Bluestreak can honestly say that he never expected to find himself in this particular situation.
There’s a Seeker lounging on his berth – twirling a pair of handcuffs, no less – and sporting a cheesy grin that could put some of Sideswipe’s to shame. Bluestreak recognizes him on the spot, of course, and a part of him isn’t surprised. Of all the Seekers, Skywarp is the one most known for getting places he shouldn’t be. He’s a teleporter; it comes with the territory.
Bluestreak honestly doesn’t know if he should be whipping out his blaster, aiming his rocket launchers, contacting Prowl, or diving into the berth to show the Seeker the meaning of the term “fraternization”. Possibly all four.
“Well,” Bluestreak says, careful to keep his tone light as he eyes the grinning Decepticon. “I don’t know what you’re doing here or how you got in here. Wait. Scratch that. It’s obvious how you got in here. What I don’t know is why and it’s kind of creepy and I’m going to need an explanation in about three seconds or I’m going to shoot your helm off. Ratchet can fix you, I’ve seen him do it, so you’ll survive, but it won’t be fun for any of us, least of all me, because then I’ll have to clean you off my berth. So. Talk.”
Skywarp bursts into laughter, gales of it, his wings rattling from the force of it. “Talk, he says. Like I can get a word in edgewise.”
Bluestreak lowers his helm, letting his blaster fill with charge, knowing that the distinctive click and whine is a universal sign.
“But I think that’s what everyone likes about you,” Skywarp adds, voice sliding into a purr. “That and apparently, your phenomenal berth skills.” He pauses, twirling the handcuffs again. “Oh, and I suppose we’ll just have to see who’s faster. Your blaster or my teleporting.”
Bluestreak cycles his optics, defense protocols stalling in confusion. “Phenomenal?”
“Or so I’ve heard.” Skywarp eases off the berth, which he’d barely fit on in the first place, and manages to stand without looming, though how he does it is a mystery to Bluestreak. “Care to put fact to rumor?”
All of Bluestreak’s weapons power down. “You came here to ask me to interface?” he asks, and because it sounds so ludicrous, he has to clarify. “Is there no one on the Nemesis capable of interfacing or something because honestly, I’m finding this a bit hard to believe. I’m flattered, believe me, I’m flattered, but also, a little disturbed.”
Skywarp’s grin widens, his wings perked and flickering – flirting, if Bluestreak knows his wing-language. “Oh, there’s plenty interested. But one might say I have a taste for the unusual and well, Autobot chatter has made me quite intrigued.”
Autobot chatter? Bluestreak rolls his optics. Soundwave. Has to be. That mech is like the definition of a voyeur, though it’s a bit of a surprise that he shares his observations with his fellow Decepticons.
There’s only way to respond to that, Bluestreak supposes.
He squints at Skywarp, planting his hands on his hips. “Are you crazy?”
“No, I’m not. Starscream had me tested.” Skywarp chuckles, moves closer, and there’s less threat in the movement than there is seduction. “I am, however, serious. So what do you say? Want to show a Seeker how to have a good time?”
Bluestreak must admit, the offer is a tad bit tempting. He doesn’t consider himself the most arrogant of the Autobots, but bragging rights are always a nice plus.
Fraternization is frowned upon, but then, no one’s hauling Smokescreen in for that whatever he has going on with Vortex. Optimus tends to be indulgent, talking about the need to build bridges in an effort to end the war sooner. Bluestreak thinks he just wants an excuse for groping Megatron mid-battle.
“I don’t know,” Bluestreak says, letting his field trickle out slowly, sweeping across Skywarp’s plating in a slow, slide of sensation. “What’s in it for me?”
“The chance to berth a Seeker?” Skywarp offers and starts twirling those handcuffs again, implying that Bluestreak can use them, should he so desire.
Bluestreak rolls his optics. “Been there, done that. And no, I’m not going to tell you who. That’s my secret to know and yours to forever wonder about.” He smirks, eying those cuffs. “What else do you have to offer?”
It is Skywarp’s turn to purr, his Decepticon optics deepening in hue. “The fact that these aren’t the only fun I brought with me.” He raises his hand, making the cuffs glint. “There’s more in my subspace.”
Even more tempting.
“And I can use it at my discretion?” Bluestreak bargains, certain that whatever Skywarp has, he can make use of.
“Of course.” Skywarp’s field gives a happy clip, nudging against Bluestreak’s own.
He arches an orbital ridge, teetering toward the path of sensual satisfaction. “And you realize that by showing up here, asking and agreeing, that you give full consent to any and everything I might do to make you scream your pleasure?”
The blast of arousal that slams Bluestreak’s field is about all the confirmation he needs. But words are nice, too. Especially when Skywarp steps forward, drops to his knees, and tilts his helm back. His optics latch onto Bluestreak’s – oh, someone has taught him well – and he offers up the handcuffs.
“Yes,” Skywarp murmurs with a coy twitch of his wings. “Master.”
A shiver races down Bluestreak’s backplate and he knows that refusal is no longer an option. Not with Skywarp offering himself so willingly. Bluestreak has always been weak for the hungry ones.
“All right,” he murmurs, raising a hand to cup Skywarp’s face, thumb stroking the sweep of a cheekarch. “Then let the games begin.”