They don’t talk.
Words, at this point, are meaningless. No, words are used, but not the important ones.
It takes only seconds for Sunstreaker to get Megatron into the berth, and it’s painfully easy to get Megatron beneath him. He doesn’t know if it’s because of the Fool’s Energon or if Megatron is so used to bending to him. Right now, he doesn’t even care which one it is, because he has what he’s always wanted right here, and Sunstreaker’s going to enjoy it while he can.
He kisses Megatron and moans when Megatron kisses him back. When their glossas tangle as their lower limbs do. As Megatron rolls up against him, his big hands gripping and tugging, trying to touch every inch of Sunstreaker he can grab.
But he’s still so very weak, and it’s all too easy for Sunstreaker to grab his hands and tangle their fingers together. He rocks down, grinding his own panel against Megatron’s, his mouth breaking away to nip and suck at Megatron’s neck.
His old lover smells of fire and brimstone, of victory and defeat. He’s all heat and old metal and new metal, empty spaces and a heavy burden. He’s perfect.
“Sunstreaker–” Megatron starts to say something, and then cuts himself off, a low groan escaping his mouth. His arms wrap around Sunstreaker, his hands grasping and clutching as though he’s confused about what he wants.
“I missed you,” Sunstreaker says, an easy enough admission when he doesn’t have to make eye contact. He drags his mouth down, down, over the Autobot badge – a strange sight but one he can ignore – and then further still.
Megatron shivers. “And whose fault is that?”
“Yours,” Sunstreaker murmurs, his lips finding the broad planes of Megatron’s ventrum, the thrumming yet throttled engine behind it. “Entirely yours.”
He ex-vents over the cooling slats in Megatron’s ventrum before his lips skip a path across the buzzing heat of Megatron’s panel. “Are you going to open for me?”
“That depends on what you intend to do to me,” Megatron replies and one of his hands slides to Sunstreaker’s helm, a skimming touch.
Sunstreaker looks up at him with a smirk. His glossa flicks over his lips. “What do you think, rookie? How long do you think it’s been since I tasted you?”
Megatron’s ventilations stutter. His field floods the room, thick with need. “You and your kinks,” he mutters, but his panels open with a click and the scent of his arousal fills Sunstreaker’s chemoreceptors.
Different and the same, so much to familiarize himself with. “Much better,” Sunstreaker murmurs. He adores Megatron’s new frame, it suits him well, and it appears his interfacing equipment has been altered as well.
It, too, is worthy of compliment.
His lips skim over Megatron’s spike, but it is Megatron’s valve that calls to him. The winking crimson biolights and the plush folds of his rim. His main anterior node flashes excitedly, but he also has two secondary nodes, and they call to Sunstreaker’s glossa.
He hums in his vocalizer and introduces his lips to those bright nodes, brushing over the soft heat of them before his glossa flicks out. Megatron gasps and shivers beneath him, his thighs trembling. All good signs.
“At least you haven’t changed completely,” Sunstreaker says right before he dives in, licking a long, wet line up the length of Megatron’s valve, getting his first taste of pale lubricant.
Megatron gasps and his hands fall away, tangling in the berth covers. Sunstreaker smirks and gets back to work, flicking his glossa over Megatron’s main external node before suckling on it. More lubricant wells up, and Sunstreaker is quick to catch it with his glossa. He licks and sucks and nibbles, enjoying the swelling protomesh of Megatron’s rim, and then the gripping squeeze of his valve as he thrusts his glossa inside.
Megatron is as responsive as he’s always been, his hips gently rocking toward Sunstreaker’s mouth. His helm falls back against the berth, his armor flaring open to offer glimpses of the scarred protoform beneath.
Sunstreaker cradles Megatron’s hips, his fingers scraping thin lines in gray paint, as he consumes Megatron’s valve with unhurried motions. He savors, tracing the rim, touching each sensor one by one. He laps up every dribble of lubricant, and hums against Megatron’s valve, exciting the sensitive dermal mesh.
Megatron’s vents catch and he looses a long, low moan. It is music to Sunstreaker’s audials, zinging straight through to his core. He shivers and pins Megatron’s main anterior node with his lips. He suckles it, glossa flicking across the swollen node as he applies a steady pressure.
Metal creaks. The berth covers rend. Megatron’s thighs tremble and press in on Sunstreaker’s helm vents before falling open again. His heels kick at the berth. Lubricant dribbles free and Sunstreaker dips down to lick it up before lapping at Megatron’s valve again.
He’s so deliciously responsive. Heat pours off him in waves. His rim twitches. His nodes flash excitedly. Sunstreaker knows he’s close to overload. There’s a certain pitch to Megatron’s engine that Sunstreaker will never forget.
He hums, the vibrations rolling over Megatron’s valve. Megatron whines deeply, his hips bucking up toward Sunstreaker’s mouth, rocking in desperate search for more. Something Sunstreaker is happy to provide.
His glossa flicks over each of Megatron’s outer nodes, one after the other. He shifts his weight so that he can slide two fingers into Megatron’s valve, curving them in search of – ah, there it is.
Megatron’s strangled cry is haunting. He bucks hard, valve squeezing tight on Sunstreaker’s fingers. His engine roars, his lubricant sweet on Sunstreaker’s glossa. His backstrut arches. His plating rattles as Sunstreaker suckles on his main exterior node and presses hard against that internal node.
The sound Megatron makes shoots straight to Sunstreaker’s interface array. His spike pings hard against his panel as Megatron overloads beneath him, bucking up hard so that Sunstreaker’s free hand has to pin his hips down. Megatron’s fans roar, the berth covers giving way with a loud rip of fabric.
Primus, he’s hot. Always has been. Through frame changes, upgrades and downgrades, before the war, and during it. Sunstreaker has watched Megatron’s progression through the ages and has never stopped wanting him.
He nuzzles Megatron’s valve through the lingering tremors of overload and then he draws his fingers free. He climbs back up Megatron’s frame, the need escalating within him. Megatron looks back at him, crimson optics hazy, his ventilations stuttered, his hands blindly groping.
Sunstreaker cups Megatron’s head with one hand and seals their mouths together, knowing full well that he tastes of Megatron’s own lubricant. The once warlord moans beneath him, their glossae entangling, Megatron stirring restless beneath him. His thighs part further, cradling Sunstreaker between them, the hot damp of his valve scrubbing against Sunstreaker’s heated panel.
Megatron lets go of the berth and his hands grasp at Sunstreaker’s sides and back, keeping them pressed close. His fingers hook in seams as though ensuring Sunstreaker can never pull away again. He rocks down, grinding himself against Sunstreaker’s panel, leaving wet smears behind.
Sunstreaker grins against his lips, nipping them in parting. “You missed me, too?” he asks as his damp hand slides down, skimming Megatron’s side before curving around his hip and aft. He hitches Megatron a bit higher, so that he can grind against Megatron’s array.
The once-warlord shivers beneath him, his optics burning like embers. “Don’t ask such a thing,” Megatron hisses lowly, as though the admission is a painful thing. His armor rattles, though Sunstreaker doesn’t dare call it trembling.
The great warlord, the Decepticon Emperor of destruction, does not tremble.
“Why not?” Sunstreaker demands, though it already knows the answer. It is tied up in the knots of the Megatron-who-was, who the mech below him is having difficulty reconciling.
He can be both. He simply doesn’t know it yet.
Megatron’s gaze shunts to the side. His frame shivers, hips still working restless against Sunstreaker’s panel, but his field held in reserve.
“I haven’t the strength,” he admits, and it is a quiet, weak thing.
“Pitslag!” Sunstreaker snarls and he nips at Megatron’s upper lip, catching it between his denta, making Megatron startle. “I’ll remind you if I have to. I didn’t keep you alive in those pits to see you shrivel here.”
Megatron’s mouth tears away from his. “It’s not the same.”
“Don’t give me that slag. It frag well is. I’m not letting you throw yourself a pity party, not this time.” Sunstreaker forces their forehelms together, so that Megatron’s gaze has nowhere to go but on him. As it is meant to be.
Optics on me. Focus on me. You wanna live? Then watch me.
“You want me?” Sunstreaker demands with a roll of his hips that rubs his panel over the swollen rim of Megatron’s valve. His spike pings him, demanding release.
But no. Not yet. Megatron has to want it. He has to ask for it.
“You tell me,” Sunstreaker finishes, his fingers sinking into one of Megatron’s seams, tangling in the cables beneath until the charge running through Megatron’s frame nips at the tips of them.
A bitten off groan rattles in Megatron’s chassis. His engine roars, vibrating both of their frames. His thighs clamp around Sunstreaker’s hips, tightening, his fingers digging in between Sunstreaker’s armor seams.
“I want you,” Megatron growls, and there’s fire in his vocals. “I always want you.”
Sunstreaker shudders as the words echo in his audials. He drags his mouth back to Megatron’s, skimming their lips together. His restraint shatters, spike surging free and bumping Megatron’s soaked rim.
Megatron bucks up against him. “Do it,” he says, better a growl, a demand. His thighs clamp hard around Sunstreaker’s hips.
Sunstreaker snarls and claims Megatron’s mouth, thrusting his glossa inside as he rolls his hips and pierces Megatron’s valve at the same time. They shudder in unison, a low keen building in Sunstreaker’s vocalizer as his spike is enclosed in damp, clenching mesh. Megatron’s calipers rippled around him, his internal nodes spitting charge at Sunstreaker’s spike.
Pleasure rattles through Sunstreaker, in the wake of an unrelenting wave of electric heat. He tears his mouth away from Megatron’s, burying his face and his denta against Megatron’s intake instead. Megatron obligingly tilts his helm back, offering the vulnerability of his intake, in much the same manner as he offers his frame.
That surrender, so sweet and willing, has always done things to Sunstreaker. The inferno roars in his internals. His spike throbs as it tunnels a path of pleasure within Megatron’s valve, charge exchanging between node and receptors at a rapid-fire pace. Megatron moves beneath him, rolling up for each of Sunstreaker’s thrusts forward. They move together as though they’ve never forgotten the rhythm of it.
Sunstreaker’s spark aches. He shoves that aside, the memories of loss, and the regret. He can worry about that later.
Right now, there is this. Megatron’s engine whining and rumbling, his vents whirring. He’s gasping into Sunstreaker’s audial, his hands clenching on Sunstreaker’s sides. There’s a noise, a mix of static and need in Megatron’s vocalizer. He’s expelling heat, smelling of welds and forgefire and broken things.
Sunstreaker mouths at Megatron’s intake cable, pulling a main line between his denta, feeling the pulse of charge within it. Megatron shivers, clutches at him harder, calipers cinching down until Sunstreaker can barely move. Not that it is necessary.
Megatron’s field surrounds him, needy and hot. It pulses against Sunstreaker’s own, drawing out the last reserve of restraint he had.
Sunstreaker growls and bites down, pinning Megatron’s cable between his denta. He snaps his hips forward and overloads, transfluid crackling as it surges into Megatron’s valve, painting his sensors in fluid. Megatron looses a strangled sound, writhing beneath Sunstreaker, and then he, too, overloads. His valve spasms around Sunstreaker’s spike, drawing free another smaller overload.
Sunstreaker pants for ventilations, heat swallowing him whole. He drags his mouth back to Megatron’s, moving their lips together with something almost like care. His hands knead a gentle rhythm on Megatron’s armor as he circles his hips, sustaining the pleasure for both of them as long as he can.
“Mmm. I missed this,” Sunstreaker murmurs against Megatron’s lips as he rolls his hips, his half-pressurized spike gliding through the mix of lubricant and transfluid until it slips free of Megatron’s valve.
“Of course you did,” Megatron mutters, though the force of it is whisked away as he shivers, charge lighting up the room as it crawls out from beneath his armor.
Sunstreaker hums in his intake, his lips fluttering over the arch of Megatron’s cheek, to the curve of his helm. One thing that so rarely changed despite the many different redesigns of his frame. Sunstreaker’s also interested in those fascinating curliques on Megatron’s chest.
Megatron rolls up against him, his fingers digging in at Sunstreaker’s seams, pinching a few cables in the process. The brief burst of irritation wakes Sunstreaker’s simmering circuits.
“Again,” Megatron demands, his ankles hooking around the back of Sunstreaker’s calves, keeping him pinned.
Sunstreaker brushes their nasal ridges together. “Mmm. Do you think I’m leaving or something?”
“You have before,” Megatron retorts, and the echo of hurt in his vocals sends something a lot like shame rocketing through Sunstreaker’s spark.
“You know why,” he murmurs.
Megatron’s fingers slide free of Sunstreaker’s seams and skim upward, until they grip Sunstreaker’s helm vents and pull his helm back. Their optics meet.
“No,” Megatron says. “I never did.”
“I could explain for a thousand years, and you’d probably never get it,” Sunstreaker sighs and brushes his lips over Megatron’s again.
“Then don’t.” Megatron’s grip softens, his thumbs stroking over Sunstreaker’s cheeks. “Or at least, not right now.” His lips curve, nearing a grin.
Sunstreaker chuckles. “That’s fair.” He pauses, checks his grip, and then smirks. “But if you think I’m going to do all the work here, you’re wrong.”
Megatron blinks. “What?”
Sunstreaker winks an optic and then twists. The berth rustles. Megatron yelps, and Sunstreaker tosses him around like he shouldn’t be able to do. But for all that Megatron is larger, he’s also lighter. Empty spaces, less mass, and also, less guarded.
Sunstreaker’s back hits the berth with Megatron sprawled atop him, a very comfortable and welcome weight. Sunstreaker’s hands find Megatron’s hips again, pulling the once-warlord over Sunstreaker’s groin so that he can grind up against him.
“There,” Sunstreaker says. “That’s better. You still haven’t learned from that, have you?”
Megatron’s hands plant to the berth on either side of Sunstreaker’s helm. “I had better things to concentrate on.” He leans over Sunstreaker, his optics dark and crimson. “I’ll have my answers.”
“So will I.” Sunstreaker draws up his legs, his knees bumping against Megatron’s backstrut. “In the morning.”
“Fair enough.” Megatron’s glossa flicks over Sunstreaker’s lips, his vocalizer a low rumble. “I have missed you,” he says, so quiet Sunstreaker almost did not hear it.
He will never admit to his ventilations catching.
Sunstreaker smiles at him, spark swelling in his casing. “I know,” he murmurs, and cups one hand around Megatron’s helm, pulling him down for another kiss. This one is slower, gentler, reminding and greeting all at once.