[IDW] Tyrannosaurus Wrecked

The calm after the storm is almost as tense as the frenzy leading up to it. Post-battle, Grimlock still feels as if he needs to move. Defensive protocols shift and lurch inside of him; his offensive code claws for attention. The urge to destroy something, anything, nestles in his internals and takes up residence.

There’s nothing and no one left to fight.

The air tastes of ash and ordinance. It’s humid and heavy on his glossa. There’s no wind. Not that there ever is.

Grimlock vents, in and out, frame tense, his gaze locked on the horizon, a hazy shade of noxious gray where the aftermath of spent ammunition clogs the air. Below him, the battlefield is littered with the fallen neither side has the time or resources to reclaim. Behind him, the rest of his team takes what rest they can, preparing for the next battle.

Because there is always going to be another one.

Debris skitters down the incline behind him. Someone curses and grunts, muttering to themselves in an annoyed tone.

Amusement floods Grimlock’s processor. He doesn’t have to look to identify his visitor. There’s only one mech in the battle group with such a naive and innocent field, though perhaps a little less of both after today.

“Why in the world would someone climb all the way up here, Primus,” Hot Rod mutters as he hauls himself up into view, vents heaving from exertion. His optics are pale, though whether from fatigue or because he’s short on energon, Grimlock isn’t sure.

Grimlock stares at him. “It’s usually a sign they want to be alone, kid.”

Hot Rod doesn’t sound the least bit chastened. “Not a good hiding place, if you ask me.” He comes up even with Grimlock and leans over, hands braced on his thighs, spoiler halves limp against his back. “Kind of wish I had wings right now.”

“It’s different when it’s not a simulation, isn’t it?”

Hot Rod snorts. “I’m not that inexperienced. Geez.” He sucks in a huge ventilation and straightens, planting his hands on his hips. He looks around, surveying the landscape below. “Phew. Good view though. If you ignore the death and destruction, I mean.”

“It’s a good reminder.” Grimlock’s smile lingers behind his mask. There’s something charming about Hot Rod, and there shouldn’t be. He’s just another recent graduate, another newbie with grand ideas and grand beliefs about what war should be.

In the beginning, Hot Rod had irritated the slag out of him. Fresh-faced, full of ideals because the war hasn’t stripped them from him, he’d seemed ignorant of the realities of what they faced. Had probably fancied himself a hero, too. But there’s a darkness inside him, a fire and fury Grimlock can recognize. He feels it, too. Familiar and encroaching, threaten to swallow you whole, if you’re not careful.

Hot Rod is not so irritating now. Exasperating perhaps, but Grimlock doesn’t have the urge to punch him on sight anymore, so he supposes that’s progress.

“Reminder, huh? I really don’t think I’m ever gonna forget this.” Hot Rod scrubs the back of his head, his optics dimming. “Just another mental image to add to the album, I guess.”

Grimlock grunts. The kid’ll get used to it. After a while, it all blurs together. Battle and death and scorched energon and exhaustion so heavy it leaves you energized.

“So…” Hot Rod’s hands tuck behind his back as he bounces on his heelstruts. “Do I have your respect now?” He peers up at Grimlock, bright and earnest, and everything fresh-faced recruits are when they first graduate.

“Heh.” Grimlock chuckles, amusement fluttering through his spark all over again. “You’re getting there, but don’t get too cocky.”

“Awww, come on.” Hot Rod grins and rocks on his heelstruts, back and forth and back and forth, his spoiler halves twitching up and down in barely restrained delight. “I fought good, didn’t I?”

“Pah. You’re still green. Nothing but experience will change that.”

Hot Rod sidles closer, his field rubbing up against Grimlock’s in a warm ripple. “Who says I’m not experienced?”

Grimlock barks a laugh and looks down at the charming speedster, who doesn’t seem to fear anything. “I ain’t talking about the berth, kid.”

“Now that’s a shame,” Hot Rod purrs, his engine revving audibly, purring like a finely tuned work of art. His glossa sweeps over his lips, making them glisten.

Kid really isn’t one for subtlety, is he? Grimlock gives him an appraising look because maybe Hot Rod’s not that green after all. There’s a tension in the way he holds himself. His armor keeps fluttering, alternately clamping tight and flaring loose. He’s shivering, too, but absently.

“It’s a post-battle high,” Grimlock says, recognizing in Hot Rod the same uneasy storm racing through his own spark. “It’ll pass.”

Hot Rod’s aft gives a wiggle, and now he’s close enough for their armor to brush together, a spark of charge flicking between them. “More fun to enjoy it though. I mean, we shouldn’t waste it.”

Kid does have a nice aft. Would fit right nicely in Grimlock’s palms.

Grimlock tilts his head. “Bit pushy, aren’t you?”

Hot Rod laughs, wild and free. He has a pleasant laugh. “I like big mechs, not gonna lie.” He waggles his optical ridges, blue optics bright and earnest.

Grimlock shakes his head, laughter rumbling in his chassis. He can’t help it. He likes the cheeky speedster. Sure, he’s not a powerhouse soldier, and he has the kind of confidence only a trainee could have, but he’s determined. And he doesn’t back down.

“I don’t know.” Grimlock eyes Hot Rod top to bottom, tracing the bright colors of his frame, and the curve of his thighs. “You’re pretty small. I’d hate to break you.”

Hot Rod cocks a hip and plants his hand on it. “I’m a lot tougher than I look.”

“I’m starting to realize that.” Grimlock curves a hand around Hot Rod’s head, nearly engulfing his face. Their size difference is almost ridiculous.

Grimlock is tempted. Heat broils off Hot Rod in tantalizing waves. His field is an electric flicker, and the taste of arousal in his field is enough to seduce Grimlock into making what is quite possibly a very dumb mistake.

“All right.” Grimlock’s thumb strokes over Hot Rod’s lips, and the newbie’s glossa flicks over it, wet and enticing. “Since you think you can handle it and all. Don’t got a berth for you though.”

“Don’t need one anyway.” Hot Rod captures his thumb, pins it between his denta, his optics flashing with desire.

Grimlock growls, his engine rumbling. Well, then.

He drags his thumb free and scoops Hot Rod up, easily lifting the slim speedster in one hand. Hot Rod gives an adorable little squeak of surprise, squirming in Grimlock’s grip, before Grimlock sits and gently sets Hot Rod in his lap, thighs splayed wide.

Hot Rod’s elbows swing back and hook over Grimlock’s knees, his lips twisting into a smirk. “You could have said this was where you wanted me,” he purrs as he arches his spinal strut. His heels dig into the ground to either side of Grimlock’s aft.

“Actions are a hell of a lot louder,” Grimlock grunts.

He leans back against the jut of rock behind him, debris pinging down on his shoulders, but it’s a good enough perch for now. Means he can balance the pretty speedster on his lap and still have both hands for touching.

“Course you could always change your mind,” Grimlock adds. Gotta give the kid plenty of outs. The last thing Grimlock needs is some newbie screeching that the big, bad pred tried to eat him.

“No way,” Hot Rod says with a lick of his lips. He tosses his head back, baring the length of his intake. It’s soft and pretty, all but demanding a nibble. “Give me all you got.”

Grimlock drags his palm down Hot Rod’s chassis. Primus, the kid’s so small. He could curve his hand around Hot Rod’s waist. His palm flattens over Hot Rod’s groin, where true to his designation, the full broil of arousal rises from the speedster’s panel.

“Hot little thing, aren’t you?” Grimlock says.

Hot Rod squirms enticingly, his thighs splaying further apart. “Be even hotter if you actually did something about it.”

A quiet snick signals his panel sliding aside, and Grimlock’s mouth waters at the sight of the newbie’s plush, swollen valve. Puffy red pleats are striped with gold, and the sensor cluster at the apex of his folds is a bright, throbbing yellow. Lubricant has already gathered in the depths, glistening dewy and sweet.

Grimlock drags his forefinger through the wetness, teasing the tip of it against Hot Rod’s hot little button. Hot Rod hisses out a vent and arches his back, hands clenching around Grimlock’s knees.

“Tease,” he breathes, his optics bright and hungry. More lubricant drips out of his valve, painting Grimlock’s finger with slick.

“Gotta check and see if I’ll even fit,” Grimlock grunts, refusing to admit that the rising wave of desire in him is more like a flood.

He slips a finger into Hot Rod’s valve, curving it to taste all those inner nodes. Hot Rod moans and rocks against him, thighs squeezing inward, trapping his hand. He rolls his hips, riding Grimlock’s finger, calipers rippling in a restless wave. Primus, he’s so hot, so wet.

Grimlock adds another finger without a hint of struggle. Hot Rod opens up for him, two of Grimlock’s fingers as thick as the spike pressurizing free of Hot Rod’s now open panel. It’s a gaudy thing, as flashy as its owner, with flames painted up the side of it. There’s a spiral of tiny nubby nodes around the length of it though, and Grimlock thinks he might want to explore them later. Specifically with his glossa.

“You’ll fit,” Hot Rod breathes. His fingers rhythmically grip Grimlock’s knees, optics half-slitting.

His lips part, glossa dancing across them, making them slick. Like an invitation. One Grimlock wants to accept.

His engine rumbles. His mouthguard parts before he thinks twice about it, and Grimlock curves forward, capturing Hot Rod’s mouth with his.

Hot Rod gasps into the kiss. His glossa flicks against Grimlock’s, hot and quick, before retreating. Grimlock chases it, demanding more of the newbie’s mouth, as Hot Rod grasps his chestplate, hauling himself closer. He’s riding Grimlock’s fingers eagerly now, his mouth equally hungry.


Grimlock eases in a third finger, because he can’t stomach the thought of hurting the kid, and his spike gives a sharp throb as wet heat ripples around his fingers as if trying to drag him deeper. Hot Rod keens deep in his intake, and he nips at Grimlock’s lips, denta blunt compared to the edge of Grimlock’s.

“More,” Hot Rod gasps out, against Grimlock’s lips, his field a blazing frenzy crashing against Grimlock’s.

He nudges his fingers deeper, the longest of them brushing over Hot Rod’s ceiling node, and Hot Rod cracks like a whip against him. The speedster writhes, electric fire dancing over his frame, his valve clamping down hard on Grimlock’s finger. The sharp ozone scent of overload hangs tangy in the air as Hot Rod whimpers and bucks.

Grimlock’s spike spills pre-fluid as lubricant soaks his fingers, getting into his joints, so hot and slippery. Hot Rod rides all three of them, hips working in little rolls, making such delicious sounds that Grimlock’s mouth waters.

He has to taste him. See if his valve is as sweet as his mouth.

A growl rises in Grimlock’s engine as he withdraws his fingers, ignoring Hot Rod’s whimper of disappointment, and grasps those slim hips in his hands. Hot Rod’s so tiny that it takes nothing to lift his lower half up, to bring him close enough for Grimlock to bury his face between Hot Rod’s thighs.

He drags in a ventilation, tastes the sharpness of Hot Rod’s overload with his olfactory sensors, before his glossa drags a wet swipe up the soaking folds of Hot Rod’s valve. Hot Rod gasps and bucks up against him.

“Oh, Primus, more!” Hot Rod babbles, his hands scrabbling at Grimlock’s head and armor and hands, whatever he can reach. His feet drum a nonsense rhythm on the back of Grimlock’s shoulders. “Yes, more, more, more.”

Grimlock growls, the vibrations spilling from his mouth against Hot Rod’s valve. That bright and swollen node cluster throbs against his lips. He dives into Hot Rod’s valve, laps up dribbles of lubricant – sweet indeed, like an energon candy. But still only half as sweet as the way Hot Rod squirms and begs for more.

“Ah, ah, ah, please,” Hot Rod whines, his engine revving to a sharper pitch, vents roaring and fans sputtering. “More.” Without shame, he rocks his hips, riding Grimlock’s mouth, and it’s the sexiest thing Grimlock’s seen in ages.

He grins and grabs Hot Rod’s node cluster with his denta, pins it gently, flicks his glossa across it. Hot Rod’s head tosses, backstrut curving, heels slamming against the back of Grimlock’s shoulders. He gasps, and his valve throbs against Grimlock’s lips, his node so swollen and bright it deserves several sucks. So Grimlock does, locking his lips around it, suctioning pull after pull after pull until Hot Rod shrieks in his grip and overloads again.

He comes undone, uninhibited, babbling praises, his fingers digging tight against Grimlock’s seams. Lubricant dribbles from his valve, and his vents roar. Damn, but he’s a hot little thing, and he’s so open now, so loose.

Grimlock might even fit.

He grins as he gives Hot Rod a delicate lick and then lowers the panting wreck of a speedster back into his lap. He can’t help but touch Hot Rod’s armor, hot to his derma, plating agape to allow for rapid cooling, cables beneath still shiny and new.

Hot Rod splays across his lap, squirming a little, and one hand drags down his frame, fingers curling into his own valve. “Primus, that was good,” he breathes, and bright blue optics look up at Grimlock imploringly. “Gonna frag me now?”

Grimlock blinks. “You just got two overloads, brat,” he growls. He has to resist the urge to palm himself at the sight.

Unashamed, Hot Rod continues to finger himself, little gold digits getting liberally coated in lubricant, glistening. Grimlock wants to lick them clean, because every careful touch of Hot Rod’s fingers makes him gasp and quiver. His thighs splay wider as if demanding Grimlock enter him.

“So?” Hot Rod licks his lips. “I want more. And it looks like you could use a couple, too.” He drags his heels, slides down a bit, until his thighs and the heat of his valve bracket Grimlock’s rigid spike. “Come on. I can take it.”

Grimlock curves a hand around Hot Rod’s waist, pulls him a few inches down, until the head of his spike can paint itself in all that copious lubricant.

“Are you sure?” he rumbles, grinding the thick head against Hot Rod’s valve, lubricant and pre-fluid mingling together.

Hot Rod’s rim flutters against his spike, providing the barest resistance. If anything, it seems to be inviting him inside.

Hot Rod grins and grabs onto Grimlock’s wrist, trying to shove his frame downward. “Positive.”

Grimlock groans as Hot Rod’s valve slides along his spike, slick and plump. He bucks his hips, spikehead grinding on Hot Rod’s rim.

“You say stop, I stop,” Grimlock manages to get out, even as his processor spins with need, and his fans cycle faster.

“Won’t need it. But I got it.” Hot Rod squirms, making an urgent noise in his intake. “Now come on, Grim. I can take you. Do it. Frag me now, frag me hard, like I know you can.”

The kid’s going to be the death of him.

Grimlock grinds his denta, curving forward as he tightens his grip on Hot Rod’s waist and pulls Hot Rod’s hips down, easing his spike into that tight, welcoming heat. Hot Rod moans, his entire frame arching, splaying, guiding Grimlock onward. He starts and there’s no way he can stop, the girth of his spike slowly swallowed by rippling calipers, tugging him deeper.

Lubricant squelches out around his spike. Hot Rod’s field flares, bright and hungry, not a bit of discomfort to be found. Hot Rod tosses his head back and keens, fingers tight around Grimlock’s arm, his valve squeezing before relenting and leaving plenty of room for Grimlock to bury himself to the hilt, to grind against Hot Rod’s ceiling node.

“Yessssssss,” Hot Rod hisses and starts rocking his hips madly, riding Grimlock’s spike like he hasn’t overloaded twice already.

Grimlock groans, his spike throbbing as Hot Rod’s valve feeds him bright bursts of charge with every thrust. Hot Rod’s thighs tremble around his hips, his biolights pulsing in a quick pattern.

“You’re… a menace,” Grimlock grits out.

Heat floods his frame, pulsing through him in ever-increasing waves. His array tingles, fire coiling in his groin. He pulls Hot Rod hard against him, grinding deep against the furthest inset clusters of nodes.

Hot Rod manages a sloppy grin. “Have I… impressed you… yet?” He gasps out before his hips start rocking madly, and his valve ripples in a telltale rhythm.

Of all the – he’s actually overloading again, Grimlock realizes. Hot Rod moans, sucking his bottom lip into his mouth, his fingers gripping tight. His valve spirals down, milking Grimlock’s spike, feeding him such hot bursts of charge that Grimlock is helpless to it.

He tries to hold back, to cling to some semblance of control, but it’s impossible. It’s like Hot Rod is pulling the overload out of him, and he stripes Hot Rod’s valve with his transfluid, washing hot bursts of it over Hot Rod’s charged nodes.

Grimlock’s hips jerk as the tremors of pleasure leave him shaky, but not entirely satisfied. His spike is still firm, sensitive now, to the quivers of Hot Rod’s loosened calipers, clicking gently around his derma.

Hot Rod starts squirming again, like his frame can’t seem to cycle down from the pleasure high. He licks his lips, his hands sliding up Grimlock’s arms, leaving prickles of charge in their wake.

“Hope that’s not all you got for me,” he says with a hint of wickedness. His aft rocks against Grimlock’s thighs, his spike jutting proudly from his groin, still liberally weeping slick.

Grimlock’s hands slide down Hot Rod’s thighs, thumbs sweeping inward, caressing Hot Rod’s spike housing. “What kind of batteries do you run on, kid?”

Hot Rod barks out a laugh. “Aw, is the old mech getting worn out?” His spoiler moves up and down in cute little flicks, betraying his restless energy.

Grimlock’s visor flattens. He’s not about to let himself get goaded by some freshly graduated upstart, but there’s challenge in Hot Rod’s tone, and Grimlock’s never let a berthmate walk away unsatisfied.

He slides a hand down to Hot Rod’s spike, curling his fingers around the hot length. Hot Rod hisses a ventilation and rolls up into his fist, which is so large it swallows Hot Rod’s spike. It throbs in his grip, spilling pre-fluid on his derma.

“Hardly.” Grimlock sweeps his thumb over the head of Hot Rod’s spike, the high-pitched whine in Hot Rod’s intake making his own spike throb with want. “Just making sure you can take more of me.”

Hot Rod hums a nonsense note. “I can take anything you think you have left.”

Cheeky brat.

Grimlock’s engine rumbles. He leans forward, so he can ex-vent over those damp, tempting lips. “We’ll see,” he growls.

He takes Hot Rod’s mouth, glossa plunging inside, denta leaving nips behind. Hot Rod’s fingers tickle at his chestplate, gripping onto seams. He pushes his spike into Grimlock’s fingers, fragging his fist as he chases another overload. His energy field flexes and tugs, charged as it batters against Grimlock’s, hot like fire.

Hot Rod’s glossa lashes back at him, turning the kiss into an erotic battle Grimlock had not foreseen. He growls, senses set ablaze by the unexpected spirit, his spike giving another throb in Hot Rod’s valve. His free hand slides to Hot Rod’s aft, cupping the red armor easily, pulling Hot Rod tighter against him.

Hot Rod squirms deliciously, and the smell of his arousal is dizzying. Grimlock groans into the kiss and bites his way to Hot Rod’s intake, feeling the vibrations of Hot Rod’s moans against his lips. His denta leaves little nips behind and Hot Rod makes the most intoxicating noises, his valve clamping down rhythmically and demanding more.

More is what he’s going to get.

Grimlock forces his attention away from the delectable cables of Hot Rod’s intake and grips the speedster’s hips.

“No, don’t stop,” Hot Rod pleads, his frame writhing in Grimlock’s lap, his face flushed and his field coiling playfully against Grimlock’s.

“Just aiming for a change in scenery,” Grimlock says.

Hot Rod blinks up at him, cutely confused. Grimlock grins and easily lifts the smaller mech, guiding him to hands and knees instead, giving Grimlock a nice view of that handsome aft. He can’t help but put his hands all over it, even though Hot Rod’s so small and his aft vanishes behind Grimlock’s palms.

Hot Rod moans and curves his backstrut, rocking his aft back toward Grimlock, his knees sliding across the rough ground. Every motions screams of invitation, especially as Grimlock’s thumbs dip down and taste the swollen pleats of Hot Rod’s valve. He’s still so slick, so open, his anterior cluster a plump little nub of need, and his biolights blinking in fitful intervals.

Transfluid trickles loose, mingled with lubricant, and Grimlock swears he can see up into the depth of Hot Rod’s valve. Biolights blink like running lights, coaxing him inside.

“Are you just gonna look or actually do something with it?” Hot Rod demands as he peers over his shoulder, his optics bright and needy.

Grimlock chuckles and rises up on his knees, looming over the much smaller mech, which gives him a little thrill. “I was admiring,” he rumbles as he slides his hands up Hot Rod’s back and hooks his fingers over that very mobile spoiler. “But point taken.”

He curves over Hot Rod, nudges his spike at that welcoming valve, grinding the head of it against the gathered moisture. Hot Rod’s head dips, fingers digging into the ground as he pushes his aft back.

“Hurry up and frag me then!” he demands, breathless and hungry. “I don’t have all night.”

Mouthy little thing, isn’t he?

Good thing Grimlock likes it.

“Guess you’re too much of a rookie to understand the value of patience,” Grimlock teases, but lust surges in his lines, and he’s equally impatient.

He rolls his hips forward, sinking slowly into the welcoming clutch of Hot Rod’s valve. He likes the way Hot Rod’s back arches, his fingers curl, a low and long moan spills out of his mouth to match the pace of Grimlock thrusting into him. Hot Rod’s field goes all shivery, and his spoiler twitches madly.

Grimlock wants to taste it.

He curves over Hot Rod, bracing his weight on one hand, keeping a firm grip on Hot Rod’s hip with the other. His mouth finds the top edge of the spoiler, lips dragging along it. Hot Rod shivers beneath him, loosing a soft moan. His valve quivers around Grimlock’s spike. His arms tremble.

“Good?” Grimlock asks as he sets his denta upon the edge of the spoiler as well, dragging along the sensitive edge toward the center mount.

Hot Rod garbles an unintelligible noise. His backstrut arches, aft pushing back against Grimlock’s spike, urging him deeper.

Grimlock chuckles and pins the spoiler edge between his denta, giving it a light bite. Hot Rod shudders and charge crackles over his armor.

“Good,” he gasps, words starting to slur together. “So, so good.” Lubricant leaks steadily from his valve, making for a frictionless thrust, and light explodes behind Grimlock’s visor as he starts to move into Hot Rod again.

The change in position adjusts the angle, making him rake across previously untouched inner nodes. It feels like he can go even deeper like this, take every inch of Hot Rod, and the speedster must think the same because he starts making helpless, breathy whimpers.

“Primus, you’re a hot little thing, aren’t you?” Grimlock growls against Hot Rod’s audial as the smaller mech’s aft rocks against him. “Can’t believe how sexy you are.”

“I’m… irresistible,” Hot Rod pants.

Grimlock chuckles. “Mmm. Yes, you are.” He quickens his pace a little, adding more force behind each thrust, driving Hot Rod forward.

Hot Rod gasps and his spoiler quivers, calling for Grimlock’s mouth again. He gives it a taste, glossa lingering on the sweet charge dancing over Hot Rod’s armor. He bites, firm enough to leave a mark. Hot Rod whimpers, his valve spiraling tight around Grimlock’s spike.

Mmm. That’s a nice reaction.

“Pretty thing, too,” Grimlock rumbles, his vocals spilling into Hot Rod’s nearest audial and making the speedster shiver. “Liked watching you on the battlefield. You’re fearless.”

Hot Rod audibly pants. He pushes into the cradle of Grimlock’s hips, pushing his spike so deep, his spoiler twitching against Grimlock’s mouth.

“Did I… impress?” Hot Rod asks, his field spilling desperation and need. More lubricant wells up around Grimlock’s spike, and all he can imagine is pulling Hot Rod up to his mouth and licking him clean.

Grimlock quickens his pace, feels Hot Rod squirm and writhe beneath him, little mewls coming from his intake. Each one was a ping to Grimlock’s spike, throbbing in bare restraint, raking across every sensor he could find.

Grimlock’s fans spin faster. The heat in his groin is an inferno now, and his spark tries to pound out of his chassis. He’s so close. But there’s no way he’ll let himself fall over the edge without taking Hot Rod with him.

He tightens his grip on Hot Rod’s hip and purrs into the speedster’s audial, “Then and now, kid.” He thrusts faster, deeper, grinds on all the nodes, driving Hot Rod into the ground and firmly into his grip. “You’ve got the kind of fire I like.”

Hot Rod moans, long and low, his valve rippling around Grimlock, like the praise was only turning him on more. Charge nips at Grimlock’s spike, and he grunts, a jolt of ecstasy nearly driving him to overload until he reins it in.

“Next time,” Grimlock continues, keeping his voice low, deep, certain to rattle through the rookie’s sensory suites, “You’re gonna ride me. Move those hips and let me see that pretty face of yours.”

Hot Rod makes a choked sound. His head dips forward, and Grimlock can’t resist the call of the back of his neck, bared and trusting. He drags the flat of his glossa up it, feels Hot Rod quiver around him.

“You’re mine now.” Grimlock plunges into Hot Rod, pleasure cresting with every thrust, fans spinning so hard they’re rattling his frame.

He’s close; Hot Rod is, too. Not much longer now. It’s taking all he has not to spill, mark Hot Rod from the inside out.

He closes his denta on the back of Hot Rod’s neck, bites lightly enough to leave a mark but not cause damage. Feels Hot Rod stiffen and jerk beneath him. Hears Hot Rod suddenly wail as his backstrut arches, and his valve spirals into a tight clutch around Grimlock’s spike.

He’s overloading, electric fire dancing over his armor in a yellow-bright wave, arms going limp until Grimlock has to curl an arm around his abdomen, hold Hot Rod tight against his frame. Hot Rod’s overload smells sweet and fiery all at once, tingling as it rushes over Grimlock’s olfactory sensors.

“Primus, kid,” he grunts, burying his face against Hot Rod’s back, against his spoiler hinges.

It takes only a handful of thrusts before he lets himself loose, holds Hot Rod down on his spike, and overloads. Transfluid bursts out of him, painting Hot Rod’s valve in hot spill, and the overload seems to drag into infinity.

Grimlock sits back on his heels, hips making tiny pushes into Hot Rod’s valve, both arms wrapped around the speedster, keeping him in place. He grips Hot Rod’s jaw with one hand, pressing Hot Rod back against him, until his mouth can latch onto the side of Hot Rod’s neck. His denta scrape over sensitive cables, and it takes all he has not to bite down.

Grimlock’s spike throbs, pushing spurt after spurt, ecstasy coursing through him in waves until its spent, and Grimlock sags. He pants for a cool ventilation, Hot Rod limp and venting heat in his arms. He licks the side of Hot Rod’s neck and slides his hand from Hot Rod’s jaw back to his hip.

Hot Rod moans, flopping back against Grimlock’s chest, his fans spinning madly. “Primus,” he pants, hands weakly patting at the arm Grimlock has wrapped around his waist. “That’s… that’s good.”

Grimlock grunts. “Glad you approve.” His free hand slides down Hot Rod’s thigh, but wanders back up again, finger nudging at the swollen, slick rim still wrapped around his half-pressurized spike.

Hot Rod laughs, and his valve ripples. “Hope you got more in you.” He sounds both hopeful and hungry as his hips give a weak, but interested rock.

Grimlock shivers, heat already starting to wind in his internals, but seriously? “Frag, kid, what kind of interface drive they giving newsparks these days?” he asks, mostly rhetorical. He has to admit, the little twitches of Hot Rod’s valve are delicious.

Hot Rod hums and pushes back against Grimlock’s chest, his fingers tight around Grimlock’s arms. “What? Can’t you keep up?”

“I didn’t say that.” Grimlock grabs Hot Rod by the hips, lifts him up, spins him around, plants the cute speedster back in his lap, but this time face to face. “Guess I gotta keep going if I want to find your off switch.”

Hot Rod laughs, and it’s a good look for him, so bright and carefree, like the world is a cheerful place and not one that reeks of ordinance and spilled energon. “Maybe I don’t have one,” he says, mischievous and teasing.

Hot Rod slides a hand down his frame, and he cups his own spike, giving it a squeeze. “Or maybe you’re not looking in the right places.”

Grimlock barks a laugh at the brat’s brashness. It’s amusing as the Pit, and he can’t believe how quickly Hot Rod has clawed under his plating.

“Well then.” Grimlock drags his palm down Hot Rod’s frame, flicking Hot Rod’s hand and replacing it with his own, giving that brightly-colored spike a squeeze. “Guess I’d better get more hands on.”

Looks like he’s going to get his mouth all over Hot Rod after all.

It’s enough to make him forget about the storm, the calm after it, and the jitteriness in his lines. Instead, it’s all pleasure and teasing, and overload after overload, Hot Rod living up to his designation and then some, until Grimlock forgets he’s supposed to be brooding, and remembers what it feels like to live.


Morning afters are always hit or miss.

Sometimes, Hot Rod wakes up feeling ashamed and guilty, and all he wants to do is creep out of whatever berth he found himself in and hope that the mech forgets his name, comm code, and his face.

Sometimes, he wakes up and his partner the night before is already going down on him, slurping him back to full staff and full slick and all Hot Rod can do is hang on and enjoy the ride. He’s no idea why his interface drive is powered by an unending energy source, and half the time, his berthpartners are annoyed by it. But sometimes, ahhh, sometimes there are the good mornings that continue into afternoons.

Hot Rod usually ends up stumbling home, satisfied and worn out, with a comm code tucked into his subspace. For a good time call… the next time he’s around anyway.

This morning, Hot Rod onlines feeling warm and sated and not sure what kind of ‘after’ it’s going to be. His berthpartner’s proclivities are a mystery to him, and while Grimlock had kept up the pace last night, maybe he feels differently this morning. Maybe he’s ready to tumble the energy-battery of a speedster off his lap and out of his life.

Hot Rod comes to life slowly and onlines his optics a little at a time. He’s splayed in Grimlock’s lap. The fierce warrior is tucked up against the overhang they’d used a few times yesterday as a wall. He’s got his back against it, frame tilted a little and one of his hands is on Hot Rod’s belly, warm and big, like he just wants to make sure Hot Rod is still there.

It’s kind of nice.

Hot Rod looks up, finds Grimlock staring into the distance, toward the now empty battlefield, his visor half-lit as though his thoughts are elsewhere. If he’s recharged, Hot Rod can’t tell. He’s got to admit he’s pretty comfortable in Grimlock’s lap like this. It really highlights how much bigger Grimlock is.

Mmm. Big.

He’s always had a taste for the big ones. And Primus Below, Grimlock is the perfect size. Fierce and gentle, rough and sweet, all the best qualities in a lover actually.

A shiver runs through Hot Rod at the memory of it. His array gives a little ping, and Hot Rod’s face heats. Damn it. Sure, Grimlock had been all for it last night, but what’ll he say if Hot Rod wakes up hot and ready all over again?

“I know you’re awake.”

Hot Rod startles and looks up at Grimlock. That amber visor is turned toward him, and a smile graces Grimlock’s lips – scarred, Hot Rod realizes, all around his mouth and lips.

Hot Rod wants to lick those scars. He loves scars.

“Didn’t you recharge at all?” Hot Rod asks with a lazy stretch of his arms over his head. He splays over Grimlock’s lap because he can, and Grimlock hasn’t shoved him off yet.

“Enough.” Grimlock’s thumb strokes a small circle over Hot Rod’s belly. “Kid, I gotta hand it to you. I didn’t think it was possible for someone to go that much.” He doesn’t sound annoyed at least.

Hot Rod laughs. He rolls his hips, hoping to encourage Grimlock’s hand to go lower. “It’s a special gift.” He preens. “Do I have your respect now?”

Grimlock chuckles and his hand slides down, obeying the unspoken request. “Anyone that can do what you do definitely deserves it,” he says, in that rough gravel voice. He palms Hot Rod’s array, fingers finding the head of Hot Rod’s spike, peeking into view. “You wake up hot and ready, don’t you?”

“All the time,” Hot Rod says, singsong. He gives a little laugh and hopes his self-consciousness doesn’t show. “I mean, I can dial it down. I’m not crazed for it or anything. You don’t have to–”

Grimlock’s thumb rubs over the head of his spike, and Hot Rod shivers. “We’ve got time,” he rumbles, and his visor both brightens and darkens, lust spilling into his field. “Though I can’t promise we won’t be interrupted.”

Hot Rod licks his lips. “I don’t mind if you don’t.”

Another laughs rumbles in Grimlock’s chassis, vibrating through his frame and into Hot Rod’s. There’s so much power in him, contained and controlled, it makes Hot Rod shiver. He squirms in Grimlock’s lap, his array eagerly cycling to life.

“I like your flavor, Hot Rod,” he says as Hot Rod parts his thighs, and Grimlock takes the invitation, dipping a finger between them. “You’re gonna be a great warrior someday.”

Hot Rod hums in his intake. “You can tell all that from the way I overload?”

“Something like that.”

The world shifts beneath Hot Rod. He finds himself splayed out over Grimlock’s chest, looking down into the warrior’s face, his lips inches from Hot Rod’s own. There’s a heavy hand on his aft, a wrist over his thigh, fingers dipping between them. Oh, and the hard column of a spike poking at his belly. He can’t forget that important detail either.

“Well, well, someone else woke up ready for more.” Hot Rod squirms, the slick head of Grimlock’s spike leaving a streak of pre-fluid against his belly.

A finger traces the rim of his valve, stirring the lubricant already gathered there. “Let’s just see how many times I can make you moan before someone comes looking for us.”

Hot Rod shivers and buries his face in Grimlock’s intake, mouth tasting those strong, thick cables. “Sounds good to me.”

This morning after, he decides, is definitely going in his top three.


[IDW] Get Around This

The meditative lessons start out as an innocent, inoffensive hobby. A way to present himself as harmless to his new crew. He doesn’t expect much from it, and is pleasantly surprised when more than a handful show up to his first class.

Most don’t even snicker. Much.

Drift guides them through the easier of the poses, the moments of silence, and the meditative exercises. He hands out sample bags of incense and energy crystals and copies of his future schedule in case anyone wants to attend further lessons.

After a few months, someone asks him about instructional videos, for the busy mech who misses a lesson or two, or just wants to try it on his own. Drift figures it can’t hurt and tapes a few of the basics, plus a couple routines depending on the desired effect. He sells them, not that he needs the creds, and makes a tidy sum. He tucks his earnings away because he learned that lesson the hard way.

Then Huffer asks if Drift has any alternative remedies for his achy joints, and Drift teaches him a few things the residents of Crystal City taught him. Huffer blabs, as Huffer does, and the next thing Drift knows, he’s got a client list longer than his Great Sword. Every last one of them are interested in methods to treat their aches, pains, and maladies without relying on script chips or welds or replacements.

Or Ratchet’s scathing criticisms.

Ratchet doesn’t seem to mind that some of his patients have hared off to Drift’s unlicensed, alternative practice. Especially when all the whining, hungover mechs start banging on Drift’s door first thing in the morning instead of his.

Drift still refers the serious cases to Ratchet, an actual medic, but if someone wants to treat their rustmite infection with electrolysis instead of a stasis bath complete with Ratchet Lecture™, well, Drift lets them. It helps that they have no problem shoving handfuls of creds into his hands.

He hadn’t set out to be some kind of alternative solutions guru, but that’s what he’s become. His crew likes him better for it, and Drift admits he likes feeling less like the odd mech out, the once-Decepticon just waiting to snap.

The downside is time, or rather, his increased lack of it. With his duties as third in command, his burgeoning relationship with Rodimus, and now this unexpected business, something has to give. He’s taken on far more than he can fit into a schedule already packed to the brim.

It isn’t until Rodimus starts pouting that Drift realizes which of the three obligations he’s unconsciously deemed the ‘least important.’ And by then, he wonders if it might be too late.


It’s supposed to be a hobby. Something to pass the time and keep him from thinking about the past so much. Drift slides from one obsession to the next. It’s a thing that Drift does. Rodimus knows this.

He doesn’t expect Drift’s hobby to be anything more than that.

Until it suddenly becomes a Thing™. A Thing that takes Drift’s time and attention away from Rodimus, has him giving both to other members of the crew who aren’t Rodimus. Crew members who wouldn’t have given a damn about Drift before, and still wouldn’t now, except that Drift is suddenly useful and non-threatening.

Rodimus has spent so long urging Drift to put his past behind him, and now he’s having a hard time convincing Drift to even look at the future.

Or at least, a future that seems to have Rodimus in it.

There are only so many missed dates, forgotten moments, promises to return calls that aren’t actually returned, before a mech starts to get desperate.

And sitting here, blowing out candles as the special energon congeals into a sticky, unappetizing clump, Rodimus starts to feel desperate. This is the third time in a row Drift has stood him up, without so much as a comm or a message.

He’s not on shift, Rodimus checked. Which means someone has come to him with their idea of an emergency, and Drift hasn’t learned the meaning of the word ‘no’. Not when he’s trying so hard to get people to like him.

Rodimus growls out a sigh and shoves to his feet, denta grinding so hard he can taste the sparks on his glossa. He misses his lover. He misses laughing. He misses Drift, frag it.

He activates his comm, the anger broiling inside of him, and waits for Drift to pick up. He taps his feet, and switches his weight from one hip to the other, and gets sent to voicemail twice before Drift actually picks up. The gall!

“Rodimus, what’s wrong? Is it an emergency?”

Rodimus grinds his denta again. “Do you have any idea what time it is?” he demands and is proud of himself for managing not to snarl or hiss.

Drift chuckles, like Rodimus is calling to tease him or make a joke. “Of course I do. Why? Is your chronometer broken?”

“No, but yours must be!” Rodimus snaps, and throws his arms into the air, even though Drift can’t see it. “Dinner. Tonight. My place. Does that ring a fragging bell?”

Great. He’s already yelling. There goes his intention to address this in a calm, rational manner. Hah. Who’s he kidding? He’s past the point of being calm.

There’s a moment of silence before Drift hisses a ventilation. “Oh, frag. That was tonight? I’m sorry, Roddy. I had a late appointment and–”

“Save it,” Rodimus bites out, because he’s tired of this. Tired of the excuses and the apologies and the explanations.

Late appointments. It’s always a late appointment. Maybe one he shouldn’t have made in the first place given that they had a date!? One they set a week ago, no less, when Drift’s schedule finally had some room in it for Rodimus.

Drift sighs, sounds faintly irritated. “Look. I’m sorry, okay. I’ll make it up to you. Dinner tomorrow?”

This is starting to sound familiar. Rodimus feels like he can quote Drift’s answers by now, they’re so common. It’s always “I’ll make it up to you” until he forgets that date, too. And the one after that.

Rodimus can’t remember the last time he actually spent extended time with his so-called lover, time that wasn’t interrupted or longer than a stolen frag in a storage closet. It’s always one thing or another, and that one thing is never as important as Rodimus.

Hurt twinges in his spark. He shoves it down and buries it with anger.

“Don’t bother,” Rodimus snaps, and there goes the rest of his patience. “You won’t show up for that either.”

He ends the comm in the middle of Drift’s reply, his spark pounding in his chassis. Rodimus sends any further calls to his voicemail and slumps back into a chair, burying his face in his hands. What the frag is he supposed to do now?

How is he supposed to spend any time with Drift if Drift is always working? Rodimus gets it, he does. Drift is glad people aren’t cringing when he comes near now, and he’s glad they’re actually listening to him, and maybe people are still whispering, but it’s not half as bad as it used to be.

Rodimus gets it.

He’s still not happy about it.

He just wishes Drift would make a little time for Rodimus in his busy schedule.

Wait. Schedule.

Rodimus sits up straight. Maybe it’s time for something non-conventional, a little drastic even.

If Drift doesn’t have time for Rodimus because he’s so busy with his clients, Rodimus will just have to become a client, too. Drift will have to pay attention to him then.

Rodimus scurries over to his console, drops down in the chair, and powers up the main intranet. He spends a few minutes searching for Drift’s Alternative Medicine page, and finds the self-scheduler. He picks the first available slot tomorrow – Hound won’t mind covering for him, right? This is important.

Appointment set, Rodimus flops onto his berth. He might as well recharge since there’s no point in staying awake. Drift’s not coming tonight, and his dinner is ruined.

Tomorrow had better be a better day.


Tomorrow is not a better day.

Rodimus shows up for his appointment bright and early. Ultra Magnus would admire his timeliness, that’s how on-time he is. He sits in the chair placed outside the door of the room Drift had appropriated for his office and he waits, optics on his chronometer.

He grins and waves as a few mechs pass him in the hall, giving him confused, startled looks. Frag them. So what if Rodimus has to make an appointment to see his lover? Doesn’t everyone?

The door opens, and Huffer emerges, peering carefully at some instructions printed on plastifilm. He’s muttering to himself and doesn’t even notice Rodimus, too busy scowling at the small print.


Rodimus leaps up from the chair and strolls into Drift’s office, his spoiler at a jaunty tilt on his back. “Good morning!” he chirps.

Drift looks up from his datapad with a frown. “Rodimus, I have a client right now.”

“Yeah. I know. You’re looking at him.” Rodimus flops down on the ridiculously comfy sofa Drift had dragged in here, wriggling to get comfortable. Damn, he needs one of these for his quarters. Seriously.

Drift’s optics narrow. “You made an appointment?”

“How else am I going to see you?” Rodimus lounges across the sofa, stretching his arms over his head, trying to catch the angles of the light to highlight his newly waxed armor. “How does it go?”

He widens his grin and puts on his best, theatrical performance. “Doc, you gotta help me,” he pleads with a wink at Drift. “I’m feeling oh so lonely lately, and I just don’t know what to do.” He slides one hand down his frame and cups his array for emphasis.

He waits for Drift to laugh.

Drift doesn’t.

If anything, he glares at Rodimus, and there’s just a bit of Deadlock behind that glare. “What the frag do you think you’re doing?”

“Whining to you about my troubles. Isn’t that what everyone else does?” Rodimus sits up and slouches in the sofa, slinging his arms across the back of it and spreading his thighs. Can’t help but show off the goods, maybe that’ll entice his lover back.

A low growl emerges from Drift’s engine. “Everyone else has a legitimate reason for being here,” he bites out. “So why are you wasting my time?”


Rodimus mouths the words. Wasting.

He grinds his denta and grips the back of the sofa, feeling the plush fabric beneath his fingertips. “Wasting,” he repeats aloud. “I scheduled this time, you fragger. How can I be wasting it when I went through all the proper avenues and everything!?”

“Someone who actually needs to see me could have used this time, Roddy,” Drift retorts, sounding exasperated and irritated. His finials twitch, optics flashing, and yeah, he’s definitely edging toward Deadlock territory there.

Pfft. Rodimus isn’t afraid of that anymore. Especially not now. He’s too angry to be afraid. No, he’s past angry. He’s furious.

He loses the humor. The act. He frowns.

“Maybe if you actually showed up for a date once in a while, I wouldn’t have to resort to this,” Rodimus snaps.

Drift pinches the bridge of his nasal ridge. “I apologized for that.”

“I’m tired of apologies. They don’t mean anything anymore.” Rodimus chews on his bottom lip, aware that the last came out more of a whine. He hadn’t wanted to sound like a spoiled sparkling, but there he goes anyway.

Frag it.

“I just… damn it. What’s wrong with wanting to see you?” Rodimus demands. He snaps his knees back together and lowers his arms, drawing into himself. “You don’t have time for me anymore.”

Drift leans back in his chair, looking tired and old, like he’s Ratchet or something. He’s been playing this game so long, he’s even fooling himself, isn’t he?

“I have responsibilities,” Drift says. “You should understand that. You’re captain of this ship. You should be just as busy.”

Rodimus’ mouth drops open. Did Drift just… chastise him? For not doing his job?

For a moment, Rodimus has no words. All he can do is splutter, outrage mixing with anger and hurt cresting all of it, until the first thing he spits are words he shouldn’t have.

“Your real job is being third in command of this ship!” Rodimus jumps to his feet, agitation making his plating clamp and flare intermittently. “This stupid stuff is just a hobby! And these mechs you’re so dedicated to? They don’t care about you! All they care about is what you can do for them. They don’t even like you!”

He knows he shouldn’t have said it the moment the words leave his lips. The way the color drains from Drift’s face tells him that. As does the thin line of his mouth as his lips press together. Hurt flares in Drift’s field, before the rest of his emotions are dropped down behind a Decepticon-thick iron wall.

It’s all true. But he shouldn’t have said it. Not that way at least.

“Please leave,” Drift says, his tone tight, his fingers creaking where they grip a stylus. “I have another client soon, and I have to prepare for them.”

“Fine,” Rodimus says, because he’s in too deep so he might as well keep going. His optics are hot, and he simultaneously wants to spill apologies and scream that it’s not his fault, that if Drift only paid him some attention, they wouldn’t be here. “I won’t come back either.”

He storms out, the door rattling open and shut as if obeying his sudden urgency to be far away from Drift. He’s in such a hurry, he nearly collides with Recurve, who’s loitering in the hallway for some reason. It’s not like he has an appointment. Recurve’s not one to believe in that alternative stuff.

“Whoa there,” Recurve says with a laugh as Rodimus brushes past him and stomps down the hall. “What’s the matter with you? Usually mechs walk out of Drift’s office looking like they just won the lottery.”

“Frag off!” Rodimus snarls. And then he can hear Ultra Magnus’ chastisement at the back of his processor.

Captains are polite, Rodimus. Captains respect their crew, Rodimus. Captains don’t use vulgar language, Rodimus. Captains don’t storm down the halls, Rodimus.


Rodimus heads straight for Swerve’s. This time of the shift, it’s probably deserted, but it’s not like he wants company. He just wants to drink and bleed off his misery into some high grade.

He grabs the first available seat at the bar, and Swerve wordlessly puts his preferred drink in front of him, maybe scared off by the fury in Rodimus’ field. Usually the little chatterbox has something to say, but not this time. Instead he flounces down to the other end of the bar to flirt (hopelessly) with Skids.

Rodimus sucks down his first drink faster than is wise. Swerve refills it without a word and leaves him to his misery. This one, Rodimus drinks a little slower, the heat in his belly practically ice compared to the heat of anger in his lines. Drift’s words keep echoing in his head, and every time the shame of snapping at Drift crops up, he viciously shoots it down with hurt.

Behind him, the group of mechs at a table laugh. They’re getting louder and louder, and Rodimus has been mostly ignoring them, until he catches a bit of their conversation.

“–seen the way he can bend? Now that’s a racecar I want to ride,” one of them says.

Rodimus’ optics narrow. He half-turns, just enough to see over his shoulder, trying to match face to name.

“Ought to be a law against looking that good,” another one says with a coarse laugh. “Though I hear part of that’s his rebuild in Crystal City. They make ‘em pretty there.”

“You’d have to be pretty, I guess, to survive in the Decepticons,” Idiot Number One comments with a leer. He licks his lips.

Rodimus stiffens. He knows exactly who they’re talking about. Drift, of course. He’s sexy, Rodimus knows that. He’s got a pretty build and a reputation for being easy, not that he is, but rumors like that die hard.

“I spent nearly all my money buying a copy of every volume of those vids,” Idiot Number Two says. He smirks and waggles his orbital ridges. “Best inspirational creds ever.”

“You gotta let me borrow them.”

“Get your own service mags!”

“Well, they’re not wrong,” Swerve says from behind Rodimus, sweeping up his second empty cup with a little laugh. “Get you another, captain? Or maybe you’re after one of those vids they’re talking about, eh? Or aren’t you getting the private show?”

Rodimus snarls and shoots to his feet, the stool clattering as it tips over behind him. “That’s none of your business,” he snaps. “And Drift’s not some… some… some buymech you can all ogle as you please. So just stop it!”

He whirls on a heelstrut and stomps out of Swerve’s. The light buzz from his high grade is gone, burned from his outrage, and what little solace he’d found is gone, too. He’s still angry, now at Drift, now at his crew, now at everything. He doesn’t want to go back to his quarters to sulk, but he doesn’t know what else to do?

How is he supposed to fix things?

This is all Drift’s fault. Drift and his stupid Alternative Medicine nonsense, which is, by the way, illegal and unlicensed. How the frag hasn’t Ultra Magnus shut it down already? Why hasn’t Ratchet?


Rodimus skids to a halt in the middle of the corridor and changes direction. Ratchet. If there’s anyone who can get Drift to see reason, it’s Ratchet. Drift’s got a weird deference to Ratchet sometimes, like he thinks of Ratchet as some kind of mentor he doesn’t want to disappoint.

Rodimus doesn’t know the full story behind that. There are still some parts of himself that Drift likes to keep, well, to himself. He’s so close-mouthed! It makes it hard to figure out what he’s thinking. He keeps laughing things off with a smile, like Rodimus can’t tell how much he’s hurting behind it all.


Rodimus seethes as he stomps toward the medbay, ignoring others in the hallway as he passes them. Ultra Magnus would probably chastise him for that, too. He should be friendlier. He should keep his emotions in check. He should be polite. Captain’s don’t stomp, Rodimus.

Nag, nag, nag.

The main entrance to the medbay gives a cheerful chime as Rodimus steps through it. He doesn’t see First Aid anywhere, but he spies Ratchet in his office, perched behind his desk and looking, for all the universe, as though he’s napping. Must be a slow day. No idiots Lobbing in the halls or playing catch with live grenades.

Not that, you know, Rodimus is guilty of either of those or anything.

Rodimus charges through the open door without so much as a by your leave and drops down in the empty chair across from Ratchet’s desk. He makes a very loud huff, stomping his feet on the floor as he does so.

One of Ratchet’s optics online, the other remains dim. It’s kind of creepy. “Strange. You don’t look injured or bleeding,” he says.

Rodimus snorts. “Not on the outside.” He jabs an elbow on the arm of the chair and sets his chin on his knuckles.

Both of Ratchet’s optics online, and he straightens with a languid, creaky stretch. “Trouble in paradise, I presume?”

“You don’t know the half of it,” Rodimus mutters and kicks out petulantly. “Do me a favor and exert your authority as Chief Medical Officer. Make Drift shut down his little alternative medicine business.”

Ratchet arches his orbital ridge. “And why would I want to do that?”

“Because I’m the captain, and I told you to.”

It’s Ratchet’s turn to snort. “Right. Because I’m known for obeying your commands without question.” He sags back into his chair with the sort of tired slump of the old and rusting. One hand gives an arrhythmic rap of his fingers. “Besides, what makes you think he’s going to listen to me anyway?”

“He looks up to you,” Rodimus says. “He’ll listen to you.”

Ratchet gives him a long look. “Right.” He rolls his optics and his shoulders both. “We both know that isn’t going to happen. Tough break, kid. It just isn’t up to me.”


“Nope!” Ratchet holds up both his hands in a gesture of full-stop. “I’m staying out of this. You want his attention, then talk to him. Don’t come to me.”

Rodimus’ engine revs. “I did talk to him.”

“Actual talking, Rodimus.”

“I used words!” Sure, they were angry words, but they were still words. It’s not his fault Drift doesn’t want to listen to him or pay him any attention.

Ratchet groans and scrubs a palm down his face. He’s got the look he gets when handfuls of the crew show up in his office, hungover and begging for a cure. “Look, Rodimus, I have work to do.”

Rodimus scoffs. “Like what? Another nap?”

Ratchet glares at him through his fingers. “Don’t you have some meteor surfing to do?”

Ah. Point taken. As angry as Rodimus is, it won’t do any good to take it out on Ratchet. If the medic doesn’t want to help, Rodimus can’t make him. Best to retreat while he still can.

“Fine.” Rodimus lurches to his feet and sets his jaw. “I’m going.” He whirls around and stalks out, feeling no more enlightened then when he’d first arrived looking for answers.

There’s no help to be found anywhere.

Rodimus sighs and cycles several ventilations. He doesn’t want to go back to his empty quarters, where the echoes of another failed date still hang in the air. He’s not going to try and comm Drift, that’s pointless. He’s not really interested in company either.

He’s just… just.

Might as well go relieve Hound and finish the rest of his shift. He doesn’t have anything better to do other than his job, and if Drift is going to chastise him about his responsibilities, Rodimus can at least prove that he knows how important they are.

Spoiler drooping, Rodimus trudges toward the bridge.

What a slag-poor excuse for a day.


Anger does not make for a calm state of mind. And someone in an aggravated state does not tend to offer intelligent and useful advice.

Drift uses the last of the time from Rodimus’ appointment to meditate, cycling through multiple ventilations, all in an attempt to clear his processor. His irritation with Rodimus is like a horde of miniscraplets nesting under his armor. He wants to shout about it, or pace, but he can’t, because he has another client with another issue to be solved.

This is important, Drift tells himself as he gestures Sidestep inside and tells him to take a seat. The crew doesn’t flinch at him anymore. They actually obey his instructions because he asked and not because they’re too scared not to. This is as important to them as it’s important to him.

Frag Rodimus if he doesn’t understand that.

Except, well, Rodimus has a bit of a point. Yes, Drift has missed a few dates. Not as many as Rodimus claims, but Drift does realize that his relationship with Rodimus has been set on the backburner. There’s only so much time in a day. Drift can only stretch himself so far.

Rodimus has no right to intrude on his time like that!

Drift seethes throughout his entire appointment with Sidestep, and it takes all he has to show Sidestep a friendly, calm face. He ends the meeting early because he can’t concentrate and promptly sends to a message to the next client on his list to reschedule for another time. He’s no good to anyone like this, especially not himself.

He sits behind his desk and rubs his forehead, feeling an ache building behind his optics. Fighting with Rodimus is nothing new. He can be quite temperamental sometimes. Bossy and pushy, too. But this is different.

Maybe because he feels a little bit guilty.

Drift sighs and leans back in the chair.

His comm chirps. He expects it to be Rodimus, but the ident tag reads Ratchet. Which probably means it’s about Rodimus. Because of course.

Drift pinches the bridge of his nose. “What did he do now?” he asks in lieu of a greeting. No need to make small talk. They’re both too busy for that.

“Asked me for something he’s not going to get,” Ratchet replies, sounding tired and craggy, like he’s not getting enough recharge again. “Though I’m thinking you’re not completely innocent here, Dr. Drift.”

Drift twitches. He’s not called himself a medic by any means. He hasn’t earned that title, but some of his clients have been using it as a joke. “Ratchet…”

“So you haven’t missed any dates with Rodimus?”

Ah. Well, he should have known Rodimus would tattle. But come on. He’d apologized for that! What more does Rodimus want?

Ratchet sighs into the comm. “That’s what I thought,” he grumbles, and Drift can practically see the scowl on his face. “Look, kid–”

“I’m older than you,” Drift reminds him.

“Shut up and listen,” Ratchet retorts, which is his way of saying ‘don’t remind me!’. “If you don’t want to be with Rodimus, you need to tell him.”

Drift flinches. His spark squeezes into a tight ball at the mere thought of it. Rodimus gone? That’s not what he wants at all.

“That’s not it,” Drift protests, and tries to tack on an answer, too. But he can’t figure out the proper words. It’s hard to explain.

Ratchet snorts. “Well, from where I’m standing, I can’t tell. Neither can he. So either make some time for him or cut him loose.”

Drift scrubs harder at his forehead. “Ratchet, I’m busy. You know that. You should understand it. I can’t just–”

“Yes, you can, and you know it,” Ratchet cuts him off, his tone heavy with reproach. Drift flinches like he’s been chastised. “Find time for Rodimus or end it, because right now, it’s not working. You need to remember what’s actually important.”

Drift sighs and sags in his chair, half-wishing he could dissolve straight through to the floor and down to the other side. “I don’t want to end it,” he mutters.

“Then find a way to prove otherwise.”

Ratchet ends the call with as much audible irritation as one can manage over a comm. Drift’s processor rings as he shuts off the line. He scrubs a hand down his face, considering Ratchet’s words.

He knows the medic is right. As much as he hadn’t wanted to admit it himself. He can’t keep dropping Rodimus to the bottom of his priority list. Or he’ll lose the one thing he can’t be happy without.

Drift scrubs his face with his hands. He has to do something.

He taps into his online schedule and blocks off the appointments for the rest of the day, and for tomorrow as well. This, right now, is far more important.


Hound had been delighted to return to his off-shift. So Rodimus works and tries not to think about everything else. He turns his attention to the ridiculously long list of tasks Ultra Magnus has for him, and attends to quite a few of them: inspections, paperwork, performance evaluations, stock capacity, everything the captain of a vessel should be responsible for.

His shift ends, Ultra Magnus takes over and smiles big and broad when Rodimus hands him a list of all the things he actually did today. If Ultra Magnus could swoon, he’s certainly doing it now, his entire energy field alight from happiness.

He’s so weird sometimes.

Uninterested in returning to his quarters just yet, Rodimus detours to his office and starts to tackle the stack of datapads on his desk. Maybe he’ll earn himself another Ultra Magnus Smile of Appreciation™ for his efforts.

That makes it worth it a little. At least he can do this right.

It’s late when he finally decides to go back to his habsuite. He’s tired, but at least his anger has burnt out into a dull ache of disappointment. There’s no point in getting angry, he realizes. It’s not going to get him anywhere.

Drift is probably right anyway. Rodimus has no business demanding Drift’s time like that. If Drift doesn’t want to make time for him, well, maybe that’s a sign. Maybe Rodimus is the only one invested in this. Maybe this is Drift’s way of letting Rodimus know that it’s over.

A sharp pang rips through Rodimus’ spark. His spoiler droops. He hopes he’s wrong, but given the way Drift has been lately, he dreads that he’s right.

Rodimus sighs and keys himself into his habsuite, lacking a distinct pep in his step. He slips inside, the door sliding shut behind him, and a smoky, tangy scent floats to his olfactory sensors. Rodimus blinks and looks up.

His habsuite is dimly lit, the lights at maybe twenty percent. But there are candles everywhere, their pretend flames flickering in the still air. There’s a light, smoky haze – like that caused by incense, and music is playing from his sound system. Soft music, something without words, and not something Rodimus would have in his own collection.

What in Primus’ name…?

Rodimus eases further into the room and spies a tray of goodies sitting on the desk of his workstation. There are all his favorites, and piles of them, too. His mouth lubricates.

“Welcome home.”

Rodimus startles and slowly turns to see Drift sliding off the bed, a small smile on his lips, empty sheaths clanking at his side. He has his hands clasped behind his back, his head dipped a little.

“This is the part where I say I’m sorry,” Drift continues as Rodimus stares at him, unsure if he’s believing his optics, or if he’s fallen asleep at his desk again, dreaming about the things he misses. “You don’t belong at the bottom of my priority list. You should be at the top. I let myself forget that.”

Rodimus works his intake. He turns in a slow circle, taking in the beautiful set-up all over again. It’s like a date. A really romantic date.

“This is… for me?” he asks, his spark doing that pulse again, and this time, it’s more like hope.

Drift chuckles. “Yeah. It’s for you.” His optics soften as he looks at Rodimus, and there it is, what Rodimus has been missing. “I missed so many dates. So I figured I should start making up for it now.”

Rodimus stares at him for a long moment, emotion bursting in his spark, before his feet carrying him to Drift without conscious decision. He throws his arms over Drift’s shoulders, slamming their mouths together, a soft sigh escaping him as Drift’s arms return the embrace, holding him close.

Their nasal ridges bump, but it takes only a few seconds to find the familiar rhythm, and their mouths slot together. Drift tastes sweet, like he sampled the treats he brought, and his frame is so warm against Rodimus’. His field flirts against Rodimus’ own like a secondary embrace.

Damn, but Rodimus missed this.

“This is good,” Rodimus says as he breaks away from the kiss, pressing his forehead to Drift’s. “It’s a good start, I mean. You owe me a lot more.”

“I know.” Drift’s arms tighten around him, their chestplates pressed so close Rodimus can feel the twirl and dance of Drift’s spark. “And I’m sorry.”

Rodimus rests his head on Drift’s shoulder, soaking in their proximity. “Yeah, I’m sorry, too. I shouldn’t have said that.” Even if it is true.

“Well, you weren’t wrong.” Drift pulls back, one arm sliding free so that his hand cups Rodimus’ face. “So I thought I might spoil you. As an apology.”

“Really?” Rodimus’ spoiler flicks up. “What kind of spoiling?”

“The best kind.” Drift brushes their noses together before he draws back and tangles their hands together, towing Rodimus toward the couch. “We can watch a movie together. And you get to pick.”

Rodimus laughs as he bounces on the sofa after a gentle push from Drift. Armfuls of pillows have been gathered here, and Rodimus sinks into them with a happy wiggle. Drift joins him after grabbing the tray of treats and the remote for the entertainment console.

“How about a romantic comedy?” Rodimus asks as he snuggles into Drift’s side.

“I knew it.” Drift curls an arm over Rodimus’ shoulder, tucking him close.

Okay, so he’s predictable. So what. He’s supposed to be getting spoiled, right? And this right here is pretty close to perfect. He’s got Drift all to himself, and the room is all dim and cozy, and Drift picks one of his favorite movies without even asking.

Drift sets the remote aside and balances the tray between them, propped up on one of the pillows. He selects one of the glazed cakes from the stack and holds it up against Rodimus’ lips.

“Try this one first,” he says, and Rodimus opens his mouth, lets Drift feed him the sweet treat. His lips linger on Drift’s fingers, glossa swiping away the crumbs and sticky residue of glaze.

The treat is delicious, but better is that Drift continues to feed him, all during the movie. One hand guides treat after treat to Rodimus’ lips, while the other strokes his shoulder and his arm and the edges of his spoiler, anything within reach really. Rodimus’ engine purrs with satisfaction.

The rest of his anger vanishes under a tide of gentle touches and delicious candies. Drift’s field is so firmly wrapped around his, he can’t remember he ever felt abandoned.

He laughs when Drift misses his mouth, getting some of the magnesium powder on his nose.

“Oops.” Drift doesn’t sound very apologetic, not as he leans in and licks the dab of powder away. “My mistake.”

Rodimus chuckles and surges up, stealing Drift’s lips, tasting the sweets on his glossa. He forgets about the movie as he deepens the kiss, his engine purring and heat seeping into his lines. It’s not so much arousal as it is… comfort. Affection. He wants to lie here and enjoy this, closeness and kissing.

It’s different. It’s kind of nice. It doesn’t always have to be about interfacing. That’s just a charming bonus.

“Don’t ignore me again, okay?” Rodimus asks as he nuzzles Drift, his spark warm and full to bursting. He snuggles in against Drift, barely noticing that the movie’s end credits have started to play.

Drift sinks into the couch, dragging Rodimus with him. His hands stroke long patterns down Rodimus’ back and over his shoulder, and Rodimus’ frame relaxes into the gentle touches. It feels so good.

“I won’t,” Drift replies, tilting his head back against Rodimus’ with a soft sigh. “But Roddy, I’m not going to close down either. I like what I’m doing and–”

“I don’t want you to.” Rodimus offlines his optics and rests his head on Drift’s chestplate, listening to the pulse of his spark. It’s easier to be honest when he doesn’t have to look into Drift’s optics. “It’s okay. Really. I understand why you’re doing it. I just want you to make time for me, too.”

“I can do that,” Drift murmurs, his fingers tracking a slow, careful path down Rodimus’ spinal strut, like he’s trying to memorize every ridge and seam.

Rodimus hums his approval. He wriggles, notching himself even more firmly on top of Drift. He counts the beats of Drift’s spark, and listens as the movie’s end credits fade into nothing. He might fall into recharge just like this, his tank full, his frame relaxed, his field embraced.

It’s perfect.

[IDW] Wide of the Mark

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Ah. Big spender liked the big mechs. Pity.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Getaway giggled.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Getaway giggled again. Master? Really? How cliché.

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


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

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

Curiouser and curiouser.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Easy enough.

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

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

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

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

And Getaway was right.

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

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

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

Fallout smirked at him.

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


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Hurry up, Prowl.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“The camera’s ready,” Playback added.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“My turn,” he said.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Frag you,” he gritted out.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“He’s overloaded twice already.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Nausea roiled in Getaway’s tanks. He groaned.

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

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

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

Did it really matter?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Thanks for the ride,” he said.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Getaway whimpered.

His tormentors laughed.

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

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

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

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

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

“Oh, that’s delicious,” Lore purred.

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

“That I do.”

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

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

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

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

There was nowhere to go.

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

Where were they?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

His team.

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

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

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

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

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

His team.

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

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

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

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



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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You okay?”

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

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

“Everything’s just fine,” Getaway lied.

It was getting easier every day.

[TiA] Slices of Life 03

Little Surprises

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Blurr. That charming idiot.

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

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

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

His tanks grumble again.

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

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

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


It’s a pretty damn good day.

[TiA] Slices of Life 02


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

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

Him attempting to look official is the peak of cuteness.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Starscream snorts. “It’s basic arithmetic.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Starscream snorts and calculates faster.

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

[TiA] Slices of Life 01

Sleeping Arrangements

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Where have you been!?!”

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

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

Blurr made a promise.

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

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

A part of him was relieved.

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

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

Put like that, Blurr supposed stealthiness was way overrated.

[IDW] Hot to Trot

The first time they fragged, Ratchet was lonely and tipsy and just stupid enough that a pitiful looking Megatron was a better outlet for his frustrations than anyone else on the Lost Light. Ratchet wasn’t lacking for options, but somehow, a smirking former warlord was the perfect flavor he needed to chase out the anger and the irritation and the emotions boiling beneath the surface.

It helped that Megatron, for all he was the living embodiment of evil and the single greatest threat to the safety of Cybertron, was attractive. He was sturdy, strong… big. Big enough to wrap his hands around Ratchet’s thighs and haul him up against the wall like he weighed nothing, thick spike sinking into Ratchet’s valve like it was laying claim and spilling charge over his internal nodes in heavy, pulsing waves.

It had to be the engex, Ratchet assumed dizzily, the cubes he consumed four times the size of the measly sample Swerve had given him so long ago. The engex was bitter and potent and it sat in his tanks like rustrot and low grade, but it turned the world fuzzy and bright and eager. He still tasted it on his glossa, in the kiss even, as Megatron pinned him to the wall and nipped at his mouth with sharpened, but filed denta.

It was the engex, Ratchet snarled as his back scraped red streaks into the ship’s walls, here in this semi-abandoned corridor of the Lost Light. Somewhere anyone could stumble on them, and maybe Ratchet cared that someone would, or maybe he didn’t. Maybe all that mattered was the pleasure licking up his spinal strut in lightning bursts and the way Megatron’s grip was tight enough to dent metal on anyone who wasn’t an ancient medic with one foot in the grave.

Ratchet thought he should have protested. He might have, maybe, half-sparked as it was, and not at all believable for that. He wanted, and there was shame in that, but frag if Megatron wasn’t so well put together and big, and Ratchet had always been weak for the big ones. The big, powerful mechs who could handle a heavy medic like he weighed nothing, who didn’t treat Ratchet like he was breakable, but rather like someone who wanted to be tossed around.

Mechs like Megatron, who ate at Ratchet’s mouth like he was starving. Who growled and grunted, their frames clanging together noisily enough to draw a crowd, if anyone were brave enough to watch. And whoever was on watch duty was probably getting a show out of the corridor’s surveillance. Ratchet was just soused enough not to care.

He slid his fingers into seams, wrapped them around cables and pulled, calves and ankles beating on the back of Megatron’s legs in violent urging. He hissed in between kisses, goads and challenges, demanding more, which Megatron granted him with dark chuckles and optics heavy like smoldering coals. Something about the way the light overhead glinted over his Autobot badge made the shame rise up again, until Ratchet smothered it with the pleasure rippling through his valve, the way Megatron pierced him, deeper and deeper, thick head grinding on his ceiling node.

Ratchet gasped and bucked against Megatron, thighs squeezing tight, tugging just a shade too hard on cables, enough to make Megatron hiss and bare his pointed denta. His valve spiraled down tight, milking the thickness of Megatron’s spike for all it was worth, his own spike pressurized and rubbing on Megatron’s abdominal plates, the rough skitter of the head over overlapping plates adding to the delightful friction.

Ratchet moaned.

Megatron chuckled, deep and dark and dangerous and every shameful fantasy Ratchet had ever indulged in, his fingers deep in his valve and tight around his spike.

“Look at you,” Megatron taunted, voice like rich engex and hidden caverns, probably mockery, maybe appreciation. “Just drunk enough not to care that you’re getting railed by an evil, evil Decepticon.”

Ratchet hissed an invective.

It was a totally inappropriate time to overload, which was why he did, clamping down hard on Megatron’s spike and painting Megatron’s abdomen with transfluid. He snarled against Megatron’s mouth, into a near-violent kiss, and his back hit the wall hard as Megatron all but threw him into it.

Megatron laughed into the messy, rough kiss. He fragged Ratchet like he wanted to paint himself, paint this illicit encounter, into the very metal of the wall. He thrust hard and deep, and the searing splatter of his transfluid was enough to pull another overload out of Ratchet. He swallowed the shame, same as he did his cry of pleasure, and clung to Megatron through the throes of ecstasy.

Megatron ate at his mouth, the echoes of overload making their plating ruffle, their engines thrum a discordant cadence. Megatron’s spike lingered in Ratchet’s valve, half-pressurized, a promise for more.

More Ratchet found himself wanting, and if that wasn’t enough to revamp the shame clawing at the back of his spark chamber, the slick feel of transfluid in his valve certainly helped. He indulged in the kiss, lips swollen where Megatron bit at them, his frame hot where they pressed together, the feel of Megatron’s hands on his hips far too erotic.

Ratchet growled and shoved at Megatron’s chest. “Put me down,” he demanded, and obedience was immediate.

His feet dropped to the floor as Megatron held him only long enough to make sure he was steady. Though steady was a strong word. Ratchet’s world kept sliding off to the right, and he knew the engex was only partially to blame. Fluids trickled down the inside of his thighs, and damn but they weren’t transfluid alone.

“Is this the part where you call for security?” Megatron asked, his words darkly amused, but a shadow of something in his optics.

Ratchet didn’t know if he should call it fear or not, though he was tempted when Megatron stepped back, hands lifted as if in surrender, the distance between them physically minute, but speaking of an immaterial chasm.

Ratchet snorted. “What kind of mech do you think I am?” he demanded, proud of himself for not stuttering or slurring his vocals. He pointed a finger at Megatron and narrowed his optics. “This didn’t happen.”

“Oh, so that’s the way you want to play it.” Megatron folded his arms over his massive chest, Ratchet’s transfluid still painting his abdomen like some kind of lurid claim.

“It’s not a game. This didn’t happen,” Ratchet repeated and glared at Megatron, using the fiercest one he had in his arsenal. He shook his finger at Megatron in stern warning. “And it’s not happening again.”

Megatron tilted his head. “Whatever you say.” There was mockery in the curl of his lip.

Anger flared through Ratchet like a flashbomb. He growled, his engine echoing him, and spun on a heelstrut. He stomped down the corridor, leaving Megatron behind him, aware of the fluids trickling down his thighs, spattering on the floor behind him, a lewd path anyone could follow to find the source of Ratchet’s shame.

Megatron’s amusement burned between his shoulders. Fury cropped up, scathing retorts and caustic curses, but Ratchet swallowed them all down.

Staying away from Megatron would be easy, he figured. That smugness was enough of a turn off. Ratchet was certain he’d never frag Megatron again, and this time, he’d chalk up solely to the engex and Megatron’s proximity.

It could have been anyone, he reasoned. Anyone.


The second time they fragged was entirely Megatron’s fault.

Megatron’s fault, Ratchet’s medic protocols, and the provocative dreams haunting Ratchet’s recharge, which had him onlining and reaching for one of the many toys he kept on hand. He’d buffed out the scratches and paint transfers after his last encounter with Megatron, but the memories of them caught up to him during recharge.

His hips ached, his valve clenched on nothing, and the pleasure preoccupied his waking hours. He found himself eying other mechs on the Lost Light, equal in size to Megatron, wondering if their hands could wrap around his thighs as Megatron’s had.

Ratchet blamed a lot of things, Megatron especially. Though he admitted, if grudgingly, that evil warlord or not, Megatron had kept his end of the bargain. He’d told no one about their tryst in the corridor, and whoever had gotten to the security feeds didn’t blab about it either.

No one seemed to know about Ratchet’s little indiscretion. He preferred it that way. It would definitely never happen again.

Megatron kept his distance, too. Like the intelligent mech he was.

And then a month later, Megatron walked into the medbay for his daily dose of fool’s energon, and Ratchet was the only one around who could give it to him. He’d been foisting that particular duty off on everyone, anyone else honestly. Not because he was embarrassed. Pah. Ratchet didn’t know the meaning of the word embarrassed. It wasn’t temptation either.

He didn’t have to explain himself actually.

There Megatron was, recently washed and polished, his Autobot badge gleaming, a look of irritation on his face as he patiently waited for his serving of the foul concoction meant to tame him. Ratchet didn’t much approve of the psychological game Optimus had going on, since it put so many Autobots in danger, but if it kept Megatron cowed, he supposed he’d have to trust in it. For now.

“I suppose you want your energon,” Ratchet grunted and gestured Megatron to a semi-private berth nearby.

“Want is a strong word, medic,” Megatron replied with a sigh and dropped down heavily onto the berth, it creaking beneath him. “It is a matter of necessity, though I would prefer something with a better flavor.”

Ratchet drew Megatron a cube and thrust it toward the mass-murderer. “The point is that you don’t enjoy it.”

“Clearly.” Megatron made a face, like a newspark being fed medicinal coolant, and chugged the energon in one swoop. All the better not to taste it, Ratchet supposed. “Primus, that is foul. What a petty punishment.”

Ratchet snatched back the empty cube, tossing it into the recycler. “It’s not a punishment. It’s a–”

“–deterrent for the safety of my crew. Yes, I know.” Megatron gave him a baleful look as he moved to slide off the berth.

“Stay.” Ratchet held up a hand, fingers unexpectedly coming into contact with the broad strength of Megatron’s chest, hot beneath his touch and vibrating from his engine. “You’re here. I might as well do that maintenance you’ve been avoiding for a month.”

Megatron grunted and sat back, out of reach. He arched an orbital ridge at Ratchet. “I’ve been doing the avoiding? That’s new to me.”

Ratchet ignored the goad. He grabbed a scanner instead and pointed it at Megatron, bombarding the co-captain with a series of scans meant to measure and diagnose quickly. He had his suspicions about what the scans would reveal, and all but one of them were confirmed.

“You’re stressed,” he observed, mostly a comment made to himself, but Megatron heard it nonetheless.

What great restraint it must have taken, for Megatron to resist the urge to reply with scathing sarcasm. “Yes,” he said, with a laugh that wasn’t at all amused. “I am. Surrounded by enemies forced to be allies while waiting for an execution that has only been delayed, I suppose I am.”

Ratchet would not feel guilty. His protocols, however, gnawed at him. Stressed mech, systems strained as a result, fix it, fix it now.

“Find a way to lower it,” Ratchet said as he dug in his supply cabinet for a new air filter. Megatron’s was in sorry shape. “I don’t need to tell you what can happen to a frame with strained systems.” More frequent trips to the medical bay, for starters, and Ratchet already knew Megatron wasn’t fond of them to begin with.

Chromedome had learned to keep his distance from their new co-captain, and with good reason. If there was one mech on the ship Ratchet feared Megatron might attack indiscriminately, it wasn’t actually Whirl. It was Chromedome.

“I’ll make it my top priority,” Megatron drawled as he twisted at an angle and lifted an arm, popping one of his exterior panels so Ratchet could get to the filter. “Perhaps meditation. I hear it soothes the spark.”

Ratchet snorted again, memories of Drift rising up at the back of his mind. Hippy-dippy woo-woo slag, everywhere he looked. Though it seemed to work for Drift, the former Decepticon, who tried too hard to be what he wanted to be.

He yanked out the old filter and snapped the new one into place, frowning at the state of the used one. It should have been changed months ago. “Either that or an outlet,” Ratchet said, almost absently. “Sparring. Exercising. Fragging. Something that involves you working out your frustrations.”

“Fragging,” Megatron repeated, his vocals thick with amusement, as he leaned back and peered at Ratchet. “That wouldn’t be an offer, perhaps, for the event which never happened?”

Ratchet reared back, mouth agape at the sheer gall. “Of course not!” he spluttered, heat filling his faceplate as the erotic dreams rushed to the forefront of his conscious, whispering sweet ideas of the best method of stress relief.

Megatron shrugged, as nonchalant as only he could be, when he’d been so thoroughly rejected. It had to be hard, a mech like him, being rejected. Ratchet imagined it didn’t happen much. Megatron had a draw to him, a siren’s song, and it was too easy to get pulled into his web.

“Pity,” Megatron said, with a lick of his energy field along the length of Ratchet’s, as tangible and hot as a touch up his backstrut, dragging out a shiver. “It seems I’ll have to look elsewhere for exercise.”

Elsewhere, he said, as though the images weren’t streaming through Ratchet’s cortex. As though he didn’t want to pin Megatron to that berth and made him quiver, make him pant and moan as so few dared to do. Worse that his protocols latched on to the idea like an Empty on a scrap of energon.

Fix, fix, fix, they said, and there Megatron was, big and shined up and freshly energized and watching Ratchet with a restrained curiosity but a curl to the corner of his mouth like he already knew he’d won. He radiated smugness, and Ratchet had never wanted to frag the self-satisfaction off someone’s face harder than he did in that moment.

The desire to spank Rodimus into submission was another matter entirely.

“I’m sure you’re capable of coming up with a solution,” Ratchet grumbled, but his spike had started throbbing, and his optics kept roaming over Megatron’s frame, which he hadn’t been able to appreciate in their last encounter that didn’t happen.

He wondered if he could bend Megatron over that berth. He wondered if Megatron would let him. He wondered if simply making the offer would see the infamous warlord bolt from the room.

“Ah, but the simplest one is always better.” Megatron stood, stretching his arms over his head, widening the gaps in his plating, allowing peeks of the gleaming cables beneath, as shiny as the rest of him.

Fix, fix, fix.

Frag it.

“Fine,” Ratchet said as his hands snapped to his hips and his lips curved in a wicked grin. Here was the part where Megatron’s bravado whittled away. “Get on the berth, pop your panels, and I’ll drive you so hard you won’t remember this conversation ever happened.”

Megatron laughed, not mockingly, and his lips pulled into a smirk. He leaned back against the medberth, hips against the edge, elbows braced on it behind him. “You wouldn’t rather have me on my hands and knees?”

What a mental image. But no. If Ratchet was going to frag Megatron into oblivion, it was going to be where he could see every inch of naked lust on the mech’s face.

Ratchet triggered the door closed and locked it with a code no one on this ship could override, save Rodimus and he knew far better than to do so. “If I did, I would’ve said so,” he retorted as he turned back toward Megatron.

He didn’t waste time on a subtle slink. He crossed the floor in three swift strides and put himself between Megatron’s knees, his hands braced to either side of Megatron’s hips.

“Here’s your chance to back out.” Ratchet grinned with a mouthful of denta. “I promise I won’t think less of you.”

Megatron snorted, hooked a hand behind Ratchet’s head, and yanked him into a kiss. All denta, all glossa, no gentleness, all lust. He still tasted of that foul fool’s energon, but his field was hot and staticky against Ratchet’s, and his knees pressed in on Ratchet’s hips in silent demand.

Well then.

So that was how Ratchet found himself fragging Megatron into the medberth, Megatron’s legs hiked around his waist, his hands entangled with Megatron’s, palm to palm. He’d pinned Megatron’s hands to the berth beside Megatron’s head, and the pressure of Megatron’s grip against his sensors made pleasure lick like hot fire through his sensor net.

Megatron opened for him without asking, valve slick and accommodating, greedy for the first long and slow thrust, and demanding more, more, more. His calipers rippled and clutched, feeding charge into the sensor nodes of Ratchet’s spike. He panted into Megatron’s intake and against Megatron’s lips.

The first overload was immediate, on Megatron’s side at least. He moaned, threw his head back, and clenched down on Ratchet’s spike, lubricant seeping out around it as he overloaded. Ratchet smirked.

“Been a long time, has it?” he asked. “Or maybe you’re just sensitive.”

“Shut up,” Megatron snarled and bucked up against him.

Ratchet laughed against his lips and rolled into Megatron, deep and grinding, denta gritted against the hot, squeezing pleasure. Megatron’s field buzzed against his, scalding with need, hungry and desperate. His hips snapped up to meet Ratchet’s thrusts. His hands squeezed Ratchet’s. He made these sounds, deep in his intake, deep in his chest.

Wholly erotic sounds they were. Growls and gasps and moans. His head tilted back, his optics half-shuttered and gleaming with an inner fire. It was unfair, how sexy he was, and as a second overload wracked Megatron’s frame, his spike emerged, thick and pressurized, and Ratchet’s valve clenched in memory of that spike filling him oh so sweet.

Megatron squirmed on Ratchet’s spike like he hadn’t had intimate contact in millennia. He was thirsty for it, gasping out demands for more, his heels drumming the back of Ratchet’s legs to an imperfect cadence. Megatron melted beneath Ratchet, there was no better word for it. The way the lines of stress eased from his face, and how his armor loosened and softened, some of the unease and tension whisking away in the wake of two overloads and the build-up of a third.

He looked younger. Softer. Like the fresh-faced miner who had a dream the universe tried to pummel out of him, but he was stronger than the forces of change gave him credit. He came back, every time, a little more fierce, a lot more ready to do what was necessary, until even that line was stepped over, and what became necessary was any untenable act to meet a goal lost to the spilled energon, scorched battlefields, and millions upon millions of deaths of those now forgotten.

It was almost enough to make Ratchet falter in his rhythm. For the shame to ride the wake of pleasure, but then Megatron’s hands tightened around his, fingers interlocked. He made a sound, a whimper more than a moan, and Ratchet licked his way to Megatron’s intake, felt the echoes of those noises on his glossa.

His spike ached. The rippling pull of Megatron’s valve around him was intoxicating. Megatron squirming beneath him was even more so.

Megatron growled out a noise, a cross between a moan and a whimper, and he overloaded again, this time with a spatter of transfluid against Ratchet’s belly and windshield. Ratchet ground deep, spike swallowed by Megatron’s valve, and was pulled into his own overload, striping Megatron’s valve with his spill as lips and denta closed around Megatron’s intake. He felt the rhythm of Megatron’s energon against his mouth. He bit hard enough to leave a mark, every pulse of his overload feeling as though it were being yanked from his spike.

Ratchet collapsed on top of Megatron, drained, fans whirring, heat billowing in the air around them. Megatron’s engine thrummed, vibrating his frame, and Ratchet’s fingers ached where they’d been interlocked.

It took too many long, embarrassing moments for Ratchet to realize he was all but cuddling Megatron in the semi-privacy of the medbay. He withdrew, reclaiming his fingers and his spike, which slid out of Megatron with a trickle of lubricant and transfluid in its wake. Megatron’s valve contracted, anterior node bright and plump, and Ratchet’s mouth filled with lubricant.

He would never admit how much he wanted to taste that fierce little nub.

Megatron lounged into the berth, self-satisfied to the core, his legs hanging limp over the edge, his thighs splayed, shamelessly displaying his valve and the fluids trickling out of it. One hand slid down his frame, briefly palming his softened spike, the splatter of transfluid making the motion all the more erotic.

“You’re right,” he said. “I do feel more relaxed.”

It took every ounce of self-control in Ratchet’s arsenal to keep the heat from flooding his cheeks. Instead, he yanked a mesh cloth out of subspace and tossed it at Megatron’s abdomen.

“Clean yourself up,” he snapped. “You can’t walk out of here looking like that.” He was shamed to note that he had, indeed, left a bite mark on Megatron’s intake.

“Given the way Rodimus prances around this ship, I don’t see how my current state is anything of a problem,” Megatron said, with a droll note to his tone that did little to calm Ratchet’s building ire.

He ground his denta and bit back on several sharp retorts, choosing instead to scrub at his own frame with a mesh cloth. “Just get out of here. I have work to do.”

The berth creaked as Megatron leveraged himself off it, his clean up more cursory than anything. He still looked freshly fragged, and the white and red streaks along his thighs gave hint to who had done the fragging. Though it might as well have been a neon sign.

Not too many white and red mechs left on the ship, after all.

Megatron performed another one of those sinful stretches. “And if I should find need for another act of stress relief?”

“Pick a hobby,” Ratchet snarled with his back to Megatron, his armor twitching in confused shifts of enemy-not enemy. Auto-badge or not, Ratchet’s self-defense protocols still didn’t know how to identify Megatron.

The former warlord chuckled and strode to the door, casual as you please, overriding the lock with ease. “If you insist.”

“I do. And Megatron?”

He paused in the frame, one optic arched in a gesture that could have been amused or taunting. “Let me guess. This didn’t happen, and it’s not going to happen again.”

Ratchet narrowed his optics. “Get out of my medbay.”

Megatron laughed and swaggered out the door, which closed behind him so quietly, it did not match the irritation boiling in the pit of Ratchet’s tanks. Throwing his soiled mesh cloth at the door didn’t help either.

Frag it. Frag Megatron. Frag everything.

Never again, Ratchet swore. Never again.


Never again was a promise far more easier kept if it hadn’t been for Rodimus. Who was, as with the way of most things, to blame for the newest debacle which found Megatron pinging the door to Ratchet’s hab-suite with a look that blended desperation and resignation. If Ratchet’s own face hadn’t been radiating the same look, he might have keyed the door to slam shut in front of Megatron’s nose.

His frame betrayed him. The raw need. The billowing heat. The slick on his thighs. The hunger in his tank. The tide of lust that boiled over him the moment he saw Megatron, mouth watering in remembrance of his thick, thick spike and his oh-so-welcoming valve. Because Megatron could keep a secret.

And in the morning, Ratchet could blame Rodimus and keep his conscience relatively free. Or at least, that was what he told himself, when Megatron looked at him and said, “Something’s wrong.”

Ratchet had sighed and gestured Megatron inside with something akin to resignation. “Yeah, I know.”

It started, he would later reflect, on Antioch.

The planet had been advertised as welcoming to metallic beings, even Cybertronians. Friendly, had been the word, along with enthusiastic. Antiochians were organic in nature, tiny quadrapeds with six-fingered hands and several sets of unblinking eyes set into a wide, hairless skull – all of which was more than a little unnerving.

But they liked metallics. They liked Cybertronians. They liked to touch and twitter and made some of the most delicious synthetic oils Ratchet had ever tasted.

They were eager to house their metallic visitors, those few who dared step foot on the planet. Rewind had something in his databanks, something he couldn’t quite put his finger on, but was certain they had nothing to fear from Antiochians. They didn’t even have weapons, these non-spacefaring but curious organics.

The Antiochians helped the Lost Light refuel and restock. They persuaded some of the more adventurous members of the crew to enjoy their polishing houses. They fed the Lost Light crew until they could consume no more and fell into sleeping piles of mechanisms, the majority of whom managed to get back to their habs on the ship.

There were a few who didn’t.

No one could have expected the effect the oils would have on Megatron’s system. It had been deemed the oils weren’t fuel and were better considered candy – tasty but largely ineffective, so he’d been allowed to consume them. And after he’d promptly slipped into recharge, no one could or would move him. Leaving him behind, alone, wasn’t an option.

Ratchet didn’t so much volunteer as he was the last mech standing who had a leadership capacity by the time the rest of the crew cleared out. And while he’d consumed his fair share of the Antiochian oil and fuel, he’d had the good sense to engage his FIM chip, leaving him to enjoy the taste but not the effect.

When morning dawned, particularly bright as a planet with three suns could only be, the Antiochians swarmed with solicitous hands and shoving cups of what they called ‘the cure’ at every mech who hadn’t made it back to the Lost Light. Ratchet had taken one out of politeness, though he hadn’t needed it, while Megatron chugged two of them, still wobbly and out of sorts from the potent oils.

Ratchet carefully stowed one into his subspace when their hosts weren’t looking. He intended to hand it and a sample of the oils to Perceptor because a lifetime of war meant one couldn’t be too suspicious.

As Red Alert would say, “just because you’re paranoid doesn’t mean they aren’t out to get you.”

Declining further invitations by the Antiochians to rest and recover and celebrate, Ratchet dragged Megatron back to the Lost Light, dumped the still woozy co-captain in his habsuite, and stormed up to the bridge.

Rodimus capered about, citing how excellent of an idea it was to come to Antioch, because wasn’t it nice to be welcomed for once? Ultra Magnus stood nearby, frowning severely, arms folded over his chassis. He had not partaken of any of the Antiochian delights, and as Ratchet recalled correctly, had returned to the ship last night with no less than four crewmates slung over his massive arms.

“We cannot afford to linger,” Ultra Magnus said with the kind of firm look that tended to make Rodimus wilt, albeit slowly. “And I don’t trust these Antiochians.”

“Pah. You don’t trust anyone.” Rodimus flicked a wrist, flippant. His spoiler twitched up and down. “This place is a blast. And if you ask me, it’s about time the crew had a little fun.”

Ultra Magnus sighed.

They probably would have stayed on Antioch longer, if not for Perceptor bursting onto the bridge in that moment, vocalizer running a spew of scientific gobbledygook that even Ratchet had difficult parsing, much less Rodimus. Ultra Magnus looked deeply concerned. Brainstorm, who had been in Perceptor’s wake, looked excited.

Neither of which boded well.

Something to do with chemicals and metabolic rates and exactly how the Antiochians kept themselves safe without having weapons or any means of defense? And why they were so friendly toward metallics? Something about… brood parasites?

“–and Nightbeat confirmed it,” Perceptor finished as he slapped away Brainstorm’s hand, which was inching toward the datapad in his possession. “We need to leave. Now.”

Rodimus’ optics had glazed over, but on the last statement, he’d jerked into attentiveness. “Is everyone onboard?”

“Yes. Including Megatron,” Ratchet said, an unease building deep in his tank, along with a strange and winding heat. “I checked.”

“Right then.” Rodimus clapped his hands together and spun toward the main console. “Mainframe, take us out. No one’s making a sparkling factory out of my crew.”

Never let it be said that Rodimus couldn’t see reason. He only played at the fool. Sometimes, perhaps a little too well.

A wave of queasiness swept through Ratchet. Maybe because of what he’d been able to parse from Perceptor’s explanations. Maybe because the oils and the “cure” didn’t mix well with his FIM chip. Maybe he’d picked up some kind of metallic-based virus while on Antioch.

Either way, Ratchet excused himself from the bridge and tromped back to his habsuite. He was supposed to be off-duty, frag it.

He intended to wash the lingering sourness of the Antiochian cure from his mouth, linger in the solitude of his private washrack, and then collapse face-first on his berth for a nice, long nap free of any stress and worries. Maybe he’d delay that nap to watch a movie or read a datanovel or anything that wasn’t working or worrying himself into a fit over the current state of affairs.

The weird wash of heat returned with a vengeance, strong enough to make Ratchet stumble when he was two hallways away from his hab. He frowned, confused, and kept one hand on the wall to steady himself.

A self-directed internal scan produced nothing out of the ordinary. Well, except for his slightly raised core temperature, a quickened sparkbeat, and thrumming fans. Typical indications of arousal really.

Save that Ratchet wasn’t currently engaged in any kind of interfacing and shouldn’t be aroused on even a simmering level right now.

Maybe it was some aftereffect of the Antiochian oil. He could be mildly overheated or still suffering ill-effects from what was technically an intoxicant, despite his FIM chip. A little bit of arousal wouldn’t kill him. If he didn’t feel better tomorrow, he’d perform a systems purge and that should clear it out.

That, at least, was the plan.

Ratchet lurched into his habsuite, doused some of the rising heat with the chill of the washrack solvent, and stubbornly resisted the urge to palm the pulse of need rising behind his interface panel.

It was not going away. If anything, it was getting worse. Little crackles of charge teased out of his seams. There was a fire building between his thighs. He could feel the lubricant gathering and his meshwalls swelling with excitement. His sparkrate further increased. His ventilations grew stronger.

He staggered out of the washrack and tumbled onto his medberth, pressing his thighs together in stubborn refusal. There was an itch in his lines, a feverish one. Ratchet panted, his hands curling into claws as he resisted.

This was not normal. His sensors kept pinging back everything as within safe bounds, that his frame experienced nothing less than typical arousal. But it was fake. It had to be.

The Antiochians. The rich, indulgent oils. Their insistence that the crew linger as long as they wished.

Rumors of their brood parasitic tendencies.

It was all adding up. Ratchet snarled in a mixture of irritation and revulsion. He was going to kill Rodimus for this, he decided.

That was when his door pinged. That was when it pinged twice and then a third time. That was when Ratchet rolled out of the berth and stumbled toward the door on wobbly knees, a snarl painting his lips, which were drawn back over his denta.

He snapped the door open, intending to growl out an unwelcoming “what?” but it petered into a whine when he saw Megatron. The simmering arousal raged into an inferno. He remembered all too well the ecstasy he’d experienced the two times that didn’t happen.

“Something’s wrong,” Megatron said.

Rationality and reason escaped Ratchet’s processor with a whoosh of his cooling fans. “Yeah, I know,” he said. “Get in here.”

And so Megatron came into his habsuite. Ratchet wondered if he should bother with an explanation when his hands found themselves magnetically attracted to Megatron’s hips, when he leaned in close, dragged in a deep vent, and moaned softly.

“I find myself more than a little confounded, medic,” Megatron rumbled, though his armor jittered, and his field was a chaotic tangle of need and confusion. “I thought this didn’t happen.”

“It didn’t.” Ratchet worked his intake, his processor spinning, his mouth wet with lubricant. “But it’s happening now. Those damn Antiochians have us prepped for their absurd reproduction technique.”

Megatron’s hands found Ratchet’s shoulders, big and strong as they were, and Ratchet leaned into them. “What?”

“It’s Rodimus’ quest!” Ratchet spluttered, his hands sinking into Megatron’s seams, stroking the sensitive cables beneath. Delight surged through his lines as Megatron shuddered and sank into his touch, as his plating parted of its own accord, granting Ratchet more access. “This kind of weirdness shouldn’t be shocking anymore.”

“It’s more alarming that I am getting used to it,” Megatron muttered. His burning gaze turned down on Ratchet. “You’re offering mutual assistance, I presume?”

Ratchet pressed closer, armor to armor, heat to heat. “Why? Are you waiting for an invitation?”

Megatron’s hands slid inward, thumbs gracing Ratchet’s intake, teasing the sensitive cabling there. Yet, his hands trembled, proving that he was as affected as Ratchet. What monumental restraint it must have taken him not to throw Ratchet to the floor and grind against him, like Ratchet wanted to do right at this very moment.

“Given the circumstances, yes.”

Ratchet growled and sank his fingers in against Megatron’s cables. Hard. “Frag me,” he demanded as his optics flashed, and he tugged Megatron flush against him. “As many times as it takes.”

That, apparently, was all he’d needed to say. Megatron’s optics turned the dark red hue of those meteors Rodimus was so fond of surfing, before he lifted Ratchet clear off the ground and crossed the floor in a few swift strides, right to the berth. Ratchet’s back hit the surface with a clang, his frame blanked by Megatron’s, whose field unleashed, lashing the room with the full brunt of his arousal.

Ratchet moaned into a kiss fierce with denta, his frame bucking into Megatron’s hands, his legs trying to wind around Megatron’s waist, even as Megatron tried to get his knees over Ratchet’s hips to straddle him.

Ratchet bucked up against him. “Frag me,” he hissed into the kiss, his hands hooked in Megatron’s armor, his panel already open as his valve throbbed and leaked lubricant, which trickled down his aft.

Megatron’s hands gripped his hips as he ground down against Ratchet. “I am attempting to do so,” he growled and again tangled a leg around Ratchet’s, their inefficient wrestling getting them nowhere.

A streak of damp painted Ratchet’s leg. He didn’t have to look to know that Megatron’s panel had snapped open, and like Ratchet’s, only his valve was bared. Neither of them had extended their spike.

Ratchet wondered if they couldn’t.

He snarled out of frustration and squirmed against Megatron, armor grinding and squealing together, heat building to a crescendo between them. His valve ached, all of his nodes twitching with restless need. His main node throbbed, swollen and hungry, desperate for stimulation, and each random brush of Megatron’s armor was torture.

“Give me your spike!” Ratchet demanded as he tried to worm a hand between their frames.

Megatron’s denta curled against his intake cables, but not hard enough to harm. “You first,” he retorted.

“This is ridiculous!” Ratchet spluttered and jerked his head out of reach of Megatron’s mouth, as tempting as it was. “Just spike me already.”

“No.” Megatron rutted against him, panting, a wild look in his optics that suggested he wasn’t thinking straight. And considering how much harder the Antiochian oil had affected him last night, no doubt this false lust was harder on him than on Ratchet.

He supposed he’d have to concede for once. Except that he couldn’t, because he couldn’t seem to extend his spike. Not even manually. It wasn’t that the panel wasn’t working, or that he couldn’t send the commands, they just weren’t being heeded. He suspected Megatron faced the same difficulty.

Time to get creative.

Ratchet gripped Megatron and exerted more force that most mecha knew he – and by extension – medics were capable of. He tumbled Megatron onto his back, straddled Megatron’s left leg, and had Megatron’s right draped around his waist before the warlord even know what was going on. The berth shuddered and protested beneath them, but held, even as Ratchet gripped Megatron’s right thigh and pushed it slightly back, baring Megatron’s dripping valve which was now achingly close to Ratchet’s own.

“What the frag are you doing!” Megatron demanded, only for his outrage to peter into a moan as Ratchet rolled his hips forward, the plush swollen mesh of his valve brushing over Megatron’s engorged anterior node.

“Getting creative,” Ratchet said on the edge of a pant. He rolled his hips again, thrusting against Megatron’s valve with his own. “You can’t give me your spike, and I can’t give you mine. This’ll have to do.”

Megatron gasped and reached down, one hand curling around Ratchet’s right thigh and dragging him closer, until their valves were flush together in a wet, swollen kiss. “It’s perfect,” he groaned as his free hand tangled in the berth.

Megatron arched his backstrut, rolling his hips into Ratchet’s movements, until they established a rhythm. Ratchet licked his lips, drawing vents through his mouth, as his spark thumped erratically.

There was nothing quite like valve-to-valve interfacing. The wet touch of valve lips, one to the other, the nudge and duel of swollen anterior nodes. Feeling the twitch of the other mechs outermost ring of calipers. Valve lubricants intermingling and spilling together, making for a slick mess. The sound of it, so noisy and lewd, and the sensation, similar to a glossa but less focused and firmer pressure. It was almost a tease, save that it felt so good.

Ratchet leaned forward, grinding harder against Megatron, pleasure licking up his spinal strut in heavy, heated waves. He watched as Megatron’s head tilted back, as he moaned and gasped, expressing losing the lines of strain and smoothing out into genuine pleasure. His field spilled over Ratchet’s, hot and hungry, and his frame vented heat into the room. Little sparks of charge danced over his armor, leaping against Ratchet’s own.

Ecstasy built and swelled in Ratchet’s internals, punctuated by a surge of pleasure every time their anterior nodes touched. Megatron’s hand on his thigh was heavy, strong, desperate as it pulled Ratchet against him. Their frames moved together as if they’d always known this dance. Or maybe that was the need talking.

Either way, pleasure exploded in Ratchet like a supernova, sparkles dancing in his optics. He gasped as he overloaded, hips jerking against Megatron’s, valve spilling so much lubricant it must have soaked his berth cover. His hips made several stuttered thrusts against Megatron’s who suddenly growled and tightened his grip on Ratchet’s thigh. His optics flashed as he bucked, ecstasy striping his field and a surge of charge running down his frame, grounding against Ratchet’s armor.

Their valves throbbed in tandom, pressed together in a most intimate kiss. Ratchet panted for ventilations, his processor spinning, frame thrumming with the aftereffects of a powerful overload… and a hunger that felt as though it had barely been touched.

Need still yawed inside of him. His valve clenched, desperate for something to pierce it. The one overload was not nearly enough.

Ratchet groaned. “I’m going to kill Rodimus,” he said as he sagged, coming to a reluctant conclusion.

“Later,” Megatron said before he turned the tables.

He twisted his hips in a move that Ratchet barely believed him capable of, and Ratchet’s back hit the berth, knocking a ventilation out of him. His processor spun, producing an incoherent ‘wha?’ before Megatron knelt between his legs, scooped Ratchet’s thighs over his arms, and buried his face against Ratchet’s valve.

Ratchet’s head snapped back, and his backstrut arched as Megatron latched his lips around Ratchet’s swollen nub and gave it a suck. Ratchet shouted, his hands scrabbling at Megatron’s shoulders, his hips bucking up against Megatron’s mouth. His vents roared to life, ecstasy shooting through his lines in a bolt of charge.

Megatron was fierce, determined, lips and denta and glossa making short work of examining every inch of Ratchet’s valve. He suckled on the plump folds and plunged his glossa deep, nasal ridge grinding against Ratchet’s node. His denta scraped delicately over sensitive nodes before he returned to Ratchet’s nub, pinned it between his denta, and lashed it with his glossa.

Ratchet thrashed, hands grabbing at Megatron’s head, shoving him against his valve as he ground against Megatron’s face. Coherent thought flew out the window as the ecstasy sparked and flared inside of him, his thighs trembling and his frame rattling. Pleasure consumed him, so hot it swept up everything else.

He didn’t even realize he was spewing a steady stream of dirty epithets and encouragement until sound came through the static in his audials. A montage of ‘frag’ and ‘more’ and ‘harder, rust you’ until he felt Megatron chuckle against his valve and obey, lips making lewd noises as he joyfully consumed Ratchet’s valve.

Another lash of Megatron’s glossa, followed by a sharp, squeezing pinch of denta, and overload swept Ratchet up, tossing him into a wave of bliss. He writhed on the berth, distantly aware of hearing a click and some kind of ping inside his processor, as he rode Megatron’s mouth for all it was worth.

Wrecked, he collapsed back into his body, tremors making him twitch, fans venting heat into the room at a fast pace. Megatron hummed against his valve, gave it a final lick and then crawled up Ratchet’s frame.

“You have a dirty mouth, medic,” he growled before his lips descended on Ratchet’s, tasting of heat and charge and Ratchet’s own lubricant.

Ratchet sucked on Megatron’s glossa, arousal running in jagged lines down his backstrut. His valve throbbed, still desperate. The confirmation ping reasserted itself.

Override successful. Penetrative interface unit engaged.

Sure enough, he felt the heat against his spike, and the brush of it against Megatron’s armor, each light touch sending jolts of pleasure and heat through Ratchet’s array. Lust still burned through him, as though it was a hunger nothing could sate. He clutched at Megatron’s arms and moaned into the kiss, his processor spinning and the world tilting beneath him.

He needed.

Megatron nipped his lips and chuckled. “Well, what do we have here?” he purred as he pulled back and looked between their frames, at Ratchet’s spike standing proud and eager, pre-fluid already beading at the slit.

“You know damn well what that is,” Ratchet retorted as he rolled his hips, grinding the head of his spike against Megatron’s abdomen. “And if you’re very good, I might even put it in you.”

A soft sound escaped from Megatron’s mouth, a mix of groan and whine. “Is that so?” He laughed again, more air than vocals. “I’m not so sure it can do the job.”

Outrage took the edge of the arousing need burning in his lines. “Excuse me?” Ratchet spluttered. “It seemed to do just fine last time!”

“The time that didn’t happen, you mean?” Megatron shifted and reached between their frames, dragging a finger up the length of Ratchet’s spike.

Ratchet made a strangled sound as his spike throbbed. “Do you want to get spiked or not, fragger?”

“I suppose it’ll do,” Megatron said with an aggrieved sigh that had to be feigned. He smirked down at Ratchet. “If it’s the best you have.”

The best, hm? Ratchet had a little surprise in store for Megatron, if he was going to act like that.

“Then move,” Ratchet said. “Get that aft in the air.”

Megatron laughed against Ratchet’s lips. “Such a dirty mouth,” he murmured and stole Ratchet’s lips for another scorching kiss before he drew back to obey.

Ratchet rather liked that, Megatron obeying without so much as a complaint or protest. Obedience was a good look for him. Ratchet slipped out from under Megatron and moved behind the former warlord, admiring the view. Now wasn’t the time, he knew, but he could just imagine Megatron wrapped in ropes, crimson ones, wound around his frame. Perhaps even framing this pretty valve right here.

Ratchet’s fingers grazed over Megatron’s valve lips, which were plump and hungry, lubricant painting them with an opalescent sheen. Megatron’s anterior node was swollen and bright, his biolights flickering with need. Two fingers sank into him easily, and Ratchet groaned as they were enveloped in hot, squeezing mesh, calipers rippling and trying to drag him deeper.

“This is not the time for teasing, medic,” Megatron growled as his forehead hit the berth, his fingers kneading the rumpled cover.

Ratchet smirked. “No, it’s not.” He patted Megatron’s aft and retrieved his fingers. He slipped off the berth. “I think I have something you’ll like.”

“Your spike in me is what I asked for!”

Ratchet’s smirk widened. He stumbled across the floor to his locker and input the code with fingers shaky and sticky with Megatron’s lubricant. The smell of it was dizzying, and Ratchet’s mouth lubricated.

Later, he told himself.

He rummaged around in his locker before he found what he was looking for: the special gift Wheeljack had pressed into his hands before he left with Rodimus and the Lost Light. For those lonely, lonely nights out in the middle of space when he needed a little stress relief.

Well. Perhaps little was the wrong word.

The false spike with a vast array of vibration and pumping settings could hardly be called little. It was long and thick, ribbed for pleasure, and filled every inch of Ratchet’s valve and then some when he had the patience and the time to himself to indulge.

It was also garishly painted, because Wheeljack had a sense of humor, but it filled Ratchet with fondness every time he saw the bright orange spatters mingled with bright blue and purple streaks. So he didn’t curse Wheeljack too much. At least, not aloud.

Ratchet returned to the berth, false spike in hand, and upon sight of it, Megatron burst into laughter. “What in Primus’ name is that?”

“A special treat,” Ratchet said with a wink. “You said you didn’t think my spike could do the job, didn’t you?”

“That is a monstrosity,” Megatron retorted, but his optics had gone dark with pleasure and more lubricant trickled from his valve. It visibly twitched, as if already imagining the false spike.

Ratchet chuckled and teased the tip against Megatron’s valve, playing in the gathered lubricant and applying pressure to Megatron’s node. “Are you saying you don’t want to play with it then?” he asked, pretending innocence, even as he briefly flicked the vibration setting on and off, sending a buzz against Megatron’s array.

A strangled groan was Megatron’s reply. The berth creaked as he rocked back against the toy, his hands tangling in the berth covers.

“I could always take it away,” Ratchet added, with perhaps a touch more devilish glee. He flicked the vibrations on and off again, as he nudged the head of the spike inside Megatron’s valve, only to remove it just as quickly.

“Frag you!” Megatron hissed as his optics burned at Ratchet, alight with the fire of his need. “Shove that spike in me or so help me I will–”

Whatever he planned to say choked off on a moan as Ratchet slipped the toy into Megatron’s valve, the way eased by copious lubricant, and thrust into him agonizingly slow. So slow he could feel every ridge, every bump, as it filled his valve and stretched his calipers and finally, ground against his ceiling node.

Megatron gasped, his hips squirmed. His elbows buckled and he sank down, aft up in the air, pushing back toward the toy. His engine growled as he kneaded the berth, lubricant painting the back of his thighs and his aft, his biolights bright and pulsing.

Ratchet licked his lips, ground the toy just a tad deeper, and then flicked on the vibration to its lowest setting. The quiet hum was barely audible over the roar of Megatron’s vents. His lower half wriggled as he moaned, thrusting back against the toy as Ratchet set up a rhythm, grinding it deep each time.

“Not so horrible now, is it?” Ratchet taunted. His spike throbbed, and he dropped his free hand to his array, giving it a squeeze. Pleasure lanced through him. He groaned.

He wanted to frag Megatron. The way his valve lips swelled. The sweet, heady scent of lubricant. How he squirmed and groaned. Ratchet wanted to grab him by the hips, pound Megatron’s aft, and spill himself deep.

The mere thought of it made Ratchet’s spike throb harder. He groaned as he stroked himself, fisting his spike with abandon.

Megatron moaned and his hips swayed as he eagerly clenched on the spike. “You should… make use of that,” he growled.

“Of what?” Ratchet asked.

“Your spike.” Megatron shoved himself up onto his elbows and directed a glare over his shoulder. “Frag me.”

“And here I thought you were enjoying my toy.” Ratchet moved closer, rolling his hips so that his spike brushed over the back of Megatron’s thighs. He increased the strength of the vibrations.

Megatron visibly shivered. His hands kneaded at the berth. “I am.” He panted, optics glazed over, and then there was a click.

Ratchet’s optics widened, lust like lightning in his lines, as Megatron’s aft port cycled open. The smaller opening clenched hungrily, and Ratchet’s ventilations quickened. He never thought, in a thousand centuries, that he’d ever find himself with the opportunity to frag Megatron’s aft.


“You’re sure?” Ratchet asked, even as he spread pre-fluid over his spike, and gathered up some of Megatron’s lubricant, smearing it around and over Megatron’s aft port. His hands shook from anticipation.

“Wouldn’t have offered if I wasn’t.” Megatron’s forehead pressed into the berth again, his aft canted up in offering.

Oh, Primus.

Ratchet flicked the switch to notch the vibrating toy into place and activated the pumping action, keeping it on the lowest setting so he’d have both hands free. He shuffled closer on his knees, his hand steadying Megatron’s hip as the other guided his spike to that tiny port.

Well, tiny in comparison to Megatron’s valve, but perfect for Ratchet’s spike, he realized with a groan. There was resistance at first, the tiniest bit, before the head of Ratchet’s spike popped inside, and he sank into snug, rippling heat. Ratchet moaned as he pushed deeper and deeper, charge nipping his spike, the increased roar of Megatron’s engines vibrating them both. Even better that he could feel the pump and vibration of the toy filling Megatron’s valve as it carried through Megatron’s array.

Ratchet moaned and gripped Megatron’s hips. He panted, half-curled around Megatron’s lower half, his spike throbbing incessantly and the grip of Megatron’s aft making him see stars. He couldn’t quite thrust, the sensation too strong and arousing. He lingered for a moment, enjoying the squeeze and heat as he leaned over Megatron.

“Do something, medic!” Megatron growled as he bucked up against Ratchet.

Damn, impatient fragger.

Ratchet snarled and tightened his grip. He rose up on wobbly knees and started to thrust, slow at first, but gaining in speed with each subsequent push. Megatron’s frame opened to him, hot and welcoming, until Megatron shoved back against him needily, the crown of his head pressed into the berth.

“Harder!” Megatron demanded as his fingers tangled in the covers, and his plating flared, and his field stirred Ratchet’s into a frenzy. “Harder if you even think you can, old mech.”

The goads shot Ratchet’s arousal into new heights. And the sounds, Primus the sounds Megatron made. Little gasps and groans, whimpers buried in the rumbles of his engine, the copious trickles of lubricant, the revving of his engine. Megatron made a noise, like a keen, and his field flashed. His aft rippled around Ratchet’s spike as his rocking increased in earnest, and only then did Ratchet realize Megatron had overloaded.

There wasn’t a moment, however, where Megatron stopped moving. He kept shoving back against Ratchet, demanding more with his frame and his voice, lips spilling filthy challenges. Demanding that Ratchet frag him harder, make him feel it, mark him, fill him with transfluid, while the toy buzzed and danced and charge crackled blindingly over Megatron’s armor.

Ratchet groaned and sank deep into Megatron, hips making little stuttered jerks and circles, as overload swept over him. Pleasure sparked through him, stole his energy. His knees wobbled. His vents panted. His processor spun. He clutched at Megatron’s hips, emptying transfluid into Megatron’s aft with spurt after spurt.

Heat still raged through his lines in an inferno.

His world turned upside down, as Megatron seemed so fond of doing, and Ratchet had a moment of confusion as his spike slipped free of the snug place it had enjoyed. His back hit the berth, Megatron’s hands grabbed his hips, and then Megatron’s spike plunged into his valve in one fell swoop, lighting up every node along the way and making them sing.

Ratchet gasped, backstrut arching. He scrabbled at Megatron’s hands as the former warlord setting up a driving pace, shoving Ratchet into the berth. There was a low buzz on the edge of his senses. A buzz…

“Wait, the toy. Let me–”

“Leave it,” Megatron growled, his optics as dark and hungry as embers as he plunged into Ratchet, again and again.

Just the thought of that toy filling Megatron while he fragged Ratchet was enough to send Ratchet’s arousal soaring. Every overload felt like a sip of energon when he were starving, like wetting his glossa but not sating his hunger. He wanted and needed more.

Ratchet snarled, grabbed Megatron’s arms, and tightened his legs around Megatron’s hips. He rose up to meet each thrust, valve greedily clenching on Megatron’s spike and feeding charge into Megatron’s node receptors. The berth creaked and rattled beneath them as they fragged hard and fast, like the world was going to end tomorrow and this was all they had left.

The world narrowed down to nothing but this, the thick spike filling him, the eager clutch of his calipers, the heavy frame pressing him down, the charge that licked across his frame and snapped against Megatron’s. The clench of Megatron’s denta, the flash of fire in his optics, the need so blatant in his field which had become thoroughly tangled in Ratchet’s own. If he wasn’t so lust-drunk, he might have been able to read something of Megatron, secrets the once-warlord kept hidden. Right now, there was nothing but a deep craving.

Ratchet reached up and grabbed Megatron by the back of his head. He pulled Megatron’s mouth to his, though it was less kiss than a battle of glossa and denta. Their ex-vents intermingled, hot and humid. They rocked together, armor making a racket, the berth shuddering. Ratchet’s thighs tightened.

Megatron shoved deep, grinding hard, and then Ratchet felt the hot splatter of transfluid washing over his internal nodes. He shuddered, panting into the kiss, as the heat sent him into an overload of his own, his valve squeezing down tight on Megatron’s spike. The kiss never once softened, not even as the overload tremors eased, but the lust remained, and the need as well.

Like Ratchet’s, Megatron’s spike was still firm. It lingered in Ratchet’s valve, teasing his excited nodes, re-invigorating his arousal.

“It’s never going to end,” Ratchet groaned and he wasn’t sure if it was exasperation or delight at this point. He still felt charged, like he hadn’t had three overloads and there was enough energy inside him for a dozen more.

Megatron chuckled. “Can’t you keep up, medic? Or are you getting too old for this?”

“Frag you,” Ratchet retorted, though with less heat than he would have liked. “I’ll show you what I can still do. Roll over.”

Megatron smirked and slipped out of Ratchet, obeying as he had before. There was always something impertinent in his obedience, but hungry, too. Like the submission was something he wanted, but was afraid to admit.

Ratchet would never state aloud how much it ramped his charge. The idea of suborning Megatron to his will, not because he was a former warlord, but because he was big and strong and hungry, filled Ratchet with lust.

He slid between Megatron’s legs and slipped his hands under Megatron’s knees as Megatron relaxed into the berth. A king on his throne. The toy still peeked from his valve, the bright orange end an odd juxtaposition to the grays and reds of Megatron’s armor. It buzzed along, on the softest speed, yet Megatron didn’t seem to mind the constant stimulation.

“Let’s see how flexible you really are,” Ratchet said as he started to urge Megatron’s knees back toward his chassis, as Ratchet shuffled forward.

Megatron smirked. “I can handle anything.”

“Of course you can.” Ratchet laughed and eased Megatron’s legs further back, until his knees were nearly touching his chassis, before he pushed them out a bit, completely baring his aft port, valve, and spike.

“I take it the rumors of your experience are true?” Megatron said with an arched orbital ridge. His frame trembled as his valve visibly clenched around the end of the toy.

“You have no idea.” Ratchet smirked and moved until he straddled Megatron’s aft, his valve lining up perfectly with Megatron’s, so that their main nodes touched and the vibrations of the toy pleasured Ratchet as well. He sank down, grinding against Megatron’s valve, a bolt of ecstasy rattling through his lines.

Megatron, too, gasped, his optics flaring in surprise. His knees twitched in Ratchet’s grip, even more so when Ratchet leaned forward, as if he were thrusting into Megatron, and rocked their hips together, valves in delicious contact.

Megatron purred. “So I see.” He slipped his hands between their frames. “But I have a few tricks as well.” He grasped their spikes and pressed them together, squeezing them with his huge hands.

Ratchet’s head hung as he groaned. His knees wobbled, and his rhythm briefly stuttered before he found it again. Megatron stroked them together, throbbing metal to throbbing metal, as the pleated folds of their valves kissed. The vibrations of the toy rattled against the exterior of Ratchet’s valve, stimulating his anterior node.

“It’s a… good trick,” Ratchet panted as he rocked against Megatron, grinding their arrays together and pumping his spike into Megatron’s grip. The feel of Megatron’s spike against his, heated and throbbing, was an extra burst of eroticism.

Megatron chuckled, but it was breathless and distracted. He rolled up to meet Ratchet’s thrusts as best he could, their combined pre-fluid making his strokes slick and sweet. He gnawed on his lips, his backstrut arched, his field vibrating with pleasure.

Every nudge of their anterior nodes made Ratchet quiver. His backstrut licked with lightning. He groaned, head hanging, mouth open for desperate draughts of cooler air which were nowhere to be found. Ecstasy hovered in the wings, matching the beat of Ratchet’s sparks and the rhythm of their frames.

In the end, he wasn’t sure which of them succumbed first, he or Megatron. It was a blur of heat and wet, transfluid painting Megatron’s fingers and lubricant slicking their arrays. Megatron groaned and pawed at Ratchet with transfluid-sticky fingers and Ratchet’s balance abandoned him as he toppled forward on top of Megatron, scrabbling up to pull their mouths together.

Their limbs tangled. The scent of scorched circuits and hot metal and spent transfluid and lubricant soaked the air until it was dizzying. The noise of frames coming together, sliding and impacting, rang in Ratchet’s audials.

Ratchet groaned, his engine revving. He wanted, no, needed more. More overloads, more ecstasy, more to sate the hunger inside of him, the slick rippling of his valve, the desperate throb of his spike. Megatron’s roaming, gripping hands reflected the same urgency, the same driving need. If it bothered him, Megatron didn’t say so. Instead, he rocked with Ratchet, ground against him, wordlessly asking for more with lips and denta and fingers.

Ratchet obliged because he wanted it, too. His processor spun and the world blurred into sensations: hot and wet and smooth and soft and pleasure, pleasure, pleasure until it seemed to take over all the rest.

It was going to be a long, long night.


Everything hurt. Ached like it hadn’t since he’d woken from a night celebrating his graduation from the medical academy with the highest honors, and had partied until long past sunrise with five of his closest friends. Engex, candies, and the kind of creative interfacing that only a half-dozen medics could think of.

That had been a good night, but the morning, or late afternoon rather, had been rough. Stiff and sore and aching everywhere, but in a good way, depleted of all of his fluids, vocals a rough rasp, frame marked with lubricant and transfluid and so many paint transfers on his frame he looked like a hot mess.

At the time, he’d wondered if Wrench had slipped a little something extra into their engex, to extend the fun.

Ratchet felt a lot like that now. Exhausted. Sore. Wrung out. Needing to replenish all his fluids, but energon and coolant especially. The consuming heat had faded, leaving him only with the soft warmth of another frame flush with his. He ached, but felt satisfied, and like he could recharge for another few days, if allowed.

At some point, the evening had become a blur of overloads and fluids and hands and valves and spikes. He vaguely remembered the press of Megatron’s body on top of his, a languid pace as Megatron thrust into him and fingered his aft port at the same time and Ratchet spilling transfluid all over the berth as he overloaded. He remembered swallowing Megatron’s spike as Megatron writhed on the toy, which had been increased to the strongest vibrations at some point. There had been grappling and rolling around, their frames pressed together, arching against each other, armor scraping.

He’d ridden Megatron’s spike more than once. He’d bent down and licked his own transfluid from Megatron’s aft while Megatron swallowed his spike. Ratchet had taken Megatron’s aft again while Megatron sucked on his fingers, mouth wicked and optics dark. At some point, he’d taken out the toy and fragged Megatron with four fingers, his promise to fist Megatron at some point dragging another overload out of Megatron.

No wonder he ached. It had been a night of debauchery unlike anything Ratchet had experienced in centuries. Everything tasted and smelled and felt of interfacing.

Ratchet probably should move. He didn’t know if he could. He didn’t have the energy. There was a heavy weight on top of him, a head pillowed on his shoulder, a heavier arm and leg draped over his frame. Megatron’s field was thoroughly entangled with his as well, which was something Ratchet could have never anticipated either.

And then Megatron’s optics unshuttered, and Ratchet lost his chance to sneak away before the uncomfortable morning after needed to be addressed.

Megatron stared at him for a long moment, as though trying to see who was going to make the first move. Ratchet decided to bite the bullet

Megatron chuckled, vocals rough and grated, vibrating down Ratchet’s spinal strut, though he didn’t have the energy for lust to stir. “Is this the part where you tell me it’s never happening again?”

Ratchet snorted. “I think that ship has left port.” He tried to move and his entire frame creaked. It wasn’t even Megatron’s weight that kept him immobile. “I can’t move.”

“Neither can I.” Megatron made an aborted attempt to lift his arm, but all it did was slide a little over Ratchet’s abdomen.


“I believe we both did that last night. Multiple times.”

Ratchet rolled his optics. “You’re not funny.”

Megatron’s ex-vents teased against Ratchet’s intake. “Actually, I think I’m hilarious.”

If Ratchet could move, he’d hide behind his palm right now. As it was, all he could do was sigh. “This is all Rodimus’ fault.”

Megatron’s smirk was positively obscene. “Remind me to thank him later.”

Ratchet sank into the berth, surrendering to the pull of comfort and to the demands of his frame. If he was going to be stuck here, he might as well enjoy it. “This–”

“–doesn’t happen again?”

“No, you aft, I was going to say this is a bad idea,” Ratchet snapped, and made himself ignore the twinge of guilt radiating through his spark. He shuttered his optics and cycled a ventilation. “As was joining this quest so apparently, I’m full of them.”

Megatron laughed, soft and genuine. “Being that I didn’t have a choice in the matter, I find your comparison of the two strangely apt.”

Ratchet snorted. “Does that mean you’re trying to figure out how you can escape? Or that I’m as appealing as fool’s energon?”

“If you were so foul, I would not be here, medic,” Megatron growled snappishly. He twitched on the berth, moving his leg a few inches but not fully off Ratchet.

One optic onlined to direct a glare at Megatron. “What a stirring compliment. And here I thought you were supposed to be some kind of poet.”

“You want me to wax lyrical about your skills in the berth? I’m sure that one will be a hit at Swerve’s later this evening. If I can find the strength to move from this spot,” Megatron said dryly. Humor lurked in his tone.

Ratchet abruptly got a mental image of Megatron standing in front of a crowd at the bar and reading a dirty limerick with a completely straight face, while the rest of the patrons looked on in a mixture of horror and confused arousal. The image was so clear, so absurd, that Ratchet burst into laughter, and then he couldn’t stop. Because everything about this was ridiculous, from the quest down to what had happened in this berth last night, and somehow, it was all fitting.

“If you do, please record it,” Ratchet managed to gasp out as the laughter started to subside, but the humor lingered.

“I’ll keep a private copy, just for you.” Megatron shifted on the berth, not managing to put much distance between them. “So then, medic, what now?”

In other words, where did they go from here? Their fields were still intertwined, though Ratchet couldn’t read anything from Megatron’s, save the distant echoes of agitation, resignation, and a touch of shame.

Ratchet sighed, flopped himself into a side curl and pressed back against Megatron. “Now we go back to recharge because I’m too tired to deal with this slag right now.”

He felt the rumbles of Megatron’s laugh against his backstrut. “Works for me.” His hand draped over Ratchet’s side.

The most surprising was how unthreatened Ratchet felt. His defense protocols should have been screaming at him. This was Megatron after all, the mech responsible for millions of deaths and destruction, and everything Ratchet hated.

The universe was a complicated place now, Ratchet admitted to himself. And people were complicated things. Or maybe he was just too tired to think about this rationally.

So he offlined his optics and prepared to slip back into recharge. He made a mental note to contact someone who could both keep their mouth shut and be willing to bring he and Megatron the necessary fluids before they slipped into stasis for lack of coolant.

His life had become really strange. Or maybe it had always been. Ratchet didn’t know anymore. He just knew this was the beginning of something he couldn’t name.