[TFA] Backfire
Oct. 7th, 2021 07:30 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
dracoqueen22Title: Backfire
Universe: Transformers Animated, post season three
Characters: Optimus Prime/Megatron, Atomizer, Ratchet
Rated: NC-17
Warnings: Somnophilia, NonConsensual Somnophilia, NonConsensual Oral Performed on an Unconscious Person, Nonconsensual Sex with an Unconscious Prisoner, Sticky Sexual Interfacing, Unintended Consequences, Mechpreg
Description: They would have him be Magnus someday, and if Optimus had any hope of being a successful leader, he’d have to purge this shameful desire from his frame – by any means necessary.
Contest reward for happyhour
It was a fantasy, and it was always supposed to stay a fantasy.
Optimus never intended to act on it. For one, he never thought he'd get the opportunity, and for two, well, he was more than aware that every Autobot he'd ever met would disapprove.
It wasn't his fault that Autobot propaganda had completely failed in its attempt to make Megatron out to be nothing more than a hateful monster. How else was Optimus supposed to interpret all those images of Megatron standing victorious on the battlefield, mowing down the opposition, leading his troops with such confidence and charisma?
Sure, they told him want the Decepticon commander’s destruction, to hate Megatron, but then they showed Optimus and all the other cadets how effective and powerful Megatron was. Optimus was pretty sure he wasn't the only one of the cadets who harbored secret fantasies about being in Megatron's berth.
Power and confidence were strong enticements, and Optimus was as susceptible to them as the average bot.
Except it was a fantasy. Only a fantasy. Megatron was gone to who knew where in the universe, and Optimus was left with the history trax, and the history vids, and small collection of forbidden propaganda he'd found and bought and kept. He would never meet Megatron in his lifetime, he was sure of it.
It was a harmless fantasy that got him off like a rocket every time, a mix of satisfaction and shame swirling in his tank, and no one had to know.
Never in a million years could Optimus have expected Earth, or the reality of facing down Megatron in person, of being simultaneously awed and terrified in equal measures. He would have thought actually fighting against Megatron would kill any desire he had for the mech, no matter how secret.
If anything, it made the fantasies worse. No longer did he dream of being pressed beneath Megatron. Now he dreamed of Megatron beneath him, of taking his pleasure from Megatron's frame while the Decepticon Commander gasped and begged and pleaded for more.
It wasn't healthy. Or at least, Optimus assumed it wasn't healthy. It wasn't like he could, or even would, ask anyone about it. The last thing he wanted was for someone to think of him as a Decepticon sympathizer and toss him in prison next to the captured Decepticons. He'd barely survived the last time he'd been exiled. He didn't know if he could take another.
Optimus tried to ignore it, but the sight of Megatron in chains, shuffled off to prison, only made it harder, darkened the fantasies until he dreamed every night, and woke up from recharge revved and slick and hungry. He wanted to ride Megatron’s spike until he was limp and sated. He wanted to feel Megatron’s hands on his hips, hear the Decepticon call him all those nicknames that weren’t his actual designation.
He wanted to show Megatron that there was more than one way to be defeated, and Optimus didn’t need the Magnus Hammer to do it.
He couldn’t stop thinking about it. No amount of distractions, legal interfacing vids, paperwork, or long hours spent engaged in physical exertion could wipe the obsession from Optimus’ processor.
Clearly, Optimus just had to get it out of his system.
One time, Optimus decided. Just one. He could prove to his subconscious that reality could never match fantasy, and then that fantasy would fizzle away, and he'd be able to move on. He could hunger for more reachable mechs, could dream about things that were possible.
Just once, he told himself.
Just once.
It wasn't even that hard to get access to Megatron.
Optimus, for all his faults, was now something of a hero to the Autobots, despite Sentinel's protests and blubbering. Sentinel had plans to be Magnus, and Optimus didn't really, but he had a feeling he was going to be nominated for the position anyway.
He couldn't be Magnus with all these wants and needs burning up inside him. He had to get them out of his system. He had to be a proper Autobot, and that meant taking drastic measures.
No one had to know. Not even Megatron.
Especially not Megatron.
Optimus nodded to the guards at the prison. They recognized him on sight, and didn't ask questions as he went inside. The Decepticons, he knew, were being kept in Tier Three confinement, but Megatron had a solitary cell in Tier Four, under stricter monitoring. There was no time where he didn't have at least three pairs of optics on him.
Jazz had given him a strange look when Optimus asked for a signal repeater, but he hadn't asked why, and had given it up without a fuss.
Optimus had visited Tier Four too many times not to know the ins and outs of the security measures. Ostensibly, it was to ensure Megatron remained secure. Too often, he spent long moments staring at Megatron in his cell, contemplating. Considering.
Fantasizing.
The guards thought it was hatred. They joked with him. They thought he was smug about his victory, and he only wanted to make sure Megatron was where he ought to be. It was expected, encouraged even, for Optimus to remind Megatron of his defeat, to revel in Megatron's humiliation.
Megatron didn't know about these visits. The view into his cell only went one way unless they chose to allow him to see out. Optimus never asked, and the guards didn't offer. Optimus could watch Megatron without the Decepticon being any wiser.
Optimus passed through the tiers and was let into Four without any trouble. He recognized the guard at the main monitoring station.
"Back again, eh?" Atomizer asked with a smirk. This post was a promotion for him, and he considered Optimus the one to thank for it.
"Yes," Optimus said. Anticipation coiled heavy in his tanks, and he hoped Atomizer couldn't taste it in his field.
Then again, given the way Atomizer leered, even if he did notice, he'd probably approve. Atomizer was fond of patrolling past Megatron's cell, dropping the security screen, and tossing taunts in at Megatron. Not that the Decepticon commander ever rose to the bait.
Atomizer could be sadistic, but they were only Decepticons. No one in high command seemed to mind.
Atomizer leaned against the counter, his field thick with amusement. "Megatron's in recharge right now. Want me to wake him up for you?" His hand hovered over the submission system, designed to inflict a harsh jolt of electrical current to misbehaving prisoners.
"That won't be necessary," Optimus said, and when Atomizer cocked his head, quickly added, "I'll do it myself when I get there."
"Right. Gotcha." Atomizer flashed his visor in a parody of a wink. "I'll set the controls for you to access then." He dropped back into his chair and propped his feet on the console, crossed at the ankles. "Take all the time you need, sir." He popped off a salute.
"Thank you," Optimus said politely.
Well, that certainly made things easier. Atomizer wouldn't pay much attention to the cameras or the monitoring systems. So long as the emergency alerts didn't go off, Atomizer would leave Optimus -- and whatever Optimus wanted to do - alone. As far as Atomizer was concerned, they were only Decepticons.
No one cared what might happen to a Decepticon.
Atomizer buzzed him in, and Optimus passed two empty cells before he came to two more, one which was empty, and the fourth which was occupied. Megatron was the only tenant of Tier Four, though for how much longer, Optimus didn’t know. There was chatter about executing him, save for the fear of making him a martyr. But the risk he presented being alive and in prison was also great.
Eventually, the cost-risk analysis would land Megatron’s fate on one side or the other. For now, he lived. And Optimus only needed one opportunity.
He stood outside Megatron’s cell and stared through the one-way transteel. Megatron was in recharge, though there was a tension to his frame that suggested it wasn’t a restful stasis. Optimus doubted Megatron fully relaxed for a single moment.
Optimus cycled a ventilation and activated the signal repeater Jazz gave him. Now, the cameras would see what he wanted them to see -- namely Optimus outside of Megatron’s cell and staring at him, not inside of Megatron’s cell, doing things he would never, ever repeat again.
Honestly, Atomizer probably wouldn’t try to stop him. But the idea of the other mech watching with some kind of sadistic glee churned Optimus’ tanks. He wasn’t doing this because he wanted to. He had to. If he was going to be an effective leader, he had to purge this shameful desire from his frame.
He only had about five, maybe seven minutes to do it before someone noticed the loop. Atomizer probably would dismiss it, but the other two mechs watching from a separate location weren’t as lenient. They’d call Atomizer first, and he’d probably make some excuse, but at that point, it would become a matter of keeping his job.
He’d come investigate.
Optimus burst into motion, undoing the mechanical locks on Megatron’s cell – digital locks could too easily be manipulated and hacked – and slid into the room, closing the door behind him. This was dangerous in more ways than one, but it wasn’t fear that gripped his spark. It was anticipation. Already, he felt the heat coiling in his tanks, dripping steadily downward, gathering in his valve.
Megatron didn’t online, thank Primus, and Optimus slipped Ratchet’s EMP generator out of his subspace. Ratchet didn’t know he’d borrowed it, and if Optimus were careful about it, Ratchet would never know.
A quick pulse and Megatron’s frame relaxed fully into the berth, all tension cut from his cables. He wouldn’t online for at least ten minutes, which was more than enough time for Optimus to do what he needed to do.
He ex-vented and tucked the EMP generator away. He only had five to seven minutes, but he ached to touch, so he spared thirty seconds. His last physical contact with Megatron had been violence and desperation. It hadn’t allowed him to savor, to feel the strength of Megatron’s armor beneath his fingertips, to trace his seams and feel the steady thrum of Megatron’s sparkbeat.
Echoes of their battle lingered on Megatron’s frame. He’d been repaired enough to ensure his survival, but the little dings and scratches remained. Optimus traced one of the furrows he was sure his own weapon had made. He’d left his mark at least.
Optimus’ touches veered lower, over Megatron’s chassis, his abdomen, his pelvic span, until finally he cupped Megatron’s interfacing array. His palm barely covered Megatron’s panel, and he could only imagine how thick Megatron’s spike was within its sheath. His valve clenched, and Optimus’ thighs trembled.
No. He didn’t have time to savor.
Optimus shook himself and climbed onto the berth, straddling Megatron’s thighs. He stroked Megatron’s interfacing cover, and searched for the medical release a little research had told him he’d find. He found the catch within moments, and once he triggered it, Megatron’s panel folded open for him, revealing his spike and valve array.
Megatron’s valve lips were plush, his biolights a dim, pulsing crimson. Optimus allowed himself a few seconds to stroke them, teasing the soft mesh and flirting over Megatron’s anterior node. Megatron drew in a vent, and Optimus froze, but he didn’t stir at all. It was purely subconscious.
Phew.
Optimus eyed the time ticking down in the corner of his HUD. He’d set himself a timer. He needed to get a move on.
He focused on Megatron’s spike instead. Currently, it was recessed, but Optimus knew how to coax it out. A few strokes and a lick or two, and gradually, Megatron pressurized into his hand, his spike thick and blunt, banded in grey and red. Optimus’ mouth lubricated, and he allowed himself a few sucks, the weight of Megatron on his glossa, a few drops of pre-fluid seeping into his intake.
Primus.
Optimus groaned and palmed himself, his interfacing panel springing aside, his valve already dripping with lubricant. He ground the heel of his palm against his anterior node and moaned again. He sucked harder on Megatron, the Decepticon’s spike a hard line in his mouth, stretching his lips and his jaw, and he could only imagine how it was going to feel in his valve.
No, he didn’t have to imagine. Not anymore.
Now, he’d know.
Time ticked down.
Optimus let Megatron slip from his mouth and shifted forward, straddling Megatron’s pelvic span, the head of Megatron’s spike nudging at his valve. Optimus worked his intake, shivering as the thick head brushed over his valve lips, over his anterior node, before he slipped it against his opening and ever so gradually slid down.
Inch by delicious inch, Megatron’s spike filled him, so thick it dragged along his sensor nodes and ridges until Optimus felt it nudge against his ceiling node in a near-blinding burst of pleasure. He gasped, spasming as his valve clenched down and rode the small overload that rippled through him. His vents roared.
His thighs wobbled, and Optimus dropped the last precious inches, until Megatron was fully seated in him, filling every inch of his valve. Optimus panted, tilted forward, hands braced on Megatron’s abdomen, as he struggled to adjust. His calipers click-click-clicked around the broad stretch, but there was little room for them to do anything but twitch in their mounts.
Primus, this was better than any fantasy.
Optimus sucked in a ragged ventilation, braced himself, and started to move, knees digging in against Megatron’s hips as he dragged his body up, then sank back down, starbursts dancing behind his optics. The slap of metal on metal seemed to echo in the small cell, and when he glanced at Megatron, the Decepticon remained in stasis. He was starting to vent loudly, and his frame vented suffocating amounts of heat, but Ratchet’s EMP generator had done its duty.
Optimus shuttered his optics and moved, again and again, up and down, circling his hips, grinding forward and back, taking his pleasure. His sensors throbbed and pulsed volcanic heat, his valve dribbling lubricant in messy smears over Megatron’s interfacing array. He leaned forward, just a bit, and his anterior node caught on some edge of Megatron’s armor.
Explosions of light danced in the back of his optics as he rocked forward and slammed down, the pressure of Megatron’s spikehead on his ceiling node sending him into another overload. He gasped, grinding down, grinding Megatron’s spike head on his gestational port until it forced him into a third overload that whited out everything around him.
Distantly, there was a hot splash deep within his valve. He clenched down, valve spasming around Megatron’s spike, and it took him too long to realize that it wasn’t just his own valve spasming, but that Megatron had overloaded, too. That he was feeling the throb of Megatron’s spike, and the hot pulses of Megatron’s transfluid against his nodes.
Optimus groaned, fingers dragging into fists, scraping tiny furrows on Megatron’s armor. He panted, lightly circling his hips, drawing out every last charged spike of pleasure, until exhaustion took over. His thighs wobbled. He sank down onto his elbows, head pressed to Megatron’s abdomen, his frame twitching as bits of charge danced over and through his armor.
Primus help him.
Nothing in his fantasies could even come close to comparing to that.
An alarm rang in the back of his processor – one minute warning. Frag.
Optimus dragged himself off Megatron’s spike with a hiss and hopped off Megatron’s frame, standing on wobbling legs. He fumbled cleanser and mesh cloths out of subspace and quickly wiped Megatron off, erasing the evidence of his shameful indiscretion. He wanted to soak up the aftermath, just float along with the pleasure simmering in his lines, but he couldn’t.
He cleaned himself up just as quickly, though he’d need to visit a washrack to get fully clean. Megatron’s transfluid lingered in his valve, and Optimus wasn’t quite ready to be rid of it, so he closed his panel to keep it contained. He found the manual release for Megatron’s array once more. A quick flick, and Megatron’s spike retracted, his panel sliding back into place with a quiet click.
Optimus glanced around the cell, but couldn’t find any further evidence of his presence, so he slipped through the door, locking it in place behind him, just as the timer ticked down to zero. He stood outside the viewing window and deactivated the signal repeater, holding a vent as he waited.
No alarms. No guards rushing in to arrest him. No sign that anyone had noticed anything.
He was in the clear.
Optimus cycled a ventilation, gathered himself, and left Tier Four -- and Megatron -- behind. He wouldn’t come back. He promised himself that he wouldn’t. He wouldn’t come visit Megatron anymore. He wouldn’t stare at him. And he definitely wouldn’t fantasize about Megatron either. He’d gotten it out of his system, and now he was free to move on with his life like a proper Autobot should.
Atomizer was flipping through a datapad when Optimus returned to the guard station, and his gaze flicked up to Optimus. “Done already?”
Optimus’ vent caught in his intake, and he coughed, trying to free the sudden burst of panic which clawed into his chest.
Atomizer chuckled and flicked his stylus across the screen. “Do I need to call a medic?”
“I didn’t assault him,” Optimus said, horrified.
Atomizer shrugged. “You wouldn’t be the first if you had. Command don’t much care so long as mechs don’t kill him.”
Optimus felt a little ill. “How often does that happen?”
“More often than you think, but less often than it should if you ask me.” Atomizer blase attitude made something squirm uncomfortably in Optimus’ tank. “For future reference, if you’re going to loop the camera feed, you might want to do something other than stand there and stare.”
He winked again.
“Thanks for the advice,” Optimus said weakly. He didn’t mention he had no intention of returning.
“You’re welcome, sir.”
Optimus stood there, shifting awkwardly, until he remembered he was a Prime and Atomizer wasn’t, and he could leave if he wanted. So he did.
He walked out of Tier Four, passing other guards at other checkpoints, none of whom paid him any more attention than they’d given when he arrived. He kept waiting for someone to give chase, to look at him and see what he’d done and slap stasis cuffs around his wrists, but it never happened.
He left the prison without any trouble, though he didn’t vent relief until he was back in his quarters.
He’d done it. Tomorrow, he would return Ratchet’s EMP generator and Jazz’s signal repeater, and then he would never visit Megatron again. He would recharge without fantasies. He would be free to move on.
Optimus contemplated the washrack. Megatron’s transfluid was still in his valve. He ached from the stretch of Megatron’s spike, felt raw, but in a good way. He wanted to hold on to that feeling for a little while longer.
He’d wash in the morning.
For now, it was time to recharge, and tomorrow, he’d never think about Decepticons, or Megatron, or shameful desires again.
~
Exactly three weeks later, to the day, Optimus’ favorite energon tasted like ash on his glossa, he couldn’t hold down his oil, he was frequently exhausted, and there was a weird sensation in his lower abdomen. To make matters worse, not only had the dreams not gone away, they’d increased in frequency and intensity.
He onlined far too many times with a cry in his intake, with his frame rolling in overload, with his valve slick and hungry and leaking lubricant on his berth.
To his horror, he was starting to think that he hadn’t fixed his problem, but made it worse.
He tried to ignore it, both the increasing overload-infested dreams, and the sickness rolling through his frame. He thought if he gave it time, his frame would adapt to the changes – whatever they were -- and he’d be fine.
It might have worked if Ratchet hadn’t caught him purging his daily rations.
“How long’s this been going on?” Ratchet demanded as Optimus felt the immediate wash of a scan hit him.
Optimus wiped his mouth and gave in to the inevitable. “A week or so? I’m sure it’s nothing, Ratchet.”
The medic snorted. “I’ll be the judge of that,” he said, and whipped out the datapad he always seemed to carry, plugging into it. He’d planted himself in the doorway, preventing Optimus from making an escape, as he skimmed the results.
“I’m still adjusting to Cybertronian oil, that’s all,” Optimus said.
Ratchet didn’t answer. His optics narrowed. His orbital ridges drew down. He worked his jaw then raised his optics to peer at Optimus. Another scan hit him, and Optimus felt the tingle of it working deeper, examining his internals.
“I’m fine,” Optimus said.
“You’re sparked,” Ratchet said flatly.
Optimus cycled his optics. “What?”
Ratchet’s engine revved, his lips pressing into a thin line before he tucked away his scanner and crossed his arms. “You’re sparked. I didn’t realize you were seeing anyone.”
“I’m not,” Optimus said as ice grabbed at his lines, and his knees wobbled. He gripped the counter to keep himself upright. “What do you mean I’m sparked?”
“What do you think it means, Optimus? It means you’ve got a sparkling growing in your tank. It’s about three weeks along, if I had to guess,” Ratchet said, rolling his optics before he scrubbed a hand down his face. “This is what happens when the Autobot version of interfacing education relies on not educating at all.”
Optimus’ spark tried to climb into his intake. “But… I can’t be sparked,” he said as the panic wrapped around his vents and attempted to choke him. “It was only the once. It was…”
“Once is all it takes,” Ratchet said. “Who’s the lucky progenitor?”
Optimus shook his head, his hands shaking. “No, I can’t… you don’t understand.” He wrung his fingers together, his armor clattering. “This wasn’t supposed to happen.” It had never crossed his processor that this might be a possibility.
Ratchet’s expression softened. He moved further inside, resting a hand on Optimus’ shoulder. “You’re not the first to tell me that, kid.” His field was warm, encouraging. “Can you answer this? Did someone… hurt you?”
“No, it wasn’t like that. It was just the once. It was only supposed to be the once!” Optimus gasped out. He clutched at his knees, tight enough his armor creaked. “It was supposed to be over. That was supposed to be the end, but it hasn’t stopped. It’s just getting worse. And now this.”
Primus, what was he going to do?
Ratchet’s confusion filtered in his field. “What’s getting worse?”
Optimus’ vents hiccuped. “I know it’s not normal. I tried to ignore it, because it’s not healthy, it’s not proper, but it wouldn’t go away. I thought I could just live with it, and then mechs started talking about nominating me for Magnus, and I knew I had to get rid of it.”
He couldn’t stop himself, the words were spilling out of him. He didn’t know what to do, and if there was anyone who knew what to do, it was Ratchet. Optimus had no choice. He was sparked! He couldn’t fix that on his own.
“Optimus.” Ratchet squeezed his shoulder tighter. “What are you talking about? What do you need to get rid of?”
He gripped the back of his neck and squeezed his optics shut. “The fantasies,” Optimus admitted, the shame coiling so hot in his spark he thought he might purge again. “There were so many of them, and I knew they were wrong. Good Autobots shouldn’t fantasize about Decepticons. Proper Autobots didn’t think about fragging Megatron.”
“Fantasies are normal--”
“Not mine!” Optimus grabbed Ratchet’s arm and looked up at him desperately. “Not the things I wanted. The bad things.” He worked his intake. “Now it’s worse than it was before.”
Ratchet went still. “Before what?” He stared down at Optimus, and there was a firmness to his voice Optimus snapped to obey. “What did you do?”
“It was only once. I thought I only needed one time,” Optimus said, and the shame tried to eat him from the inside out. The thing he wanted so desperately that he knew he shouldn’t. “I made sure no one knew, not even Megatron. I just… I had to know what it was really like so the fantasies could stop.”
Ratchet’s field pulled away from so abruptly, Optimus got whiplash. “Are you telling me that Megatron is the progenitor?”
“It was only once,” Optimus said.
Ratchet jerked back from him, and when he looked at Optimus, it was with something akin to horror in his optics. “You fragged a prisoner? Do you have any idea how unethical that is? Or how Megatron’s going to use this against you?”
“He doesn’t know,” Optimus said. He touched his abdomen where the damn consequence was growing.
“What do you mean he doesn’t--” Ratchet cut off, and he took another step back, color draining from his face. “A few weeks ago, I couldn’t find my EMP generator, and then it mysteriously appeared the next morning. I thought I was getting old.”
“I borrowed it.”
“To rape Megatron? Is that what you’re telling me?” Ratchet snarled and spat out a stream of curses the likes of which Optimus had never heard. “What in the Pit were you thinking?”
“I had to make them stop!” Optimus pushed himself upright, the panic clogging up his intake. “I didn’t hurt him. I wouldn’t do that. I just needed to make it stop. I didn’t know I was going to end up sparked, or I would have never--”
“You should have never in the first place regardless of the potential consequences!” Ratchet spat. “It’s wrong!”
Optimus shook his head. “I know it’s wrong. That’s why I tried to stop it.”
Ratchet’s hands pulled into fist, and a tiny sliver of his field slipped out -- thick with disgust and horror and disbelief. “I’m talking about the rape, Optimus, not the damned fantasies!”
His vocals rang in the small room. The smell of Optimus’ purge was sick and sour, and his tanks flipped, but he didn’t know if it was because of the reek, or because of the way Ratchet was looking at him.
“I need your help,” Optimus said, shoulders sinking.
“You need help, that’s for damn sure,” Ratchet said. “You should have come to me, and talked to me. I could’ve helped you.” Could have, Ratchet said, as if he could not anymore.
Optimus swallowed over the tightness in his intake, palm on his abdomen, the physical representation of his guilt festering inside of him “I can’t have this sparkling.”
Ratchet stared at him. “What are you asking me to do?”
Everything in Optimus felt the shame of what he was about to request, but he couldn’t keep this sparkling. He couldn’t have a Decepticon’s spawn. He couldn’t let the truth of what he’d done get out. He’d never recover.
“I need to get rid of it,” Optimus said quietly, begging with his gaze.
Ratchet vented. “Yeah, that’s what I thought you’d say.” He scrubbed his hand down his face. “Abortion is against the law, but then again, so is rape, and you seemed to have no problem with that.”
Optimus flinched. “It’s not like I wanted to,” he said, staring at the floor. “I just did what I thought I had to do.”
“I don’t even know where to start in the list of things that are wrong with everything you just said,” Ratchet snapped. His engine revved, and he was so far now, he was in the doorway, like he wanted to make a quick escape.
“Are you going to help me?” Optimus asked. He looked up, and didn’t know how to identify the look on Ratchet’s face.
He knew it wasn’t sympathy, because he’d seen that on the medic before. It wasn’t pity, but it wasn’t disgust either. It was somewhere between the revulsion Ratchet offered whenever anyone mentioned Lockdown, and the resentment in his tone when they watched the news and Autobot command revealed some new anti-Decepticon measure. Like his anger at Optimus wasn’t reserved for Optimus alone, but the world as a whole.
“What I should do is report you,” Ratchet said in a flat tone. “Except that I’m self-aware enough to know you’d get nothing more than a slap on the wrist for assaulting Megatron. High command will be more bothered by the fact you’re sparked. Impure Autobots don’t make for good Primes, after all.”
No, they didn’t. And Optimus was ruined from the inside out.
Optimus’ tank clenched. “What are you going to do?”
“Walk away,” Ratchet said. He sighed, long and heavy, and now he looked tired and ancient, every one of his centuries hanging on his shoulders. “You might get lucky. Half-Decepticons sometimes have ground alts. Whirl turned out all right.”
“But--”
Ratchet shook his head, sharp and final. “It’s too late. I can’t help you. Frag, I can barely stand to look at you right now.”
There it was.
Every ounce of Optimus’ shame and disgust rose up in him, threatening to swallow him whole. He was disgusting, and here was the proof.
“You’re not the mech I thought you were,” Ratchet said. “And I can’t--” He cut off, scrubbing his hand down his face. “Never mind. Just don’t… don’t comm me.” He worked his jaw, rapping his fingers on the doorframe. “Good luck becoming Magnus.”
Ratchet spun on a heel and walked away.
Optimus’ glossa caught in his mouth. He thought he should say something, do something, but his feet were rooted in place. The echoes of Ratchet’s revulsion clung to him.
The whoosh and click of Ratchet leaving his quarters floated to his audials.
Optimus slumped on the floor of the washrack, dizzy, putting his head between his knees. Nausea rolled through his tanks. Ratchet’s words echoed around and around in his processor, impossible to ignore.
He was sparked by Megatron, and the fantasies hadn’t gone away at all. Ratchet walked away, probably for good, and now, Optimus was worse off than he was before.
What was he supposed to do now?
***
Universe: Transformers Animated, post season three
Characters: Optimus Prime/Megatron, Atomizer, Ratchet
Rated: NC-17
Warnings: Somnophilia, NonConsensual Somnophilia, NonConsensual Oral Performed on an Unconscious Person, Nonconsensual Sex with an Unconscious Prisoner, Sticky Sexual Interfacing, Unintended Consequences, Mechpreg
Description: They would have him be Magnus someday, and if Optimus had any hope of being a successful leader, he’d have to purge this shameful desire from his frame – by any means necessary.
Contest reward for happyhour
It was a fantasy, and it was always supposed to stay a fantasy.
Optimus never intended to act on it. For one, he never thought he'd get the opportunity, and for two, well, he was more than aware that every Autobot he'd ever met would disapprove.
It wasn't his fault that Autobot propaganda had completely failed in its attempt to make Megatron out to be nothing more than a hateful monster. How else was Optimus supposed to interpret all those images of Megatron standing victorious on the battlefield, mowing down the opposition, leading his troops with such confidence and charisma?
Sure, they told him want the Decepticon commander’s destruction, to hate Megatron, but then they showed Optimus and all the other cadets how effective and powerful Megatron was. Optimus was pretty sure he wasn't the only one of the cadets who harbored secret fantasies about being in Megatron's berth.
Power and confidence were strong enticements, and Optimus was as susceptible to them as the average bot.
Except it was a fantasy. Only a fantasy. Megatron was gone to who knew where in the universe, and Optimus was left with the history trax, and the history vids, and small collection of forbidden propaganda he'd found and bought and kept. He would never meet Megatron in his lifetime, he was sure of it.
It was a harmless fantasy that got him off like a rocket every time, a mix of satisfaction and shame swirling in his tank, and no one had to know.
Never in a million years could Optimus have expected Earth, or the reality of facing down Megatron in person, of being simultaneously awed and terrified in equal measures. He would have thought actually fighting against Megatron would kill any desire he had for the mech, no matter how secret.
If anything, it made the fantasies worse. No longer did he dream of being pressed beneath Megatron. Now he dreamed of Megatron beneath him, of taking his pleasure from Megatron's frame while the Decepticon Commander gasped and begged and pleaded for more.
It wasn't healthy. Or at least, Optimus assumed it wasn't healthy. It wasn't like he could, or even would, ask anyone about it. The last thing he wanted was for someone to think of him as a Decepticon sympathizer and toss him in prison next to the captured Decepticons. He'd barely survived the last time he'd been exiled. He didn't know if he could take another.
Optimus tried to ignore it, but the sight of Megatron in chains, shuffled off to prison, only made it harder, darkened the fantasies until he dreamed every night, and woke up from recharge revved and slick and hungry. He wanted to ride Megatron’s spike until he was limp and sated. He wanted to feel Megatron’s hands on his hips, hear the Decepticon call him all those nicknames that weren’t his actual designation.
He wanted to show Megatron that there was more than one way to be defeated, and Optimus didn’t need the Magnus Hammer to do it.
He couldn’t stop thinking about it. No amount of distractions, legal interfacing vids, paperwork, or long hours spent engaged in physical exertion could wipe the obsession from Optimus’ processor.
Clearly, Optimus just had to get it out of his system.
One time, Optimus decided. Just one. He could prove to his subconscious that reality could never match fantasy, and then that fantasy would fizzle away, and he'd be able to move on. He could hunger for more reachable mechs, could dream about things that were possible.
Just once, he told himself.
Just once.
It wasn't even that hard to get access to Megatron.
Optimus, for all his faults, was now something of a hero to the Autobots, despite Sentinel's protests and blubbering. Sentinel had plans to be Magnus, and Optimus didn't really, but he had a feeling he was going to be nominated for the position anyway.
He couldn't be Magnus with all these wants and needs burning up inside him. He had to get them out of his system. He had to be a proper Autobot, and that meant taking drastic measures.
No one had to know. Not even Megatron.
Especially not Megatron.
Optimus nodded to the guards at the prison. They recognized him on sight, and didn't ask questions as he went inside. The Decepticons, he knew, were being kept in Tier Three confinement, but Megatron had a solitary cell in Tier Four, under stricter monitoring. There was no time where he didn't have at least three pairs of optics on him.
Jazz had given him a strange look when Optimus asked for a signal repeater, but he hadn't asked why, and had given it up without a fuss.
Optimus had visited Tier Four too many times not to know the ins and outs of the security measures. Ostensibly, it was to ensure Megatron remained secure. Too often, he spent long moments staring at Megatron in his cell, contemplating. Considering.
Fantasizing.
The guards thought it was hatred. They joked with him. They thought he was smug about his victory, and he only wanted to make sure Megatron was where he ought to be. It was expected, encouraged even, for Optimus to remind Megatron of his defeat, to revel in Megatron's humiliation.
Megatron didn't know about these visits. The view into his cell only went one way unless they chose to allow him to see out. Optimus never asked, and the guards didn't offer. Optimus could watch Megatron without the Decepticon being any wiser.
Optimus passed through the tiers and was let into Four without any trouble. He recognized the guard at the main monitoring station.
"Back again, eh?" Atomizer asked with a smirk. This post was a promotion for him, and he considered Optimus the one to thank for it.
"Yes," Optimus said. Anticipation coiled heavy in his tanks, and he hoped Atomizer couldn't taste it in his field.
Then again, given the way Atomizer leered, even if he did notice, he'd probably approve. Atomizer was fond of patrolling past Megatron's cell, dropping the security screen, and tossing taunts in at Megatron. Not that the Decepticon commander ever rose to the bait.
Atomizer could be sadistic, but they were only Decepticons. No one in high command seemed to mind.
Atomizer leaned against the counter, his field thick with amusement. "Megatron's in recharge right now. Want me to wake him up for you?" His hand hovered over the submission system, designed to inflict a harsh jolt of electrical current to misbehaving prisoners.
"That won't be necessary," Optimus said, and when Atomizer cocked his head, quickly added, "I'll do it myself when I get there."
"Right. Gotcha." Atomizer flashed his visor in a parody of a wink. "I'll set the controls for you to access then." He dropped back into his chair and propped his feet on the console, crossed at the ankles. "Take all the time you need, sir." He popped off a salute.
"Thank you," Optimus said politely.
Well, that certainly made things easier. Atomizer wouldn't pay much attention to the cameras or the monitoring systems. So long as the emergency alerts didn't go off, Atomizer would leave Optimus -- and whatever Optimus wanted to do - alone. As far as Atomizer was concerned, they were only Decepticons.
No one cared what might happen to a Decepticon.
Atomizer buzzed him in, and Optimus passed two empty cells before he came to two more, one which was empty, and the fourth which was occupied. Megatron was the only tenant of Tier Four, though for how much longer, Optimus didn’t know. There was chatter about executing him, save for the fear of making him a martyr. But the risk he presented being alive and in prison was also great.
Eventually, the cost-risk analysis would land Megatron’s fate on one side or the other. For now, he lived. And Optimus only needed one opportunity.
He stood outside Megatron’s cell and stared through the one-way transteel. Megatron was in recharge, though there was a tension to his frame that suggested it wasn’t a restful stasis. Optimus doubted Megatron fully relaxed for a single moment.
Optimus cycled a ventilation and activated the signal repeater Jazz gave him. Now, the cameras would see what he wanted them to see -- namely Optimus outside of Megatron’s cell and staring at him, not inside of Megatron’s cell, doing things he would never, ever repeat again.
Honestly, Atomizer probably wouldn’t try to stop him. But the idea of the other mech watching with some kind of sadistic glee churned Optimus’ tanks. He wasn’t doing this because he wanted to. He had to. If he was going to be an effective leader, he had to purge this shameful desire from his frame.
He only had about five, maybe seven minutes to do it before someone noticed the loop. Atomizer probably would dismiss it, but the other two mechs watching from a separate location weren’t as lenient. They’d call Atomizer first, and he’d probably make some excuse, but at that point, it would become a matter of keeping his job.
He’d come investigate.
Optimus burst into motion, undoing the mechanical locks on Megatron’s cell – digital locks could too easily be manipulated and hacked – and slid into the room, closing the door behind him. This was dangerous in more ways than one, but it wasn’t fear that gripped his spark. It was anticipation. Already, he felt the heat coiling in his tanks, dripping steadily downward, gathering in his valve.
Megatron didn’t online, thank Primus, and Optimus slipped Ratchet’s EMP generator out of his subspace. Ratchet didn’t know he’d borrowed it, and if Optimus were careful about it, Ratchet would never know.
A quick pulse and Megatron’s frame relaxed fully into the berth, all tension cut from his cables. He wouldn’t online for at least ten minutes, which was more than enough time for Optimus to do what he needed to do.
He ex-vented and tucked the EMP generator away. He only had five to seven minutes, but he ached to touch, so he spared thirty seconds. His last physical contact with Megatron had been violence and desperation. It hadn’t allowed him to savor, to feel the strength of Megatron’s armor beneath his fingertips, to trace his seams and feel the steady thrum of Megatron’s sparkbeat.
Echoes of their battle lingered on Megatron’s frame. He’d been repaired enough to ensure his survival, but the little dings and scratches remained. Optimus traced one of the furrows he was sure his own weapon had made. He’d left his mark at least.
Optimus’ touches veered lower, over Megatron’s chassis, his abdomen, his pelvic span, until finally he cupped Megatron’s interfacing array. His palm barely covered Megatron’s panel, and he could only imagine how thick Megatron’s spike was within its sheath. His valve clenched, and Optimus’ thighs trembled.
No. He didn’t have time to savor.
Optimus shook himself and climbed onto the berth, straddling Megatron’s thighs. He stroked Megatron’s interfacing cover, and searched for the medical release a little research had told him he’d find. He found the catch within moments, and once he triggered it, Megatron’s panel folded open for him, revealing his spike and valve array.
Megatron’s valve lips were plush, his biolights a dim, pulsing crimson. Optimus allowed himself a few seconds to stroke them, teasing the soft mesh and flirting over Megatron’s anterior node. Megatron drew in a vent, and Optimus froze, but he didn’t stir at all. It was purely subconscious.
Phew.
Optimus eyed the time ticking down in the corner of his HUD. He’d set himself a timer. He needed to get a move on.
He focused on Megatron’s spike instead. Currently, it was recessed, but Optimus knew how to coax it out. A few strokes and a lick or two, and gradually, Megatron pressurized into his hand, his spike thick and blunt, banded in grey and red. Optimus’ mouth lubricated, and he allowed himself a few sucks, the weight of Megatron on his glossa, a few drops of pre-fluid seeping into his intake.
Primus.
Optimus groaned and palmed himself, his interfacing panel springing aside, his valve already dripping with lubricant. He ground the heel of his palm against his anterior node and moaned again. He sucked harder on Megatron, the Decepticon’s spike a hard line in his mouth, stretching his lips and his jaw, and he could only imagine how it was going to feel in his valve.
No, he didn’t have to imagine. Not anymore.
Now, he’d know.
Time ticked down.
Optimus let Megatron slip from his mouth and shifted forward, straddling Megatron’s pelvic span, the head of Megatron’s spike nudging at his valve. Optimus worked his intake, shivering as the thick head brushed over his valve lips, over his anterior node, before he slipped it against his opening and ever so gradually slid down.
Inch by delicious inch, Megatron’s spike filled him, so thick it dragged along his sensor nodes and ridges until Optimus felt it nudge against his ceiling node in a near-blinding burst of pleasure. He gasped, spasming as his valve clenched down and rode the small overload that rippled through him. His vents roared.
His thighs wobbled, and Optimus dropped the last precious inches, until Megatron was fully seated in him, filling every inch of his valve. Optimus panted, tilted forward, hands braced on Megatron’s abdomen, as he struggled to adjust. His calipers click-click-clicked around the broad stretch, but there was little room for them to do anything but twitch in their mounts.
Primus, this was better than any fantasy.
Optimus sucked in a ragged ventilation, braced himself, and started to move, knees digging in against Megatron’s hips as he dragged his body up, then sank back down, starbursts dancing behind his optics. The slap of metal on metal seemed to echo in the small cell, and when he glanced at Megatron, the Decepticon remained in stasis. He was starting to vent loudly, and his frame vented suffocating amounts of heat, but Ratchet’s EMP generator had done its duty.
Optimus shuttered his optics and moved, again and again, up and down, circling his hips, grinding forward and back, taking his pleasure. His sensors throbbed and pulsed volcanic heat, his valve dribbling lubricant in messy smears over Megatron’s interfacing array. He leaned forward, just a bit, and his anterior node caught on some edge of Megatron’s armor.
Explosions of light danced in the back of his optics as he rocked forward and slammed down, the pressure of Megatron’s spikehead on his ceiling node sending him into another overload. He gasped, grinding down, grinding Megatron’s spike head on his gestational port until it forced him into a third overload that whited out everything around him.
Distantly, there was a hot splash deep within his valve. He clenched down, valve spasming around Megatron’s spike, and it took him too long to realize that it wasn’t just his own valve spasming, but that Megatron had overloaded, too. That he was feeling the throb of Megatron’s spike, and the hot pulses of Megatron’s transfluid against his nodes.
Optimus groaned, fingers dragging into fists, scraping tiny furrows on Megatron’s armor. He panted, lightly circling his hips, drawing out every last charged spike of pleasure, until exhaustion took over. His thighs wobbled. He sank down onto his elbows, head pressed to Megatron’s abdomen, his frame twitching as bits of charge danced over and through his armor.
Primus help him.
Nothing in his fantasies could even come close to comparing to that.
An alarm rang in the back of his processor – one minute warning. Frag.
Optimus dragged himself off Megatron’s spike with a hiss and hopped off Megatron’s frame, standing on wobbling legs. He fumbled cleanser and mesh cloths out of subspace and quickly wiped Megatron off, erasing the evidence of his shameful indiscretion. He wanted to soak up the aftermath, just float along with the pleasure simmering in his lines, but he couldn’t.
He cleaned himself up just as quickly, though he’d need to visit a washrack to get fully clean. Megatron’s transfluid lingered in his valve, and Optimus wasn’t quite ready to be rid of it, so he closed his panel to keep it contained. He found the manual release for Megatron’s array once more. A quick flick, and Megatron’s spike retracted, his panel sliding back into place with a quiet click.
Optimus glanced around the cell, but couldn’t find any further evidence of his presence, so he slipped through the door, locking it in place behind him, just as the timer ticked down to zero. He stood outside the viewing window and deactivated the signal repeater, holding a vent as he waited.
No alarms. No guards rushing in to arrest him. No sign that anyone had noticed anything.
He was in the clear.
Optimus cycled a ventilation, gathered himself, and left Tier Four -- and Megatron -- behind. He wouldn’t come back. He promised himself that he wouldn’t. He wouldn’t come visit Megatron anymore. He wouldn’t stare at him. And he definitely wouldn’t fantasize about Megatron either. He’d gotten it out of his system, and now he was free to move on with his life like a proper Autobot should.
Atomizer was flipping through a datapad when Optimus returned to the guard station, and his gaze flicked up to Optimus. “Done already?”
Optimus’ vent caught in his intake, and he coughed, trying to free the sudden burst of panic which clawed into his chest.
Atomizer chuckled and flicked his stylus across the screen. “Do I need to call a medic?”
“I didn’t assault him,” Optimus said, horrified.
Atomizer shrugged. “You wouldn’t be the first if you had. Command don’t much care so long as mechs don’t kill him.”
Optimus felt a little ill. “How often does that happen?”
“More often than you think, but less often than it should if you ask me.” Atomizer blase attitude made something squirm uncomfortably in Optimus’ tank. “For future reference, if you’re going to loop the camera feed, you might want to do something other than stand there and stare.”
He winked again.
“Thanks for the advice,” Optimus said weakly. He didn’t mention he had no intention of returning.
“You’re welcome, sir.”
Optimus stood there, shifting awkwardly, until he remembered he was a Prime and Atomizer wasn’t, and he could leave if he wanted. So he did.
He walked out of Tier Four, passing other guards at other checkpoints, none of whom paid him any more attention than they’d given when he arrived. He kept waiting for someone to give chase, to look at him and see what he’d done and slap stasis cuffs around his wrists, but it never happened.
He left the prison without any trouble, though he didn’t vent relief until he was back in his quarters.
He’d done it. Tomorrow, he would return Ratchet’s EMP generator and Jazz’s signal repeater, and then he would never visit Megatron again. He would recharge without fantasies. He would be free to move on.
Optimus contemplated the washrack. Megatron’s transfluid was still in his valve. He ached from the stretch of Megatron’s spike, felt raw, but in a good way. He wanted to hold on to that feeling for a little while longer.
He’d wash in the morning.
For now, it was time to recharge, and tomorrow, he’d never think about Decepticons, or Megatron, or shameful desires again.
Exactly three weeks later, to the day, Optimus’ favorite energon tasted like ash on his glossa, he couldn’t hold down his oil, he was frequently exhausted, and there was a weird sensation in his lower abdomen. To make matters worse, not only had the dreams not gone away, they’d increased in frequency and intensity.
He onlined far too many times with a cry in his intake, with his frame rolling in overload, with his valve slick and hungry and leaking lubricant on his berth.
To his horror, he was starting to think that he hadn’t fixed his problem, but made it worse.
He tried to ignore it, both the increasing overload-infested dreams, and the sickness rolling through his frame. He thought if he gave it time, his frame would adapt to the changes – whatever they were -- and he’d be fine.
It might have worked if Ratchet hadn’t caught him purging his daily rations.
“How long’s this been going on?” Ratchet demanded as Optimus felt the immediate wash of a scan hit him.
Optimus wiped his mouth and gave in to the inevitable. “A week or so? I’m sure it’s nothing, Ratchet.”
The medic snorted. “I’ll be the judge of that,” he said, and whipped out the datapad he always seemed to carry, plugging into it. He’d planted himself in the doorway, preventing Optimus from making an escape, as he skimmed the results.
“I’m still adjusting to Cybertronian oil, that’s all,” Optimus said.
Ratchet didn’t answer. His optics narrowed. His orbital ridges drew down. He worked his jaw then raised his optics to peer at Optimus. Another scan hit him, and Optimus felt the tingle of it working deeper, examining his internals.
“I’m fine,” Optimus said.
“You’re sparked,” Ratchet said flatly.
Optimus cycled his optics. “What?”
Ratchet’s engine revved, his lips pressing into a thin line before he tucked away his scanner and crossed his arms. “You’re sparked. I didn’t realize you were seeing anyone.”
“I’m not,” Optimus said as ice grabbed at his lines, and his knees wobbled. He gripped the counter to keep himself upright. “What do you mean I’m sparked?”
“What do you think it means, Optimus? It means you’ve got a sparkling growing in your tank. It’s about three weeks along, if I had to guess,” Ratchet said, rolling his optics before he scrubbed a hand down his face. “This is what happens when the Autobot version of interfacing education relies on not educating at all.”
Optimus’ spark tried to climb into his intake. “But… I can’t be sparked,” he said as the panic wrapped around his vents and attempted to choke him. “It was only the once. It was…”
“Once is all it takes,” Ratchet said. “Who’s the lucky progenitor?”
Optimus shook his head, his hands shaking. “No, I can’t… you don’t understand.” He wrung his fingers together, his armor clattering. “This wasn’t supposed to happen.” It had never crossed his processor that this might be a possibility.
Ratchet’s expression softened. He moved further inside, resting a hand on Optimus’ shoulder. “You’re not the first to tell me that, kid.” His field was warm, encouraging. “Can you answer this? Did someone… hurt you?”
“No, it wasn’t like that. It was just the once. It was only supposed to be the once!” Optimus gasped out. He clutched at his knees, tight enough his armor creaked. “It was supposed to be over. That was supposed to be the end, but it hasn’t stopped. It’s just getting worse. And now this.”
Primus, what was he going to do?
Ratchet’s confusion filtered in his field. “What’s getting worse?”
Optimus’ vents hiccuped. “I know it’s not normal. I tried to ignore it, because it’s not healthy, it’s not proper, but it wouldn’t go away. I thought I could just live with it, and then mechs started talking about nominating me for Magnus, and I knew I had to get rid of it.”
He couldn’t stop himself, the words were spilling out of him. He didn’t know what to do, and if there was anyone who knew what to do, it was Ratchet. Optimus had no choice. He was sparked! He couldn’t fix that on his own.
“Optimus.” Ratchet squeezed his shoulder tighter. “What are you talking about? What do you need to get rid of?”
He gripped the back of his neck and squeezed his optics shut. “The fantasies,” Optimus admitted, the shame coiling so hot in his spark he thought he might purge again. “There were so many of them, and I knew they were wrong. Good Autobots shouldn’t fantasize about Decepticons. Proper Autobots didn’t think about fragging Megatron.”
“Fantasies are normal--”
“Not mine!” Optimus grabbed Ratchet’s arm and looked up at him desperately. “Not the things I wanted. The bad things.” He worked his intake. “Now it’s worse than it was before.”
Ratchet went still. “Before what?” He stared down at Optimus, and there was a firmness to his voice Optimus snapped to obey. “What did you do?”
“It was only once. I thought I only needed one time,” Optimus said, and the shame tried to eat him from the inside out. The thing he wanted so desperately that he knew he shouldn’t. “I made sure no one knew, not even Megatron. I just… I had to know what it was really like so the fantasies could stop.”
Ratchet’s field pulled away from so abruptly, Optimus got whiplash. “Are you telling me that Megatron is the progenitor?”
“It was only once,” Optimus said.
Ratchet jerked back from him, and when he looked at Optimus, it was with something akin to horror in his optics. “You fragged a prisoner? Do you have any idea how unethical that is? Or how Megatron’s going to use this against you?”
“He doesn’t know,” Optimus said. He touched his abdomen where the damn consequence was growing.
“What do you mean he doesn’t--” Ratchet cut off, and he took another step back, color draining from his face. “A few weeks ago, I couldn’t find my EMP generator, and then it mysteriously appeared the next morning. I thought I was getting old.”
“I borrowed it.”
“To rape Megatron? Is that what you’re telling me?” Ratchet snarled and spat out a stream of curses the likes of which Optimus had never heard. “What in the Pit were you thinking?”
“I had to make them stop!” Optimus pushed himself upright, the panic clogging up his intake. “I didn’t hurt him. I wouldn’t do that. I just needed to make it stop. I didn’t know I was going to end up sparked, or I would have never--”
“You should have never in the first place regardless of the potential consequences!” Ratchet spat. “It’s wrong!”
Optimus shook his head. “I know it’s wrong. That’s why I tried to stop it.”
Ratchet’s hands pulled into fist, and a tiny sliver of his field slipped out -- thick with disgust and horror and disbelief. “I’m talking about the rape, Optimus, not the damned fantasies!”
His vocals rang in the small room. The smell of Optimus’ purge was sick and sour, and his tanks flipped, but he didn’t know if it was because of the reek, or because of the way Ratchet was looking at him.
“I need your help,” Optimus said, shoulders sinking.
“You need help, that’s for damn sure,” Ratchet said. “You should have come to me, and talked to me. I could’ve helped you.” Could have, Ratchet said, as if he could not anymore.
Optimus swallowed over the tightness in his intake, palm on his abdomen, the physical representation of his guilt festering inside of him “I can’t have this sparkling.”
Ratchet stared at him. “What are you asking me to do?”
Everything in Optimus felt the shame of what he was about to request, but he couldn’t keep this sparkling. He couldn’t have a Decepticon’s spawn. He couldn’t let the truth of what he’d done get out. He’d never recover.
“I need to get rid of it,” Optimus said quietly, begging with his gaze.
Ratchet vented. “Yeah, that’s what I thought you’d say.” He scrubbed his hand down his face. “Abortion is against the law, but then again, so is rape, and you seemed to have no problem with that.”
Optimus flinched. “It’s not like I wanted to,” he said, staring at the floor. “I just did what I thought I had to do.”
“I don’t even know where to start in the list of things that are wrong with everything you just said,” Ratchet snapped. His engine revved, and he was so far now, he was in the doorway, like he wanted to make a quick escape.
“Are you going to help me?” Optimus asked. He looked up, and didn’t know how to identify the look on Ratchet’s face.
He knew it wasn’t sympathy, because he’d seen that on the medic before. It wasn’t pity, but it wasn’t disgust either. It was somewhere between the revulsion Ratchet offered whenever anyone mentioned Lockdown, and the resentment in his tone when they watched the news and Autobot command revealed some new anti-Decepticon measure. Like his anger at Optimus wasn’t reserved for Optimus alone, but the world as a whole.
“What I should do is report you,” Ratchet said in a flat tone. “Except that I’m self-aware enough to know you’d get nothing more than a slap on the wrist for assaulting Megatron. High command will be more bothered by the fact you’re sparked. Impure Autobots don’t make for good Primes, after all.”
No, they didn’t. And Optimus was ruined from the inside out.
Optimus’ tank clenched. “What are you going to do?”
“Walk away,” Ratchet said. He sighed, long and heavy, and now he looked tired and ancient, every one of his centuries hanging on his shoulders. “You might get lucky. Half-Decepticons sometimes have ground alts. Whirl turned out all right.”
“But--”
Ratchet shook his head, sharp and final. “It’s too late. I can’t help you. Frag, I can barely stand to look at you right now.”
There it was.
Every ounce of Optimus’ shame and disgust rose up in him, threatening to swallow him whole. He was disgusting, and here was the proof.
“You’re not the mech I thought you were,” Ratchet said. “And I can’t--” He cut off, scrubbing his hand down his face. “Never mind. Just don’t… don’t comm me.” He worked his jaw, rapping his fingers on the doorframe. “Good luck becoming Magnus.”
Ratchet spun on a heel and walked away.
Optimus’ glossa caught in his mouth. He thought he should say something, do something, but his feet were rooted in place. The echoes of Ratchet’s revulsion clung to him.
The whoosh and click of Ratchet leaving his quarters floated to his audials.
Optimus slumped on the floor of the washrack, dizzy, putting his head between his knees. Nausea rolled through his tanks. Ratchet’s words echoed around and around in his processor, impossible to ignore.
He was sparked by Megatron, and the fantasies hadn’t gone away at all. Ratchet walked away, probably for good, and now, Optimus was worse off than he was before.
What was he supposed to do now?
