face, fingers curled on the edges of his mask. “We'll do it the hard way.”
Before Optimus could jerk his helm away or form a protest, Astrotrain dug his fingers in and pulled. Optimus shouted as fire erupted across his face. Empty connectors spat static into the air. Astrotrain tossed the mask over his shoulder where it clattered away, lost to the darkness.
Damage reports streamed across his HUD. Optimus shunted them aside to join the dozens waiting for acknowledgment and permission to begin repairs. He would need to conserve his resources.
Blitzwing grabbed his hips and jerked him back. Optimus' legs spread wide, thighs straddling Blitzwing's, his hip joints creaking under the stretch. His aft collided with Blitzwing's burning interface panel. Blitzwing held him in place as he ground against Optimus' aft, the harsh whuff of his ventilations blasting heat down on Optimus.
“Impatient much?” Astrotrain snickered.
“Megatron'll be wanting a report soon and you know once he finds out we got Optimus Prime, he'll want us back.” Blitzwing's fingers tightened, digging into the narrow gaps in Optimus' plating and forcing them wider.
“True, true.”
Optimus groaned. His helm drooped forward as he pressed his lipplates shut. Errors and warnings and more red letters screamed at him. His processor spun. His energy levels sank.
He heard a pop as a wet, heavy shaft nudged against his aft, applying pressure to his valve cover.
“Move it or lose it, Prime,” Blitzwing said. He ground hard against Optimus' aft and interface cover and the thinner metal bowed inward.
Because what Decepticon soldier wouldn't leap at the chance to have their enemy's commander at their heels? Optimus was under no illusions. This wasn't about pleasure.
It was and always would be about power.
Make it easy, Jazz had once said.
A necessary course, Ratchet insisted. Lessons on how to survive Decepticon captivity. All command level members of the Autobots were ordered to take them. Even Optimus.
Especially Optimus, Jazz had said.
Make it easy, but not too easy. Decide what you'll endure, and what you'd rather offline than suffer.
Lose what you won't miss. Watch and wait. Take a chance only when there's no other option. Sometimes, cooperation is better. It's not the same thing as consent.
Optimus ground his denta and sent the command for his panel to slide open. He kept his spike shielded. He doubted they wanted to make use of it and he didn't want to invite their attention to it.
“Much obliged,” Blitzwing drawled.
The head of his spike – larger than anything Optimus had taken before – nudged at the rim of Optimus' valve. He was not lubricated near enough to take the spike, though he felt the moisture of Blitzwing's seeping pre-transfluid tease his sensitive rim.
Large hands grabbed Optimus' helm, tilting it upward. He smelled hot metal and transfluid before he saw the bio-lit spike aimed toward his mouth. It, too, was larger than Optimus had taken before. The sheer girth of it would stretch him open, would strain his jaw. Astrotrain's thumbs pressed at the corners of his mouth.
“If you bite me,” he growled, “there will be consequences. We have to keep you alive, but that doesn't mean you need your optics. Or your audials.”
“Or both legs,” Blitzwing said.
He continued to still rut against Optimus' valve but not pressing into him just yet. The scrape-scrape of the head of his spike on Optimus' rim was maddening. Disgust couldn't chase away the light tendrils of pleasure that dared flicker through his array. It was just painless enough that his systems wanted to register it as pleasure.
Automatic responses didn't much care for emotional input, no matter how negative.
“Or arms,” Astrotrain chimed in and he looked down at Optimus. His visor burned and the tip of his spike nudged Optimus' lips. “Open.”
Cooperation can keep you alive.
His Autobots were suffering worse. Surely Optimus could endure the same, be with them in spirit if not frame.
Optimus offlined his optics and parted his lips. The rounded head of Astrotrain's spike moved closer and a drip of pre-transfluid landed thick and heavy on Optimus' glossa. His tank lurched.
Blitzwing chose that moment to jerk Optimus' hips back, impaling Optimus on his spike.
Optimus spasmed. He cried out in and Astrotrain took advantage of it by shoving into Optimus' mouth and stretching his jaw wide. Optimus' valve calipers spasmed as they were forced open, more than a few straining around Blitzwing's girth. Blitzwing bottomed out and held Optimus there, filled to the rim of Optimus valve. His spike throbbed within Optimus' valve.
Astrotrain made a pleased noise. The first third of his spike stirred around Optimus' mouth, forming a heavy weight on his glossa. Optimus' intake worked, oral solvents filling his mouth and trickling down his intake. His fingers drew into fists as his thighs trembled.
“Any smaller and I wouldn't have fit,” Blitzwing said.
He circled his hips, his spike moving mere inches within Optimus' valve. It did not qualify as a true thrust, but a slow and steady scrape of discomfort over Optimus' sensors.
He was barely lubricated, if at all, and the rasp of Blitzwing's spike caused a flush of fire through his nodes. His calipers kept trying to cycle shut to ease the ache, but all it did was cause them to tighten around Blitzwing's spike.
“We'd have made you fit,” Astrotrain said and he rocked his hips. His spike pushed deeper into Optimus' mouth, until the head of it brushed Optimus' spasming intake.
“Frag right I would have,” Blitzwing said.
They laughed. Their vents blasted down on Optimus, heating up the atmosphere around him, until his cooling fans could pull in nothing but their ex-vents.
Dear Primus let it be over soon.
Blitzwing moved. He withdrew from Optimus' valve by half, only to plunge back in again, a harder, sharper thrust. It rocked Optimus' forward, further onto Astrotrain's spike. One hand kept a grip on his jaw, the other moved to his helm, keeping it angled better for Astrotrain's use.
“Nice,” Astrotrain hissed.
“Gonna be better,” Blitzwing huffed and his fingers tightened on Optimus' hips, audibly denting the metal.
There was a scrape of metal on the floor as Blitzwing shifted his weight. He snapped his hips and thrust into Optimus again and this time, there was no delay. There was only the plunge-retreat, plunge-retreat of Blitzwing slamming into Optimus. His array slapped against Optimus' aft. His spike forced Optimus' calipers open until at last, they ceased trying to squeeze him out.
Astrotrain moaned. His fingers flexed their grip on Optimus' helm. His spike trickled pre-fluid down Optimus' throat, more than the average mech.
“Please tell me you're recording,” Astrotrain said, his vocals thick with arousal.
“Frag, yeah.”
Of course they would.
Blitzwing's grip tightened. Warnings flooded Optimus' HUD anew. His hips ached, the relays crushed. Would he walk after this? He didn't know. Astrotrain's spike swelled in his mouth and forced his jaw wider. It pushed deeper, bumping the back of his intake to the rhythm of Blitzwing pounding against his ceiling node.
“Frag!” Astrotrain cursed and though his grip didn't loosen, he eased off Optimus' intake, allowing him a moment of relief.
Blitzwing paused, spike half-filling Optimus' valve. “What is it?”
Astrotrain didn't answer. One hand lifted away from Optimus' helm. “Astrotrain here,” he said.
Blitzwing rumbled. “Lord Megatron?”
“We've found and captured Optimus Prime. I don't care if you don't fragging believe me. You'll see when we get back! Astrotrain, out.”
“Out of time,” Blitzwing said.
“Better make it quick,” Astrotrain agreed.
Optimus braced himself. Not that it mattered. There was little he could do but endure as their thrusts increased in earnest. No more savoring. No more enjoyment. Just the sheer, mindless pursuit of an overload.
Astrotrain no longer left Blitzwing to dictate the pace. He thrust into Optimus' mouth with abandon, off rhythm to Blitzwing. Optimus writhed between them, barely able to catch a ventilation.
The room was filled with the sound of metal on metal. With the whining buzz of two triplechanmbers' cooling fans and rapid ventilations. With Astrotrain's moans and Blitzwing's gasps and Optimus' embarrassing, unpreventable whines. He hurt, he ached, though a part of him had grown numb to it.
Blitzwing was the first to go, his grip tightening to the tune of crumpled armor as he yanked Optimus back onto his spike and jetted transfluid into Optimus' valve. It was hot, burning as it seared over his damaged nodes and scraped lining. On and on, spurt after spurt, as though determined to coat Optimus' valve in his transfluid.
His moan of pleasure echoed in Optimus' audials. His field was ripe with no satisfaction.
“My turn.” Astrotrain gripped Optimus' helm in both hands and rutted into Optimus' mouth.
His spike swelled again, until there was barely any room to move. He thrust hard against Optimus' intake and lingered, his hips performing tiny circles that rubbed the head of his spike over and over against the delicate lining. Little grunts of pleasure spilled from Astrotrain's vocalizer before he stiffened and curved over Optimus' helm, spike pulsing down Optimus' intake.
He had no choice but to swallow. There was nowhere else for the transfluid to go, and it slid down his throat in sticky globs. His tank rebelled and only great force of will kept him from purging. Astrotrain's hands kept him from pulling away and Optimus knelt there, impaled on both ends, waiting for it to stop.
His energy levels crawled back up to a measly twenty percent. There wasn't much energon in transfluid, but just enough that more than a few mechs on their way to Empty had turned themselves into buymechs to try and stay alive. Optimus knew the stories. It had been part of what he'd wanted to change before the war began. No mech should force himself to his knees to survive. No mech.
Astrotrain's spike deflated at the same rate as the transfluid spilling down Optimus' intake. Clearly, he'd been modded at some point. It was several long, revolting minutes before Astrotrain pulled free of his mouth, though not without a final spurt of transfluid that landed on Optimus' windshield.
Optimus onlined his optics, getting a view of Astrotrain massaging the base of his spike before he retracted it. Blitzwing was still half-pressurized within Optimus, and would likely have gone for another round if not for the comm.
Astrotrain patted Optimus on the helm. “Much obliged, Prime. Too bad we can't keep you.”
Blitzwing barked a laugh. “Yeah. No way Megatron's gonna share.”
He pushed Optimus off his spike and his lap, and Optimus tumbled forward. He threw himself to the right, landing on his shoulder instead of his faceplate, and cringed at the trickle of transfluid leaking from his valve. If he closed his panel, it would only trap Blitzwing's spill inside. If he left it open, he would leak all down his thighs and it might be seen as an invitation.
“You must be proud,” he said as the two mechs rose to their full height, jostling each other like a couple of high school age humans. The satisfaction in their fields was hard to miss.
Astrotrain kicked him, a solid blow to the midsection that made Optimus curl inward. Something crumpled in his chassis and the sound of grinding mechanisms echoed in his audials.
“Megatron's pinging me,” Blitzwing said, tapping his audial. Otherwise, they made no acknowledgment that Optimus had spoken.
“Me, too.” Astrotrain sighed and shook his helm. “Playtime's over.”
No, Optimus realized as Blitzwing reached down and dragged him to his pedes.
It was only just beginning.
a/n:... Ahem. Seventeen more chapters to go. It gets worse. Trust me when I say, it gets worse. Oubliette is the catalyst, the inciting incident. Salvage, the sequel I'm currently working on, is the aftermath and recovery. Real Life willing, I hope to update this on a regular basis. I hope I didn't forget anything in the header but feel free to ask me if I did.
As always, feedback is welcome and appreciated.
And yes, I am still taking commissions.
