Title: It Only Got Worse on Earth, Pt. 2
Warning: Explaining crazy G1 Decepticons, dubcon, lapdancing.
Rating: PG-13 (for implications?)
Continuity: IDW/G1
Characters: Starscream, Megatron, Decepticons, Soundwave
Disclaimer: The theatre doesn't own the script or actors, nor make a profit from the play.
Motivation (Prompt): A hilariously sexy dancing Soundwave YouTube video (/watch?v=Ck2yEE_ycWc) and a series of GIFs made by Gutterspook led to a speculations about just how Soundwave came to be dancing like that. Plus a kinkmeme prompt, this round.
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Part Two
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It did get worse on Earth.
Everything did, but specifically Starscream. Starscream turned into an unholy terror.
Close quarters under water, the peculiar insanity of Earth, even the bizarre twist the war had taken moving to this planet all fed into Megatron's inability to handle Starscream's trapped madness. The Air Commander had always been high-charge and high-strung, but the screeching fits bubbled over on Earth. He could not deal with circumstances. A world of politics and violence as an outlet had narrowed to almost nothing. His aggression and ambition had nowhere to go, and he took it out on everyone. It was actually a relief when he seized on crazy-obvious backstabbing treason as a hobby.
To be honest, the Decepticons on Earth were all suffering from a severe case of not quite knowing what to do. War on Cybertron had fallen into a pattern. Attacks were grand, hemisphere-encompassing efforts where entire cities burned to the ground and whole units disappeared under heavy fire. Casualties were numbers, not people. Troop movements that took half a vorn barely showed up on their factions' respective tactical maps. Even the Autobots' shift to guerilla tactics had been minor assaults peppering behind the front line between the big pushes.
This war on Earth had unsettled the pattern. Nothing fit. The Decepticons were stuck in a damp, gross base that had once been the ship that would return them to Cybertron in victory. Now it dripped a lot and required barnacle removal every couple of weeks.
Plus, they had to stay in close proximity to each other. Safety in numbers, after all, and they were stuck on a world that didn't seem threatening until Autobots popped out of nowhere to put a missile up somebody's afterburner. Their species were robots in disguise, but the Autobots were disguised as vehicles the swarming fleshy creatures infesting this planet had everywhere, the fraggers.
The Decepticons on Earth didn't do well in close proximity to each for long periods of time. There was no front line to deploy to when they got restless. There were a surplus of specialists, officers, and the soldiers that had made it to the Elite on fighting ability or bribes. The first two groups didn't generally stay in a tiny base together at any time unless it was a strategic meeting at Darkmount, and Darkmount was huge, so it wasn't really comparable. The latter group didn't hang out with the former two in any sort of situation outside of receiving orders or reporting.
Now everybody was stuck together in an underwater base, unable to escape each other or this filthy planet, and yeah. Yeah, they understood why Starscream felt it necessary to go stark raving bonkers and declare himself the Decepticon leader every time Megatron looked tired. And every Tuesday at two o'clock, apparently just for the fun of it.
Regardless of his methods, the mech's madness was reassuringly visible. He'd always been a treasonous snake. Nobody was surprised.
Megatron's methods…whether it was madness or simple frustration, their Supreme Commander lashed out. That surprised most everyone. Starscream's antics made him the target of that ire more often than not, but even a habit of pecking at Megatron's temper in nitpicking comments couldn't keep the Lord of the Decepticons focused on him and him alone. Starscream was an unholy terror, but Megatron was their leader. His rages were feared the way blasphemers feared a god's vengeance.
Perhaps it was constant exposure to a crew that acted out frequently from boredom. Perhaps his patience shortened like a fuse clipped shorter by every Autobot victory on this wretched planet. Perhaps he'd always been a brutal tyrant, and the shifting of mechs in and out of his personal sphere had somehow diffused the overall impact of that brutality. Regardless of why, his temper smoldered, and his fists were prepared to follow through on the unfortunate mech who tripped it.
Starscream took the brunt, even seemed to relish pushing Megatron to the edge of murder, but the longer they stayed on Earth, the worse Megatron got. Although that was speculation. In reality, it was probable that the Decepticons' behavior was the cause of their leader's increased anger. Discipline deteriorated as rank began to matter less than favors and, as always, survival. Earth corroded more than their metal.
The Air Commander's rank remained secure, however. Even if he couldn't outfly the lot of them, he schemed through the politics of the base so slickly he had most of the Decepticons dangling by puppet strings. Physical power was a secondary force, for his needs. It wasn't his presence on the battlefield that had Decepticons catering to his whims. More often than not, mechs slipped in and out of his office to keep him on their side. To keep him happy. A happy Starscream would be willing to pull one of his wild stunts or call out a bitingly accurate observation before one of the other Decepticons got slagged by Megatron.
An unhappy Starscream might not strike out directly at a single Decepticon or betray his faction, but he would set out to destroy Earth and the mechs trapped on it out of sheer, screaming spite. That hadn't been a good week.
Megatron had beaten him half to deactivation. The other Decepticons had rained abuse on his head until he'd looked up at them, broken and fallen, and smiled. There had been something about that look, something that had stopped hardened killers in their tracks, and then he'd laughed. High, hysterically amused, and painfully sane, he'd laughed at their expense.
It'd been the sanity that punched through that this mech might not be as competent as he thought he was, but he could and almost had murdered them. He was the Second-in-Command of their faction, the mech who could hold Megatron's rapt attention by the flick of a wing, and his fickle favor could ruin or rule them. The lower Decepticon hierarchy had buckled into anarchy here on Earth, but the upper ranks remained. He stood between their leader and them like an overseer in the Pit. He would choose who would be plucked from the seething masses for his master - or who would be rejected to melt away into the slurry of cannon fodder sacrificed to war.
The situation wasn't so dire for the officers. They had direct access to Megatron, at least here on Earth. It was the specialists and the soldiers who'd realized it was their afts on the line. They'd picked up the Air Commander and labored to repair him, because the consequences of his displeasure couldn't get any clearer than looking Death straight in the optics.
The supplies for Starscream's repairs had mysteriously shown up despite Megatron's orders to the contrary. The officers had looked the other way, uncomfortably acknowledging that the Air Commander outranked them and they might have been neglecting that fact. The consequences fell on their heads, too, even if not as directly.
It had been the most effusive non-apology ever made.
Because when the Decepticons got on Megatron's bad side, mechs ended up in the repairbay or worse, left where they'd gone down. Only allies in high places could save somebody's neck when the Supreme Commander stood on it. Such allies greased the gears that moved the faction along, easing the bureaucratic process Megatron disdained. He gave his commands and they were followed, but the everyday functions of the Decepticon ranks went on beneath his notice. That realm belonged to his officers, and there was no officer above Second. If a Decepticon wanted to survive, if he wanted to prosper, there was no ally higher than Starscream.
Keep the Second-in-Command happy, and he kept them sheltered under his wings. It was a mutually beneficial relationship. Starscream knelt to Megatron, tyrant of the firmament. Everyone else knelt beside him, but they knelt to the prince of the skies as well. Everyone chipped in to keep the system running smoothly.
So it wasn't unusual to have Hook step away from an incomplete repair job and dismiss the patient until later, visor intent on a whatever damage the Air Commander had taken. No matter the damage, the mech got priority treatment. Best to keep Starscream well aware of the Constructicons' value, lest their project budgets somehow become lost passing over his desk.
The patients might complain, but not above a grumble. The smarter ones gave up their slots on the repair queue to slip out of the repairbay when Starscream left, hoping to follow him to a washrack and offer to assist in any way he saw fit. Going beyond a good scrubbing wasn't uncommon. Any complaints about polish and detailing for the Air Commander were kept to furtive whispers in the barracks, and nobody shared secret techniques. Keeping a few tricks up the manifold could be the difference between Starscream's favor or a cold shoulder for a mech in need. He had no problem ignoring Decepticons he didn't like.
The Coneheads spent a miserable month sucking up to him after finding that out the hard way. Amazing the difference one spectacularly-fumbled mission could make in their attitude toward Starscream, but Megatron had been unforgiving. His orders removed them from the ration roster. Since their leader's fusion cannon whined warning anytime they were seen near him, the only options they had were starvation - or Starscream. Every mech had a stash of energon cached away in case something happened, but it couldn't last. The other Decepticons could almost hear their pride give a dying squeal.
Ramjet's rivalry with Starscream simmered hostility between the two lead trines. Crawling to the Air Commander for help would mean conceding his superiority and swallowing the bitter defeat with every mouthful of fuel he allotted them. But nobody else dared approach the Lord of the Decepticons to sneer at him about how depriving half the air support on Earth was completely stupid. Nobody else would survive that conversation. Thundercracker snorted and walked away when Ramjet sidled over to wheedle his help, and Skywarp laughed in his face.
Ramjet tried to hold out, but his trinemates surrendered. Dirge was seen discreetly stopping beside Starscream's seat on the bridge by the end of first week, leaning down to murmur words that twisted the Air Commander's lips in a vicious smirk. Thrust didn't hold out much longer. By the time Ramjet finally buckled and gave in, Starscream had been using the two Coneheads as his personal toys long enough that some of the other Decepticons were scrambling to think of alternate means to pay tribute, since he didn't need anyone else to attend to his needs.
Everyone had their ways. Onslaught sent Swindle on the good days, the days Starscream wanted amusement in the form of expensive toys and a nimble tongue. Vortex was gift-wrapped for the bad days, deposited outside his door wearing statis cuffs on his wrists and a shockwhip tethered to a chain around his neck, visor resigned if not exactly eager. Astrotrain and Blitzwing tended to double-team Starscream, showing up still smoking from fusion cannon blasts and dented from Megatron's fists. They left hours later smelling of jet fuel and dispersed charge, Starscream still a warm taste on their lips and tingling against their fingertips, and Megatron's ire would evaporate sometime before they were next summoned to their leader's presence. Motormaster's team became known for their oddball hobbies: they were connoisseurs of vintage high grade, collectors of pornographic material within very specific interests, and extremely skilled at using their smaller fingers and more flexible joints in unconventional ways.
No one, not even the Coneheads, bothered to approach Soundwave for help. Megatron's will was Soundwave's law. He might be bribed to look the other way, but only if he wished to use it as blackmail later, and putting himself in harm's way to distract Megatron? That wouldn't happen.
The law punished those who broke it equally. There were times when Soundwave himself wished to evade Megatron's will. Not defy; never defy. Subtly deflect his leader's anger away from a Cassette, or draw attention away from an indiscretion of his own, but never openly defy the Lord of the Decepticons.
Those were the times that the bridge hushed, the mechs on duty gone silent late in the night shift. Starscream lounged in the command chair as he always did when Megatron wasn't there to throw him out of it, lazy and sharp-edged at the same time. The Supreme Commander was far away, of course, either in recharge or otherwise occupied, or the dark navy mech in the doorway wouldn't risk this.
Everyone was aware he was there, but no one looked at him. That was left to the Air Commander, who slowly turned his helm to regard Soundwave through optics dimmed to deep ruby. They held more cruelty than amusement, but passion was passion. Soundwave could work with it whatever its form.
Work with it, he did. The music of Earth was different than Cybertron, the notes more rounded and the beats fuller. Humans factored in the imperfection of living hands playing the instruments, the slight dull sound of fingers on piano keys instead of the sharp, crisp perfection Cybertronian music tended toward. It made the music richer in a resonant way, the layers of sound weaving together until only a discerning audio could pull the smudging notes apart, but it was so beautifully simple compared to the thousands of layers that made up common Cybertronian music. The club music of Cybertron sounded like pretentious music halls resounding with orchestras compared to even the most complicated scores on Earth.
The music of Earth was primitive, primal, and exotically organic. It called to the fuel pump and the charge instead of the mind.
The music Soundwave chose for these times throbbed, calling and coaxing. It pulsed from his speakers low enough to pass for a storm whipping the waves up overhead. It was a pressure as much as it was a sound. It was a soundtrack for seduction.
The Decepticons on the bridge shivered but pretended they saw nothing as the Third-in-Command of the Empire swayed across the room toward the Seeker watching him. Maybe later, their dreams included the liquid way navy hips moved, or the curl of a single blue finger beckoning Soundwave closer. They didn't look, but they all saw how Soundwave twirled and dropped to the floor in a luxurious crouch, sinking down as if he had all the time in the world. One leg slid out straight to the side and the other, as if by accident, bent between Starscream's legs so that the Cassette carrier's knee just barely brushed down the side of one thruster.
The music thrummed, and the beat rolled Soundwave's helm back as his chest thrust forward, counter-circles emphasized by the slow glide of fingers under his tapedesk. Starscream settled back in the command chair, watching, while the bridge crew held their fans in check, straining to see from the corners of optics and visors. Fingertips skreeled gently along the bottom edge, dragging down to tease seams and fan out lower down, black over blue. Soundwave's vents caught, and his chest pushed out right before he arched back in an achingly erotic mimicry of another dance, a suggestion of different beat. Black hands framed navy hips for a moment, and then they walked up to drag thumbs along the edges of translucent glass that hinted at what lay underneath. The fingers of one hand paused to play with the eject button, but the other rose to caress neck cables in brazen invitation.
Starscream cocked his head to the side. Soundwave's hands reached for him next, palms running up over the knee to slide up white thighs, thumbs rubbing little circles in time with the slow thrust and retreat of his chest as he danced languidly to music that could be felt in the crackle of a mech's power plant. When he rose to follow his hands, he leaned into Starscream's chest with a contact so light the glass of their chests merely clinked. The plush buzz of Soundwave's EM field rippled over Starscream in a wave, however, a heavy vibration that coyly offered what the glittering red visor promised. It washed back as his hands found the arm rests to support his weight.
Now crouched on both feet, half his weight taken by his arms, Soundwave writhed between the Air Commander's knees in a serpentine twist that rose and fell, knees pressed tight and hips making obscenely fluid figure-eights in time with the rhythm set by that temptingly sleek chest. He pushed forward and curved back, advancing and retreating so their energy fields meshed in long, sinuous kiss from chest to feet. Metal and glass barely touched.
Soundwave peered up from under his helm and turned up the music to cover whatever he purred. Starscream smiled and raised one hand, resting it on Soundwave's throat as the communication mech lifted his chin to accept the possessive grasp. Blue fingers drew down the vulnerable wires and tubes on the sides, but Starscream's hand slid around to the back of his neck.
The dancing mech curled about, turning like the hand on his neck were a pivot, helm bowing down under Starscream's arm and tossing up in a saucy flip once he'd passed. His body followed in twisting curve that put his back between the Air Commander's legs. Starscream's thumb pet the nap of his neck, and Soundwave pushed in the intimacy. Uncoiling from the floor, he gave a snaking writhe that deliberately slid the sides of his hips up Starscream's legs. Black hands fell from the armrests to Starscream's legs, squeezing firmly, and the dance turned unashamedly erotic from there.
Decepticons looked everywhere but the command chair. They talked among themselves under the music, quiet and keeping their optics on their work. They didn't watch Starscream's hands cup Soundwave's aft and smooth around to the front to fondle thighs now squirming in his lap. Greedy as ever, Starscream took handfuls of glossy plating and accepted them as tribute. Nobody saw Soundwave's hands cover Starscream's and guide them up to grope the open, empty Cassette desk in his chest, or take them down to press buttons that featured in too many mechs' fantasies. The Decepticons were blind to the rolling grind and soft sounds, the rasping murmurs and throaty moans as Soundwave took his turn at keeping their Second-in-Command satisfied.
Everything got worse on Earth, but.
But.
Some things got so much better.
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