hi guys pt. 2

Ch. 1: The Date™

The screen door slams behind you as you roughly push your way through, unceremoniously tossing off the dress shoes that bit into your skin, your cardigan being thrown in some wayward direction. Another date gone awry, not that it surprised you. Men in this backwards town were tolerable at best, much less datable. But, you gave the benefit of the doubt to one, and well, it bit you in the ass. No surprise. 

You stood at the kitchen sink, a glass of water in hand as you bore holes into the dusty kitchen window. Despite hating this town, you couldn’t bring yourself to move. This farmhouse belonged to your dad who deeded it to you before he passed; it was paid for, no rent or mortgage, which in this economy, is a blessing in and of itself. But he left behind this big barn/workshop thing full of old tools and projects he never quite finished. And now it’s full of your own projects: an eclectic array of paintings, sculptures, tinker projects. Anything your ADHD, art mind wanted to master but ultimately burned out on. Out of sight, out of mind which is why all those failures sat in there.

As you sipped your water, you finally focused your eyes on the workshop doors. A faint, yellow light spilled between the gap. It was a sign because you never left those old, weathered lights on, but you know someone who did.

Stascream.

That bastard, always showing up at the weirdest and most inconvenient hours. It all started when you discovered this robotic alien idiot one freezing night. You couldn’t sleep and had so many ideas swirling in your brain that you found yourself wandering to the workshop with a big, red handheld camping flashlight spilling light across the dirt path. With what probably took too much effort, your weak arms manhandled the wooden doors apart, dust falling as you fumbled for the dingey light switch. But the bright LED of the light landed upon the giant Cybertronian who quite literally stared back at you with a “deer in the headlights” look.

And you didn’t even notice right away, bless your heart. Still fumbling for the switch while his wide, glowing optics watched your every move. Once the switch was found and flicked on, the whiny old lights bathed the area with that antique yellow glow and that’s when you noticed. 

*~*

What the actual fuck am I looking at right now, you thought to yourself as your body went rigid. You’re staring at…well, something, but you don’t know what. A massive robot who’s leaking drops of blue all over the floor, causing tendrils of smoke to rise up faintly as it singes little rings into the oak floorboards. 

It just stares at you, like you caught it licking its wounds and it's embarrassed (which you totally did). The frame is banged up with gouges and scratches, dents and pings. A giant jaw hangs open as those scarlet eyes stare you down. The whole ordeal only lasts a few seconds before it’s recomposing itself, an arm coming up to point a narrow barrel at you as it stares down shrewdly. 

“Don’t move,” comes its raspy voice, eyebrows knitted into a scowl.

And you didn’t think you could move, to be honest. The flashlight drops and clatters to the floor, its light bouncing around before stilling. You put your hands up in a placating manner, lips pressed into a thin line.

“Shut the door,” it demands slowly.

You obey because why wouldn’t you? Hauling the heavy doors closed, you turn to face it slightly out of breath, keeping your hands where it can see.

“What are you doing here?” It all but snarls.

There’s a few moments of unease as you steel yourself to answer. “This is my workshop. I was simply coming in here because I couldn’t sleep.” That’s all you could get out as you swallowed hard, throat dry and constricted as you stared down its barrel.

“I thought this structure was abandoned.”

“To be fair, I was out of town for a few days.”

“I should shoot you where you stand.” It bites back.

“Woah, there,” you say a bit nervously. “That’s probably not necessary.”

“You’re a liability. You’ll blab to your pathetic human authorities and then I’ll be in a whole other pit of slag. I don’t need any more setbacks.”

“I won’t snitch on you if you promise not to shoot.” You bargain, hoping it would work.

It ponders for a moment, eyes narrowing suspiciously as the arm wavers.

“I cannot trust you,” it returns.

“I can’t really trust you either,” you breathe out.

At your response, it gives an annoyed mumble before lowering its arm fully, leaning back slightly as the wall groans under the weight.

“So be it.”

And that’s how you spent that evening: nervously working on a painting while it glowered to your right, slightly behind you. You could tell it was tinkering with its wounds; you could hear faint soldering and hissing bites of pain. But you could also hear the tiredness, a pain beyond physical. With it distracted, you chanced a glance over your shoulder, noting the feebleness in its movements, the dim light of its eyes once the shock wore off.

“Human.” It suddenly barked out, startling you as you whipped back to your painting. “Can your measly kind fix mechanical parts?”

“Well, personally, I am not a mechanic.” You comment, side-eyeing it.

“You’re about to be.” It growled.

*~*

Despite that being over six months ago, the whole meeting was still fresh in your mind. It played in your head like a movie as you debated whether or not to go out there. These six months have taught you so much about him and his kind. How he was once a scientist. How he was once top of his class, an explorer, a commander, he was someone. Well, he’s still someone to you, but not to the cause he serves. And that thought made your heart ache. It left a trembling hole in your chest that gnawed and tightened your throat because of the look in his optics when Starscream talked about his home planet, the ‘bots he once knew, the art, the scenery, the everything. You wanted to scream and kick at the cabinets around you because dammit, it isn’t fair to you or him. Not fair for him, and really his whole kind, for what this war has done, but it isn’t fair to you because…you love him. And that sounds crazy, but you’ve been spending these past six months conversing, fixing, and spending time with an alien who seems more human than half the humans on this planet. He’s mangled and torn from war. He’s been abused and he’s been cast aside so many times. You’ve seen the solder scars and heard the hurt in his voice. But he’s still here. Despite everything, Starscream is still here.

You make up your mind to go out and see him, knowing he probably needs your company. While you often got annoyed with Star, and his constant snide comments and untimely drop-ins, you just couldn’t hate him. So many times have you fallen asleep in that workshop with only a lantern and those beautiful red optics bathing you in light. A single digit smoothing over your back slowly before pulling away. Too many times have you sat in the little crook between his neck and shoulder pauldrons, watching him display his visual memory of Cybertron in its golden age. Too many times have you held that gray faceplate while that mouth twisted into a grimace, fat tears of lubricant dripping down and onto your hands and arms. You couldn’t hate Starscream, even when his faction is dead set on hating you and your kind.

Pulling on some worn-out sneakers and a jacket full of frays and holes, you walk out to the workshop. The dirt and rocks crunch and roll with each step and that faithful LED flashlight blares into the dark night. 

His helm shoots up when he hears those old doors open, your form struggling to close them. Always a funny sight to him. You finally turn and face him, out of breath, hair wispy and all over the place like you’ve been running your hands through it all night. He takes note of your abhorrent outfit, but also of the…what is on your face? When did your derma become red and shiny? When did you get colorful markings all over your faceplate? Some of it is smeared and smudged but the look is still there. There's a weird scent there too. You don’t smell like you. You're tired and irritated, he can tell. But beneath that there's other smells; perhaps the location you were at? And yet, there's another scent, sweeter and richer, but it's too faint. 

Something he’ll ask about later, Starscream reminds himself, seeing that there are more important things to address.

“What are you wearing, human?” Starscream drawls out, looking down at you as you click the flashlight off and place it on the workbench.

You look down at yourself. Okay, maybe it wasn’t the most put together outfit: a black, holey jacket over a simple velvet dress, and some sneakers that are held together with tape and glue (who said I can’t wear my converse with my dress). But you didn’t really care.

“Screamer, I just had the worst night ever. I just threw this on because I saw you were here.”

He gave haughty ventilation. “I expect details.”

This drama queen.

*~*

“He was such an asshole, man,” you said, finishing up your story about your failed date.

“I mean, I know not to always trust a dating profile, but come on. I found out he was talking to like three other girls because a girl at another table recognized him. He messaged her about a date, and guess what! They were going on it tomorrow night! Luckily, her and her girlfriends ripped him a new one, found out who else he was playing with, and picked up only my meal on the check. Then they let me hang out with them before I eventually left. So, yeah, I possibly made some new friends, but the date was still a total blow.”

“Humans.” He muttered, rolling his optics.

“Excuse me?” You scoffed, sitting up straighter on the rickety workbench stool. “Don’t act like you’re all high and mighty, like you don’t enjoy human drama. I’ve seen my Hulu watch history, and it’s not me watching all those reality TV shows.”

You watched smugly as he balked and his voice box stuttered out static, those wings of his betraying him even more. A furious blue blush rose to his face as he turned away, determined to not face you. 

“That is completely besides the point. I am often bored and your human nonsense is slightly amusing at best.”

Starscream cleared his vox before continuing. “Besides, I am not entirely surprised. From what I may have seen on your primitive television and internet, this experience isn’t out of the ordinary.”

“But it shouldn’t be the norm!” You shot back. “I just want to be in a relationship with someone. I don’t care if it’s a guy or a girl at this point, dude. I want to love and be loved. I want to sleep in and wake up and cook brunch. I want to have lazy days and road trip adventures. I want to argue over stupid shit and kiss and make up later.”

During your whole spiel, he just watches you, intake closed and optics cycling brightly at your words. You take a deep breath, resting your cheek against your palm, staring at the floorboards. Truth is, you couldn’t connect with anyone; not because none of the men you dated were worth it, but because you couldn’t connect with the genuine dates you went on. Because you’re already in love with someone else. Well, some thing else. 

“Humans and your sentimental ideologies. And your monogamy.” Starscream said after a moment. 

“Oh, fuck off,” you bite out thought no real malice was in your voice. “I guess you robots never have these types of issues. Wouldn’t make sense for ya’ll to have anything past a friendship, I suppose.”

A few beats of silence ticked by before you glanced up at him. He held a solemn expression, optics looking far away as if he was remembering something. Finally, Starscream spoke.

“On the contrary, Cybertronians had extensive relationships. Most echo the woes of your own; I knew plenty of mechs and femmes not worth scrap. Cybertronians, before the war, often had several partners. Usually two. Monogamy was uncommon since the rites of Conjunx Endura extended to really only one partner; it was extremely rare to find a ‘bot with multiple conjunxes at one time.”

He smiled a bit to himself as he continued.

“Of course, we Seekers were special. Always are. We formed trines, either for military or social purposes.”

“Did you have a trine?”

“I did.” Starscream answered quietly, not meeting your eyes. “I lost them some time ago. I’m not sure if they’re alive or in stasis, but there’s an emptiness in the spark bond we share. I can only assume the worst.”

Heavy silence filled the workshop. Now, you just felt like an ass because you assumed that these aliens didn’t have meaningful relationships. You stood up and walked over to where he sat, and you placed a hand on the plating of his leg.

“I’m sorry,” you apologize. “Not just for the loss of your trine but for assuming Cybertronians didn’t have important social aspects.”

He waved you off, a tinge of blue rising to his face once more, wings jumping upwards. “No need to be sorry. I didn’t think humans were intelligent enough to have relationships anyways. Although, I am beginning to believe I am right.”

You gave an exasperated laugh. “Well, some people certainly can’t be in a relationship, that’s for sure.”

“I could far out-perform any human wishing to court you,” Starscream said with a smirk and a flutter of his wings.

“Excuse me?”

Why did he say that? That’s the only question that pinged around in his processor once the words left his intake. Starscream could feel his own vox reboot, a small stall in his engine, and the tightening of his wings. All things he really hoped you didn’t notice. Optics flick toward you quickly, taking in your confused expression, intake slightly agape and optical ridges knitted upward, faceplate flushed a pretty red. 

“I mean, I am a far superior being,” Starscream said smoothly, preening himself to divert any embarrassment. “I know how to court.”

“Okay, but I’m a human,” came your wavering response. “Do you even know how to court a human?”

“It cannot be that hard,” he mused, fans cycling down as the humiliation ebbs away.

“Alright, bet,” you said, crossing your arms. You had a fire in your eyes, despite your still flushed appearance. You’re challenging him, he realizes. And he loves it.

“So be it, silly human. I’ll take that challenge. I do have a feature that even you know not of. Over these past cycles, there’s still so little you know about me.” Ruby-red optics glittered at you, derma upturned into a smirk to reveal pointed denta. 

“Uh huh,” you said, leaning forward. He has no idea what he’s in for. Watch this. “Okay, so most dates involve going somewhere. Let’s start there. Where are you taking me?”

Andddddddd he stalls, wings sagging a bit. Starscream didn’t get that far. Frag, maybe this is slightly different than courting a Seeker or another mech. He remedies the situation quickly though.

“Since your last…dinner date, is that what it is called? Since it was such a fiasco, I shall treat you to another dinner date.”

“And what if I suggested, say, bowling? Or skating? Perhaps a trip to a museum, a mall, an arcade?”

Again, he stalls. Literally, his engine makes a funny noise. What is this nonsense you’re prattling on about? His processor quickly scours the internet for whatever you were blabbing about, the information popping up in his HUD. But you’re quick, and he was far too slow with a quip.

“Star, I’m…teasing you. Sort of.” You cut in, smiling slightly. “I know you don’t know a whole lot about human culture, but there are many, many different date ideas. I just wanted to throw you in head first, so to speak. A dinner date is fine.” 

He grumbles and lets out an annoyed vent. “Don’t play with me, human.”

Regardless, you laugh at his irritation, and continue. “So, how do you expect to eat or pay for a meal? How would we get to the restaurant? Showing up in a jet and then the jet turning into a robot would probably be too on the nose.”

“Fool, I know that!” He growls. “I have somewhat of a solution.”

*~*

When he first showed his holoform, you giggled. It made his wings stand indignantly because how dare you laugh at him! This is the first time he’s used it!

“No, no, it fits you,” you say, wiping the tears off your cheeks. “I just could never imagine you needing this. Or being able to do it. Like your frame is over there and it’s weird because it still moves when you react! But your optics are dark, and you look dead! And yet, now you’re in front of me as a human; albeit, a little shimmery and blue.”

He grumbles, crossing his arms. “It takes a great deal of energy and concentration to create a holoform. Some details need more refining. Much more than mass displacement, in my opinion. ”

“Mass displacement?”

“If you’re good, then I’ll show you later,” his holoform smiled, the same fanged denta showing.

You both looked at each as a weird tension settled in the air, like there was excess static electricity. Clearing your throat, you press-on.

“Uh, well, can you eat in this form?”

“I…think so,” Starscream said slowly.

With a sigh, you leaned against the workbench, mulling over this asinine idea.

“Okay, so I think eating at a real restaurant is a no-go. I mean, you’ve never eaten human food. You’ve never used utensils. You’ve never dressed up for a nice occasion. Don’t get me wrong, the red and black leather bomber jacket and blue jeans with those boots is a great look, but not exactly dinner date vibes.”

“Would you rather a military uniform? I am Second in Command and Air Commander of the Decepticons.” He draws out.

“No, no, just,” you pinch the bridge of your nose, “why don’t we have a mock date. I’ll dress up kinda casual, throw some makeup and perfume on. You stay like this or whatever. I’ll walk you through it. The only thing you gotta do is provide the conversation and the courting. Which, I can help guide you with too.”

*~*

Starscream is nervous and for what! He sat in your humble human kitchen at the table, staring at the array of utensils in front of him. Why were there so many…forks? Yes, that’s what you called them. Everything was still so unfamiliar. This mock date idea was discussed three weeks ago, and over the course of those weeks, you helped him produce his holoform more effectively and learn some human basics. You said it was like teaching a toddler (he doesn’t know what that means), but he frowned regardless. What’s more, he can still feel the quiver of his frame, the thrum of his spinning spark back at the workshop because even though he shouldn’t be excited, shouldn’t be anticipating this, he is.

Because for such a disgusting, lowly, primitive, unevolved species…you’ve found a way into his spark. And he used to run from that feeling, used to ignore it and curse himself for feeling even an ounce of affection for you. Starscream tried to convince himself that this infatuation was fleeting, and it was only because you showed genuine kindness to him. But he’s been coming back to you more often, and now as a rogue…he can’t seem to stay away. He’s talked with you about things he hasn’t opened up to anyone about in eons. You’ve held him at his most vulnerable, forgave him even when he spat harsh words and threats. Because you saw through him anyway. A lonely mech who's been beaten and cursed and manipulated for the better half of his life. You’ve helped him remember his old life, his glory days before Megatron. For such a smart, young mech, Primus, he sure was foolish. Is foolish, he corrects himself. He’s let power and greed and corruption cloud his optics, fog his processor, and what has it gained him? More scars and dents than he can count, and the total lack of respect from every ‘bot he meets. But Starscream has found something new to be greedy about, and it’s you. 

Each new human trouble you bring to him has his energon boiling in his lines; it’s a miracle you never heard the low whirl of his cooling fans whenever you recount the despicable things you’ve endured. Maybe that’s how you felt every time your small digits ghosted his scars and wounds. Could you ever…no. That is a silly notion. You could not love him, Starscream tells himself. 

After sitting for literally forever, he finally hears your footsteps enter the kitchen. You decided not to wear a dress, but a cropped black shirt that hugged your chest nicely, with baggy jeans and a black double grommet belt. Your makeup was simple with a nice reddish-burgundy lip gloss, and your hair was pinned back with a clip in a half-up, half-down fashion. Simple, casual, nothing super fancy. Except for the nice perfume, which is always a must. Starscream isn’t quite sure why you paint your faceplate, but he isn’t complaining. While he’s always found you easy on the optics, the markings add a sense of depth that he can’t explain; all he knows is that he wants to be the one who smudges it, but in a good way. 

His slanted red eyes watch as you stand next to the table, hand on your hip. He’s smiling before he realizes it, eyes raking across your form. You clear your throat.

“You gonna pull the chair out for me?”

“Why would I do that? Your arms work, do they not?”

You huff. “Starscream, do you want to be a gentleman?”

“What is that?”

“You want to court me correctly? Better than those lousy dates?” You reword.

“Of course, and I will be.”

“Then pull the chair out like this.”

And you show him before pushing the chair to its previous position.

“Honestly, you told me you did some research!”

Starscream stands in a hurry, his tall, lanky self clumsily pulling the chair out for you. He;s already fragging this up, he realizes.

“Primus, I did, but I am nervous,” he says in a defensive rush. “I’ve never had to play the human part. Next time, I’ll make you perform Seeker courting rituals, and your measly internet can’t even research that!”

You snicker into your palm because he riles up so easily. He gently slides the chair back in and sits in his own seat, face beet red (and his Cybertronian face bright blue). Starscream faces you, chewing the inside of his lip out of nerves, a human habit he’s recently picked up from being in this form.

“Okay, so at a typical restaurant, you have menus.” You point to the piece of paper that laid under the plate. “Every restaurant is different in terms of quality, food, and price. This is the menu from the place that guy took me. It’s a fancy place, y’know, steaks, seafood, pasta, the works.”

He nods along, already aware of most of what you were saying because he’s totally not doing a mental internet search as you explain. 

“Do you have all these dishes?” Starscream asks, raising an eyebrow. “Human currency holds little to no value to me, but aren’t these prices quite…steep?”

“Obviously, I do not have lobster and crab claws just chilling in my fridge. I don’t even have the money for that. I did get us some nice steaks though, and fixings for a side salad! Oh, and baked potatoes.”

Starscream did like those foods. You’ve been introducing human food to him too. Honestly, not bad, but doesn’t beat a tasty energon goodie like an energon cookie with mineral chips. Although, it did take him a while to come to terms with the whole…consuming other organics for survival. Primitive species, you humans. Incredibly inefficient. 

“Since this is well…not a real restaurant,” he begins, “who prepares the food?”

*~*

Starscream likes to think that it went extremely well. On his part. Okay, maybe on your part too because the food you cooked was quite delicious, not that he expected it to be horrible. He has had your cooking and some fast food over these past weeks. 

But he thinks he performed beautifully! Starscream complimented you with modesty, asked about your hobbies and daily life, future plans, bucket list stuff! And you barely had to guide him through! See, he did do his research. And definitely did not watch a bunch of reality TV to understand what NOT to ask or do. 

It went too well, in your opinion. When he’s asked to play a part, Starscream doesn’t fuck around; he would’ve been a great theater kid. Anyways, you couldn’t tell if it was an act or if it was genuine. In fact, this was probably the best date you’ve been on, and no, it definitely isn’t because you have the hots for him. But as you wash the dishes and he stands beside you drying them, all you can do is replay that lovely raspy voice in your head. His compliments came so easily, and felt so eloquent. How he called you “my darling”, “love”, and “dear”. Starscream kept the conversation focused more on you than him which was nice, but it was probably because he had no human experiences to relate with you. And bringing up Cybertron often made him depressed. 

He’s standing so close to you, arms bumping together every so often. Despite not having a physical human body, there’s a faint heat radiating from him, like he’s really here as a person. You peer up at him through your lashes. His pointed nose and slender face, dark brown hair that was long and slicked back slightly, little strands falling in front of his eyes, irises red like his optics. He chose a slender, lanky body-type, almost like an athletic swimmer. Makes sense; he is a flier after all. If you looked closely, you could spy a few freckles dusting his nose and cheeks on his tan skin. Fuck, he was beautiful as a human and a robot. Did he program the holoform with a –. No. Stop. Don’t finish that thought. You highly doubt Starscream knows what that is. 

“You’ve been washing that ceramic circle for several klicks,” his voice rings out.

You jump a little, hoping he didn’t catch you staring. But he’s leaning down towards you a bit, arm coming around to you to rest a hand on the counter to your right. His chest pushes into your back slightly, bumping you against the sink.

“Oh, I just, y’know, I’m –”

“You seem a bit distracted,” he purrs, lowering his head in front of your face more. “I didn’t quite catch that.”

You're silent for a few tense beats before saying the first thing that pops into your mind.

“How about we go for a drive!” You exclaim in a hurried manner, straightening up and nearly dropping the plate.

Starscream stumbles back slightly at your sudden movement, confusion lacing both his voice and features.

“What?”

“A drive!” You explain, taking deep breaths to still your hammering heart.

“What for?” He questions, not quite understanding. (he wants to take you to his penthouse and freak it, not drive)

“Oh, y’know, it’s such a clear night and there isn’t a lot of light pollution out this way. The stars will look beautiful!”

“Is this a continuation of our date, then?”

“It can be.” 

He narrows his eyes as he smirks. “I’d love to.”

Ch. 2: Kicking my feet and giggling bc this is the smut chapter

Starscream is about to lose his fucking shit in this fucking car. First of all, imagine one’s vehicle mode being a car, kicking up dust and rock. How crude. Secondly, you’re extremely close to him, not as close as earlier in the kitchen, but this space is confined which he isn’t fond of. And, double whammy, your perfume is driving him insane. He doesn’t know what it is, other than the literal definition of it, but something about the scent and your scent…it’s got his processor in a tizzy. Which wouldn’t be too bad, if he was in his Cybertronian frame. However, that’s like a mile away from your house. His holoform wavers ever so slightly because right now it’s extremely hard to focus and even in this flimsy, fake human form, Starscream can still feel his spike pressurizing and his valve leaking. 

“I’ll pull over here,” you say, breaking the silence. “Your holoform is starting to glitch out so I don’t wanna go too far from your main body.”

Oh, you have no idea, he thinks to himself. Holoforms typically have a decent range but couple both inexperience and horniness together, you get a very ineffective human avatar. 

The tires crunch and squeak the rocks below as you pull over onto the shoulder. He’s scrambling to get out of the car, jerking on the door handle and swinging the door open haphazardly. 

After witnessing whatever tantrum he was having, you grabbed a large blanket out of the backseat and laid it out on the ground next to your car. You tossed two outdoor throw pillows on the blanket, satisfied with your poor and completely unromantic set-up.

Starscream rounds the car and looks at your attempt.

“You expect me to lay on this filthy ground?” He nearly yells, recoiling.

“No, that’s why there’s a blanket.”

“This is undignified. Lowly. I don’t like it.”

“Look, I don’t own a truck so we can’t lay in a truck bed,” you said, exasperated. “This is all I got. You said you wanted to do this!”

He groans, slumping his shoulders as he trudges to the blanket and lays rigidly on his back, arms crossed and a frown on his face. You roll your eyes and join him, crossing your arms under the pillow beneath your head.

It’s quiet. Right now, it’s the weird time of year where it’s not balmy enough for the cicadas to sing, not cold enough for the wind to bite. Spring is setting in. All that was heard was the slight rustle of some dry bush in the distance, the faint yip of a coyote, and the soft scratching of you digging your heel into the hard earth. 

You’re not sure how long you lie there together but you hear a sigh before he starts talking.

“I used to explore these stars,” he whispers out. “I had a…a friend whom I was close with. We did a lot together.”

You close your eyes, pinching your eyebrows together because your heart will never not break for him. And you’re pretty sure this friend wasn’t just a friend.

“I’m sorry,” comes your soft reply.

“No,” he begins, “you wanted this to be something nice. I don’t want to…for once, I don’t want to wallow in what could have been. You’ve been far more helpful than you realize these past few months, human. I don’t want to ruin this because of my inability to not bring up my past.”

His lack of selfishness and ego is uncharacteristic, and it has you turning your head to look at him. He’s still looking up at the sky, but his hands now lay by his side. Feeling bold, you move your right hand and lace your pinky with his, watching his every move.

Starscream’s eyes widen as a shiver ripples through his holoform, as his frame a mile away trembles as well. Such a small act threatens the holoform entirely as his engine kicks and turns, and it’s taking every ounce of resolve to maintain steady. 

“Star,” you began. “Do you really want this to just be a mock date?”

How is he supposed to respond? Are you…suggesting what he thinks you’re suggesting? Does he come right out and say how much you cross his processor? How badly his spark spins every time your fleshy digits touch his plating? How badly he wants to pin you against the floor, spike buried deep to the hilt in you? Because that might be a little too forward. Even for him.

You two sit there, staring at each other. Starscream’s eyes dart across your face while your heart races in your chest. You’re breaking out in a sweat because why isn’t he answering?? Did you want rejection? No, of course not, but it would be preferable over this strained, silent stare down. 

Starscream inhales sharply (does he breathe in this form?) before he replies, choosing his next words very carefully.

“I don’t know how you feel, but I wouldn’t mind if this…escalated.”

With this, you sit up, looking at him with a mix of excitement and uncertainty. He’s sitting up on his elbows now too, worry plastered all over his face because frag, was that not the right thing to say?

“Are you serious?” You ask. “You’re not fucking with me, right?”

“I would never lie to you.” 

Yes, he would, and you know that he knows that. But something tells you he isn’t joking because he looks just as serious as you; his eyes are bright, and Starscream’s leaning towards you ever so slightly until you two are face to face, a few inches between your noses. 

His eyes are flicking to your lips as he chews his own. He looks so unsure, like he’s anticipating this to go wrong. Hardly anything works out in Starscream’s favor, and for the first time in a long time, he’s praying (pleading) to Primus that this goes right. You tilt forward, barely closing the gap, noses brushing against each other a bit. Starscream feels his spark spin faster as his cooling fans turn up a notch, causing his holoform to shimmer. With a hard swallow, he glances down and places a shaky hand over yours, hoping to ground himself. 

Deciding to just go for it, you push further, lips brushing against his. Starscream’s holoform ripples with a harsh glitch, jolting his makeshift body. His eyes are wide as you watch him through your lashes as you continue to maintain the chaste kiss. It feels weird…not the “wow, I really wish I wasn’t kissing him right now” weird, but like physically. The holoform has an odd buzz to it, like when you go to sip soda and the carbonation slips past your lips. It’s like the buzz of static electricity before the shock.

He hesitates against your lips, realizing he doesn’t really know how to kiss. It wasn’t a common practice on Cybertron. And he really didn’t want to frag this up.

You’re warm, and the paint on your lips was sticky against his dermas. He knew humans were soft, squishy even, but your lips had such a delicious give to them that he felt himself chasing the feeling, eyes closing. Starscream can feel you smile against his dermas, his eagerness endearing. Grabbing his hands, you move them to hold your face, the slender hands holding you with such gentleness. You move to his, holding it the same way as you tilt your head to deepen the kiss before briefly pulling away.

“Star, don’t be so nervous,” you breathe out. “I’m not used to this shy side of you.”

“I don’t…I don’t really know how this ‘kissing’ act works,” he mumbles.

“That’s okay,” comes your reassurance. “Just kinda follow my lead. Just let go. You don’t have to prove yourself to me.”

That seems to spur him on, and he’s pulling you toward him once more, lips clashing together with little grace. It catches you by surprise but you’re quickly over it. He’s tilted his head like you did before, hungrily kissing you. Starscream’s eyes are closed, eyebrows knitted upwards as little whines spill through each kiss. It’s sloppy and uncoordinated and his hands now roam down to your waist. They sit on your hips before he’s pulling you into his lap, hands coming to rest along your back as he pulls you flush to him. You’re breathing hard, arms coming to wrap around his neck and hands messing with his hair. Tongue darting out, you swipe across his bottom lip, and he’s eagerly letting you in.

The heavy kissing continues for a few more minutes before both you and Starscream pull away, you panting and him with hooded eyes, your red lip gloss smeared across his face. 

“Take me back,” he rasps out, voice warbling with static.

“What?” You ask, breathless and confused.

“My body, take me back to my main frame.”

“Okay, yeah, but can I ask why?” You ask, going to move off his lap as you wipe the gloss that’s migrated off your lips. You’re afraid he’s changed his mind.

Starscream’s hands tighten on your waist before you can even slide off him, leaning forward so his mouth is right next to your ear.

“We’re continuing this, but with the real me,” he purrs lowly. “I want to feel you with my real servos, my real frame. I want to feel you as me.”

*~*

Once again, Starscream is about to lose his fucking shit in your fucking car. His holoform is getting fainter and fainter as the drive continues until he’s just a barely there flicker of a passenger. He’s having a hard time focusing on the human avatar when his frame is a bit preoccupied back at the workshop.

Embarrassing, he knows, but Starscream can’t help it. Your perfume, your decorations on your faceplate, your outfit, just…you. And now, he even has confirmation that you do want this, you do want to explore whatever this feeling is, with him of all mechs! Everything has his processor frying, and it’s why his metal frame is currently sitting rigid against the workshop wall, servo lazily pumping his spike.

His optical ridges are pinched up, intake slightly open as the soft sounds of ventilation and fans fill the stale air. Starscream should be ashamed and humiliated, but he’s not. Part of him is in the car, where your small servos grip tightly to the wheel, going probably way too fast down the deserted highway; the car is filled with your intense scent, both your perfume and your emotions. Which is why the other part of him is here, in this workshop, digits toying with the glass node beneath the spike head or lacing through the ridges on the underside. Can you blame him? Starscream can’t help it when he’s been waiting for this, wishing for this, for months.

He’s also expending less energy on his holoform because now that he checks his systems, Starscream’s spark drops at a realization: he might not have enough energon to mass-displace for too long. No matter, he is an opportunist at spark.

You're white-knuckling it home; mainly because you’re horny for a robot, but also because Starscream’s holoform is nearly gone, and it’s lowkey worrying you. In your passenger seat, there sits a ghostly visage of him, and you had to squint just to see him. He comes in and out of view, glitching like a bugged video game. You can make out faint bursts of static every time his voice attempts to slip through, but you can’t tell if it’s words or groans.

Only a few more minutes go by before you're quickly pulling into your gravel driveway. 

Starscream’s holoform disappears with a blip before the car is even in park. You’re throwing the seatbelt off and slinging open the door, and you find yourself hurrying down the driveway.

You don’t even get a chance to open the doors because he’s already in the process of pushing the wooden doors apart, the gray talons scratching thin lines into them as he attempts to maintain his composure. Upon entering, you notice it’s hot in the workshop, like humid-hot. And finally your gaze lands on Starscream, who’s now closing the doors behind you. His arm is outstretched over you but his red optics are zeroed in on you. Heated vents of air roll over you, making you feel uncomfortably warm. There’s a high-pitched whirring sound and a dull heat radiating from his metal plating. Dim and clouded optics watch you, cycling slowly. Once the doors are shut, he sits back on his haunches, and you realize…is his…he has a dick??

Following your stare, Starscream’s dermas smirk as he proudly lifts his helm. His right servo holds his spike, thumbing the spike head as he moves to sit down. Metal wings hiking up with each brush of his thumb digit, engine revving and turning over as his fans work to cool his boiling frame.

“Like what you see, human?” Starscream rasps out. “Go ahead and marvel.”

It takes you a moment to compose yourself before you can respond. “You have a…a dick?”

“Spike!” He exclaims with a disgusted look. “Do not insult me by comparing my spike to that pitiful human appendage!”

“Damn, my bad,” you say, somewhat mockingly. “Didn’t know you had or needed a spike.”

“Once again, I have told you very little about my kind.”

“Wait a minute, are you saying that Cybertronians reproduce sexually? I thought you were built or something. Or emerged from Primus. I’m confused.”

Starscream groans, and it isn’t from pleasure.

“Human, there is so much information and right now, it is not the time. But, yes, we Cybertronians partake in interfacing. Fragging, if you’d prefer a more crude term.”

The gears turn in your head. “Are you implying that you want to stick that in…,” you step back, arms crossed. “Nuh uh. No way. I may be down bad for you, but I don’t think it’ll fit. Hold on, how do you –”

“HUMAN.” He barks out once more, growling lowly as his left servo swiftly snatches you from where you stand, bringing you optic level.

Your head spins with the sudden movement, and you screw your eyes shut. But his hold on you is tender, and, once he realizes he’s moving too fast, Starscream slows down his movement before speaking.

“Human,” he begins, taking a deep in-vent, “your kind’s interfacing is all over your elementary internet. It has been my misfortune to run across it. I may not know too much human anatomy, but I know enough to know this: we are compatible. And I can tell that you want this just as much as I.”

You gawk at him, not knowing whether to laugh or cringe at the fact that he’s seen porn. Your mind is swirling with questions and curiosity, but you decide to not dwell on it. From the look of things, Starscream is trying to get his freak on (freakyscream), and who are you to stop him?

“Much to my displeasure,” he rumbles out, “I cannot interface with you tonight. The holoform used more energon than I intended, and I fear that I do not have enough to mass-displace. Nevertheless, we are not stopping here.”

His servo tilts and opens, leaving you to stand in his palm. 

“Remove those flimsy frame coverings. I have other plans.”

*~*

You felt weird, standing there nearly naked in his servo. Those red optics never left your form, watching your every move, every toss of your clothes. Leaving your underwear on, you stood there, arm crossed sheepishly over your chest as chills ran up your arms. 

Starscream observed you. Your plating was so foreign to him: soft and malleable. When he originally saw organics, he was repulsed; what squishy little things you are, full of flesh and blood and bone! Disgusting. While Shockwave regarded your kind as potential experiments, Starscream took no pleasure in the curiosity. The scientist in him is long gone and has left an empty space of who he once was. But seeing you, exposed and vulnerable, ignites something in his spark. Not only lust, but the urge to explore, to claim, to feel.

“You are forgetting something, fleshy.” He muses, a sharp digit coming to snap the band of your underwear.

“Look, I’m just nervous. I’ve never done this before.”

“How cute, my dear.”

Your face burns at the pet name, curling in on yourself more as his optics continue to pick you apart.

“How far can I go?” Starscream nearly whispers.

“I’d let you do pretty much anything,” you breathe out, laughing quietly. “It’s ridiculous but I can’t…I can’t help it. I want this, with you. I’ll let you know when it’s too far.”

Another gush of blistering air leaves his frame as his engine stalls and sputters. His wings are high with excitement and fondness, optics wide and cycling brightly. Starscream is quiet for a moment, processing your words as he attempts to steady his racing spark.

Suddenly, he’s leaning in, faceplate pressing right up against your body. His optics are closed now, and he’s hugging you against his face, servos curled around your frame. 

“You mean so much to me, y/n,” he purrs, his deep voice rattling you. And you realize, he’s addressed you by your name for the first time.

His dermas move to place small, tender kisses against your body. Starscream has moved to cradle you in his massive servos as he places kiss after kiss. To your surprise, his dermas are smooth and have a give to them as well, slightly cold against your skin. You press into him the best you can as he attempts to shower you with affection, nuzzling you against his faceplate.

“Frag, you smell good, and I love the red paint upon your dermas,” he nearly slurs out, vox crackling with static.

“Perfume and lip gloss,” comes your breathy reply. “It’s called makeup. The stuff on my face.”

“I love it,” he growls. “I love seeing your makeup smudged all over your faceplate and mine. It heats up my frame like nothing else, knowing that it’s you who marks me and me who ruins you. I love your scent, whether it’s yours or the perfume. But frag, that fragging perfume just…it fries my processor.”

Starscream pulls back, optics hazy. “When I can mass-displace, I will do this properly. But for now, let me taste you.”

*~*

You’re shaking with nerves and awkwardness. He cups his servos around you, back against those talon digits as he brings you close to his face. You’ve got your legs closed together, knees knocking against one another because you feel exposed and embarrassed.

“The human is shy,” Starscream purrs, engine rumbling loudly.

His words make your face burn, and you try to frown before a thumb digit slowly parts your legs.

“Don’t worry, sweetspark,” he whispers, “I know what I’m doing.”

He, in fact, doesn’t know what he’s doing. Of course, Starscream has experience - he’s a Seeker for Primus’ sake! He’s had his fair share of fragging partners. Being the sycophant that he is, Starscream knows how to bring a big mech to his knees.

But you? You’re so tiny in his deadly servos. He knows his glossa is much too big to fit deep inside you so he’ll have to improvise. Even the tip of his talon is pushing it. After all, he would never hurt you. On purpose.

Starscream cycles a husky in-vent, engine revving and stalling because he can smell just how much you want this too. 

He leans in, bringing you up more towards his faceplate, glossa peeking out between his denta before a long strip is licked up your sex.

It’s a strange feeling. His glossa is covered in some type of silicon that’s smooth in some places but ridged where there’s a segment. The texture makes for an interesting experience, no doubt pleasurable. Despite your panties still being on, his glossa manages to rub through in the best way. 

Your skin tingles a little bit too because whatever version of saliva they have coats your inner thighs, and it’s running down his chin as he drools at the sight of you.

His vox stutters and spits static before he can give a warbly response. “Primus, you taste sweet. Sweeter than Vosian wine.”

Before you can ask, he’s bringing you flush against his intake, glossa licking and swirling against your clothed cunt, denta nipping at the exposed skin of your legs.

Your head lolls back, thunking against the metal of his digits. Faint moans and whimpers leave your mouth, earning you tinny rumbles and groans from Starscream.

As much as he loves the teasing, he’s a bit pent up, and a thumb digit comes over you to slice through the fabric of your underwear, snagging it and throwing it to the floor. Your scent hits him like a semi-truck (he knows what that’s like), and he’s whimpering in broken Cybertronian and static, wings fluttering as he goes back in.

The feeling of his glossa without a barrier has a loud moan leaving you. Your hands find purchase on his cheek plates as you close your eyes and grind against that unforgiving tongue. Optics, though flickering and threatening to offline, watch you intensely, relishing in the pleasure he’s able to give you even if it’s not how he intended. 

What he intended was for you to come undone on his spike. Starscream’s hips jut at the thought: spike buried far within you, servos bruising that soft skin as he claims you as his. The thought of your warm body around his spike has his frame heating up more, causing a thin layer of condensation to build up on his plating as the night chill sets in. 

You’re being readjusted in his left servo, laying sideways in his palm as the talons curl around your left side. Glancing through the gaps in his digits, you see his right servo meander down to grasp his spike, the ridged appendage leaking puddles of pink stuff all over your floor. 

Starscream presses particularly hard against you, causing your eyes to screw shut as you moan brokenly, making you turn your gaze back to him as he smirks. The bastard, he’s smirking while eating you out, and he wants you to watch. He’s working your clit like he can’t get enough, the ribbed silicon catching every so often as he swirls it around the nerves. It’s not enough to bring you over the edge, but it’s enough to cause an insatiable ache in your belly, an ache that makes you want to beg. 

“Star, please,” you moan. “Please let me cum, Star.”

He pinches his optics shut, growling at your words and his engine deafens the room with its roar. Starscream fists his spike at your whimpers and moans, tightening at the base and rolling over the node with each pass upwards. He’s trying to edge the both of you but he’s fighting a losing battle.

You decide to play the cards in your favor.

“Star,” comes your shaky, hoarse voice, “Star, you’re so good, y’know. You’ve treated me better than anyone has. I love when you come over, love hearing you talk, love your company. Fuck, I just love you, Star. My bright, beautiful Star. You’ll always shine to me.”

Your words have him tumbling, literally. The world jolts and spins as he hunches forward onto his knees; somehow, he’s precariously balancing you in his left servo as his left elbow joint supports him. All the while, his hips buck erratically into the fist his right servo is making. His spinal strut is arched beautifully, wings taut and fluttering. His optical ridges are pointed upwards, optics offline, glossa working furiously against you before he’s able to slip just a little bit in.

It’s a fierce burn, deliciously painful that has you stuttering out whines. Starscream doesn’t force anymore, knowing that it would do more harm than good. So he works with what he can do; he thrusts the tip of his glossa into you, enough for you to feel full from the pressure. You can feel that build up, that tight knot in your belly as you near the precipice of an orgasm. His glossa fucks you as the ridges of his glossa snag your clit occasionally. You’re rocking into his faceplate, an arm coming up hook around one of his digits as you grind against him.

Sensing your impending overload, Starscream pulls his glossa out only to swiftly replace it with the tip of his thumb digit, aware of the sharp tip as he presses it into you. The smooth, blunt pad of the digit applies a steady pressure to your g-spot, relentlessly thrusting into it with his movements. His derma encloses your clit before he’s sucking harshly as he circles and presses upon your swollen, sensitive clit.

Everything’s too much before you’re crying out, a scream ripping itself from your throat as you cum on his faceplate. 

He greedily laps at your cunt, glossa rolling over your clit as he continues to suck and apply pressure. His fans are on overdrive and his fist tightens around his spike. A strange crackle of electricity shivers over his plating, faint trails of lightning tracing his seams. Starscream sputters out jumbled, tinny sounding Cybertronian against you, the deep rasp sending vibrations along your body, overstimulating you as you whimper out. 

It takes only a couple more rough pumps of his spike before he’s pulling his faceplate away from you, denta bared and optics still offline as pathetic, staticky whines and mewls fall from his intake. His hips buck harshly into his fist, the servo clamped around the base as the glass node rubs along the hardwood floor. Amidst your post-orgasmic haze, you watch him reach his precipice as a thick, translucent pink substance shoots from his spike, covering the floor in its wake. Another puddle lies beneath him, more in the center of his legs, and you wonder if he has another little secret he’s not telling you about. 

Starscream’s leg struts tremble and he’s sliding further towards the floor, keeping you steady in his servo as he cycles his vents and runs protocols to steady his thrumming spark. His other servo releases his spike, coming to rest flat on the floor as his digits cleave little lines against the grain. Like the freak he is, Starscream swipes his glossa across his dermas, delighting in your taste as the rest drips down his chin.

It’s a while before you two speak, with you trying to calm your racing heart and with him attempting to cool down his heated frame. He finally looks at you after a moment, optics faint and unfocused, cycling languidly as he blinks slowly. He’s got a small, goofy smile on his faceplate.

“What?” You say after a beat, closing your legs as you sit up on quivering arms.

“Nothing,” comes his hoarse reply. “I am simply admiring you in our post-overload afterglow.”

You laugh, face flushing and ears burning red. “Oh my gosh, Star. You’re so corny sometimes.”

“I can’t help it, y/n,” he murmurs, once again bringing up against his faceplate. “You drive my processor wild. One day, I will claim you properly. But for now, I greatly enjoyed this.”

“Claim?”

“Yes, human. You are mine. For multiple reasons, I cannot see myself going back. To mechs, to femmes. To even the Decepticons.”

You pull away, hands resting on his face as you look at him, puzzled.

“You’re really gonna leave this time? You won’t go crawling back? Does this mean you’ll join the other faction…the…uh…the Autobots?”

Starscream’s faceplate relays a grimace, derms downturned in disgust.

“Let’s not be hasty. I am not that desperate to join those bleeding sparks. For now, I just wish to rest. For once, I’d like to forget about this blasted war.”

“What about your home?”

Starscream smiled at you, a genuine and pure smile. 

“I feel right at home here, with you, my sweetspark.”

Ch. 3: In Heat

Something is up. You don’t know what, but that metal bastard is planning something. 

You’ve been…seeing Starscream for roughly four months now. Four months of housing him, essentially permanently, in your workshop, and also four months of tip-toeing around the idea of dating. 

Cybertronians don’t exactly date, he told you. Either you hooked up and parted ways, or you courted a mech or femme enough to become conjunxes, or amica endura if conjunx was out of the question. Which sounded like dating to a certain extent, but arguing with him is like arguing with a fence post so you just dropped it.

And because of this, you couldn’t exactly call him boyfriend either. But you weren’t exactly single. It’s a very messy gray area, one that you have no coherent map for.

Soulmate is what you want to call him, but he prefers sparkmate or mate. And he’s very smug about it too, when he refers to you as either one because it always flushes your face the brightest red he’s ever seen. 

Anyways, Starscream has been super…weird these past few weeks. He’s been more irritable, more touchy, more territorial?? You have no idea if Cybertronians could be, but his possessiveness has certainly been more prevalent. Regardless, you know he’s planning something. He says he has a surprise, and you don’t know if you should be worried or excited.

Weirder still, despite his hate for being cooped up, he’s hardly gone out flying. You’ve seen him walk more than fly and that is definitely a red flag. 

“Sweetspark,” Starscream asks suddenly one afternoon. “Are you doing anything tomorrow?”

You tilt your head back to look at him. He doesn’t meet your gaze as he studies the datapad in his servo, the other one laying across you, keeping you steady as you sprawl on his chassis. A digit slides up and down your back languidly. 

“Um,” you begin, slightly confused, “no, I don’t think so because I don’t work tomorrow. Why?”

His derma quirks up to a small smirk, optics narrowing as they flick down to you. 

“Well, you are now. It’s about time I give you your surprise.”

*~*

Flying in a fighter jet wasn’t on this year’s bingo list; well, neither was dating said fighter jet. In fact, it was something you never considered before, both the flying and the dating. 

But here you are, sitting in the pilot’s seat, cruising just above the sparse clouds of the blue sky, fingers gripping the armrest like your life depended on it. You don’t exactly have a fear of heights, and you’ve flown before! Except the plane you rode in wasn’t sentient, and this jet’s version of cruise is a lot faster than any commercial airplane.

You’re sweating bullets, breath slightly uneven as your heart hammers against your ribs. Starscream slices through the air cleanly, tilting every so often to make wide, banking turns. The flight suit (you don’t know where he got it from or how) clung to you uncomfortably, and the helmet muted the dull scream of his thrusters. It was claustrophobic, you determine, and that’s what is making you itch with anxiety. Now you know how Starscream felt only you’ve never been given the gift of flight.

“Will you stop digging your pathetic little nails into me?” His voice cuts sharply through the cockpit, unmuffled by the thick helmet on your head. You pry your fingers off the leather and fist them in your lap.

“Honestly, you act like I don’t know what I’m doing,” he scoffs, making a turn. “Do you not trust me?”

It takes you a moment to find your voice. “I do trust you,” comes your meek reply. “This is just a new experience for me.”

He hums for a moment, the low rasp filling the cockpit and reaching your bones. “You reek of fear and anxiety. I do not like that smell on you. What is it you are afraid of?”

“I’ve never been this fast before,” you begin, taking deep breaths, “and…it’s super claustrophobic in here. That’s probably why I’m so uncomfortable.”

“Ah, well, I can certainly understand that feeling. But it’s mainly because I am made to fly. You probably hate confinement because organics are prey and feel trapped.”

You couldn’t tell if he was being serious or not. “I’m sorry?”

“You are a prey organic, are you not? Most organics possess ‘fight or flight’ responses, which you are currently experiencing.”

“Starscream, I’m not prey,” you say, tone becoming clipped. “Actually, humans are predators. Known for endurance and brains based on early history. Plus, we have forward facing eyes. And plenty of people hunt and fish!”

“So, if someone took away all your little toys and placed you in a pit containing a panthera leo, you wouldn’t be prey?”

“A what?”

He clicks his glossa. “A lion.”

Your silence answers his question.

“Honestly, your kind may think you’re at the top of the food chain, but there are a plethora of organics that are less extreme than the lion that could end you just as quickly, if not quicker.”

“Okay so what if I strip you down to your protoform?” You counter. “No plating, no armor, no weaponry. Are you any better? Your size is your only saving grace.”

His silence then answers your question before he’s asking another. “Are you feeling better?”

This makes you pause as you assess yourself. Your breathing has become more even, your heart settling to a comfortable beat because your brain decided that determining the food chain status of humans was more important. You’ve relaxed into the seat, hands folded and playing with the zipper of the flight suit.

“Yeah,” you answer honestly albeit sheepishly. “I am. Thanks for the distraction.”

A soft laugh rumbles through the cabin. “I was merely trying to distract you, darling, not insult your species. Although, it is greatly entertaining to do so.”

You smile, a small laugh coming from you as your face goes pink, hoping he couldn’t see it even with the helmet on.

“How long are we going to fly anyways? And, where are we going?” You ask after a minute.

“Just for a groon or so, I didn’t really have a time in mind. I just wanted to take you flying. There’s nowhere in particular either but we aren’t going far. We are simply having a flying date.”

He doesn’t miss the way you kick your feet at his mention of this being a date, engine fumbling at the display.

*~*

You don’t know how long a groon is, but to you, it’s been nearly an hour and a half. And you’re growing worried because something is off. You’re sure of it now.

First of all, it is hot as hell in this fucky-ass, hot ass cockpit you're in (everyone say thank you Berleezy). You’re sweating again but not from nerves. It wasn’t hot before so you’re unsure why it is now. Reaching out, you place a hand on the metal to your right; it’s hot but is it because it’s summer right now or the fact that his thrusters produce heat? You are in a machine after all. You file this concern for later.

Secondly, Starscream keeps making weird noises, whether he realizes it or not. Even with the thrum of his engine and the roar of the thrusters, even through the helmet, there’s small whines and groans permeating the cabin air. It sounds like he’s in pain. Is he low on energon and doing this for you despite this? If so, you plan on scolding him the minute you two land. 

But the straw that broke the camel’s back? His flying has become jerky. As time wanes on, the more bumpy the ride gets. He’s no longer cutting through the air with the grace of a sharp knife. There’s a barely contained shudder that rolls across his frame every so often, jerking his wings as his thrusters stall and then resume fitfully. Again, all this supports your “low energon” theory. 

“Star, are you low on energon?” You decide to just outrightly ask.

It’s a moment before he responds. “No, I have plenty. Flying this slow doesn’t burn fuel that fast.” His voice is chastising yet strained.

“What’s going on then?” Crossing your arms, you sit up straighter in the seat before the seat belt tightens around you on its own accord.

“I am just…experiencing some technical difficulties.”

What?

“What?” Is all you can dumbly ask.

He groans and you know he’s rolling his optics. “I am enroute to your – our – home so stop worrying. I hate that smell!”

Starscream doubles back quickly before you can respond. “Actually, keep worrying. Be anxious. In fact, we’re going to fall out of the sky.”

Before you can do anything, you experience the sharp pull of gravity as the nose of the jet tips straight down. You’re pressed against the seat, a scream ripping itself from your throat as you screw your eyes shut and dig your hands into the armrest again. He rights himself unsteadily, not staying in the nosedive for too long.

“WHAT THE FUCK.” You scream out.

A manic laugh fills the cabin, staticky and tinny with his enthusiasm. “Oh, that was way better than I imagined!”

“CAN YOU EXPLAIN WHAT THE FUCK IS GOING ON.” You yell, a fist hitting the arm rest.

“I am simply providing a distraction,” Starscream answers smoothly, as if the static in his vox isn’t betraying him. This is making you more confused. What the fuck is going on?

“Star, I know something is up. Why can’t you just tell me?”

He’s quiet as he thinks, thrusters easing up as he begins a slow descent. In the distance, you can see your farmhouse even through the shimmering heat of late August.

“You wouldn’t understand,” he mumbles after a moment.

“I think it’s a little too late for that kind of excuse.”

Starscream vents a rolling huff, wings flicking slightly in annoyance, which doesn’t go unnoticed by you. Why is it so hard for him to tell you? Why does he feel so awkward about…whatever this is? You think to yourself that it’s a little past the awkward phase with him.

“I will tell you once we are back,” he finally says. “I promise.”

You sit back in the seat, arms crossed, and you hope he’ll uphold that promise.

*~*

“Soooooo, we gonna talk?” You say, folding the flight suite and laying it on the workbench. The black tank top you wore clung to your skin, damp and wrinkly. Your shorts stuck too close to your thighs, and you know your hair was a frizzy mess plastered to your head from the helmet and heat. But despite all this sensory overload, you were determined to make your robot boyfriend talk.

Because there’s no reason why he should be pressed against the wall, as far away as possible from you, with a servo clutching his faceplate.

You start to feel self-conscious. “Look, dude, it was kinda hot in your cabin so I got all sweaty. If I smell that bad, then I’ll take a quick shower and we’ll talk after.” Hands shoved in your pockets, you stare down at the floorboards, the toe of your shoe absentmindedly digging into the wood. You felt gross in more ways than one.

At your words he’s cycling a sharp in-vent, optics snapping closed as he runs a few diagnostics on his systems. He knows his fans are on a low setting and hopes you’re unaware of the noise and just his whole predicament in general. Honestly, how does he even begin the conversation of him being in heat? 

Starscream furrows his optical ridges, resisting the urge to cycle in your scent because you smell so divine right now that it’s flushing his faceplate blue, his engine threatening to rev and stall. All that's been running through his processor for the past few cycles is the thought of you pressed tightly under him, fat spike buried deep inside your hot valve. Or whatever your equivalent is.

Completely oblivious to the mental – and physical warfare – he’s fighting, you take a few tentative steps toward him because you’re sure something is wrong. He won’t even spare a glance at you, and he looks like he’s about to jump out of his plating just to get away from you. You’ve never seen him so…well, scared isn’t the word you’re looking for. You don’t really know how to describe the scene unfurling before you as you approach with placating hands.

His servo leaves his faceplate in one quick movement, coming to grasp at the wall behind him as he presses against it further, the sharper points of his plating piercing the old wood slightly. You only took a few steps, just a few! But he couldn’t hold on any longer, couldn’t resist the temptation of your warm scent. From where you stand, you hear the whine of his fans, the hitch of his vents. He’s looking down at you with his chin slightly raised, his faceplate a flushed dark blue and his optics a dim blood red. His intake barely hangs open, glossa tucked between his denta.

“Heat.” Star finally says, the sound a grinding static.

You pause, unsure of what he means. “Yeah, it’s late August. It gets pretty hot. Are you overheating?” Panic fills your body at the thought. How the fuck do you cool down a robot?!

“No,” he groans out, swallowing hard. “Heat. I’m…my heat cycle…”

Whatever he planned on saying gets drowned out in a heavy moan, his frame sinking down to the floor with a resounding thud, chips of wood falling down as his back scrapes the panels behind him.

“Star!” You say worriedly, running to him. His legs are splayed open, and you place a hand on his calf plating before ripping it away, the heat searing through your palm.

“Fuck, Star, you’re burning up!”

“My heat cycle…unexpectedly…I didn’t...” His words are slightly slurred as he tries his best to keep his attention on anything but fragging you senseless, optics staring pointedly at the ceiling beams.

It takes a few seconds for you to piece everything together: the issues while flying, his overheated frame, his avoidance of you…. Your eyes go wide as you try to make sense of it all in your mind; humans, of course, didn’t have heats, but you knew enough to figure out that your robot boyfriend is extremely… horny.

And in desperate need of release.

You don’t mean to smirk but you do.

Starscream’s dermas curl into a sneer at your expression. “What is that look for, human?” He spits the words at you with his fanged denta bared, but there’s no real malice in his voice.

You shrug, eyes observing his trembling frame. “Nothing. I mean you’re just super horny, right? That’s what this is?”

Time slows briefly as your brain tries to process two very quick actions. One, a hoarse growl is rumbling from his chassis as he pushes off the ground where he sat, coming to pin you under him since you stumbled back at his sudden advance. Two, he’s suddenly your size; well, eight feet is somewhat closer to your size. 

It was a fascinating sight: metal bending and shrinking, plating sliding over one another to fold into itself. He’s defying all known laws of physics, at least to you, but it was over just as suddenly as it began. 

At your shocked expression, Starscream relishes the proximity and intensity of both your scent and your body against his frame. He knows his optics are glazed over, knows his vents are coming in heated, rolling waves, knows you can feel the shudder of his engine. But he doesn’t care because he can finally mass displace. He can finally claim you the way he’s been wanting and planning to.

Except this isn’t how he wanted it. Or planned it. Not exactly, anyways.

His helm thunks next to your head, his frame engulfing you in metal and heat, the scent of ozone strong as he pants faintly in your ear. You’re still in a stupor from the turn of events, and you hesitantly place your hands on the hot metal of his chassis. Under your palms, his spark sends uneven, fluttering vibrations up your arms as it oscillates wildly. 

You don’t get a chance to say a word before he’s speaking. “I…had this grand plan. I had this whole surprise planned out. But never in my millions of cycles of living did I think a heat cycle would present itself now out of all times.”

You purse your lips, thinking. “I don’t really understand,” you breathe out after a moment.

“Cybertronians have heat cycles, but it’s old code. Something that has somewhat been phased out through code patches and upgrades. Very technical things that are of no importance to you, but what I should probably tell you is that while Cybertronians can reproduce sexually, it is not the only means of doing so. When our planet was on the cusp of war, when it was evident through the riots and skirmishes, sexual reproduction kind of got…well, not exactly replaced but I can’t think of a better word. 

“To elevate numbers, cold construction became very popular. Frames built to house sparks for the purpose of fulfilling another’s agenda. ‘Bots no longer existed for themselves but solely for others. It would take too long to just produce another Cybertronian; you need to account for gestation, development, and complications if something went wrong. Dozens of cycles that we just didn’t have. So, cold forging, despite its ethical atrocities, attracted a good deal of attention.”

Starscream takes in a heavy vent, a groan slipping through his vox with static. “I won’t go into any more detail, but I haven’t had a heat cycle since…since well before the start of the war. I guess we Cybertronians went so long without them that our processors just filed the code elsewhere; there were more important matters to attend to. I can’t make any sense of it but you…your organic scent, your organic…everything has just completely resurfaced this code. And now, you have to deal with the consequences.”

“I – me?” You sputter, looking up at him.

A servo wanders to your hip, digits dragging across your body, catching the fabric of your tank top and shorts. He’s smiling, a crooked and leery one, optics narrow and lidded as they roam over you. 

“Yes, my dear. I can mass displace. I can finally frag you the way I want. And with this heat, as annoying as it is, this heat will only elevate the experience. It’s because of you I’m like this, and it’s you who will remedy it.”

You can’t even ask how he expects you to “remedy” this before his intake is clashing against yours in a hot, needy kiss. It’s harsh and demanding, his dermas curling into a snarl as he nips your lips with his denta. Those fangs catch your lip, drawing blood, but he’s swiftly licking it up with his own glossa before sliding it against your own tongue.

A servo curls against the wood floor next to your head, little thin strips of wood left in their wake. The other servo that rests on your hip migrates its way upwards, sliding under your top to palm at your skin as it skims the band of your sports bra. Starscream licks the seam of your lips, denta grazing through lips once more as he presses you into the metal of his chassis, shifting a leg in between yours, thigh resting right against your cunt.

Your breath hitches, the breathy sound going straight to his spike as he fists the servo next to your head. Losing all patience, his other servo swiftly shreds your tank top into ribbons, and a single digit comes to slice cleanly through the middle of your bra. You’d protest but you’re way too turned on to care right now. Starscream’s vents feel like heat waves, leaving you slick – in more ways than one – with sweat as he rears back slightly, flickering optics regarding you hungrily.

“Primus, you…you have no idea what you’re doing to me right now,” he growls, leaning forward, dermas latching onto your neck, glossa licking the column of your throat. 

You whine, arching into him as denta bite into your skin, leaving a bruised, reddening trail in their wake with his glossa sliding over the marks to soothe the sting. His servo finds your breast, squeezing slightly, digits pricking into you before he’s using his thumb digit to brush over your nipple lightly. It’s all too much: the heat, his intake on your neck, the servo palming your chest. And he knows it’s working you up; not just from the mewls and whines that grace his audials, but he can smell your arousal and it sinks into him, making his spike ache to be freed. 

But he’s greedy. And selfish. He wants this prolonged (because he’s a dick).

The knee positioned between your legs pushes upward, thigh plating grinding into your cunt with enough pressure to let a moan slip from your mouth, one that Starscream eagerly swallows.

“Star,” you moan through the onslaught of his ruthless mouth. “Star, please, stop teasing.”

He smirks against your lips, the hard metal of his thigh applying a relentless pressure to you at an agonizing pace. Your blunt little nails dig into his transformation seams, and he relishes in the feeling, wings taut and held high. 

Intake still on your collarbone, his servos move to grasp your hips, and he moves his helm toward your chest, dermas encircling a nipple at once as his glossa flicks over it in rhythm with his leg.

You writhe against Starscream, arching into his mouth as his denta bites into your skin, as servos tighten on your hips in a bruising grip. Shame left you a long time ago, and you grind yourself against his thigh plating with no particular rhythm, mouth slightly agape as your hands find purchase upon his helm.

He glances up at you, nearly overloading on the spot at your face: your skin is that pretty red with your eyes shut tight, eyebrows pinched upward as your teeth bite into your lower lip. His optics are blood red, dark, and lidded as he watches you, illuminating your sweat slicked skin.

“Star, please,” you plead between uneven breaths. “Just frag me already.”

Servos tighten against the flesh of your hips, the tips of his sharp talons eliciting faint pricks of pain as his engine revs and roars. A gush of hot air vents out of Starscream as he rears back, dermas smiling over his denta, optics now wide and bright at your words. He moves his servos down, cutting cleanly through both your shorts and underwear, flicking the fabric in some wayward direction.

“Primus,” he groans, eyeing you extensively, servos exploring the expanse of your skin. “What a beautiful frame. Delicious and delicate. I’d gladly refuse energon if it meant to taste you for eternity.”

Heat floods your face and body, eyes averted from his own, and before you can stammer a response, Starscream’s moving to cover you once more, kissing you hard, glossa invading your mouth with little fight.

A servo slides across your lower stomach, across your hips and your thighs, playing with you, teasing you as the tips of his digits leave angry red lines in their wake as he roughly traces your skin. You sigh into his mouth before a sharp gasp leaves your throat, one that he eagerly swallows as a digit circles your entrance, ghosting your clit as he continues. 

“So reactive,” he murmurs against your mouth. “Similar to a valve. You’re in for such a treat.”

His own heat and lust gets the better of him, and he can’t be patient anymore, can’t sit here and toy and edge you all night long because slag it all, he refuses to overload behind his panels; he does have standards. Without much resistance, a single digit of his slides into your entrance, curling and pumping into you slowly.

Despite being metal, Starscream’s digit is pliant, and he curls it just the right way so his talon avoids hurting you, yet the pad of it happens to find that one spot that has you seeing stars. His helm hits the wood next to your own head, optics flooding your face with that scarlet red light, intake agape as he takes his time fingering you.

“So tight and warm,” he rasps out, smirking, because he can’t help himself. “By the Allspark, I can’t wait to split you on my spike.”

He rolls his servo against you, digit rocking into you at a faster pace, causing you to whine. “Then just do it, Star. I don’t have the patience right now, please just –”

Starscream moves slightly to plant a chaste kiss to your temple, which instantly smoothes out the small frown on your face. 

“Believe me, sweetspark, I am so close to losing it. This heat makes this whole process feel so much more vivid. You’re fragile, soft, human. I can’t tear into you like I can a mech. Not yet, at least. You need to be prepared.”

A second digit slips in as he finishes his sentence, and it’s met with slight resistance, something that isn’t unnoticed by him. Rocking his wrist, he shallowly thrusts the two digits into your cunt, slick running down his wrist as his thumb digit circles and presses upon your clit. He’s pressing feather-light kisses upon your jaw as you moan and grind against his servo, using him to reach that pleasure you so desperately crave. You clench upon his digits, arching and trembling, so, so close before…he’s pulling out.

You want to scream. You’re so tempted to throw a grade-A toddler tantrum, like on the floor kicking and screaming in a dollar store type of tantrum. And he’s got the most smug, lascivious expression on his faceplate as he brings those digits to his intake, making a show of licking his digits and wrist clean of your slick. Your face burns at the gesture, the urge to throw a tantrum fizzling out as you watch his filthy display. 

And best of all, as he does this little display, his other servo is sliding down his front, lazily and sensually, before coming to grip the base of his now exposed spike. Starscream knows exactly what he’s doing, and he adores it.

Starscream simpers at you, a low chuckle rumbling deeply through his chassis at your wide eyes. You didn’t even hear his panels open, but there it is. Such a beautiful, ridged spike. Biolights flicker in lazy pulses, a bead of transfluid forming at the tip before rolling down, dripping onto your thigh in fast, even plip-plip-plips.

He looms over you, both servos planted near your head, his spike pressing against your thigh with searing heat. His helm hangs a bit as he admires you, optics narrowed as the flick over your flushed face and chest, and he’s licking his dermas with anticipation.

With a heavy gust of hot air, Starscream vents and lowers himself onto his elbows, intake right next to your ear.

“Primus,” he groans, nearly breathless, “You have no idea what you’re in for.”

A servo grips your thigh, hiking it up so it rests on his waist, the spike head now moving against your wet cunt. You whimper and move your hips against him, something that doesn’t go unnoticed by Starscream.

“Frag,” he vents roughly. “Such a little tease.”

He braces the servo on his spike, slicking it between your folds, the ridges catching your clit, causing weak moans to spill from your lips. The spike tip catches on your entrance, the fat head stretching you open as he guides it forward, trying to not bust on the spot.

Primus, you’re tight. And warm, so deliciously warm and soft and wet. It’s something he’s never experienced before, naturally, and he can’t believe he’s finally privy to an experience that’s this good. 

Starscream rocks slightly, sliding in nearly effortlessly though there is some resistance. The feeling of his spike splitting you is nearly overwhelming; a bright burn of pain that spreads heat throughout your belly, almost uncomfortable but the desire to keep going is even stronger. Your breathing, though ragged, comes in a deep, steady rhythm as you attempt to relax. 

He knows it hurts, can see it in your expression with the way your nose scrunches and your eyebrows knit together. A metal forehead bumps yours as he lowers his helm, the servo that was once on his spike now on your hip, digits tracing patterns in your skin. You know this is so much harder for him than for you. His metal is nearly branding you with its heat, fans whirling with a dull roar as his engine rumbles in anticipation. Each cycle of ventilation pushes a swell of hot air on your already damp skin and his plating trembles under your fingers.

Starscream places a light kiss upon your lips, nuzzling his faceplate against yours. “Breath, sweetspark. Relax.”

You loosen your grip on his arms, breathing shakily but evenly. Tears prick your eyes with each slow sink of his spike, the pressure and sting overstimulating and weakly pleasurable. His servo holds your hips in place, the other one by your head as his digits thread themselves through your hair.

It takes a few minutes for you to adjust once he’s fully hilted. Starscream waits for you patiently, probably using all the patience he has, but he’s doing it for you. After a few moments of tense breathing and sweet coaxing, his spike is hilted fully, the metal of his thighs pressed firmly against your own. 

“Move,” you say softly. The pain began to subside, leaving behind just the feeling of fullness and an itch that only he can satisfy. “Move, Star, I’m okay.”

His optics find your eyes, gaze nearly scrutinizing but he doesn’t question you further. If he wasn’t in heat, then the gentlemech thing to do was to truly make sure you were okay. But he is in heat. And such pleasantries and politeness is lost on him as he aches to satisfy this heat in his lines. Deep down, Starscream really is a selfish mech. 

“I won’t hold back,” he says curtly, voice full of static. “I don’t know if I can in this state.”

You nod, not caring as you smile at him. “I don’t care, I’m all yours.”

His wings flare as he quickly sits up on his haunches, plating raising slightly as he cycles a ragged in-vent. Denta catching his bottom lip, he roughly pulls you against him, spike pressing into you further, bulging your lower belly that has you mewling and arching. The servos on your hips slide down your thighs, coming to rest at your knees before pushing them up towards your chest. In this position, you feel exposed as his optics roam over your body, zeroing in on his spike nestled in your cunt. 

You can practically feel the air tremble with his engine’s roar, and you can hear his spark thrumming wildly. He licks his dermas before finding your gaze, optics unblinking and shining as he pulls nearly all the way out and then slams into you.

The thrust knocks the air from your lungs, a moan ripping itself from your throat as he hits your cervix dead on. You grip his wrists weakly, head thrown back as Starscream drills into you.

Metal hips meet yours of flesh and bone, bruising the soft skin with each impact. The ridges of his spike press and slide against your walls, catching with each thrust. He’s venting roughly above you, optics screw shut and intake hanging open as static-laden groans fall from his vox. It’s a beautiful sight, you think amidst your pleasure. 

He’s not going to last long, that he's positive of. And how could he? Your valve is velvet soft, tight, warm; Primus, it's taking everything to just keep going and not overload. Your scent fills his receptors, your moans gracing his audials like the finest Vosian music. Starscream feels your slick sliding down his plating with each wet roll of his hips, your skin slipping against his metal. It's maddening, everything is too much. As much as he wants to blame this on his heat, Starscream knows you just have this effect on him.

There's a few more moments of calculated, sharp thrusts, thrusts that have you digging your nails into him as your hips grind up into his with each pound he gives. Fresh tears roll down your face as you feel that itch become nearly insatiable as that burn for release draws near. Arching into him, you mewl, sweet praises and croons falling from your lips. He’s answering with his own shuddering moans and staticky words in a language you don't understand; a broken melody of intricate vocal inflections, tones, and synth. Words Starscream wishes he could translate into your language but then, they'd lose all beauty.

So he keeps thrusting, weak and sloppy and erratic. His spike pulses inside you when you clench and squeeze around him, a cry spilling from your chest as you chant his name.

Your orgasm rips through you, a delicious relief from the annoying itch of desire. Slick gushes from your cunt, running down your thighs and hitting his plating. This doesn't go unnoticed by Starscream, whose engine screams and whose fans whirls. Wings twitch as a charge of electricity crawls across his frame, servos in a death grip on your legs, pressing them further into your chest.

He gives a few more rolls of his hips before he's giving a high-pitched moan, helm thrown back before his hips still flush against yours. You feel him release in you, moaning weakly at the hot sensation spreading throughout you. Starscream lowers your legs and lets go, balancing himself on shaky arms as condensation drips from him frame onto you. Helm hanging, he pants, desperately cycling in vents as his HUD rapidly fires warnings and system diagnostics. The relief is short lived, always is with these heats. His groans turn into snarls and growls as his hips shift, earning him a soft moan from you. 

You, in all your blissed out glory, register servos gripping around your waist, maneuvering you as he gets to unsteady pedes. You want to protest as you wrap your arms around his neck, too worn out to even realize that his spike is still inside you, hard and damn near throbbing.

Sense gets knocked into you, literally. Your back hits the rough wood walls of your workshop, and your eyes fly open as you grunt at the dull pain. 

“Dude, what the fu-”

“Can’t stop,” Starscream vents raggedly, intake locking onto yours. “Mine, all mine. I’ll spark you, I swear. I can't stop, and I don't want to.”

He swallows your weak moans as he slides towards your neck and collarbone, marking the soft skin yet again. Hips move against yours once more, spike moving with ease as his previous release drips out down your thighs and ass. 

Once again, servos wander to your legs, wrapped around his waist. Finding purchase at your knees, Starscream presses them towards your chest once more.

A mating press against the wall. Someone has a favorite position, you think absentmindedly.

Shooting pain floods your senses as you cry out; his denta are buried into the junction of your neck and shoulder as he begins rapidly thrusting into you. They're quick, short thrusts. He's only pulling out briefly before slamming into you at a quick pace, hitting that spot into you repeatedly, lower belly bulging with each one. The pain turns into pleasure because seeing him lose himself turns you on too much: his optical ridges are furrowed up, optics closed tightly. His spinal strut is bowed slightly due to the height difference, knee plates digging into the wood behind you as Starscream attempts to find some leverage. 

Fangs dig into your flesh, drawing blood into his intake. His glossary eagerly laps it up, delighting in the metallic iron taste. Starscream whines into your skin, the sound sending vibrations across your chest.

You mold your body into his before you latch your lips onto his neck cabling, sucking and biting the exposed protomesh. Starscream stutters out a pathetic whimper, high-pitched and tinny. It’s a long, drawn out whine, one that’s interrupted with each ragged ventilation he cycles in.

He's nearing the edge, much faster this time. His servos drop your legs which wrap feebly around his waist as he grabs your hips, digits scratching bleeding lines into you with their force. 

Starscream’s thrusting into you, harder now. No longer are you able to grind your hips into his; with servos in a vice grip upon you, he's rapidly moving you on his spike, sliding in and out with ease, hitting your cervix each time. This pace leaves you moaning hoarsely, head thunking on the wood paneling supporting you, wood fibers rubbing your back raw. He's using you as his own personal spike sleeve, something you'd never protest to. 

You cum on his spike quickly, the orgasm taking you by surprise due to how quickly the build up was. Starscream snarls into your skin, stilling his fast thrusts for precise, rolling motions. He's close, the familiar charge of electricity racing over his plating, and he snakes a servo between you and him to press a thumb digit against your clit. 

The pressure and circling of his digit upon your clit leaves you moaning his name desperately. Praising him with both words and whimpers, you cum on his spike once more, eliciting you a deep, staticky moan from him as he slams into you one last time, overloading into you for the second time.

You think you black out from pleasure and bliss. Starscream holds you tenderly to his chassis, helm resting against your forehead. You try your best to take in gulps of air into your burning lungs as Starscream cycles vents into his hot frame. His plating is still sweltering, fans whirling, but not like before. After a few beats, you open your eyes to find his optics looking at you.

He leans back a bit after kissing you softly. His optics, hazy and flickering, roam your face, a ghost of a smirk on his dermas.

“What are you looking at?” You finally say, voice rough.

“My sparkmate,” Starscream says without hesitation.

You look away, embarrassed, face burning red as Starscream nuzzles his faceplate into yours.

The two of you sit there for a few minutes, soaking in the post-orgasmic glow of one another before you make the first move. You move slightly, wincing as soreness spreads across your body. Your muscles are going to be screaming at you tomorrow for sure. 

“Where do you think you're going?” He purrs softly in your ear.

Hands placing themselves on his chassis, you feel his spark thrumming strong and fast, not relaxed like before. You narrow your eyes, looking up at him to see him smirking, glossa peeking out to swipe over his denta. 

“Star,” you complain, wiggling against him. “I need to shower. I feel sticky and gross.”

Right on cue, a drip of transfluid rolls down your thigh and onto the floor with a plop. 

Starscream shifts, servos sliding to your waist as he curls you into him. You hear his fans pick up again, the heat of his frame licking across your body as he vents. Your hips move experimentally, gasping softly as you tense on his spike, which is hard again and still buried in you.

You groan, rolling your eyes. “Again?”

He groans, flexing his servos against your skin.

If you could burn the image into your optics, then you would.

It’s not every day you have the arrogant, traitorous, sycophant Starscream writhing and pleading beneath you. No, it is certainly not every day for some ‘bots, but you’re determined to make it yours. 

In his dimly lit quarters, Starscream lay splayed under you, knee joints bent upwards, the pointed patella plates digging into your spinal strut; you couldn’t find the strength to care. His clawed digits bite painfully into your waist plating, cleaving small lines into the metal, but not hard enough to draw energon. With his helm tilted backwards, whimpers and groans tumbled from his intake as you gave another roll of your hips, legs braced on either side of him. His cooling fans ran on their lowest setting, filling the air with a humming sound.

“Primus,” came his raspy voice, laden with static and somewhat tinny in sound, “you’ve been at it for groons. Please.”

The plea would feel unfamiliar to your audials in any other circumstance but in this? No, this is exactly what you wanted to hear, and now you knew how to get him to his breaking point. His EM field pulsed with arousal and lust, flooding your systems, as if he was trying to sway you into giving in. Which you were so close to doing so because you’ve been edging both of you for a while now, mainly to tease him and get back at him. Lubricant from your valve and his spike pooled under his hips, a mess he’ll most likely bitch about later.

“Hmm, I don’t know, Screamer,” the nickname falling from your intake in a condescending tone, “you’ve been awfully rude to me these last few cycles.” You punctuate your sentence with another roll of your hips, leaning down to rest your elbow joints upon his chassis, servos coming up to delicately touch his cheek vents. 

His vox spits static and his optical lids flare open as he chokes back a moan. Scarlet red optics bathe you in red light, shuttering and cycling, dimming and brightening as he tries to stabilize himself.

“Only because Megatron has been on my aft,” he answers with a whine, “and you weren’t helping the situation. You’re worse than a Seeker in heat.”

“I don’t really hear any complaining,” you say, a servo coming up to touch the sensitive bite marks that decorated his neck cabling. Bite marks that matched your denta exactly, and a few were leaking the smallest beads of energon. Starscream cants his hips up to yours in a sudden jolt, metal scraping metal as miniscule sparks flew at the contact point. 

“Besides, I can always just stop,” you start, bracing your servos next to his helm as you drag your hips up, his spike slowly exiting your valve before his talons twitch and, before you know it, you’re slammed roughly back onto him. The roughness pulled a surprised but pleasure-filled moan from you as he managed to hit your ceiling node exactly. 

“You little vixen,” Starscream growls through gritted denta as his hips roll at a brutal pace. “I can’t get anything done on this ship with you around. Strutting about, flaunting yourself.” At a particularly deep thrust, his vox let out a garbled groan, his optical lids shutting tightly as his helm tilted back and his cooling fans kicked up a notch.

“Such a tease,” he rambled on, static intercalating his words, “Frag, I see the way other mechs look at you, the way you walk into a room and your bio-lights are flickering, EM field pulsing with restrained confidence and ferocity. But you’re mine, only I get to see you like this.”

You had planted your elbows and forearms next to his helm, forehelm resting on his ever since he set his brutal pace. Despite absolutely relishing the words that tumbled from his lust-addled processor to his straining vox, you knew he was just rambling. Because there was no time, no real need to form spark bonds in the middle of war, but you’ll take what you can get, and if it goes as far as being frag-buddies, then you’ll take it. A small whimper fell from your vox as his spike pistoned into your valve, hip platings scratching and sparking at every thrust, no doubt leaving paint transfers on one another. You’ll have to visit Knock Out again for a touch-up. 

“Screamer,” you vox moaned out in a tinny whine, “don’t talk like that.” Please, you wanted to plead to him, I don’t know how much more I can take. Because you wanted him, frag, you wanted him so badly; whether as a sparkmate, or even a Conjunx, if he ever wanted to go that far. A crush on your superior? It’s more likely than you think! But this isn’t some sparkling crush anymore, it’s become a full blown addiction, an obsession, and your spark aches every time you realize that you could never really have him.

His talons tighten on your waist as his spike drags along your valve walls, ridges catching every so often in a delightfully painful way. Starscream inclines his helm slightly, and you feel his dermas brush softly upon your neck cabling before planting a very light, almost chaste kiss. His arms move to encircle you, pressing you flush against his chassis in a firm embrace.

“I’ll say it as much as I want,” he nearly purrs into your audials with that low voice of his, “you’re mine, and you always will be. No other ‘bot can make you feel as good as me. No one else can…”

Starscream seems to hesitate for a moment, hips slowing to small, shallow thrusts, as he considers his next words very carefully. 

“No one else can make me feel this good,” Starscream confessed rather softly, in a way that was rather uncharacteristic.

You pull your helm up to gaze at him, optics bathing his faceplate in light as he did yours. Processor fried and short-circuiting, you didn’t know what to say. Are your audials glitching? Did you even hear him correctly? 

He looks back at you, faceplate holding a rather awkward and unsure expression. It’s almost like he surprised himself with the confession. As seconds ticked by, he stopped his hips completely as self-consciousness tightened its hold around his thrumming spark. 

“Look,” Starscream began, optics flitting down and to the side, “let's forget I even-”

Your servo comes up to tilt his helm to you, and you place your dermas upon his, slightly unsure but with restrained want. You’re kissing your commanding officer, and you have no idea if you even read the room right or if this was the appropriate move to do next regardless, but you did it anyway. And, Primus, you would cry if you could because you’ve been waiting for this for so long; even if this ruins the “relationship” you two have been building, you can die a little happy because at least you got to kiss him. 

But he returns it, Primus, he returns it. And it’s eager, unsure, lusting, and sloppy all at the same time. Your intakes move against one another in an unrefined dance as dentas hit one another and glossas roam. Amidst the fervent kiss, Starscream resumes his unrelenting pace, and you roll your hips in tandem with each thrust. His moans slip past his vox and into your mouth with each roll as he swallows every whimper you give him in return. Each thrust has you teetering the edge of oblivion as your valve cycles and tightens around his spike, earning a stuttered groan from the Seeker beneath you.  

He needs this, you think to yourself, he needs to feel wanted. Because at the end of the day, Starscream is just another mech looking to survive; sure, he may be his own undoing at times and perhaps he’s a bit rough around the edges in certain aspects, but he isn’t sparkless. He wants power, he wants that approval, he craves that attention, and, frag, you’ll give it all to him. You may be only one femme, but you’d give him anything his spark desires. Because he’s perhaps the most unlucky, stupidest, arrogant, narcissistic ‘bot you’ve ever met, like a sparkling seeking validation from its carrier or friends. And you love him for it. He’s like the stray you can’t kick to the curb even if it’ll be your own undoing. 

A particularly precise thrust has a moan tumbling from your vox with static, and it pulls you from the little tangent your processor decided to go on mid-frag. 

“Starscream,” you whine, “frag, I’m close.” His hips cant upwards more, pedes and heel struts bracing the berth beneath him. A servo leaves your waist and comes to press on your lower spinal strut, causing you to arch upwards slightly, applying a delicious pressure upon your lower abdominal platings. Your vox lets out a restrained, staticy whimper at the new position.

“So am I,” he groans, venting erratically as his cooling fans whirl to their highest setting, “Overload with me, my dear. Please. I need to feel you overload around me.”

His words push you to the edge, and your overload hits you with such ferocity that your optics shutter and offline. Your servos clench his shoulder plates as digits dig into the metal leaving thin scratches in their wake. In your euphoria, a loud moan erupts from your vox and fades to static as your valve cycles through the throbbing aftershocks of the overload. Lubricant gushes from your valve onto Starscream, and small beads of transfluid seep from behind the panel your spike was tucked away behind. 

He’s not far as hips stutter and falter and lose pace; he’s right behind you, and he overloads into your valve with a low, rumbling groan that pitches up as your valve cycles around his oversensitive spike. The translucent pink transfluid leaks out from your valve to join the growing pool beneath him. You two will definitely need a solvent shower after this. 

Heavy venting fills the air as cooling fans whirl and hum, as sparks thrum and turn with energy and euphoria. Starscream slowly pulls his spike out of your valve, and you feel the fluids leak out a little more freely without the obstruction. Gross in any other circumstance, but right now, you don’t mind. As your venting even outs, your optical lids flutter open as your optics finally online again. You move to sit next to him on the berth as he sits up on his elbow-joints.

“We’ve made quite the mess,” Starscream muses. 

“We always make a mess,” you correct.

“No, this definitely felt different,” he confides, “and there’s definitely more.” 

“That’s because we usually do quickies,” you respond, interface array clicking and sliding back into place. 

You could feel his EM field still burning with simmering arousal and lust and his spike slowly pressurizes again. 

“Do you need another round?” You whisper in his audial, voice low and tantalizing as you lean toward him.

He stiffens at your request, not realizing his wandering thoughts had indeed aroused him again. My rut must be near, he thought to himself before turning to face you, red optics boring into yours.  Before he can answer, you slowly place a kiss on his dermas and pull back with a sly smile, optics brightening with mischief. 

“Let me take care of you,” you purr out. “Please.”

Starscream’s processor short-circuits and his engine turns-over at your sultry request. He quickly composes himself, a smug smirk gracing his faceplate. 

“Who am I to deny such a request,” he answered, optics narrowing slightly with desire.

After his response, you place a servo upon his chassis and push him down slightly. His optics cycle a little as they widen, uncertainty and confusion gracing his faceplate as optic ridges pinch upward. 

“What-,” he begins before you cut him off.

“It’s my turn,” you answer smoothly. 

“What do you-,” Starscream starts again, cooling fans humming again as his EM field relays his confusion, uncertainty, and arousal.

“I said,” you continue, slotting yourself between his legs as you place servos on either side of his helm, “It’s. My. Turn.”

*~*

“I said,” you continue, slotting yourself between his legs as you place servos on either side of his helm, “It’s. My. Turn.”

Once again, Starscream looks up at you, squinting with a puzzled expression on his faceplate. His optics flick from your faceplate to your position between his legs before he hastily fixes his expression. 

“My dear,” his voice sultry, “if you want to suck my spike, then you know the position I like you in.” That devilish, leering smile pulled on his dermas as his servos came up to grip your waist. 

“Oh, I know,” came your reply. “But I’m not sucking your spike.” You thought for a moment before continuing, “well, I might. I want to make you feel good, and I’m going to do it my way.”

“And how do you plan on doing that?” came his smug reply.

Immediately, your servo reaches down and ghosts the length of his spike. He shudders and his venting hitches as his spinal strut arches into your teasing digits as his wings give a slight twitch beneath him. You smile at his reaction; he’s like putty in your servos, and it sends a rush through you like no other. 

“Frag,” Starscream said breathily, “just do whatever you have planned. I’m yours.”

“Such a good mech,” you hum, sliding down towards his hips as his servos move to grip the berth. 

You lay on your abdomen, hooking your elbow joints under his knee joints as you push his legs out to spread farther. His spike is pressurized in front of you, throbbing with desire and leaking a pearl of transfluid at his tip. A beautiful spike, black in color like the protomesh that lay under the armor platings and accented with the slate blue, gray, and red that adorned the rest of his frame. Biolights ran down the sides of it, blazing with the same bright red as his optics with ridges running along the underside. Lowering yourself toward it, you placed the tiniest kiss upon the tip, earning you a staticky sigh as his leg struts slowly relaxed. Your glossa licked teasingly at the tip, savoring the stutters and whines that he made. 

“Stop with the teasing,” he growls, “or I’ll take over.”

“So demanding,” you huff out. Might as well as give him what he wants, you think to yourself, and with that, you take his spike into your intake and swallow him to the hilt. Starscream’s hips buck up at the unexpected action as a loud, surprised groan escapes his vox. Your servos push down on his hip struts roughly, forcing them down on the berth as he shakes beneath you. Shaking servos gently grab your helm, mindful of the razor-sharp digits for once. You suck his spike ardently, glossa circling the tip when you ascend and lapping at the valleys and curves of each ridge as you go down. As you continue your handiwork, the digits of your servos trace the delicate transformation seams of his abdomen and thighs. He whines and whimpers and chants your name like he’d forget it; his servos find purchase on the side of your helm and lightly guide your helm up and down as his hips give shallow thrusts. You let him, of course. You can hardly ever deny him his pleasures. 

“Fuck,” the foreign expletive leaves his vox in a burst of static. “I should let you do this more often. How I love seeing you on your knees as you serve me. But this, frag, this feels divine.”

As you feel his overload approaching, you lift your intake off his spike and come towards him to hover over once more, servo pumping his spike lazily. A slightly irritated huff leaves his vox as Starscream peers at you through hazy, dim optics. 

“Is there a reason why you stopped?” he says, rather vexed.

“Can I frag your valve?” you whisper into his audial. Your once busy servo moved to place feather light touches on the interface array that hid his valve. His hips shift upward reflexively as you run your digits between the seams around his interface array. Starscream shivers at your touch, EM field rolling to meet yours in waves that conveyed his hesitation.

“Why?” he questions, optics narrowed.

“Because I want to make you feel good,” you say like it’s obvious, “but if you don’t want me to, then I’ll just focus on your spike.”

Starscream mulled the request over for a bit. Did he want you to? Primus, yes, it's been cycles since his valve has been properly fragged. In fact, he can hardly remember the last time he’s let anyone near his valve. Normally, before he met you, most of his . . . fragging adventures were sloppy and quick with him in control; merely a way to release pent up aggression, frustration, and when ruts were particularly hard. Actually, now that he thinks about it, the last spike he took was probably Megatron’s, back in the early days of the Decepticons, when things weren’t so dicey between the two. Starscream’s thought process must’ve taken longer than he realized because your servo was retreating from his valve array and reaching up towards his faceplate.

“Starscream,” you say softly, “if you aren’t comfortable using your valve, then that’s fine. In fact, if you’d rather be in control and use me to make yourself feel good, then that is fine as well.”

Without thinking, he jerked forward, elbows supporting him as he nearly collided with your helm. His wings were taut and fluttered slightly behind him as he reached forward to place a servo on your faceplate.

“No!” he said a bit rushed. “No, it’s not that. I just . . . haven’t used my valve in a while.” 

You gave a soft smile at his confession and leaned to place a kiss on his dermas. He relaxed into the kiss, but when you pulled away, your optics burned brightly, cycling excitedly. 

“I’m going to ruin you then.”

*~*

Two digits pumped slowly in and out his wet valve; similar in colors and accents to his spike, his biolights flickered with pleasure with each pump of your digits. You worked him open out of courtesy, not because your spike was overly massive, but because you didn’t want the experience to be uncomfortable. You stilled your servo as you buried the digits to the knuckle joints and curled them upward, hitting his ceiling node each time. Starscream writhed beneath you, wings scrapping the metal berth with each twitch as they lay trapped under him, servos gripping onto the berth like his spark depended on it. He moaned and mewled beneath you, optics screwed shut, fans whirring to cool his heated frame.

“By the Allspark, please, I need you inside of me,” he groans in static.

You come towards him, digits still pleasing his valve, and you kiss him heatedly. He returns it, uncoordinated and messy as his dentas pull on your bottom derma. After a few kliks, you pull away both from the kiss and his valve. Leaning upwards, his glittering optics watch you intensely as you click your spike interface array away. Your spike, pressurized and leaking, stood before him, your own biolights flickering with your arousal. The colors and accents matched your frame albeit the ridges underneath were smaller than a typical mech’s. 

“It may not be as impressive as a mech’s,” you confide, “but I can fuck you better than any mech.”

Before he can even comment, your servos find purchase on the berth next to his helm, and you slowly guide your spike into his dripping valve. He’s tight, wet, and warm. Cooling fans kick into overdrive as his legs grip around your waist tightly, and a restrained groan leaves through his gritted dentas. 

“Primus,” Starscream whines. “Primus, you feel amazing.”

Your spark thrums at the praise as you slowly sink to the hilt, releasing your own light moans in the process. Once fully sheathed within him, you pause; the room is filled with uneven venting, the drone of fans, and the sound of Starscream’s wings twitching against the metal berth. 

“Move,” he all but hisses out, “frag me until my processor short-circuits.”

“I could never deny you,” you breathe out, as you begin rocking your hips into his. The metal plating of both your hips scrap and clang together with each thrust, sparks flying as you pick up speed. Starscream whines and whimpers beneath you, digits digging into your forearm plating, scratching your finish. He looks pitiful and ruined already, optics hazy and dimmed and half-lidded. His intake gaped open as static and tinny pleas fell out. Your spike dragged across his valve walls as each thrust had you burying yourself to the hilt; your optics shuttered and dimmed with pleasure as you relished the sensation of his valve around your spike. 

Suddenly, without warning, you gripped the back of his knee joints and pushed them towards his chassis, folding him into a mating press.

“Fuck,” he moaned out, “fuck, fuck, fuck.”

“You take me so well, my Star,” you purred at him. “My good mech, so good for me. So wet and tight and warm. If you’re good enough, then maybe I’ll spark you.”

His hips jerked upwards to meet your next thrust as a loud moan erupted from his vox.

“Fuck, fuck, yes.” he breathed. “Fuck, spark me. Fill me up until neither of us can take it anymore, Primus, please. I’m your good mech, my dear, I’ll do anything you want.” His whines fell beautifully on your audials.

You slam into him at a vigorous pace, digits tightening around his knee joints as you pump into him. More whimpers and groans fall from his vox with static and restraint as he tries to gain some semblance of control. Each part of him shudders and his hips roll to meet yours as his overload nears.

“Frag, I’m-,” Starscream doesn’t finish his sentence as his valve spasms and cycles around your spike as his overload hits. As his valve gushes lubricant, his own spike spurts pink transfluid all over his own abdominal plating and chassis. Despite his overload, you keep going, giving short, precise thrusts that repeatedly target his ceiling node. Your servo reaches down to twist and pinch the exterior node, adding salt into the wound so to speak. He gasps and moans, vox cutting off abruptly as his vocal systems reboot; his optics flash brightly before offlining as well. You’ve effectively short-circuited him, you muse to yourself. 

As he navigates the processor-crashing overload and its aftershocks, you pull out of him and begin switching the position. He lets you move him without much fuss; you turn him over, on his servos and knees and bring his hips and aft right up against you, spike slotting between his leaking valve. His processor pulls itself out of the oblivion, and he weakly turns to face you.

“What-,” he begins before his sentence dies off into a groan as you push your spike back in.

You place a servo on his lower spinal strut and coax him to arch that pretty back of his. Starscream complies, wings jumping and fluttering at the sensation of your spike splitting him once more. 

“I’m not finished,” you say, and he can practically hear the smirk. 

As you resume your thrusting, you reach a servo to his wings and gently rub your digits across them. Reactively, he jolts, the loudest, whorish moan leaving his vox since the entire frag. His valve clenches and cycles with each caress you give his wings. 

“Sensitive?” you tease.

His only response is a garbled mess of static and cries. Starscream forces his hips back into yours, signaling you to go deeper and faster.

And you do.

You grip his hip struts and slam into him with vigor, rolling your hips upward as you ground into him each time you bury yourself to the hilt. Moans fall from both you and Starscream as he scrapes the berth with futility and as you bask in the pleasure his valve brings. You snake a servo down and begin pumping his neglected spike, and he overloads again suddenly, spurting and covering the berth with transfluid as he cries out. 

“Frag, I’m close,” you whimper out.

He pleads beneath you, staticy and whiney, “please, overload inside. Fill me up, please, I need to feel you.”

As your thrusts become shallow and erratic, you lean down and pepper his wings with kisses and bites, earning you groans from the Seeker beneath you. You lean down further to bite harshly into his neck cabling, adding new marks to the ones already there. Before your overload hits, you bite down hard at the junction of his shoulder plate and neck cables; energon floods your mouth as you whimper and moan amidst your overload. Your spike pulses as you fill him up, transfluid dribbling out the sides to meet the puddle beneath you two. Starscream sighs and mewls at the feeling, relishing the pressure it brought. His valve felt sore and numb and overstimulated all at the same time, and every miniscule movement that was made had him whining with both pain and arousal.

After both of you come down from your respective highs, rebooting and cycling your systems and processors, you gently pull out of his ruined valve, admiring the transfluid and lubricants swiftly leaking out. Starscream collapses onto his abdomen as you roll his limp frame over back onto his back. You find purchase between his legs once more, and he raises his helm feebly to look at you.

“We aren’t done?” He begins, static making it nearly impossible to discern his words. “By the Allspark, I don’t think I can go much longer.”

Like before, you place his knee joints over your shoulder platings as you snake your arms beneath his hips. You leave a light trail of kisses up his thighs, teasing the transformation seams as you approach both his spent valve and spike. 

“It would be rude of me to not clean you up,” you reply in a silky voice, despite your own vox’s static getting in the way. 

Starscream barely lets out an exhausted groan before latching your intake onto his valve, weaving your glossa between his mesh folds and delicate exterior node. His legs tremble with overstimulation and weakness as his servos once again return to rest upon your helm. You’re tender with him, touch barely there but enough to stir the mech who is at your mercy. With servos placed under his hip struts, you barely incline Starscream’s hips as you frag his poor valve with your glossa; his thighs squeeze your helm with no abandon in response to your actions, his vox crying out with tinny, high-pitched cries. You then move to suck earnestly at his exterior node, and he releases a pitiful whimper as a weak overload overtakes him. He feels a smile grace your dermas, and you lower your helm to place a few final licks and kisses as you lap up what little lubricants were left. You sit up, servos tracing his thigh and leg struts lovingly as his fans began slowing down and his EM field began evening out. 

From your subspace, you pull out a microfiber towel (always keeping one on you since you and Starscream began your excursions) and wipe down both his frame and yours before trying to clean the rest of the berth as completely as possible. After, you toss it somewhere in his quarters and lay next to him, propping your helm up in a servo as you laid on your side.

He looks graceful in his post-overload glow; a glow you’ve never really seen before because you’ve never really been given the chance. Starscream remains staring at the ceiling either dissociating because of the sheer pleasure you’ve given him, or he’s running a system reboot. Or both. His optics flicker and cycle in a languid manner before he sits up slightly to turn towards you. 

You hear his vox click and cycle before he speaks in a raspy, spent voice, “thank you.”

“Anytime, Starscream,” you reply, admiring the somewhat sheepish and simple response. 

He moves closer to you, and he curls himself into the crook of your neck cables, wings finally relaxed against his spinal strut as he shifts his weight against you to find a comfortable position. 

“Thank you for…,” he pauses, the next words feeling a bit heavy on his glossa, “Thank you for taking care of me. For not pushing me away. For treating me like I am deserving of this treatment, even what I know I may not be.”

You wrap your arms around him and press a chaste kiss on his helm.