Chapter Text
"I am not one of Prime's people." Wheeljack had declared the moment they got him back to base. They'd barely managed to wrangle the loose wrecker back under control. So, blinded by the need for vengeance, he'd nearly compromised their entire operation in a single reckless move. Fowler had every right to be furious, his face that particular shade of red that humans get when they're pissed. And yet Wheeljack, ever the one to buck against any semblance of authority that wasn't earned through shared combat, had simply turned on his pede and stormed out into the Nevada heat, Bulkhead following.
The desert stretched before him in endless waves of sand and stone. Wheeljack's cooling systems hummed steadily as he put distance between himself and the base. He needed this space, needed the silence broken only by the crunch of sand beneath his pedes.
Dreadwing had been picking off the Wreckers one by one. Methodically. Personally. Each loss was a wound that never quite sealed, energon that could never be replaced. Prime could afford to think in terms of the big picture, could weigh individual lives against the survival of an entire planet full of organic beings. But Wheeljack? Wheeljack had to focus on what truly mattered. The mechs in his circle, his brothers-in-arms who'd bled beside him through countless campaigns. How could he possibly prioritize the safety of fleshy organisms he didn’t know when the mech responsible for so much grief, so much pain, was right there within reach—
A flash of colour caught his optics. Purple. Vibrant and out of place against the muted tans and browns of the desert landscape. It darted between rock formations with surprising grace.
His katanas slid free with well-oiled practice. Muscle memory guided his servos as he moved, pedes finding purchase on the uneven terrain. One step. Two steps. His frame lowered, center of gravity shifting as he approached.
He rounded an outcropping of sun-bleached stone and came to an abrupt, stumbling halt.
A flyer. Slim, delicate. Plum, lavender paint caught the harsh desert sunlight and seemed to shimmer, almost iridescent. But it was the wings that drew his immediate attention. They were spread wide in a clear defensive posture, flared to make the bot appear larger, more threatening than their relatively small frame would suggest.
Their expression was pure startled panic. Wide optics, frozen stance, every line of their body language screaming alarm. They clutched a box against their chassis like a lifeline, and staggered backward, pedes slipping slightly in the loose sand.
His optics swept over the stranger's frame, cataloguing details: no Autobot insignia marring that pristine purple paint. No Decepticon brand either. Neutral. Rare as refined energon these days.
"Easy, sweetness." Wheeljack's voice dropped into a lower register. He raised both hands slowly, deliberately, making sure they were clearly visible. "I ain't gonna harm ya. What's a pretty thing like you doing all the way out here in the middle of this nowhere planet?"
The bot's vocalizer crackled as they placed a servo against their lips, their voice emerging rough and uncertain as they cleared their intake with a harsh static cough. "Crash landed..." They paused, seeming to struggle with the words. "In an escape pod. A few months ago." The sentence died in their intake.
Wheeljack's optics narrowed fractionally behind his battle mask. Their stance was still defensive, still ready to bolt at the slightest provocation—wings held rigid, one pede already shifting backward in preparation for flight. But there was something about them, something that didn't quite add up with the story they'd just spun.
The quality of their paint, for one thing. That purple finish was immaculate. Not a scratch, not a single ding or scrape that would be expected from a crash landing. The colour was vibrant, almost luminous in the harsh desert sunlight. If this bot had truly been stranded out here for months, surviving on their own, their paint should have been sandblasted and faded, marked by the elements and whatever scuffles they'd gotten into while scavenging for energon.
And their frame—Primus, their frame. Wheeljack felt his cooling systems kick up a notch as his optics traced the lines of their build. The way the sunlight caught the curves of their armour, the elegant taper of their waist plating, sent an unexpected pulse of heat through his systems.
This wasn't the frame of a desperate crash survivor scraping by on minimal resources. This was also, his processor noted with entirely unnecessary enthusiasm, a very attractive frame. He'd always had a weakness for flyers—something about the grace, the elegance, the way they moved—and this one was no exception.
"I see," he hummed, his tone carefully gentle, contemplative. He kept his hands visible, kept his body language as non-threatening as a Wrecker could manage. Though part of him wondered if the stranger could pick up on the interest he was trying to suppress. Behind him, he registered the sound of heavy pede-fall, Bulkhead, catching up after his own trek through the sand.
The stranger's optics flicked past Wheeljack's shoulder, and their entire frame went rigid. The shift in posture only emphasized the lines of their build, and Wheeljack felt his spark pulse.
Bulkhead rounded the corner of the rock formation, his massive green form casting a long shadow across the sand. But the flyer was already gone. They'd launched themselves backward with a burst of thrust from their engines. The movement was fluid, graceful, and Wheeljack's optics tracked them as they ran off.
..
..
.
Upon his return, Dreadwing knelt before Megatron in the command center of the Nemesis, his helm bowed low. One knee pressed against the cold metal deck plating, his servo resting across his chassis in that formal posture of allegiance he had drilled into him since his earliest days of the war.
"Rise, Dreadwing," Megatron's voice rumbled. Dreadwing straightened, rising to his full height. His optics met his lord's gaze steadily, respectfully, waiting.. .. .
"Loyalty such as yours is a rare commodity," Megatron continued, his tone almost contemplative as he studied the blue and gold mech before him. "So many have proven themselves... unreliable. Fickle. Quick to abandon their oaths when the tide turns against them. But you..." He paused, letting the words hang in the air.
“My loyalty runs true, but it is not loyalty alone that has brought me here.” Dreadwing’s admission rang like a warning in Megatron’s processor, an intrigued oh escaping his intake. “I seek confirmation of the demise of one whom I consider a brother,” Dreadwing admitted. There’s a tension, a flicker to Megatron's optics, “how did you come to learn of his passing?
The words reverberated through Dreadwing's processor, igniting something fierce and raw in his spark. His brother. His spark twin. Skyquake. The bond they'd shared had been absolute, forged before either of them had even been online, two sparks split from one, two halves of a greater whole. And now that bond was severed, torn apart.
“Through our split spark, I felt him emerge from statis on this planet,” Dreadwing raised a servo, whisked it to the air with a clench as he lowered it to his side, the metal upon his brow furrowing into a grimace. “And I felt it when his spark was no more.” Megatron inclined his helm to Soundwave, the battle that took Dreadwing's brother’s spark playing upon the thin screen of his faceplate. “It is true that Skyquake perished at the hands of the Autobots, although not in fact under my watch. Starscream's face flickered for a moment.
"Then by the pit every last Autobot on this earth will pay," Dreadwing's voice emerged low, rough with barely contained fury, his servos clenching into fists at his sides.
"And you shall have your revenge," Megatron assured him, his tone smooth, almost soothing. "In time. But understand this, Dreadwing: you are mine now. You belong to the Decepticon cause, to my command. You will have your vengeance, but you will claim it when and how I decree. Not before. Your fury, your grief, your desire for retribution—all of it serves me now. Are we clear?"
"But master," he replied, his voice steady despite the storm raging beneath his plating.
"Conflicting agendas will simply spur chaos." Megatron's expression shifted, something calculating flickering behind those crimson optics. "Before you pursue the Autobots, I have another task for you. One that requires... discretion. Skill. And most importantly, patience."
He turned slightly, gesturing with one massive servo toward the silent figure still standing in the shadows near the command console. "Soundwave. Play the file."
The communications officer now stepped forward without a word, his visor flickering to life as he approached, drawing closer. Dreadwing's optics tracked the movement, his tact net already cataloging threat levels, old habits that never quite shut down, even in the presence of allies.
What appeared on Soundwave's visor, however, was something his tact net had no framework to process.
The image was explicit, intimate, and private in a way that made Dreadwing's cooling systems spike with discomfort. Dainty purple digits clearly belonging to a Cybertronian, though the rest of the frame was carefully kept out of view, moved with deliberate, sensual precision. They thrust a false spike slowly into what was unmistakably a valve, the delicate mesh glistening with arousal, slick with lubricant that caught the light in the recording. The wet, rhythmic sounds of penetration filled the command center, obscenely loud in the otherwise silent space, each squelch and gasp seeming to echo off the walls. A thumb, graceful, almost elegant in its movement, circled over a swollen anterior node, teasing it with gentle, maddening pressure that drew a breathy whimper from whoever was recording.
Dreadwing staggered back a step, his optics shuttering briefly as he jerked his helm to the side, deliberately averting his gaze from the display. His plating flared hot with something between embarrassment and outrage—not at the content itself, but at being forced to witness something so deeply personal.
"My lord," he managed, his vocalizer tight with barely suppressed discomfort, "what is the meaning of this? This mech—or femme—clearly recorded this in private. They did not consent to—"
"A stray Cybertronian," Megatron interrupted smoothly, as if Dreadwing's concerns were irrelevant, beneath consideration. He began to pace, his massive form moving with predatory grace across the command center, servos clasped behind his back.. "Of unknown origin. Unknown allegiance. She has been broadcasting such... content... across human communication networks. Quite publicly, in fact, though her identity remains frustratingly concealed."
Dreadwing's processor stuttered, trying to reconcile the information. Broadcasting? Publicly? Then why had Megatron presented it as if it were some intelligence leak, some violation of privacy? Unless...
"You wish me to locate them," Dreadwing stated carefully. "This Cybertronian—they pose a security risk? A potential threat to our operations?"
"I want her found," Megatron confirmed, his tone sharpening."Her.. activities have drawn attention. Both human and Cybertronian. She is an anomaly, Dreadwing. A mystery. And I have never been fond of mysteries operating within my sphere of influence."
"Are you certain they are a femme?" Dreadwing questioned, his processor already cataloging the limited information available. "Mechs can possess valve arrays, though such configurations are rare in nature—"
"The gender matters little," Megatron cut him off with a dismissive wave of his servo.. "What matters is that I want them found.”
He stopped pacing, turning to face Dreadwing fully, his optics burning with intensity. "But understand this: you are not to capture them. Not yet. No, this requires a more... delicate approach. I need someone to gain their trust.”
The implication hung in the air between them. Dreadwing's spark pulsed with something he could not name, but he inclined his helm in acceptance nonetheless.
"As you command, Lord Megatron," he replied, his voice steady despite the uncertainty churning in his tanks. "I will locate this stray Cybertronian.”
… .. . (Back to the wreckers)
Bulkhead’s voice rumbled through the cramped hold like a wounded engine trying to keep its rhythm. “Jackie,” He murmured, optics dimmed against the ship’s low emergency glow, “look. Even if it weren’t for the humans, we couldn’t take on the Cons right now. We’re outnumbered.”
Outside the forward viewport, the sky was a bruised smear of stars. Inside, the air tasted of burnt energon and old smoke, the kind that clung to plating no matter how many times you scrubbed it down. The ship carried too many ghosts for its size.
Wheeljack stood at the console with his back half-turned, fingers idling over scratched controls. Their plating was scored and patched in a dozen places, each weld a memory nobody wanted to speak aloud.
“Roadbuster,” Wheeljack said, voice flattening. “Pyro. Impactor. Rotorstorm. Seaspray. All dust.”
The names dropped into the silence. Bulkhead’s servos tightened.
“That’s what I’m talking about,” Bulkhead gritted his denta, “Wreckers are Autobots. We’re just… not that many of us left.” He swallowed the static in his throat. “But if we get behind Optimus…”
Wheeljack’s laugh cut in, brittle as fractured glass.
“Guys like Optimus, they talk a good game,” Wheeljack sneered. “But when you’re in the scrap, they don’t want to get their hands dirty.”
Bulkhead’s optics flared. “Woah, woah, woah. You don’t know Optimus like I do.” A beat, softer—more honest. “Being a Wrecker meant everything to me. But I left that behind.”
Wheeljack shifted, shoulders rising.
“Because Prime was the real thing,” He muttered, dragging the words through a puddle of sarcasm. “Yeah, yeah. Blah blah blah.”
A sharp chime interrupted them—an incoming transmission. The ship’s speakers crackled, then steadied into a voice like cold metal.
“Wheeljack,” Dreadwing’s voice cut through the silence.
Bulkhead’s head snapped toward the comm panel. Their vents pulled in a slow, controlled breath.
Wheeljack didn’t answer at first.
“I know you’re out there listening,” Dreadwing continued, “I have a proposition for you.”
Bulkhead leaned closer to the console, armour plates whispering against each other. “Is that—”
“Dreadwing,” Wheeljack growled.
The communicator hissed, then cleared.
“Meet me at these coordinates,” Dreadwing said. “If you have the spark.”
A set of numbers flickered across the holo-display, sharp and bright.
Wheeljack’s mouth set into a grin that didn’t reach his optics. “I’ll see you there, Con,” He said, voice low and eager in a way that made Bulkhead’s plating go cold. “Just to watch you fry.”
Bulkhead stepped forward, close enough that their shadow fell over Wheeljack’s shoulder.
“Jackie,” Bulkhead said, the nickname worn soft, “it’s a trap.”
Wheeljack’s hands moved, already waking the ship’s systems with a familiar intimacy. Controls chimed. The engines answered with a deep, living thrum.
“I know,” Wheeljack said. “But when has that ever stopped me?”
He glanced sideways, the corner of his grin curving into something almost gentle.
“You coming with?”
For a moment, nothing moved but the trembling light over their armour. Bulkhead stared at the hard certainty in Wheeljack’s stance. Silence.
Then Bulkhead exhaled through his vents, a sound like a collapsing bridge.
“At least let me call for backup,” Bulkhead said.
Wheeljack’s fingers paused—only for a spark of a second—then continued. “You know we Wreckers don’t call for backup.”
Bulkhead’s mouth twitched despite himself.
“You’re right,” Bulkhead said.
Together, their voices joined, “They call for cleanup!” Wheeljack held out their hand. Bulkhead clasped it. Metal met metal with a hard, bright smack that echoed through the hold.
The ship lurched as the thrusters engaged, pushing it forward into the dark.
Later, the stars gave way to a canopy.
The ship knifed through Cybertron’s atmosphere with a shudder. Below, a forest unfolded, too quiet, too still. Tall, jagged trunks rose like broken spires, their bark dark as scorched alloy..
Wheeljack brought the ship down with practiced ease, engines whining as they bled off speed. The landing gear bit into soft ground with a muted crunch.
Bulkhead stared out at the treeline, the world outside painted in shadow and thin shafts of pale light. The forest was a wide, shadowed hush under the canopy.
Wind worried at the branches and leaf litter, hissing through pine needles and the tight weave of undergrowth. Scorched bark and splintered trunks still marked the clearing in thin, glassy streaks of fused sap and blackened soil. .. .
Dreadwing waited beneath a stand of firs, wings held tight, helm angled toward the broken shafts of light cutting through the trees. His spark cycled heavily.
A shape moved between the trunks with the casual surety of a mech who had never learned caution. Wheeljack dropped into the clearing, needles crunching under his pedes, damp earth giving slightly with each step. Twin blades rode his back. His field bristled, familiar and raw.
Dreadwing’s optics narrowed. “I wasn’t certain you’d come.”
Wheeljack didn’t slow. “I don’t like unfinished business.”
They stopped within striking distance. Both shifted automatically into a fighting stance, servos hovering near weapons.
Dreadwing lifted one hand, palm out. “Wait. I first wish to speak.”
“Talk?” Wheeljack’s tone sharpened. “That’s not really your style.”
“It has become necessary.” Dreadwing’s voice stayed level, but his plating felt too tight. “My priorities have shifted. I have been made aware of a neutral’s activities that place both Decepticon and Autobot operational Reputat- security at risk. The framing of reputation was… distasteful…” He grits his denta. “Regardless of how it was presented, the conclusion is simple. The planet’s primitive species must remain unaware of our presence. This Cybertronian is jeopardizing that.” Dreadwing’s optics hardened. “They have been broadcasting themselves to humans.”
Wheeljack’s optics flicked, quick and guarded. “And you think I know something about this so-called neutral.”
Dreadwing held his gaze. “Have the Autobots had contact with a lithe bot with a purple frame?”
For a breem, Wheeljack’s posture went rigid.
“Does this purple bot happen to be a flyer?” Wheeljack asked, the words forced out like they tasted wrong.
Dreadwing gave a single, controlled nod.
“Jackie?” Bulkhead started, confused and wary. “What we hadn’t told you about—”
Wheeljack didn’t look back. “I saw ’em. A couple cycles ago.” His jaw set. “Carrying something. Don’t know what. Said they were a neutral who crash-landed here in an escape pod.”
Dreadwing’s intake caught, a low hum of thought vibrating in his chassis.
“I see,” he said, quiet. “Then they linger somewhere nearby. Your location, at that time was?”
Wheeljack’s field flared, all heat. “As if I’d ever tell a filthy ’Con that.”
Dreadwing’s optics hardened.
“Then you force me to draw conclusions.”
Wheeljack’s servos snapped to his blades. “Try it.”
Bulkhead took a step forward, voice low. “Wheeljack—”
Too late.
Dreadwing moved first, a sudden blur of blue and gold, and his servo snapped out to hurl an explosive charge straight for Wheeljack’s chassis. Wheeljack answered in kind, a compact grenade spinning from his grip to detonate at Dreadwing’s pedes. The clearing flashed white-blue as blasts chewed up soil and shredded ferns, shockwaves scattering crows from the canopy and peppering both of them with dirt and pine needles. Through the smoke, Wheeljack lunged, katana in each servo, steel and fury aimed straight for Dreadwing’s sparkcase.
Bulkhead grit his denta and transformed his cannon, optics sweeping for any clean line of sight through the trees. Dreadwing’s silhouette slipped toward a narrow cut in the terrain—an alcove between two slabs of stone, half-collapsed like a dry creek bed—perfect cover.
Wheeljack’s optics snapped up, catching the way Dreadwing’s route brought them to a dead end.
“Bulkhead, don’t—get down!” Wheeljack barked, already moving, blades flaring as they lunged toward their partner.
Bulkhead was halfway up the broken ridge anyway, hauling his bulk into the crook of a boulder for elevation. From above, he finally had the angle. He sighted along his cannon arm, tracking the blue-and-gold flash as it threaded into the alcove, and fired.
The blast never reached its target.
A buried charge went off beneath Bulkhead’s perch with a savage, metallic crack, an explosive, planted and camouflaged in the rock itself. The ridge bucked under him like it had come alive. Stone sheared. Roots tore. The world pitched.
“Bulkhead—!” Wheeljack’s shout clipped off as the shelf above him collapsed.
Rubble came down in a roar. Bulkhead lost his footing and dropped hard, armor scraping as the ledge disintegrated beneath him. He hit the slope and slid, massive frame plowing through loose rock, straight toward Wheeljack.
Wheeljack had just enough time to twist, blades flaring out as instinct tried to find an exit that wasn’t there. Broken stones slammed into his back plating and drove him to his knees. Another slab clipped his shoulder, pinning his arm at a bad angle. Dust filled his vents.
Bulkhead’s weight crashed down a breem later, the impact shuddering through the ground. His frame landed awkwardly, half on Wheeljack, half on the shattered stones, and more debris avalanched over them both. Wheeljack’s optics flashed white as a flat chunk of rock skated over his helm and wedged across his chest plating, leaving him trapped under a jagged cairn of broken earth.
For a moment, there was only the hiss of settling dust and the distant crackle of small fires eating sap.
Dreadwing’s footsteps receded. He paused just long enough to look back through the haze, two Autobot signatures buried, unmoving beneath the collapse. Satisfied, he turned away, wings tight, disappearing into the trees as if the forest itself swallowed him. … .. . (After being rescued) Collected by Optimus, scolded, forced to work together, then with Dreadwing, then against, a jumble of everything until ultimately Wheeljacks left admitting. “I just want to say…” His voice came out rough, then steadied. “It was an honour watching you work. I think I had the wrong idea about you.”
Optimus’s optics softened. He stopped within a respectful distance. “And it appears you place a greater value on community than you otherwise let on.” He extended a servo, open-palmed. An offer. Not a command.
Wheeljack’s field flared instinctively. He jolted back half a step, both hands lifting. “Whoa, let’s not jump the gun here.”
Bulkhead let out a huff that might have been a laugh and came in with a heavy, good-natured slap between Wheeljack’s shoulder plates. The impact rang through Wheeljack’s frame.
“Come on, Jackie,” Bulkhead rumbled. “If you leave, you’re probably going to wind up coming back again.”
Arcee’s optics flicked to Wheeljack, sharp and assessing. “All that wasted fuel, and energon is in short supply.”
Bumblebee answered with a low, unhappy series of beeps, optics dimming as his door-wings drooped.
Ratchet snorted, audibly unimpressed even as his gaze lingered on the fresh scuffs in Wheeljack’s plating. “Then again, we do have limited space.”
Wheeljack’s grin returned, crooked, defensive, familiar. He shifted his weight, letting his gaze roam out over the empty desert like it offered something the base never could. “Not sure I’m ready to give up my freedom just yet. Maybe I could do some exploring. See if this rock suits me.”
… .. . It didn't take long for him to figure out how to access the internet on his ship, a little longer to figure out navigation, a couple failed searches, until one flimsy payment with the codes on the emergency card, aka credit card fowler had given him, he was presented with a crisp cut livestream.
… .. .
Starscream made it back in one piece, though not entirely unobserved. The mech was new. A Wrecker, obvious from the posturing alone, and not one of Prime’s usual soldiers. They had probably landed recently, sometime after Starscream had gone off the grid. At least they had not met in person, which kept the risk of recognition low.
He would have preferred the Autobots never caught a whiff of his presence as PrettyPoison, but beggars could not be choosers. Freedom, even with a bounty on his helm, still beat an active stasis cell. Besides, Starscream was already wanted. Now his disguise might be hunted too. In truth, it was easier to have fools chasing two trails without realizing they led to the same spark than it was to be cornered by a single, clean line of pursuit.
He bumped a hip into the freezer he had ordered online and popped the lid, retrieving a tray of moulds: round, but elongated. Eggs. Small. A far cry from what a Seeker would ever lay, and repulsively organic. Still, he had found the largest moulds available. The human instructions recommended using only one per session, which was laughable. The idea that a human valve could handle only one, while his frame could take a dozen. Perhaps more, if he felt adventurous, or if he wanted to jack up the price for the sake of supplies. These were things to consider for a later time. Recently, he had run an event: the highest donor on his last stream earned the right to choose the next toy. Hence, the device in his servo now. Humans called it an “egg plunger.” An ovipositor. It was not so different from what certain femmes, or mechs with an Insecticon kink, might use. Those creatures did possess organic similarities. He shuddered, curling his lipplates as he squeezed the device and felt the silicone compress under servo pressure. He had prepared the eggs from gelatin, per human forum advice, to lower the risk of them getting stuck. Body heat would dissolve them over time.
Cybertronians ran hotter than humans. That was why he used the freezer, a practice humans warned against because of nerve damage. No such weakness applied to his chassis.
His paint was always waterproof, and he had ensured it was properly sealed for this recording cycle. He laid down towels and kept a water-based lubricant on hand, ensuring the chemical mix would not melt the gelatin or irritate the sensitive mesh. He had been warned it could get messy, so he set spare towels within reach before opening the tray and placing it beside the ovipositor. Then he adjusted the ring light, took his place on the berth, and tapped his phone to start the stream, keeping the lens trained on his lower half at all times. The chat lit up. Soundwave, front and center as always, first to join and last to leave.
Starscream had been wary at first, expecting surveillance. But as his gaze slid over the ovipositor and his digits traced from his modesty panel to the edge of his cockpit, understanding clicked into place. Soundwave was not simply collecting data to unmask PrettyPoison. Soundwave was indulging.
No one pays to watch another mech shove eggs up their valve just to learn an identity or location. Unless—Starscream’s expression twisted, ugly and sharp, grateful the camera stayed on his array—Soundwave already knew, and this was a humiliation rite. A test to see how far Starscream would debase himself.
He worried at a hinge absently as messages scrolled through his vision, too busy stewing to appreciate the flood of compliments. Whatever Soundwave’s angle, Starscream’s face was not attached to it, his coloration was difficult to trace, and nothing here could be leveraged easily.
As long as no Decepticons kicked down his door.
He could tolerate his little voyeur lingering.
Starscream snickered, a small sound he smothered with the back of his servo as he adjusted the camera. If only Megatron knew what his precious Soundwave had requested of the former second-in-command, Megatron would rupture an energon line. The thought sent a flutter through Starscream’s chest plating, and he squeezed his thighs together as his valve slickened in anticipation. The idea of the silent, loyal third in command being a filthy pervert sparked an unwelcome rush of arousal at being watched.
Right. The show.
Starscream blinked at the camera. His frame looked smaller there than it did in the mirror, but he kept his focus and exaggerated his movements for maximum appeal. His thighs spread, brushing the moulds beside him.
“I hope you’re all ready for the show.”
He looked lovely on camera. The proof highlighted by the primitives throwing currency at him for the privilege. How thrilling, to be adored. There was no servo gentler than his own. Mechs were invasive creatures, all heavy hands and grit, desperate to clutch and touch until he became something he did not recognize.
Yet, this moment was his, not theirs. They could watch, but he remained in control. A lonely mech with only his own servo, a private ritual of sated bliss. So why did his lipplates curl, his spark thudding low as comments poured in? Starscream, never one to confess vanity, could not say. He let his long fingers drift over the eggs, teasing, before resting them on the ovipositor. Purple. Dull-shined. Ready to gleam with lubricant.
Maybe he smiled because worship felt right. The word was sugared energon on his tongue, tangy and sweet. A countdown began on the screen as he shuffled back, wings tapping the wall. His thighs bent, and his panel popped open, exposing his valve to the full view of the camera. The long lines of his legs framed the plump shine of wet mesh, his node glazed and red, twitching with arousal.
“I can almost feel your impatience,” Starscream hummed, crooking a digit and pressing in slowly. “Your desperation.” His valve pulsed hot around a single finger. “And yet you will wait, because you know PrettyPoison makes it worth it.”
His legs spread wider, a faint ache in his hip joint as they settled against the towels. The seconds ticked down while he resisted looking at himself. “It’s not like you have anything better to do with your time.”
His digit slipped in with ease, sending bright, twitching sparks through his systems. There was a brief burn, quickly soothed by added lubricant as he drew out and pushed back in. He opened himself wider, another finger joining, rubbing and pressing. Scissoring motions worked his aching valve open while his thighs trembled and his core clenched around the vibrations. His pace built, faster, almost devotional. “Mm. I’m certain you like the show.”
His voice softened into lush whimpers, a wounded edge in it. How many Seekers were there in the universe, with pretty optics and pretty lies? Plenty.
But there was only one Starscream.
“Impatient, aren’t we?” His tone sharpened as his free hand patted desperately at his side for the ovipositor.
“You’re hungry for it.” His hips rocked, impaling himself deeper on his fingers, slick coating them to the wrist. “Little pests.”
His hand finally closed around the toy, bringing it to his entrance. “Well. You’ve waited long enough.” He withdrew his fingers and nudged his swollen opening.
The stretch was intense as he eased the tip inside, sinking it into his heat-soaked depths. He pushed until an inch was seated, fingers curling around the base, nails digging in as he twisted.
His optics fluttered as he leaned back, mouth tipping toward the ceiling while the camera captured every tremor in his limbs. “Who’s ready for the first egg?” He wet his lips, tongue dragging over a faint tremble.
“Oh~” He pushed the first one through the tube, wringing it gently to deposit it inside.
“An… interesting sensation.” He twisted, withdrew, then sank back in, using the tool as both false spike and depositor as the first egg breached past his calipers. “Mnnghhh” He murmured like he was praying, kneeling at his own altar, singing his beauty and accomplishments—things he would never breathe to another spark.
“Yes. Yes. Yes.”
His spike panel released with the pressure, egg after egg filled him until they pressed up against his belly mesh and made him dribble. The tip of his spike was red and angry, a sweet little berry he wanted to kiss as he rocked into the toy, chasing a hard-earned release.
“C-cnghn—look at you, looking at… t-this.” He panted, voice shaking. “A filthy bot being filled with eggs for your entertainment.” His core tightened at the thought. His own precious little vid, replayed again and again. His undoing.
His hips snapped up as he struck the right bundle, drool spilling down his chin as he arched and groaned into the comfort of his berth. The last egg wrung through the ovipositor like paste into his valve, a heavy, obscene fullness pressing against his stomach plating.
His seed pooled on his abdomen as he collapsed, comments flickering in his optics in startled bursts about his spike. For a breem it felt weightless, cozy, as the livestream timer ticked down.
His toes uncurling, he pulled the toy free with a wet pop and shoved forward, feeling the pressure in his belly. His valve dragged across the sheets, sending white-hot sparks up his spine as he ended the feed.
Breath shuddering, he murmured, “It’ll be a hundred to watch the exclusive video of me laying them.”
…
.
The feed went black, leaving Wheeljack alone in his ship, fist around his spike, smeared with transfluid.
Maybe sticking around on this planet really had been the right call.
(DO NOT DO WHAT STARSCREAM DOES. I need to make sure no one reads this and decides to act out fucking robot fiction, thinking it applies to humans 100%. God, I did so much research to learn what the fuck an egg plunger is/how it works, my browser history is so fucked.)