Steeljaw absolutely torn on how to get Thunderhoof and the others back. Can be super sad as you like.
(As always, I may have gotten a little carried away. Oh well, OTP got me and wouldn’t let go. Sadly I lost some part of it which I had to rewrite and the got super tired because it’s really late right now and I was on this for way too long so… I have literally no idea what this is since my reading and comprehensive abilites have already gone to bed. Enjoy, none the less!)
His intake cycle was laboured, rapid. Panicked.
The others had been captured.
Steeljaw had woken up alone, body sore but suprinsingly intact after being thrown away like so much garbage by the dark Prime. The foliage he had tumbled through had slowed his descent, the thick moss on the ground softening his final impact. His first thought had been for his pack. Calling them earned no response. Looking for them, no results.
A horrible feeling sunk into his chest and, limping, he made his way to the Autobot grounds. He had arrived just as they had locked Thunderhoof in. The soap opera-like irony of that had not been lost on the wolf-con.
Now he was huddled up at the deep end of a cave, its previous occupant, a big brown furry creature, laying dead at its entrance in warning, his tail sheltering him from the seeping cold of the night.
If only the appendage could also protect him from the other seeping feeling that slowly overtook his spark. His intakes were laboured, rapid. Panicked.
He was alone.
That sudden thought, pouncing on him like a predator, unleashed all emotions and he curled up further on himself, body trembling.
Wolf-cons were no strangers to solitude. Often one their kind would go about on their own, Steeljaw himself had made that choice at certain points of his life and had fared perfectly well. But choice or not, a deep rooted programming made them pack creatures - even the lonest of wolf-cons sometimes joined a group, if only temporarily. It was a useful survival instinct, one that made them seek the force of number; it was even more useful for someone inhabited with grand ambitions, the ones that required such force of number. It only had one true flaw: when one became packless, not by choice but by circumstances, the instinct turned craving and the lone member, the lone fearless leader, turned weakling.
Shivering, he recalled Divebomb’s and Airazor’s common bickering. Trembling, he thought of Underbite challenging his biceps against Clampdown’s powerful claws and the supporting cheers that ensued from the rest of the pack. Shaking, he remembered Fracture’s horrible singing voice and the jeer it got and the surprinsingly good-natured laughter that followed from everyone. Quaking, he reminisced the lair and its familiar scents and his inhabitants and his makeshift berth.
Jolting, suddenly paralyzed by the overwhelming anxiety, he mused over the recharging body that was more often than not against his own. The big one, the warm one, the one he had pawed and clawed in feverish passion, the one he had undone, the one he had sunk in, thrusting harder and harder and harder until white heat overcame him and he spilled himself inside it.
Another shiver ran through his body, this time not of fear, and Steeljaw was able to move again, releasing an intake that was long overdue.
Feeling light-headed, battling the feeling of helplessness that threatened to overtake him again, he made himself sit up, throwing his head bawkards, opening his maw and gulping fresh bowls of air. Several minutes passed, his intake cycle became less erratic and his spark settled. He kept his processor clear of everything but that body.
Only it was not just a body anymore but a gaze. An intense, distrustful gaze aimed right at him, one that turned skeptic, then neutral, then thoughtful, then annoyed, all towards different mechs. The gaze became a face that frowned down two rude minicons, a voice that sneered at a crab, an antlered-head that charged into a chompazoid during a spar, an arm that grabbed a bounty hunter’s shoulder in a uncouth but friendly way, a rarely heard laugh booming over the others… a smile never seen outside of privacy… a brush of a servo against his own… then a gaze again, uneasy this time, looking downwards in an uncharacteristic way, a large servo rubbing the back of a thick neck…
Spark steady, body relaxing, optics up at the ceiling but looking at nothing but that uneasy expression, Steeljaw let the memory play in his processor:
“So… why?”
The elk-con finally looked up, frowning. “So why, what?” , he snapped.
Undeterred, the wolf-con proceeded. “I observed that you had been staying the night lately. Regularly. And getting no answer I finally ask: why?”
That frown deepened, an antlered-head started strecthing its neck in sign of discomfort. Not for the first time, Steeljaw wondered how Thunderhoof could always do such ample movements without being hindered by the appendages…or without hitting anyone he didn’t want to.
“M’tired, ‘kay?”, he finally spat. “Yous got me run this way and that, usually carrying stuff, and while I ain’t a weakling it’s still hard work, ya know? So I’m tired. And after we finish getting frisky, I’m nice and relaxed to boot. So I just…stay where I am”, he started fidgeting angrily. “Figured it wasn’t a big deal.”
A sideway glance. The wolf-con fought the urge to smile knowingly, he settled for a teasing smirk.
“I never said it was”. His only answer was an angry huff. At him or at its source was unclear. “I simply… noticed…”, he drawled. He couldn’t resist poking fun at the other.
Especially when said other had such delightful reaction as ramming into the air in exasperation. There was something… endearing in that animalistic idyosyncracy of his.
What was less endearing was the way he stomped his way out of his leader’s room, throwing over his shoulder: “Yeah, well, it won’t happen again”.
Quick as a lightning, the wolf-con ran up to the door, effectively going past the bigger mech and standing in the middle of the recently opened door.
“Now, now Thunderhoof”, he purred. “Don’t be hasty. I never implied I wanted you to stop… quite the contrary”. A tense look met his optic: resistance, anger, exasperation, and, underneath all these layers of protective toughness, so deep and tiny the mafia boss probably didn’t even sense it himself, a glimmer of hope. He liked that answer, liked the idea of being favored above the others, liked to be desired the way the wolf-con desired him…and he didn’t even know it. How quaint.
A leery smirk adorned Steeljaw’s features. “…after all…the nights are rather cold, don’t you think?”
All in one the tension drained from the bigger mech, a drawl of air escaped him, sounding suspiciously like a sigh of relief, and he started moving with more ease.
“Yeah. Yeah, that’s true”, he chuckled, breathily. “Gotta admit I have less stiff joints when I end up staying. Stupid cold ain’t good for them.”
“Agreed”, Steeljaw purred, taking a couple steps forward, closing the door with his tail and pressing against Thunderhoof. His claws made their way to the elk-con’s hips. “And I wouldn’t want you to suffer damage from something this trivial”.
An inquisitive glance, a mix of worry, confusion and… again that glimmer of hope its owner probably didn’t even know existed. Oh, but this was a hard one to crack: so attached to his freedom, he didn’t even notice he wanted to let it go. Good thing wolf-cons had good survival instincts: it made them that more prepared to succeed in this type of situation.
“It’d be a pity to lose part of our muscle”, Steeljaw finally finished, pleased to see the positive reaction: tension once again leaving the powerful frame against his…and that glimmer of hope becoming sparkle of dissapointment.
Yes. Good thing wolf-cons had good survival instincts, the ones that enabled them to read minute details in people’s behaviour, the one that enabled them to see what one might not even notice about themselves and thus enabled them to effectively…
“…seduce a desired potential mate.”
His optics refocusing, Steeljaw was finally able to see what was in front of him: the rocky, damp ceiling of a dark, cold, empty cave. So different from the vision he had had just that morning: that luminous, open world he ruled, surrounded by brethren…and offspring.
Survival instincts made a wolf-con seek force of number, but also warmth of caramaraderie, thrill of sentiments, protection of youngs. This morning he had two of these: a brethren at his back, a powerful pack whom he had assured loyalty through soft words and brutal might, and a lover in his berth, a potential mate who was more amenable to the idea than he even realized and whom Steeljaw didn’t mind being patient with. This morning he nearly secured the third element: he nearly had the planet Earth in his clutches… and then he was flung away from everything, literally and figuratively.
Fist clenched and a deep, angry growl made his way up his throat.
He nearly had everything and those Autobots, and that Megatronus, had taken it all away. Locking up his dreams as surely as they had locked up his desired mate.
Foam started appearing around his maw as he snarled and gnawed in fury, body trembling this time in absolute ire. Well, they will see. The lock is sure but it isn’t safe, and the wolf-con will prove it by picking it open once more, unleashing everything again!
Yes. He will start by getting back his first associate, the one who will secure his line, and from then on his rightful future will unravel: full of Autobot cries of anguish, Decepticon howls of victory and himself at the top.
A cruel smirk lighted his features.
(AN: I think it’s high time I admitted that I actually prefer Thunderhoof as the receiver *coughandhasthecarriercough* don’t mind the other way around just… prefer it this way ;3)
