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The pound

Chapter Text

Through a drug induced haze, Vortex follows the mech before him, unable to do much else. He is in the middle of the line, Onslaught's tall frame visible as a blurr a couple of mech's further to the front.

He stagger as he startle, gyros out of whack from the heavy drugs, when one of the guards gropes his rotors, as if it is his right, and it earns him a shock from his collar.

"Keep in line, glitch!" The guard snarl.

"Where are we going?" He slurr, the interrogator tired from his low fuel levels, lack of recharge and the drugs.

"Oh, cheer up. We're going to meet your destiny." One of the guards cackle.

His rotors are grabbed again. He hates it. Rotor petting is intimate stuff.

He doesn't know it yet, but his rotors will be the least intrusive of the molestation he will come to suffer.

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His pedes are magnetized to the floor of a small podium, the magnacuffs around his wrists hooked to a chain suspended from a metal beam above them. It is hard to see, his visor swimming, but the closest mechs he can make out, and they are in the same position he is.

The chain is yanked upwards, stretching him to his full length. The movement makes Vortex sway in his lack of balance, but that just strains his shoulder joints and he is forced to try to remain standing by his own power.

Unicron, he is so tired.

A cable is jammed into his medical port and his interface plate retracts without him having a say. He squirm, but it only serves to hurt his already strained shoulders.

The guard unplugs the device he used and slips his digits into Vortex's valve. He barks a laugh.

"This must be the battleship whore! He ain't sealed."

He writes something on a datapad on a stand next to Vortex and continue to the next mech, leaving Vortex in his exposed position.

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The hours later find him prone in the same position. The room is full of Autobots. Milling around. Looking at the prisoners. Sometimes touching. Apparently that is allowed, as long as the purpose is to "decide if the merchandise is up to standard."

One look at the datapad next to Vortex has a lot of mechs moving on without groping him. It is a small relief. He can hear the mech behind him whine in distress on more than one occasion. It is always followed by the laughter of the Autobots currently checking him. Vortex knows that many of his fellow Cons are still sealed, and this must be extra humiliating to them. 

They had been through a thoroughly degrading exam when they were booked in prison. The examination here, both by the guards and the rest of the attendants, is redundant. The Bots already know who is sealed and who isn't. This is just for their sick pleasure of degrading their enemies.

He tries to tell himself that it doesn't mean anything when digits invade him again. He fail.

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Still dazed from drugs, Vortex notices that the mechs circling the room has gathered around a stage. It is blurry, but it is impossible not to recognize the mechs sitting side by side on a couple of thrones to the side of the stage. 

Sentinel and Optimus.

Dirge is pulled up onto the stage by a guard, struggling weakly, trying to cover his array with clearly injured servos.

"Dirge, Seeker, Conehead trine. Minor damage to the servos. No seal, but who is surprised? He's a Seeker, if you know what I mean?" A voice says cheekily over the speaker system, the crowd roaring with laughter. "Anyway, the record states that he's talented with his glossa." A sinful laugh from the speaker is followed by a murmur of conversation from the audience.

Bidding starts.

Vortex is stunned. They are being auctioned off? Whatever happened with "Freedom is the right of all sentient beings"? Because that sounds quite good right now. He stares at Optimus in shocked horror. The big mech follows the proceedings on the stage.

Dirge is being pulled off the stage by his new owner, another Con being wrangled to take his place to be sold.

"Hey, no interfacing here! Go to the reception, we have rooms to rent by the hour." The speaker says to Dirge's new owner. 

In his drugged state it is hard to tell, but Vortex thinks he sees a glint of disgust in Optimus' face. But he may be wrong.

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"I'll take him." Optimus' voice carries without a microphone and speaker.

Starscream is on stage, wings fluttering in a fear he tries his damnedest to hide. Sentinel raises an optical ridge.

"I thought you would have had enough to last a lifetime of his screechy voice when you were still on Earth. Is there some history you're not telling?"

"If you're questioning my loyalty, just look around you. I deactivated Megatron. I won the war. I brought the Decepticons back to face justice." There is a steely edge underlining Optimus' light banter.

"'face justice indeed."

Sentinel leers and the crowd roars again. He is reaping the spoils, using his position as Prime to get first dibs on whatever Con he feels like having and he  already own a stable of Decepticon slaves. 

Optimus' crew still has opted not to claim any slaves, even though they are allowed to choose one each for free, first choice, saying they don't want the hassle of owning. But here Optimus is, taking the Air commander for himself. Maybe he's setting the example for his subordinates. They did win, after all. Vortex still can't believe his audials.

"Well, I guess you can always disable his vocalizer. He do have pretty wings... No seal, though."

"I figure there must be a reason for Megatron to keep him around for all these vorns in spite of his hideous voice and persistent treachery." Optimus states, sneer on his faceplates.

And so, the deal is sealed, even though Starscream isn't.

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Thundercracker's functioning is pain. The Seeker is hanging limply, arms restrained up and to the sides with wires from the ceiling, the looped wires cutting into his wriststruts. The pain is so overwhelming, he hardly feels it anymore.

In the beginning of the session, he jerked and jolted every time the energonwhip lashed the expanse of his sensitive wings, but not any more. He is too low on energy to even try to stand, to try to get away. He's just hanging there, waiting for the customer of his owner to be done with this, to be aroused enough to drop him to the floor and defile his frame.

He has stopped counting how many times he's been through this, how many mechs take enough pleasure in hurting and degrading one of Megatron's top Seekers to pay handsomely for the opportunity to bind, whip and frag him any way they want.

He land in an ungraceful heap, too deep in his own processor to be ready when his restraints are finally released. His hip takes the majority of the impact and Thundercracker yelps. 

"Yeah, Decepticreep, scream for your betters."

The truckformer hikes his hips up and press the Seeker's faceplates into the floor. When the Autobot's massive spike stretches Thundercracker's sore valve, he does whine pitifully, but it's not enough for the Autobot. His burnt wings are bent and twisted until he does scream and that is what makes the mech finally overload.

The Seeker is left on the floor, but not before the mech has pushed his digits into Thundercracker's valve to gather the transfluid and energon pooling inside him.

A nasty smile meets his optics when he looks up at the truck and then the mixture is smeared across his faceplates, digits pushed into his intake.

"It's a good look on you, former officer."

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The once blue Seeker, repeated injuries has him stripped to bare metal by now, has found that his prejudice against grounders has gone out the window since his capture.

When he finally is dragged back to their dark cell, they wait for him, all worried fields and hovering servos. Wildrider might be a little out of his processor, but both he and Drag strip has sort of adopted the flyer as a stand in for their brothers. Or maybe it is real concern. This new nightmare of a functioning does stuff to any mech's way of thinking.

As groundframes, and grunts, they are not as popular as he is among the customers and mostly they have more time to recover between sessions. So they hoard some of their energon and stock up on what medical supplies they are offered, trading slower healing of their own wounds for the resources to take care of him to the best of their ability. For that, he is grateful.

When he is thrown inside, like a ragdoll out of favor with it's immature sparkling for an owner, they hurry to rearrange him for better comfort, fueling him extra to help his self repair kick in and they take stock of his injuries.

The burns on his wings will be smeared with nanite gel, the worst dents coaxed away with careful servos and, with his spoken permission, his valve will be cleaned and smeared with the gel too.

Thundercracker gives in to the pain and dozes off, trusting the two racers to take good care of him.

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Vortex isn't sold. In fact, many of the larger frames are not. Nor the ones unsealed. He thinks he'll be taken back to his dark and clammy prison cell, but he is not.

The prison guards herd them out of the transport and they are met by four big grounders. Vortex doesn't know any of them. One of them alternate between staring at him in a way he doesn't like and glancing sideways at one of the guards with a tiny quirk to the corners of his mouth. As if they are speaking over comms.

One of the grounders grab the datapad one of the guards hands him, flipping through it quickly, signing it. Then they are taken inside.

White metal tiles and fluorescents makes it almost blindingly light. In the middle of the hallway is a medical slab, visible from all the stalls. The others are pushed into a stall each. Vortex is left outside.

"Welcome to the pound, gentlemechs! We are the caretakers here." One of the grounders say with a grandiose flourish indicating the room and his people.

"So, here's the deal. Nobot wanted you on the auctions, and frankly, I can see why." He chuckles. "Keeping mechs in prison is costly, so we have made a deal with the council. Those unsold, or relinquished by their owner, are sent here. We try to sell you, to a lower price of course. If a home can not be found in a month, your time is up and you are deactivated. If we find you unsellable for other reasons, for example bad behavior, before your time is up, you are deactivated. Questions?"

A pin can be heard dropping as horror dawn on all the Decepticons. There won't be a trial.

But it can still be worse, as things turn out. 

Still reeling from what his reality has become, Vortex is wholly unprepared when he is slammed down over the medical berth and digits are shoved into his valve.

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"No, please! Don't." Vortex cries out as the prison guard steps behind him.

"Oh, I will. I have wanted this since the first time I laid my optics on you. But I guess you don't remember. You interrogated me once, you sick fragger."

Vortex's drugged processor spins and he cries out again when the guard's spike slam into his unprepared valve. Sure, he has interrogated mechs, forcing download of data. That was work. He has never done this. This is personal, and it hurts. He tries to struggle, but somebot wraps a leg around his to keep him spread and his rotors are grabbed. He is intensely aware that everybot is watching.

"But how are you going to sell me after this?" Because that might actually make them stop, no matter how foul it feels in his vocalizer.

One of the caretakers snicker, an ugly sound of amusement.

"Bots come here to buy secondhand slaves. If they find a sealed mech here, they're lucky. But you weren't sealed, so it doesn't matter who, or how many, you've been fragged by. They're fine with making a great bargain for a common whore."

The guard finishes, shooting his transfluid over Vortex's back. The helicopter shivers as it drips down through his plating, feeling hot and sticky against his protoform. A big servo covers the side of the helicopter's helm and holds him down against the slab. 

Then a bigger frame steps behind him and he is once more filled.

"Get used to it, Vortex. This is all you are good for now."

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"You know, this one is still sealed but he's so fragged up in the helm that he's still unsellable."

"Yeah, and that one's so negative, I want to shoot myself rather than listen to him."

Vortex's interest is drawn by the voices of the caretakers. He looks down the hall and sees two of them standing outside the stalls furthest away.

"Hey boss! These mechs' time is up and we don't think there's any point in extending it!" One of them yell.

"You know what to do, then." It is yelled from the office, like he doesn't even care enough to get out there and consider it.

Vortex watches as they pull a blue mech from his cell. He knows this one from earth. Breakdown. They young fighter was already here when Vortex arrived. The paranoid Stunticon flail and tries to get loose, tries to go back into his cell.

"No! Please!" His voice cuts off into incoherent wailing as he cowers on the floor.

"Should we unseal him first?" One of the caretakers ask, clearly amused.

"Would be a shame for him to never experience interfacing..." The other agrees.

Vortex watch them flip the mech on his front, one of them kneeing his legs apart. Breakdown warble in pain as one of the caretakers hilt himself in his valve in one stroke, the other holding him down. The mech finishes quickly with a grunt they all have become familiar with.

"Tight! Your turn."

They switch, and Vortex offline his visor, disgusted. His tanks roil with what little is in them. He hear the telltale grunt when the second one finishes and online his visor again, Breakdown laying whimpering and defeated on the cold floor.

One of the caretakers get up and fetches a syringe. It snaps Breakdown back from wherever he has retreated and he renews his struggle. They easily overpower him, he is low on fuel, as they all are, and his power output is reduced. They all got this tweaking of their code when they were examined and fitted with shock collars. The needle is slipped into a fuel line.

"No, please don't!! I'll be good! You can frag me every day, I won't struggle anymore! Please!" Breakdown wails.

The plunger is pushed.

It takes a few seconds before panicked optics starts to get dim, then the blue frame slumps, limbs twitching. Vortex watches in horror as the frame starts to go gray. Then Motormaster's pained keen break the silence that has fallen over the ward.

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The gray frame of Breakdown is dragged into an adjacent room, one that Vortex thinks is storage of trash and he is horrified by how little a mech is worth here.

Then Dead end is pulled out of his stall, the mech not putting up much resistance.

"I knew this would happen." He mumbles.

Motormaster screams. The massive truck throws himself against the energy bars in panic, the smell of burnt plating spreading.

"No! Dead end! Dead end!! Please don't! Don't kill him!" The gestalt leader's voice rises in pitch and volume until it's an unintelligible scream of pure anguish.

"Shut your vocalizer, or you'll be on today's to do list too!" One of the caretakers snaps at Motormaster.

The truck curls up and disengages his vocalizer with an audible click, frame still shaking hard enough to rattle his plating.

In spite of seemingly having given up and accepting his own demise, when it comes to the last shot he will ever get, Dead end still struggles and that makes it all the more sparkbreaking. The prospect of imminent deactivation suddenly made real makes even the gloomy mech fight for his functioning.

It doesn't help. He crumples to the ground, his transfluid covered frame graying all too soon and chills goes through Vortex at how easily and efficiently a spark is extinguished.

He watches Motormaster shiver silently, arms wrapped around his massive chest as if to hold himself together.

The guards go for midday energon. Business as usual.

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Vortex curls up in the corner of his cell, trying to recharge. His chronometer is disabled, so he can't tell how long he's been here. Or try to figure out when his end will come.

Autobots comes and goes, some buying one of the Cons, but nobot looks at him more than just a cursory glance as they pass. He sees other Cons being used by the caretakers, hears the cries, the pleading and the grunts of satisfaction. He is used himself.

Onslaught was bought. Prowl, of all mechs, came in and left with the commander on a leash. At least the praxian isn't big enough to hurt the truck when interfacing. Much. If he isn't pit-bent to do it.

Vortex wonders where Blast off is. They were separated in that last fight before their capture and he hasn't seen the aloof shuttle since before prison. He kind of misses the haughty fragger. Vortex never appreciated him enough, he's come to realize. Right now, he would give a few of his rotor blades to curl up next to the shuttle and submerge himself in that powerful EM field. Blast off's field is cold and very still, as if deep space somehow lingers on him, and Vortex needs that comfort right now, the silence of that particular mech. At least he isn't offline, Vortex would know through the gestalt bond.

He just wishes he could recharge, but then the defrags comes. Of Breakdown. Of Dead end. Of his gestalt mates meeting the same fate. Of digits and spikes invading his frame. Of fluid sticking to him for days before somebot deigns to wash him. And the washings that are often worse than the stickiness. It was so much easier in prison, when he was drugged.

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The little black and white grounder truly wishes he had been deactivated in that last fight back on the organic mudball. Back then, he'd hated the dirt and the water and the humans but now... Now he would do anything to go back. No, really, anything.

Curled up in "his" corner, Barricade shivers so hard his plating rattles and that is bad because it might raise his owner's ire, but he just can't stop. His spark spins wildly in absolute terror.

He has no routine to rely on, to keep him sane. No stability in knowing he will be beaten in the morning and fragged in the evening and abandoned in between. 

Being literally the first Decepticon to be sold, he has been enslaved longer than anybot else and, mech, has he been punished.

His owner states that he is one of Barricade's interrogation victims, but this torture far outdrive anything Barricade has ever done and the Mustang has come to realize that the mech is a pathological sadist. What is worse is that he isn't clumsy or disorganized.

No, he is structured in a completely unpredictable way, leaving Barricade unable to rest, in constant apprehension of what will happen and when. And the mech is dead set on breaking the Saleen. Barricade is ashamed to admit to himself that it is working.

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"Look at me, Barricade." The voice is soft, belying the sharp claw digging into the protomesh under the Saleen's chin to lift his helm.

He forces all his optics to focus on his owner.

"Didn't I tell you to be quiet? Hmh?"

"I-I, y-yes, Master. For-forgive me." His voice is laced with static, plating still rattling. It's uncontrollable.

"And yet you continue to disobey the simplest commands. Look at you, still clattering away." A soft touch to his audial.

"I-I'm so sorry, Master, I d-don't mean to." 

"Well, sorry doesn't make the pain in my audials go away. You hurt me when you fail me. I try to be good to you, and all you do is disobey me."

"I don't mean to! Master, please! Mercy." Barricade's vocalizer glitches in panic when the servo on his audial tightens painfully.

"Ah-ah. Your words are redundant. What you need is to be punished. Reminded of your place. Now, I'm getting the whip. You get on your knees and spread them, servos on the back of your helm." 

Barricade scrambles to obey, kneeling with his back to his owner.

"The only sound you're allowed to make is helping me count, otherwise we start over. Understood?" 

Barricade nods his response. Quiet. Like a good slave. The thought festers in his processor.

"Good. We're going all the way to ten. Now, that might seem harsh, but it really is such an easy rule to follow. I shouldn't have to do this at all, you know that." The horrible, soft voice he's come to hate.

As if his owner doesn't enjoy this.

The first strike fall across his shoulder tire, but Barricade manages to stay silent even as his frame jerks from the burn.

"One." He pants, bracing for the next lash.

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He should've known he'd be set up for failure. With relief he counts the ninth lash. Just one more

The tenth snakes between his legs and fall across his ever bared array, sending burning pain through his sensor net.

Barricade wails, breaking his pose and crumples to the floor, curling up in pure agony. His owner heaves a sigh in mock exasperation.

"You're just hopeless. What am I going to do with you?"

Begging is useless. His owner already has a plan, as always. He is dragged across the floor, a cruel grip on his shoulder wing and he can't stop the panicked keen that leaves his vocalizer. Brutal wrenching of his arms and his servos are quickly cuffed behind his back, his collar hooked to a ring in the floor. A spreader bar between his knees, chained to the same ring to prevent him from stretching out.

Face against the floor, aft in the air, he finds himself whimpering, because the opportunity for cruelty is endless when he's bound like this. He knows that from experience.

A mockingly gently stroke over his bare array, the burn from the whip still raw and painful, is followed by his owner's amused chuckle. Digits invade his valve and he jerks as nodes are expertly teased. Burning with shame, he feels himself go wet.

"I know that you are nothing but a filthy pleasuredrone, but I think it's time you realize that yourself."

Something magnetizes over his anterior node and the once proud warrior gasp as it starts to vibrate, sending unwanted pleasure through his frame.

He steels himself for the intrusion of his owner's spike but it doesn't come. Instead, he gets a condescending pat on his hip before his owner moves away.

"You are allowed to beg for release, nothing more."

Sitting down in a chair, his owner watches the Saleen warring with his frame as his charge slowly rises.

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He's gasping quietly, the only sound he dares to make, when the door chimes. Barricade jerks to turn but it only yanks his collar. He hear pedesteps, several of them and voices and he hates that he can't move away, can't hide how lubricant is dripping down his thighs by now.

"Now that is a sight for sore optics." One of his owner's friends.

"And tonight, he may be yours to have too." There's malicious glee in his owner's voice.

"What's the catch?" Another of his owner's friend's.

"He just has to stop being a stubborn little glitch and ask for it."

"Guess we won't have to wait all that long for that piece of Con shareware to decide. Look at him dripping." The derision in his owner's friend's voice is unmistakable.

Barricade shudders in revulsion at what his owner implies. He's not going to beg for their disgusting servos, their nasty spikes.

Then his hips jerks when the vibration notches up to a more powerful buzz and his faceplates burn in humiliation at the round of laughter it brings.

They all watch him shiver, shoulder wings twitching, and he feels his frame shake with tension from the coiling charge and he hates his own frame for betraying him like this when he feels the lubricant starting to form a puddle at his knees.

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"Master, please." His voice is laced with static and defeat.

"'Please' what, Barricade? What do you want?" There's amusement in his owner's voice as he watches Barricade struggle. 

Barricade doesn't dare to point out how little this is about what he truly wants.

"I... I can't... No more. Please."

"I can't help you if you can't say it." That mocking sing song voice.

The words burn in his vocalizer, his very spark. He wants to puke them up and spit them out like poison. But he can't.

"I-I need you... I need you to 'face me."

"I'm not sure I'm in the mood... My friends might take pity on a needy whore, such as yourself, though. If you ask nicely." 

Barricade grinds his denta, face burning in shame. He wars with himself, his own frame. His need wins out, the charge burning painfully in his systems by now.

"Can somebot, please, 'face me?" 

They laugh when he shivers, disgusted by himself, EM field heavy with self loathing, valve still dripping.

Then four mechs rise as one from their front row seats to his humiliation to actively partake in his degradation.

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The collar is unhooked from the floor and his upper body is lifted by a shouldertire, a fully pressurized spike glistening with pre-transfluid presented to his face. The back of his intake burn with the need to purge, but he takes the spike into his intake anyway, mindful of his denta, and circles it with his glossa. He is immediately rewarded with the vibrator picking up speed and he overloads, moaning as the painful charge is finally reduced. It isn't enough, though.

"Such a good little pleasurebot, overloading from just sucking a spike." Somebot purrs.

They laugh at him as he whines around the spike. Digits drag over his wet thighs, smearing his own lubricant onto his aft and back. The vibration doesn't let up and he bucks involuntarily. A spike sinks into his valve with an obscene wet noise and he overloads again to their mocking jeers.

"Shareware! You like being filled with Autobot spikes."

He wants to protest, but he can't. Not with a spike in his intake. Somebot places his spike in Barricade's still bound servos and starts thrusting, but he is distracted by the spike in his intake spilling spurts of bitter transfluid over his glossa. He swallows some before the spike is pulled out to cover his face with streaks of warm degradation. His tire is released and he buckles back down on his face as the spike in his servos shoot fluid over his arms and back and they bark with laughter as his frame chooses that moment to overload again.

"You like this, admit it."

He offlines his optics in shame, but they online again in shock as a digit dip into his wasteport.

"No, please don't!" He whines.

The digit slides into him, slick with his own dripping lubricant, as the spike in his valve thrusts and the vibration is going steady... He overloads

"Pleasuredrone, overloading for anything. Never thought you would like that."

"No, I don't!" He protests weakly.

"Then why did you overload? You're just protesting to cover up that you're such a buymech that you like it."

He feels the spill in his valve as it stretches him and when the spike retracts, the wetness start to run down his legs but it is stopped when somebot places a seal on his valve. He shudders again in horrified revulsion.

The mechs behind him shift place and the digits slipping out of his port is his sole focus before something bigger and blunter presses against the opening. He braces himself for pain, but the mech is slow when entering, allowing the strained port to adjust and he whines in disgust when he realizes why the mech is so careful because the vibration on his node picks up and he feels his charge rising.

The mech stops before he's fully inside and Barricade can feel his calipers fluttering, trying to push the intruding object out, but it's impossible. The vibration stops and he lets out a desperate keen because now he's aching for release, teetering on the edge.

"Please, no, please." He moans.

"'Please', what?"

"I need... Please, let me overload." Begging for it tastes like acid and dirt but his frame craves the overload.

He writhes as much as his restraints allow to get some friction on his node, it is impossible, of course, but he gasps when he rocks back, accidentally hilting the spike inside him of his own volition. He warbles in defeat when they praise him for it, as if he meant to do it, but it touches something inside him...

He overloads again. Hard. They are roaring with laughter and mocking him, because 'only pleasuredrones are coded to overload from that and he obviously likes it' and he whimpers in disgust and shame of the reactions of his frame.

His overload triggers the other mech's and he feels the fluid spilling, sees the rise in his wastetank levels in his HUD. The spike finally slides out, leaving him filled with their fluids in all his cavities.

The vibrator is removed, as is his restraints. Barricade rolls over onto his back, sore and filthy, disgusted with his own frame, how it reacted to them. They all stare at him and he cringes, because somehow he just knows that it isn't over yet.

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"A very nice little show. Charged me up really good. On your knees." His owner says. 

Barricade is quick to obey and his owner pets his helm as he holds his spike out for Barricade. The Saleen opens his intake, because what choice does he have?

"So eager, doesn't even have to be asked." Somebot leers.

His Master frags him. Holds his helm with a soft grip and ruts slowly into his intake, savoring the humiliated teek in Barricade's field when he obeys the order to touch himself. His Master pushes in deep when he overloads and the other mechs are still watching, taunting, as the Saleen is forced to swallow while he overloads himself. You like this! He's pushed off the spike as soon as it's over and crumples to the floor.

"Such a mess you made, whore. You need to clean up after yourself." His Master says.

Barricade looks around. The floor is a mess of his fluids and theirs but he has nothing to clean it with. His Master smirks and raises an optical ridge.

"You have a glossa. Use it."

It's unbearably disgusting and he almost retches, but what can he do? Slowly, hesitantly, he rolls to all fours and touches his glossa to the floor. It tastes bitter of transfluid and humiliation and they laugh at him as he laps at the puddles of his own lubricant and their fluids.

He's not allowed to clean himself or take away the seal on his valve and he feels their fluids sloshing around inside him as he moves, the stickiness clinging to his protoform and plating. The lashes on his back still burns.

When they finally leave him alone, he curls up in his corner and offlines his vocalizer to stop the static and warbles as he, for the first time in centuries, cries himself into recharge, knowing that there is not a single inch of his frame that is his own anymore.

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When Starscream is dragged off the stage, he wonders if his drugged processor is playing a prank on him. Was he just bought by Optimus Prime?

He's dumped in a holding cell and the lack of groping servos between the stage and the cell is refreshingly new in this world order, but it doesn't make him feel more secure. After all, who would want to be called out on sullying the Prime's latest toy?

His wings tremble, because this is so very unpredictable. Starscream has been under the heel of a tyrant for a great part of the war but this... Optimus is an unknown evil. Not that the Seeker has ever thought the Autobot commander to be the cruel type.

On the other servo, he never thought Optimus to be the type to buy a slave either... So much for all the talk and all the bluster about freedom.

The lack of slavecoding confused him at first after his capture, when he realized that the weren't going to trial but was kept as possessions, but he has come to realize that a great number of Autobots doesn't want a slave who falls into heat and comes crawling, begging to be interfaced two times a week. Disturbingly many seem to take great pleasure in breaking their slaves before taking them. He's seen Sentinel and other members of his guard throw Decepticons down and fragging them with force before dragging them off to whatever dungeon they're going to function in.

The question is what Optimus will do. Does he want a forever wet valve, a needy Seeker at his beck and call? Will that pet medic of his do a little work on Starscream's coding, leaving him nothing more than a fancy pleasuredrone?

Or will he pick up where Megatron left off when he was deactivated and beat the slag out of him? Will he take it further and enjoy raping the ex Air commander? Use his spike to really grind in that Starscream lost?

The Seeker shudders. The drugs makes it hard to think, but what he manages to ponder just makes it worse.

Left alone in his cell, he curls up and waits for his new owner to fetch him. The other cells remain empty. It seems most mechs are picked up right away. He can't decide if it would feel better to get it over with than to sit here and wait.

Chapter Text

The Seeker is roused out of recharge as a guard is leashing him and his optics resets a few times before he can focus.

They are more careful with him than before, leads him slower and makes sure that his finish isn't scratched as he's taken out to a groundtransport. He still finds himself loaded in a crate, but he is too tired to really care, low on energon and recharge as he is.

Optimus Prime joins him after a few minutes, slumping on a seat. The Autobot doesn't even acknowledge that he's there and once upon a war, Starscream would have been offended.

Now, though, he isn't. The longer his enemy turned owner ignores him, the longer he is safe and he forgoes his first instinct to raise his raspy voice and ask where they are going, why Optimus is doing this, why he wants the Winglord of Vos.

A nasty little voice in the back of his processor, sounding suspiciously like Megatron's, answers the questions for him. They're going to Optimus' mansion, because Optimus can and because who doesn't want to show the haughty Seeker his place: sprawled on a berth, like the good little whore he is.

Starscream wants to argue, but what point is there to argue inside his helm with a mech that is no longer online? He just hopes that the Prime won't be too rough and that he'll be given more of these drugs, because Megatron was quiet up until they started wearing off.

Chapter Text

By the time the transport stops, Starscream is feeling pretty ill. The drugs are wearing off and he's running on fumes. The withdrawal doesn't help with his apprehension as he's lead into the lobby of a highrise.

It would be embarrassing, if he wasn't feeling so sick, the Air commander of the Decepticon forces falling apart from following a mech that has yet to speak to him, and what's up with the silence? Starscream knows from intel that the Autobot leader spoke to his subordinates all the time, even as a way of punishment. Shouldn't he be speaking to his new Seeker?

He starts freaking out, fans rattling to life with a grinding sound that seems very loud in the cramped elevator and his wings trembles nervously.

The Prime still won't acknowledge him and it pulls a little whine from Starscream's vocalizer because it would almost be easier to handle whatever thrown at him than this awful waiting for the mech to make his first move. The door opens straight into the penthouse Optimus resides in and they are met by Ratchet in the hallway. 

Starscream turns on his heel to run for his functioning, because his apprehension just hit pure terror. They're going to reprogram him. There won't be anything left but a mindless pleasuredrone with wings.

There's no way to go. Only back into the tiny elevator, that probably won't allow him to ride it by himself anyway. Claustrophobia hits the Seeker, boxed in like this and he gasps for more air to cool his frame.

Big servos grabs him around the waist and lifts him easily, his weak struggles and flailing not even causing a pause as he's carried into the next room.

Chapter Text

Optimus holds him while Ratchet performs an examination of his frame.

"Starscream, hold still."

"B-but I was checked before the...the auction." The word tastes bad, but he doesn't want to go through that humiliation again.

"The mechs doing those 'examinations' are hardly even capable of doing a field dressing." Ratchet sneers with contempt.

"Stay still and let Ratchet work, or I will tie you down to get this done."

Starscream freezes up. So many bad things can happen to a tied up Con. He offlines his optics and pretend that it is Knock out working on him. He doesn't quite succeed, but Ratchet's servos are nothing but professional and careful when he works on the Seeker.

A wingtip is straightened, nanite gel is smeared on scrapes and old wounds that should have been welded a long time ago but has been left to self repair. Blunt digits in his valve has him stiffening, but he knows the drill and the medic doesn't do anything inappropriate, just a check up and some nanite enriched grease.

Ratchet plugs in to his medical port and scans his systems and swears.

"Fraggers has even locked his spike away!" He grinds out to Optimus, clearly outraged. 

"And you! You're running on fumes and the tail end of heavy tranqs! Why didn't you say something? You usually can't keep your vocalizer shut for five fucking minutes!" He snarls at Starscream.

The Seeker cowers back as much as he can, which isn't far when Optimus is still holding him, expecting a severe punishment. Ratchet is getting something from his subspace and Starscream braces for whatever will be dealt him.

He isn't ready for having a data stick jammed in a port on his arm and a field transfusion pack of energon magnetized to his plating and mainlined into his system. The program from the stick easily overrides his firewalls and slips into place and he feels woozy but much better than before as it somehow counteracts the adverse effects of the drugs and slips him into a comfortable haze.

He lazily tries to follow what the medic is tweaking in his systems, but his processor can't keep up. He does feel it when his interface plate transforms back into place, the controls unlocked and at his disposal again.

Then everything he's been through since his capture takes it's toll and he slips into recharge.

Chapter Text

When Starscream reboots an unknown time later, his chronometer is still out of order, he finds himself on a soft berth. A check through his systems reveal that he's still unmolested.

It doesn't ease the churning in his tanks. So Prime isn't a somnophiliac. Big deal. Maybe he wants his Seeker kicking and screaming.

He eases off the berth, muzzy from whatever Ratchet slipped him and recharge. His fuel levels are better than in about as long as he cares to remember.

Walking as quietly as he can, his joints are creaky and his fans rattle with nerves, he tries the door. It slides open for him and he looks up and down the hallway before exiting the berthroom. It seems safe, so he dares to leave and eases down the hall, ready It's stupid. He can't go anywhere or do anything. But that doesn't take away the base coding of flight or fight.

He finds the apartment empty. Not even a cleaning drone bustling about. The last room seems to be a refuelling room: an energon dispenser, cubes and flutes, cupboards with additives and energon treats. His intakes water even though he's not low on fuel. It's been a long time since he had anything like this.

On the table, there's a note.

"Starscream. Help yourself to anything you want." It's signed by Optimus.

It has to be a trap, a set up. He doesn't dare to take anything, knowing that if he eats just one of the delectable treats he won't be able to stop until all are gone and that will be bad, he's certain of it.

He leaves instead, going for the washracks. Surely Optimus won't object to having a clean Seeker?

Chapter Text

Motormaster is writhing on the floor in his stall, clawing at his chestplates. It is obvious that the mech is in pain, that he's mourning.

"The frag is wrong with him?" The boss of the caretakers asks, annoyed more than anything.

"Don't know, he started behaving like that when we put the racers down. Hasn't stopped since, but at least we got him to shut up." One of the others shrugs.

"Huh. Weird."

"It isn't. He was a gestalt leader. They were components in his team." Vortex says, wary of attracting attention but needing to speak up. This might happen to him too. Or his gestalt mates.

"So this would happen to an entire team if we were to deactivate one member?" The boss asks.


Vortex is wary, doesn't like the way they look at him. On the other servo, he never likes them looking at him. Sometimes they get ideas.

"How do you know?" 

"I'm part of a gestalt." 

Vortex is surprised that they don't know this. Even the Autobots had gestalts on Earth, they have to know how that works, who of the Decepticons are gestalt mechs.

"Frag, boss! Then we can't get rid of him either when his time's up." One of the others whines, staring at Vortex.

The Helo shudders. So that's what they have planned.

"I know!" The boss snarls. "I'll look into this. Don't feel safe yet." He sneers at Vortex.

The Helicopter backs away from the forcefield, hoping they won't want to take out their frustrations on his frame this time.

Chapter Text

His little grounders are broken and there's not a single thing he can do about it. Thundercracker stares at the Stunticon pile in the corner. It started earlier in what he guesses is the day, it's hard to tell without windows or a chronometer, but it was after recharge and before customers so he guesses it is daytime.

They both fell to the floor, writhing in pain, clutching their chests. A little while later, they got even worse. The only thing he's managed to get out of them is 'They're gone.' And he isn't quite certain what they mean, but he suspects that it has something to do with the gestalt bond. If it's broken, what does that mean? Has the Autobots come up with a way to break it? Or are the rest of the Stunticons deactivated?

It must hurt to do it, with all the injuries they have suffered, but they're interfacing the only way they can now: digits in each other's valve. Thundercracker sees it for what it is: reassurance that at least both of them are still online. Their chestplates pop and slide apart and they merge.

A selfish part of his processor that Thundercracker is ashamed to have is jealous. What wouldn't he give to have one of his trinemates here? They have all muted their bonds for each other's sakes but right now, the silence is like the void of space. He eases his bond open, not for the first time since they were separated, tentatively reaching out, afraid of what he'll find.

They're online.

He leaves it at that, not prodding deeper. He doesn't want them to notice, to respond and find out what shape he's in. They may be in the same bad state that he is, but they are still active and that's all he needs to know.

Chapter Text

Barricade is being relinquished. He can feel the optics of the Cons lined up in small stalls as his Master talks to the boss of the place but he stares at the floor, standing perfectly still and silent at his Master's side.

"He's very good, well behaved and all, but I'm getting bored. I am more interested in the actual process of training, rather than just owning a Con. I'm interested in trading him for something less... obedient." His Master says.

Barricade shudders, remembering his own training. He was so bad in the beginning, disobedient and stubborn. But his Master taught him well, taught him that even lowly scrap like Barricade can behave.

"So he is obedient?" The other mech seems a little sceptical.

"Why don't you take him for a test drive? He does whatever you want." His Master leers and Barricade snaps to attention. Better be ready if he's given a command.

"That's very generous of you." The big grounder sweeps his gaze over Barricade's frame. "On your knees and servos."

The Saleen obeys without hesitation, lubrication starting instantly. 

"Very good." The grounder praises him, clearly surprised.

His spike is big, but Barricade can take it, he's used to different shapes by now. His Master trained him well.

His charge rises when he's stretched and the nodes in his valve are stimulated by the spike.

The former interrogator should see it for the conditioned response it is. But his Master has trained him too well. 

When he overloads, he is certain that it is because he's nothing more than a whore who likes taking Autobot spikes.

Chapter Text

He's left alone. All the time. The Prime seems to be working a lot and Starscream isn't one to stare a gift cyberpony in the the intake.

He does what he can to avoid his new owner, and it's ridiculously easy. The mech never seeks him out. But it is getting weird. What little interaction they've had has included the Prime laying down the rules for his home: 'don't break anything, refuel as you need and want, don't go into my room.' And the room Starscream woke up in was apparently his own.

The Seeker holes up in there a lot. He gets energon when Prime seems to be out and stays on his berth, reading datapads he finds on his little excursions in the big apartment.

But he's getting bored. And lonely. Seekers are social. So he starts to spy on his owner. Padding softly to the doorways of whichever room the massive mech is currently occupying, peeping around the doorjambs to study the Prime, trying to see what is going on in his new and strange functioning.

The former Winglord of Vos comes up blank. The mech does what mechs do. Refuels. Works. Reads. Mundane things.

Nothing that implies imminent danger to Starscream's health and functioning.

But he's still uncertain, so he keeps hovering at the edges of Optimus Prime's life. Stealthily, like Ravage, watching and trying to figure out how to handle this.

Chapter Text

Vortex watches it for days and he's disgusted by what he sees.

He knows Barricade from back on Earth. Well, knows isn't quite right, Vortex knows fragbuddies and Team, and Barricade was neither. The Helo doesn't do 'friends', but he has always respected his fellow interrogator. The mech was good at what he did and fierce enough to keep his position among warframes far outmassing him.

Now, though... He hates the fake enforcer. Loathes the way he's let out of his stall because he behaves like a docile and obedient pet. He's thoroughly disgusted by the way Barricade allows their guards to take him, spreading his legs, bending over or kneeling to offer his intake willingly as soon as they ask.

The way the filthy Autobots are allowed to stick their spikes anywhere they want, the Con overloading from taking it in whichever port they are using for the moment.

He watches the little grounder quiver and overload as transfluid is spilling over his back and aft and Vortex feels like purging.

The little bastard is worse than a fragging turncoat during the war, because at least a traitor did it for a change in beliefs and mechs kept fighting for something. Even a traitor was still a free mech. Barricade is obviously enjoying his new position as a plaything, just holes to frag.

Vortex watches and feels his contempt and disgust for the little mech rise with every penetration, every overload, every condescending pat and praise the mech seems to soak up more eagerly than Earth cacti sucks rainwater out of desert ground.

And apparently the little fragger is too good to speak to the other Cons. He could probably find the opportunity to do so if he wished when he's let out of his stall, but he doesn't. Vortex silently watches and hates.

Chapter Text

The Helicopter gets his chance at revenge. They're finally let outside, into a pen surrounded by a strong forcefield. It's just a small yard, but it's better than the stalls and they're let out in groups.

The others tries to awkwardly enjoy each other's company, huddling together in smaller groups, using each other for comfort and as substitutes for their real teams or trines or whatever have you. The Decepticons have never been cuddlers with mechs outside their closest circle, but now most aren't so fortunate as to have those mechs around, so they settle for anyone not Autobot. Vortex doesn't.

His sole focus is the black and white mech standing by himself in the corner, staring through the forcefield. Vortex can be stealthy when he wants. Barricade doesn't notice the Combaticon sneaking up on him until the 'Copter pounces.

He grabs a shoulderwing and twists the smaller mech around quickly, pushing him to the ground when he's off balance. Barricade let's out a startled yelp, pedes kicking out as Vortex grabs his wriststruts and transfers the hold to one of his servos, straddling the squirming mech's legs to easily pin him.

"Let go of me!" Barricade whines.

Whines! He should be growling like a true Con! But he struggles amusingly and Vortex finds it a heady feeling to finally be in control of something, how easily he's pinning the mech formerly infamous enough to make mechs give him a wide berth.

He finds himself uncertain what to do, because this plan wasn't even half-cooked, but it's exciting and he watches the hated mech wriggling what little he can, whining pitifully and it's delightful.

Chapter Text

"What's the matter, Barricade, you don't want your fellow Cons?" Vortex hisses.

"No, please don't!" Barricade pleads.

Vortex scoffs. If he was human, he might spit in the Saleen's face in contempt. So the little mech is begging? Big deal. Vortex begs every time he's being violated, but that isn't the same. And it's useless.Surely, Barricade enjoys being fragged by the Autobots, or he wouldn't offer so willingly, now, would he?

The helicopter shifts, kneeing the grounders legs apart to straddle one leg, his larger frame easily overpowering Barricade's. The rush of power heats his frame. If only he could pressurize his spike now. But those programs have been deactivated and he resorts to grinding his bare array against a sleek thigh.

Vortex leans forward, pressing Barricade's wrists against the ground above his head and really pins the other mech.

"I remember what the humans used to call people like you." He switches to English, because the point will hit home better in that language. "You're a bitch. In so many ways. Look at yourself, getting fucked by Autobots, like a needy bitch in heat. And now I'm making you my bitch and you're so weak, you can't do anything about it."

He can't take the Saleen in any meaningful way, so he pushes four digits into Barricade's unprepared valve, the mech wailing in pain at the forceful intrusion. Vortex's fans roar to life because he's finally, finally, in control of something and that is arousing.

He pumps his servo, grinding against Barricade's thigh to chase release from his building charge, all the while snarling out what kind of slag the little grounder is. Vortex feels his completion drawing near, overload closing in...

He's dragged off and cuffed, his attention on the wailing, squirming Mustang so focused, he hasn't noticed the caretakers approaching. 

Chapter Text

Vortex is dragged off of him and Barricade curls up on the ground with a whimper, pain from his valve shooting through his systems. He hasn't been through anything like this before. His last Master was harsh in punishment but never sexually and it's another ache he didn't want to learn.

The experience rattles him, he's come to believe that as long as he behaves, no harm will come to him. But Vortex is a Decepticon, and Autobots are more righteous. They only hurt him when he deserves it. Right? But then why did they let this happen to him? He's been so very good since he got here. 

But he can hear their fans roaring and he saw that they were watching, optics bright with arousal and let Vortex do this without intervening.

He's dragged into the washracks, energon dripping down his thighs. Back against the wall, the caretakers are flushing his valve with solvent and examining him with intruding digits. It hurts, he's upset and for the first time in a very long time, he struggles.

"No, stop it! Please, it hurts!" He cries out, trying to squirm away, arms flailing.

He's backhanded so hard, he clatters to the floor with a wail, optics glitching.

"Shut up, glitch! Remember your place."

Shakes and shivers wracks his frame, but he offlines his vocalizer to refrain from making a sound when he's pulled to his pedes by harsh grips on his plating.

He really, really, doesn't want it, but he doesn't protest when the first one grabs his hips and lifts him, pressing his back against the wall and scraping his sore shoulderwing. He flinches when his torn valve is filled and let's himself go limp. At least there's only two more waiting for their turn.

Chapter Text

"So, what are you going to do now, Vortex?" The caretaker who dragged him back to his stall asks.

It's the new mech and Vortex is uncertain what will happen, how to deal with him. This one, a raceframe he thinks, has not participated in the rapes frequently occuring yet. Vortex doesn't know how to answer so he just stares and waits.

"Come on, I can see the charge crackling in your wiring all the way over here. Must be painful by now." The guard chuckles, clearly amused.

Vortex stares back without answering.

"Tell you what, I'll give you a choice. You can either stay that way; I'll leave you cuffed so you can't deal with it yourself." The guard's grin widens. "Or you let me 'face you to overload. Just a little release..."

A mockery of a choice.

"You think I'll spread my legs for you?!" Vortex's voice is strained with charge and that cuts out the venom he tries to put into the words. 

"I'll even throw in a little reward afterwards." The guard holds up a little bag of green powder and wiggles it.

Vortex wriggles to get friction on his valve, it's swollen and aching by now and he can feel lubricant dripping. It is futile, of course, and he whines in frustration. The guard watches him knowingly but just shrugs. 

"Suit yourself. Looong hours of suffering before the charge goes down. Or you short something out." He turns to leave, Vortex still cuffed.

Vortex knows manipulation when he sees it, it was his fragging job for millions of years. But the knowledge doesn't take away his charge and he can't reach to scratch this particular itch when cuffed...

"No, wait!"

Chapter Text

The guard turns back, optic ridge raised. Vortex wars with himself. It's just an overload to help himself, right? Not like he's offering it all around. And it isn't like he asked for it before the guard offered him a deal. And those drugs looks really friendly.

"Uncuff me." He turns his back to the guard, pretending not to see the smirk on his face.

The cuffs falls away and are subspaced.

"Bend over your berth."

He does, without protests. Braces his servos on the slab and spreads his legs. He shivers in pleasure when a servo grabs his shoulder for leverage and the spike slides inside, his lubricant making it a slick glide over his nodes. He mewls when the spike is hilted, grinding against his deepest nodes. Then the caretaker picks up the pace and Vortex is lost in the pleasure.

Servos working his rotors with experienced skill and transfluid spilling inside him tips him over the edge and he buckles down on the berth in a hard overload. The reboot brings new perspectives, ones he doesn't want.

What if Barricade is just as much a victim as he is right now? Is this why the Saleen is so willing? He just bent over willingly for one of his abusers, he's such a whore himself.

Then an even more disturbing realization strikes him.

He raped one of the mechs on his own side. He violated somebot already a victim, turned against one of those suffering alongside him. 

When the needle slips into his line, powder diluted in energon, he welcomes the escape from what he has become.

Chapter Text

He's being pulled out of their cell and he struggles weakly as Drag strip curls up in Thundercracker's arms, the Seeker holding back the former yellow mech from trying to stop the handlers that are getting Wildrider. It's for their own good, the punishment would be severe.

The gestalt mates have become very clingy since they felt the deactivation of Dead End and Breakdown, two bonds hanging frayed like severed wires . It messes up their gestalt coding, their team needs to be five mechs.

He's taken to one of the rooms where they 'service' customers and his servos are cuffed, the chain hanging from the ceiling, leaving him balancing on the tips of his pedes. 

"Be prepared to have your gears stripped today. I'm almost jealous. Well, of the 'facing part at least. Wouldn't want to live through the other things for all the credits and energon in the world with this particular customer, but Primus be damned if he isn't easy to look at." The guard leers before dismissing Wildrider from his attention, opening the cabinet with tools they provide the customers with.

Wildrider doesn't look, he already knows what's in there. The things are all for his pain and the other's pleasure. He stares at the door, waiting with apprehension for whoever will be using his frame tonight.

The handler leaves and lets another mech inside. Wildrider can't stop his plating from rattling in fear when a familiar mech comes to stand in front of him, scrutinizing his battered frame. He's been waxed but most of his paint is gone and he knows that he's a stark contrast to the perfectly polished mech standing there, silently watching him shake, face unreadable.

Wildrider knows this mech, knows he's one of the most ruthless psychopaths on Cybertron, Autobot or no. Blue optics hold his gaze and watches him break down into frightened warbles. Then the golden mech walks to the cabinet to look at the selection of tools and Wildrider offlines his optics, waiting for Sunstreaker to begin.

Chapter Text

"They check your injuries after I'm done?"

"Yes, very thoroughly." Wildrider tries to lie to hopefully spare him some pain.

He screams as the shock prod is jammed against the sensitive protoform of his side.

"Don't lie. I see the lack of welds on your plating."

The prod comes to rest against his array, the light current traveling through the tip when it is charging up tingling against the sensitive lips. It would be pleasurable if he wasn't close to panicking.

"They look a little to calculate when we can be used next time! As long as we're not halfway deactivated, they don't care! Please, don't do it! I'll answer anything!" He cries out in panic.

The prod is removed. Wildrider slumps in relief, but that strains his shoulders.

"So where are your brothers?"

He flinches.

"What is this, you want to play interrogator?" He deflects as he's cruelly reminded of the worst pain in his functioning.

The golden psycho chuckles.

"We can call it that." 

The prod is jammed on the inside of his thigh, high up and Wildrider screams. The stench of burnt circuitry spreads through the room.

"But you failed to answer me."

"I don't know! Dead End and Breakdown are offline, but I don't know why or where they were and Drag strip is here but I don't know where Motormaster is." He wails.

"Who else is here?"

The prod hovers, as if Sunstreaker is contemplating where to put it next.

"Thundercracker! I don't know who else, they keep us separated except those we share a cell with. I don't even know if there's more than us!"

"Good, little mech." Sunstreaker purrs. "Now, I remember a certain time when you fragged up my polish. Let's get this started now, shall we?"

He gets a whip from the cabinet and Wildrider offlines his optics and slumps in his chains, terrified for what will come, but too frightened to even beg for mercy.

Chapter Text

The high was glorious but coming down isn't. The shivers and flushes and nausea isn't that bad, he isn't a regular user, but it isn't sunshine and rainbows either and combined with being chased by vivid memories of the events leading up to this, it is more than Vortex wants to handle. If he just had a little dose, just a small one, to take the edge off, to forget that he is in a tiny cell, waiting to be sold or deactivated.

The new mech walks by and before he has even processed it, Vortex shouts for him.

"Hey! Wait."

"What's up, Vortex?"

"I... uhm. Do you have any more of that powder?"

"I do?" The guard drags out the last syllable questioningly, but a smile quirks his lip plates.

"Can I have some? Just a little, to take the edge off. Please." 

"What's in it for me?"

 Vortex has nothing to offer as payment and he says as much.

"Well... You do have a nice frame..." The caretaker leers suggestively and sweeps the Helicopter's frame with his gaze.

Vortex wars with himself. It's humiliating and vile and he really doesn't want to... But that little chemical escape is so tempting.

He's not a buymech, selling his frame! 

On the other servo, he will be fragged either way, if not by this mech then one of the others will probably make use of him. Why not get something out of it?

Because he's not a whore!

Chapter Text

When he finally decides, his tanks roil and he's burning with humiliation and he can't even say it out loud. Instead he just gets on his knees and elbows on his berth, burying his visor in the crook of his arm and waits for the caretaker to act.

He hears the forcefield switch off and on to admit the mech entrance, listens to the approaching footsteps, the sound of plating transforming away and swallow his self derision.

Something cold and slippery is smeared across his unlubricated valve slit and then his hips are grabbed. He flinches when the head of the spike noses the opening but he stays where he is, allows it to happen.

It sinks in easily, the added lubricant making up for his lack of arousal, and that makes it even worse, rubs in how it really has nothing to do with his pleasure, just payment. Every thrust is ramming home how low he's sunk, how he's resorted to bending over of his own volition and bartering his frame.

Vortex offlines his vocalizer to stop the humiliated warble that's threatening to slip free as he's brought lower than ever before. The transfluid spills inside him and drips to puddle on his berth when the spike slides out. It's disgusting.

"Your valve is so snug, I really like how it feels around my spike."

He doesn't want to hear that and the Helicopter lets himself fall limply to his side, in the puddle of slick fluid that remains as evidence of his shameful act. He gets a pat on the hip and he hates how condescending it feels.

Then nothing matters anymore, because a needle is slipped into a line in his neck and he's floating away in numb bliss.

Chapter Text

When Wildrider finally returns, Drag Strip checks him over anxiously, having picked up on the absolute terror his gestalt mate has been locked in for most of the time he's been away.

He's surprised to find the other racer in better condition than is normal after a session. He glances at Thundercracker, the Seeker equally bewildered.

Sure, Wildrider smells of burnt circuitry and has lashes across his back and thighs, but not to the extent they have come to think of as normal. His valve isn't dripping with various fluids either.

"What happened? I felt your fear but you look...ok." And how telling isn't it that they consider a newly beaten mech 'ok'?

"It was Sunstreaker. I thought he was going to slag me! Just kept waiting for him to really lay in to me but he just asked a few questions, and whipped me half-sparkedly. Didn't even frag me, just jerked off saying he didn't want to get close to my fragged up polish. I freaked myself out when I saw him" Wildrider tells as Drag strip smears gel on the burn marks from the whip and Thundercracker wipes away a stray spatter of transfluid.

"I heard rumors in prison that the Autobots from Optimus' Earth force didn't claim spoil. Seems they have no issues using our services, though." Thundercracker sneers contemptuously.

Drag Strip can see the frightened trembles in the Seeker's wings and he understands. Even if Sunstreaker didn't scrap Wildrider as badly as most of their customers, he still crossed the line and  used one of the Cons. And it marks a new low for them, when everybot seems to accept what is going on. He shudders.

"I miss Motormaster." Wildrider says in a small voice.

"Me too, Rider. Me too."

Chapter Text

"I want something else. Your valve is getting boring."

It's disturbingly easy when he sinks to his knees in front of the caretaker, transforming his mask away, revealing his faceplates for the first time to the Autobots. They didn't know he has a mouth, or his mask would probably be forcefully removed or locked open with coding. The caretaker looks delighted when Vortex leans in to lap at his panel.

The Helicopter tries to ignore how humiliating it is when the panel slides away and focus on the reward he'll get afterwards, the numb bliss that makes this seem like nothing more than a bad memory purge. 

It would happen anyway. He tells himself.

The spike slides into his intake, servos loosely hold his helm and he swirls his glossa to get it over with quickly. (To please his customer.) It tastes bitter of pre-transfluid, the cloying taste clinging to his intake. 

He has no choice.

The caretaker thrusts, hitting the back of his intake and he convulses with the reflex to purge, fighting to hold it back with a shiver. 

He isn't a buymech.

He hears the mech groan as the tubing of Vortex's intake squeezes his spike with another gag. 

He isn't consenting to this.

When his servos slide up the mech's thighs, thumbs dipping into seams to tickle cables, trying to bring the caretaker to overload quicker, (to please his customer) he almost sobs because it's so very, very clear that he's lying to himself.

Chapter Text

Motormaster is finally sold.

How they have found somebot willing to have him, he doesn't understand. Motormaster is so broken, his functioning nothing but sparkbroken pain. The caretakers are tired of his wailing, his writhing.

His new owner puts a hood over his helm before taking him out of the ground transport, making him unable to see, and he is close to panicking. They lead him into a building, he can sense walls and other mechs. The sounds are muffled, not just by his hood, but the surroundings seems to absorb sound. When they stop, they easily wrangle him down on a berth, there's three of them and his hydraulic pressure is altered, lowered.

Motormaster whines in distress when his servos and pedes are magnetized to the corners of the berth, but resistance is futile. 

He feels the pinprick in one of the energon lines in his arm and a warmth spreading and for a fleeting second he wonders if he's going to meet Dead End and Breakdown, but rationally he knows that his owner didn't buy him just to offline him.

His frame goes lax and he feels wonderful. The hood is pulled off and the ceiling is like a rainbow of colors and it looks plushy, like the clouds on Earth. It's so pretty. He smiles a dopey grin, pain forgotten and elation taking the place that was filled with despair.

Chapter Text

The colors in the ceiling are still so pretty. The walls, made of deep red drapes in velvet are pretty, but not as pretty as the ceiling. He smiles at it. It reminds him of Earth, and he's pretty sure the fabrics making up the cube that is his room now is imported from Earth. He remembers when he and his gestalt recreated the last stretch in the Dakar rally, racing down the beach in Senegal. It had been so fun, the sun warming their plating, the waves wetting the sand and their tire tracks stretching behind them for miles and miles.

He is brought back from his daydream when the mech on top of him grunts and overloads and it brings Motormaster to overload too. It feels good to overload.

He looks up at the mech adoringly.

"Thank you for making me overload." He murmurs.

The mech smiles nastily, and Motormaster can't understand why.

"You're welcome, Con."

The mech leaves and Motormaster looks back at the ceiling. A drone enters, if it's the same one every time or just identical drones, he doesn't know or care about. 

He feels the warmth spread through his lines as it pushes the plunger on the syringe, the needle permanently mounted on the back of his arm now. The colors in the ceiling swirls and he feels like he's floating.

Vaguely, he notices the drone pushing a cloth under his aft and sliding a hose into his valve. A rush of fluid stimulates his nodes inside and he moans as the mild solvent trails down his aft to be absorbed by the cloth as his valve is rinsed out.

He's wiped down and lubricant is sprayed inside his valve, on the rim and anterior node. It's conductive and by the time next mech climbs onto him, he's already tingling with charge.

Chapter Text

He's resold. Barricade really can't say if it's a good or a bad thing. He quietly follows the mech to the transport, hoping obedience will work with this Master.

The little Mustang is quite disillusioned by now. His first Master had shown him that as long as he behaved, he wouldn't be hurt and that had given him a false sense of control. But at the pound, he learned differently. The caretakers were nice in the beginning, because he always obeyed. Just like it should be, the little piece of Decepticon scrap that he is, low and humbly obedient to his Autobot betters.

But then Vortex did the Horrible things to him and he got bad and disobedient and the caretakers punished and used him in the worst kind of way. He hopes his new Master has no other Decepticons. They are unreliable.

He feels so lonely.

It's useless to think about it, to try to figure out what will happen. Whatever his new Master wants with him, he can do nothing about it but do his best to please the 'Bot.

He's snapped back from his thoughts when his new Master grabs his wriststruts and pushes him down on the seat in the ground transport and hilts his spike in Barricade's dry valve.

Barricade let's out a pained warble and flails uselessly. He would have obeyed if he had been ordered, had been wet and ready in seconds. Why are they doing this to him again and again when he's trying to be good?

Chapter Text

It's maintenance day. His berth is wheeled out of his plushy fabric cave and pushed along rows of similar cubicles. Other mechs, on identical berths are wheeled out too. 

There are many of them, some he may know, some he doesn't. Motormaster is so out of it, he can only see the closest mechs as their berths are lined up for the highly efficient procedure.

He knows Swindle is here somewhere, he saw him last time. This time though, he's placed next to a mech he doesn't know. The big mech trembles and Motormaster can teek the turmoil of fear and sadness in his field.

"You have such a pretty face." He mumbles.

"It is a mask." The other mech hiccups.

"I recognize that face." Motormaster tries to get his optics to focus on the purple mask of the other.

"It is the Decepticon insignia." The mech's voice trembles when he speaks.

"Why are you so sad? Isn't it nice here? So many pretty colors."

"I have been sold. I do not get any more drugs." 

"That's so sad." Motormaster agrees, the sadness seems contagious as his spark lurches for the other mech.

"I am scared." The mech's voice breaks into terrified static.

"What's your designation? I won't forget you." He tries to offer comfort, but it's so hard to think of how to do it. It's hard to think rationally at all.

"Tarn." The other mech's voice hitches.

Chapter Text

Motormaster is wheeled into the maintenance bay, mechs on berths lined up as drones work on them. The routine is familiar by now and he stares lazily at the floating sun and moon and the colorful flowers above him. He recognizes it as a toy the humans hung above the cradle to their tiny sparklings. It's very pretty.

He hardly notices when a tube is slipped into his wasteport and another tube is attached to the nozzle of his primary waste tank, both tanks being voided manually by a maintenance drone.

A new mod to his frame is pulled out from beneath his plating: a tube plugged into his tank for manual refueling. He sees the gauges change in his HUD, but it's inconsequential as long as they don't forget any of it, that would probably be uncomfortable.

His fuel tank is filled to half capacity when the tube is disconnected and hidden away again.

The drone pushes more drugs into his systems and he's wheeled off for a wash.

The solvent is warm and feels nice on his plating, caressing his protoform as it runs down his frame. He's scrubbed, hosed down, dried and given a basic polishing, all made by impersonal drones.

Sometimes he wishes they'd let him off the berth, so they could really reach with the polish.

But the colors are so pretty... He just relaxes under the touch.

Chapter Text

The withdrawal is getting bad. Vortex shivers on his cold slab for a berth. The caretaker has been off duty for a few days and the Helicopter is in quite a bad state when the mech finally comes back.

"Hey! Please, I need..." Vortex is getting to his knees, mask transforming away before he even finishes the sentence.

He carefully avoids thinking about what he's doing, what he's becoming.

"Weell.... you know, that's getting old. Drugs are expensive, I want something else..." The caretaker trails off with a leer.

Vortex stares dumbly until his sluggish processor finally catches up with what the guard means. He's alarmed and disgusted in equal measures, because he really wants that little escape into oblivion.

"No. Just... I'm not taking it in the port." He grinds out, another tremor wracking his frame.

Because for how low he's sunk, Vortex still likes to think that he's in control of it, that he chooses what to do and what not to.

The guard just shrugs, seemingly uncaring.

"Call me over if you change your mind."

The caretaker will be disappointed. Vortex is not going to take it in the port.

He's not a buymech.

Chapter Text

When Tarn is pulled out of the transport on a leash, he balks back at first but that is instantly rewarded with a nick from the shock collar. For the first time since his capture, he isn't drugged and this isn't necessarily something good. Being led around on a leash, array bare for all to see, out in broad daylight is a humiliation he'd rather be spared.

He sees the leering Autobots they meet, how they look him up and down and he tries again to rear back into the transport.

The next shock puts him on his knees, vocalizer humming uncontrollable feedback. His new owner watches him in amusement.

"That's the new ware?" A mech wearing the same corporate brand on his arm plate comes up to them and asks.

"Yes. Look at that mask. He'll be popular." Tarn's owner says

"Seems feisty too, I think that's a good buy."

They watch Tarn get up again, still unsteady from the shock to his systems, smirking at how he wobbles. He hates it.

His owner pushes him against a wall and Tarn leans his back against it for support but presses back harder, trying to get away when his owner unsubspaces a shock prod. Tarn warbles in panic when it's slipped into his valve.

"Now, will you behave and follow us without a fuss? Please." The pleasantry is added as an afterthought and it is a mockery, because what choice does he have?

He nods, afraid to activate his vocalizer, and slumps in relief when the prod slides out of him. He follows silently, lead into a building and finally out of sight for all and sundry.

The Tank is unleashed and pushed into a room. There's two mechs in there already. The Shuttle curled up against the other mech, a Rotary, is turned away from him, but the Helicopter looks familiar...

Listless optics turns to him and he's shocked when he barely recognizes Blackout. The mech's faceplates are swollen in places, blotches of welling energon discoloring patches of both his face and other parts of his protoform, the swelling making his plating stick out at odd angles. He looks like he's halfway to the smelter and already longing for his arrival there. 

At closer inspection, both mechs are in a very bad shape. Tarn leans his back against the wall, knees buckling, and slides down to sit heavily on the floor. 

This cannot be good.

Chapter Text

Vortex is a shivering pile of utter misery when the guard passes the next time.

"I... I have changed my mind." He whispers, desperation winning.

The caretaker doesn't comment and Vortex is grateful for that little mercy. Surrendering that last part of his frame is vile enough without being mocked for it.

The guard enters and gives Vortex an injection immediately. It isn't the same stuff he usually gets, he knows it the instant this drug courses through his lines, warming his frame. It takes away the withdrawal, but it clears his processor. The lack of withdrawal is a relief, but he wanted to hide out in the bliss of oblivion. Now, he's fully aware of what he's about to do.

He still crawls onto his berth on all fours, because it's the bargain he's made, his deal with Unicron.

The familiar cold smear of lubricant in a new place rubs it in, and the Helicopter waits, frame tense.

The caretaker is slow and careful when he pushes in, but that almost makes it worse. Every slow inch of progress, every small pull out and push, allows him to really process exactly how he's allowing his frame to be used. He stiffens when the spike is pushed deeper, his port clenching. It hurts.

"Relax." The caretaker croons.

Vortex gasps in short pants, digits scrabbling on his berth but the pain is welcome. He can pretend he didn't ask for this. 

But he did, there's no denying it.

The spike is withdrawn an inch just to be pushed deeper, the motion repeated slowly, easing it into his spasming port.

"Your port is so tight." The guard moans.

Vortex doesn't want to know that.

"You made a good choice to offer me this."

He doesn't want to hear it. But it is true, and that knowledge rots to poison in his processor. He did offer this, exactly this. 

He's such a pleasurebot.

The caretaker is finally fully inside and starts thrusting. The motion makes Vortex's port clench.

"It feels so fragging good when you squeeze my spike like that." The caretaker grunts, as if Vortex meant to do it. "Such a good little Con, taking it in the aft."

He feels the transfluid filling him and he almost retches when he thinks of what he's allowing, how low he's sunk.

He's a buymech.

When he's left alone afterwards, he lays on his berth, staring blankly at the wall for a long time, his frame feeling filthier than ever before, the smaller dose of his normal poison not enough to send him into oblivion.

It's all you're good for now.

Chapter Text

Optimus must've noticed him by now, he's been almost stalking his...his owner for weeks, trying to make sense of what's going on. 

Starscream has finally worked up the courage to enter the rooms the other mech is in, but the Autobot still doesn't acknowledge him. It's a bit unnerving, the Seeker's ragged field must be brushing the heavy one of the grounder, and he half expects the Prime to pounce on him, but Optimus never so much as twitches.

Starscream hasn't noticed before, but now that he has had all of his time out of recharge to waste on this sneaking game of his, he has discovered that the Prime's EM field is heavy, dense, as if he's so much bigger than he physically is, but it still doesn't feel oppressive. On the contrary, it's almost addictive, intoxicating, to the Flyer starved of interaction. It feels warm and very calm and if he ever notices the Seeker, his field doesn't tell.

For now, he stays where he is, sitting behind the couch, his wings pressed against it, that field blanketing him. The Bot is reclining on the couch, watching a movie from Earth, seemingly unaware of the mech hiding behind the piece of furniture. That field feels nice against his, comforting in that way only other mechs can be to the highly social Jet, but he doesn't trust the Autobot yet and so he remains where he is, close enough to leech a little comfort but hidden and hopefully safe. 

Chapter Text

The Shuttle, Blast off, is the first of them to be pulled out after Tarn arrives. He's screaming and begging, scrabbling for purchase on the floor with panicked digits and in the not so far off past, Tarn would've been appalled, embarrassed for the mech's undignified behavior. Now, though, it's just worrying, because what awaits behind that door to warrant such fear?

The Helicopter whispers reassurances of being here when the Shuttle returns but firmly pushes him away when Blast off makes a grab for him.

"I like them feisty!" One of the guards shouts and lashes the Shuttle with an energon whip.

"Hey, watch his wings! The boss is gonna be fragged off if he's newly damaged when the customer gets him!" One of the others growls.

The other guards bark with laughter as they wrestle Blast off to the floor, slapping magnacuffs on his wriststruts before the Shuttle is dragged outside. Two guards stay behind, all their focus on Blackout.

"This one's already damaged, though..." One of them leers.

Blackout cowers back in his corner, pressing his front against the wall, as if that could make him invisible. Tarn watches with growing horror as the 'Copter is grabbed by a pede and hauled out of his corner. The other guard grabs the Helo's sensitive rotors and drags him to the middle of the cell, Blackout's vocalizer wailing in pain and fear. The Helicopter flails and takes a kick to the ventral plating for it, retching by the force behind it. A hard kick to his rotor hub turns him on his front with a warble.

"That's right little glitch. Scream for me." 

One of the guards hikes the Helicopter's hips up and hilts his spike with a hard shove. Tarn can hardly watch it but still he can't tear his optics away as Blackout cries out and warbles, the guard fragging him mercilessly, the other guard pushing him down with a brutal pede on his rotor hub. The hub is a sensitive part, that must hurt like pit.

"He's so loose, it's like fragging a barrel of oil." The guard rutting into the crying Decepticon laughs.

"Well, what do you expect from Megatron's pleasuredrone? Bet half the Con army has been between his legs. Hurry up, I want a turn before our break is over."

The first one finishes and they switch places, the Helo's frame limp by now, a low keening leaving his vocalizer and dim optics the only sign he's still online.

Tarn realizes that he has sunken down, his back pressed into a corner, optics still glued to the horrifying scene playing out before him.

It is a bad defrag. It has to be.

Chapter Text

"You're right, he really is loose! I bet I can get my entire fragging servo in there."

The other guard laughs nastily. "You're on! Bet a bottle of high grade? I don't think he's that sloppy."

"Deal! You hold him."

Tarn stares in disbelief as the guard who just overloaded in Blackout's valve pulls out, immediately pushing four digits inside. Blackout's optics goes bright and he tries to roll away. The other guard grabs him, effectively immobilising the Helicopter with a harsh grasp on his sensitive rotors as his legs are kneed further apart.

Tarn will never ever, for the rest of his functioning, however long that might be, forget the sound Blackout makes as the thumb is added to the other digits, the broadest part of the servo pushing hard against the rim of his valve. It is pain, fear, helplessness and utter humiliation, all laced with horrified static when the servo is twisted and wriggled and finally slides inside.

"Whoa! You fragging deserve that high grade!" The guard holding Blackout laughs.

Bright optics are locked on where the servo is thrusted in and out of Blackout's valve, the Helicopter's rotors quivering in defeated misery. They don't even hold him anymore, he isn't moving.

"Mech are you recording?"

"Frag yeah! I'll send you the file." 

Everything is spinning, Tarn's frame feels oddly cold and numb. This can't be happening.

The servo is pulled out with a nasty, wet sound, trailed by rivulets if energon and their transfluid. The guards laugh together at how smeared the offending servo is as the mech wipes most of the fluid on Blackout's aft. They leave the 'Copter prone on the floor, like so much trash.

When they walk to the door, they pass Tarn. The Tank is still frozen in his corner. They leer at him.

"Aaw, don't be jealous. You'll get some too. As soon as you're properly... broken in." One of them blows him a kiss and winks an optic.

Tarn manages to hold back until they close the door, then he crawls to the floor drain, barely managing to push his mask away, and purges.

Chapter Text

Having been the leader of the DJD, there's a lot of gruesome things Tarn has learned to deal with.

The aftermath of a brutal rape is not one of them. He is shaken to his core, because for all the vile things he's done himself, nothing comes close to this. And those mechs were never left active when he was finished. It's a new insight that it might have been a mercy, because a dead mech doesn't suffer. What Blackout is going through is so much worse than deactivation.

Tarn doesn't know Blackout personally, but he's fairly certain that if he was the one in the Helicopter's situation, any help offered would be welcome. So he crawls over to the crying mech, servos hovering awkwardly over the prone rotary.

"What can I do?" Because he's at a loss. 

"Help me to the shelf. We have some repair stuff over there." Blackout's vocalizer crackles when he talks.

He puts his servos on the least damaged plating when he helps the Helicopter to his pedes, the big Rotary limping badly.

Blackout slides down against the wall and Tarn hands him the few things on the shelf, not certain what the Helicopter needs. The Tank pointedly doesn't look at his valve, energon oozing out to puddle on the floor. He thinks that Blackout deserves what little dignity he can have.

"Help me? Please." Blackout's voice is hoarse and he's still sobbing.

Tarn mentally flails. He's supposed to what?

"It is easier for you to flush my valve out." Blackout hands him a bottle with a nozzle.

Tarn is embarrassed. It is too personal to do something like that. But so is watching what he just witnessed. So he takes the bottle and watches as Blackout spreads his legs and offlines his optics. The Helicopter flinches badly when he slides the nozzle inside and shivers when the solvent starts dripping out, mixed with energon and other fluids.

The Tank is handed a jar when he's done and he takes a big glob of the gel on two of his digits, sliding them into the mangled valve carefully to smear it with the nanite enriched medication.

His embarrassment is replaced with fear as he realizes that next time, he might be the one sitting here with his legs spread.

Chapter Text

When Vortex is dragged out of his stall, he almost hopes that his time is up. Almost, but not entirely. It wouldn't be right to wish that on his gestalt mates.

"We got you a new home." The caretaker tells him.

He reboots his optics. This, he did not expect. He looks around suspiciously, half thinking it might be a ruse, and finds the boss of the place speaking with a mech he doesn't know. He looks like a truckformer, it's hard to tell what his altmode is, but he's even a bit bigger than Onslaught.

"My boss transfered the credits to your account before I left." The unknown mech says.

"Yes, I saw it in my account before you arrived. Here's the contract and instructions on dosages and other things you need to know..." Two memory sticks are handed over to the Truckformer. 

"... and if you just sign here, were all done." 

The mech signs a datapad and turns to look at Vortex for the first time and the Helicopter finds it strange that his new owner isn't more interested in the slave he's buying. Then his leash is grabbed and he's led outside to a waiting transport.

This is worse than when he was taken to the auction. The drugs he's hooked to now leaves his processor awfully clear and he has no problems thinking up nightmare like scenarios of what is to come. He curls up on the bench, staring out the window at the city passing by. Mechs in altmode driving down the street. He sees Autobots walking along the sidewalk. Some have leashed slaves with them.

His new owner hasn't said anything to him yet, hasn't asked for anything. Vortex is thankful for that small mercy. He can pretend he's a free mech, just going to a friend's house for a few more minutes.

Chapter Text

He's led through a corridor lined with stalls when they enter his new "home". The stalls look comfier, almost cozy, compared to the pound. It's still nothing but cells, though. A see through forcefield keeps the mechs inside their little boxes.

His new owner walks a step in front of the Helicopter, not paying any attention to the mechs coming up to their forcefields. Vortex does, though.

He thinks he recognizes Turmoil, the Tank splitting his mask, dragging his glossa along his digit, trying to get attention. Vortex gapes behind his own mask.

The next one he recognizes is Skywarp. The Seeker flicks his wings and Vortex almost blushes. He knows some winglanguage from Blast Off and that right there is just indecent.

"Hey, handsome." The Seeker purrs, dragging a servo over his own array. "Look how wet I am for you." He holds up smeared digits and Vortex realizes that the Seeker is focused on his owner.

"Save it for the customers, Skywarp." The mech in front of Vortex says, disinterested.

"I just want a little something." Skywarp pouts.

They pass Knock Out, the red and white mech trembling and twitching in a way that doesn't look healthy.

"Please, darling! I'll do whatever you want!" He says, voice tinged with desperation, digits wandering over his array.

"I'll hold you to that." Vortex's new owner leers.

They continue further down the hall at a quicker pace, Vortex being shoved inside a stall hastily.

"What is this place? What am I doing here?" Vortex asks, the other mech obviously distracted and in a rush to get back to Knock Out.

"This is a pleasurehouse. You're the new shareware. I'll lay down the law later, I have things that need my... attention."

With those ill-boding words hanging in the air, he's left alone, spark sinking into his tank.

Chapter Text

Barricade is ashamed to admit to himself that he misses his first owner. Sure, the mech was a stringent Master who punished him harshly whenever he disobeyed. But he could still avoid most of that by behaving well. 

Well, not the times he was set up for failure, for his Master's need for cruelty, of course. But still, mostlyavoidable.

His new Master, though, is nothing like that. He isn't cunning or calculating, nor patient enough to plan that sort of outdrawn, slow breaking of a mech. He's driven by hate for the Cons, by rage and spitefulness. By a sadistic need to take what he wants.

Struggling and begging is what turns his crank. So Barricade is never ordered, he's always forced. In the beginning, the conditioning from before still had him overloading sometimes when he was taken, something his new Master did not take well. Cons should have no pleasure. It was made up for by Barricade promptly crying in disgust with himself, his frame's reaction to being violated. His self loathing. There was no pleasure, just pain and a reflexive response.

The Interceptor is crawling across the floor, trying to get away. It's all a cruel game. There's no escape. It's just foreplay.

His Master is going to catch him, drag him to where he wants him just to show his superiority, hold him down and frag him raw. It's predictable, it's the same thing every time and once upon freedom, he would have laughed at the stupidity of it.

Now though, there's nothing laughable about it. 

He's dragged backwards by a pede and doesn't fight it. It's useless. His Master will take what he wants anyway.

Primus, he's so tired, so low on fuel.

Chapter Text

Blackout's scream cuts out abruptly as his vocalizer finally gives in with a last burst of static, succumbing to overheating.

The mechs standing around him looks at each other and barks with laughter as the Helo twitches silently in his restraints.

The prybar jammed into his rotor hub is coaxing the brackets further apart and the cue of pained noises to his vocalizer grows longer and longer. Something is slipped into his hub and the bar is removed. He's thankful for that, the immediate agony lessened to a dull ache.

Something starts vibrating in there.

Through the pain, he's disgusted when his charge starts rising. He's never gotten charged by anything the Autobots has done so far, and it's a level of humiliation he didn't think was possible.

His valve starts dripping as they twist his rotors in ways that are harsher than he really likes but softer than the torture he's come to get used to.

They chuckle and talk amongst themselves about how sick he is, enjoying pain, the filthy whore with the loose valve and the masochistic tendencies.

A servo is coaxed into his valve, he's wet and aroused and he shudders when nodes are stimulated. They laugh when charge crackles over his plating as his rotors are bent with an ugly, metallic sound.

Somebot pushes his spike into his wasteport, but what makes the Helicopter's EM field vibrate with revulsion, humiliation and self derision is his own overload.

Chapter Text

He's thrown on his back, servos pinned to the floor with denting grips. He offlines his optics and turns his helm away when his dry valve is entered roughly. There's no point in struggling or begging, it'll happen anyway. He's used to the pain, used to the humiliation of not  being strong enough to defend himself anymore.

His Master stops with an annoyed sound.

"See how boring it is? Just laying there and taking it." His Master says over his shoulder to a friend watching the spectacle.

"You know, I might have a cure for that." The friend smirks. "Move."

His owner moves away but Barricade remains where he is, watching as the other Autobot approaches. The Mustang has been fragged by this Bot before, so he isn't surprised at first. 

The Bot staddles one of his legs and takes something out of subspace: a small marble. Barricade watches warily. This is new.

"Hold his other leg." The mech says and Barricade's owner straddles his other leg.

The Interceptor tenses up, vulnerable with his legs spread and pinned.

"This is a new product I've imported, a re-seal. It attaches to the mesh in the valve with small hooks and has a thin silicone membrane that needs to be broken by your spike. It will be like taking his seal when you frag him. Comes in boxes of five or fifty."

"Nice!" His owner says.

"No! Please, don't!" Barricade warbles in panic.

They watch with amusement as he flails and wriggles, desperate to get away.

"Look, I haven't even put it in and he's already looking more alive!" The mech laughs. "Do you want me to seal him?"

"Yeah, of course!" His Master says, spike already getting re-pressurized.

Barricade's digits claws at the floor as he tries to scrabble backwards out of reach, but it's useless. He keens in horror when the marble is slipped inside, pushed into place by a hated digit.

The thing unfolds, hooks sinking into his already sore mesh and he wails in pure agony and horror, trying to curl up around the pain.

His Master kneels between his legs, both the mechs' fans roaring with arousal, turned on by his unsuccessful attempts to escape. 

Then his Master pushes in and Barricade screams until his vocalizer glitches.

Chapter Text

When Blackout is lead back inside their cell, Blast Off knows almost instantly that something is different. The big Helicopter is walking by himself for starters, legs smeared, but for once not by energon but what appears to be lubricant.

Secondly, he doesn't ask for help or comfort. Instead, he curls up in the opposite corner, turning his front into the wall. As if he's trying to hide. His field is drawn in tightly, but Blast Off's sensitive flightframe can still teek the mortification, the revulsion that the Helo seems to be immersed in.

Quivering rotors indicate crying, but Blackout doesn't make a sound and the rattling of the twisted metal is all that can be heard. Energon drips from the hub, but when Blast Off reaches for it, his servo is slapped away.

Whatever happened this time, something is different, has shaken the 'Copter in a way that Blast Off didn't think was still possible after everything they have gone through.

The Shuttle is at a loss for how to help his fellow Con. He looks at Tarn, but the Tank seems equally perplexed, and Blast Off isn't surprised. Tarn doesn't know Blackout as well as he does. 

They slide a cube of energon over to Blackout, carefully respecting the distance he obviously wants. It's distressing. Blast Off desperately wants to help and on a more selfish note, he wants the Helo close for comfort. Instead, he leans against the Tank, fretting for his distressed friend, suffering in silence across the cell.

Chapter Text

He finally dares to make contact, but he doesn't know how, so he seats himself across the table from Optimus without saying a word. Optimus doesn't even glance at him, still reading his datapad.

Starscream's wings twitches in apprehension. 

"I'm lonely." He blurts, more a reflexive response than a thought out utterance.

And it is true. Sneaking into the Autobot's field has been a great comfort for a long time, but it's not enough anymore. He needs interaction.

"You don't have to be. I'm here all the time."

Optimus' attention has shifted and is fully focused on the Seeker. It's unnerving. Starscream has never conversed with the Prime up close and personal before, and when he has the undivided attention of the mech, he almost squirms. Megatron may have had an oppressive field, but this mech has a presence far greater than should be possible. It's not uncomfortable, not really. It just...will take some time getting used to.

"Why have you been ignoring me?" A question, not an accusation.

"I didn't want to push you. If I had told you that you are safe here, would you have believed me?"

No, he wouldn't. Starscream doesn't trust easily. Especially not now, when his former enemy, known for preaching about freedom, has bought him as a slave.

"I figured that you wanted to come around on your own terms."

The Air commander doesn't even think about snarking about how little this is on his terms. He is certain that he doesn't know all the disgusting details about this new and fragged up world, but he knows enough to know that he could be far worse off.

"So, what now?" He asks, because he doesn't have a clue what the Prime expects from him.

"Let's just take it in stride."

Chapter Text

Vortex is sitting on the edge of the berth when his owner returns. 

"Ok, so here's the deal. You do what the customers want, take it where they want to stick it and act like they're the best thing that ever happened to you. Simple as that."

Vortex rolls his optics behind his visor.

"Why would I do that?"

"You know the drugs you like so much? The customers buy it from us and pay you with a dose. There's not enough appointments for every mech to get some, so you better entice them, the one's who get the customers get the rewards. Or you go without." The mech smirks nastily.

Simple as that. Vortex's frame goes cold.

"You saw the good doctor, he has been a stubborn little glitch and hasn't even tried getting customers. When you're too far gone with your withdrawal and the customers won't get you, me and the rest of the staff get a few doses to spend on... training you. A perk with the job." He leers, looking Vortex up and down.

"I won't do it, I'll hold out." He protests weakly.

"Come on, Vortex, it isn't like this is something you haven't done before. I heard you're properly broken in. Spreading your legs and bending over, like a good little pleasurebot."

"That was just for one mech!" He protests, mortified that the mech knows what he's done.

"You know, it doesn't matter if you're taking just one spike for payment or a thousand. A buymech is a buymech.  Just get used to it. It's all you're good for anyway."

Chapter Text

Thundercracker isn't getting up. Wildrider and Drag Strip are trying to get him to sit, to slump against the wall, anything, but he can't.

You can only beat a mech down so many times before something finally gives and he won't get up again.

His systems are too taxed, too many injuries left to his self repair, too little fuel, not enough time for healing. His optics are dim and he hardly seems aware most of the time, but when the guards come in, he manages to focus for a while.

"Boss says his repairs will be too expensive and put him out of commission for too long. He isn't making enough money to be worth the hassle."

"Too bad he's totally lethargic. I'd buy him otherwise, but this just won't be any fun."

"Any more mechs to bring today? Those two seems to be reaching the end of their ropes too..." One of the guards indicates the Stunticons cowering in the corner.

"Nah, they are staying a little longer. But the big, black Helo is going too."

"Aaw, come on! He was fun!"

"Not anymore. Played a little with him last week and let me tell you, his career is over. Didn't even wail a little when I shocked him in the hub, and he's so fragging loose, I couldn't manage to overload in his valve."

"Fragging weaklings! I thought the Cons were supposed to be tough guys."

"Yeah. Anyway, let's get this done. Boss said we could play with the Shuttle when we're back."

"Slag yeah."

Somebot grabs his wriststrut and drags him out of the cell, the stumps that once was his wings probably being mangled against the floor. He can't feel it. His frame is too numb. The screech of metal against metal fades out when he slips into stasis.

Chapter Text

It is just days after both the mechs Tarn shares a cell with was taken away. Only one came back. Wherever Blackout went, they don't know. He was in a bad shape and Tarn is worried that their owners have deactivated him. And he can't shake the feeling that the big Helicopter had given up. 

Blast Off came back, worse for the wear. After witnessing what happened to Blackout in their shared cell, Tarn has a good picture of what the Shuttle has been through, even though the mech doesn't talk about it.

Now though, now it's his turn. 

The Tank is lead outside by the guards, his tracks rattling a frightened solo.

They take him into another cell, one with restraints hanging from the ceiling and bolted to the floor. His pedes are chained and so are his arms, leaving him spread eagled and vulnerable.

He watches from behind his mask as they line up various tools of torture, things he's well familiar with and some he isn't. Tarn knows build up and intimidation when he sees it, it was his trade after all, and once, he would've scoffed and found it ridiculous. 

But his new functioning has worn him down, eroded his resilience, crumbled his ability to lick up the pain like fuel for his burning fire of hate and wait through anything for a chance at vengeance.

Now, he's just another scared mech, wanting to plead for mercy but refraining out of knowledge that it won't do him any good anyway. 

Chapter Text

They enjoy the look of his mask, torturing him is torturing the very Decepticon movement.

Tarn is hanging by his arms by now, powerless to stand. They have shock prodded him in his knees and the smaller joints on his pedes until his legs gave out. The pain is excruciating.

He has no control over his vocalizer any more, the desperate keens and whimpers an automatic response he almost doesn't notice anymore. They do, though.

"Thought this one was supposed to be eloquent."

The other mech laughs. They're not guards. They're customers. And while they are taking great pleasure and amusement out of just causing him pain, Tarn is all too aware of what this will lead up to.

He can teek the arousal in their fields, hear their cooling fans roaring at the highest setting and smell the sharp scent of heating plating and circuitry.

It mixes with the stink of his burnt circuitry, the too heated metal where the whip has lashed his plating, scorched his tracks.

Tarn is certain that for the rest of his functioning, those scents mingled will send him into a state of terror, as he hangs there, waiting for the even worse things he knows will come when this cruel foreplay is over.

Chapter Text

Optimus Prime is easy to be around, something Starscream has come to realize with mixed feelings. The mech is still his owner and Master, something that chafes on the proud Seeker, but in his state, weakened by the defeat of the Decepticon faction, he's come to doubt his choice of following Megatron for so long.

Sure, the old ways of Cybertron was something to fight against, but maybe Optimus has been right all along? At least he wouldn't be a slave right now, a thought that brings with it self derision, because is he really so weak, he'd let go of his convictions for that?

On the other servo, things on Cybertron  are even worse now, if Optimus' words are anything to go by. What would it be like if the majority of the Decepticons had left Megatron when he went from freedom fighter to power hungry megalomaniac and followed Optimus on his crusade for peaceful change and freedom for all?

He doesn't dare ponder it too deeply. 

He looks at Optimus. The Prime is recharging on the couch again. Whatever he's working on, he has refused to tell Starscream and though that has never stopped the tenacious Seeker before, he still has not dared snooping around to try and find out.

It's too early for him to dare try espionage.

He tentatively opens his bonds to his trine. Skywarp seems calm, a little too calm. He isn't in pain and not quite in recharge either. Drugged maybe? Thundercracker is what has him shoot to his pedes, wings hiked up high in agitation.

Prime startles online by the sound Starscream makes.

"Starscream! What's wrong?"

"Thundercracker! I-I don't know! He's not responding to our bond. The bond isn't severed, but I think he's in stasis or something." Starscream cries out in panic.

Chapter Text

When the first customers walks in, Vortex just watches. He can see a few of the other stalls and he's disgusted by what he sees. 

Knock Out, seemingly having learned his 'lesson', is on his back, legs spread wide and he's fingering himself to entice the mechs. Obscene.

"Look how wet you make me, darling." The doctor moans.

Skywarp is fluttering his wings, bending over a chair to display his array, looking over his shoulder at the mech walking by.

"Don't you want to shoot a load over a couple of Seeker wings? I would love to have your transfluid dripping all over me, handsome." The Seeker bends deeper and shifts his pedes apart.

One of the customers takes the bait. The forcefield disengages to allow the mech inside and Skywarp meets him with a sweet smile. The Seeker wraps his arms around the neckcables of the mech and presses in close, molding himself to the other frame and leans in for an eager kiss. The forcefield re-engages and turns opaque and Vortex's tank turns over. Disgusting.

From the stalls surrounding him, equally degrading suggestions echoes. Vortex says nothing, refuses to flare his rotors or anything else. 

He knows what his options are, the guard was very clear on that. It doesn't mean that he will just surrender and degrade himself like that without at least trying to hold out. At least he knows that in this place, they won't damage him for it.

Chapter Text

Blackout is given a cursory exam when he's been dumped at the new place, the Pound. Both him and the Seeker seems to be expected, the guards leaving them not needing to do any paperwork. Without so much as a backwards glance at the two Decepticons, they hurry out to some new amusement. As much as Blackout hated that place and those mechs, it still rubs in how very little him and Thundercracker are worth.

The Helicopter hasn't been outside the building he was kept in before for Primus knows how long. He's been there since his capture. This place is cleaner, and almost blindingly light.  He wonders what will be done to him here. He's so loose, maybe they won't find him worth using for interfacing. But they can probably find other uses for him that he won't like either.

The guards at this new place plugs a scanner into him and reads the list of fault codes that is staggeringly long.

"Vocalizer blown, loads of damage to his hub and rotors... Not that it matters, it isn't like he's going to be flying and silence isn't necessarily a bad thing." One of the caretakers snicker.

"See if there's an easy way we can fix up the calipers in his valve, give him booster nanites, fuel him a little better and give him a week. If he isn't sold by then, we'll just deactivate him and cut our losses. That isn't too much of a gamble and a decently functioning Rotary is pretty sought after in some of the more obscure communities." The boss of the place says.

As if it isn't a sentient mech he's talking about, just a thing.

The Helicopter is laid on the medberth, pedes bound to stirrups, and one of the mechs starts to feel his way around Blackout's valve with uncareful digits. Blackout offlines his optics and lets himself go limp.

"They seem ok mechanically, think I can jump-start them. It's worth a try at least, otherwise we could offer to re-seal him."

A rod is slipped into him and then a strong current is suddenly coursing through his array. Blackout thrashes in his bindings, the cue of pained screams to his vocalizer redundant as the thing is still busted.

It's over in seconds, but it feels like an eternity. He feels the calipers cycle fitfully, maybe calibrating or maybe just twitching with left over electricity. It doesn't really matter, it feels horrible either way. The rod is pulled out and Blackout cries silently, as he's left mute. Not that being able to beg or protest has ever made a difference.

Attempted repair or not, he wonders if this really is a good thing for him. If it actually works, and he doubts that, he will be more interesting to frag again. That is not something he considers an improvement.

Chapter Text

Thundercracker is put in the same stall as Blackout. The pound is short on space, and none of them are really in a state to fight or damage each other. And they have history of successfully being housed with othersas the caretaker notes on his information board.

The Seeker has gotten an energon transfusion, but he's still in stasis, self repair claiming all his energy.

Blackout is jealous. The oblivion of stasis seems like bliss.

He doesn't know much about this place, but from what he overheard earlier, he guesses that him and Thundercracker have a week to be sold to somebot else. 

Or they will be offlined. He suspects that it might be a mercy compared to this functioning, but somewhere deep down, he's terrified by it too. Even more terrified than he is of the prospect of being sold and what unknown horror awaits in his new home. 

He isn't hopeful. There's mechs here that are in much better shape than he is and, obviously, not even they have been sold. Their chances probably are slim to none. 

Thundercracker probably has better chances, he's a Seeker after all. Blackout finds it hard to believe anybot would want a Rotary looking more like a piece of slag? With a loose valve.

His plating rattles in a shiver of fear, something that hurts. He's so damaged.

It's not something he would have ever done when he was still a free mech, but now it almost feels natural when he crawls over to the prone Seeker and curls up against him. His EM field is weak, but still enough for a sensitive rotary frame to teek and it's comforting to just feel somebot close, somebot not hurting him.

Blackout offlines his optics and tries to initiate recharge to conserve energy for his self repair.

It's hard to do, the sounds of a mech being fragged just yards away, begging for them to stop is grating on him, but he doesn't look. 

It's just the way things are and not something he isn't used to. If anything, the perpetrators aren't nearly as bad to the slave as he's used to deal with.

Chapter Text

Starscream is still worried about his trinemate. Well, of course he worries for them both, but Thundercracker is in his mind all the time. Skywarp seems fine, while the blue Seeker does not.

He needs to do something, get Prime to do something. This is what makes him push his own fears aside. As the second in command of fucking Megatron, he was never too scared to try to usurp his leader to get what he wanted. Why should he fear his owner?

So he decides to do what he does best. Manipulation. Prime is on the couch when he glides into the room, newly polished.

Boldly, he straddles the big mech's lap.

"You look stunning tonight, my Lord." He purrs, slipping slender talons under plating to tease hidden wires.

Optimus raises an optical ridge and smooths his hands down Starscream's sides with carefully measured strength. It feels surprisingly good and catches the Seeker off guard.

"Is that so?" Prime asks, teasing the edge of a sensitive wing.

"Oh yes." It's only half acting when he moans, because the Prime clearly knows how to treat a flightframe.

"Do you really want me?" Optimus' field wraps around him when he asks, pressing in on the Seeker.


Starscream stutters, because the very real arousal he feels is confusing and not something he expected when he planned this, but the Prime's digits on his wings are too good and it's getting so hard to think....

He's pushed off Optimus' lap and lands ungracefully on the couch.

"Come back when you're not doing this to manipulate me. When you want me from the very beginning of what you're doing." Disappointment laces through the big mech's field.

Prime has seen through it and for long seconds, Starscream waits for a blow to land, a backhand to fling him off the couch, anything he's used to and knows how to handle

Nothing happens, except that disappointment, but that starts to seep into him and he feels stupid, ashamed of his behavior. It's unnerving, because he's never felt like this before, but Prime's presence is different and the former Air Commander finds himself wanting to beg and grovel for forgiveness and not just to save his own functioning, like it had been with Megatron.

"I just wanted to give you a reason to do something for me."

"Like what?" There's a hard edge to the Prime's voice and suddenly he truly looks like the fierce Commander that was the one to deactivate Megatron. It has been too easy to forget that the soft-spoken mech is a war machine and the reminder leaves Starscream frightened. An angry Megatron was a known evil while Prime is not.

"I... I just wanted you to see if you could find out anything about Thundercracker."

Prime is silent for a long time, scrutinizing the Seeker and Starscream squirms under that heavy disapproval.

"You could have just asked." Optimus says, voice softening.

"I'm sorry." Starscream whispers, oddly embarrassed and ashamed of his own behavior.

Chapter Text

Tarn is dragged back to the cell by an arm, unable to walk. Every movement hurts, every seam in the floor is enough to jar his injuries. The guard got tired of his little sounds of pain and shorted out his vocalizer with a cruel shock straight to the component with a prod.

He's dumped just inside the door. Like garbage. He feels like garbage too, straight out of the trash compactor.

They say his injuries aren't bad enough to warrant a medic and Tarn idly wonders exactly how bad it has to be to get repaired. The mechs he tortured usually were in a better state when he decided he was finished and he had always considered them ready for the scrap heap. But here he is, still functioning, waiting for this to continue.

Blast Off is there, putting careful servos on him. It still hurts like the pit when he's carried to the corner where they usually help each other.

It should be a new level of humiliation when Blast Off washes out his array, in the last place he was always drugged for that, but now he's wide awake. He's far beyond caring though, far beyond embarrassment. The help is accepted gratefully. They have no dignity left.

The former leader of the DJD, the mech who once hunted other Decepticons for turning to the Autobots, lays there, splaying his legs to allow the Shuttle room to work, pointedly not thinking about how the turncoats he despised might be better off than the Decepticons. He's half expecting somebot from his old and now useless list to walk in the next time he's strung up to be hurt and defiled for their amusement.

Wouldn't that just be another jewel in the crown of thorns that is Lady Fate's ironically cruel debasement of him?

Chapter Text

He's back to square one. With withdrawal wracking his frame with shivers and shakes, the Helicopter finally surrenders.

One of the guards passes by, and he's beyond caring which one of them. It doesn't matter anyway. One or a thousand, he's still a buymech.

"Hey, please! I give up. I'll do it, just... Just take me and be done with it." He grinds out the words as this new level of defeat sinks in.

The guard watches him, amusement ripe in his field.

"Wow! I think that was the worst attempt at seduction I've ever seen. You're going to have to do way better than that."

He crosses his arms and raises an optical ridge knowingly, waiting for the Helicopter to finish warring with his last shreds of self esteem.

Vortex grits his denta. He didn't think things could be more degrading, but apparently, he was wrong again. He tries to think of how the other mechs entice the clients to figure out how to do this. He's always been straight to the point and a simple "Want to frag?" usually does it.

He quiver his rotors and transforms his mask away. Sliding his servos down his ventral plating to frame his array, he tilts his helm back to put himself on display.

"What's your favorite flavor, my mech? I've got a whole set of different sweets..." He tries to purr even though the words tastes bitter.

The guard looks at him appreciatively.

"Much better. I'll go get some things for you, and then we can begin." 

Chapter Text

The door to the closet he's mostly kept in is yanked open and before Barricade's optics have adjusted to the bright light, he's dragged out of there by uncareful servos.

They're on him immediately, holding him down, a new seal installed in seconds before they load him in a crate. This is new, and he's come to hate 'new'.

With his chronometer offline, there's no way for him to say how long they travel, but it's long enough for him to think way too much about what will happen when they arrive.

They stop and he's pulled out, dumped on the ground. Thrust is there, as is Sideways. They look like slag and as scared as he feels. The Mustang looks around. There's 15-20 Autobots hanging out, talking and laughing. He sees guns being cleaned and put together, some of the Bots leaning on ground transports, watching the three Cons with hungry leers. Some of them drink high grade.

"Is yours re-sealed too?" Somebot asks his owner.

"Of course. Like I said he would be."


They plug a scanner into his systems and Barricade is surprised when his interface panel closes for the first time since his capture. He stares disbelievingly at it.

"Listen up, Deceptiscum. We have a little game to play here, pay attention as you get to hear the rules. Important stuff." One of the mechs speaks up, cuffing Thrust on the back of his helm as the Seeker seems to have retreated into his processor.

'Rules'?! Yeah right...

"We're going to reenact a little hunt for wayward Cons. You all get 10 minutes head start, then we're coming for you. If you manage to keep from getting caught for more than an hour, we consider you the winners and we won't frag you completely raw tonight. If you don't manage..." He smirks at the Cons. "Well, to the victor goes the spoils."

Barricade glances at the other Decepticons. Sideways is warbling quietly in distress, plating rattling. Thrust still stares numbly into the distance. It sounds too good to be true, that they actually have a chance to evade the awful things they have come to see as normal. But still, a glimmer of need for things to be ok for just a day...

"The clock is ticking... Tick tock, tick tock..."

The telltale whining of a gun charging can be heard. 

Barricade looks at his owner, still not quite certain what to do.

"Run, little Cons." Somebot laughs. "Run for your lives."

It kicks them into gear, all three Decepticons scrambling away as fast as they can with their low hydraulic pressure and their laughable energy levels. Survival coding surges to the surface, as does his long lost hope.

They're in the middle of the barren Badlands outside the city and they go for the hills, hoping to find someplace to hide. If they can just hold their own for an hour.

Barricade's frame goes cold when he realizes that the rules are indeed too good to be true.

Their chronometers doesn't work. They have no chance to know if they make it.

Chapter Text

Of course they're found. Sideways is first to be caught and Barricade does nothing to help him. He's too scared of what would happen to him if they catch him too, so he uses the Autobots' distraction to get away himself. Like the weak coward he is.

Eventually, he runs out of luck. An electromagnetic pulse from a stungun hits him, scrambling all his gyros and sensors and he falls to the ground. The Mustang scrambles to his pedes, survival coding overriding everything and he tries to make a run for it. Somebot hits his pede with a dummy shot, knocking him off balance again and pain shoots through his system. Something was knocked loose in his pede by the hit. It hurts, but they just laugh.

"Nice shot!"

They're on him like a pack of feral turbohounds, at least eight of them. 

"Found you, little glitch." Somebot leers as they drag him out into the open by a pede.

He manages to free himself and starts running but is pushed back into the circle of mechs. He staggers in another direction, but the mechs have all his escape routes covered. He's pushed again and this time he falls. They grab him, holding his arms and legs.

Barricade is kicking and hitting as much as he can, knowing what kind of pain awaits. Maybe he can still escape.

"Thought you could keep away from us? We'll show you your place." Somebot snarls.

He's pinned on his back and they force his legs apart. The Decepticon screams and struggles.

"Feisty little thing, this one." Someone says amusedly.

Barricade bucks wildly when a digit is coaxed into the seam of his interface panel. If he could just throw them off, he could make a run for it, keep away until the time is up. 

Whenever that might be.

They pry his panel open slowly, to really show him that he can't avoid this. It hurts when the locks give in one after the other under the brute force and they laugh at his pained whimpers.

His panel is thrown away like trash. This must be the reason they closed it in the first place.

"No!" Barricade screams when one of the mechs position himself between the Decepticon's thighs.

"Oh, yes!" The mech smirks before slowly pushing into the Saleen's valve, savoring Barricade's fear.

Barricade screams incoherently, struggling wildly between the three mechs restraining him and the one fragging him. The re-seal tears at his mesh and the pain is excruciating. He can see others watching, stroking themselves, getting ready for their turn and he warbles desperately because he knows this is only the beginning.

Chapter Text

There's three of them when the guard returns. Vortex balks. 

"Wait, why are they here?"

"As much as we find this pleasurable, this is about training you." One of them says as Vortex is given a small dose to take the edge off his withdrawal.

"You need to enjoy whatever comes your way. Or you need to learn to pretend."

"Take this. It's lubricant that sensitizes your nodes. Makes it more pleasurable and stimulates your own lubrication."

He's handed a bottle and Vortex takes it as if it's going to burn him. 

"I don't need it." He states flatly.

"Suit yourself. But remember, if the customer isn't happy with you, you still don't get your shot. And most customers enjoy thinking they're good in the sack. So you better pretend convincingly."

One of the mechs sits down on a chair, his pressurized spike bobbing.

"Hop on." He leers.

Vortex hesitates for a moment but does as he's told. He wants that shot.

"Oh, that is dry. Are you not turned on by me?" The mech asks.

"Just nervous. You're quite... impressive." Vortex tries to sound coy.

They laugh and nod their approval. The Helicopter tries to ignore that as he starts riding. He is awfully dry and it chafes, but he presses on, forces himself to bounce on the mechs lap and it's so much worse than what he's done before, because now he is actively participating instead of just allowing his frame to get used.

"Aren't you enjoying my impressive spike?"

Right, he has to pretend to like it.

"Oh, yes! It feels so good in me." He moans.

It doesn't.

But when the mech stiffens in overload, Vortex clenches with his valve and pretends to overload.

Chapter Text

Barricade was right for hating 'new'. This is worse than anything he's been through before and that's quite telling, considering what he's already experienced. And he's terrified that it won't be the last time he has to endure this.

How many turns the mechs have taken, he doesn't want to count. They finally haul him to his pedes and presses the muzzle of the dummy gun to his back.

"Start walking, Decepticreep. We have a long way to go."

They're still acting as if he's a newly caught prisoner, not a toy, a pawn in their cruel game, used and abused for their amusement and pleasure. The rules were just a lure to get him to fight back, he's certain of it now.

He starts limping in the direction they point him, his pede hurting from brackets knocked loose. His valve is the worst though, the hated re-seal has torn him up and every step hurts like the pit. Their transfluid mixes with his energon and drips down his legs. They amuse themselves with touching him wherever they want as he walks, sliding their hated digits into him, to really rub in that he's just a prize in this tank turning game.

Halfway back, they're too charged to keep going and take him again, three at a time for efficiency. It's getting late and all.

He's just holes for them to frag. It hurts so bad when he's pressed between two of them, rutting into him with abandon, the one taking him in the intake making him retch with every harsh thrust. 

He just lets them. Without a fight this time, because he's running on fumes by now and doesn't want to slip into stasis.

Back at the transport, he's wiped down to not stain his crate and then he's taken home and shoved back into the closet, graciously given a tiny cube of energon.

He downs it in one go and curls up to recharge. As tired as he is, it's hard to power down. Memory files keep starting up, replaying the things he went through earlier in awfully vivid details.

He will probably be put through this again, the Autobots had great fun.

The Mustang has passed the point of too prideful to cry a long time ago and so he sobs himself into recharge, cursing that cold and rainy day back on Earth when he surrendered to spare his functioning.

Chapter Text

"I'll try some of this." He says, holding up the bottle of lubricant in defeat.

"Good choice." One of the guards praises him. 

They all watch him as he sprays the lube inside his valve and on the rim and smears it with his digit, their spikes already pressurized and interested from the show. His array starts tingling. In a different setting, it would be a pleasant buzz.

"Suck me." One of them says.

He gets on his knees, trying to make a show of getting down, and sucks the spike right in. The mech warbles.

"Frag, you're good at this."

Not what he wants to hear. But he swirls his glossa and bobs his helm, moaning as he does.

His array is tingling and dripping lubricant but it isn't real pleasure, not when he isn't really interested in these mechs. It feels like his frame is dirty, is betraying him.

"Look at him drip. Your spike is so good, he's going wet from sucking it." One of the others says.

"Shouldn't we be a little courteous and give him something while he's at it?"


Digits slips into him, swirling and teasing and Vortex moans for real this time.

When bitter transfluid slides down his intake, they bring him over the edge and he overloads.

He's more disgusted by his frame than ever.

Chapter Text

It's the first time the caretakers take any interest in him, and Blackout is pretty certain it isn't because he's starting to look better. He really doesn't.

There's a mech he hasn't seen before on duty, and the mech does a double take and stops as he passes their cell. A slow grin stretches the caretaker's intake.

"Why didn't you tell me we have a new Rotary?" He yells at his co-workers.

"Didn't know you had a thing for those. That one looks like smelt." One of the others yells back.

"Come on, I'll show you some... neat tricks."

The mech enters the cell and Blackout cowers back.

"It's alright, I'm not going to hurt you." He croons as he pets a long rotor blade with careful servos.

Before he can stop himself, Blackout presses into the touch, hungry for just a little physical contact that isn't pain.

Something magnetizes to his hub and he flinches, but still can't make a sound.

It starts to vibrate. The buzz resonates to his frame and he's mortified when his charge instantly starts rising. The caretaker smirks knowingly and starts rubbing Blackout's anterior node and folds. It's so new, Blackout never had anybot play with his valve before his capture, and he hates that it feels good to have this mech touching him.

"His field is glorious! So filled with shame and humiliation." One of the others say, voice thin and hoarse with arousal.

They rearrange the embarrassed Helo to their liking, and he let's them because he knows pain too well to risk getting on their bad side. And he needs all his energy for self repair to fix the damage he has already sustained. If he's going to have any shot at getting sold.

It leaves him on his knees and elbows. His lubricant is dripping already and he's so very disgusted by his frame.

Somebot slides into him. The worst thing is that it doesn't hurt, isn't excruciating like it always was before. No, his frame interpret this input as pleasure, the steady petting of his rotors making his charge rise quickly and Blackout hides his faceplates in his arms when he shudders in pleasure.

"He is a little too loose here." 

The caretaker pulls out and slides into his port instead. It doesn't hurt either, he's had all kinds of penetration over and over already and this mech isn't rough like he's used to. His frame insists it's pleasure. It's so very humiliating.

When the guard empties himself inside Blackout, the released charge sends the Helo into an overload. He twitches and shivers silently, disgusted by himself as the others laugh. He's such a pleasuredrone.

Chapter Text

They still haven't gotten a new cellmate since Thundercracker was taken away to never return when the guards walk in the next time.

Drag Strip worries. Wildrider's condition is deteriorating, and he's afraid that his gestalt mate is going to be taken away to never be returned. Or taken for a new customers appointment, that would probably be the end of him.

He steels himself for trying to take Wildrider's place if need be.

"I don't know why he would want these two. They're hardly more than scrap metal."

"I bet his brother has a fetish for broken Cons or something. He probably liked what he got last time. Knows they can take a pounding." The other guard laughs nastily.

"Or they are just cheap. These two can't be worth a lot. Good riddance, I'd say. Now the boss can get a few fresh pieces of plating."

"Can't wait to see what that'll be. Heard rumors of a new Seeker incoming."


"Get up, lazy afts!" One of them barks at the Stunticons still huddled in the corner, landing a kick to Wildrider's side.

They cautiously do, Drag Strip helping Wildrider to his pedes. It's hard to do, Wildrider might have lost a lot of mass due to lack of fuel, but so has Drag Strip and he barely manages to pull his gestalt mate from the floor.

Thundercracker just disappeared, they have no idea where he was taken, what happened to him. Maybe they are going to the same place.

Maybe the Seeker was slagged and they are going to replace him. Or maybe they aren't even going to be together.

Drag Strip's plating rattles with a shiver of fear.

He can't stand the thought of possibly losing Wildrider too.

Chapter Text

He gets his first customer. A Paratrooper, a mech Vortex might actually have found attractive back in the days of freedom and prosperity, walks through the isle.

The green mech looks at every mech carefully and seems to consider each offer. A picky customer.

"Well hello, sweetspark. Love the goggles. You a sniper?" Vortex purrs.

The mech smirks and nods once.

"You have good aim then. I'd love it if you shoot a load over me. Think you can hit my rotors?" Vortex purrs, slowly turning his rotors in a very lascivious way.

The brightening of blue optics shows that the mech knows rotorspeak and he likes what he sees. 

The forcefield disengages, admitting the mech entrance.

"So, what do I call you and how do you like it, big boy?" Vortex purrs, sliding his servo up the mech's leg.

"Name's Crosshairs, an' I want ya mewlin' and overloadin'. On yer knees n servos on the berth, pretty little Helicopter."

Vortex is getting nervous, but he does as he's asked. He really wants those drugs.

Digits tease his node and slides in and out of his valve and it's startling how good it feels. His charge is rising quickly.

He's such a pleasurebot, enjoying what his customer does.

Little wanton whimpers leaves his vocalizer.

When the mech kneels behind him and slides inside, he gasps as all his nodes are stimulated by the spike sliding easily into his wet heat.

"Oh tha's so good. Ye're so wet fer me, Drif... Drive me crazy." Crosshairs moans.

When the Autobot overloads, transfluid being pushed out around his spike with the last stuttering thrusts of his hips, Vortex overloads too. Crosshairs pulls out, the last spurts of transfluid landing on Vortex's rotors and hub.

"This was really good." Crosshairs says, squeezing Vortex's aft.

The Paratrooper drops a few items on the table after whiping himself down and leaves.

Vortex grabs the things and lets the cube of energon he's rewarded with numb the disgust he feels with himself when he's left alone and given time to really think through what he just did

He doesn't want to think about that. So he grabs the syringe he was also given and shoots it as quickly as he can.

Chapter Text

When Barricade is relinquished for the second time in his functioning, he's such worthless slag nobot wants to keep him, he is not the same mech he was the last time.

The Saleen is skittish, flinches when touched and he's on the verge of panic.

They will want to test-drive him again, he's sure of it, and that is pure agony.

"I'm going off planet and I don't want the hassle of bringing this." His owner says.

"We'll deal with it. That's why we're here." The caretaker smiles.

"He got some fuel a couple of weeks ago, hosed him down last weekend. He's still got an old re-seal I haven't bothered to take out. Think that's about it."

The caretaker nods.

"Tie him up there and let's go into the office to sign the contracts and whatnot."

A thick chain, sturdy enough to hold a triplechanger, is locked to his collar. He's too weak to remain standing under the weight. Barricade staggers to the ground and sits, curling up and buries his face in his arms, offlining his optics, hiding from his reality. He dials down the sensitivity of his audials and pulls up a memoryfile of racing down an empty road through the desert on Earth, the speed making the air whip around him, leaving a cloud of dust in his wake.

A condescending pat on his helm startles him badly out of the memory and he almost falls to his side when he cowers away.

"We did have some good times." His ex-owner says.

No, we didn't.

"I'm not going to miss you, though."

The feeling is mutual.

"You're just worthless slag anyway. A waste of good parts."

He already knows that.

Chapter Text

When his owner leaves, he's thrown on the med berth, kicking and screaming in absolute terror. Until they activate his shock collar and his frame seizes before going limp.

Pedes quickly locked in the stirrups, he's spread and vulnerable. As always, there's never an escape. Self preservation protocols quick-boots him after the shock. Barricade struggles wildly against unyielding restraints.

"No, please, don't! Stop! I.... No!" His voice is rising in pitch.

"Feisty li'l mech, tha' one." Somebot says cheerily.

Barricade freezes. This mech walked in while he was still shocked and he has been too busy fighting to look who it was, thought it didn't matter. He slowly turns his helm, but looks away again as quickly as he can, as if that would make him invisible.

"Yes." One of the caretaker chuckles. "He can be a lot of fun, if you're into spirited mechs."

Barricade doesn't want to look like 'a lot of fun' for this mech, doesn't want to be noticed at all. It's a petrifying revelation that things could still get worse.

He knows of this particular Autobot, knows his reputation for manipulation and cold energoned acts of murder and torture, all with a lovely smile on his faceplates. Knows how the rank and file of the Cons hardly dared even whisper his name back on Earth, as if it would summon him, the spawn of Unicron, as they sometimes called him.

He offlines his optics and goes limp, trying to crawl back into his own processor and hide. 

It's impossible.

Every one of his still functioning sensors are locked on him. The mech every protocol Barricade is still running assesses as the biggest threat in the room, and he trembles with fear in spite of trying to look as boring and pliant as possible.

Something cold and hard is slipped into his valve, but he doesn't really pay attention to that.

Then he can't stop his screaming, can't control his frame's thrashing when it feels like his valve is ripped to pieces as the hated re-seal is torn out of him without being unhooked.

The last thing he sees before the pain knocks him into reboot is Jazz's bright visor.

Chapter Text

"So, what can we do for you, officer?"

Blackout hears the voice of one of the caretakers, speaking to a customer. They're coming down the isle between the stalls.

"I saw on the datanet tha' ya have a Seeker at a really good price. But I'm window shoppin' a li'l, see if I find anythin' I like. Ya've got a Helo too, right?"

Blackout looks up. Jazz is walking down the isle, looking at every mech, every information board on the stalls. Blackout shudders and tries to make himself smaller.

"We do. They're hardly more than scrap though, the Seeker is in stasis most of the time. The Helo was pretty stretched when we got him. Recalibrated his calipers and it made him marginally better, but he still hasn't tightened up fully."

"I see."

"We could always re-seal him. We have better things than that budget slag Barricade had installed."

"Really?" Jazz stops and turns to the caretaker.

"I'll demonstrate. Look. This is a permanent installation, you don't need to worry about changing it or anything."

An innocuous looking egg shaped object is pulled from subspace. Blackout is as riveted as Jazz is, curious, but from a whole different perspective. That thing is not made for Blackout's pleasure.

The thing flips open, turning into a segmented ring. Long, nasty looking barbs sticks out from the sides.

"It digs into the mesh and pulls it inward to tighten the valve. The ring is flexible and padded with silicone to feel good against your spike and when the spike slides through it, that feels even tighter. As a bonus, it tugs on the mesh. The Con reacts as if you're breaking the seal every time!"

"How...inventive." Jazz says appreciatively.

If Blackout's vocalizer wasn't fragged up, he'd be keening in fear. As it is, the only thing he can do is turn away, push his front into the corner and close his optics. He knows they're talking about him.

He's the only Helo at the pound.

Chapter Text

Of course they have to come look closer at him.

The Helicopter is dragged out of the corner by a pede, a harsh screech as his chestplates are dragged along the floor. His legs are kicked apart. If he wasn't so terrified, he might have struggled, but he doesn't dare. Jazz seems to appreciate mechs that struggle and Blackout does not want to be bought by Jazz. 

On the other servo, they must be running out of time. Blackout hasn't thought about counting the days they've been here, but the end of the week must be closing in fast.

"Go ahead, check the merchandise for yourself." The caretaker tells the Autobot.

Jazz leans down, pushing a couple of digits into Blackout's valve without preamble. The Helicopter waits for the usual mocking of his sloppy valve, a servo to be pushed inside. He was still sealed when they captured him, but that seems like a lifetime ago.

Or maybe they will jam that horrible torture device inside him, make him relive the pain of being fragged for the first time every time his valve is used.

The Helicopter stiffens, afraid for what's surely to come. He's so loose, Jazz will never be satisfied with him without that thing.

"I don' think he's tha' loose." Jazz finally says.

"Really?" The caretaker asks incredulously, leaning down to invade Blackout with unwanted digits again.

"I mean, he isn't tight, but he ain't to'lly sloppy either." Jazz says.

"We could always re-seal him for you... Or you could take him in the aft. He's still tight there." The caretaker pushes his digits into Blackout's port. "It usually makes them more lively too." The caretaker is still pumping his digits in and out, scissoring as a demonstration. 

Blackout can't resist the urge to squirm from the discomfort, in spite of trying to remain limp and boring.

It's so humiliating to just lie there on the floor, allowing them to touch him like that. Blackout has mostly been restrained and half slagged when somebot started doing those things, beyond caring. 

"See, he's already starting to respond. You could always take him for a test drive." The caretaker leers, adding another digit.

Blackout can't control himself anymore and tries shifting away from the digits still wriggling inside him. The caretaker stills him with a servo on his hip.

On display, like a fragtoy. Another hole to frag, primed and ready for the potential customer wanting to go trying before buying.

"Hmmm... Temptin'." Jazz seems to consider at first, but then he looks over at Thundercracker. "But 'm actually no' here ta shop for mah own pleasure. I was lookin' for a Seeker."

"He was the second of the command trine." The caretaker indicates Thundercracker.

"Looks like slag. Is he even goin' ta remain active 'til he's transported home?"

"He's pretty stable. Can't be out of stasis for long stretches of time, but he won't deactivate."

"Fine, I'll take 'im."

"Sign the documents, then?"


Blackout curls up on the floor, ashamed that he's relieved that Jazz chose somebot else. 

He somehow dodged the bullet of being sold to Jazz, but it's hard to tell if his future really is better because of it. He's still on the clock to be deactivated.

Chapter Text

Sideswipe is waiting for them. Drag Strip is wary, they are not in one of the usual rooms where customers use them and the Stunticons aren't being strung up as usual. It's new, and 'new' isn't necessarily something good.

"Have you settled everything with the boss?" One of the guards asks the Frontliner.

Sideswipe holds up a datapad for the guard, who looks through it.

"Good, good. Well, then I guess they're yours. Have fun." The guard leers as he looks both the Stunticons up and down.

Wildrider's plating clatters when he takes in who his new owner is and Drag Strip tries to soothe his gestalt mate with slow strokes along his backstrut. It seems futile, because their new owners brother has already visited Wildrider, and though Sunstreaker isn't here right now, one is rarely far from the other when it comes to the infamous pair of Autobot Frontliners.

Not that Drag Strip is any less terrified about their future. The only positive thing he can think of is that at least, they won't have new mechs using and abusing them every time. Or maybe they will. Their new owners can always invite friends...

Sideswipe grabs their leashes and leads them outside, the brightness of the day hurting Drag Strip's optics after Primus knows how long in the dimmed light inside.

He tentatively opens his bond to Motormaster for the first time in a very long time. His leader seems calm, relaxed, but something is very off about the Truckformer. At least he isn't in pain. At least they're all still online.

Chapter Text

Barricade is sobbing quietly, hopeless, so fragging helpless, in agonizing pain, still restrained to the medberth.

"We should give that one a proper re-seal. Would make him easier to sell, I think." The caretaker walking by says offhandedly. Jazz is trailing behind him.

"No!" Barricade cries out in panic as the other caretaker fetches one of those hated things, struggling with his restraints.

He can't take this again, doesn't want to function through this never ending pain.

"Ya know, this one seems like fun. Think I've deserved to indulge in somethin' fer mahself too this time. I'll take 'im." Jazz says.

"A very good choice, sir. He's actually well trained from the beginning. Maybe you can put him back in his place, get some of that training to resurface." 

Barricade just cries, horrified to beyond begging, and struggles weakly, slamming the back of his helm against the berth in frustration. Can't he ever get a fragging break?

"May I? Might be a good way to establish our... relationship." The Spy says, holding out a servo for the little marble.

The caretaker hands it over without protest. Barricade watches his new owner. Jazz smirks at him and offlines half his visor quickly, twirling the thing in his servo, and Barricade swears that from one opening and closing of his digits to another, it changes look.

He has no time to process that, because Jazz places a mockingly gentle servo on the Mustang's ventral plating, splaying his digits and presses down to further restrain the Decepticon.

"Now hold still, li'l Con, this needs ta be done. 'S gonna be good." Jazz croons.

The hated little orb of agony is pressed against the rim of Barricade's aching valve. He's still dripping energon from having the old seal removed. The thing slides inside without resistance and he can't help himself; he struggles as wildly as he can, crying in horror for the excruciating pain that is yet to come, crying for how things just get worse all the time, for his utter helplessness.

He just knows that he won't get more time to heal than it takes to reach a transport before he'll get fragged and torn open again and again and he curses Primus and the day he was sparked because he honestly can't take it anymore.

Chapter Text

The fragging re-seal should've unfolded by now. But it hasn't. Barricade still doesn't dare to relax, because maybe it just malfunctioned or takes more time to settle than those he's had installed time and again.

Then his abused valve starts to go numb. It's worrying. Maybe the mesh is finally fragged up beyond all repair and he is losing sensation? Wouldn't that be a pitiable relief? He feels a trickle, but that isn't so surprising. He usually leaks energon when he's re-sealed. 

Barricade glances at the Autobot. Jazz is staring at him with an overly bright visor, watches his plating clatter with his fearful trembling. Barricade quickly looks away, scared for the potential repercussions for staring at his Master.

"I need ta plug 'im or somethin'. An' hose him down. Don' need ta frag up tha seats in tha transport. 'N' I wanna...try 'im before we go." Jazz leers.

"Absolutely sir, as soon as the paperwork is finished. You can use the washracks." 

The caretaker smirks nastily at the Decepticon when Barricade's plating clatters even worse, his intakes going ragged in panic.

Why can't he ever be left alone? Just one fragging night in the solitude of a cell at the pound... No, he isn't even left until he's in the fucking transport. Why does he always have to attract new Masters, worse than the last one?

Barricade is still sobbing when Jazz returns and his restraints are removed. He allows himself to be pushed along the isle towards the washracks, not daring to resist. His Master's frame is pressing close to his from behind, questing servos stroking his hips and thighs as he walks. Jazz's cooling fans are roaring. 

A long time ago, it would be humiliating to be touched like this. Now, he's too terrified for what's to come to think like that. Humiliation requires dignity, something he lost a long time ago.

"Ye're mine now, li'l Con." Jazz purrs before pushing Barricade through the door to the washracks.

And he is terrified of what that will mean for him. 

The door is closed with an ominous click and he's alone with his new owner for the first time.

Barricade leans his back against the wall and spreads his legs, trying to make this easier. 

He's compliant, what more can the Bot ask for? 

He tries to reassure himself with thinking that, but he knows that Jazz can ask for so much more than just compliance. He offlines his optics and turns his helm away, spark spinning wildly, hoping he won't be hurt until he can't help but make another futile attempt to fight back. Please, Primus, just one time that's easy.

Chapter Text

"Wash yer array." An order.

Barricade onlines his optics again, looking warily at his Master. Optic contact is hazardous, could be seen as defiance, but he doesn't understand.

A cloth is held out to the confused Mustang. He takes it hesitantly. Does his Master want a show? The Autobot is standing with his arms crossed, faceplates unreadable. He doesn't seem aroused by what he sees and that's bad, because the blame will be on Barricade.

Jazz's fans have been quieted to a low setting. The mech's systems runs extremely silent, he notices. Spec ops. The worst of the worst.

Barricade breaks into shivering sobs, unable to handle his fear. He knows he will be punished for delaying, but he's petrified and just can't bring himself to move.

"Hurry up, I'm in a rush." Jazz says, voice low and soft. 

Dangerously so. Barricade knows how deceptive his Master can be. And Jazz isn't satisfied with him.

The Saleen turns and drops to his spread knees, servos on the back of his helm, in the stance he is so very familiar with by now. He leans forward and rests his forehelm against the wall. He's compliant, accepting his punishment. If his Master wants to whip him or frag him, he's offering himself up in submission. What else can he do?

None of that happens.

Instead, Jazz takes the cloth and starts the solvent, lukewarm liquid pelting down on them both. The Saleen's plating clatters in fear when strong servos grips his waist and lifts him to his pedes. He sobs silently as his legs and array are washed with surprisingly careful touches. 

It's terrifying. His first Master showed him that gentle servos can easily turn cruel on disobedient slaves. He waits for digits to slide inside him, the re-seal to snap open or some other pain or attempt at humiliation to show him his place... 

A sealing lid is placed over the rim of his valve when the Autobot is satisfied with the results.

His pede is still sore enough to make Barricade limp. With a massive effort, the Mustang manages to stop himself from clattering loudly, that could be so dangerous, but he is still unable to stop the distressed quivering in his plating as he's led from the washracks, terrified for what will happen now that he's Jazz's personal piece of Con shareware.

"Don't make me leash you, Decepticreep." Jazz spits as they are about to leave.

Barricade shakes his helm. He wouldn't dare take so much as a step without being told. He can see the guards smirk at his easy submission.

"He's already behaving better. Good work, Sir." One of them tells Jazz.

"Fortunately for 'im, he's a quick learner..." There's a smirk in Jazz's voice. "Walk ahead, Con!" He barks to Barricade.

Jazz is carrying Thundercracker just a step behind him when they leave the Pound. They won't be offlined this time either. But being online might not always be the best thing...

Chapter Text

It gets easier for every customer he services. The few times disgust and self derision raises their ugly helms, Vortex just thinks about his reward, about how all that will be washed away when he slips into oblivion afterwards.

It's like stepping into a role, kind of like what he did back when he was an interrogator. His frame is on autopilot, pliable to his customer's wants and needs, his vocalizer tells them what they want to hear and moans when the moment is right.

He even has new protocols for this. He rebooted out of recharge one day to find that his processor had written a few new programs: automated lubrication, new specifications for the calipers in his port and the sensors of his already sensitive flight frame reconfigured to be even more sensitive to touch instead of airflow and rerouted straight to his pleasure drive.

He overloads most of the times now, frame conditioned to respond in ways the customers like, and sometimes he catches himself thinking that it's a good thing. Overloading feels good after all, and who wouldn't like a job that feels good?

That is the hardest part, what makes him wonder if he likes this functioning for real and some days he's convinced he actually does, that it isn't so bad to have a job he enjoys. 

Then are the days days he gets a wakeup call of what he's actually doing, like when he overloads multiple times sandwiched between a couple of customers he found particularly unattractive or when they blow their transfluid all over him and he's moaning wantonly. Those are the days he truly hates himself, the way he has become nothing more than a pleasurebot. Those days, he remembers that this isn't his job, he's a slave, an owned mech and this is the functioning they found most fitting.

Turning tricks is all he's good for.

And when he's left alone again, filled with their fluids, he's always quick to slip that needle into his line, to make himself forget before he has a chance to contemplate exactly what he just did to earn that shot.

Chapter Text

Blitzwing is brought in. Blackout watches the crazy triplechanger shift back and forth between his personas, all of them just scared now.

He looks to be in better condition than Blackout, but who isn't?, even though he's dented and dirty. It seems mostly superficial. Except his state of mind.

The triplechanger is left chained by the medberth and he leans against it, cowering on the floor as his former owner leaves.

The caretakers foregoes the exam Blackout thought every mech coming here has to endure, going about their other chores as if the Decepticon isn't sitting there. Why is he spared that indignity? Blackout is jealous. 

Then the boss comes out of his office.

"The paper work is finished. You can do your thing." He says to one of the caretakers.

Blackout watches the mech nod once and get something from the storage.

"No, please!" Blitzwing crawls backwards as the mech approaches.

"Relax, it's just a little something to make the pain go away." The caretaker croons, a syringe held in one of his servos.

The triplechanger reaches the end of the chain and curls up, holding his servo up, palm out, as if to protect himself. It's useless, of course.

The caretaker pets the big mech's arm lightly, an oddly comforting gesture that Blackout finds himself envious of. He's so starved of gentle touch, something the big Warframe never was even through millions of years of war. 

The needle is slipped into a line and the Helicopter is jealous. He's seen other mechs get drugged here and that numbness seems very appealing.

Blitzwing slumps, his optics going dim before offlining completely. The huge mech's limbs twitches. Blackout feels the triplechanger's EM field fade.

Then the frame starts going gray.

At first, he doesn't understand what he's seeing, clings to denial. Then cold dread creeps in as comprehension dawns on him what he's actually seeing. He knew this happens, but somehow seeing it makes it real.

They deactivated Blitzwing.

Right in front of his optics, as if it's nothing wrong to just end a mechs' existence like that. To the caretakers, it seems to just be another chore. Up until now, he has somehow convinced himself that it's something vague, far off in the future. An empty threat that just doesn't happen. 

It isn't. It's really what's waiting for Blackout if he isn't sold. He doesn't have much time left before his deadline, how many days, he can't tell.

He curls up on his berth, plating quivering in terror and sobs silently as his vocalizer still isn't working.

If only Jazz had picked him.

Chapter Text

When Swindle goes, Blast Off knows it instantly. It isn't a burst of pain or fear that alerts him to it, no harshly snapped wire of a bond. His gestalt mate slips away quietly. It feels as if the bond is stretched, getting thinner and thinner until it just dissolves into nothing.

But when it's gone, the loss is no less painful. The connection hangs there like a wilted stalk of an organic flower.

The Shuttle doubles over, scratching at his chestplates. He can feel Onslaught's devastation that he couldn't stop it. Brawl's grief is loud, as everything about the Tank is. Vortex seems muted. He reacts, but not nearly to the extent the others does. As if he's numb. Blast Off feels kind of jealous about that.

It's the first time they have fully opened their bonds since their capture. It wasn't intentional, the loss of one piece of them pried it open, but now he's flooded with the feelings of the others.

Onslaught seems to be best off. Beside his grief, he seems calm. But he always was the most levelhelmed of them and the best at hiding things from the bond. Brawl is exhausted to the point of pain. Vortex seems off. More off than usual. Too relaxed, too muted. He's usually a very abrasive presence, annoying with his wildly fluctuating emotions.

It's like finally being hugged by his gestalt, but one part is glaringly missing, and he's reluctant to let go, to pull back.

But he doesn't want them to find out about him, doesn't want them to know what he has become, the state of him. What he's allowing to happen.

So he closes it down again, leaving him lonely in a way only bonded mechs can understand, and does the next best thing for what little comfort he can have.

He crawls over to Tarn and curls up against the Tank with a fleeting thought about Blackout, wondering if the Helicopter is still functioning.

"Swindle is offline. I felt him slip away." He sobs into scorched tracks.

"I'm sorry." Tarn's once smooth voice is rough and scratchy.

Blast Off doesn't say anything else as Tarn's arm wraps around his shoulders.

Chapter Text

Vortex knows that Swindle is gone. In those awful moments of clarity, after the drugs wear off but before withdrawal is setting in, he feels the full force of the pain. It doesn't make it any easier that he was so out of it when it happened, he didn't really understand, didn't feel his grief fully then.

His gestalt has closed their bonds again and he knows that the drugs robbed him of those precious moments when their walls fell, when he could've feltthem for once.

It's too late now. All he can do is mourn the greedy little bastard by himself, all alone in his cell if he isn't with customers. Vortex never was a social mech before, at least he didn't consider himself as such. But that was before he was forced to stay apart from his gestalt. It's a terrible way to learn the lesson that he needs them.

So he does the only thing he can to substitute the mechs he's really longing for: he throws himself into his work with a desperate need he can't fill any other way.

He gets very good at enticing mechs and as soon as they're in his arms, he pretends that they are his gestalt. Flightframes become Blast Off, big grounders are Onslaught or Brawl. The small ones are the hardest, because he has to pretend that Swindle is still functioning. 

As often as he can, he takes more than one mech, pretending it's all of them at once.

And when it's over and he's all alone again, he shoots his dose and slips off into oblivion, pretending that it was his gestalt that fragged him raw and exhausted.

Chapter Text

"His time is up tomorrow. Should we give him another week? He does look marginally better..."

"No. We have more sellable Cons incoming, we need the space. Besides, with the earnings from the Seeker, we actually made a little profit off of these two if we get rid of that one now and cut the costs for keeping him. In fact, I think we should deactivate him today. Won't be anybot buying him anyway, one day more or less doesn't matter."

"Can we have a little fun first? It would be such a pity to offline him without a frag goodbye."

Blackout reboots out of recharge to this conversation, but at first he doesn't get that they are talking about him.

"Sure." The boss says, before he leaves.

Blackout stares at the three caretakers as what they were actually saying, that they really mean him, sinks in.

"Think we should re-seal him first? He still is awfully sloppy..." One of them says as they look him up and down.

"Pit yeah!"

They all enter his cell and descend on him like cyberwolves. He still can't beg, can't make a single sound, but he fights. Primus, does he fight.

Low hydraulic pressure and energon levels or not, Blackout is still a big mech and he's driven by sheer panic because they are going to deactivate him once they are finished with whatever torture they have in mind this time.

He lands a kick, weak as it is, the other caretakers snickering at the one who took Blackout's pede to his thigh, angering the mech. He backhands Blackout harshly and the Helo staggers back, rotors hitting the wall. His optic feed is still glitching when he is dropped on the spot by a shock from his collar.

"Fragging glitch." The caretaker snarls at the downed Decepticon, kicking him in the side.

Then they're all on him and he can't get up, isn't powerful enough to throw them all off. He still struggles wildly to free himself as his legs are pried apart and somebot takes out the terrifying little object he knows is a re-seal.

He can't scream out his terror when it slides against the rim of his valve, but his plating rattles as he braces himself for what will surely be the worst pain in his functioning.

The functioning that is going to end before the day is over.

Chapter Text

"Thundercracker is functioning and out of stasis." Prime states.

Starscream knows this already, has checked his bond over and over. His trinemate is out of stasis but seems pretty out of it. Maybe he's drugged, like Skywarp.

"Thank you." Starscream doesn't dare to ask for more. 

That the Prime made the effort to even find out for him is more than he could ever hope for. Megatron would never have been so gracious.

"I'm going to a party at Sentinel's mansion tonight. You're coming too. There's some rules you need to follow."

Optimus plugs a cable into Starscream's medical port. His interface panel slides away and is locked open. The Seeker covers himself with his servos, but Prime isn't looking.

"That will have to stay open. You will be seen and not heard. Only speak when spoken to by an Autobot. Don't make optic contact."

Starscream's spark is sinking rapidly.

"Autobot's are free to do as they please, you can't say no. That is up to me to decide, they cannot do anything without my approval. So you better defer to me. Don't force me to punish you."

He should've known this would happen sooner or later. He's just a thing to show off. Why was he starting to think Optimus was better than the others?

"Walk half a step behind me, to my left side at all times. When I'm sitting, you will be sitting on the floor next to my pedes."

Like the slave he is.

"Can you do this or do I have to leash you?" Prime's face is as stony as his voice, field pulled in tight in an uncharacteristic way.

He can do it, no matter how degrading it is. Wearing a leash would be even more humiliating. Starscream nods once.

"Good. Now go polish yourself to perfection and put this on your collar."

He's handed an ornate cover for the ugly shock collar, thin metal fabric with decorative threads of other metals. Chosen to accentuate his own colors.

Starscream has always been vain. In another setting, he would love something beautiful like this, obviously bought for him. 

Now it's just a bitter reminder of his place.

Chapter Text

He thrashes silently as the barbs sink into the mesh of his valve, anchoring plates unfolding to hold it in place. The pain makes his processor spin, optic feed going pixelated. He can feel what little energon is in his tank rise to the back of his intake but he manages to push it back down. It's the last energon he'll ever have.

And he desperately needs every ounce of energy to fight, to try to show them that he's worth another day, another chance to be sold.

They flip him while he's still reeling on the verge of reboot, grabbing his hub to control him, and his spark spins wildly, because for as horrible as this is, when it's over he's facing his own termination. He cries silently in fear and pain as one mech nudges his legs apart, wondering what will await him after that last shot. If Primus hates him enough to let him go like this, if this is functioning and he is to be punished in the afterlife, what kind of horrifying pit will he go to? He doesn't want to die, is terrified of it. Servos grabs his hips.

Then he feels it. 

Fluid running between his legs. For several mortified seconds he freezes up, thinking he lost control of his primary waste tank. With his processors seemingly on boosters, so much passes his mind; will that amuse them or will they be revulsed? Will it spare him from an excruciating rape? Will it shorten his functioning even more as they might just deactivate him immediately for being a disgusting weakling? 

Blackout is a warframe, he always thought he'd offline in battle, in a blast of blinding light and quick pain, shattered glass and melting metal. 

Not crawling on a cold floor, by the hand of the mechs he rose up against because they looked down on him, brought so low he's just wishing he could beg for their mercy, crying and pissing himself in terror. He waits for their laughter, the mocking.

A warning pop up in his HUD informs him that it's 'just'energon leaking from his torn up valve.

So much energon.

"Wow. Jazz said he seemed cowed, but I don't know...." A new voice from outside his cell.

Blackout still can't get his optics to focus on the mech talking. The voice is familiar.

"I think he looks scrappy! Took that like a mech too, not begging like a little bitch."

Somebot from Earth, using human slurs.

"His voice box is busted." One of the caretakers says, clearly annoyed to be interrupted when he's about to get off.

The mech witnessing his torture laughs.

"Even better. I hate it when they beg and plead. Like I would think they deserved mercy if they just ask for it."

"You want this piece of slag?" One of the other caretakers asks, incredulous.

"Fuck yeah! I have a thing for Rotarys and they are pretty hard to come by. And I have... history between a friend of mine and this particular mech to settle."

Chapter Text

I must say, Optimus, the former Air Commander does clean up nicely."

Sentinel's optics rake up and down Starscream's frame, lingering on his array, and Starscream has never felt so exposed before. They were drugged back in the beginning, and while he wasn't spared from touchy Bots, it was a rather hazy experience.

Here though, here he's processing clearly and it makes it all the more humiliating. He says nothing. Just as Optimus told him.

They're invited inside, and he follows Optimus, optics cast down, trying to catch what's going on out of the corners of his optics.

The other guests step out of their way when they walk through the crowd towards a dais with two thrones, greetings respectfully murmured to Optimus.


An excited yell rises above the noise from the crowd and the Seeker almost looks up. It's a reflex when he hears Ramjet's voice, but he catches himself in time.

Everything goes silent.

"What in the pit do you think you're doing?!" Sentinel snarls, his field heavy with embarrassment and anger.

Starscream hears the crunch as metal collides with metal, Ramjet's pained cry. Then there's a harsh sqeal of someone being dragged across the floor and the other Seeker starts pleading.

"No, please, Master! I didn't mean to! I'm sorry!" The Seeker cries.

"You will be sorry, alright, Slave." Sentinel growls.

The former Air Commander lifts his optics as far as he dare, unable to resist his need to see what's happening to his former subordinate.

Sentinel is dragging the begging Seeker by an arm towards the nearest exit. The room is almost vibrating with all the tense fields.

What makes Starscream's tanks sink is that the tension feels like anticipation and hunger, not horror or revulsion.

Chapter Text

Blackout's optics finally reboots.


Optimus Prime's bodyguard and Weapons specialist. Called "the tooth fairy", a walking gun turret with a frame bristling with guns and temper just bristling. Not known for his compassionate disposition. He's standing there in all his massively armored glory, watching the proceedings with much too bright optics.

Blackout hasn't really thought about it before, but between him and Sentinel, Optimus always seemed like the more reasonable, softer and ridiculously pacifistic Prime. At least in his speeches. But in spite of that, he was always the one surrounded by the real rawhides for Autobots. His crew on Earth could almost have been mistaken for Decepticons: Jazz, Sideswipe, Crosshairs... Ironhide.

Back on Earth, Blackout tried to offline William Lennox, a dear friend of the Weapons specialist. The big Helo's que of distressed noises to his vocalizer grows longer when he remembers that.

The Helicopter knows how many ways Sentinel's mechs, the garden variety of Autobots, have come up with to hurt and degrade him. He can't even imagine what this mech could do.

It's cold comfort that he isn't going to be deactivated today.

The guards gets off of him, dragging him to his pedes when they rise from the floor. Energon drips from his valve and Blackout realizes that the worst pain is yet to come. Over and over. Ironhide is bigger than any of the caretakers, his spike will probably be huge.

"We just re-sealed him." They tell the Weapons specialist.

"I saw that. Can't wait to get him home." An unreadable look passes over Ironhide's faceplates.

Blackout sobs silently, petrified. He limps along when they drag him out, the pain in his valve excruciating from just walking. Interfacing seems like an impossibility.

"You could borrow the washracks... Jazz did to break his little toy in." One of the caretakers leer.

"Nah. I have... special plans for this one." Ironhide leers.

Blackout's plating rattles when a shiver travels through his frame. Whatever he's been through, worse is surely to come.

He's still online. The question is if he dodged a bullet just to be hit with a multi barrel plasma cannon.

Chapter Text

Ratchet is waiting for them and Barricade is left alone for a while, the two Autobots taking the Seeker into a different room. The interceptor sinks to the floor in the corner as soon as they leave. They're at Ratchet's, in the medbay. 

He knows of Ratchet. The hatchet. The medic who isn't even nice to the other Autobots. 

Decepticon medics tended to be mechs to keep away from. An Autobot medic must be even worse for a Decepticon. Especially Ratchet.

They might rebuild him for their own pleasure. Or reprogram him. Maybe that wouldn't be so bad? Be turned into a willing pleasurebot, coded to enjoy everything, to serve his Master with reverence. Once upon a time, that was his greatest fear. Now, it almost seems like an escape.

He looks down and touches the seal Jazz placed on his valve. It makes him flinch, the deep ache from around his abused components worrying.

Maybe they'll re-seal him in some new, horrible way. Or modify him to be too small, unstretchable, for their own pleasure. Barricade's plating clatters with fear when he thinks about it.

He whimpers when he prods around his components, sore everywhere. His self repair still hasn't had enough time and energy to fix him since the last time he had to be part of one of his previous owner's new group activities with his friends. He still can't sit properly, it hurts.

Looking himself over, for once not left in the dark, he can see how dirty his frame is. But at least the filth covers the dents, the burns from energy whips, the scars of porly healed old lashes.

His last owner just hosed him off with cold solvent to wash the worst transfluid stains off him.

A memory from that night is opened before he can stop it. It's so very vivid and the utter terror following the memory makes him unable to stop it, paralyzes him in a flashback.

He can still feel the barbed collar digging into his neck cables when they pull his leash, the painful stretch when they force him to ride increasingly large toys until he is begging them for mercy, his frame shaking from pure agony, the re-seal tugging on his mesh when he impales himself on the toy and his port stretched beyond what he thought possible. How the shock prod burns his protoform, the stink of burned circuitry when he tries to get away, tries to stand to raise off the toys to relieve the pain. The way he is forced to lick up his own puke when he can't take the pain anymore. Or how they let him sit there, still stuffed, just because they find it arousing to hear him cry and beg in agony, to watch him writhe, before they finally show him some 'mercy', pulling the toys out just to frag him...

Barricade is yanked out of his nightmarish memory when the door is slammed open, Ratchet storming in with Jazz in tow. He almost starts crying in fear.

How is it possible that things can still get worse?

Chapter Text

Sentinel comes back, all self-satisfied swagger. Ramjet is following him, wings drooping in nervous deference. Starscream glances at Optimus. The Prime has an unreadable, stony look on his face.

The room is quiet, but the anticipation is tangible when they step up on the dais to where Optimus is already seated on his throne, Starscream sitting on the floor.

Starscream can smell burnt plating from yards away but is still unprepared when he sees the scorchmarks on Ramjet's wings and afts. They're deep. Deep enough to have cleaved plating in some places.

Sentinel sits down on his throne, Ramjet falling to his knees in front of the large Autobot.

"I'm terribly sorry Master. I meant no disrespect. I just get impulsive when I'm excited."

"You will make it up to all my honored guests, slave. You disrespected them too and set a bad example for their slaves, so your punishment is being made an example of, an example of what happens to disobedient slaves."

"Yes, Master."

"You know what I like, Con." Sentinel says, pressurizing his spike.

"Yes, Master."

Ramjet crawls to him and sinks his intake down around that thick lenght. Starscream is revulsed. He glances at Optimus, the mech stoic as ever, looking at the proceedings with cold detachment.

Sentinel plants one large servo on the back of Ramjet's helm, pushing the Seeker to take him deeper. Cooling fans can be heard roaring in the audience. Sentinel grunts and Ramjet's frame convulses when he swallows desperately.

The Autobot motions to his guards.

"Make him ready. You know what to do."

They nod and drag Ramjet to the middle of the floor, another guard meeting them there with a cubical piece of furniture. Ramjet is bent over it, wriststruts and knees fastened with straps to secure him. One of the guards pushes the nozzle of a bottle of lubricant into Ramjet's valve, filling him up, before doing the same to his aft.

"My dear Autobots! Enjoy yourselves!" Sentinel voice carries over the room, and the anticipatory silence is broken when everybot starts talking and laughing again.

Starscream sees the line to Ramjet grow and looks down at the floor, unable to watch.

Chapter Text

The Helicopter is bent over the medberth and the caretakers pushes something into his valve.

Blackout's knees buckles and the only thing keeping him from falling in a heap is the fact that most of his weight is already resting against the slab.

The intrusion isn't deep, but it still pushes on the mesh that's pulled tight by the re-seal and the pain is excruciating. 

"Looks like this plug will hold the leakage inside. Wipe him down."

A cloth is rubbed over his thighs and aft, and then it slides between his legs, jarring the plug. Blackout's optic feed crackles with static and freezes as he teeters on the edge of a reboot.

Blackout's arms are grabbed and he's pulled up until he's standing. His helm swims and the Helo is close to losing consciousness from overwhelming pain input.

He's forced to walk. Every step hitches and he needs to stop for a second before moving the next pede, small gasping invents the only thing he can manage. He can't see where he's going, optic feed still glitching. Servos on his arms are pulling him along, not letting him stop like he would rather do.

"Get ready to have your gears stripped!"

Somebot laughs. 

"Yeah, Ironhide is well known for his... prowess with keeping unruly mechs in line."

Blackout hears them talking over the ringing in his audials and he has to focus everything on trying to remain online. Primus knows what will happen if he falls into reboot right now.

It gets brighter and the impression of walls and ceiling disappears. What's functional of his flight sensors bombards the Helicopter with input about airflow and so many other parameters he's unable to process at the moment. He's probably outside?

A warning pings in his HUD: energon levels low. It blinks insistently below the warning about leakage. It's superfluous, he can't do anything about it anyway.

The servos lets go of him and for a moment, he experience a vertigo flightframes only experience when they are crashing and Blackout thinks that he's going to topple over. Servos steadies him again and he gets the impression of going back inside, into a smaller space.

An engine starts and everything starts moving. He's in a transport. 

He's going to meet his new functioning and he is hardly even able to stand. Or maybe it's sufficient to just be able to bend over.

The thought fills him with dread, as the warnings in his HUD about leakage and energon levels pings him more urgently.

Chapter Text

Tarn is roused out of light recharge when the guards step into the cell. He watches them warily.

It's never a good thing having them show up. Either him or the others have customers or the guards there to have a little "fun" themselves. It doesn't really matter, because none of it is fun for Tarn or the others.

"Time to get up. You have a customer." One of the guards smirk at him.

He complies, because no matter how much he fights, they will win anyway and the only thing fighting leads to is more pain and humiliation.

"Such a good and obedient little tank." One of them purrs.

He walks between them, unable to shake the feeling of being escorted to his own execution. But he won't be that lucky, he knows that.

He knows it with a spark dropping certainty, because they are talking about how they are going to take pleasure from his frame when the customer is done with him.

"Maybe I'll let you suck my spike. Have a really good load saved up for you. Pit, you might not even feel low on fuel tonight when I'm done with you."

Tarn's tank roils, energon burning at the back of his intake. Repulsive.

"I haven't even decided yet. Depends on where you feel tightest. I mean, we don't know what this customer will use you for." The other guard snickers, sliding digits through Tarn's valve slit. "You are so dry. Are we not arousing you?" He smirks, already knowing the answer.

They don't mind his lack of arousal. What they're really after is his revulsion, his pain and humiliation. And that, they still manage to repeatedly wring out of him by the bucket load.

Chapter Text

He's strung up spread eagled, as per usual, and the customer is let inside the room.

The mech clasps his servos behind his back and walks around the Tank, critical optics scrutinizing the Decepticon. He comes to a halt in front of the chained object of the sadistic lusts of so many Autobots.

"Oh, now this is an unexpected treat, to get you like this. Do you recognize me?"

Tarn stares at his tormentor. He's vaguely familiar but he can't place the rather handsome faceplates, so he shakes his helm.

"You see, I was on your list." A self satisfied smirk.


"Now, I know what kind of tender mercies you would have bestowed upon me, had you actually found me. You know, back when you weren't a slave. 

That voice. He knows it. Has listened to recordings of it to memorize it for the day he might be on to the traitor. He can't even bring himself to talk back derisively to the mech, can't tell him that he's lower than all the other Autobots in Tarn's optics. Truth be told, he would jump at the first chance to defect himself, if it would get him out of here. 

He's weak. Slag. Not a worthy Decepticon anyway.

The mech looks at the tools he's supplied with and takes a small shock prod.

"So, how does it feel, Tarn? High and mighty leader of the DJD, Megatron's favorite pet... Look at you now, brought so low. A toy for your betters to use as we see fit. You know this is exactly what the Decepticons would have done if they won the war. You were no better. Starting to regret your view on us deserters?"

It feels vile in his vocalizer, against all he came to believe so long ago. Before he became this.

"Yes." He whispers.

"I know that you would have tortured and murdered me, were the roles reversed. But I have other plans for you."

The prod slides over Tarn's anterior node and the Tank can't help trying to cringe away.

"First, I need to know who else is here."

The prod slides into his his valve.

"Blast Off, the Combaticon Shuttle! And-and Dreadbot!" He stutters out in panicked haste.

The mech smirks.

"Very good. I think you deserve a little reward for being so compliant."

The prod is activated on a very low setting. Tarn gasps as the charge stimulates his valve with unexpected pleasure.

"I know how you hated Decepticon deserters, and therefore, I think the perfect torture for you will be me, a traitor, bringing you to overload after overload."

The Autobots voice changes slightly, going predatory, and suddenly the coin drops for Tarn.


Chapter Text

When they get back home, he's more nervous than ever. Prime hasn't done anything to him so far, but what if he's just waiting to be out of the optics of the public?

The mech is incredibly hard to read, field drawn in tight, but that might be a deception. After all, Starscream was starting to feel safe and then this happened. Maybe the Autobot is still trying to get him to relax for some reason yet to be revealed? 

Optimus is turning out to be much more deceptive, cold and calculating than Starscream ever thought. Not at all the naive, stupidly honest, disgustingly compassionate mech he considered the Autobot leader to be during the war. In a different situation he would grudgingly have approved. Now it's just worrying. He has no idea how to read the mech.

Sure, Optimus praised him for being good back at Sentinel's mansion, but the massive mech also groped his wings with obviously lascivious intent, something that startled Starscream and made his tanks churn with nerves. And Optimus hinted to Sentinel that he'd rather have fun with his Seeker in a more private setting.

Oh, they were offered a room, but Optimus declined. That just left Starscream apprehensive about the ride home. Stuff can be done in a transport.

The elevator seems to be slower than ever, but at least he isn't smashed against the wall and taken right there.

A large servo on the expanse of his wing to usher him inside when the elevator stops makes him twitch before he can stop himself.

It's ridiculous, really. He has used interface as a means of persuasion or to collect material for blackmail many times before. He even tried to berth Optimus when he thought it would gain him an advantage.

But that was always on his own terms, and tonight, the fragile sense of safety he's built up in his time here has shattered.

Tonight, he is reminded with disturbing clarity that he's nothing more than a slave, at the mercy of his owners whims.

Chapter Text

"C'me 'ere, Barricade." His Master says.

He obeys, of course he does, getting up slowly as he tries to avoid the worst pain in his chassis that stabs through him with some movements.

Standing silently, optics downcast, in front of his petrifying new Master and his Master's equally terrifying friend, his plating shivers violently with his fear but at least he manages to refrain from clattering.  

Ratchet touches parts of his plating, poking him in sore burns and dents, lifts plates to prod his protoform in spots even more sore and Barricade's vents hitches with his frightened sobbing. The touches will turn cruel and painful once they map out his sore spots.

"I know they ripped somethin' from his valve, they called it a re-seal, but it wasn't the kind I showed ya. Did na get a better look at tha' one. 'N' the other damage, ya can see." Jazz says to the medic.

"Slaggers." Ratchet mutters.

Barricade flinches with the curse.

"I put one of tha post-assault orbs in his valve 'fore we left 'n' I sealed it inside."

"Good thinking." Ratchet says appreciatively.

The panel over Barricade's medical port is long gone and Ratchet plugs in. The Saleen does nothing to protest. If they're going to alter him in some way, there's nothing he can do about it. And maybe that wouldn't be such a bad thing.

Code scrolls by in his HUD, fault codes in abundance as Ratchet easily takes over his diagnostics program.

The medic disconnects with another curse.

"On the berth." He mutters gruffly to the Interceptor.

He was right. Slag his functioning.

Unlike at the pound, this time, he doesn't dare fighting back. It didn't do him any good back at the pound and this is Jazz. If it would displease him, Barricade would probably be punished in a way that made his first Master seem lenient. And if it pleased the Spy, fighting back would just set the Saleen up for a world full of hurt. He can't win.

Slowly, plating clattering uncontrollably now, Barricade crawls up on the slab and lays on his back, spreading his legs. It will happen anyway. He offlines his optics.

A needle is slipped into a line in his arm, something he didn't expect. He onlines his optics and stares at where the medic is setting up a mainline with a steady drip.

"Energon, you're dangerously low. And something for the pain." Ratchet explains. "And for the fear." The last statement is muttered as if talking to himself.

Warmth spreads through Barricade's arm to the rest of his frame like wildfire and his entire frame goes blissfully numb. His processor spins and he feels himself melting to a puddle on the berth. Or something. It's really hard to process. It's wonderful.

Servos poke and prod him everywhere, he hears the sounds of metal being manually straightened and vaguely he's aware that they do stuff with his plating and protoform; cold smears here, welding there, the sting of disinfectants. When their attention is turned to his array, he's too out of it to care.

Chapter Text

Blackout finally manages to focus his optics when he's inside the transport. Ironhide is holding him with big servos on his waist, trying to coax him to sit and Blackout tries to obey, he really does. 

It's impossible.

The pain in his valve is getting increasingly worse and sitting is excruciating. He tries to rise, but his energy levels are too low and he gets no further than a half crouch, shaking his helm and crying.

"Lay down." Ironhide says, keeping him from clattering to the floor in an ungraceful heap.

It's obviously not Blackout's favorite position, on his back, knees bent and spread, but it hurts the least.

The Autobot touches the plug and Blackout flails from the agony it brings.

"I have to..." Ironhide grunts and pulls it out. 

The pain is blinding but quickly over and is followed by relief as energon rushes out of his valve, releasing the building pressure on the mesh.

The Helicopter doesn't relax. Why did the Weapons specialist unplug him here? To try him out? He is newly re-sealed. Blackout will definitely fall into reboot if he's fragged right now, that probably wouldn't be good...

A cloth is pressed to his valve.

"Drink this."

A cube of energon, the biggest cube Blackout has seen since long before his capture, is held out. He grabs it with trembling servos, urgently punches through the sealing lid with a worn talon.

Ironhide lifts plates around Blackout's array, nimble gripper cables sliding deeper into the Helo's chassis and he feels something being pinched. 

Blackout greedily drinks the entire cube in one go, like the starving mech he is. His tanks roil by the sudden fueling, but he doesn't care. It's such a small discomfort to him and it's worth it.

A message pops up in his HUD: leakage slowed down and his dangerously low energon levels are better. Ironhide does something more before retracting his grippers, disconnects something, and the pain in Blackout's valve decreases.

Offlining his optics, the Helo stays perfectly still, relieved to still be online after the entire ordeal. Whatever his new owner has planned for him, he'll take this moment of being fueled and not in excruciating pain and allow his frame to rest and self repair as long as he can. Even if it's just for a few seconds.

Chapter Text

"Did you know that he is an ex-Con? Deadlock." One of the guards spits the designation derisively.

They're flanking Tarn, the Tank undamaged this session. Deadlock stayed true to his word, doing nothing but overload the former DJD leader. Overloading him until it hurt, but not until he burnt circuits. It was all the more humiliating for it, overloading for a traitor. And he admitted out loud that he wishes that he had defected before their defeat. Tarn sobs silently, disgusted with himself.

"Really?!" The other guard sounds incredulous.

"Defector. And look at this, didn't even do a little damage to this one, the one who chased traitors for a living. If he was a true Autobot, he would have been on the list. He would have hated this one. Former Decepticon, my aft."

"I can't understand that they allow him to go free, just like that. As if he's any other Autobot."

"Heh, he does have a sweet frame though. Bet he's slutty too, he was a buymech before the war."

Tarn listens idly. He's more worried for what they will do to him than what they think of Deadlock.

"Then he should be perfectly happy to still be a Decepticon and serve." The guard makes an indecent gesture with his servo against his intake.

The other guard laughs.

"Maybe we should show him what we think of "ex"-Cons. You know, show him a little... friendliness."

"Yeah! I'll call the others."

They both turn and look at Tarn. The Tank backs up against the wall, startled by their sudden interest.

"Get your mask away. I want that blowjob now."

He's never done that before, and it's repulsive when he sinks to his knees, sliding his mask up to free his intake. But he's fairly undamaged for once, only old injuries that his self repair has already started to heal and he doesn't see a point in giving them a reason to hurt him. 

So he obediently opens his intake and allows the spike held out before him to slide over his glossa, coating it with bitter pre-transfluid and self derision.

Chapter Text

The drugs are wearing off by the time they reach Jazz's apartment and Barricade is getting very anxious. He trails his Master, careful to stay just a step behind him.

"Washracks're in there, go get cleaned up. Take yer time." Jazz says, pointing to a door.

He does, with apprehension. Barricade hasn't been allowed to clean himself for Primus knows how long. He's been hosed down when his Master found him too repulsive to use. Except when he was forced to give a show, but then he mostly didn't have time to get all that clean before the show was over and the fragging began. Barricade shudders at the memory. But maybe Jazz prefers his toys clean?

He scrubs himself vigorously and it would feel glorious to finally get rid of all the disgusting filth sticking to his plating if it wasn't for his apprehension about what's to come, his suspicion that this is just because Jazz doesn't like sloppy seconds.

Jazz said take your time, but for how long can he hide out in here before his Master gets annoyed?

He doesn't dare stalling for too long, and his chronometer is still offline, so he can't be certain how long he's been in the shower. The Saleen hurries, no matter how much he dreads what's waiting for him.

With careful steps, he walks up to his Master, standing with his optics downcast. Submissive and accepting. Jazz seems like the type who's appeased by good behavior, in spite of his comments back at the pound. Barricade can be pretty good most of the time.

A cube of energon is held out to him. Hesitantly, he takes it. It seems huge. It must be a test.

"Well, this is my home. Ya know where tha washracks are 'n' there's more energon in tha cooler." Jazz says with a flourish, sweeping by the Decepticon.

Barricade looks around. There's no empty corners. His spark sinks. He preferred to be kept in a corner where he could see his Master coming, rather than in a closet. He sips his energon, indecisive. What's he supposed to do? Where's he supposed to stay?

Jazz looks over at him from the chair he's sitting in.

"Oh, right! Sorry. I have na had time ta set ma office up for ya. Guess ya hafta make do with tha couch 'til tha's sorted out." He gets up and waves vaguely in the direction of the couch.

Barricade walks slowly to the piece of furniture. He isn't allowed on the furniture. What does his Master want him to do?

Jazz comes back and throws a huge blanket on the couch. It smells like Earth and it looks like it is from there. He scans it with one of his few remaining scanners and confirms that the materials are indeed from Earth.

"Have a seat." The spy gives him the go ahead and curls up in his chair again.

Barricade sits down carefully on the edge of his seat, afraid that he will do something that displeases his Master.

Jazz seems to not pay him any mind, the Autobot absorbed in the show on the screen. It's unnerving. While it's commonplace that Barricade is ignored when he's not used, Jazz just bought him. This must be a testJazz is watching him to see what he does. The Mustang sips his energon and keeps track of Jazz out of the corner of his optics.

The energon is of higher grade, and to Barricade's starved frame, it hits like the strongest high grade. After half the cube, he's drowsy and uninhibited enough to lay down and curl up in the corner of the couch. He burrows down in the blanket  to hide, to surround himself in the smell of Earth and softness that's unparalleled on Cybertron. 

It's comfortable. 

It's probably dangerous too. He's probably failing whatever test his Master is putting him through epically, but clean plating, all his normal pain dulled by repairs and high grade to easily ignored aches and a fuel tank with a staggering level of 30 percent full, the lack of rest he's suffered for Primus knows how long takes it's toll.

He's in recharge before he manages to process how many ways he could get in trouble for this, defragging about racing down a gritty road on Earth.

Chapter Text

Tarn is pushed back into their cell and curls up in the corner, sobbing silently.

Blast Off crawls over to the Tank and pets his treads soothingly. He notices the absence of new damage, something that's puzzling but still welcome. 

Tarn has been so much worse off than the guards have noticed, he was not fit to take a customer today. They all hide their injuries as much as they can because they quickly learned that getting "medical attention" is worse than not getting it. So the Tank needs every day of recovery he can get without new damage being inflicted to tax his self repair even more if he's not going to suddenly fall into stasis. Or disappear. Like Blackout did.

"What happened?" Blast Off whispers, pressing in close to comfort the Tank.

"It was somebot from the list." Tarn sobs.

"What did he do? Do you need help? Did he hurt you?" Blast Off tries to look the Tank over, wondering if he has missed some injuries.

"He made me overload. Over and over. I overloaded for a traitor!" Tarn wails into Blast Off's shoulder fairing.

Dreadbot scoffs from his place in the opposite corner.

"Oh, please! Tarn, the mighty leader of the DJD, is crying like a little Earth-child because somebot made him overload?! Disgusting! So weak..." He spits.

Tarn doesn't answer, just cries harder, but Blast Off glares at Dreadbot. He's new to this place, and so far Blast Off hates him. Bought straight from a bounty hunter and not having had any customers yet, he surely has no idea what he's talking about and talking, he does plenty, unfortunately.

Mostly about how weak his cellmates are to have broken so easily. He wants nothing to do with Blast Off or Tarn, and the feeling is mutual. But here they are, sharing a small cell, and the mech just can't keep his vocalizer shut.

"You just wait and see. You won't be so tough when you have had a few customers and a couple of rounds with the guards." Blast Off hisses to Dreadbot.

The mech just smirks back infuriatingly, so Primus damned certain he can stand whatever he's in for and Blast Off just can't help but hope that whoever gets Dreadbot will break him so very badly.

"Hey, Tarn. It's ok. It doesn't mean anything. You know that. It's just your frame reacting to stimuli." Blast Off murmurs.

Tarn nods against his plating. The Tank know this, has given Blast Off the same speech. But knowing rationally and emotionally accepting it is two different stories.

"Did he take you?"

"No. Just overloaded me with a tool." 

"That's good. You didn't overload for him. You overloaded because your frame reacted to stimulation." Blast Off coaxes.

"I-I sucked the guards spikes. They asked and I just did it." Tarn whispers against his plating.

Of course Dreadbot hears that. The mech roars a laugh.

"Oh! Oh, ho, ho, this is rich! Tarn, getting on his knees, giving blowjobs! Like a common pleasuredrone. Was it good? Did you like the taste? Did you swallow, or did they cum all over your face? I bet you would look hot like that, covered in transfluid." He cackles wildly.

And, just because he's Dreadbot, the most repulsive mech Blast Off has ever met, the bastard spreads his legs and fingers his own node until he overloads, moaning about cumming all over Tarn's faceplates.

Chapter Text

Blackout knows of Ratchet, but frankly, who doesn't?

They are obviously expected, the medic meeting them at the door. Ironhide is supporting the still limping Helo.

"They had already re-sealed him when I got there. Almost leaked out in the transport. Had to crimp some of his lines to stop the flow. And his vocalizer is fucked up."

"Fraggers!" Ratchet snarls.

He's pulled inside and made to lie on a berth, complying because it's easier and he sees no reason not to. They'll do what they want anyway and it hurts less to lie down.

Ratchet  looks at his array, and though Blackout tenses, he allows the careful touches, not wanting to anger the mechs. He has no experience doesn't know what to expect.

"That thing is complicated, but I need to remove it immediately." Ratchet says, filling a syringe with blue liquid.

Blackout is across the room in a split second. He's not having an injection.

"Whoa, this is just painkillers." Ratchet says to the panicked Helicopter cowering in the corner.

Blackout shakes his helm and flails his servos in front of him. Autobots are not to be trusted. They might think he's not worth the trouble and just acting like they care. That might be his last shot. 

"This is for your own comfort." Ratchet says softly, creeping closer slowly.

He's seen that kind of behavior before, Autobots being nice. Right before Blitzwing was deactivated. He bolts to the other corner, uncaring about the pain it causes him. He's not going to be deactivated today. Look, he's still lively! Not just slag better off being put out of his misery.

"Ratch. I think they were about to deactivate him when I showed up." Ironhide murmurs, flanking out to the side to corner the big Decepticon.

"Slag! Wasn't he suppose to have one more day?" The medic turns his optics back to Blackout. "Is that correct?" He asks, blue optics pinning the Helo.

Blackout nods once, wary of what that admission will lead to.

Ratchet puts the syringe down on the counter behind him.

"Look, no injections. I'll disconnect some of your sensor wires. It will still be uncomfortable, but it's better than nothing and the best I can do without drugs. Fine with that?" He holds out his empty servos, palms up to show Blackout that he isn't hiding something.

It seems too good to be true. But the re-seal is still painful in his valve, and he has illusions about it feeling better tomorrow if it's left in there. There's the risk that they are bluffing, of course, but what options does he have, really? 

The Helo makes a decision. Better to hope for the best and expect the worst. Or maybe it's just complying and expecting the worst?

Blackout hasn't felt hope for a very long time.

Chapter Text

Drag Strip helps him inside the apartment. Wildrider can feel how nervous his gestalt mate is, even though the mech tries not to let it on. Wildrider himself is terrified for what their new functioning will be like.

Big cubes of energon are shoved in their faces.

"Drink. You both need it. You look like slag." Sunstreaker grinds out, in as foul a mood as ever.

Wildrider flinches back. The mech might've gone easy on him compared to his other customers, but he still shocked and whipped him. Drag Strip isn't much braver, he doesn't flinch but Wildrider can sense his apprehension over the bond. These mechs are volatile and violent on a good day.

"Don't be so pissy, Sunshine!" Sideswipe complains. "They just got here."

"Don't call me that, or I'm going to beat you all the way to Ratchet's medbay. And they do look like slag." Sunstreaker growls.

Sideswipe ignores the threatening Frontliner and turns to the cowering Stunticons.

"Never mind Sunny, he's just... well Sunny. We were going to have Ratchet check you immediately, but he got an emergency, so a cube of medical grade energon will have to suffice for now. If there's something important for your continued functioning that needs to be fixed right now, tell me immediately."

The Stunticons share a look and sip the energon at the same time. No point in worrying about poisoning or something similar. If the twins wants them dead, they'll be goners either way, and none of them seem like the type to spend money on slaves just to watch them offline from that. They'd do something much worse.

"And when you're done with the energon, go wash up until you're spotless. You're filthy and I don't like that." Sunstreaker grunts from where he's seated on the couch.

Wildrider shudders. He knows that Sunstreaker wouldn't frag somebot that's in the state that they're in. But when they are clean...

Chapter Text

Barricade fidgets for the twenty seventh time in a rather short time, increasingly uncomfortable.

He knows this game, the purpose of it, but that doesn't take away his discomfort. It actually adds to his dismay.

The Saleen is running low on fuel, but right now that isn't his biggest concern. No, he's low but not dangerously so. He was given quite a lot of fuel when he arrived. Probably to instigate this horrible test of self control.

The level of his primary waste tank rises another percent. 

He fidgets again. His Master glances at him, he has done so the last few times Barricade squirmed.

"What's wrong, Barricade?"

As if his Master doesn't know, doesn't do it on purpose.

"I'm very full, Sir." Jazz hates to be called Master. Doesn't like 'Sir' either, but he can never be too careful around an owner. Sometimes, rules change suddenly and deference can never be wrong.


"My primary waste tank, Sir."

Jazz looks at him, visor a blank silver.

"So, why haven't ya voided it?"

Is this a new test, some new cruel game he doesn't know how to play yet? Another mindfuck to humiliate him and show him his place?

"You didn't tell me to? Sir."

"I didn't te... Barricade, what are yer levels?" Jazz asks, visor dimming.

It's disconcerting. Barricade hasn't learned to read the expressions of his Master's visor yet.


"98! Why didn't ya ask?!" Jazz stands abruptly from where he was reclining in his favorite chair.

Barricade cringes back in alarm and that rocks his sloshing tank, almost makes him dribble. He squeezes his legs shut, but then he berates himself for it. That is cheating. It's so hard to process clearly, to come up with the right answers when he's so full.

"Because Decepticons doesn't deserve to be comfortable and it would be presumptuous of me to ask for anything?"

Jazz grabs the Mustang by an arm and pulls him up from the floor where he's sitting. Barricade's engine whines in distress and he feels a couple of drops of wastefluid slip through when he almost panics and loses it. He manages to hold it with great effort.

"Please, Master!" He cries, certain that he will be punished for something he doesn't understand in some awfully humiliating way.

Jazz lets go of his arm and nudges him forward towards the washracks.

"Go through tha washracks, tha door in there's to tha maintenance room. Do what ya have ta, then we're gonna have a thorough walkthrough of tha rules here."

Chapter Text

Drift doesn't see them coming.

He feels the sudden sting when two needles sink into the protoform on his back, but he only manages to spin halfway around before the tazer drops him on the spot.

His frame is still twitching, out of his control, when they come up to him, stops behind him.

"Can't believe he's walking around like this. As if it's a right. A Con should know better." Somebot says.

Great. The Concatcher. The mechs are stupid not to have updated their files on missing Cons and who's a deserter, but he can live with that. It isn't the first time they have accused him, just the first time they have dropped him. As soon as his frame and vocalizer starts working again, they can clear this mess up. His comms are disrupted in some way.

"He'll know better when we are done." Somebot chuckles.

"You hear that, Deadlock? We're going to show you exactly what the vast majority of Autobots think of somebot like you, what your place is. A valuable lesson, I would say, considering you walk around as if you were a true Autobot."

He's shocked again, harshly enough to be thrown into reboot. When his consciousness returns, he finds himself with his servos cuffed behind his back, his optical feed disrupted in some way. They're dragging him away with painful grips on his upper arms, shoulderjoints strained to almost becoming disjointed. His pedes are scraping over the ground.

"Oh yes, we'll show you how much Autobots love a defecting Con. Slapping a new badge on yourself and pretending to be somebot else, somebot better. You do realize we're not stupid enough to buy that? Decepticon: it's in the name, really. You pretend to be something you're not to gain something."

He's loaded into a ground transport, left in a heap on the floor.

"We'll show you how many think an ex-Con is worth anything at all."

They know he's an Autobot! And they don't care. This isn't the Concatcher. His spark spins wildly when he realizes that he's being kidnapped, but his frame is still uncooperative, so he can neither fight, nor ask where they are taking him.

Chapter Text

He's dragged out of the transport with harsh grips around his shoulder plates and dropped on the floor. His shoulder hits the ground hard and he groans, trying to get his knees under him.

"Now we're getting somewhere. That's how you should be: crawling on the ground for your betters." There's a smirk in the voice of his captor.

Drift starts to get up but a kick to his ventral plating leaves him sprawled on his back. He gasps, vents knocked out of him, and curls up on his side instinctively. His hips are grabbed and he's twisted to his front.

"But I fought with the Autobots! I was there when Megatron was defeated, when we won the war! I'm an Autobot!" Drift's voice is shrill with panic.

Somebot scoffs. "Once a Con, always a Con."

"Don't you think I saw how you went easy on that Con?" Somebot else pipes up.

A rag is shoved into his intake, acrid taste of gross things lingering on the fabric, it's stuffed in there with uncareful digits. He thrashes to the sides, clenches his denta but it's useless. A hard grip on his cheeks forces him to open his intake and the thing is forced inside. 

If they wanted him silent, they'd cut the wire to his vocalizer. They want to hear how much he hates it. Just not too loud.

His hips are grabbed and hiked up and Drift's interface panel is pried open and then torn off. No scaring and threatening him, no finesse, just brutal efficiency. He hears it clatter to the floor, even over his own pained and panicked scream. A spike is pressed into his dry valve. It burns and stings when his mesh sticks to the intruding equipment, his face scrapes against the rough floor with every thrust and Drift can't help but wail into the wretched rag in his intake.

"Yeah, thats it. Take it, like the good little Con whoreyou are. You lost the war, you know."

Repulsive fluids fills him, pools to stretch his valve and slicks him up and he gags, the rag filling his mouth making it hard to ventilate. His cooling fans clicks on to keep him from overheating.

"Mhm, yes, look at you going hot. This is what you were made for. And here you thought you were better than this."

They shuffle around and a new spike slides into him, slicker this time with the transfluid already coating his array.

He really doesn't want to, because it's exactly what they want, but he can't stop the sobs, can't refrain from crying in humiliation and pain when they rut into him, transfluid being pushed out around the spike with every thrust.

There's another mech waiting when the second one is done, he feels the heavy field, hears how they switch places. Their fluids are dribbling down his thighs, trickling in to stick to his protoform and he just wants it to be over, shivering in revulsion.

The next spike pushes against his port and he writhes in panic, tries to tell them "no" through the rag, but nobody who listens cares. Drift tries to throw himself forward, to get away, but it's useless, he lacks the leverage needed with his servos tied. The mech just holds his hips and knees his legs further apart.

"Shh, little Con. This the only thing we like about you, so you better accept what love you can get. But don't worry, we'll show you what all the Autobots think about Con traitors like you."

Then he can't stop screaming as the spike is pushed into him, pries him open in spite of his frame trying to stop it.

"Just take what you get, Decepticon. Get used to it. It's all you're good for. All Autobots think so, you'll see. We'll show you."

Chapter Text

Optimus heaves a mighty sigh through his vents, leaving Starscream just inside the door. The Seeker's optics follows his owner as the big Autobot walks over to the cooler.

Prime grabs a bottle of the strongest high grade and a cube. He looks up to find Starscream staring at him, still standing uncertainly in the hallway.

"Do you want some?" He holds up the bottle.

Starscream grimaces, high grade has never been his poison of choice, but after an evening like this...

"Yes, please." He says quietly.

Optimus grabs another cube and takes it into the living room. He sits heavily on the couch and poors an amount that would put Megatron to shame, Starscream notices.

"Just a little, please." He almost whispers it.

Optimus pours a much smaller amount for the Seeker. It's still more than Starscream would have poured for himself.

Starscream takes the cube and sits down on the edge of the chair, still a bit nervous. Optimus is hard to read and Starscream has learned quite a lot about this functioning tonight that up until now has only been unsubstantiated suspicions. The question is what will happen to him now.

Optimus takes a deep swig and leans his helm back to rest on the back of the couch, offlining his optics. The edges of his field, the field he has kept pulled in tight all evening, grazes Starscream's. The big mech is weary, tired to the struts. And something else Starscream can't quite read. Helplessness?

"War was so much easier than politics." Optimus breaks the silence, keeping his optics offline. He takes another swig.

And politics must be pit of a lot easier than slavery. Starscream thinks bitterly as he sips the high grade.

Chapter Text

The relief when he is finally allowed to void his tank makes Barricade shudder in pleasure. He must've been good enough for his Master since he was shown this mercy.

The talk does sound worrying though. He still doesn't know Jazz, haven't really figured out what sets his Master off. Or gets him off. And Barricade knows how he has been taught the rules before, how a Master can let him break them just to teach him a lesson that will make him never do that particular mistake again. If it's avoidable.

He dawdles when he cleans up after himself, but not too much. He doesn't dare.

Jazz is sitting on a chair by the table in the refueling room. Barricade sinks to his knees next to him, keeps himself small and submissive.

"Ya don' hafta do tha'. Take a chair, Barricade." Jazz says, voice low. He motions to the chair opposite him.

He does. It feels like he's about to be interrogated. He has been through several interrogations during the war, but never at Jazz's servos. And Jazz is infamous for being the worst. His plating starts to tremble, but he manages to keep from clattering.

"Why didya wait fer me ta tell ya ta take care o' such a basic need?" Jazz asks him.

"I thought you were testing my self-control. Without my self control, you wouldn't have full control over me, Sir. You control everything and I follow your orders."

Jazz's visor dims momentarily.

"Why didn't ya ask me? Ya did show excellent control. What if I had jus' forgotten ta tell ya?"

Barricade knows he needs to tell Jazz the correct amswers. This is a test to show if he's good or needs more training. He doesn't want more training.

"Because it would be presumptuous of me to think that you do not do everything for a reason, that you are forgetful. I have no right to ask anything of you, least of all something for comfort that I do not deserve. You will graciously allow me what I deserve, Mas... Sir.Jazz have to be satisfied with those answers. "And I know that I would be properly punished for breaking those rules." The last part, he whispers.

"Yer previous Masters did tha'?"

Barricade nods once, so very ashamed by the memory. Autobot or not, he has always respected the legend that is Jazz on a professional level and while Barricade thought he didn't have any dignity left, the prospect of admitting this, how low he's sunk, to Jazz is a whole different league of humiliation. It must've leaked into his field, because Jazz's visor dims in what Barricade is starting to suspect is a narrowing of optics.

"Barricade, wha' did he do?"

"I... I wasn't allowed to go." He whispers, so very ashamed of the outcome of that lesson.

Jazz's lipplates pulls into a tight line, otherwise, the mech is as unreadable as ever when he unspools a data cable.

"Show me." 

He holds the cable out to Barricade and the Interceptor takes it, obediently plugs it in even though he's mortified. Jazz is going to see. He's going to see, and he's going to to know exactly what a worthless piece of slag Barricade is and then he's going to takeBarricade because surely a mech like this gets off on humiliating the enemy.

Jazz slides easily through his firewalls, feels like an icicle in his systems; cold, hard, smooth, unreadable, unstoppable. Spec ops.

"Show me." 

He whispers it out loud, but at the same time it reverberates through Barricade's systems as if there's thousands of the Spy in there and it's like a compulsion. His humiliation, his self derision can't stop him from pulling up the memory, handing the file over to Jazz as if he has kept it just for him, laying bare his greatest shame for his newest Master to see.

He fleetingly thinks about how his earlier Masters have invaded and controlled every inch of his frame but this is the first time somebot slides into his systems like this and Jazz snatches that thought as if it's vital information.

Then Jazz opens the file and Barricade is immersed in a memory he'd gladly have wiped from his hard drive.

Chapter Text

When they're finally done with him, they disengage his vocalizer and then he's throw back in the transport. Unable to see or speak, he's left wondering where they are taking him, what they have planned for him, and he's working himself into a panic attack because he knows what kind of operations are out there. 

After being unloaded none too gently, he finds himself being bent over something, judging by sound and smell, he's outside. 

He struggles when bearing caps are bolted down over his neck and ancle struts to immobilize him, but they easily hold him down as they work. His servos are still cuffed behind his back, leaving him helpless.

Cold smears brushes his sides, his thighs and his aft and the smell of aromatics tell him they are painting him.

"A true masterpiece, a work of art." Somebot laughs, pushing his digits into Drift's bared valve.

"So, "ex"-Con, now you're going to get a demonstration of exactly how wanted you are among the Autobots. And what we want you for." There's a nasty smile in the voice.

"I'm just for the road." One of the others says.

He can hear plating shift around and somebot snorts.

"Horny fragger."

A spike slides into him again. He's already raw and it burns but he can't even make a sound to protest, can't more than wriggle uselessly and he knows that they like that.

"Yeah, but I mean look at him! What's the point of this if we can't enjoy our own work?"

"True." Somebot agrees.

"So, Deadlock, see you later."

He feels the telltale stutter of hips when his abuser overloads, the transfluid dribbles out when the mech withdraws and when they finally leave, Drift breaks down and trembles violently as he cries, terrified of whatever situation he is in. Where is he? What's going to happen to him?

Chapter Text

The procedure of removing the re-seal seems complicated. Ratchet has been working for a long time. At least he thinks so. It feels like a long time. Blackout's aversion to needles makes the medic unable to mainline energon into the Helo, so Blackout is occupied with slowly sipping a cube of energon. 

Not too quickly, he was ordered by the foul mooded medic and he's not going to risk getting on the mech's bad side if this is his good bedside manners. It's a rather high grade, so he feels pleasantly buzzed and relaxed enough to not care too much about the discomfort of the procedure.

He thinks about his options, or what could be considered options, and to his energon addled mind, he seems to have a clear route to take. The Helicopter makes a decision.

Ironhide saved his functioning and now they are repairing him, fixing his fragged-up valve and seemingly caring about his comfort while they do so. He has been provided with energon of a quality and quantity he hasn't even dared to dream about for Primus knows how long.

An act or not, the Helo is going to grab for it and hope for the best. As long as they treat him better than he was treated in the last place, he will do anything they ask for, anything they can dream up wanting to do with him, to keep the privilege of being owned by Ironhide. Because whatever Ironhide has planned to use him for, the Weapons specialist seems to not be pitbent on making every second of his functioning a painful, miserable reminder of that he lost, that he has been reduced to a toy to use and abuse. These mechs doesn't seem to have a need to hurt him at every opportunity they get and even if they are going to use him in painful and humiliating ways later, as long as they repair him for real and refuels him regularly, it might be worth it.

Satisfied with his decision, he sips his energon, spreads his legs wider to allow them better access to work and trails off into drunken incoherency.

Chapter Text

The Interceptor slips into the memory, back with his first Master. Except he can feel the presence of Jazz, as if the Spy is in there with him, watching it all with a detachment Barricade is envious of. It's both grounding and mortifying. Keeps him from being so fully immersed it's as if it's happening now and that takes the edge off the feelings that comes with the memory, but it also reminds him that somebot will know.

"Master, please. I'm full"

"What was that?" His Master looks up from his datapad, optics fixing on Barricade.

"I... uhm... Please. I need to void my primary tank, Master." Barricade mumbles.

An blank expression passes his Master's face before he smirks slyly.

"I know. What I wonder is what on Cybertron posseses you to ask?"

"I... ah... I thought you just forgot, Master" The Saleen whispers. He's unimportant, anybot could forget.

"Forgot... Do you think I'm stupid, Barricade? Forgetful?"

"N-No! Of course not, Master. But I.."

"Are you uncomfortable, Barricade? Is that why you asked?"

"Yes, Master."

"Do you really think that a Con deserves comfort? You think I don't know exactly the state of your frame at all times? Is that it?!"

"No, Master!"

A slow, devious smile spreads over his owner's faceplates, the grin that's a warning of a hard lesson to be learned in an ugly way.

"No, Barricade, this is just another lesson, a lesson in self-control. See, I work hard to control you and teach you, dense as you are, but that doesn't matter if you have no self-control, right? You keeping in line and behaving, like a good little slave, is what gives me control, yes?"

"Ye-yes, Master."

"Good little mech. Now, I can't have you doubting my decisions, so of course you're going to have to learn to trust that I'll always tell you what to do and when to do it, and you just need to learn to control your own frame. It really is such an easy functioning, you don't have to make any decisions, doesn't need to think really. You just need to wait for a command and then do as you're told."

"Yes, Master." Barricade whispers with a sinking spark, because he knows that this will inevitably lead to his pain and humiliation.

"What are your levels, slave?"

"95%, Master."

"95%. I'll tell you what, Barricade, I was going to let you void soon if you hadn't asked, but since you did, you clearly need more training. You will make it to 105."

"Yes Master."

He squirms and presses his thighs together, stalls the voiding process and stops a pathetic whine in his vocalizer. Just another ten percent.

Chapter Text

The strain to hold it takes all his power and he presses his legs together.

"No, Barricade, that's cheating." His Master tells him.

The Interceptor looks up when his Master approaches.

"You know how I want you." His Master says with a wave of his servo.

He does. On spread knees, servos on the back of his helm. It's even harder to hold it like that. Yet he obeys with a whimper, if slowly as to not rock his sloshing tank too much.

A spreader bar is locked in place between his calves but Barricade's focus is on holding it, frame shaking with tension from the effort.

"Good little Slave, what are your levels now?" His Master flat palms his ventral plating, pets him with firm strokes. 

Barricade gasps, all his willpower focused on holding it as his Master's servo compresses his waste tank.

"A hund... Ah... A hundred and four, Master." He pants out, overriding his pressure gauge again. Just one percent more.

His Master chuckles, stroking his bulging ventral plating with a firm servo. It's so cruel, because the touch is deceptively gentle, but in Barricade's state, it just adds to his misery.

"You're such a good little Con! Let's make it to a hundred and ten." 

His Master teases the Interceptor's nozzle with his digit, making it even harder for Barricade and he squirms and whines but still manages to hold it.

"See, you do have some self-control!"

He steps back with one last firm stroke over Barricade's plating and the Saleen presses his legs against the spreaderbar so hard it hurts in his effort not to go.

Chapter Text

"You gave him high grade." Ratchet states flatly.

"Yep." Ironhide answers.

"You are an idiot. I'm repairing him for frags sake!" The usual snarl is back in the medic's voice.

The Weapons specialist shrugs unrepentantly.

"He seemed like he could use some. Look at him, he's definitely more relaxed. Easier to handle, I would say."

"He's plastered! You know that his frame has been starved, even a little high grade would make him overcharged.

Blackout slowly reaches out and tries to paw at Ironhide's cannon, the infamous weapon he hasn't seen up close before, thank Primus. The thing is huge. He still misses and flails uselessly before he let's his arm slump down to hang over the edge of the berth.

Ironhide turns his optics to Blackout and smirks.

"Wanna have a look at this little baby?"

Blackout nods slowly and grins. At least, he thinks he's grinning. His faceplates are kind of numb. Ironhide steps closer and Blackout strokes the cannon in awe. It's a fine piece of equipment, clearly perfectly maintained.

"You could make yourself useful, instead of just standing around." Ratchet says without looking up from Blackout's array.

"Should I give him more energon?" Ironhide asks innocently.

Blackout nods. Yes, please! More high grade for the 'Copter!

"No, are you stupid?!" 

Then Ratchet realizes that the Weapons specialist is riling him for fun. He scowls up at them and Blackout is suddenly worried because he had temporarily forgotten his current position in his drunken haze. He flinches under that cold stare.

"There's nanite gel in the cupboard next to the sink. He's going to need a whole lot of it. Start smearing." Ratchet mutters, returning to his work.

Blackout slumps back to the berth, relieved, and offlines his optics. He can still feel the medic working on him, digits deep in his chassis. The dull ache is a reminder of the state of his frame. 

And then he realizes something that somehow hasn't crossed his mind before. He has taken for granted that they are repairing him. What if they're not? What if they are modifying him for their own pleasure? Maybe they aren't removing the re-seal like they said, they might just make sure he doesn't leak out.

He flinches when cold nanite gel is smeared on his plating but doesn't move. He will just have to wait and see what happens.

High grade and exhaustion gets the better of him and, cold gel or not, firm digits rubbing at his plating and protoform is still kind of relaxing. He slips into much needed recharge.

Chapter Text

He's at 107 percent when he loses the battle.

His Master is sitting in a chair, watching him closely and there's a quirk of amusement in the corner of his intake when Barricade's shoulderwings hike up high and stiff in alarm and his field flares with mortification.

The pressure gauge denies his override and opens.

Hot wastefluid runs down his legs, trickles in under his plating and pools on the floor as a liquid testament to his loss of control over a basic function of his frame. The seemingly never ending stream relieves the pressure in his tank, but he can't appreciate the comfort it brings because the humiliation truly burns as he can do nothing to stop it now and he cries in defeated mortification as his tank is voiding itself until completely empty.

His Master tuts as he rises from his chair. Barricade stares at the floor, the pool of his fluid, too ashamed to do anything but sob silently, waiting in the hated pose for what punishment will come now.

"You really can't do anything right. No wonder you lost the war. Look at you now, Barricade. The big, bad Decepticon warrior, so certain you could usurp your betters and take control over Cybertron. Yet here you are, kneeling on my floor like the slave you are, pissing yourself. Unable to even control your basest functions. You are nothing, completely useless without a Master to tell you exactly what to do at all times. I need to take control over this too until you are housebroken, you know."

He's pushed down with a harsh grip on his neckcables, faceplates rubbed into his wastefluid. His Master immobilizes him with a knee on the back of his neck and Barricade warbles in pain when his Master reaches back and jams something into his tiny nozzle.

"There, a manual tap. Now this won't happen again because I will be the one to open this when appropriate. Do you see now why I need to control everything? You just can't."

His Master steps back and watches his slave sob silently. Barricade isn't getting up, lays there brokenly in his filth, hating himself for yet another humiliating way his Master is successfully stripping him of the last tattered shreds of control he still has over his own frame.

"Such a mess. Clean this up. Maybe that will keep you from doing this again. And you're not getting any energon tonight. Consider it payment for the state of my floor."

Barricade almost purges. He manages to push the energon back down but the back of his intake still burns when he starts lapping at the floor, bitter fluid sticking to his glossa.

Jazz shuts the memory down.

It's a relief and still it's not, because while he isn't still there, instead he has to face his new Master. And now the mech has seen.

Barricade stares at the table, mortified.

"Ya know ya couldn't succeed, right? If ya had made it ta a hundred 'n' ten, he'd have raised tha level until ya failed. This is exactly what he wanted: to humiliate ya 'n' show ya that he had control of everything. It's nothin' ta be ashamed of, ya didn't fail. He just wanted ya ta think that."

Barricade doesn't answer, doesn't look up when Jazz stands, still ashamed. He startles when a servo wraps around the base of his shoulderwing and silently berates himself for it. He should be compliant and accepting.

Digits digs into the cables around the brackets, working on the tension with firm rubs.

"Now, we're goin' ta have a thorough walkthrough of tha rules here."

Chapter Text

Thundercracker onlines out of his stasis in a state of total confusion but not from the usual agony every part of his frame. His HUD tells a tale of repairs and good levels of energon, but his muzzy processor just doesn't get it. 

He must be high as a kite, that much he manages to figure out, since he's seeing Constructicons all over the place. He tries to count, but they are way too many to keep track of. Like, twelve of them.

The last thing he remembers before he fell back into stasis is Jazz molesting Blackout.

Therefore, a medbay occupied by a much too large flock of Constructicons is just too unlikely, too downright weird for him to process. It must be the drugs. He checks his bonds instead. His trine is still online.

"Hey, he's online!" Somebot leans over him but Thundercracker can't say who, because he has fisheye vision at the moment.

"Get out of the way!" Somebot sneers.

He hears shuffling and it sounds as if somebot is slapped, judging by the metal on metal sound.


"Ooh, beware of the right hook of the Hook!" Sarcastic comment from somewhere on his right.

"You're not the CMO anymore." Somebot whines.

"Ratchet isn't here, now is he?" Definitely Hook.


"No, but he will be, and his wrenches doesn't miss. I just wanted to say hi." The whiny voice again, definitely pouting.

As in Ratchet, CMO of the Autobots?!

"I'm just having a look, making a status report for when Ratchet arrives."

Too much weirdness to process. It's just easier to slip into recharge, and so the exhausted Seeker does, reassured that whatever is happening to him, at least his trine is still active. 

Chapter Text

To come into the home of another mech, a real home, is so weird and so very daunting. He hasn't been inside a permanent dwelling since before the war.

Blackout stops inside the door and looks around as if he's a streetrecharger let into the mansion of a Prime and his Lord High Protector.

There's furniture and lamps and...stuff and he has no way to know what to do and what not to.

Ironhide turns to look at the Helo, cold blue optics tracing his frame up and down, the Weapons specialist cocking his helm calculatingly. 

"The guest room is down the hall on the right, it's set up for you. Washracks and maintenance are on the left, there's nanite enriched gel and solvent in the cupboard. There's medgrade energon in the cooler, your frame needs that for the forseeable future, help yourself to that. I have a pressing issue to deal with at the moment, but I'll be back tonight."

With those words, he's left all alone for the first time since his capture. It's unnerving to say the least. Decepticons might not be the most sociable of creatures, but he's come to rely on the comfort of others after their defeat.

The Helicopter grabs a small cube from the cooler, uncertain how much he's allowed to take, standing indecisively in the refueling room.

His owner gave him the go-ahead to check out his new home. Didn't he?

If he doesn't touch anything, Ironhide can't object, can he? Cube in hand, Blackout pads through the apartment, checking the rooms. 

The guest room, Blackout's room, seems big to him, almost as big as the cell he shared with Blast Off and Tarn. There's a real berth in there, made with a quality foam mattress and fabrics from Earth. The shelving holds a variety of artifacts, things that doesn't really go anywhere but obviously too cherished to just be thrown away. It's homey in a very alien sort of way to the 'Copter. Before the war he lived in barracks and after the war... He pushes that thought away, because it leads to the inevitable question of what Ironhide wants him for. At least they did repair him as far as he can tell by his diagnostics. Even fixed his vocalizer and allowed him to close his interface plate.

He finds the master bedroom and the living room, peaking in without entering. The apartment is not fancily decorated but comfortable. Fitting for a no-nonsense Warframe.

Finishing his cube and leaving it in the sink, it worries him, because he has no idea what to do with it, if he should clean up after himself, where to put it, Blackout heads for the washracks. 

Warm solvent is a luxury he is not used to and he takes his time cleaning up, getting the filth out of every joint and cable until the solvent sluicing down the drain is clear.

The place that seems safest to be until his owner returns is the room he's appointed, so the Helo goes back in there, dawdling for minutes if he should close the door or leave it open. He's getting anxious, because he doesn't know how to behave in this situation. He has been kept locked up or restrained and has always been handled whenever he wasn't.

Rotors quivering with wracked nerves, he leaves the door open and lays down on the berth. It's unbelievably comfortable. In spite of a processor spinning with apprehensive thoughts about what will happen when Ironhide returns, he quickly nods off.

Chapter Text

Somewhere along the line, he's lost track of the normal sequence of his functioning. The entice-frag-reward pattern that was everything to make him work in the beginning. Granted, he's very good at keeping himself with a constant supply of drugs, but there's more to it than that.

Vortex moans when a servo slides up under what little thigh armor he has not removed to be more sensitive to touch, caressing the Helo's protoform and he parts his legs for the guard, valve already glistening with lubricant. He can't wait to be filled.

"You know you're not getting anything for this? Any rewards." The guard asks, digits slipping easily into Vortex's wet valve.

The Helo arches his back and grinds down on the digits with a pleasured smile. Finally something inside him again.

"I know." He gasps, sliding his servos down his own chestplates enticingly, tweaking sensors along the way. It feels so good.

The guard pressurizes his spike with a groan, sliding it along Vortex's valve slit. The Combaticon mewls wantonly and bucks his hips to get more friction on his node, smearing his lubricant all along the guard's spike. He's so empty.

The guard tilts his hips, changing the angle to let his spike slowly slide into the dripping valve rubbing against him. Vortex hums contentedly, a dopey smile gracing his faceplates. It feels wonderful to be filled again.

"So why do you want this then?"

"Because I like it."

His helm lolls to the side so he can see the other guards watching, waiting for their turn and he feels so lucky that they all are willing to use their break to 'face him.

He overloads, triggering the other mech's overload. The guard pulls out and wipes himself down while Vortex rolls to his knees and servos, transfluid dribbling out of his valve. The Helo wiggles his hips.

"Please, somebot take me in the port." 

He needs to be filled everywhere.

He gathers fluids from his valve with two of his digits and slides them into his port to show them how ready he is. Vortex shivers in anticipation when the berth dips as somebot kneels behind him.

"You don't need to ask twice."

The Helicopter arches his backstrut and cries out in unadulterated pleasure when a ridged spike slides into his port and he's so happy that he's allowed to do something he's really good at, something that feels so good. He's such a good spikesleeve.

Chapter Text

Barricade lets Jazz lead him to the cooler, anxiousness taking over after his humiliation.

Rules means lessons, lessons means failure and failure inevitably leads to punishments.

Jazz's grip on his shoulderwing isn't painful at the moment, the Spy kneading the tense cables keeping it hitched high in apprehension. It could turn cruel at any moment, Barricade knows that the gentle touches are a threat to prove that his Master has the control over Barricade's frame.

"While we looked at tha' memory, I checked yer systems too 'n' I found ya low on fuel. Care ta tell me why? I did tell ya there's energon in tha cooler."

"I thought it was a test, that you wanted to see if I would refuel without being given permission." Barricade mumbles.

A tremble wracks his frame when a memory file of the last time he stole fuel from a Master opens.

"'nother memory?" Jazz asks, interrupting Barricade's flashback.

Barricade nods. 

"Ya will show me tha' later."

That memory isn't humiliating, just a reminder how important it is with self control.

"Anyway, ya will keep yer fuel levels above 30% at all times. At least. Higher is better."

Barricade stares into the cooler when Jazz opens it. So many cubes. The Spy hands him one and slides the servo he's been working Barricade's shoulderwing with down to the small of the Interceptor's back. Barricade barely stops himself from tensing up. His Master can touch him however he wants, Barricade needs to be compliant and accepting.

"Got it?" Jazz asks him.

Barricade nods his understanding. At least this is a rule he will actually enjoy following. He opens the cube and drinks most of it immediately. It's good quality, tastes good.

His spark spins wildly when he's being led to the washracks, Jazz's servo splayed low on his back, thumb toying with a plate.

"Ya will void yer waste tanks b'fore they reach 70%. Now, following these rules without me telling you every single time is yer responsibility, but I don't trust ya ta actually do this, so we will hardline every day for the foreseeable future 'n' I will check tha' ya do."

Barricade nods again. He doesn't look forward to the hardline connections, but what can he do more than try to behave?

"Ya need yer medical orbs, ya haven't been taking those. Can ya do it yerself or should I do it for ya?"

The little nanite enriched balls of thick lubricant for the mesh in his valve. Barricade had hoped Jazz had forgotten those, because the administration is another opportunity for a humiliating development. He leans against the sink and spreads his legs.

"Please, help me." He whispers.

Not that he can't do it, but showing Jazz that he can touch Barricade wherever he want will probably please his Master, show him that the Saleen is already well trained. 

Jazz nods once and takes one out of the package on the sink. It slides easily into Barricade's valve, feels smooth and cool and soothing. The Decepticon waits for Jazz to do more, but as soon as it's in place, he pulls his talons out.

"I know that ya haven't been washing yerself as thoroughly as ya should every day. Ya need tha solvent with nanites ta get yer platin' and protoform ta heal better. I'm goin' ta show ya exactly how thorough ya should be."

With a strong servo on his back, he's led into the washracks with a spinning spark and a sinking feeling in his tank.

Chapter Text

He's been here for three days by now, bent over and immobilized, and Drift has come to realize that he's somewhere public. 

"Once a Con, always a Con. You're getting what you deserve."

Mechs pass him in the days, and he hears whispering, snickers and louder jeers. Some touch him to amuse themselves and their friends. He can't see who they are, can't make a single sound to protest or beg for mercy and whenever he squirms, they take great delight.

"Filthy whore, this is all you're good for; serving your betters."

It's worse at night though. They show up in packs, like scavenging animals on Earth, in the cover of the dark and they fuck him. 

"Bet he's a biter, better frag him in the aft."

Fills his valve with their disgusting fluids, hurts him when they take him in the port, humiliates him with forcing overloads out of him. 

"Haha, filthy Decepticon, look at you now. Being a traitor to save your plating doesn't make you an Autobot."

And nobot ever thinks about helping him. They leave him sticky, dripping and sore and he feels layers of dried fluids crust on his plating

"Let's see if we'll both fit."

Whenever he manages to slip into exhausted recharge, it's hard in the uncomfortable and vulnerable position but exhaustion takes it's toll, he is back on Turmoil's ship, defrags about punishments that were similar to this. The details are different but it's still familiar enough to pull up those memories. But back then, he knew he'd be released when he'd paid his dues.

"Look at him drip. So disgusting. Buymech."

Here, he can only hope somebot takes pity on him, or that his friends finds him before yet another pack of mechs with fields of predatory hunger for his degradation does and uses him in repulsive ways.

Chapter Text

Blackout reboots when Ironhide comes home. It's dark outside by now. It feels strange to have windows after so long in a cell.

The Helicopter stops at the threshold, uncertain what to do, wondering if he's allowed to leave his room. And what should he do if he is allowed?

"Hey." Ironhide says with a tired glance at the Helo.

"Hello. Sir." 

He has no idea how to address his owner. Better be polite. Ironhide is military, addressing him as a superior officer must be good.

"Go sit on the couch, I'll be right there." Ironhide tells him and disappears into the washracks.

Spark spinning quickly, he does as he's told. A whole lot of things passes his processor while Ironhide showers. What's he expected to do? How will he be treated? 

The Weapons specialist comes in, two cubes in his servo. He slides one of the cubes over the tabletop to Blackout before he sinks into a chair and puts his pedes on the table. Blackout is perched on the edge of the couch, apprehensive about how to sit on his owner's furniture. Ironhide studies him

"A friend of mine is missing, have been searching for him. Had planned to have this little talk when we came home. We need some guideline for this..." He trails of, vaguely motioning between himself and Blackout and the apartment.

Blackout almost holds his vents. He will do anything to not go back to the pound or his first owner. That doesn't mean that he will like it.

"You're free to move around the apartment and use the TV and other stuff. Your collar activates if you try to break stuff or if you try to leave. Trust me, you don't want to go outside unsupervised anyway...."

Blackout can imagine. He's seen first hand what Bots pay handsomely to get a chance to do to a Decepticon. Just think about the things that could be done when it is free.

"Refuel when you need, put the cubes n the dishwasher under the counter..." 

Blackout winces. He's already fragged that up.

"Use the washracks when you want, just clean up after yourself. And if there's something else you think about, just ask." Ironhide finishes.

Blackout nods. He can do that. It won't even cost him pain or humiliation.

The Bot studies him while he sips his cube. It's unnerving, because Blackout still can't read Ironhide.

If there's one thing Blackout has learned, it's that whatever a Bot wants to do with him will happen. But so far, Ironhide has done nothing Blackout really minds. So he busies himself with his cube and repeats the rules that has been set, just to make sure he gets them right. 

He's not going to fail.

Chapter Text

It's the second time Barricade is in the washracks with Jazz. First at the pound, now this. 

It's equally terrifying this time.

Jazz is cleaning him meticulously, lifting plates, scrubbing his protoform with slender talons, stroking his plating. The touches are gentle, might have been pleasurable if Barricade wasn't frozen with fear. Touches can turn cruel at any moment.

Every little joint in his shoulderwings, his arms and chestplates get thorough attention. Jazz has doused him in solvent. The spy is working his way down the Interceptor's back and Barricade is fully focused on not tensing up.

Compliant and accepting. However Jazz wants to touch him, he can. Then he might keep those touches soft and gentle. 

He fleetingly wonders how the Spy likes to 'face. Making Barricade overload for his Master, like the pleasurebot he is, or does he prefer it rough?  He pushes that thought away. He'll probably get to know soon enough.

Talons slides into the seams around his pelvic plating and hips and Barricade waits for that first touch, that unwanted digit wandering through his slit, over his node, sliding into his valve to coax another overload out of him just to show him what an easy pleasuredrone he is.

It doesn't happen.

Jazz steers clear of what once upon freedom was his private parts, parts Barricade has come to regard as something that belongs to his Master. Like the rest of him

The Autobot falls to his knees and keeps washing down Barricade's thighs and legs, soft touches to his protoform a long forgotten feeling for the Mustang.

It brings a new problem.

Barricade is getting charged. The bewildered relief he feels when it's apparent that Jazz just passed his ever bared valve without so much as a touch actually makes him relax, just a little.

And as soon as the petrifying fear lets go of him, those touches makes his frame start to respond. He's getting hotter, his valve is starting to feel slick and the Saleen is revulsed with the reaction. It reminds him too much of his first Master, the way just an order from the mech had Barricade primed and ready quicker than a spike pressurizes.

If he starts dripping lubricant or his cooling fans speeds up, Jazz will know and Barricade will be fragged against the wall and overload for his Master like the cheap little whore he is.

Jazz stands and grabs the showerhead, starting to rinse the solvent from Barricade's frame.

"Ya can do this yerself from now on. Once a day, as thoroughly as I just did. If ya need help reaching somewhere, ye'll tell me."

Barricade nods shakily, off balance from his arousal.

"Ye're free to move around the apartment, no restrictions, so ye just do it when it suits ya."

Barricade compiles a list of rules, like he did with his first Master. The second didn't really have any rules and "don't attract attention" doesn't exactly need a list.

This list is fairly short so far, but that tends to change over time. But while his first Master always told him what to do and he wasn't supposed to do anything unless told, now he finds himself having to be active to follow the rules. Being active heightens the risk of doing something wrong.

This lack of strict rules that dictates everything seems dangerous, because there's so many more traps to fall into while he is trying to follow the rules that are in place.

And then he will need more training and Barricade knows what that means. 

Maybe that's why Jazz has given him so much leeway? To let him fail and give his Master a reason to punish him.

Chapter Text

When the guards come to get him, Dreadbot doesn't resist. No, he lets them cuff him and follows them, helm held high, with the unflinching look of a mech being led to his execution, regretting nothing, proud of what he is.

He is certain that he can handle a bit of roughing up. He's been interrogated a couple of times during the war and he is a tough mofo. He can deal with this.

The guards snicker at him as they walk, but he doesn't deign to acknowledge them, stares forward stubbornly.

"You know, pride is something you should strip yourself of right now, Decepticon. If you know what's good for you."

Dreadbot just sneers at the guard. As if they could make him ashamed of having fought for a better functioning.

"Or somebot else will strip you of it. Strip you real good." The other guard purrs and snakes his arms around the Decepticon from behind, servo coming down cup his array.

Dreadbot stiffens at the unwanted touch, because while he has prepared himself for this, the touch feels more repulsive than he had ever imagined.

"It's so much more fun with a mech with pride and dignity, because they fight so desperately to keep it but they break all the same. And when they finally do, it's so much sweeter." The guard murmurs into Dreadbot's neckplates.

Digits slide through the folds of his valve slit and the other servo teases seams around his chestplates and Dreadbot feels like purging but he doesn't react, doesn't allow himself to show his discomfort.

"You'll see. You will be begging for touches like this when he's through with you."

Dreadbot's spark is speeding up and he barely keeps from struggling against the unwanted touch. They are not going to break him this easily.

He's pushed into a room he hasn't been in before. There's a collar dangling in a chain from the roof, a nasty looking hinged thing with barbs on the inside. The guard who isn't wrapped around him clicks it in place around his neck. His cuffs are cinched higher up on the chain, leaving him awkwardly stretched.

He's not going to break.

"You look so good like this. Can't wait until he's finished and I can have my turn." The guard whispers in his audial, voice hoarse and thin.

Digits dips shallowly into Dreadbot's valve and he can't help but shudder in revulsion, move away a fraction of an inch to get those unwanted digits out of him.

"That's it little Con. You're going to fight it but in the end, you'll cry and beg and I'm going to take great pleasure in when you do." His field is heavy and cloying with arousal.

He's not going to beg.

The other guard kneels in front of them and locks a spreaderbar between Dreadbot's ancles.

"Hey, knock it off and get something done. We'll get our turn when he's through."

"But he's so... pristine. Totally unused and unbroken." The mech still fingering Dreadbot whines.

He's not going to break.

"And so hired out. Come on, mech. Let's get this done so we can take a break and have a Seeker."

"Alright." The mech leans closer to Dreadbot, whispers in his audial. "Touch you later." 

He definitely isn't going to cry.

With that, he's left alone, balancing in his awkward position to avoid the collar digging into his neckcables.

This is nothing like the interrogations he's been through.

When the door finally opens again, admitting the customer, he has already worked up an apprehensiveness he never thought he'd feel.

What are they going to do to him?

Chapter Text

The whip hums to life, trails behind the mech, crackling over the floor when he walks around Dreadbot, studying the Decepticon. He's nervous now, tries to follow the mech with his optics.

Still he isn't prepared for how bad it hurts when the first lash lands across the small of his back. He grunts and jerks but manages not to scream. He's not going to break.

"Hm. Stubborn and prideful. I like that. Reminds me of the first Decepticon slave I bought."

The "slave" and "bought" parts still leaves a bitter taste in Dreadbot's intake.

"I'll get that out of you, just like I got it out of him. You're not getting down from there until you beg for mercy, until you'll come crawling to me. Like the slave you are to your betters."

Another lash, upper back this time. He jerks in his chains. So he broke a mech before. Dreadbot isn't going to break. He isn't weak.

"I went slow with him, trained him well to be a perfect slave, obedient and submissive."

The next lash manages to snake under his plating and Dreadbot feels his protoform split, energon oozing down his back.

"But with you, I don't need to go slow. You're just a distraction, a temporary amusement. A toy."

Oh, how he hates being called a toy. He's not going to break. Just hold out a little longer. They're never away for that long from their cell. He can take this. More lashes that reaches under his plating; upper back, the back of his thigh, his hip. The mech is skilled with a whip. Primus, it fragging hurts. Energon is dripping from several wounds by now.

"But don't worry about me being in a rush. I've paid to have you all day. And I can have you all night too, if I want to."

 For every new lash, it's harder to stay quiet. He jerks in his chains, straining his arms to keep the collar from digging in when he almost loses his balance with every lash.

He's not going to beg.

He's panting harshly, intake dry and raw from the constant rush of air. When a lash cuts high up on the inside of his thigh, he can't stop himself from purging, and he hears the mech laugh as he's dry heaving, energon mixed with oral lubricant hanging in viscous threads from his intake.

The next lash reaches around him, hard enough to cleave plating on his side, before the tip snakes in below his chestplates, hitting the power train just under his sparkchamber. It's excruciating, burning like fire through his entire chest and he howls in agony.

And once he starts, he seems unable to stop screaming.

Chapter Text

So far, Ironhide has been nice to him. Blackout gets a little antsy about that, because he still waits for either a punishment or, more likely since he follows the rules to a T, that his new owner is going to use him for whatever purpose he bought Blackout or just show his true colors.

Autobots aren't this nice without expecting something back. So he decides to try to be preemptive and offer something willingly. He doesn't know much about his owner yet, but he tries something he thinks might be appreciated, something he knows he can do.

"Sir. Do you need help finding your friend? My flight sensors are very sensitive and I can use them to help find him."

Ironhide studies him for long moments.

"You won't cause trouble when outside? I don't have time to drag you around on a leash. And your panel has to remain open." The Weapons specialist motions to Blackout's interface panel.

"I will behave. I want to help." He says and opens his panel.

It's hardly something he even thinks about, so used to having his panel open at all times. Modesty is a thing of the past.

Ironhide considers it.

"Fine, you can come." He holds out his data cable.

Blackout plugs it in without hesitation and recieves a datapacket on the mech missing. The access to his panel is locked again.

"Can't have you closing it in public." Ironhide says gruffly.

Blackout nods and checks the packet. Drift. The Helo knows this mech, remembers him from Earth. An ex-Con. He lets the information slip into place.

Then he follows the Autobot through the door, outside for more than just relocation by transport for the first time since he returned to Cybertron, cuffed and blissfully ignorant of what his functioning would become.

Chapter Text

It's the servos on his wings that triggers it. Still high as a kite, the touches on those parts make a memory surge to the surface and he's immediately immersed as if he was still there.

He's led through a hallway from the cell he's sharing with two of the gestalt-kids. His servos are cuffed behind his back but what really keeps him from fighting the guards is the grip on his wings. It hurts like pit when they twist to keep him moving along nicely.

"Have fun, officer." One of the guards whisper in his audial.

The Seeker is pushed into a room where several mechs are waiting, lounging in a chair, leaning against the wall, sitting on the table. He stops just inside the door and looks warily at them. The Decepticon still hasn't been told what to expect in this place, hasn't been out of his cell since he was bought at the humiliating auctions.

"Well hello, officer." A mech purrs in his audial.

Thundercracker startles and whips around, previously unaware of the mech behind him. He backs up to get some distance.

"What do you want?" He growls.

"To play a little. Have a little fun."  One of the others say as they draw closer.

Like a pack of feral turbohounds. Thundercracker's spark is speeding up. He's surrounded and the EM fields of the mechs are too excited, too anticipatory.

One of the mechs wraps his arms around the Seeker from behind, a servo sliding down to his array.

"No! Get your filthy servos off of me, Autobot!" Thundercracker snarls, bucking to free himself.

One of the others slaps him hard across his cheek and he feels energon well up from where he bit his glossa, from his split lipplate. He spits it in the face of the mech who slapped him.

"Feisty!" Somebot cackles.

"I'll show you your place, Decepticreep." The one he spit on snarls.

He's pushed forward and uncuffed but they easily mechhandle him to cuff his wriststruts to a chain from the ceiling.

An energon whip hums to life and he jerks when a lash lands across his wing, all the sensors going haywire as the plating is scorched. He screams in pain, not ready for this. More lashes lands in rapid succession and his entire wingspan feels like it's on fire. By the eight lash, he's whimpering. By the eleventh he's hanging by his arms, unable to stand.

"Such sweet sounds you make, Con."

They release the cuffs and he buckles down to the floor. His wing is grabbed harshly and he screams when they use it as a handle to turn him over on his front. He flails when his knees are kicked apart and his hips are grabbed, but a servo on his helm pushes his cheek to the floor.

"No! Stop! Get off of me, you have no right..."

They're not listening. His hips are hiked up and the head of the Autobot's spike is pushed into his dry valve and Thundercracker whines when it feels like his mesh is torn apart. His processor is going a million miles per hour. They're raping him. It's actually happening. 

"Please, stop! Why are you doing this?!" He whimpers.

"Because we can. Because we want to show a haughty Seeker his place for thinking you're better than us. To show a Decepticon officer exactly what we think of you. Take your pick."

"Because this is all you're good for."

The mech behind him is thrusting into him quickly, but when his hips stutter, he pulls out, disgusting fluid spurting over Thundercracker's wings. It burns in his lashes but not nearly as much as the humiliation of him, a seasoned war veteran, an officer of the Decepticon forces, being raped by a bunch of Autobot brats.

"Nice!" The others laugh.

He's turned over on his back and the next mech grabs his wriststruts, pins them above his helm easily. Another spike slides into him. The mech above him grunts and groans as he ruts into the Seeker's valve and Thundercracker turns his helm to the side in humiliation, just to see one of the others stroking his spike, watching his friend fragging the unwilling Seeker.

"You wanna do your thing now?" The mech fucking him asks his friends.

"Yeah." The mech jerking off answers.

He kneels by Thundercracker's helm. The Decepticon is distracted by the mech fragging him starting to touch his anterior node and he's mortified to feel his charge rising.

His intake is pried open, a harsh servo on his jaw making him unable to close his intake or turn away. The other mech is still fragging him, still touching his node.

The mech holding his helm overloads, viscous threads spurting into his mouth, on his face and Thundercracker wants to purge in disgust....

He overloads.

With a mortifying wail, his frame betrays him from the stimulation on his node and he fragging overloads when the mech is cumming in his intake!

"Such a needy pleasurebot, officer. Didn't know you would like that."

He can't answer, too ashamed. The mech fragging him overloads too, but Thundercracker hardly notices. He cries in humiliation, sobs silently.

"Did anybot record that?"

"Pit yeah! I bet we could sell that stuff. Just imagine it; 'high ranking Decepticon officer likes to be shot in the face.'"

"My turn! You all know what I want." The fourth mech says.

They flip him back on his front, but he doesn't even try to resist. Until the Autobot's spike presses against his wasteport. Thundercracker struggles with all his might, but three mechs holding him down with harsh grasps on his wings and neckcables makes it impossible.

He cries in pain when the spike is shoved into him, screams when the mech starts thrusting. It seems like an eternity of agony before the mech overloads inside him, filling him up with disgusting fluid.

Thundercracker is left on the floor, like so much trash, and the mechs leave, satisfied.

The guards step in to get him and he actually longs to go back to the cell and the juvenile grounders.

"Seekers are hot..."


"Wanna sandwich him?"

"Frag yeah!"

"Please don't." Thundercracker whispers.

"Oh, we will. Get used to it. It's all you're good for. Officer."

Chapter Text

Barricade steps out of the washracks after his daily shower. The solvent with nanites has really helped his self repair. He looks at himself in the mirror. He still has a long way to go, but he looks ok. Not like slag anymore, at least. And it does feel good to be clean.

Plating still damp, he walks out into the hallway just to freeze outside the door. He hears voices, Jazz is speaking to somebot in the living room.

The Interceptor pads off towards the office Jazz has converted to a berthroom for him as silently as he can. His fuel levels are fine, he can forego his evening cube and leave his Master to socialize with his friend. He's almost at the door when Jazz calls out for him.

"Barricade! C'm'ere!"

With a wildly spinning spark, he obeys. Crosshairs is there, sprawled in the chair Jazz usually favors. The green Bot looks Barricade up and down and the Interceptor quickly looks down to the floor.

"Heya, Barricade." Crosshairs says.

"Hello, Sir." Barricade mumbles.

"Here. Sit." Jazz pats the seat of the couch next to him.

The Saleen passes Crosshairs, expecting touches but the green mech holds his servos to himself. Jazz holds out his data cable when Barricade sinks down next to him.

"Time fer our daily hardline."

Barricade's spark sinks. Hardlining in front of another mech like this? As if it isn't a private and intimate thing? He can see where this evening is going and Barricade is not going to enjoy it.

"There's high grade in tha cooler, Cross, if ya want. Help yerself."

"I could go fer tha'. Ye want?" The green mech goes to fetch a cube.

"Yeah, I could use some." Jazz says and turns to Barricade. "D'ya want?"

"Yes, Sir. Thank you." 

"A'ight. Yer levels are good. Ye're doin' good." The Spy unplugs from Barricade and pats his thigh.

Crosshairs comes back and hands them both a cube before sitting back in the chair. Barricade glances at the mech as covertly as he can. He knows from experience what happens to Decepticon slaves when Bots are getting overcharged. He sips his own cube. At least won't be fully sober when they do it.

The door chimes and Jazz opens it remotely, letting Ironhide inside. Barricade almost whimpers. He has taken bigger mechs before, but Ironhide is very intimidating. Then Blackout follows in the Weapons specialist's wake and Barricade feels his spark fly up into his intake. Decepticons are no better than Autobots and Blackout is huge. The Interceptor stares at his cube in dismay.

Blackout quickly downs a cube and his Master gives the big Decepticon permission to take a nap on the floor when asked by the Helo. Ironhide sinks down on the couch on the other side of Barricade. The Interceptor almost starts shaking in fear but manages to force himself to remain still. Compliant and accepting.

The Autobots talk, doesn't even seem to notice him there, pressed between his Master and Ironhide but Barricade doesn't listen. He does notice when Ironhide sprawls a little more, sinking deeper into the couch, draping his arm across the back of the couch, cannon grazing the Saleen's shoulderwings. The Bots are pretty overcharged by now. Jazz is squirmy against his other side, seemingly unable to stay still.

Barricade's spark is speeding up. It's just a matter of time. Then they're going to make him do humiliating things for their entertainment. He almost startles when Jazz grabs his leg and pulls it into his lap, spreading Barricade's legs wide, his array on full display. He waits for digits in his valve, but Jazz is focused on his anclestrut.

"This bracket still doesn't look good. Ratchet will have to look at it again."

Is his Master trying to distract him or something? Jazz fiddles with something in his strut before pushing his leg back to where it was before. The Spy doesn't even seem aware of having exposed Barricade like that. He gets up and disappears without a word, leaving an alarmed Barricade on the couch with Ironhide.

He glances at the Bots. Crosshairs is flirting with Ironhide. Horny Bots are bad news for smallish Decepticon Mustangs. 

But the Weapons specialist seems fully distracted by the lewd Sniper, so Barricade takes the opportunity to move away slightly, putting some distance between himself and Optimus Prime's scary as pit bodyguard.

Crosshairs straddles Ironhide's lap, nipping the Weapons specialist's neckcables, Ironhide's servos sliding down the Paratrooper's sides and Barricade just doesn't know where to look. His earlier Masters and their friends always focused on humiliating and using Barricade and didn't do anything like that in public. He's going to get dragged into that soon, he just knows it.

Then Jazz walks in again.

"Fer frag's sake, getta room."

"Sure. Ya got one?" Crosshairs says, grinding against Ironhide, the bigger mech grunting and bucking up against him.

"Ya shouldn't drive in yer state but where ya recharge isn't my call. Barricade. Would ya mind letting them have yer berth tonight 'n' recharging with me?"

"No, Sir. It's fine." He mumbles. Because what can he say, really?

"Blackout can take the couch." Jazz says to his guests.

He doesn't want to, but if it will save him from being the center of attention in an orgy again, he can do it.

Ironhide lifts the Paratrooper easily and stops just to nudge the Helo out of recharge.

"You can take the couch, Blackout. We're staying the night."

"Thank you, Sir." The Helicopter turns to Jazz. "Thank you, Sir. That's very kind."

"It's nothing, Blackout." Jazz says and hands the Decepticon a blanket.

Ironhide kicks the door to the office closed behind him, still carrying Crosshairs, and Barricade follows Jazz into his berthroom with a wildly spinning spark. 

"We share tha berth." Jazz says.

He's never been allowed in any of his Master's berths before. The Interceptor lays down on his back on the wide berth, stiff as a board, and Jazz throws himself next to him in a drunken sprawl without touching him. The Spy turns the lights out and pushes a blanket to Barricade.

"Relax, my mech. 'm not gonna sleep with ya if ya don't wanna." The Spy mumbles sleepily, then he giggles. "Well, technically, I am about ta sleep with ya. But I'm not gonna fuck ya if ya ain't willing."

Then the Autobot's vents slow as he slips into recharge, leaving a wide awake Barricade staring at the ceiling, listening to Crosshairs moaning loud enough to be heard through the wall.

Chapter Text

Starscream is sitting on the couch when the door chimes.

"Starscream! Come here." Optimus calls out.

It's very rare for Optimus to tell him what to do, or even talk to him for that matter. They have done a few very awkward attempts att smalltalk, but everything that ever happened between them is infected by their current situation. Not even Earth, the vastness of space away, is free of the poison. That's where the Decepticons were defeated, where they were rounded up to be shipped off to eternal slavery. By Optimus Prime himself.

Starscream may have been a traitorous glitch, constantly trying to usurp Megatron, and he is far from happy with his situation, but he also recognizes that things could be be so much worse and if Optimus tires of him, he may be re-homed. He obeys.

Optimus is waiting for him in the hallway, holding out his data cable.

"Sentinel is here. I need to open your panel." Something apologetic trembles in the Prime's field.

Starscream takes the Jack and plugs it in, even though it leaves a bitter taste in his intake. The panel slides away and locks. Optimus unplugs the cable and lets it slide back into the inner workings of his arm.

The big mech reels his field in and opens the door. Sentinel walks through, with that ever present air of superiority. His optics trails the Seeker's frame up and down slowly and Starscream almost shivers because Sentinel's hungry gaze feels sticky down to his protoform.

"Starscream. Fetch a bottle of high grade and two cubes for me and my guest."

Optimus is looking imploringly at him. Being treated like a waiter is something Starscream once might have objected to but that seems like ages ago. Right now, not being forced to do something much worse is a mercy. Being sent into another room is something he's actually thankful for, getting out of sight from Sentinel.

"Yes, Prime." He says and walks off to the cooler while the Primes goes to the living room.

The Decepticon grabs two cubes and a bottle of fine high grade and finds a tray to put everything on. He busies himself with pouring  some for the mechs, servo trembling slightly under the intense gaze of Sentinel, the mech's optics riveted to the Seeker.

He steps back but doesn't leave, tries to behave like the waiters back in the towers before the war and waits for another task to fulfill with his optics downcast.

"I'll try to find that datapad."  Optimus says to Sentinel.

The Autobot commander leaves the room and Starscream can almost feel Sentinel's optics burning against his plating.

"Come here, Air commander." He purrs.

He isn't allowed to say no to an Autobot. Slowly, on shaky legs, he obeys, comes to stand by the chair Sentinel sits in.

"He has trained you well, I see." 

Sentinel's servo comes up to his array, digits sliding through his folds. 

"I thought he'd be too weak at spark to make you submit." 

He pushes his digits into Starscream's valve and the the Seeker almost sobs in revulsion. 

"But he seems to have done a good job with you. Look at you now, Air commander, all obedient and tamed, like a good little pet."

Starscream can't meet the optics of the mech, ashamed as his valve starts lubricating.

"I know how good pets Seekers make, horny little sluts that you are, the lot of you. When you're sufficiently broken. I have quite a few of your subordinates in my private little stable of whores."

Sentinel lets his digits slide out and drops the servo back into his lap.

"As you were, slave." He says with a nasty smirk.

Starscream scurries back to where he stood before, folds disgustingly slick as he walks.

When Optimus enters ten seconds later, Sentinel is sipping his drink and Starscream stares at the floor, ashamed and frightened.

Chapter Text

Dreadbot is hoarse from screaming by the time the mech takes a break from the flogging. The Decepticon wishes he could slump in his restraints but it's impossible. His arms are too tired by the effort of keeping the collar from hurting him, so he's forced to stand.

The Autobot walks over to the bench and puts the whip down. It's a relief, and then it's not when he comes back with a shock prod instead. He caresses Dreadbot's cheek with his servo, a soft touch in the middle of all the agony, tilts the Decepticon's helm back to make optic contact.

"You could stop this, you know. Just submit and beg me to quit." He says softly, caressing up the side of Dreadbot's helm to one of his helmfins.

"Never." He rasps defiantly.

A slow smile creeps over the mechs face, and somehow it's so much worse than if he had been irritated.

"I was hoping you'd say that." He purrs, grabbing the fin harshly and twisting.

Dreadbot warbles at the unexpected pain.

"Oh, you will beg, little Decepticon. They all do in the end."

The prod is jammed into the juncture of his hip joint, an agonizing current burning the circuitry in half his pelvis and down his leg.

His leg gives in.

Arms too weak and tired to hold him up, the spikes on the collar dig into his struts painfully and the flow of energon to his processor and the air through his intake restricts as he's left hanging by the neck. Processor swimming, he tries to get his other leg under him, but the spreaderbar stops that. He thrashes feebly as his arms still refuse to work.

He's lifted, weight taken off his neck. Panting heavily to get enough air into his systems, the helmrush is wicked when energon flows back to his processor.

"Did you say something?" The mech purrs in his audial, standing behind the Decepticon with a vicelike grip around his waist. "If you need to vomit again, do it now." He adds with amusement in his voice.

Dreadbot shakes his helm slowly, still panting.

"No? I thought so. Just wanted to make sure."

He's dropped.

The mech comes around to stand in front of him as Dreadbot thrashes to get air, to relieve his neck. The Autobot watches, helm cocked as if he's watching some sort of animal displaying a curious behavior, detached.

"There's a secret menu of this place. For the right price, I could watch you choke until you thrash feebly to save your worthless functioning. I could frag you while I watch you cling to that little hope that I actually will save you in the end, until your optics start to dim. I'd overload when you finally realize that you areindeed going to deactivate, that I won't spare you. I could fill you with my transfluid when you put up that last, desperate fight for remaining active that's sweeter than anything else. I'd bask in the afterglow of my overload when you go quiet and still and gray. I could snuff you right here, because you're worth nothing more than a few credits." 

He is serious. Dreadbot struggles harder, panicking. He doesn't want to deactivate.

"That is an exquisite idea, actually. I'm getting hard just thinking about it..."

Hang down your head Tom Dooley, hang down your head and cry, hang down your head Tom Dooley, poor boy, you're bound to die...

The sound of a young Earthen girl singing in his processor is so illogical and confusing as his HUD is swamped with fault codes when he's struggling wildly to get free, but she just won't shut up and his optics are fritzing so badly when he's thrashing to get the collar loose but his system are beginning countdown to stasis...

He's lifted again.

A desperate gasp out of pure instinct, his entire frame jerking with lack of oxygen for the combustion in his engine, survival coding steering his frame, warnings screaming at him in his HUD.

"Do you have anything to say now, Con?"

He can't, gasping for air, the sound of energon rushing through his lines too loud to allow him to think.

"Suit yourself..."

He feels it as if it's happening in slow motion when the mech starts to drop him again and manages to conjure up power to speak out of sheer desperation, as he starts crying in pure terror. He doesn't want to be offlined.

"No! Please! No more! Please, let me function. Please! I don't want to be deactivated!" He rasps out, voice broken by sobbing.

The mech smirks, an ugly grimace of satisfaction, and reaches up to loosen the restraints.

He's dropped unceremoniously on the floor, laying in an undignified heap in the puddle of his energon and waste fluid, still trying to get his bearings, crying from pain and fear. The Autobot releases his cuffs and the spreader bar before he steps backwards away from him.

"Crawl to me, Decepticon." The faction is spit out with vehemence. "And serve your better."

Chapter Text

It takes him a long time to relax but eventually, when Crosshairs has gone quiet and Jazz is still sleeping, Barricade starts to slip into recharge. It's that slow process when he still can hear everything and feels awake but defragging takes over his processes.

It feels as if he's twisting and turning the events of the night looking at it from different angles but then the defrag turns dark. He's crawling to Blackout, clambers into his lap with his intake open, ready to suck his spike.

Barricade startles away with a jerk but is unable to stop the memory file, not from tonight but a long time ago, from opening and he's drowned in the humiliation and fear, unable to keep his helm above the surface.

His first Master and the Autobot's friends are sprawled in the chairs around the table littered with high grade cubes. Barricade is still on all fours, their fluids dripping from his valve.

"I'm bored."

"Me too. Should we frag him again?"

"Nah. Too tired."

"We could always arrange a show..." Barricade's Master says.

They all turn to Barricade.

"Good idea!" One of the other Autobots says and stumbles to his pedes. 

He jams the plug of a datapad in the socket on Nitro Zeus' arm and fiddles with something on the screen. The big Con has been growling behind his mouth guard but now he goes quiet. The cable is disconnected.

"Will you behave for a while for a little reward?" The Bot asks the Con with a nasty smirk.

Nitro Zeus nods and the mouth guard is released. The Autobot returns to the couch.

"Barricade. Show your faction brother a little hospitality, what you're really good at. Crawl to him, like the needy whore you are, and suck his spike." Barricade's Master tells him in that low, soft voice of his.

He does, because he knows what kind of pain his Master can inflict if he's disobedient, even though every atom in his frame screams no and the back of his intake burns with disgust. He grew used to whatever things the Autobots does to him a long time ago, but this is one of his fellow Cons. His Master found a way to bring him even lower, to put him beneath everyone else.

Nitro Zeus grins wider as the smaller Decepticon crawls to him, servos gliding up the flier's thighs where he's chained to his chair.

"I always wondered why Megatron was so fond of you but now I see. Such an obedient little slut you are. You like this, don't you?" Nitro Zeus snickers while he pressurizes his spike, control of it released just for this.

Barricade shakes his helm almost imperceptibly, but they all see it and it brings a round of laughter as Barricade still sucks the Decepticon's spike all the way into his intake. His Master has trained him well, he can deepthroat almost anybot. The Saleen whines in revulsion as his charge starts to rise, his frame responding reflexively to the taste of pre-transfluid.

"Unicron damn it, you're so fucking good at this, you little whore." Nitro Zeus groans, bucking his hips as much as he can.

Barricade sucks and bobs his helm, his own lubricant dripping down his legs and he shivers with silent sobs.

"Good little slave. I want you to swallow half of it and get the rest on your face." His Master tells him.

Nitro Zeus chuckles nastily when Barricade works harder to get him to overload just to get it over with.

Then the Flightframe's spike twitches and Barricade obediently forces himself to swallow the first spurts before pulling off the spike to work it with his servos, slick fluid sticking to his faceplates.

That's when his frame decides to overload. With a moan, he feels his valve clench on nothing and his hips jerks.

Nitro Zeus laughs at Barricade where he's kneeling in front of the Flightframe, optics locked on the floor in humiliation.

"You really are a filthy pleasuredrone, Barricade. If I'd known you would be such a disgustingly obedient pet, I'd have taken you for myself a long time ago."

"Can you go again, Nitro?" The bigger Decepticon's owner asks.

His spike repressurizes as an answer.

"Barricade, ride him."

Ashamed, he obeys. Climbs into the lap of the Jet and sinks down on his spike with a gasp when his valve twitches, still sensitive after his overload.

"I can't believe I respected you, Barricade. You're disgusting. Overloading on Autobot spikes, taking it like a little whore, obeying their every whim like some sort of pet." Nitro Zeus hisses in his audial.

Barricade sobs silently as he starts riding the Con. Nitro Zeus is right. He is disgusting, nothing but a pleasurebot.

He still overloads when the Flightframe does, remains sitting in his lap, waiting for the next command. The Autobots comes up to them, grabs Nitro Zeus' legs and pulls them wider apart.

"Lick his valve and digitfrag him." 

He slides down between the other Decepticon's knees, Nitro Zeus struggling now.

"What the fuck?! You're not coming anywhere near my valve!" He snarls. "Don't you fucking dare, you disgusting little glitch!"

But the Decepticon is tied up and held in place by the Bots while Barricade's Master is there to watch if he obeys or not, always ready with another punishment, another cruel game of control, holding Barricade's functioning in his harsh servos, so the Saleen laps through the folds of the Jet's valve, slides his digits inside and swirls his glossa around the dimly glowing anterior node.

"Don't you dare damage his seals." Nitro Zeus' Master growls.

Barricade wouldn't dream of it. 

He knows how to curl his digits to get the lubricant dripping, the charge to rise, he's done it to himself so many times by now, and it doesn't take him long to have the cursing, thrashing Decepticon's fans roaring on full blast.

"You fucking traitor! I'll kill you when I get my servos on you! I'll..." With a wail, Nitro Zeus overloads, valve clenching around Barricade's digits.

The Interceptor crawls backwards, hating what he just did.

"Let me loose! I'll give you a show. I'll show the disgusting little bastard what a real rape is. You will be walking funny for weeks!" Nitro Zeus snarls.

"That sounds like fun..." One of the Autobots says.

Barricade whimpers, doesn't take his optics from the big Decepticon who's yanking his chains in fury.

The memory finally stops.

He's back in berth, Jazz still recharging next to him. The apartment is still silent. Nobot has snuck inside. 

The Interceptor curls up to as small a ball as possible and pulls the blanket over himself to hide, crying silently in fear.

Chapter Text

"What's wrong, Starscream?"

"Nothing. I'm fine." The Seeker mumbles.

"You're not. You are twitchy and won't even meet my optics."

Starscream works his intake, not sure what to say. He's ashamed of what happened but also a little afraid of how Optimus will react. Maybe he'll think Starscream instigated it and become angry. He did try to seduce Optimus once...

"I don't want to talk about it." He tries to dismiss it all.

"Then something is wrong." Optimus concludes.

Damn it. He should've known the Prime is more alert than Megatron was to his way of twisting words to tell the truth and still avoid the original issue.

"Maybe, but it's not important." Starscream deflects.

"It must be important if you behave like this about it.

"I don't want to talk about it!"

Optimus whips around to stare down at the Seeker, and Starscream is suddenly reminded of how big the mech is, powerful. The commander of the winning forces, the mech who beat down Megatron. A war machine. His owner.

"It's not about what you want. You are going to tell me what's going on with you."

Those optics seems to bore into his very spark and it's speeding up with nerves because Optimus just won't let this go and Primus knows what he'll do to get it out of the Decepticon. On the other servo, those optics makes it impossible not to tell.

"Sentinel touched me."

"Touched you?"

" valve." He mumbles.


"You were getting that datapad and he ordered me over to him and I know I'm not allowed to say 'no' to Autobots and I..."

Optimus' EM field is reeled in immediately and the Autobot stares at Starscream for long moments, making the Seeker worried.

"You did good, Starscream. You are not allowed to say 'no'. If it ever happens again, tell the Autobot doing it that they must ask me first. I didn't think he'd have the audacity to go touching someone who's mine like that."

"He said he has some of my ex-subordinates." Starscream whispers weakly.

Optimus grinds his denta.

"He has."

"My trine?" 

"No." Optimus says with finality.

The discussion is clearly over.

Chapter Text

He crawls slowly to the mech, crying silently, every movement pure agony from all the lashes that has torn him open. His leg is still uncooperative.

"Good little Decepticon. Lick my panel." He motions to the plate covering his spike.

It's disgusting, humiliating, but what can he do? Dreadbot clambers to his knees even though it hurts like the pit.

The mech's plate is hot already and Dreadbot tentatively drags his glossa across it, laps at the panel until it pops open, his glossa sliding over the head of the pressurizing spike. The mech pats him condescendingly on the helm when he keeps lapping with a grimace.

"That's it, good little pleasurebot. Lay down on your back."

It hurts so bad, all the lashes on his protoform and plating bearing his weight but he still does it.

The mech pushes his legs apart and teases his node with his thumb, slides digits into his valve and Dreadbot is revulsed when he starts going wet.

Keeping optic contact, in a mockery of lovemaking, Dreadbot's leg is lifted over the hip of the mech as his spike slides easily into the Decepticon's slick valve.

Dreadbot can't stop crying, it's disgusting and humiliating and the mech just smirks and starts thrusting, pleased with the reaction. He reaches down to stimulate Dreadbot's anterior node. His charge starts to rise.

Dreadbot hates this mech almost as much as he fears him and that makes it all the worse when his own lubricant starts to dribble out of his valve, his charge rises...

He overloads.

With a mortifying mewl, he overloads when transfluid fills his valve, arching his back. Like a pleasuredrone.

"Typical Decepticon, you're all just pleasurebots. I can bring you so low, hurt you and humiliate you and stillyou overload when I frag you." The mech says derisively.

He pulls out and stands, wiping himself with a rag, a condescending smile on his face. Dreadbot doesn't move, all fight gone from his frame. Is this what his functioning is going to be?

"How do you feel now, Con? Still proud of yourself? Proud of being so weak you squealed and purged when I whipped you? Proud of being so scared of me, you pissed all over yourself? Proud of obediently crawling on the floor, like a well trained little pet for me? Proud of how you still overloaded for me like a whore?"

Dreadbot offlines his optics and turns his helm to the side in defeated humiliation, crying harder.

No, he isn't. He hates himself even more than he hates this mech. 

Chapter Text

Skywarp really loves having his wings petted. Just like his trine mates used to do. In his drug induced haze, and with his changing protocols, it's almost as good as flying. Servos dragging over the wingspan feels almost like the wind caressing him in flight.

He moans as the mech behind him rakes down them with blunt digits, his valve clenching around the spike inside.

"Can't believe one of the Air commander's trine mates would be here, would be such a willing little whore." The mech says.

"But I love facing. It feels so good, your spike is so good." Skywarp pants. 

It's true. Skywarp always was the most interface crazy if his trine and he did fool around outside the trine too, with their support, of course. And the customers' spikes does feel good inside him. Most of the customers are pretty nice too, a few condescending remarks about him being a Con whore aside, they're mostly just there to get off.

It's when the customers leave he really feels the difference. They overload, catch their vents and wipes themselves, then they're out of there.

Sure, he never was the cuddly type with his one night frags either. They we're Cons for frags sake!

He didn't need to be back then. He got enough cuddles from his trine. Now though... Now he spends his afterglow all alone every time. That's when the drugs comes in handy, they keep the emptiness at bay.

But lately, that hasn't been working as well as it used to. His tolerance has increased. It started with a dose every other day to keep him comfortable. Then it took one hit a day. That still wasn't a biggie. He's a Seeker, the prejudice amongst the grounders actually worked in his favor and he never had a hard time to entice a customer a day.

Two shots a day was trickier. Most doesn't like sloppy seconds, so he either had to snare those looking for a three- or four-way or one early enough in the opening hours to give him time to wash up and polish himself decently.

Then it turned into three a day and he was getting very busy to frag - take a hit - shower - frag - take a hit - shower - frag - take a hit - shower - pass out. Who thought this job would be so stressful?

Now, he's up at four hits a day and Skywarp has a tactic. Two gangbangs a day. The more mechs in each, the better. If he gets more than his minimum of four doses in a day, he's noticing that it's no longer a good amount but just sufficient, he can hoard and he certainly does for the slower days.

But just one customer is nowhere near enough, so this time, he's glad that the mech leaves quickly. He hurries into the shower, pushes the hose into his valve to get ready for the next customers. Covers up a few scratches on his hips and sprays lubricant into his valve and port before hurrying out to his window again.

He's in luck. Five mechs walks in, obviously a bunch of friends looking for a good time.

"Hello, darlings. Ever had a Seeker?"

"No." One of them takes the bait. "What are you offering?"

"Anything you want. Bring your friends. I love being the center of attention..." He purrs seductively.

Somebot snickers and two of the young mechs high fives. Then they all follow him into his little stall, the sounds of plating sliding to the side a telltale that he just hit the motherload.

Chapter Text

Somehow, he has obviously fallen back into recharge. Barricade realizes it when he reboots, still buried deep in the blanket. Jazz is gone. Judging by the position of the sun, it's late morning. Not that surprising, his self repair started to work once he started refueling properly and it has made him tired. And he took a long time to fall into recharge. Barricade gets up and heads for the maintenance room.

The Interceptor makes it to the door, then he runs out of luck. The door slides open and he runs smack into Crosshairs, the Paratrooper still damp from his shower.

"Sorry, Sir." Barricade mumbles, backing away.

"Mornin' Barricade." The sniper says and follows him.

Barricade's back hits the wall. The Saleen is boxed in by the Paratrooper for the second time in his functioning and he wants to run twice as bad this time. Crosshairs puts one servo against the wall next to Barricade's helm and leans closer, EM field pushing against the Saleen but he doesn't teek it. He doesn't want to know.

"Want to 'ardline?" Crosshairs says and holds out a cable.

He really doesn't. But he can't say that he doesn't want to, he's not allowed to say 'no' to an Autobot. On the other servo, lying is dangerous too. So he doesn't say anything, just holds his arm out to show his compliance and waits for Crosshairs to plug in.

But the green mech doesn't. Barricade looks up at the mech in confusion.

"I asked if ye want to 'ardline. Ye did na' answer me." He pushes instead.

Compliant and accepting.

"Yes, Sir. I want to hardline with you." Barricade mumbles, a shiver making his plating clatter before he clamps it close to his protoform.

"Really?" Crosshairs asks, raising an optical ridge.

What does he want, Barricade begging for the connection? None of his previous Masters violated him in that way and that makes this feel all the more cruel. The Saleen almost starts crying in fear.

"I don' believe ye. 'm goin' te leave tha' te Jazz." Crosshairs says and steps back, putting his cable away. "A word of advice: don' lie. Jazz 'ates bein' lied te. So does the rest o' us." He pats Barricade's shoulder and the Saleen can't help but flinch slightly.

With that, the Sniper turns and leaves. Barricade stares after him for long seconds before hurrying into the maintenance room. He dawdles in there, hoping everybot will have left when he comes back out. Otherwise, he doesn't know where to go. Jazz's berthroom seems like the safest place if everybot is still here, but if Jazz finds him there, it might not be all that safe either.

So he bites the proverbial bullet and heads for the refueling room, even though he can hear mechs talking and laughing. The Saleen stops just outside the door and takes a few shaky vents, trying to collect himself. He needs a cube, he can sneak in and grab one and retreat to... Somewhere.

He pads inside as stealthily as he can, just to freeze inside the door, when four helms swivels to look at him.

So much for his stealth.

Chapter Text

"Just stop! You're doing it wrong again." The golden twin snarls.

"It's just a fucking polish." Sideswipe growls back.

"To you maybe, you dirty, scratched up wreck!"

"You are being ridiculous!! Of course I...."

It's weird, because it's so normal. Except his anxiety, of course, and Wildrider's terrified cowering behind the couch. 

So far, the Frontliner twins have not done anything untoward. Ratchet stopped by, swore worse than the entire gestalt together, fixed them up and gave them instructions on how to refuel and care for their damage.

Drag Strip takes a deep vent and rises from his place next to his cowering gestalt mate.

"No! Drag Strip! What are you doing?!" Wildrider hisses.

"I don't know why he wants to use that rubbing with that sponge, Sunstreaker. Your paint clearly deserves a slightly rougher sponge and a finer rubbing." The Decepticon croons.

The room seems frozen in suspense, all optics riveted to him. He reaches out and plucks a sponge from the huge box of polishing paraphernalia. He grabs a bottle of polish and holds it up for the golden menace to see, servos shaking with his nerves.

"Something like this? And then the high gloss wax for that mirror shine your paint is made for. Sir." He says softly.

He waits for the mayhem to begin, for the first sign that he misjudged the situation completely.

"Thank you! Finally somebot with the processor to appreciate my paintjob and  knowledge of what it takes to make it perfect. Yes, exactly. That's the way Iwould go. Learn something of this, Asswipe." Sunstreaker bursts out.

Drag Strip exhales a relieved vent. He survived. He glances at Sideswipe out of the corner of his optics, afraid he will be angered by the meddling Decepticon. He didn't think of how this might make Sideswipe look stupid. But Sideswipe looks more perplexed than anything else, so he continues forward.

"May I?" He asks, because doing something with his servos will ease his nerves and proving himself useful in this way might spare him from being used in more unsavory ways.

"Yes! Yes, you may. Actually, I implore you." Sunstreaker says.

"How did you do that?" Sideswipe whispers in astonishment.

"Part of a gestalt. Try sharing quarters with thoseglitches without learning how to maneuver around Vain, Angry and Helmstrong."

"Right." Sideswipe smiles.

"Primus, I miss them." Drag Strip whispers, a pang of pain tearing at his broken bonds, worry for Motormaster chilling his spark.

"I know, Drag Strip. I know." Sideswipe says and pats his shoulder.

Chapter Text

Barricade can't help but stare. Jazz and Ironhide are hardlining at the table. As if it's completely normal. Blackout is sitting on a chair, not so covertly eyeing his Master and the Spy. Apparently, the Helo isn't used to that either.

The Autobots disconnect and Ironhide rises. Crosshairs throws a cube to the Weapons specialist before taking his place, squeezing Jazz's shoulder tire. 

"Horny fragger." The Spy snickers.

"Well, it's no' my fault tha' ye're ho'." Crosshairs drawls as Jazz plugs his cable into the offered port.

Ironhide is hardlining with Blackout, the Helo allowing the Autobot to plug in without rebooting his optics, and Barricade busies himself with getting a cube just to not keep staring.

"Com'ere, Barricade." His Master tells him.

He obeys with a sinking tank, because he knows what's going to happen and he's just waiting for the moment when Jazz takes over his systems and the Autobots are going to have fun on Barricade's expense.

Jazz is holding out his cable and Barricade sinks slowly into the seat next to him.

"I don' think he wants to." Crosshairs says casually.

Jazz looks at Barricade and the Interceptor trembles, because he knows he will get in trouble. Of course the Sniper would throw him under the bus. He should've just offered himself up when he had the chance, should've begged the Paratrooper to use him.

"Do you want this, Barricade?"

He's fragged. He can't refuse an Autobot, but Jazz hates being lied to.

"No, Master." He whispers weakly and slides to the floor. "Please don't damage me, Master."

He spreads his knees wide as he kneels with his back to Jazz in that oh, so familiar pose, servos on the back of his helm and he waits for the pain to begin. A servo slides down his shoulderwing and he expects the grip to turn cruel.

"'m not goin' ta punish ya." Jazz says, voice low and soft.

Then it's pleasure he's after. Barricade knows what to do, how to appease. He bends forward, rests on his elbows and knees and waits for servos on his hips, digits in his valve, anything like that.

"Barricade. Please get up from the floor." Jazz says, more stern now.

Barricade obeys but very hesitantly, not knowing what to expect. Maybe his Master wants to use his intake? His denta are already folding back when Jazz orders him again.

"Sit on tha chair, Barricade. D'ya want ta hardline with me? Don' lie, I won't hurt ya for tellin' tha truth."

They're all looking at him fragging up. He will be forced to pay in some way, if not in pain then it will be in humiliation.

"No, Sir. I don't want to." He mumbles.

"That's too bad, 'cause we have ta do this. I'll make a systems check as usual 'n' then I'll slip ya a coupl'a memory files ya might need if tha authorities comes ta check ya, tha's it. Nothin' more. Ya don't hafta look at tha files, jus' keep 'em in your timeline. It's important, jus' like checkin' your systems is, so unfortunately, I can't let ya choose not to. But that's all 'm gonna do."

Barricade nods and obediently holds his arm out. He still doesn't like it, really doesn't trust Jazz to keep his word, but choice is a precious gift Barricade will never have again.

Jazz slides into his systems as usual, checks his levels and sends him files that slots neatly into his timeline as if they were his own memories. Barricade itches to open them, curious what they are and why he needs them if he doesn't need to see them. He can feel Jazz's amusement at his curiosity and immediately freezes up in apprehension. He had somehow forgotten Jazz was still in his systems and it's unnerving that he's getting so used to hardlining with his Master.

The spy disconnects.

"You're free ta leave tha' refuelin' room if ya want, Barricade." Jazz says tiredly.

He does, scuttles out like a startled glitchmouse and sinks into a corner behind a chair in the living room.

"What the frag was that?" Ironhide rumbles.

"He's more broken than I ever imagined." Jazz grinds out.

Chapter Text

Something is seriously wrong with Barricade. Sure, Blackout is unnerved by the ease with which the Autobots swap cables and memory sticks too, but it doesn't completely freak him out. In fact, for every time he hardlines with Ironhide, he understands better what they're doing. It has nothing to do with interfacing.

They just exchange data in the most convenient way and that's really all there's to it. Of course, it takes a high level of trust to do it comfortably, trust that is apparently there between the Bots. Blackout himself has hardlined enough times with Ironhide to trust the Weapons specialist to not do something to damage or corrupt his systems.

Blackout is pretty certain that the Autobots could hardline for pleasure too, but it's not what it's about all the time. He's quickly getting used to it, even if it is a little strange to watch mechs swap cables like they do at the table, for all to see.

But Barricade is a whole different story. Blackout knew the Interceptor back on Earth, he was a live wire. To see him do a behavioral 180, throwing himself into displaying himself submissively the way he did to appease his owner after trying to refuse the hardline was disturbing to the Helo. As if being fragged would be better than a data upload.

From what Blackout has seen, Jazz is nothing but nice to the Saleen, but the small Decepticon doesn't even seem to notice, too preoccupied with doing...well, nothing, really. Keeping himself quiet and invisible, basically. 

It's stupid to try to refuse something as simple as a hardline, especially when it seems to be necessary. The Bots keep them fueled and make sure their damage heals, why do something that might make their owners tire of them and send them away?

But there's something wrong with the Interceptor, Blackout can tell. He tries his hardest to avoid Blackout instead of being comforted by seeing a fellow Con, barely even says hello. But if that's the way the Interceptor wants it, Blackout won't go out of his way to reconnect with someone who might be a friend.

From his spot, he observes the interaction, how Barricade finally accepts the hardline and let's Jazz check his systems and upload those memories they might need someday and Blackout comes to the conclusion that the smaller Con is very unthankful. Jazz does seem a bit frustrated by how standoffish the Saleen is, his visor doing a flicker when Barricade hurries out of the room as soon as he's allowed. 

The Helo understands Jazz. It must be irritating to save a Decepticon, just to be refused.

Blackout is not going to make the same mistake. He's going to be good.

Chapter Text

The files Jazz gave him just won't leave him alone. Not that they open by themselves or something. No, they just tickle a curiosity in him, something Barricade hasn't experienced for a very long time.

It might be dangerous. Might be something he doesn't want to see. But they slipped so neatly in among his own files; two from the evening, from around the time he spent in Jazz's berth. And three from the morning while he was still recharging.

He's nervous about it, scared that he will be immersed and panic, but he just can't let it go. Barricade is laying in his berth, waiting for recharge to claim him, when he finally decides to look at one. He's alone, so Jazz won't know. Taking a shaky invent, he opens one of them.

His back is against the wall in Jazz's washracks and he's held up by strong arms under his thighs. Ironhide has him pinned, sliding his spike into Barricade's valve with slow, powerful strokes. It feels so good. He wraps his arms around the Weapons specialist's neck and pushes his pedes against his aft to get more.

Barricade startles out of the memory in surprised shock, but the next one opens immediately by itself.

He's straddling Ironhide, Crosshairs pressed against his back. Still, there's no shame or pain when rocks back and the Sniper's spike slides slickly into his aft, Ironhide still filling his valve. Just want. He's writhing and moaning in unadulterated pleasure, their servos touching him everywhere with clever digits that set his frame alight and he feels like they're worshipping his frame.

Those aren't his memories. Barricade hasn't 'faced any of them, he's sure of that. This must be Jazz's memories. The most striking difference from his own memories of 'facing is the lack of shame and disgust, things Barricade would feel from being used like that. Apparently, his Master has no problems with having two mechs fragging him and letting someone else see. It tickles his curiosity and the Interceptor can't help sneaking a peak at the next one, a file from last night.

Ironhide is on top of him in his own berth and Barricade is whining in need when the Weapons specialist pins him with unrelenting servos and superior strength. It isn't frightening, just arousing

"You want more? Horny little slut..."

"Don't stop! More! Please!" He mewls.

Ironhide stops.

"Hmh. Didn't you forget something?"

"Officer! Please, Officer! I'm sorry I forgot. I want your spike to fill my valve, Officer."

Ironhide obeys, pounds into him with a powerful rhythm and the following overload is mind-blowing.

Barricade is booted out of the memory to hear his own fans whirring, to feel charge crackling over his plating.

He's very confused. That has to be memories straight from Jazz and Crosshairs. But it felt like it was his own memories, like he has been there. Except for the want, the need. He always feel dirty and ashamed when he interface. The emotions in those memories felt good. No shame, just pleasure. But why would he need these memories?

The Interceptor squirms, frame uncomfortable. He needs to relieve the charge. Maybe that's Jazz's plan? To make Barricade go to him for relief? But he did say that Barricade didn't have to look at the memories... But of course he would.

He slides his servos down his ventral plating to his fully pressurized spike. He hasn't touched it for Primus knows how long, given access to it back by Ratchet when he was repaired but not interested in using it. 

He can't do it. It just feels wrong somehow, as if it will be tainted. And what would he do with the fluids? He can't get up to take a shower now. But he's so charged.

Then another disturbing thought hits Barricade. What if Jazz is watching? Surely the spy could plant hidden cameras all over. Maybe he's hoping that Barricade will touch himself willingly and involuntarily give the spy a show?

The Saleen crawls under his blanket, laying on his front, and pushes one arm under his frame to hide most of his movements. Then he slides his digits through the dripping wet folds of his valve and shivers in pleasure when he touches his node. The Mustang's valve clenches around nothing, ghostly memories of spikes filling somebot else's valve lingering, the honest want and arousal still fresh in his memory. He slides digits inside to fill himself, getting lost in his own pleasure. The overload is so hard, his optics white out, the first really deep overload since his surrender because it's the first time there's no revulsion or shame tainting it.

He comes down from the orgasm, relaxed to the point of feeling almost dopey. Then the shame and disgust returns full force.

He thought he didn't like interfacing anymore, yet here he is, fingering himself like an ignored little pleasurebot just because he hasn't been fucked since Jazz bought him.

His first Master was right. He is nothing but a needy whore.

Chapter Text

"I've got something, Sir. Over there, by the column."

The voice is vaguely familiar, enough to get his attention, but not enough to place it. Not one of those abusing him so far, but still not familiar in a way that brings relief.

Drift does nothing. They might not even be talking about him. He's running low on fuel and struggling is useless. It hasn't worked so far, only drains him of the energy he sorely needs.

"It's him, Sir!" Closer this time.

Hurried pedesteps as two large mechs comes running.

Drift can't help it, his field reaches out to teek the fields of the mechs, apprehensive about what they want.

"Oh, no. Drift, honey, we're here."


A careful servo slides up and down his backstruts to comfort him and Drift slumps, sobbing in relief.

The mech he still doesn't know the identity of starts to free his servos of makeshift cuffs made of wires.

"What the frag is wrong with you?! He's an Autobot! Has been for longer than your younglings can count! And you're not helping him?!" Ironhide snarls viciously.

Drift hears hurried steps as mechs flees the scene, curious spectators not curious enough to ignore the irate Weapons specialist bristling with guns. He's finally safe. Ironhide is here.

His servos are freed, arms numb from being immobilized for so long. Drift still manages to move them to lay by his sides, twitches his digits to get the energon flowing.

The other mech kneels to work on the restraints around his ancles.

"Do you need something right now, aside from the obvious? Are you damaged?" Ironhide asks close to his audial.

He can't answer, no matter how much he wants to. 

"Wait, Sir. There's a disrupter somewhere on him. I think it's the reason it was so hard to find him and it disables his comms. I can feel the effect even from here, my sensors feel loopy."  

Drift finally recognizes the voice. Blackout.

Servos starts to search him. Friendly servos, trying to make things better instead of worse. Something is pulled from the back of his helm, he feels the magnet let go and his systems starts running checks after being scrambled for so long.

"Squawk to me, Samurai. Are you damaged?" Ironhide asks as servos works on the restraints around his neck.

His comms are back. He isn't mute anymore, isolated from the world. Drift sobs silently in relief.

::I'm stable. Now that you're here.::

"Vocalizer fragger up?" Ironhide asks out loud.

::Disconnected. So is my optical feed.::

Strong arms lifts him easily as if he weighs nothing, cradling him against Ironhide's hot frame.

"Fraggers. I'm taking you straight to Ratchet."

Drift presses his face into broad chestplates and cries silently.

::They raped me. Again and again and again...:: He cries over the comms.

"It's over now. I've got you. They'll have to go through me to get to you."

He feels lipplates ghost over his helm in a tender kiss and lets himself fall into exhausted recharge, safely carried in the arms of the most heavily armed Autobot on and off planet.

Chapter Text

Blackout finds himself jealous of Drift. Not the position they found him in, that's something Blackout finds cruel even after what he's been through. Anything could've happened to Drift in that position, and maybe it did? Blackout doesn't know what the Samurai has been through, left like that for Primus knows how long. And Drift is an Autobot.

The Helo shudders, thinking about what would happen to him if he was set lose on the streets and he remembers that Ironhide warned him about trying to escape or go out alone.

No, he isn't jealous of that. What makes him jealous is the careful touches to comfort the Samurai, the protectiveness the Weapons specialist displays for Drift. 

He follows silently, studying his owner as he's carrying the exhausted Autobot bridal style down the street, glaring viciously at anybot daring to stare. How the Helo wishes his owner would feel that way about him, would protect and keep him safe like that.

"Disgusting. Never thought one of the Prime's crew would be a fragging Con-lover. I'd say the mech was getting better than he deserves. All fragging Cons should fragging hang. 'Ex'-Con or no." Somebot whispers when they have passed.

"Well at least his slave looks like he has had his gears stripped properly." Somebot else snickers.

Blackout shudders again. He could be in a place so much worse than with Ironhide, even though his owner doesn't seem to care for him like he cares for Drift. Most Autobots seems to hate Decepticons, even a long time ex-Con can be the target of hateful acts.

At least Ironhide keeps him fueled and doesn't hurt him. Makes sure his frame is clean and healing.

Maybe he can start to care for Blackout the way he cares for Drift. He probably didn't care for Drift like this in the beginning either. With enough time, and time is all Blackout has, the Helo might be able to win Ironhide over, like Drift has successfully done.

Blackout knows nothing of how Drift managed to do it, and he can't prove his worth in combat, so he has to find some other way to catch his owner's attention and keep his interest. Then maybe he too will be cared for. Like Drift.

Chapter Text

Dreadbot hasn't moved when the guards come to get him.

"Mech, he got it good!" One of them cackles.

The one harassing him before crouches beside his helm.

"So, little Con, still proud?" He smirks.

Dreadbot shakes his helm, crying silently.

"Do you want another round?"

"No, please! Don't, I..." He backpedals from the mech.

"Oh look, you've learned to beg! Not that it will do you any good... But it's nice listening to."

The mech follows him to where his sore back is pressed against the wall. He stares down at the Decepticon, a nasty smile stretching his intake when he grabs one of Dreadbot's helm fins and his jaw, prying his intake open. The Autobot pressurizes his spike straight into Dreadbot's intake and starts thrusting.

The spike continuously hits the tubing in the back of his intake and the Decepticon gags and coughs. Transfluid fills his mouth but his convulsing tubes makes him cough some of it through his nasal vents. It's disgusting, vile, invades him in a way he didn't think possible.

The guard finally lets go of him and steps back, the other guard kicking the Decepticon's pedes apart. Dreadbot hides his face in his arms, too humiliated to look at them, hurting too much to fight back.

"Sloppy seconds." The guard says when he leans down to look at Dreadbot's array, pushing his digits the Decepticon's valve. "Let's flip him."

They grab his arms and hoists him up, throws him forward. Dreadbot isn't prepared and hits the ground hard, grunting in pain from the impact. The guard knees his legs apart, grabs his hips harshly and hikes them up.

A spike presses against his port. Dreadbot flails, tries to throw himself forward to get away but the other guard puts his pede across the back of Dreadbot's neck, pushing his helm to the floor.

"No, please don't!" Dreadbot cries.

"This is too good to pass up on. It'll happen sooner or later, Decepticon, so you might as well get the first time over with." The guard says with a groan as he pushes inside.

Dreadbot wails into the floor in pain, digits scrabbling uselessly over the floor in an effort to get leverage enough to get away.

"No, don't! Please stop! It hurts!" Dreadbot cries.

"And here I thought he was a tough guy!" The guard pushing him down snickers.

"I know! I'm not even that big..." The mech fragging him laughs.

Digits are jammed into one of his wounds and Dreadbot can't hold back a scream.

"Yeah, scream for me, Con!" The mech behind him growls. "Tell me; are you still proud now? Getting it in the aft like a pleasuredrone..." 

It hurts, aches deep inside him, when the mech starts rutting into him with a punishing pace and Dreadbot sobs into the floor.

"Please don't. It hurts." Dreadbot sobs quietly.

Why did he have to fight back? Why was he so proud and stubborn?

"Pit, he is tight." The mech fucking him grunts when his hips stutter and he overloads, spilling inside the limp Decepticon.

Dreadbot doesn't get up, doesn't move when the guard pulls out and stands. It's useless. Where would he go?

The other guard slips his digits into Dreadbot's aft.

"Congratulations to losing that virginity. You're still tight enough to feel good, I think." He cackles.

Dreadbot stares blankly at nothing, shutting them out as best as he can and prays to Primus that they are done with him.

Chapter Text

They're back in Ratchet's medbay. According to the medic, his valve is almost fully healed and Barricade is ready to agree. It feels alright, not sore anymore. The Saleen carefully avoids thinking about how well it seemed to be working when he touched himself. 

His plating and protoform is getting better too, even though he probably will have extensive scarring on his protoform forever. His first Master was very skilled with a whip.

"And now we need to test out your new plate, in case I need to adjust the fit." Ratchet says to him.

Barricade stares uncomprehendingly. Ratchet holds up a piece of metal and it takes long moments before he recognizes what it is.

A new interface panel.

Ratchet starts to attach it to the brackets and Barricade stares at the ceiling. Why do they need to mount a new one? The last time his panel was closed, it ended up being torn off and dumped. And his valve is functional again. They're going to play some sort of game with him. He offlines his optics as the medic works.

"Ironhide found Drift. They're coming here right away." His Master says to Ratchet.

"Thank Primus. Finally!" Ratchet sounds relieved. "Barricade, I'm done. Stand up and try it out, see if I need to adjust anything."

Jazz is there, helps him off the berth with one servo on his arm and one on his side. The spy's thumb slides under a plate, rubbing Barricade's protoform softly.

"Looks good, Cade. Does it feel ok?" He asks.

It chafes. Not that the fit isn't right. It's just that he has had his plate open or missing for so long...

He tries to open and close it several times, staring at it, hardly believing his optics. He has a panel he can close. It gets almost uncomfortably hot when he closes it.

"Feels good, Sir. Thank you." He says. He'll probably get used to it.

Jazz pats his side, but they all swivel around when the doors open, Ironhide barging in.

Barricade stares at the limp mech in the massive Autobot's arms. He recognizes Drift, but the mech looks worse for the wear; dirty, sticky and crudely painted. He stares at the glyphs. Once a Con, always a Con. Free to use. Whore. Teach me my place. Con-lover.

Ironhide looks ready to deactivate somebot and Barricade cowers back, steps slowly backwards, careful not to bump into something and attract attention, until he's in the corner. Nobot can sneak up on him in the corner. He slides down to the floor, shivering in fear as all the Autobots turn their attention to Drift.

Chapter Text

When Ratchet is done, Barricade's Master climbs up on the berth with Drift, pulls the Samurai up until he rests his back against Jazz's chestplates, the Spy wrapping his arms around Drift.

"We're here, Drift. They won't get away with this. Ye're one o' mine. Know what tha' means, darlin'?"

Drift nods and leans against Jazz.

"You take care of those you consider yours."

"Tha's right."

"I don't know who did it. Didn't see anything and didn't recognize the voices."

"Share the memory? I'll keep you from being immersed." Jazz holds out his data cable.

Barricade watches as Drift plugs it in without hesitation. Just like everybot else. Hardlining for data was something no Decepticon would ever do consensually. Too risky. He hasn't seen Autobots do it in his previous homes either. To the Decepticons, hardlining equalled interfacing and was a very private thing. Optimus Prime's mechs are swapping cables left, right and center. On the other servo, they're fucking each other almost like that too... 

His Master pulls a memory stick from one of his dataports and hands it to Ironhide, the big mech immediately plugging it into his socket.

"Nobot I recognize." Jazz says.

"Me neither." Ironhide grunts. "Maybe the Decepticons know?" His icy optics find Barricade in his corner and the Interceptor trembles in fear.

Jazz untangles himself from Drift and comes over to Barricade, holding out his data cable.

"Please, see if you recognize somebot."

Barricade obediently lets him plug in. There's a moment of vertigo before he is inside Drift's memory. Jazz is there with him, keeps him from living it and helps him to look at it objectively, detached from all the emotions packed into the file and while he's relieved to not be fully immersed, it tells something of how skilled his Master, the Autobot's most feared Interrogator, is with manipulating data. 

He doesn't recognize anyone and Jazz acknowledges that without Barricade telling him so..

Ironhide unplugs the memory stick and holds it out to Blackout.

"Check if you recognize somebot."

"Yes, Sir." Blackout says and takes the stick, plugging it in without hesitation, as easily as the Autobots does it.

Barricade is a little suspicious about that. Blackout seems too eager and totally unafraid, not cowed into obedience, lacks the submissive manners of a welltrained slave. Maybe he's reprogrammed?

Or maybe Ironhide has some sort of kink for being treated like the Superior Officer? Crosshairs was forced to call him Officer in berth in the memory Barricade got...

Then he loses that string of thought as all hell breaks loose when Blackout panics.

Chapter Text

The guards drag him back to the cell, holding his arms. Dreadbot's pedes are dragged over the floor, but it hardly matters. Walking hurts worse than that.

They dump him inside the door, just pushes him inside and he falls forward and lands heavily on his front.

He can't move. All the lashes are still leaking and every movement pulls on the wounds, his leg is still somewhat uncooperative after the shock. There's dents and punctures where the collar dug into his neckcables. His aft is so very sore. 

As soon as the door slams shut, he let's go and wails in agony and humiliation. He curls his arms around his helm to try to comfort himself. It hurts the least to lay like this, sprawled on his front.

He was almost deactivated. The terror hits him a second time now that he can process it more clearly, how fragging close he must've been to offlining. Now that he isn't being hanged for the amusement of a customer, unable to think straight. 

It's a petrifying insight that he is worth so little, mechs could pay for a kill for thrill and nobot would object. And it was a harsh awakening to learn what having a customer might mean. Or what the guards can do to him.

He feels energon ooze down his protoform from his wounds, the lashes burning. He should refuel but he can't bring himself to try to move, to crawl to where they get their rations to see if there is any energon for him.

"Shouldn't we help him?" Tarn says to Blast Off.

The two mechs sit in their corner, leaning against each other as usual, watching Dreadbot break down and cry like a sparkling just inside the door. It's humiliating to have somebot witnessing the state of his frame, his wailing, but he can't stop.

"No. He clearly needs a medic." Blast Off's voice is cold.

"You are so cruel." Tarn snickers.

"I call it poetic justice."

"Should we call the guards and tell them? Speed things up a little."

"No, they'll find him. We don't want to attract attention and he won't go anywhere." Blast Off decides.

"Good plan." Tarn agrees.

"So Dreadbot... What did you like most? Intake, valve or aft?" Blast Off sneers. Then the shuttle freezes for a second, sniffing the air. A vengeful smirk stretches his intake. "You smell that, Tarn? I wonder if someone voided on him or if tough guy over there wet himself. What was it, Dreadbot? Got so scared you couldn't hold it?"

Dreadbot doesn't answer. He just cries harder.

Chapter Text

It's the voices that does it.

Blackout gets into Drift's memory, and at first, it's fine. He doesn't see anything, just like Drift didn't, but he hears the assailants talking, and he recognizes three voices and suddenly his own memories are opening uncontrollably. Pictures and emotions, input from his frame saved in files are haphazardly compiled into a maelstrom of petrifying things he has been through, just half second snippets before another memory takes its place.


Restraints on his wrists, digging in until he starts leaking.

Loosing his seals, humiliation and pain.

The crackle of whips, searing his plating.

"Loose slut."

Spreader bar between his ancles.


Cold, blue optics.

Crawling on the floor to get away, servos grabbing his anclestrut.

Collar digging in, making it hard to vent.


Lashes on his hub, excruciating.

Digits in his valve, his aft.

The laughter of the Autobots when he purges.

Laying on his back, too damaged to move. They're still fucking him.

Too low on fuel, shivering as he goes colder.

"Con whore."

Being held down by three mechs and fucked.

Servos on his plating, bending and twisting.

He can't get out of the storm of pieces of memories, can't find his way back to the original memory and it's spinning faster and faster...

He's yanked out of the nightmare.

He can't process straight, the sudden influx of feeds from all his sensor circuits, his optics, when he's out of the memory are too much.

Somebot is straddling him, strong servos holding him down.

He hears shouting but can't process it.

"Please don't! No! Please, no!" He screams, flailing in panic.

They're going to hurt him and fuck him again.

A sharp pain close to his neck, then everything goes black.

Chapter Text

It all happens incredibly fast. One second, Blackout is fine, the next he turns and runs blindly into the wall, knocking himself to the floor. The huge Helo starts flailing, knocking stuff over.

Ironhide is on him in just seconds. His powerful frame restrains Blackout quite easily as he straddles the Helo, grabbing his wrist-struts with a denting servo. He tears the memory stick free with his other servo and drops it on the floor as he keeps the Helicopter pinned.

Barricade cowers back, pressing his back hard into the wall in his corner. He knew the Autobots shouldn't be trusted.

"Blackout!" Ironhide shouts.

The Helicopter doesn't answer at first, he just struggles with the Bot on top of him.

"Please don't! No! Please, no!" Blackout screams, kicking and struggling in panic.

Ironhide manages to flip Blackout under him, locking his arms behind his back.

"Jazz, do it!" Ironhide grinds out.

Barricade's Master throws himself into the fray, a servo sliding up by Blackout's neck, close to his rotor hub.

 "No, no, no! Stop! Please!" Blackout cries.

Barricade is close to crying. Whatever they're going to do, he doesn't want to see this but he can't stop looking.

"Ya know where it is?" Jazz asks.

"Closer to the neck, under the plates. Should be a simple connection with a small switch, but I think it's buried in his protoform, so you need to find it and then break the protoform to reach it." Ironhide says, voice strained from still wrestling with the begging Helicopter.

 "No, stop!" Blackout's voice is rising in pitch.

Barricade sees Jazz work with his talons under Blackout's plating and finds himself shaking his helm, begging quietly with the Helicopter.

Then the Helo suddenly slumps, his entire frame lax, optics black and empty. Energon is dripping from where Jazz did something to Blackout. At least he isn't going gray.

It reminds him of when they surrendered and it's terrifying.

Chapter Text

"Oh, for frags sake..." 

Dreadbot doesn't move when somebot enters their cell.

"Let's get him to the medics." Somebot else sighs.

"Fragging weakling."

His arms are grabbed and he's dragged across the floor, out through the door and down the hallway, into what looks like washracks.

"Medics said we should wash him. Inside and out."


He's left on the floor, still on his front, and he's unprepared for the high pressure stream of freezing cold solvent when it hits him. He screams, because the solvent burns like fire in his open wounds and it's just too fragging cold. Dreadbot flails and crawls away but the only place he can go is into the corner and they just come after him.

One of the guards grabs his helmfin and pries his intake open, the other rinses his intake with a hose. The solvent tastes disgusting and he feels like he's drowning.

Trying to catch his vents, he isn't prepared to fight back when his helm is pushed down against the floor, his hips hiked up. The hose is jammed into his valve. The solvent burns, but the stream teases his nodes and his hips jerks.

"Haha, he's getting charged!"

Instantly, the guards goes from annoyed with a distasteful chore to excited amusement. Dreadbot tries to free himself from the servo on his helm that keeps him down, but he can't. His hips buck and he can feel his valve clenching around the teasing stretch of liquid.

He overloads with a defeated wail, faceplates burning in humiliation as the guards laugh.

"Con whore. I swear they overload from anything."

Dreadbot lays limply in the uncomfortable pose, crying.

"Do we really have to do the rest? Disgusting..."

"Medics orders. I think it's kind of funny. They always get so fragging embarrassed."

"Not worth it."

A slim tube is slipped into the nozzle to his primary waste tank, solvent trickling inside.

"No! What are you...? Stop it!" Dreadbot tries to free himself again when his tank starts to fill up, but they're so much stronger than him.

He squirms desperately when the tube is pulled out, feels a trickle down his legs that he just can't stop.

"Please, let me void, I..." He shivers with the effort to hold it.

"We're not done."

A thicker tube is pushed into his port and he starts struggling furiously to no avail. They're filling him up. He whines in disgust and desperation.

It seems like an eternity before they're done and they let go of him. Dreadbot scrambles on servos and knees to the closest drain and sits on his knees over it, covering his face with his servos in humiliation as he finally allows himself to void.

When he's empty, the guards haul him to his pedes, rinses him again with the high pressure and then he's pushed into a medbay. They put him on his front on a berth, cuffing his wrists and ancles. The berth splits between his legs and slides out to the sides, leaving him spread eagled on the berth.

One of the guards comes to stand between his legs and pushes his digits into Dreadbot's valve, pumping slowly.

"I wish I could just..."

"But you can't. You should've done it before you flushed him out." A new mech says, making the Decepticon snap his helm around to see who it is.

A medic.

Finally. He really needs some repairs.

Chapter Text

He reboots to firm strokes along his rotors and over his hub, touches that are the most soothing thing that can be done to a Helicopter, and Blackout greedily presses into the servos.

When his optics onlines, he's leaning against Ironhide, the Autobot petting his rotors with a skill that tells a tale of experience with Rotaries.

"Hey there. Welcome back." The big mech says quietly.

Those touches... Blackout leans into them, wants more. It feels so good. His owner tweaks the brackets that hold his rotors and Blackout moans. His hub is so sensitive and careful touches like these feels almost too good to be true after all pain he has been through. His frame is responding with heating up, and even though Blackout only have been repulsed the few times he has overloaded during interface before, this might not be such a bad thing.

Ironhide is nice to him. He wants to make sure the Autobot keeps him. Offering himself up like that willingly would probably be a good idea. And those touches feels really good.

His valve is getting slick.

"Did ya see someone ya know?" Another mech asks and Blackout jerks around.


And they're surrounded by other mechs.

It all comes back, he remembers where he is, how they wound up here.

"I recognized the voices. Two of them were guards in my first... the place I was sold to initially. And one..." His voice breaks.

"One of them was the one who took my seals." He whispers, a shiver wracking his frame.

"He took your seals." Ironhide says flatly.

"The place I was at had auctions for taking seals whenever they managed to buy an unsealed mech."

"So ya had never 'faced 'n' your first time was sold ta tha highest bidder. 'n' tha mech who took ya was among those who kidnapped 'n' raped Drift." Jazz summarizes.

Blackout nods.

"Fucking assholes!" Ratchet snarls.

"I need ta see your memories, see their faces." Jazz says and holds out his data cable to the Helicopter.

Blackout hesitates, doesn't trust Jazz. And he doesn't want to relive those memories. He feels Ironhide squeezing his rotor. He wants to stay on his owner's good side.

So he takes the cable and plugs it in, and Jazz slides easily through his firewalls.  The Spy doesn't even need to ask, Blackout feels compelled to offer up the memories to the deadly little mech.

Then he's back there, being dragged through the hallway, spark spinning wildly in fear of what's going to happen to him.

Chapter Text

"Come on, you glitch!" One of the guards snarls.

Blackout doesn't listen, keeps struggling. He's angry and scared, but his low hydraulic pressure leaves him unable to really fight back effectively, so they make progress anyway.

Until one of the guards tires of the extra work it gives them. His collar is activated and Blackout warbles in pain when he's shocked. His knees buckle and the Helo is left hanging limply between the guards. They drag him along easily now.

He's still not back in full control of his frame when they drag him into a room and dump him on the floor. His frame is arranged on all fours and they magnetize his knees, elbows and lower arms to the floor, leaving him without any possibility to move.

"You're behaving as if you were going to be executed. It's just interfacing." One of the guards says as if Blackout was behaving irrationally.

"Get smelted!" The Helo snarls weakly, still recovering from the shock.

Then the guards leave him there, feeling more exposed than ever as he waits for his first customer.

The mech comes in, circling the Helo to inspect him. Blackout follows him as far as he can with his optics. The Autobot is downright ugly. Somebot Blackout wouldn't interface with willingly. The mech bends down to finger Blackout's array, pressing on the seal hard enough to make the Decepticon whine in humiliation and discomfort.

"You really are a big mech. I bet you have at least two seals." He sounds delighted.

"Leave me alone! You have no right to frag me." Blackout growls.

"But I do, Decepticon." The mech smirks. "And I will take great pleasure in doing it. You are awfully dry, though. Do I not turn you on?"

Blackout doesn't answer, because while the mech repulses him, he is wary of the repercussions for saying so.

"Oh, well, I don't really care."

The mech grabs a bottle of spray lube and sprays enough to make Blackout's valve drip. Then he kneels behind the Helo and Blackout hears when the Autobot's interface plate slides open.

The blunt head of a spike presses against the rim of his valve and Blackout tenses up. It's repulsive, disgusting. He doesn't want this. The mech presses inside slowly, but Blackout still pants in pain from the stretch and wiggles what little he can to try to ease the pain.

"Stop it! Please don't do this." Blackout pants.

"Oh, I love it when you beg." The mech groans as his spike presses harder and harder against the seal.

Blackout whines. It hurts so bad. His whine turns to a wail when the seal finally gives with a sharp pain. The mech starts thrusting quicker but shallowly, the stretch still burning in the Helo's valve and he's whimpering in revulsion.

"You're still so tight." The mech moans before he overloads, servos clamping down on Blackout's hips, denting his plating.

Blackout cries in disgust and pain when the Autobot pulls out, transfluid mixed with energon running out of his valve. Prodding digits are there immediately, pushing inside.

"I was right! You have at least one more seal! This is so worth the money I spent. I'm just going to rest for a while, then I'll take that seal too." The mech says, clearly pleased as he sits back, waiting for his spike to repressurize.

Blackout senses the query from Jazz, the Spy an unreadable presence throughout the memory, keeping him from being immersed.

"Three seals." He answers. "He took them all."

Jazz acknowledges and then he shuts that memory, having seen enough.

Blackout is thankful for that small mercy and braces for the next memory Jazz wants to see.

Chapter Text

Jazz is piggybacking into the next memory too, and Blackout is thankful for his presence, keeping the Helo grounded and certain that it's just a memory, horrible as it is.

He's laying motionless on the floor when the guards come in, damaged beyond anything he has been through up until now.

"Mech, this one's going to the medbay."

"Shouldn't we have some fun first? It isn't like we can really make it worse..." The other guard leers.


A wire is looped around his hub and pulled through a ring in the ceiling. One of the guards pulls it. Blackout screams when it digs into the sensitive components and the Helicopter scrambles to get up.

"On your knees and servos, or I'll pull it again." The guard holding the wire says in a sing-song voice.

He does, even though it hurts to move.

"Look at how fragging sloppy he is! What was it, a cityformer fragging him?" The guard kneeling behind him laughs.


"Whatever. I'm going to charge the mesh, feels awesome even if he's loose. Ever tried that?"

"No. But it sounds like fun." The mech holding the wire cackles.

Something slides into his valve, but it's slim and he's not tight anymore, so he doesn't feel it that much. 

Until the shock prod is activated.

Blackout's vocalizer spits out static and a howl of feedback when he throws himself forward to get away from the shock coursing agonizingly through his array. The wire around his hub tightens and cuts in deep and he screams even as the prod slides out.

"Sensitive glitch." 

The mech behind him grabs his hips and pushes his spike into the Helo's valve, the mesh agonizingly charged.  Blackout wails as the charge is conducted to the spike inside him, intense enough to burn his mesh, but the Autobot's hips buck into him and Blackout feels the transfluid immediately pooling inside him.

"Frag, that was good. Want to try?"

"Of course."

Jazz's question if the second guard did the same thing is more a feeling than a worded question, but still clear as if spoken out loud.

"The same thing. Then both of them did the same to my mouth."

He tries to withhold a last detail but he just can't deny Jazz.

"And then my ass too."

He gets the impression of Jazz nodding once, then the Spy retracts his presence, slips out backwards as if he was never there in the first place.

Chapter Text

It's fairly obvious to Barricade that the Helo is enjoyingthe touches of his Master.

The Interceptor knows how it feels to have Jazz inside his systems, how easily the Spy slips through and can do whatever he wants, but still the Helicopter leans into the firm servos of Ironhide, all but purring while the Spy is invading Blackout's memories.

Blackout shouldn't be aroused by it. As if he didn't get mechhandled and forcefully rebooted just minutes ago. Maybe he has been reprogrammed? Either way, he's such a whore, getting charged for his Master. 

Barricade gets charged by touches too. But Barricade is nothing but a whore. Like his first Master told him.

Jazz's visor turns to him, as if he knows Barricade is watching, and the Saleen hastily averts his optics, lowering his gaze to the floor. He can still feel those optics on him.

"Ya did good, Blackout. Thank ya. D'ya mind if I show Ironhide?" Jazz says.

"No, it's ok." The Helo mumbles.

Barricade glances up and catches how his Master unplugs a memory stick from a socket on his arm and hands it to the Weapons specialist. It's still weird how comfortable they are swapping cables and data sticks like that. He looks down again when his Master comes up to him.

"Barricade, look at me." Jazz says.

The Interceptor obeys hesitantly. That order never leads to something good, is always given before a lesson. Maybe Jazz do want him to be as pliable as Blackout, willingly pressing into his touches like the little pleasurebot he really is...

His Master holds his servos out, palms up. Barricade stares, doesn't understand.

"Grab my servos." Jazz urges.

He does and is pulled to his feet easily, the Autobot stronger than his size implies. Barricade's spark is spinning wildly when he's led across the room.

"Ya don't hafta sit on tha floor. Take a chair."

He's swung around, the seat of the chair hitting the back of his knees and he falls into the chair rather sprawled. Ratchet throws a cube to Jazz who catches it with one servo without even looking before handing it to Barricade. His Master leans in close enough to murmur in his audial.

"Ye're allowed ta use tha furniture, like any other mech, unless I tell ya otherwise. 'N I'm not gonna hurt ya fer jus' lookin' at me."

Definitely wants him pliable and willing.

They both turn when the doors snap open and Crosshairs storms in. The Paratrooper almost throws himself on the berth next to Drift, hugging the Samurai.

"Oh, Primus, am I glad to see ye." He mumbles against Drift's neckcables.

"I'm still sticky and gross..." Drift says embarrassedly.

"Don't care, not yer fault. They'll pay. Ye hear me?!" Crosshairs growls.

"We know who did it. At least three of 'em. Jazz says.

"Whatever you do, be fragging careful. If you're caught, Prime won't be able to help you and I don't want to be forced to clean up something like this again." Ratchet says grumpily.

"I heard mechs calling you a Con-lover when we you were taking Drift here, Sir." Blackout says to Ironhide.

Barricade looks at where Blackout still is lounging against the Weapons specialist, no signs of discomfort on the Helo's part.

He has to be reprogrammed. If Jazz expects Barricade to behave like that, the Spy will probably reprogram him too. Maybe it wouldn't be that bad?

Chapter Text

It's a rare occurrence that Skywarp surfaces from his drugged daze.

Well, surfaces is a strong word. He's completely miserable as withdrawal is setting in with a vengeance. The pretty Seeker hasn't had any trouble getting customers up until recently, when his tolerance started getting too high, making him sick and twitchy too quickly after a hit. It's not pretty with a mech in withdrawal.

Right now, he's laying on the floor in the tiny washracks in his stall. It saves him the trip when he needs to purge and that is really often. He's shivering, cold from lack of energon from his purging and the lack of boosters that has had his engine running hot for a long time. His entire frame aches and he wishes he could be in his soft berth, but that's just takes too much effort.

"Should we wean him and retrain him when his tolerance is better?" The guard who's the supervisor of the training asks.

"I think that will take too long, cost too much." The boss of the place says.

Please don't wean him. Let him have something that will make him feel good again.

"I know of this place that just chain them up, basically mainline drugs and have customers use them as a living matress." The supervisor proposes.

Mainlining drugs constantly sounds really good right now.

"He's a Seeker, his wings are his strongest feature. They don't show when he's on his back, so the won't pay that much for him." The boss sounds irritated, as if his employee should understand that by himself.

"True. The pound?"

"Doesn't pay much either. They do trade sometimes, so maybe if they have something of interest. Wean him and sell him to a private owner? Or maybe that place where the sadists go?" The boss again.

"I know one of the bosses there, I'll check what they pay." One if the other guards says.

"Good initiative. Could you check the other markets too? Prices for a Seeker in his condition, what the pound has to offer in case of a trade? Report back to me tomorrow." The boss says.

"Yes, Sir."

Skywarp listens weakly from his spot. He knows they are talking about him and what they're saying doesn't sound good but he has no strength to argue. He can't be worth much in this condition. Just give him more drugs, so he can be pretty and a good pleasurebot again. Please.

His tanks are roiling and he manages to get up to sit on the drain when his waste tanks remind him of their existence, but the movements does nothing to help his nausea. Voiding sitting like that feels disgusting even in his state and the feeling makes him purge. Too weak to move, he purges over his chestplates and into his own lap and when he momentarily feels physically better after he purges he starts sobbing in humiliation and disgust of what he has turned into.

"Give him something to take the worst edge off the withdrawal so he stops purging and voiding all over, an IL with energon so he doesn't offline, hose him down and put him in one of the holding cells. Clean this place up and prepare it for a new whore."

"Yes, Sir."

A couple of guards come in.

"Ugh." One of them dry heaves.

The other one starts the shower and rinses him. He's given an injection and after a while, his empty tanks are settling. They grab his arms and pull him up, keeping as far from him as possible until his frame is clean.

The Seeker is dragged out of his stall and down the hallway to a completely tiled room, empty of anything but a hose and a couple of hooks on the wall. He's dumped on the floor drain and doesn't even try to move, too exhausted. They magnetize an energon ration to his plating and slip a needle into one of his lines. He's given another shot and he starts feeling drowsy. The guards leave and Skywarp slips into recharge.

Chapter Text

Dreadbot relaxes into the berth in spite of his vulnerable position. A medic, somebot he likely can trust.

The guards leave and he's relieved by that. The medics seems to outrank those bastards, a world order he's used to.

Then the mech lifts plates uncarefully and it hurts. He yelps in surprised pain. The medic pays no heed. Sterilizing fluid is poured into a wound and Dreadbot whines when it burns like pitfire. The edges of the wound are pressed together and then it's stapled shut, every crack of the stapler like a gunshot in his audials. Dreadbot screams.

"Shut your vocalizer, glitch!"

He can't.

Not when the procedure is repeated on the next wound the whip has left on his protoform and it hurts at least as bad while the already fixed up wound still hurts like pitfire.

The medic disengages Dreadbot's vocalizer before he continues, clearly tired of the Decepticon's wailing.

It takes hours.

At least it feels that way when every wound tended to hurts even worse than the last one. Dreadbot writhes in his restraints, wishes he could free himself, longs back to the cell where all he had to endure was his wounds and his cellies' repugnance. 

The plating that has been cleaved is welded and Dreadbot thrashes in his restraints, because it's unbearable.

"Hold still, you idiot." The medic growls and pins the Decepticon under his elbow.

Dreadbot sobs without a sound when he feels his plating melt to be fused together. It's agonizing. 

When his tank convulses around nothing, he's suddenly thankful that he's running on fumes. This medic would probably not be sympathetic if Dreadbot purged on the berth.

Somehow this feels even more cruel than what the customer did, because the medic is someone who knows how to lessen the pain, but he chooses not to, pays no mind to how his patient feels.

When the welding is finally over, the medic turns his attention to Dreadbot's array, slides his digits inside and feels around and Dreadbot cries in disgust. He doesn't want to be invaded like this.

Thick glop is pumped into his valve, then digits are pushed into his wasteport and Dreadbot squirms in discomfort but his hips are pinned down by an arm across his aft. The nozzle replaces the digits and the glop is pumped into his port too and having his vocalizer disconnected seems like a small mercy when his humiliated keening can't leave him.

Then it seems like the procedure is finally over. A needle is slipped in one of the energon lines in his arm and he's hooked to a steady drip. 

The medic washes his servos and then he shuts the lights when he walks out, closing the door behind him and Dreadbot is left in the dark with only his pain to keep him company.

Chapter Text

When Drift has been helped into the washracks by Crosshairs, Jazz returns his attention to Barricade. The Interceptor fidgets in his chair.

"Come on, Barricade. We're done." The Spy holds out a cable. "I need to lock your panel open for the transport."

Of course. Giving him it back was probably just an attempt at manipulating Barricade to think his Master is nice. But the Saleen holds his arm out and lets the Autobot plug in. The panel slides away and he's bare again. At least it feels cooler. It was a bit uncomfortable with it closed.

He follows Jazz, flanking him like he knows he should. Ironhide and Blackout is walking behind him and Barricade gets nervous by that, but he keeps his optics on the ground and walks silently. 

They all get into the same transport. Barricade's spark sink. So this is why his valve had to be bare for the transport.

He sinks down on the floor next to Jazz's pedes, shivering in fear of what's surely going to happen. Jazz's servos slides under his arms and Barricade can't stop a quiet whimper. He's lifted and placed on the seat next to his Master.

"You're allowed ta sit on tha seat." Jazz murmurs in his audial.

Barricade sees how Blackout sits next to Ironhide. The seat is small for the big mechs, but by the way Blackout is leaning into his Master, Barricade guesses that they wouldn't sit much further apart even if there was room enough.

Jazz probably wants him to do that too. He feels the warmth radiating from Jazz's frame next to him and the close proximity makes his spark speed up in anxiety.

 "Everybot comin' over later?" His Master asks.

"Yep. Well, Drift will stay in the medbay of course."

"Tha' was really horrible. I dunno, will he ever be safe here?"

"I have no idea. We'll have to discuss it with Prime."

Barricade does as he has done for so long, he hardly remembers something else: he listens to the conversation only processing what's said that might have something to do with him. And it seems there will be another gathering of Autobots. That's a bad sign.

His panel is locked open, another bad sign.

He has a panel again, that's not really a good sign either. Panels can be pried open and torn off.

He glances at the mechs in the transport. Jazz somehow doesn't seem like the type. He probably will make Barricade choose between something humiliating or painful and opening it willingly. Jazz only fucks someone who's willing.

Ironhide, though... The mech is a brute. And Blackout seems willing enough to happily just roll over on his back and spread his legs. 

Maybe they're going to trade? Jazz will have the easy Helo and Ironhide will have the not at all willing Interceptor. The Weapons specialist will throw him down, tear his panel off and frag him roughly, will grab his shoulder-wings with denting servos just like his second Master and....

Barricade manages to lock his frame to keep still, before he falls into a flashback of violence and interfacing.

Chapter Text

"Is it alright if I have a cube and then go rest for a while, Sir?" Blackout asks Ironhide as soon as they're back in his apartment.

"Sure, Blackout. You did really good today. Thank you for your help."

"I'm glad I could help, Sir." Blackout sucks the praise up like a starving mech refuels.

He still lingers while he sips his cube, watching curiously as Jazz places little devices around the apartment. Then Jazz fiddles with a datapad and Blackout shivers when feels disruptors humming to life. It sort of tickles in a good way.

"D'ya think this'll keep us safe from snoopin' audials?" Jazz asks him

"Yes, Sir. This is very heavy shielding, Sir." Blackout says truthfully.

This could probably even keep Soundwave out, Blackout has never been close to disrupters and degaussers that are this strong. It almost makes him feel numb.

"Thanks for your input." Jazz glances at the Helo. "Oh, sorry. Want me ta close your panel for ya?"

"Yes, please. Sir."

Blackout holds out his arm and lets Jazz plug in. The Spy didn't do anything untowards before, and if Ironhide trusts him not to do something to Blackout that Ironhide doesn't want, so will Blackout.

The access to his panel is unlocked and Blackout closes it by himself as Jazz disconnects.

"Thank you, Sir. If you don't mind, I'll go and recharge for a while."

"You're free to go, my mech." Jazz turns around. "Barricade, c'm'ere. I'm gonna close your panel too."

The Helicopter watches the Interceptor walk slowly to Jazz, looking like he's going to his execution, and stretch his arm out. Barricade's optics are glued to the floor.

"You can recharge with me if you need to rest, Barricade." Blackout says, because offering that seems like something the Autobots would appreciate.

Barricade's shoulderwings hikes up in alarm. He glances at Jazz and Blackout is a little bewildered why Barricade thinks that Jazz would have anything against that.

"It's ok if ya wanna." Jazz says.

"I'm not tired." Barricade mumbles.

"Then ya don' hafta. Ya can take a chair in here. I'll get ya a cube."

"Yes, Mas...Sir."

Barricade's panel closes and the Interceptor takes the chair in the corner, the one they usually pull up to the table when they need an extra seat. Barricade doesn't pull it closer.

Chapter Text

Starscream follows Optimus Prime into the building and up the elevator, apprehensive. He is not keen on meeting more Autobots, as he certainly will do. Hopefully Sentinel won't be there, but he doesn't really hold any hopes for that. Or that others are better.

The door is remotely opened and they enter, Prime hardlining to unlock Starscream's panel. He closes it, a little bewildered. It has always been locked open when around others.

They enter the living room and Starscream's spark starts to spin faster when he sees Ironhide and Jazz. He avoids staring, just like Optimus told him before they went to Sentinel's party, but he can't help but glancing at them. He keeps close watch on Optimus to try to gauge the situation.

Therefore, the Seeker is entirely unprepared when somebot slams into him, knocking him over. He flails to block the hits and is shocked to find Barricade on top of him, hitting his ex-Commander.

"I hate you! This is all your fault!" The Interceptor snarls.

His hydraulic pressure is too low to make the Saleen really pack a punch, and judging by the static in his vocalizer, his collar is giving him warning shocks but somehow, the small Con fights through it.

"You betrayed us all! You sit there, up in the tower, all fueled and comfortable with your lover while the rest of us suffer in hell!" Barricade yells.

He's still punching Starscream in the chestplates.

"Wha-what are you talking about?" Starscream is struggling under the furious Interceptor.

"You plotted with Prime to kill Megatron, just to gain your coveted power, and then you abandoned us to whatever pit we would end up in. Don't play ignorant, it doesn't suit you. I know what a conniving glitch you are. You didn't need us anymore, now that you have your position, so you just let us rot. Look at you, all undamaged and polished and well fueled."

"I didn't plot anything! I surrendered just like everyone else. I were sold for crying out loud!" Starscream  squeals.

"Like that wasn't part of the plan?! Do you know what they have done to me? Do you know what I have had to do? I've taken so much cock up my ass, I... " Barricade's voice hitches.

"I've swallowed more cum than energon since my surrender! Do you know what it feels like to have your flesh split down to the bone by a whip? To have your protoform hanging from your struts, wounds so wide, they need to be taped together?!" The Mustang hisses, the use of human slang making it sound even worse. 

Barricade stops hitting him when he breaks down and starts sobbing. "Again and again, over and over..."

"I had nothing to do with that..." Starscream says weakly, still reeling.

It's the wrong thing to say.

"Of course you'd say that. But he told me exactly how it all happened. I hate you, and I'm going to kill you." Barricade growls.

So much happens at once. Barricade's servos close around the Seeker's neck. The Interceptor's shock collar activates immediately with a powerful shock and at the same moment, Jazz reaches them, pulling Barricade off Starscream.

Optimus helps him up and Starscream stares as Jazz drags the rebooting Saleen across the room. He sees the exact moment Barricade is back online after the shock, because he starts struggling like one of the wild animals back on Earth, stuck in an unbreakable trap.

"No, please, pleaseMaster, don't! I'm sorry, I didn't... I... Master, have mercy." Barricade cries in panic, struggling against the Spy.

It's useless. Jazz easily pushes the Interceptor out of the living room and down the hallway.

Chapter Text

Blackout is roused by a commotion and enters the living room in time to see the livid Saleen try to strangle Starscream just to be dropped by a shock and yanked away from the Seeker. Blackout reboots his optics when he sees the Air commander. It's the first time he's seen him since they surrendered.

Jazz passes the Helo with the still rebooting Mustang in a very firm grasp. Blackout hurriedly moves to the side to let them through and a shudder travels through his frame when he sees Jazz's stony face and visor set in an unreadable silver.

It has been all too easy to forget, the Spy has been very nice the few times Blackout has seen him, but it wasn't really that long ago since Blackout almost panicked at the prospect of being bought by Jazz, did everything he could to avoid it. The Spawn of Unicron.

He hears Barricade come online and start begging for mercy.

"Be quiet, Barricade. We'll discuss this behind closed doors." Jazz says, voice low and smooth.

The Interceptor immediately shuts up. Blackout follows them with his optics until they're in Ironhide's office and the door slams shut. He doesn't envy Barricade, but that was downright stupid. Of course Jazz has to punish him for attacking somebot.

The Helo turns back to the living room. Optimus Prime and Ironhide are checking Starscream over, the Seeker trembling in shock. 

"Physically, it's just a few scratches, Starscream. How do you feel?" Optimus murmurs.

"I-I'm fine, I think. A little jittery?" Starscream's voice wavers.

"Can I help in any way, Sir?" Blackout asks.

"Get Optimus and Starscream a cube of high grade each. Thank you, Blackout." Ironhide says appreciatively.

"Right away, Sir." 

Blackout turns and heads for the cooler. He isn't going to be bad. 

Chapter Text

It hurts when he reboots after the last shock, every strut feeling sore. His arm is bent up on his back, wrist-strut pinned between his shoulder plates, caught in a strong servo. Another servo is wrapped around his shoulder-wing.

Barricade tries to struggle, to get away from the servos. It's impossible. The arm on his back is pushed higher, forcing him to bend slightly forward and keep walking to avoid making it painful.

He starts crying in fear of what his Master is going to do to him, begs Jazz for mercy, but when the Bot tells him to shut up, he does. Begging is useless anyway.

His Master pushes him into a room, slamming the door shut behind them. Barricade keels forward, landing hard on his knees and bends until his cheek is pressed against the floor, sliding his interface panel away. The servo on his arm makes it impossible to take the normal pose for punishment. He sobs, faceplates twisted into a grimace of fear.

Why did he have to do something so utterly stupid? His first Master was right, he really can't do anything right.

The servos let go of him and he curls his arms against his chest, aft still in the air, as Jazz circles him. His Master stops out of sight and then digits grab the edge of a plate on his back and lifts. Barricade whimpers in utter terror when a digit slides softly against his protoform under the plate. 

He sobs harder when another plate is lifted and then another, more touches ghosting his flesh. It isn't painful, just terrifying. His vents hiccups when the base of his shoulder-wing is stroked softly, but nothing more happens. It doesn't calm the Saleen, the waiting is almost worse than if Jazz had actually started to hurt him. 

His Master kneels next to him.


He slowly obeys, gets up to kneeling and places his servos on the back of his helm. 

"No Barricade, take your arms down. And sit back."

The Saleen does, plants his aft on his pedes and places his servos on his thighs, optics riveted to the floor. The more relaxed and casual pose does nothing to slow his wildly spinning spark.

Jazz is a Master Interrogator. He knows how to manipulate a mech to spill everything and how to cause the worst pain imaginable

Chapter Text

"What was he talking about, Starscream?" Optimus asks, optics narrowed suspiciously.

"I-I have no idea, Prime!"

It's unnerving when all that attention is focused on him again. He really don't know what the glitchy cop was talking about. But he can't help but think that it would have been a brilliant plan in all it's simplicity. Bond with Optimus, kill the tyrant and rule Cybertron. Bob's your uncle.

"Because he did sound awfully certain... And a plan like that really has "Starscream" written all over it. Are you plotting something right now? Or is this something that was planned before your surrender?"

"N-no! He must be delusional! I surrendered because we would've lost anyway!"

"So your surrender wasn't part of some sort of plan that will lead you to take over Cybertron and ruin everything? I suggest you answer honestly. I think you wouldn't enjoy it if I have Jazz hack you to pry the truth out of your scheming processor..."

Starscream squirms under that heavy gaze, smothered in the powerful EM field of the Prime. The mech feels so much bigger than he looks. What's most unnerving is that his field is stretched out but isn't broadcasting anything. It feels like it's permeating him, sensing if he lies or tells the truth, as if it's knowing all the way down to his spark. Threats of having Jazz hack him aside, this is the most unnerving thing he's been through.

The Seeker crumbles under the attention that might as well be Primus himself, compelled to be completely honest.

"I swear, I have no idea what he was talking about, where he got the idea! I surrendered because I didn't want to be deactivated. How could I possibly plot something now? I'm a slave! I don't know why he attacked me! He's crazy!" Starscream starts sobbing, the shock of the situation setting in, fear for what Prime will do with these suspicions.

He startles when Optimus' servo touches his wing, but all the mech does is stroke along it in a soothing motion. A cube of high grade is held out for him and Starscream takes it and drinks a big mouthful.

"Have a seat, Starscream. We will be here for a while." Optimus tells him, voice softer now.

The Seeker curls up in a chair, a little calmer now that nothing happened to him, but he can't help but wonder what Jazz is going to do to Barricade. Or what he has already done to make the Saleen like this. If what Barricade said was true...

Chapter Text

"Wha' was tha' 'bout?" Jazz asks calmly. 

Barricade shivers. He knows how deceptive calm Autobots can be. He's in for a world of hurt.

"He seduced Prime and tricked him into bonding. They planned all this to end the war and claim power. Then he left us all to this, Sir."

"Where didya get tha' idea?"

"My first Master told me exactly what happened, Sir."

"'n' whaddif he was jus' speculatin'?"

"He knew everything. He was infallible, Sir." Barricade mumbles, still afraid to say something bad about his first Master. The mech will know and come to punish him.

"I've known Optimus for millions o' years. He's notbonded ta Screamer. 'n' 'm pretty sure tha Matrix would tell 'im if he was bein' tricked inta a bond with someone..."

It does make sense. But it can't be true. His first Master knew everything.

"He lied ta ya, Cade."

Why would the Autobot do that?

"Was he tha one who whipped ya 'til your protoform looks like tha'?"

"Yes, Sir."

"What happened here?" 

Jazz's talon traces the heavy scarring around the base of Barricade's shoulder-wing with a talon. The Saleen shudders.

"He targeted that spot with the whip because it's sensitive. And he used to string me up with wires when I was bad. I'm not very good at behaving, Sir." Barricade mumbles.

The Saleen sneaks a peak at the Spy, but looks away when he catches a glimpse of Jazz's stony face.

"Hmh. I think ya behave almost too good, attackin' Starscream notwithstandin'."

Barricade sobs. He's going to be punished for that.

"'m not gonna hurt ya, Cade. N' ya can close your panel, I don' fuck unwilling mechs." Jazz says softly, kneading the base of Barricade's shoulder-wing. "Did he rape ya as a punishment too?"

It would almost have been better if he had been raped as a punishment. To admit to Jazz what a slut he is, is so humiliating. And then Jazz will know and just wait for Barricade to offer himself up. But Jazz hates being lied to.

"No. I always had a choice. I chose to interface with all those mechs, Sir." 

"Really?" Jazz says slowly, as if processing that carefully.

Jazz is going to give him a choice to make and Barricade's going to take interfacing. Like the good little whore he is. And the apartment is full of mechs who are going to have a piece of him. Keep taking him until there's nothing left he can give.

Chapter Text

The daily cleaning of his wounds is pure agony. Sure, he's stapled together, but the medic has decided that they still need to be vigorously scrubbed to not get infected. The wire brush finds it's way into what little opening is left between the staples and the solvent burns.

Dreadbot cries silently, vocalizer still disconnected. He thrashes feebly against the restraints, the medic snickering at his attempts to avoid the cleaning.

"You really aren't as tough as I thought you were!"

Some sort of gel is smeared on his wounds and it stings and itches and Dreadbot wishes he could stroke his digits over it to distract the living metal, to soothe the pain and irritation. 

But he can't.

It starts out slowly, creeping in on him like a dark cloud at the edge of his vision that blows in to cover everything, smothering him.

He's stuck.

Dreadbot jerks at the restraints. They don't even budge.

His vents are becoming faster and faster, more shallow, and his processor starts spinning as an oppressive weight seems to push down on him.

He's stuck.

The itching and stinging covers his entire plating, like the wretched ants back on Earth, and he can't even touch his own frame.

The Decepticon whines in distress without making a sound, his spark spinning so fast, the vibrations seems to travel through his entire frame.

He's stuck!

The medic is speaking but he can't make out single word as he thrashes against the unbreakable restraints, screams in muted terror. Dreadbot's processor is getting increasingly disorganized as panic and the high from his hyperventilating is setting in.

He's stuck!

He struggles violently, like any caught wild animal back on Earth, increasingly incoherent as panic takes over.

Then everything goes black.

Chapter Text

Starscream is still sitting in the chair when Jazz returns with Barricade in tow. The Interceptor stares at the floor but from what Starscream can see, he doesn't look damaged. But that doesn't really say anything. Jazz can probably do the worst damage possible without leaving a trace.

Barricade comes to stand in front of the Seeker, Jazz stopping behind the Interceptor vans watching the two Decepticons closely. Starscream doesn't know where to look. He's not supposed to make optic contact with anybot. He glances up, but Barricade's optics are locked on the floor.

"I'm sorry for attacking you, Comma...Si.. Starscream. It appears I was misled." Barricade mumbles.

"Apology accepted?" 

The Decepticons never apologized for anything, so Starscream pulls from his files on Earth customs to figure out how to answer. 

"Thank you."

"Nicely done, Cade! Ya can take your seat again. If ya wanna." Jazz says, patting Barricade's shoulder.

The Saleen sneaks back to the chair he occupied before he blew his fuses, while Starscream's attention is drawn back to the Autobots as Crosshairs enters the apartment. 

Optimus' crew is very different from what Starscream has seen so far of Autobot interaction. Prime puts an arm around the Paratrooper and Crosshairs returns the gesture, Ironhide slides a servo up his back-struts and the Sniper presses into his servo when Ironhide grips around his neck and shakes him a little. Sideswipe is hugged by the Paratrooper and Jazz pinches Crosshairs' aft, getting a servo on his chestplates and a smirk in return.

These mechs are very touchy feely. Sideswipe got a similar welcome when he arrived a little earlier, and what little Starscream had time to observe before Barricade tried his best to offline him, Prime, Ironhide and Jazz greeted each other with touching too. 

The Seeker is apprehensive, because he still doesn't know what will happen here tonight and a whole lot of Optimus' warriors are here. Barricade is still subdued in his chair, sips his energon and stares down into his lap, and his behavior is disconcerting. The Interceptor might have been through a gathering like this before, and from what he said when he attacked Starscream, it might be what he was dreading from the beginning.

Starscream decides to take a risk.

"Do you know what will happen here tonight?" He whispers to Barricade.

The Interceptor glances at him quickly before staring down in his lap again. He shakes his helm in an almost imperceptible gesture, but Starscream can clearly see the shudder go through the Saleen's frame, how he tenses to keep his plating from clattering. The tremors of his servo when he lifts the cube to take a deep swig.

Chapter Text

It's a never ending vicious circle. 

Dreadbot reboots and finds the restraints still clamping down on his struts, still keeping him prone on his front on the berth. He has no idea how long he has been out this time either.

The Decepticon tries to relax his limbs, tries to tell himself that he isn't really stuck. He's just resting his weary frame in this odd position on his front.

But then something itches or aches and he wishes he could soothe it with his servos and that reminds him of his position.

He's stuck.

Dreadbot counts while he vents, tries to focus on keeping from hyperventilating, anything to keep himself from thinking about the restraints around his struts. If he keeps doing this, he might fry something vital.

But there isn't anything to occupy his processor, except pain from all over his frame and resurfacing memories of torture, of rape. Of almost offlining.

He's at their mercy. Especially when he's stuck.

There's nobody there to witness it this time, working hours must be over. But that doesn't change the fact that he can't move.

Dreadbot's vents are speeding up and he yanks on the restraints again.

They still won't break.

He tries to focus on something enjoyable, some memory not reminding him of his position and he finds that anything related to Cybertron reminds him of this. He tries to think about his time on Earth, he had fun there even though he was in a war.

But that brings forth a memory too closely related to the worst thing he has ever been through.

Hang down your head, Tom Dooley,  Hang down your head and cry...

He can't stop himself from falling into another panic attack when he remembers with too much clarity the last time he was chained up and stuck. 

Dreadbot thrashes wildly on the berth, screams out his horror without a single sound leaving him, but nobody is there to see him panick again until he's knocked into yet another reboot. 

But then again, who would care?

Chapter Text

Is anybody else coming tonight?" Ironhide asks.

"Drift is still in the medbay. Ratchet stayed be'ind with 'im." The Paratrooper says.

Optimus nods to Crosshairs.

"Is he going to be ok?" Sideswipe asks.

"Physically; yes, 'e's no' tha' bad off. A li'l dented and low on fuel, bu' nothin' a li'l rest and some TLC from Ratchet won't fix. Mentally; I 'ave no idea." Crosshairs sighs.

"We have one more place to check. Crosshairs, since you managed the last time, could you?" Optimus asks.

"No way! Tha' was bad enough! I 'ad to offline my optics and play a memory of Drift ta pull i' off. I'm no' going into tha' place. I just can't."

"I'm sorry you had to do that, and your reaction is fully understandable. I do appreciate what you did. But who could do it? We need to get a mech in there, distasteful as it is." Optimus frowns. "Jazz?"

"I'm gearin' up for my other mission, but I could do it. Can't do it consecutively, though..."

"I'll do it." Ironhide says. "People were starting to call me a Con-lover for helping Drift, I need to be seen doing something like that. We have to be really careful, mechs."

"Thank you, Ironhide." Optimus says, with a relieved sigh. "Prowl is safe, nobody would ever suspect that to be something else than what it looks like."

"Heh, good ol' Prowler. E's unreadable." Crosshairs snickers.

"I'll fix a tweak for ya ta make it easier, Hide." Jazz says.

"Thanks dude."

The Autobots take seats around the room, crowding the couch and sprawling in chairs. Blackout brings high grade to those who haven't already gotten cubes and refills for those who has drained theirs.

It's such a contrast to the behavior of Barricade. The Autobots have swung their topics of interest to mundane stuff, reminiscing about things they enjoyed on Earth, and Starscream turns his attention to the Decepticons in the room.

The difference between them is staggering. Blackout seems fully at ease in his roll as a waiter, while Barricade is trembling with tension in his chair, taking increasingly big mouthfuls of his high grade. If the Saleen told him some truth at all, that points to atrocious violations being a regular thing, but Blackout doesn't show any signs of expecting to be repeatedly raped at the end of the day. Starscream himself was rejected when he tried to seduce Prime. The Autobots are grounders. Maybe Optimus' crew belong to those who doesn't care for flightframes? That would leave Barricade the only mech of interest when they get hot and charged later on.

If Starscream was a better mech, he might have pitied the Mustang. As it is, he's just happy that he probably won't be the entertainment of the night himself. He saw what Ramjet went through.

His musings are cut short when Optimus turns his attention to Starscream and the Seeker stiffens. 

"We're going to Ratchet. I want to check in on Drift personally." Optimus says.

Starscream heaves a sigh of relief as he gets up, and throws a glance at Barricade. The mech hasn't moved, sitting quietly and still in his chair. It still is very disconcerting. What has Jazz done to the feisty Saleen Starscream once knew? He should be fighting like a turbofox with a glitch-virus on the prospect of being used like that.

Chapter Text

Starscream perches on a chair while Optimus sits at the edge of the berth in Ratchet's medbay, speaking quietly to Drift.

"How are you, Drift?"

"Shaken, mostly. I mean, I have been..." his voice hitches. "...have been forced before, but nothing like this."

"We were all shocked by it. I'm glad you're back. If you feel the need to stay with someone when you get out of here, tell us. None of us would mind." Optimus says and laces his digits with Drift's.

"Thank you, Optimus. I might take you up on that." The Samurai pauses, a tense look coming over his face. "I-I did some horrible things to Tarn. I didn't know what to do! He was so damaged, he'd go into stasis if I did anything else! And then they did this to me for it, as if I hadn't done something awful." Drift breaks into sobs, sitting up to cling to Optimus' plating.

The Seeker doesn't feel like he has a place in this situation, so he averts his optics and thinks things over instead.

Whatever's going on with Barricade is disconcerting. But then, he's living with Jazz. Starscream's tank sinks when he thinks about how Optimus was there and didn't do anything to stop whatever the Spy did to the Decepticon after he attacked Starscream. And he didn't say anything about what they were going to do to him later either.

"Starscream." Optimus says quietly, standing at the door.

Drift is in recharge and Starscream was too deep in thought to notice the big mech getting up to leave. He hurries over and follows Prime out into the hallway, but Optimus turns away from the exit and walks to the next room instead. He stops outside the door and turns to Starscream.

"There's somebot here I think you'd like to speak to." Optimus murmurs before he opens the door and ushers the hesitating Seeker inside.

Starscream stares in disbelief, doesn't dare to trust his optics. But then Thundercracker smiles and lifts an arm in a weak greeting and it gets him moving.

He runs over to the berth, bends over it to hug his second and cries in relief. Thundercracker grunts when Starscream leans heavily on the blue Seeker and Starscream backs off but keeps his servos on Thundercracker's shoulders, inspecting his trine mate more carefully.

"What have they done to you?" He gasps when he finally sees the bandages covering components that even heavily wrapped up clearly isn't the right shape to be intact wings.

Thundercracker snorts bitterly. "It's easier to tell you what they haven't done. But Ratchet is an outstanding medic, even though he swears worse than a sailor, and he's doing a very good job trying to repair me little by little." 

Thundercracker is clearly drugged. He slurrs a little and his optics seems a little too bright but he's still coherent enough.

"You look good though, Starscream." Thundercracker smiles dopily up at him.

"I'm okay. Who did this?" 

"Everyone? I don't know, really. Most of them, I've never seen before."

At least it doesn't seem to be Optimus' crew. He doesn't dare to voice that question, afraid that Prime will force him to go if he starts asking questions like that.

"Do you know what has happened to Skywarp?" Starscream asks instead, hoping Thundercracker knows something about his idiot trine mate who he misses so much.

"I have no clue." Thundercracker's optics dim, as if he's close to falling into recharge.

"Me neither."

Chapter Text

Sideswipe left not long after Optimus and Starscream and still nothing has happened. Jazz hasn't asked him to do something he doesn't want to do. Yet

Barricade sipped his energon slowly in the beginning, Ironhide's taste in fuel is... Just like the Weapons specialist himself, it packs one hell of a punch. At least to a long starved, smallish raceframe like Barricade. So he drank slowly at first, but then he got a little buzzed.

That's where the trouble started. The buzz relieved some of the tension after a tumultuous day of fear and anxiety. He didn't really notice that he started drinking faster, because it felt so damned good with a bit of stress relief. Which inevitably led him into his current predicament. 

He's really drunk.

"It's getting late." Somebot says.

He tries to cover how badly his helm is spinning, leaning his helm against the back of the chair and tries to feign fatigue. He is tired after all the commotion of the day, but definitely more drunk than tired. His Master seems impudently fine with the liquor, though.

"Ya wanna go home now, Cade? Or would ya rather crash here?" Jazz asks him quietly. "It is quite a long ride home..."

And there's the choice

Riding home this drunk, he's bound to purge in the transport. Or sleep right here. With all these mechs.

The Saleen has fucked up. There's only one real option to have any chance at all to not fuck up even more and drawing his Master's ire.

"Could we stay here? If you want to, Sir?" Even Barricade himself hears how badly his vocalizer is hitching and glitching.

"Jazz has a standing invitation and of course, you're welcome too, Barricade." Ironhide rumbles.

"Thank you, Sir." Barricade mumbles.

The Autobots get up, clearing away empty cubes and Barricade stands to take his own cube out, but he sways dangerously and his servos are clumsy... 

He drops the cube

It falls to the floor, clattering loudly and explodes into millions of pieces, what little energon was left forming sticky drops on the floor. The Interceptor stares at the mayhem in horror.

"I'm sorry, Sir!" He cries to all the Autobots and falls to his knees, interface panel sliding away.

Jazz immediately grabs him under his arms and hoists him up again.

"'s okay. Ya go n' void your tank, n' I'll fix this." Jazz says, letting go of Barricade as soon as the Interceptor is upright.

Barricade loses his balance immediately, falling against Jazz, and the Spy catches him.

"We'll clean this up." Ironhide says. "You help Cade."

Jazz wraps an arm around Barricade's waist and steadies him as they make slow progress to the maintenance room.

"I hope ya can manage this by yourself..." Jazz says.

"Mhm...'m fine." Barricade mumbles and leans his servos against the wall for support.

"Yeah, right..." Jazz mutters.

The Spy still lets him go inside by himself and nudges the door shut.

"Call if ya need help." He says through the door.

And wouldn't that be the most embarrassing thing Barricade has ever had to do?

Chapter Text

He manages to void his tank and clean up without asking for help. When the Saleen is slowly making his way back to the living room, following the wall for support, something occurs to him.

He was handed a big cube of a very high grade. No matter how slowly he was drinking, he'd be very overcharged by the time he finished the cube. And if he didn't finish it, they would think he was unthankful and he'd be starved again. This was the plan all along.

The cube has been cleaned away and the Autobots are making everything ready for the night. Blackout retired to his room earlier and Barricade is still kind of relieved that he wasn't asked to accompany the Helo. No matter what scheme his Master has cooked up.

His vents shudder as his tank roils from the high grade. Jazz glances at him.

"C'mon, Barricade. Cross is sleepin' with Hide. Again." Jazz smirks at the Paratrooper, earning a stuck out glossa. "We'll take tha pull out in the office." Jazz adds.

Jazz puts an arm around him and leads the unsteady Saleen down the hallway. He waits, leaning on a chair for support, while his Master turns the couch into a berth. The Interceptor swallows repeatedly. It feels as if he has a big lump in the tubing of his intake.

"D'ya need ta puke?" Jazz asks casually.

"Th-think so... Sir." Barricade slurrs between swallowing.

Jazz disappears out the door and comes back with a waste receptacle. He holds it out to Barricade and the Saleen gratefully hugs it. His first Master would've just let Barricade purge all over himself and then he would have punished the Saleen for it.

"Ya can close your panel if ya wanna." Jazz says as he helps the Mustang to sit down on the berth.

Barricade tries, he really does, but he just can't get his commands to reach the right component.

"Fuck it." He mutters, tipping to stretch out on the berth, putting the receptacle within easy reach on the floor.

The berth dips as Jazz lays down and the Spy turns the lights out. Barricade offlines his optics but the lack of input makes it clear how badly everything seems to be spinning.

He manages to roll onto his side and grab the receptacle, getting it up to his face just in time when he purges.

Jazz turns the lights back on, rubbing Barricade's back-struts with slow strokes.

"Should I empty that now, or d'ya still need it?"

"I'm good right now. Sir."

Jazz takes the receptacle and leaves the room. Barricade tips over on his back, staring at the ceiling. Everything still spins out of control when he offlines his optics.

His Master comes back and puts the rinsed bucket on the floor next to him again. A bottle is held out and Barricade grabs it. Coolant. Jazz sets another bottle on the table next to Barricade.

"Figure ya'll have a hangover tomorrow anyway, but it can't hurt..." Jazz says and lays down again, dimming the lights.

Barricade drinks the entire bottle, still staring at the ceiling to keep from getting nauseous again. The low lights help him with keeping everything from spinning too badly. He feels so much better now, though very tired. 

"Crosshairs fucked you in the ass." He blurts, suddenly reminded of the memories he received.

Jazz laughs. "You looked at the memories. Yeah, he did."

"Why would you allow that?" Jazz is lethal. Why would he let anybot treat him like that?

"Why wouldn' I? I like it every now n' then. N' it isn't like I never did it ta him."

"It's degrading and disgusting. Only pleasuredrones take it like that."

Jazz sighs.

"It isn't if ya like it, if ya wanna do it with tha mech you're doin' it with. If he cares 'bout your pleasure too. N' tha last part is just prejudice n' narrow mindedness. Whatever floats your boat, I always say. As long as ya ain't hurtin' somebot else."

"I hate it. Every single time, I've hated it." Barricade spits.

"N' tha' is tha difference between willing 'n' unwilling. No matter what ya 'choose' ta do with a vey limited list o' crappy choices."

Barricade starts sobbing. "But I overloaded, so maybe I did like it. I'm nothing but a pleasurebot." He cries.

Jazz grabs his servo and laces their digits. Barricade stares at their joined servos, more puzzled than apprehensive.

"Tha frame can be stimulated ta do tha', even if ya don' wanna do it. You're an interrogator, Barricade. Ya should know this."

Barricade processes that for a few seconds, still sobbing.

Then he passes out.

Chapter Text

When Thundercracker fell into recharge, they left. The ride home was spent in silence, Optimus seemingly deep in thought with furrowed optical ridges. Not unusual.

Starscream didn't even have time to get nervous when they came back to the apartment, the Prime quietly bid him good night and disappeared into his berthroom. 

And now, Starscream is laying on his berth, spark speeding almost as badly as his processor. He wants to be elated that he got to see Thundercracker, but the sad state of his second puts a lid on his happiness.

The blue Seeker was too tired and drugged up to tell him more of what had happened to him, and Starscream didn't dare to ask, but at least Thundercracker didn't seemed scared out of his processors. In fact, he complimented Ratchet's skills. That hopefully means that Ratchet isn't mistreating Thundercracker. But they have the Seeker, and that is enough to make Starscream cautious. If one of them does something the Autobots doesn't like, the other one could be forced to suffer too.

Barricade... The Interceptor's behavior tells a tale of true horrors. Starscream knows how much that tough little fucker could take, to break him down like that... But he is with Jazz. If someone could break a mech, it would be Optimus Prime's pet Spy, no matter how pacifistic and soft the big mech appeared to be back on Earth. On the other servo, it could all be smokescreens and sweet words. But those things the Interceptor said about Starscream is yet another cause for concern. Does all the Decepticons think the same? That he sold them all out?

Then there's Blackout. His behavior is almost the most disconcerting thing Starscream has seen so far, even though he doesn't seem to blame Starscream for this situation. His plating shows clear signs of terrible abuse, but still he happily obeys his owner. He must be reprogrammed. And if Prime's mechs aren't above that, and Optimus still doesn't object, the future is looking rather bleak.

He thinks about his still missing trine mate. Thundercracker didn't know anything either. Cautiously, he opens the bond. Skywarp is very muted, more so than when he is in recharge. He must be drugged. That could mean so many things. At least he isn't in pain, but it doesn't give Starscream any clues about where he could be either.

The former Air commander curls up on his berth and starts sobbing quietly. He misses his stupid trine mate so bad.

Chapter Text

Barricade startles awake, still drunk. The lights have been turned off and it's still dark outside, so he can't have  been in recharge for that long and for long moments, he can't grasp why he would reboot now.

Then he tenses when he notices the arm slung over his ventral plating, the servo curled around his hip. The thumb resting on the soft protoform just inches above his bare array.

He knew this would happen sooner or later. And he fucked up, of course he's going to have to pay for it in some way. Autobots aren't that nice without wanting something back. 

The servo doesn't move, though. The thumb rests against his protoform without rubbing or gliding lower. The lack of groping is bewildering. He can't stop himself from glancing at Jazz.

The Spy is in recharge. Snuggled up against Barricade. His visor is transformed away and Jazz's optics are dark. His face looks tense, optical ridges creased.

"No." The Spy whispers, voice tinged with horror.

He suddenly twists away violently, limbs flailing.

"No, dont! Let them go! Leave him alone!" Jazz pleads.

Jazz seems to wrestle with the blanket and thrashes around wildly.

"I'm going to kill you all for this!" He snarls.

The Spy rolls over on his front, still struggling against an imaginary attacker. He lifts his hips and pushes his face into the mattress in a pose that's awfully familiar to Barricade.

"What are you... No, don't do that! Stop! Not there!" 

Then Jazz screams into the mattress without words and it wakes him up. The Spy goes quiet and throws himself up to sit on his pedes, vents quick and shallow, fans spinning wildly. A strangled sob leaves him.

Barricade feigns recharge. He feels Jazz's optics on him, hears how the Spy rubs his servo over his face. The quiet sobbing.

Jazz leans over Barricade and the Mustang has a hard time still pretending to be asleep, waiting for unwanted touches, but all Jazz does is pull the blanket up over Barricade's hips, covering him up. 

Then the Spy leaves, closes the door almost inaudibly behind him. Barricade drinks some coolant from the bottle on the table as soon as he's alone. Jazz still hasn't returned when he falls back into recharge.

Chapter Text

Blackout is the first one to wake up. He walks through the quiet apartment, glancing into Ironhide's berthroom when he passes the open door and he can't help but do a double take and stop to stare.

Jazz is pressed between Crosshairs and Ironhide, the Weapons specialist's cannon humming in hightened standby where it rests heavily across the Spy's chestplates. To a Decepticon, it's a very ominous sound, a clear threat of imminent pain and destruction and Blackout shudders involuntarily. It's easy to forget how lethal his owner really is. The small Autobot seems to be recharging soundly though, as if the thrumming of the cannon is a blanket of soothing sound covering him.

The Helo continues down the hallway to the refueling room and grabs a cube. He  sits by the table, relishing the peace and quiet while trying to make sense of everything.

Yesterday's events has given him a lot to process. Starscream is with Optimus, apparently. The Seeker looked undamaged, well cared for. Barricade is a total mess, something Blackout already knew, but it seems worse than he thought. The Helo can't help but wonder if the Interceptor is going to be returned to the Pound. It wouldn't be that surprising, but the Saleen probably doesn't stand a chance at getting a new home and he can't help but think that it's pitiful. 

But Barricade was getting pretty drunk by the time Blackout went to recharge the other night, and maybe that made him put out? Offering himself to his owner might make up for it. Otherwise getting drunk like that might be yet another thing to add to the Mustang's growing list of reasons to be relinquished. Blackout isn't that hopeful, though. Jazz obviously isn't in berth with Barricade right now...

Blackout knows how lucky he was, and he still gets anxious thinking about how very close he was to being deactivated. It isn't something he would wish on anybody else, no matter how stupidly they behave. He needs to do something, he can't just leave the Interceptor to set himself up for something like that.

That brings other thoughts he doesn't particularly enjoy. What has happened to Blast Off and Tarn? Are they still in that awful torture house? Have they been sold to the Pound too? Are they even online?

And then there's Thundercracker. Jazz bought him, but Blackout hasn't seen him since that day when Jazz bought the Seeker and Barricade. And left Blackout in Lady Fates cruel servos. But then Ironhide saved him and gave him a good functioning. The Weapons specialist is so nice to him.

If Blackout is really good and asks very nicely, maybe Ironhide will tell him if Thundercracker is still online.

Chapter Text

He's dragged back to their cell none too gently. The guards are pissed off because the medic told them to not damage or frag him.

He's pushed inside and sinks to his knees inside the door, optics on the floor.

"I'm sorry." He sobs quietly.

"What was that?" Blast Off asks.

"I'm sorry! I didn't know." Dreadbot cries out.

"What do you say, Tarn? Should we forgive him?"

"I don't know. What do you think?" The Tank answers.

"Hmh. It's not just that he was ignorant of what happens here, he really thought we would crack for nothing." Blast Off's voice is cold.

Dreadbot just sobs. He has nothing to say to defend himself. They're right. He was so sure that they were weaklings, that it couldn't be this bad.

"Have you been thoroughly enlightened about the situation?" Tarn asks.

Pictures flashes in front of his optics, he can still feel a ghost of the collar around his neck, the fear and panic in the medbay. The whip. Dreadbot starts crying, slumping deeper in his pose.

"Come here." Blast Off murmurs. "We need to stick together."

He crawls over to the two Decepticons, optics still on the floor. They pull him closer when he's within reach, soft servos stroking his plating and Dreadbot leans into the touches. It's not the Decepticon thing to do, but he doesn't care. He really needs the comfort.

"H-he alm-almost killed me." He cries.

Chapter Text

Barricade does not feel good when he reboots. He drinks the rest of the coolant and lays still for a long time, collecting himself, before he tries sitting up. His helm seems like it's going to explode and his fuel tank roils.

What happened last night? It's fuzzy, but he remembers breaking a cube. And purging, his Master helping him. Still, it doesn't feel like he has been punished. He doesn't feel good, but that's his hangover, no new aches or damage reports. He reaches down to check his array. No signs of interfacing. 

Jazz doesn't fuck unwilling mechs, the Spy told him so. But Barricade doesn't trust that he wouldn't choose to whore himself out, especially when he's that drunk. Maybe that was Jazz's plan? But here Barricade is, untouched...

Then he remembers a little of their conversation and he hides his face in his servos, spark spinning so badly, he almost pukes. Stupid... But Jazz just laughed and spoke freely about being fucked in the ass willingly. As if it wasn't something to be ashamed of. And something confusing about choice and willingness that he can't quite process at the moment.

His owner isn't present right now and Barricade is thankful for that small mercy. He pointedly doesn't think about what kind of punishment will come later for all this. He must've embarrassed Jazz in front of his friends. And punishment doesn't always come immediately. The Spy might save it for when they get home, especially if he has something elaborate planned out. 

Then he remembers more. Jazz had a nightmare and disappeared. Crying. The Interceptor can't remember if the Spy ever returned. 

It's tempting to stay in berth, but he really has to void his primary waste tank, so he forces himself to get up and sneaks over to the maintenance room. 

He's about to step into the washracks when his fuel tank decides it has had enough. Barricade bends over the sink and purges what little is in his tank and stands there, catching his vents, for at least a minute.

The shower doesn't really make him feel any better, but there's nothing to do about that, so he might as well go... well, where should he go? He stops outside the washracks, dawdling.

He can't hide out in the Weapons specialist's office all day, that's pointless. He doesn't really want to find the others. He doesn't want energon at the moment. But Jazz checks his levels. He better find the Spy to get a ration.

Barricade is so deep in thought, he doesn't hear the enormous Helo coming up behind him until Blackout is crowding him in the narrow hallway. He jumps around, startled. His gyros keep spinning after the quick motion, leaving him dizzy.

"You know, you really should change the way you behave." Blackout says, towering over the Saleen, and Barricade is glad he already voided his tank. "Jazz is really nice to you. Aren't you afraid that he is going to get tired of you?"

Barricade works his intake, spark spinning and backs up against the wall.

"You do know that we are slaves, right? And who would keep wasting fuel on a slave who doesn't fill any purpose at all? From what I've seen, you're nothing but trouble, an inconvenience. Sometimes, even a nuisance. Or maybe you want to go back to the Pound and be re-sealed and sold again?"

Barricade shakes his helm, on the verge of crying. The Helo looks at him for seconds that seems to stretch forever, before he just turns and heads towards the living room.

The Mustang slides down against the wall to sit on the floor, legs too shaky to carry him for several minutes, before he finally feels like he can move again. 

He finds the others in the living room.

"Afternoon', sleepyhead." Jazz says cheerily.

"Good... afternoon? Sir." Barricade mumbles, optics on the floor, embarrassed about the previous evening and apprehensive for what might still come out of that mess.

"There's medgrade energon in the cooler and rerouters in the cupboard. Help yourself." Ironhide says, petting Blackout's rotors, the Decepticon's optics dimmed.

"Yes, Sir. Thank you." Barricade mumbles.

"We're goin' home as soon as you're ready." Jazz calls out.

Barricade flinches. Not that he wants to stay here, but going home surely means that he's going to be punished.

Chapter Text

Skywarp is still shivering with cold when he's dragged out of the holding cell, but at least he isn't feeling like his tanks are trying to turn themselves inside out.

The handlers give him a thorough washing and the touches triggers his newest protocols; he's getting charged. The former Decepticon Seeker, part of the command trine, leans his shoulders against the wall, arches his back-struts and spreads his legs, like the pleasurebot he has become.

"Please, Sir. I want you inside me." He moans, sliding a servo down his front seductively.

The Autobot groans. "Frag if that isn't hot... I wish we could just..."

"But we can't. He's already sold." His co-worker says.

"I know. Sorry, you little whore. No can do."

"But I need to overload!" Skywarp whines.

"Give me the hose." The other handler says. "We could at least get a little show."

He angles the spray against Skywarp's valve and the Seeker's knees buckle when he instinctively tries to grind down against the stream.

"Easy there." One of the handlers croons and presses up close to the Seeker to steady him. "If you promise not to tell your new owner, I'll allow you to jerk me off."

"I won't tell! Pinky promise!" Skywarp moans, immediately pawing in the mech's modesty plate.

The panel retracts and the Decepticon mewls when a hot spike pressurizes into his servo. He starts pumping the component with practiced skill, hips twitching when the stream of solvent hits his node.

"Oh, yes! More, please!" Skywarp moans.

The other Autobot's panel slides away and the Seeker is immediately grabbing the spike in his other servo, optics rolling back and dimming in unadulterated pleasure. Transfluid spurts from the first mech's spike, covering Skywarp's servo, and the Decepticon overloads with a wail. The other Autobot follows them over and Skywarp grins dopily.

"Thank you. I needed that." He mumbles tiredly.

The Autobots laugh and return to washing him until he shows no signs of what just happened, then he's lead out into the reception where he was brought in his first day here.

A big mech is leaning against the counter, talking with the femme in the reception. She looks quite smitten, obviously flirting. She glances at them and scowls slightly at Skywarp, but most of his attention is on the big mech when he turns around to look at the Seeker, blue optics meeting red.

Skywarp knows this particular Autobot, but who on Cybertron doesn't?

Chapter Text

They're left all alone in the apartment for the first time. It's weird.

Everything seems too quiet. The twins are kind of loud and even though Wildrider still hasn't let go of his apprehension, now that they're not here it feels sort of... empty. You don't miss the cow until the stall is empty. Or something like that. 

Somehow, the daily shouting, fisticuffs and process of making up afterwards has filled up a part of the hole that is his missing gestalt. He just didn't notice it, too wrapped up in his fear. For being an entirely new situation for them, privately owned slaves, it does hold a sense of familiarity.

Menasor, while being a bunch of more or less dysfunctional mechs created to be jammed together, was still family. Created on Earth, with the sole purpose of giving the Decepticons an advantage in battle, they were basically children left to raise themselves in the middle of an army of seasoned warriors, most of the adult mechs around them sporting different varieties of disorders; from PTSD, to mania, all the way to the downright sociopaths. They were forced to survive in that environment from their first day of functioning, on a planet where almost all sentient natives feared and hated them. 

Left to their own devices, raising themselves with full access to the internet, they did not turn out like most Decepticons. The components of Menasor turned into a tightly knitted band of brothers and took on more than just a few traits of the humans. They might be dysfunctional, violent and sometimes nothing short of out of their minds, but they were family in a way other Cons wouldn't understand.

Losing his brothers, including Motormaster who is online but still missing, shattered everything Wildrider had come to know in his short life, left him reeling when his core programming was torn open.

Without noticing it, mind occupied by his fear, the twins have somehow slotted into his programming as "family". It's disconcerting. He glances at Drag Strip. His brother is fidgeting.

"Do you miss them, now that they're not here?" Wildrider asks, afraid that he's the only one and will be written off as the crazy freak again.

"I do." Drag Strip grinds out.

Chapter Text

Jazz doesn't stay when they get home. 

"I've places ta be n' people ta ki... see. Don' wait up. If ya don' wanna." His owner tells him, a predatory glint in his visor and a smirk that makes Barricade understand exactly why he got nicknamed the Spawn of Unicron.

Barricade's spark speeds up and his energon goes cold. His plating starts clattering, but he just can't stop it.

Jazz's face softens somewhat, but that hunger doesn't quite leave.

"There's more rerouters in the locker in tha washracks if your helm still hurts. N' I've restocked with medgrade in tha cooler n' there's snacks in tha cupboard. Help yourself. I want ya ta have at least one sort o' treats b'fore I get home, but ya can have more if ya want."

With that, he turns to leave, but he pauses inside the door and turns back to the unmoving Decepticon.

"Oh, and there's a bunch o' new racing vids from Earth in tha closet. Figured ya might like those."

He's out the door and Barricade stands there, staring after him while his spark slows down.

No punishment? But he fucked up so badly. It will come later, he knows it. He's just not that important to Jazz, the worthless piece of scrap that he is. Of course Jazz might have more important things to do.

But then again, Blackout said that Jazz is nice to him, and so far, he actually has been.

Barricade finds the rerouters and grabs two before heading for the cooler. He takes a bottle of coolant, a cube of medgrade and then he pauses. Jazz said that he should have snacks. He opens the cupboard.

His favorite gels. Not the ones his first Master used when he trained Barricade, he doesn't like those anymore. The ones coated in tungsten powder. He grabs one package. Then he spots the poppable energon kernels. He hasn't had those for ages and Jazz said he could have more than one sort of snacks. 

After a little rummaging, Barricade finds a bowl with a lid and pours some of the kernels and a good amount of silicone in it, sealing it with the lid, and puts the bowl in the heater.

The sound of the kernels exploding to crispy morsels and the smell brings up memories of happier days long ago. He goes to find the movies in the closet while he waits for the kernels to be done.

There's a part of his processor that's blaring the alarms. Surely, he's fucking up again. 

But Barricade chooses not to listen this time. He will probably be punished later, but does he really gain anything by sitting in a corner, cowering, just waiting for that punishment? No, he doesn't. Jazz said he should have treats, movies and energon and he's going to obey. The Interceptor grabs the covers from his berth. He's going to be comfortable until Jazz decides that it's time for him to be uncomfortable.

Chapter Text

This time, Ironhide doesn't want Blackout's help. The Helo is a little dismayed by that. He doesn't know where the Weapons specialist is going, or what he's going to do, but he's certain that he could help in some way. He just wants to come along.

It's boring to be left alone. Sure, they have loads of TV channels; in addition to the full Cybertronian package, Ironhide has one of those subscriptions to the humans' networks. But that doesn't change the fact that the Helo is still alone.

Blackout isn't used to being alone. During the war, he had Scorponok. At least until the symbiote got killed on Earth. He still misses the animal-former. The scorpion lookalike wasn't all that bright, but he was always there

Not counting his brief stint in jail before the auctions, because then they were housed separately, he has always been around other mechs. Even at the Pound, he mostly shared his stall.

But now, he's all alone again, and the loneliness invites thoughts he'd rather not have. Memories of horrors he has been through, worries for his future. He needs to fill a purpose, or he's going to be sent away. Nobot would waste energon and space on a slave who doesn't fill a purpose.

Blackout needs to do something to show his worth. With a cube of energon in his servo, an unnecessary reminder of why he needs to fill a purpose, he rummages through the apartment, careful not to mess things up. 

He finally finds what he's looking for. Cleaning supplies. He grabs the bucket with different solvents, rags and other things he might need and sets to work, feeling less anxious now that he has a plan for how to show Ironhide he's worthy of the Autobots continued ownership. 

The bedding is thrown in the washer as soon as he figures out how it works. Human technology, adapted to Cybertronian size. He needs to read up on some of that stuff. Optimus' crew seems to have a penchant for using things from Earth, or replicas. Not that Blackout is complaining. The covers and mattresses are unmatched comfortwise.

When the washer finally comes to life, he takes his cube and looks over the apartment. It isn't dirty or messy, but when Ironhide finally decides to return it's going to be spotless.

Chapter Text

The big mech comes over to them and walks around the Seeker and the guards escorting him, critical optics studying his frame.

Skywarp can't help but preen. He's sexy, and he knows it. 

"See anything you like, Prime?" He purrs, flicking his wings suggestively.

"Oh, yes. A very pretty Seeker, indeed."

"Thank you, Sir. That's so nice of you."

He presses in close, skilled digits sliding in under plating to tease sensitive wiring and cables. Skywarp can't stop the moan leaving his vocalizer, not does he want to.

"You have such an impressive frame, Sir. I want to explore all of you and let you have all of me." He moans, lip-plates sliding over smooth, well polished plating. "You smell so good Sir! Is that carnauba?"

"Yes, it is, in fact."

Skywarp slides a servo down ventral plating, to the mech's interface plate. Fans kicks on and he hears a sharp intake when his clever digits slips into the seam.

"Such an eager little Seeker! But let us not do this here. We're just a transport away from my private quarters." The mech murmurs.

Skywarp can't help pouting, but backs off anyway. If he doesn't do as he's told, he might not get anything at all.

"I must say this looks promising." The mech tells the owner of the place.

"You made a fine choice, Prime. He has been a very good asset here, but it's time for some new merchandise." The boss says with a sickly sweet voice.

"All the better for me. A pleasure doing business with you."

"Best of luck, and the honor was all mine."

The receptionist is still scowling at Skywarp and he barely manages to keep from sticking his tongue out. What did she think, that she could snare a Prime? Of course not, she's not that pretty, odd coloring and a blocky frame, and she isn't a hot little piece of Seeker aft.

A firm servo between his wings ushers him outside to the transport and Skywarp happily obeys.

Chapter Text

It's in the dead of night when Jazz returns. Barricade has nodded off on the couch, an actioncam video of a rally from Earth playing on the screen, almost empty bowl of energon kernels still in his lap. 

He startles awake and flinches badly when it sounds like someone tries to pick the lock, unpopped kernels spilling over his blanket and onto the floor. He stares warily at the door, in his semi-rebooted state convinced that it's his first Master, coming to get him for all his fuck-ups, but then Jazz stumbles in, swearing at the uncooperative lock.

Barricade doesn't even dare to vent, still uncertain of the Spy's mood. Jazz turns toward him, overly bright visor locking on the Saleen. Barricade slides deeper under his blanket, as if the flimsy fabric was a shield.

"I-I'm sorry! The bowl slipped and the kernels..." He whimpers.

"Yeah, yeah, whateverI don't give a crap." Jazz interrupts, waving a servo in what is probably supposed to be a dismissive manner.

The Spy comes into the living room, visor still locked on Barricade.

"I'm not gonna hurt ya for that."

Barricade gets a whiff of the Autobot and the smells clinging to his plating, creating a cloud of scents around him.

High grade. Somebot's fear. Spilled energon, not fresh, but the rancid smell of drying fluids, spilled from an injured frame. Sex. He can smell Crosshairs' polish on the Spy, but also some really expensive wax, a brand who's wearer Barricade is unfamiliar with.

The Spy looks down, takes in his own frame and cackles.

"I do need your help, though. Could ya help me clean up? This is jus'... I can't wear this ta work." He laughs at his own bad joke.

Barricade stares at the obviously intoxicated Autobot and thinks about what Blackout said, spark spinning wildly. Whatever Jazz is on, Barricade better comply to not be punished, better fill a purpose to not be sent to an even worse place.

"Absolutely, Sir. What do you need?"

"Help scrubbin' my back n' stuff. Please. I'll get tha solvent goin'. Join me in tha washracks."

The Spy disappears and Barricade hears when he starts to run the solvent in the shower. 

He has to do this, or Jazz might lose his patience.

Barricade gets up and slowly makes his way to the washracks, steeling himself for the choices he will be forced to make.

He's going to be fucked tonight, and he better make it good. If he's going to have any chance at all to survive this evening.

Chapter Text

Drag Strip is the only one awake when the twins return. He knows that Wildrider missed them at least as much as he did, but he still doesn't bother to wake his brother. He's finally recharging ok, and Drag Strip doesn't have the heart to wake him up. He just pets the sleeping mech, hoping it will keep him from waking up.

The Autobots barges through the door without any thoughts on keeping the noise down and Drag Strip is so close to tell them off, just like he would do with his gestalt mates. He doesn't, though.

"Honey, we're home!" Sideswipe bursts out.

"Shut up, you idiot!" Sunstreaker snorts, for once not really that disapproving.

Drag Strip doesn't know what to say, what to do. He stares at the twins, optics bright and wide.

"Uhm... Wildrider is sleeping. Finally." He says hesitantly, aware of not being in a position to demand anything. 

"Aaw, he really needs that." Sideswipe croons, clearly not sober.

Drag Strip gets a better look at the Frontliners.

" You have something there, Sideswipe. A smudge..." He mumbles, gesturing to his chestplates.

Sideswipe looks down at his own frame.

"Oh, you're right! Thank you, Drag Strip." He turns to his brother. "Help me clean up, Sunshine?"

"Don't fucking call me that." Sunstreaker snarls without any real heat. 

The golden twin still follows his brother towards the washracks, but he stops momentarily when he walks by Drag Strip. The Decepticon tenses slightly, still uncertain of what is going on or is going to happen.

"You should try to get your brother to berth. That couch is a killer for the struts, believe me." He says to Drag Strip before he walks off to join Sideswipe.

The Stunticon looks after them, hesitating for long moments. He doesn't want to wake Wildrider, but staying on the couch isn't really an option. Especially not if the Autobots aren't sober.

He lifts Wildrider to carry him into their room. The red and black Stunticon mumbles something but doesn't wake up and Drag Strip lays him on their berth, rearranging the pillows before joining him and turning out the lights.

Slight apprehension that still lingers aside, there's something in his core programming that settles now that the twins are back.

Chapter Text

Ironhide does notice Blackout's efforts with cleaning the apartment, in spite of being clearly inebriated when he comes home. He praises the Helo for it and Blackout can't stop himself from preening just a little, flexing his rotors.

Then the Helo notices how dirty the Autobot's frame is: big stains of something sticky, and he reeks as if he has been in battle. So Blackout sees another chance to be useful.

"Do you want help cleaning up, Sir?

Ironhide's looks at the Helo for long seconds, optics brightening, face unreadable, but then he nods.

"Yes, Blackout, that sounds good." The Autobot says and leads the way to the washracks.

Blackout finds solvent in the cupboard while Ironhide steps into the shower and then he follows the Weapons specialist.

The solvent is pelting down on them both and Blackout's spark is spinning with excited apprehension, servo trembling around the sponge he has been handed.

The Helo has been through numerous battles, he knows exactly what kind of gore is staining the Weapons specialist's frame, but he isn't going to question it. He starts scrubbing, firm, long strokes along midnight black and gunmetal gray plating, stroking down the expanse of Ironhide's back.

"They won't hurt you again, you know. Ever." Ironhide mumbles over his shoulder, servos braced against the wall.

"Excuse me, Sir?" Blackout pauses his motions to ask, not comprehending what his owner is saying.

"Never mind. I'm just saying that you're safe from them now, they can't do... stuff to you anymore."

Blackout pauses for several seconds longer before he resumes the cleaning, sliding the sponge under Ironhide's plating to get all the stains out. The Autobot groans and Blackout takes that as encouragement, digs deeper into cables and brackets to clean out every ounce of grime he could possibly reach.

"Thank you, Sir." He answers, not really grasping what the Autobot is muttering about.

"De nada." Ironhide grunts. "Oh, Primus, that feels good." He groans when Blackout's digits find a relay in desperate need of attention.

Blackout keeps picking at the component, Ironhide's cooling fans humming. It makes Blackout kind of nervous, but it still feels good. He's filling a purpose.

Chapter Text

Jazz hands him a bottle of strong solvent and gloves when he steps into the washracks.

"Ya can close your panel if ya want. I told ya I don't fuck unwilling mechs." He says offhandedly and turns his back to Barricade.

The Interceptor stares at the broad shoulders of the Spy as Jazz puts his servos against the wall and leans against it and wonders how Jazz would know if he's willing or not. He remembers some of their little talk when Barricade was drunk and still doesn't understand how Jazz reasons around it. If he chooses to face with a mech and overloads when he does, isn't he willing then?

"Tha's really strong stuff. Use tha gloves n' jus' put a few drops on every stain ya see. N' watch out so ya don' get it on ya. Stings like a bitch n' is a li'l corrosive."

Barricade slips the gloves on and pours a drop in one digit to be able to get it where it's supposed to go and not drip it all over Jazz's plating. If it stings that bad, his Master probably won't be happy if he gets it where he doesn't need it.

As soon as it touches the stain on Jazz's shoulder, it starts to bubble and Jazz draws a sharp invent.

"Motherf... Damn it burns. Keep goin'." The Spy grinds out.

Barricade obeys hesitantly, careful not to spill a single drop, and listens to Jazz mumble curses until all the stains are covered in the glop.

"That's all, Sir."

Jazz swivels around to get his back under the spray from the showerhead with a relieved moan.

"Thank ya, Barricade."

Barricade doesn't answer, because he's staring at his Master. Jazz's valve cover is open.

He has never seen an Autobot have their panels open like that. They just open the outer cover and pressurize their spikes and then they close up as soon as they're done with him. 

But Jazz is naked and scrubbing himself all over with solvent, entirely unashamed, and Barricade can't help but stare at the glowing biolights and...

He can't stare like that at his Master. He will be punished.

" you need more help? Sir." He asks, embarrassed and awkward and confused and forcing himself to look everywhere except at Jazz. Then he almost panics, because that might be taken as an offer to interface.

"Nah, I'm good. Thanks, Cade. D'ya need ta rinse off? Ya didn't get any o' that on your platin', didya?" The spy asks without looking at him.

"No, Sir. I'm fine, thank you."

"You're free ta go." Jazz splutters through the stream of solvent, optics offline.

Barricade flees, but for once not because he's scared. More out of embarrassment. He's so used to going bare himself, he doesn't even think that much about it anymore, but seeing Jazz like that? He just doesn't know where to look.

Or rather, his optics know where to stare, but that's just not allowed.

He still stops just outside the door and turns to peek inside through the crack one last time.

Jazz's optics are still offline when he leans against the wall but what has the Interceptor's full attention is where the Spy is slipping his digits into his valve, the stream from the hose pointed at his anterior node. He can hear Jazz's quick vents and spinning fans and the Saleen is completely riveted to the sight. 

It's such a shameful act, Barricade feel so dirty whenever he touches himself. Only pleasurebots does it, his first Master taught him that. But Jazz just seems to enjoy himself. On the other servo, Barricade always had to put on a show, while Jazz doesn't know that he has an audience... Barricade really should stop staring.

But he's still there, still peeking through the door, when Jazz arches his back, hips jerking when he overloads with a stifled moan.

Then the Saleen flees again, because his owner can't catch him there, staring.

When Jazz comes out of the washracks, Barricade is curled up under his blanket on the couch again, hoping that Jazz can't hear how quickly his spark is spinning. Or how he's overriding his cooling fans.

He such a pleasurebot, getting charged by anything.

Chapter Text

Ironhide has a really sweet frame. 

It isn't perfectly polished, like a spotless racer diva, or sleek and graceful, like a Seeker, but he really looks good in a rugged kind of way. Thick struts that tells of strength and durability, enough guns to earn to be called a walking gun turret, and scars to show that he's a survivor more than anything.

Blackout may be bigger, but his flightframe still feels flimsy compared to the Topkick. And that isn't necessarily a bad thing.

Sliding his servos down that plating in the washracks was an amazing experience. The Weapons specialist is surprisingly smooth, at least where there's no scars intersecting his plating.

Blackout's frame is practically humming where he's laying alone in his berth. Ironhide seemed conflicted for a little while when they had dried up, the Weapons specialist's fans spinning quickly, but then he bid Blackout goodnight and retreated to his berthroom.

The Helo went to berth too, not in the mood to stay up by himself, but he's nowhere near tired. On the contrary, he's really revved up.

His protoform is crawling and his valve is tingling and uncomfortably hot, so he opens his panel and pushes his blanket down to cool off. It's quite a foreign feeling, because while a few of his customers managed to get him charged and made him overload, that was just humiliating and disgusting.

This is uncomfortable, but in a whole different way. He wants it to go away, but it also feels good in some weird way.

Blackout has never experienced good interfacing. He pulls up one of the memories that has been planted in his timeline. How the Autobots have managed to make it feel like his own frame, down to the size difference between him and the Autobot, he can't figure out. 

In the memory, he's splayed out on his back, Ironhide holding him down with a servo on his chestplates. The Weapons specialist slides digits into his valve and it's a delicious slide over sensitive mesh. No nervousness, no pain or humiliation. Just want. 

Blackout's bared valve clenches when he watches the memory and curiously, he matches the pose, pulling his knees up and lets them fall out to the sides. Hesitantly, he slides his servos down his torso, dipping his digits between plating to touch protoform, and is surprised to find how good it feels when he finds a relay and tweaks it experimentally.

When he reaches his bare array, he hesitates yet again, suddenly a bit nervous. He never did this before, his valve was untouched when... He pushes the thought away. They can't hurt him anymore, Ironhide said so.

He continues further, smoothing his digits over his valve-lips, puffy and warm and he feels a slight wetness along the slit. His fans kick up a notch. With a questing digit, he finds his anterior node, a small nub that has his hips jerking when he touches it and the Helo barely stifles his moan. His valve is soaked when he touches the opening and he slides one digit inside.

It goes in easily and he experimentally wiggles his digit. It touches something inside that has his valve clenching again. Blackout wants more of that. He pushes another digit inside and almost grinds down on his own servo. He pumps the fingers and touches his node and his pedes are curling and twitching when his charge rises.

He pulls up the memory again, and it's overwhelming to see and feel at the same time as he's working his own frame and when the memory has Ironhide fucking him roughly, Blackout overloads and is sent into reboot.

Chapter Text

Jazz is leaning against the wall in the washracks, optics offline, intake half open in a soundless gasp of pure bliss, as his digits work his valve with slow pumps in and out. He points the stream from the hose against his anterior node, hips bucking at the stimulation but then he backs off again, not allowing himself to tip over the edge. The Spy seems entirely unaware of the Interceptor looking at him through the glass wall.

Barricade's optics are riveted to the Spy's valve, those glowing biolights signaling just how aroused the silver mech is. Those digits slide in and out at a steady pace and Barricade can't help himself, he starts to slowly stroke his achingly hard spike. Then Jazz onlines his optics and looks straight at Barricade with a smirk, still touching himself.

"See anything ya like?"

The Spy turns around and leans his servos against the wall, arching his back, looking over his shoulder with an urgent gleam in his optics.

"I want ya ta fuck me." He whines.

Barricade doesn't hesitate. The Mustang steps into the shower and grabs Jazz's hips and slides straight into him with a groan, the Spy rocking back to get him deeper.

Then everything twists and turns and he's on his back on Jazz's couch, the Solstice teasing the slit of Barricade's valve with his spike, a thumb on the saleeSal anterior node.

"Please, Sir! I want you in me. Fuck me, Officer!" Barricade mewls, wanting to get Jazz's cock inside him more than anything.

With a wicked grin, Jazz obeys and Barricade arches off the couch when he overloads....

The Interceptor reboots.

His fans are roaring, his frame is ticking as it cools down and he confusedly lifts his helm. Barricade is still on the couch, the screen replaying that racing vid he was watching before. He lifts the blanket to look at himself, because something feels weird.

His spike is slowly depressurizing. All over his ventral plating, he's sticky with transfluid. He overloaded in his sleep.

Barricade puts his servo on his array and finds himself soaked with lubricant. He stands up abruptly, terrified of leaving a mortifying stain on the couch.

The Mustang is lucky, for once: no puddle on the cushions. He grabs his blanket to cover himself in it and turns the TV off before he hurries into his own room.

Jazz is in recharge, and Barricade can't take a shower at this hour without it seeming strange, but he needs to get rid of the transfluid somehow. His blanket is already stained, so he wipes himself with it before he lays down on his berth.

The defrag was confusing, just like when he watched the memories he got. He wonders if this is something his processor concocted, or if something accidentally slipped in with the other memories. Surelya fuck-toy would not be allowed to spike his Master.

He's so conflicted, because it should be so disgusting and vile, but he really wanted Jazz to frag him in the dream. And there's something about Jazz's look when he leaned against the wall and said he wanted to get fucked that has Barricade's spike tingling even when he's awake. 

He's such a needy whore. His first Master was right. 

And then something else occurs to him. Maybe Jazz planted those memories to get Barricade all charged up, ready and willing?

Chapter Text

Barricade gets up first and hurries into the washracks, feeling disgusting and covered in dried fluids he didn't manage to wipe off. He still doesn't know what to do with the blanket, stiff by dried transfluid, but when he comes into the washracks, he gets an idea.

Blackout said he needs to fill a purpose. Barricade stares at the washing machine. Jazz has done the laundry since Barricade came here, but maybe he should do it this time? Then he could throw his own blanket in first, and Jazz won't know. 

Feeling calmer with a plan for how to deal with his dilemma, he steps into the washracks. Barricade offlines his optics and lets the solvent run over his helm while he scrubs his plating and suddenly the dream from last night pops into his helm again in vivid detail.

His entire array instantly starts tingling with charge. The Saleen hesitantly touches his pressurizing spike and groans at how good it feels. He leans a servo against the wall and starts stroking himself with a firmer grip, hips jerking to thrust into his servo. It's been so long since he used that equipment.

It doesn't take long for him to overload, stifling a moan, transfluid sluicing down the drain. It relieves some of his charge, but his valve still feels uncomfortable. The Interceptor stares at the hose, getting curious. Dreams and memories or no, he didsee Jazz bring himself to overload last night for real and he can't get the picture out of his helm.

There's nobot there to witness it, to mock him for being such a needy pleasurebot.

He leans against the wall and aims the stream against his node and this time, he can't stop the surprised moan of pleasure from leaving him. It feels so good, he almost overloads immediately.

Barricade angles the stream away from his node, let's himself calm down a little before he tries again. It's equally intense this time and he gasps, backing off and denying himself the overload once again.

How many times he does it, Barricade doesn't count, but when he finally allows himself to overload, it's mind-numbing, frame-rattling and optic-blinding. He feels relaxed afterwards, in a way he hasn't for a very long time, and he dries up lazily before leaving the washracks, legs feeling rubbery.

"Ya took your time in tha washracks." Jazz says when Barricade passes the refueling room.

The Interceptor jumps, not aware of his owner being awake. He feels his faceplates flush. Does Jazz know what he did?

"I-I...uhm...yes, Sir." He stutters.

"I don' mind. 's good ta see ya not stress through it." Jazz says, just as unreadable as always.

"Ok? Sir."

"I'm goin' out, won't be back until tonight. Is tha' ok, or d'ya want some company? I could drop ya off at someone's place."

"I'll be fine, Sir."

He has laundry to do.

Jazz looks at him for long seconds, but seems to come to the conclusion that Barricade will indeed be fine on his own.

"D'ya want somethin'? I'm gonna pick up a few things today."

Want something? Barricade mentally flails. What would he ask for? What would he want?  He shakes his helm slowly, before he catches himself.

"No, Sir. You provide everything I need."

"Ya sure? No high grade? Ta loosen your tounge a li'l...? Getcha talkin'..." 

Barricade flushes again and his spark starts spinning. He still hasn't been punished for that.

Then Jazz smiles, not nastily, just in amusement.

"I'm kiddin' Cade. Ya're kinda funny when ya're hammered, though..." Jazz winks half his visor.

"Uhm...ok, Sir?"

Chapter Text

Motormaster can't really see the mech standing next to his berth, the drugs in his systems make his optics glitch, but he thinks he recognizes the big Autobot.

The dark mech is hesitating, something unusual for Motormaster's customers. They normally climb right on, get off and leave. But this mech stands there and looks at him, bright, blue optics roaming the Stunticon's frame.

"Please, I want to overload." Motormaster mumbles. He has been sprayed with the conductive lubricant and is charged.

"Fuck." The meh growls, dragging a servo down his faceplates.

He knows that word from somewhere, and the voice. He hasn't heard the word for a long time, though.

The mech jams something in a socket in his own arm and climbs onto Motormaster.

An unpressurized spike is awkwardly shuffled inside and Motormaster hums contentedly as the mech starts thrusting, spike hardening after a few thrusts.

"Oh, yes!" The mech on top of him hisses.

Motormaster knows that voice.

"Yeah, Prim... Eh, Primus, you feel good." The Autobot groans.

One of the mechs from Earth, one of Optimus Prime's mechs.

The Autobot overloads with a grunt and Motormaster follows him over with a quiet moan.

The mech collects himself for a little while, servos caressing Motormaster's plating in a tender way, before he pulls the thing out of his socket and then almost throws himself off of Motormaster.

"I'm sorry." He whispers and then he practically bolts.

When the maintenance drone comes in to rinse Motormaster's valve, the truck has already forgotten that he realized that it was Ironhide who fucked him.

Chapter Text

The next time the guards come to get him, Dreadbot struggles furiously.

No more stoic, proud Decepticon warrior following them; he flees from corner to corner in their cell to avoid them, like a wild animal in a cage, but they soon have him cornered. The VW beater flails and kicks to keep them off him, but it's useless. 

His ankle-strut is grabbed and the Decepticon is dragged out to the middle of the cell and flipped on his front easily, servos cuffed behind his back. He knows he's behaving ridiculously compared to Blast Off and Tarn whenever the guards take them away, but he just can't help himself. He might be snuffed this time.

They drag him down the same hallway as last time and Dreadbot cries like a sparkling, wails in fear and desperation. The guards taunt him for it, he knows it, but Dreadbot just doesn't have the wherewithal to comprehend what they're saying.

He isn't collared this time, but chained up in a spread eagle with his back to the door and when they leave, his plating is already clattering in fear of what's going to happen to him.

It feels like an eternity before the door opens and closes again. At first he thinks he's still alone and he startles badly and whimpers, when a servo slides along his back-struts. The mech is running his systems so silently and has so strong degaussers, Dreadbot didn't notice him until the mech touched him.

"H'llo Dreadbot. Are ya still housed with Tarn n' Blast Off?"

At first, the Decepticon doesn't make anything but an incoherent sound of terror as talons dip under plating to scrape over sensitive protoform on his hips and aft, but eventually he manages.

"I-I...y-ye-yes, I-I a... I am." He stutters, failing to understand what that has to do with anything.

The talons disappear and a small mech walks by him to the table with the tools provided for the customer, plucking with the things as he seems to carefully choose an item to his taste.

He grabs a carbon fiber whip, fitted with a row of small bushings at the end, to really dent and cut, and Dreadbot whines.

The mech turns around, bright visor meeting the Decepticon's optics, a disconcerting little smile stretching his lips and then he's closing in on Dreadbot.

The Decepticon thrashes in his restraints, terrified, because for all he has already suffered through, he knows the mech coming towards him with a whip in his servo and he would trade anything to be anywhere else right now.

"No! Please don't! I'm sorry!! I shouldn't have harmed the humans and... please, I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry...."  He cries in panic, struggling with the unbreakable restraints as Jazz is getting closer.

Jazz stops his approach and straightens slightly, something of the visage of a predator stalking it's prey bleeding out of his frame when he looks at the crying Decepticon. Then the sound of liquid splashing on the floor registers, he notices the warmth along his thighs and in the middle of the terror, Dreadbot is mortified.

He wet himself. In front of Jazz. He's so pathetically terrified of the Autobot, he peed himself even before the torture started and the Decepticon can do nothing but hang there and hate himself for being so weak.

Dreadbot cries harder in humiliation. Jazz walks past him, making a wide arch around the puddle on the floor. The door is opened and he calls one of the guards.

"What am I supposed ta do with this? He's so broken, he fraggin' pissed himself before I even started n' he's already cryin' n' screamin'." Jazz sounds annoyed. "Wha's tha fun in tha'?"

"I'm sorry, Officer. Of course we will make it up to you."

"Ya betta'." Jazz says.

"I don't have anything fitting your requests tonight, I'm afraid, but let us compensate you for that. We have new merchandise incoming, and I think one mech there would suit your tastes. A pretty little red and white raceframe, never touched with a whip before, and pleasurebot protocols that could make him very interesting. If it sounds good, I'll reserve his first time here for you."

"I like tha soun' o' tha'." Jazz drawls.

"Thank you, Sir. We appreciate it."

"Well, I do like good customer service n' ya have it."

Jazz leaves and the guards come in, dropping Dreadbot to the floor when they release his chains. 

"Well this sucks. He isn't fragged or damaged, so we can't even have any fun as a compensation for making us clean the fragging floor."

"What are you talking about?"

"We can't leave any new marks, so how are we going to make him do anything?"

"I have a redirectable outlet on my primary waste tank. I can void through my spike if I want to. Either you suck our spikes, or you're going to be even wetter when you get back to your room. Whats it going to be, Con" The guard stares at the Decepticon with a nasty glint in his optics.

"I-I'll suck your spikes." Dreadbot mumbles.

Chapter Text

They're in the transport and Skywarp tries to slip into the lap of the Autobot, but he's pushed back to the seat.

"Easy there, little Seeker. Not here."

"But I'm so ready for you! I want you." Skywarp pouts. 

"I know, and I am flattered. But I want to savor my first time taking you, want to have you every way possible. Not just a quick frag in a transport."

"Oh, that sounds so good!" Skywarp moans.

"But you need to have a little patience. I'll make it worth your while if you behave until we get home."

The Seeker plants his aft firmly on the seat, determined to behave and earn that frag.

"What do you prefer being called? "Sir" or "Prime"?"

He might as well research the mech's preferences, so he can be as good as possible in the sack.

"Either is fine."

Skywarp tests the titles silently, mouths them to try how it feels to moan them. He's going to go with Prime. That's so much hotter. 

He squirms in the seat, getting worked up by talking about interfacing, thinking about it. But he better behave all the way home.

"I don't know anything about being a private pleasurebot." He blurts, because he has to distract himself someway, and the Autobot's voice is easy on the audials.

"You're my first slave who behaves like this, so I guess we have to learn together."

"You have more Decepticons?" Skywarp asks, a little dismayed.

He hates having competition. Vortex and Knock Out stole quite a few customers from him, and surely the Prime has the créme de la créme of Decepticons.

"Quite a few, actually. Several Seekers. But none of them behaves as well as you do, so I think you will get some perks for your behavior."

Skywarp preens again. He's going to be the best Decepticon Sentinel has.

Chapter Text

Sentinel leads and Skywarp follows. Through the ostentatious mansion, until they finally reach what the Seeker guesses is Sentinel's chambers. Or at least one of them.

"So..." Skywarp purrs, leaning his back against one of the corner pillars of the berth, stretching up to put his servos over his helm to display his sleek Seeker frame. " do you want me, handsome?" He slides down slowly, dragging his servos along the pillar to entice the big Autobot.

"What do you offer?" Sentinel asks, leaning against the door to take in the show.

"Anything you want, Prime." Skywarp answers, sliding servos down his chestplates, down his sides, to reach the junctures of his hips.

"I'll rephrase that; what do you recommend?"

Skywarp gets up from his down slide to bend over the foot of the berth. He looks over his shoulder, flicking his wings suggestively. His valve is already drooling and the Seeker knows it's visible; lubricant is dripping down his legs.

"How about a good frag from behind and then deepthroat me for a finish? And then we continue from there with whatever you want, of course..."

"Hmh. Sounds lovely, but I think I want to blow my load on those pretty wings of yours.

"Oh, yes, Prime!" Skywarp hisses in arousal, valve clenching.

"Good. On your knees and servos on the berth, Skywarp. My little whore of a slave."

Skywarp mewls in arousal and scrambles onto the berth. He feels the mattress dip under the weight of the massive mech. His valve winks reflexively in anticipation.

There's no foreplay, but that isn't necessary anyway. A thick spike slides easily into the Seeker's primed valve and Skywarp arches his back and moans loudly.

Sentinel's spike is thicker and more ridged than he could imagine even in his wildest dreams.

Chapter Text

Ironhide looks agitated when he comes home, clearly very upset, and his field is full of disgust and regret. 

Then Blackout catches the smell of sex lingering on Ironhide's plating, and the Helo is bewildered by it.

"Can I do something for you, Sir?

"Give me the biggest cube of high grade you can find." He mutters.

Blackout is uncertain if the Weapons specialist is being sarcastic or if he really meant it and looks at him for long seconds to try to figure out what to do. 

The mech really looks like he needs it.

So Blackout gets the cube but comes back to find the living room empty. He hears the solvent running in the washracks and puts the cube on the table, putting cubes of frozen low grade in it to keep it cool, before he takes a seat on the couch to apprehensively wait for the Autobot.

Ironhide takes his time in the shower and Blackout can't help but wonder what has happened. The Weapons specialist didn't look dirty this time, like he did the other day, but he obviously needed to clean up badly. He isn't the kind of mech who lingers in the shower just because he likes it. Then Blackout wonders if someone has done...stuff to Ironhide, like they did to Drift, but Ironhide wasn't dented or scratched and Blackout is pretty certain that the Weapons specialist wouldn't go down without one pit of a fight.


Ironhide holds a cube out to the Helo and Blackout takes it, watching the big Autobot sink into the couch next to him. There's something weary over him, so different from last time he went out. Ironhide drinks deeply from the large cube before he leans his helm against the back of the couch and offlines his optics.

"I'm so fucking tired of this crap. The war was so much easier." Ironhide sighs.

"Yes, Sir."

The silence stretches out as Ironhide drinks his cube rather quickly, staring into the far distance and Blackout recognizes the thousand yard stare. He gets another cube for his owner without being asked, and nudges the Autobot to get him to scoot over a little and turn to the side. It snaps Ironhide out of his deep thoughts, and he looks questioningly at the Helicopter. 

Blackout pushes his thumbs into the sturdy neck-struts of the Weapons specialist as an answer, immediately finding cables that needs to be loosened.

"Oh Primus, that feels good." Ironhide groans, leaning into the touch and turning to give Blackout better access.

The Helo sits down behind the Autobot and works his talons in under heavy armor to get to the sensitive protoform and Ironhide shudders under his touch with a sound of pleasure. Blackout takes it as encouragement and continues, the Autobot drinking his second cube a little slower, melting into the touch.

Chapter Text

It's a disaster.

But of course, he would manage to fuck this up too. He's completely useless, just like his first Master told him. Even the humans can do this, but not Barricade.

Sure, everything is clean. And it smells nice too. But it's pink. All the formerly white sheets are now a light baby pink. The Interceptor stares in horror at the mayhem of cuteness.

Jazz is going to kill him. There's no way the Spy likes pink.

He sinks to the floor in the pile of blankets and sheets, sobbing. Did he really survive all this, just to have his functioning ended because of a stupid overload in his sleep? But he should've known better, a pleasurebot like Barricade needs to overload constantly, or his frame will do things like that. 

He hears the front door open and close and he whimpers in fear. It's over.

Barricade sits there, curled into a ball of misery, waiting for Jazz to find him. He hears his Master walking around the apartment, probably looking for him, and he hears the steps pausing outside the door. He holds his vents. This is it.

"I'm home, Barricade." Jazz says through the door.

"Hello, Sir." Barricade squeaks.

He hears his Master leave and he sits there for long moments, wondering why Jazz didn't say anything about the mess Barricade has made. Then he feels stupid.

How would his Master know? He hasn't seen what Barricade did. 

He can't cower in the bathroom forever. Jazz isn't outside the door, so he sneaks out, going for hiding in his own room instead, but Jazz is sitting by the refueling table as Barricade hurries by.

"Why in such a rush, Cade?" He drawls.

Barricade freezes and slowly turns his helm to look at the Autobot.

Dim optics come up to meet Barricade's, and something about his Master looks very off.

"I... I fragged up the laundry." He mumbles, ready for Jazz to explode.

"Oh. Okay."

That's it? Ok?

Then the Saleen notices what Jazz is doing, and he can't help but stare uneasily.

Jazz is splicing a rerouter into his systems. 

Not the innocuous kind a mech can just plug into one of his dataports, those available in almost any store. 

The heavier kind, ones that needs to be spliced directly into the wiring. There's more of them on the table, a couple of them soldered together rather crudely. 

"Isn't that illegal, Sir?" He blurts before he can stop himself. Not to mention dangerous.

"Doesn't matter 's long as I don' get caught." Jazz mumbles, the effect of the first rerouter setting in and making him slur.

Chapter Text

Blackout has worked his way down to Ironhide's cannon, exploring the cables and wires of the impressive piece. Irohide has finished his second cube and is decidedly relaxed by now.

The Helo, on the other servo, has sipped his energon slower and isn't as overcharged as his owner. Blackout is more jittery with nerves. 

The cannon seems to be almost as sensitive as Blackout's rotors; Ironhide's fans are whirring loudly and the Weapons specialist's digits are fiddling with the plating on Blackout's thigh.

Irohide is handsome, and he is nice to the Helicopter. And he saved Blackout's functioning. Blackout can't deny that he's slightly charged, but he's just so very nervous. 

He should fill a purpose and be a good slave. But he's still inexperienced. At least when it comes to consensual interfacing. He has never offered anybot to take his valve before. But Ironhide is nice to him, surely he'll be nice in berth too?

So when the digits smooths the juncture of his hip, Blackout holds his vents and opens his panel. The Weapons specialist stiffens when his digits slide over soft protoform instead of hard armor. He sits up to look at the Helo.

"What are you doing, Blackout?"

"I'm...ah... I thought you wanted me that, Sir." He says, embarrassed.

"Are you even fully healed?"

"I am, Sir."

"Would you want to interface with me? Would you really like me to fuck you?" Ironhide asks, and his voice tells Blackout that he better tell the truth.

Does he really want it? He hasn't wanted to have his valve taken ever before. But Ironhide is good, at least from what he can tell from the memories he has gotten. It would be so much easier than being given up and winding up in a much worse place.

Blackout spreads his legs more as an answer, but the Autobot doesn't move.

"I do. But I'm nervous. It's my first real time." Blackout mumbles.

A digit slides through the slit of Blackout's valve, finding his node. The Helo gasps and his hips twitches. 

Ironhide drops to his knees on the floor and pulls on Blackout's legs to get the Helicopter's aft to the edge of the seat. Blackout's spark spins a million revolutions a minute, not sure what Ironhide is going to do, but then the Autobot dips his helm and licks Blackout's node.

The Decepticon moans shakily, nervous to the point of dizziness and still surprised how good that felt.

Chapter Text

"...he's completely useless to us like this anyway."

The door opens and one of the guards steps into their cell. A rather big mech trails behind. Tarn doesn't know who he is, but apparently Dreadbot does, because he whimpers in horror and tries to hide in the corner.

The guard goes to get him, but the Decepticon tries to flee, even though it's useless. The guard grabs his ankle when he skitters by and drags him out to the middle of the cell, Dreadbot kicking and flailing, reaching for Tarn and Blast Off.

The Shuttle and the Tank doesn't grab him, keeps out of reach. Giving the guards a reason to punish them too is pointless. The decided that a long time ago and wouldn't try to help each other either.

The other mech, who stopped just inside the door to watch, steps forward and Dreadbot tries to scrabble backwards, away from him.

"Stop it, or I'll bring out the whip." The Autobot says calmly.

Dreadbot freezes in place. He trembles so violently, his plating clatters and he whimpers quietly as the mech takes the last few steps, reaching out to touch a helm-fin.

Tarn sees the growing puddle under the crouching Decepticon and realizes that whatever this mech has done to Dreadbot, the obnoxiously cocky Decepticon is afraid enough to not even notice that he lost control of his waste tank. He just sits there, shaking.

"Yes, and he's leaking sometimes." The guard sneers derisively.

"Some Decepticons were never properly housebroken, but I'm not worried by that. It isn't that hard to teach them self control." The mech murmurs quietly, stroking Dreadbot's helm. 

Dreadbot flinches and starts sobbing even though the touches look soft and soothing.

"So, are you interested?" The guard asks.

"He seems like an interesting project; disobedient and unaccepting. I'll take him."

Dreadbot is leashed and pulled to his pedes and led outside, following his new owner quietly, still trembling with fear.

And then they're only two again.

Chapter Text

Jazz stares dully at the pink sheets, looking as if he isn't quite there mentally. Barricade is a quivering mess behind the Spy.

His Master is high. He may react more violently and less predictably than normal. Barricade knows this, has seen his fair share of mechs on a variety of system enhancers and breakers.

"It's cute. I like it. Ya know, with all tha shit tha's goin' on, this's jus'... Nah. Pink works. Goes well with your pretty li'l frame." His Master slurrs, sliding a servo across Barricade's aft as he passes the Interceptor. 

The Spy leaves the bedding on the floor, Barricade still standing there. The Saleen stares after the Autobot, who stumbles to the couch. He ungracefully falls into it and remains where he landed, one arm hanging over the edge of the seat.

Barricade is at a loss. What's he supposed to do? He watches Jazz's optics dim even more.

"Thank you. For not being mad, Sir." He says, relieved to not be offlined, at least.

The only answer is a ragged vent. Barricade frowns.

Then Jazz purges violently. His vents are slowing down, shuddering shallowly, and Barricade realizes what it is.

His Master is overdosing. Something is scrambling his systems too badly.

So much passes his processor; is that really a bad thing? But where would he wind up then? Back at the Pound? With his first Master? Jazz has been lenient.

Barricade has no comms, so the Interceptor scrambles for the communications console he has seen in Jazz's berthroom. A search has him finding Ratchet's connection and he opens the line.

It takes so long, Barricade starts to think that Ratchet won't answer, and he starts fidgeting nervously, growing more anxious by the second. Then the Medic's face appears on the screen, muzzy and irritated enough to make it obvious Barricade woke him up.

"What, Jazz?! What the fuck is so damned important it can't wa..."

"Jazz has O.D'd!" Barricade shouts in panic.

Horror spreads across the Medic's face in slowmotion as the words sink in.

"Fuck! What is he on?"

"Power rerouters. Several of them, some combined."

"Get them out of his systems and splice him back together as much as you can. Make sure he keeps venting. I'm coming!"

Ratchet is gone from the screen in a blink, not even shutting the connection, and Barricade runs back to the living room. 

Jazz's frame feels cold and his vents shudders and rattles. Barricade grabs his arm and twists it up to find the first rerouter chip. He cuts the connections he can see belongs together, but some of the wires aren't obvious. With his spark in his intake, he splices the wires he's certain of and leaves the others, then he starts searching for more rerouters.

Chapter Text

To follow Ironhide into the Weapons specialist's berthroom isn't that hard. Blackout is nervous, of course, but the things the Autobot did with his glossa has Blackout's valve tingling and dripping.

He wants this. He have to be good enough to make the Autobot want to keep him.

He stretches out on the berth and spreads his legs, feeling more vulnerable than ever, willingly displaying himself like that. Ironhide's optics roam his frame and Blackout feels his faceplates flush.

The Autobot kneels between his legs and strokes the Helo's valve with his knuckles, just ghosting over Blackout's node, and the Helo whimpers in nervous frustration. The Topkick doesn't tease him anymore, a thick digit slides into him and Blackout gasps. Another digit is added.

"Are you sure you want this?" Ironhide asks, pushing his digits deeper.

He does. It's the best way to show his gratitude, the only thing Blackout can give. And Ironhide is handsome and nice, and Blackout could have a much worse first time lover.

"I want this."

He still tenses when the Autobot leans forward to hover above him on his knees and one servo, because he knows how bad interfacing can hurt.

"Relax. We didn't seal you or anything like that." Ironhide mumbles while lining up his spike.

There's resistance and stretch, but no real pain when he slides into Blackout's valve and the Helo tries to relax when the Autobot bottoms out. 

Ironhide allows him to acclimatize, keeps still inside him and nips and kisses at Blackout's chestplates. Then he reaches down to touch Blackout's node, and the Helo is embarrassed by the wanton mewl that leaves his vocalizer. The Autobot takes it as a cue to start moving, slowly rocking his hips and Blackout moans.

It feels good, Ironhide is good to him.

When the Weapons specialist overloads, he rubs Blackout's node with a clever digit and makes the Helo overload with him. He rolls off and pulls Blackout closer, an arm slung over the Decepticon's ventral plating.

"Thank you, Blackout. I needed that." He mumbles into Blackout's back.

"I liked it, Sir." Blackout answers.

"Good." It's almost inaudible and then the Weapons specialist starts venting slower as he falls into recharge.

Blackout snuggles closer to the Autobot, enjoying to have a warm frame pressed against his.

Chapter Text

Barricade has found three rerouters, two of them those home-soldered ones, and he has spliced about half of the wires back in place when Ratchet barges through the door.

The Saleen throws himself out of the way and sinks to the floor in the corner, spark spinning so fast, vents so hot and quick, he feels like he's going to purge.

"Get over here!" Ratchet barks to him.

Barricade scrambles to obey, even though he's so scared, he wants to hide behind the couch. He doesn't dare disobeying the Medic.

"Where are the ones you've found?" Ratchet asks, voice tight and urgent.

Barricade points out the one's he has tried to remove.

"Good job, his vents are stable at least. How many did he have?"

"He was already putting them in when I first saw him, but he had five on the table, so at least six. Sir."

"Damn it, Jazz, you had been clean for so long." Ratchet mutters as he works.

The Saleen is slowly backing away, unconsciously going back to his corner, optics riveted to where his Master is still on the brink of deactivation.

"Barricade! Look him over, see if you can see more of those. I need to stabilize him before I can move him." Ratchet barks at him.

Barricade scrambles forward again, grabbing one of Jazz's legs. He lifts the limb, looking between plates and trying to lift armor to get a better look att Jazz's circuitry. Ratchet is still busy working on the wires Barricade couldn't fix.

"I have another one here, Sir." Barricade says when he spots the chip hidden under a plate on Jazz's thigh.

"Disconnect what you can, then keep looking." Ratchet says.

There's ten wires and Barricade is certain about six. He cuts them and starts to connect the wires where they should be, but he jerks and freezes when Jazz's vents rattle very badly before stopping, and the Spy voids his tank.

"Keep going. That wasn't your doing. You're doing good." Ratchet instructs in a pinched voice.

Barricade tries to ignore his spinning spark and the lump in the tubing of his intake and focuses on finding the rerouters Jazz has left.

Chapter Text

Jazz's vents starts up again with the next wire the Medic splices, still rattling awfully. They don't even out until Ratchet has fully removed three of the rerouters.

"Let's get him to the transport. We have to get him to my medbay." Ratchet says, standing from his awkward position hunkered over Jazz.

"Yes, Sir." Barricade says and helps the medic to get Jazz's limp frame off the couch.

They carry him down the stairs and take the backdoor out into the alley, where Ratchet left his transport, well out of sight from the street.

"Get in. Somebot will take care of cleaning up." Ratchet grunts when Jazz is stretched out in the back and Barricade turns to go inside again.

Barricade climbs in and sits down next to his Master, not daring to disobey, even though he'd rather stay in Jazz's apartment.

The transport lurches when Ratchet pulls out and speeds through the streets, lights flashing to show it's an emergency.

Barricade stares at Jazz. The Spy looks like he's recharging, except how gray he is. It was a close call, and Barricade isn't sure if Jazz is still in danger or not.

It's kind of weird, that he helped saving his owner, the Spawn of Unicron. If someone had told him this during the war he would have punched them in the helm and called them idiots.

But that was long ago. He was ignorant back then, had no clue about what could happen to him. At least Jazz hasn't hurt him yet, trying to save him will hopefully grant Barricade some leniency. The Interceptor doesn't dare thinking about what will happen to him if Jazz offlines.

The transport lurches to a halt and Ratchet comes around, yanking the doors open. Barricade flinches, but the medic is focused on Jazz.

They get him inside the medbay, and he's laid on a berth, Ratchet plugging a scanner in and setting to work.

"Take a cube in the cooler and sit down in the chair." Ratchet orders him.

Barricade finds a cube and takes the chair, watching the medic work, quicker now when the scanner tells him where there's anomalies in the systems.

"So where do you want to go tonight? You could stay with Ironhide or Crosshairs." Ratchet says, voice slightly softer.

Barricade's spark sinks. He can't stay with Ironhide and Blackout, but he doesn't want to go to the Paratrooper either.

"Can't I go back to Jazz's home, Sir?" He asks quietly, voice cracking with anxiety.

Ratchet turns around to look at him.

"I don't know for how long Jazz will be here. And frankly, I don't trust you to be alone."

"Yes, Sir." Barricade says and nods dejectedly. 

"I think Crosshairs' place is calmer, even though Drift is staying there at the moment." 

Two Autobots. And he's not at all certain about the borderline nymphomaniacal Sniper's good intentions. He's probably going to be fucked.

"Can't I stay here, Sir? Please. You won't even know I'm here, I'll sleep on the floor. Please, Sir!" Barricade begs the medic. "I can keep an optic on Jazz and wake you up if it's needed."

Ratchet heaves a sigh.

"Fine, but you're not recharging in the floor. Get a mattress and a blanket from the storage across the hallway and set it up in the corner. But if you so much as stand in the way once, I'm having Crosshairs pick you up so fast, your helm will be spinning." 

Barricade scrambles out to get a mattress. Crosshairs is not going to get a chance at having Barricade.

Chapter Text

His new owner strings him up in a spread eagle stand the first thing he does when they get to the mech's apartment. Dreadbot's plating is still clattering in unadulterated fear.

"Until you learn when to void your tanks and when not to..." The mech jams something in Dreadbot's nozzle and the Decepticon screams in pain. "... you'll have to have this manual tap and I void your tank for you."

Dreadbot sobs, so horribly scared, his nozzle aching.

"You need to learn to accept my touches, slave, and to comply with my wishes."

Dreadbot whimpers when soft servos slide down his sides, roaming his hips and aft, expecting pain.

"You see, this whining you're doing? It tells me that you don't accept whatever I decide to do to you. If you truly accepted it, you'd quietly let me do this, and take whatever I decide to deal you without whining and crying."

One servo winds up between Dreadbot's thighs, unwanted digits slipping through his folds. The Decepticon can't help but try to avoid the touches.

"That's resistance. And I intend to take it out of you..."

The touching continues, Dreadbot disgusted with himself for starting to go wet when the vile mech slides digits into him.

"Typical Decepticon. Getting primed for interface so easily."

The Autobot leaves him standing there, all trussed up and half charged, and at first, Dreadbot is puzzled, expecting to be fragged.

But then the bot returns, an energon whip already humming with charge, and Dreadbot cries in panic, because the whip looks more high power than the one the customers where offered in his last home.

"I will punish you when you're disobedient, or don't accept what I do. And you will see that I only punish you when you deserve it."

When the first lash lands across sensitive protoform under his shoulder plating, Dreadbot immediately starts screaming.

Chapter Text

Ironhide jerks, as if he was falling into recharge but startles awake. Blackout is still awake, a little nervous about the situation, but still enjoying the physical closeness.

Ironhide's servo slowly strokes his side, down Blackout's hip, the outside of his thigh and then back up. It feels really nice, and the Helo pushes back against the Autobot to show he likes it.

The movement makes his aft rub against the Autobot's groin and Blackout feels the head of Ironhide's spike rub against his valve-lips. His owner is hard, he probably wants to go again. Blackout doesn't really mind. He bends his knees more, arching his back, and pushes back to take the spike inside. It slides through his folds, not getting inside, but the stimulation makes Blackout start to lubricate. He gasps when it slides over his node, hips twitching.

Ironhide reaches down and steers it into Blackout's tingling valve. He grabs Blackout's thigh and lifts it to get better access and rocks into the Helo lazily. 

The position is a little awkward, and the Weapons specialist rolls them, Blackout tipping over on his front. Ironhide kneels between his legs, sliding a servo up Blackout's back-strut as far as he can reach, then he grabs a rotor and slides his digits down the length. The Helo shudders in pleasure under the touch, charge coursing through his entire frame.

Ironhide grabs his hips and hikes them up, sliding into Blackout's valve again and Blackout mewls. It feels good.

Not like the last time someone was grabbing his rotors and hiking his hips up...

The memory of having someone controlling him by harsh grips on his rotors clashes with the soft touches to the components, the position with his face down, aft up, familiar, yet different when his knees and face doesn't scrape against a cold, hard floor. The touches to his node, making him charged doesn't fit with the memory of being fragged roughly with nothing in mind but his pain and humiliation and somebot else's overload. He manages to hold his field tight to not let on how scared and repulsed he is.

Blackout overloads and then he can't stop himself anymore. He starts crying.

"No, please..."

Ironhide immediately stops.

"Blackout? What happened?" He pulls out and his field flares with alarm.

Blackout cries into the mattress. He's useless. Ironhide is going to dump him at the Pound. Who wants a slave who can't even do this?

"Blackout, talk to me!"

He can't. He's too afraid, too ashamed, too useless.

Ironhide mechhandles the Helo onto his back and Blackout cries even harder, being handled roughly a reminder of what he has been through.

"I-I just remembered the last time I was fucked like that. I'm sorry. You can take me like this, it doesn't remind me of that, Sir." Blackout sobs and spreads his legs, trying to make it up to his owner.

"Pit no!" Ironhide sounds horrified.

"Please! I will do anything you want! Just take me, Sir." Blackout reaches down to spread his valve-lips, to show that he's not going to struggle against it. Or his owner is going to send him away.

"Blackout!" Ironhide barks, grabbing the Helo's wrist-struts, pinning his arms beside his helm. "Look at me." He says, voice softer.

Blackout obeys, and it snaps him out of his downward spiral.

"I don't like fucking unwilling mechs. I'm so fragging sorry that I pushed you to this. You should've told me the second you stopped liking it."

Blackout nods, still sobbing quietly.

"Why did you ask me to continue even after that?"

"I know that I need to fill a purpose. Please don't send me back to the Pound, Sir." Blackout says in a small voice.

"Primus." Ironhide lets go of his arms and sits down heavily next to Blackout. "I won't send you back. But we are going to have a long talk about consent." He  drags a servo down his face. "Tomorrow. When I'm sober."

"Yes, Sir."

"Do you want to recharge here, or would you rather go back to your room? Recharge only, no 'facing."

"I'd like to stay, if you want me here, Sir."

Ironhide stretches out next to the Helo.


"Yes, please. Sir."

An arm is slung across Blackout's ventral plating and the Helo presses into the embrace once more, spark still spinning with nerves.

Chapter Text

This time when Blast Off is dragged back, Tarn knows that he can't do anything for the Shuttle. The damage is too severe. The Combaticon will end up in the medbay, no matter what he does.

So he foregoes trying to fix the worst stuff, it will only be painful and the medics will work on it anyway, so he can't even spare Blast Off some of that pain. 

Instead, he pulls the Shuttle into his lap, making him recline against Tarn's chestplates to offer some comfort until the guards find him. He wishes he still had his Voice, so he could hum a tune that would make Blast Off feel better, but he can't, and humming without it just makes him depressed.

The Tank frets for the Combaticon; he looks really bad this time, perhaps even as bad as Blackout before he was taken away. Hopefully, they won't take Blast Off from him. Surely, they can't? Dreadbot is already gone and they need more than one slave, right?

Tarn knows that there's other cells in this place, but he has no clue if they are all in use. He has never seen any Cons except those he share a cell with, so there might be many Decepticons here, or maybe it's just him and the Combaticon. He could never take all the customers alone, he'd offline in a week.

He's pulled from his musings when he feels a trickle down his frame. Blast Off's wounds are leaking, rivulets running under his plating and then down Tarn's frame to pool on the floor. Blast Off's vents are ragged and pained and the Shuttle doesn't seem aware of his surroundings.

He's leaking out.

Feeling like a traitor for it, Tarn does something he never thought he would ever do in this place, but the thought of losing his friend, the only good thing he has in this functioning, is too much for the Tank.

"Guard! He needs a medic!"

Chapter Text

Blackout wakes up to Ironhide sitting on the edge of the berth. He looks at the broad shoulders, slumped where the Weapons specialist is leaning his elbows on his knees and Blackout wonders what has made the Autobot seem so... defeated.

His owner is so nice to him, didn't force him to fuck even though the Autobot didn't get to overload. Blackout is embarrassed by the memory. Ironhide was so good to him, tried to make it pleasurable, and still the Helo broke down like a nervous youngling. 

But he said he wouldn't get rid of Blackout, and that they were going to have a talk today, so he might still have a chance to salvage the situation when he has learned what Ironhide likes. Apparently, he likes to cuddle, and Blackout is so happy, because he likes that too. It felt really nice when Ironhide held him until he fell into recharge. But right now, the Weapons specialist is just sitting there.

The Helo frowns. It's really early, hours before they normally get up.

"Fucking hell." Ironhide suddenly growls.

Blackout startles, not prepared for his owner's irritation. 

"Oh, you're awake." Ironhide says when he turns around and sees the wary Helicopter looking at him.

"Yes, Sir."

"Jazz is in the medbay. He... He's sick." Ironhide's voice hitches. "Crosshairs is picking me up, I'm going there."

"Can I come, Sir?" He doesn't want to be alone.

"Not this time, Blackout. You don't need to see this. I'll be back later today. You can stay in here for the rest of the night if you want."

"Well, doesn' this look cosy?" Crosshairs is leaning against the doorframe, optic ridge cocked, arms crossed.

"Shut the fuck up." Ironhide growls, standing from his spot on the edge of the berth, pointing at Crosshairs in what's clearly a warning.

Blackout's spark starts spinning faster, because even though he knows it isn't aimed at him, Ironhide looks absolutely lethal. Crosshairs holds his servos out in front of him in a placating gesture.

"'ey, I'm jus' saying..."

"Shut. Your. Mouth. Or you will not enjoy your next punishment."

Ironhide pushes the Sniper in front of him down the hallway with a servo across Crosshairs' neck-struts and when they're out of sight, Blackout hears a loud clang and Crosshairs' yelp. Then the Autobots are out the door and the Helo snuggles deeper into the blanket, trying to understand the intricate relationships between the Bots.

Chapter Text

"Ya awake?" Jazz asks.

Barricade wonders for a few moments if Jazz meant him, but they're alone in the room now, so it has to be him Jazz addressed.

"Yes, Sir."

"C'm'ere." Jazz still slurrs slightly.

Barricade pushes his blanket to the side and gets up, coming to stand next to Jazz's berth. His Master looks like hell, but at least he doesn't seem to be on the doorstep of deactivation.

"I'm sorry." Jazz says, voice hoarse.

Barricade is at a loss for words at first. It's this Autobot thing with apologies again, and he just has no idea how to handle it.

"Ya shouldn't have had ta go through tha'. It's just... there's been so much shit goin' on lately n' I wanned a li'l escape. I fucked up. I shouldn' 've done it, I know tha'. But tha's jus' bad excuses. I'm so sorry, Cade. Tha' ya hadta see tha'."

"Uhm, apology accepted? Sir."

"Thanks for saving my pathetic aft." Jazz mumbles.

"You're welcome, Sir."

"Let's both stick ta high grade from here on out, doncha think?" 

Is his Master joking? A tired little smile suggests he is.

"Sounds good, Sir." 

But Jazz is in recharge again, and Barricade looks at the Spy for a little while, still uncertain what to think of his entire situation.

Jazz hasn't treated him badly so far. On the contrary the only things Jazz actually demands is that Barricade takes care of himself, and that's puzzling. Why did Jazz buy him if he isn't going to use him? 

The hardlining, he doesn't like, but what in his functioning as a slave has he liked, really? Jazz hasn't done anything bad to him while hardlining either. Sure, letting Jazz see humiliating and painful memories feels vile, but there's always the risk that Jazz has seen some of Barricade's lowest moments in a video or on a picture somewhere already. Unicron knows how many of those have been published or shared.

Maybe that's why Jazz bought him. He wanted a willing pleasurebot, because Jazz doesn't fuck unwilling mechs, and he knew Barricade was an easy whore.

Barricade shudders. He needs to fill a purpose. The Saleen looks at his Master one last time before he goes back to his mattress and curls up, sobbing in anxiety for what his future might hold.

Chapter Text

The whipping is over, but it's hardly any relief. His Master left him tied up in the same position, forcing him to stand.

He's exhausted.

But Dreadbot isn't one of those lucky mechs who can recharge standing, so he's forced to just stand there and endure the pain.

He probably wouldn't be able to recharge through it anyway, it would hurt too much to lay down on all his wounds.

That's cold comfort, but he tries telling himself that anyway.

Energon drips down his protoform, slowly pooling underneath him, and he can't stop himself from crying quietly. Not as much from pain as from his helplessness.

There's no chance to get comfort here. At least, back at the other place, he'd go back to the cell when they were done with him. Here, there's just waiting for more pain.

The mech holds the Decepticon's functioning in his fickle servos, Dreadbot is certain of that. He had a terrifying demonstration of that even before the Autobot bought him.

That leaves him with prescious few options. He could try to learn to accept what his Master does, to comply with the Autobot's wishes. Or he could resist and be tortured or offlined.

Dreadbot isn't the sharpest tool in the shed; he was mostly appreciated for his ruthlessness, his tendency to get shit done, no matter what the consequences were, and his affinity for violence. But he's smart enough to know what's the best choice of those options.

He's so fragging tired.

He has already sucked cock to avoid humiliation, and he knows how much pain he could be put through if he misbehaves.

The decision is easy. At the first opportunity, he's going to allow his Master to touch him however the Autobot sees fit. He's going to comply to the best of his ability. Then he can only hope that his Master is going to be satisfied with him and let him recharge and have some fuel.

Chapter Text

Barricade is rudely startled out of recharge when Ironhide barges in, almost knocking the door down in the process. Ratchet is trailing behind, yelling expletives, trying to physically stop the livid Weapons specialist.

It doesn't seem to slow Ironhide down at all. The Saleen crawls into the corner, his blanket pulled up to his chin where he sits on his mattress.

"Shut up, Medic. This is between me and Jazz and I don't give a shit about his state of functioning. You know damned well he needs to hear this." Ironhide rounds on Ratchet, pointing a huge cannon at the Medic's helm.

"Sorry, Jazz. You're on your own in this!" Ratchet says and leaves.

Barricade cowers deeper behind his blanket. Why didn't he go to Crosshairs' place? 

But Crosshairs is hovering at the door, so maybe that wouldn't have been better anyway. The Interceptor whimpers when Ironhide grabs his Master by the neck and drags him from the medberth, Jazz flailing uselessly.

Please, Primus, let Jazz survive this so they can go home.

The Spy is slammed up against the wall, a huge servo squeezing around his throat.

"This is the last fucking time you survive that. The next time, you better pray to offline before I get my hands on you, or I'll tear you apart myself, and that will be so much slower and more painful than a simple overdose, you fucking idiot!" The Weapons specialist snarls in Jazz's face.

"D'ya know what I saw? What I'll be forced ta do soon, jus'ta keep up appearances?" Jazz warbles and wheezes, the servo on his neck still tight.

"Yeah, boo-fucking-hoo. Do you know what I did?!" Ironhide growls.

"But ya did na' hafta go home n' fuck Blackout afterwards."

Ironhide narrows his optics dangerously at Barricade's Master, and Barricade whines in fear. The rage might spill over on him.

"I made a mistake." Ironhide snarls.

"A mistake? Wha', Blackout got lost in tha hallway n' accidentally wound up in your bed n' your cock jus' fell into his cunt?" Jazz coughs out.

"Fuck you, Jazz." Ironhide growls, dragging the Spy from the wall just to smash him back against it again.

"No, apparently, ye'd rather fuck Blackout than come seek some comfort from Jazz or me." Crosshairs sneers from the door.

Ironhide doesn't turn away from the Spy, but his cannon finds Crosshairs behind him and the aim looks true from where Barricade is.

Then he fires. Crosshairs squeaks and hits the wall on the other side of the hallway, but the cannon must've been on a low setting; The Sniper is a little dented and scorched but still moving, whining in pain and affront.

"I made a mistake." Ironhide growls to Jazz again.

"So did I." The Spy wheezes, the servo still tight.

"But at least my mistake wouldn't deactivate anyone." Ironhides voice hitches and he abruptly lets go of the Spy's neck. "Damn it, Jazz I can't lose you!" He sobs into Jazz's neck-cables, hugging the Spy crushingly.

The mood swings are terrifying, but at least the worst danger seems to be over for now.

"I'm not doin' it again. I promise." Jazz says, hugging Ironhide back.

"I've heard that before." Ironhide mutters.

"No, I'm done with tha' crap. I won't do it again."

"You're damned right, you won't. You're staying with me until I deem you ready to go unsupervised."

A wrench comes sailing through the air and hits Ironhide in the helm with a loud clang, making the Saleen startle badly.

"That's for firing your fragging cannon in my medbay, you fucking oaf!" Ratchet snarls.

Barricade pulls the blanket over his helm to hide. They're all insane! Unstable, violent, volatile lunatics, worse than the Cons ever were.

Chapter Text

Skywarp onlines in Prime's berth, smiling dopily when he remembers how good he got it last night. The Seeker flips over on his back and stares at the ceiling for a while, quite content on the soft berth.

His tank feels kind of empty though, and that's what makes him get up after a while.

It's hard to know what to do in this new, unknown functioning. There's no energon in the berthroom, Sentinel hasn't left anything for Skywarp.

The Seeker tries the door and is thrilled when he finds it unlocked. He wasn't allowed outside his room in his last home, the force field was always up.

He pads down the hallway, looking through every open door until he finds a refueling room. Sentinel is in there, reading a datapad and sipping a cube of energon. Skywarp steps inside, quivering his wings to show that he's happy to see the mech. Sentinel looks up.

"Good morning, Prime." Skywarp purrs.

"Skywarp. What are you doing here?" Sentinel asks tersely.

"I-I didn't know where to go. My fuel levels are low and you didn't leave anything for me like I'm used to!" Skywarp whines in distress, wings dropping. He wants the Autobot to be happy with him and come back to frag him.

"I'm sorry, Skywarp. It's hard for me to know how to handle you. I'll show you where all the slaves refuel."

"Thank you, Sir." He really doesn't want to fuck up.

The Seeker is lead along the hallway until they reach a small refueling room, lacking the comfortable furniture in Sentinel's room. This just has a few narrow benches, crowded with other Decepticons. A multitude of red optics turn to them when they enter.

"Here's where you refuel. But maybe you should give me something nice first? I know you want to have something more in your intake than just fuel..."

Oh, does he ever?! Skywarp eagerly drops to his knees in front of the Prime.

"Please, Prime! Let me suck your spike!" He slides his servos down Sentinel's hips, finding sensitive wiring along the way.

The interface plate slides away, and Sentinel's spike pressurizes. Skywarp almost throws himself over it, tries to devour the length. He hears the gasps from all around, but it's inconsequential when the hard spike slides into his intake. He mewls around it, valve immediately going charged.

Sentinel groans in pleasure an places a servo on Skywarp's helm, petting the Seeker.

"You're such a delightful little slave, so good at this." Sentinel says, voice strained.

Skywarp overloads.

Chapter Text

His Master is supposed to stay in the medbay for another day. Barricade is still sitting quietly in the corner, careful to keep out of the way of Ratchet. And to try to keep from attracting attention from the other Bots.

Crosshairs has been cleaned up and Ratchet has straightened his dented plating, though the Sniper still seems a bit pouty. Ironhide calmed down and curled around Jazz on the medberth, the Spy in recharge and Ironhide has been nodding off while Crosshairs got repaired by the fuming Medic.

"I should go. I have to get back to Blackout." The Weapons specialist says to the others when he wakes up.

"Wha', ye 'ave an itch ye can't scratch?" Crosshairs sneers.

Ironhide looks thunderous and Barricade presses his back into the corner again.

"We have an important talk to get over with." Ironhide snarls.

"So that's wha' ye kids call it these days." Crosshairs snarks.

Ironhide cocks his helm, considering the Sniper with calculating optics.

"Crosshairs, are you jealous?"

The green Bot looks stricken. Busted. Then he collects himself.

"No! I'm jus'... It's wrong, ye shouldn'..."

"I know, but this is more than that. You are jealousaren't you?"

"Maybe?" Crosshairs mumbles, optics on the floor, clearly embarrassed.

"I'll tell you what; you better be crossing my doorstep at five tonight. I'll show you who's your Officer, you whiny brat." The Weapons specialist smirks when Crosshairs engine whines.

"Yeah yeah, enough with the foreplay. Who's taking Barricade?" Ratchet cuts in impatiently.

Barricade almost falls into reboot in fear. They're going to take him. Ironhide has fragged Blackout, and now it's Barricade's turn to be initiated in this perverted fragpile.

All the Bots turn to him and he realizes that the strange sound echoing through the room, not unlike a trapped turbofox, is coming from him.

"Please, Sir, let me stay here! I want to stay with my Master." He cries to Ratchet, plating clattering in fear.

"It really would be better for you to go somewhere else for the moment." Ratchet says.

Is that a threat? Should he just comply? Begging is useless...

"Yes, Sir." Barricade mumbles, optics downcast.

Chapter Text

"Do you want to get down?"

"Yes, Master."

A servo softly slides down Dreadbot's back-struts. The Decepticon barely keeps from trembling. The lashes left from yesterday's punishment hurt even worse when they're touched.

"Then you need to give me something. Nothing good ever comes for free, right?"

"Yes, Master."

The servo reaches his aft, slides forward over his hip to his array. Dreadbot holds his vents, but nothing painful happens. Instead a digit slides through his folds, teases his node and slides into his valve. Dreadbot's vents hitches from the unwanted pleasure. 

He never knew that pleasure could feel so degrading, so disgusting. Dreadbot glances at the other Autobot's, his owner's friends, mortified by what they're witnessing.

"We want a show. If I'm going to let you down, if I give you the privilege of recharge, I want you to make yourself overload. Would you do that for us?"

Dreadbot hates the idea. Sure, he has put on a show for a couple of his lovers before and found that arousing, but this is different. He fears this mech, finds them all repulsive. But he needs recharge.

"Yes, Sir."

"Good little whore."

The cuffs are released and the spreader bar is removed. Dreadbot stretches and groans in relief.

"Sit over there and lean your back against the wall."

He hesitantly goes to where his owner tells him and sinks to the floor.

"Spread your legs." 

Dreadbot plants his pedes wide, feels exposed and vulnerable when his owner comes up to him. The mech hands him something and Dreadbot takes it. He stares at the thing, spark dropping into his tank. He swallows repeatedly to stop himself from purging.

"Frag yourself with that until you overload. Then we'll see if we're happy with your performance, or if you need to do more to be allowed to recharge."

The mech returns to the couch and takes a seat, sipping his energon as if he's actively trying to add insult to injury.

"Any minute now, Dreadbot."

The Decepticon resigns, takes the toy and slides it into his valve. It starts to vibrate and he mewls in surprise. They bark with laughter when his hips jerk from the stimulation and he starts fucking himself with the miniature model of Megatron's fusion cannon.

Chapter Text

Time has blurred together for Blast Off. It's just what seems like an eternity of neverending pain and horror in the medbay.

But even though it feels like he has been there forever, he's fairly certain that it really hasn't been all that long. The medic is not meticulous, as he usually is.

No, this time the wounds are slapped shut to stop the leaking, he's basically drenched in nanite enriched gel and given a transfusion.

The higher energy levels has him more alert, he actually notices what's going on around him, and not just agony.

"My estimation is that its no use trying to patch him up. He's too bad off, it's going to take weeks to have him back in serviceable condition. But it's your call, you're the one with the budget." The medic says.

"Frag. It's the second one this week who needs to go. At least we got well paid for the other one. This one looks like scrap, he can hardly be worth the metal."

"He's still a Shuttle. Quite a few mechs have a thing for wings, and his are big. Even though they look like slag. They're still sensitive, worth whipping and grabbing."

"I'll list him on the datanet auctions and set the closing date at the end of the week. You make sure he's in a sellable shape by then. Do you have any pictures I can add to the post?"

"I have a few, and I can compile a list of his damage."

"Excellent. Send it to me as quickly as you can, then try to fix the dents in his wings. When you're finished here, I want you to check the Cons we got earlier. They're in the loading dock."

"Absolutely, Sir."

The boss leaves and Blast Off is left with the medic. There's a brief pause, but then his wings are grabbed and harsh servos start to twist and bend to straighten what was once the parts of his frame he was most proud of.

Chapter Text

It's around noon when Ironhide finally returns, looking worse for the wear, with Barricade in tow. The Interceptor's optics are riveted to the floor and he doesn't acknowledge Blackout when they enter the apartment, some of his plating quivering.

Jazz must be pretty sick to send the Mustang to live with Ironhide. Or maybe he didn't make it? What if Barricade will live here permanently? 

Blackout almost glares at the Saleen, but he stops himself. It won't really be that hard to be a better and more purposeful slave than Barricade.

The Weapons specialist sends Barricade into the living room and Blackout watches the other Decepticon sink into a chair. 

"I'm sorry it took so long, Blackout. Do you want some fuel?"

"I'm fine, Sir. Thank you."

Ironhide nods and grabs two cubes from the cooler.

"Come on, Blackout. We're going to have that talk." He says and leads the way to the living room.

The Weapons specialist takes the couch, patting the cushion next to him to invite the Helo to take a seat. One of the cubes, mid grade, slides across the table to Barricade and Ironhide keeps the other, medgrade, Blackout notices, for himself.

"First things first. Barricade, welcome here. You're free to move around the apartment and use anything you want, including the washracks. Help yourself to energon from the cooler, but don't get really drunk this time, please." 

"No, Sir." Barricade mumbles, embarrassed.

"I want you to keep following Jazz's rules regarding your maintenance. Now, I know you had one hell of a night, so if you want to just recharge right now, that's ok. Do you remember where you recharged last time?"

"Yes, Sir."

"You take that couch. There's bedding in the drawer underneath it."

"Thank you, Sir." The Interceptor takes his cube and disappears towards the office.

"He's staying until Jazz is fit to bring him home. Jazz will stay here too for a while when he's out of the medbay."

"Yes, Sir."

"Now, we have an important talk to get over with. Why did you want to interface with me?"

"Because you're nice, and good-looking and I need to be useful for you. I don't want to be sold again." Blackout mumbles, staring at the table.

Ironhide drags a servo down his face.

"The first two reasons are good, the third is... no. You will never be required to interface with anyone to stay here. Never. Not me, or anybot else. You're free to interface with whoever you want, but you're never obligated to do it. If someone tries to tell you that you are, send them to me. Do you understand?"

"I think so, Sir." It's still kind of confusing.

"If you want to interface with me because thinking about it turns you on, if I turn you on, I'm honored. But if you do it because of some sense of duty, that's wrong, a bad reason."

"I did want to do it at first." Blackout mumbles, embarrassed with admitting something like that.

"That brings us to the next point; the second you're outside your comfort zone and don't want to do it, you need to say so. If someone keeps interfacing with you anyway, that's rape. If someone takes advantage of the situation, coerces you into doing it even though you don't want to do it with making you think you will be sold or hurt of you don't, that's rape."

"Ok, Sir?" But that's the way all his other interfacing has been; nobot ever cared when he said no, when he begged them to stop. Is Ironhide really saying that he has a choice?

"We're going to watch this memory together. It's important that you understand this one, because you may see me do things tonight that, taken out of context, would look very bad, contradicting everything I just said to you. It will also show you how important consent is and what should happen if one mech is pushed beyond his limit."

Chapter Text

"That was actually quite good, considering it's your first show. Well at least for us." His owner turns to his friends. "What do you say, my mechs?"

"I'd give it a seven out of ten." One of them smirks and the others bark with laughter.

"I'm charged. That's annoying." One of the others..

"True. Dreadbot. I'm sure you have sucked spikes a lot before, you little whore. You should put that intake of yours to good use." His owner tells him.

He has sucked spike before. Willingly for quite a few of his lovers, and to avoid worse humiliation in his last home. But not like this, not with several repulsive mechs watching him with bright optics, waiting for their turn. He knows what kind of pain his Master can inflict, knows how he holds Dreadbot's functioning in his servos, but the Decepticon just can't.

"Please, Master! I did what you told me! Please, don't make me do thisMaster." He begs.

His owner smirks, something that makes Dreadbot uneasy. Shouldn't he be angry or irritated?

"You did obey me. But I did say that you might have to perform more than just that show. And here you are, disobeying."

Dreadbot didn't even think about it as disobedience to just beg for mercy. He starts to shiver in fear.

His owner rises from his seat and Dreadbot forces himself to stand still and not flee. Fleeing is useless. Where would he go?

He's grabbed and mechhandled to the floor, vocalizer disconnected before his wrist-struts and ankle-struts are hobbled together and he can do nothing but wait there, cheek to the floor, aft in the air.

"Since you owe us all, we will all punish you."

A digit swirls the slit of his valve, slides up to dip into his port, and Dreadbot is certain that he will be fragged. He cries in fear, knows how much it can hurt, but nothing more happens.

One of his Master's friends is bringing something and Dreadbot strains to see what it is from the corner of his optics.

It's a carbon fiber whip, like the one Jazz was going to use on him back at the other horrible place, but this hasn't mere bushings to cause pain. The tip is covered with razors and barbs.

Dreadbot starts struggling in panic, unable to beg for mercy, trying to free himself from the cuffs, but it's useless.

"Again with the resistance. I told you that you should accept anything I decide to do to you. You did not comply and thereby you are forcing us to punish you. You could've avoided this." His Master says, taking the whip his friend is holding out for him. "But at least I get a chance to try out my new whip. It's easier to handle for those not skilled with a whip."

The first lash lands across his aft, and if Dreadbot's vocalizer hadn't been disconnected, he'd be howling in pain, and he writhes in his restraints.

"We will take turns with the whip, and I'm thinking this time, we will keep going until you stop resisting and keep still to take the punishment you've earned yourself. I mean, it isn't like you can count, you underclocked glitch."

Another lash lands and Dreadbot is unable to keep himself from struggling with his restraints. It hurts too much.

Chapter Text

Ironhide has set up the file to make complete immersion impossible, and the Helo opens it while keeping one process on Ironhide. They're still hardlining, so Ironhide can see exactly what Blackout is seeing.

Crosshairs is kneeling on the floor, optics downcast. Ironhide is standing in front of him, the twins behind him.

"Two counts of insubordination. You've been bad again, soldier, and this time we all got in trouble."

"I'm sorry, Sir." The paratrooper mumbles.

"You better make it up to me first. You know what to do."

Ironhide's interface plate slides away and his spike pressurizes. Crosshairs leans forward and immediately takes Ironhide's spike as deep as he can into his intake. The Weapons specialist puts a servo on the back of the Sniper's helm, pushing in deeper.

Blackout shudders, vents speeding up with his rising anxiety. He can feel Ironhide studying him, as I'd he's standing behind the Helo.

"Pause the clip."

Blackout does.

"I know what this looks like to you, but that's why I chose this particular memory. This is nothing like anything you have been through, and I chose it because it will make it crystal clear about what "willing" really means. Pay attention to Crosshairs' field."

The Helo nods, still confused, and takes a deep vent before starting the clip again.

Ironhide overloads in Crosshairs intake and the Sniper struggles to swallow with how deep the spike is pushed and some of the fluid dribbles down his chin. His field flares with arousal.

The Weapons specialist grabs him across the neck and pushes Crosshairs' helm against the floor, lifting his coat to the side. A heavy slap lands across the Paratrooper's aft and Crosshairs yelps in pain.

"Didn't I teach you to swallow all of it?" Ironhide growls, rhythmically spanking the Sniper's aft.

"Y-yes, Sir. I'm sorry, Sir. Please stop!" Crosshairs sobs.

Blackout is even more confused now, and Ironhide notices.

"Crosshairs likes this, wants to be dominated, punished and pretend he's unwilling. We we're still pretty new to our relationship though, and this is the first time we invited someone else. You'll see in a little while when it goes wrong."

"Please, Sir. No more." Crosshairs cries. 

Ironhide doesn't care, he keeps spanking the Paratrooper.

"Shut up. You don't get to decide when the punishment is done." Ironhide growls.

Crosshairs whines. The spanking continues. Until Ironhide decides he's done. He taps Crosshairs' interface plate.

"Open up. You owe the twins too, since they got in trouble because of you."

Ironhide steps back when the plate slides away, revealing Crosshairs weeping valve. Lubricant has been trapped inside his closed panel and it runs down his legs to puddle on the floor

"He's all yours."

Crosshairs field explodes with arousal when Ironhide gives the twins the go-ahead. The Sniper remains prone on the floor when Sideswipe steps forward.

It still looks like something that could be an everyday occurrence for a slave, and Blackout is feeling a chill travel up his back-struts by seeing his owner treat someone like that, because it really looks awful. But he keeps watching, because if this was what it looks like, the Paratrooper wouldn't be aroused, wouldn't come back and crawl into Ironhide's berth again. Right? 

Chapter Text

Blackout watches the memory of Ironhide taking a seat to watch the twins use Crosshairs.

Sideswipe steps forward and nudges Crosshairs' knees apart, before kneeling behind the Sniper. The  Frontliner grabs Crosshairs' wrist-struts for leverage, and to restrain him. Then he pushes in all the way with a groan.

"Pit, he's so wet."

"I know. He's such a needy little slut." Ironhide snickers.

Crosshairs' engine revs.

Blackout can't understand why the Sniper gets excited by being humiliated, but from Ironhide's memory of his field, Blackout can feel Crosshairs' arousal.

Sideswipe thrusts into Crosshairs at a punishing pace, the Sniper's face being ground against the floor every time Sideswipe bottoms out. Then the Frontliner overloads. The silver mech pulls out immediately, transfluid dribbling out of Crosshairs' valve. Sideswipe drags his digits through the slick folds, Crosshairs' hips jerking.

"Cum-dumpster." Sideswipe snickers when he stands to leave room for Sunstreaker.

"Can I stick it wherever I want?" The golden twin asks.

"Of course." Ironhide says.

Sunstreaker kneels behind Crosshairs, grabbing his wrist-struts with one servo, while pumping two of the digits of his other into the Sniper's valve a couple of times before pushing them into Crosshairs' wasteport.

"No, please, not there!" Crosshairs cries out and starts to struggle.

"Shut up, slut. You owe him, and I decided that he can fuck you however he wants. Or do I need to spank you again?" Ironhide growls.

"I'm sorry, Officer. I'll be good, Sir." Crosshairs says and stills.

"Pause the clip, Blackout."

The Helo obeys, watching the Weapons specialist warily. He never thought Ironhide would do something like that to someone.

"I know he said 'no', that it looks like I'm forcing him, but he's still consenting, still liking it. He's turned on by me overruling what he says. That said, we have a different safeword and you will see how that works a little further in the clip."

Blackout nods and restarts the clip.

Sunstreaker slides his spike into Crosshairs' valve, getting it slicked up, then he starts to push into Crosshairs' port. The Paratrooper squirms and whines under the Frontliner, but Sunstreaker doesn't care; he keeps going until he's hilted. He holds still for a few seconds, then he starts thrusting. Crosshairs' face scrunches up, corners of his intake quivering.

"Megatron!" He sobs.

Sunstreaker immediately stops and pulls out, the others surrounding them.

"Are you ok?" The Frontliner grabs Crosshairs around the waist and helps him up, pressing the Sniper's back against his broad chestplates.

"I' was too dry, it 'urt, an' got scared. 'm sorry." Crosshairs sobs.

"It's ok, darling." Ironhide soothes, helping him up and hugging him.

"Yeah, you don't have to apologize. I'm the one who's sorry." Sunstreaker says.

"I'll help you clean up." Ironhide offers.

"Thanks." Crosshairs mumbles into Ironhide's shoulder.

Blackout stops the clip.

"I know this is may seem like an extreme game, and not everyone likes it. That's fine, different strokes for different folks. The important point here is that, no matter what you're doing, if you stop liking it, you should say so. And if the mech you're fragging still continues, that's rape. Do you understand this?"

"I think so, Sir."

"Good. So, the rules are simple; you can interface with whoever you want, however you want, as long as all of you are enjoying it. If one of you get uncomfortable, stop what you're doing."

"Sounds simple, Sir." It really does, easy to remember.

"And don't hide your field, and teek your partner's. It's a very good way to know how the other feels about what you're doing." Ironhide says sternly.

Blackout nods, embarrassed by his own attempt at hiding what he felt.

"If something ever is unclear, just ask and I'll try to answer. And last but not least: I won't send you away if you never ever want to grace my berth again, but you're very welcome if you want to be there."

"Thank you, Sir." Blackout whispers, relieved.

"The other memories you have gotten could give you a hint about how you should feel when you interface."

Chapter Text

The Prime helps him over the threshold, steadies the Seeker with gentle servos on his hip and shoulder and Thundercracker leans on the big Autobot, still too weak to make it by himself.

"Come on. I'll show you your room." Optimus murmurs.

Thundercracker nods quietly, having no choice but to follow, but no reason to fight it either. He's definitely better now, Ratchet has done a good job. He still has a long way to go though.

He's led into a room bigger than the cell he shared with the Stunticons, looking like a library turned into a berthroom. Prime stops at the threshold, but the Seeker takes a step further inside.

There's shelves and shelves of datapads, memory sticks, and interestingly enough, books. Like the ones the humans had, but Cybertronian sized.

But what really catches Thundercracker's interest is the berth. It seems a mile wide, the mattress is thick, and it's covered in fluffy blankets and pillows made to let him lay down comfortably and relieve his still bandaged wings. The Seeker licks his lip-plates, wishing he could run over there and just throw himself into all that fluffiness and recharge for a week. The berth in the medbay was better than the floor in his cell, but still kind of hard and narrow.

"I want to show you where the washracks and energon cooler are before you recharge." Optimus says, putting a servo on Thundercracker's shoulder.

He follows, because while Ratchet has kept him well fueled, months and months of fuel deprivation has made him sort of fixated on every opportunity to get his servos on energon, no matter what grade it might be. Long gone are the days when he'd frown on anything but jet fuel. Beggars can't be choosers.

He's led to the refueling room and Optimus opens the cooler. It's almost full.

"The top shelves are jet fuel. The one below is med grade. You need at least one of those a day, preferably two, while you heal. Ratchet said that it's ok if you want to mix it with something else. There's high grade and mid grade on the bottom shelves. Have as much as you need. Empty cubes go in there..." Optimus points at the dishwasher. "...and it's fine if you want to bring them to your berthroom."

"Thank you, Prime." Thundercracker's voice hitches with emotion. Is he dreaming or is he deactivated? It's too good to be true.

"Do you want to see the washracks and maintenance now, or do you just want some fuel and a good recharge first?" Prime asks.

"I think fuel and recharge sounds like the well. Thank you, Prime." Thundercracker answers truthfully.

"It's nothing, Thundercracker. Truly nothing." Prime says, voice sort of pinched.

Thundercracker grabs two cubes of med grade and two cubes of jet fuel to bring to his room. His room. He adds a cube of high grade to the pile. He feels greedy, but Prime said he could have it, and he has gone without for far too long to be modest about it.

He starts to turn, intending to go to his room, have as much fuel as he can, and then crash in that fluffy berth, but he freezes, staring at the Seeker hovering at the door, optics wide.

"Hello, Starscream."

Chapter Text

Dreadbot reboots, still tied up, but at least the whipping has stopped. His aft and the back of his thighs are burning and he can feel the energon running down his legs. He immediately starts crying without a sound, vocalizer still disconnected.

"That took a while. You really are stubborn." His Master snickers.

At first, Dreadbot doesn't understand what the mech means. How long was he out?  How long a reboot takes has nothing to do with stubbornness.

"I like that about you. You really tried to keep struggling, but eventually you accepted the punishment. Like a good little slave."

Struggling?! He was writhing in agony! Until he couldn't take it anymore and fell into reboot...

"Let's try this again." The mech bends down to release the restraints. He reconnects Dreadbot's vocalizer. "Go sit on the table."

"Yes, Master." Dreadbot mumbles, spark sinking.

Walking hurts, but sitting down is so much worse. Dreadbot starts to pant as soon as the back of his legs touches the surface, but he slowly manages to sit down. His Master comes to stand in front of him, his spike fully pressurized, field cloying and feeling sticky with disgusting arousal against Dreadbot's plating.

"You know what to do."

He does know, but that doesn't make it feel less humiliating. Dreadbot still obeys, not wanting another punishment. He can't take any more. He lets the spike slide over his glossa, takes it as deep as he can, and the mech strokes his helm, a mockingly gentle touch. It just feels condescending.

Dreadbot has enough optics to glance at all the other mechs, but he quickly refocuses on his Master's pelvic plating. He doesn't want to see them staring at him with hungry optics, waiting for their turn, spikes in servo.

"You're definitely the best at this of all the slaves I've ever had. Did you suck a lot of spikes when you were still a warrior? Maybe that was your position; the faction whore, entertainment for the troops. I bet you..." The mech's humiliating monologue cuts off when he groans and spills his transfluid down Dreadbot's intake.

"Well, my mechs, you are in for a treat. He's absolutely fantastic at this." His Master tells the other Autobots.

Dreadbot is repulsed, but when the next mech steps in front of him, he hurriedly sucks that cock into his mouth, trying to ignore the taunts he earns for it. The quicker they're sated, the quicker he's going to get up from sitting on his aft.

Chapter Text

Starscream hovers at the door, looking uncertain what to do. That's a first.

"Am I not going to get a welcoming hug?" Thundercracker asks.

It gets the other Seeker moving and Starscream gingerly puts his arms around his trine mate.

"I missed you." Thundercracker murmurs into Starscream's neck-cables. 

"I thought I was dreaming." Starscream confesses quietly. "Are you staying?"

"Thundercracker is staying. I set up a separate room for him, but if you want to share, that's fine too." Prime speaks up.

Starscream jumps, as if he had forgotten about the huge mech, and Thundercracker frowns slightly. The Prime has been nothing but nice to him. Why is Starscream so wary around the mech after all this time? The blue Seeker can't see any signs of Starscream being mistreated.

"I think I want my own room, at least until my wings feel better." Thundercracker answers Optimus, since Starscream isn't speaking.

He feels Starscream slump, just a fraction of an inch, and he does feel bad about it, but it's best for now. His wings hurt and itch, and he tosses and turns all night. Though that berth did look inviting, looked like he would be able to recharge fairly well in it...

"Speaking of rooms, I'd really like to try that berth out right now. I'm exhausted. If that's alright, Prime." Thundercracker raises his optics to the Autobot commander.

"By all means, go ahead. We will be home all day, whenever you're rested, come find me and I'll show you the washracks." Prime says.

"Thank you, Prime."

Thundercracker presses a soft kiss to Starscream's helm.

"I'll see you in a little while, ok? I really need to recharge for a while."

Starscream reluctantly lets go of him and nods his understanding.

Thundercracker grabs the cubes he put on the counter when he hugged Starscream and starts hobble off.

"Would you like some assistance?" Prime asks.

"Yes, please. That would make this a bit quicker and less awkward. Thank you, Prime."

"Of course."

Strong servos steadies him again and he leans into the mech, grateful for the support as well as the calm field wrapping around him.

Just before they turn the corner, Thundercracker glances back to see Starscream standing in the same spot, optics riveted to them, faceplates unreadable.

Chapter Text

As soon as the Prime disappears around the corner with his trine mate, Starscream finally snaps out of his stupor. The Seeker hurries back to his own room and curls up on the berth to process what just happened.

Thundercracker lives with them now.

It would be such a joy, if it wasn't for his apprehension. 

Why does Prime want Thundercracker?

The blue Seeker has never been the outgoing, flirty type, so it shouldn't be out of the misconception that Thundercracker is easy. And Starscream was rebuffed even when he tried his best to convince Optimus that he wanted him.

But Thundercracker is clearly badly damaged physically, and Primus knows what scars he has that isn't visible. The Prime must've treated his second very well, because Thundercracker seems to trust the Autobot Commander, or at least he puts his trust in that nothing bad will happen to him here, that Optimus is the soft-spark he seemed to be.

Maybe Prime wants to make Thundercracker so thankful, he'll be whatever Optimus wants him to be?

Or maybe he just wants to use them as leverage against each other, get one to do things to keep him from hurting the other?

A Seeker can never be too careful, and that's what Starscream is going to continue to be. He's going to watch both the Prime and Thundercracker carefully, and then he's going to act accordingly. He's going to pretend to not be as close to his trine mate as he is, to keep them both safe. He might be forced to do things he really doesn't want to, but as long as it keeps them safe, he's going to do it. Just like he did back with Megatron.

With his new resolve, everything feels a little better. He has a plan. Granted, it isn't much of a plan, not anything spectacular, but at least it's something.

At first when Thundercracker showed up, Starscream's spark sunk into his tanks, because all he could think of was the opportunity for coercion and leverage with both of them under the same roof.

But the more he saw of his trine mate, the more certain he got that Thundercracker might not even have been online at this point if it wasn't for Prime. The blue Seeker really looks like slag. 

Starscream shudders as he thinks of TC's wings, all wrapped up in mesh bandages. Even covered, it's obvious that there's not much left of the pride and joy of a Seeker.

Wings or no wings, he's still happy and relieved to see his trine mate. And considering what kind of pit Thundercracker must have endured, a few concessions to keep them safe can't be a too steep a price to pay.

Chapter Text

Blackout is sitting in the living room, with the hallway in full view, when the Sniper steps inside. Ironhide immediately grabs him and pushes him against the wall with a servo across the back of his neck. Crosshairs tries to turn around.

The Helo can't help but stiffen momentarily by seeing the mechhandling of the smaller Autobot, but his optics are riveted to the two mechs out of curiosity. It's all a game.

"Optics front, soldier. You're late." Ironhide growls.

"I'm sorry! There was a traffic jam and I..."

"Shut up. I didn't give you permission to speak. Then you didn't plan your drive well enough. There's always a traffic jam at this hour."

Nimble digits work on Crosshairs frame and Ironhide removes the Sniper's coattails. Ironhide's servos roam Crosshairs frame, patting him down and checking his subspace pockets and the smaller Autobot's engine whines.

"So let's see; you disobeyed me this morning, you were disrespectful, you seem to think I'm exclusively yours, and now you're late. Seems like you have forgotten your place. I think I need to remind you of it."

Blackout hears the sound of plating shifting around.

"Close that panel, you needy slut! I didn't tell you to open it. Are you so desperate, you want to go around, whoring yourself out to all and sundry?"

"I'm sorry, Officer!" Crosshairs whimpers, voice laced with static.

"You will be sorry, alright. I'm the one who offers you to others if I feel like it, not you, you pleasurebot. If you got to decide, I bet you would be on your back, spreading your legs all day long. Now, go into my room and bend over the foot of the berth. I'll be in when it suits me."

Crosshairs hurries off to supposedly obey the Weapons specialist, but Ironhide sinks down next to Blackout.

"Are you alright?" He asks the Helo, voice soft and low, not at all the commanding tone he used with Crosshairs.

"I think so. It's not that scary, I know that you're just playing." Blackout says sincerely.

"Good. You live here too and I don't want to make you uncomfortable. It's just that we're pretty used to everyone knowing about us and not caring, so we might do offensive stuff without thinking about it. Just tell me if that's the case."

"Will do, Sir." 

Maybe it's weird, but he kind of hopes that they will do offensive stuff. It's intriguing. And he knows that they're both in on it.

"Well, I have an unruly subordinate to spank. There's new snack packs in the cupboard if you want."

With that, Ironhide leaves the Helo on the couch, leisurely strolling down the hallway to his room.

It's kind of surreal. But Blackout can roll with that. He's not being hurt, and he knows that his owner doesn't enjoy causing true suffering.

Chapter Text

Barricade reboots, and at first, he's confused about where he is. Then he recognizes Ironhide's office and as his systems come online, he remembers everything.

He's supposed to stay here by himself until tomorrow, then Jazz will come here too.

It's tempting to hide in this room until Jazz shows up at first thought, but Barricade realizes that he has grown used to moving around Jazz's apartment. Just the thought of being cooped up like that makes him shudder. And he needs to get another cube to follow Jazz's rules, Ironhide told him to follow them.

He starts down the hallway, but freezes outside the door to Ironhide's berthroom when he hears a quiet whine and an all too familiar sound of a whip hitting metal. The door isn't fully closed, and through the crack, he sees a mech bent over the berth, Ironhide hitting him with a carbon fiber whip.

Barricade stifles a whimper. Why did Ratchet send him here?

"You're allowed to open your panel now." 

At first Barricade thinks the order is for him, and he nearly starts crying, but then he sees the mech's panel sliding open. Ironhide is bringing a toy and starts pushing it into the mech.

"Please, Sir! No' tha' one! It's too big." The mech whimpers, squirming.

"Shut up. It's not too big, because I have decided that it's going to fit."

Barricade hurries to the cooler. He stares at the cubes with high grade, tempted to have one of the huge ones at the top shelf. But Jazz isn't here, and Primus knows what Ironhide will do to him if he gets too drunk. 

He takes a small one, turning to scramble back to his room, but then he stops. He will be an easy target there, all alone and cornered. If he's with Blackout, maybe they'll take the Helo instead?

Barricade saw the big Decepticon in the living room, so that's where he goes. The Helo glances up at him and nods to acknowledge his presence, before returning his attention to the movie he's watching. 

The Saleen takes a chair and opens his cube, sipping the high grade. He itches to just pour it down his intake, but he's very mindful of the effects this time.

Then Ironhide shows up with a subdued Crosshairs in tow. The Sniper's coat is missing, and his aft shows marks of the whip, but no really deep marks, no split plating or protoform. Barricade watches Crosshairs waddle after the Weapons specialist, a gait the Saleen is familiar with. The Sniper has toys inside him. Crosshairs' panel looks crooked, as if he can't even close it fully and the mech keeps his optics on the floor.

Ironhide throws a cloth on the floor next to the couch and turns to the Paratrooper.

"Sit here. I don't want you to ruin the floor with your leaking." He says gruffly.

Crosshairs sinks down on his knees over the cloth.

"Sit on your ass." Ironhide growls.

Barricade watches the Sniper try to lower himself carefully, grimacing. Then Ironhide gets tired of it and leans a servo on Crosshairs' shoulder to push him down. Crosshairs whimpers when his aft hits the floor, and Barricade squirms, knowing what it feels like. He drinks as deeply as he dares.

"Hi Barricade. Are you doing alright?" Ironhide asks, the hard edge gone from his voice. 

The Topkick sprawls on the couch, ignoring the other Autobot, looking at Barricade.

As if he really cares about Barricade's well-being. 

Barricade looks from the Weapons specialist to Crosshairs, the Sniper squirming on the floor, and then at Blackout, the Helo seemingly engrossed in the movie. As if this is completely normal and not terrifying and horrible at all.

"I'm fine, Sir."

Chapter Text

Blackout glances at the mechs in the room. Crosshairs sobbing has turned to panting, and his field is so heavy, it's cloying. It isn't that the Sniper wasn't aroused already when they came out to the living room, but at this point, he's downright contagious to the sensitive Helo.

He looks at Barricade, but that mech is obviously clueless, because he looks stiff as a board where he's sipping his energon mechanically at perfectly timed intervals.

Blackout shifts around on the couch, his charge rising to a tingly itch behind his interface plate when the Sniper's field gets even more insistent.

The Helo knows what an aroused field feels like, because they have stuck to his plating like sticky grease many times before, when mechs took great pleasure in his pain and humiliation.

This feels nothing like that. This is a mech who's in desperate need to be thoroughly fucked and loving it.

No gloating, no vindictive glee. Just want, a pent up need, and Blackout can't help that his frame is responding, but he doesn't really mind either, because it feels natural.

Then Ironhide leans forward, acknowledging Crosshairs for the first time since he ordered him to sit, over an hour ago.

"You've been a very good little soldier, I think you earn a reward. Go to my room, take one toy out, the one from whichever hole you want me to fuck, and wait on all fours on my berth." Ironhide murmurs in Crosshairs audial.

The Sniper hurries away with awkward movements, but Blackout sees how much lubricant is leaking through the seams around his plate before he disappears down the hallway, Ironhide trailing behind as if he's not in a hurry. The door slams shut behind them.

"Excuse me."

Blackout stands, the Saleen still looking where the Autobots disappeared. The Helo heads for the washracks. His spike is about to pop his panel at any second now, and he is going to get rid of that charge without second thoughts or hesitation.

Chapter Text

For a very long time, probably a long time, he can't really tell, Vortex has enjoyed his job.

Today is different. He has this stabbing cramp in his tank from time to time, and it comes frequently enough to disturb him out of his drug- and pleasure addled haze.

Without competition from Skywarp and Knock Out, he has been able to earn a whole lot of the good stuff, but today, he seems unable to take enough to keep the cramps away.

He still pushes through his shift, makes the customers happy enough to give him yet another dose to put on his stockpile.

When the last mech is out the forcefield, he forgoes the shower and immediately goes for his stash instead.

His normal dose seems to just not cut it anymore. It's disturbing, because it isn't that long since he upped his usage the last time.

A quick calculation later, and he has estimated his new dose. He pulls it into the syringe with practiced ease and then he needs quite some time to find an energon line that isn't perforated and healed until it has become scarred and brittle.

The needle sinks through with a pain he has come to think of as pleasure, and he actually starts lubricating as a response. The Helo slowly pushes the plunger, savoring the warmth that spreads through his lines, more powerful with this new dose, and he falls back on his berth with a dopey grin, staring at the ceiling. Vortex's frame goes blissfully warm and numb and just... cozy, and he relishes that sweet moment of utter bliss.

Except the way his optics starts to flicker. Normally, they'd fade to black in that lovely way, but now, the feed is jumping and flickering.

And his tank is roiling. That might not be all that strange; he hasn't refueled today, but it feels different than the acidic feel of an almost empty tank.

His spark is stuttering too. Maybe that's what making his tank feel so strange?

It feels like he's sinking into the berth, as if he's being swallowed by the soft surface. Or maybe he's sinking into himself?

The last thing he's certain about is that he purges and his frame refuses to cooperate when he tries to roll to his side to get the repulsive fluid out of his intake.

Chapter Text

Barricade sits stiffly in his chair, uncertain what to do. Crosshairs is obviously being fragged by Ironhide, Blackout has been in the washracks for quite some time, Ironhide must be pretty lenient to allow his slave to linger like that, and Barricade is at a loss for what to do.

He's too nervous to get into the movie playing on the screen. He really hopes that Jazz won't be held even longer in the medbay.

Ironhide comes back, Crosshairs following him. The Sniper walks awkwardly and when he takes a seat next to Ironhide, he does so slowly, carefully, and he grimaces when he finally has all his weight on his aft.

Barricade knows how that feels. It's terrifying, because if Ironhide doesn't hesitate to do that to an Autobot, what could he do to a Decepticon?

The Weapons specialist drapes his arm across Crosshairs' shoulders and pulls him in to rest his helm against Ironhide's broad chestplates.

"You ok?" He murmurs against Crosshairs' helm.

"I'm really good. Sore as 'ell, bu' i's all good." The Sniper answers, pressing into Ironhide's frame.

Ironhide has already done it with Blackout and tonight it's Barricade's turn. The Bots probably grew tired of waiting for Barricade to become willing, whatever that actually means to them, and that's why he was put in custody with the brute. He should have just offered himself to Jazz, and spared himself from being test-driven by Ironhide.

Blackout comes back, plating still damp, and when Ironhide pats the seat on the other side of him, the Helo squeezes down there, pressed along the other side of Ironhide.

"Was i' good?" Crosshairs leers to Blackout.

The Helo looks embarrassed, and Ironhide cuffs the Sniper on the back of his helm.

"Do you really want another round right now?

"Maybe later?" Crosshairs grins.

Ironhide snorts and rolls his optics.

"You don't have to answer that." He says to Blackout.

"It was good, Sir."

Ironhide laughs good-naturedly and Crosshairs smirks.

Barricade flounders. Whatever Ironhide is doing to them, they don't seem to mind one bit.

They're both sluts.

Chapter Text

It's impossible to fall into recharge. Barricade has tossed and turned, but he's way too frightened to relax. 

With all the stealth he can muster, Barricade sneaks into the refueling room. He opens the cooler and stares at the cubes. He'd definitely fall into recharge after one of the big ones. He probably wouldn't even notice if they all came in to fuck him.

Ironhide said he shouldn't get drunk, but maybe he won't notice if Barricade does it by himself and just sleeps it off tomorrow?

He grabs one of the biggest cubes of high grade.

"What are you going to do with that?" Ironhide's deep voice rings out from the door.

Barricade swivels around with a whimper, almost dropping the cube.

"I-I..." Barricade trails off in his panic, spark dropping, as reality strikes him. He disobeyed a rule!

Of course he got caught. His Masters always know what he's doing. He's hopeless, can't do anything right.

He turns back, places the cube where he took it, closes the door to the cooler, and then he puts his servos on the back of his helm and drops to his knees, interface plate sliding away. Compliant and accepting. He fucked up again, and he deserves whatever Ironhide will do to him.

"Primus. Barricade, get up from the floor."

The Saleen hesitantly obeys, servos still on his helm, his back to the Autobot to show that he will take the punishment.

"Turn around."

The Saleen does, keeping his optics riveted to the floor.

"Look at me, Barricade."

Just like his first Master; wants to see Barricade's optics when he tells him what a worthless drone he is. He forces himself to look at Ironhide.

"I told you not to get plastered and we both know how well you handle a cube that size. Why were you taking one anyway?"

"I'm sorry, Master! I was so scared and I couldn't recharge! Please don't hurt me!" He cries, even though he knows that begging is useless.

"I won't hurt you. Come on, let's go back to your room and talk about this." Ironhide coaxes.

Barricade follows him like a mech being led to his execution.

'Talk?' Barricade knows what this talk is going to be about. Ironhide is going to make him choose if he wants to be hurt or fragged.

Chapter Text

Barricade crawls onto the berth and lays down on his back, spreading his legs, while Ironhide closes the door. The Interceptor stares at the ceiling, servos laying limply on the sides of his helm.

"While this could be very tempting visually, I don't enjoy fucking a clearly unwilling mech." Ironhide says, stretching his servo to Barricade.

The Interceptor grabs the held out servo and is easily hoisted up to sit on the berth. Ironhide sinks down on the edge of it, mattress dipping under his massive frame.

"You can close your panel if you want."

Barricade doesn't dare. Closed panels can be torn off.

"Then I'll just admire the view. What made you so scared, you were about to get plastered just to fall asleep?"


What can he say? He can't say that he's scared of Ironhide. He should be accepting. 

"Everything! There's another Decepticon here, and I haven't met one yet who wasn't allowed to frag me, and I don't want to fuck up and be punished, and what if my first Master shows up to..." His voice hitches. " punish me." Barricade sobs.

"Blackout is not going to fuck you if you don't want to. Nobot here is going to interface with you unless you want to, and we won't hurt you either. If you break a rule you're not aware of, that I forgot to tell you, well talk about it. That's it."

Barricade nods, sobbing quietly.

"Yes, Sir."

"Do you really think anyone would break in here to punish you for something?" 

It's illogical, he knows that, but he just can't do anything about that line of thought. His first Master seemed to always know what Barricade was doing.

Ironhide spins his cannon, making Barricade startle.

"Then he'd have to go through me first. You think he would?"

Barricade stares as the gun powers up with an ominous whine. His first Master was skilled with the whip. He wasn't a warrior. And Ironhide is powerful and vicious, Barricade has seen him on the battlefield.

"No, Sir." He mumbles.

"Good. I protect those I consider mine, and you're under my roof, so that includes you. Do you want a small cube?"

Oh, a small one would be so much better than no cube.

"Yes, Sir. Thank you."

Ironhide unsubspaces one and hands it to the Interceptor.

"I don't care if you get a little buzzed like this, as long as it doesn't turn into a habit, but I already have one idiot in the medbay after an overdose. I'm not in the mood for dragging you there to get your tank pumped." He says gruffly.

Ironhide stands and turns to Barricade.

"Are you going to be alright, or do you want me to stay until you fall into recharge?

"I'm fine, Sir. I think." Barricade says before taking a sip of the high grade.

"Just wake me if you're not. And Barricade?"

"Yes, Sir?"

"Thank you for saving Jazz."

"You're welcome? Sir."

Ironhide nods before leaving the room and Barricade scoots back to lean against the wall to think things through. Somehow, he feels a little calmer after their talk. 

Chapter Text

Dreadbot never thought he'd be crying this much. But then, he never imagined the level of cruelty he's being subjected to either.

Curled up on the floor in his corner, tank full of cum, he's completely miserable. The lights are out, the floor is cold and hard, and he's all alone with his thoughts.

It was so easy to decide to be compliant, but actually doing it, wasn't easy at all. Not when they want him to do stuff he knows feels good doing with someone he likes, while they're mechs he hates and fears.

Dreadbot found out pretty quickly when he first started interfacing that he likes receiving spike. Sucking his lover's cock, hearing the mech moan in pleasure always made him wet and ready. Getting a spike in his valve? Oh, Primus! He didn't even need to rub his node to overload so hard, at least four of his optics fritzed. He really enjoyed interfacing.

That just makes this more vile. They're not his lovers. He knows what kind of mechs are his type, and these Bots are not it. He still allowed them all to shove their cocks down his throat, to fill his tank to the brim with their disgusting, unwanted fluids. 

It didn't feel good, didn't turn him on. It was repulsive, and they just kept mocking him for it. Dreadbot has never felt like a pleasurebot for doing that for a lover before, but tonight, he really did feel like a cheap drone, and he can still taste them on his glossa.

If they would just allow him to brush his denta.

Nobot would probably be able to guess it, but the tenderness after a lay was always important to Dreadbot, even if it just entailed falling into recharge in a haphazard pile in berth after overloading. They don't even allow him to be on a berth.

He curls up harder, sobbing quietly, arms wrapped around himself, digits plucking with the wiring in his sides, but the false sense of safety from the physical touch is just cold comfort to him. He still knows that it isn't anyone else who does those soothing touches to his frame.

Chapter Text

He's running through the Badlands again, and just like all the other times, he knows that he can't escape. He's still tries desperately, because the reseal is tugging at his mesh with every step, a painful reminder of how much worse it's going to get.

The Interceptor stumbles over a hill, tumbling down the slope on the other side. With a groan, he turns over on his back, trying to get his bearings, and a shadow falls over him.

Barricade scrambles backwards, away from Crosshairs.

"No, please, don't do it, Sir! I..."

"Shh." Crosshairs holds a digit across his lips. "If ye're quiet, we migh' ge' away." He whispers.

He gestures to Barricade to follow him and the Saleen does, hesitantly. He's ushered into a narrow cave, Crosshairs crawling behind him, but then the Sniper yelps and when Barricade turns his helm, the Autobot is dragged backwards out of there, screaming. As soon as he's out of the tunnel, a huge servo reaches for Barricade, grabbing his ankle-strut, and Barricade's dragged out too.

"You thought you could escape?" Ironhide growls to Crosshairs.

"No, Officer! Please..." Crosshairs cries.

Barricade is dangling upside down in Blackout's grasp, unable to do anything, spark spinning so quick, it feels like it's about to explode.

"So, you worthless pleasuredrone, do you want Blackout to fuck you, or me to punish you?"

"Blackout can have me." Crosshairs whimpers.

"I knew you'd spread your legs willingly, you whore." Ironhide sneers derisively at Crosshairs. "Blackout, he's all yours."

Blackout drops Barricade and he hits almost everything in the landing. Ironhide nudges his knees apart and the Saleen cries out when he's roughly entered, the reseal tearing at his dry mesh.

"You're mine now, you little whore." Ironhide purrs in his audial. "Turn your helm and have a look."

He does, and for horrible moments, he just can't comprehend what he's seeing. But then the gruesome sight finally sinks in and he just can't stop screaming.

Jazz lays limply on the ground next to him, visor black and empty, frame lifeless and gray. Half of his plating is scattered on the ground, and there's dried energon everywhere. The Spy's neck-cables seems to have been brutally torn out.

"He just wouldn't stop doing drugs." Ironhide grunts and overloads inside Barricade.

The door flies open, almost flying off the hinges.

Barricade emergency reboots, all systems fully online immediately as Ironhide barges in, cannon powered up.

The Interceptor is sitting up, screaming as loud as he possibly can, but he abruptly stops and starts crying in fear, curling up on the berth, entire frame shaking. He hears Ironhide's cannon powering down, but he doesn't look at the mech.

"Barricade." The Weapons specialist murmurs in a soft voice, slowly inching closer.

He just can't bring himself to answer, even though that's bad. He's crying too hard to be able to speak.

"Bad defrag?"

Barricade manages to nod.

"May I see? I could put you in a loop of something pleasant to let you recharge ok if you'd like..."

It's just too terrifying. Ironhide said he protects those under his roof, but he still did stuff to Crosshairs. But Barricade won't be able to recharge either, and the Sniper didn't just plug in and force the hardline last time, even when Barricade offered...

"Cou-could Crosshairs d-do it?" He manages to sob.

"O' course I can." The Paratrooper says quickly from the door, where he and Blackout is watching the Mustang.

Chapter Text

Blackout watches Crosshairs sit down at the edge of the berth, holding out a cable for Barricade.

"Take it n' plug it in where ye want."

Barricade hesitates, but then he slips it into a socket on his arm. The Saleen stretches out, invents shuddering as he tries to calm himself.

"Gimme the file. I'll give ye a loop, an' I'll watch tha file, an' then I'll delete it. Okay?"

Barricade nods.

"Wha' do ye wan' te do?"

"Maybe racing on Earth?"

"Comin' right up. Ye'll 'ave Bumblebee eatin' yer dust."

Blackout sees Barricade's optics dim, and the Saleen actually smiles a little as his vents even out. Then his optics goes dark when he falls into recharge.

"'e won' be sleepin' deeply, bu' a' least 'e'll sleep." 

"I've never seen anything like it. Thought someone was tearing him apart." Ironhide says quietly.

"This isn' jus' a memory, i's a mix of memories n' fears his processor cooked up, 'e's terrified of all of us. I'd 'ave peed my berth if I 'ad woken up from this, te find the mechs from tha' dream in my room." Crosshairs grinds out as he watches the reflux file. "I don' think 'e understands consent, n' wha' we did tonight." Crosshairs adds quietly.

"For fucks sake, Jazz!" Ironhide groans. "Damn it, I should have included him in my talk. I'm fragging worthless at taking care of mechs, it seems." Ironhide's field is filled with guilt.

"You're not, Sir. You do your best. How would you know what Jazz has and hasn't told him? How would you know what he has been through, what might trigger him?" Blackout asks.

The Bot doesn't deserve to feel that bad. Barricade could've said that he wasn't fine at all.

"Thanks, Blackout, but I still think I should have..."

"Stop i'. It doesn' matter. Ye can't change wha' 'appened. We'll deal with this tomorrow."

"I'll talk to Barricade first thing in the morning." Ironhide turns to Blackout. "I want you to start telling me what happened to you. Not all at once, of course, but I want you to share one memory of your choice a day. It would be helpful for me, so I don't fuck up again."

It's not very tempting to relive those memories again. But it felt better after he showed some of his memories to Jazz. And Ironhide asked nicely, and he keeps Blackout safe, so maybe it won't be that bad.

"Certainly, Sir."

Chapter Text

Barricade is apprehensive when he goes to get morning energon. It's not just that the Bots know what he thinks of them now. He fragged up so badly. What purpose cold a slave possibly fill, when he wakes up screaming, waking everyone else, needing to be cared for like a sparkling?

He hopes that nobot is home, but of course that kind of luck isn't in the stars for him.

"Sit down, Barricade." 

Ironhide is sitting by the table in the refueling room. Barricade sinks down on a chair and the Weapons specialist hands him a cube.

"Do you know what willing means?"

Barricade tenses up. He knows where this conversation ends: in berth.

"That I choose to interface with everyone, Sir?"

"No." Ironhide says, sounding tired. "That you want to interface with a mech. When somebot turns you on so bad, you want to jump his struts. When thinking about fucking a mech makes you all hot and bothered. You're truly willing if you'd be disappointed instead of relieved if he called it off at the last second."

That's... Disappointed? By not being fucked?!

"Do you teek fields, Barricade?"

"No, Sir." Barricade mumbles.

He hates fields. Hates to know how turned on mechs are when he's scared, in pain or humiliated. How satisfied they are when he's brought as low as possible.

"You should, and stop pulling your field in. In fact, this is a new rule here; you're not allowed to hide your field. And whenever you're uncertain about us, you're required to teek our fields. Is that clear?" Ironhide says sternly.

"Yes, Sir." Barricade answers, spark speeding up in fear.

"You're pulling it in again. Stop that."

Barricade starts trembling, plating clattering. He forces his field to not pull back, as it does automatically nowadays.

"I want open communication. I require that you tell us if you're scared or uncomfortable by something we do. Do not wait until you're at the 'crawling on the floor with your panel open'-stage."

"Y-ye-yes, S-sir." Barricade sobs.

"Teek my field. Before something vital shakes loose." Ironhide mutters the last part.

The Mustang tentatively lets his field graze the edges of the massive Autobot's. The first thing that strikes him is the lack of amusement and arousal with Barricade's obvious terror. Ironhide is calm and determined, but there's an underlying streak of dismay. It's bewildering. Barricade stares at the Autobot, uncertain how to react, his fear almost forgotten.

"How does it feel? Be honest." Ironhide asks, voice softer.

"Strange. Not as bad as I thought." Ironhide's field is kind of reassuring, actually.

"Good. Keep doing that. We're not going to fuck you if you don't want us to, we won't hurt you, and we don't take any pleasure in your fear or humiliation. Whenever you get uncertain, our fields will tell you what to expect."

"But you did things to Crosshairs..." Barricade blurts before he can stop himself. The Sniper was hurt and humiliated by Ironhide.

The Autobot snorts and rolls his optics.

"If you had been teeking our fields, you'd be racing Blackout to be first in the washracks. Crosshairs' loves it. His field, when he's put on the spot like that... Well, he could incite an orgy if I'm not careful about not pushing him too far. Actually has done so a couple of times."

Barricade stares at Ironhide, intake hanging open.

"But misunderstandings like that won't be an issue from here on out, because you are going to start using your field, and you will tell us if we make you uncomfortable. Understood? Recite the new rules." Ironhide says, and his voice brokers no argument.

"Y-yes, Sir! I w-will start to use my f-field and t-tell you honestly how I feel." Barricade stutters nervously. Ironhide is intimidating when he gets stern.

"You better. Or I'm taking away your TV privileges."

Chapter Text

Vortex reboots with a grunt. His entire frame aches, his helm feels like it's about to explode, and the lights are way too bright.

He's laying on a hard floor, shivering with cold, and he blearily looks around the unfamiliar room. It looks like giant washracks, but with just one hose. 

The Helicopter takes stock of his own frame, and then he wishes he hadn't. He's covered in his own fluids, plating damp with condensation. The tiled floor where he's laying is equally disgusting, so wherever he is, he has purged and voided his tanks since he was moved here. The mess is repulsive, triggering him to purge again, hardly more than acidic oral lubricant coming up.

Vortex weakly tries to get up, and with a massive effort, he manages to get halfway. He crawls on all fours to the hose, fumbling with getting the water running. It's lukewarm, but it's better than being smeared in... that.

The Combaticon sits on the floor, leaning his back against the wall, and lets the pressure of the solvent do the work with cleaning him. He finds an emergency pack magnetized to his plating, energon getting distributed through a needle in one of his lines.

He offlines his optics and allows himself to almost drift off, the water keeping him warm enough to not shiver anymore.

It isn't his main priority to figure out what's going in, he's too miserable for that, but the Helo can't help but wonder if he will be able to go back to his job, or if he's going to be relocated. What other type of functioning could he get? Vortex has seen the Pound and the bordello, nothing more.

He opens the bond for the first time since... He can't even remember. They're all vague, keeping their bonds muted, but he gets the sensation that Brawl is exhausted to a point of falling into stasis. Onslaught is calm and collected, as usual. Blast Off is the worst, because he pointedly tries not to acknowledge the frayed ends that was the bond to Swindle. Blast Off is in excruciating pain. 

It's cold comfort, but at least Vortex's misery seems nothing compared to what the Shuttle is going through. 

But maybe that's what he will end up like later?

Chapter Text

The Saleen never would have guessed it, but Ironhide was right. Teeking fields really makes everything easier.

The first day, he almost panicked every time he pushed his field out, and only did so because he didn't dare disobeying Ironhide's rules, expecting to meet a wall of feelings he'd rather not know, but that just never happened.

When he was told that Jazz had a couple of more days in the medbay, his spark hiccupped, but as soon as he had teeked Ironhide's field, he found himself relaxing. The Weapons specialist wasn't angry that he was stuck with a useless slave, or perhaps planning on having Barricade pay rent in humiliation. He was disappointed and worried, all tinged with longing.

Those days have passed and Jazz is here too now. The first night, he recharged with Ironhide, if any recharge was actually achieved, considering the Spy's stiff walk the morning after.

But Barricade has fragged up once again and put himself in a jam.

He's sharing the berth with Jazz again, but this time, he isn't worried about being fragged. Jazz's field shows no signs of arousal, he's in recharge.

No, the problem is his own frame. After the overload in his sleep, when everything went to pit fire, Barricade has taken to jerking off in the shower every day to not repeat that ordeal. Pleasurebots need to overload all the time.

Today, he didn't. He completely forgot. And now the Spy is stretched out on the berth next to Barricade. 

He can't rub one out here. Getting up and possibly waking the Spy seems like a bad idea. Overloading in his sleep would be humiliating, and it would show Jazz that Barricade's frame needs lots of interfacing.

The Saleen glances at Jazz as he moves his legs further apart and slowly slides a servo down his ventral plating. Valve overload it is then.

Every time he touches his valve, he's reminded of humiliating shows he has been forced to put on, so he opens a planted memory as he starts rubbing his node. He's guessing that it's one from Crosshairs, because Ironhide and Jazz is watching, but the biggest difference from every show Barricade has put on is the emotions accompanying the memory. He feels so fucking sexy, wanted.

The Saleen stifles a mewl when his charge rises quickly, vents coming faster when he curls his digits inside his valve and rubs his node. He's so close.

Beside him, Jazz turns.

Just as he overloads, hips jerking, Barricade onlines his optics to find Jazz staring at him with a bright visor. The Spy's field is heavy with arousal, and his silent fans are spinning quickly enough to let the Saleen hear the rush of air, and Barricade doesn't know if he should offline from embarrassment or panic because surely, he must seem willing right now?

"'scuse me." Jazz forces out, voice thick.

The Spy practically throws himself out of the berth and flees the room, uncharacteristically heavy pedefalls resounding from the hallway. Barricade hides his face in his servos. Further down the hallway, a door is yanked open and slams shut.

Chapter Text

The restraints are finally removed, and Blast Off is allowed to get off the medberth. The Shuttle tentatively stretches, careful not to pull on the still sore welds. 

They drag him into the washracks and he's put through a cold shower to clean away dried energon, soot from the repairs and old greaae, and he's forced to suffer the humiliation that's an inside cleaning too.

He's led down the hallway and into a reception area. Pale light is filtering in through the frosted windows, and Blast Off guesses that it's early morning and long until opening hour. He wonders what he's doing there, he has never been allowed in this area before.

The walls are decorated with whips and chains and other torture devices he has had more than enough of, and he shudders when he sees wing clamps.

One of the guards opens the doors, admitting two mechs, and Blast Off can't take his optics off the familiar faces.

"Good morning, Sir. He's cleaned and ready for you."

Icy, blue optics scrutinizes him critically, and Blast Off wants to cower back when the mech seems satisfied with what he sees and nods to the guard.

The Autobot busies himself with a datapad the guard hands him, and Blast Off takes a closer look at the other mech. 

There's something strange, downright disturbing, with the stillness of him, and the blank smile gracing his face. His expression hasn't changed the entire time they've been here, and he seems to stare blankly into thin air, not acknowledging Blast Off.

As if he isn't there, mentally.

The Shuttle's musings are cut short when the Autobot is done with the datapad, signing it.

"You are mine now, Decepticon. Let us go."

With a clenching tank and spinning spark, Blast Off follows his new owner out of the bordello and into an uncertain future.

Chapter Text

Starscream stares at the pair from the doorway. Thundercracker is stretched out on the couch, helm resting on Prime's thigh. Optimus has sunk down deep in the couch and looks relaxed.

The scene is very strange to witness. The positions aren't unfamiliar; if Thundercracker had been sitting like Prime does, and Skywarp had been the one stretched out like that, it would've been just like before, whenever the trine relaxed in their hab suite. 

But this is not his trine. His trine mate is cozied up against Optimus Prime. And he looks content to be there.

The Autobot turns his helm, apparently aware of the former Air Commander standing in the doorway.

"Come on and join us, Starscream."

The Seeker hesitantly steps into the living room, as both the other mechs bursts into laughter at something happening on the screen. He takes a chair where he can sneak peeks at them.

Starscream finds himself jealous. Sure, he's the one keeping his distance from Thundercracker, holding the blue Seeker at arm's length, but that's for their own protection. But just because he's doing that doesn't mean that he likes it. 

Primus, does he miss comforting touches and mingling fields.

He knew it would be hard, having his trine mate so close, and yet so far. Within easy reach, but still untouchable. What he didn't foresee, was Thundercracker easily slipping into a habit of taking that comfort from Prime instead.

What are the mech's really doing in the evenings, when Optimus is tucking Thundercracker in, and staying with him until the blue Seeker has fallen into recharge?

"Starscream. We have a function at Sentinel's place we need to attend tonight. Thundercracker is in no shape to go yet, so you have to come alone." Prime says.

Starscream's tank drops. But what choice does he have?

"Yes, Prime." He mumbles.

Of course he can't bring Thundercracker. He's not as pretty as Starscream in his current condition. Or maybe Prime just doesn't want Thundercracker to know how he sees the treatment of Sentinel's Seekers and does nothing?

Chapter Text

"We need ta talk."

Jazz materializes behind Barricade in the hallway, and the Interceptor startles and spins around, spark spinning with nerves and embarrassment after what happened last night. If he wanted to overload, he probably should've offered himself to Jazz.

Jazz motions for him to enter the room they share, and Barricade is getting anxious, not knowing what the Spy is going to do. Then he remembers Ironhide's rules and forces his field to extend. Jazz is calm and determined. That eases some of his apprehension when the door is closed behind them. He takes a seat on the berth and Jazz takes a chair.

"Ya know, I'm glad that ya've made enough progress ta play with yourself, I'm definitely not mad about that. But I'd be grateful if ya didn't do it while I'm lying next ta ya."

"I'm sorry, Sir." Barricade mumbles, mortified and slightly confused.

Doesn't his owner enjoy getting a show? Is he so repulsive, Jazz doesn't want to see him do that? But the Spy got aroused...

"I didn't want to get up and risk waking you up, Sir."

"I get it, but I want ya ta know that if ya do wake me when ya get up, I won't be mad 'bout it. Jus' play with yourself in the washracks or when I'm not around from here on out."

"Do you think I'm disgusting too, Sir?" Barricade would understand that. It feels like half of Cybertron have had their spikes in at least one of his orifices.

"Pit no! It's jus' that it's hard for me ta not get aroused when I'm waking up next ta a pretty mech, pleasuring himself. I'm just a mech. I'd hafta be deaf, blind n' stupid ta not get turned on by tha'." 

"Okay, Sir?" It comes out like a question, because Barricade is confused.

"I jus' don't want ya ta see me get all revved up and freak out in the middle of your happy time, thinking I will frag ya even if ya don't wanna or something like tha'. Don' get me wrong, I'd love ta watch ya pleasure yourself, but only if ya wanna put on a show for me because it turns ya on. Not because ya think ya have ta. N' I don' wanna sneak a peek when ya're unaware n' rob ya of tha right ta say no."

Like Barricade did when he watched Jazz in the washracks. He starts trembling with fear. He fucked up.

"What scared ya now?" Jazz says, sounding mildly exasperated.

Jazz hates being lied to.

"I-I... You k-know when you came home d-drunk and covered in energon?" 

Barricade waits until Jazz nods.

"I watched you pleasure yourself in the shower." Barricade whispers, staring into his lap.

"Yeah, I know."

Barricade's helm snaps up.

"You knew?!" He squeaks. "How?"

"Spy-frame, lots of sensors." Jazz smirks. "N' tha way ya were staring at my valve when we showered was kind of obvious, so I figured ya wanted ta see."

Barricade flushes furiously, mortified.

"Don' worry' bout it. I don' mind puttin' on a show. We can call it educational purposes." Jazz winks half his visor at the Saleen.

"Yes, Sir." Barricade whispers, wishing the berth would just swallow him.

Chapter Text

Blast Off steps over the threshold and into the hallway. The house, in a well kept garden, along a road with equally neat houses, is such a contrast to his last home, where he shared a small and dank cell with two mechs at a time.

He looks around, and notices that the inside of the house seems equally neat, almost to a point of becoming impersonal.

"Do you need any immediate repairs, Blast Off?" Prowl asks him.

" Sir. I think I'm fine for now?" Blast off doesn't like medics anymore.

Prowl looks sceptical, but nods once in affirmation.

"Very well. Just tell me otherwise, and I will comm Ratchet."

The Shuttle nods, trying to control a shudder.

"Give me your arm." Prowl says.

Blast Off does, though slowly, hesitantly. Prowl grabs it and plugs a cable into one of the Shuttle's sockets. Blast Off's vents pick up with apprehension for what the Autobot is about to do.

He's not prepared for getting access to his interface panel back.

"You are allowed to keep it closed in the house." Prowl informs him, while disconnecting and plugging into Onslaught.

"Onslaught will show you around and tell you the house rules. I have a call to make. Excuse me."

The Praxian disconnects and leaves them. Blast Off turns to Onslaught, nervous about speaking to his former Commander. The Truck sat quietly all the way home, staring into thin air, with that strangely blank smile on his face.

The other Combaticon looks completely different now; optics focused and trained on the Shuttle, a worried look on his face.

"Are you alright?" Onslaught asks. "I mean, it's obvious that you're not alright, but considering the circumstances...?" He corrects himself, trailing off at the end.

"I-I... Yes. I mean... I don't know. Am I awake?"

"You are."

"But you seemed like a drone! I thought you were reprogrammed or something!"

"A cover-up. For when we leave the house. In here, we can be ourselves." Onslaught says calmly.

Blast Off stares at his ex-Commander, taking him in. He doesn't look physically damaged. On the contrary, he seems healthy; well fueled, engine purring as only a well maintained one can.

"What has he done to you?"

"He has kept me safe and comfortable."

Things like that aren't free for a Decepticon slave. 

"What's my purpose here?" Blast Off hisses, getting nervous. He will be forced to pay for it in one way or another.

"To not be deactivated on a cold floor at the Pound? To keep us company? To finally be safe? Come on, I'll show you the energon cooler and the washracks."

Energon does sound tempting.

"Do you still prefer to have your own room, or would you like to share?" Onslaught asks over his shoulder, leading the way into a quite large refueling room.

They get to choose?

"I'd like to share."

Chapter Text

Thundercracker helps him get polished, worn talons still a bit clumsy from long lack of maintenance.

"You're avoiding me." Thundercracker states simply.

"I'm not!" Starscream tries to defend himself.

"Yes, you are. Come on Starscream, you thought I wouldn't notice? Do you find me that hideous? My wings are getting better, but they will probably always look a little ugly."

"No! It's not like that. I just don't want Prime to know how much I care about you, so he can use it for blackmail."

Thundercracker actually snorts, something Starscream might expect of Skywarp rather than the blue Seeker.

"Do you really believe that? Even after living with Optimus for what must be close to a couple of years by now."

"I-I... I don't know what to think. You don't know what I've seen!" Starscream thinks about what happened to Ramjet, and similar events he has witnessed at other occasions.

"I think I can imagine..." Thundercracker mumbles.

"He still bought me! As if owning a slave is somehow his right." 

Starscream is feeling more and more agitated. Thundercracker doesn't seem to understand the gravity of the situation. Optimus Prime is owning two slaves, and his trine mate seems fine with that somehow.

"Has he violated you? Abused you in any way?" Thundercracker asks, still working on Starscream's wing.

" But I still don't trust him! What does he want with me? Or with you? There has to be a goal with owning us." 

"Of course you don't trust him. You're still Starscream."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"Oh, I don't know, that you're just a little bit paranoid? Tend to see scheming everywhere just because you tend to behave like that yourself? That you have a tendency to pop the hood of a gift truck?"

"Hmph." Starscream crosses his arms in annoyance.

So Prime has his trine mate wrapped around his digit? Well that trick is not going to get Starscream to be his happy little lapdog.

Chapter Text

"So, we meet again, Dreadbot. Or should I call you Spreadbot? I remember that you were pretty quick to lay down and spread your legs back then. Looks like you still are." Berserker smirks.

"Oh, this is rich! You know him?" Dreadbot's Master asks the other Decepticon.

Dreadbot offlines all of his optics in shame where he's laying on the table, legs spread wide. Like he was ordered to.

"He was something of the base bike back then."

His Master barks a laugh of ugly amusement.

"So I was right all along; you really are nothing but a Deceptislut. Anyway, let's stop burning daylight and get started."

He steps back behind the cameras, after slapping an autobrand sticker on the chestplates of Berserker.

"He's all yours, just make sure he overloads." Dreadbot's Master tells the bigger Decepticon.

Berserker grabs Dreadbot's throat and pushes two digits into his valve. He's dry and unprepared and it stings and aches.

"Please don't do this." He sobs, trying to close his legs. Why are they allowing this? Berserker's a Con too.

"Oh, I will. And you're going to enjoy it, you filthy whore." Berserker purrs, field oppressive with derision and arousal.

He drags Dreadbot from the table, pushing his back against the wall instead. Dreadbot is almost choking by the harsh grip on his throat, but Berserker is finding sensitive spots inside his valve, and to his humiliation, he's getting charged. Quickly.

"Look at you dripping already." Berserker growls against Dreadbot's temple, sharp denta grazing his plating.

"Please stop!" Dreadbot coughs out, but Berserker pays him no mind.

When charge is crackling over Dreadbot's plating, he's thrown front first on the table, the bigger Con stepping up behind him. Digits slide into his soaking wet valve and Berserker pushes his thumb into Dreadbot's port. He works slowly, with small movements, teasing to keep Dreadbot teetering on the edge of overload, so charged it hurts.

"Still want me to stop?"

"No! Please, let me overload!" Dreadbot whimpers.

"Tell me what you are first, you needy whore."

"No." Dreadbot grinds out, trying to buck his hips to steal that overload.

Berserker plants a servo on the small of his back and pushes him down, stilling his digits. Dreadbot whimpers and tries to squirm, but it's useless.

"Say it."

"I'm a needy slut. Please fuck me." The words taste bad, but his circuitry is about to start burning from the charge.

Berserker pulls his digits out and slams his spike into Dreadbot's valve, making him moan loudly as he's finally properly filled. Dreadbot can't help himself, it feels too good. He arches his back-struts, pushing back to get that cock as deep as possible, with an indecent whine leaving his vocalizer.

The larger Con sets a brutal pace, but Dreadbot doesn't mind; his ceiling node is hit just so and that sweet spot inside is rubbed with every slick slide of Berserker's ridged spike.

He overloads hard with a wail, digits scrabbling over the tabletop. Berserker pulls out and shoots his transfluid on Dreadbot's aft and back just as the smaller Decepticon quivers in a second overload.

Dreadbot collapses on the table, spent enough to not care about Berserker pushing digits into his sloppy valve just to add insult to injury.

"Nice! That'll sell really good." Dreadbot's Master snickers to Berserker's owner.

Dreadbot's spark drops. They took something he once enjoyed doing and turned it into something ugly. And everyone will see him begging for it and moaning. Like a whore.

Chapter Text

Starscream follows Optimus, just like he has done every time before. He knows the motions by now, though this time it's a servant who opens the door, not Sentinel. They're escorted to the dais, as usual, and he sinks to the floor next to Optimus' throne.

He doesn't glance at the proceedings, it's pointless. He already knows what's going on; it's the same as usual, he's certain. The only thing new is the gilded pole up on the stage with them, but he doesn't really care about that either. Sentinel is very fond of 'ostentatious to a point of tackiness'.

Then the Bot in question steps up from behind them, and Starscream does glance at him, not trusting that mech at all. His optics are locked on the former Air Commander, and the sharp gaze and nasty smirk makes Starscream flinch. The Bot is up to something.

Sentinel's face turns pleasant when he turns to Optimus. He leans in to kiss the other Prime's cheeks in greeting, but what catches Starscream's attention is familiar black and purple plating in Sentinel's wake.

It takes all his self control to not throw himself at his trine mate, but he manages. That would be used against them. 

Instead, he takes Skywarp in from the corners of his optics, and he must admit that the mech looks good. He seems decently fueled and he doesn't wear scars or dents from punishments. Not any that Starscream can see, at least.

But Prime said that Sentinel didn't have Starscream's trine mates.

"Optimus, dear friend. I have such great entertainment for us tonight." Sentinel says in a light voice.

He takes a seat next to Optimus and waves to Skywarp to come forward from where he has been standing behind the thrones. 

"I believe you're familiar with my newly acquired slave, but if you're not, this is Skywarp."

Starscream catches a flare of something in Optimus' optics, but it's quickly dimmed. The big Autobot's field is pulled in tight as usual when they're at events like this.

"I'm familiar with him, yes. A pleasure, Skywarp." Optimus says, voice kind of flat.

"Oh, the pleasure is all mine, Optimus Prime." Skywarp purrs in a sultry voice, sliding a digit along Optimus thigh.

Starscream reboots his optics, can't believe what he's seeing.

"You know what we want to see." Sentinel tells his slave.

"Oh, yes, Prime." Skywarp practically moans.

The Seeker walks up to the pole, grabs it with one servo, and spins around it, displaying his frame. Starscream nearly gapes in shock, but Skywarp doesn't even seem to notice him. 

Starscream glances at Sentinel again, and sees the nasty smirk he's wearing, staring at Starscream in vicious glee, and the Seeker quickly looks away.

The former Second in Command of the Decepticon forces tries to wrap his processor around what's actually happening way less successfully than his trine third wraps his frame around that pole.

Chapter Text

Sentinel beckons Skywarp to where the Primes are seated and the Seeker almost skips to them, a bright smile on his face.

"May I service now, Prime?" He purrs to Sentinel, flicking his wings in a downright lewd gesture that has Starscream's intake hanging open.

"You may, but I think you should start out with showing Optimus a little of your... Hospitality before you service me."

"Oh, thank you, Prime!" Skywarp all but moans.

Then Optimus gets a lapful of Command trine Seeker. The big mech's servos comes up to grab Skywarp's waist, steadying the Decepticon when he straddles Optimus' thighs. Starscream can't take his optics from them; Prime's bright optics, sweeping Skywarp's frame, the Seeker arching his back to give a better view.

The former Air Commander is aware of Sentinel watching him with a nasty smirk, probably hoping for a reaction, but Starscream feels numb, frozen.

"So, what can I do for you, Prime? Skywarp purrs, tweaking wiring under Optimus' plating with practiced ease.

The Prime drags a digit along the edge of one of Skywarp's wings, making the Seeker moan and grind down against the Autobot's pelvic plating.

"Depends. What do you do?"

"Everything! Stick it where you want, overload where you want." Skywarp mewls. 

"What's your favorite, little Seeker?" Optimus murmurs.

"I really like riding a big spike, and I bet your's is huge!"


Optimus grabs Skywarp's hips and pulls him closer. Then Starscream hears the sound of plating shifting and by the sound Skywarp makes, the Autobot pressurizes his spike straight into the Seeker's valve. 

Starscream wants to purge. He was right all along. Optimus isn't some saint, above all this. He was just waiting for a Seeker to become truly willing.

And Thundercracker is falling for the charade, is convinced that Prime is nice and helpful. That's probably the plan; get him thankful enough to offer himself up willingly.

He looks at his trine mate, enthusiastically riding Optimus Prime on the Autobot's throne. Whatever has happened to Skywarp, he seems beyond saving. 

Right there, Starscream gives up on the glitch. His trine mate is lost forever.

Chapter Text

Blast Off was fairly certain that he wouldn't be able to wind down enough to recharge, but stretching out next to Onslaught is very soothing.

His gestalt mate's systems hums with a familiar vibration that calms the Shuttle, makes him feel safe, and he slips in and out of light recharge, Onslaught petting his wings in that way Blast Off mostly found annoying what seems like a lifetime ago.

"How could I ever dislike this sort of contact?" Blast Off mumbles, half to himself.

"It's not that strange. You're a Shuttle, being clingy isn't in your construction. Or long voyages into deep space would be torture." Onslaught answers from behind him.

"Mmh yeah, but I don't think liking a little cuddling is the same as being clingy, and this makes my frame tingle. I always found it tickling, now I just... I don't know, it's soothing. Goes straight to my spark."

"You feel it too? My gestalt bond is reaching out for you." Onslaught says hesitantly. "If you want to..." He trails off, sounding uncertain in a way Blast Off hasn't heard from the Truck before.

Blast Off knows what he means. Is he really ok with it? His frame feels so disgusting and used up. Even if he knows that he's clean, he still feels filthy. But they never touched his spark.

"I want it." He says, turning over to face his ex-Commander.

Blast Off's digits traces Onslaught's chestplates, and hears the clicking and whirring of latches disengaging. Broad plates slides to the side, leaving the spark chamber bare but still closed. Just the sight of it makes Blast Off's chest plates open, so his apprehension for not being able to do it is calmed, and he arches his back, lets that pull drag him in.

"They never violated this part of me." He whispers.

Onslaught doesn't answer, but his field is tinged with so much sadness and empathy, Blast Off almost balks, because it's not something he thought Onslaught would feel. They've wasted so much of their time together being resentful of being jammed together in a gestalt, missing out on how good it could be.

Blast Off's chamber irises open, the corona of his spark reaching towards Onslaught, and the bigger Combaticon heeds the call, opening his chamber.

The merge is like swimming in warmth and care and comfort, and Blast Off's charge skyrockets almost instantly as he sinks into the most intimate embrace possible, when two are one. He can't tell where Onslaught ends and he starts, but it's glorious, because he can't feel the aches of his frame and all his mental agony is shut out.

The overload whites out his consciousness and he descends into blissful darkness when he's knocked into a reboot that turns into recharge.

Chapter Text

Starscream sits stiffly on the seat the entire way home, mind preoccupied with replays of Optimus Prime allowing Skywarp to ride him in public.

The Seeker has never really felt hopeful about his situation, but now he's thoroughly convinced; for all the pretty talk Prime engaged in back on Earth, he's no better than Sentinel. He just goes about things differently.

Who would've thought that Optimus Prime was such a cunning manipulator?

Starscream has to hand it to the mech; he usually can tell when someone is a tricky slagger with a hidden agenda. With Prime, he never saw it coming.

So, Optimus is probably out to get Starscream to behave like Skywarp, however that has been achieved. There wasn't a single trace in the Seeker's field that he wasn't exactly where he wanted to be, doing what he wanted most. His trine mate might have been reprogrammed, and that's concerning. On the other servo, if Optimus wanted to reprogram him to behave like that, he would've done it already. The Prime probably wants to conquer Starscream, make him give in of his own volition.

The former Air Commander realizes that he has precious few options. He could embrace this new functioning, sort of like Skywarp. But that is so distasteful. He could try to do what he has already done for millions of years; try to usurp the tyrant and rise up. But then he had guns, a fully functional frame and followers to help him. Then there's fleeing. Like a coward.

Starscream has been a coward many times before. He isn't above that if it serves it's purpose. But the question is if it's a good idea to try to flee. Where would he go? The plan would have to be well thought out. He needs to restore his frame and probably leave Cybertron after that is done. So he needs to be able to hitchhike, preferably without being recognized, or he might just end up getting dragged back to his owner. After the debacle with Barricade, Starscream is aware of not being able to trust his old allies. They might share the Interrogator's delusions.

He comes to a decision. He's going to try to make a break for freedom. He'll talk to Thundercracker. Together, they might be able to pull it off. Skywarp is probably better off left behind and forgotten. Another casualty of the war.

Chapter Text

When Starscream and Prime returns, the Seeker is stiff and twitchy, and he hurries off to his own room, with just a quick hello as he passes Thundercracker.

The blue Seeker stares after his trine leader, but since Starscream seems fine physically, and his field, though edged with agitated turmoil, isn't tattered and torn, he decides to let him be for a while. Though, there was an underlying streak of something not quite tangible but still familiar in a rather alarming way. Starscream is going to plot something.

Not that Thundercracker is awfully worried about Prime reacting violently to something like that, because Starscream has very small chances to actually succeed in this world. He's still going to keep a close eye on his scheming trine mate. Things could still get so very much worse, even if Optimus himself doesn't do anything.

But that will come a little later. Thundercracker turns towards the mech in question. Optimus' field is pulled in tight, but he looks incredibly worn. 

"Come here, Sir. Let me get you something to drink, and you can relax on the couch." Thundercracker offers, wanting to give something back to the mech who has helped him so much.

Prime looks at him with all that heavy focus that still unnerves Thundercracker, before the big Autobot nods once and takes a seat.

"Nothing too strong, please. I'm afraid I'm drinking too much." Optimus says, offlining his optics and rubbing his faceplates.

Thundercracker fetches a cube of mid grade and returns to the big mech, handing it to him, before he takes a seat himself. Then he wonders what the custom is; if slaves are allowed to sit with their Masters when they refuel. The slaves his creators kept as servants when he was young never were. 

He's about to get up and apologize when Optimus onlines his optics with that uncanny timing he seems to have.

"Please stay. If you want to, of course. You're always welcome to join me, and I have no rules against refueling together or just sitting here with me. If you want energon, take what you want."

"How did you know that I was wondering about that?" Because it just can't be a coincidence.

"The Matrix makes me more perceptive of others fields, and feelings in general." Optimus takes a deep drink of energon. "And that's not always enjoyable, may I add."

"I can imagine." Thundercracker answers slowly, mulling over that confession.

"I had to do things tonight, things I hoped I never would have to do. All because of politics." The last word is spit out with vehemence. 

"We all have to do things we don't want to from time to time." Thundercracker says, shuddering when vivid pictures of things he has been forced to do pushes to the front of his mind.

"I guess you're right, but it doesn't make it less distasteful."

Chapter Text

Starscream is pacing his room when Thundercracker enters, still agitated.

"What happened tonight? Prime is kind of tight-lipped, and you're... Well, you." Thundercracker asks him, optical ridge cocked.

"What happened?! Prime is a liar and a rapist, that's what happened!" And his trine mate wants to snuggle with the bastard.

Thundercracker stares at him, disbelief in his field.

"Prime told me that Sentinel didn't have you or Skywarp. But clearly, he does! And Optimus Prime didn't waste a second to get his spike into Skywarp the moment he got the opportunity." Starscream hisses.

"Wait, what?" Thundercracker seems confused.

"Skywarp was there tonight, and he must be reprogrammed or something, because he has turned into a pleasurebot. And the minute he crawled into Prime's lap, Optimus shoved his cock into him."

Thundercracker seems to stall for long seconds, then he narrows his optics.

"And there's no possibility that Sentinel has aquired Skywarp recently? Or that Prime had to do it to not look conspicuous?"

"I can't believe that you're taking his side! Can't you see that he's just being nice to get you to willingly crawl into his berth? Or maybe he's already fragging you into recharge every night?!" Starscream hears how shrill his voice is getting.

"I'm not taking a side, it isn't you versus him. I'm just supplying a different point of view, giving you other plausible scenarios. You seem blissfully sheltered from what can happen out there. And we're not fragging."

Starscream stares at Thundercracker, spark spinning quickly. He's alone in this, Thundercracker won't help him. But it wouldn't be the first time his trine isn't supporting one of his plans, though they never would have ratted him out either. Now though, he's not so certain. Thundercracker might very well tell Prime of his plans. He must keep it a secret.

"I guess you're right, I'm just overreacting. I need to think about this a little more before I draw hasty conclusions." He says, voice thin and airy in way that he knows isn't that convincing.

Thundercracker narrows his optics suspiciously, and Starscream holds his vents, realizing his mistake. His trine mate knows him too well to buy that he would just change his mind that quickly.

"Don't do anything stupid, Star. We have a good thing here, don't ruin it."

A good thing? He's definitely alone in this.

Chapter Text

"I want a new kind of show." 

His Master walks slowly around Dreadbot, digits lifting plating here and there, touching sensitive protoform. The Decepticon shudders involuntarily. His protoform is very sensitive, touches make him heat up quickly.

"Your protoform is unusually appealing." The mech chuckles. "Well, except for all the lashes you keep forcing me to dole out, but still... Visually pleasing. Unlike your hideous armor."

He lifts another plate, studying something under there.

"I want you to strip yourself down. Slowly, sensually, of course. All the plates you can remove is to come off." 

He pats Dreadbot's aft, and returns to his chair. 

"Any minute now, Dreadbot." He singsongs.

The Decepticon stifles a humiliated sob and mechanically starts to remove a plate, staring off into thin air to try to keep control of his feelings and not start to cry.

"Oh, for the love of... Can you at least try to make it look like you're not a glitched drone? Entice me."

It's so very humiliating. It's terrifying too; he'll be very vulnerable without his plating.

He still does it, tries to soften his moves and show off the part he's currently unplating. His Master's fans are speeding up. Dreadbot tries to ignore the sound, tries to imagine that the mech watching is one of his previous lovers, but that doesn't really help, he can't get into the fantasy. He has never done this before.

He keeps going until he can't remove more plates; either he can't reach, or they're permanently mounted, requiring tools to be removed.

"Come here." His Master orders.

Dreadbot obeys, and he's pulled in to straddle the Autobot's thighs. His Master strokes his protoform, gentle touches from cruel servos, and to his mortification, Dreadbot's frame responds immediately. His valve is getting wet, and the dim biolights normally hidden under his armor glows brighter.

"You look so good like this, makes me very aroused." The mech pressurizes his spike and it bobs between them in a disgusting way. "Why don't you slide forward and give me something I want?"

It sounds like an invitation, but Dreadbot knows better; it's a demand. He has precious few choices; valve, port or punishment. Would he even survive a punishment with this much plating removed?

So he slides forward and reaches down to line the spike up with his already slick valve. Then he sinks down on it with a sharp exvent as it slides over nodes inside him.

"You're such a good little pleasurebot, willingly riding your owner."

It's disgusting, he just wishes he could offline his optics so he can't see the vile bastard, but he doesn't dare.

"Reach down and touch your node."

Unlike with his previous lovers, when he felt sexy doing that, he just feels cheap and disgusting. 

But he does it anyway, his Master's bright optics following his moves.

Chapter Text

Vortex is finally starting to feel less miserable. A guard showed up to change his drip, and that brought even more relief from his withdrawal. He sits in that empty room, looking at the walls, and it is boring

They haven't told him what will happen to him, and he has nothing else that could occupy his mind, now that he isn't occupied by feeling like he's dying slowly.

He wishes he could go back to his room and service a customer or five. A small part of him longs for the fix he'd get for it. Mostly, it's something else, though.

His protocols are screaming at him that he has been empty for far too long.

The Helo strokes his own rotors slowly and shudders in pleasure. It isn't the same as having someone else playing with them, but it's better than nothing.

Vortex's valve clenches around nothing and he keens in desperation, looking around for something to relieve the heaviness between his legs. His optics fall on the hose.

The Combaticon hurries over to it, grabbing it with trembling servos. He removes the nozzle and starts running the solvent, checking the temperature. When it's adequate, he sinks to the floor, leaning his hub against the wall, and spreads his legs.

He pinches the hose with his digits to make the stream harder, and angles it against his node. His hips immediately buck to meet the pressure, but he still feels empty.

He looks at the nozzle. It's isn't that long or thick, but it's vaguely the right shape...

He nudges the tip of the nozzle between his valve-lips, slowly pushing it into his valve, savoring how it slides over his internal nodes.

It doesn't take long before he's teetering on the edge of overload, but then the door opens.

"What the...?!" The guard says, incredulous.

Vortex looks him in the optics and lets himself fall over the edge, overloading with a loud moan.

He comes down, still looking at the guard. The mech is staring at him with bright optics.

"See something you like, Sir?" Vortex purrs. "Please, Mister, I need you in me." He pleads, pumping the nozzle into his valve.

The guard hurries over to the Helo, spike pressurizing as he walks.

"How do you want me?" Vortex asks in a sultry voice.

"On your knees and servos."

Chapter Text

It all starts with a little clumsiness. Barricade accidentally knocks Jazz's bag over, and it falls to the floor. The Interceptor hurries around the chair it was thrown on to pick it up and put it back, hoping the Spy won't be mad for it. If Barricade doesn't manage to put it back in a good enough order to leave Jazz oblivious of what happened.

The lid is halfway open, and it landed on the side, contents starting to spill out. The Saleen bends down to grab the handles, hoping everything will just fall back into place if he lifts it, but then he freezes up, spark dropping.

Slowly, he sinks to his knees, optics riveted to the things inside the bag, tauntingly peeking out from under other stuff that has been packed on top to conceal the contents. The Interceptor is unable to move, all strength seems to have left his frame.

Jazz knows. Jazz has seen, and he's hoping for a repeat in person.

He feels so fucking stupid. All this talk about consent and willingness, the reassurances that they don't fuck unwilling mechs...

A slave has to fill a purpose.

He stares at the toys, familiar in a tank turning way, and he knows that he was all wrong to start feeling a little more safe with Jazz, to actually believe that the Solstice is better than his previous Masters.

Barricade wraps his arms around himself, starting to sob quietly, unable to move from his spot on the floor, can't find it in himself to even try to put the bag back, to leave and try to put this behind him.

He has no idea how long he remains there, but eventually the door opens and Jazz steps inside.

"There ya are." The Spy pauses. "Wha's wrong, Cade?"

Barricade shakes his helm, still sobbing.

"You've seen it too. That's why you bought me, wasn't it? Sir."

Jazz shuts the door behind him.

"Seen what? What are ya talkin' 'bout?"

"I knocked your bag over. I'm sorry, Sir." He sounds so hollow, and a part of him marvels that he so casually confesses a fuck up, but what else can he do? Jazz hates being lied to.

"I don' care, there's nothin' fragile in there." Jazz comes to stand behind him, looking over his shoulder.

"The toy, Sir." Barricade's voice hitches.

"Oh. I'm sorry, Cade. I didn' mean for ya ta see it. I jus'... sometimes I want some happy time by myself too."

"Should I do it here, or are you all going to watch, Sir?" It's nothing new, he can put on a show. He just wants it to be over with.

"I... What? Barricade, what are ya talkin' 'bout?"

"You've seen it, right? And now you want the live version. I'll do it willingly, if you don't hurt me, Sir." He feels numb.

"I don' understand! What is it I should have seen?" Jazz bends over him and snatches the bag away, field strangely cold and agitated.

"The vid clip."

Chapter Text

Jazz throws the bag haphazardly on the chair and stretches his servo out to Barricade.

"C'mon. Le's talk 'bout this."

The Interceptor takes the servo and is pulled to his pedes. Jazz sits down on the berth and pats the mattress next to him. Barricade slowly sinks down to sit, still feeling numb. It's just like with his first Master; headgames and manipulation.

"Tell me what ya're thinkin'. Why d'ya think I want a show? Even after our last li'l talk."

"That toy... I've used one exactly like it. There's a vid clip of that. The clip was... It's published, I thought you had seen it and wanted me to perform like that again."

Jazz is silent for a long time.

"I won' lie ta ya; I've seen some of tha porn ya were forced ta figure in. When I started tryin' ta figure out where all of ya ended up, I stumbled across it. I haven't seen tha' one, though, n' that toy has been one of my personal favorites since long before your surrender."

Jazz has seen. He knows what Barricade is. The Interceptor thinks about crawling up on the berth and spread his legs to just get the first time over with. He's so fragging hopeless.

"Barricade, stop it!" Jazz almost barks.

The Saleen flinches, but snaps out of his downward spiral of despair.

"I'm not goin' ta ask ya ta put on a show. Ya're still not willing jus' because ya'd do it without a fight. N' I was not turned on by tha porn. It was disgusting. I know ya well enough ta see that ya hated doin' it, and that's such a turn off for me. D'ya remember what we said 'bout true willingness?"

"That I should be disappointed if the mech I'm going to frag decided not to do it?" Barricade frowns, still not understanding how getting out of interfacing would be disappointing.

"Exactly. N' as long as ya don' understand that concept, ya're not ready ta interface, n' as long as ya're not ready, ya won't be fuckin'."

"Okay, Sir?" Barricade is still a little confused, but mostly relieved. Jazz's field is so earnest, it has to be the truth.

"Have ya watched any of tha memories from when Crosshairs is puttin' on a show?"

"Yes, Sir." Barricade flushes. "One of them, when I pleasured myself." He mumbles, remembering how arousing that felt.

"If ya still don' get wha' willin' really means, watch them all." Jazz smirks. "N' don' be ashamed if it revs ya up. That's normal."

The Spy rummages through his bag and the Saleen tenses up, but relaxes when Jazz throws a datapad to him.

"Well, now that we have established that ya are pleasuring yourself, I figured you might want some things. I do realize that it might come across wrong after this little talk, but there's no ulterior motive. I had planned ta give ya this before all of this happened."

Barricade presses the datapad and squeaks in embarrassment when it turns out to be a catalog with sex toys.

"If ya want something in there, jus' mark it, n' I'll order it later. N' it'll be your things. I won't force ya to use them in front of anyone. I just know how much better it gets with tha right equipment."

Jazz pats Barricade's knee, winks half his visor and leaves the Saleen with the catalog in his lap.

He should hate toys after everything. 

Maybe it's just morbid curiosity, but he can't help but start to scroll the page.

Chapter Text

They have weaned him from the good drugs. It sucks, because now, he's all too aware of his position. Tied up in a spread eagle, for easy access.

It's disgusting. Motormaster has no idea how much time has passed, but a very long time ago, he'd be enraged by this position. 

But that was before two of his gestalt mates were coldly euthanized in front of his optics. Now, the lack of drugs just allows him to feel the pain and sorrow again, and he's bitter to realize that all this time has passed without him mourning them.

He's wheeled into the maintenance bay, and the cleaning and emptying of his tanks is so utterly humiliating when performed with him fully conscious.

A guard comes up to him, releasing the restraints.

"Get up, Deceptiscum. You've been sold."

He really tries to lift his arms, to move his legs, but he has been still in that position for far too long; it's as if he has no power at all in his hydraulics, or maybe the controls to the motors has rusted.

"I can't." He whispers.

The guard sighs and rolls his optics before getting a trolley. The Decepticon is pushed from the berth, landing in a haphazard pile. He's wheeled through the corridor, out into a very bright cargo bay. 

Or maybe it isn't that bright. Maybe his optics has just gotten used to the very low lights in his room.

He tentatively reaches out over his bond, afraid that the rest of his gestalt will be gone too, without him even having noticed when they went.

They're still online.

More than that, they actually seem quite alright. Wildrider is a bit nervous on top of his usual brand of crazy, and is definitely more subdued, but no outright fear, no pain. Drag Strip is even better off, he seems downright relaxed. With a sigh of relief, he waits in the incredibly uncomfortable pose he can do nothing about.

He hears when another mech comes closer, speaking to the guard about the big Stunticon, but the mech's field is pulled in tight, and Motormaster can't turn his helm to see who it is. The voice is vaguely familiar, but he can't place it.

Payment is made, datapads are signed, and before all of this happened, he'd be in a towerig rage for being sold like a non-sentient thing, but now he doesn't even have the strength to get angry about it.

The trolley is pushed into the transport and he's pushed off it, landing in an equally uncomfortable heap on the floor. He sees the guard sneer at him, before dragging the trolley out just before the doors close.

"Can you move at all?" The other mech asks him, lifting the Stunticon with a firm grip under his arms.

"No. Seems like either the motor control or the hydraulics are fragged up.

He's placed on the seat, helm lolling back against the backrest.

"Ok. Then we're going straight to Ratchet. Do you have enough fuel to keep from falling into stasis?"

"Yes, I'll last the day."

"Good." Hound says, taking a seat next to him as the transport starts moving.

Chapter Text

He has managed to get the cover off the locking mechanism and is busy with splicing the wires to get the door to open, almost done, when a loud voice behind him startles him to whip around.

"Prime! Starscream is trying to escape!" Thundercracker shouts.

The former Air Commander glares at his trine mate.

"You! You fragging traitor!"

"That's rich, coming from you. I guess now you know how Megatron felt when you did it." Thundercracker snorts. "I'm sorry, but I'm doing this for your own protection, Star."

Prime comes down the hallway, heavy pedesteps and field equally heavy with disappointment and something else.

"Why, Starscream? After so long." Prime asks him in that deep voice that could make anyone spill their secrets.

"Why?! I'm a slave! We're both your slaves. And you have proven that you're not above using slaves for your own entertainment. So much for 'freedom is the right of all sentient beings'."

Prime heaves a deep sigh, looking at the locking mechanism with tired optics.

"Cybertron has changed. Or maybe it was like this all along and we're the ones who changed during our long absence, I don't know." The big mech says, field full of regret.

"Cybertron was always crap to those of the lower castes." Starscream sneers.

"Not like this. This is so much worse." Thundercracker murmurs.

Starscream glares at his trine mate. Shouldn't he have Starscream's wing?

"I'm not keeping you in here to be mean, I'm doing it to protect you." Prime says.

"If you restored me, I wouldn't need protection."

Prime barks a hollow laugh, and something about the bitterness of it is unnerving.

"If I restored you, I'd be classified as a traitor and would suffer the same fate as all the Decepticons. Then there wouldn't be anyone to protect you. You don't have any allies among the Decepticons anymore, everyone is so fucking broken, they wouldn't be able to do anything even if they were fully functional mechanically." Prime spits vehemently.

Starscream is taken aback by the Prime's tone and swearing, but he's still about to argue when his trine mate interrupts.

"He's right, Star. I'll show you my wings. Then maybe you'll understand the severity of the situation."

Chapter Text

Thundercracker allows the Prime to help him with the bandages, just like the big mech does every night to smear nanite gel and change the bandages. The Seeker sits calmly on the couch, Optimus' field a reassurance when touches to his wings threatens to pull up terrifying memories. He trusts the Autobot, strange as that feels whenever he thinks about more carefully.

The Prime's field is so heavy without being oppressive. It helps grounding him.

He hears the gasps from his trine leader when the bandages fall away, laying bare what was once the smooth expanse of his wings.

"I know. Looks like scrap, huh." He says, going for ruefully, but the hitch in his voice deceives him.

"Who did this? What did they do?!" Starscream's voice is tight with horror.

"I was sold to a pleasurehouse, one where those who enjoy hurting and humiliating their enemies would pay for torturing and raping us."

"Starscream, if you leave this apartment without an Autobot handler, you have no right to defend yourself against that kind of mechs. You'd be fair game." Optimus says, voice low.

The big mech rubs Thundercracker's wing soothingly, and the Seeker presses into the touch. The Prime knows how to touch him to bring comfort instead of pain or terror.

"How can you accept this, Prime?!" Starscream shouts angrily. "What happened to 'freedom is the right of all sentient beings'?"

"What do you want me to do? You've seen Sentinel, he's threatened by me, doesn't want to share the power. He was quite happy to rule without me. But he can't just get rid of me, he doesn't dare because I'm the Matrix-bearer, so he's just waiting for me to give him a reason to prove me a traitor and throw me in the deepest, darkest pit he can find!" Optimus is raising his voice, and something about seeing the normally stoic mech losing his temper is unnerving.

Thundercracker pulls away, spark speeding up, and it makes the Autobot Commander snap his optics to the blue Seeker. Then his field goes almost serene.

"I'm sorry, Thundercracker. I'm not upset with any of you. I'm frustrated with the situation. No matter how much I try, it's just too little, too late."

"It's fine Prime." Thundercracker says, in-venting deeply to calm himself. "I know what happened to Drift. I understand that you can't help everyone without risking the safety of others."

Starscream scoffs and crosses his arms.

"I didn't dare tell you this, because Sentinel just needs a warrant to check your memories, and if he finds even an inkling of evidence that I'm helping Cons, what little good I've managed to do would be for naught. But tonight he forced my servo." There's regret in the big mech's voice.

"I know you're trying, Prime." Thundercracker says, pressing into the servos massaging his wings with light touches.

He catches Starscream's optics and holds them challengingly. Starscream may continue to behave like that, but Thundercracker is not going to back him up.

Chapter Text

"This is ridiculous! I'm a grown mech! I outranked ya!" Jazz snarls.

Ironhide crosses his arms and looks thoroughly unimpressed.

"Past tense, little Spy."

Jazz's visor flashes dangerously at the mocking endearment, and to Blackout's right, Barricade shudders.

"I can take care of myself! I can go on a mission without tha least sneaky Bot in history acting as a Primus-damned chaperone!"

Blackout is standing in the doorway with Barricade, watching the argument. Barricade's field is trembling with apprehension, teetering on the edge of full-blown fear, and Blackout does feel a little uncomfortable himself. The Helo trusts Ironhide to not take any frustrations out on him though, so he isn't as scared as the Interceptor.

"Is that so? Because I seem to remember you overdosing and nearly winding up offline the last time you went on a mission by yourself." Ironhide says, tapping his chin in a mocking of thoughtfulness.

"Tha' was a fragging mistake. I'm ready for it now, I can handle it this time. I'll go there, play my role n' come back here." Jazz tries to coax. The only thing missing is a whiny 'please, Dad'.

"There's just one problem with that, Jazz."

"Oh, come on!" Jazz growls in frustration.

"I don't trust you. You're a junkie, and you'd say anything for a chance to get that fix." Ironhide states matter of factly.

His owner is right. Jazz shouldn't be trusted at this point.

"I'm clean now!" Jazz says, clearly agitated.

Ironhide snorts.

"Yeah, for a week so far. This time. You were clean right up until your OD too."

"Ya don' trust me." Jazz sulks.

"I used to, but you broke that trust. It'll be a long time before I trust you again. Don't try to put the blame on me, you brought this on yourself."

Ironhide always knows what to say. It's very attractive. Especially when he's commanding, like this.

"N' ya think nobot will figure it out if ya stand around waitin' for me." Jazz hisses.

"I'll be in an energon house around the corner. You go in, do your stuff and get back to me. I know approximately how long an appointment takes. If you go missing, I'll hunt you down and chain your ankle to one of the poles of the berth."

"Ok, Dad." Jazz sneers.

"Don't go there, little Third in Command. Or you will be sleeping on your front for a week." Ironhide growls, pointing threateningly at the smaller Bot.

Actually, that would be interesting to see. Please, Jazz, go there. There's a curious Helo living here.

"Okay, subordinate." Jazz sulks.

"If you don't stop acting like a whiny brat, I'll have Optimus strip you of your rank. And I'll strip your gears." 


Blackout rolls his optics and turns to the still anxious Saleen next to him.

"Your owner really is acting like a spoiled brat." He says quietly, catching the alarmed flare of Barricade's field and optics.

Ironhide overhears him and barks a surprised laugh, giving Blackout a thumbs up. The Helo can't help but grin at the obvious approval. 

Jazz flips Ironhide off and stomps out of the room, heavy pedesteps disappearing down the hallway, and the door to Jazz's and Barricade's room slams shut, the Interceptor flinching visibly.

"You probably should go and try to cheer him up. You know, make yourself useful for once. He probably needs a happy ending..." Blackout murmurs to the Saleen, because frankly, he still can't really see what the Decepticon does to deserve his energon.

Barricade's field flares with alarm again, and Blackout can't stop the grin stretching his intake, so damn pleased with pushing the mech off balance.

"Blackout! Be nice!" Ironhide barks, voice hard.

"Yes, Sir! I just thought..."

"Well don't. You don't know all the facts and you're not helping." Ironhide says sternly and Blackout squirms under that cold gaze. 

He didn't mean to be a bad Helo, it's just that something about Barricade annoys him.

"I'm sorry, Sir." Blackout mumbles, genuinely remorseful for making Ironhide angry.

"Just don't do it again. And apologize to Barricade."


"I'm sorry, Barricade." Blackout mumbles.

"Apology accepted." Barricade answers, before hurrying off towards the room he shares with Jazz.

Ironhide drags a servo down his faceplates, field tired and frustrated.

"Is it really that strange that I drink a lot?" He mutters to himself.

Chapter Text

"Tell me about Skywarp." Thundercracker asks nobot in particular.

"He's a pleasurebot." Starscream says flatly, glaring at Optimus.

"That much I gathered." Thundercracker says. "Is he reprogrammed?"

"We've heard rumors about mechs coding rewriting itself when under heavy influence of drugs and coercion. I guess it's a coping mechanism when the systems are taxed." Optimus answers quietly, field filled with sadness.

Thundercracker presses into the Prime's servos still rubbing his wings.

"Or Sentinel hacked him. Wouldn't put that past him." Starscream sneers.

Thundercracker doesn't know Sentinel more than by reputation, but from what he has heard, he's bound to agree.

"It's plausible, but not very likely. If that was the case, he probably would've reprogrammed all his slaves." Optimus says.

That also sounds reasonable to Thundercracker.

"What happened tonight?" Thundercracker dares asking.

A pregnant silence stretches out between them, Starscream glaring at Optimus, while the Prime seems to slump.

"I had to do something. Not just to keep up appearances, but for Skywarp's sake. I know someone who was a pleasurebot. A constructed one, so it might not be the same at all, but I couldn't be sure. When I met friend, he had a compulsion to try to entice mechs, and whenever he failed to please whoever his coding had decided was his current 'customer', the coding punished him both physically and mentally."

Starscream looks sceptical, but Thundercracker feels the sincerity in Prime's field.

"Did he manage to get rid of the coding?" The blue Seeker asks hopefully.

"Not entirely. He's still rather high drive but it's not an outright compulsion anymore. He can control it and isn't at it's mercy for choice of partner and what to do in berth. But it took months of work to get it right. That was rather... interesting, as we we're traveling to Earth at the time."

Starscream facepalms, making both of the other mechs jump in surprise. They both stare at him when he drags his servo down his faceplates.

"How did you ever manage to win the war?" He groans.

"Because you and Megatron could never agree on anything and work together to make a good plan and stick to it." Thundercracker blurts.

Prime chuckles, but it's a bit really a sound of amusement.

"Because no matter what past a mech comes from, he could change. That particular pleasurebot was a key player to our victory."

Chapter Text

Barricade opens the door to their shared room very carefully, trying to sneak in even though he logically knows that Jazz probably already knows that he's coming.

The Spy is pacing the room in agitation, and the Saleen sinks down on the berth, not sure what to do.

"Can ya believe him?! Treatin' me like some irresponsible youngling! I've been handlin' deep cover missions for most of the fraggin' war." Jazz snarls.

Barricade takes a deep vent, steeling himself.

"Ironhide is just concerned. He takes care of those he considers his own, Sir." Barricade tries to placate the Spec Ops Bot.

"So do I! I don' need him takin' care of me, I'm a grown Bot. It's just a short mission."

Barricade fidgets. He shouldn't say more. He has never seen Jazz like this. But he can't handle more anxiety and not knowing what's going to happen to him. Sure, coming here has helped him in some ways, but Primus knows what will happen if Jazz relapses again, where Barricade will have to go then. Or if Jazz offlines. And Jazz hates being lied to, and a lie by omission is still a lie.

"I was there after your last mission..."

Jazz stops and whips around towards the Interceptor, face unreadable.

"... I watched you puke your tank out. I heard your vents rattle and stop while I was trying to get rerouters out of your systems, and I saw you void your tanks all over yourself because your frame was shutting down. Sir." 

Jazz stares at him, and the spy has activated his degaussers. It's terrifying, because it leaves Barricade in the dark when it comes to Jazz's feelings and intentions. But hopefully Ironhide will agree with Barricade and save him if Jazz throws a violent fit.

"You don't even take care of yourself. Sir."

Jazz stalks closer and Barricade's spark sinks. He offlines his optics, sends a prayer to a god he stopped believing in a long time ago and braces for the first hit to land.

"Please don't deactivate me, Sir." He whispers thinly, faceplates twisting into a grimace of fear.

He hears the sharp exvent and then the berth dips beside him. The Saleen dares to online one optic.

He isn't prepared for Jazz looking thoroughly distraught.

"I said I'll never hurt ya for tellin' tha truth, n' I meant that. Jazz mumbles. "I really am shit at takin' care of anyone 'cept myself, aren't I?"

"Overdosing isn't exactly a sign of taking care of yourself either, Sir." Barricade says quietly.

"I guess tha' wasn't pretty." Jazz says, field flaring to life with embarrassment.

"It wasn't, Sir."

"Who cleaned up after me?"

"I have no idea, Sir. Ratchet never told me who would do it."

"Fuck! I'm such an asshole. I never even considered how it effected everyone else. I jus' thought 'bout myself n' my pride." Jazz buries his face in his servos. "Can't have much pride after everyone saw that, can I?"

Barricade doesn't answer, because he doesn't know what to say.

"I'm sorry, Cade. I'll try ta do better than that. There's a lot of people dependin' on me, n' I owe them all, ya included, ta try ta keep on tha right path."

"Apology accepted, Sir."

Chapter Text

Prime has retreated to his berthroom and an awkward silence stretches between the two Seekers. Starscream fidgets. There's so much to process.

"You may never believe me, but I really have a good feeling about Prime." Thundercracker tentatively opens the conversation.

"Maybe he just wants you to be so grateful for him rescuing you, you turn compliant and docile?" Starscream snips.

"Have you even teeked his field? He wouldn't be able to lie with that for this long." Thundercracker says, sounding exasperated.

Starscream knows that Thundercracker is right, but admitting that, even to himself, leaves a bitter taste. Even Prime's reasons for not telling him what's really going on makes sense. 

"So, what now?" 

Because Starscream honestly is at a loss right now. 

Thundercracker studies him while thinking over their options.

"I need to heal, and I want to stay with Prime. They're trying to do something good."

Starscream scoffs, still not entirely convinced about that. He saw what Barricade was like.

"No Star, they really are. You know the rumors about Shockwave making more Constructicons than needed for Devastator? To make them interchangeable."

"I remember that, but those rumors were never substantiated." Megatron wouldn't be that stupid. Would he?

"It's true. All the Constructicons secretly live with Ratchet. All twelve of them."

Starscream can do nothing about his jaw hanging as if it was disjointed. Megatron really was that crazy?!

Thundercracker chuckles at his trine mate's shocked look.

"I know, right? Took me quite a while to realize it wasn't all the painkillers that made me hallucinate. Anyway, they were the first ones to be taken in by the Autobots, and from what they have told me, Team Prime are appalled by what happened to us, but they have to operate under the radar, so it's slow progress and they have to focus on trying to save those who are at a risk of being deactivated."

Starscream thinks that over, spark sinking. It really seems worse than he ever thought out there.

"I want to know everything. About what's going on out there. I need the truth."

"Could we do that tomorrow? I'm really tired, and Prime will probably help showing you."

"Tomorrow then." Starscream grumbles, but worries for his trine mate.

"Share a berth?" Thundercracker asks uncertainly.

"Yes." Starscream doesn't hesitate. Not now, when everything is out in the open and he doesn't need to protect himself. Or Thundercracker. 

He wraps an arm around the blue Seeker to help him up and Thundercracker gratefully leans in to the touch.

"I missed you, Starscream."

"I missed you too."

Chapter Text

Ironhide leads the Spy through the door with powerful servos on the smaller mech's shoulder-tires after the mission, Jazz's field thick with disgust. The smaller mech stares straight into thin air, seemingly lost in thought.

Barricade stands uneasily just inside the door to the living room, not certain what to do. Blackout is loitering on the couch.

"Hello, Sir" Barricade greets them both, because politeness can never be wrong.

"Hi, Cade. You ok?" Ironhide asks, looking closely at the Saleen.

Barricade fidgets under the intense gaze.

"I'm fine. How is everyone else, Sir?" 

Barricade still keeps a couple of wary optics on his owner, because Jazz's behavior is very uncharacteristic. The Spy seems closed off and withdrawn into himself. Somehow it feels disconcerting that he hasn't even degaussed his EM field.

"We're going to be ok. I'm just going to take this one..." Ironhide points at the Spy as he leads him through the hallway. "...and show him that he's still one of mine."

Barricade doesn't know how to answer that blatant display of possessiveness. He just stands there, jaw-plate ajar, when Ironhide slides a servo down the Spy's side to squeeze his aft and presses the length of his massive frame along Jazz's back, walking the smaller Autobot down the hallway.

"Can I have a shower first?" Jazz asks, voice strangely flat.

"Of course, sweetie, anything for you. Washracks it is." Ironhide rumbles soothingly.

"God, I really wanna have that fix right now." Jazz exvents sharply.

"I know. But you can't." Ironhide growls.

"I know, Daddy..." Jazz whines. "But I feel filthy."

Blackout suddenly sits up, all his focus on the voices carrying down the hallway. What the hell made the goings on between the Bots so interesting all of a sudden?

"I'll help you clean up, little Spy. I'm going to take care of you." Ironhide croons.

Then they both disappears into the washracks, door slamming shut and keeping the rest of the conversation from the Decepticons' audials.

"Jazz is going to be so fragged into the berth." Blackout states the obvious, sounding almost a little envious.

Barricade rolls his optics and heads for his room, leaving the slutty Helo to sit on the couch, or join the Autobots or whatever.

Chapter Text

Knock Out is dragged back to their shared cell after his first appointment, wailing like a sparkling. Tarn heaves a deep sigh.

While Dreadbot took some time to... adjust to their situation, in hindsight, his abrasive personality was easier to deal with than Knock Out. Especially since Tarn had Blast Off to lean against for comfort back then.

It's not that Knock Out is mean, like Dreadbot was. On the contrary.

From the second the guards unwrapped him from them and locked him in here with Tarn, the Racer has been almost glued to the Tank, trying to entice, flirt and coax Tarn into interfacing. Whatever has been done to him, apparently, he craves interfacing. Even more than before the surrender. And Tarn is not interested.

He wants somebot to lean against while he's healing, like he had before. Somebot to help him clean up and patch the damage. That's impossible with the Aston Martin. Tarn almost has to bat his servos away, because any touch allowed turns lascivious in a second flat.

Now though, his cellmate is sprawled on the floor, still crying. Tarn's adjusted instincts tell him to go over there and help the mech, but he's not sure that's really a good idea. This isn't Blast Off, or Blackout. Even Dreadbot learned his lesson and gratefully accepted help. 

Instead, he takes note of Knock Out's frame from where he sits. The little mech doesn't really look that bad. A few scorch marks, a small dribble of energon down his back... His array, while drooling transfluid, doesn't look damaged.

"What did they do, Knock Out?" He asks, hoping for a clue to how to deal with the resident pleasurebot.

"It was Jazz! I-I told him that I'd do anything he wanted, but he didn't care!" Knock Out wails. "He whipped me, and shocked me, and asked me who else is here." 

Another one of Team Prime, taking pleasure in hurting the Decepticons. There really is no hope for them to ever have a better functioning. He should've done like Deadlock and defected a long time ago.

"Do you want help? Can I clean your wounds without you trying to berth me?" Tarn asks.

"I-I... I think so. Maybe?" Knock Out sobs uncertainly. As if he really wants help but doesn't trust himself to be able to accept it without it turning sexual.

It's as good as it's going to get. Tarn rises and walks over to the smaller Decepticon and carries him into the corner. Knock Out really got off easy with his first customer. Not much damage at all, considering what's the norm. Of course, the Racer would be distraught by not being able to pleasure his customer alone. He probably screamed a lot even for this. To the amusement of the Autobot.

Tarn settles down to wash the lashes, thinking about what Knock Out told him.

Jazz asked the same questions Deadlock asked him. Nobot else ever cares about things like that.

"So who else is here?"

"I came with Astrotrain, Acid Storm and Misfire. I don't know anyone else." Knock Out sobs, remaining still even as his cooling fans speeds up.

Chapter Text

Hound carries him bridal style, and while Motormaster might have protested wildly against the undignified position a very long time ago, nowadays things could be so much worse. 

He's put down on a medberth, and Ratchet comes to stand next to him. Motormaster scowls up at the Medic, trying to look intimidating, but Ratchet doesn't even seem to notice.

"Can you move at all, Motormaster?" The Medic asks.

"No. My hydraulics won't do crap." He grumbles.

Ratchet actually snorts a laugh.

"Good to see someone else who shares my vocabulary. Do you remember anything since your capture?"

Motormaster frowns. Everything is rather blurry, especially the later parts.

"I remember the examination." His vents hitches, because that has been lost in a haze for a long time. "I remember them taking me." He whispers. "And watching them deactivate Breakdown and Dead End." 

The Stunticon starts sobbing. It turns into an ugly keen, faceplates scrunched in sorrow. His chest aches for his lost gestalt mates, the broken bonds still searching.

"I couldn't do anything to save them."

Ratchet strokes his arm soothingly, then something stings him. He can't even twitch as he starts to panic, thinking about the injections his gestalt mates got. The last ones they ever got.

"This is an energon IL, laced with a little something to take the edge off. You'll feel drowsy and might fall into recharge. When you wake up, hopefully I'll have your hydraulics back online."

Sweet warmth blooms from the needle, and much needed energon flows into his systems. Motormaster sinks deeper into the berth. Vaguely he feels Ratchet plug a scanner in, but that doesn't matter. He's warm and comfortable, and the frayed ends of two broken bonds doesn't hurt as much anymore.

Chapter Text

"You're really enticing like this, you know..."

If Dreadbot had any plating, it might be trembling. As is, he's close to naked. Whatever plating he can't reach to unhook himself whenever he's forced to strip, his Master has dismounted and discarded, the armor he can remove himself is still mostly left off. His Master likes to see his protoform.

It makes him so vulnerable. Every lash lands across bare protoform, unshielded by heavier plating, and it's pure agony whenever he's punished.

And right now he's trussed up in that hated spread eagle pose his Master is so fond of.

"I want you completely bare though..."

There's wicked hunger in his Master's field, sadistic anticipation and Dreadbot starts crying silently, terrified of whatever the mech is planning this time.

A gentle servo lifts one of the permanently mounted plates on his shoulder, and Dreadbot stifles a whimper.

"This has to go."

The Decepticon doesn't understand. It's permanently mounted. What does he mean? Dreadbot can't strip that from his frame.

Then horror grips him when the whining of a circular saw fills the room and he realizes what his Master has planned.

"No! Please, Master! I'll do anything...!!" He cries, trying to shy away in his restraints.

The saw is turned off and Dreadbot pants in terror, tries to compose himself.

"You'll do anything? But this is what I want; you, completely bare for me to see and touch." His Master says.

Dreadbot is at a loss for how to answer. The saw starts up again, a horrible noise that has him struggling furiously with his restraints, trying to avoid his Master's servos, but a harsh grip on the still attached plate holds him easily.

The pain when the blade starts to cut into the bracket is excruciating and he screams when sensory circuits are severed, energon from a cut line spattering by the speed of the saw.

The plate is thrown on the floor, like garbage, but the pain is still white hot, searing his entire shoulder, blooming through his sensory system, and his audials begin to ring. Two of his optics shut down.

There's no respite, another plate is grabbed and he howls in agony when the saw cuts into the next bracket. Dreadbot can't stop the repulsive blend of energon and transfluid from earlier, before he was strung up, rising to the back of his intake and he purges violently when the next plate joins the first on the floor.

Two more optics offlines, energon is running down his protoform from the severed brackets and Dreadbot feels like he's sinking into himself, the surroundings fading away.

He still hears his garbled scream when the next plate is attacked, feels how his frame thrashes in a desperate attempt to free himself from the restraints. But as more energon spatters across his face, flung from the spinning saw, he descends into blissful unconsciousness.

Chapter Text

He's cleaned up and given a small amount of fuel to keep him going. Vortex really tries to get the guards to frag him when they're in the washracks, but this time they refuse.

"Sorry. The mech who bought you is just... nope, not touching his stuff." One of the guards say, batting Vortex's servos away.

The Helo pouts, but the guards don't care. They just focus on getting him presentable, and then they drag him to the reception area.

Ironhide is waiting for them. Once upon a time that would've given Vortex pause, because the mech is dangerous.

But that was long ago. Now, he's getting charged by just looking at the Weapons specialist. The Topkick is a fine specimen. Vortex almost moans just thinking about how thick his spike must be.

The receptionist is trying to flirt with the big Autobot, but he mostly seems annoyed by it.

"He's ready for you, Sir." The guard says.

Ironhide looks Vortex up and down and the Helo wiggles his rotors enticingly. Ironhide raises an optical ridge.

"I can see that." He smirks.

Vortex rubs his legs together in frustration while Ironhide fills in the last paperwork and gets the plating Vortex has removed in a box.

"Thank you for doing business with us, Sir."

"I do like rotaries, and they're not easy to find these days." Ironhide leers.

He walks out of the place, Vortex in tow, and into the transport. As soon as he's seated, the Combaticon straddles his lap, digits sliding under plating.

"I'll be the best Helo you ever had, and the sexiest too." He purrs.

Ironhide snorts at that.

"Somehow, I think Blackout would disagree."

"Blackout?" Vortex hisses. "His rotors are foldable." He says with so much derision, because ugh.

Ironhide laughs at that.

"I'm sensing a catfight incoming. But you don't have to compete with Blackout. I bought you for a friend of mine. He'll take good care of you."

"Don't you want a quickie before you drop me off?" Vortex suggests, voice husky.

"Very tempting, but I'm not into public fragging." 

Vortex pouts, still sitting in the big mech's lap. Hopefully Ironhide's friend will be easier to seduce.

Chapter Text

Motormaster slowly boots out of recharge and hears familiar voices.

"His hydraulic pump needed to be cleaned and a few of the pressure-valves were stuck. He should be able to move a little, but it might take a while for the systems to recalibrate to give him full range of mobility and motor control." Ratchet says.

The Stunticon struggles but finally manages to online his optics. Everything is still a bit blurry, but he can see the medic talking to a golden mech that's all too familiar.

Sunstreaker. Motormaster shivers, because that particular mech is one he always gave a wide berth.

"So what does he need?"

"Aside from lots of med grade fuel and recharge, he will need to do a specific set of motions to get his joints back to full mobility. Most of his joints were superficially rusted and needs to be lubricated two times a day to get the rust out."


Sunstreaker is handed a big box of supplies, and both Autobots comes to stand in front of Motormaster.

"Could you try to move a little?" Ratchet asks.

He tries, and manages to lift his arms slightly, but they feel incredibly heavy and soon drop back to the berth. His legs are no better off and the Stunticon growls in frustration.

"I'll carry you, then. Ratch, could you take the box?"

Sunstreaker hands the box to the medic and scoops Motormaster up to carry him bridal style. He's carried out into a transport, and Ratchet puts the box on the seat and says his goodbyes before disappearing into the medbay again.

"Where are you taking me?" Motormaster asks, worried and feeling vulnerable in his state of poor functioning.

"Home. You're mine now, Con."

Chapter Text

Vortex follows Ironhide from the transport, down the street in the suburban neighborhood. The Helo gawks at everything, because he has not seen much of Cybertron for millions of years.

He's lead up to a house and Ironhide knocks on the door a couple of times before just walking right in.

Prowl comes to meet them in the hallway and Vortex looks at the Praxian. Door-wings. Those are a sensitive spot, he knows from having had Praxian customers. He's in luck, he knows how to play his new owners frame lika an instrument, knows how to pleasure the mech.

"Welcome to my house, Vortex. I have a few mechs here I think you will enjoy meeting. Just proceed down the hallway to the living room. I will join you in a few minutes."

"Yes, Sir." Vortex purrs.

Prowl stays behind, talking to Ironhide, and Vortex almost skips down the hallway in anticipation. More than one mech. He's going to enjoy this immensely. He briefly wonders if Ironhide will join them too and he stifles a moan at the thought. This wouldn't be considered public fragging, right?

Just inside the door to the living room, the Helo freezes up, staring. He resets his optics, not daring to believe them.

Onslaught and Blast Off seems equally baffled, staring back.

Then he finally gets his frame to move again, and the Helicopter runs to the couch, flinging himself on top of them, sobbing quietly in relief.

"Vortex." Onslaught croaks, petting the Helo's rotors, his field trembling with relief and surprise.

"I missed you so much." Vortex sobs to them both.

He notices the way Blast Off clings to them both, something the aloof shuttle would never have done before all this happened, but it isn't unwelcome.

Vortex hears Prowl step into the room, and his protocols flare to life. An Autobot to satisfy.

"I see you found each other. Onslaught, would you give Vortex the tour of the house when all of you feel ready for it? I'll be in the garden."

"Certainly, Prowl." Onslaught manages to get out, voice still wavering with emotions.

Then Prowl leaves again, and Vortex's coding gets very confused about if it was a rejection or not. 

But since he didn't have time to offer something to the Autobot, it settles for it not being a dissatisfied response, and so Vortex is free to cuddle with the parts of his gestalt he's finally reunited with.

Chapter Text

It's not easily done, but Sunstreaker manages to carry Motormaster through the door, in spite of the truckformers massive size. The box of supplies is balanced in Motormaster's lap, since he's unable to hold it in his weak servos.

He's carried into the living room and Sunstreaker sets him down on the couch rather gently. It's a little disconcerting, because from what little Motormaster actually knows of the golden twin, the mech is even more temperamental that Motormaster himself.

"Hey mechs! Come out here to say hello!" Sunstreaker yells, making Motormaster twitch.

The Stunticon hears several mechs file out from another room behind him, but he can't turn his helm to look and it's making him nervous.

Then their fields reach him and he gasps in shock at the same moment Wildrider squeals.

Drag Strip and Wildrider both come tumbling over the back of the couch, knocking Motormaster over, all the remaining Stunticons landing in an ungraceful heap half still on the couch, half on the floor.

"Motormaster! It's really you!" Wildrider shouts, field full of surprise and joy.

Motormaster stifles a sob. He really thought that he would never see what's left of his gestalt again, but here they are, in the plating. He wishes he could hug them, but for now, he has to make do with having them crawling all over him, hugging him hard enough to make up for it.

Sideswipe's helm shows up over him, a smirk in place on the Autobot's faceplates.

"Are you alright under there, or are they suffocating you?"

"I'm fine." Motormaster answers.

Somehow, he had forgotten that being bought by Sunstreaker would mean Sideswipe being his new owner too.

"We missed you so much." Drag Strip mumbles against Motormaster's plating.

"I missed you too." Motormaster murmurs back.

"Why are you not moving?" Wildrider frowns.

"Have been forced to stay still for far too long. I'll need to get my frame fully operational and calibrated slowly." Motormaster grunts.

"He needs help with physical therapy. But you mechs won't mind helping him out, would you?" Sunstreaker asks the other Stunticons.

"Of course not!" Drag Strip hurriedly answers.

"We'll do anything that needs to be done." Wildrider adds.

"Help him back up on the couch seems like a good start. Get yourselves some energon. We'll leave you alone for a while to let you catch up. Holler if you need something." Sideswipe says.

The twins disappears out into the refueling room and the smaller Stunticons help Motormaster back up to sit on the couch. Wildrider gets energon and cubes for them, and they sink down next to Motormaster, pressing in close to their gestalt leader. The Truck revels in the familiar heat of their frames as Drag Strip holds a cube with a straw up for him. Motormaster chooses not to think about how embarrassingly helpless he is when he pulls a few mouthfuls of the fuel.

"You both look good. Are the twins treating you okay?" Motormaster asks, still apprehensive about his future.

"The twins are nice." Drag Strip says and Wildrider nods.

That's good. And they have each other.

Even if something turns out to be crap, Motormaster is going to take this moment and enjoy being close to the remnants of his gestalt.

Chapter Text

Blackout watches Jazz and Barricade pack their things. They're going back to Jazz's place. The Spy completed his mission and kept from having another relapse into drug use, and after another week or so of close monitoring, Ironhide has deemed him fit to move back into his own apartment.

It's actually going to feel a bit empty when they leave. 

Blackout never thought that he would feel that way, he has been so busy being annoyed by being forced to live with Barricade, but he's a social mech. Now when it will be back to just him and Ironhide, he's probably going to be alone a lot more.

He watches Ironhide give Barricade his comm connection; the Interceptor has no internal comm system, just like all the other Decepticons, but he will be able to reach the Weapons specialist through Jazz's communications console. His owner instructs the Saleen to contact him immediately if the Mustang even remotely suspects that Jazz is using again.

Hopefully, Barricade can manage that, at least.

The pair grabs their bags and leaves, and everything goes quiet; the buzz of EM fields goes down and as the door is shut, Jazz's voice can't be heard anymore. 

Blackout's field flares of it's own accord, seeking a field to mesh with. Ironhide catches it and turns to studie the Helo closely.

"Are you ok, Blackout?"

"Yes. It's just that it gets very quiet here. I don't like being alone, but I know I can't come with you all the time either, Sir."

"They'll be back for frequent visits, I'm not letting Jazz too far out of sight."

"Okay, Sir."

"Drift is coming over tonight, he'll stay here for a few days."

"That sounds good, Sir. I'll prepare the pull out in the office." Blackout volunteers.

"You don't have to do that. You're not a servant." Ironhide says.

"I want to, Sir." He likes feeling helpful, Ironhide deserves that for all the good things he has done for Blackout. And having Drift here means he'll have company.

"Thank you, Blackout. When you're done, we could watch a movie and I can polish your rotors. I have neglected that with all the craziness going on lately."

Blackout almost moans. Ironhide is so good with his servos, and that medicated polish feels so good.

"I'd love that, Sir."

Chapter Text

His Master is removing the clamps around the stumps that once held his permanently mounted plating. The severed fuel and hydraulic lines have healed up enough to not leak anymore, the wiring has stopped crackling with electricity as the fuses has burned out.

The blinding pain that consumed him the time after the procedure, he can't tell for how long he was writhing in agony, with his vocalizer disconnected to not be a nuisance, because it felt like eternity, has subsided, and left is soreness and a dull ache, itching as his taxed self repair spends what little energy his frame can afford to try to knit the wounds back together.

Dreadbot is trembling under those deceptively gentle servos as they release the clamps and straps used to keep him from leaking out. This time, it isn't just fear that has him shivering though. 

He's freezing

Ever since his Master got the idea that he shouldn't wear his plating, he has been cold. But now, with his frame diverting precious energy from heating up to healing, he is freezing so much worse. It makes it close to impossible to recharge, and he really needs the rest, because his Master hasn't started to give him more fuel to fill his increased need.

"Stand up."

Dreadbot rises slowly to not jostle the still sore spots on his frame, staring straight forward without focusing his optics.

"You really look good like this."

Servos stroke up his sides, uncaring about the still healing wounds, and Dreadbot whimpers in pain.

"Oh yes, this is making my spike chafe against my panel."

The mech presses up against Dreadbot's back, and the Decepticon is forced forward. The Autobot spins him and grabs the backsides of his thighs, easily lifting Dreadbot.

His back hits the wall, wounds rubbed against the surface and Dreadbot sobs with agony as his Master's spike pressurizes to rub against the Decepticon's ever bared array.

"You need to line it up, you know." The Autobot grunts.

Dreadbot reaches down mechanically, grabbing the mech's spike and rubbing the head against his valve-lips.

"No. I want your port this time." The mech leers with a nasty grin.

Hasn't he suffered enough? Isn't he low enough already?

He still redirects that cock, slides it back to rest against his unprepared opening, and when the Autobot pushes inside with a harsh thrust, he can't decide if it hurts more or less than his wounds scraping against the wall. Does it really matter anyway?

Chapter Text

It didn't take long for him and Onslaught to realize that something was very off with Vortex's behavior, and Prowl has confirmed that the Helo's coding has written a few new protocols.

After what Blast Off has been through, he isn't very keen on interfacing, not even with the other parts of his gestalt. They're close, and they appreciate each other after all that has happened, but before all this went down, there was no love lost between the gestalt mates. 

Vortex on the other servo, is obsessed with interfacing. And he was not like that before their capture. So much has changed.

Currently, the Helo is in Onslaught's lap again, it's the third time today and it's not even noon. Blast Off has denied the admittedly crazy Helicopter so far, batting his wandering servos away with increasing force, but he can see that Onslaught's stamina is put to the test and the Anti Aircraft Truck is reaching his limits. Vortex seems insatiable.

The gestalt leader overloads again, and it brings Vortex over with a wail. Onslaught leans his helm against the back of the couch, clearly spent, while Vortex starts to dig underneath his plating again, trying to coax Onslaught into yet another round.

The truckformer looks at Blast Off with something that is equal parts begging and commanding, and the Shuttle knows that he can't avoid it anymore.

At least it seems like Vortex only wants to be spiked. That's something Blast Off feels like he is far more likely to be able to handle than if things had been the other way around.

He hasn't even been able to let Onslaught touch his valve, and he has always trusted his Commander far more than he ever trusted Vortex.

"I'm sated." Onslaught murmurs, something that seems to be the only rejection Vortex can handle without becoming a writhing ball of misery on the floor.

"But I want more!" Vortex whines.

"Come here, Tex. I want some of that fine valve of yours." Blast Off croons.

The valve Vortex didn't share that often back in the day.

Now though, the Helo eagerly comes bounding over to straddle the Shuttle instead, an inviting smile gracing his lip-plates.

"Can't I suck your spike first? I love getting a fat spike in my intake." Vortex purrs.

Blast Off stares at his gestalt mate for a few seconds, flabbergasted.

"Sure, why not?" Is all he manages to blurt.

Chapter Text

"I'm gettin' bored sittin' around in here, I'm goin' out. Ya wanna come?" Jazz asks.

It's about a week since they came home from Ironhide's place. 

Barricade nods. He's a racer having been cooped up inside for far too long himself and knows how restless a mech can get. And he has to keep an optic on Jazz, in case he tries to get ahold of something Ironhide won't approve of. 

He has been on some very humiliating walks in his time as a slave, but the few times he has had to endure going somewhere with Jazz, he has never been forced to anything worse than having his panel open, and that's something he doesn't even think that much about anymore. 

His panel is locked open, but no leashes or other humiliating paraphernalia are attached to his frame, and he follows Jazz outside, flanking his owner like a good little slave.

There's whispers, of course, taunts and jeers, but it isn't something he isn't used to, and they seem a little less loud and nasty than before. Maybe because he doesn't have to wear collars or other disgusting toys.

They walk through a market, and Barricade actually sneaks peeks of the things around; the knick-knacks offered for sale, cheap polish and candy. He hasn't seen a part of Cybertron like this for millions of years; his other Masters never brought him like this, and whenever they ventured out, he was too busy staring on the ground and reigning his field in.

He gets absorbed in the sights, the sounds, the smells and doesn't notice when Jazz moves forward from where the Spy stopped to look at something.

Barricade suddenly realizes that he has lost sight of Jazz, and frantically, he starts to search the crowd for the silver mech, spark speeding up.

It will be very hard to find the small Spec Ops mech in this crowd; even while not in Spy mode Jazz is extremely silent, field degaussed, systems quiet and a low key paint job. And most of Barricade's systems are unhelpfully offline.

"Why, hello, Barricade. Fancy meeting you here." An awfully familiar, soft voice purrs in his audial. 

The air of a vent ghosting the Saleen's neck is hot, yet it still sends a chill down his back-struts as he freezes up in fear. Digits slide softly up his shoulder-wing, tweaking his tire, making the Saleen shudder.

"I'd recognize these lovely wings anywhere." The voice is hoarse and thin with dangerous arousal. "And look, you still wear the marks I put there." A digit slides gently over the heavily scarred protoform at the base of his shoulder-wing.

The Saleen whimpers with utter terror, and the only thing stopping him from peeing himself is long and harsh training.

The big mech with the cloying field slowly steps around him, that crocodile smile the Mustang knows all too well in place, and Barricade's tank roils.

He's a slave, all alone outside and his first Master finally caught up with him. May Primus have mercy on his disgusting little pleasurebot spark.

Chapter Text

"You know, sometimes I miss you. I've never quite managed to find a slave as entertaining as you." The mech leers. "I really enjoyed the way you always were so ready for me."

A servo slides between his legs, and Barricade stares vacantly in front of him as he feels his valve go wet.

It can't be happening. It's another nightmare.

Digits slide back and forth through his folds, gathering the rapidly increasing slickness.

"Look at you, Barricade. Still the ever wet and willing little pleasurebot."

The digits slide further back and Barricade feels his port relaxing, readily allowing the intrusion as the Autobot pushes two digits inside. The Bot snickers.

"I can see why you're standing around here, hoping for a spike to be aimed your way, you filthy pleasuredrone, but this is just indecent. Your Master should build you a stall with three glory holes, so you could be properly filled all the time. It's all you're good for anyway."

The Autobot is pumping his digits into Barricade's ass, his thumb rubbing the Saleen's anterior node with long familiarity, and the Interceptor stifles a sob of humiliation when he's getting wet and charged quickly.

"Does your Master even know that you're whoring yourself out like this, hmh?" His former Master hisses derisively.

He overloads. 

He overloads and hates himself, because how could he ever begin to believe that he was something more than a worthless pleasuredrone? He just stands there and cries silently when the Autobot pulls his servo away and steps back, a very satisfied smirk on his faceplates.

Barricade startles badly when arms snake around him from behind; one over his shoulder to grab him across his collar fairing, the other around his side, servo sliding down to flat-palm his array possessively. 

"Is this yours? A very entertaining little slave. I trained him." The big mech says.

"Is that so?" Jazz purrs dangerously close to Barricade's audial.

Jazz's servo is covering Barricade's array. There's no digits sliding through his soaked folds, but still... Jazz is touching him there, where he's wet and ready....

"Oh yes. He's like a luxurious snack platter; something for everyone, easy to share..."

"But now he's mine..." Jazz hisses before biting down hard on Barricade's neck-cables with sharp denta, making the Saleen whimper. "...and I don't share my toys."

Jazz has degaussed his field, but with the Spy pressed up against Barricade's back, arms wrapped around him, the Mustang can still feel the ghost of his EM field, and the small Autobot is livid.

Barricade shivers. Jazz doesn't share, and here Barricade is, whoring himself out to all and sundry.

"Hey, weren't you a pleasurebot before?" Another mech has come up to them, a mech Barricade recognizes as his first Master's friend.

Barricade doesn't want to answer the question. The mech knows what Barricade was, still is. Does he really have to admit it out loud again?

"You had those re-tightening mods and you still allowed knotting in all your holes." The mech says excitedly. "I remember this one time, when a friend of mine knotted your aft and you tightened up so much, he could hardly get loose. We had to get some oil in there. When he finally managed to pull out, you were gaping so much, you had to put a plug in your port to not leak when you left." The mech cackles.


"I think ya mistake me for someone else. No pleasurebot has ever made it further than 'morale officer' in tha army." Jazz says smoothly. 

"Really? Because you look so familiar..." The mech frowns. "But he was slimmer, for certain. And flirtier."

"Well gentlemechs, if tha's all, I have a slave ta remind of his place..." Jazz purrs, visor flashing with something distinctly predatory.

Barricade's first Master holds up his servos in a making-no-claims, go-ahead gesture and Jazz drags the stiff Saleen away by a firm grip on his shoulder-wing, staring down at his other servo, palm soaked with Barricade's lubricant.

Panic hits the Interceptor. He has never offered himself to Jazz, and yet he willingly let his first Master finger-fuck him in the ass.

"I'm sorry, Master! I didn't mean to..."

"Shut up, Barricade. We'll discuss this in private, at home." Jazz growls.

Barricade mutes his vocalizer and starts crying in fear.

Chapter Text

It really isn't high on Skywarp's priority list, but he's fairly certain that Sentinel's other Decepticons hate his guts. Granted, the Seeker doesn't spend much time around them as he's mostly cooped up in Sentinel's berthroom, but he does refuel with them. They mostly huddle together on the long benches while drinking their energon, but he's never invited to join them.

On the contrary, if he tries sitting next to someone, they immediately move, and there always seems to be space by someone else to allow them to sit as far from Skywarp as possible. It's as if he has cosmic rust, or something equally contagious.

Skywarp sees it for what it is though. 


They're all so very jealous because he's prettier and better in the sack, and it's blatantly obvious to Skywarp. After all, he's the one who spends his nights pinned under Sentinel while they're not.

The Seeker squirms on the bench, trying to get a little friction for his node and valve-lips, just the thought of the Prime fragging him making him all tingly. There will definitely be a wet snail trail when he leaves.

Several of the other Cons turn their helms and glares at him, and at first Skywarp doesn't understand why.

Then he realizes that he accidentally moaned his Lord's title out loud, and the other Decepticons clearly took offence. He smirks at them, dragging his servos down his chestplates, arching his back to show off all the prettiness.

"Oh, Prime! Harder!" Skywarp mewls exaggeratedly.

Ramjet looks disgusted before turning away and it makes Skywarp feel victorious for all of 1,5 seconds. Then he feels how charged he's getting from touching himself like that, thinking of the Prime, and the Seeker hurries back to his Lord's chambers.

If he keeps himself wet and ready, maybe he will be lucky enough to get Prime to have a quickie sometime today.

Chapter Text

Jazz pushes him through the door, and Barricade just takes a couple of steps inside before he falls to his knees, servos on the back of his helm, while Jazz closes the door.

"I'm so sorry, Sir, I..." The Saleen sobs, but he's cut off.

"What, exactly, are ya sorry for, Barricade?" Jazz hisses, while lifting the Interceptor to his pedes. "Turn around and look at me."

Barricade slowly turns, not daring to disobey. Every atom in his frame screams to him that he should stare at the floor to not make his Master even more angry.

"Are ya sorry for bein' violated? Are ya apologizing for a mech ya legally can't refuse takin' advantage of ya in the middle of tha street?"

"I shouldn't have offered myself up to everyone like that. You're my Master, and I should only offer myself to you, and allow you to offer me to others as you see fit." Barricade mumbles, optics dropping to the floor in deference.

"Ya were just goin' down tha streeet. That's not 'offerin' yourself up'."

"Still, I shouldn't have enticed him to finger me, shouldn't be so willing to let his digits inside, Master. Like a whore." Barricade's vents hitches.

"He fingered ya." Jazz growls through clenched denta.

"In the ass, and I allowed him. I-I... I overloaded for him, Master." He whispers thinly.

 He's such a pleasurebot. And still he hasn't offered himself to his current Master.

Jazz leans against the wall, resting one pede on the other, arms crossed.

"Haven't ya learned anythin' by all our talk about consent?" The Spy asks, voice flat.

"You felt how wet I got. Of course I was willing."

Like the cheap little slut he is, ready to be fucked by anyone.

Jazz stares at his pedes, silent for a long time. When he finally speaks again, his voice sounds hard and flat.

"I really hoped that it wouldn' come ta this, that ya would come around by yourself if I just let ya process things at your own pace. Barricade?"

"Yes, Master?" Barricade answers apprehensively.

Jazz looks up at the Interceptor, and Barricade shudders under his gaze, because that blue visor is cold and hard as ice.

"Get on your knees and servos."

Chapter Text

It feels as if Barricade's spark plummets through the cold and vastness of space. But he does as Jazz tells him. Of course he doesHe could've offered willingly but he didn't and so he forced his Master's servo. Like so many times before.

With a stifled sob of despair, he sinks to his knees and tips forward to stand on all fours. The Saleen's valve is going wet by the all too familiar situation, and he's disgusted that he ever thought that he might be more than a pleasuredrone.

A servo comes down to cup his array, digits laying flat on his puffy valve-lips, a thumb resting against his ass. Barricade cries silently.

"D'ya like this, Barricade? Think carefully before ya answer, 'cause I hate bein' lied ta."

Barricade's automatic response that he does like it is cut off, and he whimpers in fear. Where's Jazz going with this?

"No, Master. I don't like it."

"Really? Are ya sure? Because ya're goin' very wet... Oh, and your port is relaxing, getting ready for takin' my spike. Ya sure ya don' like it?"

"I-I... No, I don't like it, Master." Barricade mumbles, waiting for the pain to begin, or something to slide into him. 

"Huh. Maybe like this, then."

Barricade is flipped over on his back and Jazz knees his legs apart and crawls on top of him, pinning his wrists to the floor with strong servos.

"Ya like this better? Ya want my cock in that pretty little valve of yours?"

"No, Master." Barricade cries.

He actually had started believing that Jazz wouldn't fuck him. Of course the Spy was just waiting for him to come willingly. And he didn't.

"Really? 'cause ya're soaking wet."

Jazz grinds his pelvic plating against Barricade's bare array.

"Tell me, Barricade. D'ya want me ta fuck ya, hmh? D'ya want my spike to slide into your ass? Want me ta fuck ya so good, ya won't be able ta sit properly for a week?" Jazz hisses dangerously.

Barricade just whimpers in fear.

"Answer me honestly, Barricade! Do. You. Want. That?!" Jazz snarls.

"No, Master! I don't want it!" Barricade screams.

"Good, we're gettin' somewhere. That means ya're not willin', Barricade. Just one more question. How does my panel feel?" Jazz's voice is soft now.

"What?" Barricade asks, confused by how calm the Autobot suddenly seems.

"I know ya can feel it, because it's pressed up against your array. How does my panel feel?"

"It's... It's cold, Master?" Barricade is even more confused now

"It is. Ya know why?"

"You're... You're not turned on?" It's so confusing.

"Exactly. I want my partners squirmin' with want and need, not fear n' discomfort. You explicitly said ya didn't want me ta fuck ya n' your field backs that up. Nope, I don' want ta fuck ya. Hell no."

Jazz sits back but Barricade doesn't move, still apprehensive about what will happen.

Jazz doesn't want to frag him. 

It's a relief, but still he can't help but wonder if he's so disgusting, Jazz doesn't want him. Then an alarming thought hits him. 

What kind of purpose could he ever fill for the Autobot?

Chapter Text

"Barricade, listen ta me. Really listen. Ya're an Interrogator, ya know about classical conditioning, right? That's what tha bastard did. He conditioned ya ta get primed n' ready when ya get scared or repulsed."

"Yes, Master." 

He did get the data on classical conditioning, still has it somewhere in the back of his helm, but he needs to pull up those files and process that more thoroughly later, to see what it has to do with his frame's responses. If there is a later where it matters, maybe Jazz will sell him for not being willing and completely useless.

"Please, Master! I'll try to be willing!" He cries in panic.

"Ya don' have to! Don't try! Jus' be yourself, an if willingness happens, so be it. If it doesn't, it doesn't n' that doesn't matter."

Barricade cries harder. He'll be sent away.

Jazz rubs his faceplates, looking weary and torn.

"Do ya enjoy life Barricade? Ya know, is there anything at all that ya really like about your functioning?"

Barricade works his intake, not sure how to respond. Does he really enjoy livingOr is he just remaining alive because he has no options?

"I'm at my wit's end here. It's a tiny step forward and then a big one back with ya. Ya see how easily I coulduse or hurt ya. I could fuck ya every which way, on every solid surface whenever I feel like it. The key is: I don't. I never have. Never would!" 

It's true and Barricade knows it. He has just been so preoccupied with expecting bad things to happen, he hasn't truly processed and appreciated that the bad things never come when he's with Jazz.

"I really want ya ta get better, but do you want it? Want it enough ta really try? I understand that what happened out there today made ya very upset, and that's ok, ya're allowed to completely freak out over slag like that. But after all this time here, ya still don' trust me not ta hurt ya for somethin' out of your control. Ya still just wait for the moment I hurt ya or rape ya."

Its so much to think about. Does he want to get better? What is better anyway? And how would it matter?

"Tha way I see it, we have a couple of options; A: we work together, n' ya hafta really try ta trust that no matter what happens, I won't hurt ya or use ya. Ya hafta tell me what's goin' on in that helm of yours, n' trust that I won't slag ya for it."

It's reasonable, but at the same time, it's like thinking about trying to swim across an ocean. Could he really do that? Could he handle that pressure?

"Or option B: we give up. If ya don't see any point in trying ta get over what ya've been through, if ya don't have anythin' that makes life worth livin'."

"Please, Master, don't sell me! I can't take any more pain." Barricade whispers.

"I won't. Tha's one of tha things I'd never do, that, ya hafta trust me on. But if ya really think your life is pointless, just scary and generally awful and ya really are fed up with it, I would help deactivate ya. I wouldn't enjoy it, don't wanna do it, but if ya don't wanna continue, I'll do it quickly n' without pain."

Does he want to go on? Is it really worth the effort to get better? To what point? Being the pathetic slave, sitting around in Jazz's apartment without a purpose? He can't even imagine what it would be like to not be scared, but if he wasn't anymore, he still wouldn't have anything to do; he will never go out again, can't transform... Is there really anything he can enjoy even without the fear?

Chapter Text

Now that he sees things differently, it's so much easier to start trusting the Prime. Sure, he still has bouts of distrust, but if he doesn't manage to snap himself out of it, Thundercracker will.

His trine mate has shown him some of the horrors he has experienced, and it was a rude awakening to exactly how bad things are out there. Suddenly whatever's going on with Skywarp seems rather merciful.

Starscream can understand why Prime didn't tell him, the Seeker would've done exactly the same, if only to protect his own plating and not his entire crew, like Optimus does.

The biggest difference is how much easier the day to day life has gotten. Optimus is easy to be around. Starscream has already noticed how calming the mech's EM field can be a long time ago, but now that he's starting to trust the big mech, it's even more notable. It's a big difference from Megatron.

So when Thundercracker sinks into the couch and cuddles up to the Prime, Starscream decides to join them. He still keeps the blue Seeker between himself and the Autobot Commander, but he's well within reach. 

They don't call him out on it, doesn't make a big deal about him finally joining them, and that's probably a sign of how well they know him. He'd be embarrassed, and an embarrassed Starscream is a raving Starscream.

Somehow, it pleases him that they seem to know him so well. Like they should. He's Starscream, after all.

"So, is anyone going to pass the energon gels or what?"

He catches Thundercracker's optic roll and the flicker of amusement in Prime's field, the twitch of the corners of his intake.

Thundercracker hands him the bowl and Starscream grabs a servoful before handing the bowl back.

"Thank you." He mumbles, because being an ungrateful brat suddenly feels wrong when wrapped in the Prime's EM field.

"You're welcome?" Thundercracker sounds hesitant, not used to Starscream actually thanking anyone for anything.

The approval in Prime's field makes Starscream want to preen, and that is unsettling. Starscream never needed approval before, yet here he is, eagerly sucking up that praise. The Prime is dangerous, but not in the same way Megatron was.

Chapter Text

"I want to live, Master?" Barricade hears how hesitant he sounds, but he is certain. He didn't survive... Survive all of that just to have himself deactivated when he finally is in a place where pain and humiliation isn't the normal state. And he is a coward, has clung to life even when he was stripped of his freedom, his pride, and every last sliver of dignity, afraid of what would await on the other side.

"Tha's an excellent start. What d'ya enjoy doin', what makes your day a li'l more interesting? I wanna give ya more opportunities ta do things ya like, but if ya don't tell me, I don't know what ya enjoy. Even small things, everythin' matters, even if it sounds ridiculous."

"I... Uhm, I like eating popped energon kernels while watching racing vids from Earth. And reading fictional datapads, Master."

"Please, Barricade, don't call me Master. Makes me feel like that bastard back there, n' I don' wanna be compared ta him. Jus' call me Jazz. Or super-awesome spymech." Jazz grins cheekily.

Barricade nods, hesitant about calling his owner by designation.

"'Cept when we go out. Then ya hafta call me 'Sir', jus' ta keep up appearances."

"I don't want to ever go out again, Si...Jazz." Barricade says apprehensively, still not comfortable to not just comply.

"Didn't ya enjoy it before tha bastard showed up?"

"I guess I did..."

"Then we should. Only this time, I'm not lettin' ya out of my sight. I'm so fuckin' sorry for failin' ta keep ya safe." Jazz says, field full of regret.

"But I shouldn't have..." Barricade starts to apologise.

"Stop!" Jazz interrupts harshly. "It's all on him. He walked up ta ya, n' took advantage. Touched what isn't his to touch. Tha way your frame responds is his fault! I know that ya have healthy responses too, that ya get excited from seeing something ya like, n' that's normal, completely natural! But whenever your frame gets primed even though ya hate something, it's all his fault."

"He always made sure I overloaded. No matter what he did, no matter how much I hated it, I was overloading like the whore I am." Barricade confesses.

"I fuckin' hate that mech!" Jazz hisses, pushing his digits against his visor, grinding his denta.

"Me too." Barricade mumbles, still anxious about saying it out loud.

Chapter Text

Drag Strip catches the irritated flare of Motormaster's field for the third time and looks what his brothers are doing.

Wildrider is helping the Truck through the physical therapy today, and even though their gestalt leader is making steady progress, it's still a frustrating process. And Wildrider just doesn't have great instincts to know when to push and when to back off.

He grabs cubes of energon for them all and joins them on the living room floor.

"It's looking good, Motormaster. I think you're making faster progress than expected." He tries to placate the irritable gestalt leader.

"Whatever. I still feel like a fucking package." Motormaster growls, glaring at Wildrider.

Wildrider picks up on the ire and fidgets nervously, drinking his energon quickly.

"I think Sideswipe wanted someone to play videogames with. Sunstreaker had polishing to do..." Drag Strip says, giving Wildrider an out.

Wildrider nods thankfully and skitters off to find Sideswipe as soon as he's done with his cube.

Motormaster and Drag Strip sits in silence for a while, Drag Strip helping the Truckformer to sip his energon since his exerted frame won't allow him to do it himself.

"So, how are the Twins really?" Motormaster asks, looking at the scars on Drag Strip's frame.

"They've been good to us; fuels us well, and keep us repaired and polished. Hasn't hurt us, the scars are from before. Keeps us occupied well enough to keep Wildrider from going stir crazy..." He chuckles at that.

Motormaster snorts, some of the tension bleeding out of his field.

"Then they have to be fucking amazing." The Truck shakes his helm, field conveying his disbelief.

"They kind of are. I guess they can understand what we've gone through, with their split spark bond and all that.

They really have been good for him and Wildrider. Drag Strip is fairly certain that they would be a mess with someone not understanding how bonds work, someone who can't relate to what it would feel like to lose someone that's a part of you.

"Even Wildrider seems pretty balanced, and that's telling." Motormaster grunts, as if not entirely happy to admit that.

"Living here has similarities to when we lived as a gestalt. They fight at least as bad as we did." Drag Strip admits, still not comfortable trying to explain that his gestalt coding is telling him that the Twins are good prospects for filling the empty slots.

Motormaster hasn't been here long enough to understand.

"You sound fond of them." Motormaster says, showing off more perceptiveness than Drag Strip has ever given him credit for.

"They're nice to us. What more can we ask of our functioning at this point?"

"I guess you're right."

Chapter Text

Barricade is curled up on the couch, a bowl of popped energon kernels in his lap, but he doesn't really watch the movie. There's too much to process right now.

He glances at Jazz as the Spy paces by, animated movements indicating that he's still on the comms with someone and the conversation is rather passionate. His Mas... Jazz can comm others without any outward signs of course, but when he's at home, he tends to behave like this when speaking to his friends.

The Saleen still is a little jittery after the long talk Jazz had with him. He has admitted to both himself and Jazz that he wants to live, and that feels like a big thing. He was given the choice of deactivation, and he didn't take it. Does that mean that he dares having a hope for a functioning that he will enjoy? He can't even tell.

Realizing that he's damaged and that he has issues because of what someone else has done to him is another insight he has to process. Jazz told him in no uncertain terms that he is not worthless, isn't a disgusting whore and Barricade knows it's something he will have to remind himself of repeatedly before he starts to actually believe it. Jazz thoroughly explained how the conditioned responses of his frame works, and Barricade rationally knows that the Spy is right. It's still hard to really believe, because there's a big part of him affected by everything that still says that Barricade likes it and that he is just a pleasuredrone.

Then there's the trust thing. He has thought a lot about how Jazz doesn't punish, how Jazz doesn't use him. It isn't that the Saleen hasn't noticed before, but he didn't believe in it, always waited for the Solstice to make the first painful or humiliating move. 

Now he has to learn to really trust that Jazz won't hurt him, no matter what happens. Even when Barricade perceives that he did something that requires punishment, he has to try to push through and tell Jazz about his apprehension instead of falling into his old appeasement behaviors. He's really nervous about that. Jazz said that he won't be mad if Barricade fails, but he still really has to try, and just trying is a task of it's own.

"Hey, Cade! D'ya mind bein' alone for a while tonight?" Jazz sticks his helm into the room to address him.

"No. I'll be fine." 

And it isn't just old habits making him say so. Barricade has a lot to contemplate and he's fine to do it without company. 

Like the fact that Jazz has been a pleasurebot. Once that was out in the open, the Spy easily shot down every argument Barricade had for believing that he's a whore. Oddly enough, Barricade doesn't think less of Jazz for his history. It actually makes it easier to trust him. And if he doesn't feel derision for Jazz being a pleasurebot, why should he hate himself so much for being... Being raped? 

Admitting it is both harrowing and cathartic. What his second Master did was clearly rape, but really understanding that all the things he has been coerced into wasn't his choice, but actually rape will still take a long time. But still, even just trying to think of it as rape feels like such a big step. 

He has a long way to go, but at least, he made the choice to follow the road and has started walking.

Chapter Text

Ironhide's servos are working on his hub when Drift steps out of the washracks. The Autobot stops to stare at them. He has been here for a while now, but Ironhide hasn't done anything like this to Blackout while Drift has been here, and it's quite obvious that, aside from the ex-Con being kind of clingy to the Weapons specialist, the Samurai is also still wary of the Helo.

Blackout leans into the ministrations on his hub, holding Drift's optics. Drift isn't the only one Ironhide can touch. The touches are both relaxing and a little arousing, leaving Blackout's valve tingling, but he's still content to just sit there and enjoy the thorough treatment of the components of his hub.

"If you sit in front of me, I could polish your rotors. If you want me to, Sir." Blackout offers, seeing a way to be helpful without Ironhide having to stop what he's doing.

Drift glances at Ironhide, seemingly uncertain if it's ok. If he can trust Blackout.

"Go ahead, if you want to. Blackout is very good with his servos." Blackout feels the reassurance that seeps into the Weapons specialist's field as it is pushed out to reach the Samurai.

Blackout might have been offended by Drift's hesitation and distrust, if he was unaware of what the Bugatti has gone through. But Drift doesn't even know who abused him, and Blackout can't imagine how hard it would be if everyone he met might be one of those who violated him. Logic says that it couldn't be Blackout, but the Helo knows that fear and trauma rarely is rational in it's manifestations.

So Blackout tries to help, pushes his field out with his helpful intentions and sincere wish to offer comfort.

Drift nods once and comes to sit in front of Blackout on the floor. The Decepticon holds his servo up for Ironhide and the Weapons specialist pours a glob of polish in his servo. Then the big Helo sets to work, carefully working Drift's rotors, and the Autobot moans quietly when Blackout almost immediately finds a kinked bracket where the rotor is mounted to the hub.

Chapter Text

He has been in Sentinel's berth for the entire day, and the Prime has not showed up yet. The Seeker turns over on his front, bored and charged. 

He occupies himself with trying to come up with a way to get the Prime to frag him as quickly as possible when he gets here. He could put on a show... Maybe dance a little to show off his wings?

No, he did that the other day, and while the Prime enjoys that, he needs to be more original.

He could be touching himself when the Prime walks in?

But that would require him knowing when Sentinel will be here.

The Seeker gets off the berth to look in the drawers of the night stand. The upper drawer holds datapads, the second a portable communications console. 

When he opens the third one he hits the jackpot. Cuffs, straps, spreader bars... Evidently, the Prime prefers restraining his lovers over playing with other toys.

Skywarp can roll with that. He grabs a bottle of lubricant, a spreader bar, two straps and a set of magnacuffs.

He carefully prepares his port, spraying  lube into the opening until he feels it dripping, smearing it with a digit. His valve is wet enough by itself, doesn't need extra lubrication. 

The Seeker locks the spreader bar between his pedes and straps his pedes to the posts of the berth, kneeling on the berth with his back to the door. Then he tips forward until his face is pressed against the matress, and after a little swearing and jostling, he has cuffed his servos to the spreader bar.

Now he just has to wait for the Prime to come and find him and finally frag him. He's really getting aroused by this, now that he can't reach to touch himself, valve dripping wet and aching with need. And the lube seems to be a mildly conductive sort, because his port is tingling and he wishes he had something in there to ease that. But there's nothing he can do about it now, needing help to unlock his restraints.

But if he's right about this, he won't have to wait for long when the Prime shows up, and it will all be worth it.

Chapter Text

Barricade is still on the couch when Jazz comes home in the dead of night. It's a sense of deja vu from an earlier occasion much like this, but this time, Jazz doesn't pick the lock.

No, this time, the door is tackled open and there's a flurry of motion, grunting and metal hitting metal and Barricade stares into the dark hallway, spark spinning.

There's more tumbling, and then the mechs still as Crosshairs is slammed down on the floor, Jazz straddling him, pressing a nasty looking blade across the Sniper's throat. The smell of  gory deactivation, high grade, and sex hangs like a cloud around them.

Barricade stares warily at them, not certain how to react, and then Crosshairs catches his optics, offlining one of his in a quick wink. The Saleen forces himself to vent slowly. They won't hurt him, Jazz promised thatHe has to learn to trust that. It's ok to be scared, but he has to try to stop and assess the situation before he draws conclusions. 

Hesitantly, he teeks their fields when Jazz's servo claws at Crosshairs interface panel. They're both really excited. The Spy hoists the Paratrooper to his pedes, wrenching one of Crosshairs' arms up on his back, and forces him to move forward.

"Ya're filthy, ya slut. Need ta wash ya before I fuck ya." Jazz sneers, the servo not pinning Crosshairs' arm groping the Sniper's frame.

Barricade doesn't miss the flare of arousal in the Corvette's field, then they disappear down the hallway and the door to the washracks slam shut behind them.

It's kind of intriguing. Ironhide did tell him about Crosshairs'... predilections, and teeking his field proves beyond a shadow of a doubt that the Sniper is indeed aroused by being handled like that. The situation, what the two Autobots were doing, doesn't appeal to Barricade at all, but that field... It leaves him curious, he wants to teek it more and pick it apart and analyze it.

He cranks up his audials and barely catches a few noises from the washracks. It's pretty obvious that the washing is derailing fast.

The Interceptor wars with himself. Jazz didn't get mad when he watched the Spy play with himself, but maybe this is different? Then again, Crosshairs didn't mind doing...stuff with an audience at Ironhide's place. And Jazz seems to encourage curiosity... What if they want privacy now? But Jazz has promised not to hurt him or violate him even when he fucks up.

He finally makes up his mind.

Barricade pads down the hallway towards his room. Outside the washracks, he stops and listens, carefully teeking their fields, trying not to catch their attention. Jazz will probably know anyway, but it feels better not to be too obvious about it, and he's just going to stop for a few seconds and then be on his way.

Barricade jumps when the door flies open.

"Ya goin' ta berth?"

"I-I... Yes, Si... Jazz!" Barricade stutters, flushing.

"Don' worry, you'll get a copy of tha memories tomorrow." Jazz winks one optic, visor transformed away.

"If ye don' want to stay an' watch..." 

Crosshairs voice makes Barricade look down, and his optics brighten when he sees the Sniper on his knees, leaning forward to slowly suck Jazz's spike into his intake. The Spy smirks down at the green Autobot, planting a servo on the Paratrooper's helm. 

"I know ya'd like that, ya horny li'l bitch." Jazz says to Crosshairs. 

Then the Spy groans and pushes in deeper when the Paratrooper hums in agreement. It makes Crosshairs whimper, field flaring. The Sniper's optics turn to Barricade and then he pushes his digits into his valve with an obscenely wet noise. The Sniper's field trembles with arousal, heavy enough to smother Barricade and the Mustang's field responds, meshes with Crosshairs'...

"I-I... I'll just go to my room." Barricade squeaks.

Both the Autobots' fields are cloying, but not in that disgusting way when they're laced with pent up need to hurt or humiliate Barricade. No, they cling to his almost in an invitation, in a way that has his engine revving, his charge rising, and he just wants to be alone and take care of that right away.

"Alright. Good night, Cade." Jazz says.

"Sleep tight." Crosshairs manages to mumble around Jazz's spike.

"Less talkin', more suckin'!" Jazz growls to the Sniper.

"Good night." Barricade mutters, hurrying down the hallway.

Chapter Text

By the time Sentinel finally shows up, Skywarp is a squirming mess. His lubricant has dripped to soak the berth under him, his charge is ramped up painfully high, and his arms and legs feel numb.

"Please, my Lord! Allow me to service you!" Skywarp pleads, desperate for release from both his charge and his restraints.

"You really are an interesting slave." Sentinel says amusedly.

"My Prime, I beg you! I've been longing for your spike."

"Aren't you a little presumptuous? Expecting me to help you get rid of the charge, as if I was the one servicing you"

Skywarp almost panics. His Lord Prime is right. Doing this and expecting the Prime to take care of his needs is indeed very presumptuous.

"I didn't mean it like th