[AU] Oubliette - Chapter Four

[dracoqueen22]

a/n: I'm going to say this at every chapter until it gets better. READ AT YOUR OWN RISK. This fic is pretty darned terrible. And also NSFW.

Universe: G1/IDW AU
Characters this chapter: Megatron/Optimus, Coneheads/Hound, Starscream, Red Alert, Thundercracker, Wildrider, Runabout, Runamuck, Soundwave
Rating: NC-17
Warnings this chapter: rape/noncon, unwilling voyeurism and exhibitionism, forced overload, reprogramming/mind alteration, physical abuse
Commission fic for NK

Mood Music: "Mad World," Gary Jules

Oubliette
Chapter Four

Megatron's first step upon returning to his luxury suite was to drag Optimus into the washracks. There he attached Optimus to rings welded into the wall, and sprayed Optimus down like one might a pet caught rolling around in the mire. Dust sluiced from Optimus' frame, along with the lingering remnants of dried transfluid.

Megatron left him to drip dry as he attended to his own ablutions, scrubbing at his armor with an actual brush and cleanser. There was an almost jovial bounce to the warlord's movements and Optimus dreaded to think what torture Megatron had planned that put him in such a fine mood.

“Did you enjoy your first tour of my city, Prime?” Megatron asked over the rhythmic fall of the cleanser.

“Enjoy is a strong word.”

Megatron chuckled and flexed his armor beneath the spray, letting the cleanser seep into every nook and cranny. His field spoke of enjoyment, of glee, and that only increased Optimus' dread.

“Jealous, Prime?”

“Of you?”

“That I am rebuilding Cybertron beyond your expectations of me.”

Optimus stared hard at the wall, unwilling to let Megatron see his expression. Jealous wasn't quite the term he'd use. Frustration was a lot closer to it. Megatron was rebuilding, yes, but more to prepare himself for Decepticon expansion, not in an effort to fix what was broken.

“You're not the saint you present yourself to be,” Optimus said, but it lacked the sharpness he had intended.

Cybertron was still home. He still ached to be here. It did gall that the Decepticons were the ones being allowed to live here and work toward rebuilding. Optimus felt petty for wishing it had been done by Autobot hands instead.

He was supposed to dream of a united Cybertron, not divided. He still thought the Autobots deserved it more. Certainly he would not have turned the Decepticons into pets or slaves.

Megatron swiped a drying cloth over his frame, his armor gleaming in the dim light of the washracks. “I have earned my rewards.”

Optimus chuffed a ventilation. He chose not to respond to that.

Megatron tossed the used cloths into a receptacle and gave Optimus an appraising look. “You won't be winning any pageants,” he said. “But you'll do.”

“So happy to please you, master,” Optimus said, his tone thick with insincerity.

“Master, hmm? I like the sound of that.” Megatron unlatched him from the wall and cuffed his hands behind his back, though the lead was removed from his collar.

Optimus's face twisted with contempt. “You would.”

Megatron rumbled a laugh, still in his fine mood.

“I think we're due some entertainment, don't you?” Megatron asked as he pulled Optimus into an adjoining room.

This one was smaller than the others, perhaps a private meeting room, and it was lightly furnished. There was a huge vidscreen mounted on the wall with several chairs arranged in front of it. A bar across the back held empty shelves where it might have once had containers upon containers of high grade.

Megatron sat in the largest chair in front of the view screen and pulled Optimus onto his lap, rearranging Optimus' limbs as he suited. He was tilted back against Megatron's chest, his legs splayed over Megatron's thighs and his arms pinned behind him. His shoulder joints ached, a dull throb that would graduate to numbness eventually.

Megatron rested a hand on Optimus' interface array as his other hand fumbled with something. Optimus tried to turn and look, but the angle was too awkward and all it did was cause Megatron to press more firmly on his array.

“What are you doing?”

“Providing entertainment,” Megatron said, again with that self-satisfaction that did not bode well.

The vid-screen clicked on and the roar of a crowd drew Optimus' attention at once. Were they about to watch Megatron's speech again? He'd heard it once already and that was enough for Optimus.

But no. The cameras weren't trained on a stage but something that looked like one of the gladiating pits out of Kaon. This was smaller, newly constructed, but the stands were filled with an eager crowd. There was a mech standing in the center and as the camera zoomed in, Optimus stiffened.

It was Hound.

He'd been repaired since Optimus saw him earlier in the orn. Both optics were now functional and the larger dents had been pounded out. Someone had gone through the effort of giving him a spray down and a functional wax, as though prettying him up for the crowd. He, too, sported a collar and shackles like Optimus and Ratchet and no doubt his weapons had been removed. He wondered if Hound's T-cog had also been disabled or if that was an action reserved for Optimus alone.

Ratchet, after all, couldn't function as a medic if his were removed. There was external hardware for sure, like what Wheeljack relied on, but in an emergency, the internal equipment was best suited.

Hound stood, chains dripping from his wrists and attached to a ring on the floor. He looked around the arena, his optics wide and bright.

“What's going on?” Optimus demanded. “You said you weren't going to kill him!”

Megatron set the remote aside and shifted to get comfortable. He propped one pede on the seat of another chair and tilted Optimus further back against him. His hand joined the other and now both stroked lightly over Optimus' array. The feather-light touch was nice, gentle, and Optimus' array responded accordingly.

“He's not there to be executed,” Megatron said, his vocals a dark purr in Optimus' audial. “Just watch, Prime.” The glee in his field pulsed against Optimus, infecting his own field.

He struggled in Megatron's lap, anger rising within him. “What sick, twisted game are you playing now?”

“No game, Prime. Never just a game.” Megatron's fingers pressed a bit harder on Optimus' seams, his frame thrumming against Optimus'. “Better pay attention or you might miss something.”

On screen, to Optimus' horror, there was a roar of jet engines as the three Coneheads circled the air above Hound. He looked up at them, recognition dawning, and as the crowd cheered, the Decepticons transformed and landed, surrounding Hound. Some invisible command disengaged Hound's chain from the ring, not that there was anywhere to escape.

Nevertheless, Hound shifted into a defensive stance, his hands curling into fists. A bell rang, loud and clear, and Ramjet was the first to launch forward, throwing himself at Hound. All three Seekers towered over the green scout, and it was all Hound could to scuttle out of Ramjet's initial attack.

That put him directly in line for Thrust, however, who snagged one of Hound's swinging chains and yanked the scout toward him. Hound stumbled and took a wild swing, managing to connect with Thrust's face. The crowd laughed as Thrust howled and shoved Hound to the ground, poking at a cracked cheek plate.

“How is this not execution?” Optimus demanded.

Megatron nipped at his audial, scraping the paint from it. “Because the purpose isn't to kill him.” His fingers circled Optimus' array over and over again. “Now open.”

So Megatron wanted to frag him while he watched the Decepticon equivalent of porn? Optimus should have guessed. He clenched his denta and obeyed. At least if he kept his panel, he could have some semblance of privacy.

“Both of them,” Megatron corrected, two fingers making a quick dip into Optimus' valve, though there was no lubrication to be found.

Optimus startled. His spike, too? He hesitated. What if Megatron meant to tear it from his frame?

On screen, Hound attempted to stave off his assailants, but he was outnumbered, outclassed, and unarmed. They were merely toying with him, shoving him between one another, and yanking on the chains. His frame collected a variety of dents and scrapes, until the haphazard wax job was lost to the damage.

“Open,” Megatron repeated, his fingers hooking in the rim of Optimus' valve in a distinctly unpleasant pressure.

Optimus' innards ground as though sand had gotten amid the gears. He trembled before he could stop himself, gruesome images of the sensitive equipment being torn from its casing and the immediate pain that would follow.

Megatron's fingers pressed at the edge of the panel, fingers trying to push between the seams and Optimus knew that if he didn't obey, Megatron would tear it off anyway. And it wouldn't stop Megatron from hurting him.

He bit back a helpless noise and allowed the panel to open, only the tip of his spike peeking from the sheath. He was far from aroused and it showed.

Megatron made a grunt of approval, his fingers circling the tip of Optimus' spike as though trying to coax it free. His other hand left Optimus valve, but only to press two fingers to Optimus' mouth, tapping his lips. He revved his engine, the vibrations traveling through Optimus, straight to his core, and the unexpected sensation made him gasp, his frame arching.

Megatron took advantage, pushing his fingers into Optimus' mouth, the pads of them massaging Optimus' glossa. Optimus made an inarticulate noise, but didn't bite. Nor did he participate. He sat there, passive, as Megatron thrust his fingers in and out of Optimus' mouth, gathering up oral lubricants and stroking his glossa. Meanwhile, his other hand wreaked merry havoc on Optimus' spike, pinching and stroking the tip until it grudgingly emerged from the protection of its sheath.

The warlord hummed beneath him, frame growing hotter and hotter, his panel a searing presence against Optimus' aft. Yet, he still made no attempt to pressurize his spike and take Optimus as he'd been so willing to do yesterday.

Instead, he removed his fingers from Optimus' mouth, now wet with oral lubricant, and returned them to Optimus' valve. They circled the rim of his valve, flirting over the anterior node and sending a shock of pleasure through Optimus' array. He jerked, vents whooshing a startled puff.

Megatron chuckled. “I can also be kind,” he purred, fingers encircling Optimus' spike and giving it several light strokes. It pressurized fully in his grip. Optimus' housing buzzed with a growing warmth.

Optimus groaned and cycled a ventilation. “That does not make it any less unwanted.”

“I am aware. Watch the show, Prime. You wouldn't want to miss it.”

Megatron's finger paid due attention to Optimus' node, flicking over it again and again. Optimus' hips jerked, his valve twitching at the unexpected bursts of pleasure. And still Megatron made no attempt to take him.

On screen, a much battered Hound gave it his best. Perhaps they told him he could be free if he participated. Perhaps the threat of the shock collar had left its mark. Optimus didn't know. It made him angry, his engine revving weakly, submitting to the damn throttler.

One of Megatron's fingers plunged into Optimus' valve as Hound was backhanded to the ground. He hit with a spin, scraping across the floor. He struggled to push himself upright, arms wobbling, shaking his helm.

Thrust kicked him in the side, denting metal inward, likely cracking a fuel cell. Hound tried to skitter away, on knees and one hand, his other cradling his midsection, energon leaking from between his fingers.

“They'll kill him,” Optimus insisted.

“Not when he's more fun to keep alive,” Megatron said, adding a second finger, two of them curling and poking into Optimus' valve, swirling around the bare lubrication. “And not when they know the consequences of disobeying my orders.” He pinched the tip of Optimus' spike and Optimus jerked.

Hound scrambled away from Ramjet's swipe, but he couldn't avoid Dirge's lunge. The dark blue Seeker tackled Hound to the floor, the cheers of the crowd making the speakers rattle from their volume.

“The real fun begins now,” Megatron said with a rumbling purr, his fingers curving and stroking deep set nodes.

Optimus tried to twist away from the unwanted pleasure, but couldn't get any leverage. Megatron had stripped it all from him.

“It's torture!” Optimus snapped.

“It's payment. They have won, therefore they claim their prize,” Megatron murmured.

The Coneheads bore a thrashing, struggling Hound to the ground. Ramjet pawed at Hound's array and ripped away his covers when Hound didn't retract them fast enough. Thrust aimed himself at Hound's mouth. Dirge's fingers pried his jaw apart and held him open for Thrust's entry.

A glossy, banded spike plunged into Hound's mouth as Ramjet hunched over him from behind, spike forcing its way into Hound's valve.

The crowd cheered. The camera circled around them, covering all angles. Thrust gripped Hound's helm, forcing himself deeper and deeper with each thrust. Dirge stood back, stroking his spike, waiting his turn. Ramjet hiked Hound higher, giving himself a better angle for a deeper thrust.

This was what Megatron called entertainment.

Optimus felt sick to his spark. He wanted to turn his helm away and offline his optics. His tanks clenched. Despite at all, the pleasure that wracked his frame was undeniable.

Megatron's fingers were relentless. He plunged into Optimus' valve, three fingers now, stroking and rubbing the buried sensors. His grip on Optimus' spike was practiced and perfect, a twist on the upstroke and a squeeze on the downstroke. Optimus was all but writhing in Megatron's arms, his vents stuttered, his frame filled with heat.

A needy sound broke from his vocalizer. Optimus arched in Megatron's arms, his calipers cycling down on Megatron's fingers, both too much and not enough. His anterior node throbbed and the occasional sweep of Megatron's thumb did not sate it. His thighs quivered.

He told himself, over and over, No. He would not overload at Megatron's hand. He would not let the pleasure overwhelm him. He would not spill to the sight of his Autobot being violated for a roaring crowd.

Megatron's engine ticked into a higher gear. The vibrations rattled against Optimus' frame, setting his circuits alight. Charge crackled under his armor. His spark throbbed.

On screen, Thrust howled his overload, splattering all over Hound's face. Transfluid dripped to the ground as Thrust staggered back, his spike still half-pressurized. He said something that the camera didn't pick up and Ramjet grinned. He stopped thrusting, bent over, hooked his arms under Hound's knees, and lifted.

Hound thrashed about, but Ramjet's grip only tightened, denting the metal of his thigh armor. He remained buried in Hound's valve, hips moving in minute jerks that barely shifted him around. The camera angle changed as Dirge stepped in for a turn, one finger stroking the rim of Hound's valve stretched around Ramjet's spike. He slipped said finger in beside him, Hound's optics widening with fear.

“Keep watching,” Megatron said, his voice almost distant to Optimus who now, couldn't tear his optics away, if only from the horror of it.

Megatron's prior accusation seemed to ring in his audials.

Look at what it brought you. How many of your Autobots are dead, Optimus? How many have you failed?

This was his fault.

Megatron shifted. His fingers plunged deeper into Optimus' valve, relentlessly stroking the ring of sensors within Optimus' valve. He stroked and pinched the tip of Optimus spike, playing around with the thin beads of pre-transfluid.

“I want you to overload,” Megatron rumbled, his hips rocking against Optimus' aft, the searing heat of his closed panels almost burning. “Scream out your pleasure while watching your Autobot receive his punishment.”

Optimus' hands clenched into fists. “You disgust me.”

Megatron chuckled. “Then why are you leaking all over my lap?” His fingers shoved into Optimus' valve, lubricants dripping down his wrist and onto the floor between their spread legs. “Why does your frame tremble with need?”

Optimus treated them as rhetorical questions. He tried to still his movements, ignore the indicators of a rising overload. He watched Hound be taken by two mechs at once, energon and fluids mingled as they dribbled down his thighs. Optimus clung to his horror, to the rolling upset in his tank, and hoped it would forestall if not erase his arousal.

They did neither. Instead, the two blended together inside of him, until his tanks churned and his ventilations stuttered and his valve rippled and error messages cropped up inside his processor.

Optimus sobbed, not caring how he sounded, or that it was all an admission that Megatron's twisted torture was working. Megatron's satisfaction pulsed at him, to the same tune as his lust, and Optimus' anterior node throbbed. His hips jerked and rolled into Megatron's touch without his consent. His frame had other ideas, only seeking an overload without everything else attached.

On screen, Ramjet and Dirge finished, filling Hound's valve with transfluid. They withdrew at the same time, though Dirge stepped back, giving the camera a perfect view of Hound's gaping valve, the rim twitching weakly as transfluid dripped from within him. He sagged in Ramjet's grip, face twisted with pain, vents wheezing.

Thrust returned, jamming his fingers into Hound's valve, swirling them about until the mixture of energon, lubricant, and transfluid soaked the digits. He withdrew them, dripping, and raised them to Hound's mouth, shoving them inside without any fanfare.

Megatron rumbled his approval.

The crowd roared.

The sweep of Megatron's thumb over his throbbing node sent Optimus tumbling into overload, the pleasure tearing through him with the crackle of searing heat, burning out several circuits. His frame thrashed, his interface array ached, and he spilled all over Megatron's fingers, spurting transfluid to the floor.

Shame gripped his spark and Optimus felt the purge rising. He swallowed it down, for there was nowhere for it to go but down his chestplate.

Beneath him, Megatron's panel snapped open and his spike sprang free, gliding along Optimus' aft. Two hands gripped his thighs, mechhandling him until Megatron could shift his hips and plunge into Optimus' spasming valve with a shout of his own pleasure. Both pedes hit the floor, giving him the leverage to pound into Optimus, his frame roaring heat from holding himself back.

Optimus whined, his vents hiccuping, the sharp smack of Megatron's hips against his aft an unpleasant sensation atop all others. His frame trembled with the aftershocks of his overload, exhaustion setting into the tune of his dwindling fuel levels.

It took only a handful of thrusts before he felt Megatron spurt inside of him, pulses of transfluid joining the lubricant in his valve. The warlord overloaded with a growl of satisfaction, clamping down on Optimus' shoulder with his denta, a sharp stab of pain that barely registered on the scale.

His vents blasting heat, Megatron stilled inside Optimus, keeping them joined at the array. His glossa traced the bite marks he left on Optimus' shoulder, his engine rumbling with approval. His hands flexed on Optimus' thighs as he shifted to get more comfortable, lowering Optimus into a better position on his lap. Optimus' calipers weakly twitched around the depressurizing spike. He felt the fluids leaking out from around it, dripping onto Megatron beneath him.

On screen, Hound had been abandoned in a dirty, transfluid-covered heap. His optics were dim as he curled into himself. His rapists celebrated in front of a cheering crowd. Optimus didn't recognize the red grounder that came roaring into the arena, but he was trailed by a larger blue one. They gathered up the ravaged Autobot, the red one looking him over with a frown.

And then the monitor clicked off.

Megatron patted a possessive hand over Optimus' array and slipped out of his valve. “Close,” he ordered.

Optimus obeyed. What was the point otherwise? He shifted and felt the trickle of his lubricant and Megatron's transfluid within him. His sensors pinged irritation at him, sluggishly attempting to stir.

“More than adequate this time, Prime,” Megatron said, both hands now stroking Optimus' panels, swirling in the splatter of fluids that stained his array. “You've learned your place.”

Optimus' engine whined disagreement. He couldn't seem to get his vocalizer to initialize. He sagged against Megatron, aching to the very core of his spark.

What was he thinking? He couldn't protect his Autobots. He couldn't even protect himself.

0o0o0

Optimus was dragged from recharge next cycle with all the subtlety of a freight train. He was off-balance, both physically and mentally, and could do little more than stumble after Megatron as the warlord dragged them from his quarters. He hadn't even taken the time to fully bind Optimus, only attaching the lead to his collar but leaving his arms to move freely.

Then again, all it would take was a swift command and Optimus would drop to his knees in electric agony, so maybe the chains were redundant.

“As much as I've enjoyed our time together, Prime, I do have a job to do,” Megatron tossed over his shoulder with a fanged smirk.

“More warmongering?” Optimus asked bitterly.

Megatron snorted a ventilation, but did not answer. They left the Prime's residence and entered a nearby building that the hustle and bustle instantly identified as Megatron's command center. More than a few Decepticons leered as they passed and one large triple-changer – judging by the presence of both wings and treads – slapped Optimus' aft. Megatron laughed while Optimus scuttled nearer to the warlord, his aft stinging.

The command center occupied the top floor of a re-purposed building and when they arrived, all of the Decepticons turned to goggle. A collection of Decepticons manned the stations on the lowest levels, but commander on deck at the moment was Starscream. He smirked as he saw Megatron, striding toward with a cocky cant to his hips.

“You grace us with your presence at last, Leader,” he said. “Or is your pet proving too much of a distraction?”

“Sector thirteen, clear.”

Optimus stiffened. He knew those vocals, if not the tone at least the timbre. He ignored Megatron and Starscream posturing at each other and turned to find the source. His optics widened as he noticed a console to the side of the door, one he wouldn't have seen when they first came in.

Red Alert. He'd thought their security director offline. But here he was, every available cable connected to a massive console, his gaze affixed on no less than a dozen monitors. Each of them flicked through scenes in intervals, half depicting Iacon, the other half depicting surveillance of Cybertron.

Optimus took a step toward him without thinking, his spark clenching. Red Alert had not looked up at their entrance. He scarcely moved. Four primary cables connected him to the console. His hands rested upon a keyboard, fingers in constant motion. The flicker of his optics reflected on the monitor screen.

“Sector fourteen clear,” he said, vocals a monotone devoid of inflection.

What had they done to him?

The chain brought him up short and Optimus stopped in place, his hands drawing into slow fists. He reached out, as best he could, with his field, but no matter how much he reached for Red Alert he received no response. No recognition. No relief. It was as though he were reaching for a drone.

“Of all the Autobots, he was the most useful asset,” Megatron said, Optimus' only warning before the warlord pressed against him from behind, one hand giving a pointed tug to Optimus' lead. “Amazing what a little behavioral coding can do. Especially for a mech who was built to sustain it.”

Optimus shook.

This would have been Prowl's fate, he thought, if Prowl had survived and ended up in Decepticon custody. Mechs programmed to be civil servants, to have loyalty coding, were more susceptible to behavioral coding. It was a distant ancestor to slave coding, a leftover remnant from Quintesson rule ages and ages ago.

Megatron used a modified version of it for the Combaticons, Optimus knew. Jazz had brought him that intel, back when Optimus had proposed enlisting Onslaught's aid in overthrowing Megatron, since it was clear he held little love for the Decepticon warlord.

There's no point now, Jazz had said with a shrug. Their sparks will burn out before they can do anything against Megatron.

That idea had gone by the wayside. Optimus should not have been so shocked to learn Megatron would use such methods. He had, after all, used the Robosmasher as a recruitment technique. Its effects were just as permanent. Mechs like the Constructions and the Combaticons would never be free, not so long as Megatron lived.

“You've made him into a drone,” Optimus growled.

“A useful one at that,” Megatron agreed, without so much as an argument otherwise. “His assistance has resulted in the capture of at least three Autobots.”

“Sector fifteen, clear.”

Optimus twisted away from Megatron, as far as the chain would allow him, affixing the warlord with his most virulent glare. “How can you do that to another living being?” he demanded.

Megatron, however, only gave him a mild look in return. “Because that's the price he had to pay.” He tugged on Optimus' lead, forcing him back close until his vents blasted over Optimus, churning his tanks. “Can you imagine a worse punishment?”

Optimus' optics narrowed as he tilted his helm back, pulling on the chain. “A few come to mind.”

His captor laughed and turned his back on Optimus, heading toward what Optimus could only call a throne. It sat central to all the consoles in the command center, on a slightly raised platform. It was unoccupied at the moment and Optimus had no doubt that the only Decepticon who used it was Megatron, perhaps Starscream if he felt daring.

Megatron sat upon his throne with a great weight about him.

You poor, spark-heavy monster, Optimus thought with a sneer. It must be hard to have a lump of coal for a spark.

An offhand tug to the lead had Optimus stumble forward, climbing the dais until he stood at Megatron's left hand. “Sit.”

Optimus lowered himself to the floor. The alternative was to either stand all day or worse, find himself in Megatron's lap. This put his helm level with the arm of Megatron's throne, and Megatron took advantage of that, his fingers brushing one of Optimus' antennae.

He cringed and tilted his helm away from Megatron's fingers. “Don't touch me,” he said. Cooperation, he decided, was no longer an acceptable option. Not after what Megatron had done to Hound and Red Alert.

Optimus would die first.

Megatron backhanded him, as casual as you please, and Optimus grunted at the impact, his facial plate aching. His visual feed forced itself into a reset as Optimus struggled to keep upright, not that the collar allowed him to go far.

“I'm disappointed, Prime,” Megatron said with a click of his glossa. “We were making such progress.”

Optimus frowned and poked at his lip plate, tasting the well of energon. It was a light cut, one his self-repair was already working toward. But to be smacked like an errant child? It was a humiliation to add to all the others.

“No,” he said with a firm glare Megatron's direction. “We were not.”

Megatron chuckled and reached for his helm. He snatched an antenna and pulling it closer. Optimus relented, if only to ease the pain. Those were sensitive!

“Of course we were,” he murmured, thumb stroking a long path up Optimus' antennae. “But in case it doesn't work, I have some coding that will. As soon as Shockwave figures out how to get past that thing attached to your spark.”

Optimus' optics cycled wide. Had Megatron already tried to upload that behavioral coding in him? It would had to have been while he was offline in the medbay. Was the matrix the only thing protecting him from it?

He tilted his gaze away, shifting his focus inward, trying to take a look at his coding. All systems reported unaltered for something as insidious as that code, he didn't doubt it could hide behind anything innocuous.

“For now, however, I like you better with a little fight,” Megatron continued and he leaned over the arm of the throne, the edge of his denta nipping at the tip of Optimus' antennae. “It makes every victory that much sweeter.” His vocals vibrated along the sensitive metal.

Optimus shivered. He hoped it was only from disgust.

Mercifully, Megatron withdrew, leaving Optimus alone. Optimus scooted as far from Megatron's reach as was physically possible. Not that Megatron noticed or cared. He tapped his fingers over the console on his throne, pulling up a holographic screen.

“Thundercracker,” he barked, “status report.”

The aforementioned Seeker had just entered the command center and his wings hiked as though startled. He looked like a Terran deer in headlights. He cycled his optics and then dipped his helm.

“Yes, Leader,” he said, and approached the throne, his optics only briefly flickering to Optimus before he produced a datapad from subspace.

Once Optimus realized they weren't talking about Autobots or anything of interest, he shifted his own attention back to his coding. His scans were still coming up negative, but he would wait for it to finish before drawing his conclusions. There was a flag, evidence someone had copied his core coding onto an external drive.

Optimus' spark fluttered.

There were many unpleasant things Shockwave could do with that information.

He drew his legs up, bracing his arms across them, an unconscious desire to protect his core. His spark strobed an unhappy beat.

If Shockwave found a means to alter his core coding, there would be no turning back. He would be like Red Alert, a drone for Megatron's use. Was Red even alive in there? Were his thoughts trapped by the coding? Did he scream to be free from his torment?

He still had his spark. Did it thrash and cry in his casing? Did it beg for freedom?

Death would have been kinder.

The plating on Optimus' back shuffled. He flinched and looked up, scanning around him. Thundercracker had gone, Megatron was working on something on his screen, and... a Decepticon was staring at Optimus. Three of them, to be more accurate, only one of whom he recognized – the Stunticon Wildrider.

Wildrider was the one who dared get closer, near enough to touch, but he didn't. His frame twitched as though it was difficult to hold himself back.

Optimus tilted closer to Megatron's throne. There was something unsettling in the way Wildrider stared at him.

A hand landed on his helm. Megatron's, by the weight of it, a thumb stroking the length of his undamaged audial.

One of the Decepticons with dark gray and red plating lit up his visor. “When are you going to share him, my lord?” he asked, his tone both respectful and hungry.

Optimus stiffened. Megatron's hand continued to pet his helm, whether an attempt to be soothing or possessive, Optimus couldn't say. The motion was off hand as he hadn't looked up from his work.

“That depends on his behavior, Runabout,” Megatron said mildly. “And whether my soldiers have earned that privilege.”

The other mech pressed forward, his vents blasting a wave of heat. “Is it true? That if we find an Autobot, we can keep it?” His white plating was scraped and dented, as though he didn't bother to take care of himself.

“So long as the Autobot is not otherwise useful,” Megatron said, still offhand, his fingers now stroking Optimus' face, his thumb teasing at the seam of Optimus' lips. “There are other caveats, but yes. Provided they are of no interest to me, Autobots are awarded to their captors.”

Optimus cringed.

Runabout and his companion exchanged glances, all but dancing in place with excitement. Wildrider actually did shout, pumping his fist into the air with a noisy exclamation.

“We gotta catch another one then!” Wildrider said and elbowed the white Decepticon. “Me and my brothers caught the medic, you know.”

“Yeah, but you didn't get to keep him,” Runabout said.

“Just means we'll keep the next one,” Wildrider retorted, affronted.

Megatron's engine gave a warning growl. “If you three don't return to work, none of you will receive a reward.”

“Sir!”

Three Decepticons scattered. Optimus' tank churned. Megatron's thumb on his lips was a tempting target. He gave more than one thought to letting it slide into his mouth and then biting it off.

How severe would his punishment be?

“I know what you're thinking,” Megatron said.

Optimus looked up at the warlord, surprised that Megatron was actually paying him attention. Those red optics darkened at him.

“And that would be a petty revenge, Prime.”

He curled his lip, tilting his helm away from Megatron, not that it got him far. “You deserve far worse.”

Megatron chuckled. “How many times have you had the opportunity to offline me, Prime? How many times have you hesitated? Have you let me walk away unhindered?” His thumb pushed harder at Optimus' bottom lip and then into his mouth, stroking his glossa. “You don't have the spark for death.”

Optimus' optics narrowed. His hands clenched around his knees. “For you, I'd revise my vows.” The words were muffled around Megatron's fingers.

Megatron had the gall to throw his helm back and laugh, drawing attention their way. “You would kill me, Prime? I'm tempted to loose those chains just to see you try.”

His faceplate burned. Other Decepticons were snickering. More than a few stared at them, though they were careful to return to work at a casual glance from their master.

Optimus bristled.

The pain would be worth it. His optics flashed and he clamped his mouth done, denta clamping around Megatron's thumb. He felt dermal metal give way beneath him, felt the warm splash of energon.

For a moment, he felt satisfaction.

Megatron roared, a sound of outrage more than pain, and he struck Optimus across the face, far worse than he had earlier. Megatron's injured digit popped from his mouth as Optimus' visual feed went black. He rocked back from the force of the blow, nearly tumbling from the dais, but Megatron's hand caught at the lead, jerking him back by the collar.

“That was unwise,” Megatron snarled. Searing vents puffed against Optimus' face.

Optimus' optics rebooted. He stared back at Megatron and purposefully flicked his glossa, cleaning up the few drops of energon Megatron's thumb had left behind.

“I am not your toy,” Optimus growled. “And neither are my Autobots.”

Megatron dripped onto the lead, though the injury truly was minor. For Cybertronians who had been at war for millennia, it didn't even register on a scale of pain. But pain wasn't the point.

“You are whatever I say you are and you will pay for that, Prime.”

Optimus didn't so much as tremble. “What worse punishment do you think you can give me?”

“You think you've seen my worst?” Megatron arched an orbital ridge, his lips pulled back over his bared denta, truly making him seem a beast. “I haven't even begun.”

He twisted his wrist, coiling the length of the lead around it. This dragged Optimus uncomfortably close to the throne, near enough that his chin almost rested on the arm of it. He couldn't look down, couldn't ease the strain on his neck cabling. It twitched and shuffled, more annoyance than pain.

Megatron said nothing else. He simply went back to work, leaving the air between them thick with tension. Optimus expected more. He expected for Megatron to throw him to the ground and lay into him, beat him as the Coneheads had done to Hound before taking him.

This calm acceptance left him uneasy. Though calm was perhaps the wrong word. Megatron's armor had slicked down, his lips forming a frown. His fingers tapped over his console with more force than necessary. He ignored Optimus, except to occasionally give a mild tug to the leash.

Optimus sighed, rested his chin on the arm of the throne, and tried to get comfortable.

“Lord Megatron.”

Optimus looked up at the familiar vocals. It was hard to miss that passionless monotone of Soundwave's. He stood in front of Megatron, a datapad in hand, and were he anyone else, Optimus would say he was fidgeting. But there was a dimness to Soundwave's visor and a certain way he held his armor in that suggested he bore bad news. And what mech liked to bring Megatron bad news?

“Yes, Soundwave, what is it?” Megatron asked, sounding bored. He didn't bother to look up from whatever he was doing on his screen.

“Report received.” Soundwave's visor dimmed further. “Protihex Depot claims a forty percent loss.”

Megatron stilled. “Loss?” Now he looked up, something in his face thunderous. His field spiked.

“Autobot perpetrators.” The light behind Soundwave's visor shifted to Optimus, making him squirm. “Raid involved loss of energon, medical supplies, and weapons.”

“Weapons!” Megatron shot to his pedes, his holographic shattering at the wave of his hand. Optimus tumbled forward, jerked by the collar, and scrambled on hands and knees to keep from breaking something. Megatron didn't seem to notice him. “Who did it?”

The entire command center went silent. Never had Optimus seen Decepticons stare so diligently at their monitors. The only one who dared speak was Red Alert, his dull drone a mere background noise that no one took heed of.

“Identity unknown.” Soundwave's armor clamped even tighter to his substructure, if at all possible.

His cassettes, Optimus noticed, were absent. He could have had them docked but his compartment looked empty.

“Cassettes reviewing surveillance,” Soundwave continued, as brave as any mech in the face of Megatron's growing ire. “Sabotage, however, suspected.”

Megatron's engine rumbled. There was a low, deep whine, his fusion cannon shifting into online mode. His optics brightened with rage.

“You are telling me,” he said in a low tone that boded well for no one. He started down the dais, dragging Optimus along with him. “That I have the Autobots outnumbered on Cybertron a hundred to one. I have the best security any mech could ask for. And still somehow one of my supply depots was raided and you cannot identify the criminal who would dare do so?” By the end, his vocals had reached a peak, a roar of fury that echoed around the command center.

Soundwave, to his credit, did not quail.

“Affirmative, Lord Megatron.”

The warlord's armor shuffled, lifting and settling as though he was drawing on his offensive subroutines. “You have failed me, Soundwave.”

The communications officer dipped his helm and there was a wobble in one of his legs. Optimus would not have seen it if he hadn't been looking for it.

“I apologize. New security measures employed. Breach will not happen again.”

“That's a start. But it's not good enough.” Megatron hissed, his hand clenching into a fist. “I want to know who did it and I want to know now.”

Soundwave relaxed by increments, perhaps because Megatron had yet to throw a punch. Optimus had seen him strike Starscream for less. Apparently, he was more lenient toward Soundwave.

This time.

“Investigation underway. Forming list of potential Autobot culprits.”

Megatron's engine rattled and he paused, helm turning slowly toward Optimus. His optics burned like smoldering coals.

“Keep looking,” he said, and he jerked on Optimus' lead, yanking Optimus toward him. He tumbled forward, bumping against Megatron's leg, struggling to situate himself. “But I may not need it.” He pulled on the lead, dragging Optimus to his pedes, their faceplates in proximity. “I have all the intelligence I need in your processor, don't I, Prime?”

Optimus stiffened, suddenly glad that he had no idea of the status of his Autobots. “I don't know anything,” he said. “And even if I did, I wouldn't help you.”

“Then I'll have to convince you otherwise,” Megatron said. “Call Cyclonus to take command,” he continued, speaking to Soundwave though his optics remained locked on Optimus. “And summon Vortex and Barricade.”

“Vortex off planet.”

Megatron huffed a ventilation and loosened his hold on Optimus, shifting his attention to his communications specialist. “Yes, that's right. A pity.” His lips formed a frown. “Barricade then. And Shockwave. You can remain on standby just in case.” He lifted his hand, his knuckles brushing the underside of Optimus' jaw. “I want answers. Whatever it takes.”

“Yes, Lord Megatron.”

Optimus cycled a ventilation. Maybe the bite had not been worth it after all.

****

a/n: Remember how I said it gets worse? Well, it's still getting worse. Please keep that in mind.

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