With Perfect Abandonment

Summary: Life for one autodog vet is about to take a drastic change- for better or for worse, even he doesn't know yet. Ratchetxjettwins; multiple pairings included. Kittycon/Autodog verse. Spark-sex,Spike n'Valve,Sticky,Mpreg,Mech/Mech slash,twincest and Angst
Rating: M

Chapter 11

The door clicked shut silently behind them, plunging the room once more into darkness. Only the glow of their optics -one blue, the other yellow- offered the only illumination as they turned to look at each other solemnly. “B-brother.....”

“Is knowing I are, brother. Y-you.....you is not n-needing to say thing of any.”

Jetfire bit his lower lip component anxiously, turning away from his twin. His spark was all twisted up into knots at the moment, his fuel tanks roiling sickly. He wasn't sure if he was going to end up purging or crying, or both. Jetstorm quickly hugged his brother, clutching him close, olfactory sensor pressed against the other's cheekplate. “B-be okay, will, b-brother,” the blue youngling mumbled soothingly. “T-trust is m-me.”

“N-not is, th-though,” the other whimpered back, grasping Jetstorm's arm with his shaking fingers. “M-mommy hurting i-is; s-strange 'bot b-being sire is m-making h-him sad. S-see mommy c-cry no-not ever.”

It was true, the hybrids knew. They had never seen Perceptor cry before, or show any emotion really. To them, the border collie had been expressionless his whole life. To see their creator now, crying and in a daze, had terrified them beyond anything else. And it was because of a sire that they had long since accepted didn't exist? The twins didn't know how to handle this situation. So many questions popped up, tormenting them constantly.

Just who was this 'bot that had sired them?

Why did Perceptor cry because of him? Had he hurt their mommy? Was that why the scientist was so distant and unfeeling?

Was their sire aware that Perceptor had been sparked? Did he care at all, or even know, about Jetfire and Jetstorm's existence?

The twins curled up on their shared berth, still hugging each other tightly. They shivered, not from cold but fear, anxiety, confusion and concern for their creator, desperately swallowing down their sobs and whimpers, not wanting to attract any of the other adults' attention. They weren't supposed to overhear Wheeljack in the kitchen as it was, sharing that secret with Ratchet.....

They lay awake, pressed close to the other's chassis, for how much longer the hybrids didn't know. To their young and perplexed processors, it felt like an eternity. Slowly, Jetfire unfolded from his brother's grasp, shifting until they were optic-level. For a klik longer, he was silent; only the sound of their intakes gently cycling in the space between them to assure that they were still awake.

“Brother.....?,” Jetstorm pressed, feeling his twin hesitating on something within his spark. He offered love and support over the bond, having it returned, slowly, with the same amount of sorrow his had been tinged in. Tightening his hold on the orange youngling, Jetstorm inched a little closer to Jetfire, bopping their foreheads together gently.

Jetfire exhaled heavily at the contact, shuttering his optics for a moment as he reveled in the comfort he drew from his brother. After a while though, he unshuttered them again, looking intently in the blue hybrid's visor. He could see the blue optics beneath shutter at him patiently, waiting for as long as necessary until the other was able to speak.

“Brother, i-is..... is h-having idea,” he confessed quietly.

The other youngling nodded slowly in understanding. Licking his lip components nervously, Jetfire continued. “T-thinking may o-of be, t-this doing h-helping mommy. W-well as, a-answer questions h-having us are. B-but is..... s-scary idea.”

Jetstorm frowned slightly at his brother's vague words. Just when he was about to ask for further detail, Jetfire thrust all his thoughts and feelings across the bond, almost overwhelming his twin's spark. At least, at the end of it, the blue youngling could see why his brother was so hesitant to mention it. If they followed through with it, it would mean a lot of sneaking around and secrecy.

They never had kept so many secrets before.

Jetstorm thought about it momentarily, but realized that wrong or right, he couldn't shake the proposition from his helm either. He wanted -needed- to do this as well. “O-okie for dokie....,” he whispered in reply to Jetfire. “W-we do. To-together.”

Relief and nervousness showed in the orange hybrid's optics, but his smile was calm. Though it seemed unlikely that the pain either of them felt would go away any time soon, and the tears were still warm in their optics, at least with this they could hope for some sleep tonight. Holding each other close, Jetstorm tugged the blankets over their curled up forms, tucking his helm under his Jetfire's chin. Tomorrow, they would get to work on their plans and hope for the best.

It was all they could do right now.

xxXxXxx

He was getting nervous again.

“Pardon me,” Tracks smiled sultrily, his fingers resting lightly on the kittycon's forearm. Soundwave's visor flashed at the gentle pressure, silently watching as the pomeranian withdrew from him, heading for the nearest washroom. The autodog knew he was being watched as he went, feeling the intense gaze like a thousand needles prickling up and down his back struts. It took all of his effort not to quicken his pace, despite how much he felt that he suddenly needed to run away.

He didn't understand why he was getting like this to begin with.

Their date -the fortieth or something- had started out well enough, like all the others. A limousine came to pick him up at the condo, driving the pomeranian towards whichever location Soundwave had picked that night for their date. This evening, it had been the opera house. The persian had rented a private balcony for their exclusive use, situated well enough that Tracks could still both hear and see the actors below without any difficulty. Yet, the multicoloured mech had been unable to enjoy himself. He had been too tense, sitting rigidly in his cushioned seat, worried that the kittycon would make a move on him. Of course Soundwave hadn't.

When had he once, since they'd started this whole affair, even attempted a grope on the autodog's frame?

No.... the persian was too polite and gentlemechly and kind and.....

Tracks shook his helm vigorously as he entered into the washroom -his momentary sanctuary- the well-practised smile on his face finally falling. Catching his reflection out of the corner of his optic, the pomeranian was distraught to see that without its presence he looked utterly haggard and distressed. Of course, that's how he was feeling.... but that didn't mean he wanted to appear that way also!

Groaning lightly, the autodog headed straight for the sink with its glittering mirrors, setting his wallet down on the counter top. “Primus....,” he muttered to himself chastely, servos rubbing across his optics. “Straighten up! You're a professional, slaggit.”

And it was true too. Tracks knew how to dress, how to talk, how to act.... he was the epitome of pleasure and propriety. This was a business, and like any good businessmech, he kept things in their place. He never let himself fall out of line, and yet he was fumbling all over these orns. Seeing Soundwave... it made him nervous, and self-conscious, and just over all a wreck, and he'd had to change his entire practice just so he could have some peace when he recharged at night. Should he stop dating the kittycon, he wondered. Would that make things better?

But.... the persion had been a wonderful client so far. More so than one of his profession could really hope for.

Could he really turn down any future requests from the blue mech?

The click-clack of approaching pede-steps startled the pomeranian, who tore his servos away from his face, whirling around to look at the new entry. Mirage stopped just past the washroom door, his ears perking slightly in surprise as well. “Tracks....? You're here as well tonight?”

“Mirage....,” Tracks replied breathlessly. He tried to shrug off his shock, turning back to the mirror partially. “I suppose we both had engagements here this orn.” He did not bother to comment on the peculiarity of such an incident. Because of what they did and the competitive streak that could grow when in their field of work, escorts usually were not booked for the same event -at least, not by different clients on the same night. Sometimes, if it was just the one client requesting two or more escorts, then their manager would select those that got along the best with each other, so as to reduce the percentage of conflict during the date. Which is why both mechs were slightly confused, if not uneasy, at the fact that they'd run into each other.

The yorkie hesitated a moment, before he pressed his lip components together tightly, marching to the sink. He set down his own purse, rifling through it momentarily for his glitter. “Did you enjoy the play?,” he asked in casual conversation.

Another shrug as Tracks dutifully faced his own reflection. Primus, he looked terrible, especially standing right next to Mirage. He'd have to fix that if he wanted any hope of clinging to his dignity. The taller autodog grabbed his wallet, fumbling with the flap for a moment before it was gently taken out of his servos. Looking up, the pomeranian met the other mech's gaze, trying not to cringe at the slightly worried and accusatory optics staring back at him. “What's wrong Tracks?,” Mirage politely asked. “You don't seem yourself tonight....”

“N-nothing!,” Tracks was quick to reply.

The blue autodog's frown deepened. “You..... Have you been drinking?” The yorkie made a face, catching now the subtle scent of alcohol on the other escort.

“Just a little champagne,” the pomeranian clipped. “Please, Mirage, there's no harm in a couple glasses so spare me the lecture. I'm a grown mech; I can take care of myself.” He pulled his wallet from the other's lax servos, skillfully pulling it open and withdrawing his gloss. Tracks applied a generous layer to his lip components, pressing them together to spread the wax evenly, running a finger along his cheekplates and fluffing his ears one last time. “Now, if you don't mind, I have a client to return to.”

Stiffly, the multicoloured mech turned on his heel, heading for the exit. He ignored the mech behind him, who was no doubt fuming in scandalous outrage, rushing and yet still hesitating to return to Soundwave's side. He was spared the trouble of his doubts though, seeing as how the persian waited just outside of the washroom; both of their coats draped over one arm. The visor flashed as it caught sight of him, the kittycon walking forward to meet the pomeranian half-way.

“Inquiry: are you hungry?,” Soundwave asked, kindly holding the autodog's coat open for him to slip on. “Status: have reservations if you would like to get something to eat.”

Bringing up that.... how could Tracks' refuse now, after being told that the blue mech had made reservations and everything? He bit his bottom lip component anxiously, torn. Slowly though, the pomeranian fixed a smile onto his face, turning around and facing the kittycon. “That would be lovely,” he answered automatically.

Again, the visor flashed; the persian holding out a servo for Tracks to take. He did so, unable to block out the feeling of dread weighing heavily in his fuel tanks, as he was led out of the opera house and to the limousine waiting at the street below.

xxXxXxx

The streets were a little cool this evening.

Rodimus bunched his shoulder plating around his ears, quickening his pace just the slightest. The phone booth wasn't too far ahead now and as pitiful as it was, its small rectangular space would provide him with some slight protection from the chill tickling at his tail and olfactory sensor. Just as he had thought it, the golden retriever found himself at the booth, pulling back the door and stepping inside.

His stiff fingers deposited a couple credits into the appropriate slot; punching in the access code next. The screen flickered on as it registered both requirements had been met, dial tone ringing as it attempted to complete the connection. A resounding beep came not long after, the blue monitor before him darkening as the comm went through. A hulking shadow filling his view.

“Hello...?,” a gruff voice asked, a little snappishly. The 'bot on the other end though cut himself off from growling any more, recognizing who his caller was. “Well, well.... if it isn't my favourite pedigree.”

Rodimus ignored the lustful purr, staring at the other coolly. “Meet me at Daily Nights in two cycles. East side,” he commanded.

“And if I said I had plans for this night?,” the stranger shot back. Even if the smirk wasn't evident on his face, the amusement in his tone would have been enough to show how much he was enjoying all of this. The autodog scowled, refusing to rise to the bait.

“Daily Nights, two cycles,” he repeated. “I will only wait a cycle.” He didn't even wait for the other mech to state his piece, before a slender finger was lifting and ending the comm. Silently, Rodimus stepped back out into the chill night, heading for his car parked not too far away.

xxXxXxx

He tripped again as he tried to walk forwards, the glass of champagne in his servos sloshing dangerously as he clasped onto the closet frame to keep from falling over. Giggling uncontrollably, Tracks did not mind the servo that touched against his back struts, helping him upright. “O-oh my,” he hiccupped. “Aren't y-you a ge-gentlemech.”

As drunk as he was, the pomeranian did not notice the way the red visor of his partner glowed or how his intakes hitched slightly the longer he leaned against the other's chassis.

“Status: overcharged,” Soundwave replied back, moving his servo from Tracks' back struts and to his elbow. Gently, he pushed the autodog away a few inches. “Fact: consumed too much at dinner. Apologies for that. Perhaps plans were ill-timed, should have taken you home instead.”

The drunken mech made a sound of disagreement in his throat, trying to nuzzle closer to the persian. “No, no.....,” he slurred, his drink tipping dangerously in his servo. “I.... f-fun, I has so m-much fun. Let's pa-party some more.”

Soundwave tried to remain in control, even as the pomeranian twisted out from his servo, throwing his arms around his neck cables, his glass dropping to the floor unnoticed with the action.

“D-don't,” Tracks hiccupped, trying to flirt, “D-don't want you to play w-with me?”

The persian hesitated, his servos half-raised at his sides. A small purr was making its way out of the depths of his system; inch by inch, the kittycon slowly found himself leaning down towards the waiting autodog, wanting to touch those glistening lip components that sat plump and pursed for him alone. Yet, Tracks seemed to have a different opinion. The approach of that red visor, getting closer and closer to his face caused the pomeranian's fuel tanks to drop suddenly, granting him enough clarification to pierce through the hazy cloud filling his processor.

“U-uh, maybe, I-i-i.... no, I th-think, I.....” The escort twisted his helm to the side quickly, shaking it weakly as he attempted to pull back. It seemed though that whatever reservations Soundwave had in the beginning were lost now. The kittycon's visor winked in slight bafflement at the other's sudden rejection, but a purr still escaped his vocalizer as his servos rested lightly on the pomeranian's waist.

Tracks nearly tripped over his pedes as he back-pedaled, back struts colliding with the wall. Soundwave followed his every move, closing in, servo reaching up. The pomeranian shivered, fingertips brushing his cheekplates as those golden digits closed over the frame of his glasses; pulling them off and away from his face. He could feel his spark sputtering erratically inside his chest; energon boiling so hot in his cheekplates that Tracks thought he might simply overheat from the intensity coming off of them. All the while, the kittycon looked down on him, visor flashing with unspoken thoughts -a swirl of lust and longing reflected in the red glass, all focused on the slim autodog.

The champagne from earlier was burning up fast now, spurred on by the rush of adrenaline. It left the pomeranian feeling woozy and anxious, as reality continued to fade and focus all around him. The action was distracting and right now, he didn't need it.

Tracks swallowed sharply, feeling his whole frame begin to tremble. He wished for Soundwave to back up, hoped that the persian would return him his glasses so that he might flee from this situation and his own conflicted processor. But the other mech did not budge, still studying the pomeranian intently, and quickly Tracks found himself no longer wanting to leave.

“N-no, I-i-i,” the autodog murmured helplessly, “I-i should g-go... h-home.... I-i sh-should.....”

“Request: stay,” the kittycon purred. His servos were pocketing Tracks' glasses, before winding around the pomeranian's waist, tugging him tight against the other mech's frame. Even intoxicated as he was, Tracks could feel the heat coming off of Soundwave's frame; the rumble of his systems as his touch slid up and down the slimmer 'bot's backstruts. “Status: have a room reserved. Not too far away.”

A needy moan escaped Tracks, his fingers gripping tight around the persian's shoulder plating as he wriggled desperately against Soundwave. He couldn't even comprehend running away now, not with his sensory net crackling and his valve clenching hungrily behind his plating.

He glanced dazedly down the hotel's hall, before tossing his helm back as Soundwave pressed him tight against the wall, gold fingers curling around his aft, just under his tail. Against the rumbling purr loud in his ear, the pomeranian mewled, shuttering his optics.

“....Y-yes....,” he gasped, as his depth of reality again slipped from his focus, and there was only the mounting pleasure for him to cling to.

xxXxXxx

“It's.... a little small, but nice.”

The bulldog ducked under the doorway, studying the kitchen for a klik before he turned around and entered into the next room -the living room- only a little larger than the one he had just exited from. Though he was tempted, the mech refrained from checking the rest of the rooms, guessing that they were probably just as small, if not smaller.

His companion walked into the room behind him, slowly and quietly.

“It is practical,” the other replied flatly. “Is there a problem, Wheeljack?”

Wheeljack's ears perked at the question, quickly he turned to look back at Perceptor. The border collie was staring up at him blankly, waiting for an answer, a small servo resting on top of his rotund stomach. It looked almost ridiculous on the smaller mech, who seemed as if he might fall over any minute from the sheer weight alone.

“W-what? Oh, oh no, no there's no problem,” he quickly assured, coming forward to assist the younger autodog. “It's a really good place. That bonus from the Science Department was a great help, without it we never would have been able to get this apartment. Here, you're looking tired, why don't you sit for a little bit.”

The red and black autodog let himself be led to a small, spindly chair occupying the room, both servos cupping the bottom of his stomach plating as he was seated. “Yes,” Perceptor agreed. “The money was most beneficial. But it'll only last the next week or so. Food is required and basic necessities.”

The younger mech made a valid point. They had no furniture yet to speak of, with the exception of this lone chair that had been left in the apartment from the previous tenants, and no other provisions other than what the bulldog had packed in his duffel bag. They were literally two highschool graduates, fresh from a small town, in the big city for the first time in their lives. Wheeljack had thought they should stay in a motel for a little bit until they could find a place to stay, but Perceptor had been adamant that they locate themselves the most accommodating and cheapest apartment available immediately. With a little luck, the money forwarded to Perceptor for agreeing to join Iacon's prestigious science team and help from a kind 'bot in the lobby, their searching had been cut down by cycles, orns even.

It only took a couple cycles more before they'd put down first and last month's rent, getting the keys from the landlord on the spot.

First night in Iacon.... at least, they'd be spending it in a place they could call their own.

Looking around himself again, Wheeljack smiled as he turned his helm back to the border collie. “It's a great place really. We can take our time sprucing it up, getting it ready for the sparkling,” he assured, a comforting servo on the smaller autodog's shoulder plating. “A little bit of paint, some curtains.... In the meantime, I've got some money saved so we don't have to worry about food for a while. And-”

“Wheeljack.”

The white mech cut off his vocalizer, shuttering his optics at the sparked 'bot. “Yes, Percy?”

Perceptor looked back at him, dim optics slowly shuttering behind his glasses. “Thank you,” the emotionless autodog said. “It was unnecessary for you to come along with me. Your education has yet to be completed.”

Wheeljack's helm fins flashed lilac with the gesture of concern. “It's alright, really,” he replied. “I mean, I've always wanted to be an engineer and well, I can finish my school here at the community college before applying for the Science Department as well. Besides, you'll need someone to help you out once the sparkling is protoformed.”

“But-”

“I don't mind, Perceptor,” the bulldog insisted, his servo patting the other's shoulder plating softly. “Really, I don't. If any of this bothered me, I wouldn't have come, you know.”

Perceptor canted his helm at his friend a little, but did not attempt to protest the larger mech's words again. Instead, he gave a second, “Thank you”, turning his attention down to stare distantly at his bulging stomach. Wheeljack did not mind. He cycled a slow intake, staring at the border collie a moment longer before he straightened up.

“I'll just head downstairs -get us something to eat,” he announced quietly, “I won't be gone long.”

Glancing back from the doorway, he saw that Perceptor had yet to even acknowledge his absence. Sighing quietly, Wheeljack tried to keep his spirits up as he grabbed his credit purse, exiting out of the apartment.

xxXxXxx

Morning sunlight, muted, pierced at his bleary optics, making Wheeljack cringe a little at the sensation. He moved slowly at first, still trying to get his frame to respond with his thoughts, exhaustion making the joints creaking with the motion. It took him nearly a klik to get out of the chair he'd spent the whole night in and even when he could stand, he wanted nothing more than to collapse back into it. Dim optics turned to the couch, where Perceptor laid across the cushions, ears flat against his helm and half-curled under the blanket the bulldog had draped over him earlier on. Tears still pricked about the border collies's shuttered optics; a sign that even in recharge, the smaller mech was tormented with whatever demons haunted his spark.

The sight tore at the engineer's spark, who felt the experience increase ten-fold, knowing that there was nothing he could do.

He'd been unable to help Perceptor back when they were in highschool..... and he was just as useless now.

Honestly, why did the bulldog even bother?

Wheeljack was already kneeling beside the smaller autodog before he had realized he'd even moved. There was a reason why he went through all of this, a kind voice in the back of his processor soothed, and it was valid in itself. After all, how could love ever be wrong?

The white mech tried not to sigh. To anyone who knew him, it was obvious that he was madly in love with his best friend, even if he would never admit it. Slaggit it all, the engineer had always loved Perceptor and he loved the twins even more. Too many nights he beat himself over the fact that he hadn't been there, protecting the border collie like Wheeljack had told himself he would; screwing up where things counted most, and not being the real sire of Jetfire and Jetstorm himself.

Oh.... how he wished he really was their dad, in name and energon......

The weight of his failures, and the evidence that stared back at him every single orn in the younglings' cheerful gazes, tore at Wheeljack. He'd messed up so bad.... Because of him, Perceptor had retreated into this fragile, suffocating shell. Because of him, they had run away from home as soon as they'd finished highschool. Because of him, they'd spent years, dancing around each other and the others; the jettwins contented by this pseudo-family that they had, but never knowing the truth. And Wheeljack.... always stuck as the best friend and uncle.....

“I just want to help you....,” the bulldog whispered softly, his servo lifting up. He held it uncertainly, hovering just above the scientist's helm. “I wanted to be the one there for you, always.”

“U-uncle Wheeljack?”

The autodog startled at the whispered call, lifting his helm and looking over the couch's back. Jetfire and Jetstorm stood nervously at the edge of the hallway, ears drooping and tails tucked between their knees. Their optics were staring right at the engineer, but were quick to glance away every few astroseconds.

“I-is..... is time to l-leave school f-for,” the blue hybrid mumbled, dropping his gaze to the floor.

“S-should.... should be m-may going, y-yes?,” his brother asked.

It was only when they mentioned it that Wheeljack noticed that the twins were out of their pajamas and dressed.

Swallowing sharply, the bulldog started to rise to his pedes. “Right.... o-oh, okay. You, umm, you b-boys go get your b-backpacks, and I'll.... I'll take you to your tutors, a-alright?,” he instructed, waving distractedly. The younglings nodded their helms slowly, before turning and padding off down the hallway.

For a moment, Wheeljack just stood there, not knowing what else to do. Glancing down to the slumbering border collie, the white mech dropped back to his knees, a trembling servo stroking down the back of Perceptor's helm. “I'll be back shortly,” he mumbled to the unconscious mech. “I promise.”

Daringly, Wheeljack leaned forward, kissing the jewel on the other's brow quickly before getting back up and walking around the couch towards the front door. He cycled a heavy intake, wiping messily at his optics as he grabbed his coat.

xxXxXxx

Tracks shifted slightly, a soft sigh escaping him. For a moment, he enjoyed the warmth surrounding him and the silk sheets beneath him, before his processor ache decided to make itself known. Gritting his denta at the pain, the pomeranian tried to push himself up but found he couldn't. Spark seizing in panic, Tracks slowly onlined his optics, finding his face pressed against blue chestplates.

'Oh slag....' was the only thing that went through the autodog's helm. What happened last night? Where the frag was he and who was this mech he was currently in berth with?!

The pomeranian lifted his helm slowly, seeing Soundwave -blessedly still asleep- with his helm resting on one of the hotel pillows. Slag, Tracks cursed. The hotel.... They'd come here after the opera for dinner, and anxious as he was, Tracks had practically finished off an entire bottle of champagne to himself, and then some. After that... well, he obviously couldn't remember what happened next, but no doubt he'd done something completely stupid that Soundwave had felt obligated to respond to.

He shouldn't have been in this situation! The autodog was no longer sleeping with his clients, this..... this went against everything in his contract!

Tracks tried not to whimper in distress. He had to get out of here, the multi-coloured mech noted, before the persian woke up and things could get even worse. Slowly, the pomeranian twisted around, gently prying off the golden fingers around his waist and lifting Soundwave's arm so he could slide out from under it. He found his thighs were a little sore, and some residue stickiness was there. Wasting a moment, Tracks stared incredulously down at his legs, wondering just how long and how many times the kittycon had fragged him.

But alas, there was no time to properly clean up. The escort would have to wait until he got home to shower and check himself further. Squinting, Tracks quickly searched the room for his glasses, finding them tucked neatly in Soundwave's suit pocket. He put them on and quickly gathered his clothes, trying not to curse himself as he slipped on his pants. The small sound the action made caused the kittycon to stir slightly. Going rigid in his panic, the autodog watched as the other mech turned his helm, his poor spark flaring erratically. But Soundwave only moved his helm, his visor still dark as the persian slumbered on.

Tracks couldn't sigh in relief. Not yet.

Grabbing his shirt, his coat and his wallet in his arms, the pomeranian decided he could stay in the room no longer and tip-toed for the door. Biting his lip component, he opened the door as quietly as he could; cringing a little when the lock clicked as he closed it on the other side. Swallowing sharply, Tracks hurried down the hallway, not wanting to wait and see if the sound had finally woken Soundwave from recharge.

Along the way, he threw on his shirt and coat, trying to focus on how many credits he had in his wallet instead of the fuel-tank dropping, spark-clawing terror that crackled through every circuit.

Oh, what had he done now.....?