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Taking the brand hurt, Hot Rod knew that before he even signed on with the Decepticons. He hadn’t thought it could possibly hurt worse than what he’d already done, the scorch of plasma mines, the layer of ash that no amount of scrubbing ever felt like it truly removed, the tremor in his hand when his fingers curled idly around the space where a detonator had been and hopefully would never be again.
He had been wrong. It hurt in a way he hadn’t realized anything could hurt, a piercing pain that lanced through his spark and radiated out through the whole of his frame. The medic had said his systems would adjust to ignore it, given time, but he hadn’t said how much time. It already felt like an eternity had passed already, the passage of time marked by the throbbing where the corona of his spark battered the raw edges cut into its casing.
“They gave you the cheap stuff, huh?” Deadlock said, his voice low and soothing. Hot Rod reached out blindly, and Deadlock joined him on his berth, bulky frame curling easily around his own, less armoured one. “How bad is it?”
Hot Rod’s vocaliser clicked pitifully, and Deadlock’s field pulsed with concern. He popped his wrist port cover, and Deadlock took the unspoken prompt to plug Hot Rod’s cable into his own port, easily accepting the little data packet Hot Rod sent him. His whole frame tensed, the closest Deadlock ever got to a flinch, and then sturdy arms were wrapping tight around Hot Rod, pressing just hard enough to draw his attention from the stabbing agony of his spark.
“It’ll be okay.” Deadlock promised, claws raking gently down Hot Rod’s spinal strut. “You’re gonna be okay, Rod. It only hurts like that for a couple mega-cycles.”
Hot Rod reset his vocaliser with some effort, and managed to cough most of the static out without whimpering too much. “What about after?” he asked, and Deadlock’s arms tightened around him.
“It’ll always hurt, but it’s not so bad once your frame’s used to it.” he kept his voice soft and low, his field warm and reassuring. “An ache you forget is there, most of the time.”
Hot Rod trembled, burying his face in Deadlock’s chest. “Hurts.” he whined, unable to get the rest of the words he wanted lined up in his vocaliser.
“But it’s worth it.” Deadlock insisted, the glyphs full of the same self-assured devotion the elders back home had shown when they spoke of Primus. “You’re one of us now, nobody can deny it.” Deadlock’s other hand slid up between them and splayed over Hot Rod’s chest, palm covering the slightly raised decal forged from his own spark casing. The brand which marked him a Decepticon, now and forever.
“Nobody can take you from me now.” Deadlock promised, tucking Hot Rod close against his frame. “And anyone who tries is getting shot clean through the spark.”
Hot Rod giggled, and tried to relax as Deadlock’s hand wandered up to pet his spoiler. He still hurt too much to recharge, but at least with Deadlock here he could relax and trust nothing would happen to him. There wasn’t a mech on this base who would risk Deadlock’s wrath by doing something so terminally stupid.
And now that he was a proper Decepticon, branded and everything, Hot Rod could build himself enough of a reputation to return the favour.