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Chapter Text

There’s something peculiar about music, Bluestreak muses as he settles briefly with a cube, having only a short pause before his next shift started. Yes, something very peculiar, especially the one Blaster keeps blasting on the Rec Room speakers. He knows it’s Blaster’s choice, because Jazz’s owns are usually less exotics. Except, Bluestreak is not quite sure what he finds peculiar about it, exactly. It’s not a bad tune, for sure, but it isn’t one Bluestreak fancies much. It’s a melody from Earth.

Oh, the Praxian loves Earth music, really, especially the classical kind because he finds it very soothing. But honestly, it holds nothing to the sweet electronic tunes he listened to back when he was a youngling on Cybertron.

Blaster doesn’t listen to anything soothing, though. It’s always loud, and noisy, and he dances and sings along with whatever he’s listening to. Except, this time, he doesn’t, Bluestreak realizes, finally noticing what was bothering him so much. Instead of being right in the middle of the room, tangling with Jazz to see who the best dancer is, the Cassettes’ Holder is slumping against the large speakers. He doesn’t move much, he just bobs his head to the rhythm of the music, and perhaps he’s actually singing a little, since his lips components are moving, but it’s hard to say, at this distance.

In itself, it’s very unusual, though nobody else seems to have picked on it. Instead, they’re all cheering Jazz as he practices some unusual moves, and laugh and cheer at those who adventure themselves to try, like Bumblebee or Sideswipe.

It mustn’t be very comfortable, Bluestreak thinks as the music gains in speed and tempo. Being so close to the speakers, at such a volume, the sounds must cause vibrations strong enough to reverberate in the orange mech’s entire frame. Surprisingly, Blaster seems to like that, because… Well, because his head is thrown back, and the grey mech can see him shake with… pleasure?

It’s not pain, of that he is sure. But what could the other mech could feel so pleasurable… about… vibrat…

Oh Primus…

Feeling suddenly flustered, the doorwinged mech quickly lowered his head to stare at his energon cubes, vents working hard. He sneaked another look at Blaster’s sprawled form. Despite laying half against the massive stereo and half on the floor, the other mech had thrown one of his legs over a chair. Bluestreak used a magnification on his optics, seeking some proofs he was incorrect. His optics weren’t as good as, say, Ratchet, but as a sniper, the Praxian had some very good sight enhancement mods. Perhaps he was mistaken. Perhaps Blaster was just feeling low and just wanted some rest while profiting from both the music he liked so much and the company of a few friends. Perhaps Bluestreak was just having dirty, shameful thoughts. However, to his dismay, he found what he had kinda hoped not to find. It was just some scarce drops of purplish liquid on the inside of Blaster’s exposed thigh, but those drops were more than enough to make Bluestreak want to moan in embarrassment.

::Blaster?:: he send over a private channel.

It took a moment for the other mech to ping him back. ::Mmmmmm… yeah, Blue?::

The Praxian hesitated before asking very fast. ::Doyouhaveatoystuffedintoyourvalveanddidyoujustoverloadinpublicwithoutanyonethewiser? Because if it’s the case,t han it’s very, very wrong, and if someone notices, they’re going to tell Prowl or Red Alert, and they’re not going to be amused, and you’re going to end up punished, and… ::

Blaster pinged back an affirmative answer, cutting short the younger mech’s worried rant, to Bluestreak’s mortification. ::Uh, uh. I do. The one shaped exactly like your spike, if you want to know,:: he sends back with a teasing chuckle, making Bluestreak’s face heat up.

::Blaaaaaaaaaster!!!:: he keened. ::I thought you had threw it up! It’s broken, remember?::

Oh Primus, how he wished Blaster had actually throw it away. To this orn, Bluestreak still didn’t know why he had agreed to had this specifically made toy created. Except, Blaster had pleaded and teased and asked, and well, the Praxian had agreed. It was supposed to be a simple vibrator, except some time ago, it had stopped working properly, to Blaster’s greatest anguish. It had been discarded by the two lovers in favor of other... kinky little things. Bluestreak had honestly thought the discarded item had been destroyed. But apparently, Blaster had kept it.

::Throwing away a piece of yourself? Well, something so accurately resembling a piece of yourself? Now, why would I do that?:: the older mech teased him. ::Wanted to have it repaired, but it’s not high on Wheeljack’s priorities. So I had to find an… alternative method to use it,:: he explained softly, a silent moan escaping his lips.

Alternative… Of course, Bluestreak realized. The toy couldn’t vibrate by itself. So the only way to make it vibrate somehow was to rely on a external source… like the very loud music blaring into the room.

::Blaster, why?:: he groaned deeply. ::Why do you always end up doing crazy stuff like that? It’s not that I don’t like it,:: he added quickly, ::but honestly, it’s only going to put us in trouble because it’s not appropriate and perhaps Jazz will laugh but Prowl will not and Ironhide either and I don’t even want to think about what Prime’ll say because they would tell him eventually and he would be so disappointed and…::

Blaster cut him out again. ::Oh, love…:: he sighed. ::Missed you so much, Blue. I couldn’t wait until tonight you finished your shift,:: he hushed softly.

Bluestreak’s doorwings sagged at the lustful admission. ::It wasn’t so long to wait…::

::It is for me, Blue,:: the other mech answered. :: I wanted you so bad… Still want you,:: he added. :: But you’re working, and I’m not, and Prowl would have my head if I attempted to go and chat up with you and distract you. So I found the next best thing.::

::Publically overloading with a replica of my spike in your valve?::

Blaster smiled. ::I knew you would pick it up.::

::And the others?:: the Praxian asked.

His lover shrugged. ::I don’t care ‘bout them, love. Only you, and knowing you do know I’m waiting for you to fill me up and make me love tender,:: he started to singsong.

Bluestreak’s engines involuntarily revved. ::I will,:: he promised him. ::As soon as I can. But please, stop this before you get caught,:: he asked Blaster desperately.
Blaster smirked as another song started playing. ::Naaaaw, not just now, love. I like this tune too much. It’s so full of good vibes,:: he purred, nearing another overload, unnoticed by anyone… Except perhaps by Jazz, and Bluestreak had the sneaky feeling the black and white mech was making so much ruckus (well, more so than usual) only to keep everyone attention away from Blaster.

Why, the Special Ops’ head gave Bluestreak a thumb up when the gray mech glanced his way. Bluestreak shuttered his optics and silently promised himself to have a long, long conversation with Blaster in their quarters at the end of his next shift…

Chapter Text

“I’ve heard you had another… unfortunate encounter with Blackarachnia,” Megatron stated quietly, as they lay together on the large berth. “Shockwave reported…”

Optimus shuttered his optics and vented. “Shockwave likes to report a lot of things. Not all of which I would trust right away. But yes, I did encounter Elita… Blackarachnia.”

Megatron huffed. “Still calling her by that Autobot name? Silly mech,” he chided the Prime, cupping the Autobot’s cheek into one of his hands and forcing him to look at him. “She’s not an Autobot and never will be anymore, no matter how much she wants to believe the contrary sometimes. Even if she does manage someday to become a full mechanical being again, that changes nothing to the fact she now is a Decepticon. Little idiot should be proud of this,” he snorted. “That ‘Elita’ you remember has been dead for a long time now. Better stop calling her that, little Prime.”

Optimus sighed. “It’s not so simple… I… it’s my fault…”

Megatron cut him out. “Misplaced guilt, eh? Open up,” he ordered the Autobot. Optimus mindlessly and silently let his panel slide aside, revealing his valve. The Warlord purred at the sight, gently parting the Prime’s legs and sliding between them. He toyed a little with the bared valve, caressing the outer edge and pushing the tip of a finger inside before retracting. Optimus moaned under his teasing ministrations.

“There is nothing to feel guilty about, my dear Optimus. Had she not become a monster in my keep, she would have still become a monster among the Autobots. Not unlike your other ‘old friend’,” he added, trusting in lubricated valve offered to him.

Optimus cried out as he was filled. “Sen… Sentinel isn’t a monster,” he gasped out, spreading his legs wider to let Megatron have better access to his body. “Stu… stubborn, perhaps, and ill-tempered, but he’s not…”

Megatron snorted as he quickened his pace. “Tell yourself that, little Prime. Someone doesn’t become the Magnus’ second by being nice and cuddly. I can admit that about the former Magnus, he didn’t choose ‘bots because of their looks, but because of their competences. Your Sentinel can be just as monstrous as one of my mechs if he needs to… but unlike him, at least, my Decepticons are honest about what they are. Not a word more,” he warned Optimus as the smaller mech opened his mouth. Obediently, the Autobot stayed silent, though he kept a vaguely frowning look on his face for a few breems.

Megatron didn’t let him the time to dwell. He continued trusting in and out, not too violently, mindful of Optimus still sore body; he hadn’t exactly be careful last time, and the Prime was still recovering. The little Autobot clung to him, letting his body be rocked with each trust inside his willing body, moaning in pleasure.

With a loud grunt, the warlord finally overloaded, spilling transfluid deep inside his lover’s body, and let himself fall onto the berth next to Optimus. They stayed silent for a while, Megatron watching his prized lover attentively.

No matter what he did, there always was an air of sadness about Optimus. Always something that made him doubt, kept him from really enjoying himself and the life Megatron offered to him. Often enough, it was guilt, over some fact or another. That he was better treated than a lot of former Autobots, that he had survived when others had not,... Silly, vain things, in Megatron’s mind. They occupied far too much of Optimus’ processor. They lead to self-doubt, to rage, to tears, to screaming matches and volatile tempers, which annoyed or amused Megatron.

The warlord had long since realized there would always be something that would keep Optimus to fully give himself to him, to fully believe him, but in a way, he didn’t mind. Optimus wouldn’t be half as interesting as he was if he was just a mindless devote like Lugnut was. He liked to argue with the smaller mech, liked to silence him in his rants and arguments or sooth him with interfacing.

“Do you feel guilty about not managing to stop me, little Prime?” he asked as Optimus recovered from the intense overload that went through him.

The Autobot shuffled. “Sometimes. Not everybody got a happy ending,” Optimus said quietly, thinking back about some ‘bots he crossed in the streets, fearful of their new rulers, or even some of his friends. He thought briefly about Ratchet, forever mourning the loss of Arcee, or about Sentinel, being ‘reeducated’ by Lugnut and Strika before he could be handed as a possible, docile mate to another Decepticon. He was just grateful Blitzwing, despite his rather worrisome personas, wasn’t violent toward Jazz, and that Shockwave didn’t permit anyone to even think about abusing former Autobots working for him, like Bumblebee or Blurr.

“Not everybody is cut to have one,” countered Megatron simply. “Life, my darling Prime, can be hard and unforgiving. You should be thankful for what you have and not worry about the rest. Except, I don’t think you ever will,” he mused. “But I don’t want to see you mopping around for things you can’t change, do you hear me?”

Optimus nodded quietly. “Yes, my Lord.”

Megatron emitted a satisfied sound at the answer. “Good mech,” he said as he slid out of Optimus’ body. “And tell me, little Prime, do you still feel guilty for sharing my berth?” the Warlord asked him, smirking down at the red and blue mech. He has no doubt about the answer.

Optimus had to smile softly, curling against Megatron’s warm body. “Barely, my Lord.”

Chapter Text

“So, how did you end up in the Medbay with no arms this time? Well, you still have arms, I guess, but I never seen them so charred and damaged and I’ve been told Inferno had a hard time putting off the fire out of them and that Perceptor and the guys who helped him clearing up the labs since haven’t found all the pieces of your armors that got blow off and I heard someone say some of them had just melted and that Ratchet would have to remake most of your arms down from the elbows joints from scrap. I tried to ask him but he was really in a fool mood and didn’t answer me, but he said I could visit anyway because I’ve been so worried and he thought you could use the company provided I didn’t bother you too much and you didn’t do anything else totally stupid.”

Bluestreak sat by Wheeljack’s side on the berth in a corner of the Medbay, looking a bit worried. True, enough, what remained of Wheeljack’s arms didn’t look good. The engineer wouldn’t leave the ‘bay for weeks, by the look of things.

But, like any time he damaged himself, it didn’t seems to pull a damper on the engineer’s good mood.

“Ah, don’t you worry for me, Bluestreak. It’s not so bad. I don’t even feel anything,” he tried to cheer up the grey mech. “I just encountered yet another job’s hazard. Nothing too bad.” Bluestreak didn’t seem convinced. “There’s nothing to worry about; I’ll be back in full at full capacity very soon. And then,” he smiled, “I’ll have a new toy for you to play with.”

Bluestreak’s doorwings twitched. “Is that so? I know you mean well, Wheeljack, I really do, but if you continue injuring yourself like that, I’m not sure I…”

Wheeljack cut him out. “Trust me, you will like it. Just let me show you what I was working on before I misjudged the calibration.” He mentally sent the order for one of his ports to open up, and a small panel by his side slide open, revealing a connection cable.

“Here, take a look,” he invited the younger mech, who connected the cable to one of his ports with a dubious look, before letting the engineer send him the necessary files.

He hadn’t expected that.

Bluestreak’s optics flashed in surprise as he took a good look at Wheeljack latest schematics. “Is that cannon… color-coded to be assorted to my paintjob?” he asked in surprise and no little awe.

Wheeljack nodded with enthusiasm. “Yup! I thought it would please you if I added some special touch to just show it’s only for you. And I added some nice gadgets. See that little button at the bottom of the handle? Well, it’s will shift the cannon to…” he started to explain.

Bluestreak wasn’t listening anymore at this point. Frame almost slouching and optics vacant, his CPU kept reviewing the plans Wheeljack’s had transmitted him. He could only see the sleek lines of the future weapons, with his shifting, turning barrels, each one with a different diameters, allowing the one manning it to send multiple sized projectiles at once and at different distance, if what he could understand of Wheeljack’s notes was right.

It just didn’t send normal lasers, too; the engineer had added several features, including the classical acid pellets (with a reserve of three thousands rounds), flamethrowers, a freeze ray supposed to engulf any opponent in ice and (because the engineer had seemed to get quite paranoid since some of his former projects had been hijacked by the Decepticons) a small autodestruct button. Oh, and the lock system! The shooter only had to lock, and press as many times as he wanted, and all rounds would hit the same target! It was also supposed to be realized in a light alloy to better the handle and transport.

Genius! Destructive, worrisome genius, but still genius. Bluestreak felt giddy just thinking about the damage it could cause. Oh, Ironhide and Cliffjumper were going to be so jealous! If he wasn’t already in love with Wheeljack, he would have fallen in love right now all over again.

He looked at the older mech with big optics.

“Wheeljack? Did I ever tell you just how awesome and bright and intelligent and seductive you are? Because if I didn’t, well, I’m just saying it now! If I could jump you right now to show you my appreciation, I totally would, but I think Ratchet wouldn’t like that, since he said you needed to rest and he would personally hunt down anyone who troubled you, and I guess he’s serious and I don’t want him after my aft, but still, I totally want to kiss you and snuggle with you right now, because if you manage to pull it off and actually create that weapon for real, I think I’ll ask you to bond with me on the spot! It’s so gorgeous that I can’t wait to get my hands on the real thing!” the gunner smiled excitedly, just thinking about handling the real thing.

Wheeljack gave him a cheeky smile… Or at least, he supposed it was one, given the color of the lights flashing each side of his helmet. “Just because I managed to accidentally blow up my arms doesn’t mean I can’t still blow your mind, youngling. Though, between us, I would rather blow it off in another way,” he added with a seductive wink.

Bluestreak giggled and kissed him gently on the forehead. “I just can’t wait for you to show me,” he grinned happily.

Chapter Text

Bluestreak’s most haunting memory isn’t the fall of Praxus, surprisingly enough.

Oh, sure, it’s horrible, and he can still remember dead, broken sparklings’ shells pilling up to the side next to him as he laid, waiting for a death he was sure was coming. He remembers the odor of heated metal and spilled energon and the agonized screams of survivors slowly dying out from their injuries, trapped under the rumbles of their former homes. True, it’s not the nicest thing haunting his processor, and Bluestreak had had bad memory purges concerning the event, but honestly, the war created more horrible memories to drown in.

Killing for the first time was bad; pulling the trigger and see the enemy’s head blow up… He hadn’t purged his tank, but it had been close enough. It had become easier with time, but sometimes… Sometimes, there had been bad situations, or spark wrenching moments. Like the time a Decepticon had thrown himself next to the grey frame of a mech Bluestreak had just shot, weeping like a sparkling and calling for his friend? Creator? Mentor? To wake up.

Bluestreak liked most of his fellow Autobots. He really did. But how could they be so naïve to not think he could have been traumatized by something else than Praxus? The lost of his city had been the stepping stone. War and its atrocities just added to the cortege. How could they think that by changing him into a killer, he wouldn’t be further shell-shocked?

Nobody got it, really. Nobody, except Jazz.

Jazz understood, because Jazz had some pretty irksome things going on under his visor and easy smile. He never got into the details, but Bluestreak gathered some parts of Special Ops were probably like a living nightmare. He didn’t dare to ask, and Jazz wasn’t telling. It was fine. At least, the Praxian had someone who got it, who could love him even when he wasn’t wearing a mask of innocence of naivety. Jazz acknowledged Bluesteak could be or feel like a monster sometimes, because he did too. It was always Jazz who could console him whenever he was feeling particularly down.

Or when he had a nightmare, right in the middle of his recharge shift.

It was a small mystery, how Jazz always managed to pick up when Bluestreak was tossing and turning in his recharge, prey to whatever his subconscious was using against him. But whenever Bluestreak woke up in fright, the black and white mech was here. It wouldn’t have surprised the grey mech much that the saboteur had bugged his quarters, but he couldn’t find in himself to mind.

Not when Jazz offered him the comfort of a warmth, living frame next to him, the comfort of loving arms holding him close, of a voice whispering sweet nothing to calm him down and make him believe he was desirable, despite the energon on his hands and the guilt in his spark. “Don’t go,” he sobbed, clinging desperately to the black and white mech leaning over him. “Don’t let me… Don’t let me go!”

Jazz nodded slowly. “’m right here, Blue. Just here…” he murmured softly, holding onto the sobbing Praxian, gently rocking him. “I’m here, and I’m going nowhere…”

Chapter Text

Cosmos didn’t spit-take. It would have been a waste of perfectly good energon, after all. But he definitely had a hard time swallowing his current intake. Not trusting himself not to drop his cube, he gently set it down on the table and turned toward the yellow, more than tipsy Minibot hanging at his side.

“I’m sorry, what?” he asked, optics wider than usual.

Bumblebee giggled and put a hand on Cosmos’ aft, smiling silly, and squeezed.

The Cybertronian flying saucer delicately removed the invading limb from his posterior and raised an optic ridge, indifferent at Bumblebee’s pout. “Now, Bumblebee, that’s hardly appropriate,” he chided him.

Bumblebee sulked unhappily. “But I liiiike it!” he slurred, trying once again to put his hand on the aft that kept drafting his interest. "It's so biiiiiig and large! I bet the other side of you must juuuust as impressing! Wouldn't mind you showing me how good you are with it," he tried to wink seductively, but with his current state of overcharging, the result wasn't very appealing.

Cosmos raised an optic ridge, clearly not impressed. The other Minibot would be embarassed when he would came back to his sense. Still, the drunken offer made him ponder.

He had been rather lonely, lately.

Cosmos, despite persistent rumors probably encouraged by his rather numerous and long treks in space, wasn’t a virgin. Now, that didn’t mean he would systematically berth anyone who asked him, but, as a ‘bot who spend most time alone in outer space, he rarely refused an offer. He never knew when someone would offer him again, after all.

He had heard lot of reasons for lovers choosing to berth him: he was a Minibot, he was funny, he was nice, he was the only choice around that was halfway decent character wise, someone didn’t want to die a virgin, he had been so brave and merited a treat,…

Whatever it was, it never had been for his looks. Cosmos knew he wasn’t the most attractive ‘bot around. His fellow Cybertronians tended to gravitate more around delicate, beautiful frames like Mirage, or handsome paragons of virility like Sunstreaker or Optimus Prime. Nobody had ever stated he wanted to interface with Cosmos because of his looks. Well, perhaps once; there had been a femme who had told him he had beautiful optics, the nicest compliment someone had ever told him, in his advice.

But that was definitely the first time someone told him he loved him because he had a rather large… backside.

Any other time, Cosmos would have dismissed it as a joke. Except, it was Bumblebee who had uttered such a curious, unexpected statement. Bumblebee, who was certainly the most honest, straightforward Autobot Cosmos knew. Bumblebee, who could probably bang most of the Ark crew just by looking cute or innocent or seductive and asking for it. Bumblebee, who was so drunk he couldn’t even keep secrets to himself or lie about them anymore.

Still… being asked out because he had a rather large rear in comparison to most of his fellow Autobots? Should he feel offended or not?

Then Bumblebee kissed on the cheek, throwing his arms around his shoulders and hugging him strongly, and Cosmos decided that, curious way of expressing interest or not, he wasn’t going to protest the other Minibot’s advances.

Next mission was coming fast, and he sooo wanted to get some before leaving again.

Chapter Text

Things were not exactly going the way Shockwave had pictured. In fact, they were going quite the opposite. Frankly, he had never thought he would somehow found himself spread-eagled to a berth, strapped down securely in his own former quarters in the Autobots HQ. By the Allspark, he was a Decepticon! He was supposed to be the one tying down his victims to have his wicked ways with them, not the other way around!

Of course, the Autobots didn’t seem to have gotten that message, if he could judge by his current situation. Who would have thought ‘bots who prided himself on being proper and nice could be so… kinky.

Standing in front of the berth, arms crossed over his chest, his former subordinate was looking down at him with a cocky smile that Shockwave found very infuriating. To think, he had been caught because one Agent had managed to be fast enough to slip through his servos…

“Did anyone ever tell you how beautiful you were? So… exotic. Strong-looking. Sexy. So much more than your Longarm disguise,” Blurr commented with false nonchalance. His optics were watching Shockwave angrily.

Shockwave tried not to squirm too much under this gaze that bode nothing well for him. “I find it to be of little value. Now, Agent Blurr, what do you want with me exactly?” Oh, he knew very well what the Autobot wanted, but he hoped to stall him a little.

It wasn’t he would exactly mind interfacing with the smaller blue ‘bot. In fact, he would have greatly enjoyed that. But not under the present circumstances: Blurr was supposed to be the one tied down and totally at his mercy. Not him!

“Oh, you can just call me Blurr,” Blurr purred. “You once said to me there were times when speed couldn’t help me win. Well, it sure won’t help you now, Sir,” he said as he straddled the bound Decepticon’s waist.

If his real face had been more expressive, Shockwave would have raised an optic ridge. “I hardly find this citation appropriate in the present circumstances; I’m never been one for speed and I know you surpass me in this domain. Beside, my current position is leaving me with little means to get away, so speed wouldn’t help anyway. Unless you were trying to be seductive?” he pondered. “In such case, as much as I could appreciate the effort if I wasn’t tied up, I have to say you’re failing, lamely.”

Blurr face colored slightly. “Ah… Well… “

Shockwave sighed. No, things really weren’t going according to plan. And someone really needed to coach the Autobots about seductiveness and interface plays. And fast…

Chapter Text

Ratchet shuttered his optics several times in quick succession trying to make sense of what he was seeing. And Primus, it was hard.

Ironhide was a burly, harsh and sometimes unpleasant mech, despite his unwavering loyalty to the Prime and his comrades.

Ratchet didn’t mind.

He wasn’t interested in overly nice ‘bots, at least not as lovers. That was, in his opinion, one of the most attractive features the older mech had. Ratchet wasn’t a nice mech either; or rather he didn’t like to act like one when he could instead be brutally honest. He liked snapping at his partner and battling for dominance behind closed doors. Ironhide wasn’t someone to back down once he had taken a decision, and it was very appealing to the medic to try and get him to change his way of thinking, or simply tear into him and screaming at him for being such an aft-head. Whatever the medic managed to get some sense into the red mech or not, it invariably ended with a round of long, rough love-making that left him sore and satisfied for the next few cycles.

It wasn’t exactly the healthiest relationship, according to Smokescreen, but honestly, neither of them cared much. Let the younger ‘bots look at each other in the optics with stupidly sweet expression. It just wasn’t their style. What they both wanted, what they both liked, was someone strong and dominating or liking to be dominated. They both knew if someone better came along, they could part without hard feelings and stay friendly. Their arrangement was good for them: the interfacing was great, they liked each other well-enough to make it work for vorns, and it didn’t impede on their duties to the Autobots.

Yes, Ratchet mused, Ironhide was supposed to be a right, sulky bastard, even when he was participating to the random party their fellow Autobots liked to threw.
He wasn’t supposed, in any case supposed to be dancing in the middle of the room, and singing along that he was ‘feeling soooooo prettyyyy!’, making his comrades laugh loudly at his antics and silly grin. Cue why Ratchet was having a hard time adding the two images in his CPU.

That wasn’t Ironhide’s style, at all. When he was drunk, he was even moodier than usual, and sometimes he was clingy and even more obtuse than usual. He could sometimes get violent if someone riled him enough. But he certainly wasn’t a funny, happy drunk.

So that left only one possibility in Ratchet’s mind, and he grit his teeth in rage before pulling a wrench out of subspace.

“Your attention please,” he groused loudly, enough to be heard above the music. He paid no further mind to Ironhide just yet. Later, he would, most notably to drag him to the Medbay and flush his systems. But first, he had holy retribution to rain down on some condemned fool’s head.

Slowly, the medic hit his palm repeatedly with his favorite wrench, optics narrowed and focused on the merry band of slowly-getting-worried Autobots currently participating to the party.

“Okay, mechs. I’m only going to ask once, and I expect to get an answer, because if I don’t, I can swear to you I’m going not only to weld the lot of you up to the ceiling until I get the formal order to get you down, but I’m also going to make sure to make each repair and each basic maintenance exam for the next fifteen vorns extremely painful and embarrassing. Ever wanted to have a public valve exam while being trussed up in the Rec Room? I swear to you I’ll will if you give me a reason to. I’m sure it will be very demonstrative and instructing for the Dinobots, to who I’ve never explained the use of those parts before. As CMO, I could very well order someone to show them exactly how to use them, for some… medical reason I’ve yet have to determine. Now, I’m sure nobody here wants to be the one to demonstrate, so I guess you’ll be listening to me” he stated flatly, to the uneasiness of several ‘bots.

Ratchet smirked darkly. “Now, what I want to know, mechs, is: who in the Pit drugged Ironhide? And don’t answer all at once to cover up for the guilty party: I might want to know exactly who to hit when I’ll know, but I’ve not compulsion about avoiding collateral damages.”

Chapter Text

“Do you keep secrets from me?”

Jazz paused in his reading and glanced at the Autobot SIC, head tilted to the side. Prowl stood tall and rigid, arms crossed over his chest, face blank and doorwings barely twitching, betraying nothing of his mental state. Hmm. The mech was getting good at hiding away all traces of what he might have been thinking. Too good, perhaps. “Curious question. Now, what might have prompted you to ask me that?” he dodged.

Prowl didn’t even raise an optic ridge. “The Ark is a rumor mill,” he said simply.

“It is,” Jazz acknowledged. “And?”

“And some people might have insinuated that certain mechs had secrets.”

“Prowl, my mech, try to be logical here. Everybody has secrets. The Twins have secrets. The Minibots have secrets. Wheeljack has secrets. Ratchet has secrets. I’m sure Optimus has some, too.” He wanted to add: you too, but thought better of it. Prowl never liked that kind of answer, where someone might be doubting his integrity. Jazz knew a few of those secrets himself -- like the fact that, if Bluestreak had survived Praxus bombing alongside Prowl, it wasn’t because he was an innocent bystander pulled to safety by the former Enforcer, but because Prowl had just arrested him for pick-pocketing and had been bringing down to his Station. They just had happened to take cover together.

“I know that -- and I know what they hide. But do you hide anything too?” the doorwinged mech prompted. He seemed bothered somewhat. “I suppose that if you have any secrets, they’re related to Special Ops business. I don’t like that, Jazz. As TIC and Tactical Officer, I should know everything about everyone to better plan and use our resources.”

Jazz smirked. “Now, my mech, that would be telling. And if anything, I’ve never been a tattler...”

Chapter Text

When Beachcomber closed his optics, he saw things. Pretty, pretty things. He could see the valleys of Cybertron’s southern hemisphere, when they were still full of cyberwildlife that were darting between the crystaltrees, the dark sky full of far away stars glittering over them. He could see the shores of the Rust Sea, littered with shells as the waves broke over the metallic beachs, while oxyde-sharks and other mechafishes could be seen swimming in the distance… and in the air.

Curious. Oxyde-sharks didn’t fly… did they? And since when was their organic animals on Cybertron as well? There were birds perched on his shoulders, and a deer that was insistently licking at his knee to try and get the Minibot to pet him.

Curiouser and curiouser. Cybertron’s sky had never been pink before, at least not from what he could remember. Hmm, perhaps he should ask Ironhide if that had ever been the case. Oh, but never mind, the sky wasn’t pink; it was green. And purple. And yellow. And a lot of very interesting colors all at once. And was it Seekers he was seeing in the air in their root form, dancing that human dance called the ‘conga’? And… was that Prowl doing the ‘limbo’ under a rainbow? Strange; he could have sworn Cybertron never had rainbows. They didn’t have the right kind of rain for that.

Boron-bees were buzzing at his audio receptor, actually singing a song… the one from that park with the giant cartoon mouse… and all the dolls… And the world being small. Beachcomber couldn’t help it; he started singing too.

“Beachcomber? Oy, Beachcomber!”

“He seems pretty much out of it, mech.”

“No, you think? The Pit is wrong with him?! What is he humming?”

“I don’t know, and I don’t want to know!”

“Myself, I’m more interested in what is provoking… that.”

“Is he having hallucinations? Did he take drugs?”

“I don’t think so… Though… he did drink from that vat!”

“Damnit, Sideswipe, what did you put in that brew?!”

Chapter Text

The moment he got back to the Nemesis, he was going to kill Starscream. And Skywarp too, if he managed to catch him before the idiot teleported away. It was all their fault if he was in that situation to begin with! Starscream for ordering him to perform that risky manoeuvre so close to the ground, where the Twins Menace could so easily launch at them, and Skywarp for teleporting in his way, thus forcing him to change direction in a panic and crash.

Crash behind enemy lines, that’s it. Captured, anyone?

Luckily for him, Thundercracker mused, the Autobot CMO was honoring his oaths and healed everyone who needed his help. He had repaired the blue Seeker as if he was any patient. That said, the repairs still hurt like the Pit.

And the restraints didn’t help at all!

He pulled at them again for what was probably the hundredth time today, earning himself an amused snort.

“You should stop doing that, my mech. Not good for your paint.”

“Noted,” the blue seeker answered dryly to the black and white mech sitting on the arm of the couch besides him. it still bothered him that the Autobots hadn’t just stuffed him into a cell. But apparently, you got severe injuries, then you got a right to a real room until you recovered enough for the CMO’s satisfaction. Except, there was none that were free currently, and none that could be changed into and effective ‘cell’. None, except the SIC’s room, which had more protection codes and locks than that of the paranoid Security Director.

Why the other black and white, mech, Jazz, hung out so often here, Thundercracker couldn’t even fathom, though. Was it true, the rumors the Cassettes brought once? Were those two… lovers? And sharing their quarters?

Naw. Couldn’t be. Surely, someone would have spotted it before. They were simply good friends…

“Jazz. Don’t tease him,” came the simple sentence from the detached doorwinged mech who was filling reports at his desk.

“Sorry, Love, my bad,” the Special Ops Head chuckled, crossing his arms behind his head as he leaned back. “You’re sure you don’t want TV, TC? Some sound won’t disturb our Prowler, and I bet you’re starting to get as bored as me.”

Thundercracker lifted an optic ridge. Not lovers; there was no proof. Then again…

Chapter Text

Rodimus moaned as a hand made its way down his body, resting between his thighs. He arched his back, leaning into the touch as much as he could, and was rewarded by a soft amused laugh. “So impatient,” the deep voice murmured. “Will you open up for me now?”

The Prime’s panel slide aside immediately, revealing his interface array. A finger brushed against the tip of his spike, which was already poking out of its housing. “Very impatient,” the other mech commented.

“Ultra Magnus,” the red and yellow mech whimpered. “Please…”

“Ultra, young one,” the older mech corrected. “No need to be so formal in the berth,” he added as he let his hand slide lower, down to the opening of the valve. A single finger started to rub and poke at the opening, making the Prime keen softly as he wiggled his aft.

“T… Tease,” he accused. “Please, don’t make me wait. You know I can take you!”

“I know, young mech; I know,” the blue and white mech rumbled pleasantly. “I sometimes think Primus created you and your valve especially for me, as a most… uncommon gift. That’d explain why not only he created you, but why we met, don’t you think? I needed a companion, and here you come, standing proud as the graduation ceremony, on the fast track to become a Prime.” His rubbing intensified, making the Prime whimper more loudly. “You can stretch so much, and with so little preparation,” he continued as his finger made its way through the folds of the valve, brushing against sensor nodes as it did so. Rodimus cried out. So good!

“So vocal! It’s just a digit, Rodimus Prime,” the Magnus chuckled. He leaned forward and kissed the Prime’s lips, nibbling at them as the kiss deepened. “Just wait, my darling Prime; soon, I’ll give a very good reason to become vocal,” he said as he let his own panel retract to expose his interfacing components…

Chapter Text

If some people could see how good Sunstreaker actually was with Sparkling, Bluestreak didn’t doubt they would choke on their energon before crashing down into a heap of parts. Sunstreaker, one of the fable and feared Terror Twin, was anything but soft, kind and funny. Basically, he was anything but good caretaker’s material.

And still, in the three orns since he had taken over that orphan Sparklings group from the Youth Sector, the yellow mech had done a better job at taking care of them than the five mechs who had occupied the position before. The group had a reputation for being mean little terrors, who had driven more than a mech to resign and run away screaming. They were war orphans, half-wild and snapping their dental plates at anyone they didn’t like. Actually, one of them was a real bitter who liked to snap and snatch at anything in sight. Currently, he had his dental plate sunk into a stoic Sunstreaker’s shoulder and, to anyone stumbling upon the scene, it was surprising the frontliner hadn’t already shot him.

But Sunstreaker never shot or ranted when he was hit, bitten or got something thrown at him. He just took it in stride, grunted, and resumed what it had been doing. Getting bitten wasn’t deterring him from painting, one mechling snuggled in his laps and fingerpainting on his frame, a femmeling wrapped on his shoulder and peering at his work and two others running circles around him with scissors and stolen art supplies in hands.

It was unexpected. It was also damn cute to watch, the sniper decided.

Whoever had assigned Sunstreaker as their caretaker must have been meaning to punish either Sunny or the Sparklings. Well, tough luck; they all seemed pretty much happy with the arrangement.

Those kids, that little femme and those four mechlings? They didn’t need to be treated like delicate little victims and patronized. They needed to be challenged, to be talked to as adult, to be allowed to run wild while being assured there was someone looking out for them. Something Sunstreaker apparently excelled at -- though it was probably due more to the fact he was a very blunt individual than to any kind of ‘natural talent’.

Those kids had had it rough, it was obvious. They weren’t ready to trust just anyone yet, especially not Autobots -- not when half of them spotted red or deep purple optics, like most Decepticons. But Sunny… Sunny they trusted. And Bluestreak, too. Sometimes. So long he was spoiling them rotten with Copper-Cookies and didn’t force them to go wash their little frames behind the helm fins.

Speaking of Copper-Cookies, he needed to get them out of the oven and here soon. If he didn’t, then the cute little menaces would probably make a raid on the kitchen, and Bluestreak was in no hurry to see it.

Still, as he glanced again at Sunny and the Sparklings, he couldn’t help but smile. Mean little things, the lots of them. But so damn cute it just made his Spark melt as he wondered if, perhaps, Sunstreaker would make good Sire material for a brood of their own...

Chapter Text

It wasn’t supposed to happen that way!

He was the one everyone feared, Megatron’s chief interrogator! He was the one who was giving nightmare to the Autobots and to a good portion of the Decepticons as well! He was Vortex, he was a Combaticon! He was the monster under Sparklings’ berths, he was the Sparkeater hiding in the closet, the Empty hiding under the stairs! He was feared, he was… afraid.

Afraid of a lithe thing of a mech, an Autobot of Praxian origins, with shiny blue optics and a big stupid smile, who babble about anything and everything without pausing.

If anyone had learned Vortex was afraid of this one mech, they would have scoffed and laughed.

Well, the interrogator thought wildly, they wouldn’t have laughed had they be the ones trapped with the little fragger.

Electricity shot through his body and he arched his back, screaming to the point of making his voice break in statics as the current intensified. Right before him, a hand on the control sending power to the cables buried in his medical ports, the grey Praxian smiled happily.

“Oh, statics already? I thought a big though mech like you could handle more. Jazz usually zaps his trainees and SpeOps apprentice with more power than that,” he commented. “And they don’t make nearly half as much noise as you. Granted, since I have spread your medical ports open with a knife and charred the connections deep within before jamming the plugs in, I suppose it must be more painful than normal electrocution,” he mused.

He patted Vortex twitching frag nicely on a thigh, not even flinching as he caught some of the current. “Such a delicate little thing! What are you, a Sparkling? Given how much pain you ‘Cons delivered on us, I had thought you were made of sterner stuff. Of course, I suppose you never tested your methods unto yourself. A pity,” he said as he turned.

“Now, what should we test next? I saw some clamps in your… ‘material’; I’m sure we can find something very fun to do with them…”

Chapter Text

“Oh my! I think this time, I’m actually jealous!”

Breakdown blinked, caught off guard as Knock Out circled him with narrowed optics. Well, that was new; his friend-with-benefices/lover had never told him anything like that before. What would Breakdown had to be jealous of anyway? Knock Out was prettier, wittier, had a higher rank and could make any mech he wanted fall on his knees in adoration in a way Breakdown could never hope to pull of. Starscream might, eventually, but not Breakdown.

“Uh, Knock Out?” he asked nervously, as Knock Out’s circling didn’t end. It reminded him of those nautical life forms they had watched over humans’ documentaries channels -- sharks, he thought they were called.

“So shiny,” the medic mumbled. “So perfectly shiny, and you only used a single layer from what I can discern. And it’s perfectly applied too, no scratch or anything of the like. How in the Pit did you manage that?” he asked, raising his head to look at the larger mech in the optics. “What is your secret?”

“Uh?” Was it all about… his finish? Breakdown refrained himself from chuckling nervously; he knew the medic wouldn’t have approved. “Oh, uh, I got it from the Vehicons. Some of them raided a human facility for supplies Soundwave asked for and they brought back a few additional items.”

“You’re using… human products?” the lithe red mech asked in disbelief before he started to scratch hi chin, suddenly looking thoughtful. “Well, well, well. Would you look at this; not only do the meat bags able to design damn fine automobiles, but they also make halfway decent products to care for them. Hmm, this bears investigation!” He clapped his hands. “Care to accompany me for a side trip?”

Breakdown felt a smile tugging at his lips. How long at it been since they both made a trip through the Space Bridge that didn’t result in Autobot fighting? “Sure!”

Raiding human for polish; that was going to be fun!

Chapter Text

Bumblebee whimpered even as he kicked as hard and strong as he could in the legs of the mech currently holding him. That was a nightmare! He was going to wake up sound, in his quarters, curled with Sari after falling asleep playing Ninja Gladiators! He shuttered his optics and onlined them again several time. No change! Primus...

“Let me go! Letmegoletmegoletmego!” He kicked some more, squirming as he did so despite the stasis cuffs on his wrists that had rendered most of his systems numb and sluggish.

“Hmm, impressive speed of speech,” Shockwave noted as he glanced down at his captive. “Did Agent Blurr give you lessons? Oh, never mind; it’s not that important. Though I’m most eager to see if your glossa is as quick when sucking on a spike,” he chuckled.

Bumblebee gagged. “Wh…?! Are you crazy?! No way I go never near that thing! Release me!”

“Oh, little Bee, I think you’re misunderstanding the situation,” the Decepticon Double Agent smirked. “I caught you fair and square, little mech; by Decepticon’s law, you’re mine to do as I wish. And what I wish, my sweet little troublemaker, is to hold you and make you mine. I’m never letting you go, little mech. Never,” he added as his claws tipped the security code allowing him entry to his quarters. The little yellow mech caught sight of the large berth in the middle of the revealed room. A berth with chains hanging at each post, ready to ensnare a mech and keep him spread-eagle, open and vulnerable to anyone’s unwanted advances.

He couldn’t help it; he keened...

Chapter Text

The two mechs in the shadow broke their kiss, panting. A blue visor flashed in the darkness as its owner glanced right and left, as if checking they had not be followed or surprised. Actually, he was really checking they were indeed alone.

“Can’t make it last much longer,” he mumbled regretfully.

“Yes,” came the sighed answer. “I need to go back on patrol in the next three joors; communications jamming will end up then and I need to appear to be still on my planned flight. By the way, you shouldn’t do that again. Taking down the whole grid? That makes mechs twitchy.”

“But it’s soundproof,” the visored mech pointed out. “Besides, it got the benefice of letting Mirage inside for a moment. And since the ‘Cons are more on the look-out for him, they don’t have reason to seek something fishy somewhere else.”

“Guess so… but it’s not you who have to deal with Starscream’s bitching about Soundwave’s ‘incompetence’ in maintaining the systems.”

“Speaking of the Unicron’s spawn, you’re sure they don’t have any suspicions? Soundwave isn’t exactly the kind of mech one can easily play around, ‘specially when he lets his telepathy run loose…”

“Oh, I wouldn’t worry too much about that,” the other mech grinned. “You see, I’ve heard from someone small and Cassette-sized using his telepathy had the side effect of giving him headaches. Poor darling is so grouchy over about them he tries to use it the less possible.”

“Oh? And how did you manage to bribe him to reveal that ‘weakness’, TC?”

“Hmm, I may have mentioned offhandedly that I had a slight, slight crush on our resident Cassette Holder and I was ashamed he could pick on it during a random mental scan.”

“A crush? Really? Is that true?” the mech’s visor flashed as he seemed to melt further in the shadows.

The other mech shrugged, wings fluttering. “Well, what can I say? He doesn’t look half-bad, for a grounder… though you’re much cuter,” he winked as he grabbed the other mech to kiss him a last time.

“Flatterer. Now, be on your way, Agent. And remember, the Prime and the Autobots count on you,” he grinned as the blue Seeker before him transformed and flew away.

Chapter Text

“Seriously, you should stop doing that.” To the casual onlooker, Rodimus Prime, Supreme leader of the Autobots, seemed to be talking to himself. There was, after all, no one around he could or should have spoken to.

Well, no one visible, at any rate. But then said casual onlooker might have noticed the floating cube of energon that seemed to be emptying itself at a very short distance from the Prime. Sane people would have rationalized it was the Autobot spy Mirage refueling. Less sane people or simply people in the known would have panicked and started to dial the Ghostbusters number.

“Are you even listening to what I’m saying?” the Prime asked, sounding ticked off.

“I never listened to Megatron,” a voice drawled, so awfully familiar that long-time surviving Autobots would have reached for their weapons and looked around to try and catch the sight of red optics and broad wings. “What make you believe I’ll listen to you?”

The Prime pouted. “That’s not what you were saying in the berthroom the other day. I remember you listening…”

“Only because pushing that dildo in and out faster was fun,” the voice drawled. “I didn’t do it for you, only for my personal amusement.”

“Now, why do I very much doubt that version?” the Prime quipped, optics focused on the draining cube. That was the only way he could keep track of Starscream. Oh, he always knew when the ghost was in the room, as the Matrix always seemed to buzz with activity when he was, but to pinpoint his position? That was much harder is the ghost Seeker didn’t want to be found. Thankfully, the Decepticon seemed to like ‘humoring’ him.

“Doubt all you want, Autobot, it’s not less true.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Rodimus hand waved. “Tss, I would have thought having a ghost haunting me would be more fun. It always was in Kup’s stories.”

“I’m not one of that old timer’s myth! I’m Starscream!”

“And I wish you’d stop freaking out my mechs by randomly lifting objects and squeezing their afts -- or arousing them in the middle of a meeting. Honestly, why don’t you go haunt the Decepticons and Galvatron?”

“You’re funnier to annoy,” came the dry voice as the cube dropped to the floor and shattered. Rodimus sighed.

“‘course we are.”

Chapter Text

It was the first time he could see the Prime’s face, and for some reason, it made Megatron frown as he examined it. There was something there… something that he found airily familiar, though he couldn’t pinpoint what exactly was familiar about Optimus Prime’s face.

He had ripped the battlemask open to indulge into some well-meant curiosity -- and also because Swindle was running a fragging betting pool on the new Prime’s identity. Nobody had heard of a mech named ‘Optimus’ before, so obviously it was either a brand new ‘bot created by Vector Sigma, or a reformat. The first theory was out, because the Prime didn’t act like a newly Sparked Youngling. That left the reformat.

But as to the actual identity of the mech before he became a Prime… the mystery was total. Swindle had exploited it as well as he could, the little slagger. So far, most mechs were betting on the Prime being a Noble’s bastard Creation, or a former cop. One had even boldly proclaimed the mech had to be an archivist, given how well literate he was supposed to be. Swindle was rubbing his hands… and Megatron’s curiosity was stung.

Suddenly, he had needed to know.

And now, he was facing a bare face that was just nudging at his memory for some reason. He didn’t see why, though. The Prime wasn’t ugly, far from it, but he was far from being the prettiest mech Megatron had ever seen. He was… average looking, he decided. Rather plain. Frankly, he had expected more, like a old face full of scars. At the same time, though… He knew, he just knew there was something familiar about that face.

“Don’t I know you from somewhere?” he found himself asking without meaning to.

The Prime’s optics narrowed. “You dare? You actually dare? Don’t you remember?” Megatron just looked at him blankly. The Prime bared his dental plate. “You killed my friends! You almost killed me! And you don’t remember?!”

Megatron shrugged, at loss. “I killed a lot of people, Prime. Forgive me if I can’t remember them all.”

“Well,” the Prime said as he suddenly lunged at him, “I’m going to give you a good reason to never forget me again!”

Chapter Text

He… He couldn’t do it. Blurr swallowed. He just couldn’t do that. Not with so many mechs around, looking at him, peering, watching and… and making lewd gestures.

“Shockwave, Sir… I… I can’t,” he stammered, shoulders sagging.

“Of course you can,” the tall Decepticon said simply, one of his large claws brushing against the speedster’s hips before moving to pull on the string of the mech’s apron. Blurr blushed as he felt the larger mech redo the knot. “Remember what I told you, Agent Blurr,” he said, and for a moment, optics closed, Blurr could imagine him under Longarm’s face again. “If you want my approval to do another job on New Kaon, then you must first fulfill the tasks I have given to you. Only, and only if you manage to, we’ll talk about your wishes to work as a courier. Until then, I expect you to be a good Autobot… and a good waiter.”

Blurr swallowed. “I… I’m going to try, Sir. But… is having… is my panel… isn’t it…?” he tried out.

Shockwave’s single optic looked down at him. “Consider it a test, Agent Blurr. No matter what you end up doing here, you’ll always have to deal with mechs wanting to grab you or to frag you,” he said bluntly. “Consider the fact you must walk around and serve drink without an interface panel training. Certainly, you’re fast enough to dodge grabby customers before they do anything untoward?” he asked seriously.

Blurr’s optics narrowed. “Of course!” he said with certainty. Still… they were so many mechs that were watching him… and he wasn’t back at one hundred percents after Shockwave almost killed him…

Large hands started to massage his shoulders. “I trust you, Agent,” he said. “Make me proud.”

Blurr raised his head to look at him. “I will, Sir,” he swore. “I won’t fail you. I’ll have your approval, I swear it.”

“Oh, but you already have it, little ‘bot,” Shockwave murmured as he watched the mech go, his single optic focused on his cute little aft. “You already do…”

Chapter Text

“I didn’t know someone still did that. Someone who is not a Seeker, I mean,” Thundercracker rumbled. The Autobot startled and, dropping the urn he had been bearing, turned toward him with his weapon ready to shoot. The blue Seeker immediately raised his arms in the air, keeping his wings steady and as immobile as he could to not convey any wrong impression.

“Sorry to have startled you, Autobot. I’m not here to fight, honest. Just flying for leisure, enjoying the scenery, that sort of things.” He prayed the mech believed him. Thundercracker was being honest here. He had just been flying to relax and landing to take a break. “I just… I suppose I didn’t expect someone to follow an old Vosian ritual, that’s all,” he added as the weapon didn’t power down.

“... It is not Vosian, but Praxian,” the black and white doorwinged Autobot eventually answered, weapon lowering to point at the ground, even though his finger stayed on the trigger. “I can see why you were confused, though. It is told Vos imported it from us.”

“... I see. So you were not throwing the ashes of the deceased in the wind so they could fly eternally on this planet?”

The doorwing of the Autobot SIC twitched. “No. Although there is ashes in this mixture, it’s mostly sand. We used to throw it around to… try and speak with Primus. We take a handful, we whisper a wish, a prayer or a question, and we throw it to the wind, so the message will be carried to Primus on the messager winds.”

“It’s not a funeral rite, then?”

“No, though it can be one of blessing when a new life is supposed to come in the clan.” Prowl looked at him in a composed, wary manner, as if judging if he had been right to let him know. Thundercracker’s optics widened briefly before he nodded curtly.

“Understood. I will not share the insight. Just… whoever is Carrying? Try not to let him gets in harm way,” he said as he transformed and shot himself to the sky.

Chapter Text

Some days, June Darby couldn’t help but worry for the children. The Autobots might have been well-meaning, and the kids, Jack included, very stubborn, but still… Their extraterrestrial allies were fighting in a war! And as a mother, the last thing she wanted was to see young lives snuffed out prematurely because they tended to hang on the sideline.

Today, though, she was fighting down her amusement as she realized, once more, that despite being giant robots from space and soldiers, the Autobots were very much concerned for the safety of their human friends.

“Cool it, big guy,” Miko said grumpily, for once annoyed with the way Bulkhead hovered over her, watching her with big worried optics. “I told you, I’m fine!”

“But those things look so… wrong, and painful!” Bulkhead almost whined, optics focused on the red angry line along Miko’s forearm. “Are you sure your auto-repair systems are working right? Shouldn’t it be healed already? Perhaps I should ask Ratchet to have a look. I know humans injuries aren’t his thing, but… Oh, perhaps you should sit down before you faint! Are you cold? Thirsty? Do you want a blanket? Something to drink? I should…!”

“Bulk, those are just stitches,” Miko whined too as she tried to push away the green mech -- which was rather comical to watch. “Stitches! It’s no big deal! It’s not even, like, the first time I get some! I’ll have them for a week or two, then I’ll get them removed! Tell him, Mrs D!” she added as she turned almost pleading eyes toward Jack’s mother, who had to hide her laughter behind a cough.

Trust Miko to rush toward a fight without a care and getting out without a single hair out of place, but let her handle a knife for cooking? Now, it seemed it was a recipe for disaster. And a sure way to get her big protector fret over her like a headless chicken.

Chapter Text

Being the Dad of a part-robot young girl, Isaac Sumdac thought briefly, was more trouble than it was worth at time. He loved Sari dearly -- she was, after all, his daughter. He had raised her from an adorable baby to the wonderful young lady she was now, and he didn’t truly regret any of it -- asides, perhaps, of having kept her so isolated from normal children. Sadly, he hadn’t had a choice, or so he had reasoned. Registering Sari at school was a problem without any legal documents proving her existence, and he couldn’t outright said she had just come from her labs, could he?

He should have corrected this oversight somehow across the years, but the matter had… slipped his mind as he worked, or as he proudly watched Sari take her first steps like any regular girl, or get her first tooth, or say her first word.

Anyway… Sari hadn’t been quite like all little girls, as much as he had tried to convince himself she was.

After all, hadn’t she grow up overnight from a eight-years old to a teenager with discreet but very present curves? His baby was growing up so fast… physically. Mentally, though, Isaac had quickly realized, she was still the same Sari. And as his father, Isaac Sumdac knew he had to protect her, even from herself. There were things a young girl like his Sari wasn’t ready to learn about, not matter what her opinions on the matter were. Unfortunately… Sari was Sari, and she had a knack for disobeying.

“Dad… what are the two guys on that picture doing? And the guy and the lady here... Eww! Is that what I think it is? Eww, eww, eww!”

Isaac’s shoulders sagged. It would have been so much easier, though, he mused as he closed his eyes, if the fact she was part robot didn’t allow his daughter to easily bypass all the firewalls and parental controls he tried to set over her Internet connection.

Chapter Text

“I know you said he needed a hobby, Jazz, but… knitting?” Optimus asked helplessly as he surveyed Prowl, installed in a corner of the rec room with two oversized needles in hands and a large ball of yarn in his laps. Well, the Prime supposed it was yarn but honestly, he wasn’t sure of what it was exactly, nor from where it had come from. Probably something Jazz or Sideswipe brought in, he decided.

“What can I say? It’s a nice hobby,” the saboteur chirped happily as he watched the event with attention -- just like a dozen of mechs scattered around and who too kept glancing at Prowl with various looks of amusement, wonder or plain disbelief. “And besides, I don’t think a guy who picked basketball as a hobby have anything to say,” he added with a glance to the Prime, who had the decency to blush behind his mask.

“Okay, okay,” Optimus defended himself. “But still… what does he intend to knit exactly? It’s not like we wear clothes.”

“Well, Blue did say he always wanted to try one of those ‘scarves’ thing Spike and Sparkplug wore during that ‘winter’ season”, his TIC pointed out. “Fireflight and First Aid were talking about that ‘hanging stockings’ custom humans have around their end of the year, to receive presents from a character named ‘Santa’. And Bee was curious about what a ‘jumper’ would look like on him. Besides, Prime, who cares what he knit so long he drops his triple shift and workload for a megacycle or two?”

Optimus paused and thought about it. “Well, when you put it like this… Excuse me, but I think I’m going to ask my Second if he happens to know how to knit fingerless gloves,” he said with as much dignity as he could master.

Jazz just laughed merrily, head threw back and visor bright.

Chapter Text

“It’s not very orthodox,” Ratchet noted as he leaned against the doorway, watching the inside of the room with a frown.

“Well, no,” Wheeljack agreed, vocal indicator flashing in amusement, “but you can’t argue against the results.”

Ratchet hummed noncommittally. “Still… when you said Perceptor was telling the Dinobots stories to put them to sleep, I hadn’t thought you were serious. And I certainly hadn’t though an instruction manual counted as a ‘story’,” he added, glancing at the engineer who seemed even more amused.

“What can I say?” Wheeljack raised his hands in surrender. “They like his voice, and honestly? I think they don’t care what he’s saying so long he continues to speak,” he said almost fondly as he too watched the Dinobots, gathered in an half-circle in their dinosaurs alt-modes, listen intently to the dry monotone of Perceptor reciting aloud the functioning steps for a ‘coffee maker’. Sludge was already was asleep, snoot nuzzled against a drowsy Snarl’s flank, while Slag was loudly snoring and Swoop and Grimlock were obviously struggling to remain awake.

“So it seems,” Ratchet mused. He stayed silent a moment before sighing. “Please, tell me you took screen captures?”

“Took, saved and spread,” the engineer chirped happily.

Chapter Text

A Cyber-Ninja doesn’t choose a weapon lightly, or so Yoketron has always preached. Truthfully, the Cyber-Ninja’s own body was his or her weapon, but even so, it always served well to know how to use one, something the old Master easily recognized. But a Cyber-Ninja weapon was always more than a simple tool -- it was also something that was part of him and his style, something that helped to define him.

And so Yoketron made sure that every single pupil he took under his wing found a weapon with which he was perfectly comfortable, with which he was, should he way, natural. It was, however, sometimes easier to say than to do. Some students found fast, and some… some had to go through almost all of the Dojo’s extensive collection to find the one tool which whom their Spark would reason. Prowl, it seemed was one of those.

With keen, attentive optics, Yoketron watched him try to use weapon after weapon, from the heavy Laser-Kusarigama, to the lithe but hard Cybertronium Tonfa. Laser Nunchaku weren’t his style either, and he looked very awkward as he put the Laser Naginata down to the side. Yoketron already knew the Yari wouldn’t fit him either, and he contemplated for a moment bringing out the Yumi -- he has seen Prowl looking at the long bow earlier in the cycle. The katana… there were promise here, especially when backed with a shorted sword, but no. Prowl put them down quickly, obviously feeling ill at ease with them -- and ill at ease with his inability to pick something. He glanced nervously as his teacher, who just smiled and nodded at him encouragingly.

“Keep looking, young one. You’ll find what you’re made for soon enough.”

The hold on the tantô was too brutal, the one on the sai not strong enough, to the point they almost slipped out of Prowl’s fingers and he fumbled to catch them before they reached the ground. As for the Ono… the less said the better. Prowl’s expression was one of misery as he rummaged through a box and started to throw the content around, dismayed.

Behind him, Yoketron raised an optic ridge. The throw had been excellent, for a debutant. For a moment, he eyed the shuriken which had embedded itself into the floor at his feet. The edge were sharps, but Prowl had handled it without problem and without cutting himself. And it had landed quite nicely.

Slowly, Yoketron started to smile; they might have found what they were searching for, finally.

Chapter Text

“What’s that?” June asked as she traced her fingers over a long, thin discoloration on her lover’s skin. William Fowler looked down, frowning for a moment before answering.

“Knife wound from way back in boot camp. Someone tried to imitate something he saw in a movie.”

“And that one?” the nurse asked again, pointing to another, over the black man’s shoulder. “It looks like a bullet wound,” she asked worriedly. “And the other one, there,” she pointed out at another mark on the side, “isn’t that a stab wound?”

“It is,” Agent Fowler grumbled. “Hurt like hell at the time, but it healed well. Got shot during a reconnaissance mission,” he said simply. “And I did get stabbed, more than once. Ex-Ranger, remember?” he asked with a small smile as June continued her inspection. It was the first time she saw him without his shirt, so he could understand her fretting. It wasn’t as if he had stayed unmarked by years of services, after all. His ex-wife used to fret, too, at first. Then she had simply said she couldn’t deal with it anymore and left. June, he had the feeling, would take it better. As a nurse, she must have seen some pretty nasty wounds herself, after all. “I bet you never saw so many scars on one man,” he tried to joke, feeling somewhat stupid. Women didn’t exactly like those kinds of conversation.

June just chuckled. “Don’t be so sure. We had that Marine once… Ah, but I won’t bother you with details. Let’s just say I have seen my lot of ‘battle scars’ over the years,” she said as she poked at once. “I even have one of my own. The most glorious of all, if I might say so.”

“Ouch! Careful,” he grumbled, though he was smiling. “You do? And what is it?” he asked as he detailed June’s torso as she dropped the top of her scrubs. Her skin was pale and smooth, without a mark. Which implied her scar had to be… lower.

“My very proof of motherhood: Jack’s cesarean section,” she answered with amusement as she bend over and gently kissed the Agent on the cheek.

Chapter Text

“You know, my mech, that’s a pretty nice weapon you got here,” the black and white mech that shared his name drawled. Jazz the Cyber-Ninja tensed up briefly, hand going to his side briefly before he frowned. Turning, he faced his… dimensional double, if what he had heard and seen so far were true, and he glared.

“Give back those Laser Nunchaku. Now,” he said as coolly and as seriously as he could, which didn’t seem to bother the other him, who let the weapon dangle in his hold for all to see. The Cyber-Ninja reached for them, intending to snatch them up, but they were withheld from him as the other mech took a step back. Jazz snarled, making his double raise a hand and smile demurely.

“Hey, hey, calm down, my mech. I mean no harm. I just wanted a look. ‘s not every day you see a weapon like that. I don’t think I ever saw one, period. And you say that’s what you use, also with fancy martial arts moves?” The voice was smooth, the question reasonable, and it was him -- well, him but not him -- so Jazz tried to relax.

“‘Course. I’m a ninja. Stand to reason I know how to use it, yeah? And if you don’t mind, I’d like them back. Not going to let a fellow disarmed when there are ‘Cons around, will you?” He held out a hand. “Hand them over, please,” he repeated. The nunchaku dropped in his hand easily and he put it in subspace this time, feeling they’d be more secure… somehow. The other Jazz looked like someone who had quick hands -- if he didn’t, then he wouldn’t have snatched them from the Cyber-Ninja a first time without him noticing. That implied a great level of skill… and danger. If the mech hadn’t seemed so friendly, Jazz would have already been running for the hills.

“A ninja,” the other Jazz chuckled, shaking his head and smiled with amusement. “Just wait I say that to Prowler! His face is going to be priceless!”

Chapter Text

“See! See! What do you think?”

Optimus, Ratchet, Bulkhead, Prowl and Bumblebee all traded glances. Their first common thought was that Sari is no artist. Indeed, Ratchet privately thought Bulkhead would have done a better job at doing those ‘snowmen’ than the little human girl -- and Bulkhead was better at wrecking things than at creating them. He didn’t understand either, and neither did the rest of the team, why the humans called those misshaped snow constructions ‘snowmens’. They didn’t resemble men at all - it was like calling a drone a mech, for example. Hardly the same thing.

But if Ratchet was already scowling, the others, though, were more charitable in their mindset, already smiling and ready to praise the little pigtailed human.

“That’s very…” Optimus start before stopping, frowning. He bended over slightly to get a better look at the snow figures. At first glances, they were just lumpy figures with barely any discernable features. But if one looked longer…

There was a tiny one, a slender one, a big fat one that was almost twice larger than the other, and another fat one with a big ‘belly’, plus a tall one in the middle. The small one had small horns, he noticed, and the biggest one a strong ‘jaw’, while the big one had a broken horn. The slender one had dark glasses on his face, and… was if a toy axe planted in the middle snowman’s side, instead of a branch to figure an arm?

“Sari… is that us?” he asked uncertainly.

“That’s right,” Sari nodded, smiled eagerly. “Those are my SnowAutobots!” she declared proudly, giggling as she ducked around them. “You like?”

More glances were traded, softer, kinder, and frankly amused.

“Yes, Sari. We like a lot.”

Chapter Text

“Knock Out, you…” Breakdown started to say as he entered the medbay, only to blink then to wince at the scene before him. Vehicons were sprawled everywhere, in various state of disarray, some looking like they had gone to wrestle with the Prime and came on the losing end. But as there hadn’t been a single battle with the Autobots recently… and as he could see a pickaxe or two on the floor. “Mining accident?” he asked as he walked over to the medic, who was elbows deep in the chassis of one unfortunate mech, his paintjob spotted with drops of energon, lubricants and other fluids better left unknown.

“What gave it away?” Knock Out groused unhappily -- obviously, the mess on his finish had pulled him in a sour mood. The Vehicon groaned and Knock Out snarled. “And you, quiet!”

“May I be of any assistance?” the bigger mech asked smoothly, trying to sooth his mate.

“Yeah,” Knock Out grumbled as he grabbed one of Breakdown’s hand and pulled it inside the Vehicon’s chassis, right over a soaked towel. “Put your hands here! And keep pressing! Damn leak is giving me trouble to fix, and it’ll be easier if someone else press on it while I reroot the flow,” he grunted.

Breakdown grimaced. “Gross,” he mumbled, even as he obeyed. When Knock Out was in those kinds of mood, better not contradict him and obey. “I’ll touch you up later,” he said after a beat, trying to say something to fill the silence, aside of the groans of the injured.

The medic smirked briefly. “You better,” he said before returning to his task. “And you, quiet I said! It’s not like you’re bleeding to death!... Well, mostly.”

Chapter Text

Human Sparklings, Ironhide reminded himself for what felt like the hundredth time, were fragile little things, with simple processors and even simpler reasonings. They didn’t have the processor power to realize what they were doing could be wrong or dangerous -- not unless their parents had explicitly stated so, and even then, most of them didn’t seem to truly care or understand.

Annabelle Lennox, Ironhide had come to realize painfully, fell into that category. Now, the old mech liked the little organic -- she was very endearing, even if she often forgot her toys or her ‘sippy cup’ inside his vehicle form, and he had caught the Pit from her mother for having crushed them during his transformation sequences -- but really, she was pushing it!

He should have known. He really, really should have known better than to recharge in front of the house in his vehicle form. To his defense, he had been pretty tired from his last mission, and the Lennox homestead was a more relaxing place to recharge in than the makeshift base the Autobots had pulled together. But really, knowing the organic youth, he had just been inviting troubles!

Annabelle’s giggles made him turn his sensors’ attention back to the human three years old who, dressed in a bright, dirty summer dress, was clapping her hands together with enthusiasm. Her dirty, paint-covered hands, to be exact.

“Prettier,” Annabelle nodded with satisfaction. “‘hide pretty-er,” she repeated as she dropped on her aft with a big smile, admiring her work and the traces of her little hands all over the black car’s carrossing.

The weapon specialist groaned. Lennox or that wife of him would better clean him up right away! No way he was driving back to base like that! Absolutely no way!

Chapter Text

Thundercracker landed carefully in his mech form, checking right and left for anything amiss with the… meeting place. His scanners hadn’t detected anything, but then again, Autobots could easily hide their traces -- just like Decepticons. A ping went through his systems, guiding him on foot toward new coordinates, closer to the mountain range. Red optics checked the rocky formation up and down even as he frowned, seeing several grottoes opening. His wings twitched nervously; this was a good place for an ambush. A really, really good place, and as no one, not even his trine knew where he was presently, if he ran into trouble, he’d be utterly alone. He almost sighed.

Why in the Pit had he agreed to come?

“Thundercracker,” a voice called out in a rasp but also soft way, and the Seeker’s back straightened. His olfactive sensor picked up the scent of… something pleasant, even as his systems received several pings, familiar ones, indicating that a mech ready for impregnation was nearby.

As he stood straight and immobile, a mech emerged from the shadowy entrance of a cavern. Black and white paint shone under the moonlight, while doorwings quivered. Blue optics had gone nearly purple -- a sure sign a Praxian’s mating protocols were now active and fully running.

“So you hadn’t been lying,” the blue Seeker couldn’t help saying as he watched the Autobot’s SIC in astonishment.

“Of course not,” the doorwinged mech waved. “I wouldn’t lie about something like it, no matter how much of a tactical advantage it could be.”

“Right,” Thundercracker mumbled. “So I suppose you really expect me to…?” he made a gesture toward his interface panel, his meaning obvious. The Praxian grimaced and nodded. “Why me?” he asked. “Yes, yes, I know. Seekers are the most compatible frametype for Praxians when their mating protocols get activated. More chances for any Sparkling conceived to come online with the doorwings and the full packed sensors and programs,” he quickly said as the Praxian opened his mouth. “I understand why you’d ask a Seeker, even if they’re enemies to your faction; creating a new life is not something we’d refuse. But why me? You Autobots… there’re plenty of mechs on your own side you could ask from. There’s two others Praxians in your unit, right?”

“Recreating a whole new frame line by carrying offspring isn’t done so easily,” the black and white mech stated. “I can’t allow just any errant coding to give unplanned results. Most ‘grounders’ have specific, dominant codes that would make the doorwings disappear altogether. Given how fews of us Praxians are left, it’s also of the utmost importance we try to diversify the coding pool -- thus not reproduce between ourselves. And even if I was considering the idea, then Bluestreak is still too young for any mating related expectations, and Smokescreen is… lacking.” There was a story here, but Thundercracker didn’t ask.

“As for why you… Do you seriously want me to ask Starscream or Skywarp, who are the only other Seekers present on this planet?” was the no-nonsense reply.

“... Skywarp isn’t so bad with Sparklings, you know. Neither is Star. And there are the Conehead.”

“Skywarp’s Sigma ability might give any creation I bear unforeseen and potentially fatal development issues, especially coupled with my high-tuned processor and battle computer. Starscream is a genius, but his personality might also result in unwanted traits, at the very least. As for the Conehead, their programming is fundamentally dominant and would result in a flying offspring, which is not my goal,” the black and white mech said matter of factly. “Based on such data, you are by far the ideal choice.”

Thundercracker grimaced. “When you put it like it… can’t you try to be, I don’t know, romantic? Or why not ask that other black and white mech? I thought you two were…?”

“I’m a pragmatic, not a romantic. As for what is going on between Jazz and I, it’s not your concern. I will simply say I refuse to have a mini cheery, smart-mouthed saboteur underfoot.” His doorwings stood high, and Thundercracker dropped the subject.

“So… You’re really sure?”

“I wouldn’t have asked if I wasn’t.”

“... That won’t change anything, okay?” Thundercracker finally sighed. “I’m not leaving my faction, I won’t stop shooting back at Autobots, and I might even try to kill you once it’s over with.”

Prowl just smirked. “I hadn’t expected anything different. Now, if you would be so kind and frag me, I’d wish to be able to quell my mating protocols and stop being an ineffectual emotional wreck. There’s only so much I can take… and so can the crew of the Ark.”

Chapter Text

“At long last, I have you at my mercy, Prime,” the warlord gloated as he aimed his weapon at the form sprawled on the ground. Optimus Prime rose his head and glared defiantly at him, as he usually did and Megatron smirked, preparing to launch into a speech stating that his victory had been fated. However, before he could start utter the first word, his optics narrowed.

Something was wrong here.

Sure, Optimus was lying helpless, far from his still fighting troops, processors probably still reeling from the warlord’s last blow, but something was… off. He couldn’t put his finger on it, but he knew something was off. His instincts made him tense as he watched more closely the Prime. Was it him or… the way the blue optics looked, the subtle wrinkles on what was visible of the face… Was the Prime… smirking?

“What is the meaning of that, Prime?” he growled.

“Oh, nothing much, Megatron,” the mech commented airily. “Let’s just say I have you right were I want to.”

“Wh…?” the warlord said, taking a step back only to howl as electricity shot through his frame, making him fall to his knees. Something whizzed at his audio receptor and he felt his frame stagger. Something hit him in the back and metal wires, brought down by weight, tightened around his body, pinning his arms to his side.

“Bluestreak and Mirage are very good snipers,” the Prime said as he rose, suddenly the very image of perfect health; he had obviously been faking his dizziness. “And Wheeljack and Perceptor had fun designing their special munitions. And now that you are at my mercy, Megatron, I think it’s high time we speak,” he said as he grabbed the grey mech’s chin and forced him to look up. “And I think the discussion will be long, so why not relocate it in my quarters on the Ark?”

“Prime?” the warlord asked warily, optics narrowed.

The Prime’s optics shone brightly. “There’s another place I’d want you in. Or at least, part of you,” he joked. Megatron thought it was his imagination, but the Prime seemed to made a gesture toward his codpiece... Oh. Well…

“I suppose I can try and… negotiate, then.”

The Prime grinned. “Wise choice. I’m sure you won’t regret it.”

Chapter Text

“It can’t be easy,” Prowl commented as he leaned against the wall opposing the cell he was facing, doorwings carefully arranged to frame his body in a non-threatening way. His optics were analyzing every little move of their prisoner as his CPU worked hard to pick any and all physical clues that could conform Ratchet’s diagnosis.

Sitting on the hard berth provided to him, the blue Seeker known as Thundercracker glared half-heartedly, frowning. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he grunted, but it was obvious to the tactician he was trying to hide his discomfort. Sadly for him, Prowl recognized those small wings movements for what they were -- fearful. Praxians doorwings and Seekers’ wings didn’t have the same amount of mobility, but Praxus and Vos both had developed ‘wing languages’ over the vorns, and if they were very different, the basis of both remained the same.

It was easy for Prowl to decipher the worry of their captive. Granted, given what Ratchet’s scans showed, and Megatron’s personal policy over the matter, Thundercracker had every reason to be worried.

“I’m speaking of the newspark you’re Carrying”, the black and white mech said simply. Thundercracker stiffened, glaring, and Prowl raised a hand. “Peace. Don’t bother denying the fact. Ratchet scanned you six times to be sure, at Red Alert’s insistence. We know it’s not a false positive. Which lead me to ask you: do you want asylum?” he asked bluntly.

Thundercracker jumped, optics widening. “What are you speaking about, Autobot?”

“I think we both know what I’m speaking about. You’re Carrying. Megatron’s own orders, as recorded by Soundwave and shared by Jazz’s Spe-Ops agents, are to see all Carrying cycles terminated for the duration of the war, as a Carrying soldier is an hindrance and offsprings can’t be properly raised during wartime. A point I can easily agree with him on. However,” he added levelly, “such orders are counterproductive to a mech’s mental well-being. And our Prime is, I must admit, quite fond of Sparklings. We’re giving you a choice, Thundercracker; either we exchange you back to Megatron, who will discover your Cycle soon enough and will force you to abort, whether you want it or no. Or, should you desire to bear that newspark to term, you can accept the Prime’s offer to remain here as an hostage until your Sparkling is born, upon which you’ll be released back to your fellow Decepticons or send away on a neutral, far away colony with your offspring.”

Thundercracker’s jaw dropped. Prowl smirked. “So, what will be your answer, Seeker?”

Chapter Text

Datapads crashed to the floor without any reason, as if pushed by an invisible hand, and Rodimus Prime, leader of the Autobots, groaned.

“I had just finished sorting them out,” he said to no one in particular -- at least, he looked at no one, for there was no one visible in the room with him. “Seriously,” he continued, “I needed them in order to review and sign them. I promised Ultra Magnus. Do you have any idea of how ticked he is already at me? I really don’t fancy getting him on my case again because I keep ‘not fulfilling my duties as Prime’,” he quoted sarcastically.

He looked around again as a mysterious wind seemed to rush through the room, moving a few mobiles Daniel had suspended to the ceiling to ‘decorate the place’ and ‘cheer Roddy up’. The little human’s Spark… heart, was in the right place, but of course Ultra Magnus had frowned. Seriously, the guy had no humor, Rodimus thought briefly.

“Come on, Starscream,” he sighed as the ‘wind’ didn’t seem to want to stop, making a few approximative Seeker models move. “Don’t play deaf with me, will you? You either let me work, or I’ll be forced to take measures,” he warned, trying to sound as threatening as he could.

A chill laugher was his answer. “Oh? And what will you do, little Prime? Have your soldiers attack me?” said a mocking voice.

Rodimus smirked. “Nope. Have Perceptor build a ghost trap or two? I’m sure I can do that, though. And you know him; whenever he’s working on something, he does manage to make it work -- and with far less explosions than the late Wheeljack.”

“... Perceptor doesn’t believe in ghosts.”

“So what? I give an order, he obeys. And I’ve been told Skyfire DOES believe in them, and I’m sure he wouldn’t mind helping,” came the Prime airy answer.

“... That’s low, Prime. Very low,” Starscream hissed as he suddenly appeared.

“Well, yeah, but it’s not like you give me a choice, is it? Listen, Starscream, I don’t mind you playing havoc or indulging in some mayhem -- actually, I applaud. It helps liven up the place. However, couldn’t you do it somewhere other than in my office? I’d like to work a little at least. Why don’t you, I don’t know, go bother Magnus?” he suggested.

The Decepticon’s optics narrowed. “Are you giving me permission?”

“Not exactly; I’m trying to get you interested in other targets. You leave me alone when I work, and I won’t have someone play exorcist. Do we have an understanding?”

The ghost seemed to mull it over before shrugging. “Why the Pit not? But I warn you, the moment you’re not at work, you’re fair game!”

The Prime chuckled weakly. “Why did I think you’d say that?”

Chapter Text

Optimus had always enjoyed history. Reading bookfiles after bookfiles, all of which full of dry texts and little images, had never bored him as he tended to do for Sentinel and Elita as they worked over different assignments for their Academy teachers. More than anything else, it was the tales of the war that drew his interests, and if he kept checking out files about the Magnus and the Elite Guard and the conflict… well, no one ever said anything about it. Sentinel usually joked about it, elbowing Optimus as he reminded him that if he truly wanted to learn more about the Magnus, he just had to ask him later when they would all be Primes.

The thing was, it wasn’t really on Ultra Magnus that Optimus was searching informations on. Oh, he did so, because Ultra Magnus was their leader and he was an interesting mech, with a long and detailed history, and who had even wrote his own memoirs. However, the one mech who truly fascinated Optimus more than anyone else wasn’t an Autobot, and he didn’t known how his interest would be received by his peers.

One just couldn’t say aloud they were being fascinated by Megatron himself, could they?

It was strange to say the least. Megatron was… he was a monster, to say the least, or at least it appeared so from the records of the war. But when one dug further, to before the conflict… Then it opened a whole new world of questions.

Who, among the Autobots, knew that the Warlord had been a minor before he was a gladiator and finally became the leader of the Decepticons after getting into politics? Almost no one, Optimus was sure. He himself only knew because of offhand references and old registers that had been so full of dust and rust they mustn’t have seen the light of the day in millions of stellar cycles.

To think one who had started so low could have become someone so important, albeit someone so dangerous and lethal… Well, it was awe-inspiring to say the least, and it gave Optimus some sort of hope.

After all, if Megatron had managed to rise so far, even from the lowest rank of society, why wouldn’t Optimus manage to become a Prime or a Magnus?

Chapter Text

Autobots Intelligence reports, put together by the combined forces of Spe-Ops operatives, tacticians and the psychology department, had tried to make sense and create a complete profile of Soundwave and his Cassettes, for the sake of any mission undertaken by the division. Those reports, Mirage knew, underlined the fact Soundwave tended to think his Cassettes unable of any wrong-doing, childish and ‘innocent’. If there was ever any trouble with them, then it obviously was all Rumble and Frenzy’s fault.

Rumble and Frenzy were crass, arrogant, perverted, made bad jokes and played even sillier pranks. They were the problem children, and the ones most likely to misbehave and be bribed.

Well, if Soundwave truly thought so, then he didn’t know Ravage like Mirage knew him, the blue spy thought as he raised his aft higher in the air -- or at least, as high in the air as his position down on all four and crawling through the Nemesis’ over-sized vents allowed him to. The lithe cougaraider-shaped Cassettes purred, his glossa licking eagerly at Mirage’s bared valve, and the noble had to try and refrain from moaning helplessly.

Soundwave mustn’t never have telepathically scanned Ravage, he thought dispassionately. There was no way, absolutely no way Megatron’s TIC would have missed the fact his ‘model child’ was almost as badly behaved and just as perverted as his humanoid ‘brothers’ if he had.

Because yes, Ravage was a pervert, and a pervert who had no intention of letting himself be caught, just loving to take advantage of (un)suspecting Autobots trying to infiltrate the Decepticons’ ship. If Mirage had been able to, he would have turned and glared at the feline. Sadly, there was no room to turn, at least not for him, and so he was forced to endure Ravage’s intense licking over his interface array while trying to not move too much or make as little noise as possible.

Slagging Cassette; he always got the drop on him, the blue mech thought grumpily. Well, at least, the feline was easily bribed. So long he could use his glossa at him (or Bee or, more rarely, Jazz), then Ravage had little reason to let his bosses know there was an Autobot lurking around.

Chapter Text

“May I ask what YOU are doing here?”

Thundercracker paused, his energon cube pressed against his lips, optics half-shuttered as he tried to recognize the voice that had been calling him out. He felt drowsy, but considering just how many drinks he had had during the course of the evening, it wasn’t unexpected. With reluctance, he put the cube back on the bar and turned sideway to glare at the new arrival to the tiny bar.

Doorwings twitching, face drew in a frown, the Autobots freaking SIC was looking at him with suspicion, his fingers making reflexive motions as if he was squeezing a trigger. The Seeker found himself suddenly very endeared to the fact weapons were forbidden on the planet, or he just knew he’d be treating his plating for some nastily painful acid burns.

“What does it look like I’m doing, Autobot?” he slurred, trying to sound more confident and less drunk than he felt. “I’m getting myself plastered,” he added with a silly grin that made the Autobot look at him with narrowed optics.

“So I see,” he said thinly. “But what else?” he looked around, obviously trying to see if other Decepticons were present -- most notably the rest of the Elite trine.

“I’m the only one,” Thundercracker waved, to which the Autobot didn’t look convinced. “Not lying, Autobot. Came alone. Needed some time for myself… and to forget I’m saddled with suicidal idiots,” he mumbled as he grabbed his cube back and downed half the content in a klik. His systems buzzed as a result. “Seriously, they are. How to explain Skywarp managed to stuck himself in a wall by playing idiot with his warping, uh? And don’t get me started on Scream and his big vocalizer; mech can’t just shut up, just has to rile up Megatron. Well, I’m certainly not helping Warp out, or holding Scream’s hand while the Constructicons get him back together. ‘s not what I signed up for.”

The Autobot raised an optic ridge, obviously not impressed. “Indeed.”

Thundercracker looked at him for a klik before frowning himself. “And you, Autobot? What are you doing on this planet, in THAT neutral bar?” he asked, feeling him too could ask some questions.

The doorwinged mech stiffened, before his shoulders sagged. “Well, let’s just say you’re not the only one with an urgent need to get plastered…”

Chapter Text

The beeping of the medical monitors were steady. Alpha Trion gently stroked the cheek of the unconscious Autobot on the medical berth with the back of his hand, gazing at the unconscious form with a just a twinge of regret. He wished there was another way, but sadly, they were out of options. The last Omega Key had to leave Cybertron, and it needed to leave it with the Decepticons being none the wiser. The artefacts couldn’t be allowed to fall into their hands. If only there had been time for one more pod…

But it was too late; Iacon would soon fall. Already, their lines were pierced, and Alpha Trion knew it wouldn’t take more than half a megacycle before their reached the archives. He had already started to shut everything down to try and erase the databank, but it was slow, oh so slow. And in the meanwhile… in the meanwhile, he had to put the last Key in a safe place. A moving safe place that, destiny willing, would eventually find its way to Optimus Prime.

He wished he didn’t have to involve Smokescreen… It had been hard enough already to knock him out and drag him in this small, secret med day, but to have to let him be captured afterward so he’d leave Cybertron… He squashed the twinge of regret as he checked on his smaller, less powerful replica of the fabled Phase Shifter. He had already sent the original on its way to Earth, where it would eventually be picked by Optimus, but he had kept this model just in case. Originally, he had thought about extensive surgery to put the Key inside, but there was just no time anymore. And, he thought as he grabbed the Omega Key, the Phaser would definitely prove itself more useful here.

Gently, he plunged the hand holding the key inside Smokescreen’s unconscious body. The Elite Guard trainee/rookie whimpered, and Alpha Trion tried not to dwell too much on what he was doing. He couldn’t afford to be distracted now. The Key had to be placed just right, as to not be a problem is Smokescreen shifted into an altmode. There was truly only one safe, hollow place to put it; the young mech’s gestational chamber. Thankfully, this one Key was smaller than the other three, thus easier to hide -- and with any luck, Smokescreen wouldn’t feel the extra weight, especially given there would be no related protocol actives.

He retired his hand, gazing sadly at the unconscious young mech. His breathing had gotten easier without the hand fumbling inside him. Now, he just needed to drag him in a corner… put some rocks and fallen part of the roof on him, to make it appears as if he had been knocked out by the destruction of the building. The Decepticons wouldn’t suspect a thing. They’d take the rookie prisoner; he was young, not a threat and, as Alpha Trion had mused more than once… quite attractive. Had Smokescreen be a few vorns older… Ah, but it wasn’t the point. He need to put him in position, than to try and make his own escape.

From there… from there, Alpha Trion could only sigh, pray and hope for the best. He didn’t know what fate awaited Smokescreen at the hands of his future captors, but perhaps Primus would be kind, and not let him suffer too much…

Chapter Text

“Bulkhead… ah… Bulkhead is going to kill me,” Smokescreen whimpered as he rocked his hips forward.

Miko just grunted, letting her body -- well, her armor body -- follow the motion, her hips greedily meeting the young Autobot’s own.

“Seriously… he’s going to kill… kill me,” Smokescreen repeated, spike sliding into the lubricated port of… well, it wasn’t exactly Miko, it was Miko inside the Apex Armor, but it was Miko still. Kind of. “Then he’ll have Ratchet resu… resurrect me, and then Wheeljack… Wheeljack’ll kill me too,” he said feebly, though it didn’t stop him to continue thrusting in and out.

“They won’t,” Miko grunted, an amused smile on her lips as she enjoyed the sensations. So that was what sex felt like! Awesome!... Well, awesome when it was done with a giant robot, anyway.

That Armor was just fantastic. Imagine: it came with it’s own sex parts -- ‘adaptable, self-sustaining and temporary interface array created by the accumulation of fast-shifting nanites’, whatever. Who knew giant space robots had the same kind of reproductive parts as humans? Except, they normally had both them, making them sorta hermaphrodits or whatever term worked. She hadn’t noticed at first, and nobody seemed to have either, but that thing was like one of those armor thing in that old anime her older geeky male cousin loved to watch, ‘Eva-something’. She had watched a few episodes with him in boredom once, when they had visited her aunt and her family, and she hadn’t understood much, aside of the fact it had wimpy, angsty teenagers piloting robots through which they felt pain through a weird symbiosis.

The Apex Armor, it seemed, sort of produced the same effect on organics, provided said organics used it often enough, as Miko had discovered accidentally. That had been… not so cool, but damn, the possibilities open to her! Like, having sex without technically having sex, which was neat and allowed a nice first experience without ‘ruining her purity’, as her Mother put it. Very, very neat. The only big problem had been to convince someone to try it out without Bulkhead learning about it; the mech was becoming very protective recently, and she just knew he wouldn’t have stood for that. Smokescreen, on the other hand… Well, Smokescreen could be covertly pushed into trying new things.

Boy, did it felt good!

“They’re going to kill me,” Smokescreen bemoaned once more.

“Never fear, Smokey,” Miko purred. “I’ll protect you.”

Chapter Text

Skyfire was a very kind, very patient mech. He seldom raised his voice, and tended to be mindful of his size as well as of his strength, for a big guy like him could do a lot of damages if he wasn’t careful. Even though Cybertronian infrastructures and furnitures were made to last and so quite sturdy, sometimes the designers forgot just what a shuttle’s weight alone could do. Growing up, Skyfire had broken up no few chairs and tables, for examples. It was inconvenient, but something he was used to and chalked up as ‘normal’.

Then there were people, and how they saw him. Many mechs he had met during Cybertron’s Golden Age had thought that, since he was shuttle, he must have been dull -- after all, the bigger they are, the stupider they are, yes? Skyfire was too dignified to gloat, unlike Starscream, but he took a great pleasure in not-quite-showing-off the fact he was regularly in the top ten percents of the Sciences Academy students. Starscream, his old friend, had been far less discreet and had actually done a victory dance over a cafeteria table once. Granted, he had been very, very overcharged at the time, but still; Starscream gloated, and Skyfire smiled nicely and nodded cordially at people.

He never complained about anything or anyone, as far as the Autobots had been able to decipher, and so they had categorized him as ‘big, but mostly harmless’.

Thus why seeing him that morning, optics narrowed and almost frothing at the mouth as he shook and ranted with indignation, seriously threw them off a loop. Well, aside of Perceptor and Wheeljack, who seemed unfazed.

The shuttled threw a crushed datapad on a table as he glared at them. “I want every copies of that… that rag destroyed!” he shrieked, wings quivering. “How did that pathetic larva dare? How did you even allow him to…?”

“We didn’t allow anything, Skyfire,” Perceptor said dryly. “Just young scientists ourselves, remember? Even if we complained about what we thought were ‘stolen researches’, it wasn’t as if we would have been listened to.”

That didn’t seem to mollify Skyfire much. “He stole Starscream’s researches!” he shouted, indignant on his former friend’s behalf. “I know they are his! I reviewed them myself to help him correct his syntax and grammar -- which were atrocious! They’re his! Not that… that pathetic fool!”

“We know,” Wheeljack sighed in sympathy. “And we’re not happy about it, just so you know. Neither was Starscream, with good reasons. Still… he could have expressed his rage and frustration otherwise than by destroying the Academy.”

Chapter Text

He is faithful; the most faithful, the most loyal of the Decepticons. Shockwave knows that. Forget about the likes of Lugnut or Strika, great warriors, strong and eternal followers of their Lord and master; Shockwave knows his own loyalty run deeper. Much, much deeper. Hadn’t he been the one who had gone deep undercover on Cybertron, behind enemy lines, surrounded by nothing but Autobots, without any support from his brethren? Hiding his true self away, with the hanging threat of someone, someday, discovering his secret before his work was done and the Decepticons triumphant?

Shockwave is loyal. And Megatron knows it. Which is why, as he meets his leader again for the first time since the cyclops left for Cybertron under the guise of ‘Longarm’, his Lord greets him with passion.

“Faithfulness deserves a reward, Shockwave,” the Warlord purrs in his audio receptor, grinding his pelvic armor against those of the other mech, and Shockwave can only sigh in abundant, letting his body become limp into Megatron’s arms.

“My Lord Megatron…”

“Shh,” the grey mech shushes him, lips components kissing, biting the cabling of his neck, searching for weak, sensitive points to exploit, to make Shockwave keen and whimper. It is exquisite, to lean into his Lord’s hold and let himself be ravaged by his mouth and his hands, knowing full well that the most enjoyable part has yet to come. His interface components are warming up at the mere thought that soon, his Lord will make him his truly, after so long, that he will reclaim him properly and erase the taint of his weak Autobot’s form.

Strong arms pushes him against a wall, lifted him off the ground. Shockwave’s legs lace themselves around Megatron’s waist, a pure automatist as he tries to keep steady. An hard spike was already poking at him, probing him into opening his own panel, prompting him into giving him and letting his Master give him the ultimate reward for his services, for his faithfulness. This new position allows him to glance over his Lord’s shoulder, and for once, the infiltrator regret not having a proper mouth in his one true form, for if he had been able to, he would have smirked in smug victory.

After all, there was nothing like the sigh of a seething Lugnut to make his triumph, the triumph of his loyalty, sweeter than it already was.

Chapter Text

As far as situations went, it was fairly weird and unexpected. Then again, ever since they had left Cybertron, Jazz guessed everyone had become loopy, himself included.

Back on Cybertron, before their millions of vorns stasis-naps, he would never had gotten himself caught -- or if he did, he would have ended up stripped down from all weapons he had, including his beloved sound system, then shackled, bound, strapped, gagged, throw into a cage, the cage itself through into a cell, under heavy surveillance from both monitors and actual guards.

And he would have managed to escape, mark his words.

But here on Earth… Well, he didn’t know if it was the planet itself, or maybe their long time in stasis having damaged their circuits, but things were… different.

Honestly, he would have expected, upon being taken captive, to at least be thrown in the Nemesis’ brig, but nope. Instead, he was… lounging into a regal looking chair, hands and ankles bounds, watched of course, but at a respectful distance. Oh, and did he mention he was detained in Megatron’s own quarters? Now, how many Agents could say the same?

“I trust the accommodations are to your tastes, Jazz?” the Warlord asked quite lightly as he filled two cubes of energon from a nearby, private dispenser.

“Well, I can’t honestly say they’re lacking,” the black and white mech answered pleasantly with a grin, not at all as if he was a prisoner at the mercy of the Autobots’ greatest threat. “That said, I could do without those fancy bracelets,” he added, moving his hands a little to make the shackles click. “I don’t suppose you’d be nice enough to take them off, yes?” he asked with his most charming, non-threatening smile, which only got him a raised optic ridge in turn.

“No, I don’t think I am, my dear,” he said as he sat down in a chair facing Jazz, lazily crossing a leg over the other. “After all, I do prefer my Autobots chained up with their hands where I can see them. I trust you understand?”

Jazz tried to shrug. “Can’t blame me for asking, now, can you?” Megatron just nodded, humming. “So… now what?” he added after a moment of silence.

“Now? I think I’m going to drink my cube and watch you.”

Chapter Text

Challenging a medic, Sideswipe thought dumbly from his place on the floor where he could only watch Ratchet work his ‘magic’ on Sunstreaker, had been utterly stupid. He tried to wiggle, only to almost fall down flat on his face with a muffled cry. Ratchet barely glanced over his shoulder at the red Twin, looking unamused.

“Would you stay still? Or do I have to use yet another rope on you?” he asked, sounding annoyed. Sunstreaker made a muffled sound that would have been a protest, and the medic focused on him instead. “Don’t think I’ve forgotten about you, Mister,” he chided as he pulled on the ropes he was tying around the yellow mech’s frame, tightening a knot and making Sunstreaker moan helplessly as it pulled on yet another series of knots spread around the base of his erected spike. Ratchet chuckled. “Now, isn’t that better?” he asked. “A few more turns, and then you’ll be ‘perfect’,” he purred.

Slag, that was hot, Sideswipe thought as he tried very hard to stay still, which wasn’t easy given the way the ropes he was bound in were pressing against his valve entry, just between the lips of his valve. The damn thing was entirely damp with his own lubricant by this point, its golden color stained around this area.

Who would have thought the medic actually knew how to tie someone? And to tie them very, very erotically at that? Because, the way that red rope was tied all around Sunstreaker, forcing him to lie on his front, little knots everywhere and string crisscrossing into intricate patterns… it was hot, and it was also kinda artistic. He hoped he looked half as nice as his Twin right now, because wow. Just… wow.

And to think they had thought trying to tie up Ratchet with handcuffs to spice up their interfacing session sounded cool! Now he knew why the medic had scoffed then insisted on plain, dumb rope -- well, not plain and not dumb anymore, but still, now the red mech knew why he has insisted so much on rope. They had argued, of course, and somehow, they had challenged Ratchet to prove them rope was more fun than handcuffs -- they hadn’t thought he’d be demonstrating on them! Who knew the old mech really was that kinky? That was a most… pleasant surprise, truth to be told. How could they not have heard of it before?

“Take note, my boys,” the older mech grinned as he finished one last knot then took a step back to admire his ‘masterpieces’. “Don’t challenge me on how to properly tie a mech; you’re sure to lose anytime. And now, how about we have some real fun?” he grinned, letting his own interface panel slide aside.

Chapter Text

“Sooo… you and Soundwave?” Jazz asked conversationally, handing Blaster a cube of mid-grade he had just retrieved from the distributor. The two of them are retired to a corner of the Rec Room, exchanging music files and having a heated discussion on sound systems when the Cassettes Holder had let it slip Soundwave used to share his point of view -- something he had not obviously meant to say aloud, but that was one of Jazz’s many talent; nobody could hide anything from him, not for long.

The orange mech sighed. “That’s not how I meant it, so knock it off, Jazz. Yeah, Soundwave and I, but we weren’t an item. It’s just… we were pretty well acquainted, once upon a time. Not that it should surprise you so much; how many Cassettes Carriers do you think existed on Cybertron, even before the war?”

“Ah… good question, my mech,” Jazz mused aloud, visor shining briefly. “Can’t say I know. You?”

Blaster snorted. “Not that many. Rare frame-type, you see? Only one chance on 10,000 to produce one, even if the right coding. I’m the only one in my generation -- siblings were normal mechs, and so were my cousins, something that used to annoy my uncle, as he wanted… Nevermind,” he sighed. “Anyway, rare frame-type, with very specific upgrades to undertake as we grew up, and a whole education to be given on how to create and care for a Cassettes. Mini-Cons tended to move around to teach -- and so were the older models of Cassettes Holders.”

“And that’s how you met Mister Creepy Telepath?” Jazz asked with interest.

“Yeah, it was,” Blaster sighed. “He was only a couple vorns older than me, traveling with his mentor. We used to be pretty close. You know Steeljaw shares some schematics with Ravage? Well, that’s because, as Younglings trying to build our first Cassettes frames, we exchanged tips and ideas. Felinoids weren’t in style, but we both liked it, and…” he shrugged. “The rest is history.”

“I’d say,” Jazz commented, sipping at his cube. “And why did you fall out of favor with him?”

“Mutual disagreement on anything political, morals, and the future of our caste,” Blaster said drily. “Plus, the telepathy bit was starting to get very, very creepy.”

“You tell me, my friend. You tell me.”

Chapter Text

“And how are my two pets this evening?” Shockwave cooed as he closed the doors of his luxurious apartment behind him. Well, it was luxurious by Decepticons standards, given the size and the fine furnitures, although Autobots would have considered it rather plain. Shockwave cared little one way or another; it wasn’t so much the place and the furnitures he cared about, no. It was more about the two Autobots lying bound and gagged on the carpets, looking up at him with nearly white optics, jaws spread open in perfect ‘o’ by their gags and whimpering softly as they tried to gather his attention.

“Were the two of you nice?” he cooed again as he walked over to them, patting their helms with mock sympathy. Bumblebee half-glared at him, while Blurr made a keening sound. “Something the matter, Blurr?” he asked the blue mech as he let his claws run lightly over a thigh, making the Elite Guard Agent shudder helplessly.

Shockwave’s red optic scanned the two intertwined bodies, taking great satisfaction in the smooth shine of condensation over their frame, as well as the spots and pool of lubricant and transfluid they were laying in. “I see you two were occupied; aren’t you happy I let you play together today?” he cooed again, receiving twin groans as answers and chuckling. “I see the two of you are still tied; is it what's distressing you, Blurr, my pet?” he asked the lithe mech with amusement.

Coolant drops escaped Blurr’s optics, and Shockwave’s servos patted him gently. “Don’t worry; I’m sure you’ll be free of Bumblebee’s spike soon. His knot won’t last much longer, will it? And once it’s gone, I’m going to unbound the two of you -- well, perhaps not your wrists -- and give you a bath. Would you like that, my pets?”

Bumblebee whined. Blurr just panted. “I’ll take that as a ‘yes’,” Shockwave decided matter of factly as he leaned back slightly to observe the way Bumblebee was buried deep into the blue racer, both of them barely able to move, looking exhausted after having spent the day pleasuring each other -- albeit unwillingly. They looked spent, and utterly fragable. Really, he was regretting less and less to have invested in that mod for the little yellow ‘bot.

Chapter Text

When he shuttered his optics, he saw a face. An unknown face, for never among his Autobots had he ever seen someone with that specific facial features. Of course, he didn’t personally know all of his troops, despite his best efforts, for their were just too numerous, but Optimus Prime had always made a point of trying to learn as many designation and see as many mugshots as he could to familiarize himself with those who had chosen to stand by him, with him against the Decepticons.

Sometimes, he only learned about them too late, when it was time to deliver an eulogy to the most recently deceased, but the point was, Optimus was trying.

And the face he saw in his dream belonged to none he was acquainted with, alive or dead. Even without a clear view of said face, he would have remembered such a distinctive paintjob.

The stranger was just that, a stranger. But night after night, he kept creeping into Optimus’ dreams, smiling, laughing, pausing, winking and just being… inviting. The way he parted his legs when he sat down in the dreams, the way he laid down and stretched on the ground, arms crossed behind his head and head threw back to watch Earth’s cloud… It didn’t look like much to the casual onlooker, but Optimus wasn’t a casual one.

His dream-self noticed. His dream-self also never acted. He sat by the stranger painted in red and yellow flames design, he listened to words that made no sense, as if coming from far, far away, he watched him and kept his hands to himself. Even when the stranger put a hand over his, smiling gently with that knowing look in his optics. Optimus was a Prime. He couldn’t allow himself to… to act in some ways with anyone, dreams or not dreams. It just wasn’t proper for a mech like him to try and interface, even in dreams, with one of his subordinates. It would have been an abuse of his power, or so he tried to convince himself. He couldn’t… he couldn’t do that.

And still, still he dreamed, the stranger more and more present every night in his recharge fluxes, and everyday easier to understand, as if the words came from closer now, as if the stranger was coming closer himself.

“Who are you?” Optimus asked once more in the dreams, as he did every time.

... Rodimus Pr...,” came the startling whisper, and Optimus awoke in his berth, Spark beating fast.

Chapter Text

It started in a relatively innocent way, or so Bulkhead mused. It actually started with a surly looking Miko, who just seemed to want to curl in a ball and grunt at everyone and everything in a way that reminded the Wrecker of Doc Ratchet at his best -- not that he would have dared to mention it aloud.

For a long moment, the big green mech had worried, wondering if perhaps he had done or said something that would have made his little buddy crossed with him -- but he couldn’t remember anything that would have made Miko just want to snap at him. The very next day, however, Miko was back to a more cheerful mood, and he let the incident slip out of his mind. Until he started again, a while later. Miko went all surly and miserable on him, curling into a ball in his back seat and just grumbling all the way to the Autobots base, even when she got out of his vehicle form to go and say ‘hi’ to Mrs Darby.

And that was the moment Bulkhead’s sensors noticed the blood spots on his seat. His optics widened in horror.

“Miko! You’re hurt?!”

That gathered everyone’s attention, Ratchet almost having a whiplash as he turned to look at the small human, medical sensors activating at full process even as Bulkhead knelt to the ground, panicked. Jack came in running while Bee stopped Raf from coming closer, probably to not overwhelm the human female. June Darby let her seat at a console to run toward Miko too, face worried.

The little girl grimaced. “I’m not…” she started to say, only for Bulkhead to shake his head.

“Miko, don’t play the brave, will you? There’s blood out my backset! Where are you hurt? Where are you leaking from?! Can I do something?”

Miko groaned. “Unless you have Tylenol in your subspace, I doubt it!”

Curiously, the statement seemed to make Nurse Darby less nervous, and she actually laughed sharply before smiling sadly at the younger female. “Oh dear. Painful ones?” she asked with all the sympathy she could muster, putting a friendly hand on Miko’s shoulder.

“Yeah, and from what Bulk just said, I guess my pad leaked. You wouldn’t have…?”

“In my car. Give me a moment, I’m going to seek you clean ones. No Tylenol, though. Sorry.”

“It’s alright,” Miko grumbled as she gingerly sat down. Bulkhead was still far too aware of the red spots on her stockings, and he couldn’t understand why Nurse Darby didn’t seem worried anymore… nor were Jack and Raf, come to think about it. Actually, Jack was wincing and looking vaguely panicked, while Raf grimaced.

“Will someone explain to me what’s going on?!” he finally snapped as Nurse Darby handed a pack to the teenager, who left toward the part of the base that still contained human installations such as the waste room.

Nurse Darby looked at him. “I guess you haven’t studied much about women’s menstrual cycles, have you?” Jack and Raf groaned.

Bulkhead blinked, even as Ratchet leaned in, sounding interested. “Menstrual cycle? What’s that?”

Barely a few minutes later, the base resonated with a very loud, very panicked and grossed out: “Miko is bleeding from where?!” Later: “What do you mean, it’s like that every month?!” And even later: “Ewwww!”

And the incident was never mentioned anymore.

Chapter Text

Where was he? Who was he, even? That question plagued the minds of all the surviving members of the Cyber-Ninja Corps each time they thought about the mysterious death of their late Sensei. Master Yoketron’s murder had left a void, an hollowness in the Sparks and processors of all his pupils. The feeling was only increased by the fact they hadn’t been able to discover yet who had struck the mortal blow… nor what had happened in the sacred halls of the Dojo. There were theories, of course, but nothing was certain. Well… there was a group who was certain of what had happened, and they were giving Jazz an headache just by speaking with them.

“Come on, mech, you can’t be serious!”

“On the contrary, Jazz, I’m perfectly serious,” Dai Atlas rumbled, optics narrowed. “As it is, I’m presently mounting a task force to bring in that… criminal.” His lips pursed in distaste on the last word.

Jazz sighed and rubbed his helm. “Dai, my mech… Forgive me to be blunt, but that’s just plain stupid!” The General bristled, and Jazz continued without letting him open his mouth to answer. “Okay, Yoketron might be dead, and suspecting his latest student is logical, since he’s nowhere to be found at the moment, but I keep telling you, it makes no sense! The timeline doesn’t hold! You can’t honestly believe that some kid who have less than a stellar cycle of training could have taken on the Master, can you?”

“Then explain to me, Jazz, why no one was able to contact him or find him since the Master’s death was made public? Why is he on the run, if he has nothing to do with Master Yoketron’s murder?”

“Presumed on the run, Dai. Presumed only, and that’s because nobody can vouch for him or know of his whereabouts. As for why…” The black and white mech shrugged. “What do I know? Perhaps he got injured and is stuck in some backwater clinic. Or perhaps he got eliminated too,” he added with a grimace. “You know it’s possible. The Master couldn’t hold his own; what chance did a half-trained kid have?”

“Presumably half-trained. He could have been a plant,” Dai Atlas said stiffly.

“Draft dodger isn’t a great cover for a plant,” Jazz countered dryly. “Come on, no need to go on a Cyber-witch hunt, my mech. I keep telling you; wherever that kid is, he’s not on the run.”

Chapter Text

“Pl… please, n...nn-hhhnnn,” Smokescreen groaned as a strong hand pressed over his neck, burying his head back into a pillow. Part of his mind snickered at the thought that the Decepticon leader owned a padded berth with mesh covers and pillows, as the stuff usually was given to Sparklings, mechs with health troubles or decadent nobles. The other part of his mind, though, was just terrified to be in that berth, with such a dangerous mech behind him.

Especially given the way he was scissoring his valve open with those thick, clawed digits.

“Sshh, Autobot,” the Warlord rumbled, and although Smokescreen couldn’t see him, what’s with being forcefully maintained like he was, face in the pillow and aft in the air, hands bound behind his back with thick, sturdy cuffs, the young Autobot just knew he was smirking. “I don’t think I gave you the permission to talk, did I?”

“Fra… frag you,” Smokescreen grunted with as much bravado as he could -- which, as much as he tried to, wasn’t much. His knees shook as an onslaught of pleasurable sensations spread through his body, starting with his interface port.

He keened softly, feeling humiliated by the way his body reacted to the Warlord’s ministrations. Slag the mech! If he really wanted to have his ways with him, why couldn’t he act like a typical Decepticon, by taking him dry and hard and making him scream in pain? His grunts had always done so! The Warlord, though, the Warlord was different, all slow and preparing him, stretching him, spreading him wide before he took what he wanted, and Smokescreen didn’t know if he should be relieved or alarmed by the fact. Why was Megatron… gentle-ish, by Decepticon standards? Was he always like that? Or did it hide something?

“No, Autobot,” the grey mech chuckled deeply. “Frag you,” he added with a purr as he thrust his fingers deeper inside.

Chapter Text

There was, Jack thought helplessly as he turned in his bed for what felt like the hundredth time tonight, a good and a bad news. Actually, there were two good news and two bad news, if he wanted to be specific.

The first good news was that his Mom had always saw fit to teach him everything about the facts of life, no matter what they were. Perhaps it was because she was a single mother, perhaps because it was because she saw some nasty things in her job as a Nurse, but June Darby had never shied away from telling Jack the truth, whatever the subject was. Sometimes, she went beyond the call of duty to be sure her son was fully aware of everything she thought he needed to know.

Which was why Jack knew exactly everything there was to know about sex -- and his mother’s number one’s rule about it: don’t before you’re at least twenty-something and sure it’s what you truly want, and use protection for God’s sake!

The first bad news was, the ‘birds and bees’ conversation had been so utterly embarrassing and horrifying Jack had swore he wouldn’t be an idiot -- too bad his hormones weren’t so easily tamed.

The second good news was, and Jack had become aware of it recently, June Darby didn’t need to worry about her son doing something stupid with another underage teen.

The second bad news was, nothing in the ‘birds and bees’ conversation had covered what to do when you fell in love with a giant alien robot girl who changed into a motorcycle you rode everyday.

… and his mind really was in the gutter at the moment.

Jack whimpered as he turned again and resolutely tried not to think about Arcee and the heat pooling in his groin. That was so awkward; of all the girls he could have fallen for, he was slowly but surely falling in love with his ride! And the worse part? He wasn’t regretting it at all! Arcee was… she was a real dynamite gal, she was perfect, and he just wanted to blurt out his feelings toward her at the drop of a hat.

There was a big problem, though. Just how someone could tell ‘I love you’ to his bike in public without sounding like an idiot?

Chapter Text

Optimus stumbled, cursing as he almost tripped over a bit of uneven ground, and he quickly brought his hands before him to balance himself and avoid crashing face first in the dirt. With barely a moment to spare, he was running again, jumping over rocks rather than avoiding them altogether, optics darting right and left for the clearest path to follow or, even better, a good hiding place. Sadly, there was no nook or cranny safe enough for him to use, and he just knew his pursuer would easily find him if he even tried.

Even at this distance, he could hear Megatron’s booming laughter. The mech’s voice carried out far. “Run, little Prime, run! Don’t make it too easy for me!”

Optimus gritted his dental plate, trying to go faster; he couldn’t let the Warlord catch him, he just couldn’t! Sadly, he knew he wouldn’t be able to continue for long; his fuel reserve were already half-gone, his motor relays and his pistons were aching from the effort, and his vents were working hard to cool down his overheating systems. The chase had been going on for several megacycles now, and he was reaching his limits.

And still he continued to run as fast as he could to avoid… well, he couldn’t say capture, because he had already been captured, before being released on that strange planet that one of the Decepticon who had pushed him out of the ship after outfitting him with a collar had called a ‘hunting reserve’. Whatever it was, it couldn’t be good, Optimus had decided before starting his mad dash through the strange vegetation.

His feet once again caught into uneven ground, and this time he fell face down with a humf.

“Oh, already tired, little Prime?”

Optimus stilled utterly as he turned and scrambled. Megatron stood there, looming over him with an amused look on his face. The red and blue mech bared his teeth, hands searching for a stone to use as a makeshift weapon, to the Warlord’s great amusement.

“How cute! Still defiant, despite your tiredness? I was right to bring you here. You gave me quite a challenge. A lot of your fellow Autobots don’t outlast a chase more than half a megacycle. Truly, you are a worthy prey to hunt,” he purred.

“I’m not prey!” Optimus snapped, optics thunderous.

Megatron chuckled, his optics flashing crimson. “Well, given I’ve caught you, I agree; you’re not a prey anymore, you’re a trophy. One I’ll enjoy bringing back to decorate my berth.”

Chapter Text

“You know, I get you don’t want to talk to me. I really do. But come on, my mech, can’t you try to say something? Hum? Whisper? Sing? Okay, perhaps not sing, you don’t strike me as a singer or even a musician, despite having a very nice sound system… Never mind, never mind. Just… talk to me, Soundwave?”

Jazz leaned back on his heels, a honest, helpful smile on his lips as he looked at the sitting, immobile form of the Cassette Holder. The former TIC of Megatron, sadly, didn’t answer to his babble the slightest, and Jazz sighed.

“Honestly, Sounders, the whole ‘silent treatment’ is getting old. I know your vocalizer isn’t glitched -- Ratchet checked it over thirty times and counting. I also get you’re… upset,” he said carefully, “what’s with the lack of freedom and all that jazz, but I don’t wish you any ill. I honestly want us two to coexist as peacefully as possible until you can go back to live in normal society.”

Still no answer and no reaction, and if Jazz had been a less patient mech, he would have hissed in frustration. Ten vorns of absolute silence from his… ‘houseguest’ were starting to get on his processors. Jazz loved sound, noise, music, talking,... Eck, he could listen to recording of Bluestreak’s endless babble for megacycles without being annoyed. The sound was actually very soothing. He had accepted to ‘take in’ Soundwave because he had thought they’d have fun together sorting and speaking of old songs, as the telepath was based on the same mold as Blaster, but so far, Soundwave made any sort of communication very difficult.

The black and white mech rubbed his helm, trying not to sigh. That wasn’t how he had pictured the aftermath of the war going.

When Megatron had finally keeled over and Starscream accepted rendition before every ‘Con left standing was offlined, there had been a mass celebration which had left many mechs almost comatose for an Earth week due to prolonged high grade consummation. Then, when the processors had cleared, they had been left with the big question of what to do with the captured Decepticons. Surprisingly, nobody had truly thought about it -- and if that didn’t show how sad and bad things had been, then Jazz was willing to eat his visor.

Optimus had been against the very idea of slavery -- the whole ‘to the victor goes the spoils’ thing had horrified him, and Jazz knew it made some of their faction members more than queasy. Besides, the Decepticons had come from an unjust system that had made them slave in all but name, so making them official slaves back was not a solution. There had been loud talks, screams, nasty arguments, before things had settled somewhat.

The Decepticons who had surrendered would be made to live with an Autobot who would provide for them until the new government felt they were ready to move on their own and be part of society again. The system wasn’t perfect, but it allowed them some freedom, despite the heavy restrictions put onto them. For the chance to work and help the reconstruction, many former Decepticons had readily accepted the conditions.

Others… others had only joined under duress, like Soundwave. And they were dragging their feet all the way, much to Jazz’s irritation. Really, they were trying to help here! Couldn’t Sounders give it a try and stop acting as if he was a prisoner? At this rate, he’d get sent back to prison and scheduled for Spark extraction and storage like Shockwave or some of the insanest ‘Cons nobody had felt were safe enough to readapt to a civilian life. Jazz would have rather wanted to avoid it. He kinda liked Soundwave -- he was like a Decepticon version of Prowl with a lesser tendency to crash. And he would be such a cool roommate if he stopped being so surly!

“... How about we go visit Blaster?” he proposed in desperation. “He got two of your critters in his care. I’m sure they’d be delighted to see you!”

Soundwave didn’t say anything yet, but the way he suddenly turned his head to look at Jazz made the black and white mech grin in delight. Well, that was progress alright!

Chapter Text

It didn’t happen often. There was simply not always the time to hold a proper celebration, what’s with all the surviving Praxians having different work shifts, or being stationed on different bases -- and let’s not forget the Decepticons’ own way to celebrate the anniversary of Praxus’ Fall, by launching attacks and specifically targeting former citizens having joined the Autobots. One vorn, it got so bad Optimus strictly forbidden anyone with Praxus affiliation to step a foot outside their quarters.

Still, every now and then, the surviving Praxians managed to gather together in peace to hold a memorial service to their fallen city and their fallen citizens. On Earth, it only involved three Autobots.

Smokescreen first, who stood stiff as he lighted phosphore candles before a board full of pictures depicting their broken homecity’s buildings, streets and famous landmarks. He hadn’t been caught in the worst of the attack, for he had been lucky enough to have been in the suburbs and get out of town quickly when the bombs and the laser fire started to rain on the unsuspecting population, but what he had seen that day, he had never been able to forget. Having been able to drag a few femmes, Younglings and Sparklings with him out of that Pit barely soothed his processors.

Still, he knew his remembrance wasn’t as bad as Prowl and Bluestreak, who had been in the center of the city when everything went to Pit.

What exactly happened to them, nobody had ever discovered. But judging by the way Bluestreak’s doorwing quivered, and the way he hung to Prowl even now, thousands of vorns past the event, you could guess it was bad. Especially given the way the normally stoic tactician had thrown his arm around the younger mech’s shoulders, holding him close to his frame, and muttering things that sounded half like reassurances and half like promises he’d ‘get the kid out of here’.

Chapter Text

The Vehicons, Megatron knew, were loyal to him. They had always been. And if he sometimes doubted of their commitment to the Decepticon’s cause, he didn’t doubt for a second they were more loyal to him than to, say, Starscream. After all, they had actually voted to bring in Knock Out to try and repair him, despite his former Second’s best efforts to let him die. Oh, there were a few odd ones in their lot, like that ST-3V3 character, but on the whole? The Vehicons were loyal.

A bit too much, perhaps, the Warlord though with raised optic ridge as he silently listened to a conversation recorded earlier by Soundwave.

“I keep telling you, 326 victories!”
“No way! It’s 327! Don’t you remember about the time his adversary threw the match before it started ‘cause he was too afraid to fight him? It’s 327 victories in the area for Lord Megatron!”
“It doesn’t count! They didn’t exchange a single blow, so it wasn’t a real fight! He only won 326 matches!”
“Me, I’d like to know where the lot of you ever picked on the fact he liked premium oil? Anybody who did his researches knows he’s only fond of Z.3524 energon, with just a lick of oil to thicken it!”
“Well, I’ll let you know that it’s not Z.3524 he’s fond of, but…”

The Warlord cut the recording and looked at the silent, faceless Soundwave. “Do they have that kind of conversation often?” he asked him, feeling slightly thrown off. He knew most Vehicons were rather… starstruck with him, but that much? It was ridiculous!

Soundwave just nodded, a clip made of several voices answering Megatron’s question. “You’re pretty popular.”

Megatron just groaned, raising a hand to his face. “You don’t say. Is my army constituted from… from groupies?” he pondered in disbelief. His shoulders sagged before he sighed. “Never mind. At least, so long they idealize me like that, as weird as it is, I know they won’t pull a Starscream on me. Oh, Soundwave? Just to be on the safe side… add a few more locks on my quarters’ doors. I don’t trust groupies farther than I can throw them.”

Chapter Text

“That’s, uh, a cozy place? But you know, I’d really, really like to head back to base, like, now? Not that YOUR base is a bad place, I mean, I dig all the rock… and purple… and grey… I really do! Then again, it’s not exactly my style. You know what would be a cheery color around here? Orange! How about you repaint the whole place and I come back another time?”

The Autobot never stopped talking, Megatron thought distractedly as he tried to read a report. How curious; he had been certain, basing himself on Shockwave’s accounts, that the ever-talking Autobot was supposed to be a blue-painted Agent of the Elite Guard, not the little yellow Minibot currently wiggling on the floor until he had a moment to statute on his eventual fate.

He wondered if bringing him that ‘bot had been Blitzwing’s subtle way to try to drive him insane. After some consideration as the Autobot prattled even more, he decided it wasn’t; if the triplechanger had wanted to annoy him, he would have stayed locked on Random until the Warlord shot him.

It was most likely lack of luck on Megatron’s part he had ended with a talkative captive. Tss. Autobots never had the good sense to just shut up when he needed them to, and of course he would be deprived of a gag or anything suitable to use as one on his prisoner. Although… there were ways to shut him up for a moment, weren’t they?

“Silence,” the Warlord said, calm, composed and potentially deadly. The yellow Minibot -- Bee something, if he remembered right -- had the good sense to listen, freezing entirely, mouth open. Hmm. Good.

Megatron walked to him deliberately slowly, as smirk on his face. “You have a real smart mouth. I have a much better use for it.” The Autobot looked puzzled for a moment, until the Warlord let his panel slide aside.

Blue optics widened as the little mech mouthed something wordlessly. “Uh… can I decline?” he asked in a small voice as Megatron’s spike pressurized. The Warlord’s smirk just grew wider.


Chapter Text

If he managed to get out of here alive, he didn’t think anyone would believe him. Grunting, Smokescreen turned and tossed, trying helplessly to get out of his bonds. Well, bonds… those weren’t cuffs, or cable, or energy links. It was a sort of… goo, he guessed, which had hardened around his wrists and ankles. Ugh. Insecticons were gross, he decided as he remembered how the substance had gotten out of their mouths.

He was so going to get a decontaminant shower once he got back to base!

… Assuming the base had a decontamination shower. Come to think, he wasn’t so sure. He hadn’t noticed any, anyway. Probably one of the things Ratchet had intended to build until someone broke the material he had needed. That seemed to be a running joke around here, from what Jack had shared during their trips together to teach the young Autobot stuff about his homeworld.

A shadow fell over him and Smokescreen tensed, looking up to meet the optics of a single large Insecticons, who was looking at him with his head tilted to the side, thrilling. Smokescreen bared his dental plates at him, trying to look defiant and impressing, but the Insecticon just made sound not unlike laugher. Could Insecticons laugh? He didn’t know.

The beast turned away from him and Smokescreen resumed his wiggling to try and get the sticky, half-hardened substance to break off, muttering a few chosen expression that Optimus Prime would have been little impressed with if he had heard them. Bulkhead and that Wrecker buddy of his… well, they might have approved and suggested new ones.

Kidnapped by Insecticons… how ridiculous did that sound? He pondered, still grunting and wincing as he realized the goo had gotten into his joints. Great. Just great. Did Ratchet had brushes at the base? Because he was so going to need a small model to get that out!

Another shadow fell over him. Smokescreen didn’t have time to glance up before he was lifted in powerful arms with a yelp and thrown over a massive shoulder.

“Get me down!”

Of course the Insecticon didn’t obey. It just thrilled in what might have been an amused and soothing manner before stalking deeper into the corridor of the hive-like structure they had dragged the rookie Autobot in. Sagging, Smokescreen tried not to panic. The other Autobots were bound to rescue him sooner or later. In the meanwhile, he had to be strong and be a good Autobot. Still, he couldn’t help but wonder.

What did those best even want with him, anyway?

Chapter Text

“You’re not worried someone might have seen you leave?”

Mirage stretched, an amused half-smile on his lips. “Invisibility has its advantages,” the former noble said casually before he leaned closer to the mech next to him, cuddling against his broader frame.

Thundercracker’s wings twitched at the bold move, his frame tensing before relaxing entirely, and he draped an arm around the Autobot’s shoulder. “We shouldn’t be doing that,” he mumbled.”

“No, we shouldn’t,” Mirage agreed.

“It’s stupid and pointless. You’re an Autobot, I’m a Decepticon, and neither of us will change his mind about his allegiance.”

“Of course,” the Autobot nodded, as if it wasn’t the tenth time or so Thundercracker repeated the same argument. Their clandestine meetings wouldn’t be the same without the Seeker babbling about their own responsibility and how much they needed to stop visiting each other like that.

The Seeker half-glared at him. “And still you won’t back up, and I won’t either. Why do we keep doing that?” It wasn’t so much a question as a wary statement, and Mirage smiled softly before kissing the bigger mech in the neck.

“Because we are both lonely nobles who want to try, if only for a moment, to reconnect through our long lost heritage.”

“Vosian nobility had little to do with Iaconian’s,” Thundercracker mumbled, but didn’t discuss the argument. How could he have, since it was true.

“But we still spoke the same high langage, and we saw some of the same spectacles and art expositions,” Mirage countered. “We both hunted, we both collected pricy artefacts, we both enjoyed a lifestyle long gone that place us above and far away from everyone else, not allowing us to truly connect with the rest of our respective factions. We’re… lonely. Longing for the company of someone who can understand,” he whispered.

Thundercracker’s wings shifted and he sighed. “Yeah. Yes, you’re right. And still… I can’t help but think it’s more trouble than it’s worth.”

Chapter Text

Primus, when he got himself in trouble, he didn’t do it by half, Bumblebee thought as he helplessly kicked his legs. The Decepticon holding him in his arms like a giant ragdoll just chuckled.

“Aww, is the babydoll not happy?” the Random face of Blitzwing cooed before it switched immediately to his Icy persona. “You should stop doing that, Autobot. It’s most unwelcome.”

“How about you let me go so I don’t kick you anymore?” Bumblebee asked cheekily with a strained grin. Icy just raised an optic ridge. “Come on,” Bumblebee tried to reason, “you better release me. I’m supposed to be on patrol! You wouldn’t want the other Autobots to notice, do you? I promise I’ll make time for you later!” Much much later, he added mentally.

Icy left place to Hothead, who glared. “Are you fragging teasing me, you little cocktease?! For once I’m having you at hand, no way I’m letting you go!” Icy retook control. “After all, you did cancel our five previous attempt at… ‘dating’ you, Autobot. I’m afraid that it’s quite trying on me.”

Bumblebee continued to smile in a strained way, processor racing. Slag, why did he flirt with the tall Decepticon in the first place? He should have know it was a bad idea to begin with, but it had seemed to be a good plan as any at the time. Blitzwing had let him go back then… but Bumblebee hadn’t counted on him to be actually interested in ‘courting’ and fragging him!

“Pretty please?” he asked. “I’m sure there’ll be better tiiiiiiiime!” he squealed as he was dropped on a patch of moss and grass, the triplechanger immediately pinning him to the ground with his weight.

“No more excuse, Autobot. You teased me, now you assume the consequence,” Icy stated calmly before Random took charge. “Little tight squeeze better not arouse big, bad Decepticons if he can’t handle the girth!”

Bumblebee twitched. Slag it all… Oh well; he had always wondered what it was like to take a really big spike. Guess he was going to find out soon enough, he decided as he wiggled helplessly.

Chapter Text

Iacon’s General Hospital was a place few Autobots enjoyed visiting. Mainly because when you ended there, it meant you had truly gotten yourself slagged, be it by a nasty blaster shot or by an infection virus. In Rodimus Prime’s case, it was a bad encounter with a Decepticon armed with chemical weapon, including the dreaded Cosmic Rust. The medics had managed to save him -- they were just that good -- but by the time he had been rushed to surgery after the ‘Cons got their tailpipes kicked, most of his legs had been so corroded they had been forced to amputate them from the knee down.

Now, that wasn’t exactly a major injury -- limbs could get easily replaced -- but the Chosen One’s struts had been very fragilized, and the new limbs weren’t integrating as swiftly as they should have.

Which explained why he was currently going through reeducation and motricity exercises, helped by an unexpected helper.

“Now, put your right feet forward… yes, like that. You’re doing good, Rodimus. The left feet now… ah, don’t force yourself if you don’t think you have the strength!”

The strong hands of his helper helping him to stay up and steady, Rodimus Prime grimaced and glanced crossly at the mech supporting his weight. “I’m fine, Optimus. Now, let’s…”

“Let’s get you back to your berth,” the other Prime cut out in a tone that suffered no argument.

Rodimus couldn’t help it: he pouted. “Aw, come on,” he protested. “I was doing good!”

“Yes you did, and now it’s time to get back to your berth before you stumbled one time too many and hurt yourself -- I don’t want to face that medic of yours should that happen. I swear she wants to take my head off.”

“Red Alert wouldn’t,” Rodimus commented. “Let’s take a few more steps. Please?” he almost begged.


“Please, Optimus. I need that. I need… I need to not feel like a burden. I... “ he stammered. Optimus looked at him and sighed after a moment of silence.

“A few more steps,” he finally agreed reluctantly. “You want to take them alone?”

Rodimus blinked, looked at his legs and then took a sheepish look. “Uh… continue to hold me? Please? I’d like to avoid messing up my paintjob. Not to mention my face.”

Chapter Text

The quiet was… unnerving. Yes, unnerving, Ratchet decided as he stared blankly at the ceiling overhead. Lying flat on his back on the mesh-covered slab which served as a recharge berth -- the humans just didn’t have what it took to make a true, nice one, so the Autobots had made with what they could -- the medic tried vainly to power down and sink into a restful recharge.

It wasn’t working.

The base was just too quiet, too silent after having been so noisy for so long, what’s with the human kids’ antics as they dragged Bumblebee, Bulkhead, and Arcee in whatever activities they had selected, despite the three Autobots knowing better. Those humans… Ratchet sighed.

As much as he didn’t want to admit it, it was hard conceiving life without them anymore. Even if Bulkhead had once again broken something Ratchet needed while trying to ‘breakdance’ with Miko. Even if Bumblebee had done a victory dance, something he didn’t use to do, when he beat Raf at that stupid video game they played. Even if Arcee had been late coming back from patrol because Jack had wanted them to just ‘enjoy the landscape’ -- despite said landscape being a desert.

The medic sighed. He liked silence, but right now? He didn’t want it. “Optimus?” he called softly, listening carefully to the whir of the mech’s systems beside him. “Optimus? Say something…”

“And what ‘something’ would you want me to say, old friend?” A gentle arm tightened around Ratchet’s waist, a warm metal body pressed against his, and the light brush of lips components over the side of his helm tried to sooth him.

“Anything. Everything you want. Just… talk?”

“Do you wish me to tell you a bedtime story? I was lead to understand, listening to Nurse Darby, that it is an human custom for Sparklings who can’t find recharge…”

Ratchet growled. “Compare me to a Sparkling again, and I swear to Primus I’m going to hit you!”

Optimus didn’t chuckle, but damn if Ratchet couldn’t actually hear him smile! He didn’t even need to turn for that! Stupid smug Prime…

And still, as Optimus cuddled into his side, softly humming and sometimes speaking a few lyrics of an old Cybertronian tune -- which was marginally better than telling him a story -- Ratchet couldn’t help but smile. Quiet was fine; listening to Optimus was better.

Chapter Text

“I was thinking… want to gamble?”

Smokescreen paused as he was bringing his cube of energon to his lips and, raising an optic ridge, he turned to look at the mech sitting next to him at the bar, putting the cube back on the flat surface.

“I’m sorry?” the doorwinged mech asked. “Did you just ask me if I wanted to…?”

“Gamble, yes. Don’t play the mech who didn’t hear me,” Swindle smiled in the most charmy way he could -- the kind of smile he put out to sell his best and less-than-best merchandises to clients far too credule but with subspace pockets full of credits. Smokescreen, however, wasn’t sell with a smile.

“Riiiiight,” he drawled, raising his optic ridge higher. “Swindle, do I look like an idiot? Or suicidal, perhaps? No gambling.” His tone was final and broke no argument, but Swindle wouldn’t have been Swindle if he hadn’t tried to make him change his mind.

Pouting, he looked at Smokescreen. “Now, come on, my mech, don’t be such a kill-joy! After all, isn’t that what we came here from? To try and wrangle money out of the casino?”

“Personally, I came to enjoy a cube of real, fine energon, and not the ersatz we’re currently being served at the base due to budget restriction and the need to save and make our reserves to last as long as possible. I’m not picking a card tonight. Or turning the wheel. Or throwing darts. Or throwing dices. Or anything that can be in any shape and form be bet on,” he added as he saw Swindle open his mouth to protest.

The tan mech frowned, his pout deepening. “You were funnier before.”

“And I would have kept being funnier if your last offer to gamble hadn’t landed us in prison after a pursuit with half of Polyhex’s Enforcers and had us banned from all of the quadrant casinos. Not to mention the lecture I got from Prowl when he came to bring the bail money and get me out of my cell, when you, little cyber-weasel that you are, managed to flee ahead and not be worried by the authorities.”

Swindle raised his hands in defense. “Now, that was hardly my fault you took a wrong turn!”

“But it was yours if we landed in that mess to begin with,” Smokescreen cut back. “No gambling.” After a moment, he grudgingly corrected. “At least, not with my money. If you play yours, now, perhaps we can work something over.”

From the look on Swindle’s face, he had probably uttered some sort of heresy...

Chapter Text

“Would you kindly take your greasy paws off my frame?” Jazz grunted, optics narrowed behind his visor as he glared at the large Decepticon towering over him.

He scrambled back on the berth to put as much distance as he could between the lecher currently fondling his pedes and him but sadly, he didn’t get far, his back just pressing against a pillow propped up against the headboard. His frame twitched as he tried futilely to get out of his cuffs. Processor-over-matter was nice and useful to get out of bounds, but he had yet to fully master the technique, much to his annoyance and rising panic.

Red optics above a jack’o-lantern grin looked laughingly at him. “Is the pretty Autobot scared like a photovoltaic pussycat?” he laughed before his face changed to a red, angry scowl. “You stop moving like that, you hear?!” he added as he made a grab for Jazz’s legs and pulled him back to his initial position before leaning over him on his hands and knees, their face level. “You stay here and nice and you do as I ordered!”

Jazz grimaced and glared. “Hand off, my mech, I’m no one’s property!”

A blue face and a monocle looked down at him. “According to Lord Megatron, you’re now mine, Autobot, and I’d suggest you stop being so difficult.”

“Sorry,” Jazz answered flippantly, “that’s not my style and beside, I have no wish to stay around and belong to you. You’re not my dream mech.”

“Well, you’re not exactly mine either.” Blitzwing’s face turned back to his jack’o lantern’s looks. “I wanted the pretty firetruck!” he laughed, his face switching again. “Slag Megatron for getting first right to the spoils!”

Chapter Text

“Ah, Optimus! Just on time. Would you care for a cube of high grade?”

Optimus Prime, had he been a lesser mech, would have facepalmed. “Starscream,” he sighed as the door closed behind him. “What have I told you already about entering my quarters without permission? Anyway, how did you even enter? I had the password changed!”

Starscream, serving himself a cube of pink fluid, frowned as he made the liquid twirl before taking a sip. “Yes, from ‘Elita’ to ‘Optimus’. That’s not what I call a good password, by the way. So, high grade?” he asked again, smiling in a way that made Optimus twitch. The Seeker’s attempts at seduction were becoming very, very annoying.

The long stares, the ‘accidental’ brushes in the corridors, the ‘helpful hand’ here and there… Starscream never stopped pursuing him, to Optimus’ great annoyance. Starscream was a fine looking mech, but really, the Prime didn’t love him like that! Of course, the Seeker wasn’t listening, and he kept becoming bolder. The last orn, he had broken in his quarters to lie languishly on the berth and wait for him. Elita, who had been on comm. call, hadn’t been amused at all, which only added to Optimus’ fraying processors.

He really wondered at time if the Seeker was seriously pursuing him, or if it was just Starscream’s way to amuse himself now that he didn’t have Megatron to rile up anymore. If so, then Optimus was starting to understand why his enemy had been so prompt to shoot at his SIC. The mech was just that annoying.

Still… the high grade cube was tempting. Optimus shrugged. “Why the Pit not? And it’s not a date or anything!” he added quickly with a glare, to which Starscream only smirked.

“If you say so, Prime. If you say so…”

Chapter Text

“You are far too smug about it,” Ratchet grumbled as he watched Knock Out finish to wash and sterilize his hands for the third time, a smirk on his lips.

“Oh?” the red lithe mech said, turning toward him without departing from his smirk. “I don’t see what you mean,” he said in a falsetto voice.

Ratchet glared. “Cut the theatrics, will you? I don’t have all day and I’d like that exam to be done and over with as soon as possible.”

“Aw, but patience is a virtue, Doctor,” Knock Out said cheekily as he leaned against a table.

“And my fist in your face, will that be a virtue too? Seriously, Knock Out; I need to have it done and I’d really, really appreciate it if you could just do it now,” he added, trying to sound polite and amiable, though he was still glaring. After a moment, he added. “If you do so, I’ll take your next shift and I’ll throw in three cans of Earth-imported polish.”

The former Decepticon blinked before taking a brief thoughtful look. “Deal. Now, you know the procedure: raise your knees, spread your legs, and try to not mind me poking at your valve. Let’s the Doctor check you’re in good working condition.” He paused. “I can’t believe I’m doing that,” he finally mumbled as he walked over to the medical berth and installed himself on a tool.

“I can’t believe I’m doing that either, but valve exams are a medical necessity, and I can hardly do my own, can’t I?” Ratchet grumbled, looking to the side as he spread his legs as planned.

“Yeah, yeah,” Knock Out waved. “Want me to search for something special?”

“No… just general check-up. I need to know… I need to know if I can conceive frames,” Ratchet confessed reluctantly. Knock Out blinked, looked at the other medic in the optics, his mouth working silently for a while.

“... Right. Right. Well, let’s get that check down, shall we? And for Primus’ sake, try not to be turned on by my magic touch, okay?” he added with a smirk and a wink, to which Ratchet could only sputter.

Chapter Text

It was his little secret. A secret that his glorious leader would certainly not approve of should he ever learn about it, and so over the vorns, Knock Out had learned to be extra careful about what he did or said in public, especially when Soundwave was around. That mech was just far too sneaky for the medic’s good.

Now, Knock Out rationalized, it wasn’t as if he was doing something illegal or dangerous -- not by Decepticons standards, anyway. But given how Megatron felt about anyone who wore the Autobot badge, it didn’t bode well for the medic’s aft -- or worse, his impeccable finish! -- should his leader ever find his private pictures collection.

Oh, Knock Out could claim in good faith having started the aforementioned collection before the War started, but knowing Megatron, it wouldn’t make that much of a difference.

In the privacy of his quarters, as he leaned against a fluffy pillow, one hand stroking his spike and the other holding one of his favorite holographic display, he could only sigh in dismay. Why did such hot set of rims as the infamous Sideswipe and Sunstreaker had to chose to side with the Autobots?

They had had so much potential, such a nice finish and had he mentioned the hot rims already? Truly, it was a pity that they hadn’t answered Megatron’s call to arms and instead sided with the Prime -- who had a nice set of rims himself, but Knock Out knew better than to say it aloud in the Nemesis. Soundwave might have been listening, and once again, his leader might not like his aesthetic observations.

Oh, but how he wished those two were Decepticons, so he could… ‘work’ on their frames! The medic smirked slightly as he imagined the picture they would made, with him as the filling of a hot Twins sandwich. Breakdown was nice and all, but the Twins, The Twins! They were walking wet dreams for a connaisseur such as himself, and he dared anyone with working optics not to be drooling on their sweet altmode, their perfect paintjob and waxed bodies, and their savagery on the battlefield.

Yes… a pity he couldn’t show his appreciation as he wished, Knock Out mused, panting as he arched his back and transfluid burst out of his spike...

Chapter Text

This place was too small, and too dark, and too… too small! There was almost no light, and he couldn’t even properly pace the room. Four steps left, four step right, and that was it. Too small, too small!

Huddling into a corner, his knees brought up against his chest, Blurr whimpered. How long had been there already? One solar cycle? One orbital cycle? One stellar cycle? His chronometer was glitched, the time wasn’t relievable, and this room, this cell, was making him feel too claustrophobic to try and measure time normally. It felt like the walls were going to crush him any moment, and he keened. Not that, not that, not that!

The room brightened suddenly and the Special Agent had to shuttered his optics with a cry of shock, the automatic calibration failing utterly. Noises. Steps in the hallway which separated the ranks of too-small-cells. A clanging on the floor, and the wet noise of liquid moving into a container. Blurr lighted his optics again, focusing them on the cube of energon that had been deposited on the floor outside the force field, half-empty but oh-so-tempting.

“Are you hungry, Agent Blurr?”

The blue mech shuttered his optics again. He didn’t want to see that faceless-face, that unique red optic in the middle of darkness. He didn’t want… even if his voice was strangely gentle, strangely soothing, and if it made the cell seems less small for a moment.

“An answer would be nice, Agent. Are you hungry?”

Blurr couldn’t bring himself to speak, so he nodded and prayed it was enough for the Decepticon. It seemed to work, as he heard the tell-tale sounds of the force field lifting up briefly, and the slide of the cube on the floor toward him.

“There you go. We don’t starve prisoners of war, Agent, even if our resources in the middle of space are… limited. That’d say, a ‘thank’ would be appreciated. Basic politeness, isn’t it? Aren’t you Autobots big about it?”

Blurr lighted his optics again. The red, single optic was staring at him from the other side of the force field, in the bright hallway. The blue mech swallowed several times. “Thanks,” he finally whispered, reaching out for the fuel.

Chapter Text

Why, Knock Out bemoaned silently, just why the Pit did that load of slag fall on him? Why not on Starscream? He was, after all, Shockwave’s pet favorite chew toy! But noooo, for once, the Predacon had dismissed Starscream outright and went at him.

The medic tried to move but a sleepy growl made him pause and carefully look over his shoulder. The Predacon’s optics were dim but not yet dark with recharge, and his hold on Knock Out’s waist tightened slightly. The red mech sighed and let his body sag as the Predacon grunted and held him closer to his massive chest, wings fluttering briefly before they rested in what Knock Out guessed was a more comfortable position.

Slag it all, he thought as he too tried to relax. Frankly, the humiliation! And to think he had thought getting stuck into a wall by that cocky Autobot youngster was bad! Now he was being made into a beast’s cuddle toy for his naps!

He managed to turn slightly and glare at the beast’s massive flank, the only thing he could see in his position, lying immobilized in massive, clawed paws. That damn beast! If Knock Out hadn’t minded his finish so much, he would have tried to work his way out of the hold. Sadly, he did like his finish perfect and he wasn’t about to let the Predacon put more scratches on him. The fragging animal had already drew lines over his arms when Knock Out had tried to escape him, and he shuddered at the reminder. He had the sneaky feeling that if he wasn’t careful, he was going to end up in the same sorry state as after his run-in with the Autobots in that ‘New York’ city. He could already count a dozen different marks on his otherwise perfect finish.

Oh, what he wouldn’t give for a good buffer!

The Predacon’s engines rumbled and Knock Out twitched. Was he going to be condemned to ‘nap’ with the beast now?


What he wouldn’t do to avoid scratches, he thought, dismayed as Shockwave’s pet started to snore loudly.

Chapter Text

Prowl, as all Autobots knew, was a strict, stiff mech without a sense of humor -- or if he had one, it was careful tucked away behind heavy firewalls. He was a prim and proper former Enforcer, and a down-to-business mech, a workaholic who was all about regulations and by-the-book punishments. He wasn’t a bad mech, really, but he was not someone most mechs under Optimus Prime found companionable.

As so, his obviously cordial relationship and possibly deep friendship with Jazz, who was know to be a party-mech, a layback individual and as anti-conformist as a mech went, was a constant source of puzzlement and gossip for the crew of the Ark.

What could the two mechs have in common, when they were so different? Logically, and Prowl was all about logic, the two shouldn’t have been able to stand each other on a personal level. If Prowl ever was to have friends, one would have expected them to be of the type of Ultra Magnus or Red Alert. Not Jazz.

And still, the two mechs seemed to genuinely like each other, to the point Jazz spent whole megacycles in Prowl’s office while the Prime’s SIC worked. Some mechs with their processors in the gutter exchanged lewd comments about the kind of work the two might have been doing behind closed door. The truth would have caught them off-guard, though.

Nothing lewd was taking place in that office, although something unusual took place.

“... and Chiptune turned his optics up to gaze into his beloved’s face. His blue optics widened as cool, soft lips pressed against his own in a gentle kiss in which the doorwinged mech almost melt. ‘Downbeat, I…’ he whispered as the kiss broke, only for a finger to rest on his lips. ‘Hush, beloved, we shouldn’t…”

“You aren’t doing the voice right, Jazz,” Prowl stated as he continued to fill a report without even looking up at the mech reading aloud, perched on a corner of his desk. “Downbeat should show more passion. This is a love story, after all. Love implies passion, care, happiness. You have picked up Chiptune’s uneasiness and wonder well, but when it comes to Downbeat, your acting is worse than Starscream’s.”

Jazz’s visor flashed. “Aww, Prowler, come on! I’m doing my best here!”

“And you’re still unable to tell a story aloud without making it sound flat, which is a wonder given your profession. I doubt anyone would believe just how bad an actor you are,” the SIC answered. “Now, start again, and try to modulate your vocalizer accordingly.”

Jazz saluted. “Yes, Sir!”

Chapter Text

He wondered briefly what Optimus Prime would say if he ever saw him in that position. Or what any of the other Autobots would say. Ultra Magnus would be radiating disapproval. Bulkhead would be horrified. Arcee would be angry. Ratchet… he would show disbelief. Probably. Anyway, he didn’t think any of them would take the fact he was getting fragged by Megatron well.

Right now, though, Smokescreen couldn’t care less. It wasn’t as if the Warlord was forcing him or anything, really! Smokescreen had come to him willingly. He had kissed him, feeling those sharp teeth nibble at his lips, without being coerced. His arms, passed around the former gladiator’s neck, weren’t bound. His legs, parted widely to allow the grey Decepticon to grind against him, weren’t restrained.

He wasn’t some naive little Autobot having got caught and getting raped. He was… he was willingly ‘facing with Megatron.

… Nobody would ever believe it, he decided as he moaned, the taller mech’s spike rubbing against the folds of his valve, spreading the lubricant dripping from his eager valve around.

“Hmm, Meg…”

“Hush, little Autobot.” The rumble was deep, not quite soothing, not quite threatening. It was just… full of authority, and suffering no back-talk. Smokescreen shuddered briefly in pleasure. He didn’t know what it was about the Warlord’s voice, but it was almost hypnotic. No wonder so many mechs had sided with him as the war broke out. Not that Smokescreen would ever become a Decepticon himself; he was loyal to his Prime.

But still… he could understand the appeal. Somewhat. The tip of a large spike made its way past the wet folds, pressing inside the rim of his valve, slowly sinking in as Megatron hummed and Smokescreen keened, his hands holding the Warlord harder, his frame shaking.

Yes, he was more than willing to get fragged, and he didn’t think he would ever regret it.

Chapter Text

“Don’t come any closer!” Ratchet barked, himself backing further into a corner. Surprisingly, Starscream obeyed, stilling suddenly and letting the hand he had been reaching out for the medic with at his side.

A wave of nausea, or something close, crashed over Ratchet’s mind and tank and he quickly pressed a hand to his mouth, feeling sick. He could feel Starscream inside him, inside his head, inside his Spark, the oh-so-strange mix of feelings, pride, disgust, self-loathing, worry, anger all rolled and in one and oh Primus, he wanted it gone!

“Well, it’s not like I want you in my systems either, Autobot!” Starscream snapped, and Ratchet jumped as he realized Starscream had easily read into him. The Seeker’s wings dropped. “Calm down. I don’t plan to hurt you.”

“Yet,” Ratchet noted, his optics following Starscream’s every move as the Seeker went to sit down at the other end of the room -- the Decepticon’s SIC’s own quarters, if Ratchet had to guess. They were strangely small and bare for someone of his size and rank… not that the medic cared. “Release me!”

“Trust me, medic, if I could, I would. I don’t enjoy having you around more than you do with me,” the red and blue Seeker snapped before shuttering his optics. “And don’t think so loudly, you’re giving me a processor ache!”

“Good! That’s what you get for forcing a mech into Bonding!” the medic screeched, hands twitching as he wished he could throw something at the head of the mech he had woke up to during a merge -- a merge he hadn’t consented to!

“That wasn’t my idea!” Starscream screeched in turn. “That was Soundwave! That fool thought that by forcing you to Bond with a Decepticon, you’d be forced to stay and see to Megatron’s repairs!”

Ratchet’s jaw dropped. “Is he glitched?! No way I ever agree to do that!”

“I told him so, but no,” Starscream mumbled, “crazy telepath decided to go along with his insane plan, and since he didn’t want to get involved more than he already was in this mess, I drew the short end of the stick and he knocked me out to make it work.”

“I don’t see why…?”

“Silly Autobot,” Starscream looked at him. “I would have killed you if I had been able to -- I don’t want Megatron repaired, after all. But since we’re Bonded -- and it has taken, damnit! -- it’s not an option anymore. And Soundwave and that slagger Megatron if he wakes up just gained themselves leverage against me!”

Ratchet paused, thinking, before curling into a ball, fists tights. “I’m going to kill them, I swear I will. They can’t force me to repair that slagger! Never!”

Starscream snorted. “Take a number and get in line then, Autobot. And don’t say ‘never’; you’d be surprised what kind of ‘persuasion’ Soundwave can use, especially when someone doesn’t want to suffer alongside his ‘Bonded’. And personally, despite rumors, I’m not a masochist, so you better change your mind quick.”

Chapter Text

“Jackie, I know you like to mess with the commander, but seriously? Why did you have to blow up that wall?!”

Wheeljack grunted noncommittally, royally ignoring the way Bulkhead was glaring at him even as he pushed a broom around to push the debris away in a corner. “It seemed like fun,” he eluded, and Bulkhead’s unimpressed look deepened.

“‘Like fun’, uh? And does cleaning up that mess is anything like fun?” the large green mech rumbled. “And why did I go drafted into cleaning your mess anyway? I wasn’t involved at all!”

“Oh, you know Ultra Magnus; when one Wrecker is guilty of something, every other ones must pay as well. Tss, higher ups; they’re all the same,” he said dismissively. He pushed his own broom around to pile the dust. “I hate this mech, just so you know.”

“Really? I wouldn’t have noticed,” the other Wrecker chirped sarcastically. “I think he hates you back, just so you know.” Wheeljack flashed a smirk, looking very aware of it. Bulkhead grunted again as he bend down to pick a larger piece of rubble. “But whatever; if you really must start a pissing-off contest with the Commander, I’d appreciate if you didn’t get me involved in any way or shape!”

“Aw, come on, Bulk! We Wreckers got to stand together!”

Bulkhead raised an optic ridge and looked around to see the damages caused by Wheeljack’s grenade. “On the battlefield, sure. When it comes to being stupid and causing voluntary damages to our base just so you can rub Ultra Magnus the wrong way? You’re on your own.”

Chapter Text

The downside of being turned into a femme, in Miko’s opinion, was that it had put a total dumper on any chance she had had to date and experience the fun facts of life with a boy her age. Not that she had already done anything like that before, or even seriously thought about it. Boys weren’t ‘icky’, but most of those she had known had been good little boys with good grades, doing piano and music and being utterly boring. Not one to like Heavy Metal and share her taste for thrills. Bleh.

So no, no dating or fooling around back in Japan, and her stay in Jasper hadn’t broadened her options much. And, as she had said, being transformed into a robot, although cool, really reduced the possibilities.

Unless, of course, she managed to seduce Bulkhead or Jackie into popping that rubber hymen-thing she had between her legs. Which… was proving harder than she had expected. First off because most of the time, Bulkhead saw her as a ‘Sparkling’ and ‘his’ to top it off. Or so he said. Sure he found her attractive and said as such, but he didn’t want to touch her… even if sometimes he looked at her in a way that was anything but paternal, so Miko just wanted to raise a robot-eyebrow and call out his bluff. Second problem was that, although Wheeljack certainly didn’t mind looking and flirting, Bulk, Ratchet and Nurse Darby were all giving him the devil’s eye whenever they caught him at it.

Tss. ‘Sparkling/Youngling’ or not, she was Japanese! Didn’t they realize she already was of legal age when it came to sex? Well, that didn’t seem to mean much to Mrs Darby, who kept mumbling about ‘no underage sex’ while she was prowling around in her new vehicle form, her optics constantly on Jack. Ah. As if Jack would do anything! Poor guy was in too much shock over the fact he had a pseudo-robotic-vagina to do anything! And no need to speak of Raf, who was still young enough anything having to do with sex or ‘interfacing’ clearly went well over his head.

Okay, so perhaps the idea she had a robo-penis had been weird at first, but that didn’t shock her that much. Not after getting into one of her older cousins’ stock of futanari manga a while back. In fact, she guessed it was kinda cool, and was it any wonder she wanted to try her new equipment?

Well, the spoilsports weren’t going to be able to stop her this time, she decided, grinning, as she kissed Bulkhead thoroughly, Wheeljack’s hands roaming over her frame. Bulkhead gave her a very drunk smile as she broke the kiss. Wheeljack had been right; nothing like the robot equivalent of alcohol to make Bulk’s relax and finally confess his true feelings.

Smirking, the purple lithe new femme leaned into Wheeljack before moaning when a large hand reached between her legs to stroke her codpiece.

“Bulkhead! Wheeljack! More! Frag me Wrecker style!” she ordered.

Wheeljack chuckled even as Bulkhead fell over them and pinned them both under him. “As you order, ma’am.”

Chapter Text

His prison looked little like a prison, Optimus thought for what must have been the hundredth time so far. For one, it wasn’t a cell in the bridge of the Nemesis, but a full-fledged room where he could pace easily should he wish to -- and he did regularly to stretch his limbs. He had a real berth, with pillows and covers. He was served good-quality energon, and not the sludge that tasted like something just out of an exhaust port prisoners should have typically ‘enjoyed’. He wasn’t even bound! All in one, he could have almost forgotten he was a captive… if not for the fact he couldn’t leave the room, of course. Frankly, that wasn’t what captivity was supposed to look like, at least according to his Academy teachers and the historical records. Autobots taken prisoners should have been chained up and put behind bars, manhandled and tortured for intel -- not that Optimus wished so, but that was what was supposed to happen, no?

Instead, he was being treated like… Well, he didn’t know how he was treated. Just that he was a well-off captive, despite the fact he was stuck and he wasn’t allowed to see his team either.

Oh, and let’s not forget Megatron dropping by at random interval to ‘visit’ him.

The Warlord was… scary, worrisome and infuriating all at once, the Prime decided. He never said anything to him, just watched him with that small, smug smile on his face as Optimus tried to charge at him -- a bad move which usually ended with him pinned on the floor and a arm twisted in the back -- insulted him, taunted him, said or did anything to try and make the Warlord break out of his stony, unnerving silence.

Megatron never did. He just smiled wider, brushed a digit against Optimus’ jaw and left.

And always, always, Optimus would softly caress the place where the Warlord had touched him, optics on the now closed door, wondering what it was all about.

Chapter Text

The captive whimpers and curls further in a ball as Prowl watch attentively from the monitors room. A careful press of his digits, and the image shifts, another camera relaying a new angle, then another one and yet another one. The noise is discreet, the cameras almost silent as they zoom on the objective, but still the captive shivers and whimpers even louder, somehow fully aware he’s being observed.

Unless, of course, his mind is already straying under the stress of being locked in a room full of mirrors. They truly were everywhere; walls, floor, ceiling even, spreading in every direction, making your reflection stretch everywhere so many, many times, until you felt you weren’t alone in the room.

Prowl has to smirk at this. For most, the mirrors room wasn’t particularly threatening -- in fact, Tracks or Sunstreaker, vain as they were, would have certainly be purring as they could observe themselves under every angle. But for a mech like Breakdown, who feared the simple act of being watched? It was a subtle torture, one the black and white mech couldn’t be prouder of. The nervous mech couldn’t hide, be it from his reflection or from the cameras.

True, Optimus Prime would certainly have disapproved of such tactics, but what the Prime didn’t know (yet) wouldn’t hurt him, and they were at war; the Prime may have had morals which Prowl approved of, but it didn’t change the fact they needed intel from the enemy in order to plan and counterplan. At least no one was physically injured here, as the mirrors were quite sturdy and near unbreakable.

Breakdown’s hand after the Stunticon had tried to break them barehanded, though… well, Prowl supposed he would have to call in Ratchet sooner or later to have a look at it.

But not yet, not now. At least, not so long he didn’t think the mech broken enough...

Chapter Text

Prowl’s doorwings twitched. “You’ve got to be kidding,” he deadpanned. What he had just heard was just too unbelievable to be true, and he was surprised his CPU wasn’t already sending him error messages. “Jazz, what did I tell you about messing with my processor?”


“I assure you, my mech, I’m perfectly serious,” Jazz answered smoothly, leaning into his chair with his legs crossed at the ankles on Prowl’s desk -- though he was being careful not to put them over the former Enforcer’s datapads. “I really ended up on trial in Tyger Pax because I was painted black and white on Solus’ Fires Day.”


“This is… completely illogical.”


Jazz shrugged. “Go tell that to the mechs who decided being painted anything but yellow on that day was an offense to Primus and the Thirteen and that any who didn’t follow the rules ought to be stoned. As it was, I was lucky enough to prove I was just a passing tourist, no harm done. I just ended up fined by the local Enforcers and had to go through a round of purification at the Temple before leaving. Then of course, next city I go to, I find out it’s also a festival day, and that not wearing a veil for ‘humility’ made the locals gape at you for being ‘defiant’ or something. They didn’t come at me with cyber-pitchforks, but I’m certain I saw a few mechs twitch. Funny, I can’t quite remember which city it was... ”


Prowl’s pinched his olfactive sensor. “I… see. And all that was because there were… cultural expectations?”


“Yep. You wouldn’t believe just how mechs could be picky about the culture of their city-states. Mech, you had it lucky you never had to move outside of Praxus.”


“Nobody forced you to hop from city-state to city-state, Jazz.”


“And missing out on all the cultural misunderstandings you can land in when you travel? That would have been boring!” The saboteur exclaimed. Prowl raised an optic ridge; ‘boring’, uh? For what felt like the hundredth time, he truly wondered about Jazz’s notion of fun.


The saboteur wasn’t finished. “Did I tell you about the time I almost got lynched because I added three mini-cubes of glucose to my energon to sweeten it while in Simfur? That was apparently one big no-no which landed me in hot oil! You don’t sweeten things in Simfur -- that’s just saying to the host you’re not satisfied with his fuel, and you wouldn’t believe how insulting it is for the locals!” the mech said cheerfully. Prowl just sighed.

Chapter Text

Jazz liked to think he had seen everything before. His long experience as an Elite Guard member had prepared him to face off against the unexpected, and to do so with both style and breaking a few laws -- not that he ever told Sentinel that; the mech was so rules-bound he never seemed to get that something, slag hit the fans and you’d better be able to improvise and discarded the rulebook.

His background as a ninja-trainee had also prepared him to see very weird stuffs, the kind of which boggled the processors of the common mechs. He had seen solid, massive blocks of metal shattered with just a flick of the fingers by a Minibot that didn’t reach his waist. He had seen Master Yoketron actually make things levitate with his will alone, using the processor-over-matter he had been fabled for.

And he had seen many weird, improbable training accidents ending up with twisted limbs.

Still, when he saw Prowl, Jazz wasn’t able to refrain from blinking and the first words that passed his lips were a disbelieving. “Mech, what happened here?”

Prowl glared, cheeks flushed in what the black and white mech could bet was embarrassment. Which was only natural, given Jazz had just discovered him aft in the air, limbs twisted in weird ways, though he had the suspicion his fellow Ninja-bot must have been sitting at some point, then had rolled off to try and crawl to get help. “How the Pit did you…?” Jazz asked, shaking his head.

“Mandatanian meditation technique gone awry,” Prowl grumbled curtly. “Apparently, Cybertronians don’t have the necessary range and aren’t bendy enough to use it, something I discovered too late -- and before you start laughing you head off, I’d appreciate some help getting back in functioning order!”

Jazz’ lips twitched. “Sure, my mech. Sure…”

Chapter Text

“What is the big idea here, Megatron? What was the purpose of your call to my troops? Was it to gloat?” It wasn’t quite a growl, it wasn’t quite a protest, and it sounded strangely calm, collected and, shall he say, regal.

Truthfully, Megatron was almost impressed with his adversary. Even tightly bound in chains, Optimus Prime managed to have a, a presence and a dignified look most mechs would try and kill for. Starscream, for example; the Seeker was far too temperamental for it to work on him. Coupled with a deep voice that just sent revv through lesser mechs’ frames, Optimus Prime was a sight to behold.

Not that Megatron planned to tell him, of course.

He just sipped calmly at his cube of energon, lounging in his reclinable seat, legs crossed, one ankle casually put over his knee as he smiled charmingly at his captured adversary.

“I don’t see what you mean, Prime,” he mentioned innocently, taking delight in looking his prisoner up and down. Who would have thought he’d manage to actually capture the Prime? Never, even in his wildest dreams, had he imagined he would -- the Prime was too well-protected, and the red and blue mech always had had the most insolent luck. But luck didn’t last forever, did it?

The sad part, though? Megatron couldn’t keep him, because if he did, then someone else would rise from the Autobots’ ranks to go after the Decepticons -- and they’d be lucky if it was Prowl. If it was Jazz, Soundwave’s observation of: ‘Decepticons: all slagged’ would probably hold true. The mech was just vicious -- and that was when Prime was holding the leash. Unrestrained? It took a lot to make the Warlord shudder, but Jazz might just do the trick.

“Megatron,” Prime said again, raising an optic ridge, and the Warlord shrugged helplessly. “Why did you contact my Autobots?”

Megatron sighed. “Fine, fine. The big idea is ransoming you, alright? I’m figuring they’ll be ready to pay a hefty sum for getting you back and frankly, we could use credits -- or energon.”

Optimus blinked. “You have me in your power… and all you want is a ransom?”

Megatron looked at him. “Surprising, isn’t it?”

Chapter Text

And to think he had politely instructed everyone that he was not to be bothered; he should have known better. Bumblebee never listened -- except when it suited him, and obviously Optimus asking for privacy was too mysterious and exciting for him to abide. Thus why he had barged in Optimus’ room, Ratchet on his heels as he unsuccessfully tried to grab their youngest team member and haul him away.

Funny; Optimus had guessed almost word for word what the team’s youngest member would say when he’d see the pictures Optimus was busy sorting out.

“Wow; I didn’t think I’d ever see Blowhard Prime not scowling!”

Optimus tried not to groan as Bumblebee yelped and ducked, chased away by Ratchet swatting at him. The old medic scoffed as he watched the young yellow mech go before turning narrowed optics toward his team leader.

“You alright there, Optimus?”

The red and blue mech sighed, looking warily at the medic. “I’m perfectly fine, Ratchet; I’m just sorting through old mementos.” He glanced down at the various holographic chips and 3D pictures in his laps, a sad smile on his face. “I kept so many over time…”

With a finger, he caressed Sentinel’s smiling face on one picture, before doing the same with Elita’s. They looked so happy here, the three of them. Optimus remembered the solar cycle it had been taken quite well; last day of the first exams session, the moment they had headed out to enjoy a break in the Crystal Gardens, finally allowed to leave the Academy’s walls until the new class session started. They had gone downtown for a drink, then sneaked inside the nearest theater to watch a movie which had left Elita squealing -- she had been a big fan of the lead actor. It had only be them, three friends with so many hopes and dreams, enjoying a normal day of rest and fun, unaware of the looming darkness.

It was hard not to be fond of those memories, no matter how different they had gotten, and how far apart they had growth. It was bittersweet to say the least, but...

“Meh. Bumblebee is right; he looks happy here. You all looked happy,” the medic allowed after getting a look.

“And we were,” Optimus confirmed softly. “We were…”

Chapter Text

“You sure it’s not hurting?”

Bumblebee didn’t know if he should have sighed, groaned, thrown up his hands in exasperation or chuckle fondly as several tons of hovering, over-caring Dinobots leaned over him and fretted anxiously. Grimlock’s tail -- for he was in his T-Rex form, again -- kept beating the air while he rubbed his hands nervously.

“Grimlock,” he repeated patiently for the hundredth time or so it felt like, “I’m not hurting in any way or shape. I’m expecting a Sparkling, that’s all. I’m not hiding my pain behind brave words and I’m not about to howl in distress and agony the moment you stop stalking my every steps.”

The Dinobot didn’t look convinced. “But you’re all big and bulgy and your tummy stands out with the swollen protoform underneath!” he almost whined. “It can’t be good!”

What to answer to that, truly? “I won’t lie and say it’s not uncomfortable sometimes,” Bumblebee allowed as he gave his belly a pat, hopefully not disturbing the growing Sparkling inside, “but it doesn’t hurt, so stop worrying. Listen, there’s still a long way to go before the little one is born but if I feel anything is wrong, I’ll be sure to tell you, alright?”

Grimlock didn’t look convinced. “You didn’t tell me when you started feeling sick.”

“Because I just thought I had drunk bad fuel and I didn’t think it warranted worrying anyone,” the yellow mech replied patiently before letting his hand run over Grimlock’s arm. “I’m fine, Grimmy. We’re both fine. And before you know it, there’ll be a little Dinobot trailing after you, okay?”

Grimlock’s chest huffed with pride before he deflated. “But how it is going to get out?”

Bumblebee winced; okay, he wasn’t looking toward THAT explanation. Just telling the bigger mech how a Sparkling had gotten IN had been hard enough -- the green ‘bot not having connected the dots between interfacing and sudden boom in Sparklings’ population -- but teach him about emergence? No way he was doing it alone…

Chapter Text

“This is ridiculous,” Megatron mumbled as he sat upright on the medical berth after the medic waved to him he was free to do so. “My knee hadn’t troubled me in thousands of vorns. Replacing those parts was unnecessary. What do you Autobots think I am? A weakling?”

The white and red mech with the nasty temper and the aim of a sharpshooter didn’t quite growl at him, but his optics narrowed. “A weakling, I don’t know; an idiot, however? Most certainly! And a medical miracle while I’m at it!”

Megatron’s bared his dental plates. “Now see here, medic…!”

“I still don’t know how the Pit you managed to stand, let alone fight, with an articulation in so bad a state! Ever heard of replacement, buckethead?”

“Ratchet, please, do not be insulting,” the Prime rumbled peacefully before Megatron had the chance to make a sharp reply or better, to throw himself at the medic -- the mech was getting on his CPU. “I trust your work is now done?”

Ratchet waved. “Yeah, yeah. You now got a Warlord with systems one-hundred percents clean of virus and installed with a good row of firewall, plus a body in peak condition -- and Optimus, are you sure you know what you’re doing? Because now I’ve finished checking out and repairing Mr Angry Revolutionary here, I’d very much like to take a look in that CPU or yours,” he glared. Megatron almost imitated him. Almost. “Only an idiot would repair his sworn enemy to full efficiency when said enemy was giving him enough trouble as it was when impaired!”

The Prime, snug bastard he was, looked vaguely amused. “Oh, don’t worry about the state of my processors, old friend. As for Megatron, he won’t cause any trouble. Will you?”

“Remove that damn collar and those cuffs, and we’ll see about it,” Megatron grunted, growling. “What do you expect to gain, Prime?

“Nothing,” the Prime sighed. “But considering your state, I could hardly leave you as you were, could I? Let’s call it a… a matter of honor, if you will?”

“I was doing perfectly well!” the Warlord growled. “I certainly didn’t need you to…!”

“To make sure the Carrier of my Sparkling is healthy?” the Prime suggested. “I know you didn’t. I’m just trying to make it up to you for my conduct.”

“You were in rut, Prime,” Megatron spat out, agitated. “It’s not as if it hadn’t happened to anyone before, and if you think you’re something special, you need to get your pedes back on the ground where they belong! So, now you played good samaritan and make sure myself and ‘Junior’ are alright, how about you release me? Or how about I blow up your head off?” he asked with a smirk.

Chapter Text

That was frankly weird, Bumblebee thought briefly as he was lifted in big, powerful arms until he was face to face with a jack’o lantern smile. Despite the fact the large hands could have crushed him in a moment, they were surprisingly gentle. Blitzwing might have been a few circuits short from sanity, but the Pit if he didn’t know how to handle a smaller ‘bot with care. That said, Bumblebee would have prefered to be in a cell right now -- or even better, not a Decepticon prisoner at all.

“Aren’t you the prettiest dolly ever? Yes you are, yes you are! Bwahahahaha!”

Bumblebee smiled in a strained way even as he raised a hand and poked at the chin of the Decepticon. Hopefully that wouldn’t make him angry. “Sure, whatever. I’m a pretty dolly if you want. But how about you let me down, now? It’s not that I’m bored -- well, I’m kinda am, what’s with you stuffing me on a shelf between two weird giant plushies without giving me anything to pass the time -- but I really ought to go back to base, you know? So…”

Blitzwing pouted before his face shifted to his Hot personna. “You little ingrate!” Icy took control then, looking at him with a cold expression. “I’m afraid this is not possible, Autobot.” He switched to Random. “You’re going to stain your pretty dress!”

Bumblebee twitched and almost facepalmed. “Blitzwing, I’m not a doll,” he tried gently, refraining from tugging at the monstrously pink, puffy dress he was wearing -- the kind of thing that Professor Princess brat would have adored but that Sari would probably have burned with a flamethrower. He didn’t dare to think about the ribbons and fabric flowers around his sensory horns. “It was very nice to invite me-” kidnap him, yes! “- to your tea party, but my friends will get worried. Optimus…”

Random perked up. “Ooooh, do you think I can invite the pretty firetruck too?”

Bumblebee blinked. “Uh…”

“I think I will,” Icy said, musing as he surfaced. He lifted Bumblebee higher, and sat him back on the shelf despite the Minibot protests. “Be a good ‘bot while I’m going to pick your friend, shall you?”

Bumblebee sighed. As if he had a choice; he wasn’t going to go far with all his lower motor relays disabled, after all. And he didn’t fancy falling from the shelf to the floor -- that slagging thing was high, after all, and he’d like to avoid falling flat on his face!

Chapter Text

Smokescreen moaned softly as the simple act of trying to shift sent pangs of pain down his body. He felt sore. It wasn’t a bad kind of sore, exactly -- nothing like the agony of getting shot, more like a dull, continuous ache one sometimes got when interfacing too much. Which he had, sort of.

His valve felt raw and hot and painful, and he didn’t dare pat himself down there to try and feel the state his interface components were in. He didn’t think there were tears or anything of the sort -- for all their brutish behavior, the Insections had been surprisingly careful with him -- but the constant fragging had left them raw and sensitives to everything, from the gentle probe of a finger to the cold air which was blowing around him.

His frame felt hot, and he had trouble keeping his optics online, with reason. Unless he was mistaken, his energon reserves had dropped significantly, his energy spent as overloads after overloads crashed over him while different partners succeeded between his legs without interruption. Frankly, the fact he was still online was a minor miracle. Then again, he was spending his time in and out of consciousness and had been for a while.

More than the dull ache, the heat and the tiredness, though, it was the sensation of being bloated which bothered him the most. He didn’t know if it was the loads of transfluid having distended his reproduction chamber or if the whole ‘Insecticons lay eggs inside hosts’ myth old mechs told youngsters like him to scare them was true, but his abdomen was bulging, and the sensation was weird.

Distantly, he could hear little clicks and chirrs, and he was far too aware of the subtle moves all around him. There were guards around, keeping watch, never letting him alone. But at least their interfacing frenzy seemed to have stopped, and Smokescreen felt relief.

His overused valve gave a pang, as if it missed being filled. Shuttering his optics, Smokescreen tried not to weep as he realized just how much he had been used… and just how much, even if briefly, he had enjoyed it.

Chapter Text

When he was told the news, Prowl just raised an optic ridge.

Any other mech would have had a more expressive reaction, Thundercracker thought as he remembered previous cases: wide optics, jaws dropping open in shock, sputtering, violent denial, or not-quite-polite asking if that was a joke.

By contrast, the Praxian Enforcer didn’t react outwardly aside of that lifted optic ridge and the blue Seeker almost hummed in approval even as he gathered his datapad in a neat stack. He didn’t know the Enforcer much -- they had mainly talked over the comms systems whenever Praxus and Vos had joint investigations or were tracking down suspects who had fled one city for the other, and it was their first meeting face-to-face -- and in a way, he had been expecting a collected reaction, but the Vosian Enforcer hadn’t expected such calm.

“This is a most curious request. Are you sure this is the only way for me to gain access to Vos in order to pursue my investigations into our main suspect’s whereabouts? Marriage seems to be quite extreme, after all.”

The blue Seeker coughed, feeling slightly embarrassed. “Well, this is tradition. Vos doesn’t allow just anyone in unless they’re Bonded to a citizen or have a properly delivered, state-approved work licence. Enforcers are normally excluded, but given you said you had to continue some of your investigations incognito…” he trailed off.

“I see,” the black and white grounder mused, optics dim. “May I inquire who I should be ‘married’ to, then? One of your Agents, perhaps? For I trust this is only a matter of appearance, and not a true marriage?”

Thundercracker just stared, swallowing dryly. “Uh. That’s not what people usually ask.”

“I’m not most people; I’m an Enforcer on a job. Now, who is supposed to stand in as my spouse?”

The blue Seeker braced. Here was the moment of truth. Prowl was… well, he was interesting, and Thundercracker wouldn’t have minded courting him, assuming the other mech was receptive to the idea. Living together as a (factice) Bonded couple might actually lead to a relationship. “Well… if you have no problem sharing space with me for the next couple of orns, I had hoped I could propose myself,” he said carefully.

Chapter Text

“This is so… so wrong,” Miko muttered under her breath as she watched the newcomer move around, pulling an plugging new cables in the Ground Bridge while chatting with Ratchet. The old, crotchety medic had started unhappy and dubious, but his expression had gradually become happier as well as more puzzled – probably because he was lost in the techno-babble coming out of that Bulkhead-look-alike they were sheltering until they could find a way to send him back to his ‘home dimension’.

It wasn’t the fact that pseudo-Bulkhead came from an alternate universe which bothered Miko so much. After their stint in a pocket dimension, pursued by a zombie Decepticon, she had come to grip pretty fast with the fact alternate universe might be existing.

No, the problem was… she couldn’t believe this mech was supposed to be Bulkhead! Her Bulkhead, the true Bulkhead, was like… a big, bad grizzly bear who tore off bad guys’ heads with his bare hands and was a champion at wrecking stuff!

That other Bulkhead… he was a… a teddy bear! There, she had said it!

A teddy bear, soft and fluffy (well, kinda, for a metal giant), who apparently loved painting and who was a geek! A geek specialized in Space Bridge, who had offered to upgrade the Autobots’ materials with the limited means they had, but a geek still.

For some reason, it seemed to make her Bulkhead happy, though…
“Miko…” Jack sighed. “Drop it, will you?”

“I still can’t believe he’s supposed to be Bulkhead,” the Japanese girl mumbled, shaking her head.

“I can,” Raf pipped in. “Remember the scanner he accidentally crushed?”

By way of stepping on it, not having seen it was underfoot, yes. Ratchet had been most unhappy. “… I suppose a few things are universal constant,” the girl allowed. “But seriously, that doesn’t bother you?”

“Not really,” Jack sighed. “I think I’m more mind boggled by the fact he knows a Ninja.”

“Or that his Bumblebee can talk,” Raf added, looking as if he had been stuck over the head with a mallet.

“Yeah, yeah,” Miko waved. “Weird, but not that weird. I’m still saying, it’s so wrong.”

“We know, Miko, we know,” Jack and Raf replied together, alongside Arcee and Bumblebee’s beeping – of course the Autobots present in the base had overheard them.

“But you can’t argue he’s not nice,” Arcee pointed out.

Miko shrugged. Nice was good and all, but that didn’t make for cheer badassery – that Bulkhead was hardly Wrecker material. Bumblebee had deemed him ‘not even Elite Guard Cadet-level fighter’, which was basically saying he was no warrior at all. He was young, though, according to everyone. Younger than anyone the rest of Optimus and his team had met in a long, long while, so perhaps it was normal. Kids robots had to grow up and learn to kick asses too, right?

But from someone called Bulkhead… It didn’t compute with Miko. For her, Bulkhead was supposed to be this big, bad fighter, the Decepticons’ nightmare, Breakdown’s Nemesis, Wheeljack’s best pal,…

Everything this kid was not.

Why everyone thought she’d be taken by him, she had no idea. He wasn’t the type of mech Miko wanted to hang out with, damnit! If she wanted nice, she had Bumblebee, thank you. Plus, this Bulkhead was strictly against going out and doing anything risky (for which he was praised by everyone BUT Miko). All he wanted was to study schematics and help improve the base and let himself be studied by Ratchet to let the medic figure out how exactly the big mech could survive mostly on a diet of oil on Earth, which would really help the Autobots’ fuel concerns in the future if they could replicate the trick.

And okay, okay, it was important, she got it!

But that was soooo lacking in action, she could swear she was feeling part of her brain shut down. And her Bulkhead, the True Bulkhead, wasn’t supposed to be back for another day, so she only had this poor substitute to hang out with until then! If she could take him away from Ratchet, that’s it, which was easier said than done.

The best she could hope was entice him in playing video games – something he apparently did back home with his version of Bumblebee and a ‘Sari’, whoever this was. Or perhaps she’d be able to make him dance with her? Granted, she had no idea if he had good tastes in music and…

Uh. Perhaps she ought to introduce this ‘Kid-Bulkhead’ to Heavy Metal; if he had any similarities to her Bulkhead, he was bound to like it too.


Chapter Text

Starscream blinked. The… thing sitting on the examination berth blinked. Starscream took a step back. The thing made a needy sound and waved tiny, pudgy limbs at him as if he wanted to grab him and Starscream almost shrieked in disgust and panic, much to Knock Out’s amusement.

“My, my, Herr Kommander, you could wave back to your Sparkling, don’t you think?” he asked with mirth, earning himself a dark look.

“This is not my Sparkling! I refuse to take responsibility for the apparition of this… this thing onboard!” he snapped, pointing a clawed digit in the tiny mechling’s way – only to quickly retrieve it upon realizing he had left it in biting distance. Not that the Sparkling looked like he wanted to bit; if anything, he looked like he wanted to suckle, which was even worse in the Seeker’s opinion. “That Vehicon lied! This hatchling is a false witness!”

Knock Out exchanged a look of commiseration with the lone Vehicon present in the Medbay – the Sparkling’s Carrier, it went without saying. “Commander…” Knock Out sighed, waving at the Sparkling.

How Starscream could pretend he wasn’t involved in the creation of the tiny being, the medic had no idea. The bitlet was Starscream’s copy in miniature, down to the little details – asides of darker colorings inherited from his Carrier, that’s it.

“I keep telling you, it’s not mine!” Starscream protested vehemently, turning his attention to the Vehicon. “I never slept with you, damnit!”

“But you did, Commander,” the Vehicon protested. “Granted, you had just hit the heavy stuff, so it’s not like you were standing straight or were particularly coherent, but…”

“I would think I’d remember it, thank you,” Starscream groused, wings twitching in agitation.

“Like you remember how you ended up crawling in Shockwave’s berth in the aftermath of the Battle of Uraya?” Knock Out asked innocently, dodging to the side when Starscream threw the nearest object in reach at him. “Eh, all the flight knew about it!” he defended himself. “It’s not my fault you can’t handle hard liquors, Sir!”

“I don’t have a problem with hard liquors,” Starscream huffed, “and I don’t have…”

“A Sparkling, perhaps?” a falsely sweet voice asked from the Medbay’s doorway, freezing everyone inside. Slowly, everyone turned to see the broad frame of Megatron, looking down at them with narrowed optics. Right behind him, Breakdown was rubbing his helm, looking apologetic. He was holding a tiny plush gryphon in his hands – probably what had tipped off Megatron when they had accidentally met in the corridor.

“Ah, Lord Megatron, I…” Starscream started nervously. Behind him, the Sparkling babbled happily and waved at the newcomer.

Megatron took a look at it, then at the nervous Vehicon who stood at attention then at Starscream, and pinched the ridge of his olfactive sensor. “Oh, for the love of….!”

Chapter Text

It was… frustrating. No, no, the word wasn’t strong enough. It was… maddening! Yes, maddening! The whole situation was starting to drive him insane!

Allspark, why, of all the pieces he could have bust, did it have to be his vocalizer?

It was his primary work tool! How was he expected to charm his clients and butter them up so they’d buy him more stuff if he couldn’t. fragging. talk?!

Oh, sure, he had his reputation working for him, plenty of detailed pictures and lists and he didn’t need to actually speak to do mail order, which he was reduced to while he waited for things to calm down with the Elite Guard and offer his, ah, ‘services’ in the Commonwealth’s frontiers once more. Honestly, you bust out of a cell and loot one ship and the authorities never wanted to let it go! Thankfully the Decepticons were a lot less prissy about those matters, but with the recent troubles they had gotten up on Earth, they weren’t buying quite as much as before. Not through his usual channels, anyway.

If only he could walk up to the current leadership and start a smooth sales pitch…

It made Swindle want to bang his head against the counter.

Lockdown’s mocking laugher besides him as he looked at him did nothing to make the situation more bearable. Swindle turned and gave him a look, but the bounty hunter just guffawed louder.

“Yeah, yeah, I know,” the green and black mech waved his hook with a cheeky smile when his mirth abated at last – coincidently, when the bartender put his order in front of him. “Shouldn’t laugh and you won’t give me a cut next time I place an order but… You, voiceless? It’s priceless,” he chuckled as he downed his drink.

For a moment, Swindle contemplated kicking him in the shin; reinforced armor or not, Lockdown would feel it and the tan and purple mech would feel very vindicated.

However, it might alienate Lockdown from him and the Pit if he was losing another client now, when most of his usual big ones were either in cooling their heels in Trypticon or had blown each other up in gang wars (for which he may or may not have supplied the weapons; it wasn’t his fault the other side proposed him such attractive payment facilities too).

So Swindle just grinned, his professional Number 3 grin, the one he wore when the other party aggravated him but he refused to show it and waved for the bartender.

Lockdown’d better make it worthwhile, he thought darkly. Without his call, Swindle would have been comfortably installed in his extra-large, extra plushy berth, waiting for his vocalizer to repair itself while savoring medicinal drinks to speed up the process. He had accepted this meeting only because the bounty hunter usually had plenty of shanix to spend. If he didn’t… well, he was sooo going to call the authorities on his aft when he left the bar, that was a promise.

Chapter Text

“You were a very bad mech, weren’t you?” Elita purred, circling her prey slowly. Sentinel made a muffled sound behind his gag, fidgeting uneasily in place as she left his sight. “Ah, ah,” she warned, giving him a light tap behind the head. “No moving.”

Sentinel stilled and Elita leaned back, grinning in a satisfied way. She was rather proud of herself; those tips Red Alert had given her had truly paid off. The knots were not only far more secure than usual, they were also far more esthetical – not only that, but the silky material of the cords was very soft to the touch and wouldn’t immobilize the joints if it accidentally ripped and got caught in the seams.

Sentinel could even tear it apart himself, should he really try.

Not that he would, of course, Elita reminded herself with a little laugh, kneeling behind the bound mech and running her hands over his shoulders. Under her touch, her fellow Autobot stiffened before mellowing, especially as her hands started to make their way downward, tugging on a few artistically placed knots as she did do. She could see his hands tightening in fists, pulling on the threads she had enrolled around each finger.

“Yes, a very bad mech,” she murmured again, pushing Sentinel forward and making him tumble with a muffled cry, making him rise his aft in the air. It wouldn’t hurt him; she had placed padded carpets on the floor just for that. Elita grabbed his hips and rubbed her panel, hot and ready to snap open, against that sinfully sweet aft. Sentinel’s own panel was open already, revealing a valve with plush, tantalizing lips and a stiff spike around which Elita had bound even more cords. She had taken her time there, making sure to put tiny knots right over each biolight. Each bobbling of Sentinel’s spike would rub them together, causing waves after waves of pleasure.

With one hand, she reached for Sentinel’s valve, feeling around to find his anterior node. The blue mech fidgeted and groaned, but pushed back into Elita’s panel without prompting.

That little game of theirs was becoming even more amusing with each iteration, Elita thought as she started to stroke Sentinel’s node with her thumb. Who would have thought proud, ‘manly’, ‘future Magnus’ Sentinel had a kink for being bound and helpless? At least when it came to being bottom, she amended, using her other fingers to part the folds of her fellow Cadet’s valve. Not that she minded; she had always enjoyed taking the lead.

And it wasn’t as if they were hurting each other either; they had passwords and optical codes if Sentinel couldn’t speak and she had even insisted that they work in a few hand signals for case like this, when she was taking him from behind. If her lover really felt uncomfortable and wanted her to stop, she would. She’d unbound him and kiss him and pamper him until he calmed down. Aftercare, after all, was a very important part of their routine.

Though personally, she preferred the tying.

She ought to tell Optimus, one of those days; the things she could do with two bound mechs at her beck and call… Or the things the two of them could do to Sentinel…

Licking her lips, she pressed her lips to one of Sentinel’s finials. He made the sweetest little noise behind his gag. “Bad mechs need to be punished,” she breathed. “Now, where are we going to start?”

Chapter Text

“Oh sweet Primus, they’re beautiful,” Mirage breathed as he bend over slightly over the edge of the nest, taking in the sight of the bright and colorful six eggs resting carefully among mounts of pillows, folded towels, rags and sheets. They were so big, Mirage would have had to use both hands to lift a single one. “I didn’t know Seekers’ eggs were so large,” he added as he looked at Thundercracker, lying curled on the side against on the nest’s wall, looking exhausted and content.

He had finished laying the last one least than a cycle ago and it felt; there were still trace of energon and other fluids flaking on the inside of his thighs and all over his (closed) panel, but Mirage was too polite to point it out.

“Of course they are,” the blue winged mech replied with mirth despite his exhaustion. “Seekerlings are the same size as average mechlings once they get out of their shells. Right now, they’re tiny but by the time they’re ready to come out, they’ll fill all the shell’s space. They need a lot of yolk to absorb in order of doing so.” He moved one of the eggs’ slightly, propping it more safely between two cushions with a worried frown.

Mirage nodded slightly, optics not leaving the precious eggs containing their future offsprings. Knowing Thundercracker was going to lay eggs like all Seekers was one thing, but to actually see them…

“You did a wonderful job, love,” he said, reaching forward to nuzzle Thundercracker’s neck. “Thank you.” The winged mech sighed in happiness at the contact. Now, if only Mirage could touch the eggs too…

But Skywarp and Starscream (and Thundercracker himself, when he had remembered the facts) had strongly advised him against it. Sire or not, no Seeker who had just laid his first clutch reacted well to anyone but them touching the precious eggs until they were ready to hatch. If Mirage was unlucky enough, he’d lost a couple of fingers – at best. Instinct was a powerful thing, one which could beat love in this specific case.

But that was okay, Mirage reminded himself. Soon enough, the eggs would hatch. Then there’d be little mechlings crawling all over the floor – and then Thundercracker and Mirage would be too busy running after them to worry about anything else.

Chapter Text

It wasn’t an easy decision to take. It wasn’t the hardest Optimus had ever taken either, but… He sighed deeply, hiding his face in his hands as he propped his elbows on the table and resisted the urge to grab the bottle settled in front of him and drinking straight from it.

What was he supposed to do with a marriage proposal? Especially from a Decepticon?

He wished it was a joke but… Megatron had never been known to joke around when it came to anything pertaining to interfacing, romance (or his idea of romance, at least) and apparently, going through the Conjunx Endura ritus.

For a moment, Optimus was tempted to call Ratchet, hear the old medic’s voice, confide his troubles to him and just hear him swear aloud as he swore he’d wrench Megatron’s head off his shoulders if the Warlord tried to put a finger on Optimus’ frame.

Admittedly, it was too late for that; Megatron had put more than a finger on Optimus already, and Optimus had been far from dismayed by it. Quite the contrary, in fact; the young mech had been a very active participant – except the time Megatron had tried to push him flat on a desk in the Iacon Archives; then Optimus had firmly told him ‘no’ and fought back until Megatron realized he was serious.

Finally rising from his seat, Optimus walked over to the nearest window and peeked outside. Most of the streets were dark due to the energy saving, but it wasn’t dark enough he couldn’t see a Seeker patrol flying overhead. In the distance, he could faintly hear the ringing of bells announcing the curfew was going to start soon and inviting the rare bars and restaurants still open to close their doors and send their patrons back home.

The scenery had changed much since the Autobot capital had fallen to occupation by the Decepticons’ troops, Optimus mused, still contemplating getting that drink. Iacon used to be so alive and full of lights… Yet, the dark didn’t bother Optimus that much. Neither did the fact of staying cooped up for long periods. His only regrets were not knowing how his friends still in the Autobots’ army were faring up. Despite having lost Iacon, the Autobot military still held a major share of Cybertron, and there were periodical raids near the occupied city to test the defenses.

Loyalists kept saying it was only a matter of time before Ultra Magnus rallied his forces and launched a decisive attack to free the city.

Megatron was of another opinion, of course, and made no secret of it when he and Optimus shared a berth those evenings the Warlord came knocking to his door.

Allspark be damned, why, why did he had to start falling for an enemy soldier, Optimus silently mourned? And not just a grunt, but the head of the enemy army?

And now Megatron was asking him to… to marry him.

He loved Megatron, Optimus reassured himself. Despite his rough persona, despite everything the mech had done to Iacon and its citizens, despite knowing what he was able to do… He loved him. But Optimus was also a Iacon citizen, even if he didn’t wear the Autobrand, having failed to complete Bootcamp. He was just an Archivist, who accounted for nothing in the great scheme of things and the ongoing war between Autobots and Decepticons.

If the Decepticons lost Iacon and he married Megatron, Optimus would have no choice but to leave with them. But if he refused, wherever the Decepticons kept or lost the city… he’d lost Megatron.

Sighing, he turned away from the window.

Tomorrow morning, he was going to hunt down texts on mixed unions in the Archives, he decided. Given how many times their respective factions had been at war and how often Autobots and Decepticons had intermarried (despite the heavily frowned upon situation, to say the least), there were bound to be some. Surely, there were testimonies and accounts of War Brides that could help him make an informed choice…

And hopefully, Megatron would give him time to decide.

Chapter Text

“I know Optimus encouraged us to ‘open up to the other side and reach out to them to forge durable ties’ but don’t you think it’s going a bit too far?” Prowl asked, doorwings flapping unevenly twice as he sipped at his cube of energon with a grimace. If it was what the Decepticons considered to be a ‘good’ brand, he didn’t want to know what a bad one actually was like.

Propped on the high stool next to him and leaning on the counter with his elbows as he surveyed the room, Jazz chuckled.

“Oh, I don’t know, Prowler. Falling in berth with someone is normally a pretty good way to forge ties, no?”

“Yes, until the relationship sour and someone wipe out a weapon to shoot at the offending ex-lover,” the Praxian replied sourly. As an ex-Enforcer, he had seen his fair share of fights between ex-lovers, cheating Conjunxes and one-night-stands who discovered they hated each other’s hide the moment they sobered enough to realize who they had gone to berth with.

So when he saw Skywarp and Mirage starting to make Dioptase-Doe optics at each other, suffice to say he had NOT been impressed. In fact, he had given Red Alert discreet instructions to make the brig impossible to teleport inside or outside of and added infrared cameras to catch potential invisible guests who had nothing to do there.

Perhaps it was pessimistic, but come on! Skywarp and Mirage? His TAC net couldn’t calculate a more improbable couple presently. It had no chance of working!

But surprising, it seemed to. The two had been officially together for the best part of five orns now and there wasn’t one hint of discontentment between the two, much to Prowl’s surprise.

But not to Jazz’s, apparently, which made Prowl curious of what the TIC knew that Prowl didn’t.

Whatever. The working of a weird pairing wasn’t his priority, Optimus’ Second reminded himself.

“You should light up, Prowl. They’re cute together, don’t you think?” Jazz chipped.

“For a certain value of cute, I suppose,” the Praxian allowed because yes, the two seemed sweets together, cooing at each other like they did in public (Mirage’s dignity and aloof image might never survive, but he didn’t look like he cared).

“I think they might even go through the Conjunx rites at some point,” Jazz confided. Prowl wisely choose not to comment. “Did you know they spoke of eventual Sparklings already?”

Now the Praxian froze. “They… what?” he asked tonelessly. It was one thing of seeing them together but… Sparklings?!

Jazz hummed. “Yeah, I overheard them talking with Ratchet. Mind you, it was mostly about outliers abilities and how they got transmitted to a new generation and if they could combine but it was obvious it wasn’t a purely intellectual conversation. Mirage always wanted Sparklings, you know?” He shook his head ruefully. “Man, you imagine if outliers abilities DID combine in a kid of theirs? I suddenly have that horrible vision of a mischievous, invisible, teleporting Sparkling and…”

There was a thud besides him and Jazz’s jaw dropped as his fellow Autobot slide off his stool. “Prowl? Oh man, I think he crashed! Some help here!”

Chapter Text

With a groan, Bulkhead braced himself against the cliff, powerful hands almost digging gouges in the rock. Behind him, grunting, Breakdown rolled his hips and thrusted forward again.

Frag, frag, frag, Bulkhead mentally repeated to himself, feeling dazzled as each of Breakdown’s thrusts managed to reach a cluster of nodes deep inside his valve, making Bulkhead see stars as his charge kept building.

That was… oh, frag, that was incredible. Cheek flattened against the rock and panting, he managed to make out words like ‘faster’ and ‘harder’ at regular intervals, which Breakdown only seemed too happy to do.

And to think he had thought Breakdown wanted to fight when he had sent Bulkhead that personal message! Bulkhead had gone, fully expecting Breakdown to try and hammer him once more. Except, much to his surprise, the Decepticon had had another type of ‘hammering’ in mind – and he was good at it, too, the ex-Wrecker thought as he bit down on his lip to avoid screaming as Breakdown touched that one spot deep inside him…

The Decepticon chuckled behind him. “You can scream, you know; doesn’t bother me,” he said, keeping a steady rhythm.

“Yeah? Well… it bothers me,” Bulkhead grunted, pushing on his arms to get away from the cliff – and pushing Breakdown off his back as he did so. The momentary loss of that wonderful, thick spike as it slide out of him gave him a pang and it was plain to see Breakdown wasn’t happy about it either, but his expression mollified when Bulkhead grabbed him by the hips and spread his legs further, giving the Decepticon a better access to his valve.

“What happened to ‘I don’t want to see your ugly mug while we ‘face’?” he asked with obvious amusement as he shifted, letting his spike rub against the engorged, sloppy folds of his rival’s valve.

“I changed my mind,” the green mech replied, holding so strongly to Breakdown’s waist it was a miracle he wasn’t denting his plating already.

It wasn’t a nice kind of frag, but it felt good and honestly, Bulkhead didn’t think it could have been better. They kept a it for a while, long enough for the darkness to start clearing as pale light started to appear on the horizon. Finally, with a cry, Breakdown overloaded one last time, transfluid shooting up Bulkhead’s valve as he did so.

Trembling, panting, the two of them held to each other before finally disengaging. Bulkhead let himself fall on his aft to the ground, feeling spent and sated in a way he hadn’t been in ages. “Not that I mind what we did, but… why?” he asked.

Breakdown shrugged. “Why not? Consider this a thank you gift for saving me from those organics,” he added after a moment of silence, to which Bulkhead only nodded.

“Yeah, I had kinda figured.” 'Thank you' frags weren’t anything new, be it in a team… or between bitter rivals who had just faced death together and survived to tell the tale. Everyone knew it happened. They just… made certain it never reached Optimus Prime or Megatron’s audio receptors. “So… what now? Wanna play with your hammer again?” he drawled.

Breakdown smirked. “If I do, it won’t be with the fun one,” he warned. “Just… not today, alright? Next time…” he trailed off.

“Next time,” Bulkhead nodded as he watched his rival transform and leave.

It had just been a frag. It wasn’t as if it had meant anything, for either of them…

Chapter Text

“You should tell him already.”

Bulkhead grunted in answer. In insight, it probably wasn’t the smartest answer he could have given to Ratchet, given the medic’s infamous temper, but they had been having this very argument for several Earth weeks already and the big green mech was not in a hurry to have a repeat.

Too bad Ratchet had others ideas – and wasn’t happy at all with Bulkhead’s lack of cooperation.

His chair was suddenly yanked backward, prompting Bulkhead to yelp as he fumbled to not fall on his aft – which he managed after long, difficult efforts which must have looked quite silly to any onlookers. “Doc,” he growled, turning toward the medic, who met his ill-temper with a crease between the optics of his own.

“Do not ‘Doc’ me, Bulkhead,” Ratchet warned, pointing a finger at him. “It’s past time you talk with him and you know it. That Sparkling will be arriving shortly now,” he continued, eyeing Bulkhead’s abdominal plating with professional optics. Their species didn’t show like humans when they were waiting young, but it was obvious to any medic worth its crosses that the plating around Bulkhead’s middle had not only expended slightly but had also gained in density, all in order to protect the gestation chamber hidden deep inside his systems. Even if he was hardly the finest medic on Cybertron, Knock Out would be hard pressed to miss it if he looked closely enough at Bulkhead’s frame. So far, he hadn’t had any reason to and Bulkhead had made himself scarce in the former Decepticon’s presence, but it was stop-gap. One which wouldn’t work for much longer. “Don’t you think he deserves to know?”

Bulkhead tried to wave it off like he had before. “I don’t see why I should. It’s not like it’s any of Knock Out’s business.”

“And if that Sparkling emerges and look like the spitting image of its Sire? Won’t that be Knock Out’s business then?” the old doctor replied scathingly.

Bulkhead raised his hands in the air in exasperation. Ratchet was right, he knew that, but… “Doc, you really want me to go up to KO and… what? Tell him, ‘Oh, by the way, your partner Sparked me up before his untimely demise’?” He snorted, looking down at himself with a joyless smile. “Oh yeah, it’s so going to work well with him!”

“Oh it’ll be painful, I have no doubt,” Ratchet nodded. “But probably not worse than seeing the proof after the emergence. Bulkhead…” he trailed off.

The ex-Wrecker sighed. “I know, I know, it’s just… It was never supposed to happen, you know?” It was supposed to be a simple frag, nothing more, nothing less. Not a very nice or ethical one, since they were at war, but there should have been no string attached. Except apparently, Bulkhead’s anti-Sparking systems had failed at their job, Breakdown was now dead and dust and his actual lover was now an Autobot thank to being an opportunistic fragger.

Bulkhead didn’t particularly like Knock Out but he didn’t want to hurt him either. And letting him known his lover had cheated on him but had also managed to make a Sparkling to someone else… he didn’t know how the vain mech would take it.

“There are a lot of things Breakdown was never supposed to do,” Knock Out’s voice drawled, making them both jump. The red medic stood stiffly in the doorway, red optics shining. It was obvious he had heard them. He looked upset but… not surprised. Uh. “And he did them anyway. Of course, that’s a bigger mess then what he usually ended with. Gentlemechs,” he nodded at them, letting the door close and lock behind him. “I think it’s high time we talk. All of us.”

And if his optics never left Bulklhead’s abdomen… Well, that was kinda expected.

Chapter Text

Well, slag, Jazz swore under his breath as he drove as fast as his new altmode allowed him to, swerving to avoid obstacles and shots from above as he did so. Those Earth machines had both class and maneuverability, he was so going to keep his once they got back to Cybertron… If he got back to Cybertron, period.

If he managed to make it back to the Steelhaven, he was so going to shake hands with Optimus Prime and all of his team and congratulate them from the bottom of his Spark casing for surviving so long on a planet filled with Decepticons. Not that he had thought the team had lied when they said there were Decepticons here, no; Jazz was a trained Cyberninja (turned Intelligence during the War, even if he wasn’t part of the Service anymore), he knew when people lied thank to face and EM field reading, among other tricks, and none of Optimus’ repair crew had lied when they had told point-blank to UM’s face that they had faced Decepticons and lived to tell the tale.

But when they had said there were still Decepticons on Earth, well, Jazz had naturally thought it would be grunts. Perhaps a marauding group which had left the armada for resources localization – they did that often enough, according to the reports Highbrow Prime used to make – or perhaps a stray little vessel with a crew or six, seven mechs top.

He had never thought Optimus had had to face slagging Blitzwing!

And where Blitzwing was, the rest of the Decepticons’ heavy hitters tended to follow, so the fact Optimus and his crew were still alive was a miracle.

Cursing as he dodged a shot too close to comfort, Jazz tried once more to raise the Steelhaven, without success. Damnit, if Sentinel Prime had messed with the comms again, Superior Officer or no, he was going to strangle him!

The sound of transformation above him made him swerve again as a large form fell from the sky and onto the road, right in front of him. Transforming as he swerved, Jazz grabbed his nunchaku, ready to use them. Facing with Blitzwing would be hard, sure, but it could be done. If he could just move close enough without…

A black face with a strange grin peered out at him. “Yes! I knew you were a cute one! Like the pretty firetruck!”

“Excuse me?” Jazz blurted, caught off guard, yelping as Blitzwing’s face spinned, letting a blue face in its wake. “Okay, that’s new…”

“Hmm, interesting frame you have there,” the mech commented, sounding colder and, well, saner than the previous one. “Quite the prize to catch, I’m sure.” Was it him, or was he looking at Jazz like one did at a Energon goodie?

Uh. “I don’t know what you’re on, mech,” Jazz said carefully, “but I’m no prize to be won.”

The blue face spinned too, letting a red, angry looking one instead. “You’re a prize, stupid Autobot! Mine!”

Oh, frag. He didn’t know when Blitzwing had grown (more) insane, but it certainly hadn’t been in his last profile. Jazz gritted his dental plates, then purposely relaxed his frame. “Ah,” he said lightly. “But a prize need to be won. It’s not handed to you on a silver plate. Think you can catch me and actually win me, you big, bad Decepticon?”

Okay, taunting an insane mech wasn’t his smartest idea but… He had a feeling it’d work. And sure enough, the giggling black face made a reappearance.

“Oh, feisty! Run, Autobot, run, we‘ll be on the prowl to get you!”

“Sure, mech,” Jazz drawled, transforming and rolling away as fast as he could. The Steelhaven wasn’t far – and its canons too. If he came too close, Jazz knew a Decepticon who would have a nasty surprise waiting for him.

Serve him right, calling Jazz a prize!

(Though really, it was kinda flattering. Weird and creepy, but flattering. So long the Decepticon didn’t catch him, that’s it.)

Chapter Text

“Really, Sir, I assure you, you don’t need to…” Blurr started, shuffling easily as Longarm Prime just smiled down widely at him and pushed him gently forward, keeping a hand on the small of his back.

“Nonsense! It doesn’t bother me at all,” the Prime replied, trying to guide the Intelligence Agent toward a chair despite Blurr’s obvious reluctance.

“Sir,” Blurr groaned before yelping as he stumbled forward. Thankfully, Longarm Prime had quick reflex. His hands snapped up and grabbed Blurr’s arms, stopping him mid-fall. “Oh… oh, thank you,” he sighed in relief before yelping again as the Officer scooped him up, carrying over in his arms. “Sir! That’s…!”

“Not a word, Agent Blurr,” the Prime replied firmly. “If I had any doubt before, now I have certitudes. You,” he said as he dropped Blurr in his own chair, “are going to stay here and I,” he said as he knelt before the chair and grabbed one of the blue runner’s pedes “am going to massage you.”

Blurr groaned, passing a hand over his optics. “Sir, please, this is embarrassing. I don’t need…”

“Are you going to tell me your feet don’t hurt, Agent?” Longarm raised an optic ridge, pressing lightly on the foot he held. Blurr moaned. “That’s what I thought,” the Prime nodded. “I understand you don’t want to show weakness, Agent, and it honors you. But Elite Guard member or not, there is no shame in admitting that last run took a lot out of you.”

“… Uh, I guess there isn’t,” the slighter mech finally sighed. Blurr was the fastest mech on Cybertron, sure, and he was sturdier than his frame hinted, but even he had to admit that covering the whole distance from Iacon to Kaon and back using the back, degraded roads thank to the secret nature of his last mission, all in one go, had been… inadvisable. “But really, Sir, you shouldn’t bother; I can go see a doctor and…”

“And you’re going to force on your pedes again,” Longarm replied, gently rubbing the foot he was working on, making Blurr moan again, though it wasn’t exactly in pain this time. “I don’t think so. Now, relax, Agent Blurr, and let me work.”

“Is that an order, Sir?” the blue mech asked, although his tone was playful. He hadn’t had a good feet massage since… well, he wasn’t sure. An eternity, most likely. He hadn’t realized how much he had missed it before his Prime started to work on him. Hmm, that felt so good…

“Only if you want it to be,” Longarm chuckled, equally amused. And if there was a weird glint in the orb on his head, well… it was only a trick of the light.

Chapter Text

“I don’t get it,” Jack admitted, shaking his head.

Ratchet paused in his work and turned his head to look at him with a raised optic ridge. “Oh? And what is troubling your human brain, this time?”

“It’s Optimus,” the teenager explained as he sat on the edge of the raised platform where the human children had installed their ‘rec room’. Jack was the only one currently present. Miko was out somewhere with Bulkhead – probably doing dangerous, foolhardy stuff only she and Bulkhead found exciting, the medic dismissed – while Raf had absented himself to go and relieve himself from the waste products building in his body. Good things the waste evacuation systems of this old human base were still functioning, because Ratchet didn’t know how they would have dealt otherwise. “He… did something very unusual, earlier.”

Ratchet was instantly alarmed. “What? What happened?” The humans may not have known Optimus for as long as him, but they were far from being idiots. They could be very observant indeed, and if they said Optimus wasn’t acting as usual, then Ratchet was ready to believe them. Had he picked another virus? Was the Matrix giving him visions? His hands itched to grab a scanner and his feet urged him to run at his old friend’s side to check him over.

“Whoa, calm down, Ratchet!” Jack raised his hands. “It’s not a bad kind of weird, it’s just…” He trailed off, searching his words. “Raf and I, we got this professor at school. He’s, uh… he doesn’t really like machines or online researches engines, you know?”

No, Ratchet didn’t know nor did he care, but he nodded all the same, silently prompting Jack to continue.

“So, he asked us to go a homework for him. Only, he doesn’t want us to search online at all. He wants us to only use the library’s physical documents and give him a list referencing all the books and magazines we’d use,” Jack continued. “I thought we’d head there with Bumblebee when we’d leave the base and, well… Optimus overheard us,” the human finished.

Ratchet vented deeply. Oh. Ooooooh. Suddenly, he understood, and the tension which had been building in his frame disappeared, replaced by intense relief and no small amount of amusement. Of all the things the children could talk about… “And I suppose he stepped in and offered to drive you there himself, didn’t he?” he questioned, already knowing the answer. Bumblebee had been lucky he hadn’t been shoved out of the way.

Jack nodded frantically. “Yes! Exactly! Weird, right? I mean,” he added hastily, “it’s very nice of Optimus to offer to take us to the library, really it is, but why does he sound so giddy to go? Not to mention, it’s not going to be very discreet, arriving in a semi-truck,” he added under his breath.

Ratchet chuckled as he started to explain exactly what Optimus had been on Cybertron, what’s upon a time, Jack’s eyes shining in dawning understanding as he tried not to chuckle too. Well. If anything, it was the definite proof you could take the Prime out of the Archivist but apparently, you couldn’t take the Archivist out of the Prime.

Chapter Text

Hound tumbled down the hill, cursing himself for not having been more careful. As much as he loved Earth and its treasures, especially the fauna and flora, he had to admit that roots were Evil. He always managed to find one to trip over, especially when someone was after him, making him wonder if it truly was accidental or if he was being herded.

Knowing who was following his trail, both were quite possible.

Quickly moving back to his feet, he started to run again. The terrain was too uneven for him to risk transforming and rolling out, as tempting as it was. His jeep altmode was sturdy but even it has its limit and he didn’t fancy himself going to Ratchet to get his axles realigned – it hurt like the Pit when he did so.

Granted, if he let himself be caught, he might be in a world of pain anyway.

Far to his left, the foliage rustled. Cursing under his breath, he run faster, all while looking right and left in search of his pursuer. It was an ideal type of ground for him, especially given his altmode flexibility and…

The blow came from above. Hound didn’t even see the slick, dark form throw himself at him; he just felt the impact as he went down with a cry, protecting his face with his hands as Ravage’s claws came dangerously close to his left optic. Rolling to the floor, he tried to shake the Cassette off, but to no avail. Ravage had planted his claws firmly in his frame and wouldn’t let go.

Realizing he was caught, Hound forced himself to go limp, rolling on his back and offering his belly up in sign of submission – but still kept his hands over his face.

Ravage chuckled, finally letting go. “Got you, Autobot,” the felinoid purred in satisfaction, moving to kneed his paws all over Hound’s softer belly plating.

“Yeah, yeah, you did, again,” the tracker sighed. “Good job to you. Now what?” he asked. Ravage could call reinforcements, or try to attack him, or…

Wordlessly, the Cassette rubbed his head meaningfully against Hound’s panel and the tracker half-laughed, half-groaned. “Oh, you got to be kidding; again? Wasn’t last time enough?” Not that he didn’t like interfacing, but Ravage was such a needy thing – and he was rarely careful with those claws.

The Cassette rolled his shoulders. “It’s hardly my fault if a good chase heat me up; it’s a frametype thing. Besides,” the felinoid added, rubbing his helm against Hound’s hot panel again, “it’s not like it’s not affecting you too. You’re sure you don’t have some mechanimal coding in that frame of yours?” he asked playfully.

“Considering I haven’t known my Creators, I’d be hard pressed to tell you ‘no’,” Hound replied dryly, moving in a sitting position and letting his panel slap open. Ravage was right; even if he had lost, a good chase heated him up just as much as the felinoid, and he didn’t fancy walking back to the Ark with such a charge in his systems. “Got any preference? You won, so you pick.”

If the felinoid had been able to, Hound swore he would have been grinning. “Hmm, maybe I have, Autobot. Maybe I have…”

Chapter Text

“Okay, I know we don’t have much choice and beggars can’t be chooser but you can’t really tell me we’re all going to fit on that thing?” Sentinel asked indignantly, pointing a shaky finger at the single, unique berth in the room.

Behind him, Optimus grumbled. “Oh, stop complaining, please. At least we managed to get a room, it’s better than being forced to sleep outside in our altmode.”

“Besides,” Elita reminded both mechs, “we wouldn’t be in this situation in the first place if someone,” she looked at Sentinel with narrowed optics, “hadn’t forgotten to confirm the reservations for three rooms and if someone,” she looked at Optimus this time “had had the foresight to take his credit sticks with him.”

“You forgot yours too,” Optimus pointed out while Sentinel made an indignant ‘hey’, vexed to be reminded of his blunder. So what if he hadn’t seen the email mentioning that due to the influx of tourists coming for the Guiding Hand Festival, they needed to confirm their reservation three solar cycles before the date to make certain they’d be booking after all? It could happen to anybot!

At least he had had his credit stick with him, unlike Elita and Optimus. Sure, given how little he had left on him, they had to contend with a single berthroom in a subpart motel, but Optimus was right; better this than sleeping outside in this cold.

Speaking of Optimus… “So… what are we going to do?” he asked warily.

“I don’t follow you,” Elita replied with a raised optic ridge.

“Don’t you think the berth is too small for the three of us?” Optimus tried again, Sentinel nodding besides him. Elita had a compact built but Optimus and Sentinel had broad frames, especially Sentinel.

Elita laughed. “Oh, that? Don’t you worry, it’s just a question of organization. Sentinel, lie on your back, will you?”

The blue mech blinked. “Uh… sure?” he said, shrugging and going to sit on the edge of the berth. The padding was too thin to his tastes, but it’d do for a night, he supposed. He moved and shifted until he was lying perfectly flat on his back. “And now?”

“Now, Optimus is going to get himself lying on his side just there,” she tapped Sentinel’s right side, “and I’m going to go lie down on my side just there.” She tapped Sentinel’s left side this time. “You’re sturdy enough to support both our weight and we’ll keep each other warm,” she winked.

Optimus’ cheeks took a purple hue. “That’s not…! Elita!” he whined, shocked at what his friend was implying. Not that he’d be opposed, oh no, but it was hardly the time and place to joke about something like that. Besides, the isolation of the room didn’t seem that great and he didn’t want to be overheard by complete strangers he might cross path with in the motel’s cafeteria come morning!

Sentinel’s booming laugher cut him short. “Oh, I like the way you think,” he leered at the femme of their group, grabbing Optimus’ hand and tugging him toward him so he could come and take his place on the berth.

Elita chuckled. “Don’t I know that. Open your arms wide, big boy; I’m coming through.”

Chapter Text

“I don’t get it,” Sari sighed, kicking in a pebble as she paced the Autobot base. “So I was a protoform – that’s what you call your babies, right? – and then I scanned my Dad and Bam! I was me.”

“That sounds like a perfect summarization of what Professor Sumdac told us,” Optimus nodded as he watched Sari pace the room like a Pneuma-tiger in a cage. Thankfully, she was not half as dangerous but seeing her in that state was… worrisome.

“Sure is,” Sari commented, waving her hands around, “but I don’t get WHERE the protoform came from! You’re not going to tell me Megatron was carrying on in his pockets?”

“Brr, that would be so weird,” Bumblebee commented from his spot on the ground while Bulkhead rubbed the back of his head awkwardly.

“But… I suppose he did? No? Since Professor Sumdac found him and all, maybe he retrieved the protoform at the same time?”

“I thought so too, but he only had Megatron’s head,” Sari sighed, kicking in the pebble again. “He didn’t find the rest until last year. So… I materialized out of thin air,” she concluded.

“Protoform can’t do that, Sari,” Optimus argued, but he looked nonplussed. Ratchet, who was listening on the conversation but kept to himself, couldn’t blame him. As far as Optimus knew, it was true. Ratchet, being a medic and far older than everyone in this room (though NOT put together, thank a lot for this joke, Bumblebee), knew better.

Of course, it wasn’t as if Earth had a Hot Spot, so he was a bit at lost too to explain Sari’s very existence. It was a mystery.

Stomping on the ground, Sari shook her head. “I told you, it makes no sense and it’s frustrating. Ugh. The next thing, you’ll tell me Megatron is my space-daddy or something like that!”

It caused laughs all over the room, even from Sari after she calmed down. But Ratchet didn’t laugh. He was looking at Sari in dawning realization and horror.

Oh Allspark… Megatron being reduced to a head… the protoform’s natural ability to try and regenerate itself, which was itself limited by how much damage was taken… Sari’s apparition in Sumdac’s lab after years, right when Megatron’s systems would have given up and popped a new, unblemished, tiny protoform out of whatever material his head had managed to spare… Sari’s naturally integrated weapons, which was a Decepticon ability, not an Autobot one.

He swallowed dryly. Megatron the Space-Daddy indeed, he thought with shock.

All Hail Sari, born from Megatron by way of Budding, like in the tales of old.

Nobody should ever know, Ratchet decided on the spot. Especially not the Elite Guard; they’d lock her up without a trial or send her to Perceptor for study – and that was with Ultra Magnus! What Sentinel Prime would do at the head of Cybertron, he preferred not to think about. No, it would be better if Sari’s origins stayed a mystery. For Sari, for the team, and for the galaxy at large.

Now, he grimly hoped Megatron himself would never reach the same conclusion as him, else they would been in deep, deep slag.

Because when a Decepticon had an Heir? Nothing could stop them to reunite with them…

Chapter Text

It happened really fast, so fast in fact that the witnesses had to do a double check and revision their memory banks to be certain they had actually seen it.

One moment, there was a Seeker plunging toward Ratchet from above, who stood in the open, hands deep in the innards of Beachcomber, who had taken a bad hit from one of the Combaticons a bit earlier and the next, said Seeker (a Rainmaker, judging by his color) was crashing into the ground, a good distance away from his defenseless prey.

Ratchet didn’t even bat an optic latch, continuing to work as if nothing was wrong.

The first reflex everyone had was to check the crash site, where the Rainmaker was painfully transforming, searching for an hint of gold or red. The Twins often made Seekers crash using Jet Judo, after all. But there was none to be found – indeed, a quick check revealed Sideswipe was pulling his own version of rodeo on Dirge’s back while Sunstreaker was providing cover fire for Hound as the jeep tried to escape the sight of Devastator.

Then they remember the sounds of three rapid, precise shots. Closer inspection revealed that the Rainmaker (Ice Storm? Yeah, it had to be) had perfectly symmetrical holes in his wings, one in each. The third short had apparently clipped his left turbine, cue his sudden crash.

Optics instinctively searched for Bluestreak and found him… on the other side of the battlefield, taking poke shots at Ravage. Mirage, then? The Noble was an excellent shot too. But Mirage was still on the Ark, still healing from injuries sustained in the previous battle, so it couldn’t be him.

Then, who had…?

Couldn’t be Ratchet; he was a good shot, sure, but with his hands deep into Beachcomber’s frame, he wouldn’t have had the time to. Beachcomber was pretty much out of it already. First Aid, who was helping Ratchet as much as he could by handing him the clamps and the tools, was…

Jazz blinked first, surprised. “No way,” he muttered, doing a triple check. Yep, there was no mistaking it; there was indeed a riffle in First Aid’s hands. A still glowing riffle, warm from the shots it had just fired. The Spy Master quickly calculated the distance, the force of the wind, the probable thickness of the Seeker’s armor and whistled. “Wow. Who knew the kid had it in him?” he commented idly before turning back to an equally surprised Soundwave, who must have reached the same conclusion as him, and punched him square in the face.

On the ground, under Ratchet’s hands, Beachcomber blinked. Unlike everyone else, he had seen it in perfect details. “Didn’t know Aid would fire so well,” he commented with a weak voice. First Aid rubbed the back of his helm in embarrassment while Ratchet growled.

“Quiet, you!”

“But Ratchet…” Beachcomber whined, coughing. “First Aid just took down a Seeker! In three shots! Even Blue would be hard pressed to!”

Ratchet’s optics twitched dangerously, a clear thing he was VERY unhappy – wherever because Beachcomber’s damages were worse than first thought or because First Aid, kind, gentle First Aid had to shoot someone to defend him, it was hard to say. “Well of course the kid is a crack shot! Who do you think taught him to shoot?! Now shut up, you’re straining your vocalizer and your systems.”

All those close enough to overheard blinked and exchanged knowing looks. Well, it seemed like medical knowledge wasn’t the only thing his apprentice was sucking off from the old medic, after all…

Chapter Text

“This is ridiculous,” Inferno mumbled as he followed Red Alert down to the brig. “All that trouble just for one mech…”

“One mech who is suffering from such severe anxieties that Ratchet is considering putting him on Spark support due to his rising stress level,” Red Alert replied evenly.

“Then he should,” Inferno groused, but it lacked heat. Spark support was a big deal, after all.

Red Alert shook his head. “It would immobilize a berth in the Medbay needlessly for an unquantified time period, something both Prowl and I are both against. Our troops should be prioritized over the needs of a single captive, even if Ratchet is willing to do so.”

“Then we should send him back to Megatron already,” the firetruck commented. “Surely, Prime can arrange a prisoner exchange or something?”

“The Decepticons have no prisoners for use to exchange him against at the moment,” Red Alert replied. “Besides, the idea was vetoed by the whole command team; with this mech under lock and key, Megatron has one less gestalt to send after our troops. Strategically speaking, it’s much better to keep this one mech prisoner.”

And yeah, Red was right, but…

“So you want me to do… what, exactly?” Inferno asked as they reached the only occupied cell of the bridge. The lights had been turned down to try and reduce the captive’s anxiety, but it didn’t seem to work too well. Breakdown was curled up on himself in a corner of the cell and watching them with big, frightful optics that reminded Inferno of a Cybercat – or an overgrown Sparkling, which he looked suspiciously like in that moment.

“Work out your charm,” Red Alert replied. “You think you can rock him to sleep?” he asked in a low voice, trading a look with his partner. It was an unusual request, to be sure, and an unusual solution but… Breakdown had yet to recharge and defrag since his capture. If he couldn’t rest and calm down, then he wouldn’t escape Spark support, wherever Prowl and Red Alert wanted it or not.

“Might be able to, if he trusts me enough,” Inferno mumbled back, eyeing the Stunticon with a professional optic. Even before the war, when he had just been a rescue worker, he had had to work with and on mechs with glitches and all sort of Spark and processors issues. For whatever reason he had never managed to work over, Inferno kept attracting them. If there was one traumatized mech in the wake of an intervention, then he’d flock to the firetruck sooner or later, latching on his arm and bawling. Some just needed to talk, others needed to be held down and rocked, other needed a big, sturdy frame to protect them from the horrors of the world.

Inferno liked to think he had seen it all – or at least he hoped so.

Breakdown didn’t look too bad off from where he stood but… yeah, the air was definitely heavy with panic leaking from his EM field, even from that distance. He had his work cut for him. It wouldn’t be easy, considering what he knew of Breakdown thank to previous encounters, Jazz’s in-depth analysis and Ratchet’s file on his new patient but… Yeah, it was doable, he decided.

“I’m letting you work your magic, then,” Red Alert murmured, pressing a quick kiss to the side of the firetruck’s helm as Inferno crouched in front of the forcefield. “Cameras on you all the time, even if they look turned off. Ratchet will be monitoring, private comm link, high priority,” he added in a whisper as he did so, so low Breakdown wouldn’t hear. Inferno nodded imperceptibly. Breakdown was known to be nervous when he was looked at; making him think the camera weren’t recording him could only help.

He let Red Alert leave without a word, waiting until the sound of his footsteps had faded from the corridor before he started to start warmly at the prisoner and talked.

“Hello there. Breakdown, that’s it? How about we talk a bit?”

Chapter Text

“What a surprise to see you, Doctor,” Megatron purred, sending shivers down Ratchet’s back strut as he huddled himself further against the wall. Damn Vehicons had herded him there easily with various salvos, forcing him to run until he fell right into the trap they had set.

One of them, either by being lucky or because Ratchet was really that unlucky, had managed to nail the medic in the shoulder and Ratchet’s left arm now hung uselessly by his side. If he had had time, maybe he could have manage a few quick repair, regained a little of mobility, enough to tempt his chance and cling the wall to put himself out of reach but… Yeah, no such luck.

And then, because of course Ratchet was that unlucky, fragging Megatron himself had decided to show up.

Gritting his dental plates and brandishing a scalpel in front of him as a makeshift weapon, the only one he had at his disposition, Ratchet glared. “Don’t come closer, Megatron,” he warned. He was under no illusion he’d manage to give the Warlord any serious damage. But if he moved fast enough, he’d be content with planting it in one of the Slag Maker’s optic.

The Warlord laughed dismissively. “Oh, Doctor, you’re too much; do you think you can threaten me? How cute.” His optics narrowed. “Drop that scalpel. Now.”

“Make me!” Ratchet snarled, lunging.

And promptly blinked, wondering why he was watching the smoke-filled sky, then when he had ended on the ground and why his right shoulder hurt like the Pit. Megatron knelt, looming over him like an overgrown Hellhound, smirking as he pinned Ratchet’s frame to the ground with a single hand, clawed digits just shy of piercing the medic’s thinner plating.

“A valiant effort, Ratchet. But you’d be better advised to obey me next time, hmm?” the Warlord purred.

Too close, too close, Ratchet panicked CPU blared at him. Can’t move, trapped, trapped, have to find a way to get away! He tried to lift himself off the ground, but Megatron just pushed him further into the ground with a warning sound. Ratchet tried to calm down, vents working hard to cool down his frame. His optics fell on Megatron’s hand. How many mechs had already died by it? How many more would?

Was Ratchet going to be the next one?

“What do you want with me?” he asked, voice remarkably steady despite the circumstances, even if it was barely above a whisper.

“A good question,” the Warlord mused, stroking his chin with his free hand. “There are many things I want. My Decepticons triumphant. Cybertron unified under my rule. Organics crushed underfoot as they should be. Optimus admitting defeat and crumbling at my feet. But in the meanwhile, I think I will settle for your company. Would you like it, Doctor?”

Ratchet swallowed dryly. Oh, he didn’t like the sound of it – at all; especially given the way Megatron was looking at him. Orion Pax might have been Megatron’s obsession, sure, but Ratchet knew how much gladiators, former and current, appreciated medics. Preferably on their back, legs spread. Slagging kink, he thought as Megatron hauled him off the ground and reached for him with a pair of stasis cuff. It wasn’t a position he fancied himself to be in, especially not for Megatron of all mechs!

So when he heard Optimus’ battle cry, his Spark soared.

Ratchet might be trapped yet, but it wasn’t going to last. He was certain of it.

Chapter Text

“When you said you needed time to let your trine know about us, I had imagined it would take a few vorns at least. Not, oh, a few thousands,” the Prime commented lightly as he let his digits roam over Thundercracker’s wings, the Seeker’s back arching under his touch. “Not that I mind having clandestine meetings, but after a moment, they’re getting harder and harder to go to. My command team is getting suspicious. There are only so many ‘nights off’ I can afford without tipping off Prowl – and I don’t know if you have ever tried to shake Jazz off your tail, but let me tell you it’s not easy. Not to mention Ironhide swearing like a drunk space pirate when he realizes I gave him the slip again.”

“Hmm,” Thundercracker hummed, wings flapping, forcing Optimus to withdraw his fingers less they’d be caught in seams. “Same for me,” he admitted reluctantly. “There are only so many times I can arrange for something in Starscream’s lab to blow up and make Megatron roar at him for using volatile products without proper supervision or tip Soundwave that Skywarp is Up To No Good without it being suspicious.”

He shuffled uneasily as Prime’s powerful arm surrounded his waist and a bare face pressed in the crook of his neck from behind.

“Then you admit our little secret should be put in the open soon?”

Thundercracker sighed. “It’s not that I don’t want to but… between my trine and Megatron…” he trailed off.

Oh, he was reasonably sure Megatron wouldn’t kill him for treason, if only because if he did, then Starscream would kill him for hurting a member of his trine – or worse, ban him from his berth forever; conflictual relationship or not, Megatron and Starscream still fragged like petrorabbits every other day. Starscream himself would screech about treason of Decepticons ideal and Skywarp… Well, Skywarp would probably be all kind of jealous that both his trinemates were fragging faction leaders and he wasn’t and would probably disappear in deep space to worm his way inside the berth of an influent Neutral leader. That would be his style.

“Besides, I don’t think your mechs would be ready to accept me either,” he added.

“Don’t be so sure,” Optimus replied, kissing Thundercracker’s neck softly. “It’s not with Seekers in general they have a problem, it’s with individuals. And yours isn’t the name at the top of their list.”

It made Thundercracker snort as he relaxed, leaning into Optimus’ frame. “Starscream would be miffed.”

“But he has earned the spot,” Optimus replied teasingly. “Think you can present it as an… unique way to open negotiations… to Megatron?”

“Hmm, Megatron probably not,” Thundercracker replied after a moment of reflection. “With Soundwave, perhaps. He’s a lot more reasonable than the old Slag Maker. But it’s going to be a pain,” he whined.

“It’ll be a pain either way,” Optimus warned. “Well, the other solution would be for me to kidnap you, have your trine come to try and save you and announce to them we’re being fragging in their back for the last millions of years.”

“Oh Primus, it’s worse,” Thundercracker choked. Starscream’s face would be worth it, sure, but the screeching might render him completely deaf for life. “Let’s find another solution, alright?”

And hopefully one where either Starscream would be gagged or they’d be out of shouting distance.

Chapter Text

Optimus glared, arms crossed over his chest and trying to convey how much he was Not Impressed to the rest of his team. It would, admittedly, been an impressive picture for any outsider watching the scene. In that moment, Optimus looked very much like the Prime he was.

Sadly, his team was too used to it to be more than vaguely impressed, and it felt. Ratchet was watching his fingers and idly commenting on how he needed a good oil bath for his articulations and Bulkhead and Bumblebee were snickering, ‘subtly’ elbowing each other while Sari, perched on Bulkhead’s shoulder, was grinning widely.

Only Prowl watched Optimus back seriously, but with a raised optic ridge, looking like he was wondering what the fuss was all about.

Optimus was having none of it. ”You’re really trying to freak him out, aren’t you?” he asked unhappily.

“I don’t see what you’re talking about, Prime,” Ratchet replied ‘innocently’ – and if Optimus hadn’t known better, he might even have been fooled.

“Sure you don’t,” the Prime replied waspily. “For the Allspark’s side! Sentinel was making an effort here! He was, for once, cooperative and willing to work with us and now… Jazz commed me! The moment he returned to the Steelhaven, he locked himself in his room and now he’s refusing to put a foot outside so long the ship is still on Earth! Jazz is not amused at all, and the Twins are worried sick! What did you do this time?”

“We did nothing, Prime,” Prowl answered calmly, looking slightly bemused. “Whatever is bothering Sentinel Prime…” Then he paused, frowning. “Ah,” he finally sighed after a moment, turning to glare at the rest of the team alongside Optimus. “I see. I should have been more suspicious the moment you all opted for nature documentaries as entertainment for ‘Movie Night’.”

Bumblebee broke into laugher. “His face!” he choked, almost falling over, doubling on himself.

“Why, we didn’t do anything wrong,” Sari singsonged. “You’re always saying you ‘bots need to learn more about Earth, and that’s exactly what we all did tonight. Everyone learned plenty of cool stuff!”

“What was the documentaries about?” Optimus asked Prowl, who sighed ruefully.

“Contests on the deadliest creatures found on Earth – not on this continent,” he added quickly. “It was… very fascinating. But I suppose that for someone who doesn’t like organics to begin with…”

“It should be noted that none of those species represent a threat to Cybertronians, you know,” Ratchet pipped in. “There was no reason for him to freak out.”

Optimus massaged his temples, feeling a processor ache coming. Of all the stupid (but well-played, he had to admit) prank to play on a superior officer while technically doing nothing wrong… Sentinel was going to scream at him the moment he stopped working himself in a panic. Then he’d drown him in paperwork, just to be petty (though that was alright; Optimus had never truly minded paperwork). “Yeah? Good luck explaining that to Sentinel, because I won’t.”

Chapter Text

The shadow that fell on Optimus was big, large and intimidating. It didn’t make him tense or raise his head, though. He continued to calmly clean up the glasses aligned on the counter as if nothing was out of the ordinary. And technically, there wasn’t; he was used to patrons bigger than him invading his personal space and trying to intimidate him into either getting them free drinks or coerce him into something.

The mech looming coughed to get his attention. Optimus superbly ignored him, instead continuing to critically eye critically the row of glasses. Hmm, yes, they were shiny enough now, he could put them back on the shelf…

“You! Puny Autobot!”

Optimus’ rolled his optics and looked up, meeting Lugnut’s optics calmly. “Technically not an Autobot,” he reminded the much bigger mech, tapping on his bare shoulders, free of any faction emblem. That was what tended to happen when you were thrown out of the Academy before completing the course and refusing to serve on a repair crew because you were too hurt to accept the job.

He had probably disappointed Ultra Magnus further but… Meh. What was done, was done. Though come to think, he probably wouldn’t have minded working with Ratchet, who he had met when the Orion had dropped at the spaceport and come to the bar. The old mech was a no-nonsense type and a good drinking buddy. The youngsters with him… a bit too energetics, but they were young, after all.

Honestly, all things considered, there were worse things Optimus could have done than maintaining a bar on a seedy Neutral station on the edge of both the Autobot Commonwealth and the New Decepticon Empire’s common frontier. At least it was an honest job and the patrons were interesting fellows. They certainly made sure his life was never dull.

But some of them, Optimus could have done without.

“Yes?” he asked, smiling widely, showing too much teeth – not that Lugnut cared.

“The great and glorious Megatron is requesting your presence,” the behemoth of a mech bellowed.

Optimus sighed. Same old, same old. You make the mistake of chatting with one mysterious client about the book he had once written about power inequalities in a Functionist society and how the book could have been improved and what passages were utter rubbish and how some ideas had potential but needing reworking, and you never live it down.

To be fair, Megatron had come incognito (mass displacement, electronic paint and kibbles did wonders, even on a frame as recognizable as the Warlord’s), and it wasn’t as if anyone had ever told Optimus who the Pit had written ‘Toward Peace’!

“The great and glorious Megatron,” he started carefully, still showing too much teeth even as he reached under the counter, “can go frag himself with a jackhammer for all I care.”

Lugnut roared at the insult. Optimus raised his axe and held a spray bottle in the other hand. “Careful there, Lugnut, unless you want to be sprayed again. Wanna know what’s in the bottle this time?” he asked viciously. Last time had used a pressurized acid and before that, a non-lethal variant of Cosmic Rust he had managed to lift from Oil Slick. Optimus had learned that with Decepticons, it was always better to be creative.

Lugnut cursed, but didn’t dare to move. “You little…!”

“Don’t get on your high equinoids, okay? Megatron has no business ordering me around when I’m NOT a Decepticon and you know it. Now, your boss wants to chat with me that badly, he’s welcome to the bar,” Optimus replied stiffly. He meant it, too. Personal and diverging opinions asides, Megatron was never dull to chat with. It made Optimus' evenings interesting, when he was in the mood to debate. “I got a bottle of an excellent vintage brew he should like, it’s almost as old as him. If not, then my answer stands; I’ll even furnish the lube if he needs it.”

Lugnut’s face took a weird color under the rage. Optimus smirked.

“Oh, and he better pays up what he owns me if he wants me open for discussion,” he added as an afterthought. “Be kind to remind him – and to tell him if you or any of the other ‘Cons break something in my bar again, I’ll put it on his tab, since he’s the Boss and all. So stop eyeing that chair, will you?” Lugnut glared, but seemed to get the hint. Megatron was already going to be unhappy he hadn’t be able to sway the little bartender into coming with him, better not put him in an even fouler mood by having said bartender send him a bill over damages done in his establishment. “Thank you and good day,” he finished with a sweeter smile, pointing Lugnut to the door with the spray bottle.

Eh. Too bad Ratchet was off the Allspark knew all in the galaxy, Optimus snorted as he watched Lugnut leave with heavy steps. He probably would have gotten a good laugh out of it all.

Chapter Text

He had placed the gag first; it wouldn’t have been his first choice, but the Autobot kept swearing and throwing insults at him at first and Megatron had grown annoyed. The insults had probably slowly turned into supplications, given the way the Autobot has gradually slackened and grown in uneasiness but it wasn’t as if Megatron could hear him anymore. Just as well; pointless begging would have ruined the mood before he even had a chance to start to play.

After the gag, he had gone to work on the arms; the Autobot kicked a lot, true, but free hands meant grappling and throwing things or trying to reach for a weapon and that wouldn’t have done at all. He had sat on the Autobot’s legs to make sure he wouldn’t be dislodged, then he had pinned those lovely arms on the berth before tying them, one after the other, to the headboard, using cuffs with a silky lining on the inside. No need to cause undue damages to those lovely hands, after all, especially if he wanted them wrapped around his spike later on. For good measure, he had added some additional bonds between both wrists, linking them through loops in a lovely collar he had passed around the Autobot’s neck. When he’d have time, Megatron would make sure to add a medal to it. A tiny, shiny medal, with the name of the Autobot and the name of his owner’s carved on it. He’d need to pick a metal that wouldn’t clash with the Autobot’s colors, of course.

Finally, there had been the legs. So many potential ways to immobilize them! Spread-eagle would have been the simplest and it would have been easier for Megatron to place himself between those shapely thighs, but it lacked in style. One leg tied, the other free to kick to give the Autobot the impression he could still do something? No, no; too easy. Megatron wanted to show he was completely in control and that obedience and submission were the only thing the Autobot was allowed to show.

In the end, he had opted for widely parted legs, bend at the knee so Megatron would be free to lift those tantalizing hips from the berth at his leisure if he desired so and change the angle a bit. It had required additional ropes to tie them to the side of the berth but that wasn’t a problem; the berth had been built with a lot of nooks, hooks and crannies just so Megatron could arrange his ‘partners’ as he wished.

Completely immobilized, the Autobot glared at him. His frame was shaking, though, his emotions warring between disdain, apprehension and perhaps just the right amount of fear and lust Megatron wished. For all his protests, the Warlord hadn’t been blind to the way the Autobot had looked at him on the sly, even if he kept strongly denying it. Autobots were such prudes. Chuckling, Megatron leaned forward and cupped the bound mech between the legs.

“Now, little Prime, how about the two of us have some fun?” he purred.

Chapter Text

“Hate… hate you,” Megatron growled, rolling his hips in a thrusting motion, stiff spike rubbing against the cushion the other mech in the room had so generously provided for him.

Jazz just chuckled, crouching on the ground at the feet of the berth with a camera in hand, unbothered by the claim. “You hate pretty much everyone,” he reminded the leader of the Decepticon. “Except perhaps Soundwave but it’s hard to hate efficient mechs like him,” he added after a moment of musing.

Megatron growled again and didn’t dignify the insipid statement with an answer. He was too busy rutting into the pillow with groans of need all while mumbling how much he hated the mech locked in the room with him.

Bad enough that one of his rare but still existing bouts of Heat had decided to show up when he least expected it, but he had to be caught with his panels open by Optimus Prime’s Head of Special Ops to boot! Oh, how he wished to put his hands around the smaller mech’s head and wrench it off his shoulders!

Or, if the other mech insisted to stay, to make him stand between his legs and have him take care of the problem currently making Megatron’s valve drip with lubricant.

But noooooo, Jazz had to look at him and refuse before, somehow, managing to leash Megatron to the berth by a collar and chain (why in the Pit did he have them in his subspace pocket?!) the Decepticons’ Leader could find no seams to and couldn’t gather enough force to rip apart, too distracted by the pangs between his legs.

And now Jazz kept filming him in his most vulnerable and intimate moments, as the Heat run its course and wracked the Warlord’s body. Stuffing his fingers inside himself or rutting against pillows was the only things he could do, and Jazz was NOT missing a single moment of it. The moment he managed to get back to his full sense, Megatron was going to crush that camera, he swore. And Jazz's Spark chamber for good measure, too.

“Hot stuff,” the black and white mech murmured, taking a few close ups. “If I dared…”

“Why don’t you?!” Megatron snarled. He hated him so much; because he was an Autobot, because he wasn’t fragging him, because he was going to keep proof of the incident…

“Mech, I won’t do anything before Optimus gets first taste,” Jazz replied seriously and Megatron utterly stilled.

“…What?” he asked in a low voice, pre-transfluid coating the tip of his spike and the pillow.

Jazz tapped the side of the camera. “Who do you think the movie is for, Megs? I know my Boss is going to really like it,” he winked behind his visor. “Mech’ll definitely want a piece of you after that and I’m too polite to beat it to the prize, you know? Though once he gets to tap that sweet aft of yours, well… it’ll be open season,” he grinned.

Megatron only stared, trying to wrap his processor around that. Then he shrugged and got back to rutting. He’d dealt with it later. When he had a clearer processor.