[G1] Feels Like Tonight

Peace and quiet are forever in short supply around the Ark. There’s always something going on, and there’s barely any space as it is, so trying to find an opportunity to be alone is as difficult as keeping his paint immaculate.

Luck, however, is on Sunstreaker’s side. Because Sideswipe is off doing something he’s being particularly secretive about, and Sunstreaker has their shared quarters all to himself. There’s no one in the rooms to either side of theirs, and most of the other Autobots are out doing chores or performing their duties or indulging in their hobbies.

It’s nice and quiet and perfect, and Sunstreaker vents a little sigh as he sinks into the plush couch he and Sideswipe built out of scrap. He mindlessly doodles on one of his sketch pads, nothing in particular, just vague lines and colors to keep his fingers occupied while his processor wanders. He’s got the stereo crooning a soft, wordless tune, and the day honestly couldn’t get any more perfect.

Which is why, of course, the door slides open with a rickety creak, and Sideswipe comes strolling inside, having the audacity to whistle. He’s grinning, a bounce in his step, and while a happy Sideswipe is a handsome Sideswipe, Sunstreaker is disappointed his solitude has come to an end.

There’s something in Sideswipe’s field, in his side of the bond carefully shielded from Sunstreaker, that speaks of mischief. Well, Sunstreaker wants no part of mischief today, thank you very much. He prepares a refusal and has it ready on the tip of his glossa.

Sideswipe hums a happy trio of notes when he spots Sunstreaker and grabs one of the chairs they usually have in front of the game station. He drags it closer, two of the legs scraping over the floor, and plants it in front of Sunstreaker. Backward, of course, because this is Sideswipe.

Sunstreaker’s hackles raise.

“Hey, Sunny?” Sideswipe prompts as he drops down into the chair and rests his arms across the back of it, plopping his chin down on his wrists.

Sunstreaker’s in enough of a good mood that he allows the nickname. Just this once. Though the mischief in Sideswipe’s actions threatens to sour his happiness and curdle it into irritation.


“You know I love you, right?” Sideswipe says conversationally, and there’s just enough of something in his tone to disprove his innocence.

Sunstreaker scowls. Sometimes, Sideswipe says those kinds of things because he thinks Sunstreaker needs to hear it, and sometimes, Sunstreaker does. It warms his spark and makes him tingly, and then all he wants to do is snuggle Sideswipe for a few hours.

But also, sometimes Sideswipe says it because he’s Up To Something ™ and he’s trying to connive Sunstreaker into playing along. Sunstreaker usually ends up agreeing because he can never resist Sideswipe when he’s being cute and charming and lovable.

“I don’t have time for a prank, Sideswipe,” Sunstreaker says.

“I’m being serious here,” Sideswipe insists, attempting to sound earnest.

It still sounds fake.

Sunstreaker snorts. “Right.” He turns his attention back to his random doodles. You know, there might be something to the geometric lines and empty space. Perhaps if he filled it in with color, it might be worthwhile.

Fingers close around the top of his sketchpad, tilting it down and forcing Sunstreaker’s gaze away from it. “Hey,” he repeats. “I love you.” This time, he manages to sound serious.

Sunstreaker looks at his twin, and Sideswipe looks serious, too. The smile on his lips is soft and genuine. The mischief in his field is gone. So this isn’t about a prank.

“And there’s nothing you could want from me that’ll change that,” Sideswipe adds, so earnest it bleeds from his seams.

Sunstreaker’s optics narrow even as his spark starts a weird off-beat rhythm in his chassis. There’s something going on here, and he’s not sure what it is. He’s also not sure he wants to know.

“Where are you going with this?”

Sideswipe’s fingers slide free of the datapad. He grips the back of the chair and starts to rock back and forth in it. “Me and Ratchet both,” he says cryptically. Sometimes he can take forever to get to a point. Especially if he thinks Sunstreaker is going to react poorly to it. “You can ask us anything.”

“Okay…” Sunstreaker peers at his twin, but can’t figure out what he’s trying to say. Still, he supposes it’s nice to know. Maybe Sideswipe is just in one of those moods where he thinks Sunstreaker needs a reminder about how he feels. Sides just knows these things sometimes. Even before Sunstreaker does.

“Right.” Sideswipe nods like he’s solved some kind of puzzle before one hand scrubs the back of his head. “So, uh, is there anything you want to ask? Me? Us? Together?”

Sunstreaker vents a sigh. Whatever this is, Sideswipe isn’t going to let this go anytime soon, which means the quicker Sunstreaker makes him talk, the quicker he can get back to sketching.

He taps the end of his stylus against the datapad. “Stop fishing and say what you mean, Sideswipe,” he says. “Because I have no idea what you’re talking about.” He’d been enjoying his rare peace and quiet.

Sideswipe drags in a big vent and then blurts out, “Kink!” before he rocks on his chair and his little smile turns into a broader grin. “Specifically a messy one you’re interested in. Not that I peeked or anything, but the last couple of times we merged, I got a whiff, and it keeps getting stronger.”

Heat floods Sunstreaker’s face. If Sideswipe caught on through one of their merges, it must have been one of Sunstreaker’s stronger and more frequent fantasies. The ones he buries deep specifically so his brother and their lover don’t find out. Sunstreaker doesn’t even know if he’s ready to admit them to himself, much less his partners.

He’s afraid of what they’ll say when they find out. He fears what it means about him to admit these… these odd kinks. Oh sure, Ratchet and Sideswipe claim he can ask for anything, but they can’t mean it. Once they find out all the dirty, twisted things occupying Sunstreaker’s fantasies, they’ll change their minds fast. They’ll change how they feel about him, too. They’ll see him for the depraved creature he is.

Sunstreaker frantically searches for a way out of this. He tries to think of a denial – which never works when one of your lovers is the other half of your spark. He tries to think of a misdirection, but he’s spent too much time thinking to brush it off. He’s caught, he knows he is, and the energon in his tank starts to curdle.

Sideswipe rubs the back of his head again. “I told Ratch, by the way, and we’ve been waiting for you to bring it up yourself but…” Sideswipe shrugs, his grin sheepish. “You haven’t.”

“Your point?” Sunstreaker asks, his mouth dry and his intake overtaken by a huge lump.

“We’re willing.” The chair rocks closer, and the touch of Sideswipe’s field to his is both cautious and gentle. “If it’s something you actually want, I mean.”

Which fantasy, Sunstreaker wonders. Which illicit desire had Sideswipe seen? Surely, not the darkest of them, the dirtiest. No way would Sideswipe be that eager.

Sideswipe’s voice drops into a lower register then, one that always makes something tighten inside Sunstreaker and bloom with heat. “We thought, you know, we’d tie you down, maybe get out that vibe you like.” He pauses, glossa sweeping over his lips. “Then we’d go until you were so wet, so covered in us, that you can’t even remember your name.”

Sunstreaker’s ventilations turn shallow. His optics spiral wider as the heat in his face turns into an inferno. He thinks he knows which fantasy Sideswipe saw, and it’s definitely one of the tamer ones, which is a relief. He licks his lips with a dry glossa, however, because now the possibilities are spinning inside of him.

“Does that sound like something you want?” Sideswipe asks, so close now Sunstreaker can feel the wisp of his ex-vents, like hot puffs against his armor.

“Yes,” Sunstreaker manages, through static and a tight intake, fantasies spiraling free inside of him, the idea of so much pleasure racing through his system.

“Awesome!” Sideswipe bounces up from the chair, as full of energy as ever, and brushes his lips over Sunstreaker’s forehead. “Then don’t worry about a thing, bro. Me and Ratch’ll take care of everything.”

Sideswipe’s field is a tickling caress pouring over Sunstreaker’s sensitive derma. “Ratchet and I,” he corrects, but it sounds distant to him, compared to the pounding in his audials.

Ratchet and Sideswipe both. Taking him. Filling him with transfluid. Using him. Over and over and over…

Sideswipe snorts and taps Sunstreaker’s nasal ridge. “You’re adorable,” he says, and with a wiggle of his fingers, strides toward the door. “See you tonight!”

With that, Sideswipe flounces out of the room, leaving Sunstreaker to stew in his arousal and anticipation. No doubt he’s gone to inform Ratchet of their plans for the evening, and all Sunstreaker can do is stare blankly at his doodles. His engine purrs at the mere thought of what his twin has in store for him.

He’s beyond thrilled that they are willing to indulge in one of his fantasies. And it’s a relief Sideswipe hadn’t stumbled into one of the weirder ones. Clearly, he needs to batten the hatches and firm up his firewalls if he’s going to keep those fantasies from his brother. At least until Sunstreaker is willing to admit them anyway.

Tonight is going to be great, Sunstraeker tells himself, and puts down the datapad. He has to be presentable. Which means it’s time for a deep wash, repaint, and wax. His lovers deserve the best from him.


In between wax layer three and the final layer, Sunstreaker’s comm pings him with an incoming message. He accepts the mail as he works on his right shinguard, smoothing the wax over and over into his armor until it is a lustrous, touchable gold.

There’s not much to it. The message is from Sideswipe and all it gives it a place – Ratchet’s quarters – and a time. Sunstreaker has an hour to finish his waxing and grab a cube to refuel before he’s supposed to show up.

He’s simultaneously giddy and nervous when the time arrives, and he stands outside the door, shifting from foot to foot. He doesn’t even have to knock because Sideswipe opens the door before he can lift his hand. Spark bonds are a convenient thing.

Sideswipe grins and snatches Sunstreaker, yanking him into the room and into a fierce kiss that tastes of solar-grade and sweet jellies. Sunstreaker stumbles against his twin, hands flailing at nothing, even as he relents, mouth opening to the hungry press of Sideswipe’s glossa. Sunstreaker moans, melting against his twin, optics half-shuttering, only barely registering the noise of the door sliding shut behind him.

Sideswipe’s hands caress his sides before he pulls out of the kiss with a light nip. “Hey, bro,” he says, brushing the tip of his nasal ridge against Sunstreaker’s. “Fancy meeting you here.”

Sunstreaker barks a laugh. Primus, his brother is an idiot. He loves the goof so much.

Movement in his periphery makes Sunstreaker tense, until his threat protocols recognize the blur of white and red paint.

“Welcome to the party,” Ratchet says.

Sunstreaker has a moment before he’s spun out of Sideswipe’s embrace and into Ratchet’s, the medic sealing his lips over Sunstreaker’s in a scorching kiss, taking and claiming all at once.

Sunstreaker outright whimpers, clutching at Ratchet’s shoulders, arousal pooling into a hot throb in his belly. Ratchet’s field is like a dozen tiny fingers stroking over his armor, and Sunstreaker’s spike throbs.

Glossa and denta taste him all at once before Ratchet sets him free. Sunstreaker staggers, like he can’t get his tires beneath him, and then Sideswipe is there, hands on Sunstreaker’s cheeks, tugging him into another delicious kiss. His lips are warm and tender, and more heat seeps into Sunstreaker’s frame.

He sags, knees wobbling, until Ratchet is there behind him, nuzzling the back of his head, hands stroking over his armor. His fingers are light on Sunstreaker’s seams, his palms a soft sweep against gold plating.

Sunstreaker moans, dizzy. He hadn’t expected this. He thought they’d get right to the kink and the fragging. But this feels like they’ve been waiting for him all day and are happy to see him. Like their day isn’t complete until he’s been in their arms.

It’s wonderful.

“You look gorgeous, Sunstreaker,” Ratchet murmurs against the back of his audial, his rough voice resonating through Sunstreaker’s processor.

Sunstreaker hums into the kiss. Sideswipe draws back, leaving little parting licks over Sunstreaker’s lips, grinning with pride at himself.

“You definitely do,” he says, and brushes the tips of their noses together. “Love it when you pretty yourself up for us.”

“I always look good,” Sunstreaker retorts, but it’s hard to hold on to his indignant tone when Sideswipe is looking at him like that. His face heats, and he looks away. “So, uh, now what?”

Ratchet draws away from behind him, leaving Sunstreaker’s back chilly, but only so he can step into view. He twirls something around his fingers, which Sunstreaker can’t identify until they settle with a clank of metal on metal.

“Now we use these, if you want,” he says with a smile wicked enough to rival Sideswipe’s.

His twin can get quite creative, but Ratchet is downright sneaky, and damn good at turning Sideswipe’s little prompts into something debauched and delicious.

Sunstreaker eyes the cuffs with nothing short of lust. If anyone else had suggested it, he’d be out the door in a flash. But he trusts Ratchet, and he definitely trusts Sideswipe, and the idea of putting his trust in their hands, letting them have their wicked way with him, it makes his engine rev.

He manages a nod, his optics glazing over as he imagines what all they’re going to do to him. He has so many fantasies, so many things he wants to experience. He feels like someone’s laid out a buffet of sweets in front of him and told him to have as much as he wants.

“I thought you might,” Ratchet murmurs and takes Sunstreaker’s hand, giving him a light pull toward the berth. “Want to be on your back or your front?”

Ratchet always asks. Every time. Like he knows he needs to. Sideswipe knows, of course, because he can sense the anxiety in Sunstreaker’s spark. But Ratchet has figured it out, and that he’s paid that much attention makes something inside Sunstreaker go warm and liquid.

“Back,” Sunstreaker answers. He wants to be able to see them, to watch their faces.

“Great choice, bro.” Sideswipe appears with another set of cuffs and a few loops of chain. “Now we can see everything, too.”

Heat makes Sunstreaker feel like his face is glowing, but he lets them arrange him on the berth, arousal growing heavier and heavier inside of him. His spike demands to be freed, even as his valve lubricates, fluid pooling against his panel. He waits for the plan and denies both requests.

They guide him onto his back and cuff his wrists, pinning his arms above his head. He’s got enough slack that he could get some inertia and break free if he wants, not that he does. The consideration, however, is welcome.

Sideswipe climbs on the berth, kisses him long and deep, making little noises of delight in his intake. He strokes over Sunstreaker’s belly, teasing into ticklish seams, and Sunstreaker squirms. Idiot. Sideswipe’s always like this.

Ratchet tugs Sunstreaker’s aft to the edge of the berth, his knees dangling freely, until cuffs clamp about his ankles. Sideswipe takes the chance to nuzzle into Sunstreaker’s intake, lips and denta leaving sharp nips that make Sunstreaker squirm. He hears a noise, a low and quiet drone, and realize that it’s him, moaning.

He feels dizzy, their fields pressing against his, filling in the nooks and crannies. It’s more than he could have hoped for.

Chains rattle as they are drawn taut. His legs are pulled open, thighs parted to leave ample room for Sideswipe or Ratchet to fit between them, but there’s enough slack he’s not immobile. He’s spread open for their enjoyment, and his valve throbs at the thought.

Sunstreaker works his intake, his vents spinning faster. Especially as Sideswipe sits him up and wedges a pillow behind his upper back, tilting him so that he can see everything they’re going to do to him.

Ratchet presses a kiss to the inside of his thigh, and Sunstreaker moans. His legs tremble as the hot wash of Ratchet’s ex-vent teases his cables. Fingers flirt over his valve panel, and it takes all Sunstreaker has not to pop open then and there. Anticipation coils inside of him like a blaster prepped to fire.

“There’s one more accessory.” Ratchet straightens, one hand stroking Sunstreaker’s thigh as the other digs around in his subspace. He pulls out a small, circular object and taps Sunstreaker’s spike panel. “This is to make sure that the only way you can overload is through your valve. That okay?”

Sunstreaker’s moan is outright guttural. His hips jutter upward as best they can, though he can’t get any leverage. Oh, yes, please.

“Words, Sunny,” Ratchet reminds him.

Sunstreaker sucks in a heavy vent, tries to focus through the need sluicing charge in his lines. “Yes,” he grinds out and turns his head toward Sideswipe, seeking out a kiss. “Please.”

“Then open up.” Ratchet’s fingers slide over his panel, and Sunstreaker quickly obeys, his spike surging free with embarrassing eagerness.

Or at least he would’ve been embarrassed, if Ratchet hadn’t made an approving noise before fondling Sunstreaker’s spike with obvious appreciation. He rubs a finger over the sensitive crown, teasing the transfluid slit, and Sunstreaker makes a noise in his intake, hips rocking upward.

“You’re so sexy,” Sideswipe murmurs as he nuzzles into Sunstreaker’s intake, breathing hot and humid over his cables. “Love how you just surrender for us.”

Sunstreaker licks his lips. He opens his mouth but all that emerges is a crackle of static as Ratchet carefully and gently eases the cap over Sunstreaker’s spike. A dab of medical glue holds it in place. There must be some kind of circuitry in the cap because Sunstreaker’s spike starts to depressurize, and Ratchet guides it back into his sheath.

“Close up,” Ratchet says.

Sunstreaker obeys with a moan. His spike feels full and heavy behind his panel. Like it’s pressurized to fill every available inch within him, and nothing more. There’s a quiet click as the cap magnetizes to his panel. It won’t be opening anytime soon, not without Ratchet’s help.

Something closer to a whine spills out of Sunstreaker’s intake. His valve throbs harder, panel snapping aside, suddenly desperate for contact. He wants Ratchet inside of him. Or Sideswipe. Or both. He wants something touching his eager nodes, feeding the need gnawing at his spark.

“This isn’t a scene.” Ratchet’s voice tugs Sunstreaker’s awareness back outward, even as his fingers gently stroke around Sunstreaker’s valve rim, teasing the outer sensory clusters. “But if you need us to stop or it gets to be too much, just say so.”

“Like a safeword?” Sunstreaker asks. It’s getting hard to focus with the need pulsing through his synapses.

Ratchet’s fingers keep stroking around his valve, teasing the flexible rim, dancing over his cluster of sensory nodes, making Sunstreaker tingle. “Stop should be enough, but if it makes you feel better to have a safe word, how about daffodil?”

“Because you’re a pretty flower,” Sideswipe purrs with a laugh. His hand smooths over Sunstreaker’s belly, and the stroke of it sends tingles up Sunstreaker’s backstrut. “I like it.”

“Daffodil,” Sunstreaker echoes. His glossa sweeps over his lips as he takes in the sheer want on Ratchet’s face. “If I want you to stop.”

“Yes.” Ratchet’s thumb circles his anterior node slowly, and Sunstreaker’s hips rock into the touch, his entire array throbbing as charge crackles through his lines. “We’re going to frag you, Sunstreaker. Over and over again. We’re going to fill you with our transfluid while you overload so many times, you don’t know where one ends and the other begins. Is that alright?”

Sunstreaker’s head tips back, his mouth open on a gasp. All he can focus on is that steady circling and the pressure building behind it. The sharp bursts of pleasure volleying in his node, and the building need to overload. Sideswipe’s mouth is like fire on his intake, and their fields are a double-embrace he doesn’t want to escape.

“Sunny,” Sideswipe murmurs as he strokes over Sunstreaker’s closed spike panel. “You have to use your words.”

Sunstreaker whines, his hips rocking up into his partner’s touch. “Y-yes,” he gasps out, processor spinning, lubricant steadily seeping from his valve.

“Good,” Ratchet purrs. His hand vanishes from Sunstreaker’s valve, and Sunstreaker whimpers in protest, until he feels the pressure of a spike against his rim.

He gasps an encouragement, hands curling into fists, frame straining toward the grip on his hips, one damp and one not. His thoughts are spinning, spinning, his valve rippling frantically. Ratchet slides into him, hot and firm, so slow, and Sunstreaker keens, backstrut arching, as overload spills over him in a hot, crackling fire.

His noises are swallowed by Sideswipe’s mouth, his brother rubbing against his side, hands everywhere. His valve clutches at Ratchet’s spike, charge rushing out, and he distantly hears Ratchet suck in a vent of delight. The hands on his hips tighten, and Sunstreaker’s spark flares, pleasure making sparks dance in his vision.

Ratchet bottoms out and grinds, the pressure of his array against Sunstreaker’s rim forcing out a moan. Sunstreaker bucks up against Ratchet, and the chains rattle, pleasure simmering inside of him, with no chance to cool from the overload.

“Primus, you’re gorgeous,” Sideswipe murmurs as he rains kisses all over Sunstreaker, his hands stroking and touching, caressing every inch within reach. “Look at you, overloading for us, making all these yummy noises.”

Sunstreaker moans and turns his head, trying to capture Sideswipe’s lip, and Sideswipe obliges, kissing him soft and deep. Ratchet starts to move, his spike gliding in and out of Sunstreaker’s valve, reigniting nodes now sensitive from the first overload. His hands tighten around Sunstreaker’s hips, pushing and pulling him onto Ratchet’s spike, each grind so deep against his ceiling node.

Ratchet’s already thick and hot. Charge crackles around his spike, nipping at Sunstreaker’s internal nodes. He can feel the burning wash of Ratchet’s ex-vents, and the need yawing in Ratchet’s field.

Sunstreaker tries to pull his legs in closer, clamp them around Ratchet’s waist, but the chains bring him up short. He groans at the slight resistance of the chains. He’s not helpless, but he is trapped, and at the mercy of his lovers. The idea is intoxicating because they’re safe.

The crackling wash of Ratchet’s overload is almost a surprise, given Ratchet’s usual stamina. Or maybe it is intentional because of their plans for the evening. Sunstreaker shivers as Ratchet’s transfluid paints his valve, and Sideswipe nips his lips.

“Oh, Ratchet’s done,” he says against Sunstreaker’s lips. “My turn now.”

“Until it’s mine again,” Ratchet says with a little laugh. He withdraws slowly, still firm, his spike dragging long and slow over Sunstreaker’s nodes. “There’s one more accessory we need, too.”

“Yeah, I know.” Sideswipe squirms away from Sunstreaker, leaving him feeling a bit cold and abandoned on the berth, at least until Sideswipe notches between his thighs and moves into Sunstreaker with no fanfare.

“Gonna make you overload quick for me.” Sideswipe leans forward, hands braced to either side of Sunstreaker, hips thrusting in the pace he knows Sunstreaker likes best. His optics are bright and hungry, his glossa sweeping over and over his lips. “Wanna watch you whimper and writhe for me.”


Sunstreaker sucks in a heavy vent, his valve quivering. Sideswipe sinks into him fast and deep, with little circular grinds that put a delicious pressure on his outer node. More intoxicating is the wrap of his field, pulsing in tune to his thrusts.

Sunstreaker tries to rise up to meet him, but the cuffs limit his movement. All he can do is squirm, fluids making obscene noises between them, lubricant and transfluid both. Molten heat gathers in his valve, pushing him toward another overload, and a keen rises out of Sunstreaker’s intake.

He pants for ventilation, processor spinning. Sideswipe pushes into him, harder and faster, and then there’s a finger on Sunstreaker’s anterior node. It circles with a firm pressure, dragging all the fire straight to that sensitive sensor cluster. Sunstreaker’s weak to stimulation right there. Always has been.

He tosses his head back, grits his denta. Tries to hold on to his reserve, tries not to overload like some eager youngling recently discovering his array, but it’s impossible. Sideswipe’s field is like fire against his, and Sideswipe’s spike keeps jabbing all those nodes perfectly, and those circles are getting smaller and smaller around his node, until it’s just a hot-white flash of pleasure. A burst of it.

Sunstreaker drowns in his overload, making a noise that can only be described as binary as he shudders through a second overload, his valve spiraling down tight and milking Sideswipe’s spike for all it can give him. His thoughts drift in a haze of ecstasy, and it takes longer to find his frame again, as he sinks back into it, and the sensation of Sideswipe pushing into him faster and faster.

That droning noise is Sideswipe’s voice. His face is creased with delight, his optics hot and bright, lips moving.

“Fuck, you’re too sexy like this,” he’s blabbering, Sideswipe starts resorting to human swears when he gets too aroused. “So gorgeous and sweet. Love the way you feel around me. Love it when you overload like that. Love all of it. Love you.” He groans, thrusting faster and deeper, fingers tangling in the berth covers for leverage.

Sunstreaker’s head spins. All the compliments strike along his processor like little flicks to his anterior node. He clenches, engine revving, valve pulsing with renewed vigor. He’s not even the least bit exhausted, and the feeling of Sideswipe overloading, filling him with more transfluid is intoxicating. The sound Sideswipe makes is guttural and hungry, and he suddenly pulls out, a couple spurts of transfluid striping Sunstreaker’s array and landing hot-wet on his node.

Sunstreaker moans, his thighs trembling. “More,” he pleads, his vision hazy, processor spinning in the best kinds of ways.

“More’s coming,” Ratchet says, appearing between Sunstreaker’s thighs as Sideswipe shuffles away, his spike bobbing pressurized between his thighs, wet with transfluid and lubricant.

Sunstreaker wants to lick him so much right now. His mouth lubricates with the thought of it, Sideswipe sliding into him, so hot and thick, panting heavily, careful as he takes Sunstreaker’s mouth. The taste of his brother on his glossa, the sound of Sideswipe’s pleasure…

Sunstreaker moans, one that changes pitch into a whine as he feels the wet swipe of a glossa over his valve, and the careful touch of fingers on his rim, stroking the sensitive plating around it. He cycles his optics, tries to focus, sees Ratchet’s head between his thighs, and feels the gentle kiss against his anterior node.

Oh, Primus.

Sunstreaker’s head drops back. His spinal strut arches, hips squirming where Ratchet cradles them, as his mouth drops a dozen little kisses over Sunstreaker’s swollen valve. His rim ripples, his interior calipers clutching on nothing, squeezing out trickles of mixed fluids.

The berth dips as Sideswipe hops up onto it, snuggling against Sunstreaker’s side, peppering his intake with kisses.

“You have some of the best ideas, bro,” he says, ex-venting hot and wet, his field eager and charged against Sunstreaker’s. “We’re gonna fill you up so much, you’ll be cleaning us out for weeks.”

Sunstreaker groans.

Sideswipe’s hand slides down his frame, over his chassis and belly, across his groin, and then his fingers are on Sunstreaker’s sensor cluster, giving it a pinch. Sunstreaker growls and arches his hips, a spike sliding into him not soon after, Ratchet’s spike at that, bigger than Sideswipe’s, thicker.

Sunstreaker keens as the spike touches his nodes. Ratchet grabs his hips, tilts them a little, so the ridged crown of his spike can taste those nodes only grazed earlier. It sends a shock of fire through Sunstreaker’s valve.

“I brought you a gift, Sunstreaker,” Ratchet says, his voice and field like little drops of ecstasy to Sunstreaker’s processor. “Your brother’s got it now.”

“Gift?” Sunstreaker repeats, processor spinning too much to make sense of it.

Sideswipe’s hand vanishes from his node, and before Sunstreaker can protest, it returns. And it’s not alone. He’s got something attached to his finger, something that starts buzzing and vibrating on the sensitive plating surrounding Sunstreaker’s anterior cluster.

Oh. Oh, Primus.

Sunstreaker tilts his head back, optics squeezing shut, hips bucking, as overload tackles him like a Combaticon on the battlefield, a full frontal assault that leaves him dazed and shaking on the ground. His entire frame arches, charge lighting up his armor, dancing out from his protoform.

Sideswipe eases off with the vibrator, enough for Sunstreaker to catch a vent. He goes limp on the berth, completely surrendering to their touch, to Sideswipe kissing him – wet and hot and openmouthed – and Ratchet thrusting into him, steadier and faster and deeper, his hands smoothing up and over and around Sunstreaker’s legs.

“You love this, don’t you?” Sideswipe asks, his voice dark and sultry, like secret fantasies and the caverns under Cybertron and the taste of the finest high grade.

“He’s suited for it,” Ratchet says with lust in his tone, like a powerful engine turning over, a blaster rising to full charge. “Pleasure looks good on him.”

“It does. Almost wish everyone could see it, see how beautiful you are,” Sideswipe says against Sunstreaker’s audial. “We’d string you up in the common room, black ropes all around your frame, tied so you can’t move.”

“At our mercy is a good plan,” Ratchet agrees with a grunt. His thrusts deepen, ping something deep inside Sunstreaker that makes him whimper with pleasure.

His thoughts spin, caught up with their voices, the pleasure promised in their words.

“Everybody can watch as we make you overload again and again,” Sideswipe murmurs, his glossa tracing circles over Sunstreaker’s seams. “They’ll want to touch, but we won’t let them. They’ll beg us, and we’ll say no.”

“Because you’re ours,” Ratchet pants, grinding so deep, his spike throbbing, the thick head tapping over Sunstreaker’s ceiling node again and again. “And no one else can have you.”

Sunstreaker moans. The claim sounds fierce, genuine, and it rattles around inside his spark. Sideswipe loves him; Sideswipe is his twin. He doesn’t have a choice. But to want to keep him? To claim him? That’s something entirely free.

“Yes,” Sideswipe hisses, hips rolling, his spike rutting against Sunstreaker’s side. And then the vibrator is back, buzzing happily over Sunstreaker’s anterior node, and he arches again, frame caught by pleasure. “All ours.”

Sunstreaker jolts, overload pouring through him like an electric attack, setting his sensor net ablaze. He chokes out a sound as his fans roar, his valve spiraling down tight around Ratchet’s spike, his hands forming fists. The chains rattle as he thrashes, caught up in the ecstasy, with Sideswipe and Ratchet’s hands to guide him back down.

He’s panting as he collapses onto the berth, condensation slicking his frame. He barely notices that Ratchet has overloaded again, and now the fluids are trickling from his valve, soaking his aft. The room smells of interfacing and lubricant and transfluid. His valve aches for more, rim twitching as Ratchet withdraws, and Sideswipe replaces him.

Sunstreaker moans, head swinging toward Ratchet, the medic against his side now, his lips gentle as they catch Sunstreaker’s for a kiss. He tastes like something sweet and wonderful, and his hands are as clever as Sideswipe’s, gentle as he runs the vibrator over Sunstreaker’s most sensitive places, but on the lowest setting.

“We’re going to keep going,” Ratchet murmurs, a steamy promise against Sunstreaker’s audials. “Until our tanks run dry, and we’re spilling out of you.”

Sunstreaker whimpers, processor going bright with need, his worldview narrowing to this and only this.

It starts to blur together. Overload after overload, Ratchet and Sideswipe alternating, taking turns caressing him and spiking him, until Sunstreaker’s entire frame feels as though it’s one big, sensitive node. Until even the touch of their fingers on his knee or his belly makes him wail with need.

He’s never empty, he’s always full. He’s surrounded by them, claimed by them, taken again and again. The berth is soaked beneath his aft. His frame is on fire, blue charge licking out of his seams to light up the room. He tastes them both on his glossa and in the air, and he wishes he could vocalize how much he wants to lick them, suck them, swallow them.

The words ‘stop’ and ‘daffodil’ never cross his mind. Higher processing goes away, turned to mush. His thighs tremble, and his shoulders ache, and he’s floating on air. He’s loose and sloppy and taken so thoroughly, there’s no question who he belongs to.

Sideswipe. Ratchet. Both. Together.

Together, the key word, because somehow in the haze, they’ve unbound his legs. Someone’s crawled beneath him, behind him, cradling his frame. Sideswipe, he thinks, his arms around Sunstreaker’s chassis, his head tilted against Sunstreaker’s, his words a hot puff of compliments against Sunstreaker’s audial.

He slides up into Sunstreaker, path eased by the copious fluids, and Sunstreaker’s so open, he can only manage a light clench. But it’s okay, because Ratchet’s here, too, between Sunstreaker’s thighs, his hands gentle on Sunstreaker’s knees. Pushing them up and back, opening him up, making room for Ratchet to ease into his valve as well, a tight fit but a good one.

Sunstreaker moans, his head lolling back against Sideswipe’s shoulder, his spark heavy and swollen with affection. They move together, a stretch just shy of pain, but it’s better like this. Better to feel them both at once, Sideswipe behind and Ratchet in front, closing around him, holding him close.

He starts to shake, and it has nothing to do with fear, but everything to do with a rising tide of pleasure. It starts in his feet and works up his frame, rattling through his armor. It starts at his head and flows down, over his intake and shoulders and chassis and belly. It meets in his groin, collides, and tangles into a tighter and tighter knot.

“That’s it,” Sideswipe urges, his hand sliding down, over Sunstreaker’s belly, back to his node, all slippery and swollen, twice the size it should be. “Come on, Sunny. Overload for us, baby. Give us one more. I know you have it in you.”

Sunstreaker whimpers, exhausted and limp, barely able to roll onto their combined spikes, drowning in the ecstasy they offer. Ratchet’s lips press against the curve of his jaw, and Sunstreaker’s mouth opens, inviting him inside, the taste of his glossa so hot and wet and fleeting.

Ratchet nuzzles him, so sweet and encouraging. “You’re so beautiful, Sunstreaker,” he murmurs, and Sunstreaker’s spark flutters.

Sideswipe says it all the time, but he has to, because he’s Sunstreaker’s twin, and his brother, and he loves Sunstreaker. Oh, he believes it, too and Sunstreaker believes him when he says it, but coming from Ratchet, it’s something else entirely. It’s someone saying, I don’t already love you, but I find you beautiful anyway, and it makes Sunstreaker’s spark clench with exhilaration and fear.

“One more overload, Sunny,” Ratchet purrs, and Sunstreaker can’t even be angry for the loathed nickname, not with Ratchet pleading with him. Not with Ratchet’s mouth so hot against his jaw. “One more.”

“One more,” Sideswipe echoes, and they both shove deep, push into him at the same time, filling him to the brim and almost to capacity.

Sunstreaker’s valve convulses. It spirals tight before spilling charge in wave after wave, lighting up his internal nodes and licking over his lover’s spikes. Sunstreaker’s breath catches in his intake as he overloads. It strips away everything, his frame arrested by ecstasy and casting him adrift in a sea of it.

Sunstreaker whites out, his spark dancing. He floats outside his frame, every sensor lit with lightning, every line, every inch of his dermal net until he can’t feel anything but pleasure.

Everything goes wonderfully, deliciously blank, and he forgets there is ever a time he feels worthless, undesired, and unloved. Not when it’s here, so obvious, so very present around him.

By the time he sinks back into his frame and stops floating, the world around him is a different place. Figuratively speaking anyway. Unshuttering his optics takes monumental effort, and his visual feed is filled with gray static at first, until he reboots both it and his auditory feed.

He senses Ratchet and Sideswipe around him immediately. Their hands and lips on his frame, peppering him in gentle kisses and careful swipes of a damp meshcloth. The cuffs and chains are gone, leaving him free to move, not that he thinks he can. Every limb is languid, exhausted, and all he wants to do is lie here and soak it in.

His engine purrs, perfectly content, a sensation he hasn’t felt in a long while. Sunstreaker makes a happy noise and tries to snuggle into the frame nearest to him – a heck of a lot of red, Sideswipe he thinks.

“There you are,” Sideswipe murmurs affectionately, and scrubs his cheek over Sunstreaker’s. “We wondered when you’d come back to us.” There’s a hint of worry in his voice.

“Sorry,” Sunstreaker mumbles through static.

“I told him you were fine,” Ratchet says, exasperated. But his touch is gentle as he wipes down Sunstreaker’s inner thighs in short, efficient strokes. And he sounds relieved, too.

“Felt good,” Sunstreaker manages. He sighs with satisfaction. Ratchet’s so good at this, and the strokes of the cloth are soothing. He could easily fall back into recharge like this.

Until he feels the cloth slide further up, toward his very sticky array, lubricant and transfluid both seeping out of him. Sunstreaker tries to twist his hips away, the motion aborted because of his fatigue, and makes a protesting noise. His face heats with embarrassment.

Ratchet pauses and arches an orbital ridge at him. “You don’t want to be clean?”

“No… not yet,” Sunstreaker admits as he commands his panel to close, trapping their combined spill and his own lubricant inside him. It’ll be a mess to clean later but right now, it’s a reminder.

He curls half onto his side, trying to tuck his face against Sideswipe’s intake so neither of them can see his expression. He doesn’t want to be that clean. He wants… He wants them to be close to him, around him as much as they are inside him.

“Just…” Sunstreaker trails off, unsure how to express himself, and tries to curl into Sideswipe again, weak fingers making an aborted paw at Sideswipe’s armor.

“Hold you?” Sideswipe finishes for him. He curls an arm over Sunstreaker and tugs him closer, half on top of Sideswipe. “I can totally do that. I love when you’re all snuggly.”

“Feels good,” Sunstreaker murmurs and lets himself go limp, completely notched against his twin, close enough that he can feel and sense the beat of his twin’s spark. But his back is cold, and he knows he’s missing something. “Wait. Where’s–”

“Right here.” The berth dips behind Sunstreaker as Ratchet appears from wherever he’d gone – probably disposing of the mesh cloth for now. He slides up behind Sunstreaker, curling against Sunstreaker’s back, draping an arm over his midsection.

He’s squeezed between them, the heat of their frames buzzing against his, their fields embracing him entirely. His processor still floats in that wonderful haze of pleasure, and his spark is a content twirl inside his chassis. His array is deliciously sated, and when he twitches, he can still feel the spike cap.

Eh. They can get it in the morning. Sunstreaker doesn’t want to move. He likes this just the way it is. His twin and their lover petting him, two pairs of hands stroking over his frame soothing and adoring.

He never knew there could be this much bliss in a single moment.

“Told you we’d do it,” Sideswipe murmurs into the peaceful quiet, because he can never abide by silence for long, the brat.

“Shut up,” Sunstreaker grumbles. Always has to throw in an ‘I told you so’.

Ratchet laughs, the sound of it vibrating between Sunstreaker’s shoulders. “Anything for you, Sunny,” he says as he strokes his palm down Sunstreaker’s side, his field adding warm and comfortable pulses.

For once, Sunstreaker actually believes they mean it. Maybe he’s not ready to divulge all the other secret desires just yet, but he thinks he might in the future. Someday.

He’s getting closer to it any rate.

Because they love him. He’s sure of it. All that’s left is to trust it.



[G1] Before the Thunder 03

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

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

He knew what danger skulked in the night.

“State purpose,” Soundwave said to the dark.

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

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

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

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

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

“Menace,” Soundwave replied.

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

Soundwave tilted his head. “Threats defy treaty.”

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

“No harm intended to Bluestreak,” Soundwave replied.

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

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

Soundwave dipped his head. “Affirmative.”

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

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

The chill clotted his hydraulic fluid.

Warning received.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Fuel adequate.”

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

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


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

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

Soundwave worked his intake. “Yes.”

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

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

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

Soundwave worked his intake. He nodded.

“Verbal consent,” Bluestreak urged.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“And the other rules?” Soundwave asked.

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

Fair enough.

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

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

He refrained.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

All he had to do was seize it.

Soundwave ex-vented and sank into the kneel.

“Yes, sir.”

[G1] Before the Thunder 02

There was a certain ambient noise present in any bar, the volume of it varying by patronage. Visages was a mid-range lounge, casual conversation just low enough to hear the music pumping through the speakers, and the clink of glass on tabletops. So when silence descended throughout the space, it was enough to make Bluestreak’s armor crawl.

He finished mixing a Toxic Turnover and turned around, optics and sensory panels both scanning the bar to find the reason why. When Bluestreak found it, standing by the door awkwardly like he wasn’t sure what he was doing here, he almost dropped the finished drink.

What in Unicron’s rusted undergarments was Soundwave doing here? He wasn’t known for socializing or going to bars. And yes, Visages was welcoming to all types, former Autobots and Decepticons and Neutrals. But the only member of command of any faction to ever pass through those doors was Jazz, and no one blinked twice at that. It was just who Jazz was.

Soundwave was, as Jazz would say, a whole different kettle of fish.

Bluestreak watched, as did everyone else in the bar, as Soundwave gathered his wits about him and strode through the gawking crowd as if it didn’t bother him. He made a beeline for the bar, pulled out a stool, and sat himself carefully. If he noticed that the nearest mechs to the stool abruptly grabbed their drinks and made for an empty booth, he didn’t show it.

Bluestreak worked his intake and planted a smile on his lips. He slid the Toxic Turnover down to Sideswipe and grabbed the towel from his shoulder, hiding his nervousness by wiping his hands.

“Welcome to Visages,” he said cheerfully as he approached Soundwave, given that his other bartender seemed to have vanished the moment Soundwave appeared. Knew how to clear a room, he did. “What can I get for you?”

Soundwave stared at him for a long moment before he rested his arms on the counter. His mouthguard slid open, baring the lower half of his face to the room.

Bluestreak froze and would only later admit to staring under torture. Soundwave… was pretty. He’d imagined a scarred, horrifying visage. And yes, there were scars. Small ones, like little knifemarks around Soundwave’s lips and cheeks, but they didn’t detract from his appearance. His lips were ones Bluestreak could easily imagine sliding his thumb between. His cheeks tinged a pale blue as if he were blushing.


Soundwave gave his order, and Bluestreak hadn’t heard it. He was too busy ogling. He forced himself back into awareness, coughing a ventilation.

“Sorry, didn’t catch that,” he said with forced cheer, because now everyone in Visages was staring for an entirely different reason. “The noise, you know. What did you want?”

Soundwave shifted on the stool, as if he felt the weight of the stares. “Maccadam’s Special.”

“Simple enough. I’ll get right to it.” Bluestreak grinned a service-grin and whipped around, trying to hide the heat in his cheeks. Damn but Soundwave was pretty.

And it was just weird that he was here. In a bar. Ordering engex. Granted, the Maccadam’s Special was the most basic, least intoxicating drink on the menu, outside of a Weak Spritzer, but still. Soundwave wasn’t one known to desire socializing, and he hadn’t even brought any of his cassettes with him.

Did he even have friends?

Behind Bluestreak, the ambient noise picked up again, now low murmurs rather than the excited conversation it had been before. It was better than the silence, but only just. If Soundwave realized the effect he had on the patrons, he didn’t show it.

There was a treaty, so Soundwave wasn’t here to attack. Or at least Bluestreak hoped not. Soundwave was pretty loyal to Megatron, and was the last ‘Con Bluestreak expected to go against Megatron’s wishes. He wasn’t disallowed from coming into Visages either so he had every right to be here. It was just… weird.

Bluestreak poured the Special into a tall glass and turned back toward Soundwave, sliding it across the counter for him. “Should I, uh, start a tab or…?” He left the question open-ended, hoping to get more conversation out of the mech.

“Tab unnecessary,” Soundwave replied and offered a cred chip to Bluestreak. “Change unnecessary also.”

“Uh, thanks. I guess.” Bluestreak slid the chip into the reader at the register, and nearly boggled at the tip Soundwave offered him.

That was an absurd amount of creds. What the frag was Soundwave’s angle here? Well, his drinks were covered for the rest of his night either way.

The door opened again, with a loud bang, and Bluestreak nearly jumped.

“The fun has arrived!” Jazz announced loudly as he strode inside, hands in the air and a grin on his lips.

His arrival shattered the tension. Or cracked it any rate. More of the ambient noise returned, almost to a normal level. It was as if the patrons felt safer around Soundwave now that Jazz was here.

Jazz, who made a beeline to the bar, pulled out an empty stool beside Soundwave, and clambered up into it. “Sounders! Look at you, socializing with the common folk. I’m proud of you.” He slapped Soundwave’s shoulder, and Bluestreak’s vents caught in his intake.

Soundwave cringed, his mouth turning downward before he buried it behind his glass. He subtly inched away from Jazz, not that it made much difference.

“Hey Baby Blue,” Jazz continued as he rapped his hands on the counter in a playful beat, his visor bright and his grin a little too forced. “How’s it hanging?”

Bluestreak narrowed his optics. “Why do I feel like you’re up to no good right now?” He might have put a touch of a growl to his vocals, enough for Jazz to know he meant business.

His former commander, often lover, and occasional sub, just smirked and leaned an elbow on the counter, propping his chin into his hand. “I am nothing but good, sweetspark.” He flashed his visor in a wink. “Can I get a Pretty Prime?”

Bluestreak snorted. “I don’t know. You’ll have to ask Optimus about that.” He rolled his optics and turned back to the cabinet, sifting through the bottled brews for the one Jazz favored. “I don’t think he’s your type.”

“And sadly, he’s taken.” Jazz sighed theatrically. “What’s a mech gotta do to get a hot date around here? A thousand or so mechs on Cybertron and not a single love match to be found. Isn’t that right, Sounders?”

Jazz jostled Soundwave with his elbow, and Soundwave’s shoulders hunched. He curled around his drink, hardly touched, mouth twisted into a moue of aggravation.

Bluestreak pulled the cap off the brew and handed it to Jazz. “Maybe that’s because you’re not looking in the right places.”

Jazz barked a laugh. “You’re probably right about that, Blue. But hey, Sounders. Get this. If there’s someone around here who has no problem getting a date, it’s Baby Blue. Mechs love ‘im. He’s even got a stalker!”

Bluestreak sighed. He hadn’t believed it when Jazz sent him that message late last night. Of course, Bluestreak knew he’d been surveilled by someone, but a secret admirer? It sounded absurd, like some cheesy romantic comedy. If it wasn’t for the fact that Jazz knew better, Bluestreak would have thought it a tasteless joke.

“Can we not talk about that?” he asked as he wiped the bartop with his rag, though it wasn’t at all dirty. “I don’t like thinking about some creep out there following me.”

He glanced down the bar, but Riptide had emerged from wherever he’d been hiding, and was now taking care of the other patrons. It was a slow night. Which meant Bluestreak could sit here and chat with Jazz if he wanted, as long as he helped anyone who came around.

Not like Mirage could pitch a fit anyway. They co-owned this place. Bluestreak had as much say in how it was run as Mirage did.

“Fair enough.” Jazz slurped down half of his brew and lounged against the bar, giving Bluestreak a dopey grin. “But you know I’d never let anyone hurt ya, right? It don’t matter who they are.”

Bluestreak blinked. That was an oddly… intense statement, backed up by the intense glimmer in Jazz’s visor, and the reach of his field. This was as much Fun Time Jazz as it was Third-in-Command Jazz.

“Yeah,” Bluestreak said. “I know.” He slung the towel back over his shoulder. “Let me know if you need anything else, okay? Both of you.” He cut a gaze toward Soundwave, but the mech was staring into his glass like it held the answers to the universe.


Bluestreak shrugged and headed to the other end of the bar, where a rowdy trio of Neutrals were being obnoxious in their demands for more booze. Nope. They were cut off. Bluestreak didn’t need customers like them. Factions didn’t matter. Behavior did.

They complained, of course they did, but they dragged their afts out of his bar. Let them stagger on toward Swerve’s. That mech served anyone so long as they had creds. Then again, if Bluestreak had a bouncer like Whirl, maybe he’d tolerate the afts more, too.

As the three idiots schlepped out, a horde of new customers came rolling in, a crew of some kind, recently released from shift. They looked tired and thirsty, not the sort to be rowdy, but the sort to sit in a tired clump and spend lots of creds.

Well, there went the idea of loitering around Jazz and having a good conversation. Booming business was a good thing though. And it would keep his mind off of his “secret admirer”.

Bluestreak planted a smile on his face and moved to greet the new customers, preparing himself for a long night. A good one at least. No one here was the sort to cause problem. Not even Soundwave apparently.

All night, Soundwave was seeming content to sit at the bar and sip at his one drink. He didn’t interact with anyone, and the other patrons gave him a wide berth. Except for Jazz, who seemed to delight to carry on a one-sided conversation with Soundwave.

Up until Wheeljack came inside and gave Jazz such an exasperated look that Bluestreak felt a pang of sympathy. It was a look he often gave Jazz himself, especially when Jazz was being very disobedient. Which was often the case as Jazz enjoyed being punished.

Jazz left; Soundwave lingered. Alone, for the most part.

Engex gave mechs courage, not that Sideswipe needed any encouraging. He spied the vast bubble of emptiness around Soundwave and invited himself into one of the stools, half-soused as he babbled at Soundwave. Who bore it all in patient stride. Even as Sideswipe got more than a little, ah, handsy.

Bluestreak was two kliks from wandering over to save Soundwave, as all good bartenders do, when Sunstreaker showed up like a mech in sparkling gold armor. He hadn’t even needed to search the crowd to find his brother, stalking straight toward the bar with exasperation twisting his pretty lips.

Such a shame they hadn’t worked out, Bluestreak sighed to himself. Too much dom in the both of them. While it was occasionally fun to wrestle about in the berth, it was exhausting in the long run.

Sunstreaker exchanged a few words with Soundwave, perhaps deigning to apologize for his brother’s behavior, before he retrieved his drunk twin and dragged Sideswipe out. No one else dared approach Soundwave. Maybe that was for the best.

Bluestreak kept half an optic on Soundwave, making sure he didn’t need anything else, but for the most part, he stayed focus on his work. They were busy enough that both he and Riptide were kept hopping, and they ran out of several necessary supplies before closing time came around.

Exhaustion tugged at every cable and every strut. But it was the good kind of fatigue. The kind that signaled a job well done. It was better than war fatigue, staying up long past the limits of his processor, running on little energon and even less recharge. Living moment to moment, stress to stress, waiting for the floor to crack.

Riptide escorted the last of the patrons to the door as Bluestreak moved back behind the bar, taking stock of their depleted resources. The soft clink of a glass being placed on the bar attracted his attention. He blinked and turned around, optical ridges raised as he realized that one customer had lingered.


“You know we’re closed now, right?” Bluestreak asked as he swept up the empty glass from the counter and slid it into the wash bin. “That’s usually the point when the customer leaves.”

Soundwave had yet to restore his battlemask, and another blush stained his cheeks. Embarrassed? Talk about weird. Bluestreak didn’t even know Soundwave could be embarrassed. He was the ice man, as Jazz put it.

“Assistance offered,” Soundwave said, and Bluestreak tried his best not to watch those pretty lips shape each word.

“For what? Last time I checked, Visages doesn’t have any need for a telepath, and Blaster already hooked us up with a state of the art sound system.” Bluestreak gathered more empty cups as he talked.

Soundwave shifted on the stool. “Cleaning needed.”

“You mean the bar? That’s what Riptide is for.” Bluestreak chuckled at his own joke, ignoring the derogatory gesture Riptide threw at him from across the room.

“I’m just picking up the chairs. I gotta date tonight, boss.” Another chair clattered to a tabletop. “I told you that earlier.”

Oh. Right. He had.

Primus, Bluestreak was losing his mind. First, he had forgotten his session with Jazz. That was horrible enough.

Bluestreak waved a hand. “Right, you’re right. Sorry, Rip. I forgot. Go on. I’ll take care of this.”

“You sure?”

“Yeah. Seems I got a volunteer anyway.” Bluestreak jerked a thumb toward Soundwave, who said nothing as he watched the interchange.

Riptide frowned. His gaze shifted to Soundwave in concern, but Bluestreak waved him on. Seriously. He could handle Soundwave, even if the mech was acting weird. He doubted Soundwave would do anything to upset Megatron anyway. Besides, he had Jazz and Prowl both on speed-dial.

And what was it Jazz had said? Prowl was itching to arrest a Decepticon. He’d probably show up here, guns blazing and handcuffs spinning from a finger before Bluestreak could get out the last few bleeps of a distress call.

“Go! If it’s with who I think it is, you don’t want to be late.” Bluestreak shooed him on, flapping his mesh cloth in Riptide’s direction.

Riptide hesitated again, but love conquered all apparently, because he grinned and shot Bluestreak a thumbs up. “Thanks, boss. You’re the best.”

Bluestreak chuckled. “Yeah, I am.”

Riptide saluted and scuttled out, leaving Bluestreak alone with Soundwave in the odd quiet of the bar. The music had been cut off – a sign to the customers that the lounge was closed.

“He’s been seeing Pipes for a while,” Bluestreak said, to fill the silence, as he snagged a bin from behind the counter and moved around the bar, gathering up abandoned cups and cubes. “They’re the cutest couple, I swear. Pipes is head over heels, and I think Riptide likes that Pipes looks at him with stars in his optics.”

He heard a scrape, and looked over to see Soundwave rising from his stool. He watched for a moment as Soundwave moved to pick up chairs and put them on the tables, as Riptide had been doing, all without a word. He was serious about helping apparently.

Bluestreak shrugged and got back to work. He wasn’t about to turn down free labor. Especially since he’d been left on his own. Riptide and Pipes though, they deserved that opportunity. With the war over, everyone deserved to capture what happiness they could, now that there was less chance of losing it.

“I think that’s what everyone is doing now,” Bluestreak continued, because he couldn’t abide by silence, and Soundwave wasn’t complaining. “We’re all allowing ourselves to have some kind of life. Mostly anyway. I’ll bet even you are.”


“I know running a bar isn’t exactly the most glamorous thing to do in a post-war world, but I think it suits me.” Bluestreak dumped all the dirty dishes into the washer and arranged them. “I can’t imagine there’s anything else I could do. I didn’t have any skills when they pulled me out of the rubble. All I know now is killing. That’s no good in a post-war world.”

He started up the auto-washer and grabbed a spray bottle and a mesh cloth. He started to wipe down counters, sweeping metal flakes to the floor.

“Not much use for a sniper now. So I thought, what else can I do? What’s easy enough to learn? What use is there for a mech who only knows war and talks too much and still can’t sleep without a light on. Oh, sorry. Recharge. Then Mirage suggested this. He thought it would be good for me. I figured I’d give it a shot.”

Bluestreak shrugged and smiled softly. “Turns out, I’m actually pretty good at it. I listen as well as I talk and everyone likes a chatty bartender. It’s a good job.” He paused as he concentrated on scrubbing at a stain. “It’s a pretty good life. All things considered. Even if some weirdo is stalking me.”


Bluestreak blinked and looked up. Soundwave had finished lifting the chairs and now stood in front of the bar, right where Bluestreak was standing. He’d found the broom and dustpan, too, and clutched the handles of both as though they were a lifeline.

“For helping me close? That’s a pretty silly thing to apologize for,” Bluestreak said with a laugh. Soundwave towered over him, but there was something in the way the mech held himself back that kept him from being threatening.

“Negative.” Soundwave’s head dipped a little, the light of his visor shifting away. His engine warbled an odd sound. “Bluestreak… interesting.”

Bluestreak stared. Was Soundwave admitting to what Bluestreak thought he was admitting to?

He braced his hands on the edge of the counter and stared up at Soundwave, narrowing his optics. “You want to tell me why you came here tonight?”

Soundwave’s lips pressed together. His field was nonexistent, giving Bluestreak nothing to work with. His armor had clamped to his frame, as though he expected to be attacked, which was ridiculous. There was no one else here, and Bluestreak was hardly a match for Soundwave if it came down to it.

His behavior was all too telling. Maybe he and Jazz were a lot more alike than they cared to admit.

Bluestreak squared his shoulders. He lifted his chin. “Let me rephrase,” he said slowly, enunciating each word. “Tell me why the frag you’re here.” He didn’t leave it as a question. He made it a command.

Soundwave’s intake bobbed. “… Partnership desired.”

… What? Was he serious?

Bluestreak stared at Soundwave, who wasn’t meeting his gaze, who suddenly snapped his battlemask shut. Out of embarrassment? Out of a sense of vulnerability? Both?

He tilted his head and rapped his fingers on the edge of the counter. He shouldn’t be so surprised, though that Soundwave would choose him of all mechs, that was the confusing part. And also, he could have sworn Soundwave was involved with Megatron. Though it did explain why he’d felt like he were being watched.

“Just to clarify, you mean that you want a relationship with me?” Bluestreak asked, careful to keep his tone firm. Soundwave seemed to respond best to that firmness. “And not one that involves business, but something personal. Something you think you can only get from me.”


Bluestreak nibbled on his bottom lip. “Do you even understand what you’re asking for?”

Slowly, the light in Soundwave’s visor shifted toward Bluestreak, meeting his gaze with more courage than Soundwave had shown all evening. “Affirmative.”

Bluestreak narrowed his optics. “Stop that,” he demanded, the chastisement falling a little too easily from his lips. “If you’re going to talk to me, I want that mask gone. I want to know I’m talking to a person, not a machine.”


Soundwave stared at him, even the sound of his ventilations stilled. His fingers curled tightly around the broom and dustpan.

And then his battlemask slid away, revealing the lower half of his face once more, the perfect shape of his lips, his cute nasal structure, the blush staining his cheeks. The visor remained, but Bluestreak wasn’t going to argue about that. Maybe it was permanent, maybe he couldn’t see without it.

A thrill chased itself around Bluestreak’s spark.

“So,” he said as his glossa swept over his lips, an unexpected hunger curling in his internals, like the first time Jazz had knelt for him. “You do understand.”

Soundwave’s head dipped minutely. He, too, wet his lips. Bluestreak tracked the motion of his glossa, the way it left a sheen of moisture behind.

“Why me?” Bluestreak asked as he dragged his optics back to Soundwave’s visor.

The flush deepened. It was unfairly cute. For a mech as dangerous as Soundwave to blush of all things, where Bluestreak lacked the words to describe how adorable that was.

Soundwave’s vents quickened. His armor fluttered. His mouth opened and closed, and his vocalizer clicked as though he was engaging it, but faltering in what to say.


Bluestreak leaned forward. “Maybe you don’t know the answer to that,” he murmured, keeping his tone warm and silken, sure to vibrate in Soundwave’s sensitive audials. “You want me to help you figure that out, don’t you?”

A shiver visibly raced across Soundwave’s armor. His head dipped, almost a bow. “… Yes,” he answered, his vocals no longer the dull monotone, but something soft and delicate.

Bluestreak almost groaned.

Jazz was as playful and disobedient as a sub could be. Bluestreak enjoyed their times together. He enjoyed twirling Jazz about his finger, and turning the saboteur into a sated mess. Mastery of Jazz was a special talent in itself.

But Soundwave…

Primus, was there ever a mech who radiated a need to be dominated more than him? It all but bled from his field, from his seams. He would submit beautifully. He would never be disobedient. He would take joy in it.

Bluestreak worked his intake. He mastered his fans, so the sound of them spinning faster wouldn’t be audible.

Caution lingered. Bluestreak might be tempted, but he didn’t trust Soundwave. He didn’t trust this.

He firmed his jaw and straightened, pinning Soundwave with a Look, one that never failed to weaken Jazz’s knees.

“We’re under a truce, a treaty, maybe even something that won’t get broken because of a standstill in negotiations, but I’m not stupid,” Bluestreak said as his doorwings flicked up and rigid, mimicking Prowl at his most stern.

He moved out from behind the bar, sliding through the swinging door, delighted as Soundwave turned to watch him. He was a natural at this. Training him would be easy.

“There’s a reason you’re tagged as a loyalist,” Bluestreak added as he moved closer, until he trapped Soundwave between himself and the bar.

Soundwave loomed over him. But Bluestreak still felt as though he were the only person in the room who was a threat. The dustpan rattled.

“Tell me I’m wrong,” Bluestreak purred.

Soundwave’s head dipped, as subordinate as he could be without kneeling. “Loyalty to Megatron separate from devotion to Master.”

“You think you can have both?”


Bluestreak chuckled, but it wasn’t meant to be a sound of amusement. “Maybe you can. Since the war is over and all. You don’t have to choose. Unless Megatron tells you that you can’t. Regardless, I don’t trust you. And there can be no partnership without trust. It’s the golden rule. And lesson number one.”

“Lesson,” Soundwave echoed, and his engine rumbled. “Refusal or acceptance offered?”

Bluestreak’s lips curved into a smile. “We’ll see. One step at a time, I think. I’m intrigued at least. Though it could’ve started out better. I don’t particularly like being stalked.”

Soundwave’s head dipped further, as though he couldn’t meet Bluestreak’s optics. “I apologize. Soundw– I am unfamiliar with dating protocols.”

“Well, it’s a learning curve.” Bluestreak leaned in, a promise to touch that he didn’t deliver. “And I suspect you’re a fast learner. But for now, we have a lounge to clean and we both have some thinking to do.”

Soundwave’s fans stalled. “Understood.”

“And?” Bluestreak leaned in closer, his ex-vents fogging the clear transsteel of Soundwave’s dock.

A shiver fluttered through Soundwave’s armor. “Yes,” he said. “Sir.”

Bluestreak’s smile could not get any larger. Maybe this didn’t make sense. Maybe it was the weirdest thing to happen to him in ages.

And maybe he was going to dive head first into it, because why not? The war was over, probably for good. He was trying to move on, trying to learn what it meant to be live.

Might as well start with this.

[G1] Before the Thunder 01

It was with a skip in his step and anticipation in his spark that Jazz strolled through the corridors of the habitation wing, a grin on his lips that would have unsettled even the most stalwart of reformed Decepticon. Or supposedly at any rate. They were all of them, Autobot and Decepticon alike, reformed.

Jazz counted room numbers as he went, finding that the rhythm of it made for an almost song-like cadence, and when he arrived at the one he sought, pressed the buzzer with an urgency that betrayed his eagerness. He shifted from foot to foot, a whistle on his lips.

Some of that eagerness died, however, when the door opened and Jazz was met with a wave of field-led confusion. Judging also by the startled look on his face, Bluestreak had forgotten about their session for tonight, and that in itself was unusual enough to make Jazz concerned. Especially as Bluestreak sighed and palmed his face.

“I’m sorry, Jazz. I completely forgot. Things have just been pretty crazy here.”

“Things are always crazy, Blue,” Jazz replied with an easygoing grin, sliding into his investigative role like a second layer of armor. “It ain’t like ya to forget though. Frag, ya usually plan things down to the klik.”

A tired smile curved Bluestreak’s lips before he stepped aside, gesturing Jazz into his quarters. “I do my best. I want to be a good partner. That’s the reason I do that. Plus, for anxiety’s sake, I know a lot of mechs like to know what’s going to happen ahead of time. It’s about trust.”

“I know, Blue. It’s okay. I wasn’t complainin’.”

The door slid shut behind Jazz, tucking him into the quiet dim of Bluestreak’s quarters. Only a single lamp lit the main room, bathing the furniture in quiet shadows. Soft instrumental music played from the stereo system. There was a mound of fluffy pillows draped in soft blankets in the middle of the room.

Bluestreak’s calm down routine, Jazz knew it well. Concern notched into a higher level.

“Something up?” Jazz asked after he turned in a slow circle. He’d known something was wrong from the moment Bluestreak hadn’t appeared at his door at the appointed time, and hadn’t commed Jazz to let him know he was running late. Blue was many things, but irresponsible was not one of them.

He’d assumed that he’d confused where they were supposed to meet, and made his way to Bluestreak’s quarters instead.

Their plans for the evening, he now knew, were not going to happen. It was unfortunate, but Bluestreak couldn’t Dom if he had something else on his mind. It wasn’t safe for either of them.

“Maybe. I don’t know.” Bluestreak sighed and dropped down into his pile of comfort, sensory panels flicking aside at the last second to prevent a jarred hinge. His biolights glowed eerie red in the dim of the room. “I think maybe I’m going mad or I’m getting as paranoid as Red or maybe I’m inventing a problem because I’m not adapting to the peace.”

Jazz blinked behind his visor and plopped his aft on the low table near Bluestreak’s mound. Usually this would garner him a chastisement, but this time, nothing. Something was really wrong. So he leaned forward, elbows braced on his knees, and he pinned Bluestreak a look. Not sub to dom, but former commanding officer to former subordinate.

“Ya ain’t crazy, Blue. What’s going on?”

Bluestreak scrubbed at his chevron. “I don’t know. I thought I was imagining it at first, this feeling of being watched. It was only every now and again, and I figured, I was just antsy cause we were all on pins and needles after the signing of the first treaty, you know?”

Jazz nodded to show he was listening.

Bluestreak continued, “But it’s getting more and more frequent. I can’t ever see anybody looking at me and no one’s following me, but my panels are twitching, and I just feel like I’m being watched. It’s a prickle in my spinal strut and an itch in my processor.” He gnawed on his bottom lip and gave Jazz a hopeful look. “It’s not your team practicing on Praxians again, is it?”

“I wish it were, Baby Blue.” Anger stirred, rising in the pit of Jazz’s internals.

If it wasn’t his team, then there was only one other mech who could be responsible for lurking around Bluestreak where he couldn’t see them. Bluestreak had been trained by Smokescreen to detect spies, and by Prowl to be aware of his surroundings. He was one of the most difficult mechs to sneak up on, outside of Jazz’s own unit. No casual mech could do it.

And it wasn’t Jazz’s team.

Bluestreak’s engine gave a thin whine, a reedy sound of stress. “Of course it isn’t,” he said, hands gripping the back of his neck. “You’d give me warning. You know how I feel about that kind of thing. You wouldn’t do that to me.” He ex-vented, sharp and hot.

Jazz leaned forward, resting a hand on Bluestreak’s knee. “Blue, look at me.”

Optics shifted toward him, flickering around the edges. Bluestreak’s field was a jittery mess, and his armor had started clicking as it settled around his seams. Jazz hadn’t seen him like this in a while. Not since the height of the war, when they weren’t sure anyone was going to survive. Like when Bluestreak had been taken by the Cons, one of Megatron’s numerous bids to trade for energon, and he’d come back to them beaten and damaged, but was never willing to say if it was because of the battle, or if some of the Cons had gotten bored during guard duty.

“I’m going to figure this out for ya. I promise. You don’t have anythin’ to worry about, okay? I’m goin’ to take care of it.”

Bluestreak loosed a shuddery ventilation and offered a smile that didn’t reach his optics. “I should’ve just come to you first. I know that. I just didn’t want you to think…”

“That you were losing it? Never.” Jazz squeezed Bluestreak’s knee and extended his field, offering warmth and comfort. “It’s my turn to take care of you for a change. Alright?”

A small laugh spilled out of Bluestreak. “Alright.” Some of the tension eased out of his frame, his doorwings settling. He had every confidence Jazz would find an answer.

Meanwhile, Jazz buried the fury infesting his spark way down. He hid it behind a smile, one Bluestreak could probably read, but that was the level of trust between them. The anger would be his fuel.

It carried him out of Bluestreak’s quarters a few hours later, after he’d spent some time cuddling with Blue on the mound of comfort, trying to soothe the distressed rattles in Bluestreak’s field. He’d left Bluestreak snoozing in the pile, fleece blanket tucked around his frame, music quieted to the lowest setting meant to calm.

The anger propelled Jazz two streets over, into the residential district that was more Decepticon than Autobot, even though said divisions technically weren’t supposed to exist anymore. Like, however, called to like. And no matter the iron-clad treaty, trust wasn’t so easy to gain.

It sounded like a fairy tale almost.

Jazz went to the highest hab-suite in the highest reconstructed tower, which had nearly a three-hundred sixty degree view of the city they’d chosen to rebuild in. It was the kind of place that belonged to nobility and high caste, ages ago. Now it was a nest for Megatron’s favorite spymaster.

You could take the war away from the spymaster, but not the need to spy and surveil.

Jazz and Soundwave had been playing this game of tag for centuries. It had been a challenge, to creep around one another, spying without being seen, getting into places they shouldn’t. By all rights, Soundwave’s suite should be the most heavily guarded building in the entire city.

But maybe he’d been a little too busy spying on cute sniper’s just trying to get on with their lives. Maybe Soundwave had been too focused on his stalkery behavior to pay attention to security, because Jazz broke into Soundwave’s home with barely any effort.

Alright, so it took him ten minutes to shatter the encryption, but that was beside the point. Jazz invited himself inside, confirmed no one was home, rummaged about in Soundwave’s storage room and snagged a box of candies.

He sat down on the couch, propped his feet on the table – Bluestreak would have flogged him for that, damn Soundwave, Jazz missed out on some good whipping this evening – and waited. He turned on the vidscreen, found a music broadcast channel, and turned on some raging good beats. He ate two boxes of candies, the anger broiling and roiling inside of him, before someone finally came home.

Jazz didn’t move, though he tensed, defensive protocols spinning into action. It was never easy to gauge Soundwave’s reactions. He might shoot first and ask questions later via a little mind-probing.

The door opened and lights flooded the main room, illuminating Jazz on the couch. He popped another fizzy candy into his mouth, gaze pinned on Soundwave as he slipped inside and the door closed behind him. Jazz didn’t see any symbiotes, but that didn’t mean some of the brats weren’t tucked away inside Soundwave’s dock.

Jazz casually lifted a remote, clicked the vidscreen to mute. He tossed said remote onto the table, scraped his feet against the edge of the table, and narrowed the light of his visor.

“So,” Jazz said, enunciating the word with a pop of his lips. “Wanna tell me why you and yer little critters are stalking my boy Blue?”

Soundwave’s visor hardened. He stared at Jazz, pose relaxed, but there was menace coiled in it. He didn’t have his sonic cannon – terms of the treaty, no one was allowed to walk around visibly armed. His sonic cannon was in his berthroom. Jazz had already moved it elsewhere, just in case Soundwave got any ideas.

“Business mine,” Soundwave finally answered, vocals as steady as a cucumber and no hint of surprise in his field.

Cold as ice, that one.

Jazz popped another candy into his mouth and noisily crunched on it. “When it concerns my mechs, it becomes my business, too.” He crossed his ankles and tilted his head. Challenging.

Soundwave hadn’t moved from in front of the door. “Bluestreak not yours.”

“He is where it counts.” Jazz tossed the empty box onto the table and folded his hands over his abdomen. The fact that his hands were visible was a small concession. “Tell me why.”


Soundwave stared at him as though he had lasers buried behind his visor. He shifted his weight, barely noticeable, but it was telling.

Was Soundwave nervous? No, it couldn’t be. Ashamed? A stretch.

Jazz sighed and abruptly sat up, his feet hitting the floor. “Alright then.” He slapped his thighs and stood up. “Guess I’ll just stroll right into Prowl’s office and let him know you’re violatin’ the terms of the treaty. He’s been itchin’ to catch a Con in the act. This’ll make his night.”

“Negative.” A single step forward. Panic?

Jazz rolled his neck and pinned Soundwave a look. “Then tell me.”

Soundwave’s weight shifted again. There was a flash of something in his field, there and gone again. He looked, of all things, like he was fidgeting. Which was not something Jazz had ever attributed to the stoic communications officer. Oh. Jazz had stumbled into something tasty here.

“Interest… personal,” Soundwave finally said, as though he’d had to force the words out, through a strangled vocalizer.

“Oh? Now I’m listening.” Jazz propped his hands on his hips, but didn’t sink back into the couch yet. The implied threat to play tattletale was still present. “Tell me more.”

Soundwave’s hands pulled in and out of fists. Another tell. Someone was off their game tonight. “No.”

Jazz laughed. “Oh, Sounders, that’s not how this game is played. You got an interest in my mech Blue and I gotta know why. I ain’t walking out that door still I get a satisfactory answer.” He tilted his head, let light flicker across his visor. “So either you tell me what I want to know, or my next stop is Prowl’s office. I know he’s still there. Silly mech always burns the midnight oil.”

Soundwave’s engine gave a little hitch. Indecision wrote into every clamped piece of armor. In the way Soundwave held himself, still as a statue. He stared at Jazz as though he could intimidate by glare alone. Yeah, that probably worked on a lot of mechs, who knew about Soundwave’s capabilities and feared them.

It didn’t work on Jazz. He just grinned, making sure to show denta. He was the shadow that crept in the night. He was the monster in the closet and under the berth. He wasn’t afraid of an emotionally stunted block of non-personality.

“I’m waiting,” Jazz said, singsong. Because he had to push. That was what made it fun. Maybe it was a risk. Maybe Soundwave would do something drastic, though that seemed more Starscream’s style. Soundwave was far too rational for heat of the moment actions.


A cornered mechanimal was a dangerous one. And Jazz had the feeling he’d trapped one pretty piece of prey.

“Bluestreak talented,” Soundwave finally said.

Jazz almost laughed. “Yeah, I know he is.” His lips curled into a smirk because he knew it. He fragging knew it.

Pieces fell into place, like a puzzle filling in from the inside out. Dots connected. Plans drew. Victory rang like a bell in the back of his processor.

Like called to like. No fragging wonder. He and Soundwave had always played this game, and now there was a prize on the line. The prize wasn’t Jazz’s to win, otherwise he would have had it already. But that didn’t mean he couldn’t make it harder on Soundwave. Or easier, depending on what would be more entertaining.

Bluestreak was his, in the berth or out of it. It wasn’t a matter of ownership. It was a matter of protecting the things he loved. And like the Pit was Jazz going to let some two-bit Decepticon lay hands on his Blue without knowing for sure Soundwave deserved it.

His grin widened even further. Jazz dropped his hands and strode around the edge of the low table, barely making a whisper of sound.

“Ahh, I get it now,” he purred as Soundwave watched him, lights shifting behind his visor, like he thought he might get attacked. “It’s okay, Sounders. You’re an emotionally and socially stunted machine. Happens to the best of us. But even machines have desires, don’t they? Even someone like you.”

Jazz looked Soundwave up and down. He barely came up to Soundwave’s chassis, frag that height difference, and Soundwave was taller than Bluestreak even. More massive as well. But Jazz could easily imagine Soundwave on his knees. Could imagine the straps wound around his frame.

Submission would suit him.

“The war’s pretty much over you know,” Jazz continued, ignoring the silence. That was the game. “Instead of stalking him, you could try having a conversation.”

Soundwave said nothing, but the sudden burst of heated ex-vent said it all. Jazz almost laughed again. A conversation. Right. Soundwave was known for being a stunning conversationalist.

Then again, Blue was awful good at filling the silence. Maybe they were better suited for each other than immediate appearance suggested.

Jazz leaned in closer, looking up the length of Soundwave’s frame, and poked him in the middle of his undecorated dock. “Tell you what. Not that I think you don’t already know, but humor me.”

He smirked and leaned back, noticing with satisfaction as Soundwave’s defensive armor clamp eased. Silly mech. Just because he leaned back didn’t mean Jazz wasn’t any less dangerous. Clearly this topic had thrown Soundwave off his game.

“Blue’s working tomorrow night,” Jazz said as he planted his hands back on his hips. “Swing by for a chat. Ya never know. It could be a dream come true.” He flashed his visor in a wink.

Soundwave’s ventilations stuttered. “Jazz offering assistance?” He couldn’t have sounded more surprised if he tried.

“I got a thing for lost causes.” He rolled his shoulders in a shrug. “Besides, like you said, Blue’s not mine. Not the way you want him to be.”

If his smile looked like a predator with prey between its teeth, well, Jazz wasn’t too upset by that. He had Soundwave exactly where he wanted him. But most of all, he had an answer for Bluestreak.

Jazz knew he was right.

Soundwave would be there tomorrow. He’d find the courage to set foot into an establishment he’d only seen from a distance, because there was a hunger inside of him. One that no energon could sate.

Jazz knew that hunger. It broiled in his tanks, too. Bluestreak couldn’t be the fuel to fully sate him. Jazz was still looking for his. But maybe Soundwave would get lucky. He only had to be brave enough to find out.

Jazz rapped the back of his knuckles against Soundwave’s dock. “I’ll see you there, Sounders,” he said cheerfully and slipped around the communications mech, inviting himself to use the door to make his escape.

Soundwave didn’t give chase. No, he had far too much on his processor for that.

Tomorrow would tell.


Baby Blue,

I looked into your little problem, and I’m happy to report that it’s been handled. No more shall you be stalked. You’re not in any danger, Scout’s honor. Well, except maybe to your virtue, hah. But I know you can take care of yourself. 

You got a secret admirer, Blue. I convinced him to say hello so keep an optic out. And if he doesn’t, well, I’ll handle it. Prowl might get to arrest himself a Decepticon, and you know how much he’s been looking forward to that. I got your back, darling. Anytime. Just give me a ring, and I’ll be there. 

Hugs and kisses! 



[G1] Lust and Loathing

Medics are easily the most stressed students in any university on the face of Cybertron, second only to engineers. It should come as no surprise, then, that they indulge themselves in all manner of stress relief. The word debauchery comes to mind, if you ask Hook.

Medics have no standards. They’ll berth anyone with a decent paintjob who promises a night of multiple overloads and ecstasy the likes of which one only reads about in lurid romance datanovels.

And some medics and medics-in-training are the absolute worst. Just barely a few notches above shareware, in Hook’s opinion.

Mechs like Ratchet. The Party Ambulance, which has become his rather distasteful moniker, proving the breadth of his reputation.

A growl builds in Hook’s engine. He sneers as he brings up the public gradeboard and glares at the names listed on it. Once again, Ratchet’s marks outstrip Hook’s own. Always number one, Ratchet is. Which is a fragging travesty. It’s an insult.

Ratchet parties every chance he gets. Sometimes, he staggers to class still half-overcharged from the night before. He frags around to any berth that’ll take him. He’s never found in the library studying for practicals. Worse, he’s somehow the professors’ favorite and friend to everyone.

Everyone except Hook that is.

Here Hook is, working hard, studying diligently, taking care of himself, attending every class punctually, the first to ask questions and write down answers. Yet, he’s always one step behind Ratchet in scores and proficiencies. Somehow, he has no friends.

Well, save the one.

Recurve, Hook suspects, has only befriended Hook out of a sense of pity. He’s the golden spark who can’t stand to see an Empty in the alley or a beggar on the streets. He’s poor half the time because he’s always giving his allotment away to the needy. He doesn’t think to conserve and save like Hook does.

Act of pity Recurve’s friendship might be, but he puts as much effort into it as he would a genuine friendship. He’s the only one to notice Hook staring at Ratchet across the room, dancing in the thick of yet another loud and raucous party, so many hands on Ratchet’s frame that there’s no way to identify to whom they belong.

Hook had sworn he’d never attend one of these degenerate affairs. He had much more important ways to spend his time, and this kind of flippant disregard for propriety is positively obscene.

But Ratchet is here, and curiosity had finally taken Hook by the crane and tugged him into the nearest mass of noise.

He’d found Ratchet immediately. He’d only need look to the biggest clump of lewd behavior in the room.

“Just ask him to berth you,” Recurve says with a loud laugh and a knock of his shoulder against Hook’s. Large enough to nearly bowl Hook over, Recurve is an engineer built to withstand many an invention’s malfunction. “He’ll say yes.”

Hook growls and his visor flashes a glare. “It’s not about berthing him,” he retorts as his gaze finds Ratchet again, finds the tantalizing peeks of scuffed red and white plating vanishing behind groping hands.

Recurve snickers and leans hard against Hook’s side, already two sheets to the wind, like everyone else at this pitiful excuse for a celebration. “Yeah, well, that’s not gonna put you on top either, you crankshaft.”

Recurve has yet to learn that insulting someone you consider a friend is not how friendships are supposed to work. Though Hook assumes he is meant to take such a thing in jest.

He’s not overcharged enough for this.

Hook glares. That kind of comment isn’t even dignified a response.

Recurve sighs and shifts his weight away from Hook. “Fine. You sit here and glower.” He rises to his full height and surveys the crowd. “I’m going to get several drinks and see if I can’t convince that cute tow truck in the corner to take me home. Good luck.”

Hook’s so-called friend doesn’t wait for a reply or a dismissal. He melts into the crowd, snags the first drink someone offers him, and chugs it down. He disappears rather quickly, despite being a head taller than most of the medics around. There are many engineers here as well.

Medics and engineers. Same stock honestly.

Hook sniffs.

He leans harder against the wall and takes a long drink of his high grade. He drains the cube, the burn of the potent and inexpensive blend sitting heavy in his tanks. Primus, it’s foul. But students are poor and cheap besides. They would never spring for the good stuff.

The only good thing is that it’s potent enough to get him overcharged quickly. Overcharged and, he hopes, brave enough to do something stupid.

Hook grabs another mug and downs it so quickly he doesn’t taste the terrible swill. It burns in his intake and heats his tanks. He wobbles a little as he licks a few stray drops from his lips.

There. Just tipsy enough to gather his courage and make a pass at Ratchet, proving that there’s at least one arena in which Hook is superior to him.

Hook pushes himself off the wall and plunges into the crowd, weaving through the thick morass of dancing frames. He stumbles, bouncing from one gyrating pair to another, finding Ratchet again and again through the twisting frames.

Then suddenly, the sea of mechs abruptly parts, giving him a direct path to Ratchet and the mech he’s grinding against. Some white mech with blast stains marring his white and gray paint, obnoxious orange and green stripes making for a horrendous paintjob. He is vaguely familiar to Hook, in that he’s from the engineering department and notorious for being brilliant.

Sloppy and unconventional, mind, but brilliant.

Hook gets within two paces of the mechs dancing with moves just shy of public interfacing, and suddenly, his feet stop working. He hovers and he stares, unsure how to approach the situation now that he’s here. This is the first party he’s ever deigned to attend. What are the social protocols?

Is he supposed to cut in between them, grab Ratchet’s interface panel, and suggest they go somewhere private? (Or public, actually, because a good quarter of these partygoers haven’t bothered with anything like privacy or public decency.) Because that seems like what everyone else relies upon.

Timidity will get him nowhere. Hook is not a shy mech. He boldly goes after what he wants. So he squares his shoulders and prepares to insert himself between the two gyrating mechs.

But then the music stops, highlighting the riotous background noise of laughter and conversation. Ratchet and his dance partner share a lewd kiss, complete with visible glossae, before the engineer untangles himself from Ratchet and toddles away, but not after Ratchet smacks him on the aft. The clang isn’t even audible over the racket of the party.

Ratchet’s gaze falls on Hook next, almost as if he knows Hook’s been staring, and his slag-eating grin widens even further. His lips are already moist from his liplock with the engineer, but Ratchet licks them again.

“Well, if it isn’t number two,” he nearly shouts as he swaggers forward, his windshield marred by paint smears and what looks like sticky energon. He swipes someone’s high grade, and they don’t even protest when he downs half of it all at once. “Didn’t think I’d be seeing someone like you here. Didn’t even know you left your den, come to think of it.”

Anger burbles up in his tanks. Hook forces himself to swallow it down, lest he ruin this night in a sniping match. “It’s open invitation, is it not?”

Ratchet laughs. “Calm your treads, Hook. I’m not trying to throw you out.” He holds the high grade out to Hook, or what’s left of it, and gives the cube a wiggle. “Here. Drink this. You need to unknot your cable.”

Hook grimaces. Who knows who many mouths have been on that cube? “I’ve had two. That’s more than enough.”

“Not for this party.” Ratchet wriggles the cube again and sidles closer, until the first slither of his field is tangible. “Come on. Relax. Practicals are done for the decaorn. It’s time to kick back and celebrate our survival.”

Hook lifts his chin in challenge. “And what of the next practicals?”

“Those are a decaorn away. Plenty of time to study for those. Don’t be in such a rush to boredom.” Ratchet rolls his optics and leans in close, enough that Hook can smell the overcharge stink of him. “Wanna dance?”

Hook doesn’t recoil, but it’s a near thing. “I don’t dance.”

“Then why bother coming to a party? You’re such a dead battery.” Ratchet slides away with a disappointed frown. “I’m going to go find someone who’s actually interested in having a good time.”

Damn it. This isn’t going to plan.

Hook lunges forward, his fingers wrapping around a backswept wrist, stalling Ratchet’s escape. “I didn’t say I wasn’t here to have fun,” he says and lets his field lick out, hot and full of promise. “I’d just rather do it somewhere… private.”

“Is that right?” Ratchet turns back toward him with a leer, and his gaze flicks up and down Hook’s frame like he’s assessing Hook’s abilities. “I have to say, I didn’t take you for the type interested in a friendly ride.”

Hook gives a faint squeeze to Ratchet’s wrist – a warning. “You don’t know enough about me to decide that.”

“Mm. True.” Ratchet twists his wrist in Hook’s grip and leans in closer, sloppy and warm and smelling sweet like high grade and goodies, his field syrupy where it drapes over Hook’s. “You really wanna go somewhere else with me, number two?” His ex-vents tickle into the crook of Hook’s neck and shoulder.

Hook takes a chance and slides his hand up Ratchet’s arm, dragging his field along with it, cutting like a knife through Ratchet’s lust with a thirst of his own. “I intend to ruin you for anyone else,” he purrs.

Ratchet barks a laugh. “Oh, a challenge?” He leans in close, glossa flicking over Hook’s audial in a wet swipe. “Come on then. Let’s go.”

Ratchet dances back, grabs Hook’s hand, and abruptly tugs Hook after him. He stumbles as he struggles to keep up with Ratchet, who is not the least bit clumsy despite the copious amounts of high grade he’s consumed. He tows Hook out of the crowd with single-minded determination, a high-flying grin on his lips.

“Get him, Ratchet!”

“Attaboy Hook!”

“Make that second feel like he’s number one!”

Hook’s face burns with humiliation. He feels like they are walking through some gauntlet of debauchery as the congratulations keep coming, and Ratchet is treated like some kind of celebrity, with the cheering and the backpatting and the shoulder-smacking. Someone even has the audacity to whistle and wink at Hook.

He glares at the idiot, makes a point of memorizing their face – lurid orange and purple paint, blue optics, sensory horns – for later purposes. If he ever sees that mech again, well, they will learn the true meaning of humiliation.

Finally, he and Ratchet squirt free of the crowd, squeezing through a narrow doorway into an equally narrow hallway. Dimly lit, not enough room for two mechs to walk abreast, brightly adorned doors identify dormrooms. Ratchet pulls him to the nearest one, the door sliding open without so much as a code, and they stumble inside.

“Whose room is this?” Hook asks as he gapes at the mess, piles of belongings on the floor and in corners, haphazard stacks of datapads, burnt out emergency bulbs even.

Ratchet whirls him around and backs him toward the berth. “I have no idea,” he says with a laugh, and his hands find Hook’s hips, his field hot and hungry where it roils over Hook’s own. “I’m sure they don’t mind. Maybe they’ll even join us.”

“I hope not,” Hook grumbles as he peers around the room, trying to identify whom it might belong to. At least two medical residents, judging by the number of berths, but there are no designations in plain sight.

“Not interested in multiples?” Ratchet asks with a raised orbital ridge and a squeeze of his hands. “What a shame.”

Hook nearly trips on a discarded mesh cloth, but Ratchet’s grip keeps him on his feet. “Not everyone is as depraved as you,” he snaps, his face heating in the wake of his clumsiness.

Ratchet chuckles and gives him a push. Hook yelps as he stumbles backward, only for the back of his knees to hit the edge of a low berth and his aft to tumble down onto it. Off-balance, he tips back, head landing on a pillow that smells of cheap polish.

Ratchet climbs on top of him without any fanfare, straddling Hook’s mid-section, his aft planted on Hook’s pelvic array. The heat of Ratchet’s arousal wafts down from his panels, tempting Hook’s own array into stirring. They’ve not even started, and Ratchet’s aroused. Easy doesn’t even begin to describe him.

“What you call depraved, I call enlightened,” Ratchet purrs and leans forward, bracing his hands to either side of Hook’s head. His knees dig into the berth, pinning Hook’s hips between them. “Got any preferences for how we play?”

Ratchet’s smirk is positively lewd. And somehow Hook’s hands find Ratchet’s thighs, feels the heat of them beneath his fingertips.

“You say that as though you are not up for anything,” Hook replies, and though it’s meant to be a cutting remark, somehow it comes out flirtatious.

“Well, I have some limits,” Ratchet drawls and rocks his hips, grinding down on Hook’s panel, lubricant leaking and dripping onto Hook. “Why? What kind of screwy slag are you into, Hook? Hmm?” He leans down, ex-vents hot and wet over Hook’s lips, the tip of his glossa touching the corner of Hook’s mouth. “I think we’re a little too unfriendly for bondage at this stage.”


Ratchet wrapped in beautiful cables, black and gray perhaps, twisting and twining around his frame, displaying him to perfection. Immobile and poised, lewd and defiant, at Hook’s mercy, panting for pleasure, his biolights pulsing to the tune of his desperate vents, array dripping fluids to the ground as he begs for Hook to touch him, touch him please

Hook’s engine purrs, and he covers it up with a groan. “You’re ridiculous,” he says, but the images are there and they won’t leave now.

Wind Ratchet up with Hook’s own cable even, feel the medic bound to him, towed to him, forever wrapped around him.

Not an entirely unwelcome notion. It would certainly put Ratchet in his proper place. The over-faced aft would probably enjoy it, too.

Ratchet grins, and his glossa flicks over his lips. “Yeah, but you want to frag me anyway,” he replies with the sort of confident edge that makes Hook want to grind his denta. He rocks his hips harder, and a quiet click of panels opening is the prelude to hot lubricant seeping onto Hook’s groin, painting his panels with slick. “Gonna open for me? Or do I have to coax your spike out? Kinda curious to see what you’ve got packing down there, second.”

“You are a brat.” Hook seethes, but his hands slide up and down Ratchet’s thighs, enjoying the sleekness of his paint. His panels spiral open, his spike eagerly extending, the head of it brushing over Ratchet’s valve, tasting the wet heat gathered there.

“Well, I’m depraved. Ridiculous. Bratty. Any other pet names you got for me?” Ratchet grinds down, the mesh folds of his valve caressing Hook’s spike, painting it in lubricant, little nips of charge darting between them. “Kind of makes me special, doesn’t it?”

Irritation flashes through Hook. He growls, “You’re not special,” and grabs Ratchet by the hips, tightening his grip as strong as any medic worth his specialized hands.

He braces his feet on the floor – thank you cheap and low berth – and rolls, dragging his knees up onto the berth as Ratchet sprawls beneath him, knees obscenely parted. Hook notches himself between them, to the inviting damp at the apex of Ratchet’s thighs. He’s heavier than Ratchet. Stronger, too.

It takes little effort to pin Ratchet beneath him, his spike grinding in the slippery heat of Ratchet’s valve, the head of it rubbing over Ratchet’s swollen anterior node.

“And I’m going to be on top,” Hook pants, need coiling inside of him, engine rising and rolling, lust like a hot clench in his spark. Lust or loathing. He’s not even sure anymore.

Ratchet grins and stretches his arms over his head, totally relaxed, like the depraved mech he is. “Suit yourself,” he says, and shifts, crossing his ankles behind Hook’s thighs, dragging him closer. “I’m not complaining.”


He always has to turn everything around, doesn’t he?

Hook growls and grinds against him, his spike slipping and sliding over Ratchet’s valve, teasing his exterior nodes, upper and lower. There’s so much lubricant between them he can hear it squelching. It feels ridiculously good, and Hook’s spike throbs with anticipation, arousal coiling in his lines.

“Need helping finding my valve, second place?” Ratchet asks with a little shimmy of his frame that widens the gaps in his armor, allowing Hook peeks at the delicate cables beneath.

Hook snarls and shifts his weight, hands sliding down to grab Ratchet’s hips. No, he doesn’t need help.

“Shut up,” he grits out, even as he jerks Ratchet’s hips down to meet his, and his spike sinks into Ratchet’s valve in one sharp thrust, all the way to the hilt, valve calipers fluttering madly around his spike and charge assaulting his sensor nodes.

Ratchet moans like the rough treatment is what he’s been dying for, and arches into the touch, his heels digging into Hook’s back. “Nnn. That’s better.” His hips rise, rocking into Hook’s thrusts, demanding more without words. “Want to plug in?”

Hook’s rhythm stutters. “What?”

“You know, hook up?” Ratchet smirks and wriggles his fingers and his hips. “Or have you not gotten the Interfacing Education course yet?”

“I know what cabling means!” Hook hisses as he thrusts deep and grinds against Ratchet’s ceiling node, hoping the jabs of pleasure would shut his rival up.

No such luck.

“Are you sure?”

“Yes!” Hook snarls and shivers as a particularly deep thrust causes Ratchet’s valve to tighten and clench around him, caressing his spike. “I was surprised is all.”

Ratchet arches an orbital ridge. “Because?” It almost sounds like honest curiosity, if it isn’t for the edge of mischief in his tone.

“It’s personal.” Hook’s rhythm stutters again, his concentration stolen by the embarrassment in his admission. “And it’s…” He searches for a word that won’t make him any more humiliated than he already feels.

How can Ratchet always do this to him? It doesn’t take much. A few choice phrases, cutting words, and Hook is stewing in his own special blend of envy, fury, and embarrassment.

“Depraved to ask for?” Ratchet snickers and his hands slide up Hook’s arms, finding his tires and dipping his fingers into the rim gaps. “If you say so. I’m not about pushing mechs into things they don’t like.”

Somehow, Ratchet’s consideration feels condescending.

“Give me your cable.” Hook shifts his weight back to his knees, dropping his hold on Ratchet’s hips. He gropes at his port array, flicking open the panel to withdraw his cable, with perhaps a tad too much force than is necessary.

“Change your mind that quick, did you?” Ratchet chuckles, but his optics are focused on Hook’s dangling cable plug with evident interest. “I’m not sure you can handle my charge, number two.”

Hook slides his free hand over Ratchet’s bobbing spike, giving it a tight squeeze that makes Ratchet arch his back and shiver. “Why don’t you try me and find out?”

Ratchet’s glossa flicks over his lips. He tugs out his own cable, wiggling it in Hook’s direction. “I’ll take that challenge.”

Hook snorts, but doesn’t comment. Their exchange of cables is almost perfunctory, as is the way Hook doesn’t bother to tease as he slides his plug home in Ratchet’s port, sending a surge of charge immediately through. Pride swells in his spark as Ratchet visibly shivers, a warm sigh spilling from his lips.

Hook bombards with Ratchet with several more pulses of need and lust before he deigns to slip Ratchet’s cable into his port with decidedly more care. The little click of connectors coming into contact is unexpectedly arousing, and Hook bites back a groan.

“My turn,” Ratchet says with a smirk, and then a tidal wave of static charge comes surging over their connection, bombarding Hook’s lines with ecstasy.

His knees wobble. He pants for vents as he tilts forward, hands braced to either side of Ratchet’s shoulders, optics flickering. Primus, he’s never felt such raw charge, like lightning caressing his nodes, and going straight to his array. His valve clenches, suddenly desperate to be filled, as his spike plunges deep into Ratchet, throbbing insistently.

No. He’ll not be defeated. Not in this.

Hook gathers every ounce of control and focus. He gathers up the charge Ratchet is sending him and cycles it back, adding his own to the fray. His throbbing spike demands attention, so Hook starts to thrust again, fragging Ratchet with quick, deep stabs of his spike, raking over sensor nodes in a desperate bid to prove, once and for all, who is truly the best.

He claims Ratchet’s mouth to wipe away the smirk, the taunting remarks. He plunges his glossa inside, tasting sweet and tart high grade, and moans as their denta clack together. Ratchet gropes at him, hands gripping Hook’s side, curled on plating protrusions from his alt-mode.

Silence is golden, they say, and in this case, they are right. Ratchet is so much more likable when he’s reduced to moans and gasps and noises muffled against Hook’s lips. He’s ten times more appealing like this, squirming and writhing on Hook’s spike, his charge relenting in the wake of Hook’s unforgiving tide of electric ecstasy.

Ratchet grapples with him, refusing to go down without a fight. They roll across the berth, limbs tangling, frames clanging and colliding, leaving marks of paint behind. Hook is smug, it feels like staking a claim, until he realizes that Ratchet is marking him as well.

He growls and bites at Ratchet’s lips, his jaw, his intake, pulling more gasps and moans out of Ratchet’s mouth. No more words emerge from Ratchet. No more taunts or goads or challenges. Just raw pleasure, the occasional demand for more, harder, faster, and Hook is all too eager to oblige. His fans roar as he plunges into Ratchet again, matching the pulse of his charge across their cables to the beat of his spike.

Static crawls over their frames in bright bursts, lighting up the dim of the messy dorm. Ratchet’s making these noises, little whimpers and sighs, and his field is a hot lick against Hook’s own, trickling into all the nooks and crannies, winding him up.

They roll again, and Hook’s back on top, his hands seizing Ratchet’s hips, his spike grinding hard and deep, assaulting Ratchet’s ceiling node. He feels savage, lips pulled back over his denta, leaving nips and claims on Ratchet’s intake before he seizes Ratchet’s mouth again.

Victory soars into his spark as Ratchet overloads first, his valve spasming around Hook’s spike, his spike spurting against Hook’s belly, his lines surging with charge. Ratchet is gorgeous in pleasure, head tossed back, frame offered in complete surrender to what Hook is offering him.

It’s intoxicating. He clings to it, that sense of triumph, before the taste of Ratchet’s overload along their connection pulls Hook into the ecstasy as well. He buries his face into the crook of Ratchet’s shoulder, takes the spicy heat of him, and spills deep into Ratchet’s valve.

The release triggers a cascade across their cabled connection, sending Ratchet into another overload and pulling Hook along for the ride. The pleasure surges between them, one overload feeding into the other, until Hook feels eclipsed by it. His senses drown in ecstasy, and all sensation dims to the overwhelming electricity of it.

Safety protocols kick in around the fifth-sixth-he can’t count anymore. Hook gasps out a staticky sound even he can’t identify and collapses on top of Ratchet, vents desperately pulling in air, his lower half trembling and weak. There’s not a drop of transfluid in his tanks, and lubricant slicks his thighs. He’d overloaded with his valve, too, without so much as a brush of stimulation.


Ratchet squirms and Hook manages one last surge of effort. He pulls his rapidly depressurizing spike free and tilts to the side, landing on his belly on the berth. His spark races, and Hook realizes he should probably get in a comfortable position, but he’s trying to remember if he has feet or not.

Primus, that’s the best he’s ever had. He’d forgotten that being with medics is one hundred times different. He doesn’t know what kind of mods Ratchet has in his valve, but they have to be illegal. Plus, whatever he was doing with his cable array.

And if it had been incredible for Hook, it had to have been even more so for Ratchet, who’d had just as many overloads if not more. Everyone knows the valve mech gets twice as much pleasure. No way would he ever forget this.

Hook drags up energy and turns his head to look at Ratchet next to him. He plants a smug grin on his face, ready to dredge up a taunt or two.

Ratchet groans, his field fluttery with happiness and satisfaction. He stretches his arms over his head and then reaches for their cables, disconnecting them with efficient twists of his wrists. Hook’s own spools back into his array, the panel closing behind it.

Ratchet sits up, one hand diving between his legs to brush over his spike and valve array briefly. They come up damp with a mixture of fluids, evidence of their debauchery. Ratchet snorts as though amused and then Hook hears a click as his panels close.

“Thanks for the ride, second,” Ratchet says, and then of all things, pats Hook on the hip before he scoots off the berth, standing up as though his legs aren’t made of gelatin, like Hook’s.

How can he move after that? How can he stand? Where is he getting the energy from? Hook feels like he could recharge for the rest of the night!

“Stop calling me that,” Hook croaks.

“Why? It’s what you are?” Ratchet’s smirk is condescending. As is the way he looks down at Hook as he redolently stretches.

“Not for long.” Hook glares and manages to leverage himself upright, though his arms wobble. “I’ll surpass you by the time we graduate. I swear it.”

“If you think you can.” Ratchet leans in close, smelling of interfacing and high grade, of challenges and the bitter tang of loathing. His lips are far too tantalizingly close. “I welcome the challenge, second.”

Hook squares his shoulders. “I just showed you, didn’t I?” he demands, sharp and hot.

Ratchet nips at his jaw before he leans back, making a show of deep thought as he taps at his chin. “Eh, I’ve had better. But it was definitely a solid effort on your part. Worthy of a repeat. Four stars easy.” He shrugs. “Just means there’s room for improvement. I volunteer to be your practice dummy.” He winks.

Hook stares at him. The words echo in his audials and in his head, they surge through his frame, melt out through his feet, puddle beneath him.

I’ve had better.

I’ve had better?!

“Anyway…” Ratchet stretches again, groaning long and low, before he spins toward the door, waving a hand over his shoulder. “Thanks for the ride and all, but there’s a party still in full swing, and I don’t want to miss a moment more of it. See you in class tomorrow.”

And then Ratchet swaggers out like he hadn’t just insulted Hook’s interfacing prowess, implied he needed to practice, and then dismissed him in the space of a single conversation.

Hook gapes at the empty space on the floor where Ratchet had been standing. Barely a minute had passed since he’d overloaded and Ratchet’s already gone, meanwhile Hook can barely move, save for the shaking. He’s sticky, exhausted, he reeks of interfacing and overloads and beneath it all, a curdle of shame.

What the frag? He’s had better? How!?

The door opens again.

Hook leaps to his feet, even if it does make him sway, ready to give Ratchet a piece of his processor and then some. But it’s not the top-rated student returning, but a pair of drunken mechs who stumble inside, lips locked and hands indiscriminately roaming.

They collide against a desk, giggling, oblivious to Hook’s presence. He recognizes Recurve immediately, but not the smaller mech plastered to Recurve’s front – a medic, by the brands on him. Newly graduated even.

Some people have all the luck.

“Excuse me,” Hook snaps as he storms forward, eying the narrow space between their flailing limbs and his path to freedom. “Let me get out of the way before you start fragging on top of me.”

They still.

Recurve’s head swivels toward Hook and he blinks in confusion. “Oh, hey, Hook. Wait. Didn’t you leave with Ratchet?”

Hook’s optical band narrows. His engine growls.

“Went that well, huh?” Recurve guesses.

His interface partner giggles. “Must not have, if he’s done already,” they say, singsong. “Guess your buddy here doesn’t have the stamina to keep up with the party ambulance.”

Heat floods Hook’s cheeks. Anger bubbles up inside of him, and all manner of waspish retorts dance on the tip of his glossa, but none of them emerge. What’s the point?

“I’m going home,” Hook declares as he stomps to the door.

Recurve is wise enough to spin his dance partner out of the way, his expression inscrutable. “See you later!” he says, not quite cheerful, but condescending all the same.

Hook ignores him, the door closing behind him and cutting off the sounds of giggling and sloppy kisses, barely a step missing in their lewd dance of courtship. Hook snarls under his vents and storms away from the room and noise and laughter and fun of the party. There’s a reason he doesn’t go to these things.

Never again.

I’ve had better.

The statement lingers in his processor like a bad rust infection, like a flick to the nasal ridge, like his position, ever below Ratchet’s in the rankings, ever in the shadow of something he can’t grasp. So easily dismissed, it builds a fury inside of Hook, one no smelter’s pit can match.

He’ll show them. He’ll show them all, and Ratchet especially.

He will find a method to surpass Ratchet in every way, to leave him soundly behind in the rankings, in the proficiencies. He’ll create methods that’ll make other medics boil with envy. He’ll become a name so remembered, everyone will forget Ratchet ever existed. He’ll be obsolete.

Hook intends to make Ratchet so jealous, so pathetic, that he’ll come begging for an invitation to Hook’s berth, just for a touch of the glory. So he can know what it feels like to be small in the face of greatness.


It will happen. It’s going to happen. No matter what Hook has to do. He’ll find a way.

And he’ll crush that overconfident slagger beneath his foot.

[G1] Behind the Scenes 11

Good Boy

Prowl kneels, waiting patiently. He shivers, anticipation like an oil bath over his armor. The craving sets in, as his processor whirls and hums, a predator held at bay against the prey of desperately needed figures and calculations.

Ratchet hums as he starts to work. He has a pleasant voice. It soothes Prowl’s spark.

The first accessory – a thick collar with a heavy loop on the front – snaps into place around Prowl’s intake. With it, comes the first burst of relief. The metal is cold, but warms quickly against his dermal plating. The weight of it is a promise.

Duty slides away, behind the click of the lock.

Second comes the leash, a long, braided length of platinum – more show than function. It clips into the collar and hangs loose until Ratchet drapes the end over one of Prowl’s shoulders.

The snick washes away responsibility and leaves behind a simple command – obey. In Ratchet’s hands, this is always the easiest part. Prowl so often is the one giving orders, leaving that behind to lay his trust in Ratchet’s hands and only obey leaves him weak in the knees.

The trembles increase in earnest. Soon, Prowl whispers to himself. Soon.

“One more.” Ratchet gently, playfully, taps his nose. “Down, please.”

Prowl whimpers, heat surging through his lines. He obeys, sliding his hands forward, palms across the floor, until he presses his chevron to the cool metal. He shifts his knees open, parts his thighs, and presents his aft to his master. He reveals both valve and port without asking.

He’s slick. Air currents tease his damp valve folds, and his port rim twitches. He’s swollen, his main anterior cluster throbbing with need. Lust has soaked him from the moment he bowed his head earlier, nudged himself under Ratchet’s chin, and made the quiet plea.

Pleasure-lust, yes. But peace-lust more. He craves it, and Ratchet had stroked a hand down his back, beneath the hinge of his doorwings, as he nuzzled the top of Prowl’s head and agreed.

This, the rarest of their scenes, and always private.


Private save for whichever mech watches the video later. Prowl pointedly doesn’t look at the cameras surreptitiously placed, recording to a private server for later enjoyment. His. Theirs. Whomever they trust with the footage.

Fingers glide over his valve rim, tasting his slick, dragging Prowl’s attention back to his master. He chastises himself for letting his attention slip.

“Don’t worry,” Ratchet murmurs as those same fingers circle the smaller rim of Prowl’s port, teasing it. “I’ll make it go away.”

The promise clenches Prowl’s spark, fills it with love. He pants, ex-vents fogging the floor, fingers curling against it. His aft bobs, pushing towards Ratchet’s fingers. He doesn’t have to say please. Ratchet’s field is already agreeing.

Two fingers work into him; unnecessary, but this play has never been about pain like some of the others. Pain doesn’t belong in the here and now.

Prowl’s optics shutter. He pants harder. His fingers curl in and out, scraping the floor. His spike throbs, trapped. It will serve a purpose later.

For now, there is only the brief loss of stretching fingers before they are replaced by the last accessory. The plug squirms inside him, slick with extra lubricant, long and thick, filling him completely. His port clenches around it as it notches deep, his rim closing around the plug’s end. The soft synthetic fur brushes the back of his thighs, black to match his paint scheme.

Guilt is thus buried, deep under a pile of indulgence and care.

Ratchet lifts the end of the leash. “Come, Panther,” he says. “Up.”

All the rest slides away.

Prowl ex-vents and pushes himself to his hands and knees. The plug shifts in his aft, a constant reminder of its presence, along with the sweep of synthetic fur. His valve clenches, sympathetic and empty, squeezing out a pearl of lubricant. The tug on the collar, faint but there, is a reminder.

Command seals itself in an iron cage, and obedience swallows the key. Prowl hides himself, taking solace in the bars, and Panther rises, giving him room to be.

“Good hound,” Ratchet says, his voice rich with approval. He crouches down next to Panther, free hand sliding over Panther’s head. “You’re hungry, aren’t you?”

Panther makes a soft sound of agreement. No words. Turbohounds have no words, only needs.

Care. Shelter. Fuel.


“That’s what I thought.” Ratchet smiles and rises again. “Come on then. I’ve got your favorite. Figured you’ve been so good, you’ve earned it.”

Ratchet moves toward the main room. He doesn’t have to tug on the leash for Panther to follow, on hands and knees, plug shifting and pressing his nodes into singing delight. His engine revs. Ratchet looks down at him and smiles.

Panther’s spark flutters at the sight of his Master’s happiness.

In the main room, his dishes wait, two wide and shallow bowls arranged side by side on top of a small towel. In one is a liquid energon, the other a candied, flaked treat that melts on Panther’s glossa and occasionally crunches as he chews. Panther’s glossa moistens, and a happy whine emerges from his throat. He knows better than to rush forward.

Master appreciates his patience.

Ratchet laughs. “Don’t worry. You can have as much as you want.”

Panther licks his lips. He doesn’t know which to have first, and sniffs at the bowls as Ratchet urges him toward them. He guides the loop of the leash over a small hook nearby. Not that Panther has any interest in running off, it’s more about presentation.

Today’s liquid energon smells really plain. Panther gives it a lick and wrinkles his nasal ridge. Oh, it tastes fine enough, but it’s not a treat. He moves his attention to the other bowl and grabs a mouthful of the crisps. Oh, they are perfect. Sweet and tangy, fizzing on his glossa even.

He hears Ratchet move away. Panther looks up, confused, but Ratchet waves a hand.

“It’s okay, pet. Keep eating. I’m just prepping your toys.”


Panther’s engine purrs. He returns his attention to the treat dish, carefully eating bite after bite, occasionally sipping from the other bowl to wash it down. His tanks warm as the pockets of energon give him little bursts of energy. Master always has the best ideas.

He only finishes half the bowl of treats by the time Master returns, slipping the end of the leash from the hook and giving it a light tug.

“Ready to play, boy?” Ratchet asks, his voice a little raspier than usual. Panther knows that tone of voice. Master is eager to get started.

Panther’s hips waggle. He licks his lips and turns toward his master, crooning a soft yip of agreement. He tilts his head as he realizes Master is holding something in his other hand. It’s some kind of board with colorful knobs all over it.

Panther tilts his head to the other side and his doorwings cant with confusion.

“It’s a new toy. For smarter hounds,” Master says, and moves toward his chair, Panther following on hands and knees. His tail swishes behind him, port clenching and keeping his arousal at a low simmer.

Sometimes, he just wishes Master would get on to the really fun play. But he’s also intrigued by this new toy. He’s never seen anything like it before. Usually they play a modified form of Catch or Tug.

Ratchet settles into his chair, hooks the leash over the arm of it, and leans over to set the toy on the ground in front of him. Panther pads nearer to it, giving it a sniff. It smells like wood and something sweet behind the wood. He pokes at one of the colorful blocks with his hand, and the block moves into the empty space next to it. There, in the gap, something shiny peers up at him.

Panther tilts his head and nudges the block again, revealing a tiny little energon treat in the cubby. His optics light up as bends over and snags it with his denta, chomping down on the treat. It’s chewy and filled with a sweet gel.

Panther makes a noise of delight and looks up at his master.

“For smart hounds indeed,” Ratchet says and props his chin on his fist, looking down at Panther affectionately. “Find all the treats and then we can have a new game.”

Panther’s engine revs with excitement. He nudges the toy again, finding it to be rather simple, all things considered. It doesn’t take him long to root out all the little treats, though the one that makes him spin and spin a tiny dial takes a little longer to figure out.

Master watches the whole time, until he leans down and pats Panther on the head. He pets him, rubbing behind his audials and scratching under his collar. It feels so good. Panther leans into the pets, and quivers with excitement as the hand strokes down his back, between his doorwings. He hunches down a little, offers his aft, and clenches down on the plug deep in his port.

He doesn’t have to look to know he’s left little drips all over the floor. His valve has been leaking so much. He knows better than to rush though. Master will get to all of it eventually. He always does.

Master keeps petting him. Panther’s engine rumbles. He snatches up the last treat with his denta and nudges the toy away. He’s done! So he rises up, drapes his front half into Master’s lap, and Ratchet huffs a little laugh.

“Good job,” he says, both hands petting Panther’s head and shoulders and back now. “You really are a smart boy, aren’t you?”

Panther’s engine whines, and he licks Master’s cheek, his field spilling out with joy. Ratchet chuckles and strokes him, fingers slipping into seams to scratch his cables beneath.

“You liked that toy, I take it,” Master comments and grins when Panther licks him again, leaning his weight harder on his master. He tries to crawl into Ratchet’s lap but Ratchet just laughs again and puts his hands on Panther’s shoulders.

“Yes, you must have,” he says. “Down, Panther, you energetic thing. Too bad I can’t take you for a walk right now. I think you need to work off some of that energy.”

Panther reluctantly backs off, recognizing the command. He sits on his haunches and looks up at his master, vents whirring, plug pressing against the floor and by proxy, deeper into him. He whines a little as another burst of pleasure peppers his array. More lubricant pools beneath him.

He looks down at it. Maybe he should lick it up?

“Until then…” Ratchet reaches down and grips his jaw, tilting his head up so that he looks into Ratchet’s optics. “I think I have an alternative, lovely.” His thumb strokes over Panther’s jaw. His other hand pets over Panther’s head.

Panther whines and licks Master’s hand. Master’s fingers taste so good, like his lubricant and like arousal, and Panther licks them some more. He wants to play again. He does!

Ratchet smiles and leans back in his chair. He spreads his knees, making room between them, and pats his thighs, dragging his fingers toward up toward the apex of them.

Panther watches avidly, his optics growing wide, his lips parting in a helpless pant. He knows these gestures very well. His audials listen intently for the command that usually comes next. He doesn’t want to presume.

The soft click of a panel spiraling open makes the need grow inside Panther. His mouth fills with lubricant, his senses canted forward. The scent of Master’s lubricant floats to his nose, so sweet, and when he looks, Master’s hand is between his own thighs, fingers bracketed to either side of his valve.

“Come here, boy,” Master murmurs, crooking a finger toward Panther in a gesture he’s been trained to recognize. The crooked finger tilts down and taps on the inside of Master’s thigh. “I have a treat for you.”

And what a treat it is. Panther whines in the back of his intake and crawls forward, inhaling the scent of his master’s lubricant, his arousal, his heat. The antiseptic scent of him, and weldfire, and cleanser.

He noses between Master’s thighs, his forehead bumping against the back of Master’s knuckles. He looks up in question as Master’s free hand falls on his helm, silently urging him closer, as Master’s thighs push further apart, making more room for him.

His first lick is tentative, tasting even. He swipes the flat of his glossa along the length of Master’s valve, laving the plump folds of it, getting a hint of pearly lubricant. It’s sweet on the tip of his glossa, and he feels the throb of Master’s main node against his glossa. Panther rumbles a growl and dives back in, licking Master’s valve folds and licking deeper into him, trying to get as much lubricant as he can.

He hears Master vent heavily, hears the soft sigh of pleasure. Master’s hand is gentle on his head, rubbing him encouragingly, and Panther purrs as he laps at his master’s valve. Master tastes so good, and his valve pulses against Panther’s glossa, and his hips are rocking. More lubricant leaks out, but Panther licks it up before it can make a mess.

Master’s thighs spread further open as he sinks down in the chair, making it easier for Panther to lick at him. He flicks the tip of his glossa over Master’s node, again and again, and then concentrates on his lower node, too. The little cluster of sensors always makes Master moan.

“Good boy,” Master murmurs and his field washes over Panther, thick with hunger and approval. “You’re such a good boy, Panther.”

A low whine rises in Panther’s intake. He paws at the floor as he presses his face against Master’s valve, wanting to go as deep as possible, make Master happy. Master’s hand wraps around the back of his head, keeping him where he wants to be. His thighs tremble to either side of Panther’s head.

“G-good boy,” Master says, his vocals filling with static now, the chair creaking as he rocks his hips. “Lick my node, Panther. Make sure there’s no mess.”

Orders. Commands. It’s so easy to obey them.

Panther growls and focuses on Master’s main node, licks it again and again and again, stopping only to lap up drips of lubricant before diving back in.

He hears Master moan and pant, faster and louder. Master’s hand clenches and trembles on his head. And then suddenly it moves to Panther’s forehead with a light shove.

“E-enough,” Master pants, scooting back, his valve visibly clenching with denied pleasure. “There’s still one more game, pet. If you want to play.”

Panther’s dripping valve and concealed spike throb in agreement. He nips at Master’s fingertips and licks his lips, feeling the tackiness of lubricant on his face.

Master’s palm cups his head and slides around his face, pressing up under his chin to tilt his head up, ignoring the mess now on his fingers. “You’ve been such a good pet today. So I will allow you to take me.” His thumb rubs over Panther’s lip, and obediently, Panther gives it a lick.

Panther shivers, his spike throbbing inside his sheath. Being allowed to take Master is such a rare treat. His aft wiggles against the ground, tail swishing across the floor, and he licks Master’s palm harder.

“I see you like that reward.” Master chuckles, though there’s strain in it. His field is flush with heat, and Panther can taste the arousal in it.

Master pats Panther’s head and stands, lubricant slicking his thighs almost immediately. Panther wants to lick it, but it seems like Master has other plans. He takes the leash in hand and gives it a tug, guiding Panther toward the berthroom. Panther’s spike throbs harder, head grinding against the panel concealing it, but he knows better than to allow it free.

The door closes behind them, lights activating to a romantic half-brightness. Master kneels in front of Panther, fingers still wrapped around the leash, as Panther sits back on his aft, knees drawn up. It pushes the plug deeper into his aft and a low whine ekes out of his intake. He resists the urge to grind down and whines again when Master reaches for his spike panel, dragging a fingertip across the domed metal. Panther shivers.

“Such a patient, pet,” Master murmurs with a curve of his lips. “You can open now, Panther. Let me see that big spike of yours.”

Panther snaps his panel open almost immediately, relief trickling down his spinal strut as his spike juts free, glossy with pre-fluid and throbbing. Master’s hand curves around it, giving it a squeeze and a tug, and Panther whines, his hips following the motion.

“You’re ready for me,” Master says with a hum. “That’s good.” He lets go of Panther’s spike, ignoring Panther’s whine of rejection, and lets the end of the leash dangle on the floor. “Stay, boy,”

Stay. Every inch of Panther’s being wants to rut, he’s shaking from it. His plating is open to help expel heat. His spike is throbbing. Master is hot for him. And he has to stay.

So he does. He waits as Master stretches his arms over his head, making his joints creak, before he pulls a padded mat out from under the berth. He spreads it across the floor, achingly slow, little drips of lubricant glistening on the insides of his thighs. He slides onto it, on hands and knees, fingers kneading the plush mat. He looks over at Panther with hunger in his optics, his gaze flicking from top to bottom, before his optics light up.

“Oh, I almost forgot.” Master’s grin is devilish as he rummages under the berth again and pulls an item out of the toy chest.

The small, metal ring glints in the overhead light. Panther’s engine revs as Master summons him closer with a crook of his finger, and Panther inches into his Master’s reach. He pants as Master’s hand curls around his spike in two nice strokes, and Panther rocks into his Master’s grip.

“I can’t have you overloading inside me,” Master murmurs as he thumbs the top of Panther’s spike. “That just won’t do at all. Now stay still.”

Panther locks his joints and waits, a low whine building inside of him. He watches Master slip the ring around his spike and notch it at the base, a low pulse keeping it locked in place, and stopping him from overloading.

“There. Much better.” Master strokes his spike again and shifts back onto the mat.

He puts himself in a very familiar position, on his knees and elbows, aft pointed upward, knees slightly spread. He looks at Panther and shifts his weight, reaching back to pat his aft.

“Come on, boy,” he says before he reaches for the end of the leash and takes it in his fingers. “Mount.”


An inferno of need roars through Panther’s frame. He knows this command, to the quiver in his spark, the throb in his spike, the arousal in his groin. He licks his lips and crawls over to his Master, guided by the gentle tug on the leash.

Master’s beautiful valve is on display, so wet and open and inviting. Panther wants to lick him, but that hadn’t been the command.


He doesn’t have to think about it. Debate it. Weigh the proper course of action. All he has to do is obey.

Panther’s spike twitches. He rises up, drapes himself over Master’s back, lines up his spike to that plush and dripping valve. He can feel the rumble of Master’s engine against his chest. He braces himself on the floor and rocks his hips, blindly searching, rutting against Master’s aft.

He whines as he struggles to find Master’s valve. The tug on the leash becomes a bit more insistent. Master vents heat, his field wobbly with need against Panther’s.

“Good boy,” Master murmurs, his aft pushing back toward Panther’s hips, canting to try and help Panther along. “Just a bit more.”

Panther growls and snaps his hips forward, his spike finding Master’s valve, parting the mesh pleats of it, and sinking deep in one quick push. Master moans and clenches around him, his valve rippling, and Panther moans with him.

Master’s grip on the leash tightens more, as he twists it around his wrist, tugging Panther firmly on top of him, keeping him in place. He can’t do anything more than rut against Master, thrusting into him over and over, deeper and deeper, lubricant slick and messy around his spike. Master’s hot and tight and welcoming and if it weren’t for the spike ring, Panther knows he’d be close to overload.

As it is, he can only throb and thrust, hands pawing at the ground, knees digging in, his spike raking over Master’s sensory nodes. Charge fills the space between, sparking from node to node, until Master is bucking up against him, hungry and wanting. His voice is a drone to Panther’s roaring audials, but there are encouragement and demands in there.

“Good boy. Good pet. More. Deeper. Harder. Such a g-good p-p-pet.”

Master tosses his head. His frame creaks as he pushes back against Panther, lubricant sloppy down the back of his thighs. Static crawls over his armor and zaps against Panther’s own, and Master’s engine revs.

Master murmurs other things, maybe encouragement, but it’s lost to the static, and then he’s overloading, clenching down hard on Panther’s spike, as if milking him for a release he can’t offer. His spike hurts he’s so hard, but he can’t overload. He can only thrust wildly, riding the wild buck of Master’s frame. Transfluid splatters to the floor from Master’s spike as Panther’s frantic thrusting pulls another overload from his Master, who vents scorching heat and abruptly sags, dragging Panther down on top of him.

Panther whines, hips making little aborted jerks. He wants to overload. His spike hurts, swollen around the pressure of the ring. The tug on his collar is intoxicating, and Master is trembling beneath him, his plating vibrating.

“Down, Panther,” Master manages to sputter, his vents coming in heavy pants, his field thick with languid heat.

Reluctantly, Panther obeys, withdrawing from the hot clench of Master’s valve, his spike dripping lubricant. He wants so badly to overload, and can only watch as Master rolls over onto his back, legs splayed, his interface array liberally splattered with fluids and looking so tasty. The end of the leash is limp in Master’s fingers.

Panther licks his lips. He sits back on his aft, grinding the plug deep into his aft, enjoying the pleasure that washes through his frame. His valve feels so empty, and he’s leaving a puddle beneath him.

Slitted blue optics watch him before Master gives a tug on the end of the leash. “Good boy,” he says and his free hand crooks a finger toward Panther. “Well-behaved pets earn their rewards, don’t they?”

Panther scuttles across the floor and all but throws himself into Master’s lap, his spike leaving streaks on the sides of Master’s thigh. Master chuckles at him, running a hand over his head and another over his aft, giving it a light pat. His fingers thread through the fur of Panther’s tail, giving the plug a light tug.

“Yes, good rewards,” Master murmurs before he flicks the tail of the plug aside, exposing Panther’s valve to view.

Panther whines again and spread his knees, pushing his aft up into the air, baring himself to his Master. Whatever he wants to do, Panther will allow it. He kneads at Master’s other leg and rocks his hips and makes hopeful noises.

He moans as Master’s fingers tease at his valve folds, dragging through the lubricant glistening over the mesh. Master finds his anterior node and gives it a pinch, and Panther almost overloads then and there, except the spike ring’s pressure blocks even his valve from overloading.

He whimpers and rubs his face on Master’s leg. It hurts. And he is a good pet! Master promised him a reward, and he wants it.

The hand dips lower, teases at the base of his spike. Panther cants his hips hopefully, ex-venting hot air, his knees scraping at the floor. A finger teases at his valve opening, rubbing the lubricant-wet folds, before Panther hears the tiniest of clicks, and the spike ring springs open, freeing his spike.

“Good boy,” Master murmurs as his fingers plunge into Panther’s valve and curve just right. “Now overload for me, Panther. Enjoy your reward.”

It starts in his limbs, in his extremities. It roars through his engine, through his vents, through his intake. Panther keens as overload throbs through the entirety of his frame, pouring out of his seams in liquid roils of charge, his spike spurting and his valve clamping down tight on his Master’s fingers. His hips jerk, rutting against Master’s hand, and his frame goes wobbly.

His vision whites out. All other senses abandon him to the ecstasy, leaving him floating on air, spark dancing a happy twirl. Time vanishes, or at least his perception of it. He drifts in a haze of pleasure and relief, soaking up the feel of Master’s field around him, and the ecstasy humming through his lines.

He comes back into his frame flopped over his Master’s lap, panting and vents whirring, his entire self thrumming with delight. Master’s hand is petting him, while the other rests on his aft, leaving stickiness behind.

Master murmurs to him, a smile in his voice, “Ah, there you are, pet. You made a mess. I’ve been waiting for you to clean it up.”

Panther stirs and pushes himself upright with wobbly arms. He looks down and sees the splatter of fluids on his Master’s legs, and he flushes with embarrassment. He knows better than that.

Master cups his face with sticky fingers, and Panther licks at them, tasting transfluid and lubricant both. There’s something soothing about obeying the simple command, his engine settling into a quiet idle as he laps at Master’s hand, cleaning it. Then he moves to focus on Master’s legs: knees first, then his thighs.

Master makes room for Panther between his thighs, petting Panther’s head in approval as he cleans up his own transfluid and Master’s lubricant, too. It’s gone tacky, but the taste of it is familiar and welcome. It’s soothing, not that Panther could ever explain why.

Master keeps stroking him, fingers gentle on Panther’s intake, as he unlatches the leash and sets it aside. He reaches for the collar, too, but Panther whimpers and looks up at his Master. He pleads with his optics since he can’t use his words.

“You don’t want me to take it off?” Master asks, his voice as gentle as the touch of his fingers.

Panther dips his head and licks Master’s fingers. No. He wants the collar on for now. He doesn’t want it taken off. He doesn’t want the weight of responsibility back yet. He’s not ready.

“Alright, I’ll leave it on for a bit longer then.” Master’s hand moves away after a pat to Panther’s head, and he draws back, rising to his pedes with a creak of old joints. “Clean the mat, Panther. You’re almost done.”

Obedience is so very easy.

Panther bends over and starts lapping up fluids from the thick mat, both his and Master’s. It’s not the most palatable like this, but it’s not about taste. It’s about submission. Concession. Trust. The feel of Master’s field sliding over his.

Master’s hands on his aft, gently stroking him. Master’s fingers careful as they eased the plug out of Panther’s aft, his port rippling in it’s absence. He misses the thickness immediately, but knows he can’t keep it in forever. Master takes it away, putting it in a bin to be cleaned later. So it can be used again.

Anytime Panther needs it.

Master pats him on the head then, his fingers lingering. “Leave the rest for later, boy. Come on. Let’s get on the berth instead.”

Panther licks his lips and rises out of his crouch, looking up at Master, who has crawled onto the berth with an exhausted whuff of his field. He crooks a finger at Panther invitingly, and Panther gives a little yip before he clambers up to join Master.

This is his favorite part, when he snuggles up next to Master, the collar heavy but comfortable around his intake, a sign of ownership and trust. He’s half on top of his Master, half beside him, an arm around his frame and a hand petting him, the motions gentle and rhythmic.

“Good boy,” Master murmurs, and there’s love in the words, affection as thick as what’s in his field. It warms Panther to his spark.

Panther lays his head down and listens to the thrum of Master’s engine, to the pulse of his spark, and the tick-tick of a cooling frame. He wants to bury himself here, in the warmth and comfort, and he knows the morning means he has to take off the collar and become Prowl again. But for right now, he has this and Master and he’s all Panther needs in the world.

Safe. Comforted. Loved.


[G1] Behind the Scenes 10

“Hey,” said the message, seemingly innocent, but Ironhide knew better than to assume that, “interested in playing a game?”

Ironhide squinted at the text and wondered just what devious thing had crawled into Bluestreak’s processor this time, and how many overloads he’d get out of it, and whether or not he could even survive that much pleasure.

He still wondered how Jazz did it.

“Depends,” Ironhide finally responded. He didn’t want to sound too eager after all. He wasn’t desperate or anything. He had plenty of berths that welcomed him, even if he did like these games the most. “What is it?”

“I’ll let you participate,” Blue said with a winking emoticon. “I’ve got a Pretty eager to serve.”

Ironhide would never admit to the little ping his spike made when it instantly pressurized and was stopped by the locked panel in front of it. “I guess I’m not busy,” he replied with what he hoped was enough casualness to belie how suddenly eager he was. “When?”

And that was how he found himself here and now, less than ten minutes after receiving the message, on Bluestreak’s berth with the cute sniper draped atop him and kissing him senseless. Bluestreak was a good kisser. He knew just when to press, when to retreat, when to nibble, and when to lick. He made all of these adorable little humming sounds, too, like he really enjoyed kissing.

It was hardly a trial to kiss Bluestreak.

“Mmm,” Bluestreak hummed and sucked on Ironhide’s bottom lip and wriggled on top of Ironhide, sliding their armor together, all hot and heavy. “Like kissing you.”

“I noticed.” Ironhide chuckled and dragged his hands up Bluestreak’s back, tweaking the hinges of his doorwings. “But can’t help but feel like we got an audience.”

Bluestreak arched his back, doorwings canting toward Ironhide’s fingers in silent demand. “Oh, don’t mind him. He’s just here to be useful.”

Useful, he said.

Ironhide’s gaze slid to the side, where a kneeling Jazz watched them with a hungry visor, a puddle beneath him, and his hands folded in his lap. He was practically jittering with the urge to participate, but surprising obedience kept him kneeling there.

Ironhide would admit he didn’t really understand the purpose of this game or what Jazz got out of it or why he even wanted it. But he did get the rules, knew that Bluestreak had a plan that Jazz had agreed to in full, and Ironhide was here to play a part.

“Useful, eh?” Ironhide said and rolled up against Bluestreak, sliding a knee between the sniper’s legs. “How so?”

Bluestreak chuckled and nipped at his nasal ridge. “I’ll show you,” he purred before he pulled back, out of Ironhide’s arms, shifting to straddle Ironhide’s hips instead. He leaned forward, their lips inches apart, his hands braced to either side of Ironhide’s head. “I’m going to frag you tonight. You mind?”

Ironhide found Bluestreak’s hips and gave them a squeeze. “When have I ever?” he asked with a laugh. “Kinda miss my cute berth buddy, ya know?”

“Well, I kinda miss my rusty old pillow.” Bluestreaker smirked and turned his head. “Ironhide’s going to need some prep work, pet. Get to it.”



Ironhide’s engine revved with glee, even as Jazz nodded and rose to his pedes, lubricant staining his inner thighs. “Yes, master,” he said with a deferential dip of his helm.

“Make room for him, will you?” Bluestreak wriggled his hips and turned his attention back toward Ironhide. “Don’t want to make his job too difficult now?”

“No. Not at all,” Ironhide said and spread his knees across the berth, leaving enough room for Jazz to crawl between them and ex-vent hot and wet over his closed panel.

Frag making Jazz work for it. Ironhide was too eager to feel that hot mouth on his array, so he let his panel snick aside and shivered when lips descended on his anterior node cluster first. They announced themselves with a soft kiss and a nuzzle before a glossa introduced itself as well, giving his node a flick.

Ironhide groaned and felt his thighs quiver.

“Good?” Bluestreak asked.

Ironhide cycled a long ventilation as Jazz licked the length of his valve before diving in, licking and sucking and lapping and making all of these lewd, wet noises. Heat quickly spiraled in the wake of his ministrations, and lubricant trickled out, only to be caught by Jazz’s glossa.

“I’ll take that as a yes,” Bluestreak murmured and nipped at Ironhide’s chin before his mouth wandered further, burrowing against the sensitive cables of Ironhide’s intake.

A barely audible click announced the appearance of Bluestreak’s spike, and Ironhide groaned as the hot length slid along his abdominal armor, smearing drops of pre-fluid in its wake. Bluestreak’s mouth worked hot pleasure on his intake as Ironhide’s hands sought the sensitive mounts for Bluestreak’s sensory panels.

They were going to kill him with pleasure, he decided, as Jazz latched onto his anterior node and gave it a deep suck, making Ironhide jerk and hiss. Jazz’s glossa immediately soothed over it, lapped down the length of his valve, and teased at his lower sensor cluster instead, with a flick, flick, flick that Ironhide’s hips twitched to follow.

Ironhide moaned and let his own spike extend, shivering as it brushed over Bluestreak’s and sent a frisson of heat licking up his backstrut.

“Oh, are we dueling with swords now?” Bluestreak asked as he pushed himself up and back, all cheeky like. His hands found both of their spikes and pressed them together in a strong stroke.

Ironhide rolled his hips and dropped his hands to Bluestreak’s thighs. “Do that again.”

“So demanding,” Bluestreak purred, but he obeyed, fisting their spikes together and pumping them in long, squeezing strokes.

A groan tore itself from Ironhide’s intake. His thighs trembled. The slow squeezes combined with Jazz’s determined licking made lust coil hotly inside of him. His valve quivered, pulsing lubricant, as lips and denta nipped at his nodes and suckled on his rim. His calipers spiraled tight, trying to clamp down on nothing, and then Jazz moved to his exterior lower node, lashing it wildly with his glossa.

Caught between them, Ironhide couldn’t do anything but shudder and groan, his valve getting wetter and hotter, his spike throbbing and soaking Bluestreak’s fingers with pre-fluid. Pleasure built and built inside of him, climbing to a larger crescendo.

Ironhide’s grip on Bluestreak’s hips tightened, stressing the metal. “Ahhh, Blue. If yer gonna frag me, better do it soon. ‘Cause yer pretty there is doin’ too good of a job.”

Bluestreak chuckled and squeezed the tip of Ironhide’s spike, his thumb teasing around the damp opening. “And here I thought you had better stamina than that,” he teased, but he half-turned and tapped Jazz on the crown of the helm. “Enough, pet. He’s ready for me.”

A parting nip to Ironhide’s anterior node and Jazz pulled back. “Yes, sir,” he said as he licked his lips, his visor bright and hungry. “What would you like me to do now, sir?”

Bluestreak shifted off Ironhide’s lap, moving instead to kneel between his thighs as Jazz scuttled to the side, getting out of his way. Ironhide had to admit he was fascinated as he watched their interplay, propping himself up on his elbows to better see.

“Hmm, that’s a good question.” Bluestreak positioned himself, his hands sliding up Ironhide’s legs, over his knees, and across the top of his thighs. His spike brushed over Ironhide’s valve, briefly nudging his swollen anterior node.

Bluestreak’s gaze shifted to Ironhide. “Is there something my pet can do for you, Ironhide?”

He hadn’t been given a script for this. His gaze darted between Jazz, who looked hungry, and Bluestreak, who looked devious. Mech had been taking far too many lessons from Ratchet, apparently.

“My spike’s pretty lonely now,” Ironhide offered, hoping it was the right choice.

Bluestreak rolled his hips again, the head of his spike barely breaching Ironhide’s valve rim, only to linger, forcing Ironhide’s rim to flutter indecisively.

“I think you’re right,” Bluestreak said. He reached out, grabbed Jazz’s jaw, sweeping a thumb over his lips. “What’s the rule, pet?”

“No overloading,” Jazz recited with a hitched breath. His hands curled into fists where they rested on his knees.

“Very good.” Bluestreak stroked under Jazz’s chin. “Now make yourself useful and give Ironhide’s spike a nice home. Hm?”

A soft moan escaped Jazz’s lips. He visibly shivered, his field flashing through the room in a quick fire of lust.

“Yes, sir.”

Jazz stirred into motion, swinging a leg over Ironhide’s frame to straddle his hips. He reached down and guided Ironhide’s spike to his valve, sinking down upon it in a slow, luxurious slide that made Ironhide’s backstrut tingle. His hands found Jazz’s waist even as Bluestreak slid his arms around Jazz from behind, hooking his chin over Jazz’s shoulder.

“There,” he purred, “nice and snug.” And then Bluestreak rolled his hips and thrust, sinking deep into Ironhide in one long, deep push.

Ironhide moaned, head tipped back, stars dancing in his optical feed. He hooked his ankles behind Bluestreak, deepening the angle so that the next rock of Bluestreak’s hips struck a cluster of nodes near the back of his valve. Doing so sent a lash of heat through his array, especially when Jazz circled his hips in a little shimmy dance that rippled up and down Ironhide’s spike.

“Any objections, Ironhide?” Bluestreak asked, his tone absolutely wicked and definitely learned from Ratchet.

“None,” he gasped as he hauled down on Jazz’s hips, grinding deep and making the saboteur cry out, head tipping back against Bluestreak.

“Remember, no overloading,” Bluestreak warned, the little demon, even as his hands swept over Jazz’s headlights, his palms making soft, circular motions. Jazz’s valve rippled around Ironhide’s spike, clamping down hard, charge zipping between sensor and receptor nodes in a fiery bite.

“Y-yes, sir,” Jazz stammered. He licked his lips, frame surging as he rode Ironhide’s spike and leaned back against Bluestreak, who was fondling his headlights with pinches and squeezes, until they flickered.

Bluestreak grinned, and while one hand continued to grope Jazz’s headlight, the other slipped up under his bumper, tweaking something that made Jazz jerk and cry out. His hands clawed the air before they latched onto Bluestreak’s arms.

Ironhide was enraptured.

The sight of Jazz, uninhibited, trembling as he struggled to hold back his pleasure while providing Ironhide with plenty of his own, was intoxicating. Bluestreak’s mastery of the situation, his easy manipulation of Jazz even while continuing to frag Ironhide in long, deep strokes was equally so.

Had they done this before? With someone else? Ironhide didn’t know, but damn if they didn’t have the perfect rhythm. Bluestreak thrust deep, and Jazz rose up. Bluestreak withdrew, and Jazz sank down with a wriggle and a ripple of his calipers.

Ironhide groaned, ventilating hot bursts of air, his cooling fans spinning so fast they vibrated the berth, just as his engine did. Their fields assaulted him, throbbing with lust and arousal, and the whole room was thick with the scent of it.

He wasn’t going to last at this rate. He said as much.

Bluestreak just chuckled and nuzzled into Jazz’s audial. “You’re our guest. It’s only polite that you get to overload first,” he said, fingers scraping audibly over Jazz’s flickering headlight even as he tweaked something under Jazz’s bumper.

A sharp cry and Jazz arched his backstrut, his valve clamping fitfully around Ironhide’s spike, dragging him deep, sensor nodes spitting rapid-bursts of charge at Ironhide’s receptors. Bluestreak thrust deep as well, grinding hard, his housing putting a heavy pressure on Ironhide’s exterior nodes.

More stars danced in his optics. His ventilations caught, hands squeezing on Jazz’s hips. Arousal roared through him, lightning sluicing through his lines, through his sensory net. The hot coil of need in his belly twisted and twisted into a heavy knot, a building explosion that finally burst in overload.

Ironhide roared as he pulled Jazz onto his spike and splattered his ceiling node with transfluid, his spike pulsing and pulsing as Jazz’s calipers wrung him dry. Jazz moaned, his field full of restrained need, as Bluestreak clutched him tight and followed Ironhide over. The hot splash of his release triggered Ironhide’s valve and sent him cycling into a second overload before the first had cleared his systems, and he bucked beneath them, entire frame wrought with pleasure.

His sensory feed fritzed with static, world narrowing to hot-white ecstasy, until he crashed back into his frame, a sated, trembling heap coated in condensation and tingling. He cycled his optics, rebooting them, treated to the sight of Bluestreak’s hands sliding down Jazz’s frame.

Jazz who was trembling so hard his armor clattered and charge leapt out from his substructure. His frame poured a suffocating heat. His valve was sopping, fluttering madly around Ironhide’s semi-pressurized spike and proof-positive that he’d obeyed. He hadn’t overloaded.

“Good job, pet,” Bluestreak said before he patted Jazz’s belly and leaned back. “Off you go. Our guest needs a cleaning before your job is done.”

Jazz moaned and lolled forward, moving with glacial shifts of his weight. “Y-y-yes, sir,” he slurred as Ironhide’s spike slid free of the snug confines of his valve.

He was obedient, however, as he immediately turned around and leaned over Ironhide’s frame, lips parting as his glossa swept over Ironhide’s spike and array in long licks, lapping up his own lubricant and Ironhide’s transfluid.

“Primus,” Ironhide swore and loosed a long groan. “You’re both of you fragging menaces.”

Bluestreak chuckled and patted Ironhide’s thighs. “Is that a complaint I hear, old mech?”

“Ask me again tomorrow.” Ironhide licked his lips and felt his systems stir as Jazz’s diligence made his internals clench with arousal.

He was getting sloppy though, Ironhide noticed. No doubt because of the need simmering in his lines and the way he could barely keep himself upright. He cleaned Ironhide’s spike in due time, giving him leave to retract it back into the safety of his housing.

Bluestreak chuckled. “You know, you never complained this much when it was Prowl and Ratchet putting on a show.” He shifted back, spike slipping free of Ironhide, and when he moved away, Jazz was quick to take his place.

Ironhide didn’t want to miss that. He propped himself back up on his elbows, watching avidly as Jazz bent to work, glossa once again working between Ironhide’s thighs. Long licks swept up transfluid and lubricant alike, gentle around oversensitive nodes, and pressing deep to gather up every drop.

“I do, you’re just usually not around to see it,” Ironhide replied with a chuckle. Anything to distract himself from the tempting sight of Jazz licking every trace of his master from Ironhide’s valve.

Bluestreak grinned. “If you say so.” He reached out, his hand petting over the curve of Jazz’s helm. “He’s doing good, I hope?”

“More than.” Ironhide licked his lips. “Glad to see that obedience trainin’ is startin’ to work out.

“He still has his moments, but that’s okay. I like a challenge.” Bluestreak’s tone shifted toward fond, affectionate even, and Jazz’s engine rumbled.

The noisy, nearly obscene noises of him lapping eased. Ironhide’s entire array tingled in the aftermath as Jazz finally sat back on his heels, licking his lips clean.

“I’m done, master,” he said.

“Yes, you are. And such a good job you did. I’m impressed, pet.” Bluestreak grabbed Jazz’s arm, tugging him close, and Ironhide sat fully up, pulling his legs out of the way. He watched, avid, as Bluestreak curved an arm around Jazz’s waist and used the other to gently hold Jazz’s chin.

“And you didn’t overload,” Bluestreak observed.

“No, master,” Jazz replied, his vocals shaky, his frame clattering even harder.

Bluestreak’s voice went even softer, practically a croon that in any other situation would have come across as condescending. “Such a good pet you are.” He leaned in close, nuzzling their nasal ridges. “One who has earned his overload, I think. So go on, pet. Let go.”

Jazz whined low in his intake, hands clutching at Bluestreak’s sides. His hips made little rocking motions into thin air, and that was when Bluestreak kissed him, long and deep, optics shuttered and mouth moving ever so slow.

A low sound rose in Jazz’s intake, a cross between a moan and a whimper. He shook from helm to pede as he keened before he jerked, and his field flashed throughout the room, overload crackling like electric fire over his armor.

From a kiss.


Bluestreak hummed into the kiss and pulled back, his hand gently stroking Jazz’s face. “Good boy,” he murmured as one finger traced over the curve of Jazz’s jaw and down his intake. “Session’s over now.”

A low whimper crawled out of Jazz’s intake. He nodded and tipped forward, forehead resting on Bluestreak’s chestplate. “Thank you,” he whispered.

“You’re welcome.” Bluestreak patted Jazz on the back, his other hand continuing to stroke his partner’s face. Jazz was shivering now, different than the trembling of delayed overload, but there was a calm in his field, one that Ironhide envied.

He pulled himself entirely upright, dangling one leg over the edge of the berth. He didn’t feel awkward, not quite, but he also wondered if he should quietly leave. The game was over, after all. The rest was a vulnerability Ironhide wasn’t sure he was invited to witness.

Bluestreak kept stroking Jazz gently, shifting a little to lean back against the wall and get more comfortable. “Hey, sweets. Let’s see about getting you cleaned up, yeah?”

“I ain’t that dirty,” Jazz retorted, somewhat muffled given that his face was smooshed against Bluestreak’s bumper.

“Well, maybe I just like cleaning you up, sweetspark.” Bluestreak nuzzled him with a little laugh. “Feel better?”

Jazz lifted his head and licked Bluestreak’s chin. “Ya know I do.” He turned his gaze toward Ironhide, lips curved with a soft smile. “Yer awful quiet.”

Ironhide spread his hands. “Felt appropriate.” He tilted his head as he looked at the two of them, all cutely coiled together and stuff. “Didn’t want ta interrupt.”

Jazz shrugged. “You were invited. If we didn’t want ya here, we’d have kicked ya out already.”

“Good to know.” Ironhide hopped down from the berth then, still soaking up the lazy comfort the double overloads had left in him. “But I still think I oughta be goin’ now. As much fun as it was.”

“You’re leaving?” Bluestreak shifted, adjusting Jazz in his lap as his face creased with confusion. “You can stay if you want. You don’t have to leave just ‘cause we’re done playing.”

Ironhide shook his helm. “That ain’t it, baby blue.” He grinned and stretched his arms over his helm. “Ya’ll just look so cozy it reminded me of a story a little birdie whispered into my audial this morning.”

Jazz squirmed into Bluestreak, nosing into the sniper’s throat. “Wouldn’t be the one about Prime, would it?”

“That very same.” Ironhide dropped his arms and rolled his helm, easing the krick in his neck. “Rumor has it that if I time it just right, I can pounce and drag him to a berth.”

Jazz chuckled. “Good. He ain’t recharged in a week. He needs it.”

“Glad I have yer approval,” Ironhide drawled, his lips quirked in a grin. “Thanks for the invitation. Anytime ya’ll need a third, ya know who to call.”

Bluestreak snorted. “How generous of you.”

“I’m just that kind of mech.” Ironhide winked and their laughter followed him out, an altogether joyous sound. They were so good for each other, Ironhide couldn’t help but figuratively pat himself on the back.

He’d done good there, hooking those two up. Very good.


To see about a Prime.

Because Ironhide is just that kind of charitable.