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.” 

Chapter Text

Logically, Bumblebee knew it was wrong to go out racing. He knew it wasn’t what Optimus would want. He knew his duty was with the Maltos, not with the racetracks. 

He also knew he wan’t supposed to go out cavorting with Decepticon agents who could compromise his entire mission if they were to somehow learn the secret of the Terrans. His duty was to them, too. His duty was certainly not to Breakdown. 

At times like this, though, he found it very, very hard to care.

He tried to, at least. He didn’t do a very good job. 

“We shouldn’t do this,” he’d told Breakdown, that first time, but Breakdown just laughed, and Bumblebee decided to leave it at that. 

Above him, Breakdown settled in his lap, pinning Bumblebee under the weight of his thighs. His valve cover was open, and he was grinding against the base of Bumblebee’s erect spike, getting it nice and wet. 

It always happened like this, no matter who won the race. Bumblebee on his back, and Breakdown riding him till they were both senseless. Bumblebee had exactly zero self control when it came to Breakdown. One word out of that red mouth and he would throw himself over any surface just to get Breakdown on top of him. 

Breakdown rose up on his knees, grasping the base of Bumblebee’s spike, guiding it. His valve lips kissed the tip, the barest tease, and Bumblebee groaned, loud. No one made him weaker or more foolish than this mech. 

Breakdown lowered slowly onto his spike, and his smirk gave everything away: he loved teasing Bumblebee, loved controlling the pace, holding Bumblebee like a puppet on a string. It was the only thing he took care for, the only thing he treated without recklessness. 

At last Bumblebee’s spike was fully sunk into Breakdown’s valve, and Bumblebee had to whine and blink away the haze in his optics at the sight of that valve stretched around his spike. It was just right; he tried to thrust up, but Breakdown pinched one of his doorwings harshly, reminding him who was in charge here. 

Bumblebee gasped, feeling a little overwhelmed already, and Breakdown took the opportunity to up the ante, rippling his calipers, squeezing down Bumblebee’s spike, and then releasing it before he could even moan. Bumblebee jerked at the sensation, fingers digging into the grass below them. The lights of the distant racetrack backlit Breakdown’s silhouette, and all Bumblebee could really make out were his red optics, two burning holes in space.

“You like that?” Breakdown asked him, and Bumblebee could only nod. It had been too long since the last time, and he wasn’t sure how long he could really last. 

Breakdown ground down on him, rubbing the tip of Bumblebee’s spike right up against his ceiling node, and finally gave a little moan of his own. Apparently it had been too long for him, too, because not even a second later he was riding Bumblebee in earnest, bouncing up and down on his spike, dragging desperate moans from his Autobot partner. Bumblebee groped Breakdown’s hips, watching in awe as Breakdown sat back on his hands to ride him better. 

Bumblebee’s own hips jerked and twitched with every bounce, and he felt like he was cracking his engine block with the willpower it took to not thrust up into that tight valve. His doorwings were fluttering and he was moaning freely now, overload steadily building in his core. Frag, he wasn’t going to last…

Breakdown suddenly sank fully onto him with force, packing Bumblebee’s spike against his ceiling node, and as he began to grind on it he leaned down over Bumblebee, not to kiss him, never to kiss him, but just to suck on one of his horns, swirling his glossa around it and—frag—that did it. With a shout, Bumblebee was overloading, unable to resist the urge to thrust up into Breakdown at the exact moment that he ground down. Breakdown cried out, surprised, and then he was overloading too, before collapsing on top of Bumblebee, kicking the breath out of him. 

A moment passed, then two. Bumblebee could feel the aftermath of their climaxes dripping out of Breakdown’s valve and down his spike. Yes, that had been good, that had been just right. If only Breakdown would get off of him now…

Breakdown abruptly sat up, apparently recovered, and climbed off of Bumblebee, snapping his panel shut in an instant. He shook himself, like he was ridding himself of the post-overload daze, and Bumblebee knew he was leaving. Now he only wanted Breakdown to lie back down again, get back on top of him. 

“Until next time,” Breakdown told him when he had cleared his head, and before he transformed and drove off, as he always did after their encounters, Bumblebee could not find the words to ask him to stay. He never could. 

Chapter Text

Skywarp knelt in the middle of the floor in their quarters, panel open, a puddle of pink lubricant forming beneath him. 

Thundercracker stalked around him, wings high and stiff, glaring down at him. 

“I’m sorry,” Skywarp told him, “I shouldn’t have done it.” 

Thundercracker did not say anything. He knelt behind Skywarp, running his hands up Skywarp’s waist, feeling every knot and coil of rope binding his arms together in front of him. Skywarp squirmed, Thundercracker’s touch ticklish. 

“I am sorry, TC,” he repeated, trying to turn and look at him, but Thundercracker stopped him, grabbing his chin and turning it back front. 

“I know,” he told him, “but that isn’t enough. You need to be punished.” 

Skywarp moaned a tiny bit. He couldn’t help himself; he knew it was wrong, to flirt with other bots, to let them look at him, but he couldn’t stop himself. Not when he knew it would get Thundercracker…like this. 

Suddenly Skywarp was thrown off balance, falling backward until his wings struck the floor, knocking the wind out of him. He looked up, dazed, at the ceiling, as Thundercracker’s face came into focus and fingers slid into his soaking wet valve. He let his head fall back to the ground, losing himself in the sensation, consciously aware that this didn’t feel too much like a punishment.

Thundercracker pulled away, leaving Skywarp with a harsh slap on the node that had his whole body jerking. Skywarp craned his neck, following his partner’s movements…oh no. Thundercracker was getting out the machine. So that was what he meant by “punished.” 

Skywarp willingly spread his legs, allowing Thundercracker to plant the heavy machine between his thighs, the tip of the dildo just touching his tingling valve lips. He let his head fall back and listened as Thundercracker lubed up the dildo, a hot pit of sparks igniting in his belly as the cold toy touched his valve, as the machine cycled on, as it began to push into him…mmnh. Yes, yes, the dildo was filling him just right, its ridges scraping the inside of his valve, plugging him full of cock. Skywarp tried to grasp the sheets, then remembered he was lying on the floor, remembered his arms were bound. He tried to blink the haze out of his optics, but the machine was picking up speed now, each thrust faster and harder than the last. 

Before long, Skywarp was tipping helplessly over into overload except—no, he wasn’t, because just as he was about to cum, the machine stopped right where it was, halfway in and out of his valve. He blinked on optics he didn’t remember offlining and saw Thundercracker’s self-satisfied face staring down at him.

“It’ll stop if it detects charge above a certain level,” he said, “it won’t overload you until I say. And I think I’ll do this, too…”

“Thunder—, c’mon,” said Skywarp, trying to nudge the machine back into action with jerks of his hips as his oncoming overload melted away, but Thundercracker ignored him, instead making quick work of tying Skywarp’s legs back, thighs to calves, and affixing a hard metal rod in between to keep them apart. Skywarp tried to grab for him, then remembered his hands were bound, too. He squirmed, and thankfully the machine powered back up. 

“Mmnh—, Thundercracker,” Skywarp moaned, body tingling as the stiff dildo knocked against that node he liked just right, pushing him rapidly toward another overload but—ungh—just as he was about to fall over the edge, he was stopped again. Skywarp whined, giving Thundercracker his best turbopuppy optics, but Thundercracker only stared down at him unsympathetically from where he sat by Skywarp’s side, occasionally brushing a finger down his twitching wings. In his other hand was the remote, which Skywarp would lunge for, if he weren’t trussed up on his back right then. 

Two, three, four, Skywarp lost count of how many more times he was brought to the edge and left there, but at some point his whole body was twitching, his valve was tingling so bad it almost hurt, and tears were welling up in his optics. The machine would turn on, and not even a moment later back off again. It was getting to be too much—now he understood the concept of punishment. 

Thundercracker knelt behind Skywarp, thighs cradling his head, and caressed his face. Skywarp gazed up at him pleadingly, throat working, faceplate twitching where Thundercracker’s fingers brushed over it. 

“Please, please, Thundercracker, I can’t t-take any more!” Skywarp cried, struggling against his bonds, his efforts utterly fruitless. The ropes scraped between his hands and arms, digging into the gap there, rubbing across his protoform. 

“No,” Thundercracker said, not unkindly, “you can’t.”

Then, he pushed his spike into Skywarp’s mouth, silencing his pleas. 

“Thunder—, mmnh!” Skywarp yelped as his mouth was suddenly filled with cock, and he heard Thundercracker sigh at the sound, so he did it again, and again, moans barely muffled by the spiketip nudging the back of his intake. The spike filled his mouth fully, and the machine turned back on, and Skywarp moaned, optics half-lidded and hazy. He tried to suck, but didn’t have the wherewithal to even move. Thundercracker began thrusting into his mouth, getting off on the sounds he was making, the fucked out look on his face, and Skywarp knew it because Thundercracker’s hungry expression practically broadcasted it straight to him. 

When, after at least five more starts and stops, he felt transfluid hit the back of his intake, Skywarp could have cried out in relief. He tried to swallow it down, but he didn’t have the energy, and most of it ended up on his face.

“Alright,” he heard Thudercracker sigh, sounding totally blissed-out as he fell backward with a clunk, “I think you’ve learned your lesson.”

Then he grabbed the remote, which had fallen beside Skywarp’s head, turned off the charge sensor, and set the machine to max. 

Skywarp overloaded almost instantly, arching, straining in his bonds as he came hard enough to put black spots in his vision. When his valve clenched, and the dildo popped out and began thrusting through the cleft of his valve, he screamed, helpless, bound, and cumming like crazy. 

At last, just when the overstimulation was starting to hit, Thundercracker powered down the machine, leaving Skywarp lying there a wreck. He knew he must look a ruin; cum on his face, valve a mess, optics blown and body trembling. His frame went limp as Thundercracker began to untie him, crooning some nonsense about punishment and lessons and learning and whatnot. 

Skywarp hid his smile as Thundercracker rolled him over, knowing he hadn’t learned a thing. If learning his lesson meant that he never did this again, he’d gladly stay ignorant forever. 

Chapter Text

Slipstream did not like Skywarp, for a multitude of reasons. 

For one, he was crazy. For another, he was really crazy. She had fought his clones enough times during the war against Exarchon that just seeing his face made her sick. Who would be psycho enough to support him, anyway? 

But there was a third reason she disliked Skywarp so intensely. For all his insanity, for all that time spent alone in unspace, for all the times she had had to look on his stupid face, the face of the original Skywarp was…handsome. 

It wasn’t his face alone, though. It was his black, daggerlike makeup that seemed to draw her gaze every time he appeared, the way it darkened his eyes and sharpened his features to a treacherous point. Slipstream despised him. She spent a great amount of time despising him. 

But her mentor never said there was anything wrong with releasing your frustrations in a healthy way. 

“Mmn—, nh—, hah.”

Skywarp’s broken moans and whines were utterly delicious. With every deep thrust, his vocalizer let out a terrible staticky squeak and his body jerked violently. Yes, that was just right—Slipstream could feel her spiketip ramming the back of his intake each and every time. He was glaring up at her from his place on his knees, but his three fingers in his valve and the pink puddle growing beneath him told her he was quite happy with the arrangement. 

“Mm,” Slipstream groaned as his intake opened up even further, allowing her to push deeper, “I knew there was a way to shut you up.”

Skywarp was doing his best to suck, but her rough thrusts weren’t doing him any help. He would flick his glossa against her for just a millisecond before being jostled by another thrust, but he would invariably try it again and again. To be honest, the way he kept trying was really getting to her, and she had to pull out for a moment to keep from cumming.

She didn’t want it to be over just yet. She quite liked this version of Skywarp, looking up at her from between stems of eyeliner, optics watering, drool tracing tracks down his chin. When it was over, he would go back to the same irritating piece of slag he always was. She decided to keep him here a little longer. 

Unable to resist, Slipstream rubbing her spikehead all over Skywarp’s face, smudging his makeup and making his cheeks shiny with prefluid. Now he was really crying, tears drawing lines in the mess of ruined eyeliner. She put her finger on his tongue, holding his mouth open, and slowly began sliding her spike back inside.

Once she was fully seated, she took a moment to admire Skywarp like this, lips stretched pornographically wide, cheeks hollowing as he tried to suck her, his sharp neat makeup a complete disaster. Just the way she liked it. Then, she grabbed the sides of his face and yanked him forward onto her spike. 

She fucked him with abandon, not even giving him a microsecond to try and suck between rough thrusts, nailing the back of his intake each time. He was choking now, tears coming in droves as he took her spike deep. He was fingering himself furiously, but his upper body was limp as a rag doll, nothing but a toy for her spike to fuck into. 

At last she plugged herself deep and overloaded down his intake, groaning loudly as he struggled to swallow it all. His body shook, and she knew he was bringing himself to overload, too. Finally she pulled out, letting the last few droplets drip onto his face, adding pink transfluid to the mess of tears and black makeup. 

He fell backward onto the ground, looking completely sated. She felt much the same; that had hit the spot. No, there was nothing wrong with releasing tension this way, and as Skywarp was not going to stop being annoying just because she had fragged him once, there would be much more tension to release in the future. Maybe she would even frag him in the valve next. For now, though, she could settle for admiring her hard work and dragging her fingertip through the ruin of what was once a perfect face of makeup.

Chapter Text

Thundercracker is different. That much is obvious. He fuels like the rest of them, but no matter how much sweet iron is in the energon, he always looks at it with distaste. Sometimes Skywarp swears he can hear him throwing it up in the washrack afterwards. 

TC doesn’t like to go out during the day. He’ll do it, sure, but he much prefers gliding over a still ocean in the dead of night, the stars reflecting off its glassy surface so perfectly that he might be soaring through space. Skywarp knows this because it’s him, only him, that Thundercracker invites on these midnight frolics. Not Starscream. Only him. 

Thundercracker has fangs. All Seekers do, of course, but Thundercracker’s are long, narrow, and sharp as a dagger, as though he whittles them to a point in his free time. But Skywarp knows he doesn’t, because they share quarters. Thundercracker’s teeth are just like that. Sometimes, when he’s concentrating, they peek out from between his lips and glint just bright enough to catch Skywarp’s eye and distract him for the rest of the shift. 

He’ll solve this mystery. He’ll learn why Thundercracker is so different from every other Seeker. 

He tries to work it out, really. The thing is this: Skywarp isn’t particularly smart, and can’t reason out an excuse for Thundercracker to do all the weird things he does without being some kind of abnormal creature, which, he obviously isn’t. I mean, could a creature really be that gorgeous? 

So, not having worked it out with his brain, Skywarp resorts to plan B: seduce Thundercracker and convince him to tell his secrets.

Turns out to be surprisingly easy, actually.

Which is how Skywarp got here, lying beneath Thundercracker, getting kissed like there’s no tomorrow by the surprisingly forward Seeker. It had taken a bit to get Thundercracker to come out of his shell and get in the berth, but now that they’re here, Thundercracker’s got Skywarp pinned to the berth by his wrists, the weight of his body not even allowing the purple Seeker to squirm. 

Skywarp moans into another heated kiss, fangs nipping at his lip, and Thundercracker lets go of one of his wrists to cup Skywarp’s chin, feeling the angle of his jaw. Thundercracker draws away, hand exploring downward, until he’s wrapping it around Skywarp’s neck and squeezing lightly, causing Skywarp to make a soft, aroused little noise. His hands are big, like the rest of him, and Skywarp feels a little faint.

Thundercracker continues feeling up his neck, caressing it in a way nobody has ever done to Skywarp before, and he puts his free hand on Thundercracker’s back, anchoring himself. Thundercracker kisses him again, nipping his lip a bit harder this time.

“What’re the fangs for?” Skywarp asks him, rubbing his tongue along his own, much smaller, fangs. 

Thundercracker pauses. He looks at Skywarp, looks at him like he’s really considering him, and in the dim light of the quarters Skywarp can barely make out his thoughtful expression.

“Are you sure you want to know?”

The question catches Skywarp off guard, and he tilts his head at Thundercracker, trying to hide his excitement—the fangs do have a purpose!

“Yes. Of course,” he nods. 

“If you insist,” Thundercracker says, one eyebrow slowly raising into a cocky smirk, “They’re for biting people with.”

“Biting people? Like, like a vampire?” 

“That’s right,” Thundercracker says, and below the excitement building in his core, Skywarp realizes his partner has been caressing the exact spot on his neck that, if pierced, would lead straight to his carotid energon line. Which is insane, and dangerous, but Skywarp can’t find it in himself to care because this is turning into one of the most unexpectedly hot scenarios he has ever ended up in. 

“Why?” He asks. Thundercracker grins crookedly, like he’s been waiting for this question.

“I like the taste.”

Something in his tone sends a series of ping straight to Skywarp’s interface array, and suddenly the logic components in his processor are having a hard time working right. 

“Alright,” he says, tilting his head to the side and showing off his neck, “bite me.” 

“Are you sure?”

“Yeah,” Skywarp nods, “bite me. Drink my energon.” 

Thundercracker’s expression—one of hunger, he realizes—grows more intense, optics flaring, and he flattens Skywarp completely to the berth, pinning him with his weight. Skywarp yelps in surprise, a sharp, frightened sound, and Thundercracker pauses again. 

Thundercracker eyes him uncertainly, so Skywarp nods again, more vigorously this time. Encouraged, Thundercracker leans down, and begins to kiss his neck, just under his jawline, right in the place his wide fingers were caressing a minute ago. Skywarp tilts his head away, allowing him further access, and sighs at the sensation. Thundercracker is so warm on top of him, his mouth feels so good, and Skywarp is definitely wet behind the panels. 

Scratch that, his panel is snapping open, and Thundercracker’s hand is sliding against it, thumbing at the sensitive node and making Skywarp jerk.

Thundercracker’s teeth nip at his neck, threatening to bite down, and Skywarp puts his hands on Thundercracker’s chest, suddenly feeling a little overwhelmed.

“Wait,” he says, “I-I’ve never done this before.” 

Which seems silly; of course he hasn’t done this before. There are no other mechs like Thundercracker.

“Don’t worry,” Thundercracker says, mouth quirking upward and flashing a fang, “I’ll be gentle.”

The sight of that fang sends a bolt of arousal straight to Skywarp’s array. His valve twitches, clenching around the lone finger now inside of it, and Skywarp barely has time to register Thundercracker’s animal-feral expression before he’s flat on his back, and long, sharp fangs are in his neck. 

Skywarp cries out as the fangs sink into him, a sharp, stabbing pain radiating out from his neck cables, but a moment later his body seems to go limp as the fangs withdraw, and lips seal around the gash they left behind. Skywarp is suddenly unbearably dizzy, and his hips start grinding against Thundercracker’s hand in an effort to regain some sense of awareness. Thundercracker responds in kind, dipping a second finger into him as he starts a curious suction, and Skywarp realizes Thundercracker is drawing his energon out of him like he would suck it through a straw. 

The world fades in and out, Skywarp’s optics flickering as pleasure radiates through him from his valve. Thundercracker’s thumb grinds against his anterior node, and the tickle of his glossa on Skywarp’s neck is almost too much. Every few moments, his glossa flicks down to catch a stray drop of energon that has escaped, before returning to sucking on the wound. The caresses of his mouth are making Skywarp’s head spin, and he whines, spreading his legs further, wanting more. 

With how charged up he is, it doesn’t take much to overload Skywarp, and soon he’s shaking in Thundercracker’s hold, grasping at his shoulders as aftershocks seize him. He feels like he’s in a nosedive, vertigo turning his fuel tank as he spins down toward the surface, but below him is only the berth, and instead of sky above him there’s just Thundercracker and his wicked teeth, draining the last few droplets out of Skywarp before finally drawing away, satisfied. 

Skywarp blinks his optics back online, not recalling offlining them, and spies Thundercracker hovering above him, pink energon dripping down his chin, optics blazing. He licks his lower lip clean, gazing down at Skywarp the entire time, unblinking. 

The world comes back into focus as Skywarp reads a HUD notification for low energon. He tries to sit up, but Thundercracker has already crawled off the berth to fetch a towel to clean his face, and a cube of energon for Skywarp.

“Here,” he hands it to him, drying off his face, and Skywarp blushes at the care he’s taking, which is absurd considering the events of the past few moments. He drinks the energon down, and lays back on the berth, TC crawling in next to him so that Skywarp can lay his head on his shoulder and blush again. Then something occurs to him. 

“Why?”

“Why what?”

“Um. Why did you tell me about…that? You could have just as easily lied about it.”

“Oh. Well,” Thundercracker rubs his neck sheepishly, looking not at all like the mechanism who’s just left Skywarp ravished on the berth, “you’re the only person who I’ve ever felt like I could tell. Everybody else—,”

Thundercracker cuts himself off, making a vague waving gesture to indicate what he thinks of everybody else, and Skywarp almost blushes.

“Aw, TC. That’s sweet.”

He inches closer to Thundercracker, pressing their bodies back together. Thundercracker’s arm finds his chest, and the bigger Seeker nestles his face in Skywarp’s neck.

“So,” says Skywarp, walking his fingers up Thundercracker’s back, “you like me?”

He would waggle his eyebrows suggestively, but Thundercracker wouldn’t even see. 

“Yeah,” says the Seeker, pressing a tiny kiss to the healing would on Skywarp’s neck, “I do.” 

Chapter Text

Everyone has always told Deadlock he is a hoe. Most of the time he tunes them out; it may very well be true, but he prefers to think of himself as possessing a type of sexual freedom that his comrades bar themselves from with their prejudices.

Now, though? He’s starting to wonder if they have been right all along.

He’s lying on his back, legs spread obnoxiously wide to make space. Above him kneels Skywarp, who has just finished jerking himself off and getting his transfluid all over Deadlock’s array, and is now rubbing the hilt of a sword against his valve.

It’s no little dirk, either; it’s made for a mechanism easily twice his size, with a long, thick hilt and a massive round pommel on the end. Skywarp presses the pommel against Deadlock’s valve, moving it around, getting a feel for how much Deadlock can take. The pommel is twice the width of the hilt all the way around, a huge sphere meant to block a hand from slipping off. It’s like taking a…a knot, or something. Not that Deadlock has ever done that. Because he isn’t a hoe.

He sort of feels like one though. Skywarp had spent ages fingering him, dragging him almost to the point of overload and then leaving him there over and over, until he was soaking wet and begging for it. Maybe he wouldn’t have if he had known what it was.

At last Skywarp begins to push the hilt forward; the sword is so big that he has to rest it on his shoulder, meaning Deadlock’s hips are pulled up off the ground, and only his back and arms are still connected to the floor. One leg rests on Skywarp’s other shoulder, and the other is bent at the knee, foot flat on the ground, giving Deadlock the leverage to cant his hips further upward into the massive shape prepared to penetrate him.

He can’t help it; he moans as the pommel slowly begins to slide past the rim of his valve, and his moans only increase in volume as that huge round shape digs further into him. When the entire thing pops past the rim of his valve, he makes an embarrassing little squeak, feeling that huge sphere forcing apart his calipers. It’s like being fisted by a titan.

Above him, Skywarp has taken hold of the sword’s blade, not caring if it cuts him, and is using it to push the hilt further into Deadlock.

“P-Primus,” Deadlock wheezes as he feels the massive sphere move further into him, “where did you get this thing?”

“Not important,” Skywarp tells him. Deadlock has a sneaking suspicion it belongs to Tarn, or Overlord, or some other huge mech in need of an equally huge sword. He’s having a hard time worrying about that now, though, because he feels like he’s having a fucking egg pushed into him, like it’s sliding up his valve and toward his gestation tank to spark him up.

“Mmn,” he moans as Skywarp jabs the sword a little deeper, and the pommel finally strikes the top of his valve. Primus, it’s pressing right against his gestation seal, as if poised to force it open, and the crossbar is flush against his valve entrance, pressed right up against his node. His valve clings to it all, the thing fully hilted (hah!) inside of him.

“I bet you like that,” Skywarp says, “being so full that you can’t even breathe. Are you gonna moan for me?”

“Mm, ah!”

Skywarp jabs the sword in hard, shoving it against the top of Deadlock’s valve. He can’t thrust it in and out too much due to the size of the pommel, but he can grind it harshly right against Deadlock’s gestation seal hard enough to make him scream.

“Yeah, you like that. Fucking slut,” Skywarp snarls, and Deadlock can’t stop the moan it draws out of him. Primus, this has got to be in the top ten weirdest things he has ever done, and it is turning him on so bad…maybe he isa hoe.

Skywarp starts thrusting the sword in harder, ignoring how the blade slides slowly against his hand and draws pink energon out from his palm. It drips down onto Deadlock’s legs, mixing with the transfluid and lubricant already coating his thighs. Yeah, yeah, right there Skywarp, that’s perfect.

“You really wanna know where I got this sword?” Skywarp asks him, forcing it impossibly deeper, making his gestation seal burn. Deadlock nods frantically, starting to feel overwhelmed.

“I killed a ‘Bot, and took it from him. A massive, hulking groundpounder. I bet you’d love that, you filth. A huge mech to hold you down and fill you so full of cock you’ll pass out, huh?”

Deadlock cries out, clawing at the floor.

“Somebody to get his spike right. In. Your. Tank,” Skywarp punctuates every word with a harsh jab, and for the barest moment Deadlock imagines he is beneath someone like that, and their spike is working open his seal to get in his tank and fuck him totally raw. When he returns to lucidity, he remembers that it’s the cruel Seeker Skywarp above him, and he can’t decide whether that’s better or worse.

Skywarp’s mouth opens, ready to say more, ready to force that sword even deeper, past the seal of his tank and even farther into him than a spike has ever been, and Deadlock moans like cheap shareware.

Hm. He gets it now; he is a hoe. It’s great.

Chapter Text

Starscream sighs, stretching his back as he gets up out of his chair. It’s been a long shift, one with twice as much work for him, considering his trine is absent. But now it’s over, and he’s free to return to his quarters in peace.

“Query,” a monotone voice says next to him, “Starscream’s trine: in the brig?”

“No,” Starscream tells him, “but they’re being disciplined as we speak.”

Soundwave is referring, of course, to the fight Starscream’s trine had gotten into on the flight deck that morning, some frivolous couples’ spat between them that Starscream hadn’t cared to learn the details of. All he cared about was the way their behavior reflected on him: very poorly. And that sort of insubordination had to be punished.

Luckily, Starscream had come up with a very clever new method of curbing future such incidents, and today was his first chance to test it out. So, he thinks as he makes his way out of the command center and back to his quarters, perhaps it’s a good thing that his trine were fighting.

Well, not for much longer, he reminds himself as he pushes open the door to his quarters. A strip of light bisects the dark room, falling upon the writhing mass on the floor. “Lights, 50%,” Starscream commands, letting the door slam shut behind him.

On the floor, his trine are tied together, legs interlocked and arms bound behind themselves, immobilizing them. They would probably be screaming at him if not for the gag they’re sharing: a ball with two straps instead of one, keeping their mouths pressed close together. As an extra measure, a chain connects them by their collars. In between both their shoulder blades are outlier inhibitors, barring their escape.

And, of course, the true crux of Starscream’s genius: the toys. A vibrating dildo with two ends, and a wand lodged between their anterior nodes. They look gorgeous together, bodies trembling and wings twitching, thighs a shiny pink mess from the sheer amount of overloads they’ve had. Their faces are tearstained and frantic, and their moans are loud enough to make Starscream glad he invested in soundproofing for his quarters.

“Are we getting along?” He asks them. Skywarp glares at him.

“Mmmm mmmmn mmmph!” He cries around the gag, likely trying to speak, to curse Starscream’s existence. Starscream pulls out the remote, which he has been occasionally playing with all day, and turns up Skywarp’s end of the dildo, cutting off his complaints. Across from him, Thundercracker moans brokenly, looking up at Starscream with hazy, subdued optics. He looks significantly less coherent than Skywarp, frame much limper. Good; for all the struggle it took to wrangle him into this position, the fight has seemingly completely left him. Skywarp, on the other hand…

Skywarp struggles again, straining against his bonds, so Starscream grabs his aileron and tweaks it harshly, causing him to whimper. That reaction sends a ping straight to Starscream’s interface array, so he does it again, and again, until Skywarp’s optics are rolling back in his head and he sounds almost as wrecked as Thundercracker. His whole body shivers, jostling the toy, and as both Seekers moan in unison, Starscream’s panel slides open.

“Thundercracker, you’ve been very good,” Starscream announces, giving his trinemate’s wing a rub, “but Skywarp…you’re going to need a little more persuading.”

Skywarp’s optics widen, but he doesn’t have time to make a questioning noise before Starscream is rolling the two of them over, putting Thundercracker on his back and Skywarp lying over him. At this angle, Skywarp’s weight presses down on the wand between them, causing it to grind further into both their nodes, and as they both moan at the exact same pitch, Starscream slides his fingertip over Skywarp’s port cover.

Skywarp jerks violently, hips twitching away from Starscream’s wandering hand, but that has the effect of shoving the dildo hard into Thundercracker, causing him to arch his back and cry out. He sounds so far gone that Starscream isn’t even sure he’s aware of the change in position, much less the further punishment Skywarp is about to be dealt. Skywarp, on the other hand, is very aware. Not wanting to waste time, Starscream activates the manual release on Skywarp’s panel, and begins gathering lubricant onto his fingertips, rubbing it across the tight port, sliding a single digit inside.

Skywarp’s whole body trembles at that, and he tries to jerk away again. “Behave yourself,” Starscream snarls, gripping his trinemate’s hips, and he doesn’t miss the way Skywarp’s port clenches at his authoritative tone. Starscream can’t help a smile; he knows exactly what his trinemate likes, and he fully intends to weaponize that knowledge. When he’s done, Skywarp will be more of a moaning, pliant mess than Thundercracker. When he’s done, Skywarp won’t even remember his own name.

It’s the thought of Skywarp, lying in an incoherent, overstimulated heap, fucked to the point of complete helplessness, that causes Starscream’s spike to pressurize against Skywarp’s thigh, the tip rubbing against the space between his port and stuffed valve. Skywarp whines, pushing his hips back against Starscream, practically begging for another finger. Starscream obliges gladly, scissoring him open, his other hand working his own spike. At the bottom of the pile, a delirious Thundercracker is overloading again, his high breathy moans drowning out Starscream’s thoughts. The fresh gush from his swollen valve makes the perfect lube for Starscream’s spike.

As Starscream rubs the tip of his spike over Skywarp’s port, he wonders distantly just how many overloads his trine have had today. He’d tied them up hours ago, not caring how overstimulated or uncomfortable they got. This was meant to be a punishment, after all. Clearly, considering the aborted, exhausted twitches of Thundercracker’s pelvis as he cums, it’s been a lot.

“Don’t worry,” Starscream tells him over Skywarp’s shoulder, “just a little while longer. You’ve been so good.”

Thundercracker whines, Skywarp grinds his hips back, and Starscream shoves his spike into him, his groan easily outdone by Skywarp’s audial-piercing scream. Sighing with pleasure, Starscream begins to roll his hips into Skywarp’s, grinding his spike deeper with every thrust, until his spike housing is butting up against Skywarp’s aft. His spiketip presses into that spot, Skywarp cries out pleadingly, and with that, Starscream starts pounding him.

He thrusts into Skywarp violently, holding his hips in place so he can’t squirm away and escape. Each thrust shunts Skywarp’s body forward, pushing the toy further into both him and Thundercracker, causing them both to sob at the sudden intensity. Dazedly—Skywarp’s port is so tight—Starscream remembers the remote, grabs it off the ground where he left it, and turns up both the dildo and the wand to their max setting. His trine scream, vocalizers tripping, optics spazzing out, and the sight of them, completely helpless in his hands, sends him nigh into a frenzy. He thrusts harder, pounding that exact spot over and over again, until Skywarp spits a harsh staticky sound and overloads, port clenching around Starscream’s spike hard enough to make him double over as his own overload is yanked out of him. Below them, tears spill out of Thundercracker’s optics as he, too, overloads for what must be the hundredth time, optics offline, body completely limp.

Starscream pulls out, barely restraining himself from falling to the side, as he grabs the remote and turns the toys off. He removes them, starting on untying his trine—both of which are so still they’ve got to be offline, so Starscream doubts they’ll be fighting again anytime soon—one knot at a time. When they’re both untied and starting to groggily blink back to consciousness, he removes the gag from their mouths and goes to their private washrack to get his trine a cloth or two.

When he comes back, Skywarp’s spike is in Thundercracker’s valve, they’re kissing passionately, and the words made up yet? die on his lips.

Mission accomplished.

Chapter Text

Skywarp didn’t like Astrotrain. Astrotrain knew that much. In fact, he suspected the Seeker actually wholly despised him, looking at him as nothing more than a common grunt, unfit for a shiny, pretty Seeker like him. He was just as bad as Starscream.

Astrotrain wanted to throw him down, tie him up, and fuck him until he begged ‘no more.’ That would serve him right. But he knew he would have to wait; it was Thundercracker and Starscream who had a hold over Skywarp, Thundercracker most of all, and there was no way they would let such a pretty thing go so easily.

So he waited, many years he waited, getting himself off to the mental image of the purple Seeker writhing below him, tiny valve stretched to the max, totally stuffed with cock. It painted a pretty picture. And when the time finally came to strike, he would be ready.

It came at last on Cybertron, with the end of the war upon them, with Thundercracker gone away on Earth and Starscream colder and more distant than ever. Skywarp was completely alone, separated from the trine who had abandoned him, and so obviously in need of a good railing that Astrotrain could practically see it a mile away.

It was then that he approached him; Skywarp never would have said otherwise. It took a little corralling, it took a little persuading, it took a little engex, but finally, finally he had Skywarp reclined on the berth in front of him, valve panel open, limbs pliant and limp as Astrotrain fingered him open. He didn’t plan to do much; the thought of Skywarp’s comparatively miniscule valve being stretched open on his spike caused it to extend harshly from its housing and poke against the back of Skywarp’s thigh, but he didn’t want to tear him apart, either. He couldn’t beg as prettily as Astrotrain had imagined if he was dead.

Astrotrain pulled the Seeker’s legs further apart, and his small body ragdolled. He looked up at the ceiling, dazed from pleasure and alcohol, like he wasn’t really seeing the world around him. Astrotrain made sure to pinch his node, and every time he did, he felt the little valve growing wetter and wetter as the little Seeker sighed. His other hand came to cup Skywarp’s narrow waist…Primus, he was so tiny. Astrotrain splayed his fingers out in a Y shape, pressing them as deep as he could reach. His fingers alone would probably be enough to make Skywarp cum, but that wouldn’t be enough for him.

He thrust his spike through the cleft of Skywarp’s valve, wetting it with pink lubricant. At last, he settled his base right up against Skywarp’s node, grinding slowly, making him whine and clutch at the berth sheets, while Astrotrain’s arousal and ego bloomed. For the love of Megatron, when he laid his spike across Skywarp’s belly, it reached all the way up to the diminutive Seeker’s cockpit, and then some. Skywarp stared down at it lying there, and then innocently up at Astrotrain: he seemed to be saying where is it all going to go?

Astrotrain hoped Skywarp had the wherewithal to rearrange his internals to make some space for it. He ground a little harder, getting truly excited now; he would no longer have to imagine the sounds the Seeker would make when Astrotrain’s cock was in his gestation tank.

The mental image was too much to bear; Astrotrain had to grab Skywarp’s narrow hips and thrust into him. At first, he couldn’t even get the tip in, but when he massaged the Seeker’s turbines, his whole body relaxed, and Astrotrain managed to slide a third of the way in. From there it was a matter of massaging his internal calipers, coaxing them aside to make room for more spike…it was a slow process, one that was making Skywarp tense up, squeezing down on the spike stretching him like he was trying to block its progress.

Three-fourths of the way in, Astrotrain butted up against something, a hard something that stood like a wall in his way, and Skywarp’s whole body jerked. The rim of his valve was stretched so wide it was turning pink, his cute little cheeks were flushed, and his face was scrunched up with obvious pleasure. Astrotrain ground against the thing again, Skywarp moaned aloud, and he realized it must be the seal of his gestation chamber.

Then there was only one way to move: Astrotrain gripped Skywarp firmly, then yanked him forward, forcing his spike the rest of the way in. Skywarp cried out in pain, whole body tensing, and he looked up at Astrotrain with pleading optics. Primus, he looked good like this, tears welling up in his optics, too limp and overcharged to try and escape. Astrotrain changed the angle, pointed his spike upward, causing Skywarp to gasp as a little section of his belly bowed outward to make room for the huge cock splitting him in half. Skywarp stared at it in shock, but Astrotrain barely registered his expression: the aperture of his gestation chamber was clinging to his spike just right, and Astrotrain couldn’t help but giving him a little thrust.

But one thrust wasn’t enough; it turned to two, and three, and four, until Astrotrain was pounding the tiny Seeker below him, and said Seeker was screaming with a mix of pleasure and pain as Astrotrain’s massive spike tore into him. Astrotrain nailed him over and over again, fucking into the delicious heat of his forge, watching Skywarp’s belly distend in and out in time with his thrusts.

“Astrotrain,” Skywarp cried at last, his first words on the night, spoken between choked, teary-eyed sobs, “it—, it—, ah!”

“It feels good, doesn’t it? Being impaled? I bet you love that, you little cockslut.”

Skywarp moaned, tearing into the cheap sheets with his claws, valve walls clinging to Astrotrain’s spike in the most perfect way. The wet slapping of his thrusts grew more pronounced, and a second later Skywarp screamed brokenly, back arching in overload. Astrotrain continued slamming into him, watching that little belly warp in shape over and over, pounding him until overstimulation caused Skywarp to claw at him and beg, “no—, no more! I can’t—, hic—, I can’t take it!”

That did it. Astrotrain plunged deep, plugging that overstimulated, trembling little body completely full of cock, his spike housing touching Skywarp’s valve lips and his spiketip stretching into his forge, and pumped him utterly full of transfluid.

Astrotrain collapsed on top of him, not caring if his weight suffocated the little Seeker. He would probably love to die that way, full of cock, the little whore that he was.

When he finally regained his strength, his pushed himself off and to the side, admiring his work. Skywarp’s valve was stretched and loose, and a massive load was bubbling out. His body was completely still, limbs lying akimbo where he had fallen after his overload. His face was tearstained and his mouth was slack.

“Fuck, you took that well,” Astrotrain said, but Skywarp didn’t respond—Astrotrain had fucked him into unconsciousness. Astrotrain leaned down to wipe a bit of drool from his chin—he could smell the engex in the little Seeker’s vents—and then gazed down at him, satisfied. Skywarp would have to return to him; he would never be able to take a normal sized spike ever again. Astrotrain could almost see Starscream’s furious face when he discovered who had defiled his trinemate. Just so he would know for sure, Astrotrain took out a small paint pen and drew a line by Skywarp’s cockpit, nearly halfway up his body, to mark the deepest place his spike had reached.

Skywarp would be terribly hungover tomorrow. Hopefully, so much so that Astrotrain would be able to work his spike back into that valve, and do it all over again.

Chapter Text

Skywarp wanted to savor this moment. He wanted to engrave it into his touch sensors, scrawl it onto his optics, feel every millisecond of it as fully as he could. He wanted to live in this moment forever.

Below him, Thundercracker writhed as Skywarp’s spike pumped in and out of his rear port, head lolling back and forth in time with Skywarp’s thrusts. The ring of his port clung to Skywarp’s spike, squeezing him perfectly, and the ridges inside him fit alongside the ones on Skywarp’s spike exactly right, like he was made for him. 

Thundercracker was a pessimist. Always had been. When Skywarp had told him his mission objective, Thundercracker had practically collapsed in sorrow and frustration, convinced that Skywarp was a dead mech. Skywarp knew only one way to convince him otherwise. 

He pushed his spike all the way in, filling Thundercracker completely, and rolled his hips shallowly. Thundercracker gasped, blue faceplate a hot, blushing ruin. 

“You feel that?” Skywarp asked him, “Feel how good that is?”

Can’t you feel how alive we are?

Thundercracker’s head jerked—it may have been a nod—and his hand flew to his anterior node. Skywarp beat him there, grinding his palm against the node and sliding two fingers into Thundercracker’s sopping valve. He wanted to worship him, to kiss every different colored plate on his body, if only to make him feel the heat of Skywarp’s mouth and know he still functioned. 

The angle was awkward with his arm in the way, but Skywarp bent down to kiss Thundercracker anyway. His partner moaned into it, throwing his arms around Skywarp’s neck and pulling him closer. 

Skywarp resumed his full-spike thrusts, scissoring his fingers and pressing them against Thundercracker’s most sensitive nodes to drive him crazy with pleasure, and to make him forget he was ever worried at all. Thundercracker’s back arched, the dual stimulation of his valve and port too much, and overloaded on Skywarp’s hand. His port clenched down on Skywarp’s spike hard and desperate, like he was trying to keep him there, keep him from leaving, and Skywarp overloaded alongside soon after, mouth stuttering against Thundercracker’s.

Skywarp collapsed on top of him, retracting his hand to lick off the lubricant and cup Thundercracker’s golden helm. He rolled them, pulling Thundercracker down on top of him and slotting their bodies together. 

Thundercracker whined as Skywarp’s spike softened inside him, and Skywarp pulled him ever closer, the vague haze of post-overload clearing to a clear memory of his mission briefing that morning. No matter how many reassurances he offered his partner, the thought of his task still struck a note of anxiety within him: to sneak into the warlord Goldbug’s fortress and snatch their trineleader out from under his nose. Not so daunting a task for a teleporter like him than it would be for any other mechanism. Yet still…

That morning he had seen a black cloud on the horizon. Perhaps it was an omen of the future; perhaps Thundercracker was right. 

But Skywarp couldn’t think like that. If he did, he was liable to give up before he even started. No, he would succeed. He would save Starscream, as per Megatron’s orders, and then he would return to this exact spot, to Thundercracker waiting for him. 

Above him, Thundercracker shifted his hips, clenching his port around Skywarp’s spike, trying to will it back to action. 

“When I return,” Skywarp told him, his impending mission weighing on his processor in a way that wasn’t exactly conducive to interfacing, “when I return.”

Always when. Never if. If he resorted to saying if, he would have no chance of making it back at all. 

Thundercracker buried his face in Skywarp’s neck, embracing him tight enough to make inventing difficult. Skywarp returned the favor, clutching him like he meant to make their bodies one. This is not the last time I hold him, he told himself. Thundercracker was the pessimist; somebody had to be the opposite. 

So it was that he kissed Thundercracker goodbye in the pre-dawn light, not six joors later, before leaping into a transformation, the promise he had made still burning on his lips. He would return. He had to. 

And if he didn’t believe it, well…