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thecocodrille · 2 months ago

Note

I would love to see some protective trine, like what’s in they minds when they see any of the members get hurt.

The only thing blazing hotter than the desert sun above were the burst of blaster fire shooting into the sky as if to reach it. A battle raged below in the typical fashion most Autobot-Decepticon conflicts did—air superiority versus the inbuilt inferiority of ground frames. The red badged faction’s incompetent aim when firing at the winged warriors explained why it had been one of the armada’s own that had managed to land a crippling blow against the blue seeker.

Thundercracker wavered in the air, one of his wings burning and leaving a trail of smoke as he tried to maintain altitude. A futile effort, and he was soon speeding toward the ground, only managing to transform to root-mode just before crashing. Sand that should have cushioned his landing served as another unexpected danger as one knee hit a sharp rock that had been buried beneath the miniscule grains of quartz. He grits his denta against the pain, his optics temporarily cycling offline. But there was no time for him to process his damage or the piercing agony shooting from both his right wing and damaged knee convening in the center of his chassis—in his spark

Active combat continued to rage around his fallen frame, and now on the ground, the Autobots would have a much easier time finishing what Slugslinger had started.

Venting harshly, his olfactorate flared and he onlined his optics; Thundercracker tried to force himself to stand. He only managed to partially lift himself before his legs began to shake uncontrollably, and he collapsed onto the ground on servos and knees.

High-pitched vocals screeched, “Decepticons, retreat!”

Thundercracker’s optics shot wide, and he looked up to see the armada all execute an immelmann turn—all except three.

He could only glare as one of the fliers approached him at rapid speed, clearly intending to reach the injured seeker before his trine could. The mech, adorned with white and blue armor, transformed just before landing next to Thundercracker. Slugslinger’s red visor was bright, and his smirk was wide enough to show off fanged denta; his low hanging white wings were practically shaking with vicious laughter.

The mocking sounds remained unvocalized, but then, with wing speak, it didn’t need to be.

Even on his servos and knees, Thundercracker felt no fear toward his attacker. All he would need to do at such close proximity is call on his outlier ability and the dual-coned jet would be blasted away.

“Yeesh, calm your jets, jet. You’d think someone shot you out of the sky the way you’re glaring,” Slugslinger ended his taunt with a snort.

Thundercracker growled, “That was a cheap shot.”

The mech only shrugged, his smirk never leaving. “You know I’ve got bad aim—makes it hard to resists easy targets.”

Thundercracker’s wings flared at his back at such a casual admission of dishonorably. “Is that why you targeted the humans?” He snapped. The Decepticons’ attack on the Autobots’ mountain buried base had been a surprise, meant as a distraction for an energon raid on the opposite side of the planet.

Human younglings had been outside playing a strange game involving an orange ball and cloth nets when they arrived.

Slugslinger scoffed, “The Autobot pets? Since when do you care if I step on a bug?”

Thundercracker’s jaw clenched, and he ground out, “They’re children.”

A snort and slapped knee were Slugslinger’s first responses. To kneel down next to the fallen seeker and get disgustingly close to his faceplate was his next. Thundercracker clenched his servos into the sand, prepared to fend off an attack.

“You’re a sorry excuse for a warrior,” spat Slugslinger. “They’re our enemies and you guard them more fiercely than your own trine. Bit late to start caring who we slaughter. This isn’t the first organic planet we’ve wrecked, and it won’t be the last.”

Slugslinger was close and Thundercracker was stronger. Even without standing, without his outlier ability, he could take the mech at such a close distance. If only he could move, if only his processor wasn’t burning so hot with shame that it had turned into a cold heat, icing his core motor functions in place.

“You’re weak, a coward,” the mech whispered, vocals full of loathing. Then the mech tilted his helm, looking upward to where two seekers were circling above them. Circling, but not interceding.

Slugslinger’s grin returned, “It’s obvious your trine agrees. Won’t be much longer until they start putting out listings for a new trine member.”

He should attack; he was frozen.

“You think I could cut it? I know I’ve already got Caliburst, but we’re open to sharing and from what I hear, so is your—”

A purple flash stopped Slugslinger from finishing whatever horrible (possibly true) accusation he was about to make against the elite trine.

Skywarp had appeared, wasting no time gripping Slugslinger by the shoulder and shoving him away from Thundercracker. The purple seeker placed himself between his fallen trine mate and the other flyer with a snarl, “Back off, Slagslinger. I saw what you did to TC.”

Slugslinger gripped his now crumpled shoulder, but his visor focused onto Thundercracker’s dimming reds as he said, “You did?”

And you did nothing? Hung in the air between them, completely inaudible to Skywarp.

Skywarp knelt down next to Thundercracker, his servo hovered over the blue seeker’s damaged wing before he pulled it away to clench into a fist at his side. Slugslinger held up his servos in surrender, apparently not stupid enough to challenge the teleporter, before transforming and flying in the direction of the armada’s retreat.

“Glitch,” Skywarp hissed, blazing optics following after the flyer. “He’ll get what’s coming to him. Just you wait, TC. I’ve got a prank planned that will leave him…leave him…,” Skywarp trailed of in that way he did whenever a word escaped his processor.

Thundercracker did not rush his wing mate and instead used the time to try and right himself, so he at least wasn’t lowered in such an embarrassing position. However, the burning in his wing and heel-struts proved too insurmountable an agony to overcome and he could do little more than shove himself backwards. Now, his aft rested on the backs of his legs. He still could not stand.

He held out a servo and gestured with a slight rise of his optic ridges for Skywarp to help him up; the purple seeker was the least likely member of their trine to mock Thundercracker for the embarrassment of needing help.

His silent request for help went unheard, and Skywarp’s optics brightened as he began to cackle gleefully, not even looking in Thundercracker’s direction.

“Speechless,” the purple seeker announced. “He’ll be left speechless.”

Thundercracker held back a sigh. Much as he wanted to appreciate Skywarp’s affront on his behalf and vow of revenge—it wasn’t what he needed, it wasn’t what he wanted in that moment.

Being helped to stand, brought to the medbay, and watched over while Hook applied the torment he called medical care was what he wanted. Maybe help in the washracks in the form of purple servos running gently over his wings and soothing away the pain and aches of battle. Like they used to, before their quick victory against the Autobots had become a never-ending repetition of retreats and pursuits.

Before confusion brought on by regrets had begun to plague Thundercracker’s every waking moment and make him grateful they had not shared sparks in over a millennium.

Realizing he would need to vocalize his desires, Thundercracker started, “Skywarp—”

Only to end in a huff as the purple mech teleported away before Thundercracker could even finish saying his name. A pained grimace fell over his faceplate. What had he been expecting?

Then he heard an approaching jet engine and bit the inside of his derma; Starscream was arriving.

The white, red, and blue seeker landed directly in front of Thundercracker, his servos gripping cherry hips as he leaned down to inspect the blue seeker’s frame. A wicked smirk stretched across his handsome faceplate.

“He’s right you know,” Starscream goaded. “You are a coward. So pathetically empathetic, and over what? An inferior species made of flesh?”

Starscream chuckled and roved his optics over Thundercracker’s damaged frame, none of the expected care or worry of a true trine leader shining in the other seeker’s crimson depths, only mirthful malice. “Weak, slow, and so…equivocal. Why do I even keep you around?”

Each accusation pierced Thundercracker’s spark more sharply than Starscream’s perfectly maintained talons. Why do I stay? He nearly challenged back. But he couldn’t, because even that question he….

“I don’t know,” he answered softly, honestly. Thundercracker’s integrity was long lost on his trine, neither Starscream nor Skywarp having expressed an honest desire toward the blue seeker unless it had been stuffed with hunger and encased in violence.

His trine leader’s optics cycled wide and an unreadable expression—they were all unreadable, besides the cruelty, Thundercracker had stopped being able to understand Starscream’s moods millions of stellar-cycles ago—crossed over his faceplate.

The expression morphed back into the Decepticon second’s more standard sneer as he ordered, “Get yourself back to base and into the medbay. I’ll not have my armada weakened due to your misplaced chivalry toward organics.” Starscream followed his command by turning away from Thundercracker, his swings stiff, blank at his back. His trine leader then transformed and sped off in the direction of their underwater ship, leaving the blue seeker completely alone.

A panic seized his spark.

The enemy base was close; he was at risk. He needed to quickly rise and follow; he could already feel Autobots’ curious fields (the mechs themselves no doubt hiding) stretching to their limits to poke and prod at him curiously. Did they know he had saved their human companions?

Did they care?

He leaned his helm back; optics shuttering closed as fatigue unrelated to his injuries caused his wings to sag low.

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Thundercracker staggered with a gasp as he finally reached his quarters aboard The Victory. He leaned bodily against the door, vents roaring in his audials as he attempted to cool his frame. It had overheated during the arduous flight back to base. A dip into the ocean had even been contemplated, but the unlikelihood of either of his trine mates bothering to retrieve him before he sank to crushing depths had swayed his decision.

Exhausted as he was, Thundercracker still had no desire for his rest to be permanent.

He palmed open his room and stumbled inside. His injuries had not been tended to, and his heel-struts were still weak from the acid pellets Slugslinger had shot at him; their metal having been corroded along with the center of his right wing.

The door slid closed behind him, leaving the blue seeker in the dark. Only the dimmed crimson glow of his optics offered the room any light. A single room that was taken up by a berth much too large for it. Early during The Victory’s construction, Thundercracker had noticed his trine mate’s reinvigorated attitudes. They were excited, exultant, the long stasis having done them good in ways their faction’s limited medical understanding could not comprehend. He had seen the same exuberant behavior from the Autobots and done a terrible thing in response.

He'd behaved just like their forever enemy; he had begun to hope.

Undaunted by the elite trine being assigned separate quarters once the ship’s construction had been completed, Thundercracker had traded his rations and time, taking on extra patrols as a means to barter for materials and an extra berth. A successful endeavor—he had combined two berths together and knitted a large micro-mesh blanket to go over it.

His less than stellar craftsmanship could in no way replicate the large berth they had shared before the war in Vos, but it was of close enough design to have had Thundercracker’s spark singing in pride.

Now, in the lone darkness, he stared at the berth with a blank expression. It had become a permanent memorial to his own foolishness. The only seeker who had ever laid on its wing-plush fibers had been Thundercracker.

He vented slowly, shuttering away whatever dampness had begun to gather at the edges of his optics, before limping toward the berth. He threw himself onto it faceplate down, spark swirling in loneliness unshared by his trine mates. After Starscream’s ascension to second-in-command, their bond had been clamped shut for security reasons.

His protests at the time had gone ignored, except on the rare occasion Starscream had actually listened long enough to belittle him. Skywarp had merely shrugged him off, saying it didn’t matter. They were still trine—what did it matter they no longer felt like it?

Thundercracker initiated recharge sequences, not at all concerned that his trine leader would take offense that the blue seeker had deferred his command to visit the medbay. Because if there was one thing Thundercracker didn’t question, it was that both his trine mates no longer cared enough to check that he had.

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Starscream swayed through the mess hall, his blue servos holding a cube of energon each. His target was seated alone in one of the many tables just off of the room’s center. A quick flick of his left wing saw the room’s other occupants, all members of his armada, begin to slowly file out. His smile was light, sweet, as he approached Slugslinger.

“Excellent work today, I’m always amazed by the power of your acid gun,” he complimented as he slid onto the bench next to the other flier.

Slugslinger jerked, his overly long wings quaking in obvious fear that nearly curled Starscream’s smile into a smirk. But no, that would come later. He placed a cube on the table—an extra ration for such a low ranking mech as the blue and white flyer—and pushed it in front of him.

A bright red glow swiped across Slugslinger’s visor and Starscream brightened his own optics in answer. The mech was no doubt confused why the elite trine leader would be offering him energon after having attacked one of his wing mates. Wasn’t it obvious?

Starscream raised his wings in a gesture of comradery and explained, “You enlightened me to a vulnerability I was previously unaware of. It is one thing to suspect Thundercracker has lost his willingness to fight; it is another entirely to know.”

The fear that had been permeating Slugslinger’s field immediately buzzed into delight, a bright smile lighting up the mech’s faceplate. “Right? Can you believe he stopped me from killing those pests?”

Lifting the energon cube to his derma, Starscream took a small sip before humming, “Mm, I can.”

Thundercracker, his trine’s very own leaking spark. What had surprised Starscream was that it had taken so long for the blue seeker to go against orders and protect those he considered ignoble targets. Poor, pitiful Thundercracker; how his armor must have grated against such dishonorable behavior from his fellow Decepticons.

Starscream afforded himself a small chuckle before raising an optic ridge in Slugslinger’s direction. “It’s my personal blend; as if I would drink the diluted swill of the commons.”

To emphasize his point, he took a longer, slower gulp, fully aware of the enticing way his neck cables bobbed and constricted with every swallow. A light smirk lifted the corner of his derma as he felt the visor covered optics of the other flyer boring into his frame. He pulled off the cube with an aahed gasp and wink. “Why don’t you try it?”

Slugslinger, helm twitching as though experiencing a fresh reboot, nodded his helm vigorously, then picked up his pink cube and started gulping down its contents in a rush. Starscream rested his chin on the palm of a servo as he watched, smirk curling higher as the cube was emptied out. How wonderful.

The empty cube slammed onto the deck and Slugslinger threw his helm back, releasing a repugnant belching noise from his overstuffed tanks. “That might be the best energon I’ve ever had. I mean it.” Then, the mech tilted his helm, questioning, “Your trine mates get to drink this all the time?”

Starscream leaned back, covering his mouth as he giggled, “Oh, of course not. I would never give my trine that blend…well, perhaps Skywarp. But he would have to do something very special to earn a cube of this.”

He tapped a talon over the edge of the empty cube, having to manually override his vocalizer to stop himself from hissing the last word. Even someone as moronic as Slugslinger would grow suspicious if Starscream started using the cadence usually reserved for his enemies.

Slugslinger’s greedy visor settled over Starscream’s mostly untouched cube, and he sighed, reluctantly pushing it toward the other flyer. “Help yourself.”

The mech snatched the cube, but didn’t immediately begin drinking as Starscream had expected him to. Instead, Slugslinger licked his derma and said, “About your Thunder problem—you ever think about a permanent solution?”

Crimson optics widened, but Starscream maintained his friendly smile and genial field. “I have, in fact, I’m devising one now.”

He nodded toward Slugslinger, then scratched his talon along the side of the energon cube. The blue and white mech’s smile stretched wide enough to show off slightly crooked denta. “I knew it!” Slugslinger exclaimed. “There’s no way someone like you would want to put up with such a weakling.”

“Someone like me?” Starscream intoned. Any astro-second now.

Slugslinger held up a digit in a wait-one gesture as he finished off his second cube. The seeker’s smile strained at being ordered to wait by someone so beneath him. But he refrained from showing his ire; his time would come.

Oh, and judging by the way Slugslinger had started gripping his throat, choking on what must have felt like curdled energon in his intake—that time was now.

“Something the matter, Slinger?” He purred.

The flyer tried to stand, only to trip over the edge of the bench, falling to the side on his knees.

Starscream tutted, “Careful.” Before standing and looming over the fallen mech. How repulsive he looked, coughing and gasping on the ground, writhing like his namesake, a slug.

He leaned down just far enough to grab the mech’s faceplate, his servo covering both mouth and olfactorate. His talons dug into the sides of Slugslinger’s blue helm, grip tight enough to leave divots. “Vent slowly,” he instructed. “The energon in your lines is solidifying; it’s why your intake feels so full. If you try to cycle air too quickly, your systems will not be able to keep up and attempt to push the solidified energon into your power core. Having an, ah, should I say permanent effect on your internals.”

They would burst, he didn’t say.

Slugslinger tried to speak against Starscream’s servo, likely something inane like a why or how could you. When the answer was infuriatingly obvious—how could he not?

“Did you really think a sniveling bottom feeder like yourself could ever become a member of my trine?” He laughed, “You, Slugslinger?”

His optics brightened in mirth before sharpening, his vocals coming out in a furious hiss, “You will never approach him again, never speak to him. You are not even worthy of gazing upon his frame. Do I make myself clear?”

He needn’t say the designation of who he was referring to, they both knew.

Gears in in the mech’s jaw tried to loosen, then Slugslinger attempted to helm nod; Starscream’s grip tightened. His talons would have drawn energon were it currently not hardened.

“Use your wings, imbecile,” he sneered.

White wings rattled but moved in a yes motion. Starscream nodded and released his hold over Slugslinger with a push; the mech fell onto his back. He reached into his subspace and pulled out a small green vial and tossed it at the worm. “The antidote,” was all he said.

Slugslinger scrambled for it, gulping it down as though it were some life saving cure. Starscream chuckled at his own thoughts, the sound turning into a cackle as the flyer abruptly went offline.

“You pathetic fool.” He kicked the mech’s unconscious frame. Starscream had not lied about giving him the antidote, he just had not informed Slugslinger of its side effects. The temptation to crush Slugslinger’s helm under his pede was strong, but ever the patient mech, Starscream held himself back. Because as contemptuous as Slugslinger’s arrogance and presumption had been—he had also not been wrong.

Thundercracker was weak; it was why he needed Starscream to protect him. From the Autobots, from the risks of humans, from his fellow Decepticons, and from his own self-destructively soft spark.

His trine mate was ill suited for war, something Starscream had not realized until it was far too late to pull his wing mate from the frontlines. And before he could devise a plan to lessen its hard blows against his trine mate’s spark, Starscream had been made second-in-command. His enemies had doubled, from Autobots to also including covetous members of his own faction. He could not be seen genuinely caring for his trine, not in the capacity he desired. Especially not their sonic-boom user.

Skywarp could teleport away and could be trusted to defend himself. Thundercracker was the vulnerable one. His actions during the cycle’s battle had only affirmed that fact.

Thundercracker who accepted him and all his faults without complaint, who was enduringly loyal to Starscream. Who indulged Skywarp’s insanity; openly expressing his love for them as trine. The blue seeker was the most unchanged by war of the three of them, and Starscream relished the evidence; the pain in his trine mate’s optics every time Starscream or Skywarp intentionally treated him harshly.

Because it meant Thundercracker still loved them enough to be hurt.

All Thundercracker’s suffering would be rewarded and all would be well once Starscream had deposed Megatron, claimed his rightful title as ruler of the Decepticons, and ended their eternal war with the Autobots. By weapon or weaponized diplomacy—unlike the slagmaker, Starscream was not so particular about his victory methods.

Thundercracker would understand why Starscream had distanced himself and treated him unkindly. He would accept his trine leader’s explanation and thank him for his care. And then they would embrace as they had not in millennia; Thundercracker would tenderly accept him frame and spark, Skywarp as well.

With one final sneer in Slugslinger’s direction, he turned and left the mess hall.

He pretended not to notice Skywarp hiding around the corner on the opposite end of the hallway. There was also no way he could have known the purple seeker had subspaced a pair of bolt cutters soon after arriving at The Victory that were just small enough to fit inside a Cybertronian’s mouth—if someone was vindictive enough to place them there. It was also impossible for him to know they were thin enough to slip underneath a mech’s delicate glossa, but sharp enough to slice through, should the mech holding them experience a slip of the servo.

That the mess hall’s surveillance cameras had conveniently malfunctioned at this time was also a complete mystery to him.

And of course, once the high command call came and it was time to dole out punishments, well; how could Starscream have possibly known his trine mate’s threat to render Slugslinger speechless had been a literal one? Why, Starscream had absolutely no idea what was going to happen after he had left the mess hall.

And neither (never) would dear, sweet, confused, adored Thundercracker.

#thundercracker x skywarp x starscream #elite trine #i love them ahhhhh

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thecocodrille · 2 months ago

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Ok I’m crying now

C... can we have some angst Skystar contents?

Skyfire and Starscream meet once a month on a remote Island. Skyfire is late. Starscream is...

Skyfire twisted in the air, taking sharp left and right turns in an attempt to rid himself of the Autobot's party favors still clinging to his frame. He could do nothing about the luminescent green streaks that had been painted down his legs, but he at least wanted the party streamers gone before arriving at the rendezvous point.

The glitter splashed across his chassis was a lost cause.

It sparkled yellow and silver on the underside of his alt, matching the stars that twinkled above. It was a beautiful night. The kind that caused Skyfire to lazily loop in the air and for his spark to swell with whimsical delight.

His chosen flight path had seen no other traveler but himself. The route led him over a gorgeous blue ocean with shallow waves that shielded unexplored depths. Cautiously, he lowered his altitude, bringing him closer to the water’s surface, hoping to see any of its remarkable inhabitants.

Only the shuttle’s glittering and green-glowing image reflected back.

Detecting no immediate signs of life, Skyfire considered lowering himself further to take a dip in the cold water but quickly dismissed the idea. It might not have worked to clear him of the glitter, and even if it had, he didn’t know what effect it would have on the ocean’s ecosystem.

He kept his altitude low due to the rendezvous point, a tiny island with few trees and no permanent animal inhabitants. The only frequent visitors to the island were the passing bird, himself, and the mech he flew to meet. It resembled more a short, rocky cliff surrounded by a small beach than what one would typically associate with an ocean island.

It was perfect. His and Starscream’s own little oasis away from the war.

Of course, even so far from its fighters Skyfire could never forget the war’s effects, not with nullrays welded high on Starscream’s shoulders or the purple decals that adorned his wings. Or the red badge over his own chassis.

They never discussed the war or Starscream's role in it when they met. The seeker would often discuss at length any of the nonlethal experiments he was conducting, and Skyfire would explain his latest organic interest. They compared theories. They debated methodology. One time, Starscream had laughed. Not his usual cynical snicker or mocking cackle, but a real, joyful laugh that had sent him sprawling onto the sand and clutching his waist.

Their meet-ups reminded him of their days at the academy. He had no idea why Starscream had suggested them all those months ago. He was too scared their fragile truce would end if he did.

The island fast approaching, Skyfire transformed into root-mode, landing on its sandy shore as gracefully as a hundred-ton shuttle could. He turned his helm in search of the seeker, frowning when Starscream’s frame wasn’t immediately visible.

Their meetups were tightly scheduled affairs and Skyfire was late. Very late. Breems before it was meant to end late. Had the seeker left early?

Vocals raised, he announced his arrival, "Starscream? I'm here. Sorry I'm late, but I brought you engex. The purple blend, I know you—"

His vents caught in his throat.

An ethereal beauty silhouetted by the moon and draped in shadow. Starscream was a vision Skyfire never wanted to look away from. Before the war, Skyfire would have freely admitted to admiring his old partner's frame. Now he waited for the day he no longer had to conceal those once freely expressed admirations.

With a smile so wide it pulled the metal of his faceplate taught, he called out, “Starscream! I’m sorry I’m late, but I brought…”

His words died on his glossa, and his steps slowed to a complete stop. Blue optics blew wide, a chill freezing his frame and the spark within. As he had strode closer, more of the seeker’s frame had been revealed from behind the moon’s shroud.

“Starscream…what happened to you?”

The seeker’s frame was visibly, brutally battered. His canopy was cracked, an almost perfect circle shattered at its center; it looked like a fist had gone through it. Dents and fractures covered Starscream's upper arms, and one of his wings had been bent backward at the tip. A single optic was shuttered closed, and the metal surrounding it darkened as energon swelled underneath to aid self-repair systems. One of the seeker’s pedes held the deepest dents of all, disturbingly in the shape of a servo print. The knee cover on the same leg appeared lower than its opposite, with visible strained wires showing from beneath white armor. Almost like someone had tried to rip—

Starscream leaped from his perch, landing on one pede onto the sand below. The damaged leg remained raised slightly behind the seeker.

The mech chuckled, “Just ran into a nasty bit of…something nasty.”

A single crimson optic roved appraisingly over his frame. “And what of you? It seems Autobot life has been kind to you. Why, you’re practically glowing.” Then Starscream’s optic widened, and he placed a servo over his mouth, wings shaking with what appeared to be laughter. But it couldn’t be.

Starscream uncovered his mouth, waving a servo out toward Skyfire. “Practically? I meant literally—I adore what you’ve done with your legs. Very bioluminescence of you. Fitting, I know you’ve taken an interest in the phenomenon as part of your research.”

Skyfire had. He had, and he'd told Starscream during one of their earliest clandestine meetings about his deep-sea creature fascination. The seeker had flicked his wings in that dismissive way of his, and Skyfire had proceeded to change the topic to something he thought the other scientist would enjoy.

He hadn't thought Starscream was listening; he had never considered he might remember.

"I have, the high-pressure conditions in which they live—" Skyfire shook his helm; he could have slapped himself. Now wasn't the time to be talking about his scientific curiosities.

“Starscream, you need a medic. I can fly you back to the Autobots with me. I’m sure they’ll help you. They’re nice bots.”

The seeker tilted his helm, tapping a talon on his cheek, “Nice? Well, that would explain the streamers and the glitter. Was it a party? Did you enjoy yourself?"

“Yes, it was a party, but I…,” he floundered his next words. What should he say? That he had enjoyed himself? That he regretted that enjoyment?

“…They were celebrating something, I don’t even know what. They kept taking me to different rooms and asking me to stay longer and…and I couldn’t say no.”

Starscream stalked slowly toward the shuttle, bent slightly at the waist with his servos clasped behind his back. His gate was measured and without limp. Skyfire wondered how much pain the seeker must have been putting himself in to maintain that much dignity.

There was a smile on the shorter mech’s face; that it was more curious than malicious was what sent fear zipping up Skyfire’s wires. His spark’s energy thudded in its casing as if to flee, but the rest of his frame was still frozen. The flame of fear having yet to compete its thaw.

The seeker inclined his helm, inquiring, “Is that why you’re here, Skyfire? Because you lack the ability to say no?”

His optics cycled wide, and he shook his helm fast enough to cause light trails. "No, no, that's—"

A light chuckle cut him off, “So you can say no.

Skyfire nodded, “Yes, I didn’t—”

“How unfortunate.”

His jaw snapped shut. Starscream was standing directly in front of him.

Talons tapped lightly over the Autobot badge, their sharp tips grazing over the raised metal. Then—he had no warning—they dug in, causing pain sensors to flair and Skyfire to keen. Starscream’s hold was deep enough to become a harsh grip. Skyfire panted, his legs shaking, unable to resist as the seeker tugged his chassis forward.

"Ah-ah, lower, lower," Starscream crooned, and soon Skyfire was falling to his knees. "There you go, that's a good Autobot."

His servos opened and closed at his sides, wanting to grab and tear the seeker away from him. Fear of the Decepticon’s continued attack stilled his gears. The guilt digging into his chassis bolted his courage in place.

“Please, Starscream,” he winced. “You’re injured, let me—”

He choked as those talons pressed in deeper. Energon pooled inside the punctures, spilling out in a rush over the seeker’s blue servo.

“You chose them over me again,” Starscream whispered.

Skyfire swallowed, his lower derma trembling as he pushed past the pain to refute, "No, no, I would never—”

A red optic flashed before dimming, an enigmatic smile smoothing over Starscream’s faceplate. “But I suppose it’s for the best. I wasn’t lying when I said you look well tonight. You look positively ravishing.” Starscream slashed his talons down in a harsh sweep, shredding through Skyfire’s armor and the delicate circuitry it protected.

Skyfire shouted in agony, his servos shooting up to finally push his attacker away just as the seeker stepped back. He clutched his chassis, staring down at himself in panic. It wasn't a lethal attack; his energon levels were dropping but not fast enough to send him to stasis.

But it hurt. His processor fizzled with pain, and hull breach alerts popped across his HUD.

He gasped static, “Starscream, why?”

Starscream gazed down at him, all traces of his previous fury gone. There was no hint of an expression on his faceplate. “There will be no more meetings between us,” the mech stated. “You’ve chosen the Autobots over me for the last time.”

Then Starscream turned away from him, muttering something inaudible under his vents. The seeker began walking, his limp more obvious, back to the cliff’s outcropping. The shuttle nearly doubled over in understanding. Starscream was going to leave. He was going to leave, thinking Skyfire had chosen the Autobots over him. Again.

Skyfire forgot his pain. He scrambled to stand, to chase—he couldn’t move his legs. He reached out with a servo soaked in his innermost fluid, pleading, “Starscream, wait, please. You shouldn’t be flying. I’m sorry, I’m so sorry I was late. It won't happen again. Please just let me help you.”

Without looking back, Starscream replied, his vocals a soft hiss, “No.” Then he sardonically added, “See, that wasn’t so hard, was it?”

And then the seeker was transforming. And flying. And gone.

Skyfire fell forward onto his servos, digits digging into the sand; energon dripped from his wound, staining its white grains pink. A party streamer fell from somewhere on his back, floating down to land on a servo.

The sight of it had his chassis heaving, vents coming in and out too quickly to properly filter. He should never have stayed at The Ark. He should have turned down the first sweetened energon offering. He should have told the Autobots he already had plans scheduled for the evening.

Then he thought of something the twins had said. And he laughed, hollow and miserable. What had they told him about showing up late to an already planned gathering? Right, right.

Party foul.

22 notes · View notes