💗 tonight's big secret

It’s not all roaming the galaxy having fun. Sure, there’s plenty of that. You're going to see wonders that human eyes have never seen before. But it’s a lot more, too.

You wriggle backwards out of Brainstorm and Perceptor's mystery machine. You're covered in thick, black grease that’s making your skin itch; they didn't think to check for skin-safety before asking you to crawl into it and fix some finicky little part. You scramble to your feet, a stained shop towel in one hand and a half-used can of solvent in the other. The fumes in the enclosed space are making you a little high.

You kick the access hatch shut and stand back. Go on, Percy, try it now.

Perceptor frowns as the machine whirrs to life, but the screen still throws off an error message. You sigh and shake your head. Your sensitive ears that always made you hate the hum of ceiling lights and refrigerators, are telling you something still isn’t right.

Kill it, I can hear the pitch is still off. Fine, I’ll just take the whole damn gear assembly apart!

Don't touch any of the exposed wires! You'll undo all my work! Brainstorm demands. And adds, belatedly, Also it'll kill you. Why don't you humans have any decent insulation? Terrible design. I could do better if I created a species in my recharge.

You don't think you want to hear where this is going. Grabbing your tools, you crawl back in the mystery machine.

Don't worry about learning mechanical stuff, earth's systems are completely different to their engineering anyway. Besides, it doesn’t matter if you’ve never held a blowtorch in your life, you’ll pick the skills up along the way. A flexible mind and willingness to learn are the only real criteria for any potential coterie member.

You spring out in front of the big blue mech, making him very nearly step on you with one of his birdlike feet. You know he won’t - for all his jokes, there’s not a mech on this ship that would knowingly hurt you. (Knowingly being the operative word.)

I know what I smelled, Whirl. There’s no disguising it. You have a coolant leak. You got some of that guy’s windshield stuck under your plating when you threw him across the bar, didn’t you? And it’s punctured a line.

His single optic narrows in an expressive glare. So what, Crunchy? Why do you care? Move or I’m gonna have more than glass stuck in my mesh.

He slowly and pointedly brings his foot down toward you, humming the Jeopardy! theme music. You tilt your head and raise an eyebrow higher and higher the closer his foot gets, not moving. When it’s just within reach, you make a wild leap, grab for a safe handhold, and hang on for dear life. Whirl shrills an arpeggio of startled mech curses and tries to shake you off, but you cling like a burr.

If you don’t treat it, it’s going to get worse! It’s either me or Ratchet, Whirlybird, and I don’t throw things! I don't care that you got in a fight, I don't - whoa, watch the wall! - I just want you to not be in pain!

He decides after a few attempts that this is a fun game. You’re dizzy as hell by the time he announces Eight seconds! Fine, cowboy, if you want to be inside me THAT badly.

You roll your eyes and somehow manage not to lose your lunch as he sets his foot down and lets you climb off. Scrappy opens his mouth, letting you pull out your gloves and pliers from one of his compartments. You dig out the shards of glass and patch up his coolant line, feeling relieved as you wrap the punctures and clean away the dried coolant. Having one of your mechs hurt always bothers you.

Yeah, you’re gonna make the best friends you’ve ever had. The kind you’d do anything for. And I do mean, anything. They really overplay the whole "humans will pack bond with anything" stuff a little too much, because they don't quite get how our relationships work. But eventually you will find yourself pulling on wells of strength you didn't even know you had, doing things you never thought yourself capable of. Not for yourself, but for them.

You spit a mouthful of blood onto alien ground and try not to let the glowering mech see you shake. Adrenaline or fear, does it matter which? What matters is Tailgate’s down, hurt and in stasis. You got banged up, too, and stayed behind to guard him while the rest of the landing team pushed through the fighting. They wouldn't have left you or him if they'd thought any of the enemy mechs were still in this quadrant. But this one stomped out of the swirling fog, a hulking shape bristling with combat readiness.

He’s big, but so fucking what? You’ve been passed in the halls by mechs much scarier than this guy.

You flip the safety off your weapon - almost too big for you, but barely a pea shooter to a full-sized mech. At your side, Scrappy hisses and snarls, clacking his sharp metal teeth in threat. Just because he's been altered not to eat metal at random, doesn't mean he can't when given permission.

You're supposed to be a non-combatant, untouchable and marked as such by the coterie patch on your shoulder. At worst, you can be held hostage until your ship pays a ransom. But playing by those rules means standing aside and letting this guy do whatever the hell he wants to one of your mechs.

You glance at Tailgate and your heart hurts. When did this ten-foot-tall alien robot start to look so small and vulnerable to you?

Your eyes blur with furious, worried tears, before fixing on the approaching enemy. You step forward, as if your tiny body can shield the wounded mech lying behind you.

Whatever you came here for, you spit as more blood drips down your chin, you’re leaving without it. Go conjunx a belt sander, you torqueless wonder.

But it gets real when you get to the point where you understand, they’d do anything for you, too.

You’ve been cold forever. Can’t remember ever being warm. The endless white snows of the polar icecap of this godforsaken planet you’d come to investigate, was going to be the last thing you saw. One wrong step and the snowbank had collapsed, dumping you into a subterranean cavern. You’re trapped, alone, hypothermic. Your emergency transponder broken. You'd left your pet scraplet behind out of fear his thin armor wouldn't protect him against the cold. You're never going to see the little guy again.

Without him or the transponder, your mechs are never going to find you here. You’re never going to see earth again. They'll just add your name to the coterie's wall of remembrance, and some other human will be on your ship, caring for your mechs. You hope they'll understand how special they all are. That they'll learn Rung needs a listening ear sometimes, and Roddy's boasting often hides his insecurities, and Ratchet's got a soft spark under all that grumbling...

You think you’re hallucinating when you hear the voice. Wait. Is that a heat signature - it is! Hey, captains! We found them! Over here!

A few minutes or hours or ages later and Brainstorm, upside-down, lowers through the hole in the crust above. You blink muzzily. ‘m on the ceiling…?

Powerful hands pick you up, and you’re ascending. You don’t remember much after that, except the feel of being surrounded by titans that cared enough to come back. You came back for me.

Rodimus, warmest of them all, carries you to the ship himself. Tucked inside his armor, out of the wind and ice. Nestled right by his spark chamber. You dream of being pure energy, or of being wrapped in pure energy, or that you're one of two waves of energy dancing together with the joy of being alive. In a place where size doesn't matter, and metal and flesh don't matter, because deep down you're more alike than dissimilar.

You're as much theirs, as they are yours.

I wish I could tell you what to expect, but no one has the exact same experience. Not even within the same cohort. It’s going to be unlike anything you imagine it could be. Every day's going to bring new discoveries, new dreams. Sometimes, new nightmares. It's a big universe, and humans haven't even scratched the surface of what's out there. For better, or for worse.

The crate rattles again. Your breathing is loud inside your exo-suit. This bay is kept pressurized, but barely climate-controlled, and close to the ship's heat sinks so it's scorching hot in here.

Scrappy's cameras are transmitting every move you make to the mechs crowded around the monitors on the bridge. You've turned off audio, because between the scientists' incessant arguing and Swerve's fretting over you going into Cargo Hold 3 alone, you weren't able to pay proper attention to your surroundings.

Rattle-rattle. Shake. That container weighs several tons. It's bouncing around like it's a bouncy castle full of elementary schoolers.

No oxygen. Movement. It could be a scraplet infestation. Easily dealt with, for you. Which is why you're here and the mechs are on the bridge, or in lockdown in their quarters.

It could be scraplets. Intuition tells you it's not.

You touch the side of your helmet to activate your mic. Where did you say we picked this up from, again?

The arguing in the background dims as Ultra Magnus answers, disapprovingly, The records for the cargo manifest have been...misfiled. Ergo, we don't know.

You can see him in your mind's eye, glaring at Rodimus. Misfiled? More like Roddy lost them in the skyscraper stack of datapads in his office. If he didn't just set it down somewhere and forget where he put it. Can mechs have ADHD? Would some strategies that work for humans, be helpful for him? A thought to pursue at another time, when you're not maybe about to be eaten by a monster.

You click the mic back off before you can get drawn into the new argument that's starting over the co-captain's lack of organizational skills. And step closer to the shaking crate. No markings that you can read. No packing list on the outside. Does it look a little banged up? Rusted? Or is it the shaky light from Scrappy's headlamp as he hides behind your legs, making it look like that?

Every horror movie you've ever watched at Swerve's on movie night, comes back to haunt you. The aliens out in the dark have their own legends and myths. Some of them, you've learned the hard way, aren't only legends or myths.

Sweat drips into your eyes. Fuck it.

Are you going to play nice, or am I going to kick your ass off my ship?

You slam the augmented crowbar home and pry the lid off –

• Frowning before it sinks in, he freezes. Realizing what you mean. Honored and intimidated that you want him to be your first. And painfully aware of the size difference between you even mass displaced. Suddenly, you won’t meet his optics. Like you’re embarrassed and ashamed about it and knowing that if he questions if you’re really sure you want this, you’ll take it as a rejection. Doesn’t want that, because he does want you so bad it hurts. Wants to touch you, taste you, recharge with you in his arms. Claim you as his. But somehow this is more intimidating than dealing with the Decepticons. “I can go slow,” he says, cupping your cheek.

• “Okay,” you whisper, turning your face into his palm. Nervous, but wanting this, wanting him to be your first. Maybe only partner. Love the big mech, how gentle he is with you. Heart thumping against your ribs when he kneels and you shimmy out of your pants and underwear for him, letting them fall around your feet. Can feel him venting against your bare skin as he lays a warm hand on your thigh, a servo teasing the apex of your thighs and you’ve never felt so vulnerable in your life. ‘Can I touch you?’ He asks, optics looking up at you and when you nod, he encourages you to spread your thighs for him. Feel a servo explore your folds, the tip dipping into your core to make you suck in a sharp breath. “Wait.” Grabbing his wrist, you stare at him.

• “Let me take care of you,” he rumbles, venting to pull your scent deep. And when he reaches for you, you ease down on your knees facing him. Let him gently lay you back and you spread your thighs for him without him having to ask even though you look so uncertain. Trusting yourself to him and it makes him love you even more. Mouth closing on a servo before cupping you, exploring you in careful touches. The scent of you, of your arousal sinks into him as he shifts to stretch out between your thighs.

• He’s not going to- arching suddenly when he presses his mouth against you, you gasp his name, thighs trembling. Because he is. Lips sliding against you, finding and teasing your clit mercilessly when you buck your hips. Feeling him sucking, before his glossa slides against you. Slides inside you. Fingers clutching at his helm, there’s a thought that you should be horrified as you rock against his mouth, whimpering his name. Feeling yourself heat and coil as you grind against him and when you come apart, it’s a shock, thighs trembling as he growls against you.

• Pressing his mouth against your inner thigh and venting raggedly as he struggles against the urge to softly bite. Just enough to leave the impression of his denta, a mark that you’re his. Claimed. Would you let him do that? Getting himself under control, he shifts up your body, caging you. Watching you come down from the high, eyes wide and dark with pleasure. His. Only his. Releasing his spike to let it pressurize against your hip, he shifts against you, sliding the head against you, slicking himself with you and you lift your hands like you want to lay them on him and then hesitate. “Touch me,” he whispers, the words harsher than he meant them to be, a demand. But you still lay those soft hands on his chassis, exploring him as he presses against you and you grab onto him with a gasp. Venting with restraint, he rocks himself against you, stretching you slowly and watching your face. “Breathe, little one.”

• Exhaling on a shudder, you hang onto him. Feel him curl his hips, there’s head of his spike stretching you with a faint burn before retreating. Eyes closing, you hesitantly move with him, rocking yourself slowly up to meet him. Because he’s not going to hurt you. Never has. And when you relax, the head of his spike suddenly sinks into you to make both of you groan. Nails dipping into the seams of his plating when he lazily moves inside you. Squirming at the pressure, the burn of him stretching you and there’s momentary discomfort that makes you shudder when he slides deep, sheathing himself inside you. “Relax for me,” he whispers as he slowly moves inside you.

• Groaning, jaw clenching, he’s afraid to touch you, afraid of being too rough as he moves against you. You’re so small, slick and wrapped so tight around his spike as he rocks himself against you. Feeling you start to move with him, whimpering as he rubs his cheek against you, venting in the scent of you and him mingling. So aroused knowing he’s your first lover, that you trusted him to be your first. “Optimus,” you moan, breath hitching and he shudders when you come apart against, fisting his spike. So tight he can’t thrust, just rocking urgently against you until he’s snarling your name, overloading so hard he feels himself overheating as his fans kick on.

You think there's nothing better than diving face-first into a soft bed. Fluffy blankets, plush pillows, the warmth of a lover and the indescribable tension of the inevitable hanging in the air.

Oh yes, you've been a bad, bad girl.

"And what do you think you're doing?" A low, gruff voice sounds from behind. You can't see him, only feeling when he kneels onto the bed after you, "A poor attempt at hiding yourself from me, hm?"

You can't help but let out a breathless giggle as Ratchet looms over you like a heavy storm, the thrill equally as electric. After all, one does not simply flirt with the first commanding officer and expect to get away with it.

The difference with you, however, is that Ratchet knows the game you're playing. You've both had your eye on Ultra Magnus for a while, and that aforementioned tension in the air wasn't confined to just the berthroom, only you had a bit more guts than Ratchet to make a move.

"Absolutely not." You giggle again when you feel Ratchet's face nuzzling the back of your neck, only for it to transition into a soft gasp as you feel him tugging your pants off.

"Oh please, sweetspark," He moves to nibble your earlobe, "You know exactly what you're doing. A little vixen you are, yes."

His words trail off as you feel a cold, heavy servo trail the back of your thighs. It stops right between your legs and cups your pussy, and you feel yourself clench around nothing. A low hum right into your ear sends tingles down your spine, before you feel the slap of a heavy spike smacking your ass.

"Maybe..." You moan breathlessly and arch your back against him. The whole situation has sparked a fire in the pit of your stomach, and you want nothing more than for him to fuck your brains out.

Ratchet receives the message loud and clear. He sits up and pulls your hips with him. You attempt to follow through with your hands, but he tuts and pushes your head back onto the pillow.

"Oh no, you don't. Stay down." The old medic growls the command. He lines his thick spike to your pussy, and slowly eases himself in.

With a perfect, almost back-breaking arch achieved, he holds your hips in a death-like grip and thrusts forward, splitting you open perfectly.

"Ohpfuck-" You grip the pillow and cry out into it, holding on for dear mercy as Ratchet plunges his spike into you over and over again.

"There's a good girl, taking all of me. Do you like the idea of being shareware? I wonder what Ultra Magnus would think if he saw us like this."

The image conjured in your head rips a moan from you, and you bounce forcefully against his pelvis plate, the tip of his spike kissing your sweet spot perfectly each time.

"I thought so." Ratchet groans lowly, his optics trained on your backside as it ripples from the force.

He fucks you like this for a while, eventually closing his optics and letting himself feel you. The moans and the sounds of metal on skin echoed against the walls.

At this point, deep inside you, he gets a devious idea.

He slows down, and you whine. His spike is pulsing like crazy, and you feel him leaning over you to reach something, "Wait- Ratchet what are yo-"

With the camera open, the medic retrieves a data pad and pushes it into your trembling hands. You force your aching neck to swivel to look at him questionably, but he's already pressed record. Ratchet then cups your chin and redirects you to look at the data pad, angling your face perfectly in view.

"Don't get all shy now," He keeps his grip on your chin as he resumes his rutting, "Go on, let him see your pretty face, sweetspark..."

The view looking back at you is nothing short of hot. Your face, reddened and slick with sweat, your eyes lined with tears, the arch of your back showing off all the curves of your ass, the background completely filled with a metal, white and orange abdomen thrusting into you. You're watching yourself getting fucked, and it's the hottest thing when you know who this porno is getting sent to.

"Fuck! C-Commander-"

-

Ultra Magnus has replayed this video too many times, and he's ashamed. Locked in his quarters with his back against the wall, he watches the intimate act of the resident couple.

He shouldn't be engaging with this, it goes against every rule and code of conduct that flashes through his processor with every stroke of his spike.

He's the Autobots' first commanding officer for Primus' sake. He shouldn't engage with his teammates like this, let alone when a human is involved. But you started this. You both did. He can feel those quick glances and longing stares through the back of his helm. When you sent a wink his way while you brought those soft, delicate lips to meet Ratchet's.

He feels so, so ashamed of himself.

But they sent the video, it's not his fault. It could've been an accident for all he knew.

"F-Fuck! C-Commander-"

At least, that's what he tells himself.

He hears your voice moan out for him for the fifth time, holding the data pad closer to get another good look at you both. His spike throbs in yearning as he watches you cum, fisting his spike harder at the look on your face. It's messy, raw and so human.

He observes some more, watching as the Autobot medic ruts into you hard and fast. He hears a gruff moan, and Ultra Magnus can only guess as to what kind of mess Ratchet has made of your insides. He strokes himself some more, harshly venting as he comes closer and closer to overloading.

The data pad then shows Ratchet leaning down in view, pressing cheek-to-cheek against your exhausted, fucked out face.

"Come join us next time, will you?"