Starscream twitched a dented wing. It ached, but the movement sent a bright jolt of sensation zipping through the sensors there that soon faded to a warm, electrical glow.
He cursed, muttering to himself. It felt almost good now, but it certainly hadn't when Megatron was beating him. Primus knew he didn't mind pain, but his Leader's punishments were rapidly becoming ridiculous.
He'd felt sure, long vorns ago when all this had started, that Megatron had understood. Had known what his provocations meant.
Oh, he meant every word of his criticisms. Megatron could be spectacularly stupid at times, and someone had to remind the old fool of his failures. Since Starscream was apparently the only Decepticon intelligent or brave enough to do so, the job fell to him.
But he'd known very well that Megatron would punish him, and guessed well enough how a former gladiator from the death pits might go about it. And Megatron was nothing if not cruel. More than once, he'd heard the unmistakable sound of the big mech's cooling fans roaring to life as his fists crashed into the thin metal of Starscream's wings or his hands tightened over Starscream's shoulder vents.
It was a bit more than even Starscream could enjoy, but that hadn't bothered him. Not at first. He'd known very well how attractive he could be. And although Megatron would never admit it, Starscream had noticed Megatron revise his plans more than once, altering this or that detail based on his second's suggestions.
Although Starscream had begged and pleaded and groveled - and, yes, been annoyed, because damn it all, that hurt! - he'd secretly exulted in it. His spark had wheeled in triumph and his turbines had spun in eager expectation. He'd felt certain that someday, once Megatron had finished venting that cruelty on him, he would -
He clicked his wings angrily, glad for the burn it elicited. It matched his sour mood. There was no use in thinking about that now. If Megatron hadn't noticed in hectovorns, well, the oblivious idiot wasn't going to suddenly start now.
Fuming, he crossed his room in a few long strides and threw open a storage closet, rummaging around until his hand closed over the object he sought.
It was crudely made, welded awkwardly together from pieces of plating Starscream had managed to tear off of Megatron during their endless, violent arguments. Although his scientific training had made him precise, and his careful study of every micron of Megatron's frame had given him a near-perfect blueprint for the miniature, he'd had little patience for careful work. It didn't matter, really, what the figurine looked like.
Only what it represented.
His hand moved with practiced ease to a small panel on the back of the figure. As delicately as he could, he flipped one of the switches there, murmuring in anticipation.
The figurine's optics flickered and then flared to life, glowing reddish-orange.
Starscream shuddered at the brightness, imagining that the piercing glow was his lord's gaze, staring as greedily at its handiwork as Starscream had always hoped he would.
Starscream hadn't been able to find any lights in exactly the proper shade; the red of his lord's optics was as unique as their bearer. But this was good enough.
Oblivious fool Megatron might have been, but at least his little toy knew it should adore him.
Twitching his wings again and shuddering at the sting, he carried the figurine to the edge of his berth and laid it there with an almost reverent gentleness. He slid a hand over it once, savoring the pits and dents in the metal because they were real, because they were scars, because they were his.
Then he stepped back, striking a salacious pose. He ran his hands lightly down his sides, spinning his turbines and licking his lips as he tilted his hips toward the small, silent figurine he imagined was watching him.
"Do you like this, Mighty Megatron?" he crooned, his turbines whirling loudly as his fingers moved on his own plating, lingering over the dents that Megatron had left there earlier. "Do you like seeing me on display for you?"
He slid his hands lower, canting his hips toward the figurine and tracing the circle of his spike cover, savoring the heat there. He stepped closer, licking his lips.
He hesitated as long as he could stand and then reached out again, his finger twitching as it found the proper switch.
The figurine's interface panel slid open obediently, a miniature spike springing free from it.
"Oh," Starscream whispered, "you do like that, don't you?"
Constructing the figurine's spike had unfortunately been a matter of guesswork. Starscream had never seen the thing. But if the rest of Megatron's frame was any indication, it would be large like the rest of him, and thick enough to stretch deliciously going in.
Starscream had proportioned his figurine ridiculously. Because it wasn't fair that he hadn't seen it, and the thought excited him.
And for one other reason, of course, though he hadn't reached that part of the ritual yet.
He set it back down gently, admiring the enormous silver phallus before sliding aside his own spike cover and taking himself in hand.
He moved slowly at first, wanting to give his obligingly captive audience a good show. His spike was long and curved gracefully upward, bands of red and white metal alternating along its surface. He knew that the few mechs he'd granted the privilege of seeing it had found it as pretty as the rest of him, and he wanted to make the most of it.
But as his gaze shifted to meet the frozen stare of his toy, he couldn't help but pump himself faster. The makeshift optics, never leaving him, burned bright, and as he pumped himself harder he could almost imagine his figurine's faceplates moving, shifting into a greedy, mocking smirk.
"For you," he panted, narrowing his optics into slits to better lose himself in the illusion. The orange lights were pinpricks of flame and suddenly he knew nothing but heat and light and the dream of his lord watching him. A long shudder wracked his frame and he shrieked as his transfluid burst free, covering the small effigy of Megatron in silver, sticky ropes of it.
###
He floated for long moments in a sated, sleepy haze, little electrical pulses crackling through his interface equipment. His valve cover slid aside and he traced it with one finger, murmuring with pleasure.
"You never disappoint me," he whispered, smirking at the figurine bedecked with his emission.
Cycling a sigh of satiation, he leaned over and lifted his prize in one hand. His own optics shone now, gleaming with hunger, as he wrapped a hand around the figurine and brought it to his lips.
He pressed his lip plates to it and opened his mouth to lick at the stain he'd left, shuddering at the taste of his own fluids against the metal. It had come, after all, from Megatron's real frame, wrenched from his lord's body during their little power struggles. Starscream nuzzled it with his lips and tongue, reveling in the roughness of thousands of tiny dents and scars.
His glossa danced over its helmet, curling over the symbol of Megatron's authority, worn like any vulgar mech might wear a crown. His free hand moved against the rim of his valve again, feeling the lubricant pooling there as his glossa slid over its cheeks and chin and carefully, carefully cleaned its makeshift optics. They felt hot under his mouth, burning as they gave off light, and he slid his finger just barely in his valve and held it there.
That was maddening, but Starscream wasn't doing this just to make himself overload again. With a whimper, he slid his finger out again. He'd save that for Megatron, if he could stand to do it. And if the thick-bolted fool would ever learn to take a slagging hint.
He kissed his toy, tracing a path to the Decepticon insignia he'd branded into it. It was crude, crude and uneven, because he couldn't find a branding iron small enough. His tanks roiled in distaste at the thought of the imperfections. But it was worth it to sear the symbol into his toy, just as it had been seared onto Megatron's own chest, so many hundreds of vorns ago.
And into his own wings. He arched his back and flared them out, feeling a sharp spike of pain through the sensors there. But now, after his overload, with his effigy of Megatron at his lips, he felt nothing but elation. His valve spasmed and he gasped, his glossa slipping down to one of his figure's arms.
Sadly, he'd found no light source adequate to representing the lavender energy that roiled through his Leader's weapon as it charged. Unlike the figurine's optics, its cannon didn't glow with light or hum with heat. Still, Starscream sighed as his glossa curled around it, dipping into the makeshift barrel.
Wouldn't this feel good, Mighty Megatron, he thought with another shudder, if I were doing it for real?
He licked his way down the figure's abdomen, his turbines whirling at his own taste, but he left the prodigious spike alone for the moment.
That was for last.
His mouth slid over the broad legs, one and then the other. He sucked at the figurine's feet, taking them all the way into his mouth, imagining planting kisses on a much larger set of feet. Perhaps he would do it in a rare show of loyalty, finally confessing after so long what he'd really meant by all the needling. Or perhaps Megatron would shove him down, snarling, fed up with the endless provocations, and order him to lick -
Cycling a heavy sigh, he slid his way back up to the one place he'd left alone.
"Is this what you want, Leader?" he purred, sliding his glossa over the figurine's spike.
It was too small to properly take in his mouth, even with its exaggerated proportions. But somehow Starscream preferred it like this, his glossa twining around it as he savored his own taste on Megatron's metal.
He shuttered his optics, his processor spinning with fantasies. He imagined the fluid as Megatron's own, spattered there after his Leader had brought himself to overload, staring at the provocative display he'd given earlier, helpless to resist his second's charms.
Then his fantasy shifted. He imagined the fluid as a mix of Megatron's emissions and lubricant from his own valve, glistening against Megatron's spike after the Decepticon leader had finished using him. He shuddered, imagining Megatron's rasping voice hitching as it ordered him to clean his spike with his glossa.
And then there was Starscream's favorite fantasy of all, the simplest and the best: Megatron's thick, hard spike driving into his mouth, over and over.
Perhaps Megatron would be flattered, knowing what Starscream had wanted for so long. Perhaps he would be gentle - as gentle as one could expect from him, anyway. Finally knowing Starscream's secret, he would be flattered into forbearance, petting and caressing the wings he'd so carelessly abused.
Or perhaps he'd be as cruel as he always was, grabbing the back of Starscream's helm and shoving his head down, denting the metal of his mouth, stretching it wide with his no doubt impossible size, as his other hand twisted at wingtips and ailerons and anything it could reach.
Starscream's hips tilted, pressing the rim of his valve hard into his free hand. He wouldn't penetrate himself again - not now, not when he could so easily lose himself in the fantasy that someday he might really have a chance with Megatron - but the feel of Megatron's plating against his mouth and the thought of Megatron inside him was too much, entirely too much, and he needed another overload and damn the consequences.
Consequences... There would, of course, be none. But you don't need to think of that, do you? he reminded himself.
Grinning with a fierce, impish delight, he rubbed hard at an external sensor node, imagining Megatron bursting in on him. Right now, just like this, with his hand at his valve and his cobbled-together effigy pressed to his lips.
His valve pulsed hard and he shuddered as the overload hit, his cry of ecstasy muffled by the metal.