Chapter Text
“Oh Human? Where are you?” Knock Out calls out with a malicious lilt to his voice.
You’re going to die. There’s no possible way you can get out of this one, not unless you somehow find your phone in this stupid labyrinth of a derelict building. You weren’t supposed to be here – why did you go after Miko? Why did you care enough to follow her when part of you knew damn well the Autobots would take care of it? You were trying to be the responsible adult of the situation, trying to help when they had enough on their plate. But this? Running through the halls of a soviet-era military base belonging to a shitty deserted town? You’ve failed on all accounts. Your friends must be hard at work trying to locate you, but with the ground bridge down there’s no knowing when help is coming. You’re such a fucking dumbass for getting strayed in the first place; you should have told Ratchet you were going in, sent him a message at the very least! By now, they must have realized you’ve gone missing after the system failure. How long should it take? Hours? Days? Weeks for Ratchet to repair the bridge? God, you are beyond fucked.
“You’re a stubborn thing. I’ve offered you mercy, would you rather be crushed under my pede? I assumed you had a minimum of intelligence for your species,” his voice rings out loud and clear, mocking your very soul as it reverberates through the base.
You just have to buy yourself more time, maybe find your phone and, hopefully, have enough service to call the Autobots and beg them to get you out of here; perhaps a “KNOCK OUT IS LOOKING FOR ME AND WANTS TO CRUSH ME INTO FINE DUST, SEND HELP” will get the message across.
The crank-powered flashlight you’re carrying for occasions like these is starting to flicker. Every time you charge it, it makes a horrible grinding noise Knock Out must be able to pick up from the other side of the building. You turn the crank for just a minute, swearing under your breath as you scan the ground. You’re (partially) convinced you’ve been here before, but hall 8C looks exactly like hall 9F, same with hall 5B and 2A – so this could be a completely different hallway for all you know!
Theoretically, you could hide in the vents until help arrives, provided their 40 year old supports – from a nation known for its cost-cutting measures no less – are going to support your weight. But there’s no way in hell you’re getting in quietly. This is a lose lose situation. You’re starting to feel tears prick your eyes, and it’s not from the dust (which may actually be asbestos with your luck).
Then you hear it.
Tap. Tap. Tap.
Echoing from your left, far enough to be dulled, but near enough to be heard.
“Shit,” you mutter. Then, without warning, your flashlight goes out.
Now in complete darkness, there’s no way you’re getting out of here. You throw out all rationality and skid across the pavement to get to the nearest vent. If your memory serves right, it should be across the next hall over. Even with a vision as shitty as yours, you can’t miss its reflective tape. Neither can Knock Out.
It’s not long before you hear him running behind you, the ground shaking from the force of his footsteps – you struggle to keep your balance as you take the next turn and-
Bingo!
You can see the outline of the vent, now you just have to pull it open and-
Yes!
It comes open without any resistance, your luck is finally starting to turn! You lunge at the opening, scurrying inside of it like a wounded animal, bare knees scraping against cobwebs and rat droppings and who knows might have died in there. You crawl for what feels like miles and miles inside of it, struggling to breathe against the stink of rot. Once far enough, you pause to catch your breath.
A servo shoots out and grabs your leg.
You let out a scream, clawing uselessly at the dirty metal under your fingertips to delay the inevitable. The red glow of his optics engulfs your vision and disturbs the pitch blackness you’ve gotten acquainted with. Your blood is rushing to your head, body hung upside down by a leg that’s barely supporting your weight. The expression on Knock Out’s upturned face is of tangible malice.
“Oh? Tired of our little game already?” he asks, an arrogant smile sketched across his lips. “Did you have enough fun looking for your cellular device?”
No answer from you. You’re struggling to breathe properly in this position. He holds up a small rectangular object in his hand, it’s-
“You motherfucker,” you spit out, red it the face from blood and rage. He has the audacity to laugh at you as he crushes your phone between his digits – like squishing an ant’s head. “ How long… ” you start and waver, as though trying to speak with a tongue made of putty, “how long have you had it? ”
“Since you dropped the thing.” He hoists you higher until you’re level with his face. “Oh you ,” he drawls, voice smooth as butter, “did you think I would forget about you after what happened? After what your Autobot friends did to me?” Before you can react, he twists you in his grip, head up and reeling from the sudden transition, white spots obscuring the sides of your vision. His mouth is so close you notice the acrid stench of energon on his breath; expression still, unmoving, unblinking – you realize he’s waiting for a response.
“I’m sorry,” you mumble, not at all sorry. Your less than honest reaction draws a chuckle from his vocalizer. “Of course you are!” He laughs.”Even if you try being genuine,” he gestures to the deep gashes across his chassis, “it won’t do me any good.”
“So what?” you say defensively. “Can’t you just cut this short and kill me already?”
“Kill you?” he chuckles darkly. “Oh no, I want what I’m owed. Remember our last meeting? What I offered you then?”
You blink. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.” He leans in to cradle your head in his claws, caging your vision like some medieval torture device.
“Come on, don’t play coy.”
“You were joking. Like hell any of that’s gonna happen.”
His optical ridge arches in amusement. “Really now? You wound me, sweetspark. Any bot would consider themselves lucky to have me in their berth. Is my finish too intimidating? Or are you too busy getting spiked by your friends?” he tilts his helm innocently, shit-eating grin growing wider
“What are you even..? No, you’re pulling this out of your ass. They’re not… not like that. Never. How could you even say that?”
“Aw, so am I your first Cybertronian? What an honor,” he mocks, “I assumed you spread your legs for the good doctor; always at his side, always fussing over their other human pets… Of course, I should have known an old bot like him lacks the charm to woo someone of your caliber.” He moves to stroke your cheek with his free servo. Try as you might, you can’t escape the claws caging your head.
“I’m sorry, you want me to fuck you as payback for the beating they rightfully gave you? Can’t you just plow one of your coworkers instead? I’m not sure if you’ve noticed this, but your dick can kill me. Unless that’s your endgame.”
He chuckles heartily, but when his eyes meet yours, he’s staring at you like a piece of meat.
“Lucky for you, I have enough energon left to mass-displace. I assume Ratchet has taught you all you needed to know in his attempts to – well…” his smile grows wider.
Your breath is stuck in your throat, the shame bubbling to the surface shaping into a scowl.
“The Autobots are going to kick your ass once they get here-”
“Oh no,” he interjects with ease, “the jamming signal Soundwave sent out will cripple them for the next couple groons. Long enough to reestablish ourselves in the mines, and certainly enough for me to show you a good time.”
There’s a pregnant pause.
“Fuck you,” you snarl.
“How eager of you, ” he chides playfully.
You blink and find yourself on the cold hard floor with him on top of you, smaller this time, mass-displaced, but still much much larger than you. How did you even miss it? You must have attained some manner of brain damage from the blood rushing to your head. No time to think – he’s got his servo under your shirt, absently kneading the soft flesh of your stomach. His other hand is halfway through removing your shorts. The allusions he made in the past were supposed to be jokes – and you responded accordingly. For all your chastising of Miko, you barely spared Ratchet a glance when he told you to get a grip and stop responding to Knock Out’s innuendos. You weren’t flirting per se, it was playful banter you shouldn’t have been engaging in with a Decepticon, a dumb habit you picked up to calm your nerves. It wasn’t supposed to mean anything.
This must be a nightmare, it doesn’t feel real. As though he’s read your mind, he leans over you, mouth pressed to your neck. “Oh sweetspark, this is real.” With that, you feel his digits push into you, cold and unyielding.
A strangled cry escapes your throat. You grit your teeth and glare up at Knock Out who’s too busy looking between your legs to care.
“Could you at least try to enjoy this? Primus, you’re dryer than rust.” He stops, seemingly contemplating the next course of action. Then his panel pops open.
Its sudden appearance startles you. If it wasn’t for his servos keeping you in place you’d try to kick him in the groin. The absurdity of what’s in front of you calms you down just enough to lie and stare. Maybe there was asbestos in those vents, because you’re seeing a dick lined with tape lights illuminating the inside of your thighs, and below it, a similar valve.
He smirks at your sudden interest in him but has the decency to stay quiet, he dips two digits inside himself before coming away with a thick neon blue substance. Once his gaze shifts to you, you close your eyes and brace yourself as those very same digits find their way in, thrusting at a snail’s pace.
“You should be thanking me,” he says, adding a third. “Most bots wouldn’t have prepared you properly, you humans lack the proper lubricant to make fragging feasible. It’s a miracle you don’t tear your genitals to shreds when you interface.” He pulls away just enough to turn his attention to your clit. You throw your head back and hiss, the pressure entirely unwelcome. Knock Out, for all his shortcomings, has noticed it and adjusts the digit accordingly, gently rubbing circles around it. Your body betrays you, warm pleasure immediately overtaking your lower half with an intensity unworthy of the person causing it. You recover as best you can, returning to your stone-faced scowl – he doesn’t deserve this kind of satisfaction.
Too late, he’s already noticed your shift in demeanor. “Don’t look so guilty, I know you’re enjoying this. Remember when we first met? Back at the drive-in theater, when you whistled and called me gorgeous?” You swallow bitterly. “I knew you were something special.”
When he pulls away, the shame you’re feeling triples as a whine escapes your throat. Could you look even more pathetic? He’s taken so much from you already, is it so hard to shut up for a second and conserve whatever dignity you have left? What will you tell your friends once this is done and over with? Fuck, you can barely imagine looking Optimus in the eye knowing it’s your fault any of this ever happened. You should have listened to Ratchet, you should have had the decency to ignore Knock Out after your first encounter.
The sheer size of him has you reeling back in pain. It doesn’t belong in a human, its ridged surface mercilessly grating against your walls – he throws his helm back and groans. His cooling fans have reached their highest setting, deafening against the silence of the base. You claw at the servos keeping you in place, thrashing beneath him hard enough to scrape your elbows against the cement floor. He barely acknowledges it, pushing another inch inside of you.
“You’re so fragging warm and tight,” he grunts. “Scrap, I should have done this when we first met. You don’t have a clue what you’re doing to me.” He grabs hold of jaw and leans in for a kiss, you grit your teeth and force your lips into a thin line. It doesn’t discourage him. The energon tastes ten times worse than battery acid and you cringe against his mouth as he pries your lips open enough to slide his tongue in. Every part of you is screaming to bite it, but it could shatter your teeth.
Inch by inch, you endure it, until his spike is buried to the hilt. Your eyes are leaking and it takes everything inside of you not to break down in front of the smug motherfucker using you as a fleshlight. No matter how hard you push against him, he doesn’t relent his slow punishing pace, scraping your insides thrust by thrust. “This is better than I could have ever imagined, far better than any pornography your kind has produced.”
“Is this why…?” you choke out unwisely, letting the words drop off into nothingness.
“No,” he nuzzles your exposed neck and ex-vents. “I wouldn’t have explored the vast catalog if it wasn’t for you, human.”
“You could have had anyone else…”
“Maybe. But I wanted you, is that too much to ask?” He readjusts himself and tilts your chin up. His hips have come to a stop, flush against your own – your heart is hammering against your ribcage. You’re halfway expecting him to rip out your throat like some type of horror movie monster.
“I love you,” he says, the words unsure on his tongue.
You’ve stopped breathing altogether. Is this a joke? It has to be a joke. He’s mocking you again, trying to get a rise out of someone as dumb as you – and it’s actually working.
“Finally tired of the B movie schlock?” Each word you utter is punctuated with venom. "Was the porn you mentioned 50 Shades of Gray? Or have you stuck to twilight like some sexually constipated highschooler? You could have at least come out with something better than this! I love you, what a bad joke! You know what, Knock Out? I love you too!” Even to your own ears, you know you went too far – the rage inside of you subsides just enough to notice the cables of his neck twitching under his clenched jaw.
“Thanks,” he snarls. “Good to know everything I say sounds like a joke to you.”
His hips slam into you, each snap sending an agonizing signal to your groin. Pain turns to numbness as you find yourself looking down at your own body. Separated from your being, you whisper to your mind; “You poor thing. Don’t worry, it’s going to end soon. The Autobots will find you once he’s done, and Ratchet will patch you up as best he can until Mrs Darby arrives.” With nothing else to latch onto, you listen to your soothing thoughts while he splits something inside of you piece by piece.
After what feels like an eternity, he finishes, transfluid spilling over your thighs and filling you up to your long-exhausted limit. Trapped between his overheating frame and the frigid floor, your body is stuck between a rock and a hard place. You leave him to collect himself, closing your eyes and escaping to your out of body experience. When you open them again, his expression is unexpectedly panicked as he stares unblinkingly between your thighs. He notices you looking and reverts back to a smug albeit strained smile, any ounce of anger now replaced by a strange nervousness.
“You’ll be fine,” he says, lacking the self-assuredness of his typical tone. His claws are stroking circles across your hips. It feels like a distraction. But you’re too tired to look into it. Your body puts up no resistance when he pulls out. His vents cease working for a drawn-out moment. “I’m sorry,” he tells you, for once sounding genuine.
The numbness overtaking your senses blocks out the noise of his panel sliding shut.
He gets up, walks to a reasonable distance and returns to his normal size like nothing ever happened. You hear the click of his comm link turning on. Breakdown’s familiar voice comes through.
“Are you done?” he blurts out, “you were supposed to be back three groons ago!”
“Relax, Breakdown. I’ve got everything under control.” He glances over at you. His face is unreadable but his tone is as smooth as ever. “Thanks for covering for me.”
An exhausted ex-vent leaves his comm. “Knock Out, Starscream’s looking for you.”
“As always. Has Lord Megatron torn anything vital this time?”
“No… just come back, before you get in trouble.”
“With pleasure. Send a ground bridge to my location, asap.”
Surrounded by a flurry of greens and blues, you don’t hear him call out to you one the last time before he leaves. Naked and sprawled out across the floor, you don’t have the courage to pull yourself up and see the damage he’s done. Instead, you arch your back, spread your legs and finish what he started, coming to your own disappointing climax.
Your consciousness returns to you little by little until you are no longer floating above your body in a fit of dissociation; you’re wounded and bleeding in an abandoned military base, too weak to drag yourself to your clothes and cover up the worst of the abuse. No one else to blame but yourself.
You bury your face in your hands to muffle the sobs erupting from your chest.
“Please,” you beg between sobs. “Don’t let them find me like this.”
A new ground bridge opens up, and you watch powerlessly with tears streaming down your face as Optimus comes into view; his cool and collected expression morphing into one of abject horror.
“Please don’t let any of the kids see.”