Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

When it came to conjunxing, in a few of Cybertron’s city states, public displays of affection between a bonded couple were considered severely ill-mannered, bordering on taboo. 

Starscream envied them. 

Vos didn't even have a term to distinguish public affection from any other type. Instead, Starscream was compelled to accept his fiance's advances or else be labeled an insufferable prude. 

And, oh, did Emirate Airbright get his money’s worth. As he shamelessly patted Starscream’s aft for the hundredth time tonight, Starscream longed to slug the neighboring star system’s head of state into one of the crystal sculptures lining his ballroom.

With the help of several stern looks from the Winglord, he’d managed to suppress the urge for the duration of the party. An event which was also sprung upon Starscream without his consent, and that left him despising the institution of arranged marriage more fervently than before.

It was early in the next cycle when the party ended, and Starscream could finally escape, along with his sire and brothers.

As soon as their transport pulled up in front of Airbright’s estate, Starscream elbowed past Thundercracker and Skywarp to board first. He flung himself down across the upholstered bench with an exhausted groan. His brothers grumbled as they were forced to crowd into the opposite bench with the Winglord.

Starscream threw an arm over his optics. “Thank Primus that’s over. After he rubbed all the paint off my aft.”

“Don’t be vulgar,” said the Winglord, knocking Starscream in the ankle with his walking stick. “That’s the sire of my future grand-sparklings you're talking about.”

“Like I need a reminder.”

“That mech is like sixty million years old,” said Skywarp. “I don’t think he’s siring anything.” 

Starscream sighed. “Limitations mean nothing to him. Have you seen the way his hands wander?”

The Winglord frowned at them. “He’s excited to be having an heir, and you should be as well, Starscream.”

“He could stand to display his excitement in a less tactile way. I’m not even sparked yet. He should save his energy for that. As Skywarp said, he’ll need it, at his advanced age.”

“I do hope you’ll show more grace and enthusiasm towards the emirate during the sparking ceremony than you did tonight. You’re going to humiliate this mech otherwise.”

“I’ll consider it.”

The party tonight had been an announcement of the date of the sparking ceremony, where the prominent nobility would gather to watch him and the emirate kindle an heir. 

Producing bitlets, too, was an inevitability of his station as the heir of Vos. One which Starscream was mostly ambivalent about, though he hoped his old geezer of a fiance would expire before the ceremony arrived. He wondered what the odds were of Airbright dying in the next two weeks before the event.

Starscream winced as the Winglord jabbed him in the leg with his walking stick again.

“Stop scheming for his demise. If you haven't figured out how to get rid of him by this point, you never will.”

Starscream wouldn't be so sure. He was choosing not to see it as a personal failing that he hadn't yet succeeded in offing him. Airbright had simply been lucky that his energon-tasters had absorbed the brunt of his poisonings.

However, his lack of success thus far meant that he was still required to stand around at every tedious party at Airbright’s palatial estate, listening to his snooty friends’ bragging. Then, at night, pretend to be impressed as Airbright’s dainty spike missed his ceiling node. 

When Starscream voiced his dissatisfaction with the match to the Winglord (far before their bond had even been secured), his complaints were ignored, on the grounds that Airbright had more shanix than god, and Vos’ royal treasury was looking wan as of late, in the aftermath of their most recent war with Tarn. Financial necessity came before personal happiness, and Starscream was the unhappy bearer of this burden, as the oldest and most attractive creation of the Winglord.

“Yes, scheming rather than doing your duty,” the Winglord continued. “It’s been months since the engagement was announced, with no talk of producing an heir. I had to set a date for the sparking ceremony. People were beginning to talk.”

Starscream let his helm loll against the window. “I’d mate with anyone else at this point.”

The Winglord stiffened. “Yes, you’ve made that abundantly clear, as of late.”

“Oh, this again,” groaned Starscream. “It was one mech.” 

“And a guard, no less! Starscream, you are getting conjunxed.” 

“So? Everyone we know cheats. My only duty is to bear Airbright’s stupid spawn.”

“Starscream.”

“Skywarp,” said Starscream, demanding his brother’s attention. “How many of our acquaintance’s conjunxes have you slept with?”

“What?” said the Winglord, fixing Skywarp with a glare.

Skywarp was suddenly very interested in the datapad Thundercracker was reading. “Uh. It wasn't my fault. They approached me first.”

“Exactly,” said Starscream. “Affairs are rampant in court because they are necessary. If all of us were truly as upright and loyal in our relationships as we pretend to be, our court would implode.”

“You're not just any nobility, you're the heir,” said the Winglord. “You’re held to a higher standard of decorum.”

"Airbright should be held to a higher standard, as my soon-to-be conjunx. If he’s going to be useless in berth and ugly and unpleasant in general, I’m going to continue taking the matter of my personal satisfaction into my own hands.”

“No, you won't, Starscream. I won't hear about another incident. Primus forbid Airbright catches wind of your disloyalty and breaks up the union. If you disgrace Vos' good name, I’m disowning you and offering one of your brothers in exchange."

Skywarp gagged. “You love us too much to do that, right, Screamer?”

“Like either of you are in any danger of him falling for you,” said Starscream. “You're an unrefined hooligan, and Thundercracker is tedious and lacks sex appeal.”

Skywarp tapped his chin contemplatively, like this was new information to him. “Oh yeah, that’s true.”

“I’ll accept that,” said Thundercracker, not even bothering to glance up from his novel. “If it keeps Aribright away from me.”

“You three are so ungrateful,” said the Winglord, scoffing. “All of you have no idea how good you have it. You’ll do what’s necessary for our nation.”

“We wouldn’t have to have this conversation if Screamer didn’t try to bang every guard in sight,” said Skywarp.

“You're one to talk about banging everyone in sight," said Starscream. "And it was just one.”

“You liar. It was just the one you got caught with.”

“Never mind that,” said Starscream quickly. “Airbright can't get enough of me. He’d never cut off our union even if he discovered my infidelity, because there's no one half as perfect as I whom he could use as a replacement. You worry too much, sire.”

With this, Starscream turned to glare out the window, leaving the Winglord shaking his head and harrumphing. They all sat in awkward silence for the duration of the trip back to the palace.

When the transport began its descent, servants could be seen waiting below in the courtyard to greet them. They were all uniformly painted, adorned with the red crest of their royal house. Starscream’s optics trailed up to the palace gate, and something unusual caught his optic. Standing among the rest of the servants, towering head and shoulders over most, was an enormous, wingless silver mech. Potentially a tank or piece of heavy machinery. 

A grounder residing anywhere within Vos was already an oddity. To see one in the vaunted towers of Vos’ elite, let alone the palace proper, was a spectacle.

Starscream peered closer, and saw the royal crest emblazoned in the center of the mech’s chest as well. He wrinkled his nose.

“What is that grounder doing down there, bearing our livery?” he asked, unceremoniously breaking the silence. “It’s an eyesore.”

“A grounder?” Desperate for a distraction, Skywarp and Thundercracker perked up and craned their necks to see out the window. 

“Like a real life grounder?” asked Skywarp, pressing his nose against the glass. “I haven’t seen one of those in ages.”

“Ah,” the Winglord waved his hand dismissively in the direction of the window. “I got you a new bodyguard.”

Starscream’s mouth dropped open. He jerked around to stare at the Winglord. “That thing? Are you trying to punish me? Embarrass me? I can’t be seen with that!”

“I thought you might stay in one piece with this one.”

That got a cackle out of Skywarp. Thundercracker more gracefully hid his smirk behind his datapad.

Starscream set his jaw. It seemed he wouldn’t be escaping the topic of his recent affair just yet.

The reason he needed a new bodyguard was because he’d slept with the last one, the Winglord had discovered the affair, and had his unlucky lover executed forthwith. They had only been caught due to a minor miscalculation on Starscream’s part, regarding the capacity of his valve. As he often did when placed in close proximity to a huge, handsome mech such as his late bodyguard, Starscream had become… afflicted by the inclination for a hard spiking. Array incompatibility be damned. 

Anyway, he wouldn’t have tried to take spike from a shuttle if he knew it would break five sets of calipers and alert nosy servants to his activities with his agonized screaming. 

Well, this new choice of bodyguard made sense now. Vaguely, assuming the Winglord had picked a grounder specifically so Starscream wouldn’t be interested in him physically. And even if this mech were a flier, there was nothing attractive about him. His armor wasn’t exactly stylish, or even up to date. He looked vintage and purely functional, and like his previous guard, probably too big to spike him. 

“Not accounting for taste, are you?” asked Starscream. 

“No, Starscream. I did not pick this one, nor any of the guards you've tangled with, based on how attractive you find them,” said the Winglord. “This mech was a famous Kaonite gladiator. He cost a lot to procure.”

“You scraped up a random pit fighter to be my personal bodyguard?” asked Starscream, gesturing at the mech lumbering around below like a huge, silver bulwark.

“Not random. He's the most decorated fighter this side of the planet. And you know Kaonites aren't afraid of anything. I do hope this one doesn't fall short of the mark.”

“Yes, if it doesn’t fall to its death off a balcony first. What use is a guard in Vos that can't fly?”

“That shouldn't matter, as you shouldn’t be flying anywhere on your own wings. Summon a transport and he’ll accompany you.”

“What? Why?”

“Because I don't want to hear any more about you taking unauthorized flights, going who knows where with who knows whom. Fluttering around wherever you please, alone and unchaperoned. It’s not proper.”

“Well, I don't want that thing accompanying me.”

“You'll manage.”

“No,” spat Starscream. “It’s bad enough you hired a grounder, but a gladiator? That thug will never keep his hands off me.”

“Retired gladiator,” said the Winglord. “Trust that he’ll be more professional than that.”

“And when he’s not?”   

“As is the case with everyone besides your fiance, he will also be deactivated if he puts his hands on you.”

“Oh, is that your contingency plan? To throw him in the smelter after he’s had his way with me?”

“Star…” The Winglord rubbed his forehead tiredly. 

“Fine. I’ll trust you know what you’re doing.” Starscream hiked up his wings. “Just pray nothing unfortunate befalls your gorgeous, beloved creation due to your lack of foresight.”

“As long as you don’t go looking for trouble with this one, there’s little risk of an incident occurring.”

“But there is some risk.”

“You’re being surprisingly cautious,” said Thundercracker.

“Yeah, weirdly cautious,” added Skywarp. “Like you didn’t beg your last guard to bust your valve open like a can of energon biscuits.”

“Will you shut up about that?” snapped Starscream. “Obviously, this is not the same situation.” He scowled. There were some lines one just didn’t cross. No self-respecting Vosian would ‘face a grounder. Especially one from such an obviously low caste background. A pit fighter. Really… 

Starscream slumped further down in his seat. What a shame, about the shuttle. He’d at least been educated. And had wings. 

Fortunately, no one cared about a grounder. He could make him disappear easily enough with a few drops of poison. 

Starscream drummed his fingers on the arm of his seat and glared out the window. He was not about to spend another moment getting leered at by some oversexed, ancient crankshaft.

Chapter Text

The first poison had no effect. Nor did the next six. 

An ex-gladiator could, reasonably, have been coded with a resistance to poison, or developed a tolerance, but this was ridiculous. 

Starscream, growing impatient, running out of poisons to slip in the grounder's energon, and still having to endure him tailing him to every event, abandoned this approach and hired assassins. But after even Vos’ alleged best assassins mysteriously ended up laid out in a row by the guard barracks with their helms bashed in, he began to realize the extent of his problem.

Megatron– a name he had learned only for the sake of putting a designation to his target– was establishing himself to be an incredible thorn in his side. He simply would not die. 

Starscream gnawed a clawtip and glared. 

Seated opposite him in the transport, Megatron was a surly grey monolith, his frame clashing with the gold filigree and imported palladium paneling of his surroundings. His legs were sprawled open, taking up most of the bench, as he read a novel on his datapad. 

Starscream hadn't yet exchanged a single word with him, and did not intend to. A servant didn't need to be seen or heard, they only needed to serve. At least Megatron had been competent in that regard. 

When Starscream took him along from appointment to appointment, Megatron silently kept his distance from him for the duration of the events. If he wasn’t securing the perimeter of the buildings with the other guards, he mostly just lurked like some horrid statue at the edge of whichever room Starscream occupied. So, when not shamelessly dodging his murder attempts, Megatron was, on the whole, exceptionally quiet and unobtrusive.

But Starscream knew better. Celebrity status nonwithstanding, he'd been a gladiator, which meant he was certainly violent and unrepentantly lecherous beneath that stoic facade. There would come a situation where they happened to be alone together, and Megatron, with his terrible low class morals, would help himself to him. Starscream could feel it coming.

He’d often felt Megatron’s optics on him, when his back was turned. Wings were strange, delightful and tempting to grounders. Megatron could be mistaken for staring out of curiosity, if not for the hungry edge to his field. Erring on the side of caution, Starscream kept his wings canted low at all times around him to avoid having them grabbed. He was just waiting for the old bastard to get handsy; to reach out and snag an edge between his greasy fingers. Then it would be all over for him. 

Yes, any day now. 

Interestingly, this distinct lack of groping had recently expanded to individuals beyond Megatron. Airbright, having the constitution of a glow worm, was clearly nervous about the vicious Scourge of Kaon lingering in proximity to his fiance. And as a result, less prone to fondling. For that, Starscream allowed himself to feel the barest minimum of begrudging gratitude towards Megatron for being sparked as a giant, frightening lunkhead. 

Much as Starscream only needed to stand around to attract admirers, it seemed Megatron’s very presence repelled the same. 

And what a presence it is, Starscream thought, for not the first time. His optics swept over Megatron’s frame, lingering on his massive shoulders and thick waist, following the lines in his face where the derma was worn; the hard angles of his square jaw and his serious, dour mouth. 

Megatron was clearly old, but there was a world of difference between him and the creaky antiques which populated Vos’ upper caste. Gladiators carried eons of beatings etched into their frames which made them look older than they truly were. Megatron’s polished armor displayed traces of battle damage, the metal pitted and rugged with layers of scars that probably went deep into his protoform.  But age and injury hadn't sapped him of any strength. Megatron was a steely, impenetrable wall; a titanium pillar.

...and about as personable as one, thought Starscream, propping his chin in his palm. 

Slim, delicate-featured jets were fine, but Starscream had always had a special taste for large mecha– the bigger, the better. Guards tended to fit the bill nicely.

There was something exciting about being accompanied by the biggest individual in any given room. Being towered over, while having all the power over that mech. Normally, Starscream wouldn't glance twice at anything without wings, but he was almost willing to overlook that deficiency in Megatron, knowing he had a big… everything else. By merit of his size alone, Starscream couldn't deny that Megatron possessed at least an iota of charm.

Which would make his next plan easier. 

Seduction was a last resort, and Starscream hated to waste his charms on this mech, but he really saw no other weakness to exploit. At least it would be easy. A bit of flirtation, Megatron’s hands on him, and the guards on speed dial, and Megatron would be tossed into the palace’s industrial smelter before he knew what was happening.

Megatron was no doubt aware of the consequences for touching the Winglord’s creation, though he seemed like he should have the bolts to reciprocate Starscream’s advances. Starscream had looked into his background, and he had an impressive resume with a long history of combat. He'd committed displays of such remarkable violence that he'd earned notoriety across galaxies. That sort of indomitable mech would take whatever valve he saw fit to take, without fearing the wrath of a monarch. 

Starscream just had to be nice and pretend he was attracted, to lull Megatron into a false sense of security before springing his trap. Provided he could summon the will to converse with this oaf. 

He cast a sultry glance at Megatron– piercing and intent but thick with helplessness. The type of look that would make any dumb, brutish mech want to ravish him. 

“Answer something for me,” he said.

Megatron’s helm rose to attention, and he lowered his datapad. “Your Highness?”

Megatron had the dirty, guttural accent of a low caste Kaonite. Or perhaps even Tarnish? Primus forbid. Whatever it was, he sounded like he’d learned laymechs’ Vosian, if it could even be called that. His polite demeanor didn’t cancel out the coarseness of his tone, which was throaty, growling his words rather than allowing them to float from his vocalizer. 

Starscream shook off his disgust. “Why did the Winglord choose you in particular as a guard?”

Megatron shrugged. “My reputation, supposedly. My power was unmatched in the pits of Kaon.”

Starscream gave a nasally, tittering laugh behind his hand, like he was impressed by this. “And you, personally? Why take this post? Did being Kaon's champion fighter not pay the bills?"

“I thought this would be a nice retirement.”

Starscream bared his denta in a smile. “Has it been nice?” 

“I’m enjoying the variety. Keeps me sharp.” Megatron rolled one shoulder with a crack of cables untwisting. There was a hint of something knowing in his expression as he looked back at Starscream. Something in his field that was at once cocky and scornful.

Starscream seethed. Did Megatron know it was him behind the assassination attempts?

He didn’t even know what to say to this mech. The longer he was forced to be in his presence, the more he was tempted to start hurling insults. Bringing himself to flirt was abhorrent. 

Worse, Megatron was eyeing him again, rather than keeping his optics trained down, like he should in the presence of a prince. He was ridiculously, improperly confident for a mech of such low status. 

“Vos is a beautiful city,” continued Megatron, as he peered out the transport window. “There are no views like this in Kaon.” 

“And yet you spend all your time watching me,” muttered Starscream.

The faintest hint of a smile touched Megatron’s lips. His attention took a brief but very unsubtle detour to Starscream’s wings, before returning to his face. 

“You're one of the better sights, to be sure.”

“I–!” Starscream stammered. He’d been expecting some lechery, but the boldness managed to catch him off guard. Heat pooled in his cheeks, and he forced himself not to glare at Megatron, who was smiling wider at his flustered reaction. 

Dirty old mech… 

He tried to stay focused. This was good. This was just the 'in' he needed. Now he could focus on decimating Megatron’s meager resistance to interface. It figured that pretty bots were his weakness. Prince or no, no one was off limits to this gladiator.

Eager to get this over with before he lost his momentum, Starscream uncrossed his legs, parting his knees to show off his pelvic panel, freshly painted a lurid scarlet. 

“Come sit with me,” he said, beckoning. There was no way Megatron could resist, when all he knew was sex and violence. 

Megatron hesitated. His smile waned.

This was fine. Starscream thought, maybe, some complexities of the Vosian language escaped Megatron. That he was too uneducated to parse out the subglyphs denoting the seductive meaning in his words. How gauche. 

He tried to phrase his request differently, using small, uncomplicated glyphs: “There’s no one around right now. Come. I want you.” 

Megatron still didn’t move. His leer had completely disappeared, and his face was set in stone once again. 

“You're getting conjunxed, Your Highness.”

Ugh. Another moralist. Starscream kept his tone playful and flirtatious, above his simmering annoyance. “Am I not beautiful?”

“Yes. But I was only teasing you.”

Starscream’s chest smarted with anger. This was getting embarrassing. 

“Come here.”

“Your Highness. With all due respect–”

“Did no one teach you how to behave before royalty?” snapped Starscream. “I gave you a command. You didn’t think you could flirt with me and get away with it?”

“What you’re asking is a step too far. It’s not right, Your Highness.”

“You are not to moralize about my orders. I don't hold with disobedient servants. My will is law, and I expect to be obeyed.”

Megatron gave a dry chuckle and picked up his datapad again. “I’ll enjoy from a distance.”

“You will do no such thing,” spat Starscream, his voice growing shriller, as the horror dawned on him that, somehow, he was losing control. To a servant.

“I have it on good authority that looking’s not disallowed,” said Megatron. His tone was cheeky, but there was a stern edge to his gaze, like he imagined he could somehow compel Starscream to drop the subject. 

Starscream was caught between rage, indignation, and a third, worse emotion– excitement in the pit of his tanks. 

None of his servants had spoken to him like this. Even the grand duke would be apprehensive about taking an impertinent tone with him. Yet Megatron spoke to him without fear. Where did he get the confidence? Starscream was baffled. 

He crossed his arms and shot Megatron a challenging stare. “You wouldn't know what to do with me anyway. I bet you’ve only slept with uncouth pit groupies.”

Megatron sighed. “The manners of the company here are far more uncouth.”

“Good. Then you should feel right at home.”

“This is shameful behavior from a prince, Your Highness.” Megatron shook his helm like he was disappointed in him. 

Starscream scoffed. “What would you know? How dare you admonish me!” 

Really, no one had spoken to him like this before and lived. Starscream had no idea why he was letting him get away with this, other than the fact that he didn’t exactly know what to do about it. His only real option was to complain to his sire, which was incredibly pathetic. 

No. This nonsense was personal, between him and Megatron. 

Starscream leapt to his feet and strutted up to him. “Stop pretending to be reluctant. You stare at my legs through your datapad every time we’re on the transport. Can you even read?”

That comment, of all things, appeared to strike a nerve in Megatron. His brow creased, as his demeanor tipped over from stern to irritated. Good. Now that they were getting somewhere, Starscream slammed his thruster up on the seat between Megatron’s legs.

“Here! Is this what you want? Touch me,” he demanded, teasing his heel over Megatron’s shin. The metal squeaked, Starscream’s finish sleek and satiny against Megatron’s plating.

Megatron growled in annoyance. His optics flicked between Starscream’s legs, the wall, Starscream’s face, and back to his legs, like he had no idea where to look. Starscream cackled.

“You try to deny it. But look at you. You’re like a beast in heat.” He traced his claws over Megatron’s cheek. "What will it have to come to, if you won’t be tamed?”

Megatron glared at him, defiant. So Starscream reached for his throat. His newly sharpened claws slotted neatly into the thick, bunched cords of his neck. He leant closer, until he could whisper into Megatron’s audial.

“...Will you have to be collared and put in my menagerie?”

Megatron’s shoulders twitched with a restrained movement. When Starscream pulled back, he looked like he was moments from wringing his neck.

“Understand,” said Starscream, “I always get what I want. Don't think you're the exception, you overconfident grunt.”

“I think,” said Megatron, in a steely, measured tone, “It would do you some good to be denied something once in a while. Your Highness.”

Snarling, Starscream dug his claws into his face, deep enough to cut. “I know you're aching to screw the bolts off me. Indulge me at once! Lay me out and ravish me! Now!”

He punctuated his order with a well-aimed kick at Megatron’s thigh, but Megatron grabbed his ankle before it connected.

Startled, Starscream struggled to free his leg, but his grip was solid. Megatron hooked his fingers into his collar faring and rose to his full height, pulling him up against his chest. 

Starscream swallowed. In the presence of imminent danger, all of the struts in his legs went limp, as if they'd given out under Megatron’s sheer force of will. The only thing keeping him from dropping to his knees was Megatron himself, digging his fingers into his plating.

Megatron got up in his face, leaning in so close, Starscream could feel the warmth of his vents on his cheek. 

When he spoke, it was in a low, thunderous rumble:

“Keep acting up, and I’ll do something I promise you won't like.”

Underneath his fear, something hot and intense stirred in Starscream. So Megatron had moved to threats now. Starscream was going to make him rue that. Intimidation tactics may work on some second-class enemies in the pit, but not on him. But he simply nodded like he understood, and said nothing.

Judging him to be suitably chastised, Megatron released him, and sat back down and returned to his novel. After a moment of working his mouth, Starscream wobbled back to the opposite side of the transport. He slid into his seat, massaging his heel, where Megatron’s fingers had left dents.

This was inexcusable. He would not be humiliated like this. If Megatron was going to be stubborn and insubordinate, he’d just have to fix that. 

Remove his self-control.

Chapter Text

Starscream had waited long enough. 

Shortly after the guards had refueled for their evening meal, he exited the palace proper and slipped out to the barracks. In front of Megatron’s hab, he waved an all access key over the lock, and the door opened onto exactly the torrid scene he’d been expecting.

Megatron greeted him with an accusing snarl.

He was trembling, hunched over on his berth, hands fisted. Steam wafted off his frame, and his cooling fans roared. Every laborious intake reverberated throughout the tiny room, which was hazy with steam. 

Starscream’s own cooling apparatus were demure in comparison, when they likewise clicked on with the heat Megatron was throwing off. 

The aphrodisiac with which Starscream had laced his energon had been the culprit of many a Vosian court scandal for its potency– guaranteed to make a rutting beast out of the most repressed of mechs. Starscream had seen firsthand its devastating effects, but it was positively a sight with Megatron afflicted. 

Starscream slunk around the shuddering, overheated lump of misery seated on the narrow berth. He removed the aphrodisiac vial from his subspace, turning it over in his fingers, just to inflame his poor, helpless catch further. 

“Didn't expect a reprisal so soon?” asked Starscream. “That’s dangerous. Even a mech your size should watch your back. Or, at least, your energon.” 

“Where is it?” snarled Megatron.

“Where is what?”

“The antidote. For what you’ve poisoned me with.”

“There is none. Because it's not a poison. You’ll have to ride it out.”

“I’m not playing this game with you.”

“That’s not your call to make.”

Starscream gleefully watched condensation slide down Megatron’s flushed face. 

“You have been far too defiant for a servant. I daresay, positioning yourself as an obstacle to my desire is a bold position to take. I thought you would come to your senses. Pity you allowed it to come to this.”

Megatron’s mouth was a hard line. “I’ve served mechs like you before. Plenty of your type in Kaon.”

“And you’ve survived to tell the tale.”

“You're a thoroughly rotten mech, Your Highness.”

Starscream hummed. “I doubt your spike is so discerning.”

Megatron’s threatening growl reverberated through the room, causing Starscream to flinch back.

Now that Megatron was in front of him, hot and seething with barely restrained violence, Starscream was surprised to find he was on edge. Getting his way always made him giddy, but this was something more. 

Spurred by his resentment, there was no question Megatron could easily pin him to the floor and have his way, if he so chose. If Starscream needled him just a bit more. 

While that would certainly be one way of accomplishing his scheme to frame him, Starscream refused to let a disgusting grounder go that far, when simple caressing would suffice. He only had to pretend being ravished was what he wanted. He was rather surprised Megatron hadn't jumped him already. The mech’s self control was impressive. Which meant Starscream would have to take the lead, if he wanted this to go anywhere.

Unfortunately, Megatron didn't look to be in a very… caressing mood. More like he wanted to punch a hole through his spark. 

Before Megatron could act on his fantasy, Starscream motioned for him to stand at attention. 

“Up. I want to see your spike.” 

Megatron lifted his helm to glare at him. Starscream thought he would have to give the command again, but Megatron rose to his full height before him. Steam hissed from the seams of his codpiece as the panel unlatched and folded back. Freed from its confinement, his spike sprung out, fully pressurized.

“Ah. Ahem,” said Starscream, startled by his abrupt obedience. “Don't move until I say so.”

Visually, he took in the measure of the appendage, with mounting trepidation. 

It was enormous, extending the length of Starscream’s forearm at least, too girthy to encircle in one hand, and so heavy it bowed under its own weight. Prefluid dribbled freely from the tip.

The size wasn't the only pallor-inducing feature. Spurs ringed the base of the head, lining the shaft from base to tip. At one point, they were likely razor sharp, meant to saw a valve apart, but had become blunt with either age or… repeated use. A hot shiver passed through Starscream. This spike was showy enough to make one faint, and utilitarian enough to demonstrate that no part of the appendage was for show. Undoubtedly, a spike befitting a gladiator. 

Tentatively, Starscream reached for it, comm at the ready. In Megatron’s altered state, he hoped just a few strokes would be enough to get him off. And get–ugh– evidence on him. 

Getting himself to touch it was proving a challenge. His spark was doing flips at the sight of the huge, grotesque thing, poised like a spear at his abdomen. But Starscream was never one to back down from a challenge. 

Steeling his courage, he grasped his spike. Megatron hissed, bucking his hips like he was going to burst. 

“You should see your stupid face,” said Starscream. “You can't wait for me to order you to mount me and thrust all night long. Poor, depraved fool.”

He rubbed his thumb beneath the head. The velvety protoform, the texture of the studs, the way the steely shaft twitched in his grasp, spilling hot prefluid over his fingers... was a lot to behold. Distracted, he barely noticed Megatron pluck the bottle of aphrodisiac from his other hand and tip the rest of the potion onto his spike. Viscous pink fluid drizzled over the shaft– lubrication for the savage fragging that Megatron clearly expected to ensue. 

There was barely enough to coat his monstrous length. Starscream's belly fluttered. Megatron would ruin his valve with that. 

A little snap brought him back to reality as Megatron crushed the empty bottle into powder in his fist. He... seemed to be moving a little fast. Starscream tried to slow him; stroking him more gently, like he was calming a pet turbofox.

“Pace yourself. I don't want to have to punish you for shooting off before me.”

“You won't,” said Megatron.

Starscream grinned. “So obedient.”

Which is when Megatron clamped a hand around his throat. 

Startled, Starscream clawed at his wrist as he was dragged to the floor. His knees hit the coarse stone. Spike slapped his face, smearing hot fluid over his mouth, where the blunt head came to rest. The sweet aroma of the aphrodisiac mixed with the powerful, musky tang of grounder prefluid permeated his olfactory sensors. Starscream wavered as Megatron stood over him, crushing his dripping monstrosity of a spike against his lips. 

“Open your mouth,” said Megatron. 

Starscream’s intakes stuttered against his brutal grip. A thick drop of potion slid off the spike head and spattered his chin.

No. He couldn’t possibly. If he swallowed that–

“I will not,” snarled Starscream, through clenched denta. 

Megatron’s burly hand moved from his neck to squeeze the sides of his face. The delicate mechanics in Starscream’s jaw ground in protest under his crushing grip, and gave out, forcing his intake open. The tainted spike was shoved in with a wet pop.

Starscream shrieked and struggled to free himself, but Megatron grasped the back of his helm and bobbed it, packing his mouth full. Aphrodisiac coated his intake, syrupy and sweet, tingling all the way down.

Starscream beat on his broad thighs, thrashing. Panicking. That was five times the dose he gave Megatron. 

Relentless, Megatron caught both his wrists in his other hand and held him immobile, pushing his head down and feeding him the rest of his spike. Starscream’s jaw locked open around the girth and he gagged, neck cables flexing to capacity around the hefty intrusion. Megatron kept pushing in, until Starscream’s spread mouth kissed his pelvic armor. 

Then, in a grand finale, Megatron groaned in relief, and his spike twitched. Starscream dangled in his unbreakable grasp as every drop of aphrodisiac was washed down in a flood of transfluid. As he overloaded, the tension in Megatron’s frame eased slightly. The pressure in his spike did not.

Whatever ridiculously powerful hydraulics were contained in Megatron’s frame also extended to his still-rigid spike, apparently. That, or the aphrodisiac had rendered his refractory period nonexistent. Either way, once Megatron stopped shoving like a mad brute, Starscream’s fury came roaring back, dominating his fear.

“You filthy, revolting beast,” snarled Starscream. The weight of the spike compressing his vocalizer obstructed the full venom of his complaints, but he did his best to relay his anger. “You are not to use me at your leisure. Get your spike out now.”

Megatron shot him a look that said he had no intention of doing this. Starscream wasn't sure what his intention was, aside from causing him misery. He wouldn’t die from swallowing this much aphrodisiac, but he’d be in a state much worse and more vulnerable than Megatron, if he didn’t get free soon. 

At the least, he had the perfect setup to get Megatron caught assaulting him.

Devoid of any means of escape, and his own bodyguard turned traitor, Starscream activated his comm to hail the palace guards. Then he could purge the aphrodisiac before his systems detected and synthesized it. Megatron would not win today. 

Megatron, however, noticed the light of the comm activating. Before Starscream could send the signal, Megatron tightened his grip sharply on his wrist. The receiver cracked into pieces, offlining with a pop of static. 

Starscream’s lines flooded with ice. Horrified, he watched pieces of his broken comm clatter to the floor.

“I’ll. I’ll have you killed for this,” he said, haltingly, as Megatron sneered down at him, unflinching at his threat of deactivation. Which was a certainty once Megatron was finished having his way with him. 

However long that would last. 

Unwilling to make a moment of this pleasant for Megatron, Starscream unleashed a howling stream of profanity at him. It was laced with static from his vocalizer being jarred, as Megatron started driving his spike into his throat again. Starscream’s vox chirped and popped, turning his shouts into stilted, warbling squeaks.

He couldn't possibly threaten Megatron effectively like this, nor could he command a suitable volume to draw attention. 

As if to mock him, Megatron overloaded again, halfway in his mouth. Transfluid filled Starscream’s intake and bubbled out around his spike, spilling down his chin when he couldn't swallow fast enough. The sheer volume was enough to choke off his tirade. Pleased with the fresh lubrication, Megatron shoved his spike all the way back in, prompting a furious, messy gargle from Starscream. 

Megatron chased his relief,  unstoppable now that he’d claimed a warm hole for his spike. The aphrodisiac was truly a nasty little concoction, sapping Megatron’s self control to nothing. Starscream was dreading to find out exactly what happened when one took five times the effective dose. His high-performance systems burned through fuel quickly, and his sensory network was already lighting up with activity. It was too late to purge it.

Without warning, his panels snapped open loudly, leaving him suddenly bare-valved. Mortified, he tried to close them, but the command was stalling. No. No…

His legs were spread wide, held in a squat. If Megatron backed up a little, he'd see everything. He tried to bring his knees together for modesty– unsuccessfully, as Megatron was standing between them. Starscream whimpered, face burning. The unwilling exposure was somehow more humiliating than having his mouth spiked. Megatron wasn't worthy of this. Of using his frame; of looking at him like this. 

Starscream’s HUD fritzed, confused, as his spike pressurized next, spitting prefluid in a river. The lubricant reservoirs in his valve twinged, expressing a much larger volume of fluid than necessary. Oral lubricant slid down his chin in strings, mixed with Megatron’s disgustingly viscous transfluid. Starscream’s overclocked systems must have confused his intake for a frag hole as well, and were lubricating it graciously.

Megatron’s spike had become achingly hot against the derma of his mouth. Starscream could acutely feel each stud and ridge sliding over his lips and glossa and the inside of his throat. In a terrifyingly short time, pleasure blossomed through his intake, down his belly and into his array, until his mouth and valve became one continuous channel of stimulation. Every jarring thrust made his valve twitch, envious of the attention his mouth was getting. His anterior node needled with pain from overcharge.

Starscream discreetly bounced his hips, futilely seeking friction. With his wrists trapped in Megatron’s grasp, he couldn't touch himself, and he was being held just slightly too high up to rub himself against the floor. Not that he would deign to do either in front of this loathsome mech. 

He seethed with frustration, finding that his desire to overload was quickly becoming less a preference and more a necessity. He would absolutely not come in front of Megatron. He forbid his frame from making him to do something that disgraceful. He fought through his arousal to shout at Megatron again.

“Enough! If you don't stop at once, we will be having words.”

Megatron rotated his hips. “This is a better use of your mouth by far, Your Highness.”

Starscream’s cheeks burned. “Are you out of your damn mind!?"

"Certainly not. If you insist on having relations with your guard, it's best to use a method that doesn't leave any evidence behind," said Megatron. He wiped transfluid from Starscream's chin and thumbed it into his mouth with a grin.

"Let me go now!" shrieked Starscream. "I never wanted you, and I never wanted this! This was obviously all a setup to destroy you, and I hope you die!"

"Yes," said Megatron. "Obviously."

His spike head continued to strike the back of Starscream's throat like a hammer, vibrating charge down into his array. Starscream clenched the cables in his thighs, trying to stave off an overload. He was not about to give Megatron any encouragement by coming from getting his throat fragged. 

And yet, overload loomed, thunderous behind his clenching array.

“You miserable thug. Do you have any idea what’s going to happen to you for assaulting me? You can't even fathom what– what I– I’m going to...”

Starscream shuttered his optics, unable to concentrate. Pressure and heat had engulfed his valve. Waves of charge undulated up to the very neck of his channel, licking his deepest parts, stabbing his nodes insistently. 

Oh gods. He was going to come.

“Keep talking,” said Megatron. “Your bratty squeaking turns me on.”

Starscream whimpered hatefully as the speed of Megatron’s thrusts increased. All the sensations came to a peak: the slopping of fluids being churned around his shaft; Megatron’s musky taste and scent burrowing into his processor; his powerful grip on the back of his helm as he ground into his throat. 

Megatron crushed Starscream’s nose to his pelvic armor, letting the back of his flexing intake ensnare his spike. 

Starscream broke. 

His own transfluid hit his chin, jetting from his straining spike. He received several errors, which resolved into a solution of “drain lubricant reserves”. The process ran automatically, while his processor was too compromised to abort it. Every overstimulated pump in his array seized up to eject the entirety of his stored lubricants. 

The pleasure of this release was so hard and sudden, Starscream burst into tears as lubricant gushed uncontrollably from his clenching valve. Cleaning fluid overflowed his optics, trickling freely down his burning cheeks. Little broken, pathetic mewls eked from him as he sniveled around his spike; swept up in his unstoppable overload. 

Megatron watched him come with a mixture of fascination and disdain, topping off the humiliation by pulling out of his intake and tugging off all over his face. When Starscream came to, he was sitting in a pool of his own spend, sobbing. His fans howled with the effort of cooling him.

“Did you enjoy that, Your Highness?” Megatron asked drolly. 

Starscream wished death on him. 

The overload did absolutely nothing but make him crave another. Every wire; every sensor in his frame exploded with arousal, and it continued to build, unrelenting. His valve was throbbing so violently, he feared no amount of overloads would satisfy. His hands were still trapped, but… he was lower; sitting against the floor now. Realizing his valve could also touch the floor, he rubbed himself wetly against it.

The moment his overcharged external node brushed the slick stone, he overloaded again, almost exactly as violently as the first time. But when he came down, it felt like it had been nothing but a pathetic blip; a solar flare shooting off the surface of an all-consuming star. 

Something was wrong. He had far too much charge to release. His calipers were stalling, contracting overly hard to contend with the volume of charge being forced out. His valve creaked ominously. Something popped. 

There was a hiss of hydraulics depressurizing and the ping of latches uncoupling from deep in his array. Something dropped from his valve with a rattle, accompanied by a blaring message on his HUD: 

[CRITICAL FAILURE: GESTATION SEAL COMPROMISED]

Gestation…? His baffles? His baffles had been dislodged with overload? Was that even possible?

That. That wasn’t good.

Desperately, he blinked through his tears at Megatron. His vision was obscured by steam, though he could see the blurry shape of Megatron lingering, watching and tugging his spike in front of his face.

Oh. He was so hot, his optic cleanser was evaporating. Steaming. 

Starscream flared his wings to disperse heat. That felt nice. But the floor… that felt even nicer. He rubbed his valve against it more, node crackling with charge as he massaged the sting out of it. Mmm. 

His higher processing had begun to fail; his base coding taking over to lighten the load on his overburdened systems. Extraneous processes were cancelled, and full power was diverted to cooling him, rather than having to force a hard shutdown to protect his overheated components. Scraps of clarity drifted in and out. He couldn't shut down, alone with Megatron. It would be terrible if he passed out right now.

Which was Starscream’s last coherent thought, before he dropped into stasis.

Chapter Text

Starscream rebooted less than a quarter-joor later, according to his chronometer.

A slew of warnings and notifications crowded his aching processor. His frame smelled hot. The hard reboot seemed to have mitigated the effects of the aphrodisiac, but made his helm feel like sludge, as processes groggily came online again. He felt like he'd been hit by a truck.

Coolant and lubricant levels were critically low, and the sensors in his throat and valve stung. His mouth was thick with the taste of transfluid.

And Megatron was nowhere to be seen.

Cringing, Starscream levered himself upright. He’d been relocated to Megatron’s berth. At least Megatron was thoughtful enough not to leave him on the floor like shareware after he’d finished with him.

Starscream peeked under the covers, and was relieved to see his panels were closed. Megatron hadn't ravished him, he found, upon running a scan of his systems and finding no history of recent interface. So Megatron was apparently not a complete barbarian, if he had not made use of his unconscious frame. But Starscream was getting another concerning readout from his interfacing systems:

[MATING PROTOCOL: ONLINE]

Which was no wonder, considering his systems weren’t detecting baffles. Starscream placed a hand on his middle, wondering, with slowly dawning panic, where they could have gone.

Vaguely, he remembered they had fallen out, but where? There was nothing on the floor of the tiny room, nor the rickety side table. He yanked the cover back, scanning between his legs, and patting the berth around him.

The door clicked open, and Megatron finally emerged, holding a steaming mug of energon. 

Starscream flinched and held the cover up to his chest, very aware of their proximity in the tiny space. Luckily, Megatron didn’t look to be in the mood for additional ‘facing. 

“Good, you’re awake.” Megatron set the mug aside on the table and strolled up to him. He reached into his subspace and held out a small, crumpled circle of metal. “Looking for this?”

Starscream gasped. Yes. Those were his baffles. Which had been secured snugly inside him, against one of the most intimate parts of his frame mere minutes ago, and which Megatron was casually turning over in his fingers. This vile, overfamiliar–!

“Give me that!” demanded Starscream. He snatched it from Megatron’s upturned palm and cradled it in his hands. Oh, Primus. It was still warm. Starscream felt he could expire on the spot from mortification. 

Well, it definitely… had been a set of baffles. The disc was crumpled, with a hole burned straight through. The amount of energy released with overload along with the pressure of his brand new calipers had been enormous enough to destroy it. His valve had literally chewed the baffles up and spit them out. 

Starscream stared at his hands, slack-jawed. 

Megatron examined the broken seal with him. Starscream glanced up incredulously, and their optics met. 

Megatron raised a brow ridge. “You have quite a valve, Your Highness.”

With a snarl, Starscream crushed the seal in his fist and slugged him in the chest. 

“You wretched, filthy, disgusting brute! I’ll kilkzzck–”

At the peak of his scream, his vocalizer clicked and warbled, distorting his insult, before shutting off completely. Starscream clutched his throat. An ugly grating noise rasped from his intake as his vocalizer rebooted. 

Megatron sat on the edge of the berth and held out the mug of energon. “Drink. It'll help.”

The liquid was light blue, emanating puffs of steam. Warm high grade with medicine. 

Starscream ached to wash the taste of transfluid out of his mouth and soothe his intake, but sneered and turned his nose up. He was not going to drink anything Megatron proffered after he'd been so cavalier about drugging him. 

“Is there anything you haven’t broken?” he rasped instead. “My seal, my comm, my vocalizer?” My dignity.

Megatron frowned at him. “You brought this on yourself.”

“If you szzz-peak— word!” howled Starscream, slamming a fist into his chest. His vocalizer glitched, struggling with the volume output. “I’ll have your worthle–le– less— peeled o-O-open— sszkk —screwdriver!”

Megatron grabbed his wrist. “Enough.”

Starscream trembled, forcing himself to lower his voice to a level his vocalizer could handle. Which happened to be an unsatisfying whisper. Woefully inadequate to deliver the ferocity of his anger. 

“Do you have any idea what you've done? My sparking ceremony is in mere days. I cannot show up with my forge unsealed like some commoner.”

Airbright’s pathetic spike had barely managed to touch the entrance to his gestation chamber in their previous scattered couplings, but he'd definitely notice if there were no baffles when it came time to spark him.

Starscream clutched the seal to his chest. “I'm the heir. My chamber is meant to be kept sacred, so the royal line stays intact. Can you imagine what this will do to my reputation? I’ll be ruined! I– I must get new ones right away.”

Easier said than done. As the prince of the land, he could not order baffles for himself. If word got out he’d personally purchased something like that, unsavory rumors could start.

Likewise, he couldn’t trust the palace doctor to install the set and not reveal to his sire that the old ones were missing. Well, he could, but the thought of once again being  excoriated by the Winglord about his careless interfacing habits was too humiliating to stand. No, he would deal with the matter of installation later. But to actually procure a new set… 

He glared at Megatron.

“No. You must get me new ones.”

“I’m a guard, not an errand bot,” said Megatron.

“You will do as I order!” spat Starscream, jabbing a finger against his chest. “Because this is your fault I’m in this mess! You owe me! Now, give me a datapad!”

Megatron sighed and extracted one from his subspace.

“And fix your impertinent attitude!” said Starscream, kicking him in the shin. He jerked the pad away from him and quickly uploaded the necessary data onto it– information about the materials of the seal he had before, as well as the engineer’s contact information.

And then… 

His valve dimensions. Forge model. The diameter of his forge mouth. 

Trying not to blush was a real task, as he uploaded very private and intimate data that Megatron should absolutely not have readily available. He was not worthy of knowing such things.

When Starscream handed him the pad back, Megatron looked it over, raising a brow ridge, but kept his thoughts to himself. Which somehow was worse than if he'd aired his judgment, because Starscream could not fathom what he found so damn intriguing about the size of his gestation array. 

“Do not,” said Starscream, “let this information fall into anyone else’s hands. Go into the city and order a seal from that engineer with those exact specifications. Tell him it’s a rush job.” He thrust out his palm. “Give me your credit chip.” 

Megatron did so, and Starscream added plenty of credits into it. When Megatron reached to take the chip back, Starscream held it away.

“I want you to know you’re a filthy pervert, and what you’ve done to me is unforgivable. Look forward to the most agonizing, humiliating execution possible. As soon as you complete this task for me.” Starscream extended the chip to him. His fingers trembled.

Gently, Megatron took his hand and kissed the knuckles. “Of course, Your Highness. It’ll be done.”

He looked serious and sincere. Almost… apologetic. A quiet, contemplative expression, which unexpectedly made Starscream’s spark swirl with conflict. He snatched his hand away before the feeling could deepen. No matter what, he’d be punishing Megatron.

His furious desire to kill him had, strangely, dampened, and was not as overpowering as he expected it should be. Instead, embarrassment and anxiety were the emotions that rose to the top of his consciousness. He’d pushed Megatron too far; been incautious, and his plan had backfired. But he'd definitely make sure Megatron was thoroughly punished for his gross insolence. He was just too out of sorts right now to think about revenge. 

Even stranger, the longer he stayed around Megatron, something inside him grew. Something like discomfort or– or agitation? Like his spark was unsettled around him, and yet found him oddly companionable, in a way he had not before. 

That couldn't be right. But Starscream couldn’t put his finger on it. 

—

Starscream hissed as he lowered himself into the tub of solvent. Hot liquid seeped into his aching joints, loosening them.

He was so glad it was before his usual rising time so his servants weren’t aware he had been gone. He’d been able to sneak out and back to his chambers, unseen. There was just enough time to wash himself before he’d be fetched to start his day.  

Lubricant was caked under his panels and in his seams, and smeared down his legs. Megatron had only wiped up his chest and face where he'd made a mess, so he was still sticky with his transfluid.

Grabbing a wash rag, Starscream began scrubbing at his frame. He hoped Megatron would have the decency to bathe as well before accompanying him later today. When they were close earlier, he'd noticed Megatron had an unusually strong smell. Grounders notoriously stank, lacking the fresh ozonic smell characteristic of fliers. Megatron was no exception with his earthy aroma, mixed with hot oil and cheap polish. Usually it was manageable, but right now Starscream could smell and taste him so distinctly it was making him irritable. 

He took a mouthful of solvent and spat it out, repeatedly washing his mouth as he scrubbed his frame. Disgusting. The scent of his lingering transfluid was so thick, clinging to his olfactory like a blanket. He couldn’t tell if Megatron was particularly musky, or if he was just sensitive to smells, as a seeker.

And his oversensitivity wasn’t helped by his lack of baffles. Without a gestation lock, the natural state for a seeker in heat was to scent out and mate with the most virile mech available. Dominate the competition through displays of strength and secure their place as the exclusive carrier for the mech’s sparklings. 

This was, in fact, how bonds were formed between seekers in the old times. Nowadays, all sophisticated mechs had baffles to keep their natural urges in check so they could more easily make their politically appropriate arranged marriages without running off with the most potent stud they could find. The barbaric courting battles to secure sires were left to the lower castes, separating the gentry from the rabble. 

Starscream, who had been fitted with baffles the moment he'd been updated with his carrier coding, already felt uncomfortably bare and sensitive with nothing to protect his baser instincts from hungrily locating a sire. As much as he tried to ignore it, there was already a hint of pulsing warmth; the sensation of built up charge in his gestation array, as he gingerly wiped the rag through his aching valve. 

Worse, the back of his processor kept nudging him with the information that thick transfluid meant a virile sire. Which– 

Which was not something he should care about, Starscream impressed on himself, pulling the rag away from his node before he got too enthusiastic. He was already conjunxed. 

Suitably clean, he stepped out of the bath and dried off, giving himself a once-over in the mirror. His reflection looked rather tired and tragic. Defeated. 

Unfortunately, he couldn't just sleep it off, because he was meeting his sire, brothers and conjunx for breakfast soon.

Lifting his wings to a more energetic angle, he briskly exited the washroom, determined not to let the events of the previous night ruin his day.

Chapter Text

“Gee, Starscream, you look rough.”

Skywarp peeked curiously at Starscream from around a tower of energon puffs as he arrived at the table. 

Now that his adrenaline had worn off, Starscream was aching terribly in some very sensitive places. He’d definitely strained a few calipers, and was limping bow-legged despite his best efforts to walk normally. And somehow, he was still sticky under his panel.

“So, what happened?” asked Skywarp.

“What?”

“What’s with the limp?”

“I, um. Fell off a zap horse.” Starscream still couldn’t talk above a low rasp. He’d have to get his vocalizer fixed later. 

“Wow. That’s crazy.”

“Starscream,” said the Winglord, tapping copper shavings into his energon. “You must take better care of yourself. What did I tell you about doing strenuous activities? You have a delicate constitution–”

“I’m fine,” ground out Starscream. Servants pulled out a chair for him next to Skywarp, and he was unable to conceal a hiss of pain as he sat on his aching valve, which was swollen, and pressing against his panel.

“Maybe you should see a doctor,” suggested Thundercracker, across from him.

“No. That’s absolutely not necessary, Thundercracker, thank you," grit Starscream, wishing he could be anywhere else. 

When his meal arrived, his sore throat prevented him from swallowing without pain. Taking laborious, tiny sips of his energon, he lamented that he hadn’t just drunk the concoction Megatron had offered earlier, which surely had painkillers. 

As it was, he was unbelievably sore at both ends, and his desire to incite violence was rising with every passing moment he was forced to put on a prim and proper façade.

Thundercracker kept casting looks at him, so he tried to rein in the ferocity in his field. Skywarp was dominating most of the conversation with some idiotic story, so Starscream was at least able to keep to himself.

If the pain wasn’t enough, his arousal was strengthening as the minutes ticked by. He was hot, and lubricating, and it was truly becoming a nuisance. Starscream shifted in his seat, discreetly laying a hand over his middle under the table. His abdomen was warmer to touch than the rest of him.

Fantastic. He was slowly being overtaken with a primal desire to mate. There was probably a bevy of strong potential sires within the palace, their proximity making his forge pulse with heat. 

Starscream spared a glance at his creaky old fiance. The energon in Airbright’s cup threatened to spill over as he lifted it shakily and took a sip, then lowered it with an unsteady hand to the saucer. 

Starscream wrinkled his nose. His coding certainly wasn’t reacting to him. In fact, he was even more repulsed by Airbright than usual. Actively revolted, as his systems rejected him as unworthy and searched for a more suitable mate. He needed those baffles as soon as possible. 

Skywarp clacked his chair against the ground. One of his chair legs was uneven, and made a noise against the floor every time he rocked backward. He shifted, and it clacked again.

Starscream clenched his jaw. Was everyone conspiring to annoy him today? At least the meal was almost over, and Megatron would be showing up soon to accompany him to his next appointment. And not a moment too late. 

Megatron’s presence was announced by his distinct scent suddenly poking at Starscream’s sensors. 

It was that same musky smell that lay heavy on his olfactory, blocking out his other senses to zero into Megatron’s presence. The scent was making him lightheaded, and his agitation only grew, the closer Megatron got to the hallway entrance. With his back to it, Starscream could sense the exact moment he arrived, lingering; waiting for him. 

Maybe his intense reaction to Megatron was because his guard was still up from the previous night. He’d had a trying time. Being manhandled. Having Megatron’s spike pushed down his throat. Being made to swallow his transfluid. So much of it, and so thick , choking him out as Megatron thrust into him, knocking his intake repeatedly– wham wham wham–

Only Skywarp’s clacking was more insulting to his senses than Megatron, snapping him from his thoughts. 

Starscream rubbed his temples. “Skywarp! That’s driving me insane. Get another chair.”

Skywarp lowered his chair with one last clack. Then he twisted in his seat and waved at Megatron. “Hey, you. Get me that chair by the wall.”

“Skywarp,” chided the Winglord. “Don't call on Starscream’s guard to fetch you things. We have servants for that.”

“Why not? He's right there.”

Obediently, Megatron took the requested chair from the side of the room and brought it over to the table.

A savage prickle of irritation spiked through Starscream as Megatron came close. His frame felt tight. His plating itched unbearably. More lubricant seeped from his valve, pooling in his panel. Megatron’s proximity was seriously bothering him. And he hated that Skywarp was here. In proximity to Megatron. 

He watched sharply out of the corner of his optics as Skywarp stood, and Megatron exchanged the chairs, pulling out the new one and gesturing for him to sit. 

He was too close.

A quiet hiss emanated from Starscream’s vocalizer, prompting a puzzled glance from Skywarp.

His brother shrugged him off, spending far too much time arranging his wings before he sat. As he did, Skywarp’s waist brushed Megatron’s hand, which was poised on the low back of the chair to push it in.

Starscream’s vision narrowed to a point, and something snapped.

Raging and feral, he leapt up, knocking over tableware with a clatter. He turned on Skywarp, hissing and fanning his wings out in a threat display. 

Skywarp jolted away from him in surprise, so hard that he toppled out of his seat. He smacked the floor hard– satisfyingly so.

Starscream stood over him, plating flared, engine roaring.

“Primus! In the middle of my breakfast?” exclaimed the Winglord, throwing his napkin down. “Skywarp, what did you do this time?”

“I didn't do anything,” Skywarp whined. Like a liar. 

Starscream snarled, and in response, Skywarp’s own wings canted high and he flashed his fangs at him. 

“Stop that, you two,” Thundercracker cut in. “What are you even fighting about?”

“I don't know. He suddenly went crazy.” Skywarp pouted, reaching for Megatron’s offered hand to help him up.

Starscream snapped forward and sank his claws into Skywarp’s wrist before they could touch. He knocked him flat to the floor again, kneeling on his wings. 

“Ow! Screamer, what is–”

“Mine.”

“Huh?”

“Mine. You harlot,” Starscream hissed in his face. It was taking all his restraint not to tear the wires out of Skywarp’s neck. Brother or not, he was much too close to Megatron. 

Skywarp’s lip trembled. But after a few moments, his expression changed. First to confusion, then surprise, before cycling into smug understanding. 

Starscream’s comm blipped. 

::Are you in heat?::

Damn it. Why did Skywarp have to be perceptive at a time like this? 

::How? ...And for him?:: Skywarp tilted his helm at Megatron.

Skywarp’s neck cables were looking increasingly… chewable, as his brother’s optics wandered to Megatron. And then back to Starscream. Then back to Megatron. 

::Wow:: Skywarp’s cheeks took on a pink tinge. His mouth parted slightly, as he looked Megatron over with a hazy, longing leer. His fans clicked on, whirring. 

::Oh. So if you're after him, that means he’s the most… you know…:: Skywarp’s gaze fell below Megatron’s waist. The tip of his glossa slid over his lips. :: ...Studly::

Starscream sank his fangs into his throat. 

Skywarp squealed, thrashing and shielding his neck as Starscream gnawed at it. “Okay, you don't have to be so aggressive!” 

Someone grabbed Starscream’s wings, hauling him back.

“Starscream. Enough,” said Thundercracker, behind him.

“Both of you get off the floor! This is ludicrous,” said the Winglord. “And you. You're dismissed for now.”

He must have been speaking to Megatron, because Starscream felt him retreat. His field weakened slightly with distance. 

As Megatron left to go stand outside the room again, Starscream’s helm cleared marginally. No longer consumed with the urge to murder, he unstuck his fangs from Skywarp’s neck and allowed Thundercracker to haul him off, to his feet. 

The Winglord helped Skywarp up, dusting off his wings. “Would you like to explain what that was about, Starscream?”

Skywarp shot Starscream a wry smirk, rubbing his neck.

Shaking with anger, Starscream glared back at Skywarp. “No. This is between us.”

“Well, set aside your differences until tomorrow afternoon. Skywarp’s meeting a suitor later and he can't show up looking gnawed on. Skywarp, let me see–”

“Are you okay?” asked Thundercracker, his hands sliding off Starscream’s shoulders as he went over to check on Skywarp. 

Shaken, Starscream slipped back into his seat, their conversation fading into the background. As his threat mitigation systems powered down, the sheer force of his dread and mortification hit him.  

When Skywarp had touched Megatron, some primal base coding was activated. Uncontrollably, Starscream had been compelled to defend his mate. No, potential mate. 

Oh no. 

This was exactly what happened to seekers in estrus. Driven by their instincts, they would bite and claw and rip apart their challengers to eliminate the competition for the most desirable mate. Which meant his systems had scanned through all the mechs in his vicinity– possibly even every mech in Vos– and found Megatron to be the choicest sire. And Starscream’s coding wouldn’t be sated until he’d hunted down Megatron and… 

And gotten sparked.

This could not be possible. Skywarp was right. Inadvertently, the Winglord had dropped a stud in their midst. Just under their noses. Among the gentlefolk of Vos. And Starscream was the only one wise to this.

Suddenly, he was stricken with fear. What if it wasn’t just him that noticed Megatron was an ideal mate? What if someone else caught on? Would he attack everyone who presented as a threat? His frame prickled with possessive rage. 

He shouldn't feel this way about a grounder. All his functioning, he’d been told their frame types were incompatible. But if his coding was capable of recognizing a grounder as a potential sire, what other consequences did this have? As Starscream could scent Megatron distinctly, could Megatron likewise sense Starscream’s pheromones beckoning him to mate? Once a sire was selected, only they could sense he was in heat. Megatron would be exclusively targeted; seduced by his scent. 

Lubricant escaped the seam of Starscream’s panel and drooled down his inner thigh. He had to stay strong. As soon as he got his new gestation seal, this nightmare would go away. He just had to ignore it. 

“Starscream, are you still here?” asked the Winglord. “Aren’t you going to your appointment?”

His appointment. With Megatron accompanying him. 

He couldn’t possibly. There was no telling what could happen in the short transport ride between him and Megatron. What Megatron might be tempted to do to him if he was being relentlessly teased by his pheromones.

Desperately, Starscream glanced at Airbright, like he expected to feel anything but disgust.  

“No. That can wait.” He took Airbright’s arm. “I want to spend more time together before the big day...”

“Oh, my Spark, you look tense anyway,” said Airbright. “You should rest. Let’s retire to the lounge and I’ll give you a wing massage.”

Starscream, grateful for a distraction, flashed him a tight smile. “Oh, would you?” 

He let Airbright slide a hand around his waist and lead him away. 

Airbright’s hands on his frame were working fabulously to snuff his desire, at least.

Chapter Text

Where is he?

Starscream tried not to twitch with impatience as servants dabbed paint on his frame. They’d drawn sigils on his thighs and abdominal plating, and now delicate gold detailing on his chin and under eyes. More servants stood by his wings, pinning jewels; draping a steelsilk girdle around his waist. 

There were exactly twenty five minutes before the sparking ceremony would start, and Megatron had not returned with the seal.

Starscream had managed to avoid Megatron for the last few cycles, giving him plenty of time to go out and get what he asked for. But that didn’t mean he could just disappear, and not have the decency to show up before Starscream was due to demonstrate the legitimacy of his bond in front of every mech he knew. 

Starscream glared at himself in the mirror. Getting trussed up to be sparked by his undeserving, idiot conjunx was somehow far from the most galling blow to his sanity today. 

The attendants made their final touches on his frame, packed up their tools, and left. Starscream felt sick with worry. Layered with arousal. As an additional burden to his anxiety, he’d been wet and sensitive for cycles, and self-servicing had only provided temporary relief. Only becoming sparked would soothe his heat at this point. He hardly cared who did it to him, as long as they did it soon. 

His forge panged hungrily at the thought of Megatron doing it. Starscream had, inadvertently, been thinking of him constantly. 

Too agitated to sit still, he rose, pacing the room. 

Megatron… Where was Megatron? 

If that aft had made off with the shanix Starscream gave him… though, would he really do that to him? Abandon him? 

Suddenly, Starscream regretted being cruel to Megatron. 

Had he gone too far? Treated him too harshly? Had Megatron decided he wasn’t worth his time?

Starscream worried the edge of the steelsilk girdle between his fingers, striding out to the receiving room of his hab, where he’d have more room to pace. All he could think about was Megatron. His heavy frame; his burdensome scent pressing into him. Growing closer, denser.

The door clicked open behind him, but he sensed Megatron before he saw him. His scent tickled his olfactory, caressing him in a wave. He tried not to whip around to greet him, balling his fists in his silks to keep his composure, as Megatron entered the room.

“Your Highness,” said Megatron, bowing. 

Starscream hated the violent ripple of arousal he felt, blended with relief. 

“Took you long enough!” he snarled, trying to keep his voice steady. “Where is it? Do you have it?”

Megatron nodded, and produced a little case from his subspace.

Abandoning propriety, Starscream darted over and snatched it from him, flicking the case open. As requested, there was a seal resting in it. Perfectly sized. 

Starscream let out a sigh of relief.

“Acceptable?” asked Megatron. “I came as soon as it was ready.”

Without looking, Starscream could sense Megatron’s optics wandering over him. Intently. Like he was searching for something. Of course Starscream looked gorgeous enough to invite stares, but this was different. Megatron’s vents were slow and unusually deep, expelling warm air over Starscream, like he was breathing him in. 

The realization he was doing exactly that was enough to throw Starscream off kilter.

Megatron had picked up his scent. He’d realized he was in heat, but perhaps didn’t know it was directed exclusively at him. Grounders went into heat differently– their carriers put out a scent to everyone, inviting local potential sires to a free for all. With any luck, Megatron would be unfamiliar with how heats worked for seekers.

Let him assume that what he was sensing was some non-specific output of pheromones. Starscream couldn't imagine what he'd do if Megatron discovered the truth. 

He closed the case and quickly put some distance between himself and Megatron. Abandoning him outside in the hall, he hurried to his berth room, locked the door, and reclined on his berth.

His valve panel popped open with barely any input. He was so wet, lubricant ran down his thighs. With trembling hands, he removed the seal from the case.

Damn Megatron again, for being so late. Starscream wouldn't be on his last nerve if he'd come sooner. At least after the baffles were fitted, his coding would stop running. He’d be able to do his duty. He wouldn't be troubled by any ridiculous urges to mate with Megatron. 

Carefully, Starscream positioned the baffles at his entrance and worked them inside. His fingers felt amazing as they brushed his nodes. Calipers squeezed and clung, starving for the barest penetration. It was difficult to focus, but Starscream persevered, and pressed his fingers deeper. 

Just a little more. The seal wasn’t yet making contact with his forge mouth. Biting his lip, he pushed his fingers in as far as they would go.

Still nothing. 

Starscream tried another position– standing, with one leg propped on the berth. Then, when that didn’t work, on his side with a leg up. Then face down, aft raised, pumping his fingers in, trying to force the baffles deeper. Each time, they failed to lock onto his gestation chamber.

Whatever position he tried, his fingers were too short to place it properly.

Huffing with panicked frustration, Starscream slid the seal out. He couldn’t install it if he couldn't reach. How was he going to… 

The little whisper of Megatron, Megatron that had been on repeat in his helm the past few cycles grew louder. The suggestion had been tickling his processor since the first failed attempt to install the baffles, and he’d firmly ignored it. But with no other option, it was dawning on him what he’d need to ask Megatron to do. 

His lines seared with desire, thinking about his fingers–

No. He simply couldn’t ask him to do something that intimate. 

Megatron had already gone too far with him. Inviting him to place his baffles was simply beyond his tolerance. 

But his chronometer was ticking down. He’d be led to the ceremony in Airbright’s chambers soon, surrounded by noble peers, every moment being observed as they consummated their bonding by kindling a spark. This had become a matter of life or death for his reputation.

His dignity would have to be put aside. 

Taking a few steadying in-vents, Starscream steeled himself. He closed his panel up, walked back out to the receiving room, and peeked out the door, where Megatron was standing guard. Megatron glanced at him questioningly.

“Ahem.” Starscream tilted his chin up. “I require your assistance.” 

“Hm,” said Megatron. “In your berth room, your Highness? That would be improp–”

“Just get in here!” whispered Starscream shrilly.

After a pause, Megatron relented. He glanced down the hall to ensure no one was around to spot him entering, before following him in. 

He kept casting puzzled, sideways glances at Starscream like he thought the situation was amusing. Really! Being in good humor at a time like this, when Starscream was staring scandal in the face… 

Starscream hesitated before his berth. He could practically feel Megatron’s warmth on the backs of his wings. His proximity sensors were going wild; his face numb with heat at the fact that he’d invited Megatron into his berth room. Alone with him. But it had to be done.

Steeling his nerves again, Starscream turned and held out the seal. 

“I need you to install this for me.”

Tentatively, Megatron reached out and took it. Wet traces of lubricant smeared his fingers as he puzzled out what Starscream was asking him to do. 

Oh. In his hurry, Starscream hadn't even wiped the seal off. He wished the floor would swallow him up. 

“Your Highness, you’ll have to be more specific with your instructions,” said Megatron. “What exactly do you want me to do?”

Starscream couldn’t bear to think of what needed to be done, let alone explain. 

“You know what I want.” 

Megatron chuckled. “I have an idea. But I’d like to hear it from your mouth. In detail.”

“I don’t care what you’d like,"   snapped Starscream, stamping a heel. “Obey my order!” 

“Perhaps a demonstration, then?”

Starscream grit his denta. Of course Megatron wouldn’t respond with the proper detached, serious obedience that would leave him with some dignity. Megatron was a dirty guard, not a medical professional. Of course he’d be milking this mortifying situation for all it was worth. Though, if he was insisting on being obnoxious and lewd, Starscream didn’t know how he would get through this.

Starscream turned back to the berth, rubbing his forearms in an attempt to calm himself.

He. He’d have to spread his legs. And have Megatron’s fingers. Inside.

Before that thought became too overwhelming, he quickly sat on the edge of the berth. He glared up at Megatron to impress upon him just how little he wanted his assistance. How humiliating this was for him. 

Megatron was still idly playing with the seal, turning it over in his fingers.

How was he in such good spirits? Starscream was on the verge of a meltdown, in disbelief that Megatron had decided to use what little time was left before the ceremony to taunt him. Never had his reputation been on the line like this, in some brute’s hands. He didn’t deserve this!

“Well?” said Megatron brusquely, gesturing for Starscream to spread his legs.

Oh, Primus, he was expectant. Impatient, even, demanding that he display his valve to him, like Starscream was some kind of shareware. Unbelievable.

Even if it was necessary, Starscream was faint with humiliation at the thought of opening his panels in front of him.

This was the worst time to be stricken by modesty. But to be fair, this was so much more naughty than what had happened in the barracks. Having his intake pried open was one thing, but his valve was sacred. Megatron had not been intimately acquainted with his valve. A peek was all he had. Now, Starscream would have to spread himself open, and show himself off.

Worse, he would be visibly aroused from the heat– his array slick and plump and drooling. Clearly hungry for spike. While alone with Megatron. In his own chambers.

Any way he looked at it, this was grievously improper, and he was at Megatron’s mercy. How could he have possibly lost control of this situation, and Megatron gained the upper hand– his servant?

The situation was too horrible to comprehend, but with courtiers slated to come in at any minute, if Starscream didn’t have this seal placed quickly, his situation would become ruinous. His family, his associates, his conjunx… all of them would disdain him for being unsealed. His marriage would be destroyed. He’d be a figure of ridicule. 

He’d have to make a decision. 

Miserably, he lay back on the berth, reminding himself that ruin and disownment was, in fact, worse than a few minutes of embarrassment. Everything would return to normal as soon as he did this. 

Slowly, he spread his legs.

Chapter Text

As Starscream slid his panel back, the silk hanging between his legs provided some modesty. Barely. 

His biolights winked through the thin fabric, in an ovoid outline that delineated the shape of his valve. Crowning his slit, the external node glared with charge, hot and prominent. There was no way to hide his arousal.

Megatron wandered closer until he was between his legs. The heat of his armor wafted against the insides of Starscream’s thighs.

Megatron’s engines were always running hot, pouring heat off his massive, high-performance frame and dispersing his scent. Starscream closed his vents, but that only stifled some of it. 

“It’s unusual for you to be so shy, Your Highness,” said Megatron. “Tell me what you want me to do to you.” He was looking Starscream in the optics, not the valve. His gaze was mischievous– the face of a mech who knew he was in control. 

A thick bead of lubricant drooled from Starscream’s valve. Lightheaded with anxiety, he felt compelled to protest: “I didn't want you to do anything. I just couldn’t… reach. Far enough.”

“What couldn't you reach?” purred Megatron. “To do what?”

“Don’t you dare make me say it bluntly.” 

Megatron cocked his helm challengingly.

Starscream’s throat felt tight. He straightened his back. “I have no time for your games.”

“Nor I, yours.” Megatron crossed his arms, content to make this a standoff, apparently.

“You wouldn’t force a prince to say something so crude?” asked Starscream, miserably failing in his effort to keep his voice steady. 

“I would, considering you’ve had filthier things in your mouth than words.”

“Do you have some sick fetish for disgracing me? For impugning my virtue?”

“Don’t be dramatic. I’m leaving if you don’t spit it out.”

“Don’t you give me an ultimatum!”

“You have no other choice, Your Highness.”

“For Primus’ sake! My valve,” spat Starscream, cringing at how desperate he sounded. “Put your fingers up my valve and attach the seal to my forge.”

“Well done. Was that so difficult?”

Megatron shoved at his canopy, pressing Starscream flat to the berth. Ignoring his complaints, he nudged his thighs apart and flicked the silk aside, baring his valve. 

Humiliation and arousal sunk heavily in Starscream’s belly. His spark turned somersaults as Megatron crouched until his face was at the level of his exposed array. Without a shred of thought to his dignity, Megatron placed his thumbs on the lips and spread the protomesh. Cool air tickled Starscream’s internals as he was pulled open wide. 

Starscream trembled and turned his optics to the ceiling. He’d break if he watched Megatron do this. 

Resisting the urge to squirm was maddening, as Megatron’s hot vents wafted over his mesh. Starscream could feel him peering inside his valve, getting a good look at his desperately flexing calipers; his soaked, quivering walls. 

For a long, long moment, Megatron was quiet, examining his valve. Then he grunted, “Baffles won’t help at this point. You’re too far into your heat.” 

“I don’t care. I just want them placed.”

More warmth tickled his node, making it pulse eagerly. Starscream could hear that same deep, slow pattern of Megatron cycling his vents.

Was he…? He couldn’t be!

Startled, Starscream glanced down, to see Megatron with his face a hand’s breadth from his entrance, inhaling.  

“Have you lost your mind?” whispered Starscream.

“Perhaps,” said Megatron. He frowned like he was confused. “I noticed before, but your scent is… you’re obviously in season. Why has no one said anything?”

“Obviously, because no one else can smell–” Starscream began sharply, before slapping a hand over his mouth. Realizing he'd given it away. Just like that.

Megatron was watching him carefully. His expression changed from confusion to open, stark arousal, his optics glinting with hunger. 

“You’re saying only I can smell your mating pheromones?”

Starscream watched, with frightful anticipation, as he rose between his legs to stand over him.

There was an ominous sound of unlatching from Megatron’s pelvic array. To Starscream’s unrelenting astonishment, his panel slid back and his spike jutted out like a club. Still as enormous and ugly as ever. Made all the more terrifying, knowing exactly where he intended to stick it this time.

Starscream’s traitorous valve lubricated immediately at the sight. 

Gently, as if holding a rare vase, Megatron grasped him by the waist. His thoughtful delicacy was not appreciated, and Starscream was already grabbing at his hands and kicking in an attempt to squirm free. 

“Why did you put up such a fight to resist me in the first place if you were just going to assault me in the end?” he snarled. 

Megatron’s grip on his waist became stronger– far too strong to break. Starscream choked back a wail as he held him down and rubbed his spike into his soaking intimate mesh.

Megatron’s voice was a static-laced rumble. “You’re far more appealing when you’re not faking your attraction. Irresistible, now that I know your forge wants my seed.”

Starscream’s mouth went dry. “No. No, it doesn’t. It would never…” 

A soft moan escaped as Megatron gently pressed his thumbs into his abdomen. With his huge hands encircling his waist, his thumbs were in the perfect spot to trace circles into the exposed protoform, massaging over his forge. Even externally, having it rubbed lit up some kind of primal pleasure center. Starscream tried to get ahold of himself.

“We can’t– you can’t do this to me. You’ll die for this. I’ll make sure of it.”

“I’ve stared far worse deaths in the face,” said Megatron distantly, “than anything you can fathom.”

Somehow, Starscream could completely believe that. It didn’t inspire confidence that he was going to escape unravished. Especially as Megatron began mechhandling him, flexing his knees back above his waist, rendering his valve thoroughly accessible.

Starscream squeaked, legs flailing. “Wait. Don’t!”

“You’ll need to be in a position to take me deep. How would you prefer to have me, Your Highness? On your back with your legs up, or beast position?”

“Don’t ask me that! Neither!” Livid with anxiety, Starscream slammed his fists against Megatron’s chest, trying to keep him away. Keep him from bearing down on top of him. Anything to not get helplessly pinned against his own berth and mated by a dirt-kisser. “I'll never carry your ugly, wingless abominations. Your– your putrid grounder spawn.”

“Fussy.”

“Megatron!” he wailed as he was scruffed; rolled onto his hands and knees, and wrestled face down. The position activated something feral in his coding, and automatically, Starscream’s hips lifted to a provocative angle that spread his valve open.

“Presenting yourself to me? You are in a bad state.” Megatron tweaked his hard, pulsing external node. The berth dipped as he climbed onto it behind him. “You can’t meet your conjunx in such bad form. I’ll have to relieve you.”

Starscream hid his burning face in the berth covers, overcome. “I’m going to scream.”

“I don’t doubt it.” Megatron notched his spike into his entrance, sinking in roughly. Calipers struggled to accommodate the wide head, and Starscream cried out as it stretched him harshly.

He slapped a hand over his mouth. No one could hear them doing this. Or, no– they should hear! He should be shouting for help. Megatron turned out to be exactly as barbaric and perverted as he'd suspected from the beginning. Forgetting his place as protector, cornering and having his way with him once they were alone. 

Megatron was almost too big for him, and penetration was a slow, vigorous stretch, his spike compressing every node on its way in. Teetering on a knife’s edge, pain and pleasure mingled. Each barbarous thrust made Starscream fear he would split, yet he couldn’t get enough. With all the patience to be expected of some uncouth driller, Megatron worked himself in unceasingly, until he was hilted.

Shaky moans slipped through Starscream’s fingers as Megatron brutalized his valve, rutting him into the berth. He was packed full of spike, every sensor being assaulted. All the blunt studs lining the shaft scrubbed his tender walls mercilessly, his thrusts inching dangerously close to the back of his valve, where his unguarded forge lay.

Starscream’s fans squealed, struggling to draw cool air into his closed vents. Lest he overheat, he was forced to open them. Immediately, his olfactory sensors were overcome as his vents drew in every molecule of Megatron’s delicious scent. Searing pangs of arousal ripped through his array, confirming that yes, this was the mech he'd been craving. 

Distractedly, he ended up chewing on his berth cover to stifle his yowls. Being caught moaning, in a mating position, under a grounder would be ruinous. An outsider to the situation would never understand how thoroughly he did not want Megatron. It was his frame that had betrayed him. 

There was no escape now. If he shouted for help, he'd be caught in a humiliating fashion. If he stayed quiet, Megatron would frag him with his repulsively large spike, and Starscream would have to endure until his lust was sated. Perhaps Megatron would even overload him until he was satisfied he’d been dominated– leaving Starscream limp, unresisting, and fucked completely silly. The beast. 

As if Starscream hadn't been devastated enough, Megatron decided to interrupt his moment of turmoil by spiking his unsealed forge directly. Full body trembles blasted through him, pleasure exploding from the contact of the sensors in Megatron’s spike tip and those ringing his forge entrance. 

Megatron continued thrusting, nudging the tight, velvety iris. A place meant to be reserved for his trine alone, untouched by another mech’s spike. And this idiot was fucking right against it.

Starscream unclenched his denta from the berth covering to gasp, “You're going too deep.” 

“You need to be mated.”

“I cannot have your sparklings.”

“Now they’re my sparklings, rather than spawn?” murmured Megatron against his cheek, butting his forge mouth with his tip but not quite pushing inside. Teasing him, as his hands roamed over his middle. “I want to leave you satisfied.”

“You really think I won't be satisfied until you've defiled me completely?”

“You tell me. Would you like me to go further, Your Highness?”

The beginning of an overload had settled low in Starscream’s array, the rolling tug at his intimate sensors growing sharper every time Megatron’s spike kissed his forge. His forge that was bare and defenseless, unmolested only at Megatron’s whim. This was exactly the kind of situation Starscream was fitted with baffles for– to keep his chamber sacred; restricted from the unworthy. Even in the case of an attack such as this, he wouldn’t carry the shame of having a sparkling sired by non-royalty. Of a grounder. A filthy, stinking, low-caste grounder. And by the way he was poking at his chamber, Megatron clearly didn't care about leaving anything sacred. 

But, increasingly, neither did Starscream. 

The urge to mate had become unbearable. Having his chamber locked up tight since his first estrus hadn't been conducive to helping him develop a resistance to his coding, and he was drowning in the sheer intensity of his frame's needs. Megatron's thoughtless rutting could be explained away, on account of him being stupid and barbaric. But what did that make Starscream, reacting just as thoughtlessly to his virility? This wasn't supposed to happen.

There was no chance his forge was ever intended to accommodate the spike of a fifty ton manual class mech. Yet it could accommodate said mech. Just barely. 

Starscream knew it, and Megatron, in possession of Starscream’s forge measurements, knew it as well. And he was considering, working the iris open more with every thrust. 

“Megatron…” panted Starscream. His claws tore stripes into the berth, as his valve wound up to overload. He rocked his hips back. “Megatron, please…”

His plea died on his glossa, as on the next brutish thrust, Megatron punched his spike straight up his forge. 

Starscream overloaded hard enough to temporarily blind him. The room dissolved into a burst of sparkling lights. Once his audials stopped ringing, Starscream could hear himself panting like a whore as his forge was filled with spike. A deep, resonant pleasure accompanied the spike’s movement up his chamber, until Megatron’s hips settled against his aft, stopping him up firmly.

Starscream’s coding rejoiced at having acquired a powerful sire. All his remaining reservations were drowned in a flood of hormones. He had a task now: to be a carrier. Just as all Vosian princes had been before him. It was his duty. It was natural.

The script began running, warming his chamber, winching his calipers snugly around Megatron’s spike. Megatron’s field hungrily twined with his, reflecting back his excitement. Starscream may as well be a prize he’d conquered– a bounty of which he’d take full advantage. 

Starscream swayed his hips temptingly, shame completely gone. Was he really going to defend his pathetic fiance's right, when he could be kindled by a mech of this caliber? The biggest, strongest, most virile mech in Vos was his. The prince of the nation deserved no less. And Megatron needed no encouragement to do what was needed, nor input from Starscream, to serve him dutifully. His hips pumped against his aft in an tireless rhythm to prove it, leaving Starscream free to lie back and be spoiled. Megatron was dutiful in that regard as well. On every stroke, the studs on his shaft teased his walls, catching his erect anterior node, coaxing him inexorably to overload. 

Harsh trills poured from Starscream’s vocalizer, as his moans progressed to calling. 

Megatron’s voice was rough. “You’re going to alert the entire palace going on like that.”

“I want– I want them to know you’ve been claimed. They need to know your spike is superior, and it's mine.”

Megatron rolled him onto his back and squeezed his throat until his vocalizer cut off. “You'll claim nothing until you're sparked.”

A thrill of arousal spun through Starscream. Megatron’s grip was so tight, he couldn't turn his helm to look away from his spike plunging up him. His core was melting, each thrust a scalding pulse into his forge. Megatron worked his internals like he was striking a match, scraping and scraping until his spark was consumed in a blaze. If Megatron’s fingers weren't clamping down on his throat, Starscream’s shriek would have brought down the palace, as he overloaded again. Megatron snarled in pleasure as his calipers cranked tightly around him, rippling, coaxing his own release.

Starscream’s vents expressed hot air in a blast, cycling in fresh air, cool and relieving, as he finished coming. This was all he’d wanted the past few days. No, since he’d been promised to a conjunx. To be spiked properly. Like royalty. But the best was yet to come…

Megatron crushed their mouths together, devouring him, as his spike twitched and shot, bathing his chamber in transfluid. Starscream’s abdomen grew heavy as his seed poured in; a scalding blast of data packets that his forge accepted greedily. As he was kissed, Starscream ground his hips down, winching his calipers tightly, so like a good carrier, he could wring as much transfluid as possible from Megatron. Warmth flowed from his forge to his spark as the data transferred. Megatron kept coming and coming, rocking up his chamber until he’d poured himself out. 

When his thrusts finally slowed, Starscream’s forge calipers unlatched, signaling he’d been filled to the brim. Megatron separated from the kiss with a suck of his glossa. He unclamped his hand from his throat, and the static at the edge of Starscream’s vision receded. A delighted, exhausted wheeze crackled from his liberated vocalizer as a new status appeared in his HUD:

[Gestation: In progress]

“Yes, yes, yes… spark me,” he moaned, clinging to Megatron’s neck, lavishing his mouth with kisses. Smug delight rushed through him at having claimed him as the sire of his clutch. As prince of the land, it was only natural he carry the most potent seed and leave powerful heirs. All was as it should be. 

With a last kiss, Megatron rose off him. Starscream was treated to the mind melting drag of his fat, heavy spike being slowly pulled out of his internals. 

Starscream’s optics trailed down to his abdomen. The protoform was so distended he couldn't see between his legs. Just one round, and Megatron had managed to fill his chamber. Spark him. No chance Airbright's measly transfluid could compete with the flood Megatron dumped into him.

He didn’t have time to ponder this, as a noise from the adjacent room caught his attention.

A few mechs had entered the receiving room. Probably the chamberlain and some others, looking for him. A jolt of fear struck him as he regained his senses. He dizzily remembered the original reason he'd ordered Megatron in. 

“Hurry,” he grunted at Megatron, who’d also jerked to attention at the noise. “Put it on.”

Megatron took the seal, hooked Starscream’s legs over his shoulders and pressed it in. Starscream flinched as it clamped into place over his forge mouth. A readout popped up on his HUD.

[GESTATION LOCK > Status: Active] 

Starscream let out a slow, relieved vent and closed his panel.

“Your Highness?” someone called from the receiving room. 

“I’ll be out in a minute,” Starscream called back. 

Footsteps receded, and there was the sound of the door to the antechamber closing.

Starscream sprawled across his berth, loathing the idea of having to move. Willing himself to stand and survey his appearance, he wobbled to his mirror, dreading to see the mess Megatron made of him. 

Fortunately, the damage wasn’t extensive. His silks were a bit crumpled, and the paint on his waist and chin was smeared. Starscream rubbed at it until it was more uniform, if faded. The only remaining evidence of their activities was…

“How the pit am I supposed to hide this!?” whispered Starscream harshly, gesturing at his bloated middle.

Megatron took the silk girdle at his hips and tied it higher, above his waist, to conceal the protrusion somewhat. 

“Lie facedown during the ceremony,” he suggested.

“That’s not the only issue,” said Starscream. “There’s no way that old fool will be able to… Where will his donation fit? I’m completely full.”

“Pretend it does. Then continue to pretend that he’s sparked you.”

Megatron’s vents were warm against Starscream’s nape. “And we’ll have to get closer, Your Highness.”

There was nothing Airbright could do now that Starscream had been sparked. He would have to see this gestation to its end to avoid suspicion. 

Which meant offering his valve to Megatron multiple times a cycle, always wet and ready to be mounted. Quick, secret couplings against a wall in a deserted hallway. Wandering through his duties plump with a grounder’s transfluid, his waist growing heavy and round with a clutch not his conjunx’s. 

In the clarity that came post-interface, Starscream’s gestation coding was fighting with his sense of pride, trying to decide if securing Megatron as a mate, or exacting his vengeance on this disgusting grounder for sparking him tickled his ego more.

Starscream pulled away, only to have his arm caught gently. 

“Do whatever you have to do to make him think it's his,” said Megatron. “You know better than I what's at stake if you don't.” 

He glanced around at the vaulted ceilings and ornate decor of the berth chamber, then pointedly back to Starscream. 

Starscream grinned sharply. “Putting the onus on me to hide this? I thought you were my big, strong guard, who was supposed to protect me. Instead, you've destroyed my virtue on the day of my sparking ceremony, and will force me to mate with you incessantly until I birth your spawn. Humiliation on top of humiliation.” Starscream curled himself against Megatron, so his belly pressed his hip. “How will you answer for this?” 

Megatron idly traced a finger along the curve of his abdomen. “You’re whining an awful lot for a mech who enjoyed himself so much. And who will beg for my attention once that donation has been absorbed.”

“Don't be so cocky. You’ll be nothing but my personal toy for the duration of the carrying. I do hope you can manage to restrain yourself from bending me over wherever you please like a filthy mechanimal.”

“And what if you beg me for it in an inconvenient location?”

“So what? If we’re caught, I’ll claim rape. You’re the one who’ll be put to death.”

“Behave,” said Megatron, taking his chin. “And I won’t make you yowl like a cybercat and give up your lie.”

“Beast.”

Starscream wavered, field sparking with conflict, but was soothed by the pleasure of his full forge, his proximity to Megatron’s strong, steady field, and the gratification of having claimed an excellent sire. Megatron certainly was growing on him. Perhaps he’d prove to be a satisfying mate in more ways than with his ridiculous spike. 

Still. Starscream had an image to uphold, as royalty, and Megatron must be kept in his place. He lifted his chin elegantly from Megatron's grasp and made to exit the room. Before he reached the door, he threw a glance over his shoulder and huffed at him.

“Pray these brats come out with wings.”

Chapter Text

A few cycles later...

Skywarp normally couldn't be bothered to go to any of the Winglord's stuffy events. Despite recently coming of age, things like "networking" and "finding a trine" were going to have to take a backseat to actually having a life. Tonight though, despite his best efforts, he'd been cornered into attending a ball in the palace sky gardens. Annoying, but he could find ways to spice up the evening. 

Could, if he wasn't being forced to hang out with Thundercracker. His older brother was slouching against the wall and generally being a huge, boring loser. 

Skywarp sighed loudly. “Can you leave? I’m busy and you’re contaminating my vibes.”

“I already told you,” said Thundercracker, “I can’t help it if the Winglord makes me chaperone you every time you do something stupid."

"I'm always doing something stupid. Ya think he'd have learned by now."

Thundercracker scowled. "If you hadn't called the baron’s paint job funny–”

“It was so funny.” 

"You almost caused an international incident!" Thundercracker’s scowl darkened. “And now I'm stuck with you.”

“Just walk away. If he asks, say you lost me. Don't you have anything better to do?”

Thundercracker gave him a sidelong glare. “Like making eyes at the guards?”

Snickering, Skywarp adjusted his stance, turning his thruster heel out so the chandeliers ran molten droplets of light up his thigh. He was freshly polished, and his black plating was wet-looking; slick. He looked amazing. The nearby guards knew it too, as they craned their necks over each others’ pauldrons for a better look. All but one very stubborn and particularly handsome grounder, who carefully averted his eyes, pretending like he wasn't paying attention. That would have to change. 

“Stop encouraging them," said Thundercracker prudishly. "They ogle enough as it is.”

“I’m not encouraging all of them. Just one specifically.”

“How is that any better? You and Starscream have no dignity, hitting on guards."

"Yeah, about that..." Skywarp had been planning to keep his juicy secret to himself, but Thundercracker clearly needed some excitement in his life. Plus, it wasn't every day he got to scandalize his brother this badly. Giving a shifty glance side to side, Skywarp motioned for him to come closer. Rolling his optics, Thundercracker pushed off the wall and leaned in. 

“I think Screamer’s sparked,” whispered Skywarp. 

“Yes? He should be. What does that have to do with–”

“Not by Airbright,” whispered Skywarp more insistently. “By Megatron.”

Thundercracker’s nose wrinkled. “Who?”

“His guard, remember?”

“Um, okay?”

“So, y'know how at breakfast the other day, how Screamer attacked me? That was 'cause Megatron touched me. And then he basically told me he was in heat. Which means if Screamer's reacting to Megatron over everyone else, Megatron’s gotta be real virile.” 

Thundercracker’s brow ridge knitted. “We don’t choose mates based on virility anymore. Only the lower castes do that now.”

“TC, that’s not my point. For some reason, Starscream was reacting to him. Isn't that crazy?”

“His bodyguard.”

“Yeah.”

“That one?” Thundercracker motioned towards Megatron with his optics. “The grounder he’s always complaining about?” 

“Yeah!” Skywarp wasn't sure what Thundercracker wasn't getting. He was usually a lot sharper on the uptake. “So like I was saying, Screamer’s in heat, right? And c’mon- a seeker in heat is like a spike magnet. No way they didn't jump each other's struts. And then bang. Little Screamers.”

“Huh.” Thundercracker’s mouth fell open a little, and he peeked around Skywarp, trying to be sneaky as he sized up Megatron. Thundercracker liked to pretend he was all serious, but could never resist a spicy rumor.

Skywarp followed his gaze. “Screamer always picks the nice ones. But this mech is different. Extra special. Like… probably has the stamina to sire for a full trine at once, kinda special.”

“No!” Thundercracker suddenly exclaimed, gaping at him with the face of a mech who'd finally put the pieces together. “You're not trying to get sparked by a grounder.”

“Nah. Just trying to get my back blown out. I’ve got a real good hookup location picked out already. You know that lounge in the back of the library?”

“The lounge in the... ew! People use that to... sit on,” said Thundercracker haltingly.

“Yeah? And I'm using it to get my valve rearranged.”

Thundercracker started grimacing and shaking his head like he was insanely offended. “Skywarp, do you have any sense at all?”

Skywarp tapped his chin. “You think the couch’ll hold a gladiator’s weight? Not like I mind if it ends up on the floor.” 

Thundercracker huffed in disgust and grabbed his arm. “I’ve heard enough. You're getting out of here.” He dragged Skywarp towards the opposite corner of the room, probably intending to march him straight to his habsuite and lock him in. 

Skywarp sighed. No chance he was getting laid tonight with Thundercracker hanging around. He let himself be pulled along for a few steps before switching it up. Activating his warp drive, he teleported himself and Thundercracker in the opposite direction without warning. 

They reappeared with a staticy pop directly in front of the guards. 

“Good evening!” greeted Skywarp, yanking a confused-looking Thundercracker upright beside him. “I was hoping you could help us. My brother’s been single for so long, and has been desperately searching for a partner. But no luck so far.”

Thundercracker’s mouth dropped open. He stammered incoherently. 

“As you can see, he’s very handsome,” continued Skywarp. He dropped his voice to a loud whisper. “Unfortunately, he’s still a virgin at his big age, but he was hoping one of you would take pity on him–”

“Skywarp!” snapped Thundercracker, fighting to wrench his arm free. Skywarp snickered and hung on. 

“-But he was too shy to ask.”

The leering excitement in the guards’ faces was enough to completely drain the confidence from Thundercracker's. When he turned slowly back towards Skywarp, he was bright pink in the face, with his wings flared at a dangerous angle like he was about to commit a murder. Skywarp’s murder. A wave of static prickled across Skywarp’s plating. 

Lights flickered and dimmed across the ballroom. Under the music, there was a distant rumble. For a klik, Skywarp wondered if he had gone too far, and was about to get an electrically charged concussion blast to the face. 

But Thundercracker pulled himself together with his usual grace. Gathering the scraps of his dignity, he stormed from the room without another word. Finally. 

The gaggle of palace guards looked back to him now. Skywarp ignored them and directed his attention to the end of the line. There, the real prize– Megatron– grimaced back with suspicion. Skywarp scooted closer and held his hand out, palm up. “You. Come with me.”

Megatron’s optics narrowed. “Your Highness,” he said, greeting him with a bow.

Skywarp didn't miss his brief, heated glance over to Starscream on the opposite edge of the room. He clearly had some plans with his brother, who was engrossed in conversation and totally oblivious to them. Megatron didn't look like he fully wanted to come with him, but to refuse a direct order from one of the princes would be out of line. How lucky for Megatron that Skywarp was going to help him blow off steam instead. 

“He’ll be fine without you for a little while,” said Skywarp, looping his arm into Megatron’s and winking. “I’m just going to borrow you.”

–

Skywarp had Megatron escort him out into the hallway, totally distracted by the sight of his huge arms as they walked together. The size difference was thrilling– Megatron’s thick, scarred forearm and Skywarp’s smaller fingers laid daintily in the crook of his elbow. Even Skywarp’s claws were mostly for show to a mech like Megatron. 

As he’d imagined, Megatron felt sturdy and warm at his side. And he smelled nice– rugged, like machine oil and smoke. Skywarp tried not to cling too much- yet. Unlike many of the other guards, Megatron actually acted like he had a sense of responsibility, and wasn't keen on secret affairs. Even if Megatron was obviously up to some dirty business on the sly, Skywarp wasn't about to scare him off by being forward. 

He didn't know how Starscream had stayed off Megatron that day at breakfast. In his place, Skywarp would’ve been on his knees, sucking at the seams of Megatron's codpiece. If all went well, he would tonight. 

“You don't have a chaperone, Your Highness?” Megatron’s stern question pulled Skywarp from his fantasies.

“I did. TC’s probably swooning in an armchair right now, though. Usually, the Winglord lets me run wild. A chaperone has never gotten me to behave.”

“Ah. So you’re the naughty little brother I've heard so much about,” said Megatron dryly. There was that critical stare again.

Skywarp flashed a cheeky smile. “My reputation precedes me.”

“You live up to it. Leaving the responsibilities to your older brothers while you flirt with the guards.” 

This mech was bold. Skywarp pressed closer. “You know what I’m here for, then?”

Megatron stopped walking. “I can't imagine why you came to me for that.”

“What can I say? We seekers only choose the strongest mates.” Skywarp ran a hand down Megatron’s chest. “And you’re the best of the best.”

Megatron grasped his wrist and gently pulled it away. “That’s flattering, but I don't make a habit of interfacing with the princes.”

Skywarp pouted. “Liar. I know what you did to Starscream. I want you to do it to me.”

Surprise flashed briefly across Megatron’s face before settling back into stoicism. “You're making a bold assumption. Our relationship is strictly professional.”

“Nah. You knocked him up,” said Skywarp, leaning into him. “I recognize the look of a new sire. I see you watching him, like you’re raring to go all the time.”

Megatron shifted distractedly. To be fair, anyone would be distracted with Skywarp rubbing up against them. 

“Don't worry. I won't tell. But a big, strong mech like you needs a lover who can keep up with your needs,” said Skywarp. “I’ll keep you satisfied. Screamer’s got a lot of responsibilities. And a conjunx.”

“And you're untrined and fooling around with a guard,” said Megatron, pushing at Skywarp’s shoulders. 

“Like you said, I’m the naughty one.” Skywarp placed a palm over Megatron’s pelvic armor. The panel was taut and warm with the weight of his spike pushing up underneath. Definitely expecting some action. Before Megatron could bat him away, Skywarp curled a claw tip into the seam of his panel and manually triggered the release. The panel snapped aside and his– wow, huge – spike flopped out, tip jabbing into Skywarp’s middle.

“You know what you want, huh?” snickered Skywarp. 

“Your Highness, we can't–”

“We can't, but you can stand around huffing Screamer’s pheromones while he ignores you all night? How is that fair?” Skywarp trailed his fingers up his spike, relishing the shudders in Megatron’s broad thighs as he lightly traced his claws over the shaft. “I’ll take so much better care of you.”

“Skywarp!”

A shrill voice pierced the air, cutting off Megatron’s mumbled excuse. Skywarp flinched, turning reluctantly to see Starscream storming up to them. Because of course, he couldn’t go without his guard for ten kliks. His wings were canted up and out, like Starscream thought it would make him look taller. 

Megatron pulled away, grabbing at his spike and trying to stuff it back into his panel.

“What a surprise, Skywarp!” said Starscream shrilly, throwing his arms out to his sides. “To find you panting after spike like a fuck droid on circuit boosters!”

Skywarp scoffed. “Like you’re here for anything different.” 

“Don't touch what isn't yours,” said Starscream, stalking closer.

“Aww,” Skywarp cozied up against Megatron and idly traced his chest with a claw just to watch Starscream bristle. “Why don’tcha share?”

“Because he’s mine.”

“Yeah, no chance.” Skywarp grinned. “He’s better off with someone more… experienced.”

"All you're experienced in is being an airheaded charge sink." Starscream’s optics flared with murderous intent. Skywarp expected it when Starscream launched himself at him, fist drawn back with a punch aimed straight for his mouth. Snatching him by the edge of his turbine housing, Skywarp cheerfully held Starscream at arms’ length, while Starscream swung wildly at him, failing to land a single hit. 

“You’ll never touch me with those short little arms. You never learn, Screamer. You can't win unless you catch me off guard.”

“You’ll be catching these hands!”

“Don’t think so.” With a flick of his wrist, Skywarp shoved Starscream back. Starscream fell on his aft with an undignified clang.

Megatron moved to help him up, but Skywarp splayed a hand on his chest to stop him. “You can beg for his mercy later. Let’s get outta here.”

He fired up his warp drive and teleported them both away, leaving Starscream to shriek in rage. 

They reappeared on a luxurious lounge in the dim palace library. Skywarp landed on top of Megatron, straddling his waist. As Skywarp thought– stoicism didn't look half as good on Megatron as raw, untamed lust. Skywarp opened his panel and pressed his hips down, trapping Megatron’s spike against his valve.

“‘kay, big fella,” said Skywarp, leaning down to kiss along Megatron’s neck. “I’m gonna go ahead and squeeze all those big, sticky loads out of ya.”

Megatron made a noise of protest that immediately faded into a groan as Skywarp rocked his hips. Skywarp made sure to rub his bare valve all over the length of his spike, giving him a taste of what was to come. Judging by the amount of thick prefluid leaking from his spike, he’d been wanting to let loose for a while. Skywarp couldn't wait. He could barely think with all those tingly studs scraping his mesh. He hoped it fit. He hadn't even thought of that. Well, no turning back now. 

Skywarp sat up, raising his hips and guiding Megatron’s spike to his entrance. Megatron’s optics hungrily followed his index finger as Skywarp glided it up from the seam of his valve and traced an X on his abdomen. 

“Once you're inside, aim right here, ok? Nice n’ deep. I love being creampied.” 

"Your Highness, that's dangerous."

"I've got baffles, just relax and enjoy." Skywarp panted as the tip began to sink inside him. "I know I will."

Skywarp was so engrossed in trying to take spike, he didn't notice the doors to the library swing open. But the sound of footsteps caught his attention, and he glanced up to see Thundercracker and the Winglord suddenly appear in the doorway.

The Winglord made a disgusted gasp as soon as he realized what he was looking at. Half the high grade in his delicate flute sloshed out as he recoiled, slapping a hand over his spark. 

“I told you,” said Thundercracker flatly. He was glaring at Skywarp.

Skywarp opened and closed his mouth. No way. Had Thundercracker narced on him? Maybe he had gone too far with his teasing.

He felt like a cyberdeer facing down a pair of headlights, and probably looked really incriminating squatting over Megatron’s spike. He tried to backtrack, waving his hands.

“This isn't what it looks like! We just, um, fell over. He was escorting me… somewhere else.”

For modesty, he pulled his knees together. Megatron’s spike stuck up between his thighs, so Skywarp folded his hands over it on his lap and tried to look innocent.

The Winglord took a long drink of his remaining high grade. 

Chapter Text

Upon entering the drawing room, Starscream was greeted by the sight of his scowling family members. No face was more pinched than Skywarp’s. His youngest brother was seated uncomfortably on a divan between Thundercracker and the Winglord and in the middle of being reprimanded.

“What’s this about?” asked Starscream. He already had an idea, based on the rare picture of shame that was Skywarp’s current expression. That, and watching Skywarp shrink from the Winglord’s rebuke instantly brightened his mood.

The Winglord cut himself off and whipped around. “Skywarp was being indecent with your guard.”

Starscream couldn't help it– he burst into cackles. Skywarp’s glare only sweetened the situation. 

“Skywarp, how disgusting! I know your standards in partners are low but this is truly something else.”

Skywarp crossed his arms and slouched back, looking satisfyingly chastised. “I don't wanna hear that from you. I've got nothin’ to apologize for.”

The Winglord nudged Skywarp roughly. “For spark’s sake, Skywarp, enunciate your words. And sit up straight.”

Skywarp righted himself. One of his wings flicked Thundercracker's shoulder with a petulant thwap. 

"Really, Skywarp!" exclaimed the Winglord, grabbing a decanter from a side table and topping up his drink to the very brim. “I knew letting you celebrate the vernal festivities in Kaon was a mistake. You come back speaking like a hick and cavorting with their natives."

Starscream slid into a seat opposite them all with a sigh. “Yes, we all know Skywarp is hopelessly unsophisticated. But why exactly did you call me here?” 

“Why do you think? Your guard is being executed,” said the Winglord. He gestured behind Starscream. When Starscream looked, Megatron was standing silently in an alcove– in stasis cuffs, and accompanied by four other guards.

Starscream’s mood abruptly fell. “Let's not be hasty! Did anyone else see them together?”

“No, but I hardly see how that matters. It’s the principle– I won't have any of my sons defiled by a lowly grounder. Even Skywarp.”

“Defiled,” scoffed Starscream, “I saw them in the hall earlier. Skywarp came onto him.”

“What difference does that make?”

“That this is Skywarp’s fault.”

“I don't care who initiated it. Do you think your brother being improper with a guard is inconsequential?” The Winglord squinted at him judgmentally. “Color me surprised.”

Starscream feigned innocence. “Oh Sire, of course not! I care very much about my brothers’ reputations.” He walked around the back of the divan and squeezed Thundercracker’s shoulders. “It’s very important that we preserve their virtue, and dignity, and… whatever Skywarp has to offer. It’s just… it'll be such an annoyance to find another guard if you have Megatron executed. Despite his many, many shortcomings, I’ll admit he's proven to be good at his job. He’s been nothing but attentive to my needs, as well as polite and dutiful. Besides, I’ve just gotten used to him. I won't have another guard.”

The Winglord sat back in awe. “My, Starscream. A glowing recommendation, by your standards. You’ve never spoken so enthusiastically about your other servants. You’re usually quite hard to please.”

When he and Thundercracker turned to face him with interest– and Skywarp with a devious little smirk– Starscream backtracked a little. “Ah. He’s. While he does please me…”

Skywarp snickered.

“...he’s far from perfect!”

The Winglord appeared to mull this over. “If that's the case, I don't think it's truly necessary to–”

“If you execute him, you’ll never hear the end of it from me!” blurted Starscream. 

The Winglord sighed heavily. “I see. In that case, you may keep him on, if it will relieve me of your whining. But someone must be punished.”

“Punish Skywarp. He’s always starting trouble. I’d say he’s long overdue some discipline.”

“I can't argue with that.” The Winglord turned to Skywarp with a critical glare. 

Skywarp scratched boredly at the filigree on the table. “Fine. What’s it gonna be, old mech? Charity work? Rearranging your tiaras by color?”

“No,” said the Winglord. “What you’ve done is incredibly dire. It deserves a fitting punishment.” He paused, his expression grim. “I didn't want to have to do this, but you've forced my hand. Skywarp, it’s now your full time duty to find Thundercracker some suitors, as your brother apparently has nothing better to do at my parties than being a wallflower or a snitch.”

“What!?” exclaimed Thundercracker. “You told me to keep an eye on him!”

The Winglord daintily lifted his glass of high grade and took a sip. “And you could stand to be more assertive and ignore me sometimes. Let this be a lesson to both of you.”

“No!” wailed Skywarp, clinging to the Winglord’s arm. “No, I won't be TC’s wingman! Anything but that! He's so picky and looks for stupid details in a trinemate like “romantic optics” and “a sensitive outlook on life”. I'll do anything else, please–”

The Winglord jerked his arm away. “Stop that. You have dozens of suitors. Introduce him to some of your less favored ones. I expect the brutal, soul-crushing work of finding him a trine he can tolerate will keep you out of trouble for a while.”

“And you think I'll find someone I like among his rejects?” snarled Thundercracker over Skywarp’s whining. “The ones who were too obnoxious, even for him?”

“You are truly not in a position to complain, Thundercracker, when you’ve received exactly zero proposals this season,” said the Winglord. “Unlike your brother here, who’s had… how many was it, Skywarp?”

“I dunno. Like fifty-somethin’, give or take,” said Skywarp distantly. "I'm not counting..."

Thundercracker shook his head in disbelief. "Most of those proposals were from- and I'm sorry to say this- the dregs of society."

"Yes, well. At least it's something," said the Winglord.

“I mean… I'm not real attached to any of 'em. You can pick whoever you want, TC," said Skywarp. "Even if I know you won't cherish their spikes like I do.”

Thundercracker deflated in horrified resignation. “I can't court a mech based only on their– their…” He trailed off meekly. “What about their personalities?” 

“What about them?” sighed Skywarp forlornly. 

“Yes, what about them, Thundercracker?” The Winglord drained his drink. “Primus! You are the fussiest mech alive.”

"Hello?” said Starscream, waving irritably at the three of them. “Are we finished here?”

The Winglord nodded and airily gestured at the guards to release Megatron. Once the stasis cuffs were removed, Starscream motioned for Megatron to come along with him.

“And, Starscream?” the Winglord said, as they reached the door. “I don't want to hear about this kind of nonsense happening again.”

“Of course,” said Starscream, with a polite smile. "Megatron will be on his very best behavior.”

—

Everything seemed to be conspiring to keep he and Megatron apart tonight. Delayed first by the rambling conversation he’d been held hostage at during the ball, and then Skywarp’s nonsense, it was long past the usual meeting time for his and Megatron’s nightly coupling, and Starscream’s unresolved arousal was threatening to explode. 

Once they were at a distance in the hall, explode it did, in the form of shrieking anger, as Starscream laid into Megatron. 

“Do I have to keep you on a leash? How dare you not turn Skywarp away!? You belong to me. You’re meant to serve me, and my sparklings. What do you think would have happened to me if you had gotten executed for fooling around with him? I would be starving for transfluid, and it would have been all your fault when I inevitably had to use random, lesser mechs to sate my urges. Are you an idiot? If you think you can just– what the pit are you doing?” Starscream paused his tirade as Megatron grasped him around the waist. 

Optics glowing with hunger, Megatron hoisted him up, pinning him against the wall. “I enjoyed your passionate defense of my character,” he growled, his glossa darting out to lick Starscream's mouth.

“Don’t get used to it. In fact, I am never doing that for you again.” Starscream flailed, kicking his legs as Megatron stepped between them, flattening him to the wall. “And what did I say about ‘facing me anywhere you please? Put me down!” he demanded in a loud whisper.

“You've made me wait too long, Your Highness,” said Megatron, releasing his spike. It was steaming, and drooling prefluid as he rubbed it between Starscream’s legs. “I can't hold back.”

Starscream squirmed. “My chambers are ten steps away, you fool! Let go!”

“Open,” said Megatron. Starscream had barely gotten his panel aside before he was lowered, and in two rough thrusts, Megatron plunged into his forge. Starscream purred, quivering in pleasure as spike filled his belly. After being pent up all cycle, getting mated was incredibly soothing. Like a balm, as Megatron slid his spike home.

“Megatron…” Starscream thumped his fists weakly against his chest, dismayed that his sense had fled the moment he’d gotten a spike up him. “You're not fucking me in the hallway, you mad bastard...” 

Megatron chuckled and continued thrusting, unbothered. “You have a filthy mouth, for a prince. And filthier morals. First you, then Skywarp with a guard? Bad behavior must run in the family. If the pattern continues, you should watch out– perhaps your serious brother will be better at hiding his indiscretions with me.”

“I’m going to throw you in the smelter myself,” Starscream snarled, wrapping his legs around his waist, “if you so much as look at my brothers ever again. You're mine, and only mine.”

“I didn't realize you had such strong feelings for me, Your Highness. You never mentioned you wanted to be exclusive. Feeling romantic?”

“Nonsense,” said Starscream. “I've claimed you.”

Megatron raised a brow ridge. “I just put a sparkling in you. Now, if you mean you have intentions of bonding…” 

Starscream’s cheeks prickled with heat. “Conjunxed? To you? Keep dreaming, you dirty old fool. What I mean is, I control you, and you're to obey me, as the sire of my sparklings. And may I remind you, I already have a fiance?”

Megatron nuzzled his cheek, a devious grin stretching across his face. 

“What?” hissed Starscream. His spark whirled at the sly, covetous expression.

“Be honest,” said Megatron. “Tell me how much you’d like to conjunx me, instead.” 

Starscream quickly turned his face aside to hide the gleam of his blush, but it was too late. Megatron doubled down on his teasing, glossa tracing his neck cables. “If you overload, I'll take that as an “I do”.”

“Stop saying nonsense right now!” demanded Starscream, valve squeezing anyway. He went limp with arousal as Megatron plunged into him. 

“We're very compatible. It's only natural to wish to seal a bond together,” said Megatron.

Starscream had to sink his fangs into Megatron’s neck to muffle his cries as a few more thrusts sent him over the edge.

“An enthusiastic yes,” said Megatron huskily. “It’s a promise, then. You’ll be my conjunx.”

Starscream whimpered as his thrusts sped up.

“Now, to consummate the union,” said Megatron. He hilted himself, spilling into him forcefully. The thick, charged seed stimulated Starscream’s forge, tipping him into a second overload. He clung to Megatron harder, mindlessly rocking his hips as transfluid jetted into him. He loved the aching stretch of his abdomen expanding; becoming full and warm. They had coupled several times now, and Starscream didn't think it would ever feel less marvelous.

The first few times the needs of Starscream's frame had forced him to seek out Megatron, he'd tried in vain to defy the coding. The humiliation of being so helplessly affected by the presence of his guard was almost too much to bear. When he finally surrendered his pride and desperately offered himself up to be mounted, he'd cursed his gestation programming for wanting so badly, for loving it so much whenever Megatron spilled into his forge.

By now, he felt he had developed a proper appreciation for mating. Being fully connected with his sire, their arrays meshing in perfect rhythm to kindle a spark, was unlike any pleasure he had experienced. He couldn't fathom why he'd tried so ruthlessly to deny himself this. 

Content, Starscream rested his helm on Megatron’s shoulder, lightheaded from the amount of shared charge flowing through his systems. And from Megatron's awful, humiliating teasing.

Megatron rumbled a laugh, gently nosing Starscream’s face up to claim a kiss. His vocalizer was rough with static when he spoke again. “Any ideas for honeymoon destinations, Your Highness?”

“Shut up.” Starscream shoved his face back into his neck. “You're so embarrassing.”

Megatron hummed in unabashed agreement and kissed the side of his helm. Starscream’s embarrassment became muted somewhat, overtaken by the warm, fluttering pulse of his spark.

Chapter Text

Skywarp was of the opinion that a mech could get out of any boring slag they wanted, provided they did the slag so badly they became a liability. Relatedly, his prank at the Winglord's event two nights later involving magnetic paint had been a total success.

After three different suitors had gotten their hands stuck to TC’s wings in the middle of the dancefloor, the Winglord took him off matchmaking duty. Permanently.

Then promptly sat him down next to him at the card tables, where he could watch Skywarp like a cyberhawk. An overcharged cyberhawk. The Winglord could drink anyone under the table, but he wasn’t drunk enough yet to the point where Skywarp could sneak away. 

Skywarp plopped his chin in his hand, wondering how long he’d be stuck here. Watching TC struggle through conversations with suitors who weren't “intellectually stimulating” was one kind of torture, but being forced to play endless rounds of Space Bridge with the Winglord and his old, stuffy friends wasn't exactly his idea of a good time either. 

His optics wandered across the room, eventually landing on his failed conquest from a couple nights before, poised just behind Starscream. With Starscream standing so close to Megatron, they looked like they might fuse together. No chance Starscream was letting Megatron out of his sight anytime soon. 

Skywarp sighed. He wasn’t usually a very competitive guy, but being told something was off-limits always fired him up. How was Screamer gonna dangle that hunky mech in front of him and not give him a turn? Megatron was just a servant. Not like Screamer could get conjunxed to him. There was no reason to be so possessive over a sire, even if Megatron had knocked him up. Only the lower classes fought each other over a mech like that, nowadays. Though Skywarp kind of understood Screamer's compulsion to guard his sire- seekers were naturally coded to find the best sire, no matter the social class. Vos used to be built on those kinds of partnerships- the royalty and nobility selecting only the best to give them a clutch.

The Winglord stood up from the table to greet some acquaintances. While his back was turned, Skywarp refilled his glass to the brim with triple-filtered. He set the bottle quietly back on the table, frowning, as something occurred to him.

Wasn't there some rule back in the Bronze age where the ruling trine got first dibs on the best sire in the land? They should go back to doing that. He should totally invoke that rule right now. He was also one of the princes. He could have his way with Megatron and tell Screamer to go screw himself. He could do that. Right?

Skywarp racked his processor for the memory of one of his mostly-forgotten Vosian history lessons. His unsatisfied libido must be speaking directly to his processor, or something. Whispering little suggestions he’d stored away after learning them, not expecting he’d ever need to think about them again. 

If his memory data was correct, the ruling trine definitely could claim the kingdom’s best sire as their shared mate. The practice had just fallen out of favor; being considered "common".

Unfortunately, the ruling trine in this situation probably meant the Winglord, but he was way too old to carry, and his trinemates were long deceased. But Skywarp was single. If he got proof of Megatron’s amazing virility, he might have a shot at the Winglord letting him do the old school process of claiming Megatron as a mate. Or at least a suitor. 

The Winglord plucked his drink off the table and took a generous swig before sitting back down. He and the other old fogeys placed their cards in the center of the table, setting up for another round. Yeah, the Winglord was old school, for sure.  

Skywarp stroked his chin, looking from Megatron, to the Winglord, to Starscream, and back. Damn. He was a genius. All he had to do was get the Winglord on board. 

Sorry, Screamer, nothing against ya. Well, maybe a little. He picked up the bottle of high grade, discreetly topping up the Winglord’s drink again. 

–

Starscream was paying absolutely no attention to the conversation Airbright was having with him. He could feel Megatron’s stare on his lower back, where Airbright’s hand rested. Megatron had been more attentive than usual since he’d gotten him sparked. 

As nice as it would be to have Megatron wring Airbright’s neck, Starscream hoped he would restrain himself. He couldn't have him getting into more trouble so soon after the incident with Skywarp.

Starscream shot a glare over at his brother, who kept looking at Megatron. The sight of them messing around in the hallway was still burned into his processor. Skywarp’s hands all over Megatron. Both of them sneaking around behind his back… 

He wasn't jealous, to be clear. It was just his carrier coding being possessive of what was rightfully his. 

Ordinarily, he wouldn't care who Megatron fucked, but circumstances were different while he was sparked. He was only defending Megatron so fiercely because he couldn’t have him free for all of Vos to pursue. The problem remained, however, that if loudmouth Skywarp knew Megatron was singularly virile, soon the whole court would. Fights could break out. If the Winglord decided Megatron was a liability and sent him away, that would make things difficult. Starscream needed his transfluid for the carrying to go smoothly. 

Sparklings would grow with donations from any mech, but being separated from such a choice sire would be frustrating. Knowing how well he'd served him, Starscream would yearn constantly for Megatron’s essence during the remainder of his carrying. As well as for the rest of him. His scent. His warmth. His taste.

Megatron’s field nudged him cheekily and Starscream’s face heated. He pulled his own field in and forced himself not to look at Megatron. Thinking about him like that right now was unwise. 

From the start of their… relationship, Megatron, ever the charmer, had an awful lot of pretty words to seduce him with, as if he were trying to imply they were more. Starscream regarded it as simple teasing. He was perfectly fine to keep their relationship defined by their couplings alone.

Then Megatron had pushed it even further, suggesting conjunxing. Which, of course, had also been a joke. That was just like Megatron, to taunt him with some absurd concept. Starscream hadn't been able to get the suggestion out of his mind. But only because the idea of marriage to Megatron was so tasteless and improper. 

He couldn't keep letting Megatron get away with saying whatever he wanted when they were 'facing. At some point he'd have to impress upon him how thoroughly inappropriate certain suggestions were. Though Megatron would probably just respond with some obnoxious quip about how hard Starscream came when he asked him to be his spouse. Which was true, but--

Starscream's face tingled with heat. To be very certain, it wasn't his words that had affected him, but the confidence with which he'd rasped them into his audial. And his vigor. Megatron had fallen on him like a beast that night in the hallway, pinning him to the wall. They hadn't done it like that since... well. Since the first time. 

Starscream glanced down at his hands. Pursed his lips. Fidgeted. There was no help for it. Between his own thoughts and Megatron incessantly nudging him with his lusty EM field, he was turned on.

As if Primus had answered his unspoken prayers, Airbright was called elsewhere by one of his associates. With a promise to return shortly, he left Starscream alone. With Megatron. 

Warmth tickled Starscream’s wing. A thick digit traced along the lower edge until it met his spinal strut. Megatron flattened his palm to the small of Starscream's back where it met the curve of his aft.

“Megatron-” Startled by the boldness of his touch, Starscream’s admonition got stuck in his throat.

“Don't move,” rumbled Megatron. 

Starscream stood stiffly, darting his optics around the room, begging not to be noticed by others.

Heat gusted the backs of his wings as Megatron expelled warm air from his vents with a growl. His hand drifted around the curve of Starscream's hip, coming to rest hotly over the slight, slight protrusion of his abdomen. Starscream had to bite down a whimper. This ridiculous oaf. It was one thing to be possessive, but this was unbelievable.

It was all he could do not to throw himself at Megatron right there.

–

Later that night, Skywarp stumbled through the dark hallways of the palace, supporting the Winglord, who leant heavily on his shoulder. Noises from the party grew muffled as he dragged him back to his apartments. 

“Y’know, Shkywarp… I always conshidered you my least favorite creation,” the Winglord said, lurching dangerously to the side. “But you’re not sho bad...”

“Thanks,” grunted Skywarp, rolling his optics. Getting the Winglord sauced for this better fragging be worth it.

“Whassit you were saying–” the Winglord twirled his finger in the direction of the ballroom. “-back over there?”

“That I’m thinking of picking up another suitor.”

The Winglord snorted. “Oh, Shkywarp… you have so many already.”

“Yeah, I guess. But this one’s like. Real special. Potent.” Skywarp lowered his voice conspiratorially, dipping his helm close to the Winglord’s. “Y'know what I mean?”

“Ahh. Mhm." the Winglord bobbed his head.

“And didn't we used to, like, choose suitors like that? Based on their virility?”

“Mm, yes… back in my grandsire’s day…” The Winglord stared blearily into the distance. “Mhm. The Golden Age, they called it–” 

“Right, anyway. I have a hunch– call it my, uh, natural seeker instinct – that Megatron is really virile.” Skywarp nudged him in the side. “I think you should let me test him out. See how he, heh, stands as a potential mate.”

The Winglord chortled with laughter, pulling away from Skywarp. “That guard again! How stupid.”

“Yeah, it’s really funny, huh? You should let me.” 

The Winglord drunkenly waved a hand, still shaking with mirth. “We don't do things that way.”

“I think you just don’t believe me.”

“Oh. No. Heh. ‘s just–” the Winglord slurred his words, feeling along the wall to regain his balance. “’s not right.”

“C’mon.” Skywarp tugged at the Winglord’s arm to sling it back around his shoulders. “Just have the doctor run a test on his transfluid. Just for fun. I promise I’m telling the truth.”

“Tests,” huffed the Winglord, flinging Skywarp’s arm off again. “Nonsense. It's late. I’m going to berth."

“No, no. Sire," said Skywarp, wrestling him back as he tried to lurch away. He poked the Winglord’s wrist to activate his comm. “Listen to me. Just comm Pharma and tell him to have Megatron report to him for a potency test next cycle. Okay? For me? Just a little favor?”

“Oh, yes, yesh. Very good,” the Winglord grumbled, bringing up the doctor’s frequency. 

“Aw. You’re the best."

“Hrmh. You and your brothers are so spoiled…”

Skywarp leant back against the wall and watched him make the call. Even if this plan never went anywhere, at least it was hilarious to listen to the Winglord drunkenly fumble through a conversation about transfluid. With any luck, he'd wake up the next morning to an insane call from the doctor, and Skywarp would pounce on his chance.

Chapter Text

Before Megatron became Starscream’s bodyguard, he knew little about Vos. The rugged mountain range which separated Vos from Tarn made the city inaccessible without flying transport. 

From the mouths of fellow miners, Vos was not merely a society of fliers. The city was home to riches beyond imagination, sumptuous delicacies, and gorgeous, lusty mecha with interfacing skills that put Primal concubines to shame. These temptations were kept in towers high in the clouds, dangled out of reach from those who couldn't fly. Seekers, the ruling frametype, were as vicious as they were beautiful. Warriors by nature, they claimed lovers by violently abducting them into their harems.

More than one worker had a story of dubious veracity about a distant relative being beset by three seekers at once, begging for a ‘facing. Residing in poverty on the dark, cramped lower levels of Tarn, Megatron couldn't blame mechs for fantasizing about open skies and bountiful riches. 

Once he'd moved to Kaon and made his fortune as a gladiator, he’d counted Vos’ lesser nobility among his own aristocratic patrons, but knew nothing of their personal lives or their homeland. The arena in Kaon was a hub of debauchery, and nobility came from all over Cybertron to partake. High caste bots of all nations who would turn up their noses at the place by day could be found indulging at night. Senators, religious leaders, prim aristocrats, and celebrities– Megatron had seen them all, bedded many, and liked few. Even the pretty ones had been barely a passing fascination.

As a perennial bachelor, he saw no reason to change. He hadn't survived so long in the pit by getting entangled with any of the innumerable beautiful mecha who took an interest in him. A clear head and a well-kept physique were his most valuable assets. Losing either could spell certain doom. As his fame grew to incredible heights, so too did the risks to his person. Enemies, rivals, and the like vying to make him slip up; to see his downfall. Eventually, popularity became too much of a burden. 

Retiring to Vos on a cushy assignment as bodyguard to the crown prince seemed, on its front, a simple enough job. Still, he’d promised himself he would focus on his training, and not get swept away in the glamor of his surroundings. In practice, things had panned out differently. 

Perhaps it was the thin atmosphere in Vos; the high altitude of the city that had disrupted his concentration. Their strong, triple-refined energon. Their towers spiraling up to the sky, designed as if to make a grounder dizzy. 

Or perhaps he’d been possessed by the Unmaker to rut Vos’ crown prince like a beast until he was full of his sparklings.

His mistake was an unprecedented one– he simply didn't lose control like that. And yet, unwisely, he was not regretting it for a moment. The Prince of Vos had a vivacity about him; something incomprehensibly wicked and sensual. A sharp glossa and sharper mind to accompany his beauty. Plans of a quiet, boring retirement seemed so far away, with Starscream as his lover and carrier of his sparklings. 

Sentimentality of this sort was dangerous, however. Megatron had been wondering when his misstep would catch up to him. He’d heard what happened to the last guard who’d laid a hand on Starscream, and feared death by smelter would be a lenient punishment for a commoner who’d sparked the Winglord’s eldest creation.

But he hadn’t been expecting his actions to catch up like this. Not in his wildest dreams. 

That morning, he’d been told to see the palace doctor for a physical exam, and to give a transfluid sample, oddly. Just a joor later, the Winglord ordered him to report to the council chambers. Upon arriving, Megatron was met with chaos.  

The room was packed. Megatron recognized various advisors, statesmechs, as well as ministers in the Winglord’s cabinet– with their distinctive black plating– all gathered around an enormous meeting table and trying to talk over each other. Too preoccupied with their arguments, none of them noticed him come in.

Much of their conversations were in High Cant, which Megatron found nearly indecipherable on a good day. Strangely, though, he kept hearing the word for ‘spike’. ‘Spike’ was the same in any dialect of Vosian, and they seemed to be discussing it with a shamelessness that would make an Iaconian diplomat hide under the table. Intrigued, Megatron wandered closer.

The Winglord himself was seated at the head of the table, closest to the door. Flanking him were two mechs: Doctor Pharma, the lanky, prim-looking medi-jet who’d examined Megatron this morning, and Arch Prophet Sunstorm, Vos’ highest-ranked religious leader. The latter was an odd character, least of which was his golden plating, shined to such an obsessive degree it hurt to look at him. Starscream had once explained to Megatron that, allegedly, His Holiness was touched with a not-insignificant degree of radiation. True or not, Megatron tried not to stand too close to him. At a distance, he still managed to catch snatches of their energetic conversation:

“–most potent mech I’ve seen, Your Holiness,” Pharma was explaining to Sunstorm. 

“As you’ve said. But what does that mean?” 

“That he can, theoretically, instantly spark a mech who isn't in heat.”

Sunstorm rubbed his chin with interest. “Even Silksteel couldn’t compare.”

“Because Silksteel was a layabout playbot,” added the Winglord gruffly. “He wasn’t really virile, he just got around. Even for a low-caste, this guard has some impressive work ethic. And apparently, he’s never been defeated in his arena fights. In my day, if he had a title and land, a mech that strong would be–”

Yeah, yeah. He’s totally amazing,” a familiar voice cut in. “Can’t you just give him to me?”

Megatron rolled his optics when he saw a purple hand latch onto the Winglord’s arm. With his black plating, Skywarp had blended in with the ministers, and Megatron hadn't noticed him. Of course he’d have something to do with this. What a persistent seeker. 

“As I told you, that needs to be discussed, Skywarp,” said the Winglord.

Skywarp flicked a hand at the others at the table. “Who cares what they all think?”

“Because this is an unconventional situation. In the first place, what you’re proposing is highly immodest. Due process must be observed.”

“The Winglord is right, Your Highness,” added a fifth mech– the Duke of Lower Praxus, if Megatron remembered correctly– leaning in close on Skywarp’s left. “And Winglord, I cannot stress this enough, a low caste brawler is a completely improper suitor for your son.”

“What, and you are?” jabbed Skywarp childishly. “You’re just saying that ‘cause I turned you down.” 

“Skywarp. Leave us,” snapped the Winglord, over the duke’s aggrieved spluttering. “I’ll let you know when we come to a decision.”

Skywarp made a face. “Whatever.”

“Suitor?” asked Megatron loudly, with curiosity in equal amounts to his trepidation. His voice rolled through the room, ceasing the chatter at once.

Spinning in his direction, Skywarp bounced up from his seat, greeting him with a flick of his wings and a cheeky little smirk. “That’s right,” he said, sauntering closer. “You’re about to get real lucky–”

“Skywarp,” said the Winglord sharply. 

Skywarp shut his mouth, but lingered another few moments, looking Megatron over. Then he went out, the guards closing the doors behind him. 

“Took you long enough.” The Winglord levered himself up from his chair, outstretching a burgundy arm and briskly waving Megatron closer. “I assume you got the gist of the situation while eavesdropping.” 

“I understand it well enough,” said Megatron. 

Seated or standing, the Winglord was rather solid-looking for a seeker. Megatron had never seen a jet who was outright stocky, but the Winglord came close. Starscream had mentioned offhand that his sire had been a warrior in his heyday. Under all the polish, marks of his past prowess could indeed be detected in the wide span of his shoulders and the controlled way he carried himself. Only coming up to his chestplate, the Winglord was not particularly intimidating, but he was unpredictable. Megatron knew better than to underestimate that sort of mech.

Once Megatron stood at his side, Winglord faced his flustered cabinet and spoke. “Although Megatron is an unorthodox choice for a suitor, we are in agreement that his capacity as a sire is unlike anything Vos has ever seen.”

“It is not merely coincidence that you brought him into your employ, Winglord,” said Sunstorm. “This is incredibly rare and fortuitous– certainly Primus was guiding your decision- He chose Vos. He sent us his most powerful creation to sire for Vos’ glorious rulers.” Sunstorm raised his arms to the sky. “Praise Primus!”

The assembly broke into an uproar again, sentiments overlapping:

“Now, now. We must not lose our sensibility!” 

“We’ve spent hundreds of generations pruning our lineages. Can't let a commoner go around bastardizing his way through our upper echelon!”

“And especially not one who is not of our kind.”

One of the generals spoke up. “Yes, let him be put to use in the barracks instead. He could sire thousands of sparklings with our infantry. Or, the best and brightest in our air force could produce extremely powerful mechanisms with him. Look at the size of him, Winglord. We’d be unstoppable.”

Megatron glared at the general. There was a suggestion that might be worse than being thrown in the smelter. Facing a life of being a stud for making more servants. Being just another tool in the hands of the wealthy. 

But before the suggestion could linger, the Winglord shot it down. “No. The Arch Prophet is right. A sire of this caliber belongs to the nobility. In fact, in accordance with Vosian conjugal law, the best sire goes to the royal family.”

“Following in the tradition, of course,” said Sunstorm, “he would belong to the ruling trine.” 

“But seeing as I’m of no age to carry, and my trinemates– Primus rest their sparks–” Here, the Winglord paused, bowing his helm for a moment of silence, the rest of the room following suit. “Instead, the duty will fall to the princes to each carry a clutch by him.”

“A set of nine by the choicest sire,” opined Sunstorm, nodding solemnly. “Nothing more noble than that.”

“Pardon, Winglord,” asked one of the nobles, “Isn't this going to cause a problem with the crown prince’s conjunx?”

“Emirate Airbright will be made to see reason. This is a once in a lifetime event, and I’d like to do this right. All three of the princes will participate, situation allowing.” The Winglord turned to Pharma and asked, “How far along is Starscream?”

“It’s early enough that his current gestational data can be overwritten,” said the doctor. Then, snootily, in a lower tone, “Not that it matters. Airbright’s data doesn't stand a chance against a mech like that.”

“Good.”

“Oh!” interjected another advisor. “But surely this will delay the princes’ trinings. It is not a good look to tell their suitors to hold off until next season so that a commoner may spark them all.”

“The mating process won't delay anything,” said the Winglord. “Skywarp and Thundercracker will continue to court their chosen suitors while carrying. Starscream as well, Primus willing, will be trined soon. I’m in the final stages of choosing a third for him and Airbright.”

“Winglord, in the first place, isn't this sort of mating ritual left to the common mechs? Our nobility's reputation is predicated on our restraint and good morals, not our savagery. Leave the courting battles to the lower classes.”

“A reasonable question. However, my offspring won't be doing something so barbaric as participating in claiming fights. Megatron will be presented to them.” Conclusively, the Winglord raised a hand for silence. “Enough questions. I’ve decided. Megatron will be appointed as royal stud, along with the status fitting his position.”

Murmurs filled the room as the assembled turned to each other in heated discussion.

Megatron tried to take in what had just occurred. The first time they had interfaced, Starscream had mentioned something about wanting to claim him. That he was the best. At the time, Megatron had thought nothing of it– merely that Starscream was saying whatever he pleased in his lust-crazed mating fervor. Seeker mating rituals were not something he understood well, but this situation was unimaginable. Humorous, almost, if it weren't so casually revolting, the way Vos’ nobility were acting like he was a thing; breeding stock to be used as they pleased. Even if he was being granted a title for the position– whatever that was worth. The upper castes really were the same everywhere. 

That said, it wouldn’t exactly be a chore to mate with the Winglord’s offspring– the most beautiful and sought after bachelors in Vos. Judging by the sour-to-murderous range of glares being thrown in his direction, Megatron was willing to bet some of the cabinet members were among the suitors hoping to do the very same. It must sting, being passed over for the task of sleeping with Vos’ princes in favor of a commoner. 

The Winglord turned to Megatron and placed a hand on his shoulder. “I hope you understand the significance of the role you've been chosen to perform. This is an incredibly rare and honorable position. Do not disappoint me.”

Megatron nodded. “Of course, Winglord.”

The Winglord motioned to his retainer to come forward and declared, “Summon the princes here.”

Megatron watched the retainer’s back as they left to fetch Starscream and his brothers, and tried to tamp down his smugness before it spilled into his expression. Miners’ tales had nothing on this.

Chapter Text

“Is this a joke?" asked Starscream. “Two cycles ago you would have had him thrown off our highest tower for looking at me the wrong way. Now you’re ordering him to ravage me?”

"Ravage you? How absurd.” The Winglord’s brow creased with reproach. “What a reaction! And after all the nice things you said about him...” 

“This is completely different!” 

“Yes, and while I understand it may come as a shock to you, this is a rare honor, so there’s no reason to get so worked up.”

“Worked up! Why would I be worked up?” Starscream stood up from the meeting table and slammed his chair in. “We’re loving this news so much, right, Thundercracker?”

He gestured to Thundercracker, whose face was frozen in an expression of abject horror. 

“Your tone sure has changed, old mech,” said Skywarp, perched on the edge of the table, arms loosely folded.

“Circumstances changed,” said the Winglord. “Thanks to your good instincts. Well done.”

“Uh. Yeah,” said Skywarp innocently, flicking his optics up to study the ceiling as Starscream glared murderously at him. 

Of course this order would come as a result of Skywarp’s meddling. He was the only other mech who knew about Megatron’s unique condition. And the only mech on the planet horny enough to parse ancient Vosian conjugal laws to have a hookup. 

Starscream wasn't sure what to think. Being ordered to carry Megatron’s sparklings should be a good thing for his and Megatron’s relationship. Sleeping together would be easier now that they were encouraged to do so, were it not that it came with the caveat that Starscream would now be expected to share him. 

Starscream tried to school his jealousy before he said anything that could give his true feelings away. Revulsion seemed to be a more appropriate reaction to being ordered to be impregnated by a lowly grunt. Judging by Thundercracker’s face, it was. So Starscream took a cue from him, channeling his anger towards that charade.

“Even if the suggestion didn’t repulse me to my core, there’s a problem, sire! I’m already carrying.”

The Winglord nodded at Pharma, who was standing beside him and the Arch Prophet. “The doctor says it’s early enough in your gestation that Megatron’s code can overwrite Airbright’s, so you’ll be included in this as well.”

“Oh. I’ll be included." Starscream trembled with overwhelming anger. “How thoughtful.”

“You will carry for Airbright after Megatron. It’s the law that a sparkling from a royal stud takes precedence over that of a conjunx, if one is bonded. Skywarp and Thundercracker may continue to court suitors and look for a trine during this period as well.” The Winglord looked between each of their faces. “I need you three to recognize how symbolic and momentous this duty is. It’s an assertion of your status as royalty, to be exclusive carriers for a mech of a caliber we have not seen outside of legend. This is not the time for airing your qualms.”

Sunstorm came over and patted Starscream's and Thundercracker’s arms. “Don’t fret. Tempers are understandably high and this surely wasn't in your plans. Any self-respecting flier would find it repulsive to be sparked by a grounder who’s little better than a barbarian. But consider that this is god’s plan, so it would suit you to be dignified about it.”

Thundercracker let out a thin whine and put his face in his hands.

Starscream couldn’t stand it anymore. He ran out to collect himself. This appeared to break Thundercracker from his stupor as well, who hurried down the hall after him. He came up to Starscream and clamped his hands on his shoulders. “Starscream, we have to convince him otherwise. I can't give myself to that… that thing.”

“You won't. Not if I have my way.”

Thundercracker stood rigidly, plating pulled in tight. “You know this is crazy, right? Sire is crazy. Sunstorm is crazy– I don't care if it’s blasphemy to say that. This wasn't the will of any god, this was…”

A third pair of footsteps clicked the hall behind them, as Skywarp wandered up to them. “Yo,” he said. “Just for the record, this wasn't really my plan to involve you two. Or, uh, any of that stuff about mating. Winglord kinda took it too far.”

“The Winglord took it too far?” said Starscream. "The Winglord? That's your excuse!?"

Skywarp shrugged awkwardly. “It is what it is.”

“Skywarp, I am seconds from beating you to death with your own stupid spike, which you apparently can’t keep behind your panel. No one goes to this much effort to get laid!”

“Honestly, Screamer, I did you a favor. Now you and Megatron can fool around all you want without consequence. You’re welcome.”

“What Megatron and I do doesn’t concern you.” Starscream jabbed a finger into his chest. “You should not factor into the equation. If you touch him again, I’m ripping off your wings. In pieces. And making you eat them.”

“Big talk, for a guy who couldn't even touch me when we fought the other night.” 

Starscream shrieked incoherently and launched himself at Skywarp anyway. 

Skywarp easily deflected his blows as they rained down. “Such a drama queen.”

“Is he?” asked Thundercracker, yanking at Skywarp’s wing to turn him around. “Is he, Skywarp?”

“C’mon, TC, this is distracting the Winglord from bitching about you being single.”

“By forcing me to be with some mech he dug out of a pit in Kaon?” 

Skywarp raised his hands defensively. “It’s not that much of a commitment. You just need to have his sparklings. You don't need to conjunx him.”

Thundercracker pondered this for a moment. Then he nodded at Starscream. “I’ll hold his arms.”

“Hey!” Skywarp struggled, but wasn't a match for Thundercracker’s strength. His arms were pinned, allowing Starscream to box him in.

“You're going to be so fucking ugly when I’m through with you, no mech will touch you,” hissed Starscream, winding his arm back. 

Skywarp popped out of existence at the last second. Starscream’s fist passed through empty air and slammed Thundercracker’s chestplate with a painful thud. Thundercracker didn't even flinch. As Starscream gripped his hand and spat curses, Skywarp reappeared high up in the rafters with a vop and flipped him off. 

The Winglord chose that exact moment to hurry over with the doctor and Sunstorm. He threw his hands up in exasperation. “What is going on out here? Get it together!”

Skywarp fired his thrusters and did a backflip off the rafters, touching down daintily beside them. The Winglord scoffed. “There is no reason for these dramatics. Especially from you, Starscream. You’re the oldest, you should be leading by example.” 

“Remember,” said Sunstorm, “it’s a testament to the strength of a ruling trine to keep from murdering each other over the stud. If all three emerge unscathed through the carrying period, they will go on to have a long, prosperous reign. Be strong!”

The Winglord shuddered. “I’m attempting to structure this so infighting is eliminated. Which, considering the three of you are so high strung to begin with, would be an excellent idea.” He held his hand up to silence Starscream before he could open his mouth to shriek something profane at him. “Now please, I’ll hear no more arguments. This has been decided. Each of you will go with the doctor to discern your suitability for carrying as well as the mating order.”

“What do you mean, mating order?” asked Starscream suspiciously.

“I’ve decided, in accordance with the advice of Pharma and Sunstorm, that the matings should occur nightly at specific times, three in a row, the order of which Pharma will determine. This is to keep your gestations on the same timeline and make sure the sparklings are given enough sustenance. The mech who takes precedence in the mating order will also have first priority on outside bonding activities with Megatron.”

“Bonding? We can court him?” asked Skywarp, too giddily for Starscream’s liking. 

“Don’t be ridiculous. You know our trining rituals don’t accommodate grounders. However, I’ve raised Megatron’s status in court as suits his new station, which means you are allowed to politely consort with him whenever you’re free, if you so choose. Or ignore him." The Winglord shrugged. "All I ask is that you adhere to the schedule and have healthy sparklings.”

“Cool, so when do we start?” asked Skywarp. 

“As the Winglord wants to avoid violence,” drawled Pharma, “it’s my professional opinion that Your Highnesses be sure to kindle within the first cycle of your baffles being removed. If any one of you are left in heat, that individual will fight for exclusivity of the sire. After you’re all sparked, you’ll be naturally possessive, but not to the point of violence.”

“So we’re starting today?” choked Thundercracker. 

“Tonight, Thundercracker,” said the Winglord with a sigh. “Please go with the doctor now. I have a lot to do.”

Starscream trailed after his brothers, his agitation only growing as they followed Pharma to the medbay. 

–

Starscream waited outside the palace medbay, pacing back and forth and glaring at a gilded bust of some long-dead medic. He was ready to knock the stupid sculpture over by the time Pharma finished examining his brothers and called him in to do the same. Once that was complete, the Winglord was summoned for the results of the mate hierarchy. 

“Why go through with this at all?” snipped Starscream. “I’m dubiously too far into gestation for this. Skywarp probably has six hundred viruses, and Megatron doesn't want a virgin.” He shot a pointed glance at Thundercracker, who, if possible, looked even more miserable than he had earlier.

Pharma smiled politely, though it looked strained. “Hm. About your brother…” 

“Ugh!” said Starscream, putting some distance between himself and Skywarp.

“No, Skywarp’s clean. You’re suitable as well.”

“I’m more than suitable,” grumbled Starscream.

“Yes. But. Ahem. The other prince…”

“What? What are you implying?” asked the Winglord, tapping his foot. 

Pharma looked hesitant to say, packing as much put-upon sincerity as possible into his snooty intonation. “Thundercracker is… unfortunately showing telltale signs of valvular virginity.”

Thundercracker stared tensely at the floor, mouth a tight line.

“Wait, what?” exclaimed Starscream. “I was just joking! Thundercracker, you can’t be…”

“How dare you slander his name!” accused the Winglord. 

“I did a thorough inspection,” said Pharma. “The gestation aperture is completely closed.”

“I know how it works!” 

“Of course. My apologies, Your Excellency.”

“Shame on you!” said the Winglord, jabbing a finger at a pouting Thundercracker. “Going around in this disgraceful condition. Multiple seasons since you reached majority and you've had no action? Your reputation among suitors is already on the brink of disaster, and now this is revealed! I can’t believe my own offspring would–” 

“No, no, this is good!” said Starscream, coming between them. “Thundercracker doesn’t want to do this anyway. We should take him out of the running entirely.”

“Absolutely not. Even though Thundercracker is less than adequate for a mate, excluding him would cause suspicion. Megatron will just have to deflower him as well.”

“No!” Thundercracker and Starscream wailed simultaneously.

“Yes, and above all, we must keep this quiet,” said the Winglord. “Even Megatron need not know about your condition, if you can manage it, Thundercracker. Your reputation will be ruined if any rumors get out. Be grateful that you have a low-born partner in this instance. Megatron is surely used to disappointment and offense. A distinguished suitor would be grievously insulted, to be presented with a mate so inexperienced.”

“Fine, if Thundercracker’s the least-favored, who’s the most?” Starscream demanded to know. 

“Traditionally,” said Pharma, “the most fertile and sexually experienced individual takes priority in the couplings. Since Starscream is rather… middling on both fronts, Skywarp is the obvious choice for the favored mate.”

“Middling!?” screeched Starscream, balling his hands. “What–? How–? Skywarp?”  

The Winglord clapped his brother affably on the back. “I could have told you that. All those pregnancy scares you’ve had pointed to it, I suppose.”

“Yeah, that makes sense,” said Skywarp. 

“What– no–!” said Starscream haltingly. “First of all, there’s no way–”

“Ah, this is all coming together nicely,” said the Winglord, cutting him off. “I had my doubts, Skywarp, when I caught you with Megatron that first time, but I will admit… you do have good instincts.” He winked approvingly. “Keen senses for a mate.”

“Uh, yeah. Definitely. Instincts.”

“Yes, yes. Well done.” The Winglord thumped his back vigorously again, before turning to Starscream and Thundercracker with a more strict expression. “And I expect you two will do your duty without complaint.”

“You’re lucky I’m agreeing to do this at all,” said Starscream, sneering at the doctor. “After having my competence insulted.”

“Don’t feel bad, Screamer,” said Skywarp, flashing him an obnoxious grin. “I’ll leave some for you after I'm done with him tonight.”

Starscream’s spark twisted and compressed into a hot little ball of rage, and he repressed the urge to punch Skywarp. Gloating aside, fertility and experience in berth were hugely prized in Vos, and it was no surprise Skywarp had come out on top. Being an outsider, Megatron might not care that Skywarp was better, but… maybe he would. Regardless, Starscream’s claim was more tenuous, with Megatron now being compelled to split his affections between him and his brothers.

Starscream tried not to think too hard about how their relationship had involved little more than interface so far. Any emotional connection was purely driven by coding. They didn’t really like each other. What if Megatron’s attention drifted, when presented with two other tempting seekers? He hadn’t rejected Skywarp when he came onto him, and he had even made a flirtatious comment about Thundercracker… 

Starscream clenched his fists. He had no reason to care about Megatron this much. At best, he was just a lover. One of many Starscream had had. And yet, he was boiling at the mere implication that others were going to be intimate with Megatron in the same way he had been. 

But the fact remained: he had gotten to Megatron first, and was carrying his sparklings to prove it. He deserved priority. One way or another, he would have it. 

Chapter Text

The Winglord made an announcement to the court that same cycle: a formal ball would be held in a week or so to celebrate the princes’ relationship with their new sire. The message had garnered mixed reactions, as the rest of the court had many of the same issues with the arrangement as the Winglord’s advisors did. 

At this point, Megatron realized that his elevated rank and the duties that came with it might pose an issue. Envious and aggrieved nobles would likely begin plotting assassination attempts against him. He would have to keep his guard up. However, this reality could not be further from his mind as the day wore on; overshadowed by his anticipation for the events of the night. 

After being briefed on his duties for the matings, he and the princes had been whisked away by servants to be prepared. In Megatron’s case, this meant he’d been thoroughly bathed, polished, and repainted. The process was conducted stiffly by servants, and Megatron would have found it enormously tedious, if not for a distinctive trio of fragrances permeating his sensors all the while.

One seeker in heat was an unholy distraction, but Megatron was beginning to discover just how much worse two were. He counted himself fortunate that Starscream was already sparked. Presented with three seekers in heat at once, he’d surely be hunting down and spiking whichever he managed to get his hands on first. He was struggling to contain himself from doing so, as it was. 

The situation was at least familiar; similar to when Starscream had broken his baffles. Within a cycle of that incident, his pheromones had assaulted Megatron’s sensors, brisk and tart like fine high grade, but far more delicious. Starscream’s scent maintained some of that hot, sensual bite even while carrying, though it was muted beneath his brothers’. As for Skywarp’s and Thundercracker’s– one fragrance was luscious, candy-sweet, and the other mature and rich. Not only battling for his attention, but drowning out his other senses in a single-minded effort to entice him to spark them. 

Megatron thought it no exaggeration to assume he was one of the luckiest mechs to ever exist. 

Finished with their preening, the attendants led him into an area of the palace he’d been summarily forbidden to go prior to this– the royal apartments. A level dedicated to housing the Winglord’s relatives, the living arrangements for royalty were far more lavish and secluded than those allocated to the nobility. Megatron would know, having snuck up here to present Starscream with the new set of baffles. This was where it had all begun. 

Skywarp’s chambers were closer than Starscream’s, but no less extravagant. Megatron was led through a tall palladium double door into an antechamber richly decorated with dark furniture, and then left in front of another door which he assumed to be Skywarp’s berth room. This was where the prince would be waiting for him, polished and decorated. For him.

With proximity, Skywarp’s heat scent came to the forefront. Tempted, Megatron thoughtlessly wandered in. Skywarp was stretched out languidly across his berth like he was auditioning to be one of Zeta Prime's concubines. When he saw him, he kicked his legs up playfully, the tips of his wings moving in slow, devious wiggles. 

Unsurprisingly, this one had a penchant for ending up in berth with most of the palace. Megatron would be lying if he said this was his first time he'd taken a good look at him.

Skywarp was a striking mech, with his sleek, black plating and gleaming curves. Cheerful, with an ever-present air of juvenile mischief, and not a thought in his head except an unending devotion to pleasure. Were he one of his groupies from his gladiator days, Megatron couldn't have stayed off him. Here and now, he didn’t exactly want to give the little brat the satisfaction of drooling over him like an idiot. 

He clearly wasn't doing a good job of not leering, though, because Skywarp sat up to better show off the span of his wings. “You like them?” he asked coyly, reaching back and running the tips of his fingers over his edges. “Wanna get a closer look?”

Megatron wanted nothing more than to mount and frag him until his transfluid repository was dry. Instead, he carefully lowered himself to sit on the edge of the berth, facing away from him.  

The steelsilk covers rustled behind him. A moment later, a warm chassis thumped against his back and arms slid around his neck. Skywarp planted a lingering kiss on his nape. Soft. Warm. Wet. Unicron have mercy. 

Megatron lay a hand across his optics and drew a slow in-vent. “Did you ever stop to consider if the rest of us wanted this?” 

“I didn’t plan for this all to happen. It was just supposed to be you and me.” Skywarp dipped a claw into the seam of Megatron’s chest armor and traced the wires. “I know you’re not complaining.”

Skywarp’s roving hands sought out sensitive gaps in his plating; sharp little claws prickling over his front. His warm, fragrant frame pushing up against him was more than enough to coax Megatron’s spike to full pressure.

“You are… beyond words,” said Megatron, distantly, without vitriol.

“No, I’m compatible with you. Aren’t’cha curious to know what that feels like?” Skywarp’s glossa brushed the corner of his mouth. Megatron turned his helm away in a last ditch attempt to control himself. Something in him didn't want to give Skywarp the satisfaction of being pounced on like he couldn't contain himself. 

Skywarp snorted comprehendingly. “Screamer’s got you on lockdown, huh? Aww. You're trying to be loyal to him. That’s cute.”

Am I?  wondered Megatron. There was no question he was attracted to Starscream physically. And of course he was protective of his sparklings. Romantically, he didn't exactly owe anything to Starscream, as they hadn't defined their relationship. Which, beyond their heated, wild couplings, wasn't particularly substantial anyway. And yet–

“The arrangement’s different now,” continued Skywarp. “Here in Vos, we share our mates. You’ll have plenty of time with all of us.”

Megatron’s remaining concern melted away as Skywarp slid onto his lap. “I promise I won't tell if you enjoy yourself with me,” he crooned, caressing him over his pelvic armor. His mouth brushed Megatron’s. “We don't even have to kiss. Just fuck me with your big, thick spike.”

No mech could be expected to think straight with a seeker in heat rubbing himself all over them.

Megatron rolled, pinning Skywarp onto his back and crushing their lips together. Skywarp purred with satisfaction, aggressively delving his glossa into Megatron’s mouth while Megatron took the opportunity to get his hands on him. The scented oil rubbed into Skywarp’s plating allowed him to glide his hands all over his turbines; his delicate wings; his backside. 

Megatron flipped him over, dragging his hips up so his perky aft was raised. Skywarp’s v-shaped codpiece slid back to reveal his valve, the mesh striped provocatively. Megatron released his spike, butting it up against the slick cleft, then ran his hands up Skywarp’s back and over his flaring wings, grasping them at their roots. 

Skywarp choked out a low moan. “Yeah. Grab ‘em.” He continued to yelp and gasp as he was hauled back onto Megatron's spike. Megatron sunk into his plush valve smoothly, silky mesh enfolding him as he buried himself all the way up to his chamber. Skywarp writhed, trilling with excitement as Megatron’s hips slammed his backside. 

Skywarp took well to a rough frag, riding his spike gleefully without any hint of a struggle. In fact, he was pushing his hips back, squeezing around him, moaning out encouragement. He had a ridiculous level of skill with interface, wringing out what he wanted.

Daring to go further, Megatron bit down on Skywarp’s wing while he drilled into him. Skywarp bunched the covers in his fists and cried out. His forge quivered, all the heat expanding, then contracting to a delicious little point around his spike as he overloaded.

Megatron shuddered to a stop shortly after, flooding Skywarp’s chamber. He rocked his hips to eke out that last little bit of friction to finish himself off completely. He’d never overloaded so quickly in his life.

Skywarp rolled over and threw an arm out to dangle off the edge of the berth. Even with his slimming black plating around his waist, the bulge of his forge was noticeable.

“Whoa,” he said, once he’d steadied his venting. He put a hand over his middle in amazement. “It really was instant. How the pit did you do that?”  

Megatron didn’t know. All he knew was now that he’d started, he couldn’t stop. Skywarp had no complaint when he pushed his spike back in.

“You really liked that, huh? Told you.” Wrapping his arms around his neck, Skywarp clung to him and wheedled for him to frag as long and hard he pleased. The shameless little minx.

Megatron ended up spiking him thrice more before their time was up for the night. By the time he’d managed to tear himself away, he’d overfilled Skywarp’s forge, and transfluid was seeping out of his valve in a messy drip. Skywarp had offlined right after his (sixth? seventh?) overload, and was sprawled sideways across the bed in blissful recharge. 

Disoriented, Megatron stumbled into the wash rack, turning the solvent on at a high pressure to clean off. Everywhere Skywarp had rubbed himself or sprayed his lubricants smelled amazing. It was like he’d marked him. This, along with the intermingling scents of the other two, made it impossible to calm down. 

Megatron leant his forehead against the tile. His spike was still, inexplicably, stiff and throbbing. He squeezed the base of it, hoping to depressurize it enough to close his panel. 

At least after scrubbing himself under hot solvent, Skywarp's smell had begun to fade. The scent of a fertile seeker was unlike anything he’d experienced. He supposed he should feel pathetic that that alone had been enough to reduce him to a horny mechanimal. But they needed him. Needed him to let loose as much as possible. 

Maybe when he buried his spike in Starscream, he could pretend for a bit that his overwhelming urge to frag at least had a single directionality. He wasn’t sure if he could stay sane otherwise.

Chapter Text

Starscream’s wings jerked straight up like the ears of a startled petrorabbit when Megatron burst into his room.

To be fair, he’d almost ripped the door off its hinges to get to him. The thought of Starscream trussed up for him, alone and unguarded in his berthroom was intoxicating. The sight was even better.

High off a potent trio of seeker pheromones, as soon as Starscream entered his line of sight, Megatron was on him. Less fragrant than the other princes, but no less alluring, the familiarity of his frame under his hands made his spike ache. Starscream’s gorgeous, bratty scowl only stoked his lust higher as he surged forward to snatch him up by the waist. Starscream snarled and batted at him, even as a bright flush spread across his cheeks.

“What the pit is wrong with you? Don’t just grab me!” he yowled, as Megatron hoisted him over his shoulder and carried him over to a desk, where he promptly threw him down and got between his legs.

Starscream struggled. “Stop that! Get off!”

Megatron kissed up his neck. “Is there a problem?”

“Yes, we have a problem!”

“Can it wait?”

“No!” Starscream slammed a heel to Megatron’s shoulder and pushed him back. “Will you get away from me, you degenerate oaf? I realized something!”

It took all his willpower, but Megatron managed to step back so he wasn’t crushing him against the desk. 

“Listen to me,” said Starscream, sitting up. “This is serious. Your coding won’t overwrite Airbright’s. Because it’s your sparkling. So ‘facing with you will continue to make it grow, rather than starting over.”

“That’s how it works, yes.”

“Don’t be funny. This is a problem, because our gestation cycle is fast, as seekers. Look.” Starscream sat up straighter and gestured at his slightly protruding abdomen. “I’m already showing this much. If I mate with you on the same timeline as my brothers, it’ll quickly become visually obvious that I’m much further along than I should be. So, this means,” he said with a dire expression, trembling, like his revelation had shattered his world. “We’ll have to stop mating.”

“No,” said Megatron, immediately.

Starscream squinted at him. “What do you mean, no? It’ll just be for a few days. To slow down the process.”

“It’s not that noticeable.” Megatron reached out to caress his middle.

“Not yet.” Starscream slapped him away. “But if you keep stuffing me with your freakish transfluid, at this rate I’m going to be huge. With eggs. By the end of the week!” He lowered his voice again, hissing, “And then everyone will know what we did.”

“I can hold off,” said Megatron, completely unconvinced. “Can you hold off?”  

“Of course.”

“It’ll be difficult for you, not to mention the sparklings; having to go without for cycles. And ever since you’ve been sparked, we haven’t coupled nearly as much as we should–”

“I said it’ll be fine!” snapped Starscream.

Megatron couldn’t say he believed him, but Starscream continued to glare petulantly at him, still with that pretty flush on his face. Megatron had been sleeping with him long enough to know when he was hot under his panels, and at this moment, Starscream wanted desperately to get filled up. The poor thing was probably soaking, waiting for this all day, only to deny himself again. Just as he had insisted upon doing things for the duration of his carrying- one mating a day, if they could manage to get each other alone. At any rate, it was nowhere near enough. 

Of course Megatron understood the consequences Starscream had laid out, but they seemed so insignificant in the face of the task at hand.  He was determined to be a bad influence, now that he’d been ordered to thoroughly spark Vos’ most beautiful mech.

Starscream seemed to realize what was on his mind, and looked away before the moment could linger. He scoffed in anger. “If you want to blame someone, blame Skywarp. If not for him, I could be getting taken care of properly.”

“You mean you’d rather be sneaking off to ‘face in a hallway?”

“I mean I’ve been cheated out of my rightful place.”

“In the mating order?” 

“In general!” Starscream’s fist hit the desk with a thud. “How dare that filthy doctor slander my name! I am the best choice of mate in Vos and any opinion to the contrary is wrong.”

Megatron trailed a finger up his arm. “You wanted priority with me.”

“I deserve priority. I'm already carrying your sparklings, so I’m the most important.”

“And yet you’re telling me you want to starve the sparklings.”

“Don’t be dramatic. Once my brothers are caught up, you'll be giving it to me three–no- five times a day." Starscream's wings trembled with need. "Or as much as I want it. Is that understood?”

Megatron tilted Starscream’s chin up. “My transfluid is absorbing faster now, isn’t it? You haven’t been getting nearly enough.”

Starscream looked away quickly. “It’s fine.”

“I won’t let you suffer.”

“I’m not– Damn it, we can’t…” Starscream trailed off, conflicted. "Just don't."

Megatron sighed. “Very well. If you insist, I’ll be careful. If you want, I’ll take you, but I won’t finish inside.”

“Oh.” Starscream swallowed and ran his glossa over his lips. As much as Starscream denied it, the atmosphere was affecting him too. The tension in the room only increased the longer they stood around together, pretending they weren’t going to interface. Now that they had each other alone, and were encouraged to frag as much as they pleased, there was no way Starscream could resist. 

“Well…” Starscream squirmed, looking up at him hungrily. It seemed he’d reached his breaking point. “As long as you absolutely don’t come inside…” 

The words were barely out of his mouth before Megatron shoved him back onto the desk. Starscream’s panel was open and Megatron’s spike up him before they could think anymore about what they were doing. 

“Ohh. Megatron, what is your deal today? You’re so hard,” gasped Starscream. His vocalizer wobbled; claws digging into Megatron’s back. Megatron snarled, thrusting harder into the tempting heat at the back of his valve.

Spiking deep seemed to trigger something in Starscream, who went hazy eyed. “Go in. Just a little,” he begged. “Up my forge.”

“You gave up quickly.”

“Shut up. I didn’t give up anything,” panted Starscream. “I need it deep. Just hurry. Oh, Primus.”

Without another word, Megatron slid forward, breaching his forge.

“Oh,” said Starscream blissfully. His hips trembled, hands scrabbling along the desk, knocking things onto the floor. Warmth pulsed around Megatron’s spike as Starscream’s chamber adjusted to his shape. 

“That’s it. Don’t fight it. This is what you need,” said Megatron, stroking his wings.

Starscream shivered. “You can’t come inside.”

“Hm? You’ll have to speak up.”

“I said... d-don’t come inside.”

“You don’t sound very convincing.”

“Megatron!” groaned Starscream. 

“Starscream,” said Megatron, leaning over him, pinning him to the desk. “You’ll have to be more sincere. One would think you want my transfluid.”

“Frag you, I obviously do,” hissed Starscream. “But I need you to show some restraint!”

“Ha. I thought you said you could hold out.” 

“You hold out! You’re the servant!”

“I’m the royal sire. I can do what I want.”

“That’s not within your rights.”

“You need transfluid,” Megatron growled. “End of discussion. You’ve denied yourself and the sparklings for too long.”

“Ugh... Megatron...” Starscream whined and rocked his hips impatiently, apparently too needy to continue to fight. “I’m blaming you for whatever happens. I swear, if you get me disowned, I’m going to kill you.”

“Is that all?”

“Just shut up and fuck me.” Starscream’s thighs came up around his sides, locking around Megatron’s waist. He thumped his back with his heels to spur him on. Now that he was allowed to make noise, Starscream was a loud little thing, his drawn out howls resonant as he swung his hips forward to collide with Megatron’s. They were making an enormous racket between his shouting, their hips clanging, and the desk slamming the wall. Predictable that Starscream would want to outdo his brothers with the noise he was making.

Megatron’s focus was pulled downward to Starscream’s naughty red pelvic armor and glossy thighs, and his tight, sticky valve nestled between, clinging to his spike as he thrust in and out. Starscream’s optics met his, and he made a delighted, squeaky mewl that decimated what was left of Megatron’s self-control. Grunting in pleasure, holding Starscream by the waist, Megatron jerked his hips and shot a load up his forge. 

Starscream squeezed his wrists. Set by set, his calipers clicked shut, locking Megatron in place as they rode out their overloads together. 

The desk shuddered as Megatron collapsed onto it. Steam hissed from their vents, and armor pinged as it slowly cooled down.

“You idiot,” said Starscream. 

“I’m not holding back,” said Megatron. “Ever. The sparklings need sustenance.”

“Sparklings,” scoffed Starscream. “You just wanna drain your stupid spike inside me.”

“You love when I come inside.” 

“Frag you.” 

Megatron nuzzled his neck. “You love it. And you need it.”

Starscream nipped his throat cabling. “Fine. I want triple what you gave Skywarp."

Megatron’s spike was still hard, somehow, after five near-consecutive rounds. He’d balk at that ordinarily, but concern couldn't be further from his thoughts as Starscream kissed him hungrily. As soon as he started fragging him again, Starscream went limp and pliable, hands roaming all over his sides.

Soon, Megatron overloaded again, and then a third time, and kept going tirelessly. A mech surely wasn’t meant to ‘face this much at once, but his libido, not to mention his stamina, seemed boundless. The pheromones these seekers put out were no joke. 

As their time together came to a close, despite the lovely prince beneath him; despite the caresses of his mouth and valve and hands, Megatron found himself rather distracted. Skywarp’s scent had worn off significantly now that he was sparked. It was no longer overwhelming, but muted and pleasant; on the level of Starscream’s.

But there was one more seeker in the vicinity whose presence was tempting him fiercely. As Megatron rocked into Starscream, he tried to pace himself. The night was still not over.

Chapter Text

Thundercracker traced the edge of one of the pale blue drapes adorning the large window in his suite, eyeing the balcony longingly. In the effort of not smudging the servants’ hard work on his appearance, he was disallowed from taking a flight to clear his helm. 

Skywarp had gone too far. Whatever drama or purpose he and Starscream had with Megatron, they should have left him out of it. 

He’d been rolling around what Skywarp said in his helm, about Starscream going into heat over Megatron, and possibly getting sparked. Skywarp was likely just talking nonsense, if Starscream’s bad reaction to the command to mate with Megatron was any indication.

Starscream may have been rumored to ‘face guards, but his last one at least– a young flier from the academy– was polite, soft-spoken, and handsome (even if he was enormous). This one was old and coarse. A brutish grounder from a rough background. Starscream would never. Would he?

Thundercracker hadn't gotten a chance to ask. Not like Starscream would give him an honest answer.

He let the drape slip through his fingers, tracing a smudge on the windowpane. This whole debacle made no sense. Starscream’s alleged secret affair, Skywarp’s obsession with his guard, and the Winglord suddenly getting nostalgic for the ‘old ways’ of choosing a mate– Thundercracker had no idea where their insanity had come from. Now, he’d been swept into the affair so intimately, he could hardly believe what was happening. 

Well. So much for hoping for a sensitive and careful sire. 

Even with a sire he preferred, carrying was a big deal. Interface itself was serious, despite the opinion to the contrary in Vos.

Thundercracker had been so firmly invested in only sleeping with a mech he loved, that he’d lied about getting spiked around the time he became of age. The doctor never bothered to check too closely when installing the baffles after his first heat, and he’d been sealed ever since. 

Thundercracker had never felt the charge of a spike inside his valve, much less in his forge to mate. He knew it would have to happen, and it was more than he could take. Maybe literally.

Megatron’s size alone was enough to put off most reasonable mecha. The thought of desecration by such a mech was terrifying. And humiliating. And degrading to his status. Sleeping with a grounder; a commoner, went against every logical structure implemented by Vos’ royalty, and Thundercracker would do anything to be spared his attention.

Unfortunately, a sharp knocking on his door announced Megatron was right on time. Swallowing his unease, Thundercracker dragged himself away from the window to answer.

He backed away as Megatron entered his berth room. Up close, he was huge. Thundercracker hadn’t realized just how much. He was easily a helm taller than Thundercracker. Maybe two.

Drunk on seeker pheromones, and likely not one to be concerned with propriety to begin with, Megatron eyed him shamelessly. “You look nice,” he said. 

“Thank you,” muttered Thundercracker, self-conscious of the amount of polish on his plating. All to be wasted on a violent-looking mech that leered at his wings. 

Hopefully they could keep this short and to the point. Thundercracker gestured vaguely at his berth, feeling incredibly awkward. 

“Right to it, hm?” chuckled Megatron, and grabbed at him. Red optics glowed with lust, illuminating his hard, eager expression as he caught Thundercracker’s waist in his huge hands. All Thundercracker’s plating flared in alarm as Megatron leant over him, vents cycling, taking in his scent shamelessly. He looked like a horny beast as he pinched his wing. Then both wings, running his hands over them. Shocked by his boldness, it took Thundercracker a few moments to collect himself.

“Hey. Don’t…” he complained weakly, flicking his wings out of his grasp. “Don’t do that. Just. Um.” He glanced at Megatron’s panel pointedly. 

Megatron got the point– perhaps a bit too well– and pressurized his spike. Thundercracker's frame locked up in terror. Were those spines on the shaft?

Thundercracker’s remaining courage drained out of him, and he stumbled back in a panic. Right up against his berth. 

“Don't run. You’re ready for this,” said Megatron, catching him by the arm. 

“No.” Nervous energy crackled in Thundercracker’s spark. Heat spread out in tendrils in his chest, throbbing, as he tested Megatron’s grip and couldn't break free. “Stop.”

Megatron didn’t seem to be listening. “Open. Let me see you.” He pushed him down flat to the berth.

Thundercracker slammed a hand to Megatron’s chest in a futile attempt to keep his spike well away from him. It went up to his abdomen. He’d have to take all that. There was no way.

“Let go,” he begged. “Please.”

“Gorgeous,” panted Megatron, hands roaming, fondling whatever he could grab. He latched his mouth onto Thundercracker’s throat, denta stabbing into the delicate wires there. 

Cornered, Thundercracker’s panic rose to a fever pitch. There was a strong tug at his spark, a knot of roiling heat, opposite charges pounding against each other, multiplying in the span of an instant. His circuitry surged with energy, the whine of his systems audible.

Megatron lifted his helm, sensing danger, but Thundercracker’s pheromones had made his reaction time sluggish. 

In a blinding flash, Thundercracker fired a jagged arc of lightning into him. Fiery sparks exploded from Megatron’s armor at the point of contact. Shockwaves from the discharge rippled outwards, shattering the windows.

The roar of thunder was deafening, echoing through the palace, and Thundercracker instantly regretted his decision. 

Megatron crumpled to the floor in a tremendous clatter, smoking at the seams. The acrid smell of burnt nanites wafted from his frame. 

With his spark in his throat, Thundercracker inched forward, daring to nudge Megatron’s shoulder with the toe of one pede. Megatron’s arm jerked. Thundercracker flinched back.

Oh, Primus. He was... 

Thundercracker couldn’t decide whether he was relieved or concerned that he wasn’t dead.

Megatron jerked again, harder, then weakly stuck an arm out, grasping the berthpost for support, groaning as he hauled himself up. Broken floor tiles crunched underfoot, uprooted all around him from the lightning strike. His biolights flickered back on, casting a dim, red gleam through the haze of his smoking circuits. It was like watching a mountain rise from the ground. Thundercracker crept back from him, alighting on the berth with his wings hiked up aggressively. Static rolled off his plating, spark humming as it built for another release. 

He had no idea what to do. If he’d made Megatron angry, he'd have to fight. The alternative was too terrible to consider. 

Luckily, he didn't have to consider for long. Guards burst through the doors to come to his aid, and moments after them, there was the sound of doors opening and chatter all down the hall. Thundercracker’s relief dissipated quickly as he realized his outburst had rattled the entire wing of the palace.

With his room being the closest, Starscream was the first to poke his head in, snickering. Reveling in chaos as usual, he observed the smoldering ruin that had once been the edge of Thundercracker’s berth. Then he saw Megatron, hunched right in the center of the scorch marks.

“Thundercracker, are you out of your mind? You could have killed him!” he snarled, running over and helping Megatron up. Oddly, his help was interspersed with a fair amount of petting and murmuring concerned sentiments. Megatron stumbled to his feet, waving him off.

“I didn't mean to,” mumbled Thundercracker belatedly, realizing that if it were any grounder other than Megatron, he could have killed, if not severely injured them. Grounders weren't often built to withstand lightning like fliers were.

Damage done, his emotions cycled from shame, to concern, to rage, and back. Mostly, he was just incredibly embarrassed, now that his fear was wearing off. 

The Winglord could be heard ranting down the hall outside his room, accompanied by his approaching footsteps. If Thundercracker hadn't woken up the entire palace, the Winglord was doing a great job of it. 

“Thundercracker!” he roared, storming in. “What the hell is going on!?”

“Um.” Thundercracker realized he had no plausible excuse, while the Winglord glared between him and a visibly roasted Megatron for an explanation. 

“He tried to kill Megatron!” accused Starscream, shoving him in the chest.

“I didn’t!” Thundercracker snapped, lurching forward to shove him back, and received a chastising glare from the Winglord. He withdrew his hand before it made contact, lowering his wings demurely. Acting aggressive wasn't helping his case. “It was an accident."

“What did I tell you about keeping that under control?” chided the Winglord.

Thundercracker struggled to explain himself in the least embarrassing way possible. “He... surprised me.”

“You should’ve been expecting him.”

Heat crept into Thundercracker’s face. “He was being much too aggressive."

“Excuses! Sabotage!” hissed Starscream. 

“What do you care?” asked Thundercracker, and looked away, not exactly denying it. Which prompted the Winglord to come at him, shaking a finger. 

“Thundercracker, if you don't–”

“It was my fault,” cut in Megatron, stopping the oncoming lecture. “I frightened him. He was only defending himself.” Getting electrocuted seemed to have sobered him up, and he looked incredibly apologetic. 

“Defending himself from what?" asked the Winglord. 

“I lost my head and… pinned him down,” said Megatron plaintively. Thundercracker didn’t think his face could get any hotter. 

The Winglord tutted. “I suppose you were only doing your duty. That said, take care to treat him gently. If Thundercracker wishes to be charmed before he'll mate, you must do your utmost to please him.”

"What!? That's- not-" Thundercracker choked on his denial. 

“Beyond the mating itself, my creations’ pleasure is your highest priority," continued the Winglord, addressing Megatron with a stern tilt of his wings. "He’s not one of those second-rate aristocrats you've bedded who pay to be roughed up. He's a prince, and a sensitive one at that. He requires pampering-- assuming that’s not beyond your abilities?”

“No, Winglord,” said Megatron, vaguely humbled.

"Good." The Winglord frowned at Thundercracker. “And you take care to show less violence towards the sire of your sparklings.” 

“Yes sir…” said Thundercracker. He wished everyone would leave. This was humiliating. 

Starscream huffed and tugged Megatron's arm. "Since he failed to pick you off, I suppose I’ll have to take you to the infirmary."

Megatron insisted he was alright, but Starscream clung to him and demanded that a doctor take a look at him. 

Thundercracker watched Starscream usher him out the door. Though singed and unsteady on his pedes, Megatron was in surprisingly good shape. Thundercracker felt slightly better that he’d recovered so quickly, and wasn’t making a big deal out of getting attacked.  He doubted the courtiers would show the same mercy– they were already whispering as they made their way back to their rooms.

Perhaps a bit cruelly, Thundercracker was most relieved that Megatron was injured enough that he wouldn't have to mate him tonight. 

Even if it only delayed the inevitable.

Chapter Text

“I’m fine, Starscream.”

“How do you know? That prick of a doctor barely looked at you.”

Megatron patted his arm. “The damage wasn’t extensive. I’ll survive.”

“You’d better.” Starscream snatched a pillow from the adjacent infirmary berth and shoved it behind Megatron’s helm. Stupid, prude Thundercracker. He didn’t know what he’d do if his brother had succeeded in killing Megatron. Starscream suspected Megatron’s survival had come down to sheer luck, and the strength of his armor. He’d been fortunate to come away from a direct lightning strike without serious injuries.

Megatron stroked a thumb over his forearm, giving him a soft grin. “I can’t believe you’re fussing over me. I didn't think you had it in you to be sweet. This is a cute side of you.” 

“I’m not fussing.” Starscream quickly withdrew his hands midway through tucking in the corner of Megatron’s warming tarp. “It would have been an issue if he had killed my mate. The sparklings need sustenance.”

“Of course they do. Yet I worry that getting so much attention tonight may have cured your attitude. You’re not going soft on me?”

“I wouldn't go that far.”

“No? You don't want to tenderly nurse me back to health?” 

Starscream jolted as Megatron’s fingers found the curve of his aft and pinched. “You’re healthy enough,” he said, batting him away. “You’ve got the energy to be a disgusting old bastard.”

“There he is. The usual Starscream.” The derma around Megatron’s optics crinkled. “It was nice while it lasted.”

Starscream frowned at him. “I’ve also noticed you’ve gotten very comfortable not using my title.”

“You don’t like being called Starscream?”

“I was just making an observation that it’s improper.” Starscream lowered himself to sit on the edge of the berth. “But. I don't mind if you call me by my name. In private.”

“You’re truly spoiling me.”

“Don’t get used to it.”

“While we’re breaking convention, I don’t suppose you could make an allocation for being called ‘sweetspark’ or ‘dearest’?”

Starscream’s cheeks heated. “I’m going to graciously assume your processor is fried.”

“Speaking of fried- what was that?” asked Megatron. “Your brother’s power. I’ve never seen anything like it.”

“It’s a spark gift. Skywarp can warp and Thundercracker can do… that.” Starscream glared at the large, sooty mark on Megatron’s shoulder, where he’d been struck. 

“A spark gift,” mused Megatron. “What’s yours?”

Starscream scowled. “I don’t have one.”

“Huh.” Megatron clicked his glossa. “Your wicked mouth doesn’t count as a weapon?” 

Starscream stood abruptly from the berth. “You’re in good spirits, obviously. I’m going back to my room.”

“Keep me company,” said Megatron, taking his hand. 

“You’ve had plenty of company. Your stamina is insane.”

“That’s not what I mean.” Megatron squeezed his fingers gently. “Stay with me tonight."

His soft expression caught Starscream off guard, as it always did. How the brute managed to look this unassuming and tender, Starscream would never know. Every time, that yearning gaze struck the softest, weakest part of his emotional core with deadly accuracy. 

“Not all night. Just for a bit,” Starscream relented. Tentatively, he lay beside him and settled into the crook of Megatron’s arm. That seemed to satisfy Megatron, who held him close as Starscream rested his helm on his chest. 

Lying quietly with Megatron was not something he’d been at liberty to do until now. Starscream might even feel at ease, cradled in his powerful arms, if not for his spark whirling madly in its casing. 

They weren’t doing anything… totally improper, per se, by resting together. But this type of affectionate embrace certainly fell outside the standard duties Megatron was entitled to perform as Royal Sire. Publicly cuddling when not engaged in interface might raise some suspicions as to the nature of–

“Starscream,” Megatron murmured, vents tickling his cheek. “Your wings keep twitching. Are you comfortable?”

“Y-yes,” said Starscream, weakly. Oh. The sound of his name rolling off Megatron’s glossa gave him shivers. He said it so possessively, with such assurance. He pushed his cheek flatter to Megatron’s chestplate. Pressed up against him, Starscream could hear Megatron’s machinery rumbling; the powerful engine purring away. The weight of Megatron’s hand splayed on his back, idly stroking his wings, felt deliciously intimate. Safe. 

To have his sire around him soothed Starscream in a way he couldn’t possibly describe. The longer he lay with Megatron, the harder it became to stay online. Eventually, he let recharge pull him under.

—

Starscream left Megatron’s infirmary berth the following morning to a disdainful side eye from doctor Pharma, and snuck up to his apartment before anyone saw him and questioned where he’d spent the night. 

The walk of shame didn’t dampen his mood any. For the first time since he’d been sparked, he felt satiated. The constant edge of lust that had grated on him daily had finally been quenched. Forge still pleasantly full, and plating tingling with residual heat from Megatron's embrace, he was in high spirits.

He took breakfast in his room, then had a detailing done while his chamberlain briefed him on his schedule for the day. The next few weeks would be packed with activities. They were approaching the height of the vernal solstice, which heralded the end of Vos’ courting season, giving him and his brothers more than Megatron to think about. For his brothers, courting suitors and preparing for the trining flight that capped off the season’s peak had occupied their time. Starscream would secure a trine bond in a less exciting way- another arranged marriage. Today, he’d be welcoming the third in his trine to Vos, and in doing so, forging another alliance.

Slipstream of Caminus had been a family friend since they were newbuilds. The only creation of the Mistress of Flame, Caminus’ religious leader, Slipstream seemed a practical choice for a trinemate. Starscream wasn't looking forward to trining her. Since they were sparklings, she’d been bitchy and two-faced, but intelligent enough to deftly hide those qualities under a veneer of charisma. 

With Slipstream’s entourage arriving any moment, Starscream went down to the reception hall. The Winglord and his various retainers were already there, as well as Airbright. Among them stood a smattering of courtiers, all chattering excitedly. When Starscream took a seat at the dais beside his sire, the Winglord seemed upbeat as well. 

“What are they all so happy about?” asked Starscream, crossing his arms. “Surely this isn’t that exciting?”

“It certainly is," said the Winglord. "Or rather, she is. Have you not kept up with her achievements since your sparklinghood?”

Starscream shrugged listlessly. “Enough to make conversation.”

The Winglord scoffed, and proceeded to tell him anyway. “Under the training of Pyra Magna, she’s become a notable warrior. An unparalleled skill in the air, and the epitome of culture in the drawing rooms. And that’s not even mentioning her many past lovers, who speak of her with great fondness.”

Starscream examined his claws. “Lucky me.”

“She had her pick of suitors, is what I’m trying to get across to you, Starscream. I hope you’ll appreciate what I had to go through to get her to agree to trine you.”

“Thanks, Sire. That’s reassuring,” muttered Starscream.

The Winglord slapped his armrests eagerly. “Finally. You’ll have at least one strong trinemate with virility and charisma. Perhaps, following her example, we'll begin to see some proper red-blooded characters in Vos’ noble set. This court’s truly been lacking panache as of late.”

Starscream grumbled. “Sire, you’re the one who decides who’s allowed to attend court. And if you wanted me to have a strong trine to begin with, I would’ve caught them myself during one of the Flights.”

The Winglord raised a brow ridge. “Would you have, Starscream? I recall you saying there was no one in Vos who could match you. You wouldn’t let anyone catch you. I had to intervene.”

“You intervened because we needed money. Besides, would you think it admirable to let myself be caught by subpar suitors? No one matched me, and that includes my current trine."

"You think your trine-to-be is subpar? Starscream, I searched far and wide for the best I could give you. They have great wealth, status, and are highly regarded."

"And neither of them can outfly me," muttered Starscream. "Considering skill in flight is the cornerstone of our trining practices, I'd say yes, they are subpar choices."

The Winglord sighed, seemingly unwilling to argue further. “Speaking of the best, how was last night? You seem calmer, compared to yesterday.”

Vivid memories of his coupling with Megatron flashed through Starscream’s processor, as he was taken off guard by the question. “Successful,” he said, attempting to settle on a neutral answer. 

“I’ll say,” said the Winglord, tugging the edge of his wing. “You’ve been fluttering since you sat down.”

Starscream held his wings steady, willing away the burning in his cheeks. 

“See? It was easier than you thought.” The Winglord patted him on the shoulder. “Nothing like a vigorous coupling to clear the mind.” 

“Sire,” Starscream hissed, mortified. “He wasn’t–”

“Oh look,” said the Winglord, over his complaint. “She’s here.”

Slipstream and her entourage swept into the hall, the picture of style and refinement. 

As Starscream walked up alongside Airbright to greet her, he couldn’t help but notice she cut a striking contrast to the uncharismatic rust stain beside him. Despite Airbright’s gold-encrusted, bejeweled plating and ostentatious detailing, he had little presence. Slipstream, by contrast, had the younger courtiers practically swooning, elbowing each other aside for a better look. Tittering, wings fluttering, as they admired her tall stature, proud stride, and fashionable blue-violet plating polished to a silky, reflective veneer. 

She greeted Starscream with a smirk and a graceful, insincere bow that helpfully reminded him why he couldn’t stand her.

Historically, they’d tolerated each other well enough, and trining her would likely be an exercise in tolerance as well. As long as she wasn’t underfoot, in his business, that was. In return, he’d leave her to her own agendas. Slipstream’s judgmental sneer told him she was thinking the same.

Once the requisite greetings had concluded, she looped her arm with Starscream’s, pulling him a short distance from the crowd. “What’s on the schedule after this, Your Highness?” she asked boredly.

“We’re supposed to be out getting seen together. A promenade in the gardens.”

Slipstream smirked. “With that old mech who sniffs your wings?”

“Emirate Airbright,” said Starscream, smiling through a clenched jaw, “will be joining us. And may I remind you, when we’re trined, his affections will be your burden to bear too.”

“Oh. No,” she remarked drolly. “I don’t think so. I’m sure you will be plenty to whet his appetite.”

Starscream bit his glossa around an insult, as at that moment, Airbright conveniently strolled up.

The floating crystal gardens bordering the palace was a popular location for courtiers to mill around, showing off their finery and engaging in gossip.

As Starscream walked with his trinemates-to-be, a long silence stretched between the three of them that he wasn’t particularly anxious to fill. Slipstream’s field had an inquisitive quality, Airbright was clearly agitated, and Starscream could guess only too well what they were dying to pester him about.

“Not that our upcoming trining isn’t incredibly exciting,” began Slipstream, breaking the silence the moment they were out of earshot of other courtiers. “But Starscream, I’ve been meaning to ask about your situation with that Tarnish servant…”

“Oh, and that mech is Tarnish too,” grumbled Airbright, jabbing his walking stick into the ground. “That figures. Just what this court needed– a barbarian.”

“I was recently told of the Winglord’s decree to assign a royal mate to his creations. What a night you must have had,” said Slipstream, with an almost sadistic undertone.

“Yes, do tell. Just how awful was it?” asked Airbright, more angrily.

Starscream’s fingers curled into fists. He refused to give them any gossip fodder. Lies to be told at his and Megatron’s expense. “Exactly as you’d expect,” he said neutrally. 

They both gasped in disgust. “Giving yourself to that… creature,” said Airbright, shuddering. “I can’t imagine the humiliation.”

In fact, their imaginations were doing Starscream’s job for him. He didn’t even have to act revolted about being sparked by a servant, if they continued making wild assumptions about how he felt. The best thing to do would be to keep quiet. This kind of reaction was to be expected. 

But everything about it left a bad taste in Starscream’s mouth. 

“When I bonded with you, I hadn’t thought I would be expected to share my mate with a servant,” said Airbright. 

“A reasonable expectation, Emirate,” drawled Slipstream. “Not to mention, Vos and Tarn have terrible relations. This choice of stud sets a strange precedent, don’t you think?”

“Indeed! The Winglord should have just… ignored what he heard about this mech,” huffed Airbright, lowering his voice as they passed a pair of courtiers. “Or sent him away! Anyway, the Winglord can’t truly think that sort can be accepted in polite society. I won’t have it.”

“Of course,” Slipstream said, nodding along with Airbright’s treasonous suggestions. 

“It’s one thing to be sentimental for the old ways,” Airbright continued, “and for wanting a strong mate for his creations, but we have many other warriors here who hold up to far more meticulous standards of judgment. This is preposterous!”

“Your Highness,” said Slipstream, brushing Starscream’s wing with her own. “You’ve been distant and quiet today. That’s so unlike you. Has that awful mech destroyed your spirit?”

Starscream stopped walking. His trine trudged a few more paces, before realizing he wasn’t following. 

“If I’m being honest,” said Starscream. “I was changed, last night.”

They turned to him, hanging off his words, now that he was giving them something to work with.

“What do you mean?” asked Airbright.

“Megatron is indeed powerful. More than I could have ever anticipated,” said Starscream, leaning into their nosy, peering faces. “As a matter of fact, he made me come six times last night.”

Slipstream’s mouth fell open. Airbright seemed to choke on his own glossa. 

Starscream gleefully barreled on. “His spike is just so big, I couldn’t help it. Being with him was… indescribable.”

Slipstream wore a tight-lipped expression, like she couldn’t decide if she wanted to laugh or purge.

Obviously feeling more cuckolded than she was, Airbright angrily clacked his walking stick against the ground and scoffed, “I hope the Winglord knows what he’s doing. He could not have chosen a worse mate for you.”

“No,” murmured Starscream wryly. “He could not have.

–

After spending much of the afternoon engaged in various activities, Starscream and his trine-to-be returned to the palace to be detailed for the evening meal. When they went down, the Winglord was standing outside the dining hall with Thundercracker at his side, along with a few other courtiers. Chatter from the lesser nobles already seated at the table floated out to the hall. 

“I see you’ve outdone yourself again, Winglord,” remarked Slipstream politely, glancing around the doorframe at the finely adorned nobles and decor. “This is truly a party.”

“Naturally. I wouldn’t settle for any less when welcoming such an honored guest.” The Winglord turned towards the others accompanying him. “In any case, may I introduce the Earl of Tetrahex…” 

As the Winglord made introductions, Starscream’s attention fell on Thundercracker. His brother was shuffling awkwardly at the Winglord’s side, looking like he’d rather be anywhere else. After Thundercracker’s nonsense the previous night, the Winglord had probably ordered him to sequester himself away, out of the court’s judgmental eye for as long as was socially acceptable. 

“...and my middle creation. It’s been some time, so you may not remember him,” said the Winglord, nudging Thundercracker towards Slipstream, whom his brother regarded with a wary expression.

“Thundercracker. Of course I remember you,” she said, looking him over. “You’ve gotten so handsome.”

Thundercracker turned his gaze to the floor. “Thanks.”

Slipstream’s painted mouth curled in a sharp, appreciative smile. “Modest as ever.” 

“And responsible,” said the Winglord. “He’s been busy organizing this season’s trining flight. I’m sure the result will be magnificent.” 

“Oh?” said Slipstream. Thundercracker’s plating drew in as she clasped her fingers around his forearm. “Charming and creative. You’ll have to tell me more.”

“Yeah,” said Thundercracker tersely. “Sure.”

The Winglord motioned Thundercracker back to his side, rescuing him from her perversions. Good to know she would be taking their vows of conjugal loyalty exactly as seriously as Starscream was. 

Starscream wasn’t sure what Slipstream saw in Thundercracker, aside from an easy target to intimidate. She did seem the type to prey on the weak for fun. Hopefully Starscream wouldn't be subjected to seeing any more of her predation of his brother tonight. It would put him off his dinner. 

“And as for my youngest…” The Winglord glanced around. “He is… hm…”

Now that he mentioned it, Starscream noticed a distinct, mysterious absence of Skywarp. Playing hooky was one of Skywarp’s favorite pastimes, so the fact that he’d neglected to show up wasn’t unusual. It was, however, rude. There was a tightness to the Winglord’s smile as he looked to Thundercracker like he’d provide an explanation. Apparently he’d stuck him with chaperone duty again. 

Thundercracker tilted his chin up and petulantly avoided his searching glare. Before the silence could become uncomfortable, the Winglord turned from Thundercracker and smiled indulgently at Slipstream. “I’ll introduce you to Skywarp later. A real free spirit, that one.” He gestured into the dining hall. “Shall we?” 

As they followed him into the room, Starscream’s optics met Thundercracker’s, and his brother gave him a pointed eye roll. They took their seats on either side of the Winglord, whose presence announced the start of the meal. Aside, when the meal was served and others at the table were distracted in their own conversations, the Winglord laid into Thundercracker. “Where is Skywarp?” Starscream heard him whisper harshly. “You were supposed to be keeping an eye on him while planning the flights together.”

Thundercracker hesitated, no doubt a reflex to keep quiet rather than reveal anything to implicate Skywarp’s misbehavior. But that was before Skywarp had ruined his life. The moment passed and he delicately picked up his fork, spearing some candied energon. “He left me to do the preparations and went out to the city with his friends. The ones you don’t like.”

The Winglord frowned. “You’ll have to be more specific.”

“Those two from the air force you called ‘idiot gangbangers who don’t know their heads from their afts,’” said Thundercracker flatly. 

The Winglord’s optics lit up with recognition. “Ah, Captain Astrotrain and Lieutenant Blitzwing! Why didn’t you say that in the first place? They have their faults, but they come from… decent lineages," he said tightly. 

"No they don't," said Starscream.

"At the least, they’re strong, decorated soldiers. He could be consorting with worse.”

“Yeah, well." said Thundercracker. "They went to the red light district together.”

“Hmm.” The Winglord worked his mouth. “W-well, with his first Flight coming up, he has a lot to think about. And he’s been practicing extensively, I’m sure."

"He hasn't," said Thundercracker.

"It’s fine to let off some steam, sometimes,” said the Winglord, almost accusingly.

Thundercracker and Starscream exchanged a narrow glance. The Winglord would throw an absolute fit if either of them flew off to an improper area of the city with some questionable individuals while they were un-trined. Without a chaperone in sight.

Thundercracker stabbed his energon more forcefully. “Well. Just thought you might want to know. That he’s doing that instead of working.”

The Winglord waved him off. “You have a better head for organization, anyway. And he has a right to have fun.”

Starscream cackled derisively. “Skywarp does nothing but have fun. The trining flights are the biggest event of the season and instead of preparing, he’s fucking around. You never punish him, and on top of that, you spoil him constantly.”

The Winglord looked appalled at the suggestion. “I’ve punished him.”

“Barely,” mumbled Thundercracker.

“Before I was conjunxed against my will,” said Starscream, indignation surging forth, “you insisted I have a herd of minders around me at all times to protect my reputation. You won’t even let me leave the palace grounds now without a guarded transport. Funny how your standards only apply to us.”

“They apply to you because you’re the heir, and you need a firm hand to temper that dreadful attitude,” said the Winglord. “Thundercracker can generally be relied upon to act in the proper way. Skywarp cannot be strong-armed into obedience. Trust me, I’ve tried.”

“So you let him run wild with strange mechs because you don’t care to discipline him.”  

“I’m saying it’s best to let him have his fun. He’s young. He’ll settle down when the time comes.”

“I’m young,” spat Starscream, his voice rising. “I never got that lenience. Then or now. Even to choose my trine, I never–”

“That’s enough,” hissed the Winglord, as Starscream’s outburst drew inquisitive looks from the guests around them. “Not another word about this.”

Hatefully, Starscream relented, surprised at how riled he’d become. He swallowed his anger and the rest of the meal passed without event. But the scant enjoyment he derived from the evening was tainted by the hollow, seething emotion that had opened in his spark.

Chapter Text

Following dinner, Starscream retired to his room, thoroughly irritated.

Pretending to be pleased with his new trinemate had drained him of his already thin patience, and he wanted nothing but to sulk. Sulk, and self-service until Megatron visited him for the second round of their nightly mating. 

Megatron’s attention the previous night had kept him satisfied most of the cycle. After that blissful high of a mostly-full forge had worn off, though, Starscream had grown more agitated. Once the transfluid level in his forge hit 0%, conveniently in the middle of dinner, he’d become ravenous, and had to excuse himself.

Starscream threw himself down onto his berth and opened his panel, gasping in relief as he ran his fingers through his valve. These damned, greedy sparklings. Seeker gestation was fast, but Starscream suspected it might be even faster with a sire like Megatron, and his huge, rich loads. These sparklings were being spoiled. 

Before the Winglord’s decree, Starscream had been able to train himself to subsist off one round of ‘facing with Megatron a cycle, if that, but his lust had gotten exponentially stronger as gestation progressed. And after depriving his frame of transfluid for so long and then finally getting plenty, the carrier coding he’d been suppressing came roaring forth with a vengeance. 

He was not waiting for Megatron to finish with Skywarp. He’d eaten enough slag for one day and was entitled to being annoying. It might be Skywarp’s mating time, but Megatron was his guard. And if he called Megatron, citing an “emergency”, surely that would override any right Skywarp had to him. 

When Megatron hurried into the room, his concern dissolved into pleasure once he saw Starscream playing with himself. 

“This is quite the emergency, Your Highness,” he said, folding his arms over his chest.

“I hope I wasn’t intruding on anything, asking you to come,” Starscream simpered. 

“No, actually. He wasn't in his room.”

“What?” squawked Starscream, pausing his self-servicing in disbelief. “Skywarp didn’t show up? Not for the very thing he intruded in my affairs like a goon to have?” He felt his energon boiling in his lines. “Get over here at once.”

“So. Is this how you’ll greet me from now on?” asked Megatron, wandering over. “Whining for spike while masturbating?”

“And is this how you’ll greet me? Fondling me like a cretin? asked Starscream petulantly, leaning into Megatron’s hands as they framed his waist.

“You’ve gotten bigger since last night,” said Megatron, caressing his middle. 

Whether or not he actually had, Starscream couldn’t tell. He hoped not, though Megatron was probably just saying it to tease him. “Yes, perhaps because some idiot came inside me five times in a row. You definitely can’t do that again tonight.”

“But it put you in such a good mood.”

“Yes. Well.” Starscream rubbed a hand over his optics. “You can’t. My life is complicated enough without the concern of having your sparklings suspiciously early.”

“What’s troubling you?”

“I’ve had a ridiculous day.”

“I heard about the reception of your new conjunx. As Royal Sire, I thought I’d have been invited to the dinner, at least.”

Starscream lifted his hand off his eyes to sneer down at him. “Why on Cybertron would you care?” 

Megatron smiled wryly. “I think, for once, it would be interesting to participate in an activity together where I don’t see you with your legs spread.”

“I doubt the Winglord would let you dine with us,” grumbled Starscream. “With your manners, it would be like letting the family pet dine.”

“Poor, cranky thing.” Megatron kissed down his belly, to his valve. 

Starscream grasped his chin and lifted it. “Enough. I want you.” He parted his knees.

“I think this is your favorite position, Starscream– having me on top.”

“Fool. I don’t have any preference."

“I think you like to feel my weight.” Megatron adjusted himself so he was laying over him, pressing him down. “You like getting mated in such a way that you can't move until I’m done.”

Truth be told, Starscream did feel a bit feral every time they did it with him on his back with his wings pinned down. Blocking their movement should be uncomfortable, even anxiety-inducing. Yet he felt fully dominated. Claimed. With his helm in the clouds, floaty with pleasure at the knowledge that Megatron would keep him safe and satisfy him thoroughly. 

“Already stoked and in position,” said Megatron, kissing fervently along his neck, rubbing his spike into his slit. “Ready to be mounted anytime. You’re perfect.” 

Starscream growled, sinking his claws into Megatron’s back as he was penetrated harshly. Without a moments’ pause, Megatron began rutting into him single-mindedly. Like he was his one and only mate. Like mating him was the most important thing he could be doing. 

Starscream could so easily lie there and let him have his way, knowing full well that if he let Megatron go wild, it would bring him off beautifully, over and over. 

Everything else but overloading became an afterthought. By the time he remembered that Megatron shouldn't finish inside, seed was already pouring into his forge.

Just one more night, he could allow it. Then, tomorrow for sure, he’d be stronger.

Once they had exhausted their lust, they found themselves with extra time they’d stolen from Skywarp, in which they spent cuddling. This was a marvelous indulgence that Starscream was hoping would be a permanent fixture during their future couplings. Being gathered in Megatron’s arms and kissed softly all over was truly the height of decadence. 

Still feeling inadequately pampered, Starscream curled his arms around Megatron’s shoulders and crooned to him, “Tell me a story. I want to hear about Kaon.”

There was a low vibration in Megatron’s vocalizer that might have been a chuckle. “Stories of my sordid past would not be suitable for someone of your refined disposition,” he said. When Starscream glared at him, he relented with a soft smile. “You wish to hear about my conquests in the Pits?”

“I want to hear more about Kaon itself. Its customs and whatnot. The datapads I’ve read describe it as a savage wasteland filled with outlaws and criminals. Is it really so exciting?” 

Megatron looked intrigued. “You’ve been reading about Kaon?”

“So what if I want to learn more about other places?”

“Places that are important to me.”

“Are they?” asked Starscream curtly. “I wouldn't know. You’re not exactly an open book.”

A large hand snaked around Starscream’s waist. “What did you intend to discover from your research? All about how to seduce manual frames, I bet.”

“Shut up. I was just reading about unremarkable things like trade and geography in the region.”

Megatron smiled indulgently. “Sure.”

“You’ve experienced all the finest of Vos! I deserve to know about your country of origin."

“I was not sparked in Kaon,” said Megatron, leaning in to kiss the top of his helm. “I’m Tarnish. But the cultures are similar.”

Starscream sat straight up, narrowly missing hitting Megatron in the chin. “That’s right! Airbright and some of the nobles aren’t happy about your new role in court. And you being Tarnish doesn’t help at all, considering Vos’ troubled history with Tarn. You ought to prepare for some assassination attempts.”

Megatron merely raised a brow ridge. His dismissive attitude calmed Starscream, who slumped back down. “Do I even need to ask if you’re prepared? You survived my assassination attempts, and the others in this court are incompetent idiots, compared to me.” 

“That’s reassuring,” said Megatron. “Your attempts were pathetic.”

Starscream scowled. “Don’t make fun of me. I could still find a way to kill you.”

“Oh, but then I wouldn’t be able to slay your enemies for you. Though I get the impression you prefer to take care of that yourself.”

“Mhm.” Starscream tipped his nose up. 

Megatron took Starscream’s hand in his, thumbing over the knuckle joints. “We do have a custom, however, in Tarn. It’s a very romantic custom that I’m sure is relevant to your newfound interest in my culture.”

“What?” grumbled Starscream, face heating as Megatron nuzzled into his neck. 

“Where I come from, conquering a lover’s enemies publicly is a powerful gesture of affection.”

“I suppose that is relevant to my interests,” said Starscream. “Though you haven’t killed anyone for me. You’ve been rather useless as a bodyguard in that respect.” 

“I don’t like to kill anyone needlessly,” said Megatron.

Starscream pouted. “Not even as a gesture of affection?”

“If we were in Tarn, then perhaps.”

Starscream lay his helm on his shoulder. “Pity we’re not in Tarn.”

Megatron stroked his wings. “Vos must have some romantic traditions too?”

Starscream shrugged. “Vosians care less about fights and more about courting flights and expensive gifts. But seeing as you’re flightless with no money, I suppose we can do things your way.”

A satisfied rumble emanated from Megatron’s chest. “Do you finally plan to court me?” 

“Finally?” echoed Starscream, immediately feeling rather embarrassed. “How forward to expect that of me!”

Forward, not to mention impossible, with Starscream soon to be trined. But he shivered with delight at the proposition. Just entertaining it would do no harm. “You’re an acceptable sire. But you haven't proven your worth as a suitor.” 

“And how might I prove my worth?” asked Megatron, bringing Starscream’s fingers to his mouth and kissing them. 

“Kill Skywarp for me,” said Starscream, only half-joking.

Megatron snorted with laughter. “The Winglord wouldn’t like that very much. And I doubt it would have your intended impact on the public, as we are not in Tarn.”

“Yes. As we are not in Tarn,” grumbled Starscream. “Though I’m sure I can arrange a duel between you both. Or a tournament. Or something.”

“A tournament? In my honor? I’m touched you’d go to that length."

Starscream waved him off. “I’m sure you were used to the spotlight in Kaon, but I doubt you’re familiar with Vosian levels of extravagance. Needless to say, you’d be treated better here than at whatever backwater arena hosted you in your gladiator days.” 

“The world-famous Kaon memorial coliseum,” Megatron reminded him, chuckling. 

“Yes. Very quaint.”

“Then you’re going all out for me? I hope to be impressed.”

“You will be staggered,” said Starscream, leaning up to peck Megatron on the chin. “Yes, I think a gladiatorial tournament will be a grand conclusion to the Winglord’s ball at the end of this week." He smoothed the sheets beneath him. "And this event will be practical as well– you may challenge any other nobles who doubt your place in court, under the pretense that your fights are just for entertainment. But in practice, you can assert your dominance over them."

"Clever."

"Yes. Publicly show your suitability as my royal sire when you crush them into the ground. As gauche as it is nowadays to admit it, there are many Vosians who love a display of power and carnage. Even if you can’t fly, I’m sure they’ll accept you if you put on a good show.”

“You’re a bloodthirsty little prince,” said Megatron, thumbing Starscream’s chin. 

“And you’re a brute who has happened to charm me. I want to see you in your element. See if you live up to your fearsome reputation.”

Megatron kissed him. “I look forward to the challenge.”

Chapter Text

As Thundercracker had feared, his presence at dinner only prompted gossip. Once he’d stayed long enough to be polite, the Winglord ordered him back to his chambers.

Lightning debacle aside, he cited that it was not proper for him to be wandering around in heat and unmated. Thundercracker wasn’t about to argue. Primus forbid he become violently territorial towards anyone who looked sideways at Megatron. Predicting this outcome, the Winglord hadn’t invited Megatron to dine with them. A faux pas, but a necessary one to save the last shards of his creation’s dignity. Thundercracker was sent to his room, accompanied by a pair of guards and a glare from the Winglord that said you’d better not disappoint me tonight, too.

Thundercracker was already feeling the ache of his unsatisfied heat, but not to the point he was eager to be attacked by a horny grounder. Not nearly.

His string of bad luck had not run out, though. While they were passing through a corridor, Slipstream made an unexpected appearance. 

Thundercracker’s spark sank. He was not in the mood to see her, but had to submit to a conversation as she blocked their path forward. Her sleek, violet wings were fanned out behind her, in a gesture Thundercracker found more intimidating than welcoming. 

“It’s been impossible to get you alone tonight,” she said. The dim lighting in the hall half-illuminated her cool smile, as she eyed Thundercracker’s accompaniment. “The Winglord’s keeping you well-guarded. I don’t blame him. Good on him, looking out for you.”

“Right. I probably shouldn’t–”

“I’ll take him the rest of the way.” She gestured at the guards to fall out, stepping up alongside him. “You’re on this next level, right?”

“Um. Yes.” On a floor she was forbidden access, but she’d be allowed soon, he supposed, when she trined Starscream.

The guards lingered, unwilling to disobey the Winglord's orders to accompany him, until Slipstream flicked a hand at them again. "Go on," she said. "I promise, I'll take full responsibility if anything happens to him."

Thundercracker's spark sank lower as the pair left them alone, heading the opposite way down the hall. "Slipstream," he said nervously. "I don't think-"

“Relax. I just want to talk,” she said. Thundercracker flinched as she slid a hand around his arm, drawing him closer. “You're so tense.” 

Thundercracker let himself be pulled in as they walked.

“Forgive my bluntness, but I’m eager to know more about your attack on that grounder," she said. 

Thundercracker’s wings jerked in affront. “That’s a strong accusation–" 

“Relax. I’m on your side.”

“Have you ever been?” mumbled Thundercracker. 

“What?”

Thundercracker pressed his mouth shut, wondering if she’d forgotten. During the Camien Embassy’s trips to Vos when they were sparklings, she used to terrorize him. Pull on his wings until he cried; push him off high things before he could fly well. Well, she and Starscream did. His middle years were less fraught, if only because she mostly ignored him, save for the occasional taunt. Only recently did she seem to take an interest in him again. An interest that, Thundercracker grimly suspected, was purely carnal. Nothing but smiles and charm for him, now that he’d gotten hot.

“We haven't really spoken since we were sparklings,” he settled on, diplomatically.

“Then let me cut to the chase: I have something for you. To keep that mech away from you tonight.”

“It’s not really your place to interfere in that.”

Slipstream narrowed her eyes, but continued to smile. “You’re not even a little curious?”

Thundercracker folded his arms. “I appreciate the intention, but I’ll be doing my duty.”

“You’ve changed your mind about him that easily?”

“What do you mean?” 

Slipstream looked shocked. Her silence stretched on so long that Thundercracker became uncomfortable. “Don’t tell me such a powerful act of rebellion last night was accidental?” The question was thick with condescension, and Thundercracker’s cheeks burned with heat under her judgement. He absolutely couldn't say “yes” and imply that the only reason he attacked Megatron was because he got scared and lost control. Rebellion, though?

“N-no,” he lied. “Of course not.”

“Right. Have some conviction,” she said, but it was more like an order, and Thundercracker barely managed to restrain himself from replying with “yes ma’am”.

“Not saying I would stand in the way of the Winglord’s goals,” continued Slipstream, “but between you and l, I think his decision to have you and your brothers mate with this grounder is questionable. As do many others. It’s a shame the rest of your family doesn’t see things the way you do. You’ve always been the most levelheaded of them all.”

“I see,” said Thundercracker, failing to sound as disinterested as he intended. Even coming from Slipstream, he was pleased his woes were being vindicated by someone.

“Thundercracker, I’m concerned for you,” she said, rubbing his shoulder. “You may have the confidence to attack that mech now, but even your strong conviction will eventually be no match for your heat coding. But with this…” She unsubspaced a green vial half the length of her thumb and showed it to him. “Just a few drops a cycle, and you’ll stay clear-headed.”

Thundercracker’s mouth parted in shock. “A suppressant?”

“I have to warn you, it won't kick in by tonight, but it should help tomorrow.”

“Suppressants are illegal in Vos," he said. Mostly because they were difficult to produce safely. Who knew what was in that bottle?

Slipstream gave him a coy smirk. “Don’t accept this injustice.” She dangled the vial temptingly in front of his nose. “Use this, and choose a proper sire.”

Thundercracker hesitated to take it from her. “Why are you helping me with all this?”

“Oh, ‘all this’... it’s nothing,” she said. “It’s really a trifle. Just a gift and some friendly advice. That said, I would like to spend some time together. When Starscream and I are trined, our families will become a lot closer. I can teach you so much. Let’s become friends, hm?”

“I mean…” Thundercracker tensed as her slender fingers crept inward from his shoulder to curl around the nape of his neck. 

“There’s no pressure,” she said softly. “Just take this dose and see how you feel. If you want more, meet me tomorrow in the gardens. Alone, of course.”

“Sure," said Thundercracker neutrally. They'd arrived in front of his apartment, and he was eager to cut her off. Before he could tap his key to the lock, she stepped closer, smoothly backing him against the door. 

"Slipstream, what-?" His spark lurched as he was boxed in.

"You don't seem particularly grateful." Her mouth quirked upward. "You don't like me, do you?” 

Thundercracker tried to politely deny it, stammering as her mouth loomed inches from his own. “I-I don’t know if that’s–”

"Alright, I get it." She backed off a little and cocked her hip. “Why don't I sweeten the deal? I didn’t want to have to bring this up, but I know you haven't had any proposals this season. I can help with that too." 

Thundercracker wanted to protest, but couldn't think of a single way to deny the truth without sounding defensive. 

“Please. Let me help,” she said. “It’d be terribly sad if you had no one to chase you during this season’s Flights.”

Thundercracker weighed the opportunity she was extending. Mechs would kill for introductions to suitors from Slipstream, popular and influential as she was. With his reputation in such dire straits, he’d be an idiot to reject her help, and she knew it. 

“If you want,” he said meekly, hyper conscious of how close she was to him. He could feel the warmth of her armor against his.

“Don’t you want it?" She patted his chest. "All said, a mech with conviction and confidence is an attractive one. Take this suppressant, continue to fend off the grounder, and make a statement to the court that you’ve refused him. I guarantee suitors will gain interest in you. Then I'll make an introduction to anyone you'd like.”

Thundercracker took the vial, feeling compelled to obey her. He really wondered if he had the charisma or confidence to pull off being the rebel. 

Slipstream’s smile was layered with triumph, and some other sentiment Thundercracker couldn't place. “Good choice,” she said softly. Her gaze had slipped to his mouth, and was lingering there. 

Thundercracker carefully avoided her eyes. "So. Um. I guess that's-"

"You're shaking," she said. He could hear the satisfaction in her voice. "Don't be nervous." 

"I think we should leave it here," he replied in a burst, too wound up to take any more of her intimidation tactics. He tried to step forward to go around her, but her hand on his chest slid down to his waist, right over his abdomen, and pushed him back. The pressure over his ripening forge was unexpectedly pleasurable, and he unconsciously bucked into the touch.

"Oh," he gasped, unable to stifle himself. He grabbed her arms for support, as throbbing heat pulsed through his array. 

"Oh," she said, mirroring the noise with amusement. "How forward."

"I didn't-"

"Now, I know this is a sensitive time for you." Thundercracker gasped again as she pressed more firmly, her breath ghosting against his neck. "So if you need anything, come find me. I'll take good care of you."

"I--"

The sound of approaching footsteps echoed down the corridor, drawing Slipstream's attention away from him. Not a moment too soon, a pair of his relatives entered into the corridor. Engrossed in their conversation, they didn't see Slipstream back away from him, into the adjacent hallway. She winked at him, turning on her heel and fading out of sight.

The duo passed Thundercracker a few moments later, bowing their helms politely in greeting. Thundercracker quickly closed his fist around the vial, nodding back. Once they were gone, he sagged against the door and opened his palm. The contents of the bottle sloshed gently. A gift. Right. 

He gingerly placed a hand over his tingling abdomen. One thing was absolutely certain: he would not, under any circumstances, be sleeping with Slipstream. Obviously, she was trying to seduce him, and if she discovered he was untouched, it would be all over for him. He couldn't understand, though- why him?  There were lots of mechs more attractive and interesting than he was. 

He sighed in frustration. She was so pushy. Did anyone around here not cheat?

Despite his disapproval, Slipstream had made an interesting proposition. He’d be lying if he said he hadn’t considered refusing outright to mate with Megatron. Really, what power did the Winglord have to make him do so? This wasn’t exactly something he wanted to find out, but maybe he could put together a case against it. Because the only thing more offensive than relying on Slipstream’s conditional kindness was obediently laying himself at a gladiator’s pedes to be ravished. 

Tenuously, he unscrewed the vial and tipped the contents down his intake. 

As soon as the fluid settled in his tanks, he entered his chambers. Truth be told, he was grateful for the medicine. He’d been terrified that his heat would be out of his control soon, and he’d throw himself at Megatron whether he wanted to or not. As the cycle wore on, he’d become increasingly aware of his array. Even the sensation of air over his wings was becoming stimulating in a way it had never been before. All his erogenous zones were sensitive, but the worst of it culminated in a warm, craving itch in his belly. 

As the suppressant had yet to hit his systems, the craving grew worse the closer he came to his berth room. Perhaps Megatron’s scent was still lingering there from last night. 

Upon entering, Thundercracker took a deep, slow in-vent, which did nothing to settle him. He needed fresh air. The scent in the room was stifling. 

He shoved open the double doors to his balcony, and couldn’t suppress a cry of shock when he saw Megatron standing at the edge. He must have been given a key to his apartment– courtesy of the Winglord. It was not reassuring that Megatron could now show up in his bedroom whenever he liked. 

At the noise, Megatron turned, giving him an apologetic look. “Sorry. I’m a little early.” He hesitated, brow furrowed, as if waiting for Thundercracker to attack him. When Thundercracker did not, his expression relaxed slightly. At least he didn’t look like a raving beast anymore. Being tempted by only one seeker's pheromones, rather than three, was probably more manageable. Thundercracker  kept his distance, coding still reeling from Megatron's scent.

“I’m sorry,” said Megatron, again. “For the way I approached you last night. I didn’t mean to impose myself upon you like that. My mind was… elsewhere.”

In your stupid spike, thought Thundercracker uncharitably. “What’s past is past,” he said instead. He was not going to apologize for his own attack on Megatron. It was an appropriate reaction.

Megatron’s optics swept over him. Thundercracker tensed, waiting for him to wrap up his show of remorse and demand a ‘facing. 

“I have some concerns about what we’re being asked to do,” said Megatron.

“Yes,” said Thundercracker tersely, glaring at him. “I, too, have some issues with the propriety of this match.”

Unexpectedly, Megatron let out a snort of laughter. “Propriety? I’m referring to your misgivings about me. If you do not wish to interface, I’ll respect your choice. You seem to require a gentle touch, which I’m not confident I will provide to your liking.”

Thundercracker’s mouth fell open. After all his worrying and bracing himself up to sleep together, Megatron didn’t want to?  “Yes, I can tell gentility is hardly your area of expertise,” he retorted.

“Nor is it yours,” said Megatron, shooting him a sideways grimace. “Regardless, I won't impose my presence on you tonight. Or any other night, if you do not wish for it.”

“But,” began Thundercracker, grasping for his bearings. “Look, hold on. I know you’re unrefined so you probably don’t know this, but in arrangements between nobility, consent is given automatically when the union is announced. Our feelings about the… physical part don’t matter. Interface is seen as more of a duty we have to fulfill.” 

He had no idea why he was arguing. Megatron had rejected him, right? This was a good thing. Right? Could Megatron reject him? Or did Thundercracker have to initiate-

“Your Highness, I cannot, in good faith, sleep with you even under those circumstances. Interface should be desired by all parties,” said Megatron. “It’s a cruel practice to arrange intimate partnerships between mechs who don’t desire each other.”

“So... you’re refusing me simply because I don’t want you?”

“Why is that so baffling to you?” 

A prickle of shame wormed its way down Thundercracker’s spinal strut. They both knew why. Thundercracker and many others at court had made clear what they thought of Megatron. Being a grounder from such a low class generally precluded savagery in every aspect of his existence. An inclination towards violence and assault. Not this… reasonable, calm and empathetic negotiation of boundaries.

Thundercracker drifted to the edge of the balcony to stand beside him. Megatron was still frowning down at him, so he gave a half-hearted answer. “There’s just something wrong about mating with a commoner…”

“Perhaps. Though your rich and titled suitors clearly weren't meeting the mark either, as you’ve rejected all of them,” Megatron pointed out dryly.

“This is a different circumstance.”

“You aren’t concerned about status. You’re seeking compatibility.” 

“And you're the least compatible with me,” said Thundercracker petulantly, glaring out over the spires in the distance. “The doctor said so.”

“Only in the sense that mechanically, it will take more time for us to make a sparkling, initially,” said Megatron. “We have yet to discover how our frames feel together. It could be pleasing.”

"Hm."

“But I understand. You want to make love with someone who loves you back,” said Megatron. Their optics met, and Thundercracker’s cheeks stung with heat. He looked away quickly.

“Don’t tell me what I want,” he said, as if harshness would cancel out the way his spark had fluttered at Megatron’s words. He hadn't been expecting him to be this sincere. And charming. And somehow more concerned with his feelings than his own family.

“Am I correct in assuming you would like to interface with me at some point, though?” asked Megatron. “You seemed eager to debate me about its merits earlier.”

“I–” Thundercracker blushed harder. “I was just trying to understand your point of view.”

Megatron chuckled. “Were you, now?”

“I’ll have to think about it. Whether I want to go through with this.”

“In that case, I’ll bid you goodnight.” Megatron stepped closer, taking his hand to kiss. “You hold your spark very close, Your Highness. I won't attempt to sway it.” 

Something tremulous twisted in Thundercracker’s belly as Megatron locked his fierce, gleaming optics on him, brushing his lips softly over his palm. 

“Your body, however…” added Megatron, with a lingering kiss to his fingertips and a mischievous smile. “...That may be a different case.”

“I–!” Thundercracker recoiled in embarrassment, jerking his hand away. In Megatron’s strong grip, it took more force than expected, causing him to step back.

Thundercracker’s left heel met empty air as he stepped right off the balcony. As an aerial, his flight suite immediately activated when he dropped off. Megatron, however, reacted like lightning, shooting a hand out and pulling him back onto the balcony before Thundercracker could even warm his thrusters.

Megatron held him tightly to his chest, gazing down at him with unnecessary concern. After a few long, breathless moments, Megatron seemed to realize how silly his reaction was, but it struck Thundercracker as so endearing, his spark whirled out of control. 

Being rescued, and swept into the arms of a strong mech thrilled his base coding. A violent pulse of arousal sparked through him as Megatron's large hands drifted further down his waist, where their frames were aligned. Megatron’s hot, hard pelvic armor rubbed his middle, and Thundercracker could only pray Megatron couldn’t feel the torrent of lust surging through his field. 

He finally managed to blurt out, “I can fly.”

Megatron gave him a playful smile. “Catching you was just a reflex. I’ll let you fall off next time, if you’d like.” 

Thundercracker extracted himself from his grasp, frantically trying to shut off all the mating subroutines bombarding him. He couldn’t stay here any longer.

Hot with anxiety and arousal, he fired his thrusters and took off, flying so gracelessly that he hoped no one important was looking at the sky. He flew until Megatron had receded into a speck in the distance and was obscured by clouds. Spying a familiar tower, he cut his engines, alighting on the landing pad. The theater would be empty at this time of night. He could recharge there, away from prying optics. And Megatron. He couldn’t be around Megatron in his current state. Not in his room, either, that was heavy with his scent.

The theater was dark when he entered, and he rushed into the highest tier of boxes. Yanking back the gilded curtains of the nearest one, he stumbled in and slumped face down onto a plush couch, groaning into the cushion. His valve, his forge, his wings, his spark… all were resonant with pleasure. In the short time it had taken him to fly here, he’d gotten wet enough that lubricant was snaking down his thighs.

He hated that his heat was obscuring his judgment. Being helplessly aroused by some mech– an unpleasant mech whom he had no connection to– felt like a betrayal of his true desires. And yet, he couldn’t say who or what it was he truly desired.

Without a doubt, they would be someone sensitive and careful. Which, he was sorry to say, was completely impossible for a mech like Megatron. He was sure of it. 

Chapter Text

Following a second unsuccessful night with Thundercracker, Megatron headed to the guard barracks for some recharge, and to train. He’d been given an apartment in the palace after his upgrade in status, but he preferred to spend as little time in it as possible. The opulent surroundings didn't suit him, and recharging in the barracks meant he was less susceptible to devious late-night murder attempts from the nobility. 

Once he’d recuperated some energy, he trekked out to the training grounds, which were empty this early in the morning. The equipment was far more advanced than he’d had in Kaon, and was encompassed within a massive stadium that was open to the sky. The palace proper loomed in the distance, creating a towering backdrop to his activities. 

As he went through his usual routine of battling Vos’ finest training dummies, his lower back struts protested. It seemed Starscream's insatiable appetite for 'facing did, surprisingly, have a downside. Especially if his preference was for Megatron to do all the work in berth. Between that and the ache throughout his protoform from Thundercracker electrocuting him, Megatron could tell mating these princes was going to be a handful. Especially once Thundercracker and Skywarp deigned to sleep with him as scheduled. 

According to the Winglord, a seeker carrier would ordinarily beset their sire for the entirety of their gestation, who received little rest between ‘facings. Attending to three carriers, the strain on the sire would be immense. The Winglord had wryly explained that creating short windows every cycle to couple with each prince was, among other things, to ensure Megatron’s stamina didn't give out.

Megatron had been offended by this initially, thinking it an underestimation of his prowess, but saw it now for the gesture of mercy that it was. Collapsing from overexertion under a trio of horny seekers was not the most dignified way to go. 

While Megatron was pondering this, the back of his neck prickled. The unmistakable sensation of energy tingled in the air behind him, and a split second later, there was a pop. A weight dropped onto his back, and arms wrapped around his neck, dragging him backward. 

Startled, Megatron threw his sword aside and grabbed the assailant’s arm, preparing to fling them across the training field. The only reason he didn't was because a soft mouth found his cheek in a kiss. Hands covered his optics before Megatron could look over his shoulder to identify the attacker. 

“Guess who?” Skywarp sang into his audial. He stank of engex.

Megatron’s battle suite quieted, dismissing the threat. “Don’t do that ever again,” he growled. Skywarp’s obvious delight at using his spark gift to catch mechs unaware was going to get him killed one of these days.

Oblivious to the fact that he’d nearly become a stain on the ground, Skywarp continued to nuzzle him. “I missed ya.”

“You certainly did. Where were you last night?”

“I was partyin’ and got held up.” Skywarp kissed his face again, longer and wetter. “Let’s do it.”

“I'm training,” said Megatron, shaking him off. 

“So? Take a break.”

“You’re awfully flippant about abiding by the rules of this arrangement you insisted on having.”

Skywarp waved him off. “I got distracted. I’m here now, right?” When he lifted his hand, Megatron noticed the plating was scratched and dented in places. His knuckles in particular were scuffed.

“Were you in a fight?” asked Megatron, noting various other scrapes decorating his normally pristine frame.

Skywarp shrugged. “I was at a bar with friends, and some slag-sucker and his creepy trinemate were talking trash. Saying how I wouldn’t last two kliks against them in the air.” 

“Bold to say that to a prince.”

“I know, right? That’s a challenge to my honor. Anyway, after we finished knocking each other around, they proposed to trine me and I accepted.” Skywarp scowled. “Let’s see ‘em keep up with me during the Flights.”

“They proposed, and–” Megatron shook his head at the rapid-fire explanation. “What if they win and you’re trined to some lowbrow mechs you fought in a bar?”

“I dunno. It doesn’t matter. Enough about them.” Skywarp cuddled up to him. “Can we do it now?”

Megatron sighed heavily. “No. We’ll resume tonight.” He stooped to pick up his sword from where he’d thrown it.

“Huh? Why?”

“I haven't had my daily training interrupted in over two million years. Since you apparently like to fight, either spar with me or stand out of the way.”

“I'm not fighting the Scourge of Kaon. I'll get destroyed,” said Skywarp, but his optics, predictably, lit up with interest. 

“I'll take it easy on you.”

“You’d better not.” Goaded, Skywarp began circling him, wings ticked up in a readiness to spring. 

“You might want to consider it. Because when you lose, I'm punishing you.”

“Punishing, huh? Isn’t losing kind of its own punishment?”

“Skywarp, you’re a brat,” said Megatron, putting the sword back in his subspace. “Partying and fighting all day and night. Shirking your responsibilities. You need discipline.” 

Skywarp burst out laughing, but Megatron held firm. The threat was for a practical purpose– he wouldn’t have made it otherwise. If Skywarp abandoned his mating duties whenever he pleased, Megatron had the impression he’d get blamed, as Skywarp seemed curiously immune to the Winglord’s admonishment. Threatening a prince came with some risk, but Megatron was certain he could intimidate Skywarp into shaping up. This seeker was far less haughty and delicate than his brothers, and would likely yield more readily to a display of raw strength and domination. 

Predictably, at Megatron’s stern tone, Skywarp’s enthusiasm flagged, but he tried to play it off. “Uh… what kind of punishment are we talking about?” 

“I think some rough treatment would do you good. Perhaps a spanking until you’ve adjusted your attitude.”

Skywarp smirked. “You’re a dirty old geezer. But whatever. Let’s do it. You win if you manage to pin me down.” 

The words were hardly out of his mouth before Megatron lunged at him. Skywarp evaded, with dizzying reaction time. Black plating flashed in the light of dawn as he weaved, dematerialized in a snap of purple light, then reappeared, alighting on the shoulders of one of the dummies. His crimson optics slanted with mirth as he settled into a crouch, claws sinking into the dummy’s seams. 

“You’re not catching me that easily,” said Skywarp.

Skywarp’s laid back personality had not marked him a challenge, but he was a seeker after all, and a creation of the Winglord to boot. Like all well-to-do Vosians, he’d been trained his whole life to fly with the best tutors in the nation. Aside from the warping, his combat skills were a mystery, though. As for what tricks he’d be hiding, Megatron could only imagine. 

“You said you fought in a bar. Where did you learn to fight?” asked Megatron. “It’s my understanding that agility is more prized in Vos than strength.”

“You’re sharp,” said Skywarp wryly. “I get special training from a couple friends in the army.”

“Show me,” said Megatron, motioning him forward. Eagerly, Skywarp came at him. 

A flying teleporter was a challenge to fight, and Skywarp knew it. Not only was he physically younger and faster than Megatron, but his processing power was likely much more advanced than a cold construct’s, allowing him to compute his teleportation abilities with incredible precision. This quickly became clear when Megatron had but a fraction of a second to react to his new position whenever he warped. An instant to position himself to strike, in which the air shimmered with a telltale dimensional shift, prior to Skywarp exploding back into reality and kicking the backs of his knees out with a giggle.

Like most jets of his class, though, Skywarp didn’t hit very hard. Absorbing blows until he came up with a tactical offense was not Megatron’s preferred strategy, but it would have to do for now. Skywarp’s attack patterns– if they could be called that– were chaotic anyway. He wasn’t striking anything vital, and appeared perfectly happy to just toy with him.

By now, it was obvious Skywarp had no strategy. Once he got sick of dancing around him, he’d probably try to call a draw. Charm his way out, as usual. Megatron had no intention of being that merciful.

“When will you start taking this seriously?” asked Megatron. 

Skywarp reappeared across from him, out of reach. “What do you mean? I’m kinda beating your aft. You haven’t hit me once.”

“You’re scared to get close.”

“Nah. You’ve gotta try harder to catch me.”

“Are you flirting with me?” taunted Megatron. “Teasing instead of getting into the thick of battle?”

“No way!”

“Then show some nerve.”

Skywarp’s cocky smile didn’t wane. “Mad because you’re slow, huh?”

He was also visibly moving slower now, his fans screaming and expelling hot air. Warping must take a lot of charge, and jets like him weren't built for endurance. Time to enact his strategy. Megatron wandered over to one of the broken dummies and yanked a length of cabling out. With it dangling from his fist, he nodded for Skywarp to come at him again. 

Skywarp’s warp drive cracked with power, and an instant later, he was right under Megatron’s nose, winding up for a punch.

The moment he reappeared, Megatron slung the cord at him. The opposite end was sucked into Skywarp’s turbine, which made an unpleasant grinding sound as it spun to a halt. 

Skywarp yelped in surprise, and Megatron used the distraction to his advantage. He looped the rest of the cord around one of Skywarp’s wing hinges in such a way that the entire wing was forced downward, stuck at a crooked angle compared to the other. Then he shoved Skywarp over and got on top of him.

Skywarp teleported. When he popped up again, halfway across the training arena, he was stumbling along as if overcharged. As Megatron had anticipated, with his wing pinned unnaturally, his balance had been thrown off. He also couldn’t transform and fly without getting the cable jammed further through his fuselage. Skywarp whimpered as he hurriedly tried to untangle himself before Megatron could catch up. His biolights flickered weakly, signaling his low energy level. Megatron doubted he would try warping again.

“That’s enough.” He grabbed Skywarp by an aileron, disorienting him enough that he tumbled to the ground. Megatron held his squirming catch facedown, trying to free his wing from the cable. “Lie still. Your energy must be at critical levels.”

Skywarp ignored him, trying to hit him in the face with his wings. This lasted up until Megatron had enough of his nonsense, dragged him over to a bench, and bent him face down over his lap. 

“You’re seriously gonna hit me? Gee, you're awfully violent,” drawled Skywarp as Megatron pinned his wrists behind his back.

“I don’t see how it’s much different from what we’ve been doing for the past few minutes.”

Skywarp wiggled his backside provocatively. “C’mon, forget the spanking. Let’s just frag.” 

“After.” Megatron brought his hand down sharply on his aft, not concerned about leaving dents and paint transfers on his rear. Those would be there anyway after they ‘faced. 

Skywarp jolted, howling in pain. “You hit really hard!” he wailed, struggling to move his hands lower in an attempt to shield his aft from the blows.

“It’s a punishment,” said Megatron, pausing to trace along the seam of Skywarp’s valve panel where lubricant was escaping. The foolish seeker would be pent up and hungry for transluid after spurning him for a cycle. 

“Open this.” Megatron tapped his panel, and Skywarp did so obediently– maybe with the expectation that he’d be gentler. Instead, Megatron spanked his bare valve over and over, until Skywarp was overstimulated; teetering on the edge of overload. At which point Megatron returned to spanking his aft. 

“Jerk!” Skywarp snarled. Megatron felt a sharp pain at his knee joint as Skywarp found the unarmored spot behind it and sunk his fangs in. 

“You’re getting ten more for that,” said Megatron.

“No!” Skywarp wailed dramatically, kicking his legs.

Hitting hard and letting the sting linger after every strike was enormously effective in taming Skywarp’s attitude. It wasn’t long before he'd gone limp, whining tearfully. The pale mesh of his valve had turned a bright, lurid pink, its petals unfurled and glistening with slickness.

Megatron switched techniques from spanking to rubbing the seam of his valve slowly. So softly that Skywarp was prevented from getting off, which prompted an explosion of anger.

“Fuck you, I wanna come!” he wailed, thrashing.

Megatron eased a digit shallowly into his heat, teasing the rim of his valve. “We'll see."

“Fine! I’m sorry!” Skywarp whined pathetically. Anything to incite pity, Megatron supposed. “I’m sorry, ok? I’ve been dying for it all cycle and you're leaving me hanging–”

“Stop whining. Show me you’re sorry.” Satisfied with the results of the punishment, Megatron turned him up on his lap, facing him. Skywarp winced as he was forced to sit on his sore aft. 

“The only place you’ll get your overloads for the duration of your carrying is when we’re mating,” said Megatron. “You're not to overload unless I'm inside your forge. Is that clear?”

“Yeah,” Skywarp mumbled, his pouty, tearstained glare disappearing as soon as Megatron pressurized his spike. Megatron helped him position himself to be penetrated, and Skywarp hungrily dropped his hips onto his spike, wiggling them down until he'd taken the whole thing. Megatron grunted with pleasure as Skywarp’s hot forge opened around him, the aperture sucking at his shaft, squeezing him thoroughly. He had to admit Skywarp had some incredible technique. 

“Bounce your hips. Please your sire,” demanded Megatron, when Skywarp made no effort to move, aside from some lazy rocking of his hips.

“I’m tired,” said Skywarp. “And my aft hurts. You do it.”

“Sure,” said Megatron. A series of rough thrusts against Skywarp’s sore backside quickly propelled the seeker into motion, and he began to swing his hips. Tears trickled down his flushed cheeks as his aft was jostled against Megatron’s lap with every other thrust. But the pleasure of being spiked overcame any discomfort, and he rode Megatron harder.

It was no use staving off overload– Skywarp finished three times in as many minutes, clinging to Megatron’s neck and sobbing in relief. Megatron held onto his waist and overloaded up his forge, giving Skywarp what his frame had been craving. Once his chamber was full, and Skywarp a puddle of contentment, Megatron took him by the chin and tilted it up. “What do you say?”

“‘f’ank you,” purred Skywarp deliriously. His field quivered with pleasure as Megatron leant in to press their mouths together in a deep, soothing kiss. 

“Good mech,” said Megatron when they separated. “Let’s clean up and refuel.”

Skywarp leant on him, legs wobbling as Megatron walked him over to the washracks. He let him shower while he fetched some highgrade from the nearby storehouse. This standard military-grade ration would not be of the quality Skywarp was used to, but it’d do. 

When Megatron returned, the shower seemed to have re-invigorated Skywarp. He jumped out of the stream and vibrated his wings, flicking solvent off. “High grade,” he demanded, grasping at Megatron. “I’m runnin’ on fumes here.”

Megatron produced a cube and Skywarp snatched it, chugging it down while he stood over the air dryer. The second cube went down more slowly, giving Megatron time to wash while Skywarp drank.

“You really go all-out,” remarked Megatron fondly. "You put up a good fight."

Skywarp wiped the back of his hand across his mouth. “I guess. Damn. Just when I was thinking I was running out of strong guys to fight. I don’t know why I didn’t spar with you before.”

"You could have asked." Megatron turned off the solvent and joined him at the dryer.

Skywarp’s field was warm as he bumped their shoulders together. “Hey, actually, can I be your sparring partner from now on? In the mornings or whatever?” he asked.

“Sure.” Megatron grinned. “I could use some practice on flying targets.”

Skywarp pouted at him. “My first trining flight’s coming up and I need practice fighting.”

“Fighting? Aren’t the flights about… flying?”

“They’re mostly about not getting caught.” 

“I thought that was the objective.” Megatron tilted his helm. “And you have lots of proposals. Aren’t you eager to trine anyone?”

Skywarp traced the edge of the dryer vent with his thruster. “It’s kinda expected that the Winglord’s progeny will trine the best mechs. But my highest ranked and fastest suitors aren't really… the ones I want.”

“So you do place some stock in your mates’ personalities after all,” said Megatron, elbowing him teasingly. 

“Not as much as my brothers,” said Skywarp defensively. He shut off the dryer and took a seat– delicately– on a bench outside the wash racks. 

Megatron sat beside him. “Do you have a pair in mind?” 

“Like I said, it's my first Flight,” said Skywarp, avoiding the question. “I don’t have to find mates on my first Flight. Screamer flew twelve before the Winglord forced him to get conjunxed. Sire probably woulda let him keep going if we didn't land on hard times.”

“Twelve…” mused Megatron. Starscream remaining untrined for that long implied that, for twelve stellar cycles, he’d outpaced thousands of Vos’ most capable mecha in the air. Making Starscream, veritably, the best flier in the nation. Maybe he should have expected the Winglord’s heir to be so competent, but Megatron still felt staggered by the realization. 

Skywarp didn’t share his wonder. “Yeah. Screamer looooved showing off,” he muttered, rolling his optics. “Vos’ little shining star.”

“I didn't realize he was that skilled,” said Megatron.

“Ouch. You thought that old geezer he calls a conjunx caught him on his own? Don’t tell him that. He’ll kill you.”

“Well. I’ve never seen him fly,” admitted Megatron, feeling an odd sense of disappointment.

“Oh yeah, that’s right. He’s been taking transports everywhere now, ‘cause of you. You’re holding him back,” teased Skywarp. 

“What about you? If he’s that accomplished, then you have a lot to live up to, with an older brother like him.”

“What, with the Flights?” Skywarp stretched his arms behind his helm and yawned. “Not really. That’s the advantage of being the youngest– the Winglord doesn’t expect much from me.” 

“But being the youngest is also a disadvantage. Your brothers set the standard for you to achieve.”

“Like pit they do. I could totally whip both of their afts if I really felt like it,” said Skywarp. “What I mean is, Scream and TC’ll pick up the slack and have their boring responsible marriages. And I can do whatever I want.” 

“Can you, Skywarp?”

“It’s not like the Winglord cares,” said Skywarp, folding his arms. “Screamer’s his favorite. It’s so obvious. He had this whole fuckin’ crisis about having to offer his perfect little heir up for an arranged marriage. Like, he was really looking forward to seeing Screamer caught by and trined to his betters. It wounded his pride to have to pass up a trining flight for his oldest, but he’d have offended Airbright if he offered his lesser creations for marriage rather than the heir.” Skywarp stuck out his glossa. “Not like I envy Screamer there.”

Megatron gently touched the edge of Skywarp’s wing. “You think it’s proper to be accepting proposals from thugs in a bar, though?”

“Well, I mean. That’s different.” Skywarp mulled over his words for a moment, looking a little uncomfortable. He scratched his chin. “‘Cause they weren’t, like, thugs, exactly. They’re more powerful than that. Like, a lot more.”

“Uh huh.” 

“What do you know about propriety anyway?” grumbled Skywarp, shoving himself up. 

Megatron grasped his wrist. “I think any creator would want to see his offspring claim strong mates. You should strive to do the best you can.” 

Skywarp pulled his hand away. “I don’t care about being renowned or whatever. Or even doing well. ”

“You’re yearning for something. Why not go after what you want?”

“It’s not that simple.” Skywarp huffed. Looking pained, he sat back down and drew his knees up to his chest, wrapping his arms around them. “I get it now. Why my brothers are so picky. We are trained to be the best, and you really want mates who match your skill.” He pressed his face into his arms and heaved a long sigh. “...But also mates you like, you know?”

“I see. And that’s what you want out of a match after all? Love?”

Skywarp snickered, turning his face aside to peek mischievously at Megatron. “I just wanna challenge a big, handsome, tough mech for all of Vos to see.”

“I think that can be arranged,” said Megatron with a smile.

Chapter Text

Thundercracker reclined listlessly in his bathtub with his valve angled under the solvent spray. 

For whatever reason, the suppressant hadn’t worked, and in a matter of hours his heat had crept further up on him. Thank Primus he had left Megatron and fled to the theater. He hadn't gotten any rest there, though. Prevented from recharging by the constant pings of his frame reminding him he was overheating, he’d finally caved and allowed himself one, singular overload. One had turned into eight, and then eight into… well. He didn't want to think about it. 

After spending hours desecrating what he recognized in retrospect as Viscount Windfall’s private theater box, it felt horribly unfair that he was still this charged up. 

Sore, pent up, and sticky, he’d snuck back to his room with the intent to take a nice, calming bath– with another several rounds of self-servicing with the sprayer attachment. Megatron was long gone at this point, so he was safe to do so.

His hopes of spending all morning tending to his needy array were dashed, though, by a 4am message from the Winglord in the family comm channel demanding the presence of him and his brothers at breakfast in a few hours to “check in”. Life never really stopped in Vos, did it? Especially for a prince. 

Thundercracker thunked his helm back on the rim of the bath and groaned. He wasn’t in any state to go out in public, nor was he in any mood to face the Winglord’s castigation for refusing Megatron yet again. Worse, his frame was betraying him. If he didn't stop his heat quickly, he’d end up jumping on Megatron anyway like an untrained turbohound. Horrible.

More suppressant was the obvious answer, and at a higher dose. Slipstream probably hadn’t given him enough. If he wanted more, it was now or never. She’d commed him that she’d be up late tonight, strolling the gardens. There was a party going on downstairs to celebrate her arrival which Thundercracker hadn’t been allowed to attend, thanks to the Winglord’s order to stay out of sight. He could sneak out and meet up with her there. 

On the other hand, it was Slipstream. Wanting to rendezvous with him. Alone. At a desolate hour of the morning, in a semi-secluded location. While he was in heat.

It would be fine. Probably. He didn’t have time to be picky.

Thundercracker dried off and polished quickly. As he returned to his suite proper he noticed a keycard on his desk. Megatron must have left it there, confirming he was indeed given a key to his room. At least he was good enough to leave it. Thundercracker picked it up and slid it under his plating. After he was done with Slipstream, he would return the card to the Winglord with a few choice words about giving Megatron uninhibited access to his room. And to his frame. Truly, it showed a sickening disregard for his person, and he wouldn’t stand for it.

He grabbed a couple datapads he had lying around as well. If he was discovered wandering alone on his way to Slipstream, he’d have a reasonable excuse that he was taking in the fresh air. While working on his– he glanced at the datapad on top– proposal for revisiting import taxes on cobalt.

Thundercracker hiked up his datapads in his arms and winced as his back twinged dully. One of his wings felt like it was stuck lopsided from contorting himself across the cramped theater bench. He couldn’t fix it without help, which meant he’d have to show up looking ridiculous.

He sighed heavily. It would be nice if something went right today. 

--

By day, the sprawling palatial gardens were one of Thundercracker’s favorite locations. They were a peaceful natural oasis, where one could immerse themselves in the serene beauty of the elaborate crystal formations and exotic flora.

By night, the gardens became an entirely different landscape– a mystifying maze of hedonism and mischief. And also sex. So much sex. 

Which, to be fair, happened in the gardens during the day too, but not to the same extent. The sounds assaulting Thundercracker’s innocent audials as he snuck past couples… coupling… didn’t exactly strengthen his tenacity to meet up with Slipstream. Dodging charged-up revelers the whole way there had whittled down his courage to nothing. His spark raced, while his helm filled with vivid thoughts of what exactly would come of his looming encounter. And his array, alarmingly, gave nothing but encouragement. 

When he arrived at Slipstream's coordinates, he found her drinking with two other peers at an intimate table beneath a gazebo. Thundercracker vaguely recognized the pair as part of her posse from Caminus. Ladies-in-waiting, maybe. He wasn’t sure what they were to her. Slipstream had her arms over the back of the bench behind them, and they were sitting very close to her, giggling at everything she said. Thundercracker wondered if she’d forgotten about him already. Because if she hadn’t, she wouldn’t be occupied like this, right? 

He hung back, out of sight, feeling like he was intruding. 

Slipstream exuded such a cool, intimidating confidence. As long as he’d known her, she looked like she belonged everywhere she went, and surrounded herself with equally glamorous peers. 

She and Starscream had cut a striking couple yesterday, posing together for publicity shots. Though they couldn’t stand each other, having something of a rivalry since they were sparklings, one wouldn’t know it judging by their looks alone. They took fashion seriously, and in terms of glamor, they were well-matched. 

Unsurprisingly, Slipstream’s groupies were just as flashy, sporting pearlescent silver plating and tasteful makeup. They were even adorned with jewels, from magnetic brooches to bangles on their tiny wrists. Thundercracker wished he’d cleaned up a little better, feeling slovenly compared to them, with his uneven polish and plain, unremarkable paint job. Something felt wrong about being a prince and getting out-detailed by courtiers in his own palace.

Eventually, he summoned the courage to approach, drifting up the path towards them. He cleared his vents as he approached their table. The trio glanced up, jewels tinkling. 

“Uh. Hi. Slipstream?” He waved stiffly. “May I speak with you?”

“Oh, Thundercracker. Out and about on your own?” teased Slipstream, with a furtive smile. She didn’t move to greet him, and there were no empty seats, leaving Thundercracker standing awkwardly in front of their table, clutching his datapads to his chest.The other femmes looked him over critically. One’s gaze paused at his wings briefly, and her mouth twitched in restrained judgment. Great. His wings were definitely sitting crooked. 

Thundercracker felt a sting of annoyance. This situation was all too familiar. Growing up, he was often made out to be the odd one, only there for her– and others– to make fun of. He guessed some things never changed. But this time, instead of mocking him, Slipstream lifted her arms off her associates’ shoulders and shooed them away with a bored wave of her hand. “Leave us.”

Not happy to be displaced, the femmes squinted narrowly at Thundercracker as if to determine his value to her. Thundercracker tilted his chin up and tried to give the appearance of regality. Deciding manners weren’t totally beneath them, the femmes politely bowed to him– he outranked them, after all!– before strolling off together. They were barely out of earshot before Thundercracker caught a disheartening peal of laughter that sounded like he’s so awkward.

“Don’t mind them. They’re drunk,” sighed Slipstream, polite enough not to comment on his un-princely appearance. “Come sit by me. Have a drink.” She poured him a glass of high grade.

“I can’t stay long.” He took the high grade she handed him anyway, sitting beside her at a polite distance and placing his datapads on the table.

“I should come here more often. The air up here is wonderful, don’t you agree?” she asked, stretching out her wings so they briefly nudged his. 

Thundercracker fiddled with the glass, considering being agreeable and making small talk. But, feeling kind of disgruntled, he got right to the point. “It didn’t work.” 

If Slipstream was offended by his bluntness, she didn’t show it. “Not at all? What I gave you was very potent.”

Thundercracker shrugged.

Slipstream studied his face, then took a sip of her high grade. “Mm. Well. You’ve been in heat for a few nights now. It may not be effective at this stage.”

“Do you have anything stronger?” he asked, blustering ahead rudely, thinking exclusively in terms of what she could do for him. Because, after all, that was on her mind too. About him.

“I don’t,” she said smoothly.

“What about a higher dose? I can take more.”

“That’s risky.”

Thundercracker fidgeted impatiently, regretting coming here more every second. “Why do you think it didn't work?”

“I can’t say. I’ve never heard of a suppressant not working.” She looked genuinely baffled, which made Thundercracker nervous. 

“Is there something wrong with me?” he asked. “I have to know if this is–”

“Thundercracker,” she said, silencing him with a touch to his wrist. Her voice was low and smooth, and the sound made Thundercracker’s spark pulse faster. “It’s much too early in the cycle to worry about this.”

“Is there a right time? I can’t stay like this,” he said.

“Of course not. You won’t.” She took his untouched drink from him and placed it on the table, then moved closer to him, until their legs were nearly touching. “There’s another solution,” she said, with a circumspect glance down the path leading out of the clearing. 

“I’d be honored if you’d enlighten me,” he scoffed.

“I was hoping you would say that.”

The kiss did not come as a surprise. Thundercracker turned his head away, denying her before their lips could meet.

“No?” she said, nosing the side of his face. “You can't tell me you didn’t expect this.”

“You’re getting trined,” he growled. “To Starscream.”

She made a dismissive noise, letting her mouth play along his throat. “You’re the one I really wanted.” 

“I’m the–” Thundercracker had been about to reject her in a huff, but this declaration made him pause. “I’m the… no. Me?”

What a bold claim– that she preferred to trine him. He hadn’t expected that level of honesty. Or was she being honest? Awful as Starscream could be sometimes, he couldn’t imagine someone preferring him to his older brother. Every season he’d witnessed countless suitors fall over each other for a chance to propose to Starscream– even the ones that hated him. By every metric, Starscream outclassed him, from looks to talent to smarts.

“You think I’m lying?” Her fingers slid up his back and stroked between his wings. “You’re sweet and well-behaved. And far more charming than he is.”

More charming than Starscream? She was definitely lying. Singing bold, swoon-worthy praise just to make him let his guard down. After their troubled history together, she thought she could seduce him with such little effort?

“It’s true,” said Slipstream. “Whether or not you believe it.” She placed a soft, almost chaste kiss against Thundercracker’s cheek, and fiery heat bloomed in his face. He quickly turned away and scoffed at the ridiculousness of it. “Well-behaved. That’s the best you have to say about me?”

“You doubt yourself too much.” Slipstream gently tilted his chin to face her. “I like an obliging mech. True politeness is a rare quality among our peers. Being particular and uncompromising with your potential trinemates has given you a certain charm that’s gone unappreciated. A sophistication. An exclusivity.” Her optics narrowed with relish. She ran a thumb over his lower lip. “I’ve had my eye on you for a while.”

“Oh. Uh huh.” Thundercracker choked out intelligently. Her approving tone made his spark tremble. If she was coming up with this on the fly, it was… really convincing. No one had ever extolled his virtues as a lover. Not someone… like her, at least.

“...You think I’m sophisticated?” he murmured into the warm press of her lips on his.

His mouth was open, and the pressure, the slickness, the slow tease of her glossa against his, coaxing it to twine with hers– oh. Thundercracker’s fans clicked on high, and he leant into the kiss with his whole frame. Shivers of relief coursed through him, his coding thrilled to be touched by someone else. His valve responded in kind, growing damp.

Thundercracker couldn’t hear anyone else wandering the gardens near them. They were very alone. They could get away with this. Er, she. She could get away with this. His heat was to blame for enjoying this, and it needed to stop. Yet he couldn’t bring himself to stop. Each place she touched felt like she was uncovering something new. 

Her fingers left his chin and tracked down his chest, sliding below his waist. She kept them at the juncture of his thigh and pelvic array, plucking all the sensitive wires with agile digits, gradually moving inward towards his panel.

Her touch on his bare valve was so shocking, he yelped. The sound trailed off into a needy moan that was deftly swallowed up, as she pinched and rolled his node under her thumb.

He was so relaxed, he’d popped his panel without realizing. She distracted him with a deeper kiss before he could think too hard about that. Her cool, slender fingers dipped into his overheated seam. He was soaked, despite his bath a short time ago, and could hear lubricant being smeared through his petals. The slightest pressure felt heavenly. His overclocked processor had reduced the movements of her hands to striking pinpoints of sensation on his wings and valve, coaxing him gradually to overload.

It wasn’t until she dipped her fingers inside him that Thundercracker got ahold of himself with a start. 

“Stop!” he gasped, grabbing her wrist. She pulled away from him, frowning in confusion. Her fingers curled inquisitively, just within his entrance, which she’d find sealed up tight if she went deeper, and realize he was a complete loser not worth her time. He’d be a laughingstock.

More than that, he was stupid for trusting her. He couldn’t give her what she wanted. It would be far more trouble than it was worth. What had he been thinking?

He stumbled up. “We can’t do this. I have to go.”

“So soon?” Slipstream leant back and licked her fingers off. “You know this is the only way.” 

Thundercracker watched the movements of her glossa, the pounding heat in his belly unhelpfully beckoning him back. The way to suppress a heat manually involved more than he was willing to risk. He needed a spiking. It would reduce his symptoms a lot, but the risks…

“I’m only trying to help you,” she said. 

Things never should have gone this far. He’d gotten overwhelmed and let her play with his frame like it was nothing. She’d obviously done the same with her stupid companions moments before he arrived. Was he so starved for attention that he’d fallen for empty, pretty compliments? 

“I don’t want your help,” Thundercracker said sharply. Before he could change his mind, he hurried away. 

--

Light spilled out into the hallway as Starscream answered the door to his suite, squinting and disheveled from recharge. “It’s early. What the pit do you want, Thundercracker?”

“Hey, Starscream,” Thundercracker grumbled. He’d only come to Starscream as a last resort, and really hoped he could avoid his sneering judgment. To be fair, that would be a lot to ask from Starscream. “You seem like you know how to get illegal drugs. I was just wondering…”

Starscream stared at him. 

Thundercracker sighed. “Sorry, let me try again. Um. Do you have suppressants?”

“Suppressants?” Starscream’s optics flared. “Have you still not mated?” he whispered harshly.

“No, and if you give me a lecture about it, I’m going to lose it. Please tell me you have–”

“Shh!” Starscream glanced side to side out in the hall. “Get in here!”

Thundercracker let him drag him in by the wrist and slam the door behind them. Starscream folded his arms and scowled at him. “I don’t know what your plan is, avoiding Megatron. You’ve always been such a goody-goody, obeying everything the Winglord says. I’m surprised you’re holding out.”

Thundercracker clenched his fists. “So this is all no issue for you? The mating? I thought you despised Megatron. When did he become so irresistible to you?”

“He’s not irresistible,” said Starscream. “He just… turned out to be good in berth. That’s all there is to it.”

“That’s all it took to change your mind?” 

“And why shouldn’t it? It’s just ‘facing!”

“I know for a fact you’re pickier than that, Starscream. Not long ago, you wouldn’t look at a grounder as old as him, let alone have his sparklings.”

Starscream’s features had taken on a pinkish tint. “You’re thinking way too hard about this. I don’t care for Megatron in any other way than physical, and I don’t appreciate having my intentions investigated–”

“Look, I really don’t care,” sighed Thundercracker. “Do you have it or not?”

“Yes! Wait here.” Starscream hurried off into his bedroom to get– what Thundercracker assumed was– his secret poison stash. Some ominous clinking and rattling could be heard from the other room.

Starscream re-emerged with a heavy box, chattering away as he dumped it on his dressing table. “Since they're not regulated, it’s a pain to procure suppressants in Vos. Safe suppressants, at least. People just use baffles. Suppressants are more of a plan B. In my experience, if you must use them, it’s better to mix your own than buy in bulk from the mafia. Who knows what they put in it.”

“Buy from the--!" Was that how Slipstream had gotten it?

“With my personal blend, you won’t feel a thing,” prattled Starscream, rifling through his stash and dropping this and that into a beaker.

Oh great, thought Thundercracker. I’ll have to take a… concoction.

“What’s that look for?” asked Starscream. Thundercracker must have made a face. “I know what I’m doing!” He shook up the mixture and tipped it into an empty vial, handing it to him.

“Just like that?” asked Thundercracker. “What’s the catch?”

“Nothing. I don’t care if you don’t sleep with Megatron. Though I don’t know why you’re putting yourself through this. I didn’t think you had so much resolve.”

“Me neither,” said Thundercracker, scrutinizing the dark, speckled liquid in the vial.

“Well. Good on you, establishing boundaries for once.”

Thundercracker figured this would be the most encouragement he’d get from Starscream, so he headed for the door. “Yeah, okay. Thanks for this. See you at breakfast.”

“Hold on.” Starscream held him back by a wing. “Your wing is a mess. And what the pit is that smeared all over your face and neck?”

“Oh. Uh.” Panic flashed through Thundercracker, and he scrubbed at his mouth, hoping to rub traces of Slipstream away before Starscream realized what it was. 

“Is that…” Starscream leant closer, squinting suspiciously, “...a kiss mark?”

“No…”

“Yes, it is! And the color is familiar. It almost looks like–”

“I didn’t have sex with Slipstream!” blurted Thundercracker. 

Starscream frowned at him.

“O-okay, I almost did, but I refused her. She tried to take advantage of me.”

“She what!?” snarled Starscream, face darkening in rage. 

“Not like that! It’s not that I didn’t want it, exactly. Just, maybe… I didn’t expect it?”

“What is that supposed to mean? Why are you even involved with her?”

“Because she promised me something in exchange for… getting to know me better. A-and now that I'm saying that out loud, it sounds really bad. But anyway, things got out of hand, but I didn't mean for it to go that far– ow…”

Starscream pulled hard on his wing, dragging him down to his level. “You cannot be wandering around alone, in heat, doing this and that with whoever, and especially not with that wench,” he hissed. “You’re vulnerable now, and any idiot could take advantage of you. And you don’t have the slightest idea how to have an affair, you virgin. She knows that.”

“She knows I’m a virgin?” gasped Thundercracker. 

“I wouldn't blame her for suspecting. When a grown mech is as prissy and unassertive as you are, people start to assume things.” Starscream shook him by the wing. “What did she promise you? By Unicron, it better have been something important!”

“Suppressant,” said Thundercracker. “But it didn’t work.”

“That bitch! Preying on your neuroticism, and tempting you with a placebo.”

“You’re saying what she gave me wasn't real?”

“Of course it wasn’t,” scoffed Starscream. “I’ve never heard of a suppressant not working. You’re an idiot, Thundercracker.”

“Oh.” Thundercracker winced as Starscream yanked his wing again.

“And another thing! She's getting trined, and you aren't. If anyone had caught you with her, she could easily blame you for being a desperate homewrecker. You’d get the fallout, and be shunned at court. Did you even think about that?”

“No. I– I’m sorry,” said Thundercracker, feeling immensely more foolish than before that none of that had even crossed his mind. “I’m really sorry, I didn't…”

Starscream seemed to feel bad, because his glare relaxed and he eased off his wing. “Just be more careful. And stay away from her.”

“Okay. I will.”

Starscream let out a sigh. “Well. Enough of that. Your wing is out of alignment. And you didn’t polish correctly. I can’t believe you went out looking like that.” He steered Thundercracker in front of his dressing table and sat him down, carefully making adjustments to his wing. It was on an exceedingly rare occasion that Starscream’s personality approached anything resembling caring or nurturing, so Thundercracker took this anomaly for what it was, and let him preen.

“How much do I take?” Thundercracker asked after a moment, lifting up the vial of suppressant.

“A quarter of that, twice a cycle. I’ll make you more when you run out.”

Thundercracker swallowed down a portion, trying not to think about the taste, or what was in the mystery brew he’d ingested. All he could do now was hope for the best.

Chapter Text

“Starscream, what do you mean a gladiator event? Who’s going to pay for that?” asked the Winglord, not glancing up from his datapad. They and Thundercracker had just sat down to breakfast in the small private dining room outside the Winglord’s chambers.

“The attendees, obviously,” said Starscream.

“I understand that. I’m saying it will have to be planned, and I am much too busy to think about that.”

“I’ve been planning it for the end of this week. I’ll put out an announcement. Not just to Vos, but to all the city-states. It’ll be massive!”

“I’m already throwing a ball at the end of the week to celebrate him getting you three sparked,” said the Winglord, engrossed in scrolling through images of paint swatches. “It’ll conflict.”

“It’ll be after the ball.”

“Hmph.” 

Starscream leaned closer. “You know, there are some surprising similarities between our culture and Tarn’s?” he asked. “For example, we both have a flight… or a fight when we’re hoping to choose a mate?”

“You three have already been chosen. And when have you gotten so into pit fighting?” The Winglord frowned at him. “Surely, you’re not asking me to let you blow my money on some nonsense bloodsport?”

“It’s not nonsense! It will be a display of Megatron’s prowess and suitability for me– us.” Starscream caught himself. 

“Starscream, you should be planning your trining ceremony, not this.” The Winglord slid the datapad over to him. “In which shade should I order the crystal arrangements?”

Starscream huffed and pushed the datapad aside. “There are still many in our court who doubt Megatron’s competence as a sire. They feel cheated by a commoner. Megatron defeating some of our strongest warriors will force them to see he’s the best.” 

The Winglord sighed. “Very… practical. But I don’t see how it’s worth the expense.”

“Megatron was a celebrity in his hometown. A match will bring in a lot of interest. We could definitely fill the mid-city stadium. It’ll more than make back the expense.”

At the mention of a profit, the Winglord appeared to relax. Or he was tired of arguing about something he knew Starscream was going to convince him of eventually. “Very well, plan away. Within a reasonable budget. Just don’t bother me with the particulars. I don’t want to hear it.” 

“Of course.” Starscream flicked his wings in smug triumph. 

The Winglord glanced around the room irritably. “Where is your damned brother? Does he intend to skip everything I’ve asked him to attend this week?”

“Who knows,” said Starscream. 

“We’re starting without him.” The Winglord gestured at the servants standing by to come forward with trays of refreshments. “Both of you, be sure to fill up. Especially you, Starscream. You’ve been eating too delicately.”

“Have I? I hadn’t noticed,” muttered Starscream, distracted by the heaping trays placed on the table before them. 

As soon as the matings started, he’d been bombarded by pressure to fuel extra for the sparklings. Unfortunately for his little clutch of bastards, they’d have to go without until he was sure they wouldn’t emerge at an inconvenient time. Thus, he’d picked at his meals, and even drank triple-refined engex whenever he could sneak it. Anything to delay their growth. 

Just from Megatron’s donations over the past two cycles, he’d gotten fatter, which was a good indication he needed to subsist off even less fuel, and less transfluid. He’d been too careless. He’d have to restrain himself and stop mating properly tonight if he wanted to get the sparklings’ growth under control, and the mere thought was making him irritated. 

As the servants came around to serve them from the various dishes, Starscream – painfully– refused all but the most modest of their offerings, to the Winglord’s chagrin. The scents and sights of all the delicacies tempted him to stuff his face, but he withstood the urge.

Another servant arrived with a tray of three cups, placing two of them in front of Thundercracker and Starscream. There was thick, murky gray concoction in each, with glittering trails floating in the sludge. 

“What in Primus’ name..." said Thundercracker, wincing as he peered into the glass.

“Supplements,” said the Winglord. “You’ll be drinking a mineral blend every morning for the health and development of your sparklings.”

Starscream put his nose in the air. He’d been given the mixture daily since the mating with Airbright but had discreetly discarded it, for the same reason he’d denied his sparklings any other source of nourishment. But with the Winglord watching him, Starscream took the sludge and drank it down so as not to seem suspicious. The taste was… indescribable. He tried not to think about it. 

Downing it at least got the Winglord’s attention off him, and onto hassling Thundercracker, who was taking dainty sips and making faces with each one. 

Just then, the door to the dining room slid open and Skywarp strolled in late, giggling and hanging off Megatron’s arm, who also seemed in high spirits.

“I’m starving!” Skywarp announced, pulling Megatron along by the hand. He grabbed an empty plate and loaded up on fuel, while remaining practically fused at the hip with a grinning Megatron. Megatron met Starscream’s accusing glare, and he immediately got ahold of himself, his expression going stoic. He looked vaguely guilty, which didn’t exactly calm Starscream’s rising temper.

“Skywarp!” The Winglord stood abruptly, staring between Skywarp, Skywarp’s heaping plate, and Megatron incredulously, like he was trying to decide what to chastise him for first– serving himself, bringing Megatron to a family meeting, or running around all night like an idiot.

“Ooh, you got us calcium shakes!” lilted Skywarp, chugging the remaining cup of Sludge. 

“Skywarp!” said the Winglord again.

Skywarp went around the table balancing his plate on one hand, and knocked Thundercracker on the wing. “Are you gonna finish that?”

Thundercracker handed his Sludge to Skywarp, grimacing. Skywarp drank that as well.

“Skywarp!” bellowed the Winglord. “Would you care to explain where you were last night?”

Skywarp shrugged, slurping up the last of the mixture. “With Megatron.” 

“Like pit you were,” muttered Starscream. 

“And before that?” asked the Winglord. “When you were supposed to be at my dinner for Starscream’s fiancee?”

“Calm down. You two are so uptight. So what if I had better things to do than your boring dinner?” asked Skywarp. Starscream eyed him narrowly as he loosely wrapped an arm around Megatron’s waist.

“Skywarp,” growled the Winglord.

“That’s my name. Hey, why’d you have to call a meeting to talk about matching our paint jobs for the ball or whatever? Send it in a comm next time.”

The Winglord stomped over to Skywarp. “I know what you were doing last night. You will not be going into the city unaccompanied again, to cavort with those ridiculous air force officers.”

“I’ll take Megatron with me as an escort next time,” said Skywarp. “He’s been helping me train for the Flights. You got a problem with that?”

“Training!” The Winglord glanced at Megatron’s obvious lack of wings. “You mean sparring! That’s not good for the sparklings.”

“He’s been very gentle with me,” said Skywarp, casting a mischievous glance at Megatron.

“That’s beside the point!” The Winglord grabbed Skywarp’s hand and turned it over. “What is this injury on your hand? Megatron did this?”

“Nope! I got that during a proposal last night. Generals Dirge and Ramjet wanna trine me.”

“Generals– you–?” The Winglord blustered a bit, probably questioning what getting beat up had to do with a proposal, but let it go. “A proposal? From them? That’s… incredible. You accepted?” 

“Obviously.” 

“I… Skywarp, this is excellent!” Mood tentatively lifted, the Winglord clapped him on the shoulder. “This will be excellent. Structure, Skywarp, is what you need. You’ll benefit from some serious and conscientious mates.”

“You act like I'm gonna trine them.” A dark look passed over Skywarp’s face. “I’ll beat their afts.”

“Why? They'd make a good trine for you.”

“If you like annoying douchebags, sure,” said Skywarp.

“That is a miserable estimation of perhaps our most skilled fliers.”

“Most skilled after me, of course,” cut in Starscream, flashing Skywarp a snide look. “Sire, you’ve quite lowered your standards since those two challenged me a few seasons ago. Despite their skill, you didn’t approve of me accepting a challenge from anyone lower than a duke. And certainly not from military mechs without a title.”

“Skywarp is not the heir. They had no place asking you. The nerve of them to propose. Unthinkable.”

“Truly. But how nice! They’ll have a chance of catching a trinemate, now that they’ve set their sights much lower,” Starscream crooned, smirking at Skywarp, who was beginning to look a little embarrassed. “On someone much less important.”

Realizing what he’d implied, the Winglord backtracked. “Ah, but for Skywarp, a military trine is acceptable. I’d prefer he trine to a pair with a title, but considering who his other suitors are…” He turned to Skywarp. “And that’s just to say, you’re still young, and this is your first season–”

“They’re all subpar,” said Starscream.

“Well, yes,” said the Winglord. “Skywarp, while I admire the enthusiasm with which you’ve gathered your multitude of suitors, I question the quality.” He sat back down and stroked his chin. “Really, not a single mech worth mentioning until now. Even Thundercracker had a few notable proposals his first season out.”

“No one important wants to trine an unsophisticated airhead,” said Starscream. “Megatron, you’re not going to train this idiot up to standard before the Flights. He skips classes and goes around the city with a pair of triple changers, picking fights. He has no structure or technique to speak of.”

Skywarp wrinkled his nose at him. “Astrotrain and Blitzwing are strong. You wouldn’t understand.”

“Oh, they’re strong? You’re going to punch your suitors out of the sky? How brutish!” Starscream threw his head back and laughed. 

“His Highness demonstrated considerable skill when we trained,” said Megatron.

Starscream’s laughter faded as he watched Megatron slide an arm protectively around Skywarp’s shoulders. “Hah. Of course a grounder would say that. You don't know anything, Megatron.”

“Megatron’s strong too!” said Skywarp, wrapping his arms around Megatron’s waist. “You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“I know I destroyed your two generals in the air without a problem,” said Starscream, glaring as his brother felt up Megatron. “And I know they won’t be nearly so easy for you.”

“He’s right, Skywarp,” said the Winglord, rather cheerfully. “As of now, they’re your stiffest competition. From what I’ve seen of your flying, you don't stand much chance of outpacing them.”

“We’ll just have to see,” said Skywarp tightly.

“See you lose," said Starscream. 

“Well, I for one think it’s good you’re taking this seriously,” said the Winglord, already checked out on the matter. Starscream truly hated that Skywarp doing the bare minimum was enough to impress him. With Skywarp losing to Ramjet and Dirge an inevitability, he was expecting a straightforward trining due to Skywarp’s idiocy in accepting a challenge he couldn’t win. 

Skywarp of course, didn’t realize he was an idiot, and took the Winglord’s permissiveness as a compliment. “I’m taking this so seriously!” he crowed, twining his fingers with Megatron’s. “I’ll be spending every spare moment until the Flights training with Megatron.”

“How nice,” said the Winglord.

“Don’t be stupid, Skywarp,” snapped Starscream. “You’ll do no such thing– it's a waste of Megatron’s time. I have plans for him too. Important plans.”

“Do you? That’s too bad, since I have priority.” 

“That’s just for the matings!” snarled Starscream. “Not for your random punching matches! You have no right to monopolize his attention!” 

“I have no issue with what Skywarp is suggesting. Why are you so upset, Starscream?” asked the Winglord. “I thought you were extremely busy this week, planning your… gladiator thing.”

“I am!” Starscream jumped up and aggressively looped his arm around Megatron’s. “And I need Megatron’s opinion on some things about it!”

“Not as badly as I need to practice with him,” said Skywarp, pulling at Megatron’s opposite arm.

“No! You don’t! I–” Starscream quickly thought up an excuse. “I also need to go to the city today to get jewels for the ball. I need my guard to escort me. My guard, who was hired for me!” he hissed at Skywarp, pressing himself up against Megatron for emphasis.

“Starscream, if you cared to pay attention earlier, I told you Emirate Airbright already bought you some new jewels for the ball,” said the Winglord.

“I want more.”

“Sit down and eat your breakfast. You’re being disagreeable.”

“Yeah, Screamer, what’s the big deal? I thought you didn’t like Megatron that much,” drawled Skywarp. “You really changed your tune. Do you have a crush?”

“You know this is nonsense!” said Starscream, ignoring Skywarp and turning on the Winglord. “Think about what you’re permitting! You know Megatron training Skywarp won’t make a damn difference in his performance at the Flights. Megatron will be his convenient babysitter, and you’re just glad Skywarp is stupid enough to have tricked himself into being chaperoned all day for the next two weeks, so you don’t have to concern yourself with the whereabouts of your own damn creation, as usual!”

The Winglord shrugged and sipped his high grade.

Starscream tightened his hold on Megatron’s arm. “Detailing, then! Megatron’s taking me to get detailed! Come along.”

“Starscream, you will not be spending another shanix on baubles and polish this week,” said the Winglord. “I’m cutting you off.”

“For fuck’s sake!” screeched Starscream. “You stingy geezer! Do you even care about me?”

“If you’re out of ideas, Screamer, I’m gonna go on ahead with him,” said Skywarp, pressing a long, wet kiss to Megatron’s cheek as Starscream sputtered in anger. 

“Hold on, Skywarp,” said the Winglord. “You can do with him as you please later, but neither of you will be going out with him today.”

“What?” scoffed Starscream. “Who else would–?”

“Thundercracker!” roared the Winglord. 

A soft yelp from across the room indicated Thundercracker was still present. But not in his seat. In the midst of their bickering, he had apparently snuck away from the table. Caught moments from escape, he was frozen halfway out the door to the hall. 

“Yes sir?” he asked innocently.

“Get back here,” said the Winglord. “Megatron will be accompanying you this afternoon to shop for your things for the ball.”

“What!?” Starscream and his brothers all exclaimed, in dismay.

“He will act as your chaperone, as well as your bodyguard,” explained the Winglord.

“No, but,” Thundercracker said, sounding like he’d choked on his glossa. “But I have… other plans…”

“I’ve cleared your schedule.”

Starscream huffed. “This is ridiculous too! Thundercracker’s just going to bitch and sulk. I’d actually make something of that time.” He jerked on Megatron’s arm. “Megatron, come with me. He’s not serious about–”

The Winglord’s fist came down on the table hard enough to make the plates jump. “Damn it, Starscream! I said what I said! Must you challenge me on everything?”

“I–” Starscream opened and closed his mouth angrily. “But–!”

“And stop hanging off Megatron like that. It’s unbecoming.” The Winglord waved him off. “Get out! You too, Skywarp, and take Megatron with you. I need to speak with Thundercracker alone.”

“You heard him, big guy,” said Skywarp. He stuck his glossa out at Starscream as he pulled Megatron along by the arm, out the door. Starscream counted to ten before he followed. He might have strangled everyone in the room if he hadn’t. Even Thundercracker. 

–

Thundercracker didn’t consider himself to have a temper, but he’d had a miserable night, a frustrating morning, and what was looking to be a humiliating afternoon. That steadily rising anger trapped under the surface could no longer be contained. The moment the Winglord shut the door after Starscream, Thundercracker snapped, “First you want me to stay out of the public eye. Now you want to parade me around with him?”

“I have a different angle now.” The Winglord circled him, squinting. “You’re awfully… coherent for being three days into your heat. I thought you’d be hanging off Megatron with your brothers.”

“Unlike those two, I have self-control."

“Too much self-control. Megatron said you asked to recharge alone last night.”

Thundercracker braced for a harsh reprisal, but the Winglord wasn't throwing a fit, which meant Megatron had omitted the very salient detail that Thundercracker had left his room and spent the night unguarded. Retroactively, he felt a bit grateful to Megatron for not sending guards after him. Getting caught with his fingers in his valve and dragged back to his room would have been horrific. 

But his inaction alone had infuriated the Winglord enough, and his silence was a confession. “This pitiful insolence again!” shouted the Winglord. “What do you have to say for yourself?”

“Look, I can't do this!” said Thundercracker. It felt nice, finally saying bluntly what he felt all along. “I will not! And I won’t go with Megatron today!”

“Stop acting ridiculous. Do you think only of yourself? Your duty is to Vos.” The Winglord drew himself taller and glared up into his face. “I’ve been lenient with you, putting the onus to mate with him in your hands. And just like with your suitors, you shrink away. You bring shame to me, being so diffident. Your brothers don’t act like this.”

“You’re right!” exclaimed Thundercracker. “They’re worse and more disobedient in every possible way and you spoil them endlessly. Where is that grace for me? I’m sick of you overlooking their constant nonsense and giving me the short end of the stick. I’m doing as I please now, too.”

The Winglord recoiled, obviously surprised that Thundercracker was talking back. Thundercracker was too, a little. He might have lost his nerve at this point in another situation, but found he was too angry for that.

“I don’t know what you plan to accomplish, clinging to your celibacy like this,” said the Winglord. “The court already thinks you’re uptight, and you don’t do anything to suggest the contrary.”

“I’m not clinging to celibacy. I’ve told you, I haven’t found the right match.”

“You’ve put it off so long, I fear that unsavory rumors will start. That mechs will begin to question your experience. I can only do so much to present you as a desirable mate to suitors, and you fight it.”

“I didn’t ask you to do that.”

“Thundercracker, you must consider your reputation, for the sake of your future. You won’t attract a trine in this state. You had some incredibly powerful mechs asking for your hand, and you decided not one suited you. Now everyone thinks you’re impossible to please.”

“Being impossible to please worked for Starscream. You encouraged him to be untameable.” 

“My dear, you are not Starscream,” scoffed the Winglord. “You don’t have the charisma to string dukes and emperors along, begging for your hand for years. You’re serious, and mechs take you at your word when you say no. But there’s hope for you yet to be pursued.”

“I don’t want to be pursued. I’m not a prize to be won,” said Thundercracker, but the Winglord wasn’t listening. 

“When you go out today, you are going to…” the Winglord pushed Thundercracker’s wings up and out, broadening them. “...show off.”

“No,” said Thundercracker through his clenched jaw.

“You need to be seen with him, so all appears normal. Let our peers observe you swooning over him. Wings all fluttering. So they can see that you do, in fact, feel some degree of desire and are open to negotiating. Word will spread.”

“Sire, you said yourself I’m in too delicate a state to be out in public. Someone could take liberties with me.”

“With any luck, it’ll be Megatron. By your own will, or by the will of your coding, it will happen.”

“No!”

“Yes! Because if you don’t get it done this afternoon, you won’t be leaving your apartment until you do. If it gets to that point…” the Winglord touched the back of his hand to Thundercracker’s warm forehead, “...I’m anticipating nature will take its course. I’ll give it a cycle before you’re clawing at your door, begging for Megatron. Once that happens, I’ll have no qualms about turning him loose to do what's necessary.”

“Try it! It’ll be the same result as the first night. I won’t let him get close enough.”

“Thundercracker!” admonished the Winglord, but Thundercracker was already storming out. He hurried down the hall directionlessly, his helm spinning with fury.

The moment he was alone in the hall, he paused to gulp down another dose of the suppressant. Starscream probably meant he was supposed to take the second dose in the evening, but he was feeling desperate.

Starscream’s potion was working, miraculously. Thundercracker was no longer attracted specifically to Megatron, and Megatron hadn’t so much as glanced at him this morning, so he must not be outputting pheromones. However, his level of charge hadn’t budged. His frame teemed with an excess of energy, roiling through his circuits. His plating felt too tight, and his forge was so hot it almost hurt. Even after all those overloads… he couldn’t understand it. Was this what a heat was like, normally? Unconsciously, his hand drifted to his panel, where his valve had been throbbing all day. He badly needed another overload. In this state, he was ready to boil over.

Instead, he forced himself to straighten as a pair of guards appeared to escort him out to the transport. Thundercracker whelmed with violent irritation that he was not being trusted to take care of himself. His movements, his overloads– all restricted, unless he lowered himself to be with Megatron.

The Winglord was insane, sending him out like this. This was a punishment for sure.

Chapter Text

When Thundercracker curtly ordered him to keep his distance during their outing, Megatron was happy to oblige. Chaperoning a moody Thundercracker would be grace itself compared with Skywarp and Starscream bickering over him like cybercats in heat. At least, that’s what he had thought. 

Once they landed in Vos’ premier shopping district, Thundercracker kept far ahead of him, but not so far that Megatron couldn't see him hustling the vendors to do his bidding. Arms folded, Thundercracker kept his back petulantly to Megatron while jewel merchants and polish dealers nervously displayed their finest stock for his glaring perusal.

This wasn’t the passionate scene Megatron assumed the Winglord wanted the two of them to create, but he could turn this around, with some patience. Even in an ornery mood, a reticent mech like Thundercracker wouldn’t be hard to seduce.

Though Megatron had told him the previous night that he’d respect his preference not to sleep together, this was only in an attempt to make him more comfortable. Eventually, he would have to be coaxed into berth. Leaving him alone, it seemed, was not an option.The implications of Thundercracker refusing to mate were more dire than Megatron expected. No royalty in the history of Vos had ever refused the stud, and the Winglord was not taking it well. If Thundercracker wouldn't take responsibility, the task of getting him to comply– and the blame if the Vosian royal family’s reputation was not upheld– now fell on Megatron. 

Recounting the Winglord’s displeased stare burning into his back as Megatron boarded the transport earlier, there was a clear expectation of what he expected to be accomplished, and the unspoken punishment awaiting if he failed to deliver. Megatron was not willing to gamble on how ruthless the Winglord could be to anyone who was not one of his precious heirs. 

He hung back and gave Thundercracker some space. He would pursue him when he was in a better mood. In the meantime, he kept a close eye on him. 

Most seekers were nice to look at, but Thundercracker made for an especially handsome silhouette from behind. Tall, with broad wings and long legs. His movements carried an air of strength and refinement. For a mech in heat, he was quite put-together. Megatron suspected he’d taken a suppressant, as he hadn't detected Thundercracker’s heat scent at all today. The fact that Thundercracker likewise was not reacting to him would make taming him more difficult, but Megatron had never shied away from a challenge.

Thundercracker was putting off a distinct and intriguing scent, nonetheless.

Ozone. 

The smell– reminiscent of a recent overload– was universally erotic, and it rolled off Thundercracker in waves, fanned delectably from his wings as Megatron followed behind him. Brisk like a burst of rain, with a burning undercurrent of ionized air, the aroma lent him presence. Bold and virile, it exuded raw power, channeling the thunderstorm that was his namesake. 

It wasn’t until Megatron tasted static in the air that he broke out of his reverie, realizing something. The overpowering scent was a warning that Thundercracker was shedding charge at a rate unheard of for a typical mech. 

Megatron was all too familiar with the  repercussions of Thundercracker’s spark ability, but not so much the mechanics. It stood to reason that a mech who could create lightning could also carry– and release– an immense amount of charge. But it wasn't until an ominous rumble sounded overhead that Megatron grew concerned.

The heavy clouds that cloaked the spires of Vos’ palace today also blanketed the shopping plaza. At this altitude, atmospheric conditions were chilly and damp. Thundercracker’s superheated frame, bursting with charge, was expelling hot, ionized air directly into the clouds. These two elements rapidly mingled, in a pit-spawned marriage. 

The atmosphere grew thicker and more staticy, until a flicker of lightning lashed the heavens, trailing brightly from Thundercracker’s wingtips. The air around the burst expanded with a bang; thunder rolling through the plaza in an eerie, resonant trill. 

Around them, mechs scattered, hurrying for cover from the impending storm. Grimly, Megatron watched the crowd abandon the streets in just a few kliks. What force of nature had the Winglord wrought on his innocent citizens?

Oddly, the outburst seemed to surprise Thundercracker just as much as everyone else, and he stopped walking, one wing dipped in uncertainty. Another pale streak of lightning forked off him, trailing through the clouds, and he flinched, glancing at himself with bewilderment.

Megatron knew he had to step in, before Thundercracker brought down a storefront and all its inhabitants with his uncontrolled ability. Bracing himself, Megatron quickly but calmly approached him. At arms’ length, he noticed Thundercracker was throwing off a lot of heat, and trembling. Something was definitely not right. 

“Your Highness,” said Megatron gently. “Shall we return to the transport for a rest?”

Thundercracker frowned, searching his face for untoward intentions, but nodded in assent.

Megatron tested his luck by placing a hand on the small of Thundercracker’s back to guide him along– mostly for the benefit of the gawking onlookers. If he treated the aristocracy to a display of intimacy, maybe they’d gossip about it, and this outing wouldn’t be a total wash.

Thundercracker hardly reacted, save for an annoyed twitch of his mouth, as he stiffly allowed himself to be led away. 

Once in the privacy of the transport, Thundercracker lowered himself onto the backseat. His mouth was tight, and he was venting heavily. Waves of heat cascaded off his frame.

“You’re overcharged,” said Megatron, concerned he’d intervened too late. Thundercracker was no longer a danger to the public, but his own frame was being stressed beyond its limits.

“I’m fine,” Thundercracker started to say, then immediately bent double, clutching his lower abdomen with a groan.

Megatron took a knee in front of him, trying to get him to sit up straight so he could take a look. 

“Get away from me! I said I’m fine.” Thundercracker’s plating sparked, and Megatron did as he demanded. 

Thundercracker was most certainly not fine. The howl of his fans filled the cabin. He appeared to brace himself as the charge rapidly came to a head, his expression morphing between pain and fear and confusion. 

“Your Highness, release it if you have to,” said Megatron.

“I can’t do that in here. It’ll destroy the transport.”

“Outside, then.”

“In public? You can’t be serious.”

“You’re going to injure yourself.”

“I don’t understand,” said Thundercracker. He sat up, delicately probing his abdominal plating– over his forge, Megatron realized. “I’ve never… it’s never been like…”

Whatever the issue was, Thundercracker had no idea how to manage it either, but as he prodded at his middle, something dawned on him. Something terrible.

“Oh no,” he choked, optics blowing wide. He gripped the seat next to him, as sparks leapt over his frame. “Oh, nonono…” 

Panic overcame Thundercracker, and intense heat from the subsequent lightning strike washed against Megatron’s armor. The bolt rattled the transport, and was over in an instant, leaving the upholstery smoking all around Thundercracker. 

Megatron couldn’t help but notice, in the moment before Thundercracker lost himself, he’d looked… excited. Panting with delight, optics glassy, and the tips of his fangs poked out in a half-wild smile. 

Megatron didn’t know what to make of it, until the smoke cleared, revealing his open valve panel. Then everything came together.

Likely prim in its usual state, the white derma was puffy, slick, and tinged pink with arousal. Thundercracker’s spread legs gave a tease of his too-bright internal biolights, their color only distinguishable from the harsh red glow reflected on the edge of the soaked lips. Clearly, he’d been pent up in another way. His charge had chosen the path of least resistance– which was also the most pleasurable– to escape.

While Megatron was marveling over that, dark claws obscured his view. 

“Don’t look!” demanded Thundercracker, face purpled with embarrassment. He leveled an accusing glare at Megatron, like he’d been the one responsible for making him overload.

Megatron took a step forward to check on him. “Your Highness--”

“I’m serious! Stay back!” Thundercracker crossed his legs, shrinking away. Megatron averted his gaze and kept a polite distance while Thundercracker closed his panel.

“Are you all right, Your Highness?” asked Megatron. “That was… intense.”

“I didn’t know I could do that,” said Thundercracker tremulously. He slumped forward and wailed into his hands. “Oh, Primus! What’s happening to me!?”

“It’s fine,” said Megatron, inching forward to kneel in front of him again. He didn’t think there was anything he could say that would comfort him, after that display.

“Why isn’t it working?” whimpered Thundercracker. With shaking hands, he fumbled a bottle out of his subspace, making to tip it all down his intake. 

“Don’t do anything rash,” said Megatron, grabbing his wrist before he could drink it. 

“Let go of me!” 

Megatron turned his wrist around and studied the bottle. There was no label, but it was obvious what it contained. How strange. The medicine suppressed his scent, but didn't touch his charge.

Considering Thundercracker’s ability, it made sense. Being in heat built charge rapidly. That effect must be applied exponentially for a mech who could store massive amounts of energy, to the point where the charge-stifling properties of a suppressant were rendered ineffective. And the excessive charge, upon reaching its peak, would inevitably seek an outlet.

Thundercracker winced again, curling in on himself and emitting a soft noise of pain.

“Your Highness.” Megatron released his wrist. Opportunity had dawned to pursue intimacy with the prince, and he wasn’t about to let his chance escape. He spoke gently, but firmly: “Being in heat with your power could be dangerous. If you won’t mate, you’ll have to release your extra charge more frequently.”

“More frequently?” Thundercracker looked faint.  

“More productively, then, if frequency isn’t the issue. You may not be servicing yourself effectively.”

“What business is it of yours?” asked Thundercracker, going redder.

“My duty as royal sire is to ensure your frame isn’t being burdened by the demands of your heat. There’s a technique to soothe a heat which disperses charge more intensely. Maybe it's just what you need.”

“Some manual stimulation, right?” growled Thundercracker. “No, thank you.”

“It doesn’t have to involve a spiking. I can use my fingers.”

“Like that’s any better. And there’s no way it’ll work, without a– a… you know.”

“Fingers work well enough to soothe overcharge, in a pinch. One can digitally stimulate the forge entrance, in the absence of a partner to spike it.” 

Thundercracker turned away, clearly mortified at the thought.

“This isn't the time to be modest,” said Megatron, trying to meet his distraught gaze. “This is dangerous. You've accumulated too much charge. If it’s not released correctly, you could damage your internals.”

“Please!” exclaimed Thundercracker, whipping back around. Moisture had collected in the corners of his optics. “If it’s that serious, we have to go back to the palace and call the doctor.”

“Well…” said Megatron. 

“Well, what? What’s the issue?” Thundercracker’s tone became dangerous. “I want to go back.”

Megatron sighed. On one hand, they should enlist the palace doctor’s help to administer the treatment. On the other, Megatron could only imagine the creative methods of torture the Winglord would have in store for him if he brought back his creation in a worse state than he’d left. Frightened, in pain, and on the verge of tears. And still unmated.

“Seeing the doctor isn’t advisable,” said Megatron, trying to think up an excuse.

“Why not?” 

“Er. Because, Your Highness,” Megatron explained tentatively, “if you’re once again prompted to overload extravagantly from the treatment, the doctor could be…” He trailed off meaningfully.

Thundercracker stared off into the near distance, pondering. As he realized the implication, his mouth fell open in horror. Megatron had no idea what the odds of Thundercracker killing the medic with an overload were, but conveniently, neither did Thundercracker. 

“Would you take that chance?” asked Megatron, solemnly. “Harming an innocent mech?”

“No," said Thundercracker, covering his mouth in distress at the thought. “That would be terrible.”

“Yes. But we know I can survive a bolt.”

“Yes…”

“Then, the question is–”

“Can I do it myself?” asked Thundercracker timidly.

“As much as you like. After I demonstrate the proper technique.”

“Oh." Thundercracker looked like he wanted to protest more, but the pain of overcharge was beginning to wear on him. He unclenched the hand over his abdomen, letting it fall at his side. He sat up straight again, looking faintly more determined. “I guess... if there's no other way…”

This was enough permission. Megatron rose and sat next to him on the bench, placing a comforting hand on his thigh. “I’ll be gentle.”

Thundercracker mumbled something that sounded like, I’d hope so, before uncrossing his legs.

Avoiding his eyes, Thundercracker demurely spread his knees to give Megatron access. There was a distinct humidity emanating from between his thighs, where the ozone scent was achingly strong. Megatron reached in, parting the mesh and dipping his fingertips into that luscious, scarlet core. 

A warning rumble from Thundercracker made him hesitate. Starting with penetration might be too enthusiastic. Megatron switched course, stroking his outer folds, which provoked displeased squirming as well. Thundercracker was likely sore from all the charge he was holding in his array, and sensitive from his overload. Megatron spent a few minutes gently massaging his petals, letting him get used to his touch. Two digits caressing either side of his swollen external node- but not quite touching it- proved exceptionally effective. 

Megatron played with him this way, leisurely running two fingers over the length of his valve seam, from the crown of his node to his grasping, sticky entrance, until Tc's vents quickened and his fractious EM field reflected a different sort of frustration. Only at this point did Megatron attempt to enter him again, easing his two longest fingers inside. 

Thundercracker’s walls clamped around them, calipers drawing them up towards the back of his valve. Megatron could immediately tell why he was uncomfortable. Even his thick-plated miner fingers were sensing a blistering amount of heat– an intoxicating fire in the pit of his valve. At the narrowest part of the channel, his digits met resistance, and Thundercracker tensed with a gasp. A firm spiral of interlocked strands of protomesh denoted the sealed entrance to his forge.

The presence of virginity wasn’t really a surprise. It wouldn’t conflict with Megatron’s purpose, anyway, so he ventured on. When the valve received charge output from a spike, the forge would spiral open and permanently remain that way, but, as expected for a virgin, the entrance was shut tight.

Megatron gave the aperture an exploratory stroking, as carefully as he could manage. Too deep inside and at too odd of an angle for Thundercracker to reach himself, he had likely never touched it. The knot of protoform was pliable, and gave slightly when pressed. It was also exquisitely sensitive, judging by the guttural moan Thundercracker let out as Megatron traced featherlight circles around the rim. Readjusting his hold around Thundercracker’s waist to keep him from squirming away, Megatron was able to get consistent pressure against the aperture.

His hand brushed his wings, and the color in Thundercracker’s face deepened. Those broad, pristine wings drooped from their taut position into Megatron’s grasp. Megatron ran his fingers along the edge of one, sure to treat the prized appendage with care. He moved on to massage the delicate struts in the hinges, so effectively that Thundercracker arched his back and let out another breathy moan. His valve tightened around his fingers, squeezing at every caress.

Even in his short time in Vos, Megatron felt he had become quite skilled in the art of pleasuring flightframes. A shame he hadn’t gotten his hands on Thundercracker sooner. Even this most reserved of seekers couldn’t hide his charms. He had a sleek, shapely frame, and his blue finish was like steelsilk under Megatron’s rough fingers. All his dainty joints and crevices were probably rubbed daily with oil and diamond polish to make him lissome, like all well-maintained jets were around here.

Beautifully done up, just for Megatron to rub the polish off his wings and smear lubricants into the seams of his array. 

Thundercracker had tucked his face against Megatron’s neck, too shy to watch as he was fingered. His damp mouth occasionally brushed Megatron’s throat when he moaned. These high class types had such smooth, flawless derma. Thundercracker’s lips above and below were plush, fashioned of a luxurious, satiny mesh that seemed designed for the pleasure of other mechs. He may have been a virgin, but the slick, sinuous grip of his valve rivaled that of a trained courtesan. Seekers were amorous beings, and this shy prince was no exception.

It was taking immense self-control not to splay him across the fine upholstered seats and finish him on his spike. 

“How is this, Your Highness?” asked Megatron, making an effort to check in and not feel him up thoughtlessly.

“G-good…”

Better than good– Thundercracker was lubricating enthusiastically, his hot juices sliding down Megatron’s wrist.

“Feel. Steady circles,” Megatron instructed, rotating his fingers against his forge and extruding a helpless wail from Thundercracker, whose hand jumped down to rub his node. Megatron gently deterred him, blocking his hand. “Don't touch your external node. It will separate the charge. You’ll want to overload internally. With this.” He ground the aperture harder, and Thundercracker’s hips jerked. Against the advice, his claws slid along his sticky folds, back and forth over his node. So hungry for an overload, he was shamelessly giving Megatron a preview of how he liked to play with himself. Megatron supposed a tamer overload was a small price to pay for such an erotic display. 

“I’m coming,” blurted Thundercracker, pinching his node and shivering as a spark leapt from it.  

“Go on,” said Megatron.

Thundercracker bit down on his neck and overloaded. This time, he did not create a bolt when he came, but Megatron braced himself against a harsh outburst of energy that left the air thick with ozone.

Thundercracker's outer calipers locked, holding Megatron's fingers snugly against his forge entrance. The inner calipers rippled. Purely a reflex to coax an overload from the sire, but no less devastating to Megatron's self-control as Thundercracker's silky walls gripped him and refused to let go. 

Megatron's spike ached in envy as his fingers were given a thorough milking, from base to tip in a pattern of energetic squeezes. As Thundercracker's overload petered out, the pulses became slower and weaker. Wiggling his digits coaxed the seeker to ease up just enough so he could slide them out with a wet slurp.

While Thundercracker recovered, Megatron admired the view, sucking the slick from his fingers. Debauched, with his wings low and hips up, in a receptive posture, Thundercracker made for a pretty picture. The suppressant may have masked his scent, but his frame knew what it needed. 

Megatron’s spike strained against its panel. It was not enough to taste his slick. He wanted to coat his spike in it; feel those grasping walls around his shaft; make Thundercracker pant and writhe as he flooded his tank with seed. 

Gathering Thundercracker in his arms, Megatron sat him up so he was straddling his lap. “Did that take the edge off, Your Highness?” 

Thundercracker mumbled something noncommittal; listless. Megatron brushed his hot panel against his valve to wake him up, and murmured, “Of course, a spiking will be much more satisfying.”

That caught Thundercracker’s attention, and he snapped his helm up in alarm. “No–! No thanks. I feel much better,” he said quickly. He closed his panel and tried to climb off Megatron’s lap. 

“Your Highness,” Megatron sighed and held him in place. Just when he thought they were getting somewhere. “What’ll it take to entice you?”

Thundercracker looked away. “I don’t see why I can’t take care of myself the way you demonstrated for the remainder of my heat.”

“This was a temporary fix so you didn’t burn out anything important,” said Megatron. “You’ll be miserable if you aren’t mated.”

“I think it will be more miserable to give in.”

“How pitiless,” said Megatron, raising an optic ridge at his bluntness. “Am I that offensive?”

Thundercracker eyed Megatron, clearly taking in his bulk; his lack of wings. He grumbled, “Well, you’re not exactly my type. In fact, you’re the furthest thing imaginable…”

“I understand,” said Megatron, unsurprised, but still a little sore at being turned down so harshly after overloading him not a minute ago. “But I expect you’ll be demanding my attention soon, regardless.”

“I doubt it.”

“Believe what you like.” Megatron murmured, patting Thundercracker’s rear as he stood.

Thundercracker’s face colored prettily. “I can’t go back out like this,” he muttered, wiping at the lubricant painting his thighs. It was still dripping out of him, thick and copious, seeping into his joints. 

“I agree,” said Megatron, with a sigh. They’d had enough scandal for one day.

Thundercracker spent the trip back to the palace cleaning up his plating with a soft cloth, and refused any help from Megatron. The overload had calmed him, and his demeanor was completely stoic as they unboarded the transport.

His optics however, were heated and contemplative. Something had been stirred within him. 

This rejection was best taken in stride for now, Megatron thought. Thundercracker was fastidious, but there was no chance that would last beyond tonight. A mech given his first taste of interface could only deny his urges for so long. 

Chapter Text

Starscream spent the morning stewing over Megatron and Skywarp, in turns. 

He’d holed himself up in his office with the intention of planning the gladiator event, but was too riled up from the nonsense with Skywarp earlier.

In a fit of disdainful curiosity, he’d downloaded some recordings of Megatron’s old gladiatorial fights, curious to know exactly what Megatron would be teaching Skywarp all cycle long. Honestly, was Megatron even as powerful as he was alleged to be?

Up to this point, Starscream had gone off of rumors about Megatron’s reputed dominance in the gladiatorial arenas. Disregarding the various occasions where Megatron had, er, wrestled him down, he’d never personally seen him fight, and didn't know anything about grounder combat. He’d written off whatever ‘technique’ Megatron might possess as boorish tussling, and thus beneath his purview.

So really, how was he supposed to have known that these grounder bouts didn’t always involve uncouth grappling and punchouts? In the videos, Megatron often made use of a sword–rather elegantly, in fact. 

Swordplay was a perfectly respectable form of combat in Vos, one Starscream was likewise skilled in, and he’d squandered his chance to practice with him, like a fool. Furthermore, due to his oversight, Skywarp had managed to park himself directly under Megatron’s nose and declare him his exclusive sparring partner for the foreseeable future. 

Starscream ground his denta. Naturally, he hadn’t made a career out of combat like Megatron, but his skills were admirable. Vosians came from a lineage of warriors and retained some traditions. Wouldn’t Megatron have known that and thought to approach him- the heir- first to spar? The idiot!

No… more likely, Megatron didn't realize he could fight at all. He was hired as his bodyguard. But that was only so he could absorb murder attempts directed at Starscream... or fight off street thugs. Or bandits. A prince shouldn't be going around getting his hands dirty. Starscream could defend himself- quite well!- if he were so inclined. But Megatron didn't know that.

Therein lay the issue– of course Megatron would prefer to spar with Skywarp, when he’d only seen Skywarp’s pathetic skills and none of Starscream’s. 

Truthfully, Starscream hadn’t even practiced with the sword or in the air since he’d gotten engaged to Airbright. Since he wouldn't be participating in a claiming flight ever again, he saw little reason to continue training regularly.

Still, the recordings of Megatron's fights were intriguing, and he’d found himself watching one after the other. Once he had gotten a measure of Megatron’s skill, he’d immediately tried to find matches where he’d faced fliers, of which there were surprisingly few.

He watched Megatron onscreen step into his swing as his opponent swooped low, neatly slicing off one of his ailerons. 

He rewound the video, in awe of Megatron’s discipline and practiced brutality. His attacks weren’t easy to predict, but Starscream thought an agile opponent could outpace him. Especially one who could fly.

This was not the case for the jet onscreen, who was slow and ungainly. Far more rugged than Starscream. Probably a soldier. No surprise when the fight ended with Megatron hauling him to the ground, tossing his sword aside and putting a fist through his spark chamber. 

I could have dodged, thought Starscream, while the cheers of the crowd echoed tinnily out of the speakers. He was much faster, and Megatron hadn't fought many fliers, putting Starscream at an advantage. He rewound the video again, slowing it down to study Megatron’s stance just before he landed the hit with the sword. The angle of his arm, the look in his optics. Stoic though he might be, he did have certain tells, which could benefit–

Halfway through that thought, Starscream paused the video and leant back in his seat. 

He’d caught himself doing something he hadn’t done in ages: sizing up an opponent. Studying Megatron’s moves, as he would a suitor he’d be challenging. Trying to find his weak points, so he could win in a match.

Treating him like they were courting. 

Starscream stood abruptly and shut off the screen. Nary a loss in his thousands of matches, Megatron really was undefeated. A champion. Forget that he was a grounder, Starscream could see his immense skill for what it was. And he was impressed.

A mate was supposed to be able to catch him in the air, through a demonstration of skill in flight, but Starscream was more than willing to waive that point, considering how much of a menace Megatron was on the ground. 

Was it wise to feel this amount of impulsiveness towards Megatron? This serious desire to challenge him for the right to be Starscream’s mate? A marriage as the end goal was out of the question, yet watching Megatron tear apart rival gladiators made Starscream’s spark pound with foolish excitement. He couldn’t really blame himself… this was how he was raised. 

It was admired, nay, essential for any Vosian of good breeding to be able to fly well. But there was also a strong admiration of fighting skill. This was mostly focused on combat with the sword than the clumsy, rugged brutality of grounder tussles, but Vosians nonetheless enjoyed a fight heartily. 

His pride as a seeker and as the heir of Vos relied on securing a mate as strong as he was.

He was sure, on some level, Megatron felt the same. Tarnish mechs naturally valued a strong partner, and the many Flights Starscream had dominated in years prior defined his status as heir as much as his actual title did. They’d be natural opponents. An excellent matchup.

Starscream was undefeated in flight, but Megatron hadn’t seen a demonstration of that either. Perhaps it was time to change that.

It wouldn't be a proper trining flight, obviously, but perhaps a match between them at the Games. Yes, that would give him an excuse to face Megatron. For the sake of his pride, at least, he wanted to see if Megatron could defeat him. Primus knew no one else could, around here. Flying, on its own, had gotten dull, with no real competition. Instead, he could push his limits on the ground, combining all the skills he had at his disposal, including flight, to face off against Megatron.

Or maybe this was all a silly fantasy. What exactly was his endgame here? If not marriage, then... what was the point of competing? Dominance alone over Megatron wasn't going to satisfy him.

Starscream groaned, rubbing his optics. The office door creaked open and he was pulled from his thoughts. “What? What is it?” he grumbled.

His chamberlain poked his helm in. “They’ve returned, Your Highness.”

“What? Already?” Starscream had almost forgotten– he’d asked to be notified as soon as Megatron returned from his outing with Thundercracker. “Why so soon?”

“I believe they experienced some… difficulties with the weather.”  

“I see. Come with me.” Starscream pushed past his servant, who trailed behind him as they exited to the palace foyer.

Primus, Thundercracker was hopeless. He’d better not have killed Megatron for real this time. As he got closer to the entrance, he heard squabbling. 

“I told you I wouldn't,” said Thundercracker, the words almost inaudible in the cool rumble of his voice.

“I don't want to hear it!” the Winglord shouted back. 

Starscream arrived just in time to see Thundercracker lead off by a trio of guards, most likely to be sequestered in his room again. 

“Big surprise– Thundercracker didn't put out,” Starscream heard Skywarp say loudly. “Can we train now?” 

Starscream stopped in the hallway, just out of sight, craning his neck around the wall until he could see the Winglord, Megatron and Skywarp standing together in a little circle. 

Well. Thundercracker didn’t murder Megatron, but Starscream was kind of wishing he had now, considering the way he had his arm around Skywarp’s waist.

“I expect better results from you two!” the Winglord snapped at Megatron. “He’d better perform flawlessly in the Flights.”

“Yes, Winglord,” said Megatron, and bowed, looking a bit apprehensive. 

Skywarp snickered as the Winglord stormed away. “He doesn’t mean that.”

“Planning to slack off?” asked Megatron, pulling at Skywarp’s wing. Skywarp snickered harder.

“Laugh it up. I’m not going easy on you."

“That’s not it. That tickles." Skywarp giggled and tried to bat him off.

“A weak point, hm?” Megatron led him along by his wing. Rebuffed by Thundercracker, he was apparently going to relieve his stress with Skywarp. Rub his wings right out in the open, while looking at him with the same hunger that should be reserved for Starscream. So that’s how he acted when he wasn’t around.

“You dirty old mech!” shouted Starscream, storming up to them.

“Yeesh!” exclaimed Skywarp, startling. “Don't sneak up like that.”

Starscream jabbed a finger in Megatron’s befuddled face. “You couldn’t wait to get your hands all over a pair of wings. You have no standards at all.”

“Ya know he’s allowed to do this with me?” Skywarp pointed out. “And what do you mean, standards? Are you still mad about being like… less fertile than me or whatever?”

“Silence! I hate to see him waste his time on a lost cause.”

“Respectfully, Your Highness, I think Skywarp–” Megatron started.

“Don’t you “Respectfully, Your Highness” me! I know what you think of him!” hissed Starscream. “Both of you, come along. I’ll demonstrate some real skill against Skywarp. And you can watch, Megatron."

“Wait,” said Skywarp. “You mean like... you’re gonna fight me?”

Starscream hadn’t planned to suggest it, but he knew he couldn’t let this arrangement between Megatron and his brother stand any longer. “You both were going to slack off anyway. Why not actually practice?”

“Yeah, I’m gonna pass,” said Skywarp. “You just want an excuse to beat me up.” He clung to Megatron’s arm. “Megatron, wouldn’t you rather have fun with me than watch some boring duel?”

Starscream fixed a glare at Megatron, daring him to say yes. 

“I’d like to watch Starscream,” said Megatron immediately, which took Starscream by surprise. Not his immediacy, but the confidence with which he said it. He had this half-smirk on his face as he leered at him, like he was amused by the proposal. 

Show me what you’ve got, he seemed to be goading. How intriguing.

“Good!” said Starscream. He turned away and grinned. He couldn’t help feeling fired up by Megatron’s rather smug interest. Megatron couldn't fathom the complete and utter dominance he was about to witness. 

Starscream led the way to the area that the royalty used to practice swordplay. It was smaller and more distinguished-looking than the fields outside the barracks. White columns ringed the small arena, with shaded stands lining the perimeter. A layer of fine, glittering sand demarcated the circular pit in the center.

And Slipstream was standing right in the middle of it.

Fragging Slipstream was already occupying the field, practicing drills. 

As Starscream approached, it only got worse. Airbright was seated in the stands with some of his associates, all of them drinking high grade and pretending like they weren't just there to ogle Slipstream. Likewise quite inebriated, sitting slightly apart from Airbright’s group, were two over decorated femmes with pearlescent plating. By the sigils on their wingtips, Starscream assumed they were with Slipstream. Probably some insufferable young heiresses with more money than class. They both had the same perverted, glazed look in their optics as the old mechs beside them.

Slipstream always had a variety of lovestruck idiots panting after her, though she only gave the time of day to the useful ones. Starscream could only imagine what this clearly strategic scene was intended to accomplish for her.

Slipstream made a face when she saw him. “Oh. You’re here.”

“Do you really need an audience when you train? Who even are... those?” he asked, well within hearing range of her… groupies, who straightened up self-consciously, jewelry clacking.

Slipstream’s viperous expression didn’t waver even slightly. “Those are my honored guests. Be nice.”

“Oh, are they?” Starscream folded his arms. “You’ve had a busy day. Taking a break to fiddle some models after a long morning of harassing my brother?”

She chuckled. “Now, what is that supposed to mean?”

“Don’t think I don’t notice how you move.”

“You have an incomprehensible sense of humor, Starscream.”

“May I train here? Or will that disrupt whatever agenda it is you have going?” he asked, motioning at her comrades. 

Unmoved, she glanced between him and Skywarp, who’d wandered up while they were talking. “You’re training with him?” she asked.

“Obviously,” said Starscream.

Slipstream made an inscrutable humming noise. “I’ll spar with you.” She gestured flippantly in Skywarp’s general direction. “That one isn’t on your level.”

“Uhh, ‘that one’ has a name,” scoffed Skywarp. 

“I agree, he’s not,” said Starscream, ignoring Skywarp’s petulant comment. “But–”

“But?” Slipstream echoed, slyly arching an optic ridge.

Starscream clenched his jaw. This annoying bitch. How to explain that he had to fight Skywarp as a display of dominance, but also phrase it in a way that didn’t sound insecure?

It wasn’t like he could turn her down, now that she’d–correctly– assessed she was a better match for him. More than a match.

The more pressing issue was that Slipstream was actually extremely good at wielding a sword. Camien nobility trained far more intensely with the blade, which gave her a unique and specific advantage in exactly the situation Starscream did not want her to have an advantage over him. Against Skywarp, his was a guaranteed victory. Against Slipstream… less certain. 

“But nothing. Let’s go.” Starscream tried to keep the tenuousness out of his voice, but he’d hesitated too long, and she honed in on his uncertainty. 

“Well. Only if you’re sure,” she said, readjusting her grip on her weapon. “I heard you haven’t come out here to practice in a long time.”

“Let’s start!” he snarled, yanking a sword from the rack beside her before she could ruin his day further.

He risked a backwards glance at Megatron to gauge his mood, which turned out to be a mistake. When he returned his attention to Slipstream, she’d picked up on his intent. She gave him a smile that promised she’d do her utmost to humiliate him. 

Starscream gripped the hilt of his sword tightly. He encouraged her to try. 

—

“That’s against the rules!” screeched Starscream, scrabbling in the sand, trying to flip himself upright. He’d ended up on the ground after she tripped him. She had a heel between his wings and wasn’t letting him up.

“I’ll have to go easier on you next time,” she said boredly.

“No! You don’t! You aren’t following the rules of a duel! I–” He paused his tirade as he caught sight of Megatron and Skywarp over in the stands. They were facing away, chatting with each other and not looking at him.  

“Hey! Pay attention!” he shrieked, kicking his way out from under Slipstream’s thruster.” I’m not finished!”

“No. We’re done here,” said Slipstream. “I’m calling it.”

Just as Starscream got to his feet, she knocked him on the backside with the flat of her sword. The clang reverberated embarrassingly loudly, and Starscream was pushed off balance, landing face down in the sand once again.

“Great, is it finally over?” Skywarp hopped up from the stands and stretched. “Gotta hand it to ya, Screamer, that was more entertaining than I thought it’d be. Let’s go, Megatron.”

As he was led away, Megatron wore an amused expression, accompanied by a sympathetic smile that made Starscream want to bury himself in a hole.

Sympathy! He was making fun of him. How dare he look at him like that.

Little did he know… relegated to fighting only on the ground, Starscream was far from his full potential. If he were flying, Slipstream wouldn’t stand a chance. But by the time Starscream stumbled back up and brushed himself off, they were already gone.

“Once more?” asked Slipstream drolly, sensing his intent.

“Fuck off,” said Starscream. He threw his sword on the ground and stomped over to where Airbright was sitting. He needed a drink. 

“Beautiful, beautiful match…” called Airbright from the stands, drunkenly raising his glass to them.

“Isn’t he the worst?” Slipstream muttered, following Starscream over. 

Starscream plopped himself down next to his annoying fiance, squinting– Airbright’s gold plating was even gaudier than usual in the sunlight. For a change, he wasn’t even looking at Starscream, instead fixated on the scene of Slipstream being fawned over by her horny comrades. At least his interest had shifted. Starscream would be more than willing to have Slipstream bear the brunt of his attention. 

Starscream paused, tapping a claw against the stem of his glass in thought.

A terrible plot had just come to him. Borne partly out of rage, and partly out of selfishness, he absolutely had to enact it.

“You know, Slipstream…” he began, pouring himself some high grade, “...And Airbright. I’ve been thinking about the terms of our trining lately.”

“Mhm?” she hummed disinterestedly, accepting a drink from one of the femmes. Starscream waited for her to take a sip before he continued.

“Yes. When the time comes… I want you to be the carrier for our trine.”

Her reaction didn’t disappoint. She choked, but managed to recover, a trail of highgrade sliding down her chin. “Oh–” She cleared her intake. “The privilege of that goes to the highest ranked among us. Our …trine leader,” she said, enunciating ‘leader’ like it pained her to do it, as she gestured at Starscream.

“Right, but I’m bestowing that honor on you. Such a strong mech would be the obvious choice to be the carrier.”

“I thought the sparking arrangements had already been arranged, ” she said tightly.

“Yes, but as trine leader I feel quite confident in making this call. Airbright is already… well-acquainted with me. I think it’ll strengthen our mutual bond if you also spend plenty of time mating with him.”

“I see.”

“I think it’s a splendid idea,” said Airbright, adding nothing to the conversation. But he did reach across Starscream’s lap to pat her on the knee.

Watching her struggle to keep a straight face as Airbright got handsy was all the entertainment Starscream could ever want. 

“Ravishing, my dear,” said Airbright, truly oblivious to her ire. He nudged Starscream, motioning at Slipstream. “A live wire, this one…”

“Oh, I agree,” said Starscream smoothly. He couldn’t wait to see her try to squirm her way out of this one.

As he rose and strolled away, he felt Slipstream train a seething glare at his back. 

He was feeling a little better already.

Chapter Text

Megatron approached the Vosian army’s training field with Skywarp, in a strange mood. Amusement, along with a vague sense of resignation, had settled over him. 

The amusement, at least, was in no small part due to Starscream’s little performance earlier. Though Starscream’s skill with a blade left much to be desired, his determination to show off for him, in a combat style familiar to Megatron, was charming beyond words. If nothing else, the display proved he held Megatron in higher regard than he would deign to admit. His obvious jealousy of Skywarp and desire to dominate him was cute as well, even if it made Megatron a little concerned for Skywarp’s well-being.

Not everyone takes dominance so seriously, Megatron thought grimly, casting a glance at Skywarp strolling next to him. “Thugs in a bar”, Skywarp had said, neglecting to mention he’d been challenged by two of the most formidable warriors in Vos for his hand in marriage. 

Megatron was familiar with this duo of generals. He’d first seen them at the Winglord’s council meeting where it was decided he’d be the princes’ sire. Ramjet– a bulky military jet with bold, white plating– was the general who’d suggested using Megatron as a stud for the army. Dirge was beside him, looking grim and gloomy in all black. Megatron didn’t have a high opinion of either of them, and understood Skywarp’s reluctance to trine them. They weren’t especially known for their looks or glowing personalities.

But that was neither here nor there. Megatron couldn’t speak to their combat or flight skills, but they likely weren’t generals for nothing. Vos’ military titles weren’t purely ornamental. 

Still, he assumed Skywarp would have a good shot at winning. Skywarp might be young, having just reached the age of majority, but could hardly be considered a novice in flight. As a prince of Vos, he’d been given all the tutelage and resources one could want, and had spent the length of this courting “season”, as it was called, in preparation to bond with a trine. Though he’d shirked many of the season’s social events in favor of making his own fun, he hadn’t neglected his training. With any luck, things would come together in his favor.

“Now, then,” said Megatron, once they had cleared a space to practice.  “Let’s start with flying drills. I’ll study your technique. We’ll establish a baseline and see where you’re at.”

Skywarp looked skeptical. “Honestly, I’m not expecting much from you in the... flying department.”

“Don’t be so sure. I’ve fought my share of fliers. And won.”

Skywarp cocked a brow ridge disbelievingly. “You haven’t seen these guys fly.”

“That’s the next step– to study the moves of your opponents and learn as much about your matchup as possible.”

“Actually, lemme show you something first.” Skywarp opened a port on his wrist, offering it to Megatron to plug in. “I’ve got a clip of them goin’ all out. Might be good to give you some context on what the Flights look like, too.”

The Flights– which Megatron understood as Vos’ traditional matchmaking ceremonies– were often broadcasted to the public, but he hadn’t watched one. More than the logistics of the match, he was interested in witnessing a trio of powerful Vosians going full throttle. Skywarp located the clip of the broadcast and played it.

The holovid opened on a perfectly clear sky. Brilliant sun dazzled a massive arena, which was packed with onlookers. The scene reminded Megatron of the Pits. The trappings were different– more glamorous– but the spectacle was the same. A low roar of jet engines in the distance indicated the competition had already started. 

The roar came closer until it was deafening, and several blurs of color shot past the frame. Megatron wasn't sure who he was looking at until they moved some distance from the lens, climbing higher into the sky. He recognized Ramjet in grayish-white, and Dirge in stark black, as well as a jet with a familiar red-and-ivory paint job leading the pack. Or rather, being pursued by it.

Starscream pulled ahead of the rest, widening the distance dramatically in a few kliks. He banked, doing a showy little corkscrew before doubling back and streaking past his pursuers. 

A lick of excitement ignited in Megatron’s spark. Ever since Skywarp mentioned Starscream was Vos’ undefeated champion flier, the information hadn't quite settled in his mind. His interest had only grown stronger when Starscream confirmed the same this morning. Starscream certainly had the ego of a champion, but Megatron wanted to see him back up his statement. And if Starscream was allegedly that good in the air, where did that place his top competition? 

From the looks of it, in the back, eating his dust.

Starscream came back around, transforming to root mode to make a series of rude hand gestures behind him, at his pursuers. Sunlight flashed off his white plating, highlighting the fiery slashes of crimson across his wings. Even at a distance, his delight at commanding the attention of the crowd was palpable. He was gloating, to be precise, but was the happiest Megatron had ever seen him.

He skimmed the edge of the stands, the wake of his jetstream flinging away anything not bolted down. Ramjet and Dirge roared by moments later, their larger wakes ripping through the crowd. Drinks were knocked askew, jewels and draperies flung off as they shot past, whipping the nobility into a frenzy. All of Vos’ aristocracy rose to their feet, leaning out of the stands to cheer on the chase.

Megatron was tempted to cheer with them. Starscream was unbelievably fast, and– save for his little interludes to taunt – flawless and nearly unpredictable in his movements. 

The chase ascended, the group accelerating further into the sky. Camera drones placed at various altitude markers followed the action intently, broadcasting it onto the huge arena screens for the crowd below. There was a succession of pops– gunfire, Megatron realized– and a spray of tiny objects crackling with energy whizzed past Starscream, who banked tightly to avoid them. 

“Stun bullets?” asked Megatron incredulously. Like the name implied, they were intended to stun and not maim, but were completely disabling if a mech was hit by a cluster. Megatron could personally attest to that.

Skywarp snickered. “Oh, yeah. The Winglord lost his mind when they whipped those out. In case you hadn’t noticed, Starscream’s dainty. If he got tagged with one of those, he’d go down like a lead weight.”

“Fifty-thousand feet in the air,” noted Megatron soberly.

“That ain’t even the strongest stuff they have.” Skywarp pointed at the screen, indicating various parts of Ramjet and Dirge’s frames. “Bombs, air-to-air missiles, regular bullets…” 

“That’s all allowed?”

“It’s not… not allowed,” said Skywarp, shrugging. “For soldiers like them, and in the lower classes, it’s pretty common to use weapons in courting flights, ‘cause their armor can take it. But for us nobility, using brute force is kinda looked down on. Our Flights are more about outmaneuvering to tag your mate.”

“I see,” said Megatron. Avoidance would be the play here. He was very much aware that Skywarp was just as dainty as Starscream, and simply wouldn’t be absorbing any missile attacks . Even stun bullets would rip through his delicate wings like they were made of… well, aluminum.

“Take it easy,” said Skywarp, patting his arm. “We keep it non-lethal around here. Their goal’s to catch me, not blow me up.”

The camera panned out, showing the group beginning to separate. The other pairs of slim, shiny-plated fliers scattered as Dirge corralled them away, firing on them (also with stun bullets, Megatron noted with some relief). They fled from the attack, knowing they had no chance of withstanding it. None were as lucky as Starscream, and all sustained hits.

While Starscream’s other rivals were busy getting decimated by a warbuild, Ramjet pursued Starscream alone. With the hot, cloudless sky as their backdrop, Starscream had nowhere to hide, and was burning through fuel rapidly with every klik he maintained his blistering speed. With his smaller tanks he wouldn’t outlast a warframe, meaning the outcome of the flight depended entirely on his agility.

Starscream’s wings twitched and dipped in a thousand micro adjustments every moment. It seemed like he was trying to maneuver to get behind Ramjet while keeping out of the sights of his targeting module. Ramjet fired his afterburner, closing the distance rapidly, and there was no time for Starscream to shift to a more favorable position. Ramjet gained on him, looming on his tail.

With milliseconds to spare, Starscream cut his thrusters, rolling to the side, and Ramjet shot past. Starscream rolled back over and opened fire.

A spray of bullets– real, this time– pockmarked Ramjet’s wing, riddling the auxiliary fuel tank there with holes. Starscream pulled up, spiraling off into the atmosphere, while Ramjet wobbled erratically, fuel splashing out. He eventually lost control as his wing caught fire, and was forced to land, which disqualified Dirge too. 

A buzzer blared, announcing the end of the match, as all other challengers seemed to have been disqualified as well. Starscream was the only mech left, and he knew it. While his unsuccessful suitors flew shakily back to the arena, he started doing tricks– corkscrews and tight loops. Then he did a victory lap. And another. His cockiness only inflamed the crowd, whose thunderous applause could be heard even at the high altitude.

Megatron was insuppressibly fired up, just watching him. Despite his own skill in combat– with blades, with guns, and with his fists– flight was a domain out of his reach. It was strangely enthralling to feel completely out of his depth, watching a master of the skies dominate. 

A strong curl of possessiveness gripped his spark. His optics lingered on the breadth of Starscream’s wings as he fluttered around languidly, taking his time to bask in the attention from his victory. This show of vanity was not just to appeal to the crowd, but to torment and excite potential suitors, inviting them to try and catch him next time.

Megatron now understood the appeal of trining flights. The thrilling chase, the brushes with danger, and the eventual capture of a mate. And afterwards, the ‘claiming’. From the mouths of various guards, Megatron had been subjected to bawdy retellings of these public couplings intended to establish a new trine. 

What would it be like, to be the mech that knocked Starscream out of the sky and claimed him publicly? Wrestling him down, his pretty frame hot with exertion… Starscream would be seething that he hadn’t been fast enough, but the pleasure of having met his match would soon overcome him, and he’d–

Megatron cut that train of thought off. This was an inappropriate way to think about the prince. He should not dwell on that fantasy, and certainly shouldn’t entertain the lusty, competitive urge that had risen in him to pursue and capture. And yet it was so tantalizing a prospect, he couldn’t abandon the thought. Perhaps there was no real harm in dwelling on it. A fantasy was just that, and nothing more. 

Skywarp waved a hand in front of his face. “Anyone in there? You're spacing out.”

Megatron shook himself, realizing Skywarp had turned the clip off.

“Too much excitement for ya, old mech?”

“No. I got a good impression.”

“Yeah,” said Skywarp, his mouth twisting up in mirth. “A good impression of Starscream’s aft.”

“No, I was–”

“Yeah, yeah. Here.” Skywarp pulled a gun from his subspace and handed it to him.

“You want me to shoot at you?” asked Megatron.

“They’re just paint bullets. Try to tag me.” Skywarp tossed a cartridge at him. “Wings are ten points. Aft is twenty.” With a wiggle of his rear end, he took off.

Megatron loaded the cartridge. To his credit, an idea for a strategy was coming together–  one involving heavy utilization of Skywarp’s impressive teleportation ability. Skywarp’s goal would be to evade and outlast his pursuers. 

He adjusted the sight on the weapon and took aim, but found his mind wandering as Skywarp flitted through the air. As much as he tried to stifle the thought, he couldn’t help but imagine a different seeker between the crosshairs.

—

The back alleys of Vos were not the kind of place a prince should be frequenting, but Skywarp had insisted on coming here after training. Megatron was glad he had– the rowdiness of this bar was a welcome break from the rigid atmosphere of the palace. 

Whenever Megatron was out and about escorting Starscream around Vos’ upper class locales, he would attract stares, as many of the fliers hadn’t physically seen a grounder before. Here, though, the patrons were mostly military and had been up close with mechs like him, even if it was in the context of the ongoing conflicts between Vos and Tarn for the last several millennia. Soldiers he’d made the acquaintance of during his time in the barracks had even tried to invite him to drink with them tonight, but Megatron was on duty. Whether he would have to play guard or chaperone was yet to be determined.

Skywarp’s friends… were not quite what he'd expected. 

When they'd arrived at the bar, Skywarp had been approached by two huge military mechs (towering over Megatron, in the shuttle's case). Megatron had stood in front of the prince protectively before Skywarp cheerfully told him he knew them, and to fuck off. They’d compromised on Megatron keeping an eye on him from a close distance.

To say these two mechs– Astro and Blitz, as Skywarp had casually introduced them– were being overfamiliar with Skywarp was an understatement. Every so often, interspersed with their raucous conversation, they’d pinch at his wings and pat him on the backside. Even if Skywarp was having the time of his life flirting with them, Megatron had been tasked with protecting his reputation. These soldiers were not the kind of suitors appropriate for a mech of his station. 

On the other hand… Megatron watched Skywarp shove at Blitzwing playfully for what must have been the hundredth time that night. Blitzwing responded by slinging an arm around Skywarp’s waist and dragging him close, and Skywarp giggled like it was the funniest thing that had ever happened to him.

Megatron turned around and decided to give them some privacy. 

--

Skywarp had this dreamy look about him when he returned to his side after his "friends" had left. Getting fondled had certainly raised his spirits. He sighed softly and took a seat next to Megatron at the bar. 

Megatron poured him a drink. “What about them?” he asked, chuckling.

“Huh?”

“Did they propose yet?”

Skywarp looked up at him. Megatron expected a sheepish grin at the teasing, but Skywarp’s excitement vanished. He frowned into his glass. “Nah. It’s not like… proper. For anyone of their status to propose to me.” 

Megatron expected as much. Maybe it had been a bad thing to joke about, but Skywarp looked more conflicted than upset. He paused, as if weighing something. “At least, it’s not proper yet. I’ve been trying to wear down the Winglord so he’ll agree to let me trine them.” 

“How so?”

Skywarp leant back in his seat. “I’ve already gotten him to accept that I hang around soldiers, but getting him to let me trine them is another battle. So I’ve been intentionally disappointing him with my suitors. If I only get proposals from unimpressive mechs with nothing to offer, then he won’t expect anything from me. Then I can lower his standards until…”

Megatron nodded.

“Ya see?” Skywarp’s brow knitted. “And it was all going great until last night. This whole strongest-generals-in-Vos-proposing thing has thrown my whole plan off. What if I lose?”

“Well. Ramjet's trine could use your charisma,” said Megatron, knocking him on the shoulder, trying to get him to lighten up.

Skywarp flushed with anger. “Can you take this seriously? I’m in a worse situation than even Starscream. He at least got one hot trinemate. I’m going to have to trine a pair of ugly assholes, and they’re not even titled or rich-rich.” He sagged in his seat. “Or funny.”

Megatron patted him on the back. “Keep your head on, Skywarp. You’ll pull through with a victory as long as you take your training seriously.”

“Oh, shut up. You don’t believe that. You were totally spaced out while we were training today.”

“Your Highness, where’s your confidence? Why don’t you believe in yourself now?”

Skywarp tossed back his drink, wincing in dismay. “I dunno. I’m just nervous, I guess. Trining is forever. A spark bond is broken only in death. I can’t give my spark to Ramjet and Dirge. And let’s be real– I’m nowhere near their level. Starscream barely out-flew them. Like, how am I gonna train up enough right before the Flights? Maybe Starscream was right…” 

“Your Highness,” said Megatron gently, trying to draw him out of his spiraling. “If you're that concerned, maybe you can make an appeal to the Winglord that you’ve reconsidered.”

“An appeal to, what, let me turn them down after I publicly accepted their challenge? I have some pride, you know.”

“It was only a suggestion.”

“I can't believe Cybertron’s most badass gladiator is telling me to pussy out.” Skywarp slumped forward onto the bar, cradling his helm in his hands. “Dammit. I thought you’d have some like, secret ancient battle technique to teach me. You’re my champion mentor. Whip out some clever advice to make it impossible for me to lose. You’re seriously saying to give up?” 

Megatron shrugged. “It’s important to manage your expectations. Take assessment of your foe, and know when to bow out. There may be more pride in that than being defeated.”

“That’s not exactly the advice I want to hear.”

“There’s no simple solution,” Megatron said. “We gladiators did not often have the privilege of choosing our battles. Matches were picked according to what would draw a crowd. Sometimes, the crowd found more sport in a one-sided massacre. I did everything in my power to avoid matches that would end in my pointless deactivation. There’s no honor in being killed like that.”

Skywarp’s mouth twisted, and he glared down at his hands.

“You, however, may have the option to refuse,” Megatron continued. “I’m sure the Winglord doesn’t want to see you humiliated in a fight you can’t win.”

“I will win,” said Skywarp, his tone suddenly bitter and forceful. “I’m not admitting to my sire’s face that I’m too weak. The whole reason I have to win is ‘cause he thinks I’m gonna lose. I’m gonna show him he shouldn’t underestimate me. I’m gonna win, and trine who I want next season.”

“Your Highness…” said Megatron. 

"Take me back to the palace. I need to think." Skywarp hopped up from his seat, agitated. “There’s another way to victory here, I know it.”

Chapter Text

True to his word, the Winglord had Thundercracker locked in his apartment after learning the disastrous outing had resolved in a lack of mating. No one but he and Megatron would be allowed in or out until the deed had been done. This would prevent Thundercracker from “falling prey to unscrupulous attention” while in his “compromised state”, as the Winglord had put it. 

Yet, being imprisoned was the least of Thundercracker’s problems compared to the harrowing situation he’d found himself in immediately after. When Megatron had reported that Thundercracker had suffered complications from being severely overcharged, the Winglord called in the doctor. During the examination, Pharma had not only discovered he’d burned out fuses, but found suppressant in his coding while hardlining. The remaining dose had been confiscated, and the mating schedule set to proceed as normal, now that Thundercracker would be receptive to Megatron’s advances. 

In other words, he was done for. Once the suppressant in his system wore off– sometime that evening, Pharma estimated– Thundercracker would lose his inhibitions and climb on Megatron hormonally like his stupid brothers.

Maybe this outcome was inevitable. The high of asserting some form of control over his frame and what would be done to it had gotten to his head. As royalty, he didn’t often experience such freedom. To represent the state of Vos was to be stifled at every opportunity. In the end, maybe all his resistance had amounted to was making him look petulant. In any case, he didn't have the strength to protest any longer. His heat was becoming oppressive. 

Thundercracker didn’t bother to rise from his prone slump across his berth when he heard his apartment door unlock, joors later. Megatron wasn’t due to show up for a couple of joors more, so it was probably the Winglord, back to scold him more. However, the click of tall, delicate thrusters across the threshold didn’t sound like the Winglord. 

Ugh. Starscream. It wouldn't surprise him if Starscream had made a copy of his room key for some nefarious purpose. Thundercracker wished he could languish in privacy. 

“Starscream,” he growled into the covers, as his berth room door swished open. “What the pit do you want?”

“Starscream?” echoed a voice that was decidedly not his brother’s. 

Thundercracker felt like the bottom had fallen out of his tanks as Slipstream came into view. He sat up, scrambling to appear less miserable and overheated.

“Expecting someone else?” she asked, clearly amused at his reaction.

Thundercracker wavered, poised to… run? No, that was stupid. What should he even do? 

“How did you get in?” he settled on asking, as calmly as he could manage. 

She smiled narrowly and held up a blue card. “You left this with me. I took a wild guess as to what it unlocked.”

Megatron’s copy of his room key. He’d put it on his pile of datapads and forgotten about them in the garden last night when he’d hurried away.

“You also left these. I wanted to return them,” she said, un-subspacing the very same datapads. Her thrusters clicked the ground. Thundercracker nervously watched her come closer. 

She was taking a massive risk, being here. The Winglord wasn’t even allowing guards outside his door at this point. Which could explain why she had such an easy time getting in.

Sneaking into the chambers of the princes, particularly one who was in heat, was taboo beyond measure. The Winglord regularly had mechs kicked off a tower with their wings bound for much less. He probably couldn’t go that far with someone of Slipstream’s status, who had the protection of another state, but at least there’d be an outrageous scandal. Around here, that might actually be worse than death. Slipstream didn’t seem concerned about her appalling breach of decorum, though, as she paused at the side of his berth.

“I heard that the Winglord had locked you up,” she said. “It’s unimaginable that he’d leave one of the princes to suffer his heat alone, without a sire to attend to his needs.” 

“You can’t be here,” said Thundercracker lowly.

“Of course, of course.” Slipstream touched her palm to her forehead like she’d just realized she was doing something wrong. “You’re very upstanding, not wanting to be here alone with your brother’s fiancée. Not that you’d upset Starscream any by doing so.”

“Starscream told me to stay away from you.”

“On what grounds?”

“He said you’re taking advantage of me.”

“Starscream says a lot of things. Most of which are nonsense.”

“Okay, but are you? Why would you go to this length to… you know?”

She smiled. “I don’t know.”

“Don’t play games with me. Why are you really here?” asked Thundercracker.

An undefinable smugness came into Slipstream’s expression. “Let’s just say you're something of a forbidden fruit. The risk makes the reward more delicious.” 

Warmth stung Thundercracker’s cheeks. “Okay, well. I’m not for your, uh, consumption. You've got that right. Only my future trine is allowed to witness my heat.”

“Then I hope you’ll forgive me for taking the opportunity to peek,” she said, lowering herself to sit on the berth next to him. “I thought the Winglord must not be taking that rule very seriously, considering he let you out in public this morning while you were afflicted. Surely that wasn’t an innocent mistake?”

“It was an exception. He was meddling to make me appealing to suitors,” grumbled Thundercracker. “An open invitation to harass me. I didn’t have any hand in it.”

“Poor thing. Of course you didn’t.” She kissed the edge of his throat, dipping a hand between his legs.

“Slipstream,” he growled, stopping her hand against the edge of his pelvic armor. "It wasn't an invitation for you to harass me."

“Are you upset I’m here?” 

“Am I supposed to be grateful you snuck in to ravish me?"

“You’re not?” Her fingers crept inward, sliding along the seam of his panel. A gentle touch was all it took to make it snap open. She teased his soaking petals. "Not even a little?" 

"N-no."

“Let me take care of you.”

Thundercracker tried not to buck into her touch. “I can take care of myself.”

“Yes, and you did that plenty already. I can smell it in the air. But it’s not enough, is it?”

Her fans clicked on, reminding Thundercracker that the room was sweltering from the heat pouring off his frame. The air was blanketed with ozone, and it was only getting worse. As Megatron had warned, self-servicing could only do so much for his charge. And he barely had the strength to do that, anymore. 

“Thundercracker.” She raised a brow ridge matter-of-factly. “You’re burning up.” 

“I’m fine,” he muttered listlessly. Urgent temperature warnings had begun to crowd his HUD. All this sudden talking and movement after joors of lying still was not sitting well with his overheated frame. And her playing with his valve wasn't helping. 

Slipstream delved between his valve lips, deftly working his bud between her tapered fingers. “You aren’t allowed anything to ease your charge?”

“Only Megatron," he panted.

She scoffed. “The Winglord is ruthless. Is he trying to kill you?”

“I’ll be fine.”

“You’re in the middle of your heat, exhausted, and refusing the help of a partner. You're going to get hurt if you don't have the strength to release charge on your own. I can’t leave you like this.” 

“I'm okay...”

But Slipstream was already laying him back. She folded his legs to the sides so they were spread around her hips. Then she pressurized her spike against his valve.

Thundercracker’s forge lurched. Her spike was hot and silky, color-matched to her plating, and ridged along the shaft. A real spike, meant to thrust deep into his–

“This isn’t a good idea,” he said, as she rocked against him. “This is wrong in so many ways.” 

“You can tell me to stop.”

Thundercracker couldn’t bring himself to. He felt like he’d die if she didn't keep going. He sucked in a shaky vent as her shaft spread his walls. After cycles of weathering the effects of his heat, being full of spike felt not only relieving, but necessary. But he had to be cautious. Even if he was frivolously abandoning his morals to get spiked, he still had his sanity. 

“Not too deep,” he said, bracing his hands on her hips to keep her thrusts shallow. His sealed forge was the only thing protecting him from getting sparked. And his reputation depended on no one finding out that he was sealed. 

“Thundercracker,” she coaxed. “You know you won't be satisfied unless I spike your forge.”

“Do I?” His arms trembled with each of her thrusts. 

Slipstream sighed. “I’ll be careful. Getting you sparked would be bad news for both of us.”

“Uh huh,” he choked, as she brushed her spike against a spot on the roof of his valve that made his calipers contract like a vise. His grip loosened, and her spiked tapped his seal. Delicious heat stabbed through his array. He went limp, and she slipped deeper. 

<Charge Input: Detected. Gestation Seal Status: Online> his processor supplied.

“Unhh,” he whimpered. His claws flexed uselessly against her sides.

“See? It took you all of two kliks to give in,” she said, administering further thrusts to the iris. He threw his helm back and moaned. It was over. “And you’re full of surprises,” she continued cheerfully, once it became obvious she couldn't penetrate him any further. “Were you trying to save me the trouble of having to work you open? How thoughtful of you.”

Thundercracker hid his face in his pillow. She sounded completely nonplussed by his virginity. Why was she not surprised? This was so embarrassing. “I’m sorry…”

“Don’t be. I feel more sorry for you, actually. Your seal is proof no one else has had the opportunity to please you like this.”

“What do you mean?”

Her thrusts knocked against his forge, sending shivery vibrations through him. “You understand how this works, don’t you?" she asked. "The seal needs a charge input and an output to open.”

“Output?”

“You’ll see.” The head of her spike made contact with his seal again, striking a charge. Fire licked the back of his valve, making his forge pulse. Quickly, that pulsing came together in a deep, throbbing pleasure. 

Oh. She meant…

The pleasure whelmed so sharply, Thundercracker thought he would be knocked into stasis. Instead, he overloaded. Violently.

The spasms went on and on, full-frame tingles crashing over him as he was relieved of a significant portion of his charge. No thunderbolt accompanying. Thank Primus. 

He came back to reality staring up at the ceiling with tears running down his face. After cycles of not having a fully satisfying overload, the relief was enough to make him sob. 

With his release, there came a peculiar sense of openness. A moment later, his HUD pinged again: <Gestation Receptors: Primed>

Then Slipstream started to pull out.

He grabbed her wrist. “No,” he croaked. “No, no–”

“Settle down. I’m not going anywhere. Turn over.”

“More.”

“You’ll get more. It’ll feel more natural facedown. Nicer.”

He stared blankly, unable to imagine anything nicer than the overload he just had. He wiggled his hips, hoping to entice her to not stop. 

“Thundercracker.” She took his chin to make him focus on her, and not her spike. “Present yourself.”

As soon as he turned over, his coding was delighted to be in a prone position before a potential sire. Without much thought, he raised his hips. Exposing his valve from behind felt wild and liberating.

“Very good,” she said. Her hands came around his waist and held him there.

Thundercracker trembled hard, preparing to be ridden. His thoughts wandered wildly.  This was his first time, and he was mating. This wasn't how things were supposed to happen. This was something only trines were supposed to do with each other. It would be really bad if he got sparked. 

But then she nudged her spike into him, and his fears were suppressed by the more enticing urges of his coding. Now that his forge was open, she could breach it. The sensation of her sliding through that last band of resistance ignited his whole core. He shivered in deep contentment as she seated herself in his chamber.

In a tight burst, she slid free then forced back in. Oh. Gods. Her spike felt much bigger and weightier in this position. 

Thundercracker couldn't wrap his head around the logic of that, but he sure was enjoying the thuddiness at the back of his valve. She wasn't being rough, but this was much more vigorous than his exhausted self-servicing. Each thrust pulsed sensation to his neural circuits until he became delirious. He barely had the presence of mind to push his face into the pillows to stifle his desperate, punched out grunts as she rocked into his deepest part. 

Chills of excitement rushed over Thundercracker as Slipstream’s thrusts grew unrestrained, and her fangs dug into his nape, like she was anchoring herself to spend inside him. 

Overload exploded from him again, and his unhindered cry bounced off the walls. This time, coming felt so much sweeter, as he was pounded to completion. His processor was wiped clean, and for several moments his base coding took over. His calipers flexed and rolled, coaxing her to spend into his awaiting forge.

Instead, her thrusting stuttered, and cold air hit his internals as she pulled out. Warmth coated his valve lips a moment later, in sticky pulses. 

Even though she didn’t finish where she was supposed to, Thundercracker felt immensely calmer. And, gradually, cooler and more coherent. His valve twitched as she traced her glossa through his folds, licking up her transfluid. Even after two hard overloads, he was raring for more, but this felt like she was winding down.

"Hold still," she said, steadying his hips when he rocked them at her, trying to get her to go back to spiking him. "I'm trying to clean you up."

“Is that it?” he asked.

Slipstream pulled back from his valve and dabbed at her mouth. “What do you mean “is that it?”” she asked, amused. “We can’t have a marathon. Mechs are going to start wondering where I went.”

“Oh."

Slipstream sighed. “You’re not going to be fully satisfied until you get sparked. I shouldn’t have to explain why that’s not going to happen.”

Thundercracker grumbled petulantly into the bedspread.

“Don't pout. Where do you keep your polish?” She went over to his bureau without waiting for an answer and rifled through, returning with a tin and a cloth. “Roll over and spread your knees.”

Heaving a sigh, Thundercracker did so, and she started buffing out the incriminating violet paint transfers on his inner thighs. 

“I can’t believe the Winglord is allowing his creations to be neglected by a grounder,” she said. “Each mating session should be followed up by preening. No chance he’s doing that.” 

“Is that what you’re doing? Not cleaning off the evidence?” muttered Thundercracker.

She gave him a narrow look, but her expression softened again after a few moments. “To be honest, even I haven’t preened a lover in a long time.”

Thundercracker guessed that made sense, since she wasn’t exactly trined to mechs she liked. One of the duties of a trine was to keep each other in good condition. The more pristine one was, the more loved they were by their trine, or so the popular wisdom went.

Thinking on this, Thundercracker began to feel self-conscious as she moved to polish his wings. “You don’t have to be so fastidious,” he said, dropping them down so she couldn’t access their breadth.

“Of course I do. A sire should know your body, inside and out.”

“Are you auditioning for the role?” he muttered.

She laughed. “Asking the first mech you sleep with to give you sparklings? You really are a virgin.”

Thundercracker’s cheeks burned. “That’s not how I meant it.”

“I’ll take it as a compliment. Wings up. I’m not done.”

Tentatively, he folded his wings out, and the polishing resumed. Thundercracker couldn't relax into it, though, as a question still weighed on his mind. “This was nice and all, but what am I going to do about Megatron tonight? I don’t have any more suppressant.”

“Who said that?” There was a pause as she rummaged in her subspace, then she dangled a familiar green bottle in front of him. 

Thundercracker took it. “Fine, but this is just one dose. My heat will last for a few more cycles. I’ll need more.”

Slipstream rested her chin on his shoulder. “Are you asking me to risk my life sneaking up here every cycle for the rest of your heat to attend to you?” 

“W-well, there’s a trade, right?” Thundercracker tamped down the flare of excitement at the thought of… this happening daily. “I get the suppressant and you get… y’know. Sex.”

“You don’t also get sex?” she asked, nosing along his jawline.

Thundercracker’s cheeks heated. “Yeah. But it’s whatever.”

“Just ‘whatever’, hm?” she tutted. “I’ll have to try harder.”

“Look, forget it.”

“No, Thundercracker. Ask me directly what you want.”

Thundercracker hesitated, wondering if this was truly a good idea. Did he have any other choice? More importantly, could they really get away with this? “It’s... fine if you come back. Every cycle until my heat is over. If you want.”

“You have such a way with words,” she said, pulling back. “I’m finished.”

“Oh. Thanks.”

Thundercracker took the polishing cloth from her. She pecked him on the cheek, before showing herself out as swiftly as she’d come. Feeling thrown a bit off kilter, Thundercracker listened to the click of her heels recede.

As soon as he heard the door slide shut, Thundercracker slumped flat to the berth and clutched a pillow over his face, groaning with embarrassment. Turning his helm, he stole a glimpse of himself in his mirror on his bureau. His spark fluttered at the sight of his every surface glowing with polish, and could only wonder what she really meant by all of this. He couldn’t shake the feeling that he’d inadvertently gotten caught up in some greater scheme. 

Chapter Text

Recharge didn’t come easily for Starscream that night. The covers kept getting tangled in his seams, his wings ached for whatever reason, and no position would suit his ever-widening middle. After a fitful defrag, he jerked straight up in berth with the sense that his frame had grown more cumbersome than the night before. 

Tenuously, he looked down at himself, and stifled a yelp. Springing out of the berth, he hurried over to his dressing table. In the mirror, his worst fear was confirmed.

He was round. His forge had expanded to twice its previous size, preparing for the budding ova to become encased in shells. Inexplicably right on schedule, he’d entered the final stage of carrying. He’d be due in mere cycles.

A restrictive diet of nothing but three calcium wafers a cycle, washed down with the strongest triple-refined he could get his hands on, should have been enough to impede the growth. He’d starved himself for most of his carrying, just to be rewarded with this.

…Well. Starved himself of everything but transfluid. 

He hadn't mustered the willpower to skip even a day of mating with Megatron. Last night, they had gone so many rounds, it was rather impressive. So much for holding back.

Now that his waist had grown round enough as to be completely incongruous with his brothers’, one thing was certain: he could not attend court looking like this.   His valet, who would be coming in with the usual parade of servants to get him ready for the day, also could not see him like this– lest he report his condition to the Winglord. Megatron especially couldn’t see him like this. One look at how far along he was and he would flee Vos at the first opportunity. He’d chivalrously act like he wouldn’t abandon him, but in the end, he would run. 

At least, that’s what Starscream would do, in his place. Megatron’s position as royal sire was mostly a title. He had no real power, and therefore had no recourse if he invoked the Winglord’s murderous wrath for getting him prematurely sparked. Surely Megatron had taken this into consideration on his own. 

The idea of Megatron planning an escape bothered Starscream more than words could describe. He refused to seriously consider this outcome– the worst outcome. Megatron wouldn't leave him. Everything would be fine, because he would hide the extent of his pregnancy.

Starscream sat down at his dressing table to think. In Vos, it had always been in vogue to have a waist like an arrow. He was intimately familiar with trimming his abdominal armor to achieve the desired effect, though this type of modification wasn't particularly safe. He’d seen a number of incidents where mechs had gone down– sometimes in the air– after something vital was blocked by the pressure around their chassis. 

But it would take more than a pinched fuel line to make him topple. He’d borne the discomfort before for the sake of appearances, and he wasn’t stopping now.

He ran his hands over his middle. While carrying, there was a limit to how much he could… tighten up. His fuselage was designed to fold outward to let his forge expand, but there was no way to command it to retract until after birth, as that would be hazardous to the eggs. He’d have to manually winch his substructure in until it pushed his clutch nearly flat.

He could not do this alone, but had few options to ask to lend a pair of hands. Maybe Thundercracker? 

Yes. Thundercracker, surely, would not betray his secret. Besides, he owed him a favor for the suppressant.

Scrounging up the requisite tools and a copy of Thundercracker’s door key he’d secretly made a while ago, Starscream snuck out into the hall. Creeping over to Thundercracker’s apartment, he was greeted by the sight of a brand new bolt welded to the door, which seemed excessive. Another of the Winglord's security measures, no doubt. The Winglord had impressed sternly upon him and Skywarp that they were not to go in until Thundercracker’s heat was over– an order all of them knew would be completely ignored. 

After shoving the bolt aside, Starscream pulled out his access card. He brought it to the panel, and was startled by a vop and a purple flash of light next to him. 

Skywarp gracelessly fell out of his teleportation sequence, stumbling across the floor when he landed like he’d had a running start. 

“What the fuck?” exclaimed Starscream. The curse had barely left his mouth before a violent thud resounded against the other side of the door. Starscream yelped, his access card slipping from his hand and clattering to the floor. “What the fuck?” he asked more insistently, backing away from the door. The sounds of fierce pounding and scraping followed, like Thundercracker was trying to tear it down. 

Skywarp dropped his hands at his sides, flexing his claws in a nervous gesture. A bright line of energon seeped from a scratch in his forearm.

For a few more tense moments, scratching noises rasped out. Then they ceased, and silence fell on the other side of the door. Thruster heels clicked away, as Thundercracker receded into his room.

A nervous giggle burst from Skywarp. “I wouldn't go in there.”

“What were you doing in there?” snapped Starscream. “Aside from provoking him?”

“I wasn’t! He’s acting weird,” whined Skywarp. “He called me and said he couldn’t recharge and begged me to watch the new season of Passions of a Gentlemech with him. I know, gag. But I show up anyway and he’s laying there sighing like, “Ohhh, Lord Steelbrooke would treat me right.””

“That’s not weird,” said Starscream. “I mean, it is, but he acts like that normally.”

“That’s not the weird part! He sounded real calm over comms. But when I got close, he attacked me.” Skywarp poked at the slash on his arm. “Guess he’s getting territorial.”

“What do you mean, territorial? Megatron isn’t around.” 

“Yeah, but this far into heat, he can smell we’re sparked by him. It’s probably starting to make him cranky, since he hasn't mated for so long.”

Starscream frowned. “You’re saying he developed the culling instinct?”

Skywarp shrugged. “We’re rival carriers. He wants to cut down the competition.” He drew a claw across his throat and mimicked a death rattle.

“But we’re family. He shouldn’t see us as threats.”

“I dunno if that matters. It’s a last resort kinda thing to draw the sire’s attention away from other mates, right?”

"Right..."

Damn it, thought Starscream, backing further from the door. The Winglord’s overly cautious measures to keep them out of Thundercracker’s room made more sense now. But if Thundercracker was indisposed, what was he supposed to do about his own problem?

Starscream started back to his room, but Skywarp stepped in front of him, blocking his escape with a sly grin. “Why are you here?”

“None of your business.” Starscream edged past him, hunched over. 

“Whatcha got there?” Skywarp grabbed his arm as he tried to sneak away. "Lemme see!"

“Skywarp!” Starscream snarled as his brother yanked his armful of tools aside, from where they were hiding his middle.

Skywarp’s optics went wide. His smile faded as Starscream’s… problem was revealed. “Whoa!” he exclaimed at Starscream’s abdomen. “You’re– you’re really. Wow.”

“Not a word."

“I see the issue. But I don't get why you went to Thundercracker. I'm the one who knows Megs got you sparked way back-”

"Shh!" hissed Starscream, shoving a hand over his mouth. "You don't know anything! You just suspect. And you have a big mouth. That's why."

"I kept it quiet this long," said Skywarp, muffled under his palm. "So are you gonna let me help, or what?"

Starscream sighed heavily, realizing he had no other choice. “Come with me.”

__

Starscream stood sideways in front of his mirror, glaring at his middle as Skywarp riveted a new sheet of aluminum around it. The rivet gun stamped against his side, the metal creaked, and Starscream bit back a snarl of pain as his protoform was winched in tightly. The effect was not to his liking. A swell remained in the plating around his middle, though not as obvious as before. 

“Tighter.”

“Screamer, If I tighten it anymore, you’ll pop a seam and take someone’s optic out with a rivet. And I’m gonna laugh at you.”

“This isn’t working,” said Starscream, glaring at the bump. “Take that plating off and cut it down. We need to redo it all.”

“The metal’s gonna shear if I cut it any smaller. It needs room to expand from the heat from like… y’know, moving.”

“I’ll be shooting the breeze in court, not flying formations, dumbaft, it’s not going to get that hot.”

“Whatever.” Skywarp held the rivet gun up again. Concern flickered across his face. “So are you sure?”

“That plating is triple reinforced! I’ll break before it does!” screeched Starscream. “Just do it!”

“You really have no protective instinct.”

“Keeping this clutch hidden is my protective instinct!”

“Yeah. Yeah, okay. I got it,” said Skywarp quietly, and got to work undoing the plating. He fell silent after that, as if the weight of Starscream’s situation had fallen on him.

Considering even Skywarp was hesitating at the precarity of the task, Starscream was beginning to wonder if Thundercracker would have agreed to do this for him. Even steeling himself to undergo this was difficult. It was taking a lot to ignore the bright red crush warnings on his HUD, but he persevered.

Gradually, his waist narrowed to an acceptable dimension, the seams drawing together around his protoform as Skywarp drove the rivets in once more. Starscream’s claws cut into his palms as he clenched his fists against the pain. He reminded himself again that this was necessary. A little pain was a small price to pay for his reputation.

Now that his fuselage had been rebuilt to the specs he wanted, it had to be coated, sealed, and repainted. Skywarp could help him with that, so nothing looked amiss when his servants came in for his usual polishing and detailing. Starscream went to his dressing table, pushing jars of paint aside to find what he needed. He took a moment to glance at his reflection. He was the picture of composure. No one would find out. 

An incoming comm call from the Winglord blared in his vision, and he yelped, dropping what he was holding. Tins of primer clattered to the floor, rolling away noisily.

“Screamer?” Skywarp blurted, rushing to his side. “What’s wrong?”

“Damn him!” Starscream took a slow, steadying in-vent. “What the pit does he want with me this early?”

“Who?” 

“Sire’s calling me.”

“Oh.” Skywarp wheezed an unsteady laugh. “Yeah, he’s calling me too. Just ignore it. You’re so on edge.”

Starscream waited for the call to ring out, then motioned at what he’d dropped. “Pick those up for me. I can’t bend over.”

Immediately, a comm popped up: ::See me now::

Did you get that too?” asked Skywarp, scooping up the tins. “What do you think he wants?”

“Who cares?” grumbled Starscream. “It’s probably some unimportant nonsense. He does this all the time.”

“Yeah,” said Skywarp, grabbing an airbrush from Starscream’s table. “It’s probably nothing.”

—

“Those damned creations of mine! Let’s see if they can corroborate your story.”

Megatron watched the Winglord glare off into the middle distance, while he waited for his call to be picked up.

Both being early risers, the Winglord had summoned Megatron to his study at the first light of morning to report on the events of the previous night. He had been expecting good news about Thundercracker, but Megatron showed up with nothing but an apology again. The Winglord was not pleased with his explanation as to why he’d once again been unsuccessful in sparking Thundercracker.

Thundercracker was, strangely, quite content when Megatron had entered his room with the intention to mate. Unbothered by the demands of his heat, and unreceptive to his presence, he’d calmly sent him away. However, Thundercracker looked like he was at least half-lying when Megatron prodded him for an explanation. With downcast, shifty optics, Thundercracker had told him that Starscream had made him more suppressant after the Winglord confiscated his first bottle. And Skywarp had warped through his locked door and given it to him.

Whether or not that was true wasn’t something that overly concerned Megatron. Opting to deal with the Winglord’s ire in the morning, he had shrugged and gone off to sleep with Starscream, and had a very nice time.

The Winglord’s frown deepened. He seemed to have received no answer from Starscream or Skywarp. He sat back in his chair and drummed his claws on the desk, muttering to himself. “It’s just too plausible that Starscream brewed it and Skywarp delivered it. What a pain this is turning out to be… and from Thundercracker, out of all of them. I’ll have to deal with them all later. As for you…” 

Here it was. Megatron braced for a punishment.

The Winglord huffed, then sat forward, lacing his fingers together. “Actually, Thundercracker aside, I’m quite pleased with your performance. My other creations have taken well to you. Starscream, in particular, has acted with a surprising amount of grace towards this mating task. I’d been most concerned about him, considering he was not impressed with you when you were introduced.” The Winglord heaved a long-suffering sigh. “Then again, he’s fastidious about most things.”

Megatron nodded, clasping his hands behind his back. He’d take the well-deserved praise. He admittedly was rather impressed he’d made it this far without being executed. Managing to stay on the Winglord’s good side and charm his spoiled, fickle creations had been nothing short of miraculous. He still didn’t like the way the Winglord was scrutinizing him; like he was trying to extract a secret.

“Since you became his guard, Starscream has been acting subdued,” said the Winglord. “He tolerates you very well, though he tries to deny it. What’s your secret? Aside from your apparent prowess in berth?”

“I’d say that sums it up,” said Megatron, because it was more or less true.

“Yes, but before the matings as well?” asked the Winglord ominously. 

Megatron tried to keep his expression neutral, like the question hadn’t turned the energon in his lines to ice. The Winglord’s optics searched his face for any hint of weakness.

After an incredibly uncomfortable pause, a smile broke across the Winglord’s mouth. “No. You’re too canny for that. You wanted to– anyone would, Starscream is very handsome– but you strike me as at least somewhat intelligent. I suppose you’ve experienced too much in your long life to be tempted to act on your urges. Perhaps that steadiness is what he admires about you.” The Winglord seemed to be weighing his words. “What I’m trying to get across is, Starscream is enamored with you. But you already knew that.”

“I... had a suspicion,” said Megatron carefully. He wasn’t about to lie to the Winglord, who was apparently a keener mech than he’d taken him for.

"I suppose there's no point in asking why he feels this way." The Winglord shook his head wearily. “Starscream has always had his little obsessions. They burn hot, but change by the day. Now, fanned hotter by his mating impulses, his desire for you has only intensified. But you’ve no doubt recognized his affection for what it is– fleeting and not worth your interest. To be transparent, he’s unhappy that he’ll be trined soon, and has been desperate for a distraction. I’d like you to continue to pay no mind to his antics." 

“Of course, Winglord.” 

The Winglord nodded. “Yes… That aside, there is another matter I’ve been meaning to discuss with you. I’ve been thinking about what to do with you after the sparklings emerge. They will have the status of half-royals, and be raised according to that station. But you… your promotion was never meant to be permanent. However, I can't demote you to Starscream’s bodyguard again after your position has been recently elevated… that would be ridiculous.”

The Winglord raised his shoulders in a shrug. “Simply put, there’s no place for a grounder in my court. Vos itself is not especially suited to frame types like your own. Having a Tarnish mech around at all, considering the situation with our polities, is, well…" He waved the thought away. “You’ve done your duty as well as could be expected, I suppose. I’ve decided you’ll continue to serve my sons until their sparklings emerge, then you’ll return to Tarn. You’ll be given a severance that should suffice to fulfill all your needs for the remainder of your functioning. Do you understand?”

“I… Yes, Winglord,” said Megatron, caught off guard by this new development.

“I do hate to lose you. I could find any number of brutes to watch Starscream’s back, but one with your skill and patience was difficult to come by.”

“Then don’t lose me,” said Megatron, still struggling to comprehend the decision.

The Winglord looked at him wryly. “I hope you understand that by staying here, you’d only serve as a distraction.” 

“...I see.”

“Yes, and don’t mention our conversation to anyone. I’d like your transition to be as smooth as possible.”

Megatron nodded. 

The Winglord tapped his desk, glancing pointedly at the door. “That’s all.”

Troubled, Megatron bowed and exited the Winglord’s study. He couldn’t say he expected this outcome. Furthermore, the Winglord’s roundabout explanation for letting him go was obviously a cover for his true intention.  

Megatron wondered exactly what the Winglord knew. Maybe he suspected he had slept with Starscream before the matings and had chosen to grace him with a quiet departure rather than an execution, to avoid stirring up drama. More likely, the mere hint of his precious heir falling in love with a grounder had spooked the Winglord enough to dismiss him.

Chapter Text

Since they had gone down to court together, Skywarp had been quiet. Unusual, but Starscream was counting it as a blessing, as it allowed him to mingle uninterrupted with various courtiers, attending to business in the salon.  The luck didn’t last long– Skywarp got fidgety, and eventually tried to sneak away when Starscream crossed the room to speak to someone else. 

Starscream caught his arm. “Where are you going?”

“Out,” said Skywarp, looking a little surprised he’d been stopped.

“To fool around?”

“Probably.”

Starscream pulled Skywarp over to the side of the room, so they were out of earshot of the rest of the courtiers. “When are you going to start taking things seriously?”

“What?” whined Skywarp. “I’m bored. I’m just doing some stuff. I’ll be back.”

“You've been out in society for months, and you've barely attended court. And when the Winglord does force you to attend, all you've done is pull pranks. You could at least try to act like a prince.”

“Okay, sire,” said Skywarp flatly. “I do serious, princely things sometimes.”

“Like training with Megatron?”

“I guess.”

“What do you mean you guess? Is that where you’re going now? ”

Skywarp looked sheepish. “I mean, at some point.”

“Ha!” snorted Starscream. “I knew it! I knew you couldn’t commit to training for more than a cycle. You were just using it as an excuse to screw around.”

“I’ll do it later,” said Skywarp. 

“You don’t need to be training. What you need is to talk to your suitors and present the marriageable ones to the Winglord, so he can give his approval for them to compete for your hand. The Flights are in a week. You've put it off much too long.”

“What are you talking about? I’ve already chosen Ramjet and Dirge to chase me.”

“You realize the Winglord isn’t serious about having you compete against our generals?" scoffed Starscream. "He was humoring you because you were finally taking getting trined seriously. You’re nowhere near their level and everyone knows it.”

“Fuck you, Screamer.”

“You’re not prepared. There was no reason to set your sights so high on your very first Flight. Even accepting their proposal was, at best, wishful thinking.”

“Can you shut the fuck up? I get it, you're so much better than me.”

“That's not what I’m saying,” said Starscream sternly. “Don’t let your ego get the better of you, or you’ll end up bonded to a trine you don’t like.”

“Whatever.” Skywarp looked away. His wings were sticking up in bristly, irritated peaks, so Starscream let the topic rest. He remembered his first Flight. With all the pressure to perform, he didn’t blame Skywarp for being touchy about the subject. Even if most of that pressure was self-imposed. His brother was clearly posturing, only accepting that ridiculous proposal for the attention. Skywarp would admit he wasn’t serious sooner or later, going back on his choice and picking easier suitors to challenge. Primus knew he flaked on literally everything else. 

Out of nowhere, Skywarp jabbed an elbow in his side.

“Ow! What the pit?” hissed Starscream, flinching as pain shot up his sensors.

“Check your 6,” said Skywarp.

“My what?”

“Behind you. He looks pissed.”

“Starscream!” Starscream heard the Winglord call a moment later. He turned to see his sire stomping up, gesturing emphatically at them. “You. And Skywarp. Come with me.”

“What’s he so worked up about?” mumbled Skywarp, following Starscream out of the salon and into Winglord’s study.

“Close the door,” said the Winglord, pointing at Skywarp, who was last to enter.

Starscream crossed his arms. “What is this about?”

The Winglord glared between them thunderously as Skywarp came up to stand next to Starscream. “Would either of you care to explain why your brother is five cycles into his heat, and still hasn’t mated?”

Starscream sighed. “Are you still complaining about this?” 

“Yeah, you’re being kind of a hard ass,” said Skywarp. You might as well let him sit it out at this point. He’s avoided it for this long.”

“You should give him an award,” said Starscream. “For being Vos’ biggest virgin.” 

He and Skywarp snickered.

“Enough! This isn't funny,” said the Winglord, jabbing a finger at him. “I know you’re giving him suppressants. I demand you stop!”

“Me?” asked Starscream innocently.

“Both of you! He implicated both! Starscream procured it and Skywarp warped through his locked room to give it to him.”

“Wow,” said Skywarp. “I didn’t even do that and he betrayed me.”

“Yes, how do you know he’s not lying?” asked Starscream.

“Because Thundercracker is a terrible liar, and I simply do not believe he is crafty enough to have another source,” said the Winglord. “Suppressants aren't exactly easy to find around here.”

“Say I did help him,” said Starscream. “You confiscated it yesterday when you locked him in his room, right? Problem solved.”

“He’s gotten more since then! He’s sitting up in there right now, unaffected. Content , even. Explain yourself, Starscream.”

“You have no proof it was me,” Starscream shot back. “I don't know where he could have gotten any.”

“Good little TC doesn’t get involved in drug deals,” said Skywarp sweetly.

“Exactly,” said Starscream, curious about Thundercracker’s means of procurement as well. “He doesn’t know anyone who would give him–” He cut himself off as an unnerving thought struck him. 

“What?” The Winglord leant forward. “What do you know?”

Starscream thought carefully about what he was about to say next. Slipstream was the name that had floated to the top of his processor. He had a bad feeling she had something to do with this, considering Thundercracker’s predicament the previous morning. But how could she have gotten the suppressant to him? Thundercracker had not been left unaccompanied from the time Starscream mixed him a dose to when he was locked in his room after his outing with Megatron. And he wouldn't have gone to Starscream for suppressant in the first place if he was already hoarding extra. 

Had Thundercracker managed to sneak out of his room since then? Or worse, had she snuck in?

Starscream really didn't want to consider the worst case scenario he was imagining, but he couldn't think of any other way Thundercracker could have gotten it. He grimaced. “Why don’t you ask my fiancee? ”

The Winglord’s optics widened. “Airbright is responsible for this?”

“What? No. My other fiance has been trying to seduce him with little gifts. I would start with her.”

“Slipstream? Seducing Thundercracker? ” The Winglord guffawed. “Don't be ridiculous. Her last four relationships were with supermodels. Thundercracker doesn’t have the sort of...” The Winglord squared his broad shoulders and gestured down the polished line of his torso, glancing between them meaningfully. “... you know? ” 

“Charisma?” suggested Starscream.

“Sexiness?” suggested Skywarp.

“-- Means to interest her. For goodness’ sake, you two. Be nice.” The Winglord gave them both a withering look. 

“I don’t get it either,” said Starscream. “But I heard from Thundercracker’s own mouth that she came onto him. Why would he lie to me about that?”

“He wouldn't lie, but you would. Don’t start obscene rumors because you don't like her.”

“It’s not a rumor. He told me himself.”

“Saying “Thundercracker said” isn't giving your story any more credibility. You’re not getting out of this marriage by stirring up drama. I don't want to hear about this wild notion again,” said the Winglord. “Airbright, however, has always been rather leery. And well-connected to unsavory individuals. No doubt he could procure a drug.”

Starscream threw his hands up. “Airbright isn’t fucking interested in Thundercracker!”

“I wouldn’t be so sure ,” said Skywarp, looking at the Winglord intently. “Airbright’s not the kind of mech to leave an aft un-touched.”

“Will you fuck off?” snapped Starscream. Skywarp snickered.

“I’ll have someone keep an optic on him,” murmured the Winglord, stroking his chin.

“Can I go now?” asked Skywarp. “I didn’t even do anything.”

“Hm? Yes. Fine.” The Winglord said distractedly.

Skywarp disappeared in a flash of energy before he’d finished his sentence. Figuring this signaled the end of the Winglord’s interrogation, Starscream turned on his heel and headed for the door. The edges of the room seemed fuzzier than a moment ago, and he reset his optics to try to focus better.  This didn’t help, and the further he walked, the more the door in front of him swam. His leg struts trembled like they couldn’t support his weight. In a few more steps, he had to catch himself on the wall, or risk toppling over. Pain twinged through his middle and he gasped, holding himself there. 

“Starscream?” He distantly heard the Winglord call out. Starscream pressed his helm against the wall, fighting off the dizzy spell. The Winglord was at his side an instant later, grasping him under the arms and supporting him before he sank to the floor. Starscream leaned against him, quickly dropping his hand to his side to not draw attention to his middle.

The Winglord’s crimson optics searched his face frantically. “Starscream, why are you stumbling around like this? Have you been fueling properly?”

“I’m fine,” mumbled Starscream. He was not fine. He’d managed to ignore the discomfort well enough through the morning, but being stoic was becoming exhausting. He was running on fumes, and his hips and middle ached. His clutch was sitting low and heavy, making standing for long periods of time unbearable.

The Winglord looked troubled. “I’ve told you before, you can’t push your frame beyond its limits. You’re headed for disaster.”

“Don’t start with this.”

The Winglord tightened his grip and began to lead him out. “I’ll take you up to your room. You look terrible.” He knitted his brow. “In fact, I want you on bed rest until the emergence.”

“What!? Why?”

“Because you’re not in good health." 

Starscream’s spark quivered in dismay. “What about the ball? And the tournament?”

“You may go to both if your condition has improved,” said the Winglord. Then more quietly, almost like he was trying to excuse his fussing, he added, “I don’t want anyone to see you in this weak state. It’ll invite rumors.”

“You can’t just lock us up whenever you like. First Thundercracker, then me–”

“Starscream!” the Winglord interrupted forcefully. “Between your spark bonding ceremony preparations and everything else going on, you are the last thing I want to be worrying about right now. Yet every day you manage to stick yourself at the top of my mind with your antics. You’re going to rest. .”

“Fine.” Irritated, Starscream let himself be marched off to his chambers. The whole way there, the Winglord’s expression didn’t ease from that harsh, troubled frown.

—

Starscream glared at the variety of fuels piled up on tables surrounding his berth. The Winglord had ordered refreshments brought to him to ‘restore his vigor’, but he’d gone completely overboard with the quantity.

“He’s very protective,” said Megatron, stroking his wings. Starscream had called him in to keep him company, and he was lying on the berth next to him. His warm, solid presence was the one comfort in what was looking to be a protracted isolation.

“He’s being ridiculous,” said Starscream. “I’m not eating all this. And I’m not resting for cycles on end. I have things to do.”

“Why do you need to be up and about right now? What’s so pressing?” asked Megatron, arranging the pillows so his wings were more supported. “Your only concern at this time should be delivering a healthy clutch.”

Starscream swiveled his helm to glare at him. “You’re taking his side?”

“In a lot of places, carriers have to work up until the emergence. It’s a privilege to have no duties to attend to while carrying.”

“I have duties,” said Starscream, choosing to ignore the fact that the Winglord had cleared his entire schedule for the next week. “He’s being overly cautious.”

“You’ve never carried. And you just fainted . He’s worried.” 

“Hardly. All he wants is for me to hurry up and deliver your politically-convenient grand-bastards so I can give him a clutch from a ‘proper’ sire.”

Megatron kissed his forehead. “All in good time. Carrying takes a lot of energy. You don’t need a visit from the doctor from wearing yourself out.”

“He won’t. Laying is incredibly routine and easy for Seekers. We only get examined if there’s a problem.”

Megatron’s optics drifted to Starscream’s middle with a frown. “Who’s to say there isn’t? You’re awfully thin for being this far into gestation.”

“I’m not showing much,” Starscream lied. “Sometimes it’s like that. I’m completely healthy.” 

“Starscream…”

Megatron's worried expression struck a chord, and Starscream was reassuring him before he could think of what he was saying. “This is to preserve my reputation! And your life. It’s a small price to pay.”

“So you are limiting your fuel intake.”

Among other things, thought Starscream. “Just a little.”

Megatron’s frown deepened. “Don’t hurt yourself for my sake.”

Behind his worry, Starscream thought Megatron looked lost in thought. Almost detatched. A familiar sensation of discontent crept over him, and he glared at Megatron, suspicious. “And what about you? You’re not thinking about leaving Vos, are you? Being a deadbeat sire.”

Megatron’s optics narrowed. “What sort of accusation is that?” 

“That’s why you’re so calm about this. You have a way out.”

“You think so little of me?”

“Then what are you so carefree about?” asked Starscream coldly. 

“Carefree?” questioned Megatron. “I was hired with the knowledge I would be putting my life on the line for you. If our secret gets out, I’ll own it. That’s certainly worth getting executed over, don’t you think?” he asked. His mouth curled smugly. “Being executed for sparking the mighty and gorgeous prince of Vos?”

“That’s hardly a reasonable plan! How dare you be so selfish!” snapped Starscream. “You’ll die if this gets out, and I’ll have to live with it! Either way– if you’re executed or if you leave– I’ll be lonely, a-and–” Starscream cut himself off, feeling light headed with emotion. “That’s why… I have to pull through at any cost. I can’t lose you.” 

“You won’t lose me,” reassured Megatron.

“Of course not, because my plan will work. But you shouldn't underestimate the Winglord. If you cause any blemish to my reputation, you’ll be targeted. There is no length he won't go to preserve my character.”

“I know.” For a moment, Megatron looked like he wanted to say something else, but shook his helm. “That doesn’t mean you should starve yourself.”

“I’m not starving . Just… depriving myself.”

“A prince isn't used to deprivation. And a jet is even less suited to it than other mechanisms.”

“I’m not arguing with you about this. I’ve made my choice," said Starscream. He watched Megatron turn away to select one of the fuels from the spread. His spark twisted as Megatron presented him with a crystal goblet full of energon jelly with flaked copper and magnesium mixed in. One of his favorites.

“In Tarn,” said Megatron, dipping a spoon in the mixture, “we give our carriers as much fuel as we can spare. A carrier should be very robust.” 

“Well, we Vosians aren't concerned with being– ugh– robust, and don't need that much fuel.”

“Considering what Vos spends on fuel per capita, I can’t say I believe you,” said Megatron, bringing the full spoon to Starscream’s mouth and teasing his lips apart with it.

Starscream had planned to resist, but after cycles of eating nothing but bland wafers, the burst of flavor shocked him. He swallowed the energon quickly, scowling to conceal his overwhelming pleasure at the taste.

“More?” With a knowing smile, Megatron dipped the spoon into the jelly and raised it again to Starscream’s lips.

“I’m not an invalid, I can feed myself,” Starscream grumbled, as he leant in to take a bite anyway.

Now that he’d gotten a taste of real fuel, he found he couldn’t stop. Mouthful after mouthful went down, pleasantly warming him all over. 

When he reached a point of satiety, Megatron set the jelly aside, gently kissing him. It was slow and careful, not hungry like usual, and warmed him as much as the fuel.

At the same time, Megatron stroked his wings. His big, warm hand gently trailed along his back struts, then along the edges, feeling up their span. Starscream curled in closer until he was practically sitting in Megatron’s lap, leaning into him to be kissed and petted.

“I want to see you fly,” Megatron rumbled after a few minutes of silence, separating from the kiss. “Show me sometime.”

“You’re a grounder; you’d be impressed by any flier.”

“I’ve been told you are singularly talented.”

Starscream rested his helm on his shoulder, comfortably full and drowsy. Much too sleepy to feel as flattered as he otherwise might. “I am unmatched,” he murmured, putting a hand over the swell of his middle. “But I’m carrying too much weight. You don't want to see me fly like this.”

Megatron’s hand on his wing came around his waist, and he held him closer. “On the contrary,” he whispered, “I think I’d like it even better to see you jetting around while heavy with my clutch.”

That did sound nice. Starscream sunk into his embrace. Used to ignoring the indicator on his HUD until it was in the red, he didn’t realize how much he needed to recharge.

Sensing that he was fading, Megatron lay him back against the rich dark silks and cushions of his berth, drawing the covers up to Starscream’s chest.

“Stay.” Starscream grasped his hand and hung on. 

Megatron twined their fingers, bringing Starscream’s hand to his mouth to kiss. “Rest,” he murmured. “I’m not going anywhere.

Chapter Text

As it turned out, the Winglord’s self-congratulatory ‘I-found-the-ultimate-stud-for-the-princes’ ball ended up being the same as all his others. What a surprise.

Not that Skywarp was the most discerning, but looking around the room tonight, the vibe was kind of un-ultimate. Not bad. Just nothing out of the ordinary. 

Maybe that was the Winglord’s plan– to silently phase out the crazy mating idea Skywarp had convinced him to decree, which had failed to turn out as he’d expected. After all, Thundercracker was down and out, and wasn’t at the ball for everyone’s safety. Even Skywarp had stopped showing up to sleep with Megatron as of a couple cycles ago. No way he was waiting around every night for ‘his’ hour to strike so he and Megatron could hook up. He didn’t do scheduled ‘facing.

Right now, the only mech this mating thing was benefiting was Starscream. He was supposed to have been convalescing, but by the dreamy way he was gazing at Megatron while twirling with him out on the dancefloor, he had more likely been getting fragged silly for the past few cycles straight.

Skywarp was happy for him, but at a loss for what he was supposed to be doing here if Starscream was going to keep Megatron to himself the entire night.

The Winglord looked like he was asking himself the same question. His frown deepened every klik Starscream’s optics and fingers remained passionately locked with Megatron’s.

Well, he seemed distracted enough. Skywarp began to edge away from his side.

“Skywarp!” the Winglord barked, without dropping his gaze from Starscream.

Skywarp rolled his optics. The old mech sure was getting more attentive lately. “I’m getting some fresh air.”

“I just told you there are some individuals coming soon I need to introduce you to. Besides, the weather is terrible. You’re not flying out there.”

“I’m not flying. I’m just going outside.” Skywarp inched further away. 

“No tricks.” The Winglord finally looked over at him. “I mean it. I’m hosting important mechanisms from all over our system, who are here for the upcoming Flights, and Starscream’s trining ceremony after that. All optics are on you two, and you can’t do whatever you please.”

“Will you cool your jets? I’m going out on the terrace.”

“Five kliks. Then I want you back in here. And stay out of the rain. You’ve just had your wax done. If I see a single water spot–”

“Yeah, yeah. I hear ya,” said Skywarp as he wandered out of the ballroom. He flung open the doors to the terrace outside and strode past the overhang directly into the rain. Water was coming down in cold sheets, washing across the deserted platform. Strolling up to the edge, he sat on the decorative iron guardrail and swung his legs over, letting them dangle.

For a second he considered taking off and ditching this lame event, but the wind was buffeting him enough sitting still. Not ideal flight conditions. 

While the rain needled his plating, he looked out over the rest of Vos. A sea of lights shone below, stretching out into the distance. Glimmering towers denoting the manors and chateaus of the lesser aristocracy poked through the dense clouds surrounding the palace. Beyond them, in the heart of Vos, the city was bright and teeming with activity, despite the weather. 

And beyond that were the mountains at the border. He could barely make out their peaks through the haze. That’s where he’d be in a spark pulse, if he could warp that far.

There was an abandoned fort there from Vos’ recent war with Tarn that he could be exploring with Astrotrain and Blitzwing right now. If not for the ball, he would be. Blitzwing had been comming him the play-by-play all night– he and Astrotrain had found an old battle cruiser and were trying to hotwire it. Vortex came along and was setting something on fire. They had dragged Captain Octane out there too, and he was already drunk off some mysterious high grade he’d found. They were bringing Skywarp back a bottle of it and a crate of stun grenades as a present. All that fun, while Skywarp was stuck here. 

“Danced too hard, Your Highness?” a voice called out from behind him. 

Skywarp groaned. That sounded like Acid Storm. A mech couldn't get a moment of peace around here. He’d been trying to avoid her and the others from his age group who would also be making their debuts this season. All they wanted to talk about were the Flights. 

Over the pouring rain, he heard laughter from whoever else she’d brought. From the sound of it, her sister Nova Storm, and Nacelle, giggling between themselves about whatever. 

Skywarp forced himself to smile, then turned towards them. “I promised the Winglord I’d show my face. Didn't say I’d dance.”

The trio kept their distance, shielded from the weather under the overhang. The gusting wind rattled their wings, making them sway.

“What terrible weather lately,” said Acid Storm. “This doesn’t seem to bode well for the Flights.”

“Yeah.” Skywarp grimaced into the gray sky. “Only Thundercracker would have an advantage in these shitty conditions. And he isn't even competing.”

Everyone laughed pityingly.

“But remember,” said Acid Storm. “He wouldn't use his spark ability even when he did compete. He’s much too modest for that.”

“He’s such a gentlemech,” sighed Nova Storm dreamily. “So cool, relying on raw skill alone.”

“Yeah, sure is,” said Skywarp, figuring this signaled the end of his break. He hopped off the railing and walked towards the ballroom again. 

“Um, Your Highness,” piped up Nacelle as he passed, “Is that a crystal wax you’re wearing? It’s so... luminescent.”

Skywarp paused at the door and looked down at himself. “I dunno. I steal whatever Starscream uses.”

“Do you think you could get the name of it from him?”

“Yes!” blurted Acid Storm. “For me too? It would go just so with the rest of my detailing I have planned for the Flights.”

“Yes!”

“Alright. Sure.” Skywarp frowned at a raindrop sliding off his polished forearm, and felt monumentally more tired than before. He didn't want to think about his own detailing.

For Starscream’s first Flight, his brother had demanded to have two million tiny diamonds adhered to his plating so he sparkled in the sun. It was so over-the-top that everyone decided from that point on, they had to do something just as dramatic.

Everything Starscream wore was instantly la mode, but that was only because he was the definition of high maintenance, which was basically the best compliment anyone around here could get. Chances were the Winglord would make Skywarp do something just as elaborate and annoying.

“Omigosh, I totally forgot what we came out here for!” exclaimed Acid Storm. “Your Highness, look what they’re saying about you.” She pulled out a datapad. “Did you see? All the debutee’s final flight rosters were announced tonight. They have a section about you!” She shoved it under his nose.

The headline read: ‘Spurned Twice- will Vos’ legendary warriors lose three of three or will they bag the youngest prince?’

“You picked such a scary pair,” said Nacelle. 

“Oh. Yeah,” said Skywarp, trying to maintain his casual air. “I figured they'd ask eventually, so why not show them up sooner rather than later?” He’d been telling the same excuse over and over again at this point.

“You’re so carefree. Leave it to one of the Winglord’s creations to be unfazed against those opponents,” murmured Nova Storm.

“Is it true the Winglord wouldn't consider any other suitors to fly for you?” asked Acid Storm, her helm tilted in fascination. “It’s just going to be you against them? Battling it out?

“All that fighting means there’ll be no time to show off your formations and flirt with your favorites. That doesn't seem like you at all,” said Nova Storm skeptically.

“Oh. Yeah. Well,” said Skywarp, feeling like his plating was slowly crumpling in.

Bored of his lack of reaction, Nova Storm turned suddenly to Nacelle. “Speaking of forms, how’s your chandelle coming along?” she asked.

Nacelle groaned. “My wings hurt from holding the arc steady for so long. And I’m still wobbly.”

“No, what?” exclaimed Acid Storm. “You look elegant!”

They all burst into excited chatter about the formations they were planning to fly.

All Skywarp could think was while they would be showing off their delicate torque rolls, he would be fighting for his damn life.

Every moment that ticked by was another moment closer to facing down his doom. A countdown of the last days he’d remain a free mech. And what did he have to look forward to, after being caught? Fake-smiling his face off at every event and pretending he was happily trined? Even Starscream wasn’t fake enough to keep up that charade with his own fiancés.

Before he knew it, he was hurrying back into the ballroom. The door thudded closed behind him, and he headed straight for the Winglord, who glanced away from his conversation in horror as he caught sight of him. 

“Skywarp! Why in Solus’ name are you soaking wet? Do you ever listen when I tell you not to do something?”

Skywarp paid no mind to the water he was trailing in. “I want to add Blitzwing and Astrotrain to my flight roster,” he demanded.

“What? What are you talking about?” asked the Winglord, wringing his hands as his companions looked on in confusion. “For goodness’ sake, Skywarp! Come over here.” Excusing himself from his previous conversation, he took hold of the base of one of Skywarp’s wet wings and aggressively led him away, into an empty sitting room.

"You can't just- Asking that in front of- Why are you asking this now!?"

“I want to fly with them!” said Skywarp as he was dragged along.

The Winglord shut the door behind them. “No.”

“Why not?"

“They are unsuitable for you. Turn around.” The Winglord pulled out a chamois and began drying Skywarp’s wings. “I know you only accepted my generals’ proposal for attention or as a joke, but actions have consequences. I’m perfectly fine with the consequence of you getting caught and trined to them, if that is the outcome. Hopefully one of them will manage to get you to behave.”

Skywarp laughed to cover his rising anxiety. “So, you know I wasn't serious. Why don’t you tell them it was a misunderstanding, and I can compete against someone else?”

The Winglord shot him a look that said ‘absolutely not’. 

Skywarp scowled back. “Why are you being such a stickler about this?”

“A prince without respect for the suit of his worthy suitors is not worthy of respect himself,” said the Winglord pedantically.

“I just… don’t know if I’m ready,” said Skywarp, glancing down and trailing the point of his thruster along a crack in the floor. “Y’know, they’re pretty strong, and–”  

“Don’t tell me you’re scared. You’ve been trained by the best tutors in Vos. Have some pride in your skills. Your brothers never whined to me like this.”

Skywarp’s face burned. He clenched his jaw. “I’m not whining. And I’m not scared.”

“Then there should be no issue. Look up.” The Winglord tipped Skywarp’s chin up, blotting at his cheeks. Skywarp didn't know why he was bothering. The rain had probably melted what little paint he had agreed to wear. "The current arrangement will stand. Your choices are to either outpace my generals and later face suitors whom I approve of, or accept you’ll be trining the mechs whose challenge you accepted."

Skywarp snapped his helm aside. “I’m not doing what Thundercracker and Starscream did and jerk around suitors for years! I know who I want and I ain’t wasting my time doing little tricks for mechs I don’t care about!” 

“Surely you could have considered that before accepting their proposal?” 

“What would that have mattered? You rejected the only mechs I care about,” Skywarp said. His vocalizer was starting to wobble with emotion. “I just want to share my spark with a trine I like.”

“You’ll all be saving your sparks for the most advantageous trines."

“You’ve gotta let one of us marry for love.”

“And why would I do that?”

"Primus, you're the worst!" snapped Skywarp. He shook his head in anger. “If you don’t let Astro ‘n Blitz compete for my hand, I’m not gonna participate in the Flights.”

The Winglord stopped his preening to glare at him. “I won’t entertain that absurd proposal. This Flight is the cornerstone of your debut. You will fly, just as your brothers did.”

“I’ll escape. Warp away. Ain’t no room that can hold me.”

“Don't be ridiculous. You’ll have to come back eventually. And when you do, I’m arranging a trine for you.”

“I won’t come back, then! Disown me!” shouted Skywarp. He thought the threat would strike a chord, but confusingly, the Winglord's glare softened into something more exasperated than upset.

“You'll run away... and fool around with whose shanix?" he asked evenly. "We both know you won't survive as anything but a prince. I’ll make sure of it.”

Skywarp didn't know what to say to that. The Winglord really had thought of everything. And he was so calm and self-assured. Was there really no way out of this? There was always a way out. He felt his intake closing up, and heat building behind his optics. His vents hitched, and a low, keening whine broke free of his vocalizer.

"Don't do that," said the Winglord sternly, dabbing under his optics where hot tears were beginning to flow. "This doesn't require a tantrum." He handed Skywarp the cloth, then offered his arm for him to take. "Compose yourself. You have introductions to make.”

Skywarp clenched the fabric in his fist and hiccupped, scowling through his tears. Maybe the Winglord thought he had been chastised. That he was going to pout, but concede. Instead, he stepped back and activated his warp drive. 

"Really, Skywarp!" said the Winglord tiredly, throwing his hands up. "Just once, can you show a sense of obligation when-"

Skywarp didn't hear the rest. He was already half gone, and trying not to think about how unmoved the Winglord looked just before he disappeared.

Chapter Text

Crystal chandeliers strung from the domed ballroom ceiling cast fractals of light across Starscream and Megatron’s conjoined hand. Megatron wasn’t much of a dancer, but Starscream was perfectly happy to be held while Megatron shuffled around. Megatron had skill only for the most basic of dances on the roster, which Starscream had diligently taught him in the cycles he was supposed to have been spending in berth.

Starscream would have no other partner for these– which was completely justified. He’d spent joors teaching Megatron the steps, he would damn well be present for the final display.

When they weren’t dancing, they remained on the side of the room together, stalwartly ignoring Starscream’s trine (or Airbright alone, as Slipstream had mysteriously disappeared twenty kliks after the ball started).

The dirty looks the Winglord was throwing Starscream’s way also went ignored. He’d come up after the very first dance Starscream had with Megatron and scolded him for subjecting everyone to that ‘display’ that was Megatron’s amateur attempt at a four-step. He told him not to do it again, as it was messing with the ‘flow’ of the evening.

After the third time Starscream pulled Megatron into a dance, the Winglord had admitted defeat, only casting the occasional stern glare their way. Starscream knew being scolded about allowing Megatron to join the dances was a cover for the Winglord’s true issue: that Starscream was completely ignoring his trine-to-be. Perhaps he thought he was being a good guardian by preventing his and Megatron’s relationship from appearing unduly close. An honorable endeavor, were it not for the fact that this ball was being thrown to show off Megatron’s desirability as a sire. Starscream had every right to be affectionate.

Starscream rested his cheek against Megatron’s chassis and sighed while he was swept across the room. Everything was more pleasant tonight than it had been in some time. From the lights, to the orchestra, to the silly little whipped desserts the servers carried around on platters– everything reminded him that this was the lead up to his big event tomorrow. Over the past few cycles, he’d finished the preparations for the gladiator tournament from berth, with Megatron at his side. With Thundercracker out of the picture and Skywarp seeming to have suddenly lost interest in Megatron, this left Starscream free to do as he liked with Megatron for three full cycles. Like a proper sire, Megatron had stayed in berth with him for most of that time, attending to him as much as Starscream demanded. 

The dance ended, giving way to one too advanced for Megatron. Starscream clutched his hand and guided him off the dancefloor, a spring in his step.

“I simply can’t wait for tomorrow,” he gushed. “I want to see carnage!”

“Involving Skywarp?” asked Megatron. The corner of his mouth turned up. 

“If he bothers to show up. You told him you wanted to challenge him, didn’t you?”

“I did. He seemed excited.”

“Good. But remember, if he backs out, you’ll have to prove your intent to court me in a different way,” said Starscream, pressing up against him and whispering against his mouth. “Perhaps one of your other opponents will present a more thrilling challenge.”

Without breaking eye contact, Megatron brought his hand to his lips and kissed the palm. “I’ll make you proud.”

A giddy peal of laughter escaped Starscream. “Confident, are we? You’ve never faced a full roster of fliers before. Who’s to say you won’t suffer a devastating loss?”

“Are you planning to sabotage me?” asked Megatron, grasping his wrist tighter and kissing his fingertips.

“I’m not telling you anything,” said Starscream. He couldn’t stop laughing. 

“We’ll see about that. You’re pliable when I have you in the right mood.”

“Don’t be crass.”

“I’m not." Megatron's optics glittered. "I’ve spent all night getting you into high spirits for my own advantage.”

Starscream curled his fingers around Megatron’s palm to prevent him from tempting him with any more kisses. “A worthy endeavor. But useless.”

“Not all useless. I get to see your handsome smile.”

“Charming,” said Starscream. A tinge of heat pricked his face.

“Is that a blush I see? You’re too easy.”

“I’m not blushing! Stop looking at me!” laughed Starscream. 

“Impossible.” Megatron placed a finger under his chin and tilted it up, his gaze roaming his features. Starscream thought his spark would melt with the excitement swirling within it. Their noses touched, and Starscream shivered, optics fluttering half-closed, waiting for him to close the gap in a kiss. 

Someone cleared their intake behind Starscream. 

The moment ruined, he whipped around to see who would dare interrupt them. It was Airbright, looking vaguely annoyed.

“Do you mind?” asked Starscream. The old mech had been getting less intimidated by Megatron as time went on. Starscream did not like that one bit.

“Would you come with me?” asked Airbright, avoiding the question. “I’d like to speak with you.”

Raising an optic ridge, but deferring to Airbright’s higher status, Megatron released Starscream’s hand. Scowling, Starscream darted his optics between them before making the decision to follow Airbright out of the ballroom and down the hall. What a waste of time.

“Well, well,” Airbright started blandly, once they were fully alone in the dim corridor. His struts creaked as he seated himself onto a bench lining the wall. He folded his hands over the handle of his walking stick. “The stud is more appealing than your own fiance?”

“Can you blame me?” Starscream asked. He placed a hand over his middle. “He’ll give me a strong clutch. Are you not happy for me?”

Airbright’s lined face creased further. “I get the sense you’re… confused.”

“How so?”

“There is nothing wrong with simply doing your duty with this mech, and offering the larger share of your attention to your actual mates. I’ve been missing your lovely face at night. For weeks, Starscream, we haven't lain together.” 

“Obviously, I’ve been busy with–”

“After I sparked you, I find it highly unusual that you spurned me in the time following,” interrupted Airbright, scratching his chin. “It’s inexplicable. Your frame should have been calling for my attention at every moment of the cycle.”

Starscream folded his arms. “Maybe it’s a matter of satisfaction that caused the lack of interest. You should look at your own duty as my trinemate before directing blame at me.”

Airbright didn't seem surprised by this accusation, merely offended that he’d voiced it. Possessed by a sudden energy, he wedged his cane into a gap in the tiled floor and lifted himself to standing. “It used to be that young new conjuxes respected their elders. Preferred them in marriage, even, for our extensive knowledge in the art of lovemaking.”

“Am I to understand you’re including yourself in their number?”

Airbright used his slight height advantage to glare down his nose at him. “No one has ever said you weren’t prideful, Starscream. With your extravagant standards.”

Starscream matched the intensity of his glare. “Yes. Do better in meeting them. You’ve had your chance, and I’m not impressed.”

“Starscream, as much as you dislike it, I have a right as your trinemate to have my pleasure attended to.” 

“You have Slipstream. I already told you, you can fondle her if you’re lonely.” Starscream turned away, having had enough of this conversation. 

Airbright grabbed his wrist. “She isn’t you, Starscream,” he said, optics flashing. He pulled him closer with fervor. “She’s not the pride of all fliers. Vos’ shooting star. My little star.”

Disgusted, Starscream tore his hand from Airbright’s feeble grasp, but that didn't deter the old mech. Airbright tried to get his hands on his body, and Starscream twisted away. 

“You’re smudging my polish!” he snapped as he was grabbed at again. 

“Stand still,” Airbright demanded. “I want to feel you. You’ve scorned me for so long, I’d nearly forgotten the feeling of your frame under my hands.”

Furious, Starscream stood still, figuring the sooner he let him feel him up, the sooner he could get away. 

“That’s right,” said Airbright, settling down. The playfulness in his cadence irritated Starscream more than he could describe. He sounded smug, like he knew he’d get everything he wanted eventually. 

Airbright’s temper faded as he stroked his wings. One thin hand clutched the edge of one and traced the crimson stripe all the way to its termination at Starscream’s lower back. It was an introspective, careful touch; or it would be, if Airbright were capable of introspection or care.

“You are singularly desirable, and you know it very well,” said Airbright, as he caressed him. “These wings are legendary. The finest in the land.” His grip tightened suddenly, to the point of pain. “And they’re mine. I own them.”

“What’s wrong with you?” hissed Starscream, flicking his wing to knock him off. 

Airbright clung to his waist instead and leant against him. His sharp nose pressed the nape of Starscream’s neck. “Does that make you angry?” he whispered. “That a mech of such stunning caliber can be bought?”

Starscream felt like a molten block of lead had dropped into his tanks. “How dare you!?” he exclaimed, at a complete loss for words. How was he supposed to respond to that?

Airbright’s thin mouth was hot on the side of his helm. He clutched Starscream’s middle hard, the bands of his rings digging into the protoform. “Do you want to know what I paid for you? The exact figure the Winglord accepted for your hand?”

“What do I care?”

“So he didn’t tell you? Surely, you’re curious about what he agreed you were worth?”

“No,” said Starscream. Seething revulsion filled him. Airbright could be a mean, spiteful bastard, but this kind of deep cut was unwarranted. For the entirety of their relationship, he’d been affectionate to him, in his own disgusting way. A limp-spiked, doddering old pervert. He shouldn’t be saying these things with such confidence.

“Why don’t you take a guess? Humor me,” said Airbright. A dry, possessive kiss was forced against Starscream’s neck. Starscream clenched his jaw and tried to calm down before he did something irredeemably awful to him.

Obviously, there had been a transaction for the honor of conjunxing him- Starscream’s hand for a price. There was no question Airbright contributed a sizable dowry. His money was the entire reason the Winglord had them trined. The sparkache of being conjunxed to a filthy old mech had been harrowing enough. The Winglord had kept him out of the negotiations, sparing him the humiliation of knowing the exact amount.

The Winglord was right to keep the number from him. Starscream would have obsessed over it; languished and shed tears. Because whatever the price was, it wouldn’t be enough.

Starscream thought he’d somewhat reconciled with the injustice of being Airbright’s fiance, but now his fury and frustration at the arrangement he was staring down came roaring back. Unwanted memories of the night he’d been informed he’d be married off needled his processor. In his chambers, he’d overturned furniture and smashed all his polishes against the wall, all the while shrieking with anguish. Crying bitter, furious tears that any hope of having strong, handsome trinemates he deserved had come crashing down. The years he’d spent in rigorous training; the reputation he’d built up was nothing but fodder to tempt rich idiots who’d never have the means to capture him in flight.

Airbright didn’t deserve him. Starscream’s legendary skill was something that couldn’t be bought. His pride as Vos’ ace flier was priceless.

“You’re no fun,” said Airbright, once it was obvious he wouldn’t be hearing a number from Starscream. He released him from his clutches, coming around to face him. He wasn’t smiling, but his thin, dour visage brimmed with satisfaction.

“How dare you,” said Starscream again, more feebly than he’d intended to sound. His optics stung, blurring with tears. “See if you’ll enjoy my company now, after saying all that.”

“Oh.” Airbright made a considering hum. “I suppose my aim wasn't entirely about our lack of interface. To be frank, I wanted to ruin your night as much as you’re ruining mine.”

“For Primus’ sake,” hissed Starscream, glaring up at the ceiling to keep the coolant from running over. He would not waste his tears on this. 

“I know that grounder is not the first mech you’ve cheated on me with since our engagement, and I imagine he won’t be the last,” said Airbright. “I thought you might have gotten the bitterness out of your system by now, but your stubborn attitude is becoming tiresome.”

“What incentive do I have to stop?” Starscream bit back.

“Starscream, my dear. My lovely treasure. Look here.” Airbright took his chin and made him look at him. “You can cheat on me relentlessly if you think that will sufficiently upset me. But you were humiliated from the moment you were sold, more than you could ever offend me.”

With a sob, Starscream tore himself away and fled. 

Megatron was lingering just within the corridor when Starscream came storming down. 

“What did he have to say?” he asked.

“Nothing. I just told him off about how small his spike was.” 

Megatron nodded, but the cold look on his face implied he’d inferred what the conversation had really been about. He placed a hand on Starscream’s arm. “You were touched. Here, the polish is duller.”

Starscream fought back tears as he lay his other hand on his hip. “And here. Anywhere else?”

“My wing.”

“Your beautiful wings…” Megatron brought him into his arms and kissed him, stroking his wings. Starscream felt himself calming down as his touches overwrote Airbright’s.

“Maybe…” Megatron began tentatively, after a few moments of silence, “you shouldn’t publicly show me favoritism over your betrothed. It could cause problems.”

“You’re blaming me for getting harassed?”

“Never. I’m saying you have duties you should prioritize over me.”

“Prioritizing you is keeping me sane.” Starscream wiped at his optics. “He’ll get over it. He must, because I outrank him.”

“Your Highness…” said Megatron, still with that grave look about him.

Starscream flinched, feeling like he was being scolded. “By now, I quite dislike hearing you call me by my title.”

“Starscream,” Megatron conceded, but his tone was no less critical. 

Starscream wondered if he was being immature about this. Wishing futilely for things that could never be. Regardless of his feelings for Megatron, or his lack thereof for his trinemates, he would be getting trined. It had been decided for months. They had a date for the ceremony.

“Fine,” said Starscream, fighting down the bitterness. “I won’t insult him any more tonight. But that’s only because I refuse to go back out there.” Feeling helpless, he shoved his face into Megatron’s chest and clung to him. 

Megatron held him back tightly and kissed the top of his head. “I won’t leave your side tonight.”

The lead weight that was the impossibility of their relationship hung over Starscream again. He was determined not to think about that and to make the most of the rest of the night. But the more he thought about it, Megatron was in a strange mood. He thought he’d be more supportive, but he was acting distant. Critical rather than loving.

“What’s wrong?” Starscream mumbled against his chest. “Do you have something to say to me?”

“Well…” Megatron started. He sounded dismayed. Starscream’s frame started to prickle, and the sinking feeling he had only got worse. When the silence stretched out longer than anticipated, he looked up.

“Starscream…” said Megatron tiredly. “I haven’t been honest with you.”

“What?”

Megatron took his hand. “I want you to understand something.”

“No!” Starscream jerked away. “What the pit? I don’t like this. Why are you acting like this? Were you waiting to give me bad news? You held onto it all night?”

“You were enjoying yourself. I didn’t want to interrupt that.”

“I don’t care what it is,” said Starscream. “Keep it to yourself. I can’t stand to hear another unpleasant word.”

“I think you should know–”

“I said I don’t want to hear it!”

“Starscream, please don’t...”

"Don't what!?" Starscream's voice pitched higher, verging on hysterical. "Don't be difficult!?"

"No. Just..."

Megatron trailed off. His optics drifted from Starscream’s face to a point just beyond his shoulder.

“What? What now?” 

"There's something..."

Starscream glanced over his shoulder. Seeing nothing, he thumped a fist against Megatron's chestplate to regain his attention.

"Look at me!" he shrieked. 

Distracted, Megatron frowned and let go of him. Starscream dug his claws into his wrists and hung on as Megatron went to investigate.

“Megatron! Don’t walk away! What is going on with you!?” What could possibly be more important than him right now? Whatever Megatron saw in the darkened hall couldn’t warrant ignoring him. Starscream stumbled after him, still clinging to his arm.

Then the scent of ozone hit him like a wall. 

Acrid and oppressive; the smell was intense to the point where it was sickening. The very air became heavy as a billowing cloud of energy rolled over Starscream; swallowing him up. Every micron of his plating stood on edge, electrified. 

Spooked, Starscream ceased pulling at Megatron. “What is that?” he asked, tasting charge on his glossa as he opened his mouth. Megatron gave no response, continuing to stare down the hall as if possessed. Starscream wondered why Megatron had noticed the scent before him. Seekers had a much sharper sense of smell. Unless he had picked up another scent that Starscream was not keen to.

This seemed to be the explanation, as the faint click of thrusters echoed from down the hall, and the silhouette of a tall flier came dimly into view. With a start, Starscream recognized the shape of the wings.

“Thundercracker?” he called out.

Chapter Text

“Megatron,” said Thundercracker distantly. With an uneven clacking of thrusters, he swayed towards them. The air seethed with high voltage. 

Starscream’s plating stood on end. “How did you get out of your room?” he asked.

Thundercracker didn’t react to the question. His optics were bright, round, and fixed on Megatron, who likewise watched him back like he’d been hypnotized.

“Thundercracker!” said Starscream, snapping his fingers at him. 

Thundercracker took a moment to react. His optics slid over Starscream’s face and landed on his hand, still clasping Megatron’s arm. Having registered that, his optics snapped up to meet Starscream's.

A primal chill iced Starscream’ lines. He remembered the culling instinct. That was why Thundercracker had been locked up in the first place. Locked, and bolted in, considering he was still very much in heat and dangerous to potential rivals. Considering the way he was fixated on Megatron, he was clearly also very much in want of a sire, despite all his arguing to the contrary. Drawn to Megatron’s scent, he’d mindlessly followed the will of his coding.

Hadn’t he been gifted suppressant from a mysterious donor, though? What the pit was going on? Why was he out here? And how?

Thundercracker twitched his claws at him. There was no time to mull over it. They needed to leave. 

Starscream pulled at Megatron’s arm, with the expectation that he’d get the hint and follow. Instead, Megatron stood there like a useless pillar, leering at his brother. Pheromones. Of course. 

“Megatron,” said Starscream through his denta. “We’re going.”

Megatron grunted dismissively and jerked his arm from his grasp. The disrespect struck Starscream like a physical blow. “His scent isn’t that enticing! Snap out of it!” he demanded. He shoved Megatron, despite knowing he had no hope of moving him.

The mortifying indignation of being ignored, secondary to Thundercracker’s allure, only made him more furious. Childishly, he kicked Megatron in the back of the knee joint as hard as he could. The clang reverberated, Megatron’s knee buckled, and Starscream whelmed with bitter satisfaction when Megatron swiveled his helm in his direction. Crimson optics glowed with lust– but not for him. Oh, he was gone. Damn him.

Before Starscream had time to ponder his next move, a flash of light overwhelmed his optical sensors. The tiles at his feet exploded in a spray of debris, as a bolt of lightning gouged the floor. An audial-shattering thunderclap rattled the hallway in its wake. 

Starscream’s audials popped and squealed. Staggering back, he clutched the sides of his helm to stop the ringing. Clearly, Thundercracker had disliked seeing Starscream attack his potential sire.

Starscream glared at his brother, who glared back, seething. Arcs of lighting leapt brightly over Thundercracker's frame, carving jagged paths through the air. The branching electricity found the past of least resistance through the wiring that connected to the ballroom lights. Circuitry blew with a pop and a burst of sparks, plunging the hallway into darkness.

Starscream’s night vision flickered on, as another searing column of lightning crashed down, and struck him in the wingtip. 

The point of entry burned like the pit, but the millions of volts passed through him in an instant, traveling out of his fuselage harmlessly. He’d be an ill-prepared flight frame not to have some kind of lightning protection. It was never pleasant to be hit by lightning, but it wasn’t near-deadly like it was to a mech like Megatron. 

In fact, being shot at wasn’t nearly as much an issue as being shot around. As his brother's tantrum worsened, he fired off lightning chaotically. Every discharge was like a stun grenade, blinding and deafening him. Immobilizing him in the face of the real threat.  

Lighting strobed around Thundercracker in the dark, making him disappear and reappear closer as he advanced on him, claws extended. Ready to defend his territory at the expense of Starscream’s life.

Starscream thought of Skywarp, narrowly escaping Thundercracker’s chambers the other cycle, with his cut up arm and the wild fear in his optics. There was no possibility of reasoning with Thundercracker when his base coding had taken over. And, as Thundercracker was a full helm taller, Starscream was not keen to brawl with him.

Expecting Megatron to have reacted to the danger and thrown him over his shoulder; halfway out of the ballroom by now, Starscream was met with more disappointment. Megatron blithely watched Thundercracker attack him, dazed. Useless.

“Megatron!” Starscream protested, drowned out by the roar of thunder. He needed to put some distance between his brother and himself. Now.

He glanced down the corridor. Too narrow to fly through. He’d have to make a run for it. Once he’d cleared the hallway, he could take off towards the towering ballroom ceiling and escape. Thundercracker was too slow to catch him in the air. 

Without a second thought, Starscream whipped around and darted away. He winced at the tension on his hips as his heels pounded the tile. His clutch weighed him down, and his frame did not enjoy the exertion. He raced through the corridor anyway with a graceless clattering. As expected, Thundercracker took off after him. His brother had longer legs, and would catch up fast, but that wouldn't matter once Starscream got airborne.

From what he could see through the arched opening of the hallway, the power had been taken out in the ballroom too. A colorful array of biolights swirled around the dark room, illuminating parts of their owners, darting around. The sounds of their chaos came muffled and distorted through Starscream's overloaded audials, like his helm was underwater.

The moment he crossed the threshold, a column of lightning forked down, and a chandelier shattered over his head, raining crystal fragments. His intakes burned from drawing in the scorching bursts of plasma crashing down around him. Not allowing any of Thundercracker's distractions to hinder him, he warmed his thrusters.

The stares of all Vos’ most important mechs turned on him as he ran into view. Hundreds of optics, red and gold and blue, gleamed at him. 

Starscream clacked across the polished floor, his pede-falls sounding distant and washed out. He had cleared the hallway and was in the ballroom now, clear and free, but delayed taking off. In the presence of an audience, he unexpectedly found his certainty waning.

Months had passed since he’d last flown. Moreover, he hadn’t calculated how to correct his balance with the added weight of his clutch. What if he was, in fact, slower than Thundercracker right now? He imagined a wobbly takeoff, sloppy dips and turns as his aft dragged from his heavier center of gravity, ending in being slammed to the ground by the slowest of his brothers. His plating locked up in mortification at the thought. No, no, no! He couldn't be seen fumbling around in the air, in front of everyone. In front of Megatron.

Terror gripped his spark, and he hesitated. He had to fly. But he couldn't. He simply couldn't. But if he didn't...

Panicking, he tried to reason with himself. Was a violent death really preferable to struggling to fly in front of Vos' elite and tarnishing his image of perfection he'd painstakingly built? To his dismay, his immediate reaction was that anything would be preferable to that.

Claws slammed into his wings. The aluminum dented with a crunchy ping, as Thundercracker dug in. Yelping, Starscream was dragged backwards and thrown facedown. Thundercracker pounced on him, cooling fans screeching. Starscream kicked and thrashed, trying to get out from underneath him, but it was no use. Thundercracker was too big to throw off. 

His brother curled his hand around Starscream’s helm, talons long enough to prick the edges of his optics. Dread set in as Thundercracker crushed his face against the floor, scraping the tips of his fangs along his exposed neck.

“You smell like him,” he rumbled. Starscream shouted in pain as he bit down on his nape to hold him still. His opposite hand dug into Starscream's middle back, poised to claw through his fuselage and extinguish his spark.

Starscream flicked his gaze around in wild desperation, searching for an escape. All the guests had pressed into the corners of the ballroom, giving them a wide berth. Guards were rushing over to separate them, but they were too far. Starscream’s optics unfocused. Hundreds of guests' alarmed countenances floated hazily across his vision, in slow motion. 

He was going to lose Megatron to Thundercracker.

The floor vibrated, signaling movement behind Starscream. Thundercracker growled and went still. Then his weight was pulled off. The sounds of a scuffle followed, as Thundercracker raged at whoever had interrupted. 

Starscream rolled over, to see the Winglord holding Thundercracker by the edge of a wing. Thundercracker, not to be deterred, whipped around and tried to crawl over him to get at Starscream. To get leverage, he gouged his talons into the Winglord's shoulder, leaving four symmetrical furrows as he sunk his claws in and pulled. 

This barely appeared to deter the Winglord. Keeping a firm hold, he led Thundercracker in a narrow line, forcing his wing into low angle to throw his balance off. Fighting to stay upright distracted his brother long enough for the Winglord to march him to a safer distance.

Lightning continued to flare off Thundercracker intermittently, followed by rolls of thunder. By the light of the flickering bolts, Starscream saw Megatron emerge from the hallway. Thundercracker caught sight of him as well and jerked towards him. The dying sparks of his outlier illuminated the Winglord’s determined expression as he led him over to Megatron. 

The scene was detached, hazy, like Starscream was watching through someone else’s optics. Realizing he was still kneeling on the ground, he shakily rose to his feet. His chamberlain and a medic appeared at his side. Starscream shouldered past them both, ignoring their pleas to keep his distance.

Thundercracker practically threw himself into Megatron’s arms. Within moments of being held, the possessed rage faded from his optics. He gazed up at Megatron, clinging to him.

Crisis averted, a crowd had begun to draw in around the pair, obscuring Starscream's view. Irritated, he craned his neck over everyone’s wings to take in the scene. Through a gap in their frames, Starscream watched Thundercracker's legs suddenly give out beneath him, and collapse in a swoon. 

Megatron caught him and lowered him to the floor, supporting his helm and legs. How convenient, that now he felt a protective urge.

The Winglord knelt by Thundercracker’s side, fanning a curl of smoke from his vents. His brother's fans were clicking and stalling, unable to deal with the enormous amount of heat his frame was generating. After a few moments, Thundercracker’s optics flickered on dimly as he rebooted. He scanned the room in confusion, like he was just now realizing where he was. The Winglord touched his shoulder and said something to him. Thundercracker’s wings gave a weak, unsteady twitch. His optics slid closed again. The Winglord had an inaudible exchange with Megatron.

Starscream crept closer. He could just make out their conversation, over the murmurs of the assembly.

“Megatron, you have to mate with him now,” the Winglord was saying. “Don't be gentle about it. Do what is necessary. He’s overheated.”

Starscream shoved his way to the front, emerging from the center of the throng.

Thundercracker perked up immediately. He showed his fangs in a weak, last-resort threat display, but Starscream couldn't care less about him. He was more concerned with Megatron, and the way he was staring at Thundercracker. Hungry, lingering. His vents were wide open; pulling in slow, luxuriant intakes as he leant over his brother, utterly absorbed in his desire. An expression of lust so intimate and familiar, and not directed at Starscream. 

“I was nearly murdered in front of you,” Starscream called out to him, voice hollow. “What do you have to say to that?”

“Starscream,” said the Winglord. “Stay over there. You’re provoking your brother.”

“Megatron! You let him attack me!” Starscream accused, advancing on him. 

Winglord stood and placed a hand on his chest, holding him at a distance. “Leave it be.”

“No! This is all wrong! Megatron! I should be your priority. Have you gone insane?”

“It’s the pheromones,” said the Winglord, in a patient murmur. “You know they’re difficult to resist.”

“He can and he should be resisting! For my sake!”

Begging didn’t make Megatron any less divested from Thundercracker. A spell seemed to have overcome him. Lingeringly, he trailed a hand over Thundercracker’s waist, over his hip and down his thigh. This was enough to distract his hissing brother, who quieted and arched his back. Megatron slid his hands beneath him, cradling him by the thighs and the join of his wings like he was a precious delicacy, and lifted him into his arms. Thundercracker’s helm fell back languidly, elongating the cabling of his throat. Megatron’s attention drew in, fixated on the movement.

“Stop,” croaked Starscream. “Stop looking at him like that. Look at me.”

Instead, Megatron weaved around him without acknowledgement, carrying Thundercracker away. Like no one else in the universe mattered. The crowd split down the middle to allow them to pass. They ascended the steps out of the ballroom, headed straight to Thundercracker’s chambers, where Megatron would do what was necessary. All night long. 

As soon as they disappeared from view, there was a flurry of activity. Servants rushed around to get the lights back online, and clean up the destruction left in Thundercracker’s wake. They descended on smashed up tiles, scorched metal, and downed chandeliers like cyber-vultures, picking up the pieces.

The air in the ballroom was smoky. Starscream cleared his vents to try to dispel the stifling flickers of leftover plasma clinging to his intakes. His chest remained tight and hot, like his spark was being crushed.

He glanced aside at the Winglord, now being bothered by all manner of medics, family members, and miscellaneous nosy mechs. After a closer look, Starscream realized why they were so worked up. In the dark, illuminated only by the Winglord’s biolights on his waist, Starscream could see how badly his shoulder was lacerated. Energon dripped from his wound, running down his arm and off his fingertips. The Winglord clasped his shoulder with his other hand to staunch the flow, looking barely annoyed with the whole thing. After a few kliks more of being crowded, he shooed everyone away with a blasé handwave. 

“He got you pretty good,” one mech with dark green plating commented, hanging behind as the rest of the gawkers dispersed. One of the Winglord’s close friends from the war academy. Starscream had never bothered learning his designation. He was an obnoxious flirt, a perennial bachelor, and– now and forever– thoroughly beneath his interest.

More indulgent, the Winglord lifted his arm briefly to study the claw marks, then shrugged. “I’ve had worse battle wounds.”

They exchanged a knowing look, then laughed together. Raucously. Starscream didn’t miss the smugness in the Winglord’s expression as he and his friend clapped each other on the back.

“That one… knows what he wants,” said the mech, glancing in the direction where Thundercracker had been taken. “Seems he’s really your creation after all. I was beginning to doubt.”

The Winglord grinned. “He’s quite powerful when he deigns to show some nerve.” He shifted his stance, and a stray crystal snapped under his heel. Starscream flinched at the noise. “He’s been more assertive, lately. With any luck, it'll last.” 

His friend continued to leer toward the hallway at the top of the staircase. “A little firecracker with a slow fuse. One to keep my eye on.” 

“Certainly,” said the Winglord, seeing him off with a second thump on the back. 

“And what am I?” asked Starscream. “Collateral damage from his rampage?”

“Oh, Starscream.” The Winglord turned, looking him over. “He didn't leave a scratch on you. No harm done.”

“No harm!? He ruined my night!”

“You’ll survive, I believe,” said the Winglord, squeezing his shoulders. “Go sit. You’re shaken up.”

“Am I going insane? What is the matter with you!? None of this should be happening to me!” Starscream shouted, and jabbed a finger at him. “It’s all your fault nothing ever happens the way I want! I’ve been severely disrespected tonight because of you!"

“Alright. Enough.” The Winglord’s stern, level tone relayed that he would not be coddling a tantrum in public. “It’s over. Take this loss on the nose.” 

“Loss!? I didn’t lose anything!” Starscream’s shriek resounded off the walls. “I didn’t lose! I never fucking lose!” He stamped his heel to punctuate each of his words, too enraged to care how immature he looked. 

Everyone’s attention was on him now. Through his fury-blurred vision, he realized their stares were full of pity. He'd been trounced, and no amount of excuses could undo that. They were waiting politely for his humiliated exclamations to fade into silence so they could go about their business again. Primus. No. This was all wrong. No one was supposed to be pitying him. 

As if things couldn’t get more embarrassing, tears welled up in Starscream’s optics. Before he lost any more dignity, he rushed out of the ballroom.

Throwing open the doors to the balcony, he emerged into the rain. He slumped against the wall under the overhang, sucking in cold air desperately.

It’s just the pheromones. He was just reacting to the pheromones, he repeated as his vents whined and stuttered. Sniveling, he sunk to the wet ground. The granite tile chilled his plating. 

Would Megatron also think less of him now that he’d been overpowered by his brother? 

Starscream had shown him nothing of his own prowess. And who knew if he'd ever reach his full potential again? He was heavy with spark, and out of practice and- and did that even matter in the first place? Was Megatron ever interested in him beyond 'facing? Should he be? Starscream wishing for it wouldn't make it true. He squeezed his claws into his thighs until they dented. 

I’m in love. I’m in love and Megatron is planning to end things. 

That was the tone of the conversation before they were interrupted. Starscream was not a fool, and neither was Megatron. A gladiator didn’t survive into old age without a keen sense of self-preservation. How many battles, sparklings, relationships… how many lives had Megatron abandoned in order to keep living on his own terms?

Starscream wondered if Megatron was only tolerating him until he could make his escape. If he’d recognized the futility of a relationship from the start and kept him distracted with sweet words and gestures until he could quietly slip away before the birth of his illicit clutch. 

The fact of the matter was, Starscream was with spark from a mech he’d been intimate with for less than a fortnight. Whom he’d known for mere months. He’d be delivering his clutch imminently, despite the preventative measures he’d taken, and his life would be ruined. The straining plating around his midsection was barely holding back his shame. 

The excitement of new love, and his utter desperation for a mate he deserved had left him utterly blind. He’d been agonizing over this possibility since the beginning, and now his fear had been justified. He was certain now that he would be abandoned. 

Worse, there was nothing he could do to take back what he’d done. 

—

Megatron didn't know whether he or Thundercracker was the prize in this situation. 

The prince was fixated on leaving bites along his neck; marking him up. The impatient scrape of fangs against Megatron's throat lit a fire in him, and he hastened towards Thundercracker’s chambers.

Ripened seekers really were something dangerous. Megatron could scent him now in a way he'd only gotten teases of before. The intense fragrance of a seeker at the apex of his heat was nigh impossible to resist. Left to run its course, Thundercracker’s raw, untamed mating coding subsumed all Megatron's senses. Like its owner, it was something formidable when propriety wasn't holding it back.

Megatron hurried into Thundercracker’s chambers and lowered him onto his rumpled berth. Thundercracker sprawled out, his plating expanding and contracting with each forceful cycle of his vents. Ragged growls of exertion rumbled from his vocalizer as he slumped across the covers like a downed beast. Air hissed from his seams, dispersing his tempting fragrance. His frame seethed ozone, bleeding out the remnants of his vicious spark ability. 

Megatron crawled on top of him. As if by instinct, Thundercracker drew his legs up and to the sides of Megatron’s waist, revealing the dewy sheen on his exposed valve.

The sheer value of the treasure spread out before him did not go unappreciated. An intact seeker was a rare and prized commodity outside of Vos, however unwanted within the confines of the city. Deflowering one was said to bring good luck, since it was unusual to find an adult in that condition. A prince of their race was surely that much luckier. Megatron was not one for superstition, but the idea that such a prized mech was laying there for the taking fired up his possessive urges. The fact that even this modest one had fallen to him inspired a raging sense of conquest. Driven by his instincts, Thundercracker had sought him out violently, and all that was left to do was devour. 

No matter how reserved their attitude, in the end, a seeker was a seeker.

As Megatron eased his spike into the hot seam of his valve, Thundercracker's handsome face contorted in distress. Pink with exertion, he tossed his helm feverishly before going still.

Puzzlingly, with his loss of consciousness, his scent faded abruptly. Within an instant, Megatron’s arousal became less all-encompassing. Reality cleaved his senses like a hot sunbeam breaking through clouds, as he started to come back to himself.

The ball. An attack.

Shaking his helm, the pheromones weakened further, releasing their talons from around his processor. 

I was with Starscream. 

Thinking on Starscream; his mind's optic cloudy and unfocused, he stared down at the seeker beneath him. 

Thundercracker’s biolights were wan; his facial derma waxy and grayish under the flush. Wings slack, murmuring incomprehensibly. Something was wrong. He shouldn't be in this state.

The lightning. He must have expended an enormous amount of power. With no energy left for mating, his heat and scent retreated to preserve his basic functions. Every bit the hunter, but in no state to defend himself. And Megatron had been ordered to take advantage of him while he was helpless. This was a complete betrayal of trust.

Regaining a flicker of consciousness, Thundercracker lifted his hips, presenting his swollen valve. A bead of lubricant spilled through the crease. Megatron’s spike twitched. He curled his fists into the covers, trying to get ahold of himself as the pheromones surged again, and his sanity threatened to slip.

Take him. 

You’re under orders.

He can’t do anything. 

He’s only a spoiled prince.

You won’t be here in a fortnight. 

Megatron shook himself, spark thrumming out of control. His hands trembled. Sickly heat surged behind his optics, making his helm pound. Thundercracker didn't know what he was doing. At the mercy of his coding, he didn't realize he was acting like this. And he had been about to ravish him without a second thought.

Disturbed, Megatron got off him at once. He had to stop, before he was tempted into doing something both of them would regret.

Carefully, he lifted Thundercracker’s legs to pull the covers out. Lowering them again, he tucked them underneath. Lacking the sight of his valve dampened his unchecked arousal somewhat.

“I’m hot,” said Thundercracker as Megatron drew the covers up to his chin.

“Don’t talk. You overexerted yourself.”

“Hot down here,” Thundercracker slurred, shifting his legs. “Touch.”

“Lie still.” Forcing himself to concentrate, Megatron headed to his washroom and filled a small basin with cold solvent. Locating a few polishing cloths, he soaked one, folding it lengthwise and laying it over Thundercracker’s hot forehead. He wet another and pressed it against Thundercracker’s chest, which elicited a groan of pain. Megatron eased off, but Thundercracker reached for him. His tepid hand clasped Megatron’s arm weakly, holding his hand to his breastplate. 

“Don’t move,” said Megatron, dabbing more gently. “You put a lot of strain on your spark.”

“Mating?” Bleary optics roamed Megatron’s face. 

“Not tonight.”

Thundercracker’s brows knitted. “Heat’s ending tonight.” 

Mentally, Megatron ticked off the number of cycles it had been since he’d started, and found he was correct. Tonight was the last cycle before the coding would shut off, rendering him infertile until the next one. He shoved down a distinct sense of loss; stalwartly ignoring his inappropriate disappointment that he was doing the right thing.

“You’ll feel better once your cycle is over,” Megatron reassured him. He stood, restless. “Try to recharge.”

Thundercracker looked like he wanted to say more, but his optics slid closed, exhaustion winning out. 

Megatron wandered over to Thundercracker’s desk, pulling out the chair and rotating it to face his berthside. It felt wrong to leave Thundercracker alone in his weakened condition. He’d stay at his side tonight to monitor him.

“What about the Winglord?” Thundercracker asked plaintively.

Megatron sat down with a sigh, determined not to think about what fate might befall him in the morning for ignoring orders. The Winglord’s demands shouldn't come at the sake of his creation’s autonomy and comfort. Megatron couldn't take advantage of a mech in this state. He’d already taken too many liberties with Thundercracker tonight. He was meant to guard, not to cause pain. He’d caused enough suffering in his long existence.

Maybe there was no hope for someone like him to be a reliable protector.

Megatron rubbed his helm. “That’s not for you to worry about,” he said. “Rest now.”

Hopefully, once Thundercracker slipped into recharge, the less insistent his scent would become. As Megatron pulled a novel from his subspace to pass the time, he felt Thundercracker’s optics on him. He glanced up, meeting his tired gaze. 

“What is it?”

Thundercracker’s optics slitted further, their light dimming; nearly in recharge. “Could you read to me?” he asked. The request was barely audible. So gentle and earnest, it dredged up Megatron’s guilty conscience again. Trying to focus his mind, he stared into the flickering screen and traced the edge of the datapad.

“Of course.”

Chapter Text

The palace was a hive of activity the rest of the evening, and Thundercracker the hot topic. 

When said topic emerged from his chambers early the next cycle to attend court, he kept his gaze trained to the floor. His frame looked prim and polished. Starscream assumed his servants had tidied him before he faced the leering optics of their peers, hungry for a sight to gossip about. 

Megatron followed a few paces behind him. Starscream raked his optics over his armor, searching for indigo scuffs, claw marks, or other signs of enjoyment. Megatron likewise didn't have any marks on his frame, and Starscream couldn't decide whether their presence or their effacement would have angered him more. 

As if to mock him further, Megatron gave a parting kiss to Thundercracker’s hand, tidy as anything. But Starscream knew better; knew what they'd done all night. 

After this disgusting spectacle, the soiree moved into the city, headed towards the uptown district. For the ‘Games’– what Starscream had named this series of gladiatorial matches he’d put together to demonstrate Megatron’s combat prowess– he had used the grand stadium where the Flights would be held later in the week. 

While his fiances, the Winglord and a few associates, and Thundercracker milled around in the transport drinking and chatting, Starscream watched out the window as they sped over Vos’ main thoroughfare. They passed over pale, crystalline peaks of towers cresting the topside of brewing storm clouds. The weather had turned recently, and wasn't looking to clear anytime soon, which didn't bode well for the upcoming Flights. The others on the transport chattered about this while Starscream sulked. 

By and by, the turrets demarcating the entrance to the venue came into view. Red flags depicting the Vosian national sigil flapped in the gusting wind where they were mounted at the peak of each turret. As the royal transport began its descent, Starscream caught sight of a crowd down below. Every length they descended further revealed the full scope of the congestion.

The lower airway leading to the main entrance was backed up for miles with what looked like every taxi in Vos hovering in line, demarcated by their gaudy orange stripes. In them were grounders.  

An entire horde, leaning out of sunroofs, whooping and waving at the circling news cameras broadcasting the appalling ruckus they were making. There was no question who they were here for.

After winning his fame, Megatron had gone into retirement and lived a reclusive life, so this must have been quite a glorious return. Even in a nation hostile to their kind, fans from the grounder cities had shown up in droves, clamoring at the entrances to the stadium to watch their champion compete. 

“What the hell are those doing down there?” Starscream heard Airbright ask, behind him. “I thought this event was only meant for Vosians.”

“It was,” said Starscream. It had been one of the Winglord’s conditions to allow him to host this. 

In truth, he’d known about this sudden influx of grounders since dawn. He had been fielding calls from the Chief of Security and border guard all morning. In his gloom and spite, he’d brushed off their suggestions to send reinforcements and deny them entry, not seeing the need to cause a ruckus over a few grounders. In retrospect, that may have been short-sighted.

A hand fell tightly onto his shoulder. “Starscream,” the Winglord said, tone dripping with regret that he’d given him permission to organize this. 

“I didn't invite them,” said Starscream, putting his hand over his mouth in feigned surprise. “Word must have leaked.”

“And how did they make it past the border?” The Winglord was glaring at him like he had orchestrated the perfect conditions for an international incident. Still flighty, Starscream supposed, from the recent hostilities between Vos and Tarn.

Starscream didn't care. These dirt kissers were here for a show, not to cause trouble. Probably. He found he didn't really mind what happened today. And he minded even less about anyone who felt offended at having to see grounders. About time for someone other than him to be angry and uncomfortable. He tuned out their whining as they departed the transport and entered the stadium. Security had done its job, and the event inside had been barred to anyone lacking a pair of wings, which seemed to provide the Winglord and the others some comfort.

Within the windswept arena, forty-thousand seats– mostly filled by now– ringed a concave pit. For the Flights, a dais with starting blocks would be set up there. Today, it was cleared, save for a fine dusting of sand for traction. Massive gray columns held up rows of partitioned seating. The cheapest seats for the rabble were located closer to the pit. The royalty and their ilk had a box centered on an ornate balcony, at a prime spot at fifty-five thousand feet. 

Starscream took his seat and looked out onto the eager spectators below, who had risen in the presence of the Winglord. He found his burning enthusiasm from the past few cycles had dulled to nothing but an ember. 

When Megatron finally wandered out, jagged red stripes of paint decorating his helm and forearms, the grounder ruckus outside swallowed up the polite applause within the stadium as his entrance was broadcast. Their excitement didn't move Starscream. Nor did Megatron’s grin as he glanced at him before genuflecting to the Winglord. There was a smug determination in his optics that said I’m going to beat every one of your fliers into the ground.

No. This didn't stir Starscream a bit. 

But the plain delight with which Megatron mugged the camera for his fans’ benefit perpetuated further irritation, after he’d only directed a mere fraction of that devoted attention at Starscream.

Over the sea of wings, Starscream frowned at the massive vidscreen mounted on the stadium wall as it cut to a shot of the unruly grounders around the entrances. These were Megatron’s people. The strong-willed, proud mechs he spoke so fondly of in his stories. They shared a culture and a language and traditions. A way of life so foreign to Starscream’s own. 

Their presence here only made it more apparent that he had known Megatron in isolation only. That he had existed in only one phase of his long life- a mere snapshot. He wasn't there during Megatron’s glory days, or his hardships. Never stepped foot in the lowest polities of Kaon and Tarn. Iacon was the closest he’d gotten to grounders before Megatron, and that was to have dinners and balls in the glittering estates of diplomats. 

This was not the time to feel like slag about himself. This should have been his moment; his indulgence, to see Megatron perform in his element for him. But in reality, perhaps one of the grounders would better suffice as a lover for Megatron-- 

No. Starscream chose to move on from that thought, rather than give himself an aneurysm out of fury. 

Since Megatron had arrived, it was time to start the competition. Starscream took to the front of the balcony and held up a hand for silence. He kicked things off with a rousing address to the crowd. Spark-felt and poetic and bursting with charisma. Of course. Though imbued with far more bite and sarcasm than he’d rehearsed, throwing back as much “I hope you get beaten into the ground” sentiment as he could muster while Megatron smiled blithely at him.

“...will see how Tarn’s champion fares against our strongest warriors. Wind under your wings. Long live Vos,” he concluded.

Tarn’s greatest warrior versus Vos’ greatest. A rare and fascinating spectacle, to be sure. Starscream would not have delivered any less. It was why everyone showed up in the first place.

The first handpicked challenger came out. Cloudburst. An up-and-coming Lieutenant. Vicious in close combat, and perhaps a unique challenge for Megatron. None of these should be easy for him.

Starscream knew the whole roster by spark. All decorated fliers, save for a few lesser beasts Megatron would slay to satiate the crowd’s urge for real violence, as the fights were to first blood, not to deactivation.

Starscream waved them both on to start the match, and slumped back in his seat. Examined his claws for a bit, but found himself glancing back up to watch. Even as petulant as he felt, he couldn’t lose interest. Every one of Megatron’s effortless dips and slashes and parries against his opponent made him… restless. 

The rest of his peers in the royal box were, contrastingly, disengaged.

Reclining in a statuesque pose across a loveseat and sipping on high grade, Slipstream observed more than participated in the dull conversation Airbright was having with the Winglord’s associates. The Winglord himself was much more distracting. Seated between Starscream and Thundercracker and waving around a glass of engex, he chattered away to his disgruntled brother about the mechs he was eyeing as potential bondmates for him.

As usual, Thundercracker had brought a novel. He had his nose planted in the datapad; taken with neither the Winglord’s blathering nor with the fights below. He looked mortified– and rightfully so. Starscream thought he should be ashamed of his actions at the ball.

Frustratingly, the Winglord and everyone else had a different perspective from Starscream on the events of the previous night.

In an unexpected turn, Thundercracker’s display of violence was being celebrated rather than his lack of restraint being disdained. Vosians did love a ferocious mate, after all. Stirrings of romantic interest where there were once none had blossomed overnight. With the morning sun, Thundercracker had risen as a dark horse contender for this season’s most wanted suitors. 

The Winglord, never missing an opportunity to exploit a stroke of fortune, framed the barbaric event in a sexy light. The way he’d been telling it to suitors, Thundercracker was– had always been!- a “tamed force of nature”. He was known to suppress his passionate side, only coming ‘undone’ for the most powerful and richest mech available. Or something ridiculous like that. 

Starscream tuned it out as soon as he realized he, the most egregiously harmed, would not be getting any sympathy.

“-not letting you get away with not flying this season,” the Winglord continued to ramble at Thundercracker. “It’s preposterous that a creation of the Winglord should skip a chance to dazzle suitors, for even one season. I can’t believe I ever let you consider it.”

“It’s too late to accept a challenge.” Thundercracker spoke directly into his novel. 

“No need for that. Give all these interested mechs a courtesy flight. A little demonstration of your flying skills to signal a requited interest in bonding.”

Thundercracker’s wings stiffened. “I don't have time to put together a routine this late.”

“Nevermind that. You’ll win sparks just showing off with your spark ability. The weather is perfect for it,” said the Winglord, motioning with his glass at the foreboding dark clouds.

Thundercracker’s mouth worked around another excuse, but the Winglord talked over him. “As I’ve reminded you time and time again, you’re not doing yourself any favors by being modest. A strong mating instinct is best shown off. Like it or not, last night’s episode was the best thing that could have happened to you.”

“I didn't realize, sire,” Starscream loudly cut in, his temper finally reaching an unsuppressable level, “that you were in the habit of encouraging violence towards your other creations. You're permitting, nay, incentivizing mating behavior fit only for commoners!”

Thundercracker shrunk in his seat. He tilted the novel just so, to hide his face. Starscream thought he had a lot of nerve acting demure, like he hadn’t viciously attacked him. 

The Winglord fixed Starscream with a disapproving stare. “Nothing any of my creations do can be considered ‘common’ behavior. By birthright, you’re all above that sort of judgment.”

“But I almost killed Starscream.” Thundercracker’s earnest protest was almost lost behind his datapad.

“No.” The Winglord waved a finger to correct him before Starscream could agree. “Remember how I said to phrase it– you challenged Starscream. He’s fine.”

“I’m not fine!” snapped Starscream.

“For Primus’ sake!” said the Winglord. “The only reason you got knocked around was because you were distracted, swooning over Megatron all night.”

“I wasn't swooning!”

“Starscream,” said the Winglord sharply, setting down his glass on the arm of his seat. “I think it’s time for you to step down from your pedestal.”

“What?”

“Your time for being the brightest star in Vos has passed, now that you're to be bonded. Allow your brother his turn in the spotlight. Your legacy will be fondly remembered if you’d stop making a fool of yourself.”

“I earned my reputation! How dare you tell me to lessen my achievements so this slow, plain-looking bore can look half-decent by comparison?”

“Starscream! That’s not what I mean, and that is not–” 

“True? It is true!” Starscream threw his arm out and gestured at Thundercracker. “He has no aerobatic ability to speak of. On top of that, he’s dull, and lags in the air, and he’s– he’s not slender.”

“Really, Starscream?” asked Thundercracker, throwing his helm back in exasperation and glaring at him. 

“Yes,” said Starscream, pleased he’d gotten a rise out of him. “You’re broad like a tanker.”

“And I heard you bawled like a newspark because Megatron ignored you last night.”

“You are nothing compared to me!”

“Happy to keep it that way. Brat.”

“Enough, both of you!” said the Winglord. “Starscream, I shall twist this narrative of last night’s events however best suits my purpose, and you will fall in line. For Thundercracker’s sake.”

“This is absurd!”

“No, what’s absurd is that you spent all your time organizing this,” the Winglord motioned around the arena, “yet haven't lifted a finger to start planning your wedding. I’d like to see that occupy your processor space rather than this foolish jealousy.”

The Winglord patted Thundercracker on the shoulder and stood. “We’ll talk more later.”

He went over to join the conversation Airbright and Slipstream were having, leaving behind an oppressive silence that Starscream quickly broke.

“Enjoy your five kliks of glory while it lasts, Thundercracker.”

“I will.”

“Seems all that resistance to Megatron was for nothing, hm?”

Thundercracker’s claws curled, but he held his temper. Curtly ignoring him and going back to reading his stupid little book. Prim and composed in the face of this all. 

One would hardly suspect he’d thrown himself at Megatron in a lustful mating frenzy. Especially after he’d put up such a fuss about not sleeping with him. Starscream couldn’t have thought of a more blatant attention-grabbing strategy than if he’d invented the hot-and-cold routine himself. He wasn’t surprised that this act had worked to reel in powerful suitors, only that Thundercracker had managed to pull it off to this much success. Had the Winglord put him up to this? 

The sound of the buzzer going off drew Starscream’s attention back to the fight. Megatron had defeated the first challenger and moved onto the next– a stealth corps veteran with black plating. 

The sight of the mech made Starscream wonder, abruptly, where the pit Skywarp had disappeared to. At this point, he was gone so often from the palace that his absence was barely notable.

Yet the one empty seat in the royal box held Starscream’s attention. Skywarp was supposed to be fighting Megatron later on. That was the whole reason he’d had the idea to put on this event, wasn't it? 

Knowing his brother, he would probably show up at the last joor, overcharged and disorderly, back from whatever binge he’d gone on the previous night.

Watching him get thrashed seemed like such a petty desire at this point, though.

Starscream didn’t think he’d ever say this, but he truly wished Skywarp were here. Not even to fight Megatron; just to talk. He had no desire to speak to anyone in this damn suite, but Skywarp’s jokes would have been a welcome distraction from everyone else. Starscream’s haughty fiances and scheming sire and Thundercracker. Oh, Thundercracker had shot to the top of his ‘most aggravating’ list in record time.

At least Skywarp didn’t think he was too good for anyone. Didn’t guard his chastity like it was some unassailable gift from Primus, while walking around in heat all week and pretending he didn't love the attention from mechs who normally passed him over.

As Starscream’s glare drifted spitefully back to Thundercracker, his brother was now accompanied by an unwelcome presence. Slipstream leant over his shoulder, as he murmured something to her. Thundercracker had his wings tilted at her attentively– an open, welcoming gesture . Strange.

Slipstream, who had been oddly reserved since they departed this morning, stood a bit too close to Thundercracker for Starscream’s taste. As she leant further into Thundercracker’s space to whisper something back, their wings brushed. 

Starscream cleared his intake loudly enough that they both looked up, Thundercracker flinching like he’d been caught in the act. The act of what, Starscream couldn’t determine, but it was not a good sign. 

“Can I help you?” asked Slipstream.

“I can't imagine what business you have with him,” said Starscream.

“Nothing of interest to you.” 

“Oh, really?”

“No, just discussing the match.”

“Were you.”

“Speaking of which,” she said, peering over the balcony and scrunching her nose at the fight below. “I can’t believe you think this is what passes for entertainment.”

“Seriously…” agreed Thundercracker, almost inaudibly. Wincing as Megatron’s sword connected with his opponent’s knee with a reverberant crack.

“If you don’t like it, then get out,” said Starscream.

“Gladly. After I freshen up.” Her wingtip brushed Thundercracker’s again, shamelessly, as she went past him towards the rear of their box. An enclosed private suite was built into the back, containing a sitting area, polishing room, and refreshments. She disappeared inside, shutting the door.

Starscream glared after her then turned back to Thundercracker. “She’s still buzzing around you?”

“Sorry.”

“Why would you be sorry?”

Thundercracker’s face turned an interesting shade of pink. “I– um. No reason.”

“I have a lot of questions about last night,” said Starscream. “Something isn’t lining up.”

Ever since last night, thoughts of Thundercracker’s implausible escape had occupied the back of his processor. What had triggered him to break out and attack? Moreover, Slipstream’s lurking presence in Thundercracker’s heat-drama– the suppressants, her lascivious behavior– had only become more suspicious the more he let his thoughts fester.

Starscream stroked his chin. “What I’m wondering is, how did you get out of your room?”

Thundercracker’s gaze dropped to his lap. “I don’t know. It was all a blur.”

“There’s no way you could have broken those two locks. You were let out. Who else has a key to your room?”

Thundercracker still wouldn’t meet his eye. “Megatron left his keycard you gave him.”

“And you used that?”

“Maybe…”

“Maybe. Or maybe someone else used it.” 

“Like I said, it was all a blur.”

“Don’t use that excuse on me.”

“Look, I said I was sorry.” Thundercracker stood suddenly. “I don’t know what else you want to hear.” Maneuvering around him, he strode to the back of the box and into the enclosed suite. The door clicked shut behind him.

Suspicion had anchored in Starscream like a knife, but he let him go. For the moment. 

He cast a look around at the others in their section. Aside from Skywarp’s empty seat, Thundercracker and Slipstream were the only ones not present among the mechs they’d come with. Which meant they were in the private suite alone together.

What a pain. He’d turned his back on the illegal suppressant situation, thinking Thundercracker would’ve heeded his advice and avoided Slipstream, and what did he do?

There was no reason for him to interfere with Thundercracker’s affairs– let him figure out he was being an idiot on his own. Starscream would have been perfectly happy to let his guard down, if not for the distinct suspicion that he’d been caught in the crosshairs of whatever arrangement Thundercracker had gotten himself tangled in with Slipstream.

Making sure no one noticed him, Starscream rose and tiptoed to the back of the suite. Bracing himself for whatever scandalous nonsense he was about to hear, he held his audial to the door.

Chapter Text

“Everyone is horrible,” said Thundercracker, fitfully pacing the length of the suite. He met the wall in five strides, then turned around and did the same thing in the other direction, passing Slipstream. He met the opposite wall. The room was too small to properly vent his frustration, and that too was frustrating. 

“Yesterday was the worst night of my life, and the court’s making a spectacle out of it. All the Winglord cares about is his own agenda. What brings him the most pride. What am I supposed to do? Control myself unless it’s convenient for him that I don't. Shut up and be obedient unless he wants me to show off. Does anyone care what I want?” He threw his hands in the air. "I don’t want to be known for being aggressive and wild and– and libidinous. I hurt Starscream. I presented myself to Megatron in front of everyone. It was humiliating."

“Thundercracker,” Slipstream said, interrupting him just as he started to get lightheaded from his fuming. “You got what you wanted, didn't you? Plenty of suitors. You won’t need my help.”

“But I don't like any of them! I’m no better off than before. I didn't want things to happen this way.”

“This is only temporary. Everyone will have moved onto something else by next week. I promise.”

“But…”

“I promise. This isn’t something to get worked up about. It’ll pass.”

Her stern practicality eased his worries, even if Thundercracker had trouble believing the sentiment, so he decided to drop it for now. Much as he wanted to dissolve into a puddle of self-pity and resentment.

“You said you had something to tell me?” she asked, breaking the lingering silence that had formed. 

“Oh. Yeah,” said Thundercracker, wincing. Then, there was the issue of Megatron. He didn't know who else to tell what had really happened (or, more accurately, had not happened) during the previous night he’d spent with him. But the truth would have to come to light at some point. Thundercracker lowered his voice, feeling a stab of guilt. Even after everything he’d put himself through this week to avoid sleeping with Megatron, his secret felt mutinous to admit: “I’m not sparked.”

“What?” Her face was the picture of shock. It made Thundercracker feel worse. 

“Megatron didn’t mate with me last night,” he repeated, dredging up more guilt with every syllable. “He’s not a beast. Apparently. He was very thoughtful, actually. Gentle with me.” The words kept spilling out of him. He didn’t expect this would feel so shameful to admit. Some prideful, stubborn part of him hated to voice the reality of his encounters with Megatron, but his principled side felt it needed to be said. 

“I’m pleased to hear that.” Her expression said she was more surprised by the outcome than anything else.

Thundercracker was surprised too, by the sheer intensity of his gratitude that Megatron hadn’t taken advantage of him while he was helpless. Did Megatron know just how bold of a statement he’d made? He didn’t think anyone in the entire state of Vos would have been so upstanding while under orders from the Winglord to mate with him. 

“We didn't do anything,” he said, his frame warming with appreciation. “He put me to berth and left me alone, and my heat ended on its own. And I really appreciate it, but… what do I tell the Winglord? Megatron said he’ll take the fall for not doing his duty, but–”

“Then take him at his word. You don’t need to worry about it any longer.” Slipstream smiled like it pained her to do so. “You survived. No thanks to me.”

“I don’t blame you for what happened last night,” blurted Thundercracker, finally addressing the really discomforting issue that had been hanging between them. “You were just trying to help.”

“No, I shouldn’t have come in to meet you at the peak of your heat,” she said quickly. “I didn’t expect you would run out like that. But I couldn’t leave you there, knowing you were suffering–”

“It’s really not your fault.” Thundercracker’s protest overlapped with hers. “I thought I could hold out. I don’t know what came over me.”

She took his hands in hers. “I’m sorry. You were just following your instincts. I should have been more careful.”

“I…” Thundercracker paused, wondering if he’d ever heard her apologize before. “We couldn’t have known I would escape.” He sighed. “It’s over now. Best to put it behind us. It’s just…”

“What? Is there something else?” 

“Um, I guess. Yeah. Aside from all that…” Thundercracker studied their clasped hands, and suddenly had trouble lifting his gaze from the floor. “Thank you. For taking care of me.” 

“It was the right thing to do.”

Thundercracker laughed softly. “That’s pretty chivalrous of you to say so.”

“What? It’s true. You didn’t deserve to languish during your heat. I only wish I could have been at your side whenever you wanted me.” She moved in closer, and her gaze was intense as she made the declaration. Heat poured through Thundercracker’s systems like molten gold. She kissed him once, also intensely, to seal in the veracity of her words, and he could barely speak. “O-oh. Really?” 

“Of course.”

“Oh, nice. That’s… good. Sorry.” Lightheaded with pleasure-shyness-arousal, Thundercracker tried to pull himself together under the force of her regard. “The point I’m trying to make is, now that my heat’s over, you don’t have an excuse to see me.”

“Why in the world would I need an excuse to see you?”

“Because, while I appreciate you helping me out, I don't know if it’s right to keep on… y’know. Doing all that. Because you’re going to get, like, trined? But. I really...” He could barely meet her optics, much less get the words out.

“But you want to.”

“I’ve been thinking about it. A lot. Which isn’t right. But I can’t help it.” Thundercracker shook his helm, and still couldn’t banish the thought. The tempting, delectable thought that had tormented him every cycle until he gave in. That was tormenting him now, at the worst possible time. “A-anyway, I feel like I should at least give you something in return. As thanks. For everything.”

She tilted her helm, grinning. “I’m satisfied with what we’ve been doing.”

“Oh. That’s. Great.” His voice cracked as she pressed him gently against the wall.

“I didn’t properly spend time with you last night,” she said. Her mouth molded to his; her glossa found its way inside. 

Thundercracker’s valve pulsed. Impatient, like he hadn’t been getting fucked like the prince he was for the past few cycles. With a mighty effort, he broke away. “Wait, you’re doing this here? We shouldn't, with everyone right outside–”

She hushed him. “Keep your voice down. They won't hear anything over the crowd.”

“Mmh,” he mewled, as she promptly went back to kissing him. He’d actually mewled. And. That was all he had to say about that. 

Less than four seconds into their enthusiastic makeout, someone kicked in the door.

Thundercracker pushed away from the wall so fast, he almost knocked foreheads with Slipstream, who turned at the sound of the door banging open. Filling the entryway, with steam practically shooting from his audials, stood Starscream.

Thundercracker had seen him angry, of course. Starscream was always angry. 

Right now, Starscream was incandescent. 

“You,” Starscream accused, thrusting a finger at Slipstream while Thundercracker was still stammering. “You have been taking advantage of this,”- here, he pointed at Thundercracker– “ditzy excuse for a mech. What are you trying to train him to be? Your lackey? An obedient side piece?”

“Were you spying on us!?” Thundercracker finally managed to wheeze out, humiliation cutting him to his core. “What is your problem!?”

He was ignored. On a mission, Starscream stomped into the room and began shouting in Slipstream’s face. “You crazy bitch! I see it clearly now. This was all a scheme. Giving him suppressants; speaking poison into his audial about refusing Megatron as long as possible. He would have done his duty if not for your meddling!”

Slipstream worked her mouth, more baffled than Thundercracker had ever seen her. “You think I–"

“I know it!” declared Starscream. “You as good as admitted you’ve been hitting it completely unprotected for cycles during his heat. You could have had him anytime, but this was premeditated. Giving a virgin in heat his first taste of real pleasure, and now he’s wrapped around your finger. Do you have any shame?”

Thundercracker’s vocalizer made a terrible grinding noise as he tried to say literally anything in his defense. Beside him, Slipstream's optics followed Starscream, her gaze calculating. He was so glad at least one of them was collected.

“What end would my… alleged interference achieve?” she asked, narrowly.

“What would it… oh, Slipstream,” Starscream said, taking a step back, optics bright with gleeful derangement as things apparently fell into place for him. “What wouldn’t it achieve? I was wrong about you– you weren’t only after his frame. The fragging was just a perk. You’ve been playing the long game. You tempted him with suppressants and encouraged him to hold out on Megatron until he was half-feral with heat. Then you broke him out of his room and sicced him on me as soon as I was alone with Megatron at the ball.”

Slipstream’s gasp of astonishment mirrored Thundercracker’s, as Starscream’s point landed. “You think I tried to kill you?” she asked. “Using Thundercracker?”

“And make it look like an accident! Once I was dead, you could claim Thundercracker as a conjunx since he’d be the new heir, and he’d be far more submissive and tractable. You rightfully knew I’d make your married life the pits, so you intervened.”

Slipstream rubbed her temples. “This is all so… so unbelievable.” 

“Is it? Why else would you suddenly decide to romance Thundercracker, when you and I both know you don’t have any reason to care for him? Aside from how you could use him for a pawn and a convenient spike warmer?”

Slipstream glared at him. “How could you say such horrible things about your own kin?”

“I’m only telling the truth. You’re a traitor to Vos, scheming against me!”

“Not everything is about you, you narcissist. Do you have any proof of this? Or is this another one of your compulsions to shout insane things to anyone who will listen?”

“The evidence is clear. I know how you are. Sneaking around, manipulating things in whatever way suits you.”

“And I know how you are,” she shot back. “Your ego is simultaneously the most fragile and overgrown thing on the planet. You’re apparently so self-centered, you even dream up elaborate fantasies about your death. It's the kind of plan you would make to get rid of someone." She shook her helm in disbelief. “Starscream, if I wanted to kill you, why would I do it in such a dramatic and convoluted way, when I could tip some poison into your energon when you’re not looking and that would work just as well? You're simply not worth the effort.”

“Well–!” Starscream began to lose steam in the face of her sensible argument. He stomped his heel and shouted even louder, like he often did when losing a fight. “This is your fault! The fact of the matter is, you let Thundercracker escape his room and attack me.”

“And you wouldn’t be making your loss everyone’s problem if you weren’t too much of a runt to fight him off,” she snapped.

Humiliation set Starscream’s features ablaze. Fearfully, Thundercracker watched a purplish flush settle into every plane and crevice of his face, and braced for the inevitable explosion.

“I will not be made a mockery of in my own land!” Starscream howled, baring his fangs, and Thundercracker knew there was no point trying to de-escalate. He wasn’t surprised at all when Starscream launched himself at Slipstream, talons out.

She dodged a moment too slowly, and his clawtips caught her in the face. Two bright lines of energon opened across the bridge of her nose. Then she lunged, shoving him back.

Starscream’s wings creaked when he hit the wall. He bounced forward, throwing a punch that missed, and receiving one to the face that made his lip spill energon. He dove for a crystal arrangement on the table, flinging it at her. It clipped her wing and shattered against the opposite wall. She didn’t have as much luck dodging the chair, and the curses on her lineage that followed.

Thundercracker tried to put himself between them, but his interference only caused their brawl to get more heated. Within a few kliks, the door swung open, and the Winglord poked his helm in, summoned by the commotion.  “What is going on in here?” he demanded to know, as he took in the scene of Slipstream attempting to put her fiancé in a headlock. 

Slipstream shoved Starscream away, straightening. “Winglord, I can explain–” 

She was distracted. Thundercracker saw it at the same time Starscream did. Too irate to stop until this was finished, Starscream yanked her back by a wing, and continued to pummel her.

Snarling, Slipstream broke away and fled, pushing past the bewildered Winglord. Hollering obscenities, Starscream charged after her. Once they emerged from the suite, there was nowhere to run. Starscream backed her against the balcony, and the imperious look she cast between him and Thundercracker conveyed a clear sentiment: Do you really want to cause a scene in public? 

In Thundercracker's opinion, they had already attracted a scene. Airbright and the Winglord's retinue had flattened themselves to the side of the box, staying well away from the brawl, but gawking and giving obnoxious commentary. Trouble in paradise! A marital spat!

In a chain reaction, others took notice. Overhearing their yammering, everyone in the adjoining boxes turned fully around to gape, and their movement drew the attention of the others around them. Soon, hundreds of mechs were craning their necks for a better look at the altercation.

"Starscream!" Thundercracker begged. "Stop this, please."

Nothing he could have said would have gotten through to Starscream when he had his mind set on righting an indignity done to him. And so, in front of everyone, Starscream made the very announcement Thundercracker had been silently begging he would not: “Slipstream of Caminus, I challenge you to a duel. For traitorously plotting my demise, for breaking the sanctity of our trine alliance, and for defiling my brother during his heat.”

At that last part, the Winglord whipped fully around to look at Thundercracker, baffled and suspicious. Thundercracker wanted to vanish. The best he could do was hide his face in his hands, which would have to suffice for now.

The sound of a jet engine firing up pierced the stadium. The distinctive, sonorous wail was unmistakably Starscream’s, rending the air like the war cry of an angered deity. The deafening shrill eclipsed all other sound, completely drowning out Slipstream’s comparatively modest engine. 

Audials ringing, Thundercracker looked up as Starscream shoved Slipstream backwards off the balcony and shot after her. In a panic, Thundercracker ran to the balustrade and leaned over the edge, watching as they hurtled together into the pit.

—

The wind caught Starscream’s wings.

They creaked, straining under his weight, and he scowled. His center of gravity was larger now, and he wasn't getting quite his usual lift. He corrected, shooting more power to his thrusters to compensate for the extra bulk in his midsection. 

Too slow. He accelerated harder, cursing as his speed indicator ticked up a fraction more sluggishly than he was used to. His engine howled as he throttled it. He banked sharply then pulled up in a tight half turn, streaking through the sky, coasting along on the inertia from his maneuver. 

A gleam of teal and violet denoted Slipstream on the horizon behind him. Starscream continued leveling out until she lay firmly between his rear sights. She was keeping up, but not catching up with him. But closer than she should be. Frustrated, he fired his afterburners. The surge of fuel made him lightheaded for a moment, as he rocketed another thousand feet in a matter of seconds. Still blisteringly fast, but not the fastest.

Slipstream’s voice crackled in his audial, over their comms. ::You’re flying lopsided with that clutch. It’s embarrassing to watch.::

::I’m still outpacing you.::

::And for what?:: she shot back. ::I’m not chasing you in circles.:: Her field lashed him with bitter confusion as he continued to widen the distance between them, picking up speed. 

::Is that as fast as you go?:: asked Starscream. ::Caminus clearly didn’t send their best.::

::What are you trying to accomplish here? You’re acting more insane than usual.::

::Now that you’ve made yourself an obstacle? Beating you into the ground.::

::Obstacle to what?::

Having gained enough momentum, Starscream flung himself around, doubled back, and laid on his accelerator, shooting straight towards her. She banked hard, barely evading as he attempted to ram her.

Her end of the comm channel popped and crackled as she cursed. ::Are you out of your mind? You’re going to get us both killed, doing that!::

::No, just you:: Starscream rolled and looped around again, barreling down on her.

::Wait, Starscream:: Her field blew wide open with astonishment. She clearly hadn't expected this suicidal plan of attack. Maybe a race. A little swordfight. Not a full-contact high speed aerial joust. ::We haven't set the conditions of the duel yet. You can't just start doing whatever you want.::

To be fair, Slipstream was smart, but not particularly imaginative. Too pragmatic to anticipate an insane strategy. Foolish of her.

She tried to bank out of his way once more, but he made contact this time, transforming to root mode and driving his shoulder into her back. The impact rattled him, but not nearly so much as it did her. Too close to the stands to correct her flight path, she hit a column hard. She tumbled into the crowd below and slid, fuselage scraping shrilly along the seats. 

When she came to rest, smoke streamed from one of her turbines. Her entire front and side were scraped to pit; the silver plating beneath the stripped paint covered in scratches and dents. She glared around at the gaping mechs in the section self-consciously, trying to pull herself together like she didn’t just eat slag.

“You’re insane!” she shouted up at Starscream, once she got her bearings. 

“And you’re slow. Not fit to be my conjunx.” 

Her wings hitched up, trembling in aggression. “I don’t know what you’re trying to prove. We’re already engaged. This doesn’t change that.”

“You lost,” he said. And then, as more of an afterthought, “Stay away from Thundercracker.”

She bared her denta, attempting to start her engine again, which produced a dull rattle and a plume of black smoke.

Two more delicate engines whined in the distance, as Slipstream’s glittering ladies in waiting flew to receive her with open arms. The sight of them made her sag, knowing she’d been defeated.

“I’m fine, I’m fine. It’s just cosmetic,” she insisted, as they fussed over her. They each took an arm anyway and held her upright as she wobbled off for medical attention. As she went, she snuck a glance at the royal box. Thundercracker, thankfully, had the self-awareness to keep his aft politely in his seat, and was nowhere to be found among the groupies come to fawn over her.

That problem solved, Starscream cut his engine and drifted a lap around the stadium, dipping and twirling with no real aim.

He was good enough to beat Slipstream. No surprise there. But he was displeased with how much his skills had atrophied from only a few months of misuse. To an average flier, this degradation would be negligible, but he was no average flier. 

He flipped onto his front and his engine kicked up a notch to hold him level. His wings groaned slightly. Fuck, he was heavy. And weight meant stability, which meant severe impairment to his agility and speed. In competition, he’d be devastated by his condition. But he was content to set that aside for now. Let his mind drift airily. He felt remarkably more calm– and not just because he’d kicked Slipstream’s aft. 

Just a few kliks in the air had dramatically improved his temper, filling him with near-rapture that only a flier grounded for months could truly comprehend. He felt free.

What a shame he’d come to associate flight with competition rather than having fun, when the pleasure of flight alone was this euphoric. He couldn’t even remember an occasion that he'd flown this hard, where he wasn't either competing or training for a competition.

He hummed, doing another giddy half-spin, as his HUD blared with an urgent comm from the Winglord. Still partway in a nostalgic daydream, Starscream half expected the message to be “Your form is sloppy. Run through it again.” His wings ached with the memories of the Winglord’s lessons.

But when he opened the comm, it only said ::Land:: with four separate sub glyphs to express the full extent of his displeasure.

Through the opening in the clouds in front of him, Starscream saw his sire below in the stands, beckoning him. This snapped him back to reality from his fugue state, and he properly took in his surroundings. The match between Megatron and his opponent had long since stopped, and the whole stadium was looking up at him in shock. Not only the Vosians within the stadium, either. As this event was being broadcast, all of Vos had seen him brutally attack his fiancée. Smear her name and beat her half to deactivation. Then flit around casually in a victory lap. Not one of his finest moments.

The Winglord beckoned him with more insistence. The motion looked so desperate that an untoward sense of mirth came over Starscream, at the sight of his sire, down in the balcony, making jerky, irate gestures at him like that would fill him with guilt. Like he could be summoned back into propriety at will. 

Fool his sire was. Starscream felt nothing but self-satisfaction. 

He scoffed, which turned into laughter, which became hysterics. Wild cackles poured out of him, which he didn't even try to stop. The audience looked troubled, leaning out of their seats with their wings crooked with confusion. He must seem deranged. But the situation couldn’t be more clear– no one could stop him. No one was fast enough to catch him. Not Slipstream, not the guards, not the military. Not even the Winglord himself. 

Starscream sank a few hundred feet lower, just to see the Winglord’s scandalized expression more closely as he realized he wasn’t going to touch down on command. He preened, relishing in the power he wielded while he remained airborne. The Winglord couldn’t make him do anything if Starscream set his mind to being a menace. That was simply the way things were. The Winglord had no place looking so surprised– he had meticulously trained him to be uncatchable.

How strange, that it had taken Starscream until now to fully appreciate what he could do with this power. It was high time he went about setting things right.

Chapter Text

The ledge of the commentator’s box became Starscream’s perch to address the stadium. Alighting on a cornice framing the window, he reached through and snatched the mic. 

The crowd had realized by now that this wasn’t part of the show. In his balcony across the way, the Winglord heatedly discussed something with yet more guards he had assembled.

They all peered into the sky, jostling, trying to figure out how to best get to him. Starscream rolled his optics and spoke into the mic. “You can stop exerting yourself over there, Sire. You know better than anyone else that no one can catch me.”

With the spotlight turned on him, the Winglord hesitated, and then sort of deflated, watching crossly.

“Or perhaps there is one among us,” continued Starscream. “But it sure as pit isn't Slipstream.” He cackled as one of the cameras helpfully panned to her, limping out of the stands. The image of defeat, projected across the venue’s screens. She snarled and shielded her face with a hand.

“In all my functioning,” said Starscream, “Vos has not produced one mech who can stand against me as an aerial threat. Will you continue to disappoint your prince?”

He looked out among everyone’s faces; the various shades of consternation turned his way, and shouted, “Don’t you get it!? No one has the right to claim my spark without a proper match. No one is worthy! I cannot be bought.”  Here, he shouted directly at Airbright. “And it especially isn't you!”

While scandalized gasps filled the stadium, Starscream kept going. “I am a legend and I’ll accept no less in a trine. I demand a challenge. Is there one here who can rival my strength?”

There were many in this crowd who Starscream had once deemed worthy to face him. They had all been defeated, and weren’t eager for another taste. It didn't help that the Winglord was sweeping his gaze over the stadium, daring someone to respond. His subjects' craven fidgeting as they looked between each other and him didn’t inspire confidence that he’d get a volunteer. Until out of his peripheral vision, he noticed Megatron below him, wandering up.

Megatron balled his hand in a fist and knocked it against his chest. The gesture was clear.

Fight me. 

Starscream’s tanks plummeted. Pinpointing exactly what he felt was impossible. Shock? Disdain? Desire? 

Megatron did it again.

He couldn’t be.

A comm hit his inbox, stark against his HUD: ::I’ll see you on the ground::

“Megatron?” Starscream had meant to whisper it to himself, but his breathy exclamation boomed through the stadium over the loudspeaker.

Megatron grinned.

“You?” his shout was swallowed up in a deafening wave of spiteful laughter and jeers from the fliers, at Megatron’s expense. The grounders outside could be heard cheering just as loudly, egging Megatron on, and their clashing reactions spilled together in a distorted cacophony.

Starscream laughed along to conceal his fluster. “Yes, laugh! Laugh at this fool! How stupid are you!?”

Megatron made the sign a third time, laying a hand over his spark. I swear.

“You contend you’re more skilled than I?” asked Starscream. “At flying?”

Megatron shook his helm and beckoned him down.

Kicking off the ledge, Starscream drifted lower, close enough for the mic to capture Megatron’s response. 

“I’m not questioning your skill,” said Megatron. “Only contending that I can more than test your limits.”

Starscream mulled this over. “A grounder defeating me in flight. Did you get hit in the head?”

“The object is just to get you on the ground, isn’t it?”

“And how, exactly, do you intend to do that? You couldn't even protect me from getting attacked last night.”

“I’ll make it up to you. Give you the challenge you’ve been craving.”

“By fighting the mech you are sworn to defend? You have some backwards morals.”

“I won’t leave Vos without facing you,” declared Megatron, which was so unexpected, it gave Starscream pause. Megatron frowned like he shouldn't have said that.

“You’re what?” asked Starscream carefully.

Megatron seemed to be weighing his words.  “You once told me that you wanted to be courted in the tradition of your people. In Tarn–”

 Starscream hardly heard the rest. He couldn’t process the words. A ringing had started up in his audials and his gaze unfocused.

Leaving Vos.

–highly regard a strong mate as well. We could-” 

“Stop talking.” Starscream’s head reeled. The mic creaked in his fist. “You traitor! You were planning to leave, and you hid it from me.”

“It was not my choice, but by order of the Winglord.”

“The Winglord?” Starscream started to form his mouth around a “why”, but suspected the answer. Up in his box the Winglord cocked his helm reproachfully. The knowing glare spoke volumes as to his distaste for the situation. Starscream expected he’d eventually discover the depths of his feelings for Megatron. Had he also suspected Megatron would reciprocate?

He supposed his answer was right in front of him with his hand over his spark. 

Nothing could guarantee Megatron’s place in Vos, if the Winglord was set on dismissing him. Starscream had as much power to make him stay as Megatron himself did.

"Please," said Megatron anyway. His gaze was intense and steely. "Grant me the honor of challenging you for your hand."

Trying to pull himself together, Starscream fired his thrusters and drifted away. “I'm already getting trined. Fighting you is a waste of my time.”

"You're only engaged."

"It's already been arranged."

Megatron relaxed his posture, leaning on the pommel of his sword. “You’ve spent all week studying my moves. You have no excuse to lose.”

Starscream’s hackles rose. “You think I would lose to you?”

“Prove me wrong. Unless you’re intimidated?” 

“Do you want your aft kicked?”

A smile touched Megatron’s mouth. “Tread carefully. By your own custom, if you lose our courting battle, you’ll have to conjunx me.”

The heat in Starscream’s face had reached his knees at this point, and the crowd was raucous. On the edge of violence; hissing and booing and throwing debris into the pit in Megatron’s direction.

Starscream really, really wanted to face him. 

He’d wanted for so long, but had had no excuse to do so. No chance to rediscover the pleasure of outlasting an exceptional opponent. The idea of engaging Megatron in a courting battle filled him with a thrill the likes he hadn’t experienced since he’d come of age, facing down his first official suitors.

There was no outcome where Megatron could stay in Vos, much less become his bondmate. But no one could stop Starscream from accepting his suit. 

“Very well,” said Starscream. “I will take on your challenge. But a grounder won’t outmatch me even if he had a million years of training. However, I’m in a charitable mood today. Surprise me. How will you defeat me? What are the conditions?” 

“We each get a stun bullet,” said Megatron with such little hesitation, Starscream had a suspicion he’d been planning this exact scenario for some time. “The first to disable the other within thirty kliks wins.”

“Shooting you will be like hitting the broad edge of a space station.”

“Not if you can’t get within range to pierce my armor.” Megatron gestured at his dense plating.

“I can fly faster than you can shoot. It’s simple enough a newspark could do it.”

“Could they?” asked Megatron. The inscrutable glint in his optics made Starscream even more suspicious. 

Never one to second guess himself, Starscream nonetheless gave the proposal a moment more consideration, and came to the realization that shooting him would be the easy part of a significantly more complicated maneuver. 

Maintaining the extremely low altitude necessary to be in range for the bullet to penetrate his armor, fast enough that Megatron posed no threat of hitting him, and then recovering from the high-speed pass in the tight confines of the stadium required flawless setup and flawless execution. All adding up to a towering challenge a flier only the likes of himself could pull off.

A fire ignited in the pit of his spark. One didn't have to be a flier to understand what Megatron was proposing was difficult to pull off. But it was also a very particular challenge. Starscream wondered if he'd been studying flying just to put forth a suitable challenge.

As tickled as he was that Megatron would dare him to push his limits, he wouldn’t be losing to a grounder. Starscream would defeat him so badly he’d be too ashamed to return to Kaon to face his grounder peers, and he’d have to stay. Now, that was an idea. Maybe if he humbled Megatron; showed he had him under control, the Winglord would reconsider making him leave. Starscream would demonstrate he was not fit to be his equal, as a mate or otherwise, and therefore a mech of no consequence to him.

The idea made the energon curdle in his tanks, but he didn’t see any other way to get what he wanted. 

In the slim chance Megatron pulled off a win, being conjunxed was completely out of the question. The Winglord would never allow it. But just maybe, he could make him agree to let Megatron stay. 

For now, he needed to win. He could sort out the particulars of their relationship later.

“Put thirty kliks on the timer,” he shouted over his shoulder at the commentator’s box. “Start when I give the signal.” He turned back to Megatron. “You don’t claim victory unless either of my wingtips touches the ground.”

Megatron flashed him a damnable, smug grin and crouched to lay his sword aside in the sand. “I won’t disappoint you.”

“You’ll eat those words, fool.”

A glowing red number ‘30’ flickered onto the scoreboard. Starscream brought his targeting module online, swooped down and swiped the clip of stun bullets Megatron offered. He loaded it into his internal weapon system and clicked out all but one to clatter onto the dusty ground. Megatron mirrored him with his own gun, but in a smoother, expert motion that made Starscream’s spine tingle to watch it. The rounds slid cleanly from the clip into Megatron’s palm and were subspaced, all in one movement. Then he glanced up at Starscream for the signal to start. Realizing he was staring, Starscream brought his gaze forward and straightened his wings, assuming an air of nonchalance.

So Megatron could do fancy tricks. Starscream was in his element. Flight was his domain. 

Hitting a target on a quick pass and flying maneuvers with less than a wing’s length between himself and the ground was no object. Shooting a giant oaf just standing around should be nothing.

Megatron was quicker than a mech his size should have been, but if Starscream throttled it, he could beat his draw speed. In– fire– out– before Megatron could pull the trigger. 

The trouble would be avoiding flattening himself on the opposite wall of the stadium at the speed he’d be going. The arena proper was only large enough to take off in. The Flights were done above it, in the open air, and it wasn’t like Megatron would be joining him up there.

The calcs looked doable– if only barely. His processor and frame would be pushed to their limits under the weight of the millions of simultaneous adjustments required to pull this off. But he wasn't the best for nothing. 

The stadium went eerily silent as he returned to the top of the announcer’s box to position himself for takeoff. All optics were on him. 

The cold, gray sky opened and let out a downpour. High in the air, he was the first to feel the rain stream across his plating in icy needles. He gained altitude, sweeping into the atmosphere. Contrails streaked out behind him; condensation torn from his vents. He cleared his HUD of all but the essentials, diverting all his processing power to the routines needed to execute flight maneuvers. 

Touching down on the roof, he lined up the tips of his thrusters with the edge and peered over. Down below, Megatron was but a speck, but his field swelled up to meet Starscream, eager and inviting.

Starscream raised an arm in a gesture to start the timer, and gunned his engines with a shriek. He stepped off the ledge and transformed, hurtling for him. He leant into his dive, dropping altitude at a speed that elicited a exhilarated wail from the crowd.

The Winglord watched him shoot for the ground with a hard sort of concentration. Airbright and Thundercracker were less composed, hanging over the balcony with their jaws agape. Even Slipstream had paused in one of the entrances and faced the sky, holding the wall for support. 

When Starscream was two hundred feet from the ground with no sign of pulling up, Megatron’s field wobbled in a single, quavering instant of awe and discomposure. Starscream preened. Megatron knew exactly how lucky he was to be witnessing this. More importantly, he’d distracted him. 

Starscream devoted his full attention back to his HUD to stave off disorientation. Wires creaked in his wings as he leveled off hard, gearing up for the low pass. 

Focus.

The ground rose up to meet him, whipping past in a featureless gray blur. Air resistance between his belly and the stadium floor buoyed him up for a few ethereal moments as he sped towards Megatron, laying on the acceleration.

Megatron aimed, but Starscream had already fired and passed him. He broke the sound barrier with a planet-shattering crack. 

In his rear sight, his success was marked by sparks streaking the air in a halo around Megatron, who collapsed to a knee, joints locking.  Starscream pitched up sharply. He couldn’t celebrate for even a moment. He had to recover altitude to make this turn. Heading straight for the opposite wall, he braced himself for the ridiculous Gs he was about to pull. 

The crowd pitched on its side as he dipped his left wing, rolling into a deep turn. The north wall of the stadium closed in. 2000, 1500, 1000 meters. Closer, closer, until he could make out the expressions of mechs in the stands; their fright and amazement as they recoiled into their seats on his approach. Holding his speed, he increased the bank angle until his altimeter dropped dangerously, and the ground rose up again. With his wings nearly vertical, he had no lift. An alarm on his HUD screamed at him to decrease the bank angle. He turned it off. More alarms popped up. 

|| STALL WARNING ||

|| COLLISION IMMINENT ||

|| STALL WARNING ||

::YOU’RE GOING TO KILL YOURSELF::

Had he programmed that last one? How cute. 

Just as he realized it was an unhelpful comm from Thundercracker, he hit the peak of the turn. Pain lurched through his back. Cables popped. Plating buckled, and his wings gave an ominous groan as they bent away from his frame.

Trimmed down to its minimum for aerodynamic excellence, his frame was designed to pull these kinds of stunts only below a certain load weight. Encumbered by his sparklings, damage was a certainty.

Well. The clutch would be fine. Maybe. His wings were a different story. But it was either bend the pit out of them, or become an ashy spot on the wall. The only option was to ride it out.

Wings perpendicular to the ground, he completed the turn.

Flipping back on his front to the roar of applause, Starscream finally allowed himself to bask in his triumph. Transforming to root mode, he descended to gloat, hovering on his thrusters above Megatron. “What now?” he demanded. The sight of Megatron kneeling, unable to move, diminished his excitement, perplexingly. 

Of course it had been easy. But Megatron could have put up more of a fight. 

The clock read 15 kliks. So much time left. The kliks stretched for joors when Starscream flew at top speed. He could do another pass in the remaining time, with extra to spare. And Megatron had barely managed to raise his arm to shoot. 

Cheers continued throughout the stadium and Starscream’s mood worsened. He had won. Megatron had lost. Just as expected. But Starscream found he didn't want that.

Seeing Megatron hunched in the sand on the brink of surrendering filled him with such rage and despair, he couldn't help but shriek at him.

“Is that it!? That was pathetic! You promised you’d give me a real challenge! You promised! What happened!?"

Megatron didn’t move. Starscream pulled the stun bullet casing from the chamber and threw it at his helm as hard as he could. It bounced off with a clink. 

"Answer me!"

Megatron did not. The timer ticked down. Snarling, Starscream pressed a hand to his brow in disbelief. This couldn't be how it ended. Megatron couldn't be weaker-

As he moved his hand, there was a shift in his peripheral vision. A movement that Megatron shouldn't have been able to make. A mere twitch of his arm, and pain lit up Starscream’s right wing. He jerked away, but it was too late. Numbness set in, spreading outward from the dead center of his wing, while Starscream struggled to comprehend how Megatron was pointing a smoking gun at him.

His HUD flickered. Processes shut off. His right thruster sputtered. Then the left. Hovering thirty feet in the air, the complete loss of his engines became an imminent issue.

His tank jumped to his throat as he fell like a rock.

Below him, Megatron held his arms out to catch him. Frantically, Starscream tried to light his thrusters to shoot out of his reach. Breaking his limbs on impact with the ground would be much less humiliating than plopping into Megatron’s arms from freefall. 

One thruster ignited, but he was already much too low and Megatron grabbed his ankle.

“For a mech who spent all his life learning how not to get shot out of the air, one would think you would be better at it,” he said. 

“How!?” shouted Starscream, kicking at his hand. Delight and humiliation fought for prominence. Oh! Oh, they were still in it--

Megatron gave him a cheeky grin. “I know how to take a bullet.”

“You piece of flaming slag! You didn’t have a chance in the pit of hitting me in the air so you did this. This deception.”

“It would have been difficult. I figured you’d slow down to brag about it and I’d do it then. You leave things half-finished, Starscream. It’s a bad habit.”

Starscream kicked out again. “You fucker!”

“You looked disappointed that I wasn't winning. I couldn't leave you unsatisfied. You really want to get married, hm?”

“Shut your trap! You didn't win slag! You haven’t gotten me on the ground!” Starscream’s self-preservation kicked into overdrive at the sight of eight full kliks on the board.

Megatron wouldn't dare lose. But Starcream also wanted to win. 

Time slowed again. Eight kliks was an eternity in the air. Starscream had never expected it to be so on the ground as well. Precious moments dragged past, as he struggled to free himself. With one working thruster, he wasn’t generating enough lift to break loose. Megatron’s sheer brute strength seemed insurmountable, as he reeled him in closer by the leg, hand over hand. 

Ash and soot and dust and whatever fluids Megatron extracted from his opponents during the fights had all congealed on his plating in the rain. But the greasy, smeared handprints Megatron left behind on Starscream’s legs were not half so infuriating as his taunting. 

“I could see your wings trembling from the stands. Heaving with arousal whenever I pinned a contestant to the ground. You were imagining yourself in their place, weren’t you? How scandalous, Your Highness.”

“No one has ever defeated me. And a lowly, old dirt kisser will not be the first!” 

“Your wings betray a more affectionate mood. Does being defeated send you Seekers into heat?”

Starscream snapped his wings tight to his body so they betrayed nothing, and howled in fury. As if cowed into obedience, his engines sputtered back to life. He slammed one heel into Megatron’s hip joint for leverage and fired his thruster. Surging his afterburner to boost off only served to yank painfully on his leg cables as Megatron retained his iron grip.

Starscream tried to scorch him with his thruster, but Megatron’s armor was built to withstand high temperatures and abuse. The air around them shimmered with heat. The stupid grounder leered at him through a curtain of steam from the rain evaporating under Starscream’s heels.

Through the haze, Starscream lashed out to claw at his optics. A heavy vambrace came up to block. Within four swipes, the claw tips blunted, with no more damage done than a handful of parallel lines scraped into the armor. Through the flurry of slashing, Megatron somehow managed to lock his fist around one of his wrists and pull him close enough to snatch the edge of a wing. 

Frustrated rage clawed its way up Starscream’s throat at the injustice and he shrieked impotently. “Get your hands off my fucking wings! You’re getting them dirty!”

“Stop struggling. I’m getting them in position.”

“Position for what?”

“You said to touch them to the ground.”

“Wing tips!” screeched Starscream, going back to slashing at his optics. “It’s wing tips, you beast!”

“I’ll make sure they touch as well.” 

Starscream went rigid. The arena floor was even filthier than Megatron’s armor; covered in sand for traction and now sludgy with the rain and various fluids of aliens killed for sport. 

Megatron grappled him by the collar faring and thigh and tilted him back. 

“No!” Starscream tucked his wings up as he was levered backward so they didn't touch the disgusting ground.

Megatron switched up his grasp, holding Starscream’s lit thruster in the air perpendicular. Starscream was forced to cut his engine so he didn’t boost himself directly into the ground. Which meant he now had to cling to Megatron. Arms and legs both wrapped around his middle.

“Do you surrender?” Megatron sounded pleased. 

“Shut up,” said Starscream, grimacing as something cold and wet and sticky pressed the backs of his wings.

Boor though he was, Megatron was being careful not to rest any weight on the swell of his abdomen as he bore Starscream down. Which made Starscream’s spark quiver more than he’d ever admit. This didn’t change the fact that he was forced to stay in a exposed position beneath Megatron with his legs half up on his shoulders as the clock blared out a fat zero.

Megatron looked up at the Winglord for recognition. 

Outside of the arena, the grounders could be heard going crazy, cheering for their champion. Inside of it, complete silence had fallen. Vos looked to the Winglord for guidance on how to react. No one was brave enough to risk potential dismemberment by reacting in an unfavored way.

The news cameras rolled, broadcasting each lingering moment.

All that was going through Starscream’s mind was that being caught by a grounder eclipsed all past humiliations he had endured. And at the same time, his foolish, lovesick spark sang because Megatron had done it.

When Megatron got no recognition from the Winglord but stunned silence, he turned back to Starscream. A lecherous grin spread across his face. “We’ll call it my victory.”

“Don’t you dare claim victory! It was a lucky shot. I practically handed it to you.”

“You certainly did.” 

Starscream kicked him in the hip. His burst of temper only stoked Megatron’s perversity. He bent him into a more exposed position and went in for a kiss, sucking at the delicate spot where Starscream’s neck joined his helm when Starscream flung his head aside and denied him his mouth.

“Can I have a kiss for congratulations?”

“You can kiss my aft!”

“I want my reward.”

“You don’t get a damn reward!” 

“Don’t be shy.” Megatron settled on top of him, nuzzling his neck. “We aren’t done. I’ve heard you have an interesting practice here in Vos, after the victory is declared. A claim must be made.”

“What are you talking about?” grumbled Starscream. Being pressed flat by Megatron’s hot, solid frame and having his wings immobilized was, as always, rather exciting; quelling his fury. Despite himself, he relaxed a little, just from the familiarity of the position. 

“That’s to say, we have to properly consummate our union,” said Megatron.

“What?” Starscream’s face heated at the implication.

“You have no grounds to say I’m unworthy. I’ve proven I’m a suitable mate. All of Vos will bear witness as we seal our union.”

Starscream’s mind short circuited. “Seal our what?” He was trembling, so brimming with charge his spark felt raw. He’d been conquered. And would be claimed. And was so fucking hot about it all. It was almost more than he could process.

Megatron cupped Starscream’s face in his hands to get him to focus. The gentleness was so enticing to slip into, the remainder of his will to resist died. “You don't give up without a fight. I didn't imagine it any other way.”

“You imagined this?” Starscream’s spark pulsed as Megatron touched their foreheads together. 

“Till you, there hasn’t been another to match me. For whom I’d gladly lay down my life. Worthy to bear my creations, to share my spark.”

“You’ve never sparkbonded with anyone?”

Megatron shook his head.

Starscream splayed a hand over Megatron’s chest. His armor could not contain the fire radiating through his chassis that flooded into Starscream’s fingers. His spark burned unusually hot. Robust, like its owner. Pure and unburdened by a bond. Starscream’s own spark was likewise untouched. Preserved, one could say, for his trine alone. For sharing a spark bond was a sacred act- the most intimate display of devotion anyone could offer another. 

All the particulars of sparkbonding had long since been drilled into him to ensure the moment would be perfect for his trining. Exactly according to the dictates of propriety. A display for the noble citizens of Vos more than the precious act of intimacy it should have been. Starscream knew what to expect. The sensations he’d feel, the length it would take to complete, the way he’d be turned just so in order to give the court a view of the ritual so many princes had endured before him to bond to his arranged. 

For all he’d expected the process to be wholly unromantic, Starscream’s longing for a bond in this moment couldn’t be ignored. A frenetic, delirious lust filled him, and he knew with his full being he would be a fool not to share his spark now, with this mech.

Megatron seemed to sense this. A pale green light seeped from his chassis as he parted it without hesitation, baring his swirling corona to him. Starscream had to tear his optics from the dazzling center to look him in the face, and found he could hardly speak. “Say it to me, you fool.”

Megatron watched him back with a determined sincerity. “Open.”

Starscream laughed softly. “You’re supposed to ask ‘will you bond with me?’, you brute.” But he was already opening his chest plates in kind. He pulled Megatron into a kiss, swallowing up his hitched breath when they pressed their sparks together.

Sublime heat exploded through his chest and flooded his limbs. His forge pulsed warmly, the life within stirring in response to their sire’s spark energy. Megatron felt this reaction through the bond and shuddered with pleasure, his optics soft. More vulnerable than he’d ever looked. He gave Starscream a kiss on the forehead, trembling and desperate, as the bond peaked, forged, and faded. Filling the air with blinding light before shrinking in the span of an instant, akin to the birth of a star. The remaining threads of energy wisped away, and they were left holding each other. 

Starscream clung to him, not quite trusting what would happen if he let go. If the fragile moment would snap if he moved. If the bond would not take, if they parted.

But it had been done. He could feel Megatron in his spark; his wonder and tentativeness as he explored the fresh bond. Their frames hummed with residual energy. 

The aches of his frame had disappeared, soothed by Megatron’s glowing presence in his core. Starscream could have soared, but found it more tempting to settle and enjoy, for a moment, the steady thrum of their bond.

Chapter Text

Outside the transport window, Hadeen edged toward the horizon. As certain as night fell, the Winglord had a lecture prepared for Starscream once he’d gotten him alone. While they sped back to the palace, none of his points, relayed to him across the cramped carriage of the transport, came as a surprise to Starscream: He’d disgraced himself. He would never trine. No one suitable would take him, now that he’d shared his spark with a commoner. He was ruined. But with the strong, steady pulse of Megatron nestled in the depths of his spark, Starscream’s thoughts were far away from his own predicament. 

Moments after they’d bonded, Megatron had been dragged away by guards. Starscream protested, of course, but didn’t let worry consume him. There was no situation he couldn’t talk his way out of, and this would be no different. Megatron would have to wait in a cell until Starscream had tempered the Winglord’s rage, but they would be together again soon.

The Winglord was currently yelling at him, in no uncertain terms, that he’d perverted Vos’ sacred bonding ritual, and irreparably insulted his trine-to-be by telling them they weren't worthy of him. Starscream decided he’d get no peace unless he interrupted.

“You allowed me to fight Megatron. Which implies you agreed my fiances weren't worthy.”

“I implied no such thing. I only allowed that farce of a match so you could restore your honor Megatron slandered.”

“And because you had no way of stopping me.”

“You little-!" The Winglord rose and stood over him, optics aflame in the dying light. "I wish you'd say that again."

“I wasn’t going to pass up my chance to face such a skilled mech.”

“Skilled?” Steam was practically leaking out of the Winglord’s helm at this point. “You weren’t motivated by his skill. Every cycle, I’ve had to listen to you moaning about how unworthy your fiances are, and you’re saying you think a grounder is a match for you?”

“He is.”

“No, you threw the fight to make a statement against your arranged trine. You’ve always been prone to exaggeration and wild gestures. You act out because being contrarian puts you in the spotlight as much as your victories do. And if a victory wouldn’t get what you wanted–”

“Oh, please.”

“Your ego wouldn’t be satisfied until the entirety of the planet saw the disgusting trophy you've made of this mech.”

“The very best mech for your beloved eldest creation. Shouldn't you be proud of me?”

“Proud that you bonded with the damned stud? Are you out of your mind?” The Winglord’s fist jerked with a restrained movement.

“Hit me. I know you want to."

The Winglord’s fist remained clenched at his side. “If you weren't carrying…” 

“If I weren't carrying! Carrying his clutch. That’s a funny line to draw, considering you made me mate with him, when even our most illustrious nobles couldn’t dream of doing the same.”

“He’s nothing more than a stud. Carrying a brood from his data is not comparable to him claiming your spark.”

“How so?”

The Winglord sighed and shook his helm like he was annoyed to have to explain. “This was before your time, so you may not have known, but for generations, Vosian royalty lay claim to virile mechs of all kinds– from aristocrats to workers– for use in matings such as the one you and your brothers found yourselves in. Once the sparklings were born, these sires were executed so no one else could use them. This was a great honor for the studs, and a show of our power; our entitlement as royalty to the data of the strongest sires on the planet. But we didn't bond with them, because that would be ridiculous.” 

“You…” Starscream was stuck on a single word. “Executed?”

The Winglord continued on as if he hadn’t said anything shocking. “I brought the practice back because I thought it auspicious that such a mech fell in our laps right after winning a conflict with Tarn. I’d already appropriated their strongest warrior as a servant. What better way to further exert power over the city I’d defeated than using him as a stud?”

“And leave nothing of him once he’d served his purpose for us,” said Starscream, a hollow pain snaking its way through his insides. Needling his chest. Pounding behind his optics.

“You can feel it, can’t you? In your bond?” asked the Winglord. “He’s neither sired nor carried other offspring. He was exclusively yours.”

“Who cares about that? He said you were just dismissing him!”

“Of course. Couldn't have him see an execution coming. A mech like him might find a way out of it.”

“You’re insane!”

“And you’re a spoiled brat! Do you have no shame?” asked the Winglord. “No appreciation for your own competence? A lifetime of mastery thrown away over a petty display. For Primus’ sake, you let him shoot you!”

“I said I didn’t throw the fight,” retorted Starscream. “Who do you think I am? I would never just let someone win. What you saw out there was the peak of my talent.” 

“What are you talking about?” The utter disdain in the Winglord’s expression was enough to blunt Starscream’s confidence. Shame pouring into the gaps of his cracked ego, he elaborated, “I really thought I'd won before he shot me.”

“You’re saying you got careless and Megatron grabbed his chance.” It was clear by the flat cant of the Winglord’s wings that he thought far less of him after this admission. His brow furrowed and his attitude became ponderous. “Perhaps this is on me. I didn't train you hard enough. You’ve never had to fight grounders. The strategy is totally different.” He sighed. “I suppose you did the best you could.”

Hearing that resigned sigh struck Starscream harder than he’d expected. He wondered if he shouldn't have protested that he tried his best. Because to have used the extent of his skills and still disappointed the Winglord made his tanks curl with a trembling, hollow sort of humiliation.

“No,” said Starscream decisively. “No, I’m the best flier there is. You're not making me feel bad about this.”

“You damn well should! Think of the message this’ll send to the public. The optics of your failure. A failure for Vos is a win for Megatron’s kind.”

“Earlier today, you told me to step down from my pedestal,” said Starscream. “You have no actual opinion of my skills. Your only interest is in having me go along with whatever it takes for you to remain in control.”

“That’s my prerogative as Winglord.” 

“Stand on something for once! Stand for me!” 

“I stand for Vos,” said the Winglord. “Do you?”

Starscream spoke clearly and slowly, trying to ignore the throbbing pain that had made a home in his abdomen. “Megatron won fairly. That makes our bond legitimate, by Vos’ courting rules.”

“You will not,” said the Winglord, crowding him against the wall of the transport, “go around telling anyone that. The narrative we’re going with is that you were affected by your carrier coding, and foolishly let him win because you wanted to be together.  For our national pride, for the pride of flier-kind, you must keep up that image.”

“Why can’t you be happy for me?” asked Starscream.

“Because I didn’t train you your whole life for you to lose to that creature!” shouted the Winglord.  “You simply weren't good enough! He shouldn't have won!”

Taken aback by his ferocity, Starscream couldn’t think of a single thing to say in response. His spark, his spirit, his frame were all buried under a wash of pain. He gripped his middle, as an agonizing cramp set his denta on edge. He’d endured a certain level of discomfort ever since he’d had Skywarp weld that new plating around his waist, but it spiked without warning. It felt like he was being stabbed from the inside out. 

“Something's wrong.” He held the wall for support, panting. “I think I'm–”

It was his clutch. Something was wrong with his sparklings. 

He could be going into labor– it was about the right time. But he shouldn't have pain while in labor. Laying was supposed to be practically effortless. The Winglord seemed to understand the unspoken. 

“You're not in labor a week into your carriage,” he said, visibly perplexed by the sudden change of topic. “You probably injured yourself doing your stunt.”

Starscream grabbed at his torso as it shifted again. Machinery around his forge pressed in, squeezing. There was a script running to eject his clutch. He was definitely in labor. Or some deranged version of it. 

“Enough of this,” said the Winglord. “Stop putting on a show to make me quit lecturing you.”

So he said. But as Starscream’s legs gave out under him, the Winglord became concerned enough that he cut their argument short and had him rushed to the palace for medical attention. 

When they arrived, courtiers were lingering in the antechamber, hungry to catch sight of Starscream after the torrid scene in the arena. Guards kept them at a distance as the Winglord hurried him to his apartment, trailed by a team of medics. Everyone in the palace quickly discerned what was occurring, and began forming a crowd around his chambers to observe the birth. A rare and exciting event, to be fair. Usually a delivery happened in a few kiks– so fast it was difficult to catch one.

By the time he was settled in berth, Starscream was certain there was a major problem. The clutch should be out of him by now. He knelt on the berth and willed himself to stay upright through the pain while the doctor scanned him.

“You certainly are milking your notoriety, aren’t you?” the Winglord made sure to grumpily comment, eyeing the swath of courtiers packed just outside the entrance to his room.

“You think I’m doing this on purpose?” grit out Starscream, growing ever more frustrated. He was on his hands and knees, in the correct position. He was pushing, but his frame was just squeezing his clutch without moving it at all.

“He may be bound, due to the… alteration of his fuselage,” said Pharma, removing the scanner from his middle. “The position of the clutch is unnatural.”

“What do you mean, alteration?” asked the Winglord. 

“Don’t,” warned Starscream, glaring at Pharma.

Pharma put the scanner aside and drawled, “I’d never tell His Highness what to do, but it’s strongly recommended not to artificially narrow one’s waist while gestating.”

“Who are you calling artificial?” asked Starscream, through his denta. “This is all-natural.”

“It certainly is not.”

“You beast! You’re humiliating me!” shrieked Starscream, gesturing at the gawking crowd. Surely the doctor could show some discretion? Half of Vos was parked outside his bedchamber, for Primus’ sake.

“Vanity, Starscream!” exclaimed the Winglord, only making things worse. “I should have known.”

“You don’t know slag! Neither of you!” Humiliatingly, Starscream was in too much pain to shout or resist, as with the help of the medics, Pharma de-welded the plating around his torso. Despite his ruined pride, he almost wailed with relief as his middle was allowed to swell to the correct dimension. 

The Winglord’s optics fell on his very round waist, evidently inferring something displeasing from the sight. “Vanity, Starscream,” he said, “or deception?”

“He would have gotten sparked on the day of the mating ceremony,” said Pharma, whose input was hardly needed to reveal the eggs were full term.

“They’re Airbright’s, then?” asked the Winglord, his frown relaxing. 

Pharma looked extremely uncomfortable as he shook his helm. 

All remaining hope in the Winglord’s expression drained away. “So. You started early with him, Starscream.”

“Oh, you can’t possibly be angry about this,” spat Starscream. “You can’t retroactively disdain Megatron for doing something to me you’ve since decided was perfectly fine.”

“Silence!”

“Silence yourself, you old f– fuck…” Starscream choked on his insult as pain surged through his forge. Why was it getting worse? A hot trickle of something ran down his inner thigh and spattered the berth covers. 

“You little fool!” exclaimed the Winglord. “You’re losing energon all over the berth! Did you account for that in your silly plan to strap down your clutch?”

“I had it under control.”

“That’s reassuring.”

As soon as he was about to retort, something shifted, Starscream shouted in pain, and the first egg emerged. Followed by the second just moments later. They were slick with energon, but– thankfully– intact. As the attending medics removed them to place them in an incubator, Starscream felt his woes were over.

Then a splash of energon wet the berth. His inner thighs ran pink as it began to gush from him. 

In kliks, the edges of Starscream’s vision darkened, closing in. Warnings about his energon levels crowded his HUD. The machines attached to him beeped in an alarming staccato pattern, and nurses surrounded him.

The words “broken shell” and “ruptured line” were exchanged, and Starscream’s panic surged. If he’d crushed one of his brood in his scheme to keep it hidden, he– he couldn’t imagine what he’d do. Getting injured from trying to hide his clutch was hardly a concern at the time. He assumed he’d power through any issues that arose. Or wouldn’t experience any in the first place. Bad things didn’t happen to a prince– didn’t happen to him. He was better than that.

And yet, the last egg was stuck, and he could hardly bear down due to the misery it caused him. 

Starscream thought he should be shouting in agony but found himself too tired to scream. Instead, he lay back on the berth and fought through a haze of exhaustion. 

“Where is Megatron? I want him,” he muttered. 

The Winglord was clutching his shoulder so hard it hurt, his wings held so rigid the ailerons creaked. His sire was prone to wild displays of emotion, yes, but he’d always kept a tight handle on his fear. Didn’t even seem to get nervous. So seeing it now…

“Am I dying?” asked Starscream. 

“Concentrate on what you’re doing.”

“If I’m dying, I want to see Megatron.”

“You’re not going to die,” snapped the Winglord, shooting the doctor a threatening glare as Pharma attached a vial of energon to the large line in Starscream’s arm.

“...I want to see Megatron,” said Starscream again. And was again ignored, as Pharma whispered something to the Winglord– permission to do a dreaded surgery. Opening up a mech’s carrying chamber to extract an egg had a low survival rate, even with the best surgeon in Vos, but the only other option was to bleed out, as they couldn’t reach the line to cauterize with the egg blocking it. So Pharma explained, gravely.

Then Arch Prophet Sunstorm– where had he come from?- materialized as well, and took the Winglord’s other audial. Something about ‘last rites of the AllSpark’. Wonderful. 

How had things gone wrong this quickly? Starscream never imagined dying from something so routine. 

Presented with two terrible choices, the Winglord’s brow creased heavily, his optics dark and tormented. Sunstorm murmured something else to him that Starscream didn’t catch, but which seemed to give the Winglord pause. After a long moment of desperate consideration, the Winglord looked over his shoulder and gestured to one of the attendants. 

A few kliks later, Megatron appeared at Starscream’s side. 

Starscream’s guttering spark surged in his presence, and he understood. Being close to his sparkmate would give him strength. Would inflame his spark.

Megatron knelt at the side of the berth and grasped Starscream’s hand. His expression was as grave and stoic as ever, but his optics… 

“You’re fired up,” said Starscream. His speech felt slow and distorted.

“Starscream, you need to get through this. You're not finished.”

“It hurts.”

“I know. Push through it.” As he coached him through, Megatron likewise pushed encouragement through their bond. Or what was probably supposed to be encouragement, but was harsh and grating. Starscream shivered. The bond wasn’t as soothing as he’d hoped when he’d seen Megatron arrive. Megatron had tamped all comfort down, sending only the meagerest ray of warmth through a thorny, forceful wave of stay awake. 

“Stop that,” muttered Starscream, as he was jarred from slipping into the comforting darkness at the edges of his processor. “Be nice to me. I’m losing a lot of energon.”

“They’ll replace it,” said Megatron. “You need to stay conscious.”

“Shut up.”

Starscream was rewarded with another abrasive surge into his spark. 

“You can’t relax now. You’ll die,” said Megatron. 

“Oh.” Starscream had almost forgotten about staying alive when dying was so serene. Velvety, enfolding his processor and dragging him down…

“Starscream,” said Megatron. And his spark burned. “You’re giving up too easily.”

“Fuck you." The words were right, but they felt heavy.

Sunstorm had started chanting protection blessings while the rest of the court observed the spectacle. Whether he died or lived, they’d have plenty to gossip about afterwards.

Starscream focused on Megatron’s face instead of that, as his stamina dropped further. The berth under him was saturated with his own bright fluids. The Winglord had gone silent, holding his other arm.

“Starscream. You need to keep going,” Megatron demanded. A sharp blip of pressure rocked their bond, jolting him to semi-alertness once again. 

Being dragged from the edge of unconsciousness over and over was so annoying, Starscream resolved to push just once more. Just to make it stop. If the egg didn’t come out, it wasn’t his problem. 

But Primus decided to be merciful, and there was a give. And then it was out as well. 

Two cold needles slid inside him. There was a pinch, and the scent of something burning, somewhere up in his forge. The bleeding stopped. His vision improved. And as the moments ticked by and his lines flooded with fresh energon, he was unhappily pulled back to full awareness. Everything hurt.

Megatron left his side for one terrifying moment, but it was only to shut the door on the mob of courtiers before he returned to the berth. As he left, one of the nurses reached over to remove the last egg. Starscream wrapped his fingers around it before she could take it. He needed to know that it was not damaged, given how much he’d struggled with it.

It was small. Light blue. Less than the size of his fist. The whole clutch would likely fit in Megatron’s cupped palms. One corner of the shell was jagged, but inside, the gentle humming of a tiny newspark; little pulses of its field confirmed it was alive. 

“Feel,” Starscream demanded, pushing it at Megatron to have him assess its perfection. Megatron took it carefully.

“Well done,” he said, running his thumb over the shell, appraising. “You did very well.”

There was a rattling noise, and Starscream realized he was trembling. Overwhelmed with giddiness suddenly. “It’s perfect,” he said. “So why can’t I stop shaking?”

Megatron rested his palm against his cheek, anchoring him. “It means you survived.”

Narrowly was the unspoken word. The bond betrayed Megatron’s intense relief before the emotion reached his optics.

“It wants to be with you.” Megatron held Starscream’s hand and transferred the egg back to him, helping him cradle it to his spark. The egg’s warmth bled into his chest. Heat from his spark reached out in return, and Starscream came back into himself. Moment by moment, his nerves settled and the tremors began to die down.

“Starscream,” said the Winglord. “Give that to the doctor before you drop it.” From the edge of the berth, his protest trickled out, as wan and exhausted as he looked. 

Starscream clutched his egg. He couldn’t imagine letting go, as if he let it out of his sight, it’d perish. 

Megatron stroked his cheek and said it would be fine, and the weight of his doting threatened to pull Starscream under; bond smoothing the ragged edges of his anxiety. “I’ll keep it safe,” he said, managing to coax it from him and hand it to the waiting nurse. 

The Winglord stared at the wall. Probably struggling to come to terms with the fact that Starscream’s “foolish” bond with Megatron was the only thing that kept him from dying before his eyes. He shook his helm. “Starscream believes with all his spark that you’re the one for him. But he’s mistaken. You are not a suitable mate.”

Megatron watched the Winglord closely as he continued, “If it weren’t for you, Starscream wouldn't have had to resort to extreme measures in an attempt to save his reputation. Wouldn't have gotten injured today. You left him with an impossible choice. You’ve overstepped so many times, tarnishing him when you’re supposed to be keeping him safe. That’s unforgivable.”

“Do we have to talk about this now?” muttered Starscream. His vision had gone cloudy again, under the influence of the heavy painkillers being fed into his lines.

“You really thought I’d give my blessing to let you bond with this mech?” asked the Winglord. “You’ve lost your senses. Really, what a mess.” He glared at Megatron. “I show some noblesse oblige to a commoner– a Tarnish, no less– giving you the honor of sparking my sons. Come to find out you’ve already gone ahead and done as you pleased with him.”

“Why do you doubt Starscream’s tenacity?” asked Megatron. “He pursued me every step of the way, and found me suitable, where others had failed.”

A surge of energy overtook the Winglord. Wings flared to their fullest extent, he stalked up to Megatron. “I spent my youth winning wars against the Tarnish invaders. My generation stained our hands so our offsprings' could stay unsullied. My creations weren’t taught to kill like I was. To eliminate any grounder influence from poisoning our way of life. Starscream may be naive, but I can say with certainty that there are no mecha less deserving to be his mate than one of your kind.”

Megatron held his ground. “I won't let you cause Starscream any more heartache.”

“You won’t let me.” The Winglord’s shoulders flexed like he was about to lunge. “I’m not sending you to your death letting Starscream think you loved him.”

“I do.”

“No, you took advantage of my bored, foolish heir on a whim and have been doing damage control ever since. Telling him any sweet thing he wants to hear.”

“How dare you doubt the veracity of my affection. Starscream’s life is more precious than my own.”

Another line creased the Winglord’s brow. “You have a way with words, I’ll give you that. But it’s not enough to save you.”

Pushing past the gathered courtiers, soldiers crowded the doorway. Warriors, they towered over even Megatron, their massive gray wings jutting up like frozen mountain peaks, painted with the Winglord’s scarlet livery. Factory-made faceplates were affixed in identical, permanent scowls.

“Take him away,” said the Winglord. “He’s served his purpose here.”

With the last of his strength, Starscream lifted his helm to protest. The medicine had slackened his frame. His intake may as well have been filled with hardened slag. “Punish me, and let him go,” he rasped at the Winglord’s back. 

The Winglord didn’t look at him. “Have some dignity. He would never extend the same mercy to you.”

One of the guards gestured for Megatron to follow. Megatron stepped outside the room after them, and was gone. 

Chapter Text

Starscream slept. Though grateful for the recharge, his battered frame would likely keep him berth-bound for the next full cycle. Not that he had any place to go.

When he was woken later to the Winglord sitting at his berthside, his sire had declared he wouldn’t be allowed out of his room without guards or chaperones– plural– at all times. He then proceeded to tell him how things were going to go from now on. There was much about to change; much Starscream needed to be present for.

The Winglord described how the sparkbonding was a sensation planet-wide, though reactions were mixed. Some thought it was horrific, some thought it was a PR stunt, and some thought it was romantic and sent a message of unity between their rival cities.

None of that mattered to the Winglord– only burying the event with as much finesse as possible. Megatron was a massive celebrity in the grounder cities, where more mechs knew his name than even those of the senators who represented them. This ‘statement’ he’d made with Starscream could not be allowed to stand. 

However, Megatron’s execution would take place after the Flights, the reason being the Winglord didn’t want this scandal to overshadow the largest event of the courting season. Privately, Starscream felt this was a futile endeavor. Nothing in the next millennia would be more titillating than the scandal he had caused, and something about the Winglord’s troubled grimace said he feared the same.

Then, there was the case of Starscream’s trining. As it was, it could not proceed. Even once Megatron’s spark was forcibly extinguished and their bond severed, Starscream would still be viewed as tainted. Still carrying the ghost of a broken bond in his spark. However, in the event Starscream died or broke the bond, there was a stipulation in the marriage contract that Slipstream and Airbright would be entitled to trine the Winglord’s next oldest creation, provided said creation was untrined.

“For better or worse, Thundercracker fits the bill,” explained the Winglord. “The involved parties will be coming up soon to work out the details of the new contract.”

A hot stab of shame needled Starscream, and he pushed himself upright in berth. “That’s too hasty, don’t you think? Arranging Thundercracker a trine? They aren’t a good match for him.”

“They’ll be as good a trine as any mech could hope for. More importantly, a partnership is necessary to secure Vos’ relations with their respective polities.”

Starscream’s trepidation only worsened when Airbright and some other ministers in the Winglord’s cabinet arrived in his chambers, where they’d chosen to take the meeting on account of him being incapacitated. His discomfort took on a different quality when Slipstream wandered in after them.

“Eugh. You’re busted,” was the first thing to fall from his mouth upon seeing her. She bared her fangs, which didn’t improve the image. Her right side was a patchwork of silver aluminum sheets and hasty welds. The lower half of her face where the derma had been scraped off was a horror show, particularly. A patch of aluminum had been welded over one cheek, and gray sealant spidered out from the plate, filling the ragged grooves that split the derma across her nasal bridge and into the corner of one optic. As she limped in on an unarticulated hip joint, Starscream took some satisfaction in the fact that she’d had to drag herself out of the medbay for this. If she was in pain, though, she didn't show it. 

Airbright, on the other hand, was as obnoxiously polished and nonchalant as ever. To be honest, Starscream had expected him to have a conniption. The recent development had not diminished Starscream’s legendary allure, after all, only his marriageability. Airbright had spent an obscene amount of money to make all of Vos sick with envy, and Starscream had ruined his investment. Yet none of Airbright’s gloating possessiveness was on display this evening as it had been the previous night.

Investments, as a rule, could be volatile. A shrewd businessmech like himself must have accounted for potential risk in taking on Starscream as a trinemate. Now that a commoner had spoiled his prize; destroyed the exclusivity, Starscream was hardly worth his regard. A loss, Starscream surmised, but not a heavy one, judging by the way Airbright’s calculating stare passed straight through him to contemplate Thundercracker, who had just shuffled in after everyone else. Being trined to any of the Vosian princes was no small feat, and came with rewards in almost equal capacity to being trined to the heir.

Still, Airbright was clearly not thrilled to be pawned off to Thundercracker. The angular, contemptuous slant of his wings at being offered one of the Winglord’s “spares” in marriage told all. 

The proceedings went on– a scant buzz at the edge of Starscream’s awareness. Mechanically, he watched as documents were signed and filed, and the new marriage contract was rendered. When it was done, and the room began to clear out again, Airbright turned back to give his silent, indifferent brother a long look up and down like he was searching for something to admire. His optics landed on a spot between the small of Thundercracker’s back and his wings. 

“Our offspring will be… strong,” was the halting reassurance he offered, before leaving Starscream and Thundercracker alone together.

Discomfort welled in Starscream’s tanks. Throwing Thundercracker to circuit-wolves would have been kinder than delivering his sweet-tempered brother into the arms of two mechs who didn't value him beyond his frame. Starscream had kicked his own ball of an unwanted arranged trine down the road to him, and they’d both ended up worse for it. 

Thundercracker had been stoic throughout the discussion, hardly speaking at all. He stood in front of the massive window at the far end of the room, staring out into the storm.

“Remember my first Flight?” he asked. 

Starscream was caught off guard by the question– the first words Thundercracker had spoken to him for the better part of a joor.

Silhouetted by the tempest outside, Thundercracker’s plating bore an uncanny resemblance to the blue of the stormy night sky in the moment it was cleaved by lightning; the hot, azure edges of staticky tendrils piercing the clouds. The image brought to mind the Winglord’s assertion that the weather would give Thundercracker an edge in the Flights. The turbulent, electrified skies would bolster his spark ability. He could surge, unbothered, through the towering clouds while the wind tossed around the more fragile contestants. 

Starscream had taken that from him. He wondered if this was also on Thundercracker’s mind- that he could never win his own trine, now that fate had other plans. 

The fading bite marks around Starscream’s neck throbbed as his brother turned and came up to the foot of his berth.

“Of course you wouldn’t remember.” Thundercracker’s voice was low and toneless. “The Winglord asked you to show some restraint during your match because I should be the center of attention for my debut. And you said, “He can get on my level.” And then, you of course went all-out and everyone talked about how amazing you were, and the recap of my flight was relegated to a corner of the front page in the court tabloid afterwards. And when I said you hadn't been fair, you told me you couldn't help that you were better than me.”

Starscream kept his mouth shut, unable to come up with anything to say that wouldn’t offend him more.

“What do you have to say to me now?” asked Thundercracker, very quietly. “Any quips you want to offer about how this isn't your fault?”

“I wasn't thinking about–”

“Of course you weren't! Have you ever, for once in your stupid, self-centered life, considered how your actions affect others? Pit, if you thought at all, it was about how I was perfect to bear your burden of a marriage. Wasn't it? Just put it on him. He won't argue.”

“You have such a fucking chip on your shoulder!” spat Starscream. “You think you’re so different and special and romantic. Unlike the rest of us.”

Thundercracker recoiled. 

Starscream had intended to phrase it in a nicer way, but little good that would do now, so he barreled on. “You’re not the only one who wants a trine they love, Thundercracker, you’re just the most stuck up about it. I was the one carrying Vos’ legacy and sacrificing my happiness so you and Skywarp could vacillate over choosing your perfect trines. I deserve something for a change.”

“You get everything you want.”

“Because I earned it! And like pit you cared about not being the main event in your debut. You know damn well you don’t give a slag about competing, or being renowned. As long as you had sappy suitors getting on their knees and waxing poetic over you, you’d relish doing inane little dances for them in the sky with the rest of our peers. You’re easy.”

“Nothing is sacred to you. You always want the newest, shiniest toy and you’ll have forgotten about Megatron too in a month after the Winglord has executed him. Then onto the next one.” Thundercracker flung his arms to his sides in outrage. “I knew it. I knew it would pan out like this. You end up in some insane romantic scandal because you did whatever you wanted as always, and I’m stuck picking up your mess. I’m the only one who takes anything seriously in this family and I’m taken advantage of–”

Thundercracker’s shout trailed off as the door opened. A narrow arc of light cut into the room, revealing the Winglord at the end.

“Thundercracker. Where is your good-for-nothing brother?” he asked. He seemed angry. 

“I’m looking at him,” said Thundercracker, but with none of the vehemence of the moment prior. The interruption triggered his self-consciousness, and his jagged field curled in and his projecting wings sank to a more neutral position. 

“I’m talking about Skywarp.”

“Huh?”

“Skywarp. Where is he? I haven’t seen him in over a cycle and he isn’t returning anyone’s comms.”

“How should I know?” Thundercracker asked the floor. Moping now.

The Winglord threw his hands up. “I’m getting a search party started.”

“Isn't that kind of overkill? He’s left for longer than one cycle before,” said Starscream. “He disappears all the time.”

“He can’t be fooling around right before his first damned Flight! I forbid it. I’m putting together a team and dragging that ingrate back.”

Starscream rolled his optics. How like the Winglord to overreact. Temper fired up in the wake of the spark-bonding episode, his sire’s lax attitude towards Skywarp’s usual antics had apparently hit its limit. “I’m sure our army has better things to do than chase after your creation who’s more than likely hungover on someone’s couch somewhere.” 

The Winglord raised his voice. “You know what, Starscream–”

“I’ll go with you,” said Thundercracker, compelled to keep the peace once again now that he’d gotten all the grievances out of his system. 

The Winglord’s glare slid over to him, lingering. Strangely, the irritation in his optics grew a fraction. Tilting his helm, he said, in a slow murmur, “Yes. I think that would be a good idea.” Then he shut the door and went back down the hall. 

—

Airbright was one thing, and Slipstream another. Thundercracker vowed to leave it at that, and not to think any more about them tonight, or Starscream, or his entire depressing situation. He’d drive himself crazy. Instead, he focused his ruminating on where Skywarp could be. 

Skywarp hadn’t commed him once in the past cycle, when usually he didn’t spare a detail of the colorful activities he got up to. Being forthcoming about his screwing around to the point of shamelessness was the norm. Radio silence was a new one for him. 

Thundercracker’s immediate assumption was that he’d gone AWOL at the first whiff of a suggestion that he was supposed to join a particularly heinous pre-Flight activity. Well, heinous to Skywarp, who couldn’t stand being bored for even a klik. This whole season he’d been driving the Winglord up the wall with his minimal participation in all the florid, regimented events and rituals he’d been expected to be at leading up to the Flights. There was nothing Skywarp loathed more than structure and process, and mechs making their debut had it worse than the average courtier in those aspects. Thundercracker didn’t really blame him for feeling stressed. 

Skywarp’s first courting season had been odd in other ways too. Specifically, Thundercracker couldn't pinpoint who he liked. In a weird defiance to his usual mode of oversharing, he never so much as mentioned a suitor he was obsessed with. 

Sure, it was interface this, interface that with everyone, but everyone had their favorites. If Thundercracker’s drama novels were anything to go by, that secretive behavior alluded to a mech deeply in love. But for Skywarp, that seemed like a reach. At least until he got to the Winglord’s study and the Winglord said straightforwardly, “He ran off with those two officers. Astrotrain and Blitzwing. I’m sure of it.”

Thundercracker stood aghast. He’d only known them as drinking buddies to Skywarp. Two of many. Though if he were being honest, Skywarp had hung around them a suspicious amount over the years and Thundercracker had looked the other way for his own sanity, not wanting to be on the hook for any trouble in which Skywarp inevitably found himself.

“How do you know?” he asked the Winglord. And I don’t?

At least the Winglord looked just as perplexed as he felt. “Last night, at the ball, he came to me and demanded to trine them. A fatuous crush if ever I’ve seen one.”

Why didn’t he tell me? wondered Thundercracker. The only explanation was that Skywarp had been trying to court them in secret, and had not found him trustworthy enough to confide in. Which really stung, considering he told him everything else. 

He had a sinking feeling that not only was this situation more serious than he’d imagined, that it was also, somehow, his fault. 

"I'm guessing you told him no?"

“Of course I did. One wonders how their relationship was allowed to evolve to such a point,” said the Winglord, rapping his claws on his desk at him, “when you were supposed to have been keeping close tabs on who he was associating with.”

And there it was. Thundercracker sighed. “You can’t expect me to follow him around everywhere. He can teleport.” 

“When he came of age and I asked you to start chaperoning him, I expected you to do a better job than this. Now look at what's happened. Well. Generals Ramjet and Dirge have volunteered to lead the search since he is proving impossible to contact, even on their military-grade instruments. Wherever he is, I’d say it’s in their best interest to locate him expediently if they wish to make their challenge.”

Skywarp making himself scarce right before the Flights couldn't be a coincidence. He had been open about his disdain for the two generals. 

As if his thoughts had summoned them, Skywarp’s unwanted admirers swaggered into the Winglord’s study, coming in on either side of him. Thundercracker flinched as Ramjet's heavy wings swung by his helm, followed by those of his dark partner. He doubted the Winglord had approved them as suitors for any other reason than his annoying fondness for strength and machismo. Their looks and personalities weren’t anything special. All that extra, conical helm space wasn’t to contain larger processors, that was for sure. In the time they’d wasted trying to court him in the past, they hadn’t managed to form a sentence that wasn’t laced with crude humor or interface jokes.

Maybe he was being too spiteful. He blamed Starscream. His malice and vanity were contagious, apparently. On a more flattering note, these two had won wars for Vos- that alone was impressive, right?

“You had something for us, Winglord?” asked Ramjet, tromping up to his desk and straightening his wide, white wings. 

The Winglord rummaged through one of his desk drawers, then tossed a flat black box to him; the type that held a piece of jewelry. Ramjet caught it and handed it back to Dirge, who opened it, peered at whatever was inside, and then nodded at the Winglord. “We’ll bring him back, Winglord.”

“You’ll have two of three princes in decent standing with the court,” Ramjet added, chuckling.

“Whatever it takes, do it discreetly. I can’t have this leaking to the public. Any more excitement right now will put me in my grave.” The Winglord sat back in his chair with a huff. “Thundercracker, it’s good that you volunteered, though I would have asked you to go anyway. Skywarp listens to you.”

"Um. Does he?” asked Thundercracker, taken aback by his conviction.

“Certainly. Or he would, if you showed some spine.” The Winglord cleared his intake at him enigmatically, then retrieved a bottle of some high grade from another of his desk drawers. He struck the cap off on the side of his desk and took a drink.

"You're not going?" asked Thundercracker.

The Winglord squinted at him like he had lost his mind, then flapped a hand at them all to get out. Signaling he’d be useless for the rest of the night. 

Before he could give into the urge to roll his eyes, Thundercracker headed out with the generals.

“What did he give you?” he asked, once they had trudged into the hall, peering over Dirge’s bulky winglets to see what the box contained.

“Huh? Oh. Charge suppression cuff, Your Highness,” said Dirge, curt and gravelly. 

His mention of “cuff”, singular, was strange. And the box was too small for a regular pair of cuffs. Motioning for him to hand it over, Thundercracker opened it. Inside was a thin, silver bangle.

“Why does it look like this?” he asked, as he traced the delicate metal. Although heavier than a typical bracelet, it otherwise didn't resemble the blocky restraints one would expect. 

“Ever tried to catch a teleporter who doesn’t want to go?” 

Thundercracker stopped walking. “You’re using this on Skywarp?”

“Who’d you think it was for?” asked Ramjet. “We'll need either surprise or deception to lock ‘im down so he can’t warp before we get back.” He motioned to the cuff with his helm. “That’s the deception method. Call it a little present for him.”

“And what’s the ‘surprise’ method? No- actually, I don't want to hear,” said Thundercracker, as crude grins split both their faceplates. “Why do you think you’ll need to lock him down?”

“You think he’s going back without a fight when he’s spending all this effort not to be found?” asked Ramjet.

“No one even knows where he went or who he’s with or why he left! It’s all speculation that he wanted to escape. Has anyone around here heard of diplomacy? Or is violence always the go-to?”

Ramjet scratched his chin. “Well, Your Highness. Actually. We can make a pretty good case that Skywarp– and Astrotrain and Blitzwing– left together and didn't want to be found. Their radars’ve all been jammed. Taken with the Winglord’s story, them eloping is pretty plausible. That’s the lead we’re following. Unless you’ve got a better idea?”

Thundercracker didn't. They both looked at him with something akin to pity. A mocking look like he’d have to resign himself to accepting whatever they planned to do, and it ticked him off.

“We won't need to use that,” said Thundercracker. Disgusted by the amount of thought put into this, he confiscated the bracelet. He pushed it far down into his subspace, along with the grim question of why in the name of Primus did the Winglord have this on hand? 

He was relieved he’d decided to go. If for nothing else, then to bring some civility to this search. Even if acting courteous was a wasted effort around here, where everyone preferred to be deranged.

Chapter Text

Out past the jet bridge the horizon wavered, the distant mountains an anemic mirage half-obscured by the storm. Towering clouds layered each of the flight zones; threads of lightning spidering between their dusky undersides. Cloud fronts rolling through the area indicated steep wind gradients that caused all traffic-military and otherwise- to be rerouted or stopped entirely. They’d have to pick their way through the city in less-than-ideal flight conditions. Thundercracker looked to Ramjet to gauge his mood. 

“This slagging weather,” said the general, glowering out beyond the military transport they’d be taking, at the lines of backed up vehicles beyond the hangar. “He sure picked an annoying time to disappear.”

Thundercracker had to agree. Of course, they had radar, but avoiding the turbulent areas would cost them time. Or so Ramjet was complaining as he watched the maintenance crew prepare the craft.

“I mean, I can drive,” said Thundercracker, tentatively, even though the risk of microbursts knocking them into buildings and other bits of Vos’ geography was higher than he’d like. “If it’d be easier to bypass the usual routes.”

“Huh? How?” Ramjet crossed his arms. 

“I uh…ok, so you know how I can create lightning? I think because of that, or related to it, I have really sensitive atmospheric sensors. So I can detect changes in ionic concentration. Meaning I can sort of “feel” if the wind’s going to change, and react faster to rough air–”

“A’right, I believe you,” interrupted Ramjet, gesturing at him to walk ahead and board the craft. “Lead the way.”

“Oh. Ok.” 

Ramjet looked him over with approval as he passed. “Y’know, shame we didn't face off at any of the previous Flights.”

“Yeah.” 

“Bet you would’ve been a real terror to beat. Would've liked the challenge. Not a lot of raw power on display in mechs these days. Right, Dirge?”

“Mechs are weak now,” agreed Dirge. “Not like they used to be. No fun at all.”

“Oh. That’s, uh, too bad. I–”

Thundercracker thought he heard his name being called. He stopped walking, listening, and heard it again. He turned, and did a double take.

Slipstream stood half-hidden in a corridor behind them in the hangar. She looked pretty beat up, no thanks to Starscream, but retained an air of elegance. She leant against the wall at a relaxed angle with her hand resting gracefully on her hip.

Immediately relieved to see her, Thundercracker turned and hurried toward her.

“Hey,” she said.

“Hey.” As he expected, it was awkward to speak to her right after everything, but he would take awkwardness over his other companions’ lack of sense and sensitivity. 

What could he say? Their relationship was a nascent one. Barely lovers, and now to be trined. Judging by her solemn expression, she didn’t want to talk about it either, and it wasn’t the time or place. Maybe she also hadn’t wanted to be alone with her thoughts, and sought him out. Thundercracker tried not to think about the way that made his spark jump. 

“Uh. Were you following me?” he asked. 

She flashed a sheepish smile. “This is an odd group you’re heading out with.”

“We’re looking for Skywarp. He disappeared.”

“May I come with you?”

“Yes please,” said Thundercracker, cutting off Ramjet’s protest that they didn't need anyone else joining in.

—

They flew behind in the transport while other parties of soldiers split up to search ahead, and adjusted their course at the whim of a steady stream of intel being fed to the generals from the distant scouts tracking Skywarp’s position. Thundercracker took it in, in pieces.

Skywarp’s EM field and comm were not traceable, which Astrotrain and Blitzwing certainly had a hand in, having access to military grade signal jammers. There was no trace of a vehicle used, either, so Skywarp’d likely warped over to wherever he was. Covering long distances, stretching the limits of his ability with each jump, abstaining from flying to leave no fuel trail. 

But Seekers were adept at tracking by scent– “the old-fashioned way” as Ramjet put it– which was the next best thing to signal and fuel tracing. And very effective, considering how quickly the stealth corps uncovered a trail, even obscured by the heavy rainfall and distance.

“Hah!” Ramjet chortled, leaning back in his seat with a creak. “Flyboy was banking on the element of stealth to cover his tracks.”

“Was he?”

“He's sloppy,” said Ramjet. “He didn’t fly ‘cause he knew he wouldn’t have gotten far. But even with his spark ability, he left little waypoints laced with his scent every time he had to stop. Chaining ‘em all together has been a breeze since they’re only a handful of miles apart. That’s nothin’ for our trackers. Wonder why he even bothered? We’ll get ‘im before the cycle’s out.”

“That’s… that’s great news,” said Thundercracker, exchanging an encouraging look with Slipstream.

“Yeah. He’s a tough-talking little punk, but not a real smart one.”

Slipstream responded with something snarky and smooth as mercury about them being a perfect match for each other, which Ramjet took as a compliment, but Thundercracker had turned them out.

Teleporting– as he had gathered from Skywarp’s various past explanations– had less to do with smarts than stamina. Improving distance and dimension took practice, and Skywarp was young, with an unsophisticated spark ability that was physically taxing and drained fuel in moments. Seasoned teleporters could apparently travel between galaxies in one leap without such expenditures.  

The trackers’ report of the distance he was warping sounded right on the mark. Skywarp had confided in Thundercracker recently that he could move about ten miles in one jump.

An’ doing that about five times uses up all my fuel and makes my spark feel like it’s gonna implode. You know how it is. 

Thundercracker studied the holo-map projecting each of the waypoints, and all the possible upcoming points the computer had generated. Skywarp should have only been able to teleport fifty miles altogether before even his auxiliary tank ran dry. But that couldn’t be right. The trackers had caught his scent a far greater distance from the palace than that, and still hadn’t found him. 

Then it occurred to Thundercracker that one of his friends was a shuttle– a tanker, more or less– and then it made sense. Skywarp was refueling.

In other words, Astrotrain was almost certainly with him, carrying the fuel. Blitzwing, he couldn’t say. But a triple-changer packed to the brim with weapons would scare off any trouble; covering their backs from the ground or the skies. Why wouldn’t he be with them? 

Thundercracker was impressed. Considering their complemetary attributes, they were a stereotypically well-formed trine– er, trio. A jet, tanker, and artillery-mech were a natural fit for each other. Or they would be, if Skywarp was military.

They’d keep him safe. At least there was that. It took some serious loyalty for two mechs to drop everything and risk their careers to help their friend escape.

But there was still a pit in his tank. A stubborn worry that wouldn’t ease off. Even with those two at his side, he feared Skywarp might hurt himself. Heavy use of a sigma ability put a hard strain on the spark. Countless jumps over less than a cycle would wear Skywarp down in a way that made Thundercracker ill to imagine. The exhaustion of an overtaxed spark was incomparable.

Thundercracker was still recovering from his own episode at the ball, and shuddered to remember the pangs of agony, ending in fatigue that unmoored him from his frame. Slipping in and out of consciousness–

The transport lurched with turbulence, bouncing them all out of their seats.

“Sorry,” said Thundercracker, gripping the rattling yoke and regaining control. The transport leveled out shakily, in a series of dips and pitches, speeding through the roiling clouds.

Over the course of a few joors, and still with no sight of Skywarp, they began to run out of fuel too. Ramjet indicated a military base, and Thundercracker headed for the landing strip when given the all-clear.

The “base” was more like a glorified checkpoint, existing wearily at the furthest edge of the city. The crude, dingy outpost was populated by indifferent-looking airmechs, who wandered into formation on their approach.

When they stepped onto the pitted tarmac, a line of infantry saluted them, and they were welcomed into the compound by a gruff old Praxian colonel, who said nothing to him except they were gettin’ closer to locating his brother. He eschewed Thundercracker’s royal title and frowned like he dared him to challenge him on it. Thundercracker did not, and was left behind with Slipstream to occupy a lopsided couch in a rec room-office and admire the slew of pornographic posters collaging the walls, while the colonel and generals huddled over a map on a rickety card table nearby and discussed coordinates.

All this was sort of taxing to Thundercracker. This had become less a scouting mission and more an odyssey. They were in the middle of nowhere. Why would Skywarp be here? He hoped Skywarp hadn’t come out here.

His wings twitched involuntarily as Slipstream touched a hand to his back. 

“Don’t think so hard. They’ll find him,” she said. Which would barely have made him feel better, except that she was right, as usual. They soon got word that the scouting parties had picked up Skywarp’s trail in the mountains near the border. Much further than any of them had anticipated.

Upon hearing this, Ramjet disappeared for a while, then tromped back in with a long, heavy case under one arm.

“Isn't this concerning news?” Thundercracker asked him. 

“Ehh.” Ramjet dropped the case on the card table with a thud that rattled the legs. “He’s probably just playing hooky out in the wilderness.” 

“But there are wild mechanimals and Tarnish bandits in the mountains.”

“ Bandits? You sure like your drama shows, huh, Your Highness?” Ramjet popped the case open and grunted in approval at whatever was inside. “It’s the border guards they gotta watch out for. Ours and the Tarnish ones.” 

“Oh, Primus…”

“This ain’t a half-bad hunt, though, eh?” Ramjet elbowed Dirge, leering. “‘What’re the chances he’s leading us on? Making us track him down. Winglord musta trained him in the art of seduction, cause this is real traditional Seeker flirting. Gotta say, if there’s one thing that kid’s good at, it’s getting the energon pumping.” 

Everyone snickered lewdly at the crack, except Thundercracker. Slipstream likewise wasn’t amused. “What if you don’t catch him?” she asked, her tone drier than the dust Ramjet was kicking up rooting around in the mysterious case. “And he warps once he feels threatened?”

Ramjet ignored her, lifting a rifle out with both hands. He jammed the stock into his shoulder and aimed at a tattered poster on the wall above her helm. “Been looking forward to getting some use outta this.”

“Is that the surprise method?” asked Thundercracker, resisting the urge to duck out of the way as Ramjet swung the barrel to point at him. 

“Y’know, Your Highness,” said Ramjet, grabbing a scope from the case and looking extremely bored with the questioning as he screwed it on, “not everything needs finesse. Sometimes, good ‘ol force works just as well.”

Slipstream must have seen Thundercracker’s disgruntled frown and protested, “Skywarp’s a prince, it’s your duty to return him unharmed.”

“Relax , it’s a dart rifle,” said Ramjet. Which he should have started with. “It’ll just knock ‘im out for a while.”

That didn’t change the fact Thundercracker didn’t like or trust Ramjet and Dirge, or their methods. And liked them less by the minute. 

“Okay, so he’s in the mountains,” he said, struggling to regain his bearings. “Where is he going?”

“We’re thinkin’ Tarn.”

“Tarn?”  

“The trail picks up due south. Straight through the mountains.” 

“What do you mean, Tarn?” 

“Ahem–”  The Praxian colonel spoke up, in a more conciliatory tone than expected. “If we find Skywarp in enemy territory in the company of less than noble mechs, every measure will be taken not to taint his reputation.”

“That’s not my concern,” said Thundercracker, all his remaining bravery shot to pieces in an instant. “What if he’s taken hostage? They can do what they please with him if he’s caught there. This is terrible!"

“Indeed,” said Dirge, in his deep, resonant monotone. The first he’d spoken in at least a joor. "This is a bad situation."

"Thank you!" said Thundercracker. At least someone else was showing concern.

“Death’ll be merciful if he’s caught," continued Dirge. "With a high-status target like him, it's more likely they’ll tear his wings off and pin them up like a rare insecticon's.”

“Okay, take it easy, buddy,” said Ramjet through a strained grin. “There’s royalty present.”

Dirge stared into the distance, trancelike. “But who could blame them? They’re shapely…”

Ramjet walked in front of him, blocking him from Thundercracker’s view. “Dirge's just saying things. Nothin’ to worry about, Your Highness.”

But panic was welling in Thundercracker faster than he could counter it. All he could do was pray that Skywarp didn’t run into trouble before they caught up.

Privately, he was relieved Astrotrain and Blitzwing were with Skywarp, more now than ever. They’d seen him safely through countless drunken binges, early-morning escapades in the rough parts of the city, and all sorts of dangerous mischief the likes Thundercracker didn’t want to think about. All of which emboldened Skywarp to be more foolish and reckless than the time before. This was just one more stupid, stupid adventure. But maybe, with Skywarp under their protection, he wouldn’t have to fear the worst.

Chapter Text

As they passed into more remote territory, civilian dwellings became sparser until the silvery thorns of city buildings ended and the wilds began. Thundercracker navigated over the tops of dense crystal trees, which grew into each other, at once blocky and sharp, and practically impassable from the ground.

Eventually, air traffic stopped entirely. Mountains rose up ahead of them, their faces pitted from bombs. Cut into the side of a peak, the gray, twisted ruins of an air base sat long-abandoned. Rusted-out transports and weaponry littered the area. 

The Vos-Tarn border had supposedly been secured, but some stirrings of grounder conflict arose now and again. Bearing this continuing violence in mind, Thundercracker understood on some level how important it was for he and his brothers to find trines for the sake of securing funds and allies for Vos. But hovering over the bombed-out ruins of their border settlements, the threat of what would happen if any of them failed in their duty hung over him like a plague.

Starscream knew. He was aware marriage was his burden as well. Thundercracker didn't entirely blame him for wanting to cast it off, but wanting and doing were different. Skywarp was an equally infuriating piece of work. Why did they leave him alone to deal with this? 

Around the time they crossed over into Tarn, he caught Skywarp’s scent, just as Ramjet had said. Not trained like the trackers were, he hadn’t been able to pick up the faint traces at the waypoints, but he was still a Seeker. As they closed in, the scent consumed the better part of his senses. His anxiety began to dissolve into a clear, concentrated furor, imagining exactly what he was going to do to Skywarp when he saw him.  

Ramjet and Dirge’s fields reflected primarily belligerence, also having locked onto their prey with a vicious clarity of purpose.

“We caught them,” declared Dirge stoically, meaning the troops they had sent ahead of them had Skywarp and his partners cornered.

“Get ‘er down,” said Ramjet, gesturing at the controls. “Lower. Wayy down.”

“How low?” asked Thundercracker.

“Under fifty feet.”

Thundercracker thought he had misheard. He gestured at the maelstrom whipping around them; the heavy clouds half-obscuring the mountain below. “Fifty? In these conditions?”

“Yeah. Or you’ll activate the turrets.”

“Turrets,” echoed Thundercracker.

“Anti-aircraft guns. We’ll get blown full of holes if we get in range and we’re not below that altitude when we sneak through Tarnish airspace.”

“You’re joking.” He had to wrestle down the hungry surge from his base coding telling him to throw caution to the wind, thread the gap and gun it to his target-

"C'mon. You can do it."

“No,” said Slipstream, to both of them. “It’s too dangerous to fly that low now. We’re landing and waiting for the weather to pass.”

“Just keep it niiiice and smooth like you’ve been doing, and I'll talk you through it.” Ramjet's hands fell onto Thundercracker’s shoulders, boorishly massaging his nape. “Big, strong mech like you should have no problem. Don't you think so, Slipstream?” 

Slipstream lashed out with her field, in a way that implied she was too urbane to resort to caving his face in, but that she was considering it anyway. “Don’t be ridiculous.” 

Thundercracker's face grew hot. Did she have to sound so decisive about his lack of ability? 

“Whaddaya think, Your Highness? Doesn't sound like she believes in you," said Ramjet. "We can land and hike the rest of the way, if it's too tough for you to handle.”

Thundercracker contemplated the jagged terrain. The thought of hiking– in these conditions or otherwise– filled him with immediate, visceral disgust. It was only when Ramjet snickered that he realized he was joking.

How to do this? He was a strong flier, but having to straddle that tiny, tiny gap of airspace between the mountain and the apparent range of the flak cannons in low visibility conditions and high wind grades would be a nightmare. The kind of idiotic stunt Starscream would be foaming at the mouth to try. But unlike Starscream, he was not interested in showing off, and especially not to a bolthead like Ramjet.

"Alright, scoot over," said Ramjet, apparently taking Thundercracker's silence as dissent. "I'll take it from here."

Thundercracker stifled a yelp as his hands abruptly relocated from his shoulders to his waist to move him from the pilot's seat. “I’m completely capable of getting us there,” he snapped, shouldering him off. "Maybe even better than you, since you needed me to fly through this."

Ramjet grinned. "Needed you? You volunteered. I never said I couldn't fly in these conditions. Just might be a little rougher than you'd like."

"Oh." 

"Then let's see it, Your Highness. Prove you're better than me."

“Thundercracker,” said Slipstream. “You shouldn't do this.”

She was right, but he could do it. Shame and anger burned behind his optics. Why was he taking this?

Thundercracker ignored her warning and shoved the nose of the transport down until he could see the individual facets of the tangled crystal treetops whipping past. Pleased, Ramjet's hands returned to his shoulders and he crooned encouragement, guiding him towards the spot he would be touching down, just within Tarn. Thundercracker obediently followed his guidance, devoting the full force of his processing power to keeping the craft straight and level.  

Landing on a mountainside in enemy territory in intense windshear conditions was both exhausting and spark-stopping, but Thundercracker managed to get them on the ground and cut the ignition decisively, to hooting praise from Ramjet and his partner.

Condensation dripped into the corners of his mouth. Loosening his grip on the yoke, Thundercracker leant back, ex-venting slowly to un-tense his frame. He clasped his hands in his lap to hide their trembling. 

“That was some sexy flying,” said Ramjet, taking his time removing his hands from his shoulders. “But I'm not convinced you're better than me. I wanna see how you move in a one-on-one.”

Hoping for less backhanded praise, Thundercracker looked over at Slipstream. She was glaring at Ramjet, but said nothing.

They disembarked, and Vosian troops were waiting below to guard them. The longer they stayed on the Tarnish side of the border, the more likely they’d risk an altercation. A few scouts had gone ahead and declared the area clear of Tarnish troops, but there was still a significant risk they’d be shot at, if discovered.

Ramjet shouldered the dart rifle and glanced over his wing at Thundercracker and Slipstream. “They’re right up ahead. This shouldn’t take long. You two can stay behind in the transport where it’s safe and we’ll go. Terrain’s rough, and you’ll tweak an ankle joint walking on those thrusters.”

Thundercracker shoved past him. He’d come this far. Slipstream sighed and limped after him. Their high, flimsy thrusters did make the way more perilous and slow-going, but Thundercracker trudged forward, consumed by a manic energy.

The distant hovels and factories belched dark smoke up from the ground through ventilation shafts. The pouring rain mixed with the ash, streaking their plating with grime and leaving everyone's legs filthy up to the knees from the backsplash of puddles as they hiked.

They crested a peak, and through the haze, Thundercracker spotted Astrotrain and Blitzwing, huge in the distance. They were kneeling, wrists locked behind them in stasis cuffs, and surrounded by Vosian soldiers whose red-hot blaster tips hissed and popped in the rain, charged to fire.

A smaller flier paced around the ring of soldiers, agitated. Motioning them to stand down, to no avail.

Skywarp and his partners in crime were all painted like cargo transports, in a cheap matte green with yellow courier logos crudely airbrushed on their wings. Not a bad disguise, as Tarn still employed some fliers– just not Seekers. But even at a distance, even under the paint and grime, the distinctive Seeker-like shapes of Skywarp’s fuselage were vivid; incongruous with the harsh landscape. 

With an incensed twitch of his wings, Skywarp lifted an arm and pointed, no, gestured intently at one of the soldiers. Palm up, light as a feather, rotated from the outside in-- the mantra sprung to Thundercracker's mind, unsolicited. A decorous protocol drilled in at a young age. Thundercracker almost never saw him act with any amount of grace in court, where it mattered, always choosing indecency.

It appeared, in Skywarp's frustration, he’d moved by rote, making the type of unconscious action only a mech forced to attend thousands of hours of etiquette lessons would make. 

Some harsh, livid feeling coalesced like slag in Thundercracker’s tanks. With one graceful gesture, Skywarp casually ruined his little affectation of low-brow toughness he liked to parade around. Only solidifying Thundercracker's resolve that he should not be out here.

Anger that– for everyone’s safety– he'd chosen to politely store away over and over for ages, now roared out of him. Livid in a way he’d never been, his temper propelled him away from Slipstream, past Ramjet and Dirge and the accompanying soldiers, leaving them behind to hone in on Skywarp and storming down the mountainside alone.

The howling wind swept away the sound of his approach, but carried his scent– familiar and deceptively safe– to Skywarp, who whirled, wings perked in relief. “T-Thundercracker? TC! Tell them to back off,” he said, but his hopeful expression fell the instant he saw Thundercracker barreling up to him. He stumbled back but Thundercracker snagged him by the collar faring.

“Are you out of your mind? Sneaking into Tarn?” he shouted. 

“Take it easy!” Skywarp was trying to sound unbothered, but couldn’t meet his optics and had tucked his wings back. Thundercracker thought his lowered wings and drawn, pale face telegraphed exhaustion more than diffidence. He’d been pushing his limits, warping all day and night, and his adventure had left him weak and shivering. Concern welled up in Thundercracker’s throat as an afterthought, but didn't come close to touching his rage. 

“Were you trying to get carried off? Or killed?”

“That wouldn't have happened,” said Skywarp. “We planned to just shoot anyone who looked at us wrong.”

Astrotrain and Blitzwing loomed behind Skywarp, regarding Thundercracker with intimidating suspicion, and Thundercracker supposed that was a fair point.

“Um. Sooo.” Skywarp plastered on a shaky grin and tried to change the subject. “What’s she doing here with you? You two hang out now?"

“Long story,” said Slipstream, panting. Thundercracker felt her grip his shoulder. “Thundercracker, don’t rush ahead like that.” 

“What was your plan here, with those two?” asked Thundercracker, refusing to let Skywarp distract him. “Once you were in Tarn? Actually in the city?”

“I dunno, just lie low. Blend in.”

“Looking like that?” Thundercracker gestured at Skywarp’s dingy paint job that did nothing to obscure his fine, elegant angles. “Your silhouette is distinctive.”

“My silhouette?” whined Skywarp. He pushed his lower lip out, diffidence giving way to sass in record time. “What are you yapping about?”

"Don’t get stuck on details. I want to hear exactly-"

Ramjet answered for him: “Thundercracker’s saying you’re a classic Vosian beauty, Your Highness,” he called. The rest had caught up to them, announcing their presence in a cacophony of rattling and crunching over the terrain. “Makes you a tempting prize.”

Skywarp’s bratty moue intensified as the group came into view over the crest of the mountain. “No one asked you.” 

Ramjet stomped up to him, sending rocks scattering. “What? I can’t compliment you?”

Skywarp pulled a face.

“Well, listen, if we can clock you’re cute from a distance, so can the enemy.” Ramjet gestured with his thumb at the apparent Tarnish troops in the area. “I’d stay out of the city unless you want your wings pinched in the crowds. You’re safer with us.” 

“Oh yeah? You think I’m better off going back to Vos, where you and your weird trinemate can grope me instead?” Skywarp jutted his chin at Dirge, who was standing motionless under a tangle of wire-vines like a possessed statue.

Moving on from his attempt at flirting, Ramjet redirected his attention to the captive triple-changers. “So much for loyalty. Got some nerve stealing away the mech your superiors are planning to trine for yourselves.”

“You have to win first,” said Astrotrain. “Sir.”

“That won’t be a problem. And you all know that.” Ramjet gestured between Skywarp and the triple changers with the barrel of his rifle. “That’s why Skywarp ran off with you.”

An uneasy tension fell. Skywarp's face turned a ruddy pink and he scowled at the ground and kicked at a rock. Thundercracker wavered in the sudden onslaught of Astrotrain and Blitzwing’s ruthlessly protective fields, which had increased tenfold in an instant. Even cuffed and kneeling, they were bigger than any of them, and they weren't afraid to let everyone know it.

“Can we all take it easy?” asked Skywarp abruptly. A subtle vibration had started in his wings– a nervous tic of his. Maybe the realization that he was truly in for it was starting to set in. “This isn’t that serious. The truth is, I just wanted to get away from all the fussy preparations for the Flights. I was totally gonna show up before they started.”

Ramjet put his hands on his hips. “That the excuse you’re going with?”

“You’ve gotta lot of bearings talking to me like that.”

“You got a lot of bearings trying to elope to Tarn. Your Highness.”

“And what about it?” 

“So it’s true!” said Thundercracker. “What the pit were you thinking?” 

“What are you gonna do about it?” countered Skywarp. He backed up towards his partners and flung his arms out as if to shield them. “Tarn has no extradition laws with Vos. You can’t do anything to us here.”

“Extradition laws? What does that have to do with anything?” asked Thundercracker. “Did you commit a crime?”

“I mean, probably?” Skywarp peeked over his shoulder, where his comrades were nodding. “Y-yeah! A couple? Like, at least a few. Anyway, you can’t arrest us and bring us back while we’re on Tarnish land.”

“Look,” said Ramjet, “extradition laws won’t matter if you’re held for ransom. Or dead. The ground-pounding barbarians will do things to you I won’t be saying in front of your brother’s refined audials.”

Skywarp folded his arms. “Whatever. I’ll take my chances getting my wings torn off and mounted.”

“Other way around,” said Dirge, lingering a half-step behind Ramjet. 

“Huh?”

Dirge continued to leer. “...Or you’d bleed out before they’re finished.”

A perverse chuckle escaped Ramjet at the innuendo. “Some of ‘em are into that.”

Skywarp stood there with his mouth open. The silence lingered, oppressive. Even the hissing rain sounded uneasy.

Skywarp probably heard more tasteless jabs on the regular in the cheap bars he went to. Pit, Thundercracker had heard worse in court. But Skywarp’s glare became near-white with rage. Thundercracker figured he’d let that kind of insult roll off him at other times, but not now. Not from them. And not here.  

Collective fury in Skywarp and his allies’ fields steamrolled Thundercracker. Skywarp hiked his wings up and stomped forward, his whole posture radiating hostility.

“Hey,” said Ramjet, falsely placating. “Take it easy. It’s just a joke.”

Dirge flexed his claws at his side–sharper and deadlier than Skywarp’s, Thundercracker noted. In terms of sheer bulk, Ramjet and Dirge outclassed him. In a match between military builds vs civilian, the military would always come out on top.

Thundercracker got between them, grabbing Skywarp’s wrists and stopping him cold before he could fly off the handle, to which Skywarp took great offense.

“Can you back off? I’m talking to them!”

“You’re not staying in Tarn,” said Thundercracker. “It's not safe, and you don't have any kind of diplomatic immunity here.”

“But–!”

“Here’s what’s gonna happen,” said Ramjet. “You'll come back with us, and we’ll settle this as a military matter internally, nice ‘n easy.”

“You mean Astro and Blitz are getting court martialed!”

Ramjet placed a hand over his spark like he was making a vow. “As a general of the Winglord’s army, it’s my duty to report any dangerous influences on the princes.” His optics fell on Astrotrain and Blitzwing, with an undercurrent of irritation. “And traitors to Vos.”

“TC!” demanded Skywarp, staring wild-eyed into his face. “Do something. You outrank everyone here. Stop standing around and–” 

“We’ll work it out when we get back to the palace,” said Thundercracker. “There’s no reason to fight over this.”

“Can you stop being so fucking nonchalant? I don’t want to go back! I’m not giving these assholes a match!” 

“Skywarp!” Thundercracker barked, at a volume that put the storm to shame. “Get it together!”

Skywarp flinched and shrunk in on himself. But the moment Thundercracker thought his outburst had dented his courage, he shrugged it off. In his optics, there was a comprehension of Thundercracker’s play here, and a renewed lack of respect due to it.

“Trying to act tough, huh? You think you can scare me?” 

“Don’t argue.”

Skywarp shoved him in the chest. “Or what?”

“Stop that. You’re being undignified.”

“Yeah?” Skywarp shoved him harder. “Do something about it! You won’t! You never do! You always just sigh and grumble then leave me to it. Gun to your head, you wouldn't be able to command respect.” 

Thundercracker stood his ground. “Be sensible. Please.”

“Fuckin’ Primus. You’re already begging.” Skywarp shook his helm. “Forget it. I’m getting outta here.”

“Wait. You’re leaving your friends behind?” Thundercracker asked, glancing at the triple-changers, still surrounded with weapons pointed at them.

“I’m the one you’re after. So if you don’t let us all go, I’ll be teleporting my aft to Tarn’s city center and picking a fight with the biggest grounder I can find. Even if you manage to haul me back alive afterward, good luck explaining that to the Winglord.” Sadistic glee flared in his optics, leveled at Ramjet and Dirge. “Every little scratch I get, you two’re gonna be paying for a million times over.”

Ramjet shot a meaningful look at Thundercracker and adjusted his grip on the rifle. Thundercracker knew he wouldn’t even have time to aim before Skywarp teleported. He needed to be talked down or he feared they’d never see him again. 

The bracelet was burning a hole in his subspace. 

Thundercracker had realized by now that the Winglord, despite his laissez-faire parenting, understood his capricious youngest creation incredibly well and had planned for this exact scenario. Placing restrictions on Skywarp was near-impossible, and scolding made him more defiant.  

Years of being Skywarp’s unwilling chaperone had brought Thundercracker to the same conclusion: Skywarp could not be ordered or threatened. He had to be tempted, or tricked into obedience by someone he trusted. It stood to reason that the Winglord had a level of insubordination he would tolerate, and once Skywarp found the threshold, he’d engage a killswitch– or in this case, a limiter– and get him under control, before Skywarp created any truly intolerable messes. So here they were. With Thundercracker holding his literal shackles.

He tried not to shudder. The Winglord’s chronic tendency to lock away his creations when they proved too troublesome would obviously extend to Skywarp too. Thundercracker just hadn’t expected to be the one responsible for delivering the punishment. But he knew why it had to be him. 

He had been skeptical of the fact that “Skywarp listens to you” as the Winglord put it, but with Skywarp demanding him to take charge and vouch for his happiness, he understood that the Winglord wasn't totally off the mark. Skywarp trusted Thundercracker would stand up for him. And that was a powerful tool in their arsenal against him. 

Thundercracker was going to have to shatter that trust to have any hope of bringing him back. 

Against all his kinder tendencies, a dark and spiteful part of him wanted to see Skywarp punished. They all had a responsibility to Vos, as princes. Thundercracker refused to be the only brother unhappily coerced into being dutiful. That’s what it came down to for him. He might have covered Skywarp’s aft other times; let him have his fun. But not today. There were some fates he couldn’t escape.

“Ok. You’re right.” said Thundercracker.

"Huh?"

“I don't have it in me to make you do something you don't want. But if you’re going to leave, I have something for you.” He removed the box with the bracelet from his subspace, racking his processor for a good lie as Skywarp glared him down. 

“What’s that?” asked Skywarp, as Thundercracker took off the lid. Kind of cruelly, he wished that Starscream could be here, doing this instead. Starscream could convince someone the day was night. Thundercracker wasn't a good liar, and Skywarp wasn't nearly as credulous as he acted. But speaking of Starscream…

“It's, um, Starscream’s gift for your courting flight. He said to give it to you if you ended up flying off somewhere.”

Skywarp flicked his eyes disinterestedly at the bracelet then returned to glaring at him. “He knows I don't wear that slag.”

Thundercracker suppressed the urge to fidget. This was true. But it wasn't out of character for Starscream to ignore Skywarp’s preference and gift him some jewelry anyway. “He said it’s for luck. Maybe it’s special to him.”

“A slagging little plain bangle wouldn't be special to Screamer,” said Skywarp. And honestly, he was also not wrong about that. 

“Well, I dunno,” said Thundercracker, trying not to lose momentum. “It’s, uh, what he told me.”

Just when he thought he'd be caught in his lie, Skywarp’s glare relaxed into a disappointed frown. “I thought he’d get me something cooler.”

Relief washed over Thundercracker. “You’re really complaining about a gift when you’re not even planning to be at the Flights?”

Curiosity overriding his suspicion, Skywarp came forward and snatched the box from him. “Seriously, TC? He got me a slagging bracelet? What am I supposed to do with this? I thought it’d be like a set of fancy electro daggers. Only the biggest day of my life, no big deal.”

“I’ll tell him you thought his gift was lame.” 

Skywarp shook the box next to his helm, rattling the bracelet. “It’s gotta have poison in it or something. Or codes to a bomb.”

“Yeah. Maybe.”

“Thundercracker, is this wise?” asked Slipstream, behind him. Thundercracker couldn’t tell if she was supporting his act or genuinely asking. His spinal struts tingled as her field needled him. She was conflicted, which wasn’t exactly the encouragement he needed.

“Yeah!” said Ramjet. “Wha’d we come all the way out here for if you’re just gonna let him go? That wasn’t the plan.”

“I’m in charge here,” said Thundercracker, projecting his voice to address the gathering. “In case you forgot. What we do with him is my decision.” He turned back to Skywarp. “If you’re going to make this much of a fuss, I don't want to deal with it.”

“Sire’s gonna murder you.”

“I don't care what he thinks,” said Thundercracker, and found that at least to be true. The admission was so genuine, so exhausted, that Skywarp visibly dropped his guard. 

“Ha. Never thought I’d see the day.”

“Are you taking it or not?” 

“Yeah. Whatever. Here.” Skywarp extended his arm. Thundercracker kept his field drawn in tight as he took the bracelet from the box. 

Skywarp’s expression shifted like another thought had occurred to him. “Where's your present?” 

Willing his hands steady, Thundercracker snapped the cuff into place. It buzzed and whirred faintly, the ends locking seamlessly, and Skywarp’s confidence drained out of his face.

“I’ll give it to you when we get back to the palace."

“What is this? What did you put on me?” Skywarp stumbled back and yanked at the bracelet. “Thundercracker! Why can’t I take it off?” 

Thundercracker was silent. He couldn't find the words to admit what he did, but Ramjet stepped in for him. “He mighta lied a little. That little gift’s courtesy of the Winglord.”

“No, no, no. Fuck this,” said Skywarp, running over and grabbing Astrotrain and Blitzwing. Nothing happened. His wings lilted in confusion. He whimpered and jerked on their arms like that’d make his warp drive go. It didn’t. 

“What did you do to me?” he asked, tone edged with fear. 

“You’re under house arrest indefinitely,” said Ramjet, but Skywarp wasn’t paying attention to him.

“Thundercracker, you piece of slag! You said you weren't doing this for the Winglord.”

“I’m not. This is for myself.”

Skywarp’s betrayed scowl darkened. "What did I ever do to you? What did I ever do!?"

"Alright, let's wrap it up here," said Ramjet. "You can argue with him on the way back."

Skywarp flattened himself against Astrotrain and Blitzwing. "I'm not going anywhere with you."

"I see. Does His Highness want to be carried?"

"I want you to stick that rifle up your aft and fire."

"Allll-right. Like a sack of rocks it is." Ramjet motioned to his accompanying troops to advance on Skywarp as he continued to fire off obscenities. "Try not to damage him." 

Skywarp cut off his torrent of insults as the first soldier to reach him grabbed him around the waist and put him over his shoulder. The screech of Skywarp's engine echoed through the mountains, rain hissing under his thrusters as it evaporated into black fog. Escape, as expected, was Skywarp's first priority. He kicked off the infantrymech's chest and took off. With a jolt, Thundercracker remembered–

“Skywarp! Wait! Don't fly! You'll get shot!” Blitzwing and Astrotrain’s dire exclamations overlapped with his own. Thundercracker darted forward to stop Skywarp, but was too slow, and watched helplessly with them as he spiraled into the clouds. A groan of straining metal reached his audials– the noise of his friends' futile attempts to break their stasis cuffs and go after him. 

Skywarp's tormented field wavered, sending out a cold flicker of realization. In his hurry to escape, he’d forgotten he was supposed to fly low, but by the time he thought to correct, he was far past the tops of the crystals, and still accelerating. 

A distant, rattling hum started up, and three chains of luminous orange explosions arced the black sky, cutting a bright path across Skywarp’s nosecone. 

To everyone’s horror, he didn’t react immediately to the anti-aircraft shot, but rocked in the sky, wings oscillating. At the last instant he pulled a terrifying maneuver, diving just under the converging paths of the explosions, then looping back up into the sky to avoid a collision with the crystals. Thundercracker realized he had defaulted to trying to warp, couldn’t, and then had to evade. 

Frantic, conflicting projections exuded from Skywarp’s field as he tried to turn, level out and pick up lost speed. But rather than attempt these consecutively, he did them all at once and flipped himself, stalling his engine. Thundercracker’s spark guttered. 

The three vectors of shot had converged and locked on, encroaching. Skywarp was not going fast enough to avoid being shredded– 

There was a pop at Thundercracker’s side. He tore his optics away from Skywarp to see that Ramjet had the dart gun mounted on his shoulder, aimed at the sky. Skywarp jerked and lost altitude rapidly, spiraling through a gap in the flak, diving back down to the clearing. He landed hard in root mode and slid to a stop, wings jerked upright in terror. 

Ramjet thrust the gun aside to Dirge and yanked Skywarp up by the arm. “You stupid little… are you crazy!? Do you have anything going on in your head?”

Fangs bared, flashing silver, Skywarp bit him on the wrist. Ramjet cursed but hung on. Skywarp clawed and bit and cursed back until he was wrestled into a headlock. Quiet as a shadow, Dirge took up the rifle, aimed and tagged their wriggling quarry a second time, in a seam in his hip plating where the soft protoform peeked out. Skywarp yelped in pain and sagged.

Ramjet kept a firm hold on him, weighing him down with his greater bulk until he’d stopped moving, then yanked the dart out. A trickle of energon leaked down Skywarp’s thigh, bright pink against his paint.

Taken by a sudden spell of weakness, Thundercracker’s knees buckled. 

Slipstream grabbed his arm to steady him. “Are you alright?”

“Fine.” He had to look away from the scene. “We need to leave.”

Ramjet hoisted an unconscious Skywarp over his shoulder with a grunt. “Too much excitement for ya? If you’re gonna pass out, wait until you’re back onboard.” He slapped Skywarp’s rear with a dramatic flair of finality and called for everyone to move out. 

As he passed, Thundercracker caught sight of Skywarp’s face. His helm hung loosely on his neck– optics dark, expression slack. 

Slipstream touched Thundercracker’s wing. “You’re keeping him safe and out of trouble. That’s the best you can do for him.”

“Is it?”

“The right thing isn't always the kind thing,” she said. But she didn’t sound like she fully believed it.

Chapter Text

Starscream had been confined to his apartment under strict orders to stay on bed rest and recover from his near-death ordeal. The doctor and some family had stopped by, but otherwise he'd been left to his own devices for the better part of two cycles. 

It was excruciating, being consumed with thoughts of Megatron and unable to be near him, or even speak to him. As their comm line had been cut, he withdrew into their bond– their sole, untouchable source of connection. Starscream had been taught long ago that a mate’s emotions could be accessed through their bond. He could attest that pain and pleasure and everything in between could be experienced in vivid detail. Location, however, came to him as a welcome surprise.

While reaching out across space for threads to ground him to Megatron, he’d managed to pinpoint where he was being imprisoned.

With careful accuracy, Megatron’s spark led him miles beyond the palace grounds, to another sector of Vos, to a prison built near the end of the war. While Starscream rushed to scribble down the coordinates Megatron had evoked for him– for lack of a better term for this spark-triangulation, Starscream decided “evoked” was the most accurate descriptor– Megatron remained a bastion of calm. Rather than providing comfort, that tranquility concerned Starscream. The placid, solid shapes his spark made while facing down death betrayed acceptance of his dire situation. Pre-emptively surrendering was a coward’s move in Starscream’s opinion.

Megatron met his sour, chastising jab with a teasing pulse across the bond that seemed to say, would you rather I be worked up, like you? 

But his undertone– which Starscream caught before Megatron could hide it– was not optimistic. Contrary to Starscream’s plans, Megatron didn't think he would successfully get him out of prison. Much less reunite with him. As Starscream could sense Megatron’s state of imprisonment, Megatron had likewise determined Starscream’s own: locked in his room, convalescing in bed, feeble from the injury and exhaustion of the emergence. Starscream had no time for his self-defeating nonsense. With limited options for action and only a set of coordinates to work with, Starscream’s scheme relied heavily on outside help. But he had a scheme.

Skywarp’s mysterious whereabouts had become incredibly salient, as Starscream would be using him to teleport Megatron out of prison. Predictable, yes, but the execution date had been set for a mere two cycles after the Flights, and time was of the essence. Planning a more devious rescue was impossible.

Like the Winglord had mentioned, Skywarp had disappeared and no one could contact him for going on three cycles. As for what he’d run off to do was anyone’s guess. From the mouths of his blithely unconcerned relatives, the popular opinion was pre-Flight partying! As all young mechs do! 

Thundercracker, allegedly leading the private search effort, had given him no leads as he wasn’t answering his comm. Or maybe he wasn’t answering Starscream in particular. Not that Starscream blamed him.

The day before the Flights finally marked Skywarp’s return. Or more accurately– the guard posted outside his apartment had whispered through the door when he’d pressed her for details– been returned. She’d heard from her sergeant who worked in the outer palace security team that Skywarp had been secreted back in, in the middle of the previous night. Filthy and lingering with the stench of grounder, he and his two partners in crime had been escorted in like prisoners, on a march led by Vos’ very own generals.

Skywarp, a prisoner. The idea seemed ridiculous. Skywarp couldn't be contained. It was antithetical to the nature of his power. 

At least the scuffle of servants coming and going down the hall outside the royal apartments all cycle relayed that Skywarp was indeed back, and had been sequestered in his chambers, being prepared for the big day. Whatever trouble Skywarp had gotten himself into, it seemed he would still participate in the Flights. Which meant that while Starscream had to adjust his plans, he’d have one opportunity to give Skywarp the rundown, at a time when they would not be subject to the meddling audials of guards or relatives. 

Traditionally, before a mech’s debut Flight, their older siblings gathered in their chambers and presented them with gifts, encouragement and advice. The Winglord had permitted Starscream to visit for this. Afterwards he’d be allowed to join everyone at the stadium to watch Skywarp fly, provided the excitement didn't prove too taxing in his weakened condition. 

When the morning of the Flights came, bleak and uproariously stormy, the Winglord left for the stadium to kick off the event, which began with the lower-ranking nobility and ended in the Winglord’s progeny’s competition in the evening. Starscream and Thundercracker would be escorting Skywarp to the stadium, and meet up with the Winglord there. All Starscream could do– all he’d been doing– was wait. 

—

When Starscream arrived at the apartment, Thundercracker and Skywarp were arguing.

“What do you mean, it’s ‘not so bad’?” Skywarp’s shout came out muffled from further inside. “It’s a hurricane out there!”

“It’s not a hurricane,” was Thundercracker’s patient reply. “And you’ve practiced for this. How’s your wind shear recovery?”

“Shut the fuck up! “ Wind shear recovery.” Don’t piss me off! None of this matters!” A frustrated wail broke from Skywarp. There was some stomping across the floor, punctuated by a soft thump at the end like Skywarp had thrown himself across his berth. 

How unlike Skywarp to throw a tantrum. And how very unlike him to direct his anger at Thundercracker. Entering, Starscream crossed the foyer with light steps, hesitating at the bedroom door to listen. 

“Skywarp, I can’t help you if you don’t–” Thundercracker started to admonish him, then thought better of it. In a lower, more secretive cadence, he tried again: “I talked to the Winglord about…”

Starscream strained to hear the rest, lost in the rumble of his voice. He inched the door open and crept across the threshold. At the far end of the room, Thundercracker was leaning over a dark lump on the berth. His quiet words floated over: “-wanted to have them both arrested for kidnapping and treason, but I told him the affection wasn’t mutual and they were only following your orders.” 

For whatever reason, the profound silence that little admission evoked in Skywarp only encouraged Thundercracker to incriminate himself further: “I’m sorry. It was the only way I could convince him not to do anything drastic. They’re not banished. They’re not in prison. Or worse. Okay? They’re just being transferred to another unit outside the palace.”

Skywarp’s wings lifted slightly. “I can see them again?”

“Well… no. That was the ultimatum he gave. After what you did, this is the best outcome you could have hoped for.” Thundercracker lay a hand on his back.

“‘on’t touch me,” said Skywarp into the berthcovers.

A colorful mountain of gifts was piled on and around Skywarp’s vanity. None had been opened. The dagger Starscream had given him lay in the midst of it, still in its shiny wrapping. 

“Skywarp,” Thundercracker softened his voice to its apex of comfort– low and warm and soothing. Skywarp’s wings remained flat and stiff against his back. “Skywarp, talk to me, please.”

“What happened here?” asked Starscream.

Thundercracker went still.

“Tell him to get out!” said Skywarp, shoving himself upright from his slump. Hardly the filthy and miserable wreck he’d apparently strolled in as, he shone with polish, his plating buffed to a depthless obsidian. A heavy white cape was secured between his shoulders with a silver wing-pin. Matching silver adornments decorated his frame- a circlet, cuffs, and a girdle with a single tiny diamond set in the metal at his midriff.

Silver and diamonds were traditional at one’s debut Flight, but this modest styling made Skywarp resemble an Iaconian temple acolyte, Starscream was disappointed to say. Skywarp preferred the outrageous. This coordinated set must have been gifted by the Winglord, who likely thought a subdued appearance would come across better on the news cameras, giving Skywarp an air of maturity.

Skywarp’s woeful expression as he sank face down onto his berth once more added a resounding gravitas to the full picture. A pretty picture– regardless of Starscream’s distaste for the theming. “They gave you a bath, I see,” said Starscream, trying to lighten the mood. He sat on the berth next to Skywarp and plucked at the fibers of his cape. “What did Thundercracker do to you? Guilt you into wearing all this?”

Skywarp thrust his wrist out to him. Confused, Starscream took it in both hands and held it up to his face.

His mouth fell open. 

Fresh bite marks and slashes adorned Skywarp’s pauldron, though there seemed to have been an attempt at patching them. In the center of the wounds, a scored-up silver band was clamped around his wrist. Starscream rotated the cuff to find the clasp, and came up short. The weight and sheen were unusual for a piece of jewelry– heavy; plated with a cheap aluminum. It matched the rest of his parure in color and shape only.  

With a start, Starscream realized the ”bracelet” was a charge sapper. A strange perversion of the usual restraint device, custom-made to match Skywarp’s ensemble. How they’d gotten one on Skywarp was beyond him. More to the point, it was excessive. 

“There are other ways of getting this off, you know.” Starscream turned to glare at Thundercracker, who was observing him coolly. “You’re such a brute, carving him up. You didn't have to chew his arm off–”

“I did that,” said Skywarp, his voice almost inaudible. “I tried to get it off. It didn’t work.”

“You did? Then what does Thundercracker have to do with–” Ice snaked up Starscream’s lines as he realized the implication, followed by disgust as the situation took form.

“Why?” he asked, pushing off the berth and rounding on Thundercracker.  His brother stayed where he was. His entire affect had become cold as soon as Starscream had entered the conversation. His flat expression said he wanted to continue giving him the silent treatment, but Starscream wouldn’t be ignored. “Why, Thundercracker?”

“He was caught escaping to Tarn.” 

“What’s with the passive language? You shackled him. And what do you mean “escaping”? Is he not allowed to move freely in and out of Vos?”

“Why don't you tell him, Skywarp?” said Thundercracker. “Explain what happened.”

They both waited for Skywarp to respond, but he didn't elaborate aside from a defeated sloping of his wings.

“He shouldn't have made a challenge he couldn't win,” said Thundercracker. “Then he wouldn't have had to backtrack so dramatically. Running away. Breaking laws, pulling dangerous stunts. He doesn't think his actions have consequences. It was the same thing when he started that whole… mating nonsense with Megatron and dragged us into it. With no thought. No remorse.” Thundercracker glared down at Skywarp. “I won’t keep putting up with it.”

“And you thought taking revenge would help him mature?” 

Thundercracker’s field peaked with resentment, layered with a flash of shame. His glare intensified, fixing on Starscream. “Don’t talk down to me. You're not the final authority around here.”

“What, and you are?”

“One of us has to keep it together.”

“Our little brother is falling apart because of you.” Starscream pointed at the door. “Go. Out. I want to talk to him alone.”

Thundercracker folded his arms and stayed put.  

Starscream’s irritation skyrocketed. “What, are you my warden too, now?” He flicked his wrist at Thundercracker in a shooing motion. “Leave!”

Thundercracker rose from the berth suddenly and took a step towards him. Starscream stepped back, but Thundercracker kept coming after him. To save himself the humiliation of being chased around the room for whatever spark of temper he’d triggered, Starscream planted his heels where he stood. He held his ground, frame tight and vents shallow as Thundercracker loomed over him. 

Thundercracker’s optics glowed like molten slag. “Don't order me around.”

Starscream had every right to do so, as he outranked him. But the familiar panicked flutter in his spark as Thundercracker locked onto him like a predator warned him against it. When had he become so quick to anger? What had prompted such a drastic change in his normally docile personality? 

Reminding himself he needed Thundercracker to cooperate, Starscream gentled his tone. “Please.”

His act of submission– or worse, his fear– appeared to satisfy Thundercracker, because after a moment, he stepped around him and walked past. “I’ll be outside,” he rumbled, before shutting the door behind him with more force than necessary.

Even if Thundercracker’s sensitivity had vanished, at least Starscream could still count on him to be uninterested in pointless arguing. Despite his relief that Thundercracker’s interest had now shifted away from him, he had to take a few deep vents to settle himself. The unspoken threat in Thundercracker getting close enough to make Starscream (again) acknowledge the chasm between them in size and strength had left his spark racing. 

There was a clicking behind Starscream. When he turned, the frantic slant of Skywarp’s wings said enough. Hunched over himself, he mouthed at his wrist, trying to chew through the bracelet. 

Starscream took his arm and pulled it out of reach of his fangs. “Stop that.”

“I don’t want it on.” Skywarp’s lip wobbled. Big, shining tears came bubbling up– far from the first time this evening, too, Starscream deduced from the solvent streaks tracked down his faceplate.

“I know.”

“No, you don’t. You’ll never understand. Not warping is like losing a limb. My world got a lot smaller. I can't do anything.” Skywarp dug his knuckles into his optics.

“Look at me.” Starscream kneeled on the berth beside him and moved his hands away from his face again. “Crying won't help.”

“What else can I do? At least I had a chance before. If I can’t warp, I’m screwed.” Skywarp clutched his hands so hard, Starscream winced. “I’m not ready. They’re gonna pick me off. This isn't how today was supposed to go. I don't wanna fly, I just want romance and I’m never gonna have it now–” His voice broke and he flung himself at Starscream, sobbing all over him.

“Alright.” Starscream briskly rubbed his back. “That’s enough. It’s alright.”

“It’s not alright!”

“Yes it is. I have a solution.” 

“No shot you do.”

“Are you going to argue or let me help?”

Skywarp sniveled into his neck more quietly. Starscream took that as acquiescence and pulled away, laying Skywarp’s cuffed arm across his lap. “I’m taking this off.”

“What do you mean?”

“Exactly what I just said.” From his subspace, he removed a box and turned it out. Keycards rained onto the berth. He shuffled through them, trying to find the one that corresponded to the model of Skywarp’s restraint. 

He’d collected– through purchase, theft and copy-making– a vast array of different keys over the years. These unlocked everything from rooms to handcuffs, to things he had no idea. He’d kept them hidden in a panel in his desk alongside his collection of poisons and other paraphernalia until the situation called for it. He’d brought the entire collection with him, anticipating he might need them to unlock Megatron in some capacity– maybe they’d have him in an ankle monitor or a tracking collar. Unlocking Skywarp was the last thing he’d expected. 

Skywarp lifted his helm from Starscream’s shoulder when he realized what was happening. “What is all that?”

“Not important. Hold still.” Locating the correct key, he held Skywarp’s wrist steady and tapped it against the cuff. With a grinding of tiny mechanics, it opened and dropped to the berth with a thump. Skywarp brought his wrist up to the line of his optics, mouth twisted in bewilderment.

“You’re free. Now stop crying.” Starscream jabbed a finger in his face. “You absolute bolthead. I kept telling you, you wouldn’t be in this situation if you hadn’t been so cocky. You shouldn’t have accepted the generals’ proposal, and neither should the Winglord.” He began scooping the keys into a pile with both hands and dumping them back into the box. “You could have avoided this mess in the first place.”

A soft whimper brought his attention back to Skywarp, whose lower lip was trembling again. Guilt prickled up Starscream’s nape. “I didn't mean it like–”

“I know, but Thundercracker did!” 

“Thundercracker,” Starscream scoffed. “Who cares about Thundercracker? Forget about him.”

“How? He keeps saying he doesn't hate me but that’s gotta be a lie. He said he wasn't doing this for the Winglord, so that means dragging me back here had to have been personally motivated.” Skywarp hiccupped. “Why would he be personally motivated to ruin my life? What did I do to make him hate me so much? Like, true, I did do something pretty crazy and dangerous and illegal and kind of treasonous but I didn't expect him to react like that. It had nothing to do with him. He coulda just let me go but he didn't.”

Starscream rubbed his temples. “What exactly happened with you? No one’s telling me anything.”

Skywarp sniffled and wiped his optics. “I tried to escape Vos to elope with Astro and Blitz in Tarn.”

Tried to escape Vos. 

Starscream was struck by a churning wave of anxiety. If Skywarp hadn’t been able to warp himself and his lovers out of the city with over a full cycle’s head start, what chance did Starscream have of flying out to Tarn with Megatron in an even tighter window? They would be leaving tonight. 

“Oh,” he said. 

“What do you mean, “oh”!?" wailed Skywarp. "Why did you say it like that? You think I did something bad. I deserve what Thundercracker did to me, don’t I?”

“No, no,” Starscream shook his head to clear it. “You don’t. And Thundercracker doesn't hate you. He's frustrated. He has plenty to be upset about, doesn't he? He's complained about it: being responsible for you all the time, getting slag from the Winglord about being single, being roped into having a clutch with Megatron, and now an arranged marriage. He keeps his temper under control and that built up anger has been simmering under the surface. Your daring escape is just what tipped him over, I suspect.”

“But half of those things are technically my fault. I pushed him too far and he snapped.”

“Yes, but it’s not really you he’s mad at. The Winglord has had the last word on- no, is the cause of- his problems, but Thundercracker can’t easily assert dominance over him and take control of his own life, now can he? But with you, his younger brother, he has some power… you see?”

Skywarp nodded, but his expression was flat and distant.

“If I were to guess,” continued Starscream coldly, “the Winglord was counting on him to snap on you. By sending him after you and letting him decide your fate, he orchestrated a perfect opportunity for Thundercracker to finally exercise control over something. After everything he's dealt with, can you blame him for taking it?”

“Yeah! I can!” snapped Skywarp. “What the pit is wrong with him? I told him I was sorry so many times and all he’s done is look sad about it and apologize back like he didn't screw up my life permanently. He’s trying to sweet-talk me back into liking him and I’m not havin’ it! He’s a traitor!” Skywarp’s optics filled with tears again and he slumped against him. 

Starscream put his arms around him and stroked him between the wings. “Forget about him right now.”

“Whatever.”

They sat in silence for a while, Starscream alternating caresses to his spine and to his wings until Skywarp's shoulders relaxed. Skywarp had been hunched over for most of their conversation, so it wasn't until now that Starscream felt how narrow his waist was. As he petted Skywarp’s sides, they curved inward sleekly rather than swelling out as they should for a mech in the last stages of carrying. 

“You’re thin. Is the clutch giving you trouble?”

Skywarp shook his helm. 

Starscream continued rubbing his back. “I can't believe they treated a carrying mech like this.”

“I’m not.”

“You’re not?”

Starscream felt Skywarp shake his head again. “I got ‘em excised right before I left. Dangerous enough being a refugee in an enemy state without carrying around a whole brood. It was for their and my own good. ‘Sides, I never cared about carrying for Megatron anyway. Just the 'facing.”

“Do you want a clutch with your partners?”

Skywarp shrugged. “At this point, who knows? I had this romantic vision all planned out of how it was going to go. Not like that’s going to happen now.”

The longer they sat here feeling sorry for themselves, the more Starscream’s spirit fell. There was no getting around it– he could try to escape Vos, but he would be up against even tougher odds escaping with a grounder in an even shorter timeframe. Skywarp must have noticed the exhausted shift in Starscream’s field, as he pulled back. “Thanks for listening, Screamer. You can go back to berth if you’re not feeling good. You did all you could.”

Starscream shook his head. He couldn't give up. It was now or never. “Actually. No, I haven’t.” He lowered his voice to a whisper, wary that Thundercracker could be listening outside. “I need you to do something for me.”

“Uh, okay?” Skywarp nodded, absentmindedly rubbing his wrist.

“I need you to warp Megatron out of prison.”

Skywarp’s mouth rounded in understanding. “Oh, right! I was so depressed I totally forgot Thundercracker filled me in on the slag that went down with you while I was gone. You really didn't waste any time, huh? A proposal, a sparkbond, and emergence, all in the span of a couple joors. Congrats on all that, by the way.” The beginnings of a smirk teased at his mouth. “You're lucky you’re the Winglord’s favorite, is all I’m gonna say. Did he even punish you? Considerin’ how I ended up for breaking the rules, is it weird I figured he’d have you on a ball and chain, eatin’ slop in a dungeon for the rest of your life?”

“You’re getting distracted.” 

“Ok, but I’ve got so many questions.” The berth wobbled as Skywarp bounced up onto his knees. “Like when you were doin’ the spark bond, did Megatron–”

“ Skywarp. Later.” Starscream flapped his hand at him to fend off further attempts at interruption. “I need you to focus so you can warp him out.”

“Okay, okay.” Skywarp lowered his voice conspiratorially, but continued wiggling his wings. Apparently the mere suggestion of getting to warp again was thrilling. “So prison, huh? Do you know which one he’s in?”

Starscream nodded. “From what I’ve gathered, he’s not in the palace jail. He's being held in that maximum security prison built during the war in the Palladium quarter. His cell is– well, I don't know what it looks like, or the cell number, but… well, never mind that.” He reached into his subspace again and withdrew a datapad with the coordinates he’d written down, and shoved it at Skywarp. “Can you do it?”

Skywarp stared at the datapad for a few kliks like he was committing it to memory, then nodded. 

“Ok. Come on then,” said Starscream, touching his arm.

“What, you’re going too?”

Starscream glanced toward the door. “Just for a bit. I need to tell him the plan.”

“Oooh, 'the plan?’ You mean an escape plan to elope with him? You stole my idea,” said Skywarp, poking him in the chest. He snickered at Starscream’s exasperated eye roll before sliding off the berth. “Alright. Megatron, Megatron…” He massaged his battered wrist before offering his hand to him. “Hold on, Screamer.” He shook out his limbs, and they disappeared together in a burst of energy.

Chapter Text

Megatron’s cell lacked the breeziness of the rest of Vos. It was compact, sparse and windowless, with four solid walls that contained the still air. He assumed it would be unimaginably horrible for any of the Winglord’s flying netizens to be imprisoned here, but the cramped quarters didn’t bother him. Built to dwell in tunnels and to not see the sky for lengthy periods, his psyche didn't suffer the way a flier’s would. He could exist in a comfortable state of monotony here.

His internal mechanisms chugged in the complete silence. Hearing his own fuel rushing through his lines should have been unsettling, but instead it soothed him; a reminder that he was alive. This was the way he would feel before facing a tough opponent in battle. An acknowledgement of death or maiming as distant possibilities and a subsequent narrowing of his concentration. A self-preservation script, honed over millennia. A sedate preparedness to fight at any time- a skill rendered useless by his captivity. 

His calm behavior was making Starscream more riled up. Spirited enough for both of them, Starscream’s fiery, lively spark lashed against his own, perpetually intemperate, disturbing his concentration and rousing him to high alert. 

Of course Starscream was restless. Upon Megatron’s spark being extinguished, he was certainly expected to proceed with his arranged marriage.

Megatron knew the Winglord had expected him to let Starscream win their duel. But he couldn’t. He cared nothing for the social constraints that divided them. He wanted the prince, and would have him for a mate. The heat in Starscream’s glare had dared him to give anything less than his best, as if he would be simply miserable if Megatron had disappointed him. Doubtlessly he would, had Megatron lost.

The Winglord surely didn't see things that way, and would maintain order. Their bond would be erased, and Starscream’s trining would resume as planned. 

Of all the injustices done to Megatron, the Winglord’s refusal to acknowledge the validity of their bond was the most infuriating. Megatron had done everything according to Vos’ courting practices: declared his intentions, Starscream had accepted his challenge, and Megatron had grounded him in front of thousands of witnesses. Even if the Winglord did not approve, what other bot could claim such a feat? The Winglord shouldn’t have raised Starscream to be the most formidable lord of the skies Vos had ever seen if he didn’t want him accepting proposals from strong mechs. 

Megatron’s brooding was interrupted by a disturbance in front of him. The air shimmered and the prison wall contracted, pulled towards itself like an event horizon. The cell filled with the scent of ozone. A familiar, low-vibrational popping noise announced Skywarp’s presence before he appeared, purple static snaking over his frame while he swiveled his helm to take in his surroundings. 

Megatron had never seen him so adorned. The jewelry and draperies layered over him shone even in the dim light of the cell. That’s right; Skywarp’s Flight was this evening. 

“Heya,” said Skywarp, wiggling his fingertips at him. “Don’t freak out. I’m doing Screamer a favor. Not that I wanted to see you get executed or anything, either.”

Before Megatron could say a word, Starscream appeared from behind Skywarp, having been obscured by his cape, and pushed past him, dashing forward. He fell against Megatron, clutching him in a tight embrace. Frail, and not as steady on his feet as he should have been, he leant heavily on him. Megatron enfolded him in his arms for support as much as relief.

The harsh glow of Starscream’s optics, running hot with emotion, haloed his tired, drawn features in red. Scowling with his typical vivacity, he declared, “I’m getting you out.”

“Getting into trouble,” said Megatron, tweaking his wing gently. “I suppose I should have expected you to do something like this.”

Starscream suddenly drew back and glared around the cell, like he'd just realized where he was. “It’s worse than I thought,” he said. He pulled his wings tight to his body and narrowly eyed the four corners of the room like they’d shrink if he stopped looking at them.

With the three of them inside, the tiny space had grown considerably more cramped. Behind him, Skywarp bounced on his heels, likewise darting his eyes from corner to corner, and flinching when one of his wingtips touched the wall. Even a flier of average size like him couldn't stand in the center of the cell with his wings fully extended.

“Starscream,” said Megatron. “Are you–”

“No, no. I can’t stay here,” Starscream interrupted, flinging his arm out towards his brother. “Skywarp. Take us to my private hangar.”

Skywarp let out a nervous, high-pitched giggle and grabbed hold of his arm. “Oh, great! This place is making me itchy.”

The cell went sideways, walls twisting away into a pinpoint. There one moment, somewhere else the next. Then, weightlessness. Disembodiment. The smell of ozone returned. Freezing air ran up against them, in whatever form they took between the prison and their destination.

The scenery exploded back into focus as they reached the end of the teleportation sequence. Megatron wobbled, trying to orient himself. They were in a bright, cavernous hangar filled with exotic, top-of-the-line personal transports. 

“Where are we?” His voice echoed down from the ceiling, resonating through the enormous space.

“Screamer’s secret transport stash,” said Skywarp. His heels clacked on the duracrete as he left their sides to jog down a row. “I’m gonna snoop through your stuff.”

“Don’t wander off,” said Starscream. “And don’t touch anything!”

“Too late!” The squeak of metal-on-metal rang out as Skywarp ran his hand along the side of a bright red transport.

A cold draft was flowing under the massive hangar door and through the spaces between the inert vehicles. Curious, Megatron followed the source out into the open air to get his bearings, wincing as wind lashed his frame. A landing pad jutted out from the floating structure the hangar had been raised on. Pinpricks of stars struggled through the dark clouds, their light muddy and warped by the pouring rain.

Megatron craned his neck over the edge of the landing pad, studying the sheer drop however many tens of thousands of feet down. The raindrops disintegrated into mist long before they reached the ground. He stared down to find their termination until his vision blurred with the lights below. They were just outside the city proper, surrounded by isolated manors looking down into the peninsula. Thunderheads hung in the distance, encroaching on the city center. Their location was otherwise nondescript. Wealth hiding in plain sight. Another of Starscream’s many mysteries.

“Come back in,” said Starscream from the mouth of the hangar.

Megatron took shelter inside. Starscream’s aileron poked his shoulder inquisitively as he sidled up to him. “Where will we go once we get to Tarn?” 

Starscream’s implication that they would be escaping Vos didn't surprise him. There were no extradition laws in Tarn applicable to Vosian citizens, earning it a reputation as somewhat of a haven for Vosian criminals. He figured Starscream would suggest it for that reason, more than an interest in living in Megatron’s homeland. 

“And the expenses?” continued Starscream. “The Winglord would likely cut me off.” 

“I would support us. I own two homes- one in Tarn; one in Kaon.”

Starscream was shivering and unsteady, so Megatron had him sit down in one of the transports while they talked. Starscream waved his hand over a panel on the side of a sleek, silver cruiser and the door slid open. He sunk heavily into the driver's seat while Megatron leaned against the doorframe.

“Estates?” Starscream’s expression was naively hopeful as he took his hand. 

Megatron chuckled. “What would I do with two estates?”

Starscream’s fingers tightened. “Tell me they’re mansions, at least?”

“Something like that. Perhaps not to a prince’s standards, but you wouldn’t want for nice things.”

Starscream relaxed his grip, and Megatron decided not to tell him that ‘penthouses’ were as good as he would be getting. 

“Being a big shot gladiator has at least paid you dividends.”

“Most of which will be tied up in security,” said Megatron. For a public figure and a celebrity, keeping a low profile was already difficult, moreso when they were fugitives. “I can’t imagine the Winglord will take the loss of his heir on the nose.” Tarn didn’t have to comply with Vos to deliver Starscream back to his polity, but that didn’t mean the Winglord wouldn’t send his lackeys to steal Starscream back. Or get rid of Megatron.

“We’ll deal with that when we get to it,” said Starscream. “For now, I’ll meet you here again tonight after the Flights are over. We’ll leave then.”

“Why not go now?”

“It would be suspicious if I left now when I’m expected to be at the Flights shortly. We wouldn’t have enough of a head start. I’ll sneak out later.”

“How are you going to get back to me? Will Skywarp help with that too?”

“If I were him, I wouldn't stick around,” said Starscream enigmatically. “I’m going to fly back here.”

“On your own wings?”

Starscream’s optics narrowed. “Yes? A transport is too easy to catch.”

“You’re flying. In this weather? In your condition?”

“What about my condition?” 

Bad weather was a peculiarity of Vos Megatron was not experienced with, having lived in Cybertron’s sublayers most of his functioning. But even he could tell when Starscream was lying about his ability to successfully navigate through the raging storm tearing through the city center while in ill health. 

Skywarp’s skeptical expression gave him the real answer- where he stood several paces away, fiddling with another vehicle and obviously eavesdropping.

“Don’t look at him, look at me,” snapped Starscream. “Neither of you have any idea what I’m capable of doing.”

“The exertion will be too much for you. Even if we take a transport the rest of the way, we may be discovered, chased down, and have a fight on our hands at any point before we're out of Vos. I won’t subject you to that.”

“I’ll be fine.”

“Hey, Starscream,” said Skywarp suddenly. “I dunno if you forgot, but I’m kinda also supposed to be at the Flights.”

Starscream paused, scowling in confusion at the interjection. “What do you mean? You’re not cuffed anymore. You can just leave. Go and elope with your lovers again.” 

Megatron wasn’t sure what Starscream meant by most of that, but Skywarp didn’t seem convinced.

“I don’t know if I really want to.”

“You don’t want to be with them?” asked Starscream.

“No, no, I do! I just. Don’t want to leave.”

“That doesn’t make any sense. You already know you can’t stay here if you want to trine them.”

“But I already tried escaping and it didn’t work. There has to be another way to–”

“Figure it out on your own. We’re talking over here.”

Despite lacking context, Megatron understood exactly what Skywarp was trying to imply. “Skywarp has the right idea. I’m not leaving either.”

Starscream’s helm snapped around. “What!?”

“I’m not particularly inspired by your idea of escaping. Not least of which because it will be strenuous for you.”

“Do you think I want to do this? I’m suggesting it because we must.”

“Starscream, I won my right to conjunx you and I intend to have it.”

“Yes, we’re on the same page.”

“I don't think we are.”

Starscream narrowed his optics and asked dangerously, “Are you saying you’re planning to stay and fight?”

“Yes.”

“What, are you going to fight the entire law enforcement population of Vos?”

“No.”

“Then what is your plan here?” snapped Starscream, throwing his hands in the air.

“There is a law in Vos,” said Megatron. “I read about it some time ago. In your courting rules, it states that in the event any of a mech's creators is discontent about the outcome of their offspring's courting flight, they may challenge the suitor over the right to bond their offspring. If the creator loses or declines the duel, they must allow the bond. The Winglord- your only living guardian- has not challenged me formally, therefore, he must allow our union.”

“Megatron, you can’t–” Starscream put his head in his hands and shook his head. His wingtips quavered- just slightly- before he contained himself.

“Is that not the rule?”

“No one challenges the Winglord. It’s not done. ”

“But it can be done?”

“He won't acknowledge your challenge. He's just going to have you detained again and executed.”

Megatron laughed dryly. “Because he knows he won’t win?”

“Stop being purposefully obtuse. You’re never going to goad him into dueling you.”

“Yeah, he isn't like Screamer,” chimed in Skywarp.

“Right, he isn't lik– shut up, Skywarp.” Starscream lifted his face out of his hands and glared at him. “You weren't even there.” 

Starscream had been able to conceal the flutter of his wings; the ache of pleasure in his spark well enough, but as ever, a shiny blush gave away his true feelings about Megatron’s bold proposal. He squawked when Megatron pulled him out of the transport and into his arms. 

“You like the idea,” said Megatron, kissing up his neck. “Admit it.”

Embarrassed, Starscream shoved his face away. “Stop that! Now, while I am a prize and a gem and you should absolutely be fighting for me, you also need to be reasonable. Who cares what the Winglord thinks? You don't need to convince him when you’ve already convinced me of your strength. That’s what matters. Isn't it, Megatron?”

“No,” said Megatron flatly. “I won't be chased out and hiding for the foreseeable future because of a disagreement. I committed no crime. I made my claim on you and I intend to stand by it. His rejection of our bond is disrespectful. It disrespects me. Disregards his own nation’s rules of courtship in favor of prejudice. And neglects your right to pick your own mate.” 

“I see you’ve been thinking about this very seriously.” 

“I’ve never been in love before. I intend to hold onto it.”

Starscream’s mouth had slimmed into a pitiless frown. “You aren't holding onto slag if you don't go along with my plan.” 

“You aren’t my enemy. The Winglord has another thing coming if he intends to execute me for what I rightfully claimed.”

“Stop thinking all about yourself and listen to me! Put aside your pride and listen!”

“Does your sire have such a strong influence over you that you won't defy him?”

“I’m saying he has no obligation to respect you. I know him, and I know that it’s impossible. He’ll never accept us. That’s the beginning and end of it.”

Megatron sighed, resting his chin on the top of Starscream’s helm. “Perhaps you’re right.”

“Of course I am.” Starscream extracted himself from his embrace. “We’ve stayed too long. I need to go back to the palace. Skywarp!” he shouted. “Let’s get going.”

Starscream took Megatron’s hand and hurried over with him to where his brother was standing. Skywarp had drifted away, and lingered just within the entrance of the hangar, watching the rain fall. He didn’t react when they approached him, caught up in a daydream. 

“Thank you, Skywarp,” said Megatron. “You’ve been indispensable.”

“Uh huh.” Skywarp heaved a sigh. He stared into the rain for a moment longer before turning and meeting his eyes hazily. “You’re so cool, Megatron, wanting to fight for love. Do you think I’ll be as badass as you one day?”

Taken aback by his earnest demeanor, Megatron nonetheless needed only a moment to give his honest estimation: “I think that day is already here. You’re not one to settle.”

Skywarp’s optics grew rounder and more misty. “Gee, I’m gonna miss you,” he said. He bounced forward and flung his arms around Megatron’s neck and kissed his cheek four times, earning him an affronted scoff from Starscream. “Wait here– seriously, don’t go off and do anything crazy– or Screamer’s gonna kill you.”

“I’m not going anywhere.” Megatron wrapped his arms around him in turn. “Take care, Skywarp. And good luck.”

“You betcha.” Skywarp wiggled out of his arms and Starscream stepped in to take his place. 

“It’ll be alright,” said Megatron into his audial, gathering him up tight. A bit of heat emanated from Starscream’s chest and Megatron relished it, running his hands up and down his narrow sides to try and warm the rest of him. “I promise. I’ll protect you.”

“You’re the one who needs to be protected.”

Megatron shook his head. “You’re too precious for the Winglord to let go of easily. He certainly is watching your movements. If you’re discovered escaping tonight, you may not have the strength to resist any opposition. Please, reconsider asking him to challenge me.”

Starscream stuck his nose up at him, offended at the mere implication that he had a single defect or weakness, much less that he needed his battles fought for him. Megatron had, unfortunately, come to agree with Starscream’s own estimation of himself. His brilliance in the air, his clever mouth, his brash and inexhaustible lust to be the best had all earned him the right to be foolishly egotistical. He was, too, beauty incarnate, from the regal shape of his downturned mouth to his elegant wings whose luster made the stars themselves sick with envy. A beauty that took no prisoners.

Losing such a dazzling mech to an arranged marriage had seemed like a distant consequence in the face of everything else they were about to undertake. But it was Megatron’s greatest fear. 

“You could be caught,” said Megatron, pressing his lips to Starscream’s, who snagged the derma between his fangs in a spiteful nip.

“I don’t get caught,” he sneered against his mouth. 

“You did once.”

“It won’t happen again.”

Megatron should have learned by now that the more he argued, the more contrary Starscream became. Flattery was the only weapon left at his disposal. 

“Your spark is mine,” he asserted, tightening his embrace and kissing Starscream’s forehead. “I won’t let anyone else have it.”

Starscream scoffed at the sentimentality, but his wings beat lightly against his arms, pattering out his contentment in steadfast little movements. 

—

Starscream left Megatron behind at the hangar for the time being and warped back to Skywarp’s room. They sat on the edge of his berth again, in silence, which Skywarp broke unceremoniously by slapping his hands on his knees and jumping up. “I’m going.”

“Hurry up, then. You can take one of my transports if you want. None from the current year, though. Take the older ones.” When Skywarp proceeded to gawk at him, Starscream waved him on. “Go! Escape! Thundercracker will come at any moment to collect you.”

“I’m going to the Flights.”

Starscream took a few moments to process this, then sprung up off the berth as well, rounding on him. “Are you out of your mind?” 

“Y’know, your lack of faith in my flying kinda pisses me off,” said Skywarp, twirling the hem of his cape between his fingers. “You think I won’t give ‘em a hard time?”

“No. You should ditch and let our peers assume you’re adequately talented in the air, rather than fly and confirm you’re not. Better to leave Vos guessing than watch you get destroyed.”

“Figures my reputation is the problem you’d have with it.”

Starscream rubbed his temples. “After all that effort you put in… running away because you were too scared to face them...”

“Hey, I ran away to elope, asshole, not ‘cause I was scared to fly. Look, Screamer, I’m not a gladiator or something. I’m not gonna die if I lose.”

“What the pit are you talking about? Obviously you're not going to die in a Flight.” Starscream shook him by the shoulders. “Listen to me. There are things worse than death.”

“How do you know?”

“If you lose– ”

“I could win.” Skywarp pushed him away. “Nothing’s gonna change if I don’t try. Even if it ends in me getting trined to some idiots, I won’t just run away.” He clenched his fists. “Running away feels like I’m surrendering. I’m gonna win to fly another day. For the sake of love.”

“Damn it, not you too. Megatron encouraged you.”

“And so what if he did?”

“I knew it! I knew it from that dopey expression you were making that his stupid, romantic platitudes made you weak at the knees.”

“You’d know what that's like, huh?”

“Skywarp, you’re going to get hurt. You can’t just hope things will go well. You don’t have the skills.”

“But I can't keep escaping! Vos is my home. And maybe Tarn would have been another home. But what kind of life is living in fear? There has to be another way to get what I want. I know you know how I feel. Megatron was onto something back there.”

“No, Megatron was being an idiot, and so are you. But just for the sake of arguing, say you do win against the generals. The Winglord isn’t going to allow you to trine those two goons that you’re in love with, either. What then?” 

Skywarp snickered and waved a hand dismissively. “That’s no problem. If I win and sire doesn’t let me marry them I’m kicking his aft next.”  

“Oh, for Primus’ sake!”

“No! For love!” exclaimed Skywarp, pumping his fist in the air with a beatific grin. 

The door opened and Thundercracker poked his head in. “It’s time to go.”

“Yeah, yeah,” said Skywarp, strutting past Starscream with his wings arched high.

Starscream didn't know which of Megatron's insane suggestions had prompted Skywarp to change his mind about participating. But when they reunited, he wasn’t letting him off easy for being a bad influence. For the time being, he had to be satisfied with blaming Thundercracker for his part in Skywarp’s imminent and painful downfall. 

“This is your fault,” he said as he took up the rear behind Skywarp. Thundercracker, at least, seemed to concede to that.

Chapter Text

The stadium spotlights, normally visible from miles away, didn’t penetrate the layers of heavy clouds hanging overhead. Even the surrounding city lights were swallowed under the turbulent, inky night sky unfurling above the open arena. Neither stars nor moon were visible to serve as guides in the air. 

Thundercracker kept an optic turned to the sky while he, Skywarp and Starscream alighted shakily from the transport. They accompanied Skywarp down the stadium elevator to the tarmac to meet the Winglord and the ground crew for Skywarp’s preflight check. As they descended through the levels, the elevator reverberated with the dull roar of the crowd, punctuated by rumblings of thunder. 

The elevator was only wide enough for two, so Starscream and Skywarp stood wingtip to wingtip while Thundercracker squeezed in behind them. Skywarp bumped his hip into Starscream’s. “Any advice for me before I go out there, champ?”

“What do you want to know?” asked Starscream.

“Let’s say you’re about to fly. What’re you doing?”

“Watching the squall line,” said Starscream, without hesitation. 

Skywarp waited a few moments for him to elaborate. When he didn’t, he pulled a face. “Anything else, captain obvious? Like maybe something about evading the guys who are gonna be chasing me? Of course I’m paying attention to the massive fucking storm.”

“Good. Do that.”

“Aren’t you supposed to be, like, really good at flying?”

Starscream shrugged. “I shouldn’t need to explain it.”

“Then why’d you say it all mysteriously like that?”

“It’s not a mystery if you know what you’re doing.”

Twin blotches of pink appeared on Skywarp’s cheeks. “I know what I’m doing.”

“Then why did you ask?”

“Can you quit being a smartaft?”

Thundercracker rolled his optics as their bickering continued. Feeling compelled to put Skywarp at ease, he leaned in and said, “He gave you that advice because it’s important.”

Skywarp tensed, but Thundercracker went on: “I told you this too, remember? You’re going to encounter lots of microbursts from all the wind. If you get caught in one, it’s really important to not panic, and go full throttle–”

“You think I’m stupid or something?”

“No, I just–”

“I didn't ask,” said Skywarp through his denta. The elevator opened, and he stomped into the sparsely-furnished antechamber leading out to the field. The Winglord was waiting for him, seated on a folding chair and turning something over in his fingers.

“Skywarp,” he said, rising. He held up a key card. “Show me your wrist.”

“Change of spark, old mech?” Skywarp wandered over to him, sticking out his arm. The Winglord made a puzzled noise and glanced at Thundercracker, who was just as bewildered to see Skywarp’s wrist mysteriously bare of a charge cuff. Thundercracker must have looked confused, because the Winglord locked his stare onto Starscream instead. 

Yeah. Screamer would be responsible. That explained what he and Skywarp were whispering about together in the bedroom when Starscream was supposed to have been giving him advice.

“Starscream, where is his bracelet?” asked the Winglord.

“What bracelet?”   Starscream’s beleaguered sigh, as though he were being unfairly suspected, was frighteningly persuasive.

“You know which.”

Starscream pretended to think. “Oh, do you mean the suppression cuff you locked him in?”

“The very same.”

“If you’re going to free him anyway, I don't see the problem.”

“So you did interfere. Why was that?”

“Because it’s cruel and unusual to lock up your own creation.” Starscream saved a portion of his paint-peeling sneer for Thundercracker, who curled in on himself. 

The Winglord didn’t flinch. “Is that right?”

“You’re asking me if you were wrong to handcuff Skywarp?”

“You’re not telling me the truth,” said the Winglord, blowing right past Starscream’s subterfuge. Wait, was it subterfuge? Starscream’s wings dipped marginally. It had been. 

Thundercracker had fallen for a classic Starscream maneuver: going right for the throat with a shocking accusation to distract from the truth. Maybe he should have expected Starscream would have a motive beyond basic sympathy for Skywarp.

“Well,” Starscream said, his expression guarded, “I also removed it for the same reason you’re taking it off. You know he needs the assistance from his outlier if he’s going to stand any chance of winning.”

“Wow. Thanks for believing in me,” said Skywarp. “Aft.”

Thundercracker winced. That sounded more like Starscream. But their sire was still watching him intently, somehow sensing untruth in part of his broader explanation. Deciding his energy was wasted trying to wrestle a confession out of Starscream, though, the Winglord didn't pry further. Silence landed like a brick through a glass pane, and Thundercracker felt he should say something to see Skywarp off.

“Um, good luck.”

“Good luck, Skywarp.”

His and Starscream’s twin sentiments overlapped and Thundercracker’s was lost under the sharper, louder ring of Starscream’s voice. Then Skywarp hugged Starscream– and only Starscream– before the Winglord escorted him to the starting dais. 

A pit opened in Thundercracker’s spark. As he watched Skywarp walk out into the gale, his insides felt like they were vibrating. Clenching and unclenching his fists didn't help dispel any of the anxious energy steadily compounding.

No one really liked storms, and that was particularly true of fliers. Thundercracker tolerated them better than most. Safe to say, the unpleasant forecast had dampened the spirits of the competitors, most of whom had only wanted to flit around in their dazzling ensembles and show off their dances and formations they'd meticulously planned. Unfortunately, the Flights had always been held rain or shine. Or supercell thunderstorm, in this case. 

The weather was actively dangerous to fly in, and there had been some injuries and stoppages throughout the day because of it. Sparks and frames wounded. Outfits and formations ruined. Thundercracker just hoped Skywarp’s Flight was over quickly. 

When he made his way up to the royal box, it was already crowded with their close relatives, the Winglord’s associates, and Starscream’s fiances– no, his fiances– who had all come out to cheer on Skywarp. Theirs and the rest of the audience’s misery was second only to the contestants’. Most in the stands had spent all cycle in the awful weather, staying until the very end for Skywarp’s event and getting pelted with rain that swept under the awnings. They looked irritated and cold. Or at least, they did until Starscream entered the box at the Winglord’s right. 

The energy across the stadium notably increased. This was the first time in cycles Starscream had shown his face in public since he’d sparkbonded Megatron. Oddly, it didn't seem like the crowd would heckle him, which was a surprise because Thundercracker thought sparkbonding a grounder would be generally unpopular with their flighted peers. Instead, they seemed excited. 

For once, Starscream didn’t pay any mind to the attention turned on him. No preening or self-satisfied grinning to be seen. Lethargic and pale under his shiny veneer, he sunk down in his seat, exhausted. Thundercracker questioned if he should be out in the elements while he was recovering from laying his clutch. 

Something else had been bothering Thundercracker. The Flights were open to the public, provided the attendees could afford the high ticket price. Common mechs of some financial means had packed the lower tiers. He scanned the crowd, guilt weighing like a stone in his tanks. They wouldn’t have… would they? 

When he saw the familiar purple color schemes, his spark sank. Astrotrain and Blitzwing were hard to miss, being two of the largest mechs in attendance. They’d come out to support Skywarp. Right. Of course they had. Thundercracker really wished they hadn’t. For Skywarp’s sake, it would’ve been better if–

“Are you going to sit?” the question startled him, and he turned. Slipstream. 

Realizing he’d been standing while everyone was seated for the Winglord to start presenting Skywarp, he quickly sat beside her. A “sorry” left his mouth out of habit.

She nodded, but didn't say anything else. She had barely spoken to him since they’d returned from the… excursion. Thundercracker supposed it would look suspicious if they spent too much time together or showed too much affection, since they had just gotten their engagement arranged. Two mechs in their situation couldn’t be expected to like each other much. There was nothing wrong with him. 

A sense of loss plagued him anyway. Whether he chose to acknowledge it or not, he seemed to be missing something now that he’d once taken for granted.

—

Skywarp ascended the platform, swaying in the gale as his wings caught the wind. The attendants unclipped his stupid cape and took it from him when it whipped around his legs and tripped him up. 

The Winglord had given him some one-on-one advice before sending him out. A little comment he’d framed as a suggestion but clearly meant as an order: No one will think poorly of you if you teleport from the dais, rather than taking off the usual way.

Obviously, I’m fuckin’ teleporting, Skywarp had responded.

The Winglord was referring– in his thinly veiled euphemism– to the dreaded windshear, which was a billion times worse in a thunderstorm. One unexpected downdraft during takeoff and approach could catch even the strongest flier and sling them at the terrain like a piece of flak. And then they’d blow up in a sick, fiery explosion. Which was why the Winglord’s advice wasn’t the most appreciated, when he’d sent him out into a perilous environment and was trying to do preemptive damage control.

He’d sounded legitimately worried, too. If he was being real generous, Skywarp might even go so far as to say the Winglord felt… bad?  

If he really wanted to be helpful, he’d have called the whole thing off. Instead, the Winglord just put a hand on his shoulder and said Make me proud, Skywarp, before leaving him to it. As usual, he couldn’t count on his sire for anything except being a hard aft. 

Whatever. He just wished the Winglord and Starscream had told him something more useful to avoid getting captured. Even in the past, every time he’d ask their secrets to being such successful fliers, they’d always tell him “repetition”. Boring. 

Skywarp didn’t need to think about repeating maneuvers until he had the minutiae down, because he could warp away if he didn't pull something off right. To be fair, he’d been a little lazy with his training. At least they’d assumed he knew what he was doing, unlike stupid Thundercracker, who’d explained it all patiently in detail. Look. Skywarp knew. He and his brothers had been trained to handle flying in stormy weather, just in case. 

He just… hadn’t actually flown in these conditions before.

And why the pit would he? He wasn't a driver. He wasn’t military. He didn’t have to. When he really had to be somewhere in a storm, someone really good at flying had been hired to transport him. 

Great, and now Ramjet and Dirge had shown up. Out of the corner of one optic, Skywarp watched them run through their preflight checks. Damn. He kept forgetting how much bigger they were than him. Armored, dense and heavy as the pit. Barely gonna be touched by the gusting wind. And with those powerful engines, they were faster than him too. 

There were two types of Flights– one category dedicated to aesthetics, and one to battling. This was going to be the latter, and as warframes, they for sure had him beat on fighting skills alone. Skywarp wouldn’t make it easy for them, though.

When the referee asked what weapons he’d be bringing up with him, Skywarp declined everything. This would also ban them from using weapons, per the rules to balance the competition. He didn’t need to give them any extra advantages of the rocket- and grenade- launcher variety. Going ultra-minimalist would also keep his load weight as light as possible, which would increase his speed at the expense of stability. Starscream would be proud. The setup was very him. 

Of course, Ramjet couldn’t shut his damn mouth as the ref broke the news. “Safety first, Your Highness,” he commented with a wink. Then he and Dirge spent a good eight kliks slowly unloading every scrap of banned weapons from their frames and placing it down where Skywarp and the ref could see.

Skywarp rolled his optics so far back in his helm he thought he saw his brain module. Fuck them both. He wasn’t timid. He was being strategic.

When they were done screwing around, they took their starting positions behind him. In the stands, the Winglord was wrapping up his long-ass speech. Skywarp flexed his wings, waiting for the buzzer to go off. Thirty minutes, a full tank of fuel, no weapons, and his warping. That was what he had to work with. 

He’d been told Screamer ‘n Megatron’s impromptu courting flight had been thirty seconds. And that Screamer lost in less than half that. In battle, the tables could turn in an instant. Even for Starscream. 

Oh yeah, what advice had Megatron given him when they trained? To rely on what he knew and mitigate unnecessary risks, right? And since he knew how to teleport, and the generals didn’t, that’d be his ticket to victory. For not being able to fly, Megatron had turned out to be a pretty good coach. 

The Winglord had finally shut up, and the crowd went quiet. Time to lock in. Skywarp threw the generals a gloating smirk over his shoulder. Luckily he wouldn’t have to do the hard, slow, risky part of taking off and landing in a thunderstorm like they would. With any luck, they’d catch a nice, big downdraft and eat slag immediately.

At the sound of the buzzer, he teleported. See ya, losers.

50,000 feet later, he emerged into a wall of black clouds and started his internal timer. 29.59. 

He had a couple kilks to orient himself while they fought their way up to cruising altitude, but not much more.

Primus, this weather was fucked. Visibility was literally zero aside from the occasional trails of lightning, and he was being yanked in all directions from the wind and pelted with freezing hail. Ragged-edged blotches of blue and green weather patterns writhed across his radar. It was all squall. No ‘line’ anywhere, Screamer. Thanks, genius. 

As expected, he’d drained about a fifth of his fuel to get up, and he needed to conserve at least a fifth to get back down. The rest’d be used to evade. Simple math– their airspeed vs distance vs his fuel and et cetera – and if he timed it right, he’d have enough to warp every time they were about to catch him. And he could do that over and over and run out the clock. Not badass or beautiful or anything, but fine enough. He was a prince, he was allowed to play a little cheap.

His radar blipped, telegraphing the generals’ movements as they charged through the storm surges, towards him. He fraggin’ hated relying on just radar to “see”, since the signal was inexact in a storm, but it was all he had when he could literally not see the tip of his nose cone.

Their positions updated on his HUD, closer. He had to move.

Warping in a different direction than where they were heading forced them to pull a wide turn to double back, killing more time. He flew and warped, and warped and flew, picking apart the clear air pockets on the radar and aiming for those. 

The actual flying part in between warps was rough. He needed way more power than his engines could supply to not get totally flung around. Power and size. And stability. Maybe he should have opted into a couple racks of bullets to add weight. He was fighting the damn storm more than the generals, and he was getting exhausted fast.

Speaking of, they started to do something different. They split up, coming at him from different angles. They were doing this… layered thing, where one was at one point of distance from him, and the other staggered a couple hundred feet from the first. Now it was tougher to gain distance by warping conservatively like he’d been doing, because he’d get stuck between them. 

It was in this staggered formation that they circled him, tightening the circle with him inside, forcing him down gradually. Fucking damn it. The storm was too rough. He could get above them with a big, drastic jump, but he couldn’t risk the fuel.

At just two-thousand feet above the ground, they switched it up again. They hit their afterburners at the same time. One went up and one shot down towards a point of convergence– him– on the radar.

He fired up his warp drive. Then shot up unexpectedly, buffeted by turbulence. His wings rattled as he struggled to regain control. Slag. Getting randomly tossed by the wind was making it impossible to calculate the warp from his projected spot to somewhere else. He went in for a turn to escape the rough pocket– slag, it was all rough pockets.

Without warning, his left wing dropped. And kept dropping. Steered sideways by the gale into a deep bank angle, he stalled out and couldn’t escape. He was being forced down, sideways, towards Ramjet. 

Annoyance turned to panic in an instant as his altimeter dipped wildly. He was flying out of control, forced down by an insurmountable wall of wind. Right into the hands of–

Nonononono climb, climb climb–!

Thundercracker’s stupid, patient voice echoed in his head. If you’re in a windshear, stay calm and throttle–

No! No, fuck TC. What would Starscream do? Risk it all! Go with his spark and do what felt right. No way he was escaping this otherwise. He couldn’t warp like this. He had to go for the evasive maneuver. He twisted away from Ramjet at the last second, a la Starscream.

The G force hit like a solid wall, and his wings bent away from his spine. And sideways. 

Pain tore the wind out of his intakes.

He might have lost consciousness. Disoriented through the blinding agony, he flew aimlessly. His HUD was scarlet with his radar, and the damage notifs, and his altimeter–

Blaring alarms shook him to alertness. His altimeter was dropping. He couldn’t see the ground through the clouds, but it was there – that's what his sensors were telling him. 

2,000. 1,000. 800.

He needed to throttle– full power– pull up and recover, but in overspeed he had absolutely no control and the ground was closing in. Colors and faces swam past. The clouds disappeared and the stadium opened up below him. He was booking it directly towards the ground.

He was trying to pull up but his wings strained and it hurt it hurt it hurt–

Fully in self-preservation mode, Skywarp pulled it together and warped. Way up, as far as he could go. When he stopped warping he kept flying up, some ingrained fear driving him as far away from the ground as possible.

He would have died, if he couldn't warp. Right now. He was going too fast and too low of an angle to recover. But he’d survived.

Panic and agony flooded his systems. The violent wind rushing over his wings and knocking him around was so much he was going to pass out. He had to stop. But he had no time. He had to fly– no, warp. It hurt too much to fly. He was wasting so much fuel. He had to do something. 

Think. Strategy. His strategy was to climb. Yes, get high up so he could preserve more fuel where the air was thinner. 

Watching his altimeter shoot up into the 90,000s felt good. Reassuring. He couldn’t see the boundary before space but sure could fuckin’ feel it. The burn of ice crystallizing in his intakes announced it loud and clear. But ice burned less than his wings did at a lower altitude, so he stayed in the frigid upper atmosphere to clear his head.

This was a little trick Blitzwing taught him. No, more of a story. During battles he’d said he’d camp up in the cold, high altitudes when he was in a pinch so the ice would keep his injuries stiffer so he could ignore them and fight longer. Crazy mech. He was probably worried about him.

They’d seen him fuck up. Him and Astrotrain. They were in the crowd. 

Everyone saw him mess up because of the cameras around the field, recording and broadcasting everything. Skywarp couldn’t even feel embarrassed about that. He was feeling too much of everything else.

Slowing to a crawl, he transformed to root mode, trying to reorient himself spatially when he couldn’t see slag in the pitch black. Watching the churning symbols and whorls on his radar made him dizzy, so he stopped. The pain in his wings was insanely distracting. Easy to forget his frame had limits. Which he’d clearly broken. Not to mention, his dumb little trick had cost him a lot of fuel. 

Running on 12% was… bad.  Really, really bad. Maybe unrecoverable. 

He was woozy, and wasn’t sure if it was from his injury or lack of fuel. His HUD said he was losing energon from his wings. Why did he have to screw up? He was seriously such an idiot.

And now he was getting covered in ice. Guess Blitzwing had meant he stayed in the upper altitudes just long enough to pull it together and get back into the fray. Skywarp had no intention of getting back into any fray. It hurt to move.

But he couldn’t afford to divert fuel to his warming systems. He needed that fuel to stay in the air. But the more ice that piled up on him, the more he risked stalling his engine, and the heavier he got with layered ice, the more fuel he had to use to stay in the air– Ok. Just. Calm down. Throttle slower, so he wouldn’t dislodge chunks of ice into his engine inlets and compressor and cause them to fail. Then he could pump heat to his wings to de-ice them. Just a little bit. If the de-icer could even keep up with the accumulation…

Even this high up, out of the eye, the stormy winds were tearing at him. His wings, his frame. Everything was on fire. He really couldn’t hold up in these conditions. 

Wait, the time! Time’s gotta be almost up, right?

Skywarp checked his timer and his spark plummeted.

19.38. 

Was that right? More than halfway still to go? His intake constricted, and his HUD blurred into a wobbly mess of red. He choked back a sob. This was so fucked up.

::Shoulda stuck to your training, hot shot. You’d be dead if this was a real fight:: 

Ramjet’s voice crackled unexpectedly over his comms, startling Skywarp badly. They weren’t supposed to use comms aside from a line to the ground crew for emergencies only. Ramjet must have a secret encrypted military line.

::You’ve gotta be pretty low on fuel now, huh?::

In his rear camera, the generals had shown up. They drifted closer, but were just… waiting. 

Skywarp knew this was the end of the line. Even though he’d tried his hardest. Or maybe he hadn’t. He could have done so many things better, but would it have mattered? Why didn't he just listen to Starscream and leave and hide? And didn't Megatron advise him to pull out of the challenge too? This was all his own fault.

With an overwhelming crash of terror, he realized there was no way for him to land on his own. 

Too high to warp, he’d run dry before he was anywhere near the ground. His only option was to be carried down. 

And somehow, it got worse. Hovering at a full stop now, cornered by Ramjet and Dirge, running on fumes, he had no momentum to fly if his engines gave out.

Ramjet stopped short of him and folded his arms like he was very disappointed. He continued over comms, as the wind was howling too loudly to hear each other without shouting. ::I gotta say, I liked that first chase to Tarn better than this one. You gave us a tougher time. Can’t tell what you’re trying to prove here. Did you actually expect to beat us?::

::Will you fuck off?::

::Look, you don’t have the skills to be a serious contender. Should’ve stuck to showing off your little dances like everyone else. I would've liked to see that:: Ramjet’s optics glazed over, and a bolt of humiliation cut through Skywarp.

::Fuck off! I’m not doing that!::

::C’mon, I know you were taught how to dance. You don’t have to keep pretending not to be cultured. We won't judge you, right Dirge?::

Dirge looked him over, his optics glaring through the night in twin, crimson beams. Their light fell across Skywarp’s wings, over his chassis, down his waist and legs. Sw's tanks churned as he assessed him.

::You look cold:: said Dirge. ::You should get moving or your engines will freeze up:: Moisture lifted off his steaming wings in clouds as his internal systems melted any ice attempting to form. Skywarp tried not to feel envious.

::Just saying,:: Ramjet continued, ::you’re third in line for the title. The Winglord raised you to have no responsibilities other than bumming around and looking cute. Nothin’ wrong with being nice to look at and nothin’ else. Don’t have to pretend to be what you’re not:: 

When Skywarp didn’t respond, Ramjet cupped his hands around his mouth and bellowed into the wind: “Dance, dance, dance!” Dirge started chanting alongside him.

“No!” Skywarp shouted back, his answer swallowed up in the storm. They were hovering just close enough that he could feel the heat of their vents before the wind snatched it away. The warmth sickened and taunted him. He was so cold.

::I see that longing look you’re giving us. The faster we get you on the ground, the faster we get to warm you up:: 

::You know there are news cameras around, right?:: said Skywarp. ::Hearing everything you’re saying to me?::

::At this altitude? In this weather? Nah. They don’t work.::

With renewed force and desperation, Skywarp shouted, ::The Winglord’s not going to let you trine me after hearing you’ve been insulting me!::

::Yeah, yeah. Just do a sexy dance for us and then we’ll get you down, nice and easy::

::I’ll fall out of the fucking sky first!::

::You don't mean that::

::I do!:: 

Ramjet and Dirge glanced at each other, grinning, and Skywarp realized he’d given them more ammunition to torment him. 

::Is that a promise?:: 

::You can both get fucked! I’m not surrendering!:: Skywarp’s engine chose this exact moment to stall, and he dropped. Crying out in horror, he regained control several hundred feet lower, his optics stinging with frozen tears. As he looked wildly around through the dense clouds for any sign of help, he hated that his only thought was, Why the pit didn’t they catch me?

He hovered alone in the dark for what felt like an eternity before their looming shapes came back into view, casually descending until they were next to him again. 

::Aw, don’t worry. We’ll catch you before you hit the ground… at some point:: said Ramjet. Dirge snickered ominously.

Skywarp’s biolights waned. His fuel-deprived processor raced. They were playing with his life here. The primordial fear of falling out of the sky was almost enough for him to throw away his dignity and do a dumb little dance for them just to be securely brought down.

No. They wouldn't let him fall to his death. But that wasn’t the point of this. Whether he obeyed them or not, this would end the same way.

Hot, anguished tears surfaced and instantly iced over. His first and only Flight wasn’t supposed to go this way. He was supposed to be having fun, challenging mechs he actually liked. Mechs who cared about him.

He screwed his optics shut. He just wanted to be safe. Protected.

Instead, he was counting down the kliks until he fell into involuntary stasis.

Chapter Text

Slipstream was officially ignoring him.

Unable to count on her to distract him from Skywarp’s tragic flight unfolding in front of him, Thundercracker glanced desperately to his other side, and found the Winglord to be equally as uninviting. 

“What the hell is he doing?” asked the Winglord, having yet to unclench his grip from his armrest after Skywarp’s out-of-control dive. 

“Did he forget how to fly?” asked Starscream. “That was the worst recovery attempt I’ve ever seen. His wing must be hanging on by a wire–”

“Yes, Starscream, we all saw it,” said the Winglord.

Thundercracker turned his attention back to the sky and anxiously waited for Skywarp to reappear. On the stadium screens, he and the generals were headed for the upper atmosphere when the camera feed abruptly cut to static. With no live footage of the Flight, the crowd became restless.

The Winglord demanded to get the cameras online, only to be told by the technicians the conditions were too harsh in the higher altitudes to get a clear picture. 

“I didn’t like this in the first place,” said Starscream, slumping back in his seat and crossing his arms. “Ramjet and Dirge are even flying in a predictable way. Guarding the edges of the storm and relying on that to be enough of a challenge for Skywarp, so they can bring him down once he tires himself out from fighting the wind. They’re so annoying.”

“No one here has your discerning eye,” said the Winglord, in a low voice. “The majority can’t tell they’re going easy on him.”

“I can tell.”

“Yes, and keep that to yourself.” 

“They should have caught Skywarp as soon as they were able and given him an honest display of their strength. They’re making fun of him.”

“They are doing well to consider appearances. Skywarp’s reputation is more important than his ego. Could you imagine if they caught him a few kliks in?”

“They can and should have. It’s more honorable.”

The Winglord shook his helm. “It’s bad manners. Drawing it out gives the audience a good show too, after they’ve waited so patiently all cycle in the wind and rain. Now, if they could get the damned cameras online…”

“I’m checking the radar.” Starscream unsubspaced a datapad and tapped on the glass a few times to bring up a matrix. The datapad displayed a radar that showed Skywarp and the generals’ positions in real time. Starscream did a double-take at it and gestured at the screen.

“They’re not even moving!”

“Will you calm down?” said the Winglord. “I’m sure Skywarp has surrendered and they’re waiting to land. There’s too much rough air over the field right now.”

“Those idiots are not that cautious.” Starscream pulled out a light pen and scribbled something on the screen and tilted it to better show the Winglord. “See? They’re behind the clouds.”

“It’s all clouds, Starscream. Where else would they be?”

“You know what I mean. They're hiding. And if they're guarding him, why are they not in formation? They're just hanging around. And why not descend to a lower altitude? Explain that!” 

“Starscream, lower your voice.”

Disoriented from trying to follow their rapid-fire bickering, Thundercracker peeked over the Winglord’s shoulder as Starscream continued to furiously scribble on the datapad. No devious strategy appeared to him in the jumble of crossed lines and dots and numbers. What Starscream was seeing, only Starscream knew. And the Winglord, judging by the consternation on his face. Rubbing his chin and frowning at the three pulsating red triangles on the screen grouped together, unmoving. 

Maybe something was wrong. The icy sensation in Thundercracker’s tanks deepened. A thought occurred to him, and he counted, and counted again to compile all the increments he’d seen Skywarp teleport.  If he wasn’t wrong, he’d practically used all his fuel. And he was hurt. And yet he and the generals weren’t moving. What were they waiting for? Ramjet and Dirge were strong fliers. If they’d caught him, they easily could- and should- have landed immediately so Skywarp's wing could get fixed. Even if they were dragging things out for appearances, they’d made their point by now.

Thundercracker’s anxiety hit a fever pitch as he watched his sire tilt his wings back and forth with unease. His lack of confidence was not inspiring. If anyone could make an educated guess about what the pit was going on with an air-to-air chase, it would be the Winglord. 

“Harassment!” declared Starscream, like that explained everything.

“Harassment,” echoed the Winglord flatly. “That is your determination of what is happening up there?”

“Yes. Hiding out of range of the cameras and taking potshots at Skywarp there so they don't get a penalty. I know, because I did it all the time.” Starscream tilted his chin up, like this was something to brag about.

“Starscream, as I have said, they’re making Skywarp look more skilled than he is by delaying the capture. It’s for the optics.”

“Those goons don't give a slag about optics. You know I’m right and are coping because you picked them to trine him.” 

The Winglord brushed a speck of dust off his pauldron. “Skywarp picked them, I only agreed,” he muttered.

Starscream bared his fangs. “What’s the point of wearing him down when they can catch him easily? Sadism. He’s injured, and they’re bleeding him out like they’re hunting a wounded mechanimal, for the fun of it.”

The Winglord didn't attempt to correct him. The rigidity with which he held his wings told Thundercracker that Starscream was right.

“Aren't you going to do something about this disrespect?” asked Starscream. 

“What do you want me to do? Stop the Flight?” 

“Why are you asking me? You’re the Winglord.”

"I have no evidence of wrongdoing! I can't stop it for nothing."

"You can stop it for any damn reason you please."

"Oh, Starscream..."

Thundercracker hated this. Why did Starscream have to cause drama? Could he ever be satisfied without getting in mech’s heads? The generals would ground Skywarp soon. There was nothing wrong. 

Starscream threw his hands in the air. “Oh, but you’re always right, after all. With your exceptional taste in suitors. Was kidnapping him for this worth it?”

“Starscream!” Thundercracker snapped. “You’re making a huge deal out of nothing!”

His neck prickled as the massive weight of Starscream’s regard landed on him. The sheer force of his enormous personality diverted to targeting him alone, and Thundercracker knew he shouldn’t have opened his mouth.

“Oh,” said Starscream. “Am I making you uncomfortable?”

“Don’t start.”

“I always wondered why you never protested Skywarp challenging those two when you knew he couldn’t put up a fair fight. That would have been the responsible thing to do.”

Thundercracker lowered his helm, wary of the attention they were garnering. Why hadn't he protested when Skywarp had first announced he’d accepted his courtship with the generals? 

Starscream motioned at him with the datapad. “The truth is, you’re not really responsible. You’re just polite and adhere to the status quo. You have your own grudges and agendas like everyone else.”

A little, cruel voice in the back of Thundercracker’s head had said, let Skywarp see. Let one of his dumb decisions catch up to him. He’d only wanted him to regret his choices for a kilk, and gain a sense of duty from the revelation. Putting the bracelet on him hadn’t been a snap judgement, or a moment of weakness. Thundercracker had deliberated and come to a decision long before making his choice. Let him see. 

“You hoped he’d get hurt and start to behave himself,” said Starscream. “And you were hoping to get the satisfaction firsthand.”

By now, everyone in their box had tuned into their argument; all of their relatives and peers jumped to Thundercracker’s defense.

–How could you accuse him of such a thing, Starscream?

–Thundercracker would never want that!

Thundercracker wanted to shrivel up. None of the courtiers– save for Slipstream – knew that Skywarp tried to elope and was dragged back to Vos. The Winglord had made sure to protect Skywarp’s untainted image of reckless-but-ultimately-obedient irreverence. 

Coincidentally, no one knew that Thundercracker had made a cold and calculated decision. 

But Skywarp did, and their relationship would never be the same. The fact of the matter was, every bit of unhappiness Skywarp would experience thereafter in his impending trine would be Thundercracker’s fault by proxy. 

But if he’d warned Skywarp against accepting Ramjet and Dirge’s suit from the beginning, would Skywarp have listened? Probably not. He was so perpetually frustrating, and that was why–

“That’s exactly what you wanted,” said Starscream, leaning across the Winglord’s lap to fling his datapad at Thundercracker’s helm. “You pathetic, sadistic, bitchmade loser!”

The Winglord held Starscream back, but Starscream had already done his intended damage. The datapad fell to the ground and shattered. Their associates’ clamoring voices muddled into chaos. Thundercracker raised his helm to the blackened sky, where there was still no sign of Skywarp. Propriety told him to stay put, but guilt urged him to action. 

He stood and started his engine.

The Winglord paused his wrestling with Starscream. “Thundercracker. What are you doing?” 

“I’m bringing Skywarp down and forcing a draw.”

His declaration drew a unified gasp from the others in the box. Any interference would get even royalty barred from the Flights. But what was the Winglord going to do? Ban him from competing? Thundercracker was already arranged to trine.

The Winglord held his gaze steadily. “Don’t embarrass your brother. Or yourself. He doesn't need to be rescued.”

“I don't like this. And you don't either, but you won’t admit it. There’s something off about the situation. He’s hurt, and almost out of fuel, but they’re not coming down.”

“They will land soon.”

“But they aren’t!”

Their relatives began to chime in again:

–Think of Skywarp’s reputation. And your own.

–It’s not right to interfere! Trust that he’s safe with them.

“I don’t,” said Thundercracker.

The worried line in the Winglord’s brow deepened. “What if Skywarp doesn’t accept your help?”

“I don't care if he accepts or not.”

“Oh, you’re going to make him,” cut in Starscream. He cocked his helm and gave him his trademark goading smirk. “That’s your modus operandi as of late, hm? Force?” 

“Thundercracker…” said the Winglord, fraught but resigned as he searched the roiling clouds uselessly. “You shouldn’t do this.”

“I’m looking out for his best interest. Like you told me to do.”

And before the optics of the appalled crowd, Thundercracker swung a leg over the balcony railing and took off.

Rain doused him in a cutting, freezing sheet. A gust of powerful wind buffeted him, but he angled himself into the current and hit his throttle, brute forcing his way through and up.  At worst, Starscream was being neurotic and imagining foul play and Skywarp was holding the generals off perfectly fine. Meaning this rescue would humiliate the everloving slag out of Skywarp and ruin their relationship even more. But Thundercracker’s spark was twisted in fear and suspicion. Starscream’s ominous assertions about harassment did line up with the generals’ personalities. 

If Thundercracker succeeded in grounding him, both his and Skywarp’s reputations would be tainted, but he could at least save Skywarp’s spark. He flew higher.

Rain became hail, the temperature dropped, and visibility lowered to near-zero. All around him, gray, wet clouds clung to his plating with only the occasional bolt of lightning cutting in to illuminate his way. He tore through, straight for the three triangles on his radar.

Ramjet and Dirge should have noticed him coming on their own scanners. Strangely, they didn’t approach him. Even flying close enough to make out their shapes through the storm didn’t alert them. The wind covered the noise of Thundercracker’s engine, and they were distracted laughing at each other. No, laughing together. At Skywarp.

Occupied with terrorizing him as Starscream had predicted, they were too distracted to react as Thundercracker pulled up behind Skywarp and grabbed him around the waist. He hefted him over his shoulder and shot away, leaving Ramjet and Dirge hovering there, confused. Guess they didn't expect anyone else to be in the sky with them.

Skywarp was worryingly light. A clear indication of having burned through most of his fuel. However, he was almost entirely dead weight. Thundercracker couldn’t transform either while he was carrying him, making him even more slow and un-aerodynamic. But he had to try. 

Thundercracker winced as Skywarp pounded his fists against his back as hard as he could. 

“What the fuck are you doing!?”

“I’m getting you down.”

“What? Why?”

“You’re not trining them.”

“What, you disapprove now? You couldn’t have had that revelation– I dunno– like three cycles ago?”

Realizing their prize had been yanked away, Ramjet and Dirge locked on in pursuit. Thundercracker really didn’t want to fight them, and he hadn't thought that far. For now, the best he could do was keep them at a distance. 

Firing up his spark ability, he sent a massive column of lightning bursting in front of them. Carving a path through the clouds, the bolt grounded on the stadium floor with a sky-piercing boom. Ramjet and Dirge reeled back from the heat and light of the explosion, buying Thundercracker more time to evade. 

Despite the freezing air, he buzzed with energy as he continued to shoot off bolts. A few went wider than he would have liked, courtesy of the thrashing, clawing ball of misery slung over his back.

“I know you’re pit-bent on destroying my entire life, but do you have to carry me down in front of everyone I know like a scared fledgling!?” shouted Skywarp.

Thundercracker wrapped his other arm around Skywarp’s legs to stop him from kicking. “Sit still.”

“Humiliating me once wasn't enough? I wouldn't even be in this situation if it wasn't for you!”

“I know.”

“You hate me! That’s the only reason you’re doing this slag to me.”

“I don’t hate you.”

“Bullshit! Put me down!”

Skywarp’s spark-felt cursing of his name triggered Thundercracker’s guilt and rage like nothing else. Internalizing it, he let his words work him up. Tormented energy coalesced in his spark, and he released it wildly at their pursuers.

Exhausted, Skywarp went limp and his curses turned into sobs. “I fucked up. I fucked up so bad and it was so easy to not make such a stupid mistake if I just listened . I’ve been blaming you, but this whole mess was my fault from the start and it tracks that you had to save me again and I probably deserve to be humiliated because I never learn and don’t fucking do that with your field!”

Thundercracker had tried to angle his field into soft reassurance, but Skywarp’s own clashed.

“You’re so embarrassing,” hiccupped Skywarp. “And you're wasting your time. You’re not going to outpace them.”

“I will, Skywarp. I promise.”

“Your promises don’t mean slag to me.”

Through Skywarp’s chaotic field, Thundercracker sensed an ember of relief and trust. Skywarp clung to him, having decided it was much, much worse to be caught than rescued. 

Thundercracker lit up the sky. Drifting through the storm in an eerie, electrified haze, he pushed his systems to full throttle. Ramjet and Dirge were coming in hot on either side of him. To his highly trained pursuers, lightning was more of a distraction than a threat. The storm was the least of his problems, yet he’d never felt so helpless while in his element. 

His act of heroism began looking increasingly hollow and futile as they pulled ahead and cut him off. They transformed to root mode, blocking him in. An ashy streak bisected Ramjet’s fuselage. One of Dirge’s ailerons sparked, dented at the joint from the shockwave of one of Thundercracker’s bolts.

“I know you’re royalty, but c’mon,” said Ramjet. “I didn’t know it was like that between you guys.”

“What are you talking about?” asked Thundercracker, edging away as Dirge reached for Skywarp. Skywarp kicked at him.

“Siblings can’t get trined, dingus."

“That’s not what this is.”

“Whatever. C’mere,” said Ramjet, reaching forward and forcing Thundercracker into a headlock. 

“No! TC! TC!” Skywarp scrabbled at Thundercracker, trying to hold on as Dirge took hold of his waist to pry him away. Thundercracker clung to Skywarp. If they grounded him, it would all be over. 

Optics sunken and intent, Dirge tore them apart and threw Skywarp over his shoulder. Thundercracker lunged after him, but was restrained by Ramjet’s arm around his neck.

“Let go of me!” wailed Skywarp, driving his elbow into the back of Dirge’s helm again and again. Brushing it off, Dirge turned and sped to a lower altitude, and Thundercracker quickly lost sight of them.

“The ball is still in play, so to speak,” said Ramjet. “Let’s give ‘em a head start.”

“Skywarp!” Thundercracker shouted after him.

Ramjet snickered. “This has got to be really embarrassing for you. You didn’t get anywhere near the ground.”

“Let go!”

“You’re such a fuck up, Thundercracker.”

Mid-laugh, Ramjet was interrupted by an explosion. 

Heat seared Thundercracker’s wings, and he was blasted forward. He slipped out of Ramjet’s grip. Ramjet dropped below him and out of view in a glow of orange fire. Just as quickly, the sky went dark again. Thundercracker’s wings cooled in the frigid air.

Dumbstruck, he hovered alone, audials ringing and back singed, trying to figure out what had happened. Had they been… shot at? 

His HUD flickered. Static popped in his ear as he got a comm from a number he didn’t recognize. 

:: sszk– floatin’ around with his thumb up his– Thundercracker! Go after him, asshole! You’re faster than us!::

He did recognize the voice. Better not to question how Blitzwing got his comm code.

::Get outta here! Ramjet isn’t down for the count yet. I just clipped ‘im::

::Because you’re shooting like an unhinged bolt head:: A deeper, flatter voice joined the call.

::Shaddap! It’s ‘cause visibility is bad. I gotta aim wide::

::You really don’t::

:I can’t hear youuuu:: Blitzwing roared past overhead with a manic cackle, followed by Astrotrain. Their massive wake turbulence threw Thundercracker into a nauseating series of peaks and dips. Blitzwing turned into a tank midair, fired a mortar round, and landed a direct hit on… something. Thundercracker couldn’t see through the storm, and wasn’t sure he wanted to. Shockwaves from the explosion rippled through the air. Plumes of fire streaked the sky, and Thundercracker decided it was best to let them deal with Ramjet. 

Leaving him free to pursue Dirge. 

Throwing himself into a dive, he shot in the direction he’d taken Skywarp. Weighed down by his brother, Dirge hadn’t covered as much distance as Thundercracker had feared. But it was much too close.

Just a hundred feet from the ground, Thundercracker caught up and sunk his claws into Dirge’s wings, hauling him to a stop. The two matching sets of rends down his flaps unfortunately wasn’t enough to get him to drop Skywarp. As Dirge turned to face him with a growl, Thundercracker drew his arm back and threw a punch. He missed. By a lot.

“Fuck’s sake, TC,” said Skywarp.

“Move aside,” said Dirge. His retaliating punch connected flawlessly with Thundercracker’s nose.

Pain exploded in Thundercracker’s face. Below, the faces of the spectators muddled in a mass of pulsing, shiny lights. Cowering, trying to stay out of the way of Blitzwing’s wild shots. The arena had become a battle zone. 

Dirge began closing the distance to the ground again. Thundercracker’s gyroscopes spun as he tried to reorient himself. If he broke his promise to save Skywarp, this would all be for nothing. The court would hate him for his insolence and weakness. Slipstream would hate him. Skywarp would hate him. Everything rode on rescuing Skywarp. 

Another flier roared past. Astrotrain, coming in perpendicular to their position, struck Dirge on the back of the helm with his fist. The enormous impact rattled Dirge so hard, he dropped Skywarp. Casually as anything, Astrotrain caught Skywarp and touched down heavily in root mode. He lowered Skywarp to the tarmac. 

Dirge crashed to the ground and slid a few hundred yards.

Trying to get a hold of himself, Thundercracker landed clumsily next to Astrotrain. With the glaring spotlights trained on him, the extent of Skywarp’s injuries became clear. He was iced over. One of his wings bent unnaturally away from his back. His fuel-starved engine wheezed. 

The ground crew was flying over to attend to him, but Astrotrain jumped into action. He rubbed a thumb over Skywarp’s wrist and Skywarp instinctively popped open an energon line like he’d done it a thousand times. Astrotrain didn’t think twice about unspooling his own line, feeding him from his reserves and warming him. Fresh energon hit Skywarp’s deprived system and he perked up, dim optics brightening. Crying out in elation, he flung his arms around Astrotrain’s neck, planting a kiss on his mouth.

Astrotrain put his hands up defensively as he made out with Skywarp, to the chagrin of the gawking audience. 

“If His Highness wants me, I can’t say no,” he joked at the medics who were trying to coax him to hand Skywarp over. Skywarp refused to budge, and remained perched in the crook of his arm, nuzzling close while Astrotrain continued to feed him energon and stabilized his injured wing.

The ground behind Thundercracker shook as Blitzwing landed, bringing along the smell of smoke. Having defeated Ramjet, steam poured off his frame; scalding hot from firing his weapons. Heat rolled across the backs of Thundercracker’s wings. He had the sense of being loomed over. 

“You,” said Blitzwing, dragging him close by the arm. 

Thundercracker’s panic rose as Blitzwing grinned, showing every sharp denta in his mouth. 

“I don’t want any trouble,” said Thundercracker.

Their altercation ended with Blitzwing pulling him into a hug. But he hissed, “We’ll be watching you,” before stepping back, still grinning, and shoving Thundercracker away. He went over to check on Skywarp, who gave him a similar greeting he gave Astrotrain.

Leaving them some privacy, Thundercracker scanned the stadium. On the boundary of the tarmac, Ramjet and Dirge were moaning and groaning, getting loaded up on stretchers.

Skywarp being with Astrotrain and Blitzwing rather than them brought Thundercracker an overwhelming sense of relief. The match would be called a draw. Skywarp wouldn’t be getting trined this season. 

“Thundercracker!” 

He barely had time to turn around before Slipstream appeared from behind and hugged him tightly. The scent of her polish drifted over the smoke Blitzwing left behind. Thundercracker held her back, caught off guard by how much he'd missed her scent and the warmth of her frame against his. 

They embraced for several long moments before she remembered they were supposed to be subtle about their affection right now, and took a step back. Straightening, she took out a rag. “Put this on your face.” 

He took it, touched it to his nose and flinched in pain. When he pulled it back, a bright pink stain greeted him. The stadium lights started to feel too bright and overbearing. He wobbled.

She took his hand and pushed the cloth back over his nose. “Easy, Thundercracker. Hold it there.”

“Uh. Thanks.

She seemed lost for words. “That was so… graceful.”

“Graceful?” 

Slipstream looked surprised herself, but nodded emphatically. 

Unused to being complimented, and especially not being described as graceful, Thundercracker found himself dispossessed of all his apparent eloquence as she stroked his wings and wiped the energon from his face.

“I didn't really do anything. I just flew up and then flew down,” he mumbled, leaning into her. 

“You sensed danger, fearlessly navigated a hurricane and saved your brother decisively and with composure,” she gushed in her objective, tactful way.

“I guess so.”

“You don't have to gas him up,” said Skywarp, popping his helm over Thundercracker’s shoulder. “Astrotrain and Blitzwing did most of the work. But it’s the thought that counts, TC.”

Good to see Skywarp was feeling well enough to be annoying again.

Slipstream expertly nudged the topic. “Starscream thought you were impressive too.” She gestured to Starscream, who had rushed over to them from the stands. He squinted at her hand playing along Thundercracker’s wing.

“It was fine,” said Starscream. “You did exactly what you needed to do, until you got caught.”

Slipstream scoffed, but Thundercracker was satisfied. This was high praise from Starscream. 

Behind him, splashing through the downpour, the Winglord approached with his coterie. And some guards.

Thundercracker’s spark sank. Time to handle the fallout now that he’d successfully ruined Skywarp’s Flight. Blitzwing and Astrotrain, too, had risked it all once again for Skywarp. Their interference would probably land them in jail, but Thundercracker would do his best to argue their case. Even though they all had no case, other than hearsay that the generals were being unsportsmanlike. 

Thundercracker braced himself to be lambasted by the Winglord, only to be brushed aside. The Winglord rushed over to Skywarp, who was still visibly injured, and grasped his arms and asked after his health while checking over his wings.

Skywarp shrunk back from his fawning, waiting for him to bring the hammer down and tear him apart from his lovers again. Sensing he was not in the mood to be coddled, the Winglord backed off. He turned his attention to Astrotrain and Blitzwing, who both knelt to be addressed. 

Time for a verbal beatdown the likes of which had never been seen. Many of the spectators had surrounded them to watch the chaos unfold.

“Not a conventional match, to be sure,” began the Winglord. “In fact, you showed a total disregard for the rules of the engagement. Though I have no doubt you’re Vos’ strongest soldiers after that display, strength alone isn't enough.”

Skywarp tensed, waiting for the Winglord to deliver his cutting decree. Thundercracker felt horrible for him.

“But beyond your strength,” the Winglord continued, “you acted on your impulse to keep him safe. And… that is very meaningful to me.”

Thundercracker frowned. Slipstream shifted next to him, confused.

“Wait,” blurted Skywarp. “Hold on, what–”

The Winglord held up a hand to quiet him. “Prior to your interference I was skeptical of foul play from the generals. Now I have confirmation that I was justified in my suspicion. Based on the footage we recovered, Skywarp was in a perilous condition and subjected to indignities and unnecessary injury from his opponents. You interfered to preserve his safety and honor, valiantly coming to his aid at great personal expense. I will forgive you for flouting the rules in this instance.”

Blitzwing cast a bewildered sideways glance at Astrotrain, who mirrored it.

“You have good morals, if not sensibilities,” said the Winglord. “I want to formally invite you to challenge Skywarp for his hand next season.”

Skywarp began to sputter angrily, his expression guarded. “You’re actually letting me trine them now? Just like that?”

The Winglord’s field wavered with hurt, clearly not expecting this reaction. “They will need to challenge you properly. But yes. You have my permission to court them.”

“Seriously? After all that slag you put us through? Am I supposed to just believe you now?”

Whispers drifted through the crowd. The Winglord tried to offer more encouraging words to dispel the awkward tension, but Skywarp’s distrust lay between them like a mangled spark-flower.

“Skywarp, only mechs who know you well and care for you a lot would have acted the way these two did.” 

“Didn't stop you from trying to break us up before.”

“I. Well.” The Winglord clipped his words like it pained him to speak them. “Perhaps I was too harsh.”

“Ya think so?” 

“I’m being sincere about this.” The Winglord wrung his hands like he was steeling himself to say something openly affectionate to prove his point.

Deciding to be merciful, Skywarp got off his case. “I’ll hold you to that,” he muttered. He embraced Astrotrain and Blitzwing, but their triumph was tentative, like they didn't quite believe their luck. 

The Winglord’s offer was incredibly generous. The courtiers, who would never be given such leniency in the same circumstances, applauded without energy. It went without saying they were appalled at the Winglord’s loose standards for his creation’s trine. Skywarp could do worse than a pair of low-ranking officers, but not by much.

From Thundercracker’s perspective, Skywarp had gotten the lion’s share of the Winglord’s limited benevolence. Again.

Assessing he had made his point as sincerely as he could, the Winglord faced Thundercracker next. Tiredly letting his hand fall onto his shoulder, he said, “You kept a level head and level wings. Well done out there.”

He didn't offer anything else, stepping around Thundercracker and exiting with his retainers. Must have used all his praise on Skywarp.

There was a wounded, distant quality behind his optics. Introspection. As a rule, the Winglord would rather be dragged over broken glass before admitting any wrongdoing, but it seemed to occur to him that Skywarp’s suffering was largely his fault, and he actually felt penitent now. Or maybe the generals’ despicable behavior had given him an excuse to be better than them.

Thundercracker wondered what humiliation he would need to suffer in order to receive the same generosity from the Winglord. Hadn't he suffered too? Was it not enough?

Slipstream took his arm. “We should get out of the rain.”

Thundercracker let her pull him along. As they plodded through the drizzle, his thoughts raced. Maybe his boldness had inspired mercy in the Winglord. Once his only reliable creation abandoned propriety to follow the moral urge of his spark, he felt something had to give. Maybe Thundercracker could ask him to reconsider making him conjunx Airbright while he was in a fatherly mood for once.

He shook his head. He shouldn't be thinking about himself during Skywarp’s big win, but the Winglord letting Skywarp conjunx a pair of commoners was unprecedented. And if Thundercracker felt this way, then Starscream – who never hesitated to think of himself– must be ready to riot. 

Starscream had slipped away sometime during the Winglord’s proclamation; back to the stands. Twin silvery wingtips bobbed in and out of the crowd. From their livid arch, Thundercracker knew he was right on the mark. 

Chapter Text

Given what he was about to do next, Starscream couldn’t afford any distractions. His plan out of Vos needed to be airtight. Skywarp’s outrageous Flight had already stolen too much processor space that should have gone to planning his escape. 

But how easily the Winglord had broken down and given Skywarp what he wanted! A little wing injury and some foul play, and he’d folded completely. 

Starscream had almost died in front of his sire a few cycles ago, and Skywarp got a spark-felt speech and a public invitation to trine his lovers? 

Starscream should never have raised the warning flag; never aggravated Thundercracker into acting out. At least that way, he wouldn’t be alone in contemplating his miserable existence. 

Tears stung his optics and he willed himself to get it together. He slowed his vehement pace off the tarmac so he didn’t appear visibly upset. This was the kind of foolish, romantic thing younglings fantasized about– getting their creators’ loving and sincere blessing to wed their perfect trine in front of everyone they knew. 

No matter. He’d be with Megatron soon. That truly mattered.

“Starscream.” His thoughts were jarred by the Winglord taking hold of his elbow. “Stop lingering in the rain. You’re in no condition to be out in the elements. You’re going to exhaust yourself.”

Starscream numbly let him guide him off the field into the private sitting room behind their box to dry off. He wished the Winglord would stop treating him like glass. Acting like he was actively dying. 

But the mention of exhaustion had made him so. With the warmth of a dry shelter ensnaring his frame, he was tempted to collapse onto the plush divan the Winglord was steering him toward. Where he would find the strength to fly to Megatron in this weather, he didn’t know. His near-death emergence ordeal had weakened his spark, and his engine subsequently suffered from a lack of power. Whether he had the strength to spool it up to its usual maximum without significant strain was questionable. 

Resting for a while would not hurt. If only he could avoid the Winglord’s hollow condolences while doing so. 

Starscream sat in the very center of the divan and drew his knees together. Narrowly, he watched a pair of guards close the steel double doors behind himself and the Winglord. His sire lowered himself into the seat across from him. 

Rain and hail pattered against three sets of sliding glass doors that comprised the far wall of the room. The small private landing pad beyond the glass rose like an island in the midst of murky clouds that roiled like sea foam. The sky hung low and uninviting.

The Winglord clasped his hands on his lap. “You’re upset, Starscream.”

“I have nothing to say to you.”

“No, I think you have plenty, but I don’t expect you to be forthcoming with your thoughts.”

“Then why are you talking to me?”

The corner of the Winglord’s mouth lifted in a careful, pitying smile. “I suppose I can’t blame you for feeling this way. You’ve gotten used to being the favorite.” 

The blithe observation enraged Starscream. “I don’t want your stupid blessing,” he retorted, before he could stop himself.

“Good,” said the Winglord, “because you’re not getting it.”

The confession hurt more than Starscream expected. Fury caught in his throat and pulsed behind his optics.

“Don't waste your anger on me,” said the Winglord. “You already threw away something much more valuable than my regard– your spark. And Megatron only wanted it as a trophy.”

“That’s all Airbright wanted. Megatron is different.”

“And where is he now?”

The sudden shift in topic caught Starscream off guard. “Where is who?”

The Winglord stared at him knowingly. The look was accompanied by a long, revealing silence that made Starscream’s spark drop.

“Why else would you free Skywarp?” asked the Winglord.

“Because it was the right thing to do.” Starscream answered too quickly. 

The Winglord looked stern. “Starscream.”

“Why are you always suspicious of me?”

“Subtlety is not your strong suit. Your wings even stick upright like antennae when you’re scheming.” The Winglord raised two digits perpendicular to demonstrate. “It took very little to put the pieces together.”

When Starscream continued to give him nothing, the Winglord leaned back in his chair with a sigh. “You always find some way to take advantage of the smallest gestures of trust I extend to you.”

“Are you accusing me of something?”

“I’ve come to expect you to take risks to get what you want. But I’ve never considered you to be foolish.” The Winglord maintained a level tone. “Escape didn’t pan out for Skywarp, who had an immense advantage, and it won’t work for you, who has none at all. Use your head.”

Starscream lowered his helm and balled his fists at his sides. Damn it all. Had he been that obvious?

“Starscream, look at me.” The Winglord bent forward with his elbows on his knees and tried to catch his optics. “Mechs have fought and died to allow you to maintain the comfortable life you have now. My army defended our homeland from Tarn. Our nation was built on my soldiers’ sacrifices. I fought to ensure my creations would prosper, free of the hardships I faced in my youth. The least you could do is honor them, and me.”

“What is your point?”

The Winglord looked disgruntled. “You think you’ll fly away from your royal duties and rebuild your comfortable life elsewhere with him. But I’ll tell you now, the life you have here can never be replicated on your own. I’ve expended an incredible amount of resources on you. It takes untold money and time and manpower to raise a successful heir.”

“You’re saying I’m ungrateful.”

“I’ve given you everything anyone could want, and it wasn't enough for you. When you’re denied, you take things anyway– through manipulation; through deceit.” A frustrated wrinkle formed in the Winglord’s brow. “Putting you first all your life and encouraging you to shoot for the stars has only spoiled you rotten. You think you can do anything.”

“And who was it that raised me? Have you considered your own stubbornness and ego have rubbed off?”

“I never taught you to over-reach,” snapped the Winglord. “You disrespect my authority casually. Nothing is off-limits to you. You think you know better than anyone– that’s the folly of some royalty, and the sign of an unsuitable leader. There will always be someone more influential than oneself to contend with.” The Winglord’s temper had made an appearance, and he stood over Starscream to accentuate the vehemence of his words. “Your power as heir has limits and you’re finding them now. This is it. You don’t get around me.”

Starscream shifted his clenched fists to his lap. Keeping tears from slipping down his cheeks took a frightening amount of will. Words failed him. At the penultimate moment, he couldn't think of a single way to protest.

Surmising that Starscream couldn't voice any opposition without risking a humiliating, useless breakdown, the Winglord considered the matter put to rest. He gestured for Starscream to take his offered arm. “You’re going back to the palace. It was a mistake to let you out.”

Starscream’s spine prickled. He feared if he went back, he’d never be allowed out again. Visions of iron bars across his apartment windows carving the sky into feeble threads of light filtered jaggedly into his mind. Panic set in. His optics darted around the room. 

Outside, the dense clouds had shifted, revealing more of the landing pad. Frantically, his gaze was drawn to it. Only the sliding glass doors separated him from the open air. But the Winglord stood between him and freedom. Starscream couldn’t help but think he’d specifically positioned himself to block his only exit. The door they’d come in through was guarded. 

“Don’t try it,” said the Winglord, knowing what was in his line of sight. He’d always read Starscream’s intentions too well. 

Starscream went for it anyway.

The Winglord caught him, of course. Starscream struggled mightily to get free as his sire locked his hand around his forearm. Against his strength, he didn’t stand a chance. Twisting and yanking his arm only bruised the metal. Kicking accomplished even less. His shouts of frustration filled the room as he was restrained against his will.

But with a particularly violent yank, Starscream managed to rotate the Winglord’s wrist aside, exposing a gap of unprotected protoform between his hand and pauldron. Starscream bit him there as hard as he could. The Winglord only flinched; more tenacious than expected. His grip didn’t relent.

Starscream’s mouth filled with the taste of warm energon.

“Stop that now!” ordered the Winglord. “Primus’ sake!”

Deterred by his scolding, Starscream unlatched his jaw, his mouth and chin sticky with energon. “Are you a beast!? Let go of me!” he shrieked.

Tiring of their struggle, the Winglord forced him backward, trying to subdue him by pressing him against the wall. If he succeeded, Starscream wouldn't have the strength to push him off. 

“You’re hurting me!” Starscream begged, though he wasn’t. “I’ll go with you, just stop! Please! Please…” He went limp, forcing the Winglord to support his weight. He didn’t expect his charade to have much effect, but the Winglord looked distressed by his pained outburst and slackened his grip a fraction.

Starscream took his chance. He broke free and rushed to the sliding door.

Realizing he’d been tricked, the Winglord lunged for him again. Starscream shoved the door open and kicked off the landing pad into the open sky.

In moments he was drenched from the rain. Hail sprayed his plating, causing a slew of micro abrasions before skittering off. The cold and pain braced him for the intense sprint ahead of him. 

Soaring into the clouds helped conceal his position while his engine spooled up. Just as he’d feared, he was failing to hit full throttle. The high speeds he ordinarily achieved in a few kliks weren’t possible in his current condition. His engine whined unhappily as his turbines spun up, stalled, and wound back down to a rotation speed they could manage.

A roar behind him signaled the Winglord had taken to the sky as well and was in pursuit.

His sire hadn’t outpaced him since he was young, but Starscream feared he might today. While not exactly built like a wind dancer, the Winglord could maneuver about as well as one. 

Starscream’s comm lit up. 

::You’re hurting yourself:: the Winglord sent.

That was odd. No “get back here, you ungrateful creation of mine”. Nothing rightfully furious and threatening. Just concern. Starscream didn’t let it distract him.

The plan was not ruined yet. The city center he was flying out from was near the hangar– Starscream had chosen it as the rendezvous point for that reason. He hoped by gunning it he could outfly the Winglord. When he landed, he and Megatron could rush to one of the transports and ditch him. Just maybe, they could even fly fast enough to escape before the Winglord called reinforcements.

The idea was completely ridiculous, and likely to fail. But Starscream had done all sorts of things he’d been told were impossible. What was another? 

However, his just-fly-and-pray strategy was proving extremely taxing. Clouds melted together in a hazy, disorienting gridlock. Starscream's sensors told him he was going in the right direction. He didn't need to see. His speed was the problem.

Flying into the wind, he was even slower. He had to push himself hard, and his spark burned with the effort. He wasn’t going fast enough. 

The roar of the Winglord’s engine grew closer, and panic began to creep up again.

Starscream’s HUD was a red smear across his vision. The Winglord’s comms beeped out warnings, blending into the cacophony of other alarms Starscream's systems were giving him. A horrible rattle accompanied the sharp pain in his chassis. His sight blurred and darkened, and he pitched deep into his vertical axis without trying.

Damn it! Why was he slipping offline!? He was supposed to be able to withstand this amount of g-force.

Megatron was worrying about him. A silver thread of fear trailed out of Starscream’s spark like a guide wire, drawing him in towards his love. Megatron shouldn't worry. Starscream was born to fly.

Hands caught his waist from behind– had he transformed to root mode?- and held onto him as he continued to descend. 

Starscream had slowed significantly, but his vents were still labored. The harsh rattle of a stall came from his chassis. Suddenly, he couldn’t intake enough air. A message entered his HUD that his frame was forcing an emergency shutdown. Starscream did everything he could to resist. 

“You’re not aspirating fuel properly,” said the Winglord over his shoulder, sounding distressed. Yellow and red static from the Winglord’s EM field leaped along Starscream’s vertebrae into his cortex, tasting like dread. 

Starscream’s thrusters jarred against something solid below him. 

“Easy,” said the Winglord. His grip on his waist kept him from stumbling over. A solid hand supported the back of Starscream’s helm as he was laid on the concrete.

Concrete?

Starscream tried to look around but was too weak to lift his helm. Something huge was casting himself and the Winglord in shadow. Through slitted optics he shifted his gaze toward it and saw the hangar towering over them. He’d made it.