[TFP] Drawn Together

They had missed this ecstasy.

In the Pits, Soundwave had been as much a novelty for his data cables as Sunstreaker and Sideswipe had been for being twins. They were fetishized, used, bought and sold even. Until they all three gained enough fame, power, and skill to defy all but the most well-connected patrons.

Though rumor had it Soundwave had once defied a Senator and said political figure hadn’t dared say otherwise.

They’d been drawn to one another, like calling to like. The twins saw in Soundwave another outlier, another outcast. For all that Soundwave stood at the side of the great Megatronus, he was alone. For everyone knew who Megatronus truly had optics for.

Together, all three soon learned there was no greater ecstasy than acceptance. Together, they were no mere novelties and toys for amusement.

Together, they mattered.

Even when the war separated them, quiet moments were stolen. Faction badges were set aside as were responsibilities.

They moved together – Soundwave pressed between two near-matching frames, their sparks echoing back and forth while he was caught in the middle. His spark throbbed to match the beat, until he felt he was a part of them.

And he returned the favor.

He wrapped them in his cables, kept their frames close to his, and sank his manipulators into their ports. Charge and data crackled through their lines in a blazing bolt of need, as liquid heat seared their systems. He joined their pleasure, all three blending until they pulsed as one.

It was blinding ecstasy and all three soaked it in for as long as they could.

Acceptance. Belonging. One fed into the other, and for a single, blissful moment, they knew peace.

[TFP] Flustered

Optimus had first caught her eye.

But it was Arcee who left her weak in the knees, her heart pounding in her chest and her body slick with sweat. Not to mention the damp between her thighs, soaking her panties.

Arcee led her to Girls Night Out, which became Ladies’ Night In, curled up in what passed for a bed for Cybertronians. Arcee held her, firm and gentle, hot armor pressed to warm flesh, and June quivered with an ecstasy she did not know her body could hold.

There was nothing like being bathed in the glow of Arcee’s optics while she panted and writhed, her nipples firm and tingling, her body painted in sweat. Her moans only seemed to spur Arcee on, as her fingers curled around the blankets Arcee kept for her comfort.

Heat blazed in a focal point between her legs. The slick glide of Arcees fingertip over her clit was heaven, and a hot pressure built and built and built. June spread her thighs, her heels digging into the blanket as she rocked up against the pressure.

“You’re making a mess on your blanket,” Arcee said, her words amused but her tone heavy with the static of lust.

“Oh, hush,” June panted and tipped her head back, her hair clinging stickily to her neck and face. “And please don’t stop.”

Arcee hummed and leaned closer, a gust of ventilation wafting over June’s sweat-soaked skin, making her shiver and goose pimple.

“When you’re this beautiful for me? I’d never.” Arcee touched, ever so gently, the pad of her fingertip nudging against June’s slick folds. The dermal metal was so very warm and pleasant, firm and smooth, and now slick with June’s juices.

June sighed a moan, her heart pounding and her core clenching and her clit throbbing. She licked her lips and arched her back, Arcee’s appreciative gaze like lightning down her spine.

“Are you close?”

“Mmm. Very.” June’s eyelids fluttered. Her face heated.

Arcee’s touch firmed, adding more pressure in little circles. The coil spun, tighter and tighter, until the pleasure burst, and June was flooded with ecstasy.

June gasped as she came, her thighs clamping shut, her hips riding the hard heat of Arcee’s fingers. She trembled, hands clenching the covers, as her inhales came in sharp bursts.

June panted, sweat soaking her body. She heard Arcee purr seconds before she felt herself being lifted from where she’d been reclined over Arcee’s thigh. A hand cupped her body, and June clutched at the blanket, her eyes snapping open. Arcee’s mouth descended on her, and June whimpered, spreading her thighs in welcome.

She still squeaked, however, at the first wet swipe of Arcee’s glossa, so firm and wet and unlike a human’s tongue, save that it still evoked the same bright burst of pleasure in her groin.

“Oh you!” June gasped out a moan, grinding her teeth, as the ecstasy returned in a jolt.

Her hips twitched and danced. Her clit throbbed, swollen and full, as Arcee licked her again. And again.

June writhed, her nipples as hard as little pebbles, the wet sound making her crave even more.

“Unfair!” she gritted out, bucking toward Arcee’s mouth, feet pressing into the blanket, and by proxy, the firm support of Arcee’s palm beneath.

“Not from where I’m standing,” Arcee purred and her lips caressed June’s folds, such a delicate kiss of soft, dermal metal.

June came again, her heart beating so hard it pounded in her ears. Her knuckles ached where she clung to the blankets. Her clit throbbed as she soaked the blanket beneath her rump. She gasped for breath, entire body seizing.

She collapsed back into Arcee’s palm, sweating and panting, dripping onto a blanket now thoroughly soaked with various fluids. Lights danced in her eyes as she reminded herself to breathe, though it was ragged.

Arcee smirked, ever so proud of herself, and licked her lips. “Good?”

“You know it was.” June smiled in return, though it was half-crooked and more dopey than she would have liked. “I only wish I could return the favor.”

A Cybertronian’s lubricants, sadly, were toxic to a human if ingested, and mildly itchy if touched. Whereas a Cybertronian could ingest a human’s fluids with little, if any ill effect, depending on the quantity. Arcee had yet, in all their months of sharing bedspace, to experience any side effects.

Much to Ratchet’s relief.

Arcee stroked a finger down the inside of June’s thigh, toward her knee. “Your creativity more than makes up for it.”

June grinned. “Wheeljack had a hand in assisting us, as I recall.” With Ratchet’s oversight, of course. Ratchet insisted on making sure neither of them would cause harm to the other.

“Hah. I’m not giving him any credit.”

June chuckled and loosened her grip on the blanket. “So you say. But as soon as I can move, I intend to hear you moan for me.” She pushed herself up to her elbows, despite her body feeling heavy and drained. June was not and had never been a selfish lover.

Arcee arched an eyebrow. “If you can move that quickly, I’ve not done my job well.”

“I’m not that delicate!”

Arcee laughed. “Oh, I’m aware.” The tip of her fingers teased through the wet gathered between June’s thighs.

June shivered. “You are incorrigible,” she said as her belly did a little flipflop and her thighs trembled.

“Well, we do have all night,” Arcee purred, cajoling.

June nibbled on her bottom lip as the pleasure stirred again. Yet, she resisted and clamped her thighs shut, denying herself that which Arcee was offering, lest she be distracted.

“No, you minx.” She resisted the urge to shake her finger at Arcee. “I want to see you revved this time.”

Arcee’s optics flashed. She licked her lips and the hair on June’s arms rose, like there was an increase in static charge in the air. She knew, by now, that it was her perception of Arcee’s desire, and she soaked in it.

“Yes, June,” Arcee demurred as she gradually lowered June back to the berth so that she might extract herself from the blankets. “And what’s your accessory of choice today?”

June rose to her feet, sweeping her sweat-streaked hair back behind her shoulders. “Surprise me.”

Arcee’s engine purred, the low growl of it making June’s belly quiver. Wetness gathered between her thighs again, but she put it aside.

She braced herself as Arcee retrieved her chosen accessory and arranged herself upon the berth, her thighs spread invitingly, her concealing panels closed for now. They would open, June knew, upon request. And while it had taken some getting used to at first, June had memorized the sight of Arcee’s equipment by now, and it never failed to make her quiver.

Was it a tenable relationship?

June did not know if she was qualified to answer that question. She knew that Arcee made her happy, and she felt that she satisfied some desire of Arcee’s as well. She knew that the world might view them oddly, but that they were two consenting adults no matter which way you looked at it, and that was what mattered.

She knew that she would never tire of the smile Arcee gave her, or the smirk as she handed over her chosen delight for the evening.

June licked her lips and cast Arcee a smile born from affection, even as the femme’s face took on a pink hue, her respirations becoming audibly faster.

“Now then,” June purred as she strutted across the berth, a sway in her hips that Arcee’s optics followed, her focusing lenses spiraling in and out. “Let’s see how many overloads I can wring out of you.”

Arcee visibly shivered, her armor plates lifting away from her understructure, a show of trust and vulnerability.

“Bring it on,” she said.

June grinned.

Oh, yes.

Optimus had caught her eye in more ways than one.

But it was Arcee who stole her heart.

[TFP] Somewhere Between

//Come Soundwave.//

//It doesn’t have to mean anything.//

//We are simply two officers consoling one another.//

//We were left behind by our dear master, after all.//

//Do you not agree?//

It feels like betrayal.

No.

A lie.

It feels like a slow burn. Like lightning in his lines, charge in his sensornet. It feels like power. Lust. Pleasure. It intoxicates. Invigorates.

Suffocates.

Starscream writhes beneath him, his frame a sinuous wave caught in the grips of ecstasy. Charge crackles from his substructure. His engine purrs and cajoles. His claws slip and slide into seams, hooking on armor plates, keeping Soundwave close.

His ex-vents fog Soundwave’s mask. The sounds he makes echo in Soundwave’s audials. Recorded. Preserved. Saved.

Soundwave records. Always. Sight and sound, emotion and observation. He must present a report to Lord Megatron, when he returns. Yet, Soundwave tells himself to purge the intimate moments. They are irrelevant.

He doesn’t.

His manipulators wrap around Starscream, heavy bindings, tingling where the Seeker’s charge bites him. Electric fire crackles where they are connected, interface cables swaying between them, blue fire dancing along their lengths.

Starscream gasps. He laughs. He purrs, “You’ll join me yet,” and the surge of pleasure doubles in intensity.

Soundwave trembles. This is a battle in which he is outmatched. Where Starscream proves superior.

Too long has Soundwave spent detached, cabled to insentient machinery, chained to the cause. It’s left him unprepared, sensitive to the simple pleasure of touch, to connection to another mech.

//We are in mourning, Soundwave.//

His manipulators shudder. Fire licks through his sensornet.

Starscream looks at him. Smug. Appreciative. Charming.

He strokes taloned fingertips over delicate cables and into vulnerable seams and over his substructure. Soundwave tucks his helm.

He’ll not bare his throat. This is not surrender. He is not on bended knee, optical feed tracing the pointed jut of Starscream’s feet, the sleek rise of his leg. Neither does he tremble in the shadow of quivering wings, or purr under that heavy, volcanic gaze.

Starscream is beneath him, pinned, subdued. He is the one with intake bared.

So why does Soundwave feel as if he is prey?

Starscream arches up, his cockpit chiming against Soundwave’s empty dock. Charge slithers from his port to Soundwave’s. Electric and consuming.

Intoxicating.

Soundwave hungers, and once again, is tempered by the suggestion – betrayal.

Lies.

Lust and need, instead, swallowing him whole. He teeters on the edge, charge snarling in his lines, begging to be unleashed. So heavy, so searing, it hurts. Yet, he clings to it.

Starscream slips a talon into a seam, perilously close to a main energon line. Soundwave should be uneasy. Starscream, after all, is treachery personified.

//We only have each other now.//

Soundwave shatters, visor striped in electric grays, his audials filled with static. A binary sound spills from his speakers as Starscream’s voice slithers across their connection.

//You can’t betray what’s been left behind.//

It follows him into darkness until he reboots, splayed atop Starscream. Still online, the Seeker purrs as he strokes Soundwave’s back and arms, an imitation of lover’s affection. They are still connected, the cables limp and warm between them. Starscream’s presence hovers, humored and self-satisfied, observant at the distant edge of Soundwave’s awareness.

//It doesn’t have to mean anything.//

The promise rattles in Soundwave’s processor, and echoes in his memory bank. A promise given when Starscream first invited Soundwave into his berth, and driven by weakness, Soundwave had accepted.

He rests his head on Starscream’s chassis, his manipulators clinging to the Seeker. He knows.

The promise is a lie. One they cannot keep.

Soundwave listens to the spin and hum of Starscream’s spark. He records it, this sound no longer irrelevant.

It feels like betrayal.

He’s no longer capable of knowing which is which.

[TFP] Entitled

“This thing’s a heap of scrap.”

Breakdown grabbed hold of the crumpled bay door and ripped it from the hinges, tossing the mangled panel of metal over his shoulder.

“I’d be surprised if anything survived,” he added, peering into the dark of the battered spacecraft, dimly lit by emergency lights.

Breakdown had a point. The spacecraft hadn’t survived atmospheric entry, bits and pieces of it breaking off and landing all over the area. It was still smoking; the air stank heavily of scorched metal and also, scorched organic material as it had created quite the landing zone. The humans would be here soon enough to investigate, which would draw the Autobots as well.

Megatron planned to be gone long before then.

He turned toward Soundwave.

His third in command inclined his helm, sensors performing a quick sweep, the results of which showed on his faceplate. One life sign, weak but holding steady. A survivor.

“Someone is inside,” Megatron said.

Breakdown shrugged, hefting up his hammer arm. “Must be a Pit of a mech.”

Megatron took it upon himself to enter first. Soundwave brought up the rear, disengaging Laserbeak to scout the area and warn them in advance of arriving Autobots. It wouldn’t take long for Prime to notice the crashing of a Cybertronian spacecraft, even if it was Decepticon in origin.

The spacecraft looked no better inside than it did on the outside. Energy scores on the walls, ceiling, and floors were testament to a furious battle at some point. Hallways were dark, some blocked off completely. The whole craft stank of isolation and abandonment. Even if it hadn’t crashed, Megatron suspected that it did not utilize much, if any of its lighting or atmospheric controls.

They passed a few empty rooms, the silence broken only by the barely perceptible noise of Soundwave’s constant scanning. The craft was deserted, without even the empty frames of offline mechs who might have made the shuttle their home.

They found the pilot on the bridge, a cramped area with only two large chairs and a compact console. Emergency lights glowed weakly, all of the monitors dark and lifeless. The viewing screen had crumpled, one of the spiked protrusions of the ship curving back from the force of the crash and splintering the thick glass.

The mech himself was slumped in the pilot’s seat, hands fallen from the controls though one cable remained connected to the console. He was pinned to the chair by a thick piece of metal, energon dribbling around the wound and pooling on the floor with a quiet drip.

Breakdown made a whistling noise. “He survived that? The thing’s microns from his spark chamber!”

Megatron made a noncommittal noise and circled to the left of the unidentified mech, optics narrowing.

This was no Decepticon.

Golden armor, a warrior’s sleek build, sharp talons meant to gouge and rend. Some kind of energy blade strapped to his back. And slapped on his shoulders were the bright red decals of an Autobot.

Megatron snarled, lipplates pulled back over his denta.

Soundwave sent him a file in a databurst, for identification, but Megatron hadn’t needed it. He would know this mech even if a thousand vorns had passed.

Megatron had a list, a string of designations in the forefront of his processor of mechs and femmes that he had vowed to personally offline. Optimus Prime – Orion Pax – was at the top of this list. There were also several traitors, pompous mechs of high standing, and a couple of defectors who had made him look like a fool.

Sunstreaker was one of those defectors.

“He’s not a Decepticon,” Breakdown said, lifting one of Sunstreaker’s arms and letting it fall, hitting the side of the chair with a dull clang.

“Not anymore,” Megatron replied, spark swirling with fury.

Breakdown looked up at him, single optic dim with confusion. “Ya know him?”

“We’ve been acquainted.” Megatron turned away from the battered frame of the former gladiator, his processor spinning with thoughts. Plans. Ideas. “Bring him along, Breakdown. We should show him the hospitality of the Decepticons.”

“Yes, sir.” Breakdown sounded more than a little gleeful.

Megatron approved.

He would make Sunstreaker suffer. Would tear him to pieces. Slowly. Methodically. Spill energon from the traitor drop by precious drop. Rip out every circuit. Pull off every armor panel. Sunstreaker would die slowly, every last second filled with agony.

The screech of metal against metal echoed in the bridge as Breakdown yanked Sunstreaker free from the pilot’s chair without an ounce of gentleness. If Sunstreaker had been online, the pain would have been excruciating. Pity he wasn’t aware enough to appreciate it.

Soundwave walked alongside Megatron and he knew, without having to ask, that his third in command had many questions.

“The Autobots don’t know he’s here,” Megatron said. “Let’s keep it that way, shall we?”

Soundwave nodded, his facescreen flickering before he began to replay a voice clip. Of Megatron’s own words at that.

“Death will be given to anyone who betrays the Decepticon cause.”

Megatron chuckled darkly. “All in due time, Soundwave. He had potential once. He may still be of some use to us.”

And if not, Megatron would dispose of the traitor personally. Just as he intended to do to Optimus Prime.

~

Sunstreaker onlined to pain. Systems errors streaked across his HUD, letting him know that he was low on energon and coolant, with critical errors stacking up in his processor.

He onlined his optics, rebooted them twice, but the dark remained. He ran diagnostics. They worked, but wherever he was, there was no light. Which meant he wasn’t on the Nightwing anymore. Even after a crash like that, he’d still have reserves or emergency power to draw from.

His ventilations were ragged. He could feel himself spraying fluids with each ex-vent out. Not good. Pain radiated from his helm to his pedes. A strut in his leg was shattered. He couldn’t put much weight on it. Frag.

He was standing.

Sunstreaker twitched, heard the rattling of chains. He jerked his wrists, but they were pinned to the wall above his helm with less than a foot of slack. His pedes were given a similar treatment. He couldn’t move, couldn’t see.

What happened?

He remembered roaming the universe, trying to find signs of any Cybertronians. It had been so long he’d even settle for a Decepticon, if only to end the perpetual monotony.

He couldn’t find the Ark, couldn’t find the Autobots, and most of all, he couldn’t find Sideswipe.

And then?

Sunstreaker groaned, thoughts bouncing messily inside his processor. It was hard to concentrate, hard to connect one line to another. What was wrong with him? Battle damage?

He gritted his denta.

Wandering the universe. And then?

The wormhole. He remembered that. It grabbed the Nightwing, dragged him in, and Sunstreaker didn’t have the talent needed to pilot himself free. The wormhole spat him out somewhere his navs couldn’t immediately identify. Then there was an asteroid or something. It clipped his hull.

He lost an engine.

It became a blur after that.

He remembered hurtling without control. Remembered seeing a planet or two, and then another one, bright in the darkness. He remembered thinking that he was never going to survive planet-fall. There was heat and then… darkness. Here. Wherever here was.

A ping to his fuel tank finally came back. Seventeen percent, barely above minimum. No surprise there. He hadn’t had much to begin with, and if the state of his frame was an indication, he’d been leaking for some time.

He tried to access his comm. Nothing. Either it was broken or had been removed. Judging by his chains, Sunstreaker suspected it was the latter. Not that it mattered. He had no one to contact.

The silence in his spark was even more telling.

Where was he? Surely not among Autobots. Soft-sparked mechs they were, they would have put him in some brightly-lit medbay, attached to monitoring systems, with a medic hovering nearby.

He checked his chronometer. It didn’t help. He had no frame of reference.

Somewhere, in the distance, a door slid open with a hydraulic hiss. Sunstreaker’s helm snapped up, optics swiveling in the direction of the sound.

He heard pedesteps and felt the distant edges of a powerful energy field. Small lights popped on, piercing the gloom.

A tall, spiky frame came into view. Crimson optics set against gunmetal grey plating. A large cannon was strapped to his right forearm.

Megatron.

Sunstreaker stilled.

Any Cybertronian contact would have been preferable to this.

“Are you enjoying your accommodations?” Megatron asked, his voice a fakely pleasant hiss in the heavy silence.

A growl crawled it’s way out of Sunsteaker’s vocalizer. “Eat slag!”

Megatron chuckled, though it lacked amusement. “As polite as ever I see.”

“What do you want, Megatron?”

The Decepticon lord tilted his helm, optics burning brighter. “Considering what happened on our last encounter, it should be fairly obvious.”

His unwavering stare sent a ripple of unease through Sunstreaker’s spark. There was something in Megatron’s gaze, some dark fury, that Sunstreaker had no desire to experience.

Sunstreaker snarled, trying to swallow down rising disquiet. “I should have ripped out your spark when I had the chance.”

Megatron’s talons curled into fists with a quiet creak of tightened hydraulic lines. “Such a mistake won’t be made again, rest assured. Enjoy your stay.”

He said nothing more, turning on a pede and striding from the cell. As he left, so did all of the lights, leaving Sunstreaker trapped in dim and silence.

Except for the drip. The steady drip of his energon trickling from his lines, over his plating, and on to the floor.

~

Knock Out stared into the mirror, watching the unsightly mark on his thigh armor fade away as he rubbed the cloth in careful circles. Over and over, making the plating gleam. The rich silver glistened in the wake of the polish.

His engine gave a little rev of appreciation. Yes, indeed.

Heat pulsed a slow path across his circuits. Knock Out’s lips curled into a smirk, talons of one hand lazily exploring the gap in his pelvic plating. Tracing around the edge of his interface panel. A shiver danced down his backstrut.

His door slid open, Breakdown bursting inside without so much as a request or invitation.
“Knock Out!”

He snarled, grabbing the nearest object that wasn’t tied down, and whirled, hurling it at his so-called partner.

Breakdown ducked, the tin of wax hitting the wall above his head and leaving a dent behind, one to match several others already present.

“Oaf!” Knock Out seethed, all effort made toward arousal swiftly abandoned. “What the frag do you want!”

“Nice to see you, too,” Breakdown said sourly, and invited himself to flop down on Knock Out’s berth. “Aren’t you at all curious about what we found?”

“Found?” He turned back toward the mirror, plating lifted out of irritation. He wasn’t done inspecting himself.

“On the Decepticon shuttle.”

Oh, yes. Knock Out seemed to recall something about Soundwave detecting an incoming spacecraft and its subsequent crash. But as Megatron hadn’t called for Knock Out’s medical expertise, he assumed they’d found no survivors. It wasn’t important.

Was that a scratch on his right forearm?

Knock Out leaned closer to the mirror, optics cycling down. Where in the pit had that come from?

“Well, it wasn’t a Decepticon,” Breakdown continued, apparently needing no invitation. “It was an Autobot.”

Knock Out was having difficulty determining why he should care about this tidbit of information. If Breakdown wanted to gossip, he’d have better luck seeking out his sycophantic gaggle of vehicons.

“Did it survive?”

He did. Lord Megatron seemed to know him. He looked seriously fragged off.”

Scratch eradicated, Knock Out scrutinized himself in the mirror. Perfect. He turned back toward his assistant. “That’s hardly new. Lord Megatron is always torqued.”

“This one looked personal though. He usually reserves that kind of fury for Prime.”

Hmm. That was a bit curious. Still, whatever ground their leader’s gears was hardly Knock Out’s concern. So long as Lord Megatron wasn’t aiming his anger at Knock Out, he was content to live and let live.

“And you’re telling me this because…?”

Breakdown shrugged. “I was bored. Thought you would be, too.” He then smirked. “I pulled up the mech’s designation from the database. Former gladiator. Goes by Sunstreaker. Sound familiar to you?”

Knock Out’s gaze jerked sharply toward his assistant. “Gold paint?”

“Thought you’d recognize ‘im.” Breakdown leered and leaned forward, single optic blazing. “He’s down in the brig. Chained up. Helpless.”

The arousal returned. Knock Out ventilated sharply.

“Probably injured. In need of a medic,” Knock Out said with a sly look at his assistant. “It’s my duty to check on his welfare.”

Breakdown barked a laugh. “Yeah. Figured you might say that. Can I watch?”

“On a first date?” Knock Out flicked a hand at Breakdown. “Sir, I’ll have you know I’m a gentlemech.” He winked an optic and headed for the door. “But I’ll take a vid for you.”

~

Time passed.

His self-repair worked fervently. Leaks were patched up so he no longer bled energon everywhere. But his reserves were dry; he was down to thirteen percent.

Thoughts were hazy.

He’d tugged on his chains to no avail. They were strong and he was weak. It had to be more than the energon loss. Megatron must have done something to him. Or more likely, had his pet spy do it. Infected him with some kind of virus. Or sedation program. On top of the stasis cuffs.

Sunstreaker sagged.

He had one consolation. If Megatron was here, then Prime had to be somewhere nearby. If he even cared.

He’d care if it was Sideswipe.

Sunstreaker made a noise of derision.

It didn’t matter. He’d been in a Decepticon spacecraft. The Autobots wouldn’t have known him to be inside it.

There was no rescue.

He was on his own. But how was that any different from the usual? The Autobots seemed content to let him wreak havoc on his own, too.

A sound pierced the silence. Someone was coming. Megatron again?

Sunstreaker lifted his helm, staring as the lights flicked on. Not just emergency lights this time, but the whole cell lighting up. His optics cycled down at the sudden influx of brightness.

“Well, well. If it isn’t my favorite gladiator.”

That was definitely not Megatron.

A red and silver mech cut off the energy bars to the cell and stepped inside. He was smaller than Sunstreaker, and tires indicated a vehicle mode. Sunstreaker didn’t recognize him and couldn’t see a Decepticon symbol anywhere on the mech.

“Who the frag are you?” Sunstreaker demanded, entire frame tensing with unease. He was overly aware of his current vulnerability.

“There’s no need to be afraid, Sunstreaker,” the mech said, coming close enough that Sunstreaker’s olfactory sensor picked up the sweet scent of his expensive wax. “I’m a medic.”

His words were careful, soothing, but his tone was smarmy. Sunstreaker’s plating crawled.

“Hmm, this field patch looks like Breakdown’s work.” The self-proclaimed medic shook his helm, examining the half-sparked weld. “Sloppy as always.”

Sunstreaker jerked in his chains, not that it helped. He was thoroughly fastened to the wall, and he didn’t have the energy to spare. “You didn’t answer my question.”

The medic looked up at him, red optics gleaming with less than reassuring intent. “You’re hardly in a position to be making demands, Sunstreaker,” he all-but-purred. “But I am a mech of impeccable manners.”

He took a step back, gesturing grandly to his own expertly polished chassis. “I am Knock Out, Lord Megatron’s personal medic.”

“Never heard of you,” Sunstreaker said.

The mech didn’t so much as skip a pulse. “No, you wouldn’t have. I don’t have quite the same reputation as a mech of your stature.”

“What the frag do you want?”

Knock Out grinned, the lecherous look spreading across his facial features. “To take advantage of an opportunity that has presented itself. One that was stolen from me so many vorns ago.”

Sunstreaker’s optics spiraled down. “What?”

Knock Out moved closer. One hand pressed to Sunstreaker’s chassis, and a single taloned digit tapped over the coarse weld. “You once had the gall to deny me. Me. A member of Cybertron’s elite and you, a lowly gladiator. I never forgot that humiliation.”

Sunstreaker shuddered, each light tap causing a spark of pain to trickle across his sensornet. “So you’re going to what? Talk me to termination?”

Knock Out laughed, his talon dragging down with an audial-cringing shriek of metal on metal. “Not quite.”

Sunstreaker pressed against the wall, but there was nowhere to go. He glared down at the Decepticon. “Is that supposed to scare me?”

“I don’t want your fear.” Knock Out’s talon scraped through dried energon, making it fleck to the floor. His hand then splayed across Sunstreaker’s ventral plating, tapping a nonsense rhythm. “I want your humiliation. So let me tell you a story.”

Sunstreaker’s HUD flashed with warning. His energon levels reached a critical point. He would need to refuel soon or he’d slip into stasis lock. The last thing he wanted was to be offline around this glitch.

“I don’t want to hear it,” Sunstreaker growled, tugging at his bonds. They rattled, but didn’t budge, firmly latched to the wall.

Knock Out ignored him, pressing closer, but not enough for their plating to make contact. In fact, the only part of him that touched Sunstreaker was the one hand. Taloned fingers continued downward, ghosting over the armor at the apex of Sunstreaker’s thighs before finally cupping his pelvic array.

“Once upon an orn there was a gladiator named Spinout. And not a very good one either,” Knock Out said, his optics burning bright and crimson as he watched Sunstreaker, the sound of a high-performance engine revving loud in the silence. “He won a few battles, but he lost many, many more.”

Sunstreaker’s ventilations hitched. How had Knock Out known his previous designation? No one alive knew that designation anymore!

Knock Out grinned, cocking his helm to the side. “How many times did they get you on your knees? How many times did they pin you down and take you?”

His hand dipped lower, bypassing the panel concealing Sunstreaker’s spike and tapping the one over his port. “How many times did you need your valve replaced, I wonder?” Knock Out asked, tracing the rim of the valve over and over with the tip of his talon. “How many seals did they break?”

Sunstreaker’s tank rolled. “You’re sick!” he spat, dread curdling inside of him.

Those memories were vorns and a lifetime ago. He had no interest in dredging them up, and was certainly not going to confirm Knock Out’s accusations.

Knock Out ignored him, his voice growing eager and thick with arousal. His energy field pulsed with it, rising up and falling over Sunstreaker in a heavy wave.

“The last one,” Knock Out continued, cooling fans kicking on with a loud whirr. “Let’s see. His designation was Double Punch, I believe. He tore Spinout to pieces and still took the time to enjoy his reward.”

Knock Out paused, fingers searching. His optics lit up when he found the manual override, forcing Sunstreaker’s panel to slide aside with a click that was ominously loud in the quiet of the brig. Apparently, the self-proclaimed medic actually did have some medical training.

“I remember watching,” Knock Out said, one talon dipping slowly into Sunstreaker’s valve, as though taking care not to damage, but still interested in exploring. “Watching as Double Punch twisted Spinout’s remaining arm behind his back and pressed him to the ground, right into a puddle of his own spilled energon.”

Warnings flashed again. Sunstreaker ruthlessly overrode them, refusing to let himself fall offline. He could feel the weakness in his limbs, however, the way the majority of his systems refused to respond. He felt numb in most places.

But his valve felt as though it were on fire.

Knock Out’s digits were skilled, knowledgeable, finding and manipulating every sensor in Sunstreaker’s valve. Rubbing them just gently enough to trick Sunstreaker’s frame into thinking this was a good thing and producing a thin trickle of lubricant to ease the way.

Knock Out added a second digit, continuing his disturbing narrative.

“Double Punch didn’t bother with preparation. He just tore off Spinout’s panel, flinging it into the crowd. Crazy mechs they were, fought over it as a souvenir.” Knock Out chuckled, dark and sly. “Spinout was too far gone to even yelp when Double Punch thrust into him. As big as Double Punch was, I’m surprised Spinout survived.”

Three fingers pushed into Sunstreaker’s valve, activating sensors, gliding smoothly in and out thanks to the addition of lubrication. Sunstreaker groaned, trying to resist the steady coil of heat in his systems.

“But he did survive,” Knock Out purred, leaning closer, his energy field buzzing against Sunstreaker’s own weak ripple, pulsing with desire and satisfaction. “And the next time he showed up in the ring, he wasn’t Spinout anymore, he was Sunstreaker.”

Knock Out’s fingers stroked in and out, putting pressure on the anterior node, making Sunstreaker’s hips jerk as the pleasure sent a jolt through his systems. He seeped lubrication, felt it dribbling down his thighs, heard it drip to the floor. His ventilations were hot and heavy, his spike thumping at its panel.

“Sunstreaker was larger, faster, stronger, and he fought with a cruelty that completely belied his earlier matches as Spinout,” Knock Out said, almost conversational were it not for the subject matter. “He was beautiful, broken like everyone else, but beautiful. He won, again and again. Like he finally understood what he’d been built for. What he was worth.”

Energy levels dipped toward stasis. Sunstreaker hung his helm, unable to spare the effort to keep it up, his systems cycling higher and higher toward overload. How he had the energy to spare, he didn’t know.

“Glitch,” Sunstreaker gritted out, his hips lifting to meet each one of Knock Out’s thrusts. His frame, betraying him, eager for that overload dancing just out of reach. “I’m going to—nngh!” He arched as far as the chains would let him, Knock Out’s fingers pressing against a sensor node and sending a sharp burst of charge along it.

“That’s better,” Knock Out murmured. “There’s no need to fight it, Sunstreaker. This is, after all, what you were made to do.”

Sunstreaker groaned, ventilations sharp and staggered. He wanted to fight, hated that he was helpless. Knock Out’s voice echoed in his audials, hypnotizing him.

Knock Out continued, curling his digits, rubbing incessantly over Sunstreaker’s sensors, lubrication dribbling down his hand.

“You were made to serve. To submit. To entertain. So do it.” Knock Out leaned forward, licking a wet stripe up Sunstreaker’s right cheek. “Overload.”

Sunstreaker’s engine revved weakly, whining in the midst of overheat. Resistance shattered in the wake of his overload, his valve cinching down, tightening around Knock Out’s fingers, milking them.

He gritted his denta, locking down his vocalizer, refusing to give Knock Out the pleasure of hearing him shout. His frame betrayed him nonetheless, writhing against the wall, rattling the chains.

“Perfect,” Knock Out said, and the click of an interface hatch opening was too loud in the brig.

Sunstreaker rebooted his optics, looking down to find that Knock Out’s spike had pressurized, seeping a pale transfluid.

Knock Out pulled his fingers from Sunstreaker’s valve with a wet noise, lubricant glistening on his talons. He curled said fingers around his own spike, a visible shudder dancing over his plating.

A hands planted on Sunstreaker’s chestplate, inches from the poorly-welded wound. Knock Out braced himself on Sunstreaker, ex-venting heavily, his taloned fingers stroking his spike, slick with Sunstreaker’s own lubrication. Judging by the sound of his engine, the swamping nature of his energy field, the Decepticon was already close to his own overload.

“Next time,” Knock Out said, his vocals spitting static, “I’ll bring my energon prod.” His optics darkened to a rust red, digits drawing inward on Sunstreaker’s chestplate, scraping off thin curls off paint and metal.

“I’ll put you on your knees,” he added, his optics spiraling in and out, as though he wasn’t quite focused on the here and now but completely absorbed in his fantasy. “Where you belong.”

Sunstreaker growled, but it lacked force. He felt weak as he hung from the chains, memory core pinging him, exhausted processor trying to tag today with images of the past.

Knock Out chuckled darkly, glossa flicking out over his lips, fingers working faster and faster over his spike. Charge crackled along his talons, the heavy tang of lubricant and transfluid thick in the air.

“You’ll probably try to fight me,” Knock Out said, talons kneading constantly on Sunstreaker’s chestplate. “And I’ll enjoy putting you back in your place.”

He leaned closer, near enough that Sunstreaker could feel the Decepticon’s ex-vents against his battered plating.

“Where you were meant to be. At my pedes.”

Knock Out’s talons snapped, piercing the outer layer of Sunstreaker’s chestplate, one gouging a sensor beneath and making Sunstreaker jerk.

“Because – nngh – you’re mine now.”

Knock Out groaned and twitched, digits squeezing down on his spike as he overloaded, transfluid spurting against Sunstreaker’s plating. It dribbled on his pelvic array and seeped into tiny gaps in his plating, dampening the circuits beneath.

Disgust coiled in Sunstreaker’s tank.

“Mmm. That was good.”

Knock Out unlatched his talons and drew back, only to lift his dripping hand and stare at it with a frown. He slapped his hand against Sunstreaker’s chestplate, smearing most of the transfluid across Sunstreaker’s chassis.

“Hmm. You’ve made a mess.”

Sunstreaker’s optics spiraled outward. He yanked at the last vestiges of energy in his frame.

“You sick fragger!” he howled, ignoring the red flashing warnings in his HUD, reminding him of imminent shutdown. “I’m going to rip out your spark!”

“An empty threat if I ever heard one.” Knock Out stepped back, his optics lingering on Sunstreaker’s frame. “You should clean up nicely. Once you earn it.”

Sunstreaker growled, digits curling into angry fists. His processor spun, circuits misfiring. He watched as a countdown popped up in the corner of his HUD, giving him thirty kliks with no possibility of override.

“I’ll be back tomorrow,” Knock Out said, interface panel sliding shut with a loud snick. “Try not to miss me.”

The last thing Sunstreaker saw was Knock Out’s smirk before his system crashed and the world went completely dark.

~

“Wakey, wakey.”

The voice filtered through to Sunstreaker’s audials. He onlined with a startled huff of his vents, cold water streaking down his armor and into the gaps of his plating. His circuits cringed at the abrupt temperature change. His systems pinged his status automatically: fuel levels at 20%.

The Decepticon had refueled him, but only to just above the minimum.

Sunstreaker fought back a groan, wrists twitching but getting nowhere, still chained to the wall as they were. The same for his pedes. He onlined his audials, and snarled when the fuzzy shape in front of him clarified into the grinning visage of Knock Out.

“Recharge well?” Knock Out asked, all fake-cheer as his palm landed on Sunstreaker’s chestplate, energy field a burr of eager anticipation.

“Rust in the Pit,” Sunstreaker snarled, though it was half-sparked at best. His joints ached, the water caused his sensors to go haywire in an unpleasant manner, and his tanks gurgled at him.

Knock Out chuckled. “There’s so much fire left in you. Good. I like that.”

Sunstreaker’s optics cycled down, but he said nothing, the anger festering inside of him like a bad case of cosmic rust.

“Since you enjoyed our last encounter so much, I thought it only polite to offer my services again.” Knock Out gestured with one hand, fingers curved in a come-hither motion. “I do so despise a flashier paint job than mine. Lucky for you, this is no longer a problem.”

Sunstreaker’s engine revved. He kept his silence. His yelling only seemed to goad the sadistic medic on.

“What? You have nothing to say?” A mock pout curled the Decepticon’s lips. “You were so much more interesting yesterday.”

His digits curled into fists. The trickle of the water was maddening.

Knock Out shook his helm, one hand sliding down Sunstreaker’s chestplate, warm compared to the chill of the water. “Oh, well. I suppose I’ll simply have to make do.”

The hand continued to roam, trekking over Sunstreaker’s plating, dipping into joints and seams, as if taking the Autobot’s measure.

“Whoever designed your rebuild did an excellent job,” the Decepticon purred, optics brightening as his fingers swept over dented and scored armor. “Redundant systems. Double plating. Reinforced joints. You can take a hit and keep on coming. I like that.”

Sunstreaker pushed back against the wall, though it did little to put any distance between himself and his tormentor. “Are you that hard up for an interface?” he snarled as charge crackled from his plating and seeped out from between his seams. “Or is it that not even your fellow ‘Cons want you?”

Knock Out laughed, not a trace of offense in his rippling energy field. “If you were trying to insult me, you’ll have to try harder.” One hand dipped lower, cupping Sunstreaker’s pelvic array. “I seem to remember you enjoying my advances just yesterday.”

“Enjoy is not the term I’d use.”

“Mmm. Now there’s the resistance I was looking for.” Knock Out’s optics brightened as he pressed closer, hot ventilations wafting over Sunstreaker’s plating. Heat emanated from the Decepticon, the low pitch of an idling engine filling the brig.

His fingers found Sunstreaker’s interface, tracing the panels that protected his spike and valve. The fine-tipped digits circled the delicate seams, stimulating the sensors ringing the release mechanism.

Sunstreaker ground his denta, refusing to respond. It felt good, but only in the sense that any sort of proper stimulation would alight his sensors. It didn’t mean he wanted Knock Out anywhere close to his valve.

“You heat up so quickly,” Knock Out murmured, continuing the slow, methodical stroking, enough to cause heat to pool in Sunstreaker’s interface. “Proof positive that this is your primary function. To satisfy your betters. A berth toy for our pleasure.”

Sunstreaker’s engine clunked to life, not out of pleasure, but out of anger. Yet, he kept his silence, letting that speak for himself.

“Don’t you agree?”

Sunstreaker glared, putting as much hatred and loathing behind the brightness of his optics as he was capable.

Knock Out didn’t so much as cycle his optics. “Of course you don’t,” the so-called medic simpered. “But you will soon enough.” He undulated against Sunstreaker, their plating brushing lightly enough to draw charge but not streak paint.

“And as for this…” Knock Out’s fingers curved around the leading edge of Sunstreaker’s interface panel. “Well, you won’t be needing this anymore.”

Sunstreaker’s optics rounded. He sucked in a ventilation, but before he could so much as work up proper vitriol, Knock Out gave a sharp yank, pulling off his panel. Sunstreaker shouted, hips arching away from the wall as pain radiated outward from his pelvic array. Knock Out tossed the panel over his shoulder where it clattered away in the dark.

“Oh. Did that hurt?”

Sunstreaker worked his jaw and mustered up a glare. “Tickled,” he gritted out, the hydraulics in his legs trembling as he unconsciously tried to protect his sensitive components, but the shackles prevented him.

“Then you won’t mind if I take the other one as well.”

A growl rattled in Sunstreaker’s chassis. It did nothing to stop the Decepticon from hooking his digits in the panel protecting his spike and ripping it away. Tepid air wafted over his naked components, doing little to ease the acid-like sting.

“Hmm. I am curious as to what design you carry,” Knock Out said. The pad of his thumb brushed over the head of Sunstreaker’s recessed spike. “No doubt it is as wonderfully crafted as the rest of your frame.”

Sunstreaker shuddered. His hips pushed toward Knock Out’s touch without his permission. Stimulation was stimulation, but it didn’t stop his frame from crawling.

“Flatter me all you want,” he spat, tanks churning in their barely fueled state. “I’m still going to rip your helm off when I get free.”

Knock Out chuckled and stepped back, putting a mere pace between them. “Mmm. Now won’t that be interesting to watch you try.” He put his hands to his chin, optics flicking up and down Sunstreaker’s frame. “Until then, however, we should try and have a little fun, don’t you think?”

He reached for his hip, disengaging a weapon that Sunstreaker cursed himself for not having noticed before. It was, for the most part, innocuous in appearance. A slim metal rod, barely the length of Knock Out’s forearm. But with a flick of his wrist and a touch of his finger, the rod extended until it was Knock Out’s height, electricity crackling from the two-pronged tip.

An energon prod. Wonderful. The fragged sadist had an energon prod.

“I am sure you know what one of these are. They make for decent weapons, if you know how to wield them properly.” Knock Out smirked, casually flicking the prod from hand to hand. “Which of course I do.”

Sunstreaker’s optics cycled down. “Is that supposed to scare me?”

“I suspect you’re too stupid to fear much of anything. That doesn’t mean I’m not going to keep trying. I have a kink for lost causes.” Electricity sparked and spat at the tip of the prod, activated by a flick of Knock Out’s wrists. “Have I mentioned how strongly built your frame is?”

Sunstreaker ex-vented. This was not going to be pleasant. Torture was nothing new to him. If Knock Out thought a little shock and some rape was going to break him, then obviously he didn’t remember as much of Sunstreaker’s gladiating past as he thought. He’d survived it then and he would survive it now.

The teasing glint left Knock Out’s optics as he twirled the energon prod again before facing Sunstreaker.

“I know you can take some damage,” he said, vocals huskier than before, his energy field radiating eager anticipation. “Let’s see how long it takes before you scream.”

“Never.” Sunstreaker would cut off his vocalizer before he’d allow Knock Out to see him squirm.

Knock Out smirked. “We’ll see.”

He thrust his arm forward, the crackling energy coming into direct contact with Sunstreaker’s chestplate.

It was normally one of his better armored sections. Sunstreaker gritted his denta as searing charge lit across his sensory net. Knock Out had aimed for the weld lines in his chassis, which were a direct course to his substructure.

Sunstreaker grunted, writhing in his chains. His plating scraped against the wall behind him. The odor of scorched circuitry filled the air.

Knock Out laughed and withdrew the prod.

“Now that was enlightening.”

He paced back and forth in front of Sunstreaker as though searching for the best place to attack next.

Sunstreaker’s chassis heaved, ventilations coming in short bursts. It would have been easier to bear if he’d been fully fueled, completely repaired, entirely rested. But the dizziness in his processor seemed to make the pain sharper, the overcharge more intense.

Frag the Decepticon to the Pit and back!

Static crackled and hissed from the prod as Knock Out waved it through the air, a hypnotizing pattern in front of Sunstreaker’s optics.

The prod came close again, charge lessened but still dangerous. The very tip caressed the distant edge of Sunstreaker’s armor, and then dragged down his side, catching on the edge of a lateral seam and leaving scores in his plating. He went rigid, bracing himself against the crackle of electricity as it tunneled under his armor, lighting across his circuits.

Pain. Everything devolved to pain. Sunstreaker couldn’t think about anything else. Systems redlining, HUD screaming warnings at him, the searing agony of circuits overblown and smoking.

Knock Out drew back, and Sunstreaker sagged from sheer relief.

A relief that was very short-lived. The narrow gaps in his pelvic armor, designed to give him better freedom of movement for his legs, were much too tempting. Knock Out struck first one and then the other, ramping up the voltage. Sunstreaker’s lower extremities jerked a strange contortion.

Pain. Nothing but pain. And the sound of Knock Out’s labored ventilations, brought upon by his arousal. The overwhelming push of Knock Out’s energy field battered at Sunstreaker’s own weakened state.

The prod continued its swath of pain, sweeping over Sunstreaker’s pelvic array, snaps of charge tunneling into his interface. His entire frame arched, desperate to get away from the weapon and helpless in the wake of it.

Electricity snapped over Sunstreaker’s armor. The prod poked at his knees, down toward his pedes, seeping into the intricate mechanisms of his ankles.

Arousal pulsed heavily in Knock Out’s energy field. His optics were a bright crimson, his glossa slipping out over his lipplates. Fragging sadist.

The energon prod wandered over Sunstreaker’s armor, causing both damage and agony. Sunstreaker gritted his denta, grunts escaping him. He refused to cry out, to give Knock Out the scream he wanted.

“I honestly can’t decide which is more intoxicating,” Knock Out said, his vocalizer laced with static. “The way you silently resist me, or the challenge of making you scream.”

Knock Out’s interface panel snapped open. He reached down with his free hand, curling his digits around his spike, a shudder visibly wracking his frame. Transfluid seeped from the tip.

“Perhaps it’s both.” Knock Out stroked his spike with measured pulls of his hand.

Sunstreaker cycled his vocalizer, engine revving a distressed rumble. “Do you brag just to hear yourself talk?”

Knock Out’s response was to drag the energon prod over Sunstreaker’s right leg, where a hastily done weld gave way to a special kind of agony. Sunstreaker’s entire frame went rigid as he struggled to keep his response in check, refusing to give Knock Out the pleasure. His systems redlined, warnings popping up left, right, and center.

His leg spasmed, circuits giving out with a smoke-spewing pop. His paint bubbled up and peeled away as Knock Out turned the current up to its maximum potential. Sunstreaker groaned, long and low, an ill sound, spark spinning faster and faster in his chassis.

Knock Out jerked back suddenly. Sunstreaker lost the battle with his hydraulics, every cable going limp, leaving him hanging from the chains in such a way that his shoulders were stressed by the additional weight. Strength bled out of him as his optics flickered, and his systems tried to reset. The scent of charred lines and scorched circuits burnt his nasal ridge, and the disgusting odor of boiled energon joined the stench. He was never going to be pristine again.

“Well.” Knock Out flicked off the energon prod and tossing it aside. “That wasn’t a scream but it’ll do for now.” He stroked his spike again, taking a step closer to Sunstreaker.

His free hand lifted, fingers dragging down Sunstreaker’s faceplate in a parody of a lover’s caress.

It was hard to think, harder to focus, and Sunstreaker couldn’t muster up the energy to jerk his helm from Knock Out’s unwelcome touch. He was exhausted, and his tanks kept pinging back a reading of fifteen percent, barely above functional.

“I did have plans for your valve,” Knock Out said, his hand wandering down and pushing a single digit up into Sunstreaker’s dry valve. “But I’m a bit too impatient for that today, I’m afraid. I’ll have to settle for a substitute.”

What the frag was that supposed to mean?

“Don’t worry,” Knock Out’s touches withdrew as he stepped away. “We’ll get to that soon enough.”

Knock Out headed for the mechanism that controlled Sunstreaker’s restraints. He highly doubted the Decepticon planned on freeing him, a doubt that was proven when whatever Knock Out did loosened the chains but didn’t release the manacles. Slack was given to the restraints on Sunstreaker’s arms, but his legs couldn’t support his weight. He dropped to his knees, biting his glossa on the cry of pain that attempted to break free.

“There. That’s better.” Knock Out’s smug tone filtered through to Sunstreaker’s audials.

It took effort to lift his helm, unsurprised to find the Decepticon standing right in front of him. On his knees, Sunstreaker found himself staring at Knock Out’s spike, transfluid seeping from the tip in eager dribbles.

Sunstreaker growled. “You can’t seriously think I’m going to cooperate.”

One hand wrapped around his spike, Knock Out smirked. “I know you’ll cooperate,” he said, and he leaned closer, free hand grasping Sunstreaker’s face firmly. “If those denta so much as scrape my spike, I’m going to rip yours off. Understood?”

His optics cycled down, glare firming. Cooperate or lose his spike? For all he knew, the Decepticon would yank it off anyway.

Knock Out’s grip tightened, stressing the dermal metal of Sunstreaker’s face. “The chronometer is running, my pretty toy. Do we have an understanding?”

The shudder that rippled across Sunstreaker’s plating was spark deep.

Knock Out inclined his helm. “Good boy,” he said, and caressed Sunstreaker’s face before letting it go. “Now say ahhhh.”

He might not bite the fragger’s spike off, but like the Pit he’d make it easy!

Sunstreaker clamped his mouth shut, the overwhelming scent of transfluid filling his olfactory sensors.

“You’re going to be stubborn about it?” Knock Out grabbed Sunstreaker’s helm. “Have it your way.”

He thrust his hips forward, the head of his spike nudging at Sunstreaker’s mouth, smearing transfluid over his lips. One hand grasped Sunstreaker’s chin again, pushing his thumb up toward Sunstreaker’s mouth, narrow talon slipping between his lip. The dermal lining tore and energon welled free.

Frag, no, he wasn’t going to make it easy.

Knock Out pushed his spike against Sunstreaker’s mouth, pried his lips apart with two sharp talons, and thrust inside with a self-satisfied burst of his energy field.

Sunstreaker’s tanks rolled, his hands pulling into fists. Knock Out didn’t bother with a slow acclimation. He shoved deep, the head of his spike knocking against Sunstreaker’s intake. His olfactory sensors were overladen with the scent of expensive polish, transfluid, and heated metal.

“Yessss,” the Decepticon hissed, fingers flexing on Sunstreaker’s helm as he unhooked a talon from Sunstreaker’s lip. “Not as good as a valve but a decent substitute.”

Did he ever stop talking?

An aroused shiver danced over Knock Out’s plating, which lifted to expel some of the heat emanating from his frame. It wafted over Sunstreaker’s over-sensitized armor, battering against fried sensors and circuits.

Sunstreaker’s glossa was jammed at the base of his mouth. He couldn’t do much more than twitch it against the Decepticon’s spike. Not that he wanted to cooperate, but the sooner he got the Decepticon off, the faster Knock Out would leave him in peace.

He shuttered his optics. He might have to suffer the fragger’s spike in his mouth, but that didn’t mean he had to look at him.

Knock Out grasped his helm in both hands, a huffy ventilation expelling from his frame. “Very nice indeed,” he murmured, and moved his hips in tiny circles, as if trying to paint the inside of Sunstreaker’s mouth with his spike.

A growl of disgust vibrated through Sunstreaker’s chassis.

Amusement rose in the Decepticon’s energy field. His fingers stroked Sunstreaker’s helm, a mockery of a lover’s encouragement.

Knock Out’s laughter burbled up, though it was rasped with static. “Don’t worry. You’ll get to taste your master soon enough.”

Disgust welled up in Sunstreaker’s energy field, which rose up in fits and spurts, heavily dampened by his lack of energy.

Knock Out started to move, sliding out of Sunstreaker’s mouth before pumping his hips forward again. It was a slow, measured rhythm that nonetheless had the Decepticon’s ventilations quickening. Every so often, Knock Out’s spike would bump the back of Sunstreaker’s intake, making his tanks churn.

Sunstreaker felt Knock Out shiver. The way the spike subtly swelled in his mouth, pre-overload transfluid trickled down his intake. The urge to clamp down with his denta came and went, the threat of a rather painful mutilation lingering at the back of his processor.

Knock Out’s thrusts picked up in pace, his fingers clamping down as opposed to stroking, ventilations coming faster and faster. Heat poured off of him, blasting Sunstreaker’s faceplate. He was close, had to be–

He stopped. His engine whined, systems stalled.

“Frag it all to the Pit!” Knock Out snarled and went still, one hand rising to his helm. “This is Knock Out, sir.”

Knock Out huffed a ragged ventilation as he took the call, no doubt responding internally. Sunstreaker could only wait as the spike throbbed in his mouth, and Knock Out’s talons dug deep.

Knock Out’s thrusts returned in earnest.

“He has the absolute worst timing,” Knock Out muttered and pumped his spike in Sunstreaker’s mouth several more times before he stiffened from helm to pede, pushing his spike to the back of Sunstreaker’s intake.

He braced himself as several spurts of hot transfluid hit the softer metal in his intake, the hot metal scent of it filling his olfactory sensors. Knock Out groaned a long and low note, only to suddenly withdraw, the last few spurts streaking across Sunstreaker’s faceplate.

He coughed before he could stop himself, trying to dislodge the cloying globs of transfluid clogging his intake.

“You look better this way. Transfluid suits you,” Knock Out said, giving Sunstreaker’s helm a light pat.

Sunstreaker jerked away, engine churning as it struggled to online. He spat up another clump of transfluid, but it failed to meet the mark, falling short of landing on Knock Out’s pedes. He turned his helm, wiping his face against his arm, but it did him no good. He could still feel the transfluid, tacky on his plating.

“How rude of me, to have to leave you unsatisfied.” Knock Out rooted around in his subspace and produced a rather intimidating object. “This should suffice in my absence.”

Sunstreaker snarled, pushing back against the wall, but his legs refused to respond. The motor cables had been thoroughly fried by the Decepticon’s prod, frag it! “Keep that thing away from me!”

“My, aren’t you ungrateful.” Knock Out’s smirk widened as he crouched in front of Sunstreaker, unceremoniously sticking his hand between Sunstreaker’s legs.

He twitched his hips, trying to avoid the Decepticon, but it was pointless. The false spike shoved into his valve without any preparation, too thick to be comfortable, and ridged with thick nubs that prodded at the walls of Sunstreaker’s valve. He stifled a grunt.

“Hmm. I suppose I shouldn’t have torn off your panel,” Knock Out murmured, tapping his chin. Another push shoved the toy further, the head of it knocking against a ceiling node. “No matter. Easily fixed.”

Knock Out rose to his pedes, searched the floor, and returned with Sunstreaker’s dented panel in hand. Sunstreaker read his intentions even before Knock Out’s free hand shifted into a micro-welder. Sunstreaker tried to angle his hips away, an impossible venture without use of his legs.

“Ah, ah,” Knock Out said, shaking a finger at him. He crouched once again, reaching for Sunstreaker’s interface. “You want I should miss? Weld something that shouldn’t be welded?”

It wasn’t like he had a choice.

Sunstreaker had thought himself numb. He was quickly proven wrong when Knock Out started to weld, without bothering to sedate him or turn off his pain receptors. Sharp agony coursed through Sunstreaker’s interface, like someone had poured acid over his lines, and a pitiful whine escaped him before he could stop it.

Chains rattled as Sunstreaker yanked on them, helm lolling backward against the wall. He couldn’t move, couldn’t think, couldn’t stop the pathetic churning of his engine.

“There,” Knock Out said, a self-satisfied purr to his energy field. “Good as new. Or close enough.”

Sunstreaker’s processor spun. He couldn’t form words, much less dredge up the energy for a glare. Knock Out’s vocals floated in and out of his audials.

He shifted as much as he was able, and the toy within him shifted as well. The thickness of it rubbed against the lining of his valve, scraping the dry walls.

Knock Out half-turned, optics gleaming with malice. “Oh. Before I forget…”

Sunstreaker’s ventilations gasped, his entire frame bucking as the device in his valve suddenly buzzed to life. Vibrations pulsed across his sensitive components, stimulating the sensors lining his valve. No node was left untouched, burying him in wave after wave of circuit-sizzling charge.

“Don’t worry. I’ll be back soon enough.”

Sunstreaker’s servos clenched into fists. He barely noticed when Knock Out left the cell, abandoning him to the onslaught of the device.

~

Knock Out fought off a shiver of unease as he stepped onto the bridge, still smelling of transfluid and overloads. Lord Megatron’s summons had left him no time to clean up. A few stray streaks of gold had unfortunately wandered to his paint. It was a sight most unseemly.

Midday, the bridge was quiet. Then again, it usually was. The Vehicons weren’t one for chatter, at least not where commanding officers could overhear, and Soundwave wasn’t particularly garrulous either. Breakdown was off energon searching planet-side, no one had seen Starscream in quite some time, and Airachnid, well, the less said of her the better.

Which left Lord Megatron, whose very presence was imposing enough, and he wasn’t one for idle conversation either.

At present, he stood with his arms clasped behind his back, energy field a quiescent blanket around his frame. Knock Out was not fooled, however. Lord Megatron could shift from stillness to violence in the space of a sparkbeat.

Better to be on his best behavior.

“You summoned, Lord Megatron?”

The massive bulk of the Decepticon leader turned to acknowledge Knock Out’s arrival. “Do not think that because I haven’t punished you, I do not know about your extracurricular activities in the brig.”

Knock Out pulled up short. Was that warning or chastisement? Just what was he supposed to say to that?

“That being said,” Lord Megatron continued, “what is the status of our guest?”

Somehow, the way he parsed the term ‘guest’ made shivers crawl down Knock Out’s backstrut. “Unsurprisingly uncooperative.”

Lips pulled back into a smirk, revealing the intimidating fangs of Lord Megatron’s denta. “That one will not break so easily.”

Break? Knock Out scoffed internally. He didn’t want Sunstreaker to break. That would take all the fun out of it. Half the entertainment came from watching Sunstreaker resist.

Lord Megatron shifted again, and Knock Out’s optics widened. Previously, his bulk had hidden a smaller monitor on the main console, but now Knock Out could see it in full. The screen was displaying footage of the brig, and the cell containing Sunstreaker. Lord Megatron hadn’t been kidding when he’d said he’d been watching!

“I’ve given you free rein because I don’t care for that mech’s comfort,” Lord Megatron said, his optics falling to the screen. “But rest assured, Knock Out, that if there is nothing left for me to break, I’ll be most displeased.”

Knock Out’s optics trained on the monitor, watching as a silent Sunstreaker twitched and writhed, arms pulling at the chains. His hips jerked back and forth, entire frame trembling, the toy relentless. Heat shot straight to Knock Out’s interface array. Say what he would about Autobots, but their prisoner was certainly a sight for sore optics. Too many flyers on this vessel!

“Knock Out!”

He startled at the near-snarl and hastily executed a bow. “Of course, Lord Megatron. He will not be damaged beyond repair.” He paused, considering. “Incidentally, have you decided the fate of our guest?”

Knock Out really, really hoped that his leader would lose interest and he could keep the Autobot for himself.

A grating laugh resonated in Lord Megatron’s chassis. “All in due time, Knock Out. I am content, for now, watching him squirm.”

Glancing once more at the screen, Knock Out’s lips curved into a smirk. That sentiment he could appreciate for himself.

~

His energy levels were at eleven percent. The taste of transfluid was sticky on his glossa. He couldn’t move his lower extremities, but his frame shifted nonetheless, back and forth, responding to the buzzing device in his valve.

He’d lost count of the number of overloads it had wrung from him. Each more painful than the last, to the point it was no longer pleasure, just agony. A few of the sensors in his valve had long since burned out.

He couldn’t cycle down into recharge. Every time he got close, the toy jerked him out of the sequence, dragging him back to consciousness.

Sunstreaker floated, delirious, trapped between reality and the memory purges cropping up. The roar of the crowd. The feel of the arena beneath his pedes. The thrum of the clapping and stomping. The scent of fresh-spilled energon. The cheering. The taunting.

His pedes hitting scuffed metal. The pain of his missing arm, wires spitting sparks into the open air.

His opponent shoving him down, kicking his legs apart. The humiliation burned through his spark. Hands grasping his thighs, spreading him wide. The blinding pain of the victor slamming into him, punching through his interface panel, spearing his valve.

The contractions as his valve tried to resist the intruder, shoving something too-large into a space too-small.

The humiliation. It burned more than anything, like acid in his spark.

Another overload fizzled and popped through Sunstreaker’s valve. He shuddered, feeling the lubricant dripping from his valve, sliding down his thighs. His vocalizer emitted static, not a scream, but dangerously close to it.

A sound in the silence. Pedesteps.

Sunstreaker’s optics flickered on. Hazy shapes in the shadows coalesced to several mech forms, one he recognized, the rest indistinguishable from each other.

Knock Out grabbed his chin. Sunstreaker didn’t have the wherewithal to resist. His tanks churned on empty.

The Decepticon pried his mouth open and poured a rather generous portion of energon down Sunstreaker’s intake. It was thick and oily, the worst sludge that Sunstreaker wouldn’t even put in a shuttle much less a sapient being. It slunk down his intake and left a gritty aftertaste.

The energon seeped to his tanks, not so much giving him a burst of energy as slowly filtering it to his frame. His levels grew to a paltry thirteen percent, and continued to climb, albeit at a crawl.

Someone spoke. The words were garbled, static to Sunstreaker’s audials. The ground shifted. No. Wait. He was moving.

Hands on his plating. Chains loosened.

Now was the time!

His legs weren’t working.

A pained groan escaped Sunstreaker as his arms fell limp, wrists still encircled but no longer bound above him. His legs wouldn’t obey his commands. His HUD returned error messages. The motor relays had been fried, frag it!

The world spun. His hands slammed against the floor, knees clattering on lubricant-slicked metal. The toy buzzed away, battering his overwrought sensors. Someone manually manipulated his legs, forcing his knees to bend, forcing him to hand and knees. His engine gave a half-sparked rev.

His energy levels stalled at twenty percent.

Sunstreaker rebooted his input systems, audials, optics, everything. When everything came into focus, he wished he hadn’t.

Sunstreaker was surrounded by no less than six Decepticon drones. Standing in front of him was Knock Out, looking thoroughly amused, his energy field buzzing hunger.

“I see that you enjoyed my toy,” Knock Out said and a hand grasped Sunstreaker’s aft. “I brought some others for you to play with.” He made a vague gesture to the drones surrounding them.

Sunstreaker’s fingers dragged scratches into the metal floor beneath him. He tried to speak, but all that emerged was a humiliating burst of static. Frag Knock Out to the Pit!

One of the drones behind him peeled off the sloppily welded plate covering Sunstreaker’s valve. The pain was a nuisance compared to everything else. Sunstreaker barely twitched when a taloned digit probed into his valve, extricating the buzzing device.

The calipers in his valve cycled down, too used to the sensation of being filled, clenching on empty air. More lubricant gushed forth, spilling out of his valve and dribbling to the floor in a noisy squelch.

Sunstreaker felt filthy.

The device was gone, but the fingers returned, two plunging into his valve and pumping in and out, sliding easily thanks to the overflow of lubricant.

“As it turns out,” Knock Out said, shifting aside so that one of the drones could take his place directly in front of Sunstreaker. “I’m not the only one interested in the show you’re about to give us.”

Sunstreaker’s helm whipped up, glaring at the Decepticon.

Knock Out cocked a hip and gestured to the corner, where the light of a camera blinked at them. “You have an admirer.”

The sound of an interface panel snicking open echoed like a gunshot to Sunstreaker’s audials. But it hadn’t come from Knock Out.

He whipped a glance over his shoulder. The drone behind him had unsheathed his spike and guided his unadorned tool to Sunstreaker’s valve.

Sunstreaker wanted to move, screamed the commands to his processor, but again and again, his HUD relayed errors. It was one thing to play shareware to the Decepticon medic. Quite another to be a berthtoy for a drone. Why were they equipped with spikes anyway?

The drone pushed into him, slow and methodical, a slick slide that was careful to alight several sensors around the rim, untouched by the glitched toy. Sunstreaker swallowed down a pathetic moan, his helm hanging.

A hand grasped his chin, lifting his helm again. Sunstreaker’s optics flickered, looking up into the blank band of another drone. Without a faceplate, with only the barest nudge of an energy field, it was like staring at a machine.

The grip was firm, unyielding. Another panel snicked aside, a spike jutting toward Sunstreaker’s mouth.

“Don’t make me remind you of the rules,” Knock Out said from somewhere beyond Sunstreaker’s sight. “So much as dent his spike, and I’ll yank yours off.”

As if to prove his point, one of the drones grabbed Sunstreaker’s spike, squeezing it. His hips jerked at the unexpected stimulation.

They crowded around him.

The one in his valve started a measured rhythm, in and out, pushing hard against the deepest wall of Sunstreaker’s valve.

The other probed at his face, digits forcing Sunstreaker’s mouth open, pushing his spike inside. The drone’s tool was cool on Sunstreaker’s glossa, so different from a fully-sparked mech. His spike was also unadorned, a smooth slide into Sunstreaker’s mouth, pushing toward his intake.

Behind him, the drone withdrew.

In front of him, the drone thrust.

Behind him, the drone shoved.

In front of him, the drone receded.

He felt suspended between them, aching arms trembling, numb legs locked into place. His spark was leaden in his chassis, his tanks ticking toward twenty-two percent. Whatever sludge Knock Out fed him refueled him at an agonizing pace.

The hand on his spike started to stroke and arouse Sunstreaker’s systems. He’d thought himself numb to it, but only his valve seemed uninterested. His spike, however, was pressurized and eager.

“I think I’ll keep you,” Knock Out said, again from beyond Sunstreaker’s direct sight. “I could use a new berth toy.”

Sunstreaker’s engine revved angrily.

Knock Out laughed. “If you’d prefer, I could let Lord Megatron have you. But he has a nasty habit of breaking his toys, and that would be such a waste of good shareware.”

The drone overloaded into Sunstreaker’s valve, a weak blast of transfluid that mingled with the lubricant coating his lining. The spike withdrew, air wafting across Sunstreaker’s exposed valve, the mix of sticky liquids oozing out of his valve with wet plops to the floor.

One of the drones jostled his frame. Sunstreaker growled around the spike in his mouth, heard the scrape of metal against metal before hands landed on his hips. Ex-vents ghosted across his ventral armor before the hands pulled him down, splaying his thighs further, the head of a spike nudging the rim of his valve.

Sunstreaker’s elbows wobbled. He drooped, spike sliding out of his mouth, smearing across his cheekplate. His helm dipped, his optics meeting the narrow band of another drone. The cool spike pushed up, sliding into him, quick to replace the one who had already overloaded.

Sunstreaker snapped his optics shut, not that it made a difference. Hands grasped his helm, jerking it up, a spike pushing back into his mouth. It struck the back of his intake with each thrust, jabbing into his mouth with a mindless pursuit toward overload.

Desire slapped Sunstreaker like a physical blow. It couldn’t have come from the drones. He could hear pedesteps pacing around him and he onlined his optics, catching a glimpse of Knock Out, the fragger circling Sunstreaker with measured steps. He was staring, smirking, watching with darkened optics as the drones pounded into Sunstreaker.

“Do you understand yet?” the so-called medic purred, his vocals a throaty hum. “You were built for this, Sunstreaker. And you perform so beautifully.”

Hands once again landed on his aft, smoothing over the thick plating. Fingers dragged down, tracing the rim of his valve. The drone beneath Sunstreaker stilled in his thrusts, shuddering as the finger stroked both the base of the drone’s spike and Sunstreaker’s rim.

Unease filtered into Sunstreaker’s spark. He didn’t have to see the mech behind him to read the intent of that finger. Or the mech it belonged to.

“You’re so slick,” Knock Out commented, vocalizer edging toward static, the lust in his energy field a hot pulse against Sunstreaker’s own. “Dripping, really. I’d wager that this drone’s spike isn’t enough for you.”

Sunstreaker’s engine rumbled, resonating through his chassis.

Knock Out chuckled. “Oh, you’ll get what you want soon enough.”

A panel snicked, overbearingly loud to Sunstreaker’s audials. The finger disappeared but a hand returned to his aft, stroking over to his hip, holding him in place. Beneath him, the drone shuddered, struggling to stay still though the urge to thrust must have been pinging his systems desperately.

The blunt head of a spike pressed against the rim of Sunstreaker’s valve, sliding slickly over the transfluid and lubricant both. Sunstreaker cringed, spark spinning wildly in his chassis, fingers scraping against the floor.

He was trapped, helpless, with no way to stop what was coming next.

Sunstreaker groaned, the vibrations traveling over the spike in his mouth. The drone above him grunted, pumping harder.

The second spike at his valve pushed, prodding insistently, forcing its way inch by terrible inch. Sunstreaker’s frame arched, and he lurched forward, unsteady, servos wildly grasping at the drone in front of him.

He tried to force out the spike with his glossa, throwing his weight forward as much as he was capable, though his legs still refused to obey. His energy levels hovered around twenty-seven percent and that was enough in Sunstreaker’s opinion.

Someone shouted. Hands grasped at him from all directions. More than one battle system hummed to life, the sound of weapons charging a welcome relief from the rhythmic ventilations of an aroused mech.

Two sets of hands grabbed his arms, yanking them back, straining the mechanisms in his shoulder with a painful screech of metal on metal. He gasped a ventilation, the sharp pain rippling through him.

They jerked him backward, nearly upright on his knees, deepening the one spike still settled in his valve.

One of the drones snapped a pair of cuffs around Sunstreaker’s arms just above his elbows, clasping them together behind his back and putting undue pressure on his shoulder joints. He winced, chassis thrust forward, as though offering his spark.

“Ah, ah,” Knock Out chastised with a burr of gears grinding together as he circled around to Sunstreaker’s optical view. “Don’t make me sever all your motor relays now. It’s much better when you can squirm.”

Sunstreaker gathered up his strength for the fiercest glare he could muster, even as the hands returned to his hips, the second spike pressing against his strained valve.

“Frag you!” he snarled, and a pained cry escaped him as the spike pushed through the resistance, forcing into his valve alongside the other.

Knock Out’s optics brightened with lust, his glossa snaking out over his lips. “Mmm. That was a good sound. Got any more for me?”

Static erupted from Sunstreaker’s vocalizer. His helm hung, his valve spasming, clenching tightly on the impossible width shoved into it. There was plenty of lubricant, but the walls of his valve were stretched to the max. Capacity warnings flashed on his HUD, but it wasn’t as though he could do anything about it.

He tensed from helm to pede, couldn’t force himself to relax, and the hands grasping his hips trembled. The drone let out a heavy and hot ventilation. Beneath him, the drone shuddered, a binary click of need falling from its vocalizer.

Two pairs of hands grasped Sunstreaker’s hips. Beneath him, the drone gave a tentative push, shifting the pressure of the spikes within Sunstreaker’s valve. His ventilations hitched. It was too much, far too much!

“If you’d give in, you might even enjoy yourself,” Knock Out crooned, stepping forward and caressing Sunstreaker’s faceplate with his digits.

Sunstreaker jerked his helm away. It was all the freedom of movement he had left.

Knock Out laughed. “Suit yourself.”

From his peripheral vision, Sunstreaker watched the medic step back and gesture openly at Sunstreaker. “He’s all yours, boys. Make it a good show.”

Permission given, the drones wasted no time in taking advantage.

The two spikes in his valve started to move, counterpoint, one thrusting, the other withdrawing. Sunstreaker clamped his mouth shut, ground his denta together, swallowing down every pained sound that tried to escape. Half-numb sensors responded to the onslaught, some of them sparking to life.

His entire frame pitched and heaved at the force of their thrusts, but the two pairs of hands kept him in place.

A hand grasped his face, forcing his helm to turn, forcing him to face another spike, which pushed into his mouth with no prelude.

Sunstreaker felt Knock Out watching him, the lust in the Decepticon’s energy field a heavy blanket in the room. Hatred boiled up in Sunstreaker’s spark, his frame trembling from the force of it.

Pain and fury and disgust, it all churned nastily inside of him. He could feel every minute shift of the spikes in his valve, the tepid huffs of every drone’s ventilation. The splatter of transfluid on his plating as one of the drones overloaded over his chassis, globs clinging to his chestplate.

Sunstreaker’s hands formed fists, the sharpened tips digging into his own plating, haptic sensors screaming their anger.

The drone overloaded into his mouth, transfluid pouring down his intake.

One of the drones spilled transfluid into his valve. Sunstreaker didn’t have so much as a klik for respite before another drone was there, filling him again, two spikes pushing and shoving and filling his valve.

Knock Out watched, engine revving, hand on his own spike, delighting in the show.

Sunstreaker growled internally.

The Decepticon would make a mistake. And when he did, Sunstreaker would get free, and then he’d rip the slagging sadist’s spark from his chassis. Feed him his own spike first, maybe. Whatever it took to make the rage feel satisfied.

He was not going to break. Sunstreaker would slag well prove it.

Knock Out’s days were numbered.

[TFP] Good Enough II

It started with a ping to his comm in the middle of the night, one Ratchet knew he should ignore, but he couldn’t bring himself to do so. Not now, not in the past, and certainly not in the future.

He roused himself from his berth, avoided the mirrors so he didn’t have to acknowledge his own shame, and scraped a hand down his faceplate. He didn’t want to contemplate the weight of his actions. He pushed it down, far down, to be retrieved later, after the fact.

For now, there’s only this.

He slipped out of his habsuite, out of his fancy apartment, and into the dark of night-cycle, where the streetlights were dim, giving the illusion of night. Cybertron didn’t have a sun right now, but they pretended where they must.

The ping had a location woven into the noise, one Ratchet had long since been taught to decipher. They didn’t need to be so secretive, not yet, but it’s good practice. The time would come, Ratchet suspected, when this wouldn’t be so easy.

Or maybe finding each other wouldn’t be the hard part. It would be everything else.

It’s a gritty motel in a gritty part of the city where mecha rented rooms by the hour. For business.

Ratchet frowned. Mecha shouldn’t be reduced to that kind of business, but such was the world they lived in. Energon got scarcer and scarcer, and more than twice, Ratchet had caught the shambling noise of a shuffling Empty in a passing alley.

He hurried. He opted for the spiraling ramp rather than the rattling lift, though there were no lights save those on his chassis. He ignored the chill up his backstrut from the dark.

Surely his companion felt at home here. It could not be so different from the Pits.

Several levels up, multiple doors down, and Ratchet rapped his knuckles on a rusty flap of metal at the end of the hall. A place this dilapidated didn’t have call buttons.

The door rattled open, and Ratchet hurried inside before someone saw him, not because he was ashamed, but because he stuck out like a patch of rust. He was clean, he was bright, and his arms were stamped with medic glyphs. He looked like he was made of credits, like he didn’t belong.

Compared to the mecha down here with nothing to share and nothing to lose, they’d be right.

“Next time, I pick the rendezvous,” Ratchet grumped as the door rattled back shut behind him. His backplate prickled.

A raspy laugh echoed from behind him. “Ratchet afraid?”

He snorted a ventilation. “Hardly.”

Ratchet turned in a slow circle, his optics flicking top to bottom, as they always did, when he met with Soundwave again. He looked for damage, for injuries, for half-afted attempts at welds and patches. Pit-medics were the worst kind of scavengers and butchers, and Ratchet would be damned if he left Soundwave this evening with so much as an infected scrape.

This time, there were none. Soundwave’s armor gleamed with a coat of fresh wax – he must have won his most recent match. Said clean treatment was often a reward for victory.

“But I know you have better taste than this,” Ratchet finally finished as his scans came up positive as well. Tension eased out of his frame.

Soundwave’s hand lifted, spindly fingers tracing the curve of Ratchet’s face. “That I do.”

Ratchet’s face heated. He buried it with a scowl. “Don’t you start romancing me. I know what I am.”

Soundwave laughed again. “As do I.” He leaned close, looming without effort, and pressing their forehelms together.

His field buzzed against Ratchet’s, ripe with desire and amusement both, but beneath them, respect as well. His ex-vents caressed Ratchet’s frame as Soundwave slowly drew them together, not that any force was needed. Ratchet wanted to touch Soundwave, wanted to feel the press of that glossy armor against his own – as rough and pitted as it was.

Right now, Soundwave outshone him.

It was easy, terribly easy, to sink into the embrace. To the warmth of Soundwave’s arms and the tickle of his fingertips, gliding into Ratchet’s transformation seams and stroking the web of cables beneath. His struts tingled, lines buzzing with static.

A gasp escaped Ratchet before he could stop it. His knees wobbled. He felt new-forged all over again, and the pleasure eclipsed the ache. His processor spun. He abandoned the guilt, and the thoughts of the hab-suite he’d abandoned to come here.

Ratchet’s hands were no less busy. This close, he could not resist touching. The sound his fingers made – dragging gently over smooth as liquid armor – resonated in his audials. He found every connector, empty of symbiote, and caressed the ports, charge snapping out to bite at his fingertips.

Soundwave shuddered over and around him. Charge rose, spicy and sharp, as Ratchet tasted it on his glossa. Or perhaps it was the scent of the wax, growing stronger as Soundwave’s armor heated.

“Don’t you have a berth?” Ratchet asked as his knees wobbled and only Soundwave’s arms, the delicate grip of cables wound about him, kept him upright.

Soundwave dragged their helms together, a soft susurrous of sensation. “Ratchet would prefer?” he asked as his fingertips danced down Ratchet’s backstrut, as though memorizing each individual plate.

“Of course I would,” Ratchet forced out, if only to conceal the moan that bubbled up in his vocalizer. “I’m not getting any younger.”

Fingertips curled around the back of his helm. Data cables tightened their grip. Soundwave’s field swallowed him whole. It was dizzying, to be so possessed. He wondered how Megatronus could not see this passion, this depth. He wondered how he’d gotten so lucky to taste it.

“As you wish.”

Ratchet’s spark throbbed as Soundwave swept him up, as if he were some delicate mech and not a heavy, sturdy medic. He clung to Soundwave, the pleasure intoxicating, and the care even more so.

He ignored the dust of the berth beneath them. Soundwave had taken care to cover the rusted slab of metal with a clean cover, but there was no concealing the filth. But that was what they had to do.

Ratchet grasped Soundwave’s helm, dragging his mouth around the edge of Soundwave’s faceplate, ex-venting bursts of damp heat that fogged the transteel. He felt Soundwave’s amusement, their field ruched together so intimately.

Soundwave settled over him, warmth and mass, their legs tangled, his datacables twisting and churning beneath them. But no more so than the charge, leaping out from Ratchet’s substructure to dance with the static sparks erupting from beneath Soundwave’s armor.

Their chestplates collided, and Ratchet swore he could feel the sturdy spin of Soundwave’s spark. Large and dense, capable of sustaining the needs of himself, as well as his symbiotes.

Ratchet had seen it only the once, glimpses of beauty through cracked armor as a mech had gotten a lucky shot, and paid for it with his life. Soundwave walked away from that match with more glory on his shoulders, and the peek of his sparklight had haunted Ratchet’s recharge for orns afterward.

Soundwave pressed against him, harder, greater need in his field. His fingers pushed deeper, tangling in cables, stroking the struts beneath. Ratchet arched, the clash of their plating together impossible to resist.

Miss me? Ratchet wanted to ask. But he knew better.

Megatronus had won a match today. He’d stood, glorious and triumphant above his peers, a god like the name he’d taken, his optics glowing with delight. And there, ready to congratulate, had been Orion.

Always Orion.

Ratchet’s vocalizer crackled static, and Soundwave’s helm pressed to his. Ratchet breathed a kiss against the faceplate, his ex-vents coming sharper, quicker. His frame trembled, bursting heat, his field finally yielding to Soundwave’s. He held himself back only because the strength of the oncoming need demanded surrender.

A surrender Ratchet gave.

He held Soundwave against him, his spark throbbing, as pleasure eclipsed all else. His cooling fans stuttered to life, charge erupting from beneath his armor, lighting the dim of the room. He shuddered, gasping for vents, rocking up against Soundwave. The sound that came from his chassis was as much pleasure as it was pain.

One which Soundwave echoed.

His cables tightened around Ratchet, like an embrace, and he pressed close, as though the only safety to be found existed beneath Ratchet’s armor. His spark pulsed – Ratchet counted the faster oscillations, felt the wave of heat bursting from Soundwave’s vents.

He curled an arm around Soundwave, his fingers seeking out the port on his backstrut, where Ravage docked. He knew he’d found it when Soundwave shivered. When a low whine rose in Soundwave’s engine. He trembled, field a hungry thing against Ratchet’s own.

“I’ll catch you,” Ratchet murmured, and his fingers teased the tines of the connector, ignoring the bite of charge that nipped back.

Something tore, the berth cover perhaps, as Soundwave’s engine rumbled. He pressed down on Ratchet, hard enough for his armor to creak, and overload burst over Soundwave. A wave of electric fire crackled over his armor, the plating lifting and falling in a steady wave.

He was beautiful.

Ratchet stroked him gently, through the aftershocks, as he’d promised he would do. Those few seconds of lost control, of surrender, were always the hardest. Pleasure, to Soundwave, was as much ecstasy as it was pain.

The noise, he’d explained. The noise always crept in, during those scant moments of surrender.

Soundwave sank against him, nearly limp, but pressed to as much of Ratchet as was physically possible given their size difference. His field and frame hummed a discordant tune.

“Still with me?” Ratchet murmured.

“Affirmative.”

Ratchet chuckled softly. “Did I fry your processor?”

Soundwave shifted, helm lifting enough that he could see Ratchet’s face, and Ratchet could see a hint of optics behind the transsteel of his mask. “Ratchet very skilled.”

Heat stole into his faceplate. “Yeah, well, you’re not so bad yourself.”

Soundwave’s field pulsed against his, warm and affectionate. It was all too easy to bathe in it, to indulge, to tell himself a lie. This was his, it could be his, if only he didn’t love someone else.

“You want me to stay?” Ratchet asked.

Soundwave pressed their forehelms together. “Affirmative,” he murmured, barely above a whisper. “Tonight, only.”

Only.

It had yet to be only.

Ratchet understood nonetheless.

Always Orion. Little wonder Soundwave was here then.

“I suppose I can stand to be a pillow again,” Ratchet said, trying to lighten the mood. It was, as always, like fighting against the dark.

Soundwave hummed low in his chassis, his response non-verbal, but a response nonetheless. His field wrapped around Ratchet as firmly as their tangled embrace. As though he soaked in the comfort Ratchet had to offer.

It started with a ping.

It always started with a ping. Whether from one or the other.

Ratchet came every time. Because he understood that ache. That agonizing pain.

He stroked his hand down Soundwave’s back, listening to the quiet ticks and hums of a frame that became increasingly familiar to him.

Yes.

He understand that pain all too well.

[TFP] The World Spins Madly On

It’s a moment.

A flash.

Betrayal. Sparkache. He should have known. He should have known.

And then darkness. Only, it wasn’t darkness. Neither was it cold. There was warmth and light, a distant light, one that grew closer. He was floating. Not in the sense he was falling, but in the sense he no longer held any mass.

It was the lack of pain that clued him in.

Dreadwing had been knocked into stasis before. He’d been injured enough that only a regeneration chamber saved his spark and frame. Both times had been a cloying dark, a suffocating black mass that he felt he could never escape.

This was different. Welcoming.

He touched feet on solid ground, knees slightly bent to soften the landing. He was on Cybertron, he thought. Miles of endless expanse stretched in front of him. In the distance, mountains. The Manganese Mountains? Too early to tell.

He didn’t know where he was. Only that it was empty. So empty. There was a sun in the sky, two suns. And Luna-One. It hung there like a gem. Close enough to touch.

Dreadwing looked down. His frame was whole and hale. There was no sign of Megatron’s betrayal. His plating shone. He had no weapons, not a one. But his transformation cog was functional. He would transform and go anywhere.

He didn’t know where he could go. Or where he wanted to go.

He pressed his hand to his chestplate, felt the strong hum of his spark beneath. So strong, yet it shouldn’t be. The ache of loss remained.

Dreadwing bowed his helm. Dimmed his optics. His free hand curled into a fist, talons biting into his palm.

Skyquake.

“All you had to do was ask.”

Dreadwing’s helm snapped up. His optics brightened as he whirled.

There. Within arm’s reach. As whole and bright as Dreadwing himself. Unarmed, but not lesser for it.

Dreadwing’s spark pulsed. It tugged him toward the olivine frame, familiar marks etched into wings that were a match for his own.

Marks, not a badge. Not a claim. There were no factions here. There didn’t need to be. All that remained were the marks they shared, family glyphs that marked them as one.

“You look confused, brother,” Skyquake said with that damnable smirk of his. One that never ceased to infuriate Dreadwing.

Skyquake was so cocky. Always so cocky. Thought nothing could touch him. He’d been wrong.

“Don’t you know where you are?”

Dreadwing’s ventilations stuttered.

“I traveled across galaxies,” he started as he moved toward his brother, frame drawing him more than anything else. There was a need, and it yawed through the echoes of his spark chamber. “I felt your death across the universe. And you have the gall, even now, to taunt me.”

Skyquake spread his hands. “What are older brothers for?” That damnable smirk did things to him.

Dreadwing ached.

He ached and there was no cure for it save Skyquake and the moment he was within reach, he grabbed his brother, his twin. He pulled Skyquake close like he hadn’t done in ages, their frames colliding, chestplates coming into ringing contact.

“Brother mine,” Dreadwing murmured, embrace so strong his talons left scratches in Skyquake’s dorsal armor.

Skyquake deigned to return the hold, when he’d always been the first to decline before. He pressed the side of his helm to Dreadwing’s. “Spark of my spark,” he rumbled. “Welcome home.”

Dreadwing’s lips pulled upward, the closest thing to a smile he’d had in millennia.

It was good to be home.

[TFP] Training Session

The third time someone banged on the wall, demanding quiet, Ratchet barked a laugh. Where did they think they were? Upper Iacon? This was a seedy motel in a seedy section of the city, down in some of the darkest levels of Kaon. There was enough noise outside the window, that the ruckus he and Soundwave made barely qualified as a disturbance.

“Ready to give up?” Ratchet asked as he swiped the back of his hand over his mouth, flicking away the droplets of energon that beaded free.

Soundwave gave him that stare, the one that unnerved many of his opponents in the ring. Dark and silent was an effective technique, down there in the Pits. Here in this room, all it did was send another shiver of desire up Ratchet’s spinal strut.

“Negative,” Soundwave said, his datacables coiling restlessly about him, as though they were sentient beings ready to strike.

Ratchet chuckled darkly. “Didn’t think so.” His vents stuttered, cycling a deeper ventilation. He dropped back into the defensive stance Soundwave taught him. “Then come on. One more time.”

Soundwave tilted his helm, his weight shifting, the poor lighting in the room still managing to reflect off his armor, highlighting the many scrapes and dents in the paint. “Surrender after defeat?”

Ratchet waved a dismissive hand. “Yes, yes. You know I will.” He grinned crookedly. “I might surprise you this time, though.”

The raspy echo in Soundwave’s chassis was the closest thing he allowed to a laugh. He lifted a hand, spindly fingers curling toward Ratchet. “Come.”

Ratchet’s engine growled. He ground his denta and threw himself forward, trying to remember everything he’d been shown. He was pretty sure he wasn’t going to last longer than a few seconds, but maybe if he was lucky, he’d land a solid hit this time.

He was wrong.

He forgot, as he always did, about the datacables.

Light flashed in Soundwave’s visor right before Ratchet’s world turned upside down. His ventilations stuttered as his aft hit the berth, the rusted thing creaking beneath his weight. His vision filled briefly with static before it clarified into the barely tangible weight of Soundwave perched over him, amusement thick in the gladiator’s field.

“Yield?”

Ratchet scowled. “Yeah, I yield,” he said, sinking into the berth. “Like I always do.”

Soundwave laughed in that odd way of his again.

“You know, someday I will be able to land a hit.”

“You will,” Soundwave said, a certainty in his vocals that wasn’t the least bit condescending. “For now, however, a different challenge?”

Ratchet’s cooling fans clicked to life. His frame flushed with heat. “Finally, something I can win,” he said.

Soundwave leaned down, nuzzling his helm against Ratchet’s, his field blanketing Ratchet’s in heat and need. “Surrender gladly offered.”

Ratchet shivered.

Well, he supposed their neighbors were going to start complaining for a different reason now. Too bad for them.