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Divide and Conquer

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Satisfaction sings in Dropkick’s lines as he stares down at Cliffjumper’s greying frame. His plating tingles, the sign of a successful termination.

He looks at the grimace on the stupid Autobot’s face—at the split second of agony before offline captured permanently on a mangled canvas—and grins. They’d hunted the little fragger across half the galaxy, and after a week of nonstop pursuit, the thrill of the chase is still resonating in his circuits.

In moments like this, Dropkick kind of loves his job. It’s almost worth being away from Cybertron for—and Pit knows he’d rather be back home than stomping around the barren hunks of rock they’ve been forced to camp out on lately.

The energon drips rich and hot from his blade, and sizzles as it hits the ground. It’s still steaming as he turns to look at Shatter.

“A job well done,” she affirms.

Shatter’s voice is dark, and smooth—weighted with the satisfaction of a good kill—and the prickling under his armor grows stronger in response. They’ve hunted together long enough that Dropkick’s become intimately familiar with his partner’s moods. He’s heard that tone before, and he knows what it means for him. No one’s surprised when his fans kick up a notch.

Sometimes, he really loves his job.

Dropkick pretends like he hasn’t noticed the change in atmosphere, grunting an affirmative. But as he transforms away his blade, he fluffs out his armor to dispel the excess heat that’s built up underneath. He’s not fooling anyone. At this point, he might as well hang a neon sign on his front that says ‘take me now’.

Shatter steps closer, and places an equally warm servo against his chest. His spark jumps towards the point of contact.

“And the location of B-127 is ours,” she continues. “I think such a victory should be celebrated, don’t you comrade?”

“Yeah, great,” he mumbles. “Another filthy, organic mudball. Can’t wait”.

But Earth aside, it’s good news. It means another target to play with. Another gratifying execution. And eventually, it’ll mean a triumphant return to Cybertron—where he won’t have to flush the grit out of his internals on a daily basis.

And as for Shatter’s 'celebration'? Well. For all his complaining, Dropkick likes the sound of that.

Shatter takes hold of his chin, and forces him to meet her optics. She sees right through him, as usual, and the intensity of her gaze turns his struts to rubber.

“None of that” she chides. “We’re closer than ever to ensuring the complete destruction of the resistance. Keep the end in sight—play your part well—and you’ll be rewarded.” Shatter squeezes his faceplates, not quite hard enough to dent, but close. “I shouldn’t need to remind you of the consequences for failure.”

Dropkick tries to speak, but his vocalizer only crackles with interference, and he ends up having to clear it self-consciously. His spark throbs almost painfully behind his chassis—more arousal than trepidation.

Shatter’s answering smile is all denta.

“To success then,” she murmurs.

Dropkick’s chin is released. When Shatter shoves at his chest, he takes it as his cue to get on the ground. He may not be the sharpest blade in the arsenal, but he knows better than to turn down an opportunity like this when it's presented.

He finds himself sitting unwittingly in a pool of Cliffjumper’s energon, but quickly decides that he can’t be bothered to move. It’s a warm, viscous reminder of their victory, and he’s more than a little distracted by the sight of Shatter towering over him. It’s too easy to appreciate the sense of command she exudes—all ruthless confidence and sharp edges. She looks down at him like he’s yet another thing to be conquered.

Yeah, he’s fine where he is.

Shatter joins him on the ground. She gets on her knees, and pulls him unceremoniously towards her, so that his bent legs rest on either side. Dropkick falls back to his elbows, to make things easier. His engine is humming with anticipation.

He transforms away his panel without fanfare—his valve, just as she likes. Another day he might drag out the inevitable surrender, but today he’s not in the mood. Not with the memory of a good hunt licking at his processor, and the heat coiling restlessly in his abdomen.

“Eager, aren’t we?” Shatter mutters as she adjusts their position, and Dropkick almost responds—except that’s her spike sliding up into him, and instead, his helm hits the ground with a strangled moan.

Dropkick’s joints lock up momentarily, as the pleasure floods his systems and triggers what feels like every reward pathway integrated into his frame. For a few moments, his processor is only capable of generating a garbled stream of yes, yes, yes, pit yes.

He’s wet; he’s been wet ever since they cornered the Autobot and started playing, and there’s only a hint of resistance as Shatter drives forward—just enough friction against his mesh to make him burn even hotter. The ground is wet too, hot and sticky against his back in a way that makes him feel the best kind of dirty.

He doesn’t touch her; he knows better to do that without asking, and his servos curl against the ground and scrape furrows into the rock. She rewards his diligence with deep, hard thrusts that have him sliding in the puddle beneath them.

Dropkick thinks it’s kind of unfair that Shatter isn’t slipping too, but as usual, her form is as solid as her will. And she doesn’t leave him much opportunity to think any further.

Shatters spike is a mass of texture; it’s covered in knobs that are just on the side of too hard, but they drag against his swollen nodes like nothing else. There’s a bit on the top that Dropkick can’t get enough of—a little bump that grinds relentlessly against his node, and makes electricity jump and weave across their connected frames. It's exactly what he needs.

Dropkick doesn’t bother pretending like this isn’t the best thing that’s happened to him all week. He shudders and groans—gives Shatter everything that she wants and more. He wants her to destroy him, and he tells her as much. Shatters answering laugh is dark and heady.

He’s not the only one affected by the collection of a bounty, and in her own way, Shatter matches him for eagerness. She’s a little more unrestrained, where usually she might take her time and torture him a little.

Eventually, Dropkick forgets himself, and reaches up to clutch at her hip—anything to ground him in the dizzying rush of near-overload. Predictably, Shatter doesn’t let him get away with it; she tugs his servo from her frame, and pins it to the ground.

“Do I need to remind you of the importance of discipline in our line of work, comrade?”

He’s disciplined! Ish.

“Yeah,” he mumbles. “Wouldn’t wanna ruin our reputation or anythin’”. Like they had one, beyond ‘scary’.

The servo that isn’t holding Dropkick’s arm down curls around his throat, and presses his helm to the ground. It’s barely painful enough to register—the threat all but mitigated by the darkly amused twist to Shatter’s mouth—but it revs his engine anyway. She tightens her grip, and his plating shudders noisily as his arousal skyrockets.

Dropkick presses into the grip, and arcs his frame in a show of submission. Oh, he’s close. He’s so close—c’mon, please.

Instead, Shatter backs off, reverting to shallow thrusts that only serve to tease him, and don’t come anywhere close to the railing that Dropkick’s craving. She removes her servo from his throat, and he mourns the loss. He’d been wrong about her skipping the torture this time.

Too bad he loves it.

This is why their partnership has lasted so long—he thinks—why they haven’t slagged one another yet, even though they drive each other up the wall on a regular basis. When it comes down to the basics, they’re fraggin’ compatible.

Dropkick tries to mumble something to that effect, but he’s too busy chasing the overload that’s slipped from his grasp. It’s retreated into a dull, pleasurable ache, as Shatter ruts shallowly into him. The nodes at the rim of his valve are throbbing.

“Oh?” she intones, “Did you have something to say for yourself?”. She’s giving him a chance to save himself.

‘Course, he’s always been an idiot.

“Harder?” he hedges.

Shatter isn’t expecting more lip. He knows because of the way she leans in, and tilts her helm to look at him like he’s a particularly interesting space slug that’s crawled into her line of sight. Her stare pierces through him in a way that both thrills and unsettles him.

“Hn. I’m not convinced that you deserve it,” she says. She follows up with a deliberate grind that makes him spit static, and clutch at the life-stained ground like his own functioning depends on it. “Nor are you in a position to make demands.”

The heat in her optics sucks him in—makes his spark spin.

“I think you’re fine like this,” she continues. “In fact, I think you’ll overload if I want it—If I order it.”

She’s right.

Dropkick sulks anyway.

“Thought this was a celebration,” he mumbles, even though he’s probably approaching the limit of what he can get away with.

Shatter’s optics narrow, and Dropkick can almost see the ‘lesson’ she intends to teach him forming behind the blazing glass.

“Please?” he whines, as a last resort. Right now he’s more interested in her mercy than her—admittedly impressive—ability to discipline a bot till they see Primus.

He lucks out—or maybe Shatter can tell that he’s not in the mood to play the long-game. She thrusts again with renewed force, and for a nano-klik he can’t see as the pleasure blinds him.

“Better.”

After that, Shatter gets rougher. Dropkick moans with relief as she digs into transformation seams, plucking and pulling at wires that feel like they’re connected by a thread to his spark. She grips hard enough to leave dents in his armor, and he hisses his appreciation. She drags fingers through the energon beneath them, uses it to ease the firm slide of a thumb across his node, and he can’t keep from spasming.

“Legs around my waist”, she orders, and Dropkick wastes no time obeying. It helps pull her deeper, and his ceiling node thanks him for it.

Shatter’s hunched over—almost on the ground with him now—and he doesn't know when she got so close. She leans into the forearm framing his helm, and the other makes its way to the small of his back for support, lifting him up to the angle she prefers.

Dropkick matches her grunt for gasp as she drives into him with sharp thrusts, almost careless in her intensity. The paint transfers are going to be a bitch to get out in the morning, but right now that’s the least of his concerns. Shatter knows how to make him feel used. She’s bigger than him, stronger than him, could tear him in half if she wanted to, and he loves it.

As Shatter propels them closer to overload Dropkick’s helm falls to the side, and he meets empty optics.

Correction, one empty optic. The other has flopped in the opposite direction, along with the rest of Cliffjumper’s corpse.

Dropkick gazes at the twisted expression, and charge skitters up his spinal strut—victory and vicious pleasure mingling in his sensornet. He looks at the clean cut, and can almost feel the ghost of his blade gliding through the metal. Most of Cliffjumper’s wires were cauterized by the heat, and the burnt ends still twitch in a mockery of function. Fuel lines gape, having dumped their precious contents onto the hard ground. The proof is still seeping into his seams.

If there’s an afterlife, he hopes the Autobot is watching this.

Shatter notices his distraction, and she turns her helm to survey the carnage as well.

“Admiring our handiwork?” she asks lowly.

“Mmm,” affirms Dropkick, too dazed to form any kind of real reply. She’s stopped moving, and that’s definitely not what he wants.

“Your interrogation techniques are improving,” she muses. “His screams were nearly as inspiring as yours.” She punctuates the statement with a firm thrust, and he yelps, hips bucking. The heat in his core feels like it’s on the verge of bursting.

“And the execution was artfully done,” she continues. “Imagine how satisfying it will be, when it comes time for B-127’s.” Another thrust. “Once we have our information, you have my full permission to cleave him in two.” She picks up pace again.

Dropkick tries to laugh, but all he manages is a weak hiccuping sound. He won’t say he’s in love—refuses to—but Shatter is really something else.

She revs her engine purposefully, with all the power of a triple-changer behind it, and as the vibrations course through him, Dropkick finds himself at the tipping point of an equally powerful release.

Shatter swipes her thumb against his mouthplates, and he knows what she wants. The energon has begun to dry tacky, but he doesn’t hesitate to lick it clean. It’s sharp, like death; he can almost taste the Autobot’s useless fury.

And when Shatter smiles, sly and approving, Dropkick overloads harder than he has in his entire life. It rips through him, as brutal as any kill, and he’s glad no one’s around to hear the sound he makes, let alone the way his plating rattles like it's going to shed itself from his frame. Shatter manages to wring another soft moan from him, as she shudders and grinds her way into her own release.

They collapse there for a klik, cooling fans roaring in the silence. Unsurprisingly, Shatter recovers faster, and once she can stand, she rises unceremoniously—leaving Dropkick to try and find his bearings. For once in his life, he’d rather just lay in the dirt.

“Come—” she prompts.

Did that.

“—we have work to do.”

You know what?

He can’t wait.