[G1] Perfection

It didn’t matter who was on the other side. It never mattered. Sunstreaker didn’t ask, didn’t care. This wasn’t about them. This was about himself, about the way he looked in the mirror, perfectly polished, perfectly shined.

This was about the reflection of himself, the gleam of lubricant glittering deep within his valve, the bright jut of his spike, gold inlays glittering along the length. It was the way he gripped himself, slow and methodical, or the way he teased his fingers around his rim and flirted with his ring of exterior nodes. Small, but effective.

His optics glowed in the mirror. He didn’t look down at his frame. Instead, he watched the mirror, tracking the motion of his fingers. He didn’t use toys. He didn’t need them. His hands were good enough, perfect enough, to suit his needs. He knew exactly how to touch himself, how to excite his nodes, how to drag out the pleasure.

His ventilations hitched. His faceplate colored with heat. He looked wanton as he gnawed on his bottom lip, but that was okay. Because it didn’t matter who was on the other side of the mirror. They were the lucky ones to see Sunstreaker like this, genuine and uninhibited.

They were lucky.

Sunstreaker groaned down deep, fingers tracing his rim again and again. He painted lubricant over his nodes, watched it glisten as it moistened his rim. His biolights glittered, the perfect color to accentuate. He made sure of that.

His spark fluttered. His hips moved, rocking slowly, so slowly, into the pleasure he painted over his own frame.

This was perfect. He was perfect.

Sunstreaker’s gaze lifted, catching his own optics in the mirror, dark with desire. His lower lip was swollen, imprints of his denta visible. His glossa wet his lips, making them glisten.

He found and pinched the cluster of tiny nodes at the caudal end of his valve. The smallest whimper escaped him. His hips rocked forward.



Sideswipe raised the fee with every subsequent session. And every time, he paid in full. He found some way to come up with the credits because this had to be witnessed. For what was art worth if it wasn’t seen?

Through the glass, Sunstreaker finally reached for his spike, backstrut arching as he fingered the tip of it.

Megatron’s engine revved.

Yes. Worth every credit, every time, he thought, and reached for his array, intending to copy Sunstreaker’s actions down to the last squeeeze.


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