Fic
Title: Borealis 62a/83: Interlewd: Interior Cartography
Author: tainry
Disclaimer: Not mine, no money.
Rating: R
Characters/Pairing: Silverbolt/Prowl/OC Rutile
Warnings: PnP, self-indulgent fluff, PWP, OC
Summary: Wherein Rutile has a crush, Prowl and Silverbolt are charmed, and they shag him senseless.
Notes: Your regularly scheduled plot will resume next chapter. In the meantime, have a bit of out-of-chronology fluff. ^___^;
~2800 words.
Interlewd: Interior Cartography
2029 - January
“I’d like to note that Rutile’s maps were critical to the success of our overall strategy,” Prowl said, completing his report to Prime. Rutile’s lateral temporal fins turned crimson.
“I agree,” Silverbolt said. “Given how Soundwave was fritzing our sensors and comms, there’s no way we would have found the back entrance to that gully, or the dead end of the larger cave system without them. That we knew the layout and the Cons didn’t was key.”
“So noted,” said Prime, smiling. He could see the young bot behind the two officers. “Well done, Rutile, and thanks. Prime out.”
“Now,” said Prowl, turning to look at Rutile. “We’re going to have to scour the area for any ‘surprises’ the Cons might have left behind.”
“Of course,” Rutile said, voice quiet but steady as always. “I can reconfigure the secondary geo-scanner to a finer scale. It should be able to pick up even those new meta-ceramics Soundwave’s been using.”
“Excellent,” Prowl said. “The sooner we can clear this mess the better.” It was, after all, technically the humans’ planet, their system, even if they hadn’t quite gotten to the point where they could colonize it themselves yet.
As Prowl and Silverbolt continued to discuss other matters, Rutile returned to his lab. Work was good. Work was interesting. The adjustments wouldn’t take long and then he could get back to extracting and cataloging the fossil microorganisms he’d found. That was painstaking enough to distract him from wishing he had the temerity to approach Prowl and Silverbolt directly. Autobots weren’t like humans, he reminded himself for the 543rd time. They didn’t have hang-ups about this sort of thing.
They don’t, Rutile thought, except for me.
..ooO0Ooo..
“You guys are either mean or idiots,” Fireflight said, leaning heavily on the portable holotable with one hand, the other propped on his hip.
Silverbolt smiled. Prowl, watching him, took no offense. “Very well,” Silverbolt said, hoping to cut short the usual guessing games. “What is it?”
Fireflight’s wings took on a pouty angle, but he relented. “Rutile. Kid’s got a crush on you guys about ten light-years wide. The way his fields go whenever either of you so much as glances at him I’m surprised he hasn’t just tackled you.”
“Not everyone is as fond of that approach as you are,” Silverbolt pointed out. Fireflight had even tried it with Prowl - who had narrowly avoided shooting him. Only Silverbolt had seen the pistol retract, the recovery had been so smooth.
“Hm,” said Prowl, and exchanged a thoughtful look with Silverbolt.
..ooO0Ooo..
“Stay back!” Air Raid whooped, charging his main guns. “We’re gonna do this the old fashioned way!”
Prowl’s chevron flattened against his helm as the last device in this leg of the canyon exploded, bringing half a metric ton of rocks and sand down with it. They no longer needed to salvage every bit of processed alloys for reuse, not really; but habits ingrained over the course of a hard-fought war made the waste of a perfectly usable bomb seem profligate.
“That’s it for this sector,” Rutile said, bringing up the projected image again. “The next set is-”
“Whoa, there,” Silverbolt said, smiling. “We’ve been at this for two days. I think we could use some rest and recharge. We’ll move on to the next area tomorrow.”
“Oh.” Rutile deactivated his holo projector, shuffling his feet reflexively to get another little scan in before they left. “You’re right, of course, I’m sorry.” Looking at the ground, he didn’t see Silverbolt’s brothers taking off with a particular waggle to their wings, leaving him alone with Prowl and the Aerialbot leader.
“Rutile?” Prowl placed a hand lightly on Rutile’s shoulder, taking a step closer.
Attempting to maintain his composure, and keep his fields leashed, Rutile looked up. Prowl’s expression was one of gentle inquiry. How marvelous, Rutile thought, that such a lean and predatory face could somehow soften. He’d tried to imagine that face regarding him with tenderness many times, but he realized he’d never gotten it quite right. And that voice, speaking his name. Rutile replayed it, swaying a little.
Prowl’s hand moved upward to the back of his helm, thumb stroking slow half-circles. My helm is heavily armored, Rutile thought. I shouldn’t be able to feel that. But he could. It felt nice. And Prowl was warm in the cold Martian air, the warmth drawing Rutile closer. The light changed, dimming. Rutile looked over his shoulder. Silverbolt was now lounging on his side, curled around them beneath the overhanging stone, his knife-edged wings raised like spines against the outside world.
Is this what you want? Prowl asked.
“Oh. Oh, I…yes.” He leaned into the touch as Prowl brought his other hand up to follow the curve of Rutile’s cheek spar.
Prowl bowed his fierce head and touched his lips to Rutile’s.
So this is a kiss, Rutile thought. Bare metal touching metal, as intricate or uncomplicated as their lip components might be. A simple thing, with little meaning among Cybertronians, surely, who had no primordial tradition of feeding the young with premasticated food, learning from the wolves as each species domesticated the other. It was the barest of contacts. Rutile felt it like a sweep of cool rain, lighting up every haptic wire down to the tips of his toes.
A wash of heat from behind him grew steadily in his awareness. Silverbolt! How could he forget? And though he knew it was possible, how could they include someone so big? It was hard to think with Prowl kissing him like that. A thousand and one small kisses, their lip components intersecting in precise arrangements. No two the same. How was he doing that? Wait, what had he been…Silverbolt!
Prowl’s kisses wandered. The crest of Rutile’s helm, major and minor cheek spars, the edges of his mandibles, even the lateral tips of his optical shutters. Prowl tipped Rutile’s chin up and nibbled intently on the exposed cables of his throat as though hunting for something. Step by step, they encroached upon the boundaries of Silverbolt’s fields. Rutile shuddered, tracking every flux and interference pattern, even as they sent unfamiliar sensations pinging wildly through his systems. Silverbolt’s chest behind him was like a wall, Prowl’s powerful body pressing him into it. The heat of them was amazing!
Thought cascades stuttering, Rutile tried to keep ahead of the torrent of datastreams. Everything seemed to plunge directly into his pleasure centers. The scent of exotic ions that meant starship which clung to Silverbolt’s hull. The heady, complex aroma of Prowl’s lubricants, formulated for a heavy combat mech. Silverbolt’s pleased chuffles and hums; making it clear he - far from being left out - was enjoying watching them. The low revving of Prowl’s engine, felt as much as heard, the vibration transmitting through armor and protoform to Rutile’s spark chamber.
Prowl’s hands moved slowly down Rutile’s sides, down and in, curling around his hip gimbals. With a single smooth motion, he lifted Rutile up so they were of a height. Rutile at last found the presence of mind to touch him in return, tracing the severe lines of Prowl’s face, the sharp-armored shoulders, and trembling upon the broad chest plates, shyly avoiding the central seam.
Where do you like to be touched? Prowl asked, pressing his mouth more deeply to Rutile’s, so that their internal fields meshed.
I…aah… oh, I don’t know... anywhere, anywhere… Rutile fumbled at Prowl’s helm, movements uncoordinated. One of his sensory fins bashed against Prowl’s chevron hard enough to send feedback zinging uncomfortably through both their sensory nets. Prowl didn’t flinch but Rutile reared back, almost banging his head against Silverbolt. Oh! I’m sorry! I’m sorry, I don’t…I’ve never… I see this activity requires more coordination than I anticipated…
Prowl and Silverbolt exchanged a fast, speaking glance, and Prowl lowered Rutile lightly to his feet.
Rutile, you were decanted three years ago, Silverbolt said gently. Do you mean to tell us you haven’t interfaced with anyone?
Rutile looked at his hands, fingers spread across Prowl’s chest. So intimate. I thought it would be interesting to wait. There will be my entire life for everyone I could want, who would want me. I thought it would be nice if the first time was with someone special.
We are honored, Prowl and Silverbolt said. They did not say there were no guarantees Rutile’s life would be any longer than an ephemeral’s. They embraced him, moved by that knowledge, tenderly and wildly, embracing as well his inexperienced joy and astonished fervor. They welcomed him with hands and lips and exquisitely tuned fields, ready and willing for him to explore them, to send their precision scattering to the harsh Martian winds. It was traditional, this book of threes - touch, cable and spark. Rutile, overwhelmed by their touches, their scents, the low sounds Silverbolt made, the awareness of Prowl’s silence, the ways his silence had different qualities, though he did not know Prowl well enough to read the subtle palimpsest of signs, Rutile eagerly lost himself, surrendering to their methods.
Place your hands on me like this. Prowl drew Rutile’s hands to where his torso began to angle outward, heavy armor overlapping in acute diagonals toward his shoulders. Extend your fingertips… yes, like that. Now feel past the oblique plates, inward and down. There are a pair of afferent bundles- Prowl’s transmission cut off abruptly as Rutile found the bundles and stroked them, simply assessing their shape and position, but the tactician’s body went taut, curling forward, silver hands clutching at Rutile’s dorsal armor. Silverbolt chuckled.
There should be two more up higher, Silverbolt said, extending fingertips to either side of Prowl’s neck to illustrate. Beneath the lateral sections of pectoral armor, not so deep as the spark chamber, but close to the mechanisms of the shoulders.
A new revelation, that something Rutile did could so affect another. That pleasure received could be given with equal intensity.
That’s nice, isn’t it, Silverbolt agreed. Watching him like that. He’s so calm, so reserved. Yet such a little thing can undo him. It had been a surprise to Silverbolt as well, how sensitive Prowl was. The noise and clamor of battle, the filth and spilled fluids and the pain, endured so stoically, must be nothing short of torture for him, hyperaware as he was. Sometimes it was funny how the biggest, baddest mechs were the most tender of lovers, but in Prowl it made an aching sense. Silverbolt opened his ports, offered cables to both of them. Prowl accepted swiftly, reciprocating, linking smoothly with Silverbolt. Their cables hovered near Rutile’s thoracic ports, teasing, but also giving Rutile time to acquiesce in full knowledge. It was one thing to cast thoughts back and forth within the cloud mind; another entirely to open their wiring directly, connecting in the ancient way as had been done when most of the structures on Cybertron had been made of Cybertronians.
Remember to set your firewalls first, Prowl murmured, nuzzling Rutile’s temporal spar. We won’t push anything through until you’re ready.
Rutile rested his head on Prowl’s chest. It was an irrevocable moment, he felt. Once the links were established, he would know things, know Prowl and Silverbolt, and they would know him and he would be changed. He wanted to remember everything as the seconds spiraled by. Prowl’s hands and Silverbolt’s fingertips moving slowly over his body; the shifting wind as evening fell, bringing with it the scent of rust, and water and CO2 ices; the thrum of the others’ engines, the laboring of his own cooling systems; the strange, on-tiptoes-at-the-edge-of-a-cliff feeling of the seated cables, hot in his ports, his cables hot in theirs. He swayed between them, tossing up a couple of hasty firewalls, then opened himself to the link.
The triplet, braided streams began gradually. Soft, nuzzling glyphs evolved into polygons of desire, splashing through their CPUs like electric rivers. Rutile writhed in timelapse, reigniting, astonished by his own passion. He had wondered, before, how people could overload via cables, how could thought alone bring about the necessary uncontrollable cascade?
Rutile scraped his cheek spar across Prowl’s armor, biting the edge of the heavy pectoral plate. Oh the stars!
Two of them had travelled the folded ways between galaxies, between stars, felt hard radiation sizzling on their hulls over hundreds, thousands of years. How did Prowl know that feeling? Rutile withdrew the question - unanswered with a small smile - coming up against impressive firewalls. Ah, Prowl partnered the Seekers, learning from them, hiding things from them. Rutile didn’t press. Memories of the sensations of gestalt opened to distract him, drawing Prowl in as well. Oneness, wholeness, converging disparate minds into a greater, atavistic unity. Tendrils of sparks reaching out, connecting with bonds only terrible violence could sever. Superion’s flight mode, massive, bristling with weapons, nevertheless reveled in more than battle, singing the songs felt and navigated by between stars.
Their minds flitted over the old game the deep-seekers played, Chasing Expansion’s Edge, and of course they knew it was impossible, the universe did not have edges, the nineteen dimensions curved or recurved and expansion was taking place everywhere at once, but still they played and pretended out in the alone dark; because, the arcane delta lore said, what if someone caught it? And Prowl, shadowy, much of him hidden, concealed to spare them, protect them, the need to protect so central to his programming they didn’t have to see into his core, it was everywhere in him and they knew why Prime had set him the task of shepherding the former Cons. He was what they had once been, he was what they intended to be. Rutile longed for such depths, such ages, and gathered the knowing, even the pain and loss, learning how the bite of it could shape kindness, shape compassion, cut a being down and down until there was nothing left but the singular spark and how even a guttering spark might be rekindled, given the proper fuel.
Prowl ran his thumbs over Rutile’s central seam. It was the unexpected, wholly physical distraction of it, the sheer suggestiveness of the gesture that sent Rutile curling into overload, Prowl holding him, Silverbolt holding them.
Returning to consciousness was a shock. Rutile had never been so entwined before, never had to disentangle his self from another, stretching limbs that no longer felt entirely like his own.
Where is my body? he said, or thought he said, and Prowl and Silverbolt laughed kindly and helped him sort out the feeds. Silverbolt had rolled onto his back, optics longing for the sky, wing-segments folded neatly. Prowl and Rutile wound together atop him in a nest made of his hands.
Now, young one, Prowl thrummed, repositioning him as Silverbolt opened his spark chamber. A wonder of the universe. Prime thinks there are only seven deltas left in the entire cosmos.
Oh for Primus’ sake, Silverbolt said. Night had descended, icy but shimmering with stars through the thin atmosphere. Silverbolt’s spark shone blue as Earth’s sky from the tops of mountains. Prowl instructed Rutile on how best to arrange himself and his articulation locks so that their much smaller chests formed a wide triangle with Silverbolt’s. Prowl braced himself and opened - silver spilling across the deep blue. Every fin and antenna on Rutile’s head fanned forward, rapt. He almost forgot to open his own chest, baring a spark only Ratchet and Perceptor had seen.
Trinary suns, blue, silver and warm red, spinning their way to synchronicity, collective consciousness, coronae bright and hot. Rutile wavered, equating sparks and stars too literally, afraid of being drawn too close. The gravity of sparks, they soothed him, is immense but exists in the other seventeen dimensions, every single one of them in a kind of orbit around the Allspark; Silverbolt’s would not consume them. Only an actual merge was dangerous. Prowl promised he would convey his memories of such to the others. Later. Prowl pushed heat, opened wider, pulsing faster, drawing them down beyond words and glyphs until they existed burned sublimated into an overload like the dawn.
Rutile came online to find himself cradled against Silverbolt’s warm chest, with Silverbolt sitting upright and Prowl balanced on Silverbolt’s shoulder, looking outward into the canyon. Watching. No, keeping watch.
“There you are,” Silverbolt said, optics bright. “We were beginning to think you seduced us just to get some rest.”
“…I’m not sure that’s…” Rutile said, blinking.
Silverbolt chuckled. “You’ve had everyone thinking you were an ascetic,” he said. “In fact you’re quite a sensualist.” He stroked Rutile’s shoulder with a fingertip and Rutile leaned into it, almost purring. Climbing down from Silverbolt’s shoulder, Prowl wrapped a hand around Rutile’s ankle, perilously close to some of his geo-sensor arrays. Rutile shivered and spread his armor.
“It is easier,” Silverbolt pointed out in a slow, languorous drawl, “to accomplish a wider variety of docking maneuvers in low-g.”
“!” said Rutile. Prowl and Silverbolt laughed, and Silverbolt, transforming around them, held them close and safe and leapt for the velvet darkness above the sky.
Table of Contents
.
Author: tainry
Disclaimer: Not mine, no money.
Rating: R
Characters/Pairing: Silverbolt/Prowl/OC Rutile
Warnings: PnP, self-indulgent fluff, PWP, OC
Summary: Wherein Rutile has a crush, Prowl and Silverbolt are charmed, and they shag him senseless.
Notes: Your regularly scheduled plot will resume next chapter. In the meantime, have a bit of out-of-chronology fluff. ^___^;
~2800 words.
Interlewd: Interior Cartography
2029 - January
“I’d like to note that Rutile’s maps were critical to the success of our overall strategy,” Prowl said, completing his report to Prime. Rutile’s lateral temporal fins turned crimson.
“I agree,” Silverbolt said. “Given how Soundwave was fritzing our sensors and comms, there’s no way we would have found the back entrance to that gully, or the dead end of the larger cave system without them. That we knew the layout and the Cons didn’t was key.”
“So noted,” said Prime, smiling. He could see the young bot behind the two officers. “Well done, Rutile, and thanks. Prime out.”
“Now,” said Prowl, turning to look at Rutile. “We’re going to have to scour the area for any ‘surprises’ the Cons might have left behind.”
“Of course,” Rutile said, voice quiet but steady as always. “I can reconfigure the secondary geo-scanner to a finer scale. It should be able to pick up even those new meta-ceramics Soundwave’s been using.”
“Excellent,” Prowl said. “The sooner we can clear this mess the better.” It was, after all, technically the humans’ planet, their system, even if they hadn’t quite gotten to the point where they could colonize it themselves yet.
As Prowl and Silverbolt continued to discuss other matters, Rutile returned to his lab. Work was good. Work was interesting. The adjustments wouldn’t take long and then he could get back to extracting and cataloging the fossil microorganisms he’d found. That was painstaking enough to distract him from wishing he had the temerity to approach Prowl and Silverbolt directly. Autobots weren’t like humans, he reminded himself for the 543rd time. They didn’t have hang-ups about this sort of thing.
They don’t, Rutile thought, except for me.
..ooO0Ooo..
“You guys are either mean or idiots,” Fireflight said, leaning heavily on the portable holotable with one hand, the other propped on his hip.
Silverbolt smiled. Prowl, watching him, took no offense. “Very well,” Silverbolt said, hoping to cut short the usual guessing games. “What is it?”
Fireflight’s wings took on a pouty angle, but he relented. “Rutile. Kid’s got a crush on you guys about ten light-years wide. The way his fields go whenever either of you so much as glances at him I’m surprised he hasn’t just tackled you.”
“Not everyone is as fond of that approach as you are,” Silverbolt pointed out. Fireflight had even tried it with Prowl - who had narrowly avoided shooting him. Only Silverbolt had seen the pistol retract, the recovery had been so smooth.
“Hm,” said Prowl, and exchanged a thoughtful look with Silverbolt.
..ooO0Ooo..
“Stay back!” Air Raid whooped, charging his main guns. “We’re gonna do this the old fashioned way!”
Prowl’s chevron flattened against his helm as the last device in this leg of the canyon exploded, bringing half a metric ton of rocks and sand down with it. They no longer needed to salvage every bit of processed alloys for reuse, not really; but habits ingrained over the course of a hard-fought war made the waste of a perfectly usable bomb seem profligate.
“That’s it for this sector,” Rutile said, bringing up the projected image again. “The next set is-”
“Whoa, there,” Silverbolt said, smiling. “We’ve been at this for two days. I think we could use some rest and recharge. We’ll move on to the next area tomorrow.”
“Oh.” Rutile deactivated his holo projector, shuffling his feet reflexively to get another little scan in before they left. “You’re right, of course, I’m sorry.” Looking at the ground, he didn’t see Silverbolt’s brothers taking off with a particular waggle to their wings, leaving him alone with Prowl and the Aerialbot leader.
“Rutile?” Prowl placed a hand lightly on Rutile’s shoulder, taking a step closer.
Attempting to maintain his composure, and keep his fields leashed, Rutile looked up. Prowl’s expression was one of gentle inquiry. How marvelous, Rutile thought, that such a lean and predatory face could somehow soften. He’d tried to imagine that face regarding him with tenderness many times, but he realized he’d never gotten it quite right. And that voice, speaking his name. Rutile replayed it, swaying a little.
Prowl’s hand moved upward to the back of his helm, thumb stroking slow half-circles. My helm is heavily armored, Rutile thought. I shouldn’t be able to feel that. But he could. It felt nice. And Prowl was warm in the cold Martian air, the warmth drawing Rutile closer. The light changed, dimming. Rutile looked over his shoulder. Silverbolt was now lounging on his side, curled around them beneath the overhanging stone, his knife-edged wings raised like spines against the outside world.
Is this what you want? Prowl asked.
“Oh. Oh, I…yes.” He leaned into the touch as Prowl brought his other hand up to follow the curve of Rutile’s cheek spar.
Prowl bowed his fierce head and touched his lips to Rutile’s.
So this is a kiss, Rutile thought. Bare metal touching metal, as intricate or uncomplicated as their lip components might be. A simple thing, with little meaning among Cybertronians, surely, who had no primordial tradition of feeding the young with premasticated food, learning from the wolves as each species domesticated the other. It was the barest of contacts. Rutile felt it like a sweep of cool rain, lighting up every haptic wire down to the tips of his toes.
A wash of heat from behind him grew steadily in his awareness. Silverbolt! How could he forget? And though he knew it was possible, how could they include someone so big? It was hard to think with Prowl kissing him like that. A thousand and one small kisses, their lip components intersecting in precise arrangements. No two the same. How was he doing that? Wait, what had he been…Silverbolt!
Prowl’s kisses wandered. The crest of Rutile’s helm, major and minor cheek spars, the edges of his mandibles, even the lateral tips of his optical shutters. Prowl tipped Rutile’s chin up and nibbled intently on the exposed cables of his throat as though hunting for something. Step by step, they encroached upon the boundaries of Silverbolt’s fields. Rutile shuddered, tracking every flux and interference pattern, even as they sent unfamiliar sensations pinging wildly through his systems. Silverbolt’s chest behind him was like a wall, Prowl’s powerful body pressing him into it. The heat of them was amazing!
Thought cascades stuttering, Rutile tried to keep ahead of the torrent of datastreams. Everything seemed to plunge directly into his pleasure centers. The scent of exotic ions that meant starship which clung to Silverbolt’s hull. The heady, complex aroma of Prowl’s lubricants, formulated for a heavy combat mech. Silverbolt’s pleased chuffles and hums; making it clear he - far from being left out - was enjoying watching them. The low revving of Prowl’s engine, felt as much as heard, the vibration transmitting through armor and protoform to Rutile’s spark chamber.
Prowl’s hands moved slowly down Rutile’s sides, down and in, curling around his hip gimbals. With a single smooth motion, he lifted Rutile up so they were of a height. Rutile at last found the presence of mind to touch him in return, tracing the severe lines of Prowl’s face, the sharp-armored shoulders, and trembling upon the broad chest plates, shyly avoiding the central seam.
Where do you like to be touched? Prowl asked, pressing his mouth more deeply to Rutile’s, so that their internal fields meshed.
I…aah… oh, I don’t know... anywhere, anywhere… Rutile fumbled at Prowl’s helm, movements uncoordinated. One of his sensory fins bashed against Prowl’s chevron hard enough to send feedback zinging uncomfortably through both their sensory nets. Prowl didn’t flinch but Rutile reared back, almost banging his head against Silverbolt. Oh! I’m sorry! I’m sorry, I don’t…I’ve never… I see this activity requires more coordination than I anticipated…
Prowl and Silverbolt exchanged a fast, speaking glance, and Prowl lowered Rutile lightly to his feet.
Rutile, you were decanted three years ago, Silverbolt said gently. Do you mean to tell us you haven’t interfaced with anyone?
Rutile looked at his hands, fingers spread across Prowl’s chest. So intimate. I thought it would be interesting to wait. There will be my entire life for everyone I could want, who would want me. I thought it would be nice if the first time was with someone special.
We are honored, Prowl and Silverbolt said. They did not say there were no guarantees Rutile’s life would be any longer than an ephemeral’s. They embraced him, moved by that knowledge, tenderly and wildly, embracing as well his inexperienced joy and astonished fervor. They welcomed him with hands and lips and exquisitely tuned fields, ready and willing for him to explore them, to send their precision scattering to the harsh Martian winds. It was traditional, this book of threes - touch, cable and spark. Rutile, overwhelmed by their touches, their scents, the low sounds Silverbolt made, the awareness of Prowl’s silence, the ways his silence had different qualities, though he did not know Prowl well enough to read the subtle palimpsest of signs, Rutile eagerly lost himself, surrendering to their methods.
Place your hands on me like this. Prowl drew Rutile’s hands to where his torso began to angle outward, heavy armor overlapping in acute diagonals toward his shoulders. Extend your fingertips… yes, like that. Now feel past the oblique plates, inward and down. There are a pair of afferent bundles- Prowl’s transmission cut off abruptly as Rutile found the bundles and stroked them, simply assessing their shape and position, but the tactician’s body went taut, curling forward, silver hands clutching at Rutile’s dorsal armor. Silverbolt chuckled.
There should be two more up higher, Silverbolt said, extending fingertips to either side of Prowl’s neck to illustrate. Beneath the lateral sections of pectoral armor, not so deep as the spark chamber, but close to the mechanisms of the shoulders.
A new revelation, that something Rutile did could so affect another. That pleasure received could be given with equal intensity.
That’s nice, isn’t it, Silverbolt agreed. Watching him like that. He’s so calm, so reserved. Yet such a little thing can undo him. It had been a surprise to Silverbolt as well, how sensitive Prowl was. The noise and clamor of battle, the filth and spilled fluids and the pain, endured so stoically, must be nothing short of torture for him, hyperaware as he was. Sometimes it was funny how the biggest, baddest mechs were the most tender of lovers, but in Prowl it made an aching sense. Silverbolt opened his ports, offered cables to both of them. Prowl accepted swiftly, reciprocating, linking smoothly with Silverbolt. Their cables hovered near Rutile’s thoracic ports, teasing, but also giving Rutile time to acquiesce in full knowledge. It was one thing to cast thoughts back and forth within the cloud mind; another entirely to open their wiring directly, connecting in the ancient way as had been done when most of the structures on Cybertron had been made of Cybertronians.
Remember to set your firewalls first, Prowl murmured, nuzzling Rutile’s temporal spar. We won’t push anything through until you’re ready.
Rutile rested his head on Prowl’s chest. It was an irrevocable moment, he felt. Once the links were established, he would know things, know Prowl and Silverbolt, and they would know him and he would be changed. He wanted to remember everything as the seconds spiraled by. Prowl’s hands and Silverbolt’s fingertips moving slowly over his body; the shifting wind as evening fell, bringing with it the scent of rust, and water and CO2 ices; the thrum of the others’ engines, the laboring of his own cooling systems; the strange, on-tiptoes-at-the-edge-of-a-cliff feeling of the seated cables, hot in his ports, his cables hot in theirs. He swayed between them, tossing up a couple of hasty firewalls, then opened himself to the link.
The triplet, braided streams began gradually. Soft, nuzzling glyphs evolved into polygons of desire, splashing through their CPUs like electric rivers. Rutile writhed in timelapse, reigniting, astonished by his own passion. He had wondered, before, how people could overload via cables, how could thought alone bring about the necessary uncontrollable cascade?
Rutile scraped his cheek spar across Prowl’s armor, biting the edge of the heavy pectoral plate. Oh the stars!
Two of them had travelled the folded ways between galaxies, between stars, felt hard radiation sizzling on their hulls over hundreds, thousands of years. How did Prowl know that feeling? Rutile withdrew the question - unanswered with a small smile - coming up against impressive firewalls. Ah, Prowl partnered the Seekers, learning from them, hiding things from them. Rutile didn’t press. Memories of the sensations of gestalt opened to distract him, drawing Prowl in as well. Oneness, wholeness, converging disparate minds into a greater, atavistic unity. Tendrils of sparks reaching out, connecting with bonds only terrible violence could sever. Superion’s flight mode, massive, bristling with weapons, nevertheless reveled in more than battle, singing the songs felt and navigated by between stars.
Their minds flitted over the old game the deep-seekers played, Chasing Expansion’s Edge, and of course they knew it was impossible, the universe did not have edges, the nineteen dimensions curved or recurved and expansion was taking place everywhere at once, but still they played and pretended out in the alone dark; because, the arcane delta lore said, what if someone caught it? And Prowl, shadowy, much of him hidden, concealed to spare them, protect them, the need to protect so central to his programming they didn’t have to see into his core, it was everywhere in him and they knew why Prime had set him the task of shepherding the former Cons. He was what they had once been, he was what they intended to be. Rutile longed for such depths, such ages, and gathered the knowing, even the pain and loss, learning how the bite of it could shape kindness, shape compassion, cut a being down and down until there was nothing left but the singular spark and how even a guttering spark might be rekindled, given the proper fuel.
Prowl ran his thumbs over Rutile’s central seam. It was the unexpected, wholly physical distraction of it, the sheer suggestiveness of the gesture that sent Rutile curling into overload, Prowl holding him, Silverbolt holding them.
Returning to consciousness was a shock. Rutile had never been so entwined before, never had to disentangle his self from another, stretching limbs that no longer felt entirely like his own.
Where is my body? he said, or thought he said, and Prowl and Silverbolt laughed kindly and helped him sort out the feeds. Silverbolt had rolled onto his back, optics longing for the sky, wing-segments folded neatly. Prowl and Rutile wound together atop him in a nest made of his hands.
Now, young one, Prowl thrummed, repositioning him as Silverbolt opened his spark chamber. A wonder of the universe. Prime thinks there are only seven deltas left in the entire cosmos.
Oh for Primus’ sake, Silverbolt said. Night had descended, icy but shimmering with stars through the thin atmosphere. Silverbolt’s spark shone blue as Earth’s sky from the tops of mountains. Prowl instructed Rutile on how best to arrange himself and his articulation locks so that their much smaller chests formed a wide triangle with Silverbolt’s. Prowl braced himself and opened - silver spilling across the deep blue. Every fin and antenna on Rutile’s head fanned forward, rapt. He almost forgot to open his own chest, baring a spark only Ratchet and Perceptor had seen.
Trinary suns, blue, silver and warm red, spinning their way to synchronicity, collective consciousness, coronae bright and hot. Rutile wavered, equating sparks and stars too literally, afraid of being drawn too close. The gravity of sparks, they soothed him, is immense but exists in the other seventeen dimensions, every single one of them in a kind of orbit around the Allspark; Silverbolt’s would not consume them. Only an actual merge was dangerous. Prowl promised he would convey his memories of such to the others. Later. Prowl pushed heat, opened wider, pulsing faster, drawing them down beyond words and glyphs until they existed burned sublimated into an overload like the dawn.
Rutile came online to find himself cradled against Silverbolt’s warm chest, with Silverbolt sitting upright and Prowl balanced on Silverbolt’s shoulder, looking outward into the canyon. Watching. No, keeping watch.
“There you are,” Silverbolt said, optics bright. “We were beginning to think you seduced us just to get some rest.”
“…I’m not sure that’s…” Rutile said, blinking.
Silverbolt chuckled. “You’ve had everyone thinking you were an ascetic,” he said. “In fact you’re quite a sensualist.” He stroked Rutile’s shoulder with a fingertip and Rutile leaned into it, almost purring. Climbing down from Silverbolt’s shoulder, Prowl wrapped a hand around Rutile’s ankle, perilously close to some of his geo-sensor arrays. Rutile shivered and spread his armor.
“It is easier,” Silverbolt pointed out in a slow, languorous drawl, “to accomplish a wider variety of docking maneuvers in low-g.”
“!” said Rutile. Prowl and Silverbolt laughed, and Silverbolt, transforming around them, held them close and safe and leapt for the velvet darkness above the sky.
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