[The Cyberverse continuity is the primary inspiration, with references made to the 2019 comic reboot and other sources of events, lore and characterisation.]
Bumblebee is roused from his recharge ever so gently, his engine purring in response to the softest kisses upon his brow. He is sprawled over a familiar shape, cuddling another frame against his own.
"Hey," Windblade murmurs as he stirs atop her, warm within her arms. Evidently, she revived first, his guardian, having kept him safe and comforted in his rest. "Sorry. Didn't mean to wake you." Her Spark is simply too pure.
"Hi." He stretches his cables, which still ache, arching his spinal strut and nuzzling under her curved mandible. "Mmm." He is delighted whenever she opts to spend her recharge cycles with him. "This is the best way to wake up."
"How're you feeling?"
"Tender. But it gives those ol' self-repair protocols something to do, I guess."
Her digits trace, then lightly pinch one of his horns. It is a very intimate thing to do, to touch another this way.
He giggles. A sweet, masculine sound she knows so well.
She smiles into his helm. "I'll still be here when next you reboot." Another delicate little kiss. "If you wanna go back to recharge."
"Windblade, you're awesome, you know that?"
"Mmhm."
He pushes himself up on his stocky forearms, in turn leaning over her, face plates only a nuzzle apart.
She sighs, perfectly relaxed, gazing up at him, gazing down at her. Draws shapes over his chassis, her servos delicate, slender. "Oh, Bee."
"I love you, bestie."
"I love you, too."
He grins, glowing and handsome. The minor wound in his intake has already been sealed, knitted together.
She narrows her optics playfully. "What're you thinking about, right now?"
"I dunno. Wanna make out?"
"Bee!"
This gets a laugh out of them both, rolling over together and embracing in an affectionate, intimate heap. They end up falling off the edge of the berth, with a combined thud.
"Oof! We've gotta stop doing that."
"Like I said, get a bigger berth!"
They're in no rush to right themselves.
Megatron sits up slowly. His optics flutter online. His battered old frame always aches after it has been still for too long. He recharged slumped back in his favourite chair, which is not ideal. He dared not share the occupied berth.
Starscream is perched on the edge of said berth, idly scrolling through his datapad for amusement. As the larger mech shifts with a metallic groan, the Seeker turns his helm and greets the retired gladiator with a smile too beautiful for this world.
Megatron stiffens all over. He does not know what to say to that.
The Seeker manages to look so gentle, somehow. Kind. Caring.
The retired gladiator finally settles for smiling humbly back, grateful. He wishes he had the courage to march across the habitation suite, seize those pauldrons and kiss that soft, full intake with fearsome passion. Would it be indecent? He must be terribly boring. Or he will be, soon as the celebrity novelty wears off. And he must always restrain this urgency, or his terrible strength may do harm. It is a frustrating life.
Neither mech says a word for a surprisingly long time. They just sit and stare.
"I no longer hurt," Starscream purrs eventually, in his distinctive rasp, rendered low and seductive.
Bladed optical ridges arch as Megatron processes the implication. "Good. I am glad." A polite, sincere reply.
It garners a fond chuckle. Suddenly, the Seeker rises, tossing his datapad aside and sauntering on over to the seated old gladiator.
Megatron moves to stand, as is respectful, only to be promptly returned to his seat with a light touch to the chassis.
Starscream uses but a single digit to effectively control a much larger mech. That smile turns lopsided, now, optic shutters narrowing alluringly.
"…I, um…"
The Seeker runs that digit slowly across, tracing the breadth of the retired gladiator's armoured chassis.
"I hope you recharged comfortably."
"I feel incredible. So alive. So… powerful. Better suited to my own body, than I have ever felt, before."
"Excellent. I will pass that over to Shockwave. He will be pleased with his work."
Starscream inclines his helm. It is such an avian gesture.
Megatron gazes upward, adorably uncertain.
"Although you just revived, and I acknowledge it is rather forward of me…" The Seeker leans in, stooping to hover his face plate a little above the retired gladiator's, whose rugged facial rigging is rendered with awkward romance. "I believe I have waited long enough for this."
Megatron shudders as his chin is delicately cupped.
"May I?" Starscream's elegant servo is wonderfully warm.
With a shaky gust of recycled air, a clumsy, larger servo rises, timid and careful not to crush the cables of a slender neck, capturing it gently to convey a far more violent desire. "You may."
The Seeker leans in.
The retired gladiator's face plate feels like it is going to melt, moments before his battle-scarred intake is met with Starscream's flawless dermas in a kiss that young femmes dream of.
"Mmm…"
It is real, and it is happening to Megatron.
Windblade answers Bumblebee's door for him, leaving him to finish his turn. This game always brings out his inner strategist.
Shadow Striker offers a curt nod. "Hi." Very cool and casual. Femmes love that.
Windblade offers a soft smile back. "Hey, you."
"Just checking in. He's fine, I take it."
"Thank you. He's doing much better."
"Good." The bigger femme intends to dismiss herself and go.
But before she can, the flier has stepped aside, providing an alternative route. "Come on in."
"It's fine." A raised palm. "I'm not here to interrupt."
"Don't be silly." A painted smile deepens. "He likes you."
Shadow Striker's cool, casual facade drops a little bit. If anything, the display of actual emotion makes her more handsome and easily desirable.
"It'd mean a lot to him."
"…I've got time."
"Is that Slip?" Bumblebee enquires from deeper within, hearing femmes using low voices. His louder habits have left a perpetual ringing in his audials which he really should get checked out.
Windblade inclines her helm invitingly.
Shadow Striker sighs, straightens, and saunters inside the habitation suite. The door slides shut in her wake, sealing her fate.
"My hero!"
Windblade giggles softly at the sheer delight in Bumblebee's voice.
Shadow Striker flushes, unable to decide what her facial rigging ought to express, and grunts feebly as she is suddenly hugged about the chassis by the considerably smaller mech. She has no idea where to put her servos, either, so she just pats him awkwardly on the helm a few times.
"You came to see me," he intones more softly, now, his cheek pressed to her chassis.
"Yeah. Just, uh…" She rubs her sharp jawline. "Checking in." Clears her intake with a rumble.
"That's so sweet of you."
"Uhh…" The femme reels at the prospect. "…You doing okay?"
"I'm doing just fine. Windblade takes good care of me." Bumblebee finally steps away. "We're playing some Dead-Dark-Drone."
Shadow Striker quirks her helm in recognition. "Yeah?" Undeniably interested.
He perks. "You play, too?"
Put at greater ease with another shared interest, she puffs out handsomely. "Sometimes." And they all know, based on her posture alone, that she excels at it, as she excels at everything else – everything except for dealing with her softer emotions.
"Not to be funny, but you are absolutely checking all my boxes."
She smirks.
"Mine," Starscream reminds Megatron lowly. "Say it."
"Y-yours."
"Again."
"Yours."
"With feeling," the Seeker intones, gripping the curve of the heavy helm and forcing the retired gladiator to bend his neck, to be thoroughly ravaged by pinching dentas. The smaller mech's other servo remains below, slick, squeezing hot metal tightly.
"Yours!" comes out in a low, rumbling gust of anguished delight.
"Good," Starscream hisses into those bruised cables, then sits back, his wings fanning outward. "You will remember who you belong to. Am I understood?" He takes his servos away.
"Yes." Relief combatting with disappointment.
"Very good." Slick digits rise to a delicate intake. The Seeker makes a point of dragging his glossa over each of his own digits, kissing and sucking at the tips.
Megatron is holding back his sheer strength, even as he rumbles and takes that dripping servo, kissing the knuckles with reverence and gnawing softly with restrained hunger.
A giggle. "Do you like your own taste?"
"Mmhm." A dumb nod.
"This pleases me."
Orion had taught Megatron.
Starscream does not need to know that. All he needs to know, is that he shall return to his Seekers triumphant in his new frame, the most powerful and glorious among them, and he will restore their former greatness. He shall bring with him a prize of his own, the key to securing their future in the dawn of a new Cybertron.
"Hey, uh…" Clobber leans over a bit, her curious optic peering downwards. "Whatcha doin'?"
"Working on my screenplay," Thundercracker replies cheerfully, having been typing avidly away between sips and the occasional comments to his friends.
"Oh," she drawls without quite comprehending. "Cool!" Just happy for him.
"…What," Dead End intones with impassive bewilderment, eventually.
"He's an undiscovered genius," Nova Storm purrs, snuggling up to Thundercracker, who flushes and chews his derma coyly.
"Ohh, I dunno about that…"
"Well, I'm telling you so."
"Uh." Dead End knows better than to argue. "Okay." Sips his drink placidly.
"Aw, Nova, you're always so encouraging. I couldn't do it without you."
"Sure you could! But you don't have to."
"Good. You're my inspiration, you know."
"It's the least I can do. I'm so proud of you, Thunder."
The Seekers share a little nuzzle.
"Relationship goals," Hot Rod coos, leaning his pauldron against Dead End's.
"Uh-huh."
"They're so cute," Lockdown tells Clobber much the same way, elbowing her.
"I know!" The mighty femme cups her pincers together, beaming fondly at her best friend. "Like us."
"Yeah, like–" He pauses for a moment, reconsidering this, then grins back at her with utmost conviction. "Yeah. Like us."
"Aw!" Hot Rod looks delighted. "That is so like you guys!"
Dead End sighs quietly into his cup. Oh, he hates this.
"The way they kept looking at each other…" Over at the bar, Windblade leans on Slipstream, sighing.
The Seeker is very conscious that this is where she and the other femme first met. "Was it romantic?"
"In a way. But also – whew! It was getting hot in there." A dainty servo fans a painted face. "If you know what I mean…" Playful, teasing.
Slipstream bites her lower derma, tugging on it with a husky grunt.
Up close and personal, like this, inevitably the gesture catches Windblade's attention and utterly arrests it.
"What an odd couple, huh?"
"Yeah." The smaller femme thus stares up at the Seeker's intake, cheek pressed snugly against her pauldron.
Slipstream is thinking unwise thoughts, if her adorable flush and utterly bewitching derma-chewing are any indication.
"She's… really sweet on him. Like, actually sweet. Not just because he's so easy to want, you know?"
"Yeah. He's wonderful, I don't blame her one bit."
"And I could tell how safe she makes him feel."
"That's very comforting." Slipstream props her handsome mandible upon linked servos, leaning on the bar. "I really hope he gets some."
Windblade sucks in air, then bubbles forth with gorgeous laughter.
The Seeker inclines her helm, giggling alongside, swinging her legs under the counter.
"Ahh, me too, Slip." A painted face nuzzles a pauldron. "Me, too."
"Lucky little mech."
"Aw, d'you wanna big, strong, tough, oh so bad femme to swagger on over and sweep you off your pedes?"
"Who doesn't?"
"…Does she have to be big and bad?"
Slipstream looks over at Windblade.
Windblade is caught staring at Slipstream's intake, again.
"Nope," murmurs those dark, plump, smiling dermas.
"Okay." The femme nods with some distraction. "Good to know." She is a great listener and multitasker, thankfully.
"I'm already big enough, I think."
"You are so big. It's great. I love it, how big you are."
"As for the oh so bad part, well." The Seeker actually smirks. She does not usually do that. She tends to be all shy smiles and, if one is lucky, awkward grins. "Perhaps in… the right context, I could be that, too."
Windblade shudders. Finally remembers to look up, making optic-contact for the first time in far too long a period to be played off. Flushes.
Slipstream quirks an optic ridge.
"Okay." The femme flutters her shutters. "That was way too smooth."
The Seeker eases back handsomely and directs her digit-guns. "Pew-pew."
It makes Windblade laugh again.
Slipstream loves that laugh.
"Seriously? That's your finisher? 'Pew-pew'?"
"Yeah. They're my seduction ray guns."
"Stahp!" Windblade wants to grab Slipstream by her handsome helm and kiss her hard, before throwing her over the bar to do frankly wicked things with her aft. Settles for a giggle and a hug instead, the slender femme hanging off the Seeker's powerful neck and pauldrons. "Oh, Slip, I love you." If only to spare Maccadam the shock.
"Love you, too." Slipstream draws Windblade under a burly arm, servo laid out a safe distance above a slender hip joint, stroking the sleek panels of her side. "You're just wonderful."
Maccadam's smile is sad. Even he appreciates the moment of silence that passes between the two femmes.
"So, tell me, handsome." Windblade draws shapes over Slipstream's chassis. "How was your day?"
"Heh, nothing special. Just Captain stuff."
"And what does that entail, exactly? I've been meaning to ask."
"Honestly? Not much, turns out. I have to find things to do."
"Huh."
"I can see now why Captain Starscream has enough spare time to… Uh…"
"…Go around, being so eccentric?"
"Yeah. That." Slipstream modestly rubs her chin, clearing her intake. "We Seekers are more, uh… ceremonial, without a war to fight. Flying over parades and such."
"Everyone loves a parade," Windblade intones, in her very kind, reassuring way.
"Absolutely. So, um, I've been keeping everyone busy with all the basics, you know, like maintenance and combat drills…"
Flames emblazoned over a dark, shapely frame catch Hot Rod's optic in passing. He gasps softly. "Whoa."
Even Dead End spares a curious gaze. "Huh."
"That fiery paint-job kicks total aft!"
"Actually, you're right about that. It kinda does. Hers is way better than yours."
"I have gotta go over there and compliment her."
"Uh, maybe you really don't?"
Hot Rod hurriedly stands, departing their booth.
"Try not to be weird about it, okay," Dead End calls after the other mech in monotone, and sighs. "What a bolt-head."
As Slipstream and Windblade chat between themselves, another femme thus casually drapes herself over the bar a little way along, slouching in such a fashion that exaggerates her ill manners and gorgeous curves, in turn projecting outward all the sharper parts of her small frame.
"Hello, Flamewar."
The two-wheeler directs a wickedly adorable grin up at Maccadam's paternal disapproval. "Hiya, Mac." Her drawl is entirely relaxed, playfully at ease.
"You've been getting yourself into trouble again, I see."
"Pffft. I am trouble."
"Now, now. You know I worry."
"Don't! And don't mind the cops, I'm not a priority right now. They've got their servos full. Lotta unrest on the streets, y'know. They won't bother looking for me, here."
"Never mind my establishment. I do wish you'd take better care of yourself."
"I'm fine! I can protect myself. Always have done."
The bartender sighs, shaking his helm as he smiles indulgently down at her. "The usual, mm?"
"You goddit."
"Uh, hi?"
Flamewar looks lazily over at Hot Rod, initially unimpressed, until she sees the flames on his chassis. "Ooh." Her optics glow with renewed interest. "A mech with style. Finally!"
"Me? Thanks! Actually, that's why I…" He flushes, gathers himself, and offers his winning, handsome smile. "I just wanted to compliment your paint-job."
"Mmmyeah?"
"Yeah, I love it! Flames all over! Makes me wish I got more than just the strip done. Maybe I really was a little conservative…"
"Meh, maybe a little conservative suits you." She grins crookedly up at him. Quite unusually, some of her dentas have been filed into points. Or perhaps they broke that way, after being punched in the face plate, or crashing into something full-speed, or falling from a great height, or some other terrible accident, and she never bothered with repairs because she likes the fanged look? Who knows. She is rugged and wild enough that anything is possible. "What's your name, cutie?"
"Oh! Uh, Hot Rod! I'm Hot Rod. That's me. But my friends call me Rod. Or… Hot?"
"Flamewar," she purrs back, with a giggle-snort at his expense. "Just Flamewar."
"Whoa. Even your name's hot!"
"Lemme buy you a drink."
"Please, do!" He might very well be smitten with her already.
Dead-Dark-Drone is a game of some sort that Shadow Striker plays in her downtime with her fellow Decepticons in the 2019 comic reboot (another cheeky reference – this story shall be full of those, I suspect). My rendition of Flamewar is based on multiple iterations of the character, thus I simply had to restore her awesome flames and fangs, as befitting a handsome little gremlin.