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Transgressions

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Barricade grew up with his carrier, and his bastard of a step-sire. His step-sire liked Engex, and when he was on it — which was most of his spare time — he had a penchant for beating his conjux to scrap. Sometimes, when Barricade didn't manage to hide quickly enough, or well enough, he got smacked around too. The Enforcers were called out by the neighbors — over and over they came out to check the domestic disturbances — but Barricade's carrier always had a good exuse for his sorry state, and whenever it was needed, for the way Barricade looked too.

"I fell down some stairs:"

"I slipped in the washracks."

"He fell down when he was playing at school."

"He knocked a pot from a shelf and it landed on his helm. He was stealing energon treats from the jar. You know, kids and their antics..."

As if they ever had any energon treats. Barricade was glad when he didn't have to go to berth with an almost empty tank.

The Enforcers were unable to do anything, since nobody was ever filing charges, and the one time Barricade said something that made social services investigate more... Well, he would not risk that again. Ever. So he would keep his vocalizer shut, nodding to show he agreed with whatever his carrier said, and the Enforcers would leave.

Then it would start over again.

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He never knew anything else, not until he got older, at least. The few friends he made in school never looked like him — as if they had gone through the scrapper — and he started to realize that what happened in their home probably wasn't what happened in every family, wasn't right. His friends parents took their younglings for trips, helped them with homework, played with them, and comforted them when they were sad, and he wanted that too. Primus, did he want it.

But there was nothing he could do about that injustice.

Up until then, he had been smacked around now and then, had been called names more times than he cared to count, and one time, his carrier locked him in a closet — after thoroughly explaining how unwanted he was, and that Barricade was the only reason his carrier hadn't become rich and famous. In hindsight, Barricade would gladly have it stay that way. The way it was when he was just a kid, and not a youngling.

His step-sire started to look differently at him as soon as he got into his fourth frame and got his altmode, just one reformat from being fully grown up. It was worrying, the way he garnered attention, because the mech had never taken much interest in him — if Barricade was careful to stay out of his way — something that probably had saved the Saleen from a lot of the worst beatings. Now though, there were long gazes lingering on his plating, openly staring at his shoulder-wings, ogling his aft. It stopped at staring, though.

Until one day, when Barricade's carrier was working when Barricade got home from a friend's house. His stepsire called out as the Saleen passed the living room. The youngling hesitantly stepped into the room, just past the threshold, watching the unkempt mech on the couch with wary optics, because attention was always a precursor of something bad.

"Come here, Barricade."

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He obeyed, though slowly, not certain what to expect. There was a half empty bottle of Engex on the table after all, and his step-sire had never expressed interest in coming anywhere near Barricade before. Unless for 'teaching him a lesson' for something the Mustang had done or said, but he couldn't remember doing anything wrong lately. Not that what he considered right or wrong ever mattered.

"You're growing into a really hot little mech, Barricade. Remind me so much of your carrier when he was younger and leaner, you know. Why don't you come and sit on my lap for a while? I'll teach you a thing or two you need to know, now that you're getting all grown up." 

The mech's voice was a low, rough purr, a tone of voice Barricade hadn't heard before, and he knew very well that 'unknown' often equaled 'dangerous'. Hesitantly, he obeyed, afraid to do anything else and risk evoking the mech's bad temper for being disobedient. He did not want another beating.

"Straddle me." The mech wheezed when Barricade reached him, a servo curling around the Mustang's hip to urge him forward.

Barricade did, sitting stiffly as his step-sire slid his servos up the Saleen's thighs, thumbs trailing the inside of them, tracing seams in his dark plating. The servos reached the juncture of Barricade's hips, thumbs stroking the front of his pelvic plating, and the Mustang felt something behind it respond, throbbing in time with his spark, and he choked on a gasp, not wanting his step-sire to know about his reaction. The touch did feel kind of good, in spite of the mere thought of the mech's servos on his frame making Barricade's plating crawl, and it was utterly confusing.

"You're getting hot behind this panel." The mech smirked knowingly.

Barricade flushed, because something about the mech's voice made it sound like it was something bad to get hot there, and Barricade could feel an odd wetness behind the plate. He couldn't explain why — because nobody had ever touched him like that before, and it did feel sort of good — but he really didn't want anyone to know how he reacted to the touches. Especially not his step-sire.

A tap of a digit against the plate the mech was stroking. "Open up. I'll make you feel good. Make you a grown up."

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Barricade didn't know what the mech was on about, and he wasn't certain he should really go along with it, but that panel was starting to feel too warm, something behind it betraying his disgust of being so close to his step-sire and wanting more of those touches.

"How? I don't know how to open it." He said, feeling small and stupid for having to ask.

"It's under interface protocols, but I'll help you this time." The mech offered.

A digit dug into the seam, clumsily seeking around for something, and suddenly, something disengaged and the panel popped open. The mech pushed it to the side, made it slip under another plate to disappear. Barricade stared at the components he had never seen before — the ones that had come with his latest reformat — and so did his step-sire, optics bright. A dirty servo reached for him, and Barricade gasped as a digit slipped through pliable folds, feeling around. The Saleen shuddered, his plating crawling every time they touched, and yet being touched down there felt strangely good. 

His step-sire found a sensitive spot and started rubbing it, circling it with the tip of his digit, and Barricade's frame started heating up, the components down there feeling increasingly heavy. The Mustang couldn't silence a startled yelp when another component, in front of the parts his step-sire was toying with, suddenly extended. The mech didn't touch that part, just kept playing with the other components.

"Little slut, getting all worked up for having your valve played with."

He really needed to read through the manual of his new frame later. He'd skipped that after the reformat, as he always had done before, but he needed to know what this was, why it felt so good when those components were touched. 

The digit started feeling more and more slick, making it feel even better when it slipped over that sensitive spot, and his hips twitched of their own accord to rub against that servo. A digit slipped into him, wriggling around, then the servo stilled as the digit hit something inside, something blocking that digit from going deeper. The mech smirked and let his digit slip out.

"Lay down. I'll make a mech of you."

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Barricade hesitated. He was apprehensive about what his step-sire was planning now, but the mech's drunken grin, optics bright with overcharge, was enough for him to obey. He didn't want to make the mech angry, not when his carrier wasn't there to intervene. And it did feel kind of good to be touched down there so maybe this would be better than being beaten up again

He tipped over on his back, and his step-sire kneed his legs apart. There was a click of plating shifting, and when Barricade looked down, the mech had pressurized a component that looked similar to the one jutting out from Barricade's pelvic plating. The Saleen tensed for what was going to happen while the mech lined up with Barricade's parts, and then he thrust forward, hilting himself inside the young Praxian.

The Saleen cried out, because the intrusion hurt. Frag did it hurt! He felt his other component recess into it's sheath, and his servos flew up to scrabble against his step-sire's plating to get him away, to stop stabbing him down there.

"Oh, shut up, it's not that bad." The mech grunted, starting to thrust quickly. "Don't be a whiny glitch, you were rocking into my touches just a minute ago. Stop flailing, it'll feel better soon."

Barricade sobbed silently, afraid to make another sound and anger the mech, and he stared off to the side, not wanting to see the disgusting bastard, vents smelling like stale Engex, his dirty plating misting with condensation as he moved on top of the Saleen. His step-sire pushed in deep and stayed still, grunting strangely, and then he sat back up, pulling out of Barricade. He closed the Mustang's panel manually.

"You should at least try to look alive when someone 'faces you. Cheer up, you're a grown mech now. But you better not tell anyone about this. People do it all the time, but they don't talk about it. It's frowned upon to spread your legs for mechs, you slut. Only little bitches take it in the valve."

Barricade nodded mechanically and got up to leave, stiffening when he could feel the inside of his panel go wet, servo instinctively coming down to stop the leaking, but whatever it was didn't leak out. His stepsire smirked and handed him the bottle of Engex, and the Saleen grabbed it with numb servos.

"Remember: it's our little secret. Now go clean up."

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The Interceptor headed for the washracks, feeling strangely numb. Barricade set the bottle on the sink, staring at it indecisively while waiting for the solvent to get hot enough. He didn't dare having a taste — he'd gotten it from the bastard, after all, and he didn't really want it because of that. 

He got under the spray, and vigorously cleaned his plating with scorching hot solvent, feeling filthy in a way he couldn't quite explain, trying to process what had just happened. The components behind his panel felt sticky, and sore, and it was such a disgusting reminder of the things he'd rather forget.

Finding the interface protocols took a while, and required a skim through of the manual, but eventually, he managed to open his panel. Barricade bent forward to have a look, just to find a thick liquid oozing out of the opening of his valve. His valve, where the bastard spike had stuck his spike.

The glop was mixed with energon. Scared, the Saleen started sobbing, letting the pelting solvent drown the sounds as he sank to the floor, curling up against the wall, wrapping his arms around his helm in an attempt to comfort himself. 

The manual said nothing about this filthy feeling, or the pain. Just how the components worked, and how to use them. A cold, and clinical description of function, and technical specifications that left out how awful it felt to use them.

Barricade sat there for a very long time, sobbing into his knees, before he gathered enough composure to actually start cleaning himself down there. Spreading his legs — unable to bring himself to get up from the floor — he grabbed the sponge and scrubbed until he felt raw. Eventually he was forced to realize that he wouldn't feel clean, no matter how thoroughly he washed himself, so after quickly drying up, Barricade grabbed the bottle and headed for his room.

After some hesitation, he tasted the Engex. It tasted horrible, but the effect went straight to his helm, and the numb fuzziness was very welcome. He took a few more deep swigs, and then a few more, then he stretched out on his berth, dizzy and tired.

Sipping it to keep the buzz going, he slowly got more and more drunk. By the time his step-sire slipped into his room, he was too out of it to even lift his helm, and so he hardly moved when the mech ran his fingers over Barricade's panel, even if he wanted the mech to just go away and leave him alone. 

There was a click of a latch, and then the cool air brushed his array. The Interceptor squirmed weakly, but a servo on his hip pressed him deeper into the worn mattress, and he stilled, too tired to resist more. Digits slipped through his folds, making something low in his stomach twitch in response, and suddenly, Barricade was thankful for his drunken stupor. What the mech was doing hardly seemed to matter at the moment. Then his step-sire climbed on top of him and nudged his legs apart again.

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It took quite some time before his carrier noticed. It wasn't that Barricade had started liking it, and wanted it, but he was helpless to do anything about it, and so he just went along with his step-sire's wishes. The Saleen knew that his step-sire would beat him if he didn't obey, and as awful as letting the mech touch his frame was, the beatings were much worse. And he often got some Engex as a reward afterwards, so he could always forget it for a while, unlike after a beating, when he was left in pain, and forced to try to cover the dents for days. The best times were when he got the Engex before, so he didn't need to be all that aware of what was going on. Trying to defend himself was futile, he was too small, and too weak.

His carrier came home early from work one day to find Barricade bent over the couch, his step-sire fragging him from behind. He really hated it, that intense feeling of bending over of his own accord to let the mech have him, as if he wanted this. The way his step-sire groped his aft and shoulder-wings — not for Barricade's pleasure, but for his own. 

It was far from the first time the mech had waited for him when he got home from school, already charged up and ready to go, having spent the day watching porn for "inspiration", while waiting for his juicy little piece of youngling to get home.

But this time, they were caught. One second, he was bracing his arms against the backrest, waiting for the gross mech behind him to finish and let him slip into the shower to clean up, the next, his carrier stepped through the door to find the illicit scene. Barricade had never seen his carrier so angry. He threw things at Barricade's step-sire, yelling and screaming. 

For once, his step-sire didn't go on the offensive to deal with the attack. He dodged, and held his servos up to deflect the barrage of anything of a reasonable size to throw, stumbling around the furniture to get away.

"I'm not the only one to blame here!" His step-sire yelled back. "Barricade isn't exactly innocent in this. I mean, look at him: he keeps clean and fairly polished. Unlike you."

"Because I fragging work in a factory! I fix up for my days off, isn't that good enough?! There's not much point to primp myself when I barely have time to refuel and recharge before the next shift."

"Well, he's inviting. You always have 'a helm-ache', or 'gestation cramps', or are 'too tired after work.' He's always willing to crawl into my lap to get some cock."

His carrier made an incoherent noise of outrage, throwing an empty bottle at the other mech. Then he turned to Barricade, who stood frozen by the couch, not having moved more than straightening from his pose. His carrier looked down to his still open panel, thighs slick with lubricant and pre-transfluid, and made a face of disgust and anger. "You, you slagging slut! Of course you couldn't keep your legs closed and your panel shut now that you've been upgraded! Of course you had to frag my mech at the first opportunity!" His carrier snarled at him, slapping him across the cheek, before going back to throwing things at his step-sire.

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The sirens wailed in the distance — as usual when his step-sire and carrier got into one of their many fights — and then the Enforcers barged in, the door nearly flying off it's hinges. Barricade still stood frozen on the spot, panel still open, uncertain what to do as he stared at his carrier tearing his step-sire a new one, his step-sire blaming Barricade and his carrier for it all, the Enforcers stomping in...

"Hey, mech. Are you alright?" An Enforcer asked him softly, snapping him out of his stupor.

"I-I.." Was he? "I don't know." He said numbly.

"First of all, let's get you covered up." The Enforcer said and grabbed the tattered blanket from the couch, wrapping it around Barricade's hips to cover his array.

"Thank you?"

"You're welcome. Now, I know that this is going to be hard, but I need your statement so that we finally can put that aft away. This isn't your doing you know, and you have nothing to fear or be ashamed of. Let us help you. Let's go somewhere more quiet."

Barricade followed the Enforcer outside, away from the ruckus of other Enforcers breaking up the fight still going on. He gratefully took the energon bar the Enforcer pulled from his subspace, and the cop sat down on the rickety couch on the porch with him, softly asking Barricade questions. 

The Saleen watched as his step-sire and carrier were dragged outside to the transport in cuffs, his carrier still shouting insults, but now he had turned his ire towards the Enforcers. His step-sire glared dangerously at Barricade, a clear warning to shut up, and the Mustang averted his optics, spark speeding up with fear.

Could he really do this? Should he say more than he already had said? Or would his step-sire get back at him, and he'd have hell to pay for being a snitch?

"Don't mind them. You're the important one here. If you let us help you, that mech is going to be put away, and you will be safe." The Enforcer said, pulling Barricade's attention from his step-sire.

If he didn't say anything, everything would go back to the way it was. Or worse. He had to speak up. They said that they would keep him safe, that his step-sire would be put away.

The questions continued, and the Enforcer was very supportive — letting the young mech take his time, encouraging him, and when he needed it, soothed him — as everything Barricade had been through poured out of his vocalizer in a sometimes disjointed tale of various types of neglect and abuse. 

They arranged housing for him, while his step-sire was arrested. This time, he wouldn't make excuses, or tell them lies. 

Afterwards, Barricade knew without a doubt what he was going to be when he was fully grown. He wasn't going to be helpless again, he was going to help others in his position, mechs who couldn't help themselves.

He was going to be an Enforcer.

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The first time he did it, it was such a rush of being in control in a way he'd never been before.

The pleasurebot Barricade was frisking suddenly broke down when the Enforcer found a small bag of boosters in his subspace. It caught the Saleen off guard when the mech started crying, field roiling with fear and despair. It wasn't what usually happened when they brought someone in: hardened criminals just sneered and went stone faced, ready to do their time if their lawyers didn't manage to snivel them out of long sentences. And the other petty crimes he had brought mechs in for had never made them react quite like this. Being upset and protesting, sure, but crying in panic? No, definite first time. He couldn't help but feel bad for the mech.

"Please, don't take me in for this! I'm not selling, I just need a little something to get through the day, 'k? I've already been sentenced twice, this would be my third stike. I'll go away for years, and I never have more than this!" He cried. "Please, Officer, don't report this. I'll do anything!"

He shouldn't listen. If the mech was going away for a long time, that was his own fault. The mech shouldn't be using, and he shouldn't be selling his frame either. But a third strike sentence... it would be a very harsh punishment for such a small amount of drugs, it was obvious that the mech wouldn't be selling what little he had, it was nowhere near enough. Most of the mechs in this area were just trying to scrape enough together to get by day to day, and to numb themselves when the day was over.

"Anything?" Barricade's processor was working in overdrive.

But what could this mech give him? The booster-helm had nothing. What could he possibly ask for, that would be worth the risk he would be taking, and wouldn't be too cheap a price for a favor like that?

"Why, yes, Officer. Anything!" The mech purred, slipping into his pleasurebot persona, stroking Barricade's pelvic plating with deft digits tracing the seams of his interface plate. Barricade's intakes hitched, because he wasn't prepared for that kind of touch, but his spike twitched with interest behind the cover. "You look like you need to blow off some steam, Officer, look awfully tense. Why don't you let me take care of that, let me show you a good time, and release some of that stress?"

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He really shouldn't

But he would be doing the mech a favor, saving him from going to prison for half his functioning for just holding a negligible amount of boosters. Drugs that only served to numb the mech from his position in life. Right? He'd do the justice system a favor too, leaving a cell in prison open for one of the really bad criminals, one of those who did deserve that really long sentence. Right?

And there was something intensely arousing about knowing that he could send this mech away for a long time, and that he could also choose to let it slip, a heady sense of being powerful, and in control. It was all up to him. He was judge and jury. Behind his panel, his spike throbbed with a level of arousal he'd never felt before.

"I'm taking this," he said, holding up the bag of boosters, "and how about a blowjob? Then I'll let it go for this time."

The mech's face fell momentarily when Barricade said that he'd confiscate the drugs, but he composed himself quickly. 

"Of course, Officer." He purred, sinking to his knees, keeping optic contact, giving Barricade a sultry smile. 

Barricade opened his interface plate, spike pressurizing immediately, and the mech sucked it right into his intake without a second's hesitation. The Interceptor leaned his back against the wall, staring down at the bobbing helm, and put a servo on the back of the pleasurebot's helm to push in deeper.

"Ah, yeah, just like that..." He groaned, so very close already.

He had never felt more powerful in his entire life. The mechs future was in his servos, he could get the mech to do this by just saying so. It was forbidden, and oh, so arousing, downright addictive.

He came, hilting himself in the mech's intake, feeling the protesting twitches of the whore's throat tubing, and Barricade's optics flickered with the sheer power of his overload. The mech swallowed, and then he stood as Barricade depressurized his spike and closed his panel.

"You're free to go, but don't let me catch you with more drugs."

"Thank you, Officer, that's so kind of you!" The mech gushed and hurried off.

It was a good thing that most of the shift was over, because it didn't take long for Barricade to be aroused again, that power intoxicating. As soon as he got home, he stepped into the washracks to rub one out, thinking about that intake wrapped around his spike, the pleasurebot's future in his servos.

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It got easier for every time, no more doubts or regrets if he really should, if he'd done the right thing. No more questioning himself what the fuck he was doing. The mechs avoided to go to prison for an extended time for petty crimes, and Barricade got off, or other things he wanted. In the beginning, he always flushed the drugs he seized, but being a cop was stressful. The astro-weed and the routers were nice. He tried boosters twice, and once he did syk, but he didn't like those, didn't like the nervous, twitchy energy. He just needed to chill out, to relax, not crawl up the walls.

He was getting well known among the hookers, and the dealers in the area he patrolled when command suddenly decided that he should have a patrol partner. Barricade wasn't thrilled, because he didn't feel like sharing, but apparently, command thought that he needed help, because the rate of apprehensions had fallen too much. He needed to be more careful.

His new partner turned out to be such a stickler, exactly the type of mech Barricade didn't want as a partner. On the upside, Prowl would never want a cut, so it was still all Barricade when it came to making deals. On the downside, it made it very hard for Barricade to do his thing, because Prowl certainly would not approve and see between his digits with it. Barricade managed to implement that they went to deal with things one on one — stating that since he knew the locals, they were more inclined to open up and talk to him — but if he was too slow, Prowl may very well come and check on him, to make sure he didn't need back up. 

This also mean that Barricade sometimes was forced to bring mechs in when he normally wouldn't have, or it would look strange that Prowl made all the arrests, and Barricade none. He kept to bringing in the ones not on third strike, though — to keep on the right side with the mechs he knew, and to keep earning the favors he liked so much, and not make someone thinking about snitching him out — but sometimes, he had to make deals to come back to collect the payment after his shift, incredibly annoying, and sometimes a hassle, since it meant he had to track the mechs down again before getting what he wanted.

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"Why, hello, Cade." The Polyhexian purred when Barricade rounded the corner. The Solstice was sitting on top of a dumpster, pedes dangling lazily over the side, leaning back on his servos to show of his bumper.

"Don't call me that." He hissed. "It's either Officer or, if I'm off duty, Barricade."

"Sorry." Jazz smirked, entirely unapologetic. "Stressful day?"

"Still got that stickler of a partner riding herd on me."

The Polyhexian pouted. "I thought I was goin' ta ride ya."

Barricade grabbed his hips and pulled him close, stealing a kiss, servo sneaking down between Jazz's legs to cop a feel of the panel he just wanted to get out of the way. "Later. I'll be by after shift." He mumbled against Jazz's lip-plates.

"Mhm, I sure hope so. Oh, n' I have some stress-relief for ya." Jazz drawled with a smirk, holding up a bag of astro-weed. "I know ya're stressin' out over that Prowl dude.

"I don't think I can take that right now. I don't know, sometimes I get the feeling that my lovely partner is scanning my subspace." Barricade grimaced, staring longingly at the weed.

"Well, if ya bend over, I could insert it somewhere I think he won't look..." Jazz murmured suggestively, servo sliding down to grope the Saleen's aft, a digit rubbing the panel covering his port.

"Pit no!" Barricade hissed, backing away with a shudder. Not stooping to that level.

"Just sayin'..." Jazz shrugged. "Anyway, see ya later then."

Barricade eyed the bag still dangling in Jazz's servo. "Give me that. I'm sure he can't scan my deepest pockets, and I really need something to silver line my energon break."

Jazz smirked and handed it to him, blowing the Interceptor a kiss.

Barricade stuffed the bag into his subspace pocket and hurried back to the cruiser transport, spark feeling lighter. 

Sure, Jazz was still a pleasurebot with a minor drug problem, but Barricade didn't really care. Jazz was different. Jazz was a mech he wanted to get away from the streets. He often spent the night with Jazz, and they actually spent some of their time together not fucking. Like sprawling on the berth, watching movies in whatever motel room Jazz was staying in for the night. When he thought about it more thoroughly, Barricade could admit to himself that he may want even more than that with Jazz.

Little did he know that he wouldn't come by later, that he wouldn't get the chance to have anything at all for quite some time.

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The shift was finally over, and they got back to the station, Barricade eager to get rid of his annoying partner. Why did they have to get him a partner? He was doing just fine on his own. And if he absolutely, necessarily had to have a partner, why did he have to get Prowl? They were completely incompatible. At least the mech didn't insist on them hanging out in their spare time too, like some Enforcer duos did. No, he left Barricade well enough alone as soon as they were off the clock, and the Interceptor was thankful for not being forced to constantly come up with lame excuses.

So, when their superior Officer called them into the interrogation room, Barricade was not at all worried, but twice as annoyed by it.

He was looking forward to go see Jazz — to get high, and get laid, and just kick back — after a long day at work, trudging through awkward silences and stunted attempts at conversation with his rather bland partner. He did not want any extra hours, not even for the extra credits it would bring. It just wasn't worth it.

"Have a seat." Their boss said to the Saleen, pointing at the seat the suspects usually sat in. 

Barricade raised an optical ridge, but still took the seat, leaning back and crossing his arms in nonchalant annoyance when his Commander, and his partner took the seats normally occupied by the interrogating officers or detectives. Enough was enough. He was not going to sit there and be deferential in his spare time.

"What's this about? Some of us have lives outside of work, you know." He said snarkily. Lives, and sweet little Polyhexians with willing valves, and eager mouths waiting, a cygar of astro-weed, and a cube of high grade probably already waiting for him on the bedside when he stepped through the door. Jazz was so good at catering to his needs.

"This is about our code of conduct. You know, the one you're not following. Along with a list of laws you are breaking on a regular basis." Their boss said, folding his arms as he stared the Interceptor down.

"What's that supposed to mean?" Barricade growled, insulted by the insinuation — even as his spark was speeding up with nerves. What had they heard?

"It means that we know that you're corrupt. That you systematically take bribes in return for letting criminals run free, instead of arresting them as you should. That's one of the violations of the policy, as well the first on the long list of your crimes."

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Barricade's spark went cold.

"That's a lie! I'm not in anyones pocket." 

Technically, it was true. No mech paid him off on a regular basis to make him consistently look the other way. It wasn't like he was dealing with the mobsters to make evidence disappear it anything like that. He just traded a favor for a favor now and then.

"Spare us the excuses," Prowl said flatly, "you may not be involved with the big gearfish out there, may not deal with the mobs or the gangs, but we do know that you see between your digits on a whole lot of misdemeanors and petty crimes, and you get paid in kind for it." His partner sounded disgusted.

"This," their boss said, taking out a box Barricade recognized all too well, his spark plummeting, "was what the hounds sniffed out in your apartment. The amount of astro-weed alone is a felony, not to talk about these heavy routers." He poured a handful of re-routing chips onto the table to ram home the point.

"My apartment?!" Barricade asked stupidly, because even if he knew in his spark that the box they had confiscated had indeed been in his apartment this morning, he still didn't want to comprehend that they had found it. They couldn't just go searching his dwelling like that, could they? That had to be against some sort of protocol, right?

"We had a warrant, and the search was legit," Prowl told him, as if he knew what Barricade was thinking, "so as evidence, that'll hold up in court."

Frag, frag, frag...

"Before we proceed any further, you need to take a drug test. We need to know if you've been under influence at work too." His Commander said, holding out a cup for him. "I guess you know how this goes, but: go through that door, waste fluid in this cup, leave it on the counter in there for the analysts." He added, pointing to the adjacent room.

Barricade slowly took the cup, knowing what the test would show, and that he had no way of leaving a fake one. So fucking stupid to not have a contingency plan.

Numbly, he walked into the maintenance room specifically placed there for this, a room he had followed numerous suspects before, but this time he was the one being followed. By Prowl. His own partner.

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The Mustang did what he had to, trying his best to ignore Prowl standing by the door, waiting for him to finish. Watching him take a drug test that he knew would not come back clean. Then he left the cup on the counter, and followed the other Praxian back to the interrogation room with increasingly heavy steps.

"Empty your subspace, please."

Dammit!

With slow movements, digits feeling numb and clumsy, he started pulling everything out, placing it on the table. There wasn't much, because he didn't like toting too many things around, but Barricade flushed when he pulled the packet of jimmys out. He ignored the bag of weed that suddenly seemed to weigh more than the average minibot. Surely, they wouldn't search him?

"If that evidence isn't enough," the Commander said, pointing at the confiscated box of drugs, "we have a few recordings..." 

Of course they would have recordings...

"You didn't get everything from your subspace." Prowl interrupted.

"Yeah, I did." Barricade sneered, fuel pump hammering.

"No, you did not. I have specialized sensor suites, far more sensitive than is standard. There's something left in your subspace. The pocket on your side."

It would probably be easier to pull his denta out than that bag, but he did, tossing it to land on the table with a muffled thud. Barricade almost started cackling hysterically. Something that hammered another nail into his coffin should be louder, shouldn't it?

The Superior Officer and Prowl stared at the bag for long seconds, and Barricade just wanted to cry. 

"Right, the recorded evidence." The Commander snapped out of his surprise, and pointed to a screen on the wall. 

It flickered to life, showing footage of Barricade and one of the many pleasurebots he was acquainted to. 

He was even wearing his Primus damned badge, so he was on duty when he frisked the mech, servos lingering between the streetwalker's legs, on his chest-plates. On the screen, Barricade pulled a bag of powder from the pleasurebot's subspace.

"I swear, Officer, I'm not selling! Please, just take it, I don't need it."

"What else can you provide as payment for my inconvenient need to stay silent?" Barricade asked, pawing his own interface panel.

As answer, the pleasurebot turned around, bracing his arms against the wall, arching his back. Barricade pulled down the flimsy fabric hotpants — a lot of the local pleasuremechs had taken to using those instead of interface plating, a custom adopted from the higher end bordellos of Iacon, and Vos. And mech, did he like those thin coverings, revealing most of the merchandise? The power he felt when he tugged them down without the mech protesting... — on the screen, he manually pushed his own panel to the side, his spike pressurizing. Then he stepped up behind the mech and thrust inside, rutting without finesse, chasing his own overload.

Chapter Text

In any other setting, just thinking about that kind of interfacing — the glorious power rush he felt whenever he took what he wanted, had a mech completely at his mercy, obeying his every whim — would've had his spike knocking on his panel, and he probably would've had to jerk off before he could do anything else.

But there — in the interrogation room, with the screen playing piece after piece of incriminating evidence of his well documented corruption — his spike wasn't interested at all. All the Interceptor could feel was growing terror. 

He was going to prison. They knew, knew it all, and he hadn't realized they did, hadn't even considered that what he was doing could so easily land him in a steaming pile of waste...

He slowly turned to Prowl. "You set me up. You turned me in. We were supposed to be partners, we were supposed to have each others' backs." He said, voice hoarse with emotions. 

He felt so fucking betrayed, even if he had realized early on that Prowl wasn't the type of mech who would indulge in anything outside the regular agenda. He never thought the mech would be capable of doing this.

"Actually, I'm from internal affairs. We received numerous complaints about an Officer interfacing in public in broad daylight. With known prostitutes. A few concerned citizens spoke of an Officer taking drugs without making arrests. Or maybe it was the prostitutes who just got tired of having their drugs confiscated just because you're too cheap to pay for it yourself, and dropped an anonymous tip to get rid of you? You're despicable, a disgrace to this profession, and the force is better off without you. Good riddance." Prowl retorted coldly.

"Our system is flawed. Putting mechs away for half their life, just because they keep a little stash for recreational use, for a little escape from reality, is unreasonably harsh." Barricade defended his choices. Why fill the prisons with petty stuff like that, while the top dogs always got away with murder? He did everyone a favor.

"I guess you would think so. This probably should be counted as your tenth strike if you had been caught every time, considering all the occasions you've broken laws on. But it's not our jobs to judge, nor to rewrite laws as we see fit. All we need to do is enforce them, and you failed spectacularly at that. But it doesn't matter anymore. You will go away for a very long time, and you will never serve law enforcement ever again."

As bitter as it tasted, he knew that they were right. Frag his functioning, he was so screwed.

Chapter Text

The trial was a quick affair; with all the evidence piled high, a verdict was delivered, and Barricade was sent off to prison in under an hour. In the transport, some of the other inmates threw glances his way, and he didn't like the way they looked at him. He sank deeper into his seat, well aware of his paint job. Even with all the markings of rank stripped, he might as well have a bullseye painted on his back. 

He just needed to make it until he was repainted in prison orange, then he could blend in, right? Unless his reputation superseded him. Or they got him before he even was repainted. 

Barricade cringed thinking about himself in garish prison orange, in spite of logically knowing that it would be the least of his problems. He exited last, to not leave his back to the other to-be prisoners, and they were herded into booking by a small army of guards.

"Open your panels, and all your subspace pockets." A guard barked an order.

Several other guards came in to take over the process of booking the new inmates, and Barricade, last in line, did his best to not watch what they were doing, even if it was out of horrified curiosity. Staring at his fellow inmates when they were exposed like that certainly wouldn't be a good way to make friends. Then a rather big mech, probably Kaonite, stepped up to him. Servos dug into his pockets, felt around under his flared plating, and Barricade shuddered under the touch, cringing away from the rather invasive search.

"Open your intake."

He did, allowing the guard to check that he hadn't hidden something in his mouth.

"Squat and exvent hard." 

It was utterly humiliating. He sank down slowly, nauseated of having to do this with others watching, and then he made that hard exvent. He knew the procedure from his job, and logically, he knew that this was just another day at work for the guards, but actually going through it himself was still more humiliating than he ever thought it would be.

"Waste fluid sample." The guard said, holding out a cup.

"Right here?!"

"Yes. Do it over the drain, try not to spill, and if you don't like it, you shouldn't have committed the crime in the first place."

Chapter Text

The Saleen moved over the drain and squatted over the cup, cursing that he had never gotten around to install that maintenance hose that would've made this much less awkward. It took a while for him to get the nozzle to cooperate and open, because it wasn't easy to go when it felt like everyone was staring. In reality, nobot really cared, it was just any other day at work, and the other inmates were busy with their own procedures, but Barricade still failed to convince his processor about that. Eventually, he managed to squeeze some fluid out, and put the cup on the cart the onsite medic pushed past them.

"Go to the reception over there. They'll sign you in." The guard said, pointing to the desk.

Barricade obeyed, the guard just a few steps behind him, and he waited in the line of inmates. There were a couple of bots that looked really nervous, and Barricade could relate. Probably first timers. Like him. A big, red mech with etchings all over his plating stared at him for long moments, crossing his arms and cocking his helm in consideration, and the Mustang had to fight the urge to squirm under the unreadable mech's gaze. 

Should he stare back defiantly, and show that he wasn't afraid and didn't take any slag, or should he look away to avoid provoking the mech and risk showing weakness? He knew some hand to hand combat from work, but the bot was massive, and he didn't know the skillset of his adversary. Or if the mech had friends waiting inside. 

He feigned to get distracted when an unusually small minibot with an annoying voice was ushered forward to join the others who were already being moved along from the booking area.

"Bracelet, please." The guard behind the counter told him.

Barricade held his arm up, and the mech scanned the bracelet he'd gotten when placed in holding, awaiting his trial.

"Designation: Barricade. Do you want me to put you in solitary?"

"Solitary?" He stared dumbly at the bot, resetting all his optics. Why would he want to go to solitary? Wasn't that for the really dangerous mechs? And wasn't isolation a punishment on top of the regular punishment.

"Considering your... former profession, we have a policy to ask. It would be for your own safety. If you're not friends with the right people, we cannot guarantee your safety. We do our best, but mechs can be very inventive. Ex-Enforcers tend to not last long here."

Chapter Text

The reminder of his status as en ex-Enforcer left a sour taste in his intake, but it was a valid point. He never worked with the shot callers, or any other high ranking criminals, so he'd probably be fucked in general population. Literally. It still felt like a defeat to be forced to be put in solitary for his own protection.

"Solitary, please." He mumbled, not looking forward to be isolated for the years to come, locked up in a tiny cell with nothing to do, and nobody to talk to. 

As if he deserved an even harsher punishment than what he had already been dealt. Just because he wasn't just any criminal, like everyone else in here, but a former Enforcer. And nobody cares that he was in here because he had helped other criminals. The very unsweet irony...

The inmate collar was handed over to the guard waiting behind him, and snapped in place around his neck, the electrodes digging into the wiring in his neck in an uncomfortable way. The sound of the lock on the collar engaging was like a gunshot to his audials,  He was well and truly an inmate now. He'd be there for years. Barricade pushed down the urge to cry. Showing weakness would not benefit him in any way, even if he was going to solitary.

The guard led him away, following the hallway between two recreational areas, and he watched the inmates on both sides, most of them gathered closer to the bars to look at the newcomers. Someone catcalled as they passed. 

"New plating incoming!"

"Look at that sweet piece of aft."

 "Hey Mohawk, you want to be my conjux for the stay?!" Someone shouted from behind the bars.

"How about you be my glitch instead, Warp?!" The small mech with spikes on his helm called back, strutting down the isle with a confidence that seemed way over the top for someone so small.

There were "oohs," and raucous laughter among the crowd as the bickering between the two continued, the mech with the spiky helm pushed into the rec area to be greeted like a long lost friend by the mech he was trading insults with.

So much politics, so many who knew each other. Did he know someone in here, maybe someone he'd helped at one point? Would it even matter? They were just junkies and prostitutes, hardly a crowd to mingle with to stay safe. If they'd even want to be friends with him. Solitary was the best option.

Chapter Text

The nervous looking bot in front of Barricade shied away when one mech pressed up against the bars, staring with a bright visor, glossa flicking lewdly.  

"Hello, pretty. How about I fuck your face tonight, and you'll survive to see tomorrow." The Rotary mech purred.

"Knock it off, Vortex." One of the guards barked.

"I'm just welcoming the new glitches. Can't fault a mech for flirting with such a pretty little thing..." The Helo said, raising his servos in a placating gesture.

"One more threatening comment, and you're going back to solitary."

"I was flirting! If I wanted to be threatening, I'd tell him what I'll do if I don't get to fuck his face."

"That's it. You're back in the hole."

"Fine! My friends in there have probably missed me anyway. They really like my stories..." The mech trailed off with a giggle, looking decidedly unhinged. "I usually tell them about how nice it feels when a mech's energon is dripping down my servos. Gets me so hard, I have to jerk off every time."

Barricade felt a chill travel down his back-struts when the mech's field grazed his, a roilling morass of sadism and arousal.

"Yo, Sides! My mech!" The big silver Flier with one optic who came on the same transport as Barricade shouted, moving on in the directed pace until the guards pushed him into the general area. 

Another mech — slightly shorter, and already painted in the hideous prison orange — stepped up and grabbed the Flier's servo, pulling him in for the most mechly hug Barricade had ever seen. The resident criminal led the newcomer to a table crowded by a several other massive mechs. Even through the prison orange paint, Barricade could see that their chests were adorned with badges matching what the Flier had on his chest-plates: a serious looking face Barricade had seen back in the academy, when they were taking a course in organized crime. A gang badge. He couldn't stifle a shudder. 

Solitary certainly wasn't looking so bad after all.

Chapter Text

"Hey, check this out! We got the law in the house!" Someone called out, and everyone turned to stare at Barricade. 

"The new prison transport!" The Helicopter who just hassled one of the other new inmates shouted, and everyone started cackling.

"Do you know why we call you that?" A mech close to the bars asked him, smirking.

Barricade shook his helm as he came to a stop, transfixed by the mechs reaching out to him with nothing but ill intent..

"Because eventually, everyone will have taken you for long, hard ride that's not appreciated by everyone involved." The Helicopter drawled, humping the air in front of him with short, hard thrusts. It seemed like everyone joined in on the howl of laughter that followed. "You'll be able to take two Triple changers when we're done with you, copper." The mech's manic smirk turned into a nasty sneer. "Because for as bad as we are, you're worse. The lowest of the low. How many mechs in here were put away by you? Bet they want som payment for their suffering. That little aft of yours look like a sweet start..."

The cloying EM fields clinging to his plating slowly morphed from sadistic amusement into something dangerous, something hungry and malicious, biding the time for a shot at degrading and hurting him.

The Saleen wasn't a pushover, not by a long shot. He wasn't stupid either, and with all these mechs seeing him as prey, he wouldn't stand a chance, not even for a day. Even with a new paintjob, it was just a matter of time before they recognized him, and they would come for him. Solitary would be a way to survive. Maybe he'd be able to get out of there eventually, when he had been orange long enough for them to forget his original paintjob. Long enough for a lot of these mechs to have been released already, or moved to different facilities. Long enough for him to become just one of the inmates instead of the ex-Enforcer, a mech other Enforcers looked down on with contempt, and so did the criminals.

Long enough for him to no longer identify with the function he once defined himself by.

Chapter Text

One of the guards pushed him forward, out of patience with the interactions. "Move, you're going to AdSeg. Stop loitering. If you stand around here all day and speak with them, then you don't need to be in solitary."

"Aaw, come on now! Don't go already! We just need something pretty to look at! We'll take care of him, make him our sweet little bitch. I promise! Let him in here, we're just going to pet his helm, and test the specifications of his intake." The Helo whined to the guard as Barricade was shoved forward.

"What is it with you and face fucking, Tex?" One of the many orange mechs asked.

"I dunno. I just like it when they look up at me, all adoringly, with their mouths around my cock. Don't complain, you can still have his port while he's sucking my dick, you know, like the last little bitch I had. Mech, was he sweet and obedient when I had broken him in properly."

"True that. Aren't you afraid of biters?"

"Nah, I just break their denta if they're too feisty." The Helicopter said offhandedly. "Hey, you coward! Come back here and take it like a mech!" He yelled after Barricade.

AdSeg it was.

Barricade allowed the guard to steer him away from the raucous crowd, through the heavy doors into the AdSeg ward. When ordered to, he stepped into the cell, the door slamming shut behind him.The Interceptor looked around the small cubicle, and his spark dropped. A hard berth, a floor drain, and nothing else. With a sigh, he settled on the berth, stretching out to stare at the ceiling, painted in the same sickly beige-green as the rest of the room. So this was his functioning now. He offlined his optics and tried to slip into recharge, because what else could he do? 

Except let his despair overtake him completely.

Chapter Text

He stayed like that for a long time, slipping in and out of recharge, haunted by nightmares of what would happen to him if he was put in genpop, of things he had been through before that he had repressed. And when he was awake, he thought a lot about the things he did that landed him in this mess. 

He could've avoided this, could still have been an Enforcer, with a job to go to every day. Maybe even have something more with Jazz by now, with the pretty Polyhexian sleeping in his berth every night, wishing him a good morning in that sexy, sleep rough voice of his when Barricade was off to work... He ruthlessly squashed that line of thought, because it was all too depressing. 

And it got him wondering about Jazz. Was he ok, where was he, why hadn't he shown up to visit... Another line of thought that he killed in cold blood, but the trembling dread in his spark remained.

The monotony was only broken by the guards delivering energon, and the trips to the washracks. At one point, they took him out to paint him in prison orange, and Barricade spent the remainder of that day cringing at the horrible color, because it was easier to focus on such an inane topic. He had no mirror to see how it looked on his face and wings, and that was both annoying and a relief. There was a medical check-up somewhere along the way, performed by a disinterested medic with uncareful servos, and he left it feeling depersonized and vaguely violated.

With his new colors in place, he was offered to spend time outside his cell, a scheduled hour every other day when he was allowed to sit alone in their version of a recreational area, but it didn't differ much from his cell, except for being more roomy. He could speak to the other inmates through their cell doors, but he didn't want to make friends with the type of mechs who were in there. 

Barricade lost track of time as the weeks passed since his chronometer was disabled, there were no windows that showed the outside, and the lights of the area outside his cell, and inside his cell too weren't any help to keep track of the days, as they weren't even turned off for the night, making it impossible to know if he recharged a day away.

Chapter Text

"Got a visitor, Barricade." A guard called out, banging on the cell door, waking Barricade from his fitful slumber.

The Interceptor sat up. A visitor? He found himself getting excited far beyond what he had been in a long time. A mech wanted to see him?! Nobdy had come by before, none of his former friends and colleagues. His friends from before he went to the Enforcer academy, he had long lost contact with, and the one's from the academy, and from work either didn't know that he had been put away, or hadn't bothered visiting the corrupt Enforcer. Deep down, he suspected the latter, but Barricade preferred to blame the first reason, because it was much less painful to think they just didn't know, than to think that they had cut him out of their lives.

They didn't bother to cuff him when he was led down the hallway, because he wasn't in solitary for being considered dangerous, and was an unusually cooperative inmate. He walked in front of the guard, following the directions to the visitors area, sitting down at the appointed booth. A thick panel of glass separated him from Jazz, the Polyhexian such a sight for sore optics, the Interceptor almost started sobbing in relief. Barricade wished that he could touch him, could nuzzle him to take in the scent of tangy polish and sweet astro-weed smoke that was Jazz, but all he could do was splay his servo against the glass, finding that it blocked their EM fields, and pick up the comm headset.

"Hi. Ya never showed up that night." Jazz said, splaying his servo on the other side of the glass. "I didn' know where ya went. Took me a lotta work ta find out."

"I never got a chance to contact you." Barricade answered apologetically, drinking in the sight of the familiar mech. They had never exchanged comms for some reason, and after his arrest, he'd had no way of finding Jazz. "I've missed you so much."

"I missed ya too." 

They lapsed into silence, Barricade not knowing what to say. It wasn't like his life was very eventful nowadays, and he had a very long time left before he'd get out. And he was so relieved just seeing a familiar face — a friendly one — he just wanted to cling to the moment and look at the Polyhexian, memorizing his pretty face-plates.

"That color is..."

"I know. I really don't like it." 

"Sorry, babe, but ya look like shit." Jazz smirked, but it was a sad smirk, lacking the humor he was trying to put into it.

"Yeah." Barricade said, appreciating the attempt at levity anyway, even if it was bittersweet in a way that left a lump in his throat.

Chapter Text

Jazz looked worn. He was skinnier than before — the fine plating of his face sunken, making his features look gaunt — and when Barricade looked carefully, he could see the dents and scrapes marring his plating. The Polyhexian had obviously tried to cover them up, but either they were fresh, or his self repair was lagging behind. His visor looked dull too, as if he was severely lacking recharge.

"You don't look so hot yourself. Are you using a lot? You look thin." 

Jazz had never liked boosters, or Syk, but it wasn't impossible that his addictions had changed while Barricade was away. How many weeks had it been? 8? 21? More? Not enough, he wanted out now, wanted to wrap his arms around Jazz and just hold him, wanted to curl up in berth and just listen to Jazz's vents the entire night, and stay there for day's before bothering to get up.

Jazz shook his helm. "New crew has moved into tha territory. Stuff is gettin' really expensive, and they're hasslin' us ta push us out, n' get their own merchandise on tha streets. I's gettin' hard ta make enough ta afford both housin' n' fuel, n' I prefer sleepin safely over refuelin'."

"They rough you up? Is that why you're dented?" Barricade asked, bristling at his own helplessness, feeling utterly useless for not being able to provide any kind of help for his... whatever Jazz was to him.

"Nah, I've managed ta keep away from that. A client invited a coupl'a friends," Jazz said with a grimace, distaste dripping from his voice, "n' it turned out they were into some rough stuff, and there was no negotiatin' tha terms." 

The implications were spark wrenching, and Barricade made a face of disgust and impotent anger. Jazz started sobbing.

"I need protection. I can't be on my own anymore, not tha way tha neighborhood is gettin' worse. Last week, some slagger..."Jazz broke off in the middle of the sentence, visibly fighting to repress whatever had happened to him last week. "Ya know what, it doesn' matter anyway. I'm still sore, n' I'm outta cash." 

Chapter Text

Barricade's spark felt cold. There was not a single thing he could do. He had years left of his sentence, didn't have any contacts outside prison. Not on the inside either.

"I wish I could do something." 

Primus, he felt so fucking helpless. Jazz needed to get off the streets, just like he had wanted things to go before this mess. But alas, here he was; completely useless behind bars, while the opposite of getting Jazz off the streets was happening. 

"I'm gonna move, I think, find a new block or somethin'. If that doesn't work out, I don' know what ta do." Jazz said sadly.

Barricade understood him. If the Polyhexian was run out of the places where his customers could pick him up — as distasteful as that thought was — Jazz would be out of business, and without the credits, he would be homeless, and would starve. And here he was, stuck in solitary with no way of helping.

"Time's up." The guard called.

"I'll miss you." Barricade said hurriedly, with a dangerous amount of emotion leaking into his voice, hoping that Jazz would return soon.

"I'll miss ya too." 

Then Barricade was forced to go back to his cell, optics lingering on Jazz for as long as he could see him, rubbernecking to give himself a chance to memorize every line in the mech's face and frame, praying to a God he didn't believe in that it wouldn't be long before his lover would show up again. It was the only thing he had to look forward to.

But weeks turned to months, and then to years, and Jazz never returned. The only thing Barricade could hope for was that he was still online and had just moved on. To someone not stuck behind thick walls, someone who could keep Jazz warm at night. Spending his days and nights alone, that thought wrenched his spark into a cold knot.

He had lost the most important thing he ever had, and he hadn't even had the mental presence to fully appreciate it while he had it.

Chapter Text

There's something to be said about showering. The first times he was taken to the washracks, it was the highlight of the week, or however long time passed between the occasions. Anything that got him out of the tiny, barren cell was a very good thing, and hot solvent running over his plating felt very luxurious, even if he was supervised while showering. At least he never had to share the washracks with other prisoners, so dropping the solvent bottle wasn't much of a problem.

But then they got a new guard.

Barricade had seen him a couple of times during his rec time, but didn't think much of it. Personnel came and went, transferring between wards or other facilities, and it didn't matter much to the Saleen.

Except the next time he had to shower.

"Come on, Barricade. Time to go to the washracks."

The Interceptor rose from his berth, walking past the mech towards the washracks. The cell door slammed shut behind them as he left, and the guard fell into step behind him, just like they always did when moving him somewhere. The door to the washracks slid open when they approached it, and Barricade walked straight to the showerhead, because the guards didn't like it when he stalled, and he wanted to get as much time under the solvent as possible. Without hesitation, Barricade opened his panels and flared his plating, letting the solvent run into every nook and cranny on his frame relishing the feeling of hot solvent loosing up the kinks in his cables.

He turned back and forth under the stream, rubbing solvent into his plating, and the cables and wires he could get at, but he froze on the spot, servo still between his legs, when he turned in the direction where the guard was standing, happening a glance at the mech.

The mech was staring with bright optics, ogling him as he showered.

The other guards had always waited for him to get finished, keeping watch out of the corner of their optics, but this mech's optics were riveted to Barricade.

"What are you waiting for? Clean yourself, or you won't have time to finish." The mech said, voice hoarse as he stared at Barricade's servo still lingering between his legs.

Barricade forced himself to start moving again, turning his back to the guard to get some sense of privacy while cleaning his array.

"No. Turn back around. I want to make sure that you clean yourself thoroughly, and that you're not pulling contraband out of any parts of you."

Like he could get any contraband when spending most of his time in his cell, and never having visitors. He still obeyed, because he didn't want to be left with solvent to dry on his frame.

"Good mech. Be really thorough."

In spite of being in the shower, Barricade had rarely felt more filthy in his entire functioning. With stiff movements, he slipped his soap-slicked digits through the folds of his valve, opening the cover to his spike and extending it. Sliding his servo along it to get it clean did not feel good, not with a mech following his every movement, and he hastened through it.

It was the first time it felt like he couldn't get done quickly enough, but sadly not the last time.

Chapter Text

He never got accustomed to the stares, but as long as that was the only thing that happened, he didn't argue about it. 

What could he say, really? The mech was just staring, and the inmates were required to be supervised in the washracks, and the guard could state that he was just doing his job, making sure that Barricade wasn't up to something questionable.

But eventually it wasn't enough to just stare. Barricade stepped under the spray, eager to get the shower over with, and turned towards the mech to find him holding his spike, slowly stroking it. The Saleen's spark hiccuped with fear, and his tank roiled with disgust. Would the guard ask for more than just watching this time? This wasn't right, prisoner or not, he had rights. He shouldn't have to stand this.

"I'm pretty sure that's against the regulations." He said reasonably, because snark probably wouldn't get him anywhere.

"So what are you going to do about it?" The mech said derisively.

"I could file a complaint about harassment."

The guard actually snickered at that. "You think they will believe you over me? I mean, since you've been so boldly showing off your assets, clearly trying to seduce me, something I suspect you learned from all those pleasuremechs you took bribes from. But you didn't manage to do that — because I'm a mech who adhere to the laws, unlike some — you obviously tried getting back at me by filing a bogus complaint."

Barricade could feel his intake hanging open in shock, because that was not what he had been prepared for.

"I'll make sure you get locked down. No time outside your cell at all, the window in the door blacked out, no showering..."

He hadn't even considered that things could be even worse than they already were, that he could be even more isolated, stripped of what little distractions he was allowed to have.

"If you don't want that to happen, I suggest you start cleaning yourself."

Spark cold, Barricade grabbed the bottle of solvent and started to clean his array, pressing down the energon at the back of his intake as the guard continued to stroke his spike.

Chapter Text

The only upside to it was that the guard still hadn't worked up the nerve to demand more from Barricade than just the shows. It still disgusted the Saleen as much as the first time, it was still humiliating to be forced to perform like that just to keep from being punished even harsher, but at least he hadn't been asked to touch the mech in any way.

That made it all the more alarming when eventually the mech stepped closer, leaving his usual spot just inside the door, coming to stand right in front of Barricade. The Saleen froze on the spot, solvent still pelting down over him from the overhead shower, spattering the guard's plating as he stood there, bright optics trained on the Saleen, a nasty smirk on his face, hard spike in hand.

Barricade felt his tank convulsing with dread, the rush of energon in his audials so loud, he hardly heard the solvent hitting the floor.

The mech would want more, and while Barricade could try to fight back, it would only land him in worse trouble. What if he was transferred to a worse facility? One where he'd be even more isolated. Or maybe he'd be sent out into the general population? Nobody would ever believe him if he told the truth, and what would be the punishment of being perceived as lying? And the guard would want revenge...

The guard leaned even closer, front brushing against Barricade as he reached past the Interceptor. He turned the knob and shut the solvent. The Saleen's spark spun out of control in it's chamber, and his plating crawled where they touched, instinctively flattening against his wet protoform to try to get away. A shiver that wasn't all from the cold air of the room wracked his frame. He tilted his helm back to look up at the other mech, a sour taste in his intake when he swallowed the lump in his throat, waiting for an order he certainly would not want to obey. 

But what choice did he have?

"Kneel."

Chapter Text

Spark plummeting, Barricade slowly sank to his knees, fuel pump hammering.

There's a first time for everything, but why did this have to be the first time he sucked spike? Why did he have to do it at all? He never had felt any inclinationto do it. Not even his fragging step-sire had ever forced him to suck cock, why did he have to catch this bastard's optics? Why couldn't he just be left alone?

He swallowed queasily, optics riveted to the head of the mech's spike, the pre-transfluid beading there as the guard slowly stroked the length, waiting for the mech to order him to suck, lick or something else equally degrading.

He was not at all prepared for the mech to overload, sticky ropes of transfluid landing across his face-plates. Barricade recoiled and instinctively made a face, accidentally parting his lip-plates enough for some of the fluid to get into his intake.

"Stay still, if you know what's good for you." The guard growled when Barricade started moving.

As degrading as it was, Barricade froze, shutting his mouth to not get more of the bitter and tacky fluid into his intake, the taste already clinging to his glossa, making him want to purge. The mech kept milking his spike until he couldn't get another drop out of it, then he stepped back.

"Looks good on you. Too bad you'll have to wash it off."

Barricade knealt there, still frozen in shock and disgust, staring up at the guard.

"Go on, get to it. I don't have all day. I'm done with you. For now."

Numbly the Interceptor got up, vigorously scrubbing his face without feeling cleaner for it, trying to rinse his mouth without the guard noticing. He dried up quickly, eager to get out of there, and he managed to hold it together until he was back in his cell.

As soon as the door slammed shut and the guard left him — after a last leer through the little window in his door — he fell to his servos and knees over the floor drain, violently purging his tanks, and not for the first time since he went to prison, Barricade started crying.

Chapter Text

Showering kept being a dreaded moment for some time. The mech never touched him, but having someone cum all over him was disgusting enough.

For all the vile things his step-sire had done to him, this was the most degrading, most humiliating thing he had ever been through. Just thinking about it made him want to puke his tanks out.

Or maybe it wasn't any more vile than what he had been through before? It was hard to draw a comparison years after the fact. 

All Barricade knew was that it was the same kind of helplessness. Someone who held his functioning in their servos, his future, abused that power by forcing him to do things he would never have done otherwise. And just like he couldn't file charges against his step-sire back then, not until someone witnessed it, filing complaints against the guard would be futile.

Then the mech disappeared. Barricade hadn't seen him for a few days, but that wasn't out of the ordinary with shift changes, vacations, and the likes. But for the first time for a while, he was taken to the washracks by someone else, someone who kept watch, but didn't stare at him. 

It was luxurious, like taking a day at the spa, even if he didn't get more time than normal. Or maybe he did? Either way, the Saleen savoured every second under that showerhead without optics paying rapt attention. He washed himself thoroughly, feeling clean for the first time since that aft of a guard had started working there, and even if he knew that it might be the odd occasion, and that his nightmare might begin again again at any time, he pushed those thoughts away and showered like there was no tomorrow.

In the end, his worries were unnecessary. That guard never showed up again, and Barricade never dared asking if the mech had been caught and convicted, or transferred to torment someone else. Why jinx it by asking? He really didn't need to know where the mech was. The bastard was gone, and he could enjoy his showers in peace again, and that was all that mattered. And he wasn't going to spend his time fretting about if it would happen again in the future. Not when there was nothing he could do about it anyway.

Chapter Text

After long enough in solitary, anything that breaks the monotony is a welcome distraction. There was a time when Barricade would've found it distasteful with the rapt attention everyone paid when something went down in the ward, but those days were long gone.

His attention roused by a commotion outside, Barricade stopped his idle picking at a dent in the wall and went to the door to peek out through the tiny window.

The doors to the general ward were open, guards in tactical armor wrangling a big mech inside. There were cheers and hollering that could be heard from the general area, and the mech being dragged inside was cheering, somehow managing to wave his arms victoriously, even though two guards were holding on to them for all their worth.

"Yeah! You know who's the glitch now! How do you like that? Get some!" 

Then he rumbled a laugh as the doors slammed shut behind him, apparently very satisfied with himself and whatever he'd done.

His entire frame was spattered with energon, and his knuckles were visibly dented. He had a couple of scuffmarks here and there on his frame, but nothing close to explaining all the energon. Was it a riot, or had it "just" been a fight? There was a lot of energon, but the mech seemed more exhilarated than agitated, at least at this point.

"Do you need medical assistance?" One of the guards shouted. "And calm the frag down, or we'll be forced to knock you out."

"Nah, it's just a scrape. You should've seen the other mech though..." The Flier said, focusing on the guard with a bright optic that seemed hungry for spilling more energon.

Barricade suddenly recognized the mech. The Flier who was booked when he was. The mech was all orange now, but it was definitely him.

"Alright, then you're going into your cell, and we'll come get you for cleaning up later." They started to lead the big thug down the row of cells.

"What?!" The Flier roared. "Hell no, I ain't going into the hole! He fucking started it. It's not my fault that he couldn't stand a little self defense, someone fighting back for once!" 

He started struggling again, vicious determination turned towards the guards, and one of them was sent stumbling into one of the bolted down tables, grunting in pain as he hit it and lost his balance, ending up sprawled on the floor.

Then someone activated the inmate's stun-collar, and the big mech went down, frame convulsing with the shocks. A pained whine left his vocalizer, and even when the shocks subsided, he was still twitching, vents ragged. The guards dragged him along easily when he didn't resist anymore, and he was dumped into a cell.

The slamming shut of the cell door marked the end of the entertainment of the week, and Barricade went back to picking at the wall.

Chapter Text

"Hey. Hey, I'm talking to you." Someone hissed as Barricade paced the rec area. 

The Saleen ignored it as usual. There were few mechs who reached out to him — most of the mechs in here were just temporary, usually for having misbehaved in gen pop, and already had friends, and a few of those in AdSeg for the same reasons as Barricade had done it before without the Saleen answering, and had already given up on him taking any interest in them — So it had to be a mech new to the ward.

Curiosity clawed at him, something that happened more frequently these days. In the begining, he just didn't want anything to do with anyone, but after a while the loneliness was getting unbearable. It was almost a compulsory need to know who was talking to him, but he didn't stop walking. He was a Speedster, and he needed to move. Preferably at speed, he needed to feel the wind against his sensors, but pacing the rec room the times he was let out of his tiny cell was what he got, and he would make the most of it and not waste time standing still. Something new was always a welcome distraction though, something he could twist and turn in his processor for hours to come to keep himself occupied when he was locked up again, and he couldn't help but flick one optic in the mech's direction, just to see who it was this time. 

The Flier. So the mech was still in segregation since the brawl a few —  how long had it been? Days? Weeks? — well, whenever it was.

"Come on, mech. I haven't seen you before at all, so either you've been in here for a really long time, or you're new. Either way, I bet you need some friends, right? For that day when you finally get back out of this Primus damned hole."

The Saleen stopped, not turning his helm, but flicking another optic in the mech's direction. A single, red optic studied him where he stood, waiting for him to do something or say something. And he had reacted to the mech's words, had stopped to think about it, so he was as good as hooked, had shown interest in those words.

Like he was ever getting out of solitary. But the thought was still strangely compelling. He hadn't had a friend in a very long time, had hardly used his vocalizer. No, that wasn't true. He answered the questions the medics had, and the guards when spoken to, and he used to hum to himself now and then, and yesterday, he told himself a story out loud. 

Ok, maybe he did need friends.

Chapter Text

Cautiously, he approached the mech's cell, because criminals could be very inventive when it came to ways to entertain themselves by harming others, and there was always the risk of the Flier remembering him as the resident ex-Enforcer, and just faking his ignorance. He came to a stop in front of the door at what he figured was a safe distance, meeting the mech's optic through the small window in the door.

"So what's the deal? Why are you in the hole?"

"What's it to you?" Barricade jutted his chin out with fake bravado, spark spinning wildly with nerves. Don't show weakness.

"I don't see a brand on you, you have no visible etchings, and you've not been in gen pop for as long as I've been there, and that's quite some time. Either you're really high up, and really really dangerous, or you're truly unaffiliated and need protection."

Barricade cocked an optical ridge without saying anything, hoping that the thug would go on and get to the point without the Mustang confirming anything. 

If they believed that he was very dangerous, if this mech didn't remember him even though they came on the same bus, maybe he could roll with that image? Maybe he could get out of solitary, and just play that part? In here, he could be anyone. He could keep to himself, and just nurse the image of being the scary mobster, and everyone would leave him alone. He would be allowed to go outside — like outside the building, into the yard, to feel the wind against his plating — if he was in gen pop, would have much more time out of his cell over all. Distractions to keep him from thinking about all the things he didn't have anymore, all the ways he'd fucked up his life. He'd be allowed to have data pads to read, and he would be around other mechs, and maybe even be able to have a few friends. They wouldn't dare do anything to him, because they'd think there would be hell to pay.

Chapter Text

"I know some small mechs who are fairly dangerous, but they are few and far between. So I'm guessing you're unaffiliated, and in her for your own protection." The mech continued.

"What makes you think I'm not affiliated? What makes you think I'm not in here because they want to keep me from seeing my subordinates? What makes you think I need protection?" He scoffed, going for nonchalant irritation.

He was bummed out that the mech so easily poked a hole in his fantasy of a chance of getting out of solitary, since it seemed he wasn't recognizable anymore. The big mech chuckled.

"If you really were a higher up, I would've known. My intel says there's no top dogs in this joint. Not one of ours we should protect, and not one of the others who'd get a different treatment." 

Oh. He didn't consider that a gangster boss could be even more at risk.

"And the kill for thrills are in a different facility, so you're not that. You lack the swagger too, you know, that commanding presence that just oozes authority and danger. So my bet is you being too small and cute to walk around unaffiliated in the general population." The mech continued.

Barricade bristled at being called cute, but it was dismaying to be reminded of how he really had no option but to remain in solitary. That even if they forgot about his past, it didn't matter. He would never be safe out there. If he didn't make friendsBut did he really want to make friends with the other criminals? What if they found out about his past?

"Must be awfully lonely and boring to sit around in here. That could change, you know. Get an in with the right people, you could get protection and be out in gen pop."

It was so tempting. But what if it was a trick? What if the Flier just wanted to lure him out to get a chance to hurt him?

"How, and why would I 'get an in with the right people'?"

"You're talking to the right people right now, and it just so happens that one of my cellmates is being released any day now. That leaves us with an empty berth. You could always make a request for a transfer to our cell, say that you are one of ours, that you belong with us. And we certainly wouldn't mind sharing you."

Chapter Text

There was an obvious leer in the last sentence, and Barricade was disgusted. Of course! Why did he think anything else? Gross fucking bastard. The mech's optic trailed his frame slowly, all lascivious intent, and disgusting focus.

"I'm not going to be your prison bitch!" He growled.

"I'd say it would be more like you being our conjux. You know, a polyamorous relationship. You could keep the cell clean, and polish us, and would be ours to fuck whenever we feel like it, but we wouldn't let others fuck you. Or hurt you for that matter."

As if that would be a much better arrangement.

"I'm not shareware."

"Obviously not while stuck in segregation, but you could be."

Ugh. And the mech said it as if it was a tempting offer he was making.

"Just imagine the freedom it would give you: regular access to the yard, cygars and treats from the commissary, people to talk to..."

The mech's voice sounded strained, and he leaned closer to the window, exvents misting up the glass. Barricade noticed that he was moving slightly as he spoke. As if...

Eew.

"Are you seriously jerking off right now?!"

"Yeah!" The Flier grunted. "Have my optic on the prettiest little frame I've seen in a long time, talking about facing, and I can imagine how hot you would look, aft up on my cot, legs spread, valve dripping for me. It's not like I've gotten any action since I went into solitary."

Eew, eew, eew!

Without another word, Barricade fled back to his cell.

He'd had quite enough of moving around in full view of the disgusting bastard, thank you very much.

Chapter Text

As welcome as distractions were when stuck in AdSeg — because he never took the gross Flier up on his offer of being a prison conjux just to get out of his solitary confinement — some distractions, Barricade would rather have been without.

Of course they'd have a shakedown because someone had managed to smuggle drugs into the ward.

Rolling his optics, Barricade stepped out of his cell to let the turbohound search the cell. Like he had any place to hide contraband. His mattress was hardly better than a slab of metal covered in metal mesh — an uncomfortable piece that hardly earned the name furniture, let alone made a good hiding spot for anything — and then it was just the floor drain left. The hound cleared the cell, and the guards took over, turning everything upside down to check an extra round for things the hound was not trained for finding.

"Cell's clear, now it's just you left." One of the guards told him.

Barricade knew the drill by now. He turned around to face the wall, placed his servos against it, pedes planted wide, and waited for them to trigger open his subspace. 

It was ludicrous. He didn't even have access to his own subspace, so why did they need to check? On the other servo, with so much time on his hands, maybe he could've hacked it, but still.

"Move it along, Barricade. We're going to the medbay."

What?

"Why?"

"Because we don't do the full frame searches. Only the medics do that."

Chapter Text

He stared at the guard, refusing to understand for long moments, but then horror gripped him when he realized exactly what procedure they were going to do. And they were indeed going to do it to him.

"Move it, Barricade."

"No! You can't do that, you have no right..." He snarled, sidestepping and holding up his arm to block the guard who reached for the Interceptor.

"We have every right to search for contraband. By all means necessary."

"But I don't have anything! I have no opportunities at all to get any contraband, and I don't even want it anyway." He protested with rising panic, struggling against the hold the guard managed to get on his arm. "Let go of me! I have rights!"

"You do. You have the right to remain silent..."

"We've gotten a tip that you mule drugs between drop off points inside the ward. We checked the alleged  dropoffs, and we have found drugs there, so the tip was accurate so far." One of the other guards said.

For the first time since Barricade was locked up, he didn't comply. No, when the other guard tried to grab his other arm, he put his self defense skills to use, twirling his arm out of the way, while kicking the mech's pedes out from under him. The guard hit the floor with a loud clang and a pained grunt, and Barricade turned on the guard still holding his arm, using the mech's distarction to land a solid hit across the mech's throat. Then his arms were free, and he turned to run.

Where the hell was he going to go? 

The corner of the corridor seemed like the easiest defendable position. 

He just needed to get the guards to see reason. He wasn't that type of mech, surely they would listen to him if he just got a chance to talk this through.

Another servo grasped at his shoulder-wing, and he elbowed the mech in the side, freeing himself again, then he was off down the corridor.

He made it all of ten steps, then his collar was activated, and with an agonized warble, Barricade hit the floor.

Chapter Text

"Well that was entertaining, funniest thing I've seen for weeks. Almost makes up for you being too robochicken to go out into gen pop, cop-bot."

Barricade fought the urge to puke, slowly turning his helm to look up at the cell door he had been felled in front of. Oral lubricant hung in long strings from his intake, and he felt like he had been run over by some sort of mining mech after taking a punch to the helm.

The crazy Helicopter from his first day there.

"Well, have fun being fisted. Oh, sorry, I mean searched." The bastard smiled innocently.

Barricade dry heaved, and it made the mech's grin widen.

"And you're welcome by the way. You seemed to be a bit lonely and bored here, I thought I'd add a bit of excitement to your functioning. Some penetration. Hope you enjoy it."

The fucker set him up!

Barricade had never wanted to offline someone so badly before, wanted to bash the mech's smug smirk off his face-plates and keep hitting until the Helo was scrap. But alas, the Interceptor could hardly move, frame still uncooperative after the shocks, so the only thing he could do was lay there with impotent anger and cold dread turning his tank. And drool. At least he didn't void his waste tank in front of the Helo...

The guards grabbed his arms, pulled them behind his back and he was cuffed. Not that he could have resisted at all, but they were obviously not taking any chances.

"You really shouldn't have done that." One of the guards growled.

Well, no shit. 

"You're still going to be searched, but now you earned yourself some time in full lock-in when this is done."

Would've been worth it if it had gotten him out of the search.

They hauled him upright, Barricade still dangling limply between them, and dragged him towards the medbay.

Fuck his functioning. With a fist, apparently.

Behind him, the Helicopter cackled gleefully.

Chapter Text

The guards dumped him on his side on the medberth, servos still cuffed behind his back, the medic looking very unimpressed.

"Fighter?"

"Yep. Check us over first. Had to shock him, so he'll be immobile for a little while longer.

Barricade zoned out the conversation as the medic checked the damage he'd done to the guards in his attempt to buy himself a little time. Fat lot of good that did him.

For all the humiliating procedures he had submitted to since that day when he was arrested, he had not had the displeasure of going through a cavity search. But there's always a first time for everything. Hopefully, it would be the last too.

Then all too soon the medic came to stand in front of Barricade.

"I guess you know this procedure considering your former job, but I'll walk you through it anyway."

"Please don't do this. I don't have anything, I never would do something like that. Why would I want to risk adding more time on my sentence?" Barricade begged, voice still rough with static from the shocks. Or was it because he was so close to crying? 

"I have heard those exuses before." The medic sounded bored. "Unfortunately for you, it's not only that we have the right to examine you, but we are legally obligated to do it on suspicion of smuggling. My recommendation is that you cooperate, or we will be forced to restrain you for this. And even more resistance would not look good on your part if you're going up for parole at some point."

"I'm being set up. One of the other inmates did this just for me to wind up here. You have to believe me. Please!" Barricade's voice broke with a sob he couldn't stifle.

"It's not an option to not search you. We can't just take your word for it. What we're going to do here today is check your cavities for contraband manually, and then check all your tanks with cameras. Will you submit to this, or do we have to restrain you?"

What good would it do to resist? They would just force him, and he'd be punished for resistance afterwards.

"I'll cooperate." He whispered weakly.

Chapter Text

The cuffs were released, and after the medic thoroughly inspected his intake — even feeling around with a gloved digit — he was handed a small cube with a cloudy, gray fluid in it. Barricade stared at the contents, the look of it not the least appetizing.

"That'll numb your throat for when we take a look with the camera. Drink it all."

The thick, syrupy glop tasted bitter, and clung inside his intake in a disgusting way, but he managed to force it down.

"Good. While waiting for that to take full effect, we're going to proceed with the other steps. Were going to use that berth over there. If you hop on it, put your legs up over those supports, and scoot down until your aft is almost hanging over the edge, I'll get the other things. Oh, and open your panels."

How was it even possible that he could hit a new low after everything he'd been through? Barricade threw a glance at the guards who still lingered in the medbay, in case he decided to get violent again. Why not make him felt even more exposed for it? They were there to keep an optic on him after all, so of course they would be staring at him.

He clambered onto the berth, put his legs up, and opened his panels, and he mentally squirmed at the position. The medic came back with a small table on wheels, heaped with boxes of equipment, and stepped up between Barricade's spread legs.

"This is another numbing agent for your waste fluid nozzle."

It was all the warning he got before something slick pressed into the tiny nozzle, and his entire frame, his very being screamed that things were not meant to go into that component. He flailed his arms reflexively, back tensing, and yelped. Then he could feel liquid trickle into him, and he squirmed in a full frame discomfort he couldn't put words on. The tiny hose was pulled out again, leaving the nozzle irritated, and feeling... weakened.

"Good. Now that'll have to sit for a while. I'll proceed with your valve."

"I need to void." He blurted desperately, because it felt like it would happen at any second now, wheter he wanted to or not.

"It's just the nozzle tricking your frame, and the numbness that's starting to take effect. You'll be fine." The medic dismissed.

Fine then. If the bastard wanted to be pissed on, let him have it, if it turned out Barricade was right.

Then digits slipped into his valve, and it threw him back to the last time he had been fingered. One leg over the back of the couch, one over the edge of the seat, his step-sire hunched over him, pumping his gross digits into Barricade's valve, and then with a gloating smirk, he pushed that bottle into him instead, too thick, and square and just not fitting...

"No, please don't! Stop, stop, no!" He cried out as long repressed panic welled up in his spark, scrabbling up the bert to get out of reach the same way he had done back then. And it had earned him the punishment-fuck of the century...

"Want us to restrain him?"

"Yes."

Chapter Text

Servos cuffed to the rail of the berth, a thick belt across his hips, and his legs strapped to the supports, Barricade was effortlessly immobilized and completely helpless. He cried silently in disgust and terror when the digits slipped into his valve again, feeling around.

"Is this a seal?"

"Y-yes."

"I need to verify the authenticity of course, so you're not lying, and this is to cover contraband."

Of course, why just leave his valve alone?

The medic picked up a fibreoptic camera and slipped it into Barricade's valve, turning it around to look closely at the seal.

"Indeed, it is a true manufacturing seal."

Like he said.

"If you had been cooperating, you would have been allowed take your legs down for this next procedure, but it's too timeconsuming to wrangle you back and forth, and it's your own fault. I need to check your fueltank while the anesthesia is still effective. For your own comfort."

The upper part of the berth lowered until he was flat on his back, legs still spread for anyone who wanted to see. He couldn't even close his panels, because the medic had put blocking clamps on them to hinder them from sliding shut. It was so utterly humiliating, and he felt so vulnerable, the guards standing close by. Fucking unnecessary, what would he be able to do when tied down like this?

The part of the berth his helm rested on folded away, and his helm hung over the edge. Like those deepthroating videos he'd seen. Just the thought of that made him cringe, even if this technically was a medical procedure. He squirmed what little he could in discomfort.

"Open up." The medic said, holding a tube with a camera in the end in front of Barricade's intake.

The Saleen forced himself to open his intake. It was invasive, and the position was awful because of the way it made him think of other acts, but swallowing a camera wasn't nearly as humiliating as the position he was in. The tube slipped in, and he tensed, but he was so numb, it didn't hurt, even though he could feel it slide down his throat. It wasn't much of a relief, but at least it was something. The medic stared at the screen for what seemed like hours.

"No contraband here."

He told them so! Why did they listen more to that fragging lunatic Helicopter?

The camera slipped out of his intake, and the support for his neck returned to it's original position. The medic put the camera away and returned to stand between Barricade's legs again, grabbing a much smaller tool, and Barricade just wanted to wake up and find this a nightmare.

Chapter Text

It didn't actually hurt, the anesthetic was that good, but he did feel something this time too, and he really wished that he wouldn't

The tiny camera slipped into the nozzle of his waste tank, and it sent a zing of sensation up his back-struts that had him tense again, and he couldn't help trying to squirm. He felt so fucking violated.

He lifted his helm to look at what the medic was doing, but all he could see was the mech staring at the screen, moving his servo, probably to get every angle, and those movements renewed that sensation of urgently having to void. Barricade ground his denta, his entire body clenching with the instinctive reflex to try to hold it.

"Nothing illegal here either. Just two steps left. I need him on the other berth."

Two steps he'd rather not endure.

The medic stepped away, rolling the table with tools with him to the other berth while the guards released Barricade's restraints.

"Please don't! I don't have anything there either, I swear." He sobbed. "I can squat and exvent to show you, please..."

"Regulations state that everything has to be controlled when there's a suspicion of smuggling."

The guards led him back to the other berth, and Barricade reluctantly allowed it, because fighting them would be futile.

"Which side is your oil reservoir and filters on?" The medic asked.

"Left." His voice was a broken whisper.

"Then I want you on that side. Pull your knees up a bit, and try to relax."

Like he could ever relax when he was about to have a servo shoved up his ass

He crawled onto the berth and laid down as instucted, they guards cuffing his servos and pedes to the railing of the berth. A strap across his waist fixed him in place, and the sound of an examination glove snapping against plating made his frame shiver with disgust, and his optics snapped to the medic.

He watched as the medic poured lube on his servo, and when the mech went around the berth to stand behind him, Barricade offlined his optics and forced down the energon rising to the back of his intake.

Chapter Text

Nothing could ever have prepared him for it. The easy way the slick digits slipped into him, no matter how hard his ass clenched reflexively. It made it all the more disgusting, that way he was empty one second, and then suddenly he was so fucking full, and there was apparently nothing he could do to keep those fingers out of him.

The medic twisted his digits, and Barricade mewled in disgust when his insides were stroked as those fingers smoothed the walls of his maintenance port, checking for hidden objects that didn't exist, before they finally slipped out, helped along by his clenching calipers.

He sobbed in humiliation, still restrained and bared for those present to see, ass slick with lubricant, feeling robbed of his privacy as well as the last shreds of his dignity.

And then something slipped into him again, much slimmer, but equally unwanted. He jerked when something felt inredibly wrong in there as the tool nudged the drain valve to his oil reservoir to get it free from the drain hose, and then the component sent him a pop-up in his HUD about a possible malfunction or a breach, and Barricade wanted so desperately to crawl under something and hide, to purge his tank, and to take a shower, and he couldn't even decide in what order. He whined in disgust.

"Stop squirming, I'm just checking your oil tank. When was the last time you had an oil-change? Do you have a centrifuge oil filter?"

As if he could focus on that when his fucking drain valve was saying that it wasn't working properly!

"I don't fucking know! Check the medical notes or something, it was done here. I had long life oil, and my centrifuge wasn't cleaned last time, now get that the fuck out of me!" He ground out, gripping the railing of the berth so hard it creaked.

As if to punish him for being difficult, the thing lingered inside him for long moments before it finally was pulled out. It was immediately replaced with the digits again and Barricade tried to squirm away.

"Just making sure your drain valve doesn't need a recalibration after that, and reattaching it to the hose. You don't want to be forced to do your oil changes this way from now on, would you? And I don't feel like having you complaining about leakage after this. This is for your own sake, so stop squirming!" The medic said before Barricade could protest, sounding annoyed.

Chapter Text

Those digits had to go awfully far into him to touch the drainage, and Barricade shuddered at the stretch, and the strange feeling when something brushed the waste gate. Then, after what seemed like hours, the digits finally slipped out of him. The blocks were removed, and he slammed his panels shut immedately, not wanting to be bare a second longer.

The guards loosened his restraints, and Barricade slowly sat up, feeling sore and achy everywhere. The lubricant made him feel wet in a disgusting way, and he gingerly slid off the berth, standing stiffly with his pedes planted wide out of discomfort.

"Let's go. You're going straight into full lock-in."

"I'm not even allowed to shower first?" He said weakly, spark plummeting. He felt disgusting, washing himself would at least remove most of the lubricant.

"You would've been if you had cooperated. But you harmed three guards, and actively fought the search. Immediate lock-in it is."

He walked stiffly in front of the guards, a dull ache deep in his chassies, the slickness of his entire undercarriage a disgusting reminder of how thoroughly his frame had been invaded, and he hobbled down the corridor, optics on the floor.

Everyone watching — and it was always everyone, because entertainment was sparse in AdSeg — had seen the raid, and how he had been taken down. They knew where he had been dragged off to, and of course they would know what had been done to him. And if that wasn't enough, he would be reminded of it for the foreseeable future with the slick wetness of artificial lube lingering inside him. At least until he was allowed to shower again, whenever that might be.

"There he goes..." The Helicopter sang cheerily as he passed. "Is that lubricant on your aft? You look... loosened up. Not such a tight-ass anymore. Did you like it?" He cackled. "I bet you could easily take the biggest cock anywhere right now, might as well just go into gen pop and offer. They'll keep you slack and sloppy for the rest of your stay, make it easier on you the next time you get searched and get a servo up your ass."

Barricade could feel his face-plates burning with humiliation, and he hurried his steps, eager to pull his ratty blanket over his helm and hide from the world for a decade or two.

Chapter Text

The next time he wound up in the medbay, it was no more lovely than the first.

If it was an honest mistake or a set-up, he would never know, but one second, he was pacing the rec area as usual, eager to stretch his struts and get to move a bit, the next a mech punched him in the helm, sending him flying to land sprawled on the floor. Completely caught off guard — there shouldn't even be an inmate there with him, he was always let out alone, and the guards seemed to have disappeared — he didn't even have time to put his self defense skills to use.

He curled up as much as he could to shield himself from the vicious kicks, tried to roll away to get his pedes under him, to get up from the floor, but the mech straddled him instead, forcing him to lay on his back. The other inmate was much bigger than Barricade, and his attempt to use a technique he had learned to buck an attacker off him was futile.

Through the agony from punch after punch landing against his helm and upper body, Barricade had time to be terrified that the mech was going to use him in other ways after he was done beating him up. If he didn't offline him right here.

"I know what you did to my little brother, you little fucker!" The mech snarled.

Another punch to his helm.

"He was just into his new grown up frame, and he had minor drug charges left from his last year at school, but he was on the straight and narrow, on his way to the academy, a bright future before him. You busted him, and you took advantage of him."

More punches landed, and Barricade's audials were ringing so loudly he could hardly hear what the mech was saying over the noise. The Saleen almost feelt as if he was sinking into himself.

"You literally fucked him over for just a little bit of weed, and to cope, he started using heavy routers..."

Whatever the mech said next was lost to him, as Barricade slipped into unconsciousness.

The next thing he knew, he onlined in the medbay. It was obvious that he had been given some strong painkillers, but still his entire frame managed to throb in pain. The medics had clearly plugged in and cleared his fault reports, because he couldn't find anything on what kind of damage he had sustained.

Including no reports on wheter he'd been fucked or not.

He didn't want to ask either, didn't want to talk to the medics if he didn't have to, so he waited until the night, when the staff on duty didn't do more than rounds to check, between drinking hot energon in the staff room. After one round, when he was fairly certain he'd be left alone for a while, he opened his panel and reached between his legs.

No aches, and no soreness. He slipped his digit inside slowly, relieved when he hit the seal. At least the mech didn't do that to him. Then he cringed when he realized that he could've been violated in other ways. Barricade reached further, nudged the entrance to his port. It wasn't sore, didn't feel torn or loose. He was still untouched.

Sighing with relief, he offlined his optics and waited for recharge to claim him.

Chapter Text

His release-date is finally here! He got his parole! Barricade is jittery with nervous anticipation when the guard comes to get him. The Saleen gets his repaint and returns to his old monochromatic style — sans service signs, of course — because he doesn't know what other colors to get. He pointedly avoids the thought of how that's the only thing left of his identity, because he defined himself by his profession first and foremost, so who is he now that he is not a cop anymore? 

The Mustang waits impatiently for the paint to dry, and then he's walked out to the reception. The administrative forms are processed — it seems like it takes hours to answer all the questions, and sign all the documents — but then the collar is finally removed, and the meager possessions he had in his subspace when they brought him in is returned. 10 credits, a couple of rags, and a long expired pack of condoms. 

Then he's finally a free mech again, and with his spark spinning wildly with excitement, he steps through the doors. It isn't one of those moments seen in the movies, when the ex-inmate steps out into the summer heat, turning his face towards the sun shining from a cloudless sky, dragging a deep vent of fresh air to smell the blooming crystals and freedom, the petrobirds singing.

No, Barricade steps out into the cold drizzle, the thick clouds making the day look dark and dreary, and the sour smell of the pollution from the nearby factories permeating the air. It doesn't matter, it still smells like freedom. 

Slowly folding into his alt mode, savoring the feeling of transforming for anything more than just the check-up in the prison medbay, he runs a self calibration of his systems, engine revving excitedly before he drives off.

Chapter Text

Just moving around unhindered keeps him occupied for most of the day, the simple act of finally driving again such a relief on his high performance systems. Barricade runs down the highway, his systems buzzing with the thrill of feeling the wind whipping around him. The Saleen pulls off into a rest stop, empty of others, and indulges in transforming back and forth at least a dozen times, not stopping until his t-cog is starting to feel sore from overexertion. He hasn't done this for so long, and it's such a relief. Then he speeds back down the highway, back towards the city, without a care in the world. He's free! 

But inevitably, he has to stop and think about his situation, because with freedom comes the responsibility to set himself up with the necessities of life.

Fuel levels on thirty percent, he's low on cash, evening is closing in, and everything he had before he was put away is gone.

He has no apartment to go to anymore; it was lost because he couldn't pay for it while inside. His possessions were most likely thrown away, or sold off by the landlords when he was evicted in his absence. His meager savings have been eaten up by his rent, and mortgages.

Barricade's friends and former co-workers have all estranged him, at least he supposes so, because they never showed up to visit him in prison, or even sent him a message, and he's not keen on seeking them out just to grovel for a place to stay. That would just add another layer to this distasteful cake of humiliation

At least his carrier has taken the time to inform Barricade that he has moved to another city state, and to make it abundantly clear that he is re-conjuxed in a good way. He wants nothing to do with his son — the result of a short and tumultuous affair of interface and high grade he'd rather forget, brought up in a bonding he'd rather forget — who made himself famous by being convicted for his corruption, and doesn't fit into his new life, married to a low level politician. 

Barricade's sire never wanted anything to do with him. The Mustang hasn't met him since he was very young — the one time his carrier tried to introduce him in an effort to win his sire's affections back — and hardly even remember the mech's face, but he do remember the smell of booster-burned circuitry, and the annoyed disgust in the mech's field when he saw Barricade.

Seeking out his step-sire is out of the question. He'd rather recharge behind a dumpster.

And what little money he has in his subspace isn't enough for a motel room, so spending a night behind a dumpster is looking more and more likely. 

Chapter Text

Stripped of all those options, Barricade does the only ting he can think of: he starts to look for Jazz. It isn't easy, as street mechs are inherently wary of an Enforcer style mech asking questions — service signs or no — as if it isn't enough of a complication that he hasn't been around for years, and not many of the mechs Barricade knew before his incarceration seems to be around anymore. Finally, after spending most of his meager wad on a cube of high grade — and a hefty tip he can't really afford — in a run down bar, he manages to get a lead worth following. 

The Polyhexian has moved, just like he said he would, but at least he hasn't left the city. Close to midnight, Barricade has narrowed down his search area, and is fairly certain that he's finally cruising the right streets. The neighborhood is slightly better than where Jazz used to hang out before, and even if there's hookers at every other corner, and mechs Barricade's trained optics would peg for either dealers or pimps, the streets seem rather calm. The way the optics of the residents linger on him as he drive by doesn't elude him, and he knows that stopping to ask for Jazz will bring him up short. These mechs won't talk to him because of his colors.

He turns another corner and finally, the shareware leaning against the wall is a fairly familiar Polyhexian frame. The lines are slightly different — some of his plating has been removed to show off more of his protoform, and it looks like he may have changed his altmode — but the Mustang holds no doubt that the mech is Jazz. He stops in front of the mech and transforms.

"Hi." He says, because for all the time he has been looking for his former lover, he hasn't actually spent much time trying to figure out how to do this, and what to say, because he was drawing a blank and gave up. 

What if Jazz has a new mech? He never came back to visit, after all. And it isn't like Barricade has been a catch for someone like Jazz for a very long time. He's not really a catch for anyone right now.

Chapter Text

"Barricade?! Ya're out?!" Jazz calls out, optics focusing on the Saleen.

"Yeah. Got out earlier today..." He trails off, rubbing his neck awkwardly, feeling incredibly self-conscious. What if Jazz doesn't want him here?

His fretting proves to be unnecessary. Jazz runs up to him and jumps at him, clinging to the Interceptor like a cybermonkey. Surprisingly strong arms wrap around Barricade's neck, and optic-catching legs cling around his hips. Instinctively, Barricade splays his servos on Jazz's aft to support him.

"I missed ya!" Jazz purrs, rubbing himself against the Interceptor, trailing little kisses along his neck.

Barricade bites back a groan. Jazz has lost his interface plating while Barricade has been away, and now he's wearing fabric pants instead — like so many pleasuremechs do to entice their potential clients — and now the thin fabric is the only thing between his own rapidly heating plate and the hot dampness between Jazz's legs. Years of celibacy — which he is not going to complain about, thank Primus for that — has his frame responding instantly. Interface protocols request start up, but he sets them in standby, even if he knows that it's kind of presumptuous. Just in case.

"I missed you too. How are you? Are you going off shift soon?" The Interceptor forces out, grinding against the Solstice.

Jazz never kept working whenever Barricade showed up, but back then, he would pay for anything the Polyhexian needed to get him to stop for the rest of the night. Right now, the Interceptor only has three credits in his subspace, and it sure won't be enough to pay for a room, and some fuel. And to get some of that hot, wet pussy. His interface protocols ping him again. Maybe just a quickie against the wall? One for the road first?

"I'm supposed ta be workin' all night, but I think I can convince Hide ta let me have tha rest of tha night off. I mean, it's not every day one of my friends get outta jail, n' I've already earned really good this week."

Hide?

Chapter Text

"D'ya have someplace we can go n' get... reacquainted?" Jazz purrs with all lascivious intent, toying with Barricade's sensitive shoulder-wing with a precision that makes Barricade's vents hitch.

"No, I... I was kind of hoping that you have a motel room we could crash in, or some other place we can go to." He admits, feeling like a loser. He is a loser. He had a good job, and a good apartment, and he fucked it all up. He has nothing.

"I usually don' bring outsider mechs home, it's not really approved if it isn't prospects, business associates, or hang arounds who've been cleared. But I'll fix it. Hide's nice, n' I've earned it. I'm sure he'll make an exception of I vouch for ya."

Jazz is still clinging to him, rubbing against him, but Barricade can tell that he is on the comm with someone.

"All set, let's go, baby." Jazz murmurs in his audial, unwrapping his legs to get back down on the ground. 

The mech folds into his new alt mode — a Solstice — just like one of Jazz's favorite TV show reluctant hero from a series they used to watch back in the day. Jazz always dreamt about reformatting into that form, and now he has apparently afforded it somehow, though he does lack some of the plating even in alt mode. Then he rolls out, Barricade following him.

It's not a very long drive before they come up to a compound that has Barricade pausing warily outside the gates. The house is big, an old mansion left in the middle of the projects, probably abandoned for quite sometime before the current residents moved in. Some repairs have been done to the exterior, but it still needs some work before it is fully restored to it's former glory. What was at some point a large garden — judging by the long dead organic plants, a very expensive imported luxury, it was ostentatious in it's blatant display of the inhabitant's wealth — is now lit by floodlights, the dry ground dusty and marred by pede tracks as well as marks from wheels, and scorched by thrusters. The perimeter is circled by high walls, topped with wires that Barricade guesses are electrified. 

A serious looking, absolutely massive mech — according to Barricade's nervously discreet scan, he has some heavy weaponry concealed in his frame — lets them through the gates, suspiciously watching the Interceptor, and Barricade can't help but think that this is just another prison. He still follows Jazz though, because he has nowhere else to go, and he really wants to catch up with Jazz. They roll up to the house, and Barricade transforms back to root mode when Jazz does, looking up at the looming building with an uneasy feeling in his tank.

Chapter Text

"What is this place?" Barricade mumbles, half aimed at Jazz, half musing out loud. 

His gut instinct is screaming at him to leave while he still can, and he's more than half inclined to heed that call. If he just had somewhere else to go.

"This is Hide's house. He's my employer, ya could say. He supplies me with everythin' I need, n' I get ta keep 10% of what I make." Jazz says, sounding rather fond of this 'Hide'.

Barricade just nods, not interested in going further into the details of the 'employment.' He follows Jazz up the stairs to the massive double doors. Adorned with that emblem of a face he saw on a few of his fellow prisoners, here painted in a vivid red. He's stepping into gang territory.

"I've set us up for a cube, n' a frag in my room, but ya hafta sleep on tha couch. Hide doesn't really trust strangers with his mechs, n' he wouldn' budge on tha' point." Jazz says apologetically.

Figures. At least Jazz has someone who looks out for him. Even if it's his pimp.

The Saleen allows himself to be led through what seems like a recreational area just inside the doors — what was probably just an opulent entrance back in the golden age, now comfortably furnished with plush couches and chairs. Jazz grabs his servo and drags him down a hallway through what looks like a recharging wing of the house. The door he's ushered through looks like all the other doors, but the room behind it is comfortable, personal, and looks lived in. 

The Saleen looks around while Jazz fetches energon for them both. There's knickknacks and pictures adorning the shelves and walls, and there's no doubt that this is where Jazz lives, and Barricade can't help but think that it's a step up from the long line of anonymous motel rooms his lover used to frequent, the only personal things he toted around was what could fit in his subspace. Primus knows that it's more than he's got at the moment.

Jazz comes back, handing the Interceptor a cube, a smile playing on his lips when he sinks to sit on the berth. He motions to a box on the nightstand in silent invitation, then he reaches for it and grabs himself a cygar. Barricade sits next to him, and even though he doesn't want to seem greedy, he drinks half the cube pretty quickly. He was getting kind of low. Jazz lights up the cyg and draws a deep vent through it, coughing a little as he does, then he hands it to Barricade.

The Interceptor smells the weed it's laced with and declines it. It's very tempting, but it seems stupid to get high the first day out. Wouldn't it be just his luck if someone from law enforcement decides to make a random check on him, and he's high as a kite the day after getting out on parole? He'd be stamped "second strike" and back in prison so fast his helm would still be spinning when he was pushed into gen pop and earned the nickname 'prison transport'.

"I'll pass this time."

"Suit yourself. It's some really fine weed."

Don't do it.

"Just one taste." He says.

Jazz holds the cyg out, and Barricade wraps his lip-plates around it, brushing Jazz's fingers. They used to share smokes like this way back when, and the familiar act is comforting, and feels like coming home in a way that makes his spark clench. 

Chapter Text

Barricade downs the rest of his cube, and then he just can't keep his servos off of Jazz anymore. He grabs the mech, pulls him closer to steal a kiss, servos sliding down his sides to his hips. Jazz hums an amused chuckle against his lip-plates, pressing closer. Barricade pushes him down, eagerly tugging those flimsy hotpants down well polished legs, discarding them on the floor. His hungry optics roam Jazz's bare array, and he stops himself for a few seconds, sliding digits through slick folds, dipping inside the hot and charged valve bared before him. Jazz mewls and arches into the touch and Barricade can't take it anymore. He crawls on top of the Solstice and is about to line up, when Jazz stops him.

"Wait! We need this." The Polyhexian says, reaching for something on the night stand. Barricade watches as he opens the wrapping of a jimmy.

That's new.

Jazz rolls it onto Barricade's spike with practiced ease. "I only bareback the brothers now." He says apologetically as he finishes and lines the Saleen's spike up. 

Barricade decides to think about that statement later, and thrusts inside. Jazz wraps his legs around his hips to push him deeper, closer, and Barricade drapes himself over his lover, searching his intake out for another scorching kiss.

They move against each other, a familiar dance even after so long, and Barricade's charge is skyrocketing. He hasn't even jerked off during his time in prison, he couldn't get it up.

Overload hits fast and hard, and Barricade groans into Jazz's neck-cables, then he falls into reboot. 

Chapter Text

How long he remains offline, he can't tell, but when he onlines again, Jazz is draped over his chest, and the condom has been removed and discarded, and he has been wiped down.

"I don' wanna kick ya out, but ya hafta go take tha couch now." The Solstice says mournfully.

"But I just came!" Barricade whines.

"I know, babe, n' I really want ya ta stay, but I promised Hide. B'sides, we will just recharge anyway, n' I'll see ya first thing in tha mornin'." 

It's true, but Barricade really would enjoy recharging with Jazz, tangled up, fields laced. Just like they used to do. He still allows the Solstice to lead him out of the room, back to the recreational area, digits laced together. Barricade does notice how his lover doesn't even put his pants back on, nor his panel. He just walks out there completely bare for all to see, but Barricade doesn't comment on it.

"This is Barricade, n' he's my guest. He's takin' tha couch tonight. It has been cleared by Ironhide." Jazz says to the mechs loitering in the lobby.

Optics sweep up and down Jazz's frame, lingering on his array, and then the attention is turned to the Saleen, every inch of his plating closely inspected. The careful scrutiny forces Barricade to stifle a shudder, because somehow it reminds him of the sleazy prison guard who used to stare at him while he showered. There's a long moment of silence, and Barricade can practically feel the buzz of active comms in the air. 

Are they discussing the arrangement, or is it his frame they're talking about? Perhaps it's his paint job? They're gang bangers after all, and he still looks like an Enforcer. 

Then there's nods all around, and he lets out a vent he didn't know that he was holding.

"There's a blanket on tha couch in tha corner. I'll come get ya in tha morning n' set ya up with some fuel, k'?" Jazz instructs as he drags the Interceptor to said couch.

They kiss briefly, Jazz pulling away before it gets heated, and then the Polyhexian leaves him there. Barricade grabs the blanket and curls up on the couch, burrowing in the soft fabric that smells like dust and lack of use. 

One of the mechs gets up when Jazz passes, sliding his digits teasingly across the mech's shoulders. He follows Jazz when he goes upp the stairs instead of back to his room, and Barricade can't help the way his tank roils when the mech pats Jazz's aft, the Polyhexian laughing at something the mech murmurs in his audial as he presses up against Jazz's back.

In spite of being exhausted, it takes him a very long time to fall into recharge with unknown mechs so close by. With Jazz in someone else's berth. It's not that the mechs lounging around are raucous. The conversation is low, even though it's sometimes broken by momentary laughter. No, it's just that they're there. His cell in solitary felt safer than this place.

Chapter Text

They fall into a routine. Well, as much of a routine as one can establish in a week. Jazz wakes him up and invites him to his room for a frag, some cuddles, and morning energon. Then the Solstice follows him out to look for a job until Jazz has to work. He'll give Barricade a few credits, and the Interceptor spends the night nursing his energon in some bar as Jazz works, then he follows Jazz back, gets laid, and then he crashes on the couch. It isn't as intimate as he'd like, but it is what he gets, and Barricade can do nothing but settle for it. At least he gets fuel, and has a roof over his helm.

At first, Barricade has some hopes of finding a real job, but the first thing that's always asked is why he isn't on the force anymore, and when they learn that he's a felon — which he's required by law to inform potential employers of — he is turned away. The Saleen is starting to get desperate. Jazz's smile gets more tight-lipped for every day he draws a blank too.

Then late in the eight afternoon when they come home briefly, Jazz needing to freshen up before his shift, things take a turn for the worse. They're passing the recreational area, heading for Jazz's room, when a mech Barricade hasn't seen before comes down the stairs.

Massive arms that according to Barricade's scan conceals heavy weaponry, thick, black armor, except for chrome details. Like his rims, for example, perfectly polished and screaming wealth in that in-your-faceplates way only a thug would go for.

"Jazz, you're working in-house tonight." 

"Really?" Jazz seems surprised, but sounds happy about the change in schedule, whatever it means.

"You can get out here in two hours. Go to your room until then. I need to talk to your... friend. Alone."

"As ya wish, Hide." Jazz says, even though his facial expression betrays that he isn't thrilled about that. The smile he gives Barricade seems forced. He still turns on his heel and heads for his room without protests.

The mech comes to a stop in front of Barricade, looking the smaller mech up and down in a deliberate way. The Saleen tries to not show his apprehension, feeling rather unplated under the heavy gaze. Jazz called him Hide. This is the boss here.

"Designation?" The mech's voice is a deep rumble.

"Barricade." He says, stifling the urge to end it with a 'Sir'. The mech is inherently commanding, the obvious alpha mech in this territory.

"Well, Barricade," icy blue optics sweep his frame again, "I think I've been fairly hospitable, I know that getting out of prison doesn't make it easy to get everything settled for a few days, but this is not a charity. If you're going to stay, you better start earning your keep."

Chapter Text

Barricade works his intake, caught off guard. "I... Jazz said that it was ok..." He says weakly, spark and processor spinning a million miles an hour. He really doesn't want to cross this mech, and he really thought that Jazz had it covered. Should he have handled it differently? Jazz made it seem ok.

"Jazz and I made a deal for a couple of nights, but Jazz ain't got enough to pay for both of you in the long run. A new deal must be made. A personal one, between me and you."

"I've been looking for a job..." Barricade mumbles. Maybe he can get a payment plan? As soon as he's starting to make some money, he can pay off the debt and then get his own place and move out. He's not the type to mooch on others, he wants to pay for himself.

"Yeah, well here's the deal until you find one: we have four currencies here: gas, grass, cash, or ass. I'm all set on gas and grass, and I'm pretty certain you don't have a penny to your name, so that leaves you with one option."

Barricade stares at the bot with bright optics, stupefied. He feels his own intake hang open. Is the mech seriously proposing that he should pay rent with his frame?! He is, isn't he? Gross fucking bastard!

"No! Not going to happen!" Barricade says heatedly. He's not whore!

"Suit yourself, but the couch ain't free anymore. Either you stay the nights in my berth, or you don't stay at all."

"I'm not going to interface with you as payment." The Interceptor grinds out.

"Then you know where the door is." Hide says, crossing his arms, and raising an optical ridge in challenge. 

Chapter Text

Barricade glares back for several seconds, wanting to defy the mech. How coldsparked has someone got to be to kick a mech to the curb to be homeless? What kind of fucked up values does the bastard have to see interfacing as currency? But the more he thinks about it, the more he realizes that there isn't anything he can do about it. 

He's in Ironhide's territory, and the mech could probably fling him over the wall if he tries to defy the order of leaving. Or the mech can just have one of his even bigger goons do it for him. Or something even worse. Dead mechs don't complain and make scenes...

The Saleen slowly turns around, walking towards the door with heavy pedes, feeling those optics burning against his back. Out the door, down the stairs and down the driveway. The mech at the gates open for him, and when the heavy gates to the compound slam shut behind him, he knows that they won't open again.

The Interceptor transforms and drives away, not sure what to do. He has no money, and still nowhere to go. His so called partner from back in the day definitely won't help, and while the parole officer he has gotten seems to be pretty much the same kind of stickler for following the rules, helpful, he is not. Barricade has had one meeting and already dislikes the mech with a passion, because he seems more likely to try to find a reason to throw him back in jail than helping him get back on his pedes and have his situation settled.

He drives around for a while, moving away from the area Jazz normally works — Ironhide's territory — but that make's him burn through his fuel quicker, so when dusk begins to settle, he transforms into root mode again, trying to figure out where to spend the night. The mechs of the night starts to fill the alleys and corners, peddling their frames and various substances, and his paint job is dragging their attention to him, optics glaring warily from the shadows.

It would be so easy to pretend, to pressure one of them into giving up any fuel they have, or maybe a bag of astro-weed. He really would like to numb himself a bit for the long night he's doubtlessly in for.

Chapter Text

He moves in on a lanky mech, going for the casual approach. "Hello," he purrs smoothly. The mech looks warily at him as he approaches, "do you have any samples of weed?" Barricade asks. That was usually the que that made them hand over anything they had.

"I do." The mech says nervously and hands over a bag with a thin cygar. Barricade grabs it, about to walk away when the mech speaks again. "Hey, it's two credits."

"What?" The Saleen looks incredulously at him. He never had to pay for stuff like that before. They were always just glad that he didn't bring them in.

"Please don't arrest me! I-I, they won't let me hand it out for free..." The mech's voice trembles when he speaks, optics shifting around nervously, and now Barricade notices how dented he is.

"Who won't let you give away a sample? It's either that, or I'm going to arrest you. Want to go to prison? I bet the mechs in there really would enjoy getting some new shareware." If the mech really thinks that he's an Enforcer, he isn't going to correct that misconception.

The mech doesn't answer, and his optics lock on something behind Barricade. The pleasurebot backs away until his back hits the wall. "Please, Berserker, I-I'm just negotiating the price..." He cries out, clearly frightened.

Barricade swings around to find a massive mech approaching them. The Saleen instinctively backs away too, because the behemoth looks lethal, and his field spreads a sense of impending doom.

"Shut up, you stupid skank." Berserker growls, the buymech whimpering where he's pressed against the wall. 

A heavy backhand lands across the pleasurebot's face-plates, and he crumples to the ground, sobbing in terror. Barricade stares in shock, because he wasn't prepared for that to happen so openly. Then Berserker turns to Barricade, sharp optics zone in on him, and the Saleen has much bigger problems than the public slapping around of a pleasurebot. 

"You're not a real cop, so you better stop tricking my merchandise, or I'll make you a helm shorter, and nobody is ever going to find what's left of your pathetic little frame." The pimp snarls at Barricade, guns onlining.

Chapter Text

Barricade does what seems the wisest: he runs for his functioning. Transforming into alt mode, he doesn't hesitate to burn most of what's left in his tank to get away from what seems like certain deactivation. The mech gives chase at first, shouting about giving the sample back, before transforming into his alt mode, but Barricade doesn't even want to stay long enough to do that, so he flees.

The ex-Enforcer eventually finds an alley to hide in, hopefully far enough away from Berserker's territory, and he sits down, leaning against the wall to save what fuel he has left, vents still ragged, and his fans spinning quickly to cool his frame.

He lights up the cygar, and invents deeply through it. So much for staying clean now that he's newly released. The weed brings a very welcome calming effect, and he relaxes against the wall, leaning his helm against it to stare at the cloudy skies while his spark slows down to normal revs. His situation seems less dire, but logically, he knows that it's just chemical relief. He really needs a plan to get some cash, to get someplace to live.

"Hey! Dis is our turf!" A small mech shouts.

Barricade rolls his optics, because the mech swaggering down the alley can hardly be more than a symbiont at best, but then another one shows up, and then another. They creep out of the corners, from the dark behind the dumpsters, a couple dropping from the overhead fire escapes, sliding down the drainpipes. They're so many. Small, dirty, and dented, but they have the numbers to make themselves a problem, and a cunning glitter to their optics that tells Barricade to not underestimate them. In spite of their small statures, they're still making it out here, which is more than can be said about him at the moment.

"I'm sorry. I didn't know. I'm not trying to intrude or anything, I just needed to sit down for a while." He tries to placate what is essentially a horde. Can't he just have a two minute break from everyone?

"I accept dat. How 'bout we do a deal? My friend 'as got some nice tings to lece dat smoke wit', ta cut it wit. We do dat, and share da smoke, and ya get one of our cubes of energon."

Chapter Text

It's a really good deal, since Barricade has no energon, and he really needs it after the chase that made him burn through a lot of fuel. Barricade nods.

The tiny gang leader seems pleased when the Interceptor puts the cyg out and hands it to the mech who's pulling out a bottle of a sickly green liquid. It's poured into the cygar, and then it's handed to the leader. A cube is taken out of someones subspace and handed to Barricade, tiny, of course, but better than nothing. The other mechs take out their own cubes and sit down around Barricade. 

The leader lights up the cyg, taking a deep drag before handing it to Barricade. The Saleen takes a testing invent. 

It's bitter beneath the sweetness of the weed, but it's still good enough, and he can feel the punch behind it. Good. They're many sharing it, and he really wants the effect.

Barricade hands it over to the next mech, and it does a round between them all before he gets it back for the next smoke. It's very numbing — much stronger than just the weed — but in a perfect way. He doesn't feel too out of it, even if his face-plates are starting to feel pretty numb, but it certainly makes it much easier to handle that he's sitting outside in an alley, and that this is going to be his recharging quarters for the night. At least he's not alone.

He grabs the cube and takes a sip. It's very good. Tangy and sweet, a type of energon he has never had before. He tells the leader so, and something sly passes the little mech's face-plates, a knowing smirk that holds secrets. They toast — why, he can't really tell, because they're still sitting in a dirty alley, and he still has nowhere to go when the energon and the cyg is gone, but it feels right anyway — and Barricade watches as the cyg does another lap around the crowd before he gets it again.

Chapter Text

The energon must pack it's own punch, or it reacts with the weed, and the stuff the cyg is laced with, because Barricade is feeling very drowsy by the time the smoke has done another round and he takes the next hit. He's almost getting to a point where everything around him is fading, as if all his senses are slowly being turned down. 

Everything is so blurry, and he thinks that two of his optics might've shut down, but he isn't sure, because he fails to keep track of which feed is from which optic and it's wildly confusing. Whatever the mechs around him are saying, he can't make it out, because his audials seem to be malfunctioning, and whatever sound they are picking up is distorted by a strange echoing effect. The little mechs' dialect doesn't make it easier to understand what they're saying. Are they even really speaking neocybex, or is it some other language? 

Someone says something, and the group barks with raucous laughter. It's contagious, and he joins in, even if the Mustang doesn't even know what they are laughing about. He doesn't need to know, everything is just so funny.

Barricade tips back to stretch out on the ground staring up towards a sky he can't see through his intoxicated haze. Is this right? It feels good, but should he really react this strongly to a little energon and a tiny amount of drugs? The small mechs seem fine... He can't focus on that line of thought for long, though. Shouldn't the ground feel cold against his back? But he is kind of numb, isn't he? At least his pedes are. Probably, because he can't really tell if he even has pedes anymore. In fact, it seems like he's sinking into himself, or maybe into a black hole? Whatever it is, it's swallowing his floating self, however that works? He can't levitate, now can he?

He's so fragging tired...

Chapter Text

Morning brings bright light, and crushing helmache, and Barricade groans when he reboots, still stretched out on the ground. The gang of little mechs is gone, and he slowly starts to move, working out his aching joints, stiff from spending a cold night in an awkward position on the ground. His subspace pockets are open and empty. Not that there was much in them to begin with, though... Every single one of them is completely empty, save for some metal shavings he hasn't bothered to clean out, and the packet which used to hold a few expired condoms. They stole those. The pockets facing up are partially filled with the mildly acidic rain that has obviously fallen sometime during the night, and it itches.

He feels so fucking stupid, on top of freezing, and his wicked hangover. The only upside is that they didn't do worse things to his frame while he was out. They could've stolen parts, or used him in other ways, but he seems intact and unmolested. 

Barricade clambers to his pedes, bending forward to empty his sloshing pockets, even though the motion makes him dizzy, and his helm throbs painfully. He quickly stretches again, closing all his pockets, but the motion makes his tank turn, and equally quick, he bends forward again, dry heaving. The quick motion makes his gyros go haywire, and all of a sudden, he's sprawled on the ground again. 

"Carrier, what is he doing?" A small voice asks from the mouth of the alley that leads into the wider street.

"Shh. He's probably on something. Hurry up, you can't trust mechs like that. They might rob you, or hurt you." The mechling's carrier hisses, urging the little one to walk faster.

"But he fell. Maybe he hurt himself..."

"Serves him right. He shouldn't use drugs. I'm calling the Enforcers. Mechs like that should be rounded up and put away."

They disappear out of sight, and Barricade clambers to his pedes as quickly as he can, then he leaves the alley. If the mech is really calling the Enforcers, he better get going. The Saleen stops in the street, wondering where to go. Not anywhere Berserker might show up, because he does not feel like getting beaten to slag, and right now he wouldn't be able to run anywhere at all. His fuel levels are quite low, the gague soon dipping into red, and he feels dirty after a night outside.

He needs something to clean himself with — especially his subspace pockets — and some fuel. But he has no money, and nothing to sell, so what is he supposed to do? Barricade starts walking again — slowly to save fuel — and because he has nowhere to go anyway. It isn't until afternoon the Saleen winds up somewhere that has him halting. 

A supermarket.

Chapter Text

Standing just outside the entrance, Barricade dawdles for quite some time. 

Should he beg the passersby for some fuel? Just a tiny treat to keep him from falling into stasis? A credit, so he can buy himself something?

The thought is humiliating, so very degrading, and he really tries to come up with a different idea. But the advertisements for different sorts of energon, the pictures of all the goodies on sale, the smiling mech with clean, polished, shiny plating telling him about what wax is the best is so alluring. 

And the thin layer of acid in his subspace is itching, and he's afraid of it affecting the subspace generator if he doesn't clean up, because the risk is very real, and it would be much harder to deal with than mere acid residue. Especially since he have nothing to pay a medic with.

The Mustang takes a steeling vent, and then he walks through the doors. He knows that he's looking rather bedraggled, but there's other mechs who are less than perfectly polished too, so hopefully, he shouldn't attract too much attention. 

Barricade walks along the rows of shelves, and the sheer amount of products is almost overwhelming after his time in prison. He hasn't been inside a store like this since before he was locked up. 

He finds the washing supplies first. The Mustang stares at the bottles of solvent, the waxes and scented polishes, and he wants them all, wants to get into a washrack, and clean and polish himself for an entire day, because the last time he had a good, really long shower was before he was put away, and the daydream is so alluring. Then he spots the boxes of solvent-enriched wipes, and putting fantasies of luxurious showers aside, he knows that he can at least satisfy the need for wiping his pockets clean from the itchy residue with those. Glancing around, he snags a pack and quickly subspaces it, then he hurriedly leaves that isle, spark spinning wildly in his chest. 

He has never shoplifted before. Way to go to start a new life on probation.

It feels like everyone is staring at him now that he has hot merchandise in his pocket, so when it comes to fuel, Barricade quickly turns down the first isle that's empty of mechs, just randomly grabbing two bags of solid treats as he passes by, jamming them into a different pocket. Then he heads for the exit.

Chapter Text

"Excuse me, Sir!" A clerk calls out to him.

Barricade ignores him, pretends that he doesn't hear the mech, and walks even faster. The mech speeds up, calling for him again.

"You don't have what I was looking for. I need to go now." Barricade says over his shoulder, hoping the mech is just overzealous about customer service.

"We have everything, Sir. Would you please stop?"

"I'm running late, I have to go."

"Call security." He hears the clerk following him saying to another employee as he passes.

Frag!

The Saleen starts running, hoping that he has enough fuel in his tank to get away. Wouldn't it be a very pathetic defeat to steal fuel, and then not getting a chance to even eat it and fall into stasis while trying to flee and get caught? To go back to jail within a couple of weeks, and for shoplifting of all things? For stealing stuff worth less than ten credits, stuff he needs to even survive to see the inside of a cell again.

Barricade pushes himself, ignoring the warnings, but as he gets closer to the registers, he sees security coming to intercept him, and the Saleen turns sharply, running for the entrance. The guards speed up, trying to catch up with him, and for dragged out seconds of warnings about his fuel consumption, and a spark spinning like crazy, he's certain that he won't make it, because the entrance has one-way doors, opening for customers coming in, but not for mechs going out. 

He still runs through the flimsy electronic gates, setting of the alarm, and he's forced to bowl a shiny looking racer over, tackling his way out as the door opens to let the other mech in. Barricade trips over the downed mech who's cursing wildly, but he manages to stagger on, and then he's free. Transforming into his alt mode, he guns his engine and runs so hard, the risk of sudden stasis is very real.

Chapter Text

Security probably stays in the shop, since they don't have any jurisdiction outside it, but the risk of them calling the Enforcers keeps him running anyway, because he does not want to be found after that debacle. They'd probably add aggravated assault for him shouldering his way out, on top of the shoplifting, and the drugs they would find in his systems. He'd be back in jail by the end of the day, and parole would not be granted a second time after this epic fail.

When the fuel gauge in his HUD is blinking an angry red warning, Barricade finally stops, and he ducks into an alley, desperately devouring the treats he stole. They're not nearly enough; in his haste to just randomly grab something, the Interceptor got a very light and puffy sort, and they do little to fill his tank. The gauge hardly leaves the red zone.

The wipes do the trick to get his pockets clean at least, so that's a discomfort and a worry to file away as history, but night is drawing closer by the minute, and Barricade isn't keen on a repeat of last night. Not even a version without being drugged and robbed.

He has precious few options. Either he swallows his pride, and go begging, but the chances of him getting enough cash to stay in a motel seems slim to none. Even the simple garages, mere cubicals for recharging in alt mode is too expensive to possibly be within the amount he may get by begging. The Saleen has nothing to sell... Except his frame. Barricade grimaces at the thought. It's very unpalatable to think about trying to lure some creep in, and letting someone use him like that in a dirty alley. He carefully takes a detour around the thought of kharmic retribution, considering what landed him in this situation in the first place.

He could try to steal something to sell, but then he'd need to actually sell it to get some money, so that's a slower process. Robbing someone is... He's too easily recognizable like this, with this optic catching paint job. If he's unlucky enough that the mechs in the supermarket care to report the shoplifting, he will easily be found in the records when described. But if he's lucky for once, and that the shop owner doesn't bother for such a petty infraction, and he isn't wanted for something yet, then robbing someone would certainly catch the attention of the law enforcement to which he does not belong anymore, and a warrant would go out to all precincts. No, robbing is out of the question.

Chapter Text

So, it's either spending another night outside in an alley, hoping to get through it without going into stasis from fuel deprivation, or being jumped by someone worse than those small bastards. Or going back to ask if Hide's offer still stands. Joy.

The mere thought of crawling back to ask Ironhide for help leaves a bitter taste in his intake, but he needs fuel soon, or he really is likely to go into stasis, and that would be the end of him, because nobody will come looking, so his frame will be open game for someone wanting to strip him for parts. Or for the underground rings of slavers he has heard of, looking for easy pickings to traffic. At least, he will just need to put out to one mech, instead of trying to peddle himself to all and sundry, and Hide probably will let him wash up too. And he will get to stay in a berth, even if it's with entirely unwanted company.

Feeling utterly defeated, he transforms into his altmode and slowly drives down the streets back to the compound. The gate is closed as usual, and a couple of goons are sitting in sturdy chairs in the dusty driveway, playing some sort of card game. Barricade stops outside, indecisive, working up the nerve to go through with this, while his processor is frantically trying to come up with an alternative plan. One that doesn't involve him interfacing with a pimp.

"Hey, cop! The frag are you looking at?" The massive rotary growls, rising from his seat to tower over Barricade even from where he stands inside the gates. "The Chief was here this morning, making apologies for the very inconvenient raid we were subjected to on false accusations, so I suggest you move along before your boss needs to be informed that you're hassling us for no good reason."

"He ain't no cop, B.O, he ain't got no service signs." The other black mech says, not bothering to get up. "And you lost this round. Pay up, rotor bot!" He adds with a cackle, throwing his cards on the table.

Barricade draws a deep vent to steel himself for the worst request of his functioning.

"I'm not a cop, but I came to see Hide? I, ah, tell him it's Barricade." He mumbles, staring at the ground, wondering if those two are aware of what he's about to do.

Chapter Text

The Helo just stares at him for a long time, but then he nods. "He'll be right down." Then he takes his seat again, dismissing the Saleen from his interest while the gates open to let Barricade through.

A big pick-up comes running down from the house, transforming into the gang boss Barricade is about to offer his frame to. His optics sweep Barricade's frame, and there's a tingle that's probably a scan, but Ironhide doesn't say anything. No, he just stares at Barricade, waiting for the small mech to start speaking, raising an optical ridge in question.

He just can't get the words out, can't ask if the mech still is interested in fucking him as payment for a rent and fuel.

"I find it very interesting that we were raided by enforcement the same night you left. How do I know you weren't the one making the complaint to be a spiteful little bitch just because I don't hand out stuff for free?" Ironhide finally rumbles, face-plates going stony, crossing his massive arms.

Barricade's spark speeds up. He didn't do it, but what if Ironhide doesn't believe him? 

"I-I didn't... I don't know anything about that! Please, you have to believe me. If nothing else, believe that I wouldn't put Jazz at risk like that." He tries, hoping that it'll be enough. 

"I really hope so. For your sake. I'm sure you've heard the expression 'snitches end up in ditches' before..." Ironhide says, glaring at him.

Barricade makes a tiny noise of fear, hearing how ridiculous he sounds, and entirely too scared to find it in himself to care. "Please, you have to believe me; I know nothing about that. I swear!"

"So what brings you here then, Barricade?"

"Your proposition..." saying it is like pulling denta, "is it still valid?"

Ironhide says nothing, but his intake curls into a smirk as he watches the obviously struggling Interceptor.

"I-I... Please! I need some place to stay, and I do need fuel, and I... I have nowhere else to go. I really need the deal you can offer." 

Ugh. Crawling in on his empty belly, groveling to the pimp to please use his frame. How far he has fallen.

The mech's smirk stretches into a grin. "Yeah, I'll trade you... fulfillment of your essential needs for your company. Come on, let's get you inside." Hide says, putting an arm around Barricade's waist, a servo slipping down to squeeze his aft.

"So hot! Hide sure knows how to rope all the pretty ones." One of the mechs on guard duty whispers wistfully to the other mech.

Barricade forces himself not to shudder. It's not like the big mech is being very suave, or has charmed him into his berth. Hide just has what he needs, and he has no other options than to go through with this transaction of favors. He swallows queasily when he thinks of the kind of favors.

"First of all, you're going to the washracks, because you smell even worse than you look. Then I'll hook you up with some fuel. I think you need some energy to handle me." There's a distinct leer in Hide's voice.

"I don't want to be pushy," Barricade says, afraid to overstep the lines, "but my fuel gauge has been blinking since late afternoon. Could I please have a little something first? I don't want to fall into stasis in the shower."

Chapter Text

Hide nods as they step through the door, his optics scanning the area. "Drift! a cube!" He barks loudly, holdings a servo up.

A mech with prominent helm fins hurriedly gets a cube from the bar and comes up to them, presenting it to Hide with a saucy smirk, a sideways glance at Barricade with a quick once over the only way he acknowledges the newcomer's presence.

"For him," Ironhide says, tilting his helm in Barricade's direction, "this is Barricade, he's new here."

Something sharp glints in Drift's optics when he looks at Barricade, gone so fast Barricade can't pinpoint what it means, and then the Racer hands Barricade the cube.

"Nice to meet you, Barricade." He says sweetly, plastering a smile on his face-plates in a way that must be long practiced, because it looks genuine while his field says that it's not. Not it feels like he's hostile either, just some sort of... Reluctance?

"Nice to meet you too, Drift." Barricade says, forcing himself to not stare at how the mech's interface panel is shamelessly left open. 

Staring probably wouldn't earn him any bonus points, and Drift already seems to dislike him for some reason.

The Speedster dismisses him with a distracted nod, immediately looking back to Ironhide as the big mech lets go of Barricade. Another flirtatious smile blooms on Drift's pretty face as soon as his optics are on Ironhide again. The Saleen drinks greedily from the cube and looks around, not wanting to intrude on the conversation Drift is having with Hide. 

Barricade always left when Jazz did, before the other inhabitants of the house slithered out of whatever hole they spend the days in, and then he didn't come back until most of them had disappeared for the night. It's surprisingly crowded at this time, and even if it's just a Tuesday like any other, he still gets the feeling of it being a party night. There's high grade, and cygars being had, and everyone seem relaxed, enjoying themselves. Then he catches how Drift is pouting about Hide being busy for the night, even though he isn't trying to listen in on their conversation. Reality takes over where his curiosity momentarily made him forget the situation he's in.

It's not like he wants Hide to be busy all night, he'd happily hand that over to Drift, if the Speedster wants it so badly. He'd be more than fine with taking the couch again. But alas, that's just not in his cards.

Taking another deep swig, he tries to push away the thoughts of what is going to happen soon, and the apprehension those thoughts bring.

Chapter Text

There's mechs loitering on the couches and in the chairs in the rec room, all of them wearing that red face badge on their chests.

Except Drift. His mark isn't a badge, but an etching on the small of his back. A tramp stamp. Ugh.

Barricade notices it when he turns back to Hide and finds Drift pressed up against him. The big mech looks at Barricade over Drift's shoulder and sees that he has drained the fuel. He pats Drift's aft and gently guides him to step back and turn around, motioning for Drift to take the empty cube. The Speedster does it without protest, but with another sharp glare and a slip of his carefully controlled field, and now Barricade realizes why. He really is jealous.

Ironhide's arm wraps around him, and they start towards the stairs again, but they haven't taken many steps before someone calls out to Ironhide again. The big mech smirks, field flickering with amusement.

"Wait here, I'll be right back." Ironhide tells Barricade. 

Then he heads for the black and green mech stretched out on one of the couches, one leg hooked over the back of the couch, one hanging over the edge of the seat. The mech flashes Hide a saucy grin, arching his back slightly to show off his chest-plates as Ironhide approaches.

Barricade can't help but stare as Ironhide bends down to get closer to the mech, a few quiet words exchanged as Ironhide slips a servo between the other mech's spread legs, the plating on his lower arm shifting as he apparently works the mech's array. The green mech tugs him closer for a kiss, then he falls back, servos sliding down his front to join Hide's servo, an almost dopey smile on his face.

Hide lets the mech take over, and then comes back to Barricade, who's still trying his best to not outright stare at the mech who's now playing with himself, apparently enjoying the hungry optics of the gathered mechs who have all their attention on him. 

This is a whole new level of depravity compared to the street walkers he knew, or even the exotic dance clubs he has been to before. And he's playing his part in it now.

Chapter Text

Hide wraps his arm around Barricade again, servo on the Interceptor's aft, and guides him towards the stairs, and Barricade half hopes that someone will interrupt them yet again. The Saleen sees the raised optical ridges, the leers of those seated around the room, practically feels the optics sweeping his frame, making his plating crawl.

"Have fun, boss." Someone snickers.

"I sure will." Ironhide rumbles.

He lets go of Barricade when they reach the foot of the stairs, patting the Saleen's aft to get him going. "I'll hang back and admire the view. Mh, your aft sure is a sight to behold."

Ugh.

With heavy steps, Barricade walks up the stairs, Ironhide following a few steps behind. Staring at his aft.

"The door at the end of the hallway." The gang leader rumbles in his audial. 

Barricade walks down the hallway, past the other closed doors, pedes sinking into the thick, luxurious carpet that's probably a pricey replica of the original one, installed as a tribute to the opulence of this house's past and apparently present. The Saleen briefly wonders about that promised shower, because he knows that the washracks are downstairs, in the wing Jazz lives in, but he keeps walking towards the door, feeling like he's walking to his execution. Or at the very least the painful removal of what's left of his dignity.

The doors slide open with a quiet hiss when he reaches it, and he steps through into a large suite, dimly lit by designer LEDs, and furnished with what is clearly not furniture from some local outlet or second hand store. It's like something straight out of one of the TV shows about the houses of the celebrities. The huge berth catches his optics, and his processor supplies him with a very unwelcome picture of himself there, sprawled on his back underneath the behemoth of a mech, selling his frame for sleeping in a berth, a few cubes of fuel, and a shower. 

Oh, how very far he has fallen.

Chapter Text

"Washracks are in there. Use whatever solvent you want. I'll wait here." Ironhide says, grabbing a data pad before taking a seat in one of the comfiest looking chairs Barricade has ever seen.

The spray of solvent does lift his spirits a bit, and if he offlines his optics, he can almost pretend that he isn't getting ready for spreading his legs for a pimp. 

Focus on the shower, the luxury you were fantasizing about while stealing wet wipes. This washrack is fancier than any you've ever seen before. Enjoy that.

The ensuite washracks are luxurious, and this definitely has been the master berthroom at one point in the history of the building. Still is, in a way, with the top pimp living here.

Shower. Focus.

Way back, when this was a fancy neighborhood, this place probably teemed with servants — and slaves — to take good care of the nobles. How little things have changed, really. It's different, but still the same. And he's a part of it, until he manages to find a real job.

Shower! Hot solvent! Fancy wax schampoo!

Deciding to grab the Topkick by the smokestacks — because he can't fully enjoy the shower anyway, and he's getting more nervous by the minute — Barricade rinses off the last of the solvent, clean and actually feeling slightly better than before, and he grabs a cloth to dry himself. The door to the washracks is left open, but at least Ironhide has given him the courtesy of not staring at him throughout his shower.

His spark spinning wildly with nerves, Barricade walks into the berthroom, coming to stand in the middle of the floor, not certain what's expected. He feels small, vulnerable, and pathetically inexperienced, and in way over his helm when Ironhide looks up from his data pad, optics sweeping Barricade's frame.

Should he just open his panels and crawl onto the berth? Or will Ironhide want some kind of show? Like what the mech downstairs was performing when they left?

Chapter Text

The Topkick walks in a slow circle around him to appraise his frame, then Ironhide comes to a stop in front of him. Barricade swallows nervously. This is it. He can't bring himself to look the mech in the optics, so he stares at broad chest-plates, and well polished chrome trimmings around a rather good-looking grill. 

Hide's servo comes up to nudge his chin, tilting his helm back to finally meet his optics. Barricade is so tense, his hydraulics are screaming with built up pressure.

"Relax. I'm not going to hurt you." His optics slither down Barricades frame. "You really are a very pretty mech." 

The compliment surprises the Interceptor, because he expected the brute to say something crude, expected leering, but it doesn't take away the fact that this is a business transaction.

"Hurt or not, this is entirely unwanted." Barricade grinds out between clenched denta, just to regret the comment as soon as it's out.

He was trying to not seem scared shitless, which he is, but it came out way too challenging, and he's so helpless, always so fucking helpless when someone wants to fuck him, and he had repressed how vulnerable and scared he felt every time, the revulsion of being touched, and used. The self hatred over what a slut he is, letting mechs fuck him. Now, all of that is bubbling to the surface.

Ironhide smiles, but it doesn't quite reach his optics. "I assure you that things could be so much worse."

"That's debatable."

"Look here, I'll make this good for you if you just allow yourself to enjoy it. Relax, have some fun. We'll both get off, and then a good night's recharge. Just two mechs having a good time, nothing wrong with that."

"It doesn't change the fact that this is a business arrangement."

Something flicker across Ironhide's face-plates, so fast Barricade can't pinpoint the emotion, but then the Topkick's face hardens. 

"You were the one to come back to ask for this. But if that's the way you choose to perceive this," a thick digit taps at Barricade's interface plate, "then open up and show me the merchandise."

Chapter Text

The Saleen reels his field in, and offlines his optics when he opens the panel to expose his array. Spark spinning wildly, he waits for touches, but nothing happens. He onlines one optic to look at Hide, frowning in confusion. Ironhide smirks at him and cocks an optical ridge, clearly amused.

"That's a very pretty piece of equipment. May I touch?" He asks, servo hovering inches from Barricade's bared array.

No. "Go ahead." It's inevitable anyway, might as well get it over with, so he can get another cube, and go to recharge.

Thick digits is pushed through his uncomfortably dry folds, and then one of them is pushed into his valve, slowly going deeper and deeper, until the movement suddenly stops, the tip of the finger hitting a barrier. The pressure is uncomfortable, and it reminds him all too much about the first time he... No, don't think about that. Not now, not ever. What catches Barricade's attention when he pushes the memory to the side is Ironhide's astonished look.

"You're sealed."

"Yes." Is that a problem? He didn't even think about that possibility. Is he going to be kicked out for that?

"You've never interfaced before?"

"Not that way." He says, spark spinning with nerves. "Not in this frame." He mutters, pointedly not thinking about the interfacing he did do in his last frame.

"Then you don't have precautions installed either?"

"Uhm... No?" 

"Primus damn it." Ironhide growls, clearly annoyed. "Come on. We're going for a drive."

Chapter Text

The Topkick leads the way through the neighborhood, flanked by a massive black Truck, and a sleek silver Racer who were already waiting for them in the driveway when they got out. Barricade drives between the two others, behind Ironhide, and he does notice the way the other mechs on the road give way to them as they drive by. Not once do they need to break formation. It's even more tangible than when he still was an Enforcer, and people tended to give way. 

They stop outside a clinic, the building standing out with how neat and clean the windows are compared to the surrounding shops and business. They all step through the doors into the waiting room, and Barricade feels kind of ridiculous, considering the appointment is obviously for him, and he has no less than three mechs coming with him to the doctor. More than ever accompanied him when he was a sparkling. Whatever he's doing here.

A bright yellow bot with medic insignias step into the waiting room.

"Oh, you." He tersely addresses Hide, servos on his hips. "What is it this time? Another gunshot wound? A raging epidemic of cybernetic Chlamydia among your ranks?"

The Topkick snorts and indicates Barricade with his thumb. "Pretty mech over there needs a few mods and upgrades.

The medic looks him up and down, and Barricade squirms under his intense gaze. He doesn't know what he ever did to the Medic, but he is clearly pissed off. Maybe it's because he knows that Barricade is going to whore himself out and disapproves of an Enforcer doing such a thing? 

Ex-Enforcer. A whore now.

Like he has a choice! But what could this well polished medic possibly know about falling so far?

"Drift says 'Hi'. He's a demanding little mech, but between all of us, we can keep him fairly satisfied." Ironhide leers.

The medic makes a face.

"You should come see him. I'm sure he'd love to take you for a ride. On the house, of course."

The medics servo trembles violently around the wrench he's holding, and for a moment, Barricade is certain that he's going to throw it at Hide. Ironhide's arm transforms into a huge cannon, and he spins it meaningfully, smirking insolently at the Medic, raising an optical ridge in challenge.

"Remember how your clinic is never looted or vandalized these days? Security is expensive... And right now, that little sweet butt needs a few mods ASAP."

"Right. This way." The medic's voice is thin with fury when he addresses Barricade, spinning on his heel, leading the way into the next room, apparently eager to leave that conversation behind. "I'm Ratchet, by the way."

Chapter Text

"You don't need to be here for this." Ratchet swivels around again, crossing his arms when he grinds the words out to Ironhide, who has followed them into the exam room.

"I think I do. He's one of my mechs, and I want to know that he does the things that should be done. He's not getting a chance to hide behind lies, and your patient confidentiality. Or would you rather have me let Knockie do it? You know he lost his certification a long time ago, and his tools have seen better days, but he does live under my roof..."

Barricade bristles. He's not anyone's mech but his own, thank you very much, and his cop honor would make him do what is being asked without supervision.

Yeah, the same cop honor that landed you in this mess? 

Shut up. It's not like he has a choice but to go along with whatever Hide wants. Then the Saleen startles. What kind of modifications is it, exactly, that the mech wants him to have?

Ratchet grimaces, gearing up for an argument, and while the chivalry is rather endearing, Barricade's deal is still hanging in the balance, and this will hardly be more mortifying than whatever the rest of the night will hold for him. At least the rest of the posse stayed in the waiting room for this.

"It's fine, Hide can stay." He says, not believing that he actually uttered the words.

The Medic glares at him, scrutinizing him closely. "Fine. On the berth, spread your legs, and open your panel." He finally says.

"Install a bolt in his gestational chamber, update his antivirals, and give him the upgraded protocols for spike control that everyone new gets." Hide rattles off the order, as if Barricade isn't even there.

Ratchet grumbles something unintelligible, takes something out of a drawer, and sits down with Barricade's array in full view. The Saleen resists the urge to close his legs. Digits slick with lubricant slides into his valve, then the Medic pulls them out again, helm snapping around to glare at Ironhide.

"For frags sake, he's sealed!"

"I noticed." Ironhide says dryly. "Remove that. I don't care much for breaking it anyway. Completely overrated, just makes for a lot of bitching, and that one is definitely a whiner. I already know that I'm the first one to defile him." 

"You've never interfaced before?" Ratchet asks Barricade, voice much softer.

"Not since my last reformat."

The Medics optics flare. "But with your previous frame?"

"Yes. Didn't like it, never felt the urge to try it again."

"Are you sure you want to do this? Taking the seal out is more comfortable than keeping it for sure, but I'm not talking about that; I mean giving your first time away for... Well, you know."

Hell no! He really doesn't want to sell his valve, no matter if it's the first time or the hundredth.

"Yes." 

But it isn't like he has any options.

Chapter Text

When they walk back into the house, the first thing Barricade sees is the green and black mech and Drift making out on the table. He can't help but stop to gawk. The big truckformer who followed them to the clinic — Motormaster — whistles. Ironhide rumbles a laugh and stops to look appreciatively at the two mechs.

The green mech breaks the heated kiss to throw his helm back, moaning loudly, when Drift's servo thrusts between his legs. Drift's own hips are jerking rhythmically, because clearly the favor is being returned.

Barricade feels an unfamiliar heaviness between his legs, his own array heating up at the sight, and there's this strange wet feeling.

It's probably just lubricant from the examination, and the heaviness is just the bolt Ratchet mounted in his chamber. He still feels a bit strange from that.

"Those two sure know how to enjoy themselves." Hide murmurs in his audial, and Barricade can't tell if it's a barb or just an amused comment.

Digits tease the base of his shoulder-wing, and a shiver of unexpected pleasure trickle down his back-struts to settle between his legs when the sensitive components are stimulated with surprising skill. His new protocols ping him a request if his spike should be primed, and it's a distasteful reminder of how he has been turned into a valve mech now. He pushes that thought away, focusing on the mechs putting on a show, even if it feels like too private a moment to stare at.

They do seem to have a very good time though, shamelessly ignoring all the optics following their every move. Because surely they can't be enjoying the attention?

Sure they can. They're whores. Just like you. Modified to fit the desires of others. Look at you, going all wet.

"Dibs on Cross' valve when the fucking starts." The silver Racer called Sideswipe yells from the door.

"You get seconds! Nitro already called it."

"This is getting me revved up. Come on. Let's go upstairs." Ironhide murmurs in Barricade's audial.

It puts a damper on Barricade's arousal, but it's not quite enough to fully squash it, and he lets his optics linger on the couple on the table even as they climb the stairs.

Chapter Text

"So, you haven't interfaced when in this frame, and you didn't enjoy it before. Was it so bad, you never wanted to try again?" Ironhide asks when the door slides shut behind them, and they're alone in Ironhide's suite.

Do they really have to talk about this? Can't the Bruiser just fuck him, and get it over with? 

His spark is starting to speed up with nerves, and his very being is screaming at him to just bolt out that door and leave this behind, and it feels like it's either fucking before he loses what nerve he has, or fleeing.

Coward.

"Step-sire took my seal, when I was newly reformatted into my last youngling frame. It hurt, and was humiliating, and I hated it. The first time, and every single time after that."

Something hard and dangerous crosses Ironhide's faceplates before he schools his expression, but Barricade is still taken aback. The mech looked absolutely lethal for a moment, and there's a lot about this mech that Barricade still doesn't know. Ironhide is resolute in his demands, but he has not been violent or truly forceful to the Saleen so far, even if he was a bit intimidating before he let him in.

"I won't hurt you, that I promise you. If it hurts, you tell me, alright? I wont kick you out for not just shutting up and taking it. If you need me to give you a break, I will."

Barricade nods hesitantly. It sounds good, but the question is for how long Ironhide would go along with that before he gets tired of it and kicks him out anyway. And Ironhide said nothing about the humiliation, just that he won't hurt him. Better just get it over with.

"Come here." Ironhide waves him over, already crawling onto the berth, sprawling with an easy confidence that makes Barricade even more nervous.

Without finesse, Barricade joins him on the berth, crawling in a decidedly unsexy way, and he plunks down on his back next to the big mech, stiff and nervous, feeling very vulnerable.

A servo slides down his front, and he forces his panel to open again. Digits find his folds still slightly slick after his reaction to the show the other mechs put on in the rec room, and Barricade can't help but gasp when Hide expertly finds a very sensitive nub just above his valve.

"Relax, my mech. I'll show you a good time."

Chapter Text

He has overloaded around those digits two times when he's nudged to roll over on his front, and it's confusing and alarming that he actually kind of enjoyed that. It did feel good. 

Liked being fingered by the pimp he's selling his frame to. How can he enjoy that? His step-sire was right all those years ago, he really is a slut.

"On all fours. I want to see that sweet little aft, and those pretty shoulder-wings while I fuck you." Ironhide grunts.

Barricade's spark starts to spin quickly, but now it isn't from arousal, but from apprehension. 

He really doesn't want to do this, doesn't want to stand on servos and knees, being fucked like a little bitch in heat. The position is far too submissive for his liking. 

It's not like you are anything but a submissive little bitch in this.

He obeys the request, because the sooner this is done, the quicker it is over. 

A big servo curls around his hip, and then something thick and blunt nudges his slick folds. It slips inside surprisingly easy, but then again, he is soaking wet after Hide's earlier ministrations. There's stretch, and it's a bit uncomfortable, but it doesn't really hurt, and it doesn't feel bad, like he expected. Ironhide's other servo grabs his shoulder-wing for leverage, thumb deftly teasing seams in his plating in a way that sets his sensor net alight, and then the Topkick starts thrusting. The slick slide of a spike over his inside nodes feels surprisingly good, and that realization has Barricade warring with himself, because he doesn't want to enjoy this.

What kind of a pleasurebot is he, if he enjoys what is done to him while he's selling  his frame ?

When a servo comes around to slide between his legs, rubbing that exterior node again, he can't stop the little moans and gasps of pleasure that leave his vocalizer, even if he doesn't want Ironhide to know that it feels good.

Chapter Text

Hide is recharging soundly, snoring away, but recharge eludes the Interceptor. A heavy arm is slung across his waist, pinning him in place, Hide's front pressed against his back, and Barricade stares at the wall, trying to hold off the pathetic little sobs that are threatening to break free from his vocalizer.

He sold his frame for fuel and a roof over his helm, his frame has been altered to suit his new station in his functioning. And he overloaded for the mech who's paying for his frame. Came for his customer. Just like any other pleasurebot.

Ironhide's first words to him echoes in his processor. Ass is a currency, and the only thing he has to pay with.

You're a whore now.

The Saleen feels another glob of transfluid dribble out from his valve, trickling down his thigh to soak the bedding underneath him, and this time he does sob quietly, feeling cheap and used.

Three times, the Topkick had him. And he overloaded every single time. He was an Enforcer, had his own apartment, and a good life. Good friends. And now he's the berthwarmer of a whore mongering gang boss.

He wriggles forward, tries to get out of Hide's grasp, reaching for the astro-weed cygar on the night stand. 

It's doubtful if it would be worse to be tested positive for drugs and sent back to prison, he might as well numb himself with what he can. If he's nothing but a fuck toy here or in prison hardly matters. And he isn't an ex-Enforcer this time if he goes back, he's a pleasurebot.

His wriggling rubs his aft against the Topkick's groin, and behind him Ironhide stirs when he lights up the cyg.

"Horny again, little mech?" He rumbles, voice rough with recharge, but there's definitely a smirk there. "Good thing I'm a fit mech."

Digits slide through his folds, already slick with transfluid and lubricant, and with practiced ease, Ironhide finds the spots that make a low moan leave Barricade's vocalizer, while his hips buck against that servo of their own accord.

Chapter Text

Barricade wakes up abruptly, sitting up quickly and it takes him a second to remember where he is. 

In Ironhide's berth. You were fucked into it four times last night, remember? Wailed into these expensive sheets when you came.

Shut up.

The room is dark, thick curtains blocking out the daylight, but when he checks his chronometer, it's almost noon. He's alone in Ironhide's berth, and there's no signs of the gang leader, so Barricade falls back, slowly stretching his frame, giving himself some time to fully reboot. 

And the berth really is comfortable.

With all his systems up and running, he can't push away the thoughts of why he's in this comfortable berth in the first place anymore, though, so he gets up and indulges in a long, hot shower wondering what he's going to do now. He needs to occupy his mind to keep himself from thinking about last night. And the evening that's closing in with the looming inevitability of more interfacing.

Barricade decides on trying to find some fuel, and with his spark fluttering nervously, he descends the stairs, uncertain what he is supposed to do when he's not spreading his legs for the Topkick with an admittedly impressive libido.

The top floor is full of closed doors, and whatever they lead to; berthrooms, offices, or something else, he isn't going to explore it on his own. The rec room downstairs is probably safe, and he guesses that the wing where Jazz's room is might be the quarters of the other... 

The other whores. Get used to it, Barricade.

Drift is sprawled on his front on a couch in the rec room, still in recharge. His leg is hanging over the edge of the seat, making it clear that the panels covering his array and his port are still open. Maybe he doesn't even have them?

Barricade shudders. He thinks about seeing if Jazz is in his room, but he wants energon first. Or is he just stalling? He hasn't told his... whatever they are, that he took Hide up on his offer, and it's not something he's proud to tell. It's a good thing his former co-workers can't see him now.

He goes to find an energon dispenser, and walks as quietly as he can through a hallway, not keen on attracting attention. Maybe he should ask for a tour, and introductions?

Through an open door further down the hallway, he hears voices, and Barricade follows them. He slowly pushes the door open, intending to just peek inside, but it suddenly swings open with a loud creak from the ancient door opening mechanism.

Everything goes quiet, and they all stare at him.

"Uhm... Hi?"

Chapter Text

"Well 'ello, gorgeous! Welcome te the 'umble abode of the Autobots." The black and green mech he saw yesterday — sprawled on the couch, playing with himself — says, looking him up and down. 

He grabs Barricade's wrist-strut where the Saleen's servo still hangs awkwardly in the air from where the Mustang froze up when the door decided to fly open, and yanks the smaller Interceptor into the room that turns out to be a refuelling room.

"Hi?" He repeats, keenly aware of all the optics glued to him.

"I bet ye need some fuel, considerin' Hide 'ad ye all night. We 'ave all sorts of energon. 'elp yerself." The mech establishes in an accent the Saleen is not familiar with. 

Barricade flushes when it sinks in that what he did all night is apparently common knowledge, but he allows himself tugged along to an energon dispenser. An empty cube is shoved into his servo, and no matter how awkward it all feels, it is kind of nice that this mech — who he has seen being finger fucked on two occasions, but still doesn't know the designation of — is helpful and at least he seems welcoming.

"Thank you...?" He says while looking through the options in the dispenser. 

They really do have everything, both varieties of fuel, and more additives than he cares to look through. Barricade doesn't have a hard time choosing, because his favorite energon is there too. He hasn't had it since before he went to jail. The Saleen fills his cube before he turns back to the mech.

"The designation is Crosshairs. In-'ouse entertainment division." The mech says with a saucy smirk.

"Nice to meet you, Crosshairs. I'm Barricade." 

Maybe he has found someone he can be on friendly terms with? Even if Crosshairs is one of the hookers.

That's the moment when he notices something else about Crosshairs, something he has been to busy to see until now.

"Uhm... Your panel is open." He whispers to the Racer, glancing at the other mechs gathered around the island in the prep area of the refuelling room. 

Crosshairs actually laughs at that. "It's in my room. I've removed it. It's no' like any of 'em 'aven't seen, an' fucked it anyway, so why bother coverin' it?"

Barricade feels his intake move, though no sound is spilling over his lip-plates. It's going to take a while to get used to this.

Chapter Text

"So what's your deal here?" A big Flight frame asks, a digit sliding along Barricade's shoulder-wing, making the Interceptor twitch nervously. "You sure are a pretty mech..." 

Barricade  looks up at the mech over his shoulder, the Flier much too close for comfort. There's something familiar about the mech.

"I-I think I'm supposed to pay Hide in kind for fuel and a place to recharge safely?" He stammers uncertainly, because Barricade never considered any other options. The Topkick said that he should stay in his berth, right? Or was that a misunderstanding?

"Just Hide?" That servo grabs his shoulder-wing more firmly, a strong thumb rubbing circles into the plating, and it would probably feel nice if it wasn't so unwanted.

"Quit 'asslin' 'im, Nitro, an' call Hide an' ask instead." Crosshairs says, putting his servos on his hips, glaring at the taller mech.

Barricade chances a glance up at the mech called Nitro again, currently still toying with the Interceptor's shoulder-wing. 

One red optic, unusually broad frame for a flier. It's the gross bastard who made a disgusting offer when he was still inside. But of course. If not sooner, then later, or what? Primus must really hate him. 

He lets out an exvent he didn't know he was holding when the mech lets go of his wing, stepping back.

"Boss says you still belong to him." Nitro sounds disappointed.

Barricade bristles, because while he has made a deal, he does not belong to anyone, nor is he something that can be passed around between them. He bites his glossa though, because until he is certain of all the details of the deal, he isn't going to risk pissing someone off unnecessarily, and get himself kicked out.

"Do you know if Jazz is in?" He asks Crosshairs instead, to divert everyone's attention, as well as give himself a way out before the conversation takes an even more uncomfortable turn.

"Think so. 'e usually sleeps in, and 'e likes te stay in berth for a while after 'e wakes up." Crosshairs tells him, smirking. "He wants sweet energon in the mornin', if ye want te bring 'im somethin'."

Barricade nods gratefully, and fills a cube to bring to Jazz, then he hurries out into the hallway, not paying much attention to the conversations that start up again when he leaves.

"'ave fun..." He hears Crosshairs' parting shot, though, and in spite of everything, he flushes.

Chapter Text

"Come in." Jazz's voice reaches him through the door.

Barricade steps inside, balancing both the cubes, and then he stops just inside as it slides shut behind him and hovers uncertainly, because he doesn't know what to say. If Jazz knows what kind of deal he has made with Ironhide.

"I brought some energon."

"That's so sweet, babe!" Jazz coos happily. 

The Solstice is stretched out on his front on the berth in the middle of a heap of his bedding, propped up on his elbows, and it looks very comfortable. He stretches his servo out for the cube, and Barricade walks over to the berth, handing him the cube, then he stands there awkwardly.

"Ya not gonna join me?" Jazz pats the empty space beside him, before taking a sip of the energon.

Barricade sinks down to perch on the edge of the berth, feeling incredibly awkward. 

"I was worried when ya disappeared."

"I've made a deal with Hide." Barricade admits quietly, looking down into his lap.

"I heard tha rumours. I'm glad. It's much safer than beein' on tha streets."

"You're glad that I'm sleeping with someone else?!" He stares incredulously at Jazz.

Jazz chuckles. "It's not like I don' do it myself, n' I really don' wantcha ta get into trouble. This is tha safest ya can be, an I really like ta know that ya're safe." Jazz downs the rest of the energon, placing the cube on the floor, before he rolls over on his back, looking up at Barricade. "I don' like ya less for what ya do ta keep yourself clean, fueled, n' safe, how could I? Most of my friends do it too, n' ya're here, with me. I'll rather share ya, than don't have ya at all, or even worse, somethin' bad ta happen to ya."

There's some twisted logic in that reasoning, but it's still hard to reconcile with it all. Fortunately for Barricade, Jazz has other plans than letting him wallow in the cluster fuck his functioning has turned into.

"Are ya gonna sit there all day, or are ya gonna kiss me?"

It's not one of the hard choices he's been forced to make lately. 

Chapter Text

They lay on Jazz's berth for hours, tangled comfortably, and Barricade is so content with cuddling, some of the bad feelings from the night before dissipates. 

"Not that I want ta leave, but I hafta get ready for work." Jazz finally says, untangling himself and getting up.

Work. It's like a bucket of freezing cold solvent tipped over him, because it reminds him of what his own job is these days, and it's a sour tasting reminder of what kind of mech is fragging Barricade. A mech who sells other mechs. A gang boss who exploits vulnerable mechs and keeps them around for interfacing.

"How can you stand to put yourself on the streets for him, for them?"

Jazz turns to give him a flat stare. "It's tha same thing I did before, ya know."

"Yes, but then you did it for yourself. You still fuck whomever is willing to pay you, but most of the money goes to someone else. They're taking advantage of you."

"Like ya didn' take advantage of me back when we met? Or all those other hookers ya extorted for a fuck."

"That's different! And I did not extort anyone! I did you a favor — did you all a favor — kept you from going to jail! I think it was only fair that I got something in return for that." Look where it landed him after all: in prison for years, stripped of his rank, and all his worldly possessions. 

"Consider this, then: Hide's doin' ya a favor. He keeps ya from starvin', or bein' kidnapped, robbed, or raped out there. N' he doesn't threaten ya into it, ya're free ta leave whenever ya want. Don'cha think it's fair that he gets something in return for that?" Jazz bitingly turns his own fucking words against him.

It's not the same fucking thing! He doesn't even enjoy using his valve  and he certainly isn't the type who sells his frame!

Liar! You overload good enough for Hide, you like it, you little slut! And it does seem like you do sell your frame when it's convenient.

Shut up!

"You were already a whore! What was another frag or two to keep you from going to jail?"

Chapter Text

Jazz looks taken aback, jaw hanging open in shock. 

"So jus' 'cause I was already sellin' my frame ta survive, ya think what ya did was less abusive? Fuck, ya can be such an ignorant asshole sometimes! Ya never considered that I did it with ya outta fear for what ya could do ta me? And ya kept showin' up, wantin' more, n' I was terrified, because at any moment, ya could demand something I normally wouldn't sell, and I'd have no choice but ta do it, or I'd go ta prison. Jus' tha thought that ya could hog my time for free, n' I wouldn't have time ta get enough payin' customers to actually afford some fuel n' a place ta stay..."

He never thought about that. Was it like that for all the pleasurebots he had done deals with? They had always seemed so happy to do it, had been so thankful for the deals they made. Had it been an act? He had never considered that.

"It really took me quite some time ta figure out that ya really like me, that ya kept showing up for me, not just ta get your cock wet, n' your power-kink satisfied."

Fucking hell. The one mech he had ever felt something for, and he had literally assaulted him several times, and not even realized what he was doing.

Barricade's insides feel cold in a strange way when he thinks about it.

"I'm so sorry, Jazz. So very sorry. I never even thought about that. I thought you knew I liked you."

Jazz laughs without humor. "Yeah. But don'cha dare come questioning me 'bout my arrangement here. My contract is none of your business. I have everythin' I need. I don' need ta find a motel I can afford ta recharge comfortably, I don' hafta choose between a safe place ta stay or fuel when I have had a bad week. They keep me safe on tha streets, n' there's always someone just a comm away if a customer gets nasty. It could be so much worse, ya know. There's some really bad pimps out there, slavers, really. Hide is a good guy, he really cares for us. N' he's good in tha sack, so just count yourself lucky ya caught his attention. A lotta mechs would wanna trade places with ya." There's a slight hitch in Jazz's voice, hardly noticeable, but clearly there.

Field still simmering with indignant anger, Jazz turns to his storage unit, and pulls out a pair of his fabric working pants. He grabs the new bottle of solvent from on top of it, and a cloth hanging over a chair next to it. 

"I'm gonna shower. Stay as long as ya like, but Hide will want ya back in his quarters tonight, n' ya better be there." And with that, Jazz heads for the washracks, leaving Barricade to mull over this new functioning of his.

He's still a berthwarmer for a pimp, and now Jazz is rightfully angry with him. Lovely.

Chapter Text

"I need a clarification about the rules here, and what's expected of me." Barricade says, standing awkwardly inside the door to Hide's quarters. "And I think maybe I should have your comm connection?"

"Of course. My bad. You're just so very distracting, I failed to remember all of that yesterday." Ironhide beckons him with crooking a digit in a come hither motion. 

His optics roam Barricade's frame, and it's still so very uncomfortable with that kind of attention. The Interceptor still obeys, coming to stand in front of the mech. Big servos encircle his waist, and he's pulled into Ironhide's lap, straddling sturdy thighs. A request for a comm connection pings, and he accepts it, then a data file is sent to him.

"There, that's the connections to everyone who lives in this house. The rules are like this: refuel as much as you like, you're free to move around the house, and get what you want from the energon dispensers, but the rooms on this floor are off limits unless invited. The living quarters downstairs are the same, of course, everyone deserves their privacy. You can leave the premises whenever you want, but you need to inform a brother of where you're going, and when we can expect you back. It's for your own safety. You can frag anyone you want, but for now, your only obligation is to me."

For now.

"Our deal said nothing about others. You said I'd stay in your berth."

A servo slides between his legs, rubbing his interface plate, and Barricade opens it. If he doesn't, Hide will just ask, and he'll have to do it anyway.

"Contracts are always renegotiated at some point. I'm not much for exclusiveness, or for hogging the goodies for myself. You stay with me during your introduction, if you accept the conditions when the trial period is over, you get your own room. You're always free to turn a deal down and leave, you're not a prisoner here."

As if he has much of a choice.

"I-I'm on parole." Barricade confesses.

"Isn't everyone? I'll make a few calls tomorrow and we'll get back to that later. Anything else?"

"Not that I can think of right now."

Digits slip through his dry folds, teasing his anterior node, and his valve twitches with interest at the contact.

At least Hide knows how to make it feel good physically.

Chapter Text

A few nights later, Barricade is stretched out on his front on Ironhide's berth, nursing a cube of high grade he has dared to get himself from the bar in the rec room, when the Topkick walks in. Barricade glances over his shoulder and catches how Ironhide smirks appreciatively as his optics trails Barricade's frame, and he quickly looks away again, still uncomfortable with the blatant ogling. Barricade motions to the cube he has left on the bedside table. He still doesn't dare to believe that he really can just grab what he wants, so he brought Ironhide one too, because it looks better.

"This is a sight I approve of coming home to: a hot mech, and a cube of high grade waiting for me. Damn, you look fine on my berth." Ironhide rumbles.

Barricade doesn't know how to respond. Hide is always saying these nice things, complimenting him, and it's just not something he's used to. It's flattering to a point of making him flush, but how is he supposed to answer it? And is it even sincere? He squirms in embarrssment. Surely, it's just Hide being slick to cream him up for the night's fucking.

"I made a few calls." Ironhide says when Barricade doesn't answer, throwing a data pad on the berth next to Barricade. "Set a few things up to make things easier for you. As long as you're one of my mechs, these deals are in play."

Barricade plucks the data pad off the berth carefully, as if it might bite him.

"From now on, you can do astro-weed without being nervous, but if I catch you bringing a single router chip, or anything else heavy in here, I'll punt you over the wall myself. If you need help to stay clean from that crap, tell me, and we'll fix that. Now I'm going to shower, because I'm not getting into berth like this."

Barricade's jaw is hanging open as he scrolls through the pad, but he glances up at Ironhide again, and this time he does a double take, because now he notices the mess on the mech's plating.

Is all that processed energon? Holy fucking Primus. 

The spatter on his leg looks like coolant, though. 

As if it matters what frame fluid it is.

He decides to not think about that right now as Ironhide hits the washracks, and he refocuses on the data pad.

He has gotten a new parole officer assigned to his case, there's a prescription for medical astro-weed for his anxiety, he has an official living adress, with a rent contract that looks legit. On top of it, he has employment with Autobot Inc. as an entertainer. He's a stand up citizen, squeaky clean. There's no reason for the parole board to send him back to jail.

"Hey, Barricade?! I need help scrubbing my back. And other parts of me." Ironhide leers from the washracks.

No reason at all as long as he keeps giving up his frame for entertainment to a mech who comes home dripping of someone's energon, and sells other mechs to buy luxury bedding.

The washracks are nice though, you really like that. Maybe he'll let you use the oil jacuzzi if you bend over for him?

Shut up.

"I'll be right there!"

So eager!

Shut up!

Chapter Text

There's something arousing about running his servos down that broad back. Something about all the power in the bunched cables that ripple under his questing digits as they slip though the seams of dark plating.

Barricade really doesn't like that. Still, he keeps cleaning Ironhide, the big mech leaning his forearms against the wall, forehelm against his servos as he slowly relaxes under Barricade's ministrations. The water pours down over them from the overhead shower head, sluicing down the drain, tainted with the fluids coming off of Ironhide's frame as Barricade cleans him.

He's a spike mech.

A liter of lubricant says you're not exclusively a spike mech.

Shut up. What the fuck is a liter anyway?

Distracting yourself much?

"Bloody Pit, you're so good with your servos." Ironhide groans approvingly.

"I... I try my best?"

"Mhm. How about you work that magic on my spike too?" Ironhide murmurs suggestively.

Barricade doesn't even have time to get grossed out before Ironhide turns around, pressurized spike bobbing between them, and the Saleen can't help but stare at the component.

It's massive!

Well, you didn't complain when it was in your pussy...

He can't even come up with a retort to his aggravating thoughts, beacuse Barricade is too stunned about it. 

He has had that fragging pole inside his valve!

Ironhide chuckles. "It won't bite you..."

"I know that!"

It comes out way too sharp and shrill because of his mortified apprehension and indignance, but Ironhide just grins wider when Barricade reaches out to wrap his servo around the component. The big mech leans his back against the wall, allowing Barricade to stroke his spike, looking the Interceptor right in the optics as Barricade tries all the moves he knows that he enjoys himself.

It's too intimate.

No matter how badly Barricade doesn't want to yield, he can't make himself keep optic contact while stroking the pimp's thick cock. 

To not just stand there, jerking Ironhide off while staring stupidly at anything but what he's doing, Barricade leans forward, hesitantly licking at Ironhide's grill. It's not like he knows if it's even pleasurable, but at least he gets something to focus on.

Chapter Text

"I think I'm good to go. You slick?" Ironhide says, servo reaching out to cup Barricade's array.

His panel is already open, because he figured he might as well do that when he entered the washracks, and while it was kind of arousing to wash Ironhide, it isn't like he's close to overloading. Moist may be a good description. Digits are pushed inside, and it's not an uncomfortable friction, but it isn't exactly a slick slide either, and he curls his lip-plates in semi-discomfort.

Ironhide bites his audial fin, and Barricade sqeaks at the unexpected pain, but it does send an unexpected jolt of pleasure straight to his array. Ironhide licks the fin to soothe the bite, and it's even better, making his valve clench around the intruding digits. Barricade grinds down on the servo, frame moving without his permission.

"That's it, little mech. Fucking hell, I get so revved up by taking care of business, I've been half pressurized since before I got home..." Ironhide growls, digits slipping out of Barricade's valve.

Suddenly Ironhide swivels around, grabbing Barricade's arms to spin him too, and the Mustang barely has time to register the movement before his back is smashed against the wall and Ironhide is crowding him. Barricade's spark flips over with sudden fear, and then Ironhide's arms nudge his legs apart, servos splaying on his aft to easily lift him. Barricade clings to his neck for stability, and The Topkick lines Barricade's valve up with his spike effortlessly, even supporting Barricade's weight, and then he slams inside.

Barricade mewls, because that spike is still thick and long, and the angle makes the head mash his ceiling node in a way he has never experienced before, and he can't quite tell if it feels good or uncomfortable.

"Yeah, take it just like that. Primus, you're still pretty fucking tight." Ironhide grunts as he starts thrusting, pelvic plating pressing against Barricade's anterior node with every harsh thrust.

Barricade is feeling small and helpless where he's held up with his back against the wall, but at the same time, the way Ironhide is pounding into him, the way he's filled up, the way the ridges on that massive spike is sliding over the nodes inside his valve...

He suddenly overloads with a surprised wail, arching his back as much as he can where he's pinned between the wall and the massive Topkick. It brings Ironhide over too. With a deep growl, the mech slams in deep, hot spurts of transfluid painting the insides of Barricade's valve.

Barricade feels spent and strutless when Ironhide lets him slide to the floor, the water still pelting down on them.

"Dry up and get on the berth. I've got a few more loads in me." Ironhide rumbles.

Chapter Text

There's a lot of things he doesn't like with his new life, but the mornings? The mornings are nice. 

For being so fond of high grade, and astro-weed, and fucking all night long, Hide isn't lazy about getting up in the morning. The Topkick usually gets up well before noon, leaving the fucked out Interceptor alone in the large bed to recharge for a few more hours.

The Saleen comes out of recharge slowly, lazily stretching his frame. The soft, imported, organic sheets slide luxuriously against his plating, and even if it's past noon, he indulges in the comfort of the soft berth, pushing his face into the fluffy pillow instead of getting up, the sybaritic self-gratification making his intake pull into a rare smile. It's not like he has anywhere he needs to be anyway, nothing he has to do, except for taking a long, hot shower, and getting some energon, then he'll go back to berth and smoke weed, and watch movies all day.

So you're not going to talk to Jazz today either?

Jazz probably hasn't come out of recharge yet.

Excuses, excuses. Coward.

Barricade pushes that thought away — he has been avoiding the Solstice, procrastinating the conversation they need to have to clear the air — in favor of thinking about more pleasant things. 

If he'd still been a cop, he probably would've been working by now; chased out of the warmth of his berth several hours ago, roused by the hostile blaring of the alarm clock, needing the kick of heated energon to get his processor going, and force himself to head out into the cold dampness of pre-dawn. Not carelessly lounging in the most luxurious berth he has ever planted his aft in, without any obligations what so ever. 

Except at night, when he's expected to pay for his newly acquired rock and roll lifestyle. With his valve.

Whore.

Chapter Text

"There are some things you need to adjust with your attitude, Barricade."

The Saleen is sitting on Ironhide's berth, waiting for the mech to finish whatever he's doing on his data pad and get on with the night's fucking. He looks questioningly at the big mech, waiting for him to elaborate.

"While your reactions when finally in the sack are nothing short of delightful, you don't really invite to fragging. You don't exactly make me feel welcome and wanted."

Isn't it enough that he spreads his legs whenever Hide wants him to, that he goes along with whatever the thug asks for? That he doesn't try to hide when things do feel good? Does he really need to pretend to want it, just to stroke the mech's ego? He's doing well enough, and the Topkick knows it, he's just being an aft.

"Because you're not."

The Topkick heaves a sighing vent. "I'm not forcing you to be here. You can leave whenever you want, you know."

Like he truly has an option.

"You have everything you need here, and the only thing I ask for in return — what any of us ask for when we pick someone to share our berth — is to feel appreciated and wanted for providing that. To feel like at least some of the care I invest in my mechs is returned, and that you are happy to have me."

"Providing?! You do realize that it's your whores who pay for this, don't you?! Why should I appreciate you for that?!" Barricade scoffs. Care? Like the brute cares about anything other than sticking his cock in a wet valve every night.

Ironhide's face-plates harden.

"Trust me, I do have many other sources of income that is far more profitable than the streetwalker business. And you are not really making any money at all right now, so acting like you want me is a fairly small price to pay for sleeping in a comfortable berth, drinking my energon, washing up in my washracks, smoking my pot, and being kept out of jail, now isn't it? Consider it a bit of customer service, if you absolutely have to think about this as nothing but a business transaction. You really want me to find you interesting enough to come back for seconds..."

Barricade doesn't answer but he can't stop himself from making a grimace.

"You have no fucking idea how lucky you are to be here, do you?"

Chapter Text

Lucky indeed, spreading his legs for the neighborhood pimp. He crosses his arms and stares stubbornly at the wall, unable to force himself to even look at the Topkick.

"There's plenty of others doing the same thing as I do, but with far less palatable methods. Or how about being homeless, and starving, and that parole board just waiting for an opportunity to throw you back behind bars for a long time? But you're free to try your luck elsewhere if you'd rather want that. I'm not forcing you to stay."

He just want a real job, and some of his dignity back, he just wants to wake up from this fucking nightmare, back in his own apartment, and he'll flush his stash of drugs, and he's never going to even look at a pleasurebot again — except for bringing them in and putting them away. He'll rescue a cyberhound and start to collect crystals to keep occupied. He pinches a sensory relay in his arm to wake up. But alas, he's already awake, and this conversation is really happening.

Ironhide takes his silence as a capitulation. He throws something that lands on the berth next to the Interceptor. 

"Use that if you can't get wet by yourself. Go get ready in the washracks, and come back when you're ready to convince me that you want me to frag you." His tone is harsh and demanding, as if he's tired of the Saleen acting like a spoiled brat, and Barricade's spark speeds up with an apprehension he hasn't really felt around the mech before. 

There' an uglier side to Ironhide that he hasn't really thought much about, because he hasn't seen it himself. Hide didn't get to be the leader of an organization like this by being nice through and through, and he did come home smeared with energon. He knows this, he just prefers to not think about it too closely.

Numbly, he grabs the bottle Ironhide threw to him, looking at it as he slowly crawls off the berth. The humiliation burns his faceplates when he turns it over to read the label.

Synthetic lubricant

Chapter Text

As soon as the door to the washracks close behind him, Barricade sinks to the floor, curling into a ball, and starts to sob hysterically. His vents hitch and rattle with distress, and he swallows repeatedly to stifle the need to purge.

He can't do this. It's one thing to give up his frame — even to show his honest reactions to what Ironhide does with him — but it's a whole different thing to act like he wants it to happen before the fact.

But his options are very limited, and he's not keen on spending another night in an alley somewhere, and risk being mugged, or so much worse. He wraps his arms around himself in a futile attempt to find some comfort.

The worst part is that Ironhide is right. Barricade knows very well from his line of work about the mech smugglers, and the traffickers, and the pimps who really are nothing but slavers, he knows that many pleasurebots are kept in line with brute force or forced drug addiction. But logically knowing that is just cold comfort, because it's still something elusive he hasn't really seen up close in real life — as a regular patrol officer, he never worked with the task forces against organized crime — while the bottle of lubricant, and the demand for customer service is all too real.

He had everything he needed, had a real job, and was respected, and now he's nothing, he has nothing, and the only thing keeping him from being a guttermech, starving in a dirty, cold alley, is if he manages to convince a pimp that he really wants to be fucked by him.

Barricade stays there — curled up on the plush rug that makes the heated floor even more comfortable, another mocking reminder of how he has nothing, and yet he has access to so much more luxuries than when he had a good job — for half an hour, wallowing in his self pity. Eventually, he can't justify staying any longer though, and he forces himself to get up, grabbing the hated bottle that he dropped like it was on fire as soon as he was out of sight of Ironhide.

Mechanically, he opens his panel, pouring a hefty amount of the slick substance on his servo, and then he dips his digits inside to slick his unaroused valve. Pulling out again, he slips his digits through his folds, and he twitches when he passes over his anterior node, the slick making it feel good. Barricade flicks it a couple of times, and he feels his array heating up, his valve-lips getting puffier.

That has to do.

With a deep vent to steel himself, he swallows his pride, and steps back into the berthroom.

Chapter Text

The Topkick looks up from his data pad when Barricade enters, appraising his frame. Barricade plasters on what he hopes is a sultry smirk, even though it feels more like a stiff grimace, and then he walks over to stand in front of Ironhide. The Saleen looks the mech up and down, and he leans in to drag his digits along Ironhide's cannon. Hide's engine revs. It's clearly a sensitive spot on the mech's frame. Barricade makes a note of that.

"It's so big." He purrs, flicking his optics up to meet Ironhide's gaze. "Got some other big components that I can play with?"

Ironhide grins up at him, clearly approving of Barricade's adjustment of attitude. The Topkick pops his panel and pressurizes his spike. "Good enough for you?  Maybe you should have a taste? You havent done that yet."

A taste?! Ugh.

With an even more strained smile, Barricade sinks down to kneel between Ironhide's pedes. He leans forward, grabbing the spike that bobs proudly in front of him, and hesitantly licks the tip of it. Ironhide groans, and Barricade is thankful for the position where the Topkick can't se the face he makes when he tastes the pre-transfluid. He sucks the head of the spike into his intake, working his glossa around it, trying to guess what to do.

Is this what the pleasurebots felt like when he demanded a blowjob for not taking them in? Degraded, dirty, and used...

"Ah, yes, like that." Ironhide hisses when he licks one of the ridges. "I don't mind if you play with yourself while you do this."

It's not really a request or a demand, but it can't hurt to do it anyway, even if Barricade is disgusted, and not aroused. He slips one servo between his thighs and starts to toy with himself. It's not something he really has done before either, but from the nights he has spent with Ironhide, he has learned that he enjoys to have his node stimulated, and that there's a spot inside him, so he flicks his node, because it's the easiest thing to reach.

A big servo lands on the back of his helm, not pushing, just resting there, but it really feels like a dominant gesture he can't say he likes. Barricade tries to ignore it, focusing on getting the Topkick off as quickly as possible, taking note of what the big mech seems to like for future reference.

It's disgusting that his functioning has come to circle around knowing how to get a mech off.

Chapter Text

"That's enough of that. I want you to ride me."

Barricade's spark sinks, because for as disgusting the prospect of swallowing a load of transfluid is, it'll be much harder to pretend to like this when he's facing Ironhide. He still gets up from the floor and straddles the big mech's legs. The Topkick's servos come up to rest on his hips, but he doesn't do more than that, and at first, Barricade is bewildered by it.

"Go ahead, it's all yours." 

Ironhide wants him to take it of his own accord.

Barricade reaches between them and grabs the thick spike, lifting off to give himself room to line it up, and then he sinks down on Ironhide's cock. A gasp leaves his vocalizer, because his earlier toying with his node did make him charged, and the ridged thing does stimulate sensitive nodes inside him in a very pleasant way.

"Good little mech. You're so pretty when you allow yourself to enjoy the things we do." Ironhide murmurs.

Enjoys it, like a little slut. It does feel good physically, but he still doesn't want this.

The Mustang leans forward, pressing his face against Ironhide's shoulder, nipping and licking at cables and wires to hide the derisive face he isn't able to keep himself from making, and then he starts to bounce on the Topkick's lap. Ironhide bucks up to meet him, pushing in deep, and Barricade groans, because it does feel so very good in that way he hates. The servos on his hips tighten, and the big mech starts to lift and drop him, helping him to keep the rhythm, grunting as his overload is nearing.

He won't overload from just this.

Barricade hesitates, because on one servo, he doesn't want to get off on fucking the pimp, but on the other, the only one losing if he is left high and dry when Ironhide finishes is himself. He reaches between his legs and starts to circle his node with one digit, the slickness making it feel so good.

"That's right, take your pleasure." Ironhide groans, bright optics locked on where Barricade is working himself.

He overloads.

With a quiet mewl, frame stiffening, his hips jerk uncontrollably, and Barricade comes while Ironhide takes full control of pacing the thrusts into his soaked valve. The Topkick bucks up to slide into him to the hilt through his overload, and then he overloads too, pressing Barricade down on his length. The Interceptor tilts forward, resting his helm on Ironhide's shoulder, fans spinning rapidly to cool his frame, and for a few moments — when he's satisfied, and spent, and his processor is muzzy with post-facing bliss — he feels comfortably relaxed in Hide's lap. He breathes in the familiar scent of heated plating and expensive polish that is distinctly Ironhide. The mech smells so good, smells like home, because this is what the berth smells like when he wakes up every morning, warm, safe, and comfortable.

Then he realizes what he's doing, and the self derision sets in.

Chapter Text

"I'm sorry for being a slaghelm. It's just... I'm still struggling with dealing with this, and you confronted me with truths — some of them very ugly to realize about myself — and I handled it badly."

"Mhm."

"That you already were a pleasurebot was an incredibly bad excuse. But I had never thought about what I did as a form of assault, and I got defensive, because I really don't want to be a... I don't want to be a rapist, and relizing that that's what I did was.... ugh. And that I did it to you without even realizing? The mech I like? I'm so fucking sorry, Jazz."

Not that he wants to be convicted for more crimes than he already has on his rap sheet, but it's kind of unsettling that for all the footage they had gathered as evidence, not a single point about the assaults he committed was even discussed as a charge. And they were right there, on high resolution video! And now he's the one in a position where things could go much further than he can agree with, and there's definitely no laws protecting him. Or at least, the laws won't make any difference at all.

"Well, I already forgave ya for tha coercion. I know ya ain't a bad mech, not in your spark. What pissed me off was tha way ya just dismissed me, how obvious it was that ya saw me as somethin' less worthy than you. I'm a whore, n' that's that, but ya think ya're too good ta do it? Like I'm lower than you." Jazz's voice hitches at the end, as if the most painful part of it really was finding out that Barricade thought that whoring was good enough for Jazz but not good enough for him.

It probably was.

"I can't say that I have come to terms with this, with my new role, I'm not going to lie to you about that. But I don't consider you less of a person than me. Before I was arrested, I was hoping that I could provide for you, that I could take you out of there. But here we are now..."

"Here we are."

"You still mean a lot to me, Jazz, I really like you."

"I do like ya too, Barricade. We can't be exclusive for obvious reasons, but I don' think it'll be a problem. What we can have is deeper than just exclusive facin'."

"Yeah. So... you want to 'face now? I... uhm, I missed being with you." Barricade says sheepishly, because it sounds bad, even if what he's really after is the intimacy of interfacing with someone out of his own free will.

"Thought ya'd never ask!" Jazz snorts, both amused and annoyed.

"Do you," the Saleen breaks of, gathering his courage, "ah, do you want to spike me? I never even thought about that, I just took for granted that you were a valve mech, since you always offered your valve. And I really want you to spike me."

Jazz tackles the Interceptor, smirking wickedly when he pins him to the mattress. "I'd love ta spike ya."

Chapter Text

He isn't unfamiliar with how it can feel to use his valve. Barricade has learned that he can derive a lot of pleasure form having it skillfully stimulated. It's still different when Jazz does it, because there's no warring emotions about this, he really wants to do it.

Jazz slips his digits through Barricade's folds, and he's going slicker by the second, heat pooling in his array quicker than he ever has experienced before. One of his servos is still pinned to the mattress, but Barricade's attention is on the way Jazz toys with his anterior node; slow, teasing touches that is light enugh to make him want to grind against that servo to get more friction. Jazz nips and licks at his chest-plates, lapping at his headlights and lightly biting his grill, and Barricade is embarrassed by how quickly he is getting revved up.

Jazz probably notices, because he starts to kiss his way up to Barricade's neck, nibbling at the cables and wires, and Barricade arches his back, pressing up against Jazz's frame.

"Oh, baby, ya're so needy." Jazz murmurs.

Barricade doesn't even have time to come up with an ineloquent answer, because Jazz leans in to capture his intake in a kiss, and Barricade eagerly responds.

He missed Jazz so fucking much, more than he realized.

Digits slide into his soaked valve, and he moves against that servo, moaning into Jazz's mouth, because the Solstice expertly finds the spot inside him that makes his valve clench around those digits.

Barricade is already racing towards the edge when Jazz pulls his digits out, breaking the kiss to dip down to press his lip-plates against Barricade's neck.

"Please, Jazz, don't stop..." He whimpers.

"I ain't stoppin' darlin'. Jus' gonna give you somethin' even better..."

Chapter Text

Jazz nudges Barricade's legs farther apart, and the Saleen looks down to see Jazz stroking his spike, and he's entranced by the component he has never seen before.

It's a pretty component; silver, with black and white highlighting the ridges, a few softly glowing blue LEDs accentuating the length. Jazz has clearly gone through the effort of having it modified, even if it probably sees far less use than his valve. Then the time for admiration is over, because Jazz lines it up and sinks into his valve instead, and a chill of pleasure travels up Barricade's back-struts.

Jazz's spike is smaller than Ironhide's, but Barricade doesn't find it lacking. On the contrary, it feels very good inside him, the ridges stimulating his inside nodes in a delicious way, and instinctively, he wraps his legs around Jazz's hips to urge him to go deeper, faster... anything.

"Take it easy, babe, I gotcha!" Jazz purrs, voice sinful amusement.

"More, more, please!" Barricade mewls, because he's still pretty close, and still nowhere close enough, and he needs...

Jazz starts to thrust in an almost languorous pace, long, slow strokes, bottoming out with every thrust, and Barricade curls his back to meet him, to get him as deep as possible. Jazz's pelvic plating pushes against his node every time he surges forward, and it's building Barricade's charge.

"Ya know, I'd really like it if ya'd get on top. Would ya allow me ta show ya something?"

"Yes-yes-yes, just make me overload soon." Barricade says.

"Ya're so impatient!" Jazz snickers.

He grabs Barricade's hips and rolls them, spike still hilted in the Interceptor, and Barricade finds himself straddling the stretched out Jazz instead.

"There. Now, ya just rock back n' forth, rub yarself against me. That'll feel so good for us both." Jazz says, pushing and pulling on Barricade's hips to show him what he means and set a pace.

The movement is easy to get into and find a rhythm, and Barricade gasps as his node is rubbed against Jazz's plating. It doesn't take long to find the right amount of pressure, and the angle that really gets his node in the best way.

It's so much better than bouncing up and down, stimulates him in all the right places, and spares the hydraulics in his legs. It's definitely his new favorite position.

Barricade grabs ahold of the plating on Jazz's chest, rubbing himself furiously against his lover, chasing his overload.

"I'm gonna cum soon if ya don' slow down." Jazz warns in a strained voice.

"I'm close too." 

Under him, Jazz tenses and bucks up when he overloads, and Barricade grinds down harder, rubbing himself against Jazz until he too tumbles over the edge. He tips forward, fans spinning furiously, and buries his face in Jazz's neck.

"Ya good, babe?"

"Perfect." He mumbles dopily against Jazz's neck-cables.

Chapter Text

"So, how 'bout round two?"

Barricade onlines one optic to peer at Jazz, finding the Solstice grinning cheekily at him. He grinds against Barricade's thigh, and sure enough, his spike is hard again. They've been cuddling for a while, but it's still impressive that he's ready to go again already.

"Already?"

"What can I say, ya're just that hot. I'll do all tha work, n' ya can just enjoy yarself."

What they just did was very satisfying, but Barricade isn't opposed to another round. And Jazz's promise of doing all the work is tempting.

"Sounds good."

"Lay on your front."

Barricade stretches out, and Jazz nudges his legs apart, digits sliding into the Mustang's sloppy valve, still wet with lubricant and transfluid. Then he lines up and slides inside, bracing himself on his knees and one elbow, chest rubbing against Barricade's back when he starts thrusting. Barricade arches his back to give Jazz better access, enjoying the slick slide of a spike in his valve. Jazz's arm snakes between him and the mattress, and clever digits search out his anterior node. Barricade's hips jerk with approval of their own accord, and he grunts into the pillow.

"Feelin' good?" 

"Yeah. Really good."

Jazz nibbles Barricade's shoulder-wing, and the Interceptor hisses with surprised pleasure. He did not expect that, and the added stimulation, ramps his charge higher.

So many things that feel good at once; inside him, against his node, his sensitive wing...

Barricade doesn't even notice how he's starting to push back against Jazz, to meet every lazy thrust into him. All he knows is that he's getting closer to an overload, and that he really wants to tip over the edge again.

"Ya're so hot when ya're enjoyin' yarself. So fuckin' sexy when ya let go like this." Jazz murmurs in his audial.

The only answer Barricade gives is an incohereent mewl, because he's teetering on the edge of overload, entire frame going stiff as he waits for that last touch that'll release him.

Then finally his valve starts to pulse around Jazz's spike, and with a drawn out moan, hips pumping in the same rhythm as his valve contracts, Barricade finally overloads. He hears the grunt, and he feels when Jazz bites his shoulder-wing slightly too hard, but he just goes lax under his lover, allowing Jazz to collapse on top of him in post-coital bliss.

Chapter Text

"I can't believe that for such a long time, I didn't manage to make it clear that I really want you. How could we fail so spectacularly at communicating?" Barricade muses out loud.

The Saleen is still stretched out on Jazz's berth, the Solstice draped halfway on top of him, and he toys with the silver mech's shoulder tire.

Jazz has spiked him for the first time, and it felt surprisingly good. Barricade realizes that he still has some things to learn about how to please a partner when spiking them, because the stimulation Jazz was generous with, the things that actually were what made him overload, isn't something he would do. He'd always just fragged a mech and counted on that being enough.

"Not ta point digits, but ya never said anythin'. I mean, If ya'd said that ya wanted me for yourself, that ya liked me, I might've actually believed it. But ya just picked me up, n' paid for a room, n' fuel, n' for a long time, I jus' thought ya wanned ta control me. Ya gave me all those things, of course ya wanned sex in return. N' I was indebted to ya, so I didn' think I had a choice, or ya'd turn me in. N' if ya suddenly didn' set me up with a room n' fuel one day, would ya be mad that I screwed someone else ta get money enough? So many practicalities were goin' through my mind, I didn' even think about tha possibility that ya actually liked me."

"I should've invited you to my place. What the fuck was I thinking, always hanging out in motels? I wanted to get you off the streets, I wanted to be with you. I should've brought you home."

"Yeah, that would've gone a long way ta convince me. But ya know what? It doesn' matter anymore. That time is gone, those chances are in tha past. Let's jus' go forward. Let's make tha most of what we can have now."

Yay. Make the most of both being whores, living in a brothel, allowed by their nice pimp to frag and cuddle during the day, just to spend the night's in someone else's berth, selling their frames.

Chapter Text

He has mainly stayed in Ironhide's or Jazz's rooms — with Jazz during the days, spending the nights with Hide — avoiding to socialize with the other mechs much, but he should've known that he couldn't keep that up forever.

"Come on, let's go downstairs." Ironhide rumbles when Barricade steps out of the washracks, already standing by the door.

Barricade freezes like a turbo deer. "L-like this?" He stutters, because after he dried himself, he made sure that he is slick, and he left his panel open.

"Hm. I do like the view," Hide leers, and Barricade's tank drops, "but I'll leave that up to you tonight."

There's no hesitation; the Saleen slams his panel shut immediately. Hide looks slightly disappointed, but he just holds his arm out, and Barricade lets himself be tucked under it as they leave the room. His spark spins nervously, because while they have not renegotiated their deal, it's not like he has much leverage if Ironhide decides that now is the time to push the limits.

"We're having a party. My suggestion is that you try to relax and enjoy it. Have some fun, get to know the other mechanisms a little. You might find that you actually like it. There's a lot of good people here."

He doubts that, but no matter how much he wants to sulk in the corner, Hide probably won't let him.

They descend the stairs to find the rec room buzzing with mechs, more than he has ever seen here before. He recognizes some of the pleasuremechs — all of them newly polished, and there's more of the brothers than usual gathered. The high grade seems to be flowing, there's bowls of cy-gars everywhere, and everyone seems relaxed and enjoying the party.

"So, what are we celebrating?"

"Sunny has finally been released. It has been a very long process, with numerous appeals, and he has been in AdSeg for the duration of the debacle, but now it's finally over, and he's a free mech." Hide explains, handing him a cube and a cyg without letting go of Barricade.

The Saleen nods, taking a deep swig of the high grade, not at all calmed by the explanation.

Chapter Text

"Finally we get another look at your sweet aft." Nitro purrs in his audial, patting said aft.

Barricade swivels around, not prepared for suddenly having the big mech so close. Hide has just let go of him and turned the other way for a couple of seconds, speaking to someone. 

They're like sharkticons, smelling a fresh prey, and he's the wounded cyberlamb that fell overboard, fresh plating for the picking.

"What do you say, little mech, want to have some fun?" Nitro rumbles and curls a servo around his hip.

What the frag is he supposed to say? Hide said that he doesn't have to, but if he don't volunteer, then maybe there will be a renegotiation and he will be obligated anyway?

"But I just came here?" He tries, sounding so weak and insecure, and small and ridiculous. "And I'm with Hide?"

"Aaw, but we could just go for a quickie." The big mech pouts. "You know, get back here as soon as we've scratched that itch."

Not that he's is feeling particularly itchy right now, but when has that mattered lately?

"I just want to mingle for a while. Get to know more people." Get drunk as fuck before he's going to have to let someone have his frame.

"You'd get to know me better..."

"Cool your thrusters, Nitro. If he doesn't want to, he doesn't have to." Ironhide butts into the conversation, and Barricade has never been more grateful for the thug's presence.

"I know, I know. A mech can still try to suggest things, right? This one really has such a sweet little aft. Can't wait for open season." Nitro rumbles, cocking his optic ridge at Barricade. "I'll show you what fun really means."

"Sure can suggest, but he's still mine." Hide says before turning back to Barricade. "Come on, lets take a seat." 

The arm is back across his shoulders, and it feels safer when he's tugged along to one of the couches. Ironhide lights Barricade's cygar, and hands him another cube of high grade. 

"Let's get some entertainment over here, shall we?" Without waiting for Barricade's answer, he lets out a sharp whistle, and waves a couple of mechs over.

Pressing into Ironhide's side without even realizing it, Barricade quickly downs half the cube before taking a deep drag on the cyg.

Chapter Text

"'ello, Ironhide," Crosshairs purrs, leaning a servo against the Topkick's thigh, the tips of his digits teasing Ironhide's interface plate, "wha' can we do ye fer tonight? I'm gettin'all wet just lookin' at ye." His lip-plates ghost Ironhide's in an almost-kiss when he speaks.

"How about a little demonstration for starters? You know what I enjoy seeing, so you are free to come up with something fun."

Crosshairs hums in pleased amusement. "I think I 'ave an idea or two." Then he licks Ironhide's bottom lip-plate, trying to coax the Topkick to play along with him.

Ironhide allows Crosshairs's questing tongue to slip into his intake, answering the kiss, and Barricade looks out of the corner of his optics, one tracking the kiss, one staring at how Crosshairs' digits blatantly rubs the bigger mech's interface plate.

His other two optics are locked on the other mech, a mech he hasn't seen before. He lacks the colourful plating of Crosshairs, multicolored in an almost rusty brown and worn blue, decorated with glyphs. His entire frame looks sharp and angled, and he has eight bright red optics. Barricade pointedly does not look closer at how his interface panel is left open. The mech's toothy intake pulls into a smirk, then he leans in close to Barricade.

"So you're the reason the big boss has been... unavailable all night for weeks. Can't say I blame him; you're so damned pretty. I'm Dreadbot." His voice is sultry and inviting.

"B-Barricade." The Saleen stutters in a squeaky voice, because apparently, Dreadbot prefers to greet mechs by toying with the plating on the inside of the mech's thigh, instead of just shaking servos.

"It will be a pleasure to... get to know you." 

Barricade's vents hitch when the innuendo is followed by a glossa slowly sliding along his helm-fin before Dreadbot straightens to look down at Barricade, smirk still in place.

"Enjoy the show." He says, momentarily offlining four of his optics in a wink, servos reaching for Crosshairs, who's still making out with Ironhide.

Chapter Text

Dreadbot folds back his sharp denta to form supple lip-plates instead, and Crosshairs meets him in a kiss that would border on lewd and lascivious behavior if they had been in public; all battling glossa and wandering servos. And that's even before taking the rubbing of their bare arrays against each other's thighs with grinding rolls of their hips into account.

Barricade is almost embarrassed to look, because it does feel like something he shouldn't be watching, but he can't even force himself to look away, because it's such an arousing display, his optics seem glued to the two mechs. They're completely shameless, unaffected by the optics following their every move, fields extended and openly aroused.

"They really do know how to enjoy themselves." Ironhide murmurs in his audial, and Barricade still can't tell if it's a barb. 

He just nods, optics still riveted to the mechs making out in front of him, mind too preoccupied to linger on what the Topkick means.

"On the table?" Crosshairs murmurs, smirking against Dreadbot's lips.

"Table's fine." Ironhide answers, reminding Barricade of who's really in charge of this perverted little show.

Dreadbot takes a seat on the edge of the table, legs spread to give them perfect view of his bare array, and then he reclines to lean on his elbows. Crosshairs takes a seat next to him, servo slowly sliding down ventral plating towards the other mech's puffy valve-lips, while he leans in to lick along a seam in Dreadbot's chest-plates.

He really shouldn't look, and he really, really shouldn't get aroused by what these pleasurebots are doing for their pimp. But he's unable to stop himself.

Chapter Text

There's something utterly delectable about the way Dreadbot lets his helm fall back, intake opening in a quiet gasp that is anything but insincere, when Crosshairs digits explore his folds with deliberate slowness. The black and green mech throws a lascivious smirk their way as he flicks Dreadbot's node, the other mech moaning loudly.

Barricade distractedly takes another deep swig of his high grade, as if that would be enough to give him the strength to look away from the blatant display of an act that should be so very private.

Is that what it looks like when Ironhide toys with his array? No wonder why the Topkick seems to enjoy to play with him, and stare at what he's doing; it's so fucking hot.

Absentmindedly, Barricade closes the information pop-up about the increase in speed of his cooling fans, and takes another drag on his cyg, just to occupy himself with something. 

As if physically doing something else would absolve him from the guilt of taking pleasure in watching this brand of "entertainment." Sure, he has been to clubs before, but this is different, and not just because the clubs followed the rules, and no show ever went this far. Those mechs worked there of their own free will. Here, they're all owned by Ironhide, right?

Those thoughts are forgotten when Crosshairs' digits slip into Dreadbot's valve, and Barricade's optics are riveted to how they disappear between plump valve-lips, just to emerge again, glistening with lubricant. The noise Dreadbot does when the digits slide inside again is unadulterated want and unashamed pleasure, and his field flares in an enticing way that's new to Barricade, but it sends another wave of confusing heat to his own valve nonetheless.

Is he really the sort of mech who enjoys bottoming for others? Will he be the one being fingered in public the next time? Will he be the one doing the pleasuring? Will he enjoy it?

Chapter Text

Ironhide's servo slides up the inside of his thigh, a ghost of a touch against his heated plating, digits stopping just inches before they reach Barricade's interface plate. Barricade shifts to get it higher without thinking about it, unconsciously wanting something to relieve the throbbing that's turning into an ache. As if his frame is jealous of the attention Dreadbot's array is getting.

He's definitely slick behind his still closed panel now, his frame is getting too hot, and he can't tear his optics away from the pair of mechs having a good time on the table.

They clearly enjoy this, fields aroused and reaching out to mingle with Barricade's in a clear invitation, and his field latches on to Ironhide's too, the Topkick clearly turned on and unashamed about it. It's hard not to be reeled into it, get dragged under by the staggering amount of arousal assaulting him.

The high grade is getting to his helm, the astro-weed certainly isn't helping and Barricade's panel pops open without permission as he grinds against those digits that hasn't made any moves yet, just hovered there to allow him to decide if he wants to take his own pleasure or not.

Lubricant dribbles out, gathered to pool behind the plate already, and it obscenely runs down his aft to stain the couch, and he's somehow vaguely mortified without really being able to care when cooler air finally reaches his uncomfortably hot and swollen valve-lips.

"Want us te show ye a good time, Cade?" Crosshairs asks, bright optics locked on Barricade's bare valve, fingers still pumping into Dreadbot's wet valve. "Ye look like ye could need some release..."

Does he? They're in the middle of the room, there's a party going on around him, but somehow that feels so distant, as if the other mechs are behind a screen and can't see, won't notice, and he's so revved up, valve hot and swollen, pulsing with an aching need...

"Yes, please!"

Chapter Text

Crosshairs stops playing with Dreadbot and kneels between Barricade's pedes instead. He smirks up at the Interceptor when he cups Barricade's aft and pulls him closer to the edge of the seat.

"Hey, what are you doing?" Barricade squeaks.

"Relax and just enjoy it. Cross is really good at what he does." Ironhide murmurs in his audial, digits stroking Barricade's headlight.

Crosshairs pushes Barricade's thighs farther apart, exposing his array, and the Saleen swallows nervously. Dreadbot slithers up next to him, one servo toying with Barricade's shoulder-wing, the other teasing the seams in his chest-plates, but the Mustang's attention is still on Crosshairs when the black and green mech leans forward...

Swiping his glossa through Barricade's wet slit!

The Interceptor mewls at the contact, unprepared for it. Dreadbot leans in to nibble his neck-cables, and it's so much sensation at once, Barricade doesn't know what to focus on. Crosshairs starts to flick Barricade's node with his glossa, Dreadbot expertly finds sensor relays and sensitive wiring beneath his plating, and Barricade's charge is skyrocketing. Evereything else falls away, and he's reduced to a trembling, mewling mess, racing towards release, that sweet edge he just want to throw himself over as quickly as he can.

A single digit slips into him, slowly teasing with light caresses, and it's nowhere near enough. He grinds down against it, but Crosshairs backs off, lapping the rim of Barricade's valve instead of his node.

The Saleen growls in frustration, and it earns him a chuckle from Dreadbot.

"You wan't more?" Dreadbot purrs.

"Yes!" Isn't that obvious?

"What do you want?"

Suddenly, he's flustered, because dirty talk isn't something Barricade is used to engaging in. Well, except for the degrading kind he used to spew when fucking hookers. Asking for what he wants them to do with his valve is a very different thing. He doesn't even really know himself.

"I... more! Keep doing that, I want to overload."

"So ye don' want somethin' bigger in this soaked pussy of yers?" Crosshairs asks, slowly sliding another digit into Barricade's valve.

It feels so good with the stretch, with something for his calipers to clench around. Maybe he does? But he really likes what they're doing, the barrage of pleasurable input. But something bigger inside him would feel so good...

"I do, but please don't stop with the other things you're doing."

"Good answer." Dreadbot murmurs in his audial, a smirk in his voice.

Chapter Text

"So how about we let the big boss provide the cock and Cross and I keep taking care of you?"

What?

"H-how do you mean?"

Crosshairs is still pumping his digits into Barricade's valve, circling his node with a deft thumb, and it's just too hard to try to figure things out by himself.

"You could take a ride and let us handle the rest."

Barricade's optics brighten, because he had actually forgotten that Ironhide was sitting right beside him. He whips his helm around to find the massive Bot watching him with bright optics, langorously stroking his spike. Crosshairs stops playing with his valve, and Barricade whimpers at the loss.

"All yours if you want it." Hide rumbles, voice laced with static.

Whether he wants it or not. But Barricade is intoxicated, and revved higher than he has been in a long time, and for the first time he really wants to have something inside him, filling him up in that way that actually feels kind of good. Might as well take Hide's cock now and get something out of it.

Barricade swings around to straddle the Topkick's thighs, his valve drooling lubricant over the mech's plating.

"Good choice." Dreadbot purrs in his audial before turning his attention to licking and sucking at Barricade's neck-cables, one servo finding his shoulder-wing again.

Barricade rolls his hips, making the head of Ironhide's spike slip through his slick folds, and then he grinds down to get it inside. Behind him, Crosshairs leans in to nip at his other shoulder-wing, one of his servos sliding down Barricade's ventral plating to where the Interceptor and the Topkick are joined, deft digit continuing to stroke Barricade's node. Dreadbot plucks with wires and cables on Barricade's frame, quickly mapping out his sensitive spots, and Barricade rides Ironhide quickly, racing towards his overload at a pace he might've found embarrassing, had he had the wherewithal to think about it.

"Ye're so ho' like this." Crosshairs murmurs in his audial, still working Barricade's node with his digits.

It takes no more than a few more flicks of his node for Barricade to overload. With a loud warble, he grinds down on Ironhide's spike, and Crosshairs' digit, and rides it out, valve contracting around that spike.

Frame going lax, he tips forward, resting his helm against Ironhide's chest-plates while he catches his vents, fans spinning on full speed. 

Chapter Text

While he's completely spent, Ironhide's spike is still hard inside him. Barricade is vaguely aware of how it's probably rude to stop before Ironhide has overloaded too, but for long seconds, he's too blissed out to care. Then he's rudely reminded of where they are.

"I'll give him 5 for initiative, 9 for eagerness, but the overall impression only gets a 6 for lack of stamina." Nitro Zeus rumbles to Ironhide.

Ironhide barks a laugh, bucking up into the still limp — but now also mortified Interceptor — who's hiding his face against Ironhide's chest-plates.

Nitro saw, and he just doesn't want to know exactly how big an audience they have. 

"So, Daddy... May I 'ave the honor te finish ye?" Crosshairs purrs to Ironhide.

"You did so well, that was so hot." Dreadbot murmurs in Barricade's audial. "C'mon, let's watch Cross take care of the boss."

He's helped from Ironhide's lap and plunks down on the couch next to Ironhide. His thighs and array are still wet and slick of his lubricant, but he can't find it in himself to care, not when he's physically still feeling so good after his overload — while simultaneously wanting to melt through the couch from embarrassment. Dreadbot hands him another cube of high grade, and he immediately drinks half of it to occupy himself, and to take the edge off. Seeing Crosshairs licking Ironhide's plating, cleaning away Barricade's lubricant with his glossa is all too sobering, and a quick glance around the room confirms that there probably was quite a few mechs who witnessed him doing...that.

Dreadbot presses up to him, wrapping his arms around Barricade to pluck with cables and plates, and they watch Crosshairs suck Ironhide's spike into his intake, eagerly bobbing his helm. Ironhide's servo comes to rest at the back of his helm.

"He can take you all the way, can't he?" Nitro Zeus rumbles from behind them, patting Hide's shoulder.

"You know it. A really good little slut."

Crosshairs mewls around the spike in his intake, and Nitro barks a laugh at the attempted confirmation.

As if to demonstrate it, Ironhide bucks up, pushing Crosshairs helm deeper until his nasal ridge nudges Ironhide's pelvic plating. Crosshairs moans, and then he's obviously swallowing frantically when Ironhide overloads.

Barricade feels his lips curl with disgust.

He really enjoyed getting blowjobs, but swallowing cum is just... Ugh.

He takes another deep swig from his high grade, trying to wash away the imagined taste of spike in his intake.

Chapter Text

It's his first hangover since he went to prison, and it's so much worse than he remembered it. Well, except that time in the alley, but that was different. 

Barricade onlines his optics and is immediately immensely thankful for Ironhide's penchant for always having the thick curtains closed. He finds himself sprawled on his front,  helm at the foot of the berth, and after he stretches, he offlines his optics again, not feeling the least ready to get up. Not even to get coolant, and judging by his helm ache, he probably needs coolant. Barricade's tank protests too, rolling queasily, but there's no way he's going to drag himself all the way to the refuelling room. Ignoring that his legs are tangled with someone's arm or leg, the helm on his lower back, and the servo on his aft, he allows his mind to go blank, slipping back into recharge. It's probably way too early anyway.

He wakes up again sometime later, and in spite of not feeling much better, he finally drags his sorry aft from the berth.

Untangling himself takes a bit of manoeuvering, but he crawls over the foot of the berth to not disturb his berth partner, and plunks down to sit on the floor to allow the room to stop spinning, and to gather the power to get into the washracks. 

He needs a quick shower, and then some coolant, and maybe a pain re-router chip or two. Probably should have some low grade too.

His processor is really muzzy, so even after he stands up, it takes him far more seconds than usual to compute his optical feed into something coherent. Or maybe it's just incredulity?

Barricade doesn't even notice how his servos cover his intake in horror, his spark sinking into his tank.

There's no less than four other mechs still recharging on the berth. He's been in a fragging orgy.

Servos still covering his intake, he runs into the washracks and barely reaches the sink before he purges.

Chapter Text

He rinses his mouth and drinks some water from the faucet, knowing that he should have properly mixed coolant, but not in the mood to make even a quick run to the refuelling room. He needs a fragging shower, like, yesterday.

Barricade starts the solvent and sinks to the floor under the spray, tank still in upheaval. He reaches down to touch his array, trying to piece together what he did, even if he isn't really sure he wants to know.

Not what he did, who. Ironhide, Nitro Zeus, Crosshairs, and Dreadbot is who he did.

His valve is slippery, and there's the feeling of having been fucked last night, but that's not out of the ordinary, not these days, but he's not that sore.

The things they did on the couch, he remembers, and while the memory still make Barricade flush, he's more worried about what happened later. The Mustang remembers drinking high grade, and smoking, and Dreadbot working his frame again. Making out with Jazz? It's a heavily fragmented memory, but Barricade is certain: at some point, he was making out with Jazz. Fingering his lover. Mechs watching. Even under the cool solvent, he can feel his face-plates burning. He's no different than Crosshairs and Dreadbot.

Barricade pushes those thoughts to the side. What else. Drift passed out? Across the lap of a golden mech, who was doing stuff with the Speedster's array, digits pumping into Drift's valve. The Interceptor frowns. That's not ok. Was that what happened to him when he wound up in Hide's berth with all the others? Passed out and used...

Doing his best to not think about that, Barricade rises from the floor, starting to scrub his frame, because he feels more filthy for every second he thinks about last night.

He can ask Crosshairs later. The mech will probably tell him what happened in great detail. If he really wants to know.

Chapter Text

At least he's clean, but that doesn't really make him feel any better when he pads down the hallway and down the stairs, heading for the refuelling room. Barricade passes the recreational area, walking as quietly as he can, because there are still mechs recharging on the couches, passed out more or less on top of each other, and he doesn't feel like interacting with people he's hardly acquainted with but still might know more about what he has done than he does himself.

Thankfully, the refuelling room is empty, and Barricade digs out a bottle of coolant from the cooler, and then he grabs a cube from the cupboard, pouring half a cube of med grade. He downs in one go, grimacing at the taste, before he refills it with sweetened low grade.

Barricade turns to leave the room, but then he pauses.

He can't go back to Ironhide's room. It has been his living quarters too for his stay here, but he really doesn't feel like going back there right now and possibly face the other mechs in there. 

What Barricade really wants is to drink his coolant and energon, and then go back to recharge, but where is he going to do that? Barricade knows that he could try his luck and go to Jazz's room, but he's hesitant about it.

What if Jazz isn't there? He could be in someone else's berth. Or worse, he could have company in there already.

It's not logical, because Barricade knows what Jazz does for a living, and he's painfully aware of how he's paying rent himself, but he can't help it. Seeing it first hand is something he isn't sure he can stomach right now.

But he doesn't feel like trying to find an empty couch in the rec room either, so steeling himself, Barricade grabs another bottle of coolant and a cube of energon, then he heads for Jazz's room.

Chapter Text

He knocks on the door, and there's a muffled grunt from inside the room before the door swings open. Jazz is sprawled on his berth, but thankfully, he's alone.

"Mornin'." Jazz's voice is rough, and he sounds like he just wants to go back to recharge.

"Hey. Brought you some stuff."

"Aaw, that's so sweet of ya, babe. I have pain routers in tha storage unit. Can ya grab me a couple?" Jazz asks sweetly, an impish smile in place.

Barricade opens the top drawer and spots the package. "Can I have a couple too?"

"Of course."

He grabs the entire package before he goes to sit on the berth. Jazz grabs the bottle of coolant and drinks it all in one go, while Barricade grabs a couple of routers and plugs them into his medical sockets. Jazz does the same before he even touches the energon.

"So... uhm, last night?" Barricade asks uncertainly.

He has been drunk before, but he rarely has allowed himself to get that wasted. No, he usually preferred to feel like he was still in control. 

For good reasons, apparently, considering he obviously turns into a total slut when he's drunk off his aft.

"It was so wild!" Jazz says, sounding much more enthusiastic than Barricade feels. "But tha brothers always knew how ta throw a good party. I heard Cross went down on ya, ya lucky bastard. He's so fuckin' good with his mouth!"

"I-I guess he is..." Barricade stutters, thrown for a loop.

"Don' look so surprised," Jazz snickers, "jus' 'cause we sell interfacin' for a job doesn' mean we never do it for fun. I frag you, ya know. That's 'cause I like ya, 'n I wanna sleep with ya n' share a good time."

"Yeah, it's just... I'm still getting used to everything. And I don't really remember everything that happened yesterday."

Jazz pats the berth next to him, having finished his cube. Barricade sets his empty bottle on the floor next Jazz's, stretching out beside Jazz. He wraps an arm around his lover, feeling tired, and Jazz's field tells him that the other mech wants to recharge some more too.

"We had some fun, and ya primed me for Blackout. Then ya started making out with Dreadbot again when I left with Blackout, n' by tha time I came back, ya had already gone ta Hide's room.

"I don't remember that. I just remember waking up in the same berth as Ironhide, Nitro Zeus, Crosshairs, and Dreadbot." Barricade whispers weakly.

"Sounds like an interesting night. I can try ta help ya ta recover those memories later, but I wanna recharge more first." Jazz says, snuggling closer.

Well, he's not really in a hurry. Does he even want to know what he did?

Chapter Text

He reboots slowly, not feeling sick anymore, just worn in that way he remembers that he always used to get after a night of heavy drinking.

"Afternoon, babe," Jazz purrs, pressing in closer, "wanna frag?"

He has been fragging like a petrorabbit since he moved in here, and he's still a bit hung over, and all he wants to do is cuddle and slip in and out of recharge all day. How can Jazz possibly want to fuck right now?

"Is it really what you want to do?"

"I dunno. I thought ya wanned ta."

"Not right now, I'm still tired. Is it fine with you to just snuggle?" His spark spins nervously when he asks the question, and it's an alien emotion in this situation, because he always used to go for fucking, and cuddling was something that happened afterwards.

What if Jazz doesn't want him to hog half his berth, what if he wants to go find someone else who might be up for a frag?

"Cuddlin' sounds good. I like that. I jus' wasn' sure what ya wanned." He presses his lip-plates against Barricade's cheek as if to prove a point, settling in and making himself comfortable. "Ya want me ta help ya with tha memory files?"

"I don't know if I really want to know..."

"Whatever ya did, I think it's safe ta say that it ain't anythin' anyone here will raise an optical ridge at. So it's up ta ya ta decide if ya'll think more about it if ya don' know or if ya know what happened."

Does he really want to know? He can't be embarrassed about something he can't remember and relate to. But then again, he will not be able to answer if someone alludes to whatever happened.

"Can you help me with it? I think I won't ever stop wondering what happened otherwise.

"Sure thing!" 

Jazz pulls out a data cable and hands it to Barricade. He takes the cable and slips the plug into the socket on one of his arms, tank tightening with nerves. Barricade grabs a bottle of coolant and drinks from it, mostly to occupy his servos, when virtual handshakes are exchanged, and he allows Jazz access to some of his files.

Chapter Text

It's almost a shock to find that he didn't interface with all the mechs he woke up with. At least not while he was conscious, but Jazz informs him that neither Ironhide, nor Nitro Zeus think it's fun to use an unresponsive mech, especially not when there's willing mechs who are still awake and eager to play. A pleasant surprise, of course, but he was so certain that he had been the center of attention, he's almost befuddled to find out he wasn't.

He feels Jazz's amusement over the connection when they check the memory files together, and see Ironhide shove Nitro Zeus onto the berth with a grin.

"Get on there, you glitch!" Ironhide growls. 

The big Flier lands on his front, laughing when Crosshairs pounces on him, straddling his back. Ironhide joins the pair, but then Barricade gets distracted by Dreadbot again, and he doesn't see what the others engage in, because he's fully preoccupied with the wonderful things Dreadbot does with his digits, and with sucking and licking at every cable and wire he can reach on Dreadbot's frame.

The memories are glitchy at best due to the high grade he'd had, but they find enough for him to feel certain he wasn't tag teamed by everyone, and that's enough for Barricade to feel better. 

He isn't ready for dealing with something like that, even if he wasn't unwilling to do what he did with Dreadbot.

"Ya good?"

"Yeah, much better. Thanks for the help."

"Of course, babe! Any time." Jazz says, disconnecting his cable. 

"You know, I never got around to ask how you wound up here."

"With Hide?"

"Yeah. I mean, I know you told me that you were thinking about moving, but then you disappeared, and since I was released, we never really talked about that."

Come to think of it, they never really had deeper conversations at all, except when they made up after he realized what he did to Jazz. 

Barricade could smack himself in the face for it.

Way to go to build a more meaningful relationship than just being fuck buddies when they are not whoring themselves out to others. 

Chapter Text

"I moved, found a new area, but I didn' know it was controlled by tha Decepticons. One night, one of their pimps approached me. Said I better start payin' rent for my corner. I didn' have a lot of credits, n' I needed them for fuel. He dragged me ta their boss — Onslaught." Jazz says with a shudder. There's a slight tremble to his voice when he speaks.

Barricade hugs him, presses Jazz close to his chest in what meager comfort he can offer.

"They had a brothel, n' the deal was that I'd pay off my debt by working there for some time. I'd get energon at work, so outside of working tha brothel, I only had ta hook enough ta get money ta rent a room at a motel. It sounded fair. Tha only problem was that I had ta keep paying rent for tha corner I used ta make my rent money, so I had ta work a lot in tha brothel ta make a dent in my debt at tha same time as I was payin' tha current rent."

Which doesn't seem much worse than what Jazz is doing now, because while Ironhide provides everything, Jazz hardly makes any credits himself. And he's still fucking anyone for a living.

"One of the Cons took a likin' ta me. Brawl, a big Tank of a mech. He started out bein' pretty nice, n' I hooked up with him outside of work for a while. Turned out ta be a  sadist, though. He was only satisfied when I cried n' begged him ta stop honestly, wouldn' settle for me acting. Slapped me around when I tried ta break up with him. He kept me so sore, I could hardly get through my shifts, let alone work tha corner."

"So why didn't you just move again?" Seems stupid to stay in a place like that, allowing himself to be a victim.

"I would've, if it had been an option, I mean I'm not a complete dummy!" Jazz says sharply.

He's doing it again, isn't he? Being a judgemental aft, jumping to conclusions.

Yeah, you are. Or are you liking it so much here — being a whore — you've already forgotten what hard choices life offers at some points? How it feels to do stuff you don't want to just to survive?

Shut up. He wouldn't stay if he was being abused.

Right...

Fuck you. 

Chapter Text

"I tried ta leave. Got kicked outta tha motel I was stayin' at because I couldn' pay, n' I was completely broke. So I was drivin' off, thinking I could just split, n' not work for them anymore. I mean, I was gonna leave their territory, so I didn' hafta pay rent anymore, right? Turned out I was wrong. Turned a corner, almost ran right into Brawl. He dragged me back ta tha brothel. Onslaught beat me ta scrap for tryn'a run, n' then I was chained ta a berth."

Barricade can't stay still anymore. He untangles himself from Jazz, because even if his lover might need the comfort, Barricade's entire frame is crawling. 

"They chained you to a berth?! What the fuck! What kind of twisted punishment is that?" He snarls as he paces the room, gesticulating wildly.

"Wasn' a punishment," Jazz says quietly, squirming in discomfort when thinking about it, "it was my new 'workin' conditions'. Made it easy for 'em ta know I wasn' runnin' away, n' jus' sell as much time with me as they saw fit. I took a lotta customers every night, no matter how sore or tired I was..."

"Who the hell would want to fuck someone like that? It had to be obvious that you didn't want it!"

He should've been there, should've kept Jazz from winding up there. It was so far beyond what he had ever imagined. He'd spent the nights when recharge eluded him wallowing in jealousy, thinking Jazz had someone new who spent his night's in Jazz's berth. All the while, his lover had been chained to a berth and raped over and over.

"Well, ya have tha sadists, they're obviously goin' ta have a field day, n' then there's tha more garden variety power-kinks. Some jus' want a hole ta stick their spikes in..."

Barricade wants to just clap his servos over his audials — because he doesn't want to hear it, wants to deny it, and he hates how bland Jazz manages to sound when he talks about it — but he doesn't, because it would just be proof of how he's constantly preoccupied with his own sensibilities.

"It did get better after a while, when they started ta keep me drugged."

Chapter Text

"Excuse me. Still hung over, need to purge." Barricade manages to grind out, swallowing repeatedly to push down the energon and coolant rising to the back of his intake.

"I'm not goin' anywhere anytime soon." Jazz mumbles, still sounding tired, but there's a suspicious waver to his voice.

Barricade manages to nod, then he hurries towards the maintenance room. He barely makes it in time, but as soon as the door slams shut behind him, he bends over the sink and purges. Leaning his forehelm against his arms, he vents unsteadily, riding out the next wave of nausea with a shudder wracking his frame, then he rinses his mouth with the water from the tap before he feels good to go back.

Jazz is still stretched out on the berth, and Barricade joins him, snuggling in close again.

"Sorry," he says a bit sheepishly, because once again, he let himself take precedence over Jazz, "you said they started to drug you?"

"Ya. Got me hooked ta heavy routers. Made it less painful ta be used so much, n' in tha ways they did, but it was just a different variety of chains. Guess who controlled tha router-trade in tha area?"

"They did." Barricade says flatly, because it isn't hard to guess.

"Yep, n' they kept me so out of it, I didn' really think 'bout runnin'. They stopped chainin' me after a while, but I still wasn' allowed ta leave tha bordello, n' they had guards at tha door at all times."

"So how did you even get out of there?"

"One of my coworkers kept ramblin' 'bout how he shouldn've left 'them', that it was better there, that he should'a behaved. First time he was brought in, he had an etching, later I learned it was the Autobrand. Berserker tore that plate clean off him without anythin' for tha pain, laughin' as he did it. Anyway, I thought it was just junkie ramblings, he was very unhinged, but he kept cryin' for Motormaster whenever we were alone. He never sobered up enough ta tell a coherent story, n' then he offlined from an overdose a few weeks later."

"So that's how you heard of the Autobots?"

"Nah, didn' know what tha brand was, n' Wildrider never mentioned them by name. He'd probably be beaten up by Onslaught if he did. I don' even know for how long I was there, but it was a very long time. Then the turf war began."

Chapter Text

"Turf war?"

"I was pretty drugged up most of tha time, but I did see injured Cons comin' in from time ta time, n' I heard of casualties. Onslaught was so pissed off 'bout it, because they lost some territory too, n' part of tha drug supply routes were cut off. I didn' care much, not 's long as they kept me on a roll."

It's both easy and hard to imagine Jazz that deep into drug abuse, because while Barricade knew that he was using a little bit of this and that back then, Jazz somehow always kept from getting too deep into his addictions.

"Then one night, the war reached us. I'd been twirlin' 'round a dance pole, runnin' on Nuke alone for so many hours, I was 'bout ta collapse. So I glanced at tha bouncer, wondering if I could sneak off for jus' a minute or two ta steal some energon n' sit down, or I'd fall into stasis. Overlord was guardin' tha door that night, a big, brutal bastard. I hated him so damned much, but as I glared at him, his fuckin' helm exploded. I freaked out, high as I was, thinking I did that." Jazz says, shuddering at the memory.

Barricade pulls him closer, gluing himself to Jazz as closely as he can.

In spite of the action he did see while he was on the force, it was never a situation like that, and he can't even begin to imagine how terrifying it would be when unarmed and high, and not clear helmed and running on emergency protocols to speed up his processor.

"Everything was quiet enough ta hear a pin drop for seconds that felt like years. Then suddenly everyone was panickin' n' screamin', n' I unfroze n' ran to tha back of tha room on pure instinct, along with all tha other pleasurebots. Tha Decepticons scrambled ta get ready ta fight, shoutin' ta each other, tryin' ta reach their brothers over comms, but the comms were jammed. It was complete chaos. So we just ran through tha door to tha backstage hallway, lined with storage n' detailin' rooms, n' a backdoor at tha end of it. Tha door was always locked — ta not give us a way ta escape — but we ran for it anyway. I was first, n' I remember swearin' ta Primus that I'd do whatever he pointed me to for tha rest of my functioning if he'd just give me this one thing, if that fuckin' door would just cooperate n' not trap me back there. I was just meters away when I heard a shot n' tha door was kicked open."

Chapter Text

"Ow!"

"Oh! Sorry, Jazz. Didn't mean to grab you so hard. I just wanted to hold on to you..." Barricade says sheepishly, releasing his grip on his... Whatever they are.

"'s ok."

"Well, what happened?! The door opened..."

"I came to a screeching halt, stopping just before skiddin' straight into Blackout. He towered over me; huge, dark as the night, n' completely terrifyin', guns everywhere, all of them charged n' ready. I fell ta my knees, convinced my time was up, n' I remember cryin', n' beggin' him ta spare me."

The way Jazz is telling it has Barricade on edge, and he has to fight the urge to grab the Solstice harder again out of reflex.

"He told me ta shut up, n' to this day, I don't know how I managed ta obey, because I was wailin' in terror at that point. Blackout grabbed me by the arm n' hoisted me up, orderin' everyone into tha detailin' room. He dragged me there, n' shoved me inside. I remember fallin' flat on my front, hearin' him growlin' that if we made a single sound or somethin' else stupid, he would come back, shoot us all, n' watch us leak out. Then he locked us in there."

Barricade shudders, the distress in Jazz's field contagious. 

"I curled up against the farthest wall, hiding among the fabric clothing hangin' from a rack there, convinced he'd come back n' shoot me, 'cause I just couldn' stop sobbin'. There was more shoutin' n' shots fired — all muffled by tha door — n' it felt like it went on forever, but then it got quiet. Like, really quiet. I think I held my vents from then until tha door opened again. I didn' dare ta look, covered my helm with my arms n' listened while several sets of heavy pedesteps came into tha room. Everyone else fell quiet, I just waited for the screaming ta start when they decided ta just execute us."

Jazz drags a deep but shuddering vent and turns to reach for a cyg. Well, the need for prescription weed for anxiety might not be all that much of a lie in this place. If something like that had happened to an Enforcer, they'd get counseling.

"I heard one of 'em bark an order ta check us fort etchings n' stuff, n' they started ta mechhandle everyone, checkin' our platin'. We were all so scared, nobody protested either." Jazz says, stifling a sob.

"Come on Jazz, you're killing me here, and you're upsetting yourself. If it's really hard on you to think about it, you don't have to tell me the story if you don't want to." Even if he's dying to know in that 'watching the trainwreck' kind of way.

"I want ya ta know, 's jus' hard. Maybe I can show ya tha memory instead?"

"Sounds like a good idea." Barricade says, holding out his arm for Jazz to plug in. Even if he isn't certain he wants to see whatever happened next.

Chapter Text

There's a moment of vertigo when they connect, then he is in the memory Jazz opens. Barricade can feel the presence of Jazz, and it grounds him as the memory starts, a thin thread pf safety that keeps him from being completely lost when he's immersed in Jazz's experience.

He's huddled among the hanging fabrics on the rack he is cowering under, and he can see the others be pulled from their places along the walls and under the tables with polish and waxes, none of them putting up a real fight, just the weak reluctance of terrified mechs, far outmassed and outgunned.

Everyone is checked over and inspected, patted down, and felt up. Then he's the only one left, his pede grabbed by a dangerous looking truck former — somewhere he knows that it's Motormaster, but Jazz didn't know back then, so the knowledge seems like a figment of his imagination — and he's pulled out of his hidingplace. He hears the whimpering that leaves his vocalizer, but nobody gives a fuck about his distress when he's pulled to his pedes. Rough servos search him, groping under plating, scans tingle, and he feels small and bare when cold optics scrutinize him.

Like a cyberlamb in a marketplace, to be sold or carted off to slaughter. 

Jazz's thought flashes into his consciousness as if it was his own, and it makes Barricade shudder, because it's such a fitting description and so disturbingly clear and reasonable in the context of the situation in spite of the memories being hazed by terror and drugs.

They find his Decepticon brand, aquired at some point when Jazz was so drugged up, he didn't even notice, and as unwanted as any slave-brand would ever be.

"Get out! Back to the main room!" Blackout barks an order, waving his gun around, and they all get moving, crowding each other in the narrow doorway to not be the last one out.

Barricade can feel his sobs and hitching vents, the terror rippling down his back-struts as they are lead back to the room they fleed when the shooting started.

It is a battle-zone. Tables and chairs are knocked over — if they aren't in pieces — and there's energon and other fluids spattered all over the place. A frame is hanging halfway over tha edge of a podium. Brawl, the sadist, and Jazz's memory is painted by vindictive glee when watching the limp and gray frame. 

Then a movement catches his admittedly hazy optics, and finally, he spots the other mech in the room. In the middle of the mayhem, Ironhide is sitting on the center stage, lazily dangling his legs over the edge. 

As if it is just a day by the lake, and not the aftermath of a bloody war. 

He almost cackles hysterically when he thinks that they're POWs, waiting for their judgement, unhinged in the way only a terrified mech can be. Ironhide is obviously the boss, and he'll be the judge, the jury, and possibly the executioner if he enjoys that kind of action, and they can do jack shit about it.

Ironhide looks over the spoils carefully before he jumps down from the stage with a smooth movement, far more agile than one would expect from such a massive mech, and he comes to stand in front of the scared pleasurebots.

"There's been a change of management in this area."

Chapter Text

"Are anyone of you here of your own free will?" Ironhide rumbles, icy optics scanning the crowd.

He doesn't dare to speak up, but someone else is either braver, or suicidal. "No!"

More mechs chime in, lower and more hesitant, but still agreeing, and Jazz dares shaking his helm to show that he isn't either.

"Right. Like I said, the old management is either deactivated, or running off somewhere to clean the piss from their panels, so you are free all mechs. We don't deal in slaves, so if you have other places to go, feel free to leave."

It's all quiet for some time, all the pleasurebots looking incredulously between one another, not daring to believe it. Jazz has the fleeting thought that it's a trick, that as soon as someone tries to leave, they will be shot, but then that brave/suicidal Racer breaks out of the crowd and heads for the door with quick steps, and nothing happens. 

More mechs follow, filing out quickly, but Jazz lingers. He's running on nothing, withdrawal is setting in, it's obviously night already, and he has nowhere to go. 

He'll be lucky to get through the night without going into stasis, and that's before considering what may happen to him out in the streets.

It's such a risk, because who knows what this mech is like, what he can do, and it isn't like Jazz wants to stay in this place, in the situation he has been for such a long time, but time is of the essence, and he just can't afford to look for a new place to work right now, let alone try to get enough money for fuel, drugs, and a motel room before something gives. Ironhide studies the dawdling pleasurebots.

"I do employ whores who meet my demands and are willing to make a deal." Ironhide says.

Jazz finds himself nodding, and he sees how Ironhide's intake pulls into a smirk as he slowly looks Jazz up and down, cocking his helm in consideration.

"Hide! Cross commed me. Enforcement is coming in fast." One of the other gang mechs calls out.

"Then we better go. So, little mechs, if you want to hear my offer, I suggest you follow me."

With that, all the gang mechs scatter. Jazz glances at the other pleasurebot still lingering, then he heads for the bar, pouring down the drink still standing on the counter to get some energy into his systems. He subspaces as many bottles as he can before following Ironhide's retreating form out the front door, then he transforms and is forced to redline his little engine to keep up with the black Topkick as they run away from the approaching sirens, the other pleasurebot driving off the other way.

Chapter Text

The memory file ends, and Jazz picks through them to make a time skip forward. 

When the next one starts, he's standing in root mode in an alley with Ironhide. Nitro Zeus lands behind Jazz, between him and the only way out of the alley. His spark speeds up, because he's small, weak, and unarmed, boxed in alone with two big and heavily armed thugs he knows nothing about, except that they don't hesitate to use violence to get what they want.

"Frag, Hide, this one's hot." Nitro Zeus says, pressing up against Jazz from behind. 

The Flier slides big servos down Jazz's sides, thumbs hooking in the waist of his fabric pants as if he's going to pull them down. He toys with the edge for endless seconds, then his thumbs dip deeper, rubbing the bare protoform where Jazz's interface plate used to be, just above his spike cover.

Jazz doesn't even tense up. If he's about to be hurt or fucked, it's nothing new, and there's nothing he can do about it. He's so used to not have any right to personal space, he doesn't react when one big servo moves to squeeze his aft.

"You on drugs?" Ironhide asks Jazz, ignoring the Jet who's still groping the pleasurebot.

As if his tremors of withdrawal isn't enough to tell. 

"Yeah. They supplied me ta make me ta stay." 

They did more than that, but he doesn't need to go into details with this stranger who might not be much better.

"No heavy drugs in my place. You sober up today if you're going to stay with me. Start using again, your ass is out so fast your helm will be spinning."

Jazz nods slowly, knowing what kind of hell he's in for when quitting, but he has no idea what else to do. One of Nitro's servos slide between his legs, rubbing his array through the thin fabric, and it's a kind of gentle touch he isn't used to, something he hasn't had in a very long time. Jazz's array grows a bit hotter and slicker. 

Maybe it's a test? To see if he can take it without cringing... After everything he has been through, good petting really isn't something he's going to complain about. The mech knows how to prime a valve, that's for sure. He moves against that servo, because showing approval can't be wrong.

"I think he's a good choice." Nitro says.

"I provide a place to stay, fuel, maintenance and repairs you need, 90% of your earnings go to me. If we're satisfied with your performance during your trial period, and if you want to stay when it's over." Ironhide addresses Jazz, still ignoring Nitro Zeus.

"So I'm free ta leave if I want?"

"Like I said; I don't deal in slaves. Do as you're told, follow our rules, everything will be fine. You don't like something, you can leave at any minute. There's always someone else who'd like their own hab suite, free fuel and high grade, and medical benefits, I don't see a point in forcing mechs to stay."

Jazz is still uncertain, thinking about all the times he has been roughed up for one transgression or another because of rules that suddenly change, and just downright sadistic pimps. There's no way to know if these mechs will be violent with him or not, but at least they haven't done anything like that yet, and even if Nitro has pushed Jazz's hotpants down to bare his array at this point, he still isn't getting raped, just groped in a way that's surprisingly pleasant. Then he spots it: the badge Hide is wearing.

"Do ya have a mech named Motormaster in your crew?"

Hide's optics dims suspiciously. "Why?"

"Met a mech called Wildrider. He was always cryin' for Motormaster. Had an etching like your badge when he came in." Jazz says.

"Where is he?" Nitro Zeus rumbles behind Jazz, servos stilling.

"Overdosed and deactivated."

"Fuck!" Nitro Zeus mutters, letting go of him.

Emotions flicker across Ironhide's face-plates, to quick to identify, but then he's as stonefaced as ever again.

"Do we have a deal or not?"

Chapter Text

"n' obviously, I made a deal." Jazz says out loud while checking through his files, digits plucking with the plating on Barricade's front.

He opens the next file, and they're at Ratchet's. The cranky Medic — in no better mood than when Barricade visited him — supplies Jazz with a routing chip that'll keep the withdrawal down a bit as the other drugs leave his systems. He gets some upgrades, and he has a physical examination.

"You need to administer this cream twice a day to both your valve and your port. And no interfacing for at least three days."

Ironhide starts to protest, saying something about painkillers, but Ratchet cuts him off immediately.

"Look, not only is he damaged and need time for his self repair to catch up, but he also has contagious rust! If you don't want everyone scratching themselves in two days or whatever your turnover for berth fellows is, Do. Not. Fuck. Him. Because I'm sure none of you would deign to use a condom." He says derisively.

"How about oral?"

Ratchet looks like he's about to explode, but Jazz holds up a servo to catch his attention.

"If I'm not a health hazard, I don' mind suckin' some spike, Doc, so am I good ta go?"

"Yes, your intake is clean." Ratchet says with a disgusted grimace.

"Good, then let's go." Ironhide says and walks out the door, Jazz hurrying to follow.

He's still hard pressed to keep up with Ironhide, who's well fueled and has a powerful engine that's perfectly maintained. He's even more disadvantaged to Nitro Zeus who follows them in the sky at a leisurely pace. They drive through the neighborhood, and a black and green Corvette joins them, revving his engine playfully when they turn the corner and the mansion comes into view. The gates are opened and they drive straight up to the house, transforming when Nitro Zeus lands.

Crosshairs looks Jazz up and down, and he whistles.

"Damn, mech! Yer altmode did no' betray how ho' ye are. New employee?"

Jazz nods. "On trial."

"Knock Out is goin' te 'ave a seizure when 'e sees yer platin', but nothin' a good polish n' waxin' can' fix. We'll get tha' sorted tomorrow."

"Thanks?" Jazz says, overwhelmed, but relieved by how friendly the mech seems.

"Don' mention it. I'm Crosshairs, in-house entertainment division, n' first slut of this place." He says, before turning to Hide, "an' if 'e's stayin', ye better get 'im a reformat, 'cause tha' alt mode is an affront te someone so pretty."

Hide snorts and rolls his optics at that, and the reaction makes even more to put Jazz at ease, because if Ironhide doesn't flip out over demands like that, then he's probably not a randomly violent mech to be around.

"Come on...?" Crosshairs says, waving Jazz over.

"I'm Jazz."

"Welcome here, Jazz. Now let's go get some 'igh grade and some good fuckin'. I'm all revved up."

Chapter Text

Jazz doesn't play any more memories after that.

"I was let in, n' I spent tha nights of my trial period in tha berth of whomever wanned me for tha night, n' in tha days I got ta know tha other mechs here. I worked in-house for my trial, ta see if I was good enough ta keep around; that I could follow tha rules n' kick tha drugs. Tha brothers take a vote when tha trial is over, ta make sure that they're all on tha same page. Then when we renegotiated tha contract, I got my own room."

"And you started working the streets again."

"Yeah. In-house workers are picked from those who has stuck 'round for tha longest of time, or are exceptionally good at what they do."

"So you're good enough to stay, but not good enough to not be sold to all and sundry." Barricade says flatly.

It's disgusting, that "retirement" is being allowed to "just" do the gang members in their cushy home, instead of paying for said home by selling themselves on the streets.

You forgot the one's who are "exceptionally good at what they do." You could earn that spot. Be the best little whore you can be, and work in-house.

He's not staying here that long. He's going to really start looking for another job again and he's going to find one before his time as Hide's personal frag buddy is over. Then he's going to get both him and Jazz out of here.

You mean his personal slut. You did have fun with Dreadbot though. That mech is very good at what he does. You should be more like him. You're never getting out of here anyway, nobody wants to hire you.

Shut up.

"They don' kick someone out from that position easily, so there hasn't been an openin' for me ta try for. Either tha mechs alread on in-house duty has ta give up a spot vonluntarily for some reason, or they do somethin' bad n' get demoted. Tha only thing I can do, is wait for an openin' n' make sure I earn that spot."

He needs to think about these things, because as gross as he finds this hierarchy, at least it tells him that Ironhide isn't fickle with taking away privileges someone has earned, and that's another point that speaks in favor of Ironhide having earned Jazz's respect and liking.

"I'm so terribly sorry about what happened to you before, I'm completely speechless."

"I try not ta think about it anymore, but I'm glad that it's over. I had bad dreams for months after. Still happens sometimes, but not as much. I'm relieved Ironhide looked past it n' kept me anyway, especially after I woke up in his berth, not knowin' where I was, n' completely freakin' out. It cannot've been a sexy sight, but he jus' pulled me closer n' put his massive fraggin' gun on top of me ta make me feel safe. He didn' judge me too fragged in tha helm ta keep, so I got ta stay, n' I'm thankful for that."

It's awful to live in a world where PTSD could've gotten Jazz kicked out to fend for himself on the streets, risking to fall into the cruel servos of some other nasty pimp, but at least that didn't happen.

"So what did ya think about Crosshairs' skills with his glossa?" Jazz leers conspiratorially, clearly done with the heavy topics.

"What?!" Barricade says, flushing.

"He's so good, isn' he? I swear, I had never squirted before he ate me out n' finished me off with his digits."

"I-I... he's good!" Barricade squeaks, but the vivid image in his helm of Crosshairs licking Jazz to overload sends a heat to his groin.

"Ya looked so hot yesterday when he ate ya, so surprised n' still enjoyin' it. I'm gettin' hot just thinkin' 'bout it. Ya know what, I haven't gotten a blowjob for some time. If yas suck my spike, I'll return tha favor with tha oral of your choice."

He doesn't really like to suck cock, but this is Jazz, and it's not like he can complain, considering how many times Jazz has felt forced to do it for him. If there's someone he should put the effort in to learn it for, it's Jazz.

"Deal."

Chapter Text

It is kind of different to do it for Jazz. Barricade still doesn't like to have a spike in his intake, but it's not that bad when it's Jazz he's giving pleasure. It doesn't feel like a big sacrifice to make for his... his lover.

Because that's what he considered them before, and no matter what they do with others at times, the intimacy when he's together with Jazz is different, so that's the best description of what they are now.

And Jazz's reactions when he rolls his glossa around Jazz's spike really are kind of delightful. Small gasps of unadulterated pleasure, the tensing of his legs when Barricade finds a particularly sensitive spot. He chanses a glance up at Jazz, but the Solstice's helm is thrown back — as much as is possible, considering he's still stretched out on the berth — and Barricade can't see his facial expression.

Slim claws are toying with his audial fin, little caresses and tweaks that Jazz probably isn't even aware of doing, but there's nothing dominating with the grip. It just adds to the impression that Jazz is rather incoherent.

And he's the one doing that to Jazz.

"Oh, Primus, yes! Yes, yes, yes, keep doing that, oh, fuckin' hell..." Jazz rambles before trailing off into a wordless mewl of pleasure.

Barricade twirls his glossa across that spot again, making Jazz's hips twitch, but then he backs of and starts to slowly bob his helm up and down, keeping his glossa still to only stimulate Jazz with his lip-plates for a while.

"Please, Cade! No edging! Please!" Jazz cries out, squirming under him.

He's not really aware of what edging is, but a quick search on the data net supplies him with some info, and while it's an interesting prospect, he listens to Jazz's wishes.

And the hinges to his jaw is getting sore.

With quick flicks of his glossa, mapping out all the sensitive spots he has found on Jazz's spike, he quickly works Jazz closer to release.

"I'm gonna cum." Jazz grinds out.

He could pull back, could avoid swallowing the transfluid if he wants to.

But he doesn't.

Chapter Text

"Dang, ya're good at that." Jazz mumbels with a dopey grin.

He pulls Barricade in for a kiss, completely unbothered by the taste of transfluid lingering on Barricade's glossa. Somehow that makes it feel less repulsive, because if Jazz isn't too disgusted to kiss him after that, it can't be that bad, can it?

It's just Jazz's spike anyway. Imagine all the spikes he had sucked before he kissed you back before you went to jail... All the transfluid that had dribbled over his tongue before you smooched him...

Barricade ignores the toxic voice, because it doesn't matter.

"Ya want me ta suck your spike now?"

It would be so easy to ask for that, but he has had that done so many times before, and while he always enjoyed it immensely back then, it was with the connotations of the power he felt with a mech on their knees in front of him, staring up at him with bright optics, and now that he has been tried to be the one with an unwanted spike on his intake, taking his pleasure from it feels tainted and dirty. And he is rather curious about some other stuff, and trying things with Jazz feels better than being thrown into it with whomever is close by.

"I'd like it if you want to lick my valve."

Jazz grins slowly. "I can dig that."

He crawls down Barricade's frame, kissing his way down the Saleen's chest-plates, down his ventral plating. Barricade opens his panel before Jazz even gets down there, and Jazz plants a kiss right on his node.

"Ya know, your components are pretty n' all, but maybe we could find some fancy LEDs or somethin'? Not that I don' like this, but this is standard issue adult Praxian Enforcer. Ya should have somethin' that says ya're not cop-mech number one hundred and fifty three, ya're Barricade."

He has never considered mods before, for obvious reasons, not being a valve mech. But Jazz knowing exactly how standard he is brings a different unwelcome thought: Jazz has seen a lot of cop arrays, and Barricade looks just like them.

"Is that the number of Enforcers you have serviced in some way?" He asks, because the thought grows roots.

"Ya really were that number in tha line, if we're countin' all departments I'd had customers from, n' we set the number our first time. But that doesn't matter. What matters is that ya're special ta me." Jazz says, dragging his glossa over Barricade's node.

His hips twitch with the pleasure, and while it is slightly offputting to think about Jazz's job, he really has to be special to Jazz in some way, or he probably wouldn't be here right now, because Jazz would be with one of them. He still wants Jazz to remember who it is he's with when they're... making love.

He will think about getting a mod. As soon as he gets a job and can pay for it.

Then he can't focus on anything but the things Jazz does to his array, because that clever glossa wriggles inside and manages to dance over all his sensitive spots one by one, setting his sensory network alight with pleasure.

Chapter Text

"Since last night was party night, we have tha night off. It's always like that: party means everyone workin' in-house, n' tha next night is work free, 'cause everyone is usually hung over." Jazz says sitting on the edge of the berth, smoking a cygar.

"I wonder if that includes me." Barricade says, almost not daring to hope for it. And where is he going to sleep if it does?

"Probably does, but check in with Hide just ta be sure. We don' work tha streets tonight, n' we have no obligations to tha brothers n' don' hafta try ta entice them. We're free ta decline propositions, but I usually don't. Givin' that little bit extra is probably smart when aiming for gettin' ta work in-house someday, n' most of 'em are fun in tha sack anyway."

Ugh, but of course. A day off means no obligations, but putting out as a freebie is the corporate culture. Wonderful. And he's on trial, so he probably should drag his sorry aft back to Hide's room and show how willing he is. To keep Hide from handing him out to others before he can find a different job and get the hell out of here.

"Wanna come with me ta tha employee rec room? We usually watch movies together these nights until we hit a berth, it's quite fun, n' ya'll get ta hang out a little with tha others."

He has kept to himself most of his time here, but it probably can't hurt to get to know the others a little. Before he winds up in the same berth as them in one way or the other, because it's obvious that even if he's still exclusively Ironhide's, the Topkick has now qualms about inviting more mechs into his berth while Barricade is there.

::Jazz asked if I want to hang out with the others in the rec room tonight. Is it OK if I do that for a while before I come to berth?:: He comms Ironhide, because it seems like the best way to deal with this.

::Sure. You don't have to come back here if you find a different berth to spend the night in either. But you're welcome if you want to.::

::Okay.::

"I'd like to join you. I checked with Hide, it's okay."

Barricade reaches for Jazz's cygar and plucks it from his mouth to bring it to his own, taking a deep drag. He's a little bit nervous, but he certainly isn't up for a drink at the moment, so the weed comes in handy.

"Hide said I could spend the night in some other berth if I wanted. Does that include your berth, or does it have to be a brother's?"

"You should've asked him. I dunno, but I'm guessing Hide isn't gonna go around ta ask all tha brothers if they fucked ya tonight, so it should be fine ta stay in mine, or one of tha other entertainers' if that's what ya want."

Chapter Text

The weed making him pleasantly buzzed and relaxed, Barricade follows Jazz to the rec room. It's not the one by the entrance, but a smaller room further down the hallway of the wing Jazz stays in. They step through the doors, and Barricade flushes when the optics of the other mechs find him, because he knows that he has been isolating himself, and they probably know it too. He still follows Jazz to one of the big chairs, clearly made for bigger mechs than them, because they can both sit rather comfortably in it. He curls up between Jazz and the armrest, making himself small, and he knows it's a defense mechanism, but he's not going to fight it right now.

"Drift and Cross are making popped energon kernels." Dreadbot drawls, his helm lazily lolling to the side to look at them from where he's reclining on a couch.

"Oh, Primus, I hope Drift's better at it than Crosshairs..." Jazz groans.

Dreadbot laughs. "That's why I didn't allow Cross to do it by himself..."

Barricade looks back and forth between the mechs, not understanding what they're talking about. Jazz catches his befuddled look.

"Crosshairs is completely shit at cookin'. Could set fire ta tha energon in an automatic heater. He grew up with servants n' stuff, went ta private school, n' just never learned even tha basics. So he was gonna do some pops, but he didn' know how to, n' thought 'grease as grease', ya know? So he used tha closest grease he had; tha flavored lube in his subspace pocket. 'n it was this sweet, sticky flavor that just did not go well with pops..." Jazz makes a face as he remembers the incident.

How does someone fall so completely, from being rich enough to probably never have to work at all, to selling his frame to have someplace to stay, and doing it for long enough to earn a spot on in-house duty?

"It was completely inedible. I doubt even the glitchmice would try it." Dreadbot fills in.

"He agreed himself, though. Didn' even try ta force it down n' keep a straight face ta make himself seem better, n' take some embarrassment away."

"Yeah, he knows that it isn't his forte, and he's honest about it."

It's kind of surreal with all these personal details of strengths and weaknesses, because he has been so preoccupied with focusing on everyone being a pleasurebot, he failed to think about all the other stuff that people are. He doesn't even know if Jazz knows his way around a kitchen, or what his preferences for fuel and such are. And these mechs seem to know each other far beyond what working together invites to, much more than he ever knew about his co-workers. 

On the other servo, they do share berth buddies, and probably sleep with each other regularly as a part of their job, and for fun, and they do live in the same house...

Chapter Text

"Ta-da! These pops are the best I've ever made, if I may say so myself." Crosshairs says as he swoops in with a huge bowl of popped kernels, Drift following in his wake.

"Which doesn't tell us anything, really." Dreadbot quips.

"Glitch." Crosshairs chuckles, flipping the other mech off. "Anyway, wha' are we watchin'?" He plunks down next to Dreadbot while Drift stretches out on a huge pillow on the floor.

"Pretty mech. It's about a prostitute making a deal with some rich dude to be his professional consort for a while and falls in love with him." Dreadbot says. 

Barricade tries to not make a face — because, the irony of it — but he's not successful. He remembers seeing a movie like that way back, thinking it was kind of cute, but with his new place in life, he sees it in an entirely different light. Jazz grins at him though, clearly just amused by it all.

"For frags sake, can' we watch somethin' with explosions?" Crosshairs says.

"Knockie's pick." Dreadbot says, shrugging.

"You would've just picked a porno anyway." Knock Out snarks at Crosshairs.

"Oi, there's nothin' wrong with porn! 'sides, I 'adn't chosen porn tonight, 'cause I want te see the new movie with Brush Wheelies. It has explosions."

"And Brush dropping a lot of plating." Drift snorts.

"Well, 'e's ho', so I'm no' gonna complain 'bout tha'! I really want explosions, though. The nakedness's jus' a bonus." Crosshairs smirks.

"Shut up. We're watching this movie, it was my turn to pick, and this is what we're seeing." Knock Out interrupts them.

"Yeah, yeah, we'll watch it." Dreadbot says, holding up his servos in a placating gesture. "By the way, have any of you seen Blackout without the coverings on and around his rotor hub? Holy smokes, is that hot!"

"Are ye actively tryin' to get me wet? I seriously wish 'e could fuck me while I jus' stare at 'im when 'e's unplated like tha'."

There's something intriguing about the discussion, makes him curious to see more unplated mechs. Some of the pleasurebots have removed a few plates here and there, but he has gotten used to the way they do that to look more streamlined, hardly notices it anymore. But other plates, on other mechs... He's going to search the web later.

Chapter Text

The movie is absolutely cringe worthy. It's like dropping all the sweetener into a cup of energon, and then drink it anyway, with the underlying sourness of the knowledge of that power imbalance. And then at the end, when the rich mech declares his love for the pleasurebot and swoops him off the streets, Barricade can't help but think that this was kind of what he wanted to do with Jazz way back when, and it leaves a vaguely bitter aftertaste that he can't say if it is because of the cliché, or of how oblivious he was back then.

"We should go shopping someday. I really want to see if I can find stickers like what the pleasurebot had." Drift says. 

"An' I need more toys." Crosshairs fills in.

Jazz snorts in amusement. "Like ya don' have enough? I can't imagine Hide payin' for more toys for ya."

"Can there ever be enough toys?" Crosshairs asks.

Dreadbot laughs. "Crosshairs will get Hide to hand over the credit sticks in no time." He makes a lewd motion with his servo against his intake, glossa sticking out between the denta at the opposing side of his face with every motion.

"I want to check the new line of wax that's about to be released." Knock Out muses.

"An' ye probably need paint remover for yer asshole." Crosshairs snickers.

Barricade chokes on the swig of energon he was just about to swallow, coughing and sputtering. What the actual frag?!

"Shut up! That only happened once, and you know it!" Knock Out yells, throwing a pillow at the Corvette as the room erupts in laughter.

"Yeah, but it was funny as hell!" Dreadbot cackles.

Knock Out covers his flushed face-plates with his servos.

"What happened?" Barricade whispers to Jazz, but of course everyone hears it.

"K.O. was kind of new back then, and he was so sweet on Breakdown. Only both of them were a bit shy about their fucking, so they usually did it in private." Dreadbot starts to tell the story.

Bumblebee fills in with some beeps and churrs, but Barricade still hasn't learned how to de-code the sounds.

"Yeh, they were both pretty drunk." Crosshairs takes over. "Anyway, they were too lazy te go upstairs, so they wound up in the supply room. An' it's no' well lit. Breakdown obviously thought 'e grabbed the lube, but what 'e really got was my touch up paint. So 'e banged Knock Out really good against a shelf, an' when they came out of there, K.O's asshole was a lovely bright green. It was like an I-take-it-up-the-ass-too beacon against 'is regular paint job."

"Ugh, but I did set the new record for earnings that week. Every customer I had wanted to upgrade the deal as soon as I bent over. None of you bitches have ever made that much in a week." Knock Out smirks.

"Touché. With a very pretty green..." Crosshairs quips.

Barricade can't do anything but stare at them with wide optics, because he's completely stunned by how at ease they seem with this, how they can joke about it, and most of all how Knock Out managed to turn his embarrassment into a victory.

Chapter Text

"I'm horny, I'll go see if Blackout wants ta stick 'is spike in me." Crosshairs states, getting up from his spot. "Ye wanna join me?" He asks Dreadbot.

"Sure. Maybe we can get him to drop those covers?" 

"Sunny commed me a little while ago, I'll go to his room." Drift says.

"Sleep tight, wake up loose." Dreadbot snickers.

Barricade glances at Jazz, not getting the joke.

"Sunstreaker prefers his lovers passed out. That way, they don' move 'round 'n fuck up his paint job. So spendin' a night with him is basically pluggin' a recharge stick in, or gettin' really drunk, n' then wakin' up in tha mornin', guessin' what happened."

It's weird, but it's also oddly tempting. What a relief to not having to pretend to be willing, to not even remember what has happened. Or maybe it isn't? It wasn't fun to not know when he woke up this morning.

"I'll be with Breakdown." Knock Out says, throwing the remote on the table.

So this is why Jazz wouldn't say no if someone asked him to give it up on his night off. If he's going to have a chance to start working in-house, Jazz better keep everyone happy with him, has to earn it. And if he himself is going to stay in Ironhide's berth a while longer, he probably should make sure Hide is pleased with him. Ugh...

"I probably should check if Ironhide has company..." He mumbles to Jazz, not wanting to turn down more time with Jazz, but feeling like he has no choice.

"I understand. I'll comm Sideswipe, see if he wanna hook up."

Barricade's spark feels a bit cold when Jazz reveals his plan, even though he logically knows that it isn't some sort of revenge for Barricade propositioning Hide, he knows that Jazz isn't out to hurt him with the words. It's just so very awful that they can't even spend this nigh off together, but have to go spend their night in someone else's berth.

"I see. Hope you have fun?"

What the fuck is he supposed to say? He doesn't like that Jazz will sleep with someone else, but it isn't like he hopes that Jazz is going to be miserable all night either.

"I will, one way or tha other, it'll be a good night. I'm not workin', ya know." Jazz smiles, and it looks genuine. "N' I really hope ya have fun too."

"Yeah... See you tomorrow?"

"Ya bet!"

Barricade rises from his seat, but as he turns to look at Jazz, the Solstice tugs him in for a kiss, their glossas rolling around each other in a slow, hot kiss that has Barricade's valve going slick and his spike requesting permission to pressurize. Bumblebee makes a dragged out beep, rising and falling in pitch to mimic a catcall. Then Jazz breaks the kiss, patting Barricade's aft.

"Go get 'em, ya sexy fragger!"

Chapter Text

::Are you busy, or do you want some company?:: He comms Ironhide as he walks up the stairs.

::Give me five minutes. Go get energon and some coolant.::

He turns and heads back down the stairs to get those things, and Barricade snags himself a cyg when he passes one of the bowls still standing on a table. The room looks better in shape, someone has cleaned up all the empty cubes and bottles and have wiped the tables from spilled beverages while he has been with Jazz. 

Who did that? He has a hard time picturing any of the brothers doing something like that, especially after a night of partying, but it seems unlikely that they have a cleaning crew who can just walk in as they please. Maybe some of the pleasurebots? Should he have helped out? But then Jazz would've told him, right? He should ask what's customary, if there's another party before he has managed to get out of here.

He lights the cyg and takes a deep vent through it, continuing down the hallway to the refueling room, mourning that he will probably lose the prescription for weed when he moves out, one of the few things he will truly miss. It'll be worth it, though. The question is what kind of job he could get. He needs to look at the works nobody wants first, then he can hopefully get something else. It's always easier to find a job when you already have one, and you have references.

Musing about what he could do — it's not like he can afford a reformat, so something alt mode specific like street sweeping, or wastedisposal are out of the question, he's too small for hauling goods, mining, or other heavy tasks, and it's very unlikely that anyone would trust him with express deliveries of goods, or working in a driving school.

Grabbing a few bottles of mid grade — because he isn't hung over anymore, but high grade still feels like too much, even though he doesn't feel like staying sober — one of the big jugs of coolant, and a bottle of a sweet, thick flavoring, because sometimes the weed gives him such a sweet tooth.

Checking his chronometer, Barricade walks back up the stairs, feeling like he has given Ironhide enough time to finish whatever he was doing. He's almost within range for the door to open for him if it's unlocked when it slides open, the doorframe filled with one very obnoxious Flier.

"Well, hello, pipsqueak. You're a sight for my sore optic." Nitro Zeus steps to the side to let him in, the alledgedly sore optic raking over Barricade's frame.

"Hi, Nitro." He says as dismissively as he can, trying to look more confident than he feels when he puts the bottles on the table, doing his best to move in a way that'll show off his frame to Ironhide, who's already sitting on the berth.

"So, Hide... Want to share?" Nitro purrs.

Chapter Text

Barricade fumbles with the small bottle of flavoring, almost dropping it in his alarm. He glances at Ironhide, forcing a smile as he tries to smooth it over.

"I don't know..." Ironhide drawls, studying Barricade intently.

Please, Primus not yet, just give him a little more time before this gross, horny bastard is given the go-ahead. Just enough time for him to find a different job and be out of here.

"Come on, Hide. You know I won't steal all the attention from you. The more, the merrier..."

Ironhide snorts, optics flicking to Nitro. "You always try to steal all the attention." After long seconds of staring at the Jet — something passing between them, or maybe they're speaking over comms — he turns back to Barricade. "What do you say, Barricade?"

Barricade swallows nervously, processor working overtime.

What the pit is he going to say? He's supposed to be inviting, and he was ready to do his best to seem interested, but having two mechs at once was not in his plan for the night, and he's not at all ready for this, but if he says no, Ironhide is going to see that as something very negative, and he really should try to keep Hide happy...

"I-I... uhm. I don't know, I've never...."

"Aaw, come on..." Nitro whines.

"You didn't have any problems with playing with both Dreadbot and Crosshairs yesterday..." Hide trails off.

"I... no, but this... uhm..."

It's one thing to have two mechs pleasuring him with their digits and glossas, quite another to have two big brutes fragging him at once. He's barely getting used to sucking spike, to be fucked by both of them  is such a giant leap into a depravity he isn't keen on trying.

Hypocrite! You certainly wouldn't mind fucking Jazz while he was licking someone....

That mental image is very tantalizing, with Jazz's face buried between Dreadbot's thighs, his own spike slipping into Jazz's soaking wet pussy, drooling for him.

Totally different scenario.

Like I said: Hypocrite. Spread your legs, open your mouth and make them both very pleased with you. Can't hurt to be on their good sides...

A servo waves slowly in front of his face, catching his optics.

"Uhm, Prez? I think we broke him..." Nitro Zeus rumbles.

"I-I don't think I'm ready for that." Barricade says weakly, legs feeling like rubber.

"You're still on trial, and this is your night off anyway, so that's fine." Ironhide says, but there's an obvious implication there, that when the trial is over, he better be ready to do it.

"You don't know what you're missing out on, but it's your loss..." Nitro says, shrugging. 

Yeah, sure. It's the big bastard's loss, because he is going to be out of here before the Jet gets his filthy servos on him.

Nitro leaves them, and Ironhide reaches for the coolant, drinking straight from the jug. He pats the berth next to him, and Barricade crawls onto it, stretching out to give Ironhide a good view of his backside, because he knows that Hide likes his aft, and his shoulder-wings.

"So, what do you feel like doing tonight?" Ironhide asks.

"I want to take a ride?"

Chapter Text

"Grab that bottle of flavoring for me." Ironhide says, moving back to lean against the headboard, legs stretched out in front of him.

Barricade crawls down the berth slowly, trying his best to give Ironhide a good opticful of his aft. He grabs the bottle between his denta and crawls back to sit next to Ironhide, leaning on his servos to stick his front out. Ironhide smirks, one servo coming up to toy with Barricade's crash bar and lights. The touches feel good, toying with the components with just the right amount of pressure. Ironhide grabs the bottle with his other servo.

"You've got a craving for something sweet?"

Barricade nods, glancing longingly at the bottle. Ironhide opens it and puts it to his own lip-plates, tipping his helm back as if to drink from the bottle. Barricade nearly whines. He really wanted that syrup. Then Ironhide turns to him, sticking his glossa out to reveal that both his lips and tongue are coated in it.

"Help yourself."

It's intimate, and yet it's not, because Barricade is having a craving and would lick that syrup from almost anything. Almost

Without hesitation, he leans in to lick the big mech's lip-plates, slowly sliding his glossa across the smooth plates to get every minuscule trace of the sweet liquid. Then he goes for Hide's glossa, licking and sucking, plunging his glossa into Hide's intake to get every single drop of that sweetness. Ironhide responds, curling his glossa to turn it all into a lazy kiss, and something in Barricade responds, his spike requesting permission to pressurize, and his valve feeling hot and slick. He moves closer without even noticing, servos coming up to brace on broad shoulders, and suddenly he's lost in the kiss instead of just trying to get sweets, pressing in closer. It's Ironhide who finally breaks the kiss.

"You're good at that." He murmurs, pressing his lips to Barricades' one more time. "Want some more sweets?"

Barricade nods, feeling oddly breathless. He hasn't kissed anyone but Jazz in such a long time, and Hide caught him off guard by being surprisingly good at it.

He watches as Hide raises the bottle again, following the way the syrup moves inside it when he tips it to pour a thin rivulet of the contents down his chest and ventral plating.

Seriously? He's supposed to lick that off of Ironhide's plating?

Barricade glances up at Ironhide who raises an optical ridge in wordless challenge.

Well, he does want that sweet syrup, and it's just his plating...

Chapter Text

Barricade leans in to lick at Ironhide's chest-plates, the sweet syrup sticking to his glossa and getting smeared against the smooth plating in a sticky way.

At least Hide is clean, so it isn't very different from licking the syrup from a plate. Warmer, and with faint traces of wax, but not unpleasant.

In a fit of defiantness, Barricade glances up to meet Ironhide's optics, lapping at the mechs plating with broad strokes of his glossa.

He isn't going to back out from this little challenge.

It doesn't have the effect he expected, because Ironhide's optics brighten, and a quiet groan leaves the mech's vocalizer as his field gets tinted with an arousal that wasn't there before.

It's mortifying, because this is exactly what the bastard wants; Barricade, eagerly pleasuring him, but at the same time, he feels strangely victorious. He's the one who makes Ironhide react like that with the things he does, and not just because he's a convenient frag who's handily available.

Then he reaches Ironhide's pelvic plating, and that powerfulness is gone again, because licking syrup from someone's admittedly well shaped ventral plating is vastly different from continuing further.

Barricade still leans in to lick at the plate, because he's not going to back down just to have Ironhide pour syrup there and make it another challenge. The panel is growing warmer by the second, and Barricade expects Ironhide's spike to pressurize at any second.

It doesn't. Oh, the panel pops, but the secondary spike cover is still closed, and Barricade stares dumbly for a second or two before he realizes that he's going to have to work for that too.

Ugh, fucking bastard, showing off his power by forcing Barricade to arouse him.

Maybe he's just tired? He did have a berthful of whores all night, and a good part of the day.

Shut up. He's just being an aft. I know this power play, I've done it myself.

I rest my case. Final plea: you're a bastard too.

Since he doesn't want to think more about that, Barricade focuses on the still closed cover, alternately lapping at it, and teasing it with the tip of his glossa.

"Fuck, you're good at that too!" Ironhide groans.

Then the cover finally opens, and Barricade forces himself to hold still and let the spike pressurize straight into his mouth.

Chapter Text

He sucks Ironhide's spike, bobbing his helm up and down to take it as deep as he can.

Which isn't all that deep, considering he saw Crosshairs take all of it. He's not going to ask for tips on how to do that, though. He's not going to stay here long enough to need to know that.

"Lick it from the base to the tip."

Barricade forces himself to not make a face — even if he can't stop himself from flushing — and obediently does as he's told, because not doing it will lead him nowhere. He flattens his glossa and slowly licks the length, as if he was still lapping up that sweet flavoring.

Maybe you should ask if you can pour flavoring on it?

Wouldn't that be an insult?

You're right. His pre-transfluid should be the only spice needed.

"Look at me."

He's halfway up the shaft when the request interrupts his thoughts, and Barricade feels his spark sink, because it feels so humiliating to be so acutely aware of someone looking while he's doing his best to give oral pleasure. He tilts his helm back as he continues, finally meeting Ironhide's optics when he reaches the head of the spike, slick pre-transfluid coating it, clinging to his glossa.

"Oh, that's so hot. You're getting so good at this." Ironhide groans, keeping optic contact while Barricade keeps sliding his glossa around the thick spike.

He can feel how badly he's flushing, but thankfully, Ironhide doesn't comment on it. No, he just looks at Barricade, clearly enraptured with the sight. Barricade forces himself to not look away, but then suddenly, he remembers something.

He said that he wanted to ride Ironhide, and it isn't like he's really prepped. Hopefully he'll be forgiven for this.

No, you're already beyond saving, you slut.

I didn't mean forgiven in the biblical way, I meant being selfish enough to play with myself while doing this.

I know you liked it when the pleasurebots did it while sucking your spike...

Barricade reaches between his legs, digits finding his node, and he slowly starts to circle it, dipping his digit into his valve to get some slickness. The arousal that started to grow when they kissed isn't fully gone, merely forgotten when he had to start this, and it doesn't take many slick slides over his sensitive nub before he groans with pleasure.

Ironhide is clearly pleased with his idea, watching him hungrily as he laps at Ironhide's spike with less finesse, grinding against his servo.

"Need to get something bigger in that litte pussy of yours?"

"Yes, please." Barricade says sounding much more breathless and genuine than he expected to pull off.

Truth be told, partially he really is eager because then he don't have to lick at a cock anymore, but there's also a shameful, greedy, selfish little part of him that wants the easy gratification that is an overload.

"Well, you made sure that I'm ready for you, so just hop on."

Chapter Text

Crawling up Ironhide's frame to straddle him feels strangely easy. Barricade doesn't hesitate when he lines up the thick spike and sinks down on it, taking it all in one slick slide, and he shudders with pleasure. Ironhide smirks when he watches Barricade's intake fall open, looking very pleased, but Barricade decides to not think more about that right now.

He's just going to take his pleasure from the smug aft, use him to get off.

He steadies himself with one servo on Ironhide's shoulder, the other on his side, and starts to grind against him, rocking back and forth to get that friction against his node, the way the fat cock inside him stirs his juices, hitting every single one of his inside nodes. It feels fucking good.

An indecent whimper leaves his vocalizer, an honest wanton moan, and he rubs harder.

"That's right, little mech, take what you need." Ironhide murmurs, servos grasping Barricade's hips to help with the rhythm.

He's so fucking close, and he just wants to overload, but then he'd come before Ironhide and that's probably not acceptable...

"I'm gonna overload soon if we don't slow down." He confesses.

"Go ahead if you want to, I don't have any reservations about you coming more than once, but I'm not that close yet, so don't stop just because you're finished. That's kind of rude."

It is rude, of course it is, but he'll be so sensitive after his overload.

Barricade starts to lift off and sink down instead, lessening the stimulation on his node to slow his charge down a bit. Ironhide's servos cup his aft instead, stroking the plating with every movement, 

"Nitro is right, you really do have such a sweet little aft."

He grabs Barricade's hips again, getting the Saleen back into the previous rythm of grinding.

"You know what, I want you to overload like this. I know how I want to finish."

If he wasn't getting so close, if his mind wasn't addled with pleasure, he might've reacted to the comment more, might've thought more carefully about the lack of information on exactly what Ironhide wants to do to finish. But Barricade is too far gone for that, mindlessly rutting against Ironhide to reach his peak.

It doesn't take long, then he hunches forward, digits diggin into Ironhide's plating as he rides out his overload with a loud wail.

"Wow, you can really be a loud one. I like it."

Chapter Text

"Off you go!" Ironhide says cheerily, easily pushing Barricade off his lap to land ungracefully next to him on the berth. The big mech rumbles a laugh, but it isn't a nasty one.

Barricade has found the mech to be an enigma in berth, because just as much as he can be demanding, he sometimes shows a sense of humor and an unexpected playfulness, and he already surprised Barricade with the kiss, because that showed yet another unexpected side.

Barricade squeals like a turbo piglet when a huge servo slaps his aft, easily spanning half of the plating.

"Hey, what the frag?!" He squeals indignantly when another slap lands to even the burn over his entire aft.

Ironhide laughs again. "There's that feisty spark! Like a turbo puppy, yapping and growling. You're so cute when you let this attitude out for a bit, instead of just sulking."

"You are not going to spank me like I'm some unruly youngling...!" Barricade growls.

"Nah, not tonight. Good to know how to get a rise out of you, though. But I know you're still tired from your overload, so I'll make it easy for you; you don't need to do anything but mewl into the pillow and enjoy it."

Into the pillow?

Then Ironhide wrangles his arms behind his back and grabs both his wrist-struts in one servo, effectively immobilizing him. His hips are hiked up, and Barricade has enough time to be embarrassed about how his soaked valve is on display, but then that thick spike slides into him and he does mewl into the pillow, because fucking hell, that thing hits all the spots in the best way!

Ironhide sets a quick pace, every thrust jostling Barricade, and there's some filthy, perverted little part of him that is delighted with this handling of him, the superior strength of the mech fucking him making him feel small in a thrilling way.

So you're that kind of slut? Getting off on the big, bad thug using you, fucking you without caring what you think about it? Showing his true colors, being the brute who just takes what he wants.

Shut up. He's not like that. He doesn't use physical force to get what he wants. I don't need to be scared of him, he's just playing.

Yeah, sure. You've known him for a few weeks, you probably know best. But it's ok, you know. Nothing wrong with being a submissive slut. Just embrace who you are.

Fuck you.

Actually, you're the one being fucked.

We both are, so shut up. 

Ironhide's pace is brutal, but there's no nasty commentary, no disgusting attempts to degrade Barricade. Just low grunts and powerful rutting, and while he's definitely in control, it doesn't really feel like Ironhide is really doing it for the forceful part. More like he wanted Barricade's aft perfectly presented to watch while giving it hard and deep, and this happened to be the best position.

With a muffled wail — face still pressed into the pillow — Barricade overloads again. Ironhide growls and slams in deep, and Barricade feels the transfluid being pressed out around that thick cock, running down his legs. Then Ironhide pulls out and tips over to stretch out next to Barricade, and the Mustang lets his knees slide out from under him, stretching out on his front.

"Seriously sweet aft." Ironhide mutters, curling his frame to reach to press his lip-plates against Barricade's aft, before stretching out again, an arm across Barricade's back.

In a dopey fit of postcoital playfulness, Barricade wiggles his aft, and smirks into the pillow.

Chapter Text

He has some downtime in the early evening a few days later, when Jazz has left for work, and before Ironhide gets back from whatever he has been doing, so he takes the chance to do a search for mechs dropping some of their plating.

Sure, he has seen a bit of it; many pleasurebots remove a few plates here and there to look more sleek, but it's mostly not so show off what's underneath, more like removing sharp angles and points to make them look more touchable. 

Except Dreadbot, who's one of the most pointy, sharp looking mechs he has ever seen, complete with really nasty denta when he doesn't fold them down. His appearance is completely at odds with what pleasurebots normally go for. The brothers don't seem to mind, though. 

Well, his talent probably makes up for it...

What Barricade is looking for now, though, is much more extreme, considered taboo, and way too kinky for most mechs. At least to admit out loud that they look at it.

The first one he finds is a Racer, sleek to begin with, but with his leg stripped to the core components, he almost looks spindly.

Barricade flicks through the pages, finding that most of the time, only a specific part of the frame is unplated, and he understands why; removing it all is a lot of work, and mechs probably tend to have specific predilections for what they want to see anyway. There's something fascinating about it all though; the way cylinders and hoses are laid bare to see in an organized way, completely unlike when a mech has lost plating from an injury, and everything is a mess. He has seen his fair share of that in his earlier line of work, and never thought he would find looking at deeper components titillating, no matter that they're unblemished.

He modifies the search parameters, looking for war frames, and larger classes of mechs. Racers, Seekers, and various types of small Fliers seem to be the most common frame types in the business, but it was not what they were talking about the other day.

Then he finally finds a truck former, the plating on the mech's shoulders and arms missing. It's a marked difference from the Racers, because the struts and cylinders, all the components, are so much bigger than on the smaller frames, and the protoform sort of bulges with optic catching curves. Not just from the size difference, but from the need for raw power. It's tantalizing in a way that's new, and Barricade's array feels a bit warmer. He bookmarks the image before he scrolls down the page, looking for more of the same mech, or other frame types. 

He finds a Flier, not a Seeker, but heavier, like Nitro Zeus, and it's quite interesting to see the difference from the truck former, because he's built for speed, and is definitely more streamlined than the heavy hauler, still powerful, but not as bulky. Another image is bookmarked, and his array gets slightly warmer.

Then Barricade finally finds a Helicopter. The mech isn't nearly the size of Blackout, more likely a recon type, and his rotors doesn't fold down, but the hub... It's easy to see where the power outtake happens, even if the components are deceptively slender. Barricade stares at it for a long time, and his valve is getting slick before he bookmarks it and scrolls further down the pages.

He should see if there are any pictures featuring Pick up trucks.

Chapter Text

Morning energon with the pleasurebots is an interesting experience, and definitely something he has missed out on while spending his mornings sleeping in, and the rest of the day keeping away from everyone.

This morning, Barricade woke up earlier than he usually does, and he headed down to the refueling room, finding a few of the others gathered around the kitchen island.

"I swear, Blackout's spike's so massive, my ovaries go' knocked outta place." Crosshairs cackles.

Knock Out rolls his optics. "You're not an organic. You don't have ovaries."

"No, bu' if I 'ad them, they'd be in my neck right now. They'd be bulging out 'ere." Crosshairs indicates the sides of his neck, drawing little bumps in the air with his digits.

"This discussion is so fucking stupid." Knock Out groans.

"'e really is massive, though, ye 'ave te agree on tha'."

"Yeah, but it's because he is big all over. He's not disproportionately well endowed."

"True, an' probably good fer us small mechs. Now, Sideswipe on the other servo..."

"Yeah, now we're talking! Small mech, big dick. And that vibration mod..."

"Oh, Primus, I love tha' one!"

Barricade grabs a cube and fills it with his favorite energon, leaning against the counter next to Jazz, who's just listening to the others, smirking in amusement.

"Mornin' babe." Jazz murmurs.

"Morning." Barricade leans in to give Jazz a peck on his lip-plates.

"Aaw, the two of ye are so sweet tegether." Crosshairs coos. "Go ahead an' do it properly. We won' mind." He smirks, resting his chin against his palm, elbow braced on the counter.

"Ya jus' want a show, n' then ya'll get all hot n' bothered." Jazz snorts.

"Nothin' wrong with seein' some lovin' in the mornin', an' I already masturbated earlier, so I'm cool." 

Jazz giggles and shakes his helm, but Barricade can't resist the urge to humor Crosshairs — or the urge to kiss Jazz — and pulls Jazz in for a much more heated kiss. Jazz answers it almost instantly, their glossas rolling around each other at a languorous pace.

"Aaw, ye really are denta rottingly sweet. But now I need te go play with myself."

Jazz momentarily breaks the kiss. "I told ya!" He yells after Crosshairs, then he catches Barricade's intake again.

Chapter Text

Barricade is stretched out on his front, legs spread, and Ironhide is kneeling between his legs, thick digit swiping through Barricade's slick folds. 

It doesn't really feel embarrassing anymore, doesn't make him feel exposed and vulnerable like it used to. He really has been here too long, he needs to find a job and get out.

Then maybe you should actually try to look for a job. A quick search on the web every other day while loitering in Jazz's berth can't exactly be seen as an effort.

Shut up. He has done more than that to come up with a plan. He has just needed a day off now and then.

"So, I'm going to go out on a limb here and guess that you never have taken it in the ass."

A digit slides under the still closed cover to rub the opening, and Barricade squeaks and scrambles forward, coming to a stop sitting defensively curled by the headboard.

Ironhide smirks amusedly, servo still hovering in the air. "I'll take that as a 'no'. Do you have a drain hose, or do you change your oil the old-fashioned way?"

"Please, don't. I-I... Just, no." Barricade stutters hoarsely.

"Come on, Barricade, I'll take it slow, give you time to adjust. You know I don't want to hurt you. It's going to happen sooner or later, and you're going to thank me when the trial period is over that you tried it with me. So what does your configuration look like?"

There are implications there that definitely are an incentive to kick it into gear with finding a new job, but that's nowhere near helpful in the present situation.

"You're too big, it'll never fit! I-I, I can't... Please, I need some time to train myself and get used to it before I can take your cock." Barricade goes for stalling. 

If he gets a few days, he can find a way out of here before Ironhide claims... That.

"Configuration?" Ironhide says impatiently.

"Drain hose." Barricade mumbles.

"Good. Then you don't need to clean up before."

Eew.

"Please, Hide!" Barricade whines, trying to look small and cute, because he's certainly not below a bit of manipulation, and he has seen the other pleasurebots go for the sweet and innocent approach when wanting something. "I mean, look at it! Your cock is so massive. I can never take that big gun back there for my first time."

Ironhide looks at him for long seconds, them a grin slowly stretches his lip-plates.

"Well played, little mech. I'll give you two days to get ready for taking my spike."  

He has two days to find a job.

"But your training starts today."

What?!

Chapter Text

Barricade is still sitting by the headboard when Crosshairs and Drift walks in. Ironhide moves to sit in his chair, and Drift stops behind him, massaging his shoulders before sliding his servos down Ironhide's front, nipping and kissing the big mech's neck-cables, glossa working sensitive wiring as he goes. Crosshairs drops the box he is carrying on the floor before crawling onto the berth to join Barricade.

"I want to watch your first lesson." Ironhide says.

What?!

Crosshairs is probably smaller. Maybe he's going to be the first one to fuck you in the ass?

Crosshairs servo slides up Barricade's thigh, the Pleasurebot leaning in to nip at Barricade's jaw, touches that are pleasurable, but Barricade can't lose himself to that. Not in this situation.

"I really don't want to do this." Barricade whispers.

"I can' do anythin' 'bout tha', but I promise I'll take it slow, an' I'll make it as good as I possibly can fer ye. Jus' relax an' try te enjoy it, it's the best we can do." Crosshairs murmurs.

"Easy for you to say, you're not the one receiving tonight."

"Actually, I like takin' it in the port. I'm hopin' Hide will finish with fuckin' me, 'cause 'e isn' really tha' inta fuckin' somebot in the ass, so 'e rarely gives it to me like tha'."

Well, if you're aiming for working in-house, you sure have to up your game with this competition.

Fuck you.

I am you, so technically, I will be. In the ass.

"Come on, le's get ye comfortable." Crosshairs urges him to stretch out on the berth again. "I think layin' on yer front will feel the least awkward."

Yeah, so he doesn't have to see the audience.

Just pretend it's a full frame search.

Shut up.

"'ere we go." Crosshairs says, pushing a pillow under Barricade's hips to lift his aft a bit, making his back arch slightly. "Open up." He strokes the plate still covering Barricade's port.

He does, somehow expecting slick digits to invade him immediately, but instead, Crosshairs starts to finger his valve. Barricade chances a glance over his shoulder, and then he flushes, because Ironhide's optics are riveted to him, even as Drift is kneeling between the thug's pedes, obviously sucking his spike. Barricade turns back to press his face into the mattress.

Something cold and slippery slides into his port, and he stiffens.

"A lube-stick. It'll melt by yer frame heat. It'll make ye really slippery, an' we want lots of lube there." Crosshairs murmurs in his audial.

Ugh.

Pay attention. You'll want to know this in a couple of days.

Ugh.

Chapter Text

Crosshairs fingers his valve, and Barricade's charge is rising rather quick in spite of the situation. Then a digit slips inside his ass, and he stiffens. Crosshairs curls the digit, hitting a sensitive spot in there, and Barricade groans in surprise, because that felt kind of nice. His spike requests permission to pressurize, but he denies it.

Another digit is added, sliding in easily, even if the stretch is slightly uncomfortable. Crosshairs keeps working his anterior node, and Barricade's charge keeps rising. Then the digits slip out as Crosshairs reaches for something in the box.

Something thicker, blunter, presses against his port, and then it pops inside when his calipers give in and allows it entrance. Barricade squirms, the stretch not painful, but not comfortable either.

"Doin' good. Try ta relax." Crosshairs murmurs.

Barricade presses his face-plates into the bedding, but nods. The toy is slowly pushed deeper, sliding slickly over that spot inside him, and he gasps quietly when Crosshairs starts to work his node again, hips jerking. The toy in his aft is pulled out a bit, then pushed in again, slowly sliding deeper into him. Barricade shudders in a confusing mix of pleasure and discomfort, because he really doesn't want it in there, and it's uncomfortable, but at the same time, it's rubbing that spot, and the digits on his node are glorious...

Crosshairs servo touches his aft, the toy all the way inside. He stops for a moment, just flicking Barricade's node, then he starts to pull it out again.

"All the way out. I want to see it going in again." Ironhide says.

Barricade whines quietly into the mattress, embarrassed by the reminder of the audience. The toy slips out of him, and Crosshairs pumps his digits into him a couple of times, the digits going in much easier now. It's so humiliating.

The toy is pushed inside again, popping in easier this time, and Crosshairs pushes it inside quicker, fucking him with it a handful of thrusts before pulling it out again. He repeats the motion of letting it slip inside just past the rim, and then pulling it out again. For Ironhide's benefit.

Then Crosshairs drops the toy on the berth and grabs another toy, pushing it against Barricade's slick opening. 

Chapter Text

It's thicker than the first toy, and Barricade whines in discomfort.

"Ye're doin' great." Crosshairs comforts him. "Jus' a little bit more, then the first bead is in."

The push resumes, and then it's inside, his calipers clenching around the narrower part. Crosshairs dips his digits into Barricade's valve to gather some of his lubricant, then he strokes his node again.

Barricade's hips jerk of their own accord, because the stimulation to his node is glorious, and in spite of everything, he's running a rather high charge. The press against his opening is renewed, but this time, it goes in a bit quicker, and the momentarily uncomfortable stretch is eased with the next narrow part of the toy.

For each bead pushed inside, he feels more and more full, but every time the toy goes deeper, it rubs against that spot, and it feels good.

Why does he like that? He doesn't want to like that, but it is kind of pleasurable.

The digit on his node is working quicker now, and Barricade is moving against it, moving against the toy in his aft as Crosshairs changes from pushing it in one segment at a time to a slow, continuous slide, slowly going deeper until he reverses the action, pulling it out.

Barricade overloads hard, wailing into the mattress, squirming as the toy keeps sliding out of him, and then he goes limp. He's still aware of being spread out in front of Ironhide and Crosshairs — and Drift, if he doesn't still have his mouth full of Ironhide's spike — but it's easier to pretend he isn't when his face-plates are buried in the bedding.

"Can' ye fuck me now, Daddy? Please." Crosshairs purrs.

That gets Barricade moving. He rolls over on his side, looking at the Corvette who's sitting next to him on the berth, and how he manages to look so innocent — in spite of fingering himself — Barricade cannot understand.

"Haven' I been good, Daddy?" He whines.

Ironhide cocks an optical ridge, considering.

Crosshairs twists around to stand on his knees and elbows. His legs, and the covers where he has been sitting, is stained with lubricant. Barricade can't help but stare at the blatant display. Crosshairs's valve-lips are swollen, and his biolights flicker invitingly, lubricant drooling out of his valve. Barricade's spike requests permission to pressurize, and, oh, how badly he wants to fuck Crosshairs right then, just sink his cock into that soaking wet pussy. But alas, it isn't for him to take.

"Please! Jus' fuck me! My ass feels so empty!" Crosshairs whines again.

Ironhide smirks.

"Can you check if he's ready for me, Barricade? Make sure his ass is slick enough?"

Barricade works his intake. It's not something he has done before.

"Please, come on!" Crosshairs whines. "Jus' check with yer digits so 'e can take me already. I'm slick, an' I really need some cock."

Chapter Text

In Barricade's opinion, Crosshairs's valve looks so inviting, there's no need to stick anything anywhere else. But apparently, Crosshairs himself is of a different opinion, and so is Hide.

Well, better Crosshairs than him...

He pushes a digit inside.

It's hot around his finger, slick with lubricant Crosshairs has apparently already administered himself, and oh, so fucking tight.

"More, please, somethin' bigger!" Crosshairs mewls, pushing back against his servo.

Barricade adds another digit, pumping them slowly.

"What do you say, is he slick enough?" Ironhide asks.

Barricade flushes, because he was so focused on the way Crosshairs's calipers are squeezing his digits, as if trying to suck his fingers deeper, he forgot that the Topkick is watching. 

"Yeah. Tight, though..." 

He can't take Hide like this, can he?

Ironhide throws his helm back and barks a laugh.

"I fucking hope so!"

Crosshairs makes this wordless, needy little whimper, and it goes straight to Barricade's array, his spike wanting to pressurize again, his valve going slicker.

"Please, Hide, do me like ye fucked me the first time..." Crosshairs pleads, and he sounds so desperate.

Ironhide snorts, but he gets up from the chair. 

"So that's what you want? You slutty little bitch..." 

He crawls onto the berth to kneel behind Crosshairs, and Barricade backs away to leave them room, optics still riveted to them.

Chapter Text

Ironhide lines up his spike, and Crosshairs tries to rock back to get it inside. It earns him a shove that topples him over to land sprawled on his front.

"That's not how the first time I did this to you went, you needy little slut. I remember you squirming, and whining into the pillow about getting sore." Ironhide growls.

He grabs Crosshairs hips and hikes them up, then he pulls Crosshairs backwards at the same time as he makes a harsh jab with his hips, hilting himself in one thrust. Crosshairs wails into the bedding, and Barricade can't tell if it's from pain or pleasure. Ironhide starts thrusting — quick, powerful thrusts — and he bends over Crosshairs to grab the back of his helm, pushing his face into the mattress to muffle the whimpers.

"Shut it, bitch, or the whole cellblock is going to hear you. We don't want the guards coming in, do we?"

It's disconcerting to watch, but what's most unsettling is the way Barricade's array heats up by this display, and it's disturbing that he can't pinpoint exactly what it is about it that's arousing him so damned much. Crosshairs field is still swamped with arousal, but the entire scene feels dubious at best, and he's ashamed to be turned on by that after... everything.

Then Crosshairs suddenly overloads, entire frame shuddering, and it pulls Ironhide with him. The big mech groans and slams in deep, holding himself hilted. Crosshairs goes limp under him, and as soon as Ironhide lets go of his hips, he slides forward to stretch out on the berth. Ironhide smirks, then he turns to Barricade.

"Still think he's tight?"

"Uhm...no?" 

"You should check."

Hesitantly, he leans forward.

Really doesn't look tight; Crosshairs's port is drooling transfluid, the rim slack.

"Check with your digits."

It feels wrong to do it on Ironhide's prompt, and not Crosshairs's, but there's something steely under the velvet of Hide's voice, so he better do it and hope that Crosshairs isn't offended by it.

Barricade's digits slide in easily this time, with no real resistance.

"I bet you can get three digits in there this time."

He can, easily. Barricade pumps his digits, not certain what Ironhide wants with this. Crosshairs doesn't complain, just lies there and allows it to happen.

This'll be you in two days, all loose and slick with transfluid.

It makes Barricade aware of how his port feels right then; slick, and a strange, sore-but-not-really-sore sensation. Chafed, maybe? He stifles the urge to touch it, to check if he's loose too.

Not now, not with all these mechs here, watching.

Chapter Text

Barricade set his alarm to wake up early for once, and he is the first one to get up. Ironhide wakes up when Barricade gets out of bed, but he just looks at the Interceptor and pulls Crosshairs and Drift closer, the smaller mechs not waking up, but snuggling closer to the Topkick, helms resting on his shoulders.

"Those toys will remain here to give you something to practice with. If you need help, just ask Crosshairs." Ironhide says quietly.

Barricade stifles the urge to make a face and nods before slinking into the washracks.

He prods his port with one digit, and Barricade is relieved to find it tighter than yesterday. He waited until everyone was in recharge to test it, and he did not like what he found.

Considering what you'll take back there tomorrow night, being a bit loose is probably a mercy.

Shut up.

You didn't mind the demonstrations yesterday, got all hot by watching, and Crosshairs and Drift sure seemed to enjoy being fucked like that. Maybe you should go get a toy and learn how to take it, so you can enjoy it too?

Nope, I'm going to get our of here before that.

Sure...

Barricade finishes the shower, as if fleeing the washracks is the same thing as leaving his argument behind, and he heads for the refueling room for a quick cube.

It's still too early for anyone to be up, so he's alone while he waits for the energon heater to get finished, and it's tempting to sit down and drink his energon in the quiet, to savor the peaceful moment — like he used to do in what seems like another lifetime — but he doesn't have time for that today. He grabs the disposable cube and heads out. 

It's still cold, the first rays of sun not yet having chased the dampness of the night away, but it serves to help him wake up, and somehow it all makes Barricade very hopeful.

Today, he's going to find a real job, one that doesn't involve training his aft for fucking.

Chapter Text

Barricade doesn't return until evening. He has spent the day looking for a job, visiting every single possible employer in the area, asking for the shittiest, unqualified jobs he can come up with, but even those jobs are surprisingly hard to find. Probably because in this neighborhood — unlike where he lived when he was an Enforcer, a better part of the city — there's a never-ending line of mechs without any real qualifications, but who'd rather do those jobs than the alternative.

The alternative he will be forced to do if he doesn't find a job tomorrow.

It's the same thing you've been doing for a while now, the only difference is which hole he's going to stick it in. You shouldn't knock stuff you haven't tried at least three times, you know. 

He's not going to take it up the ass, and he's not going to give it out to more people. That's the line he's drawing.

Whatever you say.

He walks into the rec room, heading for the bar to have a cube of high grade to steel himself for tonight's training session.

"You!" Sideswipe snarls, crowding him.

Barricade's spark flies up into his intake and he backs away, back hitting the bar.

"Go upstairs right now, Hide's waiting for you. You broke the rules, and he's expecting a very good explanation. You better be ready to make him really happy."

"I-I, what?! I didn't... I don't know what you're talking about?"

"Go. Upstairs. Now. Either you're lying, or you're stupid, and I'll leave it to Hide to decide which."

Barricade nods jerkily, and then he hurries up the stairs, eager to get away from the angry thug. 

Not that a pissed off Ironhide seems like a much better option, but maybe he will see reason? He didn't mean to break the rules, isn't even certain what rule he broke.

The door opens for him, and he steps through, but he doesn't have time to react before Ironhide is on him. A massive servo wraps around his throat, and his back is smashed against the now closed door.

"Where the hell have you been?!"

Chapter Text

"Let go of me! Please!" Barricade cries out, terrified.

He instinctively claws at Ironhide's lower arm to try to free himself. Even if the firm grip doesn't restrict his energon flow or dent anything, it's still terrifying. In a moment of clarity, he tries a technique he learned in self defense class, but it proves ineffectual. Ironhide grins nastily, looking like a sharkticon smelling energon.

"Cute, but I have mods to counteract the common tricks tiny little mechs use to put bigger ones on the floor. Fight like a mech, or just give in."

Barricade slowly allows his frame to go limp, vents still hitching with his distress.

"Where have you been?"

"I went looking for a job, I left a message for you when I left this morning." 

Is that not allowed? He is free to leave when he wants, right?

"Didn't I tell you to inform me of roughly where you're going? And when you will be back? A vague message doesn't cut it, and..."

"Yes, but I..."

"Don't interrupt me, and no excuses. I don't care what you come up with. How fucking hard can it be to check in by comm now and then, and inform someone about where you're going next?"

He drops Barricade, and the Saleen crumples to the floor, not prepared for suddenly taking his own weight. Boxed in between Ironhide and the door, curled up on the floor, he feels so very small, and his spark spins wildly in it's chamber.

"Makes me wonder if you didn't want me to know where you were going for some reason..."

"It's not like that!"

"Don't fucking interrupt me!" Ironhide growls. "You know, if you're trying to rat about something going on here to get back in favor with law enforcement, you will be sorely disappointed. They won't find anything, any investigation will be shut down, and you will be seen as a liar. And I will know what you have done."

"I would never... I just went looking for a job, and I thought saying as much would be enough. It was a mistake, I'm so sorry." Barricade grovels, vents hitching. 

Primus knows what Hide will do to him if he doesn't believe the explanation.

"A job isn't a geographical location. I want to know what area you're in at all times."

"Why didn't you just comm me and ask where I was then? I didn't mean to keep away from you, I thought I'd done enough, and then I was distracted by everything else." 

And even if his old life was a long time ago, he isn't used to constantly check in with dispatch in his spare time.

"You didn't answer. I had Jazz try to get ahold of you too, but you didn't answer him either. He was rather upset about it."

Frag! He set his comms to silence incoming calls when he spoke to the manager at the first place he went to, then he forgot to open them again.

Barricade checks his inbox, and sure enough, he has 27 missed calls from Ironhide, and 34 from Jazz.

"I'm very sorry, I just forgot..." Barricade whispers weakly.

"Yeah, yeah. Go shower, and comm Jazz to apologize. He was a complete mess of nerves over it."

Chapter Text

Barricade hurries into the washracks, relieved to get some distance to Ironhide, hoping that the Topkick will be calmer when he gets out of there.

::Hey, it's me...:: He comms Jazz.

::Barricade! Are ya ok?! I was so worried! Where are ya?! Ya didn't say anythin', n' I couldn' get ahold of ya, n'...::

::Slow down. I'm back at the house, I'm in the shower right now. Hide ripped me a new one for going awol, though.::

::I fuckin' hope he did! What if somethin' had happened? We wouldn't know where ta start lookin' for ya!::

Jazz sounds so upset, and maybe it's for a valid reason, but Barricade feels like Jazz is overreacting. It's not that late, and it isn't like he has been spending the day in the shadiest alleys he could find.

::It's fine, I'm fine! Primus, I'm a grown mech, I can trundle around the neighborhood in the middle of the day without a standby SWAT team...:: He rolls his optics, starting to scrub his frame.

::Rules are rules, n' they're there for a reason, not just 'cause tha brothers feel like it. Did ya cross Wing nut Drive?"

::Yeah, I went a couple of blocks further.::

::That's not Autobot territory! See, that's why ya should check in. Unfriendly mechs who find out about ya bein' associated with tha Bots could make sure ya have a really lousy day. Or worse.::

Upset has turned to anger, Jazz seemingly gearing up for stripping his plating again and while he understands better why now, it doesn't really feel like he deserves it. He has had a shitty day; not finding a job, Ironhide getting mad at him, and now Jazz is lining up for giving him another figurative slap in the face.

::I won't do it again. It was a mistake. I really am sorry that I scared you.:: He says to appease Jazz and hopefully steer the conversation to something else. 

::No, ya won't. If ya do, ya could get kicked out. Rules are rules.::

Ugh. He doesn't want to get kicked out, but he better find a job tomorrow, before...yeah.

Aft up, bitch.

Shut up.

The thought brings back the apprehension for the night, and Barricade wonders if it'll be just him and Hide tonight, or if others will join them again. Suddenly, he's antsy and can't enjoy the shower anymore.

::Anyway, I guess I should go make it up to Hide...::

::Yeah, n' my customer is hopefully done soon. He's takin' forever, though, I should charge him extra. I swear some of these ol' coots should get themselves a router ta help keep their spikes pressurized.::

His customer?!

::You're on the comms while fucking a customer?!::

::Well, yeah! I wanned ta talk to ya, n' it isn't like I need ta focus. He jus' wanned ta bend me over a dumpster, so I jus' need ta stand here n' take it. Make a couple of noises now n' then.:: Jazz laughs. ::Sometimes we comm each other and tell jokes ta seeif we can make tha others lose focus.::

What the fuck...

Maybe they did that when you fucked hookers? Imagine being so bad in the sack, someone make comm calls while waiting for you to finish. At least Hide is good enough to keep you properly occupied. If he isn't still pissed off at you.

::Yay, he finally overloaded!::

:: ... Right. So, I'll see you tomorrow?::

::I'll hold ya to it!::

Chapter Text

Ironhide is stretched out on the berth when Barricade returns from the shower. The big mech is watching TV, chin resting on his lower arms.

"You look tense." Barricade says quietly, so nervous that the tension is lingering anger, he fails to try to make it sound suggestive. "Let me rub you shoulders?"

Ironhide grunts an affirmative, and Barricade clambers onto the berth, trying to find a good way to reach the bunched cables on the Topkick's massive back.

"Is it ok if I straddle you? I can't reach..."

"Go ahead." 

Hide sounds grumpy, and for the first time since he got here, Barricade wishes he'd tease and leer, and say crude stuff the way he usually does. This truly bad mood is new, and he doesn't like it, because he doesn't know what it'll mean for him. Barricade digs his digits into the thick cables of Ironhide's upper back, trying to coax the kinks out of them without really knowing what he's doing. He works in silence for a while, tense on top of the gang boss, and the longer he sits there, the more nervous he gets when Ironhide doesn't say anything.

"I really didn't mean to disappear on you like that. I forgot I'd set my comms to unavailable. I'm sorry." Barricade breaks the silence.

"Yeah. You're new here, I get that it's a lot to keep track of." Ironhide grunts, sounding sarcastic.

Barricade wants to argue, because he wasn't exactly given a schedule for how often to check in and such, so he doesn't think it's fair to blame him, but fairness has little to do with it when Ironhide holds the power and has decided that Barricade fucked up. Jazz is right, he could be kicked out if he doesn't follow the rules, and he doesn't want that to happen.

Even if he wants to be out of the house before tomorrow night.

Yeah, you know, you're not going to make it. Might as well start working on loosening up...

Shut up!

"I will do better. I'll tell you where I'm going as soon as I leave a place." He says to appease Ironhide, even if he thinks it's a violation of his freedom, even more so than being on parole is.

"I'm expecting that. It's better that you check in one time too many than not. When you're uncertain of the rules, just ask. If you feel like you're bothering me or the other brothers by comming us too often, just ask the other whores, they can always fill you in."

The other whores. Ironhide bunches him with them.

You already know that's what you are.

"Does everyone always run everything by you? I mean, it has to be exhausting to keep track of everyone." Barricade muses out loud, abscentmindedly tweaking a bracket on Ironhide's shoulder that feels stuck.

The big mech grunts a chuckle. "Frag, that one was bad. You're good at this. Actually, everyone checks in with Nitro Zeus or Blackout. Nitro is our Sergeant at arms, and Blackout is our Enforcer. They report to me if need be, and everyone knows who to ask if they're looking for someone. It's just noobs who answer directly to me on these matters."

This is news to Barricade, but it's not really a mercy. He certainly doesn't want to talk to Nitro Zeus more than necessary, and to have the sleazy Jet know where he is constantly doesn't seem wise. Barricade doesn't really know Blackout, more than that he's huge and rather scary.

And according to the other pleasurebots, he's hot when he takes the plating around his hub off.

You stared at the pictures of unplated mechs of similar type for a pretty long time. Maybe you should call him. See if you can get under his plating...

Barricade flushes when thinking about the pictures he found on the data net, and works Ironhide's back with more fervor to get something else to focus on. Then Hide shifts, as if he's had enough.

"But if you've been that busy all day, I guess you haven't had time to try to prepare yourself for tomorrow. I think it's time for some exercise..." He says, the leer back in his voice.

His flips around, and his servo shoots out, trapping Barricade's wrist-strut in a vicelike grip, and then he twists them around. Barricade has time to squeak, then he's pinned under the heavy mech, spark doing backflips.

Chapter Text

"So what would you prefer; me playing with you, or you doing it yourself?"

It's one hell of a question, because Barricade would certainly prefer to not have anyone doing anything with his ass, but if this keeps Ironhide happy without moving up the date of his next loss of a virginity to right this instant, it's half a win.

"What would you prefer?" Barricade purrs, plastering on a coy smile, because he really can't decide which would be the least humiliating of the two options.

Ironhide seems to weigh his options, and suddenly Barricade feels quite certain that putting on a show would be the worse option.

"Curl up on your side." Ironhide says, moving off Barricade.

The Interceptor does as he's told, opening that panel while Ironhide rummages through the box Crosshairs left on the floor.

Will Crosshairs miss those toys? What would he need all of them for, considering all the cock he can get here...?

Maybe he's not such a prude and likes to make himself feel good? With and without an audience.

"You toy with your node, or stick your digits in your pussy, whatever you prefer. I'll take care of the rest."

Obediently, Barricade presses one servo between his legs and starts to slowly circle his node. He forces himself to not tense when a thick digit, slick with lubricant, rubs his opening, but when it slips inside, he squirms.

"I-I had a full frame search in prison. I really hated that..." He blurts, not knowing if it is to explain his squirming, or a plea to not be expected to do this.

"I would've been more surprised if you had enjoyed it. I can't think of anyone who does." Ironhide says, and suddenly Barricade realizes that he may not be the only one in this house who has gone through that. 

Hide has said things before that points to more than him being on parole, and the mechs here seems far more likely to be the type that would be suspected of smuggling than he is. Maybe Nitro was searched when he was in jail? Maybe even Hide has been through it at some point? But wouldn't that make him understand why Barricade doesn't want to do this?

This is interfacing, completely different than a cavity search, and Hide wants to frag your aft. Just get used to being seen as three fraggable holes.

"You're opening up pretty nicely. Still, my two fingers are nowhere near as thick as my spike." 

Does the bastard get turned on by embarrassing him, by saying crude things? 

Probably.

And when the hell did he slip a second digit inside?

Then Barricade wants to hide his helm under a pillow, because if he didn't notice that, then he really must be getting pretty loose.

The digits slip out, and then something bigger presses against his port, easily sliding in the first bit, but the the tapered shape meets resistance. Ironhide wiggles it, twists it, and pushes it in a little bit, pumping it with small movements.

"Keep working yourself, don't focus on this."

He really tries to, and it does surprise him how wet he is getting, as if his frame is approving more than his processor. Even if the stretch is a bit uncomfortable, it's also stimulating in a way that has his charge rising.

You'll be a really good little whore in no time.

Shut up.

Chapter Text

It slides into place and settles, filling him up and Barricade grabs the sheet, venting deeply to get used to it.

"This is a good start. You still have a way to go to take me, though..." Ironhide notes.

He does something with the toy, and suddenly it starts to vibrate. Barricade mewls in surprise at the strange input, the tickling deep in his chassis. His spike requests permission to pressurize, but he denies it.

"Ride me." Ironhide says, flopping over on his back.

With the fucking thing still inside?!

Well, duh...

He doesn't dawdle for too long, because Ironhide has stated what he wants, and so Barricade has to seem willing and eager. He straddles the mech, rubbing his soaked folds along the thick shaft a few times before lining it up and sliding down it. Ironhide groans.

"I can feel those vibrations too, frag that feels good!"

It does feel good to have his valve filled, Barricade is charged, and his inside nodes are very sensitive. He starts to grind against Ironhide's pelvic plating to get some friction on his anterior node.

It's almost too much, he's already racing towards the edge, and Hide certainly won't want to stop just because Barricade overloads in a matter of seconds. He starts to lift off and sink down instead to pace himself, Ironhide's optics locked on where his thick spike is sliding in and out of the Saleen's valve, big servos gripping his thighs. Barricade's digits dig into the seams of Ironhide's ventral plating, and he is hard pressed to not increase the pace and chase his overload.

"Get on all fours. I want to see." Ironhide rumbles, nudging Barricade's hip.

He's quick to obey this time, wanting to get that overload that's pending.

Starting to lose some of your inhibitions, eh? Not getting embarrassed by this.

Barricade ignores the thought, and it's easy to do when Ironhide grabs the toy and wiggles it, making the Saleen squirm from the confusing mix of a weird sensation that's not that uncomfortable, and pleasure. Then the vibrations change pattern, and the Topkick's spike slides into him again, and he rocks back with a moan. Ironhide snickers.

"So needy. I like it."

He starts to pound into Barricade, setting a quick pace, and Barricade grabs on to the sheets, rocking back to meet each thrust. Hide's servo comes around to rub his node, and it's a matter of seconds before Barricade overloads with a loud wail. He pants, arms trembling with the need to go limp and just tip forward, but Ironhide is not done yet, so he forces himself to remain on servos and knees.

Ironhide pulls out, and Barricade feels the hot spatters of transfluid landing on his back and aft, and he has enough energy to be embarrassed and indignant about it, but he doesn't say anything.

Ironhide flops back on the berth, watching as Barricade reaches back to stop the vibrations of the toy, fumbling around with the controls and accidentally changing the vibration patterns a couple of times before managing turn it off. He grabs the base and pulls, forced to wiggle it a bit to get it out.

"You can clean that tomorrow." Ironhide says, handing him a rag to wipe away the cum from his plating.

Barricade does that, and discards the toy and the towel on the floor, then he stretches out on his front next to the Topkick. Digits slip into his aft easily now, he's still slick with lubricant. Barricade flushes, because it's embarrassing to be loosened up like this.

"Do you really have to...?"

"No, but I want to. You take three digits easily now." Ironhide says, amusement coloring his field.

Ugh.

Chapter Text

Barricade never thought that this would be the thing he'd do first thing in the morning, but fate really is dealing him a lot of those kinds of cards these days.

He's curled up on Ironhide's berth, assfucking himself with a toy, and it's cold comfort that the thug left early to go on what he called a repo run, because Barricade still has a fake spike in his ass.

Pushing it in and out pretty slowly, because quicker movements doesn't feel all that good, he's flicking his node to get to the overload so he can quit.

He needs to get going to go find himself a job. This is just a backup plan if he doesn't.

You know, you don't have to overload from this. You could just quit now, since you can take this size. Maybe grab a bigger one and try with that?

But doing it just to stretch himself would make it feel even more gross, so Barricade is going to overload and pretend that he does it for fun.

He doesn't need to keep his spike away now, though...

Barricade allows it to pressurize and grabs it, slowly stroking it. Pre-transfluid is already beading from the head, and he smears it along the shaft, twisting his servo as he strokes himself, his rhythm with the fake spike faltering. The position; curled up on his side is too awkward, and he tries to kneel instead, but it's not much better. He bends forward until his face is pressed against the mattress, aft in the air, and at that moment, Barricade is very thankful for being alone in the room.

He starts to slide the toy into himself again, and this time, he hits that spot Crosshairs found inside him. The Mustang's hips jerk, his spike being pushed into his servo, and he groans.

With the servo around his spike, he sets a quick pace, and he angles the toy to hit that spot with every slide of it, and it doesn't take long before he overloads, transfluid landing in sticky ropes on the sheet. His frame feels limp and relaxed, and he would really enjoy to just lay there for a while, but he doesn't have time for that.

Throw the sheets in the washer, wash the toys, quick shower, find a job.

Chapter Text

Of course he doesn't find a job. Noon turns to afternoon, and then late afternoon, and with a sinking feeling in his spark, he has to admit defeat and go back to the house, because he has things he has to do to prepare himself for the inevitable. He finds Jazz in the main rec room, lazily lounging on a couch.

"Hi, Cade. W'sup?"

"I really need you to fuck me in the ass right now." Barricade hisses, spark in his throat-tubing.

Of course he doesn't say it quietly enough. Everyone falls silent, turning their helms to them.

"No little mech of ours should have to be left so desperate. I have a nice, big dick for you to sit on if you need it." Nitro Zeus leers.

Barricade glares at the Flier, barely keeping himself from making a disgusted face when Nitro Zeus pressurizes his spike, slowly stroking the thick length of admittedly impressive ridges and biolights.

Off course he'd have mods to make up for the lack of a fancy paint job, and the way his bulky frame can't measure up to the sleek beauty of a seeker. If you don't have the looks, make sure your dick has them instead, or what?

Those ridges probably hit every single spot, though...

Shut up.

"I'm fine, thank you." Barricade grinds out.

Nitro shrugs. "Suit yourself, it's your loss." He looks around, still holding his pressurized spike. "Hey, Roddy! Take care of this for me. I mean, now that the beast is good to go, I might as well put it to use."

The mech with the gaudy paint job looks at the Flier. "Sure. Tell Sunny, though. I mean, if it makes me late for work."

"I'll make it quick." Nitro says, pulling Hot Rod into his lap and sinking his spike inside immediately.

"Babe?" Jazz says, catching Barricade's attention. "Wanna take this ta my room?"

"Yeah."

Jazz gets up, and Barricade follows him, glancing at where Nitro is fucking Roddy, the smaller mech steadying himself with servos on the Flier's broad shoulders. Hot Rod looks like he's thinking about something else, as if he couldn't care less about the spiking he's getting, and Barricade gets a niggling feeling in the back of his processor about why Ironhide wants him to show a little enthusiasm, because that looks kind of boring.

At least Roddy won't be competition when they're looking for in-house entertainment the next time.

Ugh.

Chapter Text

"Now that is a request I never thought I'd hear from you." Jazz drawls when they're in his room, door shut behind them.

"Hide's going to do it tonight. He already took my valve virginity, and the first blowjob I've ever given. I'd rather not give everything to him. And I'm not sure he'll be all that gentle either, and he's kind of massive, so..."

"He won't damage ya, but I'm not gonna say no ta an offer like that!" Jazz says, patting the berth next to him.

Barricade sits down, but he doesn't lay back, nervously toying with a plate on his thigh. He's had toys in his port a few times now, but it feels like a very long step to be the kind of mech who takes spike up his ass too, even if it will happen soon anyway.

"Do you do it? Take it in the port, I mean."

"Yeah. I didn' back when we met, n' I was so scared that ya'd demand that, because I wasn' sellin' it n' I really didn' wanna do it. Then Brawl happened, n' I wasn' allowed ta choose anymore. By tha time I got here, I was so used ta it, I never really thought about not doin' it."

It makes horrible, disgusting sense, but at least it settles some of Barricade's nerves, because at least Jazz won't think less of him for going along with this.

He crawls up to stretch out on his front next to Jazz, burying his face in the pillow when he tilts his hips to grant access, and opens the covers.

Jazz's servo is there immediately, and he can feel the eager anticipation trembling in his lover's field. It doesn't feel good, because it somehow feels like Jazz has just been waiting to get a chance to literally have at his aft. Barricade doesn't like feeling objectified like that — especially not by his lover — even if he can't say if it really is like that, or if his processor is interpreting Jazz's eagerness wrong.

Jazz's thumb, slicked with lubricant slides into his aft, Jazz's other digits sliding through his slit to circle his node, and Barricade forces himself to try to relax.

"Ya've been practicin'." 

"Yeah." Barricade squeaks, embarrassed.

The thumb slides out, and he hears how Jazz pours more lubricant on his servo, then two digits slip into him, pumping in and out slowly. Excitement is trembling in Jazz's field, and he can sense the impatience even before Jazz speaks the next time.

"Ya think ya're ready? Ya're slick n' kind of inviting, n' I don' wanna rub ya raw by fingering ya for too long..."

He'll never be ready. 

"Just do it, I think I can handle it."

He might as well get it over with.

"My pleasure. Lift your hips, it'll feel better n' help ya take me."

Chapter Text

Jazz nudges his knees farther apart, and the angle forces Barricade to arch his back, hips lifting in what feels like an obscene invitation. 

Just like they do in the pornos.

Then the head of Jazz's spike pushes against his slick entrance. It stings when he's pried open, the stretch burning, and Barricade grunts in discomfort, because it is bigger than anything he has taken before, and while there was some discomfort whenever he tried a bigger toy, he was at least more prepped when he sized up. This is so much worse.

"Ya're doin' great, hun!" Jazz encourages him in a strained voice. "Ya know, ya can bite tha pillow while ya get used to it. Even mechs who like ta get it hard n' deep often do."

Barricade's answer is a wordless keen, but he doesn't take the advice — because it sounds ridiculous, and why would anyone want to do it like that of their own free will — but when the head of Jazz's spike pops inside, Barricade suddenly finds his intake full of fluffy pillow.

Fucking pit, Jazz never felt too big, but right now, he feels massive.

Imagine how Ironhide will feel. 

Not right now. Please.

Oh, look, he's getting humbled!

Jazz slowly rolls his hips, pushing in a little deeper every time, and Barricade is panting into the pillow, whimpering with every push. It's so much, and he can't understand how Jazz manages to pull out or push in at all, because they should be stuck like this, considering how thick that lenght feels inside him.

"Fuck ya feel good like this, so fuckin' tight, n' hot. Yare takin' me so well too." Jazz praises him, a servo sliding along his back-struts in a soothing manner. "Halfway there already!"

Halfway?! Half-fucking-way?! He's going to die. The notice of his demise in the news site will say  "died with a cock in his ass, like a full fledged fucking pleasurebot."

Heh.

"I-I... I can't. It's too much, I..." Barricade whines, spitting out the pillow.

"Aw, babe, I know tha first time can be a bit rough. Ya'll learn, though. N' ya won' enjoy doin' this with Hide if ya can't even take me. He's big."

"I know, I just..."

"It'll feel better soon, I'll hold still for a while. I'm sorry for rushin', but ya know, if ya'd been a little earlier, I'd have more time ta rev ya up before. I need ta finish before I hafta go to work."

Well, fuck his functioning, but it's his own damned fault that this is so uncomfortable. He should've asked Jazz much sooner for help with this.

Jazz starts to toy with Barricade's anterior node, holding still, and after a while of that, the discomfort slowly tapers off to a duller ache, and a fullness Barricade isn't used to yet. His charge is rising from Jazz's ministrations, and his valve is feeling slick.

It'll have to do, he wants this over with.

"You can move now."

Jazz's only answer is slow rolls of his hips, pushing in a little deeper with each thrust, and this time, it's a bit easier to take it. 

"Ya should keep playin' with your node. It's hard for me ta reach like this."

He does, because while he doesn't want to enjoy anything about this, the only one losing if he doesn't is himself. Jazz increase the pace, long thrusts that make's his pelvic plating clang against Barricade's aft every time he hilts himself, servos digging into Barricade's hips for leverage. It feels kind of degrading.

Barricade finally manages to coax himself to an overload, but it's shallow and unsatisfying, then Jazz pulls out, spilling his transfluid on Barricade's aft.

"Sorry for makin' a mess, but I don' wanna cream ya up before ya're goin' ta Hide. That was nice, I'd be happy ta do it again if ya wanna. I hafta go now, I'm already late for work. Sorry ta run out on ya, but Sunny has no patience at all."

"It's fine. See you tomorrow." Barricade mumbles.

Nope, they're not doing this again anytime soon.

Chapter Text

He has cleaned up and is curled up by the headboard on Ironhide's berth, smoking a cyg to calm his nerves by the time the thug shows up.

The Topkick smirks at him, then it turns into a predatory grin, full of anticipation. Ironhide slowly crawls up the berth on all fours, stalking him like a cyberwolf would, and Barricade stifles a shudder that's not just fear. Ironhide reaches out to pluck the cyg from Barricade's lip-plates, taking a drag from it without breaking optic contact, then he puts it out and discards it on the nightstand. Barricade bites his bottom lip to stop it from trembling. A big servo slides up his thigh, urging his legs apart, trying to open his defensive pose.

The dam breaks.

Barricade starts to sob, trembling violently, and he buries his face against his knees, wrapping his arms around his helm to hide.

"I-I'm sorry! I can't do it! I tried, I really did, and it hurt so much, so very very much, and I just can't, because you're so big, and I'll fall into stasis, and..."

Ironhide heaves a sigh, sitting back, and Barricade is convinced that the Topkick has had enough, that he's going to kick Barricade out, and he really doesn't want to risk to eventually be forced to this by someone much worse. 

But it hurt so much, and just thinking about it makes him on edge, and...

"Hey, take it easy. You were doing well last night. What happened?"

"I wanted to make sure I could take something bigger before trying with you, but J... the mech I went to was in a rush, and it hurt so fucking bad, and he's nowhere near your size..." Barricade wails into his knees.

"Who did it?" Ironhide sounds annoyed.

Oh shit! He didn't mean to get Jazz in trouble!

"It doesn't matter. I just... I'm so scared, because I know this will hurt much worse."

"It matters a lot, because if it's a brother, I still have claimed you for myself, and even if you volunteered, they can't damage you. And if it's one of the whores..."

"I'm not damaged, it just hurt." Barricade mumbles.

"Your loss of cooperation is something I consider damage. Loss of cooperation is time, time is money. Now, who owes me money for the time I need to invest in getting you cooperative again?"

"I don't want to get him in trouble, please don't... I'll make it up to you. He needed to go to work, and I was keeping him from going. Please, I'll make it up to you, don't blame him."

"So, it's Jazz."

"Please, he didn't mean to. I'll do whatever you want, just don't be mad at him." Barricade mumbles in a small voice, terrified for what Ironhide could do to Jazz, and how his accidental snitching could impact their relationship.

"You know what I want. We even scheduled this, so keep your end of the bargain, and I don't have to take the payment elsewhere."

Another sob wracks Barricade's frame, but still he nods his agreement. 

For Jazz. He'll bite the fragging pillow for Jazz.

Chapter Text

"Come here. Straddle me." Ironhide says, leaning his back against the headboard, stretching his legs out.

It's unexpected, because Barricade was so convinced that he'd be aft up, face in the bedding for this, nothing else came to mind. He swings his leg over Ironhide's thighs, servos on the big mech's shoulders, and sits there awkwardly.

"I told you I don't want to hurt you, and it's true, so we'll go slow. I'm not a complete bastard, even if you like to think I am."

Barricade flushes but nods, opening his panels when Ironhide's servo slides between his legs. A thick digit slips into his valve, already slick with lubricant, because he did prep himself after his shower. Ironhide's other servo cups the back of his helm, urging him forward to meet the Topkick in a slow kiss.

It throws Barricade off balance, because this kind of foreplay wasn't what he expected. The digit inside him slips out to do a lap around his node before slipping inside again. Barricade allows himself to get into the kiss, slowly relaxing as Ironhide coaxes him to get charged, his valve getting slicker with his honest arousal. Barricade hardly notices when the digit slides back to be pushed into his port. A strong arm wraps around his back to pull him closer, chest-plates pressed against Ironhide's, and another digit joins the first without any real discomfort. Barricade throws himself into the kiss, speeding it up, making it more feral and hungry with clashing denta, ignoring as another digit slides into him until Ironhide breaks the kiss, nipping at Barricade's jaw before speaking up.

"I want you to ride me. Take what you can, I want us both to have a good time tonight."

Ironhide grabs his rock hard spike to keep it steady, and Barricade feels it rub sticky pre-cum against the plating on his aft. He swallows nervously, but still he lifts himself, shifting to line it up against his port. Barricade slowly starts to sink down, and it's surprisingly easy when it starts to open him up.

Loose whore, easily taking it up the ass...

Then he hits resistance, and he stops, grinding his denta.

"You're doing good, just a little bit more, and you'll have the tip inside." Ironhide praises him, stroking soothingly down Barricade's back-strut with his big servo.

Barricade lifts off, giving himself a slight respite, waiting out the reflexive clench of his calipers before pushing down again. The resistance is still there, but he's determined, ignoring the burning stretch, and suddenly he's rewarded with the head of Ironhide's spike popping into him when the thickest part gets past his calipers.

Ironhide grinds his denta, optics momentarily rolling back into his helm. "Fuck, you're so tight!" He growls, servos sliding up and down Barricade's sides, and it is unclear if it is a soothing gesture, or a way to distract himself to keep from overloading on the spot.

There's something very satisfying about unraveling the bastard like that, something that feels like he holds some power there, and Barricade clenches around that spike, smirking at Ironhide. It isn't comfortable to clench around the thick cock, but he ignores that, because the satisfaction of Ironhide's reaction outweighs it. Ironhide bares his denta, sucking in a sharp vent when his spike is squeezed even tighter.

"Watch it, little minx..." Ironhide growls, but pleased amusement is coloring his field.

Chapter Text

He has worked himself further down on Ironhide's spike, not all the way, but he's so fragging full when Hide starts to tease his anterior node again.

"You're more than halfway, and I'd say that's enough for today if you want to finish now."

Barricade nods, still continuing to lift off and sink down a little deeper each time. Ironhide's servo on his aft urges him to increase the pace and he does. It's impossible to get any deeper with this pace, it brings a twinging deep in his chassis, but as long as he doesn't try to take more of it, the pace feels ok, especially when Ironhide increases the pressure on the touches to his node.

"Rotate your chassis a bit, it'll make it better for you."

He tries it, and it takes a few slides along the shaft to get it right, but then Ironhide's spike hits that spot inside him, and his hips buck with the intensity of the sensation.

"That's it, keep that up." Ironhide grinds out, obviously close.

Barricade mewls the next time he slides down the thick spike and it hits that spot again, his valve contracting as he already teeters on the edge. Then Ironhide flicks his node one more time, and Barricade overloads with a wail, hips bucking uncontrollably. He sinks down deeper on Ironhide's spike, and the big mech growls when he overloads, arms shaking from the effort of not just pressing Barricade down to push in to the hilt. 

The Saleen lurches forward, leaning his helm against Ironhide's shoulder, frame feeling strutless and spent, and he waits out the rhythmic pulsing as Ironhide spills his transfluid inside him.

"Thank you for being patient." Barricade mumbles.

Ironhide could've just had him, could've told him to get on his knees and servos and fucked him no matter how bad it felt for Barricade, but he didn't. No, he did this surprisingly good for Barricade.

You come so hard when you've something up your ass, are you starting to like it. 

Shut up.

"I don't enjoy hurting mechs. Unless they're into that, then I can dig it, but you are not. You'll manage to take it all tomorrow, I'm certain of it, and I'm not in a rush. Now, stretch out on your front."

Barricade climbs off of Ironhide's lap, the spike slipping out followed by a trickle of transfluid, and he feels himself flush with embarrassment. Ironhide smirks as if he knows exactly, and it makes Barricade even more embarrassed. He still obeys, stretching out as instructed, feeling the warm fluid still dribbling out. Ironhide reaches out to stroke his port, pushing a couple of digits inside without resistance, scissoring them to let a bigger glob of fluid to run out.

"I like this; seeing you all loose, drooling my cum, feeling how sloppy you are from accommodating my cock."

Barricade buries his face in the mattress, so very embarrassed by it all, but even more embarrassed by how nice those stroking digits feel on the rim of his port, lazily toying with him.

Then Hide has seen enough, and he stretches out next to Barricade, slinging an arm across the Interceptor and pulling him close. The lights go off, and Barricade is stunned by the suddenness of it all.

"What a fucking day, I'm so tired. And you really wore me out. We can clean up tomorrow." Hide mumbles, apparently already halfway into recharge. "You should talk to Crosshairs about some extra protocols for your port. Might come in handy. For your own sake."

Ugh, more things to turn him into the perfect pleasurebot.

"How would that be for my sake?"

But Ironhide is already in recharge, so no answer is forthcoming. Ignoring his general stickiness, Barricade offlines his optics and nestles into the big frame next to him, because recharging like that is kind of comfortable.

Chapter Text

Barricade comes to a halt just inside the door to the refueling room, and he knows that staring is rude, but he just can't help himself.

Dreadbot is curled up on top of a bar stool, reading a data pad, slowly chewing energon gels he's picking form a plate on the table. That's not what has Barricade staring. 

He's completely covered in fluffy, light blue fabric.

"What?" Dreadbot asks around a bite, sounding annoyed.

"Sorry. I just... I've never seen something like that?" Barricade indicates Dreadbot with a motion of his servo.

Dreadbot smirks, sliding down from the chair, doing a little twirl to show off the garment that covers him from neck to pede.

"It's comfortable." Dreadbot says, taking his seat again.

"Can I touch it?" Barricade asks, feeling ridiculous as soon as the words are out, but the fluffyness is very compelling.

"Sure."

Barricade stops by Dreadbot, stroking his servo along the mech's back to get a feel of the fabric, and he can see why it is comfortable. The softness of the fabric makes him want to touch it all day. He strokes it once more, then he heads for the energon dispenser.

"Incredibly soft, I can see why you like it."

Dreadbot smirks without looking up from his data pad, nodding. Barricade turns back to the energon heater, pouring a serving into the pot, then he hears the door opening. He glances over his shoulder, and when he spots Knock Out and Crosshairs, he pours more energon into the heater.

"Good morning, my pretties." Knock Out purrs.

Barricade answers over his shoulder, and turns back to face them as soon as the heater is started.

"I, ah, I need to talk to you, Crosshairs. Alone? After we have had energon of course." Barricade says hesitantly, because he isn't exactly looking forward to have a discussion about modifying the protocols for his aft.

"Absolutely!" 

The door flies open again, and Nitro Zeus steps in, optic locking on Dreadbot, brightening considerably. He makes a beeline for the smaller mech, scooping him up from his seat.

"Hey, what the hell..."

"You, me, my room, right now." Nitro rumbles, throwing Dreadbot over his shoulder, pinning his legs between a strong arm and massive chest-plates.

Dreadbot flails uselessly, making a noise of outrage as Nitro Zeus turns and heads for the door.

"Put me down you fragging oaf! I have not agreed to this!" 

"Then you shouldn't dress like that, looking all inviting." Nitro says, his free servo stroking the soft fabric covering Dreadbot's aft.

"It's a free fucking country, I can dress however I damned well please! Now put me down, you uncivilized cave troll." Dreadbot snarls before sinking his denta into Nitro's back.

"Ow! Bitch." Nitro cackles in amusement, stopping the fondling of Dreadbot's aft in favor of spanking him instead.

"I was refueling, you underclocked bastard, I have both the right and the need to get some sustenance!"

Nitro stops and walks backwards to the table.

"You're right, you need the energy to keep up with me. Go on, stuff your face."

Dreadbot hangs there for long seconds, scowling at Nitro, then he grabs the gels and stuffs all of them into his intake at once.

"I'll make you pay for this!" He snarls around the mouthful, spanking Nitro's aft with both his servos since he can't really do anything else.

"Technically, I already am paying for this, but I will enjoy seeing you try."

"Fucking asshole!" Dreadbot growls.

Nitro Zeus barks a laugh. "Promise?!"

Then the door swings shut behind them, and Barricade fidgets, feeling uneasy about it.

"Shouldn't we help him? I mean..." He trails off, watching as Crosshairs grabs the data pad for himself and Knock Out puts the plate in the washer as if their co-worker wasn't just taken away against his will to be fucked by a bastard.

"Nah, tha's jus' foreplay. 'e never complains when 'e returns." Crosshairs says, shrugging.

Chapter Text

"Ye wanned te speak te me?" Crosshairs says when Knock Out has grabbed his energon and left the refueling room.

"Yeah, I," Barricade starts, flushing horribly. "Hide said I should ask you about... About modified protocols for my, uhm, my port." He mumbles.

"Alright, wha' d'ye need te know?" Crosshairs smirks, clearly amused by Barricade's embarrassment.

"Uhm, everything? I don't know, he just said I should ask you. That it was for my own sake."

"Well, ye were pretty tight, so it might be a good idea. An' it has other advantages. Ye want me te show ye 'ow mine work?"

Well, that won't be awkward...

Maybe he'll let you try him? You'd really like that, wouldn't you. Bend him over something and stick it up his ass, see if it is good to do it like that.

Well, he wouldn't complain about it if Crosshairs offers...

"Sure..."

"Let's go te my room. I could do it 'ere, but I'm no' sure I'd get te finish the demonstration if someone walks in..." Crosshairs says suggestively as he heads for the door.

Barricade follows him, certain that Crosshairs is right. They go to the pleasurebot wing, and Crosshairs lets him into his room. It's bigger than Jazz's, and he has more things, but then again, he has been here longer than Jazz, so that probably isn't strange. Barricade's optics lock on the chest of drawers, or rather the impressive collection of toys on top of it. There's so many fake spikes, it's a miracle that they don't fall over the edge. 

No, there's actually a few on the floor too.

Crosshairs crawls onto the berth, and flops down on his back, spreading his legs, panels open.

"Grab the thick, blue an' red dildo in the top drawer, an' the lube. Then come sit 'ere." He says to Barricade.

It's so weird to dig around in a drawer that should be so private, but Barricade opens the drawer, gawking at the huge toy inside. He takes it hesitantly, because he still isn't really used to these things, even finds them a bit gross. 

The thing is fucking massive.

He grabs the lube and returns to the berth, kneeling between Crosshairs legs. With a smirk, the Corvette puts a pede on his shoulder.

"I 'ave full control over my calipers. Normally, we don', they operate automatically, but with my extra protocols, I can adjust them as I want. Go ahead an' lube me up. Test 'ow tight I am now, an' I'll show ye the difference."

Chapter Text

Crosshairs is really tight. The lube makes Barricade's digit slide in quite easily anyway, but the rim really squeezes his digit. Crosshairs hums appreciatively when Barricade slowly pumps his digit to smear the lube.

"Tight, yeh?"

"Yes."

"Now, pour some lube on the toy."

"Are you sure? This thing is so thick..." 

On the other servo, Crosshairs didn't seem to have any problems taking Ironhide's spike. It's smaller than the toy, but definitely big enough.

Crosshairs grins. "'bout the same size as Blackout." He grabs the backs of his thighs, pulling his knees up to his chest to give Barricade full access.

The Saleen smears a good amount of lube on the pole of a toy, then he lines it up, using both servos to be able to hold it.

"Push it in. Don' be afraid te push 'ard."

Barricade goes slowly, not really daring to push hard as Crosshairs told. The Corvette grimaces and rolls his helm from side to side as he's slowly pried open.

"Should I stop?"

"Nah, this is jus' a demonstration. Ye see? I could probably take it, but no' easily. Keep pushing!"

Barricade pushes a little harder, watching Crosshairs writhe.

"Normally, ye'd need te be prepped, an' slowly stretched te be able te take this, but I can control my calipers..."

Suddenly the toy slides inside without resistance, and Barricade almost topples forward. Crosshairs grins up at him.

"See, I jus' opened up to le' i' in. Doesn' 'urt at all."

Barricade stares down at where Crosshairs frame is swallowing the massive toy. It looks obscene, both disturbing and slightly arousing in a confusing way.

"Pull i' ou'."

As soon as the massive toy slides free, Barricade stares at Crosshairs's loose hole, gaping as widely as the toy stretched him.

"If I don' close it manually, or switch te the automatic mode, it stays the size I put it to. Comes in 'andy with the mechs who likes te watch their transfluid drool out of a wrecked ass. Or when Motormaster wants te pour midgrade into me first."

Barricade feels himself make a face.

"It ain't bad. I mean, i' doesn't affect the waste gate, an' I 'ave a drain 'ose, so i' doesn't mix with my oil, or get dirty or cause leakage. An' midgrade is mildly conductive, so i' kind of stimulates the inside nodes in two ways. Almost feels like bein' licked really deep, but so lightly, i's jus' teasin'..." Crosshairs's voice is getting rougher while he talks, and his optics are getting brighter. He's getting charged. 

"Okay, got it. Seems like a good way to make it not hurt." Barricade says, because sitting there, staring at that gaping port is starting to feel awkward.

"Yeah, an' then when I'm done, I can tighten it again, I don' 'ave te wait fer my frame te do it by itself, because tha' usually takes some time." Crosshairs says, his port closing quickly. "Test it now, all good an' tight again."

Barricade pushes his digit inside again, and just like Crosshairs said, he's as tight as before they started.

Wouldn't it be pretty nice if you could take a spike that easily? 

He's not going to stay long enough to get cock in his ass that much. 

Keep telling yourself that.

It would feel good to not be all loose until the day after, or even longer, though... 

"Seems like a nifty modification. How do I get it?"

Chapter Text

"Ratch can do i'. Either ye ask Hide fer credits an' work off the debt, or ye offer Ratchet a test drive as thanks."

Barricade nods, not at all keen on paying for mods with his frame, and borrowing from Ironhide seems like a bad idea since he's going to leave soon.

"Ratchet insist on charging fer frivolous an' unnecessary procedures an' mods, says it pays fer his charity work tha's needed. I ain't never 'eard of 'im actually takin' the offer of facin' as payment though, 'e jus' drops the bill instead. Pity, really, I bet 'e's fantastic in the sack, with 'is knowledge of frames."

"Well, I guess it can't hurt to ask if we can make some sort of deal."

"I'll go with ye. His drop-in doesn' open until afternoon though. But ye know, I'm prepped already, an' I'm kinda randy..." Crosshairs rolls over on his front, wiggling his aft. "Wanna fuck me?"

Barricade's spike sends double request for pressurization when Crosshairs port visibly goes a little slacker slacker, already glistening with lubricant. He allows it, pre-transfluid already weeping from the head.

"Sure you're ready?" He asks, slipping two digits inside, because he's not going to make this as bad as the first time was for him, even if it seems like Crosshairs can deal with it way better.

"Yes! So ready" Crosshairs whines. 

He lines up and slides inside, Crosshairs easily taking him, and Barricade can't stop himself before he's hilted.

So fucking tight and hot, so very good around his spike. He should've tried this a long time ago.

Oh, look, now it's okay with port stuff!

"Do you want me to stroke your spike?" Because that seems like a polite thing to do, and he's not going to be the only one having a good time here.

"Nah, I don' care much fer usin' my spike if I'm not already fully stuffed."

Barricade doesn't have the wits to try to figure out how that works, not when he's starting to thrust, and Crosshairs squeezes around his spike.

"Flick your node then?"

"Please do if ye want to." Crosshairs mewls.

Barricade reaches around to stroke the Corvettes anterior node, and it earns him a loud wail of approval. The enthusiasm is arousing, if the tight heat around his spike wasn't enough, and he's racing towards the edge quickly.

"I'm going to overload soon." He grinds out.

"Me too!"

"Where should I shoot my load?"

"Inside me! I wan' my ass full of cum."

Well, that's one way to put it. 

Don't say you don't like it, though, the thought of him wanting it, and this mental image of your spunk in his aft.

Crosshairs overloads, wailing into the mattress, and Barricade is right behind, slamming in deep when the coil in the pit of his stomach is finally released. Crosshairs goes strutless, hips held up by Barricade's denting grip until the Interceptor has spilled everything, then he lets go of the Corvette, and Crosshairs collapses on the berth.

Barricade can't help but stare in fascination at the slack rim of Crosshairs port, the way his transfluid is dribbling out, and his spike gives a dull throb.

Well fucked ass. He really should've tried this a long time ago.

See why Hide wants to watch your little butt drool? Can't complain much about that now can you?

Whatever.

Chapter Text

"So will you do it? I don't have any credits, but you can get the first test drive..." Barricade says, not feeling nearly as smooth and seductive as he is trying to be.

Ratchet frowns, but it's hard to say if it's pity, mild disgust, or that he doesn't think Barricade's effort to be sexy is good enough.

"Ye fixed it fer me, so I know ye 'ave the right stuff te do it, Doc. Ye always know what te do. Please?" Crosshairs says, tacking on that innocent, sweet smile that makes it impossible to believe that he was begging for cum in his aft an hour ago.

"I'll do it for free this time. But don't think everything will always be free! I'm just not keen on fixing up a busted port. Calipers can be a bitch to fix." Ratchet mutters.

"Thank you, Sir!" Barricade says with honest relief before he climbs up on the repair berth.

"Keeping you from unnecessary pain and damage is justifiable. Did the seal removal work? I mean, you didn't notice any complications?"

"No, it worked well. It didn't hurt or anything when I Interfaced."

"'oly scrap! Ye were a virgin when ye moved in?!"

Ratchet scowls at Crosshairs as if he had forgotten about Barricade's self proclaimed moral support.

"Yeah." 

"Enough! We will get this done so I can move on to the next patient, who may be in a more dire situation than just fucking in every way all the time!" Ratchet growls.

"We will talk about this later." Crosshairs stage whispers.

Barricade just rolls his optics. He isn't keen on talking about that, especially since he hasn't even shared everything with Jazz, but he's definitely not going to get into an argument when Ratchet has basically told them to shut up. Who knows what the medic will do? Nope, hes not risking his aft over this. Literally.

Chapter Text

The most awkward part is the test of his new protocols. The installation is easy: Ratchet hardlines with him and installs them, and the first control protocols are unpacked quickly.

"The rest of the installation will take some time, so we'll do a quick test now, and then you go home. If something feels off when the installation is finished, you come back. It's just parameters, presettings and finer motor control, so nothing crucial. You should be able to control your calipers fairly well now. Curl up on your side, and open your panel."

His favorite position! Ugh.

A digit slips into him.

"Squeeze."

Barricade finds the right protocol and activates it, feeling his port clench around the digit. It feels weird to have that kind of control.

"Good. Open up."

It's even weirder to feel his calipers lose their grip on the digit.

"More." 

"Ye'll easily take Hide now!"

Ratchet field flares irritably at the same time as Barricade flushes with embarrassment, and then a clang resounds through the room.

"Ow! No wrenches!" Crosshairs whines.

"Then take the chair, like a normal moral support, instead of behaving as if this is one of your perverted shows!"

"Maybe ye wouldn' be so cranky if ye came te one o' our shows? A bit o' pussy te unwind..." Crosshairs mutter-pouts, and when he comes into Barricade's line of vision — to take the chair as he was ordered — he's rubbing his helm. "Drift would be thrilled te do a li'l dance, an' make a li'l love."

"I'm old enough to be his Sire."

"'e could need a Daddy."

Ratchet's field does a mighty cringe.

"Can we not talk about that?"

"Drift's also good at more pedestrian stuff, if ye prefer tha'. Ooh, ye could play doctor! 'Open up, I need te make sure yer reformat went well, an' all the components are functioning properly.'"

If Ratchet's field isn't way off, he's probably glaring at Crosshairs, and Barricade is half certain that Crosshairs will suddenly have a hole burned through his helm. The annoyance is not fully covering the Medic's embarrassed arousal, though.

"Enough! One more word, and you're out!"

"Ye're the Doc!" Crosshairs leers innocently before making a gesture that he's locking his lip-plates shut.

"Sorry about that, Barricade, but you're the one who wanted to let him stay in here."

"'s alright, Ratchet." Barricade says, because he's not going to complain and risk peeving the Medic off even more.

"Close your port again, please."

He does, squeezing a digit before it slips out.

"It's working properly so far. You should experiment a bit with it when it's fully installed, and learn how it works. There's a manual in the data package too, read that. And you're free to go."

Barricade closes his plate and slips down from the berth."

"Thank you, Ratchet. If I can make it up to you somehow, you let me know." 

Not that he knows anything he could do, except letting Ratchet fuck him, but it's always good to try to stay on the mech's good side.

"You're welcome. You can do me a favor and get him out of here. I'm sure his aft is about to explode from keeping his mouth shut for so long." Ratchet mutters, pointing at Crosshairs.

They don't linger.

Chapter Text

Crosshairs's field is vibrating with curiosity when they leave Ratchet's place.

"Ye were still a virgin when ye moved in? 'ow's tha' even possible?! Ye were like tegether with Jazz before, right?"

He doesn't want to talk about it, both because it means bringing up stuff he'd rather forget, but also because there's a very real risk that the truth about his relationship with Jazz will make his current situation far worse, if the pleasurebots will hold a grudge against him for it.

"How much has Jazz told you?"

"Jus' tha' ye kept 'im out o' jail, an' tha' ye were like frag buddies or somethin'. He didn' define it, almost sounded like 'e wasn' certain 'imself about wha' ye were."

"I was an Enforcer back then, and I asked for sexual favors — among other things — in exchange for looking the other way and not bringing some mechs in. I didn't want to use my valve, so I only spiked him."

Crosshairs frowns but doesn't say anything.

"I mean, I was thinking I did a good thing: mechs kept from getting their third strike for ridiculously petty stuff. Then I really fell for Jazz, and I wanted to be with him for real, but internal affairs found out about my drug use, and that I was letting mechs get away with some crimes if they paid me for it, so I went to prison before we really had a chance to get serious."

It's a polished version, because it sounds better than spelling out just how abusive it was, but it's close enough to the truth.

"But 'ow can ye never 'ave tried usin' yer valve?! It's the best thing!" Crosshairs says, apparently not that concerned with the entire consent part of Barricade's sordid history.

Barricade is relieved that Crosshairs doesn't seem to judge his past too harshly. 

On the other servo, crooked cops are probably what keeps Crosshairs and a good part of Ironhide's crew out of prison, so maybe his past is even something positive?

They fold into alt mode and drive back towards the house.

::Step-sire took advantage of me when I still had my last frame — took my seal on that array — and when that was finally over, I never wanted to do it again. Kept that promise to myself until... Well, until Ironhide.::

Crosshairs is silent for a while.

::I 'ad a teacher like tha'. A slimy, ugly bastard. But I 'ad already acquired some positive experience before tha', so I wouldn' let 'im destroy it fer me. I really like te be fragged.::

::It can be pretty good.:: Barricade admits, because he does like it with Jazz, and Ironhide has made it very pleasurable most of the time, and the rest of the times, he's made sure that Barricade makes it pleasing himself.

They drive up in front of the house and transforms back to root mode.

"It's the best thing! An' I really like 'ow special it makes me feel when I'm chosen. Like, we go' all these ho' mechs livin' 'ere, but I can make them all want me. I 'ave what they crave. The brothers could probably get anyone they want in the entire city, bu' they come te me, because I'm wha' they want. Makes me feel like a million credits."

That doesn't really sound like healthy reasoning...

Chapter Text

"How did you wind up here? I mean, I heard that you grew up in a rich family..."

"My carrier deactivated durin' my emergence. My sire didn' 'ave time fer me when I was little, 'e 'ad a business te run, an 'e was gettin' into politics, an' my big brother Percy was like a prodigy or somethin', so 'e was the favorite whenever dad was 'ome anyway. I was taken care of by servants, an' raised myself until I started goin' te school. I was always actin' up te get attention, an' le' me tell ye, tha' did no' improve the way dad saw me."

They walk into the house, and the rec room is empty of people for once. Crosshairs walks over to the bar and pours a cube of high grade.

"Ye wan' one too? We can go te my room an' swap stories."

He doesn't really want to tell his story, but on the other servo, he's so curious about Crosshairs's way from towers brat to whore. He can always choose what parts of his past to talk about and what not to.

"Yes, please."

Crosshairs pours another one, and Barricade grabs it before following Crosshairs back to his room.

"I was in 'igh school when dad was up for 'is first election, an' we were livin' in the suburbs, an' one thing tha' was discussed a lo' back then was the difference in quality of schools from area te area. So dad proposed tha' a few students from a poor neighborhood would go te our school. I' was nothin' but a publicity stunt, but i' was such a spectacle made 'bout it in the press, an' it was so exciting when they started there. War frames. I'd never seen one in real life, an' they were both cool an' ho'. I didn' 'ave many friends, because all the parents thought I was a bad influence."

They step into Crosshairs's room, and Barricade's optics fall on something he didn't notice before, something fluffy, and pink, vaguely looking like a cyberpony, but with a horn on the forehelm, and much plumper. It's almost the same length as Barricade.

"What is that?"

"My unicorn! Hide ordered i' fer me. It's modelled after a species of animals on an organic planet in the next solar system. I really 'ate te recharge alone, an' the few times I do, I like te cuddle it."

It's a weird quirk, but Barricade certainly isn't going to comment on it. The unicorn thingy does look very soft and cuddle friendly.

Chapter Text

Crosshairs plunks down on his berth and pats the covers next to him, inviting Barricade to take a seat. 

"Anyway, I wanned te 'ang out with them, so I started te try te talk te them. Nobot else did, the other students looked down their olfactories on them. At first, they jus' kept te themselves, they were jus' political pawns, not really interested in goin' te our school at all. They wanned te be with their own crowd, of course. But eventually, they le' me share cygs with them at the breaks, hangin' out behind the school, an' I finally felt like I belonged te a crowd too. I 'ad friends."

Barricade remembers hearing about that kind of exchange of students when he was in school. His district wasn't one of the chosen areas though.

"Wan' me te show ye instead?" Crosshairs says, indicating a hatch on his arm.

It's quicker than telling the story, and showing memories really shows the feelings that comes with them, but Barricade is surprised that Crosshairs is so willing to share vulnerabilities and experiences so openly.

"We all do it 'ere — us entertainers at least — almost everyone 'as showed each other things 'bout their past. Makes it easier te be around each other, an' te know wha's ok an' wha might no' be te do an' say."

It does make sense, and even if they still are obligated to go along with what the brothers want, at least the pleasurebots can keep from making jokes or suggestions to each other that will put someone severely off. And if he returns the favor, he can choose what memories to show.

"Sounds good."

He unrolls his cable and plugs it into the data port on Crosshairs lower arm. Then there's that moment of vertigo before he's seeing everything from Crosshairs point of view at the time.

A very hazy, definitely drunken point of view.

He's at a party, a really wild one apparently. No parents at home. He's thrilled, because he has never been to a party like this. There's a jug of home distilled energon on a table, and sweet energon to mix it with, the air smells of cyg smoke, both regular and laced with weed. It's like a wall of noise he's walking through, everyone more or less drunk. A few mechs, as young as him, are passed out already, and there's a few couples in a stage somewhere between making out and full on interfacing on the couches. He doesn't know any of the mechs he's passing, but they still greet him nicely, looking him up and down, because his streamlined raceframe sticks out like a sore thumb among all the heavy War frames.

Someone snags him with a massive arm across his waist, and everything spins when he's hauled back. When everything slows down, his sitting in Impactor's lap. He's handed another drink, and Crosshairs downs half of it in one go.

"'ello!" He grins up at the massive mech, one of the three in this party he knows.

A servo slides up his thigh, and Impactor smirks.

"Hey, Crosshairs. Having fun?"

"Oh, yeh!"

A thumb starts to rub the panel between his legs, and he squirms, because it feels kind of nice. He knows the mechanics of interfacing, the dry facts provided in a couple of short lessons at school, and he also knows that he shouldn't do it yet. 

Something about the right age, and some intricate social rules? 

He can't remember, and certainly can't focus on it when Impactor's servo feel so good on his frame, and he's getting hot, and everything is so very fuzzy.

When did they start kissing?

Suddenly, he's so sensitive down there, hips jerking with every move of those digits, bucking into the touch, because it's too much and not enough at the same time. Crosshairs manages to break the kiss, looking down, and he can't believe his optics — when he finally manages to get them to focus — and sees his panel open, his array bare to see for anyone looking.

"Wanna take this somewhere else?" Impactor murmurs into his audial, voice crackling with static, digits still slipping through Crosshairs's wet folds. 

"I-I'm no'... I don'... I think I shouldn'?"

Why shouldn't he? Why is it so fragging hard to think?

"So you are a whimp after all. Just like everyone else in school. I thought you were cooler than that, thought you were more like us. Not some little Daddy's bot, doing everything your Sire says."

"I'm no' a whimp." Crosshairs grinds out.

He doesn't obey his Sire when he doesn't want to.

Chapter Text

It feels like he's going to fall over — gyros out of whack, and his processor is spinning — but Impactor's broad front against his back is pretty solid, and the servo roaming his unsteady frame helps him stumble through the walk down the hallway and into a berth room. Crosshairs flops down on the lumpy mattress, and he starts to giggle, and he can't exactly say what about this feels so funny, but it's just hilarious somehow. 

Impactor crawls onto the berth, pushing him until he's sprawled in the middle of it. Crosshairs's knees are nudged apart, the digits find his slick array again, and he arches his back to get more friction, a mewl leaving his vocalizer.

"That eager?"

Crosshairs doesn't have the wherewithal to answer, moving against the servo.

"I don' 'ave any of the cost... constra..." He slurs when he suddenly remembers that part of what they're doing.

Oh, shit! They're actually going to do it, aren't they?! He shouldn't. But he wants to be cool too. And what Impactor is doing feels great...

"I'll wrap it. I don't want to knock you up more than you want that to happen."

Crosshairs manages to lift his helm to look at the mech, partially in disappointment, because the wonderful fingers are gone from his aching array. Impactor is rolling something onto his spike, and Crosshairs's processor manages to compute that it's a condom. It's a relief, so he lets his helm fall back, his entire frame feeling numb and weak.

He feels when Impactor rubs his spike back and forth through Crosshairs's slick slit, and then the blunt head pushes against the opening, popping inside when his calipers give in. It's a bit uncomfortable, but not that bad. A big servo grab his hip for leverage, lifting him up for a better angle, the dangerous looking spear resting across the small of his back to hold him up.

"This may hurt a bit, but that'll be over quickly, then it'll feel good." Impactor says, then he surges forward.

Chapter Text

There's a sharp pain that makes him cry out when Impactor hilts himself in one thrust, but the big mech holds still, and the pain fades. Crosshairs squirms, the spike's girth pressing against things inside him that are already sensitive from his charge. It feels kind of good, but it just isn't enough, doesn't bring that tightening in the pit of his stomach that Impactor's digits did.

Impactor takes his squirming as a go-ahead sign, and starts moving; long thrusts that makes Crosshairs slide up the berth every time Impactor bottoms out. He's trying to meet Impactor with his hips, but he can't really move much with the way Impactor is holding him. There's that tightening coil in the lower part of his abdomen, a pressure building slowly, and even if Crosshairs has no idea what it is, he is certain that he wants it to be released.

"I-I can'... please keep touchin' me!" He whines, not sure exactly what he needs.

"Can't. I'm the one holding you up. Touch yourself. Flick your node, stroke your spike, whatever floats your boat."

In spite of the situation he's in, Crosshairs flushes, because he hasn't even noticed that his spike has pressurized. It lasts only for a few moments, then he reaches down to his array, digits numbed by high grade clumsily exploring the folds. He feels the thick spike sliding in and out of him, and his digits linger there for long seconds — skimming over the slick length as it slides in and out of him at a steady rhythm — as he finds it both intriguing and exciting. Then he goes back to exploring the external parts of his array and finds the sensitive nub Impactor was touching before, and he starts circling it with his digit. 

It feels so good.

He moans loudly, optics meeting Impactor's, and the big mech smirks hungrily at him, rhythm not faltering. Crosshairs grabs his spike too, starting to stroke it, and with all the stimulation, it doesn't take long before the pressure is released. Crosshairs overloads with a wail, his spike shooting sticky fluid across his abdominal plating, valve clenching around the spike inside him. It pulls Impactor with him, the War frame's hips stuttering before he presses in deep. 

Crosshairs goes limp, and Impactor drops him and pulls out, toppling forward to land stretched out next to Crosshairs, pressing a kiss to the Corvette's lip-plates before pulling him closer.

"You're all sticky. Not bad for a first-timer, though. I'll give you 9.0 out of 10 points for your performance."

Crosshairs snorts, rolling over on his side and pressing his back against Impactor's front. A servo splays on his hip, and it is nice, because it really feels like a display of affection. Secretly, Crosshairs is thrilled.  

"I need to rest a little, then we can do it again." Impactor says, servo slipping down to Crosshairs's ventral plating.

Impactor thinks he's good at this. Nobot ever thinks he's good at anything. Nobot ever wants to hang out with him, but Impactor wanted to get as close as possible, closer than he thought possible, and now Impactor wants to do it again soon. He has interfaced for the first time, and he feels so bad in a good way, so cool.

Then he passes out.

Chapter Text

"Ye know, I was so hung over when I woke up, I thought I might offline. An' I 'ad te get back 'ome without anyone 'earin' me sneak in. I don' think I was fit te drive really, but I did. It was really early, an' no' many mecha were out, bu' it felt like all of 'em knew I wasn't a virgin anymore, an I was freakin' out abou' it." Crosshairs chuckles. "At least I wasn' pulled over, an I managed te get into the 'ouse without anyone wakin' up." He tells Barricade out loud, tipping back to stretch out on the berth.

Barricade follows Crosshairs's example, laying next to him, while Crosshairs sifts through his memory files. There's short flashes of them seeping over their link when he watches a few seconds here and there before dismissing them.

Perceptor telling him to stop acting like a slut, that he's embarrassed to have a little brother who's flirting with a War frame. Ha, if only he knew that flirting isn't the only thing he's doing with Impactor...

His Sire in a towering rage after the cleaning drone found the bottle of high grade under his berth and snitched him out.

The teacher yelling at him for being late again, giving him detention, and his smugness knowing what exactly he was doing in the gymnasium washracks that made him late. Or rather who he was doing.

One of the files starts playing for real, and after the quick flashes, it's very disorienting to suddenly be immersed again.

Barricade recognizes the rotary mech, not only because Crosshairs knows him and Barricade is in his memory, but because he has met him before. 

Vortex, the horrible bastard from prison.

The Helo is younger, not upgraded to his adult frame yet, but it's obviously him. They're hanging out behind the school, in the park. It's so obvious that it's a school in a wealthy area, because it's nothing like the surroundings of the school Barricade went to. Organic plants make the park look like a foreign world, exotic. Secluded.

"Come on, please?" Vortex coaxes. "I'd really like it." His servo comes up to cup Crosshairs's helm, thumb rubbing his bottom lip. "You're so pretty."

"Bu' I'm with Impactor. I shouldn'..."

But it's such a heady feeling to be wanted, to be called pretty.

"He'll be fine with it." Vortex lifts his helm, looking at something behind Crosshairs. "Right, Pac?"

"Yeah, I don't mind. I think it would be really hot, actually. Go ahead, give him a blow job."

Crosshairs looks over his shoulder to find Impactor smirking at them, arms crossed. Whirl is there too.

"You see? He doesn't mind sharing. And that's so good, because we all want to touch you, and fuck you, and we know that you're so willing. And you're pretty." Vortex murmurs. "So, how about you make me really happy and suck my spike?"

They all want him. He finally belongs somewhere.

It isn't hard to sink to his knees, licking the head of Vortex's spike. The Copter plants a servo on his helm, holding the shaft of his spike with the other, and with a roll of his hips, he pushes it into Crosshairs's intake with a groan. It tastes bitter of pre-transfluid, a cloying taste sticking to his glossa, but Crosshairs doesn't mind, because he's happy to do this.

Vortex said he was pretty, and they all want him.

"Look at me when you do this. You look so good like that..." Vortex says.

Crosshairs flicks his optics up to meet the Helo's visor as Vortex starts to thrust slowly into his mouth. He places his servos on Vortex's hips for balance when his knees are nudged apart, a servo making quick work of opening his interface cover.

"This is so hot." Impactor growls, lining up his spike and pushing inside Crosshairs's dry valve.

Whirl is standing to the side, stroking his spike, and it sends a heat to Crosshairs's array, quickly slicking him up.

They're all turned on by him.

"Damn, you're getting wet fast, you horny little slut. Whirl will take over when one of us finishes, so you can decide which hole you get him in by getting one of us off fast." Impactor rumbles behind him, pounding into him with powerful thrusts.

Crosshairs mewls around the spike in his intake and clenches his valve repeatedly, hoping for another cock to fill his pussy before this is over.

Chapter Text

"I finally found somethin' I was good at. The mech's in school 'ad always stayed away from me, but it was really funny te see 'ow quickly they'd turn interested if I flirted a li'l. Perceptor said 'e was so ashamed of bein' my brother, but I think 'e was jealous of the attention I was gettin'." In spite of Crosshairs sounding proud and cocky about it, his field betrays an underlying insecurity, a sliver of a feeling of inadequacy, but it's subdued, as if he's trying to hide it.

Barricade crawls closer, pressing up against Crosshairs to comfort him. He knows all too well about loneliness. The circumstances are vastly different, but being considered stupid and worthless is something he is familiar with.

"Thank you for sharing. You're strong to do it."

Crosshairs just nods, then the next memory starts.

He's drunk again, and the loud music is audible through the wall to the berth room he's in. Crosshairs is on his back, legs hooked over the mech's arms as the Tank is pounding into him. He can't remember the mech's name, but it doesn't matter; he's hot, and he gives it good. Crosshairs overloads with a wail, and the tank follows him over, grunting as he spills inside Crosshairs's valve.

"We should do this again sometime." The Tank says.

"Absolutely!"

"You coming with me, or are you staying here?"

A glob of transfluid dribbles out of his valve, mingling with the fluids already staining the mattress.

"I'm tired, I think I'll rest fer a while."

The Tank leaves, and Crosshairs is almost dropping off into recharge when someone else comes into the room. He forces his optics to online, and finds Impactor standing there.

"'ello, babe." Crosshairs mumbles, sliding his servos down his ventral plating. "Wanna 'ave some fun?"

Impactor reaches for Crosshairs's array, spreading his valve-lips with his digits, looking down at the drooling opening.

"Ugh, sloppy seconds, and I don't have any more jimmys. Turn over."

Crosshairs flops over on his front while Impactor rummages through the drawers of a storage unit. He's close to falling into recharge when the berth dips and Impactor kneels between his legs. His hips are hiked up, and he hears the snap of a bottle, then something slips into his aft, and Crosshairs squirms.

"Oi, what're ye doin'?" He slurs.

"Shh, I just need to lube you up first. Your cunt is all creamed up, I'm not plowing that, but I'm horny, and this will be so good..."

Impactor sissors his digits, and something cold is poured into Crosshairs's port. Impactor pumps his digits a couple of times, then he pulls out, and Crosshairs hears a wet, slick sound as Impactor strokes spike a couple of times to smear it with the lubricant, and then the head of his spike is pushed against Crosshairs's ass. He whines into the pillow when it pops inside, because it's anything but comfortable.

"Pit, you're so tight. My favorite slut, this is why I like you so much; you don't hesitate to do the things everyone else is saying 'no' to. The best cock sleeve, always up for anything." Impactor grunts, pushing inside.

Crosshairs bites the pillow to not cry out, but he doesn't ask Impactor to stop either, because if this is what keeps Impactor coming back to him, then he's going to take it.

Digits start to toy with his anterior node, and in spite of the uncomfortable stretch, his charge rises quickly, and suddenly, he overloads. Impactor slams in deep, spike pulsing as he overloads, then he pulls out and crawls off the berth.

"All yours." He says.

Crosshairs looks up, and finds Vortex and Whirl there too, staring hungrily at him.

"I can't believe he takes it up the ass too. What a floozy." Vortex says to nobody in particular as Whirl crawls up behind Crosshairs.

A small part of Crosshairs — one that's coherent enough to process what they actually think about him — is offended. 

"I know! Tight as fuck, though. Well, maybe not now..." Impactor snickers.

But he doesn't want to risk that they'll get bored of him though, and he's too drunk and tired to protest anyway, so he doesn't say anything. 

Impactor slips out of the room while Whirl's spike slips into Crosshairs's ass.

Chapter Text

Whirl is done and has left, and Vortex is the one fucking him when the door flies open. The Helo turns, and then he scrambles backwards. Crosshairs doesn't have time to react — not that he is really capable of processing anything quickly — before his arm is grabbed and he's yanked off the berth.

"What in the pit do you think you are doing?!" His Sire snarls as Crosshairs tumbles to the floor, hitting his knee and hip in the landing.

"Hey, he offered, and I just..." Vortex starts to defend himself.

"Shut up, if you know what's good for you."

Crosshairs is climbing to his pedes, not a very easy task considering how everything is spinning.

"You filthy, disgusting little slut!" His Sire spits vehemently, and Crosshairs is backhanded so hard across the face, he falls to the floor with a clatter, crying out in pain. "Look at you; bent over with your panels open, all covered in fluids. How many have you allowed to fuck you?"

"I-I... I don' know." He cries, and suddenly he's so humiliated by everything — the lubricant and transfluid on his thighs and aft, the weird slickness in his loose port, still dribbling transfluid — he just wants to melt into the floor. "F-five..."

"You're a thoroughly disgusting little whore, and it would've been better if you hadn't made it through your emergence. You're a disgrace to our family." His Sire growls, his field conveying every bit of the derisive disgust he feels when he looks at his youngest creation.

Crosshairs curls up there, crying into his knees, feeling lower than he ever has felt before. Vortex has slipped out of the room while his Sire has vented his feelings, but that hardly matters.

"Let's go, I have our transport waiting."

Crosshairs slowly gets up. He can't seem to find the protocols to close his panels, so with numb and uncoordinated digits, he clumsily tries to close them manually.

"Don't bother. I think everyone is already aware of what a worthless, disgusting little harlot you are."

It's the worst walk of shame he has ever been through. Optics locked on the floor, he walks through the house, his Sire just a few steps behind him.

They're all going to laugh at him, being picked up by his Sire. How he spread his legs, the way he let them take him...

Their driver puts a protective cover on the seat before he's allowed into the transport.

"Call Pharma." 

"At this hour, Sir? Shouldn't we call the Enforcers? The quicker an assault is reported, the better, and the Enforcers have their own medics."

"I just want him checked for diseases and unwanted sparkings. I can't exactly file charges against mecha for interfacing with a willing little whore."

"Oh. Oh! Certainly, Sir." The driver pulls out into the street. "Pharma is standing by, Sir."

Chapter Text

Pharma's lips curl with disgust at his appearance.

"Do you need me to get rape kits?" The Medic asks his Sire.

"No, it was consensual." His Sire spits. "Just check for transmittable diseases and signs of carrying. I hold no hopes for him still having a seal."

"Then you can shower first." Pharma says, clearly relieved to not be forced to deal with the amount of fluids on Crosshairs's frame.

In the washracks, Crosshairs sinks to the floor, curling up under the stream of water, crying into his knees. He knows of the rumors about him, the things people at school are saying about him — nasty comments about his character — but he hasn't taken it to spark, because in spite of what they are saying to their friends, a lot of them certainly don't say no to a roll in the berth. But this is so utterly humiliating, and he's also worried that his friends are going to get in trouble, and will blame him for it.

Still drunk, and feeling horribly tired, he decides to just get it over with, so that he can go home and recharge. He grabs the hose and washes up before going back to the examination room.

Crawling onto the medberth and spreading his legs is another humiliating experience, and he offlines his optics to not see the Medic he has always disliked, and his seething Sire. Digits prod his valve, and something is pushed inside and swirled around.

"Test shows no signs of disease. Is that a bolt you've installed in the chamber?"

"Yes..." He whispers hoarsely, because it's certainly a testament to his activities.

"Figures."

"Contraception?!" His Sire asks.

"Yes." Pharma confirms.

"Well, of course: so you can whore yourself out and not think of the consequences." His Sire snarls at him.

Crosshairs's lip trembles, but he refuses to start crying.

"I see that you recently have been penetrated in the port too, so I need to check for pathogens there too."

His Sire's field flares with derision and disgust, and then another scanning wand slips into him. He's a bit sore back there, but still slick, and the tool isn't thick, so the humiliation of knowing that they know he took it there is the worst part.

"Have you had oral sex?"

"No' tonight."

"But of course you've sucked cock before..." His Sire mutters.

"I'll check your intake too, then."

"And when you're done, remove the bolt. Maybe he can keep his legs closed with that risk hanging over his helm?" Then his Sire turns to him. "I'd leave you here and let you find your way home by yourself, but I don't trust you to not find a cock to suck before you make it home."

Chapter Text

Crosshairs skips a bunch of memories in his timeline, opening a few here and there, going back and forth to find the one he's looking for. At one point, he lingers on one where he's at home and a mech who's a friend of his older brother Perceptor is there. He touches Crosshairs, servos roaming his frame, saying he has fantasized about getting him alone for a while. They wind up fucking on the couch in the TV room Crosshairs shares with his brother, then in the shower, and then in Crosshairs's berth. He's forced to sneak out in the evening to find a pharmacy that's still open and get an emergency contraception router, and since he's grounded and his allowance withheld, he's forced to steal money from Perceptor to buy it. The next time he hooks up with the mech — just a couple of days later, the mech skipping school just to see Crosshairs — he takes it up the ass instead, because it's just easier.

"I managed te sneak enough money from Dad te get a new bolt installed after 'bout a week. Wasn' easy te get te the clinic, all the servants were watchin' me on Dad's orders, but I managed. Didn' get a chance te meet up with my friends though..." He trails off as he finds the next piece of his history that he finds relevant to share. 

It starts with him standing in their huge refueling room. Crosshairs has found it close to impossible to meet his Sire's optics since that night, and he feels lucky that his Sire is working so much. But now he has been summoned, and he's standing by the table, optics riveted to the floor, while his Sire slowly finishes his aluminum crackers before wiping his intake with a chamois napkin.

"You cannot go to school with them anymore, but too much is at stake for me to kick them out. Believe me, I really would, but it would be a scandal if I did so after being the one to initiate this exchange program. All optics are on me, and this project. Just sending you to another school somewhere close by may raise questions too. If some nosey fragger starts digging, my career is on the line if my name gets squandered like that. So, I only see one option: you're going to boarding school far away."

"Wha'?! Why?!"

"Are you stupid? No, scratch that, I already know that you are. I've had it with you, and all the shit you pull that could jeapordize my entire career. This is just the last one in a long line of transgressions. I represent the conservative party. Just think about all the occasions where I've made your misdemeanors go away just to keep the lid on them. I can't get the kind of publicity like my creation getting pulled over for constant traffic violations, possession of astro-weed, underage drinking, and now this."

"I's my frame! An I wasn' the only one involved. Why am I the one who need te leave everything?  It takes two mechs ta interface."

"Funny how it seemed like you needed nine mechs to interface, not two. In one night."

Nine?! 

"It was five." Impactor, Whirl, Vortex, that Tank he can't remember the designation of, and a Shuttle before that. 

"Not according to Pharma's preliminary analysis of transfluid. And if someone was using a condom, it may very well have been more than nine. And all of them spilled inside you, you harlot. You allowed them to have you like that, spread your legs like a common whore." 

Crosshairs feels his face flush, because he certainly can't remember that many. His Sire is silent for long moments to let the shame sink in, take root, and bloom.

"This is a good indication that you need to keep away from high grade, and need to learn of proper practices for interfacing. And since you seem to not be a real mech, not interested in using your spike, you really do need to keep your legs closed, so that your next seal is intact and I at least can wed you to someone important. You clearly will never be anything yourself, so if you enjoy spreading your legs, a conjux is all you'll ever be. I'll be damned if I will let myself be humiliated by trying to find a mech for an unsealed harlot. I'm sending you to a school run by the priesthood."

It's too much, so many nasty things to hear about himself at once, and he's being sent away, away from the only friends he has, the only mechs who have ever seen him as anything more than a nuisance.

Holding back the sobs wracking his frame just long enought to hear the door to the refueling room shut behind him, Crosshairs flees to his room and curls up on his berth, wailing into his pillow.

Chapter Text

"So they shipped me off te the religious school. As if a tramp like me wouldn' be able te find someone te frag there." 

The words sound cocky, but there's something in Crosshairs's tone of voice that betrays how deeply hurt he was by the entire ordeal, and 

Over their link, Barricade sees the clips as Crosshairs's sifts through the memories, and there's quite a few of a cute looking praxian.

"Bluestreak. 'e was so sweet, an' we were really into each other. 'ad te keep it quiet, stay under the radar of the teachers, an' tha' was such a thrill. 'e was a good li'l bot, though, so we never go' further than a few chaste kisses, an' some hugs, then 'e'd stop it. An me, bein' a slut who needs physical connection, felt like I wasn' good enough. So, 'is cousin Smokescreen 'ad been flirtin' with me, makin' all these jokes with lascivious innuendos an' stuff, so one day, I let 'im frag me in the laundry room. Then I broke up with Blue."

He finally finds the memory he's looking for, and Barricade slips into it, immediately experiencing a chill that travel down his back-struts that isn't his — it accompanies the memory — but it might as well have been his own revulsion.

Dirge is staring at him again. 

The Seeker has done so from day one, and it creeps him out, because he can't know for sure why Dirge stares at him. Crosshairs just gets the feeling that the Seeker does so a lot more than what he notices, because he gets these feelings of being watched, and when he looks around, he often finds Dirge close by. Not necessarily always watching him when he spots him, but it feels as if he has just turned away, or perhaps watching him with some of his other sensors. It creeps him out because Dirge is old, and not at all attractive, and when he stares, Crosshairs can't help but wonder if the teacher finds him attractive, and that really is a gross line of thought, because he does not want Dirge to think of him like that.

He hurries off to his next class, just to get out of the Seeker's line of sight, but his spark is spinning a little too quickly, because he knows that he'll arrive early, and will have to wait in the hallway, and if he's the first one there, Dirge can still go there and stare at him. He winds up hiding in the maintenance room until just before the class starts.

Of course that's just a way to borrow some time, because the class will be over eventually, and if he doesn't see Dirge anymore today, they will meet again tomorrow. And the next day, and...

But he's just looking, so it's nothing to care about, right? He's overreacting. Dirge has never been anything but polite, and he is generous when grading Crosshairs papers, because truth be told, even he can see that he may not have earned the grades he has gotten so far. Maybe he's just taking some extra care to make sure that the student who was very hastily transferred in the middle of the semester is getting settled?

Feeling much calmer, he settles into the drone of the teacher's lecture on a part of the covenant of Primus, nearly falling into light recharge as the hours wear on, so he focuses back on the enigma that is the Seeker.

He's going to show Dirge that there's nothing to worry about. He's going to start to greet him in the hallways, and show that he has settled in and adapted to this boring fragging place. Then Dirge won't have to try to figure those things out.

But when is anything ever that simple?

Chapter Text

"We need to talk about your grades, Crosshairs." Dirge says, shutting the door to his office before taking his seat at the oppulent desk. 

The office reminds him of his Sire's office. Crosshairs is sitting on the chair opposite his teacher, and his spark is starting to speed up, partially our of habit. He has been in this situation before, being told exactly how worthless he is, and all his shortcomings.

"My grades 'ave been adequate, 'aven' they?" He asks nervously. He isn't smart like Perceptor, but he hasn't flunked any tests at all so far.

"Yes, but I've been very lenient when grading your papers. I know it's hard to transfer in the middle of the semester, but I can't continue like that."

He has been studying, what more can he do? Granted, he probably could study more, but he just doesn't see the point. It's hard, and boring, and no matter how many times he reads the homework, it just doesn't seem to stick in his processor. It's as if his CPU starts clapping it's audials, singing loudly just to get out of it.

"So wha' am I supposed te do? I'm jus' no' tha' clever..."

Dirge is silent for a long time, studying him. Crosshairs can sense how nervous the Seeker is, but also the anticipation in his field.

"I know why you're here, what made your Sire request the transfer..."

Crosshairs feels queasy as bright optics momentarily flick down to his chest-plates. 

It isn't really that surprising that his Sire has told them about it, because they are supposed to keep him from interfacing more. He's not that ashamed of most of the things he did, because he enjoys interfacing, and how good it makes him feel when he manages to snare someone new. Granted, the time at the party when his Sire found out did get a bit out of hand... It still irks him that Dirge knows for some reason, and he feels his face-plates flush.

"If you let me touch you a little, I'll leave the grades the way they are."

"Wha' about yer vow of chastity?" Crosshairs whispers weakly.

"Just a little touching. Nobot will ever know. It's in both our interests that we keep this quiet. I think your Sire would be very disappointed if your grades dropped..."

"I-I'll study 'arder! I'll earn those grades. Jus' give me some time."

"Don't be shy now, Crosshairs. I know you want it, I've noticed the way you've been flirting with me; always making sure to get a few words with me in the hallway, the way you always smile at me... It's just a little touching. I know you like that sort of stuff, that you enjoy spreading your legs for mechs. If you don't want to do these things, then you shouldn't flirt with mechs... It would be such a pity if your grades dropped, and your Father found out about you trying to flirt with your teachers..."

Chapter Text

Just the thought of Dirge's servos on his frame makes his entire protoform crawl, but Primus knows what his Sire will do if he can't even manage to get half decent grades. Or if his Father believes that he really was flirting.

"How do you want me?" He forces out around the lump in his throat, voice sounding thin and tinny.

Dirge's optics brighten, and his smile is as excited as a youngling's when getting a new toy.

"Come sit on my lap."

His knees shake when he walks around the desk, stopping in front of the seated Seeker. He has never felt this hesitant about something so simple. Should he straddle him, or what? The least gross way to do this would be with his back to the mech. Servos on his hips urges him to turn and sit sideways, eager fingers haphazardly slipping under his plating without finesse. It feels awkward, because he has never done this with someone he really doesn't want to touch before, so he doesn't know where to put his servos. A sharp pinch to a sensitive wire under his chest-plates makes him wince.

"Ow!"

"Oh, you're sensitive there? I've never done this before."

The servo slides down between his legs, nudging his thighs to part, and even if his mind is screaming in protest, he does it. Unskilled digits grope the panel, and there's nothing arousing about it. It's clear that Dirge isn't going to manage to open it manually, so Crosshairs forces it open, swallowing repeatedly to not purge. 

"That's right, you little slut, open up."

The digits are there immediately, pinching his valve-lips, slipping over his node, through his slit, all the way back to his port.

"Tha's my aft." He says stiffly. 

He may have taken it there a few times to please the mechs fucking him, but he's not really that into it, and he's definitely not keen on having this gross bastard doing anything back there.

"I know. You've taken spike here too, haven't you, you slut?" Dirge purrs, cloying arousal swamping his field.

"Yes." Crosshairs whispers, ashamed to admit it.

A digit is pushed inside, but then it's pulled out again, just to be pushed inside his valve instead, and it's probably just dumb luck on the Seeker's part, but it hits a spot inside that makes Crosshairs's valve clench, and the lubrication to initiate. Crosshairs is absolutely mortified, disgusted with how his frame is responding to this gross mech. The Seeker sets a quick pace, fucking Crosshairs with a single digit, and it doesn't feel all that good, but Dirge still manages to hit that spot inside over and over, and he's getting so very wet.

"You like that, you little trollop."

Crosshairs doesn't answer, because he's mortified of his own frame's reactions. Dirge's hips are grinding against his aft, his pressurized spike leaving sticky trails of pre-transfluid on Crosshairs's plating, and in the midst of all the disgusting things, his own charge is rising.

Dirge overloads, transfluid making his lap wet to sit on, but he doesn't stop fingering Crosshairs, and the Corvette overloads too.

"Ah, you easy little slut. Bend over the desk. I'll clean you."

Face-plates flushing, Crosshairs leans his elbows on the desk, and allows Dirge to wipe him down with a rag.

"There," the Seeker says, patting his aft, "off you go. And remember; this is our little secret."

Crosshairs hurries out without another word, heading straight for the washracks. It's a good thing the stalls are sectioned off to keep them from looking at each other and get lustful ideas when showering, because as soon as he's under the spray, he starts to sob violently, leaning against the wall to keep from just sinking to the floor in a heap. He purges twice before he's finished cleaning, and no matter how much he scrubs himself, phantom stickiness is making his plating crawl where Dirge's transfluid clung to him.

Chapter Text

Barricade crawls even closer to Crosshairs, wrapping his arm around him.

"I know exactly how you felt." He whispers hoarsely, because the emotional files that came with the memory reminded him so much of how it felt when his step-sire touched him.

Crosshairs hugs him back, but he's still flicking through his memories, and Barricade almost recoils from the accompanying numbness of the next one, because it's so very familiar; the same numbness he felt when he had gotten used to the assaults, when he'd reached the point where he just let it happen and waited for it to be over, detached. 

Crosshairs is bent over that desk, cheek pressed against the cool surface. Crosshairs optics are locked on a Petro bird, hopping on a crystal outside the window, and he's thinking about what energon to have for dinner, all the while Dirge is rutting into him. Every thrust rocks him, makes him slide back and forth against the smooth surface.

"Yes, take that, you little slut." Dirge grunts, pulling out to shoot his transfluid over Crosshairs aft.

Crosshairs doesn't move even when it's over. He allows the digits spreading his valve-lips before slipping into him, doesn't protest when a thumb is pushed into his port. He waits patiently while Dirge sates his desires and wipes him down. Dirge closes his panel manually for him, because the Seeker likes it that way; to feel that he's the one who decides when Crosshairs should be naked or covered.

"There, little harlot, pristine on the surface so nobody knows what a corrupted and defiled little slut you are. You've just earned yourself a B on tomorrow's test."

"Why don' I ever earn an A?" He asks, stretching from his position.

"You know why; A for 'Aft'."

He's not going to stoop to that level if he can help it, not with this gross bastard. Though he is aware of how Dirge could easily demand it from him by just threatening to ruin his grades.

Crosshairs stops the memory.

"Ugh, how could you stand it?" Barricade says, cringing, even though he's all too aware of how 'standing it' has little to do with enduring something that's impossible to get away from.

"It go' a lo' easier when I started seein' it as the ultimate 'fuck ye' te Dad. 'e sent me te religious school te keep me from bein' my slutty self, an' there I was, bangin' a teacher of all mechs."

He can't even tell if it's good or just twisted that Crosshairs manged to find empowerment in being raped.

The crimes doesn't get less heinous just because he found a way to not feel victimized. Too bad he doesn't seem to realize that a lot of his experience so far was assaults too.

Did you just sort of agree with me?

Yes...?

Weird.

Yeah...

"How did you manage to not be completely put off from using your valve? I mean, I know how gross you thought he was, even if you managed to find a way to see it like a 'fuck you, Dad'. Fucking him doesn't really invite to wanting more with others."

"The facin' I'd done before I was sent away was good enough, made me feel good enough for somethin', te make me want more. One bastard couldn' ruin tha'. An' I was fuckin' Smokescreen whenever I could, so there was good things te remind me of why I liked it in the first place."

Crosshairs finding his only self worth in if he can make mechs want him for shallow interfacing still isn't a healthy coping strategy, but somehow he can relate, because he has been told of his own uselessness enough times to understand that black pit of self loathing and worthlessness. And considering where his own control issues landed him, he really shouldn't be too judgemental.

Look! We're agreeing again!

Chapter Text

It's a startling difference when the next memory starts, and Crosshairs is straddling Dirge, servos on the desk, riding the Seeker with abandon. Dirge is groping Crosshairs's chest-plates, and Crosshairs could almost believe that it's Vortex, considering the lack of skills in those servos. Sure, not having to look at him while fucking makes it so much easier to pretend that it's someone else he's riding, but there's a lot of spiteful glee there too.

His Sire really should see him now! 

Rough servos slide down to get a denting grip on his hips, urging him to go faster, and Crosshairs mewls exaggeratedly, because it can't be bad for his grades to make the mech believe that he really wants this.

The door flies open, and the principal gawks at them. Crosshairs doesn't know what to do, but Dirge pushes him off his lap, and he falls to the floor. 

"Sunstorm! I can explain...!" Dirge says.

Sunstorm is already on Crosshairs, grabbing his arm to hoist him to his pedes. The principal glares down at his still bare array; the lubricant and pre-transfluid that's staining his thighs, and he makes a disgusted face.

"What's to explain? You fell for the little harlot's wicked suggestions and temptations. He exploited your weakness to lure you to lay with him."

"I..." Dirge starts, apparently already headed up to try to defend himself, but then he breaks off momentarily. "Y-yes. That's what happened! I tried to ward him off, tried to say no, but he was relentless! His filthy servos always straying to my plating, the way he'd whisper temptations in my audials..."

Sunstorm slaps Crosshairs across the cheek, and the Corvette cries out, servo instinctively coming up to cup his burning cheek.

"'ang on a second, I didn' do tha'..."

"Spare us your lies!" Sunstorm roars. "We know what kind of strumpet you are, and nothing you can say will convince me that one of my pious brothers would be the one to initiate something like that. You're doing the work of Unicron, and if you can't find the right path here, then you're forever doomed to be a cursed glutton for lust and sin." 

"Oi! 'e threatened te flunk me if I didn' let 'im 'ave me!"

"Do you really expect me to believe that? That one of the teachers here — with a clean record, mind you, no complaints at all — would stoop so low as to extort you for your already overused, loose little valve? That the admitted slut would have nothing to do with this, while a devout mech would? Please..." Sunstorm scoffs. "You sure didn't look like you were completely against it when I came in. I will call your Sire. You're going to be expelled, and you will never be welcome back."

Chapter Text

The next line of memories Crosshairs skims over is a lot of his Sire yelling, and sometimes Crosshairs yelling back.

— "You were supposed to keep your legs closed, not seduce a teacher!"

"'e forced me! Wouldn' give me good grades if I didn' do it!"

"Well if you hadn't been so stupid, you could've studied to get those grades, like a normal mech!" —

There's a few bitch slaps from his brother Perceptor.

— "You disgust me. Even everyone at my school knows what a harlot you are, that you sleep with anyone who is willing to stick his cock in you. You're an embarrassment. It's your fault Carrier died too. It should've been you who didn't make it." —

There's drinking, drug use, and interfacing. Sneaking out from house arrest, being pulled over by Enforcers — for being drunk, for speeding, for reckless driving — his Sire bailing him out several times. He's grounded, more yelling, more slaps. Pharma disabling his t-cog to make him unable to transform. Knock Out shows up briefly, looking very young, enabling his t-cog again.

"Knockie is a few years older than me, 'an 'e was fresh outta med school when this 'appened. We weren't friends, but we grew up in the same neighborhood, an' 'e 'elped me with my t-cog for a bottle of nice high grade I stole from Dad, an' a promise of doin' 'im a favor if 'e ever needed one, even if I thought I'd never be able te 'elp 'im with anythin'. But when 'e developed a racin' 'abit 'e couldn' afford a few years later, turns out I actually could. I set 'im up with Hide."

So he recruited Knock Out.

Well, there's a lot of ways mechs can wind up here, that's for sure.

Apparently.

Crosshairs flicks through stepping out from his upgrade to his adult frame, looking in the mirror and finding himself good enough for seducing mechs. The celebration later that night in a club, drunk as a petroskunk, dancing on the bar, and shouting to the crowd that he is sealed if anyone is interested in ridding him of that. The following orgy with five mechs he doesn't know the designations of.

"Ah, 'ere it is."

The next memory starts, and Barricade recognizes the signs of Crosshairs being high as a Shuttle. It's broad daylight, and he's on his back on a lawn, so it's obvious that he's in some fancy neighborhood. Someone is stroking his interface plate, and it feels so good, but he needs more.

"Come on, please! Why can' ye fuck me?" He whines, grinding against the servo.

"Because we're in the middle of the park, and people are already staring. Let's go to your place." Vortex says.

Whirl and Vortex helps him to his pedes, and it's needed, because he's so intoxicated. Crosshairs still manages to grab the bottle of high grade, and he clutches it in his servo, even as the two Helicopters put his arms over their shoulders to help him walk. They're unsteady themselves, but better off than him, at least.

The walk derails into make out- and heavy petting sessions at several points, but they're making progress towards Crosshairs's house. He tries to remember if his Sire or his brother is at home, but can't, and decides that they should do this in the pool house.

"Oh, scrap!" Whirl blurts "Enforcers. We need to split up and shake them!"

Both the Helos take to the sky, and Crosshairs tries to initiate his transformation sequence, but he's too drunk to remember how, and winds up flapping his plating uselessly. The Enforcers pull up, transforming, and Crosshairs turns and bolts. He manages eight and a half step, then he's tackled to the ground.

"Not so fast, Crosshairs. We need to go back to the station and have a chat. We've had a whole bunch of complaints about you."

He's cuffed, hoisted to his pedes, and frisked, and they find his astro-weed, the boosters, and the routers, as well as the knife he's carrying these days because all his friends does, and he feels cool with it in his subspace pocket.

"Really need a chat."

The transport pulls up and he's pushed into it. It's a familiar trip by now, sitting in the back seat, going to the Enforcer station. He offlines his optics and rests his helm against the back rest. 

He could've been sandwiched between two Helicopters by now if these bores hadn't caught him.

Chapter Text

He's embarrassed about purging in the transport, but the combination of syk, high grade, and a moving vehicle was too much at once. They dump him in the interrogation room, cuffed to the table, while they book him. Crosshairs leans his helm against the cool table, feeling nauseous, tired, and he needs to void his tank too. It seems like forever before they come back.

"I need te go te the maintenance room."

"We need to ask you a few questions first."

"Aw, come on!" Crosshairs groans.

"The drugs in your subspace; where did you get them?"

"Don' remember." They've done this dance before, and his Sire always bails him out and puts a lid on it. The Enforcers could spare their precious time and just call his Sire, so he can go home and sleep it off. He squirms in his chair. "Come on, mech, lemme go te the maintenance room."

"The quicker you answer the questions, the quicker you'll get there. Drugs and knife; where did you get those? The model of knife you carried is illegal. Telling me will help your case."

"I don' know where i' came from! Someone must've put it in my pockets when I was recharging."

The Enforcer snorts. "Why would anyone do that?"

"I don' know. Te get rid of evidence? Te frame me?" Crosshairs lets his optics roam the Enforcers frame before making optic contact. He bites his lip and cocks an optical ridge suggestively. "Te thank me fer a good night? Ye know, I've never done i' with an Enforcer before..." He purrs, sticking his chest out.

The cop frowns, looking mildly disgusted.

"Ye can' prove those things are mine, so jus' call Dad, an' le' me go void my tank." 

Crosshairs tries to not show how desperate he's getting, because he will start leaking soon, and if the Enforcer knows that, they will definitely keep using it as leverage. He doesn't want to confess and get his friends into trouble, but he's definitely not going to piss himself here. He squirms, pressing his legs together. 

Maybe the cop would get off on seeing him wet himself? It wouldn't surprise him. Gross turbopig.

"Just the fact that they were in your possession is enough. But let's take a walk to the maintenance room. Your optics are bright in a way that tells me that you have more than just high grade in your systems, so I think we should do a drug test."

"Whatever." 

His Sire always makes the accusations go away anyway.

Chapter Text

"Ye goin' te watch me do this? What, ye get off on seein' others takin' a piss or wha'?"

"Yes, I am going to watch you, and no, in a perfect world, I would never have to witness that. But I don't trust you to actually leave the sample otherwise, so just deal with it. If you don't like it, then maybe you should try obeying the laws."

Bah.

He manages to collect some in the cup he has been given, and it is a messy business, because he was getting so full, he just can't stop when his waste valve opens the second he sits down in the chute. Crosshairs gags, because it's gross when the hot fluid dribbles over his digits, and his tank is already in upheaval from the high grade, and the drugs slowly leaving his systems. He hands the cup to the Enforcer, and is silently jealous of the gloves the mech got for this. At least he is allowed to wash his servos afterwards.

Crosshairs is escorted back to the holding cell while the test is processed, and on the way there, they stop by the comm unit to let him have his one call. It takes a while before his Sire picks up, and for long moments, Crosshairs is worried that his Sire might not be in his office, and he should've made a point to remember where he is, so he could call the right place. Then finally the screen flicks to show a picture of his Sire.

"'ey, Dad. I'm at the police station. Could ye come bail me out?"

His Sire looks thunderous, just like all the other times Crosshairs has made this call, but then his optics dim. "I'll come in later. I have some important things to attend to first."

"K, thanks."

He's put in the holding cell, and he finds a seat. A huge truck former is looking him up and down hungrily, but Crosshairs doesn't feel like flirting, because he's starting to feel more hung over than intoxicated, and it's a very unsexy feeling. 

It's not like he could act on it here anyway. 

It takes hours for his Sire to show up, and Crosshairs is fighting the urge to puke again, really longing for his berth, and a pain rerouter for his helmache. He immediately gets up from his seat when his Sire shows up at the reception, visible through the glass that separates it from the holding cell area, but it takes longer than it usually does before someone comes to get him. 

His chronometer tells him it's over an hour before one of the Enforcers lets him out of the holding cell, but then he ushers Crosshairs into the interrogation room again. Crosshairs wonders why, because this is definitely not the standard procedure. He's cuffed to the table again, and it takes a few more minutes before his Sire is let inside.

"What's goin' on, Dad?"

"Apparently, you're going to prison."

Chapter Text

"Wha'?! Why?! Can' ye ge' me outta here?!"

His spark speeds up, and his entire frame feels cold with a dread he has never experienced before.

"I've had it. I'm done. I've bailed you out time and again, and it leads to nothing. I'm not doing it again. I can get you out, but I'm not going to." His Sire says venomously.

 "Tha's no' fair! Ye could've warned me first, ye can' jus' ditch me 'ere..."

"Warned you?!" His Sire snarls. "Because the numerous apprehensions by the Enforcers aren't warning enough?! Are you really that stupid?!"

"Come on, Dad, don' do this! Jus' give me one more chance, I'll behave! I'll make it up te ye, jus' ge' me out. Please, I know ye're serious now, I'll do better."

"It's too late. You've been kicked out of school, you're too stupid to even try to graduate with the online classes I signed you up for, and I know that you're not sealed, so I can't arrange a respectable bonding for you. I don't want you in my house anymore, you're a disgrace. A filthy harlot. You disgust me."

"So ye're lettin' me go te prison?" He says weakly, knees feeling like rubber.

"You're a grown up now, Crosshairs. Face the consequences of your actions. I won't pay for a lawyer; you'll get a public defender — just like those lowlifes you like to hang out with would — and if you're found guilty, you'll get your fair punishment."

"Do ye know wha' they do te pretty li'l mechs like me in prison?" His voice sounds hoarse and hollow.

He's not a very big mech, and he's not a fighter either. They'll do what they want, and he won't be able to stop them.

"Yes. So I guess you'll like it there, you easy little slut."

It'll be like with Dirge all over again.

"I'll die in there."

There's no chance he'll make it out of there.

"Good riddance."

It's like a kick in the ventral plating, and he feels his lip-plates tremble, but he manages to keep from crying. His voice wavers when he speaks again, making a last ditch attempt to appeal to his Sire to help him out this time too.

Just this last time. He'll do better now that he knows that his Sire won't help him.

"Wha' about the publicity? Ye can' 'ave a kid in jail. The scandal..."

"You're not my kid anymore, I've disowned you. It has been in motion for some time — the bureaucracy tends to be slow — but I managed to get them to rush the appeal now that you messed up yet again. I finished the paperwork before I got here, there's nothing that ties you to me. You have no registered creators anymore, as if you were an MTO."

"Wha'?!" 

"Don't come to my house again. You're a nobody, and you're not welcome." 

His Sire turns to leave, and Crosshairs starts to yank on the cuffs in panic.

"No! Dad, wait! Please, Dad, don' leave me here! Ye can'! PleaseDad!"

"Goodbye, Crosshairs." His Sire says dismissively over his shoulder, not even slowing down.

The door slams shut, and Crosshairs sinks to his knees in an awkward pose forced by his servos still cuffed to the table, wailing like a sparkling.

He's going to prison. And even if he doesn't — if he gets an ankle bracelet instead — he'll be a homeless MTO with no credits, no job, and no skills.

The Enforcer pats him on the shoulder. "For what it's worth, I'm sorry for you, kid. You may deserve the punishment for your crimes, but you didn't deserve that. I wish you had listened when we tried to talk to you when you were younger."

The cop's field is laced with sincere pity, but it doesn't do anything to comfort Crosshairs.

He's so screwed.

Chapter Text

"Of course I went te prison. Was put in a cell with three small bots, the nerds of the joint who were always bullied. At least I dared rechargin', bu' I was terrified durin' the days. One o' the others go' raped in the washracks an' sent te the medbay jus' a few days after I got in there, an I knew I 'ad te find other friends, because 'alf the ward was starin' at me like I was a pack o' treats. So I hung out in the corner o' the yard, scoutin' for who'd be a good ally." 

Crosshairs tells Barricade as he's scrolling his timeline for the next memory. Then he finds it and Barricade is standing in the corner of the yard he never got to see while he was in prison.

Crosshairs has been evaluating his options for a few days, and he has noticed the different groups, mapped out who leads them, and their interactions. It's all a wild gamble, because he doesn't know how they will react — or if one group is really better than the others — but if he doesn't want to become the next victim of a gang rape in the washracks, he better get some friends who doesn't have alt modes like data pads, cleaning drones, and memory sticks.

With his spark in his throat, he walks towards the table with a crowd of big brutes. A huge Helo he hasn't seen before comes into the yard and walks over to them too, and Crosshairs momentarily stops, watching as the others get up, greeting the Rotary mech in succession with clasped servos and a one armed hug.

"Welcome back, brother. You healing up well?"

"Yeah, it's all good. Got the lines patched and a couple of mounting brackets straightened out. Then they just kept me to monitor the healing. You sorted it out?"

"They were worse off than you when the dust settled, you fought well. They should've known better than to try to drop you, even if they were three against one. The politics have been handled."

They all take their seats again, but Crosshairs lingers, momentarily losing his nerve, and it's enough for them to catch him staring.

"What?" The mech who seems to be their leader snarls, icy blue optics locking on him, all sharp hostility.

Crosshairs swallows nervously, but then he straightens his back and takes a deep vent to steel himself.

"Just admirin' the view." He says saucily, plastering on a smirk. "So, are ye up fer some fun? 'cause I'm definitely the best lay ye'll get in 'ere." He tries to purr seductively even if his spark is spinning out of control.

The mech looks him up and down skeptically. "Are you even upgraded to a frame with the proper equipment?"

"Didn't know they're sending the jailbait into the prison these days, Hide. Maybe they're looking to keep us in here with additional charges of statutory?" The Helo says, earning a round of laughter from the gathered mechs.

It's offensive, they're belittling him and thinking that he's a kid.

"Oi! This is my adult frame!" It's more of a pout than a snarl, because they're still big, he's alone, and they're definitely dangerous. "I wouldn' be in 'ere if I wasn' an adult, I'd be in juvie."

"What makes you want to be our bitch?" Hide asks.

"Our bitch", not "my bitch"? That was not what he planned!

"I-I... I thought I could be yer conjux fer the stay? Ye keep me from windin' up deactivated, or damaged an 'urt, an' I'll keep ye really 'appy?"

Hide snorts. "You know, being my 'conjux' entails being all our little bitch, and being our bitch means that we do what we want and you shut up and take it." He crosses his arms, reclining against the wall, cocking an optical ridge in challenge.

It doesn't sound very promising, but he's certain that he will be hurt one way or the other anyway, and hopefully, they won't damage him too badly.

"Ye get te 'ave me as ye please, an ye don' let anyone else 'urt me?"

Hide looks him up and down again — they all do — and then he smirks slowly. 

"I guess we could take you for a test ride, see if you're worth the trouble. We have the washracks at 1400h. Be there."

Chapter Text

His spark is doing nervous backflips when he enters the washracks. They're all there, waiting for him, and he feels small and vulnerable, and insecure in a way he hasn't been around interfacing before. He still folds away his panels and stands stiffly in the middle of the room, waiting for them to initiate something. Hide walks a slow circle around him, lecherous optics roving Crosshairs's frame.

"You do have a sweet little frame." Hide says, pressing up against Crosshairs's back.

A servo slides down his front to his array, and a digit is pushed into him. Ironhide groans and starts to pump his digit. The finger slides slickly into him, because Crosshairs did finger himself before coming here, getting himself ready, in case they'd just want to shove inside and take him.

"Wet already. Such a horny little slut."

Crosshairs is still nervous, but the appreciative comment makes him relax a little, and being called a slut is kind of arousing, as is the way bright optics are locked on them, the hard spikes waiting for their turn with him. One of them is keeping optic contact with Crosshairs while stroking his spike.

They all want him.

"Yeh, so please don' keep me waitin'!" He mewls wantonly, arching his back to grind his aft against Hide.

Hide doesn't. He urges Crosshairs to get on all fours, flips his coat to the side, and then he slams inside immediately, his grip on Crosshairs's hips denting.

"Fuck, it has been way too long." He grunts, setting a fast pace. "Springer, try his mouth!"

The mech who has been stroking himself comes up to them, holding his spike out, and Crosshairs reaches up, steadying himself with his servos on the mech's hips, and without breaking optic contact, he sucks the spike into his mouth as deep as he can, working it with his glossa.

"Damn, he is good at this!" Springer grunts, putting his servo on Crosshairs's helm.

The praise makes him relax more, the nervousness ebbing away, and Crosshairs can finally appreciate the situation he's in; two hot mechs fucking him good, three more who wants him, waiting for their turn.

He's such a bad little slut, taking all the cock he can get.

Crosshairs reaches between his legs, rubbing his node with his digits, and he moans around the spike in his intake.

"Damn, Hide, he really is a horny little slut, he actually likes it." Someone in the audience says appreciatively.

Hide's only answer is a wordless grunt, then he slams in deep as he overloads.

Chapter Text

"You have a go, Blackout." Ironhide says as he stands up.

Crosshairs is still sucking Springer's spike, and he shudders in anticipation as the big Helo, sinks to his knees behind him.

"This is gonna be a tight fit." Blackout rumbles, then he pushes inside without preamble.

It really is a tight fit, and Crosshairs squirms, more full than he ever has been before. The massive spike presses against all his inside nodes, and he whines around the cock in his mouth, because it's bordering on too much but somehow it's still quite pleasurable. Then Blackout starts to move, long, langorous thrusts that hit everything inside him, and he overloads so hard his optical feed goes pixelated for a while. Springer pushes in deeper and shoots his load down Crosshairs's throat, then he steps back. Crosshairs braces his elbows against the floor, feeling spent, but Blackout is still pounding into him, and two mechs have not had their go yet.

"Hey Roadbuster, you gonna try his mouth, or are you waiting for something else?" Someone snickers.

"He has a really nice intake." Springer says.

"Might as well give it a go then." The mech called Roadbuster says, sinking to his knees in front of Crosshairs.

He sucks this spike into his intake too, as eagerly as the first one, and then he's caught in a push and pull between the mechs as they fuck him. Crosshairs reaches between his legs, circling his node with a digit, because his charge is rising again, and the audience snickers.

"Sure is eager, think we should keep him, boss." Springer says.

Crosshairs mewls and shudders his way through another overload, valve clenching around the massive spike inside him, and it pulls Blackout over the edge. With a groan, the Helo overloads, then he pulls out and backs away.

"Your turn, Moto."

"I'll wait until he's done. You know what I want, and I don't want him to accidentally bite Roadie."

"Thanks, bro." Roadbuster grinds out, rutting into Crosshairs's intake.

Roadbuster overloads, his transfluid being pushed out around his spike as he keeps fucking Crosshairs's mouth, then he pulls out, the last spurts of transfluid landing across Crosshairs's face-plates. He curls his arms, resting his helm against the floor, feeling worn out in that good way fucking makes him feel; almost as if he was on a mild rerouter or something. The last mech kneels behind him, and Crosshairs hears the sound of a bottle being opened, and the slick slide of a servo against a spike.

"Can't get ahold of lube here, so hydraulic fluid will have to do."

The blunt head of a thick spike presses against his port.

"This is a dealbreaker, if you can't take this, we're not keeping you." The mech says.

Crosshairs grimaces when the thick spike is slowly pushed inside him, big servos grabbing his hips for leverage as soon as the head is inside him and the mech doesn't need to steer anymore. He squirms a little, fingers scrabbling over the tiles as the thick spike slides deeper and deeper, biting his lip-plate to try to stifle a whine, but he doesn't complain.

"Yeah, I like it when you squirm in discomfort and still take it." The mech hisses, field sticky with arousal. "A good little slut, putting your own comfort second to my pleasure, taking it in your tight little ass."

The dirty talk is turning him on, and Crosshairs squirms again, this time to get some friction against his node. His valve-lips are starting to feel heavy again, and he gasps when the mech behind him rolls his hips and hits that spot inside him.

"Will you overload for me? Will you cum from me fucking you in the ass?"

"I-I might need te rub my node..."

"Then go ahead. We want to see you overload with a cock up your ass, like the needy little bitch you are."

There's no hesitation when he reaches between his legs and starts to rub his node again, his charge rising surprisingly quickly even after his previous overloads. He moans with every thrust, relishing every slide of the thick spike in his port — undoubtedly the biggest one he has ever taken.

He's such a bad little slut, being fucked in every way, enjoying to be their little toy.

Chapter Text

"Hey, Motormaster! Wanna share?" Springer asks.

A strong arm winding around Crosshairs's chest, lifting him up to kneel in front of Motormaster is the only answer, and then Springer kneels in front of him. The big mechs lift him, rearranging him so that his legs are hooked over Springer's arms, his back braced against Motormasters chest, and then Motormaster slips into his ass again, Springer pushing into his valve. Crosshairs has done a whole lot of interesting things in the berth, but he has never felt so completely at someone's mercy before. They're in control, and all he can do is let them continue.

Not that he would ever complain, the way they both thrust into him is simply glorious. Motormaster claps a servo over his intake, because apparently, he is getting loud. Crosshairs squirms around, getting close to overload, but it's eluding him, spent as his frame is, and he wails in frustration into the servo. He hears the snickers from the audience, and his optics flick to the mechs watching with bright optics.

It's what tips him over the edge, frame bucking wildly as he clamps down around the spikes inside him. Both the thugs groan, but their rhythm doesn't falter, they keep pounding into him even as he goes limp and strutless between them.

Motormaster comes first, and he slams in deep, keeping still inside Crosshairs while he spills his transfluid, then Spinger does the same moments later. Springer pulls out first, stepping back, and Motormaster slides his arms uner Crosshairs legs to keep him suspended in the awkward pose, his dribbling valve on display for everyone.

"Hey, watch this." Motormaster snickers, then he pulls out.

The spike slips out, followed by a rush of transfluid, and if Crosshiars wasn't so completely spent, he might've found it humiliating in that way that he finds a bit exciting when the others snicker. Blackout walks over, kneeling in front of them, thick spike in one of his servos. He looks down at Crosshairs's array and port, reaching for it with his other hand, then his optics flick up to meet Crosshairs's, and he smirks.

"You can't feel this, can you?"

Crosshairs frowns and shakes his helm, looking down.

"You're so loose, I can stick my digit in there without actually touching you."

Crosshairs's optics snap up to meet Blackout's again.

"If you take Hide up on the offer, you'll take this little baby back there too." Blackot pumps his spike with his servo a few times for emphasis, and it's such a massive piece of equipment. "Lick it. I still have a bit of a load left in me."

He holds his spike out for Crosshairs, and the Corvette leans forward, lapping at the head.

"Yeah, that's it. Just like that."

It doesn't take many strokes with his glossa before the Helo overloads, transfluid shooting over his glossa and face-plates.

"I like that look on you."

Motormaster lets him slip to the floor, and Crosshairs goes limp and strutless, too spent to stand.

"Lets wash up and get out of here." Ironhide says, nudging Crosshairs with his pede.

"'m too tired, ye rode me too good." Crosshairs mumbles.

Someone snickers. "You don't want anyone else finding you here like this."

Ironhide slings him over his shoulder and carries him to one of the overhead shower heads. He starts the water and puts Crosshairs down, steadying him. "Lets get this done, shall we? We don't want the guards to see this." 

Crosshairs leans against the wall, still too tired to actually comply. Blackout and Roadbuster grabs sponges and starts to scrub his frame while Ironhide holds him up with big servos under his arms. It's kind of ridiculous, as if he was a sparkling, but his knees wants to give out, and he just wants to fall into recharge. Servos grope him and cop feels while they wash him, but he really doesn't mind.

"Done."

Ironhide rearranges him, folds him over one of his strong arms, and he hangs there, aft on display, wondering what now, but too spent to do anything about it.

"Here." Springer says to catch his attention, holding his servo out to show Crosshairs something. It looks like a condom stuffed with things. "Painkillers, in case you have trouble sitting down tomorrow, and a little bottle of high grade as thanks for the test drive."

He steps up behind Crosshairs, and then something pushes against Crosshairs sore port.

"He's tightening up, but he's too slow. It's just going to fall out."

"If you get the bottle in sideways it won't."

Someone cackles.

"No, give me that. Like this."

Crosshairs squirms, because it feels decidedly uncomfortable when the thing settles inside him.

"For fucks sake." Someone snickers.

"Hey, at least it isn't falling out now!"

"He's still drooling cum and hydraulic fluid, his fragging panel is going to leak."

"Stick a sponge in there." Ironhide says, trying and failing to suppress his laughter.

There's more fiddling with his ass, and quiet laughter, and then finally they're done. He dredges up enough energy to stand of his own accord.

"From now on, I'll call you Sponge-Cross Cum panel." Roadbuster laughs.

Crosshairs flips him off and immediately regrets it, because they could take that very badly. Nobody seem to care, though, and he slowly relaxes.

"If you're still interested in being our conjux, request a transfer to my cell. Say that you're affiliated with the Autobots, and that you are not safe anywhere else. They tend to try to make it easy for themselves to not have corpses turning up at every corner, so a request like that usually goes through." Ironhide says, and then he leaves without waiting for an answer.

"I'm looking forward to our wedding night." Blackout rumbles, optics roaming Crosshairs's frame, before he follows the others out of the washracks.

Crosshairs reaches back to check his port, and there is indeed a sponge sticking out of there. Then he hurries back to his cell to get the things out of him, hoping his cellmates are not there.

Chapter Text

"They were such assholes!" Barricade says vehemently, hoping that Crosshairs didn't take them up on the offer, even if he's pretty sure that Crosshairs did.

"Nah, they were jus' bored, an' 'ad been locked up for a pretty long time when I offered myself. Of course they'd 'ave their fun." Crosshairs says, shrugging, as if that excuses their behavior.

"Yeah, but still... Did you really go along with it? The deal, I mean"

"I did. I'll admit, I didn' exactly know what I was doin'. I was scared, because unaffiliated mechs like me got raped, an' shivved, and crap like tha', an' I didn' know them, or anythin' 'bout survivin' prison. Sure, it was one 'ell of a test drive, but I go' painkillers, an' high grade, an' tha' pointed te at least some level of care. They didn' damage me, so I put in the request, an' 'oped I was right when I guessed tha' they wouldn' want their new cellmate te turn up in the medbay, an' the guards startin' te investigate."

"Couldn't you've been put in segregation for your own protection or something? I mean, being upperclass, some mechs would be out for your energon just for that. Sounds horrible that you had to let yourself be their toy just to stay safe."

"I was stripped of my status, remember? On the papers, I'm an MTO." Crosshairs sad smile turns into a smirk. "B'sides, I already was a randy li'l slut, an gettin' five ho' lovers was more temptin' than bein' stuck in isolation. Ugh, I don' wanna think about bein' stuck with only my servos te keep me satisfied."

Barricade cannot relate at all, except for not liking to be locked up alone.

"Yeah, but still. They were so gross about the way they handled you."

"Ye need te think 'bout the situation we were in. They 'ad reputations te maintain, an I might've backed out of it and gone blabberin' about them bein' soft or somethin'. An sometimes, just bein' in a group goads them inta bein' extra rough an' stuff. Most of 'em aren't like that all the time, every time we fuck. They're still off the assembly line War frames, though. Morality an' empathy typically isn' part of the standard issue programming."

It's still a horrible excuse for them to treat Crosshairs like that, and potentially a very worrying reveal about the emotional protocols of the brothers. Barricade has never learned much about War frames, or the potential difference between MTOs and sparked War frames, because Enforcement would treat them the same way as any other mech, and MTOs were mostly handled internally in the military when Barricade was still on the force. It's intriguing, and he really needs to research it later. Still, Barricade is very curious about a whole lot of other things too.

"Did all of you share one cell?"

The cells weren't that big were they? And if they were, how the hell did Crosshairs get through his time in there without being fucked to pieces?

"Nah. Hide, Blackout, Springer an' I shared one. Roadbuster an' Motormaster was in another one with a couple of unaffiliated mechs. So I fucked Roadie an' Moto in the washracks, or in our cell in the days when we were let out, and the other three, I fucked during the nights. Well, mostly i' was like tha'."

Barricade nods slowly. It's both fascinating and gross, and there's so many things he's curious about that he doesn't dare to ask, because it feels so intrusive. Like if Crosshairs didn't get sore, and what happened if he was tired. There is one thing he just has to know, though...

"How did the wedding night go?"

"I've never been so thoroughly fucked in all my functioning, I could 'ardly walk fer days! All three of them fragged all my 'oles, and' Blackout an' Hide gave me an extra round each. Then in the mornin' when the cells were unlocked, Motormaster an' Roadbuster came over an did the same. An' then I was fully accepted as their li'l bitch, an' I was so proud tha' I made it."

What a mess.

And still you're wishing he'd show you those memories.

...

"But how did you get through it the next night? I mean, with the soreness and all."

"They're nice mechs. I go' painkillers, an' I didn' need te do more than give 'em 'ead the next night."

Ugh. "Nice" indeed...

Chapter Text

"Ye really wanna see it, don' ye?" Crosshairs asks, sounding smug.

"I-I... You don't need to tell me if you don't want to! I mean... I... I just can't believe you made it through that night in one piece..." Barricade stammers, flushing, because he feels so busted.

"I's alright! I's kind of a ho' show, really." 

There's so many things with that statement that's just wrong, because it's a business transaction, and Crosshairs's state of mind makes even given consent dubious at best, and it sure isn't a show...

It's intriguing, and enlightening regarding the social structure, and...

Just fucking admit that you want to see cock meet pussy, mouth and ass...

Shut up.

Hehe...

Then it's suddenly too late to back out, because Crosshairs has found the relevant memories while Barricade was arguing with himself, and he's submerged in them.

He's sitting on the berth in his cell when a guard walks in. It's past curfew, and everyone is locked in their cells.

"Pack your stuff. Your transfer was approved, and it's time for you to move."

He doesn't have any stuff; he has no money from the outside to spend in the commissary, and nothing from the outside — not that he had anything legal in his subspace when he was arrested anyway — would be allowed to be kept.

"I'm ready te go." He says, rising from his berth without gathering any things.

The guard looks him up and down, and then his optics sweep the cell.

"Ye know, they wouldn' let me bring my Syk..." Crosshairs says sarcastically, even if he knows it's probably not a good idea.

The guard's intake pulls into a sneer, but Crosshairs just waits by the door.

"Alright. You requested a transfer to a cell with 'Autobots' to whom you claim to have ties."

"I did."

"Let's get you there then. I hope you know what you're doing." The mech says, ushering Crosshairs into the corridor.

"I'm goin' te a place where I'll be safe, with my crew."

"Yeah, because you fit in so well with the MTO War frames. Totally your crew."

"Ye'd be surprised..."

The guard snorts. "Hardly. I've worked here long enough to have seen it all, and then some more. Mechs tend to stick to their own kind in here. And you," his optics sweep Crosshairs frame, "you just don't fit in with their kind, pretty bot."

"Whatever ye say..." Crosshairs says, giving up the discussion. 

It's not like it matters if the mech suspects that he didn't know the Autobots before this. The transfer was approved, and this guard won't change that.

They stop outside a different cell, and the guard opens the door. 

"Your new cell mate has arrived."

Crosshairs looks past the mech and sees Springer, Blackout, and Ironhide reclining on their berths. They all look up, but none of them say anything, and Crosshairs's spark makes a nervous flip.

This is it, no going back now. Is he really doing the smartest thing? He knows what they can do in under an hour — how tired and sore he was after the test drive — and now he'll be locked inside with them all night.

"What are you waiting for? Get in there." The guard says challengingly, as if he knows why Crosshairs is hesitating.

He slowly steps over the threshold, feeling the hungry optics of the residents on him, roving his plating.

"Have fun." The guard leers.

Then the door slams shut behind him, and he's alone with three huge War frames.

Chapter Text

Crosshairs stands there, suddenly awkward and very insecure. They're all looking him up and down, but nobody says anything, and he is forced to bite back a nervous cackle that's threatening to break free from his vocalizer. He can't even muster up some fake bravado, and it's unfamiliar to be so insecure when it comes to something as simple as interfacing.

Get a grip. You've done this a thousand times. They're starved of interfacing, it's not like you'll need to do much to impress them.

"Uhm, hi? So... 'ere I am." He says, and immediately feels ridiculous.

Ironhide cocks an optical ridge. "Indeed. So how about you get over here?" He says, patting his lap.

Crosshairs knees feel like rubber when he takes the few steps to reach the thug's berth, but he still manages to move pretty smoothly when he straddles Hide's thighs. Ironhide's optics slowly trail down Crosshairs's front, and there's a decidedly satisfied little smirk pulling on the corners of his intake. Big servos slide up Crosshairs's thighs, thumbs dipping into the juncture of his hips, before one servo reaches for his modesty panel. Ironhide immediately finds the latches, nimbly flicking them open, and pushing the panel out of the way, digits slipping through dry folds.

"Like a desert." He rumbles.

"Yeh, I... I wasn' prepared when I was picked up fer transfer. An' I'm a li'l nervous." He admits.

Ironhide starts circling Crosshairs's anterior node with his thumb, pushing one digit into Crosshairs's valve, curling it to hit that spot in there.

"Nothing to be nervous about. We're just going to fuck you, and I know you both can and want to take it. That you like it."

Crosshairs's valve is going slick and hot with Ironhide's ministrations. Hide's really good with his digits, and it does help Crosshairs to relax.

He has been fingered before, but Hide is better than any of his previous lovers. The big mech doesn't seem to be in a rush, and that's a novelty, because mostly, his lovers want to get inside him as quickly as possible — only cares to get him just slick enough to avoid chafing — but Ironhide is still mapping out Crosshairs's array, even as lubricant is starting to cover his servo, showing no signs of hurrying things along. Then again, they do have a lot of time on their servos here...

Crosshairs's charge is rising quickly, and his hips are starting to move against the servo of their own accord.

"Please, I wan' ye in me!" He moans, wanting more, something thicker.

"Is that so?"

"Yes, I wan' yer thick spike."

"Much obliged." Ironhide rumbles, grabbing Crosshairs hips and pulling him forward, pressurizing his spike straight into Crosshairs's valve.

Chapter Text

Ironhide slides down a bit from where he's lounging against the wall — planting his pedes on the floor, shoulders and helm still  leaning against the wall — and he guides Crosshairs to rock back and forth. Crosshairs has never tried that before, but it's quickly turning this into the best ride he has ever taken.

The way that thick spike fills him up, stirring inside him to hit every node, and his anterior node rubbing against Ironhide's pelvic plating is simply glorious, and lubricant is drooling out around Ironhide's spike. Ironhide bucks up to help him get even more friction against his node.

"Damn, you're getting wet."

"So good! Yes!" Crosshairs pants, grinding desperately against Hide.

Fucking hell, why have he never tried this before? Why has he always been bouncing up and down in that not-as-good-as-this way? Yeah, he'll happily ride this spike at every opportunity for the rest of his functioning.

"He warmed up pretty fast, Prez. A greedy little slut after all." One of the others snicker, Crosshairs can't focus enough to figure out who.

"Warm, wet and needy. Doesn't get much better than that." Ironhide grunts. "Hop off. I want you on your back." He says to Crosshairs, patting his hip.

It's not that Crosshairs really wants to stop this, because he was getting close, and it really is one of his best interfacing experiences so far. Definitely top three. Maybe even the best ever, but he needs time to think about it with a clear helm to figure that out.

But alas, the ride is over, and Crosshairs knows that he is in no position to protest, so he tips off Ironhide, landing on the berth next to him.

"Fine. But ye better continue fuckin' me this good, because I really liked tha'." He dares pouting.

Ironhide smirks, easily pulling Crosshairs to the center of the berth, kneeling between the smaller mech's thighs. "I think you'll enjoy this too." 

Strong servos wrap around Crosshairs's waist, and he's pulled into Ironhide's lap, shoulders still on the bedding, and he's forced to arch his back.

"Mh, seriously sweet view." Ironhide says, sliding his splayed servo up Crosshairs's ventral plating, up to his chest-plates.

"He sure is easier on the optics than Springer's aft when he bends over." Blackout says.

"Like I would ever let you anywhere near my aft." Springer snorts, throwing a pillow at Blackout.

"Your Carrier didn't complain when..."

"You fucked the conveyor belt I was built on?! I mean, I knew your ugly mug doesn't get you much pussy, but I didn't think you were desperate enough to fuck insentient machinery..."

"Shut up."

They're being dorks, but Crosshairs chances a glance at them, and a shiver of pleasure trickles down his back-struts when he sees the way their bright optics are still locked on him.

Then Ironhide's spike slides into him again, a clever digit circling his node, and he dissolves into incoherency.

Chapter Text

Crosshairs's heels are digging into Ironhide's aft in an attempt to get Ironhide's spike even deeper, and there's a pop-up message in his HUD warning him of the hydraulics in his legs overheating from the strain, but he just can't stop himself from doing it.

Not when he's teetering on the edge, so close to overload, and still it eludes him when Ironhide's digit on his node eases up on the stimulation yet again. 

"Don' fuckin' stop!" He growls in frustration.

More like desperation, he's definitely not used to someone teasing him like this, bringing him to the brink, just to deny him. 

"Please!"

Maybe begging will work better? 

Ironhide cocks his helm, smirking at him. "You know, it's not like I can move much really..." He wiggles his hips to emphasize the way Crosshairs is more or less glued to him. "And while you would doubtlessly overload if I just did this a couple of times," a flick against Crosshairs's node makes the smaller mech jerk as if shocked, moaning loudly, "it wouldn't do it for me. Don't you think that would be kind of rude of you? I mean, the way you're clinging to me, I can't even move to take my own pleasure."

"It's generally considered bad form for a bitch to not even return the favor." Springer adds his opinion.

He didn't even think about that, he was so preoccupied with what Hide has been doing to his frame, the way he has been brought close several times just for the mech to back off in that frustratingly smug way.

"I-I..." Crosshairs struggles to put together an excuse. "I'm no' used te goin' fer this long?" It's a lame fucking excuse, and he knows it, but he's used to less finesse, and hurrying to even get to overload before his lover would shoot his load. Stamina is not something he's used to. 

Ironhide barks a surprised laugh. "Well, then this is going to be a long fucking night for you." He easily pries Crosshairs's legs from around him, showing how much brute strength there is in his frame. "Face in the pillow, aft up, so you can't hinder me anymore. I promise I'll let you cum. When it suits me."

Crosshairs has no time to protest before he's flipped over on his front, hips hiked up, and his arms held behind his back with one servo around his wrist-struts. His spark speeds up, because the position makes it impossible to deny that he really is completely helpless.

He squeaks when a digit prods his port.

"You've tightened up since the last time." Ironhide notes.

Crosshairs feels his face-plates flush, and he squirms in embarrassment.

He isn't used to his lovers saying those things to him — just about him — and it's both embarrassing, and arousing.

"We'll rectify that tonight." 

It sounds as if it's Blackout who says it, then there's the clang of a high five, and Ironhide rumbles a laugh. Crosshairs's valve clenches needily around nothing, and he whines into the pillow, mortified of his own nervous anticipation.

They're just getting started.

Chapter Text

Ironhide's spike finally slip into his valve again, and Crosshairs moans into the pillow, a shiver of pleasure traveling up his back-struts.

"Fucking hell, you feel so good around me." Ironhide groans, starting to pound into Crosshairs with, long, hard thrusts. "Just listen to how wet you are, you needy little slut; all soaking wet and revved up."

Oh, the sounds are absolutely mortifying — downright obscene — as is the way his lubricant is actually dribbling down his legs, welling out every time Ironhide pulls out. It's such a turn on to be such a needy, wet, bad little slut, spreading his legs for an MTO brute. 

Ironhide reaches around and starts to circle Crosshairs's node with light touches; enough to slowly built his already ramped up charge, but not enough to bring him over quickly.

"Maybe he's a squirter too? I mean, he's already dripping..." Blackout muses.

"Are you a squirter, little slut?" Springer asks.

Crosshairs is only vaguely familiar with the term, but he can't stop his field from flaring with mortification. Or his valve clenching around Ironhide's spike.

He's not used to these kinds of discussions. His previous lovers never went into details in this very casual way.

"N-no?" He says, but it's muffled by the pillow, barely comprehensible.

Hide increases the pressure on his node, and Crosshairs squirms in desperation.

So damned close!

Blackout groans. "That field..." There's a sound of plating shifting, and then a wet slide that may very well be a servo stroking a spike, already slick with pre-transfluid.

"That field says he may very well be a squirter."

"Yeah, he just doesn't know it yet."

"Definitely is a drooler." Ironhide adds, pulling out.

Crosshairs makes a sound of protest, then Ironhide drags the tips of his digits from the front of Crosshairs's array, over his valve-lips, gathering lubricant in his cupped servo.

"Just look at this!" Ironhide says. 

Crosshairs doesn't even dare to try look what he's doing when the others snicker, because he just knows it'll be mortifying.

"Now that's what I call a puddle! Springer says.

Then Ironhide slams into Crosshairs's valve again, setting a quicker pace, flicking his node just so, and Crosshairs is racing towards the edge again.

"Would be rude of me to hog you all night, the others want some sopping wet pussy too..."

Finally, it sends Crosshairs into the hardest overload he has ever had.

Chapter Text

Crosshairs's audials are rebooting, and he's vaguely aware of Ironhide's pelvic plating pressing against his aft, the thick spike inside him pulsing rhythmically.

Oh, he's overloading too.

The only thing keeping him in the position he's in is a big servo on the front of his pelvic plating — probably repurposed from stimulating his node to keep him in position when the overload wracked his frame — and the servo still holding his wrist-struts. He feels completely fucked out and strutless, in a way he has never been before, not even after several of his lovers have tag-teamed him.

And this was just the first round. He'll be a puddle before they're done with him.

He giggles dopily into the pillow at the picture his processor conjures up; himself, but completely made of silicone.

Ironhide lets go of him, and he slides down, stretched out on his front.

"...are you alive there, little mech?"

He manages to twist his helm to get his face-plates out of the pillow.

"Yeh. Think 'alf my systems rebooted." He says with a grin.

Ironhide smirks.

"Tha' was the best fuck I've ever 'ad. I mean, no offense 'bout the time in the washracks, but it wasn' like we 'ad much time then."

"That was your best round ever? Primus, what kind of losers have you been fucking?" Ironhide asks.

"I dunno. I though' they were good at the time... But, then I was of'en really drunk, or high, so maybe tha' numbed me?"

"Perhaps..." Ironhide says slowly, and when Crosshairs glances up at him, his face is unreadable. "You'll get more good dick now, though. Blackout looks horny to me."

"Now?! I mean, my valve is still twitchin'. Can' I get a little break?" He'll be too sensitive, it'll just feel weird.

"I guess I could settle for a blow job right now. Might be good to take the edge off, so that I can go a really long time when I go for your valve. 'cause I am going to fuck you tonight, and you're going to enjoy it."

There's that dirty talk again, the casual way they just tell him what they're going to do with him, and it's arousing, but Crosshairs is just too spent to really get charged. 

Or move.

"I don' know if I even 'ave the strength to kneel in front of ye."

Blackout's intake pulls into a hungry grin, full of sharp denta. "I think we can manage anyway." He rises from his berth, coming over to Ironhide's berth. Ironhide moves away, taking a seat on Blackout's berth. "On your back little mech. I want so see those pretty lips around my cock."

And it's a big fucking cock.

Crosshairs manages to roll over, wondering what the big mech is planning, and his spark is speeding up with nerves when Blackout grabs his arms and pulls him closer, all the way to the edge of the berth, and further until Crosshairs's helm hangs over it.

"Just try to relax your throat-tubing. And your jaw hinges."

Chapter Text

"I, uhm, wha're ye goin' te do?"

"Never been deepthroated before?"

"No..."

"Then this'll be interesting. Here's what's going to happen: you open that pretty little intake of yours, and I'll try to fit my entire spike in there."

Crosshairs stares at the massive spike as Blackout kneels to get level with Crosshairs's helm.

There's no way that's going to fit!

"I think I can kneel in fron' of ye, actually, 'm gettin' my power back."

"You shouldn't strain yourself, we have a long night in front of us. Just lay back, relax, let me have my fun, and then you'll be rested enough when it's Springer's turn. I'll go slow, let you adjust. It's not like I want to put you out of commission."

Crosshairs swallows nervously, still staring at that thick cock, but then he finally nods and opens his mouth.

He did take the offer of being their bitch — well informed that they'll do what they want, and he's supposed to shut up and take it —  so he can't really complain about them taking their due, especially not when they're being nice about it, and actually telling him what they're going to do, instead of just sticking it wherever they want.

"Slap my hip if you get warnings or reports about damage from your systems."

Blackout pushes forward, the thick head of his spike smearing Crosshairs's lips with pre-transfluid as it slips into his mouth. It slides deeper, all the way to the back of his intake, and Crosshairs's frame does a convulsion when he suppresses the reflex to purge. Blackout stops.

"Just try to relax. Let it in, as if you were trying to swallow it."

"Technically, he is trying to swallow it."

Blackout chuckles, and when Crosshairs momentarily manages to relax his throat tubing, he pushes forward, getting deeper.

It feels weird, but at least it doesn't hurt. He still squirms, not certain he really enjoys it. Blackout cradles his neck with a big servo, and then he starts to slowly move; little rolls of his hips gradually getting him deeper.

"Close your nasal vent and use the others. It'll make it easier." Ironhide instructs him. "So, Blackout, can you see your dick yet?"

"Yeah, that little tube is bulging really nicely."

Springer and Ironhide comes over to them, and while Crosshairs can only see their pedes from his upside down point of view, he knows that they're watching him; splayed out with his array bare and his thighs sticky with cum and lubricant, with a cock deeper down his throat than he has ever taken it before. It's embarrassing, and it turns him on. His valve-lips are starting to feel warm and swollen, and he mewls around the spike in his throat.

"Oh, fucking hell! Do that again!" Blackout groans.

A digit strokes his throat-tubing, following the spike's movements when Blackout slowly fucks him.

They must see the way the cock moves inside him, as it stretches the tube.

"A real talent."

"That looks so fucking hot, just look at the way he lets that cock in."

Crosshairs hums, and it earns him a grunt from Blackout.

He's the center of attention, the one who manages to draw those noises from the big Helicopter. He's so good at being bad, and they all want him.

He reaches between his legs, circling his node with one of his digits, and it makes him moan.

"Horny little tramp." Springer snickers in amusement. "Look, Blackout, you make him all hot and bothered!"

"Nothing like a big spike to get a small bitch going."

"Don't you overload now, little slut. You'll get yours when one of us gives it to you." Ironhide warns Crosshairs, and the sharp and commanding edge in his voice sends a thrill down Crosshairs's back-struts.

Blackout is increasing the pace, movements becoming more erratic, and it strains Crosshairs's throat-tubing, but then the big mech pulls out, shooting his load over Crosshairs face.

"Glazed slut!"

They laugh, but Crosshairs doesn't really mind.

He can take it deep in his throat. And now he's going to get fucked again and earn the overload he wants.

Chapter Text

Springer swipes his digits through the ropes of cum on Crosshairs's face-plates, then he holds his fingers in front of Crosshairs's intake.

Hesitantly — because he isn't certain that he's interpreting the gesture correctly — he sticks his glossa out, lapping at one of Springer's digits.

"Yeah, that's right. Just like that." Springer croons.

Crosshairs sucks the finger into his mouth, encouraged by the bright optics following his actions, the way Springer licks his lip-plates hungrily when he's watching Crosshairs suck his digit.

He cleans that servo thoroughly with his glossa; sucking every finger into his mouth in succession, rolling his tongue around those digits.

"Mh, yeah, a natural talent for sure." Springer murmurs to nobody in particular. "But now I really want my spike to get some attention."

"'ow do ye wan' me?"

"You know, I really enjoyed your mouth — and I will definitely be having it again soon — but right now I'm up for some slippery cunt..."

Crosshairs flushes. "I'm already creamed up. I mean, jus'... Ye know, not pristine."

Not that he has ever had any second thoughts about being tag-teamed before, but this feels different somehow, because these mechs consider what they want, and they tell him all the details, and it feels like he should give them the same courtesy. And it's arousing to admit that he's a little slut who just spread his legs for someone, and he's going to do it again.

Springer chuckles, and it's kind of a dark sound. "Oh, I'm counting on it. No squeaky clean little virgin would ever give it as good as a well defiled slut can."

He leans forward, servo reaching for Crosshairs's array, and when his digits slip into Crosshairs's supple, wet valve, there's this mortifying squelching sound.

"Just listen to that. So slippery and ready for me, and who would I be to complain about you being slick from having fun with my Prez? Especially since the show was so nice. Do your legs work again?"

"Yes...?"

Probably. His hydraulics have cooled down by now, and there's no damage reports, so he should be good to go again.

"Good. I want you on your knees and servos."

"Am I allowed te wipe my face first?"

They all smirk a him.

"Well, since you ask so nicely..." Ironhide says, holding out a rag.

"Sad to see it go."  Blackout says mournfully when Crosshairs starts to wipe his face clean.

"He isn't yours to mark."

"I know, but it's still a good look on him."

"Agreed. We could all mark him at once." Ironhide muses.

"I'm sure he'll be dripping all of our cum — from everywhere — for days when we're done." Springer adds.

"True."

"So, get on your knees and servos. If you'd be so slutty, please."

It's not like he has much choice, but he'd be lying if he said that he didn't feel excited about it. Springer's spike is bobbing in the air, looking all tantalizing, and he has had it inside him before, and it was good...

Crosshairs rolls over as smoothly as he can, turning so that his aft is to the three mechs watching him. He's not confident enough to throw them a meaningful glance over his shoulder, but the thought of them staring at him getting into position makes his valve throb. He flicks his coattails to the side to give them as good a view as he can provide, and then he just waits.

The berth dips when Springer kneels behind him, and Crosshairs shudders in anticipation.

"You have such a sweet little frame, such a lovely aft."

Servos grip his hips, and then he's pulled backwards, getting impaled on the thick spike waiting for his empty valve.

"Swallowed you right away."

"Fucking pit, you feel so good around me!" Springer growls.

"Should've gone for a blowjob first, brother. Now you won't last long."

"The night is still young, and none of us are going anywhere." Ironhide rumbles, voice crackling with static. "I think we'll all be sated when we're done. You will get your fill, you horny little slut, rest assured." He says to Crosshairs, servo slipping around Crosshairs's thigh, reaching for his array to stroke his node.

A mewl leaves the Corvette's vocalizer, because his processor isn't in a state to come up with a witty retort. 

Not with a good sized dick pounding his valve, and skilled digits teasing his node.

With a moan, he arches his back and spreads his legs wider to give better access, and a good view.

They all want him so much, think he's sexy, and they're generous with pleasure too. He'll make it worth their while.

Chapter Text

Springer slows down again, but the way his movements stutter, his overload is probably getting harder to hold off. 

Not that it matters for Crosshairs, because Ironhide is still stroking his node, but every time Crosshairs is getting close he backs off in that infuriating manner that seems to be his modus operandi.

"What do you say, Springer? Should I let him overload, or do you think he deserves to wait a little while longer?" Ironhide asks.

"No, please, lemme cum!" Crosshairs whines.

He's been so close so many tiy, his valve has contracted in that first quiver of sweet release, just for the stimulation to stop at the last second to abort his pending overload, and his valve is almost aching with the need to release the charge now. 

Ironhide tuts. "Sir. 'Please, let me cum, Sir.' You forgot to address me properly. What do you mechs say?"

Springer makes an unintelligible grunt while fucking Crosshairs very slowly.

"Well, usually I'd be all for leaving him high and dry — and giving him a good spanking too for good measure — for his insubordination, but it is his first night after all. Besides, I think his aft will be sore enough anyway tomorrow, when we're done with him..." Blackout voices his opinion.

Crosshairs hips move of their own accord, trying to find some friction by rutting against Ironhide's servo. It's futile; Ironhide easily evades him, and Springer's denting grip on his hips makes it hard to move much anyway. A desperate sob escapes him.

"Please, Sir! Please make me overload, Sir."

The confusingly arousing pictures in his processor does absolutely nothing to make this easier. As frustrating as it is that Ironhide controls him, denies him much needed release, there's also something arousing about it. And the thought of one of them spanking him really shouldn't be so very interesting...

"I, wha' do ye wan' me te do? Tell me, so I can do it! Please, Sir!"

There's something very arousing about deferring to Ironhide. To all of them really, but Ironhide is the one commanding right now, and it's so hot. It's new, because he never really knew he would enjoy being made to obey someone's orders, and it's different from his earlier experiences, because now he can choose to go along with what they do, and before it kind of just happened. There's this part of him that is thrilled with nervous curiosity about what it would be like to disobey.

Then Springer slams in to the hilt, grinding against Crosshairs's aft, and the only thing Ironhide does is teasing Crosshairs's node with featherlight touches, far from enough to make Crosshairs overload. 

He growls in frustration when Springer pulls out, and he's left empty and unsatisfied.

"Oups, I guess you were too slow with asking nicely. I mean, I didn't get enough time to bring you over before Springer came. Better don't delay the good behavior next time." Ironhide says unrepentantly.

Crosshairs bites back the rude answer he wants to growl at the smug bastard.

"Yes, Sir! I'll try 'arder. 'ow do ye wan' me now, Sir." He grinds out.

Ironhide grins. "Blackout? I want him on his knees on the floor. Make sure he doesn't try to sneak an overload without permission.

Blackout's chuckle is wicked. "Absolutely, Prez."

Chapter Text

He's lifted from the berth, and Blackout puts him down on his knees in the middle of the floor. His arms are easily wrangled behind his back, and his wrist-struts are trapped in one of Blackout's servos, but Crosshairs dares trying to rub his legs together to get some friction.

Maybe if he's quick he can steal that overload?

"None of that. You heard the boss. You get yours when we grant you an overload." Blackout rumbles.

The huge mech nudges Crosshairs's knees farther apart with his pede, and then he kneels between Crosshairs's calves, making it impossible to do anything to try to sneak an overload.

"Nicely done, Blackout. It's like you read my mind." Ironhide says approvingly, coming to stand in front of Crosshairs.

"He's in his rightful place; on his knees for you." Blackout rumbles, squeezing Crosshairs's wrists — not hard enough to make it painful, but certainly enough to demonstrate his strength.

Ironhide smirks at Crosshairs. "You know, Springer looks awfully messy, and only a fraction of it is our jizz. The rest is your lubricant, you wet little slut. Maybe you should help him clean up? Put that talented mouth of yours to good use."

"Will ye make me overload if I do?"

Ironhide barks a surprised laugh. "No. We may let you when we get to you sucking my spike. If you do as we tell you, and you address me properly. And the step towards that is to lick Springer's cock clean."

It's not that he finds it gross that makes him shake his helm.

It's the embarrassment, both for all of them watching, and — most of all — for being turned on by it. By being so wet that what Ironhide says is true, and by the way his valve clenches at the thought of licking Springer clean with an audience.

"No?" Ironhide bends down to slide his servo up Crosshairs's chest-plates, up his throat. He pauses at the inmate collar, gripping it with his digits to tug at it. "Pretty things like you shouldn't be kept in cages, but I certainly don't mind the way a collar looks on you." He lets go of the collar again and takes a new grip above it, with his digits wrapped around Crosshairs's throat, rubbing little circles into the sensitive components with his thumb. "Seems like you're not really in a position to argue."

Crosshairs swallows, but he can't tell if it's because he's so nervous, or if it's because it's turning him on. His valve throbs heavily.

Ironhide's servo continues up Crosshairs's throat in what is almost a caress, until his index digit nudges Crosshairs's chin to tilt his helm further back, and Ironhide leans closer. Close enough that their lip-plates almost touch when he murmurs the next words.

"Stop playing at being a prude. We know this is turning you on. Your field is quite... tantalizing."

Crosshairs feels his face-plates flush when he meets those calculating optics.

"So what's it going to be, little slut?" Ironhide says, tilting his helm in a way that makes him look like a predator.

"I'll clean him, Sir."

Chapter Text

Ironhide grins wickedly and steps to the side, allowing Springer to take his place. Crosshairs spark is spinning with nerves, and he feels his face-plates flush when he looks at the mess on Springer's pelvic plating.

"Go on." Springer says, splaying his servo on the back of Crosshairs's helm.

He leans in to lap at the unpressurized component, tasting the bitter transfluid and a tart, sticky flavor that has to be his own lubricant. He's never done this before, and nobody has ever been interested in him doing anything with their valves. Crosshairs starts to lick with broad strokes of his glossa to clean away the mess.

"Oh, yeah, just like that." Springer groans. "I may actually get hard again, even if I just came, you're so fucking good at this."

It spurs him on, that appreciative comment, and Crosshairs starts to lap at Springer's spike with more fervor. Blackout still is holding his servos behind his back, but the big mech reaches around Crosshairs, going for his array.

Thick digits slide easily through his slick folds, and Crosshairs gasps when his node is rubbed a couple of times before the fingers are pushed into him.

"I think he's eager for that overload. Look at how efficiently he is cleaning Springer's cock, just waiting to get your spike in his intake, Hide." Blackout rumbles. "Would you like that, little slut? To get the boss's big cock in your mouth?"

What he really wants is a fucking overload, but he has no objections to sucking Hide's spike either. He's such a bad little slut, and they all like him for it.

"Yes!" He hisses between licks. "Sir! Yes, Sir!"

Blackout chuckles, and slowly pumps his digits into Crosshairs's valve, pressing against his node every time he pushes in, and it's slowly bringing him closer to the peak, but he knows that he has to earn that overload.

He can do so much better than this.

Crosshairs shifts his optics up to meet Springer's, and lets the now half pressurized spike rest on his stretched out glossa, intake wide open. He bobs his helm, not enough to get the spike into his mouth, but just enough to stimulate a sensitive node on the underside, close to the head, and to give them a spectacular view. Springer groans. Crosshairs's hips jerk to try to meet Blackout's servo, and he suddenly realizes his mistake when Blackout backs off with his ministrations, removing his servo.

He may earn his overload when he's sucking Ironhide's spike! He should've hurried up with just getting Springer clean, not making him all hot and ready to go again!

He whines in frustration

"Can you cum again, Springer? It would look so fucking hot." Ironhide asks, and of course he's stroking his spike.

"Sadly, I can't."

"Pity." 

Crosshairs goes back to lapping at Springer's spike, but he doesn't break optic contact, because the mech clearly enjoys it.

And it makes him feel bad in that way that gets his juices flowing when he sees the way every move he makes is followed with rapt attention.

He squeaks in surprise, squirming, when Blackout's thumb slips into his port, slicked up with Crosshairs's own lubricant.

"Sure has tightened up well." The thumb curls, hitting that spot, and Crosshairs moans shakily. Blackout's digits find his node again. "You like this too, don't you? Getting something in your aft."

Crosshairs feels himself flush again, because what Blackout is doing does feel good, and up until now, he has always counted that as one of those things he can put up with for his lover's pleasure.

"I really hope you do like it, because you will take my spike there, sooner rather than later. So, do you like this? Are you an aft slut as well?"

Crosshairs mewls when Blackout curls his thumb again, averting his optics from Springer out of embarrassment. "I-I... It feels good. Sir." He confesses, even if he isn't certain Blackout's spike will feel as good.

"Of course it does." Ironhide snickers. "Will it feel good to have my cock in your mouth as well?" 

Springer moves out of the way, Hide steps up in front of him. Crosshairs feels incredibly small where he's kneeling in front of the big thug, but he still licks his lip-plates in anticipation, because it's such a turn on, the way they easily handle him, and the thrill of being so helpless.

"Yes, Sir."

Chapter Text

Ironhide's spike bobs just in front of his intake, close enough to be an invitation, but not touching him.

Hide wants him to take the initiative. He wants that fucking overload, so he sure isn't going to disappoint. He's good at sucking.

Crosshairs leans forward, mouthing lightly at the head with his lip-plates, not breaking optic contact. Ironhide smirks down at him, his bright optics a good sign that he's pleased with Crosshairs's idea.

Pre-transfluid slicks his lips, and he smirks back at Hide when he slowly licks away the sticky fluid. He hears Springer groaning.

"That's so fragging hot."

"Yeah, you really do know what you're doing, little slut." Ironhide rumbles, voice crackling with static.

The only answer Crosshairs gives is flat-tonguing the head of Ironhide's spike a couple of times before searching out that spot underneath the spike — the node that's usually very sensitive — with the tip of his glossa, circling it a few times. Ironhide's hips jerk, and Crosshairs suspects that it isn't a voluntary motion. Without breaking optic contact, Crosshairs sucks the spike into his intake, slowly taking it deeper and deeper, working the underside with his glossa.

Blackout curls his thumb a couple of times — having kept it still for a little while — and strokes his node with a digit. Crosshairs squirms to get more friction, but the servo stills again.

"So, what do you say, Hide? Is he doing well enough to earn some pleasure?" Blackout asks.

Crosshairs sucks the spike deeper, trying and failing to shift his helm to be able to get it deeper into when it hits the back of his intake. 

He just can't, not in this position. He's already pushing the limit of his gag reflex, and if he tries more, this won't be pretty.

A tiny growl of frustration escapes him when he backs off, slowly bobbing his helm to at least offer some sort of stimulation. He hollows his cheeks, sucking lightly, and rubs his glossa against the ridged length. 

Probably no use being in a rush, Hide seems to enjoy taking his time.

"He's doing well, he really is good at this. Tried to take it deeper than the position really allows too, and keeps optic contact. Yeah, I think he has earned himself some slow building of his charge." The words are very businesslike, but there's a strain to Hide's voice that tells on how Crosshairs's ministrations affect him.

Blackout starts to pump the thumb in Crosshairs's port, and it makes Crosshairs's squirm, because it's too dry with just the tiny amount of his natural lubricant Blackout has used to get in there, but at the same time Blackout is hitting that spot inside him every time, and that feels kind of good.

"Meh, too dry for this. You're lucky we've pilfered some slick stuff. Did it just for this night, but I'll save it for later, and you will thank me for that." Blackout murmurs in his audial, going back to just curling and uncurling his thumb inside Crosshairs, flicking his anterior node with his digits from time to time.

They really do care about his comfort. They even got something to use for lube, and that was probably a theft, so they could've easily just not done it.

Crosshairs's charge is slowly rising — not that it wasn't already annoyingly high — and it's getting harder and harder for him to focus on the things he does to Hide's spike, but he really has to, or they'll stop again, keep teasing him. He lets the spike slip out of his intake, just pressing his lip-plates against the head for a second, giving his jaw a tiny break, then he slowly sucks it into his mouth again, looking up at Ironhide as he does it. The big mech is staring at him, enthralled, and in spite of his position, Crosshairs feels kind of powerful, because he's the one who makes Ironhide's fans spin at full speed, he's the one who holds the mech's attention. Crosshairs starts working quicker, feeling the way the spike in his mouth is twitching whenever he hits a sensitive spot, and while Ironhide has stamina, he probably doesn't like to be kept waiting if he doesn't choose to go slow himself.

Ironhide's optics flick away to look over Crosshairs's shoulder for a few seconds, and he nods once before turning his attention back to Crosshairs, grin widening.  Blackout starts to toy with his node, repeatedly hitting a spot that feels kind of strange, but at the same time, it feels so very good.

Ironhide plants a servo on Crosshairs's helm, starting to rut into his intake, not deep enough to hit the back of his intake, but almost. It's a relief really, because he's teetering on the edge again, and Crosshairs just can't focus on trying to make it good for Ironhide, and if this is good enough, he sure isn't going to complain.

Crosshairs's entire frame locks up with tension when he's teetering on the edge, and for a long, horrible moment, he thinks he won't make it, that his frame won't let him get that release after being denied so many times. He squirms against Blackout's servo as the big mech keeps hitting that spot that feels so strange...

Then he finally tips over. With a wail around the spike in his mouth, he cums. In spite of how powerful the overload is, he still can feel the fluid running down his thighs, he hears it splashing on the floor, and he does hear someone chuckling. He wants to look down, to see what the hell happened, mortified, but Ironhide holds his helm in a steady grip, and then he overloads. Crosshairs swallows desperately, some of the cum still running down his chin as he can't swallow it all. He goes limp, leaning back against Blackout's massive front, and he pants too cool himself when Ironhide steps back.

"Told you he's a squirter!"

Chapter Text

"Let me guess: you're all spent, and your valve is twitching and you need a break." Blackout rumbles.

Crosshairs is really feeling strutless, leaning against the 'copter, still flushing when he's looking at the small puddle of lubricant on the floor beneath him.

"Uhm, yeh..." He mumbles, still processing the whole... squirting-business.

"You really have no stamina! Nobody ever gave you multiple overloads before?" Ironhide asks, voice smug.

"No' like this! I never 'ad an overload this powerful." He confesses.

Springer tuts. "Pity. I mean, you have the skills of a fairly experienced slut, but clearly nobody bothered to return the favor..."

Crosshairs doesn't answer, because he has nothing to say. 

He always thought his lovers were good. Sure, they never tried to figure out what he really enjoyed most, and never took their time to work him like this, but they always made him overload. 

"So, are you ready for another fuck? Blackout asks.

"I-I... I think I'll be too sensitive."

"Hm. Sounds like we can't let him overload if we plan on sticking our cocks in his pussy shortly after. Maybe we should make a flowchart on what order we can do things to keep this going?" Blackout teases.

"I... Please, don' tease me more. I-I wan' te do it, I'm jus' no' used te cuming so 'ard..." Crosshairs almost sobs.

"We'll keep it in mind." Blackout says. "Springer, are you ready to go again?"

"In a couple of minutes. Why?"

"He has tightened up again, and I don't want to wreck him..." There's such a lecherous leer in Blackout's voice, and Crosshairs's valve clenches in spite of everything.

"Are you saying that I'm small?" Springer says.

"No. Just that I'm bigger, and it would be very nice of you to prepare him before I have a go."

Are they talking about taking him in the aft?

"Wha' are ye goin' te do?!" He asks nervously.

"We'll claim all of you, and have our way with you, just as you promised that we can when you struck a deal with Hide. Don't worry, Springer is not much bigger than Motormaster, and he doesn't back away from some foreplay." Blackout murmurs in his audial.

Crosshairs doesn't really have a chance to protest before Springer and Ironhide grabs his arms and hoists him to his pedes.

"Across my lap." Springer says, and Crosshairs is helped — dragged really — to Springer's berth.

Ironhide steadies him while Springer takes a seat, and then he's mechhandled to lay across the big mech's lap — chest-plates and knees on the berth, and his hips on top of Springer's thighs.

Digits slip into his wet valve, and he jerks at the contact, still sensitive, then they're pushed into his port.

"I know your valve is too sensitive, but you'll get your respite. Hide just needs to get me the lube so I can slick you up for us."

He's not much for taking it up the ass, but he has done it before, and he'll do it for them. When it's done, they will continue with the stuff he likes.

Crosshairs arches his back to lift his aft in a silent invitation, and Springer twists his digits, catching a thrown bottle with his other servo at the same time. Crosshairs glances over his shoulder at Springer, but then he flushes and averts his optics when the mech smirks at him. The digits inside him is scissored, and then there's the sound of a spray bottle being used, and the coldness of something inside him.

Springer starts to pump his digits, and they go in easily. Whatever slick he's using it's very slippery, and Crosshairs is experienced enough to know how to relax his port. Another digit is added, and there's stretch, but it's not uncomfortable, and Springer makes a point to hit that sweet spot every time he pumps or twists his digits. Crosshairs starts to move his hips to meet the servo, surprised at how good this feels.

"Nobody ever fingered me like this there before." He confesses shakily, charge starting to rise again.

"Such a pity. Your reactions are delightful." Ironhide says from where he has taken a seat on one of the other berths when Crosshairs buries his face into the bedding to muffle a moan.

"Looks like he's quite the willing little aft slut." Blackout fills in.

"He's almost sucking me in already. Needy little bitch, wanting it in the ass." Springer says.

He's mortified by how he's reacting, because this is the one thing where his previous lovers truly could be derisive about him doing it, and here he is, enjoying these ministrations.

"I... I do this te heed our deal, I don' like it." He croaks, but it turns into half a moan.

"Your field says otherwise. And you will enjoy it when I fuck you too. I'm ready for you, time to sit on my spike."

Chapter Text

Crosshairs doesn't move for long seconds — even as Springer's digits slip out of him — uncertain how to proceed.

Usually, someone just mounts him and fucks him, and how is he supposed to initiate something so uncomfortable? Biting the pillow is usually the best way to deal with it...

"Come on now. I want you, and they want to see you..." Springer murmurs encouragingly

"I... 'ow do ye wan' me? Should I...ride ye?"

"Mh, yes... I want you to take all of me of your own accord; back to me, servos on my knees, so they can see your face, and I can see your aft swallowing my spike."

The graphic description is both mortifying and arousing. Crosshairs climbs to his servos and knees, straddling Springer. He places his servos as he was told, leaning forward, but throwing a glance over his shoulder. Springer is staring at his aft with an intensity that has Crosshairs flushing again.

"That's right. I'll line it up for you, all you have to do is sit back and take it. Just wait a second, I'll slick my cock a bit for you."

It's awkward to stand like that, waiting. Especially with two other mechs watching, smirking, fields pawing at his with arousal. He hears the spray bottle, and the wet sound of servo against spike.

"Sit back slowly, so I can steer, and take it at your own pace."

Crosshairs slowly starts to sink back, stopping momentarily when the head of Springer's spike nudges his port. 

"There you go, take it at your own pace. You're well prepped, you know. It'll go in easily." Springer croons.

He obeys, pressing against the blunt spike, and he's both mortified of how easily he opens for it.

"I love the face he makes; embarrassedly surprised by how his ass is readily taking cock." Blackout says.

"It is kind of cute. Such a cocky slut, and yet so innocent." Ironhide fills in. "I just want to keep you in my berth for a month, little slut, and defile you, and show you pleasure."

Crosshairs makes a face, not at the comment, but at the thick spike slowly sliding deeper into him, because there is some stretch.

Definitely the biggest he has taken, and Blackout said that Springer is smaller than him, and Hide is a bit bigger too...

Springer strokes his hips, sliding his servos down Crosshairs's thighs.

"You're doing very well. Almost there."

Wherever 'there' is.

He still pushes back, because it's definitely not as uncomfortable as it has been the other times, even if Springer is big. 

Maybe the fingering really did make a difference?

Then his aft hits Springer's pelvic plating, and obviously, the spike is hilted inside him.

"There you are! All inside you." Springer says approvingly. "Lean back."

He slides his servos to the back of Crosshairs's knees, urging him to reposition himself to hitch his legs over Springer's arms, back against the War frame's chest-plates. Crosshairs obeys, and even if it makes the spike get pressed inside even deeper, it's not uncomfortable.

"That's right, give them a good view of how your drooling little valve is all empty, just because the spike is all the way inside your slutty little ass."

Crosshairs flushes again when Springer's digits slip through his wet slit, highlighting how he's aroused but empty, because the cock is in his ass. 

A digit trails down to stroke the rim of his port, stretched around the spike inside him, and Crosshairs squirms, because Ironhide and Blackout are watching with bright optics, lecherous smirks in place.

"I hope you're ready, because I'll start to move now."

Crosshairs doesn't answer, because Springer lifts him slightly, and then he starts to roll his hips, and it's just nothing like what he has experienced before, but actually quite good.

Chapter Text

"You may touch yourself, but you can't overload." Springer says. 

"Damn right. I don't want you to be too spent when it's my turn." Blackout's voice is crackling with static.

He obviously likes what he sees.

Crosshairs reaches for his array, stroking his valve-lips with his palm a few times before sliding a digit through his wet folds. Curiosity has him reaching further, and he touches the rim of his port where Springer's spike is sliding in and out of him at an almost languorous pace. Crosshairs strokes the rim a couple of times out of curiosity. 

"Think he needs to do some self exploration, Springer." Ironhide says.

Both Ironhide and Blackout is watching with bright optics, and Crosshairs flushes, because he is so exposed in this position. Then Springer lifts him higher and pulls out.

"Test it with your fingers." Blackout all but orders.

Crosshairs pushes a digit inside, and it goes in easily, and even if he can feel it inside him, and the calipers are trying to squeeze his finger, he's definitely slack and relaxed. Not that he knows what it feels like normally, he doesn't play with his aft himself, but he knows how his frame resisted Blackout's digit before by clenching.

"Your calipers are still closing you up. Lovely. It'll make you feel tighter around me." Blackout notes.

"That bit of foreplay really makes all the difference for how well those calipers work." Ironhide says. "Keep fingering yourself, little slut. We want to watch you play with your aft. You can rub your node with your thumb, but you can't overload. Oh, and add a couple of digits."

Touching his node makes all the difference, because even if it feels pretty nice to finger himself like that, it isn't enough to really make his charge rise. He flushes when he sees the way Blackout and Ironhide are watching, both stroking their spikes, because it's so intimate, and he isn't used to put on a show, especially not playing with his aft. He has never felt so sexy before, and the intense focus of three mechs is a heady feeling. Crosshairs moans shakily, feeling his valve-lips go plump under his servo.

"That's enough. Line Springer's cock up with your ass."

Crosshairs reaches for the spike that has been smearing lubricant ad pre-transfluid against the plating of his aft while he was playing with himself. He holds the thick head against the opening, and then Springer drops him, hilting himself in one go. Crosshairs makes a noise of surprise, and he squirms a little, because it was a lot to take at once, and his calipers had obviously started to tighten up. It didn't hurt though, and that's a big step up when it comes to this.

"I just can't decide what I want first. I mean, look at his valve; the way he's drooling again, and those biolights. Now that's a come hither flicker if I ever saw one. But his little port looks really inviting too..." Blackout muses.

"We have enough time to do both."

Crosshairs flushes again, even as his array heats up from the dirty talk. Springer increase the pace, and it doesn't hurt, but even with the slick, it's a little bit uncomfortable. Crosshairs still plays with his node, and even the discomfort is confusingly arousing, and Springer does his that spot inside him.

Blackout glances at Ironhide's spike. "Did you get that modified, or are you that big naturally? I mean, you're definitely smaller than me frame wise, but you're almost as equipped as I am."

"No mods, I swear. I guess the mechs who built me either had humor, a preference, or just took one from the wrong box." Ironhide strokes his spike quicker a couple of times for emphasis.

"Lucky bastard."

"You know, if you were equipped like me proportionally to your size, you'd be stuck fucking heavy machinery. Your spike would go in through the valve and out the intake on the small and pretty."

"True."

"With a great spike comes great responsibility." Ironhide snickers.

Crosshairs stops stroking his node, because he's getting close to an overload, and he isn't keen on testing what they'll do if he overloads in spite of being ordered not to. 

Not when they're still focused on his ass, and there's so many ways things can turn to way more uncomfortable.

Springer slams in deep, biting Crosshairs's neck with a growl as he overloads.

"Pull out slowly when you're done. I want to see if his calipers still close fully, or if he'll drool cum." Ironhide says to Springer.

Crosshairs flushes again.

Chapter Text

"Would you look at that, his aft is still tight enough to close up." 

"So, how does it feel, little slut, to have your ass full of my cum?" Springer mutters in his audial.

Crosshairs is still sitting on his lap, legs hooked over Springer's knees, spread wide. 

"I... uhm... it's... good?" He stutters, embarrassed about how he's actually trying to figure out how it feels. 

And how casually Springer asks about these things, especially with the other two watching and listening, and how is it supposed to feel to have cum in his port? He can't really feel it, but there's something arousing about knowing it's there...

Springer reaches between his legs, teasing Crosshairs port with his digits, and Crosshairs feels the opening relaxing slightly under the touch.

"Now you're drooling." Ironhide says, cocking his optical ridge when he meets Crosshairs's optics.

Crosshairs squeaks with embarrassment and squirms, trying to clench his calipers and Springer rumbles a laugh.

"I can feel my cum dribbling down my digits, you loose little slut. You're opening up nicely from just the slightest touch now."

"Looks like he's ready for me now, and I've decided what I want.." Blackout says, getting up from his seat.

"So you're going to make him all sloppy before I can have him?" Ironhide asks.

"Hey, looks like he stays decently tight, and you're not much smaller than me. He'll be good for you too, and it's my turn now."

"Look at them, fighting over who gets you first, little slut. They sure look horny for you." Springer croons in his audial.

Ironhide just laughs, apparently not at all concerned with getting Blackout's sloppy seconds. Blackout reaches for Crosshairs, big servos splayed under Crosshairs's arms, and then he easily lifts the smaller mech and Crosshairs us carried to a different berth. Blackout puts him down across it, on his back, and then he kneels between Crosshairs's legs, pulling him closer. He lines his spike up, and Crosshairs feels so awkward, holding his legs up in a weird pose.

He's usually aft up, face down for this, how is Blackout thinking this will work?

"Here's the lube."

"He looks sloppy enough..."

"Better safe than sorry. Would be a shame to break him the first night, and Roadie and Moto are going to want their fair share tomorrow..." Ironhide says, and his voice brokers no argument.

"Suppose it can't hurt." Blackout says, slicking his spike with what looks like chain lube.

"I.. am I supposed te lay like this?" Crosshairs asks, feeling incredibly awkward. "The hydraulics in my legs may overheat..."

Blackout flashes that predatory grin of his. "No, they won't, and yes, you're going to lay like this, because I want to see my cock sliding into you, and your face when it does so."

How is it even possible to flush so many times in one night?

Then the head of Blackout's spike pops into him, and the big Helo grabs the backs of his knees, folding Crosshairs to the point of almost being uncomfortable, but not quite. Then he rolls his hips and sinks in to the hilt.

Crosshairs feels himself make a face, because Blackout is definitely bigger than Springer, and there's stretch and a fullness he didn't quite think was possible.

"Yeah, just like that, little bitch. Take it all. Do you want to play with yourself, or would you prefer one of my brothers doing it for you?"

"I..."

It feels better when they do it, because they're skilled, but he feels shy asking for it, and isn't that unusual? Though he usually just asked for being fucked, not for what he really wants...

"I'd like if one o' them would do i'..." He almost whispers.

Blackout smirks at him. "Good choice."

Chapter Text

Blackout fucks him at a pace that suggest that the big mech intends to take his sweet time, and Ironhide comes over to them, taking a seat next to Crosshairs. He looks down at where Blackout's spike is sliding into Crosshairs's, a crooked smirk stretching hing his intake, and Crosshairs squirms in mortification.

It's not that he never had an audience before, but nobody has ever scrutinized what he's doing so closely before. They just watched from a distance, waiting for their turn.

"It's almost obscene, the way he's stretched around you. Fit for a frag vid. Pity they shut off our inbuilt recording programs."

"Yeah, this would really earn some good stuff. He's still pretty tight." Blackout's voice is rough. "Aren't you, little slut? Do I feel big inside you?"

"Yes, ye do." Crosshairs grinds out, but it's not all discomfort that makes him grind his denta.

There's something very arousing with the way they talk above him, as if he really is nothing but a toy, but at the same time, he's invited into the conversation, and that's what really hits the spot. He's a participant, and not just a warm frame with slick holes...

"Just so you know," Ironhide grins down at him as he reaches for Crosshairs's array, "Springer's cum is welling out of you around Blackout's spike."

Crosshairs whimpers, not only from embarrassment, but also from the way Ironhide's digit starts to stroke his node. His intake falls open when Blackout changes the angle, hitting that spot inside him again, and he curls his back, lifting his hips to get even more of that glorious pressure.

Blackout pauses when he's hilted, and Crosshairs growls in frustration, because his charge is starting to rise again, and Ironhide is doing a very lazy dance through the slit of Crosshairs's valve with his digits, not hurried at all.

"That's deep. I really can't get deeper than that." Blackout says contemplatively.

"Think you're right." Ironhide says, not stopping his slow exploration of Crosshairs's folds.

"I wonder if he could accommodate me fully..." Blackout muses.

"Don't you fucking dare knotting him before I've had my go." Ironhide growls. "Enough sloppiness is enough."

"I guess that's a fair point."

What the fuck is knotting?!

Crosshairs squirms. "More, please! Sir! I wan' more."

"This is the most you'll get." Then Blackout smirk turns into a feral grin. "Unless you're into double penetration, but somehow, I doubt that you could handle two dicks in one hole..."

"I can' do tha'..."

It's impossible. Blackout alone is more than enough, and unless they have a microbot somewhere around here, there's no way he could take one of the others too.

"At least you're honest about your limitations. I mean it, though: we're not going to completely wreck you here tonight." Ironhide says, and his field shows his honesty.

Blackout starts to move again, those long slow thrusts that really feel like something the he can keep up all night.

Hopefully, they'll let him overload soon if that's the case.

Chapter Text

Ironhide's digits slip away from Crosshairs's node yet again, spreading his valve-lips to really remove all his chances of squirming enough to get some friction.

Not that he can squirm much with the way Blackout is holding his legs.

He groans, longing for that overload, his valve clenching around nothing again.

"Please, le' me overload, Sir." He almost sobs.

"Sorry, no can do. Then I'll have to wait for you to be ready again, and I really, really don't like to be kept waiting..." Ironhide growls in his audial.

It sends a thrill down his back-struts — the danger lacing Ironhide's voice, and how demanding the mech is — bur Crosshairs grimaces.

"I'm gettin' sore. Sir." He whines.

It's true. In spite of all the slick, Blackout has been going for so long, Crosshairs's port is starting to feel chafed, and the fullness is almost turning into an ache — not quite, but definitely an uncomfortable throbbing.

Ironhide looks down at where Crosshairs and Blackout are joined, smirking crookedly.

"Looks fine to me. I do see your point, though. Blackout, are you going to hog him all night? I mean, you still have his pussy to defile, and I think Moto and Roadie will be a little bit disappointed if the bitch is still out cold in recharge by the time they get in here, because we kept him up all night."

"Hey, I'm just making the most of my turn now that I can't knot him."

"If you hurry up, then maybe you'll have enough time to do it later, as an encore?"

"Now, that's some grade A strategical thinking!" Springer cackles.

"I can dig that idea." Blackout grunts, increasing the pace.

His ass feels warm, as if there's friction in spite of the lube and the cum, and the increase in pace doesn't help, but at least Blackout is chasing his overload now, and if he's honest, it's far from the worst discomfort he has been through when interfacing.

Especially when someone takes him in the aft. And Ironhide is back to being generous with the stimulation, so maybe he thinks that Crosshairs deserves the overload that has been kept from him for Primus knows how long.

Blackout growls, hips stuttering before he slams in deep, and Crosshairs squirms, so very full, so very close, and...

Ironhide stops stroking his node, pulling his servo away, and Crosshairs squeaks a frustrated, desperate little noise. He grabs the big mech's wrist-strut and pulls, trying to steer the servo back to his array.

Ironhide chuckles, easily resisting Crosshairs attempt to take control of his extremity.

"Now, isn't this a bit presumptuous for a little bitch?"

"Looks awfully demanding." Blackout agrees through gritted denta.

"I'm... I, please let me overload, Sir!" Crosshairs whines, on the verge of crying. "I didn' mean te be demandin', I jus' need..."

"Aaw, the little slut is needy!" Springer teases. "Maybe we should forgive him for wanting you both so much?"

Blackout jerks back quickly, his spike slipping free with an obscene pop.

"I'm thinking more along the lines that he will make it up to me..." Ironhide muses. "On all fours, little slut."

Chapter Text

"Please, Sir! I'm gettin' sore..." Crosshairs whines, not getting into position, but sitting on his pedes to protect his aft.

"You said that. You also said that we could have you any way we want. This is what I want." Ironhide's voice is smooth, but there's a steely undertone there.

Crosshairs makes a face, ignoring that thrill down his back-struts that Ironhide's voice causes.

"Self-pity isn't a good look on you, sweetie." Blackout says mockingly.

Ironhide's servo slips under his coattails, digits rubbing lazy circles along his back-struts, while the big mech leans closer, lip-plates almost brushing Crosshairs's audials.

"Are you damaged? Any warnings popping up in your HUD?" He murmurs.

"No."

"Good. You know I'm smaller than Blackout. I'll use more lube, and I'll be quick. I'm already worked up from watching you be fucked, you're so hot. Of course I want another piece of such a sexy little slut. Will you be good for me? I promise I'll make you overload..." Ironhide croons.

It should be impossible for his valve to go slicker, but apparently it isn't. He isn't that keen on taking even more cock in his ass, but truth be told, he has been far more sore and still allowed mechs to take him.

"I'll be good." Crosshairs mutters, leaning forward to get into position.

"The best little slut." Ironhide says, pushing Crosshairs's coattails to the side, kneeling behind him. "You can bite the pillow if you want."

Crosshairs feels the coldness when Ironhide sprays the lube on his port, and then the spike slips into him to the hilt. He has tightened up slightly while trying to get out of this, and there's that burning stretch, and the ache is still there.

"Ow." He slumps forward, pressing his face into the pillow. "I'm sore." He mumbles, the words muffled.

"I know, babe, but you're doing so well." Ironhide encourages him.

Crosshairs squirms at the praise. He isn't used to being told he's doing something well with such sincerity. Then Ironhide starts to move, and he actually forgets about the discomfort, because the angle Ironhide is pounding into him at is hitting that spot inside him just so. Crosshairs wails into the pillow, astonished at how quickly his charge is rising.

"You better keep it down, or everyone is going to hear you getting fucked through the berth. We don't want the guards to come in here to investigate, do we? Then you won't get that overload..." Ironhide growls, splaying a big servo on the back of Crosshairs's helm to push his face deeper into the bedding.

It doesn't take many more thrusts before Crosshairs overloads so hard, his vocalizer goes haywire with unintelligible beeps, and then he's knocked into a reboot.

Chapter Text

His reboot is kind of slow, with the cottony feel of slowly waking up after a long night's good sleep, and sleeping in well into the morning.

He's stretched out on his front on the berth, face still buried in the pillow.

"Welcome back to the land of the living..." Blackout snickers.

Crosshairs almost blurts 'shut up', but then reality catches up, and no matter how much it wouldn't be meant as anything but dopey teasing, there's still the risk that they would take it at face value, and things could go so very wrong. He busies himself with taking stock of his frame instead.

No warnings, and no notifications, so he isn't damaged, even if his port feels very slick, sore, and weirdly loose.

"Fuckin' pit, ye make me come 'ard!" Crosshairs says instead, because it's true, and it can't hurt to stroke their egos.

"Well, it's not like it's rocket science. You're really easy to satisfy." Ironhide rumbles, clearly amused.

Crosshairs doesn't answer. He doesn't know what to say. He always prided himself on being easy to bring to overload — even if he has faked it on numerous occasions, just to please his lovers — but this evening has showed him what an overload can feel like, and what he has had before seems like a mocking of an orgasm compared to what the Autobots have given him. 

Though, there's a price to pay; he feels strutless and spent, and it would be just perfect to be allowed to drop into recharge right now.

"I'm guessing that you aren't ready for cock in your pussy right now?" Ironhide asks him.

"Ye know me so well..."

"At least we're getting to know your frame. But now you've taken a bit of a nap here, and Springer has a hard-on that's still waiting for you." Ironhide says.

"Yeah, just look at this; all pressurized and weeping for you." Springer leers, slowly stroking his spike for emphasis.

"Looks really tasty. Wan' te try my mouth again? I've 'ad a bit o' practice since last time..." Crosshairs purrs, because initiative can probably never be wrong.

"Sounds like a splendid idea."

"So 'ow do ye wan' me? On my knees, or on my back so ye can go really deep?"

"Deepthroating does sound very tempting, but I want you to do all the work for now. Come here." Springer says, pointing to the floor between his pedes.

His frame still feels tired, but Crosshairs rolls out of the berth, and walks over to Springer, sinking to his knees.

"Sure is a sweet-looking beast." He murmurs, grabbing Springer's spike with his servo, then he leans forward to lick a line from the base to the tip. He makes a show of licking his lips, keeping optic contact with Springer. "Tastes good too."

Chapter Text

He has been giving Springer a really good treatment — a treatment worthy of a Prime, if Primes wants blowjobs from little bitches — but it isn't all unselfish, because every minute he's sucking spike, his other systems are getting a reprieve.

A reprieve from the really good  treatment he has been getting.

"Fucking pit, you really are good at this." Springer groans, his helm lolling back where he's reclining on his servos.

Crosshairs only answer is a sloppy, wet suck as he lets the spike slip out of his intake. He laps at the head of the spike immediately, twisting his servo around the base.

It's probably a good idea to not answer, but give Springer more of what he seems to enjoy instead. And it isn't like he thinks it tastes bad.

"He really is good at that. Better than I hoped for, really." Ironhide muses.

"Thought he would protest the deepthroating, but it turns out he's good at it." Blackout says.

"You hear that, little bitch? You're better than we thought when we chose you. We thought that you would be good enough, but you're exceeding our expectations." Springer grunts, approval readily tangible in his field.

He has heard that he's good before, but nobody ever told him, nobody ever said it directly to him. He didn't mind the degradation of being objectified and hearing it in third person, but it's much more powerful to have someone tell him personally. He really likes that.

Crosshairs sucks the spike as deeply into his intake as he can to show that he likes the praise. Springer groans when Crosshairs bobs his helm.

"You can touch yourself if you want to, get ready for the next cock. Though I suppose you're slick enough even if you don't." Springer tells him.

It's true, and that turns him on. He's so wet, he's still practically dripping, both from lubricant, and possibly some lingering transfluid. If it hasn't been flushed out when he squirted.

Crosshairs flushes at that thought, but at the same time, it's arousing. He reaches between his legs to test his folds, if they're still oversensitive, and finds his array ready for more play. He briefly reaches back, touching his port, and it has closed up by now, but it isn't really offering resistance. Crosshairs wiggles his digit a couple of times, but he doesn't find that spot they hit with their spikes, so he pulls out to play with his more well-known parts.

They'll probably do more stuff with his aft soon enough again to sate his curiosity.

"You know what? Get on the berth. I want to finish deep down your throat, and I want to see you fingering yourself when I do it."

Crosshairs lets the spike slip out of his mouth and climbs onto the berth, stretching out on his back, helm hanging over the edge. He immediately slips his servo between his legs, wet noises audible when he slides his digits into himself.

"Eager and obedient. I like it." Ironhide says approvingly. "But don't make yourself overload yet, or you won't give Blackout any choice but to take your little pussy while it's still twitching and oversensitive."

Crosshairs can't nod, nor can he agree verbally, because Springer's spike is slipping down his intake. It's easier this time, because now he knows what to expect, and Springer is smaller than Blackout.

Springer starts to move, fucking Crosshairs's mouth, and Crosshairs fingers his wet valve, feeling the optics of the others as they come to stand next to Springer to watch.

He has never felt so wanted in his entire life.

Springer pushes in to the hilt, and Crosshairs sees the rise in the levels in his tank when the transfluid trickles down the tubing.

There's something hot about that.

Chapter Text

"Mh, sopping wet, needy, little valve. Just the way I like it." Blackout growls, thick digits sliding into Crosshairs's valve without preamble.

Springer has stretched out on one of the berths, looking satisfied, and Crosshairs spends a second to think about how they don't seem to care much about who uses which berth, and that it can be good to know how those things work, but then Blackout effectively distracts him with a clever curl of his digits.

"Well, of course, 'andsome! 'ow could I stay dry an' unprimed aroun' so many ho' mechs?" Crosshairs purrs, bucking up to meet Blackout's servo. "Ye make it so good fer me."

It's not a lie. In just a part of a night, they've showed him how good interfacing can be when someone takes the time to figure out his preferences.

"And I guess you're ready to get something bigger in this drooling little valve of yours?"

"Oh, please, babe! Give it te me. Sir!"

He puts it on rather thick, but it doesn't feel forced. On the contrary; putting on an act is turning him on, and it's hard to tell how much is an act at all.

"Well, since you ask so nicely..."

Blackout kneels between his legs, lining his spike up, and Crosshairs licks his lip-plates in anticipation, because the big spike looks so tantalizing, and he knows how good that beast feels inside him from that time in the washracks. He tilts his hips to get the head closer to the opening of his valve, as close to trying to get it inside as possible without seeming too demanding about it.

"You really need this, don't you? Horny little bitch." Blackout leers.

"I do! Please le' me 'ave it! Sir."

"I feel generous tonight, so I'll indulge you."

Then the spike finally slides into him, and Crosshairs arches his back to let it all inside. He wraps his legs around Blackout's hips to push him deeper.

"Greedy little bitch." Blackout snickers.

"Yeah, he really wants it all. Hard to move like that though..." Hide chips in.

"Agreed. I think I'll use the wall for this."

"Good plan."

Blackout easily pries Crosshairs's legs from around him, getting his arms under the smaller mech's legs, then he lifts Crosshairs without pulling out. Crosshairs hooks his servos over Blackout's shoulders, hard pressed to reach on the massive Helo.

"Wha're ye doin'?"

"I'm gonna pound you really good, give you all you want, and then a few inches more."

Crosshairs's back hits the wall, and Blackout grinds against him, making Crosshairs squirm. He's never had such a big spike before, and the way the head of that spike grinds against his ceiling node is pleasurable in a slightly uncomfortable way.

"Enough for you, little slut?" Blackout rumbles.

"Yeh." Crosshairs pants.

Blackout smirks at him, then he pulls out almost all the way before slamming inside. Crosshairs mewls and makes a face, because it's almost too much, but only almost.

Blackout sets a hard rhythm of powerful thrusts, and Crosshairs mewls every time he bottoms out.

"You want someone pressing a pillow to your face, or should we disconnect your vocalizer? You're getting loud. Don't get me wrong, I like it, but someone who shouldn't may hear you..."

"I'll be quiet."

"We'll hold you to that too."

Crosshairs bites down on his glossa to force himself to be quiet. His digits scrabble haphazardly against Blackout's plating. It's not like he can do much more than hang on and take it.

"Here, let me show you something." Blackout says, grabbing his servo. He reaches between them, guiding Crosshairs's digit to his anterior node, stroking it. "Like this."

It feels really good, very intense, just like when Blackout stroked him to overload, and Crosshairs catches on quickly, continuing by himself.

"I'm getting close, so go ahead and overload."

Then Blackout starts moving again, and Crosshairs continues working his node, charge rising quickly. He grinds his denta to not moan too loudly, and then he finally falls over the edge. His valve clenches, around the massive spike still moving inside him, and he feels the stream of liquid coating Blackout's spike and pelvic plating, and once again, he's mortified by it.

"Yeah!" Blackout groans, probably reacting to Crosshairs field.

"A consistent squirter." Springer says.

Crosshairs mewls in embarrassment where he hangs strutless in Blackout's grip. It sends Blackout over too, and he slams on deep with a low growl. Crosshairs feels spent, but also very contented.

They've all had him in every way, and he has really enjoyed being their bad little slut.

Chapter Text

Blackout puts him down on the berth and Crosshairs relaxes on the lumpy mattress. The others surround him, starting to wipe the fluids from his frame.

It's nice. It should make him feel like a ridiculous sparkling — it always did when Dirge wiped away the evidence of their filthy couplings — but oddly enough, it makes him feel cared for. Nobody ever did this for him before — well, except Dirge — and it is something he never knew that he wanted.

Digits slip under his plating here and there, feeling him up, but Crosshairs really doesn't mind. 

Not when it's the best lovers he has ever had who are doing it, and he can bask in the attention of three hot mechs.

"Feel anythin' ye like?" He purrs, but he sounds more dopey from satisfaction than seductive.

Ironhide hums a chuckle, a sinful sound that sends a thrill down Crosshairs's back-struts. "Both see and feel things I like very much. You really have lovely cables and wiring."

Someone's servo slips between his legs, carefully wiping his valve-lips, but avoiding his node and slit, and in spite of how strutless he feels, the teasing touch so close but still not quite there makes something deep inside him twitch. He squirms, even if he isn't certain that he really wants more.

He's so damned well fucked already.

"Flip him."

Everything suddenly spins when they roll him over on his front.

"Oi! What the..."

"Your aft isn't really any less sticky." Springer snickers, flipping Crosshairs's coattails to the side.

Crosshairs makes an embarrassed noise into the pillow, but the servos wiping his thighs and aft feel really nice, almost like a massage.

Yep, he really chose the right people to make a deal with. Even if they just do him this courtesy once now and then, it'll be worth it. They're fragging great in berth too, so...

He squeals in surprise when a digit slips into his ass, and they laugh.

"Definitely a bit looser, but not sloppy. Seems like he's pretty quick with tightening up afterwards." Blackout says, pumping his digit a couple of times, deliberately hitting that spot inside that Crosshairs failed to find earlier.

"Good." Ironhide says. "I mean, especially if you still plan on knotting him."

"Well, I do have some jizz left in my reservoir..."

"Even after all this?" Springer sounds doubtful.

"I've set my specifications to not spill too much each time. More fun like that. And I have a pretty big reservoir too."

Ironhide barks a laugh. "Blackout's well equipped for the kinky stuff."

What the fuck is knotting? But then again, if it's kinky, he's kind of curious...

Chapter Text

His knees are nudged apart, and the bed dips under Blackout's massive frame.

"Wha're ye doin'?" Crosshairs asks over his shoulder, spark speeding up with nerves. He hears the spray bottle again — and how in the pit is it even possible that Blackout can be ready to go again so soon?! — and then the telltale sound of a servo slicking a cock, then the thick head of Blackout's spike nudges his port. "'m still feelin' chafed..."

"Don't worry, I'm not going to move much." The head of his spike slides inside. "Never been knotted before?"

Crosshairs mewls unintelligibly, reluctant to admit that he hasn't even heard of knotting before, let alone tried it. 

He has prided himself on having tried a lot of the things most mechs wouldn't want to admit even thinking about.

"I bet a ration of high grade that he hasn't tried it." Ironhide says. 

"You're on!" Springer takes the bet.

Blackout pushes in deeper rather slowly, as if he doesn't want to make it unnecessarily uncomfortable. Or maybe he's just savoring it. He bends forward, curling his frame, and Crosshairs shivers as a hot air from Blackout's exvents tickles the sensors around his audials.

"So what is it, little slut? Are you too innocent to have tried being knotted?" Blackout croons as he slides in to the hilt.

"I-I've never tried it before..."

Blackout rumbles a deep laugh. "So I'm the one to pop this cherry? Such a treat."

"Fucking pit! Lost my high grade, and Blackout gets to do the honor..."

"Well, at least you don't have to jerk off tonight. Must be a first for a very long time." Ironhide snickers.

"True."

"So, do you even know what knotting is, little bitch?" Blackout purrs.

Crosshairs flushes. "No' really..." 

"I bet you heard of frame-locks in interface education in school?"

"Jus' that it 'appens when tryin' te get sparked, no' exactly 'ow it 'appens."

He remembers it vaguely now, something about the coupling latching on to the gestational chamber, but his bolt would stop that, and then something he can't remember — he wasn't paying attention, because he was still a virgin, and not interested in interfacing back then.

Crosshairs squirms, because suddenly, the stretch feels more intense.

"My spike has a flare just above the base, and when I activate that, it swells, filling out inside the first row of calipers. Works the same way wherever I'm sticking my cock at the moment. Then when I'm firmly coupled, I overload, and it will go on for as long as it takes to empty my reservoir."

Crosshairs makes a noise, because the stretch is a bit uncomfortable by now.

"Take it easy, it won't get much bigger." Blackout croons, then he suddenly pulls back a bit. It makes Crosshairs rock with him. "See? You're not going anywhere until I'm done." There's a dark leer in Blackout's voice, and his field is tacky with ramped up arousal.

It should be scary, and perhaps demeaning, but Crosshairs just can't help that he's turned on by being used like this. It far outweighs the discomfort in his ass. He feels his valve-lips go hot and start to throb.

"Oh, yes! This is so fucking good! You'll be dribbling my cum for days when I'm done." Blackout groans.

"If he isn't so loose, it'll all run out again immediately." Springer snickers.

"Yeah, better have a rag under him when you pull out." Ironhide adds, a grin audible in his voice.

Crosshairs feels like he's full to bursting, but that swelling of Blackout's spike makes it press against the sweet spot inside him. Crosshairs reaches between his legs, starting to stroke his node.

"Maybe give me that rag now? He's so full, my cum is starting to seep out around my spike."

Springer cackles. "Let me see!"

Blackout sits back, and it jostles Crosshairs. He flushes when they all stare at where Blackout is stuck inside him, and he can feel the fluid slowly dribbling down the slit of his valve to coat his digits as he works his node.

"Move your servo. I'm taking over now." Ironhide says.

Crosshairs immediately obeys, pulling his servo out from under him. Ironhide puts a cloth under him, and then he starts to stroke Crosshairs's valve-lips.

"Wouldn't want you to overload too quickly, so I better do this for you."

Chapter Text

Blackout's servos keep his hips in a vice like grip, a few twitching motions of his hips telltale signs that he's overloading. The Copter's fans are spinning on full blast, but otherwise he's quiet for the moment.

Which makes Crosshairs's little whimpers sound so much louder. He presses his face into the pillow in embarrassment to muffle his noises.

He's so, so fucking full, and it's embarrassing to be turned on by it, by knowing that Blackout has topped him up to overflowing, and the way Ironhide's digits are lazily slipping through the slit of his valve, underscoring that he's being a bad little slut again, taking it up his ass...

"Whatever it is that's making your field like this, keep thinking about it, 'cause hot damn..." Blackout groans.

Crosshairs squirms, face still hidden in the pillow to hide how he flushes.

"Maybe someone needs to confess what he's thinking about?" Ironhide purrs.

Crosshairs shakes his helm.

He'll burn up from embarrassment, smelt on the spot and burn a hole in the berth, and become a puddle on the floor.

"Hmh. I think we need to guess then, Bots." Ironhide says, pulling his digits away from where they're drawing lazy circles around Crosshairs's anterior node.

"No, don't stop!" Crosshairs growls in frustration. "Sir!" He still adds it when he catches himself, because he's pretty certain that Ironhide isn't above keeping him from overloading for the rest of this... This knotting. Or the entire night for that matter.

"Maybe he likes getting a fat cock in his port?" Springer muses.

"Possible. Or perhaps it's because he can't keep that cum inside him?" Ironhide says pulling his servo away entirely. "Look at this. My servo is all soaked with transfluid that won't fit inside his tight little ass."

Crosshairs almost squeaks at that comment, and he can't stop himself from snapping his helm around to look at Ironhide.

Sure enough, the big mech is holding up his servo, all smeared with Blackout's transfluid and Crosshairs's own lubricant.

"Could be that he isn't all that tight anymore?" Springer leers.

"Yeah... You know, little slut, my servo looks like it needs a cleaning before I continue to play with your empty, starving little cunt." 

Ironhide holds out his servo for Crosshairs, and after some hesitation, Crosshairs pushes his arms under him to rest on his elbows, and leans in to lap at Ironhide's servo. Moving around makes the calipers in his port flutter feebly around the thick spike, and Blackout groans, grinding against him, and manages to get half an inch deeper. Crosshairs feels the transfluid dribble out, running down the slit of his valve to be soaked up by the rag underneath him, and his valve throbs dully. He pushes a servo under him to reach for his array again, but Ironhide grabs it with the servo Crosshairs isn't licking clean.

"None of that, needy little slut. I'll give you what you deserve when you've earned it." Ironhide rumbles in a low voice.

Crosshairs's calipers flutter again, the command sending a thrill down his back-struts. The noise Blackout makes is downright indecent, and Crosshairs can't help but feel smug about it, clenching his calipers again.

Chapter Text

Crosshairs has never really thought about using his spike before. Sure, he jerked off a few times out of curiosity, but it just wasn't as good as interfacing, and when he interfaces, everyone always wants his valve, so it is the natural choice. But with Blackout still overloading, he gets curious. 

It really must be awesome when the overload goes on for so long, but what does it feel like when overloading with his spike? Maybe that's different from when he jerks off too? Not that he has any hopes that one of the brothers would let him spike one of them, but maybe one day, when he's out of here, he'll try it with someone.

Crosshairs dips his glossa into the seam of Ironhide's servo, trying to get all the fluids away.

"Too bad I don't have the hands of a medic. Then this would be more than visibly pleasing." Ironhide says to Springer.

Springer snorts. "Yeah, like you would ever be fit to heal mechs. You're better at breaking them." 

"Maybe you're right. This one sure falls apart easily under my digits." Ironhide leers.

"He's kind of easy, though..."

"Are you implying I'm not that good?"

"Ye're really good, Sir." Crosshairs interjects.

Ironhide grins, approval seeping into his field. "See? I'm really good."

"Well if he says so..."

"Are you itching to have a go and try me, or what? I mean, I agree with Blackout about your aft not being all that pretty, but if you bend over, I could always offline my optics..."

"The two of you're talking so much about my aft, I'm going to stop picking up the solvent in the washracks."

Ironhide barks a laugh. "Don't worry, we have a pretty little bitch now." He turns to Crosshairs. "Right, little slut? We can have so much pussy, mouth and ass, we don't have to even look at Springer."

"Yeh, ye got all o' me, as much as ye wan'." Crosshairs purrs, sucking one of Hide's digits into his intake.

"You're such a good little slut. I think you deserve a reward."

Ironhide pulls his servo away from Crosshairs, and immediately pushes it underneath the smaller mech again, digits stroking his valve-lips with light touches that just graze his node slightly with every stroke. For so little contact, it's incredibly arousing, but it's also nowhere near enough to get him close. Blackout rolls his hips, even if he can't really move much inside Crosshairs.

"I'm going to knot your pussy too sometime, when my reservoir is filled up again, fuck you feel so good. Might even go for your intake when you're good with deepthroating." Blackout grunts.

He thought he was good at deepthroating! But then again, it was the first time, and practice makes perfect... And he probably isn't ready to be knotted in his mouth just yet anyway.

Ironhide's digits dip into his valve, curling to hit a node that is particularly sensitive, and Crosshairs's hips jerk of their own accord, making the knot press against the calipers in his aft in a way that's both uncomfortable and still feels good somehow. He whines, squirming.

"You see? You're not going anywhere until I'm done." Blackout purrs wickedly.

"I don't think he really wants to go somewhere else..." Ironhide snickers when he draws a circle around Crosshairs anterior node, and Crosshairs moans loudly.

It's probably true. His processor might be a bit hazy, but he really can't think of any place he'd rather be.

Chapter Text

Blackout grunts, sounding pleased. "Damn, it was a long time since the last time I was completely drained!"

It feels like he's slightly less full, but Crosshairs just waits passively, enjoying the touches Hide grants him, and the way Blackout's spike stirs inside him when the big Helo moves.

The stretch tapers off, and then Blackout pulls out, a rush of transfluid dribbling out in the wake of the still massive spike. Ironhide's digits slip out of his valve and back to his port, sliding in without any resistance.

"You're definitely a loose little slut now, but you're still closing up. It may take a few minutes, but you won't be gaping all night. It's almost as if you were built for this..."

Maybe he is? It's the only thing he has ever been fairly good at, maybe Primus's intentions for him really were being a slut all along? And they're teaching him so much, if he really tries to be even better, he's going to be the best at it...

So, wha' do you wan', big Bot?" He purrs, because he still hasn't overloaded, and Ironhide's spike is hard again.

Ironhide cocks an optical ridge, smirking at him. He clicks his vocalizer, then he suddenly stands, grabbing Crosshairs, easily lifting him from the berth. Crosshairs squawks in both surprise and embarrassment, because it makes a glob of transfluid dribble out of him, running down his legs where he dangles in Hide's grip — strong servos holding him under his arms, like a sparkling, or perhaps a turbokitten.

"Blackout, you better clean up a little bit after yourself. I think he'll leave a wet patch big enough all by himself."

"Plug him." Blackout shrugs, but he still grabs a rag and wipes Crosshairs's aft and thighs.

"You know, if you do stick a rag in his aft, he may feel tighter..." Springer muses. "Or did you plan on plowing his ass too? I guess a rag in there would make him feel tighter there too, though..."

Blackout barks a laugh, and Crosshairs grimaces when feels the abrasive surface of the cloth being pushed into him. It's not that the cloth is rough, but he's still feeling a bit chafed.

"Sore?" Ironhide asks, studying his face-plates.

"Yeh."

"Blackout, get the nanite gel. We can't have him all torn up when Moto and Roadie want their share tomorrow."

Blackout pulls the rag out, and walks over to a small shelf, grabbing a tiny bottle. He smears his digits with it, and then he comes back, sliding his fingers into Crosshairs's port. The effect is instantaneous: the cream cools and soothes his sore opening. Blackout pumps his digits a couple of times, and rubs that sensitive spot, and it makes Crosshairs twitch where he's hanging, because it feels good, especially now that all the discomfort is gone.

"That's enough." Ironhide says, and Blackout's digits slip out.

Crosshairs is carried to one of the other berths, and Ironhide throws him at it, grinning like a cyberwolf when Crosshairs bounces on the mattress, squeaking from the mechhandling.

Ironhide crawls onto the berth, stalking him, and Crosshairs barely resists the urge to scramble away, because there's something unnerving about how predatory the big mech manages to look with his surprisingly smooth movements, and intense focus and....

Crosshairs valve clenches and it makes lubricant dribble out of his valve, because he's going indecently wet. Ironhide notices, smirking slowly as he sniffs the air.

"Mmm, live prey..." He rumbles, voice rough.

Then he pounces.

Chapter Text

Crosshairs's wrist-struts are grabbed and pinned above his helm.

"Now something tells me that you're a kinky little slut, who enjoys when we grab ahold of you, and use you as we see fit. That you like it a bit rough." 

Crosshairs squirms, because it's true, and even if he always has been turned on by his lovers using him, it's quite different to have it spelled out like this. 

It does sound more kinky out loud than it ever did in his helm.

"Am I right? Do you enjoy the thought that I would do this to you even if you cried no, and stop, and please not there? Hm?"

"I-I..."

Oh, Primus, the filthy images in his helm. It's so wrong, especially after Dirge, because he sure didn't enjoy that, but Hide is hot, and he can't really think of anything the big mech could do to him that he wouldn't want to do. But how sick isn't it to want to be forced?

Ironhide wraps a servo around his throat instead, letting go of his wrists, and Crosshairs instinctively grabs Ironhide's massive wrist-strut. 

Not that he could really do anything to free himself, but where else should he place his servos?

His valve clenches at the thought that he's at the mercy of the big Warframe.

"Now, this is interesting, because your field says go, but I'm not hearing any words, and I do know that I'm not squeezing that hard, so you should be able to speak. It takes a lot more force to tear out a throat, even on a smallish mech such as yourself." Hide purrs in his audial.

The implication that Ironhide has done that at some point should be terrifying, but Crosshairs valve apparently approves, because it contracts with a throb, making more lubricant dribble out. Ironhide grin is absolutely feral, and he cocks an optical ridge, slowly reaching for Crosshairs's array.

"Am I going to find you sopping wet from the mechhandling, little slut? Because I smell lubricant..."

"I... yes, Sir." Crosshairs mumbles.

Two digits slowly slip into his aching valve.

"Would you look at that. Kinky, kinky little bitch. I have one request, though, even if I can teek your field well enough."

"Anythin'! Sir!"

"If this at any point turns into something you're not enjoying, you say Prime, and we'll do something you do enjoy instead."

"I, uhm, wha'? O-okay?"

"I'm not much for true force and lack of consent, and these kinds of games require a safe word, ergo, if you stop liking what we're doing, you say Prime. I won't have you calling me a rapist after the fact just because you couldn't tell me to stop. Understood?" The last word is almost a barked order, and it makes Crosshairs's valve clench around the digits inside him. It makes Ironhide smirk.

It sounds really weird to give him a stop word. That kind of defies the point of forcing him, doesn't it? Because he really wants to do this, and he's obviously in on it, and he's their little slut anyway, so he will go along with whatever they want. But if that's what it'll take to get Hide to fuck him...

"Y-yes, Sir!"

"Good little Bot."

The servo around his throat squeezes tighter, then Ironhide pulls his digits out from Crosshairs's valve, lining his spike up, and slamming inside in a fast but smooth move.

"Filthy little slut." He growls, setting a harsh pace.

One of the lines in his throat is squeezed hard enough to slow the supply of energon to the power bank in his processor, and instinctively, Crosshairs claws at Ironhide's lower arm. It's kind of scary, because it really shows how helpless he is, and he thrashes under the massive mech.

"Please, don'..." He whines.

"Yeah, I like it when you struggle..." Ironhide grunts.

It seems like he's paying no mind to Crosshairs's pleading, but then a thin thread of reassurance weaves through his field, and suddenly, all the pieces of the puzzle falls into place in his mind.

It's part of the game. He has a stop word if he really needs it, but Ironhide is careful about not really grabbing too hard around his throat...

"No, stop i'!" He forces out.

"Shut up, bitch. I'll fuck you however I want. What are you going to do about it?" Hide challenges.

Crosshairs flails wildly, that's what he does about it, trying to squirm away. 

As if he wasn't getting turned on by what they're doing at all. Maybe  he can sneak a quick overload somehow...

Chapter Text

Ironhide lets go of Crosshairs's throat, and the smaller mech takes advantage, tries to flail free and get away.

Not that he really wants to, but there's something almost intoxicating with how easily Ironhide wrangles him into submission, and if he struggles, the bigger mech will probably show some of that power and restrain him again.

"No, don', please stop!" He cries out, but it doesn't sound entirely sincere.

Ironhide grins at him while he grabs Crosshairs upper arms, pressing him deeper into the mattress by leaning heavily on his arms.

"Now, why would I do that? You came here to be our bitch, and I have rights here. All the rights to fuck you whenever, and however I want."

Crosshairs bucks up to try to get the spike out of him, or at least make it seem like that's what he's doing. He manages to rub his anterior node against Ironhide's pelvic plating in the process, and the growl that leaves his vocalizer has nothing to do with his inability to get away, and everything to do with the pleasure he manages to catch. He keeps squirming, hoping that Ironhide won't catch what he's up to.

Ironhide tuts. "Pathetic."

Crosshairs bucks again, and this time, he can't hold back the moan that leaves his vocalizer. Ironhide grins, obviously catching on.

"Such a needy little slut. You know you only overload when I let you."

"Use him as a cock sleeve." Blackout suggests.

Ironhide barks a laugh. "Good idea."

He grabs Crosshairs's waist, big servos almost reaching around, and then he lifts Crosshairs. The Corvette is held just above the berth, and utterly unable to really do anything but flail, and even his best attempts are useless. Ironhide starts to rock him back and forth, not pulling him back hard enough to mash Crosshairs's node against his pelvic plating.

Crosshairs has had a lot of firsts this night, and while one of them has been a frustration he has never experienced before, Ironhide's minute control of everything lights an anger that he never felt in bed before, and it finally makes Crosshairs snap.

"Ye fuckin' bastard! Don' ye dare deny me an overload again!" He snarls.

Crosshairs manages to grab a pillow and he hits the smug bastard in the helm with it, even as Ironhide is still using him as if he's some sort of masturbation tool.

Springer cackles a laugh. "Feisty!"

"Points for inventiveness." Blackout says.

Ironhide is grinning like a shark, clearly amused by Crosshairs's feeble struggling, and the tiny part of Crosshairs's processor that isn't screaming bloody murder about the charge that's actually being fueled by his anger, notes that this is probably exactly what Ironhide was going for: some honest struggling without truly forcing himself on his "victim."

He changes tactics; lets go of the pillow and reaches for his array instead, staring defiantly into Ironhide's optics while circling his node with his digit. He mewls exaggeratedly and arches his back to show off his frame, and that he isn't just going to let the bastard get his way without a struggle, even if stealing an overload may be an unorthodox way to take his power back.

This power play is kind of arousing though.

"Someone wants to hold his arms for me? I don't feel like switching position, but he's being a brat." Ironhide asks the others.

"No! Fuck you! Fuck ye all!" Crosshairs snarls, because that's just unfair.

"Isn't that what you've been doing all night?" Blackout asks, getting off his berth just to take a seat next to Crosshairs.

He flails to keep his wrist-struts from getting caught, but it doesn't take Blackout long to have them both gathered in one of his servos, and Crosshairs makes a face of defeated annoyance.

"You're kind of cute when you're sulking." Blackout snickers.

"Bastards."

Chapter Text

At least Hide's spike is thick and wonderfully ridged, so it does feel good to be used as a cock sleeve. It's just not enough...

"I wonder if he'll start swearing again, or if he will beg." Springer muses.

"I'm guessing that he wants to beg. I mean, he certainly likes it rough too, but there's this desperation leaking into his field..." Ironhide says, keeping optic contact with Crosshairs as he speaks.

Crosshairs is about to online his vocalizer and curse them all out like they've never heard before.

"And he's a smart little slut, so he probably knows that we're the ones who decide if he gets to overload or not." Blackout fills in.

Fuckers!

He clenches his jaw, because while he isn't going to say something he will pay for in frustration, Crosshairs isn't ready to give in and start pleading for an overload either.

"I thought this was goin' te be about me beggin' ye ye stop, no' beggin' ye te give me more?" He snarks, because the scene has changed quite a bit from how it started. 

The only thing he minds about that  is the frustration, but that seems to be present in every game they cook up, so he'll probably have to get used to it.

"Maybe we should force him to overload?" Blackout rumbles.

Like they need to force him to do that.

"Yeah, I don't think I'll get any more protests anyway." Ironhide says. "Oh, well, we can come back to this game another time. Springer? Mind giving us a servo or two?"

"Of course not."

"Blackout, make sure he doesn't get too loud."

Blackout grabs a piece of cloth — a clean one, thankfully — and presses it against Crosshairs's intake.

"Oi, wha' are ye doin'?! I don'... knock i' off! I..." The rest gets muffled as the rag is shoved into his mouth.

"Can't have you waking the entire cellblock."

"Fuck you!" He manages to mumble through the fabric. 

Crosshairs tries to spit it out, but Blackout's fingers are there to keep the piece of cloth inside his mouth. Then he tries to squirm — not that he can move much, held up as he is — momentarily forgetting the cloth, because Springer's digits slip into his port. It's not enough of an intrusion to cause discomfort, and the nanites have worked to soothe his soreness. It's just unexpected. Then Springer reaches for Crosshairs's array with his other servo, a deft digit putting pressure on his anterior node.

Crosshairs squeaks in a way that is both embarrassing, and a good explanation to why Blackout shoved a rag into his mouth. Springer smirks at him, increasing the pressure, and Crosshairs's digits scrabble in thin air to find purchase that isn't reachable. Ironhide's languorous pace doesn't falter, and Crosshairs has the terrible feeling that he could do this for a very long time.

The digits in his ass curl and wiggle, the pressure against his node is maddening, because while it's enough to drive his charge through the roof very quickly, he needs some friction to get all the way, and there's no way he can get it unless Springer decides to move his finger.

"Please!" He sobs through the rag, teetering on the edge, but unable to overload like this.

"Ah, there's the begging." Blackout says matter of factly. "Good thing you didn't take a bet about this, Springer."

"Shut up." Springer says, punctuating it with a curl of his digits inside Crosshairs.

If he could just...

He tries to squirm again, but it's utterly pointless, and Crosshairs slumps.

If they think he has given up, he might be able to steal that overload from the bastards.

Chapter Text

How did he ever think it would be that simple?

Of course they're not relaxing just because he slumped, giving him a way to get off. Blackout's servo is as unrelenting as ever around his wrist-struts, Hide is still using him as some sort of jerk off toy, and Springer is keeping that maddening pressure that has him teetering on the edge, and there's absolutely nothing Crosshairs can do to change any of that. He still tries to yank his arms free, because if he's quick when he frees himself, he may be able to at least get Springer's servo to move a bit before they catch him again, and he's fairly certain that it'll be enough.

But alas, Blackout's grip is unbreakable, and the only thing that happens is that his hydraulics protest, and Ironhide's grip on his hips tightens.

"Primus damn it." He groans around the rag in his intake.

"Did he just call someone Primus?"

Springer laughs. "Wanna bet about if he means my fingers or your cock?"

"Didn't you learn anything from the last bet you made?" Blackout snickers. "And you're out of high grade, so that leaves your ass as the only currency."

"Shut up."

"S no' wha' I meant." Crosshairs mumbles.

"You better not scream Primus's name when we make you overload. He has nothing to do with this." Ironhide growls.

Like it matters what he screams when his intake s stuffed with a rag.

"No, Sir." He says.

 "Good little mech. Springer, give him the first one."

Crosshairs doesn't even have time to process that statement before Springer starts flicking his node instead, and he immediately overloads. His charge is so high, the overload makes his optical feed go pixelated, and vocalizer hums with feedback. Crosshairs's back arches, and that makes his hips tilt at a different angle, making Ironhide's spike hit something inside him that makes his valve clench even harder, and he howls into that rag.

He tries to squirm away, because the stimulation to his node doesn't let up, and it's too much, feels really weird, and a bit uncomfortable. It's impossible though, and Springer keeps rubbing his node, making his overloads last longer. He thinks that he squirts again, but he can't really be sure, close to falling into reboot.

The reboot eludes him when Ironhide just keeps his rhythm, and Springer finally backs off, drawing circles around his node without touching it, stroking his valve-lips to keep his charge going. Crosshairs valve pulses lazily in aftershocks.

"You will have two more before we're done." Ironhide decides.

Two! He can't, it's impossible. He's completely ready to go into some relaxed afterglow, spent and strutless, and his array is way too sensitive for more. Not that Ironhide's spike inside him feels bad, he can take that for a while longer, but that his charge would rise again now is impossible. 

"I can' 'ave more." He mumbles through the rag, which in hindsight probably was a very good idea.

"Yes, you can. You just don't know it yet, because you've always been fucked by unskilled losers before." Ironhide's voice brokers no argument.

"'m spent."

"Fuel-levels?"

He checks it in his HUD. "Fifteen percent!"

He has really burned through his fuel, he was at forty when he left his old cell what seems like ages ago. Did he sleep through one day and they started over again without telling him?

"Should be enough, but tell us if you get into the red zone. I think we have some sweets or something else to power you with." Springer says, flicking Crosshairs node again.

He squeals, because it's pleasure, but too much pleasure, something he thought was impossible. Springer starts to stroke his node with light touches, and that's more tolerable, but he still can't believe his charge will rise. His digits scrabble in thin air again when Springer increase the pressure, and Crosshairs whines.

Springer backs off again, circling around his node before laying his digits flat along Crosshairs's valve-lips. He scissors his digits, spreading Crosshairs open.

"Thought you might like this view, Hide, to see him all split open by your cock." 

"Yeah, I can see him drooling, and how wet my spike is from all his lubricant."

Crosshairs flushes again, but his valve clenches of it's own accord.

Chapter Text

Once that oversensitivity goes away — which is quicker than he thought it would be, Springer really balances on a fine line with the stimulation, and makes it enough to start building a new charge, while not pushing too much too fast — his charge builds up again surprisingly fast. Crosshairs is well on his way to his next overload.

And incoherency. Fucking pit, how can Hide keep that pace for so long without tiring? Or overloading... Hide already has had him three times though, so maybe that's the explanation?

Crosshairs's legs are hanging limply, because with the way Hide is still using him as a cock sleeve, it's useless to try to wrap them around Hide's hips to keep them up, so he lets his frame be limp and pliable for them to position as they see fit.

"He's kind of like a doll right now. Want us to do something to get him more animated?" Blackout asks.

He's not a fucking doll! He's just tired, and moving around is pretty useless. And it is kind of easy to just let them do what they want and bring him the pleasure without having to make much of an effort himself.

"Sounds good. Got any ideas?"

"Puppeteering?" Blackout suggests.

Springer snorts. "You're such a dumbass."

What the...

"Wha's puppeteering?" He asks.

And hey, someone removed the rag and he didn't even notice.

"You know what a puppet is, right? You know, those little puppet plays for younglings..."

"Yeh?"

"You know how they make the puppets move their arms, or their intakes?"

"Yeh?"

...

Oh.

Oh!

No more hanging limply like a doll. Crosshairs flails around as much as he possibly can with his servos still held by Blackout, and Hide holding him up by his hips.

He's not taking a servo, and Primus knows how much of an arm up his aft! 

"Who's the dumbass now? You're welcome, boss."

"Don't worry. My servo isn't that big."  Springer purrs soothingly, adding another digit into Crosshairs's port.

The opening is relaxed, and it doesn't feel bad, but it makes him squirm even more.

Big or not, he's not going to have an entire servo back there! Is he?

"Please don'! I don' wan' tha'!"

Ironhide cocks an optical ridge. "You did get a specific word to use if you really want out, remember?"

Right! He totally forgot. But will they even care, and listen to his wishes? Why is he more afraid of the disappointment he will feel if they don't listen, than the fear of the actual act itself? 

It doesn't matter. He doesn't want a servo up his aft.

"Prime."

Ironhide immediately stops, Blackout's grip loosen a bit, and Springer's digits halt their movements. 

"Do you want us to stop alltogether, or is it something very specific you want to avoid?" Hide asks seriously.

"No servos up my ass, please. Sir."

Ironhide snickers. "But the rest of the things we're doing is fine?"

"Yeh?"

Ironhide grins, looking feral. "As you were then, my mechs."

Chapter Text

It's even easier to let go, to let himself get fully into what they're doing now that he knows that he can stop them if he doesn't like it. 

He always went along with everything mechs wanted to do with him before, but even if the brothers are doing more kinky stuff than anything he remembers trying at some point, this feels less derisively degrading somehow. Not that he can really process it right now, but he will think about it when he has a chance.

Crosshairs's charge kicks up another notch along with his fans when Springer does a stroking motion across his node, breaking the pattern of smaller and smaller circles. Crosshairs gasps, writhing in Ironhide's and Blackout's grips.

So fucking close!

"What do you say, Prez? Should we give him another one? He's moving a lot more now, so maybe he earned it?"

"I suppose you're right. Go ahead, give it to him. He still has one to go after this one."

He can't, can he? But then again, he thought he wouldn't be able to have a second one, yet here he is, craving another release.

Springer increases the pressure a little with every stroke, and Crosshairs's hips twitch in time with the touches.

It's so fucking intense, bordering on too much.

Ironhide changes the angle, getting deeper, and Crosshairs's valve lights up with the slide over a few nodes previously left untouched by the thick spike. 

Oh, how he wants to dig his digits into those sensitive cables just under his chest-plates, and stroke along the seams right now, and tease his headlights. 

But Blackout's grip is still unyielding, and all he can do is wiggle his digits pathetically. He makes a sudden jerk, trying to surprise the big Helo and break the grip, but he's unsuccessful.

"Nice try, little Bot." Blackout rumbles in amusement.

Maybe he can try begging for more stuff? They seem to respond well to his pleading...

"Please, Sir, touch me."

Blackout quirks an optical ridge. "Isn't Springer good enough?"

"'e is! But I... Please, touch my chest-plates! Sir."

Blackout grins, showing off all those sharp denta, and it sends another thrill down Crosshairs's back-struts. 

"Well, you did ask nicely... What do you say, Hide? Has he earned it?"

"You know, I think he has."

Blackout's big servo is splayed across his ventral plating, sliding up over his chest-plates, all the way up to Crosshairs throat. Crosshairs's spark flips when Blackout wraps his servo around his throat, almost reaching all the way around, and squeezes lightly. The Helicopter grins like cyberwolf, flashing those sharp denta again.

"Such a good little bitch."

Then his servo slips down to Crosshairs's chest-plates again, and Crosshairs's spark speeds up when sharp talons extend, easily slipping into the seams, finding sensitive cables and wires.

"I don't need to teek your field, I can smell your arousal from here." Blackout smirks.

Crosshairs flushes.

"Cute how he still becomes embarrassed by things like that." Springer snickers.

"Yeah, and he's obviously turned on by a little bit of danger." Blackout notes, toying with the cabling to Crosshairs's chest-plates in a way that borders on painful, that could easily do harm with just a little more force.

Crosshairs's valve clenches hard.

He can say 'Prime' and stop them, but he really doesn't want them to, he wants them to continue. 

He pushes up against the servo, wanting more. Blackout obviously understands the silent plea, because he continues to pull at the cables, and Crosshairs lets out a breathy moan.

Then Springer increase the pace of the stroking on his node, and Crosshairs teeters on the edge for just a second before his entire frame bucks when he overloads.

"I'll take it from here." 

He hears Ironhide say it, but it's distant, and he can't really process it, and he's just vaguely aware of Springer's digits disappearing, Blackout's claws retracting. Then the grip around his wrists is gone, and his back hits the mattress, but he's still overloading, so it feels unimportant.

Chapter Text

All his systems feel frazzled, because they were getting ready for a reboot, but Ironhide continuing to fuck him forces everything to keep going instead, emergency halting the reboot. It's not dangerous — everything will reset when he is allowed to go to recharge — but it feels weird, and for long moments everything seems to be hitching.

"You ok, little mech? Your optics are flickering, and your power seems to be fluctuating."

"'m f'ne." Crosshairs grinds out, his vocalizer hitching too. 

"If you get warnings in your HUD — about anything — tell me."

"Yes, Sir." His voice is steadier already.

Ironhide's pace is languorous; long, slow thrusts that nudge Crosshairs's ceiling node every time he's fully hilted. It keeps some of his charge from going away, and his systems tingle from it.

It makes him crave another overload, and he wants the charge to be built up again.

How can he need more, how can his frame crave it when he felt so spent after the other overloads?

His thoughts are interrupted by Ironhide grinding against him, the head of Ironhide's spike pushing against the opening to his gestational chamber in a way it hasn't before. Crosshairs squirms, because it is a bit uncomfortable.

"I hope your bolt is well fastened. Wouldn't want to knock it all the way into your chamber."

"Blackout didn', an' 'e's bigger than you." Crosshairs says, not realizing how snarky it sound until it's already out. 

Ironhide grins. "Ouch. Am I too small for you? I mean, I could just stop..." He says, starting to pull out.

"I didn' mean tha' ye're small! Jus' tha' 'e's even bigger, Sir! Please, don' stop, Sir."

Even if it's just a low charge, it's enough to make him eager to not sit around and wait for it to taper off, he wants it built up again and released.

He's such a horny, needy slut, craving cock.

The thought makes his valve clench around Ironhide's spike.

"What was it that made that happen?" Ironhide says cocking an optical ridge.

"I... uhm... I though' tha' I'm such a needy slut." Crosshairs mumbles, embarrassed by his filthy processor, and by being turned on by something like that.

"That you are."

Ironhide suddenly slams in as deep as possible, holding still. Crosshairs squirms at first, because it puts uncomfortable pressure against his ceiling node, but then that somehow disappears, and it feels better.

It would feel even better if Hide started to move again.

Then he feels very full, but it takes just a second for him to know what's going on this time.

Hide is knotting him.

The fullness increase, stretching his calipers, and the spike inside him presses against every single node inside in a way that does get his charge to climb slowly.

He wants more.

Crosshairs doesn't hesitate to reach for his array, digits sliding over his node before he strokes what little of Hide's spike he can reach, exploring where they're joined. He feels the way his rim is stretched around the spike, but he manages to get the tip of his digit inside. 

It's impossible to feel the knot though, it's hidden inside the first set of his calipers, and it's impossible to breach those, stretched to full capacity as they are.

He pulls out again, focusing on stroking his node, and Ironhide doesn't seem to mind, because he doesn't do anything to stop him. The spike inside him seems to stop swelling, and Ironhide grunts, optics going brighter. Crosshairs feels the slow pulsing that indicates that Ironhide is overloading, filling him up with transfluid.

It's filthy, and it turns him on.

Ironhide rolls them, Crosshairs winding up straddling Hide. He doesn't stop stroking his node, his charge creeping upwards again.

"Look at me when you do that."

Looking Ironhide in the optics while pleasuring himself makes him feel very exposed, and Crosshairs flushes. Ironhide smirks, clearly noticing it, but he doesn't comment on it.

"Want me to take over?"

"Yes, please, Sir."

It's much better when someone else does it for him.

Big servos slide up his thighs, and it makes his valve twinge in anticipation. Then Ironhide's skilled digits push his out of the way, expertly circling his node.

Chapter Text

He really enjoys being on top.

It's not that he hasn't been on top before, but he never really thought it was anything special. Not until tonight. 

And isn't it ironic that he had to go to prison to find out how much he really enjoys facing? His father would hate it. That just makes it even sweeter.

Now, though, he feels so hot, straddling Hide, and it feels good; the way he's filled up, and how Ironhide has easy access to work his node, in spite of it feeling like his valve-lips are glued to Ironhide's pelvic plating. There's just no way to get that fat cock any deeper. He can't really move — considering the knot — not in a way that actually brings him more stimulation, at least, but that doesn't really matter. It's enough with the way Ironhide's spike stretches his valve, and the digits toying with his anterior node.

Springer and Blackout have stretched out on their berths, lazily looking at what they're doing.

It's not much of a show with him just sitting there, Ironhide's servo the only thing that's really doing any work...

"Ye know, I'm so full, the transfluid is startin' te trickle out 'round Hide's spike." He says to the audience, rolling his hips what little he can.

"Doesn't surprise me." Springer says, smirking. 

"Maybe it's just your lubricant? You're an awfully wet little creature..." Blackout adds.

He snaps his helm around, staring down at the fluid dribbling out where they're joined, running down Ironhide's plating, and Blackout laughs when he flushes.

It's a mix of both lubricant and transfluid.

"You know, with that field of yours being so very tantalizing, I'd love to have another go. It's almost a shame I knotted you, because if I hadn't, I could have fucked you again."

"Can't get it up?" Springer snarks.

"Like you can get yours up before the reservoir is starting to fill up again when you've drained it completely. Or maybe you can't get your knot to swell, so you've never actually tried it?"

"Fuck you!"

"Oh, baby, you just promise stuff, but you never come through!" Blackout moans exaggeratedly, arching his back.

Pillows are thrown back and forth a couple of times, and Crosshairs shakes his helm.

Dorks.

"Blackout is right, though." Ironhide's voice is strained. "You really are a wet little slut."

"I's yer fault!" Crosshairs squeaks, mortified.

"Really?! My fault?" Ironhide punctuates it with a harder flick of Crosshairs's node, making his hips buck what little they can.

"I...uhm, all yer faults, Sir. Ye jus' make it so good fer me..." Crosshairs grinds out, because it's very hard to think and speak when Ironhide is repeatedly stroking his node just so.

Ironhide makes a non-committal noise, bucking up against Crosshairs. Not that it makes any difference for how deep he gets, but Crosshairs grabs on to the big mech's ventral plating, digging deep into the seams.

"Mh, just like that. My sensory circuits aren't very sensitive, but when you grab like that, it feels really good." Hide grunts.

Crosshairs digs in harder, drawing a moan from Ironhide. Ironhide retaliates with a rough circle on Crosshairs's node, and Crosshairs mewls, valve pulsing as he suddenly is on the edge of overload again. Transfluid and lubricant gushes out with the contraction, and he flushes again.

Wet and filthy.

He overloads hard, bucking against Ironhide, digits digging in even deeper. The overload stretches out, as if the long build up, and all his previous overloads makes this one deeper, and more powerful, and it seems like it lasts forever before he slumps over the Warframe.

Not that he can move, Hide's spike is still stuck inside him, still pulsing more transfluid into him, so Crosshairs just lays there, fans on full blast to cool his frame, valve drooling.

"Wettest little slut ever."

Chapter Text

He's completely spent, and really just wants to fall into recharge, but he doesn't allow himself to nod off. Instead, he sits up again, feeling very awkward.

"So... What do ye wan' me te do?" He asks, rolling his hips a bit.

There's definitely not another overload to wring out of his frame, but it feels kind of weird to just sit there and wait for Hide to finish, as if he's just a receptacle now that he has gotten off.

A thick digit trails the seams in his chest-plates, making Crosshairs spark do a nervous flip. Ironhide's optics roam his frame.

"I've got a very pretty view here, so how about you stroke your headlights?"

It's a simple request, and nothing embarrassing. Crosshairs slides his servos up his ventral plating, up to his headlights, and circles the components with the tips of his digits. Ironhide slowly runs his servos up and down Crosshairs's thighs, bright optics locked on where Crosshairs is toying with himself.

He feels so sexy. Not that he's really getting charged, but still. If he wasn't so creamed up already, then maybe he would be able tell if he's going slick.

Crosshairs arches his back to give an even better view of his front, flat-palming his headlights with slow strokes without breaking optic contact. Ironhide groans, bucking up, even if he's already hilted as deeply as possible.

"Open your chest-plates. I want to see more of you."

Crosshairs freezes, spark speeding up.

He has never done anything like that, and he's pretty sure it would be a terrible idea to bare himself like that, making himself vulnerable. But he doesn't exactly have a way of getting away from it. Or does he?

"Prime."

"I'm not meaning that you have to bare your spark or anything. Just open your chest-plates, and show me your chamber, toy a little with the sensitive wiring in there. If I wanted to hurt you, I've had so many chances already, I wouldn't have to ask you to open up for that. But it's entirely up to you." Ironhide murmurs.

Hide does have a point. The Warframe could probably pry his chest-plates open without much effort. And it's just a show...

It takes him a few seconds to find the command to open them, as it's the first time, but then they slide apart, revealing his deeper components. Suddenly feeling shy, Crosshairs covers the petals of the opening of his spark chamber with his servo.

"Show me."

Taking a deep vent, he lets his servo drop, resting it on his ventral plating. Ironhide groans approvingly, then he reaches out. Crosshairs holds his vents. Ironhide's digits slide along a wire, just a featherlight touch to a very sensitive component, and Crosshairs lets out a low moan, and his valve throbs dully. Ironhide maps out a few more cables and wires, before drawing circles over the plates still protecting his spark. Crosshairs grabs Ironhide's abdominal plating to steady himself.

It feels so good.

"Take over. I want to see you do this to yourself."

His fingers tremble slightly when he reaches inside his chest-plates, touching components that he hasn't touched before, and a groan leaves his vocalizer when he realizes how sensitive he is there.

He can't overload again, not now. But he wishes he could.

Chapter Text

His vents are short and shallow, and his spark is spinning quickly behind the thin plates that are the only thing separating his spark from Ironhide's digits.

So close to the one thing he would've hesitated to let anyone touch, had anyone asked. Yet here he is, with his chest-plates open, and now he's curious. Not curious enough to ask for more, though. The spark is supposed to be saved for his mate. So was his valve, really, but the spark is different. If he asks for that, they would get a bond, and it's so much more than just another type of interfacing, that much he remembers from the interface education.

But the way Ironhide's toying with his spark chamber has thrills of pleasure and nerves traveling down his back-struts is tantalizing, and even if he doesn't dare, he's definitely intrigued.

If he's that sensitive with his chamber still closed, what would it be like to merge? 

Ironhide traces the seams in the opening of his spark chamber again, and Crosshairs's valve clenches of it's own accord.

His Sire should see him now, straddling an MTO, getting so much cock, he can't even get it out, chest-plates open... It would be even better if his Sire's friends, foes and voters saw him. The slutty little prison bitch, doing what he knows best.

The pressure from Ironhide's digits increase, and Crosshairs's spark does another nervous flip, because it reminds him of how vulnerable he really is right now.

Has been the entire night, small and at the mercy of the three Warframes. He just forgot it, because they made him feel safe.

Ironhide's servo slips down, leaving his chamber, and rolling a sensitive cable between his digits instead, modulating the pressure perfectly. Crosshairs whines, grinding against the big mech. Ironhide smirks, letting his servo slip down to Crosshairs's array instead, exploring where they're joined.

"I'm finished. Do you want me to give you another overload?"

It could be a trick question, and even if Crosshairs says 'yes', it doesn't mean that Ironhide actually would do it, just that he wants to know. 

But the charge he's running isn't enough to actually make him crave another one, and Crosshairs is tired, so very tired.

"I'm good, actually. Ye've all fucked me so thoroughly already. I've overloaded more an' 'arder than I ever thought I would." 

Ironhide grins. "Good. You do take it in a very good way. I'm inclined to think you're right: you probably are the best lay in this place."

Crosshairs almost makes a face when he thinks about that.

How clueless he was back then, and it's just days ago, even if it seems like a lifetime.

"You know, Roadie and Motormaster are going to want to seal this deal tomorrow, so you probably should rest."

Crosshairs tries to lift off Ironhide's cock, the component not pulsing with overload anymore, now that he thinks about it. 

It's impossible, the thing is still too thick inside him, the knot still hooking inside the first row of calipers. Crosshairs doesn't panic, but his spark does make another flip, because he doesn't know how this is supposed to work.

Blackout just slipped out when he was done, and wouldn't it be mortifying if the guards came to let them out and he'd be stuck like this?

"I can' ge' off!"

"I think you've proven quite capable of getting both yourself and us off."

"I don' mean like tha'!"

"Oh." Ironhide says, face-plates innocent, but there's a teasing grin in his voice. "You're right, though. My knot does take a long time to let go, I usually fall into recharge before that happens. So I guess you better just settle in."

...

Should he be mad about this? It feels like he should be indignant, even if he made a deal saying they can have him however they want. But then recharging on top of Hide sounds kind of nice, actually...

He makes a show of slamming his chest-plates shut. "Ye could've tol' me tha' before." He snips.

"Oh, I most definitely could. But then I'd miss this little tantrum."

Crosshairs sticks his glossa out in a fit of childishness.

Ironhide rumbles a quiet laugh, then he pulls Crosshairs forward to slump over the bigger mech again.

"Good night, little slut."

Crosshairs pushes back against the heavy arm to at least seem to fight it for a few seconds before he goes limp, relaxing.

It's kind of nice actually.

"Good night, Sir."

Chapter Text

"I was out like a light jus' minutes later, but come mornin', Hide wasn' stuck inside me anymore. I was still tired, but Roadbuster and Motormaster wanted their fair share too, so I 'ad te mech up an go at it again. They made it worth my while though..." Crosshairs stares wistfully into the distance.

It's a lot to take in, because the way the first three treated Crosshairs was unexpected. Sure, they were pushy, and didn't exactly ask before they did something, but rather showed what they meant first, but for being three interface starved thugs with a new bitch — just Crosshairs's presence in that cell would be seen as given consent by many, maybe even by himself at one point — they certainly seemed to pay attention to what Crosshairs thought about it. But safewords and overloads or not, they still used Crosshairs, and some parts did feel uncomfortable.

"But they were degrading, and really showed you that you're nothing but a fuck toy."

"Ye know, I'd never felt as attractive, important and powerful as I did when I was accepted by them. They all wanned me, an' weren' afraid te tell me tha', an' they brought me stuff from the commissary, an' gave me contraband. Nobody ever gave me anythin' before. An' when I le' them use me, their position of power strengthened amongst the other inmates. I was one o' the things tha' made the others respect 'em."

"How does that even work?"

Crosshairs world view is a bit skewed at times, and Barricade can't see any way a fuck toy could ever be powerful.

Even if he technically had the power to stop their games. If the safeword would work every time, because they could just ignore something as simple as a word if they decided that they wanted what Crosshairs didn't willingly offer.

Crosshairs smirks, and then he starts a que of memories he has been arranging while they talked.

He's back in the washracks again, scrubbing his frame. There's others there as well, and Crosshairs is a bit wary. Sure, he's affiliated with the Autobots now, but they're not here, and he doesn't know how it will work yet, it's still the early days of his new role. 

The door opens, and Ironhide and Roadbuster comes in. Crosshairs feels relieved, but when they both stride up to him, his spark makes a nervous flip, because maybe he broke some unwritten rule or something? They do wear those stony expressions that only relax when they're alone without prying optics.

Ironhide plants a servo on his chest-plates and pushes him until his back hits the wall. The water is pelting down on both of them, and Ironhide ogles his frame before reaching for his array.

"Is my little slut getting clean?" He asks, pushing two digits into Crosshairs's valve without preamble.

"Y-yes?"

Everyone is looking. Not directly, but he can feel them watching from the corners of their optics. It's embarrassing and arousing.

"Get on your knees, bitch. I want those pretty lips around my cock."

He sinks to his knees and opens his mouth, allowing Ironhide's heavy spike to slide over his glossa, and he forces the back of his intake to relax to allow it to go in deep. Roadbuster flips his coat to the side and nudges his knees apart, grabs his hips, and pushes in to the hilt. He isn't really prepared, but he's still slick from last night's fucking, so it doesn't sting too badly.

"Frag, Prez, you really got us a good little bitch." Roadbuster grunts.

"I always do. Hear that, slut? You're ours, and we'll do you how ever we damned well please." Ironhide says mockingly.

Crosshairs hums an affirmation around the spike in his intake. The audience is watching more openly now, and it's getting his charge going.

"He's getting really wet." Roadbuster groans.

Ironhide just grunts, rutting into Crosshairs's mouth, and the combination of his embarrassment for the audience, and the slick slide of a spike over his inside nodes makes him shudder through an overload. Crosshairs manages to stifle a moan when Roadbuster slams in deep and spills his transfluid deep inside their little bitch. Ironhide pulls out and shoots his load across Crosshairs face, and he hears the audience snickering, someone slow clapping.

"You're our little bitch, so you better not go whoring yourself out to anyone else without my permission." Ironhide says threateningly.

"N-no, Sir." Crosshairs mumbles.

He still stands there, on his knees, when Ironhide and Roadbuster leave the washracks. His disheveled appearance doesn't matter, everyone else has averted their optics. 

He's publicly claimed. Everyone knows that he's the Bots' bitch.

That gets him moving, hurrying to clean up.

If he's lucky, one of the other brothers are up for a bit of fun, because he's charged again.

Chapter Text

He notices the difference after that time in the washracks, the way others aren't ogling him anymore. Being claimed by the Autobots so openly has made the other inmates wary. He still hears the gossip at times, the whispers about how to not cross the Bots, lest you want to be turned into a fuck toy, the rumors about him being too cocky for his own good, and that being the reason for Ironhide asserting his power. He doesn't care what the others think. The only thing that matters is that the brothers want him in their berth each night. And sometimes in the days. And in the washracks at times...

"I have a little mission for you. A job, if you will." Ironhide says.

Crosshairs is stretched out on the berth Blackout favors, reading the list of ingredients on a pack of gels Ironhide bought for him in the commissary, because he has nothing better to do at the moment.

"Me?!"

"Yeah. See, I've made a deal with Black Shadow, and I need some goods exchanged..."

"Okay...?" He says hesitantly, because he has been kept out of the hustle until now. 

He's just their little conjux, helping them get filthy, and wash up. Not necessarily in that order...

"I've got some boosters I need to get to him, and he has a bottle of high grade for me."

Crosshairs nods.

"And he's going to fuck you to settle the price difference."

"No, Hide! I don' wan' te do tha'. Please, don' make me do tha'. I'll deliver the stuff, jus' don'... I'm yers, all of yers, only yers..." 

He doesn't even know who Black Shadow is, and he wants to choose his lovers, that's why he made this deal in the first place. And maybe he's getting spoiled, but the brothers are good, and he's really not up for the possibility of having 'bland' now that he knows what 'tasty' really means.

"Come on now, sweetie," Ironhide coaxes, stroking a digit down Crosshairs's side, "I know you're ours. It's just that we need your talent for this. I mean, you enjoy some benefits for being our conjux, and here's your chance to help out with the business. We can't do this, we need someone pretty for this — like you — someone with your expertise. I couldn't send Springer for that, could I? I mean, I'd have to send optic blinders with him so that Black Shadow doesn't have to stare at his ugly aft while doing him."

"Hey! Enough with talking about my aft already." Springer acts offended.

"I think yer aft is really ho', Springer." Crosshairs says, because he really thinks that, and maybe Springer will help him get out of this if he plays his cards right?

"Thanks, sweetie. But you know I'm with Hide on this one. We really need your help." Springer coaxes.

"Of course you'll get a ration of the high grade too... I mean, you're doing the work, of course you get paid for that. Let's not fight about this. You can do it. You're so hot, he'll probably shoot his load just looking at you, the fucking loser. And then we can get drunk and make tonight a party..." His servo slides over Crosshairs's ventral plating, down to his interface panel. "You know we'll make sure you enjoy it. Come on, Cross, you're our only chance to get that booze."

It's so flattering to be needed.

"Alright, I'll do i'. Fer you."

Ironhide grins at him. "That's the spirit. You know we couldn't do this without you, you're invaluable." He leans in to nip at Crosshairs neck-cables, then he licks the bite. "And you taste so fucking good too."

"Tha' may be Roadie's jizz. Don' know if I go' it all out in the shower."

Blackout barks a laugh.

Ironhide rolls his optics. "Well, I can't complain about you being marinated in the cum of me and my brothers. But trust me," he says, licking along another line on Crosshairs's neck, "this taste is all you."

"President kinky!" Blackout snickers.

Chapter Text

Crosshairs spreads his legs, and Roadbuster pushes the wrapped routers into his valve.

"There's a jimmy in there, he better wrap it before fucking you. I'm not whipping that loser's cream."

Then Crosshairs is sent off to Black Shadow's cell, spark spinning nervously as he steps into it. The big mech looks up.

"Hide sent me?"

"Got the goods?"

Crosshairs puts his pede on the berth and opens his panel, pulling it out, throwing it to the mech who's optics have brightened considerably by the blatant display. The mech unwraps it and inspects the routers.

"Do we have to use this?" He says, holding up the condom.

"Yeh. I jus' do wha' they tell me. 'ow do ye wan' me?"

"Bend over the berth." Black Shadow says, rolling the Jimmy onto his spike.

He does, and the mech kneels behind him, lining up with his valve, and slams inside. Black Shadow's fairly big, but the brothers are bigger, so he doesn't have any problems taking it, and the condom is lubed, so his lack of arousal is compensated. Black Shadow starts to rut into him, grunting meaningless, nasty little comments as he chases his overload, and Crosshairs just waits for him to finish. 

At least the big mech is less gross than Dirge, and he won't have Black Shadow's sauce inside him for the rest of the day.

Black Shadow overloads, and then he pulls out almost immediately.

"You're kind of loose, but I guess that's to be expected when whoring for all of them. Might make things easier for you too." He says, pulling something out from under the mattress.

Crosshairs might've been offended if he didn't know that it isn't as much about him being loose as it is about Black Shadow lacking girth.

"So will you carry it in your valve or your port?" Black Shadow asks.

It's a bottle, and it's a pretty fucking big one. Not bigger than Blackout's cock though, so he'll be able to take it.

"Port." 

It'll stay inside easier there.

The mech snickers.

"Whatever floats your boat."

He pushes two digits of each of his servos into Crosshairs's port, to pry him open and steer the bottle, and then he pushes his pelvic plating against the bottle to push it inside. Crosshairs bites the bedding, digits digging into it, because it's uncomfortable as all hell to not be prepped, and he's not lubed up either. But the bottle settles, and Black Shadow lets his calipers grab on to it, pulling his digits out. He pats Crosshairs's aft.

"Tell Hide it's a pleasure doing business with him."

Crosshairs slams his panel shut, then he hurries back to their cell as quickly as he can, even if he'd really like to waddle along to keep from jostling the thing inside him. He rushes inside, and throws himself on the berth.

"Ge' it outta me!" He groans, opening his panel.

Blackout grabs the neck of the bottle that's sticking out, pulling. Crosshairs squirms and whines, because the thing makes no sign of coming out of him, and it's uncomfortable when Blackout pulls. Then his spark speeds up with rising panic.

What if he'll have to go to the medbay to have it removed?!

"Squat and exvent." Motormaster snorts.

Crosshairs glares at him.

"No, really! I think that'll be easier."

He crawls off the berth and squats, Springer grabbing the bottle. Crosshairs exvents, and finally the thing slips out.

"Congratulations, Hide! You know, this is a real sweetspark." Springer cackles.

They all bark a laugh.

"You did really great, sweetie, you're the mech of the hour." Ironhide murmurs in Crosshairs's audial as he helps him up. "Come on let's celebrate." He says before licking a slow line over Crosshairs's audial in a way that's almost sensual.

Suddenly, it's all worth the humiliation and discomfort.

Chapter Text

He's alone in the washracks when the creep comes in. Crosshairs just glances at him: looks like some kind of street utility vehicle type of mech, bigger than him, but not as massive as the brothers. He doesn't know the mech's name, because the mech hasn't been in gen pop for that long, but he's wary of him because of the way he tends to look at Crosshairs. He hasn't felt unsafe since he hooked up with Hide, though, so he dismisses the ugly grounder from his interest, and focuses on getting clean.

Crosshairs is entirely unprepared when he's pushed up against the wall, the mech's servos roaming his frame.

"Let go of me!" Crosshairs snarls, trying to elbow the mech and turn around.

"Aaw, don't be like that. I know you just need a good pounding. You'll like it as soon as I'm inside."

"I don'. Gedoff me, I'm already claimed."

Crosshairs is a terrible fighter. He does his best to kick and punch the mech, but when they clatter to the floor, he's on his front with his arm twisted up on his back.

"Ye'll pay fer this!" He hisses.

"You think anyone cares about a bitch? You're just holes to frag." A servo slides up the back of Crosshairs's thigh, and the mech groans as he gropes Crosshairs's aft, servo slipping between his thighs, digits being pushed through his dry and unaroused folds. "Damn, it was too long ago. You're kind of loose, but you'll do."

"Hide's gonna scrap ye fer this!"

"Hide's just another bitch who thinks he is someone. He talks the talk, but he doesn't walk the walk. He hasn't done anything to anyone, and I know him and his crew are just taking credit for stuff others have done. He's too much of a coward to really hurt someone."

The servo wraps around his hip, and Crosshairs struggles as much as he can without dislocating his arm, panic making energon burn at the back of his intake.

What if the mech is right? What if Hide is just a poser? He doesn't know what Ironhide is really capable of, maybe he just bought into a stereotype, a well executed role-play, and got himself "protection" from someone who's all talk and no business?

Chapter Text

"Oh, you hurt my feelings." Hide's voice rumbles mockingly from the door to the washracks, heavy pedesteps approaching them.

The mech on top of him is suddenly not there anymore, and Crosshairs scrambles up just in time to see Ironhide throwing him to the floor, pressing his knee down on the mech's throat. 

"See, I'm not much for staying in prison, so I make sure that my retaliations can't be connected to me and make my stay longer. But I guess you're too underclocked to realize. And now you've touched what is mine without even asking. That has a price, you know..."

Ironhide sounds frighteningly reasonable, even as the mech flailing to free himself is starting to panic. Hide holds his servo out.

"Solvent."

Springer hands him a bottle.

"Stuff his vents."

Blackout and Springer grabs sponges and starts to push them into the visible vents on the mech's frame. 

"No, please! What are you doing?!" The mech cries out, struggling underneath the bigger mechs.

"I'm just making sure you don't touch my stuff again."

Ironhide grabs the mech's face, pressing harshly against his cheeks to force him to open his intake, and then he starts pouring the solvent into his mouth. The mech is spluttering and coughing, swallowing repeatedly.

"Pour it down his olfactory vent instead, then he can't swallow it as easily." Blackout says.

Ironhide smirks and grabs the mech's forehelm instead, keeping his helm still, while pouring the solvent into his nose. Blackout stuffs a sponge into the mech's intake. Crosshairs stares as the mech flails in panic, engine stuttering as his airflow is cut off. Crosshairs is frightened, but there's a thread of vindictive glee weaving through his fear.

The mech tried to rape him, but he's getting what he deserves. Finally someone isn't getting away with treating him like shit, and hurting him.

"Prez, we've been here for too long. Roadbuster says from the door.

The mech's thrashing is down to twitching, and Crosshairs sees when he voids his tank.

"We need to go." Blackout rumbles.

They pull the sponges out of the mech's vents, quickly washing them in solvent before throwing them down the garbage disposal to the incinerator.

"Come on." Roadbuster says, pulling Crosshairs with him, since the Corvette is standing frozen staring at the frame.

"I'd teach you how to fight back, but I can't do it here, the guards will pitch a fit." Springer says. "That was pathetic."

"We can show him in the cell tonight, when the guards are chewing donuts and jerking each other off in their break room." Ironhide says.

Blackout snorts. "Maybe they jerk off with the donuts? And then they eat them."

"I think the play jerk-donut." Roadbuster pitches in.

"What the fuck is jerk-donut?"

"You know, you put a donut in the middle, and everyone stands around it, jerking off. Last one to shoot his load eats the glazed donut."

"Gross!" Blackout cackles.

"Stop talking about donuts, I'm getting hungry." Motormaster grouses.

"Yeah, let's go grab some energon. The lunch room is open now." Blackout says.

It's such an absurd conversation, Crosshairs starts to cackle almost hysterically. 

Today's scheduled activities: almost getting raped in the washracks, watch someone get killed, and make crude jokes about the guards. And then we have lunch...

Chapter Text

"'e didn' deactivate, though. The guards found 'im jus' in time, an' the medics managed te keep 'im functional. Well, at least until 'e was back in gen pop, then 'bout a month later, 'e was stabbed an' leaked out. Guess 'e 'ad made more enemies than friends. Never bothered me again, though." Crosshairs says out loud when he feels how conflicted Barricade is about the entire ordeal.

On one servo, the mech was a rapist bastard. On the other, they tried to murder a mech, and now he knows more about what Ironhide and his crew are capable of... They didn't seem to have any second thoughts at all.

"Anyway, ye'll see why I'm no' very negative 'bout crooked law enforcement mechs."

That catches his attention, but he's immediately thrown into a memory as it starts.

"I have a job for you. Really important one." Ironhide says.

"'k." Crosshairs answers without hesitation.

"We've gotten a guard to help us a bit, so well really get some fine goods to trade, and to have ourselves. But I need a mule..."

"'k." 

Ironhide grins. "You're such a good little mech. I'm glad that we decided to try you. Anyway, he'll take you to an interrogation room, you do what he wants, he'll give you some things that are ours, and you bring them back. Really simple."

"Anythin' fer ye, Hide." Crosshairs purrs.

"And that's one of the things I really like about you. Here, top up with coolant. Mech said you'll need it."

His levels are already good, but if that's what's needed, he's not going to protest. He downs one of the bottles immediately, and then half of the other, feeling his tank slosh in an uncomfortable way. He still manages to drink it all before the guard shows up.

"Let's go, Crosshairs." The guard says from the door, and Crosshairs gets up from his spot on the berth.

He's led down the walkway, through the rec area, and towards the block with the interrogation rooms. It's evening, and the interrogation ward isn't used at the moment, so they're alone in the hallway. He's led into one of the rooms, and cuffed to the table.

"The cameras are off, and nobody will be in this unit at this hour. I'll be back in a while."

Crosshairs nods, a bit apprehensive, because he has no idea what's expected of him, and there's still room for the guard to not honor whatever agreement he has with Hide. Left alone with his thoughts, Crosshairs tries to not let his nerves get the better of him while he waits for the guard to come back.

Chapter Text

Crosshairs is about to explode by the time the guard gets back.

"I need te go te the maintenance room. Please, Sir." He says as deferentially as he can while fighting with his desperation — because he wants to go yesterday, but he's also aware of how the guards hate to feel like they're being ordered around, and attitude from the inmates, so he tried to not press the issue too hard — standing from his seat to press his legs together. 

"I figured as much. You're a grown mech, though, so I think you can hold it a few more minutes."

Crosshairs makes a face, because he's certain that he can't, he's even doubting his ability to actually make it to the maintenance room, even if he was allowed to go there immediately.

The guard is plucking with the things he brought when coming back, not really doing anything productive. 

Just fiddling, really, in an unnecessary way.

The humiliating, horrible reality dawn's on Crosshairs.

The mech is waiting for him to lose control, and wet himself. He doesn't just want Crosshairs to beg and plead for relief.

"Please, Sir! Jus' let me go te the maintenance room..." He whines, barely stifling the sob that's threatening to escape him. 

He's not going to break down like that too, it would just be another level of humiliation.

"You can do it. Just a few more minutes..." The guard says, watching him with bright optics.

Crosshairs whines, squirming where he stands, pressing his thighs together.

He can't win this. He'll stand here until he pisses himself, and there's no way getting out of it.

In spite of knowing that it's a losing battle, he can't get himself to give in and let go. Something deep inside him keeps Crosshairs fighting to hold it, the last dredge of hope that the mech will find it enough and allow him to keep what dignity he has and let him go to the maintenance room.

Of course the mech doesn't. Instead, he watches, riveted, while Crosshairs squirms and writhes, repeatedly denying the requests to void his primary, ignoring the warnings about the levels.

Then the overflow gauge activates, and there's nothing he can do anymore. He feels his face-plates flush as hot as the stream of fluid trickling out through the seams of his panel, running down his legs to splash onto the floor. He presses his lip-plates together to keep them from trembling, determined not to start crying on top of this mortification, but he can do nothing but awkwardly stand there and wait for his tank to empty itself.

The guard has pressurized his spike, slowly stroking it as he watches with bright optics. He crawls onto the table, kneeling over Crosshairs's still cuffed servos, and then he leans back to hold his cock out for Crosshairs.

"Suck my spike."

Chapter Text

Crosshairs hasn't been this unwilling since Dirge, but it's not like he has much of a choice. At least the mech is honoring Hide's demand for a jimmy, so he won't be forced to swallow the mech's jizz. It's still gross.

For the brothers. And for the things he'll earn, at least there's always something in the deals for him too.

It doesn't take much finesse to get the mech off, he's so charged by watching Crosshairs wet himself, it's just a few bobs of his helm, then the mech is trembling through his overload.

"That was good, pleasure doing business with Hide. Clean the floor, then I'll take you to the washracks back here, and then you'll get the goods."

He's uncuffed and handed rags and a trash can, and Crosshairs starts to wipe the floor, flushing from embarrassment as it reminds him of what happened here. When he's done, he's led into a small washrack, but no matter how much he scrubs himself, he doesn't feel clean. It doesn't help that the guards is watching — leaning against the wall, arms crossed, and bright optics riveted to Crosshairs, and his field tells the Corvette that the guard is getting aroused by watching him — so he gives up when he can't find any visible traces of his shame.

"These are the items. What should go where?"

A big bottle of high grade, a pack of what is most likely drugs, and a sheathed knife that makes Crosshairs's spark flip. It's a sturdy sheath, but still... He's going to have a knife inside him.

"Bottle in my aft, the other stuff in my valve." He says, bracing his lower arms against the wall.

The guard pushes the things inside him, a discomfort he's getting used to. 

No wonder Motormaster said it was a deal breaker if he could take cock up his ass without much prep. They usually do prep him, but for this, it's necessary to be a bit loose. Good thing they all have big dicks and fuck him regularly. 

He closes his panel, and then he's taken back to the cell.

Crosshairs flops down on his back on one of the berths, opening his panel and spreading his legs, and Ironhide pulls the goods out of him.

"Nice!" Blackout says, inspecting the knife.

"You know if we got a tap for the bottle of high grade, we could leave it inside him and just have the neck poke out to be able to pour it. Would be the fanciest and hottest bottle stand in this state." Springer says when the bottle slips out of Crosshairs.

"Then you'd have to make do with fucking his mouth, because your dick isn't going anywhere near the high grade." Blackout rumbles.

"Yeah, you're right. Scratch that plan. It would be kind of funny, though."

"One day, when we're out of here, and have a few more sluts around, we will do that." Blackout promises.

Does that mean that they want to keep him around even when they're free?

"Hey, did everything go well?" Ironhide murmurs in his audial. "You're awfully quiet."

"Yeh, i's just...ugh." Crosshairs jumps up from the berth, still feeling filthy, and embarrassed just thinking about what just happened.

He can't tell them!

"You did really well. We couldn't have done this without you. You'll get your share of the high grade, of course." Ironhide praises him, wrapping an arm around him, rubbing soothing circles into Crosshairs's hip with his thumb.

"He made me pee myself." Crosshairs whispers, feeling his face-plates flush when he thinks about it.

Ironhide snickers. "So he's a kinky fragger? Good to know. See, nobody can gather blackmail material like you can. We're so lucky to have you."

Crosshairs is about to preen, but Blackout cuts him off.

"Seriously, Hide, are you just going to snuggle him, or are you going to get something done, that embarrassed field makes me wish I had three spikes, so I could fuck him in all his holes at once."

"How would that even work? You wouldn't reach." Springer cackles.

"I was with a shuttle once, an' they 'ave these tentacle lookin' thingies for dockin'. The thing is, those tentacles are really sensitive. So I sucked 'is spike, an' 'e fucked me with those. 'oly fuck, I was so full..." Crosshairs tells them, rubbing his legs together for friction, getting slick thinking about it.

"Want us to fill you up now?" Ironhide growls, grabbing his hip more roughly.

"Please!" Crosshairs mewls.

When they all surround him, servos pawing at his plating, the unpleasantness of what happened before melts away.

If they eagerly want him for doing those things for them, he'll gladly do it again.

Chapter Text

Barricade really doesn't know how to react, what to say. On one servo, Ironhide was blatantly using Crosshairs's issues to get what he wants by manipulating the smaller mech. Crosshairs may not have noticed, starved of care as he was, but to Barricade — who may have his own baggage to carry, but has the advantage of seeing this from an outside point of view, and with much more life experience than Crosshairs had at the time — it's obvious that Ironhide knew just how to play Crosshairs to get him to do exactly what Ironhide wanted. On the other servo, he did make sure that Crosshairs didn't get injured in the process, and considering what could have happen — as proved by the incident in the washracks — it may be the better option, no matter how unpalatable it was. But still...

"He didn't renegotiate the deal."

"Wha'? Who?"

"Ironhide. You made a deal where you would be their conjux, and they wouldn't let others fuck you. He never renegotiated those terms before he started... He started selling you."

Crosshairs smirks slowly. "I guess ye're right. But 'e did pay me fer every time by givin' me a share of the payment, so I just saw i' as a bit o' overtime. Call it an extracurricular activity if ye will."

"One hell of a extracurricular..." Barricade mutters, thinking about the intense humiliation in the last memory.

"Yeah, well Hide is generous. Ye know, I never 'ad anyone on the outside to put some money into my account te get anythin' from the commissary. If I wanned anythin' beyond the bland low grade supplied by the facility, it was paid fer by one of the brothers, an' they were generous. This was my chance te give somethin' back. The deal was; they kept me safe, I kept them sated. Everythin' else was extras: they bought me stuff in the commissary, an' 'andled the hustle. I 'andled payment an' transportation of goods, and I go' a share of wha' we kept." 

"I suppose so..."

It's so different from his own experience with prison, he really can't relate, and even if Crosshairs was manipulated and used, he seems fine with it for reasons that make sense, and not just because he doesn't understand how Ironhide used Crosshairs's weaknesses for his own gain.

Crosshairs laughs. "Ye know, I think I was drunk almost every night for the remainder of the sentence. Things were so much easier with the deal with the guard; 'e gave us 'eads ups when there was goin' te be a shakedown, an' business was easier to 'andle when 'e was on shift an' looked the other way."

"For the small price of you pissing yourself and sucking his spike." Barricade says, making a face.

"I go' used te i'." Crosshairs says, shrugging. "It really isn't tha' bad. I mean, drink a bunch o' coolant, wait fer things te 'appen by themselves. Squirm a bi', act embarrassed, whine 'bout needin' te go... Ye know privacy wasn' a thing in the joint, we 'ad te pee with an audience fer all the drugtest an' stuff, I'm sure ye did too. This wasn' really tha' different when I thought 'bout it. An' 'e was definitely an easy customer afterwards; 'e'd shoot 'is load in seconds. Then I could clean up an' go back te the Bots te get some proper fuckin'."

It does sound easy, but no less gross for it. He would take a tedious blowjob over that any day.

Are you really considering how you would pay?! My, your boundaries really have moved lately. How about that ass-knotting? Would you rather take that?

...

"Anyway, on with the show." Crosshairs says theatrically, and restarts the que of memories.

Chapter Text

It's cleverly orchestrated, the way they're separated from the other brothers. 

They're in the yard, and all of a sudden, Crosshairs and Ironhide are alone in the corner, two other Warframes facing them down. Ironhide steps forward minutely, putting himself between Crosshairs and the other mechs.

"So... MTO... You really think a drone should rule this joint?" One of them sneers to Hide.

Ironhide doesn't answer, he just sizes them up, looking very much like a predator eyeing a potential next meal.

"Ridiculous, really. You're just waiting for a new Master your coding can latch onto. Someone to be a bitch for." The other mech mocks.

"You're Warframes too..." Ironhide rumbles.

"Sparked and created from real life mechs. Not constructed to specifications on some assembly line, made to fit someone else's needs. Tell me, does it feel good when your Master asks you to bend over for him? I mean, your coding would compel you to comply, but doesn't it make you feel like a good little bot too?"

Something sharp and deadly crosses Ironhide's face.

"Are you just here to ask me to tell you about what kind of bitches your carriers are, or did you want something? Because your words certainly aren't going hurt me..." Ironhide challenges, drawing himself up to his full height.

The other mechs do the same, not backing down.

"Spare yourself some pain and humiliation, MTO, and just hand over that bitch of yours, and any goods you have, and we won't beat you to a pile of scrap."

The slow grin that stretches Ironhide's lip-plates is cold and calculating, and his field flares with sharp lust for violence, a dangerous, hungry need that seems to be ingrained into his core. An energon thirst that comes so naturally, it must be second nature.

"You're sparked Warframes; the product of adventurous sparked little sluts, sneaking into some army base to let some true Warframes have their way with them. That means your coding is a haphazard product of a combination of your creators' coding. My coding, on the other hand, is created with the sole purpose of being as effective as possible in battle. And my battle computer tells me that you two won't come out on top from this. So, do you feel lucky, punks? Or are you too scared to fight me? All talk and no fight, like robochickens." He ends it with clucking like a chicken.

Crosshairs has learned a bit of self defense, the brothers have given him tips and trained him what little they can in the cell, but he's definitely not a fighter, and his spark is spinning out of control when one of the mech sneers hatefully and charges Hide.

Ironhide deflects the hit with one arm, stepping to the side to send the other mech stumbling past him. Hide's optics are bright, and he's actually grinning, as if he's been longing for this, and it's just a funny distraction to pass some time.

"Pathetic!"

The next second, he grunts when the other mech lands a hit against his side, but he returns it with an elbow to the mech's face.

"See, this is where my coding is superior," he rumbles, going on the offensive with a punch to the mech's ventral plating, "you hit where you think my weakest spots are, while I know how to make the most damage." 

He wraps his massive servo around the mech's side, digging his fingers into the plating and then he tears off a chunk of the components there, leaving sparking wires, severed hydraulic lines and leaking fuel lines hanging from the injury. The mech shrieks with a shrill voice and falls to the ground when he loses motor control of his leg. Ironhide straddles him, laughing as he starts punching the mech repeatedly in the face.

"Guess you weren't so lucky after all..."

Crosshairs is just staring, frozen in place, not certain what to do. He's so focused on his certainty that Ironhide is about to kill the mech if the guards doesn't get there soon, he doesn't notice the other mech sneaking up on him until he's grabbed around the neck and pulled back.

Chapter Text

"Hide!" He manages to garble, but Hide's too busy to notice.

Another mech comes up to them, grabbing Crosshairs too.

"Help is coming, but we need to take him down before he gets help from his mechs." The mech hisses to the Warframe who instigated the fight, but was lucky enough to not get Ironhide's full attention once he had been brushed off.

Crosshairs manages to elbow the mech holding him in the ventral plating, and the mech's grip falters.

"Hide, more ass'oles incomin'!" He shouts, and finally he catches Ironhide's attention.

Hide's helm snaps around, taking in the mechs closing in, and since the mech he was gleefully slagging is out cold anyway, he flies to his pedes, quicker than one would anticipate from such a massive mech.

"Really brave to grab the smallest mech around". He says sarcastically, glaring at the mechs holding Crosshairs.

Someone tries to jump Hide from behind when he's distracted, and Crosshairs tries to warn Ironhide, but the grip on his neck has been renewed, and all he manages is a croak.

It doesn't matter; Ironhide seems to anticipate it. He reaches over his shoulder and grabs the mech midair, flinging him over his helm, before landing a vicious kick. The grip on Crosshairs falters, and he can feel in their EM fields how the mechs holding him are losing their nerve.

Then suddenly they're all bowled over when Blackout tackles all three of them at once. There's the sound of rending metal, and an agonized scream when an arm is torn right off from a body, and the melee intensifies, as the initial attackers are turned into prey.

"I may be an MT-fucking-O, but I'm nobody's bitch, servant or pawn! We're Autobots, were autonomous, and you all better fucking remember it!" Ironhide snarls victoriously, before spitting on the mech he just threw to the ground and kicked.

"Yeah!" All the brothers chime in, and some of their hang-arounds too, joining the fight.

Then every single mech in the yard hits the floor when one of the guards finds the panic button that engages all the shock collars.

Chapter Text

When the next memory opens, Crosshairs is sharing the bunk with Ironhide. It's quite the contrast to the other memories, because for once, he isn't being ruthlessly fragged.

It's dark, and quiet, everyone else in recharge, and Crosshairs is tucked under Hide's arm, helm on Hide's shoulder. A big servo is lazily toying with the plates on his hip. He rolls over to his back, allowing easier access to his already bare array.

"Need some more pussy?" He purrs.

"Is fragging really what you want right now?" Ironhide asks, servo slipping between Crosshairs's thighs.

"I like overloadin'..."

Hide is quiet for a while. "Want me to eat you?" He whispers.

"Wha'?"

"You know, oral. Lick you to overload."

"I've never... Wha'? Ye mean my array?"

"No, your digits... Of course I mean your array. Has nobody ever licked you before?"

"No?"

"Fucking pit." Ironhide crawls downwards, trailing little nips and kisses down Crosshairs's ventral plating. "You better be quiet. If you wake anyone up, or you tell someone about this, I'll fragging kill you."

"Why?" Crosshairs hisses, squirming when Ironhide licks the sensitive protoform just above Crosshairs's spike cover.

"Because I don't service my bitches, my bitches serve me." Ironhide sounds annoyed.

He licks the plump lips of Crosshairs valve before ghosting a touch to his node, and Crosshairs's pedes curls, as if they're trying to grab on to the big mech's back in a movement Crosshairs has little control over. Ironhide continues with the frustratingly light licks, and Crosshairs writhes, back arching, servos grabbing on to the bedding. He stifles the noises that are threatening to leave his vocalizer, panting desperately, hips bucking in an attempt to rub against Ironhide.

Crosshairs's servos come up to grab Ironhide's helm, toying with his audial fins haphazardly without any finesse, and he hears a snicker from the tease between his legs as he starts to work Crosshairs's node with his lip-plates.

"Please, please, please..." He hisses as quietly as he can, frustrated in a glorious way.

Ironhide starts to lick the slit of his valve, long, slow drags of his glossa, dipping into his valve, up to do a little twirl around his node, and then starting over again, and Crosshairs's charge is skyrocketing.

His pedes press against Ironhide's back to force the mech closer, his servo grabs that audial horn, and then Crosshairs grabs the pillow and presses it against his face, biting it to keep from squealing when he overloads so hard, his entire frame bucks. He goes limp and strutless when he comes down from his overload, a dopey grin on his face when Ironhide crawls up to stretch out beside him.

"Wow! Do tha' now an' then, an' ye'll 'ave my eternal devotion."

Ironhide grunts. "You give that devotion away way too easily, kid."

Chapter Text

Ironhide leans over Crosshairs to press his lip-plates against Crosshairs's, nipping his bottom lip, before sliding his glossa against Crosshairs's lips to request entrance. 

It's kind of novel, because while it isn't the first time Crosshairs has kissed someone, it's not something he has done a lot — most mechs have been too preoccupied with fucking to care for kissing and stuff like that — and it's the first kiss since he went to prison. He answers it, allows Ironhide to deepen the kiss, tasting himself on Hide's glossa.

Why is he so surprised to find that the mech is very good at kissing, considering how Hide just demonstrated his skills with his glossa?

There's an intimacy in the act that Crosshairs finds himself wanting more of, and he eagerly answers the slow rolls of Ironhide's glossa against his.

Ironhide can put his glossa in his mouth or on his valve anytime he wants.

When they break apart, Ironhide rests his helm on Crosshairs's shoulder, sprawled halfway on top of the smaller mech. The heavy frame pressing him deeper into the bedding makes him feel safe.

"Have you really never had your valve licked before?"

"No."

They fall silent, and Crosshairs starts to drift into recharge.

"G'night, Daddy." He mumbles.

Ironhide stiffens. "What did you call me?"

"Daddy. Ye're everything I could want from my Daddy."

"You want your sire to fuck you?" Ironhide says skeptically, sounding put off.

Crosshairs snorts. "No' like tha'! I mean, ye keep me safe, an' ye tell me when I do somethin' good, an' ye see some potential in me. Like a good Daddy should. Ye're the best one I ever 'ad."

Ironhide is quiet for a while, thinking it through. "You really are a fucked up little mech, aren't you?"

"Maybe. Doesn' matter, as long as ye still want me." Crosshairs mumbles, almost in recharge.

He feels the tightening of Ironhide's arms around him before recharge claims him.

Chapter Text

"Roadbuster an' Motormaster got out first, and then I was let out. They decided te keep me, so I crashed with them in their apartment. Then Hide was let out, an 'e go' this place, an I moved in 'ere with the mechs who wanted te live 'ere. Over the years, Hide has picked up more sluts, but I was first."

Crosshairs sounds so contented, and that's almost the worst part of it, because he literally had every opportunity to have everything at one point, but instead, he's still nothing more than the bitch he was in prison. 

As if he didn't know how to stop when he got out. 

He probably didn't. 

"Don't you ever resent it? I mean, don't you wish that you could do something else?"

"Nah. Wha' would I do? I'm no' very smart or talented. This is wha' I'm good at, an' I like the people 'ere." 

"You could be living in a fragging mansion, in one of the best neighborhoods..."

Crosshairs snorts. "Ye know, this is a mansion, an' the brothers pretty much own this neighborhood... anyway, tha would jus' be a fancy prison. I 'ave all the same luxuries 'ere, but 'ere I 'ave friends, lovers. Ye know what I'd 'ave been if I'd not been kicked out? Since I'm obviously a valve mech, an' no' clever enough te run the family business or somethin' like tha', I would've been married off te someone of my Sire's choice. I'd 'ave te spred my legs fer someone I didn' choose, an' carry 'is sparklings, and I'd be sittin' alone in 'is big 'ouse, with servant drones and the kids as my main company. I'd 'ave te groom the younglings te fit the mould , while my bonded was away in business, probably spendin' 'is nights with expensive, professional entertainers, because sleepin' around is ok as long as it's the spike mech who does it, seen as somethin' normal. I'd be un'appy te see my kids grow up te be like Perceptor, or like me, an' I'd probably start drinkin', an' poppin' prescription routers."

"Uhm... Sounds dramatic..." Because it almost sounds like a story Crosshairs has made up and repeated until he is convinced it's the only way it could ever have ended, to convince himself that he's better off now.

"True story. Many times over. Jus' no' mine, but I saw enough growin' up te know how the story goes. Percy knocked a couple of Mechs up, but tha' was swept under the rug without consequences. The scandal tha' I used protection te be able te safely sleep around, though..."

"If you don't mind me saying so, I really dislike your Sire for the way he treated you for that."

"I've reconciled with it. If it wasn't for tha', I wouldn' be 'ere. I'm with people who like me, an' protect me, an' every time I sleep with one of 'em, it's like a big 'fuck you' te dad, because 'e'd 'ate that I wanna do it with MTOs. An' when the fucking is over, an I get te stay the night in their berths, I know tha' they care. I's in the li'l things with these mechs. They 'ave this thick armor, and ye need te look past it."

Barricade nods slowly.

"It also 'elps tha' my Sire is deactivated." Crosshairs blurts, not sounding sad at all.

"Huh?!" Barricade grunts ineloquently. 

"Politician, ye know. Must've made the wrong enemies, because someone took 'im out. Shot 'im in the helm one day when 'e left 'is office. Good riddance."

Chapter Text

"So wha' 'bout you? I know ye were busted fer corruption, but 'ow did tha' appen? Praxys usually seem te 'ave this built in moral compass tha' stops 'em."

"I've never shared the story, and I think I owe it to Jazz to let him be the first to hear it, if you don't mind?"

Crosshairs shrugs. "Sounds like the right way te do it, since the two of ye are a thing."

"Key notes are: my Sire didn't want anything to do with me, and my Carrier bonded with a drunken loser. He beat me, and when I got old enough, he abused me sexually. The Enforcers finally got him, and I was taken out of there, put in boarding school for orphan younglings for the last few months until I graduated and then I got into the academy. My step-sire was never convicted due to lack of evidence of assault, but at least I didn't have to see him again."

"'e's still functioning?"

"As far as I know... I haven't looked him up since I got out. Anyway, I became an Enforcer, and after a while, I became a bit disillusioned about the justice system. I mean, my step-sire got away with what he did to me, and mechs just using a few routers to get through the day were sent away for close to the rest of their functioning on third strike charges? It felt fucked up. So I started taking bribes to look away when someone was risking a disproportionately long sentence."

"This is why I'm no' tha' negative te crooked cops. Ye did 'elp mechs who really 'ad nothin'."

"Yeah, well I wasn't all good about it, though. I was pushy about what I wanted for payment at times, and I got this power trip from being in charge that was kind of abusive, and I didn't even realize it." He admits.

"But ye're no' tha' guy anymore, are ye?"

Barricade snorts. "No, obviously not. It's impossible to remain ignorant about what I was actually doing with the hand fate has dealt me now."

"Then ye deserve another chance in my opinion."

Barricade nods slowly. "Thank you."

"So... prison. Didn' ye find yerself a couple o' ho' lovers te pass the time?" Crosshairs asks conspiratorially.

"I did not. I was put in AdSeg for my own protection, and I stayed in there the whole time. Ex-Enforcers tend to get whacked in gen pop."

"Tha' sucks!"

"Yeah. I met Nitro, though. He was in AdSeg for a while. Offered me to be his and his cellmates' prison conjux. I turned him down."

"Shame. Ye would've 'ad much more fun with 'im, 'e knows 'ow te use 'is equipment. An' Nitro would've been able te pretect ye too, 'e's really vicious in a fight."

"Yeah..." Barricade says, not feeling up to go into the details of why he didn't go along with it.

And after Crosshairs's story, he's really glad he didn't take the offer. Not that he's going to tell Crosshairs though, that would just be insulting.

"Are the new protocols installed fully yet?" 

"Yeah."

"Then ye should try them. Te practice fer tonight. Want my 'elp, or ye want te do it yerself? Or maybe get Jazz's 'elp?"

"I'll try them myself." He's had enough of others playing with his aft lately. "Thank you for all your help, though. And the, uhm, demonstration."

"No problems! We 'oes need te stick tegether."

"Yeah..."

"Grab yerself a couple o' toys from the bottom drawer if ye wan'. May come in 'andy when ye practice."

Barricade flushes, but he does see the point, and he crawls off the berth and opens the bottom drawer. It sticks a bit, and when he pulls harder at it, it jostles the entire chest, some of the toys on top of it falling over the edge. Crosshairs snorts a laugh.

"I really need more storage fer those. Take one with a suction cup at the base. Makes it easier te put it on somethin' an' fuckin' yerself on it."

The bottom drawer is full of brand new toys, still in their packaging. Barricade looks through them, reading the labels, trying to figure out what he should get. He settles for a smooth one, purple with black flames, and a suction cup at the base.

"Uhm, I'll take this one. Thanks."

"Good choice, I really like tha' model." Crosshairs smirks. 

"Why do you have this if you already have one like it?"

"Extras, of course. If I break one... Or if someone is in dire need to get a toy. If ye ever need somethin', just ask. I might 'ave it."

Of course...

"Good to know. So, I should get going. Thanks a lot."

"'ave fun." Crosshairs smirks, waggling his fingers.

Chapter Text

"Ya've been with Crosshairs?" Jazz asks with an amused smile when he sees the toy Barricade is carrying.

Barricade snorts, looking att the package again. "Is it that obvious?" 

"Well, he really is tha go-to guy when in need of toys. N' I don' think ya're tha type ta go out shoppin' for one in some sex store, and then not put it in a bag labeled somethin' else than sex paraphernalia."

"Am I really that much of a prude?"

"Maybe not a prude, but ya're kind of private 'bout it. I think it's cute that ya still get flustered by this n' that."

"How about this for being a not quite prude then: today, I've gotten new protocols for the calipers in my ass. To make me better at taking spike."

Jazz nods approvingly. "That's 'nother step towards liberation; ya're claimin' your sexuality. Good for ya!"

Feels more like shackles and fetters than liberation. He's definitely a pleasurebot now.

Oh, shut up, whiny brat. It's just a mod, and things could be worse. You should try the toy, maybe now it'll be really pleasurable?

"Yeah. You know, Crosshairs and I talked a bit about our past, but I want to tell you first. Not that it excuses the way I treated you, but... I want you to know before anyone else." He plunks down on Jazz's berth, putting the box with the toy on the floor, and he fidgets nervously.

"I'd love ta know if ya wanna tell me. But first, I need ta apologize. I'm sorry I wasn' more careful with ya. I got carried away, because I was... I was so thrilled at toppin' ya like that, n' I got a bit of a power kick. It's tha ugly truth, but tha truth nonetheless. I did need ta get done before work, but that ya finally offered yourself up so completely like that was jus'...It went ta my helm, an' I didn' realize that I hurt ya."

"It wasn't your fault. I mean, I asked you to do it, and I never told you to stop, so how would you know?"

"Maybe, but still... I've been forced ta do stuff, I should know when things go overboard. I should've noticed."

"It wasn't good, I won't lie about that, but none of us were communicating properly. I don't hold it against you."

"I'm glad ya don't, but I didn' want ta hurt ya back, n' I really want ya ta know that."

"Your apology is accepted, and I really don't blame you."

"Thank you!" Jazz tackles him, and they land stretched out on the berth. "Now I wanna hear 'bout li'l Cade."

Chapter Text

Barricade has told Jazz about what happened when he grew up, and they lay silently for a while, Jazz atill snuggling up to him.

"Ye know, I can see why ya fell inta your bad habits, why that power went ta you helm. Ta finally be in control after having had none. It's not an excuse, but I get it. N' ya're tryin' ta be better now that ya've realized, n' that's what's important ta me."

"I can't thank you enough for giving me a new chance. I mean, when I showed up straight out of prison, you could've just turned me away, and you didn't. And then I fucked up over and over, and was such an insensitive asshole, and still you gave me more chances."

"I like ye a lot, Barricade. I want ya around, n' I know ya can be better than ya were before, that ya're a good person. I've seen glimpses of it way back, when I figured out that ya like me."

"Yeah, well I've not been very grateful for your patience, while I'm trying to adapt to everything, but I always sort of defined myself by my work, and now that I'm not an Enforcer anymore, then who am I? You know, I need to redefine myself completely. How did you accept yourself as 'Jazz, the pleasurebot'?"

"Well, 'Jazz, the waif', n' 'Jazz, the juvenile delinquent' wasn' exactly any better, and I don't define myself by something as simple as tha way I make a livin'. I'm much more than that."

It's actually a much healthier way of reasoning than defining himself by something as flimsy as a profession. He could've been laid off for simpler reasons than he was, or even damaged in the line of duty, forcing him to switch careers. He really should be more than a job.

"So, Jazz the waif?"

"My carrier got himself a new mech n' wanned ta get rid of all tha reminders of his old life. That included me, so he kicked me out. I got by through stealin' fuel, n' scrap mechs had left unattended, n' hustlin' it. Hadn't been upgraded ta a frame with an array yet, I was so young, so when this old dude asked for a handjob, I didn' really understand what I was doin', but he gave me more money than I had ever seen. It was a little weird, but it was the easiest money I'd ever gotten. I almost popped my tank, I bought so much fuel n' jus' gorged that night."

Barricade's spark feels cold in his chest as Jazz reveals his horrible past. For all the crap he lived through, at least he was spared until he was old enough to be considered physically mature, and he always had a roof over his helm.

"I did try ta sell that, but a lot of mechs were really outraged when I tried offerin' that service." Jazz laughs. "I understand why now, I mean, I was a sparkling. But I didn' even understand why grown ups had an array n' I didn', n' I didn' get why what I was doin' was so upsettin'. Got more careful though, a lot of people were contacting social services when I offered, n' they came runnin', lookin' for me. I realized that I had to learn to spot the creeps who might be interested in my services, though. In the meantime, I tried my servo at robbin' people. I wasn' very good at that, it was a disaster. I mean, I was even smaller than I am now, so it was risky. Got beat up more than once, n' chased 'round the neighborhood on foot as I didn' have an alt mode yet."

"Couldn't you've gotten help? I mean, get placed somewhere? I was sent to boarding school to finish when my step-sire was finally found out, I didn't need to go into foster care..." Barricade asks, still cringing inwardly about the way Jazz had made money back then, and the disgusting creeps that didn't hesitate to take advantage of someone in such a vulnerable position.

Chapter Text

"I was sent inta foster care a bunch'a times when I was younger, but I really didn' like it, so I tried my damnedest ta not go inta foster again. I mean, some of 'em were pretty nice n' all, but I was always tha outsider. N' some were not nice at all, jus' in it for tha creds."

"Did you even get to finish school?" Barricade asks, because he suddenly realizes how hard it would be for Jazz to ever get into society if he didn't.

"Nah. Was close ta catchin' up when I was in juvie, but my sentence was up, n' I dropped out again when I got out."

"How did you wind up in juvie?"

"One night — I was short on cash as usual, n' I had started ta smoke some pot when I could get my servos on it, so I really wanted a hit — I spotted this creep lurking around, noticed tha way he looked at me, so I thought 'easy money', right? Well, I was fuckin' wrong. Turns out he was an undercover cop, and that's how I got my stint in juvie. It did not help that I was identified by a witness for a robbery too. So I went in there. Then when I got out, I was sent inta foster care, but I split at the first chance I got."

"Had you been upgraded by then?"

"Nah, n' that became an issue pretty soon after, because I was good at keepin' away from the authorities, but that also kept me away from getting a welfare reformat. I didn' wanna go back ta foster care though, so I kept away. My platin' was nowhere near big enough, n' I looked a ridiculous mess — not ta mention that it was startin' ta hurt — when a mech took pity on me. Offered me a reformat n' a place ta stay in exchange of certain services."

Barricade swallows queasily. "What kind of services?" He asks flatly, because he can guess where this is going.

"Started with tha odd handjob while I was still in my kid frame, waitin' for tha upgrades ta be made. It took some time ta have it delivered. N' then, when tha reformat was done, n' I was legal, he wanted interfacin' too, of course."

Barricade makes a face.

"It wasn' that bad. I mean, he was kind of gentle, never hurt me, n' he made it pleasurable for me too when we faced. He had a pretty nice apartment, n' kept me well fueled. It was the best livin' conditions I'd ever had as a free mech up until then — n' more comfy, n' better fuel than juvie — Nmn' he didn' really ask for that much interfacin'. A couple'a times per week. I think he mostly wanned company."

"He was still breaking the law when it started, you were underage. And even if you were legal as soon as you were upgraded, it still wasn't right. I mean, I understand why you did what you did, but I hate that you had to make those choices to get your reformat and everything to begin with."

"Yeah, but it's in tha past, no point in dwellin' on it, because it won't change anythin'. The mech was old, n' had some health issues, so he had a spark attack n' deactivated, n' I couldn' get the lease on the apartment, 'cause I was still not an adult. I had ta leave, or I'd go back inta foster care. Maybe at my age, I would've been placed in a boarding school like you until I was an adult, but I thought I'd go into home fostering again. I really didn' wanna try another family. So I started hookin', because it was the easiest way I knew ta get enough money ta live in motels n' stuff. Pity he didn' live until I was an adult, I might've gotten his apartment."

Chapter Text

Barricade doesn't know what to say. 

Jazz's childhood really was a mess, but his lover seems to honestly have gotten over it. Or he doesn't realize exactly how fucked up it was, desensitized by the way he lived. And later parts of Jazz's life have been far worse, so it isn't strange if the distant memories of this are played down by the fresher trauma. He isn't going to dig further into it, because what would he gain from potentially reminding Jazz of how bad it was at the time? Absolutely nothing.

"Thank you for sharing this with me. You know, I always thought that just because I managed to get out of the situation I was in and get myself an education and a good job, so could everyone else, if they just applied themselves and worked hard. I guess that's why I was always so judgemental. I never thought of how many things could go wrong, or how bad the odds could be. I was lucky to get out when I did, and that was what got me on the right track and kick-started me to get a career. Look how I screwed that up. I was given an opportunity many would've wanted, and I blew it."

"Ya did start out by helping those who needed it, though, with good intentions. Ya jus' took it too far. But then again, I probably wouldn' have met ya if ya didn'..."

"I guess... Well, at least I'm getting to see things from a new perspective now. But you were in your adult frame when I met you. How did you get that upgrade? I remember how hard it was for you to get enough to pay for fuel and a place to stay."

Jazz smirks. "When I came ta tha point I was needin' my reformat, I went ta one of tha free clinics, thought I could mooch it for a bargain prize, n' some regular fuckin'. So I waltzed inta Ratchet's clinic, n' was completely turned down on tha facin' bit. He was smart, though, because of course he appealed for charity components, and since I became an adult with tha reformat, I didn' need ta go back inta foster care when it was done, n' didn' need ta be worried 'bout social services ta come hunt me down. That's why I had that hideous alt mode back then, though. At least it was free."

"I think you were kind of cute..." Barricade teases.

"Shut up! I was boxy, n' slow." Jazz laughs.

"And this frame?"

"Hide paid for it. He's pretty generous ta those who deserve it. And it's a win-win situation, 'cause I'm definitely easier on tha brothers' optics now." Jazz says, wiggling his decidedly hot little frame.

Because everything is always about them, isn't it?

"Dreadbot is more scary than cute, though..." Barricade notes.

And that's something he doesn't really understand, especially if Hide pays for mods and reformats for his mechs if it makes them prettier. Why would they even want to get him into the stable in the first place with looks like that.

Something passes across Jazz's face-plates, and Barricade thinks it's dismay, or maybe pity. "Dreadbot's road here wasn' pretty. I mean, ta me, what Hide offered seemed like a blessin', but for Dreadbot... he wound up here through a mess of hurt feelings, betrayal, fear n' desperation, n' things were very different when he bumped inta tha brothers tha first time. It's his story ta tell, but there's a reason why he looks tha way he does, n' has that alt mode."

Barricade nods and doesn't push for more, even if he's even more curious now. He hasn't seen Dreadbot in his alt mode either.

Maybe he'll ask Dreadbot about it some day. The way the pleasurebots are protective of each other is very endearing, though.

"So, ya want help gettin' used ta your new mod?"

He was planning on doing it alone, because he's still not entirely comfortable with it. But then again, this is Jazz...

"Sure, if you're up for it."

"Ya bet! I'll be better this time, tho."

Chapter Text

Barricade rolls over on his front, opening the control protocols.

It's odd, feels kind of like a business arrangement to just roll over and get prepared instead of doing some foreplay. 

He just wants to get it over with, though, so foreplay feels redundant. 

And he should be able to go immediately with this new mod, so he might as well learn to just get going for the occasion when that will be required. Ugh.

He hears when Jazz slicks his spike with lubricant, and Barricade arches his back, tilting his hips to give better access.

"If it's uncomfortable, ya tell me, right? I don' wanna hurt ya."

"Yes, I will tell you. It should be fine though. Maybe go slow? So I have time to get the settings right."

What a fucking discussion to have.

He feels the head of Jazz's spike against the opening, and he initiates the calipers to open up.

"Ehm, I'm flattered ya think I'm that big, but... I have the head inside ya now."

He has opened too much, he can't even feel Jazz. 

Barricade flushes at the mental image of his aft gaping around Jazz's spike. He makes his calipers clench.

"Are ya try'na strangle li'l Jazz? Pit, that is tight." Jazz groans.

"Sorry!"

Barricade flicks through the settings, finding that he can preset a pressure of his choice.

"Tell me when it feels good." He says, slowly loosening up again.

"Ah, there! Fuck, ya feel good like this!" Jazz moans.

Barricade saves the pressure setting and engages the automatic control that'll keep the pressure constant even when Jazz starts to move. He marks the setting with 'Jazz' for future use, then he does a mental cringe.

For the next time Jazz wants to fuck him in the ass. As if he wants this to happen again.

Might as well be prepared for your lover when you let others fuck you like that.

"I'll start ta move now, if that's ok."

"It's fine." 

What can he say, really? He wants it over with, but it's also a matter of trial and error, because he has no idea how to do this the best way.

Jazz starts to roll his hips slowly, deep languorous thrusts that allows Barricade's new protocols to perfectly calibrate the calipers.

It feels good, better than he really wants it to feel. He doesn't want to be like that, doesn't want to like this, but the automatic protocols he's running have removed all the discomfort, and that leaves his sensory network free to focus on the pleasure. 

And is there pleasure!

The slow slide of Jazz's spike against all the nodes in his port has his charge skyrocketing, and it doesn't take long for Barricade to become a moaning, squirming mess.

"Wan' me ta stroke your spike while I fuck ya?"

"Please!"

Barricade lifts his hips from the mattress to give Jazz access, his spike pressurizing into Jazz's waiting servo. Barricade's hips jerk, bucking into that hand, and then he pulls back, meeting Jazz's thrust, and it's so much sensation, much more than he expected.

"I'm close." He grinds out.

"Cum when ya want." Jazz pants. "I'm so fuckin' close too."

Barricade starts rutting into Jazz's servo, meeting the the thrusts into his aft every time he pulls back, and it's not even a minute before he falls over the edge, transfluid spilling through Jazz's digits onto the covers of the berth.

Chapter Text

Jazz has the courtesy to pull out when he overloads, sticky ropes of transfluid painting the plating on Barricade's aft, then he topples over, landing stretched out next to Barricade.

"Yeah, tha' was good. Better than tha last time." Jazz says.

"Definitely better." Barricade agrees, even if he's still ambivalent about liking it in the first place.

And then there's the next feature of the mod he needs to try, and suddenly he remembers that it's one of the reasons he planned to try this by himself.

Burying his face in the pillows, flushing furiously, he reaches back and slips a digit into his aft. It hasn't closed fully, still adjusted to accommodate Jazz's spike. Barricade stops the sequence that's now labeled 'Jazz' and initiates the protocols that's for when he isn't facing. His port closes around his digit, quickly going back to what he supposes is the normal tightness it had when he was still a virgin back there.

It's not like he fiddled back there before, so he can't be sure.

"All good?" Jazz asks.

"Yeah, just making sure the closing protocols work." Barricade says, flushing again when he pulls his finger out of his ass.

"Lemme try."

Barricade makes an unintelligible whine, because he isn't keen on having anyone poking around there, even if it's Jazz. 

Especially not now, when he has gotten mods to not even need foreplay.

But it's more pleasurable now... Maybe you'll enjoy the fingering even more?

Shut up!

"Come on! I wanna see if it's a mod I should get too. I don' really think it's tha' uncomfortable ta take it like that anymore, but if it makes thing even more efficient, it might be worth it."

"Fine."

There's still a little slick left, so Jazz's digit slips inside smoothly, even if Barricade definitely has tightened up.

"Yeah, you're good n' tight again. Think I might get me this mod. Would be nice ta be this tight again even when someone has knotted me."

That's an experience Barricade hopes he can somehow get out of gaining, but then he really need to get on with finding a different job. 

At least you have the proper mods for trying that now.

Ugh.

"Come on, let's go have a shower. Ya're a mess."

It's true. Barricade reluctantly gets up from his position, wiping the worst of the stickiness from his plating with the sheet. He brings the sheet with him, because there's a washing machine in the washracks, and since he shot his load all over Jazz's bedding the least he can do is wash it for him.

"Hey, ya forgot your toy!"

It's not like he needs it now, Jazz has helped him out with the testing, but it would be kind of rude to leave his things laying around in Jazz's room, so he grabs it anyway, then they head off to the washracks.

Chapter Text

They help each other clean up, and even if they kiss — slow and sweet, in a way he's still not used to, but is definitely becoming one of his favorite things — it doesn't derail into fucking. Barricade really savors the moment, because it feels so intimate, and it's something he wants more of, what he was looking for way back when they met, even if he didn't know it at the time.

But eventually they have to part, because they're both expected elsewhere, for the kind of fucking that's the opposite of making love. They dry themselves in silence, content to be together, and then they share one last kiss before Jazz heads out into the street, and Barricade goes upstairs to wait for Ironhide to get back from wherever he has been.

Barricade carries the toy in his servo through the house — the package is too big to fit in his subspace pockets — and he doesn't miss the leering quirk of Nitro's optical ridge when the Flier spots what he's carrying. Barricade just rolls his optics and heads upstairs.

Horny bastard.

He enters Hide's room, and then he comes to a halt just inside the door, spark suddenly dropping.

Where the hell is he going to put that toy?! It's not like he has a storage unit of his own; he hasn't had anything to store up until now, so he didn't even consider it. He could try to hide the toy, but how mortifying wouldn't it be when Ironhide finds it? Because Hide would find it, there's no way he could get away with this, he has no luck whatsoever.

Barricade stares at the box with the thing inside.

Crosshairs had his toys all over the place, but he isn't Crosshairs, and this isn't his room.

The toy is smaller than the package, maybe it could fit in your subspace if you take it out?

It's not like he can come up with a better option, so Barricade tears the box open and pulls the thing out, staring at it with a mix of fascination and disgust. It's made of some semi-wobbly gel material, smooth to the touch. He shakes it experimentally, and it wiggles in the air.

Well, he doesn't have many options.

It fits inside the pocket high up on his side, and it's a relief when the pocket shuts, and it's like he has never had a sex toy in the first place. 

At least until someone scans him for some reason.

The box, he throws down the trash shute to the incinerator. Feeling much calmer now that he has disposed of the evidence, he stretches out on the berth, trying and failing to forget that his mods are going to be put to good use again soon. 

They did seem to work, though, spared him from discomfort. But Hide is definitely bigger than Jazz, and he hasn't really learned all the settings available through the new protocols yet, so what if he doesn't succeed with using them right? Maybe it'll be even worse?

He opens the program again to play around with the settings, trying to figure out where he can find them when he needs them at a moment's notice. Barricade can feel his port loosening and tightening up repeatedly as he changes the settings, but he doesn't have any reference point, so it's haphazard at best.

The dildo in his subspace. He could try it with that. Just to get a feel for what he can do with the protocols... It was a bit rushed with Jazz — because he wanted to get it over with, and is still a bit embarrassed about it all — and scrolling all the settings, he can see that there's many more options than those he used...

Chapter Text

Crosshairs was right: it is much easier with a toy with a suction cup.

At first, Barricade tries putting it on the bathroom floor, the tiles giving a good surface to stick it to. It bobs obscenely where it stands, and Barricade makes a face at it, but then he mechs up and grabs the lube, stroking it a few times to slick it.

You're getting very good at that. Very handy!

Shut up.

He kneels over the shiny length, slowly sinking down until it presses against his aft. Barricade hasn't adjusted any of the settings yet, and his port is still tight. The pressure is uncomfortable.

Automatic settings would probably be a good way to start, but that means he has to know the circumference of whatever he's about to take.

Planning on taking others than Jazz and Ironhide, are we?

No! Just... Precautions. If Hide wants to bring toys and hookers again.

Mhm.

Ignoring the unsettling realization that maybe he is taking precautions to be able to take different cocks up the ass, Barricade starts to go through all the different variables and settings.

It does seem ungainly to figure out  the circumference for every new mech, there has to be simpler automatization than that. Maybe just go from Jazz preference with the pressure and adjust size until it feels good even if someone is thicker?

Barricade tries to guesstimate the circumference of the toy, as a good optic measure would be helpful, then he sinks down on it. Easily.

Apparently, he has a tendency to overestimate the size of his partner. At least that could be considered flattering.

Then the toy hits that spot inside him, and his hips jerk of their own accord. The hydraulics of his right leg protest against the awkward position, and the strain it puts on them. He quickly lifts off the toy to keep the pistons from overheating and getting stuck.

Frag. He really needs to figure this out before Hide shows up, or it's going to be really awkward.

Stick it to the wall in the shower and fuck yourself on it. You know, turbo hound-style.

Why has his life come to these considerations? 

But then he thinks about the shower he just had with Jazz, and how he wouldn't have that if he hadn't been taken in here.

He just has to stay long enough that he can get them both out, so they can have a better life together.

Yes, and right now, that means you've got to satisfy the pimp, which means you need to get to know those protocols down to a T before he shows up.

He pulls the toy from the floor and sticks it to the glass wall at the entrance of the shower, starting the water.

Might as well get a little steam and heat in there to help him relax.

Barricade pours lube on his digits, pushing them inside to slick up his hole, on case the water has washed some of the slick already on the toy away, and he gets into position in front of the thing.

Sensor connected automatic pressure control. Sounds about right.

For long seconds, the protocols boot and connect to the sensors in his port, calibrating, and it feels weird — a tingling sensation as all the sensors are tested one by one, and minuscule twitches of the calipers — then he gets a pop-up in his HUD that the systems are ready to go.

He rocks back, the toy sliding smoothly into him, lighting up the sensors that seem to be ramped up to the most sensitive setting, and he's hard pressed to focus on adjusting the pressure of the calipers. Tighter means firmer pressure against his sensors, but too much equals discomfort. He tries loosening up as an experiment, but that almost tickles, in a very teasing way.

Oh, he can dial down the sensitivity a bit too, that's neat. It's not like he wants to overload every twenty seconds from this.

He plays with the adjustments back and forth to try it out, rocking against the toy.

"Well isn't this a nice little surprise to find in the shower?"

Chapter Text

He squeaks and throws himself forward, landing sprawled on his front in the thankfully good-sized shower, all too aware of his aft still being in Ironhide's line of sight.

And he isn't sure if those settings will make him close up or not!

Barricade rolls over on his back to meet the big mech's optics, just to also meet the taunting bobbing of the dildo still attached to the glass wall separating him from Hide.

What the fuck was he thinking?!

"Don't feel obligated to stop for my sake. I love a good show as much as anyone, and your aft is a pretty view in itself."

"I-I...uhm... I was just..."

Well, it's fairly obvious what he was doing, and apparently, Ironhide doesn't object at all, but he has never been much of a masturbator, and whenever he did, it was kept to a quick jerk off, in private, and this is just...

"Fucking yourself in the ass on a dildo. Yes, I did notice. Kind of hard to miss, actually." Ironhide's intake pulls into that lascivious grin of his, and he quirks an optical ridge.

Barricade feels his face flush, but he doesn't say anything, doesn't move, because he really doesn't know what to say or do.

"I reckon you talked to Cross."

"I...yes, I did."

"Feels better?"

Of course he'd know. Crosshairs probably relayed everything said and done immediately. Considering the long history between the two, why wouldn't he? 

Barricade can't even be annoyed about it, because logically, there's probably more to being at the top of the hierarchy of the hookers than just being good at spreading his legs, and Ironhide certainly seems like the type who'd rely on intel, and hate surprises.

But right now, his biggest problems are a leering Topkick, a still jiggling dildo, and the charge that's still running through his systems in spite of everything.

"So far, it seems to work well." Barricade answers in a strained voice, flushing again.

"Mhm." Ironhide's optics slither over his entire frame. "I'm not the kind to waste an opportunity when I see one. I mean; the shower is already hot, you're already hot, I'm in need of a shower and good lay, and I'm going to fuck you tonight anyway..."

Then he opens the glass door, stepping inside to join Barricade. He towers over the Saleen, who's still sprawled on the floor.

"Good thing you're cute when you're too flustered to move, considering how often you are. Come on," Ironhide says, stretching a servo out for Barricade to take, "I can't imagine I made your legs glitch with my mere presence."

Barricade hesitates for long seconds, but then he grabs that servo and is hoisted to his pedes.

Chapter Text

Ironhide's servos roam his frame as the big mech presses up against him, and it's a rather familiar feeling by now. Then he's suddenly spun around and his front is pushed against the wall, a big servo stroking his aft before two digits slip into his port.

"Tight, but still pliable, and so slick..." Ironhide groans.

It's kind of odd how he isn't offended by the handling, or the comments, like he used to be.

You're learning, accepting your new station.

It's just temporary. Shut up.

"You're so short..." Ironhide kind of grouses, his spike rubbing against Barricade's lower back when he grinds forward for emphasis.

"Maybe you should have a ladder in here for me to stand on then, big Bot?" Barricade quips, before snapping his intake shut in surprise at his own bold joking.

Ironhide barks a laugh though, clearly amused by Barricade's snarky sass.

"No need. You ain't tall, but you're not heavy either."

Ironhide grabs his hips, and easily lifts Barricade. The Saleen braces his lower arms against the wall, pedes dangling in the air. Then Ironhide's spike nudges his port and slips inside easily.

The sensors light up again with the stimulation, and he sees in the gauges in his HUD how the program adjusts the calipers to accommodate the thicker intrusion. The lack of discomfort is novel, and very welcome, and he lets out a low moan as the thick length slides over the sensitive nodes inside him when Ironhide starts to fuck him with long, powerful thrusts.

"Touch your valve." Ironhide grunts.

Barricade glances I've his shoulder, but the big mech doesn't notice, occupied with staring down at where his spike slides in and out of Barricade's aft. He reaches between his legs with one servo, still leaning the other arm against the wall for support, and slides a digit through the wet slit.

"See what a bad little bot you are? Valve all empty and drooling because you're being fucked in the aft instead." Ironhide rumbles in his audial, pressing his front against Barricade's back as he leans closer. "Mh, yes, such a naughty little mech."

"Yes?"

Dirty talk isn't really his thing, but at least this isn't degrading.

Well, it's true at least; you really are a bad bot, or you wouldn't be in this situation in the first place, now would you?

Not the same thing.

Let's just stick to your empty pussy and your really full ass then.

Ironhide pulls him back to meet the next thrust, changing the angle to his that sensitive spot inside Barricade, and the Interceptor mewls loudly, in spite of being forced to yank his servo from his array to stop himself from faceplanting against the wall.

"Would you come from just this, or do you need to flick your node too?"

"I-I I think I can overload from just this?"

It certainly feels that way, at least if Ironhide isn't about to overload in the next few thrusts.

"Let's try, shall we?"

"Yes!" Barricade hisses when Ironhide thrust into him again.

He dials up the sensitivity another few steps, arching his back to give Ironhide better access.

Ironhide increases the pace, pelvic plating clanging against Barricade's aft with every thrust, and Barricade can't control the moans leaving him every time Ironhide surges forward.

"You like that, don't you?" Ironhide grunts.

He does. He shouldn't, but he really does. 

Just enjoy it. Pleasure certainly isn't something to mope about.

"Yes!"

Ironhide chuckles and there's a thread of smugness weaving through his field, but he increases the pace even more.

Barricade overloads hard, the calipers in his aft clenching with the same pulsing rhythm his valve does. His digits scrabble against the wall, and his vocalizer makes an undignified squeal. Ironhide follows him over with a grunt, and with the sensitivity amped up, Barricade can feel the hot transfluid spilling inside him, pooling around the thick spike to stretch him even more.

Ironhide pulls out, putting Barricade back on the floor, steadying him until he's certain that the Saleen can stand of his own power. Barricade rests his face against his lower arms, leaning against the wall. He hears Ironhide doing something but he doesn't look.

Then something slips into his aft, and Barricade whips his helm around. Ironhide grins unrepentantly, pulling the toy out of Barricade to hold it up to show him.

"You tighten up quickly: this still fits!"

Barricade can't help himself, he reaches back, touching his port to test it, then he flushes when Ironhide's grin widens.

He's closed, not gaping open.

His relief is short lived.

Ironhide's cum is still inside him. He needs to get it out.

Ironhide hands him the toy and steps under the stream of water, grabbing a bottle of solvent.

He could just turn around, and then open the calipers to let it dribble out and hope Hide doesn't notice.

Fat chance that he won't, especially with you flushing just thinking about it. He did enjoy seeing your port drool his cum, and he just handed you the toy. Put on a show with it. It's not like he hasn't seen it before. Through the glass wall.

Barricade flushes furiously.

Fuck his functioning. In the ass. With a dildo.

"So, big Bot, do you want me to continue the show?" Barricade tries to purr seductively, even if he thinks he sounds ridiculous.

Ironhide's smirk is answer enough, so Barricade buries his face-plates in the crook of his arm, still braced against the wall, and with his other servo, he lines up the toy and slides it into his still slick port, adjusting the settings to allow the cum inside him to dribble out everytime he pulls the toy out.

Chapter Text

The berth is empty when he wakes up, but he's used to that by now; Ironhide is always up before him. Barricade takes a quick shower before he heads for the refueling room.

It's not unusual that he finds other mechs there, having morning energon, but it's the first time Ironhide is present. He's sitting on a bar stool, leaning against the countertop, and Crosshairs is perched on his lap. 

"Morning." Barricade says, walking to the energon heater, trying to covertly stare at them.

"Morning." Everyone present says in unison.

"Ye should try this one." Crosshairs says, grabbing a gel from the plate on the counter behind Ironhide.

"Oh, yeah?" Hide says amusedly, raising an optical ridge.

Crosshairs nods and pops it into his intake, pulling his lip-plates back to show that he's squeezing it against the roof of his intake with his glossa, then he sticks his glossa out.

Ironhide grins, then he sucks Crosshairs's glossa into his mouth. The kiss heats up instantly, with a big servo slowly stroking Crosshairs side, thumbs dipping between plating. Crosshairs presses his chest against Ironhide, moaning into his mouth.

Barricade's array is heating up, because it's a sensual, rather intimate display, and it is so different from what he's used to witnessing here.

They finally break apart, Ironhide pressing his lip-plates against Crosshairs's before pulling back.

"It's good, though everything tastes good on you."

"Yeh? Then try this one." 

Crosshairs grabs a gel in a different color and repeats the procedure, and what really strikes Barricade is the indulgence Ironhide looks at Crosshairs with, and how genuinely happy they both seem. There's something different in the way they interact that Barricade hasn't seen before, and it blurs the line from pimp/whore, or perhaps employer/employee, to what seems more like good friends with benefits.

"Why don't we ever do that? I want to do that too!" Nitro Zeus almost whines to Dreadbot.

"Because you haven't deserved it, you mech-whore." Dreadbot quips, rolling all of his optics out of sync.

Nitro somehow manages to convey a pout even though his intake configuration can't really pull one off.

"Besides, look at us both. It would be tongue licking, and at best tongue fucking each other's intake, and we'd be lucky if we didn't cut up our glossas on our denta."

"You can reshape yours, and I don't mind tongue fucking your mouth."

"Dreadbot an' Nitro, sittin' in a tree..." Crosshairs sings.

"Shut up and keep kissing me." Ironhide growls playfully, pulling him back in to get his will.

"We can try it tonight, I don't want you slobbering all over me now that I just showered." Dreadbot snarks.

Nitro Zeus suddenly pounces on the smaller mech, licking a very wet line across his face-plates.

"Hey, what the... Bastard!" Dreadbot growls as threateningly as someone being held in place and repeatedly licked — like a turbo kitten getting a cleaning from it's mother — can.

Nitro let's him go, smirking smugly. "So, what are you going to do about that?"

"I will find a way to make you pay. You just wait and see..."

"I don't even know if that's a threat or a promise."

Chapter Text

"I should take a vacation. Bring you with me and go somewhere. Just drinking, and relaxing, and fucking. Blow off some steam." Ironhide says to Crosshairs. "Some nice hotel, with room service, so we don't need to leave the room if I don't want to."

"Sounds nice, but I think Nitro would be jealous." Crosshairs says, stroking Ironhide's chest-plates.

"I'm sure Dreadbot can keep him occupied."

"This is not fair! You get a working vacation, and I just get more work?" Dreadbot grumbles, still wiping his face with a rag.

"So, get Nitro te take ye somewhere!" Crosshairs says cheerily.

"You know what a cheap ass he is." 

Ironhide snorts. "Don't we all?"

"I'll take you anyway you want, babe." Nitro leers, putting an arm across Dreadbot's shoulders.

"You better..."

"Ye know wha' would be fun though, an' would benefi' everyone 'ere?"

"I can think of a lot of things." Ironhide mumbles against Crosshairs's neck-cables.

"I want te go shootin'. Please, Daddy? Can' we hit the range some day?" 

"Yeah, please, Daddy." Dreadbot chimes in.

"I want to shoot too, Daddy." Knock Out agrees.

"Daddy, don't forget me! I wanna blow some shit up too." Jazz adds as he enters, catching the tail end of the conversation.

"Alright, alright! I'll look into it. Stop making me feel old." Ironhide grumbles, but he sounds more fondly exasperated than truly annoyed.

"Ye are old."

"I'm the same age as Knockie!"

"Yeh, but 'e was still piddlin' 'is panel, trundlin' 'round 'is playpen when ye were already out shootin' stuff."

Ironhide glares at Crosshairs, but then he cracks up and shakes his helm before pressing a kiss to Crosshairs audial.

"So... I want to go shooting too, D..." Nitro Zeus starts to speak, but Ironhide interrupts him.

"You better not finish that sentence, or I'm going to shove my cannon up your ass." 

Nitro cocks his helm, looking at Ironhide's arm, then he turns to look at his own aft over his shoulder.

"Oh, Prez, you really do love me after all..." He moans exaggeratedly, leaning his elbows against the counter, sticking his aft out.

Ironhide rolls his optics.

"Hide? Should I?" Dreadbot asks, twirling the rag in the air.

"Please do." Ironhide says, nodding.

Dreadbot slaps Nitro across the aft, managing to hit protoform through a seam in Nitro's plating. The big mech flies up from his pose, howling in pain, and everyone starts laughing.

"That's it!" Nitro growls, throwing Dreadbot over his shoulder, heading for the door.

"You said anyway I want. Babe." Dreadbot laughs.

"I say a lot of things..."

"Yeah, you really do need to learn how to keep your big vocalizer shut." Dreadbot quips

"I agree with Dreadbot! On both accounts!" Ironhide shouts after them.

The door slams shut behind them.

"It really would be fun te go shootin', though..." Crosshairs says.

"I'll arrange something, sweetie."

Chapter Text

Jazz wraps his arms around Barricade, pressing a kiss to the Mustang's neck-cables.

"Mornin', babe. Did yer new mod work well?" He murmurs to keep the conversation fairly private.

"Yeah. All the difference." 

He's not ready to admit — not even to himself to be honest — that it was quite pleasurable, now that he was able to accommodate Hide's spike easily. And he certainly isn't keen on going into the details about how the deed was done. What was he thinking with the glass wall?

"Huh. Maybe I should get that mod too..." Jazz muses, not noticing the way Barricade flushes, and it's a welcome distraction.

"Don't you feel... like, loose afterwards? I mean, since you don't have it..."

What a fucking conversation to have over breakfast.

"Maybe sometimes? I guess I'm used ta that too, I don' really think 'bout it." Jazz giggles.

Ugh. Time to change subject.

"So, you want to do something today? Just the two of us."

Not that he knows what, because he has no credits, and he'd really like to take Jazz to lunch or something. Maybe find a park to take a walk in, or something else that's free? 

"Sounds fun. Wanna go for hot energon, n' a movie?" Jazz asks.

"I... I'd love to, but I have no credits, and I've already been enough of a financial burden for you..."

"Here." Ironhide interrupts Barricade, and the Saleen turns around, just in time to catch a credit chip thrown his way.

"My treat."

Barricade gapes at the chip, because he wasn't prepared for the sudden generosity.

"Thank you, Hide. Thank you so much!" He says, as soon as he snaps out of his stupor.

"You've earned it." Ironhide says, then he grins at Crosshairs. "And you have put me in a very good mood, darling. I think I'm going to dunk you in the oil jacuzzi and ravage you all day long." He grinds up against Crosshairs to emphasize his good mood, leering lasciviously.

"'ow 'bout ye make sweet love te me?