Archive of Our Own ^beta

Galvatron snaps his digits. The sound is rather menacing to the both of his companions in the dimly lit room. Cyclonus lifts his head and there come an order: "Pin him down."

The raspy coughing ceases. Starscream's optics brighten. His voicebox opens code to protest but all that comes out is a cut off yelp as Cyclonus slams him to the ground. He works efficiently, bending Starscream into place like a piece of furniture. The malnourished Seeker does not quite have it in him to fight back with the strength and desperation typical of him. Forced to run on energon saving mode, he stares helplessly as Cyclonus pins his wrists to the floor. His thighs are on each side of Starscream's helm now. He can feel heat directly behind it. This realization disgusts Starscream greatly. He puts his own knees up and joins them together. Starscream is not that stupid. He knows what will happen and precisely how powerless he is to stop it. He wishes he could magnetize his legs. Maybe that would be a double edged sword, though, he thinks to himself bitterly when he feels Galvatron's digits snake up his shin. It's a careful touch, one that almost tickles. How revolting.

"What a frame. I can see why it'd become manufactured. Make sure there are enough to go around, oh yes, I can see..." Starscream bites his lip. He turns his head away and tilts his chin up. "Easy to replace when one gets loose." He focuses on Cyclonus' face. The trajectory of his gaze in turn connects with Galvatron's. Why, of course. When Galvatron's hand reaches the outer side of Starscream's thigh, he can see the optics above him flicker. The lights are on but nobody's home. Cyclonus' consciousness is locked in a deep dark corner of his processor that runs visual simulations. Ones where it's him under Galvatron. Ones where he is desired. How pathetic.

"Your processor is fried," Starscream hisses. He himself is not sure which of his assailants the observation belongs to. Either works, but only one of the two is lucid enough to even acknowledge it. A dark chuckle meets his audials. He feels a firm pat meet his plating on the underside of his thigh. Close. Too close. Starscream is numb, or so he tells himself. He wrestles with his own code to mellow the alarm pings and override the automatic increase of sensitivity settings. His frame thinks it's in anticipation of battle or, worse, interface. He might not be able to induce complete stasis, but if he can access his innermost processing, he can cease to feel once his frame becomes overloaded by an unwanted avalanche of data...

"I imagine this personality preset was very popular. How charming it is to hear from the floor!" Silence. There is a new venom coursing through the wires that were once Megatron's. It seeps into Galvatron's word and hand alike. Starscream can feel paint being scraped off of his hip. His command prompt goes limp and thus his processor's autopilot takes over again, all of his progress lost. He can't even read the flow of code anymore, the fight or flight protocol filters all of it out. Starscream's lips tighten into a thin line. His optical ridges rise as as his field of view expands. The lens of his optics are engaged to their full capacity now and what they relay to him in high resolution he never wanted to see again. Galvatron's hand sits atop his groin, a thumb urging his legs to be spread. There is no force. There is no insistence. A pressure a lover would apply to mould a warm pliant frame into place. Starscream's optics dart to Galvatron's face in search of answers. They are met with a predatory smirk. In all of his service under Megatron, he'd never been looked at with unbridled lust. Hatred. He misses the plain old hatred.
"You've never been one to lie there and take it, Starscream..." Galvatron provokes. Starscream's fans kick in. Why, that is true! Broken out of paralysis, he swiftly raises his leg and- A thud. A crack.

Cyclonus looks up. His fist is in the air. "I told you to spare the face!" Galvatron yells.

"I tried!" Cyclonus cries out. He looks back down and his hand hurries to inspect the face plating for signs of life. He slaps Starscream's face from the other side, much to Galvatron's dismay:
"Cease, you imbecile!"
"But he's online, look, he's just restarting!"
"That's not the point!" Galvatron yanks Cyclonus by the horn and has him lean closer to the Seeker's face. "What's this, huh?"

Cyclonus tries to focus. It's not the nasal ridge that cracked. That's a good start. His fans kick in. He hit the cheek. That much he was right about. It's hard to focus through the tears gathering in his optics. His processor might indeed end up fried judging by how hot with shame it's getting. "I didn't want him to damage you..." he manages between sobs. What a disappointment he is; Lord Galvatron requested his presence tonight! He had his whole frame freshly painted in anticipation... "My paint..." Streaks of purple ran across the facial plating; it made the traitor's mug that much more unsightly. "Lord Galvatron! I didn't think-"

"That much is obvious! Now quit your nonsense and clean it!" Cyclonus struggles to process the order, but when Galvatron's hand pushes him further down, he reluctantly lowers his face onto Starscream's. He scrunches his nose in disgust as his tongue meets the plating. The solvent being dispensed in his intake is bitter and when it mixes into the condensation atop Starscream's cheek, it fizzles into sour foam on his tongue. He feels disgusting sucking on the traitor's face but swallows his mess regardless. It is only right as it's his fault. His chin plating trembles a little as he meekly turns to look in Galvatron's general direction, optics shifting into a squint. His lips are still glued to Starscream's face. It takes him serious effort to focus his vision through the wet lenses, but when he does, Cyclonus can feel his spark skip a pump.

Galvatron's helm is tilted to the side. He's let go of Cyclonus' horn, opting to rest his hand on his subordinate's helm lightly. Cyclonus can feel something akin to a pat before it leaves. It makes him gasp into a gulp in progress, causing him to choke. He withdraws from Starscream's space and coughs twice into his hand, then wipes his tears with the back of it and finally the corners of his lips using his thumb. His frame burns with shame and the sensation of being watched only fuels it. His face is turned away now and he tries to regain his posture, to not let Galvatron know how pathetic he feels.

Galvatron, however is well aware. To see Cyclonus forego his morals for him awakened a module in his processor, indeed. That aft kisser would happily break his own spine if ordered to. He, in a squat until now, moves forward to straddle the unconscious Seeker. He sits down on his pelvic plating, taking care not to scratch the cockpit... just yet.

Cyclonus, meanwhile, finishes his sulking. His spark stabilizes. He swallows and straightens his back before he's ready to resume his duties: fulfilling Galvatron's every whim. The spotlight is still very much on him after all and he coyly bows his head under his Lord's intense stare.
"Finished?" Galvatron asks. Cyclonus' optics flicker when he realizes how much stagnation in Galvatron's plans he caused by cyberchickening out. Choking was his fault. Turning away was his fault. Not to speak of the paint transfer! He should never have acted on his own accord. He only hopes he can make it up to him. He wonders how… Not by dissociating, that's for sure!

"Yes! I mean, yes I'm... I..." Though cogs are aspin and charge is jumping back and forth in his processor, Cyclonus struggles to think properly. Galvatron sighs with a hint of impatience.

"I don't think so."
Cyclonus' optics dart up in confusion. Before he can assess the situation, Galvatron grabs him by the nape and forces him to hunch over again. Pressing on the cables on the back of Cyclonus' neck, he forces him to look down. Cyclonus yields easily. This amuses his Master.

Residue of oral lubricant remained on Starscream's face, but no trace of the purple paint. Cyclonus' vents push a satisfied exhale. Eager to please, he lowers his head and sticks his tongue out to drag it across Starscream's cheek. His lips brush against Starscream's, causing his facial plating to contort in disgust. He jerks his helm up but a firm hand is there to stop it; a stern order follows: "Go on."

Cyclonus can feel his spark pick up the pace. He doesn't waste a moment more and grabs the Seeker's face with one hand. He puts his other forearm on the floor to support himself and turns Starscream's helm to the side. He ought to make sure his Lord has a good view, even if his own hand is shaking. Their faces are upside down to each other now; Cyclonus tilts his head, offlines his optics and merges lips with the traitor.

Perfectly timed, a purring engine makes itself known. Turbines whir gently once, twice. Unlocked, Starscream's lips give way to Cyclonus' probing. Galvatron grins to himself as Starscream's optics light up. Cyclonus further turns his head to give himself and Galvatron a better angle. The less he thinks about it, the easier it gets. When unconscious, Starscream isn't that disgusting. He's just an idle object. He'd rather not, but he is forced to reactivate his sight again when he feels the Seeker's tongue twitch.

Starscream arches his back and resets his optics rapidly; when all his senses fully activate, only then does he realize what is happening. He tries to whine but his lips are pressed flush against another pair causing his voicebox to send an error message; his intake is slick and under the relentless and quite obviously inexperienced barrage of Cyclonus' tongue. Something is jammed into his left turbine and it doesn't take him long to figure out it's Galvatron's digits and what's worse, he feels the weight of the warlord as he hopelessly bucks against it. It's too much! His optics water and his right hand flies up to his face to try and push against Cyclonus. Galvatron does not interfere. He observes…

And indeed, it could be the power saving mode, the helm trauma or even the stress, nonetheless, the Seeker is too weak to resist. His little hand curls into a fist and he bangs on Cyclonus' forearm plating without causing as much as a spark. It's a dull sound, a knock almost, lost in the cacophony of their mouths' squelching. It does, however, bang at Cyclonus' patience until he finally withdraws, spitting the contents of his intake to the side of him somewhere. Starscream pants and the lens of his dim optics turn to Galvatron. "Why..?"

"Oh, don't worry that broken disk of yours! You'll come to know obedience at last." Galvatron laughs. "Megatron never beat it into you…" He moves his hand to grab Starscream's jaw, thumb and digits both digging into each cheek, forcing tightly shut dentae below the plating to part. Galvatron shakes Starscream's helm side to side. "Did he?"

"Hnngh..." is all that comes as response. Starscream feels as if his processor had been split in half and now, due to motion, as if the sensitive particles were coming loose one by one and bouncing off of the inner plating in his helm. "Did he?" Galvatron insists through a toothy grin and squeezes the traitor's cheeks, pushing his lips into a pucker. It hurts. "Stop!" Starscream cries out.

Though the glimmer in his optic suggests otherwise, Galvatron does not like that. He lets go of Starscream's plating – a sigh of relief from the Seeker – only to strike it the very next second. A shriek pierces Cyclonus' audials. He grimaces, rolls his optics and lowers the volume of incoming audio.

"Who do you think you are to give orders?" Another strike. Another shriek. Galvatron's digits are firmly locked. His slaps meet the sensitive layered mesh, ripping like a whip. Drawn out cries are cut short by metal on metal ringing, whiny grunts follow. "Answer, will you! Answer when spoken to!"

Starscream's vision is blurry. His processor, too, feels blurry. With each slap, a scalding sensation. If he's sure of anything, it's that his paint, no, the very metal of his face is getting chipped away. He swears he can feel shavings land in his open palm.

"Stop..." he manages through static. "Please, stop, please!" he corrects himself, in his voice a desperate pitch. Galvatron obliges, catching Starscream's face and forcing it still. He leans closer and pushes two digits in Starscream's intake, spreading them inside, careful not to tear the corners... "Say, Starscream, do you bite?"
"I wuhd nevrr..!" Irony shines through the choked rasp of Starscream's voice, but Galvatron ignores it.
"You better not. Understand?!"
Starscream nods to the best of his ability. Tears reflect the flickering crimson from his optics. It's a good look for the Seeker.

"Good!" Galvatron proclaims, pats Starscream's cheek and gets up. "On your knees!"

Cyclonus perks up. He's been sitting slumped over, helm lower than shoulders. Him and Starscream exchange death stares as Starscream slowly rises to his knees in a swift, automatized motion. A subtle hint of a smirk dances on Starscream's lips. It mocks Cyclonus' very existence. Though weak, battered, plating bent and dented, Starscream seems to him nonchalant almost, a player of a game. This is no torture, no punishment, Cyclonus speculates, what is unraveling in front of him is not unlike a dance. He does not understand the intricacies, the patterns formed over thousands of years. He will never know how deeply engraved those patterns are. It dawns on him, it does indeed. Starscream's face taunts Cyclonus' fist, it takes great resolve not to indulge it. Fortunately, as the sudden change of altitude processes in Starscream's CPU, he hisses and grabs at his helm in pain. From somewhere within it comes a ringing. That is enough retribution for Cyclonus. For now.

Galvatron motions at him and Cyclonus gets up. He joins Galvatron's side and leers down at Starscream. Whereas his face has dried, Starscream's tears are still aflow. There has been a lot of crying tonight. Galvatron tends to have that effect on people.

His face turns to Cyclonus, but Galvatron's gaze remains focused on Starscream's cockpit. He gives a slight nod, then whispers: "Pathetic, is he not?"
"Yes, Lord Galvatron," Cyclonus instantly affirms. "Pathetic."
"Such fate befalls traitors." The threat wrapped in Galvatron's deep, murky voice, is lost on Cyclonus.

"Will you join the likes of him, I wonder?"

Cyclonus shakes his helm no. He will do whatever it takes to prove himself worthy. Below them, Starscream has hunched over. He does not bother wiping the fluid on his face. He feels dizzy, delirious. He lets his helm fall loose, the back of it hits his nape. Optics half-dim and lips parted, the sight of him activates something in Cyclonus. He looks away. To him, to serve is to live, to his existence, treachery is antipodal. Galvatron briefly inspects his servant's features. The plating does not even twitch. How intriguing, he thinks to himself.

"I'll use his intake first. Get him ready."

Cyclonus moves to stand behind Starscream. It's a test. Staring at the Seeker's aft, pressed over his thrusters, he ponders his options here. He tries to ignore interface protocol creeping into the front of his processor. He clears his throat. "Straighten your back," he demands. Starscream tilts his head to see Cyclonus better. His tongue idly travels across his upper dental plates. He does nothing. Cyclonus' pride has taken another hit. His chest rises. He shifts his weight and knees Starscream between the wings. Galvatron smiles to himself. The abrupt move catches Starscream by surprise, he groans and leans forward. He bites his lip, sobs, and at last, straightens his now bruised spinal strut.

"Very well," Galvatron comments as he steps closer and grabs hold of the side of Starscream's helm. He traces the rim of it where it guards Starscream's cheek with his thumb, almost petting the coarse plating. Admiring his work. Starscream's chin hitches upward as he swallows. He hears Galvatron muse from above: "It won't take as long as you think." How he wishes it was over already. "What a pretty toy you'll make..."

He puts his pedes on each side of Starscream's lap and urges knees to join with his heels; closes the distance between his codpiece and Starscream's face. They're so close now, Starscream could lift his head and kiss it. Galvatron grins and pinches the Seeker's cheek plating. His face burns where it's touched, Starscream breaks contact with Galvatron's hand and tries to move away. Cyclonus is quick to intercept. He grabs his helm in both hands like a ball and pushes it back in position. Galvatron's optics quickly dart to Cyclonus' face and back to his crotch. Starscream's lips are a thin line. His nose is scrunched. The tears... Galvatron has to manually hold his modesty plate in place. The pressure feels good, but he's certain the warm squeeze of Starscream's throat will be an upgrade.

As if Cyclonus could decipher his code, he grabs Starscream's jaw and, despite the whining, pries it open. Starscream cries out some more as Cyclonus' digits make their way into his mouth and are wedged between his dentae. Starscream makes a weak effort to shake Cyclonus' hands off. Cyclonus hooks his thumbs on the backside of the cheek guards of Starscream's helm, which grants him full control over its movement or lack thereof. He uses this to tilt it back once more. Terror shines in Starscream's optics and that does it for Galvatron.

His rod emerges from its housing and snaps into place with an ominous click. Due to their proximity, its underside is immediately greeted by Starscream's nasal ridge. "Ghhk!" is all he can muster in response. "Ghnn!?" Fear merges with confusion in his overheated processor. A wire runs along the shaft. It pulses with charge. That certainly is not a singular cable.

"And to think I would never get to receive this upgrade were it not for your treachery."
Galvatron presses himself to the left of Starscream's nose and grinds against the pathetic face. Starscream stays quiet. Frozen still.
"You could have joined me, you fool."
He puts his hand over his rod and absentmindedly moves his hips back and forth. The surface mesh yields and glides over the tip.
"You too could have been rebuilt for greatness. For the future. And yet..." Galvatron tilts his head. "You chose redundancy."
Starscream gulps down the lubricant that has been gathering in the back of his throat. Galvatron barely bares dentae in a slight grin, takes his junk in hand and without further ado plunges it in the intake so kindly presented. Only then does Starscream lift his arms. He tries, he tries indeed, to push against Galvatron's legs, to get his own frame away, either or, anything. An attempt so feeble it makes Galvatron laugh.
"Seems like your frame knows its place. Do you?"
He thrusts further until his shaft is buried to the hilt. Starscream moans in pain. His mouth is so stretched cracks begin to form in the soft mesh of his lips. On reflex, he swallows around the intrusion. This only makes matters worse. For him, that is. To Galvatron, the spasmodic contractions of his throat bring nothing but bliss.

Galvatron does not waste time on cowards. Whether or not he can adapt is on Starscream. He pulls himself out of the depths only to barge back in, picking up a pace and intensity the lining of Starscream's throat can't handle. It tears and ruptures at multiple points. When the metal of Galvatron's rod drags across it, it rips and grates the tissue further. The noises that come out of Starscream, muffled as they are, make Cyclonus' fuel tank turn. He struggles to keep the Seeker still under the barrage of Galvatron's thrusts. A dichotomy persists in his mind, too, on one hand, he feels detached, disconnected from the situation and on the other, Galvatron's influence is actively multiplying in his processor, bursting like a pregnant snake. He resets his optics rapidly. Pings of nausea go ignored. To see the traitor being treated like the filth he is is undeniably satisfying. If only the sounds could cease to tear at his spark...

When Galvatron withdraws his rod from Starscream's mouth, it's coated in energon and phlegmic gel. Cyclonus grimaces and lets his hands loosen as to not come in contact with it. Starscream lowers his helm and coughs, gasping profusely. His hands rest on Galvatron's knee guards. He's been holding the plating in a death grip. The dents left behind are barely noticeable to the naked eye. Whether or not Galvatron can even feel them is unclear, his surface metal sensitivity is currently pushed to background processing. All his cognition is focused in a single part of his. He reaches to pat the top of Starscream's helm in a mocking gesture and idly strokes himself with the other hand, optics on low brightness. He adjusts his sight settings. The soft glow of energon, on his rod, on Starscream's lips and reflected on the glass of his cockpit, the crimson hue of three pairs of optics. Light stands out in high contrast with the dark room now in his perception and as Starscream heaves, motion leaves light trails behind. The setting is a dangerous one to play around with in battle, but what threat is a half broken bitch?

"Look at me," he croons. Starscream doesn't want to. This does not matter. Unfazed, Galvatron pushes his helm upwards. The look on Starscream's face almost makes Galvatron deplete his reserves right there, but he has a point to drive home here. He steadies the base of his rod and squeezes to hold himself back. The profound stupidity on display fascinates him and his dick alike. He tilts Starscream's face straight. He strikes it with the back of his hand. Starscream wails some more. This time, he tilts his head back into position willingly. He looks at Galvatron. Tears leak down his face. They glisten. It's beautiful to finally see him submit.

"Open your chamber."
"My-?!" Starscream leans back in disbelief. Galvatron grinds his teeth, takes Starscream's helm and shakes it. Starscream can feel his processor rattle around. His hands fly up to claw at Galvatron's arm, but he keeps missing. It's endearing, in a way. Or, it would be, if Galvatron was not preoccupied with another, pressing matter. He lets go of Starscream's head and does not let him regain his sense of space, he hits him once more for good measure, then hooks his fingers in Starscream's mouth against his palate and forces the Seeker to look up, leaving his lower jaw to hang loose. Using his thumb, Galvatron strokes the corner of Starscream's lips. He is indeed ready to shove it back in and make his throat burst from inside out and oh, does the lovely embrace of soft internal flier plating tempt him. The apertures in Starscream's optics widen and narrow. He understands the threat.

He obeys. The glass retracts – Galvatron was getting tempted to break it –, the turbines shift as their red vest like casing is split and moved outward. From beneath the red and gray plating, a stark light comes to shine in bright vermilion tones through the spark's housing, iridescent in itself, lathering the metal it can reach. What once shone bright with potential now presents itself eagerly to the maw of termination. Anyone else would feel bad at forcefully revealing the very essence of another but Galvatron is free of such weakness. He unpinches the tube on his rod's underside and at once, the spark and, in equally small quantities, the neck of the traitor and the half exposed organs in his midsection are covered in fluorescent lilac come. It is a sudden flux of cold that makes Starscream gasp, then whimper from the discomforting, hefty feeling the sizzle of fluid evaporating on his very heart brings upon his system. His vision lags as his frontal processing gets flooded with pings from internal pain receptors that had lain dormant likely since his very construction, his body paralysed in catatonic shock. He stares ahead for a few moments, before he starts to shake. Pathetic is the word, pathetic.

The misty gloss in Galvatron's optics goes unnoticed. He watches through it with pleasure how the Seeker looks down, pretending to assess the damage. His processor is not capable of such a feat. Will it ever be again? Will he ever consciously understand what this means for him? Galvatron doubts it. His rod cools down, its parts vertically split. The tubes, cables and wires all retract into their housing as separate entities. His modesty plate is closed shut and a cleaning protocol activates. The frame's limit is reached, but the CPU remains restless. An itch still plagues it, though as he came, he felt on the very edge of sating it – this has, if anything, fed the frustration even more. Staring at Starscream's dumbfounded expression, he notices behind it a rhythmic twitch course through the seams of his servant's femoral plating. Galvatron slowly traces this jittery notion up the thigh. It is easy for him to empathize with a desperate attempt to keep one's panels closed in the face such a sight.

"Use him," says Galvatron. Cyclonus' frame stiffens at once, as does Starscream's and they both look up at Galvatron. Cyclonus has in his wide lenses something of a savage. "Use him..." Galvatron reasserts, himself suddenly fully captivated by the prospect. Cyclonus' hand rises to grip Starscream's wing and this culminates in crumpling of metal. He, then, moving in the jerky rhythm of a predatory insect, throws the Seeker on the ground once more. He lands on his side with a thud. In an equally twitchy manner, though less calculated, he forces the tired pistons in his right elbow to stabilize and props himself up, dazed, confused, his fabled boundless intellect now crippled. His lips are apart, that is terror, existential shock filling the space of his mimic plating left clear of streaks of tears and smears of oral lubricant. He turns around just in time to see Cyclonus descend upon him. His wings are pressed against the floor, the pain makes him hiss and cry out a plea, the angle tugs at his back. His upper half thus turns to match and balance it. He winces and frowns with open corners and then Cyclonus is pressing his pelvis against Starscream's, grinding against it and his pretty, pearly thighs. The Seeker loses his balance and collapses on his right arm, his torso forced askew by it so his shoulder guard is now more or less in line with his face. It hurts, everything hurts. A hand comes to grope at his turbines, but pushes past them quickly to toy with his exposed spark. For a second, Starscream hopes it gets crushed, but it doesn't, Cyclonus' fingertips press against it and it reacts not unlike a plasma globe, more distinct and reddish beams of light come to meet the fingers at the reinforced glass barrier, warming them strongly enough to make Cyclonus huff and retract. He is anxious, restless, overcome with a burning need to thrust himself into the filth of the traitor and let it swallow him and his come. He presses his body against Starscream's again, grabs at the right side of his face and squeezes the abused metal, leaning in to lick the fluids off of it, now content with the act, aroused by it; his crotch meanwhile hits and scrapes against the underside of Starscream's thighs at such an angle that makes his panel slide right off, his full length now, too, caressing Starscream. The Seeker whines some more and Cyclonus briefly grins and rapidly exhales cold air through his mouth right next to his eyes. To pick apart the mental process that has led Cyclonus to this hilt would be pointless; were the reader to spare a moment and imagine a swollen cunt of divine light, he, too, would be pushed, or pulled, into a rut like madness that was now making Cyclonus pry between the shapely thighs in search of a receptive, soft hole.

His search is fruitless and he, angered by this, leans away, pushing the left hip of Starscream's into his stomach more. This squeezes at this or the other tube or tank inside of the Seeker and he hisses, but submits to the puppeteering for there is no other option and no choice of his. Cyclonus finds a small hatch and rips the panel clean off. Some wires split and cover what is beneath in an illuminated blotter of energon. Cyclonus chuckles at the absurdity – what meets him in place of, mesh, pipe, anything he'd expect, is a diminutive port, the female part for a connector to be plugged into for an exchange of data, of pleasure, of love, perhaps brotherly, from and to his trine. The port sits in the middle, directly in the middle, perfectly placed, purposefully so maybe by the divine architects that long ago oversaw the mass production of basic flier types just like Starscream, who ceases now to seem sentient to Cyclonus. His frustration reaches its climax and he slaps, or whips, the hole with his hand.

"Khghkhh!"

That is static coming out of Starscream's lips and nothing else. Pained, raspy static, high pitched enough to sound like the hiss of a broken heating pipe. There's some thrashing, limited as the Seeker is locked in place geometrically, some sweet drawn out whines, but the sound, the sound is all the convincing Cyclonus needs to act on his own merit. He slams his fist onto the surface plating and rips it off, flaying Starscream's crotch where a cunt can be imagined, exposing wiring, mesh, the gory surroundings of the narrow little port itself.

Starscream throws his head back and his sight offlines. His being is reduced to shrieks and cries as Cyclonus pulls his inner wiring apart. As he squeezes and presses it like overripe fruit, the hole and his digits too become soaked in energon and mucus like solvent. It's cold and silky and once he deems the pit deep enough, Cyclonus grabs the machine by the curved hip and forces it to accept the full length of himself. More tearing, more half witted flapping of an arm – a beheaded fly –, the mesh yields and the frame is lulled into complacency by the hammering of a mighty rod. It feels, to Cyclonus, like the body wants to break. Like it is just for him to be the jury and executioner of Starscream's pride and the architect of his miserable future as a slave, a rapetoy,... His processor goes on and on and how his wrath and lust converge and peak in irregular spurts is mirrored in the uncompromising pace set by his organ. If he has to beat the sentencing into Starscream's mangled frame via code, so be it, it will know and it will feel and below Cyclonus' swirling, spiraling mental, the machine knows and the machine feels.

The vigor of his lust drunk subordinate evokes in Galvatron's processor visions of the long lost Polyhex. Were his current parts, or the sum of them, there to witness the savage brutality to which his kin once had to resign, their primitive code still struggling to cope with the loss of instruction? He is made uncomfortable by this thought, for neither this nor the memories of Megatron's accomplishments seem to be his. He stands here pondering his status of Unicron's puppet, a blurry amalgam of destruction whose outlines, intersecting, are being made clear with each transducer splitting, staticky howl the implications of which presently serve to make him nauseous instead of fulfilled. The heat dissipates from his processor. His vision calibrations reset. The uncertainty eats at him. He looks his former second in command up and down – left and right – then contemplates his current right hand, thrusting like a mad dog without form or regard for the pleasure of either of them. The left side of his upper lip is as if pulled by a hook upwards, baring his teeth. Pathetic they are both in equal measure, but what does this say about him, the orchestrator of the whole affair?

He who broke them both, who is capable of breaking anybody now. He breathes in rancid air and it circles around in his vents. All he wanted to see he has seen, his perversion and cruelty have wed here. What is this strange vacuum growing inside of him? It is not regret, certainly not. To the megalomaniac sadist's horror, he realizes he is numb to the pleasures of cruelty and with this realization he can not continue to witness the fruit now rotten when achieved.

Cyclonus does not notice his Lord left. He completely forgot of his existence now in his keen stupor, something he will chastise himself for later and get on his knees and beg for forgiveness. Currently, however, his nerve endings reach maximum capacity and he almost falls over in spasm. The deed is done. He withdraws his rod much faster than his Lord did. He lets go of Starscream's thigh and sinks onto his knees. Mindlessly, he traces the curve of the femoral plating, pretty and delicate. It reminds him of something. He doesn't dwell on it. The sight of his own fluids leaking from the newly formed orifice is of more interest. He notices autorepair kicking in in the Seeker's abused body – particles moving about – and now that a sinister fever pulses through his audials no longer, he notices the disquiet. It is not a cry anymore nor a shrieking howl. It is a quiet sobbing, continually failing to stifle itself, but when Cyclonus gets up and gazes upon Starscream's beat up face for the last time, it is dry.

The machine is all out of tears.