Survive

[niyazi-a.livejournal.com]

NC-17
Bayverse
Barricade, Sam, Mikaela, Bumblebee, Ironhide
refs to 07 movie, Defiance, ROTF
noncon, darkfic, sticky, humiliation, abuse, refs to mechpreg <--this is a hint how ugly this is. please heed.

A dark and unpleasant version of the recent kink meme fill, written to satisfy my headcanon and the fact that sometimes prompts will keep me awake until I write them (and I do not mean that in a good way.)  In my head, this is the ONLY way that situation can happen.

If you liked the kink meme fill, do not read this.

 

Survive.  Do what it takes.  Survive.  Life is better than death.

…isn’t it?

Barricade was no longer sure.  No longer certain of anything, save that the present was a misery that promised a future just as bleak.

He shifted, making the motion as small as possible.  Trying not to get their attention.  Others had privacy. He did not. Privacy was a privilege he might be granted—might be. In some vague distant probably-not-worth-it future. He was forced to recharge in the common hangar, always watched. Always.  Human or Autobot, he was never left alone. Weapons disabled—another privilege he was not to have.  Their mercy was not foolish mercy, of course. 

Too late.  Optics, ice blue, the color of contempt, flared from the darkness.

 

Flashes of memory: 

Ladiesman bumping up to him as he lay back, forced back, forced quiescent.  Show your compliance. Show your cooperation—which meant to do what they want.  A fist pummeling his hood. “Not so tough now, huh? Not so tough, are you?”  He’d danced back, as if afraid of his own audacity, a gleeful idiot grin on his face.  A bully’s grin—the worst sort of bully—the kind who had been a coward once.  The kind that always was.  He’d laughed as he’d raked his hands along Barricade’s armor, face curled into a sneer, intent on enjoying Barricade’s pain.

It hadn’t hurt, and that was worse, even worse when he’d realized the autonomic responses, when he’d realized Barricade’s entirely unwilling arousal. Barricade had snarled, hating himself, hating his systems so starved of touch that they responded even to the hated fingers, the sensornet detached from the cortex, processing only input, not source. 

Hateful. Repugnant.  The human lexicon lacked words.  Not that he’d wasted his time or energy trying to express them. Ladiesman did not care. Worse, Ladiesman wanted, reveled in his pathetic involuntary reponse, his body’s own betrayal. Why not? The traitor, the one who betrayed his own side, betrayed.  Filthy irony. 

That’s what you are now, Barricade. Filth.

Is this better than death? he’d asked himself at least a dozen times last night. When Optimus had told him that he had to ‘get over’ his dislike of being touched by the humans.  How…ignorant, Barricade had thought. He disliked being touched. Period. It had been his mistake to presume his dislike would be understood, respected. Instead, it was turned into yet another hurdle. Another reason they could accept him and still hold him at arm’s length. 

Is this better than death?  Ladiesman’s gleeful bullying. Enjoying that his revenge, his venting of all the fear and terror Barricade had inflicted on him, was now repainted as a virtue.  As ‘retraining’ Barricade.  Was that better than death to endure?

Or the one who smelled like blood, the slippery tendrils of her hair tormenting his audio as she leaned in to whisper, “Do you miss Frenzy? Do you?”  Frenzy.  The last he had seen was his crumpled, headless frame, dismembered by the pair that had sought now to ‘help’ him.

She had held her hands up to his optics, making sure he saw them. Murderous hands. Vicious hands.  “If only they let me have tools here,” she’d said, her eyes full of dark promise, her hands tumbling over his armor, tapping bolts she could unfasten, screws she could loosen.  “I could strip you down so easily.  I wonder what it’s like,” she’d mused, running her sweat-warmed palm over his finials, careful to smudge, to mar, “watching someone dismember you.  Would you like that?”

“Would you?” he’d snarled back. Frenzy hadn’t liked it. He’d felt the burst of white hot agony across the bond, Frenzy’s normal chatter dissolving into an inchoate shriek. Frenzy had survived—the little techling always was a survivor—but that knowledge hadn’t made that moment any easier. Worse, in fact, knowing they’d both have that memory to live with.  How much of their bond had been the sharing of pain?

He had no one to share it with now.  And the growl from Ironhide had kept his threats merely to words.  He was that much of a coward. Rather live in shame and fear than die with honor.  Ironhide, whose contempt was palpable, like a rancid smell in the air. Ironhide had laughed at the first piteous, self-loathing moan that tore itself from Barricade’s vocalizer.  “Enjoying yourself?” he’d said.

“No.”

“Good. The more you hate it, the more I like it,” Ironhide had said, placidly, folding his forearms over his chassis. “And believe me, Decepticon, I am enjoying this.”

“Not a Decepticon anymore.” Lost my rights to that. Lost my…everything.  Given away. Sold…for this?  What had he been thinking? Had he thought they’d be welcoming?  Had he been fool enough to fall for their propaganda? Or was the glimmer of hope, the idea of not dying alone or hunted, been bright enough to blind him?

“You’ll never be one of us,” Ironhide snapped. “NEVER.” 

“You were one of us once.”  Until Metrotitan. Which should have convinced Ironhide they were right.  Instead, he had walked away.  Ironhide had…had a choice.  Turned his back on loyalty, on ages of services, mechs who had counted on him, trusted him.  Barricade had turned his back on…a door already closed.  An empty, abandoned room.

The flat mouth flattened further, the lip plates grinding down. “I hear one more word out of you….”  He flexed a meaningful fist.  Ironhide knew how to hit without leaving marks. Hurt without permanent harm.  He had already proven that. 

So Barricade had been forced to endure the shameful response of his body, the electrical systems picking up unwilling, loathed charge from the touches of the humans, reaching in, groping under his armor.  They had made a game of it, once they’d realized what was going on. A proper torture, disguised as pleasure, bringing him to the brink, then pulling back, then beginning again, until the already hated desire to overload, the mechanical urge to rid excess charge, had become a loathed need, and then a refined agony.  He’d broken hours in, his vocalizer clicking over in sobs, body shuddering, salted by the high mocking laughter of Ironhide, the contemptuous, glutted grins of the humans.

“Maybe next time,” the one who smelled like blood said, voice husky, “they’ll let me really get under your skin.”

Optimus had wanted him not to be afraid of the humans.  He no longer was.  He hated them.  Hated them with the abject passion that only one who has been ground down with coarse humiliation knows. 

Is this better than death? 

He had stopped asking the question, hiding from it under a wall of self-focused rage and shame.  If he wasn’t allowed to target them with his hate, he had no choice but to target himself.

And…now. 

From the darkness the blue optics approached.

“I’ve been waiting to get you alone,” Bumblebee said, coolly.

Barricade debated pretending to still be in recharge. No.  He would not pretend. He would not pretend he liked this, any of this. Let them see their ways…as they were.  Perversions masquerading as virtues.  He would follow their rules—he had to—but he would not stoop to pretending he enjoyed them. “Bet you have.”  He straightened up, determined to use his slightly-larger height to advantage.  Get away from me. Back down.  If you’re anything like the Autobots I always thought you were, don’t. 

Another paltry, brittle illusion shattered.  Bumblebee approached. 

“Here to gloat?” Barricade snarled. 

“Here to finish my conquest,” the Autobot said.  His face was inscrutable, the mask blocking any expression.  Well, that made it clear what he was here for.  Barricade dropped into a crouch. 

“Nothing to conquer,” he muttered, appalled by the heavy weight of truth.  His arms twitched, the metal still corroded and bubbled from bad auto-repair from when Ironhide  had torn off his faction markings.  Not a Decepticon. Not an Autobot either. Some…nothingness in between. 

“Not really your call to make, Barricade,” Bumblebee said.  One hand brushed his own throat, the damage still silver-scarred from where Megatron had crushed his vocalizer.  “The humans have a concept of sin.  You can confess, but it doesn’t erase what you’ve done, not like erasing a file.” He stepped closer, the same hand reaching for Barricade’s pauldron tire.  He rotated it against the drivetrain, just enough to elicit a gasp of surprised pain from Barricade.  “You have to feel remorse.  You have to suffer. That’s how it works.”

I am suffering, Barricade thought.  Every klik I question my judgment, question my sanity. I’ve come to wish to feel insanity’s maw rushing up at me, because sanity’s teeth are too sharp and precise.  But he knew that wasn’t what Bumblebee meant. He had visited pain on the body; it must be paid in kind.  The pain he had suffered—and some at Bumblebee’s own hands—counted for nothing. It was…that skewed Autobot morality, blind to its own sins.  Convincing itself that grey was white simply because it wasn’t black.

The armored hand raked down his pauldron, to curl around his helm. The blue optics nodded. “You understand, don’t you?”  It was the sympathy that nauseated Barricade.  As though this were some…chance at redemption he should grab for.  He stared stonily at Bumblebee, who reached with his other hand to unfasten his interface panel.  The Autobot’s spike sprang out, hard-pressurized, already glossy with lubricant.  The hand pulled down on Barricade’s helm.  “You need me to say it?” That same sickening understanding. “Fine.  Suck my spike, Barricade.”

“And if I don’t?” he pulled back, neck servos whining against the hand pulling him down, bending him over.

“One of us is armed,” Bumblebee said, nonchalantly. “And one of us maybe made an escape attempt.”  Ah, so that would be the story. “Do it,” he whispered, as Barricade’s knee hit the ground.  He pushed his spike against Barricade’s face, smearing lubricant along the cheek spires.  He hissed in pleasure.  The optics glinted blue malice. “I can get the humans over here to watch.”  Vicious offer: witnesses to his humiliation.

It was…inevitable.  Just a matter of how much Barricade felt like paying in pain, and how much in humiliation. Calculations he was getting exquisitely attuned to.  He forced his mouth plates apart, forced his neck to turn his head to take the spike between his plates.  Bumblebee gave a hissing, pleased sound as the spike, chilled from the air on lubricant, pushed into the systems-warmed mouth.  His fingers curled around Barricade’s crest.  Hands that had damaged him, rent his armor, punched through his systems.  Barricade didn’t need another reminder.

He moved slowly along the spike, trying not to gag on the idea. 

“Come on,” Bumblebee said. “You’re better than this. I’m sure you sucked a lot of spike with the Decepticons.”  Barricade ground his optics shut at the words, at the image. Much worse, the image that had obviously caught Bumblebee’s fancy.  He ran his glossa down the length of the spike, skimming over the nodes.  If he got it over with fast…it would be over. 

He began working along the spike, head moving, encouraged by the hand on his chrome spires.  The spike filled his mouth, pushing against the intake wall, charge building as he moved his head back and forth, the spike sliding in and out of his mouth. Yellow on black armor was all he could see, thighs slightly spread, as Bumblebee tilted his hips in time, angling the spike up against the top of Barricade’s oral chamber, the tip grating at the ridged surface. 

One hand coaxed at his shoulder tire.  He hated the involuntary rill of response across his net.  Hated the presumption he was supposed to derive any pleasure from this. 

“We’ll never let you fight, you realize that,” Bumblebee said, his voice soft, reasonable, oh so very reasonable. Yes, Barricade had realized that.  “No one trusts you with a weapon. And there is that matter of redemption….”  He paused, engines purring. Barricade could feel the blue optics on him. Enjoying his degradation—he felt the burst of excited charge, the push of lubricant, as Bumblebee watched him.  His enemy, stooping to sucking him off.  Bumblebee curled lower. “You could carry for us.  Just think about it.  Bring life to make up for all the lives your kind stole from us.” 

Barricade, if he could have spoken, would have railed that the Autobots had stolen more than their share of lives, but the spike, and the horror at the concept, stilled him.  He stopped, glossa frozen, wrapped around the spike. 

Bumblebee thrust in with his hips.  “Come on.” He tugged the crest, his other hand dropping to twist, painfully, a window wing.  Barricade began, slower, cursing that his pause allowed so much charge to dissipate.  “Better,” Bumblebee breathed.  “Just imagine it.  Oh we’d have to fill you first, then this, to spark it, wouldn’t we?  Is your reservoir empty?”

No.  Barricade had a brief flash of a night before they had been called to the Dam by an urgent and chittering Frenzy, Blackout sprawled on the desert floor, enthusiastically driving up into Barricade’s valve as the smaller mech writhed, riding him.  Scorponok--lost. Frenzy, missing. They’d split the night with their passionate cries, each, for a moment, forgetting their loneliness.  A strange, tender intimacy.  His spike ached at the memory, ached for lack of contact, pressurizing behind its housing.

He was glad he couldn’t speak, hoped his face betrayed nothing.  He could feel the Autobot’s rising excitement. The talk, the idea, was arousing him, thrilling him.  Barricade, getting spiked by every Autobot on the base.  For the good of Cybertron, of course.  

The lubricant turned bitter and harsh in his mouth.  But Bumblebee’s arousal was beyond the point where he could control it.  “Primus, I want to see that. I want to see you dripping transfluid—all of ours—from your valve. I want to see you kneeling in front of Prime, sucking his spike to quicken the first.  I want to see your head bobbing between his thighs, hear him moan with pleasure, shooting into you.  I want to fuck you knowing you’re carrying.”  The use of the human vulgar term abraded Barricade’s already raw ego. The hand tightened around his helm, refusing to let him stop, or slow.  “I know what you’re thinking. You have a contraception block.  But…Ratchet had you opened up pretty good when he disabled your weapons.  Who knows…I might spark one right now—AUGH!” 

Barricade bit down on the spike, horrified, disgusted. Beyond words. Beyond sense.  Beat him, kill him. It was more than he could take to endure this. 

Bumblebee struck the side of his face, knocking him to the ground, the spike tearing from his mouth, raking against his fragile cheekplates.  He got his palms under him, just as Bumblebee grabbed his hip skirting, hauling him back, tearing off his interface panel cover.  Barricade heard it ring across the floor, and it blended with the white arc of agony as Bumblebee drove his spike into Barricade’s valve. 

Bumblebee’s hand held his window-wings like reins, twisting them, keeping Barricade on a blade’s-edge of pain, his spike ruthlessly pounding into the valve.  Barricade thought, in a wash of woe, of his reservoir, the realization that it would be filled, he would be holding Autobot transfluid. Contaminated. Marked. But still, only a vessel. Not…alive. No free will. Merely a carrier. 

His claws raked parallel gouges in the concrete floor, his face pressed against it, as though the cool floor could leach the hot shame from him, somehow. Bumblebee’s other hand groped between his legs, finding his pressurized spike.  He heard the laugh, triumphant.  “You’re getting off on this,” Bumblebee muttered.  “Sick fuck.” 

Right. He was the sick fuck.  He couldn’t argue: didn’t have the strength, didn’t see the point.  Bumblebee’s fingers wrapped around the spike, beginning to stroke the length of the shaft, pulling hard, and then drawing back gently in a slow, even pumping rhythm, half the pace of his own spike brutal and hard, in Barricade’s valve. 

Lubricant dripped from his valve, friction heated, liquefied, in a slick trail down to the base of his spike, a kiss of hated warmth, adding to the repulsive arousal.  He hated his systems, which spoke a need beyond his ability to control—mindless, seeking only release, just as it would accept a sparking, regardless of the fact that the makers were Autobots.  His valve prickled, Bumblebee’s spike rushing again toward the climax he had aborted.  The Autobot thrust, stabbed sharply into his valve, all the violence Barricade remembered from their melees returning in the action. 

The spike jolted, a crack of electricity firing through Barricade’s valve, followed by the sharp rush of transfluid.  He ground with misery, feeling his gestational reservoir activate, sucking in the rush of silver fluid, his own valve unfulfilled, on the brink of climax. 

His hips bucked: Bumblebee redoubled his pumping of Barricade’s spike, fingers slick with their mixed lubricant, and the new trickle of silver, seeping from the valve around the spike that Bumblebee kept embedded, tip hard against the reservoir.  Barricade’s thigh servos quivered, his body jumping needing release.  His spike prickled, charge running across it, through Bumblebee’s hand, nearing, nearing .  He felt his own transfluid tank teeter on the verge of firing, just one more stroke, one more pull….  He lifted his head up, optics closing, drifting into the agonized brink of ecstasy.

Bumblebee twisted his wrist, and the brink turned into a chasm of agony, the strong hand of the special operations mech tearing the spike from its mounting, metal giving with a wrenching sound, wires pinging as they broke, the sounds buried in the howl of pure pain from Barricade’s vocalizer. 

Bumblebee jerked back, popping his spike from Barricade’s pain-spasming valve, rising to his feet as Barricade collapse to his side, trembling, heaving with the effort of containing the pain, shutting down the redline alarms, forcibly refusing to think of the future, the damage that would never be repaired. Why would he get a spike? Just like a weapon, he’d never get to use it.  Bumblebee had made that clear. 

Bumblebee looked down at him with contempt, snapping his sated spike back into its panel. 

“They’ll know,” Barricade gasped. “I’ll tell them.” The last refuge of the weak—tattling. He hated himself for having stooped this low.

Bumblebee shrugged. “Tell them what?  You did it to yourself. You damaged your own spike.  You’re a Decepticon after all. You’re crazy.”  If the yellow mech could smile, he would have.  Barricade could hear it in his voice. “Who do you think they’ll believe?”

Survive.  Do whatever it takes.  Alive is better than dead.

No.

 

 

Comments

[ultharkitty.livejournal.com]

That was bleak and brutal, and brilliantly written, and I really enjoyed reading it. *applauds*

[swindleslog.livejournal.com]

Oh, oh crap. Poor Barricade. He's not a prisoner, not a threat. He's a womb, nothing more. Alone and used.

Very potent language in this, you have quite a way with words. I read the other version too, and just damn. Such a world apart.

But yes, back to your way with words, "Convincing itself that grey was white simply because it wasn’t black." Lines like that. Beautiful.

[cyclonedancer.livejournal.com]

Wow, you definitely have a way with words. Well written, made me cringe for poor 'Cade.

[skyure.livejournal.com]

*winces*

Poor Cade ...

Your bots are really evil.

[sneere.livejournal.com]

Wow...and now, I am afraid of Bumblebee...