Drift sat quietly, his massive frame carefully tucked onto your lap, his servos resting against your legs as if afraid to move without permission. His optics flickered nervously, stealing glances upward to read your expression, desperate for even a hint of approval. For someone once so proud and untouchable, he looked small now, his head bowed slightly, shoulders slouched in quiet submission.

You ran your fingers along the edge of his helm, the motion deliberate and slow. Drift shivered under the touch, vents stuttering as he leaned into your hand instinctively. “Good boy,” you murmured, your tone firm but laced with just enough warmth to make his frame relax against you.

Drift didn’t speak; he wouldn’t, not unless you commanded it. Instead, he settled deeper into your lap, his sharp optics dimming into something softer—grateful, obedient. His once-imposing presence was now entirely subdued, pliant under your care and control.

“Stay still,” you said sharply, and his frame immediately tensed, sitting perfectly straight. A small smirk crossed your face. “Good. You’re learning your place.”

Drift’s only response was a quiet hum of acknowledgment, his cheek lightly nuzzling against your hand. He didn’t need words to express his devotion—his actions said it all.