[IDW] Wide of the Mark

“They target a specific frame type,” Prowl had said as he urged Getaway into the hands of the four-mech team who would alter and adjust Getaway’s frame – paint included. All the better to entice the crew of kidnappers who were like spark-echoes, terrifying the streets of lesser Iacon. “They serve customers who have very specific kinks, and this particular one is the rarest. You’re modified frame will be a sight they can’t resist.”

“And you’re sure Jazz can’t take this mission?” Getaway had asked, hands braced on the doorframe, heels dug into the floor. He might have been resisting. “Jazz’s frame is way better suited.”

Prowl had given him that Look, the one everyone in Spec Ops knew a little too well. The one that meant a table would be flipped because Prowl would neither be dissuaded nor argued with, and woe be unto the mech who decided to push the limits.

“He is needed for pursuit. And though I don’t want to over-inflate your ego, need I remind you that when it comes to escaping impossible situations, there is none better than you,” Prowl had said.

He hadn’t pushed Getaway into the re-fit room, but his look had the physical weight of it. So Getaway had dropped his arms and skulked inside, his mental picture of what the “adjustments” to his frame would entail more than enough to make him cringe. The worst part of going undercover was having to change how you looked.

He had secondary energon storage sacs installed because they were useful, not because they were appealing or sexy or… or… something to be fetishized!

Getaway recalled the conversation now as he sashayed down the street, tossing coy looks to mechs who trundled past, their heads down, exuding disinterest in what Getaway had to sell. Not that these downtrodden, rust-eaten mechs could afford him anyway. Getaway’s persona sought richer clientele, and the swell of his chest, the peek at engorged energon sacs as they jiggled behind the protection of his chest armor, advertised such a thing.

A potential mark walked by, his gleaming paint and high-class enamel suggesting he could afford the kind of look Getaway offered. So he gathered up what remained of his dignity and sidled up to the dark-blue mech.

“Evening, sir. Fancy sharing a cube with a pretty stranger?” Getaway purred, drawing on every lesson involving seduction Jazz had drilled into his processor until his optics swam in his helm.

The mech barked a laugh at him. “Sorry, sweetplate, but you’re not my type.” Blue optics raked Getaway from top to bottom. “A little too soft for my tastes.”

“Soft?” Getaway flirted his fingers over his own clavical strut, drawing attention to the swell of his energon sacs. “But that’s the point.” He cocked a hip, resting his free hand over the dip of his waist. “Curves in all the right places, too.”

The stranger grinned, but there was a sharp edge to it, mockery more than interest. “Like I said, you just aren’t my flavor. Ring me when you earn another two meters and several tons.”

Ah. Big spender liked the big mechs. Pity.

Getaway fluttered his optical shutters. “I’ll keep that in mind,” he murmured, interjecting disappointment into his tone. “You know where to find me if you want something sweet.”

The mech laughed and shook his head. “Thanks, but no thanks.” He flicked his wrist in parting and headed down the walk, still chuckling as though Getaway had told the funniest joke this side of comedy central.

Damn. Not the piece of scum Getaway was looking for.

He cycled a ventilation and scanned the streets again, lower back aching where the change in his pede structure made him walk at an odd angle. He wasn’t a seeker. Why he needed heeled feet without the thrusters to accompany them made absolutely no sense.

“Some mechs just don’t know a fun party when they see one.”

Now that smarmy tone was the kind of thing Getaway had been hunting. He turned slowly, head tilted, armor fluttering around his energon sacs.

“Oh, is that interest I hear?” he cooed as another mech with polished armor approached, a spoiler jauntily sprouting from behind his shoulders, and a cocky look on his face. Racer maybe, or rich enough to be one of their thirsty groupies.

Mech grinned with a mouthful of perfect, even denta. He had a visor, diamond-polished with an iridescent sheen. “The kind that’ll keep the two of us up all night.” He cocked his head and circled Getaway, predator to prey. “Those maxed out?”

Getaway arched his spinal strut, making the energon sacs more prominent. “Not even close, handsome.” He shifted his weight, the heels causing his aft to paint quite the sumptuous picture. “If you’ve got the creds, you can find out just how much.”

“Oh, I’ve got the creds.” The potential customer smirked and paused partially behind Getaway, leaning in and in-venting, as if tasting Getaway’s scent. “Mmm, you aren’t a cheap piece of rust, are you? You’re the real deal. What’s a sweetplate like you walking the street for? Surely you got a patron at home waiting on you.”

Getaway giggled.

Never underestimate how enticing a cute little giggle can be, my mech, Jazz had advised. He was probably glowing with pride right now, listening in as he was. He and the rest of Getaway’s back-up team.

“He couldn’t keep up. So I’m looking for someone with a bit more rev to their engine,” Getaway purred and looked the mark up and down. “Think that someone is you?”

The mech circled in front of Getaway, and his glossa flicked over his lips. “Oh, I do.” He popped a hatch on his right forearm and withdrew a cred-chip, platinum-plating catching a sparkle of sunlight. “Consider this a down-payment.”

He leaned forward, chip pinched between two fingers, before he slid it right into the seam of Getaway’s cleavage, his fingertips copping a light caress as they withdrew.

Getaway tipped his head, coy and offering. “Well, sweetspark. Looks to me like you’re well on your way to a nice night.” He leaned in close, walking his fingertips down the length of the mech’s arm. “My place or yours, hot shot?”

“Mine.” Fingers flirted at the curve of Getaway’s waist. “And you can call me Fallout. Or master.”

Getaway giggled again. Master? Really? How cliché.

“Sounds good to me.” He ex-vented warm and wet into the slightly taller mech’s intake. “The name’s Joyride. And it’s my pleasure to meet you.”

~

“His place” turned out to be a nearby hotel. Either Fallout couldn’t wait to get his hands on his new procurement, if he were a legit customer and not the mark Getaway suspected him to be. Or this local hotel was a front for their illegal dealings, as Prowl had hypothesized some weeks back.

Everything in their research had pointed to the Nuts and Bolts as being a legitimate business. No casual inspections had turned up anything untoward. The structure matched the schematics. The owners passed a very in-depth background check. And yet, mechs had gone missing in the area nearby, often seen going into the hotel but never emerging again, and not seen on the surveillance cameras either.

Curiouser and curiouser.

Getaway ran an internal double-check, making sure both his tracking beacon and two-way internal transmitters were both running smooth as engex.

It was a nice hotel, despite its shady reputation. The door closed and locked behind Getaway’s customer, Fallout. Getaway sent a ping to his team, letting them to know to keep an optic on his tracker, and cocked his hip at his customer.

“So, what can I get you first?” he asked with a flirty lilt to his voice. He dragged his fingers over the seam of his chest armor, where the energon sacs pushed at the edges of his armor. “Full show?”

Fallout rubbed the heel of his palm over his panel. “Actually, I want a taste of that sweet mouth of yours first. Assuming you have one.”

Ah, yes, the mouthguard. Jazz had said it would create a sense of mystery, as if he were giving his customer something special every time he revealed it.

“All the better to swallow you down, master,” Getaway purred and disengaged the locks, setting his mouthplate aside. He licked his lips, his mouth feeling bare and vulnerable. “Shall I drop to my knees?”

Fallout backtracked to the berth and perched on the edge of it, his knees spreading to make room between them as he continued stroking his panel. “Yeah. But where you are now. Crawl to me.”

Getaway would have rolled his optics if that wasn’t a guarantee to break his character. “Oh, an adventurous one I see,” he said as he sank to his knees and crawled forward, putting an extra sway into his aft, aware that it made his energon sacs extra-appealing.

Fallout leaned back on one hand as his panel snicked aside, and his spike emerged, glossy with pre-fluid already, and nothing extravagant to speak of. Blue with a gray twist and a head that had a bit of a hood on it. “We’re just getting started, sweetplate.”

“Yes, we are.” Getaway nudged between Fallout’s knees and ex-vented over the tip of Fallout’s spike. More pre-fluid welled up, dribbling down the side.

A hand rested on the back of his head as Fallout’s other hand held the base of his spike, aiming it toward Getaway’s mouth. Getaway rested his fingers on Fallout’s thighs and leaned in, lapping up the pre-fluid.

It was just oral sex. Nothing he hadn’t done for a job before. So he let his processor wander elsewhere while his mouth performed on auto-pilot.

Lick, lick, suck. A spike was a spike was a spike. Getaway hummed a little as he took Fallout’s spike into his mouth, and Fallout exerted a tiny bit of pressure to the back of his head, urging him even deeper. More pre-fluid slicked his glossa.

Fallout’s hips rocked, fragging into Getaway’s mouth in sharp, quick bursts. He cycled fast ventilations, his fingers kneading the back of Getaway’s head. He felt optics on him and glanced up to see Fallout watching him intently, lips parted, visor a little glazed over.

Hm. Maybe he was just a customer and not a mark after all.

Fallout hissed an expletive, denta gritted and lips pulled back after them. “Damn, you’re good,” he said as he pushed back on Getaway’s head, his spike sliding free of Getaway’s mouth and bobbing against his lips. “But I want to rub over those pretty sacs of yours.”

Getaway licked his lips. “I thought you might.” He rose up on his knees, further loosening the armor half-concealing his energon sacs, letting the heavy orbs spill a little freer.

He leaned forward, and Fallout shivered with a little moan as his spike rubbed over the top of Getaway’s sacs, gliding across the smooth protomesh. He left streaks of pre-fluid behind.

“Oh, those are nice,” Fallout hummed and grabbed the back of Getaway’s head again, directing his mouth downward. “Give it a little lick, won’t you, sweetplate?”

Easy enough.

Getaway let his sacs swell a bit more and rose up higher on his knees, making it easier for Fallout to thrust and rock against them. He tilted his head down, glossa extending, and caught the tip of Fallout’s spike as it rutted over the mounds of his sacs.

Fallout moaned again. “Yeah, that’s it,” he said, hips rocking harder, more pre-fluid leaving trails of it trickling over Getaway’s chest.

Fallout’s grip on Getaway’s head tightened as his free hand tangled in the berthcovers. His thighs pitched inward, trapping Getaway’s shoulders as he thrust harder against Getaway’s sacs.

Getaway tried not to roll his optics, instead licking at the tip of Fallout’s spike as it bobbed against his lips. He arched his backstrut, pushing his chest against the thrust of Fallout’s spike. Judging by the quickening of the mech’s ventilations, he was about to spill.

And Getaway was right.

Fallout groaned as he shoved Getaway’s head forward, and his spike twitched, hot splashes of transfluid painting Getaway’s chest, intake, and the bottom half of his face. It smeared over the top of his energon sacs, sticky and hot.

“Mmm, you’re the real deal, sweetplate,” Fallout said with a lazy grin, his hand sliding down Getaway’s face to lazily trail fingers through the spill painting Getaway’s energon sacs. “Makes me almost feel bad about this.”

Getaway’s optics widened as he jerked his head up. “What do you mean?” he asked, putting a quaver in his voice as he tensed his hydraulics, sending an alarmed ping to his team.

Fallout smirked at him.

It was the last thing Getaway saw before something struck him in the back of his head, striking right against a reset relay with enough force to send him into a hard reboot.

~

Getaway onlined in a haze, a stale taste on his glossa, and his processor spinning dizzily. Static rang through his audials, the buzz of voices a distant noise. His GPS reported back nothing except that it was offline, as was his comm system.

He frantically double-checked the link to his team and nearly sighed in relief. It remained active, transmitting his audio and visual feed to Prowl and the others. But when he tried to tap into it, to contact them, Getaway received only static. Somehow, they’d managed to block it. Wherever they’d taken him, they must have had a communication dampener.

Clarity returned slowly, more details trickling in. His mouthplate was completely gone, as were the panels over his valve, secondary port, and spike, though the last remained fully retracted. The brassiere plate protecting his energon sacs had also been removed, leaving them completely exposed and his feeders extended, a chilly airflow teasing the nozzled tips.

He was lying on his side, possibly on a berth, his hands cuffed behind his back. Peripheral sensors detected four – no, five – other Cybertronian signatures around him, one of which resembled the mech who had been his customer.

So. He’d found his way into the gang’s clutches after all. Prowl would be delighted. Which meant he and the rest of Getaway’s team better be on their way right the frag now. Because waking up without any of his protective plating was not a sign Getaway’s day was about to get any better.

“I know you’re awake, sweetplate,” someone crooned at him from above Getaway’s head. He felt a hand stroke the back of his neck, fingers teasing around the cephalic port which he only belatedly realized was no longer shielded by the protective plate.

“This’ll be a lot more fun with you conscious,” another voice claimed and Getaway followed the voice to an obnoxiously orange and white mech crouching toward the end of the berth, his hand creeping toward one of Getaway’s knees.

Getaway worked his intake. “Wha-what’s going on?” he asked, injecting fear and confusion into his voice. “If all you wanted was a freebie, we could have worked something out.”

The hand stroked over his head, and its owner chuckled. “This ain’t about creds, sweetplate. Or well, it is. But not about the creds you’re going to earn.”

The orange mech crouching near Getaway’s knees pawed at Getaway’s thighs, one hand slipping between them and upward, toward his bared valve. “Fallout already gave ya a trial run, but the rest of us like a little hands on experience ourselves.” Fingers tickled over the lips of Getaway’s valve.

Laughter echoed around him, and Getaway picked out no less than five distinct voices, only one of which he recognized as the mech who had originally purchased his services. He glanced around the room, seeing a bright purple and black mech perched behind an expensive camera. There was another mech, blinding in all white, leaning against the wall near the door. He couldn’t see Fallout and assumed that the mech was somewhere behind Getaway.

Fingers flicked at the panel covering his cephalic port. “Don’t worry. We’ll make sure you have a good time, too,” the mech above him purred, his voice sickly sweet and enough to make Getaway’s plating crawl.

“Oh, I always have a good time, sir,” Getaway tried to purr, injecting anxiety into his voice. Not that it was hard.

Hurry up, Prowl.

“I’m sure you do.” The mech above him chortled.

Getaway felt the cold touch of a plug against his port, connectors buzzing where they brushed against one another before someone plugged into him. The alien sensation of a foreign mind slithering into his own made Getaway shudder and his tank roil. He’d not been prepared for this! Nothing in the intel suggested one of the kidnappers was a mneumospecialist.

“You… you don’t have to do that!” Getaway cried, squirming on the berth, trying to twist his frame away from the mech below him, inching between his thighs.

Said orange mech licked his lips, his hands sliding up the length of his thighs, thumbs bracketing Getaway’s valve.

“I promise I’ll behave!” Getaway whimpered as the foreign presence tiptoed all around his processor, slicing through his firewalls and defenses as though they were cheap chips bought on the street and not spec ops grade.

“I’m sure you will. This just makes sure of– oh, what do we have here?” The rifling in Getaway’s processor paused, and the grip on his head tightened. “Cork, don’t get started just yet.”

Cork, the orange mech between Getaway’s legs, looked up with a flash of anger. “What? Why? You’re such a fragging tease, Lore. Why do you always gotta make me wait?”

“Because I know the taste of a spy when I’m inside one, slagger,” Lore replied as a chill swept through Getaway’s internals. “And what we got here, mechs, is not the sweetplate he appears to be.”

“I thought he was a little too clean to be a street-walker,” came Fallout’s familiar voice from somewhere behind Getaway.

“I’m not a spy!” Getaway said with what he hoped was an enticing squirm and smile. “I swear. I was just looking for some quick creds.”

Lore chuckled, and his grip on Getaway’s head turned into something more like a caress. “I just tore through seven layers of elite firewalls, sweetplate. I know what you are.”

“I figured somebody was going to be on us sooner or later. Didn’t think it’d be this soon,” Fallout said.

Cork frowned and whined. The pads of his fingers stroked along the insides of Getaway’s thighs, making his armor crawl with revulsion. “So what? I don’t get to play with ‘im cause he’s a spy?”

“It just means we can’t sell him,” said the camera-mech. “Doesn’t mean we can’t still make some good creds off him.”

The mech leaning against the wall near the door frowned, his visor reflecting harsh angles of light. “We should just kill him,” he suggested. “The creds aren’t worth the trouble.”

“And waste this opportunity?” Lore almost purred. “Why Equalizer, you have no imagination. Or generosity. Little Joyride came here to do a job, didn’t he? As Playback said, it would be a shame to let him fail.”

“A big shame,” Cork agreed with a bob of his head and a hungry look at Getaway’s array. He licked his lips as he caressed Getaway’s valve, which twitched at the soft touch. “He’s eager for it, even. Ya should see how much he’s dripping.”

It was a program, idiots! Getaway seethed behind clenched denta. It was pointless to argue with criminals. They would only taunt him more, if they believed him to be the slightest bit ashamed.

Equalizer shifted his weight, from one foot to the other, white paint flashing in the bright flood lights. “Then we kill him later.”

“When we’re done,” the camera mech – Playback — agreed, sounding distracted and barely interested in the proceedings. “Vids like this are always a big seller.”

Vids? Fantastic. Getaway’s newly altered frame was going to be splashed all over the darknet, self-servicing fodder for all of the weirdly twisted. His team better get here sooner rather than later. Weren’t they tracking him by now? How far could Fallout have taken him?

Movement in his peripheral vision alerted Getaway to Fallout crouching down next to the berth. “Snuff is a big, big seller,” he said and grinned as he patted Getaway on the cheek. “Now we can’t go killin’ all of our pets so each vid is a hot commodity. That means you’re going to make us a fortune, Joyride.”

“You won’t be free long enough to make that fortune,” Getaway ground out, his plating crawling at Fallout’s touch, and the way Lore above him kept stroking his head and lingering in his port. His presence was poisonous. “My team–”

“Your team?” Lore’s tone was mild and amused as he cut Getaway off. “Oh, you mean the tracker embedded in your system? I took the liberty of removing that. They won’t find you.” His field became a nauseating press, bearing down on Getaway like a physical restraint.

Getaway worked his intake. He didn’t believe Lore for a second. Yes, the slagger had his fingers deep in Getaway’s system, but he wasn’t Jazz, and Jazz had been the one to program all of Getaway’s protocols. No way Lore found all of the tricks and hidden caches.

Maybe he delayed Prowl and the others, but they were coming. Getaway was sure of it.

Lore chuckled, and he pinched at the port where he’d plugged into Getaway. “Trust me, little spy. We’ve been at this too long to get caught now.”

“Wouldn’t it be a waste to kill him?” Playback asked, sounding bored from behind the camera. “You could always rewire him like the others. Sell him afterward.”

“Nah. Sometimes, it doesn’t take. And then we’d have a spy who knows too much wandering around alive. This is the best way to get our money’s worth,” Equalizer said with a smirk, his optics dark and hungry as he watched Getaway on the berth.

He had the look of a predator, Equalizer did. One who liked tearing up his prey and leaving its innards out for the carrion-eaters, while only consuming the tastiest bits for itself. Of the five mechs in the room, Getaway wanted Equalizer to touch him the least.

“I’m not for sale!” Getaway hissed, squirming in his bonds, though his motions were dull and sluggish, like he didn’t have complete control of his frame. Probably due to Lore rifling through his processor, getting sticky metaphorical fingers in all of Getaway’s components.

Fallout barked a laugh. “Is that right, sweetplate? Well, the cred stick in your subspace says otherwise. Don’t it?”

Cork’s hands slid up Getaway’s thighs toward his bared array, fingers stroking his rim. “Who cares?,” he whined, and traced a circle around Getaway’s mostly hidden anterior node. To his relief, it didn’t provoke so much as a stir of pleasure. “Can we get started now? You’re wasting all this time talking.”

Behind them, Fallout snickered. “Go ahead, Cork.”

“The camera’s ready,” Playback added.

Cork’s engine growled and lust flashed in his optics. “Finally,” he said and snatched Getaway by the hips, twisting him onto his back, his bound arms pinned beneath him, energon sacs bouncing and swaying on his chest.

Cork wedged himself between Getaway’s legs, shoved his thighs wide, and smirked over Getaway’s valve. “This poor thing looks hardly used,” he said.

Another bark of laughter spilled from Fallout. “We’ll change that soon enough.”

Getaway clenched his denta. Endure, he told himself. He’d been trained for this. He knew it was a possibility. It wasn’t the worst thing. It was just interfacing.

Cork laughed and leaned closer, ex-venting warm and wet over Getaway’s valve. He licked his lips again before his glossa found Getaway’s rim and gave it a long taste. He hummed in his intake and licked some more, mouth discovering Getaway’s node to treat it to a lingering suck.

It felt… good. Sensation drizzled through Getaway’s array. He swallowed down a strangled moan and dimmed his optics. His hips moved of their own accord, canting toward Cork’s mouth, demanding more. He hated, in that moment, the small programming thread he’d installed to make it easier to play the part of buymech.

That was when Lore stopped fiddling with his port, the sensation of his presence inside Getaway still lingering, like an infection, but his hands wandered. They slid over Getaway’s shoulders, to his energon sacs, and Lore started to grope them, fingers squeezing and sliding over the smooth protomesh. He found Getaway’s fuel nozzles and pinched them, causing a shock of pleasure to burst through Getaway’s sensor net.

An unwanted moan escaped his mouth, his backstrut arching, pushing his sacs into Lore’s hands. They were supposed to feel good. That was how the programming worked, but now Getaway despised that fact. Between Lore’s pinching, and Cork’s determined licking, arousal pulsed a steady beat through his systems.

His spike started to thicken in its sheath. Lubricant gathered in his valve, until Cork was able to lap up the first drop with a pleased hum.

“It’s nice when they squirm,” he said, conversationally against Getaway’s valve. “But it’s better when they enjoy it.”

“It makes for a better video,” Playback commented. If it was possible to sound bored while filming a fragging vid, Playback had perfected the art.

Lore chuckled and gave Getaway’s energon sacs a squeeze. “And their shame sweetens the flavor.”

Getaway growled, his engine revving with a mixture of arousal and fury. “You’re sick,” he seethed through clenched denta as his lower half twitched and rocked against Cork’s mouth, eager for every lick and suckle.

“It’s a mad, mad world.” Lore pinched Getaway’s nozzles and rolled them between his thumb and forefinger.

Getaway gasped before he could swallow it down, pleasure arcing through the entirety of his frame. His plating juddered and more lubricant dripped out of his valve as Cork licked into him, nasal ridge applying a nice pressure to Getaway’s anterior nub. Cork was enthusiastic, determined, and he made sloppy, wet noises as he licked and sucked until Getaway’s spike emerged with a snick, and his vents came in sharp pants.

Cork made a sound of outright glee and briefly abandoned Getaway’s valve, his glossa laving a long lick up the length of Getaway’s spike. He suckled at the tip, glossa prodding at his transfluid slit.

“Mmm, Joyride here’s a wet one,” Cork said around his mouthful, oral lubricant dribbling out of the corners of his mouth. “Tasty.”

“You’re disgusting,” Fallout said with a laugh.

“To each his own.” Cork smirked and closed his mouth around the tip of Getaway’s spike, laving the sensitive crown with several sweeps of his glossa.

Getaway gasped, his spike throbbing, and he thrust into empty space as Cork abandoned his spike in favor of messily lapping at his valve again. Arousal crackled in Getaway’s array like a hot fire.

He didn’t want to overload. Not like this. Not with the camera pointed at him, the five pairs of optics devouring his frame, with Cork’s mouth on his valve, and Lore’s fingers on his sac, the energon-filled mesh bouncing and bobbing on his chest. He didn’t want the noises clawing out of his intake, like whimpers and moans.

But overload he did, tasting energon as he bit his glossa in a desperate attempt to swallow the pathetic sounds in his vocalizer. He bucked against Cork’s lips, riding the eager mouth, his spike bobbing as his valve rippled with pleasure.

Lore chuckled and cupped Getaway’s sacs. He moved his hips, thrusting a little against Getaway’s back, the slide of his damp spike leaving streaks behind.

Cork purred against Getaway’s valve and rose to his feet, one hand working furiously at his spike, pumping himself with eager abandon. He licked his lips as if savoring Getaway’s taste, optics bright and hungry. His face was smeared with Getaway’s lubricant and he made no effort to wipe it away.

“You’re sweet,” he murmured, something in his gaze too wild for Getaway’s comfort. Unhinged even. “I like the way you squirm,” he breathed and then he overloaded, spike spurting all over Getaway’s twitching valve, his pressurized spike, the insides of his thighs and his pelvic array.

Transfluid didn’t burn. But Getaway felt the sear of it splashing on his armor anyway. It felt like being marked, treated as less than, and he despised it.

“Get out of the way, freak.” Equalizer surged into view, rudely elbowing Cork away as the orange and white mech stood there dazed, hand around his depressurizing spike.

Cork stumbled with an outraged hiss, but obediently moved aside as Equalizer pushed his way between Getaway’s thighs, his fingers shoving into Getaway’s valve, three at a time, without any preamble. They burned, and Getaway flinched, and Equalizer laughed, husky and cruel.

“My turn,” he said.

Getaway groaned, fruitlessly trying to squirm away. Equalizer’s grip was hard and unyielding, the press of his field equally so. He was a mech who wanted to hurt, and Getaway had no illusions about how much pain he’d cause.

Lore chuckled and rolled his hips, thrusting harder against Getaway’s back, his spike leaving trails on Getaway’s shoulders. Lore’s hands squeezed Getaway’s sacs, making the energon shift and gurgle and the dermal mesh ache.

Equalizer’s fingers vanished, and Getaway had a moment of relief before they returned, this time prodding at Getaway’s aft port. The smaller entrance would have resisted, were Equalizer any gentler, but two fingers coated in a smear of lubricant and transfluid pushed into Getaway’s aft with a stretching burn that made Getaway hiss.

His legs trembled. A sound escaped him before he could swallow it. A whimper, a whine, pain that burbled up and spilled free.

“Let’s see if we can’t change your perspective, shall we?” Lore purred as Equalizer’s fingers kept fragging a burning stretch into Getaway’s aft. He supposed he should be grateful Equalizer bothered to try and stretch and lube him up even a little.

Something started wriggling about inside Getaway, in his neural pathways and his processor. The painful burn shifted to a liquid warmth. The tension in his hydraulics and cables eased. Pleasure, false as it was, washed through his thoughts, turning them dull.

He felt sick. Nauseous. And no amount of processor-washing could change that. His tanks lurched, even as the desire started to build inside of him.

“There. That’s better.” One of Lore’s hands stroked Getaway’s head. “Isn’t it nicer when you can relax?”

Getaway clenched his denta around the moan pushing at his glossa. His optical shutters clattered as he shivered. His hips rocked against the push of Equalizer’s fingers.

Where the frag was his team? Shouldn’t they be here by now? He’d have checked his chronometer, if only it wasn’t spinning nonsensical numbers at him. Time no longer had definition.

The berth rattled, dipped beside Getaway. He looked, through a haze crowding the edge of his vision, as Fallout clambered onto the berth. As he straddled Getaway’s belly, spike thick and visible, already dripping pre-fluid.

“Can’t let an opportunity like this pass me by,” he said, a breathless need in his vocals, his lips peeled back over his denta as he fondled Getaway’s sacs. “I’ve been dying to have more fun with these since I saw your sweet aft on the street.”

Getaway’s processor spun. It was dizzying, to fight the fake lust and the sensations in his frame.

“Frag you,” he gritted out.

Fallout rolled his hips forward, spike poking at Getaway’s energon sacs, rutting over and against them, leaving smears of fluid behind. “No thanks. I’d rather enjoy these instead.”

Getaway squirmed, vents coming in eager pants, both horror and lust. He felt Equalizer’s hands on his hips, too tight, too hard, too willing to dent. He felt the width of Equalizer between his thighs, and the blunt head of Equalizer’s spike against his aft port, prodding and prodding, threatening to impale.

Fallout was hot and heavy above him, eager and sloppy as he squeezed and fondled, as he thrust between the valley of Getaway’s sacs and squeezed his spike between them. His thumbs swept over the peaked nozzles, and a wave of pleasure made Getaway’s head spin. It was almost enough to distract him from the sudden burn in his aft as Equalizer plunged into him, spike a spear that filled him in a single thrust.

Getaway grunted, backstrut arching as little as he was able with Fallout on top of him. His shoulders ached, wrists strained.

Equalizer pumped into him, a steady, quick pace. His hands slid to Getaway’s thighs, urging his legs around Equalizer’s waist as he leaned forward, higher and higher, until Getaway was tilted and Fallout found it easier to frag his energon sacs. Fallout’s spike plunged between them, tip painting Getaway’s lips with pre-fluid again and again.

Lore seemed content to observe, while the disgusting-oil of his presence continued to manipulate Getaway’s processor, pushing more and more arousal at him, until his valve clenched on nothing, his spike throbbed, and his aft tightened around Equalizer’s spike. Even more so when Equalizer shifted one hand to molesting Getaway’s valve, stroking his rim and his external nodes, making heat blossom in Getaway’s groin.

Getaway’s frame moved, twitching and rolling with the stimulation. He began to meet Equalizer’s thrusts. He rocked up against Fallout’s spike, and the squeeze of Fallout’s hands, and the occasional pinch of his nozzles by Lore’s fingertips. Each touch was another shock of pleasure, another buzz of need in his lines.

He overloaded again, with a bitten off sound, lubricant spilling from his valve, his vents roaring. Purge threatened to rise, until Lore forced it down, smoothing over the disgust and chasing it away with waves of extended ecstasy.

Someone laughed. In the haze, Getaway wasn’t sure who.

“Little spy is made for fragging, isn’t he?”

“He’s overloaded twice already.”

“Probably bends over for anyone even without the creds.”

Laughter surrounded him. Getaway tried to growl, but all that came out of his intake was a moan, one desperate and needy, the result of Lore’s manipulation and entirely false.

A sharp burst of pain radiated through his groin. It took Getaway too long to realize it was because Equalizer had slapped his spike, and then roughly pinched the tip of it. There was no gentleness in that mech, only the urge to cause pain.

“Here.” Movement in his peripheral vision and a greedy voice forced Getaway to sharpen his senses.

Cork moved into view, a contraption of straps and metal dangling from his fingers. He grinned, all denta, as he handed it over to Lore.

“Put this on ‘im,” Cork said with a lascivious look down at Getaway. “Every pretty pet needs a pretty accessory, eh?”

Lore laughed. Equalizer paused in his fragging and even Fallout stilled as they watched the tangle of straps hover over Getaway’s face. Lore’s fingers untangled it, loops and coils of metal mesh unrecognizable.

At least, until Lore started to fit it over Getaway’s face. He recognized it for what it was then, as the wide, metal ring was forced into his mouth and lodged behind his denta. The straps wound around his face, cinching tight at the back of his head. He tried to turn his head, to make it difficult, but there were more hands to keep him still than he could fight and soon his mouth was stretched wide by the gag.

“Better,” Fallout purred as he started to thrust again, hands squeezing Getaway’s sacs, his spike prodding between them, bumping against the stretch of Getaway’s lips around the gag.

Equalizer started to move again, shoving hard and deep into Getaway’s aft, the slap of metal on metal harsh and obscene. He muttered curses, occasionally pausing to smack Getaway’s valve and anterior node with the flat of his palm, making Getaway jolt. It should have been painful, startling, enough to wilt his arousal. But Lore’s lingering infestation turned it all into liquid pleasure, until Getaway was moaning, unable to conceal the noises with his mouth forced open.

Fallout panted, mouth slack, optics glazed. He squeezed Getaway’s energon sacs until the metalmesh threatened to split. He rode them harder and faster, spike spearing between them, jabbing at Getaway’s mouth, until he abruptly curled inward and overloaded, transfluid splattering everywhere. It painted Getaway’s sacs in thick stripes, and coated his face, stray drops landing in his open mouth and on his glossa.

Where was his damn team? Getaway raged inwardly, shame and disgust spilling together as Fallout humped the last of his arousal against Getaway’s sacs. As he rose up, depressurizing spike hanging limp, free hand gathering up globs of his transfluid and smearing it over Getaway’s mouth and cheeks.

Getaway tried to tune it out. He focused inward, on the tenuous connection to his team, still transmitting. By Primus it was still transmitting. Sights. Sounds. Sensations. They could see and hear everything. They were witness to this humiliation as much as that camera was, recording it for prosecution’s sake.

Nausea roiled in Getaway’s tanks. He groaned.

“Someone take over so I can have a turn,” a dull voice said through the haze. Playback maybe. The only one who managed to sound bored while filming a gang rape.

“Wait until I’m done,” Equalizer grunted before he pulled out and gripped Getaway’s hips. “Flip him over, Lore. I want to pound his aft.”

“And I want his mouth,” someone else whined. Cork, Getaway thought.

Did it really matter?

Hands snatched Getaway’s frame. His processor spun as he was lifted, turned over onto his belly without a care for his comfort, sacs squished against the berth, hands still bound behind him. Staticky vision gave him a brief look at the mech still cabled to him – Lore was solid blue with garish green and gold stripes highlighting the blocky angles of his frame. He looked familiar, though Getaway couldn’t place where, and the lack of identifiable kibble suggested he was a monoformer.

Then orange and white moved back into his field of vision, directly in front of him. Cork knelt on the berth, his hand around the base of his spike – garishly orange with thin white swirls that made Getaway dizzy just to look at. Cork moved closer, eagerly clumsy, one hand gripping Getaway’s head, the other guiding his spike to Getaway’s mouth.

“This is my favorite part,” Cork panted as the head of his spike slipped through the ring of the gag and he released his grip on the length, revealing that there was an odd roundness to the base of his spike. It swelled outward, not so much that it wouldn’t get through the ring gag, but enough to be noticeable.

Getaway hoped that bump wasn’t what he thought it was. He’d heard of those mods, but he’d never seen anyone with one.

Cork probably meant to fill Getaway’s mouth slowly, but Equalizer suddenly started to frag him in earnest, plunging into Getaway’s aft with quick, deep strokes. He fragged Getaway like he was desperate for overload, his hands clenching tight enough to leave dents, his hips banging against Getaway’s aft, and shoving him forward, onto Cork’s spike.

Cork gripped Getaway’s head with both hands. “Frag him softer, damn it,” he whined as he eased back, trying to keep to his own pace. “You’re messing up my plans.”

“Shut it, Cork,” Equalizer panted and slammed into Getaway, hard enough for the clang of metal on metal to echo. “I’m doing this… my way.”

Equalizer grunted, spike rasping a searing path through Getaway’s port, scraping over his nodes, and then he slammed against Getaway’s aft seconds before he felt the hot flood of transfluid inside his port. A strangled noise, the bastard sparkling of a moan and a gurgle, escaped Equalizer as he pumped his hips, spurt after spurt of transfluid filling Getaway’s aft, until Equalizer abruptly jerked back and out. The last spray painted Getaway’s aft, and Equalizer’s palm slapped over it.

“Thanks for the ride,” he said.

“Damn it, Equalizer, take over for me,” someone else snapped.

Equalizer grumbled, but the rest of the conversation was lost as Getaway’s attention was tugged back toward Cork and the orange spike invading his mouth. Cork thrust into him deeper now, the head of his spike nudging the back of Getaway’s intake. He rocked slowly, as though he had all the time in the world, filling Getaway’s mouth with the taste of him.

“Playback’s gentler at least,” Cork said, his optics dazed, fingers stroking Getaway’s head in a parody of affection. “Means I can take my time with ya.”

Getaway would have offered a snarky comment, had his mouth been unoccupied, but all he managed was a terrible moan as Lore ramped up the false pleasure and a spike suddenly pushed into his valve, much thicker than all the others, but smooth at least. This, he assumed, was Playback, who filled every inch of Getaway, grinding over nodes with ease.

Playback set up a quick, efficient pace, like he only wanted to overload because he was aroused and it was troublesome. His vents came in sharp, stuttered bursts, his grip on Getaway’s hips perfunctory.

Cork chuckled and started fragging Getaway’s mouth slowly, spikehead brushing the back of Getaway’s intake opposite of the rhythm of Playback grinding on Getaway’s ceiling node. There was never a moment Getaway wasn’t filled, and this parody of a lover’s embrace made nausea roil in his tanks, for all that pleasure seared through his lines and made his valve throb.

“Let’s see if we can’t ramp up the tension, shall we?” Lore purred from somewhere in Getaway’s peripheral vision, and then those ghostly fingers slipped through Getaway’s processor, tugging on command lines.

Getaway groaned as his spike throbbed harder at Lore’s command, spilling more pre-fluid until it came in a steady trickle. It bobbed at the apex of his thighs, swaying to the rhythm of Cork and Playback fragging him. He was desperate, in that moment, for someone to touch his spike, and he started to hump the berth, eager for stimulation.

“Nice work,” Playback said as he ground against Getaway’s aft, and then hands circled Getaway’s spike, pumping him in long squeezes that forced out beads of transfluid.

His frame trembled. Cork pumped harder into his mouth, one hand curling around the back of Getaway’s head to push him against Cork’s groin, until his nasal ridge brushed bright orange armor. Cork’s spike slid down his intake, forcing Getaway to shift to secondary venting.

“This is going… to be… so good,” Cork panted as he ground against Getaway’s face, little jerks of his hips that barely counted as thrusts.

His spike throbbed, and Getaway’s internal sensors registered spurts of transfluid sliding down his intake. He dared think of relief, that Cork was done now and would leave him in peace. Surely his team would be here soon. Surely.

But then the base of Cork’s spike started to swell. Slow and barely noticeable at first, until Getaway’s glossa felt the pressure against it. His mouth opened wider, jaw aching, as the base of the spike swelled and swelled, forming a ball-like knot which prevented Cork from pulling out.

Cork laughed and held Getaway’s head tightly, jerking it against his groin one last time, fully seating his spike in Getaway’s mouth. It hurt. It was humiliating. It was exactly the mod Getaway feared Cork had.

The swelling – the knot – continued, pinning his glossa inside his mouth, straining the limits of his jaw, choking him. The spike remained in his intake, purge protocols rippling in struggle to remove it, and beeping obnoxiously as they failed. His jaw hinge stung, then ached, then sent lancing waves of pain through his mouth, until Lore’s ghostly fingers wisped them away, tangling them into the false pleasure.

Getaway whimpered.

His tormentors laughed.

Cork released his hold on Getaway’s head, now that Getaway couldn’t pull back. He reached down, pinched Getaway’s nose, cutting off what little air supply he could gulp down, forcing him to rely on his lateral vents. Playback fragged into him harder, tugging him back and dragging Cork’s spike with him. His intake ached, scraped raw.

Dizziness attacked from all angles. Pleasure spun through his lines, wild with charge. The hand on his spike was the best sensation of it all, fingers teasing his transfluid slid and pumping him expertly, drawing out the first vestige of real pleasure, to go with the false ecstasy Lore fed him.

More transfluid spurted into his mouth. It slid down his intake, into his tanks. He couldn’t taste it, a small favor, but he could feel it seeping through his intake. His tanks roiled with disgust. Cork laughed, his amusement flavored with lust, his spike pulsing against Getaway’s glossa.

Pleasure built inside of him nonetheless. His valve rippled around Playback’s spike, siphoning charge from the mech’s nodes. His spike throbbed eagerly, pre-fluid making for a slick stroke.

Overload struck him like an attack, it hurt as much as it felt good. It sent static over his armor, made his valve clamp tight, and his spike spurt a load into the fist of whoever was stroking him. Lore’s manipulations ramped up the pleasure, making Getaway’s armor gape, his engines rev, his field scream need, but they couldn’t completely hide the disgust in his field either.

“Oh, that’s delicious,” Lore purred.

Cork’s hand stroked around Getaway’s head as he circled his hips, venting bursts of heat down against Getaway’s face. “You’ve a talent for breakin’ ‘em, Lore.”

“That I do.”

Playback grunted and slammed into Getaway, hips making little jerks as he abruptly overloaded, spilling his load inside of Getaway’s valve, joining the mess his companions left behind. Like all else, Playback was perfunctory. He didn’t linger, withdrawing as soon as the pleasure had passed.

He pulled out, presumably to go back to his camera. Getaway’s bared components twitched at the brush of cooler air against his raw and exposed array. His valve lips twitched. His aft rim contracted around nothing. He felt hot and sticky, dirty.

Someone was quick to take his place, their hand smacking across Getaway’s aft in a harsh meet of metal on metal. The strike was jarring, and it stung. Getaway jerked, his mouth tugging on Cork’s spike, and to his relief, the knot which seemed to have shrank just a little.

They struck him again, open-handed palms, first one aft plate and then the other. Whoever it was vented hotly and loudly. Getaway’s frame jolted. To move backward would tug on Cork’s spike and put him closer to the pain. To move forward would have him crawling into Cork’s lap.

There was nowhere to go.

He checked, again, the link to his team. It held dead air – they couldn’t contact him. But it was active. Transmitting. How long had it been? He didn’t even know.

Where were they?

The mech behind him smacked his ass again, hard enough to leave a dent, for a cry of pain to be muffled by Cork’s spike before it abruptly slipped free. The knot popped past the gag ring, and Getaway’s lips, leaving a trail of transfluid in its wake.

Getaway’s intake immediately rebelled, sending him into a coughing fit, his tanks squeezing as they sought to purge, but Lore’s manipulations refused to initiate the protocols. Getaway coughed, flecks of transfluid dribbling from the corner of his mouth, a low and broken moan wreathed in static surrounding it.

“That’s a good look for you, spy.” Cork flicked Getaway’s forehead and sat back on his heels, spike hanging limp, knot still partially inflated. “Make sure you get a close up, Playback. You know they like to pay big money for coppers like this getting it good.”

Getaway dredged up a glare, but his vocalizer only spat static. His shoulders ached; his hands formed fists behind his back. His processor spun.

No, that was the room. The berth? No, they’d flipped him onto his back, his strut arched, energon sacs swaying and bobbing on his chest. It was Fallout between his legs, pushing into his aft without abandon, a look of crazed desire on his face. He licked his lips as he thrust, and his hands found Getaway’s sacs, giving them a squeeze, hard enough to force a squeak of pain.

Getaway squirmed, tried to wriggle backward on the berth, but Cork leaned over him, putting his hands on Getaway’s shoulders. He grinned as his half-pressurized spike kept slapping the side of Getaway’s face.

There was no getting away from Fallout’s vicious fragging. He plunged into Getaway’s aft with abandon, his hands squeezing and gripping Getaway’s sacs without pause. But that wasn’t enough for him, because he started slapping them, watching them jiggle. His fingers found Getaway’s nozzles and pinched them hard, as if he intended to rip them off.

Pain lanced through Getaway’s frame. His back arched in a soundless scream, an icy fire racing outward from the point of contact. Fallout pinched and tugged, and it was if someone had taken a branding iron to the nozzles.

Until the lancing pain turned to liquid pleasure. Until the ebb of Lore’s connection to him turned into a blinding wave all over again. Getaway stopped trying to twist away from the slaps. He started wriggling toward them, angling his frame to be better struck, all without his permission. He whined like a mechanimal desperate to breed. His valve clenched on nothing, and wept lubricant out of desperation. His spike thickened again, seeping pre-fluid, throbbing for touch.

Fallout overloaded quickly, his transfluid searing over Getaway’s bruised sensors. Or maybe he overloaded slowly, and he’d been fragging forever. Getaway wasn’t sure anymore. Awareness started to dim, fluctuating wildly between pain and pleasure, another overload whiting out sensation until he crashed back into the swollen, hot, aching thing that was his frame.

Fallout pulled out and someone else took his place. Someone who flipped Getaway back onto his belly, face and energon sacs smashed into the berth.

“My turn,” Lore growled, and shoved into Getaway’s valve, his spike modded with ridges and bumps and nubs that rasped over Getaway’s lining despite the mixture of fluids inside of him. It burned and tore and Getaway gasped, going limp.

Or maybe he went limp because Lore still had fingers in his processor and was still turning his thoughts to mush. He wanted to fight, wanted to scream and curse and squirm. But he kept melting and pushing back toward Lore, demanding more of the agony.

Lore laughed, something dark and rasping. He slid a hand around Getaway’s frame, up his body, fingers wrapping around Getaway’s intake. The other arm curled around Getaway’s waist, pulling him back and up. The pressure on his intake made his processor glitch, and he swore he tasted Cork’s transfluid again.

Overload hovered on the edge. His energon sacs swayed and bobbed from the force of Lore’s thrusts. He felt the heaviness of the others watching. The weight of the camera recording. Lore’s spike dragged over his nodes, demanding Getaway’s pleasure, as did the heavy touch on his processor, fingers deep in his pleasure center.

Ecstasy struck him with a garbled, pained sound. A dying noise. Getaway’s vision spun, his fans roaring to dispel heat and useless for it.

Lore laughed again, menacing this time, the tips of his fingers pressing in on Getaway’s intake. “And now,” he murmured against Getaway’s audial. “I really get to have my fun.”

Cold, icier than space, scraped down Getaway’s spinal strut. His spark dropped into his belly as every spark of pleasure in his frame abruptly turned to fear. Dark, drowning terror. He screamed as if someone held a blade to his spark, as if he stood on the precipice of a smelter’s pit, as if someone held his brain module in their teeth.

It wasn’t until he tasted smoke on his glossa that he realized he was screaming and shouting for them to “stop, stop, stop” and “help, help, help” and they were laughing and Lore was fragging him, his fingers getting tighter and tighter. Getaway felt like he were falling into an abyss, no berth beneath him, nothing but the hot, stinging burn of Lore’s spike in his valve, and the threat of a grip on his intake.

Snuff is worth everything on the black market, a small part of Getaway’s conscious reminded him. The logical part that tracked all of these horrible threats to society and made sure they were ended. The work that he did with his team was important for this very reason.

His team.

They must have forgotten him. They couldn’t find him. They wouldn’t find him. It was late. Too late.

Getaway moaned, and there was nothing of pleasure in it. His world was spinning, a sea of agony.

Lore fragged him harder, pounding into him, as though he sought to drive Getaway through the berth. His grip on Getaway’s neck tightened, and the cable connecting them spilled Lore’s commands faster and faster. Pain, pleasure, terror, Getaway couldn’t distinguish any of it. His processor floated, and he felt removed from it all, unable to gasp for a ventilation or notice anything beyond the sensation.

White-hot agony burst through Getaway’s head. He shrieked, thrashing, as Lore’s connection abruptly disengaged, leaving him staggering with control of his frame suddenly his again. His senses exploded: sight, sound, sensation.

His valve burned, his aft port on fire. His shoulders screamed for mercy. His energon sacs throbbed. He heard shouting, the discharge of weaponry, felt the startled bursts of multiple fields, and somewhere in the mess, something familiar. The warming touch of his partner.

His team.

Relief struck. Getaway dropped onto the berth, face-first, and didn’t have the energy to roll over onto his side.

“Getaway!” That was Jazz, shouting his name. “Slaggit, grab him!”

Hands on his frame, turning him. The world a blur of colors and agony and shame. He tasted energon, realizing he’d bit his glossa.

“Damn, partner. Look at you.” Skids’ voice, his face a blur to Getaway’s optics. “Can you hear me? Getaway? Getaway!”

~

“Getaway?”

He snapped out of the memory with a little shudder, one he was too slow to hide. He thanked Primus he’d decided to make his mouthplate permanent after that disaster of a mission. It meant he didn’t have a grimace to conceal.

“Sorry, mechs, got a little lost in thought.” Getaway rolled his shoulders, projecting ease toward his companions. “What was the question?”

Skids gave him a look, like he was trying to piece something together, but given his limited memories, only had a few snippets of it. Lucky for him. Lucky he didn’t have to remember that mission gone horribly wrong. It should have never come to that, the video which still made it onto the darknet, no matter how vigorously they tried tracking it.

Keystroke, however, just laughed and leaned forward, the garish orange highlights of his frame hearkening back to a memory Getaway would have rather soon forgot. “We asked if you were interested in joining us tonight. For a little wet and wild fun.” He winked, mouth stretched wide in a grin.

Beside him, Atomizer leaned back in his chair, one foot braced against the table’s edge. “I don’t know about the wild part, but fun is definitely on the table.” Lust radiated off him in waves.

It made Getaway’s tanks churn. Keystroke’s propensity for group bouts of interfacing, interconnecting cables and nights spent drowning in ecstasy, were starting to become something of a weekly occurrence on the Lost Light. He propositioned anyone and everyone and while they were perfect for letting off steam without worrying about unnecessary attachments… Getaway wanted nothing to do with being bared like that in a room with more than one mech.

“Fun,” Getaway echoed, and lifted his shoulders in what he hoped was a shrug. “Appreciate the offer, but no thanks.”

“Awww, that’s too bad. I hear your kind has all the best moves.” Keystroke grinned and winked, lascivious as always. “If you change your mind, you know where to find us.”

‘Your kind.’ Getaway knew what Keystroke meant, but his processor drifted to that disaster of a mission nevertheless. He still had the mounts for the energon sacs built into his frame, though the mesh pouches were not attached.

He hadn’t worn them since. He’d outright refused. And for once, Prowl had not pushed. The next mission of similar design had been Jazz’s. He’d been lucky. It had gone off without a hitch. No humiliating vids on the darknet to ruin him.

Getaway fidgeted with his engex, straw bobbing up in the glass. “Yeah. I do.”

Keystroke and Atomizer got up from the table, jostling each other as they moved to join another couple of mechs, presumably for the wild orgy they intended to have. In their absence, Skids slid closer to Getaway, a small frown on his lips.

“You okay?”

Getaway flashed calm into his field. “Why wouldn’t I be?” he asked, and took a sip of his engex through the intake valve, something no spike would ever enter again. It wasn’t like Skids could remember why he’d be uncomfortable anyway.

Or that Getaway had confessed to him once, months after the mission, that he still felt Lore inside him sometimes, turning pain to pleasure, making him aroused when he was afraid, and he loathed it so much. Like an itch he couldn’t scratch, an infection he couldn’t cure.

“Everything’s just fine,” Getaway lied.

It was getting easier every day.

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[TiA] Slices of Life 03

Little Surprises

Fatigue claws at Starscream from top to bottom. He’s been working since before “sunrise” this morning, and it’s long past “sundown.” Meeting after meeting with no break in between. Argument after argument, petty disagreements, everything that no ruler wants to deal with in a single day.

His tanks grumble. He’s starving. All he’s managed to do is scarf down a mil-rat while power-walking from one meeting room to the next. The concentrated, solid energon sits like a weight in his tank, giving him little bursts of energy, but no satisfaction.

And he’s got a couple hours more to go at least.

So much for getting home to snuggle with his racer in a timely fashion. It’s even one of Blurr’s early days, but does Starscream get to spend it with his partner? Of course not. Instead, he has to watch Prowl and Soundwave squabble and give each other the stink optic while Bumblebee sighs and Needlenose proves to be no help at all.

Starscream trudges into his office, hoping for a moment’s peace before the next round of madness begins. The door shuts behind him and he sags against it, ex-venting with relief. His audials are still ringing from the stupidity.

Another vent and Starscream pushes himself off the door, attention focused on his desk and the groaning piles of paperwork. He pauses, however, at the glittery wrapped box in the middle of his datapads. That wasn’t there when he left earlier today.

Starscream circles around the box, optics narrowed, more than a little suspicious. A distance scan reveals no incendiary materials. There’s a tag hanging from the lop-sided bow, and he recognizes the handwriting immediately. Relief floods through him.

Blurr. That charming idiot.

Starscream huffs a laugh and pulls off the tag and attached card, flipping it open.

Knew you’d be working late today. Try not to eat them all, Starshine. You still need to be able to fly home to me. 😉

It’s the winking emoji that does it for Starscream. He sinks into his chair with a snorting laugh while his free hand tears away the glittery paper, revealing the double-stack box of Mixmaster’s specially flavored candies.

His tanks grumble again.

Starscream tucks the little note into his subspace and leans back into his carefully designed chair. He props his feet up on the desk and pulls the box of candies into his lap. The first one he pops into his mouth is sweet and fizzes over his glossa.

Starscream hums with delight and offlines his optics to better enjoy the flavor.

The day is not so shitty after all, he thinks. He’s got a sexy racer waiting for him at home, one thoughtful enough to send along Starscream’s favorite treats just because.

Actually.

It’s a pretty damn good day.

[TiA] Slices of Life 02

Habits

Blurr chews on the ends of his styluses. It is simultaneously one of his most adorable and disgusting habits.

When he works on finances for the bar and has to concentrate, inevitably the stylus becomes a gnawed, useless ruin. Most of the time, Starscream doesn’t see it because Blurr usually does that kind of paperwork in his office at the bar. Today, however, he’d opted to bring it home and perch at Starscream’s desk.

Him attempting to look official is the peak of cuteness.

Starscream loiters in the doorway, watching as Blurr sighs and grumbles and gnaw-gnaw-gnaws the end of the stylus. His feet scuff against the floor. One hand raps a nonsense rhythm on the desktop. His field radiates frustration and boredom.

Starscream pushes himself off the jamb and slips into the room. “You know, if you’d let me help you, this wouldn’t take as long,” he murmurs as he drapes himself across Blurr’s back – they have a strict no-boosters rule while he’s home. He hooks his chin over Blurr’s shoulder, peering at the scrawl of calculations on the cracked screen.

“You have your own work to do,” Blurr says as the stylus scritches across the screen, denta-marks visible in the end of it.

Starscream chuckles and nuzzles the side of Blurr’s head. “But I’m done with mine and I’m lonely now,” he purrs as he slips his arms around his partner’s frame, hands splayed across Blurr’s very tempting belly.

“You’ll just have to be patient,” Blurr retorts and makes several nearly illegible calculations, numbers scrawling over the screen in crooked lines.

Starscream teases at Blurr’s abdominal vents. “That’s wrong.”

Blurr’s engine hiccups. “No, it’s no– Oh.” He sighs as he flicks away the last addition and corrects the basic error. “I’m a racer not a mathematician. Cut me some slack.”

Starscream snorts. “It’s basic arithmetic.”

“Yeah, well, you’re distracting me.” Blurr squirms and the stylus makes an illiterate squiggle.

Starscream finds and nibbles on Blurr’s nearest audial, murmuring “sorry” against the sensitive metal.

Blurr laughs, amusement filtering into his field. “You don’t sound contrite at all.” He wriggles back against Starscream, end of the stylus tap-tapping on the screen.

“Mmm. Because I’m not.” Starscream finds a tasty bit of undefended intake cable and gives it a gentle bite.

Blurr shivers, a low hum rising in his chest. “Why am I not surprised?”

Starscream chuckles and his hands slide a bit southward, toward Blurr’s hips. Blurr groans in his arms, tapping the end of the mauled stylus against the desk.

“Let me help you,” Starscream attempts to coax with nibbles of his denta and quick flicks of his glossa.

Blurr draws in a heavy ventilation and leans harder into Starscream’s embrace. “All the sooner for me to pay you attention, I suppose?”

“That and save the poor, innocent stylus.” Starscream huffs a laugh and nips Blurr’s intake before he leans over, plucking the datapad out of Blurr’s slack grip.

He extricates himself and dances back, out of reach. “Don’t worry, Zippy. I’ll have this done in a blink and then we can both move on to something a lot more exciting.”

He whirls away, wings flicking, tips of his talons working over the datapad screen in lieu of the much mauled stylus. No way does he want to touch that thing. It’s chewed to pieces!

Blurr sighs and spins around in the chair. He leans back, elbow braced on the desk behind him, a smile on his lips.

“Fine,” he says and flicks a hand at Starscream. “Do my work for me then. I won’t tell if you won’t.”

Starscream snorts and calculates faster.

He’s the brains of this operation after all. Everyone knows that by now.

[TiA] Slices of Life 01

Sleeping Arrangements

Try as he might, Blurr could never manage to be stealthy.

He came home late most days that he worked, sometimes long after Starscream had retired to recharge since their schedules rarely coincided. Sneaking in to join Starscream on the berth never worked. Starscream always woke, greeting Blurr with a sleepy smile and reaching out with eager arms.

Blurr hated disturbing his Seeker’s much needed rest. But not even lessons from Jazz could make Blurr’s nightly returns furtive. No matter how quiet he was, or how carefully he moved, Starscream always knew. He supposed there were some things that eons spent as a Decepticon couldn’t be unlearned.

He only once made the mistake of foregoing the berth and choosing the couch instead. They hadn’t argued recently. Starscream had fully expected Blurr to join him by a certain time. Blurr, however, knew Starscream had worked later than usual, and had been overworking as of late. He didn’t want to interrupt a recharge cycle.

The couch wasn’t terrible to sleep on. Blurr had certainly attempted to recharge in worst conditions during the war. He’d gotten accustomed to discomfort.

Blurr had just fallen into an uneasy recharge – the couch was a lot colder without a Seeker for a blanket – when he jerked into full-scale alert. His comms blared and Starscream came tearing out of the berthroom like Iacon was on fire again, his wings high and rigid.

“What do you mean he left hours ago?” Starscream snarled as his thrusters spat sparks against the floor, and his engine audibly roared. He snapped charges into the ports for his energon swords, his stride quick and purposeful.

“He’s not here!” Starscream shrieked as he made straight for the balcony, his field ready for murder and his optics a dark, baleful crimson.

Blurr had leapt off the touch, feet nearly tangling in the thin, metalmesh blanket he’d tossed over his legs. He rushed to intercept his partner, and nearly got a blade to the belly when a startled Starscream whipped toward him, optics wide and alarmed.

“Where have you been!?!”

That night, neither of them managed more than a few stolen moments of rest. It took ages for Starscream to calm, to rescind the emergency calls, for Jazz’s lecture to stop ringing in Blurr’s comm because yes, he should have known better.

Starscream held him tightly then, and even more so the next few nights after that, so tightly that his talons left gouges in Blurr’s armor. He was late to the office the next morning. No one was amused by the false alarm, Starscream especially, who felt simultaneously angry at Blurr and embarrassed at himself for overreacting.

Blurr made a promise.

He always came to the berth after that. Or informed Starscream otherwise.

Blurr kept trying to be stealthy. He had yet to succeed. He doubted he ever would.

A part of him was relieved.

There was something about coming home to a sleepy smile and open arms that made him feel warm and fuzzy. Starscream always tucked against him, nuzzled into his intake, stole a kiss or three.

Starscream sighed so sweetly as he slipped back into recharge, relaxed and trusting in Blurr’s arms. His field embraced Blurr’s like a blanket.

Put like that, Blurr supposed stealthiness was way overrated.

[CtE] Full of Yourself 02

His berth kept twitching and rumbling beneath him, not quite as at rest as it should be, Starscream remarked with poorly concealed amusement. Then again, he was equally to blame, as his wings kept pushing into broad strokes, demanding more and more of the soft, soothing pets. Grimlock’s hands were made of magic sometimes, even if his attention was a little half-sparked at best, most of his processing power consumed by the datapad in his other hand.

Reports, likely. Or maybe he was pretending to catch up on his work and was actually reading one of the adventure datanovels unearthed from the bowels of a collapsed library. The wing-petting was likely automatic then, though it warmed Starscream from the inside out and sent a low buzz to his interface array.

It didn’t help that he was sprawled on top of his much larger mate, the resting rumble of Grimlock’s engine against his cockpit and straight to his spark. Grimlock ran several degrees hotter than Starscream, and that warmth had seeped through his armor to the cables beneath. It would be relaxing, were it not for the sweep, stroke, tweak motion of Grimlock’s hand on his wings.

Starscream wriggled. He started to move into the pets, backstrut arching, legs shifting restlessly, turbines spinning with a quiet click, click, click. His own datapad fell from slack fingers, interest in the scientific text forgotten. A purr rose in his intake as he squirmed on top of Grimlock, their armor sliding together in a chirr of metal on metal.

He felt the heat of Grimlock’s gaze shift to him, interest in his datapad melting away. Starscream smirked to himself and stirred a bit more, wing pushing up into Grimlock’s hand, his aft wiggling, one leg sliding over Grimlock’s thigh.

“You know,” Starscream purred as he lounged and squirmed just enough to straddle Grimlock’s belly, the heat of his array pressed over his mate’s abdominal vents. “Thundercracker is on shift now, and Cyclonus takes over after that. I believe that means we have what could be considered free time.” He curled his fingers into armor seams, the tips of his talons caressing the cables beneath.

Amusement rumbled in Grimlock’s chassis, vibrating against Starscream’s fingers. “Is that so?” His visor lit with interest, datapad falling by the wayside. “You look like you have something in mind.”

Starscream rolled his hips, grinding down against Grimlock’s belly, heat in his array building to a hungry want. It was rare they shared two off-shifts back to back, rare he could indulge. He knew what he wanted. He knew he wouldn’t even have to beg for it. All he had to do was ask.

He leaned forward, knees pressing in against Grimlock’s sides, wings pushing into the caress of Grimlock’s hand. “Knot me,” he murmured and swept his glossa over his lips, biting back a smirk as Grimlock’s visor tracked the motion of it.

He wasn’t entirely sure that counted as a request. Not when it emerged more as a demand, and a desperate one at that.

But Grimlock’s field surged, hot and hungry. One hand slid from Starscream’s wing to his aft, fingers stroking the curve of it. “You sure?”

Starscream’s spark fluttered. There was something about the single question, the constant need for permission and reassurance, that made his arousal blaze and the affection he felt for his mate deepen and settle in every inch of his frame.

He leaned forward, draped himself over Grimlock’s chest, finding the edge of Grimlock’s mouthplate with his denta. “Someday, you’ll realize I mean what I say and stop asking me that,” he murmured.

Grimlock’s hand curved around his aft and further down, fingers slipping between his thighs to rub over Starscream’s valve panel. He graciously allowed it to spiral open, letting Grimlock slip a finger into him, the thick digit stirring through lubricant to tease the sensory nodes decorating the metal mesh. Starscream moaned and kneaded at his chest, hips sinking down onto the single finger, his valve cycling tight and milking it for more.

“Never.” Grimlock slipped in a second finger, lubricant rolling thick and slick over the digits, making wet noises.

Starscream sucked in a sharp ventilation, heat winding a thready path through his lines. He ground against Grimlock’s chassis, spike throbbing in its sheath, valve hungry and willing, clenching around Grimlock’s fingers. Their fields intertwined, hot and heavy, pulsing to the same needy beat. A moan caught in Starscream’s intake, threatening to spill out.

Grimlock tweaked an aileron, making Starscream shiver. “Want to stay on top or…?” He trailed off, leaving all of the choices to Starscream, as he so often did.

“Mmm, no.” Starscream draped himself over Grimlock’s chassis, languid and aroused, lips curving into a pleased smirk. Want yawed inside of him, processor supplying naughty images that made his energon boil. “I want you to transform for me.”

Grimlock’s engine roared, as Starscream knew it would. His hand tightened on the edge of Starscream’s wing. His fingers pushed deep into Starscream, knuckles grinding on his valve rim, and heat rose up from his groin like a needy inferno.

Starscream hummed a laugh. “I thought you might like that.” He knew how much his trust meant to Grimlock, because Grimlock knew how hard it was for Starscream to give it. Trusting Grimlock in his alt-mode, so much larger, primal, terrifying, was worth thrice as much.

Starscream’s glossa swept over his lips. He pushed himself upright and leaned back into the cradle of Grimlock’s hand, trailing fingers down the front of his chassis to plunge them between his thighs. He toyed with his anterior node, fingers slippery with lubricant and sending pleasure radiating through his array.

“Knot me, my lord,” Starscream purred, fixing Grimlock with a heated look, slipping another finger into his valve, beside the two Grimlock had offered. “Until you’ve given me every drop.”

Grimlock’s visor flashed, and he growled. He surged upward, strong hands gripping Starscream and turning him onto his front on the berth, sliding three fingers into Starscream all at once, pushing deep to stroke his throbbing ceiling node. Starscream moaned and bucked onto the fingers, knees digging into the berth, fingers tangling in the covers.

The heavy mass of his mate settled over him, the front of Grimlock’s thighs rubbing against the back of Starscream’s, Grimlock’s engine revving a heavy vibration against Starscream’s wings. His mate’s hot vents blasted down through his seams, and Grimlock’s fingers rubbed and curled against sparking nodes.

“I thought you might enjoy that,” Starscream gasped as Grimlock’s palm ground against his rim, a heavy pressure on both his upper and lower external nodes. The tiny nubs throbbed with need, swollen and hungry. Lubricant slopped out of his valve, sticky on Grimlock’s fingers, painting the back of his thighs.

“You are a menace,” Grimlock growled, the hunger in his vocals as evident as the need buzzing through his field, and the way he carefully added a fourth massive finger, stretching the limits of Starscream’s valve.

“I thought that was what you liked about me.” Starscream gasped a laugh and kneaded the berth, knees rocking against it to push harder onto those fingers. It was not quite enough anymore, not now that he’d felt the swell of Grimlock’s spike, and more than that, the stretch of his knot.

Starscream hummed deep in his intake. “Transform, my lord,” he said, knowing how much it revved Grimlock to hear the title. “My valve could use some oral attention first.” He spread his knees further, completely baring himself, wisps of air caressing his valve where Grimlock’s fingers left him.

“Your wish is my command.” Grimlock pressed his head to the side of Starscream’s, his hands a caress against Starscream’s sides before he pulled back, sliding off the berth.

His hands tracked down to Starscream’s hips, pulling him nearer to the edge of the berth, all the better to give him easy access. He palmed Starscream’s aft, thumbs sliding down to bracket Starscream’s valve, giving it a brush. Grimlock rumbled again, and Starscream smirked over his shoulder, watching lust darken Grimlock’s visor, and a spill of charge dance bright-blue over his armor.

Grimlock stepped back from the berth, and his field rippled with hunger seconds before he transformed, his alt-mode towering over the berth and Starscream. Anticipation sent shivers through Starscream’s plating even as he pressed his forehead to the berth and pushed his aft up.

Then there was a snout between his legs, nosing between his thighs, the glossa following, big and thick and wet. It lapped at his valve, caressed his nodes, and more pleasure radiated outward, turning Starscream’s cables to liquid. He buried his face in the berth cover, knees wriggling as wide as he could manage, hips rocking back toward Grimlock’s eager licks.

Front nub to valve fold to lower nub and back again, lubricants mingling and turning him into a dripping mess. Starscream quivered, his valve swelling and hot, pleasure building to a fine throb in his array. He writhed, berth covers ripping beneath his talons, balancing on the precipice of overload. He pushed back against Grimlock, into the plunge of a thick glossa over his valve and the delicate scrape of massive denta.

“That’s– that’s good,’ Starscream gasped out as his aft rocked and his entire frame trembled. “You can… frag me now.”

A growl rumbled in the back of Grimlock’s intake, sounding both smug and hungry. The flat of his glossa laved Starscream’s valve again before he drew back, glossa sweeping over the lubricants painting his snout. His forearms, stunted though they were, patted Starscream’s aft and a following click was barely audible over the combined roar of their cooling fans.

Starscream moaned as he felt the heavy, blunt weight of Grimlock’s spike nudge his aft and the back of his thighs. The dripping tip left streaks of pre-fluid over his armor, painting it in lurid streaks. Grimlock rolled his hips, but in alt-mode, the angle was too awkward for a proper thrust.

He would need help.

Starscream dropped his weight onto his cockpit and reached down, back between his thighs, fingers curling around the bulbous tip of Grimlock’s spike. His mate shivered, releasing a low growl, especially as Starscream guided the dinobot’s spike to his valve, the thick head of it grinding against his rim. As thick as three fingers and ringed with tiny sensor nodes, Grimlock’s spike was a marvel.

Starscream shuddered as he imagined how it felt to pierce him. His lubricant painted the tip, already dribbling with pre-fluid. Grimlock thrust into his grip, grinding against Starscream’s rim and exciting the ring of tiny nodes.

Awkward though the angle might be, Starscream flirted his fingers up and down the length of Grimlock’s spike, ignoring the ridges and bumps, teasing his mate. Grimlock rumbled, venting hot puffs down over Starscream’s frame, his field pushing at Starscream in silent demand to move faster.

Starscream gnawed on his bottom lip. “Now who’s the impatient one?” he asked as Grimlock thrust into his hand again, grinding on the rim of Starscream’s valve.

“You’re being a tease,” Grimlock rumbled.

Starscream barked a laugh and braced his weight on one arm. He guided the tip of Grimlock’s spike to his valve and rocked backward, the head of it parting the pleats of his rim and sinking into his valve. Starscream moaned as pleasure radiated outward, his fingers abandoning Grimlock’s spike to brace himself with both hands now. His knees went weak, wings sinking against his back, as his valve rippled, dangerously close to overload once more.

Grimlock’s engine sent a heavy growl that vibrated them both. His feet braced on the floor before he rolled his hips forward, thrusting deeper into Starscream, half of his spike filling Starscream by the second thrust. Starscream growled and pawed at the berth, blindly shoving back with his knees as Grimlock rocked forward and bottomed out on another thrust, the head of his spike grinding over Starscream’s ceiling node.

Overload shattered through his system. His valve rippled and clenched around Grimlock’s spike, spilling charge into the receptor nodes as it crawled over his armor. Starscream moaned, the berth covers torn by his talons, pleasure spiking through his lines in wave after wave of ecstasy.

Grimlock waited, lingering in Starscream’s valve, frame trembling from the effort of holding himself back, ex-vents scorching where they buffeted Starscream’s frame.

“Good?” he rumbled, vocals rough and tantalizing in Starscream’s audials, making him shiver all over again.

“Always.” Starscream panted, his valve twitching as it fed off the charge in Grimlock’s spike. “Keep going.”

“You’re sure?” Grimlock asked, though his hips moved in a single thrust, rocking Starscream on the berth, stimulating his internal nodes through the thickness of his spike alone.

Starscream moaned. It was all the answer he could manage, through the pleasure sparking in his lines and throbbing in his spark.

Grimlock rumbled at him, field a hot and heavy stroke down the length of Starscream’s. And then he thrust, hard enough to push Starscream a bit further up the berth, his knees tangling in the covers. Starscream moaned again and shoved back, rocking the heavy length inside of him, his aft meeting the armoring of Grimlock’s abdomen. Rhythm soon followed, Grimlock making aborted little thrusts, dragging the nodes of his spike against the crackle-snap of Starscream’s valve.

“F-fill me,” Starscream stuttered, his vocals caught with static, his oral vents coming in sharp pants as his cooling fans roared. He was lost to the rhythm, the press of Grimlock’s spike, the way it ground deep inside of him, building his arousal to new heights.

Grimlock growled, a primal sound, and thrust into him again, shoving Starscream further up the berth. The first hot flush of transfluid spurted into Starscream’s valve, and he felt the swelling at his rim, minute at first, as it always was. Grimlock’s rhythm stuttered, less cadenced and more like desperate humping, the smack of his frame against Starscream’s aft, and the spurt of his spike, hot transfluid washing over Starsream’s nodes.

The knot swelled more with every thrust, filling and filling despite every spurt of searing transfluid, making Starscream twitch and writhe. His awareness narrowed down to a pinpoint, to the ecstasy building in his valve, making him tremble. Grimlock’s spike rasped in and out of his valve, raking over his sensor nodes, until at least, the knot was too large to be removed, and it passed by Starscream’s rim and was trapped within.

Starscream’s mod, only once tested before, contracted immediately. It tightened behind the knot, keeping it within his valve, the bulbous mass of it grinding against the ring of nodes behind Starscream’s rim. He moaned, going limp, as the knot swelled and transfluid filled his valve, stretching the lining, his calipers, straining the limits.

Grimlock sank against him, hips still working in tiny jerks, transfluid filling Starscream’s valve in steady spurts. The pressure built inside of him, the flood of transfluid rushing over Starscream’s nodes, and the tiny opening at the back of his valve, the one that led to his modded overflow tank. It bowed inward at the pressure, until it hit critical and the safety mechanism kicked in, the opening cycling open.

Transfluid rushed into it, sliding over previously untouched sensors along the way. Starscream writhed on Grimlock’s spike, panting as Grimlock spurted more and faster, filling his tank as fast as Starscream’s valve emptied into it.

Grimlock leaned harder against him, mass pinning Starscream’s frame down, his field winding around Starscream and stroking him with intangible fingers. “I love this mod,” he growled.

Starscream couldn’t hide the waves of self-satisfaction in his field. “I seem to remember saying the same thing about yours,” he gasped out as he went completely limp, his frame at Grimlock’s mercy and wracked with pleasure.

Heat crackled through his sensory lines, and his spark whirled and flared with oncoming overload. He was pinned and impaled, helpless almost, and if it weren’t for the trust flooding his spark, he’d have been afraid. But all he felt was arousal.

He deliberately clenched his valve, sending a ripple through the fluids filling him. His calipers strained and fluttered, the shift of pressure like a stroke to his charged internal nodes. More charge crackled between Grimlock’s spike and Starscream’s valve, nodes exchanging energy at a rapid pace.

“I don’t mod myself for just anyone, you know,” Starscream added as the overflow tank started a register its fullness, nearing maximum capacity, the heaviness of it pushing at Starscream’s internals, causing the gaps in his abdominal plating to widen and bulge.

Grimlock rumbled a laugh at him, his tone heavy with arousal. He rocked against Starscream, making his entire frame sway on the berth, the knot so firmly trapped within him that it ground against the interior of Starscream’s rim. It swelled and swelled with every pulse of transfluid, until Starscream’s overlow tank and valve both strained and could hold no more. Not even the rocking of their frames allowed the fluid to budge and Starscream trembled at the sensation.

He pressed his forehead to the berth and panted, claws curled into the cover, rending tears that would have to be mended again. The pressure was intense, delicious, like a constant press on internal nodes no finger could reach, and a spike only rarely.

Grimlock’s engine rumbled. One foot pawed the ground; Starscream could hear the talon scraping the polished metal. Grimlock leaned forward, over Starscream, the weight of him hot and present and arousing. The shift made for the slightest change in angle, nearly minute, except that the head of his spike now ground against a different node.

Pleasure sparked sharp and vivid through Starscream’s array, so startling that it sent him sailing into overload, a low wail escaping his intake. He squirmed, the tightening rim of his modification massaging Grimlock’s knot and milking it. Starscream sagged, panting, a twitch in his lower half.

A glossa swept over the back of his wings, hot and wet. Denta scraped delicately in its wake, and Starscream shivered again. Grimlock growled, the vibrations carrying against Starscream’s wings, as his mate’s spike pulsed in his valve, the knot throbbing to the same rhythm. Grimlock didn’t thrust so much as he lingered, savoring the press and clench of Starscream’s valve around his spike.

Starscream hummed and slipped a hand beneath himself, fingers gathering up lubricant and sliding over his own anterior node. It was plump and throbbing to the touch, eager for stimulation. Starscream gritted his denta, pinching and rolling the tiny tub, little zaps of charge dancing through his valve. Grimlock rocked hard against him, grinding on the outside of his rim, a press of plating on his lower node, and Starscream shuddered.

Overload pulsed through his system all over again, a long, slow wave of bliss that stole his vents. Starscream whimpered with delight as his valve rippled, sending charge racing through the fluid filling him, licking at Grimlock’s spike. His mate growled, low and deep and guttural, and a thick, hot jet of transfluid erupted from his spike, the last of it.

Starscream sighed a moan and slumped into the berth. His valve continued to twitch around Grimlock’s spike, milking the knot to encourage it to shrink. He cupped his abdomen, feeling the bulge of the overflow tank pushing at his plating. It bowed visibly outward, and while that should make him feel ashamed, or ridiculous, it didn’t. Instead it was deliciously erotic, and Primus if he knew why. He supposed it didn’t matter.

He should feel helpless. Trapped. Afraid. But he wasn’t. If anything, he felt erotic, loved, cared for. Grimlock’s field wrapped around him like a loving embrace. A promise.

“It still surprises me you want this,” Grimlock murmured, his vocals rougher in his alt-mode, rasping as they did through sharpened denta.

Starscream folded his arms under his head and manually rippled his valve, making it clench around Grimlock’s spike. He didn’t need to ask why his trust was still a surprise. He could only imagine the ugly things Grimlock had heard over the years, even from his own so-called allies.

“Some probably say it’s a surprise that you want me,” Starscream replied, and was glad Grimlock couldn’t see his face, though his mate could probably read the emotion in his field.

Grimlock growled, bestial and possessive. “Frag them.”

Starscream chuckled. “I’d prefer it if you fragged me.”

His rim mod rippled, massaging the knot at the base of Grimlock’s spike. He supposed this would be odd to the outside viewer, Grimlock in alt-mode, his spike locked in Starscream’s valve, the two of them chatting as they waited for the knot mod to complete its cycle. It still surprised Starscream that it had never once felt weird, only oddly comfortable.

“Isn’t that what I’m doing?”

“And oh so well at that,” Starscream purred. He arched his back, causing the tiniest of shifts to the spike within him, sending out another wave of liquid pleasure.

Grimlock chuckled, and Starscream could hear his tail swishing lazily across the floor. He licked the back of Starscream’s neck again, his frame practically humming with the low-grade pleasure constantly running through him.

He’d described the knotting protocols to Starscream before, how once the knot was fully engaged, his entire array set off wave after wave of tiny overloads that left him floating in a cloud of ecstasy. Focus was hard to come by, and Grimlock managed it only by reaching outside of himself, making sure Starscream was comfortable and pleased.

The knot shrank much slower than it swelled, in incremental shifts. For those who thought Grimlock had no patience, clearly they’d never shared a berth with him. Here they were, tied together for a certain length of time, and Grimlock never tried to jerk away, to urge the process along. If anything, he seemed to relish the time they spent tied.

It wasn’t a strain for Starscream either. The berth supported his weight, and all he had to do was rock a little to stir the spike in his valve, the pressure dancing along his sensory nodes and giving him little bursts of pleasure. It was like a long, slow extended overload for him as well, and he knew when they’d both soaked into it, because conversation vanished. Their fields intertwined, pulsing together, and Starscream hummed as his valve rippled with wave after wave of genuine bliss.

It didn’t end until Grimlock softened enough to slip out of him, the bulge of his knot caressing Starscream’s rim as it eased free, giving him one last strut-shivering overload. Starscream moaned and sank like liquid onto the berth as Grimlock’s heat abandoned his frame.

He heard his mate transform, and the creak of cables being stretched before the berth dipped. Starscream moved to stretch, but was first picked up and deposited in Grimlock’s lap, optics twirling as he was faced with the ceiling and Grimlock leaning over him, worry dimming his visor.

“You didn’t extend your spike?” Grimlock sounded surprised as he traced his finger over Starscream’s spike panel. His other hand palmed Starscream’s belly, curving across the rounded fullness of Starscreamm’s abdomen.

He enjoyed doing that, Starscream noticed. His fingers stroking and measuring the bulge, as if awed and possessive all at once. Starscream thought it was the Earth coming out in him, how he’d been raised on it and all too used on the organic method of reproduction. Something primal, Starscream supposed, about implanting seed into a mate and watching it grow into a new being. Given the organic nature of Grimlock’s alt-mode and his odd field and coding, it only made sense.

“Mmm. Not this time.” Starscream stretched his arm above his head and wriggled until he could turn on his belly, all the better to be draped in his mate’s lap. “Pet me.”

“As if I could do anything less.”

One hand obeyed, stroking Starscream’s back and wings and aft, the steady rhythm a soothing caress that almost lulled Starscream into recharge. Occasionally, it would dip between Starscream’s thighs, stroking the swollen pleats of his valve and dragging through the tiny trickles of dribbling fluid.

Before, playing with Grimlock’s knot had produced a torrent of mess afterward. Since Starscream had gotten the rim mod and Grimlock could fully empty his transfluid tank, however, mess was a thing of the past. A fully-engaged knot contained a compound, in the final spurt, that created a plug of some sort. One which could be dissolved by array-safe solvent at their convenience.

Until then, Starscream would be stuffed with Grimlock’s transfluid, his abdomen rounded, his overflow tank straining, and his valve calipers struggling to grasp the fluid sloshing about. It was maddening and arousing both, but knowing that Starscream was filled with his spill made Grimlock revved beyond belief.

“You’re messy,” Grimlock observed as his finger traced Starscream’s rim, playing in the trickle of fluids gathered there. His tone was less chastisement however, and more possessive, more pride and full of lust.

Starscream smirked. “I guess you’ll just have to clean me up then. It is, after all, your mess.” He arched his aft into Grimlock’s hand pointedly, a lazy curl of heat in his groin from the gentle, exploratory touches.

Grimlock rumbled at him. “Should I take you into the washrack then?” he asked, his voice growing darker, hungrier. “Or would you prefer my glossa?”

Mmm. Decisions, decisions. One was more erotic than the other, but it also would only make Starscream stickier. He was going to have a hard time getting clean in the future as it was. Lubricant was ever so difficult to get out of his joints.

He squirmed onto his back as Grimlock’s hand slid from his aft to resting over his pelvic array. But then, it almost immediately slid up, dragging lubricant with it, to cup Starscream’s lightly rounded belly again. His palm formed a curve over it, thumb stroking strained armor panels.

“Washrack first,” Starscream said and slid his hand up Grimlock’s chassis, one talon tracing the Decepticon badge so prominent there. “After that, we’ll see. We have two whole shifts to ourselves after all.” Barring any emergencies that is.

“Then I plan to enjoy every moment of it,” Grimlock purred and swept Starscream up into his arms, head tilted in for a nuzzle as he slid off the berth heading on a direct route for their private washrack.

Those reports weren’t going to get done in a timely manner, Starscream mused.

Oh, the frag well.

[CtE] Full of Yourself 01

Decepticon Headquarters was a different place late in the evening, when most of the regular staff had returned to their homes, and all that remained was the skeleton crew. Lights were dimmed to conserve energy, or set to motion timers in other places. Corridors found themselves bathed in shadows, and it was so quiet Starscream could hear his wings twitching as they registered air currents.

It was peaceful, like life under Megatron had never been.

But Starscream hadn’t come to headquarters to reminisce. He’d left the comfort and warmth of his private suite to track down his missing leader and mate, who should have been home hours ago, but had probably lost track of time in his office. Paperwork was one of Primus’ cruelest punishments to place on Grimlock’s shoulders.

Starscream would retrieve Grimlock, or distract him. One way or another, Grimlock’s attention would be back where it belonged right now – on Starscream himself. They had a deal. He had a little surprise for his mate, and Starscream was tired of waiting for an opportunity.

The door was locked, but that was no barrier to Starscream. There was no door in the entirety of Iacon that was locked to Starscream, not even anything barred by Grimlock’s code. That had been the agreement.

It beeped satisfaction with his override and granted him entrance. Starscream grinned as he sashayed inside, his mate looking up at him from half-behind a stack of datapads. Surprise echoed in his field. His visor flickered.

“I… didn’t realize it was that late.”

“Of course you didn’t.” Starscream crossed his arms and leaned against the door frame. “You must have gotten that ability to work past several of your alarms from your genitors.” Ratchet and Wheeljack both were notorious for working themselves into exhaustion.

Grimlock snorted and set down his datapad. “That and there is still far too much work to be done, and not enough hands to do it.”

Starscream flicked his fingers. “Cybertron can’t be rebuilt in a day.” He pushed off the frame, letting the door close behind him, as it had been pinging him to do. “Though we nearly managed to destroy it in one.”

Grimlock leaned back, something keen in the angle of his visor. “You didn’t come fetch me just for a rousing debate on who to blame for the war.”

“No, I didn’t.” Starscream smirked and circled around the desk, his fingertips trailing along the scuffed metal, worn with age and salvaged from a bombed out former-university. “I have a surprise for you, and you didn’t even have the decency to come home on time to get it.”

“A surprise?” Grimlock echoed, and his engine rumbled. His visor tracked Starscream’s every movement with something of a hungry gleam. “What for?”

Starscream shrugged. “Because I felt like it.” His lips pulled into a fang-bearing smirk before he took advantage of Grimlock’s pose and slid neatly into his mate’s lap, draping his arms over Grimlock’s shoulders. “Lucky for you, I brought it with me.”

“Is that so?” Grimlock’s hands landed warm on Starscream’s hips, tugging him closer, their pelvic plating coming into delicious contact. “I don’t see it.”

Starscream laughed and slipped his fingers into a seam, plucking at the cables beneath. “That’s part of the surprise.” He leaned in, nipping at the edge of Grimlock’s mouthplate. “We should break in your office properly. Frag me.”

Hands tightened on his hips, thumbs sweeping inward to rub the edges of his interface array. “That’s not a surprise,” Grimlock replied, vocals husky and hungry.

“Isn’t it?” Starscream scraped his denta over Grimlock’s intake, felt the beat of his energon pump against his lips. “I want you to knot me.”

Grimlock shivered, his field pouring over Starscream like liquid fire. “Is that so? Shouldn’t we go back to our quarters for that?”

“What? I’m not good enough for a little illicit office ‘facing?” Starscream leaned back, his elbows against the desk, wing tips fluttering. “Or are you worried you’ll be too distracted in the future, thinking about me overloading on your knot?”

Grimlock’s engine rumbled. “You are dangerous,” he said as he swept his hands up and down Starscream’s sides, thumbs sweeping inward at the lowest point to caress Starscream’s interface array.

“But you’re still going to give me what I want,” Starscream purred.

Grimlock leaned in, the heat of his ex-vents tickling Starscream’s armor. “Always,” he murmured and his thumbs swept tiny circles over Starscream’s array. “Open.”

That was one command Starscream was willing to obey. He licked his lips as he let his panels open, his spike sliding thick and glossy into Grimlock’s fingers as his valve loosed a few drips onto his partner’s groin armor. He’d spent far too long anticipating this little surprise, and his readiness showed.

Not that Grimlock didn’t appreciate it. His engine rumbled again as his fingers found the wetness between Starscream’s thighs, and two curved into him, caressing his inner nodes.

“You’re ready for me,” he observed.

Starscream wrapped his fingers around Grimlock’s wrist and encouraged his mate to deepen the touch. “Well, you’ve been neglecting me.”

Grimlock’s thumb found his anterior node and gave it a firm rub. Starscream groaned and arched his backstrut, heat pooling in his array as his valve rippled.

“Then I owe you more attention.” Grimlock’s other hand curved around Starscream’s waist, fingers dancing along Starscream’s spinal strut.

“Yes, you do.” Starscream poked his lower lip into a pout, one he knew Grimlock couldn’t resist. “And I want more than your fingers.”

A third finger slipped into his valve, teasing every node within reach. “You’ll have to be more specific, love.”

Starscream growled. He reached back, gripping the edge of the desk to brace himself for a nice grind on Grimlock’s fingers. “You already know what I want.”

“Maybe I want to be sure. I want to hear you say it again.” It was Grimlock’s turn to sound smug and self-satisfied as one hand slid up, tweaking Starscream’s wing mounts.

“Rust you,” Starscream hissed and ground his denta.

Heat wafted up against his aft from Grimlock’s array, and Grimlock’s field blazed at his with desire. Sometimes, Starscream forgot how much Grimlock could be a paragon of self-control. And he always did this. He made Starscream repeat himself, and it’d taken months for Starscream to realize it wasn’t because Grimlock was being an aft, it was because he wanted to make sure Starscream actually wanted him.

It warmed him to the core every time.

So Starscream unfurled his field, allowing his affection and his desire to spill into it. He rolled his hips against Grimlock’s fingers. “Spike me,” he demanded, his voice syrupy sweet and hungry. “Knot me. I want every drop of your transfluid.”

There was a moment of silence before he heard and felt the shiver of need run through his mate. Grimlock’s panel kicked open, the hot head of his spike brushing over Starscream’s aft. His hands moved to Starscream’s hips, easing him forward, the tip of his spike painting Starscream’s rim in pre-fluid.

“That, I can do,” Grimlock growled and rolled his hips, grinding his spike-tip against Starscream’s valve, the head teasing him with penetration but only just.

Starscream groaned and grabbed Grimlock’s arms, pulling himself closer to Grimlock’s spike. “Get inside me already,” he moaned, canting his hips to catch the head of Grimlock’s spike with his rim. The glancing touch caressed his anterior node, and he shivered.

Grimlock’s hands cupped his hips, ever so carefully, and with a single rock forward, he breached Starscream’s valve, easing into him. It was a stretch at first, it always was, but Grimlock was so slow, so careful. He let Starscream move at his own pace, unless Starscream demanded more. So he did, moaning out the demand with a roll of his hips as Grimlock sank another few inches into him.

Starscream braced his weight on the edge of the desk and bore down, pushing himself onto Grimlock’s spike, until he was filled completely, the thick head nudging at his ceiling node. He sighed, optics half-shuttering, as pleasure rippled through his array.

Grimlock’s hand slid back down, circling his anterior node with a rub of his thumb. “Good?” he asked.

Starscream licked his lips and clenched his valve, calipers rolling up and down Grimlock’s spike as he let it ground deep. His vents came in sharper bursts, pleasure tightening into a sharp coil inside of him. He lifted and dropped himself, riding Grimlock’s spike, as his mate’s thumb rubbed slippery and warm over his node.

“You’re making me do all the work,” Starscream replied and tipped his head back, baring his intake, knowing that the sight of it revved Grimlock’s engine.

“Only because you put on such a pretty show.” Grimlock rolled Starscream’s nub between two fingers, giving it a pinch that made Starscream’s hips jerk and pleasure spike through his lines. “Will you give me an overload?”

Starscream laughed, deep and raspy. “Oh, that’s inevitable.” He rolled his hips harder, riding the firm length of Grimlock’s spike. His own bobbed at the apex of his thighs, thick and dripping pre-fluid.

Grimlock’s other hand abandoned his hip, instead curling his fingers tight around Starscream’s spike. He started to strong, long, squeezing and perfect, his thumb rubbing over the transfluid slit on every twist.

Starscream groaned. His valve fluttered, charge building to a crescendo in his groin, Grimlock’s spike throbbing and thickening inside of him. His vents quickened as his head tipped back, mouth opened on a pant.

“Let me see it,” Grimlock murmured, both hands working to drive Starscream’s pleasure higher, little zaps of charge zinging through his lines with every twist of Grimlock’s hand and every flicking rub of his fingers. “Overload for me, Star.”

His denta ground together. His hands curled into taloned fists against the desk’s edge. His backstrut curved, driving Grimlock deeper, as he overloaded, charge spilling like blue fire over his armor. His spike spilled into Grimlock’s grip, thin pulses of transfluid, while his valve rippled around Grimlock’s spike. Pleasure beat through his lines in an arrhythmic cadence, until his processor spun, and he sank back into his thrumming frame.

Grimlock remained rigid with him, thick and throbbing, frame trembling with restraint. Such self-control was intoxicating.

Starscream sucked in a careful vent. “You’re going to fry a circuit,” he said, vocals striped with static. He grinned, lazy and satisfied. “Engage your mod, you idiot. Knot me.”

A sound that could only be called a purr rose from Grimlock’s intake. He thrust up into Starscream with little rolls of his hips. “Yes, dear,” he said, cheeky, and his sticky hands moved to Starscream’s hips, moving him with ridiculous ease.

Starscream went languid, giving his frame over to Grimlock’s greater strength, letting himself be lifted and lowered onto the thick spike. The knot was already starting to swell at the base of Grimlock’s spike, the thickness of it rubbing over Starcream’s sensitized nodes and sending zaps of pleasure up his spinal strut.

He hummed, wings twitching, sinking into the sensation.

Pleasure swamped Grimlock’s field, buzzing hot and heavy, surrounding Starscream in a lust-filled haze. He slid his hands back to Grimlock’s arms, fingers teasing into seams to pinch at the cables beneath, and was rewarded with a shudder and another swell of Grimlock’s knot. It was just a shade too big, enough that it caught on his rim with every roll of Grimlock’s hips, catching and tugging at the pliant metal mesh.

Starscream groaned and drew in a sharp vent. He nibbled on his bottom lip, obscene squelching noises echoing in the office, which now smelled of lubricant and overloads.
And then Grimlock tugged him down again, ground deep, and his knot swelled one more time, far too large to slip back out of Starscream’s valve.

A sigh slipped free of Grimlock’s vents. His spike throbbed as his hands clenched on Starscream’s hips before loosening again, sliding up and down his sides.

“Okay?” he asked, as always, concerned for Starscream’s comfort.

Starscream, however, licked his lips and grinned. “Oh, I’m perfect,” he purred, and rolled his hips, firmly seating Grimlock inside his valve, his rim immediately contracting behind the knot and keeping it trapped within him. His calipers rippled, a rhythmic wave that seemed to massage Grimlock’s spike from knot to head, as if milking him.

Grimlock went still beneath him, his hands cupping Starscream’s chassis, even his vents paused. “Star?”

“I told you I had a surprise.” Starscream dragged a hand down his frame and palmed his own spike, giving it a squeeze. “You’re not the only one who can get a mod.”

Grimlock’s visor flared. His engine rumbled. “That’s why you’ve been disinterested in ‘facing for a week.”

Starscream chuckled. “It can take that long for the adjustments to settle.” He wriggled his hips, activating the rippling sensation again, and catching a strangled noise in his mate’s intake. “Wheeljack tells me you’ve never fully engaged your mod because you’ve never emptied your transfluid tank. That you can’t.”

Embarrassment flickered in Grimlock’s field. “You talked to Wheeljack.”

Heat tinted Starscream’s cheeks. That had been an interesting conversation. “Needs must.” He twitched his hips, clenching around Grimlock’s spike and provoking another shiver from his mate. “He said there’s a safety mechanism built into the mod so that you can’t hurt your partner by releasing too much transfluid.”

“I knew that.” Grimlock’s hands swept up and down Starscream’s sides as if to reassure.

Starscream’s lips pulled into a slow grin. “But what you don’t know is that I came with more than one surprise.” His hand landed on his lower abdomen, giving it a little pat. “I’ve had a small adjustment to make sure that’s no longer a problem. You can overload until you drain your tank. And I can take it.”

Grimlock growled, the sound echoing in his chassis, his grip sliding to Starscream’s hips and tightening. “I love you.”

“I know.” Starscream swallowed down a laugh and slid his hands back around Grimlock’s arms, leaning forward to deepen the press of the spike within him. “Now frag me,” he purred.

The shudder that rippled across Grimlock’s armor, followed by a burst of drizzling heat in his field, was all the confirmation Starscream needed to know his surprise had been very, very welcome.

Hah.

Grimlock would think twice about ignoring him again, now wouldn’t he?

***

[G1] Before the Thunder 03

The shiver crawling up his spine was Soundwave’s only indication he was not only no longer alone, but he was being stalked as well. He could feel the incisive gaze boring into him, felt the menace lurking in the intensity of the stare.

He stopped mid-stride, head swiveling toward a nearby alley, choked with shadows and debris, and no one. He didn’t for one second think it wasn’t occupied. That he was within a block of Bluestreak’s apartment wasn’t a coincidence.

He knew what danger skulked in the night.

“State purpose,” Soundwave said to the dark.

His shoulder itched for his sonic cannon, but like all of his other visible weapons, it was at home, in his weapons locker. All he could rely on now was centuries of hand to hand and a talent which had made him infamous.

A chuckle slithered out of the dim. “My, my Sounders. You’re getting better at that.” The voice crawled into Soundwave’s audials and made itself a home.

Jazz melted out of the dark, not a wisp of biolight or optical brightness to be found. How he could hide that much white, Soundwave would never know. He suspected Jazz had camouflaging paint, the sort controlled by nanites, that helped him change his colors at will. He wouldn’t be the first spy to rely on deception and tricks.

“What gave me away?” Jazz asked, his vocalizations just shy of a purr.

Jazz started to circle Soundwave, and no fool, Soundwave slowly shifted to maintain optical contact. He didn’t trust Jazz anywhere behind him.

“Menace,” Soundwave replied.

Jazz chuckled. “Ya could taste it, huh? Good.” His glossa swept over his lips, and his grin was sharp, for all that his denta were blunt. “So I know where you’re going, and I know why. I just thought I’d give you a little warning before I let you on your way.”

Soundwave tilted his head. “Threats defy treaty.”

“I didn’t say I was threatening you. Geez, Soundwave. Don’t put words into my mouth. That’s kind of rude.” Jazz’s laughter was harsher than it should be. He looked up at Soundwave, hands on his hips, smug and sure. “I’m just making sure we have an understanding.”

“No harm intended to Bluestreak,” Soundwave replied.

“Good. That’s what I wanted to hear.” Jazz lifted a hand, rapped the back of his knuckles on Soundwave’s empty dock. “Because you’re sincere, right? This isn’t some twisted game to break his spark. You want what he has to offer. And you ain’t gonna hurt him on purpose.”

Concern leaked into the edges of Jazz’s field. This was a warning, yes. Threat, too. But for good reason. Jazz cared for Bluestreak. That much was obvious. They were partners, maybe not monogamous, but they meant something to one another.

Soundwave dipped his head. “Affirmative.”

Jazz’s grin slid into something more genuine. “Then I guess that makes us friends.” He backed up a pace, tucking his hand back on his hip. “Have fun tonight. And tell Blue I said hello.”

Soundwave never took his gaze off Jazz as he edged around the saboteur and continued down the recently repaved road. Jazz watched him the entire time, that grin on his face, a glint in his visor. And when Soundwave looked away only for a moment, just to make sure he was going in the right direction, Jazz vanished, back into the shadows which birthed him.

The chill clotted his hydraulic fluid.

Warning received.

He hurried to Bluestreak’s apartment, pinging the door to announce his arrival. Jazz’s delay had cooled his eagerness, but the moment the door slid open and Bluestreak appeared in the opening, it all came flooding back. Anticipation coiled like a hot hunger
in his tanks, and it took several long moments for his vocalizer to engage.

“You’re right on time!” Bluestreak said with a blinding smile. “Come on in.” He stepped aside, leaving room for Soundwave to enter.

Soundwave moved into the well-lit space, lights giving off a warm glow, and the front room filled with plush surfaces. There was a large entertainment center and a couch designed for a mech with sensory panels. An empty space in the middle of the room suggested it was occasionally occupied by something. Doors to the other rooms were closed.

“You found it okay? Wait, why am I even asking you that. Of course you did. You’re Soundwave.” Bluestreak chuckled and the door slid shut, beeping to indicate it was locked. “Have a seat wherever you want. Whatever makes you comfortable.”

“Preference to stand,” Soundwave replied, his spark hammering faster in his chassis, a thrill running across his armor.

Bluestreak shrugged. “Suit yourself. I have some energon in the cupboard if you’re running low.”

Soundwave shook his head. It felt like the moments were being stretched out on purpose, and now he waited on bolts and brackets, for this thing that had always been nothing more than a dream.

“Fuel adequate.”

Bluestreak gave him a long look. He moved to stand in front of Soundwave, his arms folded under his bumper. “Did you review the materials I sent you?”

In depth. Soundwave had read them twice, just to ensure his understanding. He’d devoured every page, every line, an enthusiasm building in his spark and desire licking like lightning through his sensory net.

“Affirmative.”

Bluestreak’s optics narrowed. His field flickered, pressing inward as though it were surrounding Soundwave, choking him, claiming him. It was thick and heavy and far stronger than it had any right to be.

It was chastisement, as much as any clipped word would be. Soundwave knew, immediately, what mistake he’d made.

Soundwave worked his intake. “Yes.”

The weight of Bluestreak’s field eased. “Good. And did you understand everything? Do you have any questions? Is there anything you’re uncertain about? You can ask me anything anytime, but I want to make sure you know the basics right now before we start.”

Soundwave’s hands began to tremble. “Comprehension ob–” He paused at Bluestreak’s glare and dipped his head. “I understand.”

“I can see that you do.” Bluestreak’s voice dipped in timbre, to something lower, resonating better in Soundwave’s sensitive audials. “I have five rules, Soundwave. Five unbreakable rules. Three of which are general. And two are specific to you. If you aren’t willing to agree to these five rules, then whatever this is can’t happen. Understand?”

Soundwave worked his intake. He nodded.

“Verbal consent,” Bluestreak urged.

Soundwave’s hands drew into fists. They loosened. “I understand.”

“Good.” Bluestreak uncrossed his arms and looked up at Soundwave. “First, my general rules. Number one, nothing we do together under the terms of our contract is to be discussed outside of our partnership unless agreed upon beforehand. Number two, you will refer to me as ‘sir’ or ‘master’ unless otherwise indicated. And lastly, you will use your safeword if you need to. No exceptions. Clear?”

Simple rules. Safe rules. Easy enough to agree to.

The heat building in Soundwave’s lines turned to a boil, filling his internals. His fans kicked on, but hopefully, too quiet for Bluestreak to hear. Bluestreak’s firm tone, his uncompromising resolve, the command in his optics… it made Soundwave’s knees wobble.

“I will agree,” Soundwave said, forcing the words past static in his vocalizer and the spinning of the status quo in his processor.

Bluestreak smiled and stepped closer, his fingertips brushing over Soundwave’s dock. “Good. Because I, in turn, agree to follow those terms as well. I can keep a secret, as you well know, and I vow to always heed your safeword. That, Soundwave is how we start to build trust.”

He couldn’t stop looking at Bluestreak’s fingers. His sensors strained toward the light touch, barely tangible, but commanding for it.

“And the other rules?” Soundwave asked.

Bluestreak’s fingers rapped a light rhythm on Soundwave’s dock. “You will always come alone. I expect there to be no cassettes in your dock during a session. This is not a group effort.”

Fair enough.

“And lastly, this belongs to me.” Bluestreak’s fingers dragged up, until they brushed over Soundwave’s mouthguard, feather light. “The moment you step into my domain, this is mine. You will remove it. I don’t want to see it. I will know, by your behavior, that it’s your submission to me. Your agreement. Understand?”

Soundwave answered by sliding his mouthplate aside, baring the lower half of his face to the warmth of the room, and the delicate touch of Bluestreak’s fingertips. He smelled of gunoil and polish, of sticky-sweet treats and the tang of rust crumbles. He smelled good enough to taste, and Soundwave longed to wrap his glossa around the tip of them.

He refrained.

Bluestreak’s smile curved into devious angles. “Oh, you’re perfect, did you know that?” he murmured as his thumb stroked Soundwave’s bottom lip. “You say you’re new to this, but you seem to know all the right things to do. Maybe it just comes natural to you. It does to some mechs, and that’s okay. Everyone marches to their own beat.”

Soundwave’s engine rumbled. His ex-vents quickened, puffing over Bluestreak’s fingers from his slightly parted lips. He held Bluestreak’s gaze, feeling as though the weight of it was a command in itself.

“More?” Soundwave asked hopefully, Bluestreak’s thumb bobbing where it rested on his bottom lip.

Bluestreak chuckled. “Yes. Eventually.” His hand slid away, and Soundwave immediately mourned the loss. “But we’re going to start simple and easy. Slow and careful. And I’ve got a contract I want you to look over a little later, to decide your dos and donts. Trust is the most important thing.”

“Agreed,” Soundwave replied, and the heat boiled under his armor, static in his lines and crowding around his spark. “For now?”

“For now I want you to kneel,” Bluestreak said and pointed to the floor in front of him. “I want to see how well you respond to commands. What really revs your engines and turns you inside out.”

A keen almost slipped out of Soundwave’s intake. He started to lower himself before Bluestreak even finished talking, joints creaking and hydraulics hissing as he knelt, arms at his sides, his face tilted up toward Bluestreak. Like this, Bluestreak was taller, but Soundwave did not feel threatened. He felt owned. Possessed. Mastered.

Worries slid off his shoulders. Heat pooled in his tanks, warming his entire frame. His spark rippled.

“Good pet,” Bluestreak murmured, his optics warm and approving. He lifted a hand and Soundwave didn’t so much as flinch, instead leaning eagerly into the palm that rested on top of his head. “Your safe word is whirlwind. If at any point you become uncomfortable, stressed, or just want to stop for any reason, all you have to do is say it.”

Bluestreak’s hand was a warm, welcome weight. Both gentle and commanding all at once, it sent a flicker of peace through Soundwave’s frame, a tide of warmth that boiled him over and soothed the tremors of his spark.

Soundwave dimmed his visor and focused on Bluestreak’s voice, the soft cadence of it, and the press of Bluestreak’s field, wrapping around him like a blanket. It felt like relief, like coming home, like everything he never knew he needed until it was right in front of him.

All he had to do was seize it.

Soundwave ex-vented and sank into the kneel.

“Yes, sir.”