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Elbow-deep in the entrails of a holo-projector, it took Tarantulas a moment to realize that Nightshade had asked him something.
Their voice had registered in his periphery—an increasingly familiar lilt, a series of pleasant vibrations along the sensors which lined his carapace—but in his distraction he’d failed to catch the question.
Later, Tarantulas would note that this had been fortuitous. Now, ignorance was the only thing which spared the part he clutched delicately between his claws from an untimely fate. In another timeline it shattered beneath his grip, showering glass upon the floor of the makeshift lab and erasing months of progress.
“Tarantulas?” prodded Nightshade again.
This time, the query registered, disrupting the fine web of calculations suspended within his processor.
“Hm?” Tarantulas replied, as he spared a half-glance in their direction. He was growing used to Nightshade’s presence, but it had been many years since he’d had company, and sometimes it was still startling—to look over and find something so bright and alive nestled amongst the dust and the cobwebs.
Tarantulas set the part down and picked up a soldering pen instead. Perhaps if he—
“Could I have your full attention, please?” asked Nightshade.
Polite to a fault, but blunt—a combination which Tarantulas appreciated. He was accustomed to the latter in spades; no one liked dealing with him much, and interactions were usually kept brief and business-like as his contacts attempted to hide their crawling discomfort. Nightshade’s brand of courtesy, however, was still a pleasant novelty.
Tarantulas turned to face them. Nightshade was perched upon a crumbling sarcophagus, head tilted slightly as they gazed upon the datapad in their lap. When they looked up, Tarantulas found himself momentarily pinned in place. There was something piercing about their optics—that sharp curiosity of theirs honed to a fine point. With time, he hoped to teach them to wield that inquiring mind as one might a scalpel, to peel back more than flesh and machinery.
“I have a question,” said Nightshade, and the moment passed.
“So I’d surmised,” Tarantulas replied. Ordinarily, he might have resented being pulled from his work. But, as was often the case, he found himself inclined to humour his new apprentice.
Nightshade furrowed their brow, silent, and Tarantulas’ interest rose by several measures. Seldom had he witnessed them at a loss for words; indeed, they could talk at length about whichever new subject had interested them. If they’d stumbled upon another theory they wished to discuss, Tarantulas welcomed the opportunity. It had been... too long, since he’d engaged in intelligent conversation.
As long as it wasn’t something philosophical. He refused to engage in any more debates regarding the ethics of—
“What is the purpose of interface?”
Tarantulas almost dropped the pen. He squeezed it reflexively instead, and felt the metal give like prey under his claws.
Unexpected—though, perhaps not entirely. They had been online long enough to develop an interest. It was more surprising, he supposed, that they had chosen to direct their inquiries to him.
Tarantulas huffed, and relinquished his death grip on the tool. It creaked in relief.
“You have access to a thousand databases,” he said. “Surely they have the answers you seek.” Better to look elsewhere, for this. Better to let that slumbering Sharkticon lie.
“Yes,” said Nightshade, as though he were being obtuse. “I’ve read through the technical explanations. I understand the mechanics. But they don’t tell me anything about the underlying motivations for those who engage in it.”
Tarantulas reluctantly conceded the point. Interface manuals were… thorough, but dry, and a hundred academic articles on neural reward pathways could only illustrate so much of the actual experience. They could not entirely explain why Cybertronians interfaced with such enthusiasm, such frequency, and often to their emotional detriment.
“There are novels,” Tarantulas said. Full of romantic notions that he’d long since discarded, but laden with cultural trappings that might provide Nightshade with the answers they sought. “Or ah, visual demonstrations,” he suggested more delicately. Those would hammer home the physical appeal, if nothing else.
Nightshade nodded. “Yes,” they mused. “But from my understanding, those scenarios have been fabricated for others’ enjoyment. Are they… authentic?”
Was any interface? When Tarantulas ran through the short list of mecha he’d been intimate with, he came to a simple conclusion: none of them had held him in particularly high regard. But what could he tell them—that any interface was a delicate war between gratification and discomfiture?
Nightshade’s optics were luminous in the dark crypt, and the light of them softened his bitter spark.
Tarantulas gave a rattling sigh. “Authentic enough,” he said, not entirely sure if he believed the words himself. “As for why… for the enjoyment of it. For the social benefit. In theory, the intimacy of the act builds trust between mechanisms, solidifying emotional bonds. This in turn, ensures greater cooperation, bolsters group harmony, an increased capacity for survival…” Tarantulas gestured vaguely, aware that his current isolation—this lonely, mouldering den—contradicted the coming point. “Cybertronians are a social species. We have reasons to maintain and strengthen our interpersonal relationships, from both emotional and practical standpoints. Interface aids in this.”
Tarantulas hoped that that would satisfy them. He had no better explanations—nothing that wouldn’t dovetail into dangerously personal territory. It was an old and dry resentment that lurked within him; he saw no reason to ignite it anew.
Nightshade, bright and eager Nightshade, who knew nothing of his old wounds, saw fit to ask anyway.
“Have you ever interfaced?”
“Yes,” said Tarantulas. “Occasionally.”
“And you found this to be true?”
Tarantulas hesitated, another ‘yes’ dangling on the edge of his tongue. But he had yet to lie to Nightshade, and he saw no reason to now.
“No,” he admitted. “But I’ve never been particularly sought as a partner, whether in interface or other matters.” Mecha had never clamoured for his company, even prior to his transformation. Too peculiar. Too fervent in his goals. Too willing to push boundaries. Now, they were skittish around him, and whether they feared the sharp curve of his mandibles, the alien pattern of his limbs, or the sterile implements of his lab, the outcome was the same.
Tarantulas didn’t blame them. He had gained his reputation honestly.
“Then they were fools,” said Nightshade, with a conviction that let slip their youth. “You’re wonderful. Intelligent and—and generous. I’m so glad to have met you.”
Tarantulas had been called such things in the past—visionary, indispensable—but only as long as he’d been useful. For once, the words rang true and something at the core of him warmed. He hadn’t earned such kindness, but he was a greedy creature and basked in it all the same.
“Do not assume that I afford others the hospitality I do you,” Tarantulas chided. Should Nightshade go poking about, they might discover that not all the remains in this mausoleum were tarnished by age. “All the same,” he continued. “Cybertronian attraction is… predictable. The vast majority prefer their partners four-wheeled and unfanged.”
“Oh,” said Nightshade, softly, as though that hadn’t occurred to them. “They don’t find your frame… appealing?”
No,” Tarantulas replied curtly. It didn’t ordinarily bother him—this frame, this transformation, had been for him and had brought him untold satisfaction. But over time, one grew irate with the ignorant, and the disingenuous. He’d made a meal out of the last one to treat him as a curiosity.
Nightshade hopped from their perch in a lithe motion and Tarantulas found himself momentarily distracted by the flex of their cabling, the way that it shifted, half-hidden beneath smooth plating.
Shaking his head, he turned his attention back to his work. “Interface is a distraction,” he said. “Better to find fulfillment in your own endeavours.” In the end, relying on oneself was the smartest course of action.
“But as you’ve explained, it’s part of the Cybertronian condition,” said Nightshade, as they crossed the crypt with delicate steps. Each impact sent a flurry of vibrations along the floor; despite the lightness of their movements, Tarantulas couldn’t help but be hyper-attuned to their increasing proximity. “And I find my lack of experience in this matter frustrating. How can I fully understand what it means to be Cybertronian when there is such a gap in my knowledge?”
Their premise was flawed; there were countless Cybertronians who preferred to abstain from interface for various reasons and lacked for nothing. But the sensory prongs on Tarantulas’ helm had begun to tingle with something like suspicion.
Tarantulas turned once more to Nightshade to find them standing close. Nearly chest to chest, he could feel the warmth radiating from their chassis—their ventilations ghosting along his own armour. He wondered absently what it might be like to run his claws along that shiny, unblemished plating, and then caught himself.
“And just what do you know,” he asked, “about what you’re missing?”
Nightshade looked at him with unclouded confidence, and perhaps, a little impatience. “I have done my research.”
The suspicion took root. It cast out thin tendrils, forming pathways for a new, sneaking desire to creep along. Intelligent company had been sufficient; Tarantulas hadn’t expected anything more. But he wasn’t immune to temptation, nor the pretty, eager optics that had fixed on him.
“Have you now?” he asked softly.
“Yes. Those readings may have been technical, but they were still—” Nightshade paused, and the air between them warmed another few degrees. “—educational,” they finished.
“Were they.” Now that he’d allowed himself to consider it, it was difficult to stop. Nightshade with curious fingers in their ports. Nightshade arched with optics bright, and open mouth, their armour sparking. Oh, the sweet thrill of discovery. A minute shiver wracked Tarantulas’ frame.
“Yes,” said Nightshade with furrowed brow. “Why do you keep repeating everything that I say?”
Tarantulas laughed, somewhat breathlessly.
“Because you continue to surprise me,” he admitted. It wasn’t unusual for mentors to guide their charges through the trials and tribulations of interface. He simply hadn’t thought it would be a pleasure afforded to him.
“I suppose I could—” Here, Tarantulas’ voice cracked slightly, and he was forced to clear his vocalizer. “—demonstrate,” he finished.
Nightshade’s optics brightened. They let out a pleased oh, as though they hadn’t orchestrated this in the first place, or perhaps they simply hadn’t expected him to offer. “Well,” they said. “You’ve already instructed me in so much. Why not this as well?”
Why not indeed? agreed a selfish little whisper at the back of his processor. Why not wrap them up in his many arms, hold them tight and safe where no others might lay claim?
“You wouldn’t rather it be one of your peers?” Tarantulas asked. It hurt him to suggest it. A twisting hunger had arisen in the core of him; it salivated at the feast before him, and snapped at imaginary interlopers.
“No,” said Nightshade. “I’d like it to be someone who understands.”
That stirred some other feeling in him; some new tenderness, born of recognition. Oh, he understood—knew what it was like to feel too large for your plating, what it was like to hover at the fringes of society. Nightshade’s differences were marked, and they were things to covet.
A rattling hiss escaped through his mandibles.
“Come here,” he said.
Nightshade weighed very little; it was easy to scoop them up in his arms—to relish the delighted laugh it garnered him and let the warm line of their frame settle against his own. They hooked their legs at the small of his back to keep their balance and oh, it had been a long time, hadn’t it? He couldn’t remember the last time he’d had such a delicate, eager thing in his grasp.
As much as Tarantulas would have liked to preserve the moment, he was at risk of losing his focus to the anticipation that buzzed along his frame, and tingled in his extremities. He ferried Nightshade over to the nearest flat surface, and then lowered them to sit along the edge of the sturdy coffin.
Nightshade waited patiently, their optics shining, and Tarantulas tightened his grip on their frame. They were too bright and sweet for him, but he’d savour them anyway.
“You should take notes,” he suggested softly—mustn’t scare them away—as he trailed a claw down the cenre of Nightshade’s chestplate, along the softly glowing gem that sat nestled above their spark.
“No need,” said Nightshade. “I’ve already begun recording. I can review the data later.”
Tarantulas sucked in a vent. “How astute of you.” He’d be asking for a copy later, of course, for personal review. “I’m sure you were thorough in your… research,” he said, as he ran his hands up the lithe expanse of Nightshade’s chassis. “But you’re correct; it’s no substitute for hands-on learning.”
And Tarantulas had plenty of hands at his disposal; ample limbs to run along shiny plating, to pluck at thick cabling and tender wires until Nightshade opened up for him. By the end of it, they’d never want for another touch.
The relative lack of armour or other kibble made Nightshade’s frame simple to map out. Tarantulas traced along an exposed transformation seam at their waist, and it earned him a quick intake. He pressed a little harder, and was treated to a soft, pleased sound.
“Every Cybertronian has different erogenous zones,” Tarantulas said, “but there are commonalities. Anything hidden or protected by armour is often more sensitive than the rest. Because you haven’t chosen an alt mode yet, sensation is likely… heightened.” He slipped a thumb under the hood of Nightshade’s shoulder. When he pressed into the cabling there Nightshade twitched in place, their optics growing wide.
Tarantulas paused for a moment, but it seemed his student was eager in this too, because they raised their hand to his own and pressed, urging it deeper into the recess. Something in him crowed, victorious.
“And is this enough to bring someone to overload?” asked Nightshade, around a shiver.
“It can be,” Tarantulas said, through a dry mouth. “Though you might find it a challenge. Friction and pressure generate charge, but not to the extent that a direct hardline connection does. Overload occurs when a mechanism’s charge reaches capacity and tips over—the by-product of the resulting release of energy.”
Nightshade nodded. “An experiment for another day, then,” they said, and Tarantulas was unprepared for the lance of arousal that struck him at the thought of Nightshade coming apart under his hands alone. Would they allow him to take his instruments to them? To shuck them of their plating and expose the tender components underneath?
“May I return the favour?” Nightshade asked.
Tarantulas stilled, and cast his fantasies aside. He hadn’t considered that they might want to. But Nightshade’s optics flitted over his frame, careful and assessing, as though cataloguing all of his likely weak points, and he found that he was amenable. “Yes,” he rasped.
Nightshade was a swift learner. Their slender fingers dipped into gaps that his own couldn’t reach, and coaxed skittish pleasure to the surface. It wasn’t long before they had discovered the seams along his inner arms. Tarantulas’ multitude of limbs curled inward and spasmed as those parts of him—so sensor-laden and integral to his alt— were given due attention.
“I can’t believe that anyone would find your frame disagreeable,” said Nightshade. “It’s so unique. It fits you perfectly.”
There was a growing pool of want at the core of him, warm and dark and ravenous, and Tarantulas felt himself slip a little deeper into it. Where had they been hiding, all these years? The Earth should have spit them out onto his doorstep years ago.
“I feel plain in comparison,” admitted Nightshade, and that awoke something fiercer in him.
“Whatever form you choose will be magnificent,” Tarantulas said lowly. “But your current one is no less enticing.”
Nightshade flushed, and the novelty of that was a new temptation—the rush of energon so close to the surface. He wondered whether it would taste as sweet as its owner.
A fresh wave of arousal washed over Tarantulas, and with it, a hungry impatience. “There should be a command to open your interface ports,” he said.
“Oh,” said Nightshade, “Of course,” and then disengaged the panel with too much ease for someone who claimed to lack practical experience.
And yet, when Tarantulas reached out, he met the smooth film of an intact seal. Seals were typically left in place until a Cybertronian’s first medical visit, when all the appropriate antivirals and safeguards could be uploaded. Of course, there were no Autobot medics currently in G.H.O.S.T.’s thrall.
Tarantulas plucked at the edge of the seal, and enjoyed Nightshade’s shiver.
“I—ah,” said Nightshade, “I wasn’t sure whether to remove it myself.” Whether you’d like to do it, rang unsaid
Tarantulas didn’t have any particular inclination for seal-removal, but the idea that Nightshade was willing to put the entirety of their well-being into his hands—that was a heady thing. He marveled at this treasure that had fallen into his care. So bright and self-assured. His to hold and to mold.
“It’s a simple thing,” he said, and caught the edge of the seal between his claws. He peeled it back slowly, committing to memory Nightshade’s hitching breath, the way they gripped the edge of his collar faring, the way their mouth fell open as the air hit newly exposed circuitry.
Freed from its confines, Nightshade’s cable uncoiled and snaked into his hand, seeking a connection. Tarantulas allowed it to wind around his fingers, and then caught the head of it. He stroked at the connectors there and a soft ‘ah’ caught in the back of Nightshade’s throat.
“Do that again, please,” they said, voice fuzzy with pleasure.
Tarantulas acquiesced and was delighted to hear them breathe out a proper moan.
It was odd to be gentle. Most of his past encounters had been biting, scratching things, or the opposite—cold and perfunctory. But this—they—were something to be savoured.
Tarantulas brought the plug up to his mouth and parted his mandibles so that he could run his tongue along the squirming cable. He relished the sharp tang of metal, the hot sparks as the pronged end came into contact with conductive fluid. He thrilled at the sharp intake from Nightshade, and the way their legs tightened around his frame.
“I’m sure you know where this goes,” Tarantulas said, “diligent student that you are,” and then opened the panel at his waist.
Nightshade flushed harder, though they didn’t look away—simply watched, optics overbright and mouth parted as he guided the eager cable to its new home.
Nightshade’s plug was a quick study; it followed the warm trail of charge to its source and jacked in eagerly. Tarantulas shuddered at the first pulse of charge along the line, unused to living feedback. “A hardline connection allows electrical impulses to pass between participants,” he said, unsteadier than he would have liked. “As well as, ah—” Another brief tremble. “— establishes a neural link. Levels of access are generally granted by the receptive partner.”
Nightshade’s consciousness nestled up against his, poking and prodding with unpracticed curiosity along his firewalls until, indulgent, he lowered the first set of gates. They spilled into the space Tarantulas corralled them, projecting a deep delight and even deeper interest. Already they were reigning in their technique, flooding his systems with a thin, but steady stream of charge.
“Like so?” Nightshade asked, somewhat impishly.
The avaricious creature at the core of Tarantulas rose to meet the challenge. He wouldn’t be at a disadvantage for long. “Almosst,” he said. “Allow me to demonstrate”.
Thus far, he’d kept his cables under control. They twisted and twined in sensuous braids, squeezing around one another until charge skittered up their lengths. Now, he allowed them to venture forth.
It was a tight fit, but not an onerous one. The tapered ends of his plugs burrowed easily into the warm confines of Nightshade’s port, seeking connection points. Their fingers tightened on his frame, and they gasped out a startled ‘oh’.
He’d modified this aspect of himself as well. Upon finding their targets, the end of his plugs split, hooking into the warm circuity and locking them in place. They were sharp, and dug deeper than intended into such delicate systems, but the payoff was exquisite.
Nightshade jerked in place—likely in response to the sting—and Tarantulas’ limbs curled inward instinctively. The urge to still the wiggling thing in front of him, to sink his fangs in and feel them go lax was strong, but instead he simply held them tighter.
Nightshade vented harshly, negotiating the new deluge of sensation. Tarantulas could feel it, where they trembled at the edge of his consciousness. He wasn’t faring much better. It had been a long time, after all, and the snug squeeze of Nightshade around him, the charge crackling in an arching loop between their frames, had him embarrassingly close to overload already.
“Is that… normal?” Nightshade managed. Their usual prim and articulate demeanor had all but vanished, leaving their voice soft and hazy.
“No,” Tarantulas breathed. “Consider it a rare learning opportunity.”
Nightshade had almost no protections to speak of. Tarantulas cleaved into their processor with the ease of a scalpel, and marveled at the feast before him. Later, he would teach them to build their firewalls—strong and unscaleable, with unpleasant traps for intruders and keys just for him. But for now, he would enjoy this. There was nothing quite like a unguarded processor.
He crept along the neural pathways before him, stroking and rifling through all that was available to him as Nightshade made lovely, pleased sounds and did their best to reciprocate. He found their reward pathways and dug in with metaphorical fangs—thrilled as they went almost limp against him. The charge spilled over their cables into his own frame and for a moment the world went white-hot.
“That’s it”, Tarantulas crooned unsteadily, and stroked their helm with shaking fingers. He watched their optics flicker, like the frantic flapping of a bird caught in the bush, and felt his carefully maintained mask begin to crack—the hunger begin to seep through. Could Nightshade see it? Feel it? Would they run, if they knew, or let him have a taste?
Tarantulas basked in the open expanse of their mind. He dug into their neural net—parsed their inquisitive nature, their drive—and knew that he clutched a kindred spark in his claws. Together, they’d create marvels.
Visor slitted with pleasure, Tarantulas imagined all the things Nightshade might allow. His tongue inside their port, tasting the charge that trickled out as they twitched like a live wire. His fingers deep within their circuitry, flexing under armour and pressing into hidden systems until their voice cracked around his name.
“I’m not opposed,” breathed Nightshade, and Tarantulas almost startled. He hadn’t realized he’d been projecting. Neither did he recall giving Nightshade another level of access, but there they were, deep enough in his processor to cause mild alarm. Clever thing. “I do have some suggestions, if you’re open to them.”
And then Nightshade sent him a series of images. Tarantulas tied up in his own webbing, at the mercy of nimble fingers. Bound to a lab table, electricity coursing through his frame.
The hunter in him shied away from the thought—the audacity, to think he’d willingly lay himself at someone else’s mercy. But underneath that… another feeling. Tarantulas had vivisected a G.H.O.S.T. agent once, who’d stumbled too close to his lair, and it reminded him of that—the quickening pulse, insides vulnerable and quivering.
Nightshade laid their hands on his arms again, stroking their thumbs along the inner line of his repurposed pedipalps.
Overload caught Tarantulas by surprise. It came upon him like a torrential flood—tore through his systems with no particular grace or direction. He felt Nightshade’s shocked, sharp pleasure as he dragged them along with him, and did his best to weather the storm of feedback.
Tarantulas clutched Nightshade to his chassis as the surge of electricity ran its course, through the pulsing aftershocks, until their frames were released from it, sparking and spent. When he finally released his grip, they fell back, with none of their usual grace, to lay across the coffin. Tarantulas watched, half-mesmerized, as Nightshade gazed up at the ceiling, exposing the vulnerable line of their throat.
“That was enlightening,” they eventually said.
“Yess,” Tarantulas hissed softly. “It was indeed.” He knew now that he had underestimated them. “It seems that perhaps you didn’t need my… instruction, as much as you implied.”
Nightshade smiled. “Of course I did,” they said. “This was an invaluable practical application of my studies.” They reached down and brushed a thumb along one of Tarantulas’ cables, where they were still connected. The touch induced a warm shiver. “I think it was a success,” they added, a bit shyly. “And I hope that you’re open to further experimentation in the future.”
“Hm,” said Tarantulas, to spare some of his dignity. “I suppose I would be a poor mentor if I said no.” Before this, he hadn’t allowed himself to grow too deeply attached, but now he suspected that it was too late. Affection had begun to take root, unfurling like new growth from his spark.
“Excellent,” said Nightshade, sitting up again. They had recovered miraculously well from what was ostensibly their first shared overload, but bright pleasure still ringed the edges of their optics. “I have a list.”
Tarantulas coughed, though he shouldn’t have been surprised. Of course they did.
“Send it over, then,” he rasped.
Upon opening the file, Tarantulas’ visor widened. Oh, his little scholar was full of surprises indeed.
He looked forward to everything they had to teach him.