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Mech Enough	By : swordqueen Category: Transformers > G1 > Slash - M/M Views: 3625 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: I do not own the Transformers characters or franchise. I make no profit writing or posting this story.

Chapter List
- 1-Mech Enough
- 1
Written for a tfanonkink request: G1, Starscream, sizequeening. Half-crack, at least. Hope you at least get a laugh out of it! ^___^

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Megatron seethed at the smirking jet lying on the berth. He’d been at it for…joors. Pumping frantically into the jet’s valve until his hip servos wore down from lack of charge. And still, the jet hadn’t overloaded, hadn’t been reduced to the shivering, quivering pile of scrap Megatron wanted. To prove that he controlled everything, including his Second in Command’s pleasure.

“Guess you’re…just not enough for me?” Starscream goaded. He flopped his thighs wider open, wiggling on the berth. Just…showing Megatron what he couldn’t handle. Giving him a good view of the valve he couldn’t satisfy. Starscream was irritated, aroused but infuriatingly unsatisfied, but Megatron had amply proven himself as not up to the task, so the jet was venting his frustration on the cause. He’d get SOME satisfaction from this.

“Your valve is obviously malfunctioning,” Megatron snarled. How dare Starscream? Then again, Starscream was Starscream. And the whole bout of interfacing had begun in an attempt to put the uppity jet back in his place. Namely, UNDER Megatron, taking his spike.

And he’d taken it. And taken it. And taken it. But it…hadn’t quite worked out. Megatron growled to himself. It was obviously. OBVIOUSLY, Starscream’s fault.

Starscream snorted, pushing up to an elbow. “There is nothing wrong with my valve…if it had an adequately sized spike to work with.”

Megatron stiffened. “You go too far, Starscream.”

“Too much for you that way as well, am I?” The white thighs swung closed, as the jet threw his legs over the edge of the berth. “I am glad I was able to demonstrate that to you in a way you could finally understand, LORD Megatron.”

Megatron shook with fury. This was…unacceptable. Not only the smeary silver pool of his transfluid, streaked across his berth, down jet’s thighs, like a visible reminder of how thoroughly he’d exhausted himself (his transfluid reservoir was verging on empty) but the entire incident had backfired. Instead of teaching Starscream some humility, it had…perversely encouraged him.

“No one has ever complained before,” Megatron snapped.

Starscream tipped his helm to one side. “It merely served them better to stroke your ego than tell the truth. Or take any pleasure.” He stood up, looking, amusedly, at the streaked and spattered berth. A work of art, a monument to Megatron’s endurance, perhaps. Or, more likely, Starscream thought, his intemperance.

Megatron hissed. “You are impossible to pleasure.”

“With your meager equipment, perhaps,” Starscream returned, evenly. He snapped his interface panel closed, briskly. “Now, was there anything else? If I must be…unsated, at least I can be doing something to serve the Decepticon cause.”

Megatron sizzled with fury. “I shall make you regret these insults.”

The red optics rolled under the black helm. “You mean more than I regret interfacing with you already?” He flicked his white wings, and strode to the door.

Megatron’s fists clenched. Starscream would learn who was in charge. He wanted to be sated? Oh, he would. And publicly. He’d show the entire Decepticon forces what a wanton insatiable slut the jet was. He’d make Starscream regret questioning his prowess. But first, he had to test. Starscream said he was too small? He’d find someone who was the perfect fit.

*~*~*~*

Starscream swaggered into the open room in the underwater base. Megatron had designed it for spectacles, of course. EVERYTHING must serve Megatron’s ego, Starscream thought, derisively. Even when space was a premium, Megatron must have his ostentation. He let his optics drift insolently around the assembled mechs. Well, well. Megatron was intent on doing this thoroughly. Or, really, Starscream corrected, having it done by proxy thoroughly.

Megatron had set himself up on his throne, of course, where he’d doubtless presume he’d have the best view. Oh, Starscream thought. Enjoy. I will make sure you have plenty to see.

“Who’s first,” he said, coming to a halt in the middle of the room. He let his wings flick. “Who thinks they have enough to satisfy me?”

Motormaster pulled out of the crowd. “More than enough.”

Starscream snorted. “I’m surprised you even know what it’s for.”

“You’d be surprised what I know.”

Starscream rolled his optics. Seriously? Still, it was all for the cause…of getting off, and showing Megatron up. And who knew? Motormaster had to be good at…something. Certainly wasn’t good at witty repartee. Starscream’s optics flicked to where Megatron was observing, keenly. “I guess I’ll just have to find out…the hard way.”

He positioned himself on the conference table Megatron had oh-SO-thoughtfully dragged into the center of the room for the occasion. The ambiance was a little off, but, well, one can’t have everything. And…as Starscream looked between his thighs as Motormaster unfastened his interface hatch, at least he was going to get a something. Quite an impressive something.

Motormaster’s spike was thick and reasonably long. The purple stripes ringing it made it hard to tell. Starscream’s valve gave a preliminary spiral in anticipation, a warm rush of lubricant running over the nodes, priming them for charge. He spread his legs, flipping open his own hatch, grinning as Motormaster’s optics were suddenly transfixed by the gloss of lubricant leaking from his eager valve. Starscream rolled his pelvic frame in a small circle. Inviting. Taunting. “Look like you’ve never seen one before,” he sneered.

Motormaster grunted, tearing his optics away. They raked up the jet’s body, taking in the amber belly of the cockpit, the goading smile. “Never banged a jet before.” Quite possible: Motormaster, if rumors were true, kept his spike to his own gestalt. Who were all much, much smaller. Starscream shivered at the thought of a spike that big cramming into a grounder-sized valve. He immediately regretted the shiver—Motormaster thought it was all about him. Starscream sighed. Mechs who preferred spiking really let it get to their heads.

He was willing—always—to be convinced that one mech who thought he had everything really had. Thus far, however…?

And then he gasped, as Motormaster grabbed him by one knee, and drove his spike at the valve. Oh, yes! The blunt spike’s circumference grated against the rim of his valve, pushing in, filling him. Starscream’s fingers clutched air, digging at the surface of the table, feeling Motormaster push in and in and….

What?

That was it?

Starscream looked down, irked, to see the pelvic frame bumping against his. Motormaster’s entire spike was sheathed in his valve and…it barely reached halfway. He howled at the injustice, even as he realized that it made sense—much longer and Motormaster would puncture his Stunticons’ valves. Still, the girth was something. He hoped. And he envied them even more, because a standard grounder valve would be filled, stretched by this spike.

Motormaster grinned down at him, waiting for him to be impressed. Pheh. Starscream activated his valve, the grips clenching around the spike and its optical-illusion stripes. Be impressed by this, Starscream thought. Motormaster’s lip curled in surprise, his hands curling around Starscream’s thighs, jerking his aft closer to the edge of the table for leverage.

Motormaster began pounding into the valve, spike driving in like a jackhammer. No technique at all, Starscream thought. Blunt force. Still, his nodes were picking up charge, even though the event was about as exciting as that time Skywarp had convinced him to try a floor buffer. And it would, he thought, risking a sidelong glance at Megatron, suitably humiliate Megatron if one of his newer creations could do the job he so obviously couldn’t. Starscream gave into it, closing his optics, feeling the spike drive into his valve, his aft thunk into the hard surface of the table, friction heated lubricant running slickly from his valve, pooling in the hatch’s base. The charge came in fast, thick thrusts, almost electrical pops, more like sparks than the slow build he liked. But charge was charge and Megatron was watching.

Starscream dropped his head back, his glossa running a circuit around his mouth plates. Mostly so he didn’t have to see Motormaster’s squinched-up face, but also because, well, he liked the wantonness of the pose. No sense gathering all these mechs here…without giving them something worth looking at. He even faked a moan, hoping it would encourage Motormaster to, you know, mix it up a bit. Change angle, or rhythm or pressure. Maybe at least move his face.

Nope. Perhaps a little…guidance. Motormaster was young and…OBVIOUSLY inexperienced. “Yes,” he said. Cheezy, but like…Motormaster would know that? “Oh frag yes. Oh, Motormaster. Oh! You’re so BIG!” Another flick of the optics to the throne, where Megatron was leaning forward, elbows on knees, optics keen, mouth parted.

Motormaster grunted. “Talker, huh?” He shifted his hands for better leverage, tossing one of Starscream’s thruster heels over his shoulder, the blue metal clanging against his shovel hood. “Wildrider’s a talker, too. Sometimes think his mouth is powered by his slaggin’ valve. Have to smush his face into the berth to get him to shut up.”

Oooookay. Well, that information was a step backwards in eroticism, Starscream thought. The very last thing he wanted was a visual of the truck-mech pounding into the smaller race car’s upraised aft, Wildrider mumbling something into the unyielding metal. He pushed the image from his mind, trying to substitute something hotter. Which was…Jetfire. Oh, much better. Though the image of Jetfire’s white frame was like a photonegative of the heaving, grunting dark-armored Motormaster. Jetfire’s spike, which was, to Starscream, the perfect spike, and handled with the skill of a master.

Motormaster…was no master. Despite the name. “Oh frag. Gonna flood your valve,” Motormaster muttered. “Guh. Soon. I come hard.”

Yeah. Starscream was beginning to get the impression Motormaster did everything ‘hard’. Fuck, overload, talk. Still: his audience. It wouldn’t do to have Megatron think he wasn’t having the time of his life. “Primus, yes,” he said. “Fill me. Oh, yesssssss.” Ridiculous. He was stifling a laugh.

Motormaster gave three quick, ugly grunts before a blast of hot fluid—well, at least he didn’t lie—shot into Starscream’s valve. Starscream jolted, a cry of surprise ripping from his vocalizer, his valve clutching greedily at the spike, gripping through the sudden slickness. He shivered. THAT was unexpected.

Motormaster smirked down at him. “Heh. Almost as noisy as Breakdown.”

And….that killed the moment. Not that the moment was that magical, really. He rolled his optics toward Megatron, yelling, “NEXT!”

Megatron met his optics for a long, evaluating moment, optics narrowing. “Astrotrain,” he said, snapping his fingers.

Astrotrain stepped forward, a little shyly, optics flying between Megatron and Starscream.. Awww, Starscream thought, someone’s not used to an audience. Starscream flopped his thighs open, giving Astrotrain a good look at the…goods. Astrotrain’s blunt wings twitched, optics skittering over Starscream’s body. Encouraging, Starscream thought. He slid a hand between his legs, blue finger framing his valve, swirling through the seeping silver transfluid. He drew a line up his body, a silver trail over his amber cockpit. Astrotrain quivered, stepping closer. Oh, the shyness…Starscream could work with.

He tilted his head invitingly. “Why…Astrotrain,” he drawled. “What a pleasure.”

“Is it?” Neutral. Gauging him. Well, Astrotrain wasn’t his favorite mech. But he was…mechamometers above Motormaster. And, well, Starscream had always been curious about the standard equipment for a triple changer. Well, you know…new modifications. And Starscream was a scientist. One who had always preferred to be…hands on.

Starscream sat up, reaching for Astrotrain. “It will be,” he said, slyly. He took the triple-changer’s hand, drawing him closer, blue fingers tickling up the larger mech’s frame. If he were proportional—at all—this would be exquisite.

Astrotrain took the hint, his hands starting first with Starscream’s thighs, sliding up the white metal, dipping into the gaps, thumbs brushing against the interior cabling. Starscream purred, encouragingly. Astrotrain’s optics scoured Starscream’s body, tracing long lines along the joins of Starscream’s wings to his body. Yes, having a flight mode, Astrotrain would know about that. He stepped closer, fingers following optics, the delicate connections of body to wing sleek and responsive to his touch.

Starscream dropped back onto his elbows, one leg dangling off the end of the table, stroking Astrotrain’s bulky thigh, the other knee bent, blue thruster heel braced on the table’s edge, inviting Astrotrain between them.

The larger mech’s thigh armor slid over the thinner plates of Starscream’s inner thigh, his size pushing the legs aside, stretching open. Starscream could feel the mech’s electromagnetic field like a tingling pressure on the already charged rim-nodes of his valve. He shivered in hungry anticipation, his valve cycling eagerly, desperate to be filled.

The dark fingers pinched and traced the fine wing-flaps at the tops of Starscream’s wings, tweaking them gently. Starscream’s ventilation hitched. Oh, another flyer was a wonderful thing, almost as good as a mech apparently as eager to please as Astrotrain.

“Show me,” he murmured. “Let me see it.”

Astrotrain ducked his head, shyly. Starscream curled forward, stretching one hand to trace the contours of the interface hatch, his own touch ghosting and light. “Show me,” he repeated.

Astrotrain clicked open the auto-release, and his spike, already pressurized and globbed with lubricant, thrust the hatch open in an insistent testimony to his own arousal. Oh. Very, very nice. No need for optical illusions here—the spike was larger than Starscream’s hand, his fingers unable to meet around it. Starscream stroked the slick lubricant up and down the spike, twisting over nodes. Astrotrain went rigid, optics dim. Very promising, Starscream thought. He guided the larger mech to him, pointing the spike at his valve in a not-subtle hint. He dipped his other hand in the slick silver transfluid oozing from his valve, and rubbed it along the spike, the silver swirling with the clear lubricant. Astrotrain quivered, optics intent on his own spike, vents ragged and uneven.

Hah. And he hasn’t even sampled the goods yet, Starscream thought, hitching his red hips up in open invitation. Starscream hissed in pleasure as the spike entered, filling him, slow and gentle, pushing open the already-wet lining of the valve, pressing outward into his systems. Astrotrain pushed in, like, well the metaphor DID fit, like a train into a station, the head of the spike bumping against the ceiling node. Starscream’s valve grabbed at the spike, embracing it, coaxing it, feeling the delicious node-on-node tingle.

Astrotrain dropped forward, his dark hands flat against Starscream’s wingspan. “Frag,” he breathed. He rolled his pelvic arch, the spike shifting in the valve, contacting other nodes. Starscream shivered deliciously—unfeigned this time.

“That’s the general idea,” he grinned. He curled his own hands—hey this was about him getting off, he was allowed to touch!—around the curved contours of Astrotrain’s stubby wings.

Astrotrain began moving, slowly, rocking his spike in the valve, the angle changing from in-thrust to withdrawing pull, with the careful slow pace of a mech who is used to being too big, and afraid of hurting someone. His optics—vaguely worried—watched Starscream’s face, hands still braced flat on the wings. “Good?” he asked.

“Very,” Starscream purred, rolling his own hips in a circling counterpoint to Astrotrain’s steady thrusts. Very, very good, actually. The spike surged like an insistent tide in his valve, nodes sliding over nodes, the coolness, the sleek metal hardness of the spike a high contrast with the friction-warmed, yielding valve. Starscream drooped back, wrapping his legs around the slowly rising and falling hips, hands stroking up the dark arms, teasing into the elbow joints. His optics were dim with pleasure. This was not an act for Megatron’s sake. This was pure, delicious pleasure.

And the thrusts picked up pace just when he wanted them to, just as the urgency began to build, Astrotrain becoming more confident, more aggressive. Starscream moaned his approval, hands clutching into the shoulders. Astrotrain gave a soft growl.

Starscream’s optics brightened. A side of Astrotrain he’d never seen. He was so accustomed to thinking of the triple-changer as large, non-fractious, transport. He pulled his face into a goading grin. “Getting rough with me, are you?”

“I…can if you want?”

Again the delicious hesitation, the desire to please, almost more than to be pleased. You, Starscream decided, are the anti-Megatron. He quirked his supraorbital ridge. “I do want.”

A fleeting smile across the lavender face. And then the large powerful hands moved from his wingflaps, down his sides, to cup his hips, scooping him up. The thrusts grew even more insistent, a slight curl coming to the mouth, the fingers cupping under his aft, boldly exploring the gaps in his armor. Starscream moaned, lifting his head up, looking down the angled swell of his cockpit, straining to catch flashes of the purple spike as it buried itself in his wet, eager valve. Frag, yes. Finally.

Astrotrain smiled down at him, and abruptly, Starscream found the hands under his aft heaved up, flipping him over, one wing clanging against the table before he landed face down. Somehow, the spike stayed in his valve the whole time, the action twisting the valve’s lining. Astrotrain’s hands grabbed at his wings, stroking, caressing the broad surfaces almost frantically. Starscream’s squeal of protest fizzled into a shuddering moan.

Starscream arced his spinal struts, pushing his valve invitingly upward, rocking it into the renewed thrusts of the thick spike. He blinked his optics drowsily, catching sight of Megatron’s aroused expression, the way Megatron squirmed on the throne. Better and better, he thought, through the rising haze of lust, enflamed beyond sense by the heavy presence of the spike moving like a living thing in his valve. Astrotrain growled softly. Starscream muttered something back, hands curling on the table’s surface. Oh whatever. Just…don’t stop, he thought, as the spike’s thick slide pushed him dizzily closer to ecstasy.

Thwack!

Starscream jolted out of his blissful haze as a dark hand slapped down upon his aft, the sudden influx of pain startling his sensornet with a blaze of red. What? NO! No one spanks Starscream!

Starscream thrashed, trying to swat at Astrotrain, but the motion stirred the spike in his valve—or more precisely, shifted his valve around the spike. He shuddered. Another smack, the other side. Starscream howled in protest, thrashing again, setting another cascade of sensation from the valve’s shifting contact with the valve. Megatron laughed. Starscream gritted his dentae, prepared to endure, as Astrotrain continued this regime: thrusting into him, hard, pulling out gently, with random punctuations of slaps on Starscream’s sensitized aft plating.

Starscream howled into an overload at the fifth spank, his valve clenching down upon the spike an astroklik before Astrotrain roared, both hands slamming down simultaneously upon his aft, transfluid gushing into the valve.

Starscream fell limp, resting his cheek on the table. Astrotrain withdrew sheepishly, the spike sliding from the overstimulated valve in a silver flood.

Megatron chortled from the throne. “Had enough?”

The sneer in the voice galvanized Starscream. He pushed himself up, palms on the table. He remembered Megatron’s goading laugh, caught it echoed in the snickers around the room. “Never.”

Megatron faltered as Starscream flipped himself over, wiping the silver mess from his thighs with fastidious fingers. Starscream cast deliberately insolent optics over the assembled mechs. “Well?” he taunted. “Any of you? Or are you willing to cede that it is beyond your abilities?”

A muttering rumble in the ranks, a few mechs shifting forward. Starscream sneered. “Are you all so eager to prove your inadequacy?”

The motion subsided. Starscream snorted. Weaklings. Inadequately equipped, both for this and the task of leadership. His lip curled as he turned back to Megatron. “Well, fearless leader, at least you are in good company.” Those mechs who…could not handle him.

“Oh, honestly.” The gravelly voice cut through the shuffling sounds, mechs pushing themselves aside. “I have things I need to be doing. Let’s end this.” Onslaught burst out of the crowd, hand already on his interface hatch.

Onslaught? Interesting. And, Starscream thought, wriggling on the table, a little naughty. He, after all, had been the one to give Onslaught a new body, freedom, everything. He was in a sense Onslaught’s maker. Deliciously kinky. Starscream looked over, curious to see what Onslaught thought he had that could beat Astrotrain.

Oh there was a fantastic image—Onslaught and Astrotrain. Duelling spikes. Yesssssss. Starscream squirmed, his valve releasing a warm wash of thin lubricant at the very idea.

Until he saw what Onslaught was packing. It wasn’t…pitiful. But it was hardly in the same league as the others. Primus, even Megatron’s base unit was larger. Still, Starscream didn’t have it in him (oh, that was a poor choice of words!) to back out of it now, and what was the risk? He’d just be…bored and unsatisfied. Just like with Megatron. Hardly unendurable. But there was the novelty of Onslaught. And the audience, of course. There was the audience to think of. Who had come for a show and, well, should not be disappointed. And whose gaze he felt like a tingling fire traveling his armor. They should not be disappointed.

Even if Starscream was.

“Right.” Onslaught positioned himself between Starscream’s legs. “What’s the point of this whole…exercise?”

Starscream smirked up. “To get me off, obviously.”

“I’m unclear why you need so much…publicity.”

“Because I’m worth it.” He jerked his chin toward Onslaught’s spike, which was at least strongly pressurized. Maybe what he lacked in size he thought he could make up for in endurance. Some grounders did prize that. He rolled his optics at Onslaught’s bland expression. “The object,” he hissed, impatiently, “is to prove to Megatron that other mechs can satisfy me where he cannot.”

One of Onslaught’s shoulders hitched. His face was impassive behind the visor. He had no love lost for Megatron. “Got it.”

Got it? Starscream opened his mouth to school his creation on proper pillow-talk, when Onslaught hauled him down to the edge of the table. His wings scraped against the surface, which was…surprisingly hot, the large spread of contact, the mass of stimulation, just at the edge of pain. Onslaught sank his spike into Starscream’s valve, cool against the still-friction heated mix of transfluid and lubricant in the valve. But still. It was just a spike. Nothing to comm Shockwave about. Meh.

Onslaught’s hands braced over his red hipframe, the optics going distant. And then.

What the--?

The spike began to—he’d swear to it—swell inside him, shifting, moving around, pushing against the lining of his valve. He couldn’t help it: he looked down. Had Onslaught shoved something else in there?

Onslaught caught his startled look. “Gestalt body,” he said, simply.

Oh, well. That made perfect sense.

Wait. Why did gestalts need a spike? And when had that happened? That hadn’t been in his original design. Otherwise he’d have…sampled the goods well before now. Onslaught’s transformed spike distended his valve, pushing into his secondary systems, pressuring the nodes. The girth put an outward pressure against the rim, the solid bulk of metal swelling against metal. It felt…exquisite. And Onslaught wasn’t even moving.

Starscream’s optics dimmed.

“Good enough?” Onslaught asked. There was something unnerving, and yet…strangely erotic in his bland stare. None of Megatron’s lustful contempt. Or Astrotrain’s eagerness. Or Skywarp or Thundercracker’s raw and familiar entitlement. It made no sense—no admiration, no recognition. Just a bland impassive stare.

And Starscream felt like he was aflame with lust.

“There’s more?” he gasped.

Another one-shouldered shrug. “Not sure you can handle it. Not really designed for the standard model valve.”

Either Onslaught knew Starscream better than the Seeker thought, or he knew nothing. “Give it to me,” Starscream begged, blue fingers grasping at the olive armor. “Everything.”

The visor seemed to glow on the verge of amusement. And…OH! Starscream felt the metal rim of his valve give with a loud ‘crack’ as the spike suddenly swelled within him, again. The metal stretched the mesh of his valve lining, straining the wires, pulling at the sensornodes, grating against the valve’s ceiling node. A gout of pain shot across his net, that skittered into intense rushes of pleasure, that scurried back and forth every time he shifted, even slightly. There was no other word for this but…impaled. And it was gloriously arousing.

He found himself panting, dropping back to his elbows, cockpit heaving, its forward end tilted up from the invasion of the monstrous spike inside him. “Everything?” he gasped.

“Yes.” Almost a hint of irritation, as if Starscream had no reason or right to question his obedience.

Starscream dropped his head back. Oh, frag. This was…impossibly intense. Just the hum of Onslaught’s basic systems, the tiny vibration they gave off, was shimmering across the mingled pain and pleasure. He felt his body quivering, on the brink of ecstasy. A rippling whine tore itself from his vocalizer, his valve’s mechanisms skirting tentatively around the spike, releasing to their maximum apertures, and straining, even so, against their couplings.

“Done here?” Onslaught said.

Oh, almost. Just lying here, just feeling the vibration of Onslaught’s voice, caused him to shudder, his valve attempting again to clutch at the too-large spike. “Do I look done?”

Onslaught grunted and lifted Starscream’s hips. Starscream braced himself for the full slide of the spike in and out of his valve, anticipating the warm collapse of the mesh as the spike withdrew, then the sharp expansion as the spike pushed in. It would break him, he knew. Something would give, and tear, beyond the split ring of his valve. It would be exquisite and agonizing. He waited.

A quick, considering jerk of the head, and the spike began moving in the valve. Not…in and out though. Rotating along its length, slow, dragging its fullness around the sensornodes, its lumpy shape pulling around the mesh.

Starscream gave a throaty howl, hands clutching at his own out thrust thighs hard enough to leave three blue streaks of paint down each plate. His body bucked, thrashing against the table, his wing flaps fluttering. His sensornet was a shifting, burning lake of absolute physical pleasure, the overload flaring over him, sparks crackling over his armor from the intensity.

The spinning idled down, the action slow but intense over his oversensitized nodes, scraped nearly raw from pressure and heat. He ached, the best kind of ache, the hot, throbbing kind that carried memories of pleasure with every crest. Onslaught dropped his aft back on the table, and the spike seemed to fold itself in, surfaces bubbling and receding against Starscream’s heated, slick valve lining. He withdrew, almost gently. Starscream moaned at the kiss of cold air against the overheated surfaces, the sudden chill of the lubricant and transfluid on his thighs.

“I hope you’ve learned your lesson, Starscream,” Megatron’s gravelly voice rang. Starscream lolled his black helm over to one side.

“Oh I have,” Starscream murmured. “More gestalts.”
- 1
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