Archive of Our Own ^beta

“Listen, this is all part of the Senate’s attempts to make the higher castes look more caring and concerned because of all that insurgency nonsense. All of the top medical practitioners are having to set aside time for this sort of thing. You asked for options that involved the least contact with people, and this is the best one that we can offer.”

Pharma was a wall in Hospital Director Shunt’s office chair, legs and arms crossed, glaring, lips pressed together in restrained fury. “You want me to give up time that I could be spending on surgeries in order to teach college courses to non-medical-build students. You realize that that requires more than just class time. The Senate representatives understand this.”

Shunt sighed. “Yes, they do. No, it’s not something that the medical community remotely agrees with, but PR is apparently more important than actual medical care right now. You could have much less time away from work if you went with one of the other options, like staffing one of the charity clini—”

“No, this is fine.” Pharma’s body language continued to state that nothing about this was fine and he was probably going to destroy someone’s career over it. Hopefully not Shunt’s, but it probably wasn’t above Pharma to kill the messenger. “I assume that I’ll be able to design my own course and curriculum.”

“Ah…no. The college that’s participating in this program has mandatory courses for non-specialty students as part of its accredited degree tracks, so they’ve sent us a list of what’s available for you to teach. Because it’s so close to the start of the semester, there aren’t a whole lot of options—”

“Just show me.” Pharma snatched the datapad from the director’s hand and began scrolling through it, his expression becoming even more sour. “No, I absolutely will not be teaching basic mechabiology to undergraduates. This can’t possibly be the only choice I have.”

The director braced for impact, reminded himself that even Pharma probably couldn’t get away with murder (maybe, he hoped), and pointed out, “There are some specialized ones down toward the bottom.”

Pharma scrolled and then snorted scornfully. “Oh, as if non-medical undergrads could hope to comprehend brain module anatomy. I won’t even try. Which leaves—” He was silent for several very tense, ice-cold moments before leaning across Shunt’s desk with a terrifying blaze in his eyes. “Are you fragging with me?”

Yes, please! a tiny voice screamed back in Shunt’s brainstem, but thankfully his higher functions responded, “I—no one at the hospital had any influence over this list! I’m passing it directly from the school admin’s hands to yours. The, ah, curriculum is already set, at least, so you wouldn’t even have to—”

Pharma stood and stormed out the door. Shunt allowed his ventilation system to recommence functioning. That had actually gone a lot better than he’d expected.

“Don’t worry, Glitch. We’re getting this all ironed out, but it looks like you’re going to need that general education credit after all.” Senator Shockwave put a hand on Damus’ shoulder.

Damus wrung his claws worriedly. “Well…at least they aren’t going to kick me out of the program anymore. It’s… I suppose it doesn’t matter if I get a degree. Or both degrees, or whatever. They’re just Classical Literature and Creative Arts History; it’s not like they’re useful for anything—”

“Glitch. Listen to me.” Shockwave bent slightly, prompting the empuratee to look up into his serious, earnest expression. “It’s important for people to have higher education if they’re able, especially if they’re from the lower castes. It doesn’t matter what kind of degree. Politically, it’s incredibly important because you know there are a lot of slagheads in the Senate—” Damus giggled at Shockwave’s frank opinion, “—who think that people like you aren’t capable of being educated at all. I don’t mean to put weight on you, but you can already see how the universities are reaching for any possible reason to refuse you access because they don’t want to be associated with people like you. I absolutely will not stand for that kind of treatment, and I don’t think that you should either. That’s why I’m fighting this. And I think we’ve won for now, but that transfer credit seems to be an actual legitimate thing that you need to get back on track with your degrees.”

Damus nodded. “Oh, I’m completely fine with it; I just feel bad about the trouble—”

“Don’t. Now, I looked up the available mechabio courses at the only college that’s going to let you register in time to start class. Let’s see…” He pulled out a datapad and scrolled a bit before sighing irritably. “Damn. More of the sections filled up since I checked this morning. The only one with openings left…” He squinted, flowed through a variety of odd facial expressions that Damus couldn’t quite parse, and then turned the datapad so his student/ward could see. Damus knew better than to take the pad and just leaned in closer.

He made a quiet bleep of shock and flinched back. “That, uh. That’s okay for me to take?”

“More than that. There’s no other option.”

“…Well, okay then.”

Damus got to the classroom - a tiered, theater-like hall that could seat more than two hundred average-sized people - over half an hour early, hoping to make himself as invisible as possible. Thankfully, the place was completely empty, so he was able to take the seat in the very back row, farthest from the door, so nobody would have to walk around him and he wouldn’t have to feel people staring at his back during class. He tidily set his datapad and stylus (both covered in a special insulation that Shockwave had developed to protect the electronics from Damus’ outlier ability) lined up with each other on the desk and sat silently, claws in his lap and face turned down. As expected, people filtered in, chatting with each other, and nobody came near. He deliberately didn’t listen to the talking in case some of it was about him.

Precisely on time, the instructor entered the hall with long, stalking strides, dropping his datapad on the standing desk in the lecture area and leaning back against the lectern. He surveyed the crowd, who quickly stopped murmuring. Damus had thought that the teacher couldn’t possibly be the Pharma - that Pharma, the world-famous one - but he certainly seemed to be, based on everything that he’d heard. The surgeon would have been arrestingly beautiful if not for his cold, impatient demeanor and disinterested expression.

After the last of the talk had faded into silence, the medical jet spoke in a stern, clear voice that carried easily throughout the hall without engaging the lectern’s voice booster. “Welcome to MBIO 215, Cybertronian Interfacing Anatomy and Function. I am your instructor, Doctor Pharma, Surgeon First Class at Iaconian Central Primalist Hospital. Some of you may have heard of me. If you haven’t, my CV is unimportant. Just know that I’m qualified to teach this material.”

A wave of laughter ran across the crowd.

Pharma pursed his lips, his expression sharpening. “On that note. Given the content of this course, there will be zero tolerance for any hilarity, commentary, propositions, general crudity - in fact, for any sound out of you whatsoever while I am lecturing. I will speak and your only task is to listen. As a forged medical model, my sight and hearing are more acute than those of other functions, so if you make a sound or are doing anything remotely distracting, I will know who you are and deduct points. You may have noticed, in the syllabus that you all surely read before coming here, that class participation is one-fifth of your final grade. In this case, non-participation is what you will be graded on.

“I don’t actually care whether you read the textbook chapters before coming to class, but you might want to because I’m not going to waste lecture time going over that material. Don’t bother asking me what specific topics you should study for the exams because the answer will always be ‘all of them.’ If you submit writing assignments after the exact rotation turnover of the due date, I will be deducting an entire letter grade for every minute that you continue to be late. If you think you have an excuse to miss a deadline or an exam, you will provide me with either the medical records proving that your limbs were literally nonfunctional or a death certificate proving that your conjunx, mentor, or whoever else died within the relevant span of time. I will decide whether your excuse is acceptable.

“I’m not going to bother to learn your names because student ID numbers are more than sufficient. I may or may not allow questions after the lecture, but if I do, you will only speak when I give you permission and you will endeavor not to ramble. I do not ‘stay after class’ because I have important places to be. My office hours are never and I will not be giving out my voice or text comms.

“Now. Does everyone understand all of that?”

There was not a word from the crowd, only waves of intimidated nodding.

“Good. I know that the first week of the semester is usually light on content for whatever reason, but I consider that a waste of everyone’s time, so lectures begin today.” He magnanimously paused while most of the class shuffled around, getting their datapads ready.

“Today will be an overview of the anatomical systems which interact to produce the varied responses grouped under the common term ‘interfacing’ - that is, the penetrative data-exchange cable array, the secondary hardline cables, and certain elements of the spark-support, tactile input detection, and EM perception and generation systems. We will begin with the primary cable array.”

The huge presentation screen behind him lit up with a twenty-foot-tall closeup photo of someone’s crotch, his legs spread wide, the petals of his receptive port fully unfolded, and his cable erect. Quite a few students flinched and one made a tiny shocked noise.

Pharma didn’t even turn his head to look for the source. “Student #08-CF3629B, minus five points. Thank you for being the one mech whose death, so to speak, will teach a hundred. In answer to your astonishment, consider this: what kinds of pictures did you expect to see when you signed up for this course? For the record, all photos are being used with the consent of the subjects.

“…Now that that interruption has been dealt with, I’m going to familiarize you with all of these systems as if you had never seen them before, partly so that you will learn the appropriate medical terminology.” Pharma turned slightly in order to partially face the presentation screen. He pointed, and a laser embedded in his fingertip produced a red dot on the screen, which circled slowly around the (relatively) enormous shaft and the short dribble of insulation fluid that had already leaked from its tip. “The ventral-most of the two interfacing structures in this area is the primary data-exchange cable - indicated here. The function of this device is to…”

“…As covered in last week’s lecture, the sections highlighted in green in this image are those which directly provide data to the other two organs in Rossum’s Trinity - the brain module and the transformation cog. The sections highlighted in red are those which bring data back to the spark from those two organs.

“This week’s subject being potentially fatal malfunctions of the interfacing systems, observe the parts highlighted in pink, which are particularly vital, easily-accessed components related to the spark’s self-regulation. They can be especially volatile when they come into contact with foreign substances. Examples of the aftermath of spark de-regulation are this—”

The crowd visibly restrained themselves from making agonized noises.

“This.”

Many students closed their eyes, possibly envisioning a happy, faraway place without medical horror photos anywhere near it.

“This.”

Damus felt that he would be seeing this entire lecture forever in his nightmares. Taking a vow of total celibacy sounded like the best possible idea and they were only a third of the way through this lecture.

“And this, which is especially relevant to our topic because of the residue still visible on the shrapnel - here and here, for instance, as well as on this portion of the spark casing which has lodged inside the hip joint.

“The vital takeaway here is that the safest thing to bring into contact with one’s spark is another spark, though careful manual stimulation is also typically safe. Keep these highlighted areas and those photos in mind whenever you or anyone else might be tempted to apply oral lubricant, ejaculate, any kind of edible fuel, erotic restraint devices without the appropriate safety rating, and nearly anything else to a person’s spark.

“Now, let’s move on to the penetrative array. The most common fatality associated with the upload port is perforation by an overlarge object, which can severely damage surrounding organs through blunt trauma or insulation fluid interfering with moving parts. Such organ malfunction can also destroy the end of the penetrative partner’s primary cable, as shown in these examples. From left to right, we see damage caused by electrical fire, gear-inflicted crushing, impalement on…”

Damus felt like he had never regretted his life as much as he did right now.

“I want to reiterate that, on the midterm, you will be expected to know all sixteen variations of stimulation nodule patterns in the port, all twenty-five variations of nodule patterns on the cable - which includes all ten of the common surgical modifications - all EM meridians associated with the activation of pleasure centers throughout the body and within the brain module with the common modifications to that EM map according to frametype, in addition to the…”

“We will begin today’s lecture by examining the effects of erotic jewelry, exogenous electrical surges, and metals of varying conductivity on a subject’s capacity to climax using the various interfacing systems…”

“I have been informed by the administration that more than two-thirds of you have filed complaints with the university because your poor performance in this course is expected to drive down your GPAs. I applaud your concern for your academic excellence. Thankfully, I’m not faculty and have no reason to care. Complain more if it cheers you up, especially after I upload those essay grades later tonight.

“Now, to continue our discussion of full-body reframing, self-mapping adjustments, and subsequent changes to masturbation-induced nodule stimulation…”

“As shown in the slideshow of examples over the past forty-five minutes, the safest course of action is to restrict interfacing activity to the parts of one’s anatomy that are designed for it. Attempting intimacy with any other organs - your own or another’s, attached or detached, especially if they are still actively functioning - can be fatal, though more often such escapades lead to a person ending up in the ER and being immortalized in medical folklore as that person who was actually stupid enough to do whatever it was that you did.”

“Do I need to provide additional examples of why you should just not when it comes to organic lifeforms? Everyone show me a shake or a nod. …No? Excellent.”

“Today we begin our three-week section on the varieties and uses of devices that support or enhance the interfacing experience, to include safety considerations, common illegal modifications, and recommendations based on anatomical configuration…”

“From this point on, the sole focus of your existence should be the research paper which is due in a week, since making a decent grade on it may save more than half of you from certain academic ruin. In this paper, you must describe the erotic stimulation methods that you believe would be the most effective for one major subcategory of frametype. You must include at least three techniques developed using legitimate academic sources - one each for inducing a fast climax, a long-lasting climax, and an interrupted climax. Minimum length is thirty-five pages with standard Cybertronian Processor Welfare Professional Association page layout and citations. …Student #19-CO4419B, I saw you slump in despair. Minus five points.”

Ah, bliss. The last assignment of the semester had been submitted by all of his wretched little academic parasites (he’d already had the pleasure of docking the grade of the poor fragger who’d hit that Submit button sixty-four seconds past midnight) and Pharma was now lounging at a desk in the empty lecture hall, feet crossed on top of it, casually reading the papers on his datapad and ruining bright, young lives. A surprising number of his students had actually passed the course, which made him grudgingly revise his opinion of the lower class infinitesimally upwards.

He opened another paper, one that had been submitted more than a day ahead of time…and opened, and opened, and opened. He furrowed his brow in suspicion, wondering if this horrid little bottom-feeder had embedded a virus into the document out of pointless malice. Eventually, after several seconds more than it should have taken, his reader software finally finished loading it.

That page count could not be correct.

He jumped to a page supposedly near the end and found himself in the midst of twelve pages of references. So the page count was correct, but…why…?

Still suspicious, he closed the paper, deciding to leave it for last, and finished up the remaining two hundred and whatever papers from the other brats. The hospital had given him the next week off for grading because they expected him to need all that time to wrap up his course, but Pharma was (arguably) the world’s top surgeon for a reason - he took things in fast and responded faster, which allowed him to chew through the papers at a rate of about two per minute. Ordinarily, he hated to be away from work for so long - he had an irrational fear of getting slow and clumsy if he went even a day without doing surgery - but the semester had been such a drain on his ability to enjoy life that he planned to just laze around the whole time and be as disgustingly indulgent as possible.

Maybe he’d call up a few of his friends and describe some of the interfacing recommendations that his students had made in their papers. Many of them were completely nonsensical, among other awed and horrified adjectives that could be applied to them, and maybe Pharma would meet up with said friends and put a few of them to the test. He was in the mood for some lighthearted, casual fragging.

Finally, there was only the very, very long one left.

…And it was about fixed-wing flightframes. Pharma let his head drop back with a pained groan. If this was some wing-fetishizing jackaft’s fabricated tale of conquests, he might literally have to murder somebody. Probably one of the Senatorial staffers who’d invented this whole community outreach garbage in the first place.

He began to read at his accustomed speed. The writing style was…not terrible, actually. He’d only gotten through a few pages when something derailed his attention and he backed up to read more slowly.

…oil compound known as AKCH, which is used to lubricate nonsentient laboratory machinery, has been observed to interact with alloys commonly found in flightframe interior and muscular cabling (Jetliner, 45.892.90; Skydriver & Wirecoil, 45.883.10). Especially when warmed, its effect on such alloys causes a mild electrical charge to cling to the metal (Embarkation, 36.707.48; Stormlight & Edification, 40.099.34), creating a sense of warmth and tingling that could be felt by materials researchers involved in its development (Diviner, Maceration, & Stormlight, 34.887.90). Based on the neural wire cross-section and conductivity testing performed across all frametypes by Scalpel and Bare-Peak (22.678.00), the degree of electrical sensation caused by the application of AKCH would most likely be unpleasant to all frametypes except for light and medium flight builds, specifically F-01 through FF-34, whose neural hardware would interpret AKCH’s range of electrical stimulation as extremely enjoyable (Blockchain & Inspector, 45.009.08; Grenadier, 23.233.90; Interpreter, Clockwise, Bitterpill, & Windward, 44.122.34). Based on the effects of AKCH on nonsentient machinery and preliminary research on the formula’s interaction with various grades of Cybertronian repair nanites, researchers are beginning to find consistent evidence that the oil encourages nanite activity and reproduction in living Cybertronians (Blockchain & Crown, 45.112.89, 46.233.10a, 46.233.10b; Crown, Flightplan, Westward, & Access, 47.998.11). Although more research must be done to confirm the possibility, AKCH may be the most effective choice of massage oil and artificial interfacing lubricant for flightframes, as it will not only provide a pleasurable, lasting charge and warm, relaxing effect on cabling but will also improve the recipient’s health.

Pharma swung his legs off the desk and read the passage again. That…couldn’t be right. Could it?

The slagger was likely using the traditional desperate student technique of trying to snow the grader by using sources inaccurately or just making crud up wholesale, but this declaration was too far of a reach to let slide. Pharma immediately dredged up several of the studies and spent the next half hour drilling down into the student’s claims.

…Which were entirely accurate, based on the research that he’d cited.

This undergrad student had just taught him about an extremely promising, cutting-edge erotic massage oil specifically for flightframes.

What.

He read on. The student discussed the neural networks and wiring patterns of the most common types of flyers, the conductivity that each sector typically experienced and the exact parts of the brain that they fed into; based on that information, he drew conclusions about which bits of cabling could be accessed through gaps in the armor and which should be only gently stroked, which could be rubbed and even pinched or lightly bitten, and which order of touches would be most likely to slowly increase a flightframe’s relaxed arousal.

…What.

The paper was so long that it was divided into chapters, and there was an entire chapter on erotic massage, including how to cause intense valve stimulation simply by rubbing nerve clusters farther up or down the neural sub-network; combined with very mild EM emission, it was possible to make most subclasses of flightframes valve-overload hard from that alone.

It was true. Pharma checked his sources. The research supported it.

…The lecture room was uncomfortably warm.

There was an entire chapter on how to manually and orally stimulate seven different subgroups of flyers based on their most common equipment configurations.

There were several diagrams illustrating patterns of data-noise that were most pleasurable when pulsed through hardline cables and which of those were most enjoyable to which subtypes of flyers. There were also diagrams showing how best to connect hardline cables for improved sensation when interfacing with groups of three, five, or eight people.

Discussions about hardline cable management moved through aesthetically-pleasing cable braiding and into the chapter on flightframe bondage, which included a lot of very sensible health and safety cautions based on flyer psychology and which parts of them tended to be uncomfortably tender. There was a long section on binding materials for various occasions and build weights.

Ecdysis, in his famous and profoundly comprehensive Encyclopedia of Bindings, warns that fixed-wing flyers are most comfortable and relaxed when in the air and that they should therefore always be bound in suspension (12.002.93, pp.122-34). He records many rope configurations which connect the large, stable planes of the wings to self-connected hardline cables or to more delicate knotted structures designed to spread the port or maintain pressure in the primary cable to sustain long-term erection…

…Nobody on this damn campus knew how to ventilate a building. It was so warm in here. Uncomfortably warm. Pharma should have gone somewhere else to read this, somewhere less closed-in, where the air could move—

Moonflow, summarizing centuries of research in Overview of Pleasurable Activities Throughout the Ages, wrote that it is possible to enhance a lovemaking session by providing a flyer with cascading water or bathing oil in which the wings may be held (12.944.22, pp.440-1). The liquid, being heavier than most forms of air, stimulates the wings more intensely than flying alone and transforms emotional bliss into physical arousal (Moonflow, 12.944.22, pp.442-8). His observations are supported by present-day research on flightframe neuroanatomy and psychological processing…

No. Blaming it on the building’s ventilation system was cowardly and beneath him. Ordinarily, he’d never be the sort to avoid being honest about his desires and who and what he found exciting. There was no reason to start being ashamed of himself at this point in his life.

So, yes. He would just admit that this student’s final paper for an undergrad mechabio class was getting him ragingly, savagely turned on.

Furtively, he glanced around the room and started calculating how many people were likely to be around this late in the evening, how thick the walls were, just ordinary things that any instructor grading papers on campus at night would think about.

And then he just gave up on everything when he read—

Nightvoice’s Pleasing the Wind: A Devotee’s Guide to Worshiping the Lords of the Air, which has been the most treasured source of erotic techniques for use with Seekers in particular…

Pharma just let his head drop into his hands. This undergrad had read Nightvoice. This overachiever had devoured the entire corpus of classical flightframe lovemaking manuals and combined it with current scientific research and the occasional dash of poetry. For his final paper in this stupid, Primus-forsaken anatomy class.

WHAT.

When he read about how light flightframes, with their high visual acuity and EM sensitivity, could be kept in a state of frustrated arousal for hours if they were tied up and made to watch a lover spark-masturbate while just close enough to touch EM fields, he just snapped.

One wireless command locked the lecture hall door. Another made the windows darken to black.

He permitted himself one last ethical crisis. What were the implications of literally self-pleasuring because a student’s paper was just that hot? Was there a conflict of interest? Could he possibly be prosecuted for something if anyone ever found out?

…What are they going to do, tell me I can never teach here again?

He connected with the datapad for hands-free scrolling and let his modesty panels transform back. The relief was unbelievable and so was the amount of moisture that had been building up over the past couple of hours. He flipped back three chapters to an extremely educational passage, put one hand on his cable and the other on his port, and let techno-nature take its course.

He read the second-to-last chapter out of the corner of one eye, biting his lip to remind himself not to moan too loud, cheek pressed hard into the desk, humping his hand with his fingers spread wide as he imagined someone thick and hot inside of him.

He reread the fourth chapter rather awkwardly, holding the datapad in one well-used hand while the other kept his spike pushed down between the cushions of his chair. He thrust frantically, closing his eyes and licking his lips as Figure 4.19 hurled him toward his peak. At that moment, he was positive that this chair was the best lover he’d ever had.

There was an example in an appendix that he almost couldn’t finish reading because he was on his hands and knees, imagining his cable hip-deep inside a smaller partner while a larger-framed one mounted him from behind and it was so good, the words written just so, that he couldn’t stifle a sob of ecstasy. He came hard without even touching himself, dumping a thick stream of insulation fluid all over the desk that he’d climbed on top of.

Somewhere around the ninth overload - possibly the twelfth, who was keeping track - he gave up on preserving the dignity of his datapad and, trusting in the environmental sealing that had been a big part of the pitch when he’d bought it, put it between his legs and shoved it rhythmically against his desperate opening as if that screen - no, the paper itself - was the lover that he craved, driving into him with an invisible spike; he wanted it inside him, wanted to be dripping with its thick insulation and feel it plugged into him deep within, uploading itself directly into his drives—

He couldn’t help it.

He screamed.

When he came to, it was still dark out and he hadn’t been arrested, so he assumed that it was later on in the same night. Groggily, he lifted his head, noticing how he was splayed bellydown on top of the still-lit screen of the poor datapad, which was practically coated in his byproducts. He hadn’t even known that he was capable of producing that much fluid. Maybe it just looked like a lot by the light of a small screen in a very large public university lecture hall.

Which looked like an absolute hard-fucked warzone, at least the small part of it that he’d been mercilessly conquering for who knew how long. He was blearily proud of himself.

Then he realized that he had to get rid of all of this evidence before he got in trouble for violating school property, if nothing else, and grumbled unhappily as he peeled himself off the gummed-up floor and began figuring out a solution.

There was no actual washrack in the building, so he scrubbed off in several sinks. Several because the congealed gunk kept clogging up the drains and he couldn’t be bothered to unclog them.

It was easy to hack into the university maintenance server and commandeer an extra seven janitorial drones to make sure that every little smear and droplet was gone in less than ten minutes.

The desk and chair were tragic casualties of the bang bombing, so thoroughly dented after smashing against his armor - and, in the case of the chair, so heavily soaked in his extrusions that the cushions were a lost cause - that it was too risky to leave them where they could be found. After sincerely contemplating taking the chair home with him, he opted to give them both a solemn burial in a nearby dumpster.

It was practically morning and he still had to be back on campus for the last class of the semester. Damnation.

He was still a little wobbly on the flight home.

And the flight back shortly thereafter. After all they’d shared together, he couldn’t find it in himself to cruelly abandon that chair.

He ended up not sleeping at all.

Now he was sitting calmly in his breakfast nook, sipping some extra-concentrated caff in an effort to bring himself back to life enough to probably survive a flight back to campus. Instead of enjoying the perfect view of the Iacon skyline through the nook’s three-story-tall wraparound windows, he was looking at the open door of his washrack, through which he could see the stolen chair.

In the cold, sobering light of morning, he found himself reconsidering the attractiveness of last night’s bedmate (and floormate, and kitchen-table-mate, and wallmate, and doormate, and windowmate, and other-chair-mate, and surprisingly-sturdy-large-modern-art-sculpture-mate…). He could no longer see what he’d found so attractive about it and could only assume that he’d brought it home in a fit of lust-fueled insanity. He recalled, with some regret, using every part of the thing in increasingly elaborate phenomenological experiments based on the material in his student’s final paper. He even recalled, with even more regret, loudly begging the chair to fuck him harder. He’d performed diligent, rigorous research with that piece of school property until he’d literally passed out on the floor of his washrack.

Pharma’s nose crinkled in distaste as he continued to stare at last night’s bad decision, which sat upright on the tile, gazing mournfully back at him, painted in stains and battered to within an inch of its life.

Ugh. It wasn’t even a particularly attractive color.

He took a long pull on his syrupy stimulant. Yes, it would be best if they saw other people from now on. Pharma would introduce his now-ex-lover to a handsome dumpster around back of his hab complex, which was much more attractive and cultured than the one back on campus. And Pharma?

He took another long sip, eyes narrowing as he contemplated the hunt to come.

The author of the paper would be his. After today’s class, he would officially be no longer a teacher. Thus, there was no conflict of interest if he immediately snatched up this brilliant, extremely well-informed scholar and made a frank offer of whatever kind of long-term relationship his target wanted. Bang buddies for the rest of eternity? Sure, he could keep it casual for that long. Immediately move into Pharma’s posh towertop aerial bachelor lair? Done. Make the (ex-)teacher become the student by collaring Pharma and training him to be a very good pet? Ohhhhh, yes. Please, yes. Conjunx ritus? …Why not, especially after they’d spent a solid day or five doing nothing but eating, recharging, and overloading.

He licked his lips, imagining himself and his mysterious future lover making a shopping list together. They’d do a toystore crawl in the Undermarket so Pharma could mesmerize his lower-class paramour by throwing disgusting amounts of money at any bedroom plaything that the poor, deprived little dear so much as looked at. Pharma already had a very extensive collection, but there was a warm, bonding feeling at the idea of buying a whole bunch of toys together, as a couple, and breaking them all in over the next week.

He was a little worried about which of his students his future partner was. He hadn’t really looked at any of them with a considering eye, since they were all quite beneath him socially and the vast majority of them were grounders. But no, he’d made his peace with the idea of doing a low-caste grounder for the rest of his life. The research paper had proved that no matter what frame his target had, he knew more about flightframe lovemaking than anyone short of professional flightframe courtesans. Most flightframes probably didn’t know everything that was in that paper. That wonderful, wonderful paper.

He felt himself getting moist again.

Oh. But what about a beastformer? He grimaced in disgust and chugged his caff, suddenly concerned. Yes, he remembered seeing a handful of beastformers in his class. Who had even let those things onto the campus? They were supposed to be running around out in the wilds, trying to devour each other. Could he pledge himself to a lifetime of savage ‘facing with such a creature? He bowed his head, wrestling with the conflict between his spark, his social status, and his assorted already-activating pleasure systems.

Mmm. Yes, he would hunt an animal in the hot, wet jungle. Parts of him were already priming to devour his prey at the end of an invigorating chase. It would be an absolute scandal, but after Pharma discreetly put it about that he had snared the most magnificent flightframe-pleaser since Nightvoice, all those glitches would be sick with jealousy.

Nerves steeled, Pharma downed the last of his all-stimulant breakfast and flew off to meet his destiny.

Most of the students in the lecture hall were only there because skipping the last day of class could still lose them attendance points and they were desperate for every credit they could get. Many bore the dull stare of the studying damned, hope bleeding from their research-inflicted wounds. Nobody talked. Some twitched with remembered pain when Pharma walked in, right on time, as always.

His smile was a few degrees warmer than usual as he stepped behind the lectern and surveyed the ruin that he had wrought. “Well, here we are at the end of the semester. After this class, you and I will go our separate ways in the world and, Primus willing, we will never meet again in this life.”

Hundreds of glassy optics made it clear that a lot of people would be meeting him again in their nightmares for years to come.

“For me, teaching this class was certainly…” He pressed his lips together and concentrated for a moment. “…An experience. I feel in my spark that it may have been the same for all of you.”

Somebody in the crowd broke into dry sobs, having wrung out their tears long ago. Pharma generously let them keep their participation points.

“Anyway, I have been told that this final session is intended to be used for the review and clarification of any material that somehow remains mysterious even after a full semester of effort on my part. Personally, I fail to see the point. If you haven’t grasped everything by now - which, based on what I saw in your final papers, might be the case for most of you - then I feel as if you may be better off simply making peace with yourself, your failings, and the limitations that are clearly not yours to overcome. Remember, there is no shame in failure. There is only the guilt that will stay with you forever, driving that bitter lesson into your soul through self-torment and regret.”

Cemeteries had more life in them than this section of Cybertronian Interfacing Anatomy and Function did.

“So, in appreciation of everything that we’ve done together over this past semester, I present to you a precious gift of time. Specifically, I will dismiss class now instead of allowing us to enjoy each other’s company for the full five hours allotted.”

Hundreds of eyes narrowed suspiciously, unwilling to believe that the gate to the Pit had been thrown open. There had to be a catch. Happiness was a lie.

“That means get out. Now.”

Desks and chairs were overturned as the stampede headed for the exits. While people were still untangling their bodies from the furniture, Pharma called out, almost too casually, “Oh, I almost forgot. Student #09-XU2284C, you are not dismissed. See me after class immediately.” He folded his hands on the lectern, keeping his expression neutral as he waited for his prey to separate itself from the herd.

A small orange body started fighting the tide, heading for the front of the lecture hall. Pharma couldn’t make out anything that looked like wings and his spark sank a little. Even helicopter blades would have been fine - a step down from real wings, but a step up from everything else. On the plus side, he also didn’t see anything that looked like freakish mechanimal chunks stapled to a mech-shaped endoskeleton, so at least he wouldn’t have to deal with his worst-case scenario either. It seemed that he was about to spend the rest of his existence in lust-soaked bliss with a very plain grounder who was slightly more than half his height and had optic-searingly bad taste in paint colors.

Pharma consciously drew in and let out a long ventilation, feeling cool air soothe his internals as he commanded himself to relax. He had made his decision. He would not waver on the very threshold of fulfillment.

The class had successfully escaped. The only one left was a rust-colored thing that nervously clutched an odd-looking datapad in its claws and looked up at him with a single, blank optic.

Pharma’s smile had widened as he reminded himself of his future happiness. Now he felt it grow brittle alongside the rest of him, every living part of himself becoming hollow as the life drained from his body.

In response to the prolonged silence, the thing started fidgeting and glancing around nervously. “Doctor? Did you…need me for something?”

DID I NEED IT FOR SOMETHING. Somehow, he was able to ask, with only a slight tremor in his voice, “Ah… Are you? The…student I asked for?” I never asked for this. I’m a good person. I don’t deserve this.

“Yes, sir. I’m Student #09-XU2284C.” That hideous optic blinked up at him and Pharma wanted to crawl out of his armor.

Scrambling for any shred of hope, he pulled out his much-loved, much-scrubbed datapad and ran a search in the student database. The profile came up and the thing stared back at him, now in stereo. “…Designation and affiliation?”

“Damus of Tarn, sir, from the Jhiaxian Academy. Is something wrong?”

Only everything. “Your, ah, final paper. All your work?”

The thing’s EM field bristled as it drew itself up. “Yes, sir. Am I being accused of plagiarism?”

“No, no, I, ah…” Words were hard when you were dead inside. “I just wanted to…commend you. It was quite a decent effort, I happened to notice.” From afar, he jerked the puppet strings of his suffering body to make it smile-ish.

It blinked again in surprise. “Oh! Thank you! It was actually fun to work on after I got started. I’m majoring in Classical Literature and Creative Arts History, but even without a mechabio background I was able to find so much to write about! I was glad that there wasn’t a maximum page limit.”

So help him, it was doing something with its optic shutters and its EM field so it could smile back at him. “Yes. Well. That.”

“…Was there anything else you needed from me, sir?”
“No, no, of course not.”
“May I go, then? If it’s okay?”
“Yes, please do.”

The empuratee mercifully removed itself. Pharma numbly returned to his empty hab.

An hour later, the engex delivery mech finished hauling a couple dozen cases up to the top floor of Pharma’s hab complex. The medi-jet’s optics seemed unable to focus properly as he signed the datapad and waved his hand vaguely toward the rest of his home when asked where to put the booze. “Starting the party early, Doctor?” the delivery mech tried to joke.

“No party,” Pharma murmured. He turned his sad eyes to the only lover in his near future - two dozen cases of the hard stuff and one week to slam it all right where he needed it. “Just me. Just me.”

"Quite a pretty picture you make, Doctor," Tarn said conversationally. "Very much worth the time and expense, wouldn't you say?"

Pharma wouldn't be saying much of anything through the bit between his teeth, though he'd been making a variety of interesting sounds to go with his squirming over the last three hours. He was bound upright in suspension, his wings angled back under a waterfall of thick, warm bathing oil. The soft cords that crossed over his entire body in an elaborate weave put slightly more strain than was comfortable on the edges of his delicate plating. Thinner cords bound his valve petals wide open, webbing between them in ways that lightly pinched all the major and half of the minor interior nodes, though not firmly enough to let him rub himself off. Even his painfully-erect cable had its own network of bindings that put pressure on just the right spots all up and down the slender length. He dangled, ankles bound to thighs and wrists bound to ankles, utterly powerless to do anything to satisfy himself. The slow slide of oil over his wings was a rapturous agony. His eyes were hazed over with near-insane lust.

Tarn set his cube of highgrade down on the edge of the wading pool and stepped down into it, approaching his pseudo-victim. Oh, how performatively Pharma had struggled, pretending as if he needed to be held down before he'd unwillingly submit, thrashing against the tightening ropes just enough to make it look like a fight but not enough to actually shake himself free. Even now, he seemed to be trying to summon up some kind of defiant expression behind the pleasure-drunk haze. Tarn supposed that he could let his toy have a few little games for itself.

He pulled a bottle of precision-formulated AKCH machine oil out of his subspace. Pharma whimpered louder when he caught sight of it out of the corner of his eye. Tarn grinned and held it over the jet's array. Such a fragile defiance - how quickly it eroded under the threat of pleasure. The doctor tried desperately to lift his hips toward the falling droplets, trying to catch them on his private mesh. Tarn let most of it drip across Pharma's lower abdominal armor, where it ran down in streaks and dribbled over the base of his spike and down to the open valve. Pharma's eyes rolled back in his head and he went almost completely limp in his bonds, making strangled, yearning sounds.

Pathetic. Delicious.

Tarn let his EM field billow outward, angling the pressure of it against Pharma's at precise points that made the jet writhe anew. He concentrated it in his hands, reaching them around behind his prey and holding them just so, just the perfect distance away from the ninety-third Y-Z EM meridian for Pharma's frame model. And then, without warning, he snapped his fingers.

Pharma jerked hard and immediately started to scream, over and over, a mindless noise that was not remotely pain but almost too raw to be pleasure. Sparks spat underneath his armor as system after system cascaded into overload, tripping each other again and again in a kind of lust-fueled perpetual motion machine. He shook and twitched and pushed his wings back harder into the falling oil. Tarn had already stepped to one side, avoiding the almost frantic bursts of fluid from the tip of the jet's spike. The slight movements of his gushing cable made the bindings rub harder across his genital nodes. The webbing spanning Pharma's valve was so soaked that it dripped steadily into the oil below.

Tarn made his unhurried way back to the edge of the pool to retrieve his drink. He put the glass straw through the mouth-slit in his mask and took a long pull, surveying his handiwork with satisfaction as the climax went on and on and on, past the point where Pharma's various fluid tanks went dry. His spike continued to ejaculate nothing at all, his exhausted valve kept deliciously pinching itself on the ropes as it tried to fold closed, and the smell of burning circuitry filled the air as Pharma’s systems continued to urge each other over the edge.

Tarn was quite grateful to Pharma, in a way. It was thanks to his undergraduate Cybertronian Interfacing Anatomy and Function class that Tarn knew how to make a flightframe come for five minutes straight.

Once Pharma's systems had tripped enough emergency shutdowns to make his full-body peak fade at last - and he was sobbing sparks frantically out of both relief and loss - Tarn approached him and unbuckled the bit, pulling the spit-streaked bar from between Pharma's teeth. Pharma let his head sag forward, but Tarn lifted his chin, forcing their eyes to meet. The jet squeezed his optic shutters closed anyway, as if trying to preserve some scrap of privacy after his humiliating display.

"Did you like that, pet?"

Pharma bit his lip and, as if wrenching the word out of himself: "Yes."

Such hopelessness in that tone. He had learned that there was no way forward but the way that Tarn had chosen.

"Would you like another?"

"…Yes."

"Then obey me."

"Yes." Pharma opened his eyes so Tarn could see his despair and his need.

"Worship me."

"Yes."

"And now..." Tarn grinned, leaning so close that the silver gleam of his fangs was reflected in the jet’s glossy paint. "Defect for me."

Pharma closed his eyes and gave the only answer that was left to him.