[Crown the Empire] Undaunted 05
Jan. 25th, 2018 06:13 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
dracoqueen22“Victorious,” Panic! At the Disco
Pairings: Grimlock/Starscream, Cyclonus/Tailgate, Knock Out/Snarl/Breakdown
Characters: Scourge, Skyquake, Hot Rod
This chapter is where the story starts earning it’s “M” Rating.
Undaunted Chapter Five
They were going to be late.
It was a passing thought, chased away almost immediately by a particularly powerful thrust. It ground over his ceiling node and sent lightning down his spinal strut. Pleasure eclipsed rational thought, leaving Starscream panting and strutless, pinned between the wall and his lover.
They were wasting solvent, too. The entire point of the shower had been to get clean. But Grimlock had looked at him with that glint in his visor, the one that made Starscream shiver from head to foot, feeling desired and loved. He’d surrendered to Grimlock’s groping hands and couldn’t manage a single protest as Grimlock lifted him up and slid into him in a single thrust.
Starscream had moaned, valve tingling, still wet and open from their earlier fragging. It was hard not to want Grimlock. It was hard to deny himself this outright pleasure. His thighs spread wide around Grimlock’s bulk, the thick width of Grimlock’s spike gliding over every inner node, building the pleasure to a quick crescendo.
Starscream made a sound now, closer to a whimper, and tightened his grip on Grimlock’s shoulders. His thighs trembled. The sound of Grimlock’s ventilations, heavy and hungry and stuttered, echoed in the washrack.
Starscream’s chronometer chimed another reminder.
They were going to be late.
He gasped out as much.
Grimlock chuckled and tucked his face into the crook of Starscream’s neck, his mouthguard vibrating. “They can’t start without us,” he said and his hands tightened on Starscream’s hips, pulling him down until he was fully sheathed, and his spikehead played merry havoc on Starscream’s ceiling node.
“We’re … ah… Decepticon command,” Starscream managed to stutter as another wave of ecstasy made his valve ripple and his main node throb. He was perilously close to overload already. “It’s bad politics.”
Grimlock’s amusement rumbled in his chest, and vibrated against Starscream’s cockpit. “Frag politics,” he growled.
Starscream smirked and dug his claws into a seam, scraping over the sensitive cables beneath. “Would rather you frag me instead.”
His wings scraped against the wall, causing a dissonant sensation of pleasure and pain, as Grimlock thrust into him, hard and deep. Starscream moaned, head tossed back, claws scraping lines in Girmlock’s paint as overload struck. His valve clamped down, milking Grimlock’s spike for each surge of charge. His own spike spattered transfluid between their frames.
He rode the waves of pleasure eagerly, even as Grimlock ground deeper and deeper, caressing his nodes to extend the overload. Starscream panted for ventilations, his thighs trembling, as Grimlock gripped his hips and started to thrust, each more powerful than the last, pinning Starscream against the wall.
Ecstasy sent sparks along Starscream’s frame. Dizzy, he caressed Grimlock’s cables with his talons as Grimlock forehead tucked into the crook of his neck, ex-vents blasting heat against Starscream’s frame.
“Overload inside me, my lord,” Starscream purred, his lips caressing Grimlock’s audial as he felt Grimlock’s grip tighten around him. “You are welcome to it.”
Grimlock shuddered. A low sound rose in his intake, one of arousal and need, and Starscream preened at how easily he could make his lover come undone. Grimlock’s pace stuttered, his thrusts harder and deeper, until he stiffened and overloaded, transfluid a searing wash over Starscream’s sensitive nodes.
He moaned as another, smaller overload wracked his valve, his calipers fluttering madly around Grimlock’s spike. Starscream rolled his hips, grinding down, the rim of his valve massaging the small rise in Grimlock’s spike. No knotting this time, they did have a schedule to keep after all.
But the memory of that pleasure was enough.
“You…” Grimlock growled through the aftershocks of ecstasy, the washrack still beating down at them with hot washes of solvent, “are a menace.”
“You’re just now figuring this out?” Starscream purred as his claws dipped further into seams, stroking the undersides of armor panels. “My you are slow on the uptake, my lord.”
Grimlock lifted his head, visor a bright wash of hunger. His spike twitched in Starscream’s valve, still pressurized as though he hadn’t soaked Starscream in his transfluid already. He started to shift, light and slow pushes that sent a wave of reawakened pleasure through Starscream’s valve.
Starscream gasped and arched his backstrut. “We’re going to be late,” he reminded Grimlock, though there was less force behind it then he would have liked.
“They’ll wait for us,” Grimlock said, and the slow drag of his spike over Starscream’s excited nodes chased away any other protest.
He had a point, after all.
The rest of the world could wait.
~
It was not compulsive behavior, no matter what anyone insisted. Scourge simply believed in the weight of his duty, and would sooner die than see himself fail. It was important to him. It was necessary.
And if that required he double-check behind himself, well, who could blame him? He was only tasked with one of Iacon’s most important responsibilities, one that the Autobots in Polyhex and the Neutrals in Nova Cronum did not have to face. They did not have prisoners and criminals to be concerned with.
They did not have a handful of super soldiers in their basement, under lock and key, stripped of all processing capabilities, with sparks capable of turning into bombs if improperly extinguished. Overlord, Black Shadow, and Sixshot – their minds had been wiped. They were all but machine without memory and free will.
That did not make them any less dangerous.
Scourge made a point to assess their confinement on a daily basis. The three of them were enough to destroy all of New Cybertron if they so wished. While they could not do so at the moment, it would only take a single lapse in judgment. The wrong mech with the right intel, sneaking inside and freeing them of their cage.
Not on Scourge’s watch.
There had been talk only once of giving another life to the supersoldiers. Perhaps allowing them freedoms under a new identity, wiping them clean as Red Alert – now Flare – had been. That idea had been quickly set aside. No need for a hasty decision with such dangerous, unstable mechs.
Scourge agreed.
The supersoldiers were the worst of what sat locked in the prison beneath Decepticon central. But they weren’t Scourge’s only responsibilities.
Barricade, also, was present, and like Dirge, would never be released. If there was a candidate for execution, especially given he had no other use for the common good, Barricade fit the bill.
He would never apologize. He would never regret. He would, as Starscream determined not long after his arrest, re-offend.
It had been a particularly chilling conversation, one Scourge wished he hadn’t witnessed. As Barricade admitted, with a smirk, to a nauseating list of victims, not all of whom had been Autobots. He had, over the course of the war, taken many Decepticons as well, most of them against their will, all of whom did not remember. Unless, of course, Barricade chose to allow them to remember.
The fear, he’d said, was the tastiest.
Dirge was not as lost as Barricade, but he was another without remorse. Autobots, he’d claimed, were lesser creatures, and grounders besides. They were meant to be beneath Decepticons. Victory had been Megatron’s, and the rewards his to offer. That he and his trinemates had interfaced an Autobot to death didn’t seem to weigh at all on his conscience.
Monsters, Scourge decided.
There were monsters in the world.
Scourge had other detainees under his oversight, though these mechs were considered to have promise.
Motormaster and Dead End had already been released into the custody of one Autobot Kup, who had reassured everyone he would find something of worth in their sparks. Compassion, Kup claimed, was often the key to success. And they were, in his optics, little more than misguided sparklings.
Lost causes even. Ultra Magnus had leaned in, with a quirk to his lips, to inform Scourge that lost causes were something of Kup’s expertise. He’d then tilted his head in Drift’s direction – Deadlock, Scourge recognized immediately – as if to prove the point.
Scourge had signed the transfer orders then and there. From what he’d heard, Kup was making headway with the two headstrong Stunticons. It was one less burden for Scourge to carry. He had enough of them as it was.
“You’re going to be late.”
Scourge didn’t bother to look up from his paperwork, making a tic mark next to Shockwave. Present and accounted for, there in his basement lab with his overseer watching his every move.
“Our fearless leaders are always late,” Scourge replied. “I’ll be fine.”
Skyquake, his second, laughed. “If I had Starscream in my berth, I’d be late, too,” he commented as he leaned against the door frame, one arm folded over the other. His wings folded against his back, not unlike a Seeker’s, though Skyquake was of a different sort.
He and his squadron had arrived two years after the signing of the treaty. Skyquake took to the peace like a Sharkticon to the Rust Sea. He reveled in it. And sometimes, Scourge caught him looking to the sky, waiting for his twin to arrive as well.
Dreadwing, Skyquake had said with a crooked grin and a lonesome cant to his optics, would enjoy the peace even more than Skyquake. Once he got over Megatron losing to a beastformer. And said beastformer being their leader now.
Scourge’s lips curved into a grin to match Skyquake’s. “Indeed.”
He bent his attention back to his lists. There were five Constructicons on it, as a matter of course. Only one actually graced a cell right now – Hook, who was being most stubborn, perhaps out of a sense of pride. There was history between he and the Autobot Chief Medic, a history that held Hook back from moving forward remorsefully.
The other Constructicons were improving. They entirety of the Devastator gestalt had their obedience coding removed, similar but different in effect from what had haunted the Combaticons. But more than that, the false programming had been removed as well. What remained was complicated. They’d been laboring under it for so long, some had rooted into their base coding. Overcoming that would take time.
They would never be what they were. But they had a chance now. They were learning remorse. They understood that Megatron’s path was not one they had to follow. In that, they were like the Stunticons, almost sparkling in behavior, needing to learn a proper moral code all over again.
Scourge did not know if he could convince any of the Constructicons to apologize and exhibit remorse. Most of them, Hook especially, cited that because they were nonconsensually reprogrammed, they could not be held responsible for their actions. Scourge – and Grimlock and Starscream – disagreed. It was a sticky situation.
Like it nor not, however, they did need the Constructicons. Of them, only Scavenger seemed to carry visible remorse. Upon realizing that his interactions with Ratchet were a crime, that he was not being kind, Scavenger had been horrified. He had vowed to do whatever necessary to make amends.
Scavenger was the only Constructicon on actual parole, though he was under the supervision of the New Cybertron Rebuilding Team headed by the former Wrecker Bulkhead.
Bonecrusher and Long Haul had limited parole. All they wanted was to build. They submitted to any restrictions and any supervision deemed necessary by Scourge. Their behavior toward the Autobot medic had been a matter of convenience, not true desire. Their potential to re-offend was all but negative. They were not as remorseful as Scavenger, because to them it had not been illegal at the time. Yes, poor taste, but technically allowed by their commanding officer.
It left a sour taste in Scourge’s mouth. He hoped time would change their point of view. Though only the rational side of him understood what they meant. Soldiers, following orders. Soldiers, who had no choice but to follow the moral compass of their immoral leader.
Sticky situation indeed.
Scrapper, as their leader, had made concessions, few though they were. He’d conceded that he and his team had acted in poor taste, that following Megatron’s example was no excuse. He stated such behavior would not occur again, and that they would lend their strength and sparks to the reconstruction of Cybertron.
Scrapper intended to apologize once, and only once. He would concede no more than that.
It was better than nothing, Scourge supposed. He doubted the Autobots would not be mollified with such half-afted remorse. There were many, he knew, who would prefer if every last prisoner in Decepticon cells be executed on the spot.
Such a thing could not come to pass.
Perhaps it was the optimism, Scourge pondered. He’d never thought himself optimistic before, but he felt it now. Mechs could change. Mechs could learn. He needed to believe that.
Certainly his own hands weren’t free of misdeeds. It had been a long, dangerous war. He might have never laid hands on an unwilling partner, but he’d certainly killed. He’d laid waste to Decepticon enemies. He’d done his fair share of evil things.
Remorse could be a heavy burden.
Skyquake shifted. Coughed. Reminded Scourge that he was still here. Though Scourge couldn’t fathom why.
“I’ll attend the ceremony then relieve you,” Scourge said as he made another tic mark, getting closer to the end of his list. Slowly but surely, he was running out of prisoners to monitor. It was a good problem to have. “This is a celebration no one should miss.”
Skyquake snorted. “Except you apparently.”
“We all have our duties.”
Scourge’s stylus paused on the next two names – Helex and Tesaurus, who had reverted to their prior designations of Crucible and Scissorsaw. They had been practically model prisoners since their incarceration in the battle which lost them Tarn and Vos. They had only recently petitioned to have hearings for some kind of parole.
Other than their past actions as members of the DJD, Scourge had no reason to deny them. Which put him in a quandary. What could one do with a former member of the DJD? Were they dangerous? It was too difficult to say.
Kaon, by contrast, had spoken barely a handful of words since the DJD’s defeat. He’d only spoken long enough to claim that everyone’s choices from this moment hence were their own. He would not bar anyone of the DJD from reforming, if they so choose. When pressed to voice desires for his own fate, Kaon had only looked at them with that dead-optic stare.
Creepy was what it was.
Maybe someday he’d tire of his silence. Until then, he seemed pretty comfortable in the brig.
“Yours isn’t to not have any fun, you know,” Skyquake commented, dragging Scourge out of his thoughts.
Scourge frowned and looked up, his forehead crinkling. “There are far too many negatives in that sentence, Skyquake.”
“Are you going to chastise me for my grammar? Seriously?” Skyquake rolled his optics and straightened. “When was the last time you had any kind of fun, sir?”
It was the ‘sir’ that chased away Scourge’s frown. He’d never demanded ‘sirs’ from any of his subordinates. Clearly, this was a conversation he was meant to give his full attention.
“Fun is a concept long forgotten in the eons of war,” Scourge said carefully.
Skyquake rolled his shoulders in a great shrug. “Look. All I’m saying is that if Cyclonus can snag himself a cute minibot to wipe that perpetual gloom from his face, I’m thinking you can unbend enough to find happiness, too. With a partner or not.”
Scourge searched his second’s face and found nothing but sincerity present. Worry even. As the three factions started to move forward, as New Cybertron took shape, everyone was building a new life for themselves out of the ashes of the war.
Scourge had yet to embrace it fully.
“You may have a point,” Scourge admitted. He set his stylus down with a click and powered down his datapad. Ruminating over Kaon’s future and Bludgeon’s unfortunate fate could be saved for another evening. One where there wasn’t celebration to be found.
Besides, he would be even later than Grimlock and Starscream if he didn’t get moving now.
“I’ll leave the prisoners in your care then?” Scourge stated as he rose from behind his desk, glancing briefly at himself. He was fairly immaculate already, but it never hurt to double-check.
“Until Blackout comes to relieve me anyway,” Skyquake agreed with a chuckle. “Fragger better not show up overcharged, or I’ll have his rotors.”
Now that was a clash Scourge would pay to see. Fierce Skyquake against solid Blackout. They were of a height, of a mass, equally trained.
Scourge chuckled and headed for the doorway, where Skyquake waited. “I suppose time will tell. Have a good evening, Skyquake.”
His second clapped him briefly on the shoulder, dark green plating a contrast to the pale blue of Scourge’s. “You’d better have fun.”
Despite himself, Scourge smiled. “I shall certainly try.”
~
Grimlock was bored.
It was getting harder not to show it. Speech after speech. Polite applause after polite smile. It was getting tedious. How long had it even been?
He consulted his chronometer.
Twenty minutes. Only twenty minutes? Clearly, his chronometer was malfunctioning. He’d been standing here for two hours at least, his visor glazing over as another mech stepped up to the front of the podium to read off his speech.
Congratulations and gratitude and excitement and blah, blah, blah. This was an important ceremony, Grimlock knew. What Krok and his compatriots had accomplished here was a very good and necessary thing.
Could they get to the ribbon-cutting already now?
An elbow jabbed into his hip, expertly placed against an armor seam to chime over the cables beneath.
“Pay attention,” Starscream hissed, subvocal that no one should have heard it save Grimlock himself.
“I am,” Grimlock murmured in return, obediently shifting his gaze back to the current speaker. He didn’t really know the mech that well.
Templar was a new arrival, one who had come with the sort of experience Krok had been desperately searching for – he was a psychotherapist. Something every resident of New Cybertron was in dire need of. Ratchet had vouched for him. Smokescreen had hid from him, whatever that meant.
He was one of Krok’s new hires, including another Neutral who arrived later by the name of Cerebro, who was more of a psychiatrist, relying on medscripts and surgeries. Together, they would form the core of the new mental health facility.
In any case, Templar had the sort of low, droning voice that lulled Grimlock into a rest-state. All he wanted to do was recharge just listening to it.
“Then stop fidgeting,” Starscream demanded, just short of a hiss.
Grimlock would never, ever tell him how much he sounded like Ratchet just then. The last thing Starscream needed to hear was that he resembled Grimlock’s creator.
Grimlock shifted his weight pointedly. “I can’t help it.”
“You’re the Decepticon leader!” Starscream hissed for real this time, his elbow digging into Grimlock’s armor seam. “Act like it!”
At the front of the stage, Templar finished his speech, dipping his head to the crowd, as Cerebro stepped up to take his place. Primus, Grimlock had miscounted. They still had another to go!
Grimlock creaked as he leaned toward Starscream, ex-venting a gust of warm heat against his lover. “And you’re not bored, too?” he asked, making a pointed look at the subtle twitching of Starscream’s wings.
“That’s not the point.” Starscream sliced a glance at him, chastising but amused as well.
Grimlock’s visor burned a little brighter. He loosed his control of his field by a small degree, letting the sizzling heat of it caress Starscream. He dragged it over his consort’s field edges, drizzling pleasure in his wake.
He watched Starscream shiver, his optics cycle wide. Starscream’s glossa flicked over his lips, wetting them.
“Isn’t it?” Grimlock purred, though quiet enough not to disturb the newest droning speech. “When this is over, I want to finish what we started this morning. I want to take advantage of our time off, lay you down, and worship you, my Air Commander.”
Starscream’s next vent was a ragged one. “You don’t play fair,” he breathed.
“Not when it comes to what I want.” Grimlock stroked his field along Starscream’s again. “And I’ll always want you.”
He left those words ringing in Starscream’s audials as his periphery awareness registered that someone had called his name. He supposed Cerebro was the last speaker after all, because Krok had now stepped up to the podium and was gesturing for Grimlock.
There was a ragged cheer from the assembled crowd. Grimlock had his fans among the Decepticons, even as there were those who still questioned the legitimacy of his ascension. Only one person had dared to challenge him for the position, and everyone knew what happened to Tarn. No one had tried since.
Grimlock felt the heat of Starscream’s stare burning against his back. He had a feeling he’d be paying for that little tease later.
Good.
Grimlock stepped up to the podium, nodding to Krok as he did so. He looked out the gathered crowd – not the entirety of the Decepticons, but a good mix of all three factions.
“It is my honor and my privilege to stand here tonight and congratulate Lieutenant Krok on this important achievement,” Grimlock stated. His speech had been prepared short and sweet. There’d been enough speechifying already. “This facility will bring all of us – and our planet – one step closer to healing.”
He pulled the scissors out of his subspace and handed them to Krok. They’d adopted this opening day ceremony from the humans. Grimlock liked the symbolism of it, though he could’ve done without all the speeches.
Krok, at least, wasted no time in striding to the glittery purple ribbon and slicing through it with little fanfare. As the two halves fluttered to the ground, Grimlock continued.
“Without further ado, I am proud to announce that The Hospitality House is now open and ready to deliver the highest of care to any Cybertronian in need, regardless of religion or factional allegiance.”
Polite claps rose from the crowd. Those who had worked very hard to make the Hospitality House a reality grinned brightly. Grimlock stepped back and put a blatant arm around Starscream, content to let Krok step up to speak again. Grimlock’s part in this was done.
He tucked Starscream under his arm and leaned down, voice a low murmur meant to resonate in Starscream’s audials. “I’ll bet there are dozens of empty, open rooms in there.”
“Some of them even have restraints strong enough for a supersoldier,” Starscream replied, optics glittering, lips curved with amusement.
Grimlock’s engine growled. He felt the twitch of Starscream’s wings against his arm. “Now who’s being unfair?”
Starscream leaned against his side, a kiss of charge licking against Grimlock’s armor. “Do you want to give our new medical facility a trial run or not?” he murmured, his field nudging Grimlock’s with heated promise.
Arousal thrummed through Grimlock’s lines. “Let’s go.” Krok and the others wouldn’t miss them. Cyclonus and Tailgate had already snuck away. Only Scourge lingered, as Scourge was wont to do. “I’ve a sudden need to taste my consort.”
“And I’ve a sudden urge to let you,” Starscream replied.
A shudder ran through Grimlock’s frame. He curved inward, turning toward Starscream, free hand lifting to cup his Air Commander’s jaw gently. He tilted Starscream’s face upward to look at him, reading the want and need in Starscream’s optics.
“I love you,” Grimlock said, as he had a thousand times already, and would a million times more. Because it was true.
Starscream’s smile was soft, gentle, as he leaned into Grimlock’s touch. “I know.”
~
The outdoor amphitheater would not have been Cyclonus’ first choice. Affectionately nicknamed The Grand Strand, it was the go-to for trifactional entertainment on New Cybertron. At present, it played host to Jazz and Skybyte’s unnamed duo – trio, actually, including their musically talented manager – but over the past couple years, it had hosted various other types of recreation.
The music was not to Cyclonus’ taste, but Tailgate had asked and Cyclonus hadn’t learned how to deny him. He doubted he ever would.
Besides, the music was not all that was available. There were numerous types of food and drink to be found here, and Cyclonus had indulged. As had Tailgate. Some might even accuse Cyclonus of spoiling him.
Ah, but he deserved it.
Tailgate had tugged Cyclonus to The Grand Strand after the opening ceremony because he’d wanted to dance. Unable to refuse, Cyclonus had allowed himself to be dragged here. Dancing, however, was not his forte. Especially not the energetic, writhing type currently popular with the seething crowd. The music, too, had an upbeat pace to it, undignified at the least.
It was nothing like the music of the Golden Age. Nothing like the solemn tones of the temples in Tetrahex. Nothing like the historical ballads still haunting Cyclonus’ memories. But he supposed it had a charm all it’s own.
Tailgate seemed to enjoy it well enough.
Cyclonus was content to sit at one of the many tables scattered around the periphery of the dance floor. He had a flute of quality engex and an excellent observation point. If his gaze lingered on Tailgate more often than not, well, that was his right as Tailgate’s partner. Tailgate in all likelihood, was dancing in such a manner because he knew Cyclonus was watching.
He’d been so delighted to attend tonight’s festivities, especially since he would be on Cyclonus’ arm. Tailgate held a certain pride, for some reason, and would tell anyone who listened that Cyclonus was his partner. He’d been beyond giddy to stand up on that podium beside Cyclonus.
It was quite adorable.
His excitement was rather infectious, though Cyclonus could not duplicate his visible enthusiasm. He’d much rather watch Tailgate dance, happy in the midst of a sea of frames. Cyclonus only recognized a few, but was unsurprised to see Lieutenant Skids out in the mix. Skids was one of the few Neutrals who had made friendly overtures to everyone, Autobot and Decepticon alike. He was welcome anywhere on New Cybertron as a result.
At present, he was twisting and spinning Tailgate around the dance floor, as Blaster’s cassettes danced around the two of them. Tailgate was laughing – Cyclonus could see the bright sheen of delight in his visor.
Cyclonus sipped at his engex and relaxed into his chair. It was a chilly night, for those who noticed the temperature. The sky was clear, the stars a blurred vista thanks to their constant motion. Streetlamps gave the illusion of day and nightcycles but it was never enough. Someday, perhaps, they might find themselves actually anchored to a solar system.
Now that they were less focused on creating weapons, they actually had the processor power to spare on more important scientific advancements.
Tailgate spied him through the crowd. He gestured for Cyclonus to join him, but Cyclonus merely shook his head. He had no interest in awkwardly moving to the energetic music.
Tailgate’s visor brightened, and his head turned toward Skids. The lieutenant glanced Cyclonus’ direction, his lips curved with amusement, before he shooed Tailgate on. Cyclonus didn’t know which words passed between them, but they encouraged Tailgate to start bouncing out of the crowd, making a beeline for Cyclonus.
Sitting up, Cyclonus pulled Tailgate’s energon out of subspace, setting it on the table for the minibot. Tailgate bounced into view, his field bubbling with excitement.
“You looked lonely over here,” he said as he scooted in next to Cyclonus, grabbing Cyclonus’ right arm and slinging it over his shoulders.
Cyclonus chuckled. “Did I now?”
“Yes. I figured it’s because you missed me.” Tailgate laughed and tucked himself into Cyclonus’ side. “Which could be solved if you’d come dance with me.”
Cyclonus reached for Tailgate’s energon, scooting it closer to his partner. “I am not lonely. And I enjoy watching you enjoy yourself.”
“Yes, I know,” Tailgate said, closer to a purr that had no busy being used in public.
Cyclonus’ faceplate heated. It still shocked him, how easily Tailgate could bring down his walls and remove his reserve. “This is not the place for such talk,” he said quietly, though his fingers found their way to Tailgate’s shoulder, stroking it gently.
“What? That was a perfectly innocent comment.” Tailgate shrugged and his free hand found Cyclonus’ thigh as he caught the end of his straw with his intake port.
Cyclonus’ lips curved. “There is very little innocent about you.” A fact which he’d learned the more he peeled back the layers of their relationship.
“I am the picture of innocence,” Tailgate retorted and slurped at his energon, draining it dry in several long pulls, a sight which did not fail to make Cyclonus heat internally.
Innocent might have been a term Cyclonus would have used to describe Tailgate back when they first met. But he knew better now. Especially given that Tailgate’s hand had begun to creep up Cyclonus’ thigh, toward his groin.
Cyclonus shifted, his gaze going to the crowd, but no one was paying them a bit of attention. Tailgate would be the sort to grope his lover in public, just to see if he could get away with it. Mischievous brat.
Tailgate released the straw with a satisfied sound and set the emptied cube on the table. “I really can’t convince you to join me?” he asked as his fingers came perilously near to Cyclonus’ panel.
Cyclonus worked his intake. “No. I’ll save for my energy for this evening.”
“Well, you’ll need it.” Tailgate’s optics brightened in a grin, his field stroking lascivious over Cyclonus’ before he abruptly hopped down from the chair. “A few more songs and then we can leave, all right? You get to pick where we go next.”
Cyclonus tilted his head. “A fair compromise.”
Tailgate giggled. “I thought so, too.” He backed away, into the throng of dancers. They quickly swallowed him up, but Cyclonus never lost sight of him.
His return to Skids and the cassettes and was greeted with laughter. Tailgate easily found the rhythm again, and soon enough, he was wriggling and dancing to the beat again. The delight in his expression was enough to warm something deep inside Cyclonus. Or perhaps that was the echo of Tailgate’s touch on his thigh.
Cyclonus sipped on his energon as he watched Tailgate, only to find that he’d finished it during his thoughtful observations. He set the empty glass on the table next to Tailgate’s empty cube. He rapped a nonsense rhythm with his fingers as the jaunty music came to an end. Laughter and stomping rose from the crowd – approval for the band.
“This next one is a slow beat,” Jazz said into the mic, condensation a sheen over his armor, but excitement bright in his visor. “So grab that someone special and get to swaying. Show me the love, mechs. I want to feel it in the air.”
The brightly flashing, spinning lights abruptly shifted to a solid, cool glow. Lanterns shone like little spotlights over the floor. Milling dancers grabbed partners, some with obvious affection, others because of proximity. A low, gentle note started to play and Cyclonus’ spark clenched.
This was an old ballad. From Tetrahex.
He cycled a ventilation and then and there, made a decision. He rose to his feet. One dance wouldn’t hurt. He couldn’t ignore the song of reflection, not this bit of history come back to resonate deep within him.
He threaded through the crowd, found Tailgate’s whose back was to him as he watched the band play. Tailgate hadn’t randomly grabbed a partner. Where Skids had gone, Cyclonus didn’t know. He’d vanished, as spies were wont to do.
Cyclonus tapped Tailgate on the shoulder, and as his partner turned, offered Tailgate his hand. “Might I have this dance?” he asked, curving forward to be on a more even keel with the minibot.
Tailgate’s visor grew bright. His field turned warm and affectionate as it poured over Cyclonus. “Really?”
“It is a song for lovers,” Cyclonus replied as Tailgate’s hand slid into his. “And I would share it with no one but you.”
“Of course I will!” Tailgate’s fingers tightened around his, his field eclipsing Cyclonus with joy and love.
Cyclonus hummed and drew Tailgate into his arms, as a ghost from the past in the form of a song, grew and wrapped around him.
Spending a few hours in the Grand Strand might not have been Cyclonus’ first choice, but he was glad they had come after all.
~
Blurr was going to win. That was a given. Everyone knew it, even the rest of the racers.
Second place, however, was still up for grabs. And Knock Out had already decided that trophy was going to be his. After Breakdown’s massage and Snarl’s specially formulated energon, there was no way he’d lose.
At the starting line with nine other racers, including Blurr, Knock Out stretched. He pulled his arms over his head, lengthening the lines of his cables, drawing them taut. The lights gleamed down on the track, warming his plating, and he felt the regard of dozens of mechs, gathered here for the race.
He had the feeling this was going to be one of New Cybertron’s most popular attractions. The First Annual Lightning Cup was already a success, and they hadn’t even raced yet.
Knock Out scanned the crowd, looking for a specific face, and grinned as he caught Snarl there in the front row, squashed between a Decepticon Knock Out didn’t immediately recognize and an Autobot he did. Snarl even had one of those cheap flags and was waving it wildly.
Knock Out glanced at his chronometer. More than enough time to acquire a bit of luck, as it were. Blurr was still over there, posing for the cameras.
Knock Out snorted. That would be him afterward. He had a plan to ride Blurr’s aft the whole time. Blurr might win, but Knock Out didn’t intend to make it easy for him.
He jogged over to the front row, passing by a few more racers who were stretching and chatting amongst themselves. A hip-high barricade did little more than corral the crowd away from the track. Snarl could have stepped over it if he wanted, it barely reached his knees.
“What you Knock Out doing?” Snarl asked, sounding a little alarmed, as though he thought Knock Out had opted to forfeit the race.
Knock Out grinned and leaned over the barricade, his hands braced on the top of it. “I could use a bit of luck,” he said, his tires setting off into a slow spin.
Snarl shifted toward him, looming over Knock Out easily. The mass of him was as appealing now as it had been the first time he’d swept Knock Out up into his arms and kissed him senseless. There was something indefinably erotic about being able to bring a mech nearly twice his size to his knees with only a look.
“What you want then?” Snarl rumbled, his truncated way of speaking probably rude to the audials of anyone who wasn’t used to it.
Knock Out chuckled. “Are you really going to make me say it?” he purred.
Snarl tipped a finger under Knock Out’s chin, painfully gentle as he tilted Knock Out’s face upward.
“You so pretty,” he rumbled and slanted his lips over Knock Out’s, soft and sweet as always, so careful of his strength, as though Knock Out was something fragile to be protected.
It sent a wave of warmth through Knock Out’s spark. His hands curled against the barricade. A shiver ran down his spinal strut.
He almost forewent the race then and there, but the kiss was over far too quickly to muddle his thinking that far.
“There,” Snarl said. “That for good luck.” His finger tickled under Knock Out’s chin.
“Mm. Yes, it is,” Knock Out breathed.
A loud horn echoed throughout the track – the warning chime for all racers to gather in their assigned lanes. Time to go make history.
Knock Out winked at Snarl and turned, intending to go back toward his spot. But he suddenly had an armful of Breakdown as the Stunticon snatched Knock Out up in an embrace.
“My turn!” he said as his mouth closed over Knock Out’s, the kiss sloppy and inelegant, but full of enthusiasm, as Breakdown always was.
Knock Out laughed into the kiss, warmed down to his spark, feeling charge gather in his lines. He never knew happiness could be defined as this.
“For luck,” Breakdown said against his lips, pressing a kiss to the nearest corner of Knock Out’s mouth.
Another loud honk announced the secondary warning bell as Breakdown’s embrace tightened, and the thrum of his engine vibrated through both of their frames.
“You’re going to disqualify me,” Knock Out said with a laugh as he tried to disentangle himself from clinging arms.
“Not a chance.” Breakdown slanted their lips together again before he finally released Knock Out with a little push. “Bring me home a trophy!”
Knock Out stumbled a little, but quickly caught his balance. He was amused, despite himself, as Breakdown danced back to the crowd. He lifted his arms to Snarl, who helped tug him onto the barricade in front of Snarl. His legs dangling over the edge, Breakdown’s visor shone with enthusiasm.
Unfairly adorable. It was amazing how much a little guidance could help a mech emerge from his shell.
Knock Out wandered back to his lane feeling ridiculously happy. Perhaps even a little dopey. Primus, what those two did to him.
Someone shifted in his periphery.
“Double the luck, huh?” commented the young racer in the lane next to Knock Out. He was a flashy thing – red and orange and yellow. “That’s not fair.”
Knock Out smirked. “Guess you’ll just have to rely on your own four wheels then.”
“Don’t worry. I’m sure I can take you. Though if you want to share some of that luck, I won’t mind.” The garishly painted mech winked.
The final chime echoed over the track, everyone moving into starting position with only the pre-race jitters to fill the air.
“Sorry, but I think I’ll keep it all to myself,” Knock Out said with a laugh. Those two handsome mechs were his, and he wasn’t one to share.
The brat’s spoiler flicked up and down. “Shame. Guess I’ll just have to settle for that second place trophy.”
Knock Out winked. He could throw the mech that much of a tease. “Have fun ogling my taillights, hot stuff.”
“It’s Hot Rod, thank you very much.” Hot Rod’s smirk would have meant a fine night in the berth, if Knock Out wasn’t taken twice over. “And we’ll see.” He shifted to alt-mode, revealing that the strange swirls in his paint had been meant to reflect flames.
But of course.
Knock Out laughed and transformed as well, bouncing on his suspension and wriggling his tires. He settled into his alt-mode with grace, his engine revving as excitement overrode all else, even the anxiety.
He was going to win, Knock Out decided as the memory of two good luck kisses sent a surge of heat through his engine.
That trophy would be his.
****
a/n: One more chapter to go!
Pairings: Grimlock/Starscream, Cyclonus/Tailgate, Knock Out/Snarl/Breakdown
Characters: Scourge, Skyquake, Hot Rod
This chapter is where the story starts earning it’s “M” Rating.
They were going to be late.
It was a passing thought, chased away almost immediately by a particularly powerful thrust. It ground over his ceiling node and sent lightning down his spinal strut. Pleasure eclipsed rational thought, leaving Starscream panting and strutless, pinned between the wall and his lover.
They were wasting solvent, too. The entire point of the shower had been to get clean. But Grimlock had looked at him with that glint in his visor, the one that made Starscream shiver from head to foot, feeling desired and loved. He’d surrendered to Grimlock’s groping hands and couldn’t manage a single protest as Grimlock lifted him up and slid into him in a single thrust.
Starscream had moaned, valve tingling, still wet and open from their earlier fragging. It was hard not to want Grimlock. It was hard to deny himself this outright pleasure. His thighs spread wide around Grimlock’s bulk, the thick width of Grimlock’s spike gliding over every inner node, building the pleasure to a quick crescendo.
Starscream made a sound now, closer to a whimper, and tightened his grip on Grimlock’s shoulders. His thighs trembled. The sound of Grimlock’s ventilations, heavy and hungry and stuttered, echoed in the washrack.
Starscream’s chronometer chimed another reminder.
They were going to be late.
He gasped out as much.
Grimlock chuckled and tucked his face into the crook of Starscream’s neck, his mouthguard vibrating. “They can’t start without us,” he said and his hands tightened on Starscream’s hips, pulling him down until he was fully sheathed, and his spikehead played merry havoc on Starscream’s ceiling node.
“We’re … ah… Decepticon command,” Starscream managed to stutter as another wave of ecstasy made his valve ripple and his main node throb. He was perilously close to overload already. “It’s bad politics.”
Grimlock’s amusement rumbled in his chest, and vibrated against Starscream’s cockpit. “Frag politics,” he growled.
Starscream smirked and dug his claws into a seam, scraping over the sensitive cables beneath. “Would rather you frag me instead.”
His wings scraped against the wall, causing a dissonant sensation of pleasure and pain, as Grimlock thrust into him, hard and deep. Starscream moaned, head tossed back, claws scraping lines in Girmlock’s paint as overload struck. His valve clamped down, milking Grimlock’s spike for each surge of charge. His own spike spattered transfluid between their frames.
He rode the waves of pleasure eagerly, even as Grimlock ground deeper and deeper, caressing his nodes to extend the overload. Starscream panted for ventilations, his thighs trembling, as Grimlock gripped his hips and started to thrust, each more powerful than the last, pinning Starscream against the wall.
Ecstasy sent sparks along Starscream’s frame. Dizzy, he caressed Grimlock’s cables with his talons as Grimlock forehead tucked into the crook of his neck, ex-vents blasting heat against Starscream’s frame.
“Overload inside me, my lord,” Starscream purred, his lips caressing Grimlock’s audial as he felt Grimlock’s grip tighten around him. “You are welcome to it.”
Grimlock shuddered. A low sound rose in his intake, one of arousal and need, and Starscream preened at how easily he could make his lover come undone. Grimlock’s pace stuttered, his thrusts harder and deeper, until he stiffened and overloaded, transfluid a searing wash over Starscream’s sensitive nodes.
He moaned as another, smaller overload wracked his valve, his calipers fluttering madly around Grimlock’s spike. Starscream rolled his hips, grinding down, the rim of his valve massaging the small rise in Grimlock’s spike. No knotting this time, they did have a schedule to keep after all.
But the memory of that pleasure was enough.
“You…” Grimlock growled through the aftershocks of ecstasy, the washrack still beating down at them with hot washes of solvent, “are a menace.”
“You’re just now figuring this out?” Starscream purred as his claws dipped further into seams, stroking the undersides of armor panels. “My you are slow on the uptake, my lord.”
Grimlock lifted his head, visor a bright wash of hunger. His spike twitched in Starscream’s valve, still pressurized as though he hadn’t soaked Starscream in his transfluid already. He started to shift, light and slow pushes that sent a wave of reawakened pleasure through Starscream’s valve.
Starscream gasped and arched his backstrut. “We’re going to be late,” he reminded Grimlock, though there was less force behind it then he would have liked.
“They’ll wait for us,” Grimlock said, and the slow drag of his spike over Starscream’s excited nodes chased away any other protest.
He had a point, after all.
The rest of the world could wait.
It was not compulsive behavior, no matter what anyone insisted. Scourge simply believed in the weight of his duty, and would sooner die than see himself fail. It was important to him. It was necessary.
And if that required he double-check behind himself, well, who could blame him? He was only tasked with one of Iacon’s most important responsibilities, one that the Autobots in Polyhex and the Neutrals in Nova Cronum did not have to face. They did not have prisoners and criminals to be concerned with.
They did not have a handful of super soldiers in their basement, under lock and key, stripped of all processing capabilities, with sparks capable of turning into bombs if improperly extinguished. Overlord, Black Shadow, and Sixshot – their minds had been wiped. They were all but machine without memory and free will.
That did not make them any less dangerous.
Scourge made a point to assess their confinement on a daily basis. The three of them were enough to destroy all of New Cybertron if they so wished. While they could not do so at the moment, it would only take a single lapse in judgment. The wrong mech with the right intel, sneaking inside and freeing them of their cage.
Not on Scourge’s watch.
There had been talk only once of giving another life to the supersoldiers. Perhaps allowing them freedoms under a new identity, wiping them clean as Red Alert – now Flare – had been. That idea had been quickly set aside. No need for a hasty decision with such dangerous, unstable mechs.
Scourge agreed.
The supersoldiers were the worst of what sat locked in the prison beneath Decepticon central. But they weren’t Scourge’s only responsibilities.
Barricade, also, was present, and like Dirge, would never be released. If there was a candidate for execution, especially given he had no other use for the common good, Barricade fit the bill.
He would never apologize. He would never regret. He would, as Starscream determined not long after his arrest, re-offend.
It had been a particularly chilling conversation, one Scourge wished he hadn’t witnessed. As Barricade admitted, with a smirk, to a nauseating list of victims, not all of whom had been Autobots. He had, over the course of the war, taken many Decepticons as well, most of them against their will, all of whom did not remember. Unless, of course, Barricade chose to allow them to remember.
The fear, he’d said, was the tastiest.
Dirge was not as lost as Barricade, but he was another without remorse. Autobots, he’d claimed, were lesser creatures, and grounders besides. They were meant to be beneath Decepticons. Victory had been Megatron’s, and the rewards his to offer. That he and his trinemates had interfaced an Autobot to death didn’t seem to weigh at all on his conscience.
Monsters, Scourge decided.
There were monsters in the world.
Scourge had other detainees under his oversight, though these mechs were considered to have promise.
Motormaster and Dead End had already been released into the custody of one Autobot Kup, who had reassured everyone he would find something of worth in their sparks. Compassion, Kup claimed, was often the key to success. And they were, in his optics, little more than misguided sparklings.
Lost causes even. Ultra Magnus had leaned in, with a quirk to his lips, to inform Scourge that lost causes were something of Kup’s expertise. He’d then tilted his head in Drift’s direction – Deadlock, Scourge recognized immediately – as if to prove the point.
Scourge had signed the transfer orders then and there. From what he’d heard, Kup was making headway with the two headstrong Stunticons. It was one less burden for Scourge to carry. He had enough of them as it was.
“You’re going to be late.”
Scourge didn’t bother to look up from his paperwork, making a tic mark next to Shockwave. Present and accounted for, there in his basement lab with his overseer watching his every move.
“Our fearless leaders are always late,” Scourge replied. “I’ll be fine.”
Skyquake, his second, laughed. “If I had Starscream in my berth, I’d be late, too,” he commented as he leaned against the door frame, one arm folded over the other. His wings folded against his back, not unlike a Seeker’s, though Skyquake was of a different sort.
He and his squadron had arrived two years after the signing of the treaty. Skyquake took to the peace like a Sharkticon to the Rust Sea. He reveled in it. And sometimes, Scourge caught him looking to the sky, waiting for his twin to arrive as well.
Dreadwing, Skyquake had said with a crooked grin and a lonesome cant to his optics, would enjoy the peace even more than Skyquake. Once he got over Megatron losing to a beastformer. And said beastformer being their leader now.
Scourge’s lips curved into a grin to match Skyquake’s. “Indeed.”
He bent his attention back to his lists. There were five Constructicons on it, as a matter of course. Only one actually graced a cell right now – Hook, who was being most stubborn, perhaps out of a sense of pride. There was history between he and the Autobot Chief Medic, a history that held Hook back from moving forward remorsefully.
The other Constructicons were improving. They entirety of the Devastator gestalt had their obedience coding removed, similar but different in effect from what had haunted the Combaticons. But more than that, the false programming had been removed as well. What remained was complicated. They’d been laboring under it for so long, some had rooted into their base coding. Overcoming that would take time.
They would never be what they were. But they had a chance now. They were learning remorse. They understood that Megatron’s path was not one they had to follow. In that, they were like the Stunticons, almost sparkling in behavior, needing to learn a proper moral code all over again.
Scourge did not know if he could convince any of the Constructicons to apologize and exhibit remorse. Most of them, Hook especially, cited that because they were nonconsensually reprogrammed, they could not be held responsible for their actions. Scourge – and Grimlock and Starscream – disagreed. It was a sticky situation.
Like it nor not, however, they did need the Constructicons. Of them, only Scavenger seemed to carry visible remorse. Upon realizing that his interactions with Ratchet were a crime, that he was not being kind, Scavenger had been horrified. He had vowed to do whatever necessary to make amends.
Scavenger was the only Constructicon on actual parole, though he was under the supervision of the New Cybertron Rebuilding Team headed by the former Wrecker Bulkhead.
Bonecrusher and Long Haul had limited parole. All they wanted was to build. They submitted to any restrictions and any supervision deemed necessary by Scourge. Their behavior toward the Autobot medic had been a matter of convenience, not true desire. Their potential to re-offend was all but negative. They were not as remorseful as Scavenger, because to them it had not been illegal at the time. Yes, poor taste, but technically allowed by their commanding officer.
It left a sour taste in Scourge’s mouth. He hoped time would change their point of view. Though only the rational side of him understood what they meant. Soldiers, following orders. Soldiers, who had no choice but to follow the moral compass of their immoral leader.
Sticky situation indeed.
Scrapper, as their leader, had made concessions, few though they were. He’d conceded that he and his team had acted in poor taste, that following Megatron’s example was no excuse. He stated such behavior would not occur again, and that they would lend their strength and sparks to the reconstruction of Cybertron.
Scrapper intended to apologize once, and only once. He would concede no more than that.
It was better than nothing, Scourge supposed. He doubted the Autobots would not be mollified with such half-afted remorse. There were many, he knew, who would prefer if every last prisoner in Decepticon cells be executed on the spot.
Such a thing could not come to pass.
Perhaps it was the optimism, Scourge pondered. He’d never thought himself optimistic before, but he felt it now. Mechs could change. Mechs could learn. He needed to believe that.
Certainly his own hands weren’t free of misdeeds. It had been a long, dangerous war. He might have never laid hands on an unwilling partner, but he’d certainly killed. He’d laid waste to Decepticon enemies. He’d done his fair share of evil things.
Remorse could be a heavy burden.
Skyquake shifted. Coughed. Reminded Scourge that he was still here. Though Scourge couldn’t fathom why.
“I’ll attend the ceremony then relieve you,” Scourge said as he made another tic mark, getting closer to the end of his list. Slowly but surely, he was running out of prisoners to monitor. It was a good problem to have. “This is a celebration no one should miss.”
Skyquake snorted. “Except you apparently.”
“We all have our duties.”
Scourge’s stylus paused on the next two names – Helex and Tesaurus, who had reverted to their prior designations of Crucible and Scissorsaw. They had been practically model prisoners since their incarceration in the battle which lost them Tarn and Vos. They had only recently petitioned to have hearings for some kind of parole.
Other than their past actions as members of the DJD, Scourge had no reason to deny them. Which put him in a quandary. What could one do with a former member of the DJD? Were they dangerous? It was too difficult to say.
Kaon, by contrast, had spoken barely a handful of words since the DJD’s defeat. He’d only spoken long enough to claim that everyone’s choices from this moment hence were their own. He would not bar anyone of the DJD from reforming, if they so choose. When pressed to voice desires for his own fate, Kaon had only looked at them with that dead-optic stare.
Creepy was what it was.
Maybe someday he’d tire of his silence. Until then, he seemed pretty comfortable in the brig.
“Yours isn’t to not have any fun, you know,” Skyquake commented, dragging Scourge out of his thoughts.
Scourge frowned and looked up, his forehead crinkling. “There are far too many negatives in that sentence, Skyquake.”
“Are you going to chastise me for my grammar? Seriously?” Skyquake rolled his optics and straightened. “When was the last time you had any kind of fun, sir?”
It was the ‘sir’ that chased away Scourge’s frown. He’d never demanded ‘sirs’ from any of his subordinates. Clearly, this was a conversation he was meant to give his full attention.
“Fun is a concept long forgotten in the eons of war,” Scourge said carefully.
Skyquake rolled his shoulders in a great shrug. “Look. All I’m saying is that if Cyclonus can snag himself a cute minibot to wipe that perpetual gloom from his face, I’m thinking you can unbend enough to find happiness, too. With a partner or not.”
Scourge searched his second’s face and found nothing but sincerity present. Worry even. As the three factions started to move forward, as New Cybertron took shape, everyone was building a new life for themselves out of the ashes of the war.
Scourge had yet to embrace it fully.
“You may have a point,” Scourge admitted. He set his stylus down with a click and powered down his datapad. Ruminating over Kaon’s future and Bludgeon’s unfortunate fate could be saved for another evening. One where there wasn’t celebration to be found.
Besides, he would be even later than Grimlock and Starscream if he didn’t get moving now.
“I’ll leave the prisoners in your care then?” Scourge stated as he rose from behind his desk, glancing briefly at himself. He was fairly immaculate already, but it never hurt to double-check.
“Until Blackout comes to relieve me anyway,” Skyquake agreed with a chuckle. “Fragger better not show up overcharged, or I’ll have his rotors.”
Now that was a clash Scourge would pay to see. Fierce Skyquake against solid Blackout. They were of a height, of a mass, equally trained.
Scourge chuckled and headed for the doorway, where Skyquake waited. “I suppose time will tell. Have a good evening, Skyquake.”
His second clapped him briefly on the shoulder, dark green plating a contrast to the pale blue of Scourge’s. “You’d better have fun.”
Despite himself, Scourge smiled. “I shall certainly try.”
Grimlock was bored.
It was getting harder not to show it. Speech after speech. Polite applause after polite smile. It was getting tedious. How long had it even been?
He consulted his chronometer.
Twenty minutes. Only twenty minutes? Clearly, his chronometer was malfunctioning. He’d been standing here for two hours at least, his visor glazing over as another mech stepped up to the front of the podium to read off his speech.
Congratulations and gratitude and excitement and blah, blah, blah. This was an important ceremony, Grimlock knew. What Krok and his compatriots had accomplished here was a very good and necessary thing.
Could they get to the ribbon-cutting already now?
An elbow jabbed into his hip, expertly placed against an armor seam to chime over the cables beneath.
“Pay attention,” Starscream hissed, subvocal that no one should have heard it save Grimlock himself.
“I am,” Grimlock murmured in return, obediently shifting his gaze back to the current speaker. He didn’t really know the mech that well.
Templar was a new arrival, one who had come with the sort of experience Krok had been desperately searching for – he was a psychotherapist. Something every resident of New Cybertron was in dire need of. Ratchet had vouched for him. Smokescreen had hid from him, whatever that meant.
He was one of Krok’s new hires, including another Neutral who arrived later by the name of Cerebro, who was more of a psychiatrist, relying on medscripts and surgeries. Together, they would form the core of the new mental health facility.
In any case, Templar had the sort of low, droning voice that lulled Grimlock into a rest-state. All he wanted to do was recharge just listening to it.
“Then stop fidgeting,” Starscream demanded, just short of a hiss.
Grimlock would never, ever tell him how much he sounded like Ratchet just then. The last thing Starscream needed to hear was that he resembled Grimlock’s creator.
Grimlock shifted his weight pointedly. “I can’t help it.”
“You’re the Decepticon leader!” Starscream hissed for real this time, his elbow digging into Grimlock’s armor seam. “Act like it!”
At the front of the stage, Templar finished his speech, dipping his head to the crowd, as Cerebro stepped up to take his place. Primus, Grimlock had miscounted. They still had another to go!
Grimlock creaked as he leaned toward Starscream, ex-venting a gust of warm heat against his lover. “And you’re not bored, too?” he asked, making a pointed look at the subtle twitching of Starscream’s wings.
“That’s not the point.” Starscream sliced a glance at him, chastising but amused as well.
Grimlock’s visor burned a little brighter. He loosed his control of his field by a small degree, letting the sizzling heat of it caress Starscream. He dragged it over his consort’s field edges, drizzling pleasure in his wake.
He watched Starscream shiver, his optics cycle wide. Starscream’s glossa flicked over his lips, wetting them.
“Isn’t it?” Grimlock purred, though quiet enough not to disturb the newest droning speech. “When this is over, I want to finish what we started this morning. I want to take advantage of our time off, lay you down, and worship you, my Air Commander.”
Starscream’s next vent was a ragged one. “You don’t play fair,” he breathed.
“Not when it comes to what I want.” Grimlock stroked his field along Starscream’s again. “And I’ll always want you.”
He left those words ringing in Starscream’s audials as his periphery awareness registered that someone had called his name. He supposed Cerebro was the last speaker after all, because Krok had now stepped up to the podium and was gesturing for Grimlock.
There was a ragged cheer from the assembled crowd. Grimlock had his fans among the Decepticons, even as there were those who still questioned the legitimacy of his ascension. Only one person had dared to challenge him for the position, and everyone knew what happened to Tarn. No one had tried since.
Grimlock felt the heat of Starscream’s stare burning against his back. He had a feeling he’d be paying for that little tease later.
Good.
Grimlock stepped up to the podium, nodding to Krok as he did so. He looked out the gathered crowd – not the entirety of the Decepticons, but a good mix of all three factions.
“It is my honor and my privilege to stand here tonight and congratulate Lieutenant Krok on this important achievement,” Grimlock stated. His speech had been prepared short and sweet. There’d been enough speechifying already. “This facility will bring all of us – and our planet – one step closer to healing.”
He pulled the scissors out of his subspace and handed them to Krok. They’d adopted this opening day ceremony from the humans. Grimlock liked the symbolism of it, though he could’ve done without all the speeches.
Krok, at least, wasted no time in striding to the glittery purple ribbon and slicing through it with little fanfare. As the two halves fluttered to the ground, Grimlock continued.
“Without further ado, I am proud to announce that The Hospitality House is now open and ready to deliver the highest of care to any Cybertronian in need, regardless of religion or factional allegiance.”
Polite claps rose from the crowd. Those who had worked very hard to make the Hospitality House a reality grinned brightly. Grimlock stepped back and put a blatant arm around Starscream, content to let Krok step up to speak again. Grimlock’s part in this was done.
He tucked Starscream under his arm and leaned down, voice a low murmur meant to resonate in Starscream’s audials. “I’ll bet there are dozens of empty, open rooms in there.”
“Some of them even have restraints strong enough for a supersoldier,” Starscream replied, optics glittering, lips curved with amusement.
Grimlock’s engine growled. He felt the twitch of Starscream’s wings against his arm. “Now who’s being unfair?”
Starscream leaned against his side, a kiss of charge licking against Grimlock’s armor. “Do you want to give our new medical facility a trial run or not?” he murmured, his field nudging Grimlock’s with heated promise.
Arousal thrummed through Grimlock’s lines. “Let’s go.” Krok and the others wouldn’t miss them. Cyclonus and Tailgate had already snuck away. Only Scourge lingered, as Scourge was wont to do. “I’ve a sudden need to taste my consort.”
“And I’ve a sudden urge to let you,” Starscream replied.
A shudder ran through Grimlock’s frame. He curved inward, turning toward Starscream, free hand lifting to cup his Air Commander’s jaw gently. He tilted Starscream’s face upward to look at him, reading the want and need in Starscream’s optics.
“I love you,” Grimlock said, as he had a thousand times already, and would a million times more. Because it was true.
Starscream’s smile was soft, gentle, as he leaned into Grimlock’s touch. “I know.”
The outdoor amphitheater would not have been Cyclonus’ first choice. Affectionately nicknamed The Grand Strand, it was the go-to for trifactional entertainment on New Cybertron. At present, it played host to Jazz and Skybyte’s unnamed duo – trio, actually, including their musically talented manager – but over the past couple years, it had hosted various other types of recreation.
The music was not to Cyclonus’ taste, but Tailgate had asked and Cyclonus hadn’t learned how to deny him. He doubted he ever would.
Besides, the music was not all that was available. There were numerous types of food and drink to be found here, and Cyclonus had indulged. As had Tailgate. Some might even accuse Cyclonus of spoiling him.
Ah, but he deserved it.
Tailgate had tugged Cyclonus to The Grand Strand after the opening ceremony because he’d wanted to dance. Unable to refuse, Cyclonus had allowed himself to be dragged here. Dancing, however, was not his forte. Especially not the energetic, writhing type currently popular with the seething crowd. The music, too, had an upbeat pace to it, undignified at the least.
It was nothing like the music of the Golden Age. Nothing like the solemn tones of the temples in Tetrahex. Nothing like the historical ballads still haunting Cyclonus’ memories. But he supposed it had a charm all it’s own.
Tailgate seemed to enjoy it well enough.
Cyclonus was content to sit at one of the many tables scattered around the periphery of the dance floor. He had a flute of quality engex and an excellent observation point. If his gaze lingered on Tailgate more often than not, well, that was his right as Tailgate’s partner. Tailgate in all likelihood, was dancing in such a manner because he knew Cyclonus was watching.
He’d been so delighted to attend tonight’s festivities, especially since he would be on Cyclonus’ arm. Tailgate held a certain pride, for some reason, and would tell anyone who listened that Cyclonus was his partner. He’d been beyond giddy to stand up on that podium beside Cyclonus.
It was quite adorable.
His excitement was rather infectious, though Cyclonus could not duplicate his visible enthusiasm. He’d much rather watch Tailgate dance, happy in the midst of a sea of frames. Cyclonus only recognized a few, but was unsurprised to see Lieutenant Skids out in the mix. Skids was one of the few Neutrals who had made friendly overtures to everyone, Autobot and Decepticon alike. He was welcome anywhere on New Cybertron as a result.
At present, he was twisting and spinning Tailgate around the dance floor, as Blaster’s cassettes danced around the two of them. Tailgate was laughing – Cyclonus could see the bright sheen of delight in his visor.
Cyclonus sipped at his engex and relaxed into his chair. It was a chilly night, for those who noticed the temperature. The sky was clear, the stars a blurred vista thanks to their constant motion. Streetlamps gave the illusion of day and nightcycles but it was never enough. Someday, perhaps, they might find themselves actually anchored to a solar system.
Now that they were less focused on creating weapons, they actually had the processor power to spare on more important scientific advancements.
Tailgate spied him through the crowd. He gestured for Cyclonus to join him, but Cyclonus merely shook his head. He had no interest in awkwardly moving to the energetic music.
Tailgate’s visor brightened, and his head turned toward Skids. The lieutenant glanced Cyclonus’ direction, his lips curved with amusement, before he shooed Tailgate on. Cyclonus didn’t know which words passed between them, but they encouraged Tailgate to start bouncing out of the crowd, making a beeline for Cyclonus.
Sitting up, Cyclonus pulled Tailgate’s energon out of subspace, setting it on the table for the minibot. Tailgate bounced into view, his field bubbling with excitement.
“You looked lonely over here,” he said as he scooted in next to Cyclonus, grabbing Cyclonus’ right arm and slinging it over his shoulders.
Cyclonus chuckled. “Did I now?”
“Yes. I figured it’s because you missed me.” Tailgate laughed and tucked himself into Cyclonus’ side. “Which could be solved if you’d come dance with me.”
Cyclonus reached for Tailgate’s energon, scooting it closer to his partner. “I am not lonely. And I enjoy watching you enjoy yourself.”
“Yes, I know,” Tailgate said, closer to a purr that had no busy being used in public.
Cyclonus’ faceplate heated. It still shocked him, how easily Tailgate could bring down his walls and remove his reserve. “This is not the place for such talk,” he said quietly, though his fingers found their way to Tailgate’s shoulder, stroking it gently.
“What? That was a perfectly innocent comment.” Tailgate shrugged and his free hand found Cyclonus’ thigh as he caught the end of his straw with his intake port.
Cyclonus’ lips curved. “There is very little innocent about you.” A fact which he’d learned the more he peeled back the layers of their relationship.
“I am the picture of innocence,” Tailgate retorted and slurped at his energon, draining it dry in several long pulls, a sight which did not fail to make Cyclonus heat internally.
Innocent might have been a term Cyclonus would have used to describe Tailgate back when they first met. But he knew better now. Especially given that Tailgate’s hand had begun to creep up Cyclonus’ thigh, toward his groin.
Cyclonus shifted, his gaze going to the crowd, but no one was paying them a bit of attention. Tailgate would be the sort to grope his lover in public, just to see if he could get away with it. Mischievous brat.
Tailgate released the straw with a satisfied sound and set the emptied cube on the table. “I really can’t convince you to join me?” he asked as his fingers came perilously near to Cyclonus’ panel.
Cyclonus worked his intake. “No. I’ll save for my energy for this evening.”
“Well, you’ll need it.” Tailgate’s optics brightened in a grin, his field stroking lascivious over Cyclonus’ before he abruptly hopped down from the chair. “A few more songs and then we can leave, all right? You get to pick where we go next.”
Cyclonus tilted his head. “A fair compromise.”
Tailgate giggled. “I thought so, too.” He backed away, into the throng of dancers. They quickly swallowed him up, but Cyclonus never lost sight of him.
His return to Skids and the cassettes and was greeted with laughter. Tailgate easily found the rhythm again, and soon enough, he was wriggling and dancing to the beat again. The delight in his expression was enough to warm something deep inside Cyclonus. Or perhaps that was the echo of Tailgate’s touch on his thigh.
Cyclonus sipped on his energon as he watched Tailgate, only to find that he’d finished it during his thoughtful observations. He set the empty glass on the table next to Tailgate’s empty cube. He rapped a nonsense rhythm with his fingers as the jaunty music came to an end. Laughter and stomping rose from the crowd – approval for the band.
“This next one is a slow beat,” Jazz said into the mic, condensation a sheen over his armor, but excitement bright in his visor. “So grab that someone special and get to swaying. Show me the love, mechs. I want to feel it in the air.”
The brightly flashing, spinning lights abruptly shifted to a solid, cool glow. Lanterns shone like little spotlights over the floor. Milling dancers grabbed partners, some with obvious affection, others because of proximity. A low, gentle note started to play and Cyclonus’ spark clenched.
This was an old ballad. From Tetrahex.
He cycled a ventilation and then and there, made a decision. He rose to his feet. One dance wouldn’t hurt. He couldn’t ignore the song of reflection, not this bit of history come back to resonate deep within him.
He threaded through the crowd, found Tailgate’s whose back was to him as he watched the band play. Tailgate hadn’t randomly grabbed a partner. Where Skids had gone, Cyclonus didn’t know. He’d vanished, as spies were wont to do.
Cyclonus tapped Tailgate on the shoulder, and as his partner turned, offered Tailgate his hand. “Might I have this dance?” he asked, curving forward to be on a more even keel with the minibot.
Tailgate’s visor grew bright. His field turned warm and affectionate as it poured over Cyclonus. “Really?”
“It is a song for lovers,” Cyclonus replied as Tailgate’s hand slid into his. “And I would share it with no one but you.”
“Of course I will!” Tailgate’s fingers tightened around his, his field eclipsing Cyclonus with joy and love.
Cyclonus hummed and drew Tailgate into his arms, as a ghost from the past in the form of a song, grew and wrapped around him.
Spending a few hours in the Grand Strand might not have been Cyclonus’ first choice, but he was glad they had come after all.
Blurr was going to win. That was a given. Everyone knew it, even the rest of the racers.
Second place, however, was still up for grabs. And Knock Out had already decided that trophy was going to be his. After Breakdown’s massage and Snarl’s specially formulated energon, there was no way he’d lose.
At the starting line with nine other racers, including Blurr, Knock Out stretched. He pulled his arms over his head, lengthening the lines of his cables, drawing them taut. The lights gleamed down on the track, warming his plating, and he felt the regard of dozens of mechs, gathered here for the race.
He had the feeling this was going to be one of New Cybertron’s most popular attractions. The First Annual Lightning Cup was already a success, and they hadn’t even raced yet.
Knock Out scanned the crowd, looking for a specific face, and grinned as he caught Snarl there in the front row, squashed between a Decepticon Knock Out didn’t immediately recognize and an Autobot he did. Snarl even had one of those cheap flags and was waving it wildly.
Knock Out glanced at his chronometer. More than enough time to acquire a bit of luck, as it were. Blurr was still over there, posing for the cameras.
Knock Out snorted. That would be him afterward. He had a plan to ride Blurr’s aft the whole time. Blurr might win, but Knock Out didn’t intend to make it easy for him.
He jogged over to the front row, passing by a few more racers who were stretching and chatting amongst themselves. A hip-high barricade did little more than corral the crowd away from the track. Snarl could have stepped over it if he wanted, it barely reached his knees.
“What you Knock Out doing?” Snarl asked, sounding a little alarmed, as though he thought Knock Out had opted to forfeit the race.
Knock Out grinned and leaned over the barricade, his hands braced on the top of it. “I could use a bit of luck,” he said, his tires setting off into a slow spin.
Snarl shifted toward him, looming over Knock Out easily. The mass of him was as appealing now as it had been the first time he’d swept Knock Out up into his arms and kissed him senseless. There was something indefinably erotic about being able to bring a mech nearly twice his size to his knees with only a look.
“What you want then?” Snarl rumbled, his truncated way of speaking probably rude to the audials of anyone who wasn’t used to it.
Knock Out chuckled. “Are you really going to make me say it?” he purred.
Snarl tipped a finger under Knock Out’s chin, painfully gentle as he tilted Knock Out’s face upward.
“You so pretty,” he rumbled and slanted his lips over Knock Out’s, soft and sweet as always, so careful of his strength, as though Knock Out was something fragile to be protected.
It sent a wave of warmth through Knock Out’s spark. His hands curled against the barricade. A shiver ran down his spinal strut.
He almost forewent the race then and there, but the kiss was over far too quickly to muddle his thinking that far.
“There,” Snarl said. “That for good luck.” His finger tickled under Knock Out’s chin.
“Mm. Yes, it is,” Knock Out breathed.
A loud horn echoed throughout the track – the warning chime for all racers to gather in their assigned lanes. Time to go make history.
Knock Out winked at Snarl and turned, intending to go back toward his spot. But he suddenly had an armful of Breakdown as the Stunticon snatched Knock Out up in an embrace.
“My turn!” he said as his mouth closed over Knock Out’s, the kiss sloppy and inelegant, but full of enthusiasm, as Breakdown always was.
Knock Out laughed into the kiss, warmed down to his spark, feeling charge gather in his lines. He never knew happiness could be defined as this.
“For luck,” Breakdown said against his lips, pressing a kiss to the nearest corner of Knock Out’s mouth.
Another loud honk announced the secondary warning bell as Breakdown’s embrace tightened, and the thrum of his engine vibrated through both of their frames.
“You’re going to disqualify me,” Knock Out said with a laugh as he tried to disentangle himself from clinging arms.
“Not a chance.” Breakdown slanted their lips together again before he finally released Knock Out with a little push. “Bring me home a trophy!”
Knock Out stumbled a little, but quickly caught his balance. He was amused, despite himself, as Breakdown danced back to the crowd. He lifted his arms to Snarl, who helped tug him onto the barricade in front of Snarl. His legs dangling over the edge, Breakdown’s visor shone with enthusiasm.
Unfairly adorable. It was amazing how much a little guidance could help a mech emerge from his shell.
Knock Out wandered back to his lane feeling ridiculously happy. Perhaps even a little dopey. Primus, what those two did to him.
Someone shifted in his periphery.
“Double the luck, huh?” commented the young racer in the lane next to Knock Out. He was a flashy thing – red and orange and yellow. “That’s not fair.”
Knock Out smirked. “Guess you’ll just have to rely on your own four wheels then.”
“Don’t worry. I’m sure I can take you. Though if you want to share some of that luck, I won’t mind.” The garishly painted mech winked.
The final chime echoed over the track, everyone moving into starting position with only the pre-race jitters to fill the air.
“Sorry, but I think I’ll keep it all to myself,” Knock Out said with a laugh. Those two handsome mechs were his, and he wasn’t one to share.
The brat’s spoiler flicked up and down. “Shame. Guess I’ll just have to settle for that second place trophy.”
Knock Out winked. He could throw the mech that much of a tease. “Have fun ogling my taillights, hot stuff.”
“It’s Hot Rod, thank you very much.” Hot Rod’s smirk would have meant a fine night in the berth, if Knock Out wasn’t taken twice over. “And we’ll see.” He shifted to alt-mode, revealing that the strange swirls in his paint had been meant to reflect flames.
But of course.
Knock Out laughed and transformed as well, bouncing on his suspension and wriggling his tires. He settled into his alt-mode with grace, his engine revving as excitement overrode all else, even the anxiety.
He was going to win, Knock Out decided as the memory of two good luck kisses sent a surge of heat through his engine.
That trophy would be his.
a/n: One more chapter to go!
