A/N: I pulled ALL of this out of my tail-pipe while watching ONLY TFA, and before I found out about spark-sex and the general flow of Cybertronian intimacy XD And before I started viewing them as more human than anyone should (and everyone does!) SO UH. Pity please.

PITY LIKE MEGATRON SHOULD HAVE ON STARSCREAM D:

Takes place mere weeks/days/milliseconds before TFA begins and Starscream launches his… incredibly detailed 'Lethal-Backpat' plot. Oh yeah, that 'con is crafty.

I love this woman. Rockin' awesome illustration CAN BE FOUND HERE: http : / / pics. livejournal. com /enolianslave/pic/0000726z/g8

Intimate Impetus

Intimacy with inorganic creatures was surprisingly simple, and brought an easy second dimension to the term 'hooking up'.

It was based on Energon. A body to body transference of Energon was, somewhere deep in their wiring, an intimate thing: it was one of those unexplained tenets of what they were, that such a show of trust or need could bring on… inexplicable sensations in their otherwise explainable, function-obsessed wiring. Autobot and Deceptacon alike were subject to this unnecessary quirk, which deepened bonds, program compatibility, and forged an almost clairvoyant wave-length connection between two bots. The give and take of individuals (now personally 'tagged') Energon--a seemingly needless exchange of nearly identical energy which left no statistical change in either party--brought on a closeness that paralleled a fusing of psyches or a harddrive-share.

Most importantly, it felt incredible.

In an expertly engineered body where physical sensors were not wasted close to the metal surface, an Exchange played on vulnerable internal sensors like sweet synthesizer keys, sparking and ever-new and terribly invasive. Liquid ecstasy. In bots, form followed function and conduct followed stimuli: they looked like what they did, and their reactions validated the usefulness of various acts, but this occurrence had always been a mystery.

It was as if the Creator was telling them, through this strange superfluous sensation, that this act was good. It was as if there were something more to be cultivated through this equivalent exchange of Energon than mere stat boosts. It was this finiky little glitch that usually convinced organics of the presence of that nebulous metaphorical thing labeled a 'soul'. This concept sounded quite close to their own Spark, but spoke of a deeper purpose outside of Cybertronians' often inflexible programming.

But organics were confused, limited and sensation-obsessed, and likened the Exchange to a product-less version of their own mating acts. The idea of something so indecorous and wet occuring in Decepticon society could make even a drone cringe, but very concept of something so very non-consensually pleasurable unnerved many bots: most especially Starscream.

Then again, any way it was taken, it was also very, very motivating.

-.-.-.-.-.-

"Starscream."

The entire crew turned from their various posts: while it was not the first word Megatron had spoken that solar-cycle, it certainly sounded different. Lugnut looked quickly from his looming Lord to his second in command, optic lens whirring with an unhappy sound (shouldbehim-shouldbehimyes-serveMegatronmuchbetter) as Starscream scrambled from his high-backed seat. Blackarachnia raised a disturbingly soft brow, clever servos still coercing their tired ship across the universe.

It was a challenge to remain afloat in this time and age, even with their stoic master's hand on their necks. Energon was short, and tempers were shorter. Starscream whirled from his humming monitor-dock and snapped to Academy attention on the Floor, thin mouth curling at the edges.

"Yes, your gloriousness?" he inquired breathily. Arachnia rolled her eyes and ignored the rest; Blitzwing grit his teeth, but kept his auditory units tilted. Low as they were running, as far away as the Allspark seemed, Starscream always found the Energon to make a show: at one time or another, they all longed to engage their servos around his brittle indigo neck.

Such a hold wouldn't do much, mechanically, but they still wanted it like they wanted a bucketful of fresh Energon. Badly.

"Starscream," Megatron sighed. "You will remain behind in the bridge after the check is complete."

The smaller bot's rail-thin faced twitched into something decently short of glee.

"May I ask why, my liege? Do you need to… discuss something personally with your humble second in command? A reconnaissance move, a mission, an assault?" Starscream inquired, slick exhibitionism of his rank earning him an ill-concealed snort from the gallery. Megatron smiled and looked outside the dark ship, countless neutral stars reflected on his intent red optics.

"Nothing so complex, my second in command," he said. He took a moment to settle back in his dull throne, gaze never leaving the sky. "I'm just feeling a bit… down."

The bridge stilled.

The last word was pointed and faintly amused and not at all empty, conveying a rash of uncomfortable interpretations. Innuendo, it was called: something uncomfortable for all goal-oriented, minimalist bots such as Lugnut, but common for their multi-layered leader. Lugnut nodded firmly, then hooked back into the ship's network to finish his maintenance check, but Blackarachnia stopped and looked to Blitzwing with a perturbed expression. Her companion shrugged stiffly, face sucking and swirling to land on his most distant persona. He took a moment to resettle the monocle, but was unable to keep a grimace from his new features.

Starscream had frozen entirely, crimson eyes locked on the control unit three spans to Megatron's left. After a moment, he cleared his throat and looked down, hands curling into fists.

It was basic functional language, and truly unnecessary. 'Down.' Slang: sad, upset, perturbed or, if in the right circumstance, alarmingly low on Energon.

It would have been better, somehow, if Megatron had made an official request of it; acknowledged it as important. Perhaps it might have been seen as a martyr-like contribution: a servant with true dedication to his empire and his leader, a medal for his well-polished facade. But to put this… service down to something casual and sly made him a victim with no pull: and a victim he was, more and more often in these bare mad stellar cycles. But that was… better kept silent.

In Megatron's eyes, he was loyal. He was true. A little humiliation like this was nothing.

Starscream cast a bitter look around at the rest of his crew—his crew, under his wingspan and rank—and absorbed their shrunken movements and awkward posture and knew them to be sharper than they looked. Their suspicions were probably correct, and he railed at the waning respect, mandibular snapping together. He could do nothing, and they would do nothing: not against Megatron, and, though he was unaware of it, certainly not for him.

"Yes… sir," Starscream finished, lips drawn high over his teeth.

"Good," Megatron rumbled, and their dry ship dragged onwards.

.-.-.-.-

It had been the longest maintenance check of that stellar-cycle.

The bridge was empty, long drained of its thorny Deceptecon crew, save for Megatron's hulking form firmly entrenched in his dark throne and his underling standing stiffly by his arm. The Leader was engrossed with something in Starscream's back, a dull purple panel-cover unseated and forgotten on the floor.

Starscream tensed, joints clicking, as Megatron's monstrous fingers tapped across his exposed ports, thumbing one —the copper smell suddenly blooming in his sensors said it was olfactory—and then yanking the input drive brutally. Starscream hissed; Megatron listened to the low, furious, submissive sound until it ended, then dropped the dislodged, cold wiring against his back.

"Oops."

Starscream's chin jerked to the side. Normally, this little ritual was silent: it was enough to leave Starscream enraged and meticulously dismantled with no verbal barbs, but the fact that Megatron felt the need to provoke him spoke of a thrown gauntlet.

"Feeling petty today, sir?" Starscream muttered, cheek twitching. Megatron seemed to consider his impetuous second in command, servos still entrenched in his vulnerable, color-dabbed ports, then smiled with one cold half of his mouth.

"It's been a hard solar cycle," he rumbled coolly, smile widening a fraction as another jerk of his oversized fingers made Starscream flinch. He could be quite vindictive: but the rest of the universe, he was sure, was already aware of this.

He was always prepared for personal reminders.

Starscream heard the muted clicks as his Lord and Master equipped his own cording, each sound like insects slamming against glass, disturbing and buzzy. He managed to remain still as Megatron blew—blew, as though it were unclean!—into his back panel, bracing fingers lingering until he plugged in. Starscream felt his master's consciousness bloom in his periphery after the prickling sensation ceased, located the hard-edged cold spot, and nodded.

Megatron's own port was unconnected, hanging quietly at his back. While no one knew where the Lord had discovered it, when the feedback loop was not connected, and one partner remained un-plugged, the process—this intimate, two-sided joining procedure—morphed into something completely different. This would be an Extraction, not an Exchange.

"Energon transmission initiated," Starscream said stiffly, holding his wire-leashed body as far as possible from Megatron's seated form.

"No need to be formal, Starscream," Megatron returned, eyes burning into Starscream's back. "But I thank you for your cooperation."

Starscream twitched, capping his circuit-blowing rage at the loftiness—after so many sly incidents like this! So many personal, careful humiliations!—but kept his violence down to a busy clenching of his fingers. He was strong. Loyal. Forgiving his verbal slip earlier, he must appear loving. Willing. Glad, even, to supply his Lord and Master with what he so dearly needed until it was the perfect time to strike.

As if reading his mind, Megatron's gigantic hand closed on the base of his neck, husky amusement filtering into both grip and voice as he yanked Starscream against his knees.

"The Decepticon Empire thanks you for your sacrifice."

Blown, Starscream opened his mouth to snap, snarl—to reach back and risk severing his engaged input wires like split hairs just to strike the immovable Megatron with the flat of his fist and hear it crack—but then the connection snapped in and any rage was lost in a wondrous, suffocating groan.

Megatron caught his wrist, and he half-leaned against the arm of his Master's chair, opticals sliding shut after a nanoclick of the bright, erotic pulses and twitches.

Creators, but he hated it. Hated to be misused and sapped of life force and paralyzed and made to enjoy it, of course, but despised most of all the straightforward act of domination. He knew what this was, and why Megatron chose him and him alone for such a messy service. The only hope he had—and it was a vicious hope he clung to, confused and battered and furious as he was—was that Megatron blindly feared him enough, even past his perfect acts of submission, to feel the need to constantly remind him of his place. Yes, he was too powerful and sharp for Megatron to contemplate comfortably, even as a kneeling subordinate.

The truth was, Megatron was entirely too aware of Starscream.

Most of all, of his impatience, pride and temper: that, coupled with his ambitions, would have made a formidable adversary. However, if it came to a throw between his slicing ambitions and his impetuous anger, the latter would always win out. This provided a useful pattern-disruption: all-powerful Megatron provoked Starscream only often enough to prevent him from gathering himself. If he were given mega-cycles to plot and scheme, as was his crooked-fingered wont, a real threat might have emerged. However, if his temper were constantly teased into the open, petty pride issues supplanting mature schemes, he could be provoked into an immature attack, if not a hasty, obsequious retreat.

While Starscream was far from the most subtle 'bot in Cybertron, this entertaining scenario of Extraction actually gave the Master another advantage: a one-sided empathy to the insidious little creature, gifting him with the occasional intention and thought. Megatron knew of all his Second-in-command's treacherous intentions, true, but Starscream was only dangerous when given time.

Megatron would give him leadership, troops and assignments: but never time.

A few cycles of thrumming yellow energy failed to numb Starscream's will. Bodily, he woke up: Megatron's knees were hard against his thighs, body dashed against the arm of his throne. Unbidden, his basic rage returned, vibrating where Megatron's arm was clamped across his chest, thick servo grasping down his side.

"Yes," Megatron growled slowly, equally drawn in by the electric, erotic haze, chin scraping against the taut cording in Starscream's stretched neck. "The Decepticon Empire thanks you most graciously."

Starscream gagged as his glorious leader's other hand found his front, metal slapping against metal and testing the surface with a concentrated want. He thrashed, trying to dislodge the malicious, cold weight and the fear it injected into his system.

"No—sir, no—"

Energon—the Allspark incarnate, the same substance that would have called a polished keyport from the glossy skin of his chestplate to receive a metamorphic key charged by an idiotic organic creature—flowed through Megatron's body, newly-ripped from Starscream's system, unfocused. Then—perhaps because it was a common channel, or perhaps because he was Megatron and his practice in the malicious arts was unparalleled—his fingers sparked, and a small liquid panel in Starscream's frontal shell shifted, reacting blindly to the warm Energon. Megatron breathed in heavily over his shoulder and the fear congealed in his commander's innards.

"No! No—why—"

Like the unrefined energy in his leader, the new port was remedial: a mere chink in Starscream's vital hardware, open-mouthed for energy, but wide enough to abide a thick intrusion of Megatron's gleaming, sizzling fingers, worming down toward his center. The raw metal touched the Energon-swollen servos and Starscream's jaw snapped open, hot pain ripping through his previously dark system.

"N-no—"

"I respectfully refuse your right to stop me."

Fomented by his grey, grinning malice, Megatron's two fingers sparked again, and the port shifted greedily to accept the insidious, pressing bulk. Starscream bucked viciously, visual sensors blacking out without warning, and he made a wounded, organic sound at the second draw on his Energon.

"What a good soldier."

Starscream's system-overload poured into a simple high, thin scream, even as the hurt was quickly chased by overwhelming, idiotic, glitch-inducing pleasure. Megatron pried into him, spiteful and invasive and godlike, and all his Creator-damned wiring could concern itself with was the incredible feeling the Extraction generated. The deep-seated EM contractions rode his abused system, searing the circuits further and reigniting the rage under his skin. Used, used. How he would kill the beast, how he would rule after his Spark was doused--Starscream thrashed, mouth warping as the energy flowed out of him and into his monolith master, scrambled pleasure a horribly acceptable compensation for unadulterated life-force.

"Disconnect! Disconnect!" He finally grunted through his teeth, straining against Megatron's grip. It was feral disrespect-- heresy, even--and he half expected—wished—to find his head crushed like an empty cargo container the next moment: but the nano-clicks dragged and still the precious Energon flowed out and away like heavy, iron-rich slag. Never this much before, never. He could feel his programming losing its bright definition through the acidic euphoria, ugly exhaustion creeping up his shaking body. "You don't… n-need this much!"

"Oh, but I do."

Megatron slammed Starscream off of his feet and up to his own barrel chest, metal screeching in the empty bridge. Wires tangled and his Commander's world exploded with the possessive, destructive blow, inputs jarred. The Extraction accelerated like a vice, killingplunderingspasming. Starscream thrashed against his Master, drawing off of some obscene primordial programming; his chest heaved wildly as though oxygen applied to his dense metal larynx or the dry cavity below. The decadence of motion, the uselessness of it all echoed, echoed. Nearly organic. Lack of control, body malfunctioning, foot slamming into the floor, unexplained-unexplained. Starscream snarled, louder still when the craggy finger was wedged further into his port. Pressing like a vicious, prehensile dagger, tip scraping at his pulsing spark.

Still, pleasure. Hateful, slicing, insane pleasure.

Right as he could feel the dangerous white soul of him flickering towards Megatron's hungry advances, and deep inside something hard-edged and binary was beginning to disintegrate, his sensors went dead. The heat vanished. He felt his body jerk and snap, heard a few pops as a foot gouged into his back, and then a distant impersonation of vertigo, meandering by him like an asteroid belt. He struck the ground, Megatron's boot still hanging in the air behind him.

The cord left a burning spot in his back he could only feel once face forward and disconnected on the cold deck of the bridge, warped port in his chest gaping and sparking in the thin, equally cold space air. He shuddered, creaking over to his side, one hand covering the wound; the other fanned back for his swinging input cord. He grasped for it anxiously, breathing shallow.

"I do need it, Starscream."

Megatron's voice came dark and pleased from above him, making his battered body tremble and his legs tuck up to his chest.

"You know how much Energon it requires to run an empire."

"You have no empire," Starscream rasped, speakers sizzling from the floor. He was shorting now, too destroyed to mind his obsequious persona: polished wings askew, optics flickering, the rage bolted from his motherboard without any censor.

"It is but a matter of time. The Allspark is waiting for me," Megatron said softly. Starscream felt the rumble as he stood and advanced on his second-in-command, ever-loyal and true. He couldn't help crying out, thin and aggravated, when Megatron dropped to one knee and snagged him by the neck, but could do no more. Through his malfunctioning optics, his master's face shone bright and red and distorted, teeth gleaming. "But after all, I didn't get here alone. Without your help, Starscream, where would I be?"

Starscream could only breathe, halting and nasal, until Megatron flung him back to solid ground. The doors slammed a moment later, leaving him alone with the gentle twitter of the control panels and the judgmental expanse of space.

The trembling Decepticon sat up after a long while, falling back on his arms when the grey strain proved too much. Now, he would be weak for solar-cycles: now, everyone—everyone who mattered, whose respect he commanded on this Creator-forsaken ship—would know what had happened after that close-mouthed request on the bridge. Just like every time that damn medic straightened the hand-shaped dents out of his wings: just like every time before then, when the crew all seemed grateful for his unexplained fatigue. They would know the humiliation. A dull pain invaded his head, coupled with a foggy red warning bulletin across his visuals. Energon, now. The stimuli pressed in, struggling through his system, and he realized how drained he truly was. Megatron had left him with… nothing.

Megatron, the God.

Sapping the last of the spark in his dry body, Starscream forced himself up and slammed into the nearest panel, fists glancing off the twittering, breathing equipment as he struck out in old and new rage, screaming at the carefully displayed universe above him.

"Never again! Never again, Megatron!" He shrieked, ragged voice dying as he suddenly slipped down to one knee, cold body bumping up against the control panel like a clumsy animatronics toy. A mewling protoform. His hands hit the floor, his chin hit his chest. He could feel his servers forcibly powering down with a sound like draining water, but his stasis would not be calm. Life would not continue like this. He had been used for the last time.

He didn't have the Energon to call the burnt port back into his liquid insides. It remained exposed, dry and painful and a physical scar of what had just occurred.

None of it would matter, however, when he was the Leader. None of these clandestine Extractions and abuses would figure in at all: not when he was at the head of the Decepticons. The new and glorious Leader, finding the Allspark within days of his new appointment after the tragic death of Megatron… yes, he would make them forget.

Make them forget, or give them memories of their own.