Chapter 1: Prompts
Chapter Text
Hiya! This just seemed like a fun event. For my own personal reference and as a guide for the lovely readers of this fic, I'm using this chapter to post the prompts—
Unfortunately, I might not be able to do every single one;; but we're gonna do our damned best!!
So here are the prompts uwu <3
Week 1
Oct 16: Hot Drink//Leftovers
Oct 17: Feeling Groovy//Feeling Emotional
Oct 18: Date Night//Staying Home
Oct 19: Board Games//Live Performance
Oct 20: Falling Leaves//New Sprouts
Oct 21: Bad Weather//Cloudless Skies
Oct 22: Star Filled Night//Painted Surprise
Week 2
Oct 23: Scary Stories//Happy Endings
Oct 24: Old Holidays//New Traditions
Oct 25: Pirates//Ninjas
Oct 27: Grave Robbing//History in the Making
Oct 28: Horror//Fantasy
Oct 29: Trick//Treat
Chapter 2: Hot Drinks
Summary:
Blitzwing misses home sometimes. Slipstream's not good with feelings. Somehow it evens out.
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
Cold nights were common on Luna-1, and Blitzwing is always acutely reminded of home when the air on earth becomes biting like this.
There’s just a strange allure to it. Perhaps it's the nostalgia of his youth, of the days before the war, and before Cybertron, and before Blitzwing became separately Icy, Hothead, and Random. Perhaps the cold reminds him of the long flights he once took, or the long drives, or all that time he spent gazing into the vast abyss, wondering what’s beyond the stars, waiting there. How he couldn't wait to go. How he couldn't wait for the day he's needed. But it turns out all that waited was war and violence—and really, surely, that’s not really an issue, anymore. It can’t be, anyway, since there’s no changing it. Hothead threatens to switch into place the moment these thoughts come up. And lately, it feels as though they’re almost always up. And so Hothead is always whispering, teetering on the edge of a scream in the back of his processor, like fire, like flames, hence the 'hot' of 'hothead'. And this can be an asset, Lord Megatron has told him, in the past. This can be useful, because when he is angry, things get done, no matter what he's angry about, no matter how much his t-cog aches and his spark shudders at the intensity of the switching, like three individuals fighting in one frame, sharing one spark, stretched too thin.
He thinks about these things as he glides across the earth's skies, relieved early of his duty. He thinks about how, when Skywarp had shakily come up to him to tell him he was free to go for the evening, Random most likely locked into place and made a joke and laughed so heartily it must've left the violet plated seeker trembling so hard his plating rattled. He thinks about the cold of home. He thinks about the lights of Luna-1 and of Cybertron, when flights weren’t spent constantly switched between tank and jet in mid-air. He thinks about how the lights at night are just so reminiscent of a life long missed—and he hates how much they tug at the tendrils of his spark. Maybe he’s just feeling pensive tonight—maybe there are too many things to consider, to hold near and dear.
The wind ripples around his frame as he picks up speed, ignoring the itch to switch welling up. There is no purpose in this, he realizes. This flight. These feelings. The state of the decepticons—as much as he doesn’t mind lending his capabilities to the fight. There is little purpose, he realizes, in hoping that he can ever return to Cybertron—perhaps even to Luna-1. And he knows there's no room to be upset over it. Especially as soon as he feels the brush of another EM field on his own. His frame glides to the side, allowing room for whoever it was to pass. They glide along with him. He listens to the static that fills his commlink channel, listening for a voice, for someone to command him back to their base of operations, wherever that was at this point.
‘Blitzwing.’ A voice rasps on one of his commlink channels, and he does not dare let Random lock into place as soon as he realizes who it is. ‘ Starscream’s sent me to accompany you. ’
Has he? Blitzwing has to ask as he takes note of the deep indigo plating shining in the moonlight, following up, slightly below him. Slipstream always glides so effortlessly, he has to think, so precise, graceful, the way it is expected in Vos. That's to be expected, however, he tells himself. She is connected to Starscream, after all. And in regular Starscream fashion, their connection, their bond as host and clone must have decided her precision with flight. But her individuality has carved her style; the little trembles and perfectly timed and executed swoops when it called for it were never too brash, too fast, nor too slow. He thinks about these things often. Because it's similar, on Luna-1. It's similar, the gliding, though her landings are vastly different, as her landings are often unforgiving, demanding, commanding. But he finds these things endearing, he can't help but think. That she can deign to assert her place when it is due is a valuable trait.
“Vhat could be zhe reason he sent you, Slipstream?” he challenges, voice neither pointed nor soft, a happy middle, calm, collected—until his hold runs out, and Random, inwardly, shoves Icy to the wayside, locking into place. “Oh! Playing spy again? I’ll play, too!” And this statement is punctuated by his high pitched laugh, sincere, from the fuel tank.
‘Well, it wouldn’t do us much good to lose yet another of the dwindling Decepticon force, now, would it?’ her coy voice holds an unfamiliar edge to it—like he can fall into it forever, revel the vibrations of it in his frame. Still rough, definitely—but teasing, in an acute way, challenging, sharp enough to cut, like a blade pressed against his mesh. ‘Considering your personalities.’
“And vhat is wrong with my personalities?” Hothead switches onto the comms, ever the attention seeker, and just like that, Slipstream watches him plummet from the sky, careening out of the way, to the side, watching his frame rapidly change, transforming into that of a tank. She sighs.
‘That’s what’s wrong.’ It is with that that she swoops down, following his path as he plummets to his landing place. She's almost chuckling as she does, he notices through the comms, but ever stoic, ever hiding the things that Blitzwing figures ought not to be hidden, the laugh never truly comes. He always did find that intriguing about her. She transforms into bipedal mode as soon as she reaches the ground, graceful, careful, and this is not necessarily out of the ordinary, though certainly this level of care is not often seen. He does not yet transform into bipedal mode. The anger dissipates as quickly as it came. She watches as he takes a moment to collect himself again.
“I don’t understand,” Icy switches back into place at a moment’s notice, and he has enough sense to transform back into his bipedal mode, even though no organics are reasonably awake or even around at this hour—he’s had enough luck to land in a non-populated area, away from city and asphalt and lights. Certainly the puny organics will notice some crushed trees, however. “Commander Starscream hasn’t had a problem with me flying on my own.”
“Considering your more frequent switches recently, I’d say he’s justified.” Slipstream places her hands on her hips, staring him down with those carnelian optics, as if she’s so intimidating, as if she’s ten times his size and can step on him like an insect. She gestures to a spot on the hard, cold ground, by a still upright tree. He blinks at her. “Sit.” she commands.
“And vhy should I do zhat?” Icy challenges, once again, and her reaction, like every other part of her is perplexing. She smirks. And gestures again to the spot. “Oh? You zhink you’re commander, now?” A wry smile tugs his dermae, one met with an even wider smirk that remains on her faceplates, only to quickly disappear.
“You've been switching a lot. Starscream has been complaining about it, so I need you to sit. I have a surprise for you, since I’m here, anyway.” She repeats, and this time, Blitzwing does not challenge her. His optics soften, just slightly, upon realizing that she is real, when she says that, that she is serious, that the disappearance of her smirk meant she means business. The fact that there is only a little of that cockiness to her voice, that mysterious air only thickening, expanding is evidence enough.
“Is zhis necessary—?”
“Blitzwing, do it or so help me, Primus.” the commanding tone turns sharper, like the metaphorical blade is rested harsher against his throat cables, and he would be lying if he said that doesn't sometimes excite him. He obeys, because Slipstream's wings are angled, raised, flaring in a way that Blitzwing, all three of him, understands as hostile—unless that is yet another cultural difference, compared to Luna-1. He brushes the dirt and the chipped wood off his frame as he rises again, shoving the observation to the side. He settles back down, onto the soft ground, and he knows he shouldn’t be caught off guard but there is so much earth and it’s so soft and though it's softer than the rigidity of Cybertron and the semi-rigidity of Luna-1, he can’t name that many occasions in which he has had an opportunity to feel it like this. And now Slipstream is staring at him, as he ponders these things. Her faceplates are stolid, neutral, carnelian optics just glowing slits in the dark, half lidded, her dermas pulled into the slightest smile, pleased, just a hint. “Good boy.”
A pang of feeling shoots through his frame at the use of those words, and perhaps it’s the tone, perhaps it’s the way she’s staring at him, like a predator and its prey, as if such a puny little jet could take him down.
“And vhat is zhis surprise you said you have for me?” Blitzwing inquires, not expecting her to take a step toward him, opening her subspace, and pulling something or other out. He raises an optical ridge.
“You’re from Luna-1.” she states, matter of factly, as she holds up a container of some kind, with a lid, steam rising from the rim, even under the cap and through a small hole. And they both know this to be true, because Blitzwing has nowhere else to be from other than the cold, hence Icy, and the way in which the words leave her intake leave a feeling of you’re so far away from home leaking at the edges of his EM field. “You’ve been away from there for—what? A few millions of stellar cycles?”
“How did you know about zhis?” Blitzwing inquires—less Icy, less Hothead, less Random, and more Blitzwing as his one optic, still with his optic shutters, widens, as soon as the steam meets his olfactory sensors, the familiar slight scent of home during the solar storms that often afflicted the colony from which he originated.
“The filthy little organics have something similar to the delicacies on Luna-1. Sunstorm made some of this—what is it called on Luna-1 again? Scalded caesium?” Slipstream proudly proclaims, holding the container out to him as she comes closer. “I assumed the cold would be a bit too—familiar, so I snagged you some. Better to stay warm, unless you want your thrusters to freeze.” And she takes the opportunity to watch his reaction, his careful optics scanning the container. He delicately accepts it in his massive servos, that look never dissipating, all wonderment and awe and touched and his field fills with feelings of I can't believe this and wow!
“You saved some for me?” he inquires, voice dropping just below a whisper, and Slipstream isn't sure she was expecting this. “Slipstream—”
“Save it. It isn’t that deep.” The twinge in her optics tells Blitzwing that that’s a lie, when he finally looks back up at her. He knows what to look for, by that point. “Sunstorm is just trying to boost morale. Might not last forever, though.” She continues, her wings flicking, fluttering just slightly as bits of the dead leaves detach from the trees and tickle her mesh.
“Is zhat so?” Icy challenges, popping a latch on the lid, and taking a sip. The beverage—energon mixed with caesium and heated slowly over a period of time—is sweet and salty on his glossa, and it’s lost some of the heat in the flight, but he never minds, when it does this. It’s enough to lessen the bite of the cold. "Zhank you."
"Yeah, yeah," she rubs the back of her neck cables, ex-venting softly. She really did owe Starscream a big favor, for this. It probably is too good to be true, with how easy everything else was—getting Sunstorm to make the stuff, getting Skywarp to approach and relieve him of his duties, for Starscream to even allow her to go off after him. Perhaps it's a dream. But he looks so much more relaxed like this. Good. That's good. Coyly, perhaps without him even knowing at first, she slides into a spot beside him—not so close that he will be uncomfortable, of course. This is not some tired bid for something in return, the way Starscream likely would've done. Frankly—she isn't sure what this is. But if it's helpful, she guesses there's no harm. "We all need a break, sometimes."
"Is zhat vhy you're being so kind to me, right now?" Icy challenges, once again, watching her out of the periphery of his vision, because surely, being a clone, being tethered to Starscream means that there is something more to this. Or perhaps it is simple and true paranoia. Perhaps the war has finally driven him to this point. She gives a snort.
"No—morale is low, and lately, you've been switching more. This is not me being nice." she turns her gaze to him. "Just drink your little concoction."
"Ah, zhe commander is back," Icy smoothly teases, nursing the still hot but no longer scalding beverage, relishing the warmth settling in his tanks, and for a moment, just a moment, he is back home, on Luna-1. She does not respond. She only watches, drinking in his expression, the sight of him in the dark, bathed in moonlight. "I vonder how Sunstorm managed to do zhis. Zhe recipe is normally more—complex." But this tastes like home, he wants to say. Hothead whispers loudly in the back of his processor at the bite of the cold. He ignores that part of him.
"Lugnut apparently knows more than he lets on," Slipstream answers, and this is not a lie. Somehow, Sunstorm managed to get the recipe out of him, all without Slipstream needing to intervene. Piece of cake. "And you know Sunstorm. He's a suckup."
"Isn't it better to suck up zhan to just suck?" Random locks into place at breakneck speeds, and it's so sudden that Slipstream jumps, plating bristling, wings flaring in surprise, optics wide, and then Random is laughing and Slipstream has to fight the urge to laugh along with him. The familiar fascination strikes her again—she has no way of knowing just how he got like that, only that triple changers are rare, exceedingly so, and Blitzwing is so many things wrapped into one; complex; all three iterations strange and holding an attractive force, like a magnet. And Slipstream is the penny being drawn to them. She does her best to hide the grin that threatens to creep onto her face. It does not work.
"Good thing we don't suck." She maintains her smooth oration, practiced, perfected, sharp and to the point the way she always intends, and Blitzwing knows she means it, as she pulls from her subspace another small container, with a lid. She takes a sip.
"You could, if you vanted to!" Random blurts out, snickering to himself. Slipstream spits out the single sip she'd taken. "Oh? Vhat's zhe matter? Prefer to sp—?"
"Blitzwing." She chokes, the burning intense and her optics bleary, but she takes great care not to spill too much, anyway. Random continues to laugh, for several kliks as Slipstream attempts to regain her composure, until once again, the faces switch. Icy returns, cheekplates just slightly darker.
"Oh—Slipstream," he sputters, and he swears, he can see a twinge of color on her own faceplates too. "I'm—zhat vas—" he attempts to figure out some level of damage control. Truly, really, he does—until she does something he's not expecting. It starts quietly, barely noticeable, but all at once, he notes the rattle of her frame, and for a moment, he assumes it is angry rattling, and Hothead threatens to rotate back around. But then he sees the quirk of her optic ridges, scrunched up, dermae stretched into a mix between a smirk and a grin. And then he hears it, the quiet reverberating, snorting laughter. And that snorting laughter expands, and grows in volume and Blitzwing suddenly realizes—outside of perhaps a particularly successful battle, he hasn't heard her laugh. And the laugh isn't exactly what he expected—he isn't sure what he was expecting, but it was not the feral, lively, non-practiced laugh that exited her intake. But he can do little more but listen. And when she stops, it is only to drink her still somewhat hot beverage. They don't speak of it. There is no justifying. But Random whispers in the back of his processor, constantly, begging for centerstage again, because there is just something about this moment, about that laugh, about Slipstream's attempts at deceiving him as to the reason why she's out here, right now, with him. There's just something endearing.
Slipstream knows he knows about the lie. That Starscream sent her. But neither bother to discuss it.
"Save it," she manages, through the remnants of her laugh, and he watches her as she knocks back another sip. The warmth is less burning and more comforting than anything, by that point. It's easy to blame the tint on her cheeks on the warmth of the beverage warming her systems. It's easy to blame the chill of the air in the dying stage of earth's natural cycles—didn't the organics call this Autumn?—or it would be, had they been more sensitive. "Save it." Save me, she says, inwardly, to a god she doesn't believe in, because Primus forbid anyone hear her laughter. "Not a word to anyone, do you understand?"
Blitzwing regards her, committing the sight to memory. He smiles a warm smile at her.
"Not a vord." He raises his container, to which she bumps her own against. They drink. The sweet and the salty are in a perfect ratio, Slipstream notes. Smooth and warm and soothing and for some reason, some strange, unidentifiable reason, it brings about a feeling of nostalgia, missing things and places there is no way she could've known. She wipes the edge of her intake.
"This is common on Luna-1?" she inquires, as soon as the latch for the container is parted from her dermae, despite how she immediately wants to come back for more. No longer Blitzwing likes this stuff. Blitzwing nods sagely.
"Oh, yes. Mostly, ve drank it towards zhe end of the stellar cycle. I suppose zhe inhabitants of zhis strange little planet do zhe same." Blitzwing does not sip, despite wanting to. He thinks back to the early years. How naive he'd been. "It vas a survival recipe, initially."
"Oh?" Slipstream shifts in her spot, perhaps a tad awkwardly. Intrigue fills her field. "Was it?"
"Yes. Life vas not easy on Luna-1. It often reached very cold temperatures, fuel supplies continuously ran short—" his face switches to Hothead. "—and zhose filthy autobots—" And then again, his face switches to Random. "—can't stop sucking!" And like all other times, he bursts into that hysterical laughter. Slipstream frowns. The face changes again. And again. And again, until finally, Icy settles in, fans kicking on. "Ve had to mix energon with a multitude of elements to survive. Hence scalded caesium—it keeps us varm and energized."
Slipstream gives a nod, optics scanning his face, the pained expression. Her own look doesn't change.
"Is that why you came to Cybertron?" she inquires, because really, how much does she know about him? How much do any of them know? And he looks at her, with the shiniest gleam in his optics, his face now stolid. The metaphorical door is shut. His field is no longer readable.
"I came to Cybertron for many reasons," Blitzwing answers. "Zhe var. Zhe fuel." he sips his drink again, if only to stave Hothead, or try to, because sometimes reminders helped, and sometimes the warmth sated him—or the opposite, if he was unlucky—and sometimes, the warmth was distracting. How long, he has to wonder, has it been since he drank this? "Lord Megatron is quite persuasive. He's quite good at making one feel that they belong to the cause."
Slipstream nods, again. She notes that gleam worsening in his optics and then—oh. A stray lubricant tear finds itself rolling down his faceplates. Her optic ridges rise, surprise clear on her face.
"Oh," Slipstream says, quietly, ignoring the visceral urge to lean in and wipe away the tear, because it's simply not appropriate to do so, and it's simply not right to want to do so—here—suddenly—when he's upset over something. She watches him, instead. Because somehow, even when upset, he's beautiful. "You're leaking."
"Oh," Blitzwing, Icy, whoever he is at the moment, wipes it away, lost in the pure nostalgia that this damn concoction always draws out. He sighs. "My apologies, I'm quite messy tonight, it seems."
"Save it," Slipstream cannot police her tone quick enough to mask the concern that threatens to well up, because what use does concern have in warfare? "What's upsetting you?" she has to ask, because even though he is beautiful no matter what he does, and even though she watches him, and she hopes for him, and she leads for him and for her, it's the tears, unprompted, that drive her to act. And then he looks at her, faceplates blank, because how could either of them ever hope to express the unsaid things when many millennia have proven that feelings are fatal, that it will only drag them down?
But then Blitzwing is silent. Because all he can remember are those last days before the experiments. And Slipstream does not ask. It's no wonder no one knows, now. But she will. Eventually. She has to. She wants to.
Awkwardly, she shimmies a tad closer, the way Vosian coding croons for her to do, because her spark croons for him, and she makes a soft trilling noise, leaning against him. As if to say I'm here. Blitzwing does not move. He gives her a startled look. But he leans into it, just slightly, and she trills again. Occasionally, she feels the teardrops fall on her, but she doesn't complain. They remain like that, with their hot drinks, feeling the chill, and the ebb and flow of feeling—because sometimes that's why we take breaks. And maybe that's the purpose of flights, of drives, of war; feeling. Because a feeling is so strong you must act. Or maybe not. Perhaps it's the caesium. Perhaps the caesium is making the feeling too deep, too profound. But he doesn't care.
At least he's not alone. At least Slipstream's here.
She's the only scalded caesium he needs right now.
Notes:
i am mainly also doing these fics to explore their personalities/writing them dfgsdgsdg
also i love writing characters when they're soft, can u tell yet lmao
might rewrite these at some point, I'm so sorry if these dorks are ooc *sobbing, shaking, squicking*
Chapter 3: Feelin Groovy
Chapter Text
There's that sound again, Thundercracker groans to himself as soon as his optics online and he can hear the wild laughter, companied by the thrum of an electrobass.
He would be used to it by now, if he had been afforded more time to totally adjust to the most recent change, no matter how excited he'd been leading up. He shifts in his berth, exhaling, dragging his servos down his face as soon as his fears are confirmed; the space beside him is empty, cold, the door just slightly ajar. Moving day was only a few days ago, he has to remind himself, but Jazz has already accustomed himself to this. Somehow, Skywarp has immediately gotten used to him—which, frankly, is surprising. For a long time, it was just him and his trine—and he just had to fall in love with that little Polyhexian spy. He just had to love him, little things and all, even given the tension of their opposing factions, when the war was still going. And he just had to be intrigued enough to spend his time watching and learning about him. And he just had to move him in, because he knows enough of Jazz to not want to let him go. And so, naturally, Skywarp just had to take to him right away. And that's probably not the greatest thing to transpire—but it's better than the rejection of a trine.
"Wait, wait, wait, play that one human song—how does it go?" Thundercracker can hear Skywarp snicker in the main living area. And in the room across the hall, he swears, he can hear Starscream's own frustrated groans. He can hear the Polyhexian giggle wildly, that feral, unhinged, entertained giggle that mirrored Skywarp's, the sound that had drawn the deep cerulean seeker in, that had initially caught Thundercracker's eye. He sighs as soon as he hears Africa by Toto play—and yes, he knows the song, no, not because he likes it but because Jazz loves humans and human culture and because Jazz loves humans and human culture, he must, by default, love them too. Thundercracker listens as Skywarp laughs again and clumsily sings along to the main chorus (horribly).
The seeker swings his legs over the side of the berth, biting back a yawn as he does. It's his new normal, he tells himself. He goes about his day like normal, listening to the laughter, and the smooth, deep bass strings as they're strummed. He washes like normal, listening to Jazz's pretty voice, listening to him and Skywarp getting on so well, and he must smile, because although Starscream is annoyed, everyone else is happy. He polishes and preens like normal, and organizes his many data pads with his creative writings, and he delicately pets Buster, all while listening to the mini party in the main living area of the home. And then it's off with him to investigate.
Jazz and Skywarp and Blaster are there as expected. With musical instruments—Jazz, of course, his electrobass, Skywarp, a kazoo, and Blaster, a cybersaxophone. An interesting combination.
"What's going on?" He finds himself asking, prompting all three of the mechs to look up, like deer in headlights. "Shouldn't you all be asleep?"
"Babe!" Jazz greets, that beautiful, wide smile crawling onto his lips immediately upon seeing him. He hops up—it's so cute when he does that, Thundercracker thinks—and sets his electrobass down delicately, before darting over and draping his arms around him. "Wanna groove with us?"
Thundercracker gives him a bewildered look.
"Jazz, it's one in the morning," Thundercracker responds, and the Polyhexian looks up at him, the round of his cheek pressed against him, and it's only then that their size difference is apparent, and he gives him that look, that look that Thundercracker has had to decode time and again, but he knows exactly what it means. "Sweetspark, you need to come to bed. How long have you been up?"
"Aw, c'mon, T.C., he wants you to groove with us!" Skywarp snickers. "Pick up the mic or dance or something."
"We know you got some groove in you, T.C., you ain't as good at hidin' it as you think!" Blaster flashes a bright grin. And then Skywarp, and Blaster, and Jazz are all giving him that look and he sighs, because he can't resist that look. He leans down, and presses a soft kiss against the top of Jazz's helm.
"If I do one dance with you," he mumbles. "Will you come to bed?"
Jazz pecks his lip plates softly, to the seeker's surprise.
"One dance, that's all, sweet thing!" He muses, grinning wide, all teeth, and Thundercracker has to take this moment to stare in disbelief at the audacity Jazz has of being so pretty. The seeker leans in and kisses him again, earning suggestive cheer from the pair that they'd forgotten about, for just a moment. And then before Thundercracker knows it, Skywarp is (poorly) playing the kazoo, the host mech playing the cybersaxophone again, and like a flame from the embers, Jazz comes to life again, easily, happily taking the lead, because Jazz is the dancer between the two, and he knows all the moves, and he knows where to hold, where to step, when to dip or twirl or what have you.
The seeker doesn't understand these human dances. Whatever type this one is, it's intimate, hands clasped in one another, and it looks comical for a moment because Jazz is so tiny and T.C. is so gargantuan compared to him, and they should've been enemies but here they are, moved in together, with Thundercracker's trine and Starscream's conjunx (currently out on an expedition). They've danced this one a hundred times, he assumes—he believes it's called swing dancing. And though he still isn't sure what he's doing, Jazz directs him gently, carefully. Because he knows all the steps, and he's perfected them enough to be fluid with each movement, and he has to wonder, when he dips Jazz down in the dance, how he has managed to be like this—happy and lively and filled with so much energy that T.C. is certain he can never match. Not in the ways that count, anyhow. But that's okay. Because Jazz is in his arms. He presses another kiss against his faceplates, chaste, as he brings him back to his pedes, and then Jazz is clinging to him, arms wrapped securely around his neck cables as soon as he's lifted high enough to reach, peppering kisses against his faceplates, and to his dermas.
"One more dance?" Jazz requests, even as Blaster pulls his intake off of his cybersaxophone to laugh at the couple and Skywarp is fiddling with his now-jammed kazoo.
"We had a deal," Thundercracker rumbles, capturing his dermae again in a kiss. "Don't go backing out now, Jazz."
"Please?" Jazz gives him that look again, the look that makes Thundercracker weak as he presses nice and close, those dermae hovering over his own, a short enough distance to feel his vents exhale air over his frame. He exhales shakily. "Pretty please?"
"Tempt me and the dance we do will have to be taken to the berthroom." Thundercracker mumbles to his pretty, flirty little mate, who only challenges him more with a big grin, pressing another kiss against those dermae.
"Oh?" Jazz adds. "That a promise?"
"Do you prefer for the next dance to be done in front of our friends?" Thundercracker's voice drops to a whisper, and it sends a shudder down Jazz's spinal strut. He chews his lip in faux thought. "I'm waiting, Jazz."
"Careful now, Thundy, he might say yes," Warp laughs. The cerulean seeker gives a thoughtful hum, before gently placing Jazz down. "You gonna indulge him in that second dance or nah? 'Cause I want a round with 'im."
"Hey, back off, he's mine." T.C. smooths a servo over Jazz's helm, brushing over his sensitive audio horns. "One more dance, Jazz."
The Polyhexian grins at him, bringing Thundercracker's free servo to his dermae, and pressing a gentle kiss against the apex of his knuckles. As if on cue, Blaster starts playing again. Thundercracker at least knows how to dance this one—the foxtrot was always one of his more favorite human dances, after all, and there are few he would've wanted to dance it with other than Jazz. Thundercracker leads, this time, even though Jazz has set the pace to being uptempo and still a bit fast, but the seeker is happy to oblige, because this makes Jazz happy. And maybe it's cheesy, and sure, Skywarp is probably recording—but it's nice, regardless. It's so nice, and they're so happy, that Thundercracker forgets about the time, until Starscream emerges to yell at them to keep it down. So the party adjourns, but it does not fully end, even when Blaster says goodnight and Skywarp retreats to another room to answer a comm from the mysterious mech he had not introduced his trine to yet.
Jazz and Thundercracker adjourn to their newly shared berthroom. The party continues with kisses and Jazz's musical laughter, and Thundercracker can't help but thank his lucky stars that this is his life. That the war did not end so horribly and violently and bloody, though it certainly could've. Because his trine is alive, and the future feels bright, and he swears, the groove in his spark lives because Jazz is here.
How nice it is to love like this.
Chapter 4: Bad Weather
Summary:
G1. Skyfire's hurting. Jazz is just very sweet <3
Chapter Text
"Don'cha ever wanna leave the lab, big guy?"
Skyfire supposes he should have expected the question, given how long he's been in this lab now. He blinks, staring at the meteorological map the program had put together before him, at the silhouette of the clouds laden with what he could only assume was snow drifting steadily over their area of operation.
"No," he wistfully answers, dragging the screen to look at other, less affected areas. He hears his tiny partner give a soft sigh. "It's more comfortable here."
"Aw, c'mon, Sky. You're in here a lot. Don't you ever want to see the outside of a lab?" Jazz looks up at him with a pout on his plush, soft dermae, and Skyfire knows he is pouting by the sound of his voice, and he smiles, but he does not look at him. He can't tear his gaze from the sonar, at the raging storm incoming. No escape. It's likely they would all be snowed in—Decepticons, too. No fighting, today, because the war is cruel, and sometimes, it's necessary to embrace the cold. Skyfire can only be grateful that he is not out there. Not again. Not like last time.
"It's familiar. You're welcome to stay in here and chat with me while I work on some—passion projects." He glances at the Martini Porsche, who pouts up at him still, and Skyfire can't help but grow a bittersweet smile, because his old friend once used to pout like that, the same friend that had, somehow, linked the two of them. Jazz, ever the fervent one, steps closer, attempting to peek up, at the sonar.
"What're ya lookin' at?" He asks. And Skyfire knows he is not as well versed in science as he is, but bless his little spark for being interested. He smiles softly, still, at the second in command.
"Well, I'm working on an old project from my academy days. It might help us, given the energon shortage, but–" Skyfire sighs softly. "Starscream might have the rest of the recipe. So I'm refining it. But none of my experiments appear to be helping me complete the puzzle."
Jazz looks up again, more into his face. The shuttle can feel a two-tap against his leg—their agreed upon signal for the Martini Porsche to be lifted up. He leans down, and gently picks the younger bot up.
"You okay?" Is the first thing he asks, and Skyfire has to smile at him, still, because it has never done him good not to do so. "I know you were torn up, after that last fight."
Skyfire can feel his smile falter.
"He was my best friend." The word 'was' stings so unexpectedly hard. "I never wanted things to end the way they did."
"Aw, Sky." Jazz is so gentle when he gently rubs the apex of Skyfire's knuckle, on his digit, before he is rested on Skyfire's shoulder. "It isn't your fault, you know."
Isn't it? Sky feels the need to ask. I am the one who got himself frozen.
"I wanted to do right by him. But I couldn't keep him safe." Skyfire tries to abate the swell and ache of his spark as he reminisces the past, how things used to be, should've been, would've always been if this stupid war never broke out. "And then—"
The meteorological map switches. The light flickers. The storm is right upon them. He can practically hear the freezing winds, and he shudders.
"You good?" Jazz asks, and Skyfire doesn't answer initially. He swears it's too cold in there. He swears his HUD flashes again. He swears he can still feel his body locking up. "'s gonna be okay, Sky."
"I wasn't trying to get frozen," Sky softly says, unable to ignore his spark's hurt. "I didn't mean to leave him to get hurt." And he means this. And Jazz knows he means this, even though Sky's faceplates are stolid and his optics are glossy and focused on something or other. Jazz presses a gentle servo into the side of his faceplate, "I promised him." I promised to always follow.
"It ain't your fault, Sky." Jazz softly says to him, pressing a gentle kiss to the side of his helm, and both of them know, logically, words alone can't fix this. His friendship is dissolved, disintegrated, for what? A stupid war. A stupid war that took too many things from Starscream. That made problems that Skyfire knows, realistically, he cannot fix on his own, though he is desperate to do so. "Sometimes friendships jus' fall apart."
"But I didn't want this one to fall apart," Sky can't help but find himself saying, in the softest voice, because on the monitor, on the many cameras, he can see the snowfall, the flurries of white, and it brings him back to that blizzard, and all at once, he can't help but want to cry. To comm Star and tell him how sorry he was. To tell him he made a mistake. "We were supposed to become Cybertron's finest scientists together."
"I know, Sky," Jazz murmurs to the shuttle, leaning against him, softly peppering his faceplates and helm in kisses, as if to tell him that it's okay. Because Jazz knows he can never take away that hurt. "I know, baby."
Sky never did understand that term of endearment. But he's never questioned it, because Jazz never questioned him, Jazz always respected his feelings, because Jazz knows how to protect a secret, and Skyfire knows that feelings are better kept put to the side, a secret within a secret. He turns his helm, and presses a soft kiss in response to Jazz's helm.
"I apologize. I'm not a fan of the cold weather. It makes me...nostalgic." he rumbles, keeping his gaze on Jazz, because sometimes he is the perfect distraction, and sometimes Jazz is so comforting, and sometimes he feels far too self indulgent not to look at his pretty partner. Jazz was not trusting of him at first—understandably, no one was—but here he is, now. Able to, willing to, happy to tell him things would be okay, and to pepper his face in kisses. The thought alone is enough to keep him warm.
"Don'cha worry 'bout it," Jazz hums a musical note, one he can immediately recognize as the one Jazz makes when he is content. Skyfire smiles his shy, goofy smile, unable to stop himself from kissing again. "Given the ordeal ya went through, I don't blame ya."
"Thank you." And Skyfire means it when he says that. "I love you."
"Feelin' romantic today, big guy?" Jazz laughs his musical laugh, the one that can make any and all mechs and femmes fall to their knees for. "You're so cute. Love ya too, Sky."
It's been a long time since bad weather didn't make Skyfire nervous. But he doesn't mind or even notice it, now. He presses a soft kiss against Jazz's dermae, soft and gentle and loving, like satin, if only to let Jazz know that he was always safe with him, regardless of bad weather or being cold. Jazz reciprocates eagerly.
Bad weather isn't always so bad, Skyfire reckons. You just need the right person to keep you warm.
Chapter 5: Happy Endings
Summary:
Universe soup? Probably somewhat IDW—
Surprise!
Notes:
this is related to my rust sticks fic owo huehue
Chapter Text
"My dear, is this necessary?" Megatron's voice cannot be described as anything more than a deep rumble in the back of his throat as he asks the question, fighting the urge to peer down at the little femme fidgeting with something or other.
"Of course it is! Now hush!" Firestar scoffs, puffing her cheeks out in a cute pout as she attempts to compile whatever it is that she's compiling. Megatron grumbles, but he obeys. "You're gonna ruin the surprise!"
It's an odd relationship they have, and—frankly—neither of them are even sure how it came to fruition. Kaon has so many nightclubs. And on the night they met, it had been a particularly difficult day in the mines. And the gladiatorial fights had been postponed out of concern for police presence—what good would it do them if it was just cancelled all together on some stupid legal technicality?
And Megatron would be lying, if he said she was not gorgeous on that stage, despite what others might say. He would be lying if he said he was not mesmerized by the way she posed and angled her hips and teased the audience with her smile and the almost corrupting way in which she pawed at the strings of her scanty costume. He watches her as she moves, now, about their tiny shack, her hips still with that same sway he saw on stage as she strutted her way to that pole. How lucky he is, he has to think, that she had decided to answer his call after their first night together.
"And what would this surprise be, my love?" he inquires, only to earn a desperate, perhaps somewhat annoyed look. His cheekplates never cease to flare at her. "Well?"
"It won't be a surprise if you make me tell you," she gruffly answers, fidgeting, still, and all at once, it is clear how acutely nervous she must be—and all at once, Megatron can feel his own spark shudder anxiously. "Quit asking."
And that firey attitude. It would be nice if she had just been a good, submissive little femme—but this? Primus, Megatron loves it when he fires back like that.
"How long will this surprise take, then?" Megatron inquires, impatient, playful, watching the little Camien as she pulls something from behind one of the drawers, and his optic ridges furrow, as soon as he notes the tremble in her servos. "Are you alright?"
"Honestly," she sighs, still trembling as she pulls the small box out from its hiding place. "I'm not sure. But, uh," she turns to him, that little box, wrapped in old papers and tied together with a nice little ribbon from a costume she inexplicably doesn't wear anymore, grasped tightly in her servos. "I, I have a gift I need you to open. Right now."
"What's the rush?" Increasingly, Megatron can't help but find this endeavor stupid, almost demeaning, but looking at her, he can't just ignore the urge he has to indulge her, because now she is giving him that look, that look that he knew was all desperation, that look he only ever saw outside of the club, and during his matches when she comes to watch, and when they had to make that deal with those nameless mechs that came, demanding their allegience in return for assistance in survival. Pole dancing, no matter how talented Firestar had been, did not earn enough credits, and gladiatorial fighting, though it helped tremendously to bring in money, did not quite make ends meet. His spark falters, for a shadow of a moment. "My dear—"
"Take it. It's vital." she holds the box out to him. He accepts it, because what else is he to do? He sighs softly, eyeing the ribbon cautiously, before pulling one long end to undo the knot, and he delicately moves the old yellowed papers to open the box. Firestar braces, but does not flinch, she does not stand down, she simply watches him, her servos pressed gently against her chassis, over her spark.
"Firestar—" Megatron rumbles, flipping the flaps of the box open, only to be greeted with tissue paper. "Really, you shouldn't have—we barely have the credits to—" but his words die on his glossa, as soon as he realizes he's not looking at a material gift that can be bought with credits (not with how few they had, anyway). His spark stops, entirely. His face drops, optics wide, and he feels as though he should be anxious, stressed out, joyous, angry, many, many things—but for the moment, he is blank. Firestar stares at him. "What is this?"
"A scan—from that emergency visit to the doctor. Remember? When I passed out that time during your fight and they carted me off?" she inquires, and Megatron can't help but feel the shame lurch forth in his spark as soon as he recalls that fight—when the light of his spark almost snuffed, when he swears, he saw the face of Primus, or Unicron, or whatever lies beyond the veil. "Do you know what that little dot is?"
Megatron's spark swells. He stares at the picture, and the folded up papers, and the small, small teething stick she'd included in the box. The one not-so-perfectly folded paper that sticks out clearly reads, "Congratulations! You're sparked!"
"No," he rasps, looking up from the contents of the box at Firestar, who is still cradling her chassis, where the newspark must have still been. "N-no, you—you're serious," he whispers, picking up the photos of the scan, of the spark that seemed to wibble around his lover's, that seemed so bright and energetic and lively, and he shudders at the prospect that a lifeless wasteland like this, with so few sparklings, could be blessed again. He feels as though he should be upset. But he isn't. Truly, he isn't. "You're sparked?"
"Y-yeah!" Firestar gives a nervous laugh, and he swears he can see smoke rising from the top of her helm, where her flames normally come out. He delicately holds the pictured scans as he sets aside the box, his spark alight, his systems heating, joy, excitement, unadulterated shock filling his field. And in a moment, Firestar is in his arms, and he lifts her up with a surprised squeak, and a prideful, gleeful laugh exits his intake. She does not seem to be expecting this reaction, but—she laughs too.
"My love," he muses to her, unable to stop himself from smiling—how long as it been since she's seen him smile like that?—at her, holding her closely, tightly, securely, because Primus forbid anything happen to her should he set her down. "My Firefly," he rumbles, pressing a kiss against her dermae, a gentle servo running over her sparkchamber, ghosting over her mesh. "How long?" he whispers.
"A couple of orbital cycles," she murmurs. "It was high risk, so I—I didn't, want to jinx it. That's why I waited to tell you." she presses a kiss against his dermae. "Megs, we—we're going to be creators." she rasps, as if in disbelief herself, and Megatron gives her another wide smile. "We're going to be creators." she repeats, because it feels more like a dream than it does reality. "I—I asked them to test three times, when I last went."
"Firestar," Megatron eases her back to her pedes, now stooped over to softly pepper her dermae and her face in kisses. "My dear—I-I can't believe it." he rasps. "I can't believe it."
"I know," she manages, very nearly in tears, and the mech softly kisses them away as they threaten to roll down her cheekplates. "I'm so happy, Megs, I—" her voice cracks as she says this, and he gently cradles her face, if only so he can kiss her again. "I'm so happy."
"I'm going to keep you both safe." he murmurs, and he means it, because a promise is a promise, and he tries to keep as many as possible, whenever he can. "I'll provide for you both. And teach him to be strong. I promise." he says, and he means this too. And he punctuates it with more soft kisses to her faceplates, and one soft kiss to her spark chamber, where their little one must be.
"I love you." she says, and she means it, because it's true, because Megatron is just as soft on the inside as he is hardened and weathered by strife. He rests his forehead against hers, exhaling softly, because there is nothing he can reasonably do besides enjoy this moment, embrace this joy, in a land where such joy is so hard to come by.
"I adore you," he murmurs to her. "I would die for you," he gives her waist a soft squeeze, earning a soft, startled gasp. "I love you." he smiles warmly, if a bit awkwardly at her. "Both of you."
And maybe this will be difficult. And maybe dancing will be a temporary impossibility—or least, the type of dancing she does for work will be—but it's worth it. And maybe that will make it harder, the day that, inevitably, Megatron doesn't return from the pits. But they can make it work. They have to. For the little spark in her chassis.
This is her happy ending, she hopes. The happy ending for them both. The happy ending they dream of, after the fights and sleazy patrons and the hard times. The little pieces of their happy ending lie in this. In these moments. In her spark chamber.
And hopefully, their happy ending lasts forever.
eerian_sadow on Chapter 2 Mon 17 Oct 2022 02:54AM UTC
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Dripping_Shattered_Stars on Chapter 2 Fri 21 Oct 2022 10:55PM UTC
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thewiglesswonder on Chapter 2 Mon 24 Oct 2022 02:08AM UTC
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Dripping_Shattered_Stars on Chapter 3 Fri 21 Oct 2022 10:57PM UTC
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ChugBug on Chapter 4 Sun 30 Jul 2023 08:13AM UTC
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