The fact that Whirl doesn’t have an actual face doesn’t stop him from making one, you discover.
The ex Wrecker regards you with a kind of dangerous curiosity that makes you feel very small, like helpless prey cornered by a predator not entirely interested in killing you so much as he’s interested in eating you alive. The Autobot makes a small, almost irritated sound, and you’re pulled rather roughly from your thoughts when he jostles you with the flat of his claw. “You smell,” he intones, in that perpetually jeering tone of voice that never fails to make you wonder if he’s genuinely making fun of you or not, but before you can even think of coming up with a reply to his blunt commentary, he’s already talking again, poking and prodding your stomach with rough servos (claws, actually), single optic trailed suspiciously between your legs. “It’s coming from down there. Oh fuck, did you piss yourself or something?” The helicopter barks out a laugh when your face goes several shades of bright red, and he completely ignores the way you swat irritably at him, instead roughly patting the top of your head. “Settle down squish, I want to see.”
He maneuvers you down onto your back with a surprising gentleness that almost seems like an afterthought - Considering how he’s constantly anything but gentle around you, and you wonder if he’s doing that on purpose or if he really doesn’t realize how fragile you are next to him - When he digs his claws into the waistband of your clothing, and you wince when the sound of fabric carelessly tearing apart colours the air (you really rather liked those clothes, but then again, it was your own fault for always dressing so nicely around the Autobot). Your annoyance doesn’t manage to last half as long as you’d like when your greeted by something hard and cold pressed against your underwear, and the ex Wrecker fumbles with the soft material for a moment before you manage to dissuade him from tearing it into shreds. “Let me do it,” you murmur, averting your gaze and sliding your thumbs in the space between your skin and the soft, pastel coloured cloth, “I really like this pair.”
Again the helicopter laughs at you (though it’s not unkindly), swatting your hands away and peeling the tiny thing off of you himself, pulling the thin fabric past the swell of your hips to roll around itself against your thighs. He places his servos over your knees and pulls your legs apart, pushing his head in between them and nuzzling against your tender flesh, his pedipalps digging into your softness hard enough to bruise. He makes a soft clicking sound that vibrates against your bones and tickles your skin, nosing past the gentle folds of your entrance and thrumming inquisitively - It’s not unpleasant, but the embarrassment you’ve been holding back is a little more pressing now that he’s actually looking at you, and it’s with no small amount of mortification that you bury your face into your hands when he pulls his not-face away, dark red staining dirty blue paint.
You’re not sure if he simply fails to notice your embarrassing predicament or if he chooses to ignore it, but you’re not given any time to ask when he replaces his head with one of his claws, running the dull, outer curve of his finger-like blade right under your clit, right between your labia. It’s no surprise that you aren’t able to stop yourself from gasping, back arching against him when he rubs against you, and something very close to disappointment bubbles up in your chest when he pulls his hand away. “Huh,” he peers at the blood that stains his not-fingers, single optic dimming in the equivalent of a squint, and the Autobot lets out a rush of air when he takes a curious sniff. “Oh man, hey this is uh, what do you guys call it? Your inside juice - No, no don’t tell me!” He raps his unsoiled claw against the side of his helm, once then twice, huffing and chuffing to remember, “Oh! Right right, it’s called… Blood! Yeah, this is your blood, ain’t it?”
He seems incredibly pleased with himself for having remembered the earth word, puffing his chest out like some kind of self satisfied bird while his cockpit bobs upwards as he continues to preen. There’s a bit of a beat before he stops, pleased expression morphing into that of - Is that worry? Was Whirl even capable of expressing worry for anyone other than himself? (You’d like to think so, you’d like to think sometimes he’s worried about you, even if he doesn’t know how to show it.) “Hey. Hey, why are you bleeding, anyway? Did you fucking fall over, or something?” He falters for all of a second, before he’s pushing you back down and shoving his head back between your legs, shoulders bumping clumsily against your knees and the slender taper of his not-face burying itself against your opening. He chuffs a second time, the spent air warm and heavy against you, and somewhere in the back of your head you realize that you’re beginning to leak. You shift somewhat uncomfortably, all too aware of Whirl’s suddenly burning interest in your anatomy, and once again you’ve got your hands over your face when the ex Wrecker peels you open, burying his claws as far in as he can get them and twisting them about inside of you.
Your humiliation seemingly knows no bounds when you feel yourself drip, something viscous and not quite completely liquid making its way out of you, pooling on the floor under your thighs. The ex Wrecker dips the edge of a claw into the red mess, stirring it up and making small noises of mixed curiosity and disgust (despite everything, you don’t fail to notice the way his optic is positively shining, bright and burning with something but not quite arousal). He twitters in a way you can only assume must mean he’s enjoying himself, retrieving his servos and examining the sticky, pungent blood - “Hey, squish!” Somehow, you manage to raise your head enough to look up at the helicopter, your mouth halfway open to form a dazed response - You aren’t quite able to make it, not when Whirl all but shoves his bloodied pincher past your parted lips, and he shamelessly asks you, “So what does it taste like?”
It takes you a moment to process what just happened, and your reaction is not a pleasant one. “W-Whurb - !!” You barely manage to squeak his name out past the taste of living metal and dead blood, your hands grasping and scratching uselessly against his, “No, th-thop!” The taste is acerbic, and more than anything it’s the idea of what he’s put in your mouth that really makes your stomach turn more than anything else (you’ve tasted your own blood before, but not this kind of blood). “Come one squish, tell me what it tastes like!” He’s laughing (of course he is), withdrawing his claw and wiping it against the front of your clothes, smearing a wet sticky mess against the pretty fabric. You ever so eloquently flip the helicopter the bird before scrubbing at your mouth with the edge of your sleeves, shame and something worse burning against your chest.
“Aww, come on baby, don’t be like that,” he picks you up, careful not to slice you up into little ribbons with the sharp of his claws, holding you just high enough to bump his pedipalps against your temple in a mockery of a kiss, “You’re so cute when you’re flustered and upset.”