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Sideswipe hates night patrol duty. He would never admit it in front of the others, but this planet got so fragging creepy after its sun dipped below the horizon and the skies turned black and all of the strange little organic creatures began croaking and groaning and yipping. He just can’t stand it. As much as he loves Russell and Denny, he doesn’t think he’ll ever get used to Earth.

The road may as well have been endless. He’s been down it about a million times on patrols already and guess what — a Decepticon has never been spotted in this area once! Not even a signal!

It’s as if Bumblebee likes sending him on useless missions!

Sideswipe transforms mid-drive, sparks flying as his pedes slide across the cement. He stands in the center of the road and kicks at the pebbles on the clipped white lines. Despite the lack of an audience, he pouts at the dark forest landscape, sniffing the cool air disdainfully.

Suddenly, his olfactory sensors pick up a scent. Tawny, sweet, and entirely foreign to him. In a rare instance of analysis, he flips through his olfactory memory data. Nothing even comes close to resembling the scent, which isn’t too strange, he supposes. He’s on an alien planet after all, but there’s something so distinctly Cybertronian about it. For some reason, he can’t seem to put his finger on why.

Forgetting about his display of insolence, Sideswipe scans his surroundings as if the scent’s source could be within visual range. He can tell it’s far, but if his olfactories are right, the distance is drivable.

Moreover, the effect it’s having on him might be a cause for concern. Sideswipe can’t help but feel inexplicably allured, like the scent carries the promise of something… wonderful? Consolidating? Delicious, maybe? He isn’t able to put the feeling into words but his spark pulses longingly all the same, begging him to discover its source. 

He takes a step forward and his spark congratulates him, egging him to go further, further. “Hurry up!” he feels it say. “Don’t you want to feel good?”

Sideswipe does want to feel good. What could be the harm? How could something that smells so good turn out to be bad?

“Scrap it,” he says, transforming and speeding down the road towards an unknown yet tantalizing destination. “To the Pits with this dumb patrol slag, anyway!”

Strongarm would probably be calling him rash and simple-minded or some slag if she was here, but Sideswipe knows he’s only being curious. One little detour couldn’t hurt, could it? It’s not like Bumblebee is going to find out. When was the last time a Decepticon attacked their base at night, anyway? 

The forest soon vanishes in the distance as he chases after the scent. After an hour or so, he reaches a pothole-ridden road, flanked by dilapidated buildings and overgrown weeds. Pretty much a dump. At least he won’t have to worry about being spotted by restless organics.

He transforms into root-mode before the entrance of an abandoned factory. It seems to be where the scent emanates from; the source must be somewhere within. He isn’t sure why his circuits tingle at the thought. 

Against his better judgment, Sideswipe enters. 

The interior is so large that he feels small and insignificant as he explores, every pedestep carrying the echo of an unpleasant clank! Although it has been long-abandoned, the ground teems with rusted mechanisms: electric generators, storage tanks, material handling equipment. He sidesteps an overturned forklift only to nearly bang his pede against a vandalized press brake. 

“Primus, this dump is worse than the scrapyard!” Sideswipe mutters under his breath. “Where is it already? I’ll contract cosmic rust if I stay for another klik.”

It’s as if the organics who previously worked here had just left everything behind, paying no heed to value or sentiment. On top of being disgusted by the state of the abandoned factory, it makes him a little sad for some reason.

His olfactory sensors carry him deeper into the factory’s shadows, to a smaller area with less machinery impeding his path. The darkness forces his optic sensors to manually engage night vision. Thankfully, the scent is growing stronger. It smells… affectionate, somehow — he can’t explain why but his spark aches for it all the same. 

Sideswipe ducks beneath a door frame, entering a small room that might have been an office once. His first thought is that a hoarder, not unlike Denny, probably lives here. A mountain of scrap looms above him, constructed from both large and small metal components, some obviously torn from larger mechanisms while others seem intact. In fact, now that he was looking at it more closely, the mountain seems to form a haphazard hovel. Off to the side sits a dark entrance, big enough for a bot his size to crawl through. 

Despite the overwhelming amount of clutter, there is a distinct feeling of homeliness on top of the affection that swells his spark. The foreboding shadows don’t deter him in the slightest. The swell only grows as he stoops to his hands and knee joints and crawls through the entrance. 

He crawls through the tunnel, not knowing what he might find at the end of it yet feeling more peaceful than he had in a long time. There is no doubt in his processor that he is safe here — whatever sort of place here is.

The tunnel leads to a chamber. It looks like a primitive berthroom, its ceiling tall enough for a bot to knee-walk and the overall perimeter would be spacious if it wasn’t full of clutter. He’s never laid optics on anything like this — the only comparison he can draw from his memory files is Filch’s nest. Sideswipe wonders if this place is also a nest, although its purpose doesn’t seem to be for storing stolen shiny objects. 

Sideswipe’s jaw hinges drop (and his intake lubricates a little) when he finally sees the scent’s source.

At the far end of the chamber lies Thunderhoof, helm propped up by a hand as he lays on his side, languid and serene. Two sparklings sit in front of his chassis, nursing from a large pair of baby blue fuel pouches. Thunderhoof strokes their tiny helms reassuringly, encouraging the little ones to have their fill. 

Sideswipe might have scrambled for his sword if he weren’t so mesmerized. An inexplicable thirst overwhelms him. He can’t think, can’t even comm his team for backup, just wants to grab a fuel pouch and shove it in his intake and suck the energon-milk dry. 

Clearly, there is something very off about Thunderhoof. For starters, he hasn’t noticed Sideswipe yet, and it wasn’t like Sideswipe had been quiet in his approach. Does Thunderhoof simply not care? He’s clearly docile, the perfect picture of a loving carrier to his sparklings, but shouldn’t he also be defensive towards intruders? 

Hold on — what in the Pits is going on? In what world could the words Thunderhoof and docile be used in the same sentence? Sideswipe knows him to be aggressive and violent, ramming into Autobots antlers-first or causing the very ground beneath them to split with his powerful hooves. He’s an ex-mafia boss, for Primus’ sake! But all of that seems to have vanished completely, replaced by caring, paternal nature. 

Sideswipe feels his own frame relax. He trusts that the cervicon is harmless in this state, somehow feeling so close to Thunderhoof, drawn to him like a sparkling to their carrier, like he could just crawl into the Decepticon’s open servos.

Oh, right. Factions. They are still on opposing sides, Autobot and Decepticon, good guys and bad guys and all that. Bumblebee would be furious at Sideswipe’s lack of action; Strongarm would have already whacked him upside the helm. He should be apprehending this criminal, not staring at his fuel pouches like some creep, no matter how… big they are. 

Thunderhoof wears a small, lazy smile, optics blissfully offline. He seems entirely at peace. The scent is so intoxicating right now. Would it be so wrong for Sideswipe to just…?

Spark in his intake, Sideswipe approaches tentatively. He doesn’t know much about cervicons — or anything biology-related, for that matter — but he supposes such docility must be an aftereffect of birth and spark-rearing. 

He turns his attention to the sparklings and decides that, in all honesty, they look nothing like Thunderhoof. Their plating is purple and pointy, and Sideswipe spies sharp dentae poking out of their intakes as they sloppily suckle from their respective nozzles. Not only that, but the small hands that gripped Thunderhoof’s fuel pouches are tipped with razor-like claws.

Thick droplets of energon-milk drip down their chins as they suck noisily; Sideswipe licks his lips.

Come to think of it, the sparklings look a lot like Fracture’s minicons. Is Fracture the sire, then? If he is, he must have extremely dominant coding. Sideswipe only hopes the bounty hunter isn’t anywhere nearby. Fracture would surely kick his aft to the next solar cycle if he knew what Sideswipe is thinking right now… 

He wipes the drool from his intake as he imagines himself with a mouthful of fat nozzle and warm energon-milk instead of those greedy little moochers. Sideswipe had never been pouch-fed as a sparkling, never held so closely, never reassured and protected so lovingly. He longs for the taste, the soothing touch of a bot much larger than himself, the familial safety…

Thunderhoof barely lifts his helm, optics flickering online, and passively watches Sideswipe approach. The lack of reaction quells the anxiety in Sideswipe’s spark: Thunderhoof is aware of his presence and doesn’t perceive him as an intruder.  

Sideswipe stops before Thunderhoof’s lying figure, stooping himself in a sort of respectful bow. The sheer size of Thunderhoof’s frame in comparison to his own is enough to send shivers through his circuitry.

He shyly glances from the suckling sparklings to Thunderhoof’s unaffected faceplate and then back again, unsure of what to do. He needs guidance. He only knows that he wants to be close to Thunderhoof, as close as possible, but doesn’t know how to put the affection he feels into action, to reach forward and touch him. It’s so foreign to him, this feeling — so immense. 

He wants — what does he want? To be loved, cared for, given the affection he so desperately craves? To make up for a lonely youth? Sideswipe looks up at Thunderhoof in reverence, his spark aching so painfully that he nearly doubles over. Is this the bond of a sparkling and their carrier, or something like it? Does he want Thunderhoof to treat him like his own sparkling? 

Scrap this. He doesn’t want to think anymore — he just wants to do, to feel what he had been so wrongfully denied as a sparkling. For just a little while. It doesn’t have to last forever.

Please, he wishes he could say. Do you want me? Will you have me? Am I good enough? Will you keep me? Please, I — I think I need this. 

A purr bubbles up from deep within Thunderhoof’s chassis and Sideswipe could have cried when the cervicon shifts forward and gently rubs his faceplate against the side of Sideswipe’s helm. Thunderhoof’s helm is much larger than his own, well-worn by a long life and littered with old scars and dents, and so incredibly warm. 

He is much older than Sideswipe, old enough to be his carrier — not that Sideswipe had known his carrier.

Sideswipe tenses when he feels himself begin to purr as well, a quieter and softer noise than Thunderhoof’s. Has he always been able to do this? The purrs raise in volume as he relaxes and allows the affection to wash over him, nuzzling Thunderhoof further, careful not to encroach on the suckling sparklings below.  

He buries his faceplate in Thunderhoof’s neck cables, purring, rubbing against the taut, segmented metal like he’s known Thunderhoof all his life. 

The sparklings make little high-pitched chitters and snorts as they unlatch from Thunderhoof’s nozzles, energon-milk spilling down their unruly intakes. They only pause to lick themselves clean for a moment before tiredly crawling towards little nest-shaped berths of their own, constructed from various pieces of metal, cloth, and other foreign material. Still stroking Sideswipe’s helm, Thunderhoof insistently nudges the sparklings forward with his antlers. 

They chirp in exasperation but don’t need to be told twice, plopping down on their nest-berths, limbs sprawled and intakes agape as they fall into recharge. 

Thunderhoof returns his attention to Sideswipe. With strong servos he pulls the smaller bot into a big warm hug, then shifts their position so Thunderhoof is sitting up with Sideswipe’s torso laying on top of him. It is the way a carrier typically holds their sparkling for a feeding… 

Sideswipe sighs in relief when his faceplate pillows between two squishy fuel pouches, the texture softer and more comfortable than he could have ever imagined. 

One large hand caresses his back, rubbing small mindless circles into sore plating, while the other strokes Sideswipe’s helm. It isn’t unlike the reverence in which Thunderhoof had been caressing his sparklings only moments before. Sideswipe’s spark swells at the thought.

Thunderhoof offers him a small kiss, chaste and lingering, right above his optics. It’s an odd yet comforting gesture, and there’s something that feels so right about it. Like a distant memory or some deeply-ingrained piece of coding — inextricably familiar. If Sideswipe had known his carrier, would they have given him a kiss just like this one? 

Finally getting to feel the fuel pouches is a dream in itself, the pliant pink protoform squishing against his faceplate, jiggling at even the smallest of movements. He can hardly contain himself. They are so fat and big and squeezable! How do bots keep their hands off of them? How did he spend his whole life not having felt such amazing things? Sideswipe only burrows deeper, much to the amusement of Thunderhoof. 

After a good amount of gentle prodding, Sideswipe finally lifts his helm from his fuel pouch-burrow and looks up at Thunderhoof. The cervicon’s expression is as pleasant as ever, although his optics seem to say, “You’re supposed to suck on ‘em. C’mere, I’ll show you,” before he guides Sideswipe over to a fat nozzle. Excess energon-milk still trickles from the tender nub, presumably from one of the sparklings’ earlier meals. 

The nozzle is slightly darker than the rest of the fuel pouch, with a swollen areola and painfully erect nub. How can something that isn’t energon look so delectable? It practically begs him to put his lips around it and have a taste.

Thunderhoof purrs in approval when Sideswipe latches on, the smaller bot reeling after one timid suckle earns his intake a copious spurt of energon-milk. The taste is heavenly, unlike anything he’s ever tasted, and he marvels at how soft and pliable the nub is between his dentae. Despite his eagerness, he still sucks timidly, unsure of himself, worried that he is perhaps doing this wrong, that a bot like him doesn’t deserve something so wonderful after all. There must be a reason why he was abandoned as a sparkling, right? 

You’re mine, he feels Thunderhoof coo. My little one. My sparkling.

He knows it isn’t true but it feels so fragging good to pretend otherwise.

The gentle caresses to his helm and backstrut don’t stop as Sideswipe drinks, Thunderhoof doing all he can to soothe him. Nothing but deep purrs fill Sideswipe’s audials; he is held closer, feeling his frame become warmer by the klik. Spurred by affection, his anxieties are calmed. 

Sideswipe begins to suck in earnest, a voracious thirst and courage sweeping over him, nutrient-rich energon-milk flowing through his intake. His tanks are filling at a steady pace. It is delicious, so sweet and warm and thick, and it’s all his. His smaller hands grope the fuel pouches’ fat protoform possessively, earning an appreciative rumble from Thunderhoof.

“Mmmph,” he moans loudly.

Primus, how embarrassing. At least Thunderhoof doesn’t seem to care. 

Come to think of it, when was the last time Sideswipe had been touched with any amount of affection at all? He feels his spark plummet as he wracks his processor and, besides a few one-night stands and condescending head-pats, he comes up empty.

It is as though he has found himself in another world, one where he was loved and cared for throughout his life, one without constant worry for the future or inherent distrust of peers, one where he didn’t have to compete for the precious attention of others. A world where he had a strong, loving carrier who protected him, who would never allow anything bad to happen to him. Someone who cared. A near-perfect world. 

A small yet lonely pang lurches his spark, casting his processor into darkness: this love is fleeting, you’ll ruin it one way or another, you deserve to be abandoned, you should be thrown to Kaon’s slums where unlovable scrap like you belongs, there’s a reason nobody wants you. 

Sideswipe bites down on Thunderhoof’s nozzle. Hard. 

It is like a test or even a protest. He wants Thunderhoof to know that he’s undeserving, that he’ll be nothing but a pain in the aft if he’s allowed to stay here any longer. In protest of love; in fear of warmth. Don’t keep me, please, there’s a reason they threw me out, there’s a reason they didn’t want me, there must be!

Thunderhoof lurches a little, startled, but is otherwise as unaffected as ever, his docile expression the same, servos holding Sideswipe the same, soothingly stroking his helm the same way he has been for the last cycle. He doesn’t push him away or abandon him. If anything, he holds Sideswipe closer. 

Sideswipe’s spark aches, hot washer fluid streaming down his optics. The terrible feeling dissolves. The nest is warm and their coalesced frames only increase their internal temperatures to scalding; hot perspiration beads down Thunderhoof’s fuel pouches. Sideswipe continues to drink.

Primus, he’s so full now. Sideswipe’s tanks groan in protest and he decidedly ignores the HUD pop-ups warning him against overcharge. He had never thought he would ever get to taste something as elusive as energon-milk but here he is, tanks practically bursting at the seams, lips suckling from the very source. 

After he can’t possibly drink anymore, Sideswipe begrudgingly unlatches. He licks the excess droplets off of the fat nozzle, then looks up at Thunderhoof with glazed optics. The cervicon had fallen into a peaceful recharge somewhere along the line, hands still reflexively caressing Sideswipe’s helm, although the motion is decidedly more limp than before. Sideswipe buries his faceplate in the fuel pouches once again, kneading them, feeling their hefty weight squish between his fingers, reveling in the way the protoform dips and jiggles at each tug or pull. 

Sideswipe lifts himself up by his servos and just watches Thunderhoof. How can he ever thank him? He nuzzles the cervicon’s helm gratefully. You’ve done so much for me, I don’t even have a way to repay your generosity, your loaned maternity. 

Thunderhoof only emits a faint purr in response. Sideswipe smiles and brushes their lip plates together, olfactory sensors touching, exchanging heat, minute vibrations, the gentle whirr of their frames coalescing. 

In retrospect, he supposes that’s what carriers do — they give you all they have and don’t expect a single thing in return. He can’t remember the last time he didn’t owe a bot any favors.

A sudden noise from outside the factory pulls Sideswipe from his thoughts. Pedesteps, sharp and pronounced. Heavy enough to be a full-sized bot. He listens intently, optics widening when two more pairs of pedes join the first, although much smaller and lighter. Minicons? 

He wants to believe it is Drift accompanied by Jetstorm and Slipstream instead of the Decepticon alternative, but as he glances down at the purple sparklings recharging in their little scrap pile, frames pointy and sharp teeth peeking out from snoring intakes, he realizes who the pedesteps most definitely belong to. 

Scrap!

He needs to get the frag out of here before he’s discovered. Now. He’s in no condition to remain in Decepticon territory any longer, overheated and drowsy and tanks now a little too full for his frame to be effective in combat. Fighting him would be suicide.  

Primus, Fracture would be so mad if he found out. Sideswipe doesn’t want to think about what the Decepticon would do to him if he saw him here, cozying up with his mate like some kind of sparkling. Sideswipe hasn’t spent much time with carriers or sires but he had heard enough stories to know that you should never, under any circumstances, encroach on a sire’s carrier.

Sideswipe had done a lot more than encroach on Thunderhoof! 

To be fair, he believes that Thunderhoof wouldn’t let Fracture lay a claw on him. He’s bigger and stronger than Fracture, ferocity probably doubled by a carrier’s protective instincts. On top of that, he seems to perceive Sideswipe as a needy little sparkling, perhaps his own sparkling. (Sideswipe wishes he knew more about cervicon biology; just what was going on in Thunderhoof’s helm?) The thought makes it harder to leave, but he can’t risk Decepticon capture. 

He spares one last longing glance at Thunderhoof’s recharging visage, the two sparklings snoring softly beside him, and smiles. He silently slips out of the nest. 

Sideswipe sneaks into the larger factory. The Decepticon pedesteps are terrifyingly close. He hides behind a crate-shaped piece of machinery and pokes his helm out, his night vision allowing him to watch Fracture come into view in all of his pointy purple glory. 

Yeah, Sideswipe thinks. He’s definitely the sire. 

The trio carries a stack of energon cubes, the minicons holding two while Fracture heaves five. Sideswipe cranes his audials to hear their conversation.

“It isn’t so bad.” It sounds like Divebomb.

“Yeah!” the small voice of Airazor exclaims excitedly. “Thunderhoof is really nice now that the sparklings have been born!”

“Of course he is,” Fracture snaps, clearly tired and irritated. “He’s a cervicon. They get all soft and mushy during their cooldown periods.”

Airazor and Divebomb grin in excitement, skipping as they walk. Fracture is less than enthused. 

What’s got his mudflaps in a twist? Sideswipe wonders.

“What’s got you two so chipper? This isn’t exactly the ideal place to go soft and raise a family,” Fracture says. “We’ve been stranded on an alien planet with Autobots trying to put us in stasis cuffs at every turn for half a turbofoxes’ fraggin’ lifecycle, or haven’t you noticed?”

“Do you regret sparking him?” Airazor asks nervously.

“Well, no, I just — I don’t think we really thought this through, is all. I’m not exactly sire material.”

“Of course you are! You nearly cut the entire forest to ribbons when a branch got tangled in Thunderhoof’s antlers just yesterday!”

“And when that big dumb Autobot tried following us last week! He would have been scrap if his friends hadn’t arrived on the scene.”

Sideswipe’s optics widen. So that’s who beat Grimlock an inch of his spark! The poor dinobot had been so badly damaged that he couldn’t recall the Decepticon who did him in. It took forever for his systems to make a full recovery. 

“It still wasn’t a good idea to spark him. Shouldn’t have given in so easily.”

“What could you have done? Thunderhoof was in heat.” Divebomb shrugs. “You like the sparklings, anyway. Don’t pretend you don’t.”

Fracture is quiet for a moment. “You guys didn’t used to back-talk to me like this.”

“Thunderhoof thinks it’s funny when we do!”  

Fracture and his minicons pass Sideswipe, so enwrapped in their conversation and looking forward to seeing Thunderhoof again that they don’t notice his unmistakable helm spikes sticking out from behind some machinery. 

He watches them disappear behind the small room’s door frame, then makes a silent dash for the exit. 

As he beelines down the road in vehicle mode, Sideswipe decides that night patrol duty might not be so bad after all. He might need a few more nights to sort through his thoughts, perhaps replay several key visuals from his memory data on an endless loop for solar cycles to come. 

Sideswipe sighs wistfully. He hopes he and Thunderhoof can meet under similarly peaceful circumstances in the future — he can only dream of a reunion just as delicious.