Title: Hope
Characters: Optimus, Megatron, and Bluestreak so far
Universe: AU
Summary: Slave!verse. The Decepticons won the war. Bluestreak and Optimus Prime are just many of the current slaves....
Rating: MA+
He'd always been a bit slow in the processor, but that wasn't to say he was stupid. The quick way he used to talk made up for it; a learned thing to keep others from noticing his ineptitude.
And even Bluestreak could tell that Optimus wasn't trying anymore.
Cool air flowed around his plating, chilling him to the core while he watched Megatron have his way with his slave for … longer than Bluestreak could remember. It'd been a long, long while now.
His dull blue optics belied his hopeless depression.
Bluestreak itched at his plating with a free hand, prodding a wire underneath to move back in its correct position while Megatron, only a short distance away, rammed his spike down Optimus's throat. The little mech couldn't think of a better word for it.
Optimus just stared up from where he was on his knees and…took it.
"So sad, what you've become," Megatron murmured, his chilling voice penetrating Bluestreak to the core. The slave couldn't help but whimper.
Megatron snapped his head around, his hips pausing. "Shut up, little Autobot. You want to be next?"
Bluestreak's optics lit in horror and he bowed low to the ground, shaking. "Whatever my master desires." See, that was the trick, yes, Bluestreak knew. Couldn't say 'no', and couldn't seem eager. There had to be a perfect balance between the two.
Megatron's humiliating laughter echoed off of the walls. He thrust his hips forward, his spike sliding all the way down Optimus' throat, and he stayed still for a moment while he overloaded. With a slick 'pop' he pulled out, and slapped Optimus across the face when he didn't swallow. Megatron's transfluid just leaked past his lips, down his chin, and onto his chassis in a sticky mess.
With a choked noise, Prime submitted, moving slowly onto his back, with his head still turned the way the motion had made it. A wrench of compassion freed itself from Bluestreak's spark, and he wanted so badly to crawl over. Comfort, clean him…care for him. Tell him everything was going to be alright.
Such a lie.
Megatron snapped his fingers, and Bluestreak knew exactly what to do. He rose and then bowed his helm, shuffling to the side so he could grab a soft rag and some cleaning supplies Megatron kept.
Bluestreak returned a moment later and knelt at his master's side, hunching himself down. He poured some fluid onto the rag and kneaded it around to get it to spread onto the cloth, then drew his bottom hand up to cup the underside of Megatron's spike. Gently, he wiped all the fluids off, the transfluid, and Prime's oral fluids. Which, admittedly, were imperceptible.
There came a point when even the bravest seemed to give up all hope. When the Decepticon's had won the war, they had taken the matrix from Optimus. The light. Now, all Prime saw was darkness.
Once he was finished, Bluestreak backed away and knelt by Prime's side, his hands resting politely in his lap to make sure Megatron was finished. Sometimes he got aroused all over again and went for another interface.
A palpable air of relief flooded Bluestreak when Megatron tucked his spike away and shut his panel. He sneered down at them and strode off fluidly. The door on the far end opened, and he left.
Bluestreak smiled at that, but not too widely. It hurt.
"Optimus Prime, sir," he said softly, almost eagerly, and he drew forth to begin cleaning his old commander. For once, his valve hadn't been touched. Bluestreak figured that Megatron realized that Hook didn't have the time to keep repairing him. Ratchet either, for that matter.
Bluestreak wedged his fingers under Prime's head and maneuvered him so that he was cradling his helm. Quietly, he worked. He wiped the congealed spatters of fluid from Prime's chassis, and then his chin, humming a soft noise from long ago.
"Sometimes I don't think Megatron even likes being Megatron," he whispered conspiratorially, the hollow of his cheeks rising with another small smile. He pat Optimus on his helm. Next, he carefully wiped off the fluid from his scarred lips, happy he was helping. Bluestreak glanced to the side at his med kit. His very own medkit. Sometimes he pretended he was a real medic like Ratchet or First Aid. They made mechs happy with what they did. Healed them, fixed their wounds.
Optimus groaned and Bluestreak's blue optics brightened. He had done good!
Giddy with excitement, he cradled Optimus's helm like he would with a sparkling; making a motion up and down with his arms. Bluestreak knew it could calm the most upset tank.
One of Optimus's arms reached up and he brushed his knuckles against the smaller mech's dented helm. They were all in deplorable condition. Bluestreak had been beaten so many times for his inability to stay quiet – a vice that wasn't his fault.
"Thank you," he breathed weakly.
Bluestreak grinned widely, like the sun had shed its warming rays on him. "You're welcome sir!" he said brightly, petting Optimus's chestplate. The royal blue and red colors had long faded from Prime's frame, and Bluestreak had only patches of coloring on him.
There were a few things Bluestreak had been able to retain, despite his head trauma. One; always obey the master, and that master was Megatron. Or usually, he associated anyone with red optics to be master. It was easier to remember that way, and usually held true. Second; he knew the few tasks that had been appointed to him. Cleaning, and small maintenance. And also, the little mech knew when to submit and let his master's do what they wanted to with his body.
At least, that's what Optimus thought of him. There was none of that charismatic, brilliant mech anymore. Though Prime could see the old personality struggling to rise back to the surface. Using what strength he had, Optimus drew Bluestreak's helm down and pressed it to his own, breathing deeply.
There was always hope