[SG] Debug

Rodimus was here again.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Drift gritted his denta and scrubbed harder.

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

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

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

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

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

Footsteps rang in the hallway.

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

No more conversation came from the surgical room next door.

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

Anger popped up in Drift like carbonation.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Drift froze.

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

“That’s not–”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Drift’s armor rattled.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

What if… what if… what if–

The door slid open.

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

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

Drift worked his intake. “Yes, Ratchet.”

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

Ratchet hated streaks.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Ratchet didn’t trust him to be still.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

His face burned.

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

Snap.

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

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

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

Pop.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Drift made an incoherent noise.

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

No.

No, no, no.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Drift’s vents hiccuped.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It clicked into place, and Drift flinched.

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

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

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

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

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

“I do want to be!” Drift insisted.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Yes, Ratchet,” he said.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Drift started to scrub.

***

[SG] Defragment

The raucous interior of the Ark-One’s main dock was a welcome noise to Drift as he stepped off his single-mech shuttle and stepped back onto the metal floor of home. The feeling reverberated up through his feet, his legs, his hips, his torso, all the way into his spark.

He drew in a heavy, savoring vent, a tiny little anxieties melting away as the atmosphere of the Autobot ship wrapped around him. He was back, he was home, and most importantly, he had Ratchet within reach once again.

What more could a mech want?

Drift ignored the whistles and catcalls of the dockworkers as he passed. They weren’t important. They weren’t Ratchet. His spark sang with comfort, pulsing the song of his medic, drawing him toward the medbay. Drift shedded discomfort behind him, a bit like the dried energon flaking off his frame.

Assassination was a messy business.

He did it, however, because Ratchet told him to, and anything Ratchet wanted, Drift would give him.

His assignment this time around had been nothing unusual — another relatively high-ranking Decepticon who was getting in Optimus Prime’s way. Drift had been sent because of his familiarity with the Decepticon ship in question — one captained by a mech designated Turmoil.

Said mech was only a shadow in Drift’s memory. There was a vague impression of having known the Decepticon once upon a time, but he meant nothing compared to Ratchet, so Drift had dismissed those shadows.

Turmoil, however, did not have the mercy of a Ratchet. He’d looked at Drift like he’d seen a ghost. He’d tried to reach out. He’d called Drift by name; he’d looked relieved. He hadn’t even drawn a weapon which made it easier to stab him through the spark.

The look of shock in Turmoil’s visor had left a queer feeling in Drift’s spark. He couldn’t shake it. The feeling lingered his entire journey home.

It wasn’t guilt. Why would he feel guilty for disposing of a Decepticon who was in Ratchet’s way?

He felt… something. Drift didn’t know what it was, but he didn’t like it. Maybe because he had to travel so far to get to Turmoil’s ship which had been hiding in the rings of a distant planet. He’d been gone longer from Ratchet than he’d liked, and the need yawed inside of him, like an itch he couldn’t scratch. An itch like his modesty panel.

Drift loathed his modesty panel. He never wore it when he was home, but Ratchet always locked one in place when he left on an assignment. It confined him, and Drift wanted it off so he could feel right again.

He rushed to Ratchet’s habsuite and rinsed off as quickly as possible, scrubbing Turmoil’s energon from his armor and his seams. Ratchet hated when he was filthy, and Ratchet hadn’t caused the mess. Besides, the only mess Drift wanted on him was one Ratchet had given him.

Turmoil’s face wouldn’t leave the back of his mind. Not even after the mech’s spark had guttered on Drift’s blade, and his visor went dark, frame slowly graying as it slid off Drift’s sword and crumpled to the floor. He’d stood there for too long, staring at Turmoil’s empty shell, before he remembered his window of opportunity, and fled, detonating the carefully laid charges as he zoomed into the night.

Turmoil’s ship became a brilliant fireball behind him, helpfully ignited by the flammable minerals in the planet’s ring. It would take years for the Decepticons to sift through that wreckage, if they cared enough to look into Turmoil’s disappearance.

Optimus Prime would be pleased, and when Optimus Prime was pleased, Ratchet was pleased. Drift liked pleasing Ratchet.

It was all that mattered.

Drift dried off and hurried to the medbay, excitement attempting to chase away the lingering disquiet. He knew Ratchet had to be elbows deep in someone by the screams. Had they caught a Decepticon? Or had some Autobot been misbehaving? Maybe Smokescreen again. He kept getting caught in shady business deals Optimus Prime had not approved.

“Mechs can survive for days without their fuel regulator,” Ratchet was saying as Drift followed his voice to one of the surgical rooms. “Stop whining.”

There was an Autobot strapped down to the medtable, and Ratchet was wrist-deep in his chassis. The mech writhed on the berth, babbling nonsense about pain and shrieking apologies. It wasn’t Smokescreen this time though. It was Goldbug who was usually one of Optimus’ favorites.

He must have really fragged off the Prime.

Drift moved closer for a better look. Half of Goldbug’s external armor lay on a nearby table. One of his dangling tubes dripped coolant to the floor, and his vents roared. His field reeked of pain.

Pfft. Amateur.

No wonder Drift was Ratchet’s favorite. He didn’t complain when Ratchet took care of him. He didn’t complain when he got Ratchet’s attention either. He was a good pet.

“Welcome home,” Ratchet said with a glance over his shoulder, a few spatters of energon on his face.

Drift wanted to wipe them free. He only wanted his energon on Ratchet’s face. Goldbug didn’t deserve to be taken apart by Ratchet. He didn’t appreciate it.

Ratchet reached out with one hand, tugging Drift in by a firm grip on his chin. Drift went gladly, pressing up against Ratchet’s side, rising up for a kiss. Ratchet’s mouth was hot and hungry, his field surging over Drift, sharp and pungent with hunger.

Drift moaned.

Ratchet bit his bottom lip and pulled back, turning Drift’s face this way and that, as if examining him. “Were you a good pet?”

“Yes, Ratchet,” Drift said, his glossa flicking over his lips, his array throbbing behind the confines of the modesty panel. “Turmoil is dead. His ship is destroyed. No survivors.”

“Mmm. You were a very good pet,” Ratchet purred. He pulled his other hand out of Goldbug’s chassis, idly shaking the fluids from it. “That deserves a reward, doesn’t it?”

Drift buzzed with want as Ratchet’s hand grazed his modesty panel. “Will you take it off?” he asked, hips rocking toward the faint touch. “Please?”

“Of course, pet.” Ratchet yanked him into another kiss, and Drift sank into it. He felt the catches give on his panel before it clattered to the floor.

Cool air wisped over his exposed array, and Drift sighed. His spike half-pressurized immediately, straining toward Ratchet’s hand. Pearls of lubricant spilled from his valve, staining the inside of his thighs. He clenched on nothing, horribly empty, having spent far too long away from Ratchet.

Drift moaned against Ratchet’s mouth and tried to cant his frame closer, hoping Ratchet would touch him, would stick his fingers into Drift’s valve, or squeeze his spike, or something. Anything to chase away the look in Turmoil’s visor when Drift’s sword had cleaved through his spark.

Ratchet’s grip on his chin tightened, and he pulled back, head tilted. “Did you run into any issues?”

“No,” Drift said, and he sucked in a ventilation, hesitating. Would Turmoil’s behavior be considered an issue? He’d killed the Decepticon in the end. Jazz’s bombs did the rest.

“Hmm.” Ratchet’s optics narrowed, and dread pooled in Drift’s tanks. Had he disappointed Ratchet?

“My target,” Drift blurted out, desperate to make up for the hesitation. “He recognized me. Knew me when I was, you know, one of them. I think.” He frowned, orbital ridges wrinkling, that queer feeling rising in his spark again. “It was easy.”

Ratchet hummed again, but his gaze wasn’t as sharp as before, and the stroke of his hand over Drift’s spike suggested he wasn’t actually angry. Thank Primus.

“That deserves a treat, don’t you think?” Ratchet released Drift’s spike and cupped his valve instead, fingers fitting through the loops of his piercings and giving them a tug.

Drift shivered. “If you want it to.”

“I do.” Ratchet tugged again, sharper, and pleasure throbbed hot and hard through Drift’s array. “Because you’re such a good pet, and you deserve it, and you belong to me. Isn’t that right?”

Drift moaned, his hands fisting at his sides, his feet inching further apart, giving more room for Ratchet to work between his thighs. Ratchet obliged, sliding a single finger up into Drift’s valve, stroking an inner node cluster. Drift’s knees wobbled.

“I do,” Drift said fervently. “I’m yours. All yours.”

“I know.” Ratchet stroked him again, sending a wave of electric pleasure through Drift’s array, only to withdraw and return to Goldbug. “I have to finish up here first. Why don’t you go into the playroom and wait for me, hm? I have something special in mind.”

It took all Drift had not to throw himself back at Ratchet as he stood there, hard and aching and dripping. But Ratchet was not to be disobeyed.

“Yes, Ratchet,” he said, and gave a lingering look to Ratchet before he rushed to obey. Behind him, Goldbug started whining again, complaining louder, but the closing door drowned him out.

Ungrateful mech.

The playroom was a medberth Ratchet had specifically set aside for them to use, separate from their quarters because it was fully stocked with everything Ratchet would need to take Drift apart. Excitement ran a thrill through Drift’s spark, and more lubricant seeped out of his valve, leaving a few drips on the floor behind him. He didn’t know what Ratchet had planned, but it didn’t matter either.

Ratchet always had the best ideas. Terrifying, wonderful, exciting ideas.

Drift pulled himself onto the medberth, center stage in the room, and he waited, gaze locked on the door. His array pulsed with want, but he fisted his hands at his sides and spread his thighs, so his bare array would be the first thing Ratchet saw. He knew better than to touch himself, no matter how much his spike ached and beaded with pre-fluid. His valve swelled and throbbed, clenching down on nothing, leaking onto the berth cover.

It was an agonizing wait.

Heat pulsed through Drift’s frame. His valve ached and ached, leaking more lubricant until it became a puddle beneath his aft. He stared and stared at the door, resisting the urge to comm Ratchet, every breath of air from the vents brushing over his exposed array and driving him to distraction. He clenched his fists to keep his fingers from inching toward his array.

At last the door whooshed open and Ratchet entered, wheeling in a tray with a variety of instruments Drift immediately recognized as Ratchet’s disassembly kit. Drift went hot and cold all over, his enthusiasm cooling as he realized what Ratchet had in store for him. He loved when Ratchet literally took him apart, but he also hated it.

He hated seeing his internals outside of his frame. He hated the sensation of it, but he loved the look in Ratchet’s optics, the hunger in his field, the skill of his hands as they dipped into Drift’s internals and caressed the most intimate parts of him.

Drift slipped his feet into the stirrups. It wasn’t up to him, it was up to Ratchet, and this was a reward. Because he was a good pet.

The stirrups clamped around his ankles, locking them in place. He was less likely to hurt himself if he was bound. Well, Ratchet would fix him if he did get hurt, but Ratchet didn’t like it when Drift damaged himself accidentally. He hated fixing things he himself hadn’t ruined.

Besides, Drift didn’t want to bungle Ratchet’s plans either. He wanted Ratchet to be happy.

“Eager, are you?” Ratchet asked as he dragged his hand up Drift’s leg, from the clamp of the stirrup all the way to his array, and the prominent jut of his spike. He flicked the pierced tip of it.

Drift’s engine rumbled. “Missed you.”

“Good pet,” Ratchet murmured, squeezing Drift’s spike, pearls of pre-fluid flooding from the tip. “I don’t plan on playing with this right now, however, so let’s just tuck it away, shall we?”

Drift’s optics rounded. “Ratchet, I can’t–”

His words bit off into a cry as Ratchet did something to disengage the arousal-lock and physically forced Drift’s spike back into his sheath. A dull throb of agony spread through Drift’s array. His backstrut arched, mouth open in a soundless cry, as the pressurized shaft sank back into the sheath, desperately trying to re-emerge.

It had nowhere to go, however, because Ratchet deftly slid a spike cap into place, trapping Drift’s spike within the sheath. It butted up against the cap with an enormous pressure, firm and demanding, the ring grinding against the thick metal.

Ratchet rapped his fingers over the cap. “Better,” he said, and Drift jerked, the dull agony of it slowly pulsing into the volcanic heat of pleasure.

Drift moaned.

“I see you agree.” Ratchet pulled the wheeled tray closer and loomed over Drift’s frame. “Now be still, pet. This is very delicate work.”

Every instinct wanted Drift to squirm, to ease the pressure on his trapped spike. But Ratchet’s word was law.

Drift froze immediately.

He locked his gaze on Ratchet, who reached for the first item on the tray — an internal expander. Drift’s engine rumbled, his valve immediately pulsing slick as he remembered all the things Ratchet could do to him. He made a helpless sound, knees pushing wider, though the stirrups kept him from spreading his legs further.

Ratchet’s grin widened, his field flush with approval. “I thought you’d like this,” he said as he inserted the expander into Drift’s valve, fitting it snugly. He stuck a finger through the piercing on Drift’s anterior node and gave it a tug while his other hand twisted the expander, each click of it widening accompanied by a long pull to the ring.

It took everything Drift had to stay still. His hips wanted to dance, his valve clenched down against the expander, even as it pushed him open and open and open. Drift’s engine revved, ecstasy flashing behind his optics. Another click, and a sharp pull to the ring had overload sweeping across Drift, roaring through his frame.

He keened, hands gripping the berth covers, locking his limbs to keep from thrashing, the weight of Ratchet’s gaze on him lighting up his spark.

“That’s my beautiful, pet,” Ratchet crooned as he stroked Drift through the tremors. “So good for me, you are. But we’re not done yet. I’ve only just begun.”

Drift panted, sinking into the berth, buzzing with pleasure. He watched, hazy, as Ratchet bent over him with tools in hand, and started to disassemble Drift’s torso. It was a singularly unique sensation — not so much pain as a myriad of pinches and pressure. Armor lifted away, set aside with care, exposing Drift’s internals to the room.

He was especially vulnerable like this, completely at Ratchet’s mercy, but the delight in Ratchet’s optics made it worthwhile. Goldbug didn’t get it. Ratchet took him apart, and he was sick with fear, probably because he didn’t get the love and adoration Drift was privy to. Ratchet’s field didn’t pulse and hum for Goldbug. It lapped at Drift with increasing arousal, and Ratchet stroked his internals with clear admiration, measuring them with his optics and his fingers.

He liked to favor Drift’s transformation cog. Liked to cup his fingers around it, tracing the complicated whorls, and Drift shivered as the warmth of Ratchet pressed around his cog. It was a sensation he couldn’t put into words, but he never felt safer than he did with Ratchet’s hand wrapped around one of his internals.

His second favorite was Drift’s fuel tank. He touched this next, and a moan shaped itself on Drift’s glossa. There were more sensors around his tank, probably in the event of a rupture, and he could measure the shape of Ratchet’s fingers on it. He knew without looking that it was Ratchet’s thumb caressing the main intake socket.

“I have a plan, pet,” Ratchet said as he stopped fondling and started to work.

Drift kept himself still, though he wanted to shift at the odd sensation of fingers cupping his fuel purifier, wide and flat, resting nearest to his abdominal armor. It was a blunt sensation, always touched perfunctorily. Ratchet didn’t care for his fuel purifier.

Ratchet removed it, capped it, and set it aside, albeit within reach. Safe to remove temporarily, Ratchet had told him. The remaining tubing pulsed a sluggish seep of energon into Drift’s torso, dirtying the rest of his internals, until Ratchet capped them as well.

“Because you deserve a reward, don’t you?” Ratchet gave the expander another twist, and it incrementally widened Drift’s valve.

“Yes, Ratchet,” Drift moaned, the pleasure cycling up within him again, humming through his lines, buzzing beneath his armor.

“Good pet,” Ratchet praised.

One by one by one, Ratchet took him apart, and Drift’s ventilations turned shallow, his every attention focused on Ratchet’s efforts.

On the excision of his transformation cog, set aside next to the fuel purifier, but handled with far more care than the latter.

On the removal of his fuel tank, tucked next to his hip, still attached to him, but no longer within his frame. The pulse of energon through the lines now visible to Drift, and the smell of his internal fluids thick and pungent in the air.

On the extraction of his gestational tank, capped and set to the side. Sometimes, Drift wondered if Ratchet intended for him to make use of it. He’d do it. He’d do anything for Ratchet.

His gaze rolled up to the ceiling, where a mirror had been installed, giving him a clear view of Ratchet humming as he worked. As he deftly removed internals, capped lines, emptied out Drift’s abdomen of anything that wasn’t necessary for him to function. Even his transfluid tank was removed, tucked next to his hip, still connected to him by a thin, rubbery tube.

He’d be able to overload still.

Primus.

Drift wanted to move, to shift, to rock against the berth, Ratchet’s hands in his midsection like an itch he couldn’t scratch. The press of Ratchet’s field against his was intoxicating, so hot and hungry and sharp with arousal.

It was made worse-better by Ratchet’s wandering hands. When he’d pause to pet Drift’s valve, tug on his piercings, stroke his swollen rim. Every extraction was immediately followed by a twist of the expander, a widening of Drift’s valve, his calipers stretching further and further apart, trembling around the force of the expander. His hips ached, protested, until that bled away into pleasure as Ratchet looked at him with approval.

Heat flooded through Drift.

Ratchet grinned and stroked him again, pinching Drift’s node between his thumb and forefinger, rubbing the slippery nub and tugging the piercing, until Drift overloaded again, dizzy from the sensation. His vents came in shallow bursts, his legs trembling, thighs splayed wide. Lubricant pulsed out of his gaping valve, every whisper of ventilation teasing the bared, slick walls.

“A little more, pet,” Ratchet said as he pushed the stirrups wider, further spreading Drift’s legs, his hips opening up, making more than enough room for Ratchet between them, without a bit of strain.

Ratchet had helped him become very flexible over the past couple of years. Everything Ratchet broke, he repaired, better than before.

Drift worked his intake and held as still as he could, while trembles raced through his frame. His spark felt too large for his chassis, and he wanted so much it seemed to swallow him.

“Please, Ratchet,” he begged.

“I know, pet,” Ratchet soothed as he finished his disassembly and looked over Drift’s open abdomen with frank appreciation. “You’re just going to lie there like a good bot and let me finish, aren’t you?”

Drift panted. “Yes, Ratchet.”

“Good.”

Ratchet’s attention returned to his array, and Drift’s spark tightened with anticipation. His spike throbbed painfully in its sheath, and Drift hoped Ratchet planned to free it. But, no. Instead, Ratchet disengaged the expander and removed it from Drift’s valve. His calipers fluttered weakly, too stretched to cycle back down.

“Empty,” Drift whined.

“Not for long, pet,” Ratchet said before he fit his hand up inside Drift’s valve, a task made easy by the efforts of the expander.

The uneven ridges of his hand, his wrist, his arm, scraped along Drift’s over-sensitive lining, brushing over throbbing nodes. Drift moaned, trying his best not to squirm, another overload waiting in the wings. Especially as Ratchet pushed as deep as he could go, his fingertips pressing hard on Drift’s ceiling node, on the locked aperture of his gestational port, which was no longer connected to his gestational tank.

Drift gasped, and try as he might, he couldn’t stop his hips from bucking, from riding the thickness of Ratchet’s arm, his valve hungry and eager. He squirmed, charge skittering beneath his armor, desperation making his sensory nodes ache. Overload cycled up within him, faster and faster, but before he could cross the threshold, Ratchet stopped.

Drift whined, and reached out for Ratchet before he could think better of it, but Ratchet gave him a look, and Drift wisely dropped his hands back down.

“Don’t worry, pet. I’m not done yet,” Ratchet said as he fitted himself between Drift’s splayed thighs, his spike extending, thick and glossy with pre-fluid already.

“Please,” Drift begged.

Ratchet wrapped his fingers around his own spike and guided himself to Drift’s valve. “You want this?” he asked as his finger-wrapped spike nudged against Drift’s valve, grinding on the outer rim in a blatant tease.

Drift squirmed on the berth, though his legs couldn’t go any wider. “Yes, Ratchet! Please.”

Delight blossomed in Ratchet’s optics. “Of course, pet. You don’t have to beg,” he said, reassuring, and he pushed himself into Drift’s valve, spike and hand alike, straining Drift’s stretched calipers, the uneven push of hand nudging against unexpected sensors.

Drift groaned, long and low, as Ratchet’s ridged armor scraped along his valve lining and sent fire through his array. It was pleasure, sharp and stinging, with capacity warnings lighting up his HUD that Drift dismissed as quickly as they arose.

Ratchet’s field flared, volcanic and sizzling as it layered over Drift, ripe with his lust. He moaned as he watched Drift’s pelvic armor bulge, and his free hand palpated the stretch of Drift’s protoform. He didn’t thrust; he lingered, Drift’s valve rippling around his hand and spike, greedily clenching down on them.

Drift’s vents stalled until he reminded them to cycle. It was so much, almost too much, but Ratchet wanted it, so Drift gave it to him. He held himself still, lest his lining tore, his nodes throbbing from the pressure.

Ratchet’s hand roamed all over his pelvic array, his bulging pelvic armor, and around the other side, to where Drift’s missing abdominal armor and internals left him open to Ratchet’s touch. Through hazy optics, Drift could see the journey of Ratchet’s hands in the mirrored reflection. As Ratchet reached in and in and touched Drift’s valve from the outside, only the flexible mesh of Drift’s valve keeping his two hands from touching.

Ratchet shuddered, his arousal suffocating.

Drift didn’t know what to do with his hands. He wanted to move, to shift and rock and thrust, his entire frame awash with sensation. It wasn’t pleasure. It wasn’t pain. He didn’t know what it was, save that when Ratchet started to move, to stroke his own spike within the gaping tunnel of Drift’s valve, it was too much and not enough.

Every upward stroke ground against Drift’s recessed, trapped spike. Every motion of his hand scraped over Drift’s internal sensors, which nipped back with arousing charge. And then Ratchet’s other hand groped for Drift’s spike sheath, giving it a squeeze, and Drift shattered.

“Good pet,” Ratchet praised through the static in Drift’s audials as his entire frame seized in a rictus of pleasure. “You’re clamped down on my hand so hard, aren’t you? You want more, don’t you?”

Drift garbled static.

“Yes, of course you do,” Ratchet crooned. “You want me to overload, don’t you, pet? To paint your pretty insides with my spill?”

Drift would’ve rocked down on Ratchet if he could move, but he was speared in place by Ratchet’s fisted spike, by the grip Ratchet had on his internals. He was taut and aching, stretched so far he feared he might snap, but even if he did, Ratchet would fix him. He always did.

“Please,” Drift pleaded.

Ratchet’s hand started to move, stroking himself within Drift’s valve, the rasp of his knuckles over Drift’s lining like an itch Drift couldn’t scratch. It burned and scraped, but every pass over his internal nodes chased away the pain with a burst of pleasure. It was dizzying.

The word ‘stop’ danced at the back of his intake, but it never emerged on his glossa, much less his lips. His pain was Ratchet’s to give and to take. He wanted Ratchet to overload, to feel the heat of Ratchet’s pleasure. There was nothing he wouldn’t endure if Ratchet wanted to give it to him.

His valve ached, raw and chafing, as Ratchet’s strokes grew faster and faster, and his ventilations matched the pace of his hand. He shoved into Drift, harder and faster, his other hand restlessly roaming as he groped Drift’s internals, his sheathed spike, the flexible mesh of his valve lining, everything.

“Ratchet,” Drift begged. “Please.”

Ratchet’s delight rang through the room like artillery. He shoved deep into Drift, mid-forearm grinding against Drift’s anterior node as he spurted, the hot splash of his transfluid searing along Drift’s abraded valve lining. Little stuttering thrusts of his hips ground him deeper, until he yanked out, the last bits of his spill painting Drift’s pelvic array and valve.

Horribly, horribly empty, Drift made a sound of want and tried to roll up toward Ratchet, his frame teetering on the edge of another overload, his spark pounding in his chassis. Ratchet shuddered as he squeezed out every last drop of overload from his spike, a few dribbles coating his fingers.

“I’ve made a mess,” Ratchet said.

“I’ll clean it,” Drift offered. Anything if it meant Ratchet would touch him and ease the horrible need roiling through his lines.

Ratchet grinned at him, free hand sliding back into Drift’s valve as he offered the soiled one to Drift. “Go for it,” he said.

Drift unclenched his fingers, which ached from his efforts, and took Ratchet’s wrist carefully. He dragged Ratchet’s hand toward his mouth, lapping up the taste of his own lubricant and Ratchet’s spill from the sensitive fingers. Every swipe of his glossa made him shudder, and he sucked on Ratchet’s index finger, wishing he could clean off Ratchet’s spike, too.

Maybe if he was really, really good…

“You’ve got one more in you, don’t you, pet?” Ratchet asked as his other hand started to push, in and out of Drift’s valve, mercilessly seeking out throbbing nodes and attacking them.

Drift moaned around the fingers in his mouth, hips rocking up and down, onto Ratchet’s hand, his spike throbbing in its sheath. It was sore and bruised from grinding against the cap, but every brush of the back of Ratchet’s hand was ecstasy.

“Give it to me, pet,” Ratchet said as his finger curled against Drift’s glossa, pinning it down in his mouth, his thumb hooked up under Drift’s chin. “Give me what’s mine.”

Ratchet’s name rattled out of Drift’s vocalizer, muffled by the fingers in his mouth, oral lubricant leaking out, making a mess. The tension tightened and twisted inside him, but when Ratchet shoved his fist deep enough to grind hard on Drift’s ceiling node, he shattered.

His fans screamed, his entire frame jerking and going taut with the force of the overload, static spilling into his audials, his optics, until his spark felt like it was going to implode, and the darkness swept him overboard, leaving him floating on a sea of satisfaction.

By the time he surfaced, his chronometer informed him that the better part of thirty minutes had passed. Ratchet had lovingly reassembled him, as he always did, and every internal was back in its rightful place. Well, at least as far as Drift could tell. There weren’t any pieces laying around, and his armor was locked back around his midsection.

His array had been wiped down, and while the reset had caused his valve to contract some, it hadn’t fully tightened. Wisps of cold air teased up inside his valve, causing his internal sensors to flicker fitfully in an exhausted attempt to reawaken.

Warmth wrapped around Drift, and when he turned his head, he found Ratchet, stowing the wheeled tray into the corner of the room before he returned to Drift’s side.

“Welcome back, my pet,” Ratchet said, and Drift shivered.

The warmth grew into a comforting heat, and Drift tilted his head as Ratchet gripped his chin and leaned over, stealing his mouth in a claiming kiss. His field layered over Drift’s, and Drift hummed into the kiss, not a trace of his earlier unease to be found.

What did he have to be worried about?

Drift belonged to Ratchet, now and forever, it was the only truth that mattered.

***

[SG] Firewall

He wasn’t dead. 

That was the first thought to cross Drift’s mind as he slowly surfaced from a condensed, dark fog. Sight. Sound. Sensation. All were distant to him, sensors slowly trickling in with feedback. 

He didn’t hurt. He was cradled in something warm and comfortable. His system fed him updates in a glacially slow pattern. Repaired? Yes. Safe? Debatable. Assumable. The circumstances of his demise suggested he shouldn’t be awake at all. 

Sensation began to trickle in. Sounds, that of vents, the low hum of machinery, the steady beep of a sparkrate machine, and much, much further out, the distant noise of something buzzing and… screaming. 

Alarm bells rang in the back of Drift’s mind. He forced his optics to online, reset them twice to clear the static, and looked up at a dull gray ceiling, scraped and slashed and dented. Naked lights gleamed down at him. 

He didn’t recognize this ceiling. 

He tried to rise, and realized he couldn’t. Not only did his limbs feel as though they were weighted down, but something brought his wrists and ankles up short. Something like manacles. 

Drift rolled his head to the side, confirming his suspicions. He was shackled to the berth, at wrist and ankle and… neck. 

A cold flush of fear ran down his spinal strut, but it was quickly whisked away into a simmering, background heat. It was odd, but the more he tried to ruminate on it, the more his thoughts floated away. He couldn’t seem to stay focused. 

His vision wavered for a moment. 

Drift unshuttered his optics, cycled a ventilation, and opened them again. He glanced around the room. There was enough equipment around him to confirm he was in a medical bay rather than a torture room or a prison cell. A line ran from a nearby machine into his wrist ports, one on either side. Liquid flowed into his frame, and he thought one might be energon, but he didn’t recognize the other. 

It didn’t make sense. 

He last remembered being in a shuttle, fleeing from an Autobot battle cruiser. He’d had half a dozen Autobots with him. They’d been shot down, spinning out of space with a lack of hull integrity, on fire, and crashing toward certain death. The uninhabited moon had rushed up to meet them, and Drift had enough time to spit out a prayer to Primus before they struck. 

He’d thought that was the end. It should have been his end. 

He was alone in the room. There were no windows, and only a single, solid door. He was surrounded by numerous machines, some of which were connected to him, others which were dark and silent. 

Had the rest of his crew survived?

Drift cycled his optics, and the world spun. His tank rippled, threatening to purge. His spark flickered with fear. Why did he feel so disconnected and uncontrolled? 

Where was he…?

The sparkrate monitor surged to life. What had been a steadying beep suddenly became a shrill scream. Drift startled, whipping his gaze toward the machine. It blinked obnoxiously back at him, still shrieking, louder and louder. 

Someone… someone had alarmed him? 

The door opened. 

Drift’s gaze darted toward it. Someone stepped inside. A mech. Drift saw the Autobot badge first, before he recognized anything else, and the heat in his lines briefly ebbed in the wake of a flush of ice. 

No. 

No, he knew this Autobot. 

The memory of this Autobot rose at the back of his processor, tiny flashes of fright and repressed images. The shrill buzz of a hacksaw. The cracking open of his chestplate without permission or anesthesia. The possessive gleam in bright blue optics. The promise of a better life if only he’d give in…

Waking up later to shouting in the outer chamber. Tearing lines from his frame. Fleeing out a back door missing several plates of armor and only the belongings he could see and carry, dripping energon from torn lines. Finding out much, much too late that a name had been scored into his spark chamber in an acid he couldn’t afford to fix. 

He’d lived, and he’d wondered – even then – if that was the more terrible option. 

Panic spiked through his lines. Drift tugged against his restraints, spark strobing a flash of fear. It rose up, choking his intake, and the nausea gripped him, threatened to freeze him in place. 

No. Not this one. Not again. 

“Oh, good. You’re awake!” Ratchet declared, his optics bright with glee and something a bit too close to mania for Drift’s comfort. Even back then, his offers of repairs and safety, freedom and protection, had come with a frenzied edge. 

Gasket had warned him not to go to the free clinic. But he’d been so desperate. He’d been in pain, and he hadn’t the creds to go elsewhere. 

What else was an addict to do?

The ice in his lines turned warm again, melting the chill, flushing them through with heat. The spike of anxiety shifted as quickly as it arrived, from panic to arousal. Unwanted thoughts bubbled up, applying a wave of confusion to everything else attacking his spinning processor. 

Want him. Frag him. Have me. Take me. 

His valve clenched, lubricant slicking his walls. 

Drift moaned, a sickly sound, as the need started to crowd the back of his mind. He tugged ineffectually at his bonds, wanting to escape, and wanting to throw himself at Ratchet all at the same time. 

What was happening to him? 

“I was starting to think I’d have to wait another full cycle before I’d get to see those pretty optics of yours,” Ratchet continued as he all but bounced to Drift’s berthside, leaning over to peer at his face. “Yes, so pretty.” 

Drift would have cringed if he could. He cycled through a number of questions, his glossa sweeping over his dry lips. “Why am I here?” 

A pale finger swept over the side of his face, a soft caress that had no business here. “Because it’s where you belong,” Ratchet murmured, and the tip of his fingers traced the curve of Drift’s mouth before dragging along his bottom lip. “With me.” 

Drift cringed internally while the rest of him seemed to curl toward Ratchet in need. “No,” he moaned, but it seemed to be ignored. 

“You’re my little Decepticon,” Ratchet crooned as his finger dragged down the underside of Drift’s chin and continued further, tracing his intake, his chestplate, avoiding his badge. “I put my claim on you.” He tapped Drift’s chassis, right over his spark chamber, the mark he’d been unable to scrape away, even after joining the Autobots. 

Ratchet didn’t pause too long. His finger moved on. 

Down, down, down. Over Drift’s chest, his belly, his abdomen. It paused over his groin, tracing the seam of his interface array, leaving a line of tingles in his wake. 

“Eons ago, to be fair,” Ratchet said with a tilt of his head, the slow curl of his smile growing and growing, bearing the brilliant white of his denta. “You’re lucky, too. Wheeljack almost beat me to you.” 

Drift didn’t know which was worse. 

He licked his lips, which felt as dry as the deserts of Raetaen. “My team?” he asked, his vocals emerging as a croak. 

He wanted to panic. He thought he should be panic. But something kept taking the panic and locking it away, leaving him with a vague sense of unease, clinging to the little bit of rationale he had left. 

Ratchet rolled his shoulders, and his fingers slipped away, grabbing a nearby datapad instead. A cable dangled from it, and Drift realized too slowly it was connected to a port in his side. His medical port, no less. What was it feeding him? 

“Dead,” Ratchet said, his tone shy of mournful. “A shame really. I had so many ideas…” He trailed off, something flickering in his optics as he sighed with regret. “I could have used the little one.” 

He glanced at the datapad before setting it back down. “That’s all right. I still have you.” 

A warm weight fell on Drift’s abdomen. 

Drift stilled as Ratchet’s palm slid down, over his array, and only then did he realize his panels were already open. He didn’t remember when it happened, as he was reasonably sure they’d been closed a moment ago. 

Now, he was acutely aware of the air tickling his naked equipment. His spike remained recessed, thankfully, but his valve was bare. A light brush of contact swept around the damp rim of it, teasing the sensitive derma. 

Drift quailed. 

“What are you doing?” he demanded, nausea twisting and churning in his belly, threatening the purge to rise once more. 

He tried to twist his hips away, and succeeded, but almost immediately, they surged back toward Ratchet’s fingers, as if he didn’t have complete control of his frame. His subconscious and his conscious battled over what he wanted. A pulse of need rippled through his lines, and his valve clenched, lubricant seeping out in a slow trickle. 

“I would have thought that were obvious,” Ratchet said as he slipped a finger into Drift’s valve, curling it just right to apply a firm pressure to the large, internal node directly inside his rim. 

Drift stifled a moan. His backstrut arched, pleasure licking up his spinal strut in bright bursts. He dragged in a panting breath, thoughts spinning, valve cycling down on Ratchet’s finger. 

No, two. He’d inserted another already and palpated inside Drift’s valve, gracing every node within reach. His thumb applied a light, circling pressure to Drift’s anterior node, smearing it with his own lubricant. 

“Why?” Drift gasped, head lolling back, more pleasure bursting through his lines, faster than he could fight. 

Nausea gripped his tanks. They roiled, while the pleasure twisted and coiled inside of him, threatening to swallow him whole. Purge rose up in his intake, then burned back down again before it spilled, as though that was beyond his control as well. 

“Because you’re mine,” Ratchet murmured. His free hand rested on Drift’s belly, sliding up and down, smoothly, soothingly, like Drift were a pet who needed reassurance. “You’re my special project. We’re going to have so much fun.” 

A third finger slipped into him, the noise of lubricant squelching around Ratchet’s fingers too loud in the medbay room. The rapid increasing beats of the spark monitor were shrill announcements in Drift’s audials. He panted, dragging in faster vent after faster vent, hips twisting and churning, riding Ratchet’s fingers. 

It felt… it felt good. He wanted more. 

He didn’t. 

But his frame demanded more. Drift whined and shuttered his optics, clamping his mouth shut. He gnawed on his glossa, bit it harder and harder, trying to focus on the pain more than anything else. 

The ecstasy chased it away. 

“Don’t fight it, pet,” Ratchet said, his voice coming from a distance and also, right in Drift’s ear, like a haunting lullaby he wanted to follow. “Give yourself to me.” 

Drift whimpered. 

His entire frame drew taut and snapped. He overloaded, thighs shaking, valve clamping down, rippling on Ratchet’s fingers as though trying to milk them for the transfluid they didn’t have. Lubricant flooded from his valve, dampening the berth beneath his aft. He could smell his overload in the air, a vile stink of ozone and hot lubricant. 

“That’s it,” Ratchet crooned, still fingering him, still rubbing over and over his anterior node, pushing the pleasure to the point of irritation. “Give it all to me.” 

“No…” Drift protested, his vents coming in sharper bursts, dizziness attacking the edges of his awareness. 

The spark monitor shrieked at them. 

Need clawed through his lines. He was sated. He’d overloaded. His valve clung to Ratchet’s fingers, gently massaging his nodes, extending his pleasure. But there was something in the pit of his tank, something that craved more. 

“Wonderful,” Ratchet said, his voice thick with praise. His fingers withdrew, dripping with Drift’s lubricant. 

Drift forced his optics open, his visual feed tainted by a haze. He watched Ratchet examine his fingers, head tilting left and right as though the sight of Drift’s lubricant fascinated him. He brought his hand closer, giving his fingers a tentative sniff, and a low growl rose in the medic’s engine. 

“This is an excellent start.” Ratchet grinned down at him, triumph glowing his optics. His free hand reached for one of the machines connected to Drift’s frame. “We’ll continue later.” 

Unconsciousness claimed Drift before he could get out a single word. 

~

He wasn’t in a prison cell. 

He onlined again, and his circumstances hadn’t changed. He was still in the medbay, still shackled to the berth, still attached to various bits of equipment and fluid lines. 

His panels remained open. Try as he might, he couldn’t convince them to close. His spike and valve were bare, his spike recessed, his valve twitching with every caress of cold air. The puddle beneath his aft was gone, the sticky lubricant wiped away as though someone had lovingly bathed him. 

The lights in the room were dimmed as if for recharge. The spark monitor beeped a constant rhythm. There was a tray near his left hip, and instruments on it occasionally gleamed, but he couldn’t make out what they were. 

He was alone. 

It didn’t last. 

The door opened, the lights brightened, and Drift squinted as his optics cycled down to avoid the glare. Ratchet came inside, a spring in his step, a grin on his face. Drift’s spark dropped down into his tank, the cold, gripping fear pushing at the back of his processor. 

“Did you have a nice stasis nap?” Ratchet asked as he all but bounced to Drift’s left side. He picked up the datapad plugged into Drift’s system, his finger sweeping over the screen. 

“How long was I out?” Drift demanded, and his vocals came out raspy as if from disuse. His mouth was dry and sticky. 

Arousal hummed at him on a subconscious level. He shifted on the berth, heat rising in his frame, valve beginning to slick as though the mere sight of Ratchet was enough to arouse him. 

“A few hours.” Ratchet tucked the datapad back by Drift’s hip and pulled the rolling tray closer, fingers dancing over the gathered instruments. “You are very beautiful, pet. But I think a little decoration is order. Perfection can always be improved.” 

He picked up something, but Drift had no idea what kind of device it was. Ratchet’s free hand moved between Drift’s thighs, and he cringed as he felt the cool brush of fingertips over his valve rim. Ratchet stroked him, humming in his intake, teasing his nub while arousal twisted and curled in Drift’s belly. 

He couldn’t move away this time. Sometime during his rest, restraining bands had been pulled across his frame. They pinned him down at the belly, across his hips, at his upper thighs, keeping his lower half immobile. 

Drift eyed the device in Ratchet’s hand and panic strobed through his spark. “What are you going to do to me?” 

“Not kill you, so don’t worry about that.” Ratchet’s fingertip rubbed over Drift’s anterior node in steadying circles, varying the speed and pressure, causing a wave of heat to flood Drift’s frame. “You are my pet now, and I take very, very good of my pets.” He licked his lips. 

Dread pooled in Drift’s belly. His tanks clenched as purge threatened to rise in his intake. His full tanks, he realized belatedly. One of the fluid lines in his arm must have been feeding him a steady drip of energon. 

He also noticed Ratchet didn’t answer the question. 

Lubricant trickled from his valve. Ratchet dipped his finger in the slick, swirled it around his rim, and then touched the tip of his recessed spike with it. 

“But I think I’m a fair mech, and I want my pets to be happy. So I’ll give you a choice.” Ratchet rubbed the pad of his finger over Drift’s spikehead, teasing the transfluid slit. 

Drift’s vents caught in his intake. Nausea warred with arousal. 

“Don’t,” Drift said, and it came out weak. Like he couldn’t get the refusal past a lump in his intake. 

“Spike or valve?” Ratchet asked as if he hadn’t heard Drift speak.

Drift shook his head, his frame starting to tremble. “I don’t…” 

“Both it is!” Ratchet declared. He continued to rub at the head of Drift’s spike, coaxing it from its sheath, until it emerged, half-pressurized, into Ratchet’s palm. 

“I’ll start with your spike first,” Ratchet said as he squeezed and pinched and rubbed Drift’s spikehead, sending surges of pleasure through his sensory net. 

Drift jerked, brought up short by the restraints. His hands curled into fists. His vents came in sharper bursts as his groin pulsed fire, feeding need into his lines. 

Ratchet cradled Drift’s spike with one hand. The other held a device, and this he brought closer. It gleamed in the bright lights, and Drift still had no idea what it was. 

“What is that?” he demanded. 

Ratchet didn’t answer. He was focused, intent on Drift’s spike, gripping it firm in one hand and bringing the head of it into range of the device. 

Drift panicked. The sparkrate monitor beeped faster, a cadence throbbing in his audials. He trembled, and wasn’t sure if it was from fear, or the unwanted arousal threading his lines. 

He watched, wide-opticked, as Ratchet fitted the head of his spike into the instrument. As he eased some thin, slick piece of metal into Drift’s transfluid slit. There was a sharp, immediate pinch, and if Drift hadn’t been restrained, he’d have jerked. 

Dull pain radiated through his groin. His spike sent damage warnings straight to his processor on a high alert. The device made a dull thunking noise and then Ratchet removed it. Drift’s spike throbbed, half with pleasure, half with the hot-white ache of a recent injury. 

There, in the head of his spike, a ring of metal winked back at him. It was a polished, dark gray shade, a perfect complement to his armor’s underlayer. 

“Beautiful,” Ratchet breathed. He flicked his finger over the ring, making it flop back and forth in Drift’s spike. “I knew this would suit you.” 

Pain radiated outward. It stung, even more so with the flick of Ratchet’s finger. Drift’s vents stuttered. His mouth moved, but he couldn’t seem to make any words emerge. They were strangled in his intake, his rapid vents overriding them. Lights danced in his optics, and it had nothing to do with the surgical brightness overhead. 

“Now for the rest!” Ratchet declared, gleeful.

Fingers brushed over Drift’s valve. He whined, tried to twist away, the medberth creaking beneath him without effect. His fans shrilled, spinning too fast. His spike throbbed and throbbed, the tiniest droplets of energon welling up around the ring. 

Ratchet refitted the piercing device with another ring and fondled Drift’s valve. He stroked the rim and the folds, he circled the nub over and over again, until Drift couldn’t decide if it was pleasure or pain. He pinched Drift’s nub, and Drift jerked, a gasp tearing from his intake. 

“You’re beautifully responsive, pet,” Ratchet said. “This will make you even more so.” He pinched Drift’s main node between two fingers, the pressure making Drift go taut with conflicting sensation. 

“Don’t,” Drift begged. 

Ratchet gave no sign he’d heard. He aimed the piercing instrument at Drift’s valve, fitted his nub around the pincers of it, wiggling a little to get the perfect angle. There was a moment of tense waiting, a sob caught in Drift’s intake, before a dull thunk echoed in the medroom. 

Pain lanced through Drift’s valve. He tasted energon as he bit his glossa, a hot slice of agony rippling through his groin, through his anterior node reawakening the throbbing fire in his spike. Optical fluid welled up around his optics, and he squeezed his shutters closed. Burning heat took up residence in his groin, specifically around his nub. 

Even more so when Ratchet plucked at the ring, giving it a wiggle. He hummed appreciatively. “Oh yes, quite lovely.” 

The tugs pulled on something deep within Drift’s array. His valve gave another squeeze of lubricant, his sparkrate increasing as arousal pushed a faster beat through his lines. The searing heat of the piercing morphed into the heat of pleasure, mingling with little spikes of pain. As if something deep within him was sucking in the pain, stirring it up, and spitting it back out as pleasure instead, muddying up the translation along the way. 

He honestly couldn’t tell the difference. 

“One more!” Ratchet declared. 

Drift moaned. 

There was a pressure at the caudal edge of his valve, where a smaller node was inset. Ratchet pinched it between thumb and forefinger, and Drift didn’t even have time to brace himself. The dull thunk preceded the flash of pain, and inexplicably, overload surged through him. 

He arched, twisting as little as he could in his bonds, a whining moan slipping from his intake. His processor spun. Lubricant spilled from his valve, dampening the berth beneath him again, soaking the new piercing, making his aft sticky. 

The piercing device returned to the tray with a clatter. Fingers petted over his swollen valve, which throbbed to the rapid beat of his spark, and felt hot and tender. 

Drift peeled his optics open. Ratchet loomed over him, hands moving over his frame, tugging on the ring around his spike, fondling the rings in his external valve nodes. Each piercing seemed to be connected to something deep in his groin, like a direct line to a pleasure nexus, because ecstasy swelled in him all over again. 

“Ssstop,” Drift slurred. It felt like the strength and energy were draining from him, slipping out through the pleasure building and building in his groin. 

Ratchet’s touches increased in earnest. He was focused on Drift’s array, fingers tugging and stroking and pulling, slicking themselves in Drift’s lubricant, painting streaks of it over his inner thighs and over his swollen spike and valve. 

Drift’s hips twitched in the tiniest of motions he was allowed, rocking into Ratchet’s touch, hunger in his belly for release. It was there. He wouldn’t have to reach for it. It would consume him whether he wanted it or not. 

It took him, spike and valve at once, nodes throbbing around their new metal decorations, spike pulsing across the ring adorning the slit. Transfluid spattered down, decorating his groin, the smell of ozone nauseatingly thick in the air. 

Drift gasped, vision streaking static around the edges. He tried to hold on to consciousness, but it slipped out of his grasp, and he slipped under once more. 

The embrace of dark was a welcome relief. 

~

Drift woke with a cry of pleasure on his lips, heat and fiery ecstasy ripping through his frame, arching away from the medberth beneath him, his thighs trembling. 

His optical shutters snapped open, the rest of his senses slower to follow. His entire frame rattled, and his head lolled about as he struggled to determine what was happening to him. His processor spun, the world around him streaks of heat and color and sound. 

Something was buzzing. Vibrating. A low drone. Slick, wet noises. Moist and quick and slow. Creaking, like cables tensing and a medberth rattling. A smell on his glossa, lubricant and ozone and transfluid. 

He was still on the medberth. He was still in the medbay. His hands were still shackled to the berth to either side of his head. His legs had been adjusted, feet pushed up, ankles bound to his thighs. Something forced his legs wide open, at the knees, baring his array.

Sensation slicked over his array. 

Drift rolled his gaze downward, struggling to focus, spying Ratchet between his legs. 

“There you are, pretty,” Ratchet purred, his lips shiny, glossa sweeping over them to lick it away. 

Shiny with lubricant. Drift’s lubricant. 

He bent forward, licked Drift’s valve, suckled on his anterior nub, tugging on the piercing with his teeth. Another shot of pleasure stole Drift’s vents. He gasped, wriggling in his bonds, unable to twist away, the berth creaking beneath him. 

Something prodded at his aft port, firm and slick, nudging inside, stretching the narrower rim of it. Something that buzzed and vibrated, sending a broader drone of pleasure through Drift’s sensor net. 

“Wh-wh-wh–” He stammered, unable to get out the question as Ratchet sucked hard on his anterior node and overload washed through his frame. 

His fans whirred so fast they screamed. His vents roared. Condensation gathered on his frame. His system warned him of overheating. 

“It’s a reward,” Ratchet said, and licked him, lapping up lubricant, slurping it noisily. 

Something pressed deeper into Drift’s aft. The buzzing intensified. 

“You’re such a good pet,” Ratchet murmured. His head dipped, denta tugging on the ring around Drift’s lower exterior node. 

He gasped, backstrut arching, processor twirling. His vision streaked static, his thighs shook so hard his cables ached. His optics rolled into the back of his head as he threw his head back, intake bared, struggling to catch his vents. 

A palm smoothed over his spike. He was hard, aching, dribbling from the tip. The ring gleamed at him. Ratchet gripped him, stroked him, firm and squeezing and perfect, like he already knew how Drift liked to be touched. 

He gasped, overloading within moments, a thin stream spurting from his spike. Drift gulped in several desperate draughts of air, warm and humid, his head spinning and spinning. 

Ratchet squeezed and worked him, as if milking him for every last drop. His mouth dropped back to Drift’s valve, licking and slurping and sucking on him with abandon. His field pushed at Drift’s, hot and sticky and tangling around his as if laying claim. 

The buzzing intensified, the vibrations harsh and angry against his sensitive nodes. Drift tossed his head back, a garbled shriek tearing from his intake to match the sharp throb of his groin as another overload stole his body. Torn from him violently, like a physical blow. 

His head spun. He couldn’t ventilate. His groin ached, and he wanted to twist away, but he couldn’t. Ratchet’s palm on his spike continued, squeezing and pumping, lubricant making it slick, but still painful. Drift didn’t know how he was still pressurized and leaking, but he was. 

Ratchet pinned his anterior node between his lips and denta. He tugged on the ring, sucked hard, and it burned. It seared like fire. It was more pain than pleasure, but somehow, it didn’t leave him be. It kept building and building. Lost in translation, pain went through a filter and emerged as ecstasy. 

“S-s-stop,” Drift moaned, his vocalizer crackling. “Please.” 

If Ratchet heard his pleas, he didn’t acknowledge them. He kept going, plunging something in and out of Drift’s aft, something that buzzed and stretched. Lips and denta devoured his valve, suckling hard on every node. Fingers gripped and tugged on his spike, his full groin swollen and throbbing, one big ball of confused arousal and agony. 

Another overload stripped him raw. He wanted to scream, but all he managed was a crackle of static. His entire frame seized, frozen, trapped in pleasure. 

He sank back into the dark. 

~

Either his chronometer was broken or deactivated. Drift couldn’t be sure anymore. He was certain time passed, judging by the fact he oscillated between consciousness and recharge. 

He didn’t know how long it had been. 

Rescue wasn’t coming. The Decepticons must have assumed he was dead. The way his shuttle crashed, no one could have survived. 

He was in the spark of the Autobot fleet. Everyone knew Ratchet was never far from Optimus Prime. If Drift was here with Ratchet, then he was definitely on Ark-One, the spearhead of the Autobot fleet. 

There was no rescue to be had. 

There was no escape. 

There was only this. There was only whatever Ratchet wanted from him, or death. And knowing Ratchet, death wasn’t much of an escape. 

He’d seen the shambling half-lives on the battlefield. Things that were dead but not. Things that bled weird, tainted energon, and kept going until you cut them into small enough pieces. Terrifying abominations of mechs torn apart and welded back together, mechs that couldn’t possibly transform. 

Drift didn’t want to become one of those monsters. 

He didn’t know if it was a mercy Ratchet wanted something different from him. The pleasure and the pain, mingling and twisting together. Waking to Ratchet touching him, prodding him, applying pleasure and twisting it with agony. 

He emerged from recharge hating Ratchet, searching with his optics for a way out. He tested his restraints. He eyed his surroundings. Every time he woke in a different position, he looked for weaknesses, anything he could work to his advantage. 

By the time he fell back into the darkness, he was confused. Dizzy. Drowning in pleasure. Craving more of it. Craving enough he was willing to beg Ratchet for release. Anything to cross that threshold and keep going, again and again and again and–

It got harder and harder to remember who he was. 

It got even harder to remember he was supposed to hate it. 

There was a fuzziness in his processor, and it got worse every time he onlined. Like a slow web was being strung between Then and Now, separating what he knew, from what he was becoming. 

He hated Ratchet. 

He wanted to be closer to Ratchet. 

He wanted to kill Ratchet. 

He wanted to draw Ratchet into his mouth and suck him dry. 

How long had he been here? Did it even matter? His tanks were never empty. His fluids were filled and drained and replenished on a schedule only the wealthy had ever enjoyed. His armor was always gleaming and polished. Whatever Ratchet harmed, he fixed. He was full of praise. 

Ratchet hurt, and he healed. 

Drift forgot there was supposed to be a difference between the two. 

~

Drift tried to go inward. To focus on something other than the fingers and the false spike pushing and prodding into his valve. He wanted to ignore the thick, nauseating scent of lubricant and arousal, the noise of fans spinning, and the steady drone of Ratchet’s voice.

It was probably meant to be reassuring. All it managed to do was ensure there was a continuous curdle of dread in Drift’s tanks.

Dread and the disorientating sensation of arousal that wouldn’t leave him be. It choked his lines and clogged his sensory net. It made him rock down and push up into Ratchet’s touch, his nodes throbbing and his valve spilling pulse after pulse of lubricant. His spike was pressurized and had been since Ratchet first began, however long ago it was.

Drift wasn’t sure. He tried not to watch his chronometer, tried not to watch time ticking away from him. Tried not to think about the impossibility of escape.

Protests burbled on his glossa, and were swallowed just as quickly. They wouldn’t be heeded. Why waste the energy?

Four fingers plunged into him, stretching the limits of his rim, which ached and burned, but yielded to the stretch. Drift wanted to quail away from it, but there was a shout in the back of his processor which demanded more, more, more.

“Whatever you want, pet,” Ratchet said, with glee in his voice.

It took that long for Drift to realize he must have moaned the last request aloud, and Ratchet had heard him. He’d taken the inadvertent plea for genuine desire.

Four fingers withdrew. Something else replaced them. Something that was thicker, broader, coming to a rough point.

Drift looked down, down the length of his angled frame, down at what he’d been attempting to avoid. Ratchet sat between his thighs, propped on a stool, Drift spread wide to accommodate him. His optics were aglow with lust, and he watched avidly as he eased his fingers into Drift’s valve. 

All of them. Four fingers and a thumb, drawn to an uneven conical point. Drift’s valve made an obscene noise as they slipped inside, his rim stretching, possibly tearing, burning like fire. 

Drift squirmed, but Ratchet’s free hand gripped his hip, kept him in place. He sucked in air through his denta, stars dancing behind his optical feed, as Ratchet’s hand moved deeper, catching at the widest point and stalling. His rim tugged and tugged against a catch on Ratchet’s plating. 

Lubricant made a moist, wet sound. Ratchet licked his lips, vents harsh and ragged, his field so hot and heavy with lust it overpowered Drift, knocking him for a loop. His own rose up to defend him, and was again barreled over by the onslaught. He swore he could taste the lust on his glossa. 

Ratchet pushed forward, applying a steady pressure, and then the widest part of his hand slipped inside. The rest went smoother. Bottom half of his palm. His wrist. A section of his lower arm. More of his arm. Midway to elbow. 

Ratchet paused. 

Drift panted. A thin whine peeled out of his throat. He felt impaled, stretched wide, valve throbbing and aching. Dizzy, his head lolled. His vents came in short gasps. Ratchet’s fingers moved inside of him, fingers palpating his inner nodes. 

Ratchet’s hand left his hip and flattened over his belly, fingers splayed wide, as though he could feel the bulge of his hand inside Drift’s valve. Within Drift, his fingers drew together in a tight fist, a thick bulge of plating. 

He started to move. 

Drift keened. 

Backstrut arching, armor clattering, thighs jerking in their restraints. Out. In. Out. Deeper. Grind, grind, grind against his ceiling node. 

Release ripped through his frame. Drift jerked and went taut, electric fire leaping out from under his plating, too sharp to be pleasureful. Searing, like the splash of a slag pit if you’re not too careful. 

Ratchet twisted his arm and ground, ground, ground his knuckles on Drift’s ceiling node. Again and again. Drift thrashed, writhing, another overload sweeping over him before he could cycle down from the first. His processor spun. He couldn’t catch a vent. 

It took him too long to realize the thin, whining sound came from his own intake. 

Lubricant dribbled out around Ratchet’s arm. Drift’s valve cycled tighter and tighter, grasping to Ratchet’s arm plating for node clusters that weren’t there. Need still twisted in his abdomen, roared through his lines. He’d overloaded twice and still wanted more. Wanted another. 

There was no going inward. There was no getting away from it. There was nothing but the strain of his frame, desperately seeking that next release. 

“Please,” Drift moaned, and not even he knew what it meant. His legs shook. His valve rippled, tried to suck Ratchet’s hand deeper, tried to feed pleasure from it. 

“Another?” Ratchet slowly slid his arm in and out, in and out. He leaned down, tip of his glossa wrapping around the ring in Drift’s anterior node and giving it a tug. 

Drift arched, caught on the edge, not quite tipping over. 

“Please,” he begged. “Please.” 

Ratchet’s field flooded with approval, washing over Drift, and something within him relaxed at the feeling of it. Ratchet was proud of him. Ratchet was pleased. 

The overload when it came this time was suffused with warmth. It washed over him like a slow, rolling tide, dragging him beneath the waves.

Ratchet’s approval followed him under. 

~

It was the first time he wasn’t shackled to the medberth. 

A thrill ran through Drift at the change. He slid to the floor and padded to the door. It didn’t open to him – locked, of course. 

Drift poked around the room. 

Previous days there had been trays of instruments, toys, equipment. This day, it was barren. No tables or trays. The cabinets had been emptied. It was desolate, all of the extra equipment removed. 

How long had he been in recharge? 

Where was Ratchet? 

Drift nibbled on his bottom lip and absently, his hand drifted down to his groin. His spike peeped from his sheath, and the gleam of the ring piercing the head of it caught his optic. He pinched it between thumb and forefinger, shivering as a little surge of pleasure coiled in his groin. 

He hadn’t had much opportunity to explore his new piercings. 

His fingers ventured lower, tentatively brushing over the rings through his nodes. They swelled at his touch, thickening with arousal, and Drift shivered again. He swallowed thickly, heat flushing through his lines. 

His valve slicked. 

Only then did he realize he didn’t have any panels. What should have been there to protect and conceal his array from prying optics, wasn’t. He couldn’t close his panels, couldn’t hide himself. He had no dignity, no privacy. 

Then again, he supposed he didn’t need it. Pets didn’t need privacy. 

A strange thought that. He was a free mech, but… not. He had a master. He had an owner. He was not his own.

Drift frowned, fingers on his valve, head tilting. There was a jarring dissonance in his processor. Lines drawn between two certainties were frayed or missing. 

No, he didn’t belong to Ratchet, right? He was his own mech. He was a Decepticon. He was Drift. He was important to Megatron, to the war. He wasn’t owned by an Autobot. He was… 

He was…

Drift licked his lips. He tugged on the ring around his caudal node, felt lubricant slick his fingertips and drip down, sliding toward his aft port. 

He needed to be filled, was what he was. 

Where was Ratchet? 

Drift looked up, toward the door, yearning. Why was he alone? Ratchet never left him alone so long before. Usually, he’d come back within moments of Drift waking. But here he was, unfettered, alone in the room, for longer. Or was it? His chronometer was broken, so he wasn’t sure anymore. 

The door opened. 

Drift’s attention snapped toward it. His thighs slicked with lubricant. A whimper tightened in his intake. He tugged on his anterior node ring. 

Ratchet stepped inside, and Drift licked his lips. 

“Morning, pet,” Ratchet said. 

Drift went to him, because there was a gnawing deep inside his belly that demanded he do so. He went to Ratchet, and he whined when Ratchet held his chin and bent to kiss him, soft and sweet. 

“Look at you, ready and eager,” Ratchet crooned. His free hand dipped between Drift’s thighs, coming up wet with lubricant. “I’m so happy to see that.” He slid a finger through the ring in Drift’s node and gave it a tug. 

Drift moaned. He swayed where he stood. 

He didn’t want this. He knew he didn’t want this. Shouldn’t want this. 

He couldn’t bring himself to move away. 

“You’re going to bend over the berth for me, aren’t you?” Ratchet asked as he tugged, tugged, tugged on the ring, and arousal twisted and coiled in Drift’s groin. 

His vents surged, drawing in thick draughts of air. “No,” Drift moaned, but it was weak, so weak. 

Ratchet chuckled. “Yes, you are.” He nipped Drift’s lip and tugged hard on the ring, sending a lance of pain through Drift’s groin. 

His knees buckled. Ratchet’s grip on his chin kept him mostly upright. 

“You’re going to bend over the berth.” 

Drift swallowed thickly. “Yes,” he whispered. 

“Good pet.” Ratchet patted him on the cheek and let him go. 

Drift turned and wobbled toward the medberth. Fire flashed in his groin with every step, the ring jostling through his node. But he bent over the berth, aft up, legs spread, letting the berth take most of his weight. His spike bumped against the side of the berth, and Drift couldn’t resist humping forward, rubbing the head of it over the soft fabric. It caught the piercing in delicious little tugs. 

Drift moaned, humped again, loving the delightful curl of pleasure winding through his spike. 

Ratchet’s hand landed on his lower back, rubbing up and down. The other prodded between Drift’s thighs, petting his valve before shifting. Lubricant-wet fingers circled Drift’s aft panel. 

“Open,” he said. 

Drift’s spark quailed with anxiety. It never occurred to him to disobey. 

Slick fingers circled his aft port before two of them plunged inside, briefly stretching and slicking him. Drift grunted, clutching at the covers, elbows tucked beneath him. 

“I should pierce you here as well,” Ratchet commented, almost offhand, as he rubbed the small panel separating Drift’s aft port from his valve. “You don’t need a cover here anyway.” 

No. Stop. Don’t. Words he thought but didn’t voice. He ground his denta, swallowed a moan, and tensed when Ratchet’s fingers vanished and a blunt pressure aimed at his aft port. Too little lubricant, hardly any stretching. This was going to hurt. 

But pain. Pain was expected. Pain was part of it. Pain meant pleasure, and pleasure was a good thing. Pleasure was release and overloads and sweet oblivion. 

Drift canted his hips upward, rising on the tips of his feet, presenting himself. 

Ratchet purred approval. “Good pet,” he said, and thrust, quick and deep, filling Drift immediately. 

Fire ripped through his aft port. Drift’s backstrut arched, and he thought he might scream, but it caught in his intake. His vents turned ragged. His knees buckled and without the berth, he might have collapsed. As it was, he went limp across it, dragging back with Ratchet’s retreat, and shoving forward with his harsh, claiming thrusts. 

Ratchet hissed with pleasure. “Perfect,” he said through his denta. “Just as I knew you’d be.” He thrust again, and again, harder and deeper, but no faster. Each stroke buried him to the hilt, and each withdraw barely counted as such before he plunged inside again. 

Drift moaned, an aching sound, because it hurt, it burned, but arousal twisted and coiled inside of him regardless. His valve rippled on nothing. His spike spat lubricant against the side of the berth. His port walls fluttered around the invasion, urging Ratchet deeper. 

“Please,” he begged, hands clawing the berth cover, backstrut arched, trying to crawl away from Ratchet while his frame simultaneously pushed backward, into each deep thrust. 

“Please what?” Ratchet asked. 

Drift was torn. 

Please stop. Please don’t stop. Harder. Stop. More. None. 

He fisted the cover until it tore, rutted forward, grinding his spike against the edge of the berth, the piercing catching and rubbing against it. His aft throbbed, aching and sore and hot, like fire, from no preparation and too little lubricant. 

He tried to speak, but the words wouldn’t come out. He choked on static and swallowed down the cries. 

He didn’t want this. He hated this. He needed this. He hated that he needed this. 

Ratchet smoothed his hands down, gripped Drift’s hips, yanked him hard into each thrust, pushed him back into the berth, banging him between two hard surfaces. He’d have scratches and dents. Ratchet would buff them out later. Clean him and wax him. 

What Ratchet broke, Ratchet fixed. He was a good master. 

No. 

Drift didn’t want that. He wanted. 

Escape. He wanted to escape. There was no escape. He couldn’t escape. He shouldn’t escape. He was where he was supposed to be. 

Oh, Primus. It felt good. It felt so good. 

Drift moaned. He didn’t know what kind of flavor it was. He bit into the berth to muffle his cries as Ratchet plunged into him again. And again. And again. Grinding deep, grinding hard, making him rut against the berth, soaking it with his pre-spill. 

His valve clenched on nothing. Drift craved to be filled. He wanted more, but he bit down on his glossa so as not to ask for it. He didn’t want to give Ratchet the satisfaction. He still had his pride. He was still himself. 

He was still a Decepticon. 

He was still Drift. 

He told himself this, even as he overloaded on Ratchet’s spike and spilled his transfluid against the side of the berth. Even as the pleasure stripped away his thoughts, leaving him with a desperate need for more. 

Ratchet couldn’t have him. 

He was still Drift. 

~

Warmth surrounded him, embraced him. 

Drift hummed as he onlined, sensation gradually trickling in, the scent of cleanser and oil tickling his nasal sensors. His optical shutters fluttered open. 

He was in an oil bath. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d been in something so luxurious. Someone was kindly rubbing a soft cloth over his frame, cleaning his nooks and crannies, while their free hand fondled his groin, teasing the head of his half-pressurized spike and occasionally dipping down to rub over his valve. 

Drift sighed a moan. 

Lips pressed a kiss to his nearest finial. “There you are,” Ratchet crooned, and Drift’s insides tightened with want. “I have a surprise for you, pet.” 

“A surprise?” Drift echoed. Distantly, there might have been something he was supposed to remember. Something about this situation that wasn’t quite right. 

It was there and gone again, like a wisp of smoke, when Ratchet cupped his valve and tugged on his caudal node piercing. Drift whimpered and rolled his hips against Ratchet’s palm, arousal threading a hungry need through his sensory net. 

“Oh, yes,” Ratchet breathed into his audial and went back to rubbing on Drift’s spike, coaxing it from his sheath, one finger looped into the piercing and giving it a little tug. “I want to feel this today. I want to feel you inside me, pet. I want to make you mine.” 

Drift leaned back against Ratchet, tucking his head into the crook of Ratchet’s neck. “I want that, too.” He licked his lips, rocking up into the tunnel of Ratchet’s fist, already imagining the tight heat of the medic around him. 

“Do you?” Ratchet’s other hand stopped cleaning him. It pressed flat to his chestplate, one digit tracing the seam concealing his spark chamber. 

Drift shivered, remembering what Ratchet had last done for him. The pleasure and the pain. The shocking agony washing away in the wake of pure bliss. It was reclamation, hot vents on a mark ages old, and pleasure usurping all else. 

A whine rose in his intake. 

“Yes, yes I do!” He clutched at Ratchet’s arms, drawing in heavy pants through vents that weren’t covered by the rich oil. “Oh, please, Ratchet. Please can I serve you?” 

A tiny voice whispered at the back of his processor. It was a language he didn’t know. It drifted away, smoke on the battlefield, gone in the wake of a hot pulse of need through his frame. 

Ratchet chuckled, the sound rolling through Drift’s audial. “I will grant you that boon, my pretty, pretty pet.” 

His hands vanished. 

Drift whimpered at the loss, scrabbling for him. But Ratchet dumped Drift from his lap, and Drift nearly plunged face first into the oil. He came up sputtering, struggling to get his feet beneath him. He wiped oil from his optics as Ratchet emerged from the bath with much more grace, oil dripping down his frame. 

Want surged through Drift’s lines. His discomfort didn’t matter. Only what Ratchet wanted from him. 

Ratchet crooked a finger. 

Drift scrambled to follow. 

Dignity! 

The word, screamed at him, made Drift reduce his haste. He cocked his head. The voice almost sounded familiar. The shout was a noise of desperation. It reminded him of something… something from a long time ago. 

“Drift!” 

Ratchet’s shout sounded much louder, much more important. 

Drift hastened to obey. 

He dripped oil as he followed Ratchet’s equally damp footsteps into an adjoining room. It was more like a lounge, with a few long and padded benches spread in the small space. 

Ratchet stood near one of them, and the moment Drift got into reach, Ratchet grabbed him by the jaw and pulled him into a kiss. Drift moaned, melting against Ratchet’s mouth, clutching to Ratchet’s side. His fully pressurized spike brushed over Ratchet’s upper thighs, need clawing from the pit of his belly to the twirl of his spark. 

“You are such a good pet,” Ratchet said against his lips. He bit down on Drift’s bottom lip, hard enough to draw energon. 

It stung, but less so when Ratchet licked away the bite, leaving his lip plump and swollen. 

“Lay down,” Ratchet said and gave Drift a little push toward the nearest lounge. 

He obeyed quickly. That voice at the back of his head shouted at him. It was like fists beating against a thick wall of transteel, a shadow moving on the other side of it. Drift side-eyed the strange presence, but then Ratchet was straddling him, Drift’s spike shadowed in the vee of his thighs. 

His valve was open. 

Drift’s optics widened. His hands rested on Ratchet’s hips as he hungrily eyed the dripping valve on display for him. Biolights blinked and fluttered. Swollen valve lips begged to be touched. Licked. Tasted. Worshiped. 

Drift’s mouth filled with lubricant. He wanted to lick Ratchet. He wanted Ratchet to sit on his face, smother him until he gasped for a ventilation. He wanted Ratchet to ride his mouth. He wanted Ratchet to take whatever he desired, so long as it came from Drift. 

He unconsciously bucked, the head of his spike gracing those swollen, dripping folds. Oh, he wanted inside. He wanted to taste Ratchet’s valve with his spike. 

Ratchet’s fingers wrapped around his wrists. Drew his hands up, held them together, pinned them over his head. He sank down, hips rolling over Drift’s spike, painting it in lubricant. 

His free hand drew a cable. The end of it was dull from repeated use. 

“Open your port,” Ratchet demanded. 

Drift obeyed. His dorsal panel snapped open, revealing his main cabling port, the most direct access he had to his systems short of a processor plug. 

“Good pet.” Ratchet’s approval washed over him. 

Drift moaned and writhed beneath him. He waited, expectant, until Ratchet plugged into him, and almost immediately, the medic’s presence butted up against his firewalls, demanding permission. 

“Let me in, pet,” Ratchet said. 

Don’t! 

The scream made Drift jerk. His optics snapped wide. For a moment, he tugged on Ratchet’s hold, but the fingers tightened in warning. His wrist armor creaked at the sudden pressure. The pain sucked air into his vents. 

Don’t!

The voice shrieked at him, panicked and desperate and terrified. For a moment, something broke through the dark, shadowy place Drift didn’t want to poke. There was an inkling of clarity, the tiniest glowing ember. If he touched it, maybe that feeling of wrongness would be explained. 

Maybe–

Ratchet sank down on top of him, taking his spike in one fell swoop. Pleasure rocketed through him and Drift’s backstrut arched, processor going static-white with ecstasy. 

The voice vanished, erased. 

Drift relented, and Ratchet stormed inside of him. 

“Yes,” Ratchet hissed as he rose and fell on Drift’s spike, riding him with abandon, taking him in harsh drops, grinding down on Drift as if he were a toy for Ratchet’s amusement alone. 

Because he was. 

He took Drift’s spike, and he plundered Drift’s processor, filling him out until Drift felt claimed within and without. The voice was gone. The presence was gone. The tiny bit of light winked and snuffed out, surrendering to the black. 

Drift gasped like he’d emerged from drowning. He planted his feet on the lounge and started thrusting up into Ratchet, seeking his release with single-minded intensity, seeking to pleasure Ratchet as he best knew how. 

“Good pet,” Ratchet praised. “Good.” He left the cable connecting them, swaying with their movements. His palm flattened on Drift’s chestplate, over his spark seam. “One last thing, pet. Open for me.” 

It never occurred to him to disobey. 

What Ratchet wanted, Drift would give. 

His chestplate split down the seam, a y-shape, and slide aside, revealing his spark casing. He spiraled it open without Ratchet having to ask, until the medic’s hand could dip into his chest, press into the first layer of his spark corona. 

A moan caught in Drift’s intake. He tossed his head back, hip juttering up into Ratchet, ecstasy rattling through him. 

“Your spark is in my hand,” Ratchet said, his optics aglow as he pushed his fingers deeper, into the secondary layer, and the pleasure started to edge into pain. “But you’ll let me do whatever I want, won’t you, pet?” 

“Yes,” Drift moaned. He shuddered, feeling as though he was going to rattle through his armor. 

Ratchet chuckled, the sound of it rolling through Drift’s audials. He sank down on Drift and rested there, rocking his hips, stirring Drift’s spike within him. His fingers sank further, into the tertiary layer, nearly touching the very core of Drift. 

“If I wanted this, I could have it, couldn’t I, pet?” Ratchet asked, and his valve clamped tight, rippling around Drift’s spike, milking him. 

Agony clutched his chassis, his spark, stole his vents. But his hips kept pumping upward, kept grinding against Ratchet’s valve ceiling, ecstasy coiling and tightening in his groin. Release was a nanite’s breadth away. 

“Yours,” Drift gasped out. 

“Yes,” Ratchet purred, and his fingers curled around the edges of the core of him, casting shadows from the light of Drift’s spark over his face. “Yes, you are.” 

Ratchet squeezed. 

Drift convulsed. 

Charge surged and spat across his body in an electric wave. He didn’t so much overload as he shattered, spike spurting, body seizing. He only distantly felt Ratchet overloading on top of him, valve spooling down tight. The rest was ecstasy, boiling up and through him, whiting out all else. 

It hurt. It didn’t. It felt good. It didn’t. 

There wasn’t a difference anymore. 

Ratchet flexed his fingers, and Drift gasped, thrashing beneath Ratchet, darkness creeping around the edges. 

The voice was silent. It had nothing left to say. 

“Good pet,” Ratchet purred, kissing him, swallowing down the sound of Drift’s sobs. He hadn’t realized he was weeping until then. 

He thought he’d lost something. It might have been important once. It wasn’t anymore. There wasn’t anything that could possibly be important. 

There was only Ratchet. 

And then there was nothing at all. 

~

Drift onlined slowly, luxuriously. A soft sound left his lips as he stretched and rolled over in his berth, pulling himself off the plush surface. He fought back a yawn, rolling his neck to stretch out the kinks. He felt good, achy, but in the pleasant way. 

He slipped down from the berth, feet hitting the floor as he glanced around. The room had changed, he realized belatedly. He wasn’t in his room in the medbay anymore. These better resembled personal quarters. They were far more plush, stocked, and had personal items scattered about. 

Ratchet’s private quarters, he surmised. 

There were two doors. Drift cocked his head as he examined them from afar. Ratchet had left no clue as to his whereabouts. It was odd to wake without Ratchet, and his spark screamed at him to find the medic as soon as possible. He needed to be wherever Ratchet was. 

There was a distant sound of shrieking. 

Drift’s lips curved and he turned toward the door where the sound seemed to be coming from. It opened without him having to press a single button – perhaps it was keyed to his spark. The screaming became louder, and he stepped through it into the medbay. A back entrance then. 

Drift followed the screaming down a short hall, passing several medrooms. They were of no interest to him, so he didn’t look inside. He only cared about Ratchet. 

He’d left a puddle behind him, he’d realized. Lubricant slowly gathered in his valve, dripping down. Without a panel, there was nothing to catch it. His spike peeped out of the sheath, not fully extended, but enough. He reached down, absently rubbing his palm over the rounded tip, giving the ring a little tug. 

He swallowed a low groan. Primus, that felt good. 

He made himself stop. It was up to Ratchet if he’d get more. 

“I don’t want it!” 

“If you didn’t want a new arm, you shouldn’t have destroyed the old one.” 

Drift’s spark perked. A small smile curved his lips as he caught Ratchet’s voice, and he rounded the corner to find another hallway, this one with two operating rooms, one to each side of the corridor, before it continued on. One was dark, the door closed. The other was brightly lit, the door open. 

Ratchet and some other mech were inside. The room looked very similar. Almost like the room Drift had spent so much of his time in recently, except flipflopped. He glanced back across the hall. Was that his old room?

No matter. 

Drift slipped into the operating theater as sparks flew up from the mech on the table. He screamed, another long and thin wail, before he abruptly went still and quiet, optics dim. 

Not dead, judging by the field Drift could still detect. 

Pah. What a wimp. 

Ratchet, however. 

Drift’s spark sped up in rhythm. His spike pressurized further as more lubricant slicked the inside of his thighs. 

Ratchet was amazing. His fingers moved with such dexterity and skill. Drift flushed as he remembered how they moved inside of him, touching all of his nodes, bringing him to overload so easily. He could bring pain, too, with the same amount of ease. But pain was also good. Pain made him feel. 

Pain was ecstasy. 

Drift’s engine purred. 

He pressed to Ratchet’s back, wrapping his arms around the broad medic, his palms splaying over Ratchet’s belly. One slid slowly down, to Ratchet’s groin, circling over his closed panel. His half-pressurized spike grazed over Ratchet’s warm, sending another surge of want up Drift’s spinal strut. 

“Hello, my pet,” Ratchet purred, delight and appreciation in his tone. “Recharge well?” 

“Lonely,” Drift replied. He nuzzled Ratchet’s backstrut before sliding around, tucking himself under Ratchet’s arm. “Missed you.” He rocked against Ratchet, letting a needy noise rise in his intake. 

Ratchet chuckled, but it wasn’t an angry sound. He patted Drift on the aft. “Don’t worry. I’ll pay you attention soon enough.” 

“Now?” Drift asked, his fingers flirting over Ratchet’s panel, feeling the heat beneath. His mouth filled with lubricant. “I could lick you?” He dropped his vocals into a deeper register. “You could hurt me.” 

Ratchet flicked off the welder with his free hand and gave Drift more of his attention. The hand on Drift’s aft reached down, pressing between his thighs, drawing fingers over his valve, slicking them with lubricant. 

Drift moaned and rocked down on them, but they were gone too quickly. Ratchet took his hand back and painted Drift’s lips with his own lubricant. 

“I will,” Ratchet promised as Drift licked his lips, then Ratchet’s fingers clean, savoring the taste of his own slick. “But later, pet. I’ve got to finish this first.” 

Drift sucked on Ratchet’s fingers, cleaning every nook and cranny of his own lubricant. He let him slide free with a pop, and Ratchet stroked his mouth again before taking his hand back. 

“But my, you are a tempting pet. I did a very good job with you.” Ratchet activated the welder again, using both hands now to guide it to his patient’s open shoulder joint. 

Drift peered around Ratchet’s frame at the mech on the surgery table, curiosity tilting his head. “Who’s that?”

“No one important,” Ratchet said brightly. 

No, Drift supposed he wouldn’t be. The mech had a Decepticon badge on his chest. In a past life, Drift might have recognized him. Runa-something maybe. It didn’t matter. He was Ratchet’s now. Not to keep, because that’s what Drift was for, but to experiment on for sure. 

Drift rubbed a palm over his own chestplate. He had an Autobot badge, he realized. He didn’t think he had it yesterday. Ratchet must have given it to him last night. He’d finally earned it. 

The thought filled Drift with pride. He leaned against Ratchet, content to watch as the medic methodically worked on his new experiment. Absently, Drift traced the new badge on his chest. 

He was an Autobot now. But more than that, he belonged to Ratchet. 

Drift smiled. 

***

Notes:

[IDW] A Sticky Wicket

High school is supposed to be the best years of your life.

Clearly, the people who say this only remember their high-school years through rose-colored glasses. Because Josie can’t think of a single moment of high school she actually enjoyed. Except, perhaps, Chemistry.

For Josie, high school is more like the worst days of her life, and with final testing around the corner and college looming on the horizon, and her stupid car breaking down, well, this is officially the worst day ever.

An opinion she solidifies when a storm washes in out of nowhere, full of wind and lightning and odd-colored clouds, and some kind of swirling vortex appears in the air above her.

‘Why me,’ she wonders mere seconds before it vacuums her up and swallows her whole, sending her tumbling into an endless, starry abyss.

Just great.

She lands hard enough to rattle her senses, but not knock her out. She hits a chilly metal surface feeling like a ragdoll, her limbs flopping in all directions, and cries out when her ankle twists beneath her, shooting pain up her left leg.

Ouch, ouch, ouch.

Dizzy, Josie forces her hands beneath her and manages to get to her feet, albeit resting most of her weight on her right leg. She dusts off her knees as her spinning head finally stops.

God, what hit her? Or more like, what did she hit?

She rubs at her eyes as the noise of something humming, whirring, clicking and whooshing fills the air around her. Odd sounds. She drops her hands and looks up.

Josie shrieks.

There are five towering metallic things – robots, she tells herself – standing over her, looking down at her like she’s some new thing they should squish. Well, okay, one of the really big ones is kind of cowering behind the tiniest one.

They are an eye-hurting clash of bright colors and bright eyes – blue, she dimly notes.

One of them, the one who doesn’t have any eyes by the way, opens his mouth and makes this weird whirring-click noise. Another one, who has a bright red symbol attached to his face, reaches for Josie.

Fuck that.

There’s a gap. A small one, but so is she.

Twisted ankle or not, she’s out of here.

She lurches forward, hissing as putting weight on her ankle sends jagged bursts of pain up her leg. It won’t kill her though, and these things possibly will so she pushes through the pain and hobble-runs toward the really big ones. There’s a space between their legs and massive feet, and freedom just beyond it.

She’s small and hopefully quick and maybe they’ll get too tangled up in each other to even see her.

Maybe.

The hand misses her. She feels the whoosh of air against her back, but she knows it’s going to come back around again. She dives between the two feet, wriggles forward, and squeezes out from between the two huge robots. There’s some kind of huge computer console in front of her, and there’s all kinds of dark space beneath and around it.

Hiding isn’t better than running, but it’s better than nothing.

Josie limp-runs toward it as the ground starts rumbling, and the robots start making those weird chitter-click noises again. She finds the safety of the desk just as one of their shadows fall over her.

She scrambles and slides her body under one of the console legs. There’s a narrow space here, the kind a mouse would fit in were it human-sized, but Josie laughs a little wildly to herself. She’s the mouse now.

She drags her twisted ankle behind her and keeps moving forward, until she’s tucked against the wall and beneath the console. It looks like it’s bolted to the floor, thank god. They can’t just lift it away from her.

Panting, Josie crouches in the darkness. Her body is covered in sweat. Her heart’s pounding a mile a minute. The floor is rumbling now as they move around. She can see their feet and hear each loud thud.

How did she get here? How can she get home? Why is she unlucky? And ow, her ankle hurts.

One of them kneels down. It’s the smallest one, she thinks, because then a head presses to the ground and she can see one blue optic peering under into her hiding space. It speaks a buzz of static and sound at her, despite not having a visible mouth, before a slim hand tries to wriggle beneath the console.

“Leave me alone!” Josie shouts and squeezes herself as far back as she possibly can. Her back presses to cold, humming metal.

The hand doesn’t come anywhere close, but it’s still enough to make her heart thump harder.

The face doesn’t have any expression to it, but the eye flickers. The face vanishes until all Josie can see are feet. She hears them talking again, or at least that’s what she assumes all the chitter-clicking is.

“We apologize.”

Her eyes round. That’s English.

One of them kneels down again. A hand comes into view, knuckles against the floor and palm upward.

“We assumed you would speak Galactic Standard,” says the voice. A really pleasant voice actually. Kind of soothing. The fingers wriggle gently. “You must be frightened. Please. Come out. We will not hurt you.”

Josie sucks in a breath. Does she dare believe them? “How do I know I can trust you?” she yells, her voice sounding tinny in the small space.

The fingers go still.

“Oh, well, you don’t,” the voice says diplomatically. Each word has a little humming noise that comes with it. “But I promise we mean you no harm. It appears you may be injured. We only wish to help.”

Josie chews on her bottom lip.

She can’t hide under the console forever. They speak English, so that has to be some kind of good sign, right? And they hadn’t immediately stepped on her. They were probably just as surprised by her arrival as she was.

“Where am I?” she demands.

“You are in our clinic,” another voices answers, this one softer and sweeter. “We are the Decepticon Justice Division, and it is our creed to care for any who need our help, especially the Decepticons on our List.”

Clinics are good. Right?

Josie twists her fingers together.

“Okay, I’ll come out,” she says. “But don’t try to grab me.”

The hand vanishes immediately. The floor rumbles, and she can tell they are taking several steps back.

“As you wish,” the first voice says.

Josie hopes she isn’t making a terrible mistake. She inches back out from the console, dragging her throbbing ankle behind her. She pulls herself to her feet once she’s out, but keeps her back pressed to the console. Maybe she can duck back under it faster than they can grab her, if she needs to.

She squints in the bright light. There are only four of them now. The biggest one, with the cross-mark on his face, is gone.

“Who are you?” Josie asks. “And where is this clinic? How did I get here? What are you?”

The smallest one chuckles. “Many questions, it has.”

“Wouldn’t you, Vos?” The big one with the bright-red face says as he rests a hand on Vos’ shoulder. “I am Tarn, the leader of the group you see here.” He squeezes Vos’ shoulder. “This is Vos, and to my left is Helex.” His free hand gestures to Vos’ right. “This is Kaon.”

Kaon nods and straightens his shoulders. “We are currently in the Oberon sector, orbiting the planet Raetaen,” he says, identifying himself as the soft and sweet voice. He had been been the one offering her his hand, too. “As for how you arrived here… that is a question we were hoping you could answer.”

“D-does the honored g-guest need a b-blanket?”

The meek, almost hesitant voice burbles up from out of nowhere. Josie blinks and peers to her left, down a long and brightly lit hallway. The biggest one from earlier is peeking out from around the corner. All she can see is his head and massive shoulders.

“Good question, Tesarus!” Tarn says with a broad gesture before he looks down at Josie. “Might we offer you a blanket?”

“Or perhaps a bath?” the other, very large one asks. Helex, if Josie remembers correctly. He’s very eager as he leans forward, a pair of small hands clasped together as his large ones rest on his hips.

His torso sloshes. Sloshes. Does he have a washing machine for a stomach?

“Hungry, it must be.”

“I’m not an ‘it’,” Josie says, her thoughts spinning so quickly. “I’m Josie. A ‘she’. I’m a human from the planet Earth.”

Aliens, her mind shrieks at her. Somehow, she’s on a spaceship with aliens. Robot aliens. Either she’s dreaming or something really, really weird is going on.

“I have heard of this planet,” Kaon says as he folds his arms over his chest. He nods solemnly. “It is far, but not unreachable.”

“The b-blanket?” Tesarus asks again.

Josie sways on her feet. “I could use a blanket,” she says. If only because Tesarus sounds so pitiful. He’s kind of cute, the way he hides all the way down there, as if she, a little human, can hurt him.

“Yes, Tesarus. Bring our guest, Josie, a blanket,” Tarn says. His hand slips from Vos’ shoulder, and he performs a fancy bow toward her. “It is a pleasure to meet you, Josie. We are currently attending to a fatigued member of the Decepticons right now, but as soon as we have finished our duty to him, we would be happy to escort you home.”

“Injured, she is,” Vos points out. One long, spindly fingers gestures to her feet. How he knows that, she has no idea.

“Needs a bath,” Helex says and wriggles around, making his stomach visibly slosh. And maybe he does have a washing machine in there, but it doesn’t look like it’s filled with water.

Kaon raises a hand. “Tarn, I hate to be the bearer of bad news, but my databanks inform me that humans are a delicate species. You mustn’t use your voice to calm her.” He points a finger toward Helex. “They cannot have oil baths.” The finger then moves toward Vos. “Do not offer her your face. It would likely kill her. As would the goodies you are thinking of offering her.”

The floor rumbles. Josie grasps the edge of the desk to keep from toppling over. Tesarus has returned, with what has to be the biggest stack of cloth Josie has ever seen.

“I b-brought the b-blankets,” he says quietly, and then inches to stand behind Vos, offering them to Josie from over Vos’ head.

“Poison, goodies are,” Vos says. “Disappointing, that is. Feed her, how do we?”

“This is most troublesome,” Kaon says and folds his arms again. “We are within shuttle range of Space Station 5701, however. Perhaps there are supplies that will allow us to better care for an organic guest.”

Tarn nods. “Yes. Very good.” He claps his hands together. “Kaon, you and Tesarus will take the shuttle and see if we can find our guest something to make her stay more comfortable until we can get her home.”

“A sssspace ssstation?” Tesarus says, and the metal of his body starts clattering. His eyes get really bright. The blankets tremble in his hands.

Kaon half-turns and rests a hand on Tesarus’ arm. “You’ll be fine, Tes. You’ll be with me.”

“No bath?” Helex says and his shoulders sink. His little hands droop to his sides.

“Not yet, at any rate,” Kaon says.

“See her, Nickel needs to,” Vos says with a little huff. He’s still pointing to Josie’s foot. “Injury, she has.”

“Yes, yes, indeed.” Tarn folds himself down to one knee, not that it makes him much smaller in Josie’s opinion. “Is this satisfactory, Josie? Will you allow us to care for you until such time as we can see you safely home?”

He offers a hand to her, knuckles against the floor, palm open. He doesn’t have a face, but his eyes are very big and blue behind his weird mask. His voice seems earnest. And they do seem like they are actually interested in taking care of her.

Josie takes a deep breath before she nods. “Yes, please,” she says and takes a wobbly step forward, hissing as pain lances through her ankle. “And yes, I’m hurt. Though it’s only a twisted ankle, I think.” One class in CPR training does not make her a nurse.

“Excellent!” Tarn’s eyes got brighter, and his voice more excited. “Would you allow us to carry you to our doctor?”

As he asks, Vos kneels down close to her and offers his cupped hands to her. His thumb is within arm’s reach, and when she grabs it for stability, she’s surprised by how warm he feels. There’s a low buzz on her hand as well. He feels, well, he feels alive. And she supposes they are.

“Gentle, I will be,” Vos says as Josie limps into his hands and carefully seats herself into his palm. “Promise, I do.”

“I believe you,” she says and manages to smile. “And yes, thank you. A doctor would be nice. And thank you for wanting to take me home and for being nice and not squishing me.” That last one is really important to her.

Tarn stands up and gestures to his chest. “We are caretakers, not villains,” he says. “And you are most welcome. Now Vos will take you to see Nickel, Kaon and Tesarus will find supplies to better care for you, and Helex will help me try and figure out how you got here. Please, rest and relax. We will see you home.”

“Thank you,” Josie says.

Helex jitters as if excited. “And then you can have a bath later!” he says, in a not-quiet-at-all whisper.

Despite herself, Josie laughs. She clings to Vos’ thumb for balance as he stands as well, and it’s a bit disorienting to be this high up. But it feels better, too, cause she’s less staring up at them, and feeling so small.

“Like Nickel, you will,” Vos says to her. “She is a she, too.”

“I look forward to meeting her,” Josie replies. Which is very true.

What a weird, scary, and interesting day. Part of her almost doesn’t want to go home. She’s curious about her strange rescuers. And honestly, it’s not everyday someone gets a ride on a spaceship with real-life aliens!

At least, she’s safe. That’s the best part.

“Thank you,” Josie says, again. Because politeness is important.

“You, our honored guest, are most welcome,” Tarn says.

[IDW] Quadrangles

Starscream should have known letting Blurr and Knock Out have the controls was the wrong choice. When those two got into it, there was little which could distract them. Not even the sight of their very attractive partners speared on the same double-ended toy.

“Are they ever going to stop arguing about it?” Rodimus demanded as a sharp gasp escaped his lips. His plating shivered, loosening to allow heat to escape from his substructure.

Starscream snuck a glance at their respective partners, who fumbled the control between them, gesturing angrily at the different buttons on it. “Probably by the time we’re done using this,” he said.

Rodimus chuckled and tightened his grip on Starscream’s shoulders, rolling his hips into a deeper thrust. Starscream shivered as the double-ended spike worked against his ceiling node, grinding hard on the sensitive nub.

They didn’t need the remote after all. The ridges and knobs and whorls on the spike were enough for both of them. Whatever other tricks this toy had buried in its circuitry, maybe they’d never know.

“We’re going to finish without them. Again,” Rodimus commented with another stolen glance.

“Their loss,” Starscream said. Only to twitch. That was a decidedly different sensation. “Do you feel that?”

Rodimus barked a laugh. “If you mean the spike then allow me to say ‘duh’.”

Starscream rolled his optics. “No, you brat. It’s hotter.”

He braced himself for the inevitable ‘of course I am,’ but for once, Rodimus surprised him. The baby Prime paused, concentrating, and then his optics brightened.

“I think you’re right.” He stared down between their bodies. “Huh. Now it’s getting cold.”

Indeed it was. Starscream looked at their respective partners curiously. Blurr had a firm grip of the remote, but Knock Out’s finger jabbed at the buttons on it in no particular order.

“Well, I guess we figured out what it does,” Rodimus said with a crooked grin.

“Too bad they’ll never stop arguing long enough to realize it.” Starscream chuckled.

Rodimus started moving again, jostling the end of the spike within Starscream. “Good thing we don’t need either of them to have fun, right?”

“You’re damn right about that.”

Let them argue until the end of the night. It wasn’t Starscream’s fault if they missed the show. And what a show it was.

[SG] Make Us Whole II

Sideswipe onlines with a jolt. An explicable static shock of pleasure ripples down his spinal strut and pools in his groin.

His vents quicken. His optics flicker online.

He’s still in the medbay.

The pleasure lingers, distant, but present. Perhaps it is an echo of a dream, a memory of a better time. He ignores it for the moment and tugs on his limbs. Unsurprisingly, he remains bound, though with simple clasps as opposed to posts through his joints.

He’s surrounded by silence.

Sideswipe turns his helm to the left and right, but he can’t find either his insane twin or the maniac medic lurking in the shadows. He doesn’t think for an instant that they aren’t watching.

He gasps as another surge of static creeps down his lines. His spark quivers, and only then does he realize his chestplates have been closed. It should be a relief, but it’s not. His spark should ache, but it doesn’t.

What have they done to him?

No. Worry about that later. Worry about escaping now. Megatron promised. Sideswipe has to believe him.

Something rattles in the distance. He jerks his gaze toward the right, but the spotlight on his medical berth makes it too bright. He hopes it’s not the stray turbofox that Ratchet used to keep. For funsies.

Sideswipe works his intake. He grits his denta. Focus. Focus.

Pleasure. Again. His entire lower half trembles. He hears a click and knows that his panel has just opened itself. He supposes he should be lucky they let him keep it. Not that it matters, because here he is now, spike and valve both exposed. Leaking, if the mild scent filling the air is any indication.

His sensornet hums at him. It feels like someone has stroked their fingers over every erogenous zone on his frame.

“Are you enjoying my gift?”

Sideswipe lurches to the left, away from the voice suddenly appearing in his audial, whispering to him. It’s Ratchet, of course it’s Ratchet. It’s always Ratchet.

“You can take it back,” he snarls, helm whipping toward the maniac. “Whatever it is.”

“He’s so damn ungrateful,” Sunstreaker says, from wherever that bastard is hiding in the shadows. “After all the trouble we’ve gone through.”

Ratchet grins. “That’s because he hasn’t been trained yet. But don’t worry I’m working on it.”

Pain.

Sideswipe arches off the berth, his backstrut forming an arc, as every ounce of pleasure vanishes in the wake of the scorching agony that strips his lines. His visual feed goes white with static, and his mouth opens in a soundless scream.

It vanishes as quickly as it came upon him, and Sideswipe collapses against the berth, ventilating harshly. Ratchet hadn’t touched him; he would have seen it!

The berth abruptly shifts beneath him, hovering between vertical and horizontal, so that he’s not quite upright, but not quite laying down either. His frame wants to slide downward, but the shackles keep him pinned.

It’s disorienting, especially since he can now see Sunstreaker. Or at least the amber glow of Sunstreaker’s optics, circling around the periphery of the overhead light, like some kind of deranged predacon.

“What… have you done to me?” Sideswipe asks, his vocals laced with static. His cooling fans clatter, struggling to cool down his frame.

“Hit him again, Ratchet,” Sunstreaker hisses, and there’s glee buried in there. “I don’t think he understood you the first time.”

“Now, now, Sunstreaker. This is something that requires delicacy. Patience. You don’t want to push him too soon. Remember what happened last time?”

Sunstreaker hovers on the edge, between the dark and the light, his matte paint refusing to reflect a bit of light. “He left,” he snarls. “He left us.”

“That’s right.” Ratchet’s hand rests on Sideswipe’s helm and his plating crawls at the subtle weight of it. “He did. And I promised you, didn’t I? That won’t ever happen again.”

“Get your hand off me!” Sideswipe snaps, trying to tilt his helm away, but Ratchet’s fingers dig in, hard enough to stress the metal.

“No,” Ratchet says. And leaves it at that.

The pleasure starts then, slowly and delicately, as though someone is caressing his inner thighs, stroking around the rim of his valve. It’s a gentle wave through his frame, upward and right into the core of his spark.

Sideswipe’s ventilations quicken. He’s shaking, and he knows it’s just an after-effect of the pain. He doesn’t know what they’re doing to him. He can’t see any equipment. This is like nothing they’ve ever effected before.

Ratchet leans closer, his lips brushing Sideswipe’s left audial. “You’re wondering what I’ve done, aren’t you? You’re trying to figure it out. You’re watching Sunstreaker. Do you want me to tell you, Sideswipe?”

It has to be a trap.

He grinds his denta so hard he hears the metal squeal. He turns as far from Ratchet as he can, and squeezes his optical shutters closed.

Lips graze to the sensitive cables at the side of his intake. While revulsion claws stickily at his spark, another wave of heat suffuses his frame. His spike starts to throb, pressurizing into view with a slick sound. His engine revs.

“He’s not paying attention, Ratchet,” Sunstreaker says. “He’s not even looking.”

“Well, we can’t have that,” Ratchet murmurs, his thumb sweeping over Sideswipe’s left sensory horn.

His optical shutters snap open, and Sideswipe cringes at the sudden shift. What..? He hadn’t done that! He hadn’t–

No.

“Ahhh,” Ratchet purrs. “Judging by that spike in your field, you are finally beginning to understand. I knew you weren’t a complete idiot.”

Sunstreaker is closer now. He’s at least stepped into the light, illuminating the maroon and dark grey of his paint. But he’s still pacing, while his gaze stays focused on Sideswipe, on his chestplate.

“You see, Sideswipe,” Ratchet continues as the pleasure grows stronger, into a throbbing, needy heat that makes his spike drip and his valve cycle with need. “There is no part of you that I don’t own. There is nothing that you can call yours anymore. You can’t escape, because I won’t let you, and that is my promise to you.”

Denta nibble at Sideswipe’s cables, a touch that might have been welcome once upon a time.

“Unlike Megatron,” Ratchet says as the pleasure rises and rises, until Sideswipe can hear his own armor clattering from the force of it, “I keep my promises.”

The keen builds in his vocalizer before he can stop it. Worse that he doesn’t know if it’s his own. Worse that he can’t tell if he could stop it if he even tried to.

“Can I see him now?” Sunstreaker asks, moving closer, every step he takes jittery and uncoordinated. His field pours over Sideswipe, ripe with need, desperation. “You’ll open him for me, won’t you, Ratchet?”

“No,” Sideswipe pants as his hips start to move, rocking into the ghostly touches that are driving him faster and faster toward overload.

Ratchet chuckles. “Funny thing that,” he says as he strokes Sideswipe’s helm. “You don’t really have a say anymore.” He backs off, though his hand remains where it is.

The berth lurches again, turning Sideswipe completely upright. He sags down, the cuffs digging into his joints, and he knows he should feel pain, but he doesn’t.

Sunstreaker’s close now. So close that Sideswipe can feel his ex-vents. His gaze is boring into Sideswipe’s own.

“I get him first, right?” Sunstreaker says as his glossa sweeps over his lips, his optics flicking to Ratchet erratically before returning to Sideswipe. “I’ve been waiting the longest.”

“Of course you do, Sunstreaker. I keep my promises,” Ratchet purrs, his free hand sliding down Sideswipe’s front to palm his spike, rolling the head of it with his fingertips. “Come a little closer, sweetspark. You can’t enjoy him from that far away.”

Sunstreaker’s hands lift and hover. “He’s not open yet,” he says, optics wide and bright, the need in his field a yawing hole that tries to suck Sideswipe in.

Sideswipe’s chestplates twitch. He looks down in growing horror as they start to split of their own accord, bearing his spark to Sunstreaker’s hungry gaze. It seems to be a magnet, drawing Sunstreaker closer, until mere inches separate them. Sunstreaker’s hands land on Sideswipe’s hips, talons pricking past his seams, against his cables.

“I’ve missed you,” Sunstreaker whispers as he rubs their cheeks together, a happy sigh leaving his vents. “I didn’t want you to leave. Why did you have to leave?”

“Sunny…” Sideswipe looks at his brother, the mech he feels he ought to love. “Please, don’t do this.”

“But I missed you.” Sunstreaker nuzzles against him and brushes their lips together. “Didn’t you miss me, too?”

His spark cycles faster, fear eclipsing whatever pleasure Ratchet has forced on him.

“I missed you,” Sideswipe says, and who cares if it’s a lie? In his current state, Sunstreaker can’t tell the difference. “So you don’t have to do this. We can be together without… this. Right?” He tilts his helm forward, tries to capture Sunstreaker’s lips in a gentle kiss.

Surely there’s something left of the brother Sunstreaker used to be in there?

Sunstreaker’s hands flex on his hips. He’s close enough now that his closed chestplate bumps against Sideswipe’s open one. Their kiss is soft, tentative. Sunstreaker’s idling engine is a soothing thrum against his frame.

“It can be the way it was. You and me,” Sideswipe murmurs, their lips brushing as he speaks. “Together.”

Sunstreaker makes a little moan of need in his intake. “Sides..”

“You’ll trust him not to leave, Sunstreaker?” Ratchet asks, and his voice shatters the moment. It’s a dark drawl, a chastisement.

Sunstreaker’s ventilations hitch. His moan shifts from pleasure to agony, the pain of a broken spark. “Noooo,” he says. “No. Sideswipe can’t leave.”

“He will. If you let him have his way,” Ratchet says, and his hand tightens around Sideswipe, both his helm, and his spike. A flash of pain cuts through the pleasure, not enough to send him reeling, but enough to startle. “Do you want that, Sunstreaker?”

Claws prick at Sideswipe’s cables. Sunstreaker nicks a line, and Sideswipe feels the slow trickle of energon inside his armor.

“No,” Sunstreaker breathes, and his denta nip at Sideswipe’s lips, pointed denta scraping
over the sensitive dermal layer.

“Then you know what you have to do,” Ratchet growls.

“I do,” Sunstreaker hisses, and Sideswipe hears the heavier click of Sunstreaker’s chestplates opening — three layers instead of two because Sunny has always been more paranoid.

He feels the waft of Sunstreaker’s spark energy against his own. Sideswipe moans and turns his face away, unable to look. He hates that he wants it as much as he wants to run away. Because he’d lied, and he’d told the truth.

He’d missed Sunstreaker. He’d missed his brother. Not the abomination in front of him, but the way things used to be. And his spark? It certainly remembers Sunstreaker. It has no compunction, the way it reaches for Sunstreaker.

Especially when Sunstreaker closes the last micrometers between them and their chestplates notch together, like puzzle pieces, the same way they’d been born.

There’s no escaping it now.

Their sparks knit together, two lovers reunited. And it feels good, of course it feels good. Sideswipe knows that even if Ratchet hadn’t been poking at his systems, it would feel good.

It’s a pleasure that takes over his entire frame. He can hear Sunstreaker moaning, his ventilations getting quicker and quicker. Ratchet’s hand is still on Sideswipe’s spike, squeezing, and then Sunstreaker’s spike is free, too. He’s rutting against Sideswipe, rolling his hips. He presses his face into Sideswipe’s neck and he’s muttering words that sound like static.

Sideswipe stares into the shadows, at the unclear shapes of Ratchet’s medical equipment cum torture devices. He’s seeing without seeing.

It’s too late, he knows, as his spark succumbs to the pull of Sunstreaker’s. It had taken him ages to get over walking away from his brother the first time. This one taste sets him back even further. Even without Ratchet’s puppet-mastering.

It’s far too late.

Sideswipe sobs as Sunstreaker murmurs happily, and glee swells in his brother’s spark. As their energies knit and dance together, and Sunstreaker’s relieved joy pulls them both into an overload, frame and spark both.

He feels Sunstreaker splatter wetly against his abdomen. He feels himself pulse in Ratchet’s grip, though it’s more a dribble.

He’s shaking again. He can’t seem to stop. It doesn’t matter anymore.

“Very nice,” Ratchet says, his fingers massaging Sideswipe’s softening spike before he wipes them on Sideswipe’s thigh. “You two always make such a pretty picture.”

“Mmm.” Sunstreaker presses a kiss to the curve of Sideswipe’s jaw. “You won’t leave now, right?” he asks, dripping a trail of kisses down to the apex of Sideswipe’s open chestplate.

Sideswipe swallows thickly. “Right,” he says, a single word laced with static. His spark feels raw and tender, scored from the inside and out.

Sunstreaker looks up and Sideswipe can feel his relief, his excitement. He hears Sunstreaker’s chestplates click closed, but Sideswipe himself doesn’t have that luxury.

He doesn’t resist when Sunstreaker surfaces for a kiss on the lips, something sweet and absurdly gentle. He tells himself to enjoy it, because surely it’s better than what is coming next.

“Now, now, Sunstreaker,” Ratchet says as he comes around the side of the berth. “You’ve had your turn and what did I tell you about sharing?”

“I’m sorry, Ratchet,” Sunstreaker murmurs and he steps aside, lingering near Sideswipe’s right. “But I can watch, right?”

“Of course you may.” Ratchet grins, and there’s nothing of sanity in his optics. He grabs Sideswipe’s chin with his left hand, forcing Sideswipe to look at him. He can smell his own spill on Ratchet’s fingers. “This, after all, is going to be a learning experience. Isn’t it, Sideswipe?”

“Frag you!” he snarls, fixing Ratchet with the most hateful glare he has in his arsenal. He’s not beaten, not just yet.

Ratchet chuckles and leans in close. “Oh, I intend to do just that,” he says. “And you’re going to enjoy every minute of it.”

Judging by the pleasure already winding through his frame all over again, Sideswipe knows that Ratchet is right.

He doesn’t have a choice.

[SG] Make Us Whole I

He onlines in a med bay with the thick stench of scorched wires and metal sharp on his glossa. His audials ring. His optics are full of static. His head aches.

This is not Knock Out’s medbay. It is dank and dim, and while the surgical instruments nearby gleam, they look as though they are derived from Sideswipe’s worst nightmare.

No. Oh, Primus, no.

He knows where he is.

Sideswipe thrashes. The gurney rattles, but doesn’t budge. He’s lashed down.

No, he’s bolted, he realizes with greater alarm. Through his wrists and ankles and elbows and knees. There’s no pain because those sensors have been blocked.

It’s not a mercy. It’s because they want to see his agony in person.

No!

He’s supposed to be free! He escaped! He’s supposed to be safe! Megatron promised!

Sideswipe panics. Fear rises in his intake like ill-processed energon. He tastes it on the back of his glossa. His spark flares, lighting up the dim.

His spark. He can see his spark!

They’ve jimmied his chestplate open until only the transsteel of his inner-most casing remains closed. They intend to finish what they started when Sideswipe first made his mistake.

This time, there’s no one to save him.

A door swooshes open. Sideswipe freezes. There are two sets of footprints. Sideswipe doesn’t have to look to know who they are. His nightmares have come back to life.

“Look who’s finally back,” Sunstreaker purrs as fingers trail over his sensory horns before Sideswipe can even see the perpetrator.

“And just in time to make us whole,” Ratchet agrees as another touch rests over Sideswipe’s barely guarded spark. “The ungrateful wretch.”

“Please,” Sideswipe begs as he forces his optics into a reboot and his vision clarifies, letting him see Ratchet looking over him, grinning. “Don’t do this.” He can see his spark flickering with distress.

“Awww, he’s nervous,” Sunstreaker croons.

“Don’t worry. That’s a perfectly normal reaction,” Ratchet chuckles as he lays his hand flat over Sideswipe’s spark. “All mechs get cold sparks before they bond, right?”

“But there’s no reason to be anxious, brother,” Sunstreaker purrs in his audial. “You’re back where you belong. With us.” His lips slide over Sideswipe’s cheek, a gross parody of affection.

Sideswipe offlines his optics. He doesn’t want to see what’s coming.

He bites back a sob. Nothing and no one.

Primus save him.