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Skyfire's First Heat	By : swordqueen Category: Transformers > G1 > Slash - M/M Views: 3903 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: I do not own Transformers or any of the characters or the rights thereto. I make no money writing or posting this fic.

Chapter List
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A/N whut? I have a seekerheat fetish. *Guilty*

Chapter One: Behind a Rock and a Hard Place

Skyfire hated having his faith in science shaken. But here…it was really letting him down. He knew what it was, knew why it happened, and knew what it was called, and how to deal with it. But that didn’t make the experience of heat any less uncomfortable.

He was going crazy. He knew what he needed to do, but there was an unbridgeable gulf between the plan and reality. Namely…the Autobots and his own dignity. To the latter: he didn’t really fancy explaining heat to them, especially as he was going through it—they’d never be able to take him seriously if they found out that once a vorn he turned into a shameless roboslut. To the first: Starscream was right—Autobots were terribly uptight. He’d never seen two of them so much as kissing. He didn’t know how Decepticons handled heat among their Seekers, but it had to be better than this.

He’d tried to take care of it himself—he could, it would just…take a while. But every time he thought he’d gotten the privacy and time to do it, something would happen. Wheeljack would pop into his lab (not that self-stimulation in the lab was his first choice, but it showed that his decision-making was already eroding from the strain), or one of the Aerialbots would show up in his cube wanting to ask astrogation questions, or that one time he was in the washrack and had just opened his hatch and activated his spike cover when Optimus Prime had come in. Skyfire’s face had gone red with mortification, and he’d quickly tucked his spike away—with force!—mumbling something about maintenance and cleaning.

It was clear: he had to get away from them. So he’d packed a bottle of lubricant and a cleansing rag in his compartments and headed out, waiting till the Aerialbots were engaged in chores. He headed just out of vidscan range (that would be mortifying!) but not beyond comm range—just enough to have some actual privacy!

His interface equipment was sending a rage of signals to him, so much that he could barely find a place to land. The canyon had enough line-of-sight privacy as well. Finally. He transformed, deciding to walk up the canyon to find a place with a bit of an overhang—the last thing Skyfire needed was to have either a human aircraft or a Decepticon catch him out.

“Oh! GAAAAAH!”

What was that? Skyfire wasn’t big on fighting, but he knew he could do it if necessary, and it sounded like some mech was in trouble. He picked up his pace, trotting toward the sound. It got louder, worse, everything from squealing to begging. Oh, dear. His pacifist fists balled in outrage as he got closer and could hear the clanging metal-on-metal sounds. That poor beaten mech!

Skyfire rounded a corner in the canyon and stopped.

Oh, dear again, but for another reason entirely.

Starscream’s two companions were writhing together on the ground. Well, one was more writhing than the other—the black and purple one (Skywarp, Skyfire thought) had his hands tied up over his head, while his blue companion drove ferociously into his valve with his spike. Just at the sight, Skyfire’s interface equipment roared to life.

He jumped behind a rock, fearful that they might have heard the cycling on of his systems, but they were too engrossed to hear…probably anything. From the slight glaze in their optics, Skyfire recognized that they too were in heat. He hoped he didn’t look that wild and unkempt.

His systems sent an almost painful burst of charge through his secondary systems that combined with the cybadrenaline from his thought he’d have to fight. Demanding action. Well…Skywarp didn’t actually seem to be in need of rescuing and…oh they were distractingly hot together, the way the sunlight danced across Thundercracker’s glossy backspan as his body thrust against his wingmate; the delicious grunts; the way Skywarp’s entire body squirmed with arousal.

He wouldn’t get caught. Not just once, just to clear his sensornet for a few kliks. His hand slipped to his interface hatch, his spike practically leaping into his grip, globbed with lubricant, some of it dried and gummy from his previous attempts to find a little privacy. It had been so long since he’d overloaded. His fingers tightened around his spike, sliding the lubricant down the length. He shivered and then again as he slid his hand up the spike’s length. Oh that felt good. But he really couldn’t enjoy it, he told himself. Just do it, get it over with and then think straight about what to do next.

He began working his hand along the spike, biting down a moan. His optics were glued to the wingmates, as they arched and twisted and rose into each other, on the way Thundercracker’s hands alternated between clutching at the armored shoulders and stroking the purple and black wings, the way their mouths flew over each other’s faces, helms, throats. He could almost feel what they must feel like—fierce, urgent nips, not properly kisses at all, but bites of desire. His own wings quivered, imagining those hands glossing over his, sliding over his white panels. Light caresses, desperate grabs, he could imagine, could remember them all from previous times—so long ago and from hands painfully identical to the wingmates’.

Oh…Starscream. His thoughts couldn’t help but go there. The wicked fire in Starscream’s optics, always just on the edge of insubordination. Pushing limits. Pushing rules, all the time. Never, though, cutting corners. His science was always solid, methodical. Just the intuitive leaps he made left Skyfire breathless at times.

And that’s what had stirred his desire for the smaller jet—that almost-too-quick cortex, matched for better or worse by the too-quick vocalizer. He didn’t know what to call it—he hesitated at ‘love’—a very unscientific concept whose existence had not been proven. But it had sent electrochemical cascades across his net every time he saw Starscream. Every time. Even now. And just the physical similarities in these wingmates stirred the same systems.

Oh…Starscream. His ‘net trilled at the thought: Starscream under him, moaning and writhing, almost a photonegative of the black jet, but still squirming and twisting and reaching up to nip at his mouthplates, begging, as Skywarp did, to be released, to get his hands free to touch Skyfire back. His spike pushing into Starscream’s valve, the smaller jet moaning as each thrust of Skyfire’s larger spike pushed into his narrow valve. His hand tightened imperceptibly around his spike, remembering the tight fit of the smaller jet’s valve, how it almost hurt every insertion—they’d have to inch it in, both of them gasping at the overstimulation, catching themselves, and continuing again, Skyfire goaded on by a blue thruster heel tugging around his aft. And he’d try so hard to be gentle, considerate, fighting against Starscream’s insistence that he go harder, not hold back, and his spike was taken in, embraced by the valve, greedy and possessive and yet somehow giving and yielding all at once….

He cried out as the overload hit him—all the more sudden for the long delay. He heard the cry echo around the canyon as his optics blanked, heard the jetting splat of transfluid against the rock he crouched behind, his sensornet detonating with deliriously pleasurable stimuli. The heat of his heat (it wasn’t called that for nothing) redlined his temperature sinks, blanking his external sensors for a handful of kliks.

His optics re-onlined to a blue muzzle of a weapon, point blank in his face.

“Hi there,” Thundercracker sneered. “Come to interrupt our fun, Autobot spy?” This was Skyfire’s worst nightmare: captured by the enemy. Caught by anyone with his spike in his hand, suffering from heat.

“I think he’s on the same cycle!” Skywarp’s voice drifted over from where he still lay, bound. “And we could use the help!”

“Yeah?” Red optics peered at Skyfire, flickered to the dripping silver, and then at Skyfire’s still-pressurized spike, still clutched in his hand. “Heat, huh?”

Skyfire nodded, numb. He winced as he unwrapped his hand from around his spike, wincing as the sensor nodes begged for more.

“Oh, he’s got it bad,” Thundercracker called back to Skywarp.

“I need it bad, too!” Out of the corner of his field of vision, Skyfire saw Skywarp squirming, helplessly, his spike stabbing the air.

“Huh,” Thundercracker said. He gestured up with the muzzle of the gun. “Get up, Autobot.”

“Why? What are you going to do to me?” Skyfire hated fighting, but to free himself, he would. Fight or die—he would fight.

Thundercracker smirked. “We’re going to help each other out. You’re in heat, we’re in heat.” He shrugged. “We can work something out.”
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Skyfire's First Heat