[TFA] Back in Kind
May. 14th, 2020 06:00 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
dracoqueen22Title: Back in Kind
Universe: Transformers Animated
Characters: Blackarachnia/Optimus Prime
Rated: M
Enticements: Oviposition, Egg-Laying, Sticky Sexual Interfacing
Description: When Optimus runs into Blackarachnia on the edge of Detroit, she has a request of him, one he can’t bring himself to decline given his debt. He agrees, and soon realizes it’s far more than he bargained for.
There's a beauty to Detroit at night. It's marginally less populated, but no less colorful and intriguing. Humans are fascinating beings of creation, and Optimus remains in awe of them with every passing solar cycle.
When the base is too noisy, and Optimus doesn't have the space or quiet to ventilate, he takes a walk around the city. A patrol even. He has his favorite route: it takes him past the park, past an elementary school, over near the docks, and keeps the industrial district in his periphery.
Tonight, with Bumblebee and Bulkhead loudly playing their game, and Ratchet banging on some personal project in his workshop, Optimus quietly slips out of their makeshift home.
"Going on patrol," Optimus says, and Bumblebee flops a hand at him before going back to his game, loudly fussing at Bulkhead for cheating.
Optimus doesn't know where Prowl is. He supposes it doesn't matter. Prowl will be here when it counts.
He plunges into a crisp, cool night, the air a bit damp. Ratchet will complain about having to clean his filters later, but for now, Optimus keeps going. First past the park, lit with street lamps, humans walking their pets or jogging or sitting on benches reading books by lamplight. He passes the school next, dark in the afterhours, before circling close to the docks.
His latent peripheral sensors ping.
Optimus pauses, a prickle racing across his armor. He sends out a purposeful sensory sweep, and in the shadows of his sight-line, a shadow shifts. A large shadow with far too many legs to be human. His spark picks up a faster rhythm as his sensors return the biorhythms of something almost-Cybertronian.
Blackarachnia.
Optimus darts in the direction of the shadow, which immediately vanishes down an alleyway. Metal rattles, and Optimus looks up in time to catch the lithe shape hopping from fire escape to fire escape before disappearing over the side of a roof.
Optimus shoots his grappling hook to follow and clambers up and over the edge as well, adrenaline pumping through his lines, as his sensors ping out in a wide sweep once more. But his prey hasn't gone far. If anything, she's waiting for him, leaning casually against an air conditioning unit and examining the sharp digits of her fingers.
"You're getting slow, Optimus," she says.
It has to be a trap. Optimus, however, doesn't draw his axe. She's not being outwardly aggressive, and he doesn't want to make the first move.
He glances around to see if there is anyone else, but as far as he can tell, they're alone up here. If this is a trap, it’s a well-hidden one.
"You've always been faster than me," Optimus says.
Blackarachnia grins at him, with those new, razor-sharp denta of hers. "True." She looks him up and down. "No axe yet? I'm impressed. I suppose that makes you a gentlemech."
It’s a barbed comment, needling right under his armor, but Optimus cycles a ventilation and swallows down a rude retort.
"Why are you here, Blackarachnia?" Optimus asks, though the name is still unfamiliar on his glossa, unwieldy and uncomfortable. It has all the wrong shapes.
"Looking for you actually." She pushes off the air conditioning unit, stalking toward him, grace in every step. "I need a favor, and you owe me several."
Optimus frowns. "I'm not helping you hurt the humans."
She laughs, and it actually sounds genuinely amused, rather than bitter. "I don't care about those little flesh bags. The favor is of a more... personal nature." She flicks her fingers. "All you have to do is loan me your frame for a little while, let me lay a few eggs, and I'll be out of your finials."
Optimus stares at her, rebooting his audials because her words make no sense to him. "You... what?"
She smiles at him, razor-sharp, and her eyes brighten. "I'm different, Optimus," she says, closer now, close enough he can taste the sharp heat of need in her field. "Surely you've noticed."
Optimus keeps his optics on her as she starts to circle him slowly, like predator stalking prey. "You're still the same to me."
Irritation flickers across her face before she smooths it out. "I'm different," she says after a moment, as her vents audibly check themselves. "And my frame demands something of me which requires the addition of a partner. Now, are you going to help me or are you going to abandon me again?"
He doesn't understand what she wants , but he knows she doesn't want to ask it of him. It's in every line of her armor, every taut line of her frame, the buzz of her field, the fake smirk on her lips. She's asking because she has to, not because she wants to.
And she's right. Optimus does owe her.
"What do you need?" Optimus says, and Blackarachnia smiles at him, still sharp, but the tiniest bit of softness as the edges.
"Follow me," she says, and leaps to the nearest roof, and then the next one, her extra limbs making her far more acrobatic and nimble. She doesn’t wait for him, as though it’s a foregone conclusion he’s right behind her.
She trusts his word.
Optimus hesitates for only a moment before he follows, though with far less grace than she. He may be making a huge mistake, but he's also convinced Elita is still in there, somewhere.
And that's when a little used comm line crackles to life, his spark leaping into his intake before he reminds himself it's not Elita. "Tell your medic you'll be busy for a few days. I don't need your so-called friends to come looking for you and interrupt us."
"What assurances do I have that you aren't just going to kill me?" Optimus asks.
Blackarachnia flashes him a smile and waits on the next rooftop, her limbs arrayed around her as if poised to strike. "You'll just have to trust me," she purrs. "Like I once trusted you."
"Fine," Optimus says, and composes a quick message to attach to his incoming comms. He doesn't want to run the risk of setting off any alarm bells, so he makes it simple and easy.
Went looking for some peace and quiet. I’ll be back before you need me.
"Where to now?" Optimus asks, projecting a sense of calm though his internals squirm with unease.
Blackarachnia grins and peels up a hatch in the rooftop. "We're home," she says, and skitters through the narrow space with enviable agility.
Optimus glances around. They've entered the industrial district, but they're on the abandoned side of it, where far too many buildings have fallen into disrepair, left to rot and fall apart on their own. It's the perfect place to hide.
He steels himself for what is quite possibly a terrible mistake, and follows Blackarachnia down, dropping into a vast space via his grappling hook and tow cable.
Crates of supplies are stacked here and there, a few of them pried open and their contents barely visible. A few oildrums rest nearby, one tapped, the other in reserve. More crates -- made of metal -- seem to be makeshift furniture, and a loose pile of scavenged cloth must be a makeshift bed. In comparison to the abandoned building the Autobots have taken over, this place is a slum.
"What do you know about spiders, Optimus?" Blackarachnia asks as she appears behind him, one hand lightly dragging across the tops of his shoulders before she moves away.
He barely suppresses a shiver, and he's not sure if it's disgust or interest. "They're involved in one of the worst moments of my life."
Blackarachnia chuckles and it's such an odd sound, so foreign to him, more organic than metallic. "Mine, too. Isn't that interesting?"
"What does that have to do with what you need?" Optimus asks as Blackarachnia drifts to one of the metal crates and sits, leaning into the ones stacked behind it.
"Spiders," she says, "reproduce using eggs, and as it turns out, I have eggs inside me that I need someone else to host for a little while." Her glossa flicks over her lips. "You've just volunteered for the job."
Optimus cycles his optics, still not sure he's understanding her. "What?"
Her smile widens, and there’s something hungry in it, something that unsettles him down to the pit of his tanks. "I'm going to frag you, and put eggs in you, and then you're going to be a good little host until they're ready to come out."
Optimus stares at her, trying to discern if she's speaking truth or conducting a massive joke out of a sense of revenge. Her field is hard to read, had been even in the past, but moreso now with the non-Cybertronian biorhythms to baffle his sensors.
It sounds ridiculous, but then, what does Optimus know about Blackarachnia's frame and form? She's different now, different than anything else he knows, capable of so much, and he can't begin to fathom what's normal for her and what isn't. She shouldn't even be alive.
And if this is just revenge, or a prank, well, surely she could think of something better?
Optimus sighs and forces his shoulders to relax. "What do you need me to do?" he asks, because when it comes down to it, he owes her so much. If the only one getting harmed in this endeavor is himself, he considers that an adequate exchange.
She stares at him for a long moment, as if this has all been a test, and she’s debating whether or not he passed. Her Decepticon-red optics steady him, and Optimus does his best not to squirm, to project an air of determination.
Finally, Blackarachnia stands and gestures to the comfortable pile of blankets and cloth. "Lay back and think of Cybertron, or whatever you think is better than me," she says, and tilts her head to the side. "Yu still don't mind a little bondage, right?"
Optimus pauses mid-way to the nest of blankets. “Bondage?”
She glides her fingertips over his shoulders again. “Just to keep you still. I wouldn’t want you to hurt yourself.” Little nips of charge dart from her fingers, teasing his substructure, before her hand vanishes. “Kneel for me, Optimus.”
“Hurt myself,” he echoes, and he isn’t sure if it’s a statement or a question. He does, however, kneel amid the blankets, trepidation rattling his knees before he walls it back. He’s already made up his mind. He’s going to do this.
“If you struggle.” Blackarachnia plops what appears to be a cushioned crate in front of him and gives it a pat and him a pointed look.
Some things don’t need instruction.
Optimus cycles a ventilation and tilts forward, resting his chassis on the crate as his aft rises in the air. It’s not an uncomfortable position, the discomfort borne largely from the knowledge of why he’s posed like this to start with. He feels exposed and unguarded.
He isn’t sure what to expect, but the warm spray of her webbing surprises him. Thin strips of it wrap around his frame, soft as silk but too strong to be broken. They bind him to the crate, taking the weight off his knees, stabilizing his balance. Thicker strands wrap around his thighs, pulling his legs open, baring him to Blackarachnia’s scrutiny.
Optimus swallows a pathetic sound and focuses hard into the darkness, the odd shapes of the abandoned equipment lurking in the shadows.
“Don’t worry, you’ll be fine,” she says with a little tweak to his audial. Optimus jerks and swallows a moan before it can leak out and betray him. His audials have always been sensitive.
But then.
Elita would know that.
“It won’t hurt,” Blackarachnia says. “I think.”
“You think?” Optimus echoes, and his internals tighten, his lines twisting themselves into knots of apprenhension. He’s no stranger to pain but...
This is different. Should be different.
“I hear it’s quite pleasurable,” Blackarachnia continues, heedless of his concern, and each coil of webbing is accompanied by a touch, a caress, as if she remembers every spot which makes him sing, and exploits that appropriately.
Optimus focuses on ventilating, her words washing through his audials, only half-absorbing her explanation. Most of it goes over his head anyway, though he’s sure Ratchet would have understood completely. As it is, he understands the basics: she’s going to frag him, she’s going to put eggs inside him, and they’re going to mature within him, after which he’s going to expel them.
The very idea of it makes something inside him squirm with unease, perhaps a little disgust. It sounds so distinctly organic, so anathema to what it means to be Cybertronian.
But she is also Elita, deep beneath the armor of Blackarachnia, and Optimus could never find Elita repellent, no matter how she comes to him.
He might not admit it either, but he does have fond memories of Elita binding him, tying him down, playing games full of laughter and pleasure. He’d put himself in her capable hands time and time again, and right now, his processor keeps supplying those memories, as if unable to distinguish the Elita of his memories with Blackarachnia now.
"How long is this going to take?" Optimus asks, struggling to distract himself from the odd situation, and the curls of pleasure winding through his frame as she caresses eager nodes and sensitive seams, until his sensory net positively sings with desire to be touched.
"It'll take as long as it takes," Blackarachnia says, behind him now, caressing his sides, his aft, his inner thighs, faint touches to make his derma tingle. "No more than a few days, if that comforts you."
And then her hand slides up a few inches more, the pads of her fingertips flirting over his valve panel. He can't see her grin, but her field flushes with delight. Optimus unconsciously clenches, remembering too well the hot press of Elita inside him.
"Oh, you're hot already, Optimus,” she purrs, rubbing the panel in firm circles. “But you have to open up to make this work. Don't get shy on me now.”
Optimus' face heats, his antennae spitting a spark of charge before he can stop it. He gnaws on his bottom lip and allows his panel to open. Her fingers immediately slide into him, the way eased by the copious slick he’s already produced.
Shame rolls through him, thick and potent, but Blackarachnia strokes nimbly over his internal nodes, and Optimus shudders. He clenches around two narrow fingers, more lubricant slicking his walls.
"I'll make it good," Blackarachnia says, and he swears her harmonics hint of Elita. She chuckles then, low and sultry, "You'll never want another, I can promise you that."
She pulls free, and the pads of her fingertips flirt with his anterior node, rubbing it in small circles, just the way Optimus likes. He twitches, thighs trembling, swallowing another needy moan. Heat flushes through his frame until he forces himself to go still in the webbing, to ex-vent long and calming.
"Don't drag it out," Optimus says, and hopes it doesn't come across as a plea. "I'm repaying a debt, Blackarachnia." He says her name to remind himself who she is because without seeing her, his processor plays tricks on him.
“Fine.” Her hands find his hips and something long and vaguely spike-like nudges at the pleats at his valve. "Ever the noble martyr, aren't you, Optimus?" She rocks against him, the head of her unit grinding over the lip of his valve, much blunter and thicker than he expected. "You want me to make it hurt so you can call me a villain later, is that it?"
She pushes into him before he can answer, and punches out a long, low groan from Optimus. His valve flutters madly around the thick length, calipers dilating to accept her girth. It's not pain, because her unit seems to produce slick of its own. It’s an oddly pleasant stretch, a drag against his internal sensors.
Optimus overloads, then and there, a sharp burst of pleasure that takes him by surprise. He jerks, but his frame is held fast by the webbing, leaving him rattling against the crate.
Blackarachnia chuckles, and her talons glide into his seams, playing with the sparks of charge licking out from his substructure.
"Good boy," she purrs, and she pushes deeper and deeper and deeper still, nudging his ceiling node, grinding hard against it, extending his overload.
Optimus pants, drawing in heavier vents, as lights dance behind his optics. Blackarachnia keeps thrusting, pushing forward, feeding more of herself into him. Her spike or whatever it is continues to expand, longer and thicker, forcing him wide as it reaches deeper, until the oddly shaped head nudges against something inside of him. Optimus doesn’t know what it is, and can’t remember a time it’s been touched in the middle of interfacing before. It’s so deep, it defies his knowledge of a frame’s capacity.
"There you are." Blackarachnia rocks her hips, grinding in circles into him. "Let's see if I can convince you to open for me, hm?"
"What are you talking about?" Optimus asks as his frame thrums. Pleasure crackles through his lines, feeding to his valve, cycling him back toward overload.
Blackaracnhia makes a sound Optimus can’t identify – halfway between a purr and a growl. "You'll see," she says, and what feels like charge surges into Optimus' valve -- not pain, but something else entirely – and something inside of Optimus yields to her.
She makes a triumphant noise before her hips drive forward, and she pushes deeper into him, deeper than Optimus thought was possible, grinding over sensors which have never been touched before.
He groans, long and low, not out of pain, but from confusion and unexpected pleasure. Her spike glides along something he didn't know could feel pleasure, but it does, and his lines sing with the lightning bursts of it.
She rocks in and out of him, her unit dragging along his nodes. The slick sounds echo in the dim interior, and Optimus’ face burns. He’s so wet, she glides in him easily, and the pleasure winds through his frame. Every thrust pushes her deeper and deeper, until she’s fully seated, her housing notched with his.
Optimus swallows a groan, little twitches running over his frame. His valve trembles, cycling rhythmically around her length, that odd deeper penetration making him crave more, despite not even knowing there is a more to crave.
"Now for the fun part," Blackarachnia murmurs. Her hands wander over his back, his hips, his aft. Her vents hitch, voice labored, and the odd flux of her field presses in against his.
Something round nudges the rim of his valve where they are joined, but it seems to be coming from within her length, within her spike or whatever she calls it. Optimus' optics cycle wider in realization as the round shape moves further into his body, grinding over the walls of his valve, only to be immediately followed by second, and then a third.
He groans, head hanging, his nodes sparking with ecstasy, barely able to track the sphere as it works itself deeper. It fills the length of his valve until it finds the narrower aperture Blackarachnia had revealed, and then it squeezes through, popping inside with a burst of relief to Optimus’ stretched calipers.
More follow in its wake. Optimus counts them. One, two, three, four...
He panics.
"H-how many?" Optimus gasps as the heaviness grows in his abdomen, and he worries he may not have the capacity for what she needs. There's a twinge of pain, a cramp internally as his organs shift aside, his plating audibly creaking as it distends.
Is he wrong to trust her? Is this going to hurt? Is it truly her means for revenge? Worry eclipses the pleasure, and he shakes in the webbing, no longer as comforting, now more cage than embrace.
"Only as many as you can take," Blackarachnia murmurs, and she smooths her hands over his aft, his hips, his sides, her field stroking his with surprising gentleness. "You're strong, Optimus. This is nothing to you. Besides, I'm already halfway done."
Optimus drags in heavy, humid vents, his processor spinning.
Halfway? There's four more to come? He doesn’t know if he can fit four more. The four he has area already too much.
He twitches within the webbing, panic setting in before he can whisk it away. The rattle of his armor is obnoxiously loud, and every movement makes the crate creak.
Blackarachnia thrusts again, and Optimus jolts, head jerking up, the words escaping him before he can think twice about it.
“Wait. A moment. Please,” Optimus gasps, and perhaps it sounds like he’s begging, but he doesn’t care. This sensation is so odd to him; he’s overwhelmed and drowning in it.
Blackarachnia stills, but her own vocals are strained. “I can give you a moment, but this process has its own timeline,” she says, but her hand rests on his back, warm and oddly comforting.
Optimus works his intake, unable to calm the fine tremors wracking his frame. The eggs shift inside of him, spherical and heavy, and the webbing rustles where he twists his arms, his wrists, testing the strength of it.
“I could have asked someone else,” Blackarachnia murmurs into the strange liminal space of intimacy between them. “But I knew you were the best choice.”
Optimus rests his forehead on the crate. “Because of my guilt?”
“Because of your strength,” she corrects, and her hips jerk, almost involuntarily. Optimus swallows a moan, but Blackarachnia makes a hitched noise of pleasure. “We’re halfway there, Optimus. I have to keep going.”
He doesn’t want her to keep going. But he suspects she can’t stop now, and besides, he can’t betray her again by refusing. He’d said he would help her. He’ll not back out now.
Optimus works his intake, and draws in a few heavy vents. “Do it then.”
“We’re almost done.” Blackarachnia starts to move, gently at first, before gaining momentum. Her unit drags over his internal sensors. Optimus’ valve quivers, heating quickly despite the brief pause.
Fingers flirt over his anterior node just then, and a wave of pleasure swamps Optimus' lines, sending him into an overload so quickly it almost hurts. Is it his second? His third? He hasn’t remembered to keep count. They’ve been coming in waves, just like the-- the eggs filling him, five and six and seven to join the others in sharp succession. They jostle each other within whatever cavity Blackarachnia has discovered and press against his internals.
"Almost done," Blackarachnia murmurs, and in his haze, Optimus swears she sounds like Elita, the way she touches him -- so familiar and knowing -- is all the Elita-One he remembers.
It's too easy to pretend Elita is the one behind him, touching him, spiking him. He falls into the fantasy of Elita’s well-being. She’s safe and sound, he never left her behind, he never failed her, and she’s right here with him, stroking him to his next overload.
The eighth egg fills him with an almost audible pop.
Optimus groans as his abdomen tightens, full and taut, shattering the illusion. Elit-- Blackarachnia hums at him, her field warm with approval that wraps around Optimus’ spark and torments him.
She strokes his frame as she starts to withdraw, and Optimus' sensory nodes sing.His valve ripples in wave after wave of small overloads that leave him trembling and exhausted by the time she slips free.
He swims in a hazy state, frame humming from the extended pleasure, his internals swollen and full, his valve hot and swollen. Elit-- Blackarachnia caresses his armor, murmuring something that's almost a song, one hand cupping his head.
"Recharge now, Optimus. Those eggs need time to mature," she says.
The pull of fatigue and recharge creeps around Optimus like a heavy fog.
He tries to swim to consciousness, but his limbs are leaden, and a languorous heat seeps into every line and cable. He swears her lips brush his forehead, but it must be a trick of the fatigue. The recharge grabs at him, and Optimus gives in.
He rests.
~
Optimus surfaces occasionally, as though his frame knows how to handle this weird and unusual situation better than his processor. He rises in a hazy state between consciousness and recharge, finding he's no longer webbed to the crate. Instead, he’s been enrobed in the web, which now forms a cocoon around him. He's laying on his back, the dark night sky visible through a glass roof and riddled with stars.
He's warm. Cradled. Comfortable.
He dares to feel safe.
He slips away again, back into recharge, stirring awake only when it feels like something moves inside of him. Shadows shift in his periphery, glimpses of Blackarachnia nearby. She comes to him when he wakes, feeds him sips of energon and oil in alternate measures, and murmurs gentle words in a language none of his programs can translate.
He starts to suspect she's keeping him docile with some additive to the energon, but maybe it's for the better. If he's awake, he'll spend too much time thinking. Rationalizing. Hoping.
His chronometer tells him it's been two days, give or take, the next time he surfaces, not in a haze this time, but fully aware. He's got two messages in his inbox, but far more pressing is the pressure in his abdomen, the shifting roll of the eggs within him.
He's been moved again, sitting up this time, legs spread, leaning back and cradled by webbing and cloth, his arms webbed above and behind him, his thighs webbed open. Blackarachnia is there, between his knees. She’s smiling, her optics bright with anticipation, her fingers stroking the pleats of his valve.
"Are you ready, Optimus?" she asks as a jolt of pleasure flashes through his frame.
Optimus jolts and heat flashes through his frame. His valve cycles, open and wet, seeping lubricating fluid at an alarming rate.
"It's time?" Optimus asks as a painful flutter in his abdomen answers the question for him.
Cables within his abdomen contract, and the odd sensation of one of the eggs shifting draws his attention inward. It nudges against the aperture, a pressure that’s light at first, but gains urgency with every cycled ventilation.
Blackarachnia strokes his inner thighs, and his sensory net positively sings. "Just relax, Optimus. It'll all be over soon."
Easy for her to say.
Optimus' head slips back, a low groan spilling from his lips, as everything inside of him tenses and contracts and ripples and moves in weird ways. The eggs are bigger now, and they grind and rub along his sensory nodes as they work their way forward -- as his own frame seeks to expel them as if it's always known how.
He counts them, their slow passage ratcheting the tension of his array higher and higher. One, two, three -- they emerge into Blackarachnia’s waiting hands. She tucks them in a basket made of webbing before eagerly waiting for the next. She touches him gently, like a lover might, stroking his inner thighs, his abdomen, the pleats of his valve, the plates of his array housing.
“Healthy,” Blackarachnia observes as the fourth rolls into her cupped palms, glossy with a fluid Optimus doesn’t recognize, far too sticky to be a Cybertronian’s natural lubrication and the metal a strangely flexible construction. “They’ll be strong. Like you, Optimus.”
She tucks it into the basket with its brethren, and then she cups his valve, her thumb resting on his anterior node. She strokes in a circle, and Optimus’ vents hitch.
“You’re welcome,” Optimus groans as pleasure wracks his frame. Overload throbs through him in a slow, cresting wave, rather than the sharp bursts of ecstasy he’s accustomed to.
He’s a pinpoint of sensation, and there’s more give in the webbing this time, more allowance for him to shift and rock his hips, and it’s a good thing he can, because the movement seems to help the eggs. That and the overloads, dragged from him by the incessant press of her thumb on his throbbing nub.
Eggs five and six tumble free in sharp succession. Optimus sags into the webbing cradle, exhausted and panting, covered in condensation. It’s so warm in this warehouse, abnormally warm, without hint of a breeze. He doesn’t know if it’s his own frame to blame, or if Blackarachnia has purposefully warmed the interior.
“Two more, Optimus,” Blackarachnia says. Her thumb presses harder, in tighter circles, his anterior node a point of fiery pleasure that peels a moan from his intake. “Surely you can finish the job.”
Optimus moans, his hips shifting, restless.
She follows his motions, her thumb persisting, and little sparks of static charge dance from beneath his armor. He’s exhausted. He aches. Somehow, he craves more, each circle of her thumb demanding the overload hovering behind each egg.
The seventh squeezes through his valve, inch by inch, agonizingly slow. His lining tingles. His calipers twitch and click until it finally tumbles into the cup of Blackarachnia’s palm.
“Good mech,” she murmurs, and it hits wrong this time. Condescending rather than reassuring. Mocking.
His tank churns.
“Stop it,” Optimus says, but it lacks the strength of his convictions. “Just… don’t.” It hurts too much. He’d rather she mock him than effect this kindness. It tastes false, and she’s not Elita.
She’s not.
Blackarachnia’s optics flash, her jaw setting with determination. “Fine,” she grits out. “Give me the last egg, Optimus, and then we can part ways and never see each other again.”
Her field retracts from his, and Optimus shivers in its absence, a chill settling around him. He works his intake, shutters his optics, tries to will the last egg to leave him, but it must be the largest of them, because it’s taking its sweet time.
Optimus’ exhausted frame clenches and flutters and cramps. A low ache builds in his abdomen, combating the heat of Blackarachnia’s fingers on him, the steady grind on his sensory nodes. He’s panting, fans spinning wildly, wave after wave of pleasure swelling inside of him, making it hard to concentrate.
“One more,” Blackarachnia urges. Her caresses increase in earnest, fingers slippery over his node, as if she wants to get this over with as quickly as he does.
Optimus groans. His thighs tremble. The egg makes its exceedingly slow journey, grinding over his nodes. Blackarachnia leans into him, presses harder, more urgent, and another overload crashes over Optimus. The egg pops out of his valve and into Blackarachnia’s waiting hand.
“The biggest of the bunch,” she observes with a near-fondness. She tucks it into the basket with the rest of them. “Well done.”
Optimus’ sags in the webbing. He’s coated in condensation, exhaustion thrumming through his lines, his cables. It feels as though he’s run a gauntlet, and there’s an ache deep inside his frame.
“Is that all?” he asks.
Blackarachnia slants him a look, her expression almost fond, almost apologetic, before it smooths into neutral. “Yes.” She moves closer and rests a hand on his head. It would be affectionate in any other situation. “You’re done. Consider our debt paid.”
Optimus fritzes with static, and for a second, there are two of her. “What I owe you is larger than this.”
She laughs, lips parted in a show of sharp denta. “Oh, Optimus, you martyr. Who are you to tell me what I’m owed?” She crooks a finger under his chin, tilting his head up. “At some point you’re going to realize that your guilt is selfish. I almost wish I could be there to see it.”
His orbital ridge furrows. “That doesn’t make any sense.”
“I suppose to you, it wouldn’t.” Blackarachnia stands, casting a multi-limbed shadow on him. “The next time we meet, I won’t be so kind.”
Optimus struggles to grip consciousness while the fatigue seeks to drag him back down. “This was kindness?”
“You still think so little of me.” Blackarachnia sighs and traces a finger around the curve of his face, ending at his jaw. “Recharge, Optimus. Think of this as a very bad purge.”
The tendrils of exhaustion pull him down while he’s struggling to come up with a rebuttal. He’s tired and filthy and sore and taut, and he doesn’t have the right words anyway. He never does when it comes to Elit-- Blackar-- her.
Optimus slips into recharge, but he swears once again that he feels the brush of something soft over his forehead, the lightest caress of a fond energy field.
“You noble fool,” Blackarachnia murmurs.
And then she’s gone, and Optimus is swallowed by the dark of recharge.
He swims to consciousness a few hours later, according to his chronometer. The warehouse is dark, but all he has to do is flip on his headlights to illuminate the space.
The crates are gone. The webbing is gone. He’s clean, and the pallet beneath him is a far cry from the former cozy nest of blankets. A chill has set in, and the odd silence makes it colder.
Optimus sits up, but it doesn’t take a full scan to tell him he’s alone. A few wisps of stray cobweb are all that remain of Blackarachnia, and all the proof he has it wasn’t some illness-induced night purge, or some prank by one of the many human miscreants they’ve helped the local police arrest.
Blackarachnia is gone, and he’s alone.
He’s still sore, still exhausted, but he doesn’t feel like he’s about to collapse. Optimus rises, standing on wobbling knees, and takes a few tentative steps. Strength returns to him slowly, but soon he’s able to conduct a thorough search of the warehouse.
Dusty, decayed mechanical equipment. Empty boxes coated in dust and dirt. Small vermin skittering in the furthest corners. Sliding, metal doors locked with rusting chains. His grapple hook and cable dangle from the ceiling. The roof access is ajar.
Blackarachnia is gone.
Optimus touches his lips. She’d kissed him, hadn’t she? Or had he only imagined it?
Optimus sighs and grabs the cable, hauling himself out of the warehouse with aching, trembling limbs. It hadn’t been a dream. The fatigue in his frame informs him that much.
It doesn’t make any sense.
He collects his grapple once he’s on the roof, closes the access, and turns toward home. Or at least what they’re calling home for now. It’s approaching dawn, he realizes, by the crisp damp in the air, the sun rising on the horizon.
There are three messages waiting for him, none of them from Elit-- Blackarachnia. Two are from Ratchet, telling him to get back from his sulking before he sends out a search party. The third is from Bumblebee, asking him to pick up a new controller on his way because they broke one, oops.
His world is remarkably unchanged.
Optimus touches his abdomen where echoes of the weight of the eggs linger inside him.
No.
Nothing’s the same. Not since Archa Seven, not since crashing on Earth, not since Blackarachnia came into his life, not since this very moment.
He pauses at the lip of a roof, before he would have leapt down to the empty street below, and stares at the horizon. Wherever Blackarachnia has gone is a worry for another day.
It’s time to go home.
***
Universe: Transformers Animated
Characters: Blackarachnia/Optimus Prime
Rated: M
Enticements: Oviposition, Egg-Laying, Sticky Sexual Interfacing
Description: When Optimus runs into Blackarachnia on the edge of Detroit, she has a request of him, one he can’t bring himself to decline given his debt. He agrees, and soon realizes it’s far more than he bargained for.
There's a beauty to Detroit at night. It's marginally less populated, but no less colorful and intriguing. Humans are fascinating beings of creation, and Optimus remains in awe of them with every passing solar cycle.
When the base is too noisy, and Optimus doesn't have the space or quiet to ventilate, he takes a walk around the city. A patrol even. He has his favorite route: it takes him past the park, past an elementary school, over near the docks, and keeps the industrial district in his periphery.
Tonight, with Bumblebee and Bulkhead loudly playing their game, and Ratchet banging on some personal project in his workshop, Optimus quietly slips out of their makeshift home.
"Going on patrol," Optimus says, and Bumblebee flops a hand at him before going back to his game, loudly fussing at Bulkhead for cheating.
Optimus doesn't know where Prowl is. He supposes it doesn't matter. Prowl will be here when it counts.
He plunges into a crisp, cool night, the air a bit damp. Ratchet will complain about having to clean his filters later, but for now, Optimus keeps going. First past the park, lit with street lamps, humans walking their pets or jogging or sitting on benches reading books by lamplight. He passes the school next, dark in the afterhours, before circling close to the docks.
His latent peripheral sensors ping.
Optimus pauses, a prickle racing across his armor. He sends out a purposeful sensory sweep, and in the shadows of his sight-line, a shadow shifts. A large shadow with far too many legs to be human. His spark picks up a faster rhythm as his sensors return the biorhythms of something almost-Cybertronian.
Blackarachnia.
Optimus darts in the direction of the shadow, which immediately vanishes down an alleyway. Metal rattles, and Optimus looks up in time to catch the lithe shape hopping from fire escape to fire escape before disappearing over the side of a roof.
Optimus shoots his grappling hook to follow and clambers up and over the edge as well, adrenaline pumping through his lines, as his sensors ping out in a wide sweep once more. But his prey hasn't gone far. If anything, she's waiting for him, leaning casually against an air conditioning unit and examining the sharp digits of her fingers.
"You're getting slow, Optimus," she says.
It has to be a trap. Optimus, however, doesn't draw his axe. She's not being outwardly aggressive, and he doesn't want to make the first move.
He glances around to see if there is anyone else, but as far as he can tell, they're alone up here. If this is a trap, it’s a well-hidden one.
"You've always been faster than me," Optimus says.
Blackarachnia grins at him, with those new, razor-sharp denta of hers. "True." She looks him up and down. "No axe yet? I'm impressed. I suppose that makes you a gentlemech."
It’s a barbed comment, needling right under his armor, but Optimus cycles a ventilation and swallows down a rude retort.
"Why are you here, Blackarachnia?" Optimus asks, though the name is still unfamiliar on his glossa, unwieldy and uncomfortable. It has all the wrong shapes.
"Looking for you actually." She pushes off the air conditioning unit, stalking toward him, grace in every step. "I need a favor, and you owe me several."
Optimus frowns. "I'm not helping you hurt the humans."
She laughs, and it actually sounds genuinely amused, rather than bitter. "I don't care about those little flesh bags. The favor is of a more... personal nature." She flicks her fingers. "All you have to do is loan me your frame for a little while, let me lay a few eggs, and I'll be out of your finials."
Optimus stares at her, rebooting his audials because her words make no sense to him. "You... what?"
She smiles at him, razor-sharp, and her eyes brighten. "I'm different, Optimus," she says, closer now, close enough he can taste the sharp heat of need in her field. "Surely you've noticed."
Optimus keeps his optics on her as she starts to circle him slowly, like predator stalking prey. "You're still the same to me."
Irritation flickers across her face before she smooths it out. "I'm different," she says after a moment, as her vents audibly check themselves. "And my frame demands something of me which requires the addition of a partner. Now, are you going to help me or are you going to abandon me again?"
He doesn't understand what she wants , but he knows she doesn't want to ask it of him. It's in every line of her armor, every taut line of her frame, the buzz of her field, the fake smirk on her lips. She's asking because she has to, not because she wants to.
And she's right. Optimus does owe her.
"What do you need?" Optimus says, and Blackarachnia smiles at him, still sharp, but the tiniest bit of softness as the edges.
"Follow me," she says, and leaps to the nearest roof, and then the next one, her extra limbs making her far more acrobatic and nimble. She doesn’t wait for him, as though it’s a foregone conclusion he’s right behind her.
She trusts his word.
Optimus hesitates for only a moment before he follows, though with far less grace than she. He may be making a huge mistake, but he's also convinced Elita is still in there, somewhere.
And that's when a little used comm line crackles to life, his spark leaping into his intake before he reminds himself it's not Elita. "Tell your medic you'll be busy for a few days. I don't need your so-called friends to come looking for you and interrupt us."
"What assurances do I have that you aren't just going to kill me?" Optimus asks.
Blackarachnia flashes him a smile and waits on the next rooftop, her limbs arrayed around her as if poised to strike. "You'll just have to trust me," she purrs. "Like I once trusted you."
"Fine," Optimus says, and composes a quick message to attach to his incoming comms. He doesn't want to run the risk of setting off any alarm bells, so he makes it simple and easy.
Went looking for some peace and quiet. I’ll be back before you need me.
"Where to now?" Optimus asks, projecting a sense of calm though his internals squirm with unease.
Blackarachnia grins and peels up a hatch in the rooftop. "We're home," she says, and skitters through the narrow space with enviable agility.
Optimus glances around. They've entered the industrial district, but they're on the abandoned side of it, where far too many buildings have fallen into disrepair, left to rot and fall apart on their own. It's the perfect place to hide.
He steels himself for what is quite possibly a terrible mistake, and follows Blackarachnia down, dropping into a vast space via his grappling hook and tow cable.
Crates of supplies are stacked here and there, a few of them pried open and their contents barely visible. A few oildrums rest nearby, one tapped, the other in reserve. More crates -- made of metal -- seem to be makeshift furniture, and a loose pile of scavenged cloth must be a makeshift bed. In comparison to the abandoned building the Autobots have taken over, this place is a slum.
"What do you know about spiders, Optimus?" Blackarachnia asks as she appears behind him, one hand lightly dragging across the tops of his shoulders before she moves away.
He barely suppresses a shiver, and he's not sure if it's disgust or interest. "They're involved in one of the worst moments of my life."
Blackarachnia chuckles and it's such an odd sound, so foreign to him, more organic than metallic. "Mine, too. Isn't that interesting?"
"What does that have to do with what you need?" Optimus asks as Blackarachnia drifts to one of the metal crates and sits, leaning into the ones stacked behind it.
"Spiders," she says, "reproduce using eggs, and as it turns out, I have eggs inside me that I need someone else to host for a little while." Her glossa flicks over her lips. "You've just volunteered for the job."
Optimus cycles his optics, still not sure he's understanding her. "What?"
Her smile widens, and there’s something hungry in it, something that unsettles him down to the pit of his tanks. "I'm going to frag you, and put eggs in you, and then you're going to be a good little host until they're ready to come out."
Optimus stares at her, trying to discern if she's speaking truth or conducting a massive joke out of a sense of revenge. Her field is hard to read, had been even in the past, but moreso now with the non-Cybertronian biorhythms to baffle his sensors.
It sounds ridiculous, but then, what does Optimus know about Blackarachnia's frame and form? She's different now, different than anything else he knows, capable of so much, and he can't begin to fathom what's normal for her and what isn't. She shouldn't even be alive.
And if this is just revenge, or a prank, well, surely she could think of something better?
Optimus sighs and forces his shoulders to relax. "What do you need me to do?" he asks, because when it comes down to it, he owes her so much. If the only one getting harmed in this endeavor is himself, he considers that an adequate exchange.
She stares at him for a long moment, as if this has all been a test, and she’s debating whether or not he passed. Her Decepticon-red optics steady him, and Optimus does his best not to squirm, to project an air of determination.
Finally, Blackarachnia stands and gestures to the comfortable pile of blankets and cloth. "Lay back and think of Cybertron, or whatever you think is better than me," she says, and tilts her head to the side. "Yu still don't mind a little bondage, right?"
Optimus pauses mid-way to the nest of blankets. “Bondage?”
She glides her fingertips over his shoulders again. “Just to keep you still. I wouldn’t want you to hurt yourself.” Little nips of charge dart from her fingers, teasing his substructure, before her hand vanishes. “Kneel for me, Optimus.”
“Hurt myself,” he echoes, and he isn’t sure if it’s a statement or a question. He does, however, kneel amid the blankets, trepidation rattling his knees before he walls it back. He’s already made up his mind. He’s going to do this.
“If you struggle.” Blackarachnia plops what appears to be a cushioned crate in front of him and gives it a pat and him a pointed look.
Some things don’t need instruction.
Optimus cycles a ventilation and tilts forward, resting his chassis on the crate as his aft rises in the air. It’s not an uncomfortable position, the discomfort borne largely from the knowledge of why he’s posed like this to start with. He feels exposed and unguarded.
He isn’t sure what to expect, but the warm spray of her webbing surprises him. Thin strips of it wrap around his frame, soft as silk but too strong to be broken. They bind him to the crate, taking the weight off his knees, stabilizing his balance. Thicker strands wrap around his thighs, pulling his legs open, baring him to Blackarachnia’s scrutiny.
Optimus swallows a pathetic sound and focuses hard into the darkness, the odd shapes of the abandoned equipment lurking in the shadows.
“Don’t worry, you’ll be fine,” she says with a little tweak to his audial. Optimus jerks and swallows a moan before it can leak out and betray him. His audials have always been sensitive.
But then.
Elita would know that.
“It won’t hurt,” Blackarachnia says. “I think.”
“You think?” Optimus echoes, and his internals tighten, his lines twisting themselves into knots of apprenhension. He’s no stranger to pain but...
This is different. Should be different.
“I hear it’s quite pleasurable,” Blackarachnia continues, heedless of his concern, and each coil of webbing is accompanied by a touch, a caress, as if she remembers every spot which makes him sing, and exploits that appropriately.
Optimus focuses on ventilating, her words washing through his audials, only half-absorbing her explanation. Most of it goes over his head anyway, though he’s sure Ratchet would have understood completely. As it is, he understands the basics: she’s going to frag him, she’s going to put eggs inside him, and they’re going to mature within him, after which he’s going to expel them.
The very idea of it makes something inside him squirm with unease, perhaps a little disgust. It sounds so distinctly organic, so anathema to what it means to be Cybertronian.
But she is also Elita, deep beneath the armor of Blackarachnia, and Optimus could never find Elita repellent, no matter how she comes to him.
He might not admit it either, but he does have fond memories of Elita binding him, tying him down, playing games full of laughter and pleasure. He’d put himself in her capable hands time and time again, and right now, his processor keeps supplying those memories, as if unable to distinguish the Elita of his memories with Blackarachnia now.
"How long is this going to take?" Optimus asks, struggling to distract himself from the odd situation, and the curls of pleasure winding through his frame as she caresses eager nodes and sensitive seams, until his sensory net positively sings with desire to be touched.
"It'll take as long as it takes," Blackarachnia says, behind him now, caressing his sides, his aft, his inner thighs, faint touches to make his derma tingle. "No more than a few days, if that comforts you."
And then her hand slides up a few inches more, the pads of her fingertips flirting over his valve panel. He can't see her grin, but her field flushes with delight. Optimus unconsciously clenches, remembering too well the hot press of Elita inside him.
"Oh, you're hot already, Optimus,” she purrs, rubbing the panel in firm circles. “But you have to open up to make this work. Don't get shy on me now.”
Optimus' face heats, his antennae spitting a spark of charge before he can stop it. He gnaws on his bottom lip and allows his panel to open. Her fingers immediately slide into him, the way eased by the copious slick he’s already produced.
Shame rolls through him, thick and potent, but Blackarachnia strokes nimbly over his internal nodes, and Optimus shudders. He clenches around two narrow fingers, more lubricant slicking his walls.
"I'll make it good," Blackarachnia says, and he swears her harmonics hint of Elita. She chuckles then, low and sultry, "You'll never want another, I can promise you that."
She pulls free, and the pads of her fingertips flirt with his anterior node, rubbing it in small circles, just the way Optimus likes. He twitches, thighs trembling, swallowing another needy moan. Heat flushes through his frame until he forces himself to go still in the webbing, to ex-vent long and calming.
"Don't drag it out," Optimus says, and hopes it doesn't come across as a plea. "I'm repaying a debt, Blackarachnia." He says her name to remind himself who she is because without seeing her, his processor plays tricks on him.
“Fine.” Her hands find his hips and something long and vaguely spike-like nudges at the pleats at his valve. "Ever the noble martyr, aren't you, Optimus?" She rocks against him, the head of her unit grinding over the lip of his valve, much blunter and thicker than he expected. "You want me to make it hurt so you can call me a villain later, is that it?"
She pushes into him before he can answer, and punches out a long, low groan from Optimus. His valve flutters madly around the thick length, calipers dilating to accept her girth. It's not pain, because her unit seems to produce slick of its own. It’s an oddly pleasant stretch, a drag against his internal sensors.
Optimus overloads, then and there, a sharp burst of pleasure that takes him by surprise. He jerks, but his frame is held fast by the webbing, leaving him rattling against the crate.
Blackarachnia chuckles, and her talons glide into his seams, playing with the sparks of charge licking out from his substructure.
"Good boy," she purrs, and she pushes deeper and deeper and deeper still, nudging his ceiling node, grinding hard against it, extending his overload.
Optimus pants, drawing in heavier vents, as lights dance behind his optics. Blackarachnia keeps thrusting, pushing forward, feeding more of herself into him. Her spike or whatever it is continues to expand, longer and thicker, forcing him wide as it reaches deeper, until the oddly shaped head nudges against something inside of him. Optimus doesn’t know what it is, and can’t remember a time it’s been touched in the middle of interfacing before. It’s so deep, it defies his knowledge of a frame’s capacity.
"There you are." Blackarachnia rocks her hips, grinding in circles into him. "Let's see if I can convince you to open for me, hm?"
"What are you talking about?" Optimus asks as his frame thrums. Pleasure crackles through his lines, feeding to his valve, cycling him back toward overload.
Blackaracnhia makes a sound Optimus can’t identify – halfway between a purr and a growl. "You'll see," she says, and what feels like charge surges into Optimus' valve -- not pain, but something else entirely – and something inside of Optimus yields to her.
She makes a triumphant noise before her hips drive forward, and she pushes deeper into him, deeper than Optimus thought was possible, grinding over sensors which have never been touched before.
He groans, long and low, not out of pain, but from confusion and unexpected pleasure. Her spike glides along something he didn't know could feel pleasure, but it does, and his lines sing with the lightning bursts of it.
She rocks in and out of him, her unit dragging along his nodes. The slick sounds echo in the dim interior, and Optimus’ face burns. He’s so wet, she glides in him easily, and the pleasure winds through his frame. Every thrust pushes her deeper and deeper, until she’s fully seated, her housing notched with his.
Optimus swallows a groan, little twitches running over his frame. His valve trembles, cycling rhythmically around her length, that odd deeper penetration making him crave more, despite not even knowing there is a more to crave.
"Now for the fun part," Blackarachnia murmurs. Her hands wander over his back, his hips, his aft. Her vents hitch, voice labored, and the odd flux of her field presses in against his.
Something round nudges the rim of his valve where they are joined, but it seems to be coming from within her length, within her spike or whatever she calls it. Optimus' optics cycle wider in realization as the round shape moves further into his body, grinding over the walls of his valve, only to be immediately followed by second, and then a third.
He groans, head hanging, his nodes sparking with ecstasy, barely able to track the sphere as it works itself deeper. It fills the length of his valve until it finds the narrower aperture Blackarachnia had revealed, and then it squeezes through, popping inside with a burst of relief to Optimus’ stretched calipers.
More follow in its wake. Optimus counts them. One, two, three, four...
He panics.
"H-how many?" Optimus gasps as the heaviness grows in his abdomen, and he worries he may not have the capacity for what she needs. There's a twinge of pain, a cramp internally as his organs shift aside, his plating audibly creaking as it distends.
Is he wrong to trust her? Is this going to hurt? Is it truly her means for revenge? Worry eclipses the pleasure, and he shakes in the webbing, no longer as comforting, now more cage than embrace.
"Only as many as you can take," Blackarachnia murmurs, and she smooths her hands over his aft, his hips, his sides, her field stroking his with surprising gentleness. "You're strong, Optimus. This is nothing to you. Besides, I'm already halfway done."
Optimus drags in heavy, humid vents, his processor spinning.
Halfway? There's four more to come? He doesn’t know if he can fit four more. The four he has area already too much.
He twitches within the webbing, panic setting in before he can whisk it away. The rattle of his armor is obnoxiously loud, and every movement makes the crate creak.
Blackarachnia thrusts again, and Optimus jolts, head jerking up, the words escaping him before he can think twice about it.
“Wait. A moment. Please,” Optimus gasps, and perhaps it sounds like he’s begging, but he doesn’t care. This sensation is so odd to him; he’s overwhelmed and drowning in it.
Blackarachnia stills, but her own vocals are strained. “I can give you a moment, but this process has its own timeline,” she says, but her hand rests on his back, warm and oddly comforting.
Optimus works his intake, unable to calm the fine tremors wracking his frame. The eggs shift inside of him, spherical and heavy, and the webbing rustles where he twists his arms, his wrists, testing the strength of it.
“I could have asked someone else,” Blackarachnia murmurs into the strange liminal space of intimacy between them. “But I knew you were the best choice.”
Optimus rests his forehead on the crate. “Because of my guilt?”
“Because of your strength,” she corrects, and her hips jerk, almost involuntarily. Optimus swallows a moan, but Blackarachnia makes a hitched noise of pleasure. “We’re halfway there, Optimus. I have to keep going.”
He doesn’t want her to keep going. But he suspects she can’t stop now, and besides, he can’t betray her again by refusing. He’d said he would help her. He’ll not back out now.
Optimus works his intake, and draws in a few heavy vents. “Do it then.”
“We’re almost done.” Blackarachnia starts to move, gently at first, before gaining momentum. Her unit drags over his internal sensors. Optimus’ valve quivers, heating quickly despite the brief pause.
Fingers flirt over his anterior node just then, and a wave of pleasure swamps Optimus' lines, sending him into an overload so quickly it almost hurts. Is it his second? His third? He hasn’t remembered to keep count. They’ve been coming in waves, just like the-- the eggs filling him, five and six and seven to join the others in sharp succession. They jostle each other within whatever cavity Blackarachnia has discovered and press against his internals.
"Almost done," Blackarachnia murmurs, and in his haze, Optimus swears she sounds like Elita, the way she touches him -- so familiar and knowing -- is all the Elita-One he remembers.
It's too easy to pretend Elita is the one behind him, touching him, spiking him. He falls into the fantasy of Elita’s well-being. She’s safe and sound, he never left her behind, he never failed her, and she’s right here with him, stroking him to his next overload.
The eighth egg fills him with an almost audible pop.
Optimus groans as his abdomen tightens, full and taut, shattering the illusion. Elit-- Blackarachnia hums at him, her field warm with approval that wraps around Optimus’ spark and torments him.
She strokes his frame as she starts to withdraw, and Optimus' sensory nodes sing.His valve ripples in wave after wave of small overloads that leave him trembling and exhausted by the time she slips free.
He swims in a hazy state, frame humming from the extended pleasure, his internals swollen and full, his valve hot and swollen. Elit-- Blackarachnia caresses his armor, murmuring something that's almost a song, one hand cupping his head.
"Recharge now, Optimus. Those eggs need time to mature," she says.
The pull of fatigue and recharge creeps around Optimus like a heavy fog.
He tries to swim to consciousness, but his limbs are leaden, and a languorous heat seeps into every line and cable. He swears her lips brush his forehead, but it must be a trick of the fatigue. The recharge grabs at him, and Optimus gives in.
He rests.
Optimus surfaces occasionally, as though his frame knows how to handle this weird and unusual situation better than his processor. He rises in a hazy state between consciousness and recharge, finding he's no longer webbed to the crate. Instead, he’s been enrobed in the web, which now forms a cocoon around him. He's laying on his back, the dark night sky visible through a glass roof and riddled with stars.
He's warm. Cradled. Comfortable.
He dares to feel safe.
He slips away again, back into recharge, stirring awake only when it feels like something moves inside of him. Shadows shift in his periphery, glimpses of Blackarachnia nearby. She comes to him when he wakes, feeds him sips of energon and oil in alternate measures, and murmurs gentle words in a language none of his programs can translate.
He starts to suspect she's keeping him docile with some additive to the energon, but maybe it's for the better. If he's awake, he'll spend too much time thinking. Rationalizing. Hoping.
His chronometer tells him it's been two days, give or take, the next time he surfaces, not in a haze this time, but fully aware. He's got two messages in his inbox, but far more pressing is the pressure in his abdomen, the shifting roll of the eggs within him.
He's been moved again, sitting up this time, legs spread, leaning back and cradled by webbing and cloth, his arms webbed above and behind him, his thighs webbed open. Blackarachnia is there, between his knees. She’s smiling, her optics bright with anticipation, her fingers stroking the pleats of his valve.
"Are you ready, Optimus?" she asks as a jolt of pleasure flashes through his frame.
Optimus jolts and heat flashes through his frame. His valve cycles, open and wet, seeping lubricating fluid at an alarming rate.
"It's time?" Optimus asks as a painful flutter in his abdomen answers the question for him.
Cables within his abdomen contract, and the odd sensation of one of the eggs shifting draws his attention inward. It nudges against the aperture, a pressure that’s light at first, but gains urgency with every cycled ventilation.
Blackarachnia strokes his inner thighs, and his sensory net positively sings. "Just relax, Optimus. It'll all be over soon."
Easy for her to say.
Optimus' head slips back, a low groan spilling from his lips, as everything inside of him tenses and contracts and ripples and moves in weird ways. The eggs are bigger now, and they grind and rub along his sensory nodes as they work their way forward -- as his own frame seeks to expel them as if it's always known how.
He counts them, their slow passage ratcheting the tension of his array higher and higher. One, two, three -- they emerge into Blackarachnia’s waiting hands. She tucks them in a basket made of webbing before eagerly waiting for the next. She touches him gently, like a lover might, stroking his inner thighs, his abdomen, the pleats of his valve, the plates of his array housing.
“Healthy,” Blackarachnia observes as the fourth rolls into her cupped palms, glossy with a fluid Optimus doesn’t recognize, far too sticky to be a Cybertronian’s natural lubrication and the metal a strangely flexible construction. “They’ll be strong. Like you, Optimus.”
She tucks it into the basket with its brethren, and then she cups his valve, her thumb resting on his anterior node. She strokes in a circle, and Optimus’ vents hitch.
“You’re welcome,” Optimus groans as pleasure wracks his frame. Overload throbs through him in a slow, cresting wave, rather than the sharp bursts of ecstasy he’s accustomed to.
He’s a pinpoint of sensation, and there’s more give in the webbing this time, more allowance for him to shift and rock his hips, and it’s a good thing he can, because the movement seems to help the eggs. That and the overloads, dragged from him by the incessant press of her thumb on his throbbing nub.
Eggs five and six tumble free in sharp succession. Optimus sags into the webbing cradle, exhausted and panting, covered in condensation. It’s so warm in this warehouse, abnormally warm, without hint of a breeze. He doesn’t know if it’s his own frame to blame, or if Blackarachnia has purposefully warmed the interior.
“Two more, Optimus,” Blackarachnia says. Her thumb presses harder, in tighter circles, his anterior node a point of fiery pleasure that peels a moan from his intake. “Surely you can finish the job.”
Optimus moans, his hips shifting, restless.
She follows his motions, her thumb persisting, and little sparks of static charge dance from beneath his armor. He’s exhausted. He aches. Somehow, he craves more, each circle of her thumb demanding the overload hovering behind each egg.
The seventh squeezes through his valve, inch by inch, agonizingly slow. His lining tingles. His calipers twitch and click until it finally tumbles into the cup of Blackarachnia’s palm.
“Good mech,” she murmurs, and it hits wrong this time. Condescending rather than reassuring. Mocking.
His tank churns.
“Stop it,” Optimus says, but it lacks the strength of his convictions. “Just… don’t.” It hurts too much. He’d rather she mock him than effect this kindness. It tastes false, and she’s not Elita.
She’s not.
Blackarachnia’s optics flash, her jaw setting with determination. “Fine,” she grits out. “Give me the last egg, Optimus, and then we can part ways and never see each other again.”
Her field retracts from his, and Optimus shivers in its absence, a chill settling around him. He works his intake, shutters his optics, tries to will the last egg to leave him, but it must be the largest of them, because it’s taking its sweet time.
Optimus’ exhausted frame clenches and flutters and cramps. A low ache builds in his abdomen, combating the heat of Blackarachnia’s fingers on him, the steady grind on his sensory nodes. He’s panting, fans spinning wildly, wave after wave of pleasure swelling inside of him, making it hard to concentrate.
“One more,” Blackarachnia urges. Her caresses increase in earnest, fingers slippery over his node, as if she wants to get this over with as quickly as he does.
Optimus groans. His thighs tremble. The egg makes its exceedingly slow journey, grinding over his nodes. Blackarachnia leans into him, presses harder, more urgent, and another overload crashes over Optimus. The egg pops out of his valve and into Blackarachnia’s waiting hand.
“The biggest of the bunch,” she observes with a near-fondness. She tucks it into the basket with the rest of them. “Well done.”
Optimus’ sags in the webbing. He’s coated in condensation, exhaustion thrumming through his lines, his cables. It feels as though he’s run a gauntlet, and there’s an ache deep inside his frame.
“Is that all?” he asks.
Blackarachnia slants him a look, her expression almost fond, almost apologetic, before it smooths into neutral. “Yes.” She moves closer and rests a hand on his head. It would be affectionate in any other situation. “You’re done. Consider our debt paid.”
Optimus fritzes with static, and for a second, there are two of her. “What I owe you is larger than this.”
She laughs, lips parted in a show of sharp denta. “Oh, Optimus, you martyr. Who are you to tell me what I’m owed?” She crooks a finger under his chin, tilting his head up. “At some point you’re going to realize that your guilt is selfish. I almost wish I could be there to see it.”
His orbital ridge furrows. “That doesn’t make any sense.”
“I suppose to you, it wouldn’t.” Blackarachnia stands, casting a multi-limbed shadow on him. “The next time we meet, I won’t be so kind.”
Optimus struggles to grip consciousness while the fatigue seeks to drag him back down. “This was kindness?”
“You still think so little of me.” Blackarachnia sighs and traces a finger around the curve of his face, ending at his jaw. “Recharge, Optimus. Think of this as a very bad purge.”
The tendrils of exhaustion pull him down while he’s struggling to come up with a rebuttal. He’s tired and filthy and sore and taut, and he doesn’t have the right words anyway. He never does when it comes to Elit-- Blackar-- her.
Optimus slips into recharge, but he swears once again that he feels the brush of something soft over his forehead, the lightest caress of a fond energy field.
“You noble fool,” Blackarachnia murmurs.
And then she’s gone, and Optimus is swallowed by the dark of recharge.
He swims to consciousness a few hours later, according to his chronometer. The warehouse is dark, but all he has to do is flip on his headlights to illuminate the space.
The crates are gone. The webbing is gone. He’s clean, and the pallet beneath him is a far cry from the former cozy nest of blankets. A chill has set in, and the odd silence makes it colder.
Optimus sits up, but it doesn’t take a full scan to tell him he’s alone. A few wisps of stray cobweb are all that remain of Blackarachnia, and all the proof he has it wasn’t some illness-induced night purge, or some prank by one of the many human miscreants they’ve helped the local police arrest.
Blackarachnia is gone, and he’s alone.
He’s still sore, still exhausted, but he doesn’t feel like he’s about to collapse. Optimus rises, standing on wobbling knees, and takes a few tentative steps. Strength returns to him slowly, but soon he’s able to conduct a thorough search of the warehouse.
Dusty, decayed mechanical equipment. Empty boxes coated in dust and dirt. Small vermin skittering in the furthest corners. Sliding, metal doors locked with rusting chains. His grapple hook and cable dangle from the ceiling. The roof access is ajar.
Blackarachnia is gone.
Optimus touches his lips. She’d kissed him, hadn’t she? Or had he only imagined it?
Optimus sighs and grabs the cable, hauling himself out of the warehouse with aching, trembling limbs. It hadn’t been a dream. The fatigue in his frame informs him that much.
It doesn’t make any sense.
He collects his grapple once he’s on the roof, closes the access, and turns toward home. Or at least what they’re calling home for now. It’s approaching dawn, he realizes, by the crisp damp in the air, the sun rising on the horizon.
There are three messages waiting for him, none of them from Elit-- Blackarachnia. Two are from Ratchet, telling him to get back from his sulking before he sends out a search party. The third is from Bumblebee, asking him to pick up a new controller on his way because they broke one, oops.
His world is remarkably unchanged.
Optimus touches his abdomen where echoes of the weight of the eggs linger inside him.
No.
Nothing’s the same. Not since Archa Seven, not since crashing on Earth, not since Blackarachnia came into his life, not since this very moment.
He pauses at the lip of a roof, before he would have leapt down to the empty street below, and stares at the horizon. Wherever Blackarachnia has gone is a worry for another day.
It’s time to go home.
