A/N: The premise for this fic was taken from a fic someone else posted on AFF a while back, but the fic itself was inspired by one of the reviews left on that one. I wanted to see if I could make the idea work. Whether I did? Well... (I doubt it). Drunk-posted FTW!
Warnings: Dub-(or non-)con, bondage, spanking, slash. Don't like, don't read.
Disclaimer: Not mine.
Say Please
He stood over a cluttered table in the fractional light at the back of medbay, though it wasn't really a medbay, even if almost everyone called it one. Machine shop, explosives lab, scrap heap, a place that smelled like ozone and acid burn. At the back of the workshop, then, surrounded by piles of scavenged materials and broken or half-built things, with their bare circuitry, frayed wires and weld marks, glaring.
A gray face glared back at him. "In case it's escaped your notice, Soundwave, I'm busy." Sneering voice, hard set to the mech's jaw, //challenge//. Hook gestured with the arc welder he held in one hand, a flick of the wrist indicating the cannibalized remains of something, or several things, a pell-mell coalescence of scrap parts and tools spread out over the work surface.
Soundwave followed the gesture with his optics, looked from Hook's scowling face to the tabletop and what at first had seemed assembled by chance and carelessness, spare memory core, plating, and tangles of connective filament resolved into a stripped-down, misshapen protoform. The drone - at least it was a drone - lay open, headless and deactivated, prepped for experimentation.
Busy. Busy doing what, exactly, Soundwave couldn't tell at a glance, nor did he care to guess. He didn't want to be there in the first place, Hook's surgical skill notwithstanding, and it was only the prickling discomfort of a burnt-out capacitor that made him hold his ground. Grimacing behind his mask, he forced his optics back to Hook's face.
"Irrelevant," he said, a tight hum of white noise filtering into his voice. "My need is more pressing."
At that, Hook snorted derisively and made to turn away from him.
It was a clear dismissal – unbelievable, coming from a glorified lifter, from a mech barely a step above rank-and-file – and Soundwave's temper, already stretched to the limit as it was, snapped. Before Hook could turn away, he caught the mech by the throat and pushed him back until his legs hit the edge of his work table.
"You will repair my radio transmitter," he repeated, giving Hook another hard shove.
Hook's lips peeled back in a snarl of rage, and he twisted his head to one side, trying to shake him off. But when the metal of Hook's neck started to give under Soundwave's grip, something of the arrogance and outrage in the Constructicon's expression faltered. The arc welder dropped from his hand and clattered to the floor. Fingers pried at Soundwave's, Hook's other flailing arm sweeping delicate components from the table's surface. The mech's jaw worked wordlessly. Soundwave squeezed the throat a little tighter, and Hook choked.
Leaning in close to the struggling Constructicon, he slowly bent two of Hook's fingers back from his hand until they were only inches from breaking. Distorted noises of pain came from Hook's crushed throat, "kkk - ss-st - p, ssst-tt-p."
He ignored Hook's feeble protests and kept his grip on both throat and long, slender fingers strong. Hook's surface thoughts, to the extent Soundwave could pick them out of the morass of his gestalt-bonded mind, thrummed with fear, and after only a few seconds, the mech's thrashing stilled. Almost satisfied, Soundwave bent Hook's fingers back another inch just to hurt him. "Recommended course of action: compliance," he said in a dangerously lowered voice.
As soon as he felt Hook relax in his grip, he loosened it slightly. He was paying too little attention to see the glint of metal streaking up from the workbench in Hook's other hand until it was too late to dodge it, whatever it was. Whatever it was, it lanced into his side, and after a second of pain, half his torso went numb. Only his fingers still curled around Hook's throat kept his arm, now useless dead weight, from dropping to his side.
Hook took advantage of his surprise, jerked his own fingers free of the grip of his other hand and sneered, albeit shakily, levelling a wary look at him through his dimmed visor as he pushed Soundwave's hand from his throat. Then he tossed aside the scalpel – too small to do serious damage to heavy plating but thin and sharp enough to stab through a seam, to interrupt the electrical impulses to a limb if it hit the right sensor node, Soundwave realized, wincing at the unpleasant numbness in his arm – and with a final look of contempt, moved to push past him.
It was too much. Anger surged in his processor, and he aimed a punch at the Constructicon's head with his uninjured arm.
Hook saw it coming and was able to flinch away so Soundwave's fist only grazed his jaw instead of smashing into the side of his helm, then the Constructicon half-turned his face toward Soundwave, lips parted in surprise, looking ridiculous. But Hook regained his composure before Soundwave did his equilibrium. One hand closed over his fist, the other latched onto his forearm, and Hook used Soundwave's own momentum to send him stumbling forward.
He slammed hips-first into the edge of an examination berth with force enough to stall his motor relays. The impact stunned him, and before he could recover, he felt his right arm twisted to the side of the table. Seconds too late, remembering the built-in restraints there, he fought wildly, but the metal had already snapped closed around his wrist. He only succeeded in wrenching his arm until warnings blinded him and his systems heated with panic and effort. After a moment's futile struggle, he calmed himself by force of will, and then, only so as not to injure himself.
The warnings cleared in time for him to see Hook rounding the far end of the berth, leering down at him. With a tremble running through his chassis, Soundwave tried to pull his other, still-numb arm from Hook's reach, more afraid of being powerless against the mech than he was comfortable admitting to himself – certainly more than he wanted Hook to realize. Hook wasn't deterred at all. Laughing at him, Hook caught hold of his hand, and after yanking it to a restraint on the other side of the table and securing it, he stepped away and out of sight, circling behind Soundwave with unhurried footsteps.
He stopped somewhere behind him. Soundwave strained to catch sight of the other mech, twisting to the extent the cuffs allowed.
"That was both boorish and stupid," Hook intoned from near his left hip.
Soundwave craned his neck as far as he could, trying to glare at the Constructicon. "Release me," he commanded, voice crackling with static.
"Oh, I don't think so. In any case, I didn't hear you use – what is it the humans say? 'The magic word,' I believe."
He fisted both hands and gave one more armor-buckling pull against the cuffs. "Now, Hook."
"Tut, tut. That isn't the one I was thinking of," Hook said. Then he brought his hand down in a ringing slap on Soundwave's skidplate.
Of all the indignities Hook could have subjected him to, this one was minor, hardly worth his jerk of surprise or the soft, plosive sound that escaped his vocalizer. Hook was right about one thing. It had been patently stupid of him to underestimate the Constructicon. This proved it – this position, strapped face-down over the edge of an exam table proved it – and Hook could have done anything to him. He should have known better. Should've left well enough alone, come back for his comm when Scrapper or Mixmaster or anyone was on duty, much as the thought of any one of those smelting pits of personality glitches poking around inside him made him shudder with loathing.
At least Hook lacked the taste for real violence shared by some of his gestalt mates. A slap on the aft was nothing.
Only Hook's arm shot back and cracked against his aft again. Then a third and a fourth time and Soundwave stared over his shoulder at Hook, the vague feeling that his perception of reality had glitched leaving him speechless through half a dozen stinging blows.
"You would do well to remember that this medbay is mine," Hook ground out, finally, with a rough tremble to his usually carefully-clipped tone, "And unless you are dying, it's up to me to decide how 'pressing' your need is. No one has the right to issue orders to me here. Not you. Not any other Decepticon. Not Megatron himself." Soundwave might have scoffed if not for the fact that every few words Hook spoke were punctuated by more sharp smacks to his aft, the workshop ringing with their furious staccato.
There was nothing he could do but take Hook's absurd punishment, his whole chassis shaking with rage and humiliation. Nothing but snap his head around to face forward, looking pointedly away from Hook, and fix his optics on his own bound fists, nothing but clench his jaw tightly as Hook's hand met his skidplate another rapidfire half-dozen times –
"You've made your point!"
"Not even close."
Another dozen times, even more. He willed himself to wait Hook out, but the slaps kept coming. And then he was spitting curses and threats at Hook, first in staticky English, then in standard Cybertronian, finally in an old guttural dialect of the Kaonite slums – binary code and raw mechanical sputters – and he didn't know or care if Hook could understand it.
He must have understood enough, because suddenly the slaps were falling harder.
They hurt now. He bit back a cry of pain and surprise at a particularly well-placed smack. When a second one landed in the same place, he had more trouble suppressing a vocal reaction, and at the third, a whine escaped his vocalizer. He squirmed and twisted his hips, seeking relief for hot, stressed plating. Couldn't stop himself, and in the middle of his writhing, Hook's hand landed low, half on his skidplate and half on his upper thigh, where the plating was packed with high gain sensors. Startled, he gasped at the sting, then bit out a crude human word to cover it.
"And what filthy, unbecoming language," Hook sneered, dealing another smack low on Soundwave's aft, fingers overlapping the top of his other thigh. "Better get that under control before I decide to wash your mouth out with solvent."
He seethed at the threat, but forced himself to stay silent through another round of heavy slaps. There was no distracting himself from the sting, from the heat building each time Hook's hand crashed down on his skidplate. And much as he tried to ignore it, every blow Hook landed was sending vibrations through his plating, adding to the rush of sensory information, confusing things. A chassis-rattling smack fell on his aft, and his sensors flared, but in the wake of that slap, feeling the resonance of it – though the sting was still there it hurt differently, with a too-hot tingle, and Oh slag, he thought, when Hook smacked him again and that tingle increased suddenly, exponentially. Oh slagging fuck, oh Pit, no, this had to stop.
He barely managed to control his vocalizer, to keep his voice steady and not to sound pleading. "Stop, Hook. Stop it. Now!"
"Not yet." Two brisk slaps fell, one to each side of his aft, searing, and he couldn't ignore those deep vibrations anymore, stimulating oversensitized circuits.
He moaned.
"Oh," Hook said in understanding. And then he laughed, rubbing his hand lightly over Soundwave's hot, sore skidplate in a mockery of comfort before lifting it from the twitching metal and cracking it down in another blow.
It stung enough to make him jump, but then Hook was touching the spot again, teasing out a shudder with deft strokes of his long, skilled fingers. And Hook's sneering voice pricked at him, "Kinky, Soundwave. I wouldn't have expected it of you, of all mechs."
Mortified, Soundwave twisted to look over his shoulder again, only to catch Hook's dirty leer and tremble slightly as that purple and acid green arm swept back and the hand hovered in place, high above and behind Hook's head for astroseconds before descending. He jerked at the pain and that something-else that was and wasn't pleasure, and Hook twisted his mouth into a grin, sliding his palm down one thigh. The bright intensity of his visor cast his face in colorless shadows.
"Does Megatron take you in hand like this? Oh, don't flinch, it's obvious you like it. Do you think about him doing this to you when you touch yourself?"
"Fuck you," he rasped, and kicked out blindly at Hook.
Hook made a disapproving sound, and then he felt the other mech, their chassis touching – and he shuddered in revulsion at the sudden closeness – one leg curled around his, trapping it. A palm pressed into his lower back, holding him still. Then Hook slammed several more hard, quick smacks onto his skidplate.
His body responded, spark pulsing out of control, back strut arching up against Hook's palm. A low, static-riddled keening reached his audios, and Primus but it sounded needy. It took him seconds to realize it was coming from his own throat.
Hook was laughing again, as two of his fingers probed into the gap between groin and thigh plating. "Oh, that, you have to earn."
He tried to get away from those probing fingers' exploration, but he was held in place by Hook's hand on his back, the knee jammed between his legs. The fingers found a bundle of wires buried deep under the plating and stroked it.
"You know what you have to do to earn it."
Unwelcome as it was, he gasped at the touch. He writhed at it, unable to will himself not to enjoy the way it felt, and hated Hook – hated him with every scrap of processing power he had available for doing this to him. His knees shook, and he couldn't tell if it was from anger, pain, pleasure, humiliation. Didn't matter because his optics flickered offline when Hook rolled the wires between his fingers and that was almost enough – the tension, the pleasurable little shocks, and he didn't want any of it, didn't want it like this. He whined, raw dissonance and phase-distorted desperation, the crackling data-burst that meant //refusal// in the gutter argot of his youth.
After giving the bundle of wires another stroke Hook's fingers withdrew, only for two more slaps to sear white-hot against his aft. He bucked hard, sucking air through his intakes.
"Ready to ask nicely?" Hook's hand rested against his skidplate, trapping the heat there.
"You're a slag-eating bastard."
"Sure," Hook agreed, rubbing his aft. "And you're terribly ungrateful. I thought you wanted seeing-to." The fingers twitched back to his armor seam, not quite pressing in.
"Let me go!"
"Still issuing orders." Palm firm against his skidplate, fingers scraping and scratching the too-sensitive edges of the join.
"Please, Hook."
"There it is," Hook said, "That wasn't so difficult, was it?" and as if they'd never been there, the hand on his aft and the other one pressed to his lower back and Hook's thigh wedged against his were gone.
At first, Soundwave feared Hook would leave him as he was. But then Hook stepped to the side of the table and ran his hand under its rim, feeling for something. A second later, the cuffs sprang open. Soundwave pulled his wrists free of them and drew his arms inward, an uncertain curling in to himself.
"Well?" Hook said, looking down at him, "You're free to go, if you want. I won't stop you."
He didn't move. He felt shattered, sore, humiliated. He felt painfully aroused.
Shifting his optics from the scratches and dents on his wrists, his hands flattened against the tabletop to still their trembling, Soundwave tilted his head to the side to look wearily at Hook out of the corner of his visor. Hook just stood there, watching him with a nasty, expectant half-smile.
"That's what I thought," Hook said as he caught Soundwave by the elbow, hauled him upright and spun him around with a twist of his arm that was almost too hard. His aft clanked against the edge of the table and Hook's hands stroked down his waist, over his groin, and –
"nnngAAAH!"
When his optics onlined, amid the aftershocks, the emptiness that followed overload, it was to gray lips twisted into a haughty expression, surprise and amusement and loathing co-mingled. After a moment, Hook wrenched himself out of the grip Soundwave had used to steady himself and backed away from him. Looked him up and down, once. Coldly, distantly. Knowing.
"Out," Hook said, finally, turning. Voice not even challenging anymore, just hard. "I'm done with you. Scrapper'll be here in the morning. You can come back then for your comm."