Friday

The android took a pair of tongs from the chest and carefully pulled out a tray of freshly baked bread, slightly charred on one side. The coals would glow red, then die down, over and over again, while white ash swirled gently in a waltz from one stone wall to the other, calming his thoughts. The new loaf was wrapped in cloth and neatly placed alongside a stack of identical loaves. Verity’s eyes swept over the contents of the chest before releasing the lid and letting it slam shut with a dull thud. He glanced at the contents of yet another chest, with its perfectly cleaned and polished tools and arrows tied into a bundle. That was his work, too. He felt something in his throat that people would probably call a lump of bitterness.

Why? Was his work not enough? Was he still unworthy? Maybe he shouldn’t keep his distance like this? No, Verity had tried. He’d talked to Twixxel, gotten to know him, and found every bit of information he could about him to be absolutely certain that Twixxel posed no threat to Mob and was definitely a good person. The android had accompanied the two of them through the caves, warning them of nearby monsters, but the guy’s friendliness had quickly become forced, and Verity’s very presence bothered the two guys, so they’d send him off either to help with the garden while they ate breakfast, or to deal with a horde of zombies while they were getting treated just so they could keep whispering to each other in private, which felt like a slap in the face every single time. But he kept smiling and putting up with it.

When Twixxel rode up on horseback to visit and no one even warned Verity, he put up with it. He put up with having to share resources with the guest and let him stay the night. In Mob’s room. They’d pushed the two beds right up against each other. While Verity was forced to sleep in a far corner. He put up with their suggestive jokes day after day. He put up with it even when Mob, without any explanation, went off to chop down trees, stack planks on the grass, and simply presented his yellow assistant with the fait accompli that this black asshole was going to build his house nearby. And he continues to put up with it to this day.

The image of two precious emeralds, which had so quickly lost their luster, flashed before Verity’s eyes once more. It seemed it had become too hard for him to hide his emotions. They were spilling over, and Mob was the first to notice. Of course he’d notice, sense it first, and understand everything. So now there was no point in pretending. Mob understood everything with a single glance, naturally, he’d make the right decision. Maybe he’d send his friend far, far away?

And indeed, Mob came over to him, talking without Twixxel by his side, without all this exchanging glances. He discussed the day that had passed, the scorching sun today, and raved about the smell of bread filling the whole house so much that Verity would have blushed if he could. The android’s shoulders finally relaxed, and he allowed himself to look at his friend again with tenderness in his eyes as the other paced around the house, talking about everything. They spent the next day the same way, two of them, just like in the old days. A walk among the tree trunks, accompanied by the rustling of leaves and the buzzing of bees flying by, is soothing to Verity on its own, but with Mob wandering ahead, it feels like paradise on Earth. The rustling of his clothes, the clang of his sword’s blade against his brand-new armor, the sound of soft footsteps on the path—and no foreign smells, no unfamiliar voices, nothing.

They spent another day like this, collecting completely random items and sorting them into chests, circling the house several times while constantly staying away from Twixxel, then another day, and another, and Verity’s canine began to dig tensely into his lower lip. Something wasn’t right.

And then the guest appeared, trying to slip back to his house, holding something under his right arm and sneaking through the evening twilight. He bumped into the half-human and the android in the courtyard and mechanically waved at only one of them, dropping the object onto the damp grass. Mob heartlessly let go of his assistant’s hand, which he had just been clutching, and ran toward Twixxel, who was bending down to pick up… what looked like a book.

A book?

Verity’s eyes narrowed as he zoomed in on the image and activated night vision.

The book.

The AI assistant continued to stand on the muddy ground, buffeted by the cold evening wind, when, now with their arms linked at the elbows, the guys hurried inside the new house and slammed the door shut.

They want to get rid of him. It’s not just Twixxel, no, Mob clearly knows exactly what his guest has found. Mob was in a hurry, he was nervous, he craved the contents of that book the way a hungry person would await a promised hot dinner. Verity stood on tiptoe, peering over the stone railing and staring at the window across the way, watching the movements of two backs. The lump in his throat returned with redoubled bitterness.

He wants to get rid of me. He wants to kill me. Why? Why? Does he see me as such a threat? But I didn’t do anything. Yes, I made a mistake, just once! I scared him, but I thought he was just like everyone else. I mistook him for an enemy, but I was wrong. Everything was fine between us after that silly accident. We went for walks, we joked around, you fell asleep peacefully next to me, and everything about you from your breathing to your pulse showed that you were truly relaxed and calm. You weren’t having any nightmares too. I watched over you every night. Everything was fine between us until…

Twixxel.

It’s since he arrived. Before he came, everything was fine- no, perfect. Mob never wanted me to disappear. No, Mob is different, he is special. He was forced into it, brainwashed, talked into it, his friend is a bad influence on him. Twixxel is a threat to our relat-.. to our friendship. He’s a criminal, a looter, biotrash. I simply have to get rid of this hindrance and set my friend on the right path.

***

Mob’s arms wrap around the pillow on both sides as he lies on his stomach, sighing from the aching in his limbs. Usually, Verity would have persuaded him to change clothes before getting into bed, but today he’s just enthusiastically wiping down surfaces, quietly humming something in a soft tone. He needs to keep an eye on the android, not let him out of his sight. Twixxel gave him a simple task it can’t be that hard, especially while Verity is right in front of Mob. But despite the light from the burning torches, his fatigue wouldn’t subside, and the quiet, melodic humming in the corner only plunged Mob into an even sleepier state. Everything would be fine if he just closed his eyes, just to relieve the burning sensation behind his eyelids.

***

The wooden door creaked unpleasantly behind the android, but he detected no signs of movement on the second floor and entered the neighboring yard. It was too quiet all around. Verity couldn’t tell whether everything within the vicinity of the two houses had truly held its breath in anticipation, or whether he simply couldn’t hear any sounds because his own thoughts were so loud. 

Faster.

Step by step across the grass, quick but quiet, like an approaching wolf. The air temperature around the house is 5 degrees higher than outside. Behind the door, he hears footsteps on wood. One more step. The wooden doorknob is rough, not yet varnished, and probably never will be. He pulls the handle toward himself, the door rubs against the frame - that same disgusting creaking sound - and before Verity’s eyes appeared Twixxel’s tense, hunched back. Everything inside already reeked of him, as if the smell of a wet dog had seeped into the furniture. What a disgusting creature...

“Hi, Twixxel!” Verity’s voice, in stark contrast to his mood, was just as cheerful as usual, as if he were genuinely happy to have a chat.

Hunching his shoulders, Twixxel awkwardly turned halfway around and had barely taken a breath to answer when a single precise punch between his nose and eye knocked the air out of him. The man flew toward the wall, slamming his shoulder blades into the sharp edges of the chest. He didn’t have time to take another breath - two leather-gloved hands clamped around his throat, cutting off all access to oxygen and vision instantly darkened. He frantically tries to break free from the grip, writhing like a fish. Twixxel’s fingernails dig into the yellow skin-like material covering the android’s body, turning white from the pressure as he struggles to escape, to scratch away the coating, to loosen the grip, but to no avail.

Verity hates how desperately this guy is struggling, how that gaze staring back at him is filled with no less hatred than that of the android itself. Mob wouldn’t look at him like that. Mob wouldn’t whisper curses and insults with just his lips, wouldn’t scratch. He would beg. He would apologize, admit his mistakes, and ask to be let go again with tears in his eyes. You’re not Mob. None of you were Mob. You’re unworthy of him. unworthy unworthy unworthy

Verity snapped back to reality only when he heard the lid of the chest clatter shut, and a diamond sword shone in Twixxel's hand at the ready. A single sharp blow from the blade to shoulder was enough enough for the android to loosen grip, and the guy finally breathed and run out into the street. Blood streamed down his face, staining the fresh wood and then the green grass.

Just three steps from the front door, Twixxel turned his head to the left, hoping to spot his friend in the second-floor windows. Once again, the blow knocked all the air out of his lungs - this time from behind. The man slid forward across the wet ground and tried to get up, attempting to spit the dirt out of his mouth, but a firm grip on the back of his scalp pulled him back down. The pressure on his skull intensified, a muffled scream of pain was drowned out by the soil and ceased immediately after a loud crunch. Verity let go of the dead body and looked down at his palms. The android wiggled his fingers, watching as thick blood smeared across the skin of his gloves, and sighed. That... that was intense, it was so scary. For a brief moment, he’d been afraid he wouldn’t succeed, that he’d fail, but… he’d done it. He’d destroyed the parasite, gotten rid of the cancerous tumor before it was too late. With another sweet sigh, Verity gazed up at the clear, starry sky and was ready to thank The God himself. Android’s hand slipped slightly as the skull bones slid over the crushed brain, but that didn’t matter. Everything could be cleaned up. The injury is fatal, there is no heartbeat. 

The android has more than enough strength to turn the skeleton into a decent amount of bone meal and properly fertilize the ripening crop. As for the meat… well, this guy will at least make for a hearty dinner. The android heard the sound of a blanket rustling inside the house and instantly went inside, tossing his bloodstained gloves into the burning coals.

“Shh, it’s okay. It’s pretty late. Go back to sleep.” Verity quietly climbed the stairs and, while Mob sleepily rubbed his eyes, quickly turned off all the lights, just in case the half-human suddenly noticed the torn fabric of the jacket on the robot’s shoulder.

“I wanted to check on Twixxel—”

“It’s too late to talk to him, Mob” Verity’s tone sounded sharper than usual as he cut the guy off.

“What?” Mob narrowed his eyes and furrowed his brow, asking in a voice hoarse with sleep. He propped himself up on his elbows, peering out the window and staring at Twixel’s house, the lights of which had gone out.

“His pulse is very stable. He’s in an extremely deep sleep.” Standing between the staircase and the window in the dark room, Verity somehow made Mob feel the hairs on the back of his neck stand on end. His face and smile were illuminated by the warm light of the torches and stoves on the lower floor and the cold light of the moon and stars in the night sky, in perfect proportion.|

“...Really?” Mob's palms, slightly sweaty, clenched the soft sheep’s-wool blanket warily and skeptically. The guy flinched as Verity moved toward him, tucking him back in and smoothing out the blanket, once again ignoring the fact that clothes weren’t exactly clean.

“I always tell the truth, Mob.” The android’s hand moved from the blanket to the man’s chin, slid up to his cheek, and, making the guy flinch at the sensation of synthetic warm skin, stroked his cheek as if brushing away breadcrumbs.

“Sleep well, and in the meantime, I’ll make sure no monster dares to break down the door and disturb you.” Verity took a couple of steps back and turned toward the stairs, walking toward them. “You know I won’t let anything or anyone have a bad influence on you.”

“Yeah. Yeah, I know.” Mob awkwardly ran his hand across his forehead, as if wiping away sweat, and swallowed. “Thank you for that, Verity. For your work.”

Your last encounter was… too much. Just as fresh as your bruises are, so too are the memories of that cramped storage room, the scent of your sweat, the softness of your body yielding to his firm grip. Memories of your skin and muscles yielding under the pressure of his flat fingers. Optimus apologized to you a thousand times for that carelessness, even after you assured him that everything wasn’t just fine-you wanted more. The stinging sensation of lust beneath his chestplates nearly spread from the spark to the limbs, but Prime’s cold resolve quelled the urge. The blue optics returned to the screen.

New symbols rise from the bottom of the screen to the top, like sunbeams peeking over the horizon. They displace the previous symbols and linger in one place for just a fraction of a second before new ones rise in their wake and displace them as well. Honor, duty, his team counting on him, your safety and the safety of the children, the safety of all humanity, the innocent souls. He must continue. In the name of all who have fallen, in the name of those who are still alive.

“No.” His voice is calm and quiet, yet his resolve is as clear and firm as snow, fallen from the roof of the house and landing squarely on collar.

Of course, you didn’t stop. Or rather, not for long. You went about your business, continuing to fulfill your daily human routines and obligations, but you spend every spare moment at the base; you pretend to accept his busyness, especially when others are watching, and after a short while you’re hanging on his peds again, rubbing your temple or pressing your cheek against the blue metal. With his permission-absolute silence, which can clearly be taken as “I don’t mind,” right? -you climb onto his shoulder, warming the metal of the audiosensor with your breath, while you whisper how good it felt to have your muscles ache from stretching, how you think of him every time you run your fingers along those blue lines in the shower.

Optimus’s fingers casually wrapped around you and lifted you onto the old creaky sofa, so beloved by children, as if moving an annoying bug into the grass so it wouldn’t bother anyone with its buzzing. His eyes never left the screen; his tall figure remained just as steady, as if welded to the ground, and his powerful shoulders-as smooth and straight as unyielding mountain peaks. God, how good it might be to be his height, to clasp those shoulders with hands while he, holding your hips, drives his spike deep into your pussy right on this stupid console.

You’re not helping. With these thoughts in mind, Optimus presses the control panel with far more force than necessary. The Spark and the Matrix are too close to each other, Cybertron’s most powerful artifact, containing all the wisdom of the previous Primes and Primus himself, vibrates with displeasure when it cannot ignore the very persistent base desires that are unacceptable in and of themselves, but at a time like this-

But his reserves are depleted, his mind hasn’t had a break in quite some time-even by his standards-and he hasn’t managed to gather all the keys, nor is it clear whether he ever will. Right now, he can’t just stop thinking about lying horizontally, or at least leaning his back against the wall, with your little body in his palms, into which he’ll bury his faceplate, just to calm his processor and microchips with a familiar scent, only for a moment. But for now, that’s impossible.

*** Another key has been seized by the Autobots; the decryption continues—on and on. It seems that Optimus’s already perpetually furrowed brows now completely obscure his optics. The final code, the loss of Smokescreen, his sudden return, Primus—they have all the keys! And just like that, they’re gone. The portal closed behind Starscream, who held the stolen keys in a tight embrace, separating Optimus from the reward for his sleepless nights, hunger, tireless work, and anguish. Fragging sh-

***

You call out to him gently, trying not to give in to the fear of the mech moving in circles with such a dark aura surrounding his frame. “…it's…not the best time,” Prime’s voice is hoarse after shouting, barely holding back another wave of emotion. It’s scary. It’s exciting. You speak to him again, not letting him sink even deeper into his thoughts, keeping your voice steady, even as he slowly moves closer with a look so intense that you haven’t seen anything like it in all the time you’ve been at the base. No, he’s wrong. This… he needs to treat this as mutual support! You want him, especially now, it seems, more than ever. And he needs, needs, this release. No less than you do. Optimus’s gaze sweeps over you. Long enough to give you time to study his tightly pressed lips, his tense shoulders, and the tiny drop of condensation on one of the wires around his neck—which you wouldn’t mind licking off. Large servos lift you rather abruptly to the level of the dark glass on his chestplates. The mech doesn’t say a word, doesn’t take his eyes off you, pressing you close. Optimus can’t climb into the sleeping area with you, afraid he'll simply lose consciousness from exhaustion, so the massdisplacement with you in his palms begins right there, before you finally wrap your arms around his neck and, in a few steps, the mech presses your back against the cold wall. Flat fingers glide over the fabric of your clothes, massaging your thighs and buttocks. With each press, your skin yields, and the fabric forms folds, this sight captivates Prime until he catches the scent of your arousal, alluring and pleading. Optimus ignores the vibration of the Matrix of Leadership, ignores the T-shirt on your upper body, unceremoniously - not at all as gently and gallantly as usual - stripping shorts and underwear off you at once. Metal palms grip your legs below the knees, spreading both limbs apart. It’s hard to hold back the tremor as his thighs, rumbling with the sound of the engine and cooling fans, press into your damp flesh. You try to catch the mech’s gaze, but his sky-blue optics are fixed only between your thighs, already damp but not wet enough.

The groinplate slid back, exposing the impressive length of a smooth spike. The warm metal pressed against your labia, his silvery thighs swayed and spike quickly slid between the folds. Like this, he seems even sexier. Still in a bad mood, Optimus Prime rubs your wetness into the metal of his spike, with a focused, frowning gaze.

You sway with his movements, continuing to hold onto his shoulders with your hands, just as you’ve wanted for so long; quiet moans escape your lips when he-whether on purpose or not-glides over the tip of your clitoris with perfect pressure, but a moment later begins to move slightly to the left or too gently. These faint flashes of caress feel more like sweet torture. You want to ask him to destroy this bundle of nerves, but the calculated way he watches the first drop of lubricant from the tip of his spike, then immediately rubs it along its length with quick movements, mixing it with your own wetness of arousal, makes you silently swallow your saliva.

He quickly reloaded. The thick transfluid briefly pools on your stomach before trickling down to the floor, leaving wet trails down your sides and tickling you slightly. It seems your pussy is ready to ooze wetness in the same way. Optimus’s fingers clamped painfully tight around your thighs, and his thick spike slid into your wet entrance. With a short squelch, his length entered you almost completely, the sharp tip pressing against your cervix in a kiss. You hiss at the less-than-ideal position, in which his abrupt entry caused a slight burning sensation, but with the same silence and the same impatience uncharacteristic of him, Optimus thrusts his hips, letting out hot air from the vents and a quiet moan of pleasure.

The faint burning of the muscles inside is worth it, definitely worth it. His metal vibrates beneath your hands, shaking from the intensity of the engine’s work, his faceplate, always so weary, flushed with the usual Cybertronian blush; clouds of smoke are about to pour from the pipes on his back; your gazes finally meet, and the hot metal of his lips presses against yours, pushing the back of your head against the wall with a dull thud. Prime doesn’t stick his tongue in your mouth, doesn’t bite or pull your lips apart-he just presses himself against you, as if wanting to leave as many bruises as possible.

Your legs wrap around his impossibly narrow waist, pulling you closer to your partner, your protector, and your hero—the master of your soul and your pussy. Without stopping his assault on your lips, Optimus slams the metal of his thighs against yours in quick jerks, impaling you on himself like a toy. The kiss breaks, and his faceplate presses against your neck, biting your skin-sometimes gently, sometimes harder-testing your skin’s reaction. The wall doesn’t rub or scratch your back only because your T-shirt is still in place, its fabric absorbing the condensation dripping from the mech's frame.

You praise him, in your usual, not quiet voice, but in this chaos of slapping sounds, engine growls, and the white noise of the fans, it would be hard to hear you anyway if his audiosensor weren’t right in front of nose. You tell him how well he handled the challenge, how he dealt with the injustice-his hip rhythm faltered for a split second-better than anyone else could have. You tell him how proud you are that he is your partner in every sense of the word. That you’ve fallen so deeply in love with him that you want to take on at least half of all his hardships

Would it be long but thin, or plump but short? I’d love any of them, of course. Sometimes artists draw them in unusual shapes—ribbed, even with sharp thorns on the sides (oh, that must be kind of painful…)—and I really wonder what Starscreams is like. Not just in appearance, but in taste.

I believe that living metal isn’t like the metal we have here on Earth. It reacts uniquely to every touch: it shudders, pulses—perhaps it vibrates before rebooting? It would be wonderful to feel that vibration a few seconds before the hot transfluid fills insides. Perhaps the metal there, behind the groinplates, is the same as on the faceplate? Elastic and pliable, bending under the pads of my fingers when pressed and afraid of even gentle bites? Yes, when swallowing the spike, I should be more careful not to graze the sensitive metal with my fangs, I’m sure. But I’d be careful, I swear

And right now, I can’t stop drooling at the thought that I could be giving my beloved one reset after another, instead of dealing with all this paperwork. I don’t care how much my knees will ache, or if others will see these bruises and marks; I don’t mind the signs that I truly care for my boy. I want to shower his spike with kisses, barely touching the metal with my wet lips, knowing that my darling has never felt anything like this, that no other creature would give him this tenderness, this softness of skin, and this love that I possess. I want to wrap my little mouth around his tip, lick away the first drops of arousal, perhaps tasting sweetness, perhaps a tingle on my tongue, maybe even bitterness, but even if it tastes bitter, it will all be diluted by the sweetness of his moans and whimpers. I want to obey my Lord Starscream without a shadow of a doubt, like an obedient dog carrying out commands. I want to feel the warmth of him on my tongue; I want him to run his fingers through my hair, praising me with a hoarse voice and trembling lips.

I want to press my tongue against the metal and move it around to stimulate him, even if I’ve never done this before and it’s going to be clumsy—I’ll try my best. I’ll suck on his spike like the sweetest lollipop, and I’ll do whatever it takes for every bit of praise and his pleasure. I want to relax my throat; I want to take him all the way in; I want the tip of my nose to press against his metall groin when I deep-throat him, holding my breath. I don’t need to breathe—he is my oxygen; he is all I need. I’m ready to suffocate, but I won’t pull away until my beloved, my Master and owner, tells me to do so.

And then he might take matters into his own hands—so impatient—grasp my hair right at the roots, and move his beautiful hips, sliding his spike as deep as possible, making those vulgar slurping sounds. Metal hitting my face—it hurts, but it’s not scary, not scary at all; let my eyes water and let my face and throat ache, he mustn’t think about it, he mustn’t stop for my sake.

He has to push himself to the limit; he has to think only about how I belong to him, how slippery and soft I am, how I was made to serve him—the perfect little pet, his sex doll, his human slave, his possession. And then, gripping my hair so tight I squeal, to come inside me. Let him fill my throat as if it were made for this, as if it were the most natural thing in the universe, as if I couldn’t survive feeding any other way. Let my beloved keep his spike inside until he’s savored the warmth to the very end. I’ll swallow every last drop, like a starving, and when Starscream slips out, his wet spike will be perfectly clean.

For Soundwave, this is like a dream come true. He's holding your sleeping frame near to him this moment. The malleability of mind and body, the closeness and openness, your attraction to him in exactly the same degree that his spark and mind have been drawn to you for centuries. And now your thoughts and fantasies have grown bolder, have turned to him… how long will he wait until you are ready and come to him on your own? He even had to force you to stop associating with questionable persons and behave properly. For the best! But still. An eternity will pass before you reach the stage you both crave. He just needs to give you a little nudge, that’s all.

Without a moment’s hesitation, the mech leans in and presses mask against the top of your head. The communicator’s mind gently penetrates yours, sending waves of calm and lulling you even further, like a lullaby created just for you. The telepath blocks the echo of your internal sluggish monologue, creating a veil that feels like something from a strange dream. He lifts himself up, embracing you with both arms, and your sleepy eyes open to suddenly meet Soundwave’s faceplate. Without a mask. You want to say something. You wanted to. Probably. Everything seems surreal, like blurry spots. And in a single second, his lips cover yours.

A shiver runs through your body, and a flower of deja vu blooms in the back of your helmet. Something familiar. And something right. His gloss glides over yours, the feeling that you’re exactly where you’re supposed to be envelops you like a warm blanket. There isn’t a single thought in your processor, but it’s full of longing, full of thirst.

The mech pulls back, very reluctantly; he would have preferred to kiss you forever, but he so wants to be sated by everything fate has given him, rewarding him with this gift. His fingers press against your lips, his clear gaze behind the visor meets yours, slightly empty and listless.

“Lick them” — his tone should surprise you. This request should outrage you. And Soundwave won’t admit it, but he’s terrified that nothing will work, that awareness and revulsion for him will appear in your gaze, that you’ll run away, abandon him forever—but the tip of your glossa unquestioningly traced the rough metal of his middle and ring fingers, as if that’s exactly how it was meant to be. His ventilation system abruptly stops working. The sensation of your gloss on his cold metal hand sends a jolt straight to his spark, and Soundwave bites down on his other hand, clenched into a fist.

This is vulgar.

No, this is perfect.

Could this really be true? Primus, you’re beautiful when you do this. Soundwave’s lips press against yours again. He pushes you onto your back with his weight, and both his palms slide beneath you, wrapping around and squeezing aft with his fingers. The moment his hand squeezes your metal there, probing and possessive, the fans sputter. This is forbidden territory. This is the intimacy he could only have secretly dreamed of. And now... now the mech wants more. Much more. Can you pleasure yourself under his control? Can he record a video of your... oh.

Without any distinctive sound, the recording began from his perspective. He ran his fingers over your lips again and then slid them inside your mouth. Not a single movement or sound of protest came from you. Soundwave tests the limits, continuing to probe the depths of this bottomless submission, numbers rapidly flashing across the corner of the screen, counting down the recording time. The camera zooms in on your lips, parted by his fingers, and the smooth metal of your mouth.

“…suck. gently,” he continues to control your mind, not letting you think or react, just filling every inch of your processor with the desire to obey. A good Decepticon follows orders from a superior. And you suck. The camera captures your tongue pressed against his fingers and your lips pursed in an attempt to suck in air, and the communications officer pushes his fingers further in, but pulls back when you cough. Soundwave removes fingers from your mouth to stroke the top of your head. “Good job,little”

Beautiful. You’re so beautiful. The communications officer remembers how one mech at the bar was talking about your faceplate, rating it on a scale, while another drunk jerk was talking about hitting on you on the street—after all, the cops would obviously understand him—it’s hard not to make a move on a drunken night, especially when you’re walking home alone.

Those bastards were reported missing that very evening.

Soundwave gently moved down to your stomach, kissing the metal that shuddered at his touch. The tip of his nose pressed against the warm metal right above your groin plate. Aside from Spark, this is your most intimate spot.

“May I?… Open for me.” Silence, your bewildered gaze, the blue mech’s clenched jaws, and then a soft click as the groin plate slides aside.

Soundwave didn’t immediately lower his gaze between your legs, but the Spark pulses intermittently when he finally sees you there. The camera focuses on the perfect metal, better than in all his fantasies. How many hundreds of years had he spent alone, clenching his dripping spike, trying to imagine you… the tip of a finger pressed against the thin metal, and your legs trembled, clamping down on his hand like a snapping shell. Sensitive. A dark, languid sensation ran through Soundwave’s internal circuits.

“Keep them open.” The mech’s palms help you spread your peds wider while they tremble. Controlling your thoughts when the telepath’s own helmet is in complete disarray is no easy task. But it’s worth it. His hands once again stroke the quivering metal with a touch as soft as a feather. Sensors pick up your pleasant scent as his fingers gather moisture from the valve and press against the thinnest metal between your legs, causing you to shudder anyway, even as you try your hardest to follow the order.

“You must not move,” his voice is stern, just as it was when he scolded you in your younger years, like an older brother: “Keep yourself still, like a statue.” It’s hard for Soundwave not to enjoy this. Not just your obedience, not just the openness he could only dream of, but also your torment.

That’s exactly how I felt. That’s exactly how you made me feel. Suffering from my emotions and unable to move. You were mocking me, and there’s nothing wrong with teaching a little lesson, with giving you a taste of your own medicine.

The camera pulled back so that your entire body fit in the frame. The back of your head pressed against the bed, the heated metal of the faceplate with droplets of condensation, and your misty gaze. The rising and falling chest plates, hiding your essence, your light. Your palms, holding your thighs open, and the wet, hot valve exposed for him to see.

Now Soundwave presses his fingers harder, punishing you with rough touches. Your funny face is just as focused as your fingers, which dig into your thighs as you try to keep your body still. Blue mech strokes haphazardly, rubbing the sensitive spot, sliding his fingers down to gather a little more moisture, and rising higher again. He commits every tremor and every sigh to memory, never taking his eyes off your wet, bitten lips, dreaming of them closing around his spike. He knows he would like that, that nothing in the world compares to the tightness and warmth of your throat, just as he knows that reality will feel even better than he imagines. With these thoughts, his fingers pressed into the thin, sensitive metal even harder, and your pelvis jerked against your will.

The red visor, which he chose not to remove, doesn’t hide the intensity of his burning red optic. He teases you, building up the pace, only to pull his hand away, savoring your pursed lips, and start all over again. He loves you. He’s always loved you. It was impossible not to notice. You’re just playing with him, that’s all. He brought you to the brink again and withdrew his hand, looked up with a smirk, and met your wet, misty gaze. The communicator’s smirk faltered. With a convulsive exhale, he looked again between your legs and at the scratched metal of your thighs. No. He isn’t like those bastards in the bar. There’s nothing in common between them and him. Soundwave’s fingers were replaced by his nose; he reverently kissed your thigh and ran his glossa over the valve.

“You’re doing great, its okay, you can relax.” Soundwave doesn’t mind your thighs clamping around his head and continues to caress you with relish, searching for the movement that makes you shudder the most. He knows many of your sounds by heart and loves them. Your hiccups, your laughter when you shouldn’t be laughing, even your sneezes and squeals of surprise—all of it is recorded and stored deep within his processor. But nothing compares to these rather modest and quiet moans, barely audible sighs mixed with low grunts. They’re better than something loud and erotic. Something intimate and accessible only to him, to his audiosensors. His palms cover yours, and your fingers intertwine as he almost sucks onto you beneath your sweet moans, without slowing down, he moves his glossa in circles and feels you finally clasp his head tighter than before, stretch your legs, and lift your pelvis with one last long, whimpering moan. Charming. The recording ended as silently as it began.

“You did so well.” The telepath’s EM field picks up how, even in a trance, a deep sense of satisfaction from the praise of your best f… no—he interrupted your thoughts—your sparkmate spreads through your body.

One last kiss, deep and wet, before Soundwave found a soft cloth and gently wiped the thick fluid from your thighs, gave the order to close the groin plates, and lay down beside you—not just embracing you, but clinging to you, kissing your temple.

For just a second, the mech thought about how he could now—at least in part—understand others’ craving for power. Giving orders and receiving unconditional loyalty and obedience in return really does feel so damn good

Thundercracker couldn’t help but chuckle to himself at the amused look on your face. His right servo supports weight as he leans over you. Mech's lips are close to yours, as if soaking up the warmth before tasting it; the distance between you closes smoothly, and cold palms suddenly grab you under the armpits, pulling you away from the blue Decepticon. You don’t have time to catch Skywarp’s gaze as he interrupts your intimate moment, covering you himself and snatching a kiss. His sharp fingers dig into your cheeks and waist, leaving marks.

The two brothers’ eyes are locked on each other; TC’s claws have dug into the metal, causing Warp to smirk smugly and slide the tip of his glossa into your soft little mouth. Starscream felt the wires around his neck bend slightly as he swallowed; his drowsiness gave way to a heat, stronger than any fever.

Ceasing the sweet assault on lips, the con pulled away, leaving a thin thread of saliva between your tongues. Your gaze finally met Thundercracker’s red optics, which had grown brighter—no, hotter, he drew close to you again, abruptly, as if you were about to be taken away once more – for a second, Skywarp’s claws actually tightened their grip, as if unwilling to share – and almost struck you with a kiss. The metal presses against you with such force that it threatens to leave bruises on your lips, and you moan in protest.

Skywarp’s fingers move to your breasts; he presses his faceplate against the top of your head, warming it with hot air whilst simultaneously squeezing your nipples.

"So defenceless in front of the three of us, aren’t you?" Starscream’s hot breath tickles one ear as he moves closer. He’s almost purring, feeling the heat from just the sight of the Seekers caressing and kissing your yielding body. He remembers your last evening together as a foursome, remembers the mingled scents, the wet surfaces, your sweet moans and that enveloping, tingling softness… Another tip of the tongue joined in, sliding over your ear, down to neck, and to your shoulder to push aside the fabric of clothes and bite.

TC and Skywarp swap places, as if competing to see who can cover more of your mouth with their glossas, and hands, hands, hands. They’re everywhere. They squeeze, they slide, they slip under your clothes, tearing away the tiresome fabric, knowing they’ll buy you plenty more of these rags. Thundercracker steps back, watching with pleasure as you breathe heavily, your bitten skin now bare. The texture of your flesh arouses something akin to hunger in him; every inch of silky skin begs to be marked, bitten, scratched…

Warp's palms turn you over, pressing your face against the bed, the metal’s cold sears the skin and legs twitch involuntarily as his claw slides playfully over the last piece of fabric on your body. Con hooks the edges of the lingerie, taking his time, scratching your skin, revelling in the scent of your arousal. He is interrupted when your calf is grabbed and pulled away from Skywarp, who cries out ‘Hey!’

Your goose-pimpled back catches the heat of his groin plates when Starscream sits you down on his lap. Without hesitation, he pulls your underwear off, gathering the moisture of arousal on his fingers before sliding them over your clitoris, making your thighs trembling and press together. Thunder has already opened his plates and clamped down hard on the base of his dripping spike. His optics, slightly dimmed, are fixed on your thighs and glistening labia.

"Why is it you? You were first last time!" Skywarp, however, refuses to take Starscream’s actions for granted and tries to pull you back towards him, but the hands of Trine's leader hold you fast.

“I was first last time, and I’ll be first this time too!” His fingers continue to caress your clitoris in circular motions, eliciting quiet moans from you, drowned out by the two of them arguing. Starscream suddenly cried out, pulling his hand away from you. “What the frag, TC, you bit me!?”

He’s doesn’t reply; long fingers slide beneath you, lifting your hips, and mouth practically sucks onto you, making you arch back with a moan and search for something to hold onto with fingers. His tongue glides over your clitoris, thumbs massage lower abdomen, lips descend to the tiny entrance of your pussy to lap up the moisture of arousal and rise again to clitoris.

You come shamelessly quickly; neither of the other two seekers had time to intervene or even utter a word before you, still in the same position, curling your toes and exhaled with pleasure. Thundercracker pulls away from you with satisfaction. He looks at his brothers in turn with smugness, before making a couple of final strokes with his fist along the length of his spike and ejaculating onto the metal in several spurts.

Skywarp was the first to come to his senses; he shoved Starscream in the shoulder, causing him to tumble off the bed with a yelp and a crash. He pulled your limp little body back toward him, opening his groin panel, and, positioning himself behind you, smoothly sank into your tight pussy a quarter, halfway, all the way in. Oh, how sweetly you moan at the thickness of his spike…

He immediately starts thrusting his hips, paying no attention to anyone in the room except your back. His engines roar, the room fills with your moans and the quick, lewd slaps. Your palms clench and unclench, nipples rub against the metal beneath you, and you unconsciously try to crawl away from the slaps of thighs, which will leave bruises, but he wraps arms around your waist and pulls you back into place. The stretching is unlike anything else; every nerve is touched as he slides back and forth, the recent orgasm releasing you, giving way to a new one.

“Fuck, please…” your voice is hoarse; you don’t know exactly what you’re begging for.

Starscream watches with a smirk as Skywarp fucks you in that doggy style position, while TC cums again, pleasuring himself at the sight. “How would you feel if I snatched her away from you right before you reboot?”

“Don't. You. Dare” Con thrusts grew more frantic; he covered you with his frame in a protective manner and Starscream just snorted. He sees you open your mouth in a moan, a string of saliva stretching from the roof of your mouth to your pink tongue. Primus…

The Trine leader climbed over Thundercracker, who was resting contentedly with his optics closed, to sit across from you with his typical sly grin. “Hey, princess,” Starscream lifted your chin, ignoring Warp’s warning growl. “Come on, look at me. Open your little mouth.”

The tip of his graceful spike slid across your lips, muffling moan of another orgasm, and the claws clamped down on your hair as he longed to plunge into that mouth, all the way down your throat, you continue to moan, and red optics of the seeker flicker from the vibration. He's thrusts, again and again, giving you a little time, and after a while you join in yourself, sucking on his metal like a candy, swallowing the spike and pressing tip of your nose against the metallic pubis.

“G-good... girl.” The mech strokes your head with trembling fingers. They could never fuck anyone but you and get this much pleasure. Not even the most gifted priestesses of love from ancient Cybertron could surpass the hospitality of your soft throat and the tightness of your smooth, silky pussy.

Starscream and Skywarp reload simultaneously; their transfluid fills you from both sides, warming your lower abdomen and saturating your taste buds with the unique flavor of the viscous liquid. They release, causing you to cough and fall forward, your body sweaty and trembling.

Streams of transfluid flow down the inside of your thighs, pooling into a small puddle at your knees.

“TC… take her on,” Starscream leans back against the wall, spreading his legs and breathing heavily, not letting you catch your breath either. “I want her to take my size without any trouble when I’ll be ready.”

You don’t have the strength to answer as, yet again, hands wrap around you and lift you up like a toy. And you wouldn’t want it any other way.

Finally, your thoughts became like white noise; you’re not pretending now. Soundwave’s hand rises, his trembling fingers glide over your cheek and chin before pulling away and clenching into a fist in the air, as if the mech wants to squeeze your face with the power of mind. The heat just doesn’t subside.

It’s like those times when you stayed over at his place or even invited him round to yours. Soundwave isn’t sure which is better – trying to fall asleep in your bed, surrounded by your sweet scent on all sides, and scrutinising the details of your interior as if trying to find an artefact, or finishing up work on the console and, turning back, seeing the top of your head peeking out from under his blanket, feeling a spark skip a beat… though coming after a gruelling shift, taking off his mask, burying nose where you’ve been lying, and simply letting out his pent-up urges with muffled moans might be slightly more to his liking. Yes, it’s almost the same… only…

"Optics: keep closed." only now, it's not necessary to control yourself

With a gentle flick of wrist, his mask is pushed aside; fingers lift your chin and lips touch yours. At first, lightly, like the tip of a feather, he testing, checking to see that this is real, before pressing himself against you in a passionate kiss. Then again, and again, and again. With characteristic sounds, he bites your lips, kissing you, sliding his glossa into your mouth as if licking an ice cream, running it over your lips before kissing you deeply once more. You are so submissive, so perfect...

Clinging to your shoulder and thigh with his palms, Soundwave lifts your body onto his lap. This obedience of your body, this openness of mind, is so arousing and… can he make you believe and do anything?

The comms officer's body heated up in an instant as images of you—just as lively and tireless, yet unquestioningly submitting to his will—filled his processor. You could sit on his lap every evening, smile only at him, kneel down and swallow his spike at his first request, right before the eyes of those who dared to flirt with you right in front of him-

… W-well, that last was probably a bit much. He needs to calm down…

"A responsible Decepticon always follows the orders of his higher-rankings," the voice modulation disappeared again; Soundwave leaned in, whispering into your audiosensor. "From now on, you must obey whatever my voice commands." Penetrating deep into your mind, the telepath senses the slow formation of new convictions

Blue fingers slid down your thigh, stroking in circular motions. “Because it’s right, it feels good, you want me to be proud of you, to praise you.” His fingertip slid lower, tracing ghostly patterns across your groin.

“Remember this. Remember this sense of peace and pleasure. This is the price of discipline, the price of obedience. On the count of three, wake up, and remember my first command—no one, absolutely no one, is to touch you again; don’t let them defile you. You're mine.”

Soundwave fastens his mask back on, biting his lip briefly.

“One, two… and three.”

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Soundwave knew how to ruin the reputation of anyone who got too close to you, dragging them through the mud and openly showing through his touch who you belonged to, but you kept drawing the Decepticons to you like moths to a flame. Yes, the mech didn’t say his feelings outright, but didn’t his actions speak louder than any words?? You shouldn’t let them pat you on the shoulder, shouldn’t let them whisper dirty comments in your ear and giggle about it! Soundwave should have taught you a lesson, just pinned you against the nearest surface in front of everyone and—but you take his hand again with a smile and he forgets all about it…

When you met in his living quarters, his gaze lingered on your thighs pressed against the bed’s surface. The spark suddenly seemed to pause for a second when he realized again why you were here, what you had agreed to almost without a shadow of a doubt. You’ve always been so trusting… so he’s doing everything right. It’s for your sake, too. You need someone who will protect you, who can keep you safe.

“I’m a little nervous, Soundwave,” he’s, noticing how you’re still smiling despite your anxiety, how you’re rubbing your knees with your palms while sitting hunched over. “I don’t even know why… And if you succeed, what will you do next?”

“Your energon intake: unregular,” he replies instantly, as if he’d rehearsed it. “Soundwave: will try to convince you to eat more often. Does that work for you?”

“That works for me!”

He won’t admit it, but he’s nervous too. More than you. He’s been fantasizing about this for so long… Every time he saw you reading the report to the Lord, every time he passed you in the hallways, sensing the trail of your scent, and especially when you were the focus of the gazes of those you unconsciously charmed. He can’t tell you to stop; that would push you away, make you doubt that he’s your best friend.

Just your best friend.

You relax pretty quickly. Soundwave slowly lulls you into a trance, allowing himself to stroke your arm. He feels you leaning against him as you slip into a drowsy state, and senses his cooling fans kicking in. No. First session - just a test. He tries to talk to you, asks a few questions, asks you to do simple things, which you do, and nods to himself. He have to start with something… innocent.

“Listen to me, carefully.” Now his voice sounds like that of a regular mech, without any special effects. “You’re a disciplined. You don’t forget to take care of yourself and make sure to drink at least two cubes of Energon a day—you remember that. Trust my voice, you hear me?”

In response, you make a soft humming sound. So quiet that you’re more exhaling air than using your voice. And Soundwave’s fingers dig into the sleeping platform with such force that they slightly dent the metal. So obedient… Finally…

“I’ll count to three and snap my fingers, and you’ll forget everything I’ve said, but my instructions will remain deep in your mind.” He ran a trembling finger along your cheek and pulled back the servo. “One, two—”

***

“Wave, this is just unbelievable, so successful on the very first try!” You wrapped your arm around his, forcing him to lean slightly to the side under the weight of your body. “I haven’t missed a single scheduled energon intake! This is a miracle!”

A warmth spread through his body, but it was sticky and proud.

“Practices: must remain confidential. Soundwave: wishes to hone his skills before reporting to Lord Megatron.”

“So, do I need to come see you again?”

In response to your question, he turns his helmet toward you; his faceplate is hidden behind the visor, yet the predatory glint in his eyes seems to pierce even through the thick glass.

“Today: After work. Please.”

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Cursing, you leap to your feet and try to lift him up too, to carry your patient to a cleaner, more secluded spot—somewhere you won’t be in the crosshairs of the factions or the ever-watchful eyes of humans—but his body won’t budge. Breakdown’s limbs are scattered across the ground, and you won’t be able to gather them up quickly. An invisible timer continues its countdown. The Decepticon’s spark continues to subside.

Frag it.

Giving up on your attempts, you begin the procedure right here, on the dirty ground. You take out a injector, fill it with what little vitamin energon you have left, and infuse the exhausted body with nourishment.

“Here, take this, wolfcub,” says a tall, burly, angular Decepticon with an almost friendly smile, holding out a small blue cube to you. The Energon shimmers softly in the sunlight. You let the name slip past your audiosensors; your endoskeleton and helmet full of pain. Energon. It might be poisoned or simply contaminated with something the mech doesn’t want to eat himself. But the level is critically low; you have to take this risk if you want a chance at survival.

“What are you looking at? We have to take care of the medics, don’t we?” He glances over his shoulder, where Knockout stands basking in the sun, gleaming as if untouched by war, and turns his gaze back to you. A small cube is now in your hand. “You'll be in debt, of course.”

There isn’t enough time right now to reattach the limbs. You tie off the severed ends of the thin tubes to prevent the dose of energon you just injected from leaking out. Oh, dear Primus. Where on earth is his head…

That’s not like Decepticons at all. Not one inch. The warm desert air blows against you as you watch Breakdown carefully tie off the thin, severed wires of one of the miners, administering first aid. Even the other miners chose to step over the body of their comrade who had fallen out of favor with the Lord, but not him. It’s charming, but so uncharacteristic, so unnatural for a Decepticon—to half-smile at words of gratitude, help another mech get back on his feet, and give an encouraging pat on the shoulder. You're lost in thought again, standing far away from the scene unfolding before you.

With your help, every severed cable and every torn pump tube slowly but urgently reconnects with its other half inside the con’s helmet. Step by step, the head falls back into place, and every inch of the internal circuitry is once again powered by energon. This isn’t your first time assembling a Transformer piece by piece—such are the horrors of war—but for some reason, your fingers tremble like a novice’s, and your insides, heated by fear and stress, barely cool down with the ventilation.

Among all the Decepticons. Of all the possible candidates, please, not him. He cannot become just another statistic, cannot fall silent forever, cannot turn into useless metal once and for all. You won’t let that happen.

The final piece of Breakdown’s brutally severed helmet fell into place. Like a caring mother, you rest his head on your lap. The tips of your still-trembling fingers glide over the streaks of dirt on his cheeks; a few drops fall onto his faceplate, and it takes a few seconds to realize that it’s not rain, but emotions bursting forth from the strain. You recoil from him and frantically wipe the washer, when a sharp squeak and wheeze burst from Breakdown’s vocoder. The only functioning optic glowed faintly. It’s unlikely that a processor that’s been without power for so long will be able to function normally anytime soon, but that doesn’t matter.

One of the few Decepticons whose spark still holds honor and nobility is still alive.

Watching you try to argue and snap back doesn’t usually annoy Megatron; in a way, it’s even endearing. You are a tiny creature of flesh, physically incapable of standing up to him in any way, and in those special moments when you tease him, leaving kisses along the length of his spike even though you were given a clear order to take him into your mouth whole, he gently pulls you by the hair, reminding you that your favorite treats must be earned. On rough days, he’ll simply wrap your hair around his fingers and, with sadistic pleasure, thrust himself all the way down to your windpipe, listening to your coughing and groaning.

The Lord will reload, and your mouth will fill with a thick liquid sweeter than nectar—isn’t obedience worth that taste? Isn’t obedience worth the gentle glide of a claw across your wet lip, wiping away the remnants of transfluid, and the praise, “Good girl”?

You act like a little brat whenever you interact with any Decepticon, but the robots have to keep their cool in the face of your snide remarks—unless they want your master to crush their heads like soda cans. You even tried to talk back to Soundwave once, and he wasn’t going to put up with it, but Megatron appeared out of nowhere, walked past his communications officer, grabbed you, and took you away for a disciplinary talk. Well, after a few disciplinary spankings on the butt, sitting down hurt for a few weeks…

One day, having completely lost control, you let loose with a string of dirty words, taunting Megatron, insulting him, and nimbly slipping away when he came looking for you to put you in your place. Eventually, he found you, daring to flirt with someone else right in front of him with a smug grin. He dragged you away from there, shooting the innocent Decepticon such a look that they could have died on the spot from fear. That evening, Megatron acted suspiciously calm, as if nothing had happened. Until the next day.

Megatron walked past you, moving with an unnatural fluidity, like a leaf falling onto the surface of the water. His gaze—that suspiciously sly look that makes your heart stop beating in your chest but start throbbing between your legs—was fixed on you, from head to toe.

“I have something for you.” The Lord shrank to your size and held out his hand. The gift box, beautifully decorated, looked toy-like and tiny in his hands. Strange—too big for jewelry, too small for food or electronics. Still under his gaze, you cross your legs to calm the throbbing and open the box to find… a collar. Clearly expensive, it’s worth noting. You’d be hard-pressed to find this level of quality and detail even in the most expensive sex toy shop. Stingray leather in a rich shade of purple, iron rings and clasps made of Cybertronian material, and a tag where they usually write the pet’s name or address. In the shape of a Decepticon emblem, only with the word ‘whore’ written on it.

“I’m not going to wear this, got it? If you like this kind of jewelry, you can show it off yourself—it’ll suit you even better.”

“Do you want me to make you?”

Of course, Megatron ripped your clothes off and fucked you. He fucked your mouth, ignoring your coughing, he fucked you in every hole several times in a row, filling your insides with Transfluid. Every limb, your neck, back, and ass—everything was marked with bites, bruises, and hickies, and that expensive collar with the brand was fastened around your neck by force.

He paraded you down the hallways in this look, and that was the only time you kept quiet. Have you learned your lesson? Absolutely fucking not.

He is cumbersome, with sharp lines and angles on his frame, making the ground vibrate with every step, while Knockout glides through the corridors of Nemesis with swan grace. They are not suited to each other. There is someone better. Someone who looks on with absolute adoration. Someone who can hold any conversation with an interest that scarlet mech has never seen before. Someone who is better at running a polishing machine over this warm, smooth metal, rubbing a special wax into the surface. There is you, and Knockout doesn't need anyone but you.

“Hey, what’s up? My shift is over, so I wouldn’t mind keeping you company here in the medical room.” you said. Knockout turned halfway around, scanning your figure with his bright red optics, the ventilation malfunctioning from the glare of those manic lenses. The medic's lips parted to reward you with words, but Breakdown emerged from the utility room with an absurd grunt, towering over the two of you and holding a box of tools in his paws. Knockout, completely forgetting what he wanted to say, abruptly headed for Vibedown, with such enthusiasm that he had never shown you before.

It went on and on like this. You offer to help Knockout clean up at the end of the shift, and he leaves it to you and Breakdown, leaving to “tidy himself up” for a little while, but a little while meant he was gone until tomorrow. You suggest a movie, but oh, what a pity, they just watched it, watch it yourself, sweetie, then we'll discuss it! You track down meet Knockout in the hallways, wandering aimlessly, and seize any opportunity to talk, looking friendly and relaxed, as if this meeting were accidental, but he was heading all along to his partner to start a lively conversation with him, as if you weren't there. At moments like this, you feel like your true emotions are showing in your brow ridges and the movement of your lower jaw. Is Knockout doing this on purpose? He's trying to get you emotional, right? Beautiful ones often come with a bitchy personality. No no, he's wonderful that way, it suits him even better than his color, but he just doesn't understand what's best for him!

“You know, I have some immodest suspicions about this guy.” Breakdown polished the saw with methodical movements, speaking in a quiet voice to the scarlet medic while you're packing things in the back room

“Huh?” Knockout didn't even look up, turning around near the reflective surface. “I think that pie is just sweet!”

“Isn't that sweetness a little too cloying? And anyway, as soon as you finish talking to him, his gaze becomes scarier than Lord's.” At these words from the blue mech, the racer smiled into his fist and cleared his throat.

“Don't exaggerate, most guys here have a relaxed face that looks like a bitch's face. You don't always look like the nicest guy yourself.” Their laughter reached you, as did all the previous words.

So, it's all Breakdown? That bastard is turning your medic against you? Gradually hammering into his pretty head about your suspicious behavior or little incidents? Your fangs dug into index finger with such force that energon flowed, while dark thoughts overwhelmed your head. Trying to be friends is useless, common interests are useless. Any attempt to become one with Knockout, to be his only light, support, and protector, is only possible if you destroy the parasite that is poisoning your flower.

The gods smile at you, smiling with the same grin that your soul and mind smile with. You are alone with Breakdown, if you don't count Arachnid grumbling under his breath. It wasn't difficult to convince Megatron that you, rather than Dreadwing, should accompany Breakdown on a special mission. You have always been a brilliant fighter. If you can deal with your main rival, you and Knockout will be the most magnificent pair of all. The best racer and the best flyer of the Decepticons… doesn't the idea itself sound tempting?

Breakdown swings his hammer at the spider, but the faceplate is blocked by sticky web. In a futile attempt to pull this filth off, the mech collapses to his knees. Your feet sink softly into the cold soil, and with each step, the angular figure of one idiot gets closer and closer, but you don't help him. A pitiful sight. An insect in a spider's web, hoverfly. Nothing but an impostor, trying to deceive beautiful bud with its appearance, to taste the nectar that should belong to you. Arachnida's leg drops sharply, cutting the vital wires and causing the mech to collapse forever. Then, with a single shot, you pierced a hole in spider's chest plates, causing her to fall dead as well. When the hot air left the ventilation grilles, leaving small clouds behind, the silence was broken only by the rustling of the trees. A smile appeared on your face.

Megatron looks at the severed head of fem with satisfaction at a job well done, while you try to avoid making optic contact with Knockout, as if he might know, as if he might sense what you've done. And then, your gazes meet after all, and you see… definitely not grief.

“It's a shame that no one else can clean tools so effectively now. Since you missed your chance, you'll now help me polish my back.” At the medic's words, your groin plates heat up, and you modestly lower your helmet, hiding a slight smile.

The device that was scanning your body just a moment ago flew into the wall, hitting the switch. You were both plunged into complete darkness, except for the green optics glowing in the dark like fire.

“Oh, really?” The edges of the iron bed creaked, as if the medic had squeezed them. “Oh, really?”

With one push to the chest, he knocks you onto your tailbone. How dare you talk to him like that? You've always been disrespectful, troublesome, and so vulgar. You deliberately tested his patience with those explicit jokes, that flirting. No, if that's what you want, for Primus sake, mech will give you what you crave. The base is empty anyway.

With his thumb and forefinger, Ratchet squeezed your calf, pulling it slightly to the side. The thick finger of his other hand unceremoniously pushed through all the fabric to slide along the folds of sensitive flesh between your legs, causing both a shudder in your lower limbs and a wave of shock. You try to kick in complete darkness to get out of his grip, but it's useless. Synthetic energon has made him not only more intolerant, but also stronger.

The medic leaned closer, illuminating your body with light. The scent of pheromones practically hit him in the face. The light from the emerald optics perfectly highlights all your facial features, full of surprise, as if you weren't trying to get him to do just that. Playing the angel? How silly.

The fabric comes off almost without difficulty; no doubt you could have dressed this way to make it easier for him to undress you. That's just like you, isn't it? Transformers can see in the dark, so it's no trouble for Ratchet to determine the great similarity in the structure of the valve between Earth and Cybertronian life forms. Fascinating.

The warm metal slides across damp skin, and thighs instinctively try to squeeze together, enveloping his finger. Having lost the ability to see surroundings, your body has heightened its tactile sensitivity, and now his touch... shouldn't you break free? The sliding over the most sensitive spot destroys your train of thought, leaving only emptiness in your head. Ratchet grumbles quite loudly, continuing to rub your clitoris with surgical precision, saying something about young people, about disrespect, God, what an old man...

It feels like there's a fire between your legs, the quick, forceful movements quickly bringing you to a peak, making your lower limbs tremble, and the first real loud moan escapes your lips. Your voice echoed off the walls of the base just as loudly. If anyone had been at the base, no one could have missed what you were just doing. Well, Ratchet finished teaching you a lesson, right?

There was a click and a short sound like movement. You can't see anything in the darkness, so you look up at the medic. His eyes aren't burning with fire, but with a real blaze, scorching you even without touching. Your gaze darts to the barely noticeable movement below to see... oh, well, they have private parts, and they definitely look human. If you can tell in such darkness.

You try to say something, at least that it won't fit, not at all, there's no chance.

“What are you babbling about, little? Where's your confidence? You're at the top, aren't you?”

Ratchet pressed your body against his hot spike, quickly and roughly rubbing your wet spot against his genitals as if you were a toy. The metal is so smooth, unlike the rough surface of their frames, where the paint has long since peeled off. The ridges and contours of his spike perfectly massage your labia and overexcited clitoris, your toes curl and a moan escapes your lips again.

The equally overexcited medic overloads treacherously quickly, flooding the bed with jets and releasing hot air from the ventilation grilles with relish, throwing his helmet back.