Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The war room was wrecked in the wake of Megatron’s fury — shattered screens, sparking consoles, and silence heavy with fear. The Decepticons had retreated, driven back by another defeat, but their leader’s rage burned brighter than any energon flame. Megatron paced like a storm contained, optics burning, servos clenching with the desire to punish.

Starscream, watching the others slink out, made sure the last door sealed behind them.

He approached with a calculated grace, his wings twitching just slightly — a tell he quickly suppressed. He had long since learned to measure Megatron’s moods and find the gap between wrath and destruction.

“Enough of this,” Starscream purred, slipping around the throne like smoke. “You’re wasting energy on rage when I can offer you release.”

Megatron snarled. “I don’t need you right now.”

“Oh,” Starscream said, settling himself onto the base of the throne. “But you do. More than you admit. You always come to me in the end.” He spread his legs — slow, deliberate — revealing the shimmering panel between his thighs. His valve had already begun to heat in anticipation, glistening faintly, betraying his desire even before the invitation left his lips.

Starscream wasn’t like other mechs. His frame had evolved — or adapted, perhaps — to service a darker need within the Decepticons. His valve was smaller, tighter, and exquisitely sensitive, a pleasure chamber honed by overuse and repetition. He had no spike of his own — only hunger, overwhelming and sharp-edged. That made him more dangerous in his own way.

“I can give you something to focus on. Something to conquer,” he said, arching his back against the throne’s cold metal. “Forget the Autobots. Forget failure. Use me.”

Megatron’s optics narrowed. The silence between them sparked. Then: a low growl, almost a warning.

“You think you can tame me this way?”

“No,” Starscream said, voice low, “but I can distract you long enough for you to remember your strength.”

Megatron moved like a beast uncaged. His hand closed around Starscream’s hip, claws digging in, leaving marks through armor. He slammed Starscream back against the throne, making the seeker cry out, more in anticipation than pain.

“You are a manipulative little whore,” Megatron growled, positioning himself.

“And you like it,” Starscream hissed, valve pulsing. “You always have.”

What followed was brutal, mechanical, and searing. The first thrust knocked the breath from Starscream’s vents. Megatron’s spike, thick and already pressurized, drove deep into that tight, welcoming valve, flooding the channel with heat and force. Starscream’s systems spiked in overload warnings immediately — his frame wasn’t built to accommodate such fury, but that’s what made it good.

Again. Again. Again.

Metal slammed into metal. Starscream clutched the throne with shaking hands as Megatron pounded into him without mercy. The throne creaked beneath them. Internal servos strained. Starscream’s frame shook with each thrust, his valve stretched impossibly tight around that spike, slick with transfluid and overheating lubricant.

He overloaded the first time without warning — valve tightening in a vice-like grip, inner walls spasming around the spike that refused to slow. Megatron growled through gritted denta, but didn’t stop. He wasn’t done. Not even close.

Starscream whimpered, then screamed as the second overload hit, violently. Sparks burst from his joints. His optics flared, then dimmed.

Megatron finally slammed deep and held, spike locked inside, transfluid erupting into the tight confines of the seeker’s valve, flooding him. Starscream choked out a sobbing moan as the heat overwhelmed his sensors.

Panting, pressed into the throne like a broken offering, Starscream twitched.

Megatron leaned in, voice ragged. “You do this to keep control?”

Starscream, trembling, still pulsing around the softening spike inside him, managed a smirk. “It’s the only language they understand.”

The war room had gone silent again, save for the low hum of distant power conduits and the faint drip of coolant from shattered panels. Starscream sagged against the throne, vents fluttering, frame trembling with residual overloads still sparking in his sensory nodes. Megatron loomed over him, spike still sheathed inside his valve, thick with spent charge but twitching — not softened, not yet.

Starscream smirked, optics half-lidded.

“You feel it too,” he murmured, claws trailing lazily across the metal plates of Megatron’s chest. “You’re still not satisfied.”

Megatron growled, deep in his chassis.

“The Autobots mock us,” he spat. “Every defeat fuels them. We are warriors — conquerors. And yet—”

“—You can’t win by breaking your soldiers,” Starscream interrupted, voice velvet-wrapped steel. He shifted slightly, flexing around the half-rigid spike inside him, making Megatron hiss through clenched denta.

“They don’t understand what we are. The Autobots… function on ideals, peace, cooperation. But we—” Starscream’s voice dropped to a near whisper, his lip brushing the edge of Megatron’s audio receptor, “—we are forged from heat, pain, and desire. We’re not machines of diplomacy. We are beasts made flesh.”

He kissed the receptor — soft, electric.

“I keep them from tearing each other apart,” he whispered. “They need order. They need something to serve. And sometimes… they need to be sated.” He drew his tongue along the line of Megatron’s neck plating. “I give them that. I give you that.”

Megatron’s hands clenched hard around Starscream’s waist.

“I should punish you for manipulating them,” he growled. “For daring to use your valve to control my army.”

Starscream smirked again, optics blazing.

“Then punish me,” he whispered. “Take what’s yours.”

Megatron moved without warning.

He withdrew — then slammed back in with such force that the throne jolted beneath them. Starscream cried out, more shock than pain, claws scrabbling for grip as his body was thrown forward. The spike was fully hard again, impossibly rigid, burning hot against his inner walls. Megatron gripped his hips like vices, pulling him back with every brutal thrust, metal slamming metal, their frames colliding in a percussive rhythm of fury and lust.

This was no gentle rut. This was rage given form.

Starscream moaned — not soft, not ashamed. Each thrust pounded the thought from his processor, reducing everything to raw nerve and overstimulated desire. His valve clenched, flooding again, lubricant trailing down his thighs in gleaming lines.

Megatron leaned over him, breath hot, vents roaring.

“You think you can leash me with your body?” he snarled.

Starscream gasped as he was driven down harder, valve stretched to its limits. “No. I think… I can unleash you.”

And Megatron did. Brutal, punishing strokes that left Starscream writhing, screaming — not in pain, but in surrender. He overloaded again, violently, valve locking down as his body spasmed. But Megatron didn’t stop. Not until he finally overloaded with a roar that shook the throne to its core, transfluid flooding Starscream’s valve a second time, their frames locked in brutal completion.

Silence, once more.

Starscream sagged forward, resting his helm against Megatron’s chest.

“Feel better?” he whispered, barely audible.

Megatron's vents roared as he caught his breath. One large hand curled behind Starscream’s helm, not gently — but not cruelly either.

“Temporarily.”

Starscream chuckled weakly. “Then I’ll be here… when it rises again.”

The throne room pulsed with the aftershock of power and violence. Megatron finally pulled back, his massive frame shifting as he disengaged, the wet sound of separation echoing off the cold walls. His spike remained exposed — gleaming with fluid and still thrumming faintly with energy, not yet soft.

Starscream slid from the throne with feline grace, servos dragging along the throne’s base before he knelt before his leader, optics locked upward, flushed with afterglow but sharp with intention.

He leaned in, close to that still-pulsing spike, letting his lips brush the surface — not quite kissing, not quite reverent — but enough to make Megatron hiss quietly.

“Still so strong,” Starscream murmured, his voice low and breathy. “Still so hard. No one else could endure this kind of heat and rage… not like you.”

His glossa flicked out — slow, deliberate — tracing fluid away in smooth strokes, his hands braced on Megatron’s thighs as if in worship. But beneath the sensuality was something more dangerous: calculation.

“Optimus wouldn’t last a cycle in your place,” he whispered against the girth of the spike. “He pretends at strength, but he’s brittle. Shackled by ideals. Mercy. Control.”

Megatron growled faintly, optics dimmed with pleasure but smoldering with hatred at the mention of his rival.

Starscream lifted his helm just enough to meet his gaze. “You must not lose yourself over him, my Lord. He’s not worth the energy.” His lips curled into a dark smile. “I am.”

The Decepticon commander’s breath hitched as Starscream's glossa moved again, slow and sinuous — a cleansing ritual and a seduction all in one.

“You want vengeance,” Starscream continued, voice like a purr against heated plating. “But it must be precise. Brutality without control is a waste. I have a plan. One that doesn’t just strike at the Autobots… it unravels them.”

He paused to lick again — slower now, a teasing caress.

“I’ll start with Ultra Magnus.”

Megatron’s optics narrowed.

“He’s disciplined, yes… but predictable. Loyal to a fault. I can break his rhythm. Sow confusion in their lines. Turn his focus inward. If he falls out of sync… the Autobots will flinch.”

Starscream leaned in close, his lips brushing the inner seams of Megatron’s hip as he whispered, “Let me be your blade and your balm. You keep the war burning. I’ll see that their foundations crack beneath them.”

Megatron’s hand moved, gripping Starscream’s helm, claws tightening slightly — not in punishment, but in approval. He let out a low rumble of dark satisfaction.

“I want him on his knees,” Megatron growled, “just like you.”

Starscream’s smirk turned wicked.

“Then I’ll bring him to you.”

Starscream didn’t have time to smirk before the world tilted.

Megatron’s hand gripped his shoulder and threw him down like discarded scrap, his back hitting the floor with a metallic clang that echoed through the ruined war room. Starscream gasped — more out of thrill than pain — as his legs were seized and wrenched apart again, servos protesting.

“No warning,” Megatron growled.

“No need,” Starscream hissed, grinning through bared denta.

Megatron’s spike plunged back into him with no ceremony — hot, thick, merciless. The wet sound of entry filled the chamber as Starscream’s frame jerked violently, valve spread wide and raw again. His cry cracked in the air, head thrown back as his body adjusted — too fast, too rough, perfect.

“You belong to me,” Megatron snarled, thrusting deep and sharp. “To the Decepticons. To war.”

Starscream writhed, optics flickering, talons scraping deep grooves into the floor beneath them. Megatron moved above him like a storm — powerful, brutal, unrelenting. The spike drove in again and again, iron rhythm, iron will.

“I own your valve,” Megatron growled. “Every time you open your legs, it’s for us.”

Starscream pulled him down suddenly, servos gripping the back of Megatron’s helm. He slammed their mouths together, forcing a brutal, snarling kiss — all teeth and glossa and desperation. It was not gentle. It was not tender. It was possession returned.

He moaned into Megatron’s mouth, hips rocking upward to meet each devastating thrust.

“You’re right,” he gasped when their lips broke. “I do belong to the Decepticons. And I’ll use this body—this need—to make sure we never fall.”

Megatron snarled low, his rhythm intensifying. Sparks flew from their locked joints. Starscream’s processor blurred, his valve overworking, swollen and flooded again. Every nerve screamed from overload, but he didn’t stop. He couldn’t.

“I’ll break Ultra Magnus,” Starscream whispered, voice glitching from strain. “I’ll shatter the Autobot command from the inside.”

“You’ll do it on your knees,” Megatron spat. “Where you belong.”

Another thrust — deeper than the rest — and Starscream screamed, frame arched, entire system shorting as he overloaded violently. His internal lights flickered, then burst as Megatron followed with one last, punishing surge, spilling again into the already overflowing valve.

Heavy silence fell once more, broken only by their labored vents.

Megatron stayed inside him, hands gripping his hips like territory claimed.

“Get up,” he growled after a beat, already cooling. The fire had spent — now only steel remained.

Starscream obeyed, legs shaky, energon-smeared and dripping with proof of his submission. He stood, wings low, optics bright.

“You’re calm now,” he said softly. “Rational. Cold again.”

Megatron turned away toward the comm station, reactivating battle plans with a few sharp keystrokes. “Prepare the strike on Proximus Ridge. I want the Autobots scrambling.”

Starscream smiled, already accessing tactical layouts. Beneath his armor, his body ached, leaking, burning — but his mind had never been clearer.

Let Megatron take the glory. Let the Decepticons believe his fury held the army together.

Starscream knew the truth.

And soon, so would Ultra Magnus.

Chapter Text

The corridor outside the war room was dim and buzzing — the scent of energon and hot metal still hung in the air, clinging to Starscream’s frame. His walk was uneven, wings twitching slightly, his valve still dripping evidence of what had transpired on the throne.

He didn’t get far.

A massive hand clamped around his upper arm with bruising force, yanking him sideways before he could cry out. He was slammed into the cold metal wall of an old storage bay door, the impact knocking a gasp from his vents.

The door hissed open.

He was shoved inside.

The space was small — barely large enough to hold one bot, let alone two — and the darkness was suffocating until Tarn’s helm lit up with violet optics that blazed like fire through fog.

“Tarn,” Starscream rasped, clutching at the wall. “A pleasure, as always.”

Tarn’s towering frame crowded the room instantly, armor scraping the walls as he stalked forward like a predator.

“What did you do to him?” Tarn snarled.

Starscream tilted his head, smirking faintly. “You’ll have to be more specific. ‘Him’ could refer to any number of Decepticons I’ve pleased today.”

Tarn’s fist slammed into the wall beside Starscream’s head. The force shook the frame.

“Megatron,” he seethed. “You come slinking out of the war room dripping his fluids, strutting like you’ve won something.”

Starscream’s optics gleamed, unfazed.

“Perhaps I have,” he murmured.

Tarn’s hands twitched, claws flexing like he wanted to tear the Seeker’s wings off. “You don’t deserve to look at him,” he hissed. “Let alone touch him.”

Starscream leaned forward, ignoring the sheer size difference — fearless, calculating.

“Oh?” he said, his voice a purr. “Because he certainly didn’t seem to mind. He was more than happy to give me everything. Free. Unrestrained. Overloading into me like I was the last outlet for his rage.”

He slowly lifted a leg, pressing his knee between Tarn’s thighs — bold, deliberate.

“And you… you storm around like a dog on a leash, growling at every shadow. But the truth is,” Starscream whispered, “you’re not angry because I touched him. You’re angry because he wanted it from me, not from you.”

Tarn snarled low, his vents roaring.

Starscream smiled, razor-sharp. “Loyalty is such a bitter thing when it’s not rewarded, isn’t it?”

The room trembled with rising tension, the energy between them a live wire. Tarn’s servos hovered just shy of Starscream’s throat, twitching with restraint and rage.

But Starscream didn’t back down. He leaned in close to Tarn’s audio, voice silked in poison and lust.

“You could take what you want,” he whispered. “Try to use me like he does. But it won’t change the truth. I earned my place beside him. With my frame. With my function. With my cunning.”

He dragged his glossa just once across Tarn’s chin plate, slow and defiant.

“And all your anger won’t undo the taste of his charge still inside me.”

Tarn didn’t move — not yet — but his vents flared with something dangerous and unstable.

Starscream stepped back, slipping out from under Tarn’s shadow like oil.

“You can hate me, Tarn,” he said, voice low. “But you’ll never be me.”

Tarn hadn’t moved.

He still stood like a machine primed for violence, massive frame humming with barely restrained fury, optics glowing like furnace coals. The air around him crackled — not from rage alone, but from something far more volatile: humiliation.

Starscream turned back to him, slow and sinuous, like a serpent circling its prey.

“I can feel it,” he whispered, voice curling through the air like smoke. “You want to touch him, but you never will. You want his approval, his attention. His power.”

He stepped forward — fearless, frame still marred with the aftermath of Megatron’s assault. His hip ached, and his valve still throbbed from overuse, slick with the remains of their last violent union.

“But… there’s a way,” Starscream murmured, taking Tarn’s massive hand in his own, guiding it downward — not to his spark, not to his throat, but to the bruised curve of his hip, where Megatron’s grip had left indentations in the plating.

Starscream leaned close, optics locked on Tarn’s mask. “If you want to feel a little of him… he’s still in me.”

Tarn's vents stuttered.

“He never takes all of himself back. Megatron doesn’t care to clean up what he marks,” Starscream said, voice thick and sultry. “He leaves me dripping, stretched… claiming me.”

Starscream reached back, hands gently pressing down on Tarn’s massive shoulders. A quiet push — not forceful, but guiding.

“Go on,” he whispered, “kneel.”

Tarn resisted, but only briefly. The weight of power, desire, and hatred warred behind his visor. And then—slowly—he lowered himself, the floor groaning under his mass. A titan brought low.

Starscream braced himself against the wall, wings twitching as he tilted his hips, letting his panel click partially open — not fully, not explicitly, but enough for the scent and shimmer of Megatron’s dominance to remain in the air.

“You want him?” he asked, head tipping back with a quiet, sinful smile. “Taste him. Strip away the mark with your tongue. Take what’s left. Take what he gave me.”

Tarn’s optics flared.

Silence reigned for a single, volatile moment — heavy, humid, filled with need and loathing.

Then, with a sound halfway between a growl and a broken oath, Tarn leaned forward.

And Starscream laughed — quiet and cruel.

He had them all under control.

The silence in the storage bay was suffocating — dense with heat, hatred, and something far more dangerous than either: desire.

Tarn’s optics dimmed, his massive frame crouched before Starscream like a monster shackled by purpose. Then, slowly, almost reverently, his clawed fingers reached for the mask.

It lifted — only slightly — just enough for a sliver of scarred, battle-worn face to show beneath. His mouth was revealed: grim, twisted, and lined with the evidence of every fight he’d survived.

Starscream didn’t flinch. He smiled.

“You’re already on your knees,” he murmured. “Might as well make yourself useful.”

Tarn didn’t ask. He moved — violently.

One of Starscream’s legs was wrenched upward, hooked over Tarn’s massive shoulder with no gentleness, forcing the Seeker open, tilted back against the cold wall of the deposit. The panel between Starscream’s thighs split further, releasing the thick, musky scent of Megatron’s leftover claim.

Tarn buried his face between Starscream’s thighs like a warrior in penance.

He worked with brutal focus — mouth and tongue seeking every trace, every mark Megatron had left. Not out of mercy. Not out of lust. But as if erasing it would make the world right again.

Starscream moaned — not soft, not pretty. It was guttural, cracked, the sound of overloads not yet recovered and nerves still raw. His claws scraped at the wall behind him, hips twitching under the force of Tarn’s hunger.

The tight little space was filled with the sound of vents flaring, soft wet noises, and Starscream’s breathless gasps.

“You want to consume him, don’t you?” Starscream hissed, voice trembling between agony and triumph. “You think you can reclaim him by pulling his legacy out of me.”

Tarn didn’t answer. He pressed in harder, lips pulling, tongue diving deeper with each ragged pass, growling low in his throat. It was devotion warped by fury.

Starscream’s frame bucked — one hand slamming onto Tarn’s helm, clutching tight. “Then take it, monster,” he spat, laughing breathlessly. “Take what he left behind.”

His vents stuttered.

He was close — systems overworked, already strained from Megatron’s assault, and now being forced into another overstimulation spiral. His entire frame trembled, hips locked, valve convulsing as if to cling to every trace being ripped from him.

When the overload hit, it shattered through his frame like a power surge.

Starscream cried out, feral and fierce, body slamming back against the wall as his wings jolted violently. Tarn held firm, unrelenting, mouth still sealed over the slick, abused valve as it pulsed.

Only when Starscream’s frame began to sag from collapse did Tarn pull back, face streaked, optics glowing beneath the slightly raised mask.

Starscream looked down at him, half-lidded, panting.

“You’re filth,” he said, smiling. “But you serve your purpose.”

Tarn’s mouth curled faintly — not quite a sneer, not quite a smile.

The mask slid back into place.

Starscream’s vents still pulsed softly as his systems cycled down from the brink. The intimate violence of Megatron’s fury, the brutal hunger of Tarn’s cleanup — it left him glowing, flushed beneath his polished armor, fluid-slick thighs beginning to cool.

But he wasn’t shaken.

He was glorious.

He stood steady now, composure sliding back into place like a silk shroud. His smile, faint but sharp, returned to his lips as he looked down at the massive Decepticon still crouched before him.

Starscream reached out, and with a gentleness that felt almost alien within the Decepticon ranks, he cupped Tarn’s scarred faceplate with one hand. No force. Just… touch.

He rose onto the tips of his peds — just enough to meet Tarn’s visor level.

And he kissed the mask.

Soft. Deliberate. Not mocking, not cruel — a gesture so unexpectedly intimate, Tarn flinched. The faintest twitch ran through his armor like a static burst, and he froze beneath Starscream’s glossa-soft press.

When the kiss broke, Starscream lingered close.

“I’m not naïve,” he said softly, brushing his thumb along the edge of Tarn’s mouth-guard. “The Decepticons are a force built on chaos, rage, and strength. Left unchecked, that kind of power eats itself. My role — our role — is to stop that from happening.”

Tarn's optics burned with questions, but Starscream silenced them with a single finger placed firmly against the part of his mask where his mouth lay hidden.

“As Second in Command, I stabilize the storm,” Starscream whispered. “And yes—” he smirked, “—I enjoy larger frames. Stronger bots. I don’t hide that. Never have.”

He spun slightly, wings flaring behind him, hips rolling as he turned to face the exit. “Technically, every bot is bigger than me. I’m small for an aerial, compact… but beautifully made.” His voice dipped into velvet. “Curves in the right places. Colors that shine under firelight. Wings long and fine like blades. I was meant to be desired.”

Tarn shifted behind him, optics tracking him like a loaded weapon.

Starscream glanced over his shoulder. “And I don’t mind being reminded of my place. Not when it’s done well.”

Tarn opened his mouth — to speak, to protest, to claim — but Starscream was there again, finger to the mask once more.

“As long as my needs are met, I am loyal. To Megatron. To the cause.” His smile turned sinfully slow. “And you and your DJD team? You’re welcome to remind me of my position. Anytime.”

He tilted his head and, without breaking eye contact, placed a final kiss on Tarn’s mask — this one hovering, a ghost on metal, full of challenge.

Then, without another word, he turned and strode from the deposit, hips swaying as fluid glistened faintly beneath his closed panel,now clean.

Starscream didn’t look back.

He didn’t need to.

The corridors of the Nemesis dimmed into quiet hums as the warship settled into a temporary lull. Starscream, ever poised even in exhaustion, walked with a measured sway down the long corridor leading to the washracks. He left the scent of hot metal, scorched ozone, and old overloads in his wake — not masked, not ashamed.

He wanted them to smell him.

The washracks hissed open with a sigh of steam. Cleaners and technicians filtered in and out, some finishing late shifts, others simply lingering. The room was expansive — large enough to accommodate even the titanic frames of Decepticon brutes — but in that moment, it shrank around him.

Starscream stepped inside, sleek armor dull from dried lubricant and transfluid, grime streaked across his thighs, and the faint shimmer of residue glinting at the joints of his wings.

He made no effort to hide it.

All motion seemed to pause.

Mechs turned.

Vents stuttered.

Even the sound of water faltered beneath the silence that fell.

Starscream walked straight toward the central basin — a tall, arched section with cascading heated streams falling in glittering sheets. Without breaking stride, he released the plates at his shoulders and hips, letting them hiss open with precision. His wings unfolded fully, wide and elegant, the angles sharp yet sinuous like a dancer’s blades.

His armor, thinner than most and flushed with battle wear, peeled away in smooth sections, revealing gleaming plating beneath — polished in some places, smeared in others with the vivid evidence of earlier “diplomacy.”

Lubricant still clung to his inner thighs.

Fluid shimmered along the seam of his pelvic armor, between the curves of his sleek design. His wings bore faint dents and residue, the memory of Megatron’s grip still painted across him.

He stepped under the water.

The first wave of heat struck like an exhale from a forge.

Starscream tilted his helm back, letting the waterfall stream down over his plating, sluicing over his face, down his neck, gliding between the valleys of his armor and the long, curved lines of his wings. The filth began to melt — thick rivulets of spent transfluid, grime, and coolant washing down the perfect contour of his back.

The rinse carved clear lines through the slick coating of earlier use. His vents let out a soft hiss as warmth seeped into his overworked servos. Water gathered at the base of his wings, then poured off in shimmering cascades. Droplets clung to the tips, quivering like jewels before falling in slow motion.

He ran one servo down his chest — a deliberate stroke, graceful — wiping away the last of Megatron’s scent. Another hand moved between his legs, gliding through the waterlogged slick that had begun to bead down his thighs.

Across the room, quiet breath caught in vents.

Three mechs stood frozen, pretending to wash, but their optics never left him. A grounder — bulky, clawed — shifted uncomfortably as his fans kicked on. Beside him, a scout with lean limbs and flickering optics bit his lip panel and turned his head, only to sneak another glance a moment later.

Even an officer-class frame — someone Starscream recognized from communications logistics — lowered his servos slowly, mouth slightly parted as if stunned.

Starscream knew the effect he had.

He didn’t hide it.

He rolled his shoulders back and arched under the spray, soapstream jets now kicking in, coating his body in thin layers of cleansing agent that bubbled across his thighs, slid under his wing joints, and clung to the swell of his chassis like a second skin before dripping down in thick, glistening trails.

He let out a soft moan — not loud, not obscene — but enough.

Enough to make at least one mech falter and grip the edge of the basin he stood in.

He turned his head slightly, just enough to catch them in his periphery. His optics half-lidded, water trailing down his face like starlight.

“I am still functional, you know,” he said with a honeyed rasp. “Staring won’t overload me.”

No one answered. No one could.

Starscream smiled, serene and unbothered, and tilted his head back once more, allowing the final rinse to wash the last remnants of the day — Megatron, Tarn, war, sweat — from his body.

He was polished now. Gleaming.

Every line of his frame sang with self-possession.

He stepped from the rinse zone, armor steaming, droplets clinging to his plating in perfect beads. As he passed the others, he left more than mist in the air.

He left silence. Desire. Power.

He had washed away the evidence.

But not the memory.

The washrack door slid shut behind him when he exit the local with a clean hiss of hydraulics, sealing away the humidity, the scent of metal and soapstream, and the heat that still clung to the walls like ghosts.

Starscream didn’t look back.

But he heard it.

A moment of silence… then—

The unmistakable sound of venting overloads. A cascade of engine roars sputtering into frantic silence. The faint scrape of armor hitting metal floors as mechs collapsed under their own tension, their self-control unspooling all at once.

A symphony of unspoken want.

Starscream paused, just outside, letting the corners of his lips curl upward.

“Pathetic,” he whispered with a quiet, delighted purr. “Absolutely predictable.”

His plating gleamed beneath the corridor’s soft lighting, every joint spotless, every seam refreshed. The ache in his limbs remained — Megatron’s marks had faded to ghosts under the wash, but not from memory. Tarn’s heat still lingered like phantom pressure across his hips.

But none of it slowed his steps.

Starscream walked the halls of the Nemesis like a crowned monarch, wings flared with relaxed arrogance, helm held high. Any bot who passed gave him space — some with eyes cast downward, others watching with barely veiled hunger or resentment.

He soaked it in.

All of it.

By the time he reached his private quarters, he had already begun to transition mentally — from pleasure to precision.

The door sealed behind him, soundproof and secure. Within, his chamber was dark, moody, lit by the soft hum of tactical displays on standby and a few ambient floor lights glowing like embers.

He stood in the middle of the room for a moment, silent, letting the heat settle in his joints.

Then he sighed — a low, self-satisfied exhale — and made his way to his recharge berth, collapsing with grace.

His wings fanned out across the berth like blades at rest. For a moment, Starscream simply lay there, plating bare, body still cooling. Not because he was vulnerable, but because he was untouchable.

Today, he had owned the Decepticons.

Megatron had spilled himself into him.

Tarn had bowed and licked his wounds clean.

The war room, the washracks, the air itself had bent to his will.

And tomorrow?

Tomorrow he would begin his real campaign.

The Autobots had always prided themselves on unity. Trust. Righteousness.

But trust was a weakness.

And all weaknesses could be exploited.

Starscream’s optics dimmed as sleep crept into his systems. A smirk ghosted his lips even as consciousness slipped.

“Let’s see how pure Ultra Magnus stays,” he murmured, “once I put my hands on his protocol…”

Then the chamber fell silent.

And the Second in Command slept like a king after battle.

Chapter Text

It was another sun-scorched cycle on the edge of the Wastes — barren desert stretching in all directions, wind-churned dust whispering across jagged stone.

The kind of place where secrets settled like sand, and watching optics were often hidden just behind the next ridge.

Starscream had chosen it well.

He hadn’t fed on energon that morning. Not a drop. His limbs ached from the intentional starvation, joints stiffer than usual, processor slightly hazed from low reserves. But it served its purpose.

Weakness was the illusion.

The real power was in how it was presented.

He’d sent the signal from a half-buried outcropping, coded just clearly enough for Autobot systems to pick up. No distress beacon, nothing broadcast across major frequencies — just a simple message:

:: SOLO MISSION – COMPROMISED – LOW RESERVES – REQUEST EXTRACTION ::

And a single coordinates ping, with a faint spark signature to match.

Not too desperate.

Just enough to spark curiosity.

Now he lay between the jagged stones, framed by rock and dust. Starscream had positioned himself with surgical precision: cockpit down, cheek pressed to the warm surface of the stone, arms tucked slightly beneath him as if he’d collapsed mid-crawl.

His wings draped limply down, one bent as if it had been caught mid-fold, the other resting gently on the rock. His hip was tilted, ever so slightly elevated — not exaggerated, not pornographic — but enough to emphasize the natural curves of his compact Seeker frame.

He was dust-streaked, armor dulled, lips parted just slightly as he vented shallowly.

A picture of vulnerability.

The sound of distant thrusters didn’t startle him.

He knew who would come.

Starscream lay still, optics dimmed, only a flicker of movement betraying his awareness as heavy footfalls echoed down the canyon.

And then—

“Starscream.”

The voice was deep, cautious. Steel-wrapped restraint.

Starscream didn’t lift his head. He fluttered his vents, soft and ragged.

“I knew…” he rasped, “…someone would come.”

Heavy footfalls grew closer.

Ultra Magnus stepped into view — tall, broad, cast in clean red and white armor, regulation markings as crisp as the frown etched into his face. His blue optics swept across the scene — first taking in the rocky surroundings, then narrowing on the Seeker sprawled at his feet.

For a long moment, he didn’t move.

Then, sharply: “You sent a signal claiming a compromised solo mission. You didn’t mention why.”

Starscream made a sound — soft, pained. “Didn’t think… you’d believe me,” he said, voice raspy and laced with weakness. “So I figured… I’d let my condition speak.”

He shifted slightly, his wing dragging softly against the ground, hips tilting unintentionally — or so it seemed. A small tremor ran through his frame.

Ultra Magnus knelt, massive fingers reaching for a scan tool. The moment his hand passed close to Starscream’s body, the Seeker’s plating twitched — reactive, sensitive.

“You’re depleted,” Magnus said. “Significantly. Your energon reserves are dangerously low.”

Starscream gave a faint, breathy chuckle. “Told you.”

Ultra Magnus hesitated. His gaze moved — tracing along the sharp curve of Starscream’s wing struts, the subtle arch of his hip, the vulnerable position of his back plating. It was… odd.

Too exposed. Too perfectly collapsed.

“Why were you out here alone?” he asked, voice tighter.

Starscream gave a slow, ragged sigh, pressing his cheek into the warm stone. “Recon. Megatron’s orders. Wanted to prove I could do it. Prove I was still useful.”

Another twitch of his wing. “Didn’t go well.”

There was a beat of silence.

Ultra Magnus stared at him — and in that moment, something shifted.

Because Starscream didn’t move like a prisoner. He moved like a lure.

And Magnus, for all his regulation, felt heat stir low in his chassis. Not desire, not yet — but tension. A tight, unspoken pressure. Something off about how the Seeker’s slender form fit into the terrain like a fallen siren.

“I’ll call for a retrieval shuttle,” he said at last.

Starscream’s voice stopped him.

“Or…” he murmured, “You could take me yourself.”

Ultra Magnus turned his head slowly.

“I’m light,” Starscream said, lifting his optics, just a sliver, enough to catch the glint of blue in Magnus’s gaze. “Compact. Easy to carry. If I pass out… wouldn’t want me crashing into the ground, would you?”

There was a flicker behind Magnus’s optics.

Starscream smiled faintly, knowingly, and laid his head back down.

Checkmate in one.

Ultra Magnus was not easily shaken.

He had stared down warlords, walked through artillery fire, carried wounded bots on his shoulders from burning wrecks. His voice had remained steady in the worst hours of the war, and no amount of chaos could pierce the discipline etched into every servo of his frame.

Until now.

Until this.

He stood in the canyon shadows with the enemy in his arms — Megatron’s second-in-command, soaked in desert heat and coated in dust, collapsed into a posture of weakness… and yet oozing control from every subtle movement.

Starscream slumped deeper into Magnus’s hold, his frame light but warm, trembling from “low energy” and false fatigue. His wings sagged artfully across Magnus’s arms, his slender form fitting all too easily into the Autobot's bulk.

He vented softly, the sound brushing close to Magnus’s neck. “I didn’t want to be caught by them,” he whispered. “I didn’t want Megatron to know I failed. But I had nowhere else to go.”

“You’re a Decepticon,” Magnus said stiffly, optics locked forward. “Why should I believe you defected?”

Starscream smiled, small and secret.

“I didn’t say I defected,” he purred.

Then he shifted suddenly — faster than a bot with drained reserves should have.

His arms looped up around Magnus’s neck, pulling himself closer.

“You’re holding me like one of yours,” he whispered against the Autobot’s mouth. “Maybe you’ve already decided.”

Before Magnus could respond, Starscream kissed him.

It wasn’t soft.

It was hot metal, grinding teeth, and control wrapped in silk.

The Seeker’s lips met Magnus’s with a sharp, deliberate crash — sharp enough that when Magnus gasped slightly from surprise, Starscream bit him.

Hard.

His fangs sank just enough into the lower lip-plate to draw a thin, glistening line of energon.

It welled up immediately — vivid, electric-blue, shining like liquid voltage between their mouths.

Starscream pulled back just slightly, lips slick with Magnus’s energon. His glossa darted out, slow and deliberate, lapping it from his own mouth first… then Magnus’s.

“Mmm,” he murmured. “Even your energon tastes righteous.”

Magnus jerked his head back, breath catching. “You’re—”

“I’m hungry,” Starscream interrupted, voice now low and dark, layered with amusement and something far more dangerous. “And you just fed me.”

He laid his helm on Magnus’s shoulder again, wings twitching faintly. “Thank you, Ultra Magnus,” he whispered. “You’re kinder than they say.”

Magnus stood frozen — optics burning, jaw locked, processing a thousand conflicting protocols.

And in his arms, Starscream smiled.

Because he could feel it already — the shift. The crack.

He was no longer being carried as a prisoner.

He was being held like something fragile.

Exactly as planned.

The heat shimmered off the canyon floor as the two mechs moved in imperfect balance — Starscream half-draped over Ultra Magnus, his weight deceptively light, yet shifting deliberately.

Magnus adjusted his grip, steadying them—

Then Starscream twisted.

A calculated shift of weight, a subtle hook of his leg — and the towering Autobot lost balance.

They hit the ground.

Hard.

Dust erupted in a golden cloud around them as Ultra Magnus landed on his back with a grunt of surprise, Starscream falling with him — but not helplessly. No. The Seeker moved like a cat pouncing a slow target, sliding fluidly atop the Autobot’s chest, wings flared, frame arched.

His optics were half-lidded, lips parted.

“Sorry,” Starscream whispered, breathless and trembling in just the right way. “Must be the low energon. I… I think I’m hallucinating.”

Magnus shifted beneath him, venting hard. “You’re not—”

“I see lights,” Starscream murmured, twitching faintly, pressing his face into the crook of Magnus’s shoulder, “I feel so warm. Like I’m melting. I need…”

His servo drifted downward — grazing the hard, polished lines of Magnus’s midsection, tracing the contour of plating with shaking, featherlight fingers.

“I need energon,” he breathed again. “I need to… feed.”

Magnus reached up to stop him — but Starscream moved first, trailing his glossa just once, too softly, across the plating below Magnus’s abdominal port. A teasing flick. Not enough to activate protocols. Just enough to test.

And then again.

Again.

He circled the area delicately, the brush of his mouth reverent, his fingers stroking lightly at the seam where interface systems were hidden.

Ultra Magnus stiffened. “That’s enough—”

But the port hissed softly.

Starscream froze — then smiled, slow and wicked.

“Oh,” he said sweetly, tilting his helm. “Looks like your systems disagree.”

He leaned forward, placing a kiss to the now-warmed seam, heat pulsing through Magnus’s frame.

The hatch mechanism stuttered open.

A slow exhale escaped Starscream’s lips as he hovered there, optics glowing.

“I knew you were more than metal and regulations,” he purred.

Magnus reached again — but this time slower, conflicted — his body trembling, his protocols blaring warnings even as his spike fully pressurized from exposed contact.

“You’re manipulating me,” he growled.

Starscream met his gaze.

“Of course I am,” he said, voice velvet and fire. “Isn’t that what I do?”

He leaned closer, lips a breath from Magnus’s interface housing, optics unblinking.

“But you haven’t stopped me yet.”

Magnus’s servo hovered inches from his face, shaking.

Starscream smiled again.

This wasn’t about pleasure.

It was about control.

And with every passing second, Ultra Magnus was losing his.

Ultra Magnus lay beneath him, breath harsh through his vents, frame held in a stasis of restraint — frozen, yet exposed. The open interface panel throbbed with energy, his spike fully extended, thick with charge and trembling at its base, barely kept in check by self-discipline alone.

And Starscream… looked like sin incarnate.

He knelt over Magnus’s hips with the grace of a predator mid-hunt — not rushed, not breathless, controlled. Every line of his frame shimmered faintly beneath the sun-baked canyon light, dust catching against his still-slick armor, wings twitching above his back like high-tension cables.

“I told you,” he whispered, voice like purring metal, “I needed energon.”

He lowered his mouth, slow, reverent — not in worship of Magnus, but in reverence to the moment, to the power of having a paragon of order brought low beneath him.

His lips met the heat of Magnus’s spike — not greedily, not messily, but purposefully. A slow drag. A kiss. A long press of glossa to shaft, dragging up the pulsing length with artful pressure that made Magnus’s entire frame jerk.

A sound escaped the Autobot’s throat — not a moan, not a cry — a tightly-restrained exhale, like a dam breaking behind reinforced steel.

Starscream hummed, pleased, and took more of the spike into his mouth, adjusting his angle, sliding his servos along Magnus’s hips for leverage. His movements were fluid, perfectly calculated: a downstroke, slow and smooth, tongue coiled tightly around the pressurized plating, then an upward pull with a soft suck that made Magnus’s thighs twitch against the dust.

"Starscream—" Ultra Magnus's voice broke halfway through.

But the Seeker didn’t stop. He began a rhythm, deliberate and smooth — not fast, not frantic. He paced the overload. He built it. He forced Ultra Magnus to feel every slide, every pass of glossa, every swirl at the base.

The scent of charge filled the air.

Magnus’s spike throbbed harder, the energon flow rising like a tide. Each pass of Starscream’s mouth drew a deeper sound from him — quiet, muffled, shameful pleasure. He reached to grab Starscream’s shoulders — to stop him? Pull him closer?

He didn’t know anymore.

Starscream moaned against him, the sound vibrating through the contact, and that—that—pushed Ultra Magnus to the edge.

He overloaded with a choked, unguarded sound — raw and shuddering — and Starscream didn’t flinch. He kept his mouth sealed, kept his throat open, and swallowed everything. Pulse after pulse of hot energon, thick with stored charge, slid down his throat as his frame drank it in like life.

Only once the flow eased did Starscream finally pull away, licking his lips with lazy precision.

He looked up at Ultra Magnus, optics glowing bright.

“Mmm,” he purred. “Told you I was hungry.”

Magnus was speechless — dazed, optics flickering, his frame twitching with residual charge.

Starscream crawled back up his body, slow and graceful, placing a soft kiss just below his collar plating before whispering in his audio:

“Now we’re even.”

The dust hadn’t even settled around them when Starscream whispered, smug and breathless, “Now we’re even.”

But Ultra Magnus didn’t move.

His frame, though still humming from overload, remained tense beneath Starscream — fists clenched, optics glowing. And after a pause thick with heat and unspoken calculations, his voice rumbled out, low and heavy with command:

“No… we’re not.”

Starscream blinked.

Before he could react, Magnus’s massive servo moved — not violently, but firmly, with a purpose born of command. He gripped Starscream by the waist and lifted him just enough to flip their positions again, placing the Seeker beneath him in the sun-warmed dust, wings fanned out like a fallen icon.

“You said you needed energon,” Ultra Magnus said, voice neutral — too neutral. “And I don’t bring unstable assets back to base.”

His hand moved down.

Not cruel. Not aggressive. Just… efficient.

He pressed two thick digits to the closed seam of Starscream’s interface housing.

Starscream’s optics widened slightly as he felt the soft click — the unmistakable sensation of manual override. His frame trembled as Magnus triggered the local release latch with practiced ease.

His panel clicked open with a hiss.

“Still hungry?” Magnus asked.

Starscream smiled — slow, teasing, and just a bit wicked.

“Oh, Commander,” he purred, “I’ll take what I’m given.”

He arched his back slightly, tilting his hips, letting his valve part willingly, already warming in anticipation. Unlike before, there was no trickery now. No manipulation layered in the touch.

Only consent.

And the promise of power.

Magnus’s spike extended again, solid and pressurized, the result of protocols still syncing to Starscream’s signal. The heat from it was immediate, palpable, and Starscream couldn’t help the shiver that raced through his frame.

“You’ll receive exactly what you need,” Magnus said.

And he entered him.

Slow at first — deliberate — but deep.

Starscream gasped, head rolling back against the sand-dusted ground, talons curling into the rock beneath him as the first push stretched his valve wide around the thick intrusion. It was still sensitive, still slick from his earlier drain, but this was different.

This was allowed.

He moaned, long and ragged, as Magnus seated himself fully — hips flush, his servo gripping Starscream’s thigh for leverage. The pressure was intense, stretching him perfectly.

“More,” Starscream whispered, optics fluttering. “Harder. Don’t hold back.”

Magnus did not.

He pulled back, then thrust again — harder this time, deeper, the weight of his massive frame pressing Starscream into the rock and sand with each measured movement. Starscream clung to him, moaning into the open air, wings twitching violently beneath him as pleasure spread from his core outward in rippling waves.

Their bodies locked together in perfect rhythm — Magnus with powerful, methodical strokes; Starscream with wanton, eager cries. The connection synced, and with it, a controlled energon transfer began: pulses of raw energy funneled into Starscream’s frame with each deep thrust, fueling him, lighting his circuits from the inside.

“Yes,” he gasped. “Fill me—charge me—use me.”

Magnus growled softly, breath tight. His pace increased — firm, controlled, unrelenting. Starscream’s valve clenched, fluid heat building with every grind of armor on armor, every hard slap of hips, every wave of power exchanged through the interface link.

Overload crested fast — faster than either expected.

Starscream cried out first — body seizing beneath Magnus as his valve pulsed around the spike buried deep inside, his frame locking in exquisite tension. Magnus followed seconds later, his overload surging into Starscream’s core in a heavy flood of heat and electric charge.

Starscream’s scream echoed through the canyon.

And then silence.

Heavy, labored vents. The sound of wind.

Starscream lay beneath him, chest heaving, valve still twitching around the spent spike inside him, mouth parted in bliss.

“I think…” he murmured with a grin, “my reserves are… adequate now.”

The canyon winds whispered over cooling armor, but neither mech moved immediately.

Ultra Magnus’s spike had retreated, interface panel sliding closed with a precise click. Starscream lay sprawled beneath him — wings askew in the dust, lips parted, a glow beneath his plating from the energon transfer that now pulsed steadily in his veins.

But the moment of breathless stillness was broken when Magnus straightened, optics hardening again.

Duty returned like a blade.

He stepped back from the Seeker’s frame — not gently, but not cruelly either — and without a word, reached to his side and produced two slim stasis cuffs.

Starscream’s optics narrowed faintly.

“No farewell kiss?” he teased, voice still purring, smug despite the shake in his frame.

“You’re still an enemy,” Ultra Magnus said flatly. “And now… a prisoner.”

He knelt and locked the cuffs around Starscream’s wrists, the smooth click echoing against stone. The field surged immediately — dampening Starscream’s weapon systems, reinforcing restraint.

The Seeker didn’t struggle.

Instead, he smiled — slow, sharp, secret.

“Your methods are efficient,” he said, voice velvet. “Ruthless, even.”

Magnus didn’t respond. He simply stood, towering again over the prone Seeker, ready to call in extraction.

But Starscream turned his face slightly to the side, optics dimming just enough to conceal their flicker. Beneath his chest plating, something thinned — a small capsule, tucked away in sub-armor storage, barely warmed by his internal heat.

He flexed a cable, silently triggering the release of a signal — not detectable by Autobot tech. Narrowband. Directed.

::TRANSMISSION – ENCRYPTED – TARGET: SOUNDWAVE::

PHASE ONE COMPLETE
INSIDE. AWAITING HOSPITALITY.

No return ping.

None was needed.

Starscream’s smile deepened as Ultra Magnus activated his comms, requesting transport.

He had wanted the cuffs.

He had wanted the chains.

The second half of the war would not be fought from battlefields.

It would be fought from within.

Chapter Text

The Autobot outpost came into view as twin suns dipped low behind the rocky hills — just a silhouette of reinforced plating and sensor towers nestled in the canyons. Modest. Functional.

Not what Starscream had hoped.

He lay draped in Ultra Magnus’s arms, servos bound in glowing stasis cuffs, head bowed just enough to hide the simmering disappointment in his optics. This wasn’t the central base. No Omega Gate. No Iacon command tower. Just another forward post. One of the kind Decepticons raided for sport.

But he didn’t break character.

He was still the half-limp Seeker — the rogue second-in-command, caught and drained, wings twitching subtly as if from exhaustion, not calculation. His plating glowed faintly from the energon transfer earlier, residual heat lacing every soft vent.

Ultra Magnus landed with precision, servos flexing as he touched down. Several Autobot soldiers moved from their posts as the general stepped into the open, his voice already low and clipped with command.

“Stand by. Prisoner transfer.”

Optics flicked to Starscream — some wide with surprise, others narrowing with suspicion.

“He was found alone,” Ultra Magnus explained. “Low reserves. I provided an energon cube I had on-hand to stabilize him.”

Starscream nearly smirked.

Provided.

That wasn’t what his valve would’ve said.

But the general’s face remained unreadable — professional to a fault. No trace of the hunger that had once driven his spike deep, no flicker of guilt in the way he handed Starscream off to a mech built like a walking fortress.

Ironhide.

Bigger than Magnus in bulk, if not rank, and just as wary.

“I’ll take ‘im,” Ironhide muttered, gripping the Seeker’s arm and hauling him upright. Starscream let out a soft sound, perfectly pitched between discomfort and fatigue. His wings drooped as if too heavy to hold.

“I’ll report to Prime,” Magnus said. “He needs to know immediately.”

Starscream didn’t look back as he was led away.

He didn’t need to.

Because now it began.

The path to command — through pity, through restraint, through weakness.

The cell was standard: narrow, reinforced, and far beneath the main structure. As Ironhide pushed him inside, Starscream stumbled just enough to fall forward — landing hard on his knees, wings trailing behind him like tattered banners.

“Watch it,” Ironhide barked, stepping in after him. “Play fragile all you want — it won’t change the bars.”

Starscream slowly raised his helm, optics dim, voice soft. “I’m not… playing. I was left behind. I disobeyed orders. Megatron doesn’t forgive failure.”

Ironhide narrowed his optics. “You expect me to believe you came to us for help?”

Starscream let his shoulders sag.

“I didn’t come to you,” he whispered. “I didn’t know who would find me.”

He looked up — a picture of war-worn fragility.

But inside?

He was already mapping the angles of the cell, the security feeds, the weakness in Ironhide’s gaze.

Because this was the outpost.

But Prime was coming.

And with him… others.

Starscream’s optics glowed faintly behind their mask of weakness.

Let them come.

Let them believe.

He would bleed for them if he had to.

Because every prison has a key.

And Starscream was always better at getting inside from the outside.

Starscream had long since closed his optics, but his audials remained wide open — finely tuned, twitching just slightly with every footfall that echoed through the base's lower levels.

The Autobot outpost wasn't large. It hummed with the quiet restlessness of maintenance drones, low-level energon flows, and patrol mechs cycling through their shift changes. But Starscream listened deeper — past the machinery, past the chatter.

He was listening for Prime.

And he caught it.

“—ETA thirty klicks. Prime’s team en route. Base core prepped.”

Voices above him. Not Ironhide. Not Magnus. Junior techs, unaware their whispers carried.

Perfect.

Even more perfect — Ironhide was scheduled to be alone during that window. And Ironhide… was volatile.

Manipulable.

Starscream smirked faintly, wings twitching just once behind his back as he leaned against the wall of his cell, legs folded, posture relaxed but calculated. He waited until he heard the heavy tread of boots descending the hallway before he started.

A few well-aimed barbs.

Low-voiced jabs.

Mentions of failures. Of commanders who played at war but couldn’t hold their lines. Of conjunxes not loyal enough to be worth keeping.

Ironhide snapped faster than expected.

The door slammed open with such force it made the lights above flicker. He stormed inside, voice low and full of heat.

“You think you can talk about my team? My family?”

Starscream didn’t rise.

He tilted his helm, smiling like a snake mid-strike.

“I know I can,” he purred. “Because it’s true. They pity you. Hide their doubts behind protocol. Even Prime. You’re not his equal, Ironhide. You’re just a grunt he keeps at his side to remind him he’s a better mech.”

Ironhide’s fist slammed into the wall.

Chains rattled.

Starscream didn’t flinch.

“Go on,” the Seeker whispered, voice curling with heat and challenge. “Hurt me. Drag it out of me. See if I care.”

Ironhide crossed the space in three strides and grabbed Starscream by the stasis cuffs, yanking him upward with brute force. Their frames collided — one of strength, the other slender calculation.

Starscream laughed, low and breathy, as he was shoved back against the wall, arms pinned above his head by the heavy chains.

“Oh,” he gasped, “I see how it is. You don’t want intel…”

His wings scraped against the cell’s metal wall, optics flaring bright.

“You want to feel powerful again.”

Ironhide’s vents flared, hot against Starscream’s cheek.

“You think you’re in control?” he growled.

Starscream smiled, lips curling.

“I know I am. Because nothing you do to me… will make me talk about the Decepticons.”

He leaned forward just slightly — enough to close the space between them.

“But you? You’ll show me everything I need. One misstep at a time.”

Ironhide’s fists trembled.

The air between them burned with tension — not lust, not yet, but something sharper. Raw. Emotional. Weaponized.

Starscream licked his lips, voice low.

“Let’s see which of us breaks first.”

The cell was too quiet now.

The kind of silence that buzzed, like charge behind a wall just before it shorted out.

Starscream remained against the wall, his arms still bound in stasis cuffs above his head, his wings flush against the metal, his optics half-lidded. Ironhide stood a few paces away, his frame rigid, fists clenched, jaw tight.

The kind of posture a soldier took when he didn’t trust his own hands.

“You’ve been fighting this war longer than most,” Starscream said softly, watching him. “And yet you haven’t had release in years, have you?”

Ironhide’s optics flicked toward him.

“Don’t,” he growled, though the threat didn’t land.

Starscream tilted his head, lips curling slightly.

“I can tell. By the way your engines spike when you’re angry. By the way your voice tightens. You’re boiling, Ironhide.”

He shifted his hips, slowly, deliberately, letting the movement trail through his entire frame. “And I’m offering you something honest.”

Ironhide stepped forward — not with violence, but heat, his frame humming with tension he couldn’t vent out through discipline alone.

“You expect me to believe you do anything honestly?” he muttered.

Starscream leaned in.

“Not for most,” he purred. “But this war… it’s crushed us. Bent us into ghosts of who we used to be. You’ve carried so much. Loyalty. Pain. Burden. You deserve to feel something.”

His voice dipped.

“So do I.”

There was a beat — a long, suspended moment — where Ironhide simply looked at him. Not as a Decepticon. Not as the enemy.

But as a mech.

A tired, charged, burning mech — bound and beautiful, sharp-edged and honest in his own twisted way.

And then, Ironhide exhaled — like a dam breaking.

He stepped forward again and pressed his chassis against Starscream’s — slow, tentative, letting their plating click together, vent to vent. Starscream arched slightly into him, optics fluttering shut, a faint gasp leaving his lips as the pressure made contact.

“You sure about this?” Ironhide asked, his voice gravel-edged now, lower, more personal.

Starscream looked up at him through dark lashes, his smirk gone — just heat, just hunger.

“Make it worth the wait.”

Ironhide leaned in, pressing their helms together, foreheads clicking softly. Their vents tangled. No words. Just motion.

What followed wasn’t rough — not at first.

It was slow, heated, filled with friction and soft mechanical growls. Servos sliding across armor, catching on seams. Sparks flickered at contact points. Plating shifted in sync. Their frames moved with growing urgency, metal whispering against metal in perfect rhythm. No rush. Just pressure. Just connection.

Starscream moaned low against Ironhide’s audio — not theatrical. Real. Staggered.

“Primus… you’re hot,” Ironhide muttered, mouth near Starscream’s neck plating.

“So are you,” Starscream whispered back. “Don’t stop.”

They didn’t.

Bodies tangled.

Systems surged.

Starscream’s vents were still shuddering softly when he leaned into Ironhide’s audio, his voice barely more than a breath — sugar-slick and honeyed with sudden innocence.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered.

And then he collapsed.

Just… folded in on himself.

His wings drooped. His legs curled up beneath him. His body trembled with the precision of a performance sharpened over years — but the tears? The tears that leaked from his optics, wet and gleaming under the cold cell lights?

Those looked real.

They hit the floor with soft, liquid taps. His optics squeezed shut, a faint whimper leaving his throat as he curled tighter, shivering like a broken thing — no longer seductive, no longer powerful.

Just small.

“I didn’t mean to… I thought he was helping me,” he murmured, just loud enough for Ironhide’s audials to catch, his voice cracking beautifully. “He said I’d be safe…”

Ironhide blinked.

“Starscream, what are you—?”

The answer came before he could finish.

CRASH.

The cell door exploded inward — metal groaning as it was torn open by raw force. Light from the hallway burst into the room, casting a towering shadow across them both.

Optimus Prime.

And he was furious.

In two strides, he was inside — and before Ironhide could fully register the change in the room, Prime’s servo was on his chest, shoving him backward with devastating power. Ironhide hit the wall, hard, vents knocked out of rhythm as he gasped in confusion.

“What the frag is this?!” Prime bellowed.

Starscream’s sobs were quiet now. Pitiful.

He huddled on the floor, wings drawn in tight, like he was trying to disappear — like the mere presence of authority triggered some long-buried trauma.

“I didn’t want it,” he whispered. “I said stop. I said I didn’t know what he was doing—”

“Enough,” Optimus snapped, voice still sharp with fury, but directed at Ironhide. “Out. Now.”

Ironhide stood frozen. Realization washed over him like coolant through a cracked fuel line.

Starscream had set the stage. Planted the words. Played the weakness. Played him.

And he’d fallen right into it.

“Prime—” Ironhide started, stepping forward.

“Now.”

Ironhide backed away, his optics wide, still locked on the trembling frame of the Decepticon curled on the cell floor like a wounded animal.

The door slammed behind him.

And then the healer arrived.

Ratchet’s frame was already moving fast, field scanning before he even knelt. He didn’t speak to Starscream right away — just unfolded a thermal blanket from his kit and draped it gently over the Seeker’s shaking shoulders.

“It’s alright,” Ratchet said softly. “You’re safe now.”

Starscream didn’t answer. He didn’t need to.

Because while his optics were still wet, a single flicker glowed behind them.

The door was open.

The hallway was clear.

Starscream moved.

Still wrapped in the thermal blanket Ratchet had placed over him, the Seeker stumbled upright, optics wide and unfocused — his steps jerky, unstable, like panic was short-circuiting his motor functions. He leaned hard into Ratchet, only half-standing on his own weight.

Then, as the door behind them hissed open…

He ran.

“Starscream!” Ratchet shouted, reaching too late as the Seeker bolted through the corridor like a loose spark.

His feet slapped the ground, thermal wrap trailing behind him like tattered wings, his frame still trembling just enough to make the performance believable. And then—

Metal groaned.

Hydraulics screamed.

The door to the landing bay slid open and Starscream didn’t hesitate.

He jumped.

Midair, his thrusters kicked on with a roar, catching under him like a gust of vengeance. The aftershock shook the doors and cracked one of the outer sensor poles. Dust and dry transfluid scattered behind him like proof of a ghost’s passage.

He was gone.

Out.

Free.

And behind him, chaos.

Optimus had arrived just moments earlier — with Ironhide and Prowl flanking him — and had witnessed the end of something he didn’t yet understand.

The huddled Seeker.

The medic’s comfort.

The transfluid on the floor.

And Ironhide — still standing by the wall, optics wide, hands trembling with the realization of what had just been done to him.

“You let him what?” Prowl’s voice was ice.

“I didn’t—!” Ironhide turned to Optimus, face cracked with confusion and dread. “It wasn’t what it looked like! I didn’t force him, I— He— Starscream—!”

“Enough,” Optimus growled.

Optimus’s gaze never left the floor where Starscream had just stood moments ago — the spot where he'd wept, shaken, wings folded in submission.

“He was pretending,” Ironhide pressed. “He’s not hurt. He—he lured me in. He knew what he was doing from the start. I didn’t hurt him. I didn’t touch him like that—”

“But he ran,” Ratchet said quietly, rising from his crouch. “And not from us.”

The medic looked toward Prime, optics shadowed.

Optimus’s expression was unreadable — his silence more damning than any accusation.

“And you didn’t report anything unusual?” Prowl asked, voice tight. “No signs of coercion. No attempt at defense. No alert triggered. And now he’s gone.”

Ironhide’s vents flared. “I was trying to keep him calm, keep him talking. I didn’t know—”

For a moment, Ironhide looked like he might argue again — but the words died in his throat. There was too much doubt in the air now. Too much silence. Even the techs on the outer comms stations had stopped speaking.

Nobody said it aloud.

But they were thinking it.

Maybe Ironhide had been compromised.

Maybe he’d crossed a line.

And now Starscream was gone — and they’d never know the whole truth.

Far above the desert basin, Starscream sliced through the sky in perfect silence. The last remnants of Ratchet’s thermal wrap trailed from one wing like a torn victory banner.

His plating still bore the scuffs from the “escape.” His vents pulsed high with exertion. But beneath the surface, he was calm. Sharp.

Victorious.

He breached Decepticon airspace before the Autobots could even finish sweeping the base. The moment he stepped onto the Nemesis flight deck, he activated the transmission:

::TRANSMISSION – ENCRYPTED – TARGET: SOUNDWAVE::
STATUS: RETURN COMPLETE
MISSION REPORT: PRIMARY TARGET DESTABILIZED
AUTOBOTS SUSPICIOUS. NO INTEL OBTAINED.
BUT THEY NO LONGER TRUST EACH OTHER.
PHASE TWO READY TO INITIATE.

Starscream powered down his comms, his lips curling into a slow, private smirk as the warship’s doors sealed behind him.

They believed him.

They always believed him.

And now the Autobots were splintered — not from bombs, or blasters, or brute force…

…but from a story they’d never be able to rewrite.

Chapter Text

The encrypted ping reached Starscream before the Nemesis even came fully into view.
A sharp, clean blip on his HUD. Soundwave’s signature.

::LANDING DIRECTIVE – HANGAR 2::
::ACCESS RESTRICTED – PERSONNEL CLEARED: ONE::
::WASHRACK STATUS: UNOCCUPIED::

Starscream’s wings twitched. A private hangar. Closed to everyone else. And the washrack—empty.
How… convenient.

His reply came with deliberate delay, just enough to suggest he’d considered refusing.

::ACKNOWLEDGED – ONE CONDITION::
My wings took heavy crosswind damage. I’ll require assistance for proper cleaning.
Yours.

For three long seconds, there was silence. Then Soundwave’s voice returned, low and modulated, each syllable carrying the weight of something unsaid.

::COMPLIANCE: AFFIRMED::

Starscream smirked, banking sharply toward the auxiliary hangar. The thrill of victory over the Autobots still lingered in his systems, but now a different current ran beneath it—anticipation.

Hangar 2 was dim, the overhead lights kept low. The metal walls carried the echo of his talons as he landed, letting the final hiss of thrusters fade before stepping inside.
The washrack door slid open with a whisper, revealing a chamber of dark steel and polished floors, steam curling upward from the vents in lazy spirals.

The steam in Hangar 2 clung to the air like a living thing, wrapping itself around Starscream’s frame in molten ribbons. The hiss of the washrack filled the vast, empty space, a low, constant whisper that seemed to echo in the rafters. Droplets chased each other along the sharp angles of his wings, pooling briefly before sliding off in long, shining trails that caught the dim light.

He heard the door seal with a muted thud. No need to turn — the sound of Soundwave’s silent tread was unmistakable. Starscream tilted his helm, letting the spray hit his throat cables and the hollow of his chest plating, voice a purr when he said, “You came.”

Soundwave didn’t answer immediately; his presence spoke for him. He stepped into the steam, the heat curling around his dark armor, condensation dotting his plating like beads of glass. When he was close enough, Starscream reached up — fingers ghosting over the seam of Soundwave’s mask before pressing a kiss there, lingering just long enough for the moment to become dangerous.

“You deserve a reward,” Starscream murmured, his voice sharp silk. “But for more… you’ll have to remove this.”

There was no hesitation — the mask retracted with a whisper of servos. Starscream’s optics brightened at the sight, rare as energon in a drought, and the smile he gave was pure possession. Their lips met in a clash of need and familiarity, a kiss that carried the weight of vorns of unspoken indulgence.

Steam coiled around them as Starscream moved back under the water, glancing over his shoulder with a look that was invitation and challenge in equal measure. Soundwave followed, their frames almost touching, the warmth of the water mixing with the heat radiating from their own systems. A shiver rolled through Starscream as hands found purchase at his waist, steadying him.

The spray roared louder, or perhaps it was the rush in Starscream’s audials as the world narrowed to the press of armor against armor, the faint hum of their systems syncing in proximity. Words became unnecessary — their shared history was written in the way they moved together, in the unhurried certainty of old lovers who knew every signal, every unspoken permission.

The water slid in rivulets between them, tracing the path of every contour and seam, carrying away the grit of battle and the long day’s exhaustion. Their vents hitched in unison, the rhythm of their movements shifting into something deeper, hungrier — the washrack walls catching the faint sound of it and throwing it back in muted echoes.

Time blurred in the heat and mist until Starscream’s wings trembled with a different kind of tension, Soundwave’s helm resting briefly against his shoulder in a moment that felt both grounding and claiming.

And then — the water was just water again. The world widened, the steam thinned. They stood under the spray, cleaning away whatever lingered between them with small, almost domestic touches. Starscream tilted his helm back, optics half-lidded, letting Soundwave’s hands skim over his wings in slow, careful strokes, the kind only someone who knew him for vorns could give.

When they finally stepped out, the air felt cooler, their systems calmer, but the faint glint in Starscream’s optics and the rare curve of Soundwave’s mouth said everything that didn’t need to be spoken.

They toweled off in near-silence, but it wasn’t an awkward quiet. It was the kind of stillness that existed only between those who had already said everything without words. The hum of the hangar’s climate control filled the space, a low, even backdrop to the faint rasp of drying cloth over plating.

Starscream sat on the edge of a maintenance bench, wings lifted just enough for Soundwave’s hands to pass beneath, his touch as precise as ever. Cloth dragged in slow arcs along the sleek metal, coaxing away the last traces of moisture until the wing’s finish gleamed like fresh enamel.

“You missed a spot,” Starscream drawled, voice low, though it carried a smirk in its edges.

Soundwave tilted his helm, optics giving a brief, sharp flicker. He stepped closer, fingers brushing deliberately against the indicated seam — a move that lingered just long enough to blur the line between function and indulgence.

Starscream’s vents cycled in a slow, drawn-out exhale. “You always were thorough,” he murmured, his tone almost lazy, but his optics betrayed a sharper focus.

When Soundwave handed him the cloth, their hands touched — just a graze of fingers, but Starscream felt it all the way down to his core. He held the contact for a second longer than necessary before withdrawing, letting the cloth drop idly into his lap.

“Consider yourself… appreciated,” Starscream said, tilting his chin in that imperious way of his, though the faint, private curve of his mouth was meant for Soundwave alone.

Soundwave didn’t speak — he rarely did — but he leaned in just slightly, close enough that the faint ozone-scent of his systems mingled with the steam still lingering on Starscream’s plating. It was a silent answer, and a promise, wrapped in proximity.

When they left the hangar, it was together. Not touching, not obviously linked — but the space between them was threaded with a current as tangible as any magnetic field, a quiet tether that no one else would notice, and neither of them would name.

Chapter Text

Starscream’s strut back to his private quarters carried the kind of smug grace only total victory could produce. Every step echoed in the quiet corridor, wings twitching lazily behind him like satisfied predators at rest. His plan had worked with surgical precision — the Autobots were fraying at the edges, unsure who to trust, snapping at one another like chained hounds.

He could still taste the victory, faint as static on his glossa.

From down the hall, movement caught his optics — Airachnid, her frame curved in concentration, struggling slightly beneath the weight of an oversized crate. She held it with a careful, protective grip, as if the contents were precious.

Starscream’s wings perked, angling with sharp interest. In three languid steps, he closed the distance, his shadow falling over her before she could greet him. “My, my… carrying something a little above your… capacity, are we?” His voice was honey over steel, low and knowing.

Without waiting for an answer, he slid his claws over the crate’s edge and drew it from her grasp in a smooth, possessive pull. The shift brought them close — almost chest-to-chest — the heat of her vents brushing across his plating for the briefest moment.

He tilted the box, optics scanning the contents, and his lips curved in a slow, feline smile. “Cyber honey energon,” he murmured, savoring the words. The liquid inside each bottle shimmered like molten gold, thick and viscous, catching the low light with a soft glow. “For your Insecticons, I presume…”

Airachnid’s field flickered — faint amusement, faint warning. “They prefer it fresh,” she replied, her voice laced with something that could have been challenge.

Starscream traced a talon down the curve of the nearest bottle, leaving a faint fog of condensation where the cold met the humid air between them. He let the silence linger just long enough to make it intimate. “Mmm. I imagine they do. Such a shame… to waste something so rare without… savoring it first.”

Her optics narrowed, but her stance shifted, weight settling into one hip in a way that was all deliberate invitation.

Starscream’s wings flicked again — sharp, sleek, and smug — as he stepped back, still carrying the crate. “I think,” he said, glancing over his shoulder with a half-smile, “I’ll keep these safe. For now.”

The corridor air seemed hotter after he passed, faint traces of energon-sweet scent and the electric charge of unspoken games hanging in his wake.

Starscream rounded the deserted corner with the heavy box of jars balanced in his arms, the soft slosh of cyber honey energon inside giving off a heady, intoxicating scent. The corridor was dim, shadows pooling between the overhead lights, and the air carried a faint static hum from distant machinery.

He didn’t hear them until they were there—a sudden impact, chittering mandibles, the scrape of metal against metal. Several Insecticons collided with him, their sheer mass knocking the box loose. The jars tumbled, shattering across the floor in glittering splashes, viscous golden energon coating his legs, wings, and chest in thick, molten trails.

The scent flooded the air instantly—sweet, almost cloying—and the Insecticons froze for a single beat before their vents flared wide. The nearest one leaned in, slow and deliberate, until Starscream could feel the brush of heated plating against his own. Their tongues traced over his frame, following the rivulets of honey, their rough edges scraping lightly against sensitive seams.

The largest Insecticon loomed closer, heat radiating from his chassis like a furnace, his shadow falling over Starscream until the world narrowed to scent, heat, and the sound of his own vents cycling faster. The slow, deliberate lapping moved upward, then downward, following every curve of his armor as though mapping it from memory.

Starscream’s optics flickered half-shut, talons curling slightly against the wall as the heat around him built and the chittering breaths of the others became a constant, surrounding him on all sides. The honey clung stubbornly to his plating, refusing to be entirely taken, even as eager mouths chased every last drop.

The large one pressed closer still, his movements deliberate, almost claiming. Starscream’s own vents stuttered, his wings twitching high despite himself.

The world blurred into warmth, pressure, and the endless taste of sweetness in the air. Somewhere in the haze, Starscream’s lips parted just enough to let a sound slip out—half challenge, half surrender—before the scene melted into nothing but heat and shadow.

Fade to black.

When Starscream came back online, the first thing he registered was warmth — not the comforting kind, but the heavy, clinging kind that stuck to his plating like a memory.

The second was the quiet hum of Airachnid’s quarters. The lights were dimmed, shadows from the metal webbing curling over the walls like long fingers. Across the floor, several Insecticons lay sprawled in satisfied stillness, vents purring low, their optics half-shuttered as if in the haze of a deep recharge.

And Starscream… Starscream was sprawled across Airachnid’s berth, plating faintly sticky, paint dulled with dried traces of sweetened energon. He could still feel where they’d been — everywhere — the ghost of rough touches and dragging mouths, the almost-overwhelming press of bodies eager to taste what he’d been drenched in. His sensory net was still lit from the inside, replaying every scrape, every shiver, every low, greedy sound against him.

Airachnid sat beside the berth, elbows on her knees, watching him with that slow, predatory smile of hers. Her optics glimmered with amusement, and maybe a hint of pride.

“They liked you,” she said smoothly, her voice curling in his audials like silk over a blade. “Couldn’t get enough of you, actually.”

Starscream shifted slightly, wings flicking in a restless tremor. He didn’t meet her gaze—couldn’t—because every movement made him too aware of the lingering traces the Insecticons had left behind. The air still smelled faintly of sweet energon and warm metal, and his vents cycled faster without his permission.

Airachnid reached over, dragging a talon down the edge of his wing. “Consider yourself… initiated,” she murmured. “You’re part of the hive now, whether you meant to be or not.”

Starscream’s lipplates curled into a slow, dangerous smile. “Oh… I meant it,” he said softly, voice like dark promise.

Outside, the quiet rustle of the sleeping Insecticons was the only sound, the whole room wrapped in the warm, heavy aftermath of what had passed.

Starscream’s optics flickered open, the shadows of Airachnid’s quarters wrapping around him like silk. The faint hum of the Insecticons at rest created a low, pulsing rhythm in the background, their movements soft as the tide.

Airachnid was seated at the berth’s edge, posture relaxed, optics gleaming with that sharp, knowing amusement she wore so well. She leaned in, her mouth brushing against his in a kiss that lingered longer than necessary — not hurried, not tentative, but with a kind of deliberate slowness that made heat coil low in Starscream’s frame.

When she pulled back, her voice was velvet over steel.

“I don’t often… give,” she said, tracing a fingertip along the seam of his plating in a lazy, deliberate line. “I prefer to receive.”

Her tone dipped lower, a promise tucked between syllables.

“But for you… I might make an exception.”

Starscream’s grin was razor-sharp and feline. His wings twitched, catching the light like polished steel, and he leaned back just enough to give her an unobstructed view — an unspoken dare.

“Then don’t keep me waiting, Airachnid. Show me how you play.”

The air between them thickened, heat rolling in waves as her plating shifted with slow, purposeful movements. He drank in the sight, the suggestion of concealed power, the predator’s patience in the way she closed the distance.

Her frame cast a shadow over his, the brush of her fingers against his hip sending shivers of static racing along his sensory lines. She was smaller than him, but there was no mistaking the weight of control in her stance.

Starscream’s vents hitched.

“Impress me,” he murmured.

Airachnid’s answering smile was slow, wicked — the smile of someone who had already decided she would.

The last thing Starscream saw before the tension snapped was the glint of something dangerous and unexpected, promising that whatever came next would burn into his memory for a long, long time. Airachnid's spike had thorns.

The berth creaked faintly under the weight of them both, the air in Airachnid’s quarters thick with heat and the faint tang of energon-sweetness still clinging to Starscream’s plating. The heavy hum of the Insecticons in recharge was like a distant thunderstorm, vibrating through the floor, a low counterpoint to the quickening pulse between the two on the berth.

Airachnid’s optics glimmered in the dim light, a hunter’s gaze fixed entirely on her prey-turned-partner. Her servo trailed down Starscream’s chest plating, slow and deliberate, tracing along seams as though mapping every weakness she already knew by memory. Starscream’s vents fluttered open, exhaling a shiver of hot air that coiled between them.

The first push was exploratory, a slow, deliberate claiming. Starscream arched, wings twitching, vents pulling in the heat around them as though it were energon itself. The rhythm built in increments, each movement sending a ripple of vibration through their frames that resonated all the way to their joint lines. Starscream’s field pulsed outward, brushing against hers, sparking that electric contact between their systems.

Their plating met and parted in quickening intervals, each slide ringing faintly like tempered steel under strain. Heat rolled off them in waves, collecting in the small berthspace until it was hard to tell where one ended and the other began. Starscream’s talons dug lightly into the berth, leaving faint indentations as Airachnid’s motions grew sharper, each one drawing out a trembling, half-suppressed sound from his vocalizer.

It was a game of pressure and precision, each strike landing exactly where it drew the most reaction. The tempo quickened until the air itself seemed to vibrate, the scent of ozone sharp in the back of the intake. When Starscream finally cried out, it was less a sound and more a surge—an entire system momentarily locking before releasing in a rush of light and heat that swept through both of them like a detonating charge.

Airachnid slowed her pace, drawing out the aftershocks, savoring the way his frame trembled under her. The hum of their shared heat exchange was almost a purr, and when she finally pulled back, it was with a predator’s satisfaction. Starscream’s optics were half-lidded, his wings slack in total surrender, vents still cycling hard as if trying to cool a reactor running past safe limits.

Neither spoke for a long moment, the only sounds the cooling clicks of metal and the slow, satisfied rise and fall of their vents but Starscream, obviously now needed a new bath.

Chapter Text

Starscream sprawled across his berth like royalty, one wing tipped lazily over the edge, vents humming in a slow, smug rhythm. His optics half-lidded, a smile ghosted across his lips as he basked in the thought of his brilliance. The Autobots were fractured. Ironhide was ruined. Optimus’s command was faltering. All of it, thanks to him. His genius.

The soft hiss of his chamber doors drew his gaze, irritation sparking for half a moment—until familiar field signatures curled into the room, warm and electric.

Thundercracker and Skywarp.

His Trine.

They slipped inside without hesitation, the kind of synchronicity that only came from millennia of flying and fighting together. Thundercracker’s expression was half amusement, half exasperation, the long-suffering loyalty of a wingmate who knew just how much trouble Starscream could cause. Skywarp’s grin was brighter, mischief radiating from every line of his frame.

“You look pleased with yourself,” Thundercracker rumbled, leaning against the wall, arms folded. His field reached out anyway, brushing over Starscream’s like a hand sliding against bare plating.

“I am pleased with myself,” Starscream purred, wings flicking high in pride. “The war is shifting, and I—” he arched his back, stretching with deliberate grace, “—am the reason.”

Skywarp laughed, bounding forward and flopping onto the berth without invitation. He sprawled half on Starscream, pinning him with playful weight. “Always so dramatic. You’ve got the Autobots eating themselves alive, and yet here you are sulking in your quarters?”

Starscream tilted his helm back, lips curving. “Sulking? Hardly. Resting. Waiting for the right company.”

Thundercracker pushed off the wall at that, steps slow and deliberate, his heavy frame casting the berth into shadow as he loomed above the other two. “Company, hm? Seems you’ve got it now.”

The air grew thicker, charge crackling between them. Fields tangled and pulled—warmth pressing against warmth, sparks whispering in recognition. Starscream shivered under it, arching into the contact as Skywarp nosed at his jawline, venting a low chuckle.

“Primus, you love this,” Skywarp murmured against his plating. “Being the center of attention.”

“As I should be,” Starscream answered, smug even as his vents hitched when Thundercracker’s fingers ghosted along the edge of his wing.

The berth shifted with their weight, heat building fast, as though the confined quarters themselves were charged with energy. Vents cycled harder, wings flicked and brushed against one another—delicate, intimate touches that spoke louder than words. Starscream tipped his helm back, optics fluttering shut as lips grazed his own, first one, then the other, his Trine pulling him into the middle of their orbit.

Every motion was a promise. Every press of frame against frame an unspoken vow of unity. Heat bled through plating, their fields merging until it was impossible to tell where one of them ended and the other began.

Starscream let out a sound—half laugh, half moan—swallowed immediately by another kiss, deeper, hungrier.

The war, the Autobots, the endless scheming… it all slipped away. Here, tangled with his Trine, he wasn’t Second-in-Command, wasn’t a manipulator or a liar. He was theirs, and they were his.

The berth creaked under them as bodies shifted, wings flaring wide, vents roaring. Sparks sang in harmony—bright, volatile, brilliant.

And when the moment finally broke like a storm, it was with heat, with light, with overload crashing over them like fire through their circuits.

They collapsed together in the aftermath, tangled wings and easy laughter, heat still simmering under their plating. Starscream basked in it, optics dim, lips curved in the satisfied smile of someone who had everything he wanted.

The Autobots might burn tomorrow. But tonight, here in the dark, he had his Trine.

The washracks were filled with steam, heat curling in languid waves across metal plating. Skywarp stood beneath one of the high vents, coolant sluicing over his frame in rivulets, tracing along the ridges of his armor until it pooled and dripped at his pede-tips. His vents were still cycling unevenly, sharp bursts of air breaking through the low thrum of water. He tilted his helm back, optics shuttered, lips parted as if savoring the last shreds of what they’d done.

Behind him, Starscream and Thundercracker had not yet found the will—or the desire—to part. The seeker’s wings twitched and shivered where they were pressed against the tiles, water streaking down the broad spans like molten silver. Thundercracker had him pinned with the same stubbornness that defined every part of his frame, their plating humming from contact, heat spilling from one into the other until the steam itself seemed to pulse with them.

Starscream arched, a sharp, almost triumphant sound tearing from his vocals, muffled only when Thundercracker’s mouth claimed his again. Their kiss was hungry, unrelenting, but it softened at the edges as fingers ghosted down seams, as vents stuttered and synced, as the intimate press of frame to frame blurred into something less about conquest and more about connection.

Skywarp cracked an optic open and let out a low laugh, warm and fond despite the rasp in it. “Still going?” he muttered, though his voice lacked any true scolding. His gaze lingered, drawn to the way Starscream’s wings fluttered against the slick surface, to the way Thundercracker’s hand never left his Trine leader’s side, grounding him through each shudder.

The air was thick with ozone, with heat and condensation, with the faint sweetness of energon-scent that clung to their mouths. Every sound carried—venting, the scrape of plating, the whispered, unintelligible things that spilled when one seeker forgot himself in the other.

For all his teasing, Skywarp didn’t leave. He leaned into the spray, coolant hissing where it struck overheated armor, letting the wash carry away evidence but not memory. His wings twitched in rhythm to the noises behind him, to the sharp gasps and the deep, grounding rumbles that vibrated against the tiled walls.

By the time Starscream finally sagged against Thundercracker’s chest, optics hazy, vents rattling like he’d burned through every last cycle of defiance and delight, the steam had thickened to a shroud. The three of them lingered there—Skywarp rinsed clean but still watching, Thundercracker’s arms locked stubbornly around their wingmate, and Starscream with the faintest of smiles playing at his lips.

They were a mess. They were perfect. And for that moment, tangled in steam and the echoes of their own heat, they were whole.

The washracks were a haze of steam and faintly humming pipes, every droplet of condensation on the walls alive with the echoes of what had just unfolded.

Skywarp lingered under the spray, vents gradually leveling, his frame washed clean but not calmed. His optics half-shuttered as the heat traced down his plating, rivulets of water catching on seams, pooling against his cockpit glass before dripping to the floor in steady rhythm. He was watching, even if he pretended otherwise.

Behind him, Starscream still hadn’t managed to untangle himself from Thundercracker. His wings fluttered weakly where they pressed to the slick tiles, trailing arcs of moisture that gleamed under the washrack lights. Every shift of Thundercracker’s hands over his sides pulled another tremor out of him, a twitch in the wings, a faint hiss of venting that sounded suspiciously close to satisfaction.

“You’re shameless,” Skywarp drawled at last, the amusement in his voice softened by the rasp of overworked vents. He tilted his helm back into the spray, water rolling down his throat cabling in silver streaks. “Primus, Screamer, you’ll burn yourself out.”

Starscream, limp against Thundercracker’s chest but still defiant even half-broken, vented a laugh. “Burning bright,” he whispered, his voice thin but cutting, “is what I was built for.” His optics were half-lidded, glimmering through the steam as he tilted his helm enough to glance at Skywarp. “Don’t pretend you don’t enjoy watching.”

Skywarp’s wings twitched, betraying him.

Thundercracker huffed against the back of Starscream’s helm, one large hand splayed across the seeker’s cockpit like an anchor. “Ignore him,” he muttered, though the rumble in his voice betrayed more fondness than irritation. His lips brushed against Starscream’s damp plating, a kiss disguised as a scolding. “You need a recharge cycle, not another round.”

But Starscream only purred—low, sly, exhausted and victorious. “And leave Skywarp unattended?” His wings gave a lazy flick, scattering droplets. “That wouldn’t be very… Trine-like of us.”

Skywarp snorted, though the noise was already unraveling into something warmer, something vulnerable. His optics shuttered as the spray beat down on him, but when he spoke again his voice carried over the hiss of water. “You’re insufferable, Screamer.”

“And yet,” Starscream countered, with the faintest crook of a smile tugging at his mouthplates, “you’re still here.”

Thundercracker’s grip tightened around him, a low protective sound rumbling in his chest like a storm building far away. But his optics flicked toward Skywarp as well, that subtle pull between them undeniable even in silence.

The steam wrapped them all in its heavy embrace, carrying with it the sharp tang of ozone, the faint sweetness of energon still lingering on their mouths, the musky heat of plating pressed too long and too close.

Skywarp finally moved, shutting off the spray with a sharp twist of his wrist before padding barefoot across the tiles, water dripping from his plating in steady trails. He crouched beside them, one hand reaching to trail along the trembling edge of Starscream’s wing.

The reaction was immediate—a shiver, a hiss, a flutter that betrayed just how raw the wings still were. Starscream arched into the touch despite himself, optics flashing open, lips parting.

“You—” His voice cracked, half-snarl, half-moan. “—know what that does.”

“Yeah,” Skywarp said simply, his grin sharp and bright despite the heat-stained flush still across his frame. “I know.” His thumb brushed the edge of the wing again, softer this time, more deliberate. “Still want me to stop?”

Starscream’s optics narrowed, and yet he leaned closer, wings twitching in restless arcs under Skywarp’s careful strokes.

Thundercracker pressed his mouth to Starscream’s temple, his tone quiet, steady, grounding. “He won’t stop unless you tell him.”

Starscream’s smirk flickered, collapsed into a tremor that ran through his frame. “Then,” he whispered, voice barely more than static and steam, “don’t stop.”

The three of them sank into one another again—not in frenzy, but in the slower burn that came after fire, when the blaze had scorched everything down to something raw and tender. Wing to wing, vent to vent, their frames hummed with heat and resonance. No war. No Autobots. No schemes.

Just their Trine, bound in steam and touch, whole for one fragile, perfect cycle.

Thundercracker entered first, controlled, deliberate, his optics narrowed but his field radiating heat like stormlight. Skywarp slipped in behind him, restless and eager, his wings twitching as though they couldn’t bear to be still. Together, they flanked Starscream on the floor, their proximity closing around him like a cage of warmth and intent. A shiver ran down Starscream’s frame. The heat of their fields bled into his, coaxing his vents into an unsteady cycle. His wings lifted instinctively, giving them both silent permission.

Thundercracker leaned in, his mouth claiming Starscream’s with a bruising kiss, the pressure of their plating grinding together, sparks of static skipping across their seams. Starscream gasped against it, the sound caught in the moment Thundercracker deepened the kiss, tasting, demanding.

Skywarp didn’t wait. His hands were already at Starscream’s hips, sliding up his sides, tracing the sensitive lines of transformation seams until Starscream arched. He pressed his face against Starscream’s throat, biting down gently, then harder, until Starscream’s vents stuttered open with a rush of heated air.

The three of them moved together in a rhythm older than words, a dance born of countless battles fought wing to wing. Thundercracker’s weight pushed Starscream down into the berth, strong and unyielding, while Skywarp curled around his side, lips and hands everywhere at once—hungry, greedy, desperate to taste every shiver that ran through their wingmate.

Starscream’s wings quivered, splayed wide against the berth as they were touched and teased, every brush making his whole frame tremble. He clawed at Thundercracker’s shoulders, pulling him closer, even as Skywarp’s mouth claimed his own in turn, messy and hot, trading kisses that left all three panting, vents whining with effort and need.

Heat built in the room, vented in sharp bursts that fogged the air between them. Every sound—every groan, every hitch of breath—seemed amplified, echoing off the walls until the world narrowed down to the press of plating, the scrape of claws, the sensation of their sparks thrumming in a shared rhythm.

It was overwhelming, consuming, the kind of intimacy that blurred the lines between pleasure and violence, between need and fulfillment. Starscream let it take him, let them take him, every movement and touch feeding into the storm of sensation until there was nothing left but their bond, their shared fire.

And then—release. Not one, but all three, like an explosion contained within the berth. Vents screamed, frames arched, wings locked, and the overload crashed through them like a detonation, leaving static humming across their plating, the aftershocks sparking through their bond.

They collapsed together in the aftermath, tangled and heaving, vents rasping for cooler air that refused to come. Skywarp laughed breathlessly against Starscream’s neck, his field loose and satisfied. Thundercracker stayed silent, but the press of his helm against Starscream’s shoulder said everything he couldn’t put into words.

For a long moment, they simply lay there, wrapped in the heat of each other, the scent of ozone and hot metal thick in the air.

Eventually, Skywarp pushed up with a grin, padding off toward the washracks with a lazy roll of his wings, humming to himself as he rinsed the static and sweat from his frame. Thundercracker lingered, still entwined with Starscream, trailing slow, grounding touches along his wing edges until Starscream’s vents calmed.

When Thundercracker finally pulled away, the room felt colder for it. He exchanged a glance with Skywarp, both of them giving their wingmate a last look before slipping back toward the door, duty calling them to return to their posts.

Starscream remained sprawled on the floor, wings still trembling faintly, lips curved in a private smile. His trine was gone, but the echo of their bond still burned through him—heat, pressure, the taste of them lingering on his mouth.

He vented a low sigh, curling into himself, and allowed satisfaction to wash over him. The Autobots were divided. His plan was working. And with his trine’s fire still on his plating, Starscream felt untouchable. The washracks hissed to life with a rush of hot water, steam rising thick in the air until it clung to Starscream’s plating in a humid embrace. He stepped beneath the spray, wings twitching as the first heavy streams ran down their struts. The heat seeped into his seams, loosening the tightness left behind from battles, from his trine’s touches, from everything he’d endured in the day.

His optics shuttered, head tipped back, vents drawing slow pulls of the moist air. The water hit his chest, cascaded over his cockpit, rivulets following the ridges of his plating before dripping down into the grooves of transformation seams. It was almost too warm, almost scalding, but that was exactly how he liked it—the sensation biting enough to make him feel alive.

His claws traced along his own frame as the water ran over him, smoothing down his sides, slipping lower. He lingered on sensitive plating, fingers pressing in just enough to make his vents stutter. He didn’t need anyone else here for this moment; the intimacy of the bath was its own kind of indulgence, private and luxurious. The memory of Thundercracker’s grip and Skywarp’s mouth ghosted along his frame, and he let the echoes of those touches guide his hands.

The steam thickened, wings flexing and curling as water beaded at their tips before sliding away. Starscream’s vents cycled louder, his body arching into the spray as though the water itself could pin him down and overwhelm him. Every shiver that ran through his plating fed the sensation, until he was lost in it, water and heat and memory combining into something that made his spark thrum hard in its chamber.

It built slowly, pleasure twined with the release of tension, until it broke in a sharp rush that made him hiss between his denta, wings snapping taut against the tiled wall. The overload left his frame trembling, vents whining softly in the aftermath, water still streaming over him, washing away every trace of it.

He leaned forward, bracing a palm against the wall, drawing deep pulls of humid air until his vents steadied again. The water soothed him now, calming, rinsing his plating until it gleamed. By the time he finally stepped out, droplets still racing down his frame, he felt lighter, cleaner, renewed.

He dried himself slowly, wings fluttering under the soft drag of cloth, and then padded back into his private quarters. The berth called to him, sleek and waiting. Starscream slid onto it, settling into the cushions with a low, satisfied ex-vent.

His optics dimmed as he pulled his wings close around himself, cocooning in his own heat. Recharge crept in quickly, heavy and comforting, pulling him down into the dark. Tomorrow would bring new opportunities, new chances to twist both Autobots and Decepticons to his will.

But tonight, in the quiet of his own quarters, he allowed himself this rare luxury: the memory of pleasure still burning through his systems, his plating warm from the bath, and the smug certainty that his genius had left the war tipping in his favor.

Starscream slept with a smile.

Chapter Text

The sky was heavy with clouds, their shadows crawling across the landscape below as Starscream banked in his patrol. His wings twitched with boredom. Same skies, same empty stretches of land, same silence in his comms.

Until—movement.

A flicker of yellow against gray stone, small, solitary, and unmistakable. Bumblebee. The scout was alone, his usual chatter absent, no backup anywhere in sight. Starscream’s lips curled into a slow smirk.

Perfect.

He cut power to his thrusters, letting the air catch and carry him down in silence. His landing was feather-light, talons curling into dirt. He stalked forward until he was close enough to see the scout’s helm tilt, scanners busy. And then—

“Tell me,” Starscream purred, voice dripping with mock-sweetness, “what is such a small and cute bot doing here… all alone?”

Bumblebee jolted hard, vents gasping a startled whirr as he spun around. Before he could raise a blaster or radio a warning, Starscream moved—fast, elegant, deadly. His wings flared as he pounced, the two colliding in a tangle of plating and weight. They hit the ground hard, dust curling up around them.

Starscream pinned him effortlessly, his talons braced against Bumblebee’s wrists, his cockpit pressed flush to the scout’s smaller frame. The heat exchange was immediate: the press of their vents against each other, cycling faster from the shock of contact, warm air puffing between them in uneven bursts.

Bumblebee squirmed, armor scraping, sparks of friction jumping from plating sliding against plating. His optics glared, but Starscream could hear the nervous tremor in his field—sweet, sharp, the scent of defiance mingled with fear.

Starscream leaned down, until his lips brushed the edge of Bumblebee’s audial. “Your vents are loud, little one. Are you frightened?” he whispered, almost tender, almost cruel.

Bumblebee snapped his helm aside, refusing to meet his gaze. His field burned with resistance, but his frame betrayed him—warmth radiating, plating flexing under the pressure of Starscream’s hold.

The Seeker’s wings arched high, trembling with delight at the tension thrumming between them. He let his weight sink down further, struts shifting until the line of his frame pressed deliberately along Bumblebee’s. He felt the scout’s vents stutter, a faint whimper of static escaping him.

“Delicious,” Starscream hissed, talons flexing just enough to remind Bumblebee he was trapped. His cockpit lights glowed faintly brighter, a cruel tease of the spark thrumming inside. “Do you know what happens to little Autobots found wandering without their commander?”

Bumblebee finally forced his gaze upward, optics wide but burning with a stubborn fire. “I’m not afraid of you,” his comms crackled, distorted but defiant.

Starscream laughed low, the sound vibrating between them. “You should be,” he said, voice velvet-dark. Then, slower, softer, leaning so close their vents exchanged heat in a rhythm that felt almost intimate: “Or perhaps… you shouldn’t.”

For a moment, the world was only the sound of their plating grinding softly together, vents cycling hard, spark-fields brushing in a dangerous, magnetic pull. Starscream’s wings quivered with the thrill of it, Bumblebee’s frame shivering with the effort of resistance—or something dangerously close to it.

The Seeker lingered there, savoring the mix of fear, defiance, and heat between them, his smirk widening. Then, with a final slow drag of his talons down Bumblebee’s arms, he rose—leaving the scout panting on the ground, dust still clinging to his plating.

Bumblebee froze beneath him, plating rigid, vents fluttering like startled wings. Starscream tilted his helm, amused by the sound of the scout’s pulse spiking, the heat radiating off his small frame. Shame rolled off the Autobot in waves, his spark-field prickling with it, and Starscream drank it in like it was energon.

“Ah,” the Seeker purred, shifting deliberately in his seat over the scout’s hips, “so that’s it. Not fear. Embarrassment.” His smirk widened, sharp and knowing. “How… delicious.”

Bumblebee tried to turn his face away, but Starscream caught his chin with one taloned hand, tilting it back until their optics locked. The Seeker leaned down, wings arched high, vents hissing hot.

“I think I’ll test a theory,” Starscream whispered.

Before Bumblebee could ask what he meant, Starscream’s mouth was on his. The kiss was sudden, searing — a claiming more than a caress. His glossa swept past Bumblebee’s lips, prying them apart, mapping out the inside of his mouth with cruel thoroughness. Bumblebee gave a muffled, startled sound, his frame arching instinctively beneath the weight of the Seeker pressing him down.

Starscream’s wings trembled, a shiver of pleasure at the taste, at the startled innocence he could feel in every jitter of Bumblebee’s spark-field. He deepened the kiss, dragging it out until the yellow bot’s vents whirred erratically, caught between resisting and forgetting how.

When Starscream finally pulled back, there was a thin strand of static between them, and Bumblebee’s optics were wide, lips parted as though he’d been robbed of air. The Seeker licked his own lips slowly, savoring.

“Mmm.” He let his talons trail down the smaller mech’s throat, feeling the vibration of Bumblebee’s cycling vents. “Just as I thought. That was your first, wasn’t it?” His grin was wicked, sharp enough to cut. “I’d wager… oh, 99.999% certain. Untouched. A virgin.”

Bumblebee’s optics darted away, the glow in them bright and unsettled. He made a sound in his comms, garbled, embarrassed static that only proved Starscream right.

The Seeker leaned close again, audial brushing against the side of Bumblebee’s helm, voice dropping to a whisper meant only for him:

“Do you know what that means, little scout?” His wings shivered with delight. “It means you are far too easy to unravel… and I am very, very good at unraveling.”

Starscream lingered there, letting the weight of his words settle like heat across Bumblebee’s plating, before drawing back with a low, satisfied hum. He had confirmed his theory — and in doing so, discovered a new weapon more dangerous than any blaster: Bumblebee’s innocence.

Bumblebee’s vents hitched, cycling sharp little bursts of air that betrayed his composure. His optics flickered away, anywhere but Starscream, as though he could hide the flush of heat blooming through his spark-field.

Starscream only smiled wider. He shifted just enough to press his frame closer, wings arching in satisfaction as the scout shivered beneath him. “So tense,” he murmured, talons tracing the line of Bumblebee’s jaw, slow and deliberate. “Not from fear, no… I can feel the difference. This is embarrassment. Shame.”

Bumblebee gave a low, protesting whirr, his field sparking against Starscream’s like static, defensive but weak. Starscream purred at the sensation, pressing the advantage.

“You’ve never been touched like that,” the Seeker said, his voice velvet and cruel. “Not once. Not by Prime, not by any of your precious Autobots. You’ve been kept pure, untested, like a sparkling.” His lips curved, daring, as he leaned closer again. “And now the first taste you’ve had belongs to me.”

Bumblebee’s optics flared, wings twitching in agitation, but he didn’t push him away. His mouth opened as if to argue, only for broken static to tumble out — no words, just the crackle of frustration, of being caught.

Starscream tilted his helm, amused, brushing his lips just shy of Bumblebee’s again but not giving him the satisfaction of another kiss. “Listen to your vents,” he whispered, audial brushing the scout’s helm. “Listen to how hard you’re cycling. You think I don’t hear it? You think I don’t feel the heat coming off your plating?”

He let a taloned hand drift down the curve of Bumblebee’s armor, never quite threatening, but suggestive enough to make the smaller mech’s field pulse sharp with nerves. Starscream hummed in delight at the reaction.

“Poor little scout,” he cooed, mock-gentle. “So eager to prove yourself in war… yet when it comes to this, you’re nothing but a trembling innocent. And I know every Autobots’ secret weakness now.” His optics gleamed, wings quivering high with triumph. “You.”

Bumblebee made a muffled sound of protest, struggling just enough to show his pride wasn’t broken. But the tremor in his frame, the way his vents still whirred unevenly under Starscream’s weight, betrayed him completely.

The Seeker lingered there, savoring the scout’s confusion — torn between shame, defiance, and something he didn’t yet have a name for. Starscream traced one final line down his plating, sharp enough to make Bumblebee’s whole frame twitch, before finally rising, wings spread in an arrogant flourish.

“Consider this a lesson,” Starscream said smoothly, talons dragging one last time down Bumblebee’s arm before releasing him. “The battlefield isn’t the only place wars are won. Sometimes, little one… they are won here.” He tapped lightly against his own lips, a cruel reminder, before stepping back.

Bumblebee stayed on the ground a moment longer, optics wide, vents still betraying him, spark-field a storm of confusion. By the time he pushed himself up, Starscream was already lifting into the air, leaving nothing behind but the heavy heat of memory and the taste of a kiss Bumblebee could not shake.

Bumblebee lingered longer than he meant to. His plating still hummed faintly, vents unsteady, spark thudding against its casing with a rhythm that had nothing to do with battle.

He should’ve gotten up immediately, returned to patrol, sent a coded report—anything to shake off what just happened. But his hands were trembling where they rested against the ground, his whole frame buzzing with the aftershocks of Starscream’s presence.

Primus, why did it feel like that?

He touched his lips, almost without realizing. His own mouth still tingled, warm, as though the Seeker’s was still pressed there. Heat flickered across his faceplates, shame rolling through him—but it was tangled with something else. Something soft and dizzying. Something that made his vents stutter.

He replayed it, unbidden: Starscream’s weight pressing him down, the sharp drag of talons, the smug purr in his vocalizer when he discovered Bumblebee’s inexperience. He should feel nothing but rage for being toyed with. He should hate it. Hate him.

And yet…

The memory burned sweet. The way Starscream’s field had crackled against his own—intense, invasive, but strangely electric. The heat that pooled in Bumblebee’s systems wasn’t entirely unwelcome. His processor refused to stop circling back to that kiss—how deep it had been, how thorough, how it made his entire mouth light up like it had never been used for anything before.

His first.

The realization made him stiffen, a pulse of both indignation and longing sparking through his lines. Starscream had stolen that from him… but Primus, the way it felt—

Bumblebee’s servos clenched against the ground. He should report it. He should scrub the memory, bury it, forget the heat that still lingered in his valve housing and along every seam of his plating. He should.

But when he finally stood, wings quivering faintly as his systems tried to settle, his spark betrayed him. Every step toward the Autobot base only magnified the weight of the kiss still pressed into his memory.

Shame burned in his chest, but beneath it, stronger and more frightening, was the truth:

He wanted more,so much more.