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Light/Dark: This chapter is best read on the dark background setting.
Author's Note: Next chapter will start delving into sexual themes, though I'm not sure just how explicit it's going to turn out, so just in case, be keeping track of the "M" rated section if you enjoy this story but haven't put it on your story-alert list. Even as I write this story, I am amazed at just how extensive I think I'm going to make this. This story was originally spawned from the Megatron/Adult!Miko fic that I'm also writing, and I have plans to write a side story that focuses on a Shockwave/June Darby relationship after this one. I just wish that I had more free time to fully devote myself to all of this.
On a side note, I've created a Transformers Kink Meme community over at Livejournal. If anyone is interested in throwing around some prompts and/or filling ones already provided, I have the link in my profile. You don't need to be a member of the group, let alone Livejournal, in order to participate! All you gotta do is write anonymously!
HikariFighter: Thank you so much for your constructive feedback! I adore honesty and any advice/suggestions from my readers. The fact that you're not too sure about this pairing but are willing to give it a chance, I can only do my best to impress you!
Decepticonloser101: Thank you for the support! I hope the wait for this chapter was worth it. :)
movielover9: Oh, good! I thought I was the only one who had a thing for this pairing, so you have no idea how wonderful it feels to know that I'm not. Thank you for your kind words and I hope you enjoy this chapter!
Prompt: In the Silence of the Night
He reached over and rapped his knuckles firmly against the large, green helm armor, the clanking barely audible over the mobile wrecking ball's thunderous, rattling intakes.
Bulkhead was officially passed out drunk, poker cards trapped under his faceplates and scattered around the empty energon cube still gripped, almost possessively, in a servo.
He shook his helm, grunting in mild amusement before bringing his own cube of high-grade to his lips, sipping generously at the gently glowing pink liquid. He took a moment to savor its hot, energized slide down his throat.
His first night at the Autobots' new base couldn't have gone any better in his opinion. Bulkhead's quarters was expansive: a high ceiling with enough spacious square footing that he could nearly berth The Jackhammer in it; concrete flooring; reinforced steel tiles riveted into the walls and decorated with various sheets of amateur but highly endearing drawings and paintings, along with a few massively enlarged photos of him and Bulkhead, all of which were clearly the courtesy of Miko.
Other than the colorful images taped to and spread out on all four walls, the lodging was barren. It was a trait that both he and Bulkhead had shared while bunking together at the Academy of Architectural Design and Construction - only the bare essentials were ever always a necessity.
A berth, built to accommodate the weight and width of its owner, was pushed up into the farthest corner at of the room, the concaving recharge bench's slender rows of cybergel pads illuminating an alluring, tranquil blue.
Four storage lockers stood tall in the opposite corner, no doubt housing weapon and armor downgrades as well old trinkets from the construction days, including a valueless datapad backup chip with photos and videos of the crew spending their recreational days at various Cybertronian sports events, specifically mecha-soccer and the seasonal tournaments for basketrek.
The night, itself, had been relatively quiet, but only if one could ignore his and Bulkhead's rowdy laughter and the racket of their fists pounding boisterously on the round, steel table.
Miko had been content to sit in the center of the tabletop, her upturned face flicking back and forth between the two of them. Her eyes had been practically shimmering with excitement and enthrallment as she clung to every word that detailed their action-packed war stories as well as a few personal tales of some of the most hilarious and embarrassing Wrecker antics and pranks that they had pulled on one another.
They'd later opted to settle in with a few games of Cybertron's version of poker, which they were more than happy to explain to Miko.
Because she always seemed to be the center of their attention, it hadn't surprised him one inch when she had seen became a serious aspect of the game when she would walk to each side of the table to peek at their cards.
In good humor, he and Bulkhead had heckled each other mercilessly, taunting and name-calling all the while shamelessly trying to bribe Miko into giving up precious intel on the other's cards.
But the fiendish femme had made it clear almost immediately that her information wouldn't come cheap. Both he and Bulkhead had had their work cut out for themselves - only the best deals would have grabbed her attention.
Bulkhead had won the first round of cards when he'd managed to sweet talk her into a weekend's worth of off-roading and mudding. And he remembered just sitting there, dumbfounded that such a messy and unruly enticement had trumped his.
With how sophisticated and ladylike she appeared in those sleek, black peep-toed heels, black skin-tight leggings, and intricately-knitted beige sweater that clung to her at mid-thigh length and accentuated her soft curves, he had automatically assumed that she would have jumped at the chance to take a midnight cruise with him in The Jackhammer, thinking that it would have appealed to the weak spot that he'd thought she'd had for the romantic.
But he was a quick learner. Clearly, the reckless and strong-willed adolescent that he'd grown attached to had never left but merely underwent a metamorphosis that could have deceived even the savviest of 'Cons with that facade of fragility and naïveté.
So, in the following hand, he'd decimated Bulkhead's next offer with unabashed smugness by altering his previous bribe and presented to her that he would take her on a midnight cruise in The Jackhammer . . . and teach her how to pilot it.
When the third hand had gone into play, Bulkhead had started his offer high: ground-bridging to Bulgaria and attending the Blood Moon Fest music event that was coming up in the next month, where Slash Monkey would be opening.
From what he could tell, she had looked nearly ready to collapse in shock, whispering, "Oh, my god, are you being serious? Yes!"
He remembered feeling completely put out in that moment and had found himself propping the side of his helm on his fist, scowling under Bulkhead's self-satisfied smirk as he exasperatedly tossed his cards over a shoulder.
"But . . ."
She had turned to him then, a devious glint in those alluring, smoky-gold eyes that had had the strong, steady pulse of his spark faltering almost painfully.
"You throw in the energon turrets with that pilot lesson and I'll be on your side all night."
He jerked, abruptly pulled from his thoughts by a sudden and loud snort, followed by some incoherent grumbling before the audial-deafening snoring started up again, if not louder than before.
"There are just some things never change," he chuckled, lowering his cube. He flicked his optics to Miko to find that she was regarding him in curiosity.
He leaned in close, smiling faintly as he jabbed a thumb in sleeping Wrecker's direction. "Bulkhead. He may weigh nearly as much as a stealth starfighter, but he might as well be a Terroraptor feather when it comes to high-grade. Doesn't help that he always pounds the stuff back like a mech who hasn't had a drop of energon in an entire orn."
She blinked her wide, exotic-curved eyes at him, furrowing her dark eyebrows and looking ever more bewildered. " . . . What?"
He paused, realizing that he must have used one too many Cybertronian references. Scratching a finger against a faceplate side-shield sheepishly, he translated bluntly with, "Lightweight. Bulkhead couldn't hold his booze to save his backside."
"Oh!" she exclaimed, and then fell into a small fit of laughter, revealing to him a smile that could have rivaled the intensity of a sun.
By the Thirteen, I think I'm g'onna end up under Ratchet's defibrillator if she keeps looking at me like that, he thought uneasily, unable to ignore how his spark swelled and lurched behind his chestplates in an aggressive demand that he knew all too well but staunchly refused to acknowledge, let alone explore. She's of a completely different species and not even a seventh your size, you ridiculous, rundown demolitionist. How in the Pit are you even capable of overlooking those things?
Anxious to distract himself from the havoc his spark was wreaking on his senses, acutely aware that its path was destined to reach the forbidden, tightly-leashed region of his neural net it he pondered it too long, he cleared his throat and sat back, dropping a servo to his thigh as he inquired, "So, half-pint, what's with the change of colors?"
He watched as her eyes instinctively rolled upward to stare at the forest-green and ivory-white strips of dye in her bangs. She reached up and fingered the section of hair lovingly.
"This? I did this almost four years ago. It's meant to symbolize my best-friends-forever relationship with the two most awesome Wreckers in the entire universe." She separated the two colored locks from each other, grinning as she explained them further. "See this green? It represents Bulkhead. He may look mean and big enough to deflect a speeding train with his chest, but on the inside, he's nothing but fluff. The white here is for Wheeljack. He acts just as tough as he looks, but when he's around Bulkhead and me, he's just as much of a major pushover. Maybe you've heard of them? They're kind of a big deal, really."
So much for a distraction. Despite the small smirk tilting his mouthplate, his fingers were gripping his cuisse tight enough to leave dents as the unbidden urge to growl perversely "Kid, if you wanted a mark to remember me by, then I'll be more than willing to give you a proper one" sat precariously on the tip of his glossa.
"You know, I think I have heard of them," he drawled, his smirk tightening under his rising stress. "Though I hear that that Wheeljack is quite the hooligan. Hazardous, even. With all those explosive devices and the wild aerial stunts he does with his starship, I kind'a have to worry about your safety. Nothing good ever comes from a bad influence like him."
Thick, black lashes batted sinfully over bright, golden eyes as that smirk of hers turned into something sly.
"Actually, sometimes I think I'm the bad influence. After all, how can I keep the poor guy out of trouble with those grenades of his if I love seeing them being used?"
He guffawed, grinning as he idly thumbed the thin strip of slightly pliable, gray metal perched neatly on his chin-plate. "You're too much, kid."
She flicked a lock of dark hair over her shoulder and titled her head up haughtily, matching his grin with one of her own. "I know. It's what I do."
And with that, almost immediately silence came crashing down between them.
He shifted slightly, attempting the ease himself from the discomfort of the awkwardness. He absently dropped his gaze to his cube of high-grade, the frown on his faceplates reflecting back up at him in the remaining luminescent pink liquid.
The shuffle of clothing and a soft groan drew his attention back to Miko, finding that she had stood up was stretching her arms high above her head. Dropped her arms again, she pushed up a thick sleeve sweater to uncover a watch.
"Curfew, kid?" he teased, watching as she checked the time.
"Nope. Just checking to see if it was midnight yet."
He blinked, perplexed. "Why?"
Instead of immediately answering, she smiled impishly and crossed the surface of the table. She came to stop next to his cube of high-grade and leaned her slight frame against the dense, worn metal of his fingers. The hot, electrical whip of energy that seemed to arc up the length of his arm from the warm, soft contact of her body had him stiffening in his seat so abruptly that he heard a few gears groan in protest.
If she'd felt what he had, then she didn't show any signs of it. Instead, her golden eyes glinted with mirth as she purred, "Because I'm cashing in that 'midnight cruise' tonight, Wrecker."
He swallowed dryly, his spark pulsating rapidly. At the back of his neural processor he felt the stirring of a darkly interested, forceful appetite that he had purposely kept under strict control, which had often landed him in an position of celibacy except for times when the Wreckers would dock at war-neutral brothel ships stationed throughout the galaxy.
And it had been a long time since he'd seen a brothel ship.
He cautiously tightened his grip on the leash.
This was not going to end well.