Title: Call of Duty
Warning: Porn and pornstars. Power imbalance? Fantasies and libidos spinning out of control. Read at your own risk.
Rating: NC-17
Continuity: G1
Characters: Soundwave, Megatron, Onslaught, Jazz, Hound
Disclaimer: The theatre doesn't own the script or actors.
Motivation (Prompt): Tumblr prompt for a fic extension: "Hound's reaction to the events of 'Call of Duty.'"
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Part Four: You Wouldn't Like Me When I'm Angry
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He brought flowers. Of all the ways Soundwave had imagined their first meeting, Hound showing up with flowers in hand hadn't been anywhere in the picture. The Autobot nervously clutched a large bouquet of foil-flower hybrids as if it would protect him. It was extremely hard to look at the relatively small, profoundly gentle gardener standing in the waiting room and think, 'This is Sarge.'
This was a defeated Autobot. This was a former enemy, a scout notorious for his skilled use of a hologram projector, and now this was a businessmech with an interest in alien botany. He looked every bolt an everyday nobody summoned into the presence of his lord and master, ruler of the planet, Supreme Commander Megatron. A more complete opposite to Sarge couldn't be made . It was as though Hound had gone out of his way to be everything Sarge wasn't.
Soundwave told his fans that they had no business accelerating. Hound was the furthest thing from Sarge he'd ever seen.
They declined to listen to his orders, choosing instead to remember Jazz's odd reaction. The ex-saboteur had hesitated over decrying Hound as nothing like Sarge, and Soundwave paused the memory to obsessively study the strange look on his face. There was something there, although Soundwave couldn't see it at the moment. Hound was more than he appeared on the surface, or Jazz wouldn't have stumbled.
Heat built low in Soundwave's chassis. His interfacing equipment had been primed for too long anticipating this meeting. He swore they were overriding his logic circuits at this point. He shut his vents to muffle their betraying whirr before opening the outer doors.
Hound peered hesitantly into the reception room. Soundwave swallowed, covering the motion in a gracious nod. "Enter."
"I, well, hi. I mean, hello sir." Hound slid his foot into the room as though he expected the door to slam shut before he was all the way inside. "I was told Lord Megatron wanted to see me?"
More like demanded to see him. Soundwave sincerely wished Megatron had allowed him the time to contact Jazz. Arrest him, if that's what it took to drag answers out of the wily Autobot. He'd been evading Soundwave's calls, dodging them using a rash of plausible excuses common to popular musicians, but the excuses didn't ring true. Jazz playing busy seemed more like running scared. It didn't fill Soundwave with a great deal of confidence as to how this meeting was going to go. Ratchet's threats were fresh in his mind.
So was the last video Ironhide had uploaded for broadcast. The first airing of 'Sky High' was going to get Thundercracker's dating service off the ground by lust alone. Thundercracker had probably blown his entire start-up budget on the advertisements that ran before and after the film. Smart business sense, that was. People were going to sign up in droves after rewatching the old classic of grounder and flightframe making out hot and heavy up in the stratosphere.
Right, precautions. Soundwave made a mental note to reassign Laserbeak to watching the entertainment district for couples. Thundercracker was a die-hard romantic, and his dating site reflected that. Blind dates were about to become a thing again. Who knew what would happen if two mechs too into being coyly mysterious didn't reveal their factions while chatting over the dating service site. Meeting in person could end in a fight.
Or public indecency, depending on if cross-factional romance was as volatile as surface-to-air lust tended to be. Primus, he really shouldn't have watched that porn vid before this meeting. With Sarge leering in Soundwave's mind, everything was cast in an inappropriately erotic light.
Heat flushed throughout Soundwave's frame as Hound ventured closer to the reception desk. The earthy, dirty smell of soil, minerals, and rubber reached him first. Hound had cleaned up, but his tires obviously tracked through mud every day. Half a dozen filthy innuendos from lousy porn dialogue ran through Soundwave's mind as he drew in the dense scent of groundframe . It used to be the crackling ozone scent of hovercraft, but rubber tires and alien dirt made it strangely exotic on top of erotic.
His fans thrummed on their hubs. Soundwave swallowed again and hid the low vvvvvum behind closed vents by briskly stepping around the receptionist desk as if he needed to check the schedule. He didn't. He knew exactly what time it was and what time the meeting was scheduled for, but the thin barrier of the desk between them made him feel a bit more in control.
His spike throbbed behind its hatch, eager to pressurize, and Soundwave hurriedly sat down to hide palming the lock shut manually. Checking in visitors wasn't normally his job, but he hadn't been able to resist the chance to see Sarge. Hound. Hound , not Sarge, and frag his libido. Nothing was going to happen! It could cool off, because insistent as parts of him were, Soundwave had self-control.
Besides, Hound wasn't reacting how Sarge would to Soundwave's tiny, almost undetectable tell-tale fidgets. Sarge would have swaggered up to the desk and leaned on it, 100% confident about just who would be laid flat on it once he had his way, and he would have his way. Fully justified confidence, as the smallest hint Sarge was under that meek Autobot exterior somewhere would snap Soundwave's self-control in a split second. Soundwave knew himself too well. He'd throw himself down on the desk ready to be taken if Sarge wanted to take him. A roguish gleam in Hound's optics would be enough to melt him to putty.
It was stupid. Beyond stupid, yet Soundwave wanted very badly to find a hint of Sarge in Hound. Pretending to concentrate on the console screen was a transparent cover for how he watched the mech. "Autobot Hound: arrived early," he said in a cool monotone. "Megatron will be notified of your arrival. Seats: available. Sit. You will be called." He pointed at the row of chairs along the wall. Megatron often made petitioners wait in order to emphasize who held the power in these rooms.
Hound, being Hound and not a living fantasy, simply stood on the other side of the desk and smiled too wide from nerves. "Oh. I, uh, didn't want to be late. Rather be early than late, right? Er, sorry. I'll wait, no problem." He offered the bouquet. "I brought a gift. Is - is that acceptable? Optimus likes - I mean, I send them to Optimus. I didn't know if Lord Megatron wanted an example of my," he faltered, just barely, "current occupation."
Soundwave's hands froze above the keyboard. That pause did not bode well. A chill ran down his backstruts, extinguishing the hot burn in his interface equipment. Unease rushed in to fill the cold void lust had eaten into his composure. Ratchet was going to murder him. The Constructicons would take one look at the situation and help hide his body.
Before that, Soundwave was going to hunt down Jazz and demand to know if this had all been a massive set-up to execute him via enraged, protective Autobot medic.
Hound looked down into the bouquet, his smile dropping away into a crooked bit of good humor around his mouth. "I saw that meeting request from Media & Entertainment. Haven't been replying. I thought you'd tip your hand putting pressure on me one way or another soon enough."
His fingers curled, but Soundwave didn't otherwise react. It'd been as nonthreatening a request as M&E had ever sent out, personally vetted by him for anything that might demand a reply. The hope had been that Hound would be flattered by the invitation, maybe even interested in the profitable aspects of putting the Sarge porn series on Pay-Per-View. They were all businessmechs, old hands at the entertainment industry. Hound didn't even have to be involved to make a tidy sum off M&E showing his films.
Soundwave had been careful, writing that message. He hadn't wanted Hound to feel pressured, especially since Jazz had promised to speak with the mech for him. Well, that obviously hadn't worked out. When a Decepticon-run government division sent an Autobot a message, it was probably inevitable that the Autobot felt somewhat threatened. Power dynamics between conquerors and conquered were a tricky field to navigate.
"This was a surprise, though," Hound said, glancing around the reception room. "Kind of heavy-handed for you, getting Megatron, er, Lord Megatron to summon me. It's okay, I understand!" he rushed to assure Soundwave, although the communication specialist had only let slip a blurt of protesting static. "I get it. I kind of knew he was a, um." His vocalizer reset, and he studied the flowers intently. "Bit of a fan, you might say. Guess you didn't have to do more than tell him who I used to be before he had you call me in. Didn't expect to come out of retirement for a command performance, but…"
"Meeting!" Soundwave said, trying not to let distress bleed into his voice. "Lord Megatron: curious! Nothing will be asked of Autobot Hound beyond questions of background and occupation. Improper to pressure for anything else. Lord Megatron is not interested in," his vocalizer whined feedback, stressed, "coercion."
Hound looked at him. Instructors answering common sense questions had that same patient, tired expression. "Soundwave…it's nice of you not to jump me the minute I walked into the room, but you have Ravage as a Cassette. You think I can't tell why I'm here?"
Ravage? What did -
Oh.
It really didn't matter how he muffled his fans or discreetly adjusted his panel underneath the desk. Soundwave's files highlighted the scout and that annoying, irritating hologram projector. Hound's primary threat level was based off of it, as holograms were the most important feature Decepticons needed to know when fighting the Autobot. However, further down the file was something else Soundwave should have paid more attention to in the context of today's meeting: Hound had the enhanced chemical receptors of a technimal.
A small, normally unimportant detail, unless one was attempting to conceal how turned on one was.
Soundwave stared at Hound, utterly taken aback and feeling nine kinds of humiliated in the bargain. He had not prepared for this scenario. Being tossed down and ridden through the desk, yes. Being exposed as a randy spikemech ready to beg for valve?
The levels under Darkmount and Polyhex had been stabilized by the Constructicons themselves. Praying for the supports to give way and bury him in the depths accomplished nothing, and yet here Soundwave was desperately appealing to Primus for Cybertron to open up under him.
The whole complex probably reeked of desire. Soundwave didn't need a nose to smell the lust seeping out from the door at the far end of the reception room. He didn't even want to think about what he smelled of. Flustered, he stood up so fast he stumbled back, frantic to open space between them. The desk seemed an entirely inadequate barrier suddenly.
His monotone squeaked oddly as contrition and embarrassment tightened his vocalizer. "Soundwave: apologizes for wrongful impression. Fan of Autobot Hound's former identity in prewar occupation." His pride cringed at admitting that out loud, but it wasn't as though Hound couldn't smell it on him, and dignity was a laughable small sacrifice to lay at the Autobot's feet in return for this screw-up. He could only imagine what Hound must have felt walking in here, assuming what he obviously did about what he'd been summoned for. "Undeniably attracted to stage persona. Differentiation between character and actor: established fact. Lord Megatron, Soundwave, understand difference. No pressure meant for Autobot Hound to assume character of Sarge. Apologies offered for miscommunication."
He drew himself up, easing his shoulders back and pushing the sudden surge of emotion down. Formality became a refuge. "If threatened, Autobot Hound is invited to depart. No negative consequences will result. Explanation will be made to Lord Megatron. Meeting can be rescheduled to a neutral location, in front of witnesses to ensure safety and comfort." A neutral location with great ventilation. That was definitely a requirement. They'd need plenty of moving air to sweep away any incriminating scents.
"Optimus Prime: acceptable witness? Aware of former occupation of Autobot Hound?" He leaned forward, hands poised attentively over the keyboard. "Date and time available for reschedule?"
Hound regarded him, surprise melting in a thoughtful expression. After a minute of staring, Soundwave shifted uncomfortably. This position was undignified. It looked like he was afraid to sit down again, which he most certainly wasn't, and it put his visor on level with Hound's front grill, which looked far too grab-able. Add to that the fact that looking up at the Autobot brought a surge of renewed interest from his interface equipment, and Soundwave wished Primus would hurry up and answer his prayers. What he wouldn't give to disappear right now.
His fans spun, blowing the scent of terribly conflicted lust out of him despite his closed vents, but at least it snapped Hound out of his thoughts. The Autobot shook his head and blinked rapidly. He also shifted his flower bouquet up in front of his chest, freeing Soundwave to yank his visor down to study his hands instead of that tempting grill he wanted to put them on.
"Optimus? Huh. You know, he doesn't know? At least, I don't think so. He never say anything, anyway, but he probably wouldn't've if he thought it bothered me." Hound shrugged, one optic squinching up as he thought it over. The nervousness had bled out of him during Soundwave's rushed apology, and he only seemed vaguely anxious, now. "It doesn't, y'know. If people don't know, it's not because I denied it. I was never ashamed of doing what I did, but Sarge was…heh. He was something of a joke, but a bad one."
Startled by the confession, Soundwave jerked his head up. Hound smiled a surprisingly sad smile down at him. "You remember hitting us in Iacon? That first bombing? Half the filming crew didn't make it out of the studio alive. There I was getting hauled out of the building, and people looked at me like I'd take charge. Me. I was an actor . I didn't know what the frag was going on or what I was supposed to do, but nobody took that for an answer! They kept pushing and clinging and asking me questions I didn't have answers to, and the only one who took me seriously was the medic. That Autobot medic." His voice fell. "I can't even remember his name anymore." Hound shook it off, optics returning to Soundwave. "He hooked me up with a doc who knew a doc, and they changed my look enough that people stopped seeing Sarge when they looked at me. It's like - Hoist got medical training when everybody kept mistaking him for a medic. It was his thing. It's what he was famous for, and he stepped up." Hound made a helpless little gesture before clutching the flowers close. "He could do that, but I couldn't. I can't. I wasn't Sarge, and I'm not Sarge. I was an actor signing up for a war I didn't want to fight. The last thing I wanted was people looking at me to save them while I was learning how a real gun fires"
"And honestly, I just didn't think anyone would want me around if they found out who I used to play." He looked into the bouquet, unable to lift his optics. "I'm not ashamed of the job, but I'm ashamed of who I played during it. I don't think I could face anyone who knew how much I used to glorify war. I kind of can't believe anybody wants to see those old vids after going through what we did." The Autobot shook his head. "I thought maybe Mega - Lord Megatron was going to beat the bolts off me for playing a caricature that bad."
Soundwave stared. His libido fell flat a second time from the shock. Did this Autobot have any idea what he was saying? He'd played a hero to soldiers. An overdone parody, yes, but a role model. Sarge was everything soldiers aspired to be. The noncoms based half their unofficial look and behavior creed off of him, to the point that any rookie transferred in could recognize his new unit's sergeant by the similarities. The ranking soldier in a group of grunts could be found by looking for the one with scuffs on the inside of his thighs, walking slightly bow-legged and squinting through a cracked optic. The Decepticons idolized Sarge.
True, the Sarge films had glorified combat, but like the Decepticon Cause, they'd cast war in a light that…ahhh, wait. Wait, no, Soundwave understood what the problem was.
Hound was an Autobot.
Of course an Autobot would be ashamed to be associated with all that. A Decepticon would be proud.
Hound drew in a deep breath, squaring his shoulders. His hands rearranged their grip on the bouquet, pulling it down and puffing out his chest. "Well. Cat's out of the bag, as they say on Earth." He forced a friendly grin. After a second, it quirked up on one side into a smirk familiar enough to pressurize Soundwave's spike into a dull thud against his hatch. "Rescheduling would inconvenience everyone, and I'm here already. Might as well meet my biggest fan!"
Soundwave had no idea what to say to that. His visor fixated on the bumper brazenly pushed toward him, and that smirk did things to him.
Whatever else Hound had become in the course of the war, he was still a consummate actor.
He must have stammered out something coherent, but Soundwave didn't recall what. Hound sauntered over to the far wall, claiming a chair as if it'd been made for him. Luckily, the chair didn't combust. Draped over it like Hound was, elbows on the back and bouquet casually twirling in one hand, there was a distinct danger of Soundwave going up in smoke. Somewhere between desk and chair, the persona of Sarge had settled over Hound.
The mech looked the same. The change was entirely attitude. One optic squinted in subtle hint of a cracked optic that wasn't there. His smirk pulled to the left where a scar should be but wasn't, and the way he sat compromised insolence and authority. Knees spread wide, inviting - frag, demanding - attention to the broad black metal hatch concealing a valve Soundwave visualized in embarrassing detail. He looked -
He looked like Hound, acted like Sarge, and the desk chair made too much noise as Soundwave fumbled to sit back down while staring. Hound stared right back at him, refusing to release him from that wicked gaze. It held merciless hunger that would do a Sharkicon proud. It was abundantly clear Hound knew exactly what his act was doing to Soundwave. Which should have been degrading, toyed with like he could be used up and discarded without making a dent in Hound's composure, but Soundwave couldn't clear the overheat warnings from his HUD long enough to think clearly. Crammed in behind his hatch, his spike ached. Need and sharp pain pounded through his interface equipment in time with the pump of hydraulics struggling to pressurize equipment under lockdown.
Updating Megatron on the situation had to be done via text message. Soundwave didn't trust his vocalizer, and if he gave this mech a few words to work off of, Hound would own him. Sound was Soundwave's arena. He ruled supreme in communication. Sarge, however, could take anyone's strength and turn it into a weakness, and although Hound wasn't really Sarge, he was apparently ruthless enough to use the character. He would take control of the situation given half an opening.
Okay, the truth was that Soundwave didn't dare give Hound an excuse to reply to anything he said. Sarge had a Rust Sea drawl thick enough to spread, just like his thighs. Sound was Soundwave's strength, but it was also his weakness. Hearing Sarge's accent would turn his knees to jelly.
Megatron didn't like the update. His response all but blistered Soundwave's console screen, but what could they do? They'd messed up by not explaining the invitation in the first place, and while Megatron owed no one apologies, the error did deserve a personal audience. Besides, dismiss Hound now, and it'd be crystal clear two of the most powerful Decepticons in the Empire couldn't face a humble Autobot gardener. They'd seem scared.
They weren't scared. Hound didn't intimidate them. Titillate them, yes, six times yes, but not intimidate them.
Much.
Certainly not any more than fighting Optimus Prime one-on-one, or getting into a yelling match with Starscream when the Air Commander was in the right. Soundwave could almost hear Megatron repeating that to himself. Hound had found a weak spot; alright, fine. Nothing they could do about that but salvage what dignity they had left. Megatron couldn't stop the way he smelled, but anger could cover many flaws. All he had to do was stay angry, conduct a short interview just long enough to prove Hound didn't have the upper hand, and then dismiss the Autobot before anything called their bluff.
In the meantime, Soundwave would somehow ventilate this room, even if he had to carry in fans to do it. He'd call in the reception room's usual secretary so he could leave, but Hound would probably assume Soundwave had retreated if he wasn't here to see the mech out. Which was the truth. Frag.
Megatron signaled. He was as ready as he'd ever be.
Without looking up, Soundwave gestured for Hound to go in. He was afraid to see what the silky shiiiing of metal that had been coming from the Autobot's direction meant. His imagination supplied several ideas. Most of them involved fingers tracing an open hatch, and Primus smelt him for spare parts..!
Movement at the corner of his visual feed had him glancing up before he could stop himself. Hound caught his gaze and tipped him a nod. "Thank yuh, sur," he drawled, and Soundwave jumped in his seat as his spike hatch unlocked. The sound was small, but there wasn't anything to cover it but Hound's footsteps. The Autobot merely chuckled as he strode through the open doors into Megatron's office.
Humiliation flooded Soundwave in a hot flash, saturating him down to the struts in total self-conscious embarrassment as his spike shot out, quivering from the sudden, long-delayed release to full pressure. Relief throbbed a pleasure of its own even before Soundwave surrendered and wrapped a hand around himself. The first stroke sent a wavering hiss of white noise through the empty room. His vocalizer wouldn't stay mute. Hidden under the desk, he fisted his spike, fingers the lightest touch on the underside. Surging pleasure curled him over the desk, mask pushed into the keyboard.
Weak . An Autobot had him by the spike, and Soundwave didn't have the strength to stop himself. Instant submission became silent moans of bliss, his hand butting into the underside of the desk as it jerked his stiff spike.
How? How had trying not to offend Hound turned to jacking off the klik the door closed behind him? He had to know what Soundwave was doing out here, and shame clenched in Soundwave's spark as tight as his fingers around his spike. Pleasure knotted taut, pulling in time with the rhythm of his hand. He panted into the desktop, and he couldn't stop. He wanted to stop, he should stop, but in his mind Hound had stopped at the door.
He'd stopped and turned on a heel to stride back toward the desk, coming around it as Soundwave rose in alarm, spike out and visor wide, trying and failing to cover himself. Backhanding the larger mech's hands away from vulnerable equipment, Hound followed it up with a shove to Soundwave's chest, sending the console screen tumbling off the desk as he pushed Soundwave down. He was smaller but quicker, more limber than Soundwave's blocky build allowed for, and the rubber of his tires gave him traction on the shining floors that Soundwave couldn't get no matter how he flailed.
They'd fought before, he and Hound. Soundwave had size and strength on his side, but not when Hound seized him by the spike, grip just harsh enough to turn Soundwave's joints to liquid metal. Soundwave fell back, vents gasping. Involuntary surrender brought his hands up and open. He gave up, ready to give whatever Sarge wanted up.
Hound smiled, that out-of-place gentle expression, but the deceptively Autobot gentleness only extended to his face. His hands were hard. One stayed around the base of Soundwave's poor spike, massaging it expertly until the communication specialist squirmed, hips thrusting. The other pushed Soundwave's wrists down to the desk, the back of Soundwave's hands laid flat and helpless on either side of his helm.
"Stay," Hound commanded, the vowels rounded with an accent that sent Soundwave's fans roaring.
Soundwave nodded, lust devouring shame in big bites. He should care but he didn't. His visor brightened as Hound climbed up onto the desk, straddling him. The panel between thick thighs gaped open, and Soundwave whimpered, straining up toward it with his spike leading. He would follow anywhere his spike wanted at the moment. He was weak, he was weak .
But the back of his hands stayed glued to the desk. He was weak, but a strong valvemech had him brought to heel. Sick relief shivered through his struts as he realized he could let go, he could trust the valve coming down on him to tame his wild spike and keep it under control.
Slick warmth circled the tip of his spike. Hound looked down at him, hips rolling torment, and Soundwave's throat vibrated from the static filling it. He looked up, looked up as the valve that had starred in a hundred porn vids slid down his length in one slow glide all the way to the hilt.
Soundwave ached back, overloading so hard something in his neck cracked, and the broken sound he made echoed in the corners. Hot liquid spilled over his pumping fist, spurt after spurt emptying released charge out his spike as though it had a direct conduit to his spark. Every pulse shook his legs, kicked out straight in front of him to knock against the desk. Black spots spangled across his vision.
It took forever but not long enough before his spark calmed. It glowed warm, the occasional aftershock of pleasure shuddering through him. His spike, softening and oversensitive, sent shivers through his internal systems as he peeled his fingers away. Panting breaths gradually lengthened back into normal venting, in and out.
His breath caught when he finally blinked out of the daydream haze to realize what he'd done. Or rather, what he had to deal with in the short amount of time he had before the meeting ended.
The desk was a mess. Soundwave's thighs and pelvic span were no better. The evidence of his weakness, his lack of control, his indecency spattered in cooling puddles on the console, the floor, and his armor. Wiping it up wouldn't take the smell from between the keys of the console, or hiding in his hip joints. Even to his comparatively stunted chemoreceptors, the room stank of fragging.
Soundwave put his sticky hand over his visor and prayed the meeting went long.
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[ A/N: I didn't mean to write this. It kind of undercut my original plan, but oh well. Until the curtain rises next time, m'dears.]