[TFP] Entitled - Parts One through Three
Sep. 22nd, 2016 08:36 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
dracoqueen22a/n: Originally written for this prompt on the kinkmeme years ago, and I think it’s time I claim it, don’t you? I haven’t changed anything, just cleaned it up a little. This is very NSFW, read the warnings.
Title: Entitled
Universe: TFP AU
Characters: Knock Out/Sunstreaker, Vehicons/Sunstreaker, Megatron, Breakdown
Rated: NC-17
Warnings: NonCon/Rape, Gangbang, Noncon use of toys and bondage, torture, humiliation
Description: Sunstreaker crash-lands on Earth, but the Decepticons find him first, and quite a few hold a grudge. All that's left is to suffer.
Part One
“This thing's a heap of scrap.”
Breakdown grabbed hold of the crumpled bay door and ripped it from the hinges, tossing the mangled panel of metal over his shoulder.
“I'd be surprised if anything survived,” he added, peering into the dark of the battered spacecraft, dimly lit by emergency lights.
Breakdown had a point. The spacecraft hadn't survived atmospheric entry, bits and pieces of it breaking off and landing all over the area. It was still smoking; the air stank heavily of scorched metal and also, scorched organic material as it had created quite the landing zone. The humans would be here soon enough to investigate, which would draw the Autobots as well.
Megatron planned to be gone long before then.
He turned toward Soundwave.
His third in command inclined his helm, sensors performing a quick sweep, the results of which showed on his faceplate. One life sign, weak but holding steady. A survivor.
“Someone is inside,” Megatron said.
Breakdown shrugged, hefting up his hammer arm. “Must be a Pit of a mech.”
Megatron took it upon himself to enter first. Soundwave brought up the rear, disengaging Laserbeak to scout the area and warn them in advance of arriving Autobots. It wouldn't take long for Prime to notice the crashing of a Cybertronian spacecraft, even if it was Decepticon in origin.
The spacecraft looked no better inside than it did on the outside. Energy scores on the walls, ceiling, and floors were testament to a furious battle at some point. Hallways were dark, some blocked off completely. The whole craft stank of isolation and abandonment. Even if it hadn't crashed, Megatron suspected that it did not utilize much, if any of its lighting or atmospheric controls.
They passed a few empty rooms, the silence broken only by the barely perceptible noise of Soundwave's constant scanning. The craft was deserted, without even the empty frames of offline mechs who might have made the shuttle their home.
They found the pilot on the bridge, a cramped area with only two large chairs and a compact console. Emergency lights glowed weakly, all of the monitors dark and lifeless. The viewing screen had crumpled, one of the spiked protrusions of the ship curving back from the force of the crash and splintering the thick glass.
The mech himself was slumped in the pilot's seat, hands fallen from the controls though one cable remained connected to the console. He was pinned to the chair by a thick piece of metal, energon dribbling around the wound and pooling on the floor with a quiet drip.
Breakdown made a whistling noise. “He survived that? The thing's microns from his spark chamber!”
Megatron made a noncommittal noise and circled to the left of the unidentified mech, optics narrowing.
This was no Decepticon.
Golden armor, a warrior's sleek build, sharp talons meant to gouge and rend. Some kind of energy blade strapped to his back. And slapped on his shoulders were the bright red decals of an Autobot.
Megatron snarled, lipplates pulled back over his denta.
Soundwave sent him a file in a databurst, for identification, but Megatron hadn't needed it. He would know this mech even if a thousand vorns had passed.
Megatron had a list, a string of designations in the forefront of his processor of mechs and femmes that he had vowed to personally offline. Optimus Prime – Orion Pax – was at the top of this list. There were also several traitors, pompous mechs of high standing, and a couple of defectors who had made him look like a fool.
Sunstreaker was one of those defectors.
“He's not a Decepticon,” Breakdown said, lifting one of Sunstreaker's arms and letting it fall, hitting the side of the chair with a dull clang.
“Not anymore,” Megatron replied, spark swirling with fury.
Breakdown looked up at him, single optic dim with confusion. “Ya know him?”
“We've been acquainted.” Megatron turned away from the battered frame of the former gladiator, his processor spinning with thoughts. Plans. Ideas. “Bring him along, Breakdown. We should show him the hospitality of the Decepticons.”
“Yes, sir.” Breakdown sounded more than a little gleeful.
Megatron approved.
He would make Sunstreaker suffer. Would tear him to pieces. Slowly. Methodically. Spill energon from the traitor drop by precious drop. Rip out every circuit. Pull off every armor panel. Sunstreaker would die slowly, every last second filled with agony.
The screech of metal against metal echoed in the bridge as Breakdown yanked Sunstreaker free from the pilot's chair without an ounce of gentleness. If Sunstreaker had been online, the pain would have been excruciating. Pity he wasn't aware enough to appreciate it.
Soundwave walked alongside Megatron and he knew, without having to ask, that his third in command had many questions.
“The Autobots don't know he's here,” Megatron said. “Let's keep it that way, shall we?”
Soundwave nodded, his facescreen flickering before he began to replay a voice clip. Of Megatron's own words at that.
“Death will be given to anyone who betrays the Decepticon cause.”
Megatron chuckled darkly. “All in due time, Soundwave. He had potential once. He may still be of some use to us.”
And if not, Megatron would dispose of the traitor personally. Just as he intended to do to Optimus Prime.
Part Two
Sunstreaker onlined to pain. Systems errors streaked across his HUD, letting him know that he was low on energon and coolant, with critical errors stacking up in his processor.
He onlined his optics, rebooted them twice, but the dark remained. He ran diagnostics. They worked, but wherever he was, there was no light. Which meant he wasn't on the Nightwing anymore. Even after a crash like that, he'd still have reserves or emergency power to draw from.
His ventilations were ragged. He could feel himself spraying fluids with each ex-vent out. Not good. Pain radiated from his helm to his pedes. A strut in his leg was shattered. He couldn't put much weight on it. Frag.
He was standing.
Sunstreaker twitched, heard the rattling of chains. He jerked his wrists, but they were pinned to the wall above his helm with less than a foot of slack. His pedes were given a similar treatment. He couldn't move, couldn't see.
What happened?
He remembered roaming the universe, trying to find signs of any Cybertronians. It had been so long he'd even settle for a Decepticon, if only to end the perpetual monotony.
He couldn't find the Ark, couldn't find the Autobots, and most of all, he couldn't find Sideswipe.
And then?
Sunstreaker groaned, thoughts bouncing messily inside his processor. It was hard to concentrate, hard to connect one line to another. What was wrong with him? Battle damage?
He gritted his denta.
Wandering the universe. And then?
The wormhole. He remembered that. It grabbed the Nightwing, dragged him in, and Sunstreaker didn't have the talent needed to pilot himself free. The wormhole spat him out somewhere his navs couldn't immediately identify. Then there was an asteroid or something. It clipped his hull.
He lost an engine.
It became a blur after that.
He remembered hurtling without control. Remembered seeing a planet or two, and then another one, bright in the darkness. He remembered thinking that he was never going to survive planet-fall. There was heat and then... darkness. Here. Wherever here was.
A ping to his fuel tank finally came back. Seventeen percent, barely above minimum. No surprise there. He hadn't had much to begin with, and if the state of his frame was an indication, he'd been leaking for some time.
He tried to access his comm. Nothing. Either it was broken or had been removed. Judging by his chains, Sunstreaker suspected it was the latter. Not that it mattered. He had no one to contact.
The silence in his spark was even more telling.
Where was he? Surely not among Autobots. Soft-sparked mechs they were, they would have put him in some brightly-lit medbay, attached to monitoring systems, with a medic hovering nearby.
He checked his chronometer. It didn't help. He had no frame of reference.
Somewhere, in the distance, a door slid open with a hydraulic hiss. Sunstreaker's helm snapped up, optics swiveling in the direction of the sound.
He heard pedesteps and felt the distant edges of a powerful energy field. Small lights popped on, piercing the gloom.
A tall, spiky frame came into view. Crimson optics set against gunmetal grey plating. A large cannon was strapped to his right forearm.
Megatron.
Sunstreaker stilled.
Any Cybertronian contact would have been preferable to this.
“Are you enjoying your accommodations?” Megatron asked, his voice a fakely pleasant hiss in the heavy silence.
A growl crawled it's way out of Sunsteaker's vocalizer. “Eat slag!”
Megatron chuckled, though it lacked amusement. “As polite as ever I see.”
“What do you want, Megatron?”
The Decepticon lord tilted his helm, optics burning brighter. “Considering what happened on our last encounter, it should be fairly obvious.”
His unwavering stare sent a ripple of unease through Sunstreaker's spark. There was something in Megatron's gaze, some dark fury, that Sunstreaker had no desire to experience.
Sunstreaker snarled, trying to swallow down rising disquiet. “I should have ripped out your spark when I had the chance.”
Megatron's talons curled into fists with a quiet creak of tightened hydraulic lines. “Such a mistake won't be made again, rest assured. Enjoy your stay.”
He said nothing more, turning on a pede and striding from the cell. As he left, so did all of the lights, leaving Sunstreaker trapped in dim and silence.
Except for the drip. The steady drip of his energon trickling from his lines, over his plating, and on to the floor.
Part Three
Knock Out stared into the mirror, watching the unsightly mark on his thigh armor fade away as he rubbed the cloth in careful circles. Over and over, making the plating gleam. The rich silver glistened in the wake of the polish.
His engine gave a little rev of appreciation. Yes, indeed.
Heat pulsed a slow path across his circuits. Knock Out's lips curled into a smirk, talons of one hand lazily exploring the gap in his pelvic plating. Tracing around the edge of his interface panel. A shiver danced down his backstrut.
His door slid open, Breakdown bursting inside without so much as a request or invitation.
“Knock Out!”
He snarled, grabbing the nearest object that wasn't tied down, and whirled, hurling it at his so-called partner.
Breakdown ducked, the tin of wax hitting the wall above his head and leaving a dent behind, one to match several others already present.
“Oaf!” Knock Out seethed, all effort made toward arousal swiftly abandoned. “What the frag do you want!”
“Nice to see you, too,” Breakdown said sourly, and invited himself to flop down on Knock Out's berth. “Aren't you at all curious about what we found?”
“Found?” He turned back toward the mirror, plating lifted out of irritation. He wasn't done inspecting himself.
“On the Decepticon shuttle.”
Oh, yes. Knock Out seemed to recall something about Soundwave detecting an incoming spacecraft and its subsequent crash. But as Megatron hadn't called for Knock Out's medical expertise, he assumed they'd found no survivors. It wasn't important.
Was that a scratch on his right forearm?
Knock Out leaned closer to the mirror, optics cycling down. Where in the pit had that come from?
“Well, it wasn't a Decepticon,” Breakdown continued, apparently needing no invitation. “It was an Autobot.”
Knock Out was having difficulty determining why he should care about this tidbit of information. If Breakdown wanted to gossip, he'd have better luck seeking out his sycophantic gaggle of vehicons.
“Did it survive?”
“He did. Lord Megatron seemed to know him. He looked seriously fragged off.”
Scratch eradicated, Knock Out scrutinized himself in the mirror. Perfect. He turned back toward his assistant. “That's hardly new. Lord Megatron is always torqued.”
“This one looked personal though. He usually reserves that kind of fury for Prime.”
Hmm. That was a bit curious. Still, whatever ground their leader's gears was hardly Knock Out's concern. So long as Lord Megatron wasn't aiming his anger at Knock Out, he was content to live and let live.
“And you're telling me this because...?”
Breakdown shrugged. “I was bored. Thought you would be, too.” He then smirked. “I pulled up the mech's designation from the database. Former gladiator. Goes by Sunstreaker. Sound familiar to you?”
Knock Out's gaze jerked sharply toward his assistant. “Gold paint?”
“Thought you'd recognize 'im.” Breakdown leered and leaned forward, single optic blazing. “He's down in the brig. Chained up. Helpless.”
The arousal returned. Knock Out ventilated sharply.
“Probably injured. In need of a medic,” Knock Out said with a sly look at his assistant. “It's my duty to check on his welfare.”
Breakdown barked a laugh. “Yeah. Figured you might say that. Can I watch?”
“On a first date?” Knock Out flicked a hand at Breakdown. “Sir, I'll have you know I'm a gentlemech.” He winked an optic and headed for the door. “But I'll take a vid for you.”
****
a/n: Four more parts to come, and pretty soon, they'll get quite dark. Be prepared.
Feedback, as always, is welcome and appreciated.
Title: Entitled
Universe: TFP AU
Characters: Knock Out/Sunstreaker, Vehicons/Sunstreaker, Megatron, Breakdown
Rated: NC-17
Warnings: NonCon/Rape, Gangbang, Noncon use of toys and bondage, torture, humiliation
Description: Sunstreaker crash-lands on Earth, but the Decepticons find him first, and quite a few hold a grudge. All that's left is to suffer.
“This thing's a heap of scrap.”
Breakdown grabbed hold of the crumpled bay door and ripped it from the hinges, tossing the mangled panel of metal over his shoulder.
“I'd be surprised if anything survived,” he added, peering into the dark of the battered spacecraft, dimly lit by emergency lights.
Breakdown had a point. The spacecraft hadn't survived atmospheric entry, bits and pieces of it breaking off and landing all over the area. It was still smoking; the air stank heavily of scorched metal and also, scorched organic material as it had created quite the landing zone. The humans would be here soon enough to investigate, which would draw the Autobots as well.
Megatron planned to be gone long before then.
He turned toward Soundwave.
His third in command inclined his helm, sensors performing a quick sweep, the results of which showed on his faceplate. One life sign, weak but holding steady. A survivor.
“Someone is inside,” Megatron said.
Breakdown shrugged, hefting up his hammer arm. “Must be a Pit of a mech.”
Megatron took it upon himself to enter first. Soundwave brought up the rear, disengaging Laserbeak to scout the area and warn them in advance of arriving Autobots. It wouldn't take long for Prime to notice the crashing of a Cybertronian spacecraft, even if it was Decepticon in origin.
The spacecraft looked no better inside than it did on the outside. Energy scores on the walls, ceiling, and floors were testament to a furious battle at some point. Hallways were dark, some blocked off completely. The whole craft stank of isolation and abandonment. Even if it hadn't crashed, Megatron suspected that it did not utilize much, if any of its lighting or atmospheric controls.
They passed a few empty rooms, the silence broken only by the barely perceptible noise of Soundwave's constant scanning. The craft was deserted, without even the empty frames of offline mechs who might have made the shuttle their home.
They found the pilot on the bridge, a cramped area with only two large chairs and a compact console. Emergency lights glowed weakly, all of the monitors dark and lifeless. The viewing screen had crumpled, one of the spiked protrusions of the ship curving back from the force of the crash and splintering the thick glass.
The mech himself was slumped in the pilot's seat, hands fallen from the controls though one cable remained connected to the console. He was pinned to the chair by a thick piece of metal, energon dribbling around the wound and pooling on the floor with a quiet drip.
Breakdown made a whistling noise. “He survived that? The thing's microns from his spark chamber!”
Megatron made a noncommittal noise and circled to the left of the unidentified mech, optics narrowing.
This was no Decepticon.
Golden armor, a warrior's sleek build, sharp talons meant to gouge and rend. Some kind of energy blade strapped to his back. And slapped on his shoulders were the bright red decals of an Autobot.
Megatron snarled, lipplates pulled back over his denta.
Soundwave sent him a file in a databurst, for identification, but Megatron hadn't needed it. He would know this mech even if a thousand vorns had passed.
Megatron had a list, a string of designations in the forefront of his processor of mechs and femmes that he had vowed to personally offline. Optimus Prime – Orion Pax – was at the top of this list. There were also several traitors, pompous mechs of high standing, and a couple of defectors who had made him look like a fool.
Sunstreaker was one of those defectors.
“He's not a Decepticon,” Breakdown said, lifting one of Sunstreaker's arms and letting it fall, hitting the side of the chair with a dull clang.
“Not anymore,” Megatron replied, spark swirling with fury.
Breakdown looked up at him, single optic dim with confusion. “Ya know him?”
“We've been acquainted.” Megatron turned away from the battered frame of the former gladiator, his processor spinning with thoughts. Plans. Ideas. “Bring him along, Breakdown. We should show him the hospitality of the Decepticons.”
“Yes, sir.” Breakdown sounded more than a little gleeful.
Megatron approved.
He would make Sunstreaker suffer. Would tear him to pieces. Slowly. Methodically. Spill energon from the traitor drop by precious drop. Rip out every circuit. Pull off every armor panel. Sunstreaker would die slowly, every last second filled with agony.
The screech of metal against metal echoed in the bridge as Breakdown yanked Sunstreaker free from the pilot's chair without an ounce of gentleness. If Sunstreaker had been online, the pain would have been excruciating. Pity he wasn't aware enough to appreciate it.
Soundwave walked alongside Megatron and he knew, without having to ask, that his third in command had many questions.
“The Autobots don't know he's here,” Megatron said. “Let's keep it that way, shall we?”
Soundwave nodded, his facescreen flickering before he began to replay a voice clip. Of Megatron's own words at that.
“Death will be given to anyone who betrays the Decepticon cause.”
Megatron chuckled darkly. “All in due time, Soundwave. He had potential once. He may still be of some use to us.”
And if not, Megatron would dispose of the traitor personally. Just as he intended to do to Optimus Prime.
Sunstreaker onlined to pain. Systems errors streaked across his HUD, letting him know that he was low on energon and coolant, with critical errors stacking up in his processor.
He onlined his optics, rebooted them twice, but the dark remained. He ran diagnostics. They worked, but wherever he was, there was no light. Which meant he wasn't on the Nightwing anymore. Even after a crash like that, he'd still have reserves or emergency power to draw from.
His ventilations were ragged. He could feel himself spraying fluids with each ex-vent out. Not good. Pain radiated from his helm to his pedes. A strut in his leg was shattered. He couldn't put much weight on it. Frag.
He was standing.
Sunstreaker twitched, heard the rattling of chains. He jerked his wrists, but they were pinned to the wall above his helm with less than a foot of slack. His pedes were given a similar treatment. He couldn't move, couldn't see.
What happened?
He remembered roaming the universe, trying to find signs of any Cybertronians. It had been so long he'd even settle for a Decepticon, if only to end the perpetual monotony.
He couldn't find the Ark, couldn't find the Autobots, and most of all, he couldn't find Sideswipe.
And then?
Sunstreaker groaned, thoughts bouncing messily inside his processor. It was hard to concentrate, hard to connect one line to another. What was wrong with him? Battle damage?
He gritted his denta.
Wandering the universe. And then?
The wormhole. He remembered that. It grabbed the Nightwing, dragged him in, and Sunstreaker didn't have the talent needed to pilot himself free. The wormhole spat him out somewhere his navs couldn't immediately identify. Then there was an asteroid or something. It clipped his hull.
He lost an engine.
It became a blur after that.
He remembered hurtling without control. Remembered seeing a planet or two, and then another one, bright in the darkness. He remembered thinking that he was never going to survive planet-fall. There was heat and then... darkness. Here. Wherever here was.
A ping to his fuel tank finally came back. Seventeen percent, barely above minimum. No surprise there. He hadn't had much to begin with, and if the state of his frame was an indication, he'd been leaking for some time.
He tried to access his comm. Nothing. Either it was broken or had been removed. Judging by his chains, Sunstreaker suspected it was the latter. Not that it mattered. He had no one to contact.
The silence in his spark was even more telling.
Where was he? Surely not among Autobots. Soft-sparked mechs they were, they would have put him in some brightly-lit medbay, attached to monitoring systems, with a medic hovering nearby.
He checked his chronometer. It didn't help. He had no frame of reference.
Somewhere, in the distance, a door slid open with a hydraulic hiss. Sunstreaker's helm snapped up, optics swiveling in the direction of the sound.
He heard pedesteps and felt the distant edges of a powerful energy field. Small lights popped on, piercing the gloom.
A tall, spiky frame came into view. Crimson optics set against gunmetal grey plating. A large cannon was strapped to his right forearm.
Megatron.
Sunstreaker stilled.
Any Cybertronian contact would have been preferable to this.
“Are you enjoying your accommodations?” Megatron asked, his voice a fakely pleasant hiss in the heavy silence.
A growl crawled it's way out of Sunsteaker's vocalizer. “Eat slag!”
Megatron chuckled, though it lacked amusement. “As polite as ever I see.”
“What do you want, Megatron?”
The Decepticon lord tilted his helm, optics burning brighter. “Considering what happened on our last encounter, it should be fairly obvious.”
His unwavering stare sent a ripple of unease through Sunstreaker's spark. There was something in Megatron's gaze, some dark fury, that Sunstreaker had no desire to experience.
Sunstreaker snarled, trying to swallow down rising disquiet. “I should have ripped out your spark when I had the chance.”
Megatron's talons curled into fists with a quiet creak of tightened hydraulic lines. “Such a mistake won't be made again, rest assured. Enjoy your stay.”
He said nothing more, turning on a pede and striding from the cell. As he left, so did all of the lights, leaving Sunstreaker trapped in dim and silence.
Except for the drip. The steady drip of his energon trickling from his lines, over his plating, and on to the floor.
Knock Out stared into the mirror, watching the unsightly mark on his thigh armor fade away as he rubbed the cloth in careful circles. Over and over, making the plating gleam. The rich silver glistened in the wake of the polish.
His engine gave a little rev of appreciation. Yes, indeed.
Heat pulsed a slow path across his circuits. Knock Out's lips curled into a smirk, talons of one hand lazily exploring the gap in his pelvic plating. Tracing around the edge of his interface panel. A shiver danced down his backstrut.
His door slid open, Breakdown bursting inside without so much as a request or invitation.
“Knock Out!”
He snarled, grabbing the nearest object that wasn't tied down, and whirled, hurling it at his so-called partner.
Breakdown ducked, the tin of wax hitting the wall above his head and leaving a dent behind, one to match several others already present.
“Oaf!” Knock Out seethed, all effort made toward arousal swiftly abandoned. “What the frag do you want!”
“Nice to see you, too,” Breakdown said sourly, and invited himself to flop down on Knock Out's berth. “Aren't you at all curious about what we found?”
“Found?” He turned back toward the mirror, plating lifted out of irritation. He wasn't done inspecting himself.
“On the Decepticon shuttle.”
Oh, yes. Knock Out seemed to recall something about Soundwave detecting an incoming spacecraft and its subsequent crash. But as Megatron hadn't called for Knock Out's medical expertise, he assumed they'd found no survivors. It wasn't important.
Was that a scratch on his right forearm?
Knock Out leaned closer to the mirror, optics cycling down. Where in the pit had that come from?
“Well, it wasn't a Decepticon,” Breakdown continued, apparently needing no invitation. “It was an Autobot.”
Knock Out was having difficulty determining why he should care about this tidbit of information. If Breakdown wanted to gossip, he'd have better luck seeking out his sycophantic gaggle of vehicons.
“Did it survive?”
“He did. Lord Megatron seemed to know him. He looked seriously fragged off.”
Scratch eradicated, Knock Out scrutinized himself in the mirror. Perfect. He turned back toward his assistant. “That's hardly new. Lord Megatron is always torqued.”
“This one looked personal though. He usually reserves that kind of fury for Prime.”
Hmm. That was a bit curious. Still, whatever ground their leader's gears was hardly Knock Out's concern. So long as Lord Megatron wasn't aiming his anger at Knock Out, he was content to live and let live.
“And you're telling me this because...?”
Breakdown shrugged. “I was bored. Thought you would be, too.” He then smirked. “I pulled up the mech's designation from the database. Former gladiator. Goes by Sunstreaker. Sound familiar to you?”
Knock Out's gaze jerked sharply toward his assistant. “Gold paint?”
“Thought you'd recognize 'im.” Breakdown leered and leaned forward, single optic blazing. “He's down in the brig. Chained up. Helpless.”
The arousal returned. Knock Out ventilated sharply.
“Probably injured. In need of a medic,” Knock Out said with a sly look at his assistant. “It's my duty to check on his welfare.”
Breakdown barked a laugh. “Yeah. Figured you might say that. Can I watch?”
“On a first date?” Knock Out flicked a hand at Breakdown. “Sir, I'll have you know I'm a gentlemech.” He winked an optic and headed for the door. “But I'll take a vid for you.”
a/n: Four more parts to come, and pretty soon, they'll get quite dark. Be prepared.
Feedback, as always, is welcome and appreciated.
