[TFA] The World Can Wait

“Lord Megatron is indisposed,” Optimus tells the glaring mech who’s come to the door, seeking to bother Megatron for whatever reason. Said mech looks like he’s going to barrel inside no matter what Optimus says, so he blocks the opening with his own frame.

“Is it urgent?” Optimus asks, planting his feet in the face of a Decepticon who’s half-again his height, with a narrowed visor and a clenched jaw. The badge on Optimus’ chest still gleams fresh like new, though it’s been years since he accepted it.

“None of your business, scraplet,” the Decepticon snarls, a mech whose designation Optimus doesn’t know. Mystery mech must be new to the ship, and clearly has lost control of his faculties if he thinks pushing Optimus around is the way to get what he wants.

He must not have gotten the memo.

Optimus sends out a ping, and the mech’s ident code flashes across his cortex — Slapdash.

Optimus lifts his chin. “Slapdash,” he says, and takes great pleasure in the mech’s visor flashing with surprise, his field briefly alarmed. After all, only a Decepticon commander could have read his ident code. “I’ll make sure to remember you the next time General Strika needs volunteers.”

All of the color nanites drain from Slapdash’s face. “You… you’re a commander,” he says dumbly.

Optimus smiles and says, “How kind of you to notice.” He tilts his head. “I was also in the middle of something, so if this isn’t urgent, I suggest you make yourself scarce.”

“Y-yes, sir.”

Slapdash makes a sound Optimus would call a squeak and whirls away from the door, scuttling away with what little dignity he has left. Optimus allows himself a tiny smirk before he shuts the door and wipes his face back to neutral.

Megatron can be too perceptive for his own good and right now, Optimus is the one with the lead, not his mate. He can’t give Megatron so much as an inch.

He returns to their berth room at a reasonable pace, trying not to appear too eager though his spark is awhirl with excitement, and there’s a steady, volcanic throb through his lines. Stowing his spike had been a challenge, and Optimus wants nothing more than to free it again, but that would be getting ahead of himself.

The scent of arousal slams into his olfactory sensors, and a shudder runs through Optimus’ frame. He slips into the room, locking the door shut behind him, and drinks in the view.

Megatron, kneeling on the floor for Optimus’ pleasure, his wrists bound above his head from chains attached to the ceiling. The spreader between his knees keeps him carefully balanced, with more than enough room for Optimus to slide a hand between Megatron’s thighs, to cup his swollen, dripping valve. It’s left a puddle on the floor, one that’s been steadily growing over the past hour.

He’s shaking, optics dazed, little zips of charge peeking out from his substructure, caught in the pleasure loop Optimus initiated when their door pinged. His cables hang loose — considered quite lewd in polite society — since Optimus had to hurriedly disconnect. His lips are parted, swollen, slick with lubricants, and Optimus swallows over a lump in his intake.

He’d been happily seated within Megatron’s mouth when they were so rudely interrupted, nestled and warm and cozy for the better part of twenty minutes while he wrecked havoc through their cabled connection.

“Sorry,” Optimus murmurs, and Megatron tries to focus on him while a surge of charge dances over his armor. Another pearl of lubricant drips from his valve. “Someone was under the impression they could demand a moment of your time. They didn’t realize it belonged to me.”

He cups Megatron’s head and shivers as Megatron turns into the curve of his palm, nuzzling it. Ex-vents burst warm and humid over Optimus’ fingers. If he curves his smallest finger down, he can brush the warm metal of Megatron’s collar, put in place by Optimus’ hand at the beginning of their session.

“I’m going to reconnect.” Optimus reluctantly draws his hand back and reaches for Megatron’s cables, unspooling his own at the same moment. “Any objections?”

The low rumble of Megatron’s engine sings approval. He squirms in his bindings, making the chains creak a warning. Optimus glances at the ceiling, but the mounts hold firm. He’s more than aware that Megatron could break them without much effort.

Optimus carefully connects them once again — fumbling briefly at finding the right match, Megatron is much older than him. The moment the connection snaps into place, a roaring inferno of lust pours across the link. Optimus’ knees wobble, and he has to grasp Megatron’s shoulder to steady himself. He squeezes, spike emerging in a desperate pop he can’t even pretend was intentional.

Optimus groans, his spike throbbing, beading at the tip with pre-fluid. He grasps himself, squeezing at the base, as he tries to control the torrent of lust and need surging from Megatron. His other hand digs into a shoulder seam, pinching at cables beneath, and the brief tic of pain he registers is quickly swept away in the hungry tide.

“Let me finish,” Megatron rumbles, his oral vents hot and near to Optimus’ spike, which twitches hopefully.

Optimus looks down at his pet and raises both eyebrows. “Was that an order?”

“A request, sir,” Megatron replies, his tone silken, his glossa dragging over his lips. “Please.”

“Sure,” Optimus says, like his spark isn’t beating twice as fast, like his spike isn’t already aiming itself back into Megatron’s mouth. “Since we were interrupted. I suppose that’s only fair.”

Megatron rumbles, but if he has something disrespectful to say, it’s muffled by Optimus’ spike sliding past his denta, across his glossa. It just barely nudges the back of his intake as Optimus buries himself to the root, fitting perfectly within the space of Megatron’s mouth. They both moan, and the vibrations of Megatron’s vocals make Optimus’ knees threaten to give.

He grasps Megatron’s head with his free hand and bottles up his own lust, shoving it down across the link. Two can play this game, and when it hits Megatron, something not unlike a whine rises in Megatron’s chassis. His arm mount click-clicks, trying to activate a fusion cannon that isn’t attached, in a desperate bid to shove the energy somewhere.

“Good,” Optimus gasps, better a moan, as he lingers in Megatron’s mouth for several long kliks before he lets himself move in tiny, shallow strokes across Megatron’s glossa. He never appreciates their height difference more than when Megatron is on his knees, and Optimus can stand and easily feed his spike into Megatron’s mouth.

Or stand over him and perch over Megatron’s face, letting lips and glossa work against his valve. His aching, empty valve. Optimus clenches, feeling the buildup of lubricant behind his panel. He wants to seat himself upon Megatron’s spike, but it’s been locked away for this session, more to keep Optimus from temptation than the other way around. He finishes way too soon with Megatron’s spike in him.

Optimus trembles and pushes into Megatron’s mouth again, pushes as deep as he can, and lingers, lets himself pulse and throb on Megatron’s glossa. Looks down and sees Megatron looking up at him, crimson optics hazy, expression slack with satisfaction even while his frame twitches in the chains. His hips start to rock on nothing, valve drip-dripping to their floor in lurid splashes. There’s an urgent desperation in their link, but Megatron would never ask for it.

He wants Optimus to let him have it.

Optimus curves a hand over Megatron’s helm, stroking the strong lines of it, the sharp curves. “You’re so good at being patient,” he gasps, though he’s aiming for a croon. He’ll get better at it. “You can hold on longer, can’t you?”

Megatron makes a noise that vibrates over Optimus’ spike. His glossa presses up, pinning Optimus’ spike against the roof of his mouth, and the added pressure makes Optimus groan.

“Y-you’re strong and powerful,” he stutters out, his spike throbbing, threatening to spill. “You can manage waiting for a little longer, can’t you?”

Megatron’s engine rumbles, powerful enough to vibrate through Optimus’ entire frame. The chains rattle warningly, and Megatron’s lower half rocks faster, the sharp tang of hot lubricant thick in Optimus’ olfactory sensors. Heat rises from Megatron’s armor in waves, the dancing curls of charge paling from blue to white.

Megatron’s close to overload, shaking from the effort to hold himself back, and there, in the spikes of his field against Optimus — pride and satisfaction. He moans around Optimus’ spike, suckles at him, laves his glossa against the head, prodding at the tip.

Optimus’ knees tremble. He’s the one struggling to hold on now. He’s the one who can barely keep himself from spilling, and that’s not… right now. It’s not what Megatron asked of him.

Optimus groans and shifts back with sheer force of will, his spike sliping from Megatron’s mouth. Megatron strains against Optimus’ hand on his head, trying to give chase, but Optimus twitches his hips out of reach.

“Hold on, you greedy thing,” Optimus chastises as he edges a foot forward to press the quick-release on the spreader bar. It separates in two, allowing Megatron some movement.

“You’ll get more soon enough,” Optimus says as he circles around Megatron – cables growing taut between them – and snags the quick release for the chains, dropping the cuffs from the ceiling.

Megatron’s wrists are still bound, but he can lower his arms now, and he does, a low groan of discomfort welling in his chassis. Optimus is quick to slide his fingers against Megatron’s shoulders, checking the joints for damage or undue strain. Not that Megatron would ever admit that he’s in pain.

It’s nothing compared to battle, he’ll claim, but Optimus puts his foot down. What they do in the berth should never be compared to the blows they’d once rained upon each other when they were enemies.

“Good pets let their master care for them,” Optimus reminds Megatron as a chuffed vent crosses the line into petulance. He slips his hand into Megatron’s right shoulder fairing and rubs over a knotted cable, which loosens under his touch.

“Good masters let their pets serve,” Megatron rasps, his frame radiating large bursts of heat, his need so thick Optimus can taste it.

“Then on your back,” Optimus says with a light push to Megatron’s shoulders. “Spread your legs for me nice and wide like a good pet.”

Megatron’s engine rumbles, vibrating the floor, up through Optimus’ stabilizers. He obeys, shifting onto his back, knees drawn up but feet planted wide. Optimus takes his wrists and presses them to the floor above Megatron’s head, drawing out the lines of his frame in exactly the way Optimus likes.

“Keep them here,” he instructs with a tone that would make his old drill sergeant proud. “I don’t need to tie them down, do I?”

Megatron’s hips make insistent circles, but his optics are narrow bands of hungry crimson. “No, sir,” he purrs, and it resonates right through Optimus’ spark.

His valve pulses; his spike spills a drop of pre that splashes onto Megatron’s cheek. “Impertinent,” he accuses.

Megatron’s look of innocence wouldn’t work on Bumblebee, much less the great Decepticon Commander himself.

Optimus wants to kiss him, but that feels like too much of a reward. But if he’s denying himself? Ahh, the decisions.

He abstains. For now.

Instead, he circles back until he’s once more standing between Megatron’s thighs. He hooks his hands under Megatron’s knees and pushes them back and open, until Megatron’s valve is completely bared to him. Biolights pulse in frantic need, lubricant soaking his swollen pleats invitingly. Optimus’ mouth waters, but if he puts his mouth on Megatron’s valve, that’ll be the end of it. He won’t be able to stop.

Optimus inches forward instead, straddling Megatron’s thighs as they are pushed back, getting himself in a good position to plant his valve right over Megatron’s. He finally lets his panel slide open before he sinks down, and shudders as his own swollen mesh meets with the sopping heat of Megatron’s. He rolls his hips, and their nubs brush together, a brief contact that sends a jolt through Optimus’ frame.

Frag.

He might not be able to hold out himself.

“Don’t… overload until I do,” Optimus gasps out as he tightens his hands on the back of Megatron’s knees and rocks his hips, grinding their valves together, nubs meeting in a slippery slide of electric contact.

A low groan rattles out of Megatron’s intake. He tosses his head back, baring the thick column of his intake and the bright tungsten flash of his collar. Just the glimpse of it is enough to cause a possessive surge in Optimus’ spark, his fingers tightening as if they are strong enough to dent. He swears he can see the reflection of himself in the polished metal.

Optimus briefly laments their size difference because he would love to sink his denta against those exposed cables. To feel Megatron shudder beneath his mouth as he keeps his grip, maybe leaves the imprint of his Autobot-blunt denta there for all to see.

His valve throbs, and Optimus’ head dips as he pants, struggling to hold himself back. Megatron’s valve is so hot, his mesh swollen and plush, soaked with lubricant. He’s venting heat, and each static curl from his substructure is biting at Optimus’ own. His field swirls with want, with how much he’s restraining himself on Optimus’ command alone.

It’s intoxicating.

Optimus rolls his hips, again and again, switches it up by grinding down in little circles, his nub pressing hard against Megatron’s, slip-slipping over it with little jolts of ecstasy through his own sensornet. It’s the wet kiss Optimus wouldn’t give Megatron earlier, every meeting of their sopping mesh, and it’d be hard enough on his own. But there’s a feedback loop here, because Optimus had forgotten to disconnect them.

The cables hang taut between them, and Megatron’s urgency peppers through Optimus’ internals like an inferno. His knees tremble, threatening to topple him, and the tightness in his abdomen builds and builds until he’s overloading, lightning dancing behind his optics and lubricant pulsing out of his valve.

It takes too long for Optimus to realize he’s babbling. “–overload, do it now, pet. You have my permission, let go, give it to me now,” he says.

He forces his optics online in just enough time to see Megatron’s entire frame jerk. His backstrut arches, and he trembles as he overloads, his valve throbbing against Optimus’, charge dancing across his frame in beautiful white curls. Lubricant pulsing out of his valve, spilling out from where they’re pressed together to run down Megatron’s aft in a messy gush.

A raw need jolts through Optimus’ frame. He’s stroking his spike before he remembers putting his hand on it, stumbling backward, stripping himself raw at the sight. Megatron shaking and writhing in overload, arms still perfectly pinned to the floor as he keens and surrenders to it.

He’s the most beautiful thing Optimus has ever seen, and he’s Optimus’.

Optimus gasps and overloads again to that thought, transfluid bursting from his spike in wet stripes over the mess of Megatron’s valve, mixing with their mingled lubricant. Optimus hunches forward, stars dancing behind his optics, as the overload seems to go on and on. Megatron’s thighs clamp against his waist as Megatron rocks and seems to overload again with a deep, bassy groan that vibrates through Optimus’ frame.

Optimus’ knees shake; he doesn’t know how much longer they’ll hold him. He raps his knuckles against Megatron’s knees.

“Open,” he gasps out, and thank Primus, Megatron is coherent enough to obey. His knees slide away, giving Optimus room to move and drag himself up Megatron’s unfairly large frame.

He sprawls across Megatron’s chassis, but close enough to finally treat himself to that kiss he’d wanted earlier. Slow, gentle, absolutely lazy, their mouths move together — Megatron’s lips still swollen from warming Optimus’ spike earlier. Megatron’s frame moves in little twitches and jerks, echoes of the two overloads back to back.

“Good… good pet,” Optimus says, patting Megatron’s chassis with a shaking hand. Beneath him, Megatron’s spark thrums both powerfully and frantically as it tries to cycle down from the exertion.

Optimus imagines the chaotic frenzy inside his own chassis is his spark doing the same.

Megatron rumbles and then his arms come down around Optimus’ torso, wrists still bound, but moving before he has permission nonetheless. Optimus doesn’t have the spark to chastise him for it because a nice cuddle is exactly what he wants right now.

He honestly doesn’t know if he can move.

“Mmm,” Megatron murmurs as he nuzzles the top of Optimus’ head, lips teasing at a finial. “My perfect little Dom.”

Optimus twitches said finial out of reach. “You’re supposed to be a puddle of perfectly satisfied sub, too sated to even speak,” he grumbles.

“I am every bit the first half of your statement,” Megatron rumbles, amusement rich in his voice and pulsing along their connection.

Oh. Their connection.

Optimus swallows a groan and forces himself to rouse. Proper Doms take care of their subs, and that means not falling into recharge on top of their sub who’s still bound and currently lying in a pool of lubricant and other fluids.

He straddles Megatron’s frame, hips splayed wide, and his valve gives a twitch of interest. Not now, he tells the hopeful thing. Perhaps they can play with Megatron’s spike later.

“I’m going to disconnect now,” Optimus says as he reaches for their cables. He waits a klik for Megatron to protest, and when Megatron merely strokes his backstrut, Optimus disconnects them.

It’s disorientating for a moment, his own emotions and needs swirling through his frame without Megatron’s echo to confuse him. He’ll have to work on that, too.

Optimus tucks his cable away, then gently stows Megatron’s as well, his fingers lingering on the panel protecting its housing. “I’m still surprised you let me do that.”

“There are many things you have the privilege of doing to me, Optimus,” Megatron murmurs, his optics dark with emotion as he strokes Optimus’ backstrut once more.

Oh.

Optimus flushes. “Only because I’ve earned your trust,” he says. “Wrists, please.”

Megatron lifts his arms from around Optimus and rests his hands in Optimus’ lap instead, offering his bound wrists. “These are flimsy. We should consider acquiring something stronger.”

“I want you to be able to break out of them,” Optimus says as he fiddles with the catches — they stick sometimes — and the locks pop open, releasing Megatron’s wrists. He tosses the cuffs into the corner where he’ll tidy up later.

“Perhaps I want you to have a pair that I can’t easily escape,” Megatron says, his vocals dropping into a deep rumble that vibrates all the way up into Optimus’ pelvic array.

Optimus huffs and takes Megatron’s wrists, inspecting them for damage, though he can’t find so much as a nick in the paint. “You and your escalation,” he grumbles as he slips his fingers into the gaps of Megatron’s wrists, seeking kinked or knotted cables. “Any pain?”

“No,” Megatron says, though again, his idea of what constitutes pain and Optimus’ idea tend to vastly differ.

“Good.” Optimus scoots down and removes the spreader bar, tossing it in the corner to join the cuffs. He examines Megatron’s ankles — and here he finds a few paint scuffs, but nothing he can’t buff out on his own — but again, no damage.

Megatron had not struggled over much. Perhaps because he’s aware of how delicate their toys are. Optimus had insisted on it; Megatron had eventually relented. Optimus suspects he’ll keep pushing, however, and Optimus knows he’ll surrender at some point.

Optimus rises to his feet, ignoring the wobble in his knees. He nearly slips in a puddle of lubricant, and his face goes hot. “We made a mess,” he says as his finials twitch. “I’ll fetch the meshwipes.”

A hand encloses his wrist before he manages two steps. “We do have a private washrack,” Megatron reminds him with that bassy purr which never fails to make Optimus weak all over.

Optimus pointedly glances at the collar still decorating Megatron’s intake. “Technically, I’m still in charge,” he says tartly.

“Of course. My mistake,” Megatron says in a falsely demure tone, his optics lowering but his thumb rubbing soft circles on the inside of Optimus’ wrist. “If it pleases sir, I deserve a lengthy soak for my obedience, do I not?”

Inwardly, Optimus sighs. How Megatron manages to be both subservient and bossy at the same time, Optimus will never understand. It must be a special talent, a charisma Optimus has never managed to foster in himself.

“You were reasonably well-behaved,” Optimus says as Megatron’s lips quirk toward a smug grin. “Washracks it is.”

Also, this means he can get them both cleaned up easier, and activate the cleaning drone to get the mess on the floor. It’s less work for Optimus all around.

“Knees,” Optimus says, pointing to the ground in front of him.

“As you wish.” Megatron’s thumb rubs over his inner wrist once more before he releases Optimus and shifts to his knees, his gaze never leaving Optimus.

A shiver runs through Optimus’ lines. This will never cease to arouse him, even more with the sight of his collar around Megatron’s intake. A collar Optimus had designed and commissioned, but etched the glyphs with his own two hands. He runs the pad of his finger over said glyphs, and Megatron’s optics go coal-fire dark.

“Leave it,” he rumbles.

“Not if we’re going into the washracks. The solvent could ruin it,” Optimus says. His fingers find the hidden catch and the collar tumbles into his hand, leaving Megatron’s bared intake free for him to stroke.

Megatron’s engine rumbles, his optics half-shuttering.

Primus, they’re going to get started all over again if Optimus isn’t careful. He reluctantly takes his hand back, stows the collar in his subspace, and steals a kiss. He cups Megatron’s face, pressing their foreheads together.

“Session over,” he murmurs.

“Then you cannot protest when I do this,” Megatron says, surging to his feet with all of the preternatural speed that never ceases to amaze.

Optimus yelps as he’s hauled off his feet and swept into Megatron’s arms. “Can’t I keep some dignity!”

Megatron nuzzles him. “Is this not dignified for you?” he asks as he carries Optimus into the washrack, setting the sprays to action with an elbow, and pinging the oil baths to begin filling. “It’s not as if anyone can see you.”

He has a point.

Optimus’ indignation wilts. “At least let me wash you. I want to have some semblance of control here.”

“Of course.” Megatron sets him on his feet, within arm’s reach of their supplies, though his massive frame blocks the solvent spray.

As it always does.

But if Optimus tries to move in too much closer, he ends up with a face full of solvent spray, and that is only ever hilarious to Megatron.

“I’ll need to buff out a few scratches when we’re done,” Optimus says as he starts to work, beginning with Megatron’s feet and frowning over a scrape he hadn’t noticed on his first inspection.

“My nanites will have those gone by morning. They’re of no concern,” Megatron says with a dismissive wave. “Who was at the door?”

“No one of importance. Strika will handle it,” Optimus says, equally dismissive. Perhaps one day he’ll be able to make Megatron understand why even the minor damage is important to him.

Megatron makes a non-committal noise, and Optimus need only look up to see the conclusions Megatron has drawn all on his own. While there are very few who would openly defy Megatron, his choosing to not only accept several Autobots into the crew, and then mate one of said Autobots, has been a point of contention.

“This session was quite clever, Optimus,” Megatron says instead as Optimus’ cleaning takes him upward, to the lubricant and other fluids staining Megatron’s thighs. “I look forward to what you plan for me next.”

“You mean you want me to be rougher,” Optimus says.

Megatron’s finger tips under his jaw, and Optimus has no choice but to look up into his optics. “I wish you to be whatever makes us both comfortable.” His lips quirk into a soft smile. “I clearly enjoyed myself tonight, did I not?”

“We both did,” Optimus agrees.

“Well then, clearly nothing is lacking,” Megatron says, and bends down for a kiss sweet enough to heat Optimus’ cheeks. “And I am delighted to see where your creativity takes us.”

Something with a gag, Optimus thinks.

“Just you wait,” Optimus says. “I’ll have you begging in no time.”

Megatron chuckles, dark and sinuous, and says, “You are certainly welcome to try.”

***

[Arcana] Midnight Snack

Julian looks so innocent while he sleeps, Asra muses.

He gives himself over to it as though there’s nothing to fear in his dreams, sprawling over whatever surface he’s decided will suit for a nap. Tonight, he has one arm flung over his head, auburn hair spread across the pillow beneath him.

He’s bare-chested, though he’d gotten out of bed to slide on a pair of pants before crawling back in to cuddle with Asra. “I can’t sleep completely nude,” he’d admitted with downcast eyes and the tips of his ears a delightful pink.

“Shame,” Asra had replied. “How can I play with you overnight if I have to dig through fabric?”

Julian had choked on a breath, and that delightful flush spread further, down his neck, to the tops of his shoulders. “Why would you want to…?”

“Because it’s fun,” Asra had said, his fingers dancing up Julian’s bare side, watching him shiver, and goosebumps rise in his wake. “Have you never woke with someone’s mouth on your cock?”

Julian had swallowed, his throat bobbing. “No?”

It had sounded more like a question, but there was hunger in the way Julian answered him. In the quick flick of his tongue over his lips, and how he’d clutched at the sheets.

Asra had tiptoed his fingers further up, nearly tickling Julian in the process. “Should I not?”

Julian’s gaze had skittered to the side, as if he were embarrassed by his own need, and gods, he could not have been more precious. “I mean, if you want to.”

“Go to sleep, Ilya,” Asra had said, pressing a kiss to the corner of Julian’s mouth and tucking himself in close. Julian exuded heat like a furnace, while Asra tended to freeze every night.

He had no problem leeching heat from his doctor however.

Asra hadn’t indulged himself that night. Nor the next several nights. He knew by the way Julian cut his eyes that Julian was wondering why he hadn’t. But that was the trick with Julian. The fun. Best to keep him on his toes.

Asra hasn’t indulged yet.

Tonight seems a good night, however.

The hunger stirs in Asra’s belly. He flips back the covers and lightly drags his fingers down Julian’s bare belly, stirring the dusting of hair there. Julian sighs in his sleep, but doesn’t wake.

Asra hums and traces the line of Julian’s loose pants, tucking his fingertip beneath the hem. He curls and tugs, tugs, tugs, revealing his prize in increments. Julian’s cock is soft and quiescent in its bed of dark curls.

Asra leans down and presses a kiss to the hooded crown, exhaling hot and wet over the soft flesh. Julian sighs, but doesn’t wake. Such a good sleeper he is.

It takes two hands to tug Julian’s pants a little further down, keeping them in place so he can let his hands roam while his mouth gets to work. He thumbs the sharp jut of Julian’s hipbones. He flirts over Julian’s nipples. He cradles Julian’s scrotum. He presses wet kisses to Julian’s cock until it finally twitches and starts to fill, hardening beneath his lips.

His mouth waters. He nuzzles Julian’s cock, inhaling the salt-earth scent of him, before he takes Julian into his mouth, coaxing him to full arousal. This is his favorite part of performing oral on his partners — the gradual arousal, the build up, the firming and heat as it builds and builds over his tongue.

He cradles Julian’s hips and swallows Julian deeper, tongue working up and down the length, spit leaving slick trails down into Julian’s pubis. He presses his noise to those wiry curls, swallowing around Julian’s cock, and above him, there’s a sharp intake of breath.

Julian stirs, and Asra’s grip on his hips tighten. He makes a soft, confused noise, and when Asra looks up, Julian is blinking sleepily down at him, first with confusion, then a bloom of bright pink across his nose and cheeks as he realizes what’s happening, and his hips rock up into Asra’s mouth.

“You were serious!” he says, voice an urgent, shocked whisper. He’s fisting the sheets now, probably so he doesn’t grab Asra’s hair.

Asra is not fond of having his hair pulled. They’ve had this discussion.

He lets Julian slip from his mouth — much to Julian’s noise of disappointment — and grins. “I was hungry. I couldn’t help myself,” he teases. “ Should I stop?”

“Don’t be so cruel,” Julian says, and there it is, that edge of begging in his voice, of desperation, that never fails to shoot heat through Asra’s entire body.

Asra grins and puts his mouth back where it’s most useful, soaking in the sound of Julian’s helpless whine, his pleased gasp, the flush spreading across his skin. He’s hard himself, hard enough to grind against the sheets, but he won’t.

No. That he’ll save for Julian, once he’s orgasm wrecked and pliant and eager to please.

Fair’s fair, after all.

****

[LoZ] Tendencies

For awhile, Zelda didn’t know much about Link.

She didn’t care to try, especially once it was obvious he was the one to wield the sword to banish the darkness, while she couldn’t access her power at all. It didn’t help that he was so universally loved by everyone, while she seemed to only receive chastisement from her father and looks of pity from everyone else.

So yes. In the beginning, Zelda resented Link.

It grew to affection eventually, and a hundred years later, she loved him in her own way. Not in a way where she wanted him to be hers, but there’s a lot a century of isolation and the weight of guilt did to make the resentment bleed away.

She’d been unfair toward him. So she’d been making an effort, since Calamity Ganon’s destruction, to be kinder to Link. To get to know him as a person, rather than the man who wielded a sword. Zelda herself had always wanted to be seen as more than the Princess with a direct link to Hylia. Of course Link would want to be more than the legendary hero wielding the Master Sword.

Of course, she’d also spent all of his time after he awakened watching him. She learned a lot. He was brave but reckless. He could be dumb, but he was determined. He had a chaotic streak a mile wide, and he was something of a glutton for punishment.

He also had a tendency to bite off far more than he could chew, and Zelda reasoned it was only Hylia’s divine grace that kept him emerging victorious in the end. Against impossible odds, no less.

Which meant when he told her he was dating Prince Sidon, Zelda wished she could say she was shocked. Her first thought was “how does that work?” and she must have verbalized it because Link smirked and signed, “Wanna see?”

Zelda squeaked out, “… Yes?”

She and Link really weren’t that different.

She’d expected the prince to protest, but she should have known better. Zora culture was quite different than Hylian culture, and when she showed up, Prince Sidon was delighted.

“But you don’t wish to participate?” he asked while Link was already in the background, stripping off his clothes without shame and throwing them in all directions.

Prince Sidon turned before she responded and started cleaning up after Link, taking his clothes and armor and hanging them over a nearby chair. A massive chair for a massive Zora.

“No, thank you,” Zelda replied, polite and a little faint as Link flopped down on the bed and squirmed around, naked as the day he was born, one hand already around his cock.

She sat in a chair Prince Sidon had brought for her use — borrowed, she suspected, from Mipha’s room — her hands on her lap, and her face turning hot and crimson.

Meanwhile, Prince Sidon’s only concession to a need for nudity has been to remove the belt around his waist and set it aside. He turned to acknowledge her.

“Very well, if you change your mind — Link!”

Back Sidon went, toppling onto the bed as Link took hold of his nearest wrist and yanked him onto the surface.

“You are so rude!” Prince Sidon chastised, but there was affection in his voice, and in the way he nuzzled Link as he pulled Link into his arms and curved over him.

By Hylia, he was massive. Smaller than King Dorephan of course, but still the second largest of the Zora.

“One has to establish boundaries. It is important,” Prince Sidon said, not the very least self-conscious with a naked, fully hard Link in his lap. “You can’t have missed me this much. I saw you only yesterday.”

Link, however, reached up and hauled the prince down into a kiss that muffled his yelp. Prince Sidon’s hands went to his hips, so very large Zelda could barely see Link’s arse between his fingers. Which, it was a very nice arse, for all that Zelda didn’t want it for herself.

Zelda giggled. They were so cute together.

Prince Sidon chuckled into the kiss and pulled Link against him. “Oh, you are hard for me already,” he purred, and his eyes dilated a bit, small glowy bits beginning to rise on his tail. “I should have known you would like to be watched, my hero.”

Yes, Zelda should have known it, too.

One webbed hand, capped with carefully trimmed claws Zelda noticed, squeezed Link’s arse, and Prince Sidon’s voice turned deeper, more rumbly.

“Then we shall have to put on a very good show,” he purred as he nuzzled into Link’s neck, very sharp teeth grazing over Link’s skin. He caught her gaze over Link’s shoulder and winked. “Won’t we?”

Zelda’s hands clenched tighter on her knees.

Mayhaps Link was not the only one who could be reckless. She might have also bitten off far more than she could chew.

***

[TF] Tread Lightly

Words… are important.

Actions speak louder, true, and better reflect the internal thoughts of a mech, but words have power, too.

There is nothing reckless about Optimus Prime. Jazz cannot confuse his gentle, well-meaning spark for weakness. He means what he says, but there’s a quiet calculation in everything he does. He’s deliberate. He’s intentional.

He has plans.

They’ve all been settling. For months now, Optimus has been playing the public game. He’s respectful and quiet, demurring to the Senate, to those in political power, while he watches and he waits and he gathers information.

Optimus is plotting.

He spends days in his office, always with Prowl and Ultra Magnus, often with Starscream, and they plan. He has three of the greatest tactical minds on the planet bonded to his spark, and rather than force them into his berth, he draws upon their expertise.

Prowl, Jazz knows, has no interest in Optimus’ berth. Starscream visits on occasion, but it is rare. Neither of their absences has changed Optimus’ reliance on their expertise. He values their opinion. He trusts their loyalty as deeply as he trusts Ultra Magnus’ loyalty, the only Consort that could be said he chose.

They plot, and they plan, and they scheme, like pieces on an elaborate game board.

Jazz watches them from the vents, quiet, shivering with the refusal to record, venting hard as he shunts their conversations to short-term rather than long-term memory. Optimus plans a great many things, and Jazz knows none of the details, because he can’t share what he doesn’t know.

Tell me his secrets, my Meister. Tell me what he murmurs while curling next to you, Proteus whispered to him, the last order given as Jazz’s freedom was snatched from him. He’d stroked Jazz’s face, heedless of Jazz’s internal shudder, and said, Tell me how to keep him in his place.

Soon, Jazz knows, Optimus will make his first move. He will stir the nest of pitvipers, and they will realize it is not a complacent mech who’s taken the Matrix, but a warrior. They are going to screech in their private homes, and plot against Optimus, and each one of those who think their pawns are in place, will realize they miscalculated.

Sunstreaker has his brother, and no more loyalty to the mech who enslaved him and forced him to bond with the Prime.

Soundwave’s outreach is safe, excised from the need for external funding, a safehouse relocated out from under the Senator’s thumb, and no longer a point of pressure.

Prowl’s sibling is here, too, in the manor, and no more a liability out in Praxus, unguarded and easy prey.

Ironhide and Chromia are bonded. Have been, Jazz knows, since the moment they were reunited and decided they no longer needed to wait. They have their Prime’s permission, their indulgence, and yes, Jazz knows good and well that they share Prime’s berth from time to time.

The stumbling blocks have been reassured, have been won over — Ratchet and Starscream and Skyfire — and well, the kid’s the most enthusiastic of the lot. His loyalty has never been in question. He’d been chosen to sow discord with the other Consorts, to be a point of jealousy, but there’s not a disingenuous strut in Hot Rod’s frame.

Then there’s Jazz.

Optimus prepares to make his move, and there is a shadow lurking behind him, a vibroblade poised to strike, and he doesn’t know. Oh, surely he suspects. Optimus Prime is many things, but he is neither an idiot nor a fool. Jazz has told him very little, and that lack of knowledge both keeps him safe and puts him at risk.

Tell me his secrets, and Jazz would rather claw out his spark than obey that command.

Optimus Prime is a good mech, and he can bring Cybertron back from the brink. Jazz believes it more and more, and he can’t do it. He won’t do it.

He thinks of Proteus dangling Optimus’ strings, and his tank churns. He wakes from night purges, feeling the phantom energon tacky on his hands, the weight of his betrayal, and Jazz won’t do it.

“Trust Optimus,” Soundwave tells him one night as their frames are ticking down from exertion, and he’s tracing gentle circles across Jazz’s abdominal plate. His field is earnest, open to prying, but Jazz doesn’t look, because he can’t share what he doesn’t know.

“Do already,” Jazz retorts, a grumble, because he’s drifting off to recharge, and Soundwave is keeping him awake with his rationality.

Soundwave hums, non-committal, and those gentle circles turn to idle swirls up Jazz’s chassis, delicate along his central seam. “Keep him safe,” he says, vocals heavy. Deliberate. “Protect him.” The finger glides along his seam, firmer pressure.

Jazz snaps, grabs his hand, tightens his fingers around the wrist, thumb pressed to a cable that makes Soundwave’s hand go limp. “I know what I said,” he hisses, and his spark flutters, a frantic beat of fear that he knows Soundwave can feel. He hates that he can’t hide it as much as he loves that he doesn’t have to.

It’s been months since Jazz first climbed into Soundwave’s berth, and Soundwave is not as tentative as he was then. Oh, he’s still careful. He recognizes a weapon when he sees one. But he’s not afraid to push.

He’s not afraid of Jazz.

“Let him help,” Soundwave says, as if it’s that simple. He knows nothing because Jazz has told him nothing, couldn’t tell him anything even if he wanted to.

Perhaps he’s reasoned some of it. Soundwave’s network is as far-reaching as Jazz’s own, and he’s spent enough time in the shadows that he probably knows what chains keep Jazz tethered to Proteus. After all, he’s the only one who’s identified Meister and hasn’t paid the price for that knowledge.

Soundwave probably knows.

They’re a lot alike, he and Soundwave. Before they were ever consorts to the Prime trapped in the same circumstances, Jazz recognized a kindred spark. It’s why he made the most reckless decision he’s ever made in his life when he didn’t kill Soundwave. It’s why he let Soundwave keep his secret, and why he wouldn’t let anyone else take Soundwave out either.

Soundwave has no idea. Or maybe he does. Jazz hasn’t asked; Soundwave hasn’t offered. They both like their secrets, their tiny treasures carefully hoarded because one never knows when the right bit of information will turn the tide.

Let him help, Soundwave says as though it’s a mere matter of Optimus summoning a distant sibling and bringing them into the fold. As if bank accounts will break Jazz’s chains. As if Jazz needs only a promise and a genuine effort, and everything will be okay.

“He can’t,” Jazz says as he rolls away from Soundwave and off the berth, landing soundlessly on the floor. “No one can.”

He’s gone before Soundwave can protest, not that Soundwave would. He doesn’t push, he never pries, though Primus knows curiosity has to burn him. Jazz adores Soundwave for his patience as much as it frustrates him.

And…

It’s not strictly true.

Jazz drifts through the hallways, empty this late at night, save for the occasional patrol of Chromia’s well-trained guard. They don’t see him. No one ever does. Jazz has long since memorized their routes, the blind spots in the cameras, the places no one thinks to look.

He could assassinate Optimus Prime tonight and no one would know.

Jazz shudders and goes to the roof. His quarters are too close to Optimus’, and though he doesn’t want to extinguish Optimus’ spark, he doesn’t always know what he’s capable of. What Proteus is capable of making him do.

He’s reasonably sure Proteus can’t give him such an order over the comms. He’s nearly certain Proteus hasn’t buried an order in his subconscious, a sleeper code to kill.

It feels too much like a risk.

Jazz perches on the roof, on the edge, between two horribly elaborate projections that exist for no more purpose than to embrace opulence. They’re ugly, in Jazz’s opinion, but he thinks that’s how it is for the obscenely rich — the uglier it is, the more they think it’s worth. False value.

He frowns and stares up at the moons, drifting further and further away each passing decade. Hah. Jazz can relate. He thinks he’s less and less a person as the decades pass, and soon, he’ll be like Whipstrike. He’ll be a shell of a mech, no longer bothering to fight, just one who obeys.

Gross.

Jazz prods at a loose panel in the roof, finger slipping under and tugging it up, letting it snap back down, before tugging it up again. Tug-snap. Tug-snap.

Optimus could help him.

Jazz has already worked it out. The thing about obedience is that as long as he follows the letter of the order, he can interpret it however he likes. Jazz is forbidden from telling Optimus Prime about his coding. He cannot reveal its existence to anyone, truth be told, but there is room to maneuver.

Technically, Jazz is beholden to those of higher rank than him. Proteus holds his strings, but the coding tugs him this way and that, dipping spindly fingers into his processor, demanding obedience and subservience to anyone above him.

Technically, if Jazz wants to obey the letter of the order, he needs to find someone of higher rank than him who he can trust. It cannot be Optimus Prime. But there’s one other mech who could help Jazz, who together with Optimus, can free him from these shackles.

It’s a chance. It’s a small, carefully calculated chance, and a terrible, terrible risk.

Tug-snap. Tug-snap.

Jazz leaves the loose roof panel alone and looks back at the moons. His fingers itch to hold an instrument. He wants Soundwave to be more than a fun romp in the berth with the only mech he’s sure he can trust.

Optimus is moving into offense soon, and Jazz can’t be the blade that points at his back. He’s running out of time.

Jazz leans back, crossing his arms behind his head, and stares into the vastness of the sky above. He’s running out of time, but he can wait until morning at the least.

~

Ratchet is where Ratchet always is because he lives in the medical ward. Granted, it’s the size of a small hospital, but still. Jazz wonders what that says about Ratchet’s mental state that the place he feels most comfortable and at home is also the place where he works.

They’ve been living here for months now, and while Ratchet has already put every Consort through their paces, ensuring they are in peak health, he’s had his hands full attending to the staff. Their overall health is a gross negligence on the previous Prime’s part, Ratchet grumbles at their nightly dinners.

“Then I am glad you are here to ensure otherwise,” Optimus tells him in that genuinely sweet tone of his, and Ratchet’s anger softens to pride before he scowls and pretends he hadn’t glowed gentle and appreciative for a handful of seconds.

“Yeah, well, someone has to,” Ratchet says, but he’s not fooling anyone. Least of all Jazz.

Ratchet has no other appointments until later this afternoon. Jazz had hacked into Ratchet’s schedule to make sure of it. There’s not going to be anyone to interrupt or bear witness to Jazz trying not to awkwardly stumble through what is surely going to be a painful experience.

He likes Ratchet, he does.

He doesn’t have a fondness for medics is all.

Jazz shows up early, and he knows that’s a mistake immediately because Ratchet gives him a look — up and down — instantly calculating.

“You’re the only one I haven’t gotten my hands on despite my many attempts to drag you here,” Ratchet says. “And now here you are, on a schedule I could have sworn was more packed, and early no less.” He raps his fingers over a datapad. “What have you done to yourself?”

Jazz grins, tries to effect a lazy glee as he leans back in a chair, draping himself over the surface as though he hasn’t a care in the world. “I’m in the peak of health, doc,” he drawls. “I actually came to ask for a favor.”

Ratchet gives him a long, steady look and tucks away his datapad. Jazz registers a distant click, the soft hum of recording equipment going silent.

“I’m listening,” Ratchet says, having given them as much privacy as he’s capable.

“Right,” Jazz says and clasps his hands together to stop himself from fiddling. “So you bonded with Optimus before I did.”

Ratchet raises his orbital ridges. “Everyone bonded Optimus before you did.”

Except Soundwave. But Jazz doesn’t mention that.

“I’m not askin’ everyone. I’m askin’ you.” Jazz cycles a ventilation, ignores the tiny curl of warning at the back of his mind. “So technically one could argue that your rank is higher than mine, yeah?”

Ratchet shifts, and the corner of his mouth twitches as if he’s trying to smother a cocky grin. “I’d like to look at it that way, sure,” he says until he lets the amusement slip into sobriety. “What’s this about, Jazz?”

Jazz rubs his hands down his thighs. “Ya gotta say it, Ratchet.” There’s an itch at the back of his processor, a tightness trying to wrap around his spark.

Ratchet frowns, his expression darkening, and he scoots closer — chair drag-screeching across the floor. “I am a higher rank than you,” he says, slow and careful, like he’s choosing his words. “You are subordinate to me, Jazz. Which means the next time I tell you to show up for a maintenance check, you’re going to be here. Understood?”

The tension eases, and Jazz can draw in a vent. “Yes,” he says, and bites down on the ‘sir’ because it isn’t necessary. He cycles a ventilation, in and out, half-afraid to meet Ratchet’s gaze and see the pity there.

“Good.” Ratchet sighs, and his field trickles out, resignation and exasperation and a low-burning anger all coiled within it. “You’re lucky I’m old and know exactly what favor you’re asking me, though I could’ve sworn that barbaric practice ended eons ago.”

Jazz manages a staticky laugh. “I’m a lot older than ya think I am.” His grip on his knees starts to ache, so he peels away his fingers. “And ya should know that if a mech in power can get away with keepin’ someone beholden to him, he ain’t gonna drop it.”

Ratchet makes a noncommittal noise, but it does nothing to calm the rage simmering beneath the surface of his field. “I’ll need to take a look for myself,” he says, a statement, phrasing to suggest a command, while Jazz can read the request between the glyphs.

“I know,” Jazz says. He draws in another vent, hates how it shudders, and taps between his shoulderblades, at the base of his neck. “Medical port’s here.”

“Not in your wrist?” Ratchet asks as he stands and moves to Jazz’s side, staying in his peripheral vision, telegraphing each movement.

Jazz grimaces. “Not anymore. There are better uses for that space.”

“A number of tools fit for a mech of your talents, I’d imagine,” Ratchet says before his hand rests on Jazz’s back, warm against the chill radiating out from Jazz’s core. His thumb brushes upward, brief against Jazz’s nape.

Nausea clenches in Jazz’s tank. He grips his knees again, and doesn’t think about — Whipstrike will need to teach you how to bow.

“Jazz?”

“M’fine,” he grits out and triggers the protective panel to iris open before Ratchet has to ask. “Do what you have to do.”

“I’ll be quick.”

And he is.

Quick. Professional. His touches don’t linger. He doesn’t make inappropriate comments about how malleable Jazz’s code is, or how sweetly it takes the submission protocols. His hands don’t wander, and neither does his digital presence.

Ratchet goes directly to Jazz’s core coding, examines the intricacies of it, the lines and permissions and commands. He makes a noise behind Jazz, a sound of disgust and offense, not directed at Jazz, before he withdraws, as gently and swiftly as he’d eased into Jazz’s systems in the first place.

“Well?” Jazz asks.

“It’s clever,” Ratchet says as he produces a datapad and starts typing notes into it, optics narrowed with focus. “But not more than us.”

Relief floods Jazz’s lines, but he doesn’t let it go any further. He doesn’t let it show on his face or ring too loudly through his frame. He’s not a coder, he doesn’t know how these things work. He only knows that if he ponders too long on freedom, there’s a whisper, a nudge — better on your knees, let someone else make the choices, Proteus knows best, you belong to Proteus, you belong to Proteus, you belong to–

Jazz cycles a ventilation.

“You’re in the peak of health,” Ratchet says, his tone a touch too bright to be genuine, but the approval in his words sending a wave of reassurance to that insidious line of code. “Though you are in need of a fuel filter. Stay there. I’ll be right back.”

Ratchet tucks the datapad under his arm and leaves the room before Jazz can protest, not that he would. It might as well have been an order. Stay there, says a mech who is his superior. Technically, technically. So Jazz does.

He sits on the berth, and he doesn’t move. He ventilates, in and out. He’s done what he can. He’s put the knife in someone else’s hands.

Ratchet returns, and when he does, he’s not alone. Jazz’s spark simultaneously flip-flops in his chassis and tries to sink into his tanks. He grips his knees hard enough to dent as a violent war of conflicting impulses scatter through his processor like explosive ordinance.

Tell Optimus Prime nothing.

Optimus’ expression is sober, his lips pressed firmly together, his field withdrawn tight to his frame. There’s a storm in his optics, a rage he can’t suppress, and part of Jazz revels in it. This is the Prime the Senate will not be able to destroy. This is the Prime they are not ready to face.

Ratchet must see the conflict in Jazz’s face or in his field because he barks, “Be still,” and it’s at once a relief and a challenge.

Jazz locks his limbs — it’s an order from a superior and he’s meant to obey. His vents click-clatter, cycling faster.

“Frag,” Ratchet breathes, and he moves quickly, back beside Jazz, hand on his nape, fingers quick and sure as he slots back into Jazz’s medical port. “This slagging code is insidious. Optimus, stand right there, and when I tell you, say it.”

Optimus shifts, briefly uncomfortable, but he moves in front of Jazz, looks down at him with all the presence of a Prime who bears the Matrix, his field inescapable. “I am sorry,” he says.

Jazz manages a weak grin, his armor clattering. There’s a scrape-scraping at the back of his processor, an itch he can’t soothe, even with Ratchet easing back into his systems, following familiar routes to his core coding.

“Only apologize if this doesn’t work,” Jazz says. “And make sure it can’t happen again.”

“It is an easy vow to make, and with your help, one I am guaranteed to keep,” Optimus Prime murmurs.

“Kindly refrain from talking if you please,” Ratchet says with a touch of exasperation in his vocals. “This won’t work if you insist on being your noble self in the moment.”

Amusement twinkles in Optimus’ optics. “There is little doubt who is the superior in this room, Ratchet,” he says, and Jazz manages a stuttered laugh through the compulsive grip on his spark.

Ratchet’s digital presence shouldn’t feel like anything, but Jazz swears he can feel Ratchet sifting through his files, peeling open his coding, and tweaking the commands until it responds to his will. He can’t remove the coding, Jazz knows this much. It’s too firmly intertwined with the coding that helps him function. Their best course of action is to operate within the boundaries of the command strings.

Jazz must have a master, and only that master can free him. Proteus would never do so, but he is not the only mech the coding will obey. Despite what he believes, Proteus is not the most powerful mech on Cybertron. He doesn’t even rank in the top ten.

Granted, none of those mechs are interested in freeing Jazz either. None of them, save perhaps Optimus Prime, and he is, of course, the one mech Jazz is forbidden to tell.

Words are important, and a careful mech, a clever mech, can figure out the best way to twist them to his favor.

“Hah,” Ratchet breathes a sound of victory, but it’s not quiet enough to stop Jazz from startling, and then hating himself for that bit of weakness. “There it is. Hiding in a codestring it had no business being near.”

“Cybertronian Standard if you would please,” Optimus says with a glance over Jazz’s shoulder, a touch of affection winding through his field. “You are the only mech in this room with any formal, medical training.”

“He’s found th’ switch,” Jazz says as Ratchet’s digital presence taps on something that sends a low, pulsing thrum through Jazz’s entire digital net.

He shivers, like Ratchet’s wrapped a hand around his spark, not ungentle, but there. Something deep inside screams at him to fight, and Proteus looms over the back of his cortex, phantom hands on his shoulders, sibilant whispers in his audial — You belong to me, Meister.

“Jazz?”

Optimus reaches for him, but Ratchet snaps a warning, and Optimus rears back, jaw set, optics turning hard. He’s such a gentle spark; he’s going to do such good for Cybertron. Jazz needs to make sure he keeps Optimus alive so he can do it.

Jazz’s resolve firms. He takes the ghost of his current master, and he glares it down. He looks up at Optimus Prime as there’s a jarring pop in his digital mindspace.

“Now, Optimus,” Ratchet hisses.

Optimus inclines his head, squares his shoulders, and says, “I am Optimus Prime, foremost authority on Cybertron, and there is none other above me. You will obey my commands as spoken until such time that I am supplanted by a higher authority or I release you.”

The words slot into place like keys in a lock, one by one, and Jazz ventilates slow and even for the first time in several minutes. He’s dizzy with it, slumping where he sits, fingers aching in their fierce clamp.

“Did it work?” Optimus asks.

“It took the reassignment,” Ratchet says, his free hand resting on Jazz’s shoulder, warm pulses of comfort radiating from his palm. “You’re registered as his master now.”

Optimus flinches. “Please do not ever call me that.”

“If you do what you’re supposed to, I won’t need to. There’s one more step, Prime, and you better do it quick, or I’ll rip out your spark myself,” Ratchet snaps, squeezing Jazz’s shoulder.

A shuddering ex-vent precedes Optimus kneeling before Jazz, down to one knee, and Jazz has no choice but to look into Optimus’ blue-blue optics. It feels wrong, for Optimus to kneel in front of him, and Jazz has to resist the urge to throw himself to the floor, to lay flat until he’s further beneath Optimus, as far as he can go.

But Optimus hasn’t demanded it of him, so he can ignore the impulse. He can’t, however, look away. He’s trapped by the sincerity in Optimus’ field, the intent in his gaze.

“I release you from service, Jazz,” Optimus says, his words carrying less the cadence of formality, and something more honest and genuine. “You are no longer beholden to me or any other.”

Jazz does not know what to expect.

When the coding had first been installed, he’d been unconscious. He’d onlined with a weight inside of him, one without physical origin or shape, but an unconscious knowledge that something was different. There was an urge to find Proteus, to bend the knee, and when Proteus looked at him with something akin to triumph, a part of Jazz had felt triumphant as well.

A disgusting, unwelcome part of him. That shared pride churned Jazz’s tanks, but it never showed anywhere Proteus could see it.

He knelt because a small, insidious whisper told him to do so. He fought against the chains, but there was no escaping them. Whipstrike told him as much. Jazz’s own research, whatever he could manage against the restrictions of the coding, confirmed Jazz’s suspicions.

He could not free himself. Only his master could break the chains.

His master.

Optimus’ words filter through the staticky haze of the coding’s angered reprisal. They strike to the very core of a knot of obedience deep within Jazz, and he thinks if the coding itself were sentient, it would scream as the bonds sizzle and snap and turn to dust.

Or at least, he imagines it must look like that.

There’s no physical sign or weight. He doesn’t immediately feel relieved or free, but there’s a tiny spark of hope daring to flicker deep within his spark. He won’t know for sure until he’s standing before Proteus, but Jazz believes it worked.

“Well,” Ratchet says. “As far as I can tell, the coding’s inactive.”

“Can it be reactivated?” Optimus asks quietly, and for a moment — a moment — fear runs white-hot through Jazz’s lines. The urge to leap from the berth, dart away from Ratchet, pin his vibroblade in Optimus’ spark runs through Jazz so strongly he has to grip his knees and lock his joints to stop himself.

That’s not what Optimus means, he tells himself fiercely. It’s not.

“Not by the time I’m through with it,” Ratchet grunts, and his grip on Jazz’s shoulder tightens, his digital presence sweeping through Jazz’s code like a wave of divine retribution. “I can’t remove it completely, but I can ruin it to the point it’s worthless.”

“Good,” Optimus says. “I don’t want this to be for naught. I want to ensure we never have to do this again.”

“Yep,” Ratchet says, the agreement of a mech distracted, still ripping and tearing and slicing his way through the insidious code until bits and pieces of it fall behind him like shattered links in a chain.

Jazz draws in a shaky ventilation, slow and careful, one after the other. He peels his fingers from his knees and looks at Optimus — directly because Optimus is still kneeling — and manages a thin smile.

“Thanks, Prime,” he manages. “And I ain’t a mech accustomed to saying that kind ‘o thing.”

Optimus rests a hand over his, giving it a gentle pat, his field one of warm reassurance. “It is not something you should thank me for. It is the very least I could do.” He pauses, a flicker of regret winding in the echoes of his field. “I only wish I could have freed you from this before you were bonded to my spark.”

Jazz lifts his shoulders in a shrug, despite Ratchet hissing at him to be still.

–and there it is, a brief moment of panic, Ratchet who he identified as his superior, giving him a command but ah, there it is, Jazz feels no urge to obey, it’s victory, however bittersweet–

“S’alright,” Jazz says. “Better this than the alternative.”

He doesn’t explain: without that bond Jazz might never have trusted Optimus at all.

He doesn’t say: even if it hadn’t worked, Jazz would have rathered Optimus hold his leash than anyone else with the capacity for that power.

He won’t admit: he’ll do anything to protect Optimus now.

“Ratch, you done back there or are we gonna be cabled up all night?” Jazz asks, flashing his visor in a wink at Optimus as a jitter runs through his legs, an urge to flee because he’s feeling far too seen. “Not that I’m opposed to a bit ‘o cabling, here and there, but usually it means I’m having lots more fun than I am right now.”

Ratchet mutters something Jazz can’t quite catch before he says, “I’m as done as I can be without knocking you out–”

“–no thanks,” Jazz interjects.

“–Exactly,” Ratchet continues and his digital presence withdraws, quick and clean, followed by the soft click of him disconnecting from Jazz’s medical port. “So the rest’ll have to be done by a full defrag. I suggest you find somewhere you feel safe.”

He steps back and Jazz rolls his shoulders, his neck, easing away from both Optimus and Ratchet, trying to find some much needed space. He’s raw on the inside, and while he’s under no illusions neither have noticed, he’d like to pretend to have some dignity.

“You can’t remove it completely?” Optimus asks.

Ratchet grunts. “Would that I could. Whoever put this in knew what they were doing. It infiltrated every strand of his code, from the benign to the necessary.” He moves away, giving Jazz more space. “Best I can do is cut out what I can to make it inert.”

Jazz hops down from the berth, rubbing the back of his neck. He traces the nearly-invisible seams of his medical port panel, the ghost of Ratchet’s touch lingering. For all that he’s standing, knees firm beneath him, he feels unsteady.

Somewhere he feels safe.

Jazz honestly isn’t sure he knows what that means.

“All right. That’s all I needed. You’re done. Scoot,” Ratchet says, boldly taking Optimus by the shoulders and marching him to the door. “No more questions. You did your part. Jazz’ll be fine.”

“Of course he will. He’s in the hands of the most skilled medic on Cybertron,” Optimus says.

Ratchet chuffs a vent, but he can’t hide the pride or pleasure in his field. “Optimus Prime, now is not the time for flirting. Get your aft out of here.”

Despite Ratchet’s insistence, Optimus does pause in the doorway, and he looks back at Jazz as though he has something to say before he shakes his head and thinks better of it. Or maybe that’s Ratchet who gives him another push.

“He’ll come to you when he’s ready,” Ratchet barks. “Good night.” He slams his palm on the door panel and closes it in Optimus’ face.

Only Ratchet would be so daring as to outright boss Optimus Prime around. Jazz doesn’t think any of the other Consorts would do it, though he’s reasonably sure he’s seen Chromia put Optimus in his place a time or two. Not that any of the consorts feel intimidated by Optimus anymore, but it does take a certain kind of mech to assert their will over the leader of the entire planet, and Ratchet’s the only one with that special bit of madness.

Ratchet huffs. “There’s well-meaning and then there’s idiotic, and sometimes that damn Prime can’t tell the difference between the two.” He glares at the door, hands on his hips, before he slowly turns back toward Jazz. “I meant what I said. Rest and defrag. You can stay here if you want. The door locks.”

Jazz shakes his head. “Nah. Medbays and I don’t get along too well.”

“Fair enough.” Ratchet stays at the door, his gaze lingering on Jazz. “If there’s anything else you need, comm me. I don’t care what time it is.”

He sketches a salute. “Sure thing, Ratch.”

Ratchet snorts and palms open the door. “Don’t you start or I’ll ask for it to become a habit.”

“Don’t threaten me with a good time!” Jazz retorts as Ratchet slips out the door and it closes behind him, panel clicking over to red as it locks.

Not Ratchet locking him in, but locking everyone else out, should Jazz choose. Not that he has any intention of staying in this room.

Somewhere he feels safe?

Jazz lets himself out of the medbay, and thinks to head for his own quarters, but changes his mind halfway there. He’s got an apology to deliver. Or something like it.

He gets lucky.

It’s early, and Soundwave’s still in his quarters rather than out doing whatever it is he does during the day. Communicating with Blaster, probably. Jazz doesn’t ask. It’s one of those things they just don’t talk about.

Jazz can’t spill what Jazz doesn’t know, etc. It’s not about trust, it’s about minimizing risk. It’s a thing they both understand. Jazz isn’t offended by it. He assumes Soundwave isn’t either.

There’s a lot Soundwave seems to take in stride. Sometimes, Jazz wonders if Soundwave doesn’t have a touch of loyalty coding of his own, or if it’s just the intrinsic nature of a carrier mech showing its face. It’s hard to say, and it’s kind of rude to ask your berthpartner to pop open his panels so you can have a look-see at his core coding. Just in case.

Worry for another time, perhaps. Or not a worry at all. Soundwave doesn’t seem bothered by it, and who’s Jazz to judge?

Jazz lets himself into Soundwave’s suite with practiced ease. At some point, Soundwave stopped trying to keep him out and Jazz interpreted that as tacit permission. After all, Soundwave never actually said “stop breaking into my suite.” He just changes the codes or adds new security measures, and Jazz drools over the challenge.

At this point, it’s foreplay.

Soundwave’s in the sun room, one of many utterly useless rooms each of their suites seem to have in pointless abundance. There’s enough space in the Prime’s manor to put a hefty dent in the homeless crisis, and while Jazz knows Optimus would gladly fling open his doors to let in the social dredges, he’s not yet in the position to do so.

Besides, it’s not like the Prime manor is the only example of excessive waste.

Jazz lingers in the doorway for a moment, under no illusions that Soundwave doesn’t know he’s there, and watches. Soundwave’s seated on the floor, Laserbeak in his lap, and Ravage sprawled in a patch of fake-sunlight nearby. He’s tending to the cassette’s tessalated plating, brushing the delicately flared panels while she purrs with audible delight. She lifts her wing so he can better reach the underside of it, and Soundwave obeys the unspoken request.

It’s a beautifully tranquil moment. A part of Jazz feels he has no business inserting himself into the equation. It’s safer for everyone if he doesn’t get attached because he never knows when he might have to destroy the thing he loves most.

Except he’s free now. He can take those risks, if he’s brave enough. If he’s absolutely certain Proteus’ hold on him is gone for good. He trusts Ratchet and Optimus as much as he can trust anyone, but they’re both fallible. What if they missed something?

And what if he spends the rest of his life alone based on the slimmest possibility that he’s not truly free? Then Proteus would have won, wouldn’t he?

Jazz pushes off the door frame, not wholly confident, but quite indignant over a presumed Proteus victory. “So how much does one gotta pay for that kind of one-on-one service?” Jazz asks as he slinks inside.

Ravage acknowledges him with one briefly unshuttered optic before he goes back to napping. Laserbeak giggles and nudges her wing more firmly into Soundwave’s grip.

“You couldn’t afford it,” she teases.

“Oh, I dunno. I think we could maybe barter somethin’, little wing,” Jazz drawls as he moves up behind Soundwave, draping himself along the larger mech’s back. Soundwave radiates heat and the gentle thrum of his frame is a sweet rhythm.

Jazz drapes his arms over Soundwave’s, nuzzling Soundwave’s helm with his own. “What d’ya say, Soundwave? Think we can exchange some favors?”

Soundwave makes a chastising noise. “Jazz inappropriate,” he says while Laserbeak giggles again.

“Frequently, I’m told,” Jazz purrs against Soundwave’s audial, hitting that frequency he knows is going to resonate all beautifully through Soundwave’s frame. “But I can see you’re busy right now, so I’ll just take myself a nap and wait for you to attend me. You don’t mind, do ya?”

There are layers to his request, and Soundwave is too astute not to pick it up. He hums an agreeable sound, his field drifting to settle around Jazz like a warm blanket.

“My berth is yours,” he offers.

Jazz pecks a kiss on Soundwave’s cheek, lips lingering on the raised weld line of a scar, usually hidden behind a mask. “You’re the best,” he murmurs, field briefly tangling with Soundwave’s in a lover’s caress before he withdraws.

He hadn’t come here with the intention of recharging in Soundwave’s berth and using that opportunity to defrag, but now he can’t think of anywhere else he’d rather go. To his suite alone? Where there’s no one to answer if there’s an error or a glitch? Where he’s helpless?

Or here. With Soundwave. Who won’t bother him. Who will treat him with the same care and protectiveness he does the cassettes in his care. Who understands.

Maybe Soundwave doesn’t know all the particulars. Maybe he doesn’t even need to know. Soundwave’s never asked; Jazz has never offered, and their relationship hasn’t suffered at all for it.

There’s still a risk, Jazz acknowledges. Soundwave has cassettes to protect. He needs to know precisely what’s sharing his berth, no matter what Jazz has done to mitigate the threat. He should know there’s a chance, however slim, that someone might tug on Jazz’s strings, and he’ll have no choice but to respond.

Ratchet’s good. Very good. But Jazz can’t know for sure until he’s standing before Proteus, defying the Senator to his face.

Jazz pauses. Waits.

Nothing.

No twinge, no tug, no whisper. Nothing to suggest he shouldn’t even think of disobeying Proteus. His spark continues spinning. His core temperature remains steady. It’s almost a little too quiet.

Jazz flops into Soundwave’s overlarge berth, half-tuned to the murmur of conversation in the room beyond where Laserbeak teases Soundwave and Ravage occasionally adds smart commentary, and Soundwave indulges them both. Wisps of Soundwave’s field linger in his own, and Soundwave’s been in this suite long enough, it’s seeped into the walls as well.

It shouldn’t be so comfortable, but it is. And it’s a comfort worth protecting. Soundwave is worth protecting.

Jazz offlines his visor and drifts in the dim, lulled by his surroundings, his spark cautiously expanding in his chassis as though tasting the lack of boundaries and tentatively examining the new freedom. His next move depends on how everything shakes out after this defrag, but Jazz is cautiously optimistic.

He has a whole future ahead of him now, and Jazz is going to fight like the Pit to keep Optimus around so he can live it.

***

[SG] Debug

Rodimus was here again.

Drift heard the flirty mech’s voice carrying from down the hallway, Rodimus’ laugh grating on his audial sensors. What had the Prime done that prompted this visit? Not that Drift cared. Whatever Optimus Prime and Rodimus got up to in the berth was of no interest to Drift.

Except for the part where it kept putting Rodimus in Ratchet’s medbay. Rodimus was a slut and a flirt, and he monopolized Ratchet’s attention because he was so “fiddly” to fix. Rodimus was already Optimus’ favorite, now he wanted Ratchet, too? He was selfish mech, wanting more than he deserved and had earned, and Drift hated him because Rodimus always got what he wanted.

He was just in here last week for a dislocated strut and a crushed intake. What was it this time? Punctured vents? Twisted spoiler? Random aches and pains?

Rodimus’ laugh floated out of the next room. “Aw, c’mon, doc. It’s not my fault!”

“No, it’s Optimus’, but since I can’t blame him, I’m going to blame you,” Ratchet snapped, irritation layered heavily in his vocals. “Be still!”

“Could be your fault if you wanted,” Rodimus purred, and Drift could just imagine him stretching out on the berth, trying to angle himself invitingly. “Word is you’re very good at breaking things.”

Drift gritted his denta and scrubbed harder.

“I just put you back together. I have better things to do than take you apart,” Ratchet said, but he sounded less agitated than before. There was a cant at the end of his vocals that suggested… interest?

Drift stopped mid-scrub and dropped the sponge back into the sanitation bucket. He stood and edged closer to the door, listening intently, his spark hammering in his chassis.

“Maybe later then,” Rodimus said, and Drift’s armor crawled. Rodimus’ voice was a silky, seductive purr. It tended to get him whatever it was he wanted. Or whoever, for that matter.

Ratchet snorted. “I don’t have a death wish, kid. But if Optimus ever tires of you… maybe we’ll see.” There was a clatter as if he’d tossed his tools back into the repair box, as he was known to do when he was done with a particularly troublesome patient.

“Oh, the promises you make,” Rodimus sang.

Footsteps rang in the hallway.

Drift ducked back into the room, skidding to his knees in front of the bucket, hand snatching at the sponge as his spark swirled in his chassis. But the footsteps didn’t pass the room he was sanitizing for Ratchet’s sake, going the opposite direction instead.

No more conversation came from the surgical room next door.

Drift threw the sponge down and climbed back to his feet, peering into the hall. It was empty, so he eased to the doorway of the next room, and peeked inside. Ratchet was gone, and Rodimus lolled about on the medberth like he was some kind of royalty while he sipped on a pouch of medgrade.

Anger popped up in Drift like carbonation.

“You’re fixed, aren’t you?” Drift demanded as he looked Rodimus up and down. There were obvious signs of new welds and a few dents Ratchet hadn’t pulled out yet, but all in all, Rodimus looked fully capable of mobility. “Get the frag out of the medbay.”

Rodimus grinned at him, a voltaic cat which mauled the metallocanary, and folded his arms behind his head, wriggling to get more comfortable. “Nope.” He popped the word, looking pleased with himself. “Think I’m gonna stay right here in Ratchet’s tender, loving care.”

“You’re wasting his time!” Drift hissed, his hands balling into fists. “He’s got better things to do than you.”

Rodimus looked Drift up and down and shrugged. “Not that I can see. It’s not my fault if he wants to upgrade to a better, faster, hotter model.” He waggled his orbital ridges and rocked his hips in a gross mimicry of interfacing.

Disgust and fury welled up within Drift so strong, it rattled out of him before he knew what he planned to do. He surged forward, grabbed Rodimus’ ankle, and hauled him off the medberth.

Rodimus clattered to the floor, hissing, but he immediately sprang to his feet, proving he wasn’t half as hurt as he claimed. “What the frag do you–”

Drift’s fist slammed into his cheek — if Rodimus wanted pain so bad, here was some — and when Rodimus reeled, Drift grabbed him by the back of the neck and marched him right out the door.

“You don’t belong here,” he snarled as he shoved Rodimus ahead of him, the mech stumbling and swaying on his feet like the punch had been more than his softplate armor could handle.

Ratchet’s going to throw you away, an insidious voice whispered at the back of Drift’s mind. You can’t let that happen.

“Ratchet’s mine,” Drift hissed as he yanked Rodimus around the corner.

And right into Ratchet, who looked at the both of them with fire blazing in his optics. “What in Unicron’s name is going on here?” he demanded.

Drift froze.

Rodimus yanked free of his grip. “Your toy’s forgotten his place, that’s what it is,” he huffed and immediately stumbled, feigning great pain. “He ruined everything you fixed, Ratchet,” he whined as he tried to swoon into Ratchet’s arms.

“That’s not–”

“Shut your damn mouth,” Ratchet snapped at him, and Drift’s mouth shut so fast, his denta clanged together.

Dread pooled in his tanks like bad energon as Ratchet scooped Rodimus up in one arm, and grabbed Drift’s elbow with the other.

“Rodimus, if you get out of that berth one more time, I’m letting Hoist fix you from now on,” Ratchet growled as he marched them back up the hallway.

“It’s not my fault,” Rodimus whined, and the look he shot Drift was triumphant.

Ratchet’s grip on Drift’s arm tightened to the point his armor creaked. “I know whose fault it was,” he said as he paused in the corridor, in front of a very familiar, very small closet.

Drift’s spark dropped into his tank. “Ratchet–”

“I told you to shut it,” Ratchet snapped, giving his arm a shake before the door slid open by his transmitted command, revealing the dark, narrow interior.

Drift balked, but it did him no good. Ratchet tossed him in there as if he weighed nothing, and Drift skidded on his aft, ducking too slow to miss clipping his finials on a low shelf. He was nearly tucked in half in the cramped space, arms curled around his knees as he leaned forward. There was no room to stretch, to extend his limbs, no room to do anything but fold himself inside like a piece of equipment being stowed for the day.

“I have to fix what you broke before Optimus tears out my spinal column,” Ratchet huffed. “So you can sit there and think about how useless you are until I’m done.”

A protest bubbled on Drift’s lips, but the door slid shut. The last thing he saw was Rodimus’ smirk as he reclined in Ratchet’s arms like he’d won a victory. Then it was darkness, thick and suffocating, save for the dim of his biolights.

Drift’s armor rattled.

Ratchet was angry. He’d never seen Ratchet so angry. He’d never disappointed Ratchet so terribly. He’d never failed Ratchet so utterly.

What was he thinking? How could he do that? After Ratchet had been so kind and generous, had given him all he wanted, and took care of him, and gave him pleasure? How could he cause Ratchet more trouble? And over Rodimus?

That mech wasn’t worth it, but Drift had let Rodimus get to him, and now look at the mess he’d made. Ratchet was angry. Ratchet was disappointed.

Oh, Primus. What if he threw Drift away? What if… what if….?

The thoughts swirled around each other, colliding and bouncing. Drift’s vents came in sharper bursts. He clung to his knees, fingers digging into his seams, and squeezed his optics shut, the heat in the small space making his fans whir all the harder.

Time seemed to slow to a crawl. He couldn’t track it. Drift’s chronometer only functioned when he was out on missions, and only then as an alarm for when Ratchet wanted him to remember to do things. He didn’t need to worry about time. That’s what Ratchet was for.

What if Ratchet left him here forever? What if he forgot Drift because he didn’t want him anymore? What if he was replaced by Rodimus after all?

What if… what if… what if–

The door slid open.

Drift scrambled out on his knees, apologies spilling from his lips. He didn’t dare look up. “I’m sorry, Ratchet. I know shouldn’t have, but I was just so mad, and he was so smug, and I’m sorry I made more work for you, and–”

“I’m not interested in your pathetic apologies,” Ratchet said, with all the warmth gone from his voice. It fell on Drift like icicles, stabbing down, down, pinning him to the floor. “Follow me. And don’t you dare walk. You’ve lost that privilege.”

Drift worked his intake. “Yes, Ratchet.”

He kept his head down. He crawled. The shame of it burned his cheeks. The gaze of the security cameras burned between his shoulders. He left streaks from his knees on the floor. He would have to buff those out later.

Ratchet hated streaks.

They passed the room where Rodimus was left to recover. Drift didn’t look, but the tips of his finials burned as he heard Rodimus laugh.

What was Ratchet going to do? The question burned in his mind, but Drift didn’t dare vocalize it. He knew better than to talk. He was in enough trouble as it was.

They passed the play room. They passed the toy room. Ratchet stopped in front of a door Drift had only seen in passing, but never actually entered. Inside was a table which resembled one they’d used for play before, but it had more straps than Drift was used to seeing. There was very little decoration in here, and none of the usual instruments.

He wanted to ask, but he knew better than to speak.

“You know better than to interfere with me and my patients,” Ratchet said as he leaned down and grabbed Drift by the nearest arm, yanking him to his feet. “Or I thought you did. Clearly, you need a reminder.”

Drift’s knees wobbled. “I’m sorry, Ratchet. I–”

“Damn right, you’re sorry.” Ratchet towed him toward the table and strapped him into it with perfunct motions, making no effort to stroke Drift like he usually would.

His arms were pinned above his head, too high to be comfortable, and his frame was situated at a slope where he could look down the length of himself, and see everything Ratchet did.

The distance between them grew and grew. Drift hated every moment of it. He wanted to squeeze his optics shut in hopes that when he opened them, this would all be a horrible purge. But he didn’t dare look away.

“You misbehaved, Drift, and I don’t have time for misbehaving toys. They aren’t any use to me.” Ratchet tightened the straps, forcing Drift’s legs wider than they’d ever been. His hips twinged, aching to ease the strain.

Drift was so secure, he couldn’t squirm. All of his joints started to protest the pressure, sending tentative alerts to his processor.

Ratchet didn’t trust him to be still.

Drift worked his intake again, trying to show his apology with his optics since it was obvious Ratchet didn’t want him to talk.

Ratchet fitted himself between Drift’s thighs, face still a storm of anger, his optics as hard as duryllium. “You’re lucky I’m bothering to punish you. Usually, it’s easier to throw useless things away.”

Two fingers plunged into Drift’s valve without warning. He twitched at the surprising burn, though his valve clenched down, eager as always for Ratchet’s touch. Except Ratchet didn’t linger at all. He didn’t tease or pinch or poke or prod. Two fingers became four with business-like, perfunctory precision as Ratchet scraped over his nodes, and pressed hard on his nub to bring him from mild arousal, to hot and dripping in the space of a few vents.

Ratchet was touching him, of course Drift was aroused. And it seemed to be what Ratchet wanted, because he didn’t berate Drift for getting slick. Maybe there was still hope?

“I don’t expect you’re going to enjoy this much,” Ratchet grunted, and he put a palm on Drift’s abdomen, pressing down, before the blunt force of his fist pushed its way into Drift’s valve, which wasn’t nearly aroused enough for the uneven thickness.

He swallowed a whine, his valve burning, lining tearing, the feel of energon joining the slick of his prefluid, but Ratchet didn’t stop. Just stared at him like he was a useless thing as he shoved his fist deeper and deeper, until he was elbow-deep and Drift’s armor bulged beneath the press of his palm.

Drift’s processor spun. His vents came in sharp bursts. His valve twitched and calipers clicked, and it burned, burned, burned, but his anterior node throbbed. He wanted Ratchet to touch him, and he knew he’d overload if Ratchet did.

It hurt, why did it hurt? It hurt in a way that wasn’t good, that didn’t make his spark bubble with joy. It hurt like a chemical burn, like welding without numbing, but his valve still throbbed, and his spike threatened to emerge, and he wanted to overload.

“But it’s punishment, so it’s not supposed to be enjoyed,” Ratchet continued. He ground his fist deep, deep enough to push against Drift’s ceiling node before he abruptly pulled it out.

Drift couldn’t stop himself from squeaking, or the gasp of pain. Couldn’t keep himself from squirming as Ratchet tore out of him, and then shoved back into him again, less the loving thrust of their usual play, and more like he was punching Drift. Like he was striking him from the inside, over and over, a sharp jolt to his ceiling node, and the hot flow of energon-slick-energon deep within his valve.

“Be still!” Ratchet snapped, and the shame of it coursed through Drift’s line, hotter than the fire in his valve, colder than the ice in Ratchet’s voice.

His face burned.

He forced himself to be still, despite the deep whisper urging him to beg, to ask Ratchet to stop. But he couldn’t. He’d already been disobedient enough today, and if he couldn’t behave now, Ratchet really would throw him away. Drift couldn’t bear it if that happened.

Snap.

A waft of cooler air tickled at his abdomen. Drift looked down, saw his panel removed as Ratchet so often did, and Ratchet reaching into his frame, where Drift bulged from Ratchet’s fist. Ratchet’s face was pinched with concentration, and he punched deep into Drift, all the way up to the elbow again, and twisted his fist, grinding his knuckles on Drift’s ceiling node.

Again, again, again, and Drift had to lock his joints, had to force himself to be still as his thighs shook and the pain-pleasure-agony sparked up and down his spinal strut. His head rolled back, and he realized there was a mirror on this ceiling, like in their playroom. He could see Ratchet’s arm buried so, so deep.

“Ah,” Ratchet said with a grunt of satisfaction. “There it is.”

Pop.

Ratchet twisted his wrist again, knuckles scrape-scraping against Drift’s ceiling node until his vision went white. His frame spasmed in a desperate bid for overload, but the pain was too much, not enough good in the agony, it kept him there, on the edge. He trembled, armor clattering, but he didn’t move, he didn’t squirm.

Then there was pain, far more excruciating than he had ever felt before. Drift choked on a vent, his vision fritzing with static. Through the haze, Ratchet smirked, pulled back his hand, and… and… Drift’s valve came with it. Or his valve lining. Or something.

He stared as Ratchet’s fist withdrew, but Drift’s valve was still wrapped around it, all stretchy mesh slick with energon and lubricant, glittering with sensor strands. Ratchet kept pulling out his fist, until his fingers were free, his whole arm slick with fluids, but Drift’s valve now sagged out of his frame. Cool wisps of air teased at the hot-swollen mesh, and when Ratchet wrapped his hand around the outside of Drift’s exposed valve, there weren’t words for the sensation that tore through Drift’s frame.

He burned, and he was in agony, and he convulsed, but there was pleasure, too. Winding over and through his frame, wrapping around his spark. He tried to be still, but he couldn’t, not as Ratchet stroked his exposed valve, up and down, up and down, the slick noises echoing around them. Ratchet squeezed and pumped Drift’s valve, fingers tight and possessive, the pleasure building, building, building but going nowhere, like he couldn’t quite tip over the edge.

“Better,” Ratchet said, his gaze warming by degrees, almost appreciative, almost a hint of the medic Drift loved.

Drift moaned, and he wasn’t even sure if it was pleasure or agony or some weird mix of both. His frame had gone haywire, misfiring and twitching without his control, but Ratchet wasn’t berating him, and Drift clung to that.

“Disobedient toys are only good for being used,” Ratchet said as his spike emerged and he tugged on it with his free hand, still fondling Drift’s valve with the other. Squeezing and pinching at the exposed lining, sometimes slipping a finger into the concave tunnel.

Drift made an incoherent noise.

“Right now, this is the only part of you that’s behaving,” Ratchet said as he stroked Drift’s protruded valve, up and down, up and down, like it was a spike. “Maybe it’s the only part I’ll keep.”

No.

No, no, no.

Drift whimpered. He didn’t want Ratchet to throw him away. He could be good, he really could! He tried to say as much, but everything misfired. His vocalizer spat static, his processor spun. His spike throbbed and throbbed in its sheath, and Drift forced himself to keep it stowed.

Ratchet hadn’t asked for his spike, and letting it free would be more misbehavior. Ratchet would be angry, and Drift didn’t want to let him down. So he denied it, again and again, but each time was harder than the last.

His valve was a swollen thing of pain, hot and aching, streaked with energon, and what little lubricant he’d managed to produce. His lining was raw, scraped in some places, torn in others. It felt like Ratchet’s palm was made of sandpaper, rasping up and down his exposed mesh.

“Though it might be useless like this,” Ratchet said as he moved closer, as he cupped the end of Drift’s inverted valve, and guided the head of his spike to it, pre-fluid dripping from the engorged tip. “Only one way to find out.”

Drift would have screamed, if he’d had ventilations for it, if his vocalizer worked. All he could manage was static, the arch of his backstrut, the dizzying span of agony in his processor. Ratchet thrust into the inside-out tunnel of his valve, no lubricant, and it was a raw pain.

His grip on Drift’s valve was firm, holding him as he pushed into Drift’s valve and started to move, rocking in and out, shallow at first, and then deeper. He squeezed himself through Drift’s inverted mesh, and grunted. His field flooded over Drift, syrupy with pleasure.

He was… he was pleased. Ratchet was pleased. Ratchet felt good. Maybe Ratchet was going to forgive him?

“Don’t overload,” Ratchet warned as he pumped into Drift’s valve, faster and faster, harder and harder, chasing after his own pleasure. “Useless as you are, this is meant to be punishment.”

Drift’s spark clenched. He swallowed over a lump in his intake.

Ratchet pinched at his valve lining, plucking sharp, and Drift jolted, focusing on him. “Pay attention, toy.”

“Yes, Ratchet,” Drift rasped, forcing out the words through layers of static.

He held back his spike. He threw back the rolling waves of pleasure-pain-pleasure, though it coiled and burned in his tanks, throbbed behind his spark.

It hurt, and he loved it, and it burned, and he hated it, but it was also Ratchet, and he wanted it. He wanted to be good. He wanted to obey. He was sorry, sorry, sorry.

But Ratchet’s hand was on his valve, and his fingers were stroking Drift everywhere, and his spike was inside him, and Drift loved Ratchet’s spike. Loved, loved, loved it. He was aroused, but he shouldn’t be. This was punishment. He wasn’t supposed to enjoy it.

Drift’s vents hiccuped.

It felt so good, and he wanted to overload. He liked it more than he hated it, and that was horrible. It was supposed to be a punishment. He was supposed to be learning a lesson, and all he wanted to do was beg for Ratchet to let him overload, to happily ask Ratchet to keep using his frame. He belonged to Ratchet, every inch of him.

Heat welled at the back of his optics, shame clogging the back of his intake. He was a good pet, he was. He enjoyed what Ratchet did to him, like he was supposed to, but he wasn’t supposed to enjoy this, and Drift didn’t know what to do. He didn’t want to be a bad pet! He wanted to be good! He wanted Ratchet to be happy with him, to keep him, to… to…

It spilled out of him before he could stop it, optical fluid leaking from his ducts, and sobs hitching in his vents. Shame inflamed his face. He would have turned away from Ratchet, save that Ratchet would’ve been angry, so he didn’t. He just watched, and tried to hold himself back from the pleasure he shouldn’t have.

Ratchet’s field turned volcanic with pleasure seconds before he shoved against Drift, half-jamming his valve mesh into his pelvic array. Hot spurts of transfluid coated Drift’s valve as Ratchet overloaded, splashing over his torn lining, and oversensitive nodes. Ratchet squeezed him like he was nothing more than a hot, wet tube for fragging, and Drift sobbed with it.

He didn’t want to be an empty toy. He wanted to belong to Ratchet. He was so, so sorry, and the apology tumbled from his lips, an endless, static-filled litany.

Ratchet grunted and shifted back, withdrawing his spike. “Still useful while attached, I guess,” he said as he stroked Drift’s valve lining. “For now.”

Drift brimmed with gratitude. It sounded like Ratchet was satisfied. This was a good thing.

“Let’s put you back together, pet,” Ratchet said as he took hold of Drift’s valve and pushed it back up into him, the girth of his fist worse now that Drift was oversensitized and desperate.

“Thank you,” Drift moaned anyway. “Thank you, Ratchet. Thank you.”

“I don’t punish you because I enjoy it,” Ratchet said as he fiddled with Drift’s pelvic array and pop, Drift’s valve snapped into place.

Drift’s back arched, a fiery rush of agony spiking through his frame, as every sensor, even those he hadn’t realized were dull, surged back to life.

“I can’t have a misbehaving pet, you understand that,” Ratchet said as he petted Drift through the spasms before turning to grab something from beneath the berth. “I’m a busy mech. I don’t have time for useless pets.”

Drift sobbed and nodded. He trembled with unspent charge. “Yes, Ratchet.”

“This better not happen again.” Ratchet pulled out cleanser, and Drift despaired. He wished he could close his thighs, but he couldn’t stop Ratchet from squirting it against his raw mesh..

It washed out of him — cleanser mixed with energon and transfluid — splattering to the ground. He couldn’t even keep Ratchet’s transfluid in him?

Drift cowered under the weight of his shame. He wasn’t allowed even that. Ratchet must still be furious with him.

“There are better things I can do with my time. There are plenty of mechs who would be eager to take your place,” Ratchet continued as he replaced the cleanser with a nanite gel, soothing Drift’s abraded mesh with the cool slick.

Drift dared hope. If Ratchet was fixing him, maybe it meant he was going to keep Drift after all.

“Rodimus is one of them, of course. I suppose he could be trained,” Ratchet mused aloud.

Drift burned with jealousy, but he bit his glossa. He knew better now. It wasn’t his place to decide who could have Ratchet. He could only be grateful Ratchet had chosen him, and do his best every day to keep Ratchet’s attention. Good pets kept Ratchet’s attention.

Ratchet snapped his armor back into place, and then he slipped an item out of his subspace. Drift’s optics widened with recognition. He only wore his modesty panel when he was out on missions. Why was Ratchet reattaching it now?

It clicked into place, and Drift flinched.

“Goldbug was sniffing around here the other day, too. He’s smaller than you, but that’s not a problem,” Ratchet hummed as he unstrapped Drift from the berth, and pulled him to his feet.

Drift wobbled, everything from the waist down feeling like fire, but he forced himself to stand. Ratchet’s hands were heavy on his shoulders, the weight of his field oppressive and insistent.

“I’ve invested a lot of time in you, Drift,” Ratchet said as he gripped Drift’s chin and tilted his head up, forcing him to look into Ratchet’s optics. “I don’t particularly want that to be a waste, but if I want a more obedient toy, I know where I can find one. Understand?”

Drift shook. “Yes, Ratchet.” His hands formed fists. His optics burned, tears turning crusty at the corner of them. “I’m sorry. I promise it’ll never happen again. I swear I’ll behave. Please don’t abandon me.”

“This is the only time I’ll punish you.” Ratchet cupped Drift’s face with both hands, fingers firm and bruising. Drift couldn’t look away if he tried. “Next time, I’ll find someone else to be my pet. Someone who actually wants to be.”

“I do want to be!” Drift insisted.

“We’ll see.” Ratchet pressed a kiss to his forehead and released Drift’s face. He took Drift’s hand and tucked a mesh cloth into it, damp with solvent. “Clean yourself up, and then sterilize this room, top to bottom.”

Ratchet looked down, making a face at the spill of cleanser and transfluid and energon and lubricant beneath Drift’s feet. “You made a mess.”

“I’m sorry,” Drift mumbled, head hanging with shame. He had made a mess. It was on his thighs, too. His valve ached and burned, and he didn’t want to move. Just standing was a special kind of agony.

But Ratchet wanted him on his feet, so he stayed where he was put.

“Please don’t throw me away,” Drift begged. “I don’t want to be replaced. I want to be good. I swear.”

Ratchet grunted with acknowledgment. “I guess we’ll have to see.” He took a step back, and Drift ached with the loss of his proximity. “When you’re done here, clean the other surgical room, and then Rodimus’ room, too. He needs to recover, so do it quietly.”

Drift’s mouth opened to protest, but he snapped it shut just as quickly. He could be good. He could be obedient.

“Yes, Ratchet,” he said.

“If you behave, we can have fun tonight. Real fun,” Ratchet said as he turned and headed for the door.

The open door. The door had been open the whole time. Where anyone walking by could have seen Drift’s shame. Where anyone in the hall would have heard him getting punished. Where Rodimus was only a couple doors down and definitely heard everything.

Drift shook. Humiliation sparked on his finials. He felt hot all over, and it had nothing to do with the fire in his valve.

“Yes, Ratchet.” Drift choked on the words, his vocalizer heavy with static.

Ratchet paused in the doorway to look back at him, optics dark with consideration before the corner of his mouth curved with a bare smile. “Good pet,” he said, and then he was gone.

Drift stood there for a time he couldn’t count with a deactivated chronometer. He gripped the mesh cloths, his valve burning and aching and throbbing. His knees wobbled. His armor clattered. Zips of unrealized charge ate at his sensory net. Exhaustion made his optics flicker, but he denied every attempt to power down.

And then he forced himself to move, dropping slowly to his knees, staring at the mess on the floor. The mess he’d made. He needed to clean this up. He needed to sanitize this room, and the other two rooms. He needed to be good and useful to Ratchet so he wouldn’t be thrown away.

Drift belonged to Ratchet, not the other way around. Somehow, he’d forgotten that. If he wanted to keep Ratchet, he had to make sure he was the very best pet so Ratchet wouldn’t even consider replacing him.

As long as he was good, Ratchet wouldn’t think about Rodimus. Drift could do that. He could be better.

Drift started to scrub.

***