Tag: my work

development of a new OC in immediately-after-each-other Discord posts

Old character concept I’m picking back up again to try and make into someone:

bot who’s spent most of their life in their alt mode, plugged into a bunch of electronics and basically acting as a living computer bank.

No idea how to actually speak or walk or anything of the sort.

They’re on a ship somewhere. 

Bolted to the wall, probably, or the floor.

The crew of the ship is killed off somehow, and they decide they would rather not die, so they start broadcasting an alarm signal.

And only realize after rescue shows up that they… don’t actually know where they are.

The only sensory input they have is around the computer parts that are not them, to monitor things and make sure everything is working right.

meanwhile the rescuers are like “hi so are you the ship?? or”

much looking around in confusion and much unhelpful typing of words on screens

until someone finally scans everything and notices that one of those computer components has a spark signature.

They don’t really… know much of anything about how to function.

Sometimes people talk to them. Call them Computer, or swear words. 

But suddenly having a specific frame is very disorienting, and then someone does something weird in their innards 

and all of a sudden they have limbs??

and a limited number of optics??

and then they fall over and it hurts and they make a noise?????

they are evidently capable of noise???????

They’re also not good with subtleties.

Example: they learn that Autobots are responsible for trapping them in their alt for their entire life, immediately conclude that all Autobots ever are bad and that they want to be a Decepticon.

learning that the ship they are now on has a mix of both does not go over well.

Bracer has to explain to them that there are other categories, and subcategories.

Mind you this is done with Computer in one arm, kicking furiously with what little bit of dexterity they’ve learned.

f u r i o u s l y  tapping out swear words in what is basically Morse code on Bracer’s arm.

“So, yeah, not everyone is like that, and I’m not an Autobot anyway, and- what did you just call me?? that is rude!”

basically picture Tailgate but square and probably without much color.

Devoting their newly unoccupied processor power to things like having Emotions and being Pissed

and biting people

and this… drinking thing?? this is weird

and then someone grabs their crotch entirely by mistake while wrangling the Anger and their panels pop aside and they’re just like “oh, great, what are all THESE parts now that I have to learn what to do with”

“fuck this”

every new bit of mobility that Computer learns immediately goes to being Fucking Angry and trying to fight people.

People who, mind you, are doing things like trying to help them figure out how to walk and keep them from falling over all the time. 

They aren’t any good at emotions, they’ve only ever experienced very weak versions, their processor was too busy elsewhere. 

Mostly they’re mad about everything and are showing it the only way they can, without any way to speak.

just

PISSED

for like 3 days straight until they get too tired. 

War, now, is ignorant men in power hurtling words they do not understand at enemies too violent to respond calmly, 

is a million angry voices protected by anonymity and screaming at someone for being born the way they are.

Famine, now, is superfood imported from starving countries, 

is a seventh yacht bought to sit in harbor while employees struggle to stay in the cheapest housing and factory workers die. 

Pestilence, now, is ignoring science while your children spread disease everywhere they touch, 

is once-mighty rivers choked with garbage and unimaginable filth poured there through drainage pipes. 

Death, now, is walls between refugees and safety, 

is “my button works!” is “no collusion!”

is “she asked for it!”

is “but autism!” is “but they’re poison!” is “they’re unnatural!” 

is “get back to work!” is “they don’t deserve it!” is “it’s cheaper!” 

is “murderers!” is “they’re all criminals!” is “deport them!” 

The horsemen grow a million-fold and we all rise against them, and find that under hoods and masks are faces much like ours. 

The horsemen, now, bring legions. 

Medics don’t work
after servo repairs or upgrades. Understandably so. It’s like asking a flier to
pull off complicated stunts just after wing repairs. The only way you can
easily convince a medic to take some downtime is by getting them an upgrade.
This is relatively common knowledge.

What is less common
knowledge is that some of that downtime generally includes something that isn’t
quite standard procedure for after a mod or repair of most sorts. Medics have
an extraordinary number of sensors in their servos, and some people’s
processors interpret the sensory input in very interesting ways under certain
circumstances.

Forceps is one of
those people, here are those circumstances.

 (This be NSFW. No other warnings. Masturbation via servo stimulation, and what may or may not be oral depending on what counts. Medics have very sensitive servos, ‘nuff said.)

Between several modded-in additions and many servo repairs
over the course of the war, Forceps had figured out the perfect way to do this.
A comfortable chair with enough width to let them comfortably splay their legs,
a table in front at just the right height to support their servos on it, and
the supplies set up nicely in front of them.

Vents quickening in anticipation, Forceps carefully lined up
a row of small, delicate brushes, aligning them with a bottle of polish, a
buffing cloth, and a tin of high-quality paint. This was part of the ritual-
slowly run their fingertips along the lid of the bottle, around the tin,
against the brush handles, then pick up a brush and flick it against their
fingertips. One-two-three, testing that each non-thumb digit on both servos had
the same level of sensory input despite the work, then stroke the brush down
from each fingertip to their palm. Perfect. There was still the soft ache from
having their fingers opened up and reassembled, but it was satisfying, like they’d done a series of intricate repairs in
record time.

Drawing out the anticipation a bit further, they stroked the
brushtip in slow, even circles against each fingertip, in order, focusing on
how the brush moved and how it felt. The sensory input was usually practical
only, nothing like something suggestive, but this… mm.

Slow, gentle, focused attention, dim lighting, a comfortable
temperature, no pulse under their fingertips, nothing but the stimulation they
chose to feel. Pampering. Well-deserved pampering. And it… felt… good.

No need to rush their arousal. That would come. Best to try
and be productive right now.

First, Forceps transformed the new mods out, flexing their
servos slowly and watching them shift. Two tiny, razor-sharp, curved blades,
affixed to a series of tiny piston-like mechanisms that could perfectly adjust
the angle in almost any direction. These would let them cut perfectly and shift
the blade as it cut, and their self-repair had already been coded to keep the
edges razor-sharp. Their laser scalpels were suitable for the majority of
procedures, but these had their uses. Excellent for scar removal with a minimum
of damage. And so, so sharp.

Itching to slice something, Forceps pulled a chunk of dense
silicone from subspace, set it on the table, and cut into it. Slowly at first,
watching the knives slide with the barest trace of resistance, then a quick
twist and a motion out to the sides. It felt perfect. Satisfying. And a valid
test!

Forceps enjoyed the clean sliding sensation for a few
moments more, optics dimmed and half-shut, purring, then set the silicone aside
and picked up the brush again. This time, they ran the tip and handle against
the mechanisms of the new mods, testing the sensation, then tucked the blades
away and flexed their servos again.

Picking up the cloth, Forceps dabbed the slightest bit of
polish onto it, then leaned back in the chair and began buffing their fingers
clean. It looked a bit odd to have just the middle finger of each servo
unpainted, but mods this delicate took best when the paint nanites had been
drawn away from the area. Besides.. they weren’t about to pass this up.

The initial buffing was too much sensation at once to feel
like anything in particular, but necessary to make sure the area was clean.

Next… mm.

Biting their lip, Forceps opened the paint tin, then dipped
the tip of a brush inside and swirled it. Slowly, slowly, watching the flow of
the paint, then how it dripped free of the brush as they lifted it.

The first touch of paint was always the strongest sensation.
Cold, wet, slick, a slow, even slide from the tip of their finger to the base,
luxury more than practicality. Forceps’ cooling fans kicked up another notch
and they ex-vented softly, optics shutting entirely for a moment, then opened
them again and kept working. This was a very thin paint, it had to be to
prevent imperfections. They were going to need, mm, multiple coats.

The touch of the brush, the slide of the bristles across
their plating, the cool sensation of the paint, the barely-there sensation of
it just beginning to dry around the edges… Forceps shuddered, legs sliding
apart, and retracted the cover over their valve. They weren’t going to use it,
not any time soon, but the air against their valve was all it took for their
processor to set the luxurious sensations firmly in the “sexual” category.

As the first layer on their left servo began to dry, they
switched the brush over and did the same with the right finger, biting their
lip slightly harder and lifting the sawlets on their back.

Next… both their favorite and least favorite part of this
whole thing.

Waiting for the paint to dry enough for the next layer.

They knew down to the nanoklik how long it would take in
this air temperature. It was a tease. They’d
never been sure whether or not they liked that.

As they counted down, they flexed their servos slowly
against the air, rubbing the tips of their not-recently-painted digits
together. Helm lolling back, they lowered their servos and stroked over their
inner thighs in slow, even circles, purring, shivering as they felt the paint
drying. Cool, perfectly smooth, contracting slowly and evenly around their
fingers, a firm squeeze that had the sensors tingling gently as they were
constricted the tiniest fraction.

They were less sensitive for the next layer of paint, so
they applied it a bit faster, quick little flicking strokes, vents quickening
and charge rising at the sensation. This time, they lowered their servos to
play along their inner thighs as the paint dried, fingers dipping into their
inner thighs to feel how the muscle cables slid and tensed against their
fingertips.

Forceps was aroused. Their valve was starting to lubricate,
and their spike would probably have been pressurizing if they’d retracted their
panel. On some level, they were aware of their interface equipment activating,
but it was background noise against the sensory input from their servos.

The third coat of paint went much the same, but took
slightly slower motions, they had to focus intently to keep their servos
steady.

The fourth… the fourth was less practicality and more pure
luxury. Half of it was done with their optics shut, purely by touch, helm
lolling back and thighs splayed wide. Midway through the second finger, a
shudder ran down their spine and they moaned, ever-so-softly, pausing for a
moment to let their frame settle. There was only so much their servos could do
to stay still against their frame moving, and this- well, it didn’t demand
absolute perfection, not like delicate surgeries, but Forceps saw no reason not
to be this precise. They couldn’t be precise while shuddering in pleasure,
though, so they had to wait for a moment.

And then, mm.

Then a brush. Tiny, gently tapered at the tip, stiff little
bristles. Ostensibly for simple detail work, for cleaning, but there was no
cleaning needed here. Forceps’ servos were pristine. Still, it was best to
check, wasn’t it?

A check that meant bristles sliding between delicate structures
in their servo joints, against the backs and sides of the hidden mechanisms. Others’
servos were complex enough, but medics’ servos added a whole other layer of
detail, hidden tools and devices packed tight together. A thousand nooks and
crannies to explore with the brush, innumerable sensory nodes to set alight
with pleasure, every press and stroke of the brush finding new sensors and
sending pulses of bliss up their spine.

It wasn’t spread out enough, though, wasn’t enough
sensation- too pinpoint, one internal joint of one finger at a time, and they
couldn’t do anything with the other servo because they needed it to hold the
brush. Crooning in the back of their throat, they sucked lightly on their thumb
for a moment or two, glossa tracing over the tip, then slowly pulled it out and
dipped the brush into one joint. The cooling sensation of evaporating oral
lubricant was perfect, spreading the sensation out, and they kept their servo
against their face so they could feel the heat of their panting against their
palm.

Warm air and cool wetness and the soft, firm strokes of the
brush, enough sensory input that they could narrow their awareness down to
nothing but. Forget their dripping valve, the spike trying to pressurize behind
their panel, forget everything but the strokes of the brush, the temperature
gradient on their servo, and- in a quick motion- their glossa running over
their newly modded finger. The entire world fell away, and Forceps melted into
their chair, sucking lightly at two fingertips and teasing the seams of the
other fingers with the brush.

Overload like this was always a slow build, gradual, gentle,
their charge rising a fraction with every tiny motion of the brush. When it had
a-l-m-o-s-t crested, they set the brush aside, gripped the seat of the chair
with their free servo, and delicately scraped their teeth along the sides of
their finger. That burst of hot pleasure-pain sensation brought their charge to
its peak, and they muffled a quiet, shaking wail of pleasure around three of
their fingers as they overloaded.

As they came back to themself, they pulled their fingers
from their mouth, long and slow, savoring the wet slide and the drip of oral
lubricants. Lips parted, they panted quietly and gripped the padded arms of the
chair, grounding their frame in the present enough that their optics refocused.
That… that was good. They’d need to be able to see to get over to the berth.

The berth sounded very good right then. Pushing the chair
back, they carefully stood up, now fully aware of their valve –and its
lubricant dripping down their thigh- and the fact that the rest of their frame
existed. The rest of their thoroughly unsteady frame.

Berth. Definitely, berth. Calipers clenching insistently on
thin air, Forceps staggered to the berth and flopped into it, face-down, taking
a moment or two to pant for breath. Crawling up to rest their helm on the
pillow, they spread their legs and propped their hips up, exposing their valve
to the air. They could overload without touching their equipment at all, but
their frame always ended up wanting a bit more.

Hence… this. Snuggling their cheek against the pillow in
enjoyment of the softness, they pulled a nubbed, squishy vibrating egg from
subspace, squeezing it firmly with their less-slick servo. Had to make it even.
One overload per servo. With a valve overload somewhere in there, preferably. Forceps
turned the vibrator on at its lowest setting, squeezing it again, then pressed
it just past their valve rim and cupped their palm against their valve lips.
They could feel the vibrations like this, thrumming into their servo, and their
previously-slicked servo clenched tight on the blankets for support as they
pressed their fingers past slick folds.

There was nothing quite like this. Sliding their fingers
into their own valve, fingertips braced against the thrumming toy, charge and
lubricant coating their fingers and submerging them in sensation. Their
calipers clamped tighter in response, rippling to draw the toy deeper, and
Forceps shuddered as it clenched
their fingertips tight against the toy. Tight, intense, almost too much, but
so, so good, the sensations in valve
and servo almost blending together but still distinct enough to feel the difference.
Another squeeze of their calipers, and the toy slid that much deeper, their
hips bucking in instinctive response-

Then, with the toy out of easy reach of their fingertips,
they pressed two fingers in alongside it and nearly overloaded on the spot.
They hadn’t done this trick with a
new mod, only as a part of their typical relaxation time, and it was strong. Gasp-groaning against the
pillow, they held still for a moment, lubricant dripping down their fingers and
into their palm, then revved their engine and went with it. Hard. Quick, strong
pumps of their servo, thrusting as steadily as they could, riding the tsunami
of near-overwhelming pleasure to bring their charge up faster than they could
normally manage.

Curling into themself, Forceps gasped, shuddered, and curled
their fingers in their valve, spreading it wide, driving their fingertips into
the toy’s soft cover in search of more.
Delicate sensors met the vibrating core of the toy, and Forceps squealed, balanced right on the edge of
overstimulation as their valve clamped down and the tidal wave of their charge
crashed over them.

Forceps’ back arched and they moaned, thighs clamping tight around their arm, pedes skidding
against the blankets and free servo gripping the blankets so hard their
clawtips stuck through.

The toy had a very simple bit of programming in it, and a
couple of sensors; when its user overloaded, it revved harder for a nanoklik or
two, depending on intensity of the vibrations, then shut off completely. At
that point, Forceps was grateful beyond expression for said feature, stopping
them from being overwhelmed past the point of pleasure.

Groaning, they settled limp against the blankets, wrapping the
cable of the toy around their finger, and slo-o-owly pulled it free of his
valve. That last bit of stimulation from the toy sliding through their valve rim
sent a shudder through their exhausted frame, then they went limp, pressing
their near-overstimulated servos together so both would be equally damp with
lubricant. That… that was perfect.

…hm. They’d gotten both servos thoroughly slicked with two
different kinds of lubricant.

They were probably going to have to clean that up, weren’t
they?

An amazing thought. For later. Right now, they were
exhausted, and they were going to stay like this; face-down in a pillow, valve
aching pleasantly, servos tingling all over, too wrung-out to have any
inclination towards movement.

It was great to have time off.

(Longrange is indoctrinated if not outright brainwashed, Sharpshot is furious at that, confusion ensues when those collide.)

“You forgot everywhere
else.” 

Longrange paused, mildly puzzled,
and looked their frame over for a moment. They hadn’t missed any visible areas,
and they knew they hadn’t gotten dirty enough to need any sort of deep
cleaning, so they were done. They tried to tell Sharpshot as much, but he was already
steering them back into the shower. Puzzled but cooperative, Longrange sat down
on the bench again, helm tilted to watch Sharpshot. “I’m- I’m sorry, but I
don’t know what you’re talking about, to be perfectly honest.” 

Sharpshot, electing to demonstrate rather than talk,
sat down next to them and showed them a long, thin brush. “This is for
cleaning under plating. Someone clearly hasn’t shown you how to use one. You’re
shiny and attractive, yes, but you need to clean the parts of you that are not visible. You need to keep
yourself comfortable. Hold still.” 

As expected, Longrange
cooperated. It usually made Sharpshot angry that they were so compliant, but,
in this case, it might be helpful. Wasn’t as if one could easily scrub under
the plating of someone who was actively running away from you. 

It was working, at least.
Longrange was still wearing their all-too-common “what in Primus’ name are
you doing” expression, but they were relaxing, and there was no undercurrent of
anything negative. Still- best to ask. 

“Longrange, do you want me to
stop doing this? If it’s unpleasant for you, I will stop.” 

No, they really didn’t mind. In
fact, Longrange leaned into Sharpshot, more than happy to go with… whatever
this was. He confused them, but he seemed very earnest about helping. However
this was supposed to help. They looked nice! They were fine! 

…although that did feel good.
If ticklish. “No, no objections, thank you, this is actually quite nice,
but- ah! Goodness! That’s- I- oh!” 

Wait, no, too ticklish. 

People who started to squirm that
much generally wanted whatever was happening to stop, so Sharpshot paused, then
shifted to a different area that didn’t earn as much wiggling. “Good. Hold
still. And, urgh- look down.” 

Primus. How long had it been
since anyone had done this? Ever? The solvent running from under Longrange’s
lifted plating was filthy where Sharpshot was scrubbing, Not enough to truly
interfere with anything, but it couldn’t be comfortable. “How much of your
weight is grime?” 

Longrange would have been light
in the first place, meant to be held on someone’s arm, and the carved markings
in their plating lessened their weight even more. It was absurd. Sharpshot
could throw them over one shoulder and carry them away. Had, once. It made them
even more confused. 

Poor, deluded, brainwashed Longrange. Somehow not
aware that they should be outraged over having their genetics lab-modified to
make them prettier for their owner. What on Cybertron did a noble even need with
a long-range telescope? What-

Oh, he was getting riled up
again. Probably best not to do that, Longrange was confused enough already
without further outrage on their behalf. 

Oh good, he’d stopped. Longrange
had no idea how to communicate “please continue doing this thing but alter
it slightly to suit my minor and unimportant request” without sounding
incredibly selfish. This was lovely. 

Entirely unnecessary,
though. “Sharpshot, this… this feels very good, but… I’m quite clean
enough. I need to maintain my image if I am ever going to find a new Lord. I-”
almost a chuckle, but not quite, this wasn’t the funniest thought, “I do
terribly hope that wouldn’t require me to take my plating off. Not that I’m…
quite certain. People have been unofficially appointing themselves to the
position for me. I haven’t needed to look. Would you… happen to have any
ideas?” 

That’s a bit sad, isn’t it?
Servitor-class mech asking how to find a new Lord. It wasn’t as though they’d
had any practice in this. Every time they’d been available, someone had…
picked them up. Often literally. It was their role in life. 

Longrange was making it very hard not to be visibly
outraged on their behalf. “No. I… wouldn’t know how to go about finding
yourself a new owner. Unless you want to go all-out, put a leash on yourself,
and hold an auction,” Sharpshot grumbled, then paused, hissed, and outright
glared up at them. “Do not do that. Instead, explain to me why you need an
owner.” 

Dear Primus, there’s that
brainwashed expression again. Like they’re baffled by the very thought of
questioning any of this. Perfectly happy with their life as a decorative
pet. 

Was it not obvious? Genuinely taken aback, Longrange
leaned away to look down at Sharpshot, optics wide and helm cocked. “I’m-
first of all, not an owner, a Lord. And… look at me. Really. My alt mde is
immobile. I am entirely useless without someone to use me.” 

This was true. Yes, they could
theoretically position themself to look at things themselves, but what good
would that do? They weren’t any sort of leader, they weren’t a strategist. The
best they could do was look at things and enjoy it. Enjoyable, admittedly, but
useless. That didn’t do anyone any good. Sharpshot really didn’t seem to be
getting the idea, though, and evidently something was upsetting here.

Turning slightly to the side,
Longrange placed their servos on Sharpshot’s servos, meeting his optics. Well-
meeting his center optic, that was probably the best place to look. “Sharpshot,
I am servitor-class. When needed, I work for strategists. When not in active
warfare, I work for nobles. Nobles use my alt for their enjoyment, and, as you
can see by my plating, the rest of me is used for decoration. That is my role
in life. And it’s, really- it’s fine!” they crooned, armor lifting, optics
bright and earnest. “It’s not hard! I follow someone around, I keep myself
clean, I transform when requested, and that’s it. One of the easiest jobs I
know of.” 

…oh dear. Sharpshot had that
furious expression in their optics again. It was borderline terrifying,
honestly, his scope-optic whirred and dilated rapidly as if focusing on a
target. 

Ow, okay, that hurt. Sharpshot’s
primary optic physically couldn’t focus on anything this close, so he shut it
and shook his helm, using the moment of time to settle his plating down. He was
probably scaring Longrange, wasn’t he? 

Dear Primus. He’d hoped that
asking Longrange what they thought was happening would help him figure out how
to get around it, but it was mostly just making him angry. 

A few deep vents to settle himself, then he patted
Longrange’s arm, sighing quietly. “I understand that you… are very set
in your role here. I suppose it offers you some level of stability, hm? But
stability that centers around being controlled by, used by,
other people for no reason other than the frame you were born into. You are a
person. You are not a tool. Look at me- my alt is incapable of operating
properly without assistance! But I do fine on my own. I don’t need an owner. Stop- stop
saying ‘Lord’, Longrange. If someone controls your every movement and what
you are allowed to do, if they fuel you and provide you with a place to live
only so you will do something for them, if they have ultimate control over
everything including whether or not you are allowed to interface, they see
themselves as owning you!” 

He tried to stay calm. He really
did. It didn’t work. “And- and another thing! You are not going to burn
out your lenses if you overload! Believe me, overloads have not hurt me, not one iota. We
are living beings born of a species meant to self-reproduce in a process
involving overloads, there would be no practical reason for overloads to do us
any harm! How do you think your ancestors reproduced if not by interfacing and
overloading?” 

Ah, he was getting through, Longrange was starting to think, he
could see it in their optics- 

Until it faded into a
forced-looking version of the infuriating mindlessness from before. 

That- that couldn’t be- 

Sharpshot was almost scaring Longrange at that point
with the outright fury in his optics. He was nearly shaking, armor
flared, optics blazing, gripping Longrange’s arm in one servo, as intimidating
as someone his size could be. The one thing keeping Longrange from being
genuinely afraid was the fact that it wasn’t directed at them. It was at, what-
their Lord? For- for wh- 

He was right. He was right about-
about overloads, wasn’t he? And about- yes, fine, “owner” was a more
accurate word, Longrange had nearly been their Lord’s pet, but that was okay because pets got fed
and- 

…being
a pet was okay? Being, essentially, one of the bred-out-of-practicality leashed
mechanimals was okay? Being- being lied to about their own frame, being told
they couldn’t interact with others because their Lord was too busy to stand
around and allow it, being picked up and carried at any moment despite their
feelings on the matter was okay? 

…no, no, this line of thought was dangerous, this
line of thought got people transferred -no, sold– to places no one ever heard
from them again, and it- and their- 

Their Lord had always been kind
to them. Aloof, but kind, keeping them clean and well-fueled and away from
people who looked at them wrong, had never demanded anything of them but what
their frame was made for, had- 

-how had it become such an
accepted thing that a servitor-class mech might have to do more than what their
alt was made for? How- how was that- 

How did- 

What- 

But they- 

Vocalizer clicking a quiet noise of distress,
Longrange sat back against the wall, hunching into the corner for protection
against the onslaught of things they’d never had reason to think of before.
They didn’t have anything to put against Sharpshot’s- well, not quite evidence,
but everything he was saying made sense. Far too much sense. 

They didn’t know what to do.

They really, genuinely didn’t
know what to do. 

So they defaulted. They stood up,
stepped in front of Sharpshot, and waited for orders. 

Frag. 

Frag frag frag. 

Was that- had he just run afoul
of some sort of slave coding? Sharpshot’s spark lurched, but Longrange didn’t
have that faded look in their optics, the way people did when something pushed
their rational thought away. They looked incredibly, unbelievably confused, and
a little bit like they might be about to cry. 

Whoops. 

Maybe Sharpshot should have been
more gentle. This was probably his fault.

At least Longrange was thinking.
Even if that thinking included seemingly running out of processor power and
just standing there waiting for him to give them an order. Poor mech. 

…maybe an order would help,
actually. Gesturing slightly, Sharpshot whispered “come here, Longrange”
and coaxed the taller mech closer, petting and lightly pressing on their frame
until they were back on the bench with him. This time, lying down, helm in his
lap. “There. Now… stay here. Let me keep cleaning you. All right?” 

Longrange
didn’t seem to have any complaints. 

Probably wouldn’t say if they did.

Primus save the poor thing from their own processor.

This is the species profile for an original species of mine. It’s potentially a bit disconnected, but hopefully interesting. 

Mlecki
are Rigg’s people, affectionately known as “gremlins” by some. 

They’re
small beings, about the size of a spider monkey, and usually perch on shoulders
or arms when interacting with larger beings. 

They
come in a variety of reddish colors, usually dark, faded shades, and their
batlike wings are generally stone-grey and speckled. Their tails are prehensile
and strong, tapered at the tips, and they can hang by their tails and one
grasping foot. Babies can hang by just their tails, but adults lack the muscle
strength to support their entire body with their tail alone.

They
have short, blunt snouts, like monkeys, with large eyes set above. Their front
teeth are sharp, and they have a set of canine teeth with a set of smaller
canines just behind, with molars set further back. The overall effect is of a
curious and intelligent being, albeit one who may be mistaken for a child because of their size, until the teeth come out. A Mlecki with teeth bared is much less cute, they can pull their lips back very far in an angry display.

Their
skin is a slightly odd texture, as there’s tiny bone scutes embedded underneath
and the skin itself is laced with silicone. They feel like orange peels to the
touch, and their skin is stretchy and very strong. Both sexes have
kangaroo-style pouches on their stomachs, mildly stretchy, which are used to
hold anything from babies to snacks to random swiped objects. Most have patches
of larger scutes in various places, along their backs for the most part, in
different patterns depending on genetics. The origin of a Mlecki’s
ancestors can often be figured out by their scute pattern, assuming their past
isn’t too muddled for the patterns to be clear. Mlecki races exist, but are
differentiated almost entirely by scute patterns, and easily a third of the
population is too mixed-race to be differentiated. Not that they cared in the
first place.

They
have two, rarely three, pairs of tiny horns. Horn number is genetic, and the
genes for the three pairs is highly recessive. An especially rare mutation can
result in one pair of larger horns. Mlecki young are born with smooth nubs
already visible through the skin. The outer, larger pair of horns, just inside
and behind the ears, starts to grow and sharpen just about at puberty. The
inner pair or pairs, much smaller, start to grow at full maturity. The horns
are used as indicators of physical maturity and loose indicators of mental
maturity in most Mlecki societies. They grow to roughly the length of the ears,
an inch or so depending on body size, and usually curve up and inward. 

Occasionally
the horns of especially old Mlecki begin to curl back towards the skull, in
which case they’ll be tipped with metal, which will be chained to the rest of
the horn to guide its growth away from the scalp. This is not a painful
process, the horns have no nerves in their actual structure. The skin around
the bases of the horns is typically sensitive.

Aside
from this equivalent to braces, Mlecki jewelry is largely simple, to avoid
snagging as they climb through trees. Bracelets, tail rings, and anklets are
common, all snug to the body, and horn rings are very common. Piercings through
the wing membrane, right up next to the limb, are unusual but present. All are
tightly fastened to prevent snagging on either branches or claws. Body paint is
used occasionally, often simple charcoal. A herbal mixture is used to produce
what is essentially henna for longer-lasting decorations, frequently on the
insides of the wings. Babies often have names or locations of parents written
on some part of them in said mixture in case they scuttle away or, unnoticed,
transfer themselves from a parent’s back to a branch.

Their
ears are shaped like those of a sheep or goat, with strong, flexible bases that
allow the ears to swivel in practically any direction, and are used in body
language and communication. A Mlecki with clamped ears is an extremely upset
Mlecki. A rare defect exists that causes the ears to droop, and Mlecki with
this condition usually wear small braces to support the ears upright so as not
to be seen as constantly upset.

Their
hands are delicate and nimble, with thick, strong fingernails, and their feet
are almost hands as well. Again, think monkeys. The wings are rounded at the
edges, especially the tips, and the section of wing between the two outermost
fingers is thick and especially leathery. When they land and hunch down, they
can use these sections of their wings as basic camouflage, with the visible
sections of red skin resembling veins of metal through the rocks of their
homeworld. 

The
Mlecki homeworld is a strange place where flora and geological structures
intertwine almost to the point of being indistinguishable. The trees sap metals
from the ground and build them into their structures, the plants are laced with
crystalline shards, and metal ores are rich even on the surface of the world.
Organic matter is present in large, deep pockets and scattered across the
surface, and areas are covered with forests of ancient trees, but the plant
life has adapted to feed off of metals and oils in lieu of organic materials.
Some strange fungi-esque life-forms suck up chemicals from underground veins
and feed off the energy generated from the chemical reactions. These fungi are
essentially made of living silicone, and are an important part of the Mlecki’s
diet.

Mlecki
have skin laced with silicone to guard them against cuts and scrapes from the
mineral portions of their world, and they eat these fungi to keep the silicone
present. The fungi are difficult to intentionally cultivate because they need
long roots that reach deep into the crust of the planet, so Mlecki cities are often
intentionally built either near the fungus groves or along easy transportation
routes. Offworld, they eat silicone wherever they can get it. Sometimes this
involves drinking silicone-based lube. Mlecki are also much more resistant to
poisoning from inorganic materials, and their bodies contain an organ similar
to a kidney that filters out excess heavy metals from their system and reroutes
it into their lower intestines. Some of this metal is retained and used to
reinforce their bones and horns, making them heavier than most people expect,
though not by too much.

Mlecki can fly. Not too well, a Mlecki’s flight path always
trends downwards, but they can fly well enough for it to not be considered
gliding. They tend to walk on three or four limbs at all times. Bipedal walking
is possible but difficult, as their posture is hunched forward and their hips aren’t
made to support bipedal walking for long. When needed, they can walk on both
hindlegs and on their wings, holding items in both hands, and the small claws
on the wings are often used to cling when climbing. Fear of heights is
extremely rare, as the trees mean safety from their homeworld’s large
predators. Even in areas where those predators are no longer present, Mlecki do
not build on the ground, and will choose to sleep in an elevated place even on
ships.

The structures in Mlecki cities are as woven into the
natural world as the geology and the plants are woven together. Trees and
plants are guided with wires and braces to grow into shapes and around forms,
and many smaller Mlecki cities are made almost entirely of shaped trees and
vines with minimal added materials. They may also build into cliffs or develop
structures on top of rises, and several cities have been built in the emptied
hulls of crashed ships.

Their tech is varied and development has been highly
piecemeal, many of their world’s major technological discoveries based off of
ship fragments that hit the planet after the ship breaks up in the world’s asteroid
field. They’re a relatively young species and relatively new to complex tech,
but their understanding of the energy lines among the forests of their
homeworld, of the lines and roots of the fungi, of how the metals interact in
the cliffs and mountains, is innate and lends itself well to technological
understandings. It is extremely rare for Mlecki to not have a knack for some
aspect of technology. In particular, they’re fantastic mechanics, thanks to
their durability, resistance to poisoning, mechanical understanding, and tiny, dexterous
hands. They put this to use in their building, tracing paths of fungal or tree
roots to figure out how to keep them intact, or how to cut off energy flow into
the trees to kill off a tree and make more space.

Innately curious beings, Mlecki were first discovered by
other species when they came out of the trees to investigate search parties,
and immediately hitched rides to get onto the ships. This hasn’t changed much.
They often venture offworld out of curiosity, and any ships that land on the
Mlecki homeworld will invariably end up with several onboard, at least
temporarily. Family groups may journey offworld together to set up shop
elsewhere, usually in the company of a mechanic or similar. They often set up
deals where a mechanic will provide them with housing, basic food, and
materials, and will pay them a small salary in addition.

To outsiders, Mlecki sexual dimorphism is relatively obvious
on its extremes, then baffling in the centers. Females are larger and tend to
be darker in coloration, with shorter, thicker horns. Males are smaller, more
slender, with longer horns, and are more likely to have three pairs of horns
and more intricate patterns of scutes. That’s on the edges of the scale,
though. Many Mlecki are somewhere near the center of the scale, making it
difficult for those without a good sense of smell to differentiate between the
sexes. There are four gendered pronouns in the Mlecki language, in addition to
multiple genderless ones; a word for distinct males, midway males, midway
females, and distinctive females.

Gender roles (and, indeed, genders) are practically nonexistent,
but sex roles are still present. Distinct males are thought to be better at
complex, intricate planning, at abstract thought, at work that’s intricate even
by Mlecki standards. Distinct females are thought to be better with physical planning,
working out exactly how something will move, at work that requires physical
effort. Distinct males are more likely to be gatherers, distinct females are
more likely to be hunters. This is, truthfully, largely accurate. Midway males
and females can go either way, but those with hormone levels putting them on
one distinct end or the other do tend
to be better at certain things. Exceptions may be regarded with mild puzzlement
at first jobs, i.e. a distinct male in a hunting party may not be expected to have
much success, but those who prove themselves capable will quickly shake off any
skepticism. There’s also no underlying idea that one sex or the other is
better, just that some of them are better at
certain things.

Mlecki often don’t have distinct genders. Those offworld are
more likely to take on specific genders, but they tend to go by gender-neutral
terms in casual conversation. If it’s relevant, they may be indicated to be one
sex or another in conversation. Transgender Mlecki exist, but are relatively
rare due to the lack of strong gender roles. Some may take hormones to change
their musculature and build if they’re especially dysphoric, and it’s
definitely not uncommon to see Mlecki, especially offworld, who’ve rubbed a
pigment into their skin to make themselves lighter or darker and experiment
with a slightly different perception by others. This is never really questioned
aside from occasional polite-slash-curious inquiry.

Mlecki children are referred to in gender-neutral terms,
since their sex isn’t possible to determine until puberty. Base sex is easy
enough, but whether it’s midway or distinct can’t be checked, and isn’t at all
important until puberty.

When Mlecki are born, they’re small and roughly helpless.
Their ears are up and open, but their eyes are shut for several days, and their
wings are small and tucked to their back tightly. They’re kept in a pouch,
usually the mother’s but switching back and forth, for at least a week, until
they become strong enough to cling tight. When they can hold on properly, they’ll
cling to a parent’s wing base or shoulder rather than staying in the pouch the
entire time. Parents frequently wear soft harnesses to give their babies a
place to hang on. From there, they develop roughly as most humanoid beings do,
with the added fun of trying to learn to fly just before puberty hits. Small
children just learning to brace their wings properly will often be gently
tossed back and forth over a soft surface, teaching them to glide, and will go
from there. Homes of Mlecki with children in the learning-to-fly stage
generally have horn marks in many surfaces from largely unsuccessful flights.

As babies, Mlecki are largely fed tidbits of fungus and
fruit, with the occasional insect or piece of meat. When they start grabbing at
their parents’ food, they get more protein, usually in forms that won’t rapidly
spoil if stuffed into a pouch rather than eaten.

Adult Mlecki are omnivorous, and opportunistic. Fruit, large
seeds, nuts, insects, fungus, leaf buds, flowers, and any meat they can get
ahold of are all fair game. They gather largely from trees and cliffs,
venturing only briefly down to ground level, and often hunt a rather
squirrel-like animal slightly larger than them that lives in hollow tree
trunks. Hunting parties venture down to ground level now and then to hunt
larger prey, snaring it in rope traps and killing it with spears, and the homes
of successful hunting families are generally built partially of bones. They
never stay on the ground for long, however- even now, predators abound, and
killing them off causes more problems than they can deal with. To avoid the
predators, Mlecki simply have to stay in trees, easy enough for them. To avoid
prey overpopulation and its reverberating effects is much more difficult. Better
to simply stay out of reach, and bring flashbombs to frighten away predators if
they venture down. The meat is worth it. Mlecki homes often also have vines of various
edible fruits woven through the outer walls, alive and growing, and some
villages are almost entirely made of food species.

Likely due to this “eat anything in reach” diet, Mlecki are
compulsive thieves. It’s not intentional, they just grab everything small that
catches their attention and is in reach. Nuts, bolts, trinkets, pieces of
string, tiny tools, anything they can get a grasp on with one hand and easily
fit in their pouch. They can’t really stop it. It’s comparable to kleptomania,
except there’s no actual desire to steal, just a sort of brain subroutine
running “grab.exe” and nothing else. Subconscious grabbing. Mlecki houses have
baskets near the door, and guests will simply empty their pouches of anything
they’ve grabbed, putting the items in the baskets. In public places, small and
low-value items that are easily grabbed are generally considered the property
of the grabbee unless specifically asked for. Mlecki society treats this as a
normal thing, and has different rules for grabbing than for actual theft. The
words are different, for one- the closest translation of their word for the
impulsive grabbing is “maybe-permanently borrowing”.

This can pose an issue when interacting with other species
and other societies. Mlecki on other worlds often ride on larger beings, generally
inside pockets where they can fidget with something to occupy their hands and
prevent grabbing. They also tend to find the pocket calming, as it resembles
the pouch their parents would have been carried in. Still, there are clashes,
especially when a Mlecki grabs something small that turns out to be especially valuable.
They’re apologetic and will happily give any and all items back if requested,
but most people don’t request. If you know a Mlecki has taken something but don’t
ask for it back, however, that belongs to the Mlecki now. Mechanics quickly
learn to check with the resident Mlecki if they lose a small item like a drill
bit, and generally don’t bother with retrieving low-priority bolts.

Fortunately for the Mlecki, it’s not considered smart to
react violently to even what is seen by others as an actual theft. It’s
difficult to be certain that any large ship does not have at least one Mlecki on board, and they band together
immediately with any others of their species they encounter. Given that this is
a being with an innate sense of how electronics interact, of how to skew things
to their liking, and of how to cut off all sources of energy flow if needed, they
are not good beings to upset while aboard ships. By the time a snipped or
pulled wire is found far too deep into ship’s wiring for anything but a Mlecki
to easily reach, it may be too late. Sufficiently upset more than one Mlecki,
and you may find that the word travels, and every port you land at with
resident Mlecki (which is a very long list) will result in something going
wrong aboard the ship. Even aboard ships that the crew would swear have no way
for Mlecki to get on board, they find a way.

This reputation of theirs is limited somewhat, Mlecki are a
slightly lesser-known species, but spread quickly after their first major
introduction to the galaxy. Their first introduction was ships with curious
explorers, the second was opportunists hunting a new world for exotic pets and slaves.
In Mlecki, they found both. Their small stature and roughly childlike
appearance make them appealing to multiple less-than-savory audiences, unfortunately.
The first couple of ships that took Mlecki, however, severely underestimated
their capacity for chaos, and by the next port the ships belonged to Mlecki.

Mlecki are still working on their intergalactic reputation, not
helped by their innate grabbiness and their small, almost childlike appearance.
They’re clever beings, though, skilled mechanics, curious and intelligent.
Those who actually meet and interact with them tend to like them.

(Hijack meets Acus and ends up semi-permanently latched to him. Warnings for this: slave coding, mention of dubcon. Acus is somewhat unhappy. Hijack is surprisingly okay.)

Acus very rarely stood up for himself, even now that he was feeling better. Some of it
was a lack of will to fight, most of it was because Scalpel never gave him the
chance. Not that he minded. She was very good at standing up for people.

Trouble was, that meant Acus had no practice in this sort of
thing.

It helped, in this case, that he was standing up for- well, somewhat for
a patient, but also for the health of his friends. Still, his winglets were low
on his back as he spoke, and he was stroking his fingertips in small patterns against
each other in an effort to stay calm. “I’m- I’m sorry, but , no, we all know
none of that will- will work. It needs to be a-a medic, the coding pathways are
smoother that way, we have access to and processors for things that others
don’t. And- and you both-“

They were listening, albeit
a bit skeptically, and Acus’ winglets lifted in a gesture of hope. “-you both
have to admit, you’re- you’re a lot more emotional than I am. We- we don’t know
how strong this coding is. I’m sorry, Scalpel, but- but you’re really- you get
angry very easily, and it’s not a bad thing, it’s not! Except that… how do you
think the coding will- will respond to that? It- if it’s the really strong
kind, it’s probably going to hurt them
for- for upsetting you, and just it existing
will upset you. Patches, you’ll- you’ll just get all sad, and the- you know, the-“

Acus made a sort of squishing motion at the air, attempting
to indicate Patches’ soft-friendly-sad feelings that he got at people. “-those.
The feelings. Not good, either. I’m… I get anxious, but not emotional, usually. I’m… maybe not the
best choice ever, but… the best choice here. I can do this. It’s… just
temporary, after all, right? I can do this.”

Turning slightly, Acus gestured to the motionless frame of
the mech in question, his winglets lifting higher in the most confident gesture
he could manage. Up, out to the sides, presenting the bright orange trim, a
gesture he’d accidentally picked up from Scalpel and her tendency to show off
her sharp edges. “I can do this. And
I can’t exactly not. They need help.
I can help them. I can.”

No one liked this idea. He could see that much. But… no one
had any coherent objections.

Patches, in lieu of objections, offered a stabilizing hug. Nuzzling
Acus’ forehelm, he rocked gently back and forth, taking Acus with him, until he
felt the smaller frame relax. “I know. You’re right. I hate it, but you’re
right. We’re here, okay? We’ve got you. Whatever you need, we’ve got you. I’ve
got you right here… whenever you’re ready. We’ve got you, Acus.”

Ready to most likely activate the slave coding of a nearly
comatose mech who would probably latch onto him? No. No one decent could ever
be ready for that. He wasn’t going to get any readier by waiting, though, so he
nodded despite himself and let Patches half-carry him to the berth. Sometimes
Patches’ walking hugs felt more like being awkwardly carried. The effort was
appreciated, and… somewhat helpful.

Acus vented deeply, then reached up, tucked his patient’s
hem forward to access the panel at the back of their helm, and clicked it open
via a medical override tool. Best to be quick about this. As he’d suspected,
the ports under the panel were scratched, healed over but clearly damaged
previously, and Acus spent a nanoklik or two searching for the least damaged
ones. No sense causing any further discomfort if he could avoid it.

When the plug locked into place, Acus was met with a nearly
blank wall. No traps, no defensive measures, just a wall. A wall and a door,
carved out in coding so clearly he could nearly see it. Another deep vent, and
Acus reached out, pushing at the door. He fully intended to pulse medic
override coding at the door, let it know he wasn’t someone who needed to be
locked out, but it opened at the lightest nudge.

Before Acus could reach inside, something else reached out,
wrapped around him, and latched into place like a set of animated chains. It
held for a fraction of an impulse, then released almost entirely, leaving a
thin trail between Acus and-

And slave coding. Coding that had imprinted on him, was
registering him as its commander, and had just presented every aspect of his
patient’s mind for him to peruse.

Acus politely but firmly declined the offer. A quick
once-over for clearly damaged or dead-end coding that would need to be removed,
then Acus retreated, firmly closing the door behind him. The chain stayed,
though, and he could almost feel it still around him as he unplugged.

His patient’s optics flickered furiously for a moment or
two, then shut off, and their frame slumped from sitting ramrod-straight to
almost falling against Acus. Blackspark, fortunately, caught them. “Whoops,
Pit- there ‘e go. You see anythin’ useful in there? They sure ain’t givin’ any
answers out.”  

Acus, settling against Patches for further support, rubbed
his temples briefly before responding. “Yes, I saw some things. They are… as ‘okay’
as they can be. We were right- slave coding. Imprinted on me immediately, no-
no barriers to keep me out, must be some sort of succession protocol. They’re
rebooting, and should… hopefully be slightly more animated when they wake up,”
he sighed, settling into Patches’s arms, and slowly shook his helm. “Goodness,
I still don’t like this, but… we have to get the coding out of them, and it is active regardless of if it’s latched
onto someone. Better they not be forced into that blank state. We can work with
most other things. If- if they’re imprinted on me, at least I can try to treat
them well, give them some degree of freedom. Worst case scenario, they can be
sedated while we work on the code, but, Primus, I do hope that won’t be the
case. Please, could you- wrap them up in something?”

Responding with quiet sympathy to the pitiful, trilling
undernote in Acus’ voice, Patches hugged the smaller medic tight, reaching out
to pull a blanket up over their patient with his free servo. “Poor thing. You’re
right, though, this is… probably the best option. I almost hope the coding is
old, because it- it means they might be somewhat resigned to it at this point.
Less stressful for them.”

Blackspark, leaning against the edge of the berth, lifted
one of the mech’s forearms and tapped a fingertip against one of multiple
panels along their arm. “What d’you suppose is up with this? That’s, what- a
good twenty panels, easily visible, an’ I bet more out of easy sight. Not even
databirds got that many wires. I’d almost think they were some kinda charge
hub- this many wires an’ slave coding don’t bode well. If that were th’ case,
though, I’d think they woulda been modded to be a bit less, well-“

Pausing, he gestured at the mech’s frame in general,
especially the completely flat chassis and stomach and the oddly oriented hip
joints. “-that. Weird as Pit. I guess it could be a kink, but can’t be this
many panels wortha mechs with a kink like this. Wouldn’t be profitable. So, I
don’t think that’s right. Dear Primus I hope I’m right about that not bein’ the
reason.”

“Well, we’ll just… put that on the list of things to check
for on the exam, then,” Acus muttered, and sat down next to his patient, not
sure what to do other than wait for them to wake up. And, well, pet them.
Nothing much, they were unaware and potentially unconscious, but he lightly
stroked their forearm in hopes that they would wake with some awareness of
softness. It worked for him. Completely innocent contact, not looking for
anything, not touching anywhere most people would object to. Who knew, with
this patient, but… worth a try. Hopefully it wouldn’t do any harm.

Eventually, their patient’s optics onlined, slow but steady.
Optic lids flickered, then each piece of plating slowly rose and settled, a few
plates at a time, a clear manifestation of a physical reboot. Blinking, they
watched the ceiling for a few nanokliks, then turned their arm over to offer
Acus the small panels. “Do you require access for further scans?”

They looked better. Neutral, field restrained, minimal to no
body language on any part of them, but better. They were awake, their optics
were focused, and they weren’t in any sort of visible distress. That was a
start. Acus in-vented deeply, relieved, and offered them a gentle, professional
pulse of greeting/reassurance/comfort with
an overlay of medic-signal. “Not right now, no. Thank you. My name is-“

“Acus. I know. I heard, and” the mech sighed, sitting up and
crossing their legs, “my coding imprinted on you. Coding you evidently intend
to remove. I was locked, not unaware. It happens if I go long enough without
interacting with my Commander.”

“…right,” Acus muttered, turning to properly face them, and
shut everything else out in favor of his patient. “Good to know. Now… I need
your name, and I need to know the details of how your coding works, as much as
you can give me. I’d rather not have to go prying into anything if I can talk
to you instead. You’ve had enough of that, I’m sure.”

“Hijack,” the mech replied, quiet, optics flicking briefly
to the rest of the room before going back to Acus as if pulled. Look a
Commander in the optics when speaking to them. “Relatively long-leash coding. I
am largely functional if left to myself, but need to interact with my Commander
occasionally to avoid a forcible lockdown. I cannot disobey an order you give
me, and you have the authority to give others total control over me. I also”
with a clear expression of distaste “have been explicitly ordered to include in
this description that I am bound to the word
of an order. I can be creative in
my interpretation of an order, and” still unhappily “I have learned to find as
many loopholes as I can if I disagree with an order. I personally find this
entirely reasonable. I also have a few long-standing orders of etiquette. One
of them is optic contact, I am not choosing to keep my optics locked on yours.
I would rather be looking around. I am not obligated to speak my thoughts
unless ordered, and I am not obligated to do anything that is not a direct
order. I will be very creative in my interpretation of broad orders regarding
your intent. I also-“

Armor clamping, Hijack made a clear effort to shut up, but
failed as if it was being dragged free of them. “…I have numerical codes which
can trigger various punishment subroutines, you should have a file of those
freely available now. I am additionally unable to refuse direct orders to
injure myself if you feel as though ‘your creativity should match mine’.
Lastly, I am not allowed to make direct contact with you, with any part of
myself, without explicit permission.”

Acus, trying not to look upset, gave a jerky nod of
understanding. “Registered. First- I do not care about your manners. Please
discard any sort of etiquette rules you have as far as you are able to, I-“

Excellent. That bled a considerable amount of tension out of
Hijack’s frame as their optics immediately moved from him to everyone else in
the room, flickering back and forth, clearly assessing the situation. “-ah,
that helped? Good. Second, I am not going to order you to harm yourself. Let me
be clear about that. Before I say anything else, I need to know why you have this coding in the first
place, and I need to know the truth. I’m…” Pit he didn’t like this “I’m afraid
I’ll have to make that an order.”

Muttering something about “nicest order ever”, Hijack cut
their optics over to Acus, smirking inwardly when they didn’t immediately have to meet his optics. Oh, they liked that.
They liked this mech already. “It was decided that my ability made me too much
of a risk. Especially a political risk. Would you like me to show you?”

Of course Acus
would like them to show him. He wanted to know what was up with Hijack’s
frame, he’d never seen anything quite like this. Though- with caution. “Assuming
the demonstration won’t harm anyone in this room, absolutely.”

Hijack, almost smirking, obliged. Every small panel along
their front opened up, and twenty-plus thin, prehensile cables of varying
thicknesses, most tipped with small metal points, unspooled into thin air.

They were expecting some variety of interest, probably mixed
with horror. They were not expecting utter fascination and no concern
whatsoever. Cocking their helm slightly, they extended one cable slightly
towards Acus, offering him the chance to inspect. “I don’t mind if you touch. They’re
highly sensitive to electrical signals, but not especially to contact.”

Oh. That was cute. Acus’ first touch was gentle, soft,
taking the cable between two fingertips and almost-but-not-quite flinching back
as it wrapped against his fingers. “Those locate and fasten around signal relays.
If I land on someone’s back and get enough cables fastened into place, I can
draw away their movement impulses and replace them. It enables me to completely
control any motions from the neck down. Hence the political danger…
incriminating actions and all. And-“

Acus looked fascinated, and Hijack slowly stood up to
demonstrate further, stretching their arms out to either side. What looked a
bit like a thick bio-light ran down each arm from about mid-forearm to their
knee, on each side, and expanded out as they stretched. An electric current ran
through each slack membrane, and the membranes tightened to almost resemble a
glider suit such as a humanoid being might use. “-I can glide, if thrown or
given a high platform to dive off of. The coding was a precaution against any
political manipulation I might attempt… and is largely the only way they could
get me to use my ability against anyone. I don’t particularly enjoy taking
control of people who’ve done nothing to me.”

Acus, still fascinated by the cables, wrapped two of them
around his wrist and stroked a third between his fingertips, then reached to
touch the membrane. “Ah, this explains the odd frame arrangement- fascinating. And it makes the coding
understandable. Not, agh- not excusable,
of course, it’s still a horrible thing to do to someone, but I see why they
would think it a good idea.”

“Mm, no, never questioned that,” Hijack murmured, optics
cutting towards the multiple doors along one wall, and shifted their weight
slightly. “I would… like to take any further discussion to somewhere else, if
we can, potentially somewhere with a berth. I am going to need fuel, if
possible. And I would… like elaboration, now that you know what I can do. I don’t
intend to hurt you. I couldn’t if I tried, and… so far, I like you well enough.
I heard your… very long discussion about my potential coding, well before you
had any idea what you were dealing with. I don’t believe any of that was a lie.
As far as I can, as of right now… I trust you. I definitely like you.”

“I’m. Well. I- thank you?”

Seeming uncertain how to respond, Acus fidgeted slightly
with both servos, accidentally involving the cables around his wrist, then
nodded once and attempted to disengage. “-yes, sure, we can go somewhere else,
there is a private room through that door with a berth and energon. I. Ah. I
can take this from here.”

Patches, trying his best not
to engulf Hijack in hugs, settled for hugging Acus once before backing
away.

Scalpel did not take a similarly cuddly role. She pulsed a
quick wave of supportiveness at Acus, but aimed a glare at Hijack, winglets up
and flared. “Lemme be clear, mech. You try and hurt him, I hurt you. You
successfully hurt him, I kill you.”

“Scalpel, maybe don’- ah, no, you threatened ‘em, sorry,”
Blackspark muttered, shrugging apologetically from behind Scalpel, and dodged a
half-sparked smack at him. “-oi, fine, I’m leavin’, I’ll go sit down, but she
ain’t kiddin’!”

“Sorry, she’s-“

How the Pit did he- react to that? Acus disentangled his
servos from Hijack’s assorted parts, stepping away, and shook his helm
slightly. “She’s, ah- not, um, not bluffing, no. She’s very protective. I
promise she won’t hurt you if you don’t try
to kill me or- or anything, though. So. Don’t do that.”

“Noted,” Hijack muttered, following after Acus, eyeing
Scalpel over their shoulder the entire way into the room. She meant it.
Clearly. They’d avoid hurting Acus. Not that they wanted to hurt him in the
first place. This mech, they could work with as a Commander.

The instant the door shut behind them, Hijack gave in to exhaustion
and impulse and flopped onto the berth, face-down, groaning quietly against the
padding. “Ow.”

Oh, concern from Acus. Cute. “Fine. Just. Ow at life.”

Goodness, right, low fuel levels. Acus pulled a cube from
the cabinet on the wall and sat near Hijack’s helm, reaching to touch one of
their- winglets? Almost winglets. Two thin ribs sticking up from their upper
back, slightly curved, with a membrane stretched from the tips to a point
attached below them. Probably for steering help while gliding. Decent for
expression. “You need fuel. Are you steady enough to hold the cube? I can get
an IV, if not, or help you keep it steady.”

“That’s… another thing,” Hijack muttered against the
padding, and propped their helm up just enough to speak clearly. “If my fuel
levels are low enough, I can only fuel out of a container held in a Commander’s
servos. Someone added it as a manipulation tactic. I don’t want to fight it
right now, I don’t like needles, I just want to go with it for once, but… I am
not allowed to touch,” they murmured, shrugging against the padding.

Acus didn’t like that, but he settled a servo on Hijack’s
back and guided them halfway into his lap, holding the cube easily where Hijack
could sip. “Well, as I offered, I will… happily assist you. And I would like to
remove this order, if I can. I would also like to… set some boundaries, or lack
thereof. I do not want a slave.”

Once he was sure Hijack was listening, Acus spoke softly,
gently, but as firmly as he could in that tone. “Unless I specifically phrase
something as an order, please take it as a request. Also, please, please tell me if you object to an
order. You are… not quite welcome to freely touch me, I can be somewhat
contact-averse, however I will not require explicit permission for anything
that does not involve your interface equipment or the use of your ability.
General permission or positive responses should suffice. And I am making this
an order- do not use that ability on anyone who is not threatening bodily harm
to another. Though I gather that may not be something you want to do in any
case. In short… please behave as though this coding does not exist, unless I
specify otherwise, and do not make a puppet of anyone who is not thoroughly
earning it.”

“Fair enough,” Hijack declared into the half-empty cube,
then drained the rest of it, optic lids fluttering slightly as if they were
sleepy. “Now… my turn for ‘n order. Be honest. What do you want me to do? I-I
know you want something, however nice you are. You must want me to do
something. Mix you drinks, bring you things, polish some part of you or another…
I honestly wouldn’t object to a decent number of things. Could also take notes,
potentially assist during some procedure or another that requires extra servos
with no skill, could-“

They were rambling, they knew, they didn’t care. They were
just listing off… things. Things with no serious connotations. Things they
wouldn’t much mind.

And then things they didn’t want to do.

“-wouldn’t like that much. Or, Pit, could make me suck you
off, had someone consider that before my looks put them off i- oh.”

Acus cringed, and
Hijack instantly regretted what had been something of a joking statement. Pit.
Acus had seemed at least okay with most of the joking, but that, agh- people
didn’t flinch away from the entire room for anything less than personal. “…apologies.
What, specifically, if you can clarify, do I need to never say again?”

Acus, resisting the urge to curl up and hide, shook his helm
violently and pushed at the air with both servos. “No, no, I’m- I’m not, not going to order you not to say
something, I, no-“

Hijack lifted a servo and patted at the air a distance from Acus’
face, managing to quiet him, and pointed almost sternly at his face. “D’you
think I’d suggest you order me not to say something? I mean, what do I need to
never say around you again in order to be a decent person? Because that- that
is personal. Something happened. I don’t want to mention whatever it was again
if it makes you do this. Also. Give me permission to hug you.”

Oh. Acus blinked twice, startled, and ex-vented heavily. “I’m.
Ah. You- you’re perceptive. And I’m blatantly upset, I-I suppose. Just, ah..
any- any mentions of… those in positions of power abusing their power to gain
sexual favors from- from subordinates. Especially. Ah. Oral favors. Please.
That’s… not an order. It’s a request. As for… the hug? I. Shouldn’t. You’re a
patient, and- and forcibly anchored to- I’m- I- oh, frag, okay, yes, please.”

Selfish. Incredibly selfish. But he wanted, dear Primus he
wanted, and it looked like Hijack wanted just as much. Hijack looked… apologetic.
For triggering him, evidently.

And then Hijack flipped over, slid into his lap, and hugged
him. With all their limbs. All their
limbs, legs and cables included. Acus chirped in surprise, then relaxed, optics
almost shutting in response to the pressure. “…that’s nice. Thank you.”

Hijack, groggy as the energon flooded their systems, pulsed
shivering bliss at the contact and at
the praise. “Mmh, okay, I… am staying
like this, we are not moving, deeeear Primus I don’t think I have ever hugged someone with cables and it
is good, you feel warm. And praiiise,
I like the praise, thaaaat’s fun, that’s awesome, never got enough of… oh,
lookit, ‘m drunk. Okay. Yay. Sure. Whatever. Gonna hug you.”

Pressure. Pressure through his entire frame, firm and snug,
warm, friendly. Acus didn’t mind the cables- Hijack physically couldn’t hurt
him and didn’t likely have any desire to do so. They were strange, alarming to
most, but not that bad. This… was far too warm to protest. Mm. Deep pressure,
always fun. Chirruping in the back of his throat, Acus about keeled over onto
his side, pulling a spare blanket up with one servo to cover them both. “Ohh.
No. No complaints. Good- good mech, good, warm, kind mech, thank you, this is
nice, very nice, good, good dear
mech. Relax, Hijack. ‘s only fair. Gonna relax.”

Well.

This? This, Hijack could work with. Ending up this cuddly
with a new Commander was probably a good sign. Especially one who seemed so
repulsed –or traumatized- by the idea of taking advantage of them. Nonsexual
contact, they could and would happily do. First hug they’d had in a very long
time. Good hug.

Awesome.

Time to sleep. Stasis pods didn’t count as sleep.

There was a party going on.

Optimus wasn’t one for partying, but sometimes he liked to
sit nearby and watch everyone. It was interesting to see how everyone acted when
they were buzzed and happy, how the groups sorted themselves out and interacted
with others.

The medics were off to one side, complaining at each other
and anyone who would listen about idiots and idiotic medical cases, thoroughly
enjoying their complaining. Except Acus, who was pressed tight to Scalpel’s
side, silent but awake and watching. Poor mech didn’t socialize much in larger
groups, he just sat and listened. Maybe that was socializing for him, Optimus
didn’t know. He seemed happy, and Scalpel wouldn’t be here with him if he wasn’t.

Over by the bar, Swerve and the silver-green limb bundle of
Duo were chattering chemical formulas around a strange, twisty apparatus,
evidently distilling or mixing or chemically altering something. It was
probably supposed to be a drink. If Swerve was involved, it was most likely a
drink. Hopefully they’d remember to keep in mind that others couldn’t drink
quite the variety of things that Duo could.

And, that was unusual- everyone past a certain size had
grouped into one part of the room. Avalon was in the group as well, oddly for
him, though he’d fit himself into a corner rather than getting involved in the
literal, friendly shoulder-bumping of the rest.

Something else unusual; someone being thrown through the
air. That almost never happened. 

Optimus stopped in surprise as a small frame
zipped by him at about chassis height, hitting the wall opposite the group with
a rather amusing splak sound. It
would have been concerning, except that the mech –oh, that was Hijack, wasn’t
it?- stuck to the wall on a hastily-painted target, looking thoroughly
unconcerned. Leaning back with three limbs still attached to the wall, they
tapped the spot they’d hit and called “two points!” back at the audience, then
dropped off the wall and trotted back over to jump into Bracer’s servos.

Well. Evidently there was a game going on. Consisting of
throwing Hijack at a target on the wall. Hijack looked to be having fun, and
they were genetically designed to be
thrown at solid targets, but Optimus stayed where he was to watch and be sure
all involved were having fun.

Hijack, giggling and tipsy but clearly aware, shifted around
until their stomach was against Bracer’s palm and spread the thin, metallic
flight-membrane that led from their elbows to their knees. Goggles and face
mask in place, they wiggled in evident anticipation, tapping on his servo. “Go
on. Hard mode!”

Bracer had clearly done this several times already, and he
pulled his arm back as if to throw a dart or a model glider. As he did, Hijack
shifted, spreading the membranes askew in what would probably make them spiral
in flight.

Nobody got to see if Bracer could still make the shot while
tipsy and on “hard mode”, though, because he sneezed right as he launched
Hijack. Hijack, spiraling thanks to the tilt of their membranes, spun wildly
off to the side-

And hit Optimus’ chassis with, hilariously, the exact same splak noise it produced when they hit a
solid wall.

Everyone aware of the situation froze, seeming unsure how to
respond, then about half the watchers started laughing. Bracer among them, apologizing
through wheezy giggles, rubbing the back of his helm awkwardly but looking far
too amused to be contrite.

To be fair, it was rather
funny. Hijack was still splayed along Optimus’ front, stuck on by magnets and
suction cups, face against Optimus’ windshield. After a nanoklik or two, they
looked up at Optimus, blinking owlishly, then somehow shrugged without moving
their arms. “This works.”

Optimus, still among the mechs with no idea how to respond,
automatically settled a servo on Hijack’s back and attempted to pull them off.
They did not come off. “Ah. I… suppose it does, for you. I will be honest,
however, it is strange for me. I would prefer to return you to your game. Would
you… let go?”

He might have been able to pry Hijack off if he tried, but
he didn’t want to risk injuring them. They weren’t threatening him or being
aggressive, they’d just stuck onto him and decided not to move. The friendly,
tipsy EM field explained that reluctance- evidently they were a cuddly drunk.

Hijack blinked several times, looking around, then grinned
up at Optimus and cocked his helm further. “Let go if you throw me back
over.  Actually- at the ceiling. Throw me at the ceiling.”

…why not? Optimus offered a tiny smile, attempting to grip
Hijack’s back plating firmly enough to support them if they released their hold.
“I will, however it will be difficult if you continue to hold onto me. I cannot
throw myself at the ceiling, unfortunately, the Matrix does not allow me to
alter physics to that degree. I also have no way to hold myself up if I were to
hit the ceiling.”

Hijack slumped obligingly into Optimus’ servos, and Optimus
turned them over, then brought his arm back and tossed them at the ceiling. No
reason not to. At worst, he could catch them if they fell, and they probably
wouldn’t fall hard enough to do any damage in any case.

The worst did not happen. Hijack hit the ceiling and stuck
fast, heralded by several enthusiastic whoops from the watchers. The voiced
approval only increased when Hijack began to move across the ceiling, slowly
but surely, detaching one suction cup at a time and fastening it in a new
place. When they were over the game-players, they let go and fell onto Bracer,
ending up stuck to his shoulder.

Cute. Oddly cute for such a strange mech.

Optimus almost considered joining the game, but decided
against it. Among other things, he wasn’t drunk enough to make it a fair match,
nor did he particularly want to join the drinking. Not to that extent, at
least. Maybe he’d go find out what Swerve and Duo were working on.

Circling around the group, Optimus made his way over to the
bar counter, and heard another splak behind
him. A quick glance over his shoulder revealed that, yes, Bracer had made the
shot.

Good for him.

And good for Hijack, getting around the semi-understandable unease
of them to make friends.

Now, what in Primus’ name were the twins doing with a bottle
of glitter?

7803 words of Twitch, my lil garbagebot, helping Rung out with a heat cycle.

Contains sticky smut, heat cycle (duh), potentially dubcon due to said heat cycle but there will be no regrets. Twitch talks a lot and some of it is very dirty. Also, oral.

“I’m- I’m sorry? What did you say?”

Rung doesn’t usually miss anything of what people say,
especially not when they’re in his office. In his defense, though, he’s
distracted. Ratchet has cleared his schedule and blocked his attempts at
filling it again, Twitch has shown up despite being informed about the change,
and- oh, and Rung is in heat. Which Ratchet insists means that he needs to take
a break. That doesn’t help.

In short, everything
is distracting. Which gives him a decent excuse for having entirely missed what
Twitch had said. Which he hasn’t, not really, not if he’s being truthful- he
just needs to be very sure he’s heard right.

Twitch hops off the couch and trots up to Rung, servos
clasped behind his back, blatantly looking the therapist over as he speaks.
“I’m just trying to be certain. The only reason you don’t want my help with
this is because I’m your patient, yes? Not anything to do with me or your own
preferences?”

Because if it’s just that, he can fix it. Easy enough. If
it’s his odd appearance, or the fact that he might not happen to be Rung’s
taste? He can understand both, he’s strange and people have preferences, and
both of those… might or might not be workable. No one says they need to be
staring into each other’s optics all romantic.

If Rung just outright doesn’t want to interface with him,
he’ll leave, but that doesn’t look to be the case. His initial offer had been
met with genuine interest, not just
heat-driven arousal, before Rung visibly shut his own interest down and tried
to settle. It failed. Poor mech. How long has he been trying to endure this?

Apparently Rung hadn’t heard wrong.

And, no, that isn’t the only…

Actually, yes, come to think of it, that is the only reason. Twitch isn’t
conventionally attractive, but he is calm, friendly, and stable, and he is offering.

Rung is tempted. And he lets himself be tempted, just for an
instant, before he shuts the idea down. No. He can’t. He’d taken (evidently mistaken) the offer of help for a casual
offer, even a joke, and had turned it down immediately. For good reason. He cannot interface with a patient. It
would be a massive breach of trust, of ethics, with too much potential for
manipulation to even approach a
healthy relationship.

So, with reluctance, he takes a step back (though a tiny
one) and nods. “You are correct. I do apologize, Twitch, and I thank you for
the offer, but I-I simply cannot accept. It would be extremely irresponsible of
me to- oh-“

That’s all he needed to know. Twitch stepped forward again,
raising a servo, and set it firmly on Rung’s arm to pull even more of his
attention. “All right, then. I am officially firing you as my therapist. The
paperwork can wait. Come on- let me help you out. This way.”

He’s strong, much stronger than people tend to expect, but
he’s careful not to use much of that strength as he tugs on Rung’s arm. It’s
meant to be a firm invitation to an uncertain mech, nothing to force any sort
of movement. Best bet here? Probably to pretend that everything is perfectly
normal, perfectly casual. “Nothing against you, of course. You’re a very good
therapist. I just don’t happen to need one. I’m quite stable, as you’ve
noticed. However strange that may be, and I do understand that it is strange,
it is genuine. I don’t need therapy, and you
don’t need yet another patient. What you do need is someone to help you through your heat. So- come with me,
we’ll go back to my room and I’ll give you a servo or two. Also a spike and/or
valve, whatever your preference, and a glossa if you want. Really, you’re
welcome to most of me.”

Oh, Rung is sputtering again. Cute.

What.

Caught off guard, Rung leans into the contact, actually
taking a couple of steps after Twitch before he stops himself. Twitch is a
calm, casual mech, so Rung was expecting a calm acceptance of his refusal. He
was not expecting to be fired and then immediately propositioned, again, quite
firmly this time.

…is Twitch right?

From what Rung knows, it would seem that he is. He’s almost alarmingly stable, unfazed by a
significant and forcibly administered rebuild that included empurata-esque
traits. Casual about it, even. Capable of emotional responses to injustice, and
without the unhealthy idea that he’s of a low enough rank to be essentially
worthless, just… calm. Truthfully,
yes, Rung is willing to discharge Twitch as his patient, he doesn’t have any
significant concerns, and it-it would give
him more time for his more critical patients, but-

But that’s not- “I’m- oh, Twitch, I-I really- that’s simply
not how this works, I can’t- I- ah-
oh dear.“

Twitch is still touching him, but moving, placing both
servos on his stomach, and Rung’s faceplates flush as he’s reminded of how
unusually hot his frame is. This is incredibly
unprofessional of him, it’s shameful,
he- he shouldn’t even be considering-

But he is, he is very much considering, and he is tempted. He should stop, he really should, he should leave (never
mind that this is his own office) and remove himself from- from the situation,
preferably to a cold shower, or to-

In that moment, Twitch makes up his mind. Rung isn’t saying
“I don’t want to”, he’s saying “my morals and/or code of law say I shouldn’t”.
Which, though the law makes sense, isn’t particularly sensible in this case.
Not in Twitch’s opinion, at least. Therefore, he’s going to fix the situation.
He should probably explain himself while he can still look up at Rung and meet
his optics, though.

“Rung, I understand what you’re saying, I do. You have
morals. Your morals exist for good reason. This? This is not a good reason. So-
here are some facts.

“Fact one, you are in heat, and will continue to be in heat
until someone helps you or until you exhaust yourself. Two, the first option is
much faster and much more pleasant for you. Three, you cannot treat patients
like this, it’s not fair to them and it’s not fair to you. From that, we get fact four- you need someone to help you with
your heat. Five, I am not your patient, regardless of when that change
happened. Six, that is not likely to change again, as I don’t seem to have any
need for therapy. Seven, I am willing. I
do not offer out of obligation, I am not being manipulated. You are in need, and
I want to help you. I also genuinely expect to enjoy myself. And, eight- Rung, you
are attractive.”

Oh, that gets
Rung’s attention. Twitch would laugh at the startled expression if it wasn’t so
sad. “Yes, you heard me. You are attractive. You are remarkably handsome with your glasses off, cute with them on, plus
this-“ he has to stretch to tap the glowing blue window in Rung’s chassis “-is
beautiful, and remarkably poetic considering your profession. And I like your
voice. Especially when you get flustered. I want to hear what you sound like
with my helm between these pretty thighs.”

With that matter-of-fact statement, while Rung is distracted
and sputtering, Twitch moves in a bit closer and lifts the psychiatrist off his
pedes. He’s shorter than Rung, yes, but weighs almost the same, and he’s built
to carry heavy things. His mods didn’t change that. Informing his startled
cargo that “this is probably easiest if you sit on my shoulders”, he moves to
do so as much as possible, smiling as Rung (though clearly startled) moves with
him.

Yes, yes, those are all- those are certainly- seven of those
are definitely facts, and the eights is subjective, and the conclusions Twitch
is drawing are clear, but it all feels too convenient for them to be pointing
straight at Twitch-

And then his thought process is cut off by Twitch picking
him up. Right. Waste disposal mechs. Strong. Stronger than him. It might have
been slightly alarming if it hadn’t meant warmth
pressed all along his front and-

And, dear Primus, his codpiece against Twitch’s face. Not by
design, it just happens, and Twitch-

Makes absolutely no response to that, just helps him move to
sit astride remarkably sturdy shoulders. It probably looks ridiculous, and his
pedes aren’t far from the ground, but he doesn’t feel like he’s about to fall
off. Nor does Twitch feel unsteady as he starts walking. Intending to- right.
To get Rung to his own quarters. So they can interface.

Evidently the decision of where to go is out of his servos
now. Or off his pedes, as it were.

Rung is light by Cybertronian standards, but fairly heavy
for Twitch. Not heavy enough that it causes him any real difficulty walking,
though, nor does it prevent him from moving his arms freely enough to catch and
hold one of Rung’s servos. “Surprise. I’m stronger than you! It’s useful. I
promise not to use it against you, though. You have my word, if you want to
stop, all you have to do is say. I’m gonna be specific- you have to actually
say, and mean, something to the meaning of ‘I don’t want to interface with
you’. Okay, Rung? I’m not gonna make you do this. I think you want to, though.
So, what do you like in ber- oh, hello. Reaver, right?”

Reaver stops, clearly rather taken aback at encountering a
minibot stack in the hallway, and narrows his optics at the cloud of
heat-scent. This is probably fine, but… with this sort of thing, best to check.
Politely. Rumbling “forgive my suspicion, I don’t know you well”, he crouches
in front of Twitch, holding out a servo to stop him, and meets Rung’s optics.
“Is he going where you want to be going, to do something you want to do?”  

Rung stammers for a moment, caught between his own
indecision and his embarrassment at an actual
patient, and one who needs some degree of therapy, seeing him like this.
It’s- it’s not so much being on Twitch’s shoulders (though that must look odd)
as being blatantly in heat and not sure what to do with himself. But-

Yes. Dear Primus, yes, he wants to go somewhere private, and
he- he can feel his cheekplates heating at the thought, it must be visible by
now- he wants to feel whatever Twitch has planned for him. He certainly doesn’t
feel unsafe, he’s not trapped. “I’m- I, ah- yes, thank you, Reaver. I’m- I’m
quite all right. Thank you for your concern, but I, ah… oh dear.”

“But you’d like me to move,” Reaver finishes, and does so
with a small bow and a gesture along the hallway. “My apologies. I thought it
prudent to be certain. Carry on.”

Not sure how to respond to the bow, Twitch pats the
outstretched pointing/gesture servo, deeming that close enough. People tend to
find it cute more than anything if he misresponds to something in a polite way.
One benefit of his small size. “Oh, of
course! I understand entirely, and I’ve done the same thing myself. I promise
I’m not a rapist. You’re handsome and have a nice voice, we should talk later,
but I’m a bit busy right now. Do COMM me.”

And he does actually ping the pretty near-stranger his
private COMM code as he continues. Reaver, hm? And pretty! And –a quick glance
over his shoulder- responding with an expression somewhere between flattery and
bemusement at the comment. Cute. Might try propositioning him once Rung is
sated.

Speaking of Rung, he looks up as much as he can with someone
behind his helm, projects a smile with all the plating not currently being sat
upon, and pats one of Rung’s legs. “There we are! That’s something at least
close to verbal consent. I’ll take it. You can take it back at any point, I’ll drop you off in the showers or somewhere
private, though I insist you at least
borrow a good toy. I think I’m a better option here than loneliness, though. I
promise to do my best to give you no reasons to leave and many good and
pleasurable reasons to stay. And my best is enough to keep a Seeker happy, if
that gives you any sort of comparison point. Granted, it takes some gymnastics,
I don’t mean a minibot seeker, but it works.”

Oh, cute, Rung looks- well, a lot of things, but sort of
impressed. Good! Him satisfying a Seeker is impressive. Twitch winks, cocks his
helm in an approximation of a grin, and rotates his hip joint a simply
ridiculous degree outward on his next step. “My legs are jointed oddly for
various work-related reasons, and I stretch
because of one of my mods. I told you about it- the one to collect and edit
transfluid nanites? They changed my valve to help with that. Looks like they
got the design from porn, supposed to be appealing to potential ‘donors’.
Mostly it looks hilarious, ‘cos my spike- well, you’ll see. I like it, though,
especially the stretchiness. If you feel up
–heh- to spiking me, I promise I can take whatever you’ve got. Unless it’s
barbs, I might have to object to barbs, but that’s not really a thing most
people have.”

Maybe he can just keep Rung too distracted to overthink
things. All he has to do is get Rung into his berth, and then he can be very distracting. For now, he’ll talk.
He’s good at that! Going unnoticed for long periods of time is useful, but he
ends up having a lot to say.

“Heh. ’Most people’ says
the mech with the formerly-reproductive-system that now edits nanites. Oh- as
part of that, my transfluid is full of repair nanites instead of reproductive
nanites. Your valve might be a bit tingly after this, but it’s nice, promise,
tried it out on myself. They’re blank-code, too, your system’ll take ‘em and
use ‘em. My system won’t- I’m are tweaked so my immune system can’t accept blank-code nanites,
otherwise the ones I make would all be my immune system. I gotta make my own and everybody else’s. Don’t mind, though.
Medics love me. Gets me lots of servojobs, since nanites, an’ since I can
usually make the ‘this doesn’t count as an inappropriate relationship because
it’s a valid part of the nanite-factory-and-medic working relationship’
argument. And let me tell you- medic servos? Best servojobs. Ever. Soft! And-“

“I’m- I’m sorry, but I’m not certain I-I want to be
picturing you and- and Ratchet right now, but I find my thoughts going further
along that path the more you- I-I don’t object to the rest of this, just- no-
no more about medics and interface, please,” Rung manages, trying not to think
about the fact that said mental image is almost unfairly attractive. There’s no way Ratchet isn’t experienced as
all Pit by this point, especially not with what some of what Rung has heard
once Ratchet gets drunk, and that could mean something amazing for any of his
partners… and an incredibly awkward next checkup for Rung if he doesn’t head
off these thoughts, now.

Casting around for something else to think about, Rung lands
on his immediate situation, which is also a mortifying thought. Mostly because
he realizes that he’s been leaning his weight against the back of Twitch’s
helm, rocking his hips,  trying to get
some kind of stimulation. He’s been
holding himself together all day, seeing patients like normal, ignoring
everything, but his charge is past the point where it can be ignored.
Fortunately for him, Twitch seems… incredibly determined to not ignore him.
And, honestly, it feels good. Twitch
remembers his name, greets him in
contexts outside of therapy, doesn’t shy away from interacting with him. Some
of that might be his utter nonchalance about his own what-should-be-trauma,
most of it is probably his friendly nature, it probably isn’t due to anything
Rung has done, but it feels good. Especially
in this particularly physical context.
Rung is just going to… not think about that.

Or anything else involved in this.

What else is there to think about?

Maybe the fact that this is a maintenance hallway. “Ah…
Twitch? The berth rooms are all- ah-“

Right. Speaking to Twitch means Twitch looks up at him,
which means helm plating rubbing against his codpiece. Makes it hard to think.

 


Twitch shrugs slightly, internally giggling as Rung’s vents squeak in response, and pats his cargo’s
thigh. “My berth is a large bucket on the top shelf of a maintenance closet.
I’m a trash can, ‘member?”

He waits a moment, just long enough for Rung to look
startled, then chuckles and shakes his helm. “No, I’m joking. I am basically a walking medical waste trash
can, we both know this, but I’m a person. I wouldn’t put up with that. I have
an actual room, I just live down here ‘cos there’s easy access to all the
maintenance ducts and air vents. I hear lots of things and I can get places
without having to worry about being stepped on. And don’t go on about
self-esteem, my self-esteem is fine, thank you. My fuel tank is a container
into which medical waste is placed for disposal, that means I’m a trash can.
I’m just a very sexy trash can. Especially judging by your vents! Oh, don’t be
embarrassed, you’re in heat and your codpiece is rubbing against my helm. I’ll
speed up.”

He’s not made for fast, but he can at least jog. Should
probably stop semi-accidentally teasing poor Rung. And, ooh- gets those pretty
white thighs clamped around his helm for support. Delicious. He can’t resist
turning his helm just enough to nuzzle into Rung’s thigh, purring as he speeds
up further. So sweet. They’re both going to love what’s coming up.

Yes, actually, Twitch’s self-esteem is fine and he will more
than stand up for himself and others if needed, that’s well-established, but
never mind that. Rung’s attention is diverted as they step through an unmarked
door into Twitch’s room, which is- yes, definitely a room and not a closet. A
bit small, but reasonable for a minibot. And this gives him something else to think about- people’s berthrooms
are always interesting.

Most of the furnishings look either scavenged or put
together, but well-made. A stack of crates-turned-cabinets on one wall, a table
made of some twisted metal, and a cushy-looking minibot-sized chair that Rung
thinks might be the padding of a sparring ring’s walls. The walls have been
painted with what look like paint samples, semi-random, multicolored patterns
that would probably make Ultra Magnus cringe to see them- if he could even fit
through the small door.

On top of the crates is a broken glass cube, probably once
an art piece, filled with shards of metal and a touch of energon, a spiraling
crystal cluster growing from within. On the floor in one corner is a tiny
shelter, and a little floor-cleaning drone whirls in unsteady circles nearby,
almost silent except when it beeps in response to their arrival. It looks as
patched up as the rest of the room, but seems to be working well. A pet? Some
people have taken to keeping nonsapient drones as pets, some even with
programming to make them respond to their owner’s arrival and any sort of
petting.

Twitch ignores everything, of course, just locks the door
and-

And introduces Rung unceremoniously to the berth, dumping
him into a heap of softness. He doesn’t get a chance to try and figure it out
before Twitch thoroughly distracts him, though.

Specifically, by prying his knees apart, pressing up between
his thighs, and-!

Twitch leans his helm against the inside of Rung’s knee,
retracting the cover over his oral intake, and flicks out a fairly impressive
glossa. Long, flexible, almost segmented in appearance, pointed at the tip and
nimble enough to curl around his finger. Which doesn’t impede him in the
slightest as he speaks, casually, slicking up his fingers. “I don’t have a
mouth, not really. I don’t use this to speak, and I don’t have lips, so it’s
just considered an oral intake. I have a glossa, though, clearly. You wanna try
it? Gonna need a clear response, please, but it can be nonverbal.”

Primus.

Yes. Fine. He’s in Twitch’s berth, with Twitch up between
his thighs. He could stop if he wanted, yes, true, Twitch is sweet and would definitely
stop, but he doesn’t want to stop. And he’s gotten this far, he may as well go
further- right?

Yes.

Cycling his vents, Rung parts his legs further, nods once,
and retracts his panels, offering himself to Twitch. And immediately covers his
optics in embarrassment.

He’s dripping.

Retracting his panels frees a gush of lubricant and a wave
of heady scent, and his spike starts to pressurize immediately. It’s not all
that surprising, but it’s mortifying, especially
since he can’t help squirming at Twitch’s gaze.

Twitch is eyeing him like he’s a particularly tasty meal. Which,
given that long glossa, is probably very true.

Tense in anticipation, Rung braces his heels against the
berth, not sure what to expect from Twitch. Twitch is strong, stronger than
expected, and has been- not forceful, but not gentle. And Rung honestly can’t
tell if he wants gentle at this
point. He’s a bit apprehensive about the glimpses of fangs he can see through
the half-opened intake covers, but Twitch looks confident enough that he must
know what he’s doing here, or at least Rung very much hopes that he-

Ohh.

 


Twitch purrs, soft and reassuring, and tucks down to hook
Rung’s leg over his shoulder. Winking up at Rung, he licks gently over his
partner’s exterior node with the tip of his glossa, testing the waters. The
waters are sweet and very turned on, so he purrs and presses a finger gently
into the hot, inviting valve.

“Oh- you taste good, Rung.
Do you know that? So lovely. Now- what do you want, hmm? Do you want more?” Twitch
purrs, reaching up to stroke Rung’s thigh with his free servo, and rubs a bit
more firmly at his inner walls when the larger mech bucks into him. “I have
you. Don’t worry, I’ll take care of you, I just need a moment to let my spike
pressurize. For now- legs over my shoulders, come on, good mech. Let me know
what you want me to do, if you can manage that, and enjoy.”

With that, he ducks his helm and presses his glossa into
Rung’s valve alongside his finger, as deep as he can reach. He’s fully intending
to get at least one overload out of Rung before spiking him, less out of
necessity and more for fun. Also so he can hopefully get Rung slightly more
coherent and ask exactly what he’d like. And what positions, mm. And whether
he’d like to use a few toys.

For now, he sticks with his own frame, rubbing gently at
Rung’s node with one finger and spreading the lovely valve open as much as possible
with his glossa. Rung is tight, but deliciously wet, and his calipers loosen
gradually around Twitch’s glossa with no spasms or any signs of discomfort. Not
that any sort of frame-reluctance issue is likely during a heat, but best to be
sure. Especially with a partner this incoherent.

Rung is panting, vents open as wide as they’ll go, hips bucking
occasionally as Twitch’s glossa squirms over node clusters or spreads him
especially wide. Primus, he’d nearly forgotten how good it feels to have a
soft, powerful glossa working him open, and Twitch-

Twitch has an amazing glossa
for this. Minibot or not, his glossa is long enough to reach some spots that
have never been stroked over like this, caressed so delicately at the same time as the rest of his valve is being
powerfully spread open. Never mind what a glossa like that is probably supposed
to be used for, it is amazing for
oral. Nothing Rung can manage on his own compares. Especially not since Twitch
is completely coherent and can focus entirely on responding to Rung’s rising
charge, drawing it higher and higher with every lick to his valve and rub to
his node. It is amazing, but, Primus, he should probably tell Twitch about-

Panting, Rung tries to push himself up onto his elbows,
attempting to get Twitch’s attention. It isn’t working, though, Twitch is
focused intently on licking him out
and is making it very hard to speak clearly enough to break his focus. “Nnh-
o-oh dear, Twitch, I- I’m going-“

Antennae flickering, heels kicking against his back, optics
and biolights starting to flare brighter- Primus, Rung is adorable. And still
trying to be polite!  Really, though- has
anyone ever buried their glossa in someone’s valve and not been ambivalent or
better about having their face overloaded on? He’s all for this. Twitch pats
Rung’s thigh and hums reassuringly, then curls his glossa up to press against a
particularly sensitive spot he’s found, tweaking Rung’s node in the same
instant- and purrs louder as Rung overloads with a sharp cry.

And, oh, that might
be what he’d been trying to tell Twitch about. Rung is a messy overloader, and Twitch gives a muffled, mildly surprised
noise, optics shutting, as he learns that for himself.

Chuckling quietly, Twitch slurps at Rung’s valve for a
nanoklik or two, lapping up the bulk of the lubricant, then sat up and looked
down at the panting psychiatrist. Well- as soon as he rubbed the lubricant out
of his optics. “Goodness- was that what
you wanted to tell me? You are messy. Li’l
squirter,” he chuckles, patting Rung’s valve, and waves away the stuttering
attempt at an apology. “Don’t be silly, that’s a good thing. It’s hot. You taste good. Fine for optics, too, ‘s
lubricant. Made to be not an
irritant.”

Rung takes one look at Twitch with his face covered in
lubricants and covers his optics, embarrassed, but can’t avoid the minibot’s
field wrapping around him. Strong, purring, friendly, and absolutely genuine.
Oh. Twitch likes that.

Of course he does.

Rung peers out from between his fingers, gets another look,
and blushes furiously, but doesn’t hide again. Goodness. That is an…
interesting sight. Twitch sitting there, chuckling, face drenched in fluids, licking
what he can reach of his own faceplates with a glossa that had moments before
been buried in Rung’s valve. Makes it very hard to actually speak to Twitch
about anything.

“Oh… oh dear. Um. I- goodness. T-thank you, Twitch,
goodness, but, ah- I’m- I’m fine now, that’s- that’s quite enough, I’m-“ he
squeaks, beginning to make his escape, and is immediately tipped back into the
berth. “-um. Oh, my- my apologies, I’ve forgotten myself, do I- what would you
like in- in return?”

Twitch probably wants him to return the favor. Entirely
reasonable. Might be awkward for Rung, though, his frame is likely to respond
more eagerly than he’d like. The overload he’s just experienced has taken the
edge off his arousal, but he doesn’t want to stop, not yet. Should probably
escape, get to a shower, overload another couple of times, and try to get back
to work. Hopefully his frame’s had enough attention to let him-

And now Twitch is sitting on his stomach.

Really? They aren’t over the guilt yet? Rung’s normally
coherent, withheld field is flaring out, wrapped around them both and thrumming
a strange mixture of arousal, satisfaction, and guiltiness. That isn’t okay. At
the very least, he needs to get Rung perked up a bit. “Mm, no. Stay here. We’re
already interfacing, yes? May as well satisfy you. Or, bare minimum, clean you
up. Drink you up, slickvalve, lick
you clean, feel you moan, get you all nice. Hm?”

Oh, Rung is blushing again. Cute. Is dirty talk the way to go,
then? Might be worth a try. Chuckling softly, Twitch leans back to offer his
equipment for inspection, grasping his spike in one servo for a couple of
leisurely strokes. “Come on. Both know you want. No shame, Rung. Biological
needs, and feels good. Already here,
already seen your valve, already tasted you… want more? I do. You?”

Seeing that Rung is definitely watching, Twitch rocks his
hips back to properly show himself off, helm cocked in the closest thing to a
grin he can manage. “See? Mismatch. Like it, though.”

As he’d mentioned, his valve looks like it might have been
transplanted off a porn star. Especially plump lips, glinting silver, with
thick blue bio-lights that run past his valve lips and up inside him. Something
of a contrast against the rest of his frame, and a massive contrast against his
spike. Twitch’s spike is short and thick, as one would expect from a minibot,
patterned in toxic green and yellow. Not the most attractive color scheme, especially
given that both colors are usually used on biohazard warnings, but the contrast
is hilarious. In his opinion, at
least.

Even with Rung’s processor still recovering, it’s blatantly
obvious that Twitch is excited. Not only aroused, either. His vocal patterns
have changed, and his optic tic has spread to include part of his cheek. Nothing
to worry about, Rung has seen this before when Twitch is especially eager for
something. He’s clearly holding himself back, though, waiting for Rung to
respond. Aside from the self-stimulation. He’s putting on a show, but that’s
it. Just toying with his… interestingly
colored spike.

Which Rung wants to lick. Not that he will, he’s already taken this more than far enough, he really
needed to leave. Except that his valve is still tingling and his frame is singing at the attention from Twitch,
and-

Crude terms aside, Twitch seems to care. His field is heavy
and hot, just about dripping arousal where it brushes against Rung’s, but
there’s an undercurrent of concern/reassurance/comfort
wrapped up in it. He isn’t just in this for access to Rung’s valve, he is
trying to help. At least… it seems
like he is.

Rung pushes himself up onto his elbows, looking Twitch in
the optics as much as possible, and speaks as clearly as he can. It seems to be
working. “Why were- were you in my office earlier? Did you not hear that your
appointment had been canceled?”

Oh- had it not been clear? Twitch scoops up one of Rung’s
servos and nuzzles into it, purring quietly, trying to make his point clear.
“Worried. Thought something was wrong. Found something was wrong. Decided to
help. Helping. Want to continue helping. Good? Easier on you than waiting. Help
people sooner, too. Besides- frame stubborn enough, might not be done ‘till you
get help. So- here to help.”

Less than eloquent. Ah well- he has more important things to
focus on than coordinating his speech center beyond basic sentences. Like
wrapping his glossa around two of Rung’s fingers and sucking as noisily as
possible in an attempt to be- well, it can’t be called ‘seductive’ if it’s this
crude, could it? What exactly is the crude version of seductive?

Rung’s vents stutter, but he doen’t pull his servo away from
the… admittedly pleasant sensation. In fact, he manages to catch hold of
Twitch’s glossa between two fingers, feeling the powerful appendage flex
against his fingertips. “I. Ah. Oh dear- goodness,
Twitch. You… you are persistent, aren’t you?”

Despite himself, Rung is smiling as he let go and settles
back. That is genuine concern, isn’t
it? And Twitch… certainly doesn’t seem inclined to let him go until he’s sated.
Nor can Rung escape, come to think of it, Twitch is stronger than him. He doesn’t
feel threatened, though. Twitch isn’t hurting him. Is, in fact, trying to help
him.

Is helping him. Primus,
Twitch is right. Rung has been in heat in the past, of course, but it has
always been mild. Enough that a little alone time in the mornings was enough to
keep him satisfied all day. This? This is strong,
far more than before, and self-stimulation hasn’t helped any. Momentary
relief, yes, but always followed by stronger need. Evidently he isn’t going to
get much, if any, relief until he has a few overloads with a partner. Just one
has helped already- he can actually think,
clearly think, at least for the moment. Clearly enough to consider that
this situation isn’t going to resolve itself.

Three options. Option one, stop off at the nearest port and
try to find a Cybertronian partner who isn’t his patient, isn’t going to be his
patient, and isn’t about to hurt him somehow. Probably not the safest idea, and
dubiously enjoyable at best.

Option two, go to the medbay, see if any of the medics have “relief
of heat cycles” on the list of services they’ll provide. That would be…
awkward. As impersonal as possible. Tolerable, but not what his frame wants.

Option three is… this. Let Twitch spike him. Potentially
more than once. Get as many overloads as Twitch is willing to give him, which,
by the look on the minibot’s- hmm, more frame than face, his face isn’t
terribly expressive- is going to be more than one.

Option one is unsafe and might not succeed at finding him a
partner. Option two still involves interfacing with a patient, albeit with a
legal excuse, and, again, awkward. Option three is… more or less already
happening.

To the Pit with him. Twitch has just licked him out and is
now sitting on his stomach, self-stimulating and waiting for him to choose. He’s
already in this situation, so… it dioes make sense to continue and get himself
back into a shape where he can assist people. And it’ll be… quite a lot of fun,
won’t it?

Rung reaches up to press gently on Twitch’s chassis, nudging
him backwards, and offers him a little smile. “You are persistent and… entirely
correct. Thank you for your concern. You’re- you’re quite right, I’d say, I’m
not used to heat cycles this strong.
I’ve seen this happen, though. Frames occasionally object rather strongly to…
long-term lack of a physical partner. You must understand, I- I cannot allow this to be made public. I
cannot give the impression that I will readily take excuses to interface with
patients. But… if you can promise me that you can keep this to yourself…”

He pauses, biting his lip in embarrassment and lowering his
antenna, but lifts a servo to stroke Twitch’s flank regardless. “…then I would
greatly appreciate the help.”

Twitch squirms his glossa loose of Rung’s hold to nuzzle
into his servo again, buzz-purring a noise that is half vocalizer and half
rattling dentae. Interesting to have one’s fingertips against. “Mm. ‘course. Get
settled, mm?”

Engine rumbling a note deep enough to nearly rattle his plating,
Twitch scoots back to sit between Rung’s legs again, patting his thighs encouragingly
as the lanky mech shifts. He’s eager, incredibly so, but he isn’t going to
push. Has to make sure Rung is comfortable, is ready, even if it means
wriggling in place to burn off a fraction of his energy and hopefully keep his
anticipation from rising too far.

He wants, Primus, Rung is adorable and handsome and smelled amazing, but he is not going to push in the slightest. Has to wait. He’s with a
partner who was in heat, while Twitch himself is not, so he’s responsible for
both of them until Rung no longer has his frame pushing him to interface.

At least Rung is aware enough to blush and be flustered.
People lost in a particularly strong heat cycle don’t blush and act flustered,
they do their best to jump the struts of anyone nearby. Rung is not doing that.
He’s starting to look like he might want to, but he’s keeping himself contained.
It’s impressive.

Once Rung looks comfortable, Twitch nuzzles into his inner
thigh once more, then presses up close and meets Rung’s over-bright optics.
“Whatever you want. Want to stop, want more, tell me. So good, Rung… control!
Impressive. Not needed. Let go, Rung, enjoy. No control needed. Enjoy.
Preferably, squeal.”

Oh, more blushing. Primus. Twitch beams, and has to pause
for an instant to enjoy the view.

Rung, stretched out on his back, gripping the blankets with
both servos for support and watching Twitch with an expression somewhere
between anticipation and embarrassment. Optics bright, vents running on high,
panting between parted lips, antenna flickering unsteadily against the air. So,
so lovely.

Twitch purrs, winked, makes a kiss-noise with his glossa, and
lines his spike up with Rung’s valve. Hooking one of Rung’s legs around his own
frame, he purrs and thrusts without any further delay, burying his spike fully
in Rung’s valve in one easy slide. “-ooh, slick.
Poor, poor” a quick hip-roll “sweet mech, waiting so long for” another roll, a
bit harder, closer to a thrust “someone to give you some relief. Don’t worry- relax. Enjoy. Make you feel good. Ready?”

Rung’s legs clamp tighter around his frame, and Twitch takes
that for ‘yes, please, ready’.  Usually
good to be careful with a smaller partner, or one who might not have taken a
spike in quite some time, but, mm, Rung is ready. His valve is slick and pliant
around Twitch’s spike, tight but not overly so, and an experimental thrust
meets no resistance. Perfect.

Rung is not going to squeal. He’s embarrassed himself enough
already, he is not going to squeal, he is not
going to-

Oh Primus.
Twitch’s spike is thicker than he’d expected, and the first gentle thrusts rub the
tip deliciously over an area of shallow nodes that aren’t usually hit by a
partner’s spike. Rung moans despite himself, bucking into the stimulation, and
internally corrects his declaration. He is not going to squeal, but he might be
making some interesting sounds in the near future.

And then “near future” becomes “now” as Twitch thrusts
deeper, putting more of his strength into the motion. Right- Twitch had lifted
and carried him with no visible effort. That means core strength. Including leg strength. Rung moans, shudders, and
grips the berth tighter, bracing himself to rock against the thrusts. Yes- this
is what he needs, what his frame has been craving, but he wants more. Harder, faster, more. Rung moans again, and Twitch growls
in response, grip tightening on Rung’s hips as he thrusts more firmly.

Responsive.
Ancient coding stirred to life by the heat thrills at having a partner so aware
of his needs, and Rung finds himself fully agreeing. The physical sensation is
amazing, and so is having someone devote their attention entirely to him. Selfish, maybe, but selfish in a
way that Twitch seems more than happy to oblige.

That’s what lets Rung finally relax. The sound of Twitch purring
down at him, the thoroughly pleased expression on his entire frame, the way he croons in response when Rung rocks
against him. Twitch is loving this, Rung isn’t
being entirely selfish.

He’s just being… incredibly, incredibly flustered. Twitch is
watching him, optics gleaming,
purring absolutely filthy things
under his breath. Twitch is vocal under most circumstances, it’s no wonder he’s
still talking. And Primus help him, Rung likes
it. None of it is degrading, only lewd,
telling him how- how wet he is, and how good his calipers feel rippling
around Twitch’s spike, and how-

“-so good, so sweet, still taste you- want to taste again. Overload in you, fill you up, lick
you out again- you’re so wet, you’d be dripping already if I stopped,” Twitch
purrs, leaning in closer, and squirms until he has one of his berthmate’s legs
over his shoulder. With Rung’s legs wrapped around him, he can’t pull out
enough for any particularly long thrusts, but that isn’t what he has in mind.
Instead, Twitch rocks his hips in small, steady motions, grinding more than
thrusting, focusing on what must be a node cluster judging by the noises Rung is making.

Primus, he’s so sweet. Moaning, arching against Twitch, soft
noises of pleasure gradually getting louder and punctuated by gasps and chirps. The blue-glowing circle on his
chassis brightens until Twitch has to squint to see properly, his legs tighten
further, and he bites down on his knuckle in an effort to silence himself. Shy!
Twitch isn’t used to shy, most of his past partners have been absolutely
shameless, many of them kinky-interface-in-near-public levels of shameless.
Rung? Primus save him, Rung is flustered by the sound of his own enthusiastic
noises. It really shouldn’t be this sexy, but it is.

Twitch beams, whispers “so lovely” to Rung, and pulses arousal/excitement/affection as strongly
as possible as he keeps talking. “So sweet, so pretty- let me hear you, please,
Rung, let me hear, so lovely, love
your voice, could listen to you all night.
Gonna ov‘load, gonn’ fill you up, nice’n full- I got you, Rung, got you.”

Rung is close, squirming
again, valve clenching in fluttering motions, but he doesn’t overload. Probably
can’t, Twitch realizes- strong heats sometimes won’t let up for anything less than an overflow tank full of
transfluid. With that in mind, Twitch lets go of his control almost entirely, thrusting
as hard as he can a few times before his charge spills over.

That’s about when Rung loses track of things. He’s aware of
his own overflow tank opening, aware of Twitch overloading with a spiraling cry
and filling his valve with wet, sticky heat,
and then overload crashes over him and knocks him into a reboot.

He remembers waking up to Twitch licking at the fluid that’s
dripped onto his thighs, remembers Twitch gently coaxing him to roll onto his
front, and- Primus. Remembers pushing himself up onto his knees to offer his
valve to Twitch. Remembers being past all embarrassment, moaning unashamedly into
the berth as Twitch licks gently at his valve… remembers responding, muffled
but approving, to Twitch asking “rough okay?” just before spiking him again.

And he remembers Twitch practically mounting him,
enthusiastic and not at all bothering to be gentle. Not that Rung has any complaints about being fragged into
the berth by someone who continues praising him in an increasingly shaky voice
the entire time. It feels good. Rung
overloads again, loudly, practically screaming into the blankets he’s buried
his face in, and takes longer to reboot this time.

He hasn’t overloaded this hard in centuries. Self-stimulation
is satisfying enough, but enough of an overload to force a reboot is…
impressive.

When his optics refocus, Twitch is holding a… rather
garishly colored false spike, one that vibrates audibly when he flicks a switch
on the base. He doesn’t even need to ask out loud. Rung isn’t yet exhausted,
not quite.

This time, Twitch is gentle again. Rubbing the toy over his
valve lips, lingering against his node, pausing to lick the dripping lubricants
now and then. When he thrust the toy inside, it was in long, slow, even
strokes, relying on the nubbed surface and vibrations for stimulation rather than
pure stimulation. That, the gentle rubs to his node, and the sensation of the
liquid heat in his overflow tank bring Rung over one last time, a gradually
building overload that wraps around him in a crackling wave.

When he reboots once more, Rung is on his back, wrapped up
in at least one blanket. His inner valve panel is shut, and he doesn’t feel
anywhere near as sticky as he probably ought to be right now. He’s thirsty,
tired, and lightly sore, but he’s satisfied,
and Twitch…

Twitch is cuddling him, tucked up against his chassis and
nuzzling into his throat.

He shouldn’t have done this, but, Primus, he feels amazing.

And then Twitch stirs and looks up at him, plating lifting
happily, and something zings through Rung’s spark as Twitch purrs. That’s… that’s
adorable. Twitch genuinely looks happy to see him awake.

…Primus only knows how a mech who’s just fragged him into
the berth is adorable.

Twitch beams, conveying the expression with a perk of his
shoulder plating and a friendly field-nuzzle, and rolls over for just long
enough to grab a cube of energon from nearby. “Here- Ratchet came by and
dropped off something you can drink, all the energon I have in here isn’t
edible for others. He also told me to, quote, ‘tell him to keep his overworked
little aft in here until he’s actually relaxed for once’, so I might do that,
if you don’t mind,” he giggles, nuzzling into Rung’s chassis, and gently
strokes soft grey sides. “Slag, you’re a cutie, y’know that? Made good noises. Tasted
real sweet.”

Oh, he’s blushing again. Twitch purrs and snuggles closer,
tucking himself firmly against Rung’s stomach, and leans up to kiss the window
in his chassis. “This got real bright. And, what- y’never had someone dirty
talk ya?”

Rung sputters quietly into the energon cube, midway through
gulping down as much as his tank will hold, but doesn’t put it down. “I- well,
yes, but- not that thoroughly! You-
I-I shouldn’t be surprised, but you have an absolutely filthy mouth. Not, um. Not that I’m, ah. Complaining.”

Twitch starts giggling at the admission, and Rung hides his
face behind the cube, embarrassed. He knows it isn’t rational, Primus knows how
many patients he’s told not to be ashamed about their desires, but he got
worked up so quickly. Makes him feel
like a newbuild who’s just lost their seals. Heat or not, it’s embarrassing.

And Ratchet… Ratchet may have a point. Rung is flustered,
but he could be coherent if he needed to. Not like before. He doesn’t smell so
strongly of a heat cycle, either. Smells like interface, though.

Twitch giggles for a moment, then clings tighter to Rung,
nuzzling into his front. “Gonna keep you. Got all relaxed. You can leave after you fuel, an’ only so’s we can go
shower ‘n be clean. Then… obs’vation deck? Ratchet stole y’ schedule. Says ‘ll
put ya on official medical leave. Now- ‘m gonn’ sleep. You can either try’n
escape but not ‘cos I’m strong, or y’ can stay here an’ enjoy an’ maybe also
sleep. Yeah?”

…hard to argue with that.

Fine.

Rung sighs, sets the cube aside, and looks down at Twitch in
consideration. Resigning himself to his warm, snuggly, affectionate fate, he
strokes both servos down Twitch’s back, rubbing gently at tense spots.

Twitch purrs again, softly, and Rung’s spark zings again at
the noise.

Primus save him from overly stubborn, sweet, incredibly
considerate minibots.

(Blackspark makes a joking suggestion, Soundwave accepts it, kink experimentation ensues. 

Moderate spanking, sticky interface, oral, and a bit of aft play under the cut. Also a bit of pretend-struggling from someone more than capable of escaping if he actually wanted to.)

Blackspark had been joking
when he’d offered to see if a good spanking made Soundwave more inclined to
behave himself and actually get enough recharge like the medics said he should.

He really, really hadn’t
expected for Soundwave to pause, size him up, lock all the doors into the room
with one gesture, and nod. 

Moreover, when Blackspark approached, Soundwave
lowered his plating in an odd gesture somewhere between submissive and coy, and
gave only a token resistance to being grabbed.

It was odd, but Soundwave’s restrained field was
prickling something like eager/intrigued,
and he made no effort to get away from the firm arm around his waist. Well- no
real effort. He was pushing on Blackspark’s chassis with both servos, playing a
recording of a low growl, but Blackspark would have had no hope of containing
Soundwave if he’d actually wanted to get away.

Baffled but more than eager to try this whole thing out,
Blackspark sat down on the padded-for-silence floor and pulled Soundwave with
him. Still, no real resistance, even as he pushed Soundwave over his lap and
pinned the spymaster’s front to the floor. Aft in the air, chassis and knees
pressed to the padding, claws digging in lightly, visor glinting as Soundwave
lifted his helm enough to look over his shoulder and watch. Gorgeous. A servo on
his back between his spines to pin him, and Blackspark stroked his other servo
gently over Soundwave’s aft, pausing for a moment to let Soundwave get used to
the situation. Comfortable enough, easy for someone who might not have tried
this sort of thing before. “All right then, mech… let’s see how you feel ‘bout
behavin’ after a few good smacks, hm?”

Just in case, he opened a private COMM link, one set up for
easy vocal and glyph transmissions. .:I
won’t push ya, mech. You an’ I both know I can’t make ya do anythin’. But, hey-
you wanna play? I am happy to oblige. Just lemme know if ya wanna change
somethin’, or if somethin’s too rough. Not gonna aim ta really hurt ya, but I
figure you got decent pain tolerance, so this’s gonna sting a bit. If yer up
for that:.

Soundwave pinged him a glyph for understood/appreciated, then stareed up at Blackspark and played –in
Starscream’s most challenging tone, no less- “bring it on”.

Well. Blackspark didn’t pretend to understand Soundwave’s
motivation here, his field was too tightly wrapped to really read, but there
was a tingling of intrigue in the little of his field that Blackspark could
read. Curiosity, then? Soundwave already knew that Blackspark could keep
secrets. So- why not? They could have some fun.

Blackspark patted Soundwave’s aft, then brought his servo up
and landed a firm smack against shadowy grey aft plating. Not too hard, not
yet. Soundwave didn’t even twitch in response. Right- controlled. And evidently
not quite meaning to give up that control all that easily.

Alright. Blackspark could try harder.

Purring softly, he landed another couple of smacks, slightly
harder, and grinned as Soundwave’s vents revved just a fraction. Well now.
There was always the slim possibility that Soundwave actually wanted –for whatever
reason- to be spanked in a non-sexual context, but Blackspark’s suggestion had
been laced with suggestive undertones, and feeling the air patterns shift as
the spymaster’s vents widened was a good indication that this was not meant to be non-sexual.

In the interest of making it even less so, Blackspark
activated the vibes in his fingertips and traced them gently over the sensitive
plating he’d just been striking, plating he knew had to be tingling by now. “Hm.
Not havin’ much of an impact here, am I? Lemme see if I can change that.”

Another spank, this one considerably harder, with his vibes
momentarily running at top speed. Soundwave jolted at that, and Blackspark
swore he saw twin optic-glints through the blank visor for half an instant,
then Soundwave’s engines growled up at him and narrow claws dragged roughly
against Blackspark’s hip. Enough to leave light scratches, with enough force to
dip into a seam and prick at the mechanics underneath. Not an escape attempt,
though, and what little he could feel of Soundwave’s field unfurled a fraction
and pulsed a blatant challenge.

Well.

Blackspark purred, engine growling in return, and landed
another smack- still hard, but without the vibes to push the sensation towards
pleasure. This was hard enough to at least border on hurting, and the spymaster
almost twitched in response, then removed his claws from Blackspark’s frame
after another swat.  Progress.

And then Soundwave growled up at him, louder, obviously
braced his pedes, and tried to squirm away. It failed, of course, because his
telegraphing his attempt made it easy for Blackspark to grab him by the scruff
and hold him still.

“Ah, naughty,”
Blackspark purred, and repeated the vibe-aided swat that had gotten him a good
reaction before. Soundwave jolted again, speakers making a staticky noise, and
kept squirming. At least, for the next half-dozen smacks, to the point where
Blackspark knew from experience he had to be getting sore. His plating was
definitely scuffed. His field was tingling excitement/interest/rebellion
with a clear undernote of arousal, though, and a gentle caress to his codpiece
was all it took to feel how hot he was getting. Optics narrowing, Blackspark
revved his vibes and landed another swat- this one much gentler, but targeted,
aimed with his buzzing fingertips directly against Soundwave’s heated panel.

Soundwave made another staticky noise, legs twitching
noticeably this time, then shuddered and went limp in Blackspark’s lap. Another
burst of static, this one much quieter and almost apologetic, then Soundwave
un-braced himself in a clear sign that he was done struggling.

“Aw, there we go. Good mech. Now… I wanna make my point real
clear. An’ I wasn’ gettin’ very far before I started on this hot li’l panel of
yours, so… let me try somethin’. You open up for me, Soundwave, lemme make sure
this li’l lesson sticks in your mind… an’ I will make it” a brief pause,
Blackspark tracing his buzzing fingertips around the seams of Soundwave’s panel
“more than worth your while. C’mon, beauty… open up.”

A glance over his shoulder, Soundwave’s field fluttering a
mix of consideration/arousal, then he
lowered his helm and opened his panels as requested. Outer and inner panels
both, revealing his valve, the bio-lights pulsing brightly as a trickle of
lubricant dripped down over his brilliantly glowing exterior node. Enough that
he’d evidently been turned on almost since the start of this.

“Oh… good mech. Good Soundwave,” Blackspark crooned,
ever-so-gently caressing Soundwave’s node, and lifted his servo to taste his
fingertips. “You taste so sweet. Now…
be good for me. Keep these pretty hips up, keep your panels open, lemme give
your valve a few li’l spanks.”

He wasn’t about to be that rough with Soundwave’s valve. He
might, if he knew for certain his partner enjoyed outright pain, but it wasn’t
the sort of thing he wanted to do without discussion. So far, nothing he’d done
should truly hurt. Sting, yes, and Soundwave was probably aching slightly by
then, but always with pleasure signals thoroughly mixed in. Blackspark had
plenty of practice on both ends of this, he knew what he was doing, and he wasn’t
about to be any rougher without Soundwave specifically stating that he wanted
to be hurt. He was reasonably certain that Soundwave didn’t want that, so he
was gentle with the pretty, wet valve. Mostly.

The first smack to his valve was more of a firm pat, and
Blackspark lingered, caressing softly with stilled fingertips. Gentle. Then,
just a bit harder, activating his vibes. A half-dozen reasonably light swats to
Soundwave’s exposed valve, interspersed with light spanks to his aft plating,
clearly having more effect on the spymaster than anything Blackspark had done
yet.

Soundwave’s vents kicked up higher, enough to be easily
heard, and he squirmed just a fraction. Strong legs twitched at every smack to
his valve, his bio-lights brightened, and the drip of lubricant from his valve
became a steady trickle. At the final spank, gentler than the rest, all vibe
and no strength, his speakers blatted static and his back arched, then he
settled again and his engines purred.

Moving in a languid manner that suggested he was tired,
Soundwave propped himself up on his elbows, almost wobbly as he leaned in to
bump his helm against Blackspark’s shoulder. Submissive, almost, and definitely
relaxed.

Blackspark loosened his grip, letting Soundwave move, and
stroked a firm servo down his back to help him settle. “Aw. That’s it- good
spymaster. Bein’ real sweet, hm? Good. I think we’re done here, Soundwave,
though I might have to insist you come berth with me so’s I know you rest some.
First, though…”

A lingering stroke over Soundwave’s dripping valve, then
Blackspark lifted his servo and sucked lightly on his fingertips, giving
Soundwave a moment to watch and listen. “That’s gotta ache. You want me t’ kiss
it better?”

Soundwave purred, and Blackspark purred back, gently nudging
the spymaster out of his lap. “Alright. Here- up. C’mon, brace them servos on
that chair. Bend over, panels open, legs apart, lemme at yer valve. I am gonna
lick you out ‘till yer knees give out, an’ I got somethin’ real nice in mind ta
show you once you get comfy.”

Was it his imagination, or was Soundwave unsteady as he
stands up? Just in case, and under the guise of maintaining control, Blackspark
supported the lanky frame until Soundwave was braced against his own chair. Again,
a beautiful image- bent over with his pedes braced apart, scuffed aft plating
and dripping valve on display, bio-lights flickering and pulsing brightly as he
looked over his shoulder again at Blackspark. The perfect invitation.

Blackspark purred and dropped to his knees behind Soundwave,
ex-venting hot air over that pretty valve, then leaned in and licked a long
stripe up the glowing folds. Hooking one servo around Soundwave’s thigh, he
leaned in and set to work, licking in long, slow strokes. As he did, he reached
into subspace and pulled out a little toy, one of his favorites that he kept
easily available for impromptu interface. A small thing, its thickest part not
even as wide as two of his fingers, tapered smoothly at the tip and narrowed
just before the wide base. Turning it on, he pressed it firmly against
Soundwave’s inner thigh and trailed it up, demonstrating part of why this toy
was a favorite. The vibrations were surprisingly deep for such a small toy,
rumbling and beautifully penetrating, perfect for what he had in mind.

A long, lingering suck to Soundwave’s node, then Blackspark
pulled his mouth away and replaced it with the toy, sliding it gently between
the spymaster’s folds to slick it up. With his other servo, he stroked gently
over Soundwave’s aft, then tapped firmly on the little cover over his aft port.
“Got a nice li’l plug here. Gonna feel it all th’ way up yer valve if I pop
this in yer aft. So, as long as yer bein’ good… how ‘bout you open up for me?”

.:I’ll take a ‘no’ for
this, Soundwave, no questions. Your choice here. You are gonna love this if it’s
somethin’ yer into, but if not, I’ll stick to teasin’ elsewhere. Either way,
gonna be gentle:.

Blackspark was a reasonable person. Some people didn’t like
aft play, or didn’t want to try it, so he wasn’t about to push in the slightest.
He wasn’t above making the idea more tempting, though- tracing the slicked-up
toy gently over the thin cover in his way in a little tease.

Soundwave cocked his helm, staring over his shoulder at
Blackspark, clearly considering the idea. After a moment, he nodded once and
opened the cover over his aft port, claws tightening slightly on the berth.

As promised, Blackspark was gentle. Another few rubs of the
toy against Soundwave’s valve, coating it in lubricant, then he pressed the tip
of the toy against Soundwave’s port and rubbed a fingertip of the other servo
against his node. “Good, good mech. Juuust relax… nice’n easy. Lean back a li’l-
there we go.”

The tapered shape of the toy made it easy to fit into place,
and Blackspark purred approvingly once it was in, lightly patting Soundwave’s
aft. “Good, Soundwave. Now… you jus’ enjoy that.”

When he applied his glossa to Soundwave’s valve again, he
could feel a hint of the vibrations. Soundwave would be feeling a lot more than a hint, and having the vibe in
his aft port meant Blackspark could lick at his valve unobstructed, lapping and
suckling at slick folds and gently pressing inside. Mm- it was things like this
that made him strongly consider adding a vibe mod to his glossa, if he wasn’t
worried that he’d cut himself on his own fangs. No need for a vibe toy then.
The added weight of an aft plug was nice, though.

Soundwave hadn’t shown any particular response to the little
toy, only obliged Blackspark’s request, but the vibrations in combination with
Blackspark sucking on his node had his legs shaking. Outright panting,
Soundwave shuddered and shifted his weight, supporting himself more on his arms
as his knees refused to quite obey. He was near overstimulation, but
deliciously so, and his speakers gave a strange crackling noise almost like a
moan as Blackspark pressed deeper.

Not surprising, it wasn’t long before Soundwave overloaded
with a cry entirely made of static. His knees almost gave out before Blackspark
caught him, and he shuddered and purred, curling
to the side as he slumped to the ground. Deliberately- that was where
Blackspark was.

“Yeah- I gotcha,” Blackspark muttered, supporting the lanky
frame with his own, and helped Soundwave down onto the padded floor. “Told ya I’d
make yer knees give out. Hold still- lemme turn that toy off. There we go. I like that thing- take it you do, too?”
he chuckled, lightly patting the base of the turned-off plug, but made no
effort to pull it out. “We’ll just leave that there a bit. You are gonna stay
right down here, relax, an’ I am gonna be sure you come back outta subspace for
me. You feelin’ alright? Anythin’ hurt more than it oughta? Shouldn’t be
anything hurting, not really, just a li’l sore.”

Soundwave nodded, curling so that his helm was in Blackspark’s
lap, and extended his datacables to grab the bounty hunter. Engines purring, he
curled around Blackspark, then flicked demandingly at a particular subspace
hatch until Blackspark laughed and pulled out an energon cube to give him. And
a straw. Blackspark evidently carries straws.

“I’m takin’ this as you bein’ fine. Still, I want you to
rest a li’l bit. After you get some rest… round two? I can spike you, you can
spike me- Pit, you can try spankin’ me if you want, I can give you some
pointers. Got any other kinks you wanna try out?” Blackspark chuckled,
half-joking, and grinned a sharp-edged grin as Soundwave nodded.

He was more than up for whatever else that would be. Maybe he
was halfway joking, but he didn’t make sexy jokes that he wouldn’t be entirely in favor of following through
on. Partly because sometimes people took things like “let’s see what happens if
I spank you” as actual suggestions, and when they did, it was fun.

Soundwave, for his part, had zero regrets. Blackspark didn’t
discuss interface partners who didn’t want to be discussed, and he already knew
Soundwave didn’t want to be. He could keep secrets, and was far from the type to
take advantage of potential blackmail material unless someone had done
something he considered to be a serious moral wrong. His morals were closely
aligned with Soundwave’s, so that wouldn’t be happening. Plus, none of his
blackmail material (most of which Soundwave had seen) was about interface
preferences. He considered that an extremely low blow.

And, as for the physical aspects… mm. Soundwave felt…
pleasantly light. Relaxed. His aft plating and valve rim ached slightly, but it
was an enjoyable ache, and the strange sensation of the toy in his aft port was
nicer than he would have expected. He’d accepted the toy with the vibrations in
mind, and because he hadn’t felt like refusing something merely because he had
no strong desire to try it, but the stretch of the plug itself had turned out
to be fairly nice. He… might have to see if Blackspark knew where to get
another of these toys for his own use. Could make a nice counterpart to his own
data-cable in his valve.

And, as for trying out another kink… he had something in
mind. Wouldn’t mind a round two. Or three.

For now, though, he was going to enjoy the lingering
floating sensation and curl up with his helm in Blackspark’s lap. He could
trust Blackspark not to laugh, poke fun, gossip, or murder him in his sleep.
Roughly 57% of that tough attitude was an act hiding a genuinely kind spark.

A genuinely kind spark that was now manifesting in
Blackspark stroking Soundwave’s audial fins as he drifted off. Not at all objectionable.

Mm.