Chapter Text
By the time Megatron angrily summoned him to his throne room, Starscream had already devised his plan of escape.
This wouldn't be the first time Megatron would forgive him for something a more principled leader would have him offlined for. Which Starscream was starting to realize was the problem. Especially when he arrives at the throne room and sees Tarn lurking two paces behind Megatron, casting an aura of despair and foreboding. The surly pillar of doom glares at him as he enters, his optics tiny red pinpricks behind his mask.
Starscream sneers. He normally did not think of Tarn at all, but making sure he never had to think about Tarn relied on keeping Megatron satisfied. So, there went his plan. Tarn did have a particular gift for being a convenient spike-block, whenever Megatron was involved. Nonetheless, as Starscream sweeps into a bow, his optics linger on the juncture of Megatron’s broad, silver thighs, making sure Megatron notices him looking before meeting his glare.
“We have company?” he asks lightly.
“We do,” says Megatron.
“Pity. I thought I'd do something nice to improve your mood.”
“Don't try to ply me with excuses. Your mouth is not going to get you out of this.”
“Your loss,” drawls Starscream. He places a hand on his waist, the movement drawing Megatron’s attention briefly.
Megatron’s frown darkens. “I always get the sense you’re trying to take advantage of my favor. By using your particular charms.”
“Everyone thinks I’m charming, my lord. Only certain mechs are suspicious enough to mistake my affability for manipulation,” says Starscream, sneaking a narrow glance at Tarn.
Megatron’s glare burns into him. “Your evil little seductions won't work on me any longer.”
“And I’m supposed to think you really mean that this time?”
“Mind your tongue in the presence of our leader,” snarls Tarn.
Starscream rolls his optics, supposing he should address the hulking menace in the room.
“Why is he here?” he asks Megatron. “He can't be great company.”
Megatron’s expression softens marginally, into something resembling a smirk. “On the contrary,” he says, gesturing at Tarn to approach.
Starscream watches, as Tarn clomps around to face Megatron, assuming a worshipful grovel at the foot of the throne. Squarely between Megatron’s thighs.
“My solution,” says Megatron, gesturing pointedly at Starscream, “to a recurring problem. “You see, Starscream, I've long overlooked your blatant treachery in the face of your more charming aspects. But another option has presented itself.” He claps a hand heavily on the back of Tarn’s helm, so that it bows further between his thighs. “I’ve considered many options, and have concluded that Tarn is, in fact, more suitable to please me than y–”
Starscream bursts out laughing. “Tarn?” he cackles, shrilly. “You're trying to replace me with Tarn? Does he even have a mouth?”
Megatron’s smirk falters. “Don't trifle me, Starscream.”
Starscream fights to get his laughter under control. “A lack of a mouth is hardly a trifle in this circumstance.”
"You’ll be lacking a mouth if you keep running yours,” snarls Megatron.
“You wouldn't.”
“Won't I? When I demonstrate how my perfect warrior fares against you?” asks Megatron, shoving Tarn’s face against his panel. Tarn’s fans click on loudly.
“As thrilling as that sounds, I have other duties that are more pressing than watching that thug fumble with your equipment,” says Starscream, turning to leave. Satisfied he’d escaped trouble yet again, he was no longer inclined to stick around. This wouldn't be the first time Megatron had tried to make him jealous by making some tragic-looking bot clang him. But it was certainly his most insulting attempt yet.
"Watch,” Megatron orders, and Starscream halts, purely out of amusement at Megatron’s confidence in such a pathetic substitute as Tarn. “Observe him at his task. Perhaps you can take some pointers in obedience.”
Starscream cackles. “Obedience? You'll never convince me that’s what you want out of me.”
“It’s what I am entitled to.”
“Perhaps. And yet you seem so fond of my heel on your neck.”
That gets a rise out of Tarn, who lurches against Megatron’s grip, attempting to defend his honor. Starscream’s allowed to be a little cruel– it’s cruelty incarnate to be told Tarn is better than him in any capacity.
“Oh? Does Tarn not know,” continues Starscream, “that our lord is far more receptive to his subordinates’ desires than he lets on?”
Megatron just stares at him, stony faced. He’s unnaturally calm.
“You’ll find Tarn’s skill far surpasses your own,” he says.
Starscream makes a face. What an absurd and patently false claim. But Megatron seems confident, like he thinks he’s going to prove something. Starscream folds his arms and wanders closer.
Megatron’s optics glint. “You look conflicted, Starscream. You didn't assume you were the only one who could please me?”
“Like access to your rusty box is some sort of privilege,” Starscream sneers. “By all means, enjoy."
Although he wouldn't call it a privilege, he’d be lying if he said he wasn't possessive about being Megatron's favorite lover.
It wasn't an official title, but Megatron’s preference for him was carefully acknowledged among the Decepticons. No Decepticon who preferred their helm attached to their shoulders had dared try to claim Starscream’s place, and Starscream could not fathom it would be taken from him on this occasion either. Certainly, no other was equipped to handle Megatron the way he was.
Megatron was loath to admit it, but he had certain preferences in berth that could be considered… unbecoming of a feared warlord. A predilection to be dominated that he was self-conscious about. Upon discovering this preference, Starscream had made it his mission to be the only one Megatron could trust to please him in that fashion.
There was something wonderfully powerful about being the only mech allowed to make their great leader’s thighs shudder under the clever machinations of his glossa. How easily the champion of Kaon could be subdued-- how obedient and pliable he became– with Starscream’s spike up him. And only Starscream’s spike.
Not only is claiming the Lord of the Decepticons’ favor necessary for Starscream’s ego to feel properly stroked, it’s strategically useful. He needs the old pervert lusting helplessly after him; knowing he’s got him under his thumb. Needs to incentivize him to obey every one of his whims, and forgive his misdoings. After all, the Slagmaker can't slag the most competent provider of one of his favorite forms of recreation.
Of course, Megatron had made certain no one else knew of his submissive predilection, and Starscream wasn't about to share such a delicious secret. Though he could understand Megatron wanting variety. Even from someone as unfortunate looking and woefully ill-suited for the job as Tarn.
Though Tarn looked the part of a conqueror, and would take his lord’s secrets to his grave, Starscream is already anticipating Megatron will quickly become bored with his unworthy substitute. A aft-kisser like Tarn did not have the bearings to dominate Megatron properly.
Megatron, however, seems to have no such reservations, and spreads his legs very wide to accommodate Tarn’s huge shoulders. He retracts his panel, displaying his valve for Tarn shamelessly.
Starscream wonders how often they've done this together, without his knowledge. If Megatron had to be cajoled to give him even a glimpse at first, or if he'd shown off his valve eagerly. Both options inspire resentment that this was clearly not the first time Tarn had served Megatron. Starscream lets his annoyance simmer as Tarn goes down on their lord.
Tarn, as it turns out, does have an intake. He removes his mask and applies his glossa to Megatron’s bared array without hesitation, drawing it up the plump mesh in long, even strokes.
Starscream snorts derisively. Tarn’s technique can be classed as ferocious, and from the way his helm is getting dented in Megatron’s grip, it’s particularly effective. A deluge of praise tumbles from Megatron’s mouth, and it has a remarkable effect on Tarn, who tries to pull away and express his gratitude.
“My lord–” he starts, but the deep rumble of his vocalizer vibrating Megatron’s array makes Megatron growl and pull him in tighter, cutting off the rest of his statement.
Predictably, having his nose shoved into his leader’s valve only serves to inflame Tarn further.Lubricant is escaping his panel, steadily leaking onto the floor. Starscream scoffs. The sycophantic idiot is dripping untouched, just from praise. He eats valve like he’s starving, so eager to please, and his field is saturated with bliss. Starscream couldn't imagine being so embarrassingly infatuated.
Unfortunately, Megatron’s field mirrors Tarn’s in its uninhibited delight, crashing against Starscream’s. Starscream adamantly ignores it. He won't be taunted. Even as Megatron’s hips buck upwards in little undulations, trying to force Tarn’s glossa deeper. Taking the hint, Tarn holds him down on the throne, using his huge bulk to press Megatron’s legs wide apart as he stuffs his greedy valve.
Megatron can only be held in place and dominated, every inch of his heavy frame trembling with need. He moans in rapture, and Starscream watches with a cold feeling of trepidation as Tarn brings him to a powerful overload in record time.
Tarn seems reluctant to stop servicing his lord for even a moment, even when it’s clear Megatron is thoroughly overstimulated. Megatron is forced to shove Tarn’s helm back, emitting a series of helpless moans unbefitting a warlord while he decorates Tarn’s face with his lubricants.
And, well. Hearing him make those noises for someone else ignites something hot and unpleasant in Starscream’s tanks.
There’s a hiss of hydraulics and a clank of armor as Megatron slumps into his throne. He sags under the weight of his satiety, his legs splayed to show off his immense pleasure. His valve is flushed and swollen, and his overload is all over Tarn’s face. Which he cups, and draws him in again.
“Wonderful,” he rasps, thumbing Tarn’s chin. And from the dazed, stupid way he’s looking at him, he really means it.
Starscream bites the inside of his cheek. His irritation sizzles brighter. Starscream knows he’s beautiful, and that Megatron takes great pleasure in watching him bury his face in his array.
There's nothing worth praising about Tarn’s repulsive features and overeager technique. Tarn doesn’t deserve to be gazed at so fondly, like he's a gift from Primus.
While Starscream is fuming, Megatron’s attention locks hungrily on him, gauging his reaction to all this. And he looks smug.
“I do hope that was insightful for you. In showing that your skills can be replicated," he says.
Starscream realizes he’s scowling and twists his mouth into a smirk. “This doesn't prove anything.”
“No? Perhaps you’ll feel differently when you watch him spike me.”
“You love interfacing with me,” spits Starscream, horrified as Tarn rises, standing imperiously between Megatron’s legs.
“Oh, but Tarn is so much more satisfactory. I do think you may even be… subpar, in certain respects,” says Megatron, with a pointed glance to Tarn’s array.
The burning creep of irritation explodes into a wildfire, shooting through Starscream’s systems. He laughs, harshly, trying to subdue the agitated twitching of his wings. “It’s just so hilarious that you're pretending he's in my league. But I’ll indulge your delusions. Don't bother calling on me again.”
“I won't,” says Megatron curtly. He strokes Tarn’s hip. The motion is so tender, Starscream wants to purge.
“That will be all, Starscream.”
As if he'd accept that. Starscream wants to claw Tarn’s throat open and take his rightful place back. Slam his spike into Megatron and make him moan louder, overload harder. And then kill Megatron for humiliating him. Not like he needed more of a reason.
Megatron won’t be enjoying his replacement for long, he thinks mutinously, as he stalks out.