Work Text:
- HAT TRICK -
Fixit’s latest attempt to recreate the Bee Team’s spontaneous combination is nothing short of a disaster. One, it doesn’t work, and two — the most horrific part of it all — is that for reasons unknown, Sideswipe is stuck in his altmode.
As in, he can’t transform.
Strongarm, Bee, Grimlock, and Drift? Slight electrocution aside, they’ve all escaped unscathed, able to change shape to their sparks’ content, but Sideswipe is well and truly trapped on his four wheels. Which — when your altmode is a super-fast, super-sleek supercar, that shouldn’t be a serious issue. But Sideswipe rather likes the ability to freely choose what form to exist in, and right now? He has no choice. Sure, he can drive, he can roll his wheels, which is better than being, like, completely immobilized, or, well, dead, but —
Sideswipe tries, and fails, to keep the panic out of his voice. “Please tell me you can undo this.”
“The effects of the combining attempt should have worn off by now,” says Fixit, optics locked on the holoscreen projected in front of him. “Er, they usually do. There’s no logical reason for you to still be confined to your altmode.”
Sideswipe does not like the hesitant tone in Fixit’s usually optimistic voice. “Why’s it gotta be just me? Why’s this sort of scrap always happen to me and not — not Strongarm or Drift?”
“Could be a fault of your personality,” murmurs Fixit, still poring over his readout — and then, judging by the mortified look on his face and the servo clamped over his mouth, it’s obvious he’d not intended to say those words aloud. “That is, I mean —”
“Hey, you got me into this mess! You need to get me out of it!”
“Sideswipe, I’m buying — frying — trying! You will just have to wait until —”
Sideswipe revs his engine in a frustrated snarl. There’s no use in arguing with Fixit, or torquing him off any further — because there’s a good chance the glitchy minicon is Sideswipe’s only hope of ever transforming again. Instead, without another word, he rolls away, sights set on a remote corner of the scrapyard where he can disappear into Denny’s rusted clutter and uselessly sulk in peace.
This whole debacle is unbelievable. At this rate, Sideswipe may as well resign himself to being parked on a dealership lot and sold as a pre-owned automobile to a family of four. He's of no value to the team if he’s stuck in his altmode, other than for — for ferrying the Clays from one place to the next.
And that existence is completely unacceptable.
So Sideswipe stews. The sun beats down on his hood and roof. He shuts off most of his outward optical sensors — he’s not in motion, so there’s no need to have a 360-degree view of his surroundings. He distracts himself by flipping through Crown City’s many local radio stations. For a while Sideswipe listens to some frankly weird and probably-offensive stuff on a staticky AM channel. No one’s come to look for him yet, to offer words of reassurance, to tell him Fixit’s got everything under control. They’re avoiding him, because it’s exactly as Sideswipe fears: they don’t want to deal with him in this pathetic state. He’s a hindrance to the team. He’s the rolling, shiny definition of dead weight.
It’s as the sun creeps lower in the western sky that Sideswipe emerges from a state of semi-statis, his proximity scanner notifying him of an Autobot within a twenty-meter radius of where he’s parked. It’s two Autobots, actually: Jetstorm and Slipstream, and between them, they’re very carefully portaging a ridiculously-oversized and mostly-intact mirror — yet another odd treasure pulled from Denny’s mountains of vintage junk.
“What,” says Sideswipe, “are you doing?”
The mirror is placed directly in front of him, propped up perpendicular against a row of pastel-colored refrigerators whose contents would surely withstand the blast of an atomic bomb. Slipstream glances at Jetstorm, then offers, “The master asked us to bring this here.”
Sideswipe’s engine growls. “Why, so I can stare at myself while I sit here and rust? No offense, but I don’t think Drift is the pranking type.”
“I do not believe that’s his intention,” says Jetstorm, and, their task done, they share an odd knowing glance and wordlessly depart.
Leave it to Drift’s pint-sized students to be all cryptic and stuff. It makes Sideswipe feel anxious and — well, something else. Drift obviously has something planned for him. Whether or not it bodes well for Sideswipe remains to be seen. He vents a sigh and sags on his axles, and his reflection does the same. At least, even when he’s miserable, he still looks good.
The sky is smeared with a brilliant pink-orange gradient when Drift finally materializes next to Sideswipe. His bracers are empty, his katanas are elsewhere, and he gives Sideswipe a look that could almost be interpreted as pity. “Fixit has found a solution.”
“Has he really? Or is it a — a possible solution. That he needs to, like, run a million tests on.” Trapped in his altmode, Sideswipe is acutely aware that his capability for sass is now limited to his voice alone.
“It is a solution… in theory.” Drift swivels his focus to the mirror, and Sideswipe can’t help but notice he seems to be scrutinizing their reflections very, very carefully. “And it is — perhaps not so embarrassing for me, but for you, I fear…”
“Primus, Drift — just tell me what it is. I know I’ll be on board. I will do literally anything to get back on my feet again.”
“Very well,” says Drift. “Fixit has determined that an internal, self-contained power surge is required to trip your transformation cog back into proper function.”
Sideswipe’s engine idles as he chews through the implications of the statement. “Self-contained, so I can’t be plugged in to something to make it happen, and internal, as in — oh.” Scrap. Sideswipe hesitates, not wanting to make the mortifying mistake of jumping to horny conclusions again, at least, not with regards to Drift. It cannot become a habit. For once, it’s a good thing he can’t transform, because Sideswipe is certain the look on his face and accompanying blush would be humiliating. “Heh, just so we’re on the same page here — spell it out in simple terms for me, teamie.”
Drift wields his words like a blunt, heavy weapon. “You need to overload.”
“Yeah, that’s what I thought.” It’s getting dark. Sideswipe switches on his headlights, and they reflect off the mirror, bathing the two of them in their glare. “And you, uh — you volunteered for this? For me?”
“There was a game of Not It.” The corner of Drift’s mouth ticks up into one of his signature, near-undetectable smirks. “I allowed myself to lose.”
“Uh — thanks, I think.” Sideswipe flicks a single windshield wiper in an approximation of an awkward thumbs up. He watches his reflection do the same. “So, the mirror then.”
“As I recall, you have… difficulty in achieving an efficient overload without access to your array.” There’s no malice to the words, but Sideswipe can’t help but feel the sting of shame creep into his circuitry. Drift turns to the mirror and, his voice entirely too solemn for the ridiculous task at hand, says, “This will prove to be an even greater challenge for you. Obtaining pleasure in one’s vehicle form can be complicated. I was of the opinion you may benefit from watching.”
“Watching…?” Sideswipe can’t keep the uncertain waver from his voice.
“Yes, watching. You do, after all, have a very attractive altmode.”
And those words go straight to Sideswipe’s array. Tucked away deep in his frame, entirely inaccessible in his current state, he feels his valve throb. “Uh, pause for a second here. As much as I like to hear how hot I am, do you really think that alone will…?”
Drift strokes a hand over Sideswipe’s hood, his fingers following the kanji painted there. “No, you will require something… more.”
Sideswipe feels his doors shiver. “You’ve gotta — Drift. You’ve gotta get something out of it though. Especially after last time, since — you didn’t. Uh.” Drift’s digits are a warm, comforting, distracting presence over his engine. “What I’m saying is —”
“Yes, Sideswipe?”
Sideswipe has a vocalizer. He can use words. He can string them together and make sentences. This isn’t so much a sentence but a very long word, and once Sideswipe starts speaking, he can’t stem the flow until the worst of it is out there. “What-I’m-saying-is-you-should-probably-get-something-out-of-it-too-and-like-jerk-off-and-come-all-over-me —” Sideswipe suddenly reins in his voice and, horrified at the filth that’s left hanging in the air between them, whispers, “Oh, Primus."
Drift seems unfazed by the suggestion. “The focus is you. You are, after all, the one who is in dire need of assistance.” The hand on Sideswipe’s hood glides upward, until it reaches where metal meets glass. Drift runs two digits along the blade of the nearest windshield wiper, pressing against it, and Sideswipe squirms on his tires. “Unless, that is, you believe my pleasure will help you obtain your own.” Drift pulls the wiper blade back, then releases it, and it snaps against Sideswipe’s windshield with a resounding thwack that echoes through the scrapyard.
Sideswipe tries not to whimper. Drift’s talented with his words, with the way he says stuff. Even if he’s trying to be all honorable and formal or whatever, it’s the timbre of his voice, the knowing look in his optics — and Sideswipe’s engine gives a choked off rev of interest. “Yeah, I — I think that would, uh, expedite things.”
The response is a noncommittal “Hm.” Sideswipe watches in the mirror as Drift slowly circles him, hand smoothing over his roof, then settling on his spoiler, running from one end to the other. The sensation sends a tingle through his frame, its path confusing and confounding with how his entire being is rearranged. Sideswipe’s headlights flicker as that pleasure reaches home, his array clenching again, and this time, he knows he’s leaking, somewhere. Drift seems to sense it too, and his touch makes another pass over his spoiler, this time pinching it. “You are very sleek. Impressively aerodynamic.”
“Yeah, I know. I could steamroll you in a race any day.”
“I’ve never seen another Cybertronian keep their plating so well polished,” Drift says, ignoring Sideswipe’s taunt entirely. “You obviously take great pride in looking your best. It is a most commendable effort.”
The praise feels good, and it’s a rare thing, coming from Drift. Sideswipe’s engine gives a low thrum. He can hear the sporadic plip-plip of his lubricant as it strikes the dusty ground. After pinching his spoiler again, Drift’s hand drops to one of his taillights, his digits circling its angular rim in a gentle yet still somehow firm touch. As Sideswipe continues to get an increasingly better handle on what is where — because really, until now, he’s never had to think about it before, at least not in this context — he recognizes that his altmode’s back end, where Drift is currently heaping on the attention, translates to his lower legs, which — in his bipedal mode, it would be a weird place to touch, but as an automobile, it’s stupidly hot.
He needs more.
“You gonna — heh — stick it in my tailpipe, big ‘bot?”
Drift’s reflection is clearly unamused. “Don’t be crude.”
“Then get your sword out and start polishing it already!”
“Never use that metaphor again.”
Drift’s hand glides back up to Sideswipe’s spoiler, two digits running along its leading edge, and — oh, when the both of them are in their robot mode, Drift is noticeably larger, but now — he absolutely towers over Sideswipe. He keeps his touch light, mindful of Sideswipe’s pristine paint job, but Sideswipe knows Drift could absolutely put dents in his plating — scuff him up real good — without so much as trying. He remembers those same digits, pressed shallowly into his valve not so long ago in the dappled light of a forest clearing, and it’s a crime that he’s trapped in his current state. He aches to feel that stretch again, and maybe more, maybe deeper —
It’s extremely uncool, but Sideswipe is not above begging. “Drift — buddy — I guarantee this ordeal will wrap up a whole lot faster if you’d just —”
The charge skittering through Sideswipe’s frame stops abruptly when Drift chides, “You need to learn the art of patience.”
“Scolding me is not gonna get me off and you know it.”
“My apologies,” says Drift, but it’s far from sincere.
And then, without any preamble, or warning, or — well, anything — Drift does release his spike, and, yeah, it’s in proportion to the rest of his frame, color scheme included, and Sideswipe can’t stifle the weird, embarrassing purr that his engine squeaks out. The heat pours off both their frames, Sideswipe’s considerably more so, and as Drift takes his equipment into his hand and pumps, it requires every shred of Sideswipe’s self-control to not make another ill-advised blade-slash-sword-slash-weapon related joke. Instead, he says something far worse, which is, “Primus, I want that in me.”
Sideswipe watches Drift’s reflection smirk. “I’ll keep that in mind. Your enthusiasm, while dangerous, is admirable.” Drift tugs at his spike with one hand, and as he slowly circles Sideswipe, the other hand trails across his roof, returning to his hood, pressing down over the rumbling thrum of his engine. “Also admirable is your dedication to the team. You have come so far —”
“—would like to be coming right fragging now — ”
“—since I first landed on Earth. Sideswipe, I know your attitude is a defense mechanism designed to guard against your many valid insecurities, but please: leave it behind and focus on the here and now.”
That statement, and the way Drift has him figured out so well, makes Sideswipe flinch. It’s an uncomfortable truth, not an accusation, and certainly not an insult. Drift gets it — and, yeah, Sideswipe’s behavior isn’t always the best, and his antics can prove tiresome for the team, and he screws up more often than he’d like to admit — but there’s a reason for it, and while Drift certainly doesn’t approve, at least he understands, and —
Sideswipe sinks on his tires, suddenly feeling very warm and affectionately sentimental. “Yeah — yeah, okay.”
“I do not give praise freely,” says Drift as he crouches down beside him in a half-kneel, grip not leaving his spike, “so take it.”
The words are nearly growled, and Sideswipe can’t help but recontextualize them to exist in a different setting, one where he’s not trapped in his altmode, where he’s on his back with Drift curled over him and —
His vocalizer is just a little staticky when he pants, “More — more praise, please and thank you.”
Drift’s free hand sweeps into Sideswipe’s front wheel well, digits scraping insistently against the transformation seam there, and Sideswipe shudders on his shock absorbers. He can feel the heat of Drift’s equipment as he jerks at it, so tantalizingly close to his tire. “What would you like to hear?”
“Primus, Drift — all of it. Tell me how good I am.”
And he does. “Regardless of what form you are in, you are valuable to the team. You are loyal, and your convictions are strong.” How Drift is able to carry on his measured eloquence while wringing his spike and stroking Sideswipe’s undercarriage is a cosmic mystery. It’s something that requires intense study, and lots of note-taking, and plenty of trials, and Sideswipe as a participant in said trials. As his engine sputters, somewhere inside his chassis his valve clenches uselessly, calipers rippling along a spike that isn’t there. Drift is a warm presence against him, hand gliding along Sideswipe’s axle as he fucks into his fist, and the praise continues, “You have shown remarkable resilience in battle and care toward this planet’s inhabitants. You are quick to think on your feet when the need arises.”
Sideswipe feels the charge build, an electrical current racing through his circuitry, fritzing his radio and dimming his headlights. Finally, finally he’s careening toward overload, and his array oozes lubricant as his engine revs and revs. He watches Drift pump his spike as he’s showered with praise, and then his tire is grabbed, Drift’s large digits firm against its treads, and Sideswipe’s entire frame is vibrating. He’s so close —
“Most importantly,” whispers Drift, “you are irreplaceable.”
Sideswipe’s horn blares as he overloads, its honk echoing through the scrapyard, caroming off the many stacks of junk, and no doubt alerting the rest of the Bee Team that Drift has succeeded in completing the task at hand. Not a moment later, Sideswipe feels his plating shift as his arms and legs unfold and rearrange themselves, and then he’s flat on his back, his fans heaving, lubricant smeared on his waist, pelvic armor transformed away and valve panel very much open.
Drift’s hand stills on his spike — and Sideswipe wails, “Oh, don’t you dare stop!”
“You have regained your ability to change shape.”
Trying to ignore the despair settling in — because here he is, spread out before Drift like a meal, and how could he resist him, unless — Sideswipe wiggles his skinny hips, pins Drift with a look he hopes is enticing, and purrs, “Why don’t you sheathe that sword, yeah?”
“What did I say about using that —”
“Drift — please.”
A beat passes: Sideswipe on his back, his fans humming, and Drift crouched over him, his equipment jutting none-too-subtly toward Sideswipe’s open array. “Close your legs,” Drift says at last, which — seriously? — but before Sideswipe can argue or do it himself, Drift is kneeling between his spread thighs, seizing Sideswipe’s legs and folding them down against his breastplate, then pressing them together —
Sideswipe’s optics roll back into his head as Drift thrusts his spike through the gap of his thighs, rutting its length over his dripping valve. He claws at the dusty ground, then catches a glimpse of their dual reflection in the oversized mirror, their shapes and movement furtive in the darkness. Drift is so much larger than Sideswipe, spike included, and as it’s pushed again and again through the wet mess of his slit, repeatedly nudging against his anterior node, he knows he won’t last long.
And he doesn’t, not as Drift pants through clenched teeth, pistoning his hips, his grip like a vice on Sideswipe’s legs. He feels the charge crest, and soon Sideswipe’s second overload of the evening is burning through his circuitry.
Drift, as it turns out, has legendary stamina, which — Sideswipe can’t even begin to try to compete with that, but at least he can keep up. He rallies quickly, his systems already primed for another overload, and he wants to say something saucy, something that will break Drift’s brain — but Drift is stupidly focused, his optics locked with Sideswipe’s in an intimidating, almost scary way. Sideswipe’s thighs tremble in Drift’s grasp, actuators straining in their current position, and Drift releases his legs, allowing them to fall open, and soon two of his digits are stroking at Sideswipe’s lubricant-slicked anterior node.
“I must admit — I do prefer you in this form.”
It’s a ridiculous thing to hear Drift say, especially as he’s furiously jerking himself off, but Sideswipe can’t think about it too hard: as the pleasure continues to build between his thighs, he’s on the cusp of overload again, which seems — well, improbable and maybe even inadvisable. “You — you saying my altmode isn’t hot?”
“Not at all,” is Drift’s reply, and his words are stilted now, as if he’s finally losing control of his carefully-maintained facade. “You’ll just — look so much better when I —”
At the start of this whole ridiculous fiasco, Sideswipe had asked Drift to jerk off and come all over him but he’d not thought that Drift would actually follow through and do the thing. As he hits climax for the third and — for the sake of his struts and circuitry — hopefully final time, Sideswipe is hazily aware of Drift’s own overload — which arrives in the form of a guttural snarl that is only partially stifled. The rest of the team can surely hear it, and —
A fount of transfluid erupts from Drift’s spike, spattering hotly over Sideswipe’s waist and breastplate, shimmering blue on his glossy, custom paint job. Sideswipe’s valve gives a stuttering clench because — yeah, that totally just happened, and with his digits still wrapped around his spike, the expression on Drift’s face is utterly unreadable. Sideswipe manages a wobbly smirk and says, “I think you got a little something on my —”
“Silence.”
Crouched between his spread legs, his cooling fans roaring, Drift’s optics leave Sideswipe’s for a brief moment, obviously tracking his spill — it’s striped over his headlights and, most raunchily of all, his Autobot badge — and when their gazes meet again, Sideswipe can’t help but laugh, “Primus, that’s, uh — that’s a lot. Has it been a while, teamie?”
“You are going to the carwash with me. Now.”
Drift’s neverending reserve of serious and stern, even post-overload, is endearingly hilarious. Sideswipe pushes himself up unto his elbows and presses, “Because if that’s the case — seriously Drift, let’s do this again. Let me make that sword of yours gleam —”
“Sideswipe!”
Thankfully, Sideswipe can’t be admonished for his latest awful pun, because at that precise moment, Fixit comes barrelling down their aisle of vintage junk, excitedly pointing at his holoscreen. “Good news! I’ve discovered a more efficient way to reverse the effects of —” His wheels screech to a halt, optics the size of hubcaps. “And I see you won’t be needing me. Nevermind! Goodnight!”
“Poor little dude.” As Fixit makes his hasty retreat, Sideswipe finally stands. Drift has already taken advantage of the disruption, and he’s idling in his vehicle form, his engine emitting a sated-sounding purr. “Yeah, okay, carwash, I get it. But I’d rather walk, just in case, uh — I’m not in any hurry to be stuck in altmode again.”
“We know how to get you unstuck, if the need arises,” Drift offers solemnly.
And Sideswipe? He transforms faster than he ever has before, and soon he and Drift are gunning their engines, the scrapyard shrinking in the night behind them as they race their way toward Crown City.
- END -