[G1] Taking the Leader

The challenge had been laid but the only one more surprised by Bluestreak’s victory was Bluestreak himself.

“Well,” he said, doorwings fluttering as he looked up at the massive Decepticon warlord, fingers twitching in remembrance. “I didn’t see that coming.”

“I did!” Jazz announced, only to be tackled into silence by a half-dozen Autobots, all eager to see what happened next. A few Decepticons looked envious of the pile of heated frames, though until the victory was declared and consummated, they wouldn’t be allowed to enjoy.

Megatron’s lips curled with a mixture of amusement and satisfaction. “I should have guessed,” he said, rich vocal tones washing through Bluestreak’s audials and making him shiver. “A near-perfect score.”

Bluestreak’s internals squirmed with arousal. Pre-competition jitters had made his first shot off the mark, but once he’d become accustomed to the weight and power and – Primus, he pressurized just thinking about it – grip, it was smooth sailing.

“Well,” he said, again, with a smile. And was he flirting with Megatron? “I had the best weapon for the job.”

Yes, yes he was. Completely. But who wouldn’t?

Megatron gave him a startled look, but then burst into laughter, field flush with pride and approval. “One you handled with utmost skill,” he said.

Bluestreak’s field spiked, cooling fans bursting to life. Megatron was flirting with him in return. Megatron was flirting with him. It took all the self-control he had not to suddenly start pawing at the Decepticon warlord like a starved mech. Just the knowledge that he was soon going to be taking Megatron in front of Autobot and Decepticon alike was enough to make his spike throb behind his panel. He sent another override to keep it locked in place, though he was rapidly losing the battle.

“That’s not all he’s good at handling!” someone from the crowd shouted and Bluestreak knew that if he looked, Sideswipe would be there with a slag-eating grin.

Bluestreak’s faceplate burned hotter.

“Is that so?” Megatron asked, field pulsing with intrigue.

Time to summon up all the gall Bluestreak had in storage. “Yes,” he said, and reached out, dragging a finger down the barrel of Megatron’s fusion cannon, remembering all too well the power it contained. A sharp pulse of desire attacked him as static danced along the barrel. “And now I’m going to show you.”


[TFP] An Awkward Encounter

It was supposed to be a routine patrol, mapping the ruins of Cybertron, keeping his sensors primed for stray Decepticons unwilling to accept Megatron’s dismissal and the end of the war.

The last thing Smokescreen expected to encounter was a lingering zombie predacon. Still, he could have handled it. He popped off a call to headquarters, primed his blaster and readied his phase shifter.

And then a second zombiecon shuffled out of the shadows and Smokescreen began to feel a little outnumbered.

Backup would arrive ASAP.

He could make it.

Until he lost an arm and with it, his signature move. Spurting energon, pain making his vision blurry, Smokescreen counted the seconds. One predacon moved in on him, unhinged jaw agape. The other swiped at him with surprisingly swift claws, wings splayed and bare of flat planes.

At least, Smokescreen thought, I’ll go out in a blaze of glory.

Thank you, Wheeljack, for this one emergency grenade.

Smokescreen chucked it between the groaning, lumbering zombicons and just as he turned to run, a silver mass struck him out of nowhere.

Smokescreen tumbled across the ground, one doorwing slamming down with a loud snap. He groaned, kicking and flailing at whatever had attacked him, certain that a third predacon was trying to eat his brain module.

“Stop struggling!”

The growled command pierced Smokescreen’s panic and he froze.

Oh, Primus.

He knew that voice. He knew that harsh click, the sharp whine of a fusion cannon powering up. And, in recollection, he knew that shade of silver paint.

He remembered the grenade.


Too late.

Fusion cannon met grenade and resulted in a spectacular explosion that rattled the ground and lit up the sky. A cloud of metal shavings burst up and outward. Pieces of zombiecon flew every which way.

Megatron shielded Smokescreen with his own frame just as the blastwave hit them. Smokescreen struggled to keep conscious, but it was a battle lost.

He rebooted within seconds, half-expecting to find it all some strange recharge purge. Except that it wasn’t because Megatron was still sprawled atop him. Big. And heavy. And spiky. And his frame expelled heat in thick bursts, metal ticking as it cooled, plating vibrating as his cooling fans spun.

He also wasn’t moving.


Well, Smokescreen thought as his interface protocols pinged online and his panel started to heat, this is awkward. His faceplates heated.

Did it have to be Megatron? Of all the big mechs on the planet, did it have to be their most fearsome enemy? Or former enemy. Or however that worked now.

At least the zombiecons were destroyed.

“Um.” Smokescreen squirmed, armor scraping against armor in an audible shriek. His doorwing ached. “Could you get off me?”

Megatron groaned and twitched.

“Not that I’m ungrateful,” Smokescreen hastened to add because Megatron had a legendary temper and Smokescreen liked his limbs intact, especially since he was already missing one. “But you’re kind of…” —arousing— “…squishing me.”

Megatron grunted and then, finally, pushed his upper frame up, optics regarding Smokescreen like he’d never seen the Autobot before. Or like he’d completely forgotten how he’d ended up in this particular position.

Smokescreen stared back because, yeah, awwwwwkward.

His cooling fans clicked on with a telling whirr.

Megatron tilted his helm, lips curling into an amused smirk, revealing those pointed denta.

Which was, of course, the perfect time for back up to arrive. In came the cavalry, blasters blazing, engines revving…

Optics staring.

Smokescreen tipped his helm back, offering Wheeljack, Ultra Magnus, and Bulkhead a thin smile.

“Um. It’s not what it looks like?” he tried.

Megatron rolled his optics and then rolled to his pedes all in one smooth motion, ignoring the flattened Autobot beneath him.

“I don’t have time for this,” he said, and took off into the air, transforming into alt-mode with a quick snap. He was gone in a flash-burn of his thrusters, leaving Smokescreen to deal with the awkward aftermath.

Slagging Decepticon. Smokescreen let his helm thunk against the ground. He wanted his arm back. He wanted his doorwing relocated. He wanted the heat to stop burning in his lines, and his processor to stop offering up images of what else Megatron could have been doing while pinning him to the ground.

He really wanted Ultra Magnus to stop staring at him like that.

Wheeljack cackled, weapon powering down. “Now this I have to hear.”

“Yes,” Ultra Magnus said. “I, too, would like an explanation.”

Bulkhead grimaced.

Smokescreen sighed.

Well, that hadn’t gone according to plan at all.

[G1] Rumor to the Test

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.”

[Bay] Privilege

Some orns, it’s a slagging good time to be a noble. They get all the great opportunities.

Only peripherally does Mirage recognize the couple on the other side of the berth, the Lord Prime and his chosen consort for the cycle. The majority of Mirage’s attention is saved for the mech beneath him, all solid plating and angled lines and fierce passion. The crimson optics of the Lord High Protector stare back at him; the heavy wave of Megatron’s energy field washes over Mirage from helm to pede.

He shivers, inundated by the weight of that power. Lord Megatron is a mech who exudes confidence and power, and it is all too evident in his field. Mirage feels tiny next to the Lord High Protector, not unsurprising given that he is half Megatron’s height and less than half his weight.

Lord Megatron chuckles, his massive hands resting on Mirage’s waist, encircling them with ease. “You are an eager one,” he says, deep vocals rumbling through his chassis and vibrating Mirage’s frame. “You are what? Second frame?”

“Third,” Mirage says, hands planted on Megatron’s chassis, fingers small and nimble enough to slide between seams, caress the conduits and cables beneath. “Though I can understand how you would be mistaken.”

“Indeed.” One massive hand slides up, traces his backstrut, finger brushing the back of Mirage’s helm. “You are delicate. I fear breaking you.”

Mirage manages a smile, though his fans are going full-force, his entire frame thrumming with need. Charge crackles over his plating, dancing from his substructure to snap against Lord Megatron’s heavy armor.

“I am sturdier than you think,” he promises and rolls his hips, eliciting a shinnnnk of metal on metal that echoes in the room.

Another bass-born chuckle vibrates through the room and Megatron’s hand cups Mirage’s helm, fingers stroking the elegant curves and dancing over a sensory array. Mirage shivers.

“I suppose I’ll have to find out,” Megatron says.

“There will be no breaking of the pretty nobles, brother,” comes the Lord Prime’s chastisement from the other side of the room, punctuated by a whimper of pleasure from his berthmate. “We are still paying for the last one.”

Amusement ripples through Lord Megatron’s field, mingling nicely with Mirage’s own, prickling over his sensory net. “I haven’t forgotten, you nanny-bot.”

“Should I be scared?” Mirage asks, though of all the emotions cascading through him, fear is the last of them.

“Only if it excites you, pretty one.” Lord Megatron’s other thumb presses against his pelvic plating, the tip of it nudging a bundle of cables beneath, and Mirage’s spark throbs. “Shall we begin?”

There is no way in the Pit Mirage is going to say otherwise.

[G1] Reckless Behavior

“I can’t decide who’s more reckless!” Ratchet snarls as he slams a handful of tools onto the tray between Sunstreaker and Sideswipe’s medberths. On Sideswipe’s other side is Optimus Prime, immobile from the waist down but otherwise, unharmed.

They are, all three of them, scrapped to the Pit and back. But it’s nothing Ratchet can’t fix. Nothing they won’t survive. All in all, it’s another day in the Ark’s medbay.

“Do you know that I spend more than seventy percent of my supplies on you three!” Ratchet shouts, hands waving in the air wildly, but gentle as they attack the seeping gash on Sunstreaker’s mid-section.

Sideswipe, more than a little amused, tries and fails to hide his laugh. “Only seventy? We must be doing something wrong. Ow!” Head ringing from the blow, Sideswipe tosses Ratchet a wounded look, which fails to garner some sympathy.

“Why I even bother I don’t know!” Ratchet continues without a moment’s pause, providing entertainment to everyone else in the medbay, whose minor injuries are being tended by Hoist and Wheeljack, the latter of which always acquires some hesitation from the patients involved.

“I fix you, you run out there and get scrapped on purpose!” the medic snarls, punctuating his anger with bangs and hand-waves and welding.

Sideswipe’s so used to it by now that he can recite Ratchet’s diatribe by spark.

He turns his helm toward his twin, whose optics are dim from the sedatives. It’s a good thing, since Sunstreaker’s the worst off considering Menasor had stepped on him. And that was after he’d gotten between Starscream and Bluestreak.

Sideswipe reaches out, brushing his fingers over Sunstreaker’s hand, and feels the warm surge of affection and relief across their bond. Sunstreaker’s lips twitch in that half-smile, half-sneer he’s managed to perfect and then he slips off into recharge, at ease in Ratchet’s care like no one else’s.

Ratchet’s background ranting is music to Sideswipe’s audials. He turns his helm to the other side, where a dim-opticked Optimus Prime is giving his Chief Medic a most indulgent look. It’s that mushy look he always gives those in his chain of command, that speaks volumes of his pride and faith in his Autobots.

But then he turns his attention to Sideswipe, looking briefly past him to check on Sunstreaker before focusing on Sideswipe again. There’s more than just indulgence in his optics now. There’s affection and relief, too. A bit of commiseration, also, as Ratchet’s ranting gains volume and amusement from the other Autobots.

Optimus’ much longer arm stretches across the space between their berths, tapping against Sideswipe’s hip in question. It’s easy enough for Sideswipe to slide his hand down – both of them escaped uninjured – and curl his fingers with Optimus’. He squeezes once or twice, just to reassure their Prime, and then lets go.

Their relationship is one of those well-known secrets. No one acknowledges it aloud, but Ironhide gives Prime all these knowing looks and Ratchet mutters subvocally and Prowl knows better than to give them too many opposing schedules and Red Alert grumbles about security risks and Elita One keeps sending Sideswipe tips and tricks that kind of frighten him.

So everyone knows but still, they try to be circumspect. As circumspect as Sideswipe is capable of anyway. Sunstreaker has no problems keeping his mouth shut but Sideswipe wants to shout the truth to the world sometimes. If only to remind Megatron to keep his grubby paws off.

Yeah, Prime waves it off, but Sideswipe’s seen it. Megatron takes every chance he can get to sneak in a grope or two, pervy ‘Con. It frags Sunstreaker off something serious, which explains a good portion of their prior residences in the medbay. Because if Sunstreaker’s going after old Buckethead, Sideswipe’s right beside him.

Optimus’ lectures about getting in over their helms are about as well-received as Ratchet’s.

“Gotta stake our claim, Boss,” Sideswipe likes to tell him with a smirk.

Sunstreaker doesn’t bother with words. He just tackles Optimus as soon as they are released and proceeds to frag him into the berth. Sideswipe’s content to watch through the first overload, happily stroking his own spike until they give him an opening to join in the fun.

Ratchet usually has to fix those dings and scrapes and dents afterward, too. Though instead of yelling, he smirks and gives them all knowing looks while telling Optimus he’s glad their Prime is taking the time to relax.

There isn’t anything as adorable as the sight of Optimus snapping his mask closed to conceal the embarrassment on his face.

Speaking of…

Sideswipe turns a blinding grin on Optimus. “Later,” he says with a cheeky wink and the rumble of interest from their Prime is audible to pretty much everyone.

“Not if I have anything to say about it.” Ratchet plants himself between their berths, blocking their view, waving a handful of static bandages at the both of them. He’s giving them the stink optic in alternating intervals, now that Sunstreaker’s down for the count and unreceptive to his ire. “No interfacing shenanigans tonight!”

Sideswipe chuckles, letting the medic’s ranting wash over and through him. Optimus is offering that stupid indulgent expression again while Sideswipe gets comfortable. It’s going to be a long afternoon, crammed in this medbay with his lover and his brother and his Autobot family so he ought to get some recharge while he can.

After all, he won’t be getting any tonight.

[G1] Worth It

“Well,” Vortex drawls as he slides into the empty stool beside the grey Praxian. “What’s a cute little ‘Bot like you doing in a place like this?”

Doorwings twitch as the mech turns to face him, lips curling upward in a smirk. “Last time I checked, factions didn’t matter here.”

Vortex laughs and signals the bartender for a cube of his most violent grade. Which, apparently, is the same thing the Autobot is drinking. The Praxian’s got bearings of duryibllium, doesn’t he?

“It’s more a factor that you look a little out of place than the brand you carry,” Vortex points out, finger jabbing at the happy little Autobot face on the mech’s shoulder. “The name’s Vortex.”

“I know.” Blue optics rake him from helm to pede. “You’ve got a reputation around the universe. And not a good one.”

High grade sloshes as a cube is plunked down in front of Vortex. He tosses it back. “Gimme another,” he orders, and wriggles his rotors. “You gonna tell me your name or do I have to give you one?”

“How about ‘not a chance on Cybertron’?” the Autobot offers, swiveling around in his stool, one hand curled around a cube. “Or ‘you couldn’t handle this, ‘Con’.”

Vortex’s laugh echoes throughout the bar, attracting more than their share of attention. Including that group of Autobots at the back, all glowering Vortex’s direction like he was going to defile their little Praxian here in plain sight or something.

“You’ve got some fire in you, don’t you?” Vortex asks and leans against the bar, openly admiring the Autobot. He feels he should know this one, but his databanks keep coming up with a big question mark. “Let me buy you a cube.”

“Oh, I think I can buy my own.” The cute Autobot slides off his stool, doorwings flickering at Vortex as though taunting him for wanting what he can’t have. “But maybe if you’re lucky, you’ll walk out of here alive.” His helm tilts pointedly toward the table of Autobots, all of whom are bristling with menace.

Vortex isn’t worried. Sure he’s outnumbered. Sure Ons told him that the next time he got jailed he wouldn’t get bailed out. Sure this is just the sort of thing that Megatron frowns upon in their current state of uneasy truce.

But this cheeky little Praxian might just be worth the risk.

Vortex watches the doorwinged mech all but saunter out of the bar, high-fiving his fellow Autobots on the way out.

He’ll call round one to the Autobot. This time. But he better watch out. Because the cute Praxian is in Vortex’s sights, and he hasn’t lost a single mark yet.

The game is on.

[TFP] Of Hating Autobots

“I fragging hate Autobots!” Knock Out snarls, throwing both hands into the air as he paces back and forth in the medbay, knocking down anything in his path.

The noisy clomp-clomp of Breakdown following him around seems to punctuate his mood perfectly.

“Hah. Don’t we all?” Breakdown says and attacks his backplate with a buffer the very moment Knock Out pauses when he catches sight of his finish in the mirror.

It is atrocious! It is marred! It is imperfection! How dare they?

Another snarl builds up volume. His engine races with a growling, high-performance thrum. If he could only get off this ship and put metal to the pedal, perhaps he could work off this ire.

“Those barbarians!” Knock Out rails, whirling on a pede and stomping back across the floor, kicking at a spare piece of plating that had come loose from his thigh. Fragging Optimus Prime! “With their scraped up paint and their dull finish and their sloppy weld-jobs. Disgusting!”

“They got lucky,” Breakdown says and snags Knock Out’s right arm, applying the buffer to it as well. “Next time, I’m gonna smash Bulkhead’s face in.”

“Hah. You keep saying that but I haven’t seen it happen yet.” Knock Out sniffs and looks down at himself, scowling at the deep gouge in his chestplate. “You see this? It’s going to take hours to fix this!”

“Hold still.”

Knock Out huffs but subsides. He does want to get fixed after all. He can’t leave the medbay looking like a cheap piece of scrap. He has a reputation to maintain.

This is all Starscream’s fault. He should have known better. Robbing from the miserable humans is like extending an open invitation to the Autobots!

“Harumph,” Knock Out says and twitches again.

“Don’t let your finish slide either,” Knock Out says, turning his helm to berate his assistant. “I’ll not have you walking around looking like some Autobot.”

“Whatever you say, Knock Out,” Breakdown replies, with the audacity to sound amused.

Knock Out rolls his optics and hunches his shoulders. “Don’t take that tone with me. And don’t miss a spot either!”

“Yes, yes. I heard you the first time.”

Well, at least one thing from today would work out.