Archive of Our Own

Tucked safely beneath layers of Earth, Autobots slumbered within the Ark’s damaged walls.

All but one—no, two now. Thundercracker must remember to count himself amongst them, even if the red paint on his wings still shone fresh. Little more than a cycle had passed since he made the commitment to abandon the Decepticons, and yet the war had changed dramatically.

His switching sides a non-factor in the overall scheme of it.

Thundercracker gave a small sigh as he brushed dirt and tiny rocks from his shoulders; the residuals of his climb out of the Ark and into the hollowed-out monolith that sat above it.

Red optics brightened, wings flicking in the direction of the draft blowing in from the ship-shaped hole carved in stone as he scanned the area. While the outside sky did look beautiful—covered in thick grey clouds and interspersed with rounded cuts that revealed stars—there was no silhouette of the mech meant to be guarding it.

He frowned but held back the worst of his conclusions before they could jump out of the cave and leap into the sky. There were plenty of reasons why the once Prime might have left his post, not all of them relating to Megatron’s resurrection or Soundwave leading the charge back to the Autobots’ base.

Or another Deception pointing the way, gleeful at the prospect of catching the Autobots recharging and unawares.  

You will not be missed.

After a quick, dismissive huff out of his olfactorate, he walked slowly forward, gaze methodically roving up and around the cave for any sign of his wayward leader. And while the seeker tended to avoid staring directly downward lest he be reminded of how disgusting the ground he treaded upon was—he couldn’t stop his optics from wandering lower, only for them to roll. Of course, evidence of a grounder’s presence would be embedded in the dirt.

Squared pede prints lead out of the cave.

He walked alongside them, careful not to disturb their trace as they guided him out of the cave. The wearisome weight bearing down on his wings eased with every step closer to its opening.

Since Elita Prime’s departure to Cybertron along with a majority of the Autobot forces, the remaining discharged bots had been wearing their fear and uncertainty along the edges of their armor. It had filled the Ark, spilling into the ship’s cavern and rising to the cave above.

Their openness with their fields was oppressive in a way that Thundercracker was unused to and could not pretend to understand. Megatron’s presence on Earth had not caused nearly the same amount of apprehension in the Autobots as Elita’s rejection of Optimus’s authority had.

The Autobots' priority for their emotions was unfathomable. Elita had won her right to lead in fair combat and through the former Prime's own admission of weakness. Their ancient bobble had chosen her no differently than it had once chosen Optimus.

Or, so he assumed. Thundercracker didn’t actually know all that much about Primes and their holy sort. His position as a city guard in Vos had afforded him only the barest of an education. The basics of living: to read, to speak, to fly. Then, to take orders. To fight. To bow.

Matters of the Primacy had never been relevant to his lowly position. A fact that had not changed after joining the Decepticons, nor after his defection to the Autobots.

A relic would not dictate who he sought leadership from, nor would physical strength nor the obedience oft compelled by it. His flight path would now be plotted by much…weaker considerations.

You will not be missed.

An optic ridge raised as the missing truck’s trail came to an abrupt stop two paces outside of the cave. Tire tracks did not replace them, and there was no sign of a scuffle having taken place in the vicinity. The mech could not fly, so where could he have gone?

Circling the final set of steps, he grimaced as mud squelched and clung to his heel strut. Rain had come not long after their return to the Ark. The newest Magnus, having deliberately spun the muck beneath her tires, flinging it at the scattering, shouting Aerialbots. The poor things.

Thundercracker had watched on with a blank expression and privately held disgust. Before his defection, he would have expressed open disdain for ground pounders and mocked them for their squalid habits. Perhaps even imply through a snide remark that he wouldn’t be surprised if they started shoveling the sludge into their slack-jawed mouths next.

Now, he politely held his glossa in check. The Autobots valued camaraderie more than cruelty, an appreciated quality, if a difficult one to implement. Much as Thundercracker agreed with this particular Autobot trait, even before he’d joined them, his own attempts at expressing it had not gone nearly as appreciated as theirs appeared to be.

You will not be missed.

He crossed his arms over his canopy, brow ridge furrowing as information nodes attempted to configure into a straight line of code. Instead, they formed a looped query.

Where was Optimus?  

His pensive expression deepened, the metal creasing as a potential answer formulated.

When a Cybertronian traversed Earth, all surrounding life moved with them. The ground trembled, trees swayed and shook. Tiny organics scampered and scrambled to avoid being trampled (excluding a few foolhardy humans). And so, there was only one way the seeker knew of that his wayward leader could have disappeared under untraceable circumstances: teleportation. However, Thundercracker was quick to dismiss the idea. There was no world, not Earth, not Cybertron, nor any other unfortunate planet their war had visited, that the Decepticons would not take advantage of the Autobots' lack of security and dwindling numbers. If one were attacked, they all would be.

The former Prime had not been taken by…the former Prime had not been taken.

That left only one other direction for his search, one he rarely associated with grounded mecha. Up.

Light brown, jagged, and slick from rain, the monolith looked to be scalable by a mech of Optimus's size. Though, as climbing was generally an associated habit of flightless mecha, Thundercracker could not be certain of a truck’s ability. Had Optimus reached the summit?

There was only one way to know.

Thrusters ignited, causing the mud beneath him to bubble and pop, releasing hot steam that followed Thundercracker as he lifted into the air. A slow ascent that allowed him to observe both the ground below and the Ark’s earthly tomb. Attempting to follow the Prime’s possible path without the aid of flight had been a brief consideration. One quickly dismissed due to the accompanying imagery of dirt, clumpy and wet, wedging between digits.

Thundercracker had abandoned the Decepticons, not his dignity. He would not debase himself further by climbing on all fours like some common mechanimal.

After his abysmal performance during the last battle, there was only so much more battering his warrior’s pride could take.

The higher he rose, the lower the temperature dropped. Chilled mist permeated increasingly thin air, ghosting along his wings and causing blue armor to clink together in a full frame shiver. A potential icing alert sounded in the back of his processor; he grimaced. Though his disgruntled expression had nothing to do with the weather.

Recalling the last battle, his first against the Decepticons, was as embarrassing as it was disgraceful. Could what Thundercracker had done even be called battle? He’d mostly dodged his former comrades’ attacks, vainly hoping at least one would stay their servo. Then, Skywarp had appeared, and they’d fought like any random bot or con would. Any attempt to reason with his brother had been met with barbs and mockery that could have applied to any soft-sparked Autobot. Only one word, delivered through a sneer, had hinted toward the seekers’ shared history.

Traitor.   

Soon after, Megatron tried to kill him, only to succumb to a mysterious affliction. And how had Thundercracker reacted? Concern? It hadn’t even been a conscious decision. One klick, he had accepted his doomed fate, the next, he was fretting over Megatron's, going so far as to try and help the warlord to stand.

It was irrational behavior. Megatron had not hesitated to threaten his life. So why, when the Decepticon leader was at his most vulnerable, had Thundercracker?

You will not be missed.

His pinched expression eased, becoming more impassive than introspective. Nothing good would come from these self-deprecating thoughts, and so he filed them away. There was a more preemptive priority to reroute his admittedly limited processing power to.

Where was Optimus?

Thundercracker could identify no marks etched into the monolith’s side, no indicator that a truck had dug digits into rock to reach its flat peak. Dirt was dirt. It all appeared the same to a seeker who, before Earth, had refused to fly low.

Huffing in annoyance, he decided to stop wasting his time with something so contrary to his design.

Damp wind whipped past, coating his faceplate in a thin layer of dew as he raced to the top. Unlike the surrounding mountains, the monolith did not narrow to a thin peak. It flattened, appearing as though something had sliced through it. Perhaps the Ark, when it had first fallen? Thundercracker did not know; he didn't particularly care.

Such ponderings would wait until he found Optimus. After which, Thundercracker could…well, he hadn’t quite thought that far ahead yet. What was he going to do after finding Optimus? Why had he even gone out in search of the mech in the first place?

He had escaped the depressed fields jelling the ship’s air, only to seek out the dourest mech of them all. Why?

Any former Autobot on the Ark could message the no-longer Prime through comms. Thundercracker had yet to be given the same means of communication, however that was more likely due to an oversight than an intentional snub. He could have woken any of the recharging mecha up and requested them to confirm Optimus’s whereabouts.

His speed increased, thrusters roaring, bright bursts of flame flaring from his heel-struts.

Why did he not simply fly into the sky, soar through the clouds, and wait for the rising sun to bring its warmth? He had no real reason to be looking for Optimus so late into the night. Optimus had no reason to want to be found by a former Decepticon during his hours of grief.

You will not be missed.

Engine rumbling, he overshot his destination, sailing high over the monolith’s cropped edge. Both optic ridges lifted, his mouth slightly parting at the sight that greeted him below.

A rich, dark green blanket threaded by organic needles. Pine trees that stood tall enough to completely cover the plateaued ground. Thin bristles shone underneath the dim moonlight; tiny twinkles of light reflected off raindrops that had yet to slide from the trees and onto the forest’s floor.

A starscape like nonother. Earth truly did have an unmatched kind of majesty, the likes of which Thundercracker had never seen before. Or was it that he had never taken the time to observe the ground where his bombs fell long enough to notice what lay beneath fire and ash?

Closing his mouth, Thundercracker gave his helm a little shake to refocus his attention. Red optics brightened, scanning for a metallic sheen amongst the organic landscape. There were no shaking trees or sounds of animals fleeing. No sign of a giant’s movement amongst the miniature. Disappointment rumbled in the back of Thundercracker’s throat.

Maybe there was reason to worry after all. If not atop the monolith, then where—there!

Standing just outside the forest, on the opposite end of the monolith, was Optimus.

Thundercracker started toward him, only to halt before he could fly over the trees. The first of hopefully many future conscientious considerations coming to the forefront of his processor.

A seeker's jets were loud, and there was a chance their fire could catch the trees. Then, there was Optimus, standing with his back to the forest, arms crossed over his chassis as he stared out over the monolith's edge. The only sound to be heard in the vicinity came from Thundercracker’s own thrusters. Flying over the forest would surely disrupt the resting organisms within more so than a gentle trek through it.

Disturbing such a peaceful scene felt wrong, and so Thundercracker chose not to.

An unknown heat blossomed in his spark chamber, its warmth spreading from the points of his wings to the tips of his pedes. He lowered himself to the ground, for once paying no mind to how unpleasant its grime felt underpede.

With a smile wobbling at the corners of his mouth, Thundercracker walked past the tallest of the pines and into the forest. His surroundings immediately darkened, the brightest light now a duoed crimson glow. Every step was careful; wing and optical sensors set to their highest sensitivity to avoid anything that might go squish.

Because away from the Decepticons, he could take the slow and steady path forward, paying close attention to what might be trampled. Amongst the not-Autobots, consideration for the surrounding fragile world was not a hidden luxury, but an expected expense. The recurring cost of war.

It was liberating.

How long had it been since Thundercracker had made the choice to act on his conscience and not fear immediate reprimand? Without rejection and violence being inflicted upon his frame for daring to show weakness toward those deemed lesser? Not since before the war, and even then, his actions had been heavily restricted due to the stigma associated with outliers. His creation had included an unintentional capacity for violence; thus, violence became his secondary function after flight.

Only one mech had ever been permitted to receive more from Thundercracker, and only then because they had shared similar spark aberrations, possessed near identical frames, and almost exactly matched functions. Their connection becoming close enough to forge what organics would call a familial bond. Or so Thundercracker had thought.

You will not be missed.

His smile (for once unrelated to battle frenzy or the promise of victory) remained, crooked and inexplicably soft. An unfamiliar expression, but not an unwelcome one. As not even the thought of his pathetic past or what the future had robbed him of was enough to ground the seeker’s high-flown mood. The wet underbrush grazing across his ankle-joints could not dampen his impassioned spark.

This newfound freedom had come from Thundercracker’s choice to leave the Decepticons, but the mech who had gifted him the bravery necessary to make it was—

“Optimus,” he vented softly, optics wide, spark swirling fast as a solar storm in its casing.

Glimpsed between rows of trees, facing away from the forest with arms crossed, was Optimus. Rainwater that had yet to dry dripped down red and blue armor. Glistening down white thighs to pool in the dirt, creating a shallow puddle underneath the stoic mech.

An unmatched majesty, indeed.

Thundercracker’s vents hitched, fans stuttering on and off before he was able to reign in the malfunction. Most likely caused by his targeting systems hiccupping over the reclassification of a once great enemy: no more an adversary. No more a Prime. No more an Autobot.

Just Optimus.

Something else stirred in the deep, archived recesses of his processor. A title that had gone unused by the seeker’s asset allocation for millennia. The last one had not been that exact designation, but was close enough for the threat warning to still exist whenever it was invoked. Betrayal and brutality and—

You will not be missed.

Sucking in a deep vent, he continued toward Optimus, optics focused so squarely forward that he accidentally stepped on a fallen half-rotted tree, snapping it in half. 

Optimus whipped around, optics hard and a blaster materializing in a servo. The weapon was pointed directly at Thundercracker, whose spark was pounding in its casing, though not out of fear, oddly enough. It was why he was able to lift his servos, palms forward and wings lowered, without shaking. Before his defection, there would have at least been some trepidation at confronting a hostile Optimus.

Hunching forward in an effort to appear smaller, Thundercracker cautiously approached the tree line, unable to identify the emotion pulsing within, urging him onward. Only the discomfiture at realizing his presence had evoked a negative reaction from Optimus. There was a chance Optimus’s response was because the seeker—crimson optics, a glow and shadowed by the trees—had not been recognized. Risking the sting of blaster fire, Thundercracker seized hold of that chance.

While walking slowly out from behind the forest’s cover, he used the cadence meant to calm a skittish mechanimal to softly call out, “It’s only me, Optimus.”

Almost immediately, the blaster dropped, disappearing as recognition shone behind blue optics. Visibly sagging, and with an air of relief, Optimus vented, “Thundercracker.” Only for the former Prime to straighten, asking with alarm, “Has something happened on the Ark?”

Thundercracker’s optics cycled, then shuttered in rapid blinks. Understanding crashed his processor, causing his words to come out in a rush as he recovered from the blow. “No, no, nothing has happened on the Ark. All is well, your comrades are resting inside. I have detected no Decepticon presence in the vicinity.”  

He deliberately left out how deeply disturbed he’d been when, after covering themselves in mud, the not-Autobots had trudged inside the ship without rinsing their armor and made no mention of visiting a washrack before retiring to their berths. An omission made out of kindness, Optimus would surely think if he knew. He would also thank Thundercracker for the courtesy; praise him for learning their soft-sparked ways so quickly.

One of the seeker’s wings twitched.

Optimus tilted his helm, a puzzled look overtaking his handsome faceplate. “Then why have you sought me out?”

The question was not one Thundercracker had been prepared for. He had expected maybe a how are you? Perhaps a beautiful night, isn’t it? Or even would you like to join me?

His processor zeroed out, failing to provide a response. The query was no more answerable than when Thundercracker had asked himself. Why had he sought out Optimus? For what purpose had he forgone much-needed recharge, readying his frame for the next battle, to instead track down a mech who very likely wanted to be alone?

Blankly, Thundercracker said the first thing that popped into his helm. “Because you were gone.”

Optimus blinked at the seeker, then smiled, the corners of his optics crinkling in a way that had Thundercracker zooming in on the tiniest of lines.

“So I was,” Optimus replied, a light-sparked laugh carrying his vocals across the clearing. Still smiling, he continued, “I’m sorry if I worried you. It seems time has gotten away from me. I had only intended to be here long enough to clear my mind.”

Thundercracker nodded, “You are forgiven.”

Then, before he could convince himself to leave the former Prime to empty his cache, he walked to stand next to Optimus. Once standing several helms taller than most Decepticons, Optimus had become much shorter after relinquishing the Matrix. So much so that blue antenna barely reached the top of the seeker's canopy.

It was one of the only instances of being forced to look down; the flyer did not mind. In fact, he found he quite liked the view. The answer to that why as mysterious as the one that had lured him up the monolith.

And so, it went similarly ignored as Thundercracker shamelessly asked, “Would you like to talk about what has brought you so high? It must be serious for a mech who cannot fly to stand so close to a ledge.”

Optimus turned his helm from the seeker and back to the clouded sky. Silence filled the space between them. As Thundercracker had not been told to leave or that his question was out of line—he made no comment on the quiet. However long it took for Optimus to speak his troubled thoughts, Thundercracker would wait. Well into the night, past the sun’s rise, and into the next cycle if necessary.

Finally, after what felt like an age, but in reality was less than a breem, Optimus confessed, “I cannot help but question if Elita is right. Have I led our people so far astray that they no longer know their way home? I believed Elita lost to her anger; her vision so clouded by violence that she no longer can see a future without it. But maybe I'm the one who is lost. The Matrix accepted her, though it also did not reject me. I am confused, and I…I do not know…."

Venting heavily, Optimus turned his helm toward the seeker; he was wearing the saddest smile Thundercracker had ever seen. Though none of that sadness leaked into deep vocals when the distraught mech asked, “What do you think?”

Something about that smile unsettled Thundercracker. He wanted to reach out and wipe it off the smaller mech’s mouth. Gently, of course. A peculiar desire that had him clenching his fists— pointedly ignoring the expectant blue optics reflecting off his armor—and staring up at the sky in an effort to abate it.

The clouds had thinned just enough for the faintest of starlight to shine through. Dulled by wispy grey, it was a rather unimpressive sight.

Right. What did Thundercracker think of Elita Prime's assertion? That, at least, he had a ready answer for. And since Autobots (even former ones) appreciated honesty, while continuing to stare upward, Thundercracker gave his true thoughts, stating bluntly that, “Elita Prime is right. You are too soft sparked for war and your constant belief that there is hope for the Decpeticons to be better than what they have proven themselves to be is dangerous, if not outright deadly.”

Optimus stiffened, and Thundercracker contemplated assuring the former Prime that agreeing with Elita in one matter did not mean he was in accord with them all. After the new Prime had warned that all Autobots who remained on Earth would no longer be considered welcome within the faction—the decision to stay had become even easier for him. Not even a full klick’s worth of thought had been needed to solidify his resolve.

Having realized that he did not care what he was called any longer, Decepticon or Autobot. That it was not a faction he had chosen to join; the seeker’s loyalty was no longer dictated by painted symbols. Thundercracker had chosen to stand by Optimus’s side; not an Autobot, not a Prime, not a warlord.

Optimus.

His faceplate heated at just the thought of it, metal cheeks threatening to burn so hot they scorched red. Embarrassed by his own impassioned sentiments, Thundercracker tried to think of a less revealing way to express how he felt. A grand declaration of loyalty would likely make Optimus uncomfortable…or suspicious. Especially when Thundercracker himself barely understood where such strong emotions had emerged from.

A quiet conversation underneath a bright green canopy. An exchange of ideals without judgment or harsh words. Compliments. Assurance. Acceptance.

Remembering the first real conversation he’d shared with Optimus—maybe with anyone—his swirling spark calmed, a light smile replacing his tepid expression. The wing closest to Optimus lifted and gently brushed against the shorter mech's shoulder. It was meant to convey comfort, assurance, and camaraderie without a need for spoken words. However, knowing the complexities of wingspeak would be lost on a grounder; Thundercracker included a few anyway.

“Or, perhaps we’re both wrong. Your kindness has managed to save one Decepticon, after all.”

Thundercracker tilted his helm, optics slanting to the side as he tried not to appear too obvious in his anticipation. Blue armor softly clanked together, the seeker unable to keep his frame from visibly tensing. Curiosity had never gripped him so vigorously before; were he any less disciplined a warrior, his wings would have been rattling.

Was Optimus going to thank him? Give a consolatory speech of his own? Offer an exchange of tangible camaraderie, colloquially known as a hug?!

Thundercracker had never attempted to comfort another in such a lingual way before, and certainly never an Autobot. He had no frame of reference and therefore knew not what to expect. Each possibility was as likely as the next. The only mech he had ever extended a down-wind wing toward had…well. No reaction could be worse than the one he’d already received.

You will not be—

Optimus sharply twisted his helm away from the seeker, hunching forward as red shoulders trembled. A choked sound escaped before Optimus clenched his jaw; a servo quickly slapped over his lower faceplate, muffling any other response. Pricks of dirty coolant formed at the edges of dimmed blue optics, shimmering with oil that refused to mix.

Thundercracker’s wings immediately dropped, his optics widening in panicked confusion. Optimus’s field was tightly wound, inaccessible. Still, the thick tears sliding down his pinched faceplate were too blatant to miss. Somehow, his words had made Optimus feel even worse. His comfort had been received so poorly that it caused a battle-worn, respectable, formidable, inspiring, brilliant warrior to cry from the sheer flagrancy of it.

What had he said that was so wrong? He worried at his bottom derma and reached out a servo. It hovered over one of Optimus’s shoulders, only for him to clench his fist and draw it back.

Optimus wiped the tears away with the back of his servo, leaving oily smudges. Indisputable evidence of Thundercracker’s failure. He wanted to clean them away completely. To remove all proof he had ever made Optimus feel so terrible.

Did he have that right? Could he touch Optimus so freely? There had yet to be a fight following Optimus’s battle with Elita Prime. Thundercracker did not know how his strength matched up against the shorter mech’s. Was the seeker now the stronger between them?

Within the Decepticons, that was the only question that mattered when taking the liberty of physical touch. One Thundercracker had never indulged in; another point of contention between him and his former comrades. The rare times he had sought physical relief from another Decepticon flyer, the encounter had ended with both parties dissatisfied. Usually, before panels had even opened.

Compared to the extreme standards of the Decepticons, his preferences were stranger still. It had not taken long for rumors about his deviancy to spread through the ranks, leaving him with no options for partners. Though considering what was asked of him in berth, Thundercracker had not mourned the loss.

He was yanked out of his pitiful past reflection when Optimus sucked in a loud, clogged vent and straightened to look up at the dreary sky with fogged optics. The saddened mech had seemingly begun to compose himself. All before Thundercracker had a chance to rectify his mistake.

Ideas on how to properly comfort Optimus before the mech could once again prove his fortitude and do it himself flung upwards in Thundercracker’s processor. Only to be blown away by the harsh wind blasting through his clearly hollow helm.

What could he do? Say? Was there any recovering from this cosmically cataclysmic orate fumble?

His mouth opened, closed, opened again. Snapped shut. His wings flapped gawkishly. All auxiliary power was redirected to his problem-solving subset. Condensation caused by his burning processor and the night’s chilled air beaded along his forehelm.

Had Optimus been a Decepticon, Thundercracker would have…done nothing at all to try and comfort him. But were Optimus the seeker’s brother, then he would have forgone vocalizations altogether and offered to spar. An energon-soaked, broken parts fight that left both combatants damaged and weary, lacking the energy required to process their emotions. If they couldn't think, they couldn't be sad. Or reflect. Or regret.

Latching onto the prospect of a physical (and thus much more achievable) solution—an unexpected light went off in his processor, casting Thundercracker’s thoughts in a sordid red glow.

There were theories shared amongst the Decepticons about why the Autobots all seemed too tactilely friendly with one another. Salacious rumors that spread from battalion to platoon to squadron, mostly regarding the libertine nature of the Primacy.

Hushed hearsay that Primus’s chosen availed himself of wartime tension by making recreational use of his vassals. The gossip always centered around not if Optimus enjoyed the smaller Autobots’ frames, but rather how. Was it consensual? Of course. Another non-question.

Who were the favorites? Was a particularly debated guess. How often and how many did he take at once? Did the officers join or were they spared this specific duty? Could interfacing with Optimus even be considered a duty?

…That last one was one of Thundercracker's own tacked-on queries. Considering he’d never paid much heed to the rumors or contributed to their spread, it was rather unexpected of him.

Another original (and really, how novel for a warrior of his class) thought: without the Matrix, was Optimus not still entitled to those same visceral comforts? Is that why he had wandered up a muddy monolith alone? Because he could no longer alleviate his stress by engaging in conciliatory intimacy with those under his command?

Did the remaining Earth mecha not realize how painful rejection by a cause, a people one had dedicated more than half their life to, could be? If there was ever a time Optimus needed a welcoming, resilient frame to lose himself in, it was now. Did they simply not understand how much their leader was pained by his loss? Were they just lazy? Ungrateful? Neglecting an honorable sacrifice-nay, privilege to comfort their leader because they no longer viewed Optimus as worthy of them?

The very idea had his wings hiking in anger. Thundercracker would like to fly down the monolith, wake the indolent mecha within the Ark, and shake some sense into them. If only he had paid more attention to the rumors, he might have known which one of them Optimus preferred. Then he could have—

A gentle servo gripped his shoulder. Startled, Thundercracker jerked out of the weak hold. It had been Optimus, of course. The mech’s optic ridges were drawn, and that same sad smile had taken afflictive shape on his faceplate. It twisted the seeker’s spark around its casing. Turning that dim red light into a blazing sun.  

Optimus held both servos up in what should not be an apologetic gesture and huffed a laugh. It too sounded sad. “Th—”

Before a single glyph could be finalized, Thundercracker gripped Optimus’s chin, leaned down, and kissed him. It was a hard press of slightly scratched derma against the smaller mech’s softer set. His optics remained unshuttered, fear welding them open.

Optimus’s remained just as open, the mech having gone completely unresponsive the moment Thundercracker gripped his chin. Uncomfortable astro-seconds added to his chronometer, and still, no movement to reciprocate the kiss was made. Without dropping his hold, Thundercracker pulled back, swallowing his terror at having made yet another mistake in order to ask, “Is it not custom to be comforted this way?”

Optics going wide, and deep vocals rising with what sounded like surprise, Optimus confirmed, “It’s custom!”

Relief flooded his systems so swiftly that it nearly caused his wings to sag. The expression of shock from Optimus was clearly at a former Decepticon having knowledge of the Autobots’ intimate interpersonal dynamics. Had the faction thought their enemy so unaware? Why else would the Autobots have been so free and receptive to their Prime's touch if not by deeply thorough, repeated desensitization?

Thundercracker’s derma curled upward, fear melting away to be replaced by a not-so-small amount of smugness at having guessed right. “So, it is,” he smirked before leaning down for another kiss.

The shorter mech stiffened once more, but then, almost tentatively, the kiss was returned. One, then another, short, quick pecks that gradually deepened. Starting with a slow swipe of Thundercracker's glossa along the tight line of Optimus's closed derma.

Hesitant servos gripped his waist, their touch so light it would have gone unnoticed under any other circumstance. With Thundercracker’s sensory network primed and sizzling (quite literally) beneath his armor, it was impossible not to feel. Forfeiting the Matrix had coincided with a forfeiture of strength from Optimus; was he unsure of what power remained?

His new leader’s restraint was also oddly…precious. There was not a piece of plating on Thundercracker that had not been dented, shredded, or torn off completely at least once during their endless war. Though if Optimus was worried about hurting Thundercracker, then their coupling might prove more enjoyable than the seeker predicted. Less an offering of endurance, and more an exercise of vitality.

He chuckled and brought a servo to the back of Optimus’s helm to press their mouths more firmly together. Optimus gasped, and Thundercracker accepted the invitation. His glossa dipping, just the tip, into the other’s mouth. Just a taste, one that came back clean. No hint of dirt or greenery. Not that he had actually expected the four-wheeled insult dirt muncher to be literal.

At least, not for Optimus.

Breaking the kiss, he tilted his helm back just enough to see that blue optics were half-shuttered, while remaining close enough for Optimus’s heavy vents to puff against his glossa.

He closed his mouth, tasting them, before leaning back down for more.

This time, Optimus’s glossa extended to meet his own, and Thundercracker’s engine rumbled with satisfaction.

Growing accustomed to Optimus's touch was not such a terrible prospect. The notion that he was now the only mech on Cybertron willing to lie with his chosen leader was also quite pleasing. Likely because after being labeled a weak-sparked traitor by his previous faction, Thundercracker could now prove himself the most devoted to his new one.

Shadows fell across red shoulders, what little light the stars had provided being completely obscured by thickening clouds. The night grew darker, calling attention to how brightly Optimus’s optics were shining. Thundercracker couldn’t look away. Staring directly into a supernova could not be as blinding.

Sensing a drop in air pressure, his wings twitched, warning of the coming rain, and a reminder of their exposed position. While admittedly eager, he had no desire to demonstrate his dedication so openly. Optimus may be used to surrounding himself with throngs of thralls, and if rumors were to be believed (and they were), under the protective watch of his Magnuses. However, Thundercracker had never enjoyed the prospect of uninvolved optics on his exposed array.

It was a level of vulnerability that no self-respecting Decepticon would ever allow themselves to sink to. Fortunately, Thundercracker was no longer the latter of that description. And based on his enthusiasm for joining the long list of frames that had comforted Optimus, he could barely be considered the former.

Reluctantly, he broke the kiss, a single string of oral clear lubricant stretching and snapping between their parted derma. “Not here,” he whispered.

The beguiling thrum of Optimus’s engine nearly covered up the panting mech’s question, the vocalization charmingly dazed as it was confused. “Not where? What?”

Unable to help himself, Thundercracker dipped his helm to give Optimus another over-too-soon kiss, venting against plush derma, "We're exposed." After a quick downward glance at their still closed panels, he added with some chagrin, "Both too much and too little for my liking."

Optimus’s field bloomed with mirth, finally brushing away the deadened nothing that had surrounded him. Optimus might have even laughed had Thundercracker not immediately kissed him upon feeling it, thrilled to have lifted his leader’s mood.

With his neck still bent, he bumped a knee against Optimus's upper thigh, prompting the shorter mech to take a jerky step backward. Thundercracker followed, repeating the pattern. Their legs brushed and bumped as he guided them toward the tree line; each step accompanied by a kiss.

Once inside the forest, Thundercracker stretched his wings out as far as their hinges would allow. Surrounding air pressure and displacement data located a tree with acceptable parameters within a reasonable distance. Sturdy enough to support a Cybertronian's reclined weight and close enough to satisfy his concupiscent impatience.

That he sensed no nearby organics was an additional boon…not that he had detected any before entering the forest or during his journey through it. Just as he started to ponder why, the gears in his helm ground to a halt; a literal spark of desire flicked off the side of his helm. 

Optimus was looking up at him with fogged optics, panting through kiss-glossed derma. The servos on his waist had tightened, and his field was now buzzing with what Thundercracker begged to be urgency.

He was made to lock the joints in his digits for fear of crushing the smaller mech’s helm from how badly he wanted to push Optimus into him. Until their frames melded in a molten mess of passionate comfort.

As if sensing the seeker’s restraint, Optimus sucked in a harsh vent, swallowing it down only to gasp, “Thundercracker, what are we…?”

They neared the treen, one more step, and then—a harsh pivot. His back slammed into the trunk; it barely shook. He didn't question why. Optimus was now pressed flush against his canopy; Thundercracker only had enough rationality left to wish his yellow glass was painted. The thought of his paint transfer becoming a scraped claim over Optimus’s unblemished chassis had his interface protocols predominating primary and secondary operating systems.

His array flushed, warm, and uncomfortably moist behind its paneling. An instant reboot restored his control over his motor and lexical functions, clearing a litany of retract-and-engage queries.

Rubbing a small circle into Optimus’s hip with his thumb, he answered, “Here is more appropriate.”

Optimus’s helm tilted. “Appropriate?”

Thundercracker did not answer Optimus’s implied question, not wanting to admit that he did not share the former Prime’s penchant for voyeurism. His next actions would make up for denying Optimus one of his preferred pleasures. Hopefully. It had actually been so long since he’d last performed fellatio for a partner that he was unsure if his skill had sustained.

At least it would not require him to talk, a significantly more processor-intensive task at the moment.

After a quick assessment to determine how to proceed with preparing Optimus, his initial idea was rejected. He'd wanted to sit against the tree and allow Optimus to make use of his mouth, but their height difference would not allow him to take such a passive role.

Wordlessly, Thundercracker slid to his knees. His pedes dug into the dirt, pushing it up into a pile around their tips. Even on his knees, he would have to hunch to reach Optimus’s array, and so with less trepidation than expected, he began to slide his legs apart. Mud caked against knees, smushing into seams and nearly making him gag—well before anything had touched the back of his throat.

Once comfortably situated (as comfortable as he could be on the ground), he looked up and couldn’t help but grin.

Optimus’s optic ridges had shot high, apparently not having expected the taller mech to prostrate before him. Why? Because he was no longer Prime? Thundercracker regarded servicing his chosen leader as a privilege. One that had taken the seeker throwing away everything he had ever known to earn. As if he would ever turn down an opportunity to express his gratitude for such an honor.

And much to Thundercracker’s satisfaction—while Optimus was clearly unprepared for a nonbeliever’s oblation to be so forward after the loss of his holy relic, he still made no move to extract himself from the plinth.

Instead, only closing his mouth long enough to swallow (red optics hungrily watching as throat cables expanded and squeezed), gulping out a lustful, “What…what are you going to do now?”

Starting from where the blues of Optimus’s legs connected with the white, he slowly skittered his servos upward, tracing over and around the curved lines that rounded out the smaller mech’s rectangular thighs. One servo took hold of a hip-tire, the other rubbed against the space between Optimus's legs where his long blue panel had once been installed.

Using his pointer digit, he traced a light-pressure line over a tightly closed seam up to where he estimated Optimus’s spike cover to be. Tapping it once, he coaxed, “Open, and I’ll prep you.”

“P-prep me?”

“I don’t have any lubrication in subspace; my mouth will have to do…unless your spike is still self-lubricating?" It was a genuine curiosity of his. Many of the rumors spread about the Matrix had included its augmentations to the bearer's array and the civilization's worth of interfacing knowledge passed down by the Primes who had borne it. Optimus Prime was a revered venereal expert: was just Optimus the same?

The response Thundercracker received was completely unrelated: “You want my spike?”

Cold, servile fear trickled into his spark. Repudiation? Had he presumed too much? Was his submission deemed unworthy? But…Thundercracker wanted. He wanted and…and….

And his leader was not trying to push him away; the armor under his servos showed no signs of cooling. So, feeling bold, but mostly desperate, he leaned forward to kiss the gap that connected Optimus’s leg to his hip. Then, licked along the gap's edge to the front of Optimus's pelvic span. He kissed its center, slow and wet and with his glossa swirling against it. And to further prove his desire, he pressed his cheek against a tire with visible mud splatter.

Panic slicing through him, Thundercracker faux-innocently intoned, “Is that a problem?”

A squeaked, “No!” A panel practically snapping open and a spike pressurizing into the air, all happened simultaneously. Thundercracker had to jerk his helm back to avoid being slapped by it. Though maybe that had been Optimus's intent? Well, if so, Thundercracker would soon express his sincere regret for having missed it.

But first, he had to assess the tool he would be working with. His first thought was that Optimus's spike was a far cry from the legendary length and girth the rumors had supplied him with. Not that it was a bad spike. Mostly black, a round tip that tapered, with a line of red nodes on its underside, and white wires twisting up its side. The word Thundercracker would use to describe it was unintimidating.

Proportional! Proportional was a better word. Unless Optimus proved a saint on the street and a brute in berth, Thundercracker would not leave this encounter with a limp.

He considered releasing his own spike, aching and dribbling behind its cover, but decided against it. Would Optimus take offense to Thundercracker's spike being significantly larger than his own? It wasn't worth the risk.

Misinterpreting Thundercracker’s observation as hesitation, Optimus fretfully asked, “Is something wrong with my spike?”

The seeker was quick to reassure, “No, no, I was only admiring your equipment. It’s very….” Never the most eloquent, Thundercracker could only say the third word that had populated his processor after seeing the pressurized spike. “Pretty.”

Optimus’s spike twitched, and a tiny bead of blue transfluid formed on its tip.

Blue wings quivered at the sight of it; Thundercracker ran his glossa over his top denta in anticipation.

Vocals hiccupping with static, Optimus let out a shaky, “Really?” 

Thundercracker chuckled. Was Optimus insecure after his reformatting? There was no need. The seeker’s ardor to asseverate devotion had nothing to do with his commander’s appearance. Though for a grounder, Optimus’s frame was surprisingly pleasing to the optic. All strong lines and striking colors. Even exposed wheels didn't detract from the truck's overall attractive design.

“Are you calling me a liar because I used to be a Decepticon?” He teased while leaning forward, not stopping until the spike was directly in front of his faceplate. Using his free servo, Thundercracker gripped the base of Optimus's spike. Circling it with ease, thumb overlapping with his digit tips. "Not all of us are liars, you know. I never was."

In the perseverance of Thundercracker’s tattered honor, he would not include lying to himself in that appraisal.               

A servo cupped the side of his helm, causing him to look up and see Optimus smiling softly, no trace of his earlier sadness to be seen. Their optics met, and his leader professed, “I never thought you were.”

Something hot stung the corners of his optics; whatever it was, it went ignored. As did the flush of heat that Optimus's affirmation had sent to his array, causing his spike to throb painfully behind its cover. Optimus truly was the most gracious mech Thundercracker had ever met. He deserved everything the seeker could offer him and more.

Thundercracker wanted to give him more. More than he’d ever been gifted by another.

He took a deep, chassis-heaving vent through his olfactorate, determination drying the edges of his optics. Then, before his mouth was otherwise occupied, Thundercracker advised, “Please relax while I get you ready.”

His earliest formations of a plan had involved slowly exploring Optimus’s equipment. Starting with slow strokes and testing swipes along red nodes with his glossa. Ensuring his partner was well warmed and receptive to his touch before progressing the encounter.

But any Autobot could do that, and Optimus was dauntingly experienced.

He gathered oral lubricant in his mouth, opened his mouth wide, and swallowed Optimus’s spike down in one fluid motion. Not stopping until his olfactorate was flush with white plating.

Optimus gasped and jolted, his chassis hunching forward, aft shifting up and away, forcing Thundercracker to use his grip over the mech’s tire to maintain his balance as he followed. Servos gripped the air-intakes on the back of the seeker's shoulders, Optimus using them to support his tremulant frame.

Blue wings fluttered high, the seeker preening at his leader’s involuntary praise. Were his mouth not currently full, he would have smiled. As it was, he chuckled. Then, he hummed. Then, he swallowed. His double-lined throat made the spike's tip pressed against its back feel like little more than a light tickle.

His glossa twisted, running along thick wires and rubbing against heated nodes. Oral lubricant built up in what space was left, generously coating Optimus’s spike, and easing his mouth’s upward slide; sucking all the way up until his cheeks hollowed. Not stopping until only the tip remained inside.

He didn’t open his mouth, instead flicking and dipping the tip of his glossa into the tiny slit on Optimus’s spike. Bitterly sweet transfluid lit up the palate-sensors along his glossa; he swallowed the taste, saving it in deep storage memory.

The seeker’s name was moaned, it was gasped, each utterance viciliated in pitch, switching between desperate and demanding. How he wished to watch the way Optimus called his name; the tiny flick of his glossa against denta, the parting of thick derma.

His legs quivered, threatening to sink his frame deeper into the mud. Cool air blew against his valve and—when had Thundercracker retracted his cover?

Leaving one servo on Optimus’s tire, he used the other to reach down to his array. Steam wasted downward, and lubrication dripped onto his spread digits. He was burning and wet at the same time, a marvel. Thundercracker could not recall the last time he’d desired to be filled so badly.

The outer rubber lining of his valve was swollen with energon, the inner mesh twitching and squeezing against nothing in anticipation. His dark blue anterior node tingled but went ignored as he pressed two digits against his valve's opening and pushed inside.

Thundercracker grunted, Optimus groaned.

He spread his digits, quickly pushing them in and out with no consideration to the mech lining’s painful tautness. There just wasn’t time for a slow stretch and exploration of his rarely used valve.

Listening to Optimus chant his designation with such reverence—Thundercracker did not want to make time.

Besides, even before his freakish reputation preceded him, Thundercracker’s valve had seen little use. He preferred giving over receiving, wanting to provide his partner with as much pleasure as he was physically capable. Only if they expressed interest and specifically asked did he allow anything but his own inquisitive digit to probe.

He pursed his derma, sucking harshly around the tip of Optimus’s spike before sliding back down, then back up. Bobbing his helm in sequence with his stretch.

Oral lubrication, colored fluorescent blue by transfluid, seeped out of the corners of his mouth, coating his chin in its stick. Calipers gripped his digits, tugging them back in as he pulled out. The sloshing sound of lubricant slicking around his digits and out his valve must have brought the seeker's self-preparation to Optimus's attention. Because the mech's next moaned gasp was filled with more than just a pleasure-stained name.

What are…wait, you're, mmm. That’s s-so…do you need—Thundercracker! Please, I’m clo-ah-close.”

So soon? Was it due to the sensitivity of his new frame? Whatever the reason, it was far too soon for his leader to overload. 

He rocked backward on his knees, pulling off Optimus's spike with a wet pop, a tiny spark leaping from its tip and shocking his glossa. His back hit the tree trunk hard, and some dormant part of his processor, noting it was not made of organic matter, but rather stone. The thought went unexamined as his aft fell onto the ground, causing mud to sizzle against his burning armor.

Spike waving in the air and with bent knees, Optimus stepped forward, one of his servos reaching outward in concern. His leader's care expressed by a venty, “Are you okay?”

Something about that specific stringing of words caused Thundercracker’s legs to spread all on their own. He didn’t even activate his motor controls. His back slid further down the tree until his wings were digging into the ground, pressed nearly flat against it.

Optimus’s concerned gaze dropped from the seeker’s bent canopy to his bared array—his mouth falling open and blue optics widening, accompanied by the telltale whirr of a zooming lens.

Thundercracker called no attention to the staring. Seekers were a rare frame type, and while the Aerialbots were close, they could never compare. He was confident (at least in this one aspect) that Optimus had never seen a valve that matched his own: thick lining with raised rubber segments, a dark blue anterior node, all drenched in amber lubricant unique to jets.

He gripped the back of his knees, bending them as he pulled his legs back to give Optimus a better view. His valve clenched, more lubricant dripping out and leaking down his aft.

Thundercracker bit his bottom derma to stop himself from asking Optimus to hurry.

An effort that was rewarded when Optimus soon after dropped to the ground with a thud, scooting forward on his knees until he was between the seeker's spread legs. The smaller mech fit comfortably between them, and Thundercracker had to yet again hold himself back as he resisted the urge to wrap his legs around Optimus and squeeze him even closer.

When his leader made no move to connect their frames, Thundercracker tapped his middle digit over the leg he wanted Optimus to take hold of. The lagging mech’s helm violently shook before jerkily turning in the direction of where the seeker was tapping. “You want me to…” Optimus trailed off as he placed his smaller servo over Thundercracker’s.

He nodded and released his hold to further encourage Optimus's participation by spreading his valve lining with his now-free servo.

“Yes,” he crooned. “I want you.”

Transfluid trailed down the length of Optimus’s spike, still slick with oral lubricant. The mech gripped his spike and lined it up with Thundercracker’s valve, a puzzled expression crossing his faceplate. But before Thundercracker could ask if he required help(?), resolution flashed behind blue lenses as Optimus declared, “I want you too.” Sounding as though it was as much for himself as Thundercracker.

Optimus’s spike grazed against the sides of Thundercracker’s digits as he pushed in. A shuddering, clumsy movement that scraped over highly sensitive calipers in all the wrong ways. The sensation still had him throwing his helm back and shuttering his optics closed. The stretch wasn’t that much greater than his own digits had been, but it was still the most he had felt in millennia.

A loud clank shot his optics open, and he let out a hasty, “Sorry.” For forgetting himself and laxing the grip on his knee to the point of dropping his leg onto Optimus’s narrow shoulders.

His leader only smiled, chuckling, “That’s alright, I’ve got you.” And lifted the fallen leg up, gripping and bending it at the knee in the same manner as the other; Thundercracker’s internals trembled.

Giving the seeker no time to recover from such devastating charm, Optimus began to rock his hips forward and back. The thrusts shallow, and if Thundercracker didn’t know any better, unsure. There was pleasure hidden behind each thrust, just behind the pain as the spike scraped wrongly against an internal node. Was the reformatted mech that unfamiliar with his resized array? Or was Optimus

That it was Optimus spiking him was enough to keep Thundercracker's arousal pleasantly warmed, even as his actual frame began to cool. Which was fine by the seeker. He had initiated the comforting custom with Optimus, expecting nothing more than for Optimus to abstract pleasure-derived relaxation from his frame. Thundercracker's own physical relief was unnecessary.

“I didn’t know it would feel so…you feel so…” Optimus heaved, his sentences punctuated by gasping vents. An unexpected burst of pleasure rippled through Thundercracker's frame, and his valve squeezed around Optimus's spike, causing the mech's thrusts to falter.

Hearing Optimus so blissed with pleasure that he forgot how to coherently express his usual voluble encouragement would have, in any other circumstances, had the seeker preening. If not for, well….

Here was about the time Thundercracker’s partner would ask to be slapped, for the seeker to wrap either his servos or legs around their waist and squeeze until something cracked. Or for the opposite; to strike Thundercracker’s faceplate, to ride him hard enough that both their pelvic-plating dented or begin to thrust so violently that his valve lining tore.

Thundercracker always denied their requests and was strong enough to enforce his no.

Was he strong enough to do so now? Would he have to? Optimus was already the strangest leader Thundercracker had ever followed. Bizarre even by Autobot standards. The scads of experience pleasing multiple partners Optimus possessed also meant that he was used to fulfilling a myriad of different preferences. Maybe Thundercracker’s would not be the worst he had ever been asked to indulge?

That did not mean Thundercracker felt anything short of abject mortification for pleading for it.

Optimus’s thrusts increased, and the mech grunted as he jammed his spike in a particularly unpleasant spot; Thundercracker hoped his resulting groan sounded more pleasured than pained. Only caring about the perception because he believed Optimus genuinely cared if their coupling was at least comfortable for the seeker. Maybe even more than just that.

He brought a fist to the side of his mouth and bit the top of a knuckle, wanting more than anything to completely cover his faceplate to hide the way his faceplate was burning purple with embarrassment. Delving into the wells of his resolve, Thundercracker trained his optics onto Optimus’s half-shuttered, excitedly bright blues. 

“Optimus,” he gasped.

“Thundercracker,” his leader moaned.

Then, risking it all. “Optimus, stop.”

The mech froze and looked up from where he’d been staring at their connected arrays, nothing but pure worry (and a little strained pleasure) in his vocalizer as he asked, “Is something wrong?”

Thundercracker wanted to pull Optimus down and kiss him, to reverse their positions and ride him tender and slow while adulating him for being such a good leader. Maybe the next round? Or the one after that? As many as Optimus wanted.

Choking on his own lust, Thundercracker softly husked, “Gently, please.”

After a single spark pulse, the hold on his knees tightened, the metal in their grasp creaking.

His optics widened at the other’s nonverbal response. Had his plea been ill-received? That was fine. If a hard interface and an outlet for repressed violence were what Optimus needed, then Thundercracker could endure. Past Autobots had, and the seeker was no less than them. Better even.

It was fine. He was going to tell Optimus that anything he wanted was fine once the tar in his throat drained and his vision cleared, coolant having begun to well up behind red lenses. A second spark pulse passed, and Thundercracker opened his mouth to—

“Of course, and I’m sorry if I hurt you. Thank you for letting me know what you prefer.” Optimus’s smile was apologetic, doting even as he said, “I am not as adept at this as I might have hoped.”

The mech’s next thrust was measured, a gentle probe that caused no pleasure, but also lacked previous discomfort. Optimus kissed a blue knee before leaning the side of his helm against it, earnestly entreating, “Please, guide me?”

Thundercracker's vocalizer glitched, producing a distorted, high-pitched binary bleat as his first failed response. His second attempt wasn't much better. All static and warbled Vosian. His third was marginally intelligible.

“Yes. I-ah, yes.”

Optimus chuckled, Thundercracker’s spark flipped, and then the spike inside him was gently sliding in and out. “Here?” Optimus asked.

He shook his helm, then used a knee to nudge Optimus slightly forward and to the left. “Here is, yes-ah, better.”

The spike that had been disjointedly rubbing sore calipers shifted to more smoothly groove against the nodes that lined Optimus’s spike to the ones in Thundercracker’s valve. His calipers began to grip and release with every thrust. Lubricant spilled from his valve, covering Optimus's spike and splashing onto his pelvic span.

It was foolish of him to ever suspect Optimus of being an inconsiderate berthmate. His first assumption had been right; the downsized mech was merely unaccustomed to his new spike.

Thundercracker twisted his helm to the side, his servos digging into the dirt as he gasped and moaned. Suddenly, he felt more of the spike inside him, deeper, until—white pelvic armor smacked against light-grey. Optimus’s thrusts came incrementally faster, but never to a fervent pace, never enough to distract the seeker from his pleasure.

The truck’s engine growled. Thundercracker’s servos snapped up from the dirt to latch onto Optimus’s waist. His weak hold smearing mud against red armor.

“Is this-hah, good?” Optimus rumbled.

Thin streaks of oily coolant traced down his faceplate, evaporating off scorched metal before a single tear could drop. He pursed his derma together to hold back a keen, the tears already embarrassing enough. Why was he crying? He'd never done this before. The interface didn't hurt, and even if it had, he wasn't that weak.

Oblivious to the seeker’s dilemma, Optimus proudly continued on. “I’ll take that as a yes?”

Electric pleasure zipped up his frame, melting his processor, and making him unable to do anything but dumbly respond, “Yes. Yes Opti-mu-ahs. Yes. It feels good. You’re good.”

Optimus’s wheels spun, flinging mud onto Thundercracker’s canopy. It was a cool reprieve from how hot he was burning. “You’re good t-too,” Optimus stuttered out.

Oh. Oh. Thundercracker wanted to contribute more. He was unused to such passivity during interface. If only he could properly vent, he could drum up the energy to activate his ability. Impossible. That could wait. Right? He didn’t want to show Optimus everything he was capable of just yet. There was time to prove his own skill later.

Their war was nowhere close to ending; Optimus would undoubtedly require more comfort as it persisted.

“More, please. Optimus, I’m-ah-hah,” Thundercracker couldn’t speak, unable to do anything but gasp for air, desperate to cool his overheated systems. He wasn’t close, not yet. But he was fastly approaching that precipice.

When was the last time he had overloaded from his valve? Thundercracker couldn’t remember. He wanted this to be the first.

“Thundercracker!” His leader suddenly shouted, static overlaying every syllable.

Optimus then went completely still, his servos gripping Thundercracker’s knees tighter. Warm, thick fluid spurted into the seeker’s valve, filling the space Optimus’s spike couldn’t reach.

What was…what? Optimus was overloading? So soon? As in, right now?

Transfluid gushed into him, Optimus shuddering after every ropey string. The mech’s optics were closed, which was why Thundercracker did not bother to conceal his look of utter bafflement. Was Optimus’s equipment that sensitive? He hadn’t even lasted half a joor!

After one final gasp, Optimus drooped forward, only to lose his strength completely and fall against the seeker’s canopy, his helm landing in the crook of Thundercracker’s neck. Their glass screeched on contact, and his annoyance was quickly forgotten, replaced by instant fret.

His servos went from Optimus’s sides to wrap around his back, worriedly, but gently prodding, “Optimus, are you okay? Was it too much?” Were his systems not ready for such an almost intense experience, to the point that they couldn’t even sustain a charge for less than half a joor?

The truck’s engine began to idle, little engine thrumps gently rattling their glass together. “Yes, I mean no. Yes—” A deep vent. “—I’m okay, it wasn’t too much. Thank you for sharing this custom with me. I enjoyed more than I probably should have.”

Could that be Optimus’s subtle way of implying Thundercracker was the best he’d ever partaken in? His valve squeezed around the spike pushed deep within him; Optimus shuddered, whimpering from overstimulation.

Desire crackled along his frame, unspent charge bursting out from the widened seams around his hip, purple electricity arcing in the air.

He could…he could take Optimus by the hips, his servos completely covering rubber tires. He could pick Optimus up, lifting and dropping him, thrusting the still pressurized spike into his valve. Complete his charge as an oversensitive Optimus whined on top of him, too tired, too kind to stop him. It would be so easy. His servos began to creep downward, the tips brushing against—

“Was it…was I okay?” Optimus hesitantly asked, his near-whisper soft vocals tickling the side of Thundercracker’s neck.

His servos slid up Optimus’s back, not daring to reach beneath the truck’s waist lest temptation consume him.

“You were wonderful,” he assured, and then, because he’d noticed the other’s optics were shuttered. “Tired?”

Optimus huffed an exhausted laugh, responding, “More so than I realized.”

Smiling, he bottled up all his remaining lust and dropped it into the pit of his fuel tank, letting it sizzle. If joors passed and he was still pent up, he could always fly into the clouds and relieve himself there.

His resolution to behave did not mean he could no longer touch, and now that he was the one holding Optimus, that was all he wanted to do. Nothing more than gentle exploration. Nothing that could cause his leader further discomfort.

But just as his digits started to press along an open seam, the small frame in his arms went still.

“I nearly entered recharge,” Optimus said, sounding bewildered by his own admission. “I am sorry, I have not felt this at ease in another’s presence in just such a long time. I can get off you now, if you would like.”

Thundercracker hummed noncommittally, leaving the decision up to Optimus, his servos never once stopping their wandering. In truth, he could spend joors just like this. With Optimus spent atop him, relaxed and receptive to the seeker’s touch.

He wanted to feel along gapped seams, count the wires beneath. To know their shape, their colors, their texture. Were they made of silicon, nylon, teflon? Would they shock him? What was their taste?

Without addressing Optimus’s question, Thundercracker asked one of his own.

“Do you feel better?”

Thundercracker used Optimus's silence as an opportunity to kiss the tip of an antenna, just a light, affectionate peck.

“I…don’t know,” Optimus finally answered.

Undeterred, Thundercracker kissed the other antenna and asked, “Do you feel worse?

Another pause, another kiss, then, “No, I don’t believe I do.”

Success. Thundercracker grinned, “I’m glad. Staying course is always better than a downward spiral. I feared you would fall had you stood alone any longer.”

Rather than praise for the apt metaphor Thundercracker had strung together in an attempt to speak Optimus’s flowy language, the seeker instead got a startled, “This was for me?” In response.

To which he could only frown, the question confused him. “Who else would it be for?”

There was no other mech in the forest with them, and even if there was, Thundercracker would have knocked them unconscious before his and Optimus's panels opened. Maybe throw them off the cliff if he thought they could survive, and maybe still if they couldn't.

Trying to grasp the meaning behind the logic belonging to a mech he scarcely understood, though he very much wanted to, Thundercracker hedged, “Is this because you no longer have the matrix?”

He scoffed, “I’ve never believed in the Primacy. I respect you no less now than I did before—I wanted to comfort you, so I did. The Matrix holds no bearing on your worthiness to receive it."

And if Thundercracker was the only remaining mecha on Earth who understood that, then so be it. There were perks to being part of a harem of one.

Optimus choked a sob, cold drops of coolant following the sound, landing on the seeker’s shoulder and slipping into the hollow between his armor and neck cabled. Taking the other’s drained state as permission to kiss the top of his helm, Thundercracker also rubbed a servo over the mech’s back in a series of slow, long, comforting strokes.

Precious. Pretty. Protectable. All words that should never describe an effective, formidable, and cherished leader. Yet Thundercracker would not retract a single one. He would also not say a single one aloud, not wanting to upset Optimus more than he already was.

His musings were interrupted when something wet, but not mechanical in origin, landed on his servo. He reluctantly looked upward, spotting the warnings of rain drizzling beneath the green canopy, which he suspected was also made of stone.

More drops slipped between the trees, enough for Optimus to notice and lift his helm toward their origin. Oily smudges underlined his optics and ran down his cheeks. Paying no mind to the rain, Thundercracker kissed them clean as Optimus spoke.

“I suppose I should return to my post,” droned the most unenthusiastic vocals ever just before Optimus took purchase of the seeker’s air-intakes and used them to rise from his prone position. A shame. Thundercracker wouldn’t have minded staying as they were; his unspent charge notwithstanding.

He rose up to his elbows to watch as Optimus extracted himself, wincing as the mech’s spike pulled out and left him twitching with want. Oblivious, his leader started to stand, only to freeze, and stare directly down at Thundercracker’s dripping valve.  

Flattered, Thundercracker half-jokingly asked, "Do you want to take a picture?"

Optimus hastily stood, pushing his depressurized spike back into its cover (with muddy servos) while saying, “Yes. I mean no, I apologize, that was rude of me.”

Not really, but maybe there was a rule against visual or auditory evidence of the Prime's coitus. That would explain why, after eons of searching, no Decepticon had ever found any. Not even Soundwave when ordered at the behest of Megatron.

Swiping his processor free of their cursed designation, Thundercracker snapped his valve cover closed before any of Optimus’s transfluid could fall out. Not wanting to deal with the mess all over his thighs. Once back in the Ark, he could find the ship’s elusive washracks and cleanse himself of their encounter.

A dirty servo flashed in front of his faceplate, and Thundercracker jerked his helm back, hitting the rock-tree with a grunt. Derma twisting, he took Optimus's servo but used the opposite to push himself off the ground. Only using the smaller mech to guide his trajectory.

How fitting.

Now standing, Thundercracker couldn’t help but notice how much smaller Optimus appeared than when the seeker had first approached him. Bright blue optics were now dim and weary. White knees were stained brown, and proud shoulders were drooped.

Stealing one final liberty, he cupped the side of Optimus’s helm and gently kissed him. Wishing he could do more than he had. There was only one thing left he could offer. 

“Why don’t you go back to the ship and rest? I’ll stand watch.”

Optimus leaned into the kiss, and Thundercracker hoped he was just as indisposed as he was when it ended. Their servos still clasped, Optimus was exhausted enough not to protest, only stubborn enough to ask, “Are you sure?”

Thundercracker lifted Optimus’s muddy servo to his derma and laid a brief kiss across unscarred knuckles. It would have to suffice, seeing as he could not back his dear leader into the nearest tree and reteach him how to properly use a spike.

“I am,” he said, hoping none of his greed seeped through.

Nodding, Optimus pulled his servo away, causing Thundercracker’s spark casing to squeeze tight at its loss. “So long as you’re certain,” Optimus said.

He reaffirmed, “I am.”

His leader frowned, though Thundercracker could not begin to imagine why. Comfort and a free night’s rest; what more could he want?

“And you’re positive there’s nothing more you need from me?” Optimus tried again. (Trying for what?)

“I need you to get some proper recharge before our next battle. Which, I remind you, could come at any moment. Now may be your only chance.” Brow ridge screwing up in annoyance, and some hurt, Thundercracker questioned, “Why? Do you not trust a former Decepticon to guard your rest?”

Optimus’s upper derma curled, his olfactorate scrunching up. “What? That’s not—" The mech cut himself off and took a deep vent before stepping away from Thundercracker. "You're right, I'm more tired than I thought and took offense where none was meant." Derma thinning, Optimus shook his helm before turning away from the seeker, departing, "Have a pleasant watch, Thundercracker. May the winds be with you."

"And you a pleasant recharge," Thundercracker called after his leader, though the words sounded hollow, even to himself.

Optimus had turned one way; Thundercracker turned the other.

Once certain that blue optics were no longer on him, his wings drooped, and his frown deepened. His arms swung at his sides as he marched through the forest, glaring resolutely at the ground. Not stopping until he’d passed the tree line and reached the monolith’s edge.

Optimus had taken his comfort and left; Thundercracker tried not to feel disappointed and failed.

The emotion was unreasonable. He had successfully performed his duty and even received, albeit incomplete, pleasure in return. Allowing his leader to rest was just another willingly offered act of servitude. Thundercracker had not expected anything in return; so why did he want? What did he want?

To not be alone, it seemed. That was why he'd first sought Optimus out. How foolish of him; he'd chosen self-imposed isolation, the same cycle he'd chosen to join the Autobots.

Sighing heavily, he looked up at the cloudy sky, allowing tiny raindrops to freely fall onto his faceplate. While atop the monolith, he was not subjected to the mecha beneath its fields; his own sullen mood was no better. Any semblance of charge left him as he adjusted to being alone once more. A state of being he would have to become accustomed to, having been abandoned by the only mech he ever loved, taken in by a faction that would only ever tolerate him.

You will not be—

The air behind him shifted, and Thundercracker whipped around, nullrays trained on whatever was approaching. His arms dropped, and his helm tilted.

“Optimus?”

His leader’s servos were raised and smile unsure as he said, “It would seem I’m not as tired as I thought. Besides, recharging through such a beautiful night would be a waste, don’t you think?”

Rain had shined Optimus’s armor better than any polish, spreading and dripping down his glass chassis. All traces of mud save for those on the base of his pedes had been washed away. The truck’s field fondly reached out to him, the friendly gesture accompanied by encouraging optics.

A beautiful sight. Yes, that would indeed be a waste.

Thundercracker’s hips shifted from side to side, reminding him of Optimus’s comfort still inside him. He swallowed, frame beginning to warm once more.