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Forbidden Knowledge	By : swordqueen Category: Transformers > G1 > Slash - M/M Views: 2277 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: I do not own the rights to the Transformers. I make no money writing or posting this.

Chapter List
- 1-Forbidden Knowledge
- 1
A/N kink meme fill. G1

****8

Skywarp snickered as he attached the last lead into his portable monitor. Assign HIM to monitor duty? Starscream would learn a lesson about how stupid that was. Monitor, oh yes. Just…not the blank BOOOOOORING expanse of space. Oh no.

It was entirely inspired, of course, by Starscream’s insistence that Skywarp was too ‘erratic’ and that the best solution was to be more ‘scientific’. Okay. Sure. Skywarp was going to hone his new forced-hobby of scientific inquiry to solve the great mystery of…what the frag Starscream did in private quarters. He and Thundercracker were crammed in with the other jets in common barracks, and he was sick of Starscream lording it over them that he had his own quarters, with his own washrack and hinted at other amazements.

Skywarp wanted to know what they were.

He growled as Soundwave drifted by, peeking his head in. Just to see the spectacle, of course, of one of the oh-so-elite Seekers reduced to monitor duty. Soundwave’s face was inscrutable, but Skywarp could feel the contempt roiling off him like a bad smell.

At the same time, Skywarp felt a rare—and very uncomfortable—flicker of shame. Thundercracker was sitting in the brig. Because of him. He’d gotten injured in that battle on Razor Hub—shot down by that blasted Kup, a hole right through his left wingspan.

His fingers drifted to the patched panel. Enough to send him plummeting to the ground in a spiral of pain and fear and lack of control. He remembered striking the ground—the sudden sense of STOP colliding with the frantic motion of his unchecked fall. He remembered the screeling sound of the metal, the syncopated ‘pop’s of bolts flying wide, and white. His sensor alarms all blaring white, white enough to hurt his optics.

Then…Thundercracker, bracing over him, his cannons blasting in a stuttering blast, driving the enemy back. Then…he woke up in repair bay. Hook had frowned (well, even more deeply than usual) when he’d asked about Thundercracker, and finally snapped at him that thanks to him, Thundercracker was enjoying the hospitality of the brig.

What…what had he done!? He couldn’t understand why everyone was blaming him. And then, why he was suddenly blaming himself. Why had Thundercracker come back for him? Why had he been so glad to see him—so glad that his laser core seemed to jolt at the sight of the blue jet’s broad backspan? They were warriors. Warriors had no personal feelings. What was the use of such, as Megatron sneeringly called it, ‘sparkling sentimentality’ when a true warrior knew his mission was to die for his cause?

Skywarp was fine with dying for his cause. He wasn’t, however, he discovered, fine with Thundercracker dying.

The damaged wingpanel throbbed under his fingers, reminding him of the way his laser core had throbbed at the sight of Thundercracker, and again, when he’d woken up in repair bay seeing a seeker’s shape beside him. It had been, disappointingly, Starscream. Whose sneering commentary at his ‘flight prowess’ had started Skywarp down this little petty revenge.

Slag it. Skywarp tilted the chair back, turning the angle so the small portable monitor he’d brought wasn’t visible should anyone else decide to get themselves an opticfull of the seeker on extra duty. And…go:

The audio crackled on—Skywarp winced, grabbing for it and quickly tapping in the entercode to his personal freq. What was Starscream doing in there that was so slaggin’ noisy? Ohhh this sounded good. Starscream, howling incoherently, half-whimpers of words like ‘please.’ And then a distinctive chalky growl that could only be Megatron. Skywarp scooted forward on the edge of the chair, waiting for the picture to warm. Megatron must be disciplining Starscream. Oh, this was better than he thought: he’d figured he’d have to watch for megacycles before he saw anything blackmail worthy. This was that and…promised to be deliciously entertaining.

The image crackled, fuzzed into horizontal lines of static and then resolved, slowly focusing, on an image that left Skywarp speechless, his mouth agape. Starscream was bent over the flat metal expanse of the berth, red aft in the air. And…Megatron was doing something to it. What? Banging into it with his own pelvic armor. That seemed…awfully ineffective. Blunt broad impact force to broad surface wasn’t a solid combat strategy. Megatron would be better off with a smaller impact area to increase concentration of stimulus. This was just…incapable of causing the howling and squirming response he saw Starscream give.

Unless Starscream was a bigger wuss than he thought.

He started to laugh but he couldn’t, he realized, tear his optics off the sight: Starscream’s mouth open, optics half lidded as if caught midway between sleep and surprise, blue fingers clutching urgently at the metal of the berth. That…didn’t look like pain. Megatron’s own optics, narrow red lines, were fixated on the writhing white wings, his hands hard on the red hips, jerking Starscream back against him.

It was funny but at the same time it…was…he couldn’t even describe it. His entire system reacted, like a sudden jolt of electricity had shot through him, one that had after pulses exactly in time with Megatron’s assault on Starscream’s red aft. Something felt…weird and funny in his own pelvic armor. Itchy and somehow wet and jittery all at the same time.

He looked down at the silver armor. It felt like there was something UNDER the armor, something that throbbed in time to Megatron’s motion, that seemed to positively squirm whenever Starscream cried out.

He was…in dire need of repair. Something must have gotten broken and Hook hadn’t seen it or hadn’t fixed it or worse yet had screwed up fixing him. He tried to get to his feet, thinking he could go back to repair bay, but the motion of his thighs against his pelvic plate made him double over, gasping. What the frag?

He looked up at the small monitor just as Megatron roared, arching his back, grinding his pelvic plate against Starscream’s aft, hands scraping down the back of the white wings. Starscream cried out, his face contorted in an expression Skywarp had never seen before, his body spasming along its dorsal line. Skywarp made a soft sound in his throat, almost like a whine, as he felt a wet heat from the malfunction under his pelvic armor. What was WRONG with him? He started to feel a real fear build in him.

His optics widened in horror as, on the screen, he saw Megatron push back from Starscream and…what the frag was that? A silver…thing projected from Megatron’s pelvic arch, glossy wet (the wet feeling in his own armor surged at the sight), stippled with grey-silver studs. This must be his newest weapon, that he had been using against Starscream—somehow. It looked unnatural. It looked horrifying.

He couldn’t stop looking.

Starscream had collapsed onto his side on the berth, ventilation in large uneven gasps. As Skywarp watched, Starscream’s blue hands pushed between his own thighs, to where Skywarp could see a spill of some strange silver fluid. Starscream raised one of his silver-coated (not pink like energon) fingers to his lips, and, making optical contact with Megatron, proceeded to suck the fluid off his digit. Skywarp shuddered. Not…really…horrified.

What was going on? What was going ON? Why couldn’t he tear his optics away? Why was his body responding this way? What was that silver cable and why did his pelvic armor seem to jump as if it knew exactly what it was?

Megatron smirked, and pushed Starscream flat on his back, pushing his thighs apart. Only then did Skywarp notice that there was a gap—a large one—in Starscream’s pelvic plating. Skywarp looked down and faintly, in the flickering light of the monitors he was supposed to be watching, he could trace a tight line, a seam of a panel he’d never noticed before. Who would? He knew his important access hatches. And this was so small as to be almost imperceptible. How did it open?

Skywarp ran his fingers along the edges of the panel, trying to find a catch. He couldn’t find one, but did find himself gasping as the touch of his own fingers fired the tingling surge under the panel. It felt…good? It definitely felt like he didn’t want to stop. He rubbed his fingers around the edge of the panel again, his entire frame shivering. Oh, this was so…indescribable. He watched as Starscream ran his own fingers around a circular opening in whatever was under the panel. His optics nearly offlined on him, another shudder wracking his frame.

He dug his fingers frantically around the edges of the panel, desperately trying to figure out how to open it. HOW did he do that? The way Starscream moaned as he touched the ring caused Skywarp to suck in a breath, and the way Megatron was smirkingly watching, his own optics strangely inflamed, the circuit of Starscream’s finger. The silver something on Megatron’s own pelvic area seemed to stir, as if it had a life of its own. Skywarp felt an answering squirm under that panel he could not figure out how to open. It was beginning to drive him crazy.

“Guh!” he said, as Megatron leaned over Starscream and…pushed that silver thing into the circular hole. Starscream arched his back, his cockpit rising to bump against Megatron’s chassis, making a moaning sound. Was he in pain? He didn’t seem to be in pain from it. If he was, he was doing the wrong thing by clutching at Megatron’s arms.

Megatron leaned over and as Skywarp watched, placed his mouthplates against Starscream’s. Skywarp’s own mouth tingled at the thought. Were they..biting? No. That didn’t seem to be what was going on at all: he could see flashes of glossa as their mouths parted. Ohhhh, Primus what was going on?

He felt a seepage. Oh frag he was LEAKING! He could feel, and now see the clear fluid oozing around the edges of the panel he couldn’t open. It was clear and slick and smelled slightly ionized. He raised it to a cautious glossa. It tasted vaguely sweet. What was this? He couldn’t place it in any of the systems fluids he’d seen.

Above him, Starscream was moaning again, into Megatron’s mouth, the Decepticon leader’s hips pistoning above the spread white thighs. Skywarp watched, transfixed. Waaaaaaant, he thought. His purple hands dug at the seam, scraping the enamel, heedless of the fact that he was leaving visible scratches. He wanted under there, NOW.

Open open open open OPEN! he yelled in his head.

Click.

The panel retracted, juddering where his desperate attempts to dig through it had dented the plate.

Underneath, the silver components, bare of any color or enamel, were slick with the clear fluid. Like Megatron, he had a silver cord (so it’s NOT a weapon, he thought), and behind it, a yawning rim. His hands quivered, not knowing which to touch first.

He tentatively touched the silver cord. It bounced against his fingertip with a hydraulic hiss. He jumped back, knocking his wings against the back of the chair.

“Sleep on duty: Prohibited.” Soundwave’s dry voice startled him. Skywarp cried out, acutely aware of his exposed—whatever the frag you called it. Close. Close close close close, he thought at the panel, as if the same magic that had caused it to retract would work. The panel tried to slide closed, but banged against the erect cord and stopped and slid open again. Oh slag!

He felt a chill of fear race through his systems. He turned his hips away, so that the breadth of his wingspan blocked the line of sight. He looked over his shoulder with what he hoped was plausible disdain. “NOT asleep.” Truer statement he had never ever said. Soundwave shot him a condescending nod—enough to remind him he was under punishment, before turning and walking away.

Primus that was close! He glanced up at the monitor: Megatron and Starscream were writhing together in a tangle of limbs, frantically clutching at each other. OH. That did not help. He felt something almost like a push, and warm fluid oozed from small vents at the top of the silver thing.

This was far too dangerous. He had to find a way to close the panel. Calm down. COOL down. His heat sinks were nearing redline just by watching the screen. He had to get himself under control. And the first part was to put this silver…thing back in its housing.

Right. He dropped his head, tearing his gaze away from the writhing and grinding and soft sounds from the monitor, though the sounds tickled through his audio, sending delicious shivers of sensation through his net. He shook that off. Dangerous. He pushed at the silver cord. Gasped. Oh holy slaggin’ Primus. His entire sensornet lit up white and blue, his frame jerking as though something had physically seized him and shaken him.

Skywarp forced a ventilation cycle and released the grip, or tried to, slowly. Finger by finger. The cord, if anything, was firmer, more highly pressurized.

He glanced back to the door, his optics wide and wild. Force was required. He steeled himself, and wrapped his hand around the cord, pushing firmly, trying to force it back into the housing at its mount. His fingers slipped in the slick fluid, and another burst of incandescence blazed across his net. It was hot and cold at the same time, pain and a raw brutal pleasure simultaneously.

And the cord. Would. Not. Move. He pushed harder, moving his hand to get a higher grip. His fingers slipped down. Another burst of the too-much-sensation. He began pushing again, his optics drifting to the screen, his hand unconsciously mimicking the pace of Megatron’s bucking hips. Which must be driving his silver appendage into Starscream’s opening at just…this…speed.

The sensation began building, an electrical surging tide that sent shivers to his extremities, a fierce intensity that pushed aside caution, worry, injury in wake as it drove him, headlong, to some experience he had never known. The silver cord prickled suddenly, against his palm. He cried out, his sensornet flaring bright white, while a sort of electrical ocean rushed through him, tingling through his extremities and the EM field beyond them, leaving him quivering and raw.

He looked down: silver fluid had splattered across the underside of the console, dribbled over his fingers. What the frag was THAT? What was he going to do to hide it?

He slapped the monitor with his clean hand, shutting it off. He couldn’t bear any more. He rested his head against the monitor, acutely aware that anyone walking by would think he had fallen into recharge but…right now, he could not manage even the act of getting upright.

The cord, thankfully, retracted into its housing, its humiliating spurt apparently the end of its pressurized cycle. His optics studied the silver fluid, his processor tracing back to Starscream licking a fingerfull of it. What did it…? Starscream hadn’t seemed to mind the taste. He brought one of his coated fingers to his mouth, trying to remember how Starscream had looked. He sucked on his finger the way he’d seen Starscream. The cord shifted in its housing in some sort of strange sympathetic connection. The silver fluid tasted like clean oil and some dark, rich flavor he couldn’t place.

He contemplated the dripping mess—evidence he’d have to get rid of, of…whatever had happened. His frame, his net, still shivered with tendrils of glorious sensation—tension and release all at once, an intense gentleness he’d never felt in all of his years as a warrior. And he had one thought in his mind: He HAD to share this with Thundercracker.

**

The next few solars were an agony of anticipation for Skywarp. Thundercracker was still in the brig, and he served out his punishment of monitor duty. His private monitor—a blessing and a curse—showed nothing. There was no repeat performance. But he had seen enough—too much.

It was a failed experiment, if the goal was to lessen his desire.

He gained control over opening the panel—he’d learned the combination of signals to send to it. And he’d explored as best he could his own new equipment. The silver cord, studded with nodes, became familiar to his purple fingers, as did the rim and as far in as he could reach to the lined circle. Which wasn’t far enough, he’d discovered. Megatron had put his cord in there—yes. They were about the same diameter, the lined port and the cord.

Skywarp imagined what it would be like to slide his cord into Thundercracker’s port. His hand unconsciously formed a tight ring around the cord and rode it up and down while his mind fed him images. That it wasn’t his hand, but Thundercracker’s port, the plain silver rim against his slick sliver cord, Thundercracker’s blue pelvic plating bumped by his own, their cockpits rubbing together, bracing his hands on Thundercracker’s broad wings, and Thundercracker looking up at him, his red optics inflamed with that strange emotion he had seen in Megatron’s on the monitor, a strange wild possessiveness, a wanting that sent electrical sparks through Skywarp’s sensor net just by imagining it. He wanted to hear Thundercracker moan like that for him, wanted to feel his hands around Thundercracker’s hips, the way Megatron had grabbed Starscream. He wanted his cord buried deep in that strange opening, the silver fluid shooting into Thundercracker, filling him, as he howled in ecstasy.

He grew accustomed to the signs of the rising surge—pleasurable ripples across his net colliding with each other, his thigh servos trembling, as if unable to contain the rising charge, until it felt like a detonation, full of heat and light and power, as if his entire net was being drawn through, shot through his cable along with the silver fluid. Until he stood shuddering, overcome, the warm cleanser of the washracks washing away the evidence of this new, mysterious pastime.

It couldn’t be good for you, he thought, but he found himself doing it, two or three times a solar, driven by his new system’s strange insistence. It would tingle, and then throb, and then finally ache, until he released it and then worked it to ejaculation. It was uncomfortable, but the rising ride of the experience was a pleasure he’d never known. And he had run several diagnostics and none of his systems were eroding capabilities.

He couldn’t say or do anything, Skywarp realized, until Thundercracker was released from the brig. The idea of trying to explain—whatever that was when he didn’t even know himself was beyond him. He couldn’t even make use of the information—how could he tell Starscream what he’d seen without endangering this project? He had several solar cycles where he had to play it entirely cool.

Which was harder than it sounded, first off because Skywarp was…not really known for his ability to delay gratification. Secondly, his newly-discovered equipment seemed primed to cycle on at the most inappropriate times: he had suffered several bouts of inexplicable (though thankfully unnoticed) dampness, and more than one occasion where the pressurized cord had thumped audibly against the front panel.

Especially when he saw Thundercracker, finally, stride through the door of the barracks bay. Skywarp had to resist the urge to run up to him. Unseemly warrior behavior. And if they were going to pull this off (he refused to admit the possibility that Thundercracker might not), he had to appear, in public, supremely disinterested. All they did was bunk one over each other, right?

He nodded, gruffly, at Thundercracker, even while his optics noted with dismay that the blue jet still bore markings of injuries from the recent battle. He bit back a protest. “Good stay?” he managed.

Thundercracker returned his nod. He looked haggard, and simply climbed up onto the upper berth without a word. Wise, part of Skywarp’s processor thought. Thundercracker had been punished for his sake, because Thundercracker had come back for him, when he, the unworthy slaggard that he was, had failed as a warrior. He owed his life to Thundercracker. And he knew how he wanted to repay it.

A decacycle later, they had a training mission in the massive canyon system to the west. Starscream had decided their maneuverability was faulty and that flying with imminent risk of injury would keep them alert. Still no chance to get near Thundercracker—Starscream kept the communication channel open, and never let them out of his visual range, not even for an astroklik. They were…under observation. That was abundantly clear. Skywarp was writhing in frustration, first from this strange new desire, and then from his inability even to have a chance to explain it to Thundercracker. And every cycle that went by, it seemed less and less likely that Thundercracker would even agree. He seemed to have learned his lesson. He’d zipped right by Skywarp when Skywarp had—distracted—muffed a complicated maneuver and scraped his underwing along the merciless yellow stone of the cliff.

Skywarp knew he would have only one chance. And when he heard, at the end of their flight practice as they were heading to the washracks, Megatron summon Starscream, he knew this was it. Alone. Unobserved.

He jammed the door to the washracks shut—a little trick he’d picked up vorns ago. Sometimes he needed a little guaranteed privacy to set up a prank without that pest Rumble, for example, sticking his tiny obnoxious nasalplating into it.

He turned to Thundercracker. The blue jet was already under the ceiling nozzles, scrubbing the yellow stone dust out of his joints with a handled brush. Right. How to approach. Well…Skywarp was Skywarp. Not one for subtlety, but definitely not lacking in courage.

“I wanted to thank you,” Skywarp said. In his newly-found panel, he felt wetness already. “You know. For coming back for me.”

“Paid for that, didn’t I?” Thundercracker muttered.

“Yeah, but….” Skywarp’s courage didn’t falter, but his mouth did. He pushed Thundercracker back until the blue jet’s wingspan splatted against the wall of the washrack, his purple hand grazing over Thundercracker’s pelvic armor. “Want to show you something.”

Thundercracker shoved him off. Skywarp fell, landing heavily on his aft, the warm cleanser from the ceiling taps pattering on him. “Get off me! In enough trouble because of you,” Thundercracker snapped. He pushed past the stunned jet, heading toward the exit. Uhhh, he probably wouldn’t like to know he was locked in.

He didn’t. He tried the door. Jiggled it. And whirled around. “You’re trying to ruin me.”

“I’m not!” Skywarp pulled to his feet, aware of the squirming aliveness under his own pelvic plate. “I want to show you this.”

“I don’t want to see it.”

“I saw Megatron doing this with Starscream.”

“Then I definitely don’t want to see it. Let me out.” Thundercracker turned to jiggle the door handle.

Frag. Losing him. Losing my chance, Skywarp thought, panicking. He grabbed Thundercracker by one wing. Thundercracker stiffened. Decepticons were forbidden to touch each other outside of combat training. Skywarp spread his hand over the wingspan, with the same gentle touches he used to explore his own damaged plate. Thundercracker shivered, bodily. “Come on,” Skywarp said.

“Don’t touch me,” Thundercracker pleaded, but his voice was shaky. “Feels…weird.”

“I want to touch you,” Skywarp said. “I saw this and I want to do it with you.”

“Saw…what?” Thundercracker tried to turn his head over his shoulder. Skywarp ran his hands over his trinemate’s back, teasing along the wingspans, tickling under the edges of the aft plating.

“This,” Skywarp murmured. He was improvising. He hadn’t seen Megatron do this, but…oh Primus he wanted to. The feel of Thundercracker’s sleek armor under his fingers sent his silver cord thing into a tingling frenzy. “There’s something you have I bet you don’t know about.” He turned Thundercracker around, pushing the blue jet’s back up against the door. “This.” He ran his fingers around the panel. Thundercracker’s optics widened, and underneath his fingers, Skywarp could feel a shiver. His own equipment shivered in response. “Do you feel it?” Skywarp murmured. “Something under there?”

Thundercracker squirmed, his optics flying to his armor. “What-what are you doing?”

“Told you. I wanted to show you something.” He teased the edges of the plate, remembering the maddening sensation of his own frantic search. “Feels good, right?”

“Stop. This has to be wrong. This feels…It’s not right.” Thundercracker’s voice was weak, and he didn’t move his pelvis away from Skywarp’s exploring fingers.

“It doesn’t hurt, does it?” Skywarp goaded, his voice husky. “It only feels weird because you’ve never felt it before.” He felt…suave and experienced by comparison, even though his own acquaintance was a decacycle old. “And,” he leaned in, resting his chin on Thundercracker’s shoulder, “it gets better.”

“This can’t be right,” Thundercracker repeated, helplessly. His hands clutched at the air on either side of him, his head tilting back against the door.

“Do you want me to stop?” Skywarp whispered. “Do you?”

“No.” The voice was thin, half-mortified.

“You saved me and I want to make you feel good.” Skywarp stretched his other hand along the leading edge of Thundercracker’s wing. The blue jet shuddered, sucking in an uneven breath.

“Got punished for that.”

“And I’m un-punishing you.” It didn’t seem prudent to mention that if anyone caught them at it…wow, he didn’t even know what the penalty would be. At the very least serious retraining for their distraction from the service of the Decepticon cause. He quivered as he felt a touch on his own wing: one of Thundercracker’s hands, shyly, trying to reciprocate. He purred, signaling his pleasure. “See?”

“I…uh…you saw Starscream and Megatron?”

“Doing this. More. I can show you. Do you want to see?” He waited for Thundercracker’s nod, pulling away slightly, and opening his own panel. His cord leapt erect, silver and slick-glossy with lubricant.

“What is that?” Thundercracker looked horrified. “Some kind of weapon?”

Skywarp grinned. That’s what he’d thought, too. “Try touching it.”

Thundercracker shot him a look as though he thought he was insane, but reached one hand down, tentatively. He hovered over it for a moment. Skywarp felt a surge of sensation just anticipating Thundercracker’s touch.

One finger touched the cable. Skywarp gasped, a shiver rippling from the equipment up the rest of his frame.

“It’s wet,” Thundercracker said. “Leaking.”

“You don’t feel the same?” Skywarp slid a teasing hand along Thundercracker’s still-sealed panel. Thundercracker squirmed, a low sound in his vocalizer. Oh, so close to the sound Skywarp had fantasized him making. Another shiver ran through Skywarp’s frame.

“What’s it for?”

THAT, Skywarp didn’t really know. “It feels good,” he bluffed, hoping it was enough.

Thundercracker looked down, studying the cable. “I don’t have one of those. I’d know.”

“Really.” Skywarp leaned in again—groaning as the action caused Thundercracker’s hand to tighten around the cord. “Retract your panel.” He whispered the command codes, his one hand lightly stroking Thundercracker’s audio, soothing him. He grinned triumphantly when he heard a soft click.

Thundercracker looked half-horrified when he saw his own cable, globs of clear lubricant oozing from the vents in the tip. Skywarp traced line up the underside, enjoying Thundercracker’s tense squeak, before he wrapped a hand around it and began pulling against it. Thundercracker’s head banged back against the door. “Oh PRIMUS,” the blue jet gasped. His knee servos trembled—Skywarp could feel the vibration against him.

For his part he was filled with a burning curiosity. Did Thundercracker’s lubricant taste the same as his own? He braced Thundercracker against the door with his hands as he dropped to his knees and flicked his glossa over the end of the cord. Thundercracker cried out, almost as if it burned him. Skywarp’s optics fluttered closed at the familiar sweet taste. He swore it was sweeter than his. And his hand was dexterous enough but…. He took the end of the cord in his mouth, his glossa eagerly exploring the complicated shapes, teasing over the rounded nodes, sucking at the vents, pulling more lubricant out. Thundercracker slammed his hands flat against the wall behind him in response, all of the nodes crackling to life from Skywarp’s insistent exploration. Skywarp knew what one felt like to his hands—by now he was more than intimately familiar with the shape—but his mouth still knew nothing. He probed, explored carefully, taking more and then a bit more of the silver cord into his mouth.

He had no idea what would happen: he hadn’t seen Starscream and Megatron do this. But he wanted to find out. More…scientific inquiry. Wouldn’t Starscream just be pleased.

Thundercracker’s knee servos gave, and the two slid to the floor together, Skywarp refusing to give up the cord from his mouth. He began moving his glossa and mouth on it, as he had with his hand. Thundercracker devolved into a quivering, whimpering mass, hands clutching at Skywarp’s helm, the edges of his wings, before his hips bumped up, urgently. Skywarp felt the hot burst of fluid against the back of his intake. Even though he’d seen his own how many times, he was unprepared for how it felt—the cord jumping in his mouth, the sudden, insistent rush. He couldn’t swallow it all: some dribbled down his mouth, across his lips. He tasted it with the tip of his glossa as he licked his way off of Thundercracker’s cord.

The blue jet lay gasping and quivery on the floor, as if teetering on the brink of unconsciousness. Skywarp wanted more. He slithered back, feeling his own wet cord leave a slick trail on the floor beneath him, the cord compressed between his weight and the floor. He had never gotten a good look—much less anything else—at a port. He had felt the edges of his own, but…never seen it.

Thundercracker’s was a shining pure silver rim, the interior lining velvety and dark. He traced it with one purple finger, before plunging the finger into the depths. Thundercracker cried out, his back arching. Skywarp paused. “Hurt?”

Thundercracker struggled to lift his head up, looking down the length of his chassis. “I don’t think your fingers are supposed to—aahhh!” Skywarp twirled the finger around. “Okay!” Thundercracker gasped, “Maybe it does.”

Skywarp pushed another finger in, stretching the lining. It pushed back, a warm, almost living pressure, against his fingers. He pushed onto one elbow, rocking his hand in and out of the port.

“What—what’s going to happen?” Thundercracker writhed on the floor.

“Don’t know,” Skywarp said, cheerfully. “Scientific inquiry.” He slid back, his glossa competing with his fingers on the rim of the port, licking and teasing and nipping the edges of the lining, his fingers at work deep inside the port, testing its limits. He found his own hips grinding against the floor, sliding his slick cord against the floor with increasing urgency, his cortex filled with the sounds of Thundercracker’s moans, the salty-sweet taste of the lubricants mixing with the silver fluid on his gloass, the smell of pristine metal, and his own barely restrained gnashing desire.

Thundercracker’s port grabbed frantically at Skywarp’s fingers, the blue jet howling, bucking his hips up so hard he bruised Skywarp’s face, thighs clamping hard against Skywarp’s helm, clashing into his audio. Skywarp’s own body shuddered into bliss, his tortured cord shooting its fluid against the floor, his belly. He groaned, his mouth sending the vibration against Thundercracker’s hypercharged port, pushing the blue jet into another climax of squirming and gasping.

Skywarp licked his lips carefully. “I told you you’d like it.”

“You did not.” Thundercracker sat up, shakily. Skywarp followed suit, glancing ruefully down at his silver-smeared cockpit. He noticed Thundercracker’s optics transfixed on the silver spatters.

Oh. “This is what comes out of this thing.” He prodded Thundercracker’s already half-pressurized cord.

“That came out of yours. Where did mine go?”

“I swallowed it. It tastes good. See?” He drew a finger up his cockpit, and licked the silver off, trying to imitate the lustful look he’d seen Starscream give Megatron on the monitor. He felt Thundercracker’s optics on him like another rush of sensation. He quivered when the blue jet reached over and did the same—traced a finger’s line up the silver smear and then licking it off. He heard a moan—his own. Frag he was so aroused and the one overload had barely done anything to take the edge off.

“What was that other thing?”

“Oh.” Skywarp rocked back, exposing his own port. “You have one of these, too. The cord thing is supposed to go in it.”

Thundercracker looked at him dubiously, then down at his cord. “I don’t think it’d reach.”

“Not your own! Someone else’s.”

“Someone else—like you’re gonna put someone else’s…inside you?” He squinted at Skywarp’s. “What if it gets, like…bitten off or stuck there.”

What? Skywarp held up his fingers, still slick from Thundercracker’s port lubricant. “Don’t think that happens.”

“But how?”

“Starscream managed it just fine.” Oh slag. Just thinking about Starscream’s red aft in the air, Megatron pounding into him—he hadn’t known when he saw it what was going on, but now…it enflamed him. “Come on. I’ll prove it.” He didn’t realize till he spoke how desperately he wanted to feel something in his own port. He groaned remembering the warm, snug, velvety feel of Thundercracker’s port against his fingers: he wanted to know what that felt like from the other side—fingers or cord, pushing into those depths. He rolled onto his knees, turning his silver aft toward Thundercracker.

He didn’t want to beg, but Thundercracker was hesitating. “Please,” he said. “Primus I want to feel it!”

Thundercracker clambered awkwardly closer—Skywarp had to push his own legs far apart, the blue knees within his own. He could hear Thundercracker cycle in a bracing in-vent, and then, the strange, foreign presence at the mouth of his port. He could feel its heat, its electromagnetic field against the nodes of his port. His own spike, deflated after its ejaculation, stirred again. He whimpered as Thundercracker pushed carefully in, hesitantly, as though he expected at any instant to find some stopping point or pain. The cord slipped in, easily, until he felt Thundercracker’s pelvic arch against his own armor—the end of the cord bumping the top of his port in a way that sent a delicious hard tremor through his system.

“Now what?” Thundercracker’s voice was shaky, his hands warm on Skywarp’s aft. Skywarp looked over his wing.

“Push. Come on. I’ll show you.” He rocked forward and back, moving the cord in his port gently. Thundercracker’s hands tightened on him, and began pulling at him, guiding his hips in rhythm, the cord sliding tightly in the slicked port.

Skywarp had discovered bliss. “Yes,” he breathed, to Thundercracker, to himself, to the whole universe. Yes. This was everything. Things he hadn’t thought possible, things beyond wanting, and it was here, now, his trine mate pushing more and more insistently into his port. Thundercracker began grunting in time with the thrusts, sharp, short, hard actions that jarred Skywarp’s nodes into blazing, desiring aching sensitivity. This was better than with his cord, he decided. Thundercracker, inside him. His. Taking pleasure in him, against him. The climax built quickly—Skywarp’s libido was a raw, wild thing he couldn’t control and it wasn’t long before he spasmed, the port squirming against the cord that continued to piston inside it. Still, Thundercracker kept going, his growl rising, his hands moving to push Skywarp into position, keep him still as the cord drove into him, hard and deep, slower now but just as forcefully until he, too, burst through the barrier, his overload shooting surprising heat against the top of the port. The sudden forceful rush pushed Skywarp into another overload, his port working in the now-stilled cord, pulling at it, milking it of fluid as he felt Thundercracker shivering above him.

“That,” Thundercracker gasped, dropping back to his heels, popping his cord out of Skywarp’s port, “was not right.” Skywarp felt a rush of heat as the fluid trickled out of his valve, down the backs of his thighs.

“Wasn’t it?” Skywarp dropped to one hip, half turning.

Thundercracker looked nervous, and more than a little abashed. “We…we can’t do that again. We could get caught.”

Skywarp grinned. “Makes it more fun.”

“Not fun.” Thundercracker frowned. “You didn’t get punished.”

Skywarp’s grin faded. “I know. I’m sorry.” Well, he thought, hope you enjoyed that, Skywarp. One and only time. Was it worth it?

Yes.

He closed his hatch, wiping the silver from his armor with a growing sense of nostalgia. The one time. The only time.

“You said you saw Starscream do this…with Megatron.”

Skywarp nodded.

Thundercracker’s mouth curved into a small, sly grin. “I think I have an idea.” Skywarp’s spark leapt. “What if…,” Thundercracker said, slowly, as if a bit in shock that he was stooping to this level of deviousness, “we caught them at it. Solidly.”

“Blackmail?” Skywarp’s smile was a larger, more wicked version of Thundercracker’s. “I like the sound of that." He got up, slowly, surveying the streaky spatters and puddles on himself, Thundercracker, the floor. "Know what else I'm thinking? They can't punish...everyone."
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Forbidden Knowledge