First update of the new year! Have a good one guys, and brace yourselves; this one's a little trippy.

As beads of condensation trailed down his bright yellow armour, Bumblebee quickly became aware of his inability to move freely. He wriggled where he lay, wrists and ankles bound by some unseen force painfully tight.

Twisting his head this way and that, he noticed how he was unable to actually focus. The world around him seemed to be constantly shifting and hiding in plain sight, in a swirling mess of purples, pinks and blues. His servos clenched on thin air, trying to gain purchase on nothing, distressing the confused scout more. He swallowed and cried out, though he was unsure who he was calling for – Rafael, Optimus, Ratchet, Bulkhead, Arcee – until he gradually realised he'd been here before. That thought in mind, he searched his memory banks, but found nothing but that uncomfortable feeling of deja vu.

He gripped at the mist – when had it started to form? – a thin, unholy violet cloud smothering his visual sensors, as if trying to reach for someone's hand. Who was he looking for? He thrashed and wrenched at his invisible bonds, screaming and blubbering like a child, scared by the monster he dreamed up beneath his bed. No, that wasn't quite right. He was silent and quivering; a child checking under the bed to make sure the creature lying there was a worse monster than he was. So many variables, possibilities, scenarios all happening at once impossibly fast, like a tornado in his brain, making him dizzy.

Bumblebee whimpered pathetically, letting his helm sag backwards against nothing. He was exhausted and he hadn't even moved in twenty of the scenes going passed his optics. Perhaps if he relaxed, tried to think calming thoughts, it would all get better.

He thought. He remembered play video games with Raf, wrestling with Bulkhead, Arcee gently rubbing his back to comfort him, Ratchet petting his helm as he repaired his damaged form, Smokescreen bumping fists after a quick race through the desert, Optimus' strong arms carrying him carefully to med-bay.

His spark settled, and the adrenaline lines eased. He sighed in relief, as his world began to slide into logic once again.

But, he noted, the mist never raised.

Large, cold, rough hands glided up his abdomen, then evaporated before he could see. But he felt; he felt them. He sensed the looming, heavy presence. Hulking but elegant; not Bulkhead. Those hands tickled their way up his spine, fingers sharp and deadly; not Optimus. Through the mist, he pieced together the form of back-mounted wings, pert and proud; not Megatron.

A pair of reds pierced through the mist; reds, so red. Glaring eyes with the intention of murder, or something that bloodthirsty. Those honey-poison hands explored his frame again, triggering embers to burn under his protoform. Bumblebee cried out again, and to his horror, arched against the looming form above him. His unseen shackles clanked – how was that possible? – and pulled unbearably hard on his limbs.

"It hurts!," He screamed, hot, liquid fire dribbling down his arms and pedes. Those fingers – those sugar-acid fingers – encased his face, framing his agonised expression in a shameful portrait. They caressed his cheeks, wiping away tears until the form leaned closer, those hands reaching for his ties.

"I'll release you," He said, whispering in the scout's ear. "I'll release you and we can run. Run far, far away. Doesn't that sound nice?," Bumblebee's optics blanched, shaking and reeling, trying to get away.

"No! No, don't take me away! I want to stay, just a little bit longer!," He howled, begging his tormentor to leave him be. The figure stopped, hovering above him, optics swallowing the yellow scout's consciousness.

"You can't deny yourself forever, bug. You insist upon staying, because they need you, but what have they given you? It is not a sin, an atrocity, to be selfish. Just once. You are anything but greedy, little Bumblebee. They are gluttonous, don't you think?," He asked, trailing a digit around in circles, dancing over windscreen glass.

"They need me! Raf needs me! If I went away, if I lost my bonds...," They both turned to his wrists; locked impossibly tight, with the weight of thousands upon thousands of responsibilities dangling at the ends. They hurt so very much, but he was reluctant to relieve himself. He choked back a sob, turning his optics away from his oppressor. "Why did you come back? You left for so long, I thought you were gone for good. Why come back now?,"

"Because you need me,"

"They need me more."

The form leaned back, sitting up straight, tilting his head in bemused curiosity. How the bug could torture himself so, he didn't know. So many aches and pains, pins and needles, all itching at his spark and psyche. It would drive him mad, one day – one day soon – and Prime was unaware, unwitting. No, Optimus was no fool, but Bumblebee was no stranger to fooling.

He leaned down again, ghosting his lips over the scout's. Bumblebee whimpered at the cold metal, opening his mouth slightly in a desperate attempt to engulf a kiss – where was his mask? – in a brief lapse of willpower. "No, stop! Please! Don't try to tempt me, I won't! I can't! Why won't you leave me alone?!," He cried. The figure stilled, hands halting in their traversing of his body. Bumblebee froze, realising that he'd upset his enticing tempter.

Shot down and hurt, the figure lowered his helm to the scout's chest, listening to his aching spark. "Such a delicate thing you are," He mumbled against the metal and glass, pressing a wind-like kiss to the surfaces. "So bent and twisted that you're ready to snap, and you won't accept help when freedom is offered. What a selflessly selfish child you are." Moving back up, lips centimetres and galaxies away from the scout's, he began to vanish. "Fine. Have it your way. But don't worry; even if you won't accept my assistance now, I'll be sure to catch you when your walls collapse." Chilling warmth swamped his plating as his friend drifted away, making Bumblebee's intakes catch in his throat. "Until then...," He wrenched forward again, thrashing and clawing for him as he faded out of existence.

"Skyquake!,"

He sat bolt upright, reaching for a dark corner of the room. He looked around, vents ragged and ruffled. No one had woken up at his plea, thankfully; Bulkhead still snored with Miko comfortably curled on his chest under a mountain of blankets and Wheeljack against his shoulder, Jack still leaned against Arcee in his sleeping bag, Smokescreen was still splayed across the floor beside the scout in an unintentionally provocative position. And Raf was still curled against his yellow hip, cuddling a pillow to his chest. Bumblebee's pants eventually settled, comforted by his charge's soft breathing. He wondered what the odds were of them holding a sleepover at the base when Skyquake chose to torment him again.

Filing that query away for now, Bumblebee lay back down, curling a servo around Raf protectively, and resting his helm on Smokescreen's gut, slowly powering down his optics once again for the night.

Hail to the princess, baby!