[G1] Control or Lack Thereof

“You really don’t have much self-control, do you?” Starscream mused aloud, his lips curved in a grin.

“Shut the slag up!” Ratchet snarled, his hips bucking, his wrists tugging ineffectually at the cuffs that kept them bound above his helm.

Starscream chuckled and dragged his lips over the inside of Ratchet’s trembling thighs, bring his mouth closer and closer to the bared, dripping array.

“Haven’t you ever heard that patience yields a sweeter outcome?” Starscream teased as he slid a hand up, working a talon into one of Ratchet’s seams to scratch at the cables beneath.

Ratchet groaned, his backstrut arching. “Just get the frag on with it!”

Starscream clicked his glossa, shaking his helm. “Such language, Ratchet. I’m appalled.” He ex-vented wetly and dragged one finger up the under-side of Ratchet’s spike. The medic quivered. “We intellectual types should be better than that.”

Ratchet growled at him, all of his words unrepeatable to delicate audials. His thighs quivered as lubricant formed a growing puddle beneath his aft.

Starscream hummed a laugh. “Mmm, it looks like I’ll have you begging soon,” he purred and his finger circled the tip of Ratchet’s dripping spike. A ring encircled the base, blinking in accordance with the level of Ratchet’s desperation. “But you’ll be waiting on that overload a while yet.”

Ratchet’s engine roared. The cuffs rattled. “Just remember what they say about payback,” he snarled, his optics flashing fire.

Starscream chuckled. One finger flicked over Ratchet’s swollen, aching node.

“Promises, promises.”

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[G1] Behind the Scenes 07

07: When Opportunity Knocks

The invitation was not unexpected.

The offer to attend, with a guest and while in role; however, was.

“And who might this guest be, hmm?” Jazz drawled as he draped himself over Bluestreak’s lap, trying to make an appealing picture of himself.

Bluestreak rolled his optics. “Gee, I wonder.” He rested his hand on Jazz’s belly, feeling his abdominal cables flex beneath his palm. “Well. You wanna go? Up for a little show and tell? Maybe even some playtime?”

Jazz shivered and stretched his arms over his head. He arched his back alluringly. He knew exactly what he was doing, the minx.

“I’m so tempted,” he purred as he folded his arms behind his head and wriggled on Bluestreak’s lap. “I know ya wanna show me off and I’ve heard things about their little shows.”

Bluestreak blinked. “Wait. You’ve never been?”

Jazz shook his head. “Prowl don’t like me,” he admitted with a lopsided grin. “Never could figure why.”

Hmmm.

He remembered Prowl’s reaction to Ratchet’s mere suggestion of Jazz. Bluestreak was starting to get an inkling, and he suspected it had little to do with any of the reasons Jazz had already hypothesized.

It was less to do with liking, and more to do with possession.

“Ahh,” Bluestreak said, and grinned down at his partner. “Doesn’t answer my question though. Why only tempted?”

Jazz squirmed a bit more, until he managed to nudge Bluestreak’s hand from his belly to his groin. “Don’t mind puttin’ on a show or being watched or playing with whoever, and I wanna see ya show off, too.” He hummed as his panels slid aside, the tangy scent of his lubricant filling the air as his spike spiraled out to nudge Bluestreak’s fingers. “But I dunno if I can handle sharing.”

Bluestreak curled his fingers around Jazz’s spike and gave it a long, lingering stroke. Hot metal throbbed in his grasp, pre-fluid beading up and trickling down to dampen his fist. Jazz sighed a moan and rolled into his fist, his frame shivering.

“You don’t mind my sessions with Ratchet,” Bluestreak pointed out, even as his gaze roamed over Jazz’s frame appreciatively.

Jazz’s hips rolled upward, pumping steadily into Bluestreak’s grasp as his plating visibly shivered. “That’s different.”

“How?”

Jazz moaned and his engine purred. “’Cause I’m yours.”

Oh.

Bluestreak had been right.

He squeezed Jazz’s spike, giving him a harsher stroke, and grinned when Jazz whined and thrust into his grip, arms unfolding to to clutch at Bluestreak’s thighs beneath his aft.

“It’s not about you then,” Bluestreak said. “It’s about me.”

Jazz held his gaze, even as he pumped his hips into Bluestreak’s fist, his spike throbbing faster and faster. “Don’t want anyone gettin’ any ideas once they see how sexy you are. Especially not Prowl.”

Bluestreak chuckled. “I don’t think we need to worry about that, but fair enough. We don’t have to play. We can accept the invite without it. It’s an offer, not a requirement.”

Though the idea of letting his pretty play with Ratchet’s pretty was very enticing. All that black and white tangled together made him shiver. Prowl was so eager to serve, too. And he had so much more training.

The mental image of Prowl’s mouth wrapped around Jazz’s spike made Bluestreak’s engine rev.

But alas.

If Jazz was not comfortable, then that was all Bluestreak needed to know.

“Okay,” Jazz murmured and wriggled under Bluestreak’s hand again as if in reminder that he was here and hungry.

Bluestreak hummed appreciatively, thumbing the tip of Jazz’s spike almost offhand. Wouldn’t do to let Jazz know how enticing he was. “Though you and Prowl aren’t so different, you know?”

Jazz’s visor flickered. “Huh?”

Bluestreak cupped Jazz’s head with his free hand, tickling his fingers over the sensitive horns. “He doesn’t mind ‘me,’ but he didn’t like the idea of Ratchet interacting with another sub. You’re both possessive little pretties.”

“Well, I guess that’s cause we know we got the best masters.” Jazz moaned and sucked on his bottom lip. His pedes pushed at the berth. “Ah, babe. Won’t ya frag me?”

Bluestreak squeezed Jazz’s spike and tamped down on his own amusement. He leaned back, admiring the roll and writhe of his lover’s frame. Jazz could put on quite the show when he wanted something, and now was no exception. His spike throbbed needily, dripping pre-fluid, and Bluestreak could already feel lubricant leaking onto his thigh from where Jazz had bared his valve.

“Now is that the proper way to ask me for something, pet?” Bluestreak purred.

Jazz’s engine whined. He clutched at Bluestreak’s thigh and the berth, his abdominal cables flexing. “Ahhhh, please, sir. I’m achin’ and I need ya,” he pleaded. His head turned toward Bluestreak, lower lip wobbling and swollen from where he’d been nibbling on it.

“Close, but not quite,” Bluestreak teased and tightened his grip on Jazz’s spike, squeezing out a steady dribble of pre-fluid. “I want you to overload like this. Soak my fingers. Give me a show, pet.”

Jazz panted and arched his back, hips pumping into Bluestreak’s grip. His hands clawed at nothing, patting over Bluestreak’s thighs, the air, the berth beneath him. His head tilted back, lips parted in breathy moans.

“Any… any time I want?” he asked, his thighs parting as though inviting Bluestreak to dip between them. The sweet scent of lubricant thickened.

Bluestreak’s mouth watered.

Bluestreak hummed approvingly. He swept his thumb over Jazz’s transfluid slit, teasing the tip into the dripping opening. “Yes.”

Jazz’s back bowed. He keened and finally grabbed at the berth above his head, nearly knocking away Bluestreak’s hand from his horns in the process. His heels kicked at the berth as he panted, thrusting madly up into Bluestreak’s grip.

His frame rattled on Bluestreak’s lap, spilling heat into the space between them. Lust spooled in his field, pushing at Bluestreak’s own, and Bluestreak shivered. He watched, enraptured, as Jazz came undone on his lap, plating flared wide, charge crawling out to dance over his armor.

His spike pulsed. More lubricant soaked Bluestreak’s armor. His own panels juttered, threatening to reveal his equipment, and only practice kept him restrained.

Bluestreak stroked Jazz’s helm. He tweaked Jazz’s sensory horn as he purred encouragingly, “Come on, pretty. Overload for me. Let me see your pleasure.”

Jazz gasped, his visor flaring. He thrust up into Bluestreak’s grip and the berth creaked noisily. He moaned, long and low, tapering off into a whine, as he overloaded, transfluid spurting from his spike and splashing down on Bluestreak’s fingers.

He made quite the picture, his visor flaring bright, his faceplate flush, his vents whirring and his armor gapped to reveal tantalizing bits of his substructure. He writhed on Bluestreak’s lap, panting orally, before he abruptly sank down, hips still pumping upward in little aborted motions to slide through Bluestreak’s sticky fingers.

“Very nice,” Bluestreak murmured, and cupped Jazz’s head, even as he gentled his hold on Jazz’s spike.

Jazz nuzzled into his palm, pressing a small kiss to the inside of his wrist. “Is good,” he said, ex-venting heat against Bluestreak’s substructure.

Bluestreak chuckled. “You’re welcome.” He fingered Jazz’s spike a little longer before letting the semi-pressurized length slip from his fingers. “You did, however, make a mess.”

Jazz moaned softly. “Sorry, sir. I’ll clean it for ya.” He licked Bluestreak’s inner wrist, lip curving with mischief.

“I know you will.” Bluestreak offered Jazz his hand, dripping transfluid on Jazz’s chin as a result.

Jazz reached up and curled fingers around his wrist, tugging his hand the rest of the way, wrapping his lips around the first of Bluestreak’s digits. He moaned, field flushing with arousal, visor fluttering.

Bluestreak’s own arousal simmered like a high grade still, but not so much he couldn’t endure it a while yet. He prided himself on his control, and besides, there was something enticing in denying himself the pleasure.

Jazz lovingly cleaned each finger, one by one, before he switched to long laps of his glossa over Bluestreak’s palm, his engine purring as he focused on the task.

“You never answered me,” Bluestreak said as he stroked his free hand around the curve of Jazz’s head. “Do you want to accept the invitation?”

Jazz paused in his cleaning, his glossa sweeping over his lips. “Yeah. I do.”

“In character?”

Jazz nuzzled Bluestreak’s palm, his visor a soft shade of blue. “I can wear my collar?”

Bluestreak stroked the length of a sensory horn, drawing a shiver from his pretty. “And your leash, though it’ll have to wait until we get past the door or someone will stare and you know how much everyone around here likes to gossip.”

“Yeah. I’m good at gettin’ those rumors started.” Jazz chuckled before his tone turned serious. “I wanna go, and mebbe if ya want, I’ll play wit Prowl.” He drew Bluestreak’s thumb into his mouth, giving the tip a light nip. “But you can’t.”

“Fair enough.” Bluestreak slid his thumb free and dragged his fingers down over Jazz’s chin, then his intake, and up over the rise of his bumper. “I suspect Prowl will have the same caveat, which means Ratchet and I will have a lot of fun plotting what we’re going to do to the two of you.” His fingers continued southward, teasing Jazz’s abdominal cables, his pelvic span, and flirting over his softened spike.

Jazz shivered and spread his thighs. “Wouldn’t mind watchin’ the two of ya kiss, though,” he said with a little urgent noise in his intake.

“Me and Ratchet?”

Jazz’s hips canted toward Bluestreak’s fingers, trying to guide them right where Bluestreak wanted to go, which was between his thighs to dip into the dewy wetness gathered on Jazz’s rim.

“Yeah.”

Bluestreak laughed. “I’ll see what I can do.” He circled Jazz’s anterior node slowly, watching his lover’s face flush with heat and his fans slowly spin back up again. Only then did he ease a single finger into Jazz’s valve, purring at the hot clutch of eager calipers. “Until then…”

“Yer gonna frag me, right?” Jazz asked, his thighs clamping down on Bluestreak’s hand as though trapping him in place. “Or am I gonna hafta beg again?”

“I dunno. I kinda like the sound of you begging.” Bluestreak curled his fingers, stroking a bundle of nodes just behind the inner rim of Jazz’s valve.

A low sound rumbled out of Jazz’s engine. “Then I’ll say whatever ya want if it means ya’ll spike me.”

Bluestreak grinned and slid a second finger into his lover, thoroughly enjoying the way Jazz arched his back and whimpered. His valve rippled, more lubricant spilling out to soak Bluestreak’s fingers.

“Impress me,” he purred.

Jazz rocked down against his fingers, his glossa sweeping over his lips. “Give me somethin’ hard.”

“I intend to,” Bluestreak said with a laugh, one that stripped away the building tension of the moment, but in a good way.

Jazz snickered. “Primus, yer so good ta me, Blue. Glad I snagged ya.”

“Pretty sure I grabbed you, but if it makes you feel better to think that clumsy effort at wooing me worked, than feel free,” Bluestreak said. He stroked his fingers around the curve of Jazz’s face. “I don’t mind at all.”

Jazz turned in toward his palm again, giving it a kiss. “So good ta me.”

Bluestreak smiled and reward Jazz with a third finger, one that curled ever so slightly and rubbed along that sensor cluster that made Jazz writhe.

He had to start planning. If Jazz was up for potential playtime with Ratchet’s pretty, well, Bluestreak wanted to give him a fun opportunity. He suspected Ratchet would be up for it as well.

He couldn’t wait.

[G1] Behind the Scenes 06

06: The Importance of Trust

“It’s not fair,” Bluestreak whined and tried not to pout, though he must have failed if Ratchet’s amused look was any indication. “Your pretty is so obedient and mine’s…”

“Currently back in your quarters chained up because he can’t behave?” Across from him, lounging like a king on his throne, Ratchet barked a laugh. “That’s your own fault, Blue. They only disobey if their owner isn’t firm enough.”

Bluestreak’s lips pressed together before he ex-vented a burst past them. “Or maybe he’s just an ornery little brat.”

Ratchet laughed again and leaned back, shifting his foot where it was braced against the table. “Well, that might be part of it.” A shiver visibly raced across Ratchet’s armor. “Mm. Bring him next time. Maybe I can teach him something. Ah!”

Ratchet startled and his optics shifted toward the mech between his legs. His optics narrowed, fingers gripping Prowl’s chevron and giving it a light tug.

“What did I say about your denta, love?” he asked, his tone loving, but something harsh behind it.

Prowl’s sensory panels flicked, first one and then the other. He didn’t say anything, and from Bluestreak’s position behind him, he couldn’t see Prowl’s expression. Which was a pity, because he bet it was a gorgeous sight, coated as it had to be in Ratchet’s lubricant.

He’d been hard at work for the better part of twenty minutes, lovingly licking and suckling on Ratchet’s valve, while his engine purred and Ratchet enjoyed. Honestly, Bluestreak was envious of Ratchet’s never-ending stamina, even if it had annoyed the pit out of him when he’d undergone Ratchet’s training.

Prowl’s fingers twitched where they were tangled together, clasped at the base of his backstrut, a form of self-bondage that Ratchet often utilized.

“Let the sub live or die by their own restraint,” he’d instructed with a devilish grin.

Ratchet’s grip on Prowl’s chevron tightened and Bluestreak winced. Such a sensory laden part and Ratchet held it as though it were a piece of unnecessary kibble.

“Well?” Ratchet prompted.

“No denta,” Prowl finally bit out, and there was a hint of indignation to his words.

Bluestreak was quick to cover his smirk behind his palm. That was the last time he’d praise Prowl’s behavior where Prowl could hear him. Perhaps Prowl had taken it as a challenge.

“And yet what did I feel?” Ratchet asked, though there’s no way Prowl could have nipped him hard enough to hurt. Prowl might have been playing with disobedience, but he’d never be half as contrary as Jazz.

Prowl’s sensory panels shivered. “I’m yours,” he said, by way of answer.

Ratchet tilted his head, but then his chastising expression softened, as did his grip. “Of course you are, love,” he said, stroking his fingers over Prowl’s chevron. “You misunderstood. I meant to supervise and offer feedback, not take Jazz under my own hand.”

Prowl made a low sound in his intake, his head dipping a little as did his sensory panels, flattening against his back in apology. “Forgive me, Ratchet. I presumed.”

“Yes, you did.” Ratchet sighed softly and stroked his palm over Prowl’s head, behind the jut of his chevron. “And that is partially my error as I was not clear. I am offering instruction and nothing less, though I can retract the offer…”

Prowl’s head dipped a bit more, until he was all but bowing before Ratchet. “No, sir. I…”

Bluestreak’s optics widened. Prowl rarely dropped back into the deferential terms for Ratchet. The both of them rarely relied upon the standard monikers, preferring more affectionate designations.

“We’ll discuss it later.” Ratchet’s hand slid back to Prowl’s chevron, fingers pinching the left-most crest and sliding up to the tip of it. “For now, there is the matter of you disobeying me, no matter what you may have presumed.”

Prowl whimpered.

Primus, but Ratchet was a master at this. Honestly, if Ratchet came back and rescinded his offer, Bluestreak would be fine with this. Just watching Ratchet and Prowl together was enough to learn him a thousand lessons.

Ratchet’s optics lifted back to Bluestreak, optical ridge arching as if asking ‘do you see what I mean?’

Bluestreak jerked his chin in a nod. Yeah, he was starting to see. Though, to be fair, Jazz had always been a misbehaving little sneak. A year or so in Bluestreak’s berth and under his thumb wasn’t going to change that.

“On top of that, our guest is going to leave disappointed,” Ratchet continued, his tone full of disapproval now, even as he clucked his glossa and released of Prowl’s chevron.

Ratchet fully straightened, planting his feet on the floor and rising to his full height, not at all ashamed of the lubricants dripping down his thighs, or his bared equipment.

“I’m sorry, Bluestreak. It appears this one is in need of some re-training of his own,” Ratchet said, the tips of his fingers resting on the crown of Prowl’s head.

Prowl whined deep in his intake, his hands tightening around each other. He leaned forward a bare fraction, and the quiet noise of a glossa lapping up dribbles of lubricant filled the space. Not that Ratchet seemed to notice.

“Perhaps another time?” Ratchet suggested.

Bluestreak pushed to his own feet and made a show of stretching as nonchalant as possible. He, after all, knew how to play this game. “For sure. Just let me know when you’re free and I’m free and let me know about that offer for instruction, too. Primus knows I could use some advice from the Master of Masters.”

Ratchet barked a laugh. “Master of Masters, hmm? I might have to borrow that.” He shifted his weight, tilting his leg toward Prowl, and Prowl obeyed, moving to lick the inside of Ratchet’s other thigh.

Bluestreak’s engine purred, lust drizzling throughout his internals. Thank Primus he’d left his own pretty back in his hab-suite. He looked forward to having someone to handle this charge for him.

“It’s yours,” he said with a playful bow and wiggle of his sensory panels. He offered Ratchet a devilish salute. “Thanks for the invite.”

“Anytime, Blue.”

Ratchet, however, had already shifted his attention back to Prowl, and Bluestreak knew better than to address Prowl right now. He was fully focused – or supposed to be – on showing his guilt and apology to Ratchet. As it had been his fault the game was ended, the guest did not even need to acknowledge him.

It was almost a shame. Bluestreak did so enjoy watching Ratchet punish Prowl. The medic was very, very creative. Devious, too. However, given the nature of what had startled Prowl right out of his assigned task, Bluestreak did not linger.

He suspected the punishment here would be less physical and sensual, and more of the hardest thing for Prowl, sitting down and having a discussion of the spark. He and Ratchet had been together a long, long time, but Prowl still found it hard to open himself like that. He probably always would, which was one reason he thrived under Ratchet’s dominance.

Ratchet’s rules, his expectations, that made it easy for Prowl. It gave him guidelines, structures, and when he behaved, performed well, it was a reflection of his own feelings and emotions. Prowl showed Ratchet how much he loved the medic, with every bowed head, bared intake, or bound limbs.

Trust and love were one and the same, to him.

In that, he and Jazz were a lot alike.

Bluestreak paused outside of Ratchet’s door as the realization poured over him, fast enough to make his engine stutter noisily.

Was that where he was going wrong? Had he not fully earned Jazz’s trust? Was that why Jazz misbehaved, acted out, even when it wasn’t part of the game? Was he still holding a part of himself back, wary of putting his spark into Bluestreak’s hands?

Perhaps Bluestreak was going about this all wrong. He forced his feet back into motion, turning toward his tiny, private habsuite, where he’d left Jazz.

He and Jazz had dove right into the games from the start, with a very eager Jazz all but hungry for it, begging for the sweet emptiness in his processor that came from handing over his control. But perhaps he hadn’t acquired full surrender yet, and his misbehavior was a way of telling Bluestreak that it wasn’t working.

He should take a step back, erase the board, and start from the beginning. As if they had just met and were learning one another. Leave the toys and the punishments out of it, and work solely on building and strengthening trust.

Bluestreak keyed his code into the lock and stepped into the room quickly, before the random passerby could look in and get a glimpse of Jazz. This section of the Ark was usually deserted but all it took was a moment of inattention for the gossip to spread like wildfire.

Autobots loved to gossip.

“Right where I left you,” Bluestreak murmured as the lights surged to sixty percent power, when he’d left them on a dim ten. Which was actually for Jazz’s comfort. He flourished best in the shadows. It was the bright lights which unnerved him.

Currently, Jazz knelt on the floor, a small puddle beneath his knees where lubricant had seeped out from his closed panels. His wrists were cuffed behind his back – self-bondage did not work well with Jazz at this point, too disobedient. Though he could get himself free of the cuffs in a matter of moments. Bluestreak was well aware of this.

Jazz’s frame quivered, little shudders running across his armor in bursts. The room was drenched with the scent of arousal, and Jazz’s field was blazing hot when it brushed over Bluestreak’s.

As far as Bluestreak could tell, however, he hadn’t moved. And he hadn’t overloaded. Unless Jazz had some Special Ops trick that helped him disguise the physical evidence of an overload.

Jazz looked up at Bluestreak’s words, his visor hazy. “Welcome back, Master,” he rasped and an urgent whine rose in his engine. “Early.”

“Yes. Someone has been taking lessons in behavior from you apparently,” Bluestreak said as he moved to stand in front of Jazz, nudging one foot between Jazz’s knees, until he felt the damp ex-vents against his upper thighs. “Did you overload?”

“No, sir.” Jazz shuddered again, his vents roaring.

“Are you close?”

That whine eeked out of Jazz’s intake this time. “Yes, sir.”

“Look at me then.”

Jazz tilted his head up and back and Bluestreak shivered as the weight of his lust-filled gaze fell on Bluestreak. Need clawed in Jazz’s field, volcanic and desperate. His bumper nudged against Bluestreak’s leg.

“We will talk,” Bluestreak said as he reached down, the tips of his fingers brushing around the edges of Jazz’s visor. “I owe you an apology, and you owe me an honest answer.”

Jazz’s shaking increased in earnest, and there it was, a treble of fear in his visor, and a small shiver of it in his field. Emotions, Bluestreak reflected, were a far worse fight than any punishment.

“I…”

“Shh.” Bluestreak stroked the jut of Jazz’s sensory horn between two fingers, and felt the crackle of charge with it. “Overload for me, pet. And then we can talk.”

Jazz keened and his forehead tipped forward, pressed to Bluestreak’s thigh. He shuddered violently, engine roaring, as he overloaded then and there, more lubricant spilling down between his knees. The quiet vibrations of the toy lodged in his valve abruptly ceased – triggered, as it was meant to be, by the charge of Jazz’s overload. More proof that he’d not disobeyed Bluestreak for once.

Bluestreak hummed soothing sounds, stroking Jazz through the echoes of his overload, until Jazz abruptly sagged against him. Only then did Bluestreak kneel to unlock the cuffs, remove the toys from Jazz’s array, and set to cleaning up his pretty. All while Jazz panted and radiated heat and leaned against him, as if stripped of all energy.

His field clung to Bluestreak’s, humid and sticky, as if in dread of the conversation to come. Bluestreak murmured reassurance, his own processor babbling at him a mile a minute.

He wanted so desperately for this to work, and communication, he knew, was key.

So it was time both of them stopped letting their frames do all the talking, and opened their mouths and activated their vocalizers.

[G1] Behind the Scenes 05

05: A New Mission

Ironhide had hemmed and hawed and debated with himself for a week before he decided enough was enough and he had to say something. Because Wheeljack never would, the self-sacrificing fool, and Ratchet wasn’t paying attention.

So while they three piled into Prowl and Ratchet’s quarters – the two idjits finally agreed to start sharing instead of pretending they weren’t – Ironhide chose his words carefully.

“Ya should stop invitin’ Wheeljack,” he said, blunt and to the point. So maybe he hadn’t been as careful as he should have.

Ratchet leaned back into the thin couch. “Why?” he asked as Prowl came around with the decanter of spiced mid-grade, filling his cube. “You bored of playing with him already?” His lips curled. A tease then.

Ironhide shook his head and lifted his empty cube, giving it a waggle. “He’s getting attached,” he said.

Ratchet scoffed. “Pft. That’s ridiculous.”

“Perhaps not.” Prowl’s voice floated from behind Ironhide before he moved into view with the decanter of energon. Should have known not to think he was done yet. “I believe Ironhide may be correct. I enjoy an audience, Ratchet, but not at the expense of someone’s emotions.”

Ratchet stared at of them, and he looked baffled. “You both are wrong. Wheeljack’s fine.”

Prowl carefully filled Ironhide’s cube as Ironhide shook his head. “Yer pretty blind for a mech ‘sposed to be diagnosin’ folks,” he drawled. “And yeah, it ain’t attachment like love, and it ain’t about keepin’ Prowl either.” He lifted his chin to thank Prowl, who replied with a head tilt of his own.

Prowl set the decanter on the table between them. Wise mech. Wouldn’t want to have to go fetch it again, now would he? “Wheeljack is a romantic,” he said, thoughtful tone at the forefront, as he tucked himself onto the couch next to Ratchet. “He envies you.”

Ratchet’s optics narrowed. He squinted at Ironhide, then his mate, and then back again. “You’re serious.” His arm slipped over Prowl’s shoulders, hand curving inward so that his fingers could stroke over the barely visible collar around Prowl’s intake.

They enjoyed this, the subtle displays of their relationship in front of those privy to the truth. It gave them the freedom to be themselves, and it had stopped bothering Ironhide decades, frag probably even centuries, ago.

They just spun themselves their own way, and Ironhide reaped the benefits of a sexy and adorable free show.

“Wouldn’t say it if I wasn’t.” Ironhide sipped his energon and leaned back. “Jack’s a mighty fun dance partner and I’d hate ta lose ‘im, but he wants more than I wanna give.”

Ironhide liked Wheeljack, he really did. But he’d always been something of a wandering spark, never one to settle and commit himself. He had the feeling Wheeljack probably started out thinking he just wanted some fun, but started aching for something with a little more permanence.

He’d seen the way Wheeljack looked at Prowl and Ratchet. Half in awe, half in lust, and one-hundred percent in envy. Not because he wanted to frag Prowl – which he did, frag, Ironhide wouldn’t mind tumbling that pretty himself so who could blame him? – but because he wanted what Prowl and Ratchet had: a meaningful relationship full of love and trust.

“He doesn’t want Prowl,” Ratchet snapped, defensive. Probably out of guilt because bringing in Wheeljack had been his idea from the start.

They’d asked Ironhide his opinion, too. At the time, he’d thought it was a great idea. Jack was the sort of mech ya could trust, and he tended to roll with the punches, so he wasn’t likely to cause a fuss.

Now, Ironhide wondered if maybe he should’ve been paying better attention, too. How could he have missed that longing? Wheeljack’s favorite genre was romance, sometimes with a hint of comedy after all. Loved the ballads, Wheeljack did, though Primus knew he couldn’t carry a tune with all the buckets in the world.

“No.” Prowl snuggled into Ratchet’s side, his sensory panels pinned between himself and the back of the couch. “He wants what I stand for.”

Ah. So Prowl had noticed, too.

“Not a game like what you play either,” Ironhide said, giving his cube a wiggle, though it was yet half-full. “But a sparkling tale. Knight in armor.”

Ratchet frowned. “It’s not a game.” His thumb stroked Prowl’s collar, hooking under the delicate platinum band and giving it a small tug. “It never has been.”

Ironhide waved a dismissing hand. “I know that, Ratch. Been knowin’ that. So quit dodgin’.”

Ratchet ex-vented noisily then and scrubbed his free hand down his face. “Fine. I’ll talk to him.”

“Sure that’s a good idea?” Ironhide asked.

“There’s been some kind of misunderstanding here. Clear communication is–”

“–only going to make him feel worse,” Prowl interjected as he slid a hand to Ratchet’s thigh, fingers gently stroking up and down the white armor. “Especially if we continue to invite Ironhide, yet exclude him from this moment on.”

Ratchet growled, his free hand grabbing Prowl’s and setting it aside. Not in the mood apparently. He’d gotten his fanbelts all in a twist.

“Then what do you suggest?”

Ironhide shrugged. “Redirection,” he said, and purposefully took a long, lingering drag of his energon.

Ratchet scowled. “What?” He sounded offended. Well, tough.

Prowl tucked his hands under his thighs, his optics turned toward the floor. Ah, that wordless chastisement must have stung. “He may have a point,” he said. “Perhaps if Wheeljack had a partner of his own…”

“I’m not going to… to… trick Wheeljack into being with someone else,” Ratchet snapped, jerking forward, nearly unseating Prowl from beside him. He visibly bristled.

“That ain’t it, Ratch! Primus!” Ironhide rolled his optics and finished off his cube, crunching it into non-existence. “We’re just sayin’, I dunno, see if there’s someone his type and see if they spark.”

Ratchet leaned forward entirely, bracing his elbows on his knees. “If there was anyone in the Ark like that, don’t you think I’d know?”

Ironhide smirked. “Who says they gotta be an Autobot?”

“A Decepticon?” Ratchet pinched his chevron as he sighed. “Seriously?”

“Why not?” Prowl, Ironhide noticed, did not pout as visibly as say someone like Sunstreaker or Mirage, but the flutter of his doorwings echoed his disappointment.

Bad Ratchet, neglecting his pretty like that.

“It only takes a spark,” Prowl pointed out.

“Yeah, to ignite a fragging powder keg,” Ratchet muttered, throwing the reply over his shoulder.

It did, at least, have the added effect of making him notice Prowl. He sat back up and groped behind him for Prowl’s nearest wrist, pulling Prowl forward. The tactician made a startled sound as he was tugged across Ratchet’s lap, his bumper and belly tucked over Ratchet’s thighs.

Prowl squirmed, but only until Ratchet’s hand landed on his back, between his sensory panels, pinning him in place. Then Prowl went still and strutless, sinking over Ratchet’s lap like he belonged there, his arms pillowing beneath his head, his legs twisted at what had to be an awkward angle to hang over the edge of the couch so that his pedes brushed the floor.

Ratchet’s other hand rested on the back of Prowl’s head, fingers stroking it gently, and that’s when Prowl’s engine kicked into gear, purring with content.

Sometimes, Ironhide swore he didn’t understand those two.

“Ya know, sometimes sparks can ignite other things, too, ya overprotective nanny bot,” Ironhide retorted, after what seemed an embarrassing amount of time. “Like, ya know, affection that leads to peace.”

Ratchet vented and leaned back, his hands still gently stroking Prowl, who’d gone so limp his sensory panels flattened against his back like a blanket.

He did, however, manage enough to stir and turn his head toward Ironhide, though his optics were hazy. “You had someone in mind?” His backstrut arched, aft bobbing a little, as Ratchet stroked along the length of his back.

“Nope.” Ironhide slid his optics toward Ratchet with a sly grin. “But I’m bettin’ the Party Ambulance here does.”

Ratchet went rigid, his fingers stalling on their path toward Prowl’s aft. “Ironhide!” he snapped, hissing a warning, as his faceplate burned pink.

“I am aware of Ratchet’s history,” Prowl said even as he made another quiet, urgent noise, prompting Ratchet’s hand to continue. “To whom is he referring, Ratchet?”

The medic sighed and growled, his hand stroking over Prowl’s aft and lingering there. “Starscream,” he said.

Prowl’s sensory panels froze. His optics cycled.

Ironhide sorely wished he had an energon cube to hide behind, if only to conceal his Sharkticon grin and the way his optics hungrily followed Ratchet’s fingers as they started to dip between Prowl’s thighs.

“And it’s stupid,” Ratchet continued as he kept his hand between Prowl’s thighs, and judging by Prowl’s shiver and sudden kneading at the arm of the couch, his fingers were going to a very nice place. “It’s ridiculous. Of all the mechs–”

“Actually, Ironhide may have a point,” Prowl said, his vocals shuddery, his faceplate starting to heat. “Starscream is many, many things, but at his core is a mech desperate to be loved.” The last word petered off into the softest of moans, his aft rocking toward Ratchet’s fingers as he hauled his knees and legs onto the couch.

Ironhide nodded. “And here is Wheeljack, achin’ to love someone.”

Ratchet shook his head. “You’re both mad.”

“Probably so.” Ironhide shrugged dismissively. He knew that tone of Ratchet’s and what it meant. “But we aren’t wrong either.”

Ratchet cycled a ventilation. “Fine. Then both of you will come up with a plan that’s not going to blow up in all of our faces,” he said. “But later. Apparently, I have something that needs attending, isn’t that right, love?” He looked down at Prowl, his expression that intriguing blend of diabolic affection that never ceased to amaze Ironhide.

Prowl’s ventilations quickened. “Please,” he panted, knees digging into the couch cushions, his sensory panels quivering.

Ironhide licked his lips.

Ratchet withdrew his fingers, visibly damp with lubricant, and ignoring Prowl’s whine of displeasure. “Then get on the floor,” he said with a light swat to Prowl’s aft. “On your knees in front of me. But face our guest.”

Ratchet looked up at Ironhide and smirked, enough that Ironhide almost felt he should be the one obeying, too.

“Ironhide, if you’ll be so kind as to move that table,” Ratchet said as Prowl moved to obey, though slowly and with lubricant slicking his thighs. “I do believe my lovely here wants to give you a show.”

Ironhide’s engine revved. He almost leapt to obey, sliding the cheap table aside so that there was nothing to obstruct his view of Prowl on his knees between Ratchet’s legs. Lubricant dripped from his open valve, his pressurized spike standing proud at the apex of his thighs.

Ratchet leaned forward, one hand cupping Prowl’s jaw from behind. The hand, Ironhide noticed, still sticky from Prowl’s lubricants. Said sticky fingers were urged toward Prowl’s lips, and Prowl moaned as he sucked them into his mouth, optics going half-shuttered and dark with need.

“Well,” Ironhide drawled as he dropped back into his chair and made himself comfortable. “If he’s offerin’, then I suppose it would be rude of me to decline.”

Ratchet chuckled. “That’s right,” he said and dragged the fingers of his free hand along the top edge of Prowl’s nearest panel. “Go on then, love. Put those hands of yours to good use.”

Prowl moaned around Ratchet’s fingers again, his hands falling to his array, sweeping up lubricant and pre-fluid alike as he started to self-service.

Poor Wheeljack. He was gonna miss this.

But if he ended up with a pretty Seeker to call his own, maybe he wouldn’t mind so much.

Meanwhile, Ironhide intended to enjoy the show.

[G1] Behind the Scenes 04

04: Over the Edge

It was not the oddest invitation Wheeljack had ever received from Ratchet, but it was certainly the most disconcerting. It was also not the first time he’d received a list of instructions regarding his own behavior. Ratch trusted him. It was why he was often invited to witness one of Ratchet and Prowl’s sessions.

But this… this was something else entirely.

Do not interrupt for any reason, Ratchet had warned, in bolded glyphs for emphasis. He is going to say ‘no’. He is going to tell me to ‘stop’. And I’m not going to.

That bothered Wheeljack a little. It made him squirm deep down inside, but part of him wasn’t entirely sure if it was lust or discomfort or an off-putting mix of both.

If you can’t watch without trying to intervene, don’t come, Ratchet added. If you shove him out of his headspace, I will remove yours and shove it up your aft, understand?

Wheeljack had debated with himself long and hard about whether or not he would do this. In the end, lust and curiosity won out. He wanted to watch. He wanted to accept this invitation.

And wasn’t at all surprised when he arrived at Ratchet’s quarters at nearly the same time as Ironhide, the Prime’s bodyguard grinning from audial to audial, his field already dizzy with lust, and his armor billowing heat.

“You, too, eh?” he said as he hit the call button to request access.

Wheeljack nodded and wriggled his datapad. “Did you get some weird instructions, too?” He tucked said datapad back into his subspace.

Ironhide laughed. “Just the one.” He leaned in close, lips inches from Wheeljack’s audial. “My job is to make sure ya don’t do anythin’ stupid.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Wheeljack demanded, indignant.

Ironhide leaned back, lips curved. “Look, I’ve seen this before. And I know how you think, Mr. Knight in Shining Armor with a fetish for reserved tacticians. You ain’t savin’ no one from nothin’, so I need to make sure ya don’t try. Got me?”

Wheeljack ground his denta, even as the door slid open to admit them. “It’s not a fetish,” he bit out as he followed Ironhide inside, the door nearly clipping his aft in its urgency to close.

“Sure it ain’t.” Ironhide snorted.

Wheeljack wanted to retort, but the words died on his glossa. Instead, he nearly swallowed said glossa, and may have briefly forgotten how to ventilate.

The scene had already begun apparently. There would be no waiting around for the set up. Not at all. Prowl was already bound and on display, with two chairs arranged near enough to see everything, but not interfere.

Ironhide took a seat, and Wheeljack blindly groped for his, unable to look away from the enticing sight.

Ratchet had Prowl pulled to the very edge of the berth, though enough pillows stacked up behind him to support his back and head. He was partially reclined, which allowed him to see both Ratchet, and the two invited voyeurs. But his wrists had been bound to his ankles, and ropes looped around his knees, which were then bound to something under the berth, keeping his legs spread and open. His interface array was on full display, and Wheeljack’s mouth went dry.

Prowl’s spike had been locked away, and his secondary port panel was closed as well, but his valve was bared, already swollen with arousal and soaking wet. Lubricant glimmered in the shadows of it, and glittered where it trickled over the caudal lip and down the curve of his aft. The urge to lick those plump folds – decorated in vertical strips of grey and red – rose up in Wheeljack so fast his mouth filled with lubricant and his engine gave the quietest of revs.

Ironhide grabbed Wheeljack’s nearest wrist and tugged him. He all but fell into his chair, his spark hammering in his chest, and his array slamming into readiness with a speed that nearly hurt.

“Behave,” he hissed.

“I am,” Wheeljack snapped.

“You’re late,” Ratchet said. He stood to Prowl’s right, one of his hands resting on Prowl’s knees, the other propped on his hip. He didn’t look annoyed. If anything, Ratchet looked like the turbofox which caught the metallocanary.

Wheeljack cycled his optics. “We’re right on time.”

Ironhide squeezed his wrist as though in warning before he let Wheeljack go. “Sorry, Ratch.”

“I didn’t wait,” Ratchet said, his tone conversational, even as his hand slowly slid down Prowl’s knee, toward his thigh and hip. “Which Prowl is grateful for. Aren’t you?” The lazy rasp of metal over metal was captivating.

Prowl visibly shivered, the blue of his optics darkening to an oceanic hue. “Y-yes, Ratchet,” he said, glossa flicking over his lips. “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome, Prowl,” Ratchet purred, his hand now resting at the apex of Prowl’s thigh, fingers curved around it, millimeters from his valve. “Ironhide, did you get my memo?”

“I did.” Ironhide shifted around in his chair and rested a hand on Wheeljack’s thigh, giving it a pat. “Ya ain’t got nothing to worry about, Ratch. Right, ‘Jack?”

Wheeljack’s intake bobbed. He found himself watching Ratchet’s hands with perhaps a little more scrutiny than was merited. “Right.”

“Good.” Ratchet’s fingers slid toward Prowl’s array, his palm skating over the puffy, dripping pleats of it. “Because someone here has a lesson to learn. Tell them what you did, Prowl.”

Prowl’s engine whined. His ventilations hitched. “I-I overloaded without permission,” he said, breathless, his frame twitching in the confines of his bonds. The biolights around his array were pulsing fitfully, his optical lenses fully dilated.

The air was thick with the smell of lust, of lubrication, and Wheeljack swallowed another groan. Heat pooled behind his array.

“For which the punishment is…?” Ratchet prompted with a quick flick to Prowl’s anterior node cluster, the crimson nub swollen and bright.

Prowl’s back arched. His headlights flashed. He moaned, optics falling to half-shutter. Charge snapped like little fireworks from beneath his armor. He was already close. Wheeljack had seen Prowl close to overload enough times to recognize the signs.

Ratchet pinched Prowl’s anterior node. “Prowl.”

Prowl stirred. “T-to overload on your command.”

“Until?”

“Until I’m allowed to stop.” Prowl’s vocals were more dreamy now, enraptured, and his gaze had shifted to Ratchet, staring at him with the kind of open awe mechs tended to reserve for their first meeting with Prime.

Ratchet met Prowl’s gaze, his touch to Prowl’s nub almost incidental, save that his fingers worked in tiny, tiny circles. Prowl’s hips moved, as little as he was able, to match Ratchet’s motions.

“That’s right,” Ratchet purred and Wheeljack had to swallow a whimper. “Now give me the first one.”

Prowl’s engine whined. He sucked his bottom lip into his mouth, his hips bucking against Ratchet’s fingers, liberally soaked in his lubricant. His hands curled into shaking fists, and his head tossed back as he overloaded, charge crawling over his armor in a burst of blue fire.

Ironhide’s fingers dug into Wheeljack’s thigh plating. “Breathe, ‘Jack,” he said, subvocal.

Wheeljack sucked in a ventilation. He forced himself to lean back, as he’d moved to the edge of his seat. He sat on his hands to stop himself from scrubbing over his groin, though Ironhide seemed to have no such hesitation. His free hand was tracing his array seam, though he hadn’t exposed his equipment.

“Very good, Prowl,” Ratchet said as his fingers continued to rub and pluck over Prowl’s anterior cluster, though it had to be sensitive in the wake of his overload.

Prowl’s engine revved. His optics returned to Ratchet, though they were hazy. His hips moved in little circles with Ratchet’s fingers. He ex-vented shakily.

“Now I want another,” Ratchet murmured.

His thumb pressed circles on Prowl’s nub, but his fingers moved down, two stroking over Prowl’s swollen rim before they plunged inside. Prowl whined, thighs trembling, his lips parting in a breathy ex-vent.

“Y-yes, Ratchet,” he stammered, his doorwings twitching restlessly behind his shoulders. His field, what little of it Wheeljack could sense, turned liquid with pleasure. His hips moved in stuttered bursts, riding Ratchet’s fingers.

He was beautiful. Wheeljack couldn’t help but be enraptured, almost sorry that he wasn’t allowed to record this in any way. He would have to do with his memory alone, when tucked away in his private berth, whimpering around the toy shoved in his valve.

Prowl was gorgeous. His submission to Ratchet even more so, and the hungry rocks of his hips were intoxicating. He shivered and shook, biolights pulsing, valve spilling lubricant, as Ratchet continued to press hard circles on his nub. Prowl sucked in vent after vent, optics hazy, but focused on Ratchet.

Prowl licked his lips, doorwings fluttering. His valve lips were puffy and swollen, his anterior node increasing in size. His vents turned ragged, his little moans staticky.

Wheeljack’s own vents stuttered. He found himself leaning forward and forward, until Ironhide’s hand on his chestplate shoved him back.

“Ought get ya a seatbelt like the humans got,” Ironhide muttered, subvocal, too quiet for Prowl to pick up, as distracted as he was

Wheeljack shot him a glare, but it melted away when Prowl whimpered and made a caught sound. He looked back just in time to see Prowl jerk, another spill of static lighting up his armor in blue fire. The room filled with the scent of arousal, of overload, and Wheeljack’s in-vents sucked it up.

“Very good,” Ratchet murmured as Prowl twitched and panted on the berth.

Ratchet leaned in and nuzzled Prowl’s helm, even as he slowly withdrew his fingers from Prowl’s valve, the red digits liberally streaked with lubricant. Prowl whimpered, his hips rising as little as they were capable, as though chasing Ratchet’s fingers.

“Y-your fingers…” Prowl mumbled, his optics hazy and his ventilations coarse.

Ratchet leaned back, blinking innocently. “Yes?” He lifted his hand, admiring the lubricant drenching his fingers and now dripping down his palm and wrist. “They are quite dirty, aren’t they. I do believe that’s your fault, love. Care to clean them for me?”

Prowl’s tongue swept over lips before they parted in silent offer and Wheeljack had to swallow a moan as Ratchet’s fingers painted lubricant over Prowl’s lips. Prowl made a hungry noise, mouth chasing after Ratchet’s fingers before he sucked them into his mouth. The noisy smack of his lips and glossa over them might as well have been a taunt.

Wheeljack’s vents gusted scorching air.

Beside him, Ironhide chuckled so quietly it was nearly inaudible. “You’re so fraggin’ predictable,” he murmured.

“Shut up,” Wheeljack said.

Prowl moaned just then and Wheeljack’s attention snapped back toward him. His hands formed fists in his lap as he watched Ratchet slowly withdraw his fingers from Prowl’s mouth, the tips of them lingering on Prowl’s bottom lip.

“Mmm, much better,” Ratchet said, his voice humming with approval.

Prowl undulated in his bonds. “I didn’t mean…” He shuddered, and his valve visibly contracted, lubricant oozing free, as his biolights fitfully pulsed. “I want them back.”

“Oh, is that so?” Ratchet’s hand rested on Prowl’s bumper, thumb sweeping over a headlight before it dragged down, down, ever so slowly, and Prowl trembled. “After you’ve gone through all the trouble to to make them clean? You want them back in your valve, is that it?”

“Yes,” Prowl pleaded. His fingers squeezed in and out of fists, his ventilations whooshing noisily. “Please.”

Ratchet’s hand rested on Prowl’s groin, just above his valve, the weight of his palm on the cover to Prowl’s spike.

“Tell you what,” Ratchet said with a flick to Prowl’s spike-cover before he lifted his hand, and Prowl whimpered.

Wheeljack might have echoed him.

“I have a better idea,” Ratchet continued and groped at his subspace, withdrawing a false spike that made Wheeljack’s valve clench, and he wasn’t sure if it was anticipation or dread.

The toy was thick, easily more so than was standard, and it was riddled with ridges and bumps and whorls. It looked heavy in Ratchet’s hand, like a weapon, yet the sight of it made Prowl whine, his hips canting upward, his aft glittering with dribbled lubricant.

“This, I believe, is a better substitute, don’t you think?” Ratchet asked as he nudged the rounded, bulbous tip against Prowl’s anterior node.

Prowl’s hips bucked. He whooshed a ventilation. He gnawed on his bottom lip.

“Yes, Ratchet,” he wheezed.

Yes, please, Wheeljack wanted to say. He was enraptured. He couldn’t look away.

“Would you like it, love?” Ratchet all but crooned, his words syrupy sweet, but with a devious edge to them that made Ironhide swear and shift in his chair. “Are you empty? Do you crave something inside you? So deep it touches all of those nodes and makes them sing?”

Prowl’s head jerked in a nod. Wheeljack’s optics tracked another drop of lubricant as it oozed free, dangled from the caudal lip of his valve, and drizzled further down.

“Come now, love.” Ratchet circled the head of the false spike against Prowl’s anterior cluster before he rubbed it over the entrance to Prowl’s valve. “You have to speak up so the audience can hear you. After all, there may be some question as to whether or not you truly want this.”

Ratchet’s smirk was a subtle thing, but the devious look he tossed over his shoulder in Wheeljack’s direction was far from it.

That aft.

Wheeljack ground his denta so hard he tasted sparks.

Prowl keened a moan. “I-I want it,” he said, hips jerking, the berth creaking, his engine revving and roaring. “Please, Ratchet. May I have it?”

“Of course, you may,” Ratchet purred, and the tip of the false spike pressed against the plump folds of Prowl’s rim, nudging against them with an audible squish of lubricant.

Wheeljack wheezed as Prowl’s backstrut arched, as his head tilted back, as thighs trembling. Inch by inch, the spike slid into him, and inch by nubbed inch, Prowl’s valve swallowed it. His engine roared, a whine rose in his intake, while charge crackled and danced over his armor.

He went taut, like someone caught on the edge, his face one of sheer, agonized bliss. And then he tumbled over it, whimpering as he overloaded, as the spike seated itself so deep the end was barely visible, and his rim visibly contracted around it.

Wheeljack whimpered, too, and was glad that Prowl’s pleasure was louder than he was. Ironhide blazed like a furnace next to him, his vents rattling and roaring, the shove of his palm over his array more urgent. But they both knew the rules.

They didn’t expose their equipment, but Primus how Wheeljack wanted to. He ached everywhere.

“Three,” Ratchet said, the heel of his palm keeping the false spike deep within Prowl. His other hand came into view, bearing a small device which he slipped over his own fingers. “Let’s dive right into four, shall we?”

There was a click, a buzz, and then Prowl all but shrieked, frame snapping against the berth. His hips bucked, and his knees yanked on the bindings, and his doorwings smacked the pillows behind him. His lips peeled back into a snarl over gritted denta, flashing optics vanishing behind optical shutters, and his field exploded, so hot and raw with lust that Wheeljack drowned in it.

He groaned, lolling forward, but Ironhide’s hand on his thigh was a vise, a metal-denting vise that kept him pinned in his chair, even though he knew he had to be leaking through his seams, soaking the seat of it with his lubricant.

What did that feel like, he wondered. To be catapulted straight toward another overload while still reeling from the one before it. Did it hurt?

Wheeljack couldn’t tell from Prowl’s expression or his field, which was a swirling vortex of pain-pleasure-need-want. Prowl shook in the confines of his bounds, his vents heaving, his plating lifted away from his protoform.

Barely could Wheeljack hear the soft buzz of the vibrating device Ratchet circled over his swollen, angry anterior node. Two fingers kept the thick false spike deep in Prowl’s valve, no doubt grinding it against his ceiling node, his calipers struggling to clasp around it.

Prowl whined, a high, needy sound, and he bucked harshly. His optics flashed, lubricant seeping out from around the false spike, and his field flooded the room with heat. He collapsed back into the pillows as Ratchet’s fingers moved away, the vibrator deactivated, leaving them a clear view of Prowl’s flickering, swollen nub.

“That’s four,” Ratchet said, still impressively calm. Wheeljack admired his control. He didn’t know how Ratchet was resisting the pretty sight Prowl made. “Do you want another?”

Prowl moaned, his head lolling, his armor clattering. “N-no, Ratchet.”

“Then it’s a shame that’s not your call to make,” Ratchet said and the low buzz of the vibrator became loud, as it was reactivated and intensified.

Prowl whimpered. “N-no…” He twitched in his bonds, his expression pained. “Hurts.”

“I know it does,” Ratchet said, calmly, terribly calm and in control. “And it burns. Like the press of an iron, yes?”

Prowl jerked his head in a nod.

“A fire so hot it burns cold,” Ratchet murmured, relentless as he rubbed the vibrator over Prowl’s anterior node, so swollen it had doubled in size. “A pleasure so consuming it becomes pain, until it rebounds back again. Am I right?”

Prowl’s optics shuttered. He whined.

Ratchet leaned closer. “I’m talking to you, love,” he growled. “Are you listening to me?”

Prowl’s optics snapped back open. His hands were in such tight fists that his knuckles ached. “Y-yes, R-R-Ratchet.”

“Then you’re going to do as I say and give me another overload,” Ratchet demanded.

Prowl’s armor rattled. “I can’t,” he gasped, his optics bleeding color. His hips jerked, engine roaring, the scent of hot metal so thick in the air. “I can’t. P-please, d-don’t.”

“It wasn’t a request,” Ratchet said.

Prowl whimpered.

Wheeljack almost lurched out of his seat, but Ironhide’s hand on his thigh kept him pinned. He sucked in several ventilations, realizing that at some point he’d matched his own to Prowl’s frantic struggle, and it left him dizzy.

He was hot, scorching, both valve and spike demanding attention. As much as he wanted to jump across the room, fling open those restraints, and soothe Prowl’s aches.

“Don’t,” Ironhide said.

Wheeljack almost whined himself.

“You seem to have forgotten the point of this,” Ratchet said, his finger circling and circling, pinning that angry vibration against Prowl’s pitiful node.

Prowl sobbed, his face turning, tucking into his own shoulder. His optics were squeezed shut, oral vents desperately sucked through his mouth.

“Punishment, love, is not meant to be enjoyed.” Ratchet’s circles became tighter, more focused, as though seeking the most sensitive angle and aggressively assaulting it. “And I am meant to be obeyed. So you will overload again. Understand?”

Prowl’s answer was to whine, his engine making a pathetic sound. His face was hidden, but his hips twitched and jerked. His cooling fans rattled, his legs and thighs visibly shaking.

Ratchet leaned in close to Prowl’s face, pressing his forehead to Prowl’s chevron. His fingers continued their assault on Prowl’s anterior node.

“I want your overload,” Ratchet almost hissed, his tone firm and commanding, for all that affection peered at the most distant edges. “And you will give it to me. Now.”

Prowl shrieked through gritted denta. His entire frame jolted, hands clenched into creaking fists, valve folds visibly contracting around the end of the false spike. The charge that leapt out from his substructure was electric and lit up the room.

“Mmm. Thank you, love,” Ratchet said with a nuzzle to Prowl’s face. His fingers slid away from Prowl’s anterior node, the vibrator still faintly buzzing. “Almost done.”

Almost? Wheeljack nearly choked on a ventilation.

Prowl moaned dully, his head lolling. “Hurts,” he mumbled.

“I know.” Ratchet shifted, sliding away from Prowl, but only so that he could climb onto the berth.

He shoved the pillows aside as he put himself in their place, cradling Prowl between his legs and against his front. His arms curled around Prowl’s sides and dipped down between the tactician’s thighs, delicately framing Prowl’s stuffed and swollen valve.

Ratchet tilted his head against Prowl’s, his expression a mixture of devilish need and proud affection. One hand stroked around Prowl’s rim, teasing the soaked, swollen mesh. The other, with the vibrator, returned to Prowl’s anterior node, though he only circled the housing around it.

“I think you have more in you, love,” Ratchet said with a smirk and a glance to Wheeljack and Ironhide. “I think you’re going to give me one more. Just so we both know that you are sorry for your misbehavior.”

Prowl’s ventilations hitched. His optics unshuttered by half, becoming slits of dim blue. “No, Ratchet. Please.” He whimpered, hips attempting to twitch away from Ratchet’s hands. “I can’t.”

“And who decides that, hm? Certainly not you.” Ratchet’s fingers gently stroked over Prowl’s array, circling in closer and closer to the blazing heat of his puffy node. “Besides, you don’t want to disappoint your audience, do you? Go on. Look at them.”

Wheeljack’s vents caught in his intake. He froze. His internals throbbed with heat as Prowl lifted his head achingly slow, his gaze turning on both Wheeljack and Ironhide. His faceplate filled with heat, darkening in color, but his valve pulsed and his field throbbed so prettily with arousal.

Prowl’s glossa flicked over his lips, even as he shook in Ratchet’s arms.

“You’re beautiful, love. They know it and I know it. I think they believe you’re contrite, too,” Ratchet continued, something hypnotizing in his words, in the tender touches that gradually turned more and more aggressive.

The vibrator was buzzing again, oh so lightly, getting closer and closer to Prowl’s nub. Prowl whimpered, still trying to twitch his hips away, but there was nowhere to go.

“Another overload, and I’ll start to believe it, too,” Ratchet insisted, less urge and more command, the vibrator coming perilously near to Prowl’s nub.

Prowl visibly sobbed. “Don’t want to,” he said, optics hazy, ventilations coming sharper and faster. “Can’t.”

“You can and you will,” Ratchet insisted and applied the vibrator to Prowl’s nub, direct where before it had been a tease.

Prowl keened, head tossing back, frame thrashing in his bindings as he overloaded, lightning snarling out from beneath his armor.

Wheeljack thought Ratchet would back off then. Surely he could smell the scorched metal, the bitterness of hot lubricant, the ozone of a burnt circuit. But no, if anything, Ratchet became more relentless. He plunged the false spike in and out of Prowl’s valve, leaning harder with the vibrator against Prowl’s node, and Prowl’s keening turned to a shriek.

His back bowed, into a sharp parabolic curve that Wheeljack was amazed he was capable of. He must have overloaded again, if the need boiling in his field was any indication. So soon on the heels of the one before! Could it be anything but agony at this point?

Wheeljack panted, enraptured, unable to take his optics away. He drank in the sight of Prowl thrashing, his cries sinful in Wheeljack’s audials.

“No, no, no, no, no,” Prowl wailed, the mumbling litany nearly incomprehensible. He sounded wrecked. “Please!”

And still, Ratchet persisted. “Almost,” he said, breathless and fierce, his optics so bright and dangerous. “One more. You can do it.”

Prowl’s frame creaked, his doorwings battering against Ratchet’s front. He’d squeezed his optics back shut, his denta clenched, his field begging for relief.

“Come on, love,” Ratchet insisted, vibrator so fast and strong that the sound echoed in Wheeljack’s audials, made his processor spin. “Last one.”

Prowl’s head jerked back, his intake bared, and his entire frame went taut, frozen as if caught in time. His mouth opened in a soundless cry, even his vents stalled. The brightest flare of charge erupted over his armor, snapping back against Ratchet’s. He froze, arrested by ecstasy, frame twitching so minutely it could barely be seen, until he abruptly dropped, collapsing back against Ratchet.

His cooling fans started up again, roaring. His vents hiccuped. But he was slack in Ratchet’s arms, unconscious.

Wheeljack leaned forward, his spark throbbing. Ironhide’s hand was a heavy weight on his chestplate, but he itched to do something. Anything. Prowl had sounded so desperate, so hurt.

//Hush.//

He startled at the abrupt comm. His gaze swung back to Ratchet.

//He’s fine,// Ratchet said, though he wasn’t looking anywhere near Wheeljack. //He’s in a reset. He’ll wake shortly. So be quiet. I don’t want your voice to be the first thing he hears when he onlines.//

Even as he commed Wheeljack, he was inactivating the vibrator and tossing it to the berth beside him. His hands were gently petting over Prowl’s frame, loosening the bindings but not removing them completely.

//Ratch, I don’t–//

//If you have questions, I’ll answer them later,// Ratchet replied, sounding distracted. //For now, just be still and silent. Close your optics if you can’t bear to watch.//

Ironhide’s hand slid from Wheeljack’s chestplate down to his knee. He patted it carefully, quietly, before he leaned in. “This ain’t nothin’ new,” he murmured, so quiet it probably didn’t carry past Wheeljack’s audials. “Just follow my cues ‘nd I promise Ratch won’t get mad at’cha.”

Wheelljack made a noncommittal noise, even as a soft sound emerged from Prowl and he started to stir. His optics lit, dim at first, but then gaining brightness. He made a questioning sound, to which Ratchet immediately noticed.

“Shhh, I have you,” Ratchet was murmuring, every touch gentle and careful as he unknotted the bindings and eased Prowl’s limbs out of their stiff posture.

Prowl’s mouth opened, but his vocalizer produced static interspersed with a whimper. Ratchet moved his limbs for him as Prowl rested against his chassis, his expression one of exhaustion and satisfaction.

“I’m so proud of you, love,” Ratchet said, his attention on removing the bonds and easing Prowl’s limbs. “You did perfectly. You were so obedient. So beautiful.”

Prowl’s face tucked into Ratchet’s intake, little tremors racing through his frame. Yet, Ratchet continued to speak to him.

It was a constant litany of reassurance, and Ratchet’s field echoed it, pulsing love and comfort and pride, wrapping around Prowl like a blanket. Prowl clutched at him, his face streaked with optical fluid, his thighs trembling, but he wouldn’t bring his legs together.

Wheeljack doubted he could. His valve was so swollen it had to be tender. His node was a bright, angry color, nearly doubled in size. Was there even a drop of lubricant left in Prowl’s tank? He didn’t know.

Prowl whimpered, again, as Ratchet eased the false spike from his valve. It was liberally coated in lubricant, and Prowl’s valve contracted in it’s wake. Yet, he was also loose and open, his valve folds swollen, and some of the interior of his valve visible to Wheeljack and Ironhide both.

The toy was set aside. Ratchet slipped a single finger into Prowl’s valve, shushing him again when he whimpered.

“Shhh, it’s all right. I’m just checking for damage, but there is none, as I knew there wouldn’t be.” Ratchet pressed a kiss to the side of Prowl’s face. “Don’t I always take care of you, love?”

Prowl gave no answer. At least none that Wheeljack could hear.

Wheeljack ex-vented quietly, hoping not to gain Prowl’s attention and disturb him. He leaned back in his chair, feeling jittery and out of sorts.

The tension was gone from the room. Wheeljack shifted again, uncomfortable for an entirely different reason. Ratchet’s murmurings were so sweet, so loving, that Wheeljack now felt like an intruder of a different sort.

He wondered if there were supposed to go, and followed Ironhide’s advice, looking at the other mech for guidance. Ironhide shook his head and made a shushing noise.

They would wait then.

Wheeljack looked at Ratchet and Prowl again, who were curled together on the berths as lovers might in a post-coital glow. If it weren’t for Prowl’s subtly parted thighs, and subsequent bare valve, it might have felt like a different story.

“There we go, love, all better,” Ratchet said, at last, and he patted Prowl’s chestplate, over his Autobot symbol. “You can recharge soon, I promise. First, you need to thank our guests.”

Prowl stirred, his hazy optics shifting toward Ironhide and Wheeljack. There was no embarrassment, just a bleary acknowledgment.

“Thank you,” he rasped, obedient.

“Yer welcome, Prowl,” Ironhide said as he leveraged himself to his feet, though Wheeljack did not fail to miss the way his knees wobbled. “Ya did good, mech. Proud of ya.”

Prowl’s face pinked, and he tucked it back into Ratchet’s intake.

Ironhide nudged Wheeljack with an elbow, and Wheeljack lurched to his feet with less grace than he usually had.

“Uh, yeah. Happy ta help,” Wheeljack said, rubbing the back of his head.

Ironhide elbowed him again, coughing a vent.

Wheeljack worked his intake. “And, uh, good job! You’re forgiven.” His indicators flashed, and he hoped it was an encouraging color.

The look Ratchet gave him was both contemplative and tense. Something to worry about later, Wheeljack supposed. He and Ratchet were gonna have to have a serious talk, because Wheeljack wasn’t sure about what all he saw, and he kinda wished he’d had a more… in-depth warning.

“Thank you, Wheeljack. Ironhide.” Ratchet nodded at them both before his attention turned back to Prowl.

Wheeljack took that for dismissal. And he was right, because Ironhide snagged his elbow and tugged him toward the door. Wheeljack only looked over his shoulder once, to see Ratchet and Prowl kissing. Gentle-like, as though they were two lovers who’d just been sharing the sweetest of spark-merges.

It boggled the processor.

In the hallway, the door beeping a lock behind them, Ironhide didn’t so much as pause. He just made a beeline for the storage room across the hall and honestly, Wheeljack was pretty damn grateful.

He didn’t know entirely how he felt, save that his knees trembled, his valve ached, his spike throbbed, and he was pretty sure he’d left drips behind him. He wanted to overload, needed to, and he all but threw himself at Ironhide once the storage shut behind them.

“Frag me,” he gasped, pawing at Ironhide’s chest, trying to hitch a leg around the larger mech’s waist.

Ironhide growled, grabbed his aft, and lifted him up. Wheeljack’s panel snapped aside mere seconds before Ironhide pinned him against the wall, and his spike filled Wheeljack in one quick, deep push.

Wheeljack moaned, head knocking back against the wall, vents roaring. His valve quivered with relief, clutching hungrily at Ironhide’s spike, and he moaned again when Ironhide didn’t bother to tease either of them. He pounded into Wheeljack, fragging him against the wall, no grace, just mindless pursuit of pleasure.

Thank fragging Primus.

Overload came far too quickly, Wheeljack’s vents gasping as he keened. He writhed on Ironhide’s spike, even as the larger mech spilled hotly into him, hips pumping in deep, satisfying grinds.

“Gahhh.” Ironhide’s forehead knocked against the wall beside Wheeljack’s head. He ex-vented hotly. “Primus, what they do ta me,” he groaned.

Wheeljack tightened his thighs around Ironhide’s waist and rolled his hips. “Again,” he demanded, urgent, his valve still cycling desperately, his spark throbbing.

He didn’t precisely know why, except that he wanted the pleasure to chase away all else. To remind himself that this was supposed to be fun, and it was. But it had also been optic-opening and revelatory and he kind of didn’t want to think right now.

Ironhide chuckled. “One more,” he said. “And then we go to a room and a real berth so ya can frag the spark outta me, too.”

“Deal.” His heels drummed against the back of Ironhide’s thighs, even as Ironhide’s rumbling engine growled through them both.

Wheeljack panted, processor spinning as Ironhide started to thrust once more, the heavy drag of his spike the perfect sensation and distraction both. He tightened his arms over Ironhide’s shoulders and gave in to it.

The rest he’d worry about later.

[G1] Coming Undone

Bluestreak loves the little games they play. The push and pull, the give and take, the yielding. He loves how Jazz opens to him, how he fights, how he trembles and whimpers when Bluestreak keeps him on the edge. How he begs and begs for more.

But this, too, has its own merits. This is just as delightful, just as intoxicating. It is less a game, a scene, then it is worship. Bluestreak’s mouth on Jazz’s valve, lovingly sucking on each of his folds, licking over his anterior and posterior node clusters, making him squirm, and sigh, and moan.

This, too, is a delight for Bluestreak.

His own arousal is a roaring heated thing. Yet, he sets it aside, focused wholly on making Jazz squirm and whimper. Jazz’s thighs tremble near his head, armor clattering. His vents roar, his engine rumbles, and he drips a litany of pleas.

“Ah, babe, that’s so good. Right there. Ahhh, please, Blue. Suck me some more, please baby, please.”

And it’s heady. It’s intoxicating. As is the quiver of Jazz’s fingers, wrapped around his thighs, pulling his legs up and back, baring the entirety of his valve to Bluestreak’s worship.

He can easily reach the pulsing blue of Jazz’s anterior node cluster, bright and swollen with arousal. Each valve fold is plump and juicy, soaking in Jazz’s lubricants and Bluestreak’s oral attention. His posterior node is equally ripe, glistening beneath the tide of Jazz’s lubricant.

Bluestreak’s lips kiss each node cluster tenderly. His denta nip at them, ever so gently. His glossa laves long, wet stripes, the tip flicking across the nubs. He buries his face in Jazz’s valve, glossa plunging deeply into Jazz, tasting fresh pearls of lubricant, and feeling the shallowest calipers flutter around him.

He moans, the vibrations traveling against Jazz’s valve, and Jazz echoes him with a whimper, hips bucking, ankles drumming against his aft.

“Please, babe, please. More,” Jazz begs. His field rises and falls, sticky and hungry where it clasps at Bluestreak.

He nuzzles Jazz’s valve lips, in-vents the sweet scent of his lover’s arousal. His mouth and nose and cheeks are coated in lubricant, and he loves it.

“Jazz,” he murmurs, lifting his head, his lips grazing Jazz’s anterior node even as he seeks Jazz’s visor with his optics. “Give me a hand, sweetspark.”

“Huh?” Jazz sounds dazed, half-delirious, his lips raw where he’s been gnawing on them, his armor plates rattling, his engine revving.

Bluestreak’s lips brush over Jazz’s node again and again, short, sweet little brushes that must tease more than anything. “Hold yourself open for me?” he suggests, and licks each valve fold in turn. “Here and here. I want to go deep, so deep into you, taste as far as my glossa can reach, drink every little drop you’re going to give me.”

Jazz’s engine roars. His pedes thump to the berth to either side of Bluestreak’s shoulders, his hands surging toward his valve.

There’re few sights sweeter, hotter, more arousing, than his gorgeous sub displaying himself. Than Jazz’s fingers curling through his own lubricant, plunging into his valve, spreading himself open and wide, lubricant glistening within him, oh so tasty.

“Mmm, thank you,” Bluestreak murmurs and draws Jazz’s anterior node into his mouth, suckling upon it as though it were the smallest spike.

Jazz whines, his backstrut arching, head thumping back against the pillow. “Oh, Primus, Blue. Do that again,” he gasps, hips working in small rocks toward Bluestreak’s mouth.

So he does, suckling harder and harder, glossa flicking the tip, each little pass making Jazz twitch to the same rhythm. Lubricant pours from his valve, his fingers trembling where they hook around his valve folds, holding him open.

“Oh babe, that’s so good,” Jazz moans, feet digging into the berth, his thighs quivering and fully lifted from his protoform, showing the tantalizing web of cables beneath.

Bluestreak hums and lets Jazz’s anterior nub free with a pop. Jazz makes a noise of disappointment, but it melts into a whimper as Bluestreak finally takes the offer of Jazz’s valve. His glossa plunges into it, as deep as he can manage, nasal ridge rubbing against Jazz’s anterior node while his chin applies a loving pressure to his bottom nub.

Jazz rattles an ex-vent, his hips bucking. The first ring of calipers flutter around Bluestreak’s glossa, even as he curls it upward to grace that sensor cluster at the apex of Jazz’s interior valve rim. Jazz gasps a moan, his fingers slipping in his lubricant and he scrambles to open himself again.

“Ohh, Blue, I’m so close, so close. Keep going, please. I’ll do anythin’.” Jazz’s hips move in sharp, jerking motions, aborted attempts to ride Bluestreak’s face that are stalled given there’s no room to move.

Not with Bluestreak’s hands curled under his thighs and around, pinning down his hips. Not with his shoulders helping to keep his thighs spread wide. And not with Jazz spread so enticingly for him.

Bluestreak hums as he licks out again, returning his attention to Jazz’s valve folds. He nips at Jazz’s fingers, licking lubricant off of them, and Jazz quivers. He laps downward, finding Jazz’s posterior nub and giving it more attention, the little node swollen and bright and hungry.

Jazz keens, berth creaking as he digs his feet in, lifting his aft up by spare inches, rolling his valve against Bluestreak’s mouth.

“Oh, right there, right there, right there,” he chants as his hips rock with each syllable, urging Bluestreak onward. His hands shake as though he can barely hold on. His engine roars, a strangled sound.

He’s the hottest thing in the world.

Bluestreak’s own arousal skyrockets, his spike throbbing where it’s pinned between the berth and his own frame. He’s leaking, he knows he is, pre-fluid soaking the cover, but he doesn’t care. Not with Jazz’s lubricants dribbling down and making just as much as a puddle.

“Overload for me, Jazz,” Bluestreak says as he licks the length of Jazz’s valve in between each word, ending with a flick to Jazz’s anterior node, the taste of Jazz thick and sweet on his lips. “Come on, sweetness. Wanna see your pleasure. Wanna taste it. Wanna hear you coming undone.”

Jazz’s head tosses back, intake bared, denta gritted. He looses a sound, that’s maybe a moan, maybe a whimper. His hands tremble. He’s so close, Bluestreak can taste it in his field.

He buries his face against Jazz’s valve again, glossa plunging deep, nasal ridge grinding against Jazz’s anterior nub. He hums, a long, low note that vibrates against Jazz’s most tender area.

And Jazz shatters beneath him, hands snapping away from his valve to grab Bluestreak’s head as he curls forward and grinds down, riding Bluestreak’s face. His hips rise and surge, his valve throbbing and spilling lubricant, as his thighs clamp around Bluestreak’s shoulders, keeping him in place.

Bluestreak moans against Jazz’s valve, lapping up the lubricant as quickly as he can savor it, though it spills over his chin and onto the berth. All he can taste and hear and see is Jazz, coming undone with pleasure, valve a blaze of heat and pleasure. His hips jerk as Bluestreak presses kisses over his throbbing anterior node, now sensitive in the wake of such a powerful overload.

Jazz’s thighs loosen, granting Bluestreak ventilating space, but his hold on Bluestreak’s face tightens.

“Come here, come here,” he’s urging as he tugs, pulls upward, and Bluestreak willing slides up, until Jazz’s mouth falls over his, kiss hungry and consuming.

Bluestreak moans into the kiss, fumbling to get his knees beneath him, his hands planted awkwardly to either side of Jazz’s hips. His spike is throbbing, pushing against the berth, and he’s so close to overload he can taste it. Or maybe that’s just Jazz’s lubricant on his lips, and Jazz licking into him as though searching for the taste of himself.

Jazz’s field floods over his, trickling into Bluestreak’s seams, past his armor, against his substructure. Like it has tangible weight, physical fingers, stroking at Bluestreak’s very core. His spark throbs, hips thrusting against the berth. He makes an awkward grab at Jazz’s hips and holds on, panting against Jazz’s mouth, as overload unexpectedly jolts through his frame.

He spills transfluid onto the berth, spike tip catching on cover folds and splattering them. He shudders in Jazz’s grip, panting a moan over Jazz’s lips, his sensory panels flickering behind him. He trembles, wrecked in the aftermath, and Jazz must be, too, because he’s shaking.

“Damn it, you’re amazing, Blue,” Jazz says, nuzzling his face, not caring that he’s smearing his own lubricant over his cheeks.

He tips backward, hauls Bluestreak with him, who looses an awkward yelp as he finds himself splayed over Jazz, his lower half nestled between his smaller lover’s thighs. His softened spike twitches as it meets the soaking folds of Jazz’s valve.

“And you’re hotter than the Pit,” Bluestreak retorts as he shifts to make the position less awkward, hands sliding under Jazz’s shoulder in a pseudo-embrace. “Love to lick you out. Love to taste you. Love to make you sing for me.”

“Mmm. And I love that you love it.”

Jazz tugs him up into another kiss, glossas tangling, still tasting of lubricant and charge, Jazz venting heat like he’s raced a marathon, and Bluestreak no better. He moans, hips rolling against Jazz’s valve, spike seeking to re-pressurize once more. Jazz’s thighs press in on his hips, pinning him in place.

“Gonna get me started again,” Bluestreak says as he breaks away from the kiss to press their foreheads together.

Jazz smirks and licks at the corner of his mouth, no doubt grabbing a droplet of lubricant. “You say that as though it’s a bad thing.” He arches his back, limbs enclosing Bluestreak, hips rolling up toward his spike. “Come on, babe. Do me. Then ya can lick me clean.”

Bluestreak shivers, heat blooming rather quickly in his tank. “Why are you so tempting?” he asks as his pressurized spike makes little aborted thrusts against Jazz’s valve, slipping in all the lubricant soaking his folds.

“Well,” Jazz says with a laugh. “Ya know what they say. The way to a mech’s spark is through his tank.” His grin is wicked, as is the sparkle in his visor. “So bon apetit.”

Bluestreak laughs. “You’re ridiculous.”

“And all charged up, too,” Jazz says with a wriggle. “So come on, babe. Get that spike into me before I have to take it for myself.”

“Mmm, and we can’t have that,” Bluestreak murmurs before he steals Jazz’s lips again, indulging in a long, deep kiss to match his slow slide into Jazz’s valve.

Jazz shivers beneath and around him, his field as open as his frame, and this, Bluestreak knows, is just as intoxicating, as appealing, as the games they play.

All things in balance, after all.

[IDW] Better Than Misery

He initially started with Rodimus across his lap, his captain – no, not captain, here he was only Rodimus, sometimes Roddy if Ratchet was feeling affectionate – balanced precariously over his thighs, gold hands clutching at Ratchet’s calves.

The first swat, ringing so loudly in the air, had made Rodimus squirm. The second, third and fourth – all harder than the first – made Rodimus thrash and throw his hands back to protect his aft. Ratchet smacked them away and laid out three more in sharp succession, his hand pressed firmly to Rodimus’ back between his spoiler to keep him pinned.

Rodimus wriggled, arms jerking back, hands trying to save himself.

Ratchet stopped and sighed out of exasperation. “Discipline is not meant to be avoided,” he said. “Give me your hands.”

Rodimus’ spoiler drooped. His field went all wobbly, reeking of guilt and shame, as though disappointing Ratchet was worse than the punishment. But he meekly offered his wrists, and Ratchet wasted no time snapping a pair of magna-cuffs around them. Rodimus could reach over his head with his bound hands if he wanted, but he had no protection for his aft.

Ratchet adjusted Rodimus’ position, pinned him down by the spoiler again, and rested his hand on Rodimus’ aft. He stroked the warming metal gently, well aware he’d promised Rodimus that the night wouldn’t end unless all the crimson paint was gone.

At some point, Ratchet knew he’d have to move on to the paddle. His hands, even with the sensors dulled, could only take so much.

Rodimus trembled on his lap. His field and frame language both offered conflicting stories.

Ratchet cycled a ventilation. “You sure you want me to keep going?”

Rodimus’ head dipped, expression buried between his arms. “Yes.” His field rippled, a dizzying blend of fear and anxiety and yearning.

“You know you don’t have to.”

Rodimus nodded. His hands curled into fists. His engine rumbled.

“I won’t be angry if you want to stop.”

“Just!” Rodimus bit out the word, his vocalizer spilling static, his legs giving a little kick. “Please, Ratchet. Please. I need it.”

Ratchet cycled another ventilation.

“Very well,” he said and stroked Rodimus’ aft, keeping the touch delicate and light. Teasing almost.

Rodimus was tense, very tense, braced for it. So Ratchet waited. He petted, and he stroked, and he waited until the tension eased, until Rodimus started to relax.

Then he struck. The loud noise of metal impacting metal rang in the stark emptiness of Ratchet’s hab-suite. He knew his room was all but sterile, that it held little personality compared to the loud clutter of Rodimus’, but perhaps that was best right now.

Rodimus gasped. His aft wriggled beneath Ratchet’s hand, but not too far out of reach.

Ratchet swatted him again, several times in a row, aiming to the sides, to the bottom, to the top, and against the curve of Rodimus’ aft. He varied the strength of the blows, made sure several criss-crossed, his palm tingling and Rodimus squirming harder and harder.

Little gasps slipped from Rodimus’ vents. His field flared and fluttered. His backstrut arched, his hips squirming in an attempt to avoid Ratchet’s hand.

He gripped Rodimus firmly, the younger mech nearly tipping to the side of Ratchet’s lap as his thrashing increased in earnest. His plating started to warm beneath Ratchet’s palm, tiny nips of charge peeking out from his substructure. His spoiler twitched.

Swat. Swat. Swat!

Rodimus breathed a curse and tried to turn on his side, tilt his aft away from Ratchet’s relentless touch. He made a noise, half pained, like an engine struggling to turn over. He panted, his face flush, his frame radiating heat. Anyone would look at him and think he were undergoing torture.

Ratchet paused, his own vents whirring. He rested his hand on Rodimus’ aft, his other hand aching where he gripped Rodimus to keep him in place.

“This isn’t working,” he said.

“Don’t stop,” Rodimus pleaded, one blue optic pale and desperate as it peered at Ratchet. “I’m not–”

“I didn’t say anything about stopping.” Ratchet shifted Rodimus’ weight and stood up, slinging his captain over his shoulder.

Rodimus squeaked. These brats. They never seemed to understand just how strong Ratchet was.

“I know you wanted my lap, kid, but you’re squirming too much for that to work,” Ratchet said as he looked around his habsuite, immediately dismissing his over-burdened desk and its accompanying chair. The berth would have to do.

Three steps later and he had Rodimus slung over the edge of the berth, his aft and lower half dangling over the side while his upper half rested on the berth. Ratchet tugged him forward until his thighs rested against the side of the berth, which left him standing flat on his feet.

Too comfortable if you asked Ratchet. He’d have to rectify that.

He pulled a crate out from under the berth and rummaged around in it, looking for his spreader bar. It was the perfect thing to keep Rodimus off-balance and unprepared.

“Ratchet?”

“Hush. You know what to say if you want this to end.”

Rodimus fell silent. In his peripheral vision, Ratchet could see Rodimus trembling. His field was still that chaotic mess, enough to make Ratchet dizzy and his medical coding take notice.

Fix. Fix. Fix. Fix. It chanted at him.

Ratchet shouted back. He was trying, damn it.

Fumbling fingers found the bar. Ratchet snapped the crate shut and shoved it back under the berth. He moved to kneel behind Rodimus, twisting the bar to extend it as he did so.

“Spread your legs,” Ratchet instructed, tapping Rodimus at the knees. “Until I tell you to stop.”

Rodimus complied, his engine stuttering as he slid his feet across the floor, inch by inch, until gaping armor plates showed Ratchet how his cables strained and quivered.

“That’s good,” Ratchet said, with another touch to Rodimus’ knees.

He fitted the spreader bar in place, looping straps around Rodimus’ ankles. He still had his feet flat to the floor, but balance would prove to be precarious. He would have to lean forward against the berth if he didn’t want to topple over. Which meant he had nowhere to squirm away from Ratchet.

Ratchet rose to his feet and rested a hand on Rodimus’ lower back, just above his aft. He could feel the younger mech trembling beneath his fingers. Rodimus’ vents whirred, chuffing humid heat into the air. He had his elbows pressed to the berth, his face buried between them.

Ratchet moved close enough that his upper thighs pressed against Rodimus’ left hip. He could both see Rodimus’ face and reach his aft like this. Which was even better than before.

He slid his palm down Rodimus’ aft, sensing a definite heat. His sensors pinged back the low-key activity of repair nanites, drawn to the closest thing Rodimus had to an injury right now. There would be more, by the time the night was through, swarming to repair the damage to his paint nanites, even replace them if needed.

“Ready?” Ratchet asked.

Rodimus shifted, his aft minutely pushing toward Ratchet’s hand. His elbows dug harder into the berth.

“Please,” he said, muffled into the berth.

Ratchet’s spark clenched. There were times when he loathed Rodimus. When he held little respect for the mech who should be his captain.

And there were times he felt nothing but pity for the younger mech, one cast in the shadow of someone considered the greatest, and left to uphold a legacy too large for his shoulders. Especially one who carried the dark, traumatizing weight of his own terrible decision.

“Be still,” Ratchet said, and he struck, without giving Rodimus the chance to brace himself this time.

A muffled yelp rose out of Rodimus’ intake, but it was quickly drowned out by the sound of Ratchet’s palm impacting Rodimus’ aft. Over and over again. A rhythmic beat of metal on metal, until Ratchet’s palm stung, and Rodimus’ lower half wriggled, and his aft blazed to Ratchet’s sensors.

Rodimus’ legs visibly trembled. His upper half sank flat onto the berth, bound arms above his head as he buried his face into the berth cover. His field leaked discomfort, the low buzz of annoying irritation that slowly blossomed into a fire of pain.

Yet, he said nothing, not even the words to end it. Just tiny gasps, and little moans, and maybe a sob that got caught in his vocalizer and echoed in the static. His frame temperature spiked in jagged bursts, his armor clamping and unclamping.

It was like he said, however. His interface panels remained sealed, and Ratchet didn’t detect so much as a hint of arousal from Rodimus. This wasn’t a sexual thing for him.

It never had been.

Ratchet’s hand started to ache, registering minor damage. He’d reached the point he could no longer continue without external aid.

He landed one final slap against Rodimus’ aft and let his hand rest there, tingling as heat emanated from Rodimus armor and a few lines of crimson were stripped from the brat’s aft. Ratchet still intended to have him nearly protoform bare by the end. That was the agreement.

Rodimus whimpered. His face rubbed at the berth before he turned his helm, one optic peering up at Ratchet. His engine revved, vibrating against Ratchet’s other hand, still pressed to Rodimus’ lower back, helping him stay pinned in place.

“Can’t use my hand anymore,” Ratchet said, answering the unasked question. “You still okay with the paddle?”

Maybe asking for so much consent was ruining this for Rodimus. Maybe it was helping him. Ratchet couldn’t be sure.

But Rodimus jerked his helm in a nod, his faceplate streaked with color and his lips swollen as though he’d been gnawing them.

“Please,” he said, voice crackling. “You said you’d break me.”

“I said I’d try to fix you,” Ratchet corrected even as he reluctantly lifted his hand from Rodimus’ aft and withdrew the paddle from subspace.

Rodimus’ lips curved, though it was far from his cocksure smile. “A wise mech once told me that sometimes there’s no difference between the two.”

“Pah. Using my own words against me.”

“Not like you’d listen to anyone else.”

Ah. The brat had a point.

Ratchet dragged his fingers down Rodimus’ backstrut and up again, a stroke meant to be more soothing than arousing. “That’s sort of the pot and the kettle, isn’t it?”

The glint in Rodimus’ optics faded. “Yeah, it is,” he admitted. He turned his head, face lost to the shadow of his arms, his hands forming fists above it. “Come on, Ratchet. You know what you gotta do.”

Ratchet adjusted his grip on the paddle. It was a heavy thing, and packed a serious punch. Against Rodimus’ lighter, more aerodynamic armor, it wouldn’t take long to make a point. It would hurt like the Pit, too.

But that was what Rodimus had asked for.

“You know what to say,” Ratchet said as he rested the paddle against Rodimus’ aft, the cool metal soothing to Rodimus’ bruised armor. It wouldn’t be soothing for long.

Rodimus’ vents blasted. His field bubbled out in a flurry. “Do it.”

Ratchet worked his jaw, and obeyed.

He started with light taps, little chimes of metal on metal. They weren’t pain, not quite, but for sensors already overstimulated, it had to feel like someone was clawing him. Rodimus sucked air through his denta, his hips twitching.

“More, rust you!” he hissed, vocalizer edged in a growl.

Ratchet didn’t respond. This would go at his pace or not at all.

The taps turned to hits, less force than he’d used with his own hand, but enough for each blow to ring in his audials. For Rodimus’ engine to rev, his cooling fans clicking on with a whirr. He whimpered into the berth, rubbing his face into it.

“Tell me why,” Ratchet said as the next strike was true, a firm blow that vibrated through his fingers, and made Rodimus snarl, his field flaring with pain.

Rodimus lurched forward, against the berth, but it left him nowhere to escape from the paddle. Or the next three strikes, each in succession, blows raining down over the same area to the tune of a growling engine and loud bangs.

Rodimus yelped and squirmed. He rocked backward on his heels, but the spreader bar kept him unbalanced and it was easy enough for Ratchet to push him back down onto the berth. The bar also kept him from trying to scoot to the left or the right.

He was vulnerable. Defenseless.

Rodimus’ engine whined.

Ratchet struck again, lower this time, at the top of Rodimus’ thighs where lifted armor gave peeks at the shiny cables beneath. Rodimus hissed, his field leaking pain, his fingers clenched so tight Ratchet could hear the hydraulics creak.

“Tell me,” Ratchet repeated as another strip of paint vanished, Rodimus’ aft now a patchy mix of crimson and silver, heat radiating from it so brightly it showed up as spots of injury on Ratchet’s sensors.

Fix. Fix. Fix. Fix.

“Why am I doing this, Rodimus?”

Thwock! Thwock!

Rodimus keened, and yes, that was truly a sob this time, a desperate sound caught in Rodimus intake, his head turning back and forth, scrubbing his face against the berth. His elbows dug into the berth, pulling him forward against the edge of it as he rocked on his heels.

“Why are you being punished?”

Ratchet adjusted his grip, refusing to admit that his own hands were trembling now. Rodimus wriggled about on the berth, and Ratchet kept a hand on his back to pin him in place. The speedster’s engine made a terrible sound, a revving growl, and Ratchet’s sensors pinged back the frantic spin and whirl of Rodimus’ spark. But his field still spat that terrible yearning as he trembled on the edge.

He paddled Rodimus again, harder, each percussive sound rattling through his own frame and echoing around his spark.

Rodimus’ field leaked pain now. He had to be in agony. His aft plating was nearly stripped silver, and it emanated heat. His upper thighs were streaked silver as well and he sagged against the berth as though losing energy.

“Tell me, Rodimus,” Ratchet insisted, his tank and internals twisting into knots, even as his own ventilations stuttered.

Rodimus writhed, his spoiler twitching. His legs trembled and he made nonsensical cries, an endless stream of whimpers. He fought it, however. He was certainly tenacious and obstinate, determined to bear it as long as possible.

Save him from stubborn Primes!

Ratchet growled. “Tell me!” He reared back and struck Rodimus again, with far more force than he’d used all evening.

Rodimus howled and lurched forward, bound hands scrabbling at the berth, the loud thwock echoing around them. He whimpered, his field a dying, broken thing as it warbled at Ratchet.

“R-Ratchet…”

He leaned closer to Rodimus, his hand sliding up Rodimus’ back to his spoiler hinges, fingers hooking around them. He pressed down, pinning Rodimus to the berth, resting the paddle against Rodimus’ blazing aft, as Rodimus’ engine roared and his armor clattered.

“You know what I want,” Ratchet growled, utilizing a tone of voice that always demanded obedience in the medbay. “What you owe everyone. Say it!”

The paddle rose and fell, smacking against Rodimus’ aft in a ringing blow that made Ratchet’s fingers ache and the paddle vibrate.

“I’m sorry!” Rodimus wailed, and he collapsed to the berth, his engine stuttering and starting. “I’m so sorry.” He sobbed into the cover, optical cleanser leaving wet streaks down his face. “It’s m-my fault and I’m s-s-sorry.”

Ratchet tossed the paddle away and heard it clatter in the distance. “That’s all I wanted to hear,” he murmured, and rested his hand on Rodimus’ backstrut, just above the furious heat of his aft. “Good job, Rodimus. You did very well.”

Rodimus’ armor rattled. His vents came in hitches. His armor trembled, but his field, oh, it was a beautiful thing. His field was settled, compared to the wild frenzy of before. It was warm and affectionate, needy in the way it clung to Ratchet’s own.

It was not a fix. It was not a solution. It was not a cure. It was but a moment of peace, static mesh on a wound, or a temporary weld. Something to keep him together until a permanent solution could be found.

“I forgive you,” Ratchet said quietly, though he doubted Rodimus truly heard him over his clattering armor and quiet whimpers.

He knelt down, joints creaking, and quickly released the spreader bar from Rodimus’ ankles, tossing it back under his berth. He’d clean it up later.

Ratchet stood once more, one hand smoothing down Rodimus’ backstrut as the other reached to release the magna-cuffs, his field rippling out to stroke over Rodimus’ like he might a distressed patient. Rodimus shifted, drawing his knees together, balancing his weight.

Rodimus’ aft was a blaze of silver, with streak marks in his upper thighs where Ratchet had aimed lower. He would be quite tender for several cycles, and there would be no recharging on his back tonight. But then, Ratchet already knew he wouldn’t be.

Ratchet dug a nanite gel out of a thigh compartment and squirted a generous amount on Rodimus’ aft. The younger mech moaned a broken sound as the gel sizzled where it made contact, but he melted into the berth as Ratchet gently smoothed the gel over his bruised plating.

“D-Don’t.”

Ratchet paused, shifting his weight so that he could peer at Rodimus’ face, only one optic visible as Rodimus had turned his head.

“Don’t use too much,” Rodimus whispered.

Ratchet narrowed his optics. “I’ll use however much I think you need,” he said, and went back to coating Rodimus’ aft in the quick-dry gel. “I can’t have the captain–”

“–Co-captain.”

“Co-captain,” Ratchet amended. Only in times like these would Rodimus admit he shared a captaincy. “I can’t have the co-captain walking around with a limp and looking beat all to the Pit.”

Rodimus’ face turned, buried against the berth again. “Why not? It would probably make some of the crew pretty happy to see.” His spoiler flattened against his back, armor clamping down tight.

Ratchet cycled a ventilation. “You’re not doing this for them,” he said and withdrew his fingers, wiping them clean of the nanite gel. “You’re doing this for you.”

“And you.”

“This is not about me,” Ratchet retorted, just shy of a snap. He had to rein himself back, his engine revving. He turned entirely toward Rodimus, his hand resting on Rodimus’ lower back. “It’s not my forgiveness you need, Rodimus. You need to learn to forgive yourself.”

Rodimus trembled beneath his hand. “Easier said than done.”

“I never said it was easy.” Ratchet lightly tapped his sore aft, making Rodimus jerk. “Come now. Up on the berth.”

A thin whimper rose from Rodimus’ intake, but he obeyed, climbing onto the berth and resting on hands and knees, still hanging his head. He couldn’t seem to meet Ratchet’s gaze, and wouldn’t for some time yet.

Ratchet hoisted himself onto the berth and stretched out on his back to make himself comfortable, already braced for the – and there it was. The clambering weight of a speedster straddling his hips and covering his frame like a flame-painted blanket. His hands clutched at Ratchet’s side as he buried his face against Ratchet’s windshield, still trembling. His knees clamped around Ratchet’s hips, his field back to that yearning.

“Can I…?” Rodimus’ words were muffled against the glass.

Ratchet rested his hands on Rodimus’ back, beneath the sensitive spoiler. “Yeah, you can.” He triggered his array to open, and manually extended his spike. Any medic worth his degree could do that.

Rodimus made an inarticulate noise, and Ratchet heard the snap of an interface cover sliding aside before his spike was engulfed in moist heat, Rodimus taking him as deep as he was capable given their position. A soft sigh whooshed out of Rodimus’ vents, one of relief. The clatter in his field calmed, his grip on Ratchet’s sides less a clutch and more of a cuddle.

His face was still streaked with optical fluid. Ratchet supposed he would worry about cleaning that in the morning. He rubbed his face against Ratchet’s windshield, like a youngling hiding from their nightmares, his ex-vents whooshing out in a soft rhythm.

Rodimus squirmed a little, his heated armor sliding against Ratchet’s in a way that was not unpleasant. His spike twitched in the confines of Rodimus’ valve, but that was all he allowed himself.

“Hurting?” Ratchet asked.

Trickles of pain leaked out of Rodimus’ field, a complementary color to the relief and peace that flattened it. “Not as much as I wanted,” Rodimus replied.

“Yeah, well, that’s where I draw the line, kid.”

“I know.” Rodimus breathed a sigh and finally went still, his head pillowed on Ratchet’s chestplate, his ex-vents fogging the transteel.

His valve fluttered around Ratchet’s spike, though the intensity of it eased. It was as much an embrace as his arms around Ratchet’s chassis, his fingers hooked in a seam.

Ratchet continued to stroke down Rodimus’ backstrut, long and lengthy sweeps of his hands. A speedster engine purred beneath his fingertips. Rodimus’ field buzzed up against his in a sweet kiss, almost coy, as it withdrew again.

“Thank you,” Rodimus murmured sleepily. Adorably. Unfairly.

Ratchet cycled a ventilation as Rodimus slipped into recharge atop him, defenseless and trusting, his field warm and his frame warmer still. Ratchet continued to pet him, because Rodimus whimpered if he stopped, and the sound broke his spark.

Ratchet gnawed on the inside of his cheek.

He was getting too old for this.

~

Ratchet caught a stasis nap in little bursts, his sensors too attuned to Rodimus’ well-being for him to slip into full recharge. So when Rodimus stirred, Ratchet onlined fully, his built-in scanners automatically skimming over Rodimus’ frame to search for injury.

There was none of concern, to be expected. Rodimus’ aft was still ablaze, and no doubt he ached. He’d be moving tenderly for the rest of the day. Perhaps the paddle had been too much.

“Mmm.” Rodimus rubbed his face against Ratchet’s windshield as he stirred. He pushed his hands into the berth, shifting himself upright, and peered down at Ratchet. “Good morning.” He twitched his hips, his calipers fluttering around Ratchet’s half-pressurized spike.

“You hurting?” Ratchet asked, one hand sliding down to rest on Rodimus’ hip, just above the worst of the silver-streaked metal.

Rodimus’ smile was soft and sultry, even as he shifted his weight backward, settling more firmly on Ratchet’s spike. “Nothing a little love won’t fix.”

Ratchet barely kept himself from rolling his optics. “You are impossible,” he said.

Rodimus chuckled. “Irresistible is, I think, the word you’re looking for here.” He rolled his hips, stirring Ratchet’s spike in his valve, welling lubricant making for a soft and slick glide.

“Not nearly as much as you think you are.” Ratchet’s free hand rested on Rodimus’ thigh, sliding inward toward his groin. He drew up his knees, just shy of touching Rodimus’ back and aft.

“Hmm. I think this begs to differ.” Rodimus licked his lips as he wriggled, his calipers fluttering around Ratchet’s spike, threatening to draw out a moan.

He fully pressurized, not entirely by choice, cursing his own weakness when it came to pretty mechs with personalities that were no good for him. Rodimus was the epitome of danger and sparkbreak for an old clunker like Ratchet.

Yet he couldn’t stop himself from touching, fingers sliding over sleek plating, dipping into broad gaps, caressing cables beneath. All while Rodimus shivered and moved atop him, a slow and steady dance of his hips, a rise and fall that caressed and squeezed Ratchet’s spike. It was building him to a lazy, throbbing heat, sending tingles all throughout his sensornet.

Ratchet groaned. His hand clenched on Rodimus’ thigh, thumb within inches of stroking Rodimus’ array cover. Rodimus had yet to pressurize his spike, and probably wouldn’t. Lubricant was slick and messy between them, and the scent of Rodimus’ arousal was intoxicating.

Enjoy your reward, medic, a dark and deceitful part of Ratchet purred. He drank in the sight, Rodimus’ flushed face, his lips parted for oral ventilations, his fluttering spoiler, his rolling hips. The glint of the lights over his armor, the flutter and flash of his biolights. That smile, half-smirk, half-lazy authenticity. Steel over satin and confidence hiding the uncertainty.

“You’re thinking too hard again,” Rodimus said as he shifted back, his weight settling on Ratchet’s hips and freeing his hands.

“You could stand to think a little more,” Ratchet retorted.

Rodimus barked a laugh. “Now where have I heard that before?” he asked even as one hand slid down his side, his fingers curling around Ratchet’s hand and tugging it loose.

Ratchet allowed it, watching him curiously, his fingers tingling where Rodimus touched them. He watched as Rodimus pulled his hand up, achingly slow, until he could ex-vent damp heat over the tips of Ratchet’s fingers.

He shivered, hips bucking, driving his spike deep into Rodimus.

“Brat,” Ratchet growled.

Rodimus winked at him and drew two of Ratchet’s fingertips into his mouth, lips and glossa flicking softly over them. Ratchet groaned, his backstrut arching, and his hand clamping tighter on Rodimus’ thigh. Even more so when Rodimus sucked his fingers deeper, denta scraping gently along the length of Ratchet’s fingers.

His mouth was so hot, his glossa so wicked. Ratchet sucked in a ventilation, his hips rolling up, pushing deep into Rodimus, who ground down to meet his thrusts. Rodimus panted around his fingers, his field rising and falling against Ratchet with heat and desire.

Rodimus held his gaze, everything about him confidence and sin, his hips dancing to a rhythm Ratchet’s creaky old frame couldn’t meet. He could only groan and shudder, holding on as Rodimus suckled his fingers and rode him to overload, pleasure spilling through his frame like liquid fire.

Ratchet’s backstrut arched. His spark throbbed. He spilled deep into Rodimus, his transfluid washing over sparking nodes as Rodimus clamped down on him. His calipers were tight, gripping, as though he sought to keep both Ratchet and his transfluid inside.

Rodimus moaned around Ratchet’s fingers, his optics brightening with pleasure. It was better than the sickly nature of his field the night previous. The sticky guilt and the clinging despair. There were times Ratchet’s darker side was glad for it. He told himself that Rodimus deserved it. That he’d made mistakes and gotten people killed and he was an arrogant aft.

Logic won out eventually. Logic and compassion and Ratchet fell all too quickly back into Rodimus’ sway, his spark going out to this young mech who took too much on his shoulders in a desperate bid to be something great.

Someday, Ratchet would figure out a way to tell him that he already was.

His fingers slipped from Rodimus’ lips as the younger mech moaned, leaning forward, his vents roaring. He slammed himself down, metal impacting metal, and visibly shivered, overload making blue fire dance over his armor.

He was beautiful like this, stunning in his surrender, and Ratchet’s spark throbbed even harder.

Careful now, he told himself. Mechs like Rodimus, they weren’t meant to be kept. Especially not by cranky old medics with anger problems.

“Mmm, now that’s what I call a good morning,” Rodimus murmured as the last tremors of overload rattled his frame. He tipped forward, catching himself at the last moment, as he stretched out atop Ratchet’s frame, nuzzling into Ratchet’s intake.

Ratchet rolled his optics. “No time for more recharge, brat. We have to get up and get clean, and I need to look at your aft.”

Rodimus chuckled and wriggled said aft. “Oh, you have to inspect the goods, is that it, Ratchet?”

Primus save him. Ratchet hooked an arm around Rodimus’ mid-section and abruptly rolled to the left, keeping Rodimus pinned to his front. Rodimus yelped and clamped onto him, holding on as Ratchet swung his legs over the side of the berth and stood.

“Haven’t you ever heard of cuddling?” Rodimus grumbled as his legs dangled for a few seconds before he grudgingly put his feet on the floor. He pouted up at Ratchet, and it was almost tempting enough for Ratchet to kiss that sulk away.

He didn’t.

“That’s not a word, I’d have heard of it,” Ratchet retorted instead.

“Oh, and now you’re quoting Magnus at me.” Rodimus held up his hands and backed away a step. “Fine. I can take a hint. Let’s go get cleaned up, shall we?” He grinned, and it was almost as though he hadn’t been trembling in Ratchet’s arms last night, swallowed by his own guilt.

“Yes. Let’s.”

Ratchet’s private washrack was neither ostentatious or large. In fact, two frames was a tight squeeze, but the very fact that it was private made it a luxury, so Ratchet did not complain. Much.

Besides, it was hardly a chore to put his hands on Rodimus’ frame, though he was twice as delicate as he ran a soft cloth over Rodimus’ aft. Judging by his hiss and sharp intake, Rodimus was still quite tender. His armor did not blaze heat as it had the night before, but his internal temperature remained higher than it ought.

There was nothing to it. Rodimus’ paint nanites would not fully repopulate by the time he had to leave, and Ratchet could not manually repaint him given the tenderness.

“It’s fine,” Rodimus said with a shrug that was perhaps meant to be dismissive, but didn’t quite reach that level of nonchalance. “People will just think I was in some storage closet, getting fragged into oblivion.”

Ratchet didn’t bother to hold back his sigh this time. “I won’t use the paddle again,” he said, and grabbed the detachable sprayer, giving Rodimus’ back half a long rinse.

Rodimus whipped around, mouth dropped as if betrayed. “I want you to!” he insisted, his spoiler halves twitching.

Ratchet grabbed his chin, though he was gentle about it. “And I said I’m not going to. You think you know what you want, what will help, but you don’t, Rodimus.”

“It is helping,” Rodimus insisted, his engine revving, vents opening and turning the fall of the sprayer to a fine mist.

“It’s static mesh.” Ratchet eased his grip and rested his hand on Rodimus’ shoulder instead. “There’s only so much patching you can do before a plate needs to be replaced.”

Rodimus shook his head and turned out from under Ratchet’s hand. He snagged the sprayer, his back to Ratchet, as he rinsed off his front. Ratchet expected a smart retort, or some kind of sly attempt to redirect the conversation with flirting or charm.

He got neither.

Ratchet sighed and pinched his chevron. “I really wish you would reconsider speaking with Rung.” This was far from healthy and Ratchet shouldn’t be encouraging it either.

Yet, it was growing harder and harder to say no when Rodimus came to him, all drooping shoulders and pale optics and trembling armor.

Rodimus’ shoulders slumped and the solvent turned off with a click. The abrupt cessation of sound was startling, and made the soft drips of the sprayer all the louder.

“I know,” he said, and it was so quiet, Ratchet almost missed it. “And I will. I’m just not ready to be forgiven yet.”

Fair enough.

Ratchet cycled a soft ventilation and moved closer to Rodimus, taking the sprayer from his dangling hand. He returned it to the hook.

“Come on,” he said, patting Rodimus on the shoulder. “Let’s get you dried off. You need more nanite gel before you leave. And that is not up for debate.”

Rodimus nodded. “Yes, Ratchet.” He turned to face Ratchet, his expression one Ratchet knew few had ever seen. It was miles away from confidence, and held echoes of the mech he’d been before he’d briefly carried the matrix.

Ratchet broke.

He gave into temptation, gently taking Rodimus’ chin in hand and leaning down to brush their lips together. Rodimus sighed an ex-vent, the warmth of it ghosting over Ratchet’s lips. He shivered, his spark spinning faster in his chassis, threatening to throb right out of it’s chamber.

Primus save him.

Maybe the one in trouble here wasn’t Rodimus after all.