Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

1. Handcuffs/Fingering — G1 Skywarp/Thundercracker

2. Service Top — G1 Starscream/Thundercracker

3. Omegaverse — ES Skywarp/Starscream

4. Age Gap — G1 Thundercracker/Silverbolt

5. Praise Kink — IDW Windblade/Starscream

6. "Yes, Sir" — G1 Megatron/Thundercracker

7. "We shouldn't do this"/Power Bottom — ES Breakdown/Bumblebee

8. "You need to be punished" — G1 Skywarp/Thundercracker

9. Bodypaint & Tattoos— IDW2 Slipstream/Skywarp

10. "I've never done this before" — G1 Skywarp/Thundercracker

11. Swords & Guns — IDW Skywarp/Deadlock

12. "Behave yourself" — G1 Skywarp/Starscream/Thundercracker

13. Size Difference — IDW Astrotrain/Skywarp

14. Anal — SG Skywarp/Thundercracker

15. Wing Play — IDW Nautica/Chromia/Windblade

16. Voyeurism — G1 Skywarp/Starscream/Thundercracker

17. Spanking — G1 Skywarp/Thundercracker

18. Rituals & Rites — G1 Skywarp/Starscream/Thundercracker

19. Blood & Wounds — TFP Starscream/Knock Out

20. Aliens made them do it — G1 Ultra Magnus/Cyclonus

21. Manhandling — G1 Skywarp/Thundercracker

22. Science Experiment — G1 Starscream/Skyfire

23. Oh no, I'm stuck! — G1 Skywarp/Starscream/Thundercracker

24. Insecticon Hive — TFP Starscream/Insecticons

25. Wireplay — Skybound Skywarp/Thundercracker

26. Vibrator — G1 Skywarp/Thundercracker

27. Servos & Digits — SG Starscream/Skyfire

28. Fabrics & Materials — IDW Skywarp/Starscream/Thundercracker

29. Sensory Deprivation — Cyberverse Windblade/Slipstream

30. Orgy/Cuddling — G1 Megatron/Skywarp/Starscream/Thundercracker

31. Wild Card — IDW2 Nautica/Road Rage

Chapter Text

Thundercracker squirms, feeling his wings scrape lightly against the wall. He tries to roll some of the tension out of his shoulders, but their restrained position hinders him. If he looks up, past the bulk of his arms, he can just make out the light glinting off the shiny silver metal. 

In front of him, Skywarp catches him looking, and grins.

“Comfortable?” He asks, optics roving over Thundercracker’s body. Thundercracker glares at him, already halfway to regretting this whole operation, but he isn’t ready to quit just yet. No, Skywarp would never let him live it down. 

“Get on with it then. Don’t just stand there.” 

“Oh, don’t worry,” Skywarp smirks deviously, “you’ll get yours soon enough.”

Thundercracker looks away from him, not willing to stand being leered at, but at that moment Skywarp is suddenly right next to him, hands on his hips, mouth against his neck. Thundercracker is never going to object to that. 

All too soon, Skywarp’s clever digits in the seam of his wings have his valve panel snicking open. Thundercracker is possessed by the urge to touch Skywarp back, to get his hands in that valve seam, throw him down, and frag him senseless like he usually does during their off-hours, but his attempt comes up short. There’s a rattling, clanging sound as the chain above his head shakes, and he feels Skywarp smile into his neck, the bastard. 

Then, Skywarp’s fingers brush across his anterior node, and he nearly bites through his lip trying not to moan. He doesn’t succeed. 

“Enjoying yourself?” Asks Skywarp, rubbing small circles into his node while his other hand gets at the seams of Thundercracker’s ailerons. Thundercracker gives him his firmest, most Starscreamy sneer, unwilling to admit just how wet this is making him. He can feel his valve getting hotter as lubricant builds up, can feel it practically itching for somebody to touch it. 

He won’t have to admit anything, though, because Skywarp’s curious fingers reach further down, and when he pulls them to his face to examine them, they’re glistening. 

“Somebody likes this,” he says, tracing a bold circle around Thundercracker’s valve as he rubs his node with his thumb. Then, before Thundercracker can be reduced to begging, he slides a finger inside. Thundercracker sighs, spreading his legs further apart as Skywarp’s finger quests deeper. He leans his head back against the wall, optics shuttering when one finger becomes two, thrusting into him at a rapidly increasing pace. Primus, that feels amazing.

“I’ve dreamt about this,” Skywarp says, teeth scraping across Thundercracker’s neck, “so many times.”

He sounds wrecked, and he isn’t even the one against the wall. His voice is breathy, and when he draws back to run his free fingertip along Thundercracker’s jaw, his optics are hazy.

“What’s that?” asks Thundercracker, with some effort. Forming thoughts is becoming difficult. Skywarp curls his fingers just right, and Thundercracker barely hears Skywarp’s next words over his own cry.

“Returning the favor,” says Skywarp, close enough now for their lips to brush, “doing to you what you do to me.”

He leans in to kiss him properly, and Thundercracker knows what he must look like right now, writhing and arching, shoulders pressing into the wall, wrists yanking on the cuffs as he tries to escape Skywarp’s ministrations, each harsh thrust and scissor of purple fingers, to no avail. He knows because he knows what Skywarp looks like, every time he’s pressed against the wall this way. Desperate. Needy. Vulnerable. 

Skywarp adds a third finger, sliding it easily into the slick mess that is Thundercracker’s valve, and Thundercracker breaks their kiss to throw his head back. It’s so much, it’s almost too much, and he can’t escape it. He has no choice but to take it. 

With a sharp cry and a roar of engines, he overloads, clenching down on Skywarp’s fingers as he convulses. Above him, the chain clangs against the wall as it swings back and forth, thrown into motion by the force of his seizing. When he comes down from it, Skywarp is there in front of him, fingers still inside him and looking at him like he’s seeing him in a new light. 

“Ready for more?”

Thundercracker nods enthusiastically, and Skywarp grins as he kisses him. 

Chapter Text

Thundercracker is the largest of their trine. He’s a bit taller than Skywarp, which means he easily towers over Starscream. He’s also heavier built than both of them, which means pinning them both down comes easily to him. He can even do it with one hand.

And they like his spike. Both of them. A lot. They go on and on about it.

Which means that, every single time, he always inevitably finds himself in the embrace of one or both of their valves, depending on who’s in the mood for it. Between the two of them, he means. They never ask what he’s in the mood for. 

So it comes down to this, another unsatisfying night with Skywarp in their private washrack cleaning Thundercracker’s transfluid out of his valve while Starscream lays on the berth, screaming loud enough for the entire ship to hear. 

“Yes, yes Thundercracker, right there, yes—ahhhhh!”

With a shriek, Starscream overloads hard enough to get knocked offline, and Thundercracker pulls out, using a spare cloth to clean Starscream’s valve of his own lubricants while he waits for his trineleader to reboot. It takes a while this time—Starscream must have really enjoyed it, which he supposes he can be proud of—and Thundercracker has already washed the cloth off in their sink and hung it up to dry when Starscream abruptly sits up on the berth next to him and says, “you didn’t overload.” 

“What?”

“You. You didn’t—,” he makes an aborted gesture at his own valve, and Thundercracker sighs, knowing what’s coming next.

“You did with him,” Starscream says, a little accusation entering his tone as he jerks a finger toward the washrack, “what, you like him better than me now?”

Thundercracker barely resists rolling his eyes. “No, Starscream,” he says, “it’s not that, it’s just—ugh.”

“Just ugh? What, am I too boring for you now?”

He glares, and Thundercracker looks at his feet, trying not to get fried to a crisp by the force of that sneer.  

“I only meant that…aren’t you a little bored? Of this? Doing the same thing every night?”

“Not particularly. Why?”

Thundercracker looks at him. Starscream looks back. 

“…You’re bored. You’re bored of me.” 

“No!” Thundercracker nearly shouts, throwing his hands up in what he hopes is a placating gesture, “not of you, either of you!”

Starscream’s optics narrow, not buying it. 

“Okay, maybe bored wasn’t the right word,” says Thundercracker, sitting down on the berth next to Starscream, “I just want to try…something else. Something different.”

“And what might that be?”

Normally, getting Starscream to try anything “new” and “different” is a completely fruitless endeavor. He likes things a certain way, and typically throws a tantrum if the delicate balance of his life is upset. Yet this time, he’s looking at Thundercracker not with dismissal, but with intrigue, curiosity, a little hunger. Like he can sense it. Eyeing him carefully, Thundercracker gives up trying to gauge his emotions and decides to take the plunge.

With a snick, his valve cover slides open. 

Starscream stares at it, that clean silver valve that he has rarely seen, if ever, and honestly, the fact that Thundercracker can’t remember the last time either of his trine even saw his valve says it all. He shies away, fearing Starscream’s reaction, but somehow, that little bit of hunger has taken over Starscream’s entire face, sweeping away all other emotion to make way for itself. 

Like an animal, he crawls toward Thundercracker on the berth, herding him backward until Thundercracker is pressed against the headboard, wings flattening against it as Starscream slithers up to him, eyeing his valve like it’s a cube of crystal clear energon, and he hasn’t had a drink in a century. 

“Why didn’t you say so?” He asks, then licks him.

Thundercracker nearly screams; just one touch from Starscream’s tongue, and already he feels like he might overload. Starscream wastes no time getting to business—he grabs Thundercracker’s thighs and pins them to the berth with his surprising strength, blocking Thundercracker from escape, and immediately starts eating his valve like it’s his last meal. Thundercracker arches against the headboard as Starscream sucks his node, wings clattering against it as they shiver. 

Then, Starscream gently scrapes his teeth across the lips of Thundercracker’s valve, sending a jolt of pleasure and surprise up Thundercracker’s spinal strut, before jamming his tongue as deep into his valve as it can go.

With a shout, Thundercracker overloads, slumping backward as Starscream kisses his node. That didn’t take much at all. Thundecracker puts his face in his hands, ashamed. 

“None of that,” Starscream commands, tugging Thundercracker down the berth by his ankles, with significant effort. Again Thundercracker is reminded of their different sizes as he shimmies down the berth, helping Starscream out. How will this go, if Starscream isn’t strong enough to—

Suddenly, Starscream grabs his wrists and pins them to the berth, sliding in between Thundercracker’s parted thighs and slotting their hips together. Thundercracker struggles on instinct, and realizes he almost can’t escape. Starscream isn’t strong enough to truly hold him down, but he’s doing more than Thundercracker expected. The thought sends a thrill up his spine, so he grinds upward, and when Starscream grinds back down, he does it with the firm shape of his spike against Thundercracker’s hips.

Thundercracker doesn’t know when Starscream released his spike, but he does know that Starscream is now dragging it through the cleft of his valve lips, wetting it with his lubricants, letting Thundercracker feel its entire—not insubstantial—length splitting his folds.

“Do you want it?”

Thundercracker has waited too long to be patient. 

“What kind of question is that? Yes!”

Rather than sneer at being ordered around, Starscream just slides his spike into Thundercracker’s waiting valve, taking his sweet time to let every ridge pop past the rim one by one, until his spiketip is pressed up against Thundercracker’s ceiling node. Thundercracker moans full and careless at the fullness, calipers rippling and twitching, fingertips twisting into the berth covers as Starscream caresses his wrists with surprising gentleness. 

Then he draws out, snaps his hips forward, and starts fucking Thundercracker like his life depends on it. 

“Ah—, mm—, Starscream, yes, right there!” 

Starscream quickly finds that spot right at the top of Thundercracker’s valve, focusing all his attention on it as he leans down to mouth at Thundercracker’s neck, soft lips so at odds with the force of his spike impaling Thundercracker just right. Thundercracker cries out in a way that he knows Starscream has never heard before, and he feels teeth nip at his neck.

“How long have you wanted this?” Starscream asks, voice husky and hungry and right in his audial as he nails Thundercracker’s ceiling node over and over again.

“So—ungh—so long! But you never—, you never ask me—, Starscream!”

“What you want?” Starscream asks, pushing all the way in and grinding his hips against Thundercracker’s aggressively, making his optics flash and wings flutter. Thundercracker nods, barely coherent. Starscream’s tone is as hungry as ever, but there’s something new coloring it; something almost like contrition. He presses his mouth to Thundercracker’s neck, sucking on his cables, before:

“That changes today.” 

He straightens, hips still grinding against Thundercracker’s, and asks, “what do you want?”

Thundercracker doesn’t have to think twice.

“Harder!” He demands, and Starscream growls like he’s been waiting for the order. He slams out and back in, setting a pace even faster and rougher than before, like he’s trying to spark Thundercracker up. Thundercracker screams, frame bouncing on the berth, vocalizer tripping over helpless moans.

“What do you want!” Starscream asks again, shouting to be heard over the clanging of their frames together.

“Ah—, my wings—, touch them, please!” 

Starscream follows his orders, keeping his pace as he frees Thundercracker’s wrists and goes for his wings, first groping his ailerons and then gripping his wingtips firmly, using them as handholds to yank Thundercracker forward onto his thrusts. Thundercracker sobs, throwing his arms around Starscream’s neck. In his core, he feels heat blooming, making his body twitch and vocalizer spit shameless static as overload looms over him, ready to sweep him away. 

A third time Starscream asks, “what do you want?” and this time, Thundercracker looks and him shyly and says, “kiss me?” 

Starscream does, and less than a second later Thundercracker overloads, crying out as Starscream slams into his hypersensitized nodes one, two, three, four more times before his hips stutter and he spills his own overload into Thundercracker, whispering his name against his mouth all the while. 

They both collapse together onto the berth, Starscream huffing from the exertion, and stay like that, stroking each other’s wings and kissing each other’s mouths.

“Thanks,” says Thundercracker, “for indulging me. We don’t have to do it again if you don’t—mm!“

Starscream kisses him to shut him up. “Trust me,” he says solemnly, “we will absolutely do this again.” 

Thundercracker smiles, and at that moment the washrack doors slide open and a freshly clean Skywarp steps through, catches sight of Starscream’s spike still lodged in Thundercracker’s valve, and swears: “dammit, what the Pit did I miss?” 

Chapter Text

It’s difficult, knowing he’s never coming back. Living in the wilderness, being imprisoned, dealing with that bitch Nova Storm every day (that’s the worst part)…it’s hard. Skywarp hates it. 

“Tell me again,” she says, head in Starscream’s lap, looking up at him as he looks anywhere except her face, “tell me what you saw.”

“I saw the AllSpark go through the portal. I saw it reach Cybertron. I saw the portal destroyed, and nothing else.”

“You saw it reach Cybertron?”

“Yes.”

“You saw it?”

“With my own two optic sensors.” 

Skywarp huffs. “Good,” she says, “good.”

By right, it should be Skywarp telling Starscream these things, not the other way around. She should be the trineleader. She is the alpha, and he the omega. But Starscream is unlike any omega, truly, unlike any other mechanism she has ever met. He is so filled with conviction that she swears he could convince her the sky was green if he really wanted to. It’s the only thing that’s kept her alive thus far; believing in him, believing everything he says, no matter how ludicrous. 

Except this. 

No matter how hard she tries, she can’t quite believe that Cybertron still exists, can’t quite believe the AllSpark survived the blast, can’t quite believe that those stuck on Cybertron are still alive. How can they be, if the planet really is nothing but a scattering of ruined asteroids blown to smithereens by the AllSpark? 

Above her, Starscream sighs, as if he can read her thoughts. She looks up at him, watches the way the faint moonlight catches on his collarbone…Nova Storm is out stealing energon and won’t be back for at least another joor. They’re alone. 

“I miss him,” Starscream declares out of the blue, and Skywarp eyes him skeptically. That’s odd; Starscream never shares things like that unprompted, and rarely shares them when asked. Usually, she has to work out his emotions for herself. 

She reaches up, touching her hand to the side of his face, drawing his chin down, looking into his optics. They, blue as ever, are dazed and cloudy, and Starscream seems to be looking not at her but through her, like he’s having trouble focusing on the world around him. His cheek is hot, purple energon darkening it, and then Skywarp gets it.

“Starscream,” she says, “lie down.”

“What?”

“Lie down,” she repeats, sitting up and pressing him into the grass by his shoulders. He obeys—not so odd now that she knows what’s going on—and allows her to crawl overtop of him. She runs her hands up his sides, every panel blazing hot beneath her fingertips, and takes a moment to tamp down her surprise that Starscream even wants to do this in the first place, without their second alpha present. 

That’s the way of things, after all. An omega, and two alphas to defend him. But—

Whatever. It doesn’t matter now. 

She’s barely got her hand on Starscream’s valve cover before it’s snapping open, and the heat pouring out of it is hot enough to burn her. She presses forward with her fingers anyway; Starscream yelps, a sound only characteristic in this exact scenario. He would never allow himself to be so vulnerable otherwise. Not with Megatron, not with anyone. Not even with his own trine.

Well, Skywarp supposes as she scissors her fingers harshly inside his valve, barely preparing him, it didn’t used to be like this. They used to be close. They used to be three. 

Starscream moans, saying a name that doesn’t belong to her, but she doesn’t care. As she pushes her spike into him, stretching him almost to the point of discomfort, he grabs her by the wrist and snarls, harder!

Because he wants it harsh. Wants it painful. And he doesn’t want her. 

She knows who sated his heat all those times his trine weren’t with him, knows exactly whose berth he warmed when he grew tired of them, which, as the war grew longer, became only more frequent. 

She seizes him, driving into him harsh and careless, squeezing angry finger-shaped bruises into his narrow waist, trying and failing to hurt him the way he wants. She isn’t strong enough, isn’t large enough, isn’t cruel enough. And now that twisted lord Starscream had once worshipped with his body has abandoned them, leaving Skywarp to deal with the fallout of his lust. 

Starscream says that name again, and Skywarp realizes that I miss him hadn’t referred to the person she previously thought. For all his bluster, in times of extremis Starscream still calls out for the one he claims to despise. She realizes they don’t miss the same person, don’t long for the same weight above them. The only alpha who can truly sate Starscream’s heat is right here, on this very planet, and his name is not Skywarp. For once, Skywarp thinks she can gauge Starscream’s thoughts just fine. 

Trine are three, alpha, alpha, omega. 

Here they are, alone. Alpha and omega. Two lonely points on a shattered triangle, one longing for the touch of a crueler, harsher hand. 

She might be able to fix things, if they were still three. Might be able to find a way to fix Starscream, repair his broken mind, solve the mystery of his spark. Below her, Starscream writhes, saying Megatron’s name, and Skywarp banishes the hope. A fool’s hope.

Because Cybertron is dead, the AllSpark is gone, and Thundercracker is never coming back. Her destiny is here, now. Hollow, alone, wasting away. 

Skywarp grabs Starscream’s wings and yanks, hard as she can, forecefully shoving her spike past the ring of his gestation chamber. He screams, no doubt feeling the burn. Skywarp ignores him.

It’s what he wants, after all. It’s what he deserves. 

Chapter Text

It was a long time coming, was what Thundercracker said about his defection. Silverbolt honestly had a hard time believing it. Time and again Thundercracker had proven himself to be a ruthless killer and a staunch supporter of Megatron. Many times had Silverbolt faced him on the battlefield, and many times had Thundercracker and his trine’s wrathful forms appeared in his nightmares afterward. He was the epitome of all things Decepticon, all things sparkless and cruel. He was evil. 

He was also miles better than Silverbolt and his brothers at practically every single thing he did. He outflew them easily, making them look exceptionally stupid. He was masterful in the air. In that regard, at least, Silverbolt wanted to be just like him. 

His brothers did, too. Barely astro-seconds after he had been released from questioning by Prowl, deemed to be telling the truth abut his motivations for defection, Thundercracker had been mobbed by Silverbolt’s gestalt, all of them begging him for one, just one singular flying lesson. Just one hour of being taught by a real-life Seeker. Just once, please?

And, as much as he was loathe to admit it, being Thundercracker’s student was one of the best things that had ever happened to Silverbolt in his short life. Thundercracker was an excellent teacher, and surprisingly willing to do the job. One lesson turned to two, to three, to four, until the five Aerialbots were wiping the floor with any Decepticons they came across. Thundercracker was a genius, Fireflight declared. Privately, Silverbolt was inclined to agree.

…He was also very handsome. 

This was a known fact among the Autobots, apparently; as a Seeker, Thundercracker possessed natural beauty. People were simply drawn to him, and Silverbolt was no exception. There was something about the sweep of his wings, the distinguished lines of his face, the stern way he held himself…Silverbolt could not look away from him. It was what kept him focused during long, boring lessons of Vosian flightspeak (Vosians had nearly a thousand different words for the sky, apparently), what brought him to attention when Thundercracker inspected their parade ground posture every morning (he was training them like he did his academy cadets back in the old days, he said), and what drew his eye to Thundercracker’s daggerlike form cutting across the sky during battle exercises. Silverbolt hated to say it, but he was as bad as his gestalt when it came to the Seeker. 

“‘In the old days,’” Air Raid quoted that evening as the Aerialbots settled down in their hangar, “what did that mean?”

“It means he’s ancient as the hills, you dolt,” said Slingshot, thwacking Air Raid on the helm, “he’s basically a relic.” 

‘’A gorgeous relic,” Skydive butted in, and all the jets nodded in agreement. 

“He did help try to send us back to the beginning of time, guys,” Silverbolt commented, but his spark wasn’t in it. At that moment, there was a shriek and gasp of air, and all five Aerialbots rushed outside to see the shape of Thundercracker curving over the Autobot base, carving a half-moon out of the sky with his wings. Like his gestalt, Silverbolt watched in awe. He could not help it. 

“…And once you’ve mastered these, we will move on to Stallout’s turns. You will have to focus—“

“Ugh, those are impossible!” Slingshot cut Thundercracker off, whiny voice grating on Silverbolt’s audial. Thundercracker regarded him coldly; they were standing on the freezing runway outside their hangar, having just finished an exhausting hour of high altitude practice maneuvers, and were all frozen right to the laser-core. 

“Vosian students learn Stallout’s turns in their very first year. They are very possible,” said Thundercracker, “for those who have to will to attempt them. And the capacity to be silent when they are being instructed.”

Slingshot muttered something sheepishly, staring at his feet. Thundercracker eyed him for a second, before pronouncing, “Dismissed.” Not wanting to incur his wrath again, all five Aerialbots hurried into the warmth of their hangar, Fireflight turning the thermostat all the way up as they closed the door behind them. 

“‘Vosian students yadayadayada,’” Slingshot mocked in a crude imitation of Thundercracker’s harsh Vosian accent, obviously bristling, “well, we aren’t Vosians! What does he expect, huh?”

“Just yesterday you were singing his praises like you would Primus himself,” Skydive snarked, flicking Slingshot on the wing.

“Well, maybe he isn’t so great after all! I mean, is he dumb? There’s no way we’re gonna get those maneuvers right!”

“You mean you aren’t,” said Air Raid from the kitchenette, where he was preparing energon for all of them. 

“Guys,” Silverbolt cut in, “Slingshot, did you ever stop to think that maybe he knows what he’s doing? I mean, he taught at the Vosian academy for thousand of stellar cycles. He must know something.” 

“When did you become his number one fan?” asked Slingshot, and frankly, it was a great question. Silverbolt was genuinely surprised to find himself defending Thundercracker to his gestalt; usually he spent his days trying to curb the hero worship, despite his private opinions about the Seeker. He shrugged, saying nothing, taking a sip of the energon Air Raid had just put in his hand. 

From there, the conversation drifted off into something unrelated, and Silverbolt tapped out of it. Why had he done that, he wondered, despite knowing Thundercracker’s devious ways? Perhaps it was something subconscious. Maybe, he dared to think, some part of him had noted that Thundercracker wasn’t truly evil. He was teaching them, after all. 

No, that couldn’t be it. Thundercracker was certainly despicable; he was a Decepticon. Perhaps he had some ulterior motive in teaching them. But he had defected, and Prowl had cleared him. What did it all mean, Silverbolt wondered, swirling his energon. Why defect, after supporting Megatron for so many years? Why abandon his wingmates? Silverbolt looked around at his gestalt and, annoying as they were, could not imagine ever leaving them. 

He tried to reason it out, and failed. He could not make sense of it; he reviewed all the things he knew about Thundercracker, and found the list disappointingly short. Aside from what was in his file, there were only three items: He didn’t like Skyfire (they had had a rather hostile encounter in the mess that very morning), he pitied those who couldn’t fly, and he would not wear the Autobot symbol, despite living on their base and teaching their soldiers how to kill his Seeker brethren as effectively as possible. Silverbolt did not know why. And he wanted to. 

It bothered him all the way until his gestalt stopped bickering late in the evening, and they all fell asleep together in one big, warm pile. 

Silverbolt woke. He looked around himself; his gestalt were still near, and Slingshot’s foot was in his face. He shoved him off, sitting up and glancing around. His optics were hazy and his stomach was turning—Air Raid’s mid-grade energon hadn’t been as mid-grade as he’d thought, apparently. He rolled out of berth and crept outside, careful to take light steps. Maybe a small, low-altitude flight would help. According to Thundercracker, the sky could cure all a flyer’s ailments. 

He was right about that, too, it seemed—after just a few minutes in the air the roiling in Silverbolt’s tanks began to calm, and his sensors stopped spinning. Hm. 

Silverbolt was just about to turn around and head back when there was a staticky beep on his comm. channel, and Thundercracker’s voice filtered in.

::Silverbolt:: he said, startling the silver flyer, ::what are you doing out this late?::

Silverbolt quickly righted his wobbly stance.

::Small hangover, sir:: he said, seeing no point in lying to the elder flyer, ::your cure seems to work::

Thundercracker hummed in agreement, and Silverbolt realized he had no idea where he was. He glanced around, but the dark night revealed no evidence as to the Seeker’s position. He wondered if this was some sort of test, and quickly turned in a circle, extending his sensor range as far as it could go and—there, against the backdrop of black clouds and dull navy sky, was the silhouette of a Seeker. 

::Are you cured yet?:: Thundercracker asked, winging toward him, ::if not, I know a good place to fly::

Silverbolt felt pretty great, actually, despite the vast distance between himself and the ground, but he did not want to land just yet. Thundercracker came up alongside Silverbolt, and his energy field crackled on the border’s of Silverbolt’s own in a curiously electric way. 

Five minutes later, they were winging through the gaps in the rock formations that jutted up out of the desert, before dipping down to cut between the towering walls of a deep, trenchlike riverbed, long run dry. It was almost like the trenches of Cybertron, the ones that plunged all the way to the planet core. From what little Silverbolt had seen of them, that is.

::Wow:: he found himself saying, ::how did you find this place?::

::Surveillance missions with my trine,:: Thundercracker confessed, his wingtip inching every so slightly closer to Silverbolt’s as he gave up his secrets, ::you ‘Bots were a lot more ignorant than you think. The caves along the wall of the canyon make the perfect listening post::

::Oh::

Silence.

::Why did you defect?::

Uh-oh. Silverbolt wasn’t sure what had possessed him to blurt that out. He braced himself, expecting fury, but Thundercracker just laughed and said, ::a million reasons, none simple enough to explain here. Land::

Suddenly he dropped into a spinning dive, and Silverbolt scrambled to keep pace with him. A moment later they were landing atop a jutting scrap of stone hanging from the inside edge of the cliff face, and a cave was yawning before them, tall enough for both to enter comfortably. Thundercracker ducked inside, and Silverbolt followed him.

“Mark these coordinates,” he told him, “this was our chief surveillance location. Now that I have defected, I doubt my trine will use it again, but in case they do…”

“I’ll let Prowl know,” Silverbolt assured him. He looked around—the cave was unassuming, but a closer inspection revealed the impression of past occupation; a wall sconce to set up a transceiver here, a smooth rock where a Seeker may have sat there, a crude drawing carved into the wall over there. Silverbolt snorted at that last one; listening duty could not have been very interesting for someone as apparently stir-crazy as Skywarp. 

“I sometimes come here,” Thundercracker said, out of the blue and practically right next to Silverbolt’s audial, “to think. It’s quiet. No engine noise.”

The Autobot base always had cars driving around; coming in, coming out, sometimes down the hallways or in the training rooms. Thundercracker must hate it, he thought. But if this was his hiding place, why show it to Silverbolt? Surely he must know that once the Autobots knew about it, it would never be private again? 

He didn’t have time to wonder, because at that moment Thundercracker’s wingtip brushed up against his, and they both went still. Silverbolt didn’t look at him. Even in this little cave, there was enough room to avoid each other. That had to be deliberate. 

“Why don’t you want to be an Autobot?” Silverbolt asked, then bit his lip again. “Sorry,” he said, “it must be the high-grade.” 

But Thundercracker was very close to him now, and Silverbolt could see every groove and line aging his face. He reached out slowly, and put his hand on Silverbolt’s smooth cheek. “You’re young,” he said, and Silverbolt could feel an electric current running between their frames, “you couldn’t understand it.” 

Well, if there was ever a chance to prove to his gestalt that he wasn’t as uptight and sanctimonious as they believed he was. Boldly, he mirrored Thundercracker, touching the heavy shadow beneath his optic.

“Then teach me.” 

Thundercracker’s thumb drew down, dragging itself over Silverbolt’s plush lips. Carefully, not wanting to startle him and end this too soon, Silverbolt opened his mouth, allowing Thundercracker in. He felt along Silverbolt’s teeth, his glossa, the roof of his mouth. Then, he dropped his hand, and kissed Silverbolt on the mouth. 

The way the elder flyer kissed was dominating, total and complete, covering Silverbolt’s mouth with his own and, after a few moments of lipplates moving together, filling his mouth with glossa. Silverbolt glady allowed him, and soon, Thundercracker was pressing him down onto the floor of the cave, kissing him harshly and rubbing circles into his hips with his thumbs. Silverbolt let his legs fall apart, Thundercracker coming to rest between them. 

Thundercracker wasted no time; he pressed a kiss to Silverbolt’s panel, which was warm and getting hotter all the time, massaging his thighs in the process. 

All too eager, Silverbolt’s panel released almost immediately, and both his spike and valve were on display. However, Thundercracker seemed interested in just one. 

He licked a long stripe up Silverbolt’s rapidly pressurizing spike, keeping eye contact with him the whole time, and Silverbolt had to push himself up on his shoulders to watch. Thundercracker grasped the base for better control, and Silverbolt had to moan at the feeling of that strong hand gripping him. 

Thundercracker’s mouth closed around his spike, his glossa rubbing across the slit, and after tossing his head back and sighing, Silverbolt managed to notice the comm. request he had just received and accept it. 

::I will never wear the red badge:: Thundercracker told him as he sucked on the head of his spike, ::because I do not believe the Autobots are any better than the Decepticons::

“Why’s that—ah!” 

Thundercracker had taken him deeper into his mouth, obviously used to this, and was lightly massaging the underside of his spike with his glossa. 

::The Autobots are not the good guys, Silverbolt. You are young, so I will excuse the misconception. They are murderers::

To be honest, Silverbolt was having a hard time paying attention with that warm mouth all around him, but he had the sense Thundercracker was trying to impress something very important on him, so he did his best to listen and absorb. 

::They destroyed my home:: Thundercracker told him, laying it out in plain words, ::it was they who drove this war upon us. They are the reason that I am forced to—::

Silverbolt didn’t get the rest, because at that moment Thundercracker truly, fully swallowed him whole, putting the back of his intake up against Silverbolt’s spiketip, and there was nothing to do but scream in pleasure and grab wildly at Thundercracker’s helm, desperately resisting the urge to push him down further. By Primus, he was good at this. Silverbolt had a hard time wrapping his head around how someone so much older than him could be so skilled at what felt like such a young mechanism’s activity. 

::Do you understand?:: Thundercracker asked him. Silverbolt’s head was lolling back, not used to this level of skill in the berth (or cave), but he manages to nod. He gasped, feeling like Thundercracker was trying to suck his overload straight out of him. His whole damn body was tingling, wings to helm to hands to feet, and his core was burning like he was going to light on fire. Thundercracker did something particularly clever with his glossa, the burning feeling sharpened to a hot knife, and Silverbolt overloaded all over his partner’s mouth and face. 

“Wow,” Silverbolt sighed, unable to even be embarrassed at how wrecked he sounded as his helm dropped back onto the floor, “how’d you get so good at that?”

“I’ve had lots of practice,” Thundercracker told him, wiping the transfluid away from his chin. He crawled back on top of Silverbolt, but as he did Silverbolt caught him looking around the cave, his optics lingering on the crude drawing carved into the cave wall, the last visible remnant of his trine. 

It wasn’t until about five minutes later, when Thundercracker’s valve was engulfing his hardening spike, and Silverbolt was arching his back and crying out nonsense words, undone by the skill of those calipers, that he rolled his head, caught sight of that little drawing, and suddenly understood.

Thundercracker was purging his trine from himself. That’s why he was doing this; interfacing with another mech, revealing the location of his hideout, telling Silverbolt these things. He was drawing their memory out of his body and mind. He was trying to forget about them forever. 

Maybe, Silverbolt realized in a moment of lucidity between mindless upward thrusting, Thundercracker was having a hard time with the task he had set himself. Maybe that was why he had taken such a drastic action. Maybe that was why Silverbolt was beneath him right now. 

In a moment of reckless care, Silverbolt grabbed Thundercracker by the shoulders and pulled him down into a tight hug, letting the elder Seeker bury his face in his shoulder. From there he steadied him with one hand on his hips, and fucked up into that spot Thundercracker seemed to like, trying to aim his spike to hit it every time.

Soon after, Thundercracker gasped and overloaded, making a sound Silverbolt had never heard him make before. A moment later, Silverbolt followed him, before Thundercracker went limp and collapsed to the side, coming to rest at Silverbolt’s left. 

His optics were offline, but he was clearly conscious; still, Silverbolt took the opportunity to look at him, really look at him. For the first time, Silverbolt really took in just how many painful years Thundercracker had lived. He tried to imagine himself four, five, six million years from now, and couldn’t comprehend it. What would it be like to lose the Ark, his only home? Or their hangar? What would it be like to have to leave his gestalt? What would it be like to lose so much, and go on living anyway?

He reached out carefully, like he was approaching a testy Earth animal, and put his hand on Thundercracker’s wing edge. He gave it a comforting rub, the same way he would to his gestalt, and when the wing pushed back into his hand, he smiled, victorious. Thundercracker was with the Autobots now. He might never wear the red badge, but whether he liked it or not, the Ark was his home, the same way it was Silverbolt’s. 

They would never come back to this cave again. Prowl would find out about it, and station a guard here 24/7. The Seeker trine would never return here; a curious agony struck Silverbolt when he realized Thundercracker might never see his trine again. 

“Thundercracker?” He said suddenly, a question in his tone. 

“Mm?”

“When we return to the Ark, would you perhaps like to come live with me and my brothers? There’s plenty of space in our hangar.”

Thundercracker was silent for a time. His optics did not online. Then, he nudged his wing further into Silverbolt’s touch, and said, “yes. I think I’d like that.”

Chapter Text

Starscream wanted to be worshiped. Windblade recognized that easily enough. He knew she would oblige him, which was probably why he kept coming back to her, why he always begged her for more despite denying it in the morning, why he let her wandering hands linger on his hips with no consequence.

And why he was underneath her right now, feet kicking against the berth as she sat on his face, reaching behind herself to finger him as she did it, telling him all the lovely, cruel things she thought of him.

“You’re the best at this, Starscream,” she told him as his tongue worked its way inside her valve, slithering in a circle over all the nodes she liked best. He moaned against her, and she sighed in pleasure, the vibration exquisite.

“Just like that, boy,” she told him, working a second finger into his loosening valve, “you’re doing so good.”

Maybe this was what she kept coming back for, too. The way he whined every time she spoke, the look in his optics when she praised him, broken and desperate and satisfied all at once. How pliant and willing she could make him, and with just a couple of words.

“Yes, yes,” she moaned as he flicked his glossa in her just right, “like that! Mmmn, you’re perfect.”

She smirked as she said it, face to the ceiling, but Starscream’s answering cry told her everything. She doubled her efforts in his valve, pressing her thumb into his anterior node as she worked her fingers deeper into him. His legs fell further apart, thighs spreading obnoxiously wide to make room for her. She couldn’t help the bloom of smugness it caused in her; the proud, pretentious ruler of Cybertron, reduced to a moaning puddle of pleasure beneath her fingertips. He was so predictable…she knew all the right buttons to press. And there was one she hadn’t yet touched, no, not till the right time.

She fingered him harder, determined to make him as weak as possible, splaying her fingers out in a Y right around that spot he liked. “Good job,” she told him, “taking my fingers. You’re the perfect little pet.”

Starscream groaned again, hands grasping for her hips to pull her down onto his mouth. She gasped, node grinding against his nose as he shoved his glossa fully into her valve, and then she was overloading to the vibration of Starscream moaning into her array. 

She lifted off him, moving to his side to better admire the wrecked, wanting face in front of her, chin dripping with pink lubricant, optics wide and needy. Primus, she loved that look on his face. 

“Good boy,” she said.

Starscream cried out as if struck, back arching against the berth as he overloaded, and Windblade worked him through it, rubbing his anterior node in little circles and thusting harshly into his valve as his lubricants covered her hand. At last, when he was twitching with aftershocks and his body was clearly sapped of all energy, she withdrew her fingers and brought them to his mouth. 

He let her in automatically, cleaning her hand off with his glossa, making pleased noises at having his mouth full of her again. 

“Good job,” she told him, just to relish in the exhausted little moan he made, like he had been fucked half to death. So dramatic, he was. She snickered a little, knowing that if not tonight, Starscream would be back in her berth once again by week’s end. 

Chapter Text

Thundercracker is crying when Megatron comes in. 

“Sparkmate?” He asks, setting down behind Thundercracker and carefully touching his shoulder, “what’s the matter?”

Thundercracker doesn’t answer, just curls in further on himself. Megatron waits it out; finally Thundercracker murmurs something unintelligible, with only the Vosian word for “home” being audible. Or perhaps it’s “trine.” Megatron is no Vosian expert—he is ruler of Kaon, not Vos, after all—but he thinks the two words are one and the same. 

Nonetheless, it’s the same thing that has ailed his sparkmate since the day he arrived in Kaon. Though his trineleader, Prince Starscream, sold him away for an alliance with Kaon, Thundercracker still seems to miss both him and his other trinemate, a purple one who Megatron has never encountered, quite desperately. Sometimes he gets in these moods. 

Megatron knows how to fix it. 

He grabs Thundercracker, who is lying with his back to him, and rolls him over to lay flat on the berth. Then he wipes away his tears with a thumb; Thundercracker looks at him questioningly, but doesn’t protest. He’s a Vosian Seeker, after all—he wants to be worshiped. 

Megatron crawls up the berth and kisses him. Thundercracker melts into it, obviously still miserable, but every second he spends being kissed, his worried will melt away further. They aren’t here, Megatron wants to tell him, they abandoned you. I am right here with you.  

“What do you want of me?” He asks instead. Discussion of the trine will only upset Thundercracker further. 

Thundercracker bites his lip, a gesture Megatron has always found remarkably endearing. It’s one of those things that causes Megatron to want to do anything for him. 

“You know what I want.”

And he will.

“Yes, sir,” Megatron smirks, and when Thundercracker offers him a small smile, he knows he’s succeeded in his mission. By the end of the night, Thundercracker’s trine will be the last thing plaguing his processor. Megatron leans down, and licks him on the panel. 

It takes a bit of work—Thundercracker’s mind is clearly still weighed down—but before long, Megatron’s clever glossa has got Thundercracker’s panel sliding open. Below that, Megatron works at his spike housing until the blue spike is extending into his mouth, not quite long enough to nudge the back of his intake, but filling him quite nicely. 

He draws away, examining the spike and the aroused face behind it, before licking a long stripe from bottom to top, swirling his glossa around the tip when he reaches it. Thundercracker gasps, still quiet, still distracted, but growing more aroused by the second. Megatron curls his glossa into the slit, and Thundercracker’s gasps turn into full-blown moans. Good; it’s working.

Megatron sucks at the tip for just a few moments longer, before grasping the base and guiding the spike fully into his mouth. Proportionally, Thundercracker’s spike is appropriate for him, but for Megatron, who is much larger, it’s very easy to swallow the entire thing whole. And he does so, making Thundercracker squirm and whine as he swallows around the hard spike, massaging his glossa against it wherever he can. 

“Megatron—! Megatron—suck it!”

“Yes, sir,” Megatron says again, but it comes out as a hum due to the spike down his intake, and the vibration makes Thundercracker arch up off the berth, optics flashing. Then, Megatron starts sucking. 

“Megatron!”

Thundercracker’s claws shred the expensive sheets Megatron had arranged for him, and he cries out Megatron’s name in time with each enthusiastic suck. Megatron keeps at it, bobbing his head, making Thundercracker moan louder and louder each time, before finally transfluid hits the back of his intake, warm and musky. He swallows it down, milking his sparkmate of every last drop, until finally the motion makes the overstimulated Seeker whine, legs shaking. 

Megatron pulls away, a string of transfluid connected his mouth to the spiketip, and looks up at Thundercracker.

“Feeling better?” He asks, and Thundercracker nods hazily. He’s looking at Megatron with that blissful expression that says he has absolutely nothing on his mind, that he’s too tingly and dizzy to register anything but the immediate sensations around him. 

“Don’t go anywhere,” he tells him, “I may need a…repeat performance soon.”

Megatron smiles. 

“Yes, sir.”